Hope

As it turned out, a shitload of nukes was exactly what the holding area contained.

"I dunno, Rachel," said Carson, scanning the crates with wide eyes. "Looks more like a fuckton to me."

The Geiger counter on Danse's suit began to crackle, and Quinn shot a look at him as she said, "One of the bombs might be leaking, sir."

He was probably never going to get a better moment than this.

"Marguerie, Carson," said Danse, "go back down the tunnel and guard it while Quinn and I do a quick search of the area. No arguing. You don't have any armour, Knight-Sergeant, so we need to save our radiation medicine for when you go back across Glowing Sea. And given the fights we've been through so far, I'd be more comfortable with two of you watching the tunnels than just one. That being said...if there's any trouble, come straight back."

Rachel opened her mouth to argue, and then stopped, her eyes flicking from Danse, to Quinn, and then back again. A sly smirk spread across her mouth, and she grabbed Carson by the arm and pulled him, to no effect, as she said, "Yes, sir."

"But—" began Carson.

"Goddamn it, Liam, move your ass!"

She gave Carson such an obvious look, that even Danse himself picked up on it, and he felt his cheeks burn. How did she always…?

Her intent apparently dawned on Carson, too, because he suddenly stammered, "Oh, uh, I—I mean, yes, sir!" He strode away without another word, almost knocking Rachel over in the progress.

She shouted at him all the way down the corridor and out of sight, her voice carrying on for another minute or so, until eventually the quiet returned. He felt uncomfortable sending them on off their own considering how many ghouls they had encountered, but given that they'd made it all the way here without another attack, Danse was confident that they had cleared them all out.

Still...

"So, what are we doing, sorry?" Quinn asked him, frowning. "We're not counting all of this shit, are we?"

His words stuck in his throat again. Shaking his head, he strode off down the room, running his over thoughts. He'd been building up to this since they'd left the Prydwen. Well, alright, Danse hadn't planned it to happen right now, but when would he ever get her on her own in a neutral area without something trying to kill them? Or even worse, Marguerie interfering?

Maybe this was a bad idea. Too risky. What if he'd read her wrong? What if…?

His worries faded away as he turned to look at her, watching her trail after him, helmet under one arm, her features wrought with concern.

She had saved him today, saved him on more than one occasion. And not just from physical dangers, but from the flashbacks, too. Time and time again, Quinn was there, ready to help. No judgement or disappointment. Protecting him from others—protecting him from himself.

Danse's heart hammered away, his mouth dry as his palms started to sweat. But he knew the time had come: tell her or move on.

Getting the words out was another matter entirely.

"Quinn, I…" he hesitated, his eyes drifting to the floor. Danse forced them up again and made himself hold her gaze. If he was going to do this, he was going to do it properly, damn it. "I…" He licked his lips. "Sorry, this is...difficult."

She frowned, but said nothing.

Danse rocked on his heels for a moment, and then began to babble. "In the time that I've known you, we've been through a great deal together. I initially...had my reservations, not only about your origins, but your loyalty to the Brotherhood. But over time, that changed. My opinion, I mean. You've gone from being a total stranger to...to the best friend I've ever had. I trust you with my life. And I...I…"

He could feel his cheeks burning. Her expression wasn't helping—she looked as if he'd hit her in the face.

You could stop here. You haven't compromised your friendship yet.

Stop it now.

Stop.

"And I just…" Danse soldiered on, his voice getting quieter with every passing second. "After what happened in the hospital, I just wondered if you wanted to talk about...I mean, if you would possibly consider being more...than…"

His voice trailed away, leaving only a heavy, uncomfortable silence.

Quinn stared at him, a faint blush rising in her own cheeks now. Then her mouth began to twitch, and Danse knew he had lost her before the laughter had so much as left her lips.

He winced. It hurt, but at least he had his answer.

"I apologise. It was a stupid idea. I shouldn't have overstepped my bounds like that." He turned to walk back down the aisle of bombs, wishing the ground would just collapse and take him with it, when he heard her heavy footsteps and a panicked protest.

"No, Danse, wait!" Quinn grabbed his arm and pulled him around to face her. There were dying traces of mirth still left in her expression, but her eyes were deadly serious. Mortified, even. "I wasn't laughing at you! I just…"

Danse felt his insides freeze with apprehension. Quinn made a vague, somewhat sheepish gesture.

"It's just so typically you, y'know? Even with a topic like this, you started it by mentioning the Brotherhood."

Oh God, I did.

She grinned at him. "But that's why I like you. If you'd brought it up any other way, I don't think it would have worked half as well. Because that's just the way you are."

"Worked…?" His heart leap up into his throat.

"Yeah." The smile disappeared, and Quinn looked nervous herself, the pink tinge returning to her skin as she turned her eyes down. "God, this is stupid. I'm nearly thirty. This shouldn't be so…" She dragged her gaze up to meet his and frowned. "Yes, I want to talk about it. I think it's been coming for a long while, but we've had so much shit to deal with that we've just been…"

"Ignoring it," Danse said gently.

Quinn nodded. "But this isn't the time or the place for such a discussion."

"I know. When I planned this out in my head, I wasn't envisioning being surrounded by enough explosives to level a continent."

She laughed again, and Danse felt some of his nerves leave him. Others often struggled with his dry—and sometimes dark—sense of humour. Quinn understood. She always had.

"But I'm only willing to discuss this on one condition."

Danse frowned. He had been expecting an outright refusal or an acceptance—but terms and conditions? "What—?"

"When we get back to the Prydwen, you go and see Cade and you tell him everything."

"You cannot be serious."

"Try me, Paladin," Quinn replied, folding her arms and narrowing her eyes. "You want to talk about a relationship? Then you need to start working on helping yourself. You had a flashback in Boston when you promised me it would never happen on the field."

"That was one time."

"One time too many! You carry on like this and you're going to get yourself and your team killed!"

Panic started to bubble up within him, rooting him to the spot. At once, Danse saw it all crashing down: the respect of his peers, his command, his rank. He was nothing without the Brotherhood, but to tell Cade that he was no longer capable of looking after himself on the field, let alone an entire squad—the thought terrified him more than anything he had ever known. He'd be demoted, cast down and scorned for his weakness. He would be letting Krieg down, letting Elder Maxson down.

"I can't," he croaked, shaking his head. "I can't do that, Quinn. Even for you."

She glared at him. "You can."

"No, I can't." The volume in his voice rose, but he barely noticed it. She had to know this. She had to. "I can't lose everything I've spent my life building."

Quinn blinked, surprised, and the scowl disappeared. She stepped closer to him and cocked her head, looking worried again. "This isn't stubbornness, is it? What do you think is going to happen?"

Danse stared firmly at the floor as he repeated the thoughts in his head. He knew she wouldn't drop it until he told her, and despite himself, it felt right somehow. If one person deserved an explanation, it was her.

Quinn didn't speak until he had finished, and even then, there was a long quiet. Doubts began to gnaw away at him. Had he said too much?

"Danse, look at me."

With the greatest effort, he met her eye. She smiled at him. Sadly, yes, but still smiling.

Maybe there was hope after all.

Placing her hands on his shoulders, she leaned forward, not breaking eye contact with him. His stomach clenched; she was so close.

"Danse," she said again, so softly he could barely hear her. "Whatever happens, I will be with you every step of the way. If you go to Cade, you will get better. You won't lose your rank or the respect of the people around you; if anything, they'll respect you more. Because a real leader knows their limits, and they know when to step back and let others share the burden."

"But…" He couldn't even argue with her. He tried to look away again, but Quinn raised a hand and gently turned his face back towards hers.

"I just want you to be safe," she went on. "And I'm willing to sacrifice happiness with you to do that. But if you do want us to...if you want this to happen between us, then please, talk to Cade and let him help you. Because I can't stand the thought of losing you. And at the moment, I'm scared as hell that I will."

Danse could picture it now. Long nights on the Prydwen, just the two of them. Together. And maybe she would even return with him to the Citadel when Maxson decided to finally leave the Commonwealth. There were a world of possibilities at his fingertips, but he feared to reach out and touch them.

"I…" He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, trying to calm the sickening anxiety boiling away in the pit of his stomach as he fought the urge to close himself off again. But when he opened them, Quinn was still there, waiting, more patient than he had thought she was capable of. The tightness in his chest eased. She had seen him at his worst before, and she had remained at his side. Ever since he had met her, she had always been there.

"Alright."

Quinn looked stunned. She hesitated before she spoke. "You...you mean it?"

Danse nodded, a fresh wave of dread washing over him. But then she smiled, and the joy that radiated from her banished it all away, and all at once he saw a glimmer of things to come.

"When we get back to the Prydwen," Danse said, trying to collect his mixed thoughts, "I'll go see Cade, and then I'll let you know."

Quinn nodded. "Then we can talk. And if the talk goes well…" She shrugged and grinned.

Danse blushed. He wasn't sure if she meant something more innocent or…

She seemed to pick up on what she had just implied and went bright red herself. "Not that. Not just yet. I, uh…"

He started to laugh. He couldn't help it. The talk with Cade seemed far in the future, and in the presence of her blunder, the crippling panic slipped away, his mind clinging to this new distraction. Quinn was here right now and she was just so…

"Oh, shut up," she said, still red in the face as she gave his arm a light punch, but she was grinning too. She took the beacon Haylen had given her out from her armour and set it down on a nearby forklift truck. "Right, in order to escape my embarrassment, I declare the mission a success. Let's get out of here."

Danse shook his head. "Negative. I have to stay until the vertibirds arrive."

"Stay here?" Quinn frowned. "On whose orders?"

"Elder Maxson's. I'm not to take my eyes off of these bombs until every last one of them has been counted, tested, and loaded. If we want Liberty Prime to reach peak fighting efficiency, we can't afford to lose this stockpile."

"If you think I'm leaving you here after all the bullshit that's happened today—"

"Quinn, I'll be fine." His brow furrowed a little. "It's you I'm worried about. The Glowing Sea is far more dangerous than here."

"I'll be fine," Quinn mimicked with an edge of annoyance . She sighed. "Look, we shouldn't be arguing already. Let's at least have a first date before we start bickering again."

She laughed as his face went hot, and then shrugged in defeat. "Alright. I'm supposed to go straight back and you're supposed to stay right here. Promise you'll keep yourself out of harm's way until the cavalry arrives?"

"Only if you promise to keep your head down until you're back on the Prydwen."

"Deal."

The nervous atmosphere returned as they stared at each other, lost for words. Quinn gave an awkward giggle and Danse felt a stupid grin slip onto his face. Try as he might, he couldn't get rid of it. But he didn't mind too much. After all, she had said she would talk with him. That alone was enough to banish any negative thought.

"Okay, well, I'll see you back on the Prydwen," Quinn said finally, looking as if she had sunburn. She put her helmet back on with a clunk, and some of Danse's unease returned with the added barrier.

"I'm...looking forward to it." He meant it. The very concept filled him with a strange mix of emotions: dread, apprehension, resignation. He would have to confess to Cade after all. But there was also excitement, happiness, and...hope.

When was the last time he had hoped for anything?

She gave him a little wave as she left, throwing back glances in his direction as she took the long walk towards the exit. Danse watched her go, not turning away until she had rounded the corner and out of sight.

With a sigh, he paced up and down the aisles, letting his eyes wander over the rows of bombs, not paying them the slightest bit of attention. As the minutes dragged on, the cheer that had nestled within him slowly drained away, replaced by doubt and worry.

What if Quinn was wrong? What if…?

No. He had to stop this now before it got out of control. Whatever happened when he returned to the Prydwen, he couldn't carry on like this. And Quinn had promised she'd help.

Danse leaned back against the crates of nukes, trying to ignore the stabbing pains in his head.

This is how it starts, isn't? I get close to someone, and then…

Cutler. It all stemmed from Cutler.

Years and years of nightmares and guilt, slowly crushing him down into the dirt until he couldn't move for the weight. Throwing himself into his work and pushing away anyone that tried to get too close. Drifting from one mission to the next, wondering when it would be the last, or who else would die under his guidance.

Staring down the desolate hall, Danse sighed as the old thoughts washed over him. It had been some time since he had allowed himself to trail down this path; he knew how he would feel at the end of it.

2284

Danse's throat ached. Whether it was from the alcohol, or from the echoes of the imprints left behind by Cutler's fingers, he didn't know. He didn't care.

Cutler was…

Danse poured out a shot and knocked it back, blearily noting that almost half of the bottle of vodka was gone, vaguely aware of the bin full of countless others he'd drunk throughout the week. He couldn't think about it. He didn't want to think about it. That Cutler was...that he had been…

Turned.

Pressing a hand to his head, Danse swayed in his seat and hit the drink again, the vodka tasting like water on his numbed tongue. He felt dizzy, sick.

Alone.

There had been knocks at his door over the last week when he had not been on duty: Rachel Marguerie, Stephen Cooper, Vivian Cooper. Their presence would not soothe this wound in his chest that ripped and teared every time he thought of...of what he had found. Of what he had been forced to do. No, isolation was better than their pity, and so he had not answered, finding easier company in a bottle.

The snapped dog tags were laced around Danse's fingers, glittering in the fluorescent lighting above. They were supposed to go to the next of kin, but Danse had not handed them in yet—he wasn't sure if he could bring himself to do it. Cutler's tags...could he really just let them go?

A bang echoed at his door, and Danse sighed, the hand with the tags pressing against his forehead. How long would they persist with this? His grief wasn't interfering with his work. Why couldn't they just leave him be?

"Paladin Danse, unless you are otherwise indisposed, I am coming in now."

The voice made his blood run cold and Danse rose to his feet, lurching dangerously as he clunked the bottle down on his desk. No, he didn't want anyone to see him like this, especially not him. Maybe if he didn't talk too much, he could get away with it. Maybe…

The door swung open and Elder Maxson walked in, holding himself with the authority of a man twice his age. He glanced over his shoulder into the corridor and then closed the door behind him, before turning and glaring at Danse.

"Paladin." His voice was curt and sharp, condemnation dripping from it.

"Sir," Danse replied, wincing at the slur on the 's.' There was no way to hide this—the man knew him too well. Slowly, Danse sank back into his chair and covered his face with his hand, groaning.

When he looked up again, Elder Maxson's features had softened. He sighed and nodded towards the shot glass and bottle. "Mind if I join you?"

Danse didn't reply, but pulled open the drawer in his desk, retrieving his other shot glass, and held it up to the dim light.

Danse hesitated. There was a small chip in the rim of the glass, courtesy of Cutler, the only person Danse had ever shared a drink with in his quarters, laughing and talking about the old days in Rivet City. The idiot had tried to do an impression of a mirelurk that had wormed its way into the marketplace and had tripped over his own feet, falling face first on the floor.

Danse turned the glass over in his hands, a stabbing pain in his chest, before reaching for the bottle.

"Leave it," said Elder Maxson.

Danse glanced up, puzzled, to see him giving a small smile. He shook his head and motioned at the precious nothing in Danse's hand.

"I can tell that the glass is...not mine to drink from. Leave it."

Gratitude flooded through Danse, and he inspected the glass once more, giving a sad chuckle at the memory attached to it, before carefully placing it back in his desk. He looked up at the Elder.

"Arthur," he said, before realising his mistake and quickly correcting himself. "I mean, sir—"

"Arthur is fine," said Elder Maxson, and all at once, his entire demeanour seemed to shift. He was still Elder Maxson, leader of the Brotherhood and celebrated hero of countless feats. But he was also Arthur Maxson again, the grieving thirteen year old Danse had once comforted in the lonely corridors of the Citadel. The boy who had wanted books and wrote secret stories on his terminal that the entire Brotherhood knew about. The man who—despite all the pressures and expectations put upon him—had kept his moral code.

Danse leant forward onto his desk, propping himself up with his hand, and shut his eyes. The world spun around him, but he paid it no mind. He had put himself in a shameful position.

"You have my sympathies, Danse," said Arthur finally, his voice gentle. "Knight-Captain Cutler was a good man. But you cannot go on like this. Your struggles have currently escaped the attention of the majority of the crew here, but if it continues, the whispers will begin. Not to mention this level of intoxication will eventually...affect you."

"I'm fine," Danse protested, but Arthur scoffed at him.

"You're a poor liar," he said. "Too honest...or perhaps just honest enough. But don't lie to me. It's unbecoming of you."

Danse said nothing, deciding it was better to keep his eyes shut than look at the disapproval on his friend's face.

"You know as well as I do," Arthur went on, "that as a paladin, you are an example to others, and a pillar of support for your team. You cannot be those things if you spend your evenings in here, shutting yourself off from your brothers and sisters and numbing the pain with alcohol. The sooner you face the reality of the situation, the better."

Danse finally opened his eyes, letting Arthur's words wash over him, as he stared miserably at his shot glass. He was right, of course—the embarrassment he felt was all the proof he needed to know Arthur was right. Pushing both bottle and glass away, Danse nodded, and Arthur smiled. A flicker of something crossed his face, and then Arthur was gone. Elder Maxson had returned.

He straightened his uniform and turned to leave, but paused when Danse held something out to him.

"Knight-Captain Cutler's tags," mumbled Danse, staring at the floor. "I...they should be passed on to his family."

There was a long silence, filled only by the hum of the ship.

"Did Knight-Captain Cutler have any next of kin?" he asked slowly.

"Not that I'm aware of."

Another pause. Then Elder Maxson cleared his throat and said, "In that case, Paladin, keep them. They are yours."

Danse felt like he had been punched in the gut. He looked up at the Elder, lost for words, while the man in front of him gazed on placidly. His expression was impossible to read. Danse swallowed and stared back down at Cutler's tags, noting the faint stain of blood still on them.

"...Thank you, sir."

"So you talked? That's it?"

Quinn laughed as Rachel fixed her with an intense look, as if trying to decide whether she was being lied to.

"Yeah, we just talked," Quinn replied with a shrug. "And we'll talk some more on the Prydwen when we get back and see how it goes." She nodded towards the ship in the distance, now visible since they had made their way through most of the Boston ruins.

The knight-sergeant huffed but didn't respond, wearing a sulky pout that didn't match her weathered features, and pulled out a cigar, lighting it and puffing irritably on it.

Quinn smirked. Both Rachel and Carson had grilled her for details as they had made their way out of the military base and across the Glowing Sea. She had rebuffed their questions for a while, claiming the area was too unsafe to start gossiping—"Aha! I knew something had happened!"—but once the radiation had settled and the dust clouds had cleared away, Rachel had dug her teeth into the topic once more.

"Give it a rest," Carson said, pulling off his helmet and squinting up at the sun. But when the knight-sergeant turned to stare at him, her eyes blazing, he hastily followed up with, "Uh, I mean, you got your way. They're gonna talk it out. Did you really expect anything else from Paladin Danse?"

"No," Rachel agreed, still puffing away on her smoke, but less aggressively now. "I swear, that man needs to be smacked upside the—"

"Hey, boss!"

They all froze, Quinn scanning the landscape. She knew that voice, but where was—?

Crack.

A sniper round hit the dirt about ten feet to her right, and Quinn whipped around to see Robert Joseph MacCready perched on top of a nearby building, grinning as he lowered his rifle. Unfortunately for MacCready, Rachel had spotted him too.

She drew her pistol and fired once before Quinn managed to drag her arm down, shouting, "It's okay, he's a friend!"

The bullet missed him, lodging into a telephone wire pole right next to his head. Even from this distance, Quinn could tell he looked stunned.

"What the heck?" he yelled at her, shouldering his rifle and raising his hands.

"I was about to ask you the same thing!" Quinn shot back, shaking her head in disbelief. "Firing at people you barely know and not expecting a retaliation? What the shit, MacCready?"

MacCready struggled down the building, his short legs pedalling as he tried to lower himself onto the dumpster below, before losing his grip and falling with a loud bang. Rachel laughed as he sat up, his face red and looking thoroughly disgruntled.

"Yeah, well," he snapped, straightening his hat and brushing dust off his already filthy coat, "what I wasn't expecting was your friends to react so quickly. Or shoot that far without a rifle." Apparently satisfied that the grime on his clothes was at an acceptable level, he strode over, still frowning. But Quinn could see his lips twitching, and she grinned at him.

After a few seconds, he relented and smiled back, before turning to Rachel. "That was a hell of a shot for a quick draw with a pistol. Almost as good as me."

Rachel snorted, blowing a jet of smoke into the air, but she looked pleased. "Just lucky. For you."

MacCready glanced back up at the telephone pole, and Quinn shivered. If the bullet had been just a little more to the left…

Oddly enough, he seemed pleased by this.

"Heck yeah, it was lucky for me!" His grin widened, showing his tarnished teeth, and he put a hand on his hip. "Seriously, I haven't seen shooting like that in a while. I used to have to shoot for both of us when we travelled together." A quick nod in Quinn's direction made her realise who he was talking about.

"Hey!" Quinn exclaimed.

"Nothing's changed then," Rachel replied, as Carson began to snicker.

"Hey!"

Both Rachel and MacCready ignored her, eyeing each other up with mutual interest.

"MacCready," he said, sticking out his hand. Quinn's jaw dropped.

"Rachel." She shook.

If it hadn't been for the fact Quinn's mouth was already hanging open, she would have let it drop in surprise again. Since when did MacCready act so warmly to strangers?

Obviously when they nearly shoot him in the head, she thought, her brain trying to grapple with the situation. The last time she had seen MacCready, she had told him she was travelling with Nick Valentine to deal with Kellogg. He'd wanted to come along and argued with her until they were both hoarse, but she'd held her ground. MacCready had a son waiting for him, and with what had happened to Lucy…

No. She had forced him to stay behind. Told him to save his money and go back to D.C. Duncan needed him more than her. A bitter note to part on, and yet it didn't seem to be affecting his mood towards her now.

"So, why are you here?" Quinn said, breaking the spell that hung over the two most sarcastic assholes in the Commonwealth. MacCready turned to her, the frown returning, and Quinn saw in the depths that he hadn't completely forgiven her for their last talk.

"Saving up money, like you told me to," he replied, his tone slightly cold. He paused and then sighed, shaking his head. "Sorry, sorry. I know we had to split the team for the right reasons, but…" He shrugged. "I could have helped you. I still owe you."

"No, you don't." No matter how many times she made this point, he still insisted he was in her debt. "You gave me the wooden soldier, remember?"

"I know, but...my son's life, Quinn," he said weakly, with a small shrug. "I don't think there's anything I could do to repay that."

"You're a parent?" Rachel asked, raising an eyebrow as she chewed on her cigar.

MacCready nodded. "Yeah, why? Are you?"

Rachel hesitated. "I was."

"Oh, sorry," he said quickly, looking mortified, but the knight-sergeant shook her head.

"It's fine. It's in the past." She turned to Quinn and Carson, shifting the rucksack on her shoulders. "Come on, we need to take this back to the ship." Then, with a nod towards MacCready, she added, "If you're going the same way, you can come with us."

MacCready gave a small smile that she had brushed aside the intrusion into her privacy. "I've got a job in the Slog, so I'm headed your way."

"The Slog?" both Quinn and Rachel asked at once.

He looked puzzled. "Uh, yeah. Why, what's the big deal?"

"The Slog is supposed to be under Minutemen protection," Quinn said, "and last I checked you're not on Garvey's payroll."

"Your payroll," MacCready corrected. "And I know, but one of the ghouls made it to Goodneighbor and asked Hancock for some help. Turns out the Gunners are pressuring them for protection payment and threatening to destroy all their tarberry crops if they don't cough it up. So the good ol' Mayor directed 'em to me. The Minutemen are capable, Quinn, but they aren't quite equipped to deal with the Gunners."

"And you are?" Rachel asked, her tone suddenly sharp. Quinn glanced at her, perplexed, but before she could talk, MacCready shot back his reply.

"Yeah, I am." He glared at her. "And I intend to wipe them out."

"Room for one more then?"

A silence fell over this statement.

"Wait, you're doing what now, Rachel?" Carson said, blinking. He looked just as startled as Quinn felt. Since when did Rachel Goddamn Marguerie work outside of the Brotherhood?

"Those fucking assholes kill kids," the knight-sergeant snarled, rounding on them so fiercely, they both took a step back. "If you think I'm going to miss an opportunity for live target practice, then you can think again."

"That's nice and all, but I don't split caps, sister," MacCready said, folding his arms and scowling. "And I don't remember inviting you to my job."

"I don't need an invitation," Rachel snapped, whipping back around to face him. "I'm going. And you can keep your damn caps, too. The Brotherhood pays me my fair share. I don't want your mercenary money."

"A two sniper team won't work."

"Do you see me carrying a rifle?" She indicated to the pistols and the knife on her makeshift holsters. "Stealth Boys and close combat. Perfect distraction while you take them out from afar."

MacCready said nothing for a moment, studying Rachel hard. Then he sighed. "Fine. The ghoul said they weren't in any danger right now, so I guess you can go do whatever Brotherhood thing you're doing, and then we'll deal with the Gunners."

For a moment, the knight-sergeant looked like she was having some sort of internal struggle. Then she said, "No immediate danger?"

"No."

"Good."

She marched off before MacCready could respond, and he turned to Quinn, looking a mix of confused and annoyed.

"Is she always like this?"

"Pretty much," Carson said from behind the sniper. "But if there's anyone you want in a fight, it's her." He shook his head, putting his helmet back on with a clunk, and then stomped off after the knight-sergeant.

"Sorry," said Quinn with a small shrug at her friend. She rubbed the back of her head and gave a long, weary sigh. "And...and not just about her. About a lot of things. I shouldn't have knocked back your help the way I did. And I should have gotten in contact after Kellogg, but…"

"I know." MacCready's face softened now. Most of the time he was a bundle of sarcasm and ego, but there were rare glimmers of sincerity beneath the bravado that made his concern all the more genuine. "Hancock told me everything while I was in Goodneighbor. I'm...I'm so sorry, Quinn."

"Thanks," she managed, dropping her gaze.

MacCready clapped his hand on her shoulder and gave her a little shake. "Look, I know last time we spoke we...well, had differences in opinion. But you've always helped me. I'm here for you."

Quinn placed her hand on top of his and gave his fingers a little squeeze. "Thank you," she repeated. "Seriously."

He grinned. "Hancock also mentioned something about a guy called Paladin Da—"

His words were cut off as Quinn reached over and yanked his hat down as far as it would go.

"You ass," she said fondly.

The mood on the Prydwen was tense.

Quinn sensed it as soon as she stepped aboard. Even Proctor Ingram, who had allowed Quinn to activate Liberty Prime, had seemed somewhat distracted in the wake of such a monumental achievement. Maxson wanted to see her. No explanation. He wanted to see her now.

Carson and Rachel followed her, looking uneasy themselves. Not one of the grunts they passed in the corridors had an explanation for why everyone was on edge, only that the officers had started acting strangely a few hours after the vertibirds had returned from the Glowing Sea.

No matter. Once she had spoken to Maxson, she could find Danse. Maybe he would be able to tell her what was going on.

Danse.

Had he spoken to Cade yet? Or was he waiting for her to get back before he broached the subject with the doctor? Maybe he had changed his mind completely. God, she hoped not.

But all thoughts of Danse were driven from her mind when she saw the look on Maxson's face.

His eyes bored into her, before flitting to Carson and Rachel in turn. Quinn never thought she would see Rachel uncomfortable, but the knight-sergeant squirmed on the spot at Maxson's ruthless gaze.

"Wait outside," he said to them. "I will speak to each of you separately."

Both of them saluted and left, their footsteps betraying their eagerness to be away from the Elder's wrath. Quinn swallowed, wondering what the hell it was all about, when a nasty thought hit her. Had Maxson found out that Shaun was the Director of the Institute? The very idea made her blood run cold.

She waited.

When the sounds of her friends faded away, Maxson spoke again, his voice crackling with damnation.

"Is there anything you wish to tell me, Knight?"

A/N: Thanks to my amazing beta, waiting4morning, for her wonderful work! Thanks to Musashi1596 for the title. Thank you to feltmyheart and archie of tumblr for their help with the characterisation of MacCready.

And thank you for all the reviews!