We, the Willing

Quinn couldn't sleep.

Danse's words crawled around her skull, the calmness of his voice in his holotape sending chills down her spine. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw his body, crumpled in the corner of the bunker.

No, Quinn couldn't sleep. She was afraid of what she might find when she woke up.

The solution to the problem had been a simple one. Quinn rubbed her eyes, stifling a yawn. If Danse could stay awake for days on end, then she could too. He hadn't noticed her exhaustion so far, and with any luck, he never would. In Goodneighbor, there was no real need to take watch, and Danse was so far past the point of caring recently that he hadn't argued with her about it. He was content to sit in the hotel room, day after day, working on the new rifles they'd bought in town.

Danse had fixed up Quinn's gun before his own, going over it again and again until the battered casing shone like polished glass, and tinkered until he had upgraded it far past the capabilities of her original combat rifle. When he had handed it to her, looking tired but also satisfied, Quinn had been astounded by how light it felt, the mechanisms smooth and quick as she loaded it up for the first time.

Now he was working on his own weapon: another combat rifle. While the pistol Haylen had given him was—in Danse's words—"sufficient," he had always preferred to use a rifle when he could. The new gun was in a worse condition than Quinn's had been—he insisted she take the better one. When Quinn questioned how he felt about using a standard gun again, Danse gave her a little shrug.

"It's not an energy weapon, but it'll do."

Quinn shifted in her seat, digging her nails into her arm to fight the heaviness of her eyelids, and winced. The burns had been treated by Doctor Amari, and though the bandages were long gone, the skin was still tender. She studied her arms, noting the odd scarring the laser fire had left, and then jumped as someone knocked.

Danse snorted but didn't wake, and Quinn hurried to answer the door. She was greeted by the roguish grin of John Hancock, but it faltered at the sight of her face, his eyes narrowing.

"You look like shit—" he began, but Quinn shushed him, jerking her thumb in the direction of Danse. She half expected Hancock to mock him, like he had last time, but instead he nodded.

"He needs it," Hancock replied in a quieter voice. "Let's go to my office where we can talk. Make sure you got your room key, though, so you don't lock yourself out."

"No, I…" Quinn hesitated, glancing back at Danse.

"...for the benefit of humanity, I need to die…"

"I can't leave him alone."

Hancock frowned. "Why? What's happened?"

She fidgeted, but didn't answer. Danse had said he didn't care, but…

"Is he injured? Amari said you had some nasty burns but nothing about him."

"No, he's not hurt. I'm just...I…"

"Quinn," Hancock said, "I know he has bad nightmares. Saw them myself when he was with us in Sanctuary. But they're only dreams. He's still gonna be here when you get back. Half an hour in my office to tell me what's wrong and why you had me send out my guys to bring the rest of the gang to Goodneighbor. That's all I'm askin'. Okay?"

Quinn stared at Danse, her fingers tight on the door.

Half an hour. Only half an hour. Thirty minutes. She could spare thirty minutes.

...couldn't she?

Raucous laughter enveloped her as she stepped into Hancock's corner of the world, the air thick with smoke, courtesy of Nick, Piper, and MacCready. Preston stood at the edges of the gathering, coughing uncomfortably into a bottle of Nuka Cola, but still trying to join in with the conversation. When they spotted her, they greeted her loudly and cheerfully, their mirth turning into questions as she gave a half-hearted smile back. Only MacCready did not react to her despondency, his eyes sharp and knowing behind his cigarette.

Quinn told them everything.

Silence filled the room in the wake of her confession, their stunned faces saying more than any sentence they could utter.

"There must be some kind of mistake." Piper's eyes were wide with disbelief. "This is a joke, right?"

"Does it look like a joke?" Quinn snapped, too tired to guard her tone. "He avoided being executed by his own friends only because I fought tooth and nail to keep him alive. Maxson let him go, but the rest of the Brotherhood think he's dead...and if they saw him again, they would shoot him on sight. Me too, if we're spotted together."

"That man must be going through hell right now," Nick said in a low voice. He shook his head and dragged on his cigarette.

"The Brotherhood ain't welcome in my town." Hancock lit up a smoke and puffed on it. "I don't like people who are quick to turn on their own. Not that I needed an excuse to hate those bastards anyway." He coughed into his sleeve and fixed Quinn with a fierce glare. "He can stay here. No chance of him running into them in Goodneighbor."

Quinn felt herself swell with gratitude, but she shook her head. "I appreciate the gesture, but...well…"

"He's still Danse?" Piper offered.

Sighing, Quinn nodded. "He's...I tried to get him to go to Sanctuary with me. And even though he didn't actually say it, the idea of seeing you all again, seeing anyone he knows again after finding out what he is…"

"He thinks we'd care?" asked Preston.

"More than that. He thinks it's something you'll laugh about. Mock him or use it against him. Turn on him, the way everyone else has."

"Well, he's an idiot," Hancock replied.

A murmur of agreement echoed across the group. MacCready said nothing, leaning back in his chair and crossing his legs.

Quinn looked at each serious face to the next. When had this transformation happened? To say Danse had made a poor first impression with her friends was like saying the bomb that fell on Boston had caused a mild delay in the city's public transport system.

"I thought you all despised him," she said, bewildered.

"Then why did you tell us he was a synth?" Preston asked, his brow furrowing.

"Because I wanted to make sure that any talk about him is kept to a minimum, so the Brotherhood doesn't catch on to any rumours," Quinn replied with a shrug. "And...and also to make sure you didn't mention the Brotherhood in front of him either. It's a pretty touchy topic at the moment."

"I'll bet," said MacCready from the sofa, playing with the fraying cuff of his jacket.

"So no more calling him tin can?" Hancock said, looking somewhat put out.

"I don't know." Quinn shrugged. "Try to use your best judgement."

"Now that's asking for trouble," said Nick, stubbing out his cigarette on a battered chest of drawers.

"I gotta agree with the toaster detective," Hancock said with a grin, dropping down on the sofa next to MacCready and putting his feet up on the old coffee table. "My usual jet-mentat cocktail puts my best judgement somewhere in the vicinity of…" He gave a vague hand gesture. "Which reminds me…"

He pulled out a packet of mentats and opened them, offering the box around. MacCready hesitated before shaking his head and folding his arms.

"Back on topic for a second," Piper said, rolling her eyes at the ghoul, "yeah, Danse...Danse didn't exactly get off to a good start with us. But when we were organising the funeral—" Piper paused, studying Quinn before she continued, "I really warmed up to him. I think we all did."

"He tries my patience sometimes, but that doesn't make him a bad man," Nick said in a thoughtful voice. "He's a blockhead, but he's one of us."

More murmurs of agreement.

Quinn smiled, warmth pulsing through her chest at their sincerity, and an idea struck her. Initially she had just brought them here to make sure they kept quiet, but now…

She cleared her throat, her smile still wide, and said. "Hancock, do you remember that armour you told me about in 35 Court?"

Hancock paused, looking perplexed. He glanced at the others, as if expecting someone to explain the question to him. Blank expressions greeted him, so he turned back to Quinn.

"Yeah...why?"

All eyes were on them as they left Goodneighbor the following morning. Danse pulled his cowl up as far as it would go, tugging down on his hood at the same time, staring at the floor.

"Come on, tin can," Hancock said cheerily. "You ain't that ugly."

Danse did not reply.

He had said very little last night when Quinn had told him that the group knew his secret, and even less when she had added they were going to help him get the power armour. Instead, he had returned to tinkering with his gun, replying with one word answers until she had given up. When the others had joined them in the hotel the following morning, bringing ammunition and better armour, he had said nothing at all, avoiding everyone's eye.

The others filled the silence as they made their way through Boston ruins, laughing and joking between fights with ghouls and raiders. Quinn tried to join in, but her tiredness had reached such a level that thoughts felt sluggish in her head, conversations slow to process, more effort than they were worth. Beneath his cowl and hood, Danse frowned at her as she tripped and stumbled her way through the city, mumbling her contributions to the stream of talk.

By the time they reached 35 Court, Quinn was spent. Her legs felt like lead. Her eyes screamed at her to let them close. Her temper was at breaking point. All the noise was too much. She just wanted them to shut the fuck up.

Pushing back her aggression, Quinn stalked inside the building, stepping over fragments of the singed welcome desk and pieces of rubble. The blast had scorched much of the foyer.

"Are we gonna be able to get up top, Blue?" Piper asked, moving aside debris that had once been the protectron with her foot.

"Depends if the elevator is working." Quinn strode over and punched a few of the buttons, leaving fingerprints in the sooty sheen that covered the panel. A distorted ping chimed, and the elevator rumbled to life, its doors sliding open to welcome them.

"Are you sure this is safe?" MacCready said, eyeing the elevator suspiciously. "That explosion could have damaged the cables."

"Nah, it wasn't big enough."

"Or—"

"Quinn," Danse said suddenly.

Everyone turned to look at him. It had been the first word any of them had heard him speak that day. Quinn frowned and stepped towards him.

"I don't like this." He still didn't meet her eye, instead staring down at the floor. "This isn't worth the risk. We should head back."

"Danse—"

"No." Finally, he met her gaze, his expression hard but determined. "Don't do this. Not for me."

"If I have to drag you to that armour myself, I will," Hancock drawled, rolling his eyes. "Can't call you tin can if you don't have the clanking suit to match, right?"

Danse said nothing, scowling at Hancock.

"We're wasting time," Nick interjected.

"But—"

"No more arguing," interrupted Piper. "We're doing this, Danse, and that's final." She flapped her hands, ushering them all inside, despite the grumbling that met her demands. "Now come on. In! In! Come on! We can all fit with a bit of effort!"

"I don't know if—" Quinn heard someone say, but Piper cut across his protests without mercy.

"MacCready, you're the smallest out of everyone. You'll be fine."

MacCready muttered under his breath as howls of laughter filled the elevator, and even Danse seemed to be smiling from behind his cowl. Whether by happy accident or clever scheming, Piper had somehow managed to squish Quinn right next to him, her body pressed against his. Piper forced her way into the gathering, eliciting a series of groans, and then the elevator doors closed with a clunk, throwing them all into darkness.

The others giggled and jostled amongst themselves—"MacCready, is that your rifle or are you just pleased to see me?"—but Quinn was far too distracted to focus on their words. Hoping no one else would notice, she laid her head against Danse's shoulder.

As she expected, he flinched. But then he took her by surprise, his hand creeping up to touch her waist by the very tips of his fingers. For the briefest of seconds, Quinn felt content.

The moment was snatched away as the lights inside the elevator flicked on. She felt his hand drop, and he shifted position as he pulled his cowl off, forcing her to stand up straight again.

When the elevator shuddered to a halt and the door slid open, a chill filled the air, the howl of the wind barely audible over the sound of a wailing alarm. The gathering filed out into the corridor, its splendour disguised by centuries of decay. Danse strode past all of them, gun raised, the echoes of his old authority resonating from his purposeful stride. He peered around the corner, and then gestured for them to follow.

"I thought you weren't keen on this plan?" Hancock said, strolling over with a smirk on his face.

"I think this is pure lunacy," Danse snapped, throwing the group an ugly look, "but my opinion won't change the fact you're going to do it anyway. So if you're so insistent on continuing with this stupidity on my behalf, the least I can do is try to keep you all safe."

Hancock looked taken aback for a moment, glancing over to the equally stunned Nick and Preston, but then he nodded, his expression serious. "Fair enough. But I'm sure we'll be fi—"

Danse ignored him and disappeared around the corner.

Anxiety crept up in Quinn and she hurried to follow, disregarding the looks the others gave each other. Yes, Danse was difficult, rude, and stubborn, even on a good day, but this level of spite wasn't like him. The others...they didn't understand. They hadn't seen him lost in silent thought for days on end, or otherwise sleeping just to fill the empty hours. They hadn't seen him barely eating, barely speaking, barely able to hold eye contact with her no matter how hard she tried.

They hadn't heard his tape.

Quinn caught up with him further down the corridor, halfway up a section of collapsed ceiling that led to the next floor.

"Danse—" she began, but he held up a hand and edged his way out of sight. Then she heard a cool, synthesised voice over the alarm.

"Engaging target."

A crackling noise snapped through the air, followed by a yell of pain, and Danse came crashing back down the ramp, his clothes smoking at the chest. Although the sirens drowned them out, Quinn didn't have to hear the wheezes to know he was struggling; she could see it in his panic-stricken face. But before Quinn could help, an assaultron appeared at the opening above, its pincer hands electrified and spinning, a fiery red light growing from its head.

Knowing she only had seconds to act, Quinn sprinted up the ramp and threw herself at the robot. Pain ripped through her as she made contact with its sparking hands, and her vision blurred as they toppled over onto the floor. Quinn yelped as she banged her nose on the assaultron's chest plate and something hot and salty trickled down into her mouth. A roar sounded in her ears, and a beam fired from the robot's head, shooting up into the open air.

"Quinn, move!" yelled a voice.

Quinn rolled off the robot and dragged herself to her feet, but the assaultron was ready for her. It crawled across the floor with startling speed, reaching out with its deadly hands, its face beginning to glow again.

"Oh no you don't!" Hancock slammed his booted foot down on the assaultron's back, pinning it to the floor, pointing his shotgun at its head.

Bang.

The assaultron jerked, the light in its faceplate flickering as it struggled, still reaching out to Quinn as it said, "I have been programmed to efficiently terminate human comba—"

Bang.

The metal cracked, small shards and pieces spraying up into the air as it began to twitch and shudder on the floor.

Bang.

The head shattered, broken components and scraps of wire scattering like bone and brain. The assaultron fell still.

"Thanks," Quinn said, wiping her aching nose. Her hand came away smeared with red. Remembering Danse, she ran back down the ramp, past MacCready and Piper, who were walking up to join Hancock.

Danse sat propped against a wall, Preston and Nick at his side. His eyes had taken on a blank, glazed quality, lips parted and shaking, his pale skin covered in a glistening sheen of sweat.

"We've got him!" yelled Preston over the alarm, nodding to Quinn. "Go check the others don't need any—"

A series of shouts and gunfire cut across his words, followed by a deep electronic voice. Quinn had only heard it once before, underneath the Castle where the last leader of the Minutemen had met his end.

"Hostiles detected. Threat level: RED."

Both Quinn and Preston glanced at each other, eyes wide.

"Nick, stay with Danse!" Quinn scrambled back up the ramp, her heart racing, reaching the top level just in time to see the sentry bot slam into Hancock, knocking him off his feet. Piper darted around it, firing shots that ricocheted uselessly off its thick metal armour, while MacCready clambered up a partially collapsed statue and took aim with his rifle.

Quinn had barely taken two steps forward, deciding to completely wing her next actions, when the blaring shriek of Preston's laser musket went off and a jet of red light streaked past her. It hit the sentry bot with such force a piece of its armour came off.

The robot stopped its advance on Hancock and swivelled around to face Preston with startling speed.

"Weapons free."

"Oh crap," Quinn saw him say, though she couldn't hear the words.

Another chunk came out of its plating as MacCready took a shot, and the sentry bot whirled around again, opening fire without warning. MacCready jerked back and fell from his perch, disappearing out of sight as his weapon clattered across the floor.

It was all the time Quinn needed. She grabbed Preston by the collar and dragged him over to the where the walls had collapsed, leaving an opening to city far below.

"Fire and then get out of the way!" Quinn bellowed.

"What?"

"Shoot! Shoot now!"

Preston obeyed, cranking up his laser musket and releasing a blast that hit the sentry bot in the back. Quinn shoved Preston aside and opened fire as it faced her, trying desperately to keep its attention.

"Weapons system locked on. Engaging hostile target," it rumbled, rushing forward.

Quinn held her ground, ignoring the panicked shrieks of her friends. At the very last second, she threw herself sideways onto Preston, and the sentry bot barrelled past her, flying out into the open air.

It soared for the briefest of moments, and yet seemed to hang for an eternity, its treads wheeling endlessly as it tried to grip on the emptiness around it. Then it was gone, plummeting out of sight, before a distant boom below signalled the end of its sudden descent.

Preston groaned beneath her and Quinn rolled off him with a stream of apologies, the adrenaline leaving her as quickly as it had arrived, exhaustion taking its place. She ignored the stinging in her palms and knees, pushing her hair out of her eyes as she checked Preston over. "Is everyone alright?"

She glanced about the room. Piper, who knelt next to Hancock, gave her a thumbs up. Quinn looked over to the ramp leading back down to the elevator and yelled, "Nick?"

"We're fine!" Nick hollered back.

Good. Her heart settled before she remembered someone was missing.

"MacCready!" She jogged across the room, trying to locate him. "MacCready!"

No answer. The sentry bot had managed to knock him down from his sniping spot, but how bad had he been hit? Panic started to well up inside her as she shouted, "Robert, you okay?"

"Robert?" came MacCready's voice from behind a pile of rubble. He dragged himself into view, his right hand clamped over his bleeding arm, the armour covering his chest dented and smoking. "Don't get all formal on me just because you thought I was dead."

Quinn ran over and helped him up. Then she hugged him, ignoring his yelps of pain as she said, "Ass."

Hancock was bruised, but otherwise fine, and Preston had a few scrapes from where he'd landed, as well as a cut under his eye, courtesy of Quinn using him to break her fall. Piper alone had managed to remain unscathed.

"Lucky," muttered Hancock.

"Can you guys see to MacCready, please?" she said, guiding MacCready over to a pile of rubble.

"Bullets went straight through," said MacCready, rolling his eyes. "It's just a flesh wound, boss. I'll be fine."

"Sit your ass down, shut up," Quinn said pleasantly, "and let Preston take a look at you." She forced him onto the rubble, holding him in place with her best glare. MacCready grumbled, but did as he was told, letting Preston treat his wounds.

"Hancock, can you find a way to turn the alarms off? I need to speak to Danse."

"Sure thing." Hancock tipped his hat at her and strode off towards the alcove the sentry bot had come from.

Quinn smiled at him and then turned and hurried down the ramp to the lower level. A few seconds later, the alarm cut out.

True to his word, Nick had stayed by Danse's side, his gun raised as he waited, ready for battle. The old synth relaxed when he saw Quinn, and nodded to Danse.

"Seen this once or twice with the older cops in the force." The detective paused and shook his head. "Or at least the real Nick Valentine did." He shot a wary glance at the man on the floor and then looked back at Quinn, before saying in a low voice, "He's got it bad, kid. Bad enough to tell me he's had this for a while now. You knew, didn't you?"

Quinn nodded, her mouth dry. "Yeah. Yeah, I did. Nate had something similar, back when he...back before the bombs. But Danse has only had episodes when he's been under a huge amount of stress. Or...or when he's been in a situation that...well...similar to…"

Nick held up his skeletal, metal hand. "Say no more. I don't need to know his demons. Is he gonna be alright?"

"I think he'll come out of it soon. But…"

"Then I'll wait up top with the others. Take all the time you need."

Nick strode off without another word.

Quinn sat down next to Danse and took his hands in her own, speaking firm, but gentle, words of grounding, everything that she knew to bring him back.

Slowly but surely, Danse returned. At first he seemed embarrassed, but it quickly turned to horror when he spotted the blood all over Quinn's face. He tried to pull his hands away from her, but she held on, squeezing his fingers tight as she explained what he'd missed.

"This happened because of me," Danse said, leaning back against the wall and shutting his eyes. "If I hadn't—"

"You were hit with an electric shock right in the chest," Quinn interrupted. "That would have put anyone out of the fight. And with all the stress you've been under lately, I'm surprised this hasn't happened sooner. Stop blaming yourself, and—"

She paused. She didn't want to pressure him, but…

"...for the benefit of humanity, I need to die..."

Her stomach turned, but her resolve also strengthened. "—and stop trying to shut me out. I'm here to help you, but I can't do that if you keep pushing me away."

Danse frowned. "I'm not—"

"You are." Quinn wondered whether to mention she had heard his tape. She decided no. "You're barely speaking to me, Danse. You won't look at me half the time, and you're—"

Avoiding me.

"—acting differently than before."

A long silence followed her words. Eventually, Danse sighed and nodded. He looked defeated.

"I'm sorry...it's just…" He stopped as Quinn held up her hand.

"You don't need to be sorry," she said gently, giving his fingers another slight squeeze. "You've done nothing wrong. Just try to remember that I'm here for you, whenever you're ready to talk."

Danse nodded, and when Quinn smiled, he smiled back.

"Come on," she said, getting to her feet and helping him stand. "Let's go claim your prize."

"My prize?"

"We didn't come here for a tour of the building, Danse."

He laughed a little at this and reached out, touching her arm, before going red and jerking his hand back. Quinn pretended not to notice, but she couldn't keep the grin from her face.

They rejoined the others, stepping over the still sparking remains of the assaultron. Hancock looked Danse up and down and said, "How you doin', tin can?"

He didn't reply, colour flushing to his cheeks as he shot Quinn a nervous glance. She gave him a small smile and nudged him.

Danse turned back to Hancock and after a few beats said, "Better."

The ghoul nodded, but didn't respond, and Quinn sighed internally. This was probably as civil as things were ever going to get between the two of them.

Piper pointed to something behind Quinn and Danse, and they both turned as she said, "It's all yours, soldier boy."

Danse's eyes widened at the sight of the armour, an almost childlike wonder rising in his worn face.

Quinn had to admit herself that the suit was a sight to behold. She had heard about the X-01 series from Hancock—a power armour that had been created by the last of the US army after the bombs had fell—but she had never actually seen a set before.

Gleaming and rust free, the power armour looked like it had never been worn. The metal had been gently burnished so that each and every part glowed under the low spotlighting of its vault. It held an air of menace, the shape of its helm looking more predatory than any of the pre-war models.

Hesitating only for a moment, Danse took a step towards the suit.

A hiss of pain made him stop, and he glanced over his shoulder. Quinn followed his gaze and saw the noise had come from MacCready, who had paled considerably since she had last spoken to him. Preston was still trying to tend to the wounds, the frown on the Minuteman's face deepening with each passing second.

"Is everything alright?" Danse asked, turning around to look at MacCready and Preston.

"Yeah," said Preston, not looking up. "Just having a little difficulty with this. I can do basic first aid, but normally a stimpak and a bit of gauze solves the problem."

"It's no big deal," MacCready insisted, before giving another groan as Preston inspected the entry wounds again.

Danse considered them for a moment, and then walked away from the vault, taking the rucksack off his back and crouching down next to MacCready. "Let me take a look."

"I'm fine."

"You're wounded, civilian, and at high risk of—"

MacCready snorted. "Civilian?"

Danse didn't answer, surveying the damage with a gentle hand and a sharp eye. "Stimpaks are not a miracle cure. We need to stem the bleeding and patch you up for the best treatment. Hold your arm up."

MacCready grumbled, but obeyed.

Danse looked over his shoulder to Preston. "Apply indirect pressure to the wounds while I work."

Preston blinked. "Indirect pressure?"

Danse said nothing for a second, and Quinn could almost hear his internal dialogue of, "Undisciplined, untrained settlers in uniform." Despite herself, she grinned.

After a few seconds, Danse managed to get control of himself and nodded, before patiently explaining the procedure to Preston. Indirect pressure, as Quinn already knew from Cade, was applying pressure to specific points on the body where an artery ran over a bone. Doing so with enough force would immediately stop blood flow to any wound below the pressure point.

He directed Preston to push down on a spot on the inside of MacCready's upper arm, next to the armpit, and almost at once, the blood trickled away. Danse set to work at once, cleaning the wounds and checking for any obvious signs of lodged bullets and shrapnel, and sealing the entry and exit points, explaining everything to Preston as he went along. Finally, when everything was done, Danse injected a stimpak and bandaged MacCready's arm.

Only when Danse finished inspecting his handiwork and looked up, did he realise they were all staring at him, hanging onto his every word. Pink crept up into his cheeks, and he glanced back down at MacCready's arm, before nodding and standing.

"Have Doctor Amari check it over when we return to Goodneighbor," he said, doing his best to ignore the watching eyes focused on him.

"I will. Thanks." MacCready paused, glancing at Nick and then back to Danse, his brow furrowed. Eventually he said, "Don't think we've been introduced. Name's MacCready. Robert Joseph MacCready."

"Paladin Danse," Danse replied, and then froze, the colour draining from his skin as he clenched his fists.

"Tin can," Hancock said quickly, breaking the ice that had settled in the atmosphere, "if you don't take that damn armour, then I will. Stop keeping us in suspense."

The others broke into chatter and encouragement, hastily covering up any mention of the Brotherhood. After a few seconds, Danse rolled his eyes, looking bewildered, but pleasantly so. He walked to the armour, raising up a hand, before hesitating and drawing back from it, as if afraid to mar it with his fingerprints.

With the care that a parent would comfort a child, Danse laid his hand on the gleaming metal of the suit. He closed his eyes, and something painful flickered through his features before he opened them again.

"Thank you," he said, staring down at the suit. "All of you. This...I…"

"Don't worry about it," said Piper helping MacCready to his feet and handing him his rifle. "That's what friends do, right?"

Danse frowned, but still didn't look at them. "Friends?"

"Yeah, you big lout." Piper grinned, her hands on her hips.

"Well, I dunno," said Hancock, removing his hat and dusting the debris off it. "I prefer the love-hate relationship we have, tin can." He jammed his hat back on his head and winked. "But I think I can make an exception."

Danse grinned, and then immediately forced himself to be serious again, turning back to his new set of armour.

Quinn noticed that Nick and MacCready stayed on the edge of the gathering, keeping out of the conversation. She didn't blame them. MacCready barely knew Danse, and Nick...well, Nick knew better than to step in now, whether he liked Danse or not. And yet the old synth was still here. That spoke volumes in itself.

You're a better person than me, Valentine, Quinn thought, cringing at how Danse had treated the detective in the past.

She sighed to herself as she dragged her attention back to Danse, and became aware that he was watching her. Every tense line in his face was gone, his expression warm as he looked at her like they were the only ones present. On his lips was the gentlest of smiles - tender and grateful.

"...and the sensors within the suit are zero point three percent more efficient than the T-60 series, as well as the plating being two inches thicker overall."

Quinn listened as Danse chattered away, grinning at his excitement. He had been quiet on the trip back to Goodneighbor, taking time to adjust to the capabilities of his new armour. The moment they were alone in the hotel room, though, he had began to talk, his eyes bright with enthusiasm for the first time since his exile.

Eventually he stopped pacing around and left the armour, settling himself in his usual place at the desk, working on his rifle, but still telling Quinn every single detail and difference with his new suit.

She knew this was a distraction at best, until he remembered why he'd needed a new set of power armour in the first place, but for now Quinn was content to let him have his moment. If anything, it was good to see him happy for a change, even if it wouldn't last.

Danse paused as he picked up his rifle, turning it over in his hands as he scrutinised his handiwork.

"So, better than the armour the Brotherhood gave you?" Quinn said, taking advantage of the silence.

It was the wrong thing to say. Danse flinched, and the gun slipped from his hands, landing on the desk with a loud bang.

"Sorry," she said quickly, kicking herself for her stupidity. "I didn't think."

"It's fine," said Danse in a tone that suggested the complete opposite. He stared blankly at the wall, his hands on his lap. When he turned to her, the dead quality had returned to his eyes. "Yes, this new armour is better than my old one, but…"

Quinn said nothing. She couldn't force this conversation. After a few seconds, Danse sighed, running a hand through his hair.

"I've...I had that armour almost as long as I can remember." He clutched at his hair for a moment and then let his hand drop. "I was so proud when I was finally issued it. It saw me all the way through training with Krieg...the war with the Enclave…" Danse swallowed. "...Cutler."

He returned his attention to his rifle and started to fiddle with it, before placing it back down again and putting his face in his hands. "The Brotherhood doesn't waste resources. That armour will be given to someone else. My replacement. Or repainted and issued to one of our new recruits. The idea of someone else wearing it…"

Quinn frowned at his use of the word 'our,' as if he still considered himself Brotherhood, but decided to ignore it. "Maybe they won't—"

"Don't," he said sharply. "I understand what you're trying to do, but don't. I don't want false hope. I need to accept my losses and move on. I…" He stood up, paced briefly about the room, and then leaned against the desk, his arms folded tight against his chest. "You told me to talk to you when I'm ready. And after everything that's happened today…"

"Danse," Quinn said, shaking her head, "you don't need to talk just because—"

"I don't think I'll ever be ready for such a conversation," Danse interrupted, glaring at the floor. "But I need to have it. I need to…" He hesitated and then sighed, rubbing his forehead. "I really thought this would be easier. There's so much I want to say, but I don't know where to start."

"You don't have to rush this," Quinn said softly. She considered moving closer to him, but decided against it. Whenever he faced turmoil, Danse needed his space. Instead, she said, "I'll help you work through it."

"I don't know if anything will help me work through it." He said nothing for a few moments, his face creased with distress. His next words were slow, as if he was wading through a sea of chaos and conflict to voice how he felt. "I've spent my entire life—or at least what I perceive as my life—following a plan to shape my own future. But since my banishment, I feel lost...almost like I exist without purpose."

Danse chewed his lip and then shook his head. "For the first time since that moment I signed up with the Brotherhood, I don't have all the answers. I don't have a plan. And it scares the hell out of me."

Danse, scared? He had never admitted he was scared before, choosing to soldier on instead, as he always had. Even in his holotape, he had made no mention of fear. The urge to comfort him increased, but Quinn held back, feeling tense. What could she say to such a confession?

"What you've gone through…" Quinn tried to choose her words carefully. "It would fuck anyone up, Danse. You're just...you're just confused."

"You're damn right I'm confused," he snapped, suddenly scowling at her. Quinn shrank back, but he didn't seem to notice. Devastation crossed his features as he said, "I'm a machine that thinks like a human who was trained to hunt my own kind."

"Danse—"

"Don't you understand?" He stood up straight and began stalking around the room again, gesturing wildly. "Everything I had, everything I knew is gone. In the span of a few hours, my identity was ripped from me and my world turned upside-down. At least what you had was something tangible...something real. Your husband, your son...they were living, breathing humans who loved you and cared for you."

Quinn felt anger flare up inside of her; the fact he was using the destruction of her own life as a comparison hit a nerve. As if watching the entire world be obliterated, her husband murdered, and her son corrupted beyond redemption didn't hurt as much because it was real.

This isn't a fucking competition, she thought bitterly. My world was turned upside-down, too.

But then Quinn stopped herself. This man, ranting in front of her—this wasn't Danse. This was his fury, his turmoil—his despair—speaking. This was everything he needed to vent, and Quinn would not stand in his way. Swallowing her displeasure, she continued to listen.

"Those sons of bitches who created me couldn't even be bothered to implant memories of having siblings or parents," Danse went on, his voice rising in volume alongside his anger with every passing second. "I don't even know how much of my past is artificial and how much is real. Can you even imagine that?"

There was a long pause and Danse stood still, breathing heavily through his nose, his cheeks tinged with red. Then all at once he seemed to deflate, leaning back against the desk as he hung his head.

"I started out as nothing," he said, his tone dejected. "And I've ended up as nothing...and I don't know what the hell to do about it."

Danse's voice broke in his last few words, and Quinn felt her heart break with him. But she couldn't let this stand.

"You are not nothing, Danse," she said fiercely, stepping towards him.

"But—"

"You have never been nothing."

In another time and another place, Quinn might have gone on. She might have told him what he meant to her, and everything that she felt about him. How much she cared for him. How much she adored him.

But it was not the time, and it was not the place. Danse was vulnerable, more vulnerable than she had ever seen him before. To suggest anything would be as good as forcing him into a corner.

Instead, Quinn reached forward and took him in her arms. She felt him freeze, shifting in his seated spot on the desk, and Quinn realised that possibly for the first time in his life, someone was comforting him. Had he ever been held by another?

Danse sat there for a moment, and then slowly he rested his head against her shoulder, his hands tentatively touching her back. Then, without warning, he pulled her close. Danse's head bowed into her as he clung on desperately, his shoulders moving with his heavy breathing.

A/N: Usual thanks to my amazing beta, waiting4morning, for her wonderful work! Thank you for all the reviews! Been super busy as of late so not really been able to reply. I need to fix that.

Brief update: my beta will be on holiday between the 4th and 12th of August, so there will be no chapter on the weekend during those dates (6/7th) and potentially the weekend after (13/14th). A nice hiatus for me too, I guess?

(who am I kidding. I'll just write more buffer chapters)

I saw a discussion on tumblr about how the relationship start with Danse is really...manipulative, and I gotta agree with it. You have a man going through an identity crisis, pouring his soul out to you about how he's lost and he doesn't know who he is or what his purpose in life is anymore. He is so incredibly vulnerable in that moment.

And Sole hits on him?

To me that feels like when Quinn came back from the Institute and there's an almost kiss between her and Danse, only Danse is sensible and says no. When people are emotionally vulnerable, you don't start confessing your love to them.

So yeah. Quinn ain't like that. She gets it. :D