Pack Mentality

Knight-Sergeant Marguerie's life hung by a thread.

Rachel sat on the very edge of the deck, chest and face pressed against the safety rails, her arms and legs sticking through the bars, dangling in the open air. An open bottle of vodka was next to her, a third of it gone. On her other side, a small, leather-bound notebook, tied up with dirty string.

Behind Rachel—praying to every god she could think of, pre-war and wasteland—was Quinn. She watched as Rachel swayed from side to side, slipping precariously against the bars. One false move—one tiny mistake—and the knight-sergeant would go tumbling off the side of the ship.

"Rachel," Quinn hissed as she edged towards her. "Rachel, for fuck's sake, what are you doing? Rachel!"

Rachel did not respond, clinging to the railings so hard her knuckles were white. Her sobs wracked her entire body, her shoulders hunched as she shivered and shook, babbling incoherently.

"How much has she had to drink?" Quinn said to Carson, not taking her eyes off the Knight-Sergeant.

"I don't know," he responded, sounding strained. "I only came up here to sort out my head and found her like this. But I haven't seen any other bottles, so I think it's just that bit of vodka."

"Fucking lightweight," Quinn muttered, rolling her eyes despite herself. Reaching the other woman, Quinn crouched down next to her, gingerly putting a hand on her shoulder. "Rachel, what's wrong?"

Rachel's puffy red eyes slowly opened, her eyelashes drenched with tears, and she stared ahead, her cries quieting to snuffles. Her trembling lips parted, drool dripping from her mouth and onto her lap, before she licked her lips and forced out, "He's dead."

Quinn blinked. Was she referring to Danse?

"I…" She hesitated, bewildered. Did the knight-sergeant still care despite everything that had happened? "Who's dead?"

"He's dead," Rachel repeated, squeezing her eyes shut again. "He's dead, he's dead, he's dead."

"That's all I've been able to get out of her," said Carson. "I don't know if she means Paladin Danse or…"

"Who is dead, Rachel?" Quinn asked, firmer this time. "Who is dead? Tell me."

Rachel gasped, tears leaking from the corners of her scrunched eyes, and she whispered, "George."

She began sobbing again.

Quinn felt a chill sweep through her that had nothing to do with the wind. If this was true, if he had really died, then she knew all too well the pain of losing a husband. But for Rachel, this was something different...sharper, cut with remorse and revulsion. In that moment, Quinn wanted to hold her and never let go, but the dizzying drop was a nauseating reminder that they were too close to the brink.

"Rachel," Quinn said gently. "Let go of the railings. Let's go somewhere safe."

Rachel shook her head, clinging harder to the bars as she wept. "He's dead."

"I know, and I know it hurts," Quinn went on, putting her hand over the knight-sergeant's and giving her fingers a little squeeze. "But I'm here for you, and so is Carson. And right now, we need you to let go. Think of your daughter—you're all she has left. For her sake, let go."

Rachel's eyes opened again, and she mumbled something that Quinn didn't catch. Then slowly she nodded, her hands falling down to her sides.

Quinn wrenched the knight-sergeant back, and as she did so, her foot caught the little book on the floor. Rachel watched as it skidded across the deck and pulled free of Quinn's grasp with an almighty lurch. The knight-sergeant lunged forward, her scream of "No!" sending a shiver down Quinn's spine.

Only Carson's quick reactions stopped Rachel from plummeting to her death. As her hands enclosed around her precious book, he grabbed the back of her uniform and hauled her away from the open air she had thrown herself into. Both of them toppled onto Quinn in a painful heap, knocking the bottle of vodka over in the process. Dazed, Quinn watched it roll away and disappear over the side, and thought hazily that it could have easily been Rachel instead.

There was an "Oof!", and then the weight disappeared. Quinn blinked and squinted up to see Carson supporting Rachel with a fair amount of difficulty.

"You gonna help or what?" he grunted, staggering sideways as Rachel clutched her book tight to her chest.

Quinn dragged herself to her feet, her body aching and leaned forward, holding out a hand. "Let me take the book for safekeeping."

Rachel's puffy eyes narrowed with suspicion as she sniffled and hiccupped, as if searching for some hidden agenda. Then she held it out. "You can be trusted."

The second Quinn took the book, Rachel dissolved into tears again. It felt heavy and worn, the burden of years pressing down on her palms. She pocketed it when Carson made a loud, deliberate cough, and helped him half walk, half drag Rachel to the door.

"I didn't even know she had a husband," Carson muttered, sagging under Rachel's bulk.

"Was she like this when I was away?" Quinn asked, not listening.

"No." He shook his head. "Once Maxson returned and her confinement was lifted, she went off with that sniper friend of yours. Quiet when she left, and even quieter when she came back. I saw less and less of her until eventually I stopped seeing her at all. I thought she'd gone out on another mission, but then…"

He tilted her head in Rachel's direction. "Where the hell are we going to take her? And when we figure that out, how we going to stop people noticing while we take her there? I don't know about you, but I'm not willing to risk another ship-wide lockdown just to save face."

"I'll just have to deal with anyone who sees her later," Quinn replied. "Long story short, I was promoted...so I think I know the perfect place."

Rachel's sobs seemed so much louder in the silence of Danse's room. Thankfully, they hadn't seen a soul on their way through the Prydwen, Quinn clamping a hand over Rachel's mouth to stifle the noise. Carson had been reluctant to go in at first, until Quinn had told him that it belonged to her, and gave a brief explanation of her promotion. That had been enough for Carson, and now Rachel lay sprawling on Danse's bed, deposited there by the two of them.

"Now what?" Carson asked, wiping the sweat from his forehead.

Quinn folded her arms, wondering the same thing herself. She had no idea how Rachel had heard about the death of her husband—if he had even died at all—but she was beyond reason. Whatever had happened, she needed a doctor, and fast.

"Cade," Quinn said with a sigh. She didn't want to get Rachel into trouble, but there were few other options. "I'll be back in a minute."

"No," moaned Rachel. She tried to sit up and nearly toppled out of the bed, saved again by Carson's quick reflexes. As he pushed her back onto the mattress, she grabbed his uniform and pulled him down towards her. "Don't leave me. Please, don't leave me."

"We're not leaving you," Carson said, shooting Quinn an alarmed look. "Quinn is just—"

"Don't leave me. Please. Everybody leaves me. Everyone I care about...they go. They leave me alone. George and Danse and...and…" Rachel buried her head in Carson's shoulder. "You'll leave me too. I don't want to be alone. Don't leave me alone."

"You're not alone," Carson said, rubbing her back with his hand. "We're not going anywhere."

But as Rachel continued to cry into him, he turned to Quinn and mouthed, "Go."

Quinn nodded and crept towards the door, opening it carefully to hide her intent, and shutting it behind her with almost no noise at all.

Thank God the doors blocked out her wails. Quinn walked a little way from Danse's room to ensure she wouldn't be heard, and then tore through the Prydwen toward Cade's sickbay.

"Cade!" she gasped, bursting into his office so violently he nearly fell out of his chair, while Kapraski woke with a loud snort. Only then did Quinn notice Stephen and Vivian Cooper standing at his desk, a bag of pre-war children's vitamins clutched in Vivian's hand.

"Is everything alright?" she asked, while Stephen helped Cade regain his composure and his box of various painkiller packs that were now scattered all over the floor.

"I...yeah. I'm sorry. It's…" Quinn began, but then stopped. There was no time to lie, no time to pretend like her problem could wait while Cade ushered the Coopers out from his office.

Fuck it.

"Rachel Marguerie needs help," said Quinn. "She's having some sort of...I don't know. Some sort of episode or breakdown. But I don't know what to do and—"

"Where is she?" Vivian said at once.

"Viv, let Knight-Captain—" Stephen began, but she shot him a look like a behemoth with chronic toothache, and he quickly shut up.

"She's our friend, Stephen." Vivian turned to Cade. "Our friend, sir. We can help. I can help."

Cade glanced from the Coopers, to Quinn, and back to Vivian. Then he nodded and picked up a leather satchel from under his desk, before looking at Quinn again.

"Lead the way."

"Oh Rach, honey." Vivian Cooper crouched down next to Rachel and smoothed her hair out of her face. "What's happened?"

"George…" Rachel mumbled, her shoulders twitching as she lay flat out on the bed again. "He's dead. He's left me."

Vivian Cooper glanced up at her husband, who stood at the other side of the room with Quinn and Carson, a deep look of worry on her face. Then she returned her attention to Rachel, forcing a smile as she said, "Rach...George has been dead for years. You know he's been dead for years. Both him and...well...back in D.C., when the Enclave…"

She stopped as Rachel began to cry again, harder than ever.

Quinn had forgotten that only she and Danse knew Rachel's family had survived. Now, however, in the face of Vivian's insistences, Quinn felt her blood run cold. She had mentioned Rachel's daughter in front of Carson. She turned to see him wearing a confused frown, but when Carson noticed her staring, one blatant look was enough for him to get the message.

Shut up. I'll tell you about it later.

He nodded and Quinn breathed a sigh of relief.

Cade set his bag down on the desk next to Danse's bed and began to root through, wearing a concerned frown of his own. "Ma'am, do you know how much she's had to drink?"

Only when Carson elbowed her in the ribs did Quinn realise the question was directed at her.

"No," she replied. "We found a bottle of vodka with her with about two thirds of it left, but it got knocked off the deck when we brought her back inside. There wasn't anything else that we saw, but that doesn't mean shit."

Cade nodded and then bent over Rachel, shining a light in her eyes and muttering to himself. He moved, blocking Rachel from view, and when he stood up again a few minutes later, he had a syringe full of blood in his hand.

Cade placed the syringe in a small bag, still talking to himself, and left the room without comment.

A heavy silence fell over the gathering, punctuated only by Rachel's weak cries. Vivian reached out and patted her hand.

"How are you feeling, honey?"

Rachel didn't answer at first, but after a few seconds, she softly said, "I've lost George. I've lost Danse. I lose everyone I care about." Her fingers wrapped and Vivian's. "I'll lose you too. And then I'll be alone."

Vivian did not reply. Perhaps she couldn't. Quinn knew she couldn't think of an answer for such a harrowing proclamation. Instead, the quiet returned and did not leave until Cade bustled back into the room.

"Her alcohol levels are high enough for her to be drunk, but not high enough to cause her any physical harm." He folded his arms, studying her. "In short, she can't handle her vodka."

"With all due respect, sir," said Vivian, wearing an expression of disbelief, "this is not just being a bit drunk. I've seen Rach drunk before and it wasn't this."

"Did you see her intoxicated after her husband died?"

Vivian hesitated and then begrudgingly said, "No."

Cade nodded. "She is drunk and she's in shock. Not a good combination. I suspect it may have something to do with the passing of our former paladin. Knight-Sergeant Marguerie could win an award for bottling her feelings until she breaks."

They all watched Rachel while she stared blankly ahead, clinging to Vivian's hand.

"I'll stay here with her and make sure she doesn't do anything else stupid," Vivian said to Cade.

"Do you want me to…?" Stephen asked, and she shook her head.

"No. I can handle Rach. Just let Joshua know I'm sorry I can't read him a bedtime story tonight."

"So I'm doing story time duty two shifts on the go, huh?" Stephen said with a grin. He walked over and took the bag of pre-war vitamins off her. "Don't worry. I'm sure he'll survive."

"I'll get him some Fancy Lad Snack Cakes to make up for it."

"Save some for me." He planted a kiss on the top of Vivian's head and then looked up as Cade spoke.

"When she's sobered up a bit, make sure she drinks some water." Cade took out a bottle of purified water and placed it on Danse's desk. "And thank you."

"No need to thank me. That's what friends do."

Cade nodded and then turned to Carson, shooting him a pointed look. "Come speak with me later. Or if you're too tired now, then tomorrow, so we can have a little chat. Though you might prefer sooner rather than later—all my patients are currently bedded down for the night, so we'll have more privacy."

Carson glanced at Quinn, paling. They both knew what Cade was getting at.

"Come see me while Kapraski is asleep."

"I...now might be better, I think," Carson said, taking a sudden interest in his own feet.

"Excellent. Let me tidy up my office a bit, then come see me." Cade picked up his bag and strode from the room, followed closely by Stephen Cooper. Carson gave a small sigh, shook his head, and trailed out after them through the open door, shutting it carefully behind him.

Rachel and Vivian seemed in their own little world, oblivious to Quinn. Rachel sounded like a broken record, murmuring, "He's dead, he's dead," over and over, while Vivian tried to calm her down.

Only when Rachel mentioned Danse's name again, did Quinn pay attention.

"Danse...he...he betrayed us. I trusted him and he...but I still…it hurts."

Vivian's face crumpled, but she made a respectful glance at Quinn before saying, "I know, Rach. I know. I...I miss him too. But he went out the best way possible given the circumstances, and that's the only comfort we have."

"He deserved to die."

"Deserved...? Maybe." Vivian sighed. "Maybe."

After some time, Rachel's cries softened, and she drifted off to sleep. Vivian watched her for a moment and then gently pulled her hand free, standing up and stretching with a low groan.

There was an awkward silence, and in a desperate bid to fill it, Quinn pulled Rachel's book out of her pocket. "She dropped this when Carson and I were trying to get her to this room. Nearly threw herself off the ship to catch it. Do you know w—?"

"Did you read it?" Vivian asked sharply. When a startled Quinn shook her head, Vivian gave a relieved nod. "Rach has had that for a good eight or nine years now, but no one's ever been allowed to look inside. It wouldn't have been right for you to break the rules."

Quinn watched her, unsure whether or not to voice what was on her mind. Eventually, she decided to test the water. "Um...Vivian?"

"Yes, ma'am?"

"Call me Quinn."

"Yes, Quinn?"

"What you said before…" She cleared her throat uncomfortably. "What you said about Danse. What did you mean?"

Vivian frowned. "Which part?"

"All of it. It sounds like you don't hate him like everyone else does."

"Honestly, I think most people on this ship won't hate him." She perked an eyebrow at Quinn's surprised expression. "Don't look so shocked. He was a very respected man in the Brotherhood. But our brothers and sisters...they've been swept up in the hysteria, maybe tricking themselves into thinking they hate him too. But in my opinion, I think there are few who truly hate him for what happened."

Vivian paused, and when she spoke again, her voice had a slight tremor in it.

"I cried when I found out." She moved over to Danse's old desk and leaned against it, tapping her hands against her knees. "I cried for myself a little, but I mostly cried for him. The soldier in me understands that letting him live would have been too great a risk, but as a former teammate...my heart broke. He didn't deserve what he got, and knowing Danse as well as I do, he would have agreed with his sentence."

"You don't think he deserved to die?" Again, Quinn was surprised.

"No." She gave a deep sigh. "But that doesn't mean killing him was wrong. You had to do it. He had to die, to set an example that Institute infiltration, deliberate or otherwise, will not be tolerated, no matter who that person turns out to be. Especially if they are a higher rank. Otherwise, paranoia and disillusionment sets in. And then where would we be?" She twisted her mouth to the side and frowned. "But like I said, I don't think he deserved it. I don't think he even knew he was a synth. He gave everything to us, and we…"

There was a long, stinging silence. Quinn was caught off-guard by Vivian's frankness—she held a casual confidence that reminded Quinn of Rachel. But with the way everyone was tiptoeing around the subject of Danse, Quinn appreciated that Vivian gave her opinion so freely.

"Rach, on the other hand…" Vivian glanced at Rachel and shook her head. "Rach likes to put up a cold, logical front, and it mostly serves her well...but there's only so far it can stretch. I think this incident with Danse has pushed her past her limit. She'll tell you that she's glad he died—that he was just a machine—but she's hurting deep."

Quinn looked back down at the Knight-Sergeant, a mystery to her more than ever. Rachel seemed almost peaceful here, the harsh qualities of her face smoothed out by sleep.

Without thinking, Quinn asked, "Was she always such a hard person?"

"No. Don't get me wrong, Rach is naturally a bit prickly, but she was never the same after the Enclave bombed that settlement. I don't know how she pulled herself through it, honestly. If anything happened to Joshua…"

Vivian paused, shooting Quinn an apologetic look. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to—"

"It's fine," Quinn said quickly. "I just...I don't understand her."

"You don't have to," Vivian replied with a shrug. "That's just how she is."

"But—"

"Make no mistake," Vivian interrupted, "Rach wanted Danse dead, and she would have killed him herself given half the chance. But that doesn't mean she's not distressed by all of this. She cared about him a great deal. When her family died, he was the only real friend she had left."

"You told Cade that you were her friend."

"I know. Stephen and I, we are her friends, and we'd do anything for her. But the feeling isn't reciprocated."

"That's...what?"

"Rach and I were close. I'd even go as far as to say we were best friends. But…" Vivian sighed. "Joshua is a little bit older than her daughter. I think Rach saw what we had and couldn't bear to be near our happy family. But Danse had recently lost Cutler. His grief might not have been at the same level, but it was fresh and it was raw. They bonded in a way neither of us could comprehend."

Vivian stared down at Rachel's sleeping form.

"And now he's gone."

The night dragged on.

After a few hours of forced conversation and long stretches of quiet, Vivian Cooper suggested Quinn get some rest while she continued to watch over Rachel. Quinn didn't argue—her disrupted sleep over the last week had left her constantly clinging to the edge of exhaustion. And while she wasn't keen to revisit her nightmares, she wanted to try for Danse.

As reached the bunks, however, Quinn realised that while Casey had settled herself to sleep, Carson was missing. Was he still talking with Cade?

"Well, no harm in finding out," she muttered, and set off back in the direction of the sickbay.

The Prydwen felt eerily devoid of life at this time of night. There were still patrols, but other than that, Quinn didn't see a soul. She smiled, remembering her early days on the ship, wondering how people slept through soldiers clanking about in their power armour. Now she barely noticed them stomping about the decks.

Quinn reached Cade's office in good time, somewhat unsettled by the way the patrolling knights stopped and saluted her. It seemed Maxson had made sure the news of her promotion had worked quickly through the ranks.

As she reached her destination, Quinn was surprised to see Cade sat outside his own sickbay, reading a battered copy of Lord of the Flies with such intensity it took Quinn three tries to get his attention.

"Oh, sorry, ma'am."

"Quinn," Quinn corrected.

"Ah." He shut his book and stretched in his seat, yawning. "Lancer Kapraski woke up while I was in the middle of my talk with Knight Carson. I decided to leave them alone."

Cade leaned forward, peering around the door into his office. "Why don't you go and check on them?"

Taking the hint, Quinn walked inside and saw a corner had been blocked off by a curtain. Behind it was one solid, misshapen shadow. Feeling apprehensive, Quinn slowly pulled back the hanging fabric, and then smiled.

Carson was sitting in a chair next to Kapraski's bed, his upper body and arms leaning onto the gurney, his head in Kapraski's lap. Kapraski's good arm was thrown lazily over Carson's shoulder, his fingers resting on his lover's neck. Both of them were fast asleep.

Quinn let the curtain fall back into place.

"You never answered my question earlier, you know."

Danse glanced up from the piece of plating he was working on and frowned at Haylen from across the room. "What question?"

"About Quinn."

"Oh." Danse returned to his armour mod, buffing up the metal with an old piece of cloth.

Haylen stuck her head out from behind the stacks of boxes she had been rummaging through and scowled. "That's all you're going to say—oh?"

"What do you want me to say?" He shrugged, feeling nettled. While Haylen was nowhere near Marguerie's level of interference, he couldn't help but wonder if all his female friends had a natural disposition towards meddling.

There was a grunt, a scraping noise, and then Haylen came tottering around the corner carrying a crate almost as big as she was. Dropping his own project, Danse hurried over to help her, taking the burden off her with ease and setting it down on a nearby table.

"Are you trying to make another Liberty Prime?" Danse asked, picking out parts from the box and inspecting them with confusion.

"Oh har-dee-har," Haylen replied, tugging the scrap from his hands and stuffing it back with the rest. "I can have my own secrets too. And on that note, don't change the subject."

Danse sighed and turned away from her. "Haylen, I have enough on my mind without…"

"I know. And I'm not trying to force you into a conversation you don't want, but…"

"But you're going to try anyway?"

"No!" Haylen's cheeks flushed pink. "It's just...she obviously likes you…"

"Don't be ridiculous," Danse snapped, turning over the plating on the workbench so hard it bounced and nearly fell off the side. He was sick of this. He was sick of everyone trying to worm their way into his affairs. "I've heard enough, Haylen. I don't want to talk about it anymore."

Haylen was no Marguerie. Her blush darkened to a deep scarlet as she shrank away and quickly said, "Yes, sir. Sorry, sir."

"And don't call me 'sir.'"

"Sorry, si...sorry."

Danse didn't reply, and after a few moments, Haylen walked over to her box and began pulling out various components.

Part of him felt guilty for being sharp with her, but the rest of him didn't care. He hadn't liked it when Marguerie had pressured him into doing and saying things before he was ready, and he didn't like it now. Especially when what he wanted most was firmly out of his reach.

The idea of navigating around rank and duty felt laughably easy in comparison to this new minefield. What sane human being would want to be with a machine? Danse set down his screwdriver and leaned onto his workbench, staring at the backs of his hands. They seemed so...genuine. Every crease and freckle and scar—each line and vein and birthmark—all so natural looking. All of it manufactured.

Quinn could pick a real person to be with. Why would she want him?

"...Haylen?"

"Yes?" He heard her turn, though he kept looking firmly at his hands.

"What do...how…?" He licked his lips and exhaled heavily through his nose. "Why do you think Quinn…?" Danse hesitated, not wanting to say the words.

"Why do I think she likes you?" Haylen finished for him.

Danse closed his eyes and nodded.

"After everything you told me today, you're asking that question? She saved your life."

Her tone was so incredulous, he his eyes snapped open again as he looked over at her with surprise.

"I've saved people's lives before on the sheer principle of it," Danse said, frowning. "So has Quinn. Saving my life means nothing."

Haylen unfolded her arms and shook her head, smiling. "But it's not just your life, is it? Look around you." She gestured to the bunker. "She took the time to make this a home rather than a prison. She went against Maxson for you. She was willing to make his world crumble just because he'd threatened you. She adores you, Danse."

He couldn't think of an answer to this, so he straightened up and returned to his work, his face hot. After a few minutes, Haylen walked back to her box and began noisily rummaging, and then strolled across the room to her own table to tinker.

How long they worked in silence, Danse didn't know, but suddenly a crackle sounded, making him jump.

The static cleared, and Danse heard a voice so old and creaky that it sounded like its owner was late for his own funeral. But the man had a deep, pleasant southern twang, and Danse felt his heart skip a beat as he said, "...from none other than Bill Monroe and his Blue Grass Boys. Ol' Bill did some of his best work in his later golden years, but this tune is near and dear to my heart. I give to you…'Kentucky Waltz.'"

Danse turned to see Haylen standing with an old radio clutched in her hands, wearing a small smile.

"I know how much you like your bluegrass music," she said, a mischievous glint in her eye. "And I know you never really had the freedom to tune into this station whenever you wanted. So consider it my gift to you. What did the old pre-war books call it?" Haylen held out the radio to him. "A housewarming present."

Danse stood rooted to the spot, a lump in his throat, and Haylen's smile faltered as she lowered her arms.

"I'm sorry," she mumbled, her eyes turning down as she flushed, the jaunty music still playing from the battered radio. "It was a stupid idea."

"No." Danse strode across the room, shaking his head, and took the radio from her, turning it over in his hands. "This is...I can't even…" He hugged the radio to his chest, muffling out Bill Monroe's singing, and his face broke into a wide, warm smile. "Thank you. Thank you so much."

Haylen beamed at him.

Quinn woke with a gasp, staring up at walkways above her bed, her chest heaving as she shook away the nightmare. There was no Danse to comfort her, no hand in the darkness to take her fingers and tell her he was alive.

Get a grip, for fuck's sake, she thought, taking deep breaths to calm herself. She wiped away the sweat clinging to her forehead and cheeks. He's fine. You know he's fine. You're being fucking ridiculous.

God, she missed him.

Other soldiers were waking up now. It must be close to dawn, if not just past it. A few of them glanced in her direction and froze, before hastily jumping out of bed and saluting her.

Quinn frowned, confused.

"Morning, ma'am!"

Oh. Right.

"Morning," she said, getting to her feet and stalking away. Had she even spoken to half of these people before? Maybe Maxson had been handing out little flyers with her face sketched on them so every fucking person on the ship knew who Danse's killer was.

Whispers and wide-eyed stares followed her as she walked through the Prydwen to the mess hall. Much to her disgust, the commentary was wholly positive.

"That's her. That's the vaultie who dealt with the synth."

"Don't call her 'vaultie,' you moron. She's a paladin now."

Quinn clenched her hands into fists, but managed to bite her tongue. All of this depended on her being able to keep her cool, on being able to pretend she killed Danse. He was alive, and that mattered more than the crass comments from this rusted bucket full of idiots.

"Ma'am?"

Quinn glanced up to see David Bantios—the eternally nervous scribe—looking at her. He glanced over his shoulder, red in the face, and his friends egged him on.

"Um, ma'am. J-just wanted to say that...that...you did an excellent job, and that your promotion was well deserved."

"Was it?" Quinn asked coolly, raising an eyebrow.

Bantios went so red his face was blending in with his scarlet uniform. "I...um…"

"I know what you're trying to say," Quinn said, deciding to take pity on him, "and I appreciate that you're trying to say it. But I did what I was ordered to. I took no joy in killing him."

The mess hall had gone very quiet. Quinn sighed and stood up from her table, a half-baked speech forming in her head. The whispers and comments had been increasing all morning—if she didn't say something, the gossip would only get worse. At the very least, this would stop anyone else trying to congratulate her about it.

"He didn't know he was a synth." Quinn glanced about the room, glaring. "But when he found out, he did know he was a risk to us all. Once I caught up to him, he took it upon himself to make sure he was destroyed properly."

Silence.

Quinn took this as an invitation to continue. "It wasn't the glorious hunt or the epic tale that you all hoped for. It was sad and messy and unpleasant. But it had to be done."

She paused.

"Fuck the Institute."

No one could ever accuse her of mincing her words, at least. The Brotherhood would quickly learn their new paladin lacked the professional distinctions of the old one.

Quinn didn't give a shit. If Maxson disliked it, he could demote her.

Casting one final scathing look about the uncertain crowd, Quinn picked up her bowl of stale cereal and strode out of the mess hall.

Carson tracked her down within twenty minutes.

"I hear you're bullying the initiates," he said, dropping himself next to Quinn as she shovelled dry cereal into her mouth with a deep scowl. "That one of them near pissed his pants when you shouted at him. Breaking into your new role as paladin?"

"I didn't shout at him," Quinn said through a mouthful of food, leaning against the walkway railings and closing her eyes. She swallowed and then said, "Just reminding people not to talk shit about things they don't understand."

"Well if it makes you feel any better, everyone's now arguing whether Paladin Danse was actually a traitor."

"Bet Maxson's gonna kick my ass for it."

"Nah, I don't think so." Carson shuffled himself forward and leaned on the rails next to her. "They're commending you and Maxson for making the difficult choices and doing what needed to be done. Only now no one is sure if Paladin Danse was working for the Institute or if he was oblivious."

Quinn shrugged and began eating her cereal again. "That's their problem, not mine."

"Fair enough." Carson dipped his fingers into her cereal bowl and pulled out a handful. He started eating the individual pieces from his palm.

Quinn raised an eyebrow at him and then gave a faint grin. "Saw you asleep on Kapraski last night. Things good between you two again?"

Carson dropped the last piece of cereal he had been about to pop in his mouth, and watched woefully as it fell off the walkway and down into the ship below. Rolling her eyes, Quinn offered him her bowl, and he smirked and took another handful.

"I think so," Carson said, carefully selecting the next bit of cereal from his hand. He tossed it into the air and it bounced off his nose and disappeared into the darkness.

"Don't waste those."

"Bet you I can get more than you."

"...You're on." Quinn set down her bowl between them, picked up a piece, and threw it into the air. It hit her in the eye and skittered off down the walkway.

"Pathetic. At least I can get mine close to my mouth."

"Oh yeah?" Quinn picked up a handful of cereal and threw it into Carson's face. He yelped like a puppy whose tail had been stood on, and knocked the bowl straight off the side. There was a crash and a "What the fuck?" and both Quinn and Carson glanced at each other.

"...Tactical retreat?" he said.

"Tactical retreat," Quinn replied.

The two of them jumped up and ran off, sniggering. They only stopped when they'd dashed to the bottom of the ship, as far away from trouble as possible.

"You're a paladin, though," Carson wheezed, trying to catch his breath back, "so unless Kells is on the warpath because Sugar Bombs got stuck in the gears or something, they can't do shit to you."

Quinn walked through the empty underbelly of the Prydwen, and signalled for Carson to follow her to their usual spot behind the stacks of crates. Once they settled down, she nudged him in the ribs.

"You and Kapraski. What happened?"

"Well…" Carson rubbed the back of his neck and shrugged. "We hashed it out. There was a lot that needed saying, more from me than him, I think. Told him I was sick of his shit and that it had to stop, but…" Carson's cheeks went dark scarlet. "But that I loved him and I wanted to help him, if he'd just let me."

"And what did he say?" Quinn asked, leaning against him.

"That he loved me too, and that he was sorry. God, he said he was sorry so many times…I asked him why he'd been the way he was, and he said he didn't know. Just that he was angry all the time. Angry at what had happened to him, angry that he couldn't have done more to save himself. That maybe it would have been better if he'd died, so then I wouldn't be stuck with someone broken like him."

There was a long beat of silence.

"I called him a fucking idiot, of course," Carson said, his voice suddenly thick. "Told him he wasn't broken. That I wasn't better off without him. But that he needed to start getting his shit together. And then we just...talked. About everything. For once, I stuck to my guns instead of just trying to avoid an argument, and it was good...real good."

Carson gave a deep sigh. But then he smiled. "I think we're gonna be fine."

Quinn sat up and frowned at him. "What do you mean, you stuck to your guns 'for once?' You were one of the first people to call me out on my shit when I was taken off active duty."

"Yeah, but how long did I put up with you pushing my buttons before that happened?" Carson shrugged. "I'm not good with conflict. Never have been."

"Then why in God's name did you join the military?"

"Different kind of conflict," Carson replied. "A real fight is easier than a pissed off boyfriend."

Quinn stared at him. "You are fuckin' crazy."

"A real fight is black and white. Us or them. And the answer will always be 'us.' But when you're going head to head with a loved one...that's grey, and it's harder to know who is right." He sighed. "That's why it took me so long to leave home. All I wanted to do was please the family. But eventually I realised making myself miserable wasn't the way to go. Not for them. Not for anyone."

"One day you're gonna be in a real battle where you don't know what the right thing to do is," Quinn said, shaking her head. "One day you'll end up in a situation where there isn't an 'us or them.' When that happens, you have to follow your gut and go with what you think is best."

"If that day ever comes, I'm fucked." He glanced at her. "That's what happened with Paladin Danse, isn't it?"

Quinn's heart leapt into her throat. "What?"

"No 'us or them.' You had to pick an option and hope it was the right choice."

Her response caught in her throat, so she stared at her hands instead.

Carson turned to look at her properly. "I wanted to ask you earlier if you were alright, but I've been so caught up in my problems—and Rachel's—I just...forgot. I'm sorry."

"It's fine," Quinn said quietly. "I didn't want to talk about it anyway."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah." She cleared her throat, but kept avoiding his eye. Quinn trusted Carson with her life, but the less he knew, the better. Not wanting to talk about it at all was simpler than trying to lie. "I know I made the right choice, but...I…"

Danse's holotape burned in her pocket. She had found it shortly before they'd left the hotel and slipped it away when he wasn't looking. It was Danse's most personal, most horrendous confession...and yet she wanted someone to understand the hell she had been enduring, even if this only scratched the surface.

With trembling fingers, she pulled out Nate's holotape, switching it with the cracked one, and shut the tape deck.

"Quinn?"

She didn't look at Carson, staring fixedly at her Pip-Boy, her finger hovering over the play button. Then, without warning, she pressed it.

Danse's flat, resigned voice filled the air, and Quinn's body clenched, tears pricking her eyes at the thought of him sat in that damn bunker, alone, waiting...waiting…

She could sense Carson's eyes staring. Were they filled with pity? Contempt? Indifference?

His arm suddenly slipped around her, and Carson pulled her gently into his lap, rocking her as he held her close. Carson said nothing. He didn't need to speak, didn't need to make a sound. Every unspoken word was said in his tight, heartfelt embrace.

It wasn't the same as Danse. Nothing could ever be as good as Danse.

But still.

Just right.

A/N: Usual thanks to my wonderful beta, waiting4morning. Especially since she had to do extra editing to accommodate for my hands this week so I wouldn't hurt them more. Speaking of which, my hands are on the mend. I've been wearing wrist splints on both hands whenever I'm not at work, and avoiding writing, the internet in general, and gaming, instead just watching TV (The World at War...I have the DVD collection). While I love the show, I've been very restless and frustrated, because I wanted to just get back to writing.

They're still sore, but nowhere near as bad as last week. I think with a few more days I'll be able to get back to writing again. We'll see.

I can't link it here, but it's canon that Danse is a bluegrass fan. Search FluffyNinjaLlama on youtube and look for the video "Fallout 4- Companions Musical Tastes"