Luperca's Lament
The Airport. That's where Vivian Cooper said she would find Rachel. The Airport.
After the state Rachel had been in yesterday, Quinn was surprised that she'd managed to drag herself anywhere, never mind all the way down to the ground floor, surrounded by officers and an increased chance of bumping into Proctor Ingram.
She ignored the salute the lancer gave her as she clambered inside the nearest vertibird, and sighed at the response of, "Yes, ma'am," at her request to be taken to the ground.
Only a few had seen the elusive knight-sergeant, but every finger pointed in the same direction: Rachel had gone inside the ruins.
"Of all the places to mope," Quinn muttered as she slipped in, throwing a wary glance at the long shadows cast on the walls and ceiling by the light of her Pip-Boy. The darkened building stank of stagnant water, putrid food, and something festering, lurking in the deep black. Thank God she had brought her rifle out of habit.
As she moved further into the airport, the smell of rotting meat became more pronounced, and soon she found herself greeted by bodies floating in large pools, their skulls caved in, fresh blood tainting the murky water. Only when Quinn got closer did she realise the smell was not of decaying flesh, but of ghouls. These ferals couldn't have been dead for more than thirty minutes. Quinn raised her weapon, wincing as she edged through the flooded room, the cold water coming up to her waist.
Eventually she made it to dry land, shivering, her soaked clothes clinging to her skin. On and on she went, the frequency of dead ferals increasing with every room, every corner, every corridor. All of them had their skulls bashed in by some unknown blunt object. So far, Quinn had seen no sign of a discarded weapon.
Clang.
Quinn jumped so hard she nearly tripped over a ghoul she had been inspecting. Holding her breath, she pointed her rifle in the direction of the noise, waiting.
Clang.
Frowning, she stepped over the bodies with care, keeping her footsteps light and guarded. What the hell—?
Clang.
Clang.
Clang.
The sound went on and on, growing faster in pace as Quinn drew near, grunts of effort accompanying them, sharp and growling. Painful exertion, past the point of human endurance. Steeling herself, Quinn peered around the corner.
Rachel Marguerie stood in the centre of the room, a large, rusted scaffolding pole in her hands. She wielded it the way a medieval warrior would have swung a Scottish claymore, with heavy strikes that bit deep into the stone pillar that was her target. The end of the pole was stained with blood, and bits of skin and hair clung to the metal.
"Rachel, what the hell are you doing?" Quinn said loudly, still holding her weapon aloft.
The knight-sergeant paused, her shoulders heaving with her labour, and then turned to Quinn with a strange smile on her face. "Training, ma'am."
"Don't call me ma'am," Quinn replied sharply, lowering her gun as she approached. But she had only taken two steps forward when Rachel began attacking the pillar again with even more vitriol than before. She gaped at Rachel for a second, shook her head, and then began loudly speaking over the clangs. "What—"
Clang.
"—the hell—"
Clang.
"—was yesterday about?"
Clang.
"Rachel!"
Rachel gave a snarl of effort, and there was a loud metallic crack. A piece of the scaffolding flew off, striking her in the face, and she staggered back, blood pouring from the wound.
"Oh shit," Quinn said, running over to help.
"I'm fine," Rachel snapped, holding up a hand, the other still clutching the pole. It was then Quinn noticed her arms were covered with bruises and bite marks, likely from the ghouls. "I'm fine. Just a flesh wound."
She looked up to reveal a large gash running through her weathered features, from cheek to nose to forehead, barely missing her left eye. Her odd grin widened, blood dripping down onto her smoke-stained teeth.
"The fuck is wrong with you?" Quinn shook her head and stepped forward. "Were you telling the truth yesterday? Is your husband really dead?"
The bluntness of the question caught Rachel off-guard, and the smile slipped from her face. She stared at Quinn for a moment and then spat out a mouthful of blood, nodding. "Yes. It's true."
"How do you know that?"
"I received a letter notifying me of his death. Sealed, so no one else saw it but me." She stared down at the pole in her hand, her eyes studying its snapped end. "I burned it."
Quinn considered her for a moment, eyeing the pole nervously before saying, "George is gone. That leaves your daughter all alone."
"Don't." Rachel's grip on her weapon tightened, her eyes blazing, and Quinn felt herself instinctively raise her gun. The knight-sergeant noticed and laughed in her face. "I'm no threat to you. But I know what you're trying to do. Save it. I haven't changed my mind, and I never will. Besides, she's grown up not knowing me. Forcing my way back into her life won't help matters. She's just lost her father."
"But she would gain a mother."
"She would gain a woman who can't stand to look at her," Rachel snapped. "We've been over this. I provide for her the only way I can, by giving her everything I earn and more. I protect her. I keep the wolf from her door."
"She doesn't need money. She needs a parent." Why couldn't Rachel understand this simple fucking point?
"No, what she needs are people who accept her for what she is, and that isn't me. How many times do I have to go over this shit?"
"How many times are you going to just ignore the fact you're running away from your only daughter?"
Rachel slammed the end of the pole down into the ground with a bang, and leaned against it like a staff. "I'm done arguing about this, Quinn."
The warning was clear in her voice: back off. Quinn decided to change tack.
"How are you feeling since yesterday? After George, I mean."
"Fine," Rachel said with a shrug, standing up straight and resuming her training, speaking between the clangs. "I was just shocked, and had a drink to calm me down. Didn't react well to the alcohol."
"You don't need to keep putting on a brave face, Rachel," Quinn said gently, navigated her words around Rachel's loud, metallic strikes.
The knight-sergeant lowered the pole again and laughed. "You've been talking to Viv, haven't you?"
"Of course I have," Quinn replied, scowling. "You cling to a fucking railing from the top of an airship, sobbing your goddamn heart out, and you expect your friends not to talk?"
Some of the mirth left Rachel's face, her eyes cold and hard as she said, "That's rich, coming from you. Drank any whiskey lately?"
"No, but given the hoops I had to jump through to drag your ass to my quarters, I'd say we're even, Marguerie."
"Ooh, Marguerie," Rachel said, looking amused again. "Someone's filled Danse's shoes quick." She paused, surprised with herself, and Quinn saw the grief flicker through her features.
"Cut the shit and stop acting like you don't care," Quinn said, finally losing her temper. "I know what happened with you and MacCready."
The words were out of her mouth before she could stop them. Both women looked at each other, and Quinn felt a hot flush race up her face. "I'm sorry, that was inappropriate. I shouldn't have—"
Rachel snorted. "He told you, did he?"
Quinn blinked. That wasn't the reaction she had been expecting. The knight-sergeant was regarding her with mild interest, an eyebrow raised. Trying to control the nausea in the pit of her stomach, Quinn said, "No, he didn't tell me anything. I guessed and I pestered him about it. Sometimes he's as easy to read as a book."
"Now that I agree with."
Rachel's nonchalance was unsettling, but it quelled the mortification that was crawling under Quinn's skin. How the hell could she have brought this up, knowing her husband was dead? And yet it didn't seem to bother Rachel in the slightest.
That's not the point, Quinn thought angrily. You should be better than that.
Rachel was still watching her, wearing an expression of easy indifference. Quinn decided to test the water. "Look...I'm sorry I mentioned him. It was...I just…" God, why was this so difficult? "I know you must be feeling guilty about the whole thing. He said you left before he woke up—"
"Guilty?" Rachel gave a bark of laughter. "No, I don't feel guilty. I left because I didn't want him getting the wrong impression. I had other shit to do and the moment had run its course."
"But...your husband?"
She shrugged. "I loved George. I still love George. But when he turned, we agreed to go our separate ways. I've had years to come to terms with that." She inspected the pole in her hand, picking at the patches of rust with her finger. "Robert might feel bad over Lucy, but George wouldn't begrudge me moving on...and I wouldn't have begrudged him, either."
"Moving on?"
Rachel raised an eyebrow. "Don't look too deep into it. Robert's a nice guy. Practical. Easy to be around. But he acts like he's seen everything the world has to offer and was unimpressed with the show. In reality, he's the kind of man that will never grow up."
Quinn bristled at the unfair, unfavourable description of her friend. "He's a seasoned killer, just like you, Rachel."
"So is anyone in the wasteland that's survived for any length of time."
There was a long silence. Quinn studied Rachel, from her casual stance to the cool disinterest she had carefully placed over her features. Every inch of her said, "I don't care." As Rachel turned to strike the pillar again, Quinn caught her arm. The bite marks felt wet and sticky beneath Quinn's fingers, but still she held on.
"You're a goddamn liar," said Quinn quietly.
"Oh?" Rachel replied, smirking.
"And you can wipe that grin off your face, too," Quinn snapped. "Vivian told me you liked to pretend you didn't give a shit, but this reaches a whole new level."
"I don't—" Rachel began, pulling her arm free of her grip.
"Shut up."
Maybe it was the sheer ballsiness that caught Rachel by surprise, or just the razor sharpness of Quinn's voice. Whatever the case, her eyes widened, and she stopped her protest before it began.
"For someone who sees MacCready as a fling, you sure remember a lot about him," Quinn said, stepping back and folding her arms. "Calling him Robert? Recalling his wife's name? Not wanting to lead him on?"
"I got to know him. So what?" Rachel said, shrugging. The mask had cracked, though, and she looked pale and apprehensive.
"That's more than getting to know him." She stepped closer, and Rachel edged away from her, glaring. Quinn returned the scowl. "You've been through hell and back these last few weeks. Stop hiding. Stop pretending!"
"What the fuck do you want from me?" Rachel yelled, flaring up so suddenly Quinn stumbled back in shock. "What the fuck do you want me to say, huh? That I feel like I've died, because George has been taken away from me? That I regret not being able to spend the rest of my life with him, when I had every chance to do so? That I feel guilty for fucking someone else while he's dead in his grave? That my daughter is alone, with no one to comfort her, and I'm too weak to be there for her?"
She threw the pole aside and marched towards a retreating Quinn, her milky skin burning red as she gestured violently, her eyes filled with wild anger. "That I feel broken because the one person I thought I could trust turned out to be a lying traitor? That I feel like his conspirator for mourning his death, but that I also feel robbed for not being able to kill him myself?"
"There is nothing wrong with hurting—" Quinn began to say, but the knight-sergeant shoved Quinn with all her might, sending her crashing to the ground. Quinn scrambled back as Rachel approached, pressing her body into the wall that blocked her escape, steeling herself for the next blow.
"I don't want to hurt!" Rachel screamed, standing over her and clutching her hair. "I'm so fucking sick of hurting! I just want it to go numb, to stop until I—!"
Her rage caught in her throat, and she stood there, her breaths quick and shallow, her fingers entwined in her sweat-slicked hair. She no longer looked down at Quinn, but instead stared blankly ahead at the wall, her features ravaged by distress. Then slowly the anguish left as her mask neatly slid back into place, and Rachel calmly turned around walked back toward the pole she had thrown away. She picked it up, stared at it for a moment, and then began attacking the pillar again.
Quinn couldn't move, could barely breathe. She had never seen Rachel lose control like that before—had never thought her even capable of it. What was it Cade had said?
"Knight-Sergeant Marguerie could win an award for bottling her feelings until she breaks."
Quinn inhaled slowly, trying to soothe her racing heart. Suddenly Rachel glanced over her shoulder, causing her body to tense.
The knight-sergeant considered her and then said, "I know you found my book. Viv gave it back to me this morning. Aren't you going to ask what's in it?"
Now that was peculiar.
Quinn forgot her alarm for a moment and said, truthfully, "No. If you wanted me to know, you'd have told me."
Rachel smiled. "Thank you."
She returned to her onslaught of the stone pillar, each clang echoing loudly in the quiet airport ruins. Quinn watched her for a while, her brain trying to understand what had happened. Rachel Marguerie—Knight-Sergeant Rachel Marguerie, possibly the toughest woman Quinn had met since Mrs Bossanova herself—had shown her a series of wounds that ran so deep, they reached her very core. Part of her was afraid of Rachel, afraid of how unstable she was, how much longer she had until she snapped completely. But a larger part of her wanted to help. Rachel wasn't a soldier who couldn't keep her temper. She was a grieving widow in desperate need.
An old reflection.
"Rachel," Quinn said, and the knight-sergeant stopped her attack.
"Please," Rachel replied quietly, not looking at her. "Please...let me pretend. Let me have my facade. I just want to keep going, to forget it all and move on with my life. Until the next person I care about dies." She struck out once at the pillar, and then turned back to Quinn. "I think you of all people should understand that."
"You can't go on like this," Quinn said, slowly getting to her feet, her legs still trembling. "You're slipping towards an edge you can't climb back from."
"Maybe I am," Rachel replied with a shrug, aiming a few more hits on the stone column opposite her. "But that doesn't change things. Everyone dies but me. I keep on surviving. I keep on being left behind. There's only so many times it can happen before it becomes background noise."
"You aren't immortal, Rachel."
"No." She turned to Quinn and dropped the metal pole on the floor, her dark eyes glittering. "But I'm good at wanting to live."
With that, she strode past, leaving Quinn standing alone in the gloom.
Life went on in the Prydwen.
Perhaps the hardest thing to adjust to was the distance everyone put between her and them. People who had once greeted her in the mess hall or the corridor now stood to attention, sometimes going as far as to avert their eyes. The title of 'ma'am' was becoming more familiar to her than her own name, and there was a certain sense of apprehensive awe that hung over every conversation she had.
"Ma'am?" a small, muffled voice said by her elbow.
Quinn looked down to see Scribe Bantios hiding the lower half of his face behind a scratched clipboard, eyeing her nervously. Carson was standing next to the scribe, holding his own paperwork.
With an inward sigh, Quinn continued her inspection of the initiates that were halfway through their training on the Prydwen. It had been Danse's responsibility to evaluate them. Now the task fell to her. She stomped over to the next recruit, a young, tanned man with unruly black hair and sharp eyes. He stared up at her, unflinching, as she loomed over him in her power armour.
Quinn liked him immediately.
"Name?" she said to Carson.
"Uh…" Carson peered at his clipboard. "This is..." He squinted. "...Initiate Noo-nezz?"
Quinn glanced over at the list and rolled her eyes. "It's pronounced 'Nun-yeth', Knight Carson."
"Oh." Carson shot an apologetic glance at the initiate. "Sorry."
Initiate Núñez did not answer him, however, but stared at Quinn with surprise. "Señora, ¿habla español? No hay muchas persona las cuales puedan hablarlo en estos dias."
Quinn shook her head. "No idea what you just said, kid. I can say some Spanish words right, but I don't know anything else."
Initiate Núñez frowned at her and switched to English. "Where did you learn to pronounce it, ma'am?"
"My mom's maiden name was 'Núñez' too. European immigrant who wanted to see the States and had the great misfortune of ending up with my dad."
The initiate blinked at her, and Quinn realised he probably hadn't understood half of what she'd said. She grinned. "Sorry, pre-war talk. My mom could speak Spanish, but I was a stubborn child who refused to learn."
Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Bantios eyeing her with wonder. Núñez himself had a small smile on his face, which widened as he said, "My mamí...was persistent."
The two of them grinned at each other until Carson coughed loudly and pointedly.
"Ma'am?" he said, raising his eyebrow at her. "The inspection?"
"Oh, yeah. Shit."
There were a few nervous giggles in the crowd.
Learning how to live up to Danse's example was not a simple task, and one Quinn suspected she would never complete. The raw authority that he wielded with ease was beyond her comprehension. She preferred to remain herself, a paladin in her own right. Lacking any kind of professionalism...but maybe more approachable because of it.
Quinn smiled at them. "Let's get this over with."
Ten minutes later, she dismissed them all, and Carson and Quinn walked back towards Danse's room, the knight's arms full of her paperwork. She grinned as he grumbled.
"The benefits of being your boss now, I guess," Quinn said sweetly.
"Carry on like that and I'm going to start calling you 'ma'am' again," Carson muttered.
Forgetting she was in her power armour, Quinn nudged Carson in the ribs and sent him staggering into the door of Danse's room with a bang, her paperwork flying up into the air like a mushroom cloud.
"Oh shit, sorry!"
Pieces of paper settled around Carson in an untidy arc, and he got up from the floor, groaning and clutching his side. "S'fine. Not like I needed my ribcage or anything."
But Carson smiled to show her he was alright, and together they picked up the wayward documents, making sure they were all there and in the right order. Then they went inside Danse's room, Carson setting down the papers on a nearby desk while Quinn slipped out of her armour. It had been given a paladin's paint job since her promotion, and looked oddly clean to her.
When she turned back to Carson, he was frowning. His attention flicked between a heap of Brotherhood uniforms on the floor and a pile of her possessions, both next to each other in the far corner of the room. Books, holotapes, and even her old vault suit had been stacked up, her entire life in the Brotherhood now contained in one small section of the room.
Carson walked over to the uniforms and inspected them, before glancing at Danse's bed. "Are you...is this where you're sleeping?"
"Teagan sold me them," Quinn said with a shrug.
"That's not what I asked."
Quinn didn't answer, but walked over to Danse's desk, staring at the pistol he had been working on before he had left the Prydwen. Next to it, a set of dog tags, tucked inside a shot glass with a chip on the rim. Quinn hadn't touched them, but she suspected who they might belong to. Behind that, Danse's book was propped up against the wall, well-read, but also well cared for.
Everything as he had left it.
"Quinn," Carson said, and she glanced over to him. He was still wearing his frown. "You need to talk with Cade about this. You need to talk about what happened. Even if Paladin Danse wanted to go, it still must have been—"
"I've already said I'm fine," Quinn said, her heart racing again. There was a limit to how much grief she could act out, and Cade would see straight through her. That, or he would think she was so far gone she needed to stay on the Prydwen to recover. And then she'd never be able to go and visit Danse.
"Quinn," Carson said again. "Don't do this. I don't want you ending up like Rachel."
Since their talk, Rachel had been startlingly different. Hollow-eyed and dazed, she spent her time walking through the Prydwen, chain smoking and barely speaking. When she did talk, she was quiet and cool, her tone overly formal, her expression blank.
Quinn didn't know what to do about her. Reporting her to Cade would risk revealing her daughter still lived, and that she had lied about her husband. But not revealing this information blocked the knight-sergeant from getting the help she so obviously needed.
If Danse had been here, Quinn would have gone to him for advice, maybe even given the burden of responsibility over to him. But now that burden was hers, and hers alone. Even when Carson had asked about Rachel's family, Quinn had only given him the brief circumstances, emphasising that if Rachel hadn't told him, he didn't need to know all the facts. Carson had agreed, promising not to mention it to anyone.
No one else knew the truth. No one else held all cards like she did.
For now, the best option seemed to be to ignore it; to wait to see if Rachel got any worse. But if she waited too long…
Quinn sighed.
"Don't sigh at me," Carson snapped. "This is serious."
"I'm not—" Quinn shook her head. "Carson, I need to deal with this in my own way for now. And right now, I have so much on my plate, I'm not dwelling. I dwelled over Nate and nearly gave myself alcohol poisoning. Please, let me just get on with things."
She sounded like Rachel again.
"Danse is dead," Quinn said, her voice wavering slightly. It wasn't deliberate, but it sounded convincing. "He shouldn't have died, but that can't be changed. And I want to carry on his memory and continue his work in his stead. Which is the only reason I accepted this damn position in the first place."
Carson studied her for a long time, the silence growing between them. Then he sighed. "Alright. I'll drop it. Just promise me you'll at least talk to me if you need someone."
"I will, I promise."
"And no alcohol, either."
"No alcohol will touch these lips if I get too low. I'll speak to you first."
He surveyed her for a moment longer and nodded. "Good." Carson glanced about the room. "But I really think you need to clear this place out. You're living in Paladin Danse's shadow."
"But…" Quinn dropped her gaze. "This is his…"
"Was his." Carson moved closer and stared at her until she looked up at him. "No more sleeping on the floor. No more keeping your stuff in a heap while a dead man's things stay the same as ever. This isn't a museum, Quinn. It's your home. The sooner you get rid of the ghosts, the better."
Quinn frowned. If she removed Danse's things, what the hell was she supposed to do with them? Throw out all his prized possessions? And it wasn't like she could just load up a car and drive them to Danse. She couldn't just—
An idea hit her—an idea so obvious, so wonderful, Quinn nearly kicked herself for not thinking of it before. Suppressing her grin, she nodded as she said to Carson, "Fine. Pass me that box."
Carson picked a blue, plastic crate off the floor and handed it to her.
"Thanks. Can you go take those documents to Elder Maxson?"
"Why? Don't you want any help?"
"Nah. This is something I have to do alone, I think." Quinn clapped him on the shoulder. "Time to process it all, y'know?"
Carson's brow furrowed, but he didn't argue, and picked the papers up off her desk and left without another word.
Quinn glanced around the room. What things would Danse care about the most? The shot glass and the dog tags seemed to be a given. She had no idea if the glass meant anything to Danse, but the fact the tags were inside it and it was still clean, despite him not drinking anymore said a lot. And there was the book...and what else? There would only be so much she could fit inside her power armour.
She flitted about the room, carefully picking up bits and pieces, books that look well read, the pistol he had been working on, and some of his personal, salvaged tools. Finally, she took down the Brotherhood flag from its pole and folded it neatly, placing it on top of the small hoard she had amassed.
Balancing the box in her arms, she opened her door and ran smack into Elder Maxson, nearly dropping the whole lot on the floor.
"Shit!" Quinn exclaimed, before realising who it was. "I mean, sorry, sir!"
"It's fine, Paladin." His eyes flitted to the crate in her arms and he leaned forward. "May I?"
Ah, fuck.
"Of course, sir. Just...cleaning out the last of the junk from my quarters."
He lifted the flag and froze. His gaze flicked up to her for a second, and then back down to the book that lay on the very top of the pile. With great care, he lifted it out of the box, his fingers gently running across the title: The Tales of King Arthur.
Maxson said nothing for a while, simply starting at the object in his hands. Then murmured, "He kept it?"
"Sir?" Quinn said breezily, trying to sound casual when she wanted nothing more than to snatch it from him.
"Your...successor borrowed this from me a great many years ago," Maxson replied after a few more seconds, still looking fixedly at the book. "And never returned it. I had thought it lost, so you have done me a great service by bringing it into my possession again." He finally torn his gaze away, and looked back in the box, pulling out the shot glass.
Holding the book under his arm, Maxson carefully turned the glass in his hands, showing a strange interest in the chipped rim, his features suddenly tired and pained. Then he fished the dog tags out and held them up to the light.
"Cutler." Maxson put the tags in his pocket and gave Quinn a knowing glare. "Tags go to the next of kin. These should never have been kept."
"Sir," Quinn said quickly, throwing caution to the wind. If she lost those tags...if Danse never got them back… "Sir, please. Let me keep them. Please." She lowered her voice. "I'm begging you."
Maxson didn't reply at first, his eyes returning to the chipped shot glass, and Quinn thought he was going to change his mind. Then he carefully put the glass back inside the box and pulled the flag back into place, before giving her an ugly look. "I can't stop you doing this, Paladin, but I won't let those tags fall into the wrong hands. They deserve to go to his family."
"He was as good as family, sir," she said, her desperation mounting.
"No." He scowled at her, fixing the book under his arm. "I'm disappointed in you. Dismissed."
He marched past her and back up the stairs, out of sight. There were a thousand things she wanted to call him, the urge to drop the box and chase after the petty prick almost consuming her. Beat some fucking sense into that bigoted little—
Quinn closed her eyes and took a deep breath. The tags were gone. So was the book. She wasn't going to get them back. She wouldn't be able to take them without Maxson guessing it was her.
Let it go.
Slowly she opened her eyes again, feeling more upset than angry. She had lost Danse's two most precious things. Like hell would she lose the third.
Quinn marched across the Prydwen, her box rattling away as she ignored everyone who spoke to her. She stalked past the sickbay without a second glance, past every respectful initiate and saluting scribe. Past each and every patrol.
Past her own set of power armour.
Danse's waited for her.
"And now, another old classic from those rascal boys, The Stanley Brothers…'Man of Constant Sorrow.'"
Danse hummed away tunelessly as he worked on his new armour, his tools lined up neatly on the floor on a piece of old cloth. Haylen had left a few days ago, saying she had to go to the police station, but that she'd be back when she could.
He hoped she would return soon. It had been extremely lonely without her.
"...It's fare thee well my own true lover...I never expect to see you again...For I'm bound to ride that Northern railroad...Perhaps I'll die upon this train…"
Danse had always liked the Stanley Brothers, even though they weren't quite as good as Bill Monroe. He hummed louder, tapping his foot on the floor as he inspected the back of his armour, wondering what he could upgrade next.
A sudden grinding noise made him look towards the elevator.
Danse darted over to the radio, turned it off, and then hid around the corner, clutching his screwdriver like a dagger as he crouched with his back against the wall.
His first thought was that Quinn was here, but he knew that was his loneliness speaking. She had done her duty in saving him, and could carry on with her life. Now that she had returned to the Prydwen, he didn't expect to see her again, not for a long while at least. With the war against the Institute on-going, Quinn would have little time outside of her work, the same as Haylen.
No, more likely this was a raider looking for something to loot. Danse cursed that his gun was on the other side of the room. By the time he had grabbed it, the elevator would be on his floor, and his armour was in pieces.
There was a ping as the doors opened, and Danse tensed, waiting.
The bunker was abandoned when Quinn stepped out of the elevator. She frowned and glanced around, concerned, before clearing her throat and calling out, "Hello?"
"Quinn?" came Danse's voice from the back.
"Yeah, it's just me."
A slight scuffling noise, and then:
"I'm just by the power armour station. Give me a minute." His tone sounded suddenly cheerful, completely different from the suspicion that had greeted her only seconds ago.
Quinn smirked. Of course he was tinkering with his new suit. Well now he'd have his old one, too. "I have a surprise for you."
"That sounds...foreboding."
Quinn snorted with laughter and stomped around the corner until he came into view. He was fiddling with the back of his X-01 series, brow furrowed in concentration as he talked without glancing in her direction. If she didn't know any better, she would say he was trying to act casual, though the reason why was completely beyond her.
Still, it tickled her. Grinning, Quinn exited his paladin armour and walked around it, leaning against the wall and waiting for him to notice.
It took a whole two minutes before he dragged himself away from his work and looked up.
"...and Haylen put together a radio for me, which means I can...I can…" Danse stopped, screwdriver in hand, staring at the armour behind Quinn.
There was a long quiet, before Danse said with disbelief, "Is that…?"
"They...Maxson made me the new paladin. It's why I couldn't get back straight away. But…" Quinn gestured towards Danse's old set of armour. "He also gave me this. And I knew, after what you said in Goodneighbor, I had to return it to you. Along with everything I could salvage from your room." She grinned. "Surprise!"
Danse did not respond.
A feeling of discomfort swept over her, and her stomach began to squirm. Had she upset him? Offended him?
"I…" Quinn cleared her throat, and his eyes snapped to her. "I know you said you didn't want anyone wearing your armour, and in any other circumstance, I wouldn't have dreamed of putting it on, but I couldn't think of how else to get it to you."
Nothing. The awful silence continued as Danse stared at her, so still he looked like a statue. Quinn waited a few seconds longer for him to speak, and when he didn't she began to babble as panic set in.
"I'm sorry, I should have asked. I should have checked you wanted it. But I thought you might like it, and I wanted to surprise you and I—"
The screwdriver fell from Danse's fingers with a clatter, his feet kicking through his neat line of tools and bolts, sending them scattering across the floor. Danse didn't look down, didn't even notice. He wore an expression so fixed and focused, Quinn felt frozen in place. Within three strides, he had reached her, his hands cupping her face as he leaned in towards her.
Danse hesitated.
His brown eyes, so determined mere seconds ago, now looked startled as Danse suddenly regained his senses. He blinked, staring at her, and then a pink blush crept across his cheeks.
"Um," said Danse, his breath tickling her lips.
Quinn burst out laughing, and his flush darkened, his hands dropping down as he tried to step away. She gripped his arms, tugging him towards her again, and after a moment felt him hold onto her waist.
Their eyes met, their noses almost touching, and Quinn's face broke into a wide grin. She let go of Danse as he hesitantly reached up and touched her cheeks. A small smile crossed his mouth.
Quinn slipped her arms around his neck and pulled him into a kiss.
A/N:
FINALLY.
None of you have wanted this as much as I have, I assure you. The amount of self-restraint I've needed with writing this...
Anyways.
Just want to go over a few things. I received a couple of reviews across in regards to the drama of my fic. That it's too much, there's too much going on, the characters need to be happier from time to time, and so forth.
All valid criticism. But at the same time, I wanted to address the comments.
Drama: this is the wasteland. This is also war. You have multiple characters, all of which serve a purpose of some form in the story I'm telling. I wanted a wasteland that felt richer than the game, so this is a very character-focused story. Because of that, and the aforementioned 'guys we're in an apocalypse' setting, you are going to get clashing drama. All of the drama I have put in has served to build up at least one character in some shape or form. Nearly all of it has been planned out for months. I don't tend to do things to characters on a whim.
None of them are going to get over any of their issues quickly. That includes not only Quinn and Danse, but the entire cast. I already have a conclusion for every character you have seen in BNC. I'm just not there yet.
If you are reading this story expecting a quick resolution or instant gratification, then you are very much in the wrong place. This is a long story with deliberately slow pacing.
Can I learn from the comments I received? Most definitely. I have other works planned after BNC, and I will be taking all the criticism I have gotten on board, and I sincerely thank those of you who have given their opinions and told me what I can do better.
Can these changes be implemented in BNC?
In short, no.
I'm about 75% of the way through now. All of that careful planning has been building up to a purpose. I cannot change the pacing now without derailing the entire story. That may be a fault of my own, but I'm going to take it as a learning curve and work on it for the next story I write.
So again, if you are here for instant gratification or a quick resolution, or happier characters after the event of Blind Betrayal, then that isn't going to happen. Not immediately, anyway. Characters recover. Characters move on with their lives. But in my mind, that takes time, and I am sticking to my guns for the duration of this story.
If you're reading this and thinking 'well, that sounds boring and depressing' then this isn't the story for you. And I'm sorry about that! But sadly not every story can be enjoyed by everyone.
But thankfully, fanfiction is free and plenty, and there are many other stories you can read so you can quickly forget about my silly dramafest fic. :D
Also, a final disclaimer! I did not write the end of this chapter in response to the criticism I have received. I have had this idea in my head since I started BNC in November last year, and I made sure to stick to it. Believe me, I have been tempted to make it happen earlier on so many occasions, but I'm glad I stuck to my plan.
Doom and gloom out of the way! I hope you enjoyed this chapter as much as I did writing it!
Thanks to my beta, waiting4morning for her usual fantastic help!
Also, thank you to musashi, fallendawn, mondesme, and milykitty5 from tumblr for the Spanish translation help!