In Flanders Fields

"Danse, wait!"

Quinn ran after Danse as he sprinted inside the bunker, far ahead of her. By the time she had followed him in, the doors of the elevator were already closing, and she only just managed to slip through them as they shut with a clunk.

"Danse," she tried again, but he didn't look up, instead turning his helmet over frantically in his hands, inspecting every inch of it.

There was a ping and Danse half walked, half ran out into the open space of the bunker, setting the helmet on the table and clambering out of his armour so quickly, he nearly fell over. Then he scooped his helmet up again and jogged over to his workstation, trying to salvage what he could.

Quinn knew it was a lost cause from the moment she'd set eyes on it, and she suspected Danse did too. She was only glad that the strange substance the mirelurk queen had spat at them had not lingered, else handling the helmet would have been impossible. But Danse needed to do this. He needed to make the attempt with his own two hands...and he needed to fail.

She watched from the corner, her heart breaking as he worked feverishly to save one of the few remaining pieces of his old life. He toiled for hours, never stopping, never speaking, ignoring Quinn when she tried to get him to rest or to eat.

Eventually, though, Danse set down his screwdriver and leaned over the workbench, breathing heavily through his nose as he shook his head.

"Danse?" Quinn asked tentatively, afraid of what his reaction would be.

It was worse. He glanced up at her, forcing a horrible, agonised smile, and gave a little shrug. "No matter. I'll just order another from Teagan."

"You know you can't do that," Quinn replied, and at once she resigned herself to the fight that was about to happen. She couldn't allow this to carry on. He had to understand this. He had to let go.

Danse frowned, looking irritated. "Fine. Then you can order one for me."

"I can, but that doesn't solve the problem." Quinn stepped carefully towards him. "You're not part of the Brotherhood anymore, and you never will be again. You need to accept that."

"I can still do good in their name."

Ah. There was the desperation. The pretence was gone, and he looked at her, pleading in his eyes. Begging her not to continue. Quinn ignored it.

"No, you can't," she insisted. "You're an exile. If they learn you're still alive, they will hunt you down and—"

"Stop it, Quinn," Danse said suddenly, straightening up and taking a step back from her.

"—murder you," Quinn said, raising the volume of her voice as she closed the gap between them. "If they see you, they will shoot you on sight—"

"Stop it."

"They think you're an abomination, not worthy of the right to life."

"I said stop it!" Danse snapped, his voice breaking as he leaned away from her.

"They're wrong," Quinn went on, "but that's what they think!"

"Quinn, please don't—"

"You are not Brotherhood!"

Danse picked up his ruined helmet and threw it across the room. It hit the power armour station with an echoing clang and bounced off towards the elevator. Quinn jumped, backing away from him, but it was his turn to pursue her into a corner.

"I know!" he bellowed, and his voice cracked with distress as he gestured wildly. "I know! Is that what you want to hear? I know!"

"Danse—" Quinn began, immediately regretting her words, but he drowned her out.

"I know they don't want me! I know they see me as a freak. After everything I gave to them, all the nightmares and guilt and the grief, and they'd still kill me without an ounce of regret!"

There was a pause, and then he turned from her and strode over to a nearby console, his face red, shoulders heaving with emotion.

"Danse, please, I'm sorr—"

"Because I'm not fucking real!"

He slammed his fist down hard on the glass screen of the console. There was a crack as it shattered, and Danse hissed with pain, red pouring from the wounds in his hand.

Quinn didn't move, pressing herself back into the wall behind her. She wasn't sure what frightened her more: that he'd reacted so violently, or that he'd swore. Danse never swore. Her fingers dug into the stone as she watched him, her breath catching in her throat as he stared at his bleeding hand, breathing heavily through his nose, his cheeks patched with red. Then all of a sudden, the rage went, like someone had turned it off with a switch. His face relaxed, and he began calmly picking pieces of glass from his skin.

"None of this matters," he said, flicking each shard away carelessly. After a few silent moments, Danse let his hand drop to his side though Quinn could still see embedded glass. Scarlet dripped steadily to the floor, but he ignored it, and instead walked over towards a nearby table.

Regaining her composure, Quinn inched forward. "Let me help."

"No." As he strode past the table, he snatched up a bottle of vodka they had collected to sanitise wounds, stoppered by a dirty cork. Without pause, Danse wrenched the cork out with his teeth, spitting it to the floor. "You've helped enough."

"Danse, that's for our medical kit, not for dri—"

He ignored her, taking a deep swig of the vodka, and coughed as he stalked away, leaving a trail of blood behind him. He stopped at the elevator and turned to her, slamming his bleeding fist into the buttons and then groaned with pain, before taking a second messy gulp of alcohol.

"This is what you wanted, isn't it?" he said dully. "You wanted me to accept what I am. Well I'm a synth. And everyone I ever cared about wants me dead." Another mouthful. "Congratulations. You win."

Danse stepped inside the elevator and a moment later, he was gone.

Had he really sworn at her?

Danse sat on the floor of the bunker, his feet illuminated by the moonlight shafting through the open door. His hand hurt. His pride hurt even more. And now here he was, drunk and alone, nursing his wounds with alcohol. Just like when Cutler had died.

He hadn't changed one bit.

Danse stared down at the vodka in his hand with disgust, and then sighed, drinking from it anyway. It had been a matter of time, really. He'd seen it far too often with others, but had always thought—always hoped—he would be stronger than them. But better men and women had fallen prey to drink. Why would he be any different?

Teagan came to mind, with the day he had fallen down the stairs. Danse had been the one to find him, and helped him get to Cade's office without drawing too much attention to the fact he was drunk rather than ill. Teagan had never really managed to look him in the eye afterwards, though.

The Proctor had always managed to keep his addiction a secret, and yet Danse hadn't been surprised when he had learned the truth. It was just what happened, wasn't it? The inevitable.

Danse raised the bottle in his hand up towards the moonlight. He'd only managed a small amount, but he was already feeling dizzy, despite how little he'd consumed. Back when Cutler had been alive, it took a lot more just to get him tipsy. Sobriety had dented his tolerance to alcohol.

Mirthless laughter bubbled up in his throat, and he knocked back the vodka again, trying to drown the anger that was growing in his chest, though it made him want to retch. He had promised Maxson he wouldn't drink. Promised himself that he would stay sober, that he wouldn't become like Teagan.

The inevitable.

Danse drew his legs up to his chest and hid his face in his knees. He was so tired of everything again. And despite a repeat performance of yesterday—yelling and storming off like a child, because he didn't like what he was hearing—right now he wanted Quinn. He wanted to hold her, to hear her tell him how it would be alright, that she was here for him. But he had treated her so appallingly tonight, Danse doubted she would follow him up here. More than likely she would go to sleep, and keep her distance tomorrow.

The fear in her eyes when he had sworn was as clear as day. Even thinking about it now made him feel sick. How could he have lost control like that?

Danse turned his head to the side and hit the bottle again, hating the taste, hating that he was replacing Quinn with...this. But right now, it was all he had.

There was a ping and the elevator doors slid open. Danse jumped. He hadn't even realised it had gone back down to the lower level. He glanced up, half expecting to see Quinn packed up and ready to go, like she had almost done with her husband.

Nate, the broken soldier. Danse, the broken synth.

Quinn was there, and she was carrying some form of box, a hard hat perched on her head. Danse's heart sank, but he didn't blame her. Then as she moved into the moonlight, he realised the box was a first aid kit, and stared bewildered at her as she sat down opposite him.

"Can I see your hand?" she asked.

Danse blinked stupidly and then held out his arm.

Quinn gave a patient smile. "The other one, silly."

He glanced down and realised he was offering his uninjured hand. Mumbling an apology, Danse set down the bottle of vodka and complied with her request.

Quinn reached up to her hardhat and flicked on a torch that was attached to the front. A miner's hat, perhaps? But he didn't have time to think on this, as she took hold of his throbbing hand gently, and then, using a pair of shiny tweezers, began to carefully pick out the glass still stuck in his skin.

She worked in silence, hesitating every time he flinched with pain, until eventually all the glass was gone. Then she seized his half drunk vodka and saturated a clean cloth, dabbing it against the lacerations. The burning sensation was horrible, but Danse bit his lip and kept quiet. He deserved this.

When the wounds had been cleaned, she began to clumsily bandage his hand, and he couldn't help but smile. Aware he was watching, she frowned, and he smirked—she was being stubborn again. Still, after a while, Quinn managed to make a decent job of it, and she sat back, taking off the hard hat as she admired her handiwork. But then she met his eye, and he knew they were going to have A Talk. Danse braced himself for the scolding.

"How are you feeling?" Quinn asked, holding his bandaged hand in both of her own.

"What?" He hadn't been expecting that.

"How are you feeling?" she said again.

"Absolutely fine," Danse replied, and he cringed at the slur in his words, before turning his head away from her.

Quinn leaned forward and touched his cheek, and he glanced back at her apprehensively. She was smiling, though she was clearly anxious.

"Nothing you want to get off your chest? You said some...serious things down there. I just want to make sure—"

"I've been an idiot," Danse interrupted, bowing his head. "I've been pretending everything is fine."

"You're not an idiot," Quinn said firmly. "You've been through a massive trauma. God knows I wouldn't be able to cope with it. I don't think you realise how resilient you are. You stagger me with how you endure the unendurable."

"Suffering what is not sufferable," Danse mumbled.

"What?"

"It's from..." He saw the blank look on her face and shrugged. His head was too muggy to explain the book she had given him wasn't the first of its kind he had read. "Nevermind."

There was a brief silence, and then Quinn suddenly looked disgusted with herself. "After everything that happened over Valentine, I've learned nothing. I should have been gentler. I let my frustration get ahead of your wellbeing, and I'm sorry."

"No." Danse shook his head. "I wouldn't have listened. It had to be this way."

Quinn didn't look convinced, but she smiled all the same, placing a soft kiss on his forehead and then smoothing back his hair. "You still haven't answered my question. How are you feeling?"

"Weak," Danse replied, closing his eyes and leaning his head back against the wall. "I drank again. Not a lot, but..."

"So?"

"No, it's...I…" He would prefer she didn't know the enormity of what he had done tonight, but now that he had broken his promise, he was going to need her help to fix things. And she wouldn't be able to do that if she didn't understand. Taking a deep breath, Danse recounted the years of his drinking to Quinn, ending the tale with Maxson's intervention, and his private oath never to touch another drop.

When he opened his eyes, Danse was expecting contempt or disappointment. Instead, Quinn looked determined.

"So you've had a slip," she said fiercely, squeezing his hand with great care. "It happens. Think I've not had my share of fuck ups?"

Quinn told him about her episode on the Prydwen, poisoning herself with whiskey. By the time she'd finished, Danse was horrified. How could they have allowed her to do that? But then he reminded himself that Quinn was a grown woman, and the Brotherhood was not her keeper.

But that didn't make him feel any better about it. He pulled her forward into a hug, nuzzling her neck. "I'm sorry I wasn't there."

"It needed to happen. It was the only way I could have got better." She pulled back slightly and smiled. "But if you're worried about drinking, then I'll help you. We can stay sober together, yeah?"

Danse stared at her for a few seconds, stunned. A small gesture, and yet suddenly he knew. He knew.

This intense feeling...Danse had never experienced it before. But he'd never thought someone could show him such devotion either. Quinn coloured the air with her affection. It was in everything she did, everything she said, even when she was misguided.

This...this was love.

And it wasn't like the songs said, a skip of the heart or a twist of the stomach, though his were certainly doing both right now. He wasn't flying on clouds or in a dream or seeing the world in a new light.

It just...was.

"I…" Danse said, before his brain caught up with his mouth, and his confidence faltered. He wasn't sure why he was so hesitant. He'd never been so certain of anything in his life. And she wouldn't brush him off or shy away. If anything, he suspected Quinn felt the same. But to tell her was a huge step. He could keep this to himself for now.

"I think I'd like that," Danse said, recovering quickly, and pulled her into a kiss. The alcohol was soothing his nerves at least. He clung to her, almost desperately, and as Quinn found her bearings, she reciprocated.

When they eventually broke apart, both slightly breathless, Quinn nodded to the open door.

"Come on, let's go inside. I don't like being so exposed."

It took some effort to get on his feet, his body swaying as he tried to stand straight, and Quinn helped him walk back to the elevator. She turned to him, smirking. "I love how even when you're drunk, you still sound like you've swallowed a thesaurus."

"Inebriation is no excuse for being inarticulate," Danse replied, managing to slur every 's' spectacularly.

"Danse," Quinn said, rolling her eyes as she started to giggle, "that's plenty of excuse."

He grinned back. "Not to me."

The next morning, Danse woke up to a headache and Quinn draped across him like a set of bed sheets. The latter, he didn't mind. The former, however…

Quinn mumbled and clung to him as he sat up, her eyes flicking open as he rubbed his forehead and groaned. She sat up herself, running a hand through her hair—was her hair different now? It looked different—and kissed him on the cheek.

"Water?"

"Please," he replied, and then watched her get out of bed and walk across the room to look through the cupboards. As she bent over, his gaze trailed across her form, and something stirred within him. Then he blushed as he realised where he was looking, and laid back down on the bed, covering his face with a pillow. Quinn deserved better than being gawked at.

Only when she returned to the bed, handing him a bottle of water, did Danse remove the pillow again, taking a few grateful gulps and spilling some down himself.

"Careful," she said, smiling and wiping the water away from his chin. However, when he put the bottle down, she didn't return to his side, sitting cross-legged on the bed.

"Is everything alright?" he asked, frowning.

"Yeah, I'm just…" Quinn paused and then sighed. "We've been arguing a lot lately. I'd be lying if I said it didn't concern me."

Danse sat up properly now, his throat tight. "We've always bickered, haven't we? I wasn't expecting that to change."

"This is different to bickering, though," Quinn said, fidgeting. "This is proper arguing. You yelling, me saying hurtful shit. We've only been a couple for a few days and already we've had two big arguments, one right after the other." She met his eye. "Aren't you worried?"

Danse considered this for a moment, and then shook his head.

"But—"

"Like you said to me last night," Danse interrupted, reaching over and squeezing her hand, "a lot has happened. Not just to me, either, but to both of us. You've had to go through hell with all of this too, Quinn. And whether we were together or not, we would have argued about the things that have occurred recently. You would have still wanted me to go to see the syn… the detective, and I would have still been stubborn about it. You would have called me out for my…"

He hesitated, his brain automatically wanting to deny everything all over again. But Danse took a deep breath and forced the words out. "My delusions. My refusal to accept...to…" He closed his eyes, breathing through his nose. "I am a synth. And I'm an exile. My refusal to accept those things."

Quinn shifted closer and leaned forward, hugging him. He held her, his fingers stroking her hair.

"You would have made sure I stopped lying to myself," Danse went on, the strange feeling of lightness—the same as when he had left the detective agency—returning to him. "And I would have lost control the same."

"You didn't lose control."

Danse pulled away from her. "I did, Quinn. I swore at you in anger and I drank alcohol. It's behaviour I tolerate in others, but I don't tolerate it in myself."

Quinn didn't reply to this.

"But we're not arguing because we're fed up of each other," Danse continued. "We're not annoying each other with our habits or our personalities. We're dealing with heavy issues that will cause conflict. And despite the arguments, they haven't affected how I feel about you." Danse paused, his face growing hot again. "If anything, I...I feel closer to you for them."

She blinked in surprise, her own cheeks going pink.

Danse nodded. "I really do. In part because of your patience and your kindness, but also because I'm finally accepting the way things are. My life's starting over. I need to come to terms with everything I've lost..."

He took hold of her hand pressed his lips to her fingers.

"...and everything I've gained."

Quinn's flush deepened, but she smiled. "I'm glad you see it that way."

Danse leaned in to kiss her, when she spoke again.

"And if you want to check out my ass when you think I'm not looking, you're more than welcome to, y'know."

"I—wait—no!" Danse spluttered, reeling back so sharply he nearly fell out of the bed. "I wasn't! I didn't! I mean, it's very nice but I wouldn't be so—!"

"Liar," Quinn snickered, and then without warning, lunged forward and tickled him.

That did it. Danse yelped in surprise, twisting away from her wiggling fingers, but turned too hard. He toppled straight off the bed, and Quinn—who had been holding onto his arms when he fell—was dragged along with a loud shriek. They landed in a heap together, Quinn dissolving into a fit of giggles, and after a few seconds, Danse found he was laughing as well. Then, inevitably, it led to kisses—he could never get enough of them—followed by a quiet moment on the floor.

"I would prefer we stay in the bed for this next time," Danse grumbled, his back hurting slightly.

Quinn propped herself up on her elbow and wiggled her eyebrows at him. "Oh, really?"

"I—not like that!" Danse said quickly, feeling himself go as red as a tato again. Why was she so good at placing him in these awkward conversations? "Not right now, at least. But —"

"Calm down," she said, cutting off his panic with another kiss. "I'm just teasing. I'm in no rush for anything, I promise."

Oh God. She had only been joking.

He must have gone even redder, because Quinn quickly changed the subject.

"Any plans for what we're going to do today?"

Danse nodded, feeling sombre again. He gestured to all the salvaged items from his time with the Brotherhood, including his flag. "All of this. If I'm moving on, then it has to go. I can't keep pretending this is a part of my life anymore."

Her brow furrowed. "You don't need to do that."

"I do. Keeping it all is too risky."

"You're allowed to have some reminders of what you were," she said, tracing her fingers along his jawline. "The problem only occurs when you start living in the past, too."

"I don't know how to walk that fine line." He shut his eyes, sighing. "I don't know how to keep that balance."

"Then I'll help you. Anything you need."

Despite himself, Danse chuckled. Of course she would. He wouldn't have expected anything less. "What's your advice, then?"

"Well, for starters, using your paladin armour is a bad idea. Aside from drawing the wrong attention, it's just too familiar to what you're used to." Quinn shrugged. "Maybe the same with your laser rifle, too."

Danse winced. It made sense, of course, but the idea of abandoning his armour hurt. Still… "You're right. The armour can be retired, but I'm keeping the gun."

"Danse…"

"That rifle isn't a relic from the Brotherhood. It's a gift from you." He sat up and gave her a stubborn look. "I'm keeping it by my side."

Quinn laughed and got to her feet, dusting herself down. "Alright then. That's fair enough."

Together, they pottered around the bunker, Quinn cleaning up the mess from the previous night—causing a twinge of guilt in Danse's stomach—while he sorted through everything she had saved from the Prydwen.

Most of his books, he kept, though it had taken a good ten minutes to convince himself that he could throw away the copies of the codex he had studied from training. Old bits of clothes and uniform went as well, with the exception of his very first issued jumpsuit, boots, and gloves. All of them were full of holes and tears.

His own personal shot glass was added to the throw pile so carelessly it shattered. He was never going to drink again.

The glass with the chip in the rim, however, stayed without question. Danse couldn't let it go. He also kept the gun he had been working on, and his Brotherhood flag, which he had originally taken from the Citadel. He'd had that for as long as he'd been a soldier, and had used on more than one occasion to cover Cutler when he'd passed out in his bunk from an excessive night of drinking.

Danse frowned. How the hell had either of them gotten through training with the amount they'd drunk? He wasn't sure which of them was worse. Whenever they'd been left together in any kind of social event, somehow they'd both ended up shamefully intoxicated.

To his great surprise, Danse didn't feel upset about this. They had been stupid. They had been young. And he wouldn't have traded a single second of it for all the common sense in the world.

"You okay?" Quinn said, wandering over, her arms full of cereal boxes.

Danse nodded. "Just sorting through ghosts as well as junk."

Setting down the clutter, she slipped her arms around his waist. "You don't need to do it all at once, y'know. Take a break."

"Anything in mind?" he said, pressing his lips against hers. Then an idea struck him, and he blurted it out, "I still haven't had a real chance to read your book yet."

Quinn blinked and Danse immediately felt stupid. Why on earth would she want to sit there and watch him—?

"Would you read some of them out to me?" she asked, her face lighting up with delight. "You have such a great voice."

It was Danse's turn to blink in surprise. "I—well I—um...yes, if you want."

Within minutes they were snuggled up together, Quinn leaning against him while he read, her eyes alert. Every so often, she'd tell him a little titbit of knowledge about one of the poems, whether it was about the author or the event in question, or just a general slice of trivia from centuries past.

Eventually, Danse set down the book, frowning. "How do you know all of this?"

Quinn shrugged. "I like history. I learned some of this in high school, but a lot of it at home while I was pregnant."

"But...whenever I've asked you about history…"

"You ask me about life when the bombs fell," Quinn replied, looking distant all of a sudden. "That's not a place I want to dwell."

Well, the detective had been right after all.

"I'm sorry," Danse said after a short pause.

Quinn snuggled into his shoulder. "It's fine. You were just curious. And I found that cute."

"Cute?"

"Don't try to deny it." She grinned. "You're fucking adorable."

Danse huffed, turning the page over, and Quinn laughed, hugging his arm as he continued to read. She told him about Veterans Day and Memorial Day, and the meaning of the red poppies, taken from France and the poem, 'In Flanders Fields.'

"The poppies were used on Memorial Day," Quinn said, tracing the worn pages with her finger. "Nate always liked them and used to get really pissed off at people who refused to get one." She smiled to herself, far away.

Suddenly feeling awkward, Danse shifted his gaze to the next poem, and began to read again.

"Here dead we lie, because we did not choose...to live and shame the land...from which we sprung."

His throat tightened as he stared at the next verse—the final verse—a chord struck within him. He thought of Cutler, and of himself. Of everything that had happened in the last few months.

"Life, to be sure, is nothing much to lose...but young men think it is. And we were young."

Quinn must have noticed his shift in mood, because she pushed herself up and kissed him on the cheek, using her other hand to close the book. Her thumb stroked his chin as her breath tickled his skin, and she smiled.

"Talk to me."

Danse felt the immediate excuse of 'I'm fine' begin to surface, but he cut it off. There were no secrets with Quinn. "Cutler."

He half expected her to say 'Again?' After all, that was exactly how he felt. But she squeezed his arm gently and waited for him to continue.

"I should be over his death by now," Danse said, leaning back against the headboard and closing his eyes. "I should be over this. But I'm not. It's stupid."

"I don't think you've grieved for him properly."

His eyes snapped open and he glanced down at her. "What?"

Quinn shrugged. "You haven't grieved for him properly."

"I don't understand."

"When he died, did you give yourself time to work through the whole thing, or did you just get drunk and then carry on with your regular duties?"

Danse frowned. After Maxson had helped pull himself together, he had returned to his normal schedule. Thrown himself into work...taken his mind off things. Mostly avoided Marguerie and the Coopers, because they kept trying to talk about it with him. And after a while, everyone had gotten the message. Danse wanted to be left alone.

"I should be over this by now," Danse repeated, avoiding the question.

Quinn sat up straight and shook her head. "You grieve in your own time. It isn't a straight process. Some days are better than others, but there will always be a piece of you missing. It's not about ignoring the hole or trying to fill it...just learning to accept that it's there." She touched his hand. "You haven't done that, have you?"

He shrugged. "I don't know."

"And that's okay, too." Quinn paused, her cheeks going pink. "You've helped me so much with...with my losses. And I know I mention Nate a lot sometimes and Shaun, but…"

She gave a little shrug of her own. "It's like Cutler, y'know? The acceptance will come in time. Might take months. Years. Maybe decades. But it'll happen. And…" Now her face was turning red. "I'm so glad I met you."

He didn't know what to say to that. His mouth opened and closed a few times, feeling more and more stupid as he left her declaration hanging in the air. But then Danse caught her eye, and he realised words didn't have to pass between them. She knew what she meant to him.

Quinn was right, though. The dead would linger with both of them for years to come. Perhaps forever. And there was nothing wrong with that. Cutler had never gotten over the death of his mother, something that had happened not long after they had met in Rivet City. It had brought him and Danse together, kept them close, and driven them to move on towards the Brotherhood when the recruiter had visited.

"What else have I got here?" Cutler drained the last of his beer and shrugged at Danse as he set the bottle down. "Mom's dead. Only thing keeping me on this damn boat is her old business, and even that doesn't bring much in." Cutler paused. "And you. But this could be a chance to get out of my nowhere life."

Danse nodded, finishing his own drink. "Then let's go."

Cutler's mouth fell open. "You mean it? You really mean it?"

Of course he had meant it. Even if the Brotherhood hadn't appealed to him at all, he would have gone for Cutler's sake. They had been a team. They watched each other's backs.

And so they'd joined.

Quinn's gentle touch brought him back to earth with a bump, and he pulled her close, needing her more than ever. So much death. So much loss. The wasteland was full of it, but sometimes it struck too close to home. And not always for himself. The tape that they had found today…

As soon as he had heard it, the toymaker had sprung to mind, hunched and frail, avoiding eye contact when their conversation had become confrontational. The ghoul had mentioned a daughter, but never said what had happened to her. And now Danse knew. This information had left him feeling uncomfortable, though he couldn't say why. There was just a hint of unease, mingled with...shame?

Danse kneaded his forehead, trying to force the unwanted thoughts out of his head.

"Everything okay?"

It was like Quinn was tuned to him. She was able to pick on his mood without him making a single utterance.

He opened his mouth to tell her something—exactly what, he didn't know—when he spied the holotape they'd taken from the toy offices on a table near the bed. An idea suddenly struck him.

Danse glanced at Quinn, and a smile spread across his face.

"What?" she said, raising an eyebrow.

"How would you feel about a trip to the Slog?"

A/N: I'm away this weekend, so have another early chapter! Usual thanks to my amazing beta, waiting4morning. :)