Grief

The stimpaks worked as Marguerie promised.

Quinn hobbled down the upper corridors of the Prydwen, before settling on the edge of a walkway, the pain in her stomach ever-present. It was healed, but the tenderness remained. Not that Maxson cared—he had requested her to his office almost immediately, apparently unconcerned with the ladder she'd had to climb to get to him.

Oh, he apologised. He apologised for many things, both in words and in the way he looked at her, but Quinn didn't believe him. She couldn't, when the result remained the same: the people of the Railroad were dead. Quinn had murdered them.

And Josh. Josh couldn't—

"Thought I'd find you here," said a gentle voice.

Quinn glanced up to see Carson standing next to her, wearing a soft smile.

"Mind if I join you?"

She motioned vaguely to the spot on the floor next to her, and Carson took a seat. Typical of him to know she'd be hiding at the top of the ship. He stretched out, his legs flat on the floor, and turned to her. "So, how you do—?"

"Don't," Quinn said sharply, picking at a loose piece of fabric in the cuff of her sleeve. "You know I'm doing shit. So just...don't."

"Alright," Carson said, his tone a little stiffer. He scratched his head and shrugged. "I'll say it straight, then. I told everyone you just went in and shot that guy dead, no real conversation involved. Dragged you away from his body so they couldn't see you crying over him. I've protected you. Lied for you. So I think I deserve some goddamn answers."

He was right. He did deserve answers. More than he could ever know. Her standoff with Deacon must have been really bothering him, to bring it up like this. Carson had never been so direct, even when she was being an ass.

Quinn told him everything. Every detail, every meeting, every talk, every laugh she'd had with the idiot with the sunglasses. She talked and talked for what felt like hours, until she had nothing left to give, and then still went on until the tale was complete.

When she'd finished, she was hollow. Nothing had changed. If anything, Quinn felt worse. She'd just relived the entire ordeal.

"And the shittiest thing," Quinn said, staring at her knees, "is that I don't even know if there was a threat after all. Deacon told me nothing, gave me nothing."

"He sounds like an asshole."

"Can you blame him?" She shook her head. "I murdered all his friends. Betrayed him. And yet…"

Quinn buried her face in her hands. "God, Carson, was he a child killer? Did he come onto the Prydwen to scout as well as get the uniforms? Would they have really gone ahead with their plans?" She looked up again, and saw Carson's face was pale. Quinn fidgeted. "I just...even with all the lies, I thought I knew the man at least that much. Now I'm not so sure."

Quinn leaned back against the walkway railing and gazed up at the ceiling. "But he didn't deny it either. Maybe he really didn't care what others thought. Or maybe he was just pretending. He always seemed to tell jokes a little too much. Like he was hiding something deep."

"I heard you tell him to go," Carson said quietly.

Quinn nodded, unconcerned. If Carson disagreed with her choice, that was his problem. She would still do it again. "I couldn't have killed him. There's enough blood on my hands. But...I don't think he wanted to live."

"What makes you say that?"

"Because he had every opportunity to leave. He could have ran, dealt with me later if he wanted...but he didn't. He stayed. Made sure I was punished. Now he's gone...and all I'm left with is questions."

A short silence. Carson looked lost for words.

"You know what troubles me the most?" Quinn said suddenly. Carson glanced at her.

"What?"

"Did Maxson lie to me?"

Carson frowned, but didn't say anything. Quinn took this as an invitation to continue.

"It just doesn't add up. None of it. Killing kids, provoking the Brotherhood when it's a much bigger entity, sending you guys first to such a dangerous battle. We're in the middle of a damn war with the Institute. Was the threat so great that the Railroad had to be dealt with now? Or were Kells and Maxson looking for an excuse—any excuse—to stamp out 'the synth menace' at the cost of our own people?"

Carson took some time to answer, and when he did, his speech was slow and careful.

"If there's one thing Elder Maxson is not known for, it's lying." He shifted in his spot on the floor, frowning. "Everyone says Paladin Danse was his mentor. If Maxson said there was a threat, I think he genuinely believed it was there. Whether it actually existed is another matter, but…"

Quinn saw what he was hinting at. Maxson wasn't trying to make her work on manipulation and lies. After a few seconds, Quinn nodded. She agreed. Time and time again, the Elder had forgiven her for keeping secrets when she was upfront about them. Like Danse, he valued the truth.

A bitter irony the disgraced paladin would turn Maxson into a liar.

Quinn sighed, rubbing her forehead.

What's done is done. There are no answers for me.

She got to her feet and began to walk away, not wanting to spend another second in her friend's company. She felt like an outcast on all fronts, too brutal to mix with the wastelanders, too soft to be Brotherhood. Who the hell would tolerate her now?

Carson stood up, catching her arm, and she immediately felt stupid for doubting. He had always been there for her. And he always would.

Carson met her eye. "For what it's worth...thank you."

Quinn smiled.

"Ma'am."

Old eyes stared out from a childish face, sharp and knowing as he stood at attention. His uniform was crisp and spotless, like it had been obsessively cleaned for hours on end. Joshua Cooper looked determinedly past Quinn, engrossed in the wall of the corridor he guarded.

"Why are you on duty?" Quinn asked, her brow furrowing as she studied Josh.

"No time for rest in war, ma'am." His mouth went thin as he clenched his jaw, his pale face set and ready. Ready for what, Quinn didn't know, but the way he held himself left a sour taste in her mouth.

"Bullshit."

The facade cracked as Josh's eyes widened and flicked in her direction. He hurriedly looked away again, but the damage was done. She had him.

"Come with me."

"But—"

"That's an order, Squire Cooper." If he was going to play the game of rank and duty, her victory was already decided. Quinn shuffled away, and then glanced back at him, glaring. "Now."

Recognising defeat, Josh scurried after her, his head down, walking in silence. The culled crew watched as the pair made their journey through the ship, passing like ghosts. They were seen. They were not disturbed.

"In here." Quinn opened the door and pointed inside.

By the time Josh realised where she had taken him, Quinn had already slammed the door behind them. His eyes widened as he scanned the room—her room—with barely contained fascination. Then, like a light being turned off, the interest disappeared, and he returned to his dull self.

Quinn limped across to her bed and dropped heavily onto the mattress, biting back a cry of pain as she upset her tender stomach. But when she glanced up at the boy, he showed no signs of noticing, lost in his thoughts again.

"Josh."

Josh jumped. "Ma'am?"

"Call me Quinn."

He struggled with himself for a moment, and then eventually forced out, "Quinn?"

"Why are you on duty, Josh? And be honest, please."

Would he answer? They looked at each other for some time, Josh's expression flicking between fierce and uncertain. He fidgeted, and then shrugged. "Better than being at home."

At home.

The miserable bunk beside Michelle's, surrounded by battered and sombre soldiers, empty spaces where his parents should have been. That was his home. Quinn tilted her head to the side, searching for meaning in his words, and God, she understood.

"Better than being at home," she said, cops asking her why she was alone in a playground at two in the morning.

"Better than being at home," she thought, sleeping with Mark because it meant a bed that wasn't hers.

"Better than being at home," she slurred, when a dog walker had found her in a field, caked in her own vomit.

Home meant a crying mother and an absent father. Home meant reminders of a man who had needled her heart, a woman who had put spite before her daughter's happiness. She hated them both. Home was not her home. And so she had avoided it at all costs.

Quinn leaned on the bed frame, shaking away her demons. She had forgiven her mom after a few years, but her dad...well. That was complicated.

"If you ever want to be away from everything, you're more than welcome to come in here. I'll make sure the officers are aware of it." She massaged her stomach absent-mindedly, smiling at him. "I know that sometimes you just need space."

She had half expected a thank you, or at the very least some acknowledgement of her offer. But Josh ignored it completely, looking anywhere but at her.

"Is it Michelle?" Quinn asked delicately.

Josh's eyes narrowed, as if searching for some sort of trick. Then he deflated as he nodded. "She just won't stop crying!" He balled his fists, going red in the face. "I'm sick of it!"

"She's lost someone too, Josh."

"So? I'm not crying!"

Quinn raised an eyebrow at him. "Why not?"

The question took him by surprise, and he stopped in front of her, his mouth opening and closing like a goldfish. Then he shook his head. "Because I'm just not!"

"Josh, you need to cry. You need to grieve—"

"If you'd been there sooner, would they have lived?"

Quinn reeled, feeling like she'd been shot again. Suddenly she was back at the church. If she'd been there, if she'd not been so selfish…

"I don't know."

"You must—"

"I don't know," she repeated, with such savagery Josh recoiled. "I don't know if there was anything I could have done to save them." She sat up straight and looked away. "I tried, but it didn't matter."

Who was she talking about now? Brotherhood or Railroad? Faces were blurring together, Núñez' blank gaze cutting her as sharp as any knife, Desdemona spread eagle on her planning table. Vivian, dead before Quinn had so much as walked through the door, and Deacon…

Kind, pale blue eyes.

Nate lay on the living room floor, ignoring the blood that trickled from the cut in his head. He covered his face with the crook of his arm, though the thickness of his voice was impossible to miss.

"Everywhere I look, I see Crofts," he croaked, still shaking from the aftermath of his flashback. "When I'm asleep. When I'm awake. I'm back in that ruined city, and she's just crumpled in the dirt. And...and I see what's left of her face. Her blue eye piercing into me. Telling me to join her."

Quinn's breathing quickened, and she wished she could cover the eyes burning inside her head with a damn pair of sunglasses. "They all died, and none of them deserved it and I just wasn't good enough to—"

Her babbling was cut off as Josh hugged her.

Quinn froze, glancing down at the boy, her arms limply by her side. Then he began to tremble, before finally looking up at her. Big fat tears rolled down his cheeks and splashed onto his squire's uniform.

"Why did they have to go?" he asked. "Why did they leave me?"

Quinn pulled him close again, and the dam broke, Josh bawling into her shoulder. She held him as hard as he was holding her, and rocked him in her arms, whispering empty, soothing words. Something was awakening within her.

Was this what it was like to have a son?

The stark truth of everything she had missed with Shaun was plainer than ever. She couldn't avoid the other awful fact: this was the Institute's doing.

They hadn't forced the Brotherhood to come to the Commonwealth, hadn't made the Railroad begin their exodus of the synths, but the Institute was the catalyst. The spark that had started all of this bloodshed. And Shaun was their leader.

"You're just going to let him run amok?"

Danse's words echoed from Sanctuary, when she had revealed the fate of her lost son. Quinn had refused every suggestion of hurting Shaun, until eventually she realised there was nowhere else to run. If she couldn't do it herself, then the Brotherhood would have to do it for her.

Only now, she was one of their officers. She had seen firsthand the chaos and death that occurred when a paladin—their paladin—wasn't present to guide them.

Vivian, Núñez, Stephen, and countless other soldiers.

Desdemona. Glory. Drummer Boy. Tinker Tom. Carrington.

Deacon.

Her unwillingness to act had caused this, had cost them their lives. If she had given her all sooner, the Railroad wouldn't have needed to save synths anymore. They might have flown under the radar of the Brotherhood. Everyone would have lived.

And what of everything else the Institute had done? What about Danse?

The very thought of a world without him was unbearable, and yet at the same time, the torment he had been put through was unjust.

Quinn clung to a still sobbing Josh and felt her own grief overwhelm her. More than ever, she wanted Danse, needed him with her. And she would have him, whether Maxson liked it or not. The road ahead of her was going to difficult—the most difficult path she had ever taken. But first, Danse. Then the dark work could begin.

Her eyes drifted over to the nearby cabinet, where Danse's holotape lurked. She had thrown it in there after she had shown it to Carson, hoping never to listen it again. Why she had kept the tape, she didn't know, but now it seemed as if its purpose was revealed at last.

Quinn knew what she had to do.

"Sir, a word, if I may."

Maxson turned from his usual spot at the window, a glass of spirits in hand. Shadows existed on his face where none had been before. Tired eyes searched her, the youthful gleam that betrayed his real age now absent. Josh Cooper had held a similar look when Quinn had spoken to him on the walkways. She studied Maxson, a strange pity for him in her chest.

Old before his time. An Elder.

He waved the guards away. A courtesy to her. Quinn appreciated it.

"Speak, Paladin," he said, finishing his drink and setting it carelessly on the side next to the countless bottles that had collected there.

Quinn wondered if this was the fate of all who joined. Serve until they were spent, vitality sucked away by the parasite that was Brotherhood. Only when every breath of their being was taken, were they released. Too late.

She could feel it in herself. What was once a reminder of days gone by now felt like the very foundations of her sanity. The cost had been high, and yet there was still more she could give. Willingly, too.

Oh yes. Willingly.

But at least she'd joined by choice. For Maxson, there had never been a chance of escape. Deacon had been right in that regard. They were both trapped, though their reasons were different. It didn't matter. Slowly, she was finding her feet in this organisation, bending it to her desires. And damn it, they would listen.

"Requesting permission to leave the ship, sir."

Play the game. Play the game.

Maxson's eyes narrowed. "You're injured, Paladin. To let you out now would be as good as suicide."

"I won't be travelling far."

His eyes widened, first in shock, and then in anger. He understood what she was hinting at, and the outrage was written all over his face.

"You're still—?" he began, but Quinn cut smoothly across him.

"You heard the rumours before he died, I imagine?"

The surprise returned at the sudden change in topic, and for a moment, Maxson looked confused. Then his expression shifted from the real thing to pretence. "Rumours?"

"Ignorance doesn't fit you well, sir. You know what I'm referring to."

"Yes...I heard them. There were some concerns amongst the other officers, but I had faith he wouldn't do anything stupid."

"He didn't."

"Good."

An awkward pause.

"But those rumours were there for a reason. He understood me better than anyone else. Helped me in ways I can barely describe, let alone explain."

Quinn placed her next card delicately. "I can't stay stuck here, sir. There isn't a person on this ship I can talk to. I want guidance from someone who went through what I did."

"You think you two are the only ones to kill friends in the line of duty?" Maxson said sharply, and Quinn saw the tower of cards wobble. His scowl was deep as he continued, "Cade is more than adequate for you, without bringing outsiders into the equation."

"Sir." Quinn stepped forward, closer than she'd ever dared before. "I need him. Let me go."

The careful glimpse of her hand, the charade that he had control of the situation. Let it appear that there was a choice whether she stayed— a shallow show of respect to his position. Maxson could likely see the lie.

He moved back, breaking the moment. Conflict was etched into every premature line in his face. Eventually, the indecisiveness melted away.

"You understand that if you're caught with him, you'll probably be executed?"

"I think we both know that if he's seen—with or without me—I'm as good as dead."

And you too, Elder, she thought. Quinn didn't voice this, though, and Maxson looked grateful for her glossing over the obvious.

"If you understand the risks—"

"I do."

"And also that we intend to act on our next operation within a few weeks. I would like you to be there."

You will be there. The unspoken order.

"Yes, sir," she replied.

Maxson nodded. "Then you may go. Dismissed, Paladin."

"Thank you." Quinn saluted him, perhaps the first genuine salute she'd ever given Maxson in her life, and he returned it, looking equally sincere. She turned to go, and made it halfway across the room, when Maxson spoke again.

"Is he well?"

Finally, he had caught her off guard. Quinn whirled on the spot to face him, blinking rapidly. Then she smiled. "Yes, sir. He is."

Climbing into her power armour unaided was an impossible task. Every time she'd tried, pain streaked through her stomach, until her knees trembled and she'd fallen away, gasping. In the end, recruiting Carson for assistance became a necessity rather than an option.

"At least let me go with you," Carson muttered, turning the valve with ease. The armour hissed and opened, and Quinn checked she had Danse's holotape in her uniform before struggling to get inside. Eventually she allowed Carson lift her up until she was in the suit.

Even moving in the damn thing was agony, the strain of heavy metal weighing her limbs. It had never bothered her in the past, but then she hadn't been compensating for several holes in her midriff before now.

"Quinn—" he began again.

"Leave it, Knight," a harsh voice snapped, and both of them turned around to see Rachel Marguerie leaning against a nearby workstation, giving Carson a sharp glare.

"Rachel—"

"I said leave it." Her eyes lit up with a rare glimmer of authority, and Carson knew at once to back down. Even Quinn felt like she was under Rachel's thumb.

"Ma'am," Carson spat, stalking past Rachel, giving her the ugliest look he could muster. She laughed, and watched with a smirk as he stormed off, his skin dark scarlet.

When the sound of his aggravated stomps faded away, Rachel turned back to Quinn, mirth still clinging to the corners of her mouth.

"Is there anything you need assistance with, ma'am?" She straightened up to attention. "Or is this a solo endeavour?"

"Like I said to Carson, I'm off on my own for a bit," Quinn replied. "I need some space from the ship."

"I understand." She frowned slightly. "Permission to speak freely, ma'am?"

Quinn rolled her eyes. "Go ahead."

Rachel grinned, but then it faltered as her expression became serious. "Don't push yourself too hard. I don't doubt you'll be fine out there, but stay out of trouble, for the time being. Even the best can be slowed down by a wound...and we need you."

"I'll try."

"That's all I can ask, ma'am."

Rachel didn't follow as Quinn took her leave, hanging back in the workshop. But though she remained, Quinn could sense the knight-sergeant's watching eyes on her. The attack on the Railroad had taken so much from Quinn, and yet she couldn't help but feel she'd gained something significant, too.

Still, in the emptiness of the wasteland, the warmth of these spoils quickly disappeared, replaced by numbness. Was leaving the right thing after all? At the time, she had been so certain her strife came from the presence of soldiers, a reminder of the blank faces that had stared up at her from the ground. But they had also granted her familiarity, purpose. Out here, where her only company was memory, Quinn began to doubt.

The numb was seeping from her, leaving a splattered trail of grief across the landscape as she limped towards her destination. With every step closer, the pain increased, pressing on her head, demanding to be recognised. A ghost that ambled with her, whispering jokes in her ear and changing clothes the second she looked away.

The first time Deacon had done that, Quinn nearly shot him. One moment he'd been at her side, in his usual t-shirt and jeans, black hair gleaming in the sunlight, and then suddenly a bald farmer ran past her as a group of raiders attacked, screaming commentary about Proust. If it wasn't for the fact that Quinn had spotted the sunglasses at the last second, she would have shot him straight in the back of the head.

"Deacon!" she shrieked as the last raider fell dead. "What the fuck? Warn me next time, you idiot!"

Deacon's face fell. "Damn, you saw through my disguise?"

"You sound like you want me to shoot you!"

"Well, can't say it would be unexpected."

Quinn staggered to the side, her wounds suddenly aching. He'd never trusted her. Not really. She'd managed to win the confidence of every other friend, but not Deacon. Never Deacon. He had held her at arm's length, continually giving her chances to make her way past his walls. Every time, she'd turned him down.

And the lies...God, she'd hated the lies. Once the courser chip was done with, Quinn had parted ways, glad to see the back of someone who considered manipulation a fun game. Or at least that's what she'd thought at the time. Now it seemed like it was a necessary part of his work. Whether Deacon had actually enjoyed it, she couldn't say.

But he'd seemed to like her company at least, even if Quinn had made it clear she wasn't taking his offer. He'd followed her long after they'd separated. Approached her time and time again to try and persuade her to join his group, despite her affiliation with the Brotherhood. Deacon had no reason to reveal himself if all he was doing was gathering information. And yet he had been there at Sanctuary.

Why had he wanted her so much? Was it her connection to Shaun? Or something else?

"I forgive you."

Quinn felt her stomach clench. That was the real parting shot.

The bunker came into view, and a strange panic grew. It started slow at first, bubbling away, clawing at her guts until her breath quickened and her face grew hot, and then suddenly she needed to be inside.

Quinn ran.

Danse paced around the room, checking the terminal every few seconds. How long had he been stuck in this loop? Barely eating, barely sleeping, caught between the computer and himself. He'd heard no reply from Haylen, no idea if she was avoiding him or if she couldn't respond. But the suspense had dragged him to the edge of his limit.

So when the elevator rumbled to life and began moving down to his level, Danse didn't notice at first. Only when it drew closer, the mechanical clunks and grinds of rusting machinery fanfaring its arrival, did Danse look up from the terminal.

He had time to run, time to hide. His weapon was only by the power armour stand. But Danse didn't move, simply straightening up in his spot and waiting with baited breath. Let it be her. Please, let it be her.

A looming set of power armour greeted him as the jaws of the elevator slid open. His eyes trailed blindly over it, until sense kicked in and he saw. A paladin.

But was it Quinn?

The figure stepped forward, and slowly, hesitantly, they left their armour.

Danse blinked. The woman who had emerged was not Quinn.

She looked like Quinn, from her unkempt hair to her tanned skin. Even the scars were an exact match. But she held herself differently, and for one heart-stopping moment, Danse wondered if she was a replacement. Had the Institute gotten to her? And if so, where was the real Quinn?

A furious grief spiked within him. They'd done a good job in replicating her, but the look in those beautiful blue eyes were as foreign to him as—

No.

Danse stared harder, an awful truth dawning on him. He'd seen that same look in the mirror, not long after Cutler's death. She was the real thing.

"Quinn?"

At the sound of her own name, something snapped.

"Help."

Danse sprinted across the room, catching her as she stumbled towards him. All of his worry exploded out, threatening to engulf them both as he clung to her, never wanting to let go. Quinn grasped at his shoulders, her legs losing all capacity to support her, and Danse sank to the floor, holding her steady. She wept in his arms, utterly incoherent.

Whatever had happened, it could wait. He wasn't ready to help her yet. He needed a few moments, just to feel her, to know she was here and it wasn't a dream.

She was alive. She was alive.

Another sleepless night.

Danse didn't mind. Tiredness was an old friend, granting him reprieve from the terrors that came with slumber. This time he had an adequate excuse to avoid it.

Quinn was in no mood for rest either, barely able to look at him for the first hour, let alone speak. Eventually, though, she told him about the attack on the Railroad, filling in the gaps of the Brotherhood patrol's version of the operation. And there were a lot of gaps.

Vivian and Stephen, gone.

That stung more than Danse thought it would. He hadn't spoken to them properly in years, cutting them off for a clean break when the inevitable arrived. That obviously hadn't worked. All he felt was the pain of loss mingled with an addition of regret. His team members, and he had shunted them out of his life. And for what?

Danse couldn't even be angry that she'd befriended members of the Railroad. Her time before the Brotherhood was none of his damn business, and the last thing Quinn needed right now was a lecture.

This Deacon, though...

Danse felt a sharp hatred towards the man. How dare he shoot her?

"It's one word against another," Quinn whispered, her face pale as she sat on the bed, carried there by Danse. "Or it would have been, if Deacon had said shit. But I don't know whether to believe it. Why not defend himself?"

"He had his chance," Danse snarled. "More than one. More than I'd have given him."

"But you weren't his friend—"

"Neither were you," Danse interrupted, shaking his head. "You feel this way because he never presented himself as a threat. He collected information, followed you, tried to sway you to their side despite your obvious Brotherhood leanings. What organisation would stay friendly to someone who was affiliated with their enemy?"

"Because I was sympathetic towards synths. I've never hidden that, and the Railroad knew it. Deacon knew it."

"He manipulated you," Danse pressed on. "Relied on your uncertainty, hoping you would give them a heads up if the Brotherhood caught wind of their plans."

He placed his hand on her shoulder, a fierce pride in his chest. "Unfortunately for him, you let him down."

Quinn looked far from convinced. Danse wasn't overly sure either, but he did know one thing: this Deacon had never truly been on her side. At least not in Danse's opinion. Whether Quinn thought differently was another matter. A liar of this magnitude couldn't be trusted to have her best interests in heart, and he'd dragged her through Hell attempting to twist her to follow his little schemes.

Damn the man. He didn't deserve Quinn's grief.

"But—" Quinn tried again.

"If he's as good as you say, he knew there was a chance you would be on that ship, and was more than likely aware children were present." He fixed her with a serious look. "None of the others would do that to you. I wouldn't do that to you. You didn't know him, Quinn, and he tried to play you for a fool."

She bowed her head, looking lost, and Danse could tell she didn't agree with him, set on blaming herself for Deacon's actions. What choice did she have? He frowned, and then went for a different approach.

"If you could change your decision, would you?"

Her reply was without hesitation. "No."

Danse smiled. "Then you did the right thing."

"If I did the right thing, why does it hurt like this?"

"Sometimes the right thing doesn't always feel that way."

Quinn scowled. "That sounds like bullshit."

Danse shifted in his spot on the bed, leaning against the frame and pulling her close. "Well it's not. You care about people, even strangers. One of your finer qualities, in my opinion, and something extremely rare in the wasteland."

Quinn said nothing for a few seconds, and then hugged Danse back before looking up at him. She was still filled with regret, but the dangerous emptiness in her eyes had departed, replaced by grim acceptance. Danse felt relief wash over him. There was still a long road ahead of Quinn, but the worst of it—the doubt—seemed to be gone for the time being.

"How do you deal with this?" Quinn muttered, snuggling against him.

"You help," Danse replied without thinking. He paused, realising he must have sounded flippant. "Sorry."

However, she looked slightly pleased. "That's why I left the Prydwen again. Cade wanted me to stay and recover, but I needed to be here. With you."

Quinn pushed herself up and made a noise of pain. Danse quickly tried to stop her, but she brushed his hands aside and kissed him. He leaned back, letting her body rest on his, and she wrapped her arms around his neck.

When they broke apart, Danse mumbled, "I'll look after you."

She smiled. "I know."

A/N: Thanks to my amazing beta, waiting4morning, for her wonderful work! Thanks to Musashi1596 for the title.

The opinions expressed about the Railroad are my characters' opinions only. Normally I feel this wouldn't need to be said, but after the recent bullshit I really can't be bothered with any more tantrums. I have enough on my plate right now with work.

In other news, I've had a shit week. That's why this is late. But thank you very much for all the lovely comments I received. I read each and every one and they are massively appreciated.