TRIGGER WARNING for mentions of suicidal ideation

Life in the post-apocalyptic wasteland had instilled a natural alarm clock in her, one attuned to the rising and setting of the sun. As Nora slowly flutter kicked up through the blackness of sleep into the gray of consciousness she became immediately and intuitively aware it was early morning, sometime around sunrise. Danger was the driving element behind this wakefulness; it was safest to travel earlier in the morning, when the cold-blooded species such as radscorpions and deathclaws were only now starting to emerge from burrow and den to bask in the weak, late April sunlight. Danse had educated her on that useful little snippet of Commonwealth biology, much as he had taught her the multitude of other skills a pre-war lawyer would require to survive and attempt to thrive in a knockdown, drag out, irradiated kind of world.

Nora's brows drew together with discontent even before she attempted to crack open her tired, sleep-sandy eyes. If it were early morning, that meant it would all too soon be time to start her journey back to the airport. It meant she would have to say goodbye to the man she hadn't been separated from for more than an hour or two at a time in months. The mere thought provoked a fiery and fierce rejection deep in the pit of her stomach. She didn't want to leave him. He needed her. It was time to repay him for all that he'd done to keep her on the opposite side of fucking nuts.

She opened her eyes, fully expecting Danse to have already rolled out of bed, or at least what often served as a bed these days. Much to her wonder, he was still... asleep? Yes, yes he was. How about that. He was lying on his left side facing her, with head resting in the crook of his elbow for lack of a better pillow and bent knee extended towards her to keep himself from rolling. His face was miraculously free of the strain of the previous day and his chest rose and fell with deep, even breaths.

Slowly, she reached out a hand to re-cover his bare arm and shoulder against the damp chill of the early morning air, but thought better of the impulse. He was such a light sleeper as it was; she feared the touch would wake him. Danse needed - deserved - as much uninterrupted and peaceful rest as he could get.

Normally, he was out of bed an hour or better before she was, if they had the uncommon luxury of sleeping together - that is, at the same time. Concurrently, instead of divvying up the overnight hours into watches. He would've awoken, yawned and stretched in a joint popping, full body extension, tended to his personal needs, and then if they'd scrounged any, he'd have thoughtfully brewed a pot of coffee in the beat up percolator she insisted on carrying with them. He would've set her favorite chipped blue enamel mug somewhere near her head to allow the aroma to pull her out of sleep while he wisely waited out of the striking distance of her morning ire with his own cup.

Not that she'd ever lash out at him. Not anymore, at least. Not since he'd tamed her - because honestly, no other word applied - and rebuilt the post-war version of her from the ground up. Nora 2.0. A new Nora for the new era. Nora Sinclair, now with added radiation. She snorted mentally at the sheer ridiculousness of the tangential early morning thoughts.

Honestly though, Danse should consider himself lucky that she was so fond of him, as she was most definitely not a morning person. Or an afternoon or evening person, now that she thought about it. She might just be a night person though - the kind that curled up in front of a merrily crackling campfire with a full belly, a bottle of whiskey, and a good man at her side, as she'd done last night. Late into the night and a third of the way through the shared bottle, he'd even allowed himself to relax a little. The whiskey had been her idea - and okay, fine, she drank most of it - but the slow, uncertain way he'd slid his arm around her shoulders and shyly tugged her against his side had not.

Baby steps, baby.

Nora smiled sleepily and snuggled a little deeper into the scratchy warmth of the wool blanket until only her eyes peeped out over the top. She had the golden opportunity literally in front of her to simply observe Danse. To watch her favorite person on earth sleeping, all cozy and safe and alive. Warm and breathing - and yeah - maybe a little more than human, but as she'd told him that just didn't matter to her. She started to sigh with satisfaction and relief and only barely stopped herself from making the noise. Sleep. He needed sleep.

Danse was resting easily now, yet she vaguely remembered him waking abruptly at some point in the middle of the night. Hadn't he or was she imagining it? No, she remembered reaching out to rub his heaving, sweat dampened shoulder comfortingly but could recall nothing beyond that. He must have fallen back into sound sleep with minimal difficulty. Perhaps the liquor they'd consumed had helped with that, or maybe it was the safety and security of the location. Could be the poor guy was just that exhausted, period. Some nights were easier for him than others, and she of all people could certainly sympathize with that. There had been more than one night where their respective demons had kept them both from sleep and driven them back onto the moonlit road by unspoken mutual consent.

Nora shifted quietly to ease the aching strain on hip and shoulder that came from sleeping on cold concrete. Bones that were used to the enveloping, plush comfort of pillow top mattresses and down comforters would never become accustomed to anything less. The lack of comfort didn't seem to bother Danse. Never had, as far as she could tell. He could catnap or bivouac just about anywhere, even standing up in his power armor as she had discovered much to her amusement.

Very rarely, however, was she able to catch him in such an utter state of relaxation and slumber as this. Matter of fact, she'd only caught him like this one other time and she'd stared at him like a fool then, too. Seeing him so unexpectedly calm and at peace after the trauma of the day before fascinated her. He fascinated her, inexplicably more now that the truth of his nature had come to light.

Danse's complex and deep personality was as tightly spiraled and segmented as a nautilus. Or maybe an onion? Nora grinned behind the blanket - he would definitely prefer the nautilus comparison over the onion. Mollusk, vegetable, or man, each gradual layer he revealed to her gave her new insight and perspective into what made him tick, although she wasn't anywhere near the center of him. Not yet, but she meant to get there. Even though there was still much for her to discover, she was profoundly touched that this seemingly taciturn individual, the lone wolf who deliberately kept himself aloof from others, trusted her enough to let his guard down and reveal the highly personal details and experiences that he had thus far.

Nora scowled faintly. Of course, it didn't dilute or alter her loyalty and affection of him in the least by acknowledging that there were aspects of Danse's personality and mindset that she just didn't like, namely his tendency to rather piously and unimaginatively fall back on Brotherhood doctrine far too often. He'd demonstrated a thoughtful, independent ability to think outside the Brotherhood box but often chose not to, much to her bafflement and annoyance.

Goodneighbor became a prime example of the conflict that could still flare back to life between them, in what she privately called the Battle of Scollay Square. He'd scornfully looked down his Roman nose at the people and location enough times that she'd finally had enough. As a result of his disdain, she'd blown up and flat out refused to bring him with her whenever she needed to stop there. She'd even vetoed his request to accompany her when she brought the Courser chip to Amari for her opinion. Nope, she'd brought Nick instead, and then accepted the hospitality Mayor John Hancock had kindly offered afterwards. Danse had barely talked to her for three whole days after that, and when they finally faced off, Dogmeat had slunk away and deserted them both for a while.

Hmph. So had Haylen and Rhys, now that she thought about it.

Nora took a deep, steadying breath in through her nose.

Right. Moving on.

On the other end of the spectrum, she'd quickly learned that yet another fault of his multifaceted disposition was his blind fucking inability to see the good in himself, which almost pissed her off even more than his bigotry. Almost, but not quite. For someone of her previous profession, the intolerance and hatred was a lot for her to swallow and look past, even though she cared so deeply for him. She'd see glimmers of hope, like with the situations involving Kent Connolly and Billy Peabody, then he'd turn around and...

MOVING ON.

Right.

Danse didn't hesitate to point out his many faults and mistakes, often enough that she automatically geared herself to play devil's advocate in order to highlight his better qualities and decisions in return. Unmercifully bludgeon him with them, really. For such an outwardly confident soldier, his inner self-confidence was at an absolute nadir. It had become a goal of hers to boost him up, sometimes by pure force and stubbornness alone. She knew when she'd scored a direct hit by the way he'd clam up and look at her sideways for a moment before grudgingly acknowledging the validity of whatever she'd just pointed out to him.

Now, though? Nora drew her knees towards her chest. If she could shoulder this crushing burden for him, she would in a heartbeat. Danse didn't deserve this pain - any of it, whereas she was used to the heavy weight. The bleakness in his voice and eye totally decimated her. The despair he felt was present in the furrow between his strong brows and downward curve of his expressive mouth, the dejected way he hung his head, and the slump of his normally proud shoulders and back. It was obvious in the way he stared at the ground and the way he alternately knotted his fingers together or splayed them through his hair.

She'd done her best to help him through the previous evening and night, but would the little she'd been able to manage be enough to keep him going while she was away? God, she hoped so. Now that he knew he was a synth - one of the very enemies he'd dedicated his life to eradicating - he'd be doubting every single iota that he was made of. Sure, he'd put on a brave face for her, but more than once during the evening she'd caught him staring blankly at nothing until she gently regained his attention and soothed or otherwise distracted him. She was certainly not fooled by his continual reassurances that he was fine. Bullshit he was fine.

It was her responsibility to remind him of the person he truly was - good and bad and everything in between - but she couldn't do that if she wasn't fucking there with him. Nora chewed her lip in silent frustration and shoved the suddenly too-suffocating blanket away from her face. Now was not the time to leave him but he would insist. He'd made it quite clear that he expected her to report back to the airport first thing in the morning to rejoin the war effort.

From certain hints he'd dropped - and even things he'd said outright last night - it was also clear he still considered himself a part of the Brotherhood of Steel, exile or not. His persistent, and to her eyes, extremely unwarranted devotion caught her attention uncomfortably, like a hangnail dragging across lace. Warning flags were flying. She was certain his dedication would only lead to trouble, resulting in heartbreak for him and for herself as well due to how thoroughly attached she had become to him.

How could she possibly divert his attention though? There was no easy or quick fill for the gaping hole in his chest. The Brotherhood had been his life - no, his reason for living - for the last twenty years. Nora was certain that losing that life felt just as cruel and excruciating to him as the obliteration of her family and world had been to her. Only time would tell if he'd be able to recover.

Sadly, she looked at his sleeping face. No, all she could do was support Danse unconditionally until he regained his bearings. Nora absolutely intended on being with him as much as she could, no matter what Maxson or Danse or anybody else had to say about it. Arthur Maxson was no fool - he'd know whose company she was keeping when she suddenly started vanishing in between missions. She didn't care what Arthur fucking Maxson thought, though. He'd quickly find out what would happen if he tried to forbid her from seeing Danse. Danse needed her, and come hell or high water, she'd be there for him just as he'd been for her.

The ghost of a humorless smile touched her lips. Danse would start to heal eventually with her very determined and unwavering support. He'd simply have no choice in the matter. She'd borrow some pages from his playbook, the very one he'd successfully used on her, with its alternating chapters of buoyant encouragement and unyielding drill sergeant bullheadedness. He'd wearily lamented her stubbornness more than a few times throughout their association; maybe he'd come to appreciate that flaw when she turned it around and used it to make him whole again.

And once the Institute was dealt with, they could start to build a life together free of …

… Once the Institute was dealt with...

Shit. SHIT.

Mercilessly, Nora forced herself to consider the final outcome of the phrase 'once the Institute was dealt with.' The ramifications extended far beyond the wistful picket fence daydream of Nora-and-Danse. She'd never have that kind of life again.

Dealing with the Institute meant nothing more and nothing less than a thorough extermination. An extinction event. Maxson's gigantic war machine was almost ready, both in body and in spirit. Mobilization for the final push had swung into high gear with the arrival of Liberty Prime's payload. Even though she'd only been present at the airport for a short time before turning on her armored heels and flying after Danse, she'd felt the difference in the air, had seen it in Ingram and Scara's faces. Ingram had informed her all that remained was to restart Prime's nuclear engine, whatever that might entail. If Danse was correct and she was reassigned underneath the Proctor, she'd be finding out in only a few short hours.

And then? What would happen after that?

One: Maxson would not fail to crush the Institute under his booted heel. There would be no subjugation, only annihilation.

Two: When the Institute was destroyed, its Director would encounter the same fate.

Three: Shaun would die. Shaun would die because of her.

How could she possibly survive that outcome? Would she even want to? She'd long ago nudged over the first domino in a chain of events that would ultimately end with the death of her only child. Why shouldn't she seek to join Shaun in death? She'd certainly deserve it.

Suicide had been a faithful companion at the forefront of her mind since the day she'd shaken the arm bones of its previous owner from her Pip-Boy and punched the vault elevator button. It had guided her unresisting figure to lie at the foot of Nate's cryopod in the dead of night. It had led her by the hand into the nursery and raised that hand to gently spin the lopsided mobile with the blotches of rust that looked like blood. It ushered her past the Red Rocket, through the ruins of Concord, and gave her a firm shove between the shoulder blades. If she was reluctant to die by her own hand, well, there was more than one way to skin a cat. Passive suicide by wasteland, only that method had failed too.

Cruelly, Nora twisted the knife in her own chest. She deserved every molecule of agony she could inflict on herself. Shaun's blood was on her hands already, dark red and slick and heavy, so heavy. She could taste it. Crimson handprints stained her cheeks in her nightmares. Bloody streaks marred the soft, powder-scented flesh of the infant cradled in her dream-arms. Baby blue eyes opened, but those dream eyes weren't a milky soft blue anymore - they were glowing yellow and terrifying and betrayed.

What was the name for a mother who killed her child?

Mother? Don't you love me?

Nora squeezed her eyes shut against the wave of pain that slammed into her like a bullet and took her breath away. God no not her baby not Shaun. She arched her back and took a deep breath through her nose, struggling against the agony that sliced her into ribbons. Mentally, she wailed the only name that had the power to save her from herself.

Christ, how she needed him, even now. She'd never stop needing him. It was far too easy to get sucked back into the supermassive black hole of her grief. She needed to wake him and cling to him and… and...

Breathe, just... breathe. Danse was right there.

She clenched her fists until her nails bit into her palms and focused her entire concentration on his unique scent, imagined it enveloping her in a protective sphere as warm and comforting as his arms. Nora inhaled deeply of the rich-earthy-velvety aroma that was reminiscent of the darker base notes of patchouli, blended with clean, virile sweat and the sharp metallic accent of power armor and discharged laser cartridges.

Her mental voice morphed into a curious fusion of her own contralto voice and his deeper baritone, as it often did in her many moments of crisis.

Take another breath.

Again. Do it.

Danse smelled like absolute heaven to her - pure potent masculinity with the psychological overtones of safety and comfort and dependability that were now inextricably linked in her mind to his scent. He was aromatherapy at its finest in a world where the concept didn't even exist anymore.

Good. Look at him now. He's right there. He's right there. See?

Obediently - desperately - she opened her eyes and fastened her gaze on his sleeping face. Danse's long dark lashes lay in perfect arcs against the paler skin of his cheeks, shadowed by the heavy brows that were all too often knit together instead of even and tranquil as they presently were. His cheekbones were high and proud, beveling down into strong, scar gouged planes. The finely chiseled jaw and chin were veiled by the soft prickliness of his beard, but she knew the feel of them, the marble-sculpted angles of them by heart.

Good girl. Keep going.

Nora deliberately licked her bottom lip to invoke another aspect of him - the fresh, incandescent memory of the ardent responsiveness of his lips and blazing heat of his mouth that were both now indelibly etched into the same niche in her chest. She'd never forget the taste and touch of him as long as she lived. She longed to repeat the experience over and over and over until she couldn't think and could only feel. He could make her forget.

The invisible fist that was crushing her windpipe eased, allowing a full, shuddering inhalation of life-sustaining oxygen.

More.

Danse was her bulwark against the darkness that threatened to overwhelm her on a daily basis. He was her brooding, intense fallen angel with the resonant, dark honey voice to match. Fate, kismet, Lady Luck, more-than-just-a-dog Dogmeat - one or all had guided her to collapse directly at his feet in Cambridge. She hadn't committed suicide. She hadn't died by other means. She had found him.

Nora blinked away her tears and drank him in with wide, thirsty eyes, pushing herself up on one elbow to get a better view of him. He often had the uncanny ability to tune into her thoughts as if she were broadcasting them aloud. Couldn't he hear how much she needed him right now?

Shh, shh. You're doing fine. Just let him sleep.

His ribcage continued to rise and fall with slow, even breaths, each inhalation causing the thin cotton tank top he wore under his uniform to lovingly stretch and mold itself to his torso. Despite her anguish, a soft sigh rose from her chest and slid out of her throat at the sight. Nora snatched her hand back halfway to him; she hadn't even realized it had reached out. Danse was truly the most bone-meltingly beautiful man she'd ever seen, from the flexion of ankle as he took his boots off to the frequently rumpled soft darkness of his hair. Every damn thing in between too, and there was a hell of a lot between head and toe to appreciate. Enough to cause sensations in her that had lain dormant for centuries to catch up with the rest of her body and thaw once again.

How had she not realized … this before yesterday? Any of this? She was drowning in a flood of sudden awareness. All of the times she'd sought comfort and reassurance from him... All of the times she'd brushed his shoulder with her fingertips or rested her forehead between his shoulder blades… All of the times he'd gathered her tightly against him in his strong arms...

Jesus. She loved him. She loved him.

Fuck. This wasn't supposed to happen.

Breathe. In and out.

Again.

She closed her eyes briefly in defeat. How had one horrible, life-defining, life-changing moment completely altered the way she felt about him? In her absolute panic and grief at the threat of losing him, the blinding realization of how much she truly, thoroughly loved him had cleaved her into two separate entities, as Robespierre's guillotine had likewise split Marie Antoinette apart. She had not died as the unlucky queen had in her moment of terror. She had instead been reborn into the before and the after, for the second time in her life. Nora divided by nuclear holocaust divided by Danse-the-synth.

Right from the moment Danse had scooped her up in his arms and carried her onboard the Prydwen, she'd started to develop a strong attachment to him. Her affection for him had never strayed beyond that level, though - her feelings for him were always platonic, never romantic. Her overwhelming grief, rage, and guilt prevented anything else.

Now though? After Danse had righted her and unintentionally set her on this path himself? After Cupid in the absurd guise of Arthur Maxson had unloaded his minigun directly into her heart?

Oh lord, was she in trouble. This breakneck, consuming love twisted and pulled her stomach into inside out figure eights. It made her palms itch with hot, prickly sweat and her spine erupt in chilled gooseflesh. How on earth was she supposed to concentrate around him? Or act, for fuck's sake? She was long past the days of wistful sighing and heart doodling and fluttering lashes of an unrequited schoolgirl crush. She had matured into a woman with all of the confidence, desire, and tactical knowledge on how to wage the most delicate yet resolute of wars in the pursuit of a fully explored partnership, complete happiness, and mind-blowing orgasms.

She was a woman deeply, irrevocably, fiercely in love. She wanted Danse - all of him. Every last inch, breath, and word. He was worth fighting for in any arena.

Yet…

There was always a yet. Always a caveat. This one was very important and carried the same sensation as being doused with a bucket of ice-cold water.

The only thing that could and would halt her in her tracks was fear. Fear of pushing their friendship too far. Fear of chasing him away. Fear of him not feeling the same way.

Danse was vulnerable and confused. It… would be best not to dwell on what she couldn't have right now, and in fact may never have. Even though she was less than a foot away from him, there was too much standing between them to contemplate any advancement in their relationship. Elder Arthur Maxson and the Brotherhood of Steel. Her responsibilities to the Minutemen. Shaun and the rest of the Institute. Danse himself...

From what she'd learned from conversations with him, Cutler had been the only person in his life that had held any kind of importance besides Krieg and Maxson. With some not-so discreet, blatantly curious questioning, she found out that Haylen hadn't known of any other kind of attachments, casual or otherwise. It was quite possible that Danse willingly chose not to enter into personal relationships. If that were the case, she'd have to content herself with just being by his side as a friend. She'd have to chalk up his response to her as nothing more than heat of a very intense moment and carry on. After all, she'd been the one to throw herself at him. Right?

The singsong voice of the tiny devil on her shoulder taunted her. Can't hide how you feel for-ev-er. He knows you too well.

The angel on the other shoulder flicked the devil off.

Suddenly, Nora had to touch him. She needed him too much. She felt too much, and even though he was the source of all these wild new feelings, he was still her cornerstone. That would never change, no matter what. Cautiously, she extended a single finger and oh-so-softly stroked the back of his hand where it lay between their bodies. He didn't wake.

Okay. This is okay.

Nora settled herself back down into the blanket and eased her fingers underneath his palm, taking care not to squeeze or jar him in any way. The depth of emotion that she felt for the man in front of her… My god... Nora thought she'd never experience even remotely similar again. Not after witnessing the distinctive pyrocumulus cloud that destroyed life as she knew it. Not after... Nate.

Now that she knew, she wanted more, so much more. She wanted to bury herself in his arms and breathe him in again, or better yet worm her way inside his ribcage right next to his steadily beating heart. She wanted to love him and love with him until they were completely merged together - mind, body, and soul. Until nothing was left of the singular her and him but them for a brief, shared, exquisite moment.

Breathe. Just breathe.

Moving… oh god... moving on.

Nora inhaled, counted to three, and slowly let the air back out. This would do for now. It would have to do. She let her eyes drift shut. Even asleep, he was able to soothe and ground her. She was safe, she was warm, and she had her Paladin - well, ex-Paladin, if one was seeking accuracy - next to her. These three items - safewarmDanse - made up the perfect trifecta of satisfied needs for the modern woman living in the post-apocalyptic world.

Perhaps it had been a minute, maybe an hour, but when Nora next opened her eyes, Danse was already awake. He was awake, propped up on one elbow, and watching her closely. From the slight puffiness under his eyes and the yet-unsmoothed way his hair was sticking up in a ruff at the back of his head, it seemed he had woken up fairly recently.

To see him looking at her face so intently made her uncomfortable in a did-I-let-anything-slip-out-while-I-was-sleeping kind of way, but she couldn't fault him for the action. Hadn't she just done the same thing? Turnabout is fair play, after all. Just in case he saw something, she lowered her gaze to… shit, no, not his chest. Blanket. The blanket was safe.

The overlapping, nebulous border between sleep and consciousness was a very slippery slope indeed, when one had something to hide. All of the thoughts and emotions that Nora honestly meant to keep disguised from him rather unfairly slithered out of the neat box she had locked them in like so many unruly snakes. They tumbled and jostled their way down the back of her throat in an attempt to make themselves known all at once in the form of various dangerous declarations and even more dangerous requests.

I need you.

I love you.

Please, fuck me senseless? Wouldn't take long. Not with you.

She nipped the tip of her tongue sharply to keep any of those wayward phrases from escaping her lips and hastily swallowed them all back down. Now was neither the time nor the place, even though her body was screaming at her that yes, yes it was. Wasn't sketchy self-control a wonderful thing?

"You ok?" Danse raised a single, skeptical brow and narrowed his eyes.

She was a fool to think she could keep anything hidden from him of all people. He, who knew her from the inside out and outside in. He of the keen eye and even keener instincts.

"Yeah. Hi. Uh, good morning. And stuff." That should be safe enough, even if she blurted the words out a little too quickly and suspiciously for her own good. Even if she sounded like a freaking idiot.

What the hell, Nora?

A small frown dented his forehead; he proceeded to examine her face quite thoroughly. "Your eyes and nose are red. You've been crying."

Well, shit.

Nora rolled her shoulders defensively. "Yeah. Bad dream." It was something in the same general vicinity as the truth. Then, just to make sure… "I didn't wake you, did I?"

He shook his head slowly, still frowning, but his eyes had softened at her half-truth. "No. But you should've. That was the deal, remember?"

Nora shook her head hard enough to send her hair flying and firmly said, "No, Danse. You needed the rest. I… I'm fine."

The slightest twitch of a brow politely announced his disbelief, but he was gentleman enough not to call her out on the blatant lie.

Please just drop it, please just drop it…

She blurted, "What time is it?" That question would serve as a distraction and should also be safe to ask. Anything beyond that, though… Not a good idea.

Turns out it wasn't the most prudent question to ask for reasons that had nothing to do with the position of the sun and everything to do with the position of his body. Danse pushed off the ground with one hand, leaned over her torso, and reached a long arm out over her head to retrieve her Pip-Boy with the other hand.

Of course. Duh. It was the only working wristwatch in the Commonwealth, as far as she knew. And she just stupidly happened to ask him to get it for her, in a roundabout manner.

Ahh, hell.

As he hovered over her, she surreptitiously tilted her chin toward the ceiling and inhaled deeply, drawing him in all the way down to her toes. She'd need that strength later. At least she thought she was being sneaky about it but lo and behold, there he was again, looking down at her curiously and searchingly, and oh lord, she could feel his body heat sinking into her. His dark hair fell across his forehead and she wanted nothing more than to smooth it back, then draw him down on top of her into the welcoming cradle of her hips.

Stop. It.

"Nora?" He said her name softly but the unvoiced command behind the word was crystal clear: "Talk to me." Instead of completing his intended action, he left the Pip-Boy where it was and braced that hand on the ground next to her shoulder, effectively pinning her in place. There was no way she could avoid answering him now. There was no way she could look away from his penetrating, entirely too-perceptive gaze. There was no way she could move without her body touching his.

Well, shit. Again.

"Danse…" she whispered.

Of their own volition, her hands rose and hovered over his chest. By the time her brain caught on, her fingers were already gliding over and greedily learning the texture of the thick, soft hair that tufted over the neckline of his tank top. Her fingertips skimmed up the strong, warm column of his neck, briefly pausing to test the tempo of his pulse point before curving around the back with just a hint of nail. Her fingers splayed and slid into the dense, rough silk of his hair, rubbing in the small circular motions she knew he enjoyed.

The tiny nugget of her brain that was still capable of rational thought was furious with her. What happened to the big pep talk about not doing ... this? You can't do this!

Gone. Her willpower was gone. Whatever defensive partitions she had tried to build had disappeared like a sandcastle in the tide.

Danse said her name again, but it sounded different this time. His voice was low and wondering and all the things it shouldn't be, not right now. Not if she wanted to cling to the few shreds of self-control she had left. A warning flare lit deep in the back of her consciousness. She was on very, very thin ice. All it would take was a breath, a word, a touch to drown her.

What a way to go, though.

Nora knew she had to stop, and immediately, if she had any hope of recovering her senses. If she closed her eyes tightly - if she blocked out the steady warmth and intelligence of his gaze and all too tempting fullness of his bottom lip - could she then leave? Would she have enough strength and courage to crawl out from under him and climb up into the cold metal sarcophagus of her power armor?

The answer was no. So she opened her eyes back up and submitted to the moment; she'd let the cards in the stacked deck fall as fate pleased. After all, fate had led her to him. The devil on her shoulder guided her hands over the rough stubble on his face and stroked her thumb along the edge of that damned lower lip of his. The angel on the other shoulder was fluttering encouragingly right there next to the devil.

If she had any hope of getting out of there unscathed, he'd have to be the strong one for them both. Nora certainly didn't intend for Lauren Bacall's voice to flow from her lips, but there it was in all its husky, smoky glory. "Tell me to go. Tell me we can't stay here forever, Danse. I'm not strong enough to make myself leave you."