Nora had deliberately defied Maxson's command to report immediately to Kells. Instead of descending down the two flights of stairs immediately in front of Maxson's observation deck per his orders, she'd heaved her bitchy armored ass up the odd fusion of ladder and steps that led to the main deck of the Prydwen with indecorous speed.

Tell the truth, dear.

Ok, fine. She ran the fuck away. She knew without a doubt her head was far too warped out of shape to even consider having a quote-unquote friendly little chat with the Lancer Captain, not after the enormous shock of her promotion. She also knew just one more comment pertaining to the worth of a certain ex-Paladin's life would be all it took to reduce her into a snarling, snapping beast, and man, was she itching for that fight. The target didn't matter, only the scent of blood did. She'd gotten a taste from Maxson and it made her want more, more, more. Matter of fact, there was a very good chance the next person who dared utter Danse's name would be taking a long drop off of the flight deck, even if she had to personally accompany them down and pray her power armor survived the meteoric plummet.

Just relax already, will you?

Nora snorted to herself. Fat chance of that.

Objectively speaking, she knew she was a fucking mess. When she pulled her mental focus back to an over the shoulder point of view and took a good look at herself, she saw that she was jittery, on the verge of panic, decidedly wrathful, and utterly heartbroken. All of the above wreckage was fueled by a meager few hours of sleep, no appreciable caloric intake, and an intense, newly awakened frustration that positively clawed at her innards. Her emotional fuselage felt identical to the carcasses of the jetliners that lay rotting and rusting in the sun and rain on the ground far beneath her feet.

And now she had become a little tipsy on top of it all, because why the hell not? Why. The hell. Not.

Instead of pointing herself towards the engineering section amidships to turn in her T-60, she'd sloppily parked the suit in front of the entrance to Danse's quarters – former quarters. She'd taken a deep, steadying breath and slipped inside. And thaaaat's where the alcohol came in to play.

Oops.

Her eyes had instantaneously fallen upon the most beauteous sight: a bottle of vodka. It was if the heavens themselves gilded the bottle with the glow of a weak, yellow electric bulb. It was meant to be.

How poetic, Nora. Stick to lawyering, maybe.

Right. Well, lawyers, attorneys, barristers, counselors – they all got plastered too. Went with the territory. Back in the day, she preferred her vodka with a twist of lemon in a cut crystal Waterford glass. Now? Beggars simply couldn't be choosers.

Surkov wasn't known as an especially good brand of vodka. The last two centuries certainly hadn't improved the situation, either. There was no comparison to top shelf or even mid shelf. It was cheap, it tasted awful, and packed a hell of a punch the next day in the form of a blinding headache. Nora shrugged. Didn't matter. When in Rome and all that.

Danse had never approved of how much she drank, but the sight of the bottle meant comfort of a different kind. The tall, cool, and welcoming type – hopefully enough to quench the deep thirst that matched and threatened to outpace her various hungers. She lunged towards that gorgeous, beautiful, sexy bottle, nearly knocking it off the desk in her haste, fumbling with the cap and tilting the thick glass bottom towards the ceiling. The sharpness of the liquor bit deeply into lips, tongue, and throat, a scorching fire that flowed down her esophagus and into her stomach. It burned there, too, but it was a welcome sensation. It told her if she just kept swallowing, swallowing, swallowing, all of this would disappear for a while.

Maxson, the Prydwen, her new title, whatever fucking orders Kells had for her. Rebuilding settlements and resupplying the Minutemen, the failing crops at Oberland Station. The gaping holes in the Sanctuary bridge that had yet to be repaired. Nate's grave. Shaun's crib with the rusted mobile…

Stop. Don't go there.

Fine. There were other problems she could worry over and losses she could continue to mourn, fittingly enough, right there in his quarters, with his bottle of vodka.

Nope. They're yours now, baby girl. Maxson said so.

Nora sank down on the edge of the bed, unconsciously rubbing the backs of her fingers back and forth over the scratchy wool blanket. How many times had she sat in this exact spot, watching her Paladin write reports or break down his laser rifle? She no longer had that handsome, honest, heroic champion in her corner. Out of woefully misplaced loyalty, Danse would staunchly insist Arthur Maxson was better, braver, and bolder than he. Far worthier of her esteem and yes, decidedly in her corner.

It was well within her rights to reject that imagined argument out of just as stubborn a loyalty. Even if he was technically her Elder and, as Danse pointedly pointed out before she left him behind at the bunker, her commanding officer, she knew Maxson hardly counted as her champion. That position was already well and truly filled.

Just for shits and giggles though, she cocked her head to one side and considered Maxson's reaction if she casually took hold of his large hand and laced her fingers between his, or just as nonchalantly started kneading his neck like an overgrown kitten. What might happen if she strolled up to him, slipped her arms underneath his battlecoat, and snuggled against his barrel chest?

Worst case scenario, her arms would be torn from their sockets. Best case, she'd be tossed in the brig.

Her body shuddered in immediate dismissal of the mere notion. No. Absolutely not. She couldn't turn to the Elder for comfort in any sense of the word.

Let's not go there either, darling. Some thoughts are better left unthunk, wouldn't you agree?

Nora tipped backwards onto the thin, lumpy mattress of Danse's bunk – former bunk, remember? – carefully keeping the neck of the bottle upright, only pushing herself up on one elbow far enough to take occasional sips. Once the burn had spread from throat and stomach to bone and blood, she knew she was ready to… do something. Whatever. Comfortably numb was the name of the game and she had just won the first round. The demons were temporarily held at bay.

And so she found herself wandering aimlessly around the small confines of the room, bottle in hand. Curiosity led her to open the locker next to the entrance, revealing a brown leather bomber jacket. Nora set the bottle down carefully between her booted feet and slid first one arm, then the other, into warm but ludicrously oversized folds that smelled deliciously like Danse when she nuzzled her nose into the sheepskin collar.

Only his furnace-like heat was ever enough to offset the cryogenic deep freeze that still lingered deep in the marrow of her bones – not even booze thawed that permafrost. Part of the reason why she'd pulled his jacket around her shoulders. That and the fact that his arms, if she looked down at herself through the bottom of the bottle and squinted, were now wrapped around her once again. The logical, not-yet-drunk part of her brain realized the substitution was makeshift at best, but it would have to do for now until she could get back to the listening post and the comforting, radiating heat of the real thing.

There, there. Another bump from the bottle. Better now?

Mmm hmm. Let's keep going.

A rather playful inquisitiveness fortified by the vodka prompted her to close her eyes and spin around on tiptoe with finger extended out. She came to a halt with alarming wobble – look ma, still standing! – to find it aimed at the trunk at the end of the bed. The top opened, revealing underthings that would cause Danse to blush twenty shades of red if he knew she had swallowed down a giggle and poked the offending articles with a finger. For a soldier, he could be such a prude at times, even though she averted her eyes whenever she found him in a less than ah, fully dressed situation.

Usually. Eye candy was eye candy, and he was a whole damn store full of the stuff.

Speaking of stores… Thoughtfully, she tilted her head and picked up a pair of briefs. They were Brotherhood issue and of far better quality than one could find in the wasteland. Even more thoughtfully, Nora looked around for some kind of bag to place them in.

Purpose drove her to – shockingly enough – set the bottle down and start filling the olive drab duffel bag she'd found in another locker with whatever else she could find in her random perambulations around the room. The silver hairbrush from the desk. The gray PT sweats she'd found in a drawer. Not the standard orange uniforms from the cabinet, as the unmistakable color and design would draw unwanted attention, but certainly these plain khaki fatigue pants, and that dark navy knitted cap. Those tactical black leather gloves and this matching pair of durable, calf-high, lace up boots.

By the time she was done searching through the various lockers, trunks, and cabinets, Nora had amassed a decent pile of useful, nondescript clothing and other assorted items at the end of the bunk, perfect for the man about the post-apocalyptic town. She knew from experience that finding something at any given vendor that fit one's body was hit and miss. In her case, due to her small stature. In Danse's case, quite the opposite.

Decisively, Nora nodded her head with a sharp jerk. Yes, this would be enough for the present. She could supplement his other needs from the storerooms of Sanctuary and the Castle, namely weapons, armor, and ammo. It was time to start packing now. She hummed tunelessly as she placed heavy items on the bottom, then smaller, lighter things on top. The vodka she'd consumed didn't necessarily help with the process, but whatever. Wasn't like anything was breakable, right?

When that task was complete, she scanned the room, seeking overlooked boxes and bins. Had she missed anything? Didn't look like it. The only container in the room she hadn't searched yet was the small floor safe in the corner, to the immediate right of the bed. Her gut told her that it was the most likely spot for any personal mementoes Danse might have accumulated.

Save the best for last?

More like save the stuff that could possibly set her off on a crying jag for last.

As soon as she awkwardly crouched between bunk and safe, jiggled the handle – it was unlocked, of course – and pulled the lead-lined door open, she did indeed see a small heap of objects within. Right at the front left were a few weapon mods; she recognized them from the rare moments of downtime he'd found to fiddle and tinker with them. Improvements for his laser rifle, and hers, he'd said once with a nod and a small, warm smile. He'd taken over weapon maintenance and upgrades for her pretty much right away once they'd partnered up for good; she'd been overloaded with learning other, more important, survival skills. Like how to keep her shit together.

Nora smiled in response at the memory of that distant moment and swallowed the sudden lump in her throat. Carefully, she swiveled her torso to set the pieces next to the duffel bag, turned back to the safe, and repeated the same action for the small, full sack of caps she found next. In the back was a cigar case; carefully she drew it out, rose from her crouch, and sat down on the edge of the bed.

She'd seen plenty of these boxes throughout the Commonwealth, but she hadn't known Danse had collected one. Must've done so before she came along. The words burnt into the top of the fine-grained wood of the cigar box read "Hoja Dulce". Hoja Dulce… Nora knew dulce meant sweet, or something along those lines. Five leaves were carved into the wood below the phrase. Could hoja mean tobacco? Or leaf, maybe? A finger stroked over the ridges and indentations of those carved leaves.

She'd never seen Danse smoke, not once, therefore she knew the box she'd found was unlikely to hold a private stash of cigars. Nora held the box up to her ear and gently shook it, hearing a slight rattling inside, before returning it to her lap. The weight of whatever contents it held was negligible. Not ammo, then – besides, she'd found enough of that in the various trunks and lockers in the room. She'd left it in a small heap on the low cabinet he'd used to clean and reassemble their weapons on; it would be too heavy added to the decent heft of the already full duffel, and none of it was of a sufficiently rare caliber to break her back over anyway.

Nora shook her head sharply; she was getting distracted again. Her attention was completely fragmented and it was affecting her thought processes. The largest portion remained with Danse at the listening post, still fretting about him. Another chunk was chewing the problem Arthur Maxson posed around. A tiny slice occupied itself with the power armor that was rather irresponsibly abandoned outside the door – no doubt it was thoroughly irradiated from her latest sojourn in the Glowing Sea and would need decontamination. The remaining piece of the pie chart that made up her brain belonged to Kells and whatever new mission he had waiting for her, whenever the hell she decided to comply.

Again, she rubbed a finger over the top of the box; the wood held the beautiful, glowing patina of age. Well, they could wait. All of them, except for Danse, she amended. She had other things to tend to at the moment, none of which involved Maxson, or Kells, or her stupid power armor.

Nora cuddled a little deeper into Danse's jacket and hesitated for a moment before thumbing the latch of the small cigar box and flipping the lid open, uncomfortably aware she was sticking her nose where it didn't necessarily belong. Curiosity always did kill that damn cat, didn't it? A waft of cedar mixed with old tobacco leaves filled her nostrils before rapidly dissipating into the heavier metallic background scents of the Prydwen. For a brief moment, she was filled with amazement that after all these years – no, centuries – the wood had held onto the rich scents.

The box wasn't nearly as full as she had been expecting, but there were a few items inside, namely two sets of holotags on top of a paper object of some kind. The neon blue glow was noticeably faded on both sets; the designation Nora saw when she curiously turned over one of the paired metal tabs read CT-406K.

CT-406K?

A dark smear on the ball chain could be only one thing.

Oh, Danse. Honey...

These were – had been – Cutler's holotags. Wearily, she rubbed the bony heel of her hand against her forehead; the poignantly piercing image of a younger Danse kneeling beside the corpse of a Super Mutant vividly, and painfully, bloomed in the forefront of her mind. His face would've been etched with grief, but his hands would've been steady as he recovered the holotags from the grotesquely mutated neck of his fallen friend.

If nothing else, she owed it to Danse to reunite him with Cutler's tags. It was very likely they were the most precious possession he owned. Reverently, Nora lifted the ball chain free of the other contents and lowered it back down in the corner of the box with shaky fingers. The chain coiled around itself, making a neat nest for the tags themselves.

When she examined the other pair of holotags, she saw they had the designation DN-407K etched into them. K for Knight – these were Danse's Knight tags. She swiftly brought them to her lips, and then placed them just as carefully next to the other pair. His P for Paladin tags still hung underneath her uniform between her breasts, right next to her skin and as close to her heart as they could possibly get.

The holotag arithmetic just didn't match up when she tried to calculate the equation. Three sets of tags representing two lives, one of which had been cut short too soon. Add in herself – was she a plus or a negative? A constant or a variable? The math caused Nora's heart to ache fiercely for Danse. The fact that he'd never even cleaned the blood off of Cutler's tags… God.

Quickly, she knuckled the moisture from her eyes. The vodka was making her sappy.

Sweetheart. It's not just the vodka, and you know it.

Nora sniffled in agreement with her conscience. Fucking feelings.

Now that the tags were pushed towards the back of the box, she could see that the paper underneath was actually thick, glossy photo stock. She grabbed hold of the corner, turned the photo over, and gasped with amazed delight. The picture was of a much younger Danse – and oh, how her heart leapt! – standing next to another man; Nora absolutely drank the sight of him in, completely ignoring the other for the moment.

Her eye was drawn immediately to the younger Danse's smile. It was a wide, happy grin that caused all of her internal organs to flip over, never mind her heart. She'd give anything to have him smile at her like that, just once - or just in general. At Dogmeat. At a rock. Didn't have to be aimed at her. It was beautiful. Jesus, was it beautiful.

He was beautiful, in a way she'd never seen him before. The Danse in the photo was charming, confident, relaxed, sure of himself and his place in that distant past. She was suddenly quite certain, unshakably so, that this Danse with that smile had torn a wide swath through the Brotherhood ranks. The mere whisper of that thought caused her to press her thighs together tightly, chasing the sensation that pulsed there.

Down, girl.

The Danse in the picture was so much younger than she could've ever imagined him being. He couldn't be more than eighteen there? His body was lanky, scrawny even, with none of the heavy, well-defined bands and planes of muscle that he had now. His hair was shaved close at the sides and left longer on top, very similar to Maxson's current undercut. The picture didn't have enough detail to determine if his face held the same scars as the older version, although it looked like his right brow had already been marked by the nearly horizontal slice she'd become so familiar with. The face itself was leaner, chin and cheeks only barely shadowed with dark stubble. The absence of beard made his lower lip look even fuller, if that were even possible.

Nora licked her lips and swallowed.

Down, girl.

Reluctantly, she tore her eyes away from his face to finally examine the other person in the picture. The figure could be only one person - the owner of the other set of holotags. The blood-smeared ones. Sometime after Danse had opened up and told her about him, she'd developed a vague, amorphous idea of what Cutler might have looked like. Dark haired, like Danse, but not as tall and certainly not as well built. Nowhere near as handsome, either – but this picture quashed all of that.

The Cutler in the picture was just as tall as Danse, and might have even been an inch or two taller, as he was standing hip-shot in the picture and it was hard to tell. The young man was blond haired, blue eyed, and devastatingly attractive, not unlike Nate had been, actually. Yes, the shape of the face was the same, as was the cocky grin. The proud jut of the nose and the way the hair swept back from the temples also resembled her late husband.

Let's not go there either, honey. Ok? It's just a passing resemblance, that's all. That's all.

Nora exhaled slowly and regrouped her thoughts. Right. She'd hazard a guess that the picture had been taken soon after Danse and Cutler had both joined the Brotherhood. When had that been? She was still pretty shaky on her history in the years following 2077. Some kind of recruitment drive in the Capital wasteland, he'd said. In the ruins of Washington D.C. Abruptly, Nora shook her head. She'd been staring with absorbed fascination at Danse's smile again. Her eyes combed over other areas of the photo, seeking more insight into her ex-Paladin. Her Danse.

Ahh, yes. There. That was something.

Interestingly enough, the two men were standing quite close together. Not unremarkable on its own – after all, they'd been the closest of friends. But the way Cutler's arm was slung around Danse's lean waist, and the way that Danse's head was tilted towards the other man, temples almost touching…

Nora smiled and brushed a gentle fingertip across the picture Danse's cheek. She liked to think that maybe, just maybe, Danse had allowed his younger self to love and be loved in return at some point before duty and responsibility had overtaken the desire for affection and closeness. It was almost difficult for her to reconcile this happy, smiling man with the quiet, stern Paladin she'd met decades after this had been taken. His self-confidence was so depleted now. Too depleted, and she'd give anything to build him back up again. Whatever he'd allow her to do for him, he need only ask.

Nora sighed, slid the photo back into the box, and nudged the holotags back in place on top. She wasn't entirely sorry she had pried into his personal items, now that she'd seen the photo. Nora hoped she'd gazed at it long enough to commit it to memory, much as she had done that morning to the older Danse, her Danse. Young Danse was gorgeous and full of energy and life, but current Danse was the version that was hers. A man who was loyal and brave. Solid. Dependable. Confident and strong when it counted, and vulnerable and uncertain in those rare, intimate moments when it counted even more. Honest to a fault. Broken, just like her.

Gently, she closed the lid, frowning when the latch refused to catch. There hadn't been anything else in the box, so what was preventing it from closing? Nora reopened the lid, only to find that something wedged under the liner of the cigar box was blocking the hook closure. She saw a corner of something white sticking out. Another photo?

Her fingernails were pared down, but she was able to pinch the edge between thumb and forefinger and ease it out from under the liner, revealing the back of yes, another photo. The name of the studio was stamped on a diagonal slant, although she couldn't make out the words underneath the layers of dirt and ash. It must've somehow slid underneath the paper liner, perhaps when the box had been jumbled around. Or maybe he hid it there on purpose?

Nora flipped the picture over, and gasped once more at the laughing face she saw looking up at her. It too, was familiar. After all, she'd seen it looking back at her in the mirror every day of her life until the bombs fell. Danse had a picture of her. In his box. Her picture. That was her face. Her pre-war face.

She was stunned. How… where did he even get it?

Gently, she fingered the edges – charred and blistered by nuclear fire – and examined the picture itself. He had to have gotten it in Sanctuary. There was no other possibility. Water had stained and blurred the image, but the memory was still as vivid as the day it had been taken.

The picture had been taken during an unseasonably hot snap that had lasted two and a half weeks. Their air conditioning unit had predictably broken down on day four of the heat wave. She'd been so crabby and miserable that Nate had told her to grab a swimsuit and towel and hold on to her hat, because he was bringing her to the beach. He'd scooped her up in his arms, overstuffed beach bag and all, deposited her in their new, turquoise Corvega, and sped off.

For a second, Nora swore she could feel his hard arms behind her back and under her knees as he carried her to the convertible…

Oh, Nate. I miss you, baby.

The beach in the picture – Pleasure Bay – was the finest in Boston. The cleanest sand, the tastiest lobster rolls, the coldest lemonade and beer. Look how bright her yellow and white striped towel looked against the pristine sand. Now the sand was filthy and oil-stained and the diner that served the lobster rolls had most recently served as target practice for the artillery pieces located on the ramparts of the Castle. Pleasure Bay beach was, heartbreakingly enough, located on the opposite side of the small lagoon adjacent to the Castle. The small, sheltered body of water was circled by a narrow causeway that once upon a time, had served as a lovely path for walking and biking. It was now littered with the carcasses of large trucks, raiders, and mutated fish heaved up from the depths of the ocean during the storm two weeks ago.

But if she closed her eyes – Nora squeezed them so tightly it blocked out all of the light in the room – if she concentrated hard enough, she could hear the seagulls. Normal ones, not the horribly mutated variety. She could smell the buttery, fresh bread and the sharp tang of ice-cold lemonade. Not Deezer's knockoff – the real stuff, with tart fresh lemons and pure cane sugar. Her toes dug into the hot, fine sand as a deep, affectionate voice laughingly told her to tilt her head back and smile for the camera, wouldn't she? There, wasn't she much happier now that she could have a swim and cool off?

Nora nodded her head dreamily. Yes, she was happier, and didn't she owe him a favor for that? Coquettishly, she patted the towel beside her and not-so-innocently tugged her bikini top down slightly, thrilling in the surge of heat that glowed in those gorgeous blue eyes of his. The newlywed phase never had faded between them, not when he could make her need him so much with one look.

Nate's muscles bunched and shifted as he slowly lowered himself onto the sand. A large, loving palm slid slowly up the indentation of her waist, feathered up her spine, and worked its way under the tight band of her top. Nora held her breath as he briefly toyed with the hook; all it would take was a flick of his long fingers and she'd be exposed to all of the other beachgoers. A tiny electrifying shock crackled through her veins at the thought; she arched against him subtly when a different kind of heat, not weather related in the least, pooled elsewhere. Nate smiled at her wickedly – he knew exactly what she was thinking, didn't he? Her fingernails dug teasingly into his shoulders as he lowered his head to place a kiss that held more than a hint of tongue in the valley of her breasts.

Nora tilted her head back, resting it on the towel, as he continued to explore her neck and collarbone with sharp teeth, hot breath, and a clever tongue. She murmured a half-hearted demurral when his lips arrived at the hollow behind her ear. "Lover boy, remember what happened last time you started kissing me like this in public?"

Unrepentantly, Nate grinned down at her, quirking an eyebrow. "Sure do. I'll never look at the monkey bars the same way. We should revisit that park again soon. You still have those stockings or did we ruin them?"

Reality crashed abruptly down around her head as she opened her eyes once again. Nora clasped the picture to her chest protectively. Danse had to have found it in her house – the house she had shared with Nate. A tiny flicker of anger rose in her chest. Why hadn't he returned it to her? He knew how valuable memories like this were when all she had left of her old life were scraps. Nate's flag, Shaun's SPECIAL board book and rattle. She hadn't even thought about the possibility that pictures could've survived the last two centuries. Surely Codsworth would've mentioned if they had?

Nora's hand hovered above the open cigar box, but instead of dropping the photo on top, she unzipped the pocket on her sleeve and tenderly tucked the fragile photo inside. This was hers. Her moment in time. Her memory. Danse would surely understand.

The thought that came to mind was unbidden and unwanted, as the worst thoughts usually were: How could you let yourself fall in love with another man?

Jerkily, Nora latched the lid and stuffed it heedlessly in the duffel bag. She sprang to her feet unsteadily, scrubbing her palms on her thighs. Opening that box had been a mistake after all.