Cautiously, Nora poked her torso out of the elevator and paused, cocking her head to listen. Silence. No… not total silence. The low background hum of the fluorescent lighting now met her ears. That was it, though. Nothing else. The listening post was as silent as a …

Let's leave it there, yeah?

She cast a practiced eye along the wall to her right, automatically searching for booby traps. Danse was a resourceful man - she had no doubt he could fashion crude explosives out of the bits and pieces that had been left in the bunker. Again, there was nothing. No resurrected Protectrons, no tripwires, just the same busted up equipment that had been lying around for the last two centuries.

She narrowed her eyes. Something had changed, though. A prickle of unease rippled up her spine. Had Maxson been pissed enough at her escape to send someone else to finish the job, then? A vertibird could've easily beaten her to the listening post, taken care of unfinished business, and departed with none the wiser. She'd heard plenty of them buzzing overhead after she'd bugged out.

No. Danse had said Maxson wouldn't do that. She had to trust his judgment on this.

Nonetheless, her hand drifted to the butt of Kellogg's pistol. Nora shifted the strap of the rucksack on her shoulder, crouched down slightly, and duck walked as quietly as she could on the debris-strewn floor. She was too short to see over the equipment in front of the elevator. Maybe she could see between them, if she edged forward enough?

She paused again and tilted her head to the side, eyeing the blasted in glass of a small screen set inside a bigger frame.

Wait a minute... This piece wasn't here before, was it?

Nora grimaced sheepishly and rose from her half-crouch. Danse had done some redecorating, that was all. He'd muscled more of the heavy equipment over, creating a sort of funnel into the right corner of the room. A kill chute, she realized, straight out of The Wasteland Survival Guide, issue 14: The Scrapyard Home Decoration Guide.

Kill chute. Right.

It would be best to announce her presence. Imperative, even.

"Danse? It's me. Nora, I mean," she called out, and then wrinkled her nose in self-deprecation. Who else would "me" mean?

There was no response. Was he even down there? Had he gone on patrol or something? Out for supplies? Unlikely, she thought after a second, given the relative security of the bunker. They'd scrounged enough food and water above and below for a day or two. It was amazing, the way one could find randomly placed cans of Cram tucked here and there in the wasteland. Plus, she'd only been gone for six hours or so, even with the quick jaunt into Bunker Hill to replace the duffel bag she'd left behind at the airport.

Nora edged around the end of the bank of machinery, then gasped and rocked back on her heels. Danse was down there, standing in the middle of the room with the butt of his weapon firmly pressed against his shoulder. The wary, intent expression on his face eased as soon as he confirmed who the interloper was, and the laser rifle pointed at her forehead was instantly lowered.

"Ohmygod, you scared me to death," she huffed. Nora swung the bag out of the way behind her back and raised her hands towards the ceiling playfully. "Don't shoot. I surrender."

"The gesture is appreciated, but your surrender isn't necessary," Danse drily replied. A small smile tugged the corner of his mouth, which she returned.

He turned to set his rifle on a nearby table and while his attention was diverted, Nora took the opportunity to drink the sight of him in with wide eyes. Thirsty eyes. The arms of his uniform were still tied around his waist, as they'd been last night and early that morning. His white tank top held fresh streaks of dirt and something darker, possibly grease, as well as some pink scrapes here and there on his exposed skin. Right. He'd been busy redecorating.

God, he was a sight for sore eyes.

"Hey," she said softly.

Danse glanced back at her, cocking an eyebrow. Nora let the strap of the bag slide from her shoulder; it dropped to the concrete with a soft thunk. She wiped suddenly damp palms on the seat of her leather pants and stepped towards him.

"You have a cobweb in your hair. Here, let me…"

Why am I so damn nervous?

Rising on tiptoe, Nora placed her right hand on his chest and lifted the left up, brushing at the dusty filaments that clung to his dark hair. Danse inclined his head, patiently allowing her to remove the cobweb; his warm, Nuka Cola scented breath washed over her face as he did so. She felt a tide of pink rise high in her cheeks at the memory of how she'd so brazenly caressed him early that morning, but like a moth to flame, she still couldn't help herself. Removing the cobweb was as much an excuse to touch him as it was to tidy him up.

"There. All gone," she murmured huskily. She dared to brush her knuckles over his cheekbone with one last, slow stroke, then Nora rolled the web between her fingers and flicked it away.

Her boot heels met the floor once again, but she kept her hand on his chest. The other rested on his shoulder, idly plucking at the strap of his tank top. She gazed up at him, eyes roaming over his face for any signs of distress that might've crept in during her absence, mental or otherwise. She saw nothing immediately apparent; his face was open and relaxed, if tired looking.

There was so much to say, so many things she needed to tell him, but they all fled her mind at the close proximity of his body to hers. All of the doubts and fears that nagged at her during her return trip to the listening post - Maxson, Nate, Shaun, Institute, Brotherhood, Minutemen - simply evaporated as her heart rate picked up. Right at that moment, nothing mattered more than the confused awareness that entered the warm brown of his eyes, except perhaps the small red patches that rose on his own cheeks. And possibly the hesitant way he settled his hands at her waist.

"Thank you," he said after a long, drawn out moment of shared, electrified silence.

"You're welcome. Wait. For what?" Nora looked at him blankly.

"The cobweb," he prompted.

"Oh. That. Yeah."

Nora felt uncomfortably awkward. She was totally, overwhelmingly aware, so aware, of everything about him and how they fit together like pieces of a puzzle. She licked suddenly dry lips with an equally dry tongue.

Did he feel this too?

"Umm, Danse, I -"

"You've changed." The confusion deepened; a small furrow dented his brow.

Yes. Irrevocably.

"Nope. Still the same old me," she lied. "Warts and all."

Nora closed her eyes briefly in dismay. Oh my fucking GOD.

"Uh, scratch that. No warts."

"I meant your clothing. You're not in uniform." His eyes swept down the line of her body, taking in the black leather that had replaced Brotherhood orange. His all-too perceptive gaze sharpened as self-conscious man turned back into hyperaware soldier. "Is something wrong?"

The sudden gear change was difficult; her brain ground to a halt. The shift between breathless anticipation and normality felt like a bucket of cold water. Nora shook her head to clear the inner cobwebs and tried to focus.

Maxson. Resignation. Jailbreak.

"Uniform? I… well…" she floundered to a halt.

Danse ducked his head down to peer into her eyes. "What happened?" he asked very pointedly.

Uneasily, Nora dropped her gaze to a smear of grease on his shoulder. She rubbed at it with her thumb, but only succeeded in smearing it into a larger patch.

"Well, plans have… changed a tiny bit," she hedged.

Tension crept into the muscles under her palms. "Plans have…" he echoed. Danse tightened the hands at her waist. "Report, soldier," he said quietly and firmly. "I want a full report."

No. Not yet. Not until I've figured out how to tell you.

"Look, Danse. It doesn't matter what happened. I need to check in with Preston -"

His fingers squeezed again. "Nora."

Nora eyed him and uncertainly nibbled on her bottom lip. She'd hoped to get through at least a day or two before having to break the news to him, but now she didn't really have a choice. There was no use trying to prevaricate any longer.

She sighed heavily. "Maxson promoted me. Into your position, into your quarters, and into your power armor. Danse, I… I'm sorry." She curved her hand around the back of his neck. "I didn't ask for it. I didn't want it," she finished miserably.

Her head sagged forward, forehead resting on his collarbone.

Danse settled his chin lightly on the top of her head and he shifted his grasp, drawing her closer. His hand absently rubbed up and down her back. After a moment, he spoke. "I believe I understand. You assumed I'd be upset with your promotion. Perhaps you also thought I'd resent being replaced?" he asked thoughtfully.

Nora nodded against his chest.

"That couldn't be farther from the truth. If I had the misfortune to become incapacitated in any way, I'd always hoped Maxson would pick you as my successor." His hands slid up and squeezed her shoulders encouragingly.

Nora lifted her head and shook it sharply. "No, Danse. I didn't want it. It felt wrong." Her skin crawled at the thought and she shivered against him.

Sympathy filled his face. "I can understand your hesitation, given the… unusual circumstances of your promotion. But consider this: your field training is complete. Only study of the Brotherhood Codex and history remain. Proctor Quinlan and Elder Maxson will see to that."

Danse released his hold on her and stepped back. He straightened with parade ground precision and thumped his fist to his chest. "Congratulations. You'll make an exceptional Paladin." His face softened and a soft, proud smile touched his lips. "With your talents, I have no doubt you'll even make Star Paladin someday. I sincerely look forward to that day."

Nora shifted from foot to foot wretchedly. He really meant it – every word - and now she had to burst that bubble, too. All of the elation she'd felt earlier was gone. What a fucking mess this had become.

Well, might as well get it over with.

Deflated, she sighed. "Save your congratulations, Danse. No more salutes, either. I resigned. As of this morning, I'm no longer a member of the Brotherhood of Steel."

For a moment, he didn't respond. He just shook his head in disbelief and blinked rapidly, then stuttered, "You… you what? I don't understand. Why would you…"

"… do something so stupid?" hung silently in the air.

"It was an easy decision, Danse. I was ordered to do something just... horrible. I can't say worse than being ordered to kill you, because…" Hot tears stung her eyes and her breath snagged in her throat.

She swallowed hard and shakily continued. "Maxson ordered me to report to Kells for my next mission. Turns out that mission would've been infiltrating Railroad HQ and… and massacring everyone. I refused. Gave Maxson my resignation right after that."

Danse took another step backward and his hands balled into fists at his sides. "Are you telling me you disobeyed a direct order from a senior officer?" he breathed incredulously. Heavy disapproval colored his voice; a scowl just as heavy pinched his features.

"Danse?" she said cautiously. "I… I know you must be upset about the whole situation, but just –"

Rudely, he interrupted her. "Upset? Damn right I am, Sinclair. I trained you better than that."

What?

Her head was whirling. Danse was totally missing the point, either out of pure stubbornness or sheer obtuseness. Was he seriously upset with her for refusing to execute a bunch of people? He was expecting her to do so, just because Kells had said so? Dazed, she watched the way his shoulders were rising and falling with each quick, angry breath he took.

Fucking A. He was, and she hadn't even gotten to the part about getting locked up and escaping.

Nora started trembling. No, no. NO.

"Two missions in a row, Danse. Two times in a row I was ordered to commit murder on behalf of the Brotherhood. That's not me. That's not who I am. I couldn't do it. I won't do it." There was no disguising the plaintive plea in her voice.

His hand slashed through the air in rejection of her argument. "Synths are the enemy. The Railroad aids and abets those… abominations. By default, the Railroad becomes the enemy as well. The term is elimination, not murder. You were ordered to eliminate a very real threat, both to the Brotherhood and the Commonwealth."

With panicky determination, Nora stepped forward into the space he'd placed between them. She had to make him listen to what she was saying.

"Don't let the bigotry of the Brotherhood cloud your mind. Not now. Not after yesterday. I know you. You're better than that."

She placed a shaky hand over his heart; Danse flinched away from her touch.

She dropped her arm heavily and took a stumbling step back, away from her Paladin who wasn't a Paladin anymore because he was a synth. A synth who was telling her she was supposed to follow her orders and kill other synths. The paradox was too much for her to wrap her brain around. Not when her world was crumbling.

Oh, my God. This isn't happening. This can't be happening.

Danse's voice was low and hard. "You're asking me to overlook a willful refusal to obey a direct order. Furthermore, you're asking me to discard a lifetime of Brotherhood training."

Hollowly, Nora replied, "And you're asking me to slaughter innocent civilians after a lifetime of watching the Chinese do the same. I might've skipped over a chunk of that life, but two hundred years later murder is still murder."

She thrust an arm up, gesturing to the world above their heads. "Now I have to watch the Institute do the same damn thing in this lifetime. Do you even understand what I'm trying to tell you?"

Danse's eyes were dark with agony and indecision; his shoulders slumped. He was obviously fighting an internal battle. He wavered, the anger and disgust softening into sorrow. They stared at each other for a long moment, and then he shook his head slowly, sadly.

Cold fear congealed in her guts. Her instincts had been right after all. She should've never left him alone. She should've stayed by his side until his head was straight, no matter how long it would've taken.

"Danse. Please don't do this," she whispered, frightened to the core of her being.

I'll die if I lose you.

"You should've carried out the orders you'd been given, Nora. Not refuse them. Not even for my sake."

Frustrated with his single-mindedness and blind devotion, Nora lashed out. "Not even for you? You'd be dead, Danse. Dozens of other people would be dead. Fuck those orders."

Immediately, she realized it was the wrong thing to say.

"You should have carried out the mission as ordered," he enunciated slowly. Danse straightened his back again and lifted his chin. "Did your training mean nothing to you? Your decision is a disappointment. I expected much better of you."

"Likewise." Nora crossed her trembling arms over her chest and tilted her own chin up. "Where does this leave us, then?"

She could only answer for herself – it left her with a broken heart. It left her empty and aching and chilled to the bone. Didn't he understand? He was her fire. He was the only thing that kept her from refreezing.

Sorrowfully, Danse shook his head. "I… don't know. I never dreamed anything could divide us like this." Honest surprise tinged with regret colored his voice.

"Yeah, well apparently the Brotherhood still can," she said bitterly.

She was waiting for him to say something, anything, but his silence spoke volumes.

"Right. I know where I fall into your hierarchy now. What is it you're always spouting? There's Brotherhood and there's everything else, and I'm not Brotherhood anymore. They discarded you like a worthless piece of garbage and you'd go crawling back in a heartbeat, wouldn't you? Even if it meant your execution."

Tightly, he replied, "Yes. I would."

The room started spinning, around and around and around until she felt like puking. The overhead lighting was unbearably bright and it was getting harder to breathe by the second.

"Then there isn't anything more to say, is there?" she managed.

Danse's face was inscrutable, eyes dark with emotion. Nora averted her gaze, focusing on a piece of rebar sticking out of the wall over his shoulder. If she looked at him, she'd start bawling. She'd start begging him not to leave her, but it was already too late for that, wasn't it? She'd unknowingly – blindly, stupidly – set herself down a new path that morning, one he was apparently unwilling to take with her.

"I gave Sturges a copy of the holotape. He was working on finding a way inside the Institute. I'm going to Sanctuary." Her voice cracked on the last word. She needed to get out of there before the panic attack overtook her.

Nora turned on her heel and careened back around the bank of consoles, bouncing off the wall before she could steady herself. She entered the elevator and slammed her fist against the button, then again and again until she felt something inside her hand crack when it didn't respond immediately. Tears started to trickle from the corners of her eyes when she rested her head back against the rusting interior of the car. In seconds, they were a steady flow, drip-dripping onto her black leather jacket as the doors and world closed in around her. Her back slid down the wall until she was sitting on her haunches, cradling her injured hand against her chest.

On her way back to the listening post, she'd constructed an elaborate fantasy in her head of how this was supposed to go. Danse was supposed to drop whatever was in his hands and stride over to her. He was supposed to put his hands on her shoulders, squeeze gently, and pull her against his chest. That was supposed to be her cue to stand on tiptoe, cup his face in her hands, and confess how she felt about him. Later, they'd both have a laugh about how she managed to slip out of Maxson's clutches. They'd go on to defeat the Institute and save the Commonwealth, then live happily ever after. The end.

She hadn't imagined how horribly wrong things could actually go. Nora covered her mouth with her palm to muffle her sobs.

A/N: no magical suit of X-01 appears out of nowhere for Danse.