Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“You shouldn’t be here,” is the first thing he says.

Nora steps out of the elevator regardless. “Hello to you too, sunshine.”

Danse sighs, unable to find it in himself to argue. She really shouldn’t be here. She should be with Proctor Ingram and Doctor Li back at Boston Airport, working on fixing Liberty Prime. She should be out furthering the goals of the Brotherhood.

But then it’s been days since he’s had any sort of company, Haylen popping in briefly to drop off some supplies more than a week ago now, and goddammit if he isn’t lonely.

Besides, Nora has never been all that great at following orders anyway.

She proves his point by sauntering in and sitting herself down atop the old desk in the corner as if she owns the place. “So, how are you holding up?”

It’s such a casual question. As if he’s been feeling slightly under the weather, rather than having to deal with the worst identity crisis anyone could possibly go through. “Fine, thank you.”

She smiles thinly. “You’re lying.”

“Yes,” he admits, but he doesn’t elaborate. Nora has enough to worry about without having to listen to his insecurities.

“Danse,” she chides, “you need to talk about this eventually.”

“Of course,” he replies sardonically. “Just direct me to the nearest therapy group for abominations who used to think they were human. Synths Anonymous. Should be a riot.”

Nora scowls at him. “Jesus, you sound just like Nick.”

Danse bristles at the comparison, even though he knows he has no right to anymore. How different is he from Diamond City’s resident detective, anyway? “Maybe it’s a synth thing.”

“I think it’s more of a self-deprecating asshole thing,” she counters sharply. “Dammit Danse, I disobeyed the Elder’s direct orders so you could keep your life. How about you actually start living it?”

“I didn’t ask you to do that. In fact, I distinctly recall asking you to end my life, but you couldn’t even let me die with a little dignity!”

She scoffs at that. “There’s no such thing. You can live with dignity, but you can’t die with it. Death is always ugly. Always.”

Danse thinks of Cutler, who died gracelessly in a body that wasn’t his own, at the hand of a synth he called his friend. “Maybe you’re right,” he concedes with a sigh, “but I don’t know how I can. The Brotherhood is everywhere, and they will not hesitate to open fire on me or anyone seen in my company. How am I supposed to live when everyone else wants me dead?”

He can hear his voice break, and he curses himself for his weakness. He knows he should be grateful for the fact that he’s still breathing, but Nora is right, as she so annoyingly often is. His existence in this underground bunker isn’t a life, and he hates every second of it.

“Not everyone wants you dead, Danse.”

“You don’t,” he affirms. “But you have your duties, Paladin.”

She’s been given his rank, his quarters, his very life. He wanted to resent her for it, but he couldn’t. He cannot be anything but proud of her and what she’s accomplished in such a short time. Nora is the best thing that’s happened to the Brotherhood of Steel in a long while.

“Yes, I do,” she mumbles, sounding nearly as miserable as he feels. “I don’t suppose you know where to find a portable generator capable of powering Liberty Prime, huh?”

“You’re ready to get Prime up and running?” Danse asks, feeling stupidly excited despite himself. He’s seen the Brotherhood’s combat robot at the Citadel before, but he wasn’t assigned to Project Purity, and he never got to witness it in action. Looks like he won’t be able to see it this time, either.

It’s ridiculous how much that realisation hurts.

“He just needs power now,” Nora affirms. “Doctor Li managed to fix things last time, but the Prydwen doesn’t have the same facilities the Citadel has, so we need to find something to kick-start him. Proctor Ingram has everyone available running around chasing leads.”

Danse crosses his arms. “Then why are you here?” he berates her, because it is so much easier to pretend he is still her commanding officer. “I can assure you there is no power source capable of sustaining Liberty Prime in this listening post.”

“Jesus, I know that,” she snaps. “Ingram sent me to find an old Vault nearby, but it’s useless. I just came by to see how you were doing on the way back.”

“You shouldn’t shirk your duties, Paladin. Not on my behalf.”

He’s already dishonoured the Brotherhood enough by simply existing. He won’t let their finest Paladin risk her career just so he can have some company in this hellhole he’s forced to call home.

“I’m not shirking my duties,” she says pointedly. “I have completed my assignment. I sought a place to rest for the night before heading back to report my findings. I found an old listening post which seemed secure enough for that purpose. Sound plausible?”

“It would, if it weren’t the afternoon.”

She throws up her hands. “Jesus, how can you even tell the time down here?”

Danse raises an eyebrow and points to the Pip-Boy on her wrist, which displays 14:27 in bright neon-green. Nora groans and hits her forehead with the palm of her hand. “Okay, fine, I am shirking my duties. Just a little. It’s just… I don’t know how to be a Paladin. You made it look so much easier than it is.”

It isn’t easy. Being in command, being responsible for the lives of others, is a burden that’s difficult to bear for anyone. Danse can’t even remember how many times he felt like he was in too deep, how often he doubted his decisions, his orders. He hasn’t spent all that time in Knight-Captain Cade’s office for nothing.

He wishes so badly he could have it all back.

“I’m sorry,” he says, because it’s all his fault that Nora has to deal with her new role alone. “A new Paladin usually undertakes their first mission with their former squad leader, to get a feel of being in command.” He still remembers his own first mission as a Paladin, right alongside Krieg. The look of pride on the old man’s face had been everything to him.

Nora gives him a rueful smile. “You’re sorry? Jesus, Danse, you don’t get to be sorry.”

He honestly doesn’t know how to respond to that.

“I’m the one who should be sorry,” she says after a beat. “Here I am, complaining about being a Paladin. To you, of all people. Talk about tactless.”

Danse forces a chuckle, but it sounds humourless even to his own ears. “You may share your concerns with me whenever you like,” he says, and he means it. He longs to hear news of the Prydwen and her crew, even if it hurts more than anything. Haylen tells him what she can when she visits, but her rank and her stationing at the Cambridge Police Station mean she isn’t privy to much information. Maxson is probably keeping her out of the loop on purpose, because the Elder must at least suspect that Haylen’s loyalty to Danse outweighs her loyalty to the Brotherhood. And giving sensitive intel to a synth, of all things, is considered treason.

He shouldn’t be asking it of Nora, either. But he’ll selfishly take what she’s willing to offer.

Nora regards him with that sharp look of hers, her head cocked to the side and her eyes narrowed slightly. “Why is it that you’ll let me dump all of my problems on you, but won’t ever tell me what’s bothering you? Don’t you trust me?”

Danse scowls at the blatant emotional blackmail. “I trust you with my life. You know that.”

“Then why won’t you talk to me?”

“Because you don’t understand!”

“So make me understand!”

He barks a laugh that’s utterly derisive. “I’m a machine that thinks like a human who was trained to hunt the very thing I’ve become. Everything I had, everything I knew is gone! In the span of a few hours, my identity was ripped from me and my world turned upside-down.”

Her eyes are wide as he rants, pacing the length of the room furiously. “I started out as nothing, and I’ve ended up as nothing,” he says, and the anger ebbs away from him as quickly as it came. “And I don’t know what the hell to do about it.”

Danse slumps down in the lone chair behind an old desk and buries his face in his hands.

The silence that falls between them is deafening.

“I guess you were right,” Nora says eventually, in an uncharacteristically small voice. “I don’t understand. I can’t pretend to know what you’re going through. I won’t insult you like that.”

He exhales loudly, feeling disappointed despite himself. Somehow, he’d found it in himself to hope that she’d be able to help. That she’d have answers where he has none. But of course she doesn’t. She’s human. A unique case in and of herself, with her having been alive before the Great War, but a human. Of course she wouldn’t know what it’s like to deal with the fact that his whole damn life is a lie.

“I shouldn’t have raised my voice,” he says after a beat, lifting his head to look at her. “My apologies.”

Nora snorts. “I already told you, you don’t get to apologise.”

“Then what am I supposed to do?”

The question comes out broken, nearly as broken as he feels. If only someone had an answer.

“I don’t know, Danse,” she whispers. “I really don’t know.”

That makes two of them, then. All of this would be so much easier if he had something that wasn’t linked to the Brotherhood somehow, a former home or an old friend. But the Prydwen is the only home he’s ever known, Rivet City nothing but a sour memory, and the only two people he dares to call a friend are Brotherhood soldiers who already risk far too much by associating with him at all.

He truly has nothing left.

Nora drums her fingers on the desk, her brow furrowed in thought. “Maybe…” she begins, but then she falters, shaking her head.

“What?”

Nora chews her lip, and Danse has spent enough time around her to know she only does that when she’s trying to figure out how to phrase something unpleasant. “Spit it out, soldier.”

“Maybe… you could talk to Nick?” she offers, hesitantly.

Danse balks at the very idea. “Absolutely not.”

“I know you aren’t on the best of terms,” Nora continues resolutely, “but he’s the only one who knows what you’re going through right now.”

“Nora –”

“And he’s learned how to live with it pretty well, all things considered,” she talks right over him. “He’s one of Diamond City’s most well-respected residents, and you know how strongly they feel about synths down there. He’s made a life for himself. Maybe he can help you do the same.”

“No,” Danse snarls, and that’s final. As if he would ever consider letting Valentine see him in this sorry state. The old synth would probably just laugh at him, and he knows that he’d damn well deserve it, too.

“Jesus, why the hell not?”

He could think of a million reasons why not. But he doesn’t want to yell at her again. “Why would he even agree to speak with me?” he asks instead, sidestepping her question entirely. “I haven’t exactly been courteous during our limited interactions.”

“I could at least ask,” Nora says hopefully. “Nick’s a good person.”

Danse swallows the instinctive nasty comment on Valentine’s personhood, or the lack thereof. “Goodness only goes so far.”

“Maybe so,” she concedes, “but there’s no harm in asking, is there?”

Actually, there’s plenty of harm in asking. But he can tell that Nora isn’t going to let this go easily, and he knows for a fact that Valentine won’t agree to this nonsense. Danse sure wouldn’t, if their roles were reversed.

“Very well,” he grinds out between clenched teeth. “Ask. But when he refuses, we will not mention this again.”

Nora practically beams at him. “I’ll head over to Diamond City first thing in the morning.”

“You will report to Proctor Ingram first thing in the morning,” Danse corrects stoically.

“Oh, come on!”

“Consider yourself fortunate I’m not making you head back right now, Paladin.”

Not that he still has any sort of authority over her. But pretending that he does seems to be a source of comfort for both of them.

“Fine, alright, you win,” she groans dramatically. “Can I stay here for the night, at least?”

“Of course,” Danse agrees easily. He won’t toss her out just like that, even if she can handle herself better than most. “But you make dinner tonight.”

“As if I’m letting you anywhere near the cooking fire while I’m here,” she teases. “I swear, it’s a miracle you haven’t smoked yourself out of this bunker yet.”

Danse merely shrugs. “Brotherhood rations are designed to require little to no active preparation.”

“And it shows. Lucky for you, I learned a killer recipe for radstag ribs from old Abernathy, so you’re in for a treat.”

Danse only half-listens as Nora talks him through preparing a proper meal. Even if he can remember the details of the overcomplicated process, he’ll never be able to replicate it. Cooking is a skill he’s never cared to master. Maybe he ought to now. It’s not as if he has anything better to do, after all.

He shakes his head, willing away the negative thought. He does have something to focus on, at least for today. Nora has come to see him, and the least he can do is appreciate that.

She cooks a splendid meal, and spends the evening telling him the thrilling tale of her investigation into some missing supplies down at the Boston Airport. Danse falls asleep with a full stomach and the comforting sound of another’s breathing nearby, and it’s the first night since he learned The Truth that he is not plagued relentlessly by nightmares.

When he wakes, he is alone, and the illusion of normalcy shatters in her absence.

Chapter Text

Two weeks later, Danse hears the elevator’s tell-tale rattle as it descends from the surface.

It’s about time for Haylen to bring him some more supplies, so he doesn’t think twice about it. She’s insisted on stopping by at least once a month, despite his repeated attempts to dissuade her. He doesn’t want her to risk her career with the Brotherhood, not to mention her very life, just so he won’t have to look as hard for food and clean water. But Haylen never could stop herself from doing what she thinks is right, even if her personal beliefs clash with those of the Brotherhood on occasion.

As payment, Danse gives her little titbits of technology he’s picked up while scavenging, both to show his gratitude and to give her an alibi for leaving her post at the police station. He recently found a functional biometric scanner in a nearby hospital he thinks she’ll appreciate, and he’s already rummaging through the drawers of the desk he knows he put it in when his visitor speaks, and Danse realises that it is definitely not Haylen.

“Nice place ya got here.”

He whips around to see Nick Valentine standing in the middle of his meagre home, looking around with what appears to be genuine interest. “Could do with a lick of paint, but I’m guessing you haven’t gotten around to that yet.”

Danse immediately reaches for the laser rifle he’s not carrying, the newly constructed weapon laying uselessly on the workbench in the other room. It’s been six months since he moved into the bunker, and apparently that’s all the time it takes for him to have become careless, and stupid. Dammit.

He squares his shoulders and squelches his inner turmoil, determined to at least not look as panicked as he feels. “What are you doing here?” Danse asks venomously, only just refraining from adding ‘synth’ to the end of the question, like the insult he always thought it was.

Valentine’s eyes narrow, the glowing yellow brightening slightly, and Danse doesn’t miss his skeletal hand inching towards his revolver. “Nora said you asked me here,” he offers as an explanation, though he sounds highly sceptical of the fact.

Danse barely keeps his jaw from dropping. He’d all but forgotten Nora’s pledge to ask Valentine to come speak with him, so certain had he been that the detective would decline. “I… didn’t think you’d accept.”

Valentine raises a non-existent eyebrow in surprise, and Danse is perturbed to see how emotive the robotic face can be. “I wasn’t going to. You’ve been a bit of a jackass in the past, Danse,” the detective says bluntly. “But I owed Nora one for getting me out of that Vault the way she did, and…”

He muses on the correct words for a moment. “Look, ass or not, you sure as hell didn’t deserve all of this. So if you’re really willing to talk to me, I’m prepared to listen.”

“I don’t –” Danse begins hotly, but he stops himself from saying ‘want your help’. Not because it isn’t true – he’d much rather be torn apart by a mirelurk queen than accept help from the likes of Valentine, thank you very much – but then it isn’t about what he wants anymore. Barring the fact that machines such as himself shouldn’t even want anything, Danse knows damn well he needs help, whether he wants it or not.

And Nick Valentine may very well be the only synth in the Commonwealth able and willing to provide that.

“Look, kid,” Valentine sighs when Danse remains silent, “I ain’t expecting you to tell me your life’s story and cry on my shoulder, and not just because this old plate of metal is damn uncomfortable.”

He knocks on his shoulder blade, and Danse flinches when the sound echoes throughout the bunker. “So why don’t you loosen up a little and start wherever you want to, hmm?”

Danse slowly relaxes his hands from the fists they were clenched into, and breathes deeply. He’ll do this on his own terms. “I would appreciate it,” he says, the words coming out clipped but clear, “if you disarm yourself first.”

He expects Valentine to protest, but the detective immediately removes his revolver from his belt, making sure to show Danse his every careful movement, and lays it down atop a busted terminal, even going as far as stepping away from it. “Done.”

Only then does Danse let his shoulder sag, though he remains on guard. With neither of them in possession of a weapon, he’s confident he’ll be able to overpower the old synth if it comes to that.

Still, he doesn’t quite know what to do next. He cannot in good conscience turn down a chance to understand his synthetic nature better, perhaps even somewhat come to terms with it, but the whole arrangement has his nerves completely fried. This has got to be the most vulnerable he’s ever felt in his life, and to share that with another – a synth, no less, and a synth who doesn’t much like him at that – is terrifying.

Valentine watches him expectantly, but patiently. Danse clears his throat. “Nothing we discuss here will leave this bunker,” he commands, and he’s glad his voice comes out a lot more certain than he feels. “The Brotherhood believes I’m dead, and it’s most beneficial for everyone if it stays that way.”

“Agreed,” Valentine says easily.

“I mean it,” Danse pushes, irked by Valentine’s nonchalance. “No one can know about this. Especially not that reporter friend of yours.”

At that, Valentine has the guile to laugh. “You don’t have to worry about that. Piper’s a stand-up gal, but I wouldn’t wish her on my worst enemy.” He smiles, and the expression is oddly warm. “And before you ask, no, you are not my worst enemy. Heck, you ain’t even on the shortlist.”

That catches Danse by surprise. “I’m… not?”

“Nah. You can be a pain in the ass, sure, but you’ve never taken a shot at me, which is more than I can say for any other member of the Brotherhood. And now, well, we’re of the same breed, aren’t we?”

The words are like a physical blow. To hear Valentine compare the two of them so casually is an affront to everything Danse stands for.

“We are nothing alike,” he snarls, and for a second, he takes vicious pleasure in the way Valentine’s face falls.

And then he realises what he’s just said.

Danse shakes his head and laughs, an empty, humourless sound. “We are nothing alike,” he repeats softly. “You do not insult those who try to help you. You aren’t still loyal to people who discarded you like you were nothing. You didn’t spend your whole life believing you were human.”

He closes his eyes, knowing full well that if Valentine wants to, he can take back his gun and put one between his eyes before Danse can so much as blink. A larger part of him than he’s comfortable with wishes the detective would.

But Valentine truly is nothing like him.

“You’re wrong, you know,” he murmurs. “I’ve existed for a while now, and it’s taken me a damn long time to get where I am. I’ve pushed people away when I shouldn’t have. I’ve stayed with people when I shouldn’t have. And believe it or not, there was a brief moment when I thought I was human, too.”

That gets Danse’s attention. His eyes snap open, his eyebrows raising so high they nearly disappear into his hair. “You thought…? But how?”

Valentine chuckles dryly at his clear bewilderment. “I’ll admit, it lasted for about a minute or two, but I sure had one heck of a meltdown some hundred years ago.”

Danse stares at him, mouth slightly agape, before he remembers himself. “How did you manage to get through that?” he asks eventually, because he still hasn’t managed himself, even after six months, and he’s starting to doubt he’ll ever will.

“That’s a long story,” Valentine sighs. “Not that I’m unwilling to tell it, mind. But mayhap we ought to sit down for this one.”

Danse agrees with a nod, and he leads the other synth through the small cave connecting the two spaces of the bunker, into the room he’s cleaned up enough for it to be considered liveable. He offers Valentine the lone chair, sitting himself down on a sizeable piece of concrete that was once part of the broken-down wall.

The detective leans forward, lacing his fingers together like a zipper of metal and synthetic flesh as he contemplates how to begin his tale. “Has Nora ever told you anything about how I function?”

Danse shakes his head. “You haven’t been a topic of discussion very often.” Because he’d bitten her head off whenever she brought up the synth detective, but he doesn’t mention that.

Valentine seems to know regardless, but he doesn’t mention it either. “Well, first thing you need to know is that I’m a prototype of sorts. The bridge between generations, so to speak. I think they were trying to see if a synth could learn to think for itself, process information like a human. So they loaded me up with all the memories of a pre-war cop by the name of Nick Valentine.”

Danse’s brow furrows, at least a dozen questions already at the forefront of his mind. “Where did the Institute obtain the memories of a pre-war law enforcer?” is the one he settles on.

“I’m not entirely sure,” Valentine muses, his eyes focused on a weak spot in the ceiling. “Sometime before the bombs fell and the world went belly-up, the original Nick Valentine went to C.I.T. to get some experimental treatment for his PTSD. They had a machine there that scanned all your memories and removed those you didn’t want anymore. The catch was that they kept your memories on file, but Nick was desperate enough not to care about any of that. Somehow, the Institute got a hold of ol’ Nick’s memories and implanted them into this bucket of bolts here.”

“Do you know where the Institute is?” Danse interjects sharply.

“Do you?” Valentine shoots back, annoyed. “If all synths knew where the Institute has its lair, the Railroad would’ve moved on the place a long time ago.”

“You just told me you’re a unique synth,” Danse counters, crossing his arms.

Valentine smiles thinly. “You’re sharper than you look, I’ll give you that,” he says, continuing before Danse can determine whether or not he’s just been insulted. “But no, I don’t know where the eggheads are holed up. They removed most of my knowledge of the Institute itself before tossing me out. I can recall the test chamber I was kept in for those years, but that only came back to me after I discovered the Memory Den down in Goodneighbor, and it didn’t offer any clues as to the Institute’s location.”

Danse deflates, letting his arms rest on his knees. “Understood. I’m… sorry.”

Valentine waves the apology away. “You’re not the first to ask. You won’t be the last.”

He fishes a pack of cigarettes and a battered lighter from one of his pockets, taking a smoke for himself and offering one to Danse, who declines. He takes a long dreg of the Grey Tortoise, letting the smoke spill from the hole in his neck.

“Well, long story short,” Valentine says, pausing briefly to puff on his cigarette again, “when I woke up in the trash, the last memory I had was getting into C.I.T.’s memory-scanning machine. In the flesh.”

“Damn,” Danse mutters despite himself.

“Funny, that’s what I said,” Valentine attempts to joke, but his tone fails to convey any humour. “First thing I thought was that my mouth was dry. Woke up in a body made of metal and that was the one thing that struck me as odd.”

He snuffs out his cigarette between two of his silicone fingers, pocketing the butt. “Then I saw this,” he continues, waving his metal hand, “and I’m pretty sure I screamed until my damn voice module gave out on me.”

It’s all too familiar. Danse doesn’t remember much of the first day he spent in the bunker, trying to wrap his head around the fact that he is the very thing he’s been taught to despise, but he does remember the ache in his throat the days afterwards, and the headache he’d gotten from tearing out his own hair.

“What did you do?” he finds himself asking, enraptured by the story that runs so parallel to his own.

“You mean after having the panic attack of the twenty-second century?” Valentine asks wryly. “Well, I tried to figure out what I was. Who I was. I suppose I still am.”

A heavy stone drops in Danse’s stomach. “Still?”

“Hey, I never said this was gonna be easy, kid.”

“I know that,” Danse says, and he does. “But a whole century seems rather excessive.”

“Ain’t that the truth,” Valentine chuckles. “You just have to remember that I was on my own for the first stretch. You won’t be.”

It takes Danse a while to realise that the feeling constricting his chest is gratitude, but he’s not quite capable of thanking the detective just yet. “So where do I start?”

“Well, you know what you are. You’re a synth,” he says, ignoring the way Danse winces at his words. “But there’s only one of you. You weren’t made to copy or replace someone. You’re as unique as any human being. Now you just need to figure out who you want to be.”

He knows damn well who he wants to be. “I want to be a soldier,” he says. “I want to be with the Brotherhood of Steel.”

Valentine stands and, after only a brief moment of hesitation, pats Danse carefully on his shoulder. “We’ll work on that.”

Chapter Text

Danse doesn’t sleep a wink that night.

Valentine’s recount of his first moments outside of the Institute are harrowing, and Danse cannot stop imagining how he’d felt himself when he escaped his creators. It’s futile, he knows, because for whatever reason he decided to have those memories erased and false ones implanted instead. He’s not even entirely sure where his fake recollections end and his real ones begin. All he knows for certain is that Cutler was real, if only because he’s stared at his friend’s name on the Brotherhood’s honour roll every year on the anniversary of his death. That means that their junk stand in Rivet City was real, as was all of his time in the Brotherhood. The one comforting thought he has is that he enlisted of his own free will. Even if he is a machine that shouldn’t be able to think independently, at least his programming allowed him to make the correct decision.

Would he still have joined up if he’d known his true nature? Danse likes to think he would have, but he cannot be certain. He simply doesn’t know what he was like as M7-97. Hell, he can’t even imagine why he would have chosen the name Danse for himself. He can reasonably explain his first name, Victor, because surely escaping the Institute must have been a great personal victory if nothing else. But Danse? A peculiar choice, to say the least.

Then again, maybe he never even decided on that himself. Maybe the Railroad chose his name before they wiped him clean and planted him in the middle of civilisation like a ticking time bomb.

There’s just so much he doesn’t know. How can he be expected to move forward when he can’t even see the path he took to get here?

Briefly, he entertains the notion of tracking down the Railroad to demand answers, but he’s intelligent enough to know such an undertaking would be pointless. Even if he can somehow locate the illustrious organisation, its agents would more likely than not gun him down immediately for his past affiliation with the Brotherhood. And if he does manage to get in unscathed, there is no guarantee the Railroad will actually have any answers for him. They don’t seem like the kind of people to keep files.

Besides, leaving the listening post at all is a tremendous risk each and every time. Going on a wild goose chase across the Commonwealth is the very last thing he should want to do.

No, he’ll have to find his answers here, within the safe confines of his bunker.

Not that he feels particularly safe at the moment.

Valentine took the elevator back up to the surface, spending the night in the small office above the bunker. It was meant as a gesture of goodwill, to put Danse at ease, but the former Brotherhood soldier cannot relax with the confirmed presence of a synth so close by.

It’s not that he really believes the detective will harm him, not after the way Valentine laid himself bare the day before. Old habits simply die hard.

He doesn’t have a way of knowing the time down here, but his biological clock has always been on point (perhaps that can be attributed to his synthetic nature, but he chooses not to dwell on that), and Danse gives up on sleep around six in the morning.

He sets about making breakfast instead, cursing when he sees the sorry state of his supplies. He can’t gamble on the possibility of Haylen stopping by today; he’ll have to go out to hunt or scavenge for food. He’s not sure he even needs to eat at all, but that’s not something he’s willing to find out, if only for his peace of mind.

Danse fries his last mirelurk eggs with half a can of cram, and it comes out edible, if not slightly charred. Nora would be proud.

He briefly wonders if he ought to offer Valentine some – but of course generation two synths don’t need food, don’t even have a digestive track, he’s seen the scribes take one of them apart for Steel’s sake – and Danse feels hot shame curling in his stomach, because he actually thought of Valentine as a person for a second there, and that’s just going too far.

His appetite gone and his mood soured, Danse goes and cleans his laser rifle with more aggression than strictly necessary, nearly breaking several of the sensitive parts in his haste. He’s not usually so eager to leave the confines of his sanctuary, since he runs the risk of encountering his former brothers and sisters every time he’s outside, but he’s more than happy to get out and shoot something today. Some exercise will keep his overactive mind at bay, and he’ll need a clear head if he wants to survive another godforsaken therapy session.

When he gets topside, Valentine is propped against the wall right across from the elevator, fiddling with a screw on his metal hand. Danse doesn’t fail to realise he has positioned himself in such a way that anyone coming from the elevator would be able to see him immediately, leaving no room for paranoia. It’s very thoughtful, and it pisses Danse off to no end.

Danse stalks past the other synth with long, purposeful strides. “I’m going hunting,” is the only explanation he offers, the words barked out like an order.

He can barely see the listening post in the distance when he realises Valentine has followed him.

Danse rounds on him, laser rifle aimed at his head. “What are you doing?”

Valentine doesn’t seem perturbed in the least by the gun pointed at him. “Making sure you don’t get yourself killed.”

Now that’s just insulting. “I’ve been trained to –”

“I’ve been on your tail since you left, and you didn’t notice until just now,” Valentine interrupts sharply. “If I were a raider, you’d already be six feet under.”

Danse huffs indignantly, but he cannot deny the truth of the detective’s statement. He’s unfocused, and that’s a sure way to get oneself killed in the field. This is why soldiers in the Brotherhood never run their missions solo.

“Fine,” he grinds out, nauseated by the fact that he’s been reduced to having a synth watch his back on such a simple errand. “Try not to scare the radstags.”

He continues walking, not bothering to see if Valentine is keeping up with him. The unexpected assistance is as unwelcome as it is necessary, and he’s really not up for conversation.

Of course, that doesn’t stop Valentine from starting one. “So, what’s gotten your nose out of joint this fine morning?”

“You.”

“Ah,” Valentine says, not sounding surprised in the least. “Any particular reason, or just my continued existence?”

“Both.”

“I see,” the detective drawls, and Danse hears the flicking of his old lighter, followed by the distinct scent of cigarette smoke. “You want to talk about it?”

“No.”

“Shame.”

But he respects Danse’s wishes, puffing quietly on his cigarette while they trek their way up a hill. Somehow, the silence is worse.

When they’re deep into the woods and Danse knows he must have scared away every nearby creature with his stomping, he gives up. Actively hating Valentine is exhausting. The old synth is ridiculously polite, doesn’t push him to do anything he doesn’t want to, doesn’t even assault him with the sharp tongue he’s famed for. And Danse just cannot be frustrated for no good reason anymore.

He stops and shoulders his rifle, but doesn’t turn around. “Why are you doing this?”

From the way Valentine skids to a halt, he wasn’t expecting the sudden change of pace, but he adapts swiftly. “I already told you, kid. I’m making sure you don’t get yourself killed.”

“But why?” Danse exclaims, loud enough to scare the birds from a nearby tree. “Why do you care what happens to me at all?”

Valentine sighs, and walks up to stand next to him. He’s close enough for Danse to hear his internal fans whirring in the silence of the woods. “I already told you that, too. Because you didn’t deserve any of this.”

“Didn’t I?” Danse mutters darkly, the question directed more at himself than at Valentine. “I am the very thing I despise, the very thing I vowed to eradicate. I am the goddamn definition of irony. Isn’t that just… karma?”

“Not even karma is this much of a bitch.”

He offers Danse his cigarette, and Danse takes it, inhaling until his lungs burn. He’s smoked before, to cope with stress, but he’s never allowed himself to make a habit of it, concerned it would have an impact on his physical wellbeing. But it doesn’t matter, it never mattered. He’s a synth, and the perfect bill of health he used to be so proud of is nothing more than clever engineering. He doubts the smokes could do him harm even if he went through a carton a day.

Valentine lights up another cigarette for himself, staring at the speck of grey that is the Prydwen in the distance. “Why’d you join up with them in the first place?” he asks, gesturing towards the airship.

Danse scowls. “I will not divulge any of the Brotherhood’s classified intelligence to a civilian.”

“Civilian, huh?” Valentine asks, sounding strangely amused. “Well, I’ve been called worse things. But I’m not asking you to tell me all of Maxson’s deepest personal secrets. Just curious what the appeal of the Brotherhood was to a guy like you.”

Danse considers his options for a moment, but he’s quick to decide there can’t be any harm in telling Valentine this much. It’s not a particularly exciting story, in any case. “Before the Brotherhood, I lived in Rivet City,” he begins, carefully. “Those are the first memories I have that I know for certain are real. I ran a small store, sold bits and pieces I found scavenging. Barely scraped by.”

“A store?” The surprise in Valentine’s voice is palpable. “Huh. Never pegged you for a merchant.”

“Because of my charming personality?” Danse asks wryly, smirking when Valentine flounders for an acceptable response. “I wasn’t much of a salesman, but I could get my hands on salvage most others couldn’t, and that kept me in business. And after some time, I met a… a friend, who helped me man it. He was better with people than I was.”

Dammit. He didn’t mean to bring up Cutler, doesn’t want to share that part of himself with anyone, let alone Valentine. Even Nora doesn’t know about him.

He quickly continues, glossing over his slip-up. “It wasn’t a bad life, per se. I had a home in the largest city of the Capital Wasteland, cramped as it was, and I never went long without a meal. But it was meaningless. I wasn’t doing anything worthwhile; I merely existed.”

He snuffs out his cigarette underneath his boot. “The Brotherhood of Steel were the protectors of the Capital Wasteland. Elder Lyons established the East Coast chapter, uncovered Liberty Prime, and won the hearts of the people by assisting them in their battle against the Super Mutants and other scum of the earth. I don’t think there was anyone in Rivet City who hadn’t heard of the Scourge.”

The pride in his voice amplifies with each syllable. “Some did not agree with the Elder’s methods, leading to a rift in the ranks. When the deserters calling themselves the Outcasts left the Citadel, the Brotherhood began drafting capable civilians. I signed up immediately. The chance to get out of my nowhere life, to fight for something worthwhile… it was all I ever dreamed of.”

He shouldn’t be telling Valentine this much, but now that he’s started, he can’t seem to stop. “Elder Lyons was idealistic. He wanted the Brotherhood to be to the Capital Wasteland what the Minutemen are to the Commonwealth. I spent my days as a Knight running myself ragged, exterminating Super Mutants, aiding civilians, securing technology.” He smiles sadly, wistfully. “It was the happiest time of my life.”

Those days under Krieg’s command, side by side with Cutler, seem like a distant dream now.

Valentine doesn’t seem to have noticed that his cigarette has burned out, eyes fixed intently on Danse’s face. “And that, kid, is why I’m doing this,” he says earnestly. “Because despite everything, you’re a good man underneath.”

Danse shouldn’t feel so pleased by a synth’s praise, but dammit, he does. It’s been so long since he’s had a pat on the back that he’s nearly forgotten what it feels like. “Thank you,” he says, even managing to add, after a beat: “You aren’t… terrible, yourself.”

Valentine smiles at that, much more brightly than someone with a silicone face should be able to. “I’ll take it.”

He finally takes the remains of his cigarette from his lips. “We ought to get this show back on the road. Day’s not getting any younger.”

That snaps Danse back to his senses. Being outside is dangerous. Every minute he spends out here, the chance of running into the Brotherhood increases. He shouldn’t have let his guard down, shouldn’t have put himself and Valentine at this much risk. And damn it all, every radstag within a ten mile radius must’ve fled from all the noise they’ve made by now.

Cursing himself, Danse checks the map Haylen left him with, and picks a new destination. “There are some old estates not far from here,” he muses aloud. “With some luck, the former owners left behind some surplus.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Valentine nods. “Which way?”

“West.”

“Let’s get a move on, then.”

“Affirmative.”

Chapter Text

The West Everett Estates are overrun with Super Mutants.

Danse’s stomach churns at the stench of rotting meat, the sight of green-skinned giants lumbering about. Filthy abominations. He’ll be glad to exterminate them.

“You sure about this?” Valentine asks, sounding concerned. “I doubt they left anything much edible behind.”

“I cannot in good conscience leave a Super Mutant hive here unchecked,” Danse replies, already inspecting his rifle to ensure optimal firepower. “It must be cleansed of this infestation.”

Valentine sighs heavily. “You know, you’re making this whole ‘keeping you alive’ thing a lot harder than I think it needs to be.”

“You’re free to leave at any time,” Danse reminds him calmly. The anger he displayed that morning has long since dispersed, and all he feels now is a cold, calculated desire to wipe some Muties from the face of the earth. Banished from the Brotherhood or not, he is still a soldier, and he knows how to focus on his mission. Having backup is preferred, but ultimately not necessary. He’s taken out more enemies in worse conditions before.

There’s a distinct click as Valentine makes sure his old revolver is properly loaded, a look of resignation on his face. “So, you have a plan?”

From their position behind an old delivery van, Danse can see the largest, meanest-looking Mutant standing atop roof of the centremost house. “That’s the primary target,” he tells Valentine, pointing the repulsive creature out to him. “Once the leader goes down, the others will become disorganised. Their hellhounds will attempt to locate us, which makes them our secondary targets. There’s two up with the leader, one down at three ‘o clock. They have not been armoured and should prove no challenge. Everything else that moves is a tertiary target.”

Valentine lets out an impressed little whistle. “It’s almost like you’ve done this before.”

“Once or twice,” Danse grins, flicking off the safety of his rifle. “Are you prepared?”

“To take out a colony of Super Mutants?” Valentine drawls. “As I’ll ever be.”

“Outstanding. On my signal.”

He waits for the pack leader to turn away from them, its unclad back the perfect target. Danse flicks his hand to enact the signal the Brotherhood uses to begin an assault – and then realises that Valentine won’t know it for what it is, that he isn’t Brotherhood, has never been Brotherhood, and that Danse isn’t Brotherhood anymore either. He sucks in a breath through his teeth, willing away the unwelcome feeling of despair that bubbles up inside his chest. He needs to focus, or both their lives will be forfeit.

In lieu of a better signal, he looks back at Valentine and jerks his head in the direction of the estates. The detective nods his affirmation, and both of them take aim.

The first laser beam strikes true, sending the head Mutant stumbling forward with the unexpected force of it. A split second later, one of the hounds lets out a pitiful whimper, Valentine’s bullet lodged firmly in its side. An excellent start to their offense.

Another Mutant rushes from a nearby house, and Danse is forced to interrupt his assault on the leader to address the more immediate threat. Valentine stays focused on the hounds, which proves fortunate as one of the beast bounds in their direction. Danse keeps his attention on the Super Mutant, trusting Valentine to keep the hound off him. It goes against all of his training, his every instinct, to put so much faith in a synth, but Danse doesn’t have time to think about it, can’t with one Mutant barrelling towards him and the leader still alive and shouting orders.

The hound never reaches them, and Danse downs the wayward Super Mutant with two shots to the head in quick succession. He immediately aims his rifle back at the chief, his laser fire supported by Valentine’s bullets. Danse rolls away from their cover behind the van when the Mutants begin to realise where the shots are coming from, his energy-based weapon drawing much more attention than Valentine’s ballistic one. A trio of Mutants amble towards him, but he keeps his fire concentrated on the leader, emptying a fully charged fusion cell into the ugly bastard before it finally, finally drops dead.

As he predicted, the others lose their sense of direction now that their leader is gone, and Danse makes the most out of the confusion by gunning down two of the Mutants closest to him before dashing from cover, rushing up a crudely constructed walkway to take a more prone position up on the now vacant rooftops.

From there, it’s easy. Danse picks off most of the others from his position up high, and the steady sound of gunfire lets him know that Valentine is still actively assisting him. They can do this.

Before long, the last Mutant keels over, and then there’s nothing but silence.

Danse breathes heavily, keeping his rifle poised for another minute to ensure he hasn’t missed a straggler. But nothing moves, and Danse feels immensely pleased, more pleased than he’s been with himself since he learned The Truth. Nothing is quite as satisfactory as ridding the world of a bunch of Super Mutants.

“Status?” he calls down, his voice echoing between the dilapidated houses.

“Still kickin’,” Valentine yells back, stepping out from his cover behind the delivery van. “Was that all of them?”

“We’re clear,” Danse affirms. He shoulders his rifle and then hops down from the roof, not even bothering with the walkway. The brief moment of weightlessness is exhilarating; he always preferred jumping off the Prydwen in his power armour over taking a Vertibird for the very same reason. Rhys used to look at him like he’d lost his marbles, but then the Knight is terrified of heights.

“Well,” Valentine says as he approaches, shaking Danse from his reminiscence, “that’s one way to get the coolant pumping.”

Danse chuckles, surprising both himself and Valentine, but he can’t help it. This little escapade has lifted his mood considerably. “There’s nothing more gratifying than a proper Mutant decimation.”

Valentine lights up two cigarettes, wordlessly passing one to Danse. His eyes glow brightly in the dim light of the sunset, and his expression is contemplative as he regards his companion. “So, what’s your issue with the greenskins?”

Danse raises an eyebrow at him. “Surely you’re joking.”

“I get that general disdain for non-human creatures is a requirement for entry with the Brotherhood of Steel,” Valentine says offhandedly. “But your hatred for Super Mutants is something else, alright.”

“That’s –” Danse begins, but the words ‘none of your business’ die on his tongue. Valentine’s just provided him with backup when no one else would, had every chance and reason to leave and stuck with him anyway. Perhaps he’s earned this.

He takes a drag of his cigarette, blowing the smoke into the shape of a ring. A trick Cutler taught him. “The friend I mentioned before, the one who helped me run my store in Rivet City, he… he joined the Brotherhood when I did. We were sponsored by the same Paladin, we went through training together, we were both promoted to Knight at the same time. He was an excellent soldier, and a good man.”

Valentine regards him with a strangely soft expression. “Super Mutants killed him?”

“He should have been so lucky,” Danse spits. “He and his team vanished while on a scouting op. It took some convincing, but eventually my CO allowed me to assemble a squad to look for him. We searched for almost three weeks before we finally tracked his squad to a Super Mutant hive. Those wretched abominations had slaughtered everyone. Everyone but him.”

“God,” Valentine gasps, understanding written across his face. “The FEV.”

“His name was Erwin Cutler,” Danse grinds out, his throat constricting as he thinks of the pure anguish in Cutler’s eyes, the one part of him that was still recognisable after the FEV took hold and twisted him into a monster. “And I killed him.”

“I’m so sorry, kid,” Valentine offers quietly, laying a hand on Danse’s forearm in sympathy. It’s his good hand, Danse suddenly realises; he always uses his left hand when he touches Danse, or hands him something, even though it’s obvious he favours his right. It’s a small gesture, almost insignificant, but Danse is suddenly overwhelmed by the thoughtfulness of it. Since he arrived, Valentine has been nothing but patient and understanding, despite Danse’s hostility and reluctance.

It hits him in that moment that Nick Valentine, an undeniable synth, someone he should hate for merely existing, has shown him more kindness in these last two days than most of his former brothers and sisters have in the past decade.

He doesn’t quite realise he’s crying until Valentine pushes an old, worn handkerchief into his palm. The old synth tactfully looks the other way as Danse wipes his eyes, surveying the carnage the two of them created as he finishes his cigarette.

“I’m sorry,” Danse manages to choke out, his voice rough around the lump in his throat.

“I shouldn’t have asked,” Valentine responds readily. “It’s obviously a sensitive –”

“No,” Danse interrupts, pushing through before his mind can catch up with his aching heart. “I’m sorry.”

His voice breaks, and Valentine turns to regard him with wide eyes. What a sight he must make, the former proud Paladin of the Brotherhood of Steel reduced to a snivelling mess of a synth. But the detective smiles at him as if he’s the most wonderful thing in the world. “Thank you, Danse.”

Danse shakes his head, because Valentine shouldn’t be thanking him for the barest of apologies he so clearly deserves, because Danse should be the one thanking him for all he has done, but words fail him, the tears he didn’t realise he needed to shed now flowing relentlessly down his cheeks.

He hasn’t cried since long before his banishment, the last time some years ago when he had a drink too many on the anniversary of Cutler’s death. The Truth spun everything to hell, ruined his very sense of self, but all the desolation and despair he felt never left his body. Yet now, here in the middle of a battlefield he should have been standing on with a Brotherhood squad rather than a single old synth, everything comes pouring out. Danse cries for everything he has lost, for his place in the world, for his brothers and sisters, for Cutler. And he cries for everything he has gained, for his life, for the truth, for the kindness he’s been shown by Haylen, and Nora, and Valentine.

It’s a while before he composes himself, and then it’s difficult to look Valentine in the eye. “I – my apologies for the outburst,” he says stiffly. “It was unsightly.”

Valentine snorts a laugh. “In therapy, we call that ‘progress’, kid.”

And Danse would snap at him for that, point out that the detective is nothing close to a psychiatrist, but then he cannot deny that he feels much lighter than before. Bone-tired, and sore, but light. “Remind me never to go to group therapy, then.”

Valentine laughs again, genuinely delighted at his awkward humour. “I’ll have my secretary make a note of it.”

Danse smiles at that, and it’s so strange to share amicable quips with someone he would have shot on sight only months ago, but it feels astoundingly good. He doesn’t know if he’ll ever truly be able to lay aside the Brotherhood’s ideals, not after abiding by the Codex for so very long, but he does know that he can, at the very least, make an exception for this one particular synth.

“Thank you,” he says, the expression of gratitude carrying a weight the mere words do not betray.

How a generation two synth can look bashful is a mystery Danse will never be able to solve, but there is no other word for the expression on Valentine’s face. “I’ll admit, when Nora told me to go talk to you, I hadn’t expected much to come of it. It’s good to be wrong sometimes.”

“It is,” Danse affirms. He should know; he’s been wrong about a whole damn lot lately, and while it scares the hell out of him to be left without any of the answers he once thought he had, he’s tentatively beginning to hope he can find a sense of purpose again. And that, to him, is worth everything.

Valentine takes his ever-present pack of smokes from his jacket, shaking it to hear just a single remaining cigarette rattle inside. “Damn,” he curses. “Don’t suppose Super Mutants keep a stack of Grey Tortoises around?”

The idea of a Super Mutant trying to suck nicotine from the tiny sticks of tobacco is so ludicrous it brings a smile to his face. “Well, if they’ve left anything untouched, it will be those.”

Valentine takes one look around the small cluster of houses, those that are still standing decorated distastefully with human remains, and Danse can tell they’re thinking the exact same thing: fat chance that there’s anything left untouched in this hellhole. But Valentine needs cigarettes, and Danse needs food, and there’s no harm in searching the place for useful loot now that the Mutant infestation has been dealt with.

“Come on,” he says, his sights set on the house that looks the least violated. “If I’ve learned anything useful during my time with the Brotherhood, it’s how to extract equipment from undesirable locations.”

“I’ll take your word for it, kid.”

Shoulder to shoulder, the two synths walk down the road.

Chapter Text

That night, Danse sleeps like a log.

Perhaps it’s the mental exhaustion that inevitably comes with baring one’s soul to another. Perhaps it’s the sense of security he feels now that his supplies have been sufficiently restocked, a hidden shelter underneath the West Everett Estates surprisingly providing a plethora of food and water. Perhaps it’s the fact that Nick Valentine is in the other room of the bunker, and the sound of his internal fans whirring as he runs his night-time diagnostics is so very similar to the sound of the Prydwen’s propellers, an ever-present background noise that reminds him he’s home, and he’s safe.

He doesn’t rightly know which it is, and he also doesn’t particularly care. His body desperately needs the rest, and considering he isn’t in need of sleep as much as a human is, that’s saying something.

In fact, he could have slept for quite a while longer, and would have, if he wasn’t startled from his slumber by a loud, terrified shriek.

He’s up and running before he can properly process what’s happening, laser rifle clutched tightly in his hands, bare feet aching from the rough stone floors of the cave connecting the rooms of the bunker.

“Valentine!” he calls, cursing himself the moment he does so – you don’t give away your position, especially when you don’t know the numbers and position of the enemy, he can almost hear Krieg bellowing it at him.

The detective stands in the middle of the other room, hands raised above his head in a clear show of surrender. “We’ve got company, kid.”

Pointed at Nick is a laser pistol, standard Brotherhood issue, and Danse feels his blood turn to ice in his veins. The Brotherhood has found him. The Brotherhood knows. The Brotherhood is going to kill him, and Nick. The Brotherhood –

His sleep-addled mind catches up with him, and the familiar sights of red hair, blue eyes, and a field scribe’s uniform suddenly click. “Haylen.”

“Danse,” Haylen says, relieved, her eyes briefly flicking towards Danse before fixating once again on the generation two synth in front of her. “What the hell…?”

“Put the gun down, Scribe,” he orders, and she instinctively obeys him. “There are no enemies here.”

Nick slowly lowers his hands, under Haylen’s watchful eye. “Sorry for the scare, doll. This old mug tends to have that effect.”

Haylen gives Danse a questioning look, and he nods his assent. “This is Nick,” he introduces the old synth to his former subordinate. “He’s… a friend.”

“Oh. I see,” Haylen says after a beat. She holsters her pistol and gives Nick an only slightly strained smile. “Sorry about that. Old habits, you know. I’m Field Scribe Fiona Haylen, Recon Squad Gladius, Brotherhood of Steel.”

She stops just short of saluting him, her fist already halfway to her chest before she remembers herself. She lets her arm drop lamely by her side, her face slowly turning the same colour as her hair. “Old habits,” she says again, sheepishly.

“Detective Nick Valentine, Valentine Detective Agency, Diamond City,” Nick returns the formal greeting without a hint of mockery, tipping his hat at her. “It’s a pleasure.”

“Likewise,” Haylen nods, her tense smile relaxing into something more genuine. “Good to see someone’s keeping the chief company.”

The ease with which she refers to Nick as a ‘someone’ would give Maxson an aneurism, and Danse doesn’t think he’s ever been prouder of her. Haylen is loyal to the Brotherhood, believes in their Codex as strongly as any other soldier, but she’s never been afraid to form her own opinion, and do whatever she thinks is best in any given situation. It’s cost her at least one promotion, he knows from Quinlan’s rather lacklustre assessment of her back when he was assembling the recon team he would lead into the Commonwealth. To think he’d almost chosen another scribe over her because of that.

“Alright, it’s too early for this,” Danse says, running a hand through his already tousled hair. Thank Steel he wore a shirt to bed. “Have you had breakfast, Haylen?”

Haylen raises an eyebrow at him. “It’s almost noon, you know.”

Danse stops dead in his tracks, his eyes comically wide. “Noon?”

“Give or take half an hour, if the old chronometer can be trusted,” Nick affirms.

“Hell,” Danse mutters, momentarily dazed. He can’t remember ever waking up this late, even before he enlisted with the Brotherhood. “Why didn’t you wake me?”

“You looked like you needed the rest.”

Danse can’t argue with that. If it hadn’t been for Haylen’s arrival, he would have slept the whole damn day away. “Lunch, then,” he says, grimacing. “For fuck’s sake…”

Haylen giggles at his disgruntlement. “I brought supplies,” she says, patting her backpack. “Mostly stuff that’ll keep, but I snatched a bit of Brahmin meat as well.”

Brahmin. He hasn’t had Brahmin in months now. “You’re a miracle, Haylen.”

“Oh, I know,” she says cheekily.

She saunters right past Danse deeper into the bunker, already rummaging through her pack in search of something suitable for lunch.

Nick chuckles. “She’s a firecracker, that one. Reminds me of Ellie.”

“Ellie?”

“My secretary,” Nick elaborates. “Lovely gal. My office wouldn’t be half the place it is without her straightening out the paperwork and reminding me to check my systems every once in a while.”

A secretary. For the agency he runs, in Diamond City. The agency he’s left behind because Nora told him to go to an old listening post in the middle of nowhere to talk to the desolate synth who used to be a Brotherhood of Steel Paladin hiding out there. He must have so many better things to do than hang around here.

“You don’t have to stay,” Danse says quietly, even if the thought of Nick leaving him here all alone again makes dread settle heavily in his stomach. “I understand you have more important matters to attend to.”

Nick puts his good hand on Danse’s shoulder. “And cut Ellie’s vacation to Goodneighbor short? I may as well shoot myself now.”

Danse knows deflection when he sees it. “I mean it, Valentine,” he pushes, even if he doesn’t mean it at all. “You can’t stay here forever.”

“I know,” Nick says, and he manages to smile a smile that looks faked, even on his robotic features. “But I don’t need to leave quite yet either. Unless you’d prefer some, ah, private time with the lady?”

“Private time?” Danse asks, his brows knit together in confusion before the implication hits home, and suddenly he’s spluttering for an answer, heat rushing to his cheeks. “That’s not – I couldn’t – Rhys is – no!”

Nick just laughs, genuinely this time. “Can’t keep her waiting either, chief,” he teases, seamlessly taking over Haylen’s ridiculous nickname. “C’mon, I’ll chaperone.”

Danse allows himself to be led into the cave, only vaguely aware that Nick expertly circumvented the difficult subject, too busy trying to school his face into a look of neutrality as they approach Haylen.

She looks up from the pot she’s put on the fire at their approach. “Gossiping about me?”

“No,” Danse says just a tad too quickly, and both Nick and Haylen chuckle at his expression, like a child caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

“Just good things, I hope?” Haylen asks, a smirk playing at the corners of her lips.

 “Couldn’t do otherwise if we tried,” Nick replies easily, and Haylen beams at him.

Danse shakes his head at the two of them. “I miss Rhys,” he grumbles good-naturedly, but he’s only half-joking. For all his faults, Rhys was one of the few who took his duty as a soldier as seriously as Danse did, and Danse often found himself in the company of the Knight whenever he wished to discuss business during downtime (which was quite often indeed). He’d chosen Rhys to join Recon Squad Gladius for that very reason, knowing full well their mission required personnel that were willing to go above and beyond.

Haylen’s face falls at the mention of Rhys, and Danse mentally kicks himself. She’s told him during her previous visit how distant Rhys has become since the Brotherhood discovered Danse’s true identity, her defence of their former squad leader not sitting well with the Knight at all. Adding in the fact that she’s clearly still infatuated with him, which even Danse hasn’t failed to pick up on, and the mere sound of Rhys’ name is enough to dampen Haylen’s mood.

“How is Rhys?” he dares to ask after a beat.

“Pissed,” Haylen says with a shrug. “There was another opening for Paladin last week, and Elder Maxson didn’t even consider promoting him.”

“Because he served under me,” Danse fills in the blanks easily enough. Maxson promoted Nora because it would look suspicious if he hadn’t, after she supposedly hunted down and executed the synth traitor, but the Elder would be much harder on anyone else who used to be friendly with Danse.

“No one dares to say it, but yeah, pretty much,” Haylen affirms, her brows furrowed as she stirs the stew she’s preparing.

“I’m sorry,” Danse says earnestly. Another life made worse for his presence in it. “He doesn’t deserve that.”

Haylen snorts. “If everyone in the Commonwealth got what they deserved, you’d be High Elder, Maxson would still be a squire, and Rhys would be exactly where he is now.”

In another life, Danse would be berating her for her blatant lack of respect for Arthur Maxson, but now he can’t help the small smile that appears on his face at her words. Whether or not she’s correct is up for debate, but he certainly appreciates the sentiment.

Nick leans towards him, and says, in a harsh stage-whisper: “You know, I think I like this gal.”

That gets a laugh out of Haylen. “Don’t tell the Brotherhood,” she says, in the same conspiratory whisper, “but the feeling’s mutual, shamus.”

“Shamus?” Danse asks, the term unfamiliar to him.

“Private eye,” Nick clarifies for him. “You ought to read some more hardboiled fiction.”

Danse is prepared to scoff at that, because most fiction is uninformative and therefore not worth the time and effort, especially when there are plenty of manuals and other educational materials to peruse – but then he doesn’t exactly have access to Proctor Quinlan’s vast library of technical documents anymore, and it’s not as though he’s strapped for time these days. “Any recommendations?”

“Oh!” Haylen perks up immediately, nearly dropping the already chipped bowl she’s ladling some stew into. “I found a mostly intact copy of The Maltese Falcon at an old school recently. It’s brilliant, and I have it right at Cambridge Police Station. I’ll bring it next time!”

Danse wants to thank her for her thoughtfulness, but before he can open his mouth, Nick cuts in. “Cambridge Police Station?” the detective demands, his voice sharper than Danse has ever heard it before.

Haylen starts at his tone, and Danse too feels uneasy seeing such a dark look on the old synth’s face. Not because he doesn’t trust Nick – he’s passed that station by now – but because it doesn’t fit him whatsoever. “We established it as a Brotherhood outpost when we first came to the Commonwealth on recon duty,” he explains. “Why?”

“Did you find a holotape in the evidence lockup?” Nick asks urgently. “Recorded by an Eddie Winter?”

There’s a hint of recognition on Haylen’s face at the mention of the name; as the squad’s only scribe, she was the one who catalogued everything relevant they found, and she likely listened to whatever holotapes were left at the station to determine their value. She hesitates to reveal the information, first looking to Danse for confirmation. Only when he nods his approval does she address Nick. “I think I know the tape you’re talking about. It didn’t contain any useful intel for the Brotherhood, so I never logged it. It should still be at the station.”

Nick closes his eyes, and the look of pain on his face is startling. “Doll,” he says gently, “I realise I have no business asking you any favours whatsoever, but… what are the chances you can get that holotape out of Cambridge?”

“No one will notice if it goes missing. I’m pretty sure I’m the only one who even knows it’s there,” Haylen answers contemplatively. “But it will be a while before I can make the trip here again. I don’t want to risk anyone following me, and Paladin Brandis has been suspicious as it is.”

Brandis always was a sharp one. Danse almost regrets convincing him to return to the Brotherhood. “Haylen,” he begins, his mind working quickly, “do you think you can leave the holotape at the old administration building?”

“That shouldn’t be a problem,” she says. The whole of College Square turned into Brotherhood territory when the reinforcements arrived, but the collegiate administration building was left without a guard once everything useful had been extracted from it, the old, crumbling structure not worth the hassle of protecting it. Anyone noticing a scribe heading for the place wouldn’t think twice about it. It will be trickier for him and Nick to sneak into the building, their confirmed identities as synths reason enough for any Brotherhood personnel to shoot them on sight, but with the cover of nighttime, it should be doable.

Nick looks from Danse to Haylen, shaking his head. “If it’s too much of a risk –”

“The risk is minimal,” Danse assures him. Haylen won’t face any penalties, even if she is caught with the holotape in her possession, because the tape isn’t anything the Brotherhood is interested in. Danse is confident the two of them can manage the rest.

Besides, he can tell this is important to Nick, for reasons he’ll be sure to ask about once Haylen leaves. And after all the detective’s done for him, he’s eager to return the favour.

They can do this.

Chapter Text

They head out a few hours after Haylen has left, giving Danse enough time to pack supplies and set up some defences to protect the listening post in his absence. Nick assists without complaint whenever Danse asks him to, but the detective is eerily quiet, a look of haunted contemplation on his face that Danse is all too familiar with. He’s worn it himself plenty of times.

Once they’re on the road, Danse asks the dreaded question. “Why is this holotape of such importance to you?”

“It’s relevant to a case I’ve been working on,” Nick responds readily, but curtly. It’s obvious he doesn’t want to talk about it.

Then again, Danse didn’t want to discuss anything with Nick when the old synth first came to his bunker, and look where they ended up. So, he pushes. “What case?”

Nick sighs. “It’s… a long story.”

“I don’t have any prior engagements,” Danse says wryly.

“Hah,” Nick chuckles mirthlessly. “Alright, you damn menace. I’ll tell you.”

He lights a cigarette first, though.

“Once upon a time, in the land of Boston, there lived a king of organised crime. Eddie Winter,” Nick begins, rather dramatically. “The original Nick Valentine tangoed with Winter a few times, but the slippery weasel always managed to avoid the axe.”

“Your human counterpart began this investigation?” Danse asks, his brow furrowed in confusion. “Haven’t the involved parties long since perished?”

“You’d think so,” Nick says darkly, “but Winter was an arrogant bastard. He wanted to cheat death, live forever. So he invested his money in some sick, crazy radiation experiment.”

Danse’s eyes widen. “You don’t mean…?”

“Yep. Eddie Winter went and turned himself into a Ghoul. Two-hundred years before it was fashionable. Hell, he was probably the first one,” Nick confirms Danse’s fears. “Then he sealed himself inside a personal shelter, and he never came back out.”

“He’s still alive?”

“I’m convinced of it. Bastard’s just biding his time,” the detective growls, crushing the filter of his cigarette between his teeth. “I want to find him, and kill him, so he’ll never hurt anyone again.”

“An admirable endeavour,” Danse is quick to admit. “Do you believe Winter’s holotape contains a clue to his location?”

Nick shakes his head. “I know exactly where he’s holed up. Problem is, his little vault is sealed with a complex numerical code. The digits are hidden inside the messages he recorded on ten holotapes back in the day. I have it on good authority that the tape your gal is fetching for us is one of those ten.”

“What about the others?”

“I have three of them, and I know another is at the police station down in Quincy, but that place has been so damn overrun with Gunners I haven’t been able to go after it,” Nick says dourly. “The other five should be scattered across the Commonwealth, in different precincts. If no one has snatched them by now.”

“If these holotapes are so difficult to obtain, why not wait for Winter to emerge voluntarily?” Danse asks, not unreasonably. “It sounds like he can do little harm from his current location, and barring any unfortunate incidents, you’ll live at least as long as he will.”

“No,” Nick says immediately, furiously. “I want the goddamn bastard dead yesterday!”

Danse starts at the unrestrained anger that radiates from the other synth, a far throw from his usual calm demeanour. “This sounds like a vendetta,” he observes. “What did Eddie Winter do to the human Nick Valentine?”

Nick flings the butt of his cigarette into the bushes. “It’s nothing,” he says, and it’s the first time since Danse met him that the synth has blatantly lied to his face. “Just... something I need to take care of. Justice has to be served.”

Danse stops walking and crosses his arms, the frown on his face a chilling sight. “I understand this may be a difficult subject, and I apologise if I’ve overstepped my bounds. But I do not appreciate the dishonesty.”

“Then go back to your bunker,” Nick spits, “and let me handle this alone.”

“That’s a negative.”

Nick rounds on him. “You don’t get to make that call, bucko.”

“I do when we’re headed for enemy territory,” Danse retorts stonily. “Especially when I have inside knowledge of said territory, and you’re obviously in no mindset to make sound tactical decisions. As you would put it, I’m going to make sure you don’t get yourself killed, whether you appreciate it or not.”

That gets to him. Nick looks down, the light of his eyes dimming. “Looks like you’ve turned the tables on me, huh?” he says softly. “And you’re damn right, too. Winter just… gets my motor running. Literally. He needs to be taken down, Danse. And I need to be the one to do it.”

“But why?” Danse asks again. “Why does it have to be you?”

Nick fixes his eyes on the horizon, distress evident in his posture. “I’ve got memories. Of a… of a girl. My girl,” he says solemnly. “They're not really my memories, I know that. They're Nick’s. But the girl... she was real. She was beautiful, and innocent, and Winter killed her. Now he's got to pay the price.”

“I understand,” Danse says, and he does. If the bastard Mutant who’d infected Cutler with the FEV had gotten away, Danse would have chased it to the depths of hell and back to get his vengeance. “We will procure you those holotapes. You have my word.”

Nick looks at him with a startled expression. “You don’t have to –”

“No, I don’t,” Danse agrees easily. “But I want to.”

“It’s dangerous out for you,” Nick protests, and the concern in his tone is flattering.

“No more than it is for you,” Danse counters. The Brotherhood will shoot Nick just as soon as they’ll shoot him. “And I’m tired of hiding underground. If I have to live, I wish to do it on the surface. And if I have to die, I would be honoured to do so in the pursuit of justice.”

It’s what Nora’s been telling him all along. But it’s only now, as he speaks the words, that he realises he means them.

For a while, Nick stares at him, his jaw slack. Then he shakes his head, and chuckles. “I can’t believe you’re the same person as the xenophobic jackass who nearly shot me the first time we met.”

Danse grimaces at the memory. “Yes, well, a full-blown identity crisis can do that to you.”

“You don’t have to tell me,” Nick says, a speck of humour in his voice, and Danse is pleased to see some of the tension seep from his shoulders. “I appreciate this, Danse. I really do.”

“I should hope so,” Danse says dryly, but his smile betrays his satisfaction. He may not have found a purpose of his own yet, but sharing the burden of Nick’s vendetta is as worthy a goal as any. He’s glad to be doing something useful again.

They continue their way south in much higher spirits, though Danse is sure to keep himself focused. Haylen told them the patrols out of Cambridge don't yet penetrate too deeply into the Commonwealth, the Brotherhood focusing on strengthening their hold on existing territory before attempting to expand, but Danse prefers to be cautious. It takes just one squad deciding to travel a bit further, one vertibird flying a little off-course, and they’ll have a serious mess on their hands. A mess that Danse would rather avoid.

They enter confirmed Brotherhood territory about an hour after the sun has disappeared behind the horizon. Danse knows the area like the back of his hand, and if the soldiers at the police station still follow the patrol routes he himself has set up, he also knows how to avoid the majority of their forces.

He leads Nick around College Square, taking care to give the Cambridge Police Station a wide berth, keeping eyes and ears open for any Brotherhood soldiers or mechanical defences. The collegiate administration building they’re heading for is at the very edge of the Square, tucked away in a comforting darkness the Brotherhood’s spotlights cannot reach. Under the cover of the moonless night, the synth duo makes it to their destination without incident.

“Top floor,” Danse whispers to Nick once they’re safely inside. The upper floors of the building contain nothing but dust and crumbling ceilings, he knows from his previous expeditions. Haylen will have left them the tape in the least visited, most inconspicuous place.

They creep up the stairs, and Danse doesn’t allow himself to relax until he’s certain the entire building is deserted but for the two of them. He doesn’t dare let his guard down completely, though. A soldier must always be prepared for disaster to strike, especially when behind enemy lines.

“Over here,” Nick says suddenly, bending over to pick up a small stack of items. “I believe this one’s meant for you.”

He passes Danse an old pre-war book, the title of which is unreadable but for the word ‘falcon’, and Danse finds himself smiling at Haylen’s thoughtfulness. He doesn’t know where he’d be if it hadn’t been for her.

He tucks away the book into his rucksack, treating it like the precious commodity it is, while Nick inserts a holotape into a compartment on his arm. Danse can’t hear it play, but he can tell from Nick’s expression that the tape is indeed the one he was looking for. He leaves the old synth be, instead looking over the supplies he’s packed for the journey. He’d been expecting their trip to Cambridge to take two days at most, so he will have to return to the listening post to stock up before they can make the trek to Quincy. If he takes as much as he can carry, he’ll be able to feed himself for a few weeks at least.

The holotape stops playing with a distinct click, and Nick sucks in a deep breath of air he doesn’t need. “Hearing the bastard’s voice always pisses me off,” he confesses, staring at the tape clenched between his metal fingers with disgust. “To think he managed to make a deal with the feds because of these things.”

“Winter had an arrangement with the federal government?” Danse asks.

“He did. Recorded these tapes to incriminate his associates, in return for immunity. But Nick didn’t know that. He was called down to the BAFTL to head a taskforce dedicated to bringing Winter down, through the holotapes,” Nick explains, bitterness evident in his voice. “Operation Winter’s End. Months of work, all for nothing.”

“And now you will use the tapes to bring him down after all,” Danse points out. “I do believe that’s called poetic justice.”

Nick barks a laugh. “Ain’t nothing poetic about it, chief. But it is justice, all right.”

He looks like he wants to say more, but the unmistakable sound of a door slamming shut some floors below makes both of them freeze in place. Shit.

Danse ducks down immediately, his years of training kicking in before he can think twice. He’s never been proficient at covert operations, but he’s out of Power Armour and he can safely assume that whoever entered the building doesn’t know they’re here, or they would have taken more care keeping the noise down. As it is, he can clearly hear two voices laughing, though he cannot make out what they’re saying.

He creeps towards the stairs, Nick close behind, and dares a peak through the railing. With most of the floor below them missing entirely, he can see a large portion of the ground floor, including the two orange-clad Brotherhood soldiers engaged in a very heated kiss atop the front desk.

Feeling warmth creep up his neck at the sight, Danse quickly ducks back into the hall, pulling Nick along with him. It’s unlikely the couple below will take their party upstairs, so they’re relatively safe here, but they’ll have to wait the pair out before they can sneak out of the building. The only other option available is to get out onto the balcony and jump down, but that’s unnecessarily dangerous. They’re better off staying where they are.

But just because it’s the better option doesn’t mean it’s pleasant.

The fifteen minutes he spends sitting on the thin carpet of the top floor, side by side with Nick, listening to two of his former brothers indulging in horizontal refreshments, are without a doubt the longest of his life. Danse thanks whatever higher power there may be that downtime in the Brotherhood never lasts long, and any escapades such as this rarely take longer than absolutely necessary.

Still, it feels like forever before the blissful sound of the front door slamming closed behind the soldiers reaches his ears.

Nick, whose eyes were firmly fixed on a dark spot on the ceiling for the duration of their entrapment, awkwardly clears his throat. “Well, that was… something.”

“I believe the word you’re looking for is ‘mortifying’,” Danse says, his voice muffled because he’s long since buried his face in his hands.

Nick lights them both a cigarette, which Danse accepts gladly. It’s not exactly what he envisioned when he first heard the term ‘post-coitus smoke’, but damn it if he doesn’t need one right now.

“I guess we ought to consider ourselves lucky we were already inside,” Nick says reasonably. “Would’ve been a right mess if we went in while they were… busy.”

“Yes, Lady Luck is surely smiling on us today,” Danse retorts sarcastically. “I suggest we re-evaluate our priorities. Obviously we need to find a gambling establishment ASAP.”

Nick chortles heartily at that, and Danse finds himself grinning stupidly as well. The whole situation is just utterly ridiculous. If anyone had told him six months ago that he’d be hiding on the top floor of the administration building with a synth while two of his brothers fraternised downstairs… well, he’d probably have sent them to Knight-Captain Cade for evaluation.

“We should head out,” Danse says after a while, when their cigarettes have burned up. “I’m not particularly keen on a repeat performance.”

“Right behind ya, chief.”

Chapter Text

After a brief detour back to Listening Post Bravo, Danse and Nick head for Quincy.

The Gunner-run former Minutemen settlement is far to the south, at least a few days’ worth of travel if the roads are kind. To make the time pass more swiftly, Nick regales Danse with stories of his cases over the past hundred years, from the time he rescued the daughter of Diamond City’s mayor to the week he spent locked up in Vault 114 because the missing girl he’d been asked to find wasn’t as missing as her parents had assumed.

Danse is content to listen, the detective’s life certainly interesting enough, only occasionally offering some titbits from his own life. It’s still painful to talk about his days as a soldier, knowing he’ll never fight alongside his brothers and sisters again, but he gladly speaks of his time in Rivet City. While his life in the Capital Wasteland’s largest town wasn’t great by any standards, it’s shaped him into the person he is today as much as the Brotherhood has, even if the proud Paladin he’d been tried to deny it. It’s good to tell the tales again.

“The Capitol Preservation Society was a marvel of historical curation,” Danse tells Nick sometime after they’ve crossed the Charles River. “It housed the original draft of Lincoln’s Gettysburg Address, as well as the full Constitution of the United States. I found the Monroe Doctrine for Mr. Washington myself.”

Nick lets out a low whistle. “Good to know some people still care about preserving history,” he says earnestly. “Reminding ourselves of the mistakes of the past is the only way to keep us from repeating them.”

“That's what the Brotherhood believes, too,” Danse finds himself saying. “It’s one of the reasons Cutler and I joined up.”

“It’s unfortunate the Brotherhood thinks remembering the past is the same as halting the future,” Nick says wisely. “Science is only as good or evil as the people using it. Heck, the guy who invented dynamite was horrified to see it weaponised. But we can’t stop the advancement of technology. All we can do is try to keep it on the side of good.”

“Like synths,” Danse realises suddenly.

“Exactly,” Nick agrees, sounding proud. “I have no problem gunning down synths if they’re committing crimes. But I sure as hell won’t kill a good man just because there’s a piece of metal in his brain.”

“I’m grateful Nora shares your philosophy,” Danse says with a thin smile. “I don’t know what I would have done if our positions had been reversed.”

“You’d have put a bullet in her head,” Nick answers for him, ever pragmatic. “The Brotherhood wouldn’t have let you do anything else. But you aren’t Brotherhood anymore.”

“No, I’m not,” Danse says quietly, and it’s the first time he can say it without feeling like a dagger has been stabbed into his heart, only a dull throb accompanying the words. “I still wish I was, sometimes.”

“Just sometimes?”

“Just sometimes,” Danse confirms. His longing for the Brotherhood surfaces at the strangest times, like when he’s modifying his weapon and misses Ingram’s sharp insights, or when he hears a cat meow and laments the inability to feed Emmett mirelurk cakes when Quinlan isn’t looking. It’s the little things more than anything. “Life in the Brotherhood was simple. Straightforward. I used to believe I had all the answers, and then all of a sudden I was left with none. Now, I’m finding them, one at a time, and it’s as if they’re all different than the ones I had before. Perhaps I just never bothered to ask the right questions.”

“Hardly any question worth asking has just one answer,” Nick raises as a counterpoint. “You just chose to embrace another truth as your own, this time.”

“I didn’t know I had a choice,” Danse says. “Besides, if all truth is relative, does it really matter which one I decide upon?”

“‘Two roads diverged in a wood, and I – I took the one less travelled by. And that has made all the difference’,” Nick quotes as an answer.

“Robert Frost,” Danse notes, appreciatively.

Nick doesn’t quite manage to hide his surprise. “You know your poets.”

“I find their mastery of language to be an admirable skill,” Danse admits. “Whenever Proctor Quinlan acquired a new volume of verses, I’d be the first to request it.”

“No kidding,” Nick mutters, still unable to keep the bewilderment from his voice. “You got a favourite author?”

“They say Henry David Thoreau lived in these parts,” Danse responds readily. “I never quite understood his works before, but since my expulsion from the Brotherhood…”

“‘Not ‘till we are lost, in other words, not ‘till we have lost the world, do we begin to find ourselves, and realise where we are and the infinite extent of our relations’,” Nick recalls from the poet’s works. “Yeah, I see what you’re getting at.”

Danse smiles warmly. It’s been a long time since he’s discussed poetry with someone, the last Scribe he knew who liked to read the old verses in his spare time killed years ago. “Which poet do you prefer, then?”

“I’m more of a Whitman guy myself,” Nick reveals with a grin. “Because I, too, cock my hat as I please, indoors or out.”

He tips his old fedora in emphasis, and Danse chuckles. “I eagerly await a demonstration of your barbaric yawp.”

“I’m afraid my voice module wasn’t built for yawps,” Nick counters, quick as a whip.

“A true tragedy,” Danse drawls. “Yet another reason to despise the Institute.”

Nick chortles, loud enough for his voice to crack into static, and then Danse is laughing too, without restraint.

It’s good to laugh again.

“Well, shit,” Nick says eloquently from their spot behind a derelict farmstead just outside the city proper. “I knew the Gunners had taken over this place, but this…”

He doesn’t have to finish his sentence. The ruins of Quincy aren’t just run by the Gunners. They’re positively infested with them.

“It would take a whole platoon in full Power Armour to take this place back,” Danse affirms grimly. No wonder the Minutemen were driven out. It’s a miracle any of them survived at all.

“Don’t suppose you have a couple of Stealth Boys in that pack of yours?” Nick asks, but there’s little hope in his voice. Stealth Boys are rare and valuable pieces of technology, difficult to produce and only good for a single use each.

“That’s a negative,” Danse confirms, his eyes narrowed as he watches one of the Gunners strut along a rickety walkway in a suit of Power Armour.

Nick follows his line of sight. “Piper always says the Gunners have the combat training of the Brotherhood of Steel and the moral character of a neighbourhood bully.”

“The combat training of the Brotherhood?” Danse scoffs. “These hooligans are nothing at all like –”

He stops in the middle of his sentence, and Nick can almost see the lightbulb hanging over his head. “What’re you thinking, chief?”

“Infiltration,” Danse announces, a smirk on his face. “They aren’t the only ones with the combat training of the Brotherhood. Passing as one of them shouldn’t be hard.”

“No,” Nick says immediately, firmly. “That’s too dangerous.”

“Do you have a better suggestion?” Danse challenges calmly. “A frontal assault is suicide, a covert approach is out of the question. If you want Winter’s holotape, this is the only option.”

“I do want Winter’s holotape,” Nick says softly. “But it ain’t worth your life. There’s got to be another way.”

“None that I can see,” Danse counters. “I doubt the Gunners are leaving in the near future. And we need access to the evidence terminal to determine the location of the remaining tapes.”

“I have time. This bucket of bolts will last a while yet,” Nick argues. “I can wait them out.”

“What happened to ‘I want the bastard dead yesterday’?” Danse asks, one eyebrow raised.

“I do want the bastard dead yesterday,” Nick sighs. “But not as much as I don’t want you dead today.”

And that’s flattering, but it’s also unacceptable. “It’s no wonder you’ve made so little progress in your investigation,” Danse observes, keeping his voice level. “Something is holding you back, and you need to deal with it. Now. Because I’m going in.”

Danse sets down his rucksack, ruffles his hair into disarray, and smears some dirt across his cheeks in a mimicry of war paint. Dressed in faded army fatigues and scavenged pieces of mismatched armour, he certainly looks the part.

“Ad Victoriam,” he murmurs to himself.

He squares his shoulders and takes a deep breath, but before he can step out of cover, Nick’s hand closes around his wrist. “Danse,” the detective says quietly, “thank you.”

“It’s nothing you would not do for me,” Danse says, and that’s the truth. Even when he did nothing to deserve it, Nick showed him kindness. It’s about time someone did the same for him.

He lets his hand slide from Nick’s slack grip and begins his self-appointed undercover operation. He is a soldier, and he can do this.

Danse steps out into the open with his head held high, walking into Quincy with a confident but loose gait.

There’s at least half a dozen guns aimed at his head within seconds, but Danse ignores them, continuing his route towards the Quincy Police Station with a cool confidence that keeps the Gunners from firing on the spot.

“Hey! You!” he’s inevitably stopped by one of the riffraff’s commanders. “What the fuck d’you think you’re doing?!”

Danse turns around, giving the Gunner an annoyed look. “Cap’n Wes wants some bullshit tape from the dicks’ station,” he says, lacing his voice with a distinct drawl he’s picked up in Megaton years ago. He never thought he’d be grateful for Nora’s association with the insubordinate civilian MacCready, but he’d never have known the name of the Gunners’ commander-in-chief otherwise. “Summat about an old fuck of a kingpin tryin’ to make a comeback.”

The Gunner swears. “Fucking hell, but Wes is getting careless.”

“Comes with the territory,” Danse grins. “Can afford to get a little cocky with forces like ours.”

“Heh,” the Gunner snorts, amused. “Guess you’re right. Oy, Tessa! Show the runner to the bluebottles’ old place.”

“Aye, Sarge,” a woman in Power Armour agrees dourly. “C’mon then.”

She stomps off, leaving Danse to trot after her. He can tell she’s not used to the heavy frame yet, her step uncertain and her arms hanging heavily by her side. If push comes to shove, he’ll be able to take her out with minimal difficulty.

“Nice piece you got there,” Tessa says once he’s caught up, nodding to the laser rifle slung across his back. “Where’d you get it?”

“Snatched it off one o’ those Brotherhood fuckers,” Danse lies swiftly, his face smug. “Idiot ran ‘round in that fuckin’ bright orange suit near our turf. Took just one bullet to off him.”

Tessa laughs merrily at that. “Yeah, fuck those Brotherhood guys. Self-righteous little shits, the lot of ‘em. Good on you.”

She leads him into the police station and points out the door leading to lock-up. “Tape you’re looking for’s got to be down there,” she tells him. “Lots of useless shit in the lockers. Knock yourself out.”

“Great. I love lookin’ through piles of useless shit,” Danse grimaces. “Thanks though.”

“Tell Wes he’s an ass when you get back,” Tessa advices.

“Be sure to,” Danse agrees before he ducks into the police station’s basement.

The lock-up is old and dusty, but it’s also abandoned, and Danse gives himself a moment to breathe. He’s gained the Gunners’ trust, and he’s been allowed to take what he’s come for without resistance. Now he just needs to find the holotape, maintain his cover, and get out. Nothing to it.

Danse searches the lockers first, coming up with nearly a dozen holotapes on different cases. The old evidence terminal still works, luckily, and it plays the tapes with almost no complaint. He has to listen to five of them before he hits the jackpot, the tape unmistakably recorded by Eddie Winter from the way he signs off.

He pockets Winter’s holotape, then wipes one of the others clean and loads the information from the evidence terminal onto it. Haylen could’ve done it much quicker, but Danse manages. From the looks of it, there are two more tapes he and Nick can chase down now, if Nick hasn’t collected them yet. Worth the effort and the risk, in Danse’s opinion.

Tessa’s waiting for him when he emerges. “You weren’t kiddin’ when you said there was a lot of shit down there,” Danse tells her sourly. “If this ain’t the one the Cap’n wants, he can go get the damn thing himself.”

“The fuck does he want some old cunt’s holotape for anyway?”

“I dunno,” Danse shrugs. “Some bullshit ‘bout a Ghoul or whatever.”

“Boss is scared of some Ghoul?” Tessa asks, sounding suspicious.

“Nah,” he’s quick to wave away her doubts. “Just bein’ careful.”

“This the same Wes we’re talking ‘bout?” she mocks, but there’s humour in her tone. “Best get your sweet ass back then. Captain doesn’t like waiting. Unless you got an… itch you need scratched?”

Danse has to squash the urge to recoil at her blatant solicitation. “All due respect, I don’t think you got the means to scratch my itch.”

“Ah,” she realises quickly what he’s getting at. When it comes to rejections, this is the oldest trick in the book. “Damn shame. Good ones’re always batting for the other fucking team.”

“Guy on the way in was watchin’ you though,” Danse feels obliged to point out, nodding at the Gunner who first halted him. “Try him.”

“Baker? Hah, yeah, wish me luck with that. Guy’s denser than a fucking sack o’ bricks.”

“G’luck,” Danse obliges with a grin. “See you ‘round.”

“Sure thing, apple bottom.”

She winks at him, and Danse takes that as his cue to get the hell out of the Gunner-infested hellhole.

He makes sure to nod respectfully at Baker on his way out to keep up appearances, and it takes a measure of self-control to keep his pace steady, as if he’s not desperate to leave Quincy behind him.

It seems like an eternity before he rounds the corner of the old farmhouse where he left Nick, and when he does, the detective takes one look at him before he slumps against the wall in relief. “Thank God,” he breathes, his eyes fluttering closed. And then, after a beat: “Did you…?”

“Of course,” Danse assures him, producing the pair of tapes from his pocket. “Winter’s holotape, and the possible locations of two others.”

Nick takes the tapes with shaking fingers. “I don’t think you quite realise what you’ve just done for me.”

Danse thinks of the handkerchief Nick passed him when he broke down in the middle of an old suburban neighbourhood strewn with Super Mutant corpses, and he begs to differ. “It’s nothing you wouldn’t have done for me,” he says again.

Nick lets out a weak chuckle. “I owe ya a drink, at least.”

“I’ll hold you to that.”

Chapter Text

“Would ya look at that,” Nick murmurs when Danse hands him the holotape. “The last one.”

“What’s next?” Danse asks.

“They should still have the code pieces in them,” Nick muses, laying all ten of Eddie Winter’s holotapes down on one of the less rickety desks of the East Boston Police Station. “Let me run them through the old processor.”

He inserts the tapes into the compartment in his arm one by one, mumbling incoherently as they play. Danse keeps an eye out for any potential trouble, but the partially collapsed police station has proven to be a desirable location for neither raider nor settler. Instead, he’s left to look out over the ocean, the missing wall giving him a marvellous view. It really is a shame that the unpredictable currents and fast-breeding mirelurks make water travel so dangerous. He often wonders what can be found on the other side. Were the other continents as badly damaged as America? Are there even still people living across the water at all?

“Got it!” Nick’s exclamation pulls him from his thoughts. “One, nine, five, three, seven, two, eight, four, zero, six.”

“Outstanding,” Danse says with a smile. “Let’s move out. If we keep a reasonable pace, we can get to Andrew Station by tomorrow morning.”

“Don’t you need to sleep, chief?” Nick asks, always thinking of others despite his obvious desire to rush straight to Eddie Winter’s hideout.

“I can sleep later,” Danse waves away the concern, and he can. He’s gone for longer periods without sleep, and he’s not nearly as mentally exhausted as he was before, when he’d just learned of his synthetic nature. For Nick, he can push through without complaint. “You’ve waited for this long enough.”

“Hey, what’s another few hours in the face of two-hundred years?” Nick jokes, but Danse knows those few hours will feel like years. Nick doesn’t sleep, after all.

“We’re leaving,” he commands. He marches towards the exit, leaving Nick little choice but to follow him. Danse has noticed the detective never does anything he doesn’t want to, but gets caught up in his own sense of righteousness from time to time. He’s gotten rather good at figuring out Nick’s thought processes in the weeks they’ve spent hunting down Winter’s holotapes together, and he’s realised that issuing an order works wonders when attempting to separate what Nick truly wants as opposed to what he thinks is the right thing to do. Nick never obeys an order when he doesn’t want to.

The two synths walk in silence for a while, Nick too preoccupied with his upcoming confrontation with Winter and Danse busy scanning their surroundings for hostiles, knowing full well that Nick is in no mind to do so himself. East Boston is Brotherhood territory, the Prydwen unnervingly close, and the chances of running into a patrol out here are much too high for Danse’s liking. He’ll be glad to reach the city proper, where there’s still plenty of vermin to contest with, but at least those enemies weren’t once his brothers-in-arms. He’ll turn his own gun on himself before he has to kill a Brotherhood soldier.

They make good progress during the night, running into little resistance besides a small crew of raiders and a nesting radscorpion, both of which are easily dispatched. When they’re sheltered by the cover of Central Boston and Danse no longer feels like he has to strain his ears for incoming vertibirds, Nick halts him.

“Let’s stop here for a bit,” he says, gesturing at an old apartment building that looks abandoned enough. “You need to eat.”

“I can keep going,” Danse assures him, but Nick shakes his head.

“Not asking, chief. I need ya in top form for this.”

“Understood,” Danse relents easily. He’s eaten preciously little all day, and he’s craving a snack cake like nobody’s business. He considers himself lucky Haylen always remembers to include at least three boxes of the treats when she brings supplies.

The apartment building Nick pointed out is indeed deserted but for a radroach or two, which scuttle off upon their approach. They claim a mostly intact space on the first floor as their temporary base. Danse sits himself down on the mouldy couch and rummages through his remaining supplies to find something edible that doesn’t require a source of heat, while Nick paces the length of the room relentlessly, the expression on his face stormy.

Danse settles on a can of cold Pork n' Beans, with some wild mutfruits he picked on the way to East Bosten and a Fancy Lad Snack Cake on the side. It can’t be considered a well-balanced meal by any standards, but they’ve been on the road for a while now and his supplies are dwindling.

As he eats, his eyes follow Nick’s path, from the window to the door, five steps exactly. It’s small things like this that remind him of Nick’s mechanical nature more than anything, because no human would step in the exact same spot every single time. It’s a testament to Danse’s growth that it doesn’t bother him anymore.

“Nick,” he says eventually, because the detective’s pacing is dizzying. “Are you alright?”

Nick stops. “Yes,” he says quickly, only to sigh heavily soon after. “No. I don’t know.”

“Those are the three options, yes,” Danse points out dryly.

“Heh,” Nick smiles, but it’s half-hearted at best. “How’re you supposed to feel when you’re getting the revenge you’ve been after for more than two-hundred years?”

“I will evaluate your question and report back to you in 2488,” Danse attempts to joke, though he sobers swiftly when it does not have the desired effect. “Are you certain you want to do this now?”

“Yes,” Nick says immediately, determination in his voice. “Winter has to die.”

“Then focus,” Danse says simply. It’s advice he’s given to his soldiers countless times, advice he himself received from Paladin Krieg all those years ago. “If you’ve already decided this is the correct course of action, just focus on the task at hand, complete your mission, and evaluate everything else after the fact.”

Nick lights himself a cigarette, standing by the glassless window to keep the smoke from interrupting Danse’s meal. “Ellie would like you,” he says, a faint smile on his face as he speaks of his secretary. “She’s always telling me to get my ass in gear too.”

“A wise woman, then. Especially if she’s as much like Haylen as you implied.”

“You bet,” Nick chuckles, with a bit more heart this time. “Behind every great synth is a very exasperated gal.”

And a legion of enemies, Danse thinks, but he doesn’t say that. Negativity isn’t something Nick needs right now, not when he’s about to face the demon he’s been chasing since before he even existed.

He pops the last piece of snack cake into his mouth, savouring the sugary sweet treat briefly. “We should move out. There’s no telling what creatures have infested the metro station since Winter sealed himself away.”

“Right you are,” Nick agrees, taking one last, long drag from his cigarette. “Let’s not keep Eddie waiting.”

They leave the shelter of the apartment, heading back into potentially hostile territory. Central Boston is crawling with undesirables, and they’re forced to loop around two raider camps and a Super Mutant hive, the location of which Danse mentally registers for extermination later. But Winter comes first.

As Danse predicted, Andrew Station isn’t just inhabited by one old mob boss turned ghoul; the tunnels are also infested with ferals and raiders. It’s fortunate they don’t seem to like one another much. Danse barely has to waste ammunition on the last few raiders standing, the ferals having dispatched the majority of the gang before being gunned down.

Nick leads them deeper into the tunnels, where the air is stale and smells of decay. It seems as though no one has been here in years, but Danse keeps his rifle at the ready anyway, the safety switched off. He won’t be caught unaware.

Eventually, when they’ve trekked through a maze of drab underground halls Danse wouldn’t know how to find his way back through, the way forward is barred by a heavy steel door. It has no handle, but there is a code pad installed on the wall beside it. This has to be Eddie Winter’s bunker.

Nick punches in the code with shaking fingers. One, nine, five, three, seven, two, eight, four, zero, six, Danse counts along in his head. The door swings open with a soft click.

“The fuck?” a loud, obnoxious voice exclaims from inside. Danse can see a flash of a well-preserved shelter before his eyes are drawn to the ghoul approaching the door.

At the sound of the voice, Nick digs his metal fingers into the crevices between the numbers of the code pad, sending sparks dancing up his arm. Fury, raw and unrestrained, is carved into his features.

Danse makes a split-second decision and steps through the door. Nick obviously needs time to compose himself.

Eddie Winter is an ugly bastard, even for a ghoul. “Who the fuck are you?”

“That’s none of your concern,” Danse says stoically. “You’re Edward Winter, I take it?”

“Yeah,” the ghoul says, eyes narrowed in suspicion. “But just how the fuck did you… no. No way. Not after all this time. Don't tell me you actually cracked my code? In the holotapes?”

Danse bares his teeth in a smile that looks anything but cheerful.  “Affirmative.”

“‘Affirmative’?” Winter repeats mockingly, sounding far too amused. “Hah. You’re cute, I’ll give you that. Pity you aren’t a leggy blonde.”

From the corner of his eye, Danse can see Nick entering the room, his head bowed so that his hat covers his face. He can almost feel the anger radiating from the detective, and he has to suppress a shiver. Nick Valentine’s unleashed wrath is ice-cold.

Winter notices too, his beady black eyes briefly flicking to Nick before settling on Danse again. His hand inches towards the pistol at his hip. “Well look,” he drawls, sounding bored despite the alert look on his face. “I’m not sure what you thought you’d find – gold, jewels, the secrets of the universe. But all you get is me. So take your asses someplace else.”

“I’m not leaving until I get what I came for,” Nick growls, walking up to Winter with a gait that can only be described as predatorial.

Danse takes a step back, guarding the open door to make sure Winter won’t make a break for it. This is Nick’s show, after all. He won’t intervene unless he absolutely has to.

“What are you, some kind of robot?” Winter asks, rather degradingly. “You do look kinda familiar…”

“The name’s Valentine. Nick Valentine,” the detective introduces himself with a chilling politeness. “Remember me?”

Winter’s eyes narrow before lighting up with recognition. “Valentine? The cop? Is that who you’re supposed to be?” he asks sceptically. “Sorry pal, but you ain’t Nick Valentine. You’re just some kind of... machine.”

It’s at that particular moment that Danse realises just why the Railroad fights so hard to get synthkind accepted by the rest of the world. Because Nick Valentine, for all his metal parts and implanted memories, is anything but a machine. And damn Eddie Winter for referring to him as such.

“He’s more human than you have ever been,” he tells Winter, grinding out the words through clenched teeth. Filthy ghoul bastard.

“Christ, look at it,” Winter exclaims, meeting Danse’s hard stare with a startled one of his own. “It’s not even alive!”

Nick raises his pistol. “Then I guess I’m in good company.”

The first bullet slams into Winter’s shoulder, a second one piercing his hand when the former kingpin tries to reach for his piece. It’s obvious he’s old, and slow, unused to combat after so many years spent in the cushy confines of his little hidey hole. For someone like Nick, who has to fight for himself and the ones he protects nearly every day, it can’t even be called a battle.

The third bullet is put right between Winter’s eyes, Nick never one to prolong another’s suffering. The ghoul hits the ground with a sickening thump, and then the underground bunker is finally, blissfully quiet.

Nick stands over the body for a long moment, weapon poised and ready to fire again if need be. But Eddie Winter stays down, like he should. Danse shoulders his weapon long before Nick lowers his, and even then the detective stands still as a statue, as if someone deactivated him on the spot. Danse is just about to ask him if he’s alright when Nick addresses him.

“We’re done here,” he says, his tone opaque. “But there’s one more thing I’ve got to do.”

“Whatever you need,” Danse says immediately. Partially because he truly desires to assist Nick in his endeavours, and partially because he’ll do whatever he has to in order to stay out of his own hole in the ground for just a little longer.

The smile Nick attempts is a grimace more than anything. “I wouldn’t mind the company, if you wanted to tag along.”

“You lead, I’ll follow.”

The detective nods once. “This won’t take long.”

Nick Valentine marches out of Eddie Winter’s hideout without once looking back.

Chapter Text

The way back topside leads through, of all things, an old sandwich shop. Another day, Danse might have appreciated the irony of a man as dangerous as Eddie Winter being harboured underneath such an innocent location. But today, despite the afternoon sun bathing the building in a pleasant warmth, the whole place radiates a portentous energy, as if it knows there’s a fresh corpse buried deep within its catacombs.

Nick takes him to a spot by the road not a stone’s throw away from the shop, a place that’s utterly unassuming but for the abundance of purple hubflowers growing from the small patch of soil. It’s really quite beautiful.

“This is it,” Nick mutters, kneeling to gently pat the earth. “In this spot, two hundred years ago, one of Eddie’s boys put a bullet in Jenny Lands’ back.”

Danse starts at the revelation. The hubflowers suddenly don’t look quite so beautiful anymore.

“Now Eddie's as dead as Jenny, and Nick,” Nick continues morosely. “And I... I’m at a loss.”

“A loss?” Danse asks, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Winter was it. The last proof outside of some long lost Institute archive I was ever just a mechanical copy of some cop from a bygone era,” Nick elaborates, bitterness lacing every syllable. “I’m not sure how to feel.”

Danse doesn’t know either. But he does know what it’s like to be at a loss. “You should feel proud,” he says, because that’s the simple truth, the only one he can give right now. “He was a criminal, and you brought him to justice.”

“You’re not wrong,” Nick sighs, though he doesn’t seem to be feeling anything even remotely resembling pride. “It’s just… I thought this would fix things. I thought doing this, killing Winter, would finally help me understand who I am. But it’s not that easy.”

“It never is,” Danse agrees, his voice soft. He doesn’t know if he’ll ever stop agonising over his identity himself. Thinking about his synthetic nature, his lack of humanity, still hurts as much as the day he learned The Truth. But it’s gotten easier these last few weeks. He’s far from alright, doesn’t know if he’ll ever again be the man he was before everything went to hell. But being out here with Nick, chasing a goal, having proper conversations, being treated like a person, has helped him feel like things can be normal again, someday. Now that Winter is gone, and the prospect of returning to isolation looms over him like the Prydwen over the Commonwealth, he’s terrified that feeling will leave with Nick.

Nick stands, staring hard at the crumbling sign adorning Joe’s Spuckies sandwich shop. “I do know one thing. What we just did, that was right,” he says resolutely. “And that act of goodness, that’s ours, and ours alone. Even if that’s the only thing I can ever claim as mine, not Nick’s, not the Institute’s, but mine, I can die happy.”

“Not right this second, I hope?” Danse asks, attempting to joke, but unable to keep the concern from his voice. He’s seen enough soldiers make an offhand mention about death before diving headlong into a battle they knew they couldn’t possibly win, killing themselves not by putting a gun to their temple, but at the hand of a Super Mutant, so their names would not be struck from the Litany.

Nick chuckles dryly, and there’s even a hint of humour in it. “I guess I can stick around for a while longer.”

“Good. I – that’s good,” Danse says lamely. “Outstanding, even.”

“Glad you approve, chief,” Nick says, amused.

Danse can feel a blush of embarrassment spread from his nose across his cheeks. He shoves his hands in his pockets and pointedly looks down at the hubflowers surrounding the ancient crime scene. Though his vocabulary is larger than that of most other Wastelanders, he’s never been good with words, not when it comes to these… personal situations. He’d much rather take on a whole hive of Super Mutants with nothing but his bare hands than admit to Nick Valentine that he’s somehow grown attached to him.

“I need to head back to Diamond City soon,” Nick says then, as if he’s read Danse’s thoughts and feels the need to put a damper on them right quick. “Ellie should be back from Goodneighbor, and I’ll bet the backlog of cases has stacked up to the ceiling by now.”

Danse wills away the lump building in his throat. “Understood. I’ll make my way back to Bravo on my own.”

It’s not as if he didn’t know this was coming. He’s a soldier, and he should act like it.

“Well, actually,” Nick says, rubbing the back of his neck and looking anywhere but at Danse, “I was hoping you might… want to come with.”

“I have enough supplies left for the journey,” Danse assures him, even if he is running low on food. But he’d much rather cut his losses right now, right here. It’s easier that way. If he has to travel with Nick to the city, with the knowledge of their impending separation looming, he doesn’t know if he can remain pleasant. And Nick hasn’t done anything to deserve his irrational scorn.

Nick stares at him, muttering something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like ‘Paladin Dense’, Nora’s old nickname for him. “That’s not what I meant, chief.”

Danse frowns at the exasperation in his tone. “Then state your intentions.”

The detective has the audacity to smile at that, in that patient way a teacher can smile when a child asks a particularly stupid question. Head Scribe Rothchild used to wear that smile a lot. “Alright, look. I don’t like to toot my own horn, but I’m a good detective. Between old Nick and myself, there’s over a century of experience finding missing persons and catching crooks. It’s been at least a decade since I’ve been handed I case I couldn’t crack.”

“That said, I’ve also been in more hairy situations than I can bother to count,” Nick continues, the reminiscence putting a hard look on his face. “Heck, if I had a cap for every time I got shot at I could buy all of Diamond City and still have enough change to buy everyone in it a cup of noodles. Would’ve been dead a dozen times over if I’d still been flesh and blood. And the last big case I had? I ended up locked inside of a Vault for the better part of two weeks. I’d probably still be there if Nora hadn’t bailed me out.”

Danse remembers the story; Nick told him about it en route to Quincy. But he still doesn’t know where the detective is going with this.

“What I’m saying is, as good as you can be alone, there’s nothing quite like having a partner. Someone you can rely on,” Nick makes his point. “You know, the kind of guy who has your back. Who walks into Gunner territory like he owns the damn place and comes out unscathed. Who helps you track down the ghoul you’ve been chasing for two-hundred years but then lets you end the bastard without interfering.”

Danse’s eyes widen. “Are you… asking me to be your partner?”

“You’re quick on the uptake,” Nick smirks, with sarcasm so heavy it wouldn’t even be lost on a two-year-old. “That’s exactly what I’m asking.”

And really, there are so many reasons to decline. Because he’s a soldier, not a detective. Because relocating to Diamond City is unnecessarily dangerous. Because he wants to accept, and the Brotherhood taught him that a machine shouldn’t want anything.

But then he really isn’t Brotherhood anymore.

Nick smiles hesitantly. “What d’you say, chief?”

He holds out his hand – his skeletal hand, the metal gleaming brightly in the warm afternoon sun. It feels like a final frontier.

Danse takes it.

Before he can move to Diamond City, Danse needs to return to Listening Post Bravo one last time. He’s lived in the bunker for more than half a year now, and though he’s never considered it to be home, it holds some personal effects he simply cannot leave behind. Cutler’s old winter jacket, the Brotherhood uniform he wore when he was forced into exile, the detective novel Haylen left for him. Items that remind him of who he used to be, and who he has become.

Nick opts to come along. “Wouldn’t be much of a partner if I went on home without ya,” he claims. “Besides, once we set foot inside the agency, neither of us will be able to do anything but work for at least a month. Ellie’ll make sure of that.”

“Dodging your responsibilities is highly unethical,” Danse chides, but the words lose their edge when spoken from smiling lips. He certainly appreciates the company.

“Pretty sure one of my responsibilities is making sure you don’t get yourself killed, chief,” Nick counters merrily. “Can’t rightly do that if I let you go off on your own.”

“How very noble of you.”

The trip doesn’t take long, the road straightforward and a trio of bloatflies the only resistance. It’s late evening when Bravo comes into view, the little building nestled between the hills a welcome sight. It’s been a long day.

“Wait,” Danse says suddenly, his ears straining for sound. “Do you hear that?”

Nick frowns. “I don’t hear anything, chief.”

“Exactly,” Danse agrees, dread settling in the pit of his stomach. “I set up the turrets before we left, but I cannot hear them.”

He lifts his laser rifle from its place on his back as he creeps forward, Nick and his trusty revolver close behind. Danse scours the ground, expecting to find shrapnel from the turrets he placed atop the roof, but when he gets close enough, he realises that the machines haven’t been destroyed. They’re merely shut down.

“Maybe your gal stopped by again?” Nick suggests, his voice a whisper. “Or Nora?”

Danse shakes his head. “I programmed the turrets to ignore Haylen and Nora. They wouldn’t have reason to disable them.”

The only other people he knows with the ability and the patience to hack these machines rather than destroy them are Brotherhood scribes, and that possibility is terrifying. To be caught by the Brotherhood just when he’s finally pulled free of them, when he’s so very close to starting a new phase of his life in Diamond City, is the worst thing he can imagine.

Danse enters the listening post with his heart hammering painfully hard in his chest.

A quick sweep of the above-ground portion of the building yields no intruders, and nothing seems out of place. Perhaps the turrets just malfunctioned, Danse allows himself to hope. Perhaps he’s being paranoid for no good reason.

God, he hopes he’s being paranoid for no good reason.

“Danse,” Nick says then, his tone urgent, “the elevator.”

“What about the –?” Danse begins, not understanding Nick’s trepidation, but then he sees it. The elevator is on the lower floor. Which means whoever disabled the turrets is still down in the bunker as they speak. “Shit.”

They need to go, and they need to go now. His things aren’t worth their lives.

He’s about to tell Nick as such when the elevator comes to life, rattling loudly as it carries its occupants back to the surface. There’s no time to flee.

“Hide,” he hisses at Nick, pulling the detective with him to the small storage space tucked in the corner. It’s not an ideal hiding place by any means, but it is dark, and whoever steps from the elevator won’t be able to see them at first glance. At the very least, it should give them the element of surprise.

He doesn’t ever want to turn his gun on the Brotherhood. But if they are here, and it comes to an altercation, Danse knows, deep down, that he will. Not for himself – if he was still alone, he wouldn’t ever consider harming his former brothers-in-arms, even if it did cost him his life. But he isn’t alone anymore, and the Brotherhood won’t allow Nick to remain alive under any circumstances. And that is the one thing Danse cannot abide.

Danse flicks off his rifle’s safety.

The elevator doors open.

Chapter Text

“– don’t know where he could’ve gone. I’m sorry, sweetie.”

Nora. The woman stepping out of the elevator is Nora. Danse leans heavily against the wall in relief; Nick mirrors him, his glowing eyes fluttering closed. It’s not the Brotherhood, not the Institute, not anyone else who wants them dead. Just Nora, and a friend of hers he doesn’t recognise.

“Oh, it is quite alright, mademoiselle,” the unfamiliar woman says kindly, her voice laced with a thick accent that sounds vaguely familiar. “At least we tried.”

Nora bites her lip. “Yeah, I guess.”

Her companion lays a hand on her shoulder. “You are concerned for your friends, yes?”

“I am,” Nora affirms with a sigh. “Danse is gone, Nick’s not at the office. Jesus, I hope they didn’t kill each other.”

“That is statistically improbable.”

“You haven’t met those two,” Nora chuckles dryly. “Though I have to admit I’m a little relieved Danse isn’t here. I’m not exactly eager to tell him I’ve been kicked out of the Brotherhood.”

She what now?

“You what now?” Danse’s voice booms loudly as he steps from the shadows to scowl at his former subordinate.

Nora shrieks in surprise, grasping her friend’s arm so tightly the woman’s face twists in pain. Only belatedly does she reach for her weapon – too late, far too late. If he’d had ill intentions, both of them would long be dead by now. The commanding officer in him is annoyed at her lack of vigilance.

Then she recognises him. “Jesus fucking Christ, Danse,” she gasps, clutching a hand to her chest as if that will help slow her pounding heart. “Don’t do that!”

“To be fair here, doll,” Nick cuts in gently, “you probably shouldn’t have hacked those turrets and made us believe we’d find trouble here.”

Nick takes his place at Danse’s side, and Nora just stares at him, then at Danse, her mouth slightly agape. “They were shooting at Curie,” she says eventually, lamely, gesturing at her companion. “I didn’t want to destroy them. Again.”

Curie flashes them a tentative smile. “Désolée, messieurs,” she says. “I did not mean for my presence to cause you distress.”

Nick cocks his head to the side, regarding Curie curiously. “That’s an interesting accent you got there,” he says conversationally. “Sounds a bit like the ol’ Miss Nanny bots.”

“Oh, that is because I used to be an automaton,” Curie confirms easily, despite Nora desperately trying to use non-verbal communication to cut her off, “but I could not advance my scientific studies without human capabilities such as curiosity and imagination. Mademoiselle Nora was most kind to help me find a suitable body. Now I am… what do you call it again? A synth, yes?”

Danse has to suppress the urge to slam his head into the wall repeatedly. “Is this why you were discharged from the Brotherhood?”

Nora smiles sheepishly. “Actually, no. That was because I refused to slaughter the whole of the Railroad, and I may or may not have called Maxson a genocidal maniac in front of the Prydwen’s entire crew.”

He drags a hand across his face. “Of course you did.”

Her blatant disregard for authority ceased to surprise him about a week after he first brought her aboard the airship he used to call home. What does surprise him, however, is that her being dismissed from the Brotherhood doesn’t bother him nearly as much as it should. In fact, it doesn’t bother him at all.

“Are you mad?” Nora asks, looking strangely small when she looks up at him with clear trepidation in her eyes, biting her lip and hunching her shoulders.

“I should be,” Danse grumbles. Nora was all that was left of his legacy within the Brotherhood, the initiate he personally sponsored, meant for greatness. He should be upset to see that gone. Instead, he feels, of all things, relieved. Free. It’s one fewer tie he has to the Brotherhood, one step further away from them and towards himself, and the few people he considers his friends.

“You… should be?” she asks, raising an eyebrow in confusion. “But you’re not?”

“But I’m not,” he affirms with a sigh. “I just wish you hadn’t gone about it in such a recalcitrant way. You could have been faced with execution rather than expulsion.”

Nora’s eyes are wide, and she mouths the word ‘recalcitrant’ as if she’s never heard it before in her life. “Jesus, how can you be so different and yet exactly the same?” she asks rhetorically, a wide grin slowly splitting her face. “I told you Nick would be a good influence on you.”

“You did,” Danse admits quietly. “Thank you.”

“Thanks indeed, doll,” Nick adds, clapping Danse’s shoulder. “Without you nagging at me to get my ass down here, I’d never have found myself a new partner.”

“A new pa-… you?” Nora asks Danse incredulously.

He nods. “You did tell me to start living my life,” he points out. “And I seem to have an aptitude for this work.”

“That’s fucking amazing!” Nora exclaims. “I don’t know how you do it, Nicky, but I obviously need to ask you for advice more often.”

“And don’t you forget it,” Nick says cheekily. “Though I can’t even take half the credit here. The chief did more for me than I did for him.”

Danse wants to protest that, because he knows Nick would have been fine without him, whereas he would still be lost without Nick, but Nora beats him to it, a shit-eating grin on her face. “‘The chief?’”

Nick’s grin matches hers, and Danse fights the urge to roll his eyes. “Haylen,” he provides.

“Ah, of course,” Nora nods, not needing any further explanation. After all, she herself has been dubbed ‘vaultie’ by the scribe, and Rhys has been ‘big guy’ from day one.

Curie, however, could do with some more explaining. “I am confused, mademoiselle,” she confesses. “I thought you said monsieur Danse no longer holds a position of importance. Why is it logical for him to be addressed as ‘chief’?”

Nora pinches the bridge of her nose. “Curie, sweetie –”

“Oh,” she gasps before Nora can finish. “That was rude of me, of course. I beg your pardon, monsieur. I find it difficult to phrase my thoughts adequately without the algorithms my creator programmed into my old body.”

And really, he knows what it’s like to feel like a stranger in his own body. He can hardly blame her. “That’s alright.”

Curie beams, and Nora quietly mutters “what the fuck” under her breath, as if she’s expecting to wake up from a bizarre dream at any given time.

“I thank you for your understanding,” Curie says. “Mademoiselle Nora said to be careful of my speech in your presence, but I do not see why. You are most kind.”

Danse raises an eyebrow at Nora, and she throws up her hands in exasperation. “Well, of course I told her to watch her step around you. Jesus, Danse, I put a robot into a synth body. If I hadn’t already been kicked out of the Brotherhood, they’d have skinned me alive.”

“But I’m not Brotherhood anymore,” Danse reminds her, his voice calm and level. It’s the first time he can say the words without the familiar ache of longing stabbing at his chest, and he marvels at the peaceful lack of sensation.

And Nora smiles at that, wide enough to show her gums, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. “You’re better than them anyway.”

“What, like that’s hard?” Nick jabs, but he too is smiling proudly. “She ain’t wrong, though. You’ve come far, partner.”

“I had help,” Danse reminds him, as if either of them could ever forget.

“‘No man is an island entire of itself’,” Nick cites from the works of Donne.

Nora makes a face at the detective. “What is it with you and poetry?”

“It’s a synth thing,” Danse says mildly, earning himself a chuckle from Nick and a punch in the arm from Nora.

“Is it really?” Curie asks, nonplussed. “I have no knowledge of this subject.”

Nora sighs, but her exasperation is softened by the gentle, loving smile she wears when she looks at her companion. “Just ignore him, Curie.”

Her eyebrows draw even further together. “But mademoiselle, I thought we came here to ask monsieur Danse for advice, so I can have a better understanding of my new body.”

“You came to ask Danse for advice on how to be a synth?” Nick asks, sounding vaguely amused. “Should I feel left out?”

“Well, we went to your office first,” Nora defends herself hastily, “but you were out, and it’s not as if I have a plethora of synth friends to call on.”

“Your faith in me is touching,” Danse deadpans, but he can’t bring himself to be truly upset. The last time Nora came to see him, he was little more than a broken shell, unable to see the truth of his existence and unwilling to try and find it. If she’d brought Curie to him then, he likely would have shot her without a second thought.

“Au contraire, we find you positively inspiring, monsieur,” Curie gushes, her eyes shining with admiration. “Mademoiselle Nora says you were creating a support group for our kind. You would name it Synths Anonymous, yes?”

Both Nick and Nora nearly choke on their laughter, and Danse cannot help but crack a smile as well. He remembers the callous, self-deprecating remark he’d made when Nora first pushed him to talk about his insecurities. But then it doesn’t seem as though Curie has any notion of sarcasm yet. “Not quite.”

Her face falls. “Oh. That is unfortunate. I already hung the banner.”

“The… banner?” Danse dares to ask, shooting a baffled look at Nora.

The Vault Dweller at least has the grace to look ashamed. “She insisted.”

“And since when do you listen to what anyone tells you, doll?” Nick asks reasonably.

“She’s… very persuasive when she wants to be,” Nora mumbles, blushing a fierce scarlet that leaves little doubt as to the nature of her relationship with Curie.

The petite woman smiles mischievously, her eyes gleaming with intelligence. She may be innocent, naïve even, but she’s far from stupid. That’s good. Nora needs someone who can keep her on her toes.

“Look, it’s not that big of a deal, alright?” Nora blurts nervously. “Jesus, just go down to the bunker and see for yourselves.”

“I feel like I’m going to regret this,” Danse informs Nick matter-of-factly as the four of them step into the elevator.

“You and me both, partner. You and me both.”

Nora rolls her eyes. “Oh, do shut up.”

When they arrive underground, Danse is proven to be correct. He does regret this.

There is indeed a banner strung up high on the wall, sporting the words Synths Anonymous in an elegant handwriting, if not an ugly green colour that reminds Danse strongly of Super Mutant skin. Underneath it is a quartet of chairs, arranged in a neat circle. Danse recognises one as his own, the one that was already here when he arrived, but where Nora and Curie managed to get the others from, he really doesn’t want to know.

Curie sits down on the edge of one of the seats, her hands folded in her lap and an eager smile on her face. “I have read about meetings like this,” she announces proudly. “But some things I did not yet know. Monsieur Deacon assures me it is of vital importance to begin with introducing ourselves, and then have everyone else acknowledge us in a silly voice.”

“I don’t think that’s necessary, Curie. We already know each other,” Nora attempts valiantly, but Curie shakes her head adamantly.

“Monsieur Deacon said you would disagree. He said there is no point in having a meeting such as this if we do not conduct it with the proper etiquette.”

“I’m going to fucking kill Deacon,” Nora mutters before she slumps down in the chair next to Curie, shooting Danse and Nick an apologetic look. “Do you mind?”

Nick shrugs. “It’d be a shame to let the banner go to waste.”

“It is aptly made,” Danse agrees idly, earning him a brilliant smile from Curie. “Though I doubt I’ll be of much use. I’m not a therapist.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” Nick disagrees. “The whole ‘get your act together because I’m gonna do something stupid now’ spiel worked marvellously on me down at Quincy.”

Danse fights the smile that tugs at his lips. “Yes, that’s a certified technique,” he nods seriously. “Learned it from Knight-Captain Cade himself.”

Nora chucks a packet of Dandy Boy Apples at him. “Jesus, but the two of you are a disaster together.”

“And whose fault is that, doll?”

“Don’t remind me,” she grumbles, but her smile gives away her self-satisfaction. “I already feel sorry for Ellie.”

Nick snorts, the sound coming out strangely metallic. “Please. Ellie’s been on my back about getting myself a new partner since before Marty packed up and left. She’ll be thrilled.”

“It has been proven that the intelligence of a group can exceed that of its members if the right conditions are met,” Curie supplies helpfully. “Your mademoiselle Ellie is a clever woman indeed.”

“And that’s the simple truth,” Nick nods. He sits down next to Curie, looking expectantly at Danse. “Well, come on, partner. I think we owe the lady a talk, at least.”

Danse sits. It’s fitting, in a bizarre way. Listening Post Bravo has been a place of misery, a cold bunker where he desperately struggled to come to terms with his identity as a synth. He’s thrown things, and yelled at the stone walls, and sobbed himself to sleep in the corner more than once. But it is also the place where he first started to see the light again, with Haylen and Nora and Nick all coming to him here. And now, the day before he trades the listening post for a place in Diamond City, he’s here to help another synth understand just who and what she is.

Fitting, indeed.

Curie takes a deep breath, and begins the first and last meeting of Synths Anonymous. “Hello, I am Curie.”