What the hell's the point of a life that involves cowering in a settlement instead of defending against a threat? You know me better than that.
[ The way he clasps that hand tight in both of his own is incongruous with the fierce indignation in his tone, but it's a gesture both second-nature and born of genuine relief, at seeing Arcade sit and rest and at the reciprocation that lets him know they're all right. Affectionate touch is never exactly mutually exclusive with lecturing, on either of their parts. No matter how moved he might genuinely be, on a different level, by the sentiment that he's loudly protesting. ]
You know good and goddamn well that if I'd found out about this before you did, I'd already be there. You're not asking me to do something against my will; I'm telling you not to leave me out of something that's as much my duty as yours.
[ He would say that it's arguably more so, because he signed up for it on purpose while Arcade never asked to be born into it, but the mention of the Institute cuts that argument off before it even fully forms. It puts in perspective for him exactly how incandescently furious Arcade must be at this incursion, when Danse would probably manage to shoot lasers out of his eyes like Liberty Prime at anyone who tried to tell him he had less investment in the Institute's destruction than the Railroad does.
In that light, he can understand this as a matter of honor, righteous vengeance, the kind of storybook notions he still clings to and probably always will, but that doesn't mean Arcade shouldn't have help with it. But this leads back to the question of their reinforcements, and Danse exhales slowly as he considers the timeline. ]
How much longer were you planning to wait on the response? Because you're in no shape to march or fight without a good rest anyway.
[ There are miles of ground to cover between a life lived cowering in a settlement and one potentially thrown away on the altar of just and necessary vengeance. But Arcade isn't going to debate those details with him, now. (No matter how much he usually enjoys it.) There's no real matter to argue here. Danse is coming with him, one way or another, and Arcade isn't going to be the one to push him toward another.
Maybe tellingly, he doesn't wilt the way someone probably should, on the receiving end of all of that sharp, reprimanding insistence. Instead, he smiles, soft and tired and not entirely what one might describe as happy, but real, as his hand relaxes in between both of Danse's. He isn't about to let go, but maybe he doesn't have to hold on so tightly, either.
It's a short-lived moment, though, when that question drags him back to the present. And reminds him of the terrified jumble of questions that skittered across the top of his own mind, when he turned to find himself not so alone down here anymore. His brow furrows, as he glances across the hectic array of notes and pieced together maps in front of him, dragging his free hand through his already mussed hair. ]
Only until dawn. I feel like I've wasted too much time, already. But I needed to be sure.
[ And to have some time to prepare, even if most of what he's done has been redundant, too cautious.
Those frown lines deepen as he looks up at Danse again, unsure. ]
...I'd also like to know how you found me. Not for nothing, but if anyone else knows where we are, we might not even have those few hours to wait.
[ He'd never expect Arcade to wilt, not in the face of this or anything else, but that smile in its unexpectedness manages to be contagious. It's one thing, common enough, for Danse to derive grim satisfaction from the prospect of battle with a particularly hated nemesis, but another entirely--newer, rarer, a capability he owes to Arcade--to look forward more to the peace after the fight than to the fight itself. And with the secrets between them laid bare now, it's even more hopeful a prospect--
--but not without its obstacles, still, as Danse too is forced to admit. Even presuming they survive this, which is already further ahead of himself than Danse likes to get, it's a more than valid question, and he wishes he didn't have to answer it. ]
It's...not as immediate a problem as that. I came on the General's orders. I don't know who tipped her off about this location and I don't like any of the guesses I can hazard, but the fact that I'm the one she sent to investigate--
[ When he assembles the whole picture now, there's a slightly troubling hint of deja vu about it, almost as if she'd taken the page from Maxson's playbook, but he can't fathom why she would. He shakes it off. ]
She'll wait for me to report back before taking any other action. Nobody else will be coming tonight. And all I need to tell her in the end is that you identified the threat and we neutralized it. The Minutemen don't need to know why.
[ Nobody does. Candid though Danse prefers to be about most things, he won't have any difficulty keeping this between them. ]
[ Whatever lightness briefly raised the pall of weariness and paranoia that's fallen over him these past few weeks is snuffed out in the face of that particular piece of news. He could have shouldered Danse's suspicion easily. It was warranted, earned, and well deserved. But Nora is not such a trusted place for that kind of insight to be coming from, and it rankles him in similar fashion to see the dots connecting as Danse briefly flounders for a thought to complete that sentence. He doesn't really have to. Letting it drop is just as telling - and better, maybe, than trying to give voice to those particular worries, too.
It won't change anything, if Danse is right, anyway.
His chair creaks as he rocks back in it, still frowning, his eyes sweeping across the maps and notes on the table. ]
...As long as you're sure.
[ He doesn't sound much of it, himself, but there aren't a lot of options to correct course, now. Rubbing a thumb against his jaw, he runs back over the plan, tries to fit someone else into the next few steps of it. In this case, it isn't that hard. ]
We only have a few hours. If there are any preparations you need to make - I have ammunition, spare parts that should fit your armor. [ He drops his hand, waving it lamely at the rest of the bunker behind them. ] Take whatever you need.
[ Had Danse been left to his own devices, his suspicions alone couldn't have driven him here. Far enough to turn up at Arcade's home and ask him more forcefully, perhaps, maybe refuse to leave without some clearer answers, but not to violate his trust with outright stalking. But there would have been nobody there to answer the door, and Arcade would still be alone here waiting on backup.
He can say at least that he's come out of this explanation more strongly in Arcade's corner than he already was. And he does have faith, still, that the Minutemen will drop the issue once they've been satisfied that no more civilian deaths are forthcoming. He has to remind himself sometimes how much narrower they consider their remit than the Brotherhood ever did, when from the outside he'd always assumed it to be the opposite. ]
I'm sure.
[ There's more confidence in his voice as he reasons it out further, and he can be more persuasive when time is less of the essence. For now, though, he casts an eye over the supplies he's being directed to, formulating his own plans. He hasn't brought as much with him as he'd want to for a job like this, but what Arcade's gathered in the bunker will go a good way toward making that up. ]
And I will. But--
[ One thing he does have on hand, and which he retrieves from a compartment in his armor now, is a bedroll. He expects resistance. He's used to resistance, but the firm tone he would have taken with Haylen or Rhys is absent from his voice even though it requires a deliberate wrench away from the mission-focused mindset he's otherwise steeped in. His reasons for asking are as sentimental as Arcade's reasons for leaving him out of this to begin with. ]
I need you to spend those hours getting some rest. I'll keep watch. I won't be ready to go until I'm done briefing myself on your findings anyway.
[ He presses the bedroll into Arcade's hands, and just for a moment, lays a hand alongside his cheek, feeling the unfamiliar rasp of stubble overgrowth. ]
For my peace of mind. If I'd worked myself as hard as you have, you'd be reminding me I'm not a machine.
[ He wants to protest. Rest isn't something he's factored into his plans, at this point, and he's sure he can manage without, besides. He's gone longer running on less than he has in the tank now. He'll manage.
But where surviving the next 24 to 48 hours feels necessary and possible on any amount of dwindling energy, fighting with Danse looks like a long, unnecessary detour running exhaustingly uphill. The hand on his cheek is already a persuasive argument, warm and familiar. So is the thought of lying down on a bedroll that smells like Danse, even if it's only to wait a handful of impatient hours as sleep evades him entirely. There could be worse ways to spend that time.
Reluctantly, Arcade nods, grip tightening on the soft bundle in his hands. ]
You'll, ah... come and sit with me, when you're done?
[ The concession, when he knows Arcade wants to protest, prompts a distracting ripple of grateful relief; the request makes him wish the location were a shade more secure. The bedroll isn't large enough to share, but neither are half the surfaces they've managed to sleep jointly on before. His thumb rubs softly and longingly over Arcade's cheekbone before his hand drops. ]
Absolutely.
[ It doesn't take him long. Danse leaves Arcade to set up where he wants to, while he arms himself more thoroughly from the supplies and swaps out the bracers of his suit for the type of upgraded Tesla model he's never gotten to see up close before.
It's the sort of thing he would want to spend ten minutes excitedly expounding on, under more opportune circumstances--under his previous impression that Arcade's expertise about it would have been more about the underpinning scientific theory, not firsthand experience with the armor itself, and that they could meet somewhere in the middle. His mind is still reeling slightly from the revelation that this isn't the case.
It's worth sticking a pin in, because he wants to talk about it. He wants to learn more, wants to watch Arcade lock into that suit and see what he can do, wants to hear what he could say about it when he doesn't have reason to change the subject or hide what he knows, but neither of them can afford that distraction yet. Danse gathers the maps and papers neatly from the table and takes them over to the bedroll instead, sitting on the floor by the head of it to read.
As he absorbs himself in the information, overlaying what he knows about the local settlements and mentally mapping out an order to the operation, he finds himself reaching over with the hand that isn't rifling pages and letting it rest wherever he can on Arcade's back or shoulders, just for the reassuring steady warmth of the contact. It helps him focus. ]
All right. I think I've determined an optimal course.
[ This after a couple of hours, his voice low as he glances over to be sure Arcade isn't asleep. It's not quite dawn yet. ]
[ There's a half empty supply closet off the banker's main room, nothing but a crumpled metal shelf in one corner, an ancient exhaust fan turning slowly in an overhead vent in the other. That's where Arcade sets up the bedroll, out of the brightest swath of the lights he's set up, where there's a hint of sky through that half-buried vent - so when daylight starts to creep through, he'll know. Not that he doubts Danse will warn him well ahead of time. But he's already come this far paranoid and prepared. What's a little further?
He doesn't really sleep, but it's easier to doze than he would've expected. The floor is hard and the bedding minimal, but it's been so long since he let himself settle that the weariness doesn't bother holding rest out of his grasp. The intermittent sounds of familiar work, mechanical noise, lull him into a place between awake and not with an unexpected swiftness.
He's more on the awake side of that drifting, in-and-out consciousness, when Danse speaks up. At some point, Arcade pulled the hand from his back into one of his own, and his grip tightens as he blinks, expression sharpening again. ]
[ Deep as Danse's focus has been, having spent this time almost wholly absorbed in catching up to speed and formulating strategy, that unconscious reach for his hand had temporarily derailed him. There had been no room for martial thoughts until the startlingly fierce affection welling up in his chest had calmed itself again, and he could have told himself more easily that he was just taking a break to rest his strained eyes if he had actually closed them instead of spending the next ten minutes pensively adrift and watching Arcade doze.
What would I do if something happened to him? He's asked himself the question before, but never until now had a truly pressing reason to dwell on it.
He hasn't let go of that hand for the past forty-five minutes, and he doesn't now, only returns the squeeze. He's satisfied already that the rest seems to have done Arcade some good. ]
It's counterintuitive, because if you're right about where this radio signal originates, there's an encampment closer to this location than the one I recommend we prioritize. But if we target it last, we'll be near two well-fortified settlements to spend the night and recuperate as necessary.
The one I think we should make for first is on the west end of Malden--near the hospital, if god forbid we need more supplies than you already have. I know the area particularly well.
[ Though the path there from here doesn't quite need to take them within sight of the listening post he'd once thought would be his grave. Just within about a quarter mile. He leaves that thought aside, in favor of a more immediate and deeper concern that he's been working through. ]
Do you have a way to...securely leave word here, for your allies? [ He's not quite sure how to phrase that, or what to call them, but that's his best effort. ] Explain our plans, so there's no danger of them deciding to assault the same locations? I don't want to risk friendly fire if I can't immediately distinguish who's on our side.
[ As Danse explains his plan, Arcade starts to shake himself more deliberately awake to listen. Breaking their careful connection, he reaches for his glasses, scrubbing a hand over his face and sitting up. When he sits forward, his eyes are fixed on the map, tracing between the points Danse outlines, following the path he's already built in his head. It takes a moment for him to respond, as he plays over his own (readily scrapped) course and reworks it to fit.
That intense focus breaks like clouds parting after a storm. It's relief and gratitude and a hint of lingering want, like he'd lean over and kiss Danse if they had any more time. Instead he starts to brush himself off, as he pushes to his feet, sidestepping his maps and heading back toward the radio. ]
Give me fifteen minutes.
[ He spends ten of them hastily drafting a message and the other five fiddling with the radio, then relaying the words he's scribbled out to it. It sounds like nonsense, a mixture of old military code and something clearly made up, and the flat tone in which Arcade speaks makes him sound eerily like some Pre-War relic. He could be an old holotape spinning its wheels in the dark, somewhere, message as meaningless as it is incomprehensible, in the current age. Nothing anyone else will think twice about, if they stumble on the adjacent frequency, where his voice plays back in an even stranger and more distant echo. He only listens for a second before shutting it off. Just long enough to be sure the power's still on, and the recording will play at all.
Then he steps back from the table, glancing back at the armor behind him, before his gaze slides to Danse. ]
I guess that's everything. Unless you've thought of anything else?
[ Danse spends those last five minutes listening to this with fascination, even if it unnerves him as well. It's one thing to hear Arcade explain the way he's spent his whole life running and looking over his shoulder, but another to catch a glimpse into the true depth of paranoid subterfuge it's made necessary, layers upon layers of bitter context built up like scar tissue over those thirty years.
Part of him had been ready to ask, hesitantly, if there might be a good spot to designate as a rendezvous point when this is over, to let him meet these people for reasons more personal than mission-related, as if this were some pre-war joke about bringing your boyfriend to Thanksgiving dinner and trusting him not to argue politics with your uncle. But the notion feels too silly to speak aloud right now, even if the desire remains.
A thought comes to mind--I don't really know him at all, do I?--but it's gone in another moment. It would be true if Danse had found him down here preparing to join the soldiers in those camps, or aid them, but this passionate determination to root them out at any cost is still exactly of a piece with the Arcade that Danse knows and loves--
This thought, too, he silences, not for the first time. Danse has never been a superstitious enough man to believe in the concept of tempting fate, but he tells himself that it would be foolish to say something distracting right when they both need all their faculties about them. Maybe even worth the regret of holding back, if there never comes another chance.
...no. Not so worth it that he won't take this last minute before they lock into their armor, and answer that question with the kiss that Arcade had foregone. They've made all the preparations they're equipped to except for this one, Danse's fingers sliding into Arcade's already-disheveled curls and anchoring there just a shade too tightly in their desperation, tongue slipping between his lips as he lets it say everything he isn't going to articulate right now.
If this kills us, it's been an honor.
He lets go, and steps back into his power armor. ]
I know a shortcut that can get us there well before noon, if complications along the way are minimal.
[ He glances toward Arcade's armor as well, the direction of his gaze obvious even when helmeted, and the anticipatory warmth in his tone audible even under the buzz of the vocoder. ]
[ He doesn't expect the kiss, but he doesn't realize he's simultaneously hoping for it, anyway, until Danse's fingers are tightening in his hair and their lips meet in such a desperate crush that he bows against Danse as if the jolt of electricity that the kiss sends through him has magnetized him as well. It's over too quickly, and he's forced to let go of the white-knuckled grip he's taken on Danse's shoulders with too much left that he wants to say (but doesn't want to say).
Danse steps into his armor, and Arcade takes a last look around, collecting something like himself while all the pieces still feel scattered around. At Danse's prompting, though, he nods, gaze settling back on his father's old armor. His armor, now, technically for longer than his father ever had it, in the first place. ]
Don't get too excited. I'm pretty rusty.
[ That edge of warmth he detects is more exciting than it has any right to be, at a time like this. He can blame the sense memory of Danse smelling like grease and metal and old, cracked leather - a strong hit of which he inhales, as he steps up to his own suit, taking a little more care as he slips inside. But it runs much deeper than that.
With a steadying breath, he flexes an armored hand, reaching for his helmet, latching it on and disappearing completely behind the heavy, metal facade. ]
You've said that before. You didn't disappoint then, either.
[ Maybe he's blurring the lines too much with that, defeating the purpose of not letting that kiss linger too long, of forcing himself to pull back before he could melt into it any further and risk letting desire and longing sap his focus from what they need to do.
He's hard-pressed enough to keep that steady as it is, watching Arcade climb into that suit with obvious experience, with visible competence and strength underneath that rusty caution, everything Danse has spent half a lifetime sublimating his libido into admiration of before Arcade gave him both reason and permission to express it openly again. Never would he have expected the two to combine like this, except in the occasional fantasy he's been too embarrassed to mention.
Even now, there's a less sensual earnestness to the appreciation as well, acknowledgment of the skill and the training it takes even for this much fluid movement in a walking tank. Like you were born for it, he could say admiringly, and nearly does, but blessedly catches himself as he remembers just how literally true the Enclave must have intended that to be. No need for either of them to dwell on that now.
The sight of Arcade's fingers flexing in the armor makes Danse feel the throb of that bruising-tight grip on his shoulders all the more acutely. They have hours of travel ahead of them for him to collect himself and sharpen up again, but he wants that sensation to linger as long as it possibly can. He leads the way out, setting a course for Malden with the rising sun at their backs.
It's a little while before he speaks again, partly to save breath on a tough portion of the hike, partly because silences with Arcade can be comfortable--though this has never been tested in circumstances quite so serious--but mostly because his thoughts are racing, in light of everything he's learned and the million new questions it all raises. ]
Tell me more about...you called them the Remnants?
[ It's not as if he hadn't asked about Arcade's family with genuine curiosity before, after all, on those first early dates. He just hadn't gotten much of an answer. ]
[ It's a relief to be tucked safely into the obscurity of his armor when Danse rattles that one off - though his face is still visibly red, even angled away, before he can disappear beneath the helmet, too. If they live through this, he'll have more than an emotional deficit to make up for, after these past few weeks.
He feels an uncharacteristic flare of claustrophobia, as the layers of steel and padding cut him off from the outside world completely - and, more specifically, from the opportunity to reach out and actually touch Danse again. The terrifying notion that that may well have been the last time, just moments ago, tries to rise to the surface of his mind on a bubble of fear-clouded doubt. But Arcade brushes it aside, taking a deep breath as he checks his weapons, and then turns to follow Danse, leaving the bunker behind.
The silence that spins out between them as they move is comfortable - for the most part. Arcade can't help all of the worries that creep in as the minutes wear on, step after step. What comes after is chief among them, still a blank space, a dark void of wild uncertainty. But when his gaze slides sideways, latching on to the familiar silhouette of now familiar armor, most of that uncertainty settles. Questions for later can wait until the job is done.
Questions for now startle him out of his forward-facing focus, a slight hitch in his step before the crackling sound of him clearing his throat breaks his silence. ]
Like I said, they were my father's old troop. Loyal to each other, first. And then to my mother and me. Now - just me.
[ A fact for which he has never managed to feel (or sound) any less guilty. But who is he to deserve that kind of deference? That loyalty? Just his father's son, really. ]
There are five of us left, myself included. You, uh. May have even met a couple of them, already. Daisy used to be a pilot. She's a scrapper, these days, orbiting the settlements closer to Sanctuary, usually. And Judah's taken up residence in Diamond City. He was their captain, though he's living like a real retiree, these days.
[ It's easier to talk about them than it ever has been himself, and the more he speaks, the easier it gets. Some minor floodgates open, and he feels even more of the night's exhaustion fall off him like water, somehow, as if this is the real relief, even more so than those few spare hours of thin sleep. ]
Doc Henry and Ca— Uh, Johnson aren't such social butterflies. Henry's doing what he always did, curing the incurable, solving the unsolvable, just because he can. Or, science can, I guess.
Johnson's even more of a hermit. Given everything he's been through, though, it's not exactly a surprise he lost his taste for polite society a long time ago. I feel bad dragging any of them back into all this, but him maybe most of all.
[ To a man who has always been brimful-overflowing with that kind of loyalty to give, easily seduced with promises that a military company could and would fill the void where blood relatives should be, nothing about that brand of devotion sounds undeserved or guilt-worthy or difficult to explain, even when it outlasts the original obligations that fostered it.
(To a man who already knows what there is to love about Arcade and why someone would, the answer to that question would seem all the more self-evident. Surely, who would know all of that better or feel it more than the people who seem by this account to have raised him from childhood? Even viewed through the lens of merit, by someone with no firsthand experience of being anyone's parent or anyone's child, it isn't difficult for Danse to wrap his mind around why the Remnants would follow Arcade across the country and fight at his back.)
He listens with the same sharp attention as he always has, always does, but there's a little frisson of something that calls back to that early infatuation when he'd simply wanted to know everything he could about the man preoccupying his thoughts. The freedom with which Arcade elaborates now on what he'd deflected about all those months ago is exciting, even before Danse's mind manages to connect any dots. ]
--I have met Daisy.
[ Startled, pleased, as he runs through his mental list of the vendors in the area that's become his home. ]
I mean, we've only ever made small talk, but she's the reason I don't have to drag myself all the way to Bunker Hill for military-grade junk worth the price anymore. I told her how I used to be a scavver myself, so she knows I have the manners not to ask about her sources, but I suppose this makes sense...
[ Not, of course, that he doesn't know better than to bring any of this up in public next time he's in the market for armor components. He trails off, considering the rest. ]
Anyway. I don't know, I...what makes you think this Johnson would have a harder time than the others? Reclusiveness I understand, but this business is about as far from dealing with polite society as it gets.
[ Not for being helpful, but - Arcade clears his throat, reluctantly clarifying. ]
She's been telling me for weeks that she has a regular I should... get to know. If I'd thought there was a chance it could be you, I wouldn't have taken the bet.
[ The brief, fond smile fades out of his tone when Danse promptshim again, though. ]
It's not that I think he'll have a tough time with it. It's that I feel bad for asking at all.
Johnson was always the one who struggled the most with our lot in life. Fleeing the Enclave, everything that came after - I think it left deeper scars on him than any of us.
[ Danse is grateful right now for the helmet, knowing as he does that he lacks a good poker face. Though he isn't sure exactly what his face is doing right now, besides prickling with a surge of unpleasant heat, at the knowledge that the person Arcade talks to about these things still thinks he's single, and that apparently not even sustained prodding about his love life or repeated attempts to set him up with an unknown quantity had induced him to tell her anything about the man already occupying his bed.
There's no other response coming to mind that he thinks would be helpful, and so he doesn't. He considers the rest of this in silence as they continue on.
Our lot in life, reminding Danse again how unwilling yet inexorable that service could be. He has not been encouraged to consider that beyond the abstract before, and without all of this, might never have. But the Enclave uniform would look no different on a true believer than on someone with no way out and nowhere else to go.
It's easier to forget that, coming from the chapter of the Brotherhood that leans hardest on willing, eager recruits--but even the East Coast detachment has squires, raised with no other options but to serve. Even they let themselves be led by a man whose strongest claim is a bloodline, treated like a binding prophecy from the moment of his birth.
He isn't yet willing to accept what similar sides of the same coin the Brotherhood and the Enclave have become. But the already-evident parallels make him think this isn't so alien that he can't speak on it, even if he joined willingly himself. ]
Look, I know battle fatigue. But...even for someone drafted into service, who never chose it, I don't know if that's enough to wash away the part of being a soldier that gets burned into you. There's something about it that never leaves you.
I can't speak for someone I don't know, but I have to imagine there would be some kind of...vindication in this, for him, if he was already so opposed to the cause. You were about ready to throw down a gauntlet at the idea of being held back from your duty here, and you think someone who was forced into combat for them wouldn't want the same thing you do?
[ There's a crackle of static in his response, the trailing end of a sigh. ]
None of us want this. We're just short of better options.
[ And adding more bodies to any of their individual (or collective) tallies isn't going to leave any of then better off. But they have a duty to Arcade, and he has a duty to himself. To proving that they're better than the whole they are remnants of. That it's possible to be, even with so much blood on their hands.
That adding more won't make any of them less broken is not something Arcade is certain he can properly convey, though. Trying to explain to someone once so devoutly a pillar of the Brotherhood that there's no glory in battle, and victory is more an obligation than an achievement—
He'd rather focus on keeping his breath, not exhausting himself hours before the end of this long hike. ]
[ It's not a line of argument Danse was ever likely to be wholly sold on, no matter how Arcade might have conveyed it. There's a degree of irony, one he'll never be aware of, in the fact that the Institute had deemed him too softhearted to be a courser--but then, coursers aren't even meant to concern themselves with collateral damage, let alone honor or glory.
But there is a separate layer of irony in the fact that the purchase that cut-off protest does find with Danse is because of his service to the Brotherhood, not in spite of it. He'd never once been able to tell himself there was any purpose or glory or good, not even a false gold-foil sheen of it, in what happened with Cutler. Or Worwick, or Brach, or Keane, or Dawes, pointless messy tragedies layering like a snowdrift and leaving nothing but a frostbitten ache in his bones. Even the theoretical prospect of avenging his own father figure on this mission has been a distant afterthought, going through half the motions and then abandoning them anyway. It isn't about that.
His reasons for letting the silence settle again for the next mile or two are diverse. There's no impulse to lash back or defend the righteousness of the fight, but particularly not at that subjective. What would Danse know about what these people want? He doesn't know them, nor they of him. He's hardly going to find himself arguing the matter with Johnson in person.
With the wind of curiosity taken out of his sails, there's little else to ask, except for what his own further fretful analysis teases out from the statement he'd let drop before. It had been nagging at him then despite his attempts to leave it, but after even a fair bit of distance and exertion and a brief tangle with a pack of feral mongrels fails to dislodge it from his brain-- ]
Why did you take that bet? [ He's been pushing ahead, just far enough to make conversation impractical on purpose, but he waits now to close the distance between them again. ] What would you have done if it hadn't been me she had you meeting?
[ It takes Arcade a moment to respond, as deeply entangled in his own thoughts as he's become. Playing out all of the day's worst case scenarios and potential bad turns and trying to come up with a thousand ways to mitigate the damage hasn't left a lot of room for contemplating their last, brief conversation's potential nuances. So he blanks, briefly, head turned toward Danse beneath his helmet as a confused frown creases his forehead.
Oh, right. That bet. ]
Uh, meeting?
[ The logical leap is really more of an ambitious step, and Arcade could kick himself for not realizing how that sounded sooner. He isn't immediately wondering whether Danse has been as quiet as he has for specifically that reason - but he'll get there. ]
I wasn't planning on meeting anyone. We were just... you know, uh, kidding around?
[ Or maybe it was more like she was ever so gently nagging him, and he was dodging those well-meaning efforts to convince him to maybe engage with the rest of the world a little more. Not as necessary as usual, but how could she know that? ]
Daisy's had to hear enough about my past run of not so great relationships, over the years. The last thing she'd want to be responsible for is the next one.
[ But that doesn't sound right, either, and Arcade manages to catch it this time, immediately amending (with maybe too much emphasis): ] Hypothetically. Obviously you're not... in that number.
[ The clarification about the blind-date-that-wouldn't-have-been elicits a distinctly more relieved-sounding oh this time than the dull, flat one of earlier, prompt enough to be slightly embarrassing. Though it's been a while since Danse bothered worrying about showing too much emotional candor with Arcade, where any feelings but the very deepest are concerned.
Those, he still does keep walled-off and private, with the same kind of discipline that served him well enough as a paladin but leaves him now largely unable to relate to the rest of this. He doesn't really know what it feels like to have a proper relationship history or anyone to talk to about it, for good or ill.
That second faux pas gets caught before any hurt feeling can register, and there's something almost more reassuring about the over-emphasis there than about the words themselves, the clearness of the desire to make sure Danse doesn't feel slighted. ]
Well, I...can't say I'm not glad to hear that. I would say the same, but I don't really have a number to speak of, so the comparison wouldn't do much.
[ It's earnest, mostly; he doesn't quite have facetiousness in him at the moment, but the explanation salves most of what's been keeping him quiet. It's difficult to see body language relaxing in a suit of power armor, but Danse somehow manages to make it visible, as much of a second skin as it is to him. ]
If we're talking hypotheticals, though--
[ Having misinterpreted that earlier conversation, Danse isn't sure now that he wants to trust his own judgment about other assumptions he's been operating under. He's not always been the best at understanding things beyond the literal, and he realizes now that he's allowed a reading between the lines of an oblique sarcastic territory-marking joke to become something of a load-bearing pillar in his understanding of this relationship. ]
You wouldn't, right? If she were to introduce you to someone else, or if anyone asked you, you'd...well, you'd turn them down, wouldn't you? It's what I've been doing, but I suppose I never actually asked you to, I just thought...
[ This time, it's not a sigh, but a distinctly uncomfortable, surprised cough of sound that echoes out of his helmet. It shakes with his head, as he slows to a stop, considering Danse (or the armor hiding him) at an angle. ]
I'm not sure how often you think the rest of us are being propositioned, on an average day, but it... hasn't exactly come up.
[ Arcade himself has something to do with that, of course - he doesn't exactly make himself available to that kind of thing. Nor does he cultivate the easiest-going, most approachable appearance, otherwise. Still, though. Beyond the occasional joke, he hasn't had to fend off a lot of unwanted suitors since leaving Vegas (and even then, it was only ever the casual passing glances with drunks at the bar).
And it's been even longer since he was anywhere near to entertaining that kind of thing with any sincerity, besides. ]
Not that I wouldn't still turn them down, sure. But... You're the only person I haven't turned down in - longer than I care to admit. And I wasn't planning to change the trend.
[ Danse doesn't have much to base his idea of the norm on here, given how little of his life he really has spent free to fraternize with civilians, and how oblivious he was to interest even before that, the way Cutler used to laugh at him for spectacularly failing to notice women flirting with him at the Muddy Rudder. Only now that he's shed enough of his Brotherhood reputation and begun to venture out without his power armor has he started catching the occasional overt remark or offer of a drink from strangers and Mel the Robot Guy.
There are a lot of factors still skewing his sense of average here. But still, the notion that nobody else on this side of the country has worked up the nerve to make a move on Arcade catches him off-guard. ]
I'm certainly not saying it happens to me often, but--you're one of the best-looking men in the Commonwealth.
[ By his standards, "one of" is fainter praise than deserved, but he will allow that some degree of that might be his heart speaking more than his eyes. His reflexive loyalty as a partner leaves him briefly almost offended on Arcade's behalf. ]
You can't tell me not a single other guy has wanted to take a chance. You could tell me you sent one packing and he came back for a second shot and I'd believe you.
[ Not that Danse would have been pushy enough to do that himself, if he'd been rejected--but then, as he's being reminded now, he hadn't been. It hasn't occurred to him before to think he could be exceptional in that regard. He isn't used to being an exception, not often and never like this, but whatever Arcade's reasons for letting him be one, the import does gradually sink in. Danse's face colors under his helmet again, as warm as before but with pleasure now, lost for words but intent on finding them considerably sooner this time. ]
I'm lucky as hell you thought I was worth bucking the trend for.
[ Between keeping busy and pretty much dodging any kind of social call that isn't mandatory for maintaining his generally boring, inoffensive presence or spending time with Danse, he's kept to a lot of the old habits that have helped him dodge potential entanglements, romantic or otherwise, in the past. (And the lattermost of those activities has become a recent addition to that list, as well, he suspects. Maybe hitting on Danse directly is just marginally less daunting than hitting on the guy he spends so much of his free time keeping company. Either way, it's a convenient added bonus that he's also become a deterrent to unwanted romantic intentions.)
He shrugs, the effort barely a sketch of a motion beneath the armor - but obvious to someone used to reading body language through all those layers of metal and padding. It's a relief to have his helmet on, now, stifling as he always finds it - his embarrassment muted by the same phenomenon. ]
Beyond a handful of awkward run-ins, I haven't exactly given any other guys a chance. I sort of - stopped thinking it was worth the trouble, a long time ago.
Lovers make poor confidants. I could never be truly honest with anyone without it blowing up in my face. But luck's not what made you different.
[ The notion of being a deterrent himself is not really an angle that has occurred to Danse. His jealousy is not the type that would manifest in actual fighting or threatening of anyone who might try to horn in on his partner, and he can just imagine what Arcade would have to say if it did--but he does rather look like a guy who might, and he certainly is big enough to make someone who might otherwise have taken that gamble think twice just to be safe.
The majority of the interest he's deflected has been from women who don't know him, when he hasn't been in Arcade's company, but anyone who's tried has been met with the same awkward firmness about being flattered but unavailable. (Nobody who's ever seen him with Arcade around Goodneighbor has bothered to try. When he's talking to Arcade, whether they're touching or not, Danse rarely gives the impression of noticing or caring that anyone else exists in the vicinity.)
But he understands now, with this further explanation--or understands at least what Arcade would have had to fear, why romance might have seemed futile at best and dangerous at worst, why it could have seemed easier to avoid the eventual expectation of transparency by never letting anyone get close enough to feel entitled to it. What Danse still doesn't understand in light of that is why he of all people would have been different, when he'd turned up at the door in full Brotherhood uniform (no matter how quickly he'd stripped down to half of it.)
Except that he hadn't hesitated once they got talking to explain that his actual membership in it was a thing of the past, even if he'd saved the why of it for after the first date. And he remembers, too, how willing he'd been to set his own unexpected attraction aside for the chance to just talk more, to take that offer of a book loan and pleasant educational conversation at face value and appreciate the company if that was all Arcade intended it to be. He would have come back for that and been glad of it. Still, he doesn't know what it is that Arcade means by this, and his tone--neutral though he wishes he could keep it--has both audible hope and a tinge of wariness to it. ]
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[ The way he clasps that hand tight in both of his own is incongruous with the fierce indignation in his tone, but it's a gesture both second-nature and born of genuine relief, at seeing Arcade sit and rest and at the reciprocation that lets him know they're all right. Affectionate touch is never exactly mutually exclusive with lecturing, on either of their parts. No matter how moved he might genuinely be, on a different level, by the sentiment that he's loudly protesting. ]
You know good and goddamn well that if I'd found out about this before you did, I'd already be there. You're not asking me to do something against my will; I'm telling you not to leave me out of something that's as much my duty as yours.
[ He would say that it's arguably more so, because he signed up for it on purpose while Arcade never asked to be born into it, but the mention of the Institute cuts that argument off before it even fully forms. It puts in perspective for him exactly how incandescently furious Arcade must be at this incursion, when Danse would probably manage to shoot lasers out of his eyes like Liberty Prime at anyone who tried to tell him he had less investment in the Institute's destruction than the Railroad does.
In that light, he can understand this as a matter of honor, righteous vengeance, the kind of storybook notions he still clings to and probably always will, but that doesn't mean Arcade shouldn't have help with it. But this leads back to the question of their reinforcements, and Danse exhales slowly as he considers the timeline. ]
How much longer were you planning to wait on the response? Because you're in no shape to march or fight without a good rest anyway.
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Maybe tellingly, he doesn't wilt the way someone probably should, on the receiving end of all of that sharp, reprimanding insistence. Instead, he smiles, soft and tired and not entirely what one might describe as happy, but real, as his hand relaxes in between both of Danse's. He isn't about to let go, but maybe he doesn't have to hold on so tightly, either.
It's a short-lived moment, though, when that question drags him back to the present. And reminds him of the terrified jumble of questions that skittered across the top of his own mind, when he turned to find himself not so alone down here anymore. His brow furrows, as he glances across the hectic array of notes and pieced together maps in front of him, dragging his free hand through his already mussed hair. ]
Only until dawn. I feel like I've wasted too much time, already. But I needed to be sure.
[ And to have some time to prepare, even if most of what he's done has been redundant, too cautious.
Those frown lines deepen as he looks up at Danse again, unsure. ]
...I'd also like to know how you found me. Not for nothing, but if anyone else knows where we are, we might not even have those few hours to wait.
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--but not without its obstacles, still, as Danse too is forced to admit. Even presuming they survive this, which is already further ahead of himself than Danse likes to get, it's a more than valid question, and he wishes he didn't have to answer it. ]
It's...not as immediate a problem as that. I came on the General's orders. I don't know who tipped her off about this location and I don't like any of the guesses I can hazard, but the fact that I'm the one she sent to investigate--
[ When he assembles the whole picture now, there's a slightly troubling hint of deja vu about it, almost as if she'd taken the page from Maxson's playbook, but he can't fathom why she would. He shakes it off. ]
She'll wait for me to report back before taking any other action. Nobody else will be coming tonight. And all I need to tell her in the end is that you identified the threat and we neutralized it. The Minutemen don't need to know why.
[ Nobody does. Candid though Danse prefers to be about most things, he won't have any difficulty keeping this between them. ]
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It won't change anything, if Danse is right, anyway.
His chair creaks as he rocks back in it, still frowning, his eyes sweeping across the maps and notes on the table. ]
...As long as you're sure.
[ He doesn't sound much of it, himself, but there aren't a lot of options to correct course, now. Rubbing a thumb against his jaw, he runs back over the plan, tries to fit someone else into the next few steps of it. In this case, it isn't that hard. ]
We only have a few hours. If there are any preparations you need to make - I have ammunition, spare parts that should fit your armor. [ He drops his hand, waving it lamely at the rest of the bunker behind them. ] Take whatever you need.
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He can say at least that he's come out of this explanation more strongly in Arcade's corner than he already was. And he does have faith, still, that the Minutemen will drop the issue once they've been satisfied that no more civilian deaths are forthcoming. He has to remind himself sometimes how much narrower they consider their remit than the Brotherhood ever did, when from the outside he'd always assumed it to be the opposite. ]
I'm sure.
[ There's more confidence in his voice as he reasons it out further, and he can be more persuasive when time is less of the essence. For now, though, he casts an eye over the supplies he's being directed to, formulating his own plans. He hasn't brought as much with him as he'd want to for a job like this, but what Arcade's gathered in the bunker will go a good way toward making that up. ]
And I will. But--
[ One thing he does have on hand, and which he retrieves from a compartment in his armor now, is a bedroll. He expects resistance. He's used to resistance, but the firm tone he would have taken with Haylen or Rhys is absent from his voice even though it requires a deliberate wrench away from the mission-focused mindset he's otherwise steeped in. His reasons for asking are as sentimental as Arcade's reasons for leaving him out of this to begin with. ]
I need you to spend those hours getting some rest. I'll keep watch. I won't be ready to go until I'm done briefing myself on your findings anyway.
[ He presses the bedroll into Arcade's hands, and just for a moment, lays a hand alongside his cheek, feeling the unfamiliar rasp of stubble overgrowth. ]
For my peace of mind. If I'd worked myself as hard as you have, you'd be reminding me I'm not a machine.
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But where surviving the next 24 to 48 hours feels necessary and possible on any amount of dwindling energy, fighting with Danse looks like a long, unnecessary detour running exhaustingly uphill. The hand on his cheek is already a persuasive argument, warm and familiar. So is the thought of lying down on a bedroll that smells like Danse, even if it's only to wait a handful of impatient hours as sleep evades him entirely. There could be worse ways to spend that time.
Reluctantly, Arcade nods, grip tightening on the soft bundle in his hands. ]
You'll, ah... come and sit with me, when you're done?
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Absolutely.
[ It doesn't take him long. Danse leaves Arcade to set up where he wants to, while he arms himself more thoroughly from the supplies and swaps out the bracers of his suit for the type of upgraded Tesla model he's never gotten to see up close before.
It's the sort of thing he would want to spend ten minutes excitedly expounding on, under more opportune circumstances--under his previous impression that Arcade's expertise about it would have been more about the underpinning scientific theory, not firsthand experience with the armor itself, and that they could meet somewhere in the middle. His mind is still reeling slightly from the revelation that this isn't the case.
It's worth sticking a pin in, because he wants to talk about it. He wants to learn more, wants to watch Arcade lock into that suit and see what he can do, wants to hear what he could say about it when he doesn't have reason to change the subject or hide what he knows, but neither of them can afford that distraction yet. Danse gathers the maps and papers neatly from the table and takes them over to the bedroll instead, sitting on the floor by the head of it to read.
As he absorbs himself in the information, overlaying what he knows about the local settlements and mentally mapping out an order to the operation, he finds himself reaching over with the hand that isn't rifling pages and letting it rest wherever he can on Arcade's back or shoulders, just for the reassuring steady warmth of the contact. It helps him focus. ]
All right. I think I've determined an optimal course.
[ This after a couple of hours, his voice low as he glances over to be sure Arcade isn't asleep. It's not quite dawn yet. ]
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He doesn't really sleep, but it's easier to doze than he would've expected. The floor is hard and the bedding minimal, but it's been so long since he let himself settle that the weariness doesn't bother holding rest out of his grasp. The intermittent sounds of familiar work, mechanical noise, lull him into a place between awake and not with an unexpected swiftness.
He's more on the awake side of that drifting, in-and-out consciousness, when Danse speaks up. At some point, Arcade pulled the hand from his back into one of his own, and his grip tightens as he blinks, expression sharpening again. ]
...Yeah? Let's hear it, then.
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What would I do if something happened to him? He's asked himself the question before, but never until now had a truly pressing reason to dwell on it.
He hasn't let go of that hand for the past forty-five minutes, and he doesn't now, only returns the squeeze. He's satisfied already that the rest seems to have done Arcade some good. ]
It's counterintuitive, because if you're right about where this radio signal originates, there's an encampment closer to this location than the one I recommend we prioritize. But if we target it last, we'll be near two well-fortified settlements to spend the night and recuperate as necessary.
The one I think we should make for first is on the west end of Malden--near the hospital, if god forbid we need more supplies than you already have. I know the area particularly well.
[ Though the path there from here doesn't quite need to take them within sight of the listening post he'd once thought would be his grave. Just within about a quarter mile. He leaves that thought aside, in favor of a more immediate and deeper concern that he's been working through. ]
Do you have a way to...securely leave word here, for your allies? [ He's not quite sure how to phrase that, or what to call them, but that's his best effort. ] Explain our plans, so there's no danger of them deciding to assault the same locations? I don't want to risk friendly fire if I can't immediately distinguish who's on our side.
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That intense focus breaks like clouds parting after a storm. It's relief and gratitude and a hint of lingering want, like he'd lean over and kiss Danse if they had any more time. Instead he starts to brush himself off, as he pushes to his feet, sidestepping his maps and heading back toward the radio. ]
Give me fifteen minutes.
[ He spends ten of them hastily drafting a message and the other five fiddling with the radio, then relaying the words he's scribbled out to it. It sounds like nonsense, a mixture of old military code and something clearly made up, and the flat tone in which Arcade speaks makes him sound eerily like some Pre-War relic. He could be an old holotape spinning its wheels in the dark, somewhere, message as meaningless as it is incomprehensible, in the current age. Nothing anyone else will think twice about, if they stumble on the adjacent frequency, where his voice plays back in an even stranger and more distant echo. He only listens for a second before shutting it off. Just long enough to be sure the power's still on, and the recording will play at all.
Then he steps back from the table, glancing back at the armor behind him, before his gaze slides to Danse. ]
I guess that's everything. Unless you've thought of anything else?
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Part of him had been ready to ask, hesitantly, if there might be a good spot to designate as a rendezvous point when this is over, to let him meet these people for reasons more personal than mission-related, as if this were some pre-war joke about bringing your boyfriend to Thanksgiving dinner and trusting him not to argue politics with your uncle. But the notion feels too silly to speak aloud right now, even if the desire remains.
A thought comes to mind--I don't really know him at all, do I?--but it's gone in another moment. It would be true if Danse had found him down here preparing to join the soldiers in those camps, or aid them, but this passionate determination to root them out at any cost is still exactly of a piece with the Arcade that Danse knows and loves--
This thought, too, he silences, not for the first time. Danse has never been a superstitious enough man to believe in the concept of tempting fate, but he tells himself that it would be foolish to say something distracting right when they both need all their faculties about them. Maybe even worth the regret of holding back, if there never comes another chance.
...no. Not so worth it that he won't take this last minute before they lock into their armor, and answer that question with the kiss that Arcade had foregone. They've made all the preparations they're equipped to except for this one, Danse's fingers sliding into Arcade's already-disheveled curls and anchoring there just a shade too tightly in their desperation, tongue slipping between his lips as he lets it say everything he isn't going to articulate right now.
If this kills us, it's been an honor.
He lets go, and steps back into his power armor. ]
I know a shortcut that can get us there well before noon, if complications along the way are minimal.
[ He glances toward Arcade's armor as well, the direction of his gaze obvious even when helmeted, and the anticipatory warmth in his tone audible even under the buzz of the vocoder. ]
Let's see what you've got.
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Danse steps into his armor, and Arcade takes a last look around, collecting something like himself while all the pieces still feel scattered around. At Danse's prompting, though, he nods, gaze settling back on his father's old armor. His armor, now, technically for longer than his father ever had it, in the first place. ]
Don't get too excited. I'm pretty rusty.
[ That edge of warmth he detects is more exciting than it has any right to be, at a time like this. He can blame the sense memory of Danse smelling like grease and metal and old, cracked leather - a strong hit of which he inhales, as he steps up to his own suit, taking a little more care as he slips inside. But it runs much deeper than that.
With a steadying breath, he flexes an armored hand, reaching for his helmet, latching it on and disappearing completely behind the heavy, metal facade. ]
Let's get moving.
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[ Maybe he's blurring the lines too much with that, defeating the purpose of not letting that kiss linger too long, of forcing himself to pull back before he could melt into it any further and risk letting desire and longing sap his focus from what they need to do.
He's hard-pressed enough to keep that steady as it is, watching Arcade climb into that suit with obvious experience, with visible competence and strength underneath that rusty caution, everything Danse has spent half a lifetime sublimating his libido into admiration of before Arcade gave him both reason and permission to express it openly again. Never would he have expected the two to combine like this, except in the occasional fantasy he's been too embarrassed to mention.
Even now, there's a less sensual earnestness to the appreciation as well, acknowledgment of the skill and the training it takes even for this much fluid movement in a walking tank. Like you were born for it, he could say admiringly, and nearly does, but blessedly catches himself as he remembers just how literally true the Enclave must have intended that to be. No need for either of them to dwell on that now.
The sight of Arcade's fingers flexing in the armor makes Danse feel the throb of that bruising-tight grip on his shoulders all the more acutely. They have hours of travel ahead of them for him to collect himself and sharpen up again, but he wants that sensation to linger as long as it possibly can. He leads the way out, setting a course for Malden with the rising sun at their backs.
It's a little while before he speaks again, partly to save breath on a tough portion of the hike, partly because silences with Arcade can be comfortable--though this has never been tested in circumstances quite so serious--but mostly because his thoughts are racing, in light of everything he's learned and the million new questions it all raises. ]
Tell me more about...you called them the Remnants?
[ It's not as if he hadn't asked about Arcade's family with genuine curiosity before, after all, on those first early dates. He just hadn't gotten much of an answer. ]
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He feels an uncharacteristic flare of claustrophobia, as the layers of steel and padding cut him off from the outside world completely - and, more specifically, from the opportunity to reach out and actually touch Danse again. The terrifying notion that that may well have been the last time, just moments ago, tries to rise to the surface of his mind on a bubble of fear-clouded doubt. But Arcade brushes it aside, taking a deep breath as he checks his weapons, and then turns to follow Danse, leaving the bunker behind.
The silence that spins out between them as they move is comfortable - for the most part. Arcade can't help all of the worries that creep in as the minutes wear on, step after step. What comes after is chief among them, still a blank space, a dark void of wild uncertainty. But when his gaze slides sideways, latching on to the familiar silhouette of now familiar armor, most of that uncertainty settles. Questions for later can wait until the job is done.
Questions for now startle him out of his forward-facing focus, a slight hitch in his step before the crackling sound of him clearing his throat breaks his silence. ]
Like I said, they were my father's old troop. Loyal to each other, first. And then to my mother and me. Now - just me.
[ A fact for which he has never managed to feel (or sound) any less guilty. But who is he to deserve that kind of deference? That loyalty? Just his father's son, really. ]
There are five of us left, myself included. You, uh. May have even met a couple of them, already. Daisy used to be a pilot. She's a scrapper, these days, orbiting the settlements closer to Sanctuary, usually. And Judah's taken up residence in Diamond City. He was their captain, though he's living like a real retiree, these days.
[ It's easier to talk about them than it ever has been himself, and the more he speaks, the easier it gets. Some minor floodgates open, and he feels even more of the night's exhaustion fall off him like water, somehow, as if this is the real relief, even more so than those few spare hours of thin sleep. ]
Doc Henry and Ca— Uh, Johnson aren't such social butterflies. Henry's doing what he always did, curing the incurable, solving the unsolvable, just because he can. Or, science can, I guess.
Johnson's even more of a hermit. Given everything he's been through, though, it's not exactly a surprise he lost his taste for polite society a long time ago. I feel bad dragging any of them back into all this, but him maybe most of all.
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(To a man who already knows what there is to love about Arcade and why someone would, the answer to that question would seem all the more self-evident. Surely, who would know all of that better or feel it more than the people who seem by this account to have raised him from childhood? Even viewed through the lens of merit, by someone with no firsthand experience of being anyone's parent or anyone's child, it isn't difficult for Danse to wrap his mind around why the Remnants would follow Arcade across the country and fight at his back.)
He listens with the same sharp attention as he always has, always does, but there's a little frisson of something that calls back to that early infatuation when he'd simply wanted to know everything he could about the man preoccupying his thoughts. The freedom with which Arcade elaborates now on what he'd deflected about all those months ago is exciting, even before Danse's mind manages to connect any dots. ]
--I have met Daisy.
[ Startled, pleased, as he runs through his mental list of the vendors in the area that's become his home. ]
I mean, we've only ever made small talk, but she's the reason I don't have to drag myself all the way to Bunker Hill for military-grade junk worth the price anymore. I told her how I used to be a scavver myself, so she knows I have the manners not to ask about her sources, but I suppose this makes sense...
[ Not, of course, that he doesn't know better than to bring any of this up in public next time he's in the market for armor components. He trails off, considering the rest. ]
Anyway. I don't know, I...what makes you think this Johnson would have a harder time than the others? Reclusiveness I understand, but this business is about as far from dealing with polite society as it gets.
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[ Not for being helpful, but - Arcade clears his throat, reluctantly clarifying. ]
She's been telling me for weeks that she has a regular I should... get to know. If I'd thought there was a chance it could be you, I wouldn't have taken the bet.
[ The brief, fond smile fades out of his tone when Danse promptshim again, though. ]
It's not that I think he'll have a tough time with it. It's that I feel bad for asking at all.
Johnson was always the one who struggled the most with our lot in life. Fleeing the Enclave, everything that came after - I think it left deeper scars on him than any of us.
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[ Danse is grateful right now for the helmet, knowing as he does that he lacks a good poker face. Though he isn't sure exactly what his face is doing right now, besides prickling with a surge of unpleasant heat, at the knowledge that the person Arcade talks to about these things still thinks he's single, and that apparently not even sustained prodding about his love life or repeated attempts to set him up with an unknown quantity had induced him to tell her anything about the man already occupying his bed.
There's no other response coming to mind that he thinks would be helpful, and so he doesn't. He considers the rest of this in silence as they continue on.
Our lot in life, reminding Danse again how unwilling yet inexorable that service could be. He has not been encouraged to consider that beyond the abstract before, and without all of this, might never have. But the Enclave uniform would look no different on a true believer than on someone with no way out and nowhere else to go.
It's easier to forget that, coming from the chapter of the Brotherhood that leans hardest on willing, eager recruits--but even the East Coast detachment has squires, raised with no other options but to serve. Even they let themselves be led by a man whose strongest claim is a bloodline, treated like a binding prophecy from the moment of his birth.
He isn't yet willing to accept what similar sides of the same coin the Brotherhood and the Enclave have become. But the already-evident parallels make him think this isn't so alien that he can't speak on it, even if he joined willingly himself. ]
Look, I know battle fatigue. But...even for someone drafted into service, who never chose it, I don't know if that's enough to wash away the part of being a soldier that gets burned into you. There's something about it that never leaves you.
I can't speak for someone I don't know, but I have to imagine there would be some kind of...vindication in this, for him, if he was already so opposed to the cause. You were about ready to throw down a gauntlet at the idea of being held back from your duty here, and you think someone who was forced into combat for them wouldn't want the same thing you do?
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None of us want this. We're just short of better options.
[ And adding more bodies to any of their individual (or collective) tallies isn't going to leave any of then better off. But they have a duty to Arcade, and he has a duty to himself. To proving that they're better than the whole they are remnants of. That it's possible to be, even with so much blood on their hands.
That adding more won't make any of them less broken is not something Arcade is certain he can properly convey, though. Trying to explain to someone once so devoutly a pillar of the Brotherhood that there's no glory in battle, and victory is more an obligation than an achievement—
He'd rather focus on keeping his breath, not exhausting himself hours before the end of this long hike. ]
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But there is a separate layer of irony in the fact that the purchase that cut-off protest does find with Danse is because of his service to the Brotherhood, not in spite of it. He'd never once been able to tell himself there was any purpose or glory or good, not even a false gold-foil sheen of it, in what happened with Cutler. Or Worwick, or Brach, or Keane, or Dawes, pointless messy tragedies layering like a snowdrift and leaving nothing but a frostbitten ache in his bones. Even the theoretical prospect of avenging his own father figure on this mission has been a distant afterthought, going through half the motions and then abandoning them anyway. It isn't about that.
His reasons for letting the silence settle again for the next mile or two are diverse. There's no impulse to lash back or defend the righteousness of the fight, but particularly not at that subjective. What would Danse know about what these people want? He doesn't know them, nor they of him. He's hardly going to find himself arguing the matter with Johnson in person.
With the wind of curiosity taken out of his sails, there's little else to ask, except for what his own further fretful analysis teases out from the statement he'd let drop before. It had been nagging at him then despite his attempts to leave it, but after even a fair bit of distance and exertion and a brief tangle with a pack of feral mongrels fails to dislodge it from his brain-- ]
Why did you take that bet? [ He's been pushing ahead, just far enough to make conversation impractical on purpose, but he waits now to close the distance between them again. ] What would you have done if it hadn't been me she had you meeting?
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Oh, right. That bet. ]
Uh, meeting?
[ The logical leap is really more of an ambitious step, and Arcade could kick himself for not realizing how that sounded sooner. He isn't immediately wondering whether Danse has been as quiet as he has for specifically that reason - but he'll get there. ]
I wasn't planning on meeting anyone. We were just... you know, uh, kidding around?
[ Or maybe it was more like she was ever so gently nagging him, and he was dodging those well-meaning efforts to convince him to maybe engage with the rest of the world a little more. Not as necessary as usual, but how could she know that? ]
Daisy's had to hear enough about my past run of not so great relationships, over the years. The last thing she'd want to be responsible for is the next one.
[ But that doesn't sound right, either, and Arcade manages to catch it this time, immediately amending (with maybe too much emphasis): ] Hypothetically. Obviously you're not... in that number.
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[ The clarification about the blind-date-that-wouldn't-have-been elicits a distinctly more relieved-sounding oh this time than the dull, flat one of earlier, prompt enough to be slightly embarrassing. Though it's been a while since Danse bothered worrying about showing too much emotional candor with Arcade, where any feelings but the very deepest are concerned.
Those, he still does keep walled-off and private, with the same kind of discipline that served him well enough as a paladin but leaves him now largely unable to relate to the rest of this. He doesn't really know what it feels like to have a proper relationship history or anyone to talk to about it, for good or ill.
That second faux pas gets caught before any hurt feeling can register, and there's something almost more reassuring about the over-emphasis there than about the words themselves, the clearness of the desire to make sure Danse doesn't feel slighted. ]
Well, I...can't say I'm not glad to hear that. I would say the same, but I don't really have a number to speak of, so the comparison wouldn't do much.
[ It's earnest, mostly; he doesn't quite have facetiousness in him at the moment, but the explanation salves most of what's been keeping him quiet. It's difficult to see body language relaxing in a suit of power armor, but Danse somehow manages to make it visible, as much of a second skin as it is to him. ]
If we're talking hypotheticals, though--
[ Having misinterpreted that earlier conversation, Danse isn't sure now that he wants to trust his own judgment about other assumptions he's been operating under. He's not always been the best at understanding things beyond the literal, and he realizes now that he's allowed a reading between the lines of an oblique sarcastic territory-marking joke to become something of a load-bearing pillar in his understanding of this relationship. ]
You wouldn't, right? If she were to introduce you to someone else, or if anyone asked you, you'd...well, you'd turn them down, wouldn't you? It's what I've been doing, but I suppose I never actually asked you to, I just thought...
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I'm not sure how often you think the rest of us are being propositioned, on an average day, but it... hasn't exactly come up.
[ Arcade himself has something to do with that, of course - he doesn't exactly make himself available to that kind of thing. Nor does he cultivate the easiest-going, most approachable appearance, otherwise. Still, though. Beyond the occasional joke, he hasn't had to fend off a lot of unwanted suitors since leaving Vegas (and even then, it was only ever the casual passing glances with drunks at the bar).
And it's been even longer since he was anywhere near to entertaining that kind of thing with any sincerity, besides. ]
Not that I wouldn't still turn them down, sure. But... You're the only person I haven't turned down in - longer than I care to admit. And I wasn't planning to change the trend.
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[ Danse doesn't have much to base his idea of the norm on here, given how little of his life he really has spent free to fraternize with civilians, and how oblivious he was to interest even before that, the way Cutler used to laugh at him for spectacularly failing to notice women flirting with him at the Muddy Rudder. Only now that he's shed enough of his Brotherhood reputation and begun to venture out without his power armor has he started catching the occasional overt remark or offer of a drink from strangers and Mel the Robot Guy.
There are a lot of factors still skewing his sense of average here. But still, the notion that nobody else on this side of the country has worked up the nerve to make a move on Arcade catches him off-guard. ]
I'm certainly not saying it happens to me often, but--you're one of the best-looking men in the Commonwealth.
[ By his standards, "one of" is fainter praise than deserved, but he will allow that some degree of that might be his heart speaking more than his eyes. His reflexive loyalty as a partner leaves him briefly almost offended on Arcade's behalf. ]
You can't tell me not a single other guy has wanted to take a chance. You could tell me you sent one packing and he came back for a second shot and I'd believe you.
[ Not that Danse would have been pushy enough to do that himself, if he'd been rejected--but then, as he's being reminded now, he hadn't been. It hasn't occurred to him before to think he could be exceptional in that regard. He isn't used to being an exception, not often and never like this, but whatever Arcade's reasons for letting him be one, the import does gradually sink in. Danse's face colors under his helmet again, as warm as before but with pleasure now, lost for words but intent on finding them considerably sooner this time. ]
I'm lucky as hell you thought I was worth bucking the trend for.
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[ Between keeping busy and pretty much dodging any kind of social call that isn't mandatory for maintaining his generally boring, inoffensive presence or spending time with Danse, he's kept to a lot of the old habits that have helped him dodge potential entanglements, romantic or otherwise, in the past. (And the lattermost of those activities has become a recent addition to that list, as well, he suspects. Maybe hitting on Danse directly is just marginally less daunting than hitting on the guy he spends so much of his free time keeping company. Either way, it's a convenient added bonus that he's also become a deterrent to unwanted romantic intentions.)
He shrugs, the effort barely a sketch of a motion beneath the armor - but obvious to someone used to reading body language through all those layers of metal and padding. It's a relief to have his helmet on, now, stifling as he always finds it - his embarrassment muted by the same phenomenon. ]
Beyond a handful of awkward run-ins, I haven't exactly given any other guys a chance. I sort of - stopped thinking it was worth the trouble, a long time ago.
Lovers make poor confidants. I could never be truly honest with anyone without it blowing up in my face. But luck's not what made you different.
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The majority of the interest he's deflected has been from women who don't know him, when he hasn't been in Arcade's company, but anyone who's tried has been met with the same awkward firmness about being flattered but unavailable. (Nobody who's ever seen him with Arcade around Goodneighbor has bothered to try. When he's talking to Arcade, whether they're touching or not, Danse rarely gives the impression of noticing or caring that anyone else exists in the vicinity.)
But he understands now, with this further explanation--or understands at least what Arcade would have had to fear, why romance might have seemed futile at best and dangerous at worst, why it could have seemed easier to avoid the eventual expectation of transparency by never letting anyone get close enough to feel entitled to it. What Danse still doesn't understand in light of that is why he of all people would have been different, when he'd turned up at the door in full Brotherhood uniform (no matter how quickly he'd stripped down to half of it.)
Except that he hadn't hesitated once they got talking to explain that his actual membership in it was a thing of the past, even if he'd saved the why of it for after the first date. And he remembers, too, how willing he'd been to set his own unexpected attraction aside for the chance to just talk more, to take that offer of a book loan and pleasant educational conversation at face value and appreciate the company if that was all Arcade intended it to be. He would have come back for that and been glad of it. Still, he doesn't know what it is that Arcade means by this, and his tone--neutral though he wishes he could keep it--has both audible hope and a tinge of wariness to it. ]
Yeah? Then what was it?
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