Chapter Text
It had been less than a week and Danse was already having doubts about his newest charge, fearing he may have suffered a lapse in judgment. Frankie had almost immediately dragged him off for field work upon clearing out Fort Strong. His eagerness to leave the Prydwen was what had initially raised Danse’s suspicions.
Since starting their tour, they had been doing things that technically qualified as cleansing the Commonwealth, but Danse still couldn’t help the feeling that Frankie had ulterior motives. None of this is helped in any way by the gas mask that he refused to take off under any circumstance.
Danse found the choice in gear rather off-putting and, after losing the initial battle over uniform standards, he mostly kept the commentary about it to himself.
Mostly.
"What's the plan here?" Danse asked, watching as Frankie popped his head over the brush to scope out the super mutant camp that lay below.
"I see three, but there’s definitely more. My usual tactics won't be effective since they aren't keen on going down easy. The stealth shit's better suited for raiders," he said as he ducked back down behind cover.
“You’d see better if you weren’t wearing that ridiculous thing,” Danse observed.
He was ignored, as had been the case thus far.
"It's not my favorite idea in the world, but how about you provide covering fire and I'll go in guns blazing? 'Bout as tactical as you can get when dealing with these freaks."
“I suppose it’s not the worst plan in the world,” Danse replied with a shrug. "You point, I shoot."
"Good man. I'll see you on the other side."
Frankie gave a hand salute before he slid himself down the hill. He moved, quiet as a whisper, making his advance on the camp. Danse shouldered his gun and waited patiently, finger just off the trigger. The moment one of the guards at the entrance took notice of Frankie's presence, he fired his first shot.
His aim was true, and the laser hit the lumbering mutant square in the chest. Frankie made quick work of finishing him off with two shotgun slugs to the head.
Continuing his barrage, Danse opened fire on any muties he saw while Frankie maneuvered amidst the chaos. The systematic way in which he approached his extermination did nothing to ease the warring feelings Danse was having about him. On the one hand, they shared many common foes and he was damn good in both strategy and combat. On the other hand, Frankie was stubbornly independent, a trait which was inherently at odds with the nature of the Brotherhood.
Danse resolved to bring the matter up at some point. Frankie had been able to talk his way out of divulging his motives when they first met, but now that they were traveling together there would be no escape from further questioning.
They cleared out the camp within minutes. Soon enough, Frankie was back at the entrance of the camp, giving a thumbs up. Danse made his way down the hill to regroup.
"Great work up there. Good to know you've got my back," Frankie said. His voice always sounded tense and it had something of an unfamiliar lilt that was still taking Danse some getting used to.
"Same to you, soldier. It's been a while since I've seen potential like that," he replied genuinely as he removed the helmet of his power armor.
Frankie still didn’t take off his mask. It bothered Danse yet again despite hit attempts to ignore it.
He had to bite his tongue to keep from making a quick remark about how teams can only survive on mutual understanding; Frankie claimed to trust Danse, yet his actions toward protecting his identity said otherwise.
"I told you I have military experience. Did you think I was lying?"
"No. However, your secrecy leaves you with a lot to prove."
"Is that so? Remind me to tell Elder Maxson that he should give you a promotion.”
“Why is that?” Danse asked, cocking his head down at Frankie, who was leaning against one of the blood-smattered fences (whether their handiwork or the mutants was difficult to determine).
“Because I'll be the best damn thing that's happened to the Brotherhood yet."
"That's a bold claim," Danse replied, amused. “I admire your ambition.”
"Bold? I've earned my ego, pal. Maybe one day you'll get it through that thick skull of yours that I'm not your average wastelander," Frankie said, pushing off the wall and making his way into the camp to search for anything of value.
Danse could hardly take the insult seriously from someone with such a sing-song voice; Frankie spoke more like a poet than a soldier, the sounds rolling delicately off his tongue in a way that didn’t quite match up with the meaning of his words.
Even still, Danse allowed himself a victorious smile as he followed a few steps behind, certain that after such a challenge was put before him, any defiance Frankie held would be worked out of him with ease.
Even after three weeks of working together, Frankie still managed to impress Danse with his intimate knowledge every nook and cranny in the Commonwealth. Each time he used his Pip Boy to navigate them to a new area, Danse was sure to make note of it in his own logs. The scribes would have a field day with the wealth of knowledge he was gaining.
Their evening started like any other, with Frankie navigating them to what was supposed to be a safe spot for them to hole up for sleep. Unlike most nights, however, the place turned out to be the newfound home of about a half-dozen raiders. The pair wasted no time taking them down with their usual efficiency.
Removing the last spent fusion cell from his rifle, Danse turned to Frankie and grinned, still fired up from the battle.
“I have to admit, I’m very impressed. You’re quite the- soldier?” Danse said, voice laced with concern, his grin fading as quickly as it had come.
Frankie was swaying where he stood, clearly not listening to anything Danse had said. Danse had adapted to the mask and gotten surprisingly good at reading Frankie’s body language. He seemed frantic, his hands shaking a bit as he tried to keep himself upright. His ragged overcoat was open, billowing out behind him with the constant breeze. A wave of fear and nausea hit Danse just as he noticed what was wrong. Under the jacket, a glint of moonlight reflected off a small wet spot that had formed around a tear in Frankie's shirt.
No. No no no.
He couldn't lose another member of his team. He just couldn't. Danse closed in on Frankie just as he started to stumble, holding him up against his side until he could find his balance. He did his damndest not to grab him too hard so as to not crush him under the cold metal of his power armor.
“Keep it together for me. How are you feeling?”
"Drained," Frankie mumbled. "I'm fine. Barely a scratch, honestly."
“There’s chairs inside,” Danse said gently, his voice steady. “I’ve got a medical kit on me.”
Frankie didn't respond, slipping into an unusual silence. Danse helped him into the main building and sat him down on an armchair before uprighting a stool from across the room and bringing it over.
He clambered out of his power armor as quickly as he could manage and rummaged through its storage for his supplies. Frankie shrugged off his jacket and cut a hole in his shirt so Danse could administer some Med-X. Frankie found his voice again, cursing up a storm as soon as the medication pulled him from his pained daze.
“Shit, I didn’t even realize I was hit until it was over. Adrenaline sure is a motherfucker,” he managed through gritted teeth.
Danse didn't reply, ripping the hole in Frankie's shirt to be slightly wider so he could prod carefully at the wound. Frankie hissed in pain and Danse gave him a moment to recover before continuing his exploration. He did his best to determine the extent of the damage in spite of the constant ooze of blood that was preventing any useful visual assessment.
“What’s the prognosis, doc? Am I gonna live?” Frankie asked sarcastically.
Of course he was a talker; it was an unusual way of handling pain, but it’s not anything Danse hadn't dealt with before. While not a medic, he’d been through enough to have a decent grasp on how to handle the injured. Having a scribe as talented as Haylen on his team certainly helped.
“The bullet is still in there. Lucky for you, I keep tweezers on me,” Danse said.
Frankie groaned, head falling against the back of the chair, “Of-fucking-course. Just my luck, ain’t it? I’ve got a meathead for a surgeon to boot.”
Danse ignored his comments, but they were certainly starting to grate on his nerves.
“I’ll need you to remove your shirt.”
“That’s awful forward of you,” Frankie replied.
Danse waited for him to comply, jaw dropping when he instead pulled out the knife he kept strapped to his hip and cut a line down the front of his shirt, throwing it open with a flourish.
“There. Do your worst, Doctor Paladin.”
With his shirt half off and gas mask still on like his goddamn life depended on it, Frankie looked absolutely ridiculous.
Danse cleared his throat and managed to wipe his expression clean. There was no way Frankie didn't see the way it drove him insane that, come hell or high water, he wouldn't take the mask off. He was keeping up his insubordination, even now, to get a rise out of him and Danse wasn't going to take the bait. No matter what.
Jaw set, he got out the tweezers and began meticulously trying to remove the bullet. Frankie groaned a few times, but spent most of that time silently holding his breath. Not a good sign.
Danse was also nonplussed by his lack of obnoxious commentary; people tend to pass out soon after going quiet, which made things infinitely more difficult. He really didn't want to hear any more out of him, but decided to make the sacrifice of trying to talk to Frankie again for his own good.
"There's still that suit of power armor back at the Prydwen for you…" Danse said, trailing off casually.
"Thanks, but no thanks," Frankie ground out. Danse was relieved and annoyed all at the same time to find Frankie still capable of his pettiness.
“You should seriously consider it. Maybe next time you won’t-”
“I. Said. No.” Frankie said, cutting him off. His tone had a dangerous edge to it despite sounding more strained than usual.
"Wha- But you were just shot," Danse sputtered, taken aback. He paused for a moment before sucking in a deep breath to try and resolve his patience.
"Just because I got hit with one stray bullet doesn't mean I'm gonna start running around in power armor like some fuckin' sheltered suburban kid whose mommy puts him in bubble wrap any time he goes outside," Frankie spat in response.
His fire died a little toward the end of his statement and he groaned, trying to clutch at his own side, only for Danse to smack his hand away. Danse hardly understood a word he was saying (what the hell is bubble wrap?), but he figured Frankie was probably just delirious.
Which was also why he was just able to keep himself from noting aloud the general irony of Frankie's sentiment, considering how the mask was starting to seem more and more like a security thing itself. No, just shut up and he'd come around sooner or later. That was the hope, anyway.
"C-c'mon, pal. Just hurry the fuck up and get the goddamn bullet out. For fuck's sake. Enough chit-chat."
Danse continued in silence and, fortunately, the bullet hadn't lodged itself in too deep. It didn’t take much longer to get it out. Danse dropped the bullet into Frankie’s hand and gave him a once-over, determining that he probably wouldn't need extensive care. Stitches and a few stimpacks would be plenty and he was sure as shit capable of stitching himself up, too.
"I'll take watch while you deal with the rest.”
He handed Frankie the kit and stood, moving to rummage through his pack for anything else he might need. Danse found the bottle of vodka that he kept specifically for disinfection and handed it off, along with a clean rag.
"I can’t be around this shit," Frankie muttered after contemplating the bottle.
Danse stopped, brow furrowing as he took the time to deduce what he could, which wasn't much apart from the fact that he didn't trust himself with booze. It was a heavy implication and he concluded that this was Frankie’s way of asking him for help. The sheer vulnerability of it made Danse soften. He heaved a sigh and moved to sit down again.
"I’ll stay, but you’re still doing all the stitching yourself,” he replied finally.
Then, more sympathetically, “War will do that to the best of men.”
"The best of men," Frankie repeated with a scoff. “I’m a soldier, not a fuckin’ saint. Guys like you and me are just a means to an end.”
Danse didn’t reply. He couldn't even bring himself to pretend to deny the iota of truth in the statement, however disagreeable the phrasing of it.
Frankie didn’t say anything more until he finished up and went to hand the medical kit back to Danse. He fished through his own pack and administered a stimpack just above the closed bullet wound.
“I’ve changed up plans for tomorrow. There’s a Minuteman outpost nearby that we can go to," Frankie said, stretching his legs out a little. “From there, we can bounce between them until I’m healed enough for real work.”
“What’s the route?”
“We’ll head southwest about three klicks, then pivot north for two klicks.”
“Are you certain you’ll be able to handle all that walking?” Danse asked.
“Why not? Worst case I figure you can carry me on that strong back of yours,” Frankie said, gesturing toward his shoulders. Danse rolled his eyes, but was very aware of the heat creeping up past the collar of his uniform.
“Not happening… Anyway, the route doesn’t make much sense. Why not head straight west?”
"That's deathclaw territory, pal. I don't know about you, but I'm not keen on tangling with those overgrown lizards any time soon. Once is enough for a lifetime."
Danse's eyes went wide for a moment, but he was quick to hide his surprise. Frankie had said it so casually that he'd almost missed it.
"I’m assuming you and your crew won that fight. How many of you were there?”
Frankie laughs mirthlessly, “Three. Me, a minigun, and some old ass power armor.”
Danse leaned forward a bit, intrigued, “You’re sure it was a deathclaw?”
Frankie crossed his arms over his bare chest and huffed, “You don’t believe me.”
“I apologize if I come across as skeptical,” Danse replied quickly. “You’ve given me no reason to think you’ve been anything less than honest with me. Yet what you’re describing is damn near unheard of. Most people who run into a deathclaw don’t live to talk about it, especially if they were alone.”
“I guess I wasn’t entirely by myself,” Frankie finally admitted. “Raiders got a few pot-shots off on the damn thing before it set sights on me.”
Suddenly, Frankie yawned and stretched again, back arching up out of the chair and causing him to wince at the pull on his stitches. Once he settled back down, he waved a hand dismissively.
“Look, I’m beat. We’ll talk about this some other time.”
Danse wasn’t able to keep the look of disappointment off his face. Frankie groaned, but leaned forward slightly, further closing the space between them.
“Alright, alright. I’ll tell you the story, so long as you promise not to give me those fuckin’ puppy dog eyes again. Got it?”
A grin split across Danse’s features, and Frankie chuckled.
“S’pose I should start from the beginning.”
Frankie jumped right into it, explaining how it all happened during his first week in the Commonwealth. Danse remained silent as he recounted the ordeal, but he could tell Frankie was choosing his words carefully, avoiding many details regarding what exactly he’d been doing prior to entering Concord. It didn’t bother Danse much, but he did make mental note of the gaps so as to ruminate on them later.
Frankie was a phenomenal story teller despite his obvious omissions, and Danse found himself enthralled. It was like he was back in Rivet City, overhearing tall tales from those passing through on their way to something or somewhere greater.
By the end, Frankie had grown a bit antsy. Whether he was running out of truths to spin into his heavily edited version of events, or he was just sick of reliving the memories, Danse couldn’t quite discern.
“Damn thing had me pinned on my back. Ripped the helmet off the power armor like it was nothing just as I was unloading the last of the minigun’s magazine into its chest.”
“And?” Danse asked, getting the sense there was something left unsaid.
“That’s it. Walked away unscathed.”
“I refuse to believe that,” Danse said, frowning deeply.
“Well believe it, pal. Didn’t have so much as a scratch on me.”
“You referred to that bullet hole as just a scratch too,” Danse said, irritation seeping out of him. “It had to have crushed the internal locking mechanism on the power armor’s helmet to remove it in the manner you described. I’ve broken my fair share of helmets, I would know. That doesn't come without injury." He pointed toward his own face and the scar that cut through his eyebrow.
“Alright Mr. Smarty Pants. I may be misremembering things. It wasn’t like this happened yesterday,” Frankie offered lamely.
“Well if that's how you remember it…” Danse replied, pushing himself up from his chair with a grunt.
He was upset with himself for being foolish enough to trust Frankie to begin with. Just like the travelers coming through Rivet City, he was full of shit. Despite knowing it was his own fault for being so gullible, Danse couldn’t help but feel betrayed, and he let it be known.
“Is this your idea of fun? Making a fool of people who trust you enough to believe what you tell them?”
Frankie stood with him, visibly more agitated than before.
“There you go again with the lecturing. Think what you want about it, Danse, I don’t give a fuck.”
Danse glared at Frankie, but it was no use. He couldn't stare through the mask if he tried. The only thing that was obvious was that Frankie did care that Danse was upset with him, despite the front he was trying to put on. Instead of continue the argument, Danse decided to take the high road for once to set an example.
“Goodnight, soldier."
The next morning, Danse awoke to the most amazing smells wafting through the air. By the time he managed to pull himself out of bed, he was practically drooling. He didn't even bother to put his shoes on before he made his way out into the main room.
"Mornin', sunshine," Frankie greeted. Danse rubbed his eyes and blinked, tilting his head.
"What are you-"
"Look, I thought I'd say sorry for last night. Made you breakfast," he responded cheerily.
Danse watched as Frankie plated some steak and eggs and then turned to face him, offering him one of the plates. He didnt move at first, instead rubbing his eyes again and yawning. When he went to take the plate after fully clearing his vision, Frankie hesitated before handing it over.
"They didn't warn me that my government-issued Paladin would be so adorable when sleepy,” he explained with a chuckle. “Eat up, pal. We’ve got a bit of a hike today."
Danse flushed at the comment and was still confused to all hell, but he took the food eagerly. He sat himself down on the stool he'd occupied the night before. Danse stared at Frankie as he buzzed around and picked up the mess he'd made while cooking.
"What did you take?"
"Nothin'," Frankie replied, not missing a beat. "I'm just naturally peppy this early in the morning."
"I didn't mean… You were shot yesterday. How are you moving around like this?"
"It's not my first rodeo, pal. They're gonna have to try harder than that if they want to take me out of commission."
Danse sighed deeply and gestured to the armchair in front of him, "You're as high as it gets. Sit. I'll do the packing up after breakfast."
Frankie stopped what he was doing and grabbed his plate. For once, he obeyed Danse's orders, much to his surprise. It probably had something to do with whatever chems he’d loaded himself up on. Dance grimaced a bit at the thought.
"You got me there. May have had a little somethin' to take the edge off."
Danse nodded, lips pursed tightly together. He didn't lecture Frankie this time. Respect was a two-way street and, if last night taught him anything, it was that he needed to lay off a bit.
"I'm sorry for yesterday," he offered in place of a quip on the use of chems. "I'd like to make amends, if possible."
Frankie barked a laugh, "You think I'd go through the effort of cooking a five-star breakfast under normal circumstances?"
"I don't understand," Danse replied, frowning slightly.
"Aww, don't pout. What I'm sayin' is… You've got nothing to be sorry for and that the breakfast is my olive branch. You haven't eaten yet though, so do that first and then let me know if we're cool."
Danse nodded slowly and looked down at his plate. He picked up the fork and stabbed at the eggs and steak before taking a bite of each of them. He hummed his appreciation and closed his eyes as he savored the food, chewing slowly.
"Better than the goop they serve on the Prydwen, eh?"
“The food aboard the Prydwen was chosen for its nutritional qualities, not for its flavor.” Danse swallowed before adding, "But I think the steak alone might bring about world peace."
Frankie laughed again, sudden and loud, his body shaking as the sound rumbled through him.
"You're funny, you know that?"
"I have my moments," Danse replied with a smirk.
It took about two weeks for Frankie to be healed enough for them to continue working. Before that, the pair mostly laid low, following Frankie’s suggestion of sticking to settlements. That was how Danse found out he was the General of the 'new-and-improved' Minutemen, much to his irritation.
“I didn’t tell you because figured it was a need-to-know kind of deal. Not really my main objective now that I’m with the Brotherhood,” Frankie said, clearly trying to appease him.
Danse let himself fall for it, hoping against all hope that he could trust he was being genuine, “I suppose that’s fair. You’re one of us now.”
Frankie nodded, “That being said, maybe we can stop by and see how things are going over at Sanctuary. It’s their HQ of sorts. Preston Garvey is the man in charge in my absence. He’s an honorable fella, albeit a little ambitious.”
“It’s not that far. It’d be an honor to meet your crew.”
A meeting with the crew Frankie used to run with would definitely help him better understand who he was as a person. Right now he seemed nervous, like he’d wished he hadn’t made the offer in the first place. He was quick to confirm Danse’s suspicions.
"Actually, that's probably not the best idea now that I get to thinkin’ about it. I’m not sure how you'll handle meeting Valentine and Hancock," Frankie said. He was on edge in a way Danse had never seen him.
Danse scoffed, "If it’s the same Hancock, then I'm more than familiar with the ghoul ‘mayor’. He's been very stubborn in allowing the Brotherhood entry to his so-called city. There won't be a problem unless he makes one. He’s a valuable political asset.”
"He won't be trouble, not so long as I'm there. It's Nick I'm worried about."
"Nick?"
"Valentine. He's a man of a certain persuasion, you see…" Frankie trailed off, dancing around the subject entirely.
Danse groaned, rolling his eyes, "Out with it, soldier."
"It's you I'm worried about in that equation... Valentine's a synth," he said, though not before bracing himself.
Danse's jaw tightened. A synth? That's what he was worried about? Well, he was damn right to be.
"He should be killed."
"See! I knew you'd say that! That's why I can't bring you there," Frankie said, exasperated. "I hate synths as much as the next guy, but Nick's different. He’s a good friend and he's helped me through a lot. I know that’s a bold admission to make in your presence, but I’ve been trying my best to be more open with you."
"And I appreciate that,” Danse said. “But back to the matter at hand. What could a synth possibly have to offer a human? I can't understand why you'd associate with one of them. Are you forgetting who the enemy is?"
"He's a detective. My son was kidnapped, and he's helping me find him," Frankie said, his voice quiet like he didn’t want to be sharing this much. "I'm the closest I've been to finding him thanks to Nick."
Danse flinched a little, but he still couldn't help his irritation. He wanted to tell Frankie that the Brotherhood could help him, but that wouldn't be honest. They didn't have the resources to dedicate to finding someone's missing kid. Hell, they could hardly send anyone out to find their own missing men.
He was also a little surprised that Frankie even had a son. The Commonwealth was a large place, but he hadn’t mentioned having any family up until this point. Danse wondered if perhaps his wife was waiting for him in Sanctuary, and that’s why he wanted to visit. He softened a bit, feeling guilty for being the reason Frankie was reconsidering his visit.
None of this was helped by the fact that Danse did want to meet those he associated with before they’d met. Each new nugget he could unlock about Frankie's past seemed to defy the one thing that still bothered him to this day - the mask. Danse wanted to know what made him tick and Sanctuary seemed to have answers he wouldn't get anywhere else.
"If I promise not to harm that thing, can we still go? We desperately need to resupply," Danse said finally, after much contemplation.
"I don't know."
Frankie was suspicious, Danse could tell. He was tense, and he wouldn't stop wringing his damn hands.
"I just… I want to meet your friends. They sound like they're important to you," Danse admitted, going a wonderful shade of red at his own words.
“Always the master of subtlety,” Frankie said jokingly. He seemed to relax as Danse laid his motives to bare.
"And you promise you won't kill any of them?"
Danse nodded quickly, giving a Brotherhood salute, “You have my word, soldier.”
Frankie gave a short nod, appeased by his show of sincerity.
"Alright, pal. We'll head there tomorrow."