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The fight is short and bloody.
Even above the cawing and jeering of the crowd, Maxson hears each impact of fists and feet. The taller of the two men—the champion, the one introduced with great fanfare as the Man of Steel—grapples the other to the ground, arm and leg in a tight lock. He could finish it there and then with little effort, but instead he loosens his hold. He’s probably been told to stretch out the spectacle for the paying customers.
The searchlight swoops around to follow the fighters in the cage as they break apart. The angle of the beam hits Maxson’s eyes and he shifts in his seat, tugging the hood of his sweatshirt down further. The men on stage are thrown into silhouette as they circle each other, occasionally throwing a jab or kick. The taller man is skilled enough to block every blow from his opponent, but he doesn’t. Maxson wonders if that is for the crowd’s benefit, too, or if the man just doesn’t care. A red spray glistens in the smoky air as the shorter one delivers a well-placed right hook that snaps the champion’s head around.
“Fucking come on!” someone yells just behind Maxson. “End him!”
Either the Man of Steel listens, or he’s bored of the fight, because he catches the next fist thrown at him and tosses his opponent to the ground. He kicks him onto his back and drops to straddle him, fists blurring in the spotlight as he pummels the guy’s face. It’s over.
The victor doesn’t wait to enjoy the roar that rises from the crowd. He exits the cage without acknowledging his audience at all, and disappears into the shadows. A man and woman come in to drag the unconscious loser out, leaving behind a puddle of his blood.
Maxson waits in his seat for the crowd to thin out before he heads to the door that leads backstage. A ghoul in a powder blue suit tries to stop him. He seems to be the one behind this sleazy little operation.
“Sorry, friend. No one sees the artists behind the scenes. I have to protect my investments, you understand.”
Maxson looks from the ghoul to the armed heavy blocking the door. He had to give up his weapon at the door, but even without it he could probably kill both men without breaking a sweat. That would be messy, though, so instead he uses the other language men like the owner understand, and bribes him.
Downstairs, he follows the guard along a dingy hallway to a room lined with chipped tiles and lit by a flickering bulb. Rusted lockers stand along the far wall beyond a line of benches. The fighter sits on the bench with his back to them, drinking a bottle of water. He’s dressed as he was earlier in dark pants and nothing else. His feet are bare. Hands taped from knuckle to wrist.
Even from behind, Maxson can tell how much Danse has changed. The muscles in his back and shoulders are sharply defined but he’s wirier than before, as though he’s been training harder but on less nutrition. He’s cut and bruised just about everywhere Maxson can see. There’s a curved scar on the back of his arm, two inches above the elbow, that looks as though it hasn’t long since been stitched. His hair is long, scraped up into a messy topknot to keep it out of his face.
“Hey John,” the guard says. “Got a guy here says he knows you.”
When Danse turns and sees Maxson, his face betrays no surprise. Their eyes meet and he nods. “He knows me. You don’t have to stay.”
The guard shrugs and he turns to leave, giving Maxson what is intended to be a warning glare as he passes. Maxson shuts the door behind him.
“Something I can do for you, Arthur?”
Maxson grimaces at the use of his name. They’re not friends. Then again, there’s no chain of command here any more. He walks towards Danse and stands over him.
The bandages around Danse’s hands and wrists look as though they haven’t been changed in days. His knuckles are filthy, stained black with blood and dirt.
“Man of Steel?” Maxson spits. “Is that some kind of bad joke?”
Danse looks up at him from the bench. His beard has grown in thicker. There’s a split high on his left cheekbone from the blow he took earlier, and the eye beside it is quickly turning a purple-black. There are other bruises from other fights. His nose has been broken and the bridge has healed slightly crooked. But the biggest difference is in his eyes. Where there used to be confidence and pride, now there is nothing. Not even bitterness. He’s a shell.
“It’s just a coincidence,” he says. “Lonegan chose the name, not me. Believe me, I’d rather not have the reminder of what I was.” He bows his head and starts to untape his left hand.
“What are you doing here?”
“Taking myself off the map,” Danse says. “Like you said I should.”
“Hardly the way to keep a low profile.”
“It’s exactly the way. No one here knows or cares who I am or where I came from. Only raiders and scum come through those doors.” He flexes the fingers of his bared hand. The knuckles are red and swollen. “How did you know I was here?”
“You’re the last person who should underestimate my ability to gather intel.”
Danse nods. A little quieter, he asks, “Does anyone else know?”
“No.”
They are silent as Danse unwinds the bandage from his other hand. He drops it in a grimy pile with the rest and gets to his feet. He turns to Maxson.
“Do it, then.”
“Do what?”
“You came here to kill me, didn’t you?”
Maxson stares at him and pictures another day, months ago, when Danse stood before him, fearlessly accepting his fate. And he’d made a critical mistake by allowing him to live. He’d faltered. He knew it that day and he knows it now. But that isn’t the sentiment that makes it past his lips.
“If that’s what I wanted, you’d be dead already.”
“So what do you want?”
It’s the question Maxson has been asking himself since he walked through the doors of the Combat Zone. In all honesty, he doesn’t know what he wants. Only that he came because it was impossible to stay away.
“I had to know if it was you.”
Danse doesn’t seem to know what to make of that. After a moment he turns away and goes to a large metal basin filled with water. He soaps his hands first, then washes his face. The washcloth stains red as he swabs the cut near his eye.
Maxson watches him. He’s been angry for so long, it feels like his whole life. In the last two hours the rage has swelled to a pounding in his ears like waves in a storm. He clenches his fists so tight his knuckles crack.
He doesn’t want to kill Danse, he realises. He wants quite the opposite. He wants to punch him, beat him, hurt him; he wants to tear Danse open with his bare hands, not to end his life but to make him feel. Anything to replace that dead look in his eyes with some of the fire he had before. Maxson has to know if the man he once knew was ever real.
Danse opens the end locker and pulls out a duffel bag. Maxson launches himself forward and hits him in the jaw. It’s a dirty move; Danse was distracted, hands full, but he couldn’t help himself. Danse loses balance. His shoulder collides with the locker and he drops the bag. He’s still quick enough to grab Maxson’s forearm and block the next blow. He thrusts him away but doesn’t return the attack.
Maxson shrugs out of his sweatshirt and tosses it onto the bench. His clothes are deliberately nondescript. An undershirt and faded jeans dug out of the lost property trunk on the Prydwen.
“Fight me,” he says.
Danse just shakes his head. “If you want to keep hitting me, go ahead. But I’m not interested in hurting you, Arthur.”
Maxson’s rage hits boiling point. “Fight,” he growls, shoving Danse back into the lockers. The heavy crash gives him a lick of satisfaction. He punches Danse again, not with his full strength, but hard. “Hit me.”
He delivers another blow to his face and one to the stomach before Danse hits him back. It’s a right hook that lands on the side of his head, smashing his ear against his skull. The pain is as hot and bright as a flare. Maxson reels, letting go of Danse as he staggers back. He rights himself quickly, and ducks his shoulder to run at Danse again, grabbing him around the waist and forcing him back into the lockers hard enough to wind him.
Danse brings his elbow down hard between Maxson’s shoulder blades. A knee catches his stomach, though without sufficient force to dislodge him. Maxson takes advantage, catching Danse’s leg before he can get the foot back on the ground, and twisting it upward while shoving him in the ribs. Danse topples sideways.
Maxson is the heavier and stronger of the two, but Danse has been doing this daily for god knows how long. The red haze of the Elder’s fury puts him at a greater disadvantage. Danse is fast and slippery, and he has his arms under him before he can hit the ground. A foot lashes out to throw Maxson off centre, and before he knows it Danse is on him, bringing him to the ground. He grunts as his arm is trapped awkwardly under his body, crushed into the floor by both their weight. Danse’s fist collides with his jaw.
He twists his head around, dazed, and there it is, the first flash of fire in Danse’s eyes. Maxson smiles despite the split in his lip.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” Danse demands, shoving him roughly into the ground.
Blood seeps over Maxson’s tongue. “You’re what’s fucking wrong with me.”
Danse frowns and lets him go. Maxson takes it as an invitation. He’s up in a heartbeat, wrestling Danse onto his back. He straddles his hips, and when Danse launches another assault he catches both fists and presses them down against his bare chest. Maxson looks at the man beneath him with a swell of triumph. Danse is panting open-mouthed as his chest rises and falls beneath his crossed wrists. A lock of hair has escaped his topknot and lies across one eye. Maxson feels a bizarre urge to reach down and brush it aside. The heat of his rage is still pumping through him, but now it’s flowing to his dick as well as his hands and feet. It doesn’t make any sense. But nothing has made sense since he walked in the room. Danse isn’t human. He’s a machine. Maxson should be snapping his neck, not running his eyes over him and wondering how he tastes.
He knows the hardness he can feel under his ass is just the cup Danse is wearing, but it makes him want to grind down. Maybe he does, just a little, because the confusion in Danse’s eyes darkens.
Danse surges upward, breaking Maxson’s hold and freeing his hands. A two-handed blow to Maxson’s sternum has him sprawling backward onto his backside, coughing. Danse is on his feet in a second. He grabs two fistfuls of Maxson’s shirt and drags him up to his knees. There’s a sound of fabric ripping. Danse hauls him to his feet and shoves him back into the lockers.
Maxson’s breath narrows to a wheeze as a steely forearm traps his throat. Danse’s other hand is planted on his chest, and one leg shoves between Maxson’s to hold him still. Maxson’s arms are free and he strikes Danse in the ribs; left. Right. Right again, weakly. Danse barely even seems to notice; he’s still searching Arthur’s eyes for something. Their faces are close. Maxson sucks in air past the blockage on his windpipe. Everything hurts, but as crazy as it may be, this is what he came for. This, and maybe more. He gives up on hitting Danse and reaches for his face instead. He pulls him forward with both hands and smashes their mouths together.
It’s an ugly kiss, biting and aggressive, but it must do something to Danse, too, because his arm moves from Maxson’s throat and his hand digs greedily into his chest. Maxson moans at the unexpected desire pulsing in his body. The buck of his hips causes Danse to break the kiss and look down, and he sees Maxson’s dick half-hard in his jeans. There’s a guilty mix of caution and need in his eyes as he frowns. He retreats a little.
“You don’t know what you’re doing,” he says. Maxson’s blood is smeared on his mouth.
“No, I don’t.”
“So stop.”
“I don’t want to.”
“Arthur…”
Maxson’s hands are still on his face and Danse lets himself be drawn back for another kiss. It’s still rough, but their mouths move slower now, wanting to explore rather than attack. They break apart long enough for Danse to tear the shirt off over Maxson’s head, and then they’re grinding together again. Maxson is trapped between the cold metal of the lockers and the heat of Danse’s hands and thigh. He bucks his pelvis against him, desperate to feel Danse’s cock pushing back, but he’s wearing that damn cup. He reaches for the waistband of Danse’s pants.
“Why this?” Danse pants against his lips. “You hate me.”
“I hate what you are. It’s not the same thing.”
“Yes it is. There’s no changing what I am.”
Maxson recalls Danse’s words on that day at the listening post. He’s replayed them over and over in the weeks and months that followed: I thought I was human, Arthur.
“So prove to me that you’re more than that,” he growls.
Danse pulls away to tug at the buttons on Maxson’s fly. Then his hands are sliding under the denim and over Maxson’s ass, grabbing tight handfuls of flesh. His fingers dig in hard enough to bruise, and god, it’s exactly what Maxson wants, it’s what he needs, more than rage. More than reason. He’s so hard. He hisses out his approval as his jeans are shoved down and his cock juts out between their bodies. Danse’s hand sliding down his rigid length has him moaning aloud.
Danse looks down, taking in Maxson’s bared body. He hums in approval. Their eyes lock again as Danse gets down on his knees and takes the tip of Maxson’s cock into his wet mouth.
“Ah, fuck, yes.” Maxson grabs Danse’s topknot and pulls, twisting his hair.
Danse’s voice rumbles around his dick as he takes him deeper. He rams Maxson’s hips back into the locker and sucks him harder.
“Oh, god. Fuck me, Danse.”
The man on his knees releases Maxson’s cock and looks up at him as though he can’t believe what he just heard. The look in Maxson’s eye seems to convince him. He envelops him in his mouth again and laves his tongue over him while he yanks off one of Arthur’s boots, then the other. He pulls back to work the jeans down off his legs. Maxson pushes him and he falls back onto his elbows. Naked, Maxson kneels over Danse and tugs his pants open. His fingers snag in elastic and he drags the cup off too, gasping out an approving ah, fuck as Danse’s cock springs free. It’s thick. Hard. Human. He’s so transfixed by the sight that he lets Danse catch him off guard. The next thing he knows he’s flat on his back on the dirty tile, winded and bruised and not giving a shit about any of it because this is all he wants.
Danse reaches for the duffel bag he dropped earlier and opens the zip. He pulls out a bottle of some kind of oil and Maxson watches him dribble it into his palm. He runs the slick hand down the shaft of his dick, making the smooth skin gleam in the low light. Then his fingers are rubbing a path down behind Maxson’s balls to his ass, and Maxson whimpers as Danse presses two fingertips to his hole and pushes inside. Arthur has done this before. Not with another man; he hasn’t been bold enough or honest enough until now. But he’s fucked himself with his own thick fingers in his bunk, silent in the dark, with images projected in his mind that he never allows by the light of day. With Danse, it feels a thousand times better.
“Are you sure about this?” Danse says. Arthur has never heard his voice so low and ragged before. “Sure you want me to fuck your tight ass?”
“Do it,” Maxson practically sobs.
There’s nothing else in this moment. No filthy locker room, no club, no Commonwealth. No Brotherhood. He doesn’t care who he is or what Danse is. Doesn’t care how loud he whines as Danse’s cock pushes into him, filling and stretching him. He only cares that the two of them are here, and that something that has been so wrong finally feels right.
Danse knows better than to be gentle. He pushes Maxson’s legs back, spreading him open, and buries himself deep. Hair falls loose around his face, framing his burning eyes. Arthur may never have seen that lust in his face before today, but he knows it’s really him. The old Danse. The one he knew all along. He gropes at Danse’s chest and hips, still refusing to lie back and give in, even as Danse is fucking the breath out of him.
He frees his leg and flips them over. Danse laughs, winded.
“Stubborn bastard,” he mutters.
Maxson replies with a wicked smile. Grit grinds into the flesh of his palm as he props himself over Danse, reaching down with his other hand to guide Danse back inside him. Rough fingers bite into his hips as he sinks down fast, taking Danse’s full, thick length. Danse’s head tips back and his mouth opens in a gasping moan. Maxson presses one hand to Danse’s chest and wraps the other around his cock. When Danse sees him he pulls the hand away and jerks Arthur himself with a sure grip. Maxson holds himself up and rides Danse hard, bouncing on his cock and into his fist, until he’s rushing headlong into his orgasm and there’s no stopping it, he stumbles, can’t coordinate his body any more. Danse takes over, slamming up into him and pushing him, throwing him over the edge, and Arthur comes with his eyes squeezed tight and every muscle blazing with that perfect fire. He opens his eyes as his arms begin to buckle. He sees his come slick on Danse’s fist and spattered in the dark trail of hair on his belly.
Danse rolls him over, gentler now, and kisses him while he rocks in and out of his body. Arthur’s arms are shaking but he pulls Danse closer anyway. Danse kisses down his jaw and neck.
“Let me come inside you,” he pleads against Maxson’s throat.
Arthur’s cock twitches again at his words. “Yes.”
Danse bites his shoulder as he comes. His hips stutter and he thrusts deep and hard before finally falling still. Arthur feels hot come seeping out of him around Danse’s cock. He wants to keep it inside. Keep Danse inside.
They kiss, and Arthur tastes blood again. He doesn’t even know if it’s his or Danse’s any more. They’re both drenched in sweat and smeared with dust and dirt. He’s never felt so debauched. His whole life has been anchored in strict discipline, but today he’s betrayed more rules than he can count. And he’d do it all again. They’re a fucking mess, but maybe it had to be this way between them. Maybe the pain and anger proved the tenderness was real. This is the most honest they have ever been, with both their brokenness on display.
Danse gets up and goes to the basin, where he rinses out the washcloth before wetting it again. Arthur admires the long lines of his body. Under the dirt and bruises, Danse is as beautiful as he always was.
He comes back and dips the cloth between Maxson’s legs to clean him up. Then he takes an unsoiled corner and dabs away the blood from his face. He traces a fingertip over the split in Maxson’s lip.
“I’ve given you another scar,” he says.
The contact stings, but Maxson doesn’t brush his hand away. He shrugs. “You’re no deathclaw.”
“No. I’m something worse.”
Arthur looks at him, pushing dark hair out of his eyes. “You’re Danse,” he says.
He wants to pull him down so they can lie together, but it’s ridiculous, lying on this cold, dirty floor. With a sigh, Maxson gets to his feet and goes about collecting his clothes.
“You’re leaving?”
Maxson looks up from buttoning his fly. Danse sits on the floor watching him. “We’re leaving.”
“You know I can’t go with you.”
“You’re not staying in this place.” He looks around the room with contempt. “It’s beneath you.”
“Where do you suggest I go, Arthur?”
“I know somewhere that will do for now.” He tugs his shirt over his head. There’s a huge rip in the seam behind the right sleeve.
“For now,” Danse echoes in a strained voice. “And then?”
Arthur crouches beside him and cups his jaw. “And then, I’ll work something out.” He kisses Danse, as slow and sweet as he can make it. “I’m not letting you go again.”