o-rusted-heart || valentine.

There’s no pulse or heartbeat to clue her in on where his head might be. No rate of breaths to track or learn. Nick is human, and not, at the same time; a person whose nature will forever be in contradiction to himself at all times. It makes it harder to read him; perhaps that’s why he’s a principled man, choosing to be forthright and honest at every turn. 

Her mouth presses in a line as eyes study the exposed machinery beneath frayed, graying skin. Nick tells her he misses how they were. But the truth is: Quinn isn’t sure they can ever go back to that. Especially with what she has to tell him next.

“After we met DiMa, I had questions of my own. Wanted to do some digging, I guess -- suppose I should blame you for that trait.” Quinn admits. She pauses, now; unsure how to share the rest of the information as her stomach twists in knots. The water now feels cold, everything around them plunging and frigid. This is where she starts to pull away. “-- He told you that he took you and escaped. But the truth was, Nick... That’s what the Institute wanted. It’s not a place you can run from easily. Not without help, or without inside knowledge.” 

cheatdeaths || six.

“They called what happened during my time a war too. The Great War. Truth is: war is annihilation, plain and simple. It doesn’t take into account who gets the bad hand of cards in that situation.” And there’s a rare frown from her, something not tamped down or scripted. Her hands clasp before her, the pads of her fingers pressing hard against the knuckles until she feels the joints roll beneath her grip. 

“I visited them after they landed, you know. Met their Elder, too.” It felt reminiscent in the worst of ways of the military and its hunger for power back-then. The soldiers looked to the Elder like he was the solution and everything outside of it is the problem, is a blight. Quinn won’t deny he has the trappings of a compelling leader -- even if she doesn’t agree with him. “They asked for help. And then, they asked me to commandeer food and supplies from other settlements. Like it was a tax, but the people here, the Commonwealth -- they never asked for these people to show up.”

She doesn’t expect the Third Amendment to stand ground in a government that exists no longer, but it still grates her all the same. Her arms fold across her chest, turning to look over at Six.

“The Brotherhood. Are they also where you came from? What were they like there?” 

starhaunt || ren.

Maybe nostalgia’s sucker-punched her on this one, but some days, she can’t help it. Old memories of haunted house attractions during fall, always trying to get a one-up on siblings, friends, others. It’s a bit of brevity, and why Quinn’s hidden in one of the rooms along the hall, door cracked, just enough to spy Ren’s approaching shadow. Eventually, she hears it; boots on the stairs, before creaking on the approach. Ren moves carefully, quietly as is habit to do. As she passes, Quinn carefully pushes the door aside, a hand grabbing at the other’s shoulder. 

“Boo.” 

isalarevas || inquisitor. 

There is something that smarts in that statement, like a salt-laced knife twisting jagged teeth in her side. Success can hardly be charted with a family razed and taken from her, could it not? Never mind the riches and power that have accrued in the wake of tragedy ( now a weapon at the extension of the Inquisition’s as any other ). Gloved hands betray none of her emotion, not the paled knuckles from a tightened grip. Orlais requires a firm-set mask, and so Quinn smiles kindly; eyes crinkling. The other has lost so much, and stands to lose more. The fate of the world outstrips a family tragedy. 

“Kindness is a valuable trait in a leader.” Quinn observes. “And so is patience. For others, and for yourself. If you do not offer it to yourself, you’ll find yourself breaking in the face of what’s to come. Promise me at least, Inquisitor, that you will allow yourself that grace.” 

sagaiisms || gaea.

“Habits are hard to break, aren’t they?” Quinn relents, agreeing. Patterns formed out of necessity, and what are humans if not creatures that operate on fired impulses and those ingrained patterns? She doesn’t blame Gaea. When she was younger, too, she had been made to apologize for so many things. For not being good enough. For the space she takes in a room. For existing at the wrong place and the wrong time. For her siblings’ crimes against a legacy as well. 

But in time, she grew to love the destruction that came with breaking those patterns. With not apologizing. With coming into her own. Maybe it’s selfish, for Quinn to want to see Gaea do the same with how far she has already risen. But maybe it’s not Nora’s place to say.

“Well -- I am your assistant. If anything, it should be me placing the order.” A sigh. Another swig, and she places the bottle down. “Guess I’ll have to make up for it by covering the tip. Least I could do, right?”

cottonbelles || cotton.

There’s twin parts of curiosity and fascination that linger in Quinn’s stare at Cotton’s cover story, paired with a slow raise of the brow; arms folding across the chest while she leans back on her heels and mulls it over. It feels less like improv and more like something familiar. 

“Taking it this is a cover you’ve used before, Leechai?” Quinn asks. Her index finger taps at her chin in thought, before opting for a similar tactic. Cotton’s on the right track: familiar is easier, more natural to revert to for these things. “Alright. I’ll be Nora. Given how ruthless the Gunners are, might be better to say it was the Minutemen that did our crew in.” 

She shrugs on the clothes, before eyeing their surroundings. Crouching down, Quinn scoops a bit of dirt in her hands,before patting and smearing it against her cheeks and forehead to give a more scuffed up appearance. 

“Any other tips on this before we make our way in? Might take some time before we can find where they’re keeping the hostages.” 

touch me with tender truth.

you crave being known and held. you just want the warmth and pressure of another body against your own. sometimes, late at night when you're alone in your bed, your skin aches with the lack of touch. you've tried touching yourself, and it isn't the same. one time someone gripped your shoulder and squeezed it in passing, and you thought about it for weeks after - the ghost pressure of their hand lingering. don't you deserve it? consistent physical love and caring? i think so, i think you do. but i also have to ask - do you fear it even as you want? after all, if you get it then it might also be taken away. i hope that if you fear it, you push through past that fear. that you ask for the touch you desire and deserve. i hope that you get touched with love and kindness, wrapped up in warm arms and rocked from side to side until the tension and pain falls away layer by layer and only you are left.

kidemcnas || wyck.

Gloves off, Quinn Nora makes quick work of the lock. The door sticks on the hinges, unused for some time and creaking loudly enough to let them and anyone else in earshot know. She holds the door open for Wyck before fitting her gloves back on, readjusting them until the clasps seal together with the rest of her armor; seamless and vacuum tight. 

“Wouldn’t that be a kick. Using some spa as a cover to hide important tech.” But -- not unlikely. Certainly not the first that she’s come across that. Not that that’s something Nora should profess to know, let alone mention to Wyck. 

“Typical Hunter,” She responds to his musing, and were it not for the reflective plating of her helm he might just see a playful roll of the eyes. The darkness of the entry lobby swallows them whole as they enter, before Codsworth flickers his light on, illuminating a dusty tile hall, a marble desk; vacant. “Always wanting to find out the hard way to do something instead of the right way.” 

starscorned || attano.

“I’m sorry, are you blowing raspberries at me? Me, the one with the Stimpaks and Med-X?” Were it not for his injuries, Quinn might just nudge him in playful reprimand. Instead, there’s a sharp hum under her breath as she leans down to assist. The Pip-Boy’s light helps illuminate, but it’s not enough. At his suggestion, she leans past him, grabbing a lighter and setting it to a few waxen stubs. 

“Don’t know. How good are you at keeping your word, Attano?” Quinn asks softly. As he pries at the bandages, she helps to loosen them, before setting them aside. It’s hard, at first, to make out the wounds; blood and newly formed bruises obscure, but it’s there. She reaches for the washcloth, squeezing away the excess in the bowl before pressing it over the bloodiest part of his side, moving to let him take over. “Because I’ve seen how you rush about when it comes to taking care of yourself.” 

o-rusted-heart || valentine.

Nick knows what to expect from her at this point, and maybe that’s why his hand draws taut against her; drawing her in because he knows that at times like these, Quinn always pulls away. She follows the steps of the dance like rote rehearsal, but the once relaxed posture as become more rigid; breaths locked in the cage of her ribs. There will always be secrets. For her sake. For his. But this one, now, that hangs in the air over them, can’t be one that keeps its nature forever. 

Her head bows, cheek pressed against the firm jut of his shoulder. She doesn’t have to be good at keeping secrets. 

“I wish I could agree, Nick. It’d be easier that way.” Words meant to delay the inevitable. She knows when this is over, whatever work had been done to patch the bridge of their friendship might just crumble again. “But there’s more at stake than you realize. However -- since you want to be a team, and since I owe it to you -- I need to... Not come clean, per se, but... I don’t want to leave you in the dark. You deserve better than that. You deserve a helluva lot more than the hand this life’s dealt you, I guess.” 

sfcwilliams​ || bangalore.

“And where’s the fun in that for me?” Quinn clarifies. She sits up; the distance neither thins nor spans between them but remains in an equilibrium as she angles herself, further blocking the bowl of candy. “Guess you met your match, Williams. So do I.” 

coltdead || rick.

“Hold on. Are you using me as bait?” It’s a mere whisper, but there’s steel in that tone as Quinn shoots him a look just as sharp. Were it not for the fact that they could be walking into a veritable hornet’s nest ( or worse ), she might just offer more a piece of her mind. Instead, mouth presses into a line, weighing their options. “If you're gonna have me ring that doorbell, you better have a good housewarming gift ready. Just in case.”

sagaiisms || gaea.

Doesn’t it look familiar, the twin parts of rage and fear in Gaea’s eyes? Quinn remains static in the situation, little more than wallpaper or accent decorations to the scene that unfolds; eyes wide, mouth parted, all scripted but the shock that lingers beneath a dark stare is genuine. She felt this once too, what Gaea is feeling now. It isn’t something she’d wish on anyone. 

“Ma’am, we’re working quickly to resolve the situation but you are also a priority. We’re recommending that you be taken to a safe location until this matter is handled.” All. Scripted. Down to the wire, down the soft dip in vocal cadence, the hand pressed to the chest in earnestness. Quinn still has a cover, but that doesn’t mean she can’t buck the lines set in place just a bit. A hand reaches out, gently asking for Gaea’s attention, before Quinn turns to the side. 

“Gaea: I apologize for interrupting but may I have a word with you, if you don’t mind?” The agent stares, expectant, so Quinn clarifies. “In private?” 

cheatdeaths​ || @ me next time.