Well, this was a fun idea. From the in-game references that they knew each other pre-game, and of course that Hancock used to live in Diamond City with his family where Nick's been working for a long time, the little mention of before-he-was-a-ghoul Hancock on Irma's terminal in Goodneighbor… eh it all kinda came together into this. Gonna borrow most things from game canon, but not all.

This story begins about seven years prior to Fallout 4. Nick is a human (AU alert) and Hancock still has a couple years before he goes ghoul.

Additional notes: This fic has canon-typical violence and (minor character) death, little bit of internalized homophobia, somewhat reluctant consent, and it's got explicit smut. If none of that sounds like your cup of Nuka, this here's yer warning.

November 20, 2280 5:30 PM

If you want a good view of not only Diamond City, but also the rest of the Fens as the day's closing down, leaning over the rails at the very top of the stands is undeniably the best spot for it. The hazy glow of neon signage and sodium arc lights to one side; the great, broken hulls of ancient buildings and flat sparkle of river on the other. It's beautiful, in that way the world still can be; scraps of new ambition pasted over yesterday. But when you're too done in to hoof it up there, staring at a big, uninteresting green wall is the clear runner-up.

And here he sits, right in front of that grand disappointment on his final smoke break of the evening. Parked on one of the old benches by the Wall watching the the dark shapes of scavenger birds wheel across the sky one last time before they head home to sleep. Not too dissimilar from the residents of the city taking their last spin around the market stalls and old concrete paths before turning in. He'd spent the day hunting around the city himself, and getting nothing for it but endless shrugs and head shakes. All the sweet-talking in the world wasn't worth doodly-squat if the info wasn't there. But tomorrow's another day, and the case'll still be there waiting, frustrating as it's turning out to be.

His cigarette is almost burnt down to the filter; he can feel the warmth of the ember every time the wind pushes against it. As he pitches it onto the ground and crushes it out to make way for its successor a voice speaks up behind him. Kind of an odd combination of hoarse drawl and high, playful tenor.

"Hey, man, I am really diggin' the coat."

Nick turns his head and sees a short, kinda messy lookin' kid with a grin on his face and a tangled mane of wavy blond hair with a hand on the back of his bench. Well, kid might be a stretch. He's got a young, sort of innocent-looking face but the lean-muscled set of his body and the hard lines of his jaw and nose put him at mmm… early twenties, most likely. But first impressions are tough to kill, and compared to his own sage years he sure looks like a kid.

Nick smiles back, wary but sufficiently polite, and glances down at the coat in question. Same one he always wears. Long, tan stained darker with nicotine and age, a few more rips and patches in it than there used to be. It's nothing special and he takes the strange compliment as it was probably meant: an opener that sounds less stale than the traditional 'Hey, howyadoon, pal'.

"Does the job." He nods at the empty spot on the bench next to him. There's about six or seven more around, but that long-fingered hand is expectantly resting right here on this one. "Sit if you want. Wasn't planning on being out here much longer so you're welcome to take over." That's friendly enough if the kid's lookin' for talk, but also leaves himself an out if he turns out to be a pusher or a shill for one of the weekly caravans. He doesn't look like it, has the distinct air of a local actually, especially with the noticeable lack of clothing layers and kit, but there's nothing more annoying than getting an unwanted sales pitch when you're trying to wind down. Besides maybe getting held up, but no one's made the attempt in a good long while. Maybe he's due for it.

The grin brightens some more and the kid hops over the back of the bench instead of walking around. He stretches out and crosses his skinny legs at the ankle, all easy sprawl and elbows hanging over the back. "Weh-hell alright, if you're offerin'." His head rolls around to fix his eyes on Nick, hair shifting in the wind and sunset light turning his irises a strange pink color. "Pretty sure I've seen that hat and getup walkin' around town before, but I don't think we've met yet, have we...?"

"Valentine," he says, mind racing as he tries to place this young man and the mental Rolodex ultimately comes up blank. "Nick Valentine. I own the detective agency behind the marketplace." He pauses and offers an apologetic quirk of his brows as well as his hand. "Not a good first impression for someone in my line of work, I know, but I haven't the foggiest who you are either."

The kid smiles back at him, the expression seeming more common on his face than not, and slots his hand in against Nick's. It's warm and firm in his own and he waits for Nick to let go first after the shake. "John. McDonough, if we're gettin' all formal here."

They talk as the sun works its way down and the sky drifts into navy blues and cool purples. Nick meant to be back inside a while ago, but this really isn't half bad. He digs out a fresh smoke and offers one to John who accepts eagerly and leans in to light his on the same match. They talk about Nick working in Chicago and moving out east when the enclave and brotherhood presence got to be too overbearing, about finding Mayor Roberts' daughter a few months back and getting a place here, about John and growing up in the more seedy area of the city with his pain in the ass brother and their barely-there parents, about how he's got nearly nothin' to do here but run around and get into trouble wherever he can find it.

Before he knows it it's full dark, the stars are out, and they've burned through the rest of his pack. The kid's arm is resting on the bench behind Nick's back and the rest of him is turned in and facing almost directly at Nick. Nick's somewhat amused by the observation, wondering if John always gets so obviously cozy with everyone he'd just met. But he can't fault him for it; he knows he's got the same comfortable smile on his face and his own tongue's been fairly loose with the conversation. And it's nice. To talk and listen and laugh and not have to worry about trying to coax the dirt out of the guy you're talkin' to or wonder how much it's gonna cost you in the end.

"Gettin' late," Nick has to say eventually. He doesn't particularly want to head home but it is, in fact, late. There's sleep to be had if he doesn't want to be miserable in the morning and still some work to do before he calls it a day. Besides that, the talk's naturally died out and there's a fair amount of familiar wet chill in the air from the cold ocean breeze. The kid's only wearing a pair of worn-through jeans and a shortsleeve and Nick can see the light shivers periodically rippling over him.

"Ooh, yeah, guess it is." John's eyes tilt up to the darkened sky, but he doesn't remove his hand and doesn't move to stand up. He just keeps looking at him with that even look on his face. "Past my bedtime. You headin' out then?"

He really should. "Think I am, I've got a few things to take care of and a fella to talk to in the morning."

"Lucky him," John says with a grin and a very over-the-top wink that gets a raised eyebrow and bemused head shake out of Nick. "You aren't too bad, man. Wouldn't mind doin' this again sometime if you're free. I'll get you back for the cigs, alright?"

A hand brushes over Nick's back to squeeze his shoulder, and then John's up and drifting off toward the radio tower. The kid lifts his hand in a wave without looking back and then he fades into the shadows of the city.

Yeah. Nick wouldn't mind too much either.