November 26, 2280 11:00 PM
"Hey-hey! Detective Valentine!"
Nick turns toward the call to see John elbowing his way through the tight pack of human and ghoul and all in-betweens filling the dimly-lit space of the Dugout Inn. His answering smile to the friendly tone quickly falls into surprise as John breaks through the crowd to slap his arm in greeting.
"Jesus Christ, kid. Who the hell did you tick off?"
His face is an honest-to-god mess. He's sporting a serious shiner, the mottled blackish-purple stretching all the way from eye socket to cheekbone and a smaller curl of it seeping over his eyebrow; the sclera of that same eye is now a garish, staring red where the underlying blood vessels have burst; and there's a wide, painful-looking gash in the middle of his lower lip. Though even with how rough his face looks, he still manages to seem completely above it and looks like just as much of a heartbreaker as ever. He sticks his tongue out and rolls it against the line of old blood and raw skin, grinning sheepishly.
"You're the sixth person tonight to ask me that. Oop, over here." He looks up and tugs Nick out of the way of what looks (and smells) like an approaching gaggle of sweat-and-mud-soaked bounty hunters. John parks them next to one of the big support pillars and goes on, Nick leaning in close to hear him over the raucous din of the bar's patrons and the blare of the radio on the far wall.
"Short version is some fuckass out-of-towner was bein' a jerk to that cutie with the overpriced electronics stall yesterday morning. It went a little past bein' funny, then it went a lot past and I asked him to kindly cut it the fuck out, and he took that to mean 'I am challenging your honor as a man' and then he punched me in the face."
Nick stares at him.
"...And then I punched him in the face, and it eh… got pretty ugly after that," he finishes. He smiles again and this time it stretches too wide, edging into feral territory. It looks slightly alarming and he chokes it off by downing the rest of whatever's in the short glass he's holding. Makes Nick wonder if the other party managed to walk away with his eyesight still intact. Or even walk away at all.
"Tough break. Y'alright, though? That looks like it really smarts," he asks after another long moment of looking John over. Especially the split lip. He's been punched and slapped plenty of times and that aching, hot throb of an injured yap is never any fun. The bloody eye looks bad, but those usually solve themselves neatly enough after a few days.
John handwaves the concern and shakes his head. "Nah, no weapons involved, wasn't a big deal; I'm fine. Besides, I trashed the other guy. Guess I'm lucky I'm not sitting in one of the detention cells right now. Buuut..." he says, tipping his empty at Nick, "...you can always buy a guy another drink if you're feelin' real torn up about it, handsome." Nick snorts, thinking it's only missing a good eyelash flutter to be a proper, hamfisted pass and John tips a thumb back behind him and turns the grin back on. "Got a table saved right here if you wanna get me nice and impaired. I'm not gonna say no."
Funny. "Yeah, why not. I'll buy an injured man a drink or two," Nick says. Between boozing with the kid or sitting on his own listening to the drunks argue and Vadim spouting off about his perpetually broken stills, this sounds like a far better way of spending his evening. He's had too many quiet (lonely, he might say if pressed) nights lately; that's half the reason he's even in this dive at all. "What're ya poisoning yourself with tonight?"
Turns out it's the house moonshine (good lord) and Nick threads his way up to the front to order one and his own weekly dose of the expensive scotch. Thankfully he catches Vadim's eye and leans over the sticky bar top as he's being jostled and prodded by the crowd behind him. Sometimes you get the urge to be around other people, and then you get there, crushed right in the middle of the mad dance and start wondering what on god's green you were thinking. This is nearly one of those times, saved by the comforting fact that no one's yet spilled their drink down his back or tried to pick his pocket.
"Heya, Vadim. Pretty busy tonight, huh?"
Vadim smiles and sets the glass he's just wiped out on the counter, picking up another with a well-practiced hand. "Busy bar is happy bar, gumshoe. What would you like?"
Nick relays the drink order and Vadim automatically reaches around for the bottles and glasses. He tilts his chin to the back of the room with a questioning look as he pours. "You taking up with the little McDonough brother, eh?"
"Taking up wi—? No." Nick's completely bewildered for a moment. What the hell had made him think that? "No, not at all."
"No?" Vadim sets down both drinks and accepts the caps for them, vanishing them into the till under the bar top. The look on his wide face is both skeptical and knowing, like they're both in on some shared joke, and Nick's not sure he likes the continued insinuation. Vadim barks out a short laugh. "In that case, you just be careful with that one, my friend." And then he's sweeping off to another customer, turning away to shout into the back, 'Yefim! Need more glasses out here!' before Nick can ask what that's supposed to mean.
Well, it's obvious what he meant, but… what? Why?
Given, he's only got the basic brushstrokes on John, and he is very suggestive and jokes around frequently... but some people flirt as easy as breathing, it's how they operate. It's almost absurd to think the kid would think about him that way; goddamn ridiculous. That's just John. He shoves the thought aside and heads back to wherever the guy in question's parked himself.
He finds him easily enough; it's hard to miss the unruly mop of blond and the odd way John has of seeming to unfurl and spread out, filling the area he's inhabiting and making himself look more noticeable or imposing than his slim figure warrants. Nick settles into the free chair and solemnly clinks his glass against John's when he motions for it. They make a dual toast to swift recoveries and little bitches getting their shit kicked in.
They drink, drink a lot more, and true to his earlier word, John shares out what he's got from a thoroughly crumpled pack of cigarettes as they shoot the breeze and embark on the journey of getting good and sloshed. Nick takes a quick sip of the kid's 'shine when he offers and yes, it's still as foul as he remembers it. Tastes like instant heartburn in a glass. John snickers at the face he makes.
When it comes up, John wants to hear more about the case Nick's been on, and even though working's the last thing he meant to think about here, John looks so damn interested it's impossible to say no. So he launches into it, trying to weave the whole thing into more of a cohesive narrative and less of what it is right now: a series of dry facts and speculation and data he has charted up in one of his dog-eared notebooks.
John's an attentive listener; asks questions and even fills in the snippets of info that he can, mostly to do with personality quirks or odd habits of the people around town that are involved in some way. The kid's a lot sharper than he gave him credit for. Though to be fair, as they continue drinking his additions and interjections start sounding more and more nonsensical.
He talks and talks. John follows along (wasn't he sitting on the other side of the table before?) and taps his ash into one of the many empty glasses now littering the round tabletop. It's been an awful long time since Nick let himself get tipsy, let alone actually drunk with someone, and it's, well, freeing. Enjoyable. John's got an arm around the back of his chair again and occasionally his thumb rubs against Nick's shoulder. Maybe it's an accident, but neither of them move out of the other's way and it's not… not bad. Kinda relaxing.
And he's… hm.
Actually a lot closer than he'd thought.
Nick looks, really stops and looks for the first time in quite a while as time's been slipping by so easily, and sees how little space there actually is between the two of them. His shoulder's nearly socked up against John's chest and arm, their knees have been touching so long he doesn't even remember when that started, and at eye-level there's John's ear a scant few inches away as he hunches in close to hear what Nick's saying. Right there with the thick metal rings looped through it, curls of hair brushing the top and falling down the side of his face, lines of his throat leading down to the slender ridges of his collar bones visible through the neck of his shirt. John's face turns as he notices the lengthening lull in the conversation; doesn't meet Nick's eyes but he's definitely watching.
Suddenly, he's too warm.
Followed quickly by disjointed alarm as John's free hand trails over their joined knees and settle on his, fingertips drawing lightly over his slacks. He thinks back to Vadim's I-know-something-you-don't-know look and is now ready to admit maybe it had some merit to it. This is… he's never… a man's never touched him like this and he's not sure if he's reading too far into it or even how to react to it.
Smoothly, seems to be the consensus.
"What're you doing?" Nick asks. His drunk self doesn't at all have the way with words his sober self does and he's appalled at how idiotic and querulous he sounds. It's still blaringly loud all around them and he has to almost shout to make himself heard.
John turns to fully face him with a smile. Somehow, the dark bruise spread over his skin and that demoniac eye enhance his looks rather than dampen them.
"Testing the waters. What're you doing?"
Testing the…? Oh.
Oh.
The excuses he's been making to himself about John's actions all seem about as solid as soggy broadsheet in light of this. He'd known. He just hadn't wanted to believe it, maybe. Foisting his own fears and questions onto John's motives, hoping they wouldn't actually add up to anything that needed to be confronted.
But there it is. Direct confirmation.
John's palm slides up and he grips just a hair tighter. Nick can't figure out why it's even happening, but the weight of the fingers on him feels far too good; his scalp prickles and a hot, embarrassing pulse of want and curiosity shoots through his gut. He's burning all over and John's still right there; still looking at him. Pupils wide and dark, lips parted, face loose and open from all the alcohol. He's close enough that Nick can smell him, spicy soap and old smoke and the leather of his jacket. It's so wrong, but he wants to bury his face in against his neck and mass of hair and breathe him in.
He shifts closer; his own hand reaching for John's and just gliding over the back of his wrist.
That bare graze of skin is like touching a live wire.
Like completing a circuit so the connected warning siren can shriek to life.
Realization slams into him and he panics.
"I'm n— sorry." He jerks his hand back and slips out from under John's light grasp and confused eyes, chair legs squalling against the floor. "I can't…"
And he's up, pushing away from the table and stumbling off into the rough embrace of the crowd. His head's swimming from the alcohol and the gallon of adrenaline that's been dumped into his bloodstream along with it. People turn and give him funny looks that turn into sympathy or eye rolls or rude gestures as they see him lurch away with as much grace as a behemoth in a marsh. Up through the blue-lit entrance hall, making sure not to knock himself silly on any of the jutting pipes. He curses under his breath as he reaches the door and it won't goddamn open.
It opens the other way.
The air that greets him is such a sweet relief after that and he sucks in a deep, tearing breath. Tastes the frosty chill in it and walks away from the roar of people behind him, feeling a bit less panicked but also a little ashamed at… Damn it. At fleeing; that's what he'd done. Nothing but a limp apology and then sayonara. He only has a few seconds to berate himself for it before the door behind him opens and closes again and there's John's voice. Softer now, in this cottony silence.
"Nick."
He doesn't answer. But he does stop where he is, hand resting on the damp back of the outdoor seats so he doesn't sway and show off how off-balance and off-kilter he is.
"You're runnin' away from me, man."
That he is. There's no denying that. For a few different reasons, too.
...They're not coming to him at the moment, but they're definitely there. He's not… he can't. Not with him. Not like this. God's sake, if he wasn't so drunk he'd probably be able to say exactly what the problem was, but for now all he can do is wait and see what John followed him out here for. Stand here and let his burning face battle against the cold of the night air. Try to get the breathing back under control.
"Turn around, okay? I ain't that scary lookin'," John says. There's a clear edge of frustration in his voice alongside the light slurring. Then he pauses a moment and when he continues it's gentler, like he's trying to calm a skittish dog. In this moment, Nick kinda feels like one. "C'mon. Not gonna touch ya; I'm all the way over here."
He turns around. True enough, John's standing over by the big concrete steps, clutching his scuffed jacket closer around him and backlit by the misty air and big fluorescent light over the door. He looks almost ethereal like that, a pale corona outlining his slim figure, arms crossed and head tilted as if he's listening for something.
Nick doesn't get it. Any of it.
"What?" he asks, vaguely gesturing back towards the bar. Eloquent as all hell, but John still seems to understand what he means and shrugs at him.
"I dunno whose dreamy, hazel eyes you've been gazing into all night but I was checkin' yours out and liked what I saw, that's all."
Nick scoffs and can't come up with a response other than a disbelieving 'Really?' He's still having a hell of a hard time accepting this for some reason. He'd been serious about it? This whole time? All of it? Shit.
The door opens again and a couple with their arms looped around each other's waists step out and start muddling around the patio. One of them is laughing and the other one looks like they're struggling to keep the contents of their stomach down. John sidles out of their way and joins Nick where he's still standing by the booth chair and tables, not quite crowding up to him but close enough that he can speak in a low, husky murmur that only the two of them can hear. The buffer of space is suddenly gone; the intimate bubble of privacy back in effect.
"What happened, huh? Thought you were into it," he says, eyes tipping up to Nick's. The gaze is sultry as any woman's and, in this uneasy moment, honestly just as alluring. He leans heavily against the booth seat that's holding Nick up, fingertips and dingy nails deliberately inches away from his hand and the dark gaze on that young face turns into a challenge. Fingers and eyes taunting him. "Was I really reading this all wrong? You don't want this?"
Nick frowns at him and parses out the unsaid accusations on his face, in his words: 'I saw the way you were looking at me' and 'I felt you nearly take my hand before you spooked yourself' and 'Just what were you leaning in to do, huh?'. Yeah, fair. But, no. No.
"John... you're drunk."
More in control than I am, that's for sure, Nick thinks. But maybe that's all this is. Hopefully.
The kid snorts, looks like he's trying to roll his eyes but they don't do much more than dart to the side. "Not that drunk," he says, then continues on with a grin, tilting his head up into a defiant cant. "What, is that a no? Tell me you don't want to go back in there, rent one of the rooms, wrap those big hands around my neck, and fuck me till I'm screaming. Come in my ass, make me beg for it first if you like that." He looks thrilled at making Nick's mind take those abrupt, falling steps into the scene he'd painted. Sure he is. "Tell me you don't and I'll drop it."
Hell. Nick's eyes slide closed, wishing he could unhear the last fifteen seconds. Civil all night and then a blunt hammer strike like that… he must be great at getting a rise out of unsuspecting people. Doin' a pretty good job of it right now. Shit.
"I don't know what I want," Nick says carefully, trying to keep himself under control and above the baiting. He's already horribly flushed and doesn't trust himself not to say anything stupid, so avoids it by… avoiding it. It probably isn't what he should say. He should give him a flat no and be done with it but… man, is he confused. Jesus, he's gotten less graphic come-ons from the girls over in Goodneighbor. He needs to get away from this before his conscience and his brain fail him even more and he wakes up on one of Yefim's flat mattresses with an armful of regrets. Why is this so tempting? He slides a hand over his mouth, wiping his dry lips. "Just… please, I need some space, okay? I had too much, I can't think like this."
And he really can't. He's got disembodied snatches of music and tonight's conversation flicking around in his mind; dull, thudding anxiety from this new turn of events; the lazy swing and drift of his vision; and some half-remembered advice from his first partner in the Chicago PD about drinking too much… something about never agreeing to anything when everything sounds like a good idea. Yep, swell. He's done his duty with that. Here's to you, Dawes.
After a long, searching moment, John nods, sucking his lower lip between his teeth. Nick's eyes can't help but be drawn to the motion.
"Alright," John says. There's still a watchful look there on his face, though now it's mixed in with grudging acceptance and disappointment. Nick knows he hasn't done anything wrong but still feels pretty terrible. He likes the kid, strangely gets along with him well enough and doesn't want to turn him away like this, but this has gone leaping and screaming off the deep end and he's not in any shape to try and pull it back. There's another long pause of craggy silence and breaths fogging the air between them. "You're right, sleep it off. I'll see you around, okay?"
"I… yeah." Nick's shoulders slump down. It sounds too final, like a 'goodbye forever', but he can't dredge up any finesse to fix it right now. Tries to soften it by putting a hand on John's shoulder and that's a heaping pile of mixed signals, but he's gotta do something. Can't just walk away and pretend he doesn't see that angry hurt staring at him. "Look, I'm sorry."
Immediately, he wishes he hadn't. John's eyes snap up and he folds his hand over Nick's and yanks it off him before Nick can take it back on his own. John jerks them a half step closer together, bringing their joined hands up in front of his face. His touch is cold, fingers soft and smooth, and the look on his face is one Nick can sincerely say he hasn't seen before. Not quite lust, not quite outrage, but really close to both.
"I said alright. Don't fuck around with me, man."
He watches, frozen as John bends in and draws the tip of one of his own extended fingers into his mouth, tongue curling around the pad and lips sliding up over the knuckle. His mouth never touches Nick, but the message there and the proximity is enough to make the skin of his lower back crawl.
"Not if you're not gonna follow up on it."
He releases him and Nick's hand hangs where it is for a moment, slowly closing and then pulling back to grip defensively around his coat's lapel.
"Yeah," John says as he watches the retreat. In his eyes, Nick can easily read the words that's what I thought, but they go unspoken. And that's it. John shoves his hands into his pockets and turns and stalks back into the churn of the Dugout.
As soon as the door clicks shut, Nick lets out the breath he's been holding in a heavy white rush. It's a loud sound in the empty courtyard, but he's alone again; the couple from earlier long wandered off together and no new arrivals since stepping out. Shame burns and his blood beats hard under his skin as he pockets his own clenched hands and turns away from the door. He'd probably deserved that. Definitely.
Home is close, not even a three minute walk most times, but with his mind and his gut looping around at full tilt it's a bit more of a production than usual. Despite it all, he manages a pretty even-keeled journey, only stumbling once. Puts a few fresh scratches on his door handle and falls into bed almost immediately when he gets inside, only pausing to toe out of his shoes, fling his hat onto the bedside table, and drag a big fistful of sheets and quilt up from where they're tangled around the bedposts. The darkness that overtakes him is a welcome cessation to this near-total fiasco. One misstep after the other.
As he sinks under, he murkily hopes he hadn't seriously messed that up and hurt the kid. Please.
By the time he wakes up to the usual shouts and chatter from the square, woozy and eyes over-sensitive and with a horrific taste in his mouth, most of the more terrifying moments of the previous night are dimmer, less important. Some even forgotten.
And by the time he's thrown on a new change of clothes, run a wet comb through his hair, drank about two days worth of water, and started up the steady dig through his folders and notebooks, the last little nagging details are being snugly covered up with that comforting blanket called denial. And it's back to business as usual.