For Pickman it had been immediate, a burst of lightning as she cut down his foes, blood splattering so charmingly across her pale cheeks. The months of pain and sorrow that she had undoubtedly endured had for him been an expanse of longing. Longing to see her again, to speak with the avenging angel that had descended into his hellscape and flew away again with ease. He longed to guide her hands in bloodshed and vengeance and paint. He would wax poet at the thought of touching her, even the slightest graze of fingers, when he couldn't have been worthy to touch the hem of her garment. For months he had been consumed with the desire to bathe in her glow only to find her fire all but extinguished.

She was quiet, docile, and without spirit. After her initial outburst she'd been as pliant as a doll, bending to his will in all things without complaint and, for the most part, without words. He only tended her wounds, but the thought of someone else finding her out there, of raiders having dominion over her or anyone else with less virtuous things in mind sickened him. His Killer was better than this world, rising about it in her grace, and others would not ruin that for her. Except…

Except that someone already had. He saw it in the drawn expression she wore even in sleep, or in the hunched shaking of chem withdrawal. Hancock was a decent ghoul in many ways, but his chem habit had bled over into her in a way that would soon be irreparable. A bit of mislabeled addictol did her a world of good in that regard, but it went deeper. It was more than the worries of the wastes or the siren song of chems. The drifters didn't bear that look of resignation, nor did they share in her grim fatality that flared when she threw herself into battle, ignorant of the wounds she sustained until everyone around her was dead. She had been scarred by something out there, her mind attacked by something she couldn't destroy.

It took time for her to forgive him, but he thought that she must have as she slowly started making eye contact and engaging in minute conversation. He gave her whatever she asked for, be it food or books or solitude, and the words she whispered in thanks were sweet for their rarity. She was possessed of a good voice with a soothing, clear tone, and when she chose to speak it was a gift that quieted his own rapid thoughts and desires for bloodletting.

While she might not have been the best conversationalist as his patient, Pickman savored her nearness nevertheless, sketching with feverish intensity while he was able to see her up close. She saw a handful of his drawings, much removed from the gore of his paintings, and what she studied at length he would attach to the walls. She even had a portrait of himself, something she had specifically requested. It was foolish and a bit embarrassing the way he fell all over himself in attempts to please her or coax out some semblance of a smile. It would have wrecked the fearsome image he had cultivated with raiders, but he couldn't find it in him to stop. Even when his art had suffered for it, wrist deep as he was in raider blood and unable to continue with his latest work, Pickman couldn't find it in him to mind, instead scrubbing rapidly and meticulously before hurrying back to her bedside.

The days passed faster than he'd have liked, but she was improving to the point that she no longer needed his help for walking, at least not short distances. Her strength had yet to fully return, but soon Nora would be well enough to leave, and this bothered Pickman more than he liked to admit. As she healed they had built up a rapport, slowly revealing bits of themselves as they talked. Minor amusements and irrational dislikes, that sort of thing, but the ease with which she lowered her guard around him had the artist wanting more. She didn't speak like a wastelander, nor did she really seem like a vault dweller, though she most certainly was that. When finally he could stand it no longer and dared to mention her oddness, Nora laughed, and it was intoxicating. He didn't often hear laughter, and had never witnessed it tumbling from her lips.

Of course it didn't last long, her smile turning to tears as she recounted a story he wouldn't have believed from anyone else. Cryogenic freezing, teleportation, her son the evil mastermind of the Institute, and her in the middle, approached by every major faction of the Commonwealth for one purpose or another. No wonder she'd turned to chems and rage. He had tried to think of something to say, some reply to her heart-wrenching confession, but all he managed was a quiet apology followed by an awkward silence before she changed the subject altogether.

It was days later that things became truly awkward, the vault dweller writhing in her sleep while he sketched, an intense expression on her face. At first it seemed a nightmare, and he thought to wake her, unwilling for her to be trapped with her demons. When he drew close, however, he noticed his mistake immediately. Her hands were not clenching the sheets in fear, but rather roaming under the absurdly thin veil, touching herself in ways that set his blood boiling. Her lips were parted slightly, and he swore that she had murmured his name as she worked herself, prompting him to flee the room as quickly and quietly as he could.

That same night had him scouring the streets of Boston in search of raiders, although he would take whatever manner of distraction presented itself. Anything to keep him from storming back in, shaking her awake and working out their frustrations together. How he wanted her, needed to offer himself to her in whatever manner she saw fit. If she asked it of him, he would gladly have become her victim in any capacity. Lay his wrists open for her amusement? Certainly. And it wasn't just that she was lovely. No, it was deeper than that, a purity of spirit, kindness tempered with bloodletting, an Angel of Vengeance, all wrapped up in one of the most capable people he'd ever met.

As much as he tried to find a diversion, Pickman came up empty-handed. The two of them had cleansed the alleys and ruins well enough that they would probably remain vacant for quite a while. Just when he had resigned himself to a night of frustration and insomnia, Pickman turned the corner and came face to face with a mayor and a detective. Even if it weren't the dead of night, he was rendered a ghost by the intensity with which the two discussed their next course of action. In truth it was alarming that Nora spent so much time with either one of them, as inattentive as they were to potential threats. They were one well placed landmine away from painting the streets with their innards.

"What I can't get out of my circuits is why you let the dame wander off in the first place. Kid's been through hell and then some, not to mention all the chems-"

"Let her? Nick, you know that ain't my style. People are free to live their lives. And you know as well as I do that telling Nora what's best works as well as saddling up a deathclaw and trying to ride it around the Commonwealth." The ghoul rubbed at the back of his neck thoughtfully, "Truth be told, I don't know how she even managed to stagger out into the streets, as hard as she was hitting the Jet. That sister's tough, I'll give her that."

"Yeah, and she's at her breaking point, Hancock. She could be laying in a ditch somewhere for all we know." The Detective stomped out his cigarette and the two went back to arguing.

As amusing as it was to see the two of them bickering, it did leave Pickman in 0u, something of a predicament. He could just reveal himself to Nora's companions and escort them to her, but he couldn't be sure that they wouldn't kill him on sight, or attempt to at least. If they checked their fire long enough to believe him, leading them to his home was unacceptable as well. The two turned back in the direction of Goodneighbor, so Pickman made haste back to his own home, snaking through the tunnels and rigging the safeguards behind him in his wake. As open to the public as he kept the gallery, it provided little in the way of security. His pieces for the gallery floor were kept there, certainly, not to mention his workroom floor, but rest and relaxation required more fitting accommodations. Nora was the only person he'd ever brought down into the bowels of his home, and even then she'd been unconscious, close to death, and in no condition to take notes.

At this point all he wanted was to cast her from his mind, as far away as possible, or else take himself in hand and be done with his wanting. He wanted to wrest himself from the obsession in which he was drowning and get back to some semblance of sanity however he could manage it. So naturally she was waiting for him upon his return, looking lovelier than anyone had a right to look in his oversized castoffs, shapely legs on display as she lounged on the settee.