November 29, 2280 7:00 PM
Minutes later and the warehouse is behind them for good; shackles closed and latched around their own chains and key pitched so they can't be used again. And it's really a stroke of luck that Luke recognizes John (John's strained smile brightening at that, saying, 'Look at that. Famous and I didn't even know it.'); he insists on holding his hand when they leave, blanket whipped up into a makeshift poncho against the cold.
The three of them (Eleanor discreetly dropped back off at home) get some dinner while Nick tries to tactfully explain as much as he deems necessary to the excitable six year old chowing down on fried brahmin strips and egg noodles. Thankfully, he doesn't seem much worse for wear, probably blacked-out for most of it. Small blessings.
And about half an hour after that, they're back at the Rexford room and it's true nighttime again; stars out and the city tuned down to a low roar instead of an ear-splitting one. Nick sits and finishes up his report (actually writing this time; he goes back several times and makes sure it's words on the page, not waveforms or sea creatures) while Luke demonstrates his gymnastic abilities until he finally flops down from a somersault and doesn't have the energy to get back up. John's ducked out again, so Nick scoops the kid up off the floor and puts him to bed. It's late enough and he's got nothing else to work on, so he retires himself to the couch; snagging a book and the spare blanket and kicking off his shoes.
They'd all come to the decision to wait for morning to make the trip back. A pack of mutants had been seen in the area (surprise), and after all this, Nick doesn't want to tempt fate or the wildlife any more than he needs to. The search and rescue had come together a lot quicker than he'd anticipated anyway; waiting another eight, nine hours so they can get a fresh start isn't going to hurt anything. They'll be back ahead of schedule, and Luke and Don can get right back to their lives as usual. Probably awful shook up, of course, but as far as what could've gone down, this is a pretty optimal result.
Nick's still reading, eyes moving over words but unable to make any of them stick, and still unable to really settle in and relax. Strangely, he finds himself missing his bed in Diamond City. The familiar smell and feel of his sheets, the shape of his pillow. Not that this is bad, it just isn't home. And that's a funny thought as well; that it's not his cramped little West Loop apartment he's homesick for.
There's a quiet creak from the floor outside. Nick looks up to see the door slowly unlock and swing in, muted light from the hallway spilling in after it.
"Oh," John says from the doorway. "Not asleep yet, huh?" Far from his usual brass and guts, he sounds and looks… shy. Or reluctant about something.
"Not for lack of trying," Nick answers. And John still won't come in, just haunts the threshold like an uninvited vampire. "Come on, get in here, you're lettin' all the heat out."
Nick watches him come in and ease the door closed. He isn't taking off his jacket, won't look at Nick, and can't seem to make up his mind on what he wants to be doing once he's in. Compromises by pacing back and forth against the far wall, stopping and leaning on it every so often. Everything on his face screams 'sleep deprived' but he doesn't stop slowly moving around, not even to take a seat on one of the chairs by him. Nick continues to watch over the top of his unread book until it just gets weird. He wonders how long he'd keep it up if left undisturbed.
"Doin' okay, kid?"
John looks up. Back down. "Yeah. I'm fine."
Yuh huh, and I'm Lauren Bacall. "How's the wrist?"
"It's fine too," he says. But now he stops the pacing and keeps his left side angled away. The level of craftiness here is really off the charts.
Nick closes his book and slowly places it on the floor. Swings his legs off the side of the couch and sees John visibly huff and flounder in place as he crosses the room to lean against the desk. He can't help but laugh at the way John's puffing up like a cat with its hackles up. "It doesn't seem like it's fine."
"I already had a doctor look at it, okay?" John raises his arm, shoving it toward him and barely pulling back his sleeve so Nick can see where bandages have been woven around his thumb and fingers. He's blushing as he does it, cheeks pink and eyes downcast. "He splinted and wrapped it. It's—"
"Did you actually get it fixed or just taped up?"
He drops the hand back down and grits his teeth with the unintended jolt it gives him. "Why are you so annoying?"
Mmhm.
"Because there's no chance in hell I'm bringing you home with a broken anything," Nick says. And because he hates seeing the mostly-hidden winces every time John has to move that arm for something. It'd been really difficult watching him try to eat in the crowded little shack from earlier while not turning around and biting the head off anyone who happened to jostle him. "Come on. Take that off," he says, pointing at the kid's jacket, "and go siddown, tough guy."
John glares at him, but after a few seconds of Nick glaring right back he shrugs off the coat, gingerly peeling the sleeve over his arm. He pushes past and flops down on the couch with a mutter of 'Christ.' He's really making a big deal out of this.
"If, for some reason, you're embarrassed about getting hurt," Nick starts, and is amused to see John's already grouchy face get even worse. He turns away and opens his bag, unzips the small pocket on the side and digs through it. "I don't think you should be. Seems like she's been doing this for a long, long time and I'd put money down that she's taken out guys and gals a lot meaner than either of us. Think we came out alright in the end. Besides, that was a damn fine punch you threw."
John grumbles.
Nick joins him on the couch, sinking into the adjacent cushion and laying out what he grabbed over his legs. An alcohol pad, his (now bloodless) handkerchief, and a stimpak.
"Man, come on!"
Nick shushes him and nods toward the bed.
"Sorry," he mutters and then continues in an angry whisper. "Stims are expensive and this isn't fucking worth one. It'll be back to normal in—"
"In a couple months if you can, by some miracle, manage not to bang it up any worse. Yeah, I know." Nick smiles. "It's worth it to me, so shut up and hand over the hand, wouldja."
John's still got that I-can't-believe-you're-doing-this-to-me look on his exhausted face, but he holds his arm out and carefully lays his wrist into Nick's waiting palm. "Good," Nick says, rearranging them so John's arm is stretched over his knees.
He's curious what it looks like under the bandages, but doesn't trust his own expertise to put them back the way they're supposed to be so he leaves them as they are. The acrid bite of alcohol makes them both wrinkle their noses as he tears the package open and wipes the pad over John's inner arm. Nick holds the stim up to the light and checks the liquid as John's skin dries and the smell fades.
"If you've got something else you wanna say that's not more injury denial, I'm listening," Nick says with a quiet laugh.
John looks at him with a guilty expression. "What?"
"You look like you're waiting for a Corvega to fall on your head and your breath keeps hitching and I'm about ninety-nine percent sure you don't have a fear of needles. What's up?"
"I… eh."
Something breaks in the way John's been holding himself so stiffly and he crumples down, head dropping forward. He swallows and curls his other hand into a fist, hides his mouth with it. His voice is filled with distress.
"I fucked up."
Nick goes ahead and injects him, slowly sliding the needle into his skin and depressing the plunger. The tendons on John's arm stand out for a brief second before fading back into the smooth surface. Nick wipes away the drop of blood that follows and gently squeezes his arm before releasing it, tossing the empty stim onto his book and moving around to the other end of the couch. He lies back against the armrest and sticks one of his legs out so he's resting a foot on John's hip. "What do you mean?"
John glares down at his hand as he speaks, slowly testing the range of motion in it as the stim does its job. It's already lookin' pretty good. Better than his eyes anyway, they're red and glassy… from emotion or weariness he doesn't know. "You needed her for something and I... shot her and fucked up your thing you were doing. Fuck. I'm sorry."
"Ah."
"'Ah'?"
Nick beckons John over and after a moment of confusion and looking like he's wants to stand up again and pace some more, he scoots closer. John lets Nick pull and move him around until he's kind of curled up against Nick's chest, Nick's arms around his shoulders, their legs stretched out together on the couch cushions. It's warm and comfortable, even if John's stiffened body still feels like he's uncertain about all this. Nick runs an equally hesitant hand through John's hair, wishing all over again he'd taken better precautions on this. He'd been lazy.
"I don't blame you, kid, not at all. I had no business taking you into that. I should've told you no."
"What? You did tell me no."
"I did, but I shoulda tried harder. What kinda cop am I if I can't stand up to one punk kid?" John pinches him after an offended grunt and Nick retaliates by tugging on one of his curls. "You couldn't have known what I was doing cuz I didn't plan anything with you beforehand; that was my fault entirely. I wasn't prepared for a lot of what we came across and I should have been.
"You say you're sorry, and I'll accept it, but don't think I'm putting any fault on you. You didn't do anything wrong; that one was all me."
John says nothing for a moment. Makes a noise like he wants to argue, but then breathes out a quiet 'Okay' in a low whisper, some small amount of tension running out of him.
"And besides all that," Nick goes on, "I'm also of the opinion that she needed one between the eyes. Would've liked to try and question her, sure, but who knows if she would've actually told us anything useful. I get the feeling it woulda been all gold-edged lies and misdirection until she worked her hands free. No great loss."
They lie there in silence. John curls a hand around Nick's arm and Nick lowers his hand to cover the back of John's neck, thumb rolling over the vertebrae there. After a few tranquil minutes, John hums quietly. "You feel responsible for me or somethin', don't you."
"Well, I… yeah." Shouldn't he? This had been his show and he'd dragged someone else into avoidable danger along with him; unprepared for the synth cavalcade and accompanying madwoman. He hears the implication there though, You don't gotta worry about me. Good luck with that. Worrying's been bred into him, pressed into his fabric over the years. "Wish I hadn't put you into a position where you felt you had to kill someone."
John lets out a sarcastic ha into Nick's shirt and he's made aware again of how vastly different their concerns are from each other's. "You always have that I'm-in-charge-and-gotta-take-care-of-everyone attitude, you know. You a dad?"
That sends a spike of ice through him. A small one, but still. This is part of it, he reminds himself with an internal smile. Get a new friend and it's just a waiting game till they come across a sore spot. "No," Nick says, as even as he can with a person's ear pressed right up against his chest to hear any vocal shakes. "Never had any kids." At one time, awfully long ago, he'd wanted some but it had never come to pass.
"Siblings?"
"Yeah," Nick says slowly. Another twinge. "Little brother."
"Ha, that'd do it," John says. "Me and mine fight all the damn time but he gets like that too every so often. What's his name, your brother?"
"Dmitri," he says, then corrects himself a second later. 'Dmitri' was only for arguments. "Dima."
He knows he says it strangely because John cranes his head around to look up at him. Watches his face for a moment as Nick stares off at the wall.
Dima.
"Don't wanna talk about him, huh."
"Not really, no." Nick sighs. "I haven't even thought about him in at least a year. We parted badly."
"That's fair," John murmurs, shifting against his chest.
It had been an ugly and almost violent argument, that last one at the end. Years of camaraderie, like it oughta be between brothers, and then Nick had made a reckless, stupid decision and it turned out to be something Dima couldn't forgive him for. With good reason. They'd argued, it wasn't something that could be resolved, and Nick had gone east with it festering there between them. Something he's regretted since. The only problem is he has no idea where Dima is now to tell him he's sorry for the way it went down. He could've fallen in with any number of groups and gone with them, could've headed up north like he always talked about, could be anywhere, really.
"Hate to make you move," Nick starts, (and he really does, laying here with John's smaller body sprawled over his is comforting in a way that feels like it's been missing for a long time) "but let's turn out the lights. We should get some sleep— you especially —before we head back."
"Mmmrgh," John says. He stretches out straight for a moment before getting his knees under him and sliding over Nick's leg to the floor. "No arguments here. Too tired."
"You want the couch?" Nick asks, turning and getting ready to stand. "I can take one of the chairs."
"See, if we do that… one of us is gonna be freezing all night. Unless you wanna go pester whoever's at the desk for another blanket, cuz I ain't doin' it. We can share, if it's alright with you." John snaps one of the lights off and kicks his boots next to his backpack. And still facing away he says, "And before you start, I was serious. I'm tired. Way too fuckin' tired to try anything. Cuz damn. I'm awesome, but even I've got limits."
Nick laughs and lies back down. "Alright."
November 29, 2280 11:30 PM
And now he can't sleep again, lying in the dark and blaming his fouled-up schedule on recent events. He and John have bundled up together, each at one end of the couch with their legs in a loose tangle in the middle and the blanket tucked around them, and Nick can't stop shifting around. He knows he's keeping John up but his body can't quit fidgeting and his brain won't turn off. Thinking about this past day; replaying the dying squawk of the synth John ripped the head from, their entry into the prisoner room, Vy's empty gaze looking up at them from her self-assured position on the warehouse floor, the crack of the shot that brought her to her end.
And beyond that, wondering if this will have any sort of impact on Goodneighbor itself. Over dinner, Nick had quietly asked John if he thought Vic knew about any of it. John had answered, leaning over and lips hidden by his fingers and fork, 'Vic's crazy but I don't think even he would mess around with the… them. No way.'
And as terrible as it is to think about, he also hopes that what Vy said was true. That if it hadn't been her there, it would've been someone else. It might not've been what she'd meant, but that led him to believe she was expendable. Like maybe she wasn't important enough to send someone to look for her.
Nick twists to straighten out and readjust his hat. He's got it dropped over his face to block out the little bit of light that comes in through the curtains. Doing that usually helps for a quick nap at the office, but it's not accomplishing too much now. His head thuds and he can feel his pulse in the back of his eyes. It's sort of nauseating.
On their way out, he plans on leaving an anonymous note near the state house mentioning the dead body so it can be cleared away. They may not even care, may just let it rot, but it seems like the considerate thing to do. If anyone does go to check it out though, they've gotta put two and two together with the synth corpses also there. Though that may also go ignored. The people around here seem to be in such utter fear of the Institute that sense just flees, and they hope that pretending like nothing's there will make it so. He hasn't had enough dealings with the Institute to know much about them, and no one wants to goddamn talk about them, so there's—
"Nick?" John's croaky, sleepy voice comes out of the darkness.
"Sorry," Nick whispers back. He'd bumped him again, hadn't he. Damn it. "I… oh. Hi." John's legs pulls away and the couch dips down under him and suddenly John's stretched out beside him, shoulder wedged in under his armpit and arm flopped out over his chest. John pulls the blanket up around them again and squirms even closer. He's warm from sleep, almost hot, fingers stroking over the top of Nick's chest and across his arm.
"You're twitching around like you got into someone's psycho stash on accident. ...Which I've got a dumb story about if you wanna hear it sometime," he adds with a stifled yawn. "What's up, buddy?"
Nick makes a strangled noise of annoyance and rips his hat off and tosses it to the floor in disgust. "Thinking too much." He's so full of thoughts and images that he wouldn't be surprised if they were all dripping right out his ears. He sighs. "What I really need is a drink but I don't even wanna move, let alone go hunt one down."
John hums and moves around, hitches a hip up and then pulls something small out of his back pocket and holds it up in front of Nick's face. Shakes it and Nick can hear the slosh of liquid. "Have a little of this, it'll definitely help put you out."
It's jet. Not a terrible thing on its own, just the insane rate of addiction it has and everything that rides along with that. A good chunk of the force back home had relied heavily on the different varieties to get through their work day, Nick recalls. To wake up, to get to sleep, to get the edge in a gunfight, to… ease the impact of something that won't quite go away. Sad to see when it slipped and went wrong, but usually effective enough that the higher-ups were alright with turning a blind eye to it.
The really hilarious part was when the officers that used were sent out to shut down the sellers that were pushing too hard somewhere in the city. Irony at its best. And then when the confiscated product went unaccounted for? Curiouser and curiouser.
But Nick's never been one of them, never wanted to get into it.
"John…"
He's already uncapping the nozzle at the bottom and wiping it off on his shirt. "Yeah?"
"I don't…"
"Don't usually do this kinda thing, yeah, I've heard it. C'mon, I'll shotgun it. Half a hit. It's almost nothing." He worms his way up closer to Nick's face, laying his head right next to his so his murmured breaths warm Nick's ear and neck instead of his collarbones. Warm or not, it makes Nick shiver. "And if you're not asleep within five minutes, I'll eat your hat and all the dirt you just threw it in."
He doesn't need the sleep, not that badly. But he does need to turn off. Sweep away the twirling mind and get back to somewhere calmer and that is not going to happen on its own anytime soon. He'd also like to be up as early as he can to get Luke back over to his dad asap. Lock this case up and be done with it; take a break if it comes or get ready for whatever's up next. And lying here kicking John all night isn't going to help with any of that.
Nick frowns up at the ceiling. Bargains with himself and tells himself it's an extenuating circumstance. That his head's going to pop if he doesn't do something about it. That he'll take a week off alcohol to atone. He sniffs and can't believe he isn't saying no. Again.
"Please don't eat my hat," he says by way of weak acceptance.
John laughs and brings his hand up to his mouth. "Ready? Just breathe it in and let it out."
Still full of misgivings, Nick hears the click-hiss of the mechanism, a deep, sucking breath from John, and then fingers turn his head to the side. In a caricature of a kiss, John's lips push against his, part, and he breathes out a thin mist. It's thick, heavier than air on his tongue, sifting harsh down his throat, and blooming into both lungs as he takes his breath. His eyes close, shutting out John's watchful face and everything slows down to an easy drag. Slow and floaty, like being in a breathable ocean.
The rub of his clothes against him is… so strange. Like he's feeling things through a microscope, can discern each fiber and seam as he moves. He lifts a hand to John's cheek and that's even stranger. The heat of him, the softness of his skin against his fingers, the hundreds of needle points from his unshaved jaw, the way he can feel each tooth through his lips and the tickle of his breath when Nick pulls him back in and really kisses him. John makes a surprised noise and then relaxes into it, pushing up against Nick and letting him guide him where he wants. Soft and warm and so nice it's almost painful…
...and then it's fading away. Time lurches back up to speed, and he can move again without feeling like he's covered in syrup and razor blades. Nick breaks away from John slowly, licking his lips and finally able to notice the horrible taste coating his mouth from the chem.
"Jesus," he says with a slow exhale. "That is rank."
John kisses him again, making sure to blow a gross-smelling puff of air at him when he pulls back. Nick turns away and makes a joking 'bleh' sound. "Y'don't do it for the taste, Nicky. Works though, don't it."
It does. His mind is a pleasant calm, concerns having drained away along with the oversensitivity. Things feel easy. Like there's not really anything to worry about. He can't even properly worry about how good even a partial dose feels; just glazes it over and thinks about the bigger stuff again. They'll wake up in the morning, go home, things'll be good. The rescue went off fine, they got what they came for and no one got seriously hurt or killed. Luke's here. Nick's here. John's here with him. Everything else is background details.
And John… he couldn't have done most of this without him. Not as easily, in any event. Good kid.
"Thank you," Nick says, bringing his hand up to blindly pet down John's side.
John takes another quick huff and sticks the tube back in his pocket. Gets comfortable again and rubs his hip up against Nick's. "No problem, this stuff's pretty easy to get ahold of."
"No, not the jet, I mean coming along with me for this."
"Oh," John scoffs. "Yeah. Sure. I was a real big help."
"No, you really were," Nick says. John's got his hand laid over Nick's heart, and the even beat of it jumps against the kid's palm. "You told me who to talk to... you found Vy on your own... you saved both our asses when I ran out of ammo... and you helped me get those two out of there with no more muss than there had to be."
He smiles in the dark, tracking the faint, glimmering lights from outside playing on the ceiling.
"Even gave me some moral support on the way here. I get the heebie jeebies walking through this city alone." John snorts. "You shot the perp, sure, but I doubt we missed out on anything important." Nick yawns and slides his hand down around the shallow curve of John's waist. He could sleep now; probably all the way through till morning. That'd be nice. "Tell me your dumb psycho story, if you're still awake. If you want."
"Huh? The… oh." John laughs quietly before yawning himself and continuing in a voice slurred by fatigue. "It's actually a dumb psychobuff story. So uh, the thing was I'd never taken the stuff before; never even heard of it. So it was this brand ass new thing and this motherfucker I'd been cheating at cards with all day thought he'd give me a double dose of it without telling me what it did."
Nick groans.
"Yeah, exactly. I socked him in the jaw as soon as it hit me, not cuz I was pissed or anything, even though I shoulda been, but cuz that's what my mind decided I absolutely needed to do right then. And then I made my goddamn escape before I ended up assaulting security and getting thrown in lockup. I mean I felt like killing everything I looked at so I sprinted around Diamond City's outskirts for ten minutes until I could come up with a plan that didn't go like 'tear that guy's face off'. Wound up jumping in the river and sitting there till I cooled off. And when I came down and it was all over I was so fucking hungry."
Nick's at a loss. What the hell kind of people does John usually hang around? "You're right, that was… pretty dumb."
"You're tellin' me. So, what's the lesson there?" John hums to himself. "Don't let strangers give you drugs or you'll end up with river silt in your asscrack and a mad craving for canned dog food. If you're lucky."
And with that, John brushes one last sleepy kiss over Nick's cheek and rolls over. Nick expels a short grunt that's almost a laugh and closes his eyes again, back to back with John. He's not really sure what he was expecting or if John's 'lesson' was meant to be a poke at him, but that… was certainly something. Weird end to a weird day.
