He watches as she sits with her knees pressed to her chest in the corner the balcony's railing creates, her half-lit cigarette dangling from her fingers, the question burdening her soul trying to claw its way out through her eyes. Yet, she persists in her denial of it. Instead, she asks after the details of this now solved case of his, curiosity for this overriding anything else in her features.
So, he tells her. He lets her avoid the question that will expose them both because things like this are his weakness, the chink in his armor. Send him into battle, put him in the middle of a shootout, give him a case to work, he'll go off and do what he has to, without hesitation. But this?
In this, he is a coward.
So he settles his rusty limbs next to her—leaving enough space between them to be proper—and he talks. He gives her every sordid detail of the case—one of the many of its kind that he deals with, a runaway husband—explains how he tracked the man, how the woman he was sleeping with had been the one to give him up, once Nick told her of the man's family. How he'd practically dragged the man back to Diamond City by his ear, handing him over to his wife and three children like the fleshy bag of garbage he was.
He finishes his tale, then looks to her, watching her with a tiny amused smile as she tries to relight the cigarette that's long gone out, guttered against the wind and died, thanks to her inattention. He reaches for his own lighter, shielding it from the wind with his still whole hand and sparking the flint with his right, holding it out for her.
She blinks at the gesture, as though it surprises her, but leans forward and accepts the flame he offers her all the same. "Thanks," she says, around the filter of her cigarette, then plucks it from betwixt her lips after a soft draw—blowing the resulting puff of smoke off to the side, away from him, apparently thinking it would somehow bother him.
A pregnant pause ensues, in which he lights his own cigarette, then closes his zippo and pockets it; resting his elbows on his uplifted knees and allowing the brim of his hat to shield his eyes from the setting sun, as he stares a hole in the wood decking of what's soon to be her balcony.
Slowly, he becomes aware of something she's doing with her hands—holding them out from her body, past her resting elbows, taut, purposely shaking them as if... as if she's signing that she's nervous. She stops abruptly, looking like she's almost forcing herself to, hands clenching into fists and relaxing. She takes a deep drag from her cigarette in what may very well be a bid to distract herself. When he focuses on her ocean blues, they're still resting their sight on her hands, until she notices where his attention now lies.
"What?" she asks, not-quite-indignant tone tempered by the actual curiosity shining in her eyes.
He tilts his head, gives her a thoughtful look that ends with his focusing on her hands again, nodding toward them, before peering back at her eyes. He transfers his cigarette to his left hand, then lifts his right fingertips to his temple, brushing down from it to sign a 'y', then points at her and repeats her nervous gesture, completing a 'why are you nervous?' sign.
Her eyes widen, jaw dropping slightly as she gapes at him.
He smiles kindly, taking another drag from his smoke and leaning against the railing behind him while he waits for her to gather herself back together.
She turns, staring ahead and drawing another hefty cloud of smoke from her cigarette, a tightly contained cough escaping her this time; her lungs not putting up with her crap any longer. After she slowly exhales—off to the side, again, despite him smoking right beside her—she turns her head in the direction of his hands, now resting back where they were, before he'd signed to her. Her eyes slowly rove over them both, like this is the first time she's really had a chance to look at them properly; which, for all he knows, actually is the case. After a while, just before he gives into the impulse to pocket hands that must seem alien to her, other, she looks away, apparently satisfied with her study.
Finally, her voice pierces the silence of the long moment, "Because I'm not sure I want to know the truth."
He hums thoughtfully at her answer, nodding. "Understandable, in your case. Though I have to say, I wasn't foolin' when I said it wasn't a complete memory—not entirely, anyhow." Ah hell, may as well just tell her and get it over with. "I remember knowing you, I remember... things about you, but not everything. What I do remember might not even tell you anything you need or want to know."
She shrugs inelegantly, a lax gesture that somehow suits her, as she is now. "It doesn't really matter, does it? As it sits, I'm a blank slate. I can write whatever I wish to, on that slate." She points her cigarette at him fleetingly. "Until you begin to write my real history on it."
He shakes his head. "Do you really want to know, then? Who you are now... I've seen the good you do, Shana. The people in Goodneighbor respect you, enough to welcome you with open arms. That's no small feat with this lot. They might seem like chem-addled low-lives; hell, a lot of them are, but they're all slow to trust and rightfully so." He indicates her with a pointed finger, briefly. "And yet, they trust you."
Shana nods, sure of herself. "I want to know. If what you remember can somehow trigger a memory, or... anything, really... if I could remember my son," she pauses, taking the last drag of her cigarette and snuffing it out on the iron railing, "it would be worth it." She looks at him, eyes searching his. "How much can I have truly changed? The personality I have now is what came about all on its own, Nick. Was I really so different, before?"
He gazes right back at her, lips gently pursed in thought. He draws in a breath, sighing it out steadily. "Alright. As long as you're sure. I'll talk to Amari about using a pair of loungers for an hour or so." He rubs what's left of the skin on his jawline, a human gesture left over from the old Nick. "Tomorrow, though. We've all been through enough for today."
She nods, almost absently, gaze cast out through the bars of the railing, the setting sun speckling amber glints of light onto her eyes like a dusting of gold in the sea of her irises. "Yeah, we have, at that." She wraps her arms around her legs, hugging them tightly to her chest, chin resting on one knee. She stays like that for a long moment, watching some invisible place in the distance. Abruptly, she lifts her head, turning to him with that slight crease between her brows that makes him want to reach out and smoother it from existence. "How did we get from Hagen to Goodneighbor, Nick? Wouldn't Sanctuary or... hell, Diamond City have been closer?"
He clears his throat gently, a slow nod answering her secondary questions. "Yeah I thought it was a little odd too, but John insisted after I assured him there was nothing else we could do to stabilize ya. Something about trusting Doc Amari over Doc Sun. Not really sure why, I've never had any issue with Doctor Sun—other than his bedside manner... or lack thereof, I should say. Anyway, he also cited you sayin' this was home to ya, so I found myself out-voted. Seein' as I don't exactly get tired, it didn't really matter how far I had to carry ya, so I—"
"What?!" she interrupts him, eyes wide with obvious panic. "You... you carried me?"
He offers up a slightly confounded smirk at her shock. "Well yeah, how'd you expect ya got here?" he reasons, hoping to calm her with his even tone. "John couldn't carry you all that way, though he tried. Made it as far as the Mass Pike Interchange before his arms started to shake too much to keep ya. Complained pretty bitterly that he didn't have any buffout on him to finish the haul." He snorts and shakes his head, making his disapproval clear. "Anyway, I took over after that. It's fortunate you've been clearing the way so steadily over the past month or so, really. We didn't have any trouble getting here, other than a few bloat flies and a small feral pack along the way."
He watches with a slight smile as a peachy blush colors her creamy complexion, seeing the way her throat flexes gently as she clears it nervously. "Well, thank you for bringing me home, Nick." Her voice is thick as she says it. "It's nice to know you... you guys have my back."
He shrugs, an easy smile forming along with it as he stubs his own smoke out. "You've got ours too, doll. It's a two-way street here."
She nods softly, her blush slowly fading as a crooked smile splays itself onto her lips. "Yeah, I guess you're right." She gestures toward the glass door that leads to the apartment interior. "I don't..." She huffs a small, almost pained laugh. "I don't really know what to do with this place. It's too much space. My stuff would take up that little corner room in there, if that." She shrugs, resting her cheek on one knee as she sweeps her view over the interior space. "Probably see about turning that into a bathroom, though."
He arches a brow at the sudden change in topic, but follows the direction of her gaze into the building, straightening one leg before him and sighing softly as he nods his agreement. "Seems like a good use of the space. Maybe..." he tilts his head, eying the small apartment with a critical look. "Could put a desk there," he points to the far wall, gesturing to more locations as he goes along, "maybe a little cooking area to the right, against the other window. A small workbench for your guns and armor probably wouldn't be amiss, if you could find one compact enough. Maybe a little bubbler by the elevator door." He shrugs, turning back to her with a smirk before he sees her expression.
She's outright staring at him; something like appreciative wonder in her eyes. "That... that's actually perfect, Nick. Christ, why haven't you leased the place? You've got much better ideas for this than I do." She chuckles, finally releasing him from her fixed attention and letting it roam over the apartment once more, though she seems much more excited by the entire prospect, now.
He hastily stands when she reaches for the railing, offering a hand up before she can get a good grip. She blinks at his somewhat jumpy offer, then smiles and slips her left hand into what he suddenly realizes is his right he's proffered, without thinking. He curls his fingers as gently as he can, cupping hers as he helps pull her up. She winces as she comes to a stand, though her left hand stays where it is, waylaying his concerns that he'd been the one to hurt her. Her right hand goes to her still-healing injury, prodding it gently, testing the area with searching fingertips.
"I think Doctor Amari might've been understating my recovery time a bit." She smirks at him a tad ruefully, still not removing her hand from his now more naturally lowered one. She tips her head to indicate the door, leading them toward it with a few steps that he finds himself following almost automatically.
"Could always get you a room at the Rexford for tonight, turn in early and let you rest?" he offers a voice of reason, as he passes through the door behind her.
She chuckles and tosses a smirk at him over her shoulder as she turns to look at him. "I've already got one there. Paid up a week ahead of time with Clair, before I left. I'll talk to the good Doctor before we go to meet John, but I think a night of celebration is due. I'll just go easy on the hooch."
He eyes her carefully. "Have you partied with John before?"
She arches a brow at him, shaking her head once just before she answers, "No. Why, are you going to tell me goin' easy on the hooch'll be impossible?"
He grimaces, a slight nod following. "Yeah, he's what you might call a bad influence, especially once he gets into his cups. He'll be doing his best to make sure everyone has what he sees as 'a good time', especially you."
She narrows her eyes at him, a hint of a smirk pulling at the left corner of her mouth. "That so? And what makes you think he'd pick me out of the crowd, Detective?"
He blinks, tilting his head curiously at the way she's addressing him. Almost as if... "You mean to tell me you don't know how he feels about you, doll? I would've thought that'd be clear, by now."
Her expression falls from lightly teasing, to something like regret. "Yeah, I know." She sighs deeply, shakes her head and looks away. "I did my best to let him down easy. He acts like he's fine with it. I hope he really is."
He frowns in confusion. "Let him... you turned him down?"
She nods, looking at him like the answer's so obvious he should've already known. "Yeah, of course. I mean..." she heaves another sigh, shaking her head a few times. "It's not that he wouldn't be my type, but..."
He waits to see if she'll finish her sentence, but when she doesn't, he fills in the blanks as best he knows how. "No, I... I understand. Makes sense you wouldn't be willing to get tangled up in something like that, with everything else that's goin' on in your life."
She shakes her head again, looking at him with reticent patience in her mien. "It's not that, Nick. Though, I can see where you're comin' from with that, all too easily." He feels light pressure from her hand in his; like she's squeezing his metal digits for a moment. "There's ah... well..." Her cheeks get that peachy dusting of a blush all over again, as she looks away abashedly. "There's someone else," she blurts, turning her eyes back up to his like a startled doe—as if she'd surprised herself with the admission. Maybe she had.
It certainly doesn't surprise him much. A dame like her'd have plenty of admirers to choose from, no doubt. He can't help but feel just a tiny bit sad for John, though. It's beyond obvious the man has it bad. "Well, that's too bad for John, then. And good for whoever managed to catch your eye." He nods, adding a little smile to the mix. "I'd say he's a lucky man." He slowly lets her hand drop, realizing that despite her tacitly allowing the touch, he should've broken it himself, long ago.
He does watch, though, as her expression slowly turns from one of simple surprise to one full of doubt, like a flower losing its sunlight and shrinking in the shade. "I... yeah, maybe he would be."
He frowns, cocking his head curiously at her response. "Maybe? Why wouldn't he be?"
She shrugs, shaking her head and hugging herself gently. "I... it doesn't matter. He'll figure it out, eventually. I hope." She scowls at the floor for a few seconds, then seems to shake herself and straightens, plastering a smile on her lips that doesn't reach her eyes. "Anyway, I'm gonna go see Doctor Amari. Feel free to come along, or go do your own thing." She waves him off, keeping up with that not-quite-there-smile as she turns and aims herself at the elevator.
He follows her, though he watches her like a hawk as she enters the small space before him, keeping an eye on her as he enters. He turns and looks ahead at the closing doors as he inquires, "What's wrong, doll? Was it something I said?"
That yanks her attention straight to his face, where it remains for a long moment, his eyes holding her own as he looks to her. After a time, she abruptly rips her gaze away, frowning and planting her focus on the doors. She hasn't picked a floor yet. Instead, she stands there, clenching and unclenching her small fists. Finally, she reaches out and selects the lobby.
Halfway to the ground, she presses the emergency stop button and turns to him, though her eyes are still lowered as she speaks, "He wouldn't be, because I don't think he knows that I..." She looks up at him now, then somewhere over his left shoulder. "I don't think he knows I'm sweet on him. It's... a strange case, really." She bites her lip distractedly, shaking her head once. "There's no reason he'd even know, honestly." She glances at his features, gaze flitting over his various whole and ruined parts alike, before falling utterly from him to the floor. "Just a feeling left over from a memory I can't place."
She snorts, a self-deprecating smile tugging its way onto her rose petal lips. "Don't mind me, Nick. My head's a box of rocks right now. Talkin' about this will get me nowhere but blues town, in the end."
"Hey now, none of that." He brings his left hand up, resting the edge of his forefinger under her chin and gently lifting until she looks back up at him. "I'd never say, or even think that about you, so don't you go sayin' things like that about yourself. If your boy hasn't figured out you're interested, then that's his problem, not yours. Got it?" He waits until she slowly nods against his finger, though her eyes convey none of the agreement her head indicates. "You've got nothin to worry about. He'll come around, I promise ya. Maybe he just needs to hear the truth from you."
At this, she lifts her chin out of his grasp, breaking eye contact and slapping the lobby button again, her cheeks blazing a deep peach color. She shakes her head sharply, pursing her lips, then licking them; her response breathy, soft, "It's not that simple, Nick."
He weights his head to the side, confusion evident in the pinching of his brow. "Well, sure it is. Some guys are just a little oblivious, that's all. Give 'em enough of a hint, they'll get the rest of the picture, soon enough."
She looks up at him like he'd burned her somehow, like the words he'd spoken were brands instead of the simple phrases of encouragement he'd meant them as.
The elevator dings for the lobby. She escapes before the doors are even finished sliding open. He stares after her for a moment, then shakes himself out of his stupor and follows her. What's this dame's game? He hadn't meant anything by what he said. He'd just been tryin' to help her out a bit—is that so wrong?
Pursuing her into the Memory Den yields the sight of her blue suit disappearing down the stairs. Irma pins him with a concerned stare that he does his best to ignore, doffing his hat hurriedly as he passes her to chase after Shana, his concern welling high in his mind. By the time his feet hit the bottom landing, she's already beginning a conversation with the Doc. He skids to a halt before either of them catch sight of him, opting to listen in for a few seconds before he makes himself known. It's underhanded, but he needs a better clue about what's going on here.
The conversation turns out to be utterly innocuous. She mentions the twinge of pain she'd felt, the Doc assures her it's normal, that it's just her body adjusting to the new scar tissue, that it'd settle in a week or so.
Nothing out of the ordinary.
Then why did she run?
If she hadn't meant to have a private conversation with Amari, what was the point of her disappearing act?
Well. Now he feels like a heel for listening in and suspecting something shady on her end. Fantastic.
Huffing a quietly disappointed sigh, he turns and makes his way up the stairs, doing his best to avoid the squeaky ones.
Observing things from a distance has always been his style.
The ghoulish Mayor of Goodneighbor? An occasional, subtle nod of respect and at least five feet of distance at all times.
The Synth Detective, Nick Valentine, well known across the Commonwealth as pretty much the only out-of-the-closet (As it were.) synth in existence? An intermittent collaboration or two, maybe a message here and there for one of his clients who also happened to be a synth or an actual agent. Also, at least five feet of distance; though, for a ...different set of reasons.
Brotherhood of Steel? A cubic mile of distance, if at all possible.
This General, though? Her, he's curious about. Enough to keep a close watch on her. Maybe even enough to bend his rule of keeping a distance and close in once in awhile, just to find out what he might hear, first-hand.
After all, she's been making so many waves in the Commonwealth lately, it's not like he could ignore her, even if he wanted to.
Which he doesn't.
And he's been listening, very carefully.
Settlements, popping up all over the place, well defended and well supplied; a calculated risk every time a new one is established, but one she takes repeatedly and consistently makes good on. Hundreds of people have homes now that are well-fortified and self-sufficient, thanks to her and her friends.
Speaking of which... The Minutemen are becoming a force to be reckoned with, a force for good that now has frequent patrols all over the ruins of good old Boston. There's even talk they may be retaking the Castle soon, of all things. He knows for a fact there's a mirelurk queen and her entire brood nesting there, but he thinks if anyone could do it, she could.
Even the little man isn't below her notice. Becoming the Silver Shroud and taking out an entire gang of bully raiders had been a stroke of genius that did nothing but bolster her legend amongst the people. Saving the ghoul that got her to do it in the first place had earned her more than a few fans.
Not to mention, there's the massive swath of blood and chaos she cuts through the Boston ruins on a regular basis, keeping regular trade routes clear of threats and allowing scavvers and traders alike safe passage through the wreckage.
Then to top it all off, she's gone and outdone herself.
Kellogg's dead.
He confirmed it himself.
Had to, for his report back to the boss. Used up a few stealth boys making sure he didn't get hit in that place as he followed the General's trail of destruction on in. Not that he didn't trust her abilities, or those of her stalwart companions, mind. But she seemed rather... single-minded during the whole ordeal, which did nothing to put him at ease that she'd cleared the entire place, as she usually does.
Fully cleared or not, there, in the room mostly full of busted terminals, lay the body of the Railroad's most wanted. Upon closer examination, it was obvious someone had tinkered with the implants he'd once had hooked into his head and various other body parts, the claret trailing lazily away from where cybernetics were once spliced into a man who really wasn't very human at all, anymore.
More plasma formed a puddle nearby, almost directly in front of where Kellogg must've stood, just before he keeled over. Seems either the Mayor or the General had been injured.
He'd look into that later. Wasn't enough blood to really start worrying.
Turned out, it had been the General's wound, one her suit had been burnt through on both sides to evidence. Yikes. That one actually warranted a lifted brow when he saw it. He can't see for sure from this distance, but it's got to be one hell of an impressive scar. It's a bit surprising she's up and walking about, already. Must be on some good drugs. Or she's just that damned tough.
Shit, he'd be milking that for all it was worth.
Come to think of it, he has, before.
Good times. Many Fancy Lads snack cakes were had that week.
More than worth the disgruntled looks Des leveled at him for a month after.
Regardless, he watches, as the old synth follows her into the Memory Den, seeming rather concerned for their heroine. Had she disrupted the healing process by ignoring the good Doctor's commands and not going easy on life for a few days?
He waits for a few minutes, watching the red double doors in his periphery. All too soon, the synth dick reappears, his features troubled, immediately pulling out a smoke and parking himself by the door as he lights it.
Interesting.
He hadn't been in there long enough to do much of anything, really, so why was he already back up here and stress smoking?
Deacon crosses his arms, settling in for a bit of a long stakeout.
He'll get answers, one way or another.