The trip to Goodneighbour consisted mostly of 'laying-low', the little detour Nick proposed being certainly quicker, but safer? Nah.
When he nonchalantly stated that it was two blocks north-ish of Park Street Station, Don assumed it meant a little trek down the sidewalk, like going to the gas station for snack-cakes at 2am after accidentally staying up way past his bedtime. For the first minute or two it had been just that, the path was mostly clear of rubble, the ferns and undergrowth popped through the pavement in foot-high bundles that soaked morning dew into their pant legs. A thin veil of fog had been accumulating at their knees, creeping up the sides of the buildings around them. Morning was an hour, maybe two, away and Don was looking forward to some sunshine. He was cold, had been cold for a while now and was probably used to it by now, but he wanted a shower more than pain relief in that moment.
Down the first street, they had reached the corpse of a rusty pre-war bus that didn't quite make it's next pit stop, Don had taken a moment to try and make out the path ahead through the dark and the fog, only to see what he could only describe as 'wuh-oh'.
"Nick," He'd said, leaning against the old metal frame for support while remembering faintly how much he'd hated public transportation but had obviously taken it for granted in the deep past, "What am I looking at?"
The old bot, strained to a slower pace by the weight of the lady-luggage on his back, walked up beside him to observe what it was he had been referring to. Down the block a tall white building covered in old-world advertizing sat torn to shreds by the elements, most of its siding missing to reveal the rusted metal framework beneath, strangled by greenery and wide brimmed leaves. At its base, a large makeshift post appeared man-made and dangling the distinct silhouette of a tall narrow cage, around it, thick beams cut sharp stuck out of the ground like spikes made of girders.
Inside the cage, Don could swear a vaguely human-like shape sat with its legs dangling through the bars, his head lolled off to the side and his arms lying limp against the base.
In response, Nick simply went, "Occupants."
Don recalled him mentioning Raiders, Gunners, Ferals, and Super Mutants, not all necessarily in that order but he was familiar with at least two of the aforementioned fiends, neither had been pleasant experiences; in fact he had debilitating wounds from the first encounter, and nightmare fuel from the second. He didn't want to assume much, but ferals didn't really seem like they could handle welding equipment.
So, they made it past, quietly, and slowly. Hopefully whatever 'occupied' the area had a sleep schedule like everyone else.
When they made it to Goodneighbours front gate, it was about what he expected given the impression he got from Diamond City in terms of post-apocalyptic renovation, an adorable a-typical slice of life, what he wasn't expecting, however, was the guest waiting expectantly at the gate. At first Don couldn't believe it, because before now, he thought that all dogs had a certain limit to the amount of intelligence they could access.
But seeing the familiar German Sheppard sitting in their path without any foreknowledge of their location or intention made him dubious of that fact entirely.
"Dogmeat!" Don exclaims, opening his arms to receive the hound and his happy gallop, getting a face full of tongue and hot dog breath, "Hey, boy!"
"Friend of yours?" Nick steps around them to get a better look at the pooch, "He looks pretty well put together for a Commonwealth mutt."
"Oh, he's not a mutt!" Don coos, ruffling his hands through his thick furry collar, "He's a pretty boy, yes he is!"
Suddenly, the stark saturation of red catches Don's eye, interrupting the reunion and his relief. When he pulls both hands away to get a better look through the neon glare of Goodneighbours signage, he sees that both of his palms and fingers are smeared with blood. Not fresh, somewhat brown and drying, lumpy and coagulated.
Nick notices his hesitation, his gaze narrowing with concern, "Something wrong?"
Don shakes his head a little, a habitual response, but it's more out of denial than anything else. Instead of answering the detective, he begins to check the fur around Dogmeat's neck gently, "Hey boy, what's all this from? Are you hurt?"
In the low light, he determines that it's not soaked down to the skin, but hanging off the tips of his mane, smeared across his coat. He isn't bothered by the wandering hands at all, giving no indications that he's in any pain, instead looking off in a few different directions curiously as Don works.
So if it's not his blood, whose is it?
Suddenly Don runs his fingers against something angular, sharp, and he fishes out what feels like a piece of metal, but as it sits neatly in his hand, squared off, convex, and off-white, he realizes its bone. When he rubs his fingers together, it feels like it's covered in something viscous like mucous.
Dogmeat leans down to sniff at it with interest, before his ears go back and he whimpers urgently at Don with those big brown eyes wide and expectant. Don's stomach goes hot, and as he continues to run his fingers through his fur, he finds smaller pieces of bone, more coagulated blood coming off in coin-sized lumps, and he recognizes it as grey matter.
There's bone fragments and grey matter in his fur.
"Hey," Nick interrupts his moment of shocked silence, "Talk to me, what's going on?"
Don finally looks up at him, feeling pale and cold as he finds his feet and stands up, "Something's happened."
"What're you talking about?"
Don bounces his hand a little, gripping the bone fragments like a handful of change and smiles weakly at the detective, "I have to go."
Nick blinks at him, dubious and surprised, "Just hang on a minute there, you're in no shape to run off into the Commons by yourself."
"Ah, is anyone really prepared for the dangers of downtown?"
"Look pal, you're gonna get yourself killed-"
Don presses a hand to his chest as he begins to back way towards the road, "Look Nick, it's not you...It's me. I just need some space to figure things out. Please understand."
"Just wait a minute, jackass! Hey-!"
Nick calls after him, but Don turns on heel, gravel grinding under the sole of his boot, and he's off like a bullet into the dark.
Well, it didn't go as far south as he'd expected, more than certain it went about as well as anyone could possibly hope, seeing John again after so long, and having the old ghoul welcome him with open arms like nothing sour had ever gone on between them was like a breath of fresh air.
...metaphorically.
For a moment, Nick felt like he'd gone back in time a year and a half, dropped right back in the middle of the brighter portion of their relationship. Friendship that held that familiar uneasy uncertainty, anxiety and hesitation towards the lingering glances and more-than-friendly contact surfaced some spark of hope; sure as hell made him feel like he'd been twenty years younger back then. God, he'd really aged in the last eighteen months hadn't he?
It was a nice reminder that at one point in his life, things had been different, a good kind of different, a little unexpected, but the best kind of experiences generally are the ones you never plan for. More than anything, it reminded him that he held the capacity to be happy, despite himself and everything that came along with him.
For a while he'd been... somewhat relieved, in a bittersweet way that it had ended, because behind the flowers and the haze, he could feel some lingering sensation of the unavoidable fallout. To be with someone past a fling or casual hook-up brings new and terrifying ordeals to mind. Having someone look at you the way John looked at him, tends to make a synth feel exposed. Of course the topic of his past would come up, along with all the messy baggage, and of course he'd expect him to want to share the burden, because that's what you do in a relationship. What Nick wasn't expecting was how difficult it was. The hesitation and doubt came slamming into him so hard his retaliation was in no way fair for neither John nor Fahrenheit.
In his defense, at least, John is one stubborn Ghoul.
The fallout came, as inevitable as it had been from the get go, and Nick left feeling sore for the experience, unresolved and wary of ever letting it happen again.
Now though, after seeing John and gauging his own reaction and feelings on the matter, Nick is feeling suddenly hopeful once again. Not for the resolution to the conflict being a gateway into another play-through of where they left off, but for it to allow him to truly move on, for both of them to move on, and for Nick to have an opportunity to pick up the pieces where he dropped them.
Slowly and in relative silence, Nick descends the column staircase down one floor, back to where he'd left Darla waiting in the sitting room to his immediate left. Suddenly a sensation of guilt and unease settles into his gears, not as he thinks about John, but as he thinks about Fahrenheit.
It wasn't right of him to leave things off the way he did, especially with her. While it seemed pretty damn apparent that John was well on his way to total forgiveness, he's not too sure about Fahrenheit.
She's one tough dame, and real hard to read, but she looked practically fuming when he showed his mug on their doorstep. Being angry, now, he understands that, but past it, if she'd at all held onto the idea of Nick being in her world, he thinks it's a good possibility that she'll be hurting. He didn't want that for her, to hurt because of him, hell, because of both of them. She just got caught in the middle of their feud and that wasn't fair, not in the slightest.
He'd like a chance to reconcile once the drama of his current situation blows over, as it stands, now isn't the time to be trying to fix things between them. As much as he'd like to...
Back in the sitting room it's still quite dim, a few couches sit against the wall, a couple of makeshift curtains block the early morning sunlight from streaming in. Darla is lying on the couch closest to the door, mostly shrouded in the shadow of the room, but enough light from the stairway is streaming in to ignite the lower half of Nick's coat as sits it's draped over her. Suddenly he's reminded of the third member of his party, how he'd left without an explanation; how his face had gone pale at the sight of blood on the dog that'd greeted them at the gate.
Nick pauses, staring across the room, not at anything in particular, just lost in his own head.
Something about Don rubbed him the wrong way. It wasn't just the flippant humour and gregarious flirting, but something behind all that, something he's hiding. He rubs him wrong like she'd rubbed him wrong. Something about her, about the two of them spoke volumes, and he isn't entirely sure about what the contents of which would say other than they're certainly not from around here. Which begs the same question now has it had before.
Where the hell did they come from?
Nick turns back to Darla and kneels at her side; gently pulling back the collar to see her hidden face, for a moment she looks not unlike a teenager, all the harsh lines and emotion on her face have been totally erased by the ease of sleep and pain relief.
Before settling in, Nick managed to scoop a few chems off a Watchman in exchange for whatever caps he had on him. He hit Darla with a dose of Med-X, but she'd asked for a hit of Jet too. All things considered she probably wanted to disconnect for a while, if chems worked at all on Nick, he can't deny he'd also be a little tempted, but for the sake of her health, he didn't want to indulge her.
Nick presses the back of his hand to her cheek before tucking her back in, she's not as warm as she was on the way in, so good enough news on that front but she'll still need a doctor and probably a splint. She might not walk right again, but hopefully she'll be able to walk at all.
As the detective straightens back out and glances around the room for a place to sit himself down for the time being, the sudden distinctive sound of heavy footfalls stomp their way down the spiral stairway. Nick steps out into the hall just in time to watch a familiar and fiery red-head slam the northward door behind her, managing to make dust rain from the frame in the process.
It's not but a moment after, John Hancock descends the stairs himself with a lot less weight and a lot less speed, meeting Nick at the open doorway to the side room with a mix expression of exhaustion and concern, "Well," He sighs, "That went alright."
"She'll come around," Nick offers after a momentary silence. He feels guilty that it's John that has to take the brunt of her fury it behind closed doors, she's never been one for public outbursts.
Hancock agrees with a solemn nod and gives him a playful smirk, "I'm a lot more worried about what she might do to you."
Nick chuckles; Fahrenheit has always been particularly difficult, even against a team of two. Often times he pictures her a lot like a feral hound stalking its prey relentlessly, once she sets her mind on something, she gives it her all, teeth and everything.
"Anyway," Hancock pats him on the shoulder, "I'm going to send for Amari and Rufus, after that you're going to tell me what the hell you've been up to this entire time, got it?"
Nick shakes his head, amused and bewildered as he considers how the past two weeks alone have been for him, not to mention the Vault and everything that happened within hours of that vault dweller being delivered unconscious to his holding cell. However, he ultimately decides not to mention the feeling he got when a pair of amber brown eyes peered at him through a mask of dirt and grime, calling him by a name that he's sure is centuries dead. He doesn't want to think too much about it now.
After all, she may have appeared familiar, but he's certain he's never met her before in his life. He has the distinct feeling that he would remember the experience, even with his failing long-term memory. But still, he can help but search for the name 'Carolyn' in his data banks, his memory or what-have-you. The conclusion he came up with not too long ago, one that he's not too sure about committing to, is that she must have something to do with his memories of pre-war.
But hell, that would make her over two-hundred years old, wouldn't it?