It was during the tail end of May when Nick Valentine leaned his forehead against the steering wheel of his car and started to seriously consider cashing in a few of those vacation days the chief kept reminding him to use up. Hell, his boss would probably force him to take a few days off once he heard about the days' events…

Nick, Donny and the rest of the motley task-force working towards bringing down Eddie Winters' crime ring had finally gotten the green light to move in on one of the main businesses laundering money for them; a seedy gentleman's club in an even seedier part of the city. Why did it never occur to these types of thugs to open an ice cream parlor or a pet store? Just for the sake of originality, if nothing else.

Reports suggested that even during daylight hours there would likely be a contingent of mobsters standing guard over the place, so they'd all been issued bullet-proof vests and sent along with a small, but heavily armed SWAT team. In Nicks' experience; the more cops sent out on a single assignment, the greater the chance of everything going tits up … and today had unfortunately been no exception.

Half of the officers had gone to the back doors while Nick and Donny secured the front with the rest. The plan had been to synchronize their watches and then kick the doors in at precisely 2:15, hopefully catching the crooks by surprise and surrounding them before they could offer any resistance. It was 2:14 when Donny voiced his concerns.

"Nick, somethin' ain't right here"

The fact that he'd called him 'Nick' instead of the usual 'Nicky' had put him instantly on edge.

"We're standin' right at the front door. Notice anythin' missing?"

I'm not exactly a regular at places like this! Nick wanted to snap. "What's your point?" he asked shortly instead.

"Where's the bouncer?"

Shit.

Then everything went tits up.

He reached for the SWAT leader and called out to him at the same time, but it was too late. The armored squad was kicking in the door and throwing themselves forward into the dark of the club. Nick barely managed to shove Donny into the pavement before the blast came. He instinctively covered his face with his arms, expecting to be hit with shrapnel, debris or even pieces of the SWAT team, but nothing came. The detective replayed the sound of the explosion in his head as he opened his eyes and took in the sight of the intact doorway, confirming that it hadn't been a bomb, but it was still too damn loud to have been a gun.

It hadn't been a gun, it had been twelve guns … shotguns, to be specific. The same kind they had back at the station in the event that their police-issue revolvers proved inadequate to break up a bank robbery. Arranged in a neat line along the clubs' center stage, and rigged to all fire at once if the sensors attached to the doors were tripped.

It probably would've been easier to deal with if those guns had been aimed at the advancing police officers, injury or death in the field of duty was expected after all.

Those poor girls though … they had nothing to do with any of it.

The clubs female staff had been gagged and chained up in a row along the stage, the stationary shotguns pointing straight at their chests. None of the twelve girls had survived … at that range they never stood a chance.

The rest of the place was deserted, the cash registers and safe had been emptied, the business ledgers gone, even the liquor had been removed from the bar. As if that wasn't enough every square inch of the typically filthy establishment had been deep cleaned and polished to a taunting shine, the smell of bleach still lingered faintly in the air. They'd get no evidence here.

Nevertheless, there were still procedures to follow … The forensics unit was radioed in anyway, as were the coroners. A few of the department higher-ups filtered in to witness the fiasco for themselves and administer chewing-outs to everyone involved, the only reason the chief wasn't there in person was that he'd been called away by the mayors office earlier that morning for a strictly closed-door meeting.

To stay busy, and to stop himself from dwelling on what he could have done differently, Nick took a camera from one of the crime scene technicians and helped out by photographing each girl before they ended up bagged, tagged and stuffed in a cold metal drawer down at the morgue.

It was when he got to Jane Doe #8 that Nick hesitated ... then handed the camera back to it's owner and walked briskly out of the club, slowing only to duck beneath crime scene tape and bark "No comment" at the gaggle of reporters now swarming the footpath outside.

Now Nick was at a crossroads, literally as well as figuratively, the traffic was always deplorable at this hour.

He could turn right, go back to his apartment, crawl into the bottom of a bottle and hopefully fall into a nice dreamless sleep until tomorrow morning. Then wake up and deal with today's bullshit all over again, but with a debilitating hangover. It had proven to be an effective treatment for his occasional bouts of melancholy in the past.

Or he could turn left, go to an apartment more welcoming than his own, bury his face in Nora's fragrant hair, kiss her senseless and pour his guts out to her over a shared bottle of whatever hooch she had on standby. She'd been encouraging him lately to share his burdens with her as his assignments steadily grew more taxing, but he'd so far declined her generous offer, it felt selfish to unload his woes onto someone else just to make himself feel a little better, especially her.

Jane Doe #8 though… for a brief and utterly insane moment he could've sworn it was Nora.

He'd had to blink vigorously for his vision to correct itself, to confirm that the girl merely had a similar hairstyle and the same delicate nose … but that split-second hallucination still haunted him hours after the fact.

Nick was then brought rudely out of his fugue by the impatient blasting of a car horn from behind his own vehicle. The traffic had started to move, barely though, so in a fit of pique he stuck his arm out of the window and flipped off the offending motorist. He then mentally plotted his course for when he was finally free of this damn intersection.

Back in the days when she'd had slightly more free time than she found herself blessed with now Nora would often unwind with tales of mystery, murder and the dashing detectives trying to solve them. Now she frowned down at her ancient and battered copy of The Long Goodbye, unable to lose herself in the familiar plot because her brain kept distracting her with fanciful images of another tall, dark and handsome investigator … one with the distinct advantage of being flesh and blood, unlike Philip Marlowe.

She sighed and dropped the novel onto the coffee table in front of her. Another book that she'd never be able to read again without comparing the protagonist to the man she was currently dating. Curse you, Nick Valentine! You beautiful son-of-a-bitch, she thought wryly.

The comfort of the sofa was abandoned briefly while she got herself a Nuka-Cola from the refrigerator, turning on the television as she re-entered the living area. She thought about getting a glass and mixing the drink with a dash of rum, but she'd promised herself that she was going to stop using liquor to wind down in the evenings. So she drank straight from the bottle and let the hypnotic glow of the idiot-box overtake her.

That had been the plan, but her mind had found a thread to pursue and wasn't going to let it go easily. Nora mulled over all she'd pieced together about her charming lover in the recent months…

He'd been raised in a poor and densely populated suburb of Chicago by his Italian immigrant mother … his father had been a large, conspicuous question mark that haunted Nick throughout his childhood. Any attempt made to discover anything about the man who sired him only resulted in more questions and arguments with his mom. He'd never said it outright, but Nora got the distinct impression that this ever-present mystery was one of the main reasons he became a detective.

As a boy Nick had preferred the company of books and the occasional superhero comic. Being studious, somewhat foreign and fatherless had earned him the label of 'punching bag' rather than 'playmate' in the eyes of the neighborhood children. Then again... it might have also been the fact that young Nick Valentine was, in his own words; "an insufferable smart-alec", who more often than not came home with bruises or a bloodied nose because he couldn't resist taking the mickey out of the dumber bullies.

Nicks teenage years had been dedicated to helping his mom build and operate a business out of their home ... job opportunities for heavily-accented single mothers were virtually non-existent, after all. Oddly, he'd refused to elaborate on the type of enterprise it was, simply chuckling and assuring Nora that she'd never believe him if he told her … she wondered if it was even legal. Wouldn't that be ironic?

Nora's musings were interrupted by a knocking at the front door. She let out an annoyed huff, stomped to her feet and started rehearsing a suitably sarcastic greeting in her head for the bastard who thought they could sell her something at- she glanced at her watch -six-thirty in the damn evening!

The snarky comment was abandoned, however, when she opened the door and found herself face-to-face with the man she'd just been daydreaming about.

"Nick? Did we have plans?" she asked, an alarm bell ringing distantly in her subconscious. He'd never just shown up at her apartment before.

"Nah, nothing like that" he replied, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. "Call me a sap, but I just really wanted to see you"

Nora felt her face flush and her heart turn to goo, at both the sentiment and warm look he was giving her. How could she say no to that? She side-stepped and ushered him inside. Once the door was closed he held up a bag with a familiar logo printed across it's front and she flushed even redder, this time from embarrassment.

He'd brought Chinese food. Because she never seemed to have any proper food on hand when he was over. One of her many foibles that he loved to tease her about, but still insisted was 'part of her charm'.

"You bring me the sweetest gifts" Nora joked, although in truth she greatly preferred the gift of not having to cook rather than flowers any day of the week.

"Just making sure my gal doesn't starve to death while she's saving the world, one plea bargain at a time" He deposited the bag on the coffee table with a fond smile, the one that never failed to make her stomach flutter.

As Nora darted about her modest kitchen fetching cutlery, glasses and the bottle of rum she'd so far avoided she watched Nick out of the corner of her eye as he left his fedora on a hook in the entryway, then shrugged out of his trench coat, then she had to double-take as he was hanging it up.

"Whoa, wait a minute. What's that?" It was a rhetorical question, Nora knew exactly what it was. She'd just hoped she'd never have to see Nick wear one. It was only now that she realized just how tired he looked in the soft light of her home.

Nick looked down at the bullet-proof vest encasing his torso with a grim twist of his lips before starting on its troublesome fastenings.

"It's the latest fashion down at the station, got 'em on loan from Fallon's as part of a daring new exposure campaign. Technically they're not supposed to go home with the model, but it was so cozy I just couldn't resist" he punctuated the last word with a sharp tug and a rush of air from his lungs, finally undoing the cumbersome armor and slipping it over his head. There was an impressive thud as it hit the floor.

"Nick … what happened?" She almost didn't want to hear the answer. If he was dancing around the issue with jokes, something he never did when it came to his job, then it must be absolutely horrible.

It was only for the tiniest fraction of a second; Nick winced, a look of utter exhaustion and something akin to despair coloring his visage. There and gone so quickly that anyone else watching might have missed it. But Nora caught it, how could she possibly miss it when it was her Valentine trying to cover it up?

She was across the room in three strides, wrapping her arms around him tightly and pressing a kiss to his throat. It was only when he relaxed into her embrace and dropped his lips to the crown of her head that Nora could feel exactly how tense he'd been up until that point.

By the time Nick had finished relaying the day's tragic events the dinner he'd brought over had gone lukewarm. Fortunately they were both hungry enough that the temperature of the food didn't matter much to their stomachs.

He hadn't expected to feel like he did right now. It wasn't the first time he'd opened up about a traumatic day at work, the precinct had a shrink on speed-dial solely for those days. But it was the first time he'd actually felt better afterwards, instead of merely relieved that he'd gotten a bothersome chore out of the way.

Nick couldn't figure out if it was because he'd gone to share his feelings willingly for once, or if it was because he found Nora's presence so wondrously cathartic. He suspected it was likely the latter … he'd felt the weight of the incident drain right out of his body when she'd put her arms around him, and he hadn't said a single word yet.

His brain suddenly supplied a random memory of a biology lesson in high school where they'd been taught about pheromones in animals; something to do with giving off chemicals that attract and calm the opposite sex? He idly wondered if humans had a similar mechanism … it would certainly explain why Nora always seemed to smell so damn good even though she insisted that she never wore perfume.

Nick glanced down at the object of his affection; leaning against his body rather than the backrest of the sofa. Her head pillowed against his shoulder and a thumb tracing tiny circles against his knee, absorbed by the black-and-white of the evening news flickering from the television. He took advantage of her inattention and pressed his nose to the top of her head, indulging himself with a slow inhale and noting something far sweeter than the florals of her shampoo.

"You didn't tell me that" Nora said suddenly, turning her head to lock her eyes with his. If she was bothered by his borderline perverted behavior she didn't say anything, maybe she hadn't noticed?

"Tell you what?" he asked.

"That the shotguns were the same as the ones you guys use" She gestured to the television, which was now displaying a grainy image of the formerly absent police chief, answering questions from behind a podium baring the sigil of the Boston Police Department.

"They weren't police-issue" Nick clarified. "They were just..."

He trailed off as his brain suddenly provided a more recent memory; passing along the row of shotguns as he photographed each girl. They'd all had their manufacturing numbers removed, as was standard practice when a weapon ended up in the hands of a criminal … but police equipment always came with extra digits.

Nick startled the woman pressed against him by suddenly pulling her across his lap and plundering her mouth until he had no choice but to let her come up for air, giving her a wide and excited smile as he announced;

"I have to go, I need to check something"

Then he was off and practically jogging down the stairs leading out of the apartment block, trying to pull his coat on while juggling his hat and the damn bullet-proof vest he'd forgotten to return. Leaving a bewildered Nora sprawled gracelessly across the sofa.

It was hours after Nick had dashed from her apartment in a tizzy when Nora was awoken by another knocking at her door. She blinked the heavy veil of sleep from her eyes, glanced at the alarm clock on her bedside table and felt blind, indignant rage lance through her as she threw the blankets aside. It was one-thirty in goddamn morning, if the building wasn't on fucking fire someone was going to die!

Her murderous fantasies were abandoned, however, when she opened the door and found herself face-to-face with Nick Valentine once again, looking far too happy for someone awake at this unholy hour.

Then the memory of their last few minutes together that evening then came bubbling to the surface of Nora's sleep-addled brain and she found herself returning his infectious grin.

"They were police-issue, weren't they?" she asked, though the answer was already displayed brighter than a marquee across his face.

She nearly jumped out of her skin when Nick suddenly threw himself forward and wrapped a pair of roaming hands around her, dipping just below the hem of her favorite nightgown and traveling up again to expose the skin of her hips. His lips met the skin under her ear … her neck … her collarbone … leaving a burning trail in their wake that had Nora biting back a moan.

The door was closed with a slam and a line of clothes steadily formed behind them as they eventually found their way back to the bed Nora had been so reluctant to vacate a little while ago.

Nora's last coherent thought before he eased himself into the slick heat between her thighs, causing the world to melt away around her, was that maybe she should quit her job and go study for a detective's license instead … if this was the outcome of assisting Nick with his cases.

Author's Note: I probably would have had this chapter out a few days earlier but I've been battling a horrid chest infection, I figured that since I was on bed rest it'd be a great opportunity to crank out some more of the story, but the medicine I was taking for my fever turned out to be stronger than I expected. Please forgive me?

Fun Fact: When coming up with Nick's biography I based it loosely around the story of my own grandmother immigrating to Australia. She grew up in Post-WW2 Berlin, which was exactly as horrible as you can probably imagine. The day she turned 18 she went to the docks and jumped on the first ship leaving Germany, didn't even care where it was going. She ended up in Australia, taught herself English, got married, gave birth to my father, got divorced, started a home-business and then proceeded to raise her son alone during an era when both immigrants and single mothers were treated worse than dirt. It's a great story, in my humble opinion, and I couldn't resist tailoring it to fit into this fic.

Keep those reviews coming! They make me feel all warm and fuzzy inside.