He has to keep busy.

It's a struggle because, despite the sheer number of cases that are always piling up at the office, there are none currently available which fire up his investigative curiosities quite so much as hers.

He should be working her case. He should be right next to her, going at it from every angle, trying to pry Shaun from the Institute's grasp for his aunt.

The aunt, as it turns out, whom he knows, all too well.

The aunt who kisse—

No.

No, he can't think about that.

He thumbs the space on his still whole finger where the other Nick—the human Nick—once wore a wedding band.

It's an old habit, one he's yet to weed out of his system, just like the smoking. He'll work on it, one day. Just not today.

Standing in silent wait for the woman he's tailing to exit the building, he lets the pad of his thumb—worn smooth with use, long past its expiration date—rub over the empty space on his finger.

He wonders if his ring survived on the surface.

More likely it was pilfered by scavvers, years ago. It's probably lost to time and greed, now.

A soft whimper distracts him from his musing and he aims before he even looks at its source, only to find a familiar face in his sights.

He chuckles softly, lowering his pistol immediately. "You've gotta give a fella a little more warning than that, Dogmeat. I coulda shot ya just now, and wouldn't that be a pickle to explain to your new friend?"

He grimaces slightly at her mention and sighs, returning his attention to the door he's been watching for the past twenty minutes. "What are you even doin' out here? She'd have a fit if she knew you were this far from home."

Dogmeat crosses over and sits at Nick's left side, nudging his head under the old synth's hand.

Nick snorts and gently scratches the dog's head, wondering at Dogmeat's tracking him all the way out here. It doesn't make any sense, really, but he's never been one to shirk canine companionship. They'll keep each other safe, for now.

He sighs, planting himself against the wall behind him, and waits,

"You're gonna miss."

I crane my neck to look back at the speaker with a doubtful expression. "Why do you think that, exactly?"

Mac pops his finger into his mouth, sucking on it to wet it, then holds it up, squinting one eye as he stares vacantly up at the sky for a few seconds. He dips his head and lowers his finger, looking back down to me. "Got a decent east wind, and you're not compensating."

Charon, standing behind my prone form, corrects, "She is."

Mac frowns, turning to Charon. "No, she's not." He crosses his arms. "Who's teachin' her here, anyway? Thought I was s'posed to teach her sniping."

"Your methods are inefficient," Charon replies, "the target will die of old age before she learns to hit it, under your tutelage."

"What?! No, they won't, I'm not—"

"Mac! Don't argue with the two-hundred-year-old soldier." I turn, catching sight of Charon behind me. "Charon, go easy on Mac. He's self-taught, his methods are a little..." I wobble my head indecisively, before concluding, "wonky. But they work."

They both start in on me, now. "'Wonky'?! How dare you?" "That is an understatement. He's—" Blah, blah, blah. I sigh, doing my best to tune them out. Turning, I take aim, compensate as best I can for the wind I feel on my face, and squeeze the trigger. I just catch the resulting splatter of blood and gray bits against the wall behind the target, before I lower Mac's rifle, clearing the chamber and looking back at my two—now silent—trainers.

Mac's peering through his binoculars, lips pressed into an impressed line.

Charon nods. "An adequate shot." I've learned the hard way that this is high praise, coming from him.

Mac dips his head in agreement, lowering the 'nocs. "Yeah, not bad at all. A little off-center, but still solid."

I shrug and stand, handing him his rifle. "Wasn't trying to be perfect. Just wanted a kill shot. She's dead. Mission accomplished."

It's just as Mac's taken his gun and slung the strap over his shoulder than I look beyond him to spot Dogmeat... dragging something? Or no... he's tugging it.

Like he tugs an enemy to the ground.

My 10mm is in my hand within seconds, Charon's shotgun shouldered almost as quickly, Mac's rifle just a moment behind as I duck low and make my way around some rubble for a better shot. About halfway there, I abandon the attempt—abandon cover—and sprint directly for the metal arm garbed in a ratty tan sleeve that Dogmeat is currently trying to pull out of a side alley; which I'm desperately hoping is still attached to a living Detective, and that I'm not just being brought a part of him.

I've nearly reached my toothy fuzzball when—to my great relief—I hear Nick exclaim, "Damn it, Dogmeat, let go! What'd I ever do to you?"

Dogmeat ignores him, glancing at me instead, just out of view from Nick's perspective, blocked by the blind corner of the alley.

I signal to Mac and Charon to stand down and go on watch, then holster my gun, cross my arms, and lean my shoulder against the wall.

I wait until at least Mac is out of immediate earshot, before I harangue, "Oh, I don't know, Nick. Could be he's wondering when you're coming home, just like the rest of us."

Nick stops resisting a few seconds after he hears me, and lets Dogmeat pull him around the corner, coming near face-to-face with me before Dogmeat drops his sleeve.

I arch a brow at him and continue, "It's only been what, three weeks now?"

I inspect him as he stands there, wavering in uncertainty, his heating element eyes conveying surprisingly well how very unprepared he is to be here right now. Despite his agitation, he looks good—for a sixty-year-old, beat to hell synth gumshoe.

His good hand goes back to rub his neck, a nervous gesture I haven't seen from synth-him before. He peers off to the side, then down to my boots, glances up to my eyes, then somewhere over by my left shoulder. A sigh gusts from him and he finally looks at me properly and lets his hand fall to his side. "Shana."

The way he says it, it's like it's a question—like he's asking if he's even allowed to come back, if he'd be welcomed or not. His shoulders are slumped, brows arched into defeated worry, and I've never seen his synth self look more like the human I remember than he does right now.

It's that thought which has me unfurling my arms from each other, only to wrap them around him—pinning his arms to his side—resting my chin on his right shoulder. "I oughta shoot you for makin' me worry this much."

He's stiff for a long second, but eventually, his forearms bend up from his sides and wrap awkwardly around my waist. "Not too late to change your mind."

I snort, shaking my noggin shortly. "Nah, not after all the work I've been doing to find you replacement parts since you left."

His hands gently grasp my waist, nudging me back, and I drape my arms over his shoulders, linking my fingers behind his neck as I lean back to look at him. He blinks at me for a few seconds, then sputters, "R-replacement parts? Did Amari—"

"Yep-uh," I interrupt, "But even if she hadn't, I would've asked her about it. Anyway, the parts I've brought back she's already got fixed up and waiting to fit on ya, so, y'know, whenever you're ready to stop torturing us both, you're welcome to come home and get some new skin."

He's clearly been wanting to object during my entire diatribe, but he frowns especially hard at one thing. "'Torturing'? How am I torturing you? Or myself, for that matter?"

I lift a single brow, giving him an 'are you shitting me' look. "Nick, you're picking cases from the lowest dregs of your current backlog." I lean in and lower my volume. "And considering how much your hands are kneading my waist right now, I don't think I need to elaborate on the other half of that equation."

His hands still, and I'm fairly certain it's only the damning look I'm giving him that keeps him from snatching them back to his sides in embarrassment. His eyes flutter closed as a sigh from his nose brushes a soft breeze across my suit's front. "I'm sorry," he all but whispers, "I'm... I'm sorry." He takes another breath as if he's going to say more, only to sigh it out, a false start. He opens his eyes, finds mine, and tries again. "I'm sorry that I left like that. There's just... there're so many things that I just can't... I can't find the words for most of them, and there's still so much left undone, and I don't know where to start—"

I lift my hands up to cradle his face. "Nick, stop. It's alright, you're not alone anymore. Let me help you. Whatever it is you need to be done, let me help you do it. Whatever words you need to find, let me get the thesaurus out and we'll find 'em, okay? Whatever you need help with, I'm here. I'll help you with anything you need if you'll just let me. We're partners, remember? That's what partners do."

He frowns slightly at that last part. "You mean you took Ellie's offer seriously? I didn't think you'd want to, especially not now, not after... well, everything."

I chuckle, nodding softly, threading my fingers back together behind his neck. "Of course. Who do you think told me about the cases you've been taking? You forget John knows the Agency's frequency, too?"

He seems mildly alarmed, now. "Is that how you knew to come out here?"

I shake my head. "Nah, I wasn't tailin' ya or anything. Mac offered to teach me sniping and Charon... well. He's Charon, so he came along, naturally." I snicker, adding, "I'm pretty sure if anyone was tailing you, it was Dogmeat, by the looks of things."

Nick shrugs his head gently, nodding. "True enough. I was wondering what he was doing so far out from Goodneighbor, but I figured something had to be up, when he started pullin' me along after the target I was tracking got shot... I'm assuming by you, now. Just figured he was tryin' to protect me somehow, but it looks like he had other ideas." He tilts his head, glancing about our surroundings before re-focusing on me. "So uh, that Charon fella, you ah... you're his... employer, now?"

I dip my head gently. "That I am. It's been a... bit of a bumpy road, getting him settled in, but he's getting there."

He glances off to the side, nodding at something. "That why he's standin' over there, starin' me down like he's ready to shoot me?"

I look over my shoulder, and sure enough, there stands Charon, my ever-present guardian. I smirk at him, then turn back to Nick and shrug, unperturbed. "That's just his face, Nicky. If he was gonna shoot you, he'd've done it already."

"Hate to break it to ya, doll, but that's not very reassuring," he murmurs.

I chuckle and turn my head to peek back at Charon. "Charon, are you going to shoot Nicky?"

Charon sighs. "I had no plans to do so, no."

I nod my approval. "Good. Don't form any. I like him."

Charon rolls his eyes. "I know, Shana."

I stick my tongue out at him, then grin and turn back to Nick, tongue well tucked away. "There, see? All good. No death threats from Charon today. Happy?"

He quirks a brow at my word choice. "Relatively."

I smirk inquisitively. "And what, pray tell, would turn that 'relatively' into a 'positively'?"

He heaves a deep sigh and tilts his head as he looks the scant two inches down at me. "Oh, putting the finishing touches on this case, then..." he nods, softly, as if he's thinking something over. "Then I suppose it would be following you back to Goodneighbor and takin' another crack at your case. I know you still want to find Shaun, even if it might be for different reasons, now."

I arch a surprised brow at him. "That's all it would take to make you positively happy? My, Nick, your tastes are even simpler than they used to be."

He purses his lips. "Getting on with my partner's main case is what would make me happy, yes. Not to mention there're some other things we need to discuss, in private."

I sober at that, nodding in assent. "Of course, sure. My apartment's partly set up now, we could talk there, once we get back. I've... got my own topics to add to that discussion, actually." I breathe my own heavy sigh, letting my hands separate and slide down to his chest, fussing with his coat and tie, just to give my hands something to do.

He lifts his metal hand from my waist, resting it over my fidgeting hands, stilling them.

I look up, letting a tiny smile reply to the one he greets me with. "I missed you," I offer, honestly.

He folds me in his arms, pressing me gently against his firm, warm frame, tucking my head under his chin. "I missed you too, doll. I missed you too."