The Stranger

Don’t be afraid to try again.
Everyone goes south
every now and then.

“When your girl and her slippery friend came to me, I didn’t even recognize ‘em. They weren’t even people anymore.”

First of all – fuck heights. He knew – knew like he knew every line of every new face he’d ever owned – that Bullseye felt safest when she could loom above the danger, at a distance. Deacon liked that about her, really. He was always more of a watching-from-the-sidelines kind of guy, and he greatly admired how deadly she’d become within those confines. Sure, he had enough training and experience to handle a gun – there was no living anywhere in the Commonwealth without that particular skillset – but that didn’t mean he had to like it. At first, he’d been hesitant about her eagerness to get her hands on a weapon. He worried, perhaps, that like so many people into whom the Commonwealth had dug its claws, she would get trigger-happy as a means of survival.

But she didn’t just want to shoot. She wanted accuracy – she wanted finesse. And he loved that about her.

She’d already been a good shot with a pistol, had mentioned something about occasionally going to the range with her husband – she didn’t like to speak too much about it, and Deacon was happy to let sleeping dogs lie. That she’d told him anything at all he considered a kind of gift, and he knew firsthand how hard it could be to give. He held it close, like a secret. The first real secret he actually shared with someone else in – well. In far too long. He’d paid her back the only way he knew how: With a truth. She had kept it, too, and he supposed that was really the beginning of their closeness.

It wasn’t what had cemented it, however. It wasn’t the fire that welded them together into the inseparable unit they had become. He grimaced at the thought. He also grimaced at the fact that he was clinging to the edge of a wall way too high above the street and trying to shove a leg through a long-broken and unused window on the demolished top floor of the Rexford. Mostly, he tried not to think about it.

Deacon eventually fell gracelessly through the window frame onto the small, interior platform that had once been a part of an entire extra floor, though now most of it was demolished and unused. He’d been here a number of times before, despite its inherent position and difficulty of access. Despite the fact that those were precisely the things Nora liked about it.

When they’d gotten back – when they’d stumbled into Goodneighbor more dead than alive, this had become a favorite spot of hers. He’d spent many a day up here with her, her rifle cradled in her arms and his back against hers, sharing cigarettes and silence and the somehow sweet and acrid taste of free air.

“They were beat up. I don’t just mean black and blue, I mean things-hanging-on-with-spit-and-skin kinda beat up. Hell, fast as we got them to the doc, we still thought Nora was gonna lose that eye. She was practically holding the damn thing in her hand the whole way here.”

Piper’s face went white and then green, and she turned her face away to cup a hand tightly over her mouth. She knew how bad things could get out there, knew that whatever Nora and Deacon had endured had been really bad, but – well, you just didn’t really think about your friends in that kind of condition. Deacon was barely more than a shadow at the best of times, and Nora? She was…indestructible.

Hancock took a moment to light a cigarette, offering one to Nick – who took it, but hardly smoked it. He spent most of his time glaring at the red heat on its end.

“You know they were tortured?”

Piper’s expression grew all the more reluctant. “We – well I think we guessed, I mean. They didn’t say, but – I mean, they were down there for months.”

“Eight months, three weeks,” Hancock confirmed, “and two and a half days. Thereabouts, anyway. And every single second of it, they were put in pain. Real pain.”

“Her hands,” Nick grumbled, and Piper looked at him with raised brows. “They – her hands. The scars.”

But Hancock didn’t need the elaboration that Piper did. The ghoul simply nodded, blowing out a cool, collected cloud of smoke. “Zimmer did that one personally.” His tone was flat, but in a way that was recognizable. His sheer outrage at the entirety of an unspeakable situation was so white-hot, so raw, it couldn’t be contained in a tone of voice. The way he spoke – that was the Hancock who pulled the trigger without saying a word. Who didn’t stay to bury the body. Who wrapped his hands around the throat with an impassive expression because sometimes, death was the only answer.

“Had her in this chair, see. Said they never let her out of it. Not for anything. Not to wash, not to sleep, not to take a piss.”

Piper coughed, disgusted.

“Yeah. All kinds a straps to keep her there. And then Zimmer introduced himself with a nailgun.”

“What?” Piper couldn’t even assemble a readable expression. Nick’s whole body had stiffened to that inhuman stillness he was capable of, and even his internal moving parts had seemed to go quiet.

“One in each hand. Said he wanted to keep her still. Nailed her to the fuckin’ chair.”

“She told you all this?” He finally asked.

“No,” was Hancock’s strangely firm answer, “she lived it. Every day she was here. She’d wake up screamin’, all hours, talking about ice cream scoops taken outta her arms, missin’ fingernails, somethin’ about holes in her knees one time.”

Piper was holding her hands nearly over her ears. “Jesus, Hancock, stop.”

“I’m not tellin’ ya this to make ya sick. Ain’t even tellin’ ya to make ya feel guilty. I’m tellin’ ya because if ya wanna understand Nora – the Nora that’s here now, the Nora that came back – you gotta understand.” As if this reminded him of something, Hancock stood again, gripping his cigarette in his mouth and opening a locked drawer on his desk. “We got her cleaned up as best we could, first day. Thought about cleanin’ her clothes but there was nothin’ in the world could get those stains out. So, fished through her pockets, lookin’ for anythin’ that’d tell us what happened. Found these.”

He’d placed a small, rattling tin of Mentats in Piper’s hand, and for some reason, the little case seemed to become the center of Nick’s world. He stared.

“Drugs?” Piper had asked, confused, but Hancock shook his head as he plopped back onto his sofa again.

“Open it.”

She did so, and let out a wordless cry, dropping the tin entirely. Nick was nothing if not efficient, though, and his hand shot out to catch it before it could hit the floor. He felt some fuse, some electric connection simply shut down.

There, in the case, in various states of completeness – some still including large chunks of roots – was a collection of yellowed, bloodied teeth.

After gathering himself to his feet, Deacon was edging along the narrow strip of remaining floor attached at the wall, making his slow but steady way to the triangular corner, just big enough for two people and a handful of weapons, tucked up between two corner windows and the spare ammo box they’d installed there early on. He could make her out in the darkness, just barely, but he still greeted her in their old, familiar way.

“Marco?”

“Polo,” she replied, strangely calm and soft. He sighed. He shouldn’t have left. He knew he shouldn’t have left, but he hadn’t wanted her there when Dez went on her rampage – which she absolutely did. She didn’t need all the crowding and questioning right now. Though, he thought bitterly, it looked like she’d gotten it anyway.

“Hey, partner,” he greeted quietly, slipping down behind her with his legs sprawled to either side of hers, reaching forward to wrap his arms gently around her middle and tuck his chin into the crook of her shoulder. She didn’t answer, so they sat in silence until some of the tension eased out of her crouched figure, and she began to lean back into his chest.

If it had been anyone else, Deacon would have kept his distance. Probably wouldn’t have come up here in the first place, let alone invade someone’s personal space so naturally. But he knew Nora, knew what touch meant to her – knew, far too intimately, the comfort of an unseen hand gripping his in the darkness, sticky with someone’s blood and twisted with broken bones and dislocated knuckles.

“It wasn’t even the memories, you know?” He voice was bitter, and he tightened his grip around her briefly. “I thought – it wasn’t good, I mean. It was too…” But she didn’t have to pick a careful word. He understood. “But in the end, it was the basement.”

Deacon stiffened a little. He shouldn’t have left, damn it.

“Just – the way it made his voice sound, when he was yelling.”

“He yelled at you?” Deacon sounded uncharacteristically aggressive at this idea, so she let out a hollow, humorless laugh and settled an arm on top of his for reassurance.

“I guess not. Not really. He was angry, but – just – the basement, you know? Took me right there.”

“Where’d you go?” Again his tone was gentle, and he nosed affectionately into the side of her neck.

“Day with the teeth.”

He perceptibly flinched, and her arm was gripping him tighter, his hold on her squeezing unconsciously. That had been a particularly bad one.

“I was – I was there and I was holding your teeth in my hands and I could – hear him, feel his – his breath, and he was telling me – that – I could stop it…” Her voice cracked, her body shook. And he held her close, and let her cry, and shifted his arm enough to take gentle hold of her hand.

“You couldn’t have,” he answered her quietly at last, when she seemed to regain some amount of calm.

“I tried.”

“I know.” He gave her another squeeze. He remembered, all too well, the feel and surprisingly light weight of her teeth in his palm, the laugh in Zimmer’s voice.

“Who – who—” Piper was trying to stammer out a question that stuck like barbed wire in her throat.

“Mix of both, I think. Doc said they were both missing some.”

“God. How – how was Deacon, I mean…” He never seemed flustered. Never seemed like he cared enough about anything to bother feeling bothered. Except, she supposed, maybe Nora.

“Ya know, I still don’t really know. Guy didn’t talk for a whole week and a half.”

“Deacon?” Both detective and reporter spoke in unison under the united force of absolute disbelief.

“Not a word. Wouldn’t let the Doc give him anything when she was puttin’ him back together, though. Said he just dealt with it until he passed out.”

Nick set the vile tin on the low table in front of him, finally taking a desperate kind of drag from his cigarette, which had nearly burned out without his help.

“After that, he just spent all his time with her. And she spent all her time in that bed.” He gestured pointedly behind them, to the little doorway that marked his bedroom. When Piper fixed him with an expression approaching distaste, he scoffed. “Not like that. I was on the couch. She didn’t get up for anything. Not food, not me, not anything. And Deac wouldn’t leave her side. It was like that for a week, maybe two, ‘til he came out while she was sleepin’ one night and I almost shit my pants, guy’s so fuckin’ quiet. Started talkin’ to me about getting’ Doc Amari involved, see if she couldn’t do anything about the nightmares.”

“Their sessions,” Nick concluded, and Hancock fixed him with a very pointed stare.

“Why’d she stop? Why’d they leave?”

Hancock shrugged, but kept his eyes on Nick. “Started gettin’ antsy. She was comin’ down from the chems and couldn’t really sit still. Got real set on some plan to find out where this Zimmer guy and his team went.”

“Chems?” Piper’s voice was suddenly stiff with outrage. “What chems?”

“Whatever she could get her hands on, usually.”

“You let her?” The ice in Nick’s tone was enough to lower the temperature of the room.

“What, I’m gonna tell a grown-ass woman how to treat her body? I kept an eye on her,” he added sternly, as if this was much of a reassurance, “didn’t let her take anything if I didn’t know where it came from. Made most of it myself, just to be sure.”

“What did she take?” Nick’s stare matched the mayor’s. For a few moments, there was a strange, silent standoff between synth and ghoul. At last, Hancock seemed to relent with another little shrug.

“Med-X was her ride of choice for a while. Made it so there was nothin’ to feel. Made Deac pretty sad, I think. Couldn’t give her too much anyway, she’s too small for big doses, so she started after other things. Never Mentats – didn’t want anything she was fightin’ off to get thrown into sharp relief, if ya get me. Day Tripper for a while, got her out on her feet more often. Deac said she always went up to her damn sniper perch, though. Daddy-O once, but…” He faltered slightly, frowning. “Took her too far away. Had to make sure it wasn’t comin’ into the city for a while. Not much business for it, anyway. Not a lotta philosophers around here.”

“She never said…” Piper was a tangible mix of sad and confused, and not a little ashamed.

“’Course not. Would you? Had to live that hell for nine months and then spend every night healin’ from it and relivin’ it all over again. Hell, she said that’s why she was so dead set on finding Zimmer. She wanted to put her ghosts behind her, ya know? Snuff out the last of the boogeymen. Thought it was like – her job, somehow. Like she’d left somethin’ undone.”

Silence fell again, Piper fidgeting nervously with her scarf, Nick watching the last of his cigarette sizzle into silence.

There wasn’t so much a sound as there was a change in the texture of the air, and Hancock spotted the heavily-armored woman leaning in his doorway. He gave an upward, questioning jerk of his head to Fahrenheit, and she responded in kind with an affirmative nod of her own. The exchange went almost unnoticed by his guests.

“Piper, you wanna give me and the good detective a few minutes?”

“No,” she answered flatly, arms crossing. She had had it up to here with behind forced out of the loop.

“You gonna do it anyway? I need someone to settle those kids downstairs before they kill my best guards and I gotta start holdin’ interviews again. I hate askin’ all those boring questions.”

After giving a little wriggle of her whole body like some kind of miniature tantrum, Piper got to her feet, her scowl walking ten feel ahead of her.

“And hey,” Hancock called to her, causing her to turn on her heel for a moment, “use discretion, yeah? Only reason I told you two s’cause neither of ya know how to quit when yer ahead. Let her decide who she tells and when, ya dig?” At this Piper scoffed, clearly offended that it was assumed she’d do anything else, but she spun around and marched heavily down the stairs.

A few more minutes passed in silence. After a while, Hancock thumbed another cigarette out of his pack before pocketing it again. “Here.” He held the cylinder out to Nick, who paused for a handful of seconds before taking it, stashing the butt of his last, barely-smoked one in the ashtray on the table. Hancock smoked his fair share, sure, but he didn’t hold a candle to Nick – or Nora, for that matter. Nicotine was never enough for him.

“Now,” he began, sitting back again after sliding a lighter across the table to his visitor, “I know what yer gonna ask me, but I’m gonna let ya ask me anyway ‘cause I know ya hate it when someone beats ya to yer own thought.

Nick grumbled. Sometimes he hated that ghoul. Oh, he knew he was a good man at heart, knew Nora had a lot of respect for him and understood why. But the mouth on that mayor – every moment of talking to him was like sucking on a lemon. At last, however, he gave in, rolling his cigarette to the corner of his mouth. “Why tell me, specifically? Piper snoops, but she’s not here anymore.”

“That’s what we call a clue, detective.” God damn John Hancock. But he was grinning, a little too maliciously for Nick’s taste, and pointed at him with two fingers – almost like an imaginary gun. “’Cause you, my friend, can do somethin’ nobody else can. You got what she’s after.”

He issued a frustrated sigh. Nick hated all this cryptic nonsense – not because he hated riddles or solving puzzles. Hell, he still did two-hundred-year-old crosswords whenever he found them in old, discarded newspapers. But John had a way of making a secret sound like a contract on your soul, and nobody did “lording it over you” like Goodneighbor’s mayor. “What can I do?”

“I’m bettin’ ya already know, even if ya think ya don’t. I’m bettin’,” he added, and Nick felt the urge to punch that shit-eating smile square in the jaw flash through his mind, gone as quickly as it had come, “she probably already told ya. Only you were too busy makin’ long-lost-eyes at her t’really listen.”

No one lorded anything over your head like John Hancock. How he was still alive, still in charge was beyond Nick. Well – no. It was probably a contributing factor in both cases. Hancock was, objectively, a rather small man – only a few inches over five feet tall, coming up only to Nick’s shoulder when they stood side by side. But he had a kind of tallness on the inside. He was wiry and moved like a drunk spider, all knees and elbows, bone-skinny with a chest that was almost concave. But he had presence. Nick hated to admit it, but he had panache.

A brief and rare – at least in the case of his favorite detective, who he took great joy in annoying – glimmer of mercy crossed Hancock’s face, and he let Nick off this particular hook. Or, he helped Nick get out of it himself, anyway. “She ask you for somethin’ when she came back? Prolly somethin’ she apologized for asking for. Prolly said she didn’t deserve it.”

Deserve. Nick’s processors spun into action. She’d even used that word. In the same way John just had – holding it out from her like a society lady forced to pick up a dead mouse. Like she couldn’t even bring herself to associate the deserving of – anything, really, with her own person.

“A normal day,” he breathed – which was especially dramatic of him, Hancock thought, considering he didn’t need to.

“Bingo. Deac wanted to go to HQ first, ya know? He wanted to make everything someone else’s problem as fast as possible. Wanted to tell ‘em him and his Bullseye –” he emphasized the name with a fond kind of smile, like he found the whole concept of codenames rather adorable “—were gonna take a well-earned vacation. Nora said yeah, which surprised the hell out of me, but said if they went to HQ first they’d never get time to take off. Said she wanted to go somewhere she felt at home, relaxed. Know what she told us?”

He had a feeling, and it was screaming the word “jackass” at the back of his mind, but Nick merely glared at the ghoul across from him, sucking in annoyed breaths of smoke.

“The Agency,” Hancock finished, grinning like a cat playing innocent with a canary in its mouth.

“The Agency,” Nick echoed, and it was hollow. He really was a heel, damn it. She’d even told him. She’d outright told him – and she’d never asked him for anything like that before. Nora had never been one to pull punches, and she never asked anyone to do it for her. But she’d asked him – that look in her eye, like she was begging – to give her a normal day. But--

“We had one,” he objected mildly, running a thoughtful hand under his jaw. “Played caravan. Even – well.”

“Yeah, I heard yer an okay dancer.” God, that stupid grin.

“How the hell—”

“You even gotta ask? Deacon makes it his job to know everything there is to know about that woman. You think Nick Valentine asks her to dance while he’s in the same city and he doesn’t find out?”

“I gotta do another bug sweep on the office,” he groused, and Hancock laughed. “When did you and Deacon start pallin’ around, anyway?”

“Yer still not gettin’ it, Nick.”

“Not getting what?”

“How the hell do ya stay in business with a head that thick? Think about it, detective. All the chems at her disposal, all the people in this rotten world who’d kill to give her a little leisure time, all the friends who definitely wouldn’t have beat her up – least not with a pillow,” he added thoughtfully, “and who does she ask? Who does she immediately go to?”

Aw, hell.

There must have been one hell of a readable expression on his face, because even Hancock – who usually had to squint at anything even resembling fine print – was catching on, loud and clear. “Yeah, buddy. Dropped the ball a bit, there.”

Nick was already a day-and-a-half done with this shit. He burned in a way he knew would mean he’d be blushing if he had the ability, and that had him burning even more. “So what the hell am I supposed to do, Hancock? I tried to give her what she asked for, and we ended up here.”

“All roads lead to Goodneighbor,” Hancock agreed, as if this was some sage bit of wisdom.

“All of ‘em paved with good intentions, I’m sure,” was Nick’s grumpy retort. Hancock laughed, and he hated that, too – hated that he could take it just as well as he could dish it out. It would be nice to catch the man off-balance, at least once.

“No argument here, brother. Still where ya ended up, like ya said.”

“So – what, I’m supposed to just…watch her do this to herself? To help her do it?”

Hancock held up a hand, shaking his head. “Movin’ ahead of yerself. Brahmin before the cart, and all that. Think about who Nora is when she's askin’ ya for a normal day.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Does Ellie solve all yer cases for you, or what? Ya really think Nora’s normal is even – somethin’ that exists, now?”

“I—” But Nick cut himself off. Much as he loathed the idea, Hancock was on the verge of making a decent point. She’d asked it of him, specifically, maybe the only other person she trusted enough who could also, if only vaguely, share a sense of that used-to-be kind of commonplace.

“Catchin’ up? Took ya long enough.”

“What would I even…” He threw up two hands to emphasize the – the whole – this, the whole everything, and how completely exasperated and at a loss it had him.

“C’mon, Nicky, ya don’t really need me to tell ya that, do ya? Didn’t y’mention somethin’ about a dame up Malden way?”

“What!” Nick was at the very end of a rapidly fraying rope. “Before I was a jumped up toaster, how would that—”

“You really gonna use that line when yer talkin’ about Nora? You were there when she took out the Institute. When she freed all those synths. When she told everyone, loud and clear, that they’re people. You know what she gave up to do that, too.”

Nick’s teeth clamped shut. He glared at Hancock, feeling that hopeless sense of – utter uselessness again.

“I get bein’ nervous, Nick, but don’t play stupid,” and John was practically scolding him, “it’s unattractive.”

Briefly, Nick examined his extensive history of life choices, wondering which had been the catalyst that sent him to this moment. Where had he gone so terribly, horribly wrong so as to put him here, receiving some choppy version of relationship advice from John Hancock of all people. He laughed, a single, empty syllable. Where to even start? His whole existence was a mistake. Might as well keep up the tradition.




“I wanted to tell him.”

“I know.”

“I – ha. I wanted to tell him a lot of things.” Her voice was so hollow. Deacon ran a thumb gingerly over her knuckles. He remembered vividly when he’d found them, when they’d been left on the floor of those dark rooms and had reached through the holes in the rusty, cutting grate in the corner to feel each other. To touch another person without pain. To feel life and be reminded of it in themselves. They’d spent hours there, after Zimmer had disappeared. They weren’t popular choices for customers. They’d barely talked, but they had both cried, they had both held onto the other until sleep came – sometimes too fast for one, and they had to strain their hearing to make out the breathing. To know they still weren’t alone. He’d felt her nail beds, empty of nails. She’d helped pry the industrial staples out of the edge of his palm. There was a lot that had been said between those two hands, without words or sight. She didn’t really need to explain things to him anymore.

“I know,” he answered quietly, bending his legs to brace her sides with his knees and give her room to stretch. “You still can.”

She let out a low, hollow laugh. “You should’ve seen the way he was looking at me. Like I – I’d hurt him. I don’t know if I’ve ever done that before. I didn’t think I had. Not like that.”

“People get angry and say stupid shit.”

“It wasn’t anything he said. Everything he said was true, more or less. It was his face. Like he was looking at me for the first time, and didn’t like what he saw.”

His grip around Nora tightened again, and she sighed, finally leaning her full weight against him. It was like a signal – she’d come down to earth, again. She was out of the basement. And he held her like a life preserver. He wasn’t letting her go back.

“Nick’s a good guy at heart. Processor. Whatever. He knows when he’s been an ass.”

“He wasn’t—”

“Just ‘cause he had a reason to be angry doesn’t mean he handled it the right way.”

“Sometimes all the choices are bad,” she reminded him, and he rolled his eyes, smirk invading his previously stern expression.

“Not all the time though. Sometimes bad choices are just the easiest.” His voice fell a little at that, and she gripped his arm a little tightly. It brought his smile fully to life. She wasn’t going to let him go back, either.

She squinted into the distance, as if struggling with recollection. “Did I – did I puke on Cait and MacCready?”

“Oh, so much.” He was far too delighted. She groaned, but it was peppered with a laugh. “Like, big ol’ chunks. Real nasty stuff.”

“You’re gross.”

“It was all like, orange and green, and stuck to—”

“Stop,” Nora practically whined, shifting around so she could cover his mouth with her palm. He promptly licked it, and she stuck her tongue out in amused disgust. “You are the grossest, Deacon.” But they were both smiling again, and far from the first time, were grateful for one another.

There came a knock against the windowsill behind them, and both agents were on their feet in seconds. Nora’s rifle was already cupped by her shoulder, aimed under Deacon’s arm, which held up his lazy pistol – the one he carried mostly for show, rarely for use. When the woman outside held both her palms up in the dim glow of mixed neon and moonlight, they relaxed. Fahrenheit threw a leg over the sill when she was sure all guns were off her, and nodded in gruff greeting.

“Got a man who wants to see you.” She announced, eyes locked on Nora.

“Does he have more in common with a slice of bacon or a Mr. Handy?” Nora gave him an elbow in the side, but Deacon wasn’t particularly pleased with anyone outside this half-room at the moment.

“He’s got a lot in common with someone who doesn’t appreciate a smartass,” Fahrenheit replied, coolly.

“Definitely not Hancock,” they deduced, practically in unison.

Nora’s breath hitched a little. “Is he down—”

“He’s right outside.”

“Oh. Oh – on the ledge?”

“I told him to mind his manners.” Fahrenheit’s grin had a certain kind of malicious loyalty to it, and Deacon felt a strange rush of appreciation for the woman. Out of her gourd she may have been, but a friend of Hancock’s was a friend of hers – and Nora was a particularly close friend.

“Well don’t just leave him out there!” But Nora’s voice was tinged with gratitude. Fahrenheit clearly caught on to it, because she gave a surprisingly amicable nod before sticking thumb and forefinger between her lips and breathing out a shrill whistle.

Nick wrestled his way onto the little platform with a distinct lack of grace, grunting and groaning throughout the process, a vain hand keeping his hat pinned to his head against the breeze and tight space, severely hindering his progress. When he could safely be said to be ‘inside’ – if that was a word you could use to describe the sparse remains of a collapsed hotel floor – he straightened up, stuffing hands into his coat pockets and looking more than a little uncomfortable.

“We’ll leave you to it,” Fahrenheit declared, but she didn’t move. She stared at Deacon. So did Nick.

Understanding dawned. He held up his hands, as if in surrender. “Who, me? I’m already gone.” And he made quick – and for more elegant – work of climbing out after Hancock’s famous bodyguard.

For a while, they stood in silence, looking at each other, the wall, the floor, and the thin interior ledge that separated his small platform from her own, wider nook. At last, he cleared his throat.

“I, uh – well, Hancock told me. I don’t think everything, but – pretty close.”

She grimaced a little, suddenly finding great interest in the toes of her shoes. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t give you time to.”

Silence fell again, and they were matching eye to eye with mixed awkward and grateful expressions. This process was always difficult and uncomfortable. It didn’t help that it was between them – something they’d never experienced before. Sure, they’d argued, but they never really fought. Not in a way that left anybody licking their wounds afterward. It was new, and neither of them took to it.

“I’d – like to make it up to you, if I can.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’d…” He sighed, and she watched him remove his hat to hold in front of him in an entirely old-fashioned gesture of politeness. There was an explosion of endearment in her. Nick rubbed a little self-consciously at the bareness of his head once or twice before seeming to untwist whatever words had gotten stuck in his mouth. “I’d like to take you out to dinner, if that’s all right.”

Nora’s wide eyes and blank expression only served to fan the flames of his stretched nerves, because suddenly he was scrambling. “I – thought you could use a break, I guess, especially after—”

“When?” Her tone was surprisingly bright. It stopped him in his tracks. He fumbled.

“Well – you – should probably get some rest, but – ah – if you’re free tomorrow night—”

“Yes.”

“Yes?”

“Yes.”

“Yes…”

They stood at an impasse, neither sure how to proceed, both radiating a kind of relieved pleasure. Eventually, he faltered through an attempt at speaking again.

“The, uh, Third Rail—”

“No.” Her voice was emphatic, but it had an echo. Deacon’s sentiment had drifted through a window, followed shortly by a small, “shit.” While the sounds of Deacon scrambling away grew quieter, Nick shoved his hat a little firmly back onto his head. Could he not get one minute with this woman to which Deacon was not privy? But he sighed, nodding.

“Right. Shoulda guessed. Sorry. I…” An idea of some kind began to form a visible presence in his expression, and Nora arched a brow but did not inquire. “I think – I might be able to call in a favor or two.” Her smile grew curious, but for once she seemed content to let herself be surprised. “I’ll stop by tomorrow night, then, at…?” He left the question hanging a little awkwardly between them.

“Hancock’s,” was her answer, and Nick fought back a frown.

“Right.”

Silence stretched out again, and though the atmosphere was generally pleasant, it was still a little uncertain. After a few minutes his head shot up at the sound of her voice.

“Hey, Valentine.”

“Yeah?”

“What are you gonna do while I eat?”

He laughed. “Count my lucky stars?”

She laughed, too. Something old yet new at his center began to burn.