Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

You probably know Nora.

She’s had a fair few titles over the years, more than most people could claim in a whole lifetime.

Attorney. Wife. Sole Survivor. General. Knight. Charmer. Mother.

But You’re not here for any of those stories, are you? No, they’ve been told before, wonderfully, beautifully, all in a myriad of different ways. You’re not here to hear about great escapades, heroic deeds, or thrilling actions. No, You’re here for the magic that happens in the in-between, those quiet moments, delicate and tender, moments that are so easily missed.

Well, you’ve come to the right place.

This is a little story, and it starts just over two-hundred-and-sixteen years ago, when Nora Farrell met Nick Valentine for the first time.

They didn’t know it, but this would be the start of something beautiful, but perhaps we’re getting ahead of ourselves. Or behind ourselves. Time can be a funny thing.

They bumped into each other, quite literally, such a meet-cute cliche really.

She was hurrying across the large glass fronted hall of the John Joseph Moakley Courthouse, flustered because she was late (which she never was). Earlier that morning she’d spilled coffee down her blouse and had to change, setting her back exactly three minutes and forty-two seconds. She didn’t realise it at the time but it had also soaked into her bra, meaning that for the rest of the day she would smell vaguely, delightfully, of coffee. It’s strange how the universe works sometimes isn’t it? You see, without that errant drop of coffee she wouldn’t have been there, at that exact moment, when Nick Valentine rounded the corner, sneaking out for a smoke break before being called to the stand. Without that three minute and forty-two second interruption to her routine I wouldn’t be telling this story at all.

At the front desk Paul Paulson (what a name…) sneezed with such vehemence that it echoed egregiously around the foyer. Nora turned her head towards the general direction of the violent sound just as she approached the corner of the corridor, no doubt concerned about the structural integrity of the building following such a loud noise. Nick’s brow was furrowed, his bottom lip caught between his teeth as he focused his efforts on trying to coax the last cigarette out of his engraved case.

They were both distracted, it was no one’s fault really. Although perhaps Paul Paulson (bless him, really, it is a very silly name) could be partially to blame.

They collided.

Nick’s cigarette tin skidded across the marble floor and slipped under the dark mahogany front desk where Paul Paulson (really, what were his parents thinking?) had the good grace to look embarrassed. Nick and Nora stared at each other incredulously as a flurry of papers danced around them. Nora was frustrated and Nick embarrassed. He made a silly joke, avoiding her narrowed eyes, not catching the hint of a smile that threatened the edge of her mouth. He helped her gather her papers, his cigarette case forgotten, and watched as she hurried off down the corridor, the faintest hint of coffee trailing behind her like perfume.

It was only when he stepped outside, patting his coat in a futile exploration of his pockets, that he realised he’d lost the engraved tin. He sighed, his distracted mind forgetting how recently he had held it, convinced he must have left it at home in another jacket. He turned back into the courtroom, nodding at poor Paul Paulson, sat behind the impressive mahogany counter, his nose red and running, besieged by the day’s high pollen count. Nick thrust his hands in his pockets as he made his way through the warren of corridors, ignoring a sudden and inexplicable craving for coffee.

Behind him, underneath the imposing counter which stood resolute like a wooden barricade, lay Nick Valentine’s cigarette case. Engraved with his initials, his parents had bought it for him when he’d made Detective. It had been a rather formal gesture, quite like them really, they’d never been the kind of people to offer gentle words or loving touches. Nick had been surprised, it was thoughtful, personal, characteristics he did not, could not, apply to his parents. Nick had always suspected that his Mom and Dad viewed caring for him as a duty, something that parents just did.

He was right of course.

Antonio and Bianca Valentine (née Rossi) were practical people, they had married late in life, each convinced that they had been the one to settle. Their lives were ones of responsibility and function…of countless missed opportunities for happiness. Mr & Mrs Valentine were honest and hard-working people, but they did not Love, and their lives were all the more diminished for it.

Molly Paulson (no relation to Paul) was the court house cleaner, she was underpaid and overworked, and so, understandably, did the bare minimum. All it would have taken for Nick Valentine’s cigarette case to be discovered was a simple push of a broom underneath the small gap between the desk and the marble floor. But as it was, the space was left undisturbed. The metal tin lay there, patiently waiting to be found, sharing the dark and dusty space with a crumpled $10 note, a singular, slightly sticky, hard boiled mint, and an errant tissue that our resident receptionist accidentally kicked under the desk following a particularly powerful sneeze.

Those items lay there, watching feet stroll by, listening to Paul Paulson’s overactive immune response for one year, four months, and twenty-two days. On that day they witnessed something else…

The end of the World

Chapter Text

To hear Deacon tell it Nora took down the Institute with nothing but a fat-man and a dream. The reality was much more subtle and far more long winded. In truth, Nora negotiated a truce; she used her standing as Mother to undertake some rather machiavellian manoeuvres, and ultimately opened the metaphorical doors of the Institute to the Commonwealth. I am, of course, smoothing over the more dramatic elements, but as we’d established at the start of this story, you’re not here for the Big Moments™.

When all was said and done, when all factions were adequately appeased, Nora stopped to ask herself a single question…

What did she want?

Her parents had wanted her to go to Law School, Nate had wanted to get married, and the Commonwealth had demanded so, so, much of her. Not once in her life, not before the bombs or in the three years, eight months, and twenty-nine days since waking up in Vault 111 had Nora stopped to really consider just what it was that she wanted.

The answer would come during one of the many dull and hard-fought talks with Institute higher-ups.

Synth N9-01, who secretly called herself Naomi, was serving tea and coffee, a selection of milk, cream, lemon slices, and honey spread out across the stark white table. Nora had almost cried at her first taste of genuine Arabica in over two-hundred years. Of course there was ‘coffee’ in the commonwealth, but one could argue that it existed more as a construct than a real, identifiable product. In the end it had been a point of inspiration, she demanded that the genetically modified foods and crops the Institute had been developing be shared across the Commonwealth. She’d even managed to convince the brotherhood to take additional crops back West, taking advantage of the variation in North American climates. I could go into detail about the ideal conditions for coffee growing, I could tell you about the role of humidity, the importance of maintaining the pH balance of the soil, and the ever present threat of pests. But, somehow, I don’t think that’s the story you’re here for.

The long and short of it was this; the Commonwealth now had access to tea, coffee, and a multitude of old (and new) fruits and vegetables.

In the end it was a combination of factors: the delicate tinkle of ceramic mugs, Naomi’s soft voice, and the intoxicating smell of coffee and freshly baked cakes, still warm from the oven. Nora had been transported back to her student days, feet tucked under her, squirrelled away in the cosiest corner she could find. Sinking into the velvet sofa, enjoying the way the heat from her mug seeped into her fingers, dragging one hand away reluctantly to leaf through her textbook. Fairy lights twinkled in the windows as gentle jazz played in the background, the sound of the rain outside muted by steamed-up windows.

That. That was what she wanted.

The new Mayor of Diamond City was more than happy to grant her a permit. Public opinion had dipped when they’d opened the gate and welcomed ghouls and synths alike. They were keen to restore faith in their position, and figured, rather astutely, that a cafe would be just the thing to turn the tide.

It was a Tuesday in early September when she was finally done. It was cold, the merest hint of autumn hovering at the periphery, the sun bouncing off the delicate morning dew, clinging obstinately to the ramshackle buildings.

Nora stood back to admire her work.

Nora had painted “Home Plate Cafe” above the doorway, underneath she’d drawn a quaint approximation of a slice of cake on a plate, a logo she'd doodled during one of the many Institute meetings. She stepped back, trying to convince herself that the shaky lettering added to the charm. She’d chosen the same green as the wall, something which sent her rocketing up in Abbot’s estimations.

With the help of Institute engineering she’d managed to install two large windows either side of the door. The glass was strong and perfectly clear, sending great streams of sunlight into the previously dark space.

She’d installed an internal wall, separating the cafe from her living quarters. The cafe itself was warm and welcoming, the mismatched furniture adding to the make-shift charm, She’d covered the walls in shelves, filling them with a wide assortment of treasures. Littering the space with a variety of books, bobbleheads, magazines, and trinkets. The concrete floor was softened by the presence of rugs and carpets, liberated from abandoned homes across the Commonwealth.

“Nan-ni shimasho-ka,” Takahashi said.

Of course, what he meant was: What a delightful idea. Honestly, it’s nice to see positive change happening around here, it’s been such a long time. Plus, a little friendly competition might be just what we need.

“I hope my business doesn’t impact yours too much.” Nora replied sheepishly, taking a surprisingly accurate guess at what he might mean.

“Nan-ni shimasho-ka.” Takahashi replied sagely.

We’ll be fine.

Chapter Text

When Home Plate Cafe had first opened, great swathes of people had descended on Diamond City. Hundreds of people had made the pilgrimage to the Great Green Jewel, all hoping to catch a glimpse of the Pre-War woman credited with so much: taking down the institute, sending the brotherhood home, reviving the minutemen… They queued for hours, the residents grumbling, secretly proud that Nora had chosen Diamond City to host her venture. Takahashi was very pleased, his noodle sales were up over 500% as stomachs growled impatiently in the long lines.

And while the coffee was a success it would be fair to say that people left…well, it would be an exaggeration to say they were disappointed, perhaps just…confused. They’d imagined a titan, a towering powerhouse of charisma and strength, and instead, they’d found a softly spoken woman with warm brown eyes and a smear of flour on her apron.

While the initial excitement had worn off the cafe was busy enough for Nora to justify her continued employment of additional staff. Nat was fifteen now. She had that easy confidence that comes with youth: convinced she knew everything, and still young enough that the universe was yet to prove her wrong.

Nat was a natural, her childhood spent hawking Publick Occurrences to the general population had honed her into a remarkable (if slightly disconcerting) saleswoman. So much so, should you be so inclined as to survey the residents of Diamond City, I have no doubt that you would find that a surprisingly large majority would consider themselves victims of the young Miss Wright’s uncanny ability to cajole or convince them into spending more than they had intended.

Nat, like her sister, was astute in reading others. But whereas Piper was prone to inserting herself into conversations, young Nat discovered a greater joy in observing them.

It was a typical Thursday afternoon (quiet) when, by chance, Nat made a rather remarkable discovery, you see, what she found was the perfect spot for eavesdropping. Tucked away at the back of the cafe, hidden behind a concrete column, was a rather wonky table. It was, in itself, utterly unremarkable; in its past life it had been a school desk, its wooden surface worn smooth by the decades, its only distinguishing feature the dulled remnants of carved initials on its underside. Despite this the table was deeply unpopular (if the table was sentient it would feel quite upset by this fact, but it isn’t, so it doesn’t).

I’ve heard people say that the key to valuable real estate is location, location, location. This saying also applies here. Really the table’s disrepute had nothing to do with the object itself, but was instead just a simple issue of geography. It was positioned in such a way that the sun, streaming in through the windows, never quite reached it and its position behind the concrete pillar meant that any inhabitant was almost invisible to wait staff, making top-ups difficult to procure. All this to say it was the perfect spot for Nat to stand, unnoticed, and listen-in to the private conversations of the customers. Occasionally she would make a show of wiping down the table, mindful that she was actually being paid and should probably earn her keep.

The bell above the door chimed cheerfully, announcing the arrival of a new customer. Nat observed two things occur almost instantaneously:

Nick Valentine’s amber eyes glowed fractionally brighter as they found Nora behind the counter. Nora, for her part, quickly wiped her hands on her apron in order to tuck her auburn hair behind her ears. In that instant Nat understood something which would take the pair of them a further six months to realise: that they were, totally and undeniably, head over heels for each other.

“Detective Valentine,” Nora beamed, “Welcome home…I mean…welcome to Home Plate Cafe. Wh-What can I get you?” Nora’s face turned a delightful shade of pink. In fact, if you were so inclined, you could purchase a close approximation of the colour through Behr Paints, the rather aptly named ‘Old Flame’. I would consider it a rather lovely colour for a bedroom. But I digress…

Nick ordered an Americano and mulled over the selection of cakes and pastries. Ellie had quite the sweet tooth and he had used this as a thinly veiled excuse to visit the newly opened establishment.

“Sit in or to go?” Nora asked, busying herself with the familiar routine of grinding and tamping. She’d chosen a rich heady roast, dark and chocolatey, with complex notes of smoke and earth.

“I might sit for a bit,” Nick said.

“Of course.” Nora hid her pleasure behind a hiss of steam as she pre-heated the ceramic mug. “Grab a seat, I’ll be right over.”

Nick took in the scene around him. It’s funny you know, Nick sees things in much the same way I do, that is to say…all at once. His sensors took in the gentle glow of the fairy lights strung low across the ceiling, their twinkling akin to constellations. He heard the gentle rumble of the generator on the roof and knew, intrinsically, that no one else could hear it. He saw the gentle wisps of hair at the nape of Nora’s neck, the errant strands having escaped her messy bun approximately twenty-seven minutes prior. Somewhere, deep in his subroutines, a thought was generated, the coding so delicate, so gentle, that he wasn’t aware of it at all. Instead the thought, just an image really, the idea of his lips pressed against the nape of her neck, was hidden away, the hope too painful to bear.

Nora took his mug over and placed it on the table in front of him. Nat looked around the cafe, hoping to catch someone’s eye, as if there might be a fellow voyeur with whom she could share a knowing look.

“Things sure have changed a lot.” Nick said softly, offering a wry smile. “We’ve come a long way since Goodneighbor.”

It never ceases to amaze me how someone can say one thing, and mean another entirely. It’s like a form of magic, a telepathic unspoken communication that seems to come so easily to some.

“I never did thank you for that.” Nora replied softly, slipping into the chair opposite him and moving her hand across the table, hesitating at the last moment, leaving her fingers a quarter-inch away from his. Unseen, Nat rolled her eyes.

“Yeah you did, Doll, you thanked me plenty.” he smiled, waving his metal hand dismissively.

Nora experienced a wave of that terrible feeling. A delayed guilt, one that sneaks up on you when all the adrenaline and excitement has subsided, when your subconscious catches up enough to let you know - hey, you missed this - and she had. She’d been so caught up in her own grief, in her own righteous anger, that she’d failed to notice that, by his very actions, Nick had almost sacrificed himself, all for a infinitesimally small chance that it might help her find her son.

Nick, a man whose tenuous sense of self balanced on a knife’s edge. Nick, a man who, deep down, even now, truly considered himself to be nothing more than a ghost trapped in a machine. Nick, who despite all of these things, still chose to take Kellog’s memories, to open himself to the chance of destruction, all because it was the right thing to do.

Although perhaps, a small part of him - so minute, so hidden, I doubt he was even aware of it - did it…for her.

Chapter Text

He couldn’t have known it but that first visit to Home Plate Cafe had set Nick Valentine’s life on a particular road, one whose destination I’m sure you’ve already guessed, after all, it’s why you’re here.

Nick became a regular.

Quite impressive really for a man incapable of consumption. Ellie, his receptionist, had become quite the coffee-addict, and Nick, for his sins, relied heavily on this fact as a delightfully convenient justification. I’m not even sure he was aware of it. No doubt he convinced himself that his daily visits to Home Plate Cafe were merely those of a dutiful citizen supporting local business.

But you and I both know that’s not true.

Perhaps, deep down, hidden somewhere in a little subroutine, was the knowledge that his patronage was merely an excuse. That Ellie’s dependency on caffeine had nothing to do with anything. And that, really, the only real reason Nick stepped in through that door, the bell chiming above him, was to catch a glimpse…of her.

Nat came to consider Nick’s visits a unique form of torture. She’d watch, hidden by the pillar, and wondered what crimes she’d committed in a past life to have led her here, forcing her to bear witness to such a painfully oblivious pair. She’d even gone so far as to consider sneaking a story into Publick Occurrences when Piper wasn’t looking.

Extra Extra - Idiots in love, right here in Diamond City - Read all about it!

She fought back a grin at the idea and pretended to inspect the glass she’d been cleaning for the last 20 minutes. She jumped guiltily when Nora laid a gentle hand on her shoulder.

“Give Danse a hand for me?” Nora asked, nodding towards the door.

Nat turned a rather wonderful shade of red (Behr’s Spiced Potpourri for reference) before nodding.

Oh, well now, there’s another headline for you.

Teenage girl has a big ol’ crush on local baker

Perhaps I should leave the headlines to the Wright sisters.

Danse, formally Paladin Danse of the Brotherhood of Steel, like so many men before him, experienced a rather jarring and upsetting loss of identity. This is quite common really, and while some men (ahem…Deacon) invest in a toupee and some too-tight t-shirts in a vain attempt to recapture their youth, other men take up cycling, or worse, golf.

Now, I recognise that discovering that all of your memories were almost certainly fabricated and that your entire sense of self is now reliant on a group that now no longer accepts you is perhaps a grade above the standard mid-life crisis.

However, it’s a helpful metaphor.

In the end though, Danse decided to forgo any new hobby associated with skin-tight lycra (something Nat would have been devastated to know) and instead flung himself into baking. It suited him, after all: solitude, early mornings, and strict instructions were, for want of a better phrase, baked into him.

It's one of those things that ends up being a happy coincidence, and indeed how Danse came to supply the cafe with a large assortment of baked goods. Word of his rosemary, onion, and hot honey focaccia had spread across the Commonwealth. Where Danse perfected the savoury, Nora indulged in the sweet. Her tarberry and (institute grown) coconut cake was heavenly and between the pair of them they were wholly responsible for the ever increasing waistlines of the locals.

And so it was that Nat, her hands full and eyes elsewhere, completely missed the following, rather infuriating, interaction.

Nora hummed along to the radio as she fussed with the kettle

“The usual?” she smiled, putting her hand out to take the chipped ceramic mug he’d taken to bringing with him.

“Of course.” His amber eyes pulsed imperceptibly as his fingers grazed hers in the handover.

“On the house.” she pushed a strand of hair behind her ear, tidying the counter to distract herself from the butterflies that fluttered pleasantly in her stomach.

“Of course.” he repeated, placing the caps on the counter anyway.

I’m not sure Nat would have been able to contain herself had she been forced to bear witness. But as it was she was attempting to scrape herself off the floor after Danse had ruffled her hair in thanks for helping him set out his signature cinnamon rolls.

I’m sure there’s a crass joke in here somewhere about handling his buns but I think it's best if I leave that to your imagination.

Back to our almost-but-not-quite-couple.

“Smells good.” Nick’s smile was gentle, almost shy, the quick upward quirk of his lip so easily missed. But Nora spotted it, the smile lines around her warm brown eyes crinkling just a fraction. Of course Nick noticed those too.

So typical isn't it? The pair of them, locked in a delicate dance of details. Neither of them quite ready to step back and see the larger picture.

“I didn’t realise you could smell it,” Nora’s soft voice was almost lost against the sounds of the cafe: the hiss of steam, the sound of the radio, the chatter of the oblivious guests around them. “It’s one of my favourite smells.”

“Mine too.” He conceded, and then, before the moment could become something more he touched his hand to the brim of his hat, and retreated from the counter “Thanks, Doll.”

And so it went, for weeks and weeks, and perhaps would have continued indefinitely had fate not intervened...

Chapter Text

It was Friday, around 4:28pm, and Nick Valentine was cursing his creators.

Oh, but I’ve got ahead of myself again. Let’s go back a moment.

Ellie Perkins’ room above the Agency was a cosy, messy, and utterly impractical space for hosting.

Leo, a third generation synth, was unreasonably handsome, a little over six foot five, built like a barn, and prone to hiding his light grey eyes behind a mane (if you'll excuse the pun) of golden curls. Following emancipation from the Institute he’d joined a caravan, his imposing stature enough to make even the most eager of raiders reconsider.

But despite his chosen profession he was, in truth, a genuinely gentle soul, and Ellie had fallen for him instantly, their arms pressed together in the crowded space of Home Plate Cafe. It was amazing they’d met at all really, Ellie rarely had a reason to visit. After all, Nick was so eager for any excuse to see Nora that his receptionist only had to yawn before the detective was shrugging his coat on, grumbling something about needing a caffeine hit. Ellie couldn’t complain really, she had been treated to an endless stream of chicken-syrup lattes since the cafe opened.

The day she met Leo was one of those rare occasions where she’d convinced Nick to let her pick up their orders. Eager to stretch her legs and escape the dark office, even if just for a moment. She’d taken her time meandering to the cafe, enjoying the sun on her face, the smell of rain hovering in the distance. She queued patiently, inspecting her fingernails as she waited. Once she got to the counter she hummed and hawed over the goodies on display, debating between a chocolate chip cookie or a slice of ginger cake doused in golden syrup and spiced brahmin butter. While she was warring with herself someone jostled her arm and she huffed, ready to give them a piece of her mind. Instead her eyes locked on to Leo’s. And the rest, as they say, is history.

Ah look, we are almost caught up.

It was 4:27pm and Ellie and Leo were oblivious to the click of the door as Nick Valentine pushed it shut with his heel, two cups of steaming coffee in his hands. Eight seconds later, and they were still unaware of the detective’s presence, ignorant of his gentle steps as he rounded the corner and started up the stairs.

Nick was distracted, processing power focused on examining the interaction he’d had with Nora approximately four minutes earlier. If his thoughts hadn’t been so caught up on the Pre-War woman he might have noticed the sounds of heavy breathing above him, he might have heard Ellie’s wanton gasp, he might even have registered the additional heat of another person in her room.

But he was distracted, and four seconds later he was (mortifyingly, horribly, devastatingly) aware of ALL of those things.

Nick coughed awkwardly as he stood at the top of the stairs, trying to pretend he hadn’t just seen Leo slotted between Ellie’s legs, her skirt bunched up at her waist. The amorous couple had sprung apart, Leo’s head knocking the naked bulb hanging from the low ceiling as he jumped to his feet.

Oh look, here we are, back where I started.

It was 4:28pm, and Nick Valentine was cursing his creators. His sensors barraged him with a multitude of embarrassingly intimate readings. The fresh love bite on Ellie’s neck, the quick movement of Leo’s hand as he readjusted himself, the smear of coral lipstick on the young man’s jaw.

Awful really.

Nick had made a hasty retreat, stumbling out of his office, his feet leading him back to the cafe before his mind had caught up.

Nora had laughed when he’d told her, a full and musical sound, her arms wrapped around her middle as she’d succumbed to a fit of giggles. It was a memory that Nick would come to treasure, one he stored away, backed up across various modules. His eyes brightened as he watched her drink the coffee he’d bought for Ellie, tongue darting out to lick her lips. Later, when Nick was distracted, cornered by Piper shouting from her soapbox about her latest peeve, Nora slipped the caps for Ellie’s coffee in the pocket of his trench coat, hung casually on the back of his chair.

To go back to that moment for a second, I thought you might like to know…Nick doesn’t need to sleep, but sometimes, in the early hours of the morning, he likes to sit quietly, close his eyes, and run the memory over and over again, delighting in new details with each replay.

The way her eyes reflected the fairy lights strung overhead before squeezing shut with mirth. The gentle press of her arms around her middle, the curves of her body hidden beneath her apron. The musicality of her laugh somehow intermingling with the smell of fresh coffee.

The overlapping of senses was a happy accident, a benevolent malfunction if you will. The synesthesia was really just a delightful side-effect of faulty wiring that occurred approximately 213 years ago when Bob Anders put a red jack into a green port. Bob’s husband would discover his color-blindness a few weeks later following Bob’s embarrassing attempt to match his pocket square to his. Evan, for his part, was decidedly unimpressed. “Lime green is not the same as burnt umber, honestly Bob, what were you thinking?!”

Regardless, there, in the witching hour, Nick Valentine allows himself to indulge in the moment, to absorb the scene in its entirety, all softness and warmth, and home.

I’m telling you this to help provide you with a little context. You see, without Leo and Ellie and their penchant for physical touch in the shared space of the agency it would be difficult to understand quite how it was that Nick and Nora ended up falling, quite accidentally, into an adorably domestic routine.

Chapter Text

Nick had found working in his office to be increasingly untenable.

The irony of being pushed out of Valentine’s Detective Agency by an aggressively amorous couple was not lost on him. To call Ellie and Leo’s relationship a whirlwind was to do a disservice to hurricanes. Leo’s job often took him away from Diamond City which meant, upon his return, the couple’s audible…excitement…at being reunited was starting to become a running joke amongst the neighbours. Poor Nick was unfortunate enough to experience a further fourteen near-misses and subsequently decided that the only way to ensure he wasn’t subjected to further embarrassment was to avoid his agency entirely whenever Leo was in town.

On one particular evening Leo had returned early, a two week trip cut short, much to Ellie’s delight (and Nick’s chagrin). He had quickly gathered up his case notes and made a hasty retreat, backing out of the office, excuses tumbling from his lips. The couple, utterly lost in each other, failed to notice the way in which Nick’s eyes remained steadfastly locked on the ceiling light as though it were the most interesting object in the entire agency. I have no doubt they would be mortified to know that Nick’s sensors were, in that moment, determined to inform him of the multitude of readings emanating from the impassioned pair. Fortunately for them they only had eyes for each other.

Nick stood outside of Home Plate Cafe and inhaled deeply, his cigarette flaring amber, matching his eyes for just a moment. He made quite the picture, a lone figure standing beneath the neon signs, the last remnants of evening light refusing to fade, a brief twilight that hinted at the start of long summer evenings ahead.

“Nan-ni shimasho-ka?” Takahashi asked.

Have you told her how you feel yet? Honestly, you two, you really need to work on your communication skills, you know?”

“Nah, Takahashi, not tonight buddy.” Nick replied. It was a reply he’d given eight thousand one hundred and ninety one times, a veritable lifetime’s worth of rainchecks.

“Nan-ni shimasho-ka.” Takahashi grumbled.

I know you can’t eat noodles, you moron, I’m making conversation.

Takahashi moved his body in a surprisingly accurate approximation of a disappointed shake of the head as Nick slipped through the cafe door, the bell chiming musically. This would be the seventy-second evening that Nick would spend in Home Plate Cafe. But who was counting? (Nat was counting). He told himself he was merely giving Ellie and Leo some breathing room, in truth, he was hiding. And if that hiding place happened to include the smell of coffee, a comfortable seat, good music, and the chance to steal glances at Nora? Well, who was he to complain?

Nick lost himself in his notes, occasionally looking up to smile at Nora as she swapped out his cold cup of coffee for a new steaming mug. If you were to ask Nick what his strengths were I’m sure he would grumble initially and, if forced to answer, he would eventually cite his powers of observation, or perhaps his skill as a detective. I’m not suggesting that he’s wrong, although I would point out that despite these things being true, Detective Nick Valentine’s powers of deduction had a distinct blind-spot. In fact, he had failed to observe something so obvious I fear even sweet, oblivious, Danse had come to notice. Nora had never once passed on the responsibility of serving Nick to anyone else. Even when the Cafe was full to bursting Nora would somehow find the time to personally hand Nick his cup, delighting in the moment where, however briefly, her fingers might brush against his. Poor Nat had even gone so far as to suggest that Nora think about bringing on more staff. Nat, in a moment of sheer willpower, had managed to avoid expressing her view that they wouldn’t need more staff if Nora would just focus on making coffee instead of making eyes at the detective every time he walked through the door. Nonplussed, Nora had made some casual inquiries to see if anyone was interested.

Naomi (previously N9-01) had looked horrified when Nora had offered her a job at the Cafe, too late Nora realised that the offer was perhaps insulting, the other woman having been trapped in a role of servitude for most of her life. In the end Naomi had managed to find gainful employment herself, and the idea of additional staff for the Cafe had faded from memory.

“You’re listening to Diamond City Radio,” Naomi’s smooth voice filled the cafe, the slight crackle of the speakers adding a nostalgic quality to the sound. “That was ‘One More Tomorrow’ by Frankie Carle. Don’t go anywhere now, in just a few minutes I’ll be hosting our monthly lonely-hearts call-in. An eligible bachelor or bachelorette will be joining me in the studio to tell you all about themselves, and maybe, just maybe, find love. I know what you’re thinking,” the opening notes of the next song began to play, “that you’d have to be ‘Crazy’ to believe in love. Patsy Cline certainly thinks so…”

Nora had, subconsciously, taken to turning the radio up since Naomi took over the afternoon-evening slot; she adored Travis but found his occasional panicked outbursts of “We’re all gonna die!” tended to set the wrong tone. I for one have always found Travis’ hysterical pessimism endearing, but concede that it’s not an ideal accompaniment to coffee and cake.

Nick was sitting at one of the small tables, his brow furrowed as he peered at the files spread in front of him. Nora had tidied up around him, sending Nat home early and pretending not to see the meaningful look the girl had given her, dark eyes flashing towards the detective and back again.

Nora had waved Nat away and had spent her time enjoying the silence of his company as she wiped down tables, cleaning cups, and prepping for the next day. She’d paused at the door leading to her living space, her hand on the worn wood of the doorframe, worrying her bottom lip with her teeth.

Nick was writing notes, his pen flying across the pages as he tried to make sense of the evidence. Nora’s hand was gentle as it smoothed over his shoulder, causing him to jump ever so slightly.

“Hey Nicky,” she smiled down at him, eyes flicking to the reams of paper spread across the table, “I’m heading to bed-”

“Oh damn, sorry Doll, I didn’t see the time.” Nick flustered, pulling his notes towards him, stopped only by the squeeze of her fingers on his shoulder.

“No, no,” A gentle blush crept up her neck “I know you don’t sleep, and also know you’re trying to give Leo and Ellie a little space...”

Nick stared at her, bewildered.

“I thought… if you wanted, if it was okay with you, I mean…I thought you could keep working here,” her hand slid off his shoulder as she began picking at the skin near her thumb, a nervous habit she’d picked up in elementary school after Isobel Roper had refused to sit next to her, declaring Vera Mayhew a superior friend. A wound that still stung two centuries later.

“I’d just be next door if you needed anything,” she motioned to the dividing wall between the cafe and her apartment. “Key is in the door, so you wouldn’t be locked in, I mean, you could just let yourself out, lock up and post it back through the-” She rambled when she was nervous, Nick’s drivers picking up the increase in words per minute as he fought back a smile.

He’d agreed, the pair of them equally pleased at the outcome.

Later, after changing into her pyjamas, brushing her teeth, and setting her alarm, Nora slid into bed, suddenly aware of how close he was. And yet…She shook her head, dispelling the thoughts before they had time to form.

She slept well, comforted by the knowledge of his presence, dreams filled with soft amber light and Patsy Cline.

Chapter Text

Summer had come to Diamond City, and with it the long awaited return of iced-lattes. It was one of those days that seemed to go on forever, customers ambled in and out, ice tinkled against the glasses as the newly acquired second generator earned its keep. Overhead fat white clouds moved languidly across a vast cornflower blue sky. By midday Nora had propped open the cafe door and a gentle breeze carrying notes of sunshine and warmth meandered through like a welcome guest. Nick had undone the top button of his shirt and loosened his tie in a fantastic approximation of a man hot and bothered. In reality, his coolant system coped easily with the extreme temperatures but the simple action had a way of making him feel…human.

“Any leads?” Nora asked, slipping into the seat next to his and picking up one of the many tip-offs that had been sent into the office.

Reggie Barclay was a small-time crook who’d achieved the dubious honour of being kicked out of Goodneighbor a few months back. Unfortunately, the multitudinous and sizable nature of the man’s debts only came to light after Fahrenheit’s men had enthusiastically and forcibly extracted him from the Rexford and kicked him to the proverbial kerb. The townsfolk were understandably frustrated by the removal of a man so indebted and were keen to collect or, at the very least, provide retribution for monies owed. All in all it was a messy business and Barclay had proven to be quite an elusive character. Facing civil unrest and dealing with a frustratingly hard-to-find Barclay, Mayor Hancock had employed the services of Detective Nick Valentine in order to locate the swindler and deliver him, in as singular a piece as possible, to the gates of Goodneighhbor. On the surface it had seemed a simple case of seize and deliver. It wasn’t really his style, but Hancock was persuasive, and available work had slowed dramatically since the Institute had given up its whole kidnapping-people-schtick.

Nick watched Nora’s face with amusement as her eyes traveled across the page. The ‘tip’ (if one could call it that) was anonymous and suggested that Barclay was actually a part of a much wider conspiracy which involved lizard people, an illicit radroach fighting ring, and a groundbreaking (and presumably delicious) recipe for brahmin ramen.

“This looks promising,” Nick handed over the small envelope he’d been mulling over. It was a rich, bordering on aggressive, shade of red. ‘Detective Valentine’ was written in a confident looping cursive. Inside, the paper (much to Nora’s incredulity) was embossed.

“Pickman Galleries Printing Press” she read out loud, suppressing a shudder.

The paper was a creamy off-white matt, the sort that would have been rare and expensive even before the war. Nora’s eyes ran over the dark brown ink, blissfully unaware that it was not, in fact, ink.

“I have ascertained that a certain undesirable man has taken up residence not far from my gallery. I understand that you may be interested in his whereabouts. Rather ironic for an outlaw to seek shelter in the courts. Feel free to drop in on your way by. Sincerely, Pickman”

“Could be a trap.” Nora frowned, turning over the note, as if there might be a clue to the artists’ intentions hidden in the single 180gsm page.

“Could be,” agreed Nick, “But it’s the closest thing I’ve had to a lead in weeks.”

“Maybe you should take back-up.” Nat had, of course, been eavesdropping on their conversation and had inserted herself into their conversation expertly. “Oh hey, Nora, you could go,” Nat said pointedly, “I could mind the cafe.”

It’s quite funny to me, how easily the logical part of brains are overwritten. I wish I could show you how it looks when you’re in love. Hormones surging through your body as synapses fire across your brain like shooting stars. I wish you could see those nearly imperceptible changes: the dilation of your pupils, the change in your heart-rate, the catch in your breath. You might not be able to see those things, but there are things you can see. Really obvious things…

Like making frankly ridiculous decisions.

You know, like leaving your beloved cafe in the hands of a fifteen-year-old girl.

Like following a tip-off from a psychopathic ‘artist’.

Like offering to watch Nick’s back.

Like agreeing to set off first thing tomorrow.

Really, utterly ridiculous.