#but its slowly coming together.... mnhehehhe yes... peanut jig yes mnehehe yes... peanut jig of my own

[kratosnaturals]

The Language of Flowers WIP #1

She always looked his way. Nick could see it from the corner of his mechanical eye. Always passing him glances with an unreadable expression, something between anger and disgust, if he had to guess by her constantly furrowed brows. Nothing unusual for him, really. He had gotten used to it long ago, but something about that look in her grassy eyes sent a shiver down his titanium spine. It was like her eyes were glowing, too, like his. They were so full of life, yet so dead. Those scarred lips opened and told sweet lies, uncomfortable truths and spouted hypocrisy like psalms.

This case would be the end of him, he knew deep inside. In one way or the other, somewhere along the way. Torn to bits and pieces he would be, like his breathren, burned to ash and left for dead himself, like she was. His heart would break and she would be the reason, and the cure. He would kill, and kill, and kill, until he'd choke and suffocate on the blood.

· · ───────────── ·✿· ───────────── · · Nick didn’t exactly ‘dream’ like a human, or a 3rd gen Synth would. It was more so memories that his wires and circuits for brains replayed. Still, it was close enough for him. He didn’t exactly have another choice, having been stuck like that for over a century now, barely a decent copy of a long dead man from before the Great War. It felt like his very existence was mocking that man. An abomination of science. A disgrace to Mother Nature.

Those dreams haunted him still, even after all that time. It didn’t happen every time he ran a diagnostic, luckily, but whenever it did it sent him for a loop anew. Vague flashes of a life never his; childhood days spent in the sun, his first kiss behind a school dumpster, misty faces posing as parents, a fiancé not his own, cigarettes and bourbon that didn’t taste so stale yet. Never enough to really do anything with. Always taunting him.

This time it was Jenny again; she was resting on his naked chest, in the nude herself, arms draped lazily over his middle. A little snore would slips past her lips occasionally, and he’d chuckle every single time, the movement making her shake a little. The heady smell of sex was still thick in the air, now accompanied by her favourite soap and his cigarettes. The buzz of his orgasm was just wearing off as the sun started to go down, leaving the sky orange and pink. Nick sighed and brushed a few loose stands from Jenny’s face, a smile on his lips. The evening light always painted her face in such a beautiful way, like a maestro’s painting, like only the finest art. But, to him, no mortal man could capture such beauty with a mere brush and paint. Nobody could capture those high cheek bones, those rosy lips, that soft, shining hair and those big brown deer eyes, and those thin lines resting on their edges.

This was a pleasant dream, nothing like some of the others; heartbreak and workplace injuries, the day Jenny was taken from the world and from him. It was one he didn’t want to leave again. Nick was content to simply ‘sleep’ for a while longer, maybe just a few hours, and truly rest, in the embrace of someone he trusted. Or, rather, he thought he trusted her. It wasn’t like he actually ever knew Jenny, not really. He wasn’t Nick Valentine. So how could he even love someone he didn’t actually know?

“-ck… Nick…” a voice whispered, lulling him gently out of his synthetic sleep, but he didn’t stir. These memories were too pleasant.

“Nick…” firmer this time. Still, he didn’t react. Not yet.

“Nick. Nick!”

The synth detective startled awake, his diagnostics cut off immediately with a sharp stabbing pain in his head. His ‘brain’ sent him all sorts of errors and warning messages that he chose to ignore, for now, with a resounding groan, cupping his temple. His optics needed a moment to come back online, but he recognized Ellie by her voice.

“I’m sorry, Nick-” Ellie started, pity painting her face, clearly feeling some guilt for ripping him out of his ‘sleep”, “but Garvey called in on the HAM. He needs you at Sanctuary right away.”

Nick sighed, sitting up properly from the bed. The 3rd call this month alone, “another missing persons case?”

“Yeah. Kid this time, and his dad. Didn’t return from a trip to a nearby settlement. No trace of them,” Ellie informed him with a sombre expression. Raiders, Gunners, maybe even some wild animals, Nick guessed. Not a rare occurrence at all, but that didn’t make it any less tragic. One got get used to it, however.

“Not even Dogmeat?”

“He’s gone with Nate. In Goodneighbor, according to Garvey.”

Another sigh, “alright. Can you call Hancock and tell him to send Nate and Dogmeat to Sanctuary?”

Ellie nodded, heading back upstairs, “done.”

“Thank you, Ellie,” Nick said with a wave. The synth heard her call into Goodneighbor as he strolled back into the main room to grab his hat and coat. The dim light in the agency made him a little groggy, but at least he no longer had any stray boxes to stumble over or case files to slip on anymore, not since Ellie and Nate really hounded him to properly clean up his space and fix his furniture. He checked his coat pockets – a pack of cigarettes, his lighter, and another pack of ammo. Then he tapped at his ribs – his gun was holstered in place. As it always was – he never took it off. He was set. By sundown Nick would be at Sanctuary, and at daybreak he could start his search, hopefully with Dogmeat by his side.

“Alright Ellie, I’m going out. Don’t know when I’ll be back, but I’ll call when I’m at Sanctuary,” Nick yelled. Ellie bade him farewell and to stay safe, and he set off with an ache in his heart, feeling like he had just lost someone important again.

· · ───────────── ·✿· ───────────── · ·

Nick exhaled, shakily, ragged, put a hand over his mouth, fingers digging into his cheek and jaw, then bit his knuckles, mind and processors racing with a million unasked and unanswered questions, a million possibilities. He already knew he couldn’t say no. Not with so many lives on the line, not with people like that running around the Commonwealth and threatening the safety of the innocent. The look she was giving him burned, it itched, it stung, it hurt. Deep inside, on his skin, under his skin, everywhere at once. This was dangerous. This person was dangerous. The people she wanted to maim and hang were dangerous. And once again his sense of duty and conscience got the better of the soft-hearted detective.

“How many are there?”

“Plenty. A whole legion, maybe. They travel in small groups. Have a big one somewhere nearby.”

He wagged his finger as he eyed the notebook again, “how many did you already take out?”

“Each fingerprint is one.”

Counted, and counted, and counted, and counted, and counted again until he got dizzy and shut it again, “you’ve been busy.”

He got to twenty-two before stopping, inhaled deeply and closed his eyes.

“They always come back, like roaches. They’ve figured out someone is on their tail.”

A cigarette was lit and put between his lips, fingers crossed on his metal desk, “what’s your plan?”

Everything in him screamed and wailed; stop! This is wrong! Blood money is trouble!

Yet he couldn’t look away, ignore her words and the clear tone of her voice, “have the little roaches lead us back to the nest and take out the big guys.”

It would be the end of him, he knew deep inside. In one way or the other, somewhere along the way. Torn to bits and pieces he would be, burned to ash and left for dead himself. “How many caps?”

“As many as you want. I got plenty to spare.”

“This is going to cost you. A lot.”

“In that case,” Darcy started, rising up from her seat, “I can offer other services.”

There was something in her eyes, or maybe he was just imagining it, the way she looked at him. It was a wicked kind of expression. The detective cringed, his metal jaw creaking and face twisted so harshly he nearly dropped the burning cigarette between his lips. He pushed away from the desk, “I don’t take that kind of payment.”

“Not what I was implying,” the other said with a sour expression. Disgust. “You help me, I help you. Quid pro quo. One hand washes the other – we all need someone to watch our backs out in the wasteland. I can do that for you while you solve your cases.”

A sigh of relief, “you should have just said that. Maybe I could teach you some social cues, too.”

“Maybe you should get your mind out of the gutter. It’s slimy.”

His left eye twitched, just slightly. For a moment Nick regretted inviting her in.

“Do you want my help or not?” mild irritation laced his voice. Darcy frowned.

An outstretched hand, just like when they first met. No hesitation. When Nick grasped it it was just as warm and soft again, pliable in his own iron grip, “eight o’clock sharp. We just got another case in this evening. Ellie will fill you in.”

With a nod Darcy grabbed her coat and backpack, headed for the door but Nick stopped her, “oh, and one more thing – keep your caps for now.”

She turned to look at him, neutral expression, for a few seconds, then left. Moments later a groan ripped from his chest, face buried in his palms.