|Zero|24|they/them| Requests are open! | Current request count: 1 Sister blog to nightcitynews(cp2077) if you put my work in ai generators you will begin coughing in 2 days
Disclaimer: Sole will almost always be gender neutral. There are plenty of blogs that use she/her pronouns by default.
Guidelines: When submitting a request I’d appreciate if the request explicitly said what form of writing you’d prefer (Deacon hcs, a Preston drabble, Cait oneshot, etc) unless you don’t particularly care. Requests are completed pretty much when I have inspiration for them! NEW: Limit to the amount of characters included in one request is 3-4. New additions with different companions to the same request can be made by others or if enough time has passed. (Please don't submit the same request with different characters all at once. It will be considered spam)
List of characters I write for: Cait, Curie, Danse, Deacon, Gage, Hancock, Haylen, MacCready, Nick, Piper, Preston, and X6-88. Also willing to write for the Fallout TV show.
YOUR ASK WILL BE DELETED IF: It makes me uncomfortable, you submit when requests are closed, or you request a gendered Sole that has nothing to do with an LGBTQ+ oriented request (see disclaimer).
Boundaries: My hard limits are requests involving sexual assault, rape, and pregnancy. Non-negotiable. I may deny various requests based on the fact that I cannot come up with anything or may feel uncomfortable completing the request.
Interested in Cyberpunk2077? Try my other fic blog, nightcitynews
See the masterlist for tags, warnings, the ao3 link, etc. This is a Nick Valentine longfic.
It was at Sole’s stubborn insistence that they put Central Boston off to the very last. They found mere scraps at the other precincts; mild tidbits on Winters that were in line with what they had been picking up from the others, odd comments about Nick Valentine’s leadership of both the Winters and Halloween Killer cases, and even the occasional comment about Sole themself and their involvement with the BPD. Deacon seemed to enjoy reading those aloud just to see the way Sole’s face twisted up in annoyance at the way that even two hundred years later the precincts had no idea what they were talking about.
Still, denialism and their irritated scoffs at the language of the Boston police couldn’t hide the way they looked like they were about to crawl out of their own skin as they approached Central. There was a guilt in them at the fact that the last time they were at Central, the only time after the bombs dropped, was just after they had discovered what the Detective was and his resemblance to the man they were still trying to find answers for all those years later. It felt as if their emotions had been scrawled in the dust of the precinct’s crumbling infrastructure they’d sat in that day for the Detective to find there on the ground as they approached the building.
The approach was no easier than the time before even despite their vastly different mindset. This time they would be setting foot in the building, they knew, and there was a fear in them of what they could find in there. In their minds' eyes they were picturing finding Nick’s bones sat in that office chair that they’d insisted would give him back issues one day, phone in hand like he was waiting for them to call again. They couldn’t claim their guilt didn’t make them creative, at least.
If Valentine and whatever parts of Nick he still had in him had any hesitations to do with the building he didn’t show it. The moment Sole slowed down at the bottom of the disintegrating steps he moved ahead and stepped through the entryway. They wanted to follow as if it didn’t bother them still, as if they had become so determined in their mission for answers for the three of them that they were bolder and better for it, but that ache in their chest was still ever-present and gnawing. Maybe the Detective’s sarcastic quips over their travels had tinged that void in them with warmth, but that didn’t make it go away, and the longer they stood there staring into Central the more obvious it became. Deacon barely acknowledged them as he moved past to follow the Detective inside and then they were left out in the chill with their grief and a ghost of a man.
The awning of the station had holes in it now. Chunks of the brick work of the walls were missing, filled with struggling flora and covered in dirt. The police sign overhead was mostly intact–still legible, at least, as if that counted for anything in a world that could no longer conceptualize police.
Sole turned in a move that they knew was self-torture; masochisticc at best and the blatant digging open a scar until it turned back into a raw wound at worst. They scanned the parking lot, wondering if Nick had even made it out of the area before the bombs hit. The deepest part of that void in their chest craved to know, to study all of the options that could’ve been his last moments and lay them out to watch over and over. It wasn’t closure, they knew, but punishment. It was the only form of penance they could figure out.
There were several vehicles still in the lot, but none of them resembled the one they knew all too well from those late night and early morning drives. The odd sense of relief that flooded them was anything but confusing. Their simultaneous seeking and aversion to signs of him was a dance that had become familiar since they’d awoken in Vault 111. Tapping in the doorway behind them alerted them to turn around. Deacon stood waiting. “We could use your eyes.” A quiet cue that their time of avoidance was over. Sole stepped after him into the station.
It was dimmer inside, though the parts of missing walls and the broken windows allowed enough light in that it wasn’t terribly difficult to navigate the space. The reception area was in an expected amount of disarray; papers scattered, part of the ceiling resting on the desk, overturned furniture–everything expected of the end of the world. Chunks of the floor tiles were missing, as well, and Sole did a careful dance when walking through to avoid falling flat on their face. They had grown quite familiar with the reception area in their time at the precinct; whenever they or Nick went on a coffee run in the oddest hours of the morning they always made sure to pick something up for the reception staff as a gesture of gratitude. Out of everyone in the precinct the reception staff were the only ones that had never had an ill-word to say about Nick or even Sole.
Sole brushed their fingertips over the surface of the desk and came away with a thick coating of dust on their skin. They wiped it off on the material of their pants. There was no point in wondering where the staff were when the bombs dropped. If they were feeling just a bit more self-torturous they could’ve looked over the edge of the desk and seen a pile of bones on the other side next to the collapsed chair, but they didn’t. They kept walking.
The main officers desks looked to be in a similar state. Some of the terminal screens were smashed in, but Sole didn’t worry much about it; they doubted the regular officers' terminals would have much useful information other than the latest opinions on Sole that Deacon seemed to be collecting with glee. They wouldn’t have access to any information Sole couldn’t just recall from the top of their head, no matter how much they seemed to think otherwise before the war. No, their business was in the lead detective’s office.
They paid no mind to the shuffling of the Detective and Deacon navigating the rubble behind them, likely in search of any physical papers that might have some information, as they made their way down the rows of desks toward Nick’s office. Just seeing the doorway from across the space sparked a gnawing feeling in their gut, like someone was forcing their fingers into their heart and prying it apart. Sole kept walking anyway, glass from the windows crunching under their boots.
The door to his office was crooked on its hinges, tilted in the frame to a degree where it didn’t quite shut. Most of the frosted glass had been shattered, either in the initial blast or over the years that the building was left to the elements, but part of the name that had been inscribed remained, a crooked and faded Detec iv N. Va ent n. At one point they had used dry erase marker in the corner of the glass to write their own name on the door. When Nick had first seen it he’d rolled his eyes, but he’d never wiped it away even though it would’ve been easy to do. It wasn’t there anymore, that part of the glass long blown out of the frame. Sole stepped over its remnants and into Nick’s office.
It felt like a dream. A few shards of glass remaining in the window frame did nothing to filter out the sunlight that now streamed into what was left of the space. Dust floated through the air, catching the light the same way it did all those years ago when they used to prop their head on their desk and stare out the window just to get a break from the droning paperwork. At some point they’d made a throwaway comment about how Nick must’ve been so boring he attracted dust like a magnet. Half asleep, delirious and at his wits end, Nick had done an admittedly terrible vacuum impression instead of saying a word in response and Sole had laughed so hard they’d cried. He’d looked proud of himself at that, even past all of the exhaustion.
If they closed their eyes they could smell his cigarette smoke clinging to the air, drifting alongside the sunlight. If they tilted their head they could see a shadow of his hat hanging in the corner. If they took a deep breath they almost felt like they weren’t drowning anymore. They blinked and it merely smelled like dust. The coatrack had been lost to time; it wasn’t in the corner of the room or anywhere to be seen again. Pressure that they’d learned to live with returned to their chest and they shook their head. “What did you do for us to end up here, Nick? What are you hiding from me?” They whispered, letting the words echo into the empty space.
His desk was hardly standing, looking on the verge of cracking down the middle. Parts of the ceiling had come down on it, weakening the structure, but his terminal was still intact despite the chunks of ceiling tile resting upon it. His desk chair was missing half its backing and in the corner, appearing to laugh at them, was their own desk.
He hadn’t had it removed after they’d departed from the BPD. Their chair was there, as well, and the temporary name placard that he’d had made for them when they’d jokingly complained about how unofficial they’d felt next to him. Dirt had obscured their last name, so it more-so read Sole .…, Cons ltan and if that didn’t summarize how they felt, they didn’t know what did. It was a reluctant reunion when they moved around to the other side of the desk and collapsed into their chair, grateful it still held them after all those years. The view was the same, but so utterly different at the exact same time. It was difficult just to breathe; their head ended up in their hands until they could regulate themself. When their breathing finally steadied and they looked up, the Detective was standing in the room staring at Nick’s desk, looking much how they did just moments prior.
It was almost disturbing, the fact that somehow he looked right standing there, a crumbling visage of a man in the ruins of what was at one point considered a pillar of society. This time they had trouble removing themself from the equation. Most of the time they saw the world through a slideshow of comparisons of pre-war and post-war, like scenes far removed from their touch and influence that they were watching behind museum glass. This time, though, they were unable to detach themself from the scene in front of them. “Deacon asked me to check his terminal if you– as he said– ‘couldn’t get the nerve.’...” The Detective trailed off, eyes scanning the space in front of him for the right words. “It wouldn’t feel right, though. So I’ll wait here with you until you can manage it.”
Sole swallowed harshly. His reassurance was foreign in a way that sent goosebumps prickling at the skin on their arms. They wanted to reply; they wanted to brush off his–well, more so Deacon’s concerns–off as if they were unwarranted and rise from their old desk and settle in Nick’s like it wasn’t making them physically ill to even think about doing so. Everything about the post-war wasteland made them feel like a coward. The idea that something so theoretically simple could be so greatly difficult to them was painful. In the silence of their indecision, the paralysis of how to address an impossible situation, the Detective moved to lean against the wall by the door. He crossed his arms and propped one foot up, his hat tilted forward just enough to hide those eyes. If Sole squinted and really let their vision blur it looked as if the man himself had crawled out of a 200 year old grave and rejoined them in the office for old times sake.
The ensuing flood of warmth levelled their worries with an overwhelming calm that had them rising from their seat and walking over to Nick’s desk. Despite their partnership they had never been so bold as to move behind his desk, much less sit in his chair; they were familiar, sure, especially outside of the BPD, but there was a certain level of respect for him as a colleague that had prevented them from ever doing such a thing. Sole was sure it went both ways. When they settled into Nick’s desk chair with a long, loud creaaaak they winced for more than one reason.
The terminal was hazy when they booted it up; the letters struggled to come into focus on the screen and sometimes they blinked out for a few moments at a time. Sole determined, for their own sake, that it was the age of the terminal rather than their own eyes giving them difficulties. Several minutes of whirring and blinking loading lights had just begun to make them impatient when the homepage of Nick’s terminal finally appeared onscreen. There were a few folders– E.W., H.K., Sole–on the landing page alongside his inbox–he had a few unread messages–and his calendar. Sole glanced up at the terminal’s date and time. 10-23-2077 9:47 A.M.
Had he been sitting at this desk when the bombs dropped? Their delusions of burying him had felt more and more ridiculous the longer they spent out of the vault amongst the wasteland. There was next to no chance that whatever was left of him made it even one hundred years without being interfered with; scavengers, animals, raiders, you name it. A million things had undoubtedly taken up residence in the old police precinct over the years. Anything could’ve happened. But had he been waiting there at his desk? Had he watched the clock since they’d called that morning, waiting for the hands to tick to a time when he could leave the precinct and drive to their home? It was a drive he’d made a dozen times before when they’d worked together. Had he missed it, the muscle memory of it all that they’d yanked away from him by shutting him out in the aftermath of Grayson?
Sole pressed on. They opened the first file. Eddie Winters’ mugshot was the first thing that flashed on the screen alongside several entries into the file. Anything from case notes to actual files, associates, arrest records, locations, histories. The most recent addition, dated just over a week before the bombs had dropped, was an email that’d been moved, “URGENT – E.W. TF Reassignment Effective Immediately” from Windmark, J. They clicked on it.
To Detective N. Valentine of the Central Boston Police Force,
Effective immediately, case leadership for case #84620K2 has been transferred to Captain Jonathan Windmark. All primary case materials must be transferred to Captain Windmark within three working days of this day to include: case files, suspect interviews, arrest records, leads and their related files, and all case notes from previous case lead N. Valentine. Taskforce Winters’ End will retain jurisdiction for case #84620K2 until further notice. Thank you for your cooperation and leadership thus far. Any questions are to be directed to Captain Windmark.
Sicut Patribus, Sit Deus Nobis
So just like that the Boston Police Department had snapped their fingers and removed Nick as head of the case, designating him as just another member of a taskforce amongst the members of the BPD that had taunted him for his work. Sole ground their teeth together, working their jaw as they skimmed over the rest of the materials. It’d be better for Deacon to transfer everything to a holotape for further examination by him and the Detective than for them to waste time reading over it all trying to glean information with how foggy their mind was at subjects so familiar.
The H.K. folder blinked at them threateningly. For just a moment, they really considered clicking it. They would’ve given anything to get inside Nick’s head at the time of the case. But they knew that to do so in that moment, when they were sat at his desk 200 years later, would’ve sent them spiraling in ways that they could never imagine. They’d leave it to Deacon until they were feeling just a bit steadier on their feet, a little more together, like the hole in their shoulder from that bullet wasn’t throbbing with every heartbeat that thudded in their chest.
They very decidedly did not have the sense of self preservation to skip over the file he had on them, however. The moment they clicked on it a picture of their own face greeted them; the very same that had been part of their BPD guest ID while they’d been partnered with Nick. There was a certain spark in their expression that they didn’t recognize, a naivety that had been snuffed out in the basement of a warehouse on a backroad in Boston when they thought they were going to die for a man they could never have.
It looked like he’d compiled some background information on them. Their own file, one very courteously made by the BPD before they’d started working there due to their…select involvement with cases as an Independent Investigator–the kind of involvement the BPD liked to call interference, as well as several articles praising their work and some emails from them to Nick. The further they scrolled the more they realized that no, he hadn’t saved some of the emails they’d sent, he’d gone back and saved all of them. There weren’t a ton considering his aversion to technology and the fact that he’d barely even let them text him, but they were all there. Like a vaulted homage to the times they’d reached out. Maybe it was a graveyard in remembrance of the way that had ended so suddenly.
Sole moved on to his actual inbox. Three emails sat unread in his inbox; URGENT – Scheduling 10-23-2077, RE: Holidays 2077, and Top Five Reasons You Suffer from Back Pain! The last was spam, obviously, albeit hilarious spam that Sole definitely would’ve held against him if they’d ever been so privileged to have read that while he was still alive. They worked backwards, clicking on RE: Holidays 2077. It looked to be a thread of conversation
From: H. Valentine.
To: N. Valentine
Dearest Nick,
Can I really not change your mind about coming home for the holidays? I understand you’ve got your responsibilities in Boston, but can it not wait? You’re breaking your mothers heart. It’s Christmas, for God' s sake! I know you’re worried about that friend of yours, and it's an awful thing that happened to them. Your father and I read about it in the papers. But surely they understand that you have to be with family for the holiday season! It was very lovely of you to offer to host, but grandma’s getting up there in years and I just don’t think she can make it all the way out to the East Coast. Please let us know if you change your mind.
I love you,
Mom.
Had he really given advance notice that he was skipping out on the holidays with his family– for them or for work, they weren’t sure which was worse? Would he do that for them? They couldn’t bear to interrogate the rhetorical any further. They knew the answer. Their stomach sank.
URGENT – Scheduling 10-23-2077 read:
Nick,
Forgive me for speaking out of turn, but you can’t be serious, can you? I can’t just clear your entire schedule days before the leadership for Winters’ is transferred. You have six meetings today! This is less than 24 hours notice for Windmark himself! And what about your meeting with CIT? You told me those meetings were top priority, even over departmental events. There has to be some wiggle room for me to work with here. I can cancel the majority, but some of these are absolutely mandatory.
Please get back to me when you get back to the office.
God, his poor assistant. She never stood a chance with the state of him and themself after the Grayson case. Had he really cleared his schedule the moment they’d called? All this time later and just the thought made them feel guilty. Family holidays, work meetings, meetings with CIT? What had he been thinking? They paused. Why the hell had he been meeting with CIT? Top priority over departmental events? What the fuck, Nick?
Sole leaned back in the chair and squinted, scanning the line over and over again like it could give them answers for what he had been up to. They shook their head and then pointed at the screen. “Take a look at this.” They offered to the Detective.
When he looked up it was with pinched brows and narrowed eyes. Surprise, if Sole could guess, though they couldn’t quite read him on the best of days. His boots across the floor echoed a memory they suppressed with a determination to stay in the moment. Now was not the time to retreat to past lives– they had a case to solve. When the Detective leaned over their shoulder to read the email they fought that bone-deep instinct to inhale and lost. Cigarette smoke clung to the fabric of his duster alongside that distinct lightly-metallic and oily smell of rain in the city. The discomfort that stiffened their limbs and pressed rigidity into their posture was politely ignored, as it often was, and they glanced away to stare across the room at their own desk as he skimmed. When he finally pulled away they took a deep breath; the simultaneous loss and relief had their head spinning. “CIT is a dead giveaway. So now we know for a fact he was at least in talks with them. I wouldn’t be surprised if they copied his personality without his knowing, but…I don’t know. Considering how evil they are, I wouldn’t be surprised if they wanted him to know the full extent of how they were exploiting him.” The Detective said.
There was a beat of silence where Sole had to pull themself out of the depths of his voice, a task far easier to describe than to execute. Luckily, though, the Detective was patient. Sole tore their eyes away from their desk in the corner and turned back to look up at him. “I just can’t picture him getting himself knowingly into this mess.”
“And yet you can assume he was ignorant enough to not know? To not assume there was something going on?”
His tone wasn’t sharp, nor did it hold an undercurrent of condescension. He was genuinely asking; pressing them to think further on the matter. Sole held his gaze, like the yellow-orange light of his irises could tell them more about the case and guide them back to a steadiness that had long left them. “I don’t know what’s worse.” The words left Sole barely audible, just under their breath.
“Yes, you do.”
And they held just a little resentment for that; for the fact that he knew them in some ways, ways that he couldn’t even articulate or find memory for, and they couldn’t deny it. As much as the wasteland had left a fingerprint on his wires, so had they. They knew there was a reckoning in there they were denying themself; the fact that they were so deeply intertwined with Nick at the time of the personality harvest that a fondness for them had been carried centuries into the future alongside whatever was left of him. If they really thought on it the way they wouldn’t allow themself to for fear of existential dread setting in–again–there was relief. At least they weren’t the only one. At least they had been carved into Nick Valentine the same way he had been carved into them.
Sole clicked over to Nick’s calendar on his terminal homepage. A series of crossed off tasks, completed meetings, and reminders filled the screen: scheduled lunches with contacts, witness interviews, cross-departmental meetings with other precincts, and several completed meetings with CIT as well as an outstanding meeting for the day the bombs dropped. Two had been scheduled for just after their hospitalization in a public location– the Slocum Joe’s Nick had often claimed was the pinnacle of baked goods, they had to scoff– and the following three were at CIT itself. Sole let out a breath. “He was at CIT multiple times before the bombs dropped.”
“What?”
The Detective leaned forward once again, narrowed eyes focused on the screen. He absorbed the information they had just finished reading themself and snapped his good fingers together. “We’ve got it. We’re going to CIT, then.”
“Ah, so you two got it figured out? I thought it’d take at least another year.”
Deacon appeared in the doorway, the satisfied smile on Sole’s face at the Detective’s response dissipating as they took in the sight of him. “Sometimes all someone needs is a little backup, Deacon. You of all people should know that.” The Detective cut in before Sole could formulate a typically-snappy response.
Sole stood, pushing the chair back, and braced their shoulders. “We’re going to CIT.” Sole repeated, crossing their arms.
“Well, look at you. Riled up and determined is good, you should keep that momentum.”
Sole worked their jaw. After just a bit of deliberation, they settled on the short and concise, “Fuck off, Deacon.”
He wasn’t discouraged in the slightest; that Deacon-typical easygoing smirk that he plastered on like his life depended on it stuck like cement in the face of Sole’s irritation, as it always did. There was a quiet exhale of laughter from the Detective. It escaped as if he hadn’t been aware he found Sole funny, but Sole’s eyes barely flickered over to him where he stood next to them. For once the shadow of him wasn’t oppressive; it was just familiar. “CIT it is. We’ll have to find somewhere to camp for the night–I’m not approaching that hellhole of gen ones in the middle of the night.” Deacon conceded.
Sole scuffed their boot against the dusty floor. “Not here.”
“Not fond of reliving the glory days?”
“There’s a settlement near the ruins that I covered a case for. We can stay there tonight.” The Detective cut in.
“It won’t be an issue? I don’t want to impose and they may not appreciate two guests.” Sole asked.
The Detective laughed lightly. “I appreciate the caution, but it won’t be an issue.”
Deacon spoke up at this. “If Nick vouches for you somewhere he’s worked before you won’t have an issue. He works miracles. Or something.”
“Thanks for the recognition.” The Detective’s tone was dry, while Sole tried not to bristle at Deacon calling him Nick. They made quite the trio; hardly functioning, but determined nonetheless.
“Then by all means. It’d be appreciated to sleep somewhere where we won’t have to be looking over our shoulders every two seconds.”
The politeness itself wasn’t forced; Sole really was grateful for the fact that the Detective would go out of his way to make everyone’s night easier and they knew they’d function much better in searching CIT with a full night's rest, but there was still a clumsiness to them; the desire to be polite, to be warm and friendly, to extend their gratitude, and yet the inability to feel like they were speaking to someone entirely separate from Nick. He was Schrodinger's lover; the instinct for affection for him hardwired into their brain and evident in the way they were constantly one breath away from expressing familiarity that didn’t belong to either of them anymore– a fond smile or warm gesture that came as naturally as the way they shied away from him. It was a light mercy for him to leave the room first. They took a moment to lay part of themself to rest, the version of themself that had stood in that room last thinking they would come back one day with Grayson behind bars.
The Detective gestured Deacon away from the room and made sure he was turning to leave before he followed after him, practically herding him down the main office-way. Sole closed their eyes and inhaled deeply. The room smelled of dust and rust. A crow cawed outside and their fingertips curled until their hands were fists, nails biting into the skin of their palms. Tears were quick to rise to the surface, but Sole was just as quick to tamp them down. They had no time to cry anymore. With a slow, controlled exhale they opened their eyes again, still faced with the ruins of a past life. The calm in them felt like borrowed strength. Sole crossed the office and paused to look behind them, to observe the light streaming through the window frames and the quiet that had settled in in the absence of both of the office’s occupants. Closing the door behind them felt like shutting down a part of them, but they felt lighter for it.
Sole rejoined the trio outside the precinct. Deacon was quick to move back into Nick’s office to copy the information on the terminal to a holotape for future reference after they returned with the information from CIT, as well. Once he had completed his mission they set off toward the settlement the Detective had mentioned.
It was a quiet place, one that was easy to settle into and pulled Sole’s longing for Sanctuary–the closest thing they had to home and family–to the forefront of their mind. There was a small farmhouse and a garden alongside the guest shack they had been relegated to. There were no cots, but it was dry and warm and Sole was grateful for a solid place to lay their bedroll without getting rained on or having to worry about critters showing up in the middle of the night. A door to shut was a rarity enough in the wasteland. So Sole and Deacon put down their bedding for the night as the Detective excused himself– he didn’t sleep, apparently, and didn’t want to unnerve them or bore himself to tears by sitting in the corner silently all night.
Theoretically, the idea of someone standing watch outside all night should’ve been reassuring for Sole, but things didn’t often go the way they should’ve theoretically for them. Instead, they found themself wide awake despite their exhaustion, staring at the ceiling, and listening to him pacing outside the shack. They couldn’t tell if Deacon had actually gone to sleep or if he was pretending, but they didn’t much care. Sole peeled back the outermost layer of their bedroll and rolled to their feet, fastening the laces on their boots quickly. They kept their footsteps light and silent as they eased out of the shack, shutting the door softly behind them.
The Detective had obviously noticed the exact moment they escaped from the little building; he was stopped a few yards away, body facing toward the rest of the settlement yard, but head turned towards them. The yellow glow of his eyes was framed by the dark of the night. Rather than trying to summon words they simply couldn’t find, Sole shuffled to stand next to them. They wrapped their arms around themself, still trying to stave off the chill that early spring refused to let die, and stared out into the quiet night alongside him.
Crickets chirped throughout the yard, singing in a sort of unregulated, chaotic symphony. The flowing white noise of the Charles River floated across the night air, adding a soothing undercurrent to the background of their silent and hesitant meditation. The Detective lit a cigarette next to them, the glow adding warmth to his synthetic face as he raised it to his lips and mimicked an inhale. Sole couldn’t help the way they looked up at him out of their peripheral vision. “Does it help?” Their voice felt far too loud in the quiet, even barely above a whisper.
The Detective made an inquisitive voice and looked down at them briefly before he glanced back at the cigarette. “Not really. I don’t even know I’m doing it half the time. All of the financial strain of the habit and none of the benefits. How’s that for Nick’s legacy?”
Sole snorted. He would’ve resented that if he’d been around to hear it, but the fucker had abandoned them two hundred years ago and they felt they were due a few jokes at his expense as compensation. “Told him the habit would kill him.”
“That was it, then. He smoked one too many and the world exploded to punish him for his love of tobacco.”
They pressed their lips together to stifle a laugh. “And yet, here you are. Perpetuating his crimes against humanity. If another bomb goes off, I know who to blame.”
The Detective groaned. “With the way things have gone, we’ll both still be around two hundred years after that, too. You can come find me and give me a lecture in 2477.”
The silence that pressed in wasn’t cold in the way it usually was. It didn’t ring with the absence of him, it didn't feel like the ache of grief had come alive to choke them. The longer they listened to him the longer they heard nuances in his accent that Nick didn’t have; a stretched drawl on certain vowels that hadn’t been there, a lightening of the Boston accent that Sole had often teased Nick about the way it thickened when he got mad. They inhaled and let the chill sting at their lungs. When they blinked they saw the inside of the cryochamber, but when they opened their eyes it went away, and that was progress to them, no matter how little. The ache of the day pressed in on them, demanding they get rest. They knew that no matter how–surprisingly well–they’d endured their return to the office, CIT would add more stress onto information they already hadn’t had time to process, and it was better to get their sleep while they could. Sole turned to return to the shack. They paused, facing the Detective. Deliberating. Then, they spoke. “I’m… glad. That you’ve found you, outside of who he was. That… we’re not letting those bastards win. Who you are is proof they’re not winning. I just… I’m glad.”
They didn’t wait to hear his response, regret prickling at them in a shade similar to shame. Sincerity felt like an ill-fitting vault suit, misplaced and wasted on them. They shuffled back inside and didn’t look back to see the Detective staring after them, cigarette crumbling to ash untouched where it was pinched between his metal fingers. He stayed there, frozen, before he looked back to the cigarette. The glowing embers lit its path to the ground as it dropped; they died when he snuffed it out beneath his boot and crossed his arms over his chest, brushing fingertips over the false skin of his jaw. He stood still, listening to the out-of-tune symphony of crickets and rushing water until dawn broke.
okies request: how abt smth where hancock, maccready or deacon make fun of the absolutely enormous amount of gear, junk, weapons and armor that sole picks up? i am,,, a big hoarder and i can't help but pick up everything that's not nailed down and owned in an area, ending up lugging out like 500 pounds of loot w maybe 100 of it my regular gear. mostly bc i think its funny if one of them are looking for sole they'd be like "oh yeah they've been through here" bc like. everything is just GONE.
Ah yes a fellow fo4 hoarder- I'm guilty as charged lmao I tried to keep it humorous and ambiguous + ended up doing all three which ended up working out cause I approached them all differently without really thinking about it. Thank you for your request!!
Deacon:
“So, uh…” Deacon paused, looking around. “Are we trying to build another nuclear bomb or what?”
Sole looked up from where they were hunched over, blowing hair out of their face, eyebrows furrowed and dirt streaked across their face. “What?”
“Well, I figured if you were picking up every piece of junk on this side of the Charles there had to be a reason.”
Sole rolled their eyes, picking up a decrepit fan that was more rust than it was actual metal, and holding it up. “Stuff like this is the key to getting our water purifiers upgraded, D.”
“Mhm. And did you consider that maybe some other poor bastard will want to upgrade their water purifiers sometime in the next three hundred years?”
One quick glance around revealed the fact that a clear blank space of a lack of junk had been carved into the area. They had been working hard and it had been evident by the fact that all Deacon had to do to find them was follow the lack of a trail; the path to them looked like an eraser had been taken to the landscape in one clean, swift line and taken everything that wasn’t nailed down with it. Deacon turned to survey the area with hands on his hips. The moment Sole leaned over to get something again, already laden with various junk items, weapons, and random bits of supply they’d scavenged strapped to their back and spilling out of their pack, Deacon spoke up. He pointed to a nearby bucket, covered in what looked like buckshot dents. “You missed a spot.”
They were quick to shoot him a glare, however when they followed the finger he was pointing to the bucket, their eyes lit up once again. “Oh, that’d actually be useful. Thanks!”
His mouth opened, already beginning to form the words, “How could that possibly be useful?” But he closed it again. Of all the quirks to have, especially in the wasteland, this was the most harmless and considering the way their face lit up at their finds–which was everything–he wasn’t about to rain on their parade. Who knew; maybe one of their coil-less toasters would be the key to taking down the Institute. “Alright. What do you need me to carry?” He sighed.
Hancock:
“I’m starting to feel like maybe your junk collection problem needs intervention more than my chem-usage.”
Sole was struggling to attach an old microscope to one of the many straps that hung from their pack; it was much too laden for them to remove it for fear of never getting it back on, but they were fighting to turn enough to access the straps. Unfortunately, as much as Hancock was enjoying their battle with themself, he wasn’t keen to wait for them to figure it out with the setting sun acting as a timer. There was warmth and fondness in his sigh, despite his best intentions to come across as inconvenienced, as he took the microscope out of their hands and looped the strap through one of the closed parts. As he buckled it, he spoke, “I also feel like you should be more concerned about back problems than you are.”
They laughed. “We both know I’ll be lucky to make it to an age where back issues are a problem.”
Hancock yanked the strap tight, swaying their body with the force and catching their attention. “Not if I have anything to say about it, Sunshine.”
“Does that mean you’re willing to carry some stuff back?”
Hancock rubbed fingertips over the hollows underneath his eyes. Their antics were going to be the death of him.
MacCready:
“Alright, I’m putting you on a limit. A quota. Five more things and then we’re heading back to Sanctuary before your spine snaps in half.” MacCready protested, watching the whirlwind that was Sole.
It was impressive, actually, the way they were bouncing around the abandoned house collecting things like they weren’t burdened by the weight of half the wasteland’s garbage on their back. He would never say that aloud, though– they were very insistent that nothing they picked up was garbage. Maybe they just saw something in it that he didn’t.
Sometimes Mac felt as if he were one of those items strapped to their back, carried through the wasteland and given a place when they were once thrown away. It was the real reason he could never protest when they vanished and he found them amongst an absolute clearing of anything that had been tossed to the side. Who was he to protest at their rescue mission when he had benefitted from it? He, himself, had been found amidst the discarded in the Third Rail– followed them back to Sanctuary with an apathetic facade and an eager heart for somewhere to finally find purpose.
He was still pretty decent at covering up that fondness, though, and his face was a mask of mild disinterest and irritation, as if he had somewhere better to be than watching them gathering up anything that caught their eye– which was to say, everything– though he was exactly where he wanted to be. He stood with crossed arms, leaned against the doorway of the crumbling house, one ankle crossed over the other, the toe of his boot propped against the floor. Sole wasn’t discouraged by his light complaining, far too used to it and completely pre-occupied by their mission of scrounging everything up they could. They turned and looped an old, tattered dress they’d found over his arms, pat him on the shoulder, and went back to the task at hand. And despite all his previous protests, Mac readily held onto whatever they’d handed him. Both he and Sole knew better than to believe his disgruntled nature. He would’ve carried the house itself back to Sanctuary if they deemed it necessary.
See the masterlist for tags, warnings, the ao3 link, etc. This is a Nick Valentine longfic.
The ash of Sole’s past life clung to their boots as they walked through the ruins of Boston with Deacon and the Detective. Dodging rubble and pausing to listen for anything that may be out to kill them turned a walk that had once been a familiar half hour into a several-hour journey. There’d been much debate amongst the trio if it would be worth checking the South Boston Police Department, especially considering Sole couldn’t remember Nick bringing them up in more than passing. Deacon and the Detective had come to the conclusion that it was better to leave no stone unturned and considering Sole’s overwhelming desire to avoid their return to Centra,l they relented.
Sole was left to gather context of the Detective and Deacon’s familiarity to each other through listening to their conversation. The first bit of the journey was spent in silence, but it seemed they were friendly enough that discussion was inevitable. Surprisingly, the Detective was the first to speak. “Did you ever get back to the old HQ?” He asked Deacon.
Deacon shook his head. “Still swarming.” He hardly spared a look back at Sole, but they could tell he was mincing words to keep them out of the loop. “Figure it’ll be another couple of years before we can get back there, but there won’t be anything left by then. Any intel they get out of it will go back with them.”
The Detective let out an irritated huff. “Yeah, sounds like them. Bastards.”
“Not sure this won’t be the same way.”
The Detective gave Deacon a sidelong glance as the group picked their way over crumbled buildings and rebar sticking out of chunks of concrete. Sole bit their tongue to suppress the urge to demand answers. Deacon was more than welcome to keep his secrets for as long as he wanted; they had a feeling that he’d be roping them in sooner rather than later and they had enough on their plate, particularly with the synth that was walking in front of them.
His duster was floating over the remains of Boston as he walked, the wind catching in a way that sent it back behind him. He was a postcard of what they figured pre-war Boston imagined Nick Valentine to be, a wish you were here afterimage of what might’ve been had the bombs not dropped. Both his and Deacon’s persistent implication of the Institute in the events that had led them to the other side of the apocalypse gave them the impression that the Institute had little understanding of what a detective was outside of gimmicks and stereotypes that they had then pasted Nick Valentine’s personality over. And that wasn’t the Detective’s fault, nor was it necessarily a negative thing–it seemed to be working out relatively fine for him–but it did make their skin itch to observe as they walked. Like seeing a sketch-artist rendition of someone so familiar they were rooted in the atoms that made you, the recognition that the details were off and the artist hadn’t gotten it right, even if you couldn’t always articulate how.
As the sun rose over their travels Sole wrapped themself in denialism as a familiar shroud and fought to embrace that mindset, that the Detective in front of them was just a different person altogether, that his resemblance was more akin to a cousin of Nick rather than a half-baked recreation. But that didn’t stop the fact that with every time his boot caught on something or a sound rang out in the distance that might’ve been danger they felt that protectiveness that had gotten them shot two hundred years ago leap into their throat and seize their nervous system.
It was easier, though, to follow the pair like a shadow and simply listen; a relief of not being at the center of unraveling the mystery for once. As they talked in riddles, Sole allowed themself to take in their surroundings, accepting the rising sun as a different light compared to the Boston they’d once known and would never see again.
Even in the aftermath of nuclear warfare the resilience of the city shone through. Through buildings that had crumbled, window panes that had been shattered and crumbled facades, the rays of light beamed down upon the cracked and pothole riddled streets below. Flora was beginning to creep back in. Ivy lazily crawled across the skeletons of old inner-city brownstones that Sole remembered balking at the rental rates of once. Mutfruit bushes had long replaced whatever landscaping might’ve been put in place by the city and they were thriving. The quiet would never cease to amaze them, but it was a welcome change. They had once fought to think over the noise, but now, amongst the cawing of crows and the shifting supports echoing through alleys, Boston played a soundtrack of stumbling regrowth.
Deacon’s abrupt stop stunned them back into the present, their own posture immediately following suit as they reached back to place a hand over the handle of their 10mm. With the three of them paused and braced for danger, Sole listened intently to figure out what had set him off. Instinct had them reaching out to give a hand signal to Dogmeat to lay low, briefly forgetting that they had left him with Ellie, who had been more than happy to take up babysitting duty. He would be excellent company in the Detective’s absence, she’d noted, and the Detective had given a humorous roll of his eyes in response. Still, Sole missed him as they fumbled with air rather than his fur.
Between breaths, in the absence of the sound of their own inhales and exhales, Sole could hear a quiet snarling. They clenched their jaw. Feral ghouls. They’d only run into them once in passing; they had left Sanctuary with Sturges briefly, just a short ways down the road, to scavenge. A couple of ferals had wandered into Concord. It’d been a nasty surprise, but one easily solved between Sturges’ familiarity with the wasteland and the training that Preston had put them through all those months ago. Still, there was a particular kind of horror about ferals that turned their stomach whenever they thought of them.
Just as the Detective reached for his weapon a small pack of them turned the corner. Sole was quick to follow, their gun out of its holster, cocked and aimed by their next breath in. They were only waiting for Deacon’s cue.
Deacon raised his hand to quell the pair’s instinctual brace for combat, though his own weapon was drawn and held low in front of him at the ready. Bodies arranged for a nasty fight, the three watched as the pack of ghouls shuffled their way across the intersection down the block. Even as their heads swivelled slightly they seemed to not notice the trio’s presence; perhaps the age of their bodies and the impact of radiation had withered their sight. Sole’s fingers tightened around the grip of their pistol. It wasn’t until the ghouls had crossed the intersection and disappeared down the street that they let out the breath they were holding.
None of them spoke as they continued forward, weapons still drawn, footsteps far more deliberate and carefully-placed. They had made it only a few blocks away from the precinct and they were prepared for it to be a fight to get there if it really had to be. With Deacon spearheading their crawl forward in silence, they continued.
Sole had been worried that their near-encounter with the ghoul pack would serve as an omen for what was to greet them at the South Boston precinct, but oddly, luck was on their side. When they entered the old, rotted building the only thing scuttling around was a couple of radroaches that Deacon disposed of rather quickly, the silencer on his pistol serving to keep the fight from drawing the attention of whatever might’ve been lurking around.
Sole hesitated in the doorway of the precinct, glancing around. Parts of the ceiling had fallen through and exposed the tiling of the second floor, walls had been partially demolished and were actively rotting, water still dripping from various parts of the building from melting snow. Consciously, Sole knew that the building had seen hundreds of seasonal cycles just like it over the years that they’d been underground, but there was still a sense of dread in them at the state of the building. They had no idea if there was evidence in the building that would help them and what state it would be in when they finally dug it up again.
With the building cleared they all dissipated to different parts of the precinct without another word. Exhausted by the concept of digging through files for the millionth time in their life, Sole found themself moving between the terminals of the officers in their corral outside of the lead detective’s office. It was familiar territory, an echo of the Central office, though the setup was slightly different. They sank into water-logged, chewed up old seats that left a thick coating of dust on the backs of their thighs and began hunting through the terminals for any information that might be useful.
Passwords were relatively easy; each precinct in Boston had their own issued terminal passwords for officers in the departments. Nick had let it slip when they’d been teasing him over the fact that he refused to touch the terminal Central had issued him that passwords were formulated through a specific method: officer’s last name, the date the terminal was issued to them, and the last three numbers of their badge number. He’d commented on how that wasn’t exactly secure and they’d made a sly comment somewhere along the lines of “...and toting around your life’s work in a messenger bag is any better? What if you get robbed, Nick?” Which he hadn’t appreciated.
Sole popped their head into the head detective’s office to ask for a personnel list that Deacon handed over without looking up from the case file he was holding. Their thanks fell on deaf ears as he continued scanning. The Detective was nowhere to be found, but Sole didn’t pay much mind. They returned to the task at hand, armed with a list of employee information and therefore the key to the terminals in front of them.
What they dug out of those terminals was a whole lot of nothing. There were messages sent between officers, mostly typical requests for information and asking who was picking up lunch for the department, complaints about the late nights, issues with parking, and a department-wide email sent out not once, but five times, asking people to stop leaving the coffee pot empty for the following shift change. Sole could understand that. It had been one of their primary complaints about Central, too, and Nick had heard about it plenty to the point where he’d gotten a coffee pot for his own office so they’d stop bringing it up.
Sole sat back in the rickety chair of the last terminal they’d gotten into, bracing their chin against their palm in contemplation. South Boston wasn’t so out of the loop that there hadn’t been mention at all of what they’d been looking for–a few officers had brought up the Halloween and Winters cases in passing, mostly commenting on how Central should’ve passed the cases on so other stations could actually get the job done–but nothing useful. The chill of winter air was biting at their fingertips at that point and making typing difficult. Sole got up and shook out their hands, wedging them into the lined pockets of their winter coat. Hopefully, Deacon had fared better in the office digging through physical files.
When they entered he looked much the same as they had just moments earlier, leaned back in the chair of the head detective’s desk, hand over the terminal keyboard as he scanned lines of text. His face was lit up by the pale blue of the screen in front of him, shadows dancing across his features in a way that made recognizing his appearance a dizzying challenge. He would’ve made a fantastic criminal before the war; there was an aspect of his appearance they couldn’t name that made him impossible to pick out of a lineup if he changed his typical accessories. The moment he rid himself of the sunglasses and donned a wig or a different jacket he was a new person. They wondered how many times he’d lost himself in his ability to do so. “Find anything?” They piped up, bracing their hip against the edge of the desk he was stationed at.
“You really had a reputation.”
“Oh, I’m sure. Anything good? Or just the standard cop shit talking?”
Deacon began to read aloud. “‘That P.I. they’ve got working with Valentine is going to fuck this whole thing up. If they’d passed the case to us even a month ago, we’d have sorted Grayson and Winters out in a week. Now, they’ve been shot, Valentine’s got more screws loose than he did before, and Grayson's dead. What the hell are they going to do for Winters? Hope he takes Sole as bait the way Grayson did and it’ll set Valentine off enough for him to get his shit together? As much as I want the bastard dead, a Winters trial is the only way for us to get our reputation back from the media shithole they’ve thrown it in. They have no idea what they’re doing. How many people are going to die before they figure it out?’”
Sole raised a hand to implore him to stop. “Alright, I’ve heard enough.”
Footsteps at the doorway shifted their attention to where the Detective was moving into the room, a file in hand. “They don’t know what the hell they’re talking about, anyway.” He announced, dropping the file on the desk in front of Deacon. “The captain was hiding this under the floorboards. Looks like they were trying to get their own angle on the Winters case.”
Sole groaned. “Seems like every department on the East Coast was.”
“You have to wonder if any of them acted on it and screwed the old Valentine over.”
The thought made them grind their teeth; they were politely ignoring the concept of Nick being the old Valentine. “I wouldn’t put it past them.”
And they really wouldn’t. It would’ve been just like one of the other precincts to let their ego get ahead of them and screw the whole case up for everyone; hell, Sole wouldn’t have been surprised if someone within Central had at the very least been planning on doing the same. Deacon pulled the file off the desk and flipped through it briefly. “Sightings, locations, potential leads… yeah, this is a start on the Winters front. We can add it to the pile back at D.C. In the meantime,” he pushed back from where he was sitting and gave a pointed look to the Detective, “Go ahead and read some of this. Might help pull some memories forward.”
The Detective, for once, put up a fight that was more in Sole’s nature than his own. “I think I’ve had enough of memories for a good while.”
“Yeah, so has Sole, but they don’t really have a choice. Human brains aren’t as forgiving as your programming can be.”
“Wouldn’t call it forgiving.” The Detective grumbled, but he sank into the chair anyway.
Sole knew that Deacon’s defense of them didn’t come without the catch of it being a tool to convince the Detective to play along, but it was still appreciated. Deacon extended empathy when he could, which wasn’t often; regardless of the tension that seemed inherent to their friendship, Sole still appreciated the rare occasions when he met them in the middle. They fought not to watch as the Detective’s glowing, yellow eyes scanned the lines of text on the screen in front of him. They had no interest in learning more of what had been said about them by the other departments, especially in the aftermath of them getting shot, but they couldn’t help their own curiosity about how the Detective would react, even if that came with a tinge of guilt.
There was no visible reaction from him other than a brief flinch at one particular section he’d read, but apparently that was all Deacon needed. “Alright, let’s get out of here. We’re burning daylight and I don’t want to be around when those ghouls finally circle back around.”
If the Detective realized that Deacon had been fishing for that exact reaction, Sole had no idea. He rose from the seat and tucked it back into the desk, quiet and contemplative as he pressed his synthetic lips together. Sole embraced their willful ignorance in the face of the Detective and Deacon’s mutual silence on the matter and turned to depart the building.
There was a frailty to Sole as they laid in the hospital bed. Beeping machines, various wires, and the thin material of the hospital gown only served to frame them in a way that Nick despised. Perhaps he had spent too often at their bedside, impatient for the moments that they would wake up and finally meet his eyes again rather than down at the station doing his job. There was always that split second of relief before he felt himself freezing like a coward, unable to explain his own hesitance. The only thing that made it past his lips were apologies they had no interest in hearing; not because they resented him for what had happened, like he’d assumed, but because there was nothing to forgive in their eyes– a clarification he would never get.
Nick smoothed his thumb over the back of their hand, dodging the cannula that had been affixed to the vein there. They had been on fluids the past couple of days in an attempt to pull them out of the dangerous level of dehydration Grayson had subjected them to; some of the color was returning to their face, though they were still far paler than Nick would’ve preferred.
Even if Sole hadn’t been asleep the room would’ve still been silent, unbearably so. Getting them to speak was a battle he felt he was constantly fighting. He ached to hear their voice, if only to erase the fact that the last thing he had heard from them was what they’d both thought would be their dying words, a plea for him to take them home. And he would, whenever they got medical clearance to leave. He’d take them away from the cold of the hospital bed back to the familiarity of a home they’d called cozy once and he hoped it would be enough. He knew it wouldn’t be.
There was something behind their eyes that had gone missing. He’d noticed it the instant they’d awoken the first time, hands grasping at the oxygen mask on their face in a panic, eyes locked onto him with a fear he hoped to God he would never see again. They flinched every time they awoke to his presence. He wondered if it sent them back to the moment he pried the blindfold off their face in that basement; he’d seen that moment a thousand times over since it’d happened, every time he closed his eyes.
Indulgence came to him whenever they were unconscious, his chapped lips pressing to their knuckles where their arms rested, restrained, on the bed; a necessary precaution due to the panic response they had every time they awoke, he’d been told. Their fingers twitched in their sleep, but he knew it was just a response to the stimulus rather than any sort of dream. The nurses had assured him that the sedation they were under resulted in dreamless rest. It was for the best, he knew. Neither sleep nor dreaming would be a relief for them anymore. He’d learned that from his own reeling in the aftermath of that night. He brushed the pads of his fingers over their cheek and his whispered promises fell on deaf ears. “I’ll be back tomorrow. Get your rest, darlin’. You’ve got all the time in the world.”
Detective Valentine stood in the shattered doorway of South Boston’s precinct watching Sole pick their way over the rubble in front of them. His hesitance to follow, the absence of him, must’ve registered with them as they turned back around to look at where he stood, shielding their eyes with a hand over their brow. They didn’t speak up to ask why he lingered; either they were continuing their trend of a poorly suppressed reluctance to interact with him or they recognized the look in his eyes. Instead, they just paused and looked him over without hiding the fact that they were doing so. He wondered what parts of Nick Valentine they recognized in him; the shadow of that damned Boston detective was imprinted on the wires inside him. To disentangle the two of them might spell out a death sentence for the synth. Before Sole reappeared with their hollow eyes and the way they looked right through him it had been much easier to bury the old detective and leave him six feet under where he belonged. All he had to do to tolerate that ghost was to brush off the odd flash of his memories and the deep seated feelings of longing that were easier to ignore when he had no idea about the source of them. Now, he was resigned to the fact that the pair of them, he and Sole, were waiting in the wings of a mourning procession that hadn’t taken place yet.
hey are requests open? it's hard to tell, i'd go by the pinned post bc its dated but in the blog description it says they're open, so i just wanted to double check?? was gonna request smth but i don't wanna bother you if they're not! i know how annoying unasked for requests are ajrnwlakjrnw
Thank you for pointing this out, requests are in fact open!! I feel like I always forget to change either the blog description or the pinned post when I reopen them 😭 thank you for double checking, send requests to your heart's content!
back to eden is officially entirely plotted. it only took more than two years to get to this point :sob: I'm really excited to see this fic through to the end and wrap things up. if anyone wants a wee, vague sneak peek i am deliberate with which lyrics I choose for the titles of the chapters and they're all currently up on the masterlist, just grayed out.
i really do want to do that deacon fic eventually but i'm not sure the two years for 70k words format is working for anyone including myself so i'll have to figure out how to work that out because as interesting as the premise is to me to write if i do get into that masters program longfics are out the window lmao
who knows! anyway, to the people who read BTE: the timeline is officially projected! i've got one finished chapter in the vault and will be doing my best to get through the end of the fic within a reasonable amount of time!
Disclaimer: Not everything I've written has made it onto these masterlists. There are some things that have shown their age that I've omitted but left on the blog for the sake of archiving them.
