Work Text:
Sole found Nick in a garage not far from Diamond City. When she woke up early to discover that he wasn’t sitting at his desk—or anywhere in the office—she couldn’t help but worry. Of course she knew that he wouldn’t stay cooped up in the agency all night, but he usually left a note. If she hadn’t gotten such a bad night’s sleep, she might have been easier about the situation—but as it was, she couldn’t stop her thoughts from running wild. She scrawled a quick message for Ellie and left it on her desk.
She knew she was being ridiculous. But when it came down to twiddling her thumbs or keeping busy, the choice was obvious.
The guard at the front gate told her which direction Nick had gone. From there it was easy enough to find the garage; even with the door mostly shut, he had illuminated the space with enough construction lights that it stood out against the morning gloom.
Through a window she could see him crouching beside a red motorcycle, his attention focused on the back wheel. The lights obscured his form. His coat and hat lay draped over the seat, and his rolled up sleeves revealed his forearms. Sole tried not to stare. He had let her take a look at his damaged arm once, but she had to admit that she was still curious.
She ducked through the door.
“You never told me you had a chopper,” she said.
He jumped a little at her voice.
“Hey. What are you doing out here at this hour?” he said, then took his coat and pulled it on.
She paused. There was no good answer for that. How could she tell him that she only felt safe when he was nearby? It was pathetic.
“Just thought we could get a jump on the day,” she said.
“Goodness, I must have lost track of time. Is it getting that late already?”
“Actually it’s getting early. Couldn’t get much sleep, so I’m up sooner than I’d like. I won’t bore you with the details.”
“I see,” he said, straightening his collar. “Ah—Sorry for the scruffy look. I wasn’t expecting company.”
In his haste to arrange his clothes, his tie had gotten stuck on one of his shirt buttons.
Sole chuckled.
"No worries," she said, then smoothed it down for him.
The touch lingered an instant too long—she drew away and cleared her throat, struggling to ignore the thrill running up her spine.
“I can’t say I expected to find you tinkering out here,” she said.
“What do you think I do all night while you’re asleep?”
“I don’t know. Read, maybe.”
“Normally you’d be right, but I like to have a project now and again,” he said with a shrug. “It’s all the fun of my handyman days without any of the damage.”
“I imagine it must be nice not having deadlines and clients breathing down your neck.”
“You said it.”
A moment passed in silence. From the corner of her eye, Sole could see Nick’s eyes glancing at her, then away. She wondered how long she could stare at the motorcycle before things got awkward and she would have to find something new to occupy her attention.
“It’s a pretty little thing,” she said.
“Sure is. Let’s, uh—” he scratched his chin. “Let’s take it for a spin. You want to?”
“Yeah, let me get my leather jacket,” Sole said with a laugh.
She caught his eyes; his expression held no hint of a joke.
“Wait. You’re serious?” she added.
“Serious as a heart attack.”
Her stomach lurched at the idea. All her life, she had avoided risks like this. Before the bombs, she never went out to bars, she never left the house without sunscreen—hell, she never even ate uncooked sushi or runny eggs. And she certainly never got near a motorcycle.
“Oh goodness,” she stammered, “I’ve never—I mean, is it safe?”
He strode to the garage door and opened it all the way.
“Safer than just about everything else out here. Less likely to kill you than the drinking water, at any rate,” he said.
She looked over the motorcycle. It still looked rough, but if she trusted anyone to fix it and fix it well, it was Nick. And he would never put her in danger, of that she was sure.
“Do you even know how to drive one of these?” she said.
“‘Course I do. I used to be a cop, remember?”
The sudden urge to get on the bike nearly overpowered her. It would be a dangerous thing to do—a stupid, dangerous, thrilling thing. Her heart beat faster at the thought. She laughed and put a hand to her eyes. She shook her head.
“This is crazy…” she mumbled.
“If you don’t want to, I could always meet you back at the city later,” he said, seating himself on the bike. “Maybe this afternoon. Or this evening. Whenever I quit having a good time, but I can’t say when that’ll be.”
She looked over her fingers to find him casting her a knowing smirk.
That smug bastard , she thought.
“Alright,” she said, “you got me. I’ll bite.”
“Great,” he gave her a nod. “Hop on.”
She settled herself behind him.
“Okay. What next?”
“Well, unless you want to find yourself on the pavement, I suggest you hold on.”
“To what?”
“To me, you wingnut.”
Before she could inform him that he was the real wingnut, the bike roared to life. She threw her arms around his middle and gripped tight. To her surprise, his chest felt warm to the touch. He revved the engine, and they shot off down the road.
The shadowed ruins of Boston swept by in a blur. A creeping suspicion told her that all of this would hurt later. She sighed and leaned closer. Even knowing the outcome, it was a risk she couldn’t resist.
And just like that, she found herself on a very dangerous vehicle with her arms around a very safe man, unable to deny that there was no other place she’d rather be.