((Title's an R.E.M. song.

On a technical note, I'll switch mirror characters. Between Nick and the Sole Survivor, obviously, but from chapter 4-8 between two OCs, too. I contemplated indicating mirror characters GRRM-style, but decided against it for various reasons. But trust me that I'll make the narrative clear.

The reason for the big switch is that these chapters was the first part I wrote, actually. And it was something rather different in nature, although I only needed to change very little (mostly Ctrl+H style, seven search items, replaced by only four new ones and a few corresponding grammatical idiosyncrasies I removed). I don't think it's too obvious, but if you want to guess what it was at first, knock yourselves out!))

1. Meetings

There were certain things one expected of a female lawyer. She'd be tall, pale from too much office work, slender, cold as ice, and probably overcompensating for some deep seated insecurity. Those existed, of course. But then there were the Catherine Greenes of the world, who took every stereotype in the book, turned it upside down, and were all the more dangerous for it. In hindsight, he should have recognised her.

The moment the door had been thrown open – it hadn't just been opened, no, it had crashed against the wall and almost fallen shut again, if it hadn't been for a well-timed foot intervening – Nick Valentine knew that he had just been saved by trouble made flesh. The woman had an expression of exasperation, her build was short and solid. Solid, but not overweight. It was more that she had more muscle than some men but no waistline to speak of, that she wasn't tall to begin with, and that her stance was broad-legged and very … well, un-feminine. Lawyer wasn't the profession he would have pinned on her. Soldier, more like it.

She'd given him a quick once-over, looked even more irritated than before, and he knew she was going to ask what exactly he was. Or at least he thought she would. He had his answer prepared. 'Valentine?' she demanded. Nothing else.

'Ah … yes. Is this a rescue or an execution?'

'I need a detective.'

'Well. Get this damsel in distress out safely, and I say you have found one.'

Her lips twitched into an embryonic smile. 'Call me Cat. Let's leave.'

Ϡ

It hadn't taken Nick overly long to learn a few things about his saviour. The first thing was, she was physical. In the beginning he had thought she simply didn't perceive him as a person enough to allow him some space, almost literally pulling him out of Vault 114 and back to his agency. The truth was, she touched everyone. Always. It was actually a good sign. The people she didn't go to up close tended to end up dead.

Not that she was unnecessarily cruel, nor even ruthless. She had simply learnt a very important rule of the Commonwealth: If someone aims a gun at you, shoot first. Cat was a kind person, even if she hid it well. She wanted to help, and she did. Most of all, however, she wanted to find her son, and she had hired Nick to do it.

Somehow, after doing all he could to help, Nick still found himself traipsing through the Commonwealth with this peculiar woman. And at some point, underneath the Old North Church when ghoul blood splattered his face, it struck him that he'd seen her before.

Younger, perhaps, but no less forceful; not quite notorious yet, but likely to become it, defence attorney Catherine Greene had been everything a lawyer wasn't. This, he decided at once, suited her much better. This was her, Cat, the one and only person to survive in Vault 111.

'If people don't want to be found, they should make this more difficult,' she muttered handling the mechanism.

'Perhaps they want to be found but reserve the right to … ah … detain you, should you not be to their liking.' Not that he thought so. He thought he had figured Cat out by now, at least far enough to tell that she wasn't a threat to the lot behind that door. 'It could also be a trap, mind you, but I think I know what you'll find.'

One letter was missing in the code. Cat turned the wheel but didn't activate the button yet. 'Being?'

'The Railroad.'

'You don't say.'

He grinned and reached out to pull her away from the mechanism, just in case a fist was suddenly slammed against the button. Such things happened around Cat. 'They're … ah. Look. Don't hate me because I didn't tell you of them before, but I think you deserve a fair warning. Digging out a secret organisation is dangerous business, and that's what you're doing here.'

'Nick. Talk.'

'I am. The Railroad is trying to save synths from the Institute.'

'Right. And you're warning me why?'

'Because you're not supposed to find the Railroad. If anything, the Railroad finds you.'

'Perhaps they have.' Cat scratched her head. 'Someone put me up to this, a bit ago, when we were in Diamond City.' She smiled. 'Perhaps travelling with a synth gave me away as someone who could sympathise.'

Nick frowned slightly. 'Well … talking to me doesn't make you a synth-sympathiser. I'm not one of the pretty synths, more like a broken old bot.'

Cat scowled. 'I don't like it when you talk like that.' She reached out, for once, not to pull him to wherever she needed him, but to run her fingertips over a rubbery cheek. 'I like that mug.'

Nick licked his lips, trying to ignore the tingling in his sensory receptors where she'd touched him. 'Let's go meet the Railroad, Cat,' he managed. 'They can do with someone like you.'

Ϡ

Sometimes, watching Cat was hard. Especially when she was actually being a lawyer. Faced with a bunch of people who were arguing whether or not she had any right to be here, whether to put faith into the stranger who had just waltzed in, she didn't try to be meek and calm. Instead, she folded her arms and glared at the lot of them. 'If I wanted to bring fascists into your lair, don't you think I'd have … well, fascists with me?' she asked. 'And what the hell sort of dumb question is it if I know what a synth is?' She made a furious gesture in Nick's direction. He wanted to melt into the ground. Very much.

Desdemona opened her mouth and closed it. She stared at Nick. 'That isn't exactly the kind of synth I was talking about.

Nick couldn't blame her. So far he had stayed well out of the argument. So well he might pass for a normal Gen 2 with no mind of his own. 'Not too far off, either,' he said in case Desdemona needed disillusioning. 'I may be botched, but I still think I deserve more than being retaken by the Institute and properly scrapped.'

'Dez. I think we need all the help we can get. And those … they seem willing.'

Her eyes, angry and dangerous, lingered on her friend. 'Well. On your responsibility, then. You know the drill.' She turned her attention back to the new arrivals. 'You get no further than this before you prove yourselves. As far as that is possible.'

'You … do what? You grab synths out of the Institute and bring them here? How? Do you have a way in?'

Desdemona's expression remained stony. 'As I said. Prove yourself.'

Ϡ

Somehow, Nick should have seen it coming. When Cat had returned from her visit to the Institute silent and dejected, refusing to tell them what had happened in an detail, he should have realised that Cat was only human after all and apparently had reached her limit. Instead, he had found himself hauled along by her regarding a request he had made a while ago, chasing a two centuries old ghoul. Now the ghoul was dead, night had closed in around them, and he had declared himself free. But instead of a smile and a slap on Nick's shoulder, Cat suddenly had tears in her eyes – the first time since he'd met her – and run off without another word.

Nick had every intention to give the woman the space she needed, but somehow, he wasn't sure how long he'd be able. She actively avoided him, which made things worse. Only now Nick realised how much he enjoyed her company. They had to talk. Something had gone very wrong and he wanted to know what.

He found Cat in her old house, fallen into a heap next to Shaun's crib. Without much hesitation, Nick sat next to her and placed his left arm on her shoulder. 'Cat,' he said tentatively. 'Let me in. And if not me, someone else.'

She looked at him with red eyes, miserable and angry. 'He's the head of the Institute. Shaun's sixty years old and the biggest arsehole of the Commonwealth.'

Nick wanted to ask an arsenal of questions but refrained. He took her words at face value, hoping he would learn more later. Instead of questioning her, he held her near. If the embrace of a synth could be any comfort, was questionable, but he'd be damned if he didn't try. 'Take your time,' he said quietly. 'You talk when you're ready.'

'Not right now. And … I don't think I can stand you comforting me.' She swallowed. 'Not when I care so much and you're in love with Jenny.' And for once, Nick had no answer.

Ϡ

Nick had fled. He wanted to ponder a few questions. Was Cat right? If yes, was that the ultimate evidence that he wasn't anything more than a robot with the memories of a man long dead? And whether or not she was right, why had he felt as if she'd hit him when she'd said those words? There had been no anger, no resentment in the statement, only pain. How could that hurt him?

So Nick had told Preston that he had to check up on the agency and that he'd be back in a couple of days. He couldn't say farewell to Cat. He didn't think he could stomach it.

The agency was empty. Ellie wasn't there, and there was no note from her, either. Well, she probably didn't expect him to show up without an advance warning. She'd come in the morning.

Checking for any new files, he found one on his desk. This one, with a note. 'If you get a chance,' it read in Ellie's neat script. It was dated earlier the same day, so apparently, the young woman had planned to notify him. What it was that made him check the terminal, too, he wasn't certain. There was something wrong. Older messages were missing. Messages he knew he'd kept for later, either because they contained data on certain locations or because they had some other significance. Ellie wouldn't have deleted them. It was so obvious he wondered if someone hadn't wanted him to get suspicious. 'What the hell?' Nick muttered. He took a closer look around. Everything was as it should be. Perhaps too much so.

Feeling apprehensive, Nick opened the file on his desk. If he had a stomach, it would have turned. He slumped into his chair and stared at the picture of Ellie, dead or unconscious, and hogtied on the floor. At the picture of a mangled body that he hoped fervently wasn't hers. Nick looked at her note again. Apparently whoever had come in as a customer, had decided to … do whatever it was instead. If she was hurt, someone would pay.