Nick prefers a routine: he patrols in the morning, works at the headquarters in the afternoon, makes another round through the city streets in the evening. Past that is when he'd normally go home -- he'd sit on the couch, work out shifts and maps, transcribe posts on the network, all while in the company of Rey and Tripod. He could work in his office, but he liked taking it into the den where the two of them could talk. Sometimes they would, sometimes they wouldn't; sometimes, they'd just enjoy the silence and each other's company.
That routine has been disrupted for a month now, slowly shifting into a new one. After his evening rounds, he goes back to the office, stays until late in the night. Some nights, he walks the streets until morning, his mind elsewhere, same as his Rey -- as Safronov, as she's been for a while. If not for Tripod and Wellingham, he might not have gone home at all. It's not much of a home without his family, now is it?
He has her back now, but things haven't changed much: he still patrols late, coming home once a day -- usually late at night -- just to see if anything has changed. It's all the same so far: Wellingham in his bowl next to the succulent, Tripod in Rey's room, Rey on her bed, unmoving. Safronov indicated she could fix things, but as the days pass and Rey doesn't stir, Nick wonders if that was just something she said to placate him. It's easier to just keep patrolling, focusing on what he can do -- there's nothing he can do for her now.
And that's what he tells himself the night he comes home and things have changed. Rey might hear him out in the den, the telltale signs it's Nick wandering around all there: there's the sound of his coat sliding off his mechanical body, dropped onto the back of his easy chair; he crosses the room with his slightly uneven gait, one leg hitting the ground just a little heavier than the other, as it has since she repaired it; he stops where the fish sits near the window, murmuring a few words to him before letting out a heavy sigh from a breath that his artificial body didn't even need to take. The footsteps draw closer to her door and stop just outside it.
But he doesn't enter just yet, as though the fear of disappointment keeps him at the threshold. He's not used to that feeling. Then again, he wasn't used to having a family before this place, either, and just as he was getting used to it, he lost it. Maybe briefly, maybe permanently -- either way, it hurts like hell. Swallowing down his uncertainty, he pushes the door open.
30th, late night.
That routine has been disrupted for a month now, slowly shifting into a new one. After his evening rounds, he goes back to the office, stays until late in the night. Some nights, he walks the streets until morning, his mind elsewhere, same as his Rey -- as Safronov, as she's been for a while. If not for Tripod and Wellingham, he might not have gone home at all. It's not much of a home without his family, now is it?
He has her back now, but things haven't changed much: he still patrols late, coming home once a day -- usually late at night -- just to see if anything has changed. It's all the same so far: Wellingham in his bowl next to the succulent, Tripod in Rey's room, Rey on her bed, unmoving. Safronov indicated she could fix things, but as the days pass and Rey doesn't stir, Nick wonders if that was just something she said to placate him. It's easier to just keep patrolling, focusing on what he can do -- there's nothing he can do for her now.
And that's what he tells himself the night he comes home and things have changed. Rey might hear him out in the den, the telltale signs it's Nick wandering around all there: there's the sound of his coat sliding off his mechanical body, dropped onto the back of his easy chair; he crosses the room with his slightly uneven gait, one leg hitting the ground just a little heavier than the other, as it has since she repaired it; he stops where the fish sits near the window, murmuring a few words to him before letting out a heavy sigh from a breath that his artificial body didn't even need to take. The footsteps draw closer to her door and stop just outside it.
But he doesn't enter just yet, as though the fear of disappointment keeps him at the threshold. He's not used to that feeling. Then again, he wasn't used to having a family before this place, either, and just as he was getting used to it, he lost it. Maybe briefly, maybe permanently -- either way, it hurts like hell. Swallowing down his uncertainty, he pushes the door open.