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Pet names. Nicknames. All manner of shortenings to anyone’s formal name. Or one's which added ‘y’s and ‘e’s needlessly to his own first and second names. It all disgusted Craig Toomy; all they did was remind of his of his parents, his drunken, sickly mother in particular. He couldn't stand them and whenever they were used he would make very sure the same person wouldn't do it again. (How the hell did someone even shorten Craig?)
No one had ever got away with such a crime, otherwise they would be staring into his harsh, pallid face, met with his glazed and cool eyes. It wasn't something he allowed, the few people which he was especially close to weren't to cross that unspoken line either.
That was until Nick Hopewell did.
At first it was nothing but a little ploy to wind the ex-businessman up, drive him into irritation but nothing more. However, as they grew closer and closer still - getting to the point where Hopewell was able to touch Craig without him flinching. Then to one point where Craig would actually sink under the affectionate pats, his feeble, touch-starved body melting under the other's careful hands.
Craig would actually curl closer, lean into Nick's body, he genuinely enjoyed being held. The feeling of firm fingers running through his thinning hair, over his back. It was totally alien still, but he liked the idea of getting used to it. Nick wouldn't hurt him. Not anymore. “I would never, you're too precious to me. C.T.” Or something like that. It was the ending which had caught Craig off guard.
“What?” He had squinted, pulling away to stare at the other man, who was grinning.
“C.T?” He raised a brow. “Sea-tee? Something like that. Y’know, Craig Toomy.” A laugh barked out of the Brit, watching as Craig visible bristled.
“Don't.” He had grumbled, slinking off, ignoring Nick's snickering.
“Alright you big grouch.”
‘Grouch’ also stuck. It got used whenever Craig was at his wit’s end. He would spit, snap, et cetera and Nick would pet the small of his back and coo: “Okay, grouch.” It tended to mute Craig a little. And Nick had suddenly found his weak spot.
More nicknames accumulated over time and Craig was a little mortified at his own lack of an attempt to stop the other. As whenever it happened, all he would feel was a warm, weighted sensation deep in his chest. He enjoyed it so much more than he would ever admit - most especially to Nick himself.
‘Silky’ was the next. Stemming from the fact that Craig adored anything silken in texture. Ties, bedsheets, clothing. All were things he loved, the way his calloused fingers would slip over the soft, smooth material.
And of course Nick had picked up on it. Craig had been sitting in the living room, fingers drifting over the dressing gown he had donned. Sliding over the silk slowly, tracing the folds and creases, just the simplicity of his actions felt safe and reassuring, a reminder that he was still here. It prevented him from ruining all the magazines Nick owned. When the man walked in, beaming, his eyes immediately fell on Craig’s slim frame cloaked in silk.
“Hello there mate,” Craig groaned, covering his face with his hands, “you look very pleased with yourself. Nice silky dressing gown, suits you.”
“Piss off.” Was the muttered response.
“Ah, okay then silky, it was just a compliment.” He smiled. “Seriously though, you're looking good, no raccoon bags under the eyes, I told you extra sleep would really help didn't I?” He plonked down beside Craig, exceptionally close, their frames almost brushing.
“Shut up.” There was no real harshness to his words, it was all in jest. “I already knew that.”
“Could've fooled me, silky.”
Then, they had grown closer still. Really close. And ‘babe’ became an acceptable name to use. Occasionally ‘baby’. Whichever suited Nick best at the time. Either way, he made sure to flaunt his ability to use nicknames whenever he could. Sometimes it was tamer: ‘darling’, ‘dear’, or the like. But he tended to use them in private, which Craig appreciated, because he could think of nothing more patronising than being called ‘baby’ or ‘babe’ out in public.
But when they were at home he would allow the coddling and cooing of pet names. It was affection Craig hadn't known before this and he utterly adored it, Nick had noted it too, even though Craig had never mentioned aloud. In fear of ridicule.
He enjoyed being cradled on the sofa or ravished in bed or pampered with surprisingly well thought out gifts. Anytime Nick was affectionate he liked to use his pet names, muttering them, whispering into them into his ears or writing them into any notes directed Craig's way. The man was suave with his words, and could make the other flush and snort warmly. It was so peculiar.
Even his own mother hadn't recognised him when Nick had encouraged him to visit the old people's home she had been sheltered in for the past few years. Craig figured it was a lot of things: he had gained a fair amount of weight upon living with Nick, no longer sickly and skinny with unhealthily twig-thin limbs. The huge ever-present bags beneath his eyes were now gone, lost to time. And there was the fact that he let people get away with pet names.
By ‘people’ he really meant Nicholas Hopewell.
He had decided three years after the Flight 29 incident that nicknames were not as bad he originally thought them to be. Especially when they were being used by Nick.