Work Text:
The way dexterous fingers curled so softly around his afternoon cigarette enthralled you, thrust you in a forced and unfair hypnosis. What you wouldn’t give to take the place of the thin smoke, to be in his grasp, if only for a moment- to feel cold metal against your palm, plastic lips against your forehead. Everything he did, he seemed to do with that pre-war grace that was lost after the bombs dropped. It made you a special kind of homesick, in a way nowhere else in the Commonwealth made you feel, not even when you were back at Sanctuary the first time.
However, Sanctuary was but a graveyard for memories, still and dead, holding only the ruined remnants of a life that you had been forced to leave behind, but Nick was an active source of nostalgia that made your stomach churn with every quip he’d make about life before the war, or with every reference to a book only the two of you would remember. If you were anymore foolish, you'd think two of you had a shared connection - a chance, even. However, you were no fool.
Perhaps you're lying to yourself; only a fool would allow themselves to fall for someone unattainable.
Some distant part of you recognizes that he's talking now, but the words that leave his mouth aren’t registering, and you pray he won’t ask you anything anytime soon; not now, while you’re so captivated by the way his optics drift across the destitute desert that were the scraps of Boston, while somehow still having some amount of love - or perhaps, nostalgia - in his eyes.
Ellie was the only one to notice, (that you know of), but she had the mind not to bring it up to you, aside from the occasional knowing, sympathetic glances she gave after your gaze lingers on his face for a little longer than it should have. Otherwise, you were quite good at masking your feelings, treating him only as a close friend. It was to be expected; how were you not supposed to fall for he, a pillar of hope in a world bereft of kindness? He was the only one in this hellish realm that was consistently ever there for you, helping you through all the nights where you’d wake, shaking, covered in sweat.
“Partner,” he starts, particularly louder than the rest of his speech, in that beautiful gravel voice of his. He claps his hand against your back as if you were an old friend, shoots you a grin that almost makes it hard to breathe. It startles you out of your reverie, as reality regrettably sets in. The mere gesture is nearly unbearable, synthetic fingers giving a transient graze to the nape of your neck, and you wish he’d just stay like that. His touch is fleeting, and despite how cold it was, you feel so much colder without it.
You continue forward to the next settlement that needed your assistance, and putting one foot in front of the other seems much more difficult that it was moments ago, the ghost of his brief contact seeming to tingle. You often entertained the idea of confessing, but you couldn’t place that burden on his shoulders when you knew with absolute certainty that he would reject you- kindly, gentlemanly, but reject you nevertheless. After all, he was still in love with someone he, this Nick Valentine, never really met. It hurt like a bullet to the heart, but you understand. You bury your feelings with logic and great difficulty, until the next time they decide to painfully peer up from the cage you've placed them in.
All he really needed right now was a friend, and you were fine with that.
You'd be there to support him; and like he phrased it,
maybe that's all that matters.