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Preston casts long shadows behind him. Jaw set and mouth tight. Lips more suited to smiles than sorrow, but he’s getting more practiced by the day.
“Can we rebuild the Minutemen?” Sturges asks during one of the long patrols he’s invited himself on. Steps a half-pace out of sync with Preston. Always trailing, struggling to keep up. Preston’s a fine man, in fine shape. Sturges has a strong back and bulk in his shoulders, can lift and carry scrap around his workshop with ease, but extended walks aren’t part of his normal routine. Or at least not before the Quincy Massacre.
“Won’t be the same,” the man says. Something loose and breaking, a compass without a needle.
(People don’t fix as easy as things, but Sturges is a craftsman through and through.)
Sturges coughs into his hand. “Got my father’s toolkit,” says Sturges. Shakes his head at Preston’s questioning eyes, holds up a finger. There’s a point to this metaphorical toolkit.
Not just metaphorical, though-- Preston’s helped lug the thing around. Large chest with shiny red paint, multi-levelled and compartmentalized. Adjustable wrench, hammer, screwdriver-- basics, plus all the parts and pieces he needs. Sturges restocks his screws, gears, springs at every opportunity, keeps the extras sorted in mason jars at the workshop.
“Hinge broke, some years back. Had to replace it. Little different, just as good,” Sturges continues, rubbing a rough palm against his chest. Scritches coarse over his shirt, relieves some of the embarrassing tightness. “Added smaller bits, over time. Things my father never thought about, like a little-bitty eyeglass repair kit. Extra blade for shaping wood. Fine-nosed pliers.” Coughs into his hand, gaze dropping low. Watches Preston’s stride, long and confident. The slim line of his boots. “Still my father’s kit, even if ownership changed. Sometimes replace, update things as they’re needed. Makes the whole better.”
Preston’s quiet a long while. Stretches out between them. Gentle weight to it, like a blanket. The night sets about the edges, stars yawning awake in the purpling twilight.
“What about your grandfather? What was his toolkit?” Preston asks, finally.
Words are a relief, a long exhale that eases the tension in Sturges’ stomach. “His kit was a vice grip and as much duct tape as he could steal, beg, or borrow.”
Preston laughs, warm and rich and deep. Rolls through Sturges, rumbles something in his core. Sets his insides humming.
Can fix about anything with the right tools-- people, guns, computers. Thinks laughter might be the right tool for Preston.
The new general burns purpose, a furnace of intent. All her danger channeled to function.
Preston, adrift, follows.
(Sturges does not know moths, but he knows martyrs. Knows the bright draw of immolation in something bigger than oneself.)
Sturges is not a praying man. Would rather place his faith in the works of his hands-- callused fingers, knobby joints, grit worn into his palms and under his nails--rather than hands unseen. So he does not pray for Preston’s safe return.
Instead he packs dried mutfruit and jerky, prepares noodle balls with seasoning and dried veg. Things that can be eaten while moving or dropped in boiling water for a simple meal. Slips them into Preston’s supplies.
He examines Preston’s laser musket with a critical eye. Then starts scavenging. Pulls apart desk fans, salvages gears and screws from prewar appliances that sit dusty and disused. Cracked family photos glare accusation from the walls, but their judgment is less important than a man’s life.
(Like it or not, all building begins in destruction. Even if the end result is better for it.)
But it can’t be a surprise. Any more than Sturges would like it if someone repainted his father’s toolbox, even if they replaced and improved every single item and took a toothbrush and Abraxo to every crevice in the bargain.
(He won’t ‘fix’ what doesn’t need fixing, won’t bludgeon something still taking shape.)
“May I borrow your gun?” Sturges asks, thumbs looped through his belt. Grounding. Otherwise he’d be shaking, tapping, doing anything but keeping his hands steady. Might not be surgery, but needs his hands calm for any weapons mods. At Preston’s quizzical blink, Sturges says, “Might be able to work on it, if you want. Increase the crank capacitor, extend the barrel. Change out for a full stock.”
Preston frowns, a crease of unhappiness. “I’m real sorry Sturges, but I don’t have the caps--”
“Caps, nothing. It’s a thank you,” Sturges says firmly. Dares to set his hands on Preston’s shoulders. Forces Preston to look him in the eye. Keenly aware of the shape of Preston’s shoulders beneath his palms. The man’s built like a power frame, all strength and purpose. “You saved our lives.”
“Not enough.” Loss writ large across his face, all pained sincerity and guilt. Could gnaw him alive, rust him from the inside.
Can’t pack him up in oilcloth. Just gotta fight it. Give him reasons to keep creaking along. “More than we would have saved on our own.” Presses his thumbs tight against Preston’s collar. “You’ve still got a lot of good to do out there. And I think you got a better shot at staying alive if you let me fix up your gun.”
“Staying alive?” And that might be a smile, but there’s no joy in it. Suits Preston’s face even less than the grim-set frown he wore for so much of that long march from Quincy to Concord.
Sturges keeps his hands steady, voice steady. Like repairing one of those old-fashioned pocket watches. Beautiful when working, a joy to the ear and the heart. But steady, steady hands and patience required. Force it too hard, and one of those tiny gears might bend out of place, or a spring may fly loose. Better not to rush, not to cut too close to his meaning.
“Yeah. We’re gonna need you back.”
Preston snorts, shaking his head. “If the Minutemen do our job right, you won’t. All the settlements should be self-sustaining.”
“Fine. We might not need you, but I will.” Claps Preston’s shoulder, all earnest display and brisk affection. If he makes enough noise, maybe it’ll distract from the sudden flush crawling over his face and neck. “So. Won’t take caps. Coming back’s payment enough. Deal?”
Preston passes over his musket without another word. Sets it gently in Sturges’ hands with a glancing brush of his fingers. Still tingles warm against Sturges’ palm as he turns back to his workshop.
“You do mighty fine work,” Preston says, voice soft and awed. Turning over his newly-returned musket, dawn’s early light playing over the wood, the glint of barrel and trigger. Another beautiful day in the Commonwealth, the sun painting that same beauty over everything else.
Sturges’ chest swells. He might be modest, but he knows he does damn fine work. “Always been good with my hands. And I don’t like to do anything less than my best for my friends.”
Preston chuckles, smiling. And that same soft beauty catches on his lips, his eyes. Glitters in those dark depths. “I don’t think you ever do anything less than your best.”
“Neither do you,” says Sturges, grinning so hard he’s afraid his cheeks might crack. Well, shit. Worse ways to get wrinkles. “Got it up to four cranks, but didn’t have enough scrap to spare to get it to six. If you and the General got time or ever come back, can always use more supplies. I know the prewar junk doesn’t look like much, but it’s easy salvaging. If you got space in your packs, at least.”
“We’ll keep our eyes open.” Preston’s smile widens, catches sunlight. “I promise.” And when a man like that promises, well--
Feels like steel bands around his heart, constricting. Dizzy and aching.
Finds just enough breath to wheeze, “Well. You do that then.”
When they finally return, it’s with a self-proclaimed reporter, a synth in a battered trenchcoat, and a pack jingling full of adjustable wrenches, desk fans, dented aluminum cans, battered boxes of Abraxo, and one toy monkey in a space suit.
“I know you said gears and screws, but the General said you could probably find a use for the aluminum and fiberglass.” Preston chuckles, soft-edged and rueful as he taps the monkey’s faceplate. “I mean, if anyone can find a use for this…”
“Definitely!”
And somehow that turns into Preston spending time in the workshop, helping Sturges disassemble the junk and sort the components. Chatter’s companionable-- catch up on the Longs, how Marcy’s settling in and Jun’s lost some of his muted despair, how Mama Murphy’s been staying clean-- and the silence is too. Quiet rattle of metal on metal as Preston drops a screw into its jar, rustle of cloth when Sturges wipes his face. Finds he’s doing that a lot, around Preston.
Sun’s dying when they finish up, then dinner with everyone around the cookfire. Radstag stew with fresh cornbread and a dollop of some sort of Nuka-based barbecue sauce that Mama Murphy made up, and Sturges watches how Preston eats. Stuffs his cheeks, squirrel-like and happy. Sauce drips down Preston’s chin, and he rolls his eyes and laughs with one hand over his mouth when he spots Sturges watching.
“Road food’s nowhere near this good!” he exclaims-- explanation, maybe, but not an excuse, as the General says with a laugh and a poke at his ribs.
Sturges chuckles. “As long as that food gets in your mouth and not on your face.” Leans over to smear the sauce off Preston’s chin. Close enough to know that when he feels Preston hold his breath, he’s not imagining it.
After dinner, Sturges invites Preston on his perimeter rounds.
“Got turrets and spotlights in case of intruders, but nothing beats a physical check,” Sturges says cheerfully. No longer struggling to match pace with Preston; not quite stride-for-stride, since Preston has longer legs, but an easier synchrony. Like they finally found the proper gear ratio.
“Can’t agree more.” The moon spills pretty over Preston’s face, just as pretty as the sun. Better, in some ways-- silver and shadow casting his features in sharp relief. Emphasizes the fullness of his mouth, the zippered scar above his lips. Washes some of the tired from his eyes. “You’ve done so much here.”
“Couldn’t have done it without you.”
Preston snorts, shaking his head. “Just brought you a heap of junk and lost a lot of boot-leather.” Even now, even joking, the other losses hang heavy. Silent weights looped around his shoulders.
“Heap of junk was more than we started with.” Sturges taps the whirring machine-gun turret as they pass, fingers tingling from that brief contact. “And I’m a repairman. Give me the right tools, the right scrap, I can fix up anything.” Grins, taps Preston’s shoulder. “Even you, if you’d let me.”
“And what makes you think I need to be fixed up?” Preston asks. Playful, like his voicebox remembers how to make the right noises, but eyes still creased with guilt.
“Don’t know about need. Know about want.” And one benefit to doing this on the perimeter rounds means that only the moon’s gonna witness his humiliation if Preston says ‘no.’ “Know that you do mighty fine work and you’re a damn good man. And the world would be a lot colder without you in it.” One long exhale, licking his chapped lips. Tastes barbecue, a lingering sweetness and hint of salt. “And I’d really like to kiss you, and I’d like to think my kisses aren’t gonna break you.”
“You mean, you’ve also--?” says Preston, and his laugh’s disbelief, but his eyes crinkle a ‘yes’ without words. Moon bright and dazzling in his eyes.
Sturges tilts his head, puts a hand on Preston’s shoulder and rises to tip-toe. Preston dips to meet him, and their lips press soft and warm. Short and breathless and dizzying. Like those metal bands around Sturges’ heart finally relaxed, and he forgot what it was like to breathe full and deep.
“You sure know how to make a man feel wanted,” Preston murmurs, still so close that his lips brush Sturges’ cheek with every syllable.
“Haven’t even begun to show you.”
And the other benefit to doing this on the perimeter rounds-- the moon’s their only witness as they practice through their second kiss.