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Nora organized her brushes. She was lucky to find a box of them at the hardware store that she and Nick had cleared out a few months ago. They were old, but still good, especially once she was able to clean them up with turpentine. She sorted through them at the workbench she had set up at the sanctuary house: filbert tips, flat tips, a fine liner for detail work. She ran her thumb over each bristle bundle, testing for give, pulling any loose hairs. They were designed for pigment, but would also suffice for oil and grime. She told Nick they were for her ongoing painting restoration project she had in the spare room of the house, which they would be. The painting was just something to work on to keep her hands busy and mind focused away from bigger problems. She’d seen the thing a million times before… everything. A four-foot wide oil painting that used to hang in the museum she used to dream of taking Shawn to when he was old enough. She pushed the thought away. There was no baby. It would probably take years to get anywhere near what someone would call “restored” but it was more about having something to do. But right now, the oil painting was not the restoration project she had in mind.
Next, she cut clean cloth into squares, humming along with Ella Fitzgerald on the radio. She ground a mint leaf and added it to the glass jar of Abraxo and distilled water. It wasn’t fancy, but it was something that would cut through grease and gunpowder. In another jar, she funneled in some good oil — something she’d bartered for in Diamond City. She had motor oil, of course, for the joints, but this would be for the skin, finer and cleaner. This seemed like the right solution, as she'd already questioned Deacon about Synth skin's makeup. She packed tweezers into the kit, a small ivory-handled tool for build-up and rust, a few improvised cotton swabs, a mirror, a thermos of boiled water. Everything went into a canvas bag she’d stitched together herself. She didn’t label the pockets; there was no need; everything always went in the same order, like the keys of a piano.
For most of her adult life, Nora’s hands had gently cleaned countless delicate, damaged items— smooth, cracked china, smoke-damaged frescos, and the soft, fragile weave of antique fabrics. She wasn’t a mechanic, but she knew how to take care of things. When she was finished, she sat with the bundle in her lap and pressed the heel of her hand to her chest. Her heart wasn’t racing, but it was loud in her ears. Was this too invasive? She hadn’t practiced what she’d say or how she would ask. All it was, was a thank you, in the way she knew best. If he said no, she’d let it go. But if he said yes—if he let her—then she’d spend the whole day doing the thing she was best at. With him. For him.
Nick was where he usually was late afternoons—on the roof of the weapons shack, coat off, spine leaned against the half-repaired vent, a busted deck of cards in his lap and one leg bouncing to a rhythm only he could hear. Nora climbed the ladder to join him overlooking the settlement. He didn’t look up until she hit the roof with both feet, taking a long drag from his cigarette.
“Well, hey there, Professor. Come to tell me I’ve been shuffled wrong?”
“No,” she said, unable to keep from smiling. “I uh, came to make you an offer.”
He raised a brow—what was left of it, anyway. “If it’s about that fence Sturges keeps guilt-tripping me over, I got two words—”
“I want to clean you.”
Nick blinked. “I’m sorry, you want to—?”
“ Restore you,” she corrected, sitting down. “I mean, grime, buildup, all the little rust demons crawling around in your elbow joints.”
“Kid…”
She clicked her tongue, hating it when he called her that. “I’m not a mechanic,” she said, already preempting the protest. “But I’m very, very good at cleaning delicate things. You qualify. As an antique, after all.”
Nick snorted. “I’m barely holding together as it is.”
“Exactly.”
He gave her a sideways look. “You realize it’s all just gonna build up again. Road dust, gun oil, soot, miscellaneous post-apocalyptic bullshit—”
“Then I’ll do it again.”
His brow furrowed. “It’s not gonna make a difference.”
“It’ll make a difference to me.”
Nick went quiet. He tapped the edge of the card desk against his knee, gaze unfocused, somewhere out past the ruins. “I’ve got parts in here from four different donor models. Half of ‘em weren’t high grade to begin with. You go digging around, you’re not gonna find anything worth preserving.”
“Lucky for you, I’ve always had a thing for junk.” She was always saying these things, veiled confessions of love that he never picked up on.
He let out a breath that sounded suspiciously like a laugh. “You’re not gonna let this go, are you?”
“Nope.”
He looked at her again, properly this time, with her arms crossed, chin high, that look she got when she was three seconds from calling his bluff. Her hands—he noticed—were already smudged with residue and mint. She’d been ready for this.
“You got a date in mind?”
“Tomorrow. You, me, a workbench. Maybe some music if the radio decides to behave.”
“I’m not sure you’re prepared for what a mess I am under the hood.”
“I’ve seen worse. I dated a printmaker once.”
That made him grin wide and warmer than should be possible on a man made of plastic and sprockets and servos. He leaned back on his elbows, eyeing her suspiciously.
“Alright, kid. You win. One full-service polish and scrape, courtesy of the professor.”
“You’re welcome,” she said, stealing his cigarette and taking a drag herself. She’d smoked in art school, and it had become another bad coping mechanism since thawing.
“Hey, those are mine,” he tried.
She handed it back to him. “I’m pretty sure these are the ones I brought you from the station.” She stood and began to make her exit as gracefully as she could manage.
“Nora,” he said, quietly, making her look up, meeting his bright eyes. “Thanks,” he said, “For thinking I’m worth the elbow grease.”
She winked. “Any time, big guy.” And she was gone.
Nick had made it halfway across the road before he considered turning around. Not because he didn’t want this, whatever this was. She’d said it so plainly. “Let me clean you.” Like she was offering to take a bullet out, nothing but practical. But it was intimate. He was glad he didn’t blush, not the way a person would. The door was open when he got there, the radio on in the distance as usual. Nora never let the house get too quiet, it made her start listening for an infant crying under the sound of the wind. Everything inside was patched together with the same kind of stubborn, exacting care she gave to patrol routes and broken hinges. He stepped inside and took off his coat. She smiled when she saw him, as always, getting the coolant to pump with renewed vigor. The bench was set up: brushes, rags, a couple small picks, the homemade soap in a tin.
“Morning, Nick,” she said, pouring herself a cup of instant coffee.
“Good morning, professor,” he answered dutifully, taking his seat.
“You don’t have to be weird about this,” she said, wetting a cloth.
“I am not being weird.”
“You’re sitting like you’re about to get dissected.”
“Feels an awful lot like a petri dish down here.”
“Uh-huh,” she chuckled. He did everything he could to give her as many of those as he could. Laughs, chuckles, wry smiles. He told himself it was because it made her feel better, made her feel more normal, as opposed to his desperate need to endear himself to her.
“I’d like to remind you that I won’t be seeing anything I haven’t seen before, so don’t get shy on me now.”
“Whatever you say, Doc.”
She started with his collar, unbuttoning it some, folding it down, and running her calloused fingers along the seam of his plating like she was checking the stitching of a hem. It made him want to squirm. She scrubbed gently behind his jaw where the buildup was worst. She was methodical and focused behind her glasses; her features scrunched up charmingly.
Nick looked out the window. The air was clear and blessedly clean. He could see her reflection in the glass—jaw tight, brow furrowed, mouth pursed in concentration.
“You ever get tired of fixing things?” he asked.
“Um, I don’t think so.”
That surprised him. “No?”
“No. I like the work. There’s always a beginning and an end, and always something else to do afterwards. I never have to wonder what to do next.”
He nodded. It was the kind of answer he hated and understood in the same breath. She moved on to the intact side of his face, and he fidgeted with his hand.
“You alright?” she asked.
“Still vertical.”
“Blink if you want me to stop.”
“Blinking’s not my strong suit, doll.”
She grinned.
He held still as she worked along the edge of his jaw, picking carefully around the old plating, never flinching when the skin gave way to metal. He didn’t realize his hands were clenched until she nudged his elbow.
“Relax, Nicky.”
“That easy, huh?”
“Try it sometime.”
“I’d need a cigarette for that.”
“And let you ruin all my good work? Not a chance.” She switched to a finer brush and worked under the ridge of his cheekbone with quick, practiced motions. Her breath was slow and even. He knew what she smelled like, even if he couldn’t quite enjoy it the way he wanted to.
“You know,” he teased lightly, “this is technically a violation of warranty.”
“You expired two centuries ago, handsome.”
“No need to flatter me, kid.” He could have short-circuited. They were always going back and forth like that, joking and flirting. He should stop encouraging it; it only made his… his what? Nick supposed he could say it made his metaphorical heart hurt, maybe. He really shouldn’t be capable of the feelings he had for her, but there they were. Admiration, and more than that, love. As she kept chipping and brushing away at the buildup, she grew quieter, laser-focused on her task. On him. She really shouldn’t be wasting her time. He would just get dirty again, his joints would get craggy and sticky, and his face would become filthy, and on and on until one day he would fall apart. He could only hope it would be in her arms when he did.
The bristles caught on something—a bit of fused dirt where his collar usually sat. She softened it with her soap, her thumb pressing against the spot until it gave. He didn’t flinch, but his hands curled a little tighter around his knees.
“You alright?”
“Fine,” he said. His voice was lower than usual. “Feels... weird. Not bad.”
She was working on his arm now, the bad one, getting into every little crevice she could find, carefully attending to rusted screws, cleaning them with solution and steel wool, keeping careful track of each and every one. No one had ever cared this much about his body, about him before, not that he could recall. He’d been a bucket of bolts as long as he could remember, not worth salvaging.
Working under the ridge where the plating met his clavicle. Her thumb anchored him at the shoulder while she used the pick with short, sure motions to dislodge the past. It was absurd how steady she made this feel. How her silence could take up so much space. He could’ve said nothing. Let the scrape of her tools fill the room. Watch her dark, thick eyebrows furrow silently for an hour.
“You ever do this for Nate?” he asked stupidly. “Get under his toenails and all that?”
She didn’t stop working but she smiled a little. “I trimmed them.”
He smiled. “That’s dedication.”
“You want me to trim your toenails, Nick?" she jested, looking up at him briefly from where she sat on her stool.
The coolant was sure as hell skipping through his systems. "Thanks, but no thanks, doc. I have a specialist for that."
She laughed out loud, a rare and sparkling sound. He was jealous of Nate again, not an infrequent thought. Natee got to hear her laugh so much more. She had one of those real, ‘Ha ha ha!’ laughs, her voice cracking. She wiped the spot clean and shook her head, rinsing the cloth in a bowl beside them.
She sniffled. “I cut his hair once. Back before we had Sean. He asked me to. Said it was too expensive to keep going to the barber.”
He laughed once, dryly. “You butcher it?”
“Terribly. He said he liked it. Said it made him look tough.”
Nick nodded slowly. “You believe him?”
“Not even a little.” Her chuckle this time was more familiar; sadness belying the momentary delight.
He let the silence hang for a second. Then, he pressed on carefully. “You miss him.”
She didn’t say anything at first, but she nodded, continuing to work on his hand. “He… was my best friend for five years. Did I ever tell you that? We were friends in college. He was a little older, fresh off serving in infantry. Wanted to get an education. He was a local boy. His family was all here. He was going to school for... Journalism. That's right. We sat next to each other at a performance at the school, that’s how we met. I ended up integrating with his friends. We were really good friends.” Her hand stilled, but she didn't tremble.
“You don’t have to keep going if it hurts,” Nick offered.
“I know.” There were minutes more of silence before she spoke again. "Sometimes I want to go back so badly it hurts. But those days aren't every single day anymore." She moved to his shoulder next. At her request, he’d unbuttoned his shirt and slipped it off. The plating there had oxidized more than she seemed to have expected. Tiny deposits. She switched tools and pressed on. Pick and rinse. Pick and rinse. Her hand braced against him. Nick watched her fingers or her eyes when he couldn't see her hands.
“I ever tell you,” he said after a while, “that the real Nick hated getting his hair cut?”
She didn’t look up. “No.”
“Wouldn’t let hardly anyone touch it. Jenny said he’d wait until it was halfway down his neck before he gave in. Even then, only her.”
“Control thing?”
“I think so.”
“Have you ever let anyone do this before?” she asked.
“No,” he said. “Never thought it was worth the time, personally.”
She sat back a little, cloth in one hand, that small pick in the other, her eyes scanning for what was next, her face only inches away. And he thought, wildly, without: If she asked me to kiss her, I would. But of course she didn’t. She dipped the pick into a tiny tin of solvent and tapped off the excess. She leaned in once again, steady and sure, to keep cleaning the mess he assumed was permanent.
"You know, I hate it when you say 'the real Nick.'"
"I don't mean anything by it, just saying what's factual, Professor."
That earned him a dirty, pointed look over her glasses. "He is not 'the real Nick.' You are also 'a real Nick'. You're my Nick." She huffed and readjusted her frames. "Sorry. I'm the last person who should tell you how to feel about that stuff."
“It’s alright,” he said, trying to push his love further and further away.
She adjusted the pick in her hand, the point barely touching the line under his jaw where the plating curved toward his ear. “Hold still,” she repeated.
“I am.” “Still-er.”
“A synth cannot sit any more still than I am now, doll.” He smiled faintly, but she was quiet again, her expression denoting her deep focus. She was always cataloging, sorting, measuring. She worked the edge of a junction where old carbon had blackened the synthetic mesh. He felt her breath when she leaned in. Her glasses slipped again.
Then, softly, without looking up she said, “I’m glad I never met him.”
He blinked. “Who?”
“The other guy.” Her hand didn’t pause. She kept cleaning.
Nick wasn’t sure what to say. Usually, that meant filling the air with a quip, a deflection. But nothing came. “You don’t mean that,” he said eventually.
“I sure as hell do.” She wiped along the edge of his jaw clean. “I think about it sometimes,” she continued, “what it would’ve been like. Knowing Jenny. Knowing Nick, before. But then I think—if I’d met him, it would be harder for me to know you. And I wouldn’t trade knowing you the way I do. You're the best thing in this shithole,” she added, wiping away more of the surface-level grime from his good arm. There was a high-pitched whine in his left auditory relay—old hardware, overclocking again. Usually, it only happened in a shootout. Now, it happened during cleaning. He watched her fingers work the grime out of the mesh as if it were a meditation practice. And maybe it was her kind of meditation. Maybe that’s why she liked it so much, cleaning and caring for things.
They prattled on about before, about after, about life partners and everything in between. They talked like this on the road all the time, but they were always getting interrupted by the whiz of a bullet going by or a supermutant screaming for dinner around the corner.
Finally, after hours of delicate work, she handed him a mirror. “Take a look. Pretty good if I do say so myself.”
He offered her a sardonic expression. “I better look like Cary Grant after all that.”
She smiled and shrugged. “Close enough, Valentine.”
He regarded himself in the mirror. He wanted to make some joke about having the same ugly mug as before, but that would just undermine all the time and effort she went to. And truthfully, the longer he looked, the more he noticed. He’d never seen his skin so clean. It was now a warm ivory, as opposed to a pallid gray and yellow. “Damn, kid, you should start a business.” His jaw, too, had a looseness that he couldn’t remember ever having. He was used to fighting with every minute movement, but now everything seemed to glide. It wasn’t perfect; half his face and left hand were still torn to shreds, but… hell. “This is… well, this might be the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for me.”
She rested a hand on his good shoulder. “The treatment should also help keep you from getting too grimed up too fast again. I take care of my guy.” Her face fell as she said it, her eyes suddenly wet. “Sorry. I… that was a Nate thing.”
He couldn’t for the life of him figure out what that made him feel.