Aniya

He met her kiss readily, and brought a hand to support her head. Slowly, and without breaking the kiss, he lowered her to the pillow. He settled on an elbow himself, his legs entangled with hers: partly on top of her, partly next to her, so as not to smother her with too much of his weight. To leave her wiggle room, a way out, despite an undeniable want to wrap himself around her.

Only after minutes, did he break away. 

“I don’t wanna be dramatic–” He spoke softly, almost whispered. A grin crinkled skin around his eyes and down his cheeks, “But if another bomb were to drop on Boston to freeze this moment in time, it’d be fine with me.”

He’d be exactly where he’d want to be. 

But he left that part implied, unspoken. And he certainly wouldn’t admit it’d be everything he’d want out of what was left of this stupid life. That no other ambitions of his came remotely close enough to top it. 

No, he wouldn’t add any of that. That kind of inane shit from the mind of an infatuated, lovestruck jackass, wouldn’t do either of them any favors. Not now.

“Couldn’t even be bothered.”

He half-expects her to argue that if he can bring her gifts, then he should be more forthcoming when she wants to do things for him, as well. Though never adverse to a hearty, heated argument to get the blood pumping, this is nice too.

It’s automatic, really, how as soon as she gets on her toes, he brings an arm around her back to alleviate some of the strain, and leans in to meet her.

He laughs, just happy to see her happy. What a change from the last time he witnessed one of her protocolled, robot-enabled, not-really-much-of-a-surprise parties. She barely dared to look him in the eye, then.

Granted, he hadn’t been much of a proper guest, either. Didn’t exactly bring any enthusiasm or cheer to the table that day. Just booze, and that was mostly for his own peace of mind.   

“I don’t hate getting them for other people.” He draws back a bit to look at her, resting his arms on her shoulders. “Least of all for you.”

He took her face between both hands, and brushed his thumb along her cheek, smiling faintly.

“… Ah. Well, these things happen. It’s a high-risk, high-reward sort of business, baking.” He lowered his hands to her waist and turned her around, making her face the damning evidence that sat on the counter– but doing it together(!), looking over her shoulder. “So what can we salvage from the wreckage?”

“Adventurous.” He smiled at her, and it wasn’t even mocking or teasing. He walked on over and bent down to greet her with a kiss.

“So how’d it go?”

As if he couldn’t smell, or spy over her head, the answer to that very question.

It was Hamlet who’d awaited Rick beyond the old barricades to escort him past the defense system and let him into the bunker. Almost like a real butler, preceding a distinguished guest to be presented to the lady of the manor. Rick snorted to himself at the thought, though the image was soon forgotten.

The moment the reinforced door slid open, a waft of disaster came up to greet him. Something smelled… burnt. And it wasn’t the usual smell of recently soldered alloys or overheating hardware, either. No, this was distinctly culinary.

How puzzling.

“Hey, ‘Niya.” Rick trailed to a halt at the foot of the steps. “What did I miss?”

He tilted his head, pressed the side of his face against her palm. God. This was something else. Her hushed tone, the way she looked at him in the low, pulsing light. No noise of fifty other people getting drunk in the next room over. 

Quiet, intimate. Veritably fucking romantic.

How long had it been since it’d felt like this? Barring two nights ago, how long since he’d been touched by someone who halfway gave a shit? Years. Ten? Fifteen? More than he could stand to quantify. Tenderness was never a priority, all those years of hooking up at the first coy glance from across the bar. Maybe afterwards, but even then they were just empty gestures, theater. This felt different. It felt different from their first night, even. Less pressure, less of a desperate hurry.

He turned his head to brush his lips along her fingers, before he took both her hands, put them on his shoulder, and lifted her up.

“Nice, isn’t it?” he said, softly, echoing his own words from two nights prior. He lowered them both to the bed. “To agree on something for once?”

Goddamn. Her laugh really could make or break him. He hadn’t realized how much was riding on it, until the sound of it came with a wave of relief. He let out a breath, a quiet chuckle, and drew her tighter against him.

“Well…” He mumbled, reaching with his unoccupied hand to take the curtain off a hook beside the window and let it fall shut in front of it. “Nowhere’s perfect.”

He stepped back and took her hand, drawing her with him to the bed. “But I think I can forgive the lack of a mountainscape outside my window if it means I got you within walking distance.”

Rick squinted at the distant zeppelin. The bulk of it was just a slightly lighter shade of dark against that of the night sky, but the well-lit gondola underneath was hard to miss. So, what the fuck did she mean, ‘is that the Prydwen’? How many other airships did she know?

“It is.”

He turned to her. His arm slipped out of her grasp, and moved around her back. He grinned, though it was only half there, tentative, unsure whether he ought to try and pretend to be funny at all, considering how poorly his last attempt went down.

“Convenient, too.” He kept his voice low, as if this was him surreptitiously flirting rather than cracking a joke, “This way I can keep an eye on all those vertibirds you don’t want me to hijack.”

It took Rick no time at all to figure out that the only way to prevent this from getting even more awkward, was to keep a reassuring smile on his face and go ahead as planned. He stomped down the urge to deflect. As alluring as it was to about-face right into tidying his kitchen, allowing a moment to build himself up again, it would only make her feel unwanted. And she’d blame herself for it while she was at it.

Christ, no. If he had to stop to lament every moment he ruined, he’d never get anywhere. Suck it up and smile.

He picked up the oil lamp. “This way,” he said, and preceded her out of the kitchen, up the last flight of steps into the attic. It didn’t use to have a landing, but he’d built a wall out of planks in the rafters, and fitted a door. Just something about an open stairwell right next to where he slept didn’t play well with his survival instinct, so he’d fixed it.

He went in ahead of her and put the lamp down on a nightstand – a touched-up crate on its side with a shelf fitted inside. The bed was similarly make-shift; two layers of old pallets tied together, a salvaged and restored mattress, and a bunch of blankets and pillows piled on. The big, fabled window with its promises of a spectacular view on the sunrise, was black now. Rick walked over to it.

“Not the best view this time of night, but look,” In the far distance, behind the ruins of East Boston, the old jetport and the Brotherhood’s big fuck-off blimp were a beacon of light in the dark, “I got those show-offs for a night light.”

If that face she’d pulled just moments ago was her ‘trying to joke about it’, then he was in for a confusing time. As problematic as that would be in the foreseeable future, that wasn’t even his biggest problem right now. A much more immediate problem was how the hell he’d move them on from this.  

“Well…” He spread his hands and dropped them again with a chuckle. “I can’t reverse time, so it might be too late to not apologize.”

Christ, would you look at that face?  

“He was gonna be down past Florida in the Caribbean, so I asked him for coffee this time.” He reached up to brush some of those curls aside, only for them to fall right back in place. “I stopped by Tidings the other day, to see this scavver I asked for those jukebox parts. She offered me a cup of coffee, and it wasn’t nearly as bad as I remembered–”

Probably because Holly’s cabin wasn’t fraught with bad memories in the making, the way that canteen in Rivet City was.

“– so I figured I’d give it another chance.”

No, he thought. Not always. There’d come a point, eventually, when ‘tomorrow’ would be too late.  

“Right,” was what he said, running his fingers up and down her arm. God, it was a nice night, wasn’t it? What was it about this particular darkening sky and moonrise that made him so needlessly miserable? It couldn’t be the view, or the company, so what the fuck was up with his mind?

He set his bowl aside, right next to his Remmington brand of bug deterrent, and he lay back, hands linked behind his head. “By the way, Simon radioed me yesterday. He’s going to be in the area in a couple of days. Anything you want him to bring you from faraway, exotic shores?”

He peered at her a moment longer, then let his head hang with a sigh and pushed away from the table.

What could he possibly say to that? This was exactly what kept throwing him down this spiral of doubt, every time, for the past two years. She would practically beg him to stay, convince him she wanted his company, while not five minutes later she’d go on to say something like this, something based entirely on the opinion that he was an asshole who didn’t give a shit about her.

Why the fuck would she want the company of an asshole? It didn’t make sense. Was she just looking for more evidence to confirm what she already knew? Why put herself through that? Was she waiting for him to take it upon himself, again, to stay away for her own sake? Would she have what she wanted, then?  

“All right.” It was safe to say all humor had well and truly drained from his features. “I’m sorry.”

Before the smirk on his face could grow too obvious, he drew his lip between his teeth and narrowed his eyes. Leaning his hands on the table, he brought his face – while still not quite level – closer to the height hers was at.  

“D’you know what? I think you’re right. I’ll get you a blanket.”