Summary: You're sick to death of listening to people insult and belittle Nick; you take matters into your own hands, much to the Synth's surprise, but your methods are a little bit unorthodox.
Warnings: None, except for blood, violence, and foul language. NICK GETS SUPER PISSED AT YOU, and you also share a kiss. 💋
IT'S FLUFF.
Notes: This is SELF-INDULGENT AF. I hate it when people insult Nick in the game. This is my way of getting them back! And I want to kiss him and tell him I love him so bad. ;-:
Word count: 2k
It was the final straw, the one that broke the brahmin’s back, Nick Valentine left to defend himself against hate and bigotry for the umpteenth time, and you would not be party to it.
For so long you had traveled by Nick’s side, learning of the many facets to his personality. If there was a single thing about him you did not like, it had to be the ease with which he practiced self-deprecation, not knowing how to remedy the awful perception he had about himself.
Oftentimes, he regurgitated what came out the mouths of others; it had been internalized, compartmentalized, processed, and stored in his long-term memory, the detective unable to let things go—just like so many cases that remained unsolved.
“Shit, a Synth— don’t come near me. What a freak, thinks he’s human…”
“Don’t worry, I wouldn’t go near you if it meant tomorrow I’d wake up from this nightmare.”
Your soul ached, knowing that every insult, every snide remark caused some level of psychic damage to your partner, his expressions all too readable for those times he was robbed of his fragile dignity, though always walking away the bigger man.
A culmination of varying factors led you to this, Nick’s tragic past haunting not only himself, but you; what you wouldn’t give to make it better, only wishing you had the power to convince him he was worth more than half the Commonwealth combined.
If Valentine could equate himself to nothing more than garbage, you could be the one to remind him that someone else’s trash was frequently another’s treasure— in this case, he was yours.
Though not privy to your feelings, you adored Nick completely. So much so, you were not above engaging in a physical altercation on his behalf.
“Say that again,” you threatened scathingly, turning to face the asshole who had just dared to disrespect your companion, and for no good reason.
“I said he’s a freak, lady—and what’s a pretty thing like you doing traveling with him, anyway?” the ill-mannered caravan guard asked, acting as if Valentine was some disease he could catch, making a blatant show of his disgust.
The hired gun pulled no reaction from the Synth, though Nick stared at you tight-lipped, unnatural, glowing eyes trained hard on your face. His silence spoke volumes, instructing you with a stern look beneath the shade of his hat to drop the matter and turn the other cheek—it was something you weren’t willing to do this time, meeting your newfound enemy head-on.
“Apologize!” you demanded, shoving your adversary backward with a forceful push, both your palms making contact with his ribs. Your cheeks burned, accompanying a rise in your temper, readying yourself for if this vermin should do anything but grovel at Nick’s feet.
“Forget it, this guy ain’t worth it,” Nick offered laconically, hoping to appeal to your common sense. “I’ve heard worse in my time; being called a freak is the least of my concerns.”
“But you’re worth it!” you protested, Valentine’s forehead arcing upward at the conviction in your voice. He had a momentary lapse, his concentration faltering as he tried to get a handle on the situation, Nick having visualized an entirely different outcome based on variables that were currently in flux—namely the sudden change in your mood.
It seemed the shithead had caught on, smarter than he looked, eyeing the two of you with suspicion and derision, as if the very idea you could have feelings toward this hunk of junk was baffling when able-bodied, strong men like him existed.
“Oh, I get it. You’re real sick, lady, a real pervert—you fucking a machine? What’s the matter, human men aren’t good en—”
The jerk was cut off mid-sentence, your balled up fist coming into contact with his jaw; a resounding crack split sound waves as blood spurted from his lips. His colleagues had already wandered off down the road, not wanting to be a part of whatever trouble he had found himself in, having silently agreed to let this member of their team fend for himself.
“You fucking bitch!” the guard twice your size growled, swinging wildly only to miss. Your leg extended; you were pleased when he stumbled, only wishing he had fallen flat on his face.
“Now, wait a—”
He was quick to right himself, spinning on the ball of his heel—you were quicker, kneeing him in the nuts so hard he doubled over, but you weren’t finished yet.
Lifting your arm to gain momentum, you drove the point of your elbow into his spine, causing the offender to drop onto the dirt at your feet.
“I'd say he's down for the—”
Nick couldn’t get a word out; you didn’t appear to be listening, the android observing your uncharacteristic actions with rapt concern. You were pounding your knuckles into the bastard’s nose repeatedly, sticky crimson coating your fist and the man’s sorely wounded face.
As if coming to from a trance, Valentine whisked forward, snatching your wrist before you could cause the poor schmuck any more damage, thinking he may look worse off than even he, what with his bare wires and metal frame exposed to the elements.
“Hey! What’s gotten into you?!” Nick barked, his tone alone condemning your inappropriate conduct, the Synth yanking you up so fast you audibly gasped.
“There ain’t no excuse for this—this guy may be a jackass, but that doesn’t mean he deserves to die!” Nick protested, brows knit in anger the likes of which you had never seen.
You glanced down, only now seeming to notice the extent of his injuries; the man was out like a light. You only cared because he did.
“Nick, I—” you began, voice quavering, losing all resolve as you had been forced to witness Valentine’s sweet disposition vanish, quickly replaced by something undeniably frightening.
You never once imagined yourself to be the victim of his choler, finding you absolutely hated it, breaking down all at once to cry despite not meaning to. You felt simultaneously overwhelmed by guilt and embarrassed beyond measure, unable to look him in the eye.
“Don’t Nick me, this isn’t like you, this—” The man froze, his grip slackening as he loosely held on, thoroughly confused by how you could go from nearly murdering a man in cold blood with your bare hands, to shedding tears in the span of under a minute; he moved to grasp you by your shoulders.
“What’s going on?” he asked, perplexed, the question dry on his tongue. He searched your face for any hint of what the matter was, wondering if you’d lost a screw sometime after leaving Diamond City, as he thought he had a handle on how you operated.
You could not will yourself to respond, vision clouded, droplets pelting your cheeks as you gazed at the ground. You felt worse than a scolded child; you had never meant to upset him so, it being decidedly more terrible than any physical pain you had yet to endure.
“Look at me, damn you!” Valentine demanded, gently jostling you back to the present moment, though your tears only increased, Nick having never cursed at you before.
“Valentine,” you whispered, eyes shimmering, Nick’s fury subsiding to a dull roar as he waited for you to explain yourself. The crease of his brow evened out, the Synth notably more relaxed, though he did not trust you wouldn’t lash out again.
“Go on,” he urged sharply, wanting to get to the bottom of your behavior. It was unnerving, not knowing what else you were capable of at the drop of a dime.
It was an understatement to say that he was surprised when you lifted your arms, pulling the man forward to enfold in your tight embrace. You buried your cheek in the tattered, stained fabric of his coat, crying more softly now as it started to rain.
“Don’t listen to them,” you pleaded, “don’t ever listen to them. You’re perfect just the way you are,” you spoke with earnest, your lips pressing a tender kiss to the spot that lacked a heartbeat, though the gesture stood apart on its own.
“I can’t stand it—the way people treat you, the way they talk down to you—if only they knew—if only they could see what I see—” you sobbed, the sound of your cries muffled against his chest; it was firm, his shirt smelling like coolant and ozone—cigarettes mixed with something earthy—you breathed in deeply, overcome with silent relief when Nick placed his metallic hand on the crown of your head.
“I... I appreciate you, doll,” he started, his voice turning toward a soothing cadence, the way he pet your hair in long, slow strokes comforting you more than it should. “But you didn’t have to do that; would have preferred if you didn’t. Jerks like him get their comeuppance, but it shouldn’t be at the price of dirtying your hands.”
You had never been this intimate with him, nor had you ever planned to be—his words were unscripted, and his affection given of his own volition. You curled in tighter, nuzzling your way into the crook of his good arm, wanting to entomb yourself there for all eternity.
“I’m sorry,” you offered apologetically, feeling the pressure of Nick’s own arms around you, returning your hug, making you feel as if you could die happy at this moment, not minding in the least that there was an unconscious, bleeding man lying only a hairbreadth away. “It hurts me, like I know it hurts you.”
Nick was quiet, mulling over the fact it didn’t do you or him any good to disparage his own person when there were others to do it for him. He had never considered the effect it might have on those around him; it came naturally to want to harp on his own shortcomings—or had it come natural to the real Nick? That was the million-dollar question, wasn’t it.
“You’re right, it does. But I shouldn’t let it bother me, not when I have people like you by my side.”
“I love you, Valentine,” you countered, not recognizing the softness of your own voice. You felt a shift beneath you, your head being coaxed to rise by way of a slow tilt of your chin.
Nick stared down at you, gleaming, golden eyes emoting dolefully as he gazed into yours. He held a deep-seated sorrow, not only for you, but for himself, wishing that he was human, if only so he could touch you, hold you, kiss you the way he wanted to.
“That’s not the smartest thing you’ve ever said, but I take it you mean that,” Valentine replied, bending low to brush soft, silicone lips across yours of flesh and blood; they were cool and rough in texture, but not unpleasant. The fact he was kissing you at all was a dream come true.
“With all my heart,” you replied, cupping the Synth's battered cheek in the bowl of your palm, fingers trailing over artificial skin in a light caress.
“So, that’s what this was all about,” he remarked, conjuring up a smile. “You know, I’d give you mine,” he added solemnly, his glum tone indicative of something he was not telling you.
Instead of elaborating, Nick changed the subject, always one to brighten a dark mood. “Next time, just tell me what’s on your mind instead of beating the living daylights out of some poor schmo, all right?”
You managed a smile of your own, delighting in his sarcasm, glad for the fact your confession had taken a lighthearted turn. “I can’t make any promises,” you quipped.
The detective gave a small shake of his head, that lopsided, infectious grin of his spreading up one side of his face. “Taking a page out of my book, are you?”
“I learned from the best,” you breathed, kissing him once more. Though selfish of you, for all you cared, the world could undergo another nuclear war, and you wouldn’t bat a lash, not for as long as you had your funny Valentine.
