Impulse
by Miriam HeddyBug had weighed the human heart often enough that he knew it to be nothing more than a nerveless mass of muscle about which he no longer harbored any illusions. Sure, he could admire the complexity of it-- the nearly perfect operation of it-- the asymmetrical shell the size of a clenched fist, and no less powerful. He could even admire the moment when it failed, the heart coming to a sudden, abrupt stop, as all things driven by impulse eventually did.
But come Valentine's Day, he always had a hard time drawing a connection between the endless pink and red candied confections that sprang up everywhere at work and the more prosaic lump that beat inside his own chest.
So it was with some horror that he looked up from his larvae and saw the passing expression on Nigel's similarly pasty face-- there and gone again-- a slight narrowing of his eyes that etched lines into his high forehead. It was... unfathomable, he thought at first, then quickly re-categorized it as ridiculous, as the reality of it began to sink in-- as he became fully convinced that the strange frisson of oddness that sometimes happened between them was not an accident, nor some vast misreading on his part (and those were common enough; he had no illusions about his own social skills).
But that was it, wasn't it? A fellow misfit feeling something more than solid (if slightly warped) friendship for him-- something that, should he reciprocate, would turn him from outcast to, well, cast out. And there was the great irony-- the one that kept him up at night watching Voyager episodes until his brain went numb. Was there a threshold for alienation, a point of abjection after which one was forced to, as Nigel apparently had, cast aside the weight of public opinion and live only for oneself? Did anyone really volunteer to wear a red shirt?
He could reject it all, of course. Naturally, he should. Ignoring it would be one better, as Nigel would never have the heart to press the issue, and would, instead, consider Bug safely oblivious, at home and knowledgeable only within the confines of his own brain, terrarium, television, microscope, computer-- the small, compact, contained technologies of a small, compact, contained coward.
The hell of it was, he had gone so far as to test out a bit of harmless flirtation with Woody, prodded himself into it when the opportunity presented itself-- when Woody gave him an opening by opening his shirt. He'd told himself at the time that Woody was an asshole-- that if he was intent on exposing his overly developed pectoral muscles to the world, he deserved that and more. He'd seen Nigel toy with people for long enough now to know how it was done. And he'd taken some pride at having been somewhat successful at it, though in the end, Woody had played along and not been such an asshole after all. And if Woody had turned out to have a thing for anything other than tall brunettes... Well, that was one thing they apparently shared in common.
Bug could well-imagine Woody's surprise as Bug pushed him to the floor, overpowering him and wiping that overconfident, idiot's grin off his face-- taking him hard on the floor of his own office, where any beat cop could walk right in and see them "wrestling," as Woody had put it-- a comment that revealed more than anyone wanted to know about Woody's uninspired (and uninspiring) adolescent, locker-room fantasies. He doubted Woody's American education had included reading Lawrence, and even if it had, Bug certainly didn't have the urge to ring Woody up at odd hours of the night to discuss literary bondage fantasies. Whereas Nigel....
"Bug!"
"I-- Damn." Bug looked down, following the direction of Nigel's concerned gaze, and saw the problem-- then felt it-- the pulse of blood in his hand gathering around the inch-long welt made by the empty slide he'd held too tightly in his fist. The slide dropped to the floor, spattering a few drops of blood on his untucked shirt as it fell.
"Hold this. You're bleeding."
So much for Nigel's grasp of the obvious. He reached out for the white gauze Nigel offered, but Nigel didn't let go of it, insisting on dressing the wound for him and keeping pressure on it, so that Nigel's hand ended up wrapped against his own, holding the sterile gauze against the wound.
He must've swayed a little-- though not, he was sure, because of the sight of blood. He felt the edge of a chair against the back of his knees-- and, just before he sat down, he leant forward and took a handful of Nigel's hair right at the nape of his neck, pulling Nigel toward him and kissing him on the mouth, or trying to, as his aim was thwarted by Nigel's feint to the left for some more gauze.
Still, there was some contact-- he felt the briefest touch of Nigel's mouth against his own, the impression of it confused by too many other sensations, foremost among them Nigel's cold fingers pressing against the layers of gauze that he'd wrapped around Bug's hand with less skill than one might've thought, given his medical degree. And then the kiss deepened, Nigel turning his head slightly in precisely the right direction, cooperating at last, the soft brush of his long hair tickling Bug's cheek and catching in his stubble. Nigel-- Nigel tasted like burnt coffee and smelled like rubbing alcohol, familiar even over the copper tang of blood in the air.
"The dressing's slipping," Nigel mumbled against his lips.
"Yeah," he agreed. The blood was already turning tacky, the sweat from his palm stinging in the wound.
Bug kept his uninjured hand firmly against the back of Nigel's neck as Nigel pulled away from him, glancing at their conjoined hands. "I should see to it, then. You might need stitches." Nigel's voice was distant, breathy. In that moment, Bug couldn't say he trusted Nigel's diagnosis.
"It's not bad."
"Isn't it?"
Bug couldn't answer, at first, but was glad he hadn't called it superficial, as it certainly wasn't that. Now, as they both looked around the room at once, the sudden, mutual awareness of where and who they were forced some space between them. Nigel's hand slipped from his own and Bug loosened his hold on Nigel's neck, bringing his hand to rest on Nigel's shoulder, and was glad when Nigel didn't pull away entirely, instead shifting his attentions to finally examining the wound, fussing over it for far longer than was really necessary.
"I'll survive," Bug insisted again, staring at the flat part of Nigel's hair, at the beads of sweat at his slightly receding hairline.
"Hmm," Nigel hummed, and Bug could hear as much as feel Nigel begin to relax, his awkward ministrations at least suggesting he was familiar with tending to living flesh. "You and Miss Gaynor, Buggles. But the true question of the moment is, will I?"
Bug kept his silence, as he had no ready answer for that. He was far too inexperienced to trust his own judgment, and he suspected that Nigel wasn't expecting consolation.
Still, he worked at readying some assurances as Nigel moved away from him in search of the butterfly bandages that were inexplicably missing from the room's First Aid kit. It was easier, for the moment, not looking Nigel in the eye-- easier not seeing his expression turn to one of smug conquest (or worse, that wounded pout Nigel always wore when he felt he was being taken advantage of).
Thankfully, when Nigel returned, his face was impassive, only the clenching and unclenching of his fists as he beat them against his thighs indicating his mood.
The wound, bled clean and now well-dressed, had already begun to clot and heal, though the pulse of pain lingered as he clenched his fingers into a fist to keep from reaching out for Nigel's restless hands.
But Nigel moved first, pulling him into a swift and awkward embrace, then just as suddenly pushing him away before it threatened to turn into something more. And though Bug knew that it was only adrenaline making his heart beat faster, he was momentarily, irrationally, tempted to call it love.
—FIN—
© 2006
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