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Robert didn't like nicknames.
Okay, it wasn't that he disliked them so much as he ... didn't appreciate them.
Be it from some form of his beaten down half-dead ego shrieking in vain, a demand to be seen & taken seriously or from simply not caring to be called a name that holds a different meaning to him—that have shoes much too big for his feet to fill—he just preferred... Robert.
Was that such a crime?
To want to be called the name (cruelly? He's still debating the ethics on multiple levels) given to him.
He's also sure he's heard it all.
Rob, Bob, fucking Bob-Bob, Bobert, and—honest to god—Bertie, though he was quick to shut that one down immediately.
He always played it off with a dry smile that felt more forced each time; wow, that's... very creative. You sure you don't want any more time to think that one over?
He's also given up on protesting at this point, the strength to reiterate his full name falling shorter with each exasperated sigh pulled deep from his chest.
It doesn't even bother him in the way it used to make his skin prickle uncomfortably anymore, just a spike of subtle annoyance and then begrudging acceptance.
A nickname never made him feel like this, though.
You'd said it so casually, as if this is always what you'd called him; like he was always okay with it.
"How many copies are you making?" You had asked after finding him already hunched over the copy machine, a few papers stacked in your hands.
"Not many," he replies, carefully adjusting the paper on the scanner before he gave you a fleeting look, "I can get those for you after I'm done. How many do you need?"
You denied his offer with a small smile that made it impossible to look at you without that godforsaken thumping to start in his chest.
"That's kind of you, but I got it, Bo. I can wait."
It was like someone had activated their time manipulation powers, his body halting in its movements even as the machine carried on in its noisy task.
Wide eyes stare bewildered at the bar light slowly crawling underneath the glass surface, watching it make its full pass before it pulls itself back to the start.
Robert finally looks up, but not at you.
He's turning his head about, eyebrows furrowed as his eyes scan the room. He... doesn't know anyone named Bo. Shit, he should really expand his social circle if he doesn't at least know names in passing at this point in his job.
Blinking, that pinched & incredulous look meets your amused grin.
"You good?"
"Yeah—" his voice cracks and he clears his throat with a brief grimace before trying again, "Yeah, I'm good. Who...?"
You let out a quiet chuckle, your own brows mirroring his, "...who was I talking to?"
At his nod, your amusement dampens with a nervous edge that accompanies the uncertainty of accidentally treading over an already over-trodden line.
"Oh. I, uh, was talking to. You."
It comes out painfully stilted, your head turning to look out on the bullpen like you weren't inwardly strangling yourself in your growing panic.
The sounds of the copy machine clunking and whirring takes over again. Long enough that, despite your nerves, you brave a quick glance at him.
He looks... pensive.
He usually looks pensive, when nobody's pestering him or harassing him, he gets this look on his face. Like he's back in the past again; like it's his refuge from the present.
Though, this time, it looks more contemplative than distant.
With a nervous sigh, you wave your measly stack of papers at him slightly, "The nickname thing. Right. Sorry, that—" you try not to wince at how honestly & pathetically insensitive you sound, "It slipped out. I wasn't even thinking. That's my bad, Robert."
Beautifully burnt brown flits up to you, eyebrows creasing further in subtle confusion before they smooth in understanding.
His lips are tugged into that little (infuriatingly cute) crooked side-grin he does as he waves his hand back at you casually, "No, don't sweat it. That one was... new."
Despite his reassurance, your stomach still knots, "Seriously, I'm sorry. I don't—"
"Bo..." his volume is quiet, mostly to himself, but it cut you off mid-word as if he had screamed it.
He's watching the light start its crawling journey again, watching it jerk to a stop at the other end of the machine before retreating back to its starting point.
That's... oh.
Something in your chest freaks the fuck out when you notice how soft the skin around his eyes are, not creased or wrinkled in distaste or discomfort.
Like he was discovering something surprisingly pleasant; trying food that didn't look as good as it smelled, trying on a jacket that fit perfectly despite how it looked hung up, a gift that was politely declined still showing up anyway.
It has you in a trance, staring at him with slightly widened eyes. Even under the harsh fluorescent of the office lights, he looks– He looks warm.
"Bo," you repeat dumbly, nodding like he had just stated the sky was blue and, whaddya know? Stars live there, too. Really? You had no clue.
That half-nailed on grin widens just a bit, almost resembling an actual smile as he looks back at you.
"I kinda like it," he murmurs, as if admitting it would unlock a tidal wave of other attempts he had no patience for.
You blink, still trying to re-tether your brain back down to your body from where it tries to float away. Attempting to keep the giddiness out of your voice, however, is a greater task.
"Really?" You beam, although your stammering backtracking is faster than the word that left your mouth, "I. Mean, awesome! That's... I'm glad you like it."
"Where'd you think up 'Bo'?"
This time, you shrug, fiddling with the papers still in your hands, "Well, I had to do some thinking and it took a bit,"
It doesn't get past him that you had apparently been chipping away at this for longer than a day, a realization that deepens his smile when you looked away.
"There's not many nicknames you can get from 'Robert'," you continue, "and the main hitters were already taken."
Ah. He knew which ones you were talking about immediately. Something sinks in his chest at your consideration; a consideration that apparently is too much for most people to actually take.
Robert opens his mouth but you're still going, now lost in your own world as you passively watch the office life around you.
"And I didn't want to... add to the list of less-than-stellar, y'know? I wanted something that still worked but was still..."
Special, you almost say. I wanted to be different and special and unique—
Instead, you shrug again, this time accompanied by a huffy exhale, "I dunno. I'm... really glad you like it, though."
When you turn your head back to Robert, you nearly jump when you find him already staring at you intently. His full attention usually made you nervous for a different reason, but the added element of that glint of... something you can't decipher makes your heart race.
This time, amidst the already quiet of another mini-staring contest, the machine falls silent in its work, a small beeping chime announcing that Robert's copies are complete. And yet, he doesn't move.
He stares at you for a few moments more, that gentle, unfamiliar gleam in his eye, that charming little dimple appearing next to his smile.
Like a smooth idiot, you nearly choke on the way your breath hitches, saving it with a harsh cough into your fist.
"Your, uh..." you gesture to the machine, unable to hold that simmering contact anymore, "...it's done."
This kicks Robert back into gear, his gaze coming back into focus with a few rapid blinks and a slow draw of air through his nose like he was just released from the clutches of dreamland, "Oh. Yeah, right."
You decide you can come back later, body far too warm to continue waiting directly next to the man currently whacking the butterflies free from whatever crevices in your stomach they had hidden themselves in.
You barely get to angle your foot to turn away before he speaks up again, almost rushed before slowing down when you pause.
"I meant it," this time, he keeps his head down as he collects his papers, "...I like it."
It makes you freeze, the sincerity with which he says it. Another confession hastily spat out.
Your own grin crawls back onto your face, though he can't see it with his back to you. It's gentle, just like the one he had given you moments ago.
"I'm glad. I'll see you around, Bo."
In your hasty retreat to your cubicle—you were about to slam your head into your desk a few times, just to recalibrate—you don't see how his shoulders hitch, how his ears grow a lovely shade of pink. He doesn't even remind you that you had your own things to copy; it completely slips his currently racing mind.
Robert remains hunched over the copy machine for far longer than he should, until the next person needed to use it.
Yeah. He liked nicknames.