Title: The Communion of Contact
Author: hardboiledbaby
Fandom: Nero Wolfe
Pairing: Nero Wolfe/Archie Goodwin
Rating: PG-13
Length: 401 words
Content notes: none
Author notes: For the fan_flashworks "communication" challenge. Written to mellifluous_ink's prompt: Canon says Wolfe has an aversion to touch, and a demonstrated dislike of sentiment. What if these are linked, and Wolfe uses touch to communicate sentiments he thinks words cheapen and cannot adequately describe--like love?
Summary: Even for Wolfe, there are things and times in life for which there are no words.

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Wolfe likes words. I suppose that goes without saying, considering both the quality and quantity that he uses on any given day; not to mention the fact that the dictionary in the office (Webster's, not the 3rd edition) isn't merely for show. He chooses his words carefully, each one selected for the precise shade of meaning he requires: always the right tool for the job. He also likes people who use words properly, or at the very least, he's willing to make concessions for them that he probably wouldn't otherwise. Conversely, he vociferously disapproves of those who don't use words the way he thinks they should be used.

Yes, he'd approve of "vociferously," I think. I looked it up.

But even for Wolfe, there are things and times in life for which there are no words. Or more accurately, the only words to be had are pale and weak and wholly inadequate. He detests their failure and therefore eschews them altogether.

"Eschew." Another good word. Let me explain.

Take the orchids, for example. He hardly ever says anything sentimental about the beauty of the flowers he labors so hard to produce, but make no mistake, he is moved by them. The care he lavishes on the plants is both tender and protective, his gentle touch as he handles the delicate blossoms a testimony to the true state of his feelings.

This is no small thing, this touching. When it comes to people rather than orchids, Wolfe rarely deigns to touch or to be touched, shaking hands only when necessary and disdaining the casual bumping and jostling that the rest of humanity endures. Like his words, his touches are used with eloquent purpose or not at all.

And yes, "eloquent" is the precise word. I ought to know.

I once said I wanted no one's skin grafted to mine, even his. I meant it then and I mean it still. I choose my words carefully, too.

What I do want is for his skin to touch mine, to communicate without words what he feels, what he thinks, what he needs. Who he loves. Everything that he is, everything we are. I want that—the press of skin to skin, the communion of contact.

I use "contact" as a noun, of course—the way he thinks it should be used. After all, Wolfe is willing to make concessions when I use words properly.