Work Text:
Ash
Ash doesn’t even look up from the microscope as he mutters, “It would be considered a defacement of government property.”
“And it would be fun,” You reiterate, cradling your tub of polishes in one hand and snagging a rolling chair with the other, “You’ve heard of fun before, haven’t you, Ash?”
“Only from you, my dear.”
You’re still getting used to his new name for you, and something flutters in your chest at the sound of it. You know he doesn’t really mean it in a romantic sense- he couldn’t possibly- but it still makes your cheeks heat up. You push your feelings down as best you can and sit backward in your chair, scooting forward to perch your little box of supplies on an unclaimed corner of the android’s worktable.
“Come on,” You urge, “Your nails are organic, anyway. I can just take it off before we get home.”
Ash sighs softly through his nose, leaning back in his chair to look at you. As he takes in your relaxed form, uniform discarded in favor of comfortable clothes, something urges him to oblige you. Something akin to jealousy coils in the back of his mind, a dark, inky thing that he has no control over. Suddenly, he wants to observe you- to be on the receiving end of the affection you so casually bestow on the other crew members. And so, he feigns disinterest as he hooks the edge of the bin with one finger and drags it toward himself.
“You will help me remove this before we go into hibernation, of course.”
You nod excitedly, draping your arms over the back of the chair and letting your chin rest on them as Ash picks through the bin. The android can’t find the plain, clear lacquer that his databanks tell him most people use to protect their nails- all of your clear polishes are contaminated with various glitters and pearlescent add-ins. But, isn’t that just what he’d expected of you?
Ash settles for the least offensive option- a clearish pearlescent lacquer that almost matches the flesh on his hand- and gracefully plucks it out of the bin. You hold your hand out flat, expecting him to drop the bottle into it, but Ash gently sets it in your palm and unfurls his hand until it completely covers yours. His fingers trail over your palm and down yours, featherlight, and you swallow hard at the contact.
Your hands shake minutely as you unscrew the lid and reach for Ash. Jesus, why are you so nervous? The android notes the sudden spike in your temperature and heart rate at his touch, and that oily presence in his mind preens at the effect that he’s having on you. You hold the bottle and Ash’s hand in one hand and wield the brush with the other, and the android returns to his microscope. Thankfully, your hands steady once you lose yourself in your task. You run into an issue when you realize there’s no room for your chair on the other side of the scope, but Ash just sweeps some paperwork aside and pats the countertop with one hand without looking away from his samples. You plant yourself there and take his unpainted hand in yours, hunching over to see it better in the lamplight.
Ash observes you in his periphery, samples momentarily abandoned in favor of noting the curve of your spine, the delicate way that you maneuver his fingers, the crease of concentration between your brows as you try not to paint his skin with the polish. He decides then and there that he likes it. He wants more of this casual affection- more of your time- more of you. He wants you to keep touching him. He needs you to continue to banter with him and spend time with him instead of wasting your efforts on the crew. As he pushes his hand forward in your grasp and listens to your soft inhale at the first brush of his fingers against your inner wrist, Ash decides that he’s going to keep you for himself.
Bishop
Hudson lets out a dramatic oooooh! from somewhere behind you, quickly joined by Vasquez and Drake. You turn in your seat to glare at them and find yourself face to face with the front of a familiar blue uniform instead. Your eyes trail upward to see Bishop’s passive face peering down at you. His voice is soft and mildly curious as he asks, “What’s all this?”
“You could also try saying hello, while you’re at it.” You snort, turning back to the task at hand.
“Hello, then.”
You feel the android’s fingers against your back as he plants his hands on the back of your chair and looks over the top of your head at your freshly-dried nails. You wave your hands a few times to get some airflow over them before carefully checking each one with the pad of your middle finger.
“Don’t we have pens for that sort of thing?” Bishop inquires, voice tinged with confusion.
“Yeah, but it kinda ruins the experience.”
“What experience?”
Bishop skirts around you and plants himself next to you on the cafeteria bench, one leg on either side of it so he can face you. Without asking, he takes one of your hands in both of his and inspects your work.
“Does it take very long?”
“Uh, no,” You sputter, trying and failing to hide the shakiness in your hand as Bishop simply holds it and stares at, “Why- you want yours done, too?”
It’s meant to be a joke- you even laugh a little on the delivery to make it obvious to the android, but Bishop’s face is solemn and serious as he looks up at you through his lashes and murmurs a firm, “Yes.”
To say that you’re shocked would be an understatement. You stare at Bishop with a slack expression, and the android’s brow furrows in slight concern, “You alright?”
“Oh, yeah!” You chirp, swallowing hard as you try to regain some composure, “What, uh, what color do you want?”
Bishop shrugs, one corner of his mouth twitching into a ghost of a smile, “You choose.”
He lets go of your hand to allow you to sift through your things, and you let out a little triumphant sound when you find a shade of blue that closely matches his uniform. He gives a tiny nod of approval when you show him the bottle and eagerly holds out a hand for you to start with. You debate using a nail file on him, but what’s the point when his nails are engineered to be almost perfect, anyway? He sits perfectly for the entire process, only shifting once to fold one of his legs up onto the bench, and watches closely as the brush passes over his nails.
“It’s cold.” He murmurs, eyes flicking upward to meet yours for a moment.
“Sorry.”
“Just an observation.”
As you put the last of the color on him, you groan in realization, “Dammit- I could’ve been using the UV lamp from the lab this whole time!”
You let go of Bishop’s left hand and he holds it in the air at the same height as his right, perfectly still. You stand and mutter, “I’ll go get it, hang on-” and make it about two feet from the table when Bishop calls your name.
“I’d much rather do this the old-fashioned way,” He quietly requests, eyes wide and trusting as you turn to look at him, “Please, take a seat.”
You do your best to ignore the Marine’s hooting and hollering as you breathe, “Alright,” and reclaim your spot next to the android. And it might be your imagination, but he seems to perk up at the promise of keeping your company for a little while longer.
David 8
When you set your supplies on the break room table and start to sift through your bottles of polish, the last thing you expect is to see a familiar head of blond hair peering over your shoulder. You jump at the intrusion, one hand instinctively shooting up to cover your heart.
“Jesus, David-”
“You’re usually in the botany lab by 15:37. It’s now 15:45,” The android calmly interrupts, “What are you doing?”
“My nails,” You breathe, body relaxing as the adrenaline wears off, “Want me to do yours?”
“Why?” He murmurs, breath ruffling the hair at your temple as he leans forward to note the myriad of colors before you, “It serves no function.”
“Why do you bleach your hair?” You quip, turning your head to look at him and feeling butterflies as you take in how close to you he really is.
His eyes flick upward to meet yours as he purrs, “Touché,” lips twitching into the faintest approximation of a smile. David notes the way that your eyes dart to his lips, your pupils dilating minutely, and feels a deep satisfaction thrumming in his circuitry. Oh, how he loves your reactions- all of your little tells that give away your attraction to him. He’s studied and logged them all. Now, knowing that you want this kind of attention, it’s even more rewarding to experiment with more overt gestures like this. He lingers in your space for a moment too long before he steps around you to take a seat to your right.
“However,” David continues, seemingly unaffected by the moment you just shared, “I believe I would enjoy doing yours for you.”
Did he really just offer? He’s programmed to serve, sure, but not to help with mundane shit like this. Unless…
David’s blue eyes bore into yours, patient as ever, and he lets out a patronising little tsk as he leans forward and gently pushes your jaw upward to close your mouth. He pointedly ignores the color rising on your cheeks, choosing instead to turn to your array of bottles and murmur, “May I?”
Your brain finally catches up with you. You nod and watch with rapt attention as David sets aside three completely different colors and stands to grab something from one of the cabinets across from you. He returns with a shot glass and begins pouring different ratios of each color into it. It mixes into something you’d never consider putting on yourself, and you open your mouth to say as much, but David cuts you off by holding his hand out for yours.
“It compliments the undertones in your pretty skin,” David purrs, something vaguely like mirth shining in his eyes, “If you please…?”
Pretty? Since when did WeyYu allow these kinds of interactions? Your stomach flips nervously when you look back on previous encounters with David and once again conclude that this is part of whatever personality the android is developing- he’s choosing to talk to you like this. Something about his tone feels more like a command than a question, but his compliment stuns you into complying. You let him take your hand and find yourself enjoying the attention as David manipulates your fingers, careful not to smudge them as he works. When he’s finished, he makes a point of putting all of your supplies back into the carrier, but when you stand up to return to your quarters, he stops you with a gentle hand around your wrist. The android lifts your hand toward his face to inspect his work, breath warm as it breezes between your fingers. You tense when his lips brush the back of your hand and stretch into a smile that’s a little too sharp at the edges, his eyes meeting yours over the tops of your fingers as he murmurs, “Beautiful.”