Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Your breath comes in short pants as you pelt down one of the Sulaco’s sterile, white corridors. Hudson’s angry voice echoes from somewhere behind you. He, Vasquez, and Drake are hot on your tail, seeking revenge for their newly-dyed uniforms. It’s all in good fun, of course- the three of them switched your fatigues out for a ridiculous bunny costume a week ago, and you were forced to do drills looking like a messed up Playboy ad- but you fear whatever form of embarrassing torture might be in store if they get their hands on you.

Your boots squeak on the laminated floors as you hook your hand on a doorframe and use your momentum to swing into what you hope is a closet, and your stomach drops when you realize you've stumbled into the lab- arguably the sparsest room on the ship. Your eyes quickly scan the room for a place to hide and land on a workstation that has a completely enclosed leg space. You scramble over to it, dropping to your knees as you go, and slide into the space just in time to hear someone close a cabinet somewhere in the room. Soft footsteps are steadily approaching the desk.

“Shit.” You whisper to yourself.

You startle when you lean out from under the desk to see that Bishop is right there, one hand anchored on the edge of the desk. He’s bent forward as if he was just about to investigate your hiding spot, brow slightly furrowed as he peers curiously at you. You hear your friends tromping down the hall and whisper, “You didn’t see me,” as you fold yourself back into the alcove. The door to the lab swishes open, and Vasquez’s angry voice fills the room.

“Bishop, have you seen our shithead coworker anywhere?”

“Can’t say that I have,” The android smoothly responds, and his sneakers come into view as he blocks the alcove and rearranges something above you, “Sorry.”

“Aw, man!” Hudson whines, “What’re we gonna do now?”

You listen to the three of them argue their way out of the room, their voices fading down the hall. Bishop waits for a moment before he steps away from the desk and extends a hand to you. You take it and allow him to haul you to your feet, muttering your thanks. His lips quirk into a tiny smile as you dust yourself off.

“I can only assume that the pink uniforms aren’t standard-issue.” He deadpans, stepping around you to get back to work.

“Ah, no,” You laugh, “They’re my own design.”

“Is this because of the costume from last week?” 

“You saw that?” You groan, moving to stand to one side of the work station, “Yeah, because of costume. I figure if I had to endure a day of mortification, they could survive a week of mild embarrassment before the company sends ‘em new uniforms.”

“Why do you do it?” The android softly inquires, looking up from his work to meet your gaze.

There’s genuine curiosity shining in his eyes, and you find yourself smiling at him. For all of his infinite knowledge, the concept of something as commonplace as a prank escapes him.

“It’s funny.”

“That’s all?” He murmurs, frowning slightly.

“It’s, um… I could explain it, but I’d be rambling, and it would take a while.”

Bishop seems to perk up at the prospect of an explanation and gestures to an unused rolling stool that’s been shoved into a far corner of the room, “I’m technically on-shift for… the foreseeable future… if you’re willing to sit with me.”

You turn the offer over in your head. You haven’t interacted much with the android aside from the occasional passing greeting or some banter when he joins you and your mates at your table, and the more you think about it, the more you realize that you’d like to be friends with him. You nod to yourself and wander away to retrieve the stool.

“Was that sarcasm?” You scoff, glancing at Bishop over your shoulder.

He doesn’t look up from his work, and his response is a simple, no-nonsense, “Yes.”

Bishop spends the next two hours updating SDS labels and performing general lab maintenance while you talk at him. Your explanation of the joy of practical jokes leads to a conversation about the technical differences between pranking and hazing, and that, in turn, paves the way for talk about how you became friends with your fellows in the first place. He seems to be taking note of what you tell him- asking you blunt questions and stating his opinions on concepts that seem nonsensical. His openness is oddly refreshing, and he doesn’t shrink away when you get comfortable and decide to drop your social persona. On the contrary, the android only becomes more engaged in your discourse.

Your stomach has horrible timing and chooses to rumble in the midst of a lull in the conversation. You let out an exasperated huff, “Lunchtime, I guess.”

“Ah- I’d forgotten,” Bishop quietly exclaims, “Sorry for keeping you for so long.”

“No, no, I had fun!” You assert, grinning at the android as you stand up and push the stool back into its corner, “I haven’t really talked to you before. I liked hearing your thoughts.”

“I’m grateful that you felt comfortable enough to be yourself with me. I hope I get to see more of it in the future.”

His face is impassive as always, but there’s an undeniable warmth in his tone that has an embarrassed heat creeping up the back of your neck. Your lips part in a shaky laugh, and you mutter, “See you around, Bishop,” as you turn on your heel and walk out of the lab.

You see him again in the loading bay, less than a week later. One of the new pilots decided to land a dropship on a jagged cliff edge, and you got assigned to the wonderful task of patching the hull. You sigh as you pull your helmet on and lay down on a creeper. Hicks should really be doing this instead of you- he’s the better welder, anyway- but he and Ripley are on leave for the better part of the month. Your ion welder spits and fizzles in your hands as you roll yourself under the ship and begin tacking the new steel plate into place. You’re so focused on keeping your lines straight that you don’t notice Bishop’s shoes coming to a halt next to your head. You can’t see him through your helmet, so it’s only after you roll out from under the ship and flip up your visor that you startle and choke out, “Jesus Christ-”

“Why does Hudson exclusively use sexual humor with his friends?” 

“What?” You wheeze, staring up at Bishop as you lay there and try to catch your breath.

“Private Hudson,” The android clarifies, “One of the three who were chasing you earlier this week.”

“I got that part,” You wave a dismissive hand at him, “What was the rest?”

“He and Drake bicker almost entirely in the form of sexual jokes- Can I sit here? Thank you- and I’d like to know why.”

You sigh as Bishop sits cross-legged next to you, flipping your visor down and reigniting your welder. The android pushes you back under the dropship before dropping his hands into his lap, waiting for your answer. You know that he can hear you over the noise- his audio processors are far advanced compared to your ears- so you talk at a normal volume as you ask, “Why didn’t you just ask one of them?”

“I did,” He shouts, “Drake gave me a vague non-answer and Hudson made another joke about intercourse.”

“Typical,” You grumble, “Well… people make sexual jokes at each other’s expense because it’s a subject that most people are generally very embarrassed about. You get a more visible reaction out of someone if you A.) Make a sex joke where they’re the punchline and B.) Make an outlandish assumption that the person then has to deny, thus furthering their embarrassment.”

“Why do it in the first place?”

“Why does Hudson do anything?” You counter.

“He wants attention.”

You nod as you finish your initial welds and pass the welder to Bishop, “Grinder?”

The android is quick to comply, slapping the tool into your hand and continuing to linger while you work. His company, though silent, is unobtrusive. You find that you don’t mind it, and after you’ve cleaned up your tools, you make a point of asking him if he’d join you for lunch. 

“Do you mind another barrage of questions?” He replies, lips stretching into a faint smile.

“Do you mind a lot of very blunt answers?”

“I’d prefer them.”

Eating lunch with Bishop quickly becomes a habit, whether it’s the two of you at your own table or the android making a point of sitting across from you amid a crowded table of Marines. You start to respond to his confused tells on autopilot. Every time something puzzles him, Bishop pauses what he’s doing and tilts his head just slightly to the right, and you’re quick to supply an explanation. You can talk at normal volume- even whisper if you want to- and the android can pick your voice out amid the cacophony of shouting and cackling at the table. You find yourself looking forward to seeing him every day, and after two months of shared meals (and the occasional lab visit on your part), you ask him about his feelings on the matter.

The hallway outside of the lab is dark, per the Sulaco’s day/night lighting cycle, and the room itself is lit only by the wall-mounted spotlight over Bishop’s station. You’re perched on the exam table, cross-legged and drumming your fingers on your knees as you watch him work. With him, long silences feel comfortable instead of awkward. The lab has quickly become a safe haven when you’re tired of Hudson’s constant yapping.

“Bishop, are we friends?” You blurt out, feeling a momentary jolt of self-consciousness at the bluntness of your question.

The android doesn’t even flinch as he serenely replies, “I’d like to think so. I’d be glad to change your social category to ‘friend,’ with your permission, of course.”

“My huh?” 

“Social category,” He murmurs, poring over order sheets for new medical supplies, “I have a basic profile of everyone on board, and I’ve been considering changing your social category from ‘UA Marine’ to ‘friend.’ Assuming that you wouldn’t mind it.”

“I’d like it,” You admit, nodding even though the man isn’t looking in your direction, “I keep mental files on people, too. Drake’s category is ‘asshole.’”

Bishop does his version of a laugh- little more than a single, harsh huff through his nose- and glances over his shoulder to give you a gentle smile.

Thursday

You barely hear your name being called as you rivet one last reinforcement plate into place. Squatting on the edge of the grease pit probably isn’t the safest option, but it’s the easiest- you can anchor the plate with your feet and keep the rivet gun fairly straight, anyway. You hear your name again in combo with the squeal of metal on metal, and turn just in time to see a stack of pallets cascading toward you. Drake is fast enough to catch a majority of them with his power loader, but two escape his grasp and skid toward the grease pit. Time feels slow and syrupy as you feel your feet slipping on the new plate. You can’t seem to get them under you, and finally, one of your legs slips into the pit- just in time for the pallet to come barreling across it. There’s a soft crunch- like stepping on a bundle of twigs- then pain and blackness.

Someone’s carrying you. You feel your body jostling as someone runs to medbay with you in their arms. You come to just long enough to see Bishop’s wide eyes staring down at you, and then the pain finally kicks in. All you can do is scream and black out again.

“Broken in two places-”

“-likely titanium-”

“-lucky it missed the rest of them.”

The first thing you register is how dry your mouth is. Your tongue feels like sandpaper, and your throat hurts like you’ve been snoring. There’s a soft, low humming in your ears, and after a few minutes of just laying there with your eyes closed, a voice joins the noise.

“Still with us, I see.”

“Unfortunately,” You croak, “Jesus-”

“Here.”

A glass is pressed into your hand, and you open your eyes as you gingerly try to push yourself into a sitting position.

“May I touch you?”

You nod, and Bishop’s quick to put a steadying hand between your shoulders. You mumble your thanks and down half of the water while the android stands beside you.

“Thanks for bringing me up here.”

“Any time. Not that I’m encouraging you to shatter more bones, but I’m glad I could help.”

“I get you.” You tiredly laugh.

Bishop plucks the glass out of your hands and eases you backward so you can lay down again. You shoot him a grateful smile which he returns with his own more subdued version. Your moment of peace is quickly shattered by the shouting of your friends as the door to the lab slides open to admit them. Hudson, Vasquez, and Drake tumble into the room and quickly surround you, gushing about how badass you are now that you have, “A literal plate of fuckin’ titanium screwed to your bones, man!”

Hudson brought you a tiny holographic projection of a vase of flowers and Vasquez got everyone in the platoon to sign a makeshift get well card. As the three stooges stand over you and begin to yap, Bishop quietly slips away. You catch his eye while he’s about to walk out the door and mouth a goodbye to him. His answering smile and tiny wave tells makes something flutter in your stomach, but you don’t have time to think about it as your friends descend on you.

Four Days Later

Six weeks. Six weeks at least until you can go back to work. You hadn’t been able to hold in your frustrated groan at the medic’s news. You get to spend your recovery in your quarters, but six weeks of being bored out of your mind seems like a fate worse than death. As you sit on your cot and debate strangling yourself with a blanket, the medbay door slides open. Your brow furrows at the sight of Bishop.

“Aren’t you supposed to be working?”

“Aren’t you supposed to be at home?” He immediately counters.

“I would be if the medic had remembered to bring me some crutches or something.” You grumble, swinging your legs off of the side of the cot.

The cast on your leg is a sleek, black polycarbonate thing that the surgeon molded to fit your calf. It’s better than the plaster ones from the old days, but it’s still an annoyance that has to stay on for the first three weeks of your recovery. You’re debating hopping back to your quarters on one foot when Bishop interrupts your train of thought.

“Where’s the medic?”

“On lunch, I think.”

“May I take you home, then?” Bishop offers.

“How?”

The android seems to consider your question for all of one second before he shrugs and holds his arms out toward you. You quirk a brow, eyes darting between his face and his hands, “You’re offering to… carry me home?”

“Seems like a better alternative than walking with you and risking exacerbating your injury. And everything about your body language says that you clearly don’t want to stay here.” 

“Don’t we have at least one wheelchair around here?” You pry, frowning at the android.

He just shrugs again and continues to hold his arms out. You huff out a laugh and fight an internal war with yourself. It would be nice to sleep in your own bed, but it stings to admit that you can’t make it there by yourself. Bishop stays silent as you think it over, patient as ever. At length, you do one last visual sweep of the medbay to make sure none of your belongings are laying around. Once you’re satisfied that you won’t leave anything behind, you swallow your pride and give Bishop a nod. The android glides forward and pauses with one hand hovering over your knees and the other near your back.

“Can I touch you?”

“Why do you always ask?” You blurt out, “N-Not that I’m complaining, or anything-”

“I’m required to.”

You mouth, “Oh,” more to yourself than to him. It never occurred to you that touching a person without permission might be seen as a First Law violation. After a moment of turning the concept over in your head, you realize that Bishop is still poised above you, face impassive as ever as he waits for your response. You jolt and let out a nervous laugh, “Sorry- um, yeah, you can pick me up.”

Bishop’s hands aren’t exactly cold, but it seems like his body temperature runs much lower than a person’s- almost lukewarm. He’s surprisingly gentle as he gathers you up, and he waits patiently for you to settle against his chest before he starts walking.

“When do you not have to ask for permission?” You inquire, turning your head to watch where you’re going. 

“When my inaction would cause a person harm.”

“So, if you’d been there when the pallets were falling, in theory, you could have dragged me out of the way and not broken any rules?”

“Something like that.” He murmurs, pausing at a hallway junction to let you give him directions.

You get odd looks from everyone you pass, and after the tenth person ogles you, you start to laugh. The action jostles you a little, and Bishop’s quick to tighten his hold on you as he peers down at you and mutters, “What’s so funny?”

“This,” You giggle, gesturing between the two of you with one hand, “You haven’t noticed everyone staring at us?”

“No.”

His answer is so matter of fact, and the delivery so deadpan, that your laughter only worsens. More and more people stare at the two of you as Bishop carries you through the halls, and when your laughing finally dies down, you look up to see that he’s staring at you. Warm green eyes scan your face with something akin to amusement, and when you ask about it, the android unashamedly states, “You have a good laugh and a pretty smile.”

Butterflies explode in your stomach, and you exhale harshly as your brain reels at the compliment. You feel your face heating up and look away in an attempt to hide it. Bishop misinterprets your reaction and quickly backpedals, “I’ve offended you. I’m sorry-”

“No, no! Not offended. No one’s ever said that to me before, and I wasn’t expecting it. Not offended, just embarrassed.”

“Apologies, all the same,” He softly replies and stops in front of a door that you recognize as yours, “Here we are.”

He does a half turn to help you reach your keypad, and it takes you a second to realize that he’s waiting for an invitation when the door slides open and he doesn’t move.

“Is there a way for you to override that?” You ask as you point the android toward your bedroom.

Bishop gently sets you on your bed before he straightens and does his signature confused head tilt, “Override what?”

“The permission thing,” You explain, gesturing with one hand, “We’re friends, anyway. You shouldn’t have to ask for my permission for everything at this point. It’s kind of implied that you always have it.”

He lets out a thoughtful hum at your proposal, lips quirking into a faint smile as he says, “I’ll consider it, but for now, I’ll keep my manners. I’ll see about finding the medic and having crutches delivered to you.”

“Thanks for getting me home.”

You offer a hand for him to shake and give Bishop a devious smile. The android gulps- actually gulps- and seems to fight with himself for a second before he takes your hand without your express permission and gives it a single, firm shake. He huffs out his signature laugh, and you find yourself chuckling with him.

“There ya go. Wasn’t that difficult, was it?”

“You have no idea.”

Chapter Text

Week Two

You startle awake to the sound of your door chime, sitting up a little too fast and having to anchor a hand on the back of your couch to stay upright. You shake your head to clear it and dig the heel of your palm into one eye and then the other as the buzzing sound fills the room again.

“Door’s open!” 

“No, it isn’t.”

Bishop’s nonplussed tone, muffled on the other side of the door, makes you laugh, “Make a mental note of this: ‘Door’s open’ equals ‘You have human’s consent to enter their abode.’”

“Verbatim?” 

Bishop’s voice is clearer than before, and you twist around to see him standing just inside the threshold with two cafeteria trays- one mostly empty and the other piled high with foods you can’t identify from so far away. You grin at him, and he returns the gesture with one of his soft smiles. The android circles the couch and sets the trays on the coffee table before turning and bending at the waist to stare at your leg. He doesn’t notice the flush on your cheeks as his proximity suddenly reminds you that you’re in sleep shorts and a ratty band shirt instead of your usual fatigues.

“How’s the invalid?” He murmurs, eyes roving over your cast and seeming to look through it.

“Bored as hell,” You sigh, “I’m supposed to start walking around soon, though. I’d like to start coming to see you in the lab again- would be good exercise.”

In truth, you miss him. Just one week of being cooped up in your quarters has made you antsy, and you miss your mutual deep dives into the quirks of other people. It’s nice to have someone who you don’t have to perform for. It seems Bishop might feel the same because he nods and states, “Door’s open, as you put it. I did have a few questions for you while you were gone, but the medic told me that you were supposed to spend your first week of recovery ‘in isolation.’ You should probably eat something before I bombard you with them- it’s past lunch time.”

“Is it?”

You look through your open bedroom door and squint in an attempt to read the digital clock that’s set into the wall. You can just barely make out that it’s almost 13:00, and exhale sharply at the hour.

“I fell asleep at… probably 21:00,” You scoff, “These painkillers are something else.”

“You can stop taking them at any time, and the worst side effect you’ll experience is likely some headaches and nausea for a few days.” The android explains, rattling off that fact as if he’s reading it directly from the label.

He points to the cushion that your feet are resting on and raises his eyebrows at you in a silent question. You swing your legs off of the couch and straighten them so they can extend under the coffee table. Bishop opens his mouth to ask if he can sit down, and you beat him to the punch, “Yes. Please sit next to me, you weirdo.”

He huff-laughs and jokes, “You know me so well,” as he perches on the very edge of the couch and hooks a finger on the lip of his tray to drag it toward himself. Your tray is piled with foods that you’d normally give to someone who’s sick- soup, crusty bread, red grapes, a nondescript bottle of what you can only assume is ginger ale. Something in your stomach flutters at the idea that Bishop chose the food in an attempt to help you feel better, but you push the feeling down in favor of looking between your lunch and his and blurting out a question without considering rewording it.

“Why do you always get food if you’re not even gonna eat it?” 

“I like the normalcy of the routine,” Bishop answers with an easy shrug, “And it means that someone gets an extra portion of something. A small joy, but a perk nonetheless. For example…”

He plucks the single portion of bread off of his tray and sets it on yours in the same divot as the other piece, a barely-there smile tugging at his lips. You huff out a laugh at his little display and thank him as you plant your hands on the couch to slide off of it and sit on the floor. Bishop’s head is already tilted to the right when you glance at him over your shoulder.

“It’s comfier than the couch.”

“I’ve noticed your… interesting take on chairs.” 

“You can say that I sit weird,” You gibe, “I won’t be offended.”

Bishop lets you eat half of your meal in relative peace before he starts in with the questions, and he sits patiently while you eat and answer each of them in turn. His eyes drift around your quarters as you talk. They’re the same as everyone else’s, but your permanent station on the Sulaco means that you were able to spruce the place up a bit. Art and trinkets from your various deployments dot the walls, and the bookshelf that’s wedged into the corner across from the couch is definitely not company-issue. Physical media isn’t quite frowned upon these days, but it’s unusual. You watch the android over the rim of your soup bowl while he eyes the titles from his spot next to you. 

“You can always come in and borrow them, if you want,” You mumble through a mouthful of pasta, “One at a time, obviously.”

“I’d like to, with your permission.”

“You’ve got it.”

Monday

Your entire calf feels like a tender bruise, but nothing seems to be buckling under your weight as you lean on your crutch and hobble down the corridor. It feels good to be up and moving, and even better to wear something that isn’t pajamas after a week of feeling grubby in your quarters. It was difficult to slip your boot over your cast and tuck your pant leg into it, but with some strategic lacing, you managed to make it work. 

“On your way to see your boyfriend?” 

You groan internally at Jenette’s smug voice as she jogs to catch up with you.

“Yeah- you wanna join?”

“Fuck no,” She laughs, taking care not to use too much force as she bumps shoulders with you, “You can have Gort all to yourself.”

“Why’s he my boyfriend, again?” You ask, “Is it ‘cause we made solid eye contact for two seconds that one time?”

“‘Cause the guy was depressed while you were gone, man.”

You frown at Jenette as you trudge down the hall, and she gives you a knowing grin, “Guy didn't show up for lunch at all last week, and then yesterday he just appears and announces that he’s bringing you soup. Soup. Like he’s your mother or something. Three hours later he comes down to the drop ship bay, looking as happy as a robot can look, just to tell the three of us how you’re doing. That’s how I knew you’d be out here- he said you were gonna start walking around today.”

You let out a doubtful hum at her words. Your friend tends to exaggerate, so you can never be sure of just what her definition of ‘depressed’ is, but did he really miss you? He hinted at it during lunch, but it was probably just a formality on his part. 

“Quit debating it,” She playfully growls, punching your arm, “I see you debating it. Do what you do best- be rude as hell and just ask him about it.”

“I’m not rude- I’m honest.” You grumble.

“You’re somethin’,” She laughs, “Have fun in there.”

Jenette speeds up and leaves you alone in the corridor, and your initial nervousness at her words increases tenfold when you look to the left and find yourself looking at Bishop through the lab window. Shit, shit, shit. Is it too late to limp away? The android’s eyes widen a fraction, and you catch a glimpse of his brow furrowing with concern as he stands and swiftly approaches the door. 

His voice is flat and no-nonsense as he states, “You look unwell.”

He moves to stand well within your personal space, hands hovering near your back and your free arm, and gives you a once-over. You can feel the faint coldness radiating off of his hands and do your damndest to suppress a shiver.

“Nice to see you, too,” You shakily laugh, “I’m alright- just lost in thought.”

The android looks unconvinced, and you make a show of rolling your eyes and attempting to to walk around him. Bishop reacts a little too late, and you tense as his fingers brush your upper arm. He utters a rushed, “Sorry,” and steps aside, hands raised like you’re pointing a gun at him. You give him a smile that you hope looks reassuring and know looks nervous instead as you slip past him and shuffle into the lab. He trails behind you and holds his hands out as you hop up and claim your usual spot on the exam table, ready to catch you should you fall. He’s still staring at you, and something tells you that he isn’t going to stop doing it until you explain yourself. Your shoulders heave with a defeated sigh.

“Vasquez said you were sad when I was gone.” 

Your words come out rushed, and you’re quick to prop your crutch up against the exam table so you can free up your hands and fiddle with one of the zippers on your fatigue pants.

“I don’t know that I was sad, per se,” He lightly replies, tilting his head to the right, “I noticed your absence. I often turned around to ask you a question and found myself disappointed when you weren’t in your usual spot. I didn’t want to disturb you during such a delicate recovery phase, so I focused on work to make the time go by faster. I was impatient to see you and talk again. I suppose you could say that I missed you.”

Something flutters in your stomach, and your brain seems to short circuit as you grapple with his words. You feel your cheeks heating up, and Bishop makes a concerned sound.

“You look bad again.” He murmurs, left hand raising and stopping midair in an aborted attempt to test your temperature.

“Jeez- your bedside manner is horrible,” You chuckle, “I’m not sick.”

“Are you sure?”

You huff, lips pressing into a thin line. Without stopping to consider it, you lean forward until the back of Bishop’s hand touches your forehead. There’s a sharp inhale as if he was expecting some sort of electric shock, and then the hand presses against your skin a little more firmly. He frowns when he doesn’t detect a fever.

“If you’re not sick, what are you?”

“Embarrassed and a little nervous.”

There’s a pause before Bishop’s hand starts to drift. The backs of his fingers graze your temple, your ear, the side of your neck, leaving goosebumps in their wake. The sustained contact means that he doesn’t have to ask for your permission again as his hand settles on your shoulder and gives it a comforting squeeze.

“You thought Vasquez was lying to you.”

You nod, and a self-deprecating laugh bubbles out of you, “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

“Rest assured- you’re my friend, and I miss you when you’re gone.”

“I missed you, too.” You admit, reaching across yourself to rest a hand on top of his.

Were you not so focused on staring at the floor, you would have seen the android’s eyes flick to where you’re voluntarily touching him. They widen almost imperceptibly, and his brow furrows as he tries to determine how he feels about the contact, lips parting like he wants to say something. He ultimately decides to stay silent and settles for squeezing your shoulder again as the tense atmosphere between you dissipates. Conversation flows easily again, but as the hours drag on, you notice that Bishop keeps glancing at his hand like there’s something wrong with it.

Wednesday

“What’s all this?” You laugh, stepping into the lab and gesturing toward the exam table.

“You’re supposed to be elevating your injury as much as possible, so…” Bishop reasons, face obscured by safety goggles while he solders something onto a tiny circuit board, “I thought if you planned to spend more time here that I could at least make it comfortable for you.”

The exam table is almost unrecognizable- a plush comforter has been neatly folded into a makeshift mattress pad, two spare pillows from the medbay are propped up against the wall, and two more are laid out halfway down the table for you to rest your leg on.

“This is all for me?” You breathe, looking between Bishop and the table.

The android delicately sets his soldering tools on his station and turns around on his stool, eyes comically magnified by his goggles as they land on you. He nods solemnly and watches while you lean your crutch against the wall and hop up onto the table, taking care to keep your cast from catching on the edge of the blanket as you pull your legs up over the edge. 

“Feels weird to be sitting on a made bed and still be in fatigues.” You chuckle.

“You could always keep your pajamas in here, I suppose,” Bishop murmurs, “There’s an empty cabinet to your left-”

“I’m not planning on sleeping in the lab!” You hastily clarify, “Thank you, though. This is really nice.”

Bishop gives you a more noticeable smile this time, green eyes shining with something like pride as he takes in the praise. You find yourself mirroring him without really thinking about it, and even though he looks ridiculous with his magnifying glasses on, your mind still drifts as you stare at him. You’d never really considered what he looked like until now. Your brain gets carried away as your eyes trace the ridges of his nose, the deep-set lines around his mouth, the crease that’s formed between his brows from years of confused frowning. It takes you a moment to realize what you’re doing and to notice that he’s staring right back at you. His smile has morphed into an expression of open curiosity, and the effect of the safety glasses means that you can see his eyes roving over the planes of your face. Nervous but determined not to let it show, you swallow around the sudden dryness in your throat and try to keep your voice steady as you blurt out, “What’re you working on?”

Bishop doesn’t jolt like a normal person would if they were caught staring- he blinks a few times as if waking up from a dream before his eyes drift upward to meet yours. He lets out a soft, thoughtful hum and seems to consider you for a moment before smoothly turning back to his work and starting to verbally walk you through his project. You can feel that momentary spell break when he turns away, and your shoulders sag as let out a breath that you didn’t realize you were holding.

Friday

You hiss as the medic peels the cast off of your leg. The polycarbonate sticks to your sweaty skin and tugs at your stitches in a way that makes your stomach turn, and it takes everything in you not to jolt away from the feeling. The woman gives you a sympathetic look as she sets the cast aside and leans over you to look at your incision.

“I hate to say it, but you’re in for a little more discomfort. I’m going to give this a thorough cleaning and put you in the scanner to see how the bone is doing. We’ll get a better idea of a physical therapy regimen after that, and I’ll either send you out with the cast on or we’ll let it breathe and you’ll get some instructions for cleaning the wound.”

You nod and lay back in the exam table while the medic reaches above you to pull a nozzle down from the surgical tool apparatus on the ceiling. From your point of view, the thing looks like a gigantic steel spider with each of the legs ending in laser cutters, suction tools, or, in this case, an antibacterial aerator. You’re glad that you were asleep when they worked on your leg- the surgical spider is giving you the creeps. 

“Okay, little bit of a sting coming.” She mutters as the aerator whirs to life.

What an understatement. You’ve had antibacterial ointment before, but this feels like pouring peroxide into a thousand stab wounds at once. You grip the edges of the table and grit your teeth to keep yourself from yelping as the burning sensation spreads from your ankle to your knee.

“Industrial grade,” The medic explains as she works, “Has a binder in it to enclose the wound and trap the antiseptic in. If we end up leaving the cast off, this seal will probably last you most of next week before you have to wash your leg.”

“Doesn’t make this feel any better!” You sarcastically chirp.

She huffs out a laugh as she finishes up. The nozzle arm quickly and quietly springs up toward the ceiling as she lets go of it and moves to rotate your table into the scanner. You fold your hands over your stomach and try not to think about how coffinlike the scanner feels as she pulls the observation window down and closes you in.

“Alright, now, don’t move,” She shouts, voice muffled behind the thick quartz glass, “It’ll throw off the scan, and we’ll have to restart it.”

You nod at her before turning to stare at the ceiling. The white light of the scanning laser is brighter than you expected, and you try not to flinch as you screw your eyes shut against the glare. The chamber fills with a low hum as the scanner goes to work, and you can track a line of heat travelling slowly down your body as the laser takes its readings. Something moves outside, and you crack one eye open to look out the window. Bishop is talking to the medic and taking notes on a tablet, nodding solemnly and hanging on to her every word. Their conversation is muffled, but she keeps gesturing toward you, so it isn’t difficult to guess what they’re talking about. Bishop glances over the medic’s shoulder and visibly perks up when his gaze meets yours through the glass. He raises his right hand to give you a casual salute, and without thinking, you wave at him. There’s a loud, buzzer-like sound somewhere behind your head, and you barely hear the medic’s exasperated groan as she turns toward you and lifts the glass.

“Don’t do that again.” She deadpans, pointing an accusatory finger at you.

“Yes, ma’am.” You quickly reply, dropping your hand to your side and biting back laughter.

You hear Bishop’s characteristic laugh to your right and make the mistake of looking over at him as the scanner starts up again. The android’s lips are pressed into a firm line as if he’s trying to hold in a smile, and your chest heaves with a single, loud snort. The buzzer goes off again, and you start to laugh for real as you watch the medic shout and flap her hands to shoo your friend out of the room.

Week Three

The noise of the mess hall reaches you well before you round the corner, and you can’t help the grin that breaks across your face as you hobble toward the doorway. A quick peek confirms your suspicions- your table is packed as usual. Friday is a good day on the Sulaco because it means that lunch and dinner are real meals instead of pre-packaged cafeteria food that’s been sitting in a heated tray for most of the day. A scan of the faces at your table tells you it’s Spunkmeyer and Drake on KP, and that always means pulled pork sandwiches and heart-stopping mac and cheese. It’s been too long since you’ve been able to enjoy the raucous company of your friends, and you’re both excited and nervous to see them again. You take a steadying breath before you round the corner. You’re just starting to think that you can make it to the table with little fanfare when Hudson’s wavery shout rings out over everyone else’s conversations.

“The cyborg is here!”

The cafeteria erupts into excited cheering, and you feel an icy rush of anxiety as you’re quickly surrounded by your boisterous friends. Someone manages to get an arm around your waist, and you let out a yelp as they start to lift you. Vasquez appears at your side, but she just gives you a smirk in response to the frustrated help me look that you shoot her and bends over to hook an arm under your knees. The treatment isn’t hurting you, per se, but your anxiety starts to peak as you’re jostled around and finally lifted into the air. Someone takes your crutch away and holds it over their head while they follow the impromptu parade.

“Watch the leg, watch the leg-” You shout, caught somewhere between wanting to laugh and wanting to scream for help.

You’re being paraded around the Marines’ table like a champion at a football game. More and more hands are touching your legs, your torso, and your back as more people move under you to hold you up, and in combination with the shouting, it starts to feel like the room is closing in on you. Your chest feels tight, and it’s difficult to take a full breath. There’s nothing to hold on to- your hands clench and release around empty air in a futile attempt to distract yourself. You squeeze your eyes shut, and your mouth starts to form words before you can stop it, voice coming out as a quiet, shaky whisper.

“Fuck- fuck- put me down- someone get me down- oh god-”

“Hey!”

The authoritative shout is so jarring that you don’t recognize the voice. Your comrades freeze in place, still holding you aloft. The racket dies down instantly, and you can suddenly hear your own panicked breaths filling the room. Jenette groans theatrically somewhere to your right.

"Mother's here- party’s over.”

Someone quickly crosses the room and comes to a stop just below you, and you feel the hands on your body shifting to lower you down. A few concerned murmurs reach your ears as your friends see the state that you’re in, and you’re quickly passed off to someone. You’re cradled against a body that feels just slightly cold and smells of sanitizer, and the voice from before returns, this time much softer as its owner speaks just to you.

“Did that technically count as hazing, or should I categorize it as psychological torture for future reference?”

You let out an explosive, shaky bark of laughter at the question, blindly reaching for the front of Bishop’s uniform for something to hold on to and finding his dog tags instead. It’s better than nothing- you alternate between running your thumb over the raised lettering and rubbing the tags together between thumb and forefinger. It helps a little, and the tight coil in your chest loosens a fraction at a time as you feel Bishop take a seat and readjust his hold on you. Your feet contact a bench, and the solid surface does wonders to ground you. Someone shuffles up to the two of you, and you recognize Hudson’s regretful voice muttering, “Hey, man, I’m sorry. Didn’t think we’d trigger World War III there. You still wanna eat lunch with us?”

“Yeah,” You croak, “Gimme a minute.”

“O-Ok. Take your time.”

Your chest keeps seizing up when you try to take deep breaths, and it’s keeping you from fully coming down. You tighten your fist around Bishop’s dog tags and forcefully inhale. The hand on your back begins to move, tracing a slow path up and down your spine as the android starts talking to you in a soft, even tone.

“I finished the book that you recommended to me. Annihilation. Most stories get kind of tiresome because I’m able to predict the plot and the motivations of the characters, but cosmic horror is a surprisingly good loophole. Horrors beyond comprehension are very engaging- I spent a long time attempting to picture what the author was describing, and I believe I felt some semblance of anxiety when I realized that I couldn’t wrap my head around it. All in all, a very good read. I’d like to discuss the ending with you under better circumstances.”

“There’s…” Your voice catches in your throat, and you pause to clear it before continuing. “There’s two more books in the series, but I’d really only recommend reading the third one. Authority is slow and boring as hell, and there’s barely any horror elements in it. Feels like  a three-hundred-page-long paperwork slog.”

Your breaths are coming easier, and you finally have the wherewithal to peel your eyes open. Bishop’s lips quirk into a half-smile as he looks down at you, his hand pausing its movements on your back.

“Any better?”

You nod, letting go of his dogtags to plant a hand on his shoulder. He keeps a steadying hold on your waist as he stands with you, and he lets you lean on him while you hobble over to your teammate’s table. Two of them scoot apart to make room for you, and it takes some doing, but you manage to slip your legs under the table and get situated on the bench. Bishop lets go of you to round the table and take his usual spot across from you, but you still feel a tingling sensation in the spot where his hand was just resting. The more you think about it, the more you realize that you liked being held by him. You miss the closeness already. A squirming feeling of uncertainty settles in your gut. Are you seriously starting to fall for an android? Can he even return feelings like that? Can you go to prison for having thoughts like this? Shit. Your eyes drift to the left to look at Vasquez, and the shit-eating grin on her face does nothing to calm your nerves.

Chapter Text

Week Four

Over the course of your little physical therapy excursions, you’d discovered that the war room was an excellent place for being alone. The walk from your quarters is an hour-long round trip which is exactly how long you’re supposed to be testing your leg every day. On days when you’re bored of being alone or Bishop’s off fixing a different part of the ship, you’ve been wandering up here to read. Of course, everyone keeps tabs on everyone, so if someone really wanted to find you, they could. Case in point: Drake.

“Come on- you don’t even have to dance! Hell, I’ll carry you down there myself if you want.”

You shake your head again, and Drake throws his hands up with a frustrated sigh.

“Jenette really wants you there,” He quietly pleads, “Just think about it?”

You breathe out an, “Okay,” and shake on it with Drake before he leaves you to your book. You take a minute to stare out at the stars and refocus your brain as you consider your friend’s invite. Vasquez’s birthday party is tonight, but you’re not sure if you’re up for it. The point of a party is to dance and to socialize, neither of which are your forte, so it would just be you and a bunch of your drunk comrades. On the other hand, there’s nothing stopping you from sitting in and just observing. 

You sigh as you give up on your mental debate, readjusting so your injured leg can hang off of the armrest of the tiny couch you’ve taken up residence on. It’s not ideal, but it still counts as elevating the limb. The cast has been off for two days, and already the incision site itches like hell. You try to lose yourself in your book as a distraction. Your strategy works a little too well- the Sulaco’s internal lighting has switched over to its nighttime setting by the time you look up again. Your leg is asleep, and you let out a curse as you set your feet on the floor and are overwhelmed with pins and needles. 

“Need a hand?”

Bishop’s voice startles you, and you let out a scared wheeze as your hand flies to the couch arm to anchor you. The android raises two placating hands when you whip around to glare at him, and his apology has a faint mirthful lilt to it. You exhale harshly and shake your head at him. He approaches the couch and watches with open interest while you rotate your foot and wiggle your leg to try to get some feeling back into it.

“I spoke with Private Drake,” He starts, “And he told me that it was my job to convince you to go down to the loading bay this evening.”

Your shoulders heave with a frustrated sigh. Of course he’d try to get Bishop in on this.

“It’s Vasquez’s birthday, and they’re throwing a party down there. Both of them want me to go, but it’ll probably be overwhelming for me.”

“What if I went with you?”

“How would that help?” You snort, looking up at Bishop to give him an incredulous smile.

“I’m not very good at parties, either,” He reasons, spreading his hands, “And we could always peoplewatch, if you don’t mind answering more of my questions.”

Vasquez was very happy to see you, and most of the night was spent in a huddle with your friends as you caught up and bantered. Bishop seemed to enjoy himself, sitting in on the conversation and quietly observing. Every once in a while, he would lean over to ask about phrasing or have a joke explained to him, and the task of meta-analyzing the party was a surprisingly effective way to distract you from elements of the night that you didn’t like.

Now, the noise of the party starts to ramp up as more people get drunk and migrate to the dance floor, and you’re left mostly to yourself. You reach toward your neck to fish your dog tags out of your shirt only to find that you left them in your quarters. You huff frustratedly and settle for picking at the skin around your nails as you try to tune in to the conversations happening around you. You barely hear a clinking sound to your right before a pair of dog tags floats into your field of vision. You cup your hands to let Bishop drop the tags into them. The metal is cool under your fingertips, and the lettering makes a satisfying zipping sound when you rub the tags together. You take a deep breath as you fiddle with them, feeling some of the tension draining from your shoulders, and Bishop’s voice is barely audible over the din as he leans toward you to ask if you want to leave. You shake your head, determined to at least say goodnight to your friends instead of silently disappearing, and the android nods understandingly.

“Well, don’t let me forget to take those back from you later, or you’ll go to prison for stealing company property.”

Tuesday

“God dammit, you assholes!”

Your enraged shout bounces off of the walls of your tiny bathroom as you stare at yourself in the mirror. No one’s there to hear it, but it makes you feel better nonetheless. You thought that your shampoo burned a little while you were showering, and as you look at your brassy hair in the mirror, you finally know why. It looks horrible- a sickly yellow-orange mop on the top of your head. Unthinkingly, you mash your shipwide intercom button and type in the code for the lab. Bishop answers before the first ring can even finish.

“What happened? Are you hurt?”

His greeting is rushed, and your chest flutters at the concern before your original anger sets in.

“I know this is a long shot, but,” You sigh and hang your head, still holding the ‘talk’ button with your thumb, “Do you know how to make blond hair more… blond?”

“Purple is the opposite tone on the color wheel from yellow,” Bishop rattles off, seemingly on autopilot, “If you’re hoping to color-correct, I’d use something purple. May I ask why you called?”

“The stooges switched out my shampoo for bleach.” You grumble.

Bishop lets out a thoughtful hum, and you glare at the intercom.

“I know you’re smiling, you asshole.”

“I promise you I’m not.”

“Do we have anything purple in the lab?”

There’s a long pause and the distant sound of someone rummaging through a storage closet. Bishop’s voice returns, shouting at you from far away, “Do you have any other soap that you could use?” 

You mouth a prayer to yourself as you open your medicine cabinet and uncap your backup shampoo bottle. The contents don’t smell like bleach, and you let out a relieved sigh as you reengage the intercom and announce that you have more soap.

“Is your hair yellow or is it orange?”

“Uh…” You wipe the fog off of your mirror with your forearm and stare at yourself as you try to decide what the line between those two colors really is, “I’m… going to guess that it’s orange.”

“I don’t know how well it will work, but we could try mixing methylene blue into that bottle. It’s a pigment, and it might stain your skin, but it might also solve your problem.”

“I’ll try anything at this point.”

“I’m on my way.”

“Wait, wait hang on-”

The android hangs up before you can stop him, and you let out a frustrated huff as you scramble to dry off. It’s a two minute walk from the lab to your quarters, and Bishop is a fast walker. You limp to your bedroom as fast as you can and dig through your dresser for a shirt that you wouldn’t mind staining. You just manage to throw on your company-issue sweats to make yourself look halfway decent when your doorbell goes off.

“Door’s open!”

You grin at the sound of your front door sliding open. He really did make a note of that, huh? Bishop is standing in the middle of your living room with a tiny dropper bottle in one hand, and his gaze instantly flicks up to your hair when you emerge from your room.

“Don’t say it.” You warn, pointing an accusatory finger at him.

“Looks fine to me.” He mutters with a shrug.

“No, it doesn’t!” You groan, heading toward the bathroom and waving for the android to follow.

He trails behind you willingly enough and lingers in your bathroom doorway while you unscrew the cap on your extra bottle of shampoo. You offer him the bottle and quirk an expectant brow.

“How much should we put in there?”

“It’s a fairly strong pigment,” He warns, “I wouldn’t do more than three mils, to be honest.”

You shrug and mutter, “Let’s try one for starters.”

The stain looks almost like pen ink- you can’t see through the glass dropper when Bishop takes it out of the bottle. He eyeballs the measurement, and when you ask him how he inherently knows what one millilitre of liquid looks like, he shrugs and gives you a faint smile, “When you’ve worked with this stuff for as long as I have, you just know.”

You cap the shampoo bottle and spend an awkward thirty seconds shaking it, looking everywhere but at Bishop while the obnoxious noise fills the room. Both of you lean over the bottle to peer into it as you uncap it. The contents are a dark cobalt color, and it looks promising. You give Bishop an approving nod and sigh, “Well, I guess I’ll give it a try and let you know what it ends up looking like. Blue hair is better than orange hair, anyway-”

“Would you like assistance?”

“What?”

Bishop shrugs like he didn’t just ask to dye your hair for you, “It’s going to stain your skin if you’re not careful. I brought gloves.”

He reaches into his back pocket and produces a pair of heavy black rubber gloves that could only have come from the lab. 

“If you don’t mind having to hover over the tub for a while, I’d like to help.”

Nervousness bubbles in your gut at the idea, but you swallow it down to give Bishop a nod. It would suck to have blue hands and stains on your forehead, and that would look even worse than having orange hair. And he’s right- you have no idea of what you’re doing. You tamp down your pride and sigh, “Alright- how are we doing this?”

The best method, you discover, is for you to put your lower back on the toilet and lean backward until your head is under the tub faucet. You’re able to rest your shoulders on the lip of the tub, and if you angle yourself just right, you can straighten your legs and anchor your feet on the floor for added stability. Something in the back of your mind screams about how ridiculous you probably look, but Bishop doesn’t seem to care. He puts the gloves on like a surgeon preparing for an operation and dispenses a very precise dollop of the blue mixture directly onto your hair. He looks at you expectantly, and after a moment of wracking your brain, you remember that he usually asks for permission at times like this. You crane your neck until one of the gloves bops you on the head, and Bishop does his quiet huff-laugh as he gets to work with the blue soap.

“You’ve discovered an interesting loophole, there.”

“I guess it makes sense, though,” You reason, staring up at the ceiling as the rubber gloves push and pull at your hair, “If I touch you first, that’s a pretty obvious signal that I’m good with you touching me back.”

“It’s nice to not have to ask. Some people say yes because they feel pressured to, but I never have to guess with you. I like that.”

“It’s nice for me, too,” You admit, “The stooges are pretty obvious about their intentions, but I still do or say the wrong things sometimes, and there’s no salvaging a conversation after you’ve picked the wrong dialogue option.”

“You’re telling me,” The android deadpans, gesturing for you to turn on the faucet, “The captain always tells me he wants an honest answer after I make damage assessments on the ship. Over the last two years, I’ve given him 418 honest answers, and he’s responded negatively to all of them. I’m still not sure how he expects me to balance honesty with delusional optimism.”

You laugh at Bishop’s woes and reach behind your head and turn the water on. The android waits for you to put your head under the faucet on your own before he leans over to wash the excess pigment off of you. His shoulder presses against yours, and the temperature difference sends a shiver through you. Bishop’s hands freeze in your hair, and he turns his head to peer down at you, brows pinching together with concern. He’s close enough to you that you can feel cold, artificial breath fanning across your nose and lips as he murmurs, “You alright?”

Your throat is suddenly dry, and you feel your limbs lock up under his scrutinizing gaze. His green eyes bore into yours, waiting for an answer, and you find that your mouth refuses to form one. You settle for swallowing hard and nodding, but this doesn’t seem to convince him. He opens his mouth like he’s going to say something else, but he seems to stop himself. Oh god, can you die from this kind of nervousness? You wonder as you stare up at him. He has to know how all of this is affecting you- why else would he be doing it? How easy it would be, if you just craned your neck upward a little… 

Something must have happened to your face because Bishop’s frown deepens and he eyes you suspiciously as his hands slowly resume their work. After one more round of blue soap and some thorough rinsing, Bishop peels off his gloves and moves out of the bathroom so you have room to stand. You shuffle over to the mirror and grin at your own reflection- your hair has gone from orange to a silvery platinum. You open your mouth and turn to thank Bishop for his help, but when you lean out of the bathroom door to look for him, you find that he’s already gone. He must have noticed something when you were staring at each other- that’s the only conclusion your brain can come up with. 

You feel stupid for letting your feelings run away from you. Of course he bailed on you- he was always just being helpful, and your stupidly hopeful brain took it too far. Your heart sinks as you stare out into your empty living room. It feels like you’ve chosen the wrong dialogue option without even opening your mouth, and you’re not sure of how to fix it. 

Wednesday

“Oh, you’ve gotta be fuckin’ kidding me, man!” Hudson whines as he takes in your new hair, “You were supposed to look like a dork!”

Heads turn at the Marines’ table to stare at you, and Hicks smiles and mutters, “Better luck next time,” as he claps Hudson on the shoulder. Jenette is already grinning at you when you take the spot next to her.

“I’m sure somebody helped.” She gibes, leaning over to bump shoulders with you.

You dig into your stale cafeteria food with little more than a self-conscious smile, and Vasquez immediately drops the playful act, brow furrowing.

“Hey- something happen?”

Hudson continues to shovel food into his mouth, happy as a clam, but his routine glances across the table tell you that he’s listening.

“I dunno,” You huff, gesturing to your hair, “He helped me fix this whole mess, and there was a second where I swore something was gonna happen-”

“Cyborg here’s gettin’ laid, yeah!” Hudson exclaims through a mouthful of food.

He yelps and winces when Vasquez promptly kicks him under the table, and stays silent for the rest of your story. Both of them share a thoughtful look when you describe Bishop’s sudden quietness and quick exit.

“I’m kind of an expert in this field,” Hudson drawls, pointing at you with his fork, “And that sounds like cold feet to me, man.”

You quirk a brow, and he continues, “Sometimes you’re faced with this total babe, and feelings just creep up on you until bam! One day you’re lookin’ at her and you realize you’re way outta your depth.”

“And here I thought you didn’t have the capacity for deep thoughts.” Jenette pokes.

“I’m being serious, man!” He whines, glaring at Jenette before turning back to you and urging, “Don’t let him run away. The best girl I ever had never let me chicken out on shit like that.”

“Yeah, go get him!” Drake pipes up, leaning around Vasquez to look at you.

“Who are we talkin’ about?” Hicks inquires.

“Bishop, man! You guys missed out. This goober over here broke their leg, we had to wear pink for a whole week, and now Cyborg’s potential romance with our resident lab director is in danger!”

Ripley tunes into the conversation as soon as Bishop is mentioned, “You’re together? I thought they weren’t programmed to feel anything.”

She props her elbows up on the table and gives you a searching look that’s stern but not unkind as she mutters, “What led you to believe he has feelings for you? Or any feelings, while we’re on the subject?”

Ellen listens closely as you relay the events of the last month, sparing no detail, and her expression morphs from one of skepticism to open amazement.

“And he just… left yesterday?”

You nod, feeling more miserable than ever as you push what’s left of your food around on your tray. Ripley nods and seems to consider something before she speaks again, “I’m not… condoning this, per se, but if I was under the impression that androids couldn’t feel anything until a minute ago, who’s to say that Bishop didn’t have the same epiphany?”

Something clicks in your brain as she talks. Of course. He’s friends with everyone at this table and probably has extensive knowledge of what that’s like, but anything beyond that is foreign territory. You nod at Ripley, “He had to think for a long time before he even realized that he missed me while I was recovering during that first week.”

Ripley spreads her hands and says, “There you go. He probably has no idea of what’s going on.”

The thought makes you feel better, but as the conversation ends and your friends go back to their usual banter, you can’t help but notice that the android in question isn’t in the cafeteria. The thought of finding him and having such a difficult conversation feels daunting, even though your entire friendship is built on openly discussing sensitive topics. This feels different. If all went well, you’d be the happiest person on this ship (aside from Hicks and Ripley, of course), but if it failed… If it failed, you’d have to move on and pretend like the rejection didn’t hurt or lose the friendship of the one person in the universe who understands you the most. Your stomach does a slow, nauseous flip, and suddenly you’re not hungry anymore.

Chapter Text

Sunday

You try not to wince as the medic finishes prodding the skin around your wound, and you almost succeed. She gives you a sympathetic smile that feels more perfunctory than genuine, straightens, and turns toward the monitor that’s mounted next to your exam table.

“You’re right on track for being able to return to work,” She chirps, “I might even say that you could start doing some minor tasks as soon as next week.”

You initially brighten at the idea of being able to work again, but the logical voice in the back of your mind is whispering the truth- you’re hoping to use it as a distraction. You’ve been avoiding Bishop- staying away from the lab, keeping your distance in the cafeteria- and you know that it’s only making things worse, but you can’t stomach the thought of having that talk. Lost in thought, you completely miss most of the medic’s instructions. She notices you staring off into space and interrupts your train of thought with a loud, exasperated sigh.

“I’ll just send you all of this later.”

You startle to attention and give her a sheepish smile, muttering an apology. She waves a dismissive hand at you and turns back to her computer, “Happens all of the time. The point is, the injury is healing well, you did a good job of cleaning the wound site, and I’m clearing you for low-impact work starting tomorrow.”

She lets out a genuine huff of laughter at your excited hand shake and quickly dictates her last instructions into the monitor before she shoos you out of the exam room. You’re fast-walking toward the cafeteria and feeling giddy at the prospect of being useful again, but it all goes out the window when you round a corner and collide with a familiar blue uniform. You mutter an apology and make a move to pass Bishop, but you’re (not quite) stopped by a hand that appears in front of you, barring you from walking on and hovering over your upper arm. 

“Please.”

It’s simple- spoken with barely any inflection- but the mere act of him asking makes you cave. You push your arm into his hand. His fingers trail up and over your shoulder before a cold hand settles on your lower back and begins to guide you toward the lab. 

The walk is somehow longer and shorter than you remember, and your palms are sweating by the time you round the last corner. Bishop stops when he’s close enough to trigger the lab door, motioning for you to go in first. You take a few deep breaths as you enter the lab, noting that the blankets and pillows he set up for you are still on the exam table. The android passes you with smooth, purposeful strides, stops next to the table, and pats the top of it with one hand, looking at you expectantly. Your throat has never felt drier as you approach the table and hop up onto it. You settle in and find yourself giving Bishop an exasperated smile when he sets a hand on the spot next to you, eyes shining with a familiar, unspoken question.

“Get up here,” You nervously chuckle, “Let’s get this over with.”

He murmurs, “Thank you,” while he situates himself to your left. He’s not quite invading your personal space, but he’s just close enough that you can feel some of his body’s natural cold against your arm. You try to ignore the goosebumps that rise on your exposed skin. Bishop looks down at your arm and seems to make a mental note of your reaction before he tosses you straight into the metaphorical deep end.

“I’ve been noting an increase in heart rate and fidgeting from you when we’re physically close in addition to you seeking my company more often. I was… suspicious… for a while, and then I helped you last week, and we were near enough that I could watch your pupils dilate when I got too close to you.”

You open your mouth to protest, still hoping to salvage your pride, but Bishop cuts you off with a gentle shake of his head, “I may be synthetic, but I’m not stupid.” 

The android gives you a soft, knowing smile, and you’re quick to stutter out an apology. 

“You’re not stupid, but I sure as hell am,” You breathe, avoiding eye contact and focusing on picking at a seam on your cargo pants, “You were just trying to help- to be friendly- and I blew it out of proportion. Ripley mentioned that this is probably completely new for you, and I feel like I just took advantage of you”

“I wouldn’t say that.”

Your head whips to the left so you can gape at him. Bishop pauses to consider his next words, lightly drumming his fingers against the knuckles of his opposite hand in a surprising show of uncertainty. You turn to face him, folding your leg up onto the table to do so, and you don’t miss the way that the android’s eyes flicker to where your uniform brushes against his.

“Forgive the clinical language,” He starts, “But I’d like to run some trials.”

“Trials?” You hesitantly echo, brow furrowing.

Bishop nods, “Ripley’s right- my only experience is based on my relationship with the other Marines- but there are already some anomalies in our relationship that I want to take some time to analyze. With your permission, obviously.”

You let out a thoughtful hum as you look down at your hands. It’s not a rejection- there’s that, at least. 

“Do you still want me to come and bother you in here sometimes?”

Green eyes flick upward to meet yours, and his answer is so painfully earnest- like he can’t comprehend the possibility of not having your company- that your heart clenches in your chest. 

“Why wouldn’t I?”

He holds a hand out to you, palm-up, and yours seems unfairly shaky when you set it in his. He enfolds your hand in both of his, and his voice is quiet but firm as he tells you, “What I’m trying to say is that I appreciate your feelings for me. I suppose you could say that I’m flattered.” 

He gives you a twitchy smile that has the barest hint of nervousness in it, and against your better judgement, you find yourself chuckling. The android’s head tilts to the right, and that ever-present crease between his brows deepens.

“So I’m gonna be an emotional guinea pig, then?” You joke.

Bishop lets out one of his quiet huff-laughs and frowns at you, “Your company’s far better than a guinea pig’s.”

Week Five

Your first day back was less work and more of an impromptu yap session- the stooges had spread the news of your recovery and escapades in your absence, and after being asked about them by the sixth person in a row, you finally gathered your coworkers together and regaled all of them at once with your tales. It took the better part of the morning shift, and everyone continued to bombard you with questions throughout lunch and the early afternoon. All in all, you’d managed to fix a single leaky hull panel on one of the dropships. 

Today, you’re playing catch-up. You huff as you readjust and wedge yourself between the power loader’s legs until you can squeeze into the small alcove behind the contraption. You reach out to snag your tools and drag them into your lap before you start the arduous task of draining the hydraulic fluid. You could have started the loader up and moved it forward in its bay to do it, but this is nicer. Any other person would feel claustrophobic, but you’ve never been more comfortable, tucked away in the far corner of the loading bay. You listen to the hustle and bustle of the other Marines while you drain the loader’s old fluid. 

You curse as the last of the fluid releases a long-trapped air bubble in the line. It exits the hose with a loud pop! and sprays what’s left of the old, brown sludge all over the front of your coveralls. You’re sputtering and mumbling obscenities at a rubber hose when a familiar face peers between the power loader’s legs, eyes widening minutely in something akin to shock.

“Bad time?”

You bark out a laugh, unintentionally spewing some of the fluid at Bishop. He does little more than blink owlishly as droplets of sludge land on his cheeks and forehead.

“Not the best time,” You admit, biting back more laughter at the android’s lack of reaction, “But I can work with it. What’s up?”

“I finished reading Acceptance and had some thoughts for you. I can come back later, if that’s more convenient.”

“I’d like to hear them if you don’t mind me working while we talk.” 

Curse whoever designed the power loaders- the drain is down by the feet, and the fill cap is behind the headrest. You understand the design- gravity and all that- but it still means that you have to climb up the loader after you just got comfortable with sitting on the cold steel floor. You shove your tools out of the alcove and are preparing for another awkward squeeze to get out of there when two hands appear in front of you, offering their assistance. You take hold of Bishop’s wrists. Although the hydraulic fluid all over your hands causes them to slip a little, the android still manages to haul you halfway out of the alcove before hooking his hands under your armpits and pulling you up off of the ground like you weigh nothing. I probably do, considering he’s built to be able to lift heavy machinery. The world seems to tilt on its axis as he sets you on your feet, and you grapple his shoulders to keep yourself from toppling over. You still manage to collide with him, and you sputter multiple apologies as the motion transfers some of the sludge from your uniform to his. 

“It’s fine,” He murmurs, cold hands bracketing your ribs to keep you upright, “I’ve got eleven more somewhere.”

“More sarcasm?” You scoff, “You’re getting worse every day. Soon you’re gonna have a solid grasp on sex jokes, and then we’re all doomed.”

“I suppose I should talk to Hudson if I want to learn from a master.”

You share a quiet laugh at the idea, and as it dies down, neither of you make a move to release each other. Instead of feeling nervous, somehow, you feel comfortable. Bishop patiently stares at you, and you unashamedly stare back. He’s figuring out whether or not he likes this, You think, lips slowly stretching into a smile that Bishop readily mirrors. Something tickles your side, and you eventually identify it as the android’s hands splaying across your ribs, the touch gentle, testing. I’m gonna guess that he does.

“I could tell you my thoughts on the book while we continue to stand like this,” He deadpans, quirking a brow, “But I think Apone would scrap me for parts if I kept you from working.”

You snort, “I’d scrap him for parts if he tried,” and the momentary spell is broken as you step backward out of Bishop’s arms. He keeps a watchful eye on you as you laboriously scale the power loader and is quick to pass the canister of new fluid to you when you ask for it. You learn that your opinions about Authority are exactly alike (“ I would have skipped it, per your advice, but I wanted to have the plot context in my memory for the third book. I read it at 300% speed, and it was still the most tedious bit of reading I’ve ever done.”) and that the android has acquired a taste for cosmic and psychological horror. You grin to yourself as you finish bleeding the lines, “I’ve got oh so many related recommendations for you. I hope you’re ready to do a lot of reading.”

“I hope you’re ready to discuss every book in grave detail.” Bishop counters, and when you glance at him over your shoulder, there’s a hint of hopefulness in his wide eyes.

“Always.”

Thursday

“So, you talked to him?”

Ripley’s voice echoes in the power loader’s earpiece, and you glance at her from across the loading bay to see that she’s strapped into her own unit and heading toward you to help. You give her a lame salute with your loader’s pincer hand and hear her amused scoff in your ear.

“I wouldn’t say that I talked to him so much as I avoided him for two days before he finally found me and made the conversation happen whether I wanted it to or not.”

“Well, at least we know that he’s a good communicator,” She sarcastically comments, stabilizing a stack of pallets for you to pick up, “Was I right?”

“That’s the real reason you’re talking to me, isn’t it?” You gibe, grinning at her over the top of the pallets, “You just want to gloat.”

She snorts and gives you a semi-guilty look. 

“You were right,” You dramatically groan, “You were right and you should get a prize for it. He didn’t turn me down- he seemed interested in learning, so we’re just kind of… existing… in the meantime. Nothing’s really changed or been awkward, so that’s nice.”

“Well, I’m glad,” Ripley offers, her voice filled with genuine warmth, “I still can’t say that I understand how it’s going to work between you two, but you both seem happier.”

You try not to let your surprise show in your voice or your body language as you carefully load pallets onto a transport dolly to be wrapped, “Both?”

Ripley lets out a disbelieving laugh that sounds like it was meant more for herself than for you, “It feels weird to say this about a synthetic, but he’s more talkative than usual. I think whatever experiment you two are running is sort of fun for him, in a way.”

“And I think that as the ship’s unofficial safety officer, I should inform you that the medic has not cleared you for machine work.” Bishop’s unamused voice says into your ear, clear as day.

You freeze, glancing at Ripley for help. Despite her misgivings about your relationship, she can’t stifle a laugh at your predicament. She shakes her head and gives you a wide berth as she crosses the loading bay to continue working.

“...shit.”

Saturday

“I have something in the lab that I think you might be interested in.”

The Marines let out a collective, mocking hoot at Bishop’s phrasing, and you roll your eyes as most of them lean around each other to peer interestedly at the two of you. 

“What?” Bishop softly asks, looking at your friends, “Did I say something wrong?”

“Not really,” You grumble, “It isn’t what you said that’s interesting to them- they’re making fun of the way that you said it.”

“Elaborate.”

Hudson guffaws somewhere to your left and mutters, “I can’t believe this guy,” through a mouthful of cornbread. You huff as you debate the consequences of explaining everything to him and ultimately decide that a little embarrassment on your part will make for a funny story a few weeks from now, so you unabashedly say, “When you say something like that to another person, it’s usually a metaphor for sex. To the cavemen that I work with,” You loudly announce, giving the table a pointed look that causes the Marines to snap back to attention and pretend like they aren’t listening in, “That kind of phrasing means you’re hoping to get me alone.”

“For sex?”

“Yup.” You awkwardly exclaim, popping the ‘p’ in the word.

Bishop lets out a thoughtful hum as he pushes his tray of cornbread toward you in a silent offering, “Does rewording the proposal solve the problem?”

“At this point?” You laugh, taking a piece for yourself, “No.”

The android nods before raising his eyebrows and looking at you expectantly, “The lab?”

You make an affirmative noise and pick up your tray to take your food with you. Drake makes the mistake of muttering, “Yeah, get some, Cyborg,” as you pass him, and you don’t hesitate to smear the last of your spongy cornbread into his hair. You barely hear Bishop’s characteristic laugh over the hollering of the other Marines. The journey to the lab is very fast- Bishop seems almost excited about something, walking faster than usual and forcing you to jog to keep up with him. 

“I did some research-” He starts, and frowns when he looks to the left and you aren’t there, “Oh, I’m sorry.”

He slows appreciably, and you wheeze out your thanks as he falls into step with you and continues, “I did some research, and discovered more by the same author of that trilogy we talked about. I found something that I think you’ll enjoy.”

He triggers the motion sensor on the lab door and lets you in first, as usual, before making a beeline for his workstation and opening a drawer to fish something out of it. You set your dinner on your resident blanket pile and approach Bishop just as he straightens and turns to give you something.

“It took some doing to find a physical version, but,” He murmurs, lips twitching into a soft smile, “I thought you could add it to your collection.”

“He wrote a fourth book?” You cry, gaping at the android, “When?”

“Ten years after the third issue.”

You gingerly take the novel from Bishop, turning it over in your hands to inspect it. He went through the trouble of finding an edition that matches the rest of the copies on your shelf, and the gesture causes an explosion of butterflies in your stomach. You’re so excited that you can barely contain yourself, bouncing on the balls of your feet as you sputter, “Can I give you a hug?”

The words, “Of course,” are barely out of Bishop’s mouth before you set the book on his workstation and launch yourself at him. He lets out a soft oof! on impact before you feel two hesitant arms wrap around you. 

“Thank you,” You exclaim, voice muffled against the shoulder of his uniform, “That’s the nicest gift I’ve ever gotten.”

The hair at your temple ruffles as Bishop harshly exhales, his hold on you tightening minutely as he murmurs, “Glad to be of service.”

“You’re supposed to just say, ‘You’re welcome.’” You chuckle, leaning back to grin at the android.

“You’re welcome, then.”

You let go of him to retrieve your book, and he keeps one hand on you while you turn, skimming it over your uniform and settling it on your upper back as you read the synopsis on the cover. You feel more than see him leaning forward to read it with you.

“Can I hang out and read in here?” You inquire, giving Bishop a hopeful glance over your shoulder.

“Only if you don’t mind reading aloud while I work.”

You let out an excited noise and turn away from him to wander to your makeshift blanket nest, and he extends his arm to keep a hand on you until you’re finally out of reach, the tips of his fingers barely catching on your fatigues. It almost feels like he didn’t want to let you go.

Chapter Text

Saturday, 23:00

Your voice begins to falter as the dim nighttime light of the Sulaco finally starts to lull you to sleep. You yawn and shake your head in an attempt to wake yourself up, but your eyelids continue to droop as you stop reading to stare blankly out of the lab’s enormous front windows.

After a minute of silence, Bishop murmurs, “Do you need me to take you home?” without looking up from his microscope.

“No,” You sigh, “Don’t wanna trouble you.”

“It’s no trouble.” He gently insists.

“Can I… Can I stay here?” You mumble, embarrassment pushing through your exhaustion and causing your face to heat up.

“Of course,” The android easily replies, abandoning his work to quickly cross the lab and rummage through the cabinet to the left of the exam table, “Here.”

He produces a comforter exactly like the one you’re sitting on and unfurls it with an efficiency that you know you could never match. He moves to the end of the table and whips the blanket once to get some air under it before he floats it up the bed and lets it settle over your legs. You slither down the table until you can lay on your side and tug the comforter up over your shoulders. The action pushes your book off of the makeshift bed, but Bishop moves with a speed you’ve never seen before, easily catching it and setting it next to your shoulder.

“Are you comfortable?” 

You nod, yawning again as you settle in. Bishop nods once, seemingly satisfied with your answer, and returns to his workstation. You lay awake for a while, watching him work as you drift in and out of sleep. At last, a final wave of drowsiness crashes over you, and you barely manage to mumble, “Goodnight, Bishop,” as the darkness closes in.

His quiet laugh floats to you from across the lab, and his voice is a soft rumble, “Have dreams.”

When you wake, Bishop is gone, but his work stool is positioned next to the exam table with a tray of breakfast and a still-steaming mug of coffee precisely balanced on it. Something dangerously hopeful flutters in your chest.

Week Six

“I hear you’re making significant progress with Bishop.” Ripley pries.

You can feel her eyes on you as you rummage through your locker for your broken-in mechanic’s suit and curse to yourself when you realize that Ferro must have made the laundry rounds this morning. Your only option is the newer, stiffer one that you’ve been putting off wearing. You sigh tiredly as you drag it out and sit on a bench to undo your boots.

“Who told you that- Hudson?” You quip, “I’m sure he’s made up loads of sordid details by now.”

Ripley snorts and takes a seat near you to put on her own uniform, “Hicks did, actually. He says that Bishop seemed… how did he put it… more motivated as of late. I agree with him.”

Your heart stutters in your chest. Those two are seeing things? The ship’s resident unofficial parents? Ripley must see the shock on your face because she reaches over to give your shoulder a reassuring pat, and her voice takes on a maternal undertone as she says, “I’ll admit that I wasn’t really sure about it, but both of you are very alike. I see how you gravitate toward each other. I don’t know that I’ll ever fully trust an android, but he seems to genuinely care for you, and that earns him a lot of points in my book.”

“We’re not-” You sputter, “We’re not technically together.”

“Keep telling yourself that.” Ellen cryptically replies, slipping her shoes on and giving you a conspiratorial grin as she leaves you alone in the locker room.

Thursday

The smell of fried chicken makes your mouth water as you toss your welding gloves aside and tilt your face toward the roof of the loading bay. 

“God bless whoever decided to route the kitchen exhaust into here,” Jenette sighs, pushing her visor up onto the top of her head, “Holy shit.”

“What’s the special occasion?” Hudson wonders aloud, planting his hands on his hips and surveying the area like it will provide an answer.

As if on cue, Apone’s authoritative voice fills the air, “Marines- fall in!”

The three of you quickly ditch your helmets and fireproof jackets and jog in a clean line toward the Sarge. He lets out an approving grunt as all of you fall in before him, an unlit cigar clenched in his teeth.

“As you all know,” Apone shouts, pacing along the line with his hands clasped behind his back, “There are no holidays in the Marines.”

All of you glance at each other excitedly, some of you visibly bouncing on the balls of your feet as the Sarge continues, “But, Spunkmeyer cooked up a veritable feast- not that you scumbags deserve it- and if you ladies aren’t in the mess in less than two minutes I’m gonna send that food out the main airlock! Go, go, go! Double-time!”

Every Marine breaks formation in favor of clamoring toward the elevator, but you, Hudson, Vaz, and Drake share a grin as the four of you book it for the stairs. You manage to ignore the bruise-like pain in your leg as you scramble up after your friends, but by the time you’ve ascended your sixth flight, it starts to be too much. You try and fail to bite back a groan as the sensation turns into a deep throb that makes your stomach clench. Drake is just ahead of you and quickly backtracks when he realizes you’re not right behind him. The world spins as he unceremoniously tosses you over his shoulder.

“Hey!” You weakly yelp, twisting around to glare at the back of Drake’s head, “I can-”

“Can it, Cyborg,” He grunts, easily catching up to your friends as the four of you tumble through the stairwell exit and into the mess hall.

Your mouth waters as the smell of chicken and baked potatoes hits you like a brick. Drake wanders straight past the buffet, and you let out a halfhearted protest as he slings you off of his shoulder, muttering, “Strained their leg. I'll get Hudson to make them a plate,” to someone.

You find yourself quickly and efficiently set sideways on a cafeteria bench, and you shiver as the backs of your legs contact something mildly cold. A quick glance upward and your eyes meet a pair of very familiar green ones. Bishop’s hands are in the air- moved aside so Drake could set you down- and you stare at each other for a few seconds before the android gestures to your bad leg and softly inquires, “May I take a look?”

His hands hover over your shin, and you sputter, “Yeah- yeah, lemme just-” as you lean forward to untie your boot. He patiently waits for you to unlace it and pull your pant leg out of it, and he doesn’t touch you until you’ve leaned back and given him an affirmative nod. Cold fingers gently push your fatigues up and out of the way, their touch barely there as they skim along your shin. Your breath feels like it’s permanently caught in your throat, chest tight with an anticipation that you can’t pinpoint a cause for. You wince as Bishop gently prods your leg, starting near your wound and feeling along the line of your tibia.

“It’s probably just stress on the fractures,” He murmurs, brow furrowed in concentration, “They haven’t started mineralizing yet, so it’s still not a good idea to exert so much force on the injury.”

All of his words are going straight over your head- all you can focus on is the soft brush of his fingers, the slight ticklish sensation of his breath on your skin, the crease between his brows as he devotes all of his attention to his assessment. He goes silent after a moment, and your heart seizes in your chest as you look up and realize that he’s asked you a question and is waiting for an answer.

“Uh-” You sputter, hating the telltale heat that you feel on your ears and face, “Come again?”

“I said, what did you do?”

“Took the stairs a little too hard,” Comes Hudson’s smug voice to your left, “Like a dumbass.”

He leans between you to set your tray of food on the table, completely oblivious to the tension in the air, and promptly takes a seat behind you on the bench. A thunderous racket reaches your ears, and you look toward the elevator just in time to see the doors being forced open by a horde of your comrades. All of them let out angry shouts and groans at the sight of the five of you, sitting pretty with first dibs on Spunkmeyer’s cooking. You join Hudson in flipping them the bird and go so far as to stick your tongue out at the guys who return the gesture. Bishop observes the exchange with a faint, amused smile and shakes his head at you when you turn back to him.

“I wouldn’t take the stairs again if you can help it. You’ll probably want to ice this as soon as you’re finished here.”

You nod and open your mouth to say thanks, but the words get stuck in your throat at the feeling of Bishop slowly and carefully fixing your fatigues- blousing them according to uniform regulations and gently re-lacing your boot for you. 

“Looks like somebody got themselves a maid,” Vasquez singsongs, “Hey, Bishop, how come we never get the princess treatment?”

“Last I checked, none of you bear any resemblance to the Private, here.” The android easily replies as he lifts your legs off of his lap and rotates you until your feet are flat on the floor.

Jenette and Drake share a shocked look that you see, but Bishop doesn’t notice. Hudson elbows you in the ribs, and when you turn to glare at him, his face is inches from yours. He grins and mockingly coos, “If that ain’t true love, then I dunno what is,” through a mouthful of chicken. You roll your eyes and lean away from him only for your shoulder to brush against Bishop’s. With the other Marines squeezing in around you, the android had to move to accommodate them. Butterflies erupt in your stomach as you try to ignore the contact and dig into your food. He shifts and presses against you again, and you’re sure that he’s doing it on purpose, but when you look over at him, he’s fully engaged in a conversation with Hicks. Both of you are resting your forearms on the table. Feeling brave, you move a little closer until you’re touching from shoulder to hand.

Bishop stutters- legitimately stutters- and you hear Hicks asking, “Somethin’ wrong?” over the noise of the crowd. 

“No. Nothing’s wrong.” Comes the android’s smooth reply.

He turns his head just enough so that you can see his eyes darting between your face and your hand, and slowly- too slow for anyone but you to notice- his wrist rotates, and the backs of his fingers trail over your knuckles. Just once. The butterflies in your stomach worsen until you have to bounce your leg to dispel some of your nervousness. What the hell is happening?

Friday

“I thought I’d find you here.” 

The quiet voice is low enough that it barely disturbs your peace as you stare out at the stars from your not-so-secret spot in the war room. Bishop’s sneakers whisper on the carpet as he approaches your couch and comes to a stop just behind you. You tilt your head back to say hello only to find that he’s already looking at you, green eyes soft and almost fond in the light of the stars. Whatever greeting you had planned falters on your tongue. Recovering quickly, you look away and pat the cushion next to you in a silent invitation. Bishop murmurs his thanks and circles the couch to take a seat dangerously close to you, and you feel goosebumps erupting on your arms at his proximity. There’s no preamble- no obligatory small talk to prepare you- he just turns to you and states, “I want to talk to you about the trials I’ve been running.”

You feel yourself going rigid, and it’s suddenly difficult to make eye contact with Bishop as your mind races through every possible outcome that the conversation might have. Fearing the worst, you settle in facing Bishop with your knees pulled up to your chest, hands automatically moving to start fiddling with the zipper pockets on the sides of your pants. Bishop seems to take note of your sudden shift in body language and holds up two placating hands, “I think you’ll find the results very interesting, if that helps.”

“It might,” You shakily chuckle, “Depending on what they are.”

The android leans forward to rest his forearms on his thighs, staring out at the stars as he begins to explain his experiences in a quiet, steady tone, “The anomalies that I mentioned two weeks ago are still there. I find myself missing you at work; I value your opinion more than others; helping you and finding ways to make you happy have become a regular habit. I didn’t have any experience with non-clinical touch before you, but now, there’s a need for more of it, like a loop that I just can’t close. Seeking your company feels like an intrinsic part of my programming.”

Your chest burns at his unorthodox confession, and you start to feel mildly lightheaded when he turns to look at you, his eyes shining with an emotion that you can’t place.

“I don’t know how else to put it except that you’ve become essential to my daily functions.”

“But, how do you… feel… about it?” You pry, giving Bishop a mildly exasperated smile.

“I think-” The android pauses, frowns, shakes his head, “I feel like I share your feelings. I’d like to keep going with this, if you’re still amiable.”

“Please tell me you’re not lying to make me feel better.” You breathe, unfolding your legs and leaning forward to search Bishop’s passive face for any signs of mockery.

“I can’t- it would violate the First Law.” 

You exhale harshly, chest feeling like it’s about to burst and cave in at the same time, and Bishop’s face twists into a concerned frown, “You alright?”

“Overwhelmed.” You breathlessly laugh.

“Do you… Do you need a hug? Or these?”

The android fishes his tags out of his jumpsuit and smoothly pulls them over his head before he offers them to you on a flat, open hand. His earnestness- his eagerness to help- warms your heart further. You can’t stop the lovesick grin that tugs at your lips, and Bishop’s answering, confused smile makes you chuckle.

“Overwhelmed in a good way,” You clarify, using both of your hands to close his fingers over the tags, “Thank you, though.”

“Glad to- You’re welcome.” He swiftly corrects himself, gaze flicking to where you’re touching him.

“May I-”

“Yep,” You interrupt, “Whatever it is, yes.”

Bishop chuckles at your eagerness, but his movements are still slow- telegraphed to give you ample time to refuse. You find yourself holding your breath in anticipation as his free arm snakes around your waist and gently tugs you until you’re tucked into his side. He presses his dog tags into your hands and moves to undo the snaps on one of his jumpsuit’s many pockets. He produces what you recognize as your new book and props it up against the arm of the couch so he can hold it open with one hand/ Your face breaks into a grin as you piece together his intent, and as the low rumble of his voice fills the space between you, you let yourself relax. The dog tags are cool beneath your fingertips, and the hand on your waist is gentle but sure as its fingers make slow, rhythmic arcs over your shirt.

Epilogue

“I’d like to try something.” 

“Sure.”

“You’re not gonna ask about what it is?” You scoff, looking up at Bishop and frowning amusedly, “You’re just gonna let me do whatever?”

Bishop’s mouth ticks into a half-smile as he offers, “Let’s just assume that I trust you implicitly.”

“I don’t know if you will after this.” You joke, shoving down your nerves and trying to ignore the shake in your hands as you reach forward to cradle his jaw.

The android takes your initiative as permission, gentle hands bracketing your waist while his brow furrows and his lips part like he wants to say something. You don’t give him a chance, quickly stepping into his space and pressing your lips to his. There’s five seconds wherein you worry that you’ve overstepped before he begins to mirror the push and pull of your mouth. You feel your uniform bunching at the waist as his hands erratically clench and release in the fabric. You’re only allowed to lose yourself in the feeling for about a minute before Bishop gently pushes you away. He keeps his hands on you, still fisting the sides of your uniform, but he looks almost worried about something.

His eyes dart about the room at an inhuman speed as he lets out several harsh exhales in a row, and you whisper a concerned, “Woah,” when you realize that the air he’s expelling is hot- as if you’re standing in front of an open oven. Why would he be venting so much hot air? Unless… Your expression morphs into one of smug realization.

“Are you… overheating right now?”

His voice still has his characteristic lilt, but it’s noticeably glitchy as he flatly states, “Ŷəṣ̌. Ṣ̌øřṛŷ.”

“What- uh-” You stutter, barely able to contain your laughter, “What happens if-”

You lean forward like you’re going to kiss him again, and Bishop vents more hot air, gaze flicking almost nervously between your eyes and your mouth. You swear that you feel something whirring to life under your fingers. The android’s skin feels suddenly warm, and you realize that this is as close to blushing as he can physically get.

“Ṣ̌ŧøp ŧḥąŧ.”

“Do you really want me to?” You ask, quirking a concerned brow.

The android shakes his head, and the hands on your waist begin to pull you ever so slightly closer. For once, Bishop’s breath is warm as it ghosts over your lips.

“Ŋø.”