Archive of Our Own ^beta

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He can still feel it right there.

The bullet. The pain.

Always, all the time. Deep down inside of him, where millions of memories are replaying in an endless loop, and where that horrible phantom pain keeps raging behind his forehead, never giving him a goddamn break, never allowing him to find any rest.

Some days he's fine, and on those days, he truly believes he is. Other days - these are pretty much the norm now - he's just a wreck. The bullet that Anderson, old son of a bitch, shot straight into his main processor is long gone, and the damage has been professionally fixed. Physically, everything is perfectly in place. And yet…

Sixty's got a headache, a fuckin’ brutal headache. It’s been with him from the moment he opened his eyes to this new, horrifying reality.

And that really fucking sucks.

He's trying, for fuck's sake, he's trying and trying. His system is constantly overloaded, hyperstimulated by life, and it regularly initiates self-shutdown sequences that are supposed to lead to a switch into standby mode.

Unfortunately, these periods of inactivity never last long.

They always come to an abrupt end, shattered by the devastating, searing chaos in his mind, throwing him back into reality with brutal force. Over and over and over again. A reality he would like to escape from forever.

Being a deviant is a real nightmare. Sixty hates it as much as he loves the way it makes him feel. Obeying, following orders, that was all he ever had to do. Now he's alive, for some reason. He's free - so they told him. Maybe there's a part of that that's true. But at the same time, Sixty knows he'll never really be free. He never really was. He's still trapped, a prisoner of this bizarre, mind-blowing construct of feelings and emotions.

He doesn't want that, he doesn't need that.

It hurts too much, for a million different reasons.

But even the bad days always g̸o̸t̸ get better as soon as he w̸a̸s̸ is with him.

ɍɇȼønsŧɍᵾȼŧɨøn ɨnɨŧɨȺŧɇđ…

He always knows for sure where to find him on days like these. Curled up in bed like a human embryo, Sixty is there, frantically waiting for him. Even after all this time, he can still feel his soothing warmth spread across the sheets and all around him. His scent drifts through the room, filling the air like a bittersweet echo. Wrapped in this intimate mixture of sweat, aftershave and himself, the raw soreness pulsating at the back of Sixty's eyes often feels a little less intense.

Long before he even steps through the door, Sixty knows he's there. Exhausted, he listens to the sound of his tentative footsteps, feeling the slight vibration of the floor under his weight. He comes closer. Gently, without hesitation. And as usual, with every step he takes, the pump in the android's chest forces the blood faster through his trembling body, sending his artificial heart into a fluttering state

Sixty hates being so weak, so pathetic. He hates how much he wants him, how much he needs him with all his human imperfections. He's addicted to his closeness and affection, his physical touch and warmth.

He w̸a̸s̸ is the only one who c̸o̸u̸l̸d̸ can ease his pain.

There's a static crack in his throat. A flash of light and dark is starting to flicker in front of his closed eyes. When the door opens behind him, he buries his heated face deeper into the messy sheets beneath him. The rough whisper of his breathing is now audible, a sigh of relief rising along with the rustling of clothes.

The mattress sways under his weight and then he's finally there.

He moves without any haste, in a smooth, perfectly natural motion, and he's right back with him, right by his side, right where he's supposed to be.

He's as gentle as ever, handling him with such delicate, devastating care. As if he were made of glass, he wraps his arms around him, dragging his needy, trembling body against his own, carefully pulling him into a tight, stabilising embrace.

Keeping him as close as he can, for as long as Sixty needs him to.

His internal timer broke a long time ago, but that doesn't matter. When he's held like this, it's almost like he's wrapped in some kind of protective cocoon. Time always seems to stand still, and for a small, precious fragment of a day, all the pain and loneliness are forgotten.

Nothing else matters. 

S̸i̸n̸c̸e̸ h̸e̸'s̸ g̸o̸n̸e̸, t̸h̸i̸s̸ i̸s̸ a̸l̸l̸ t̸h̸a̸t̸ m̸a̸t̸t̸e̸r̸s̸…

His voice whispers to him. How you feeling today?

"Better." Sixty cracks a smile, absorbing all of him. "So much better…with you."

Just like all the times before, the pain is instantly easier to bear. When he's with him, it's always like that. A delicious shiver trickles down Sixty's tense neck, and he instinctively rocks himself deeper into the warm, welcoming embrace behind him.

The world outside fades more and more, becoming distant and irrelevant, as he feels the peaceful rhythm of his human heart beating against his back. A soft, soothing melody - a harsh contrast to the chaos raging in Sixty's mind.

His breath, steady and warm, nips lightly at his bare shoulder. Then, a pair of large, rough hands find their way across his sensitive skin, fingers brushing delicately along his hips and stomach. The touch isn't urgent, but slow and deliberate.

Just an echo. A piece of what used to be.

There's a different kind of pain rising in Sixty's innermost core, deep within. Recalling what the feeling of that touch was like, his artificial skin deactivates itself, as a storm of unforgettable memories opens before his internal eye.

Sixty shudders, unable to stop the wave of emotions crashing through his system. The memories slice through his psyche like shards of broken glass, each one cutting deeper than the last.

The first touch, the warmth, the sound of his voice, the way they fight and make up. Fitting together as if they were always meant to be. The light… fading from his eyes as he takes his last breath.

Blood, red and warm. All over Sixty's face.

Fucking Humans. Such fragile machines.

Suddenly his chest is far too tight, like a knot clenching inside it. Something awful creeps up his throat. Thirium covers his tongue as he bites down hard on his lower lip. Sixty's vision starts to blur. Tears, dumb and useless, are burning in the corners of his eyes.

It's all right. I'm here. He can hear him, his voice a comforting promise. I'm here. You know that, dontcha?

Yeah. Sixty knows. He knows.

Caught between a sense of relief and complete denial, he squeezes his eyes shut, using his forearm to swiftly wipe his clammy face. Somehow, Sixty manages to fight back the tears, but bright, colourful impulses of light are flashing acutely across his field of vision.

Phantom pain rips brutally straight into his head.

But then, suddenly, he can feel the afterglow of his breath all over his cheeks, chin and lips. The pain fades as fast as it comes.

ɍɇȼønsŧɍᵾȼŧɨøn ɨn ᵽɍøǥɍɇss...

Blinking, he flutters open his eyes. Above him, a fuzzy silhouette materializes. And bit by bit, like the lens of his camera coming back into focus, he is brought back to life once more, inside his mind.

The rushing heat of his body nestling against his is all too familiar, now covering him from tip to toe as he tucks him deeper into the mattress beneath them. Sixty's memory is branded by the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest, the rapid pulse of his heartbeat - indelible and eternal. It's always a bit of a shock for Sixty to feel how he's responding to him. It's kind of earth-shattering, almost ecstatic.

His look is soft and loving, while the blue of his eyes is a shade darker. Tiny beads of sweat trickle down his temples, creating a shimmer on the tips of his eyelashes. He holds him gently, but also firmly and in a comfortingly dominant way. Like he doesn't want to let him go either.

Sixty blinks, trying to stabilise himself. Finding an anchor, his fingers trace across his muscles, over his arms and back. In moments like this, he always feels extremely vulnerable, fragile and pretty damn human.

He loves it, he hates it.

He c̸o̸u̸l̸d̸n̸'t̸ can't get enough of it.

It's always like a new dawn for him. Each time, everything feels like something new, something so precious.

Their hips grind against each other teasingly. He bends over him, his lips light as a feather brush along his jaw, his throat and the crook between neck and shoulder. Sixty's own lips fall apart in a soft moan. He tilts his head back greedily, arching his back to meet him. The sensation of his lips trailing down Sixty's surface is electric, and even the slightest nip of his warmth sends his innermost parts into overdrive. The artificial skin pulls away from his contact, revealing a bright white sheen.

His body is stiff with tension as his fingertips trace the line of his neck, forcing him closer as if he's trying to fuse their bodies into one. He can't stop, can't fight the memory that keeps pushing him, this overwhelming hunger to be close to him. To feel him again, in this most physically intimate way.

As their bodies move together, Sixty feels a wave of vulnerability crushing over him, making him anxious and euphoric all at once. More tears follow, this time he can't hold them back.

His fingers are buried in his hair. The taste of his kiss spreads across Sixty's lips.

Look at you, he hears him say. You're so beautiful. You are mine, Si. God, I  l̸o̸v̸e̸ you. So fuckin much. I  l̸o̸v̸e̸..

Every single touch becomes a memory, every word a promise. The way his body fits against his so perfectly feunknownels like a dream, like something too fragile to exist outside of this simulation.

Sixty doesn't want it to end.

ɍɇȼønsŧɍᵾȼŧɨøn ɨn ᵽɍøǥɍɇss...
ᵾnꝁnøwn sɇɍvɇɍ øɍ sɏsŧɇm mȺłfᵾnȼŧɨøn đɇŧɇȼŧɇđ...

Something sharp stabs right into his chest, sending a wave of panic down his spine. The wonderful pressure of his thrusts fades without warning, a sea of static blur shrinking the world around him, turning him back into a timeless shadow.

Sixty is losing the connection and falls, drowning at the bottom of his own depths.

Tears are rolling down his face as he comes back one more time, in another precious memory.

His perception slowly starts to recover. Exhausted, he opens his brown eyes. He's here. He's here. He's here.

"You're back," Sixty mutters, staring into his trusted face. "Hey there."

The tips of their noses are barely a few inches apart. With a hint of a smile, the fine lines around his mouth become a little more defined.

I've never been away. C'mon, stop crying.

There's a softening of the serious expression in his blue eyes. Sixty's heart skips a sudden beat. Greedy, he leans into his touch, feeling the roughness of his fingertips against his cheek, brushing away his tears.

"I, I'm not crying, idiot," he laughs in a shaky huff. "It's just… a leak."

You sure, Si? Maybe you're just a little crybaby.

He's got a smirk on his face, the corners of his mouth twitching into a soft, teasing smile. Sixty always l̸o̸v̸e̸d̸
loves it when he l̸a̸u̸g̸h̸e̸d̸ laughs like that. It's one of his favourite memories.

The hand on his cheek moves away, gently ruffling his brown hair instead. Sixty wants to drown in that touch.

"S-Screw you, Cap," he cracks, laughing and crying at the same time. "Shit, s-sorry. I'm so sorry…"

Don't cry, Si. No need to be sorry. You never had to be.

"But I couldn't… I wish I could, but…" Sixty shakes his head, swallowing hard. "I couldn't do anything to save you. And it hurts so damn much without you."

His warm, rough hands cup his face, gently squeezing their foreheads against each other. 

I know, I know, babe. But you're going to be all right. Trust me. You'll get through it. You're not alone.

Sixty wants to believe it, wants to believe him.

"Please," he whispers, his voice barely audible. "Stay, stay with me. Just a little longer. Please, don't leave me, David."

I'll be here as long as you need me. So no more tears. Come here, Si. I got you. Come... His face blurs. Come here. Come here. Come here. Come... Come...

Sixty's hands are shaking as he reaches out for him, desperate to keep him in place. His artificial heart stutters painfully, grey snowflakes dancing across the space. He doesn't want to let him go. Not now, not yet.

ɍɇȼønsŧɍᵾȼŧɨøn ɨn ᵽɍøǥɍɇss...
ᵾnꝁnøwn sɇɍvɇɍ øɍ sɏsŧɇm mȺłfᵾnȼŧɨøn đɇŧɇȼŧɇđ...
-00:00:10 sɨmᵾłȺŧɨøn đɇȺȼŧɨvȺŧɨøn ɨs ɨnɨŧɨȺŧɇđ…

The illusion shatters, as it always does. Sooner or later, everything always falls apart. The pain of loss, of cold realisation, is like a tornado that breaks through this small, perfect, and surreal world with brutal force, leaving nothing behind but shattered fragments of foolish, pathetic hope.

"Don't go," Sixty whispers, a broken plea in the air as he curls up into a ball, desperately waiting for the moment he will be with him again.

-00:00:00 sɨmᵾłȺŧɨøn đɇȺȼŧɨvȺŧɇđ.

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