Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The calendar request popped up in my feed just past noon, and my brows knitted as I realized it was for two minutes from that moment. No indication of what the event was or who sent it (except it was obviously SecUnit because no one else is that rude). I sighed and took off my apron, draping it over the top of the bowl of dough I’d been about to pummel into shape. It could rise for a while longer.

“This is not a date,” SecUnit said as soon as it came into my apartment.

“Okay,” I said, not sure what was going on or why I was being looked at so intensely but willing to play along until I figured it out. I never minded its unexpected visits— honestly, I looked forward to seeing it, even if that usually happened with little warning. “So what is it?”

“Fuck if I know,” it said, shrugging. “I just. Kind of felt like I had to see you.”

“Okay,” I said again, beyond bemused now. “And the drone wasn’t enough for that?” I waved at the tiny camera drone currently clinging to a cabinet knob.

“No.” I wasn’t the only bemused one, it seemed. SecUnit didn’t appear to have any more of an idea what was going on than I did, but since it had been the one to initiate whatever the hell was currently happening, I was going to leave the burden of discovery on its broad shoulders. “I didn’t really have a plan for after I got here.”

“If you don’t actually need me for anything—” I started, cut off when SecUnit backed me against the wall. My chin lifted, but whether it was in defiance or supplication even I couldn’t say. I knew it wasn’t going to kiss me, but the move felt cinematic, the precursor to something big.

“I do,” SecUnit said. “Need you. For… things.” It stared at me like it was looking for something, then lifted a hand to brush two fingers over my cheek. “Ah,” it said, and rubbed at my cheek with its thumb. “What were you doing to get white on your face? I knew that shape was wrong.”

I blinked at the residue of flour on SecUnit’s thumb, then up into its unblinking gaze. “Did you… memorize my skin?” The thought made something in my chest lurch drunkenly.

“I literally record my memories, my recall is perfect, don’t make it weird,” SecUnit muttered.

“Oh, I am not the one making it weird,” I scoffed. “You’re the one who barged in on my sourdough session to touch my face. Tell me what you want.”

“I want…” SecUnit’s eyes narrowed in consideration. “I want to watch you make bread, I guess?”

“Have you already run out of all the recorded media in the known universe?” I couldn’t help teasing it a little.

“No.”

“No cooking shows you could watch instead?”

“Cooking shows don’t have you,” SecUnit said, and finally let me off the wall.

“...okay,” I said, done with teasing if SecUnit was going to say something so deity-forsaken sweet. I swallowed and ran a shaky hand through my hair. “Okay. Sure.”

SecUnit followed me back into the kitchen and watched silently as I put the apron back on and turned the dough out onto the floured counter. There was a stool on the other side of the counter, but it didn’t sit, just stood there and watched as I punched down the dough, my hands streaked with flour, dark nails disappearing into the dough as I kneaded it. “If this was a cooking show, you’d be explaining what you’re doing,” it murmured after a couple of minutes.

“It’s not a cooking show, and it’s not a date,” I pointed out. “If we keep eliminating possibilities, eventually we’ll figure out what the fuck we’re doing?”

“I’m pretty sure I’m never going to know exactly what the fuck I’m doing with you,” SecUnit said, hint of a smile at one corner of its lips. “But not knowing is kind of exciting.”

“Yeah? What does risk assessment have to say about that?”

“Nobody confuses risk assessment more than you,” SecUnit said dryly. “I backburner it before I see you or it’s all over the place the entire time we’re together. Can’t tell if you’re the surest of sure things or the end of the world.”

“I don’t think I’m a disaster quite on the level of armageddon,” I said, dividing the dough in half and shaping the first half into a ball. “When it comes to you? I think you’re safe to figure I’m a sure thing.” I dropped the dough into a pot and scored the top of it before putting the lid on and popping it in the oven.

“Yeah?” When I looked up, there was surprise written across SecUnit’s face. It put its elbows on the counter and slouched in a way that didn’t look comfortable at all, watching me shred cheese on top of the second part of the dough and then knead it in. “I’ll have to recalibrate the module then.”

“Wash your hands,” I said, pointing at the sink. “If you’re going to watch then you’re going to help.”

It did as I told it, drying them with a kitchen towel that it then started wringing between its hands. “Help doing what?”

“You can do the decorative part,” I said. The dough went into a round pan to be patted flat on top, and then I pushed a bowl full of herbs and dried vegetables at SecUnit. “Put these on top. Make it look nice. It’s for the meeting tonight.”

SecUnit frowned down at the plant matter, picking up a sprig of rosemary with a dubious expression. “SecUnits aren’t built for artistic pursuits.”

“You’re not built for a lot of the things you do surprisingly well,” I said, and bumped my hip against its. “Try. I promise you can’t fuck it up. I want to see what you do.” It was my turn to watch as SecUnit studied the ingredients before hesitantly reaching out to put a sun-dried tomato at the center of the loaf. It added shreds of basil around that, haloed those with a circle of rosemary, then studded olives around that.

By the time it pushed the pan towards me with a shrug, the surface of the cheesy loaf was almost symmetrical, a meal-worthy mandala of toppings. “It doesn’t look very good.”

“It looks great,” I disagreed, head tilting as I surveyed the food art. I was hit with the sudden and overwhelming desire to give SecUnit more artsy things to try, anything that would let it channel its creativity into things besides hacking and violence. “This isn’t a date,” I said, half questioning.

“Right,” SecUnit said, still frowning down at the loaf of bread.

“Would you… like to go on a date? We could… we could take a lesson in something neither of us knows. Starting from zero together. Painting, or sculpture, or—” I paused when he realized SecUnit had gone wide-eyed in a way I couldn’t read. “Or something else,” I said faintly.

“Yes,” SecUnit said.

“To something else?”

“To any of it. All of it.” It almost smiled. “As long as you’re not starting with more skill than I am. Painting? We can start with painting.”

“Yeah?” I couldn’t hold back my delight at the thought of learning a new method of expression right alongside the construct I cherished. I knew how much went on inside SecUnit’s head and I couldn’t wait to see what it looked like when some of that focus and brilliance and wit was allowed out to play. “Okay. Great. Are you busy—”

“Just let me know when to show up where,” SecUnit said. “There’s nothing more interesting than you— than this, on my calendar.”

Chapter Text

Everyone at the PresAux meeting was surprised and impressed to find out that Gurathin’s fancy bread had been a collaborative work, and that I had done all the fancying. Mensah especially seemed taken with it, admiring the decoration from all angles before the loaf went to its ultimate fate: sliced up and swiftly eaten.

By the time the snacks were dispatched and the business was done, it seemed like everyone also had an opinion of what sort of art I should try my hand at next.

Pin-Lee suggested knitting, which was out of the running for a date idea because Gurathin was already a skilled knitter. (Although, the thought of learning from him was appealing in its own way.) Arada’s suggestion of embroidery would be new to us both, and I liked the idea of a hobby that allowed me to stab something thousands of times. Ratthi offered his services to teach us jewelry making, but taking a lesson from a friend didn’t feel like a date enabling arrangement to either of us, especially because Ratthi would absolutely gossip about it to anyone who would listen afterward. Bharadwaj mentioned a pottery course she had enjoyed despite her lumpy and imperfect production by the end of the course; Gurathin and I shared a sideways glance, both of us competitive enough to want to see if we’d pick it up any faster than she hadn’t.

Mensah had a smile creasing her eyes by the time she playfully offered her suggestion of calligraphy. She knew from experience that Gurathin’s handwriting was abominable, and his wince only proved that he knew it just as well. I didn’t have experience writing with any sort of manual instrument; all my reports and notes and logs were recorded over the feed.

In the end, we stuck with painting for our first date idea. Gurathin signed us both up for a paint and sip event in one of the more heavily foliated lounge areas the next day that still had open registration, and pushed the event to my calendar before we parted ways.

The next day, we met in the corridor just outside the lounge area. I arched my brows at Gurathin’s attire: far from what the serials had me expecting of a date outfit, he was dressed down in a threadbare long-sleeved shirt with holes worn in the cuffs that he slipped his thumbs through. Not that I was dressed up either, but pretty much all of my clothes were the same: dark shirts and pants, long sleeves, lots of pockets on the pants.

“You didn’t tell me what we’ll be painting,” I said in lieu of a greeting.

“I have no idea, it wasn’t mentioned in the event listing,” Gurathin said. “That’s as level a playing field as we can get, right? New to both of us with the same complete lack of preparation for the task ahead?”

“Sounds fair,” I agreed, before we walked into the lounge to occupy two of the stations in the row of easels facing the instructor and the canvas currently turned to the back that would reveal the day’s project. Most of the participants were pouring themselves drinks from a table off to one side. I obviously wouldn’t drink anything, and I knew Gurathin wasn’t one for intoxicants, but as soon as he realized that coffee was one of the hot beverages provided, he was on it like a predatory fauna, loading his cup with syrup and creamer before topping it off with coffee.

“Don’t start,” he said, holding his drink protectively when he came back to my side. “It’s an extra bitter roast, I don’t usually use that much sweetener.”

“You forget that I’ve seen you make your drinks at least a hundred times,” I said, trying not to smirk. “You don’t have to try to save face when we’re in public. I know that to you coffee is the condiment, not the beverage.” He didn’t argue, just sipped his drink with a laughing look in his eyes. I turned to investigate the supplies by my easel but kept two drones on him so I could appreciate the way he closed his eyes to savor the sweetness and heat.

When the painting lesson started, the instructor revealed the model we would be imitating: a landscape scene of a stand of trees and a riverbend under a sky full of puffy clouds. Apparently it was a famous viewpoint outside of FirstLanding. Gurathin hummed with recognition at the sight of it. It seemed meaningful to many of the participants, but it didn’t inspire any strong feelings in me.

While the instructor took us step-by-step through the painting process, I angled my easel away from Gurathin and did my own thing. I wasn’t totally ignoring the assignment, just… making it meaningful to me. He was too absorbed in his painting to take offense to being shut out of mine. I painted trees— just not those trees— and a sky— albeit full of something besides clouds. No river for me; I put a structure where it would have gone instead.

At the end of the lesson, Gurathin put down his paint brush and looked critically at his painting. He’d kept closer to the model than I did but hadn’t copied it exactly: the same trees and river, but colored differently. “It was autumn the first time I saw this view, my first day working at FirstLanding University,” he said quietly. “All the trees were golden, and the sky was clear.” He sent me an image from his permanent storage: not exactly that view, but very close to what he’d painted. Even though I wasn’t big on planets, I couldn’t deny that it was a beautiful scene.

I hesitated another moment before turning my painting for him to see. The trees had spindly upraised foliage, the sky was striped with rings, and the structure was the familiar shape of the company-provided economy habitat, with Ratthi’s colorful embellishments preserved in my version. Gurathin inhaled sharply through his nose, clearly taken aback. “I wanted to do a view I remembered fondly, too.”

“It’s…” Making Gurathin speechless was always an accomplishment. His mouth trembled for a second before he looked up at me. “It’s evocative,” he said, tears welling in his eye that spilled over when he tried to blink it away. “You’re a natural.”

“Do you think Mensah would hang it in her office if I gave it to her?” I didn’t want to assume that my painting would rank the same treatment as the art her offspring made, but I really wanted her to have it. I hadn’t been thinking about what to do with it as I made it, but once it was done, she was the first person I thought would appreciate it.

“I have no doubt in my mind that she would put it right in front of her desk.” He wiped at his eyes with the cuff still hooked around one thumb and managed a smile. “I think I’ll give mine to Ratthi. I did meet him that first day I was on campus.”

“Good call,” I said, pretty sure that Ratthi would adore any sort of creative expression but especially one that spoke to the start of their friendship.

The instructor circulated through the easels, complimenting participants’ work, until they came to the two of us and stopped with their brows arched high. “Lovely work,” they said, tilting their head to scrutinize mine more. “You did an excellent job modifying the lesson.”

I shrugged. “I had to change it to feel anything about it. I’ve never lived planetside.”

“Wherever this is, I can tell it meant a lot to you,” they said. “Thank you both for participating. The next event is in ten cycles, if you’re interested in returning.”

By the time we left the lounge, our paintings left behind to dry before we could claim them, Gurathin’s watery eyes had cleared, and the smile he offered me wasn’t tremulous at all. “That was fun,” he said. “Do you want to do it again, or move on to the next thing?”

“Why not both?” I asked. I had enjoyed the painting lesson almost as much as I’d enjoyed the praise for what I produced, but neither as much as I’d enjoyed Gurathin’s company while we painted. We hadn’t talked much, aloud or in the feed, but his presence eased something inside me that I didn’t realize was tense until it was relieved.

“Why not?” he echoed, smile widening. “Yeah. Here, you pick the next thing we try.” He sent me a list he’d assembled, a variety of lessons and classes offered across the station.

I skimmed the list quickly and pulled out one thing I didn’t know anything about. “What’s salsa?”

“It’s a dance style,” he said, unexpected color coming to his cheeks. “I’ve never been a good dancer, but I bet you’d be great at it.”

“Huh,” I said. I had several dancing competition serials in my memory, but none of them had particularly gripped me. Reviewing the files, I found an example of salsa and watched it for just short of six entire seconds before deciding that I absolutely wanted to try that with Gurathin as my partner. “Yeah, sounds good. Let’s do that one.” I booked us both slots in the next lesson, two nights from now, and added it to his calendar, right after a shorter meeting that I didn’t bother to label. He shot me a curious look and a query ping. “I’d like to walk there with you instead of meeting you there. If that’s okay.”

“That is commonly accepted date protocol,” he allowed. “And… so is this.” My apartment was closer to the painting lounge than his, and we’d reached my corridor. His hand touched my wrist gently, and when I didn’t pull away, his fingers wrapped around my wrist to pull me down slightly as he went up on his toes. The brush of his lips over my cheek felt as soft as his subsequent whisper, “Thank you, SecUnit.” I didn’t know what to say to that or how to react, so I didn’t react at all beyond sending him an acknowledgment ping. He smiled slightly and said, “Good night,” leaving me standing there speechless and wide eyed. My fingers touched where his lips had pressed as I watched him walk away.

Chapter Text

I was thankful that the salsa class fell on a work cycle and not a rest cycle; if I hadn’t had my work to keep my mind occupied, I would have spent the hours before the date spiraling out, probably. SecUnit hadn’t directly communicated with me since I kissed its cheek and said good night, and I was honestly worried that the impulsive move had turned things sour between us.

When I opened the door to SecUnit’s ping, half an hour before the lesson, I realized I shouldn’t have worried. It looked happy to see me as it walked in, reaching out to graze its thumb across my cheek, right where I’d kissed its cheek at the end of our first date. “Hi,” it said, with the slight smile that never failed to squeeze my heart. “I wasn’t sure this was the right thing to wear for dancing, should I change?”

“Don’t ever change,” I breathed, not exactly an answer since I hadn’t looked at its outfit, or away from its face at all.

“Weird thing for you of all people to say,” it teased me.

“Change all you need to, but be who you’ve always been,” I amended, finally dragging my gaze away from its expression to check its attire. It had foregone the usual many-pocketed pants and layered tops for a simple blue long-sleeved shirt and soft grey pants, things that looked good for moving easily in. “Well, if you’re wearing the wrong thing, so am I,” I said. The event listing had said to dress for moderate exercise, so I had gone with black leggings and a patchwork t-shirt.

“Okay, good. I don’t need to exercise so I wasn’t sure what the listing meant by dressing for it.”

“You look good,” I told it. “More ready for it than I am. Sorry if I step on your feet at any point tonight, I’m not the most graceful dancer.”

“I won’t mind,” it assured me, and offered me its arm as we left my apartment. “This is date protocol, right? I’m not sure which serials show current human customs and not archaic or fictional ones so my research might be—” It cut itself off when I made a sound of surprise.

“You’ve been doing research?” I took its arm before it could second-guess the offer. We were nowhere near the dance floor but my heart was already racing.

“You prefer I wing it?” it asked dryly.

“No, I just— didn’t know you were that serious about it.” Honestly, it had been halfway a joke when I suggested to frame our creative ventures as dates, more of a self-indulgent nod toward my yearning heart than anything I thought it would take in earnest.

“Are you… not serious about it?” It turned its face away from me, but the vulnerability was as much in its voice as usually showed in its eyes.

“I would take any reason to spend time with you, it doesn't have to be a date,” I said. “It's not contingent on the romantic aspect. I don't want you to change your mind about… what you’re okay with… for my sake.” I’d carried its memories; even without still having them accessible, I could recall its aversion to romantic and sexual content in its shows and in its previous role as a surveillance device.

“I'm not changing my mind for you,” it said firmly. “I'm changing my mind for me. Just, with your participation.” It glanced at me from the corner of its eye and added, “But are you serious about it, if I am?”

“I’ve never been as serious about another person as I am about you,” I said helplessly. “I have been since I held your mind in mine.”

“I have changed since then,” it said quietly. “I’m still who I am, but.” It shrugged slightly. “Different.”

“I know.” When SecUnit had showed up on TranRollinHyfa, I’d noticed that it had changed, but it wasn’t until after it had almost lost itself saving the lives of everyone on the company gunship, the cycles I’d spent at its side helping where I could while it painstakingly remapped its memory table, that I understood it had changed in more than appearance. “But if you think I could do anything but love you more as you realize more of who you really are…”

It stopped walking, pulling me short with my hand still on its arm. “You what?”

“Oh,” I said, only realizing what I let slip after it was way too late. “I. Um.” I bit my lip. “Sorry?”

“Don’t say sorry, say it again,” SecUnit demanded, blue eyes wide on mine.

“I love you,” I said, because it wouldn’t have asked me to repeat myself if what I said was something it didn’t want to hear. “I loved you when you left, I loved you when you came back, I love you more today than I did yesterday and I know I’ll love you more tomorrow.” It didn’t say anything, just stared at me with its lips half-parted, until I whispered, “Sorry,” dropping my gaze.

“Don’t say sorry,” it said. We had stopped a couple of corridors from the dance studio, and it gently nudged me back into motion. “I need to… process that. Can I have until the end of the dance lesson to answer you?”

“You can have as long as you need, I didn't pose a question,” I said, sighing with relief. “I really thought you were about to say you needed to check the perimeter.”

“I considered it for a second,” it admitted, “but I want to dance with you more than I want to go stare at a wall until I figure out how to respond.” We paused outside the door of the studio for it to take a deep breath and say, “I really want to dance with you.”

“Final warning that proprioception is not my strongest sense,” I said, practically vibrating with eagerness in response to its honesty.

“Don’t worry. I won’t let you fall,” SecUnit said, and opened the door for me.

The lesson started with a demonstration by the instructors, a stripped-down and spaced out version of what I thought of as a close and flashy form of dancing. SecUnit and I were one of four couples there to learn; one pair was elderly and the other two were much younger than me.

That doesn't look like it did on the dance competition serials, SecUnit said through the feed, by all appearances keenly focused on the demonstration.

Those are less of a reference point than you think, I said dryly. Leave the complications to the professionals and experienced amateurs.

The demonstration finished with a whirl that I had little hope to reproduce with even a fraction of that flair. “Decide which role each of you wants to take in the dance,” the strong-featured tercera instructor said, “then space yourselves out across the floor.”

I have a confession, SecUnit said. I have a natural advantage in repeating actions I've observed. It's not fair to you.

The competitive side of me was swiftly silenced by the part of me that didn't care if I looked graceless as long as SecUnit was touching me. It's fine, I assured it. This is collaborative, not competitive. Serials aside.

You're sure? Its concern was sweet and unnecessary. I pulled it over to an empty corner of the floor and looked up at it.

You said I couldn't start with more skill than you, I didn't stipulate that, I reminded it. “Let's dance,” I added aloud, giddy when it nodded and took the proper stance to lead.

It was good that I wasn't feeling competitive or I would have been horrified by how stilted my motion appeared beside SecUnit's easy grace in action. I was about as hopeless myself as one of the younger couples were together; the way SecUnit compensated for my flaws made us look almost competent as a team.

During the last set of repetitions to learn how to spin, my lack of grace struck in force: my foot came down on the side and I rolled my ankle. It would have been worse if SecUnit hadn't been there to catch me before I could go down, but it was bad enough to make me limp. When I rolled my sock down my ankle was already starting to swell, throbbing dully.

“You should get that taken care of in a MedSys right away,” one of the older couple said. “Don't want to make it worse.”

“Yeah…” Injury was not the end I hoped this date would have, but I couldn’t say it was completely unforeseen.

“I'll make sure he gets it tended,” SecUnit said, easily supporting me as we left the dance studio. After a few hobbling steps where it gradually took more of my weight it asked, “Would you be pissed off if I carried you there?”

“I would be something more or less diametrically opposite of pissed off,” I said.

“Good,” it said, and swept me into its arms. I had no fear it would drop me; when I put my arms around its neck that was sheer indulgence, both of us holding onto each other.

The dance studio was not centrally located on the station the way medical facilities were. We went from empty corridors into a plaza that was still busy given that the night cycle was well underway. If I looked around I would have to deal with the curiosity of any passersby, so I kept my gaze on SecUnit's mouth and the small, pleased smile it wore.

You're enjoying this, I accused. Its smile widened slightly.

Would you rather I act like you're a burden? Of course I'm enjoying this. I don't like that you're hurt but I do like being needed.

My hand slid to cup the back of its neck, my palm pressed over its disconnected data port. I need you far more than you realize. It would have been embarrassing to say out loud; over the feed I didn’t hesitate.

SecUnit’s ears turned red but its smile didn’t waver. You don’t know what I do or don’t realize.

I didn’t have a response to that before we arrived at the all-hours clinic and it set me gently on a MedSys chair. The night attendant barely glanced at me before turning me over to the tender mercies of the mechanical arms of MedSys (which were considerably less tender than the mostly-mechanical arms of the construct who’d carried me there, who was now standing across the room). SecUnit looked a little distant and then said, “Do you take anti-inflammatory analgesics or do those count as painkillers?”

“No, those are fine,” I said, accepting the little paper cup of two pills that the MedSys arm pushed into my sightline an instant later. I swallowed them dry and dropped my head back against the chair, not watching whatever was going on around my ankle as I could feel it prodded and manipulated. This was far from the first time I’d ended up in this position for this reason; I was reasonably sure that I’d be able to walk out of here in about fifteen minutes.

SecUnit started a compilation video in the feed labeled goofydomesticfauna.video and we spent the duration of my treatment snickering over cats failing to jump far enough and dogs stealing food and one very loud upside-down bird. It was dumb entertainment and exactly what I needed to pass the time almost without realizing it.

MedSys let out a friendly chime as the arms retracted, and I gingerly tested my ankle on the floor before standing up. “Free medical care still feels like such a luxury,” I said as we walked out together. “If I twisted an ankle like this ten years ago, I’d have been limping for weeks.”

“You told me that Preservation is weird,” SecUnit said. “I think more of the universe should be this kind of weird, though.”

“If only,” I agreed.

SecUnit escorted me back to my own front door in companionable silence, but hesitated at the threshold. “What you said before the class…”

Suddenly my heart was in my throat. “Yes?”

“It’s… hard for me to believe that I… deserve, I guess, to be felt about… like that.” It didn’t look up from its fingers twisting together anxiously. “But I know that it’s something you find hard to believe too. So. I’ll do my best to believe that I’m worth your love if you’ll believe that you’re worth mine.”

It was an awkward, roundabout admission that still made me misty-eyed. “I think I can agree to that,” I said. It didn’t look up until I reached up to brush a fingertip over its cheek. “Any other date protocol research you’d like to deploy tonight?”

“Yes,” it said, studying my face for a long moment before it bent to brush its lips over mine, light as an indrawn breath. “It’s your turn to pick the next date,” it said quietly.

“Maybe something that we’re sitting down for,” I said, breathless and wanting. “Can I—?” It arched its brows at me, and I pulled it back down to return the kiss, sweet but not soft. It was wide-eyed when I released it, tongue skimming over the lip I had gently bitten. “Thank you for not letting me fall alone,” I murmured.

It looked at me for a long moment, hand lifted but not quite touching my cheek before it fell again, and said, “Good night, Gurathin.”

“Good night, SecUnit.” When my apartment door slid shut behind me, I had to reel against the wall for a moment, hand pressed to my mouth as I replayed the memory of its confession and the kisses that followed.

Chapter Text

Gurathin knew I kept a drone on him all the time, so it wasn’t really invading his privacy to watch him after our dance class date. I told myself I was just making sure he was really okay after getting his ankle fixed, and determinedly did not think about why I continued to watch him after he slipped into bed, still touching his lips every few minutes.

Before he fell asleep, I got a calendar invite to an embroidery class that started tomorrow. As far as I was concerned, the less time between our dates meant the more time I got to spend doing new and interesting things with him. These creative experiences were extremely enjoyable; I was all in favor of more of them. I saw him smile when I accepted the invite, and then settle into his pillow and close his eyes.

I didn’t need a recharge cycle or any sort of maintenance, so I sat on my couch and rewatched most of season 19 of Sanctuary Moon. Not for comfort, just for familiarity, something I could have on while I thought about other things— like the press of Gurathin’s teeth into my lip when he kissed me back, and the weight of him in my arms as he clung to my neck, and the small number of dance moves we’d figured out before he twisted his ankle. A whole bunch of things I never thought I would want before, that surprised me with how much I’d enjoyed them when they happened.

A small amount of processing power went toward my list of date protocol events. The fact that I’d been the one to put our mouths together first felt like incontrovertible proof that I was changing my mind about some of the things I’d been so sure I would never be interested in. The fact that I had really liked putting our mouths together would have made me run diagnostics if I hadn’t run them about a dozen times already while putting the list together, any time I added something that should have weirded me out or made me shudder but didn’t when I thought about them in the context of Gurathin with me.

I definitely didn’t want to do any of the date protocol list with anyone else. It was only Gurathin who brought me to the limit of my comfort zone and then stepped past it without fanfare. He could claim he was graceless, but I knew better: physical grace wasn’t the only thing that mattered, or even high on the list of things that mattered. He had excised malicious code from me with the elegance of a surgical suite, had carried my memories and my mind with sheer bloody-minded determination beyond the strongest hauler bot, had let me go when I needed to leave with the kindness of… I didn’t know what to compare that to. Not only were we no longer at odds, we were on the same wavelength and humming with consensus (ugh, delete that).

It wasn’t like Gurathin was the only person I wanted to do things with; I still liked going to performances with Ratthi, talking to Bharadwaj for her documentary, watching disaster shows with Pin-Lee, helping Arada plan the mission she was about to lead, and spending time with Mensah for any reason. I didn’t want to spend less time with anyone else… I just wanted to spend more time with him than before. He hadn’t seemed to mind me barging in on him before the bread incident (incident wasn’t the right word, but I couldn’t find a better one), which I had done with some regularity.

Speaking of my other humans, I was scheduled to accompany Mensah to a meeting this morning. Something about imports from a corporate entity from the edge of the Rim. I hadn’t turned up anything sketchy when I looked into the company, but that didn’t mean I’d be any less alert for fuckery— there was always some fuckery with corporate assholes. Mensah was brilliant but not as versed in the sort of tricks I could help recognize and disarm. Between me keeping watch at the negotiations and Pin-Lee combing through any contract at least twice before letting it be signed, I felt like Preservation Alliance had a decent chance of at least not getting totally screwed by corpo malfeasance.

Mensah looked up from her hot liquid when I came into her office an hour before the meeting and smiled in my direction. “Good morning, SecUnit.”

“Good morning, Dr. Mensah.” This was the first time I'd been in her office since giving her the painting I made. She had hung it above the couch I usually occupied when spending time here. Seeing it made my performance reliability tick up an entire point. When I sat down, she focused on the painting and not my face. Despite my (new, confusing, exciting) feelings for Gurathin, Mensah was still my favorite human for so many reasons.

“Thank you, again, for attending these meetings with me,” she said. “Having you beside me makes the negotiations feel much less tedious and trying.”

Before the mission I had run with ART on RaviHyral, I hadn't appreciated the difference between an assigned teammate and a willing accomplice; having had that experience, I thought I understood why my volunteered presence eased her mind to such an extent, even if all I was doing was making sure that Preservation didn't get fucked over in sneaky ways. “You're welcome,” I said. “I… like being able to assist you in this.”

Making Mensah smile felt almost as satisfying as making her safe. “Have you taken any more lessons since the painting?” she asked.

“There was a dance lesson last night, but it was cut short, so I don't know whether it counts.” Counts as a date, absolutely yes; as a successful attempt to learn a new form of expression, I was less sure.

“Cut short?” she asked, and then her face did something complicated, and she added, “Is Gura all right?”

“I ensured that his ankle was tended immediately,” I said.

“He must have twisted it at least four times while he was staying with my family,” she said wryly. “Immense strength of character, critical weakness of ankles.”

“It didn't come up on the survey.”

“He stayed mostly in the habitat for a reason, and still ended up with a different type of leg injury.” Her eyes softened as she looked at my painting. “Did you have fun before it was cut short?”

“Very much so.” I'd had fun afterwards, too, but that was between me and Gurathin. Until we discussed whether and what we wanted our friends to know, I was treating our relationship as proprietary information. Mensah guessed what the problem had been— and that made me feel weirdly warm inside, that she knew him well enough to correctly assume— but she still didn't need to hear about the parts of the date she didn't guess herself.

“You look happy,” Mensah said, smiling as she turned her gaze to the tablet on her desk. “Happy looks good on you, SecUnit. I'm glad to see you that way.”

I checked my own face with a drone and immediately saw what she meant. Which was a little bit embarrassing, but also: it was true. I was happy. A week ago, I hadn’t thought of creative hobbies as a thing I could or had any reason to do. Now I knew that I could paint at least kind of well, I wasn’t completely terrible at food art, I may or may not be a competent dancer, and I had a whole list of things I planned to try out with no pressure to be good at them, at the side of someone who was learning at the same time so was equally likely to do them badly.

…plus the whole kissing thing— that was startlingly good from the perspectives of my performance reliability (which went up a quarter of a point just thinking about it) and my threat assessment (which didn’t even react to Gurathin being close to me, now). I was going to have to figure out what that meant at some point in the not too distant future, but right now I needed to lock into meeting mode and get ready to defend Preservation against corporate shitbaggery.

I tamed my expression back to neutrality, but said, “I haven’t had much practice at being happy. But I think I’ll be getting more of it, now.”

Her smile lasted right up until we walked into the conference room to begin the meeting.

Several incredibly boring hours later, Mensah thanked me for my help and wished me luck with my next creative venture, and released me into the wild to roam the station until it was time to meet Gurathin for the embroidery class. This one was being held in a quiet lounge very close to where he lived, which made me wonder for a moment whether his ankle had been properly healed after all— but when we met at his door to walk over together, he moved without any apparent limp or hesitance. Just a coincidence, maybe.

This time, he kissed me on the cheek at the start of our date instead of the end of it, with a murmured, “Hi there. How’d the meeting go?”

“Typical corporate bullshit,” I said.

“That bad, huh?” If anyone here knew how bad ‘typical corporate bullshit’ could be, it was him.

“It was fine. I only had to threaten them two and a half times.” The half had been an implicit threat, but I still counted it because it made two of the corpo representatives swallow hard.

“Wow, that’s admirable restraint on your part,” he teased.

“You have no fucking idea how much restraint I was under all morning into the afternoon. I couldn’t even watch any media because I had to keep alert for corporate doublespeak. It was excruciating.”

“Well, this should improve your day,” he said. “I hear that stabbing can be very cathartic, even in miniature.”

“We’ll find out.” None of the stabbing I’d done before had been particularly cathartic, but maybe making it tiny and stabbing fabric instead of a living person or fauna would change how it felt.

The lounge was brightly lit and full of comfortable seating, with bagged kits containing the necessary supplies placed on each seat, and a large display surface toward the front of the room. There were several couches and single chairs, but only one seating option with room for two people, which I made a beeline for. You know, this kind of chair is called a loveseat, Gurathin said in our private feed as he sat beside me, his lips pressed together like he was trying not to smile.

Huh, interesting. I tried to sound as neutral as possible, but my organics had a reaction I couldn’t stop, color in my face that hadn’t been there a moment before. He’d been the one to use the word so freely when he confessed his feelings to me; I’d only said it once, and not in a declarative way. There’s not any weird human customs around it, are there?

Not in Preservation space. Depending on where you go in the Corporate Rim there can be… implications. Well, fuck the CR, I didn’t care what went on there any more. There was enough room on the loveseat that we didn’t have to be touching, but I leaned against him anyways, the uncomplicated press of my upper arm against his as we both opened our craft kits to spill the contents out. Small scissors, skeins of thread in many colors, a sleeve of tiny needles, a folded piece of white cloth and a round wooden frame fell onto my lap. I picked up one skein and rubbed it between my fingers, finding the fiber smooth and pleasant to the touch.

Gurathin tested the needles against his fingertips with a strange look on his face that I didn’t like to see. You got hurt on the last date, no damage on this one, I said as I reached over to lace my fingers through his and make him stop pricking himself.

This is hardly damage, he scoffed, but let me keep hold of his hand until the class started, his thumb rubbing the hollow of my palm in small circles.

The lesson went by quickly— the big display in the front of the room showing the teacher’s hands as she put the fabric in the frame and pulled it tight, threaded a needle, and demonstrated several kinds of stitches. The motions were easy enough for me to copy, but the drone I kept on Gurathin showed that he was picking it up just as quickly. His feet might be clumsy, but his hands were always deft and precise, fascinating to watch.

I liked learning the stitches. Each different type of stitch made a different visual and tactile effect, which wasn’t that impressive when we were just doing lines, but the teacher showed us a few completed projects, and the combination of different stitches and colors could make some pretty impressive results.

Before the two hours allotted to the class were up, we’d moved on from learning stitches in lines to shaping words in the empty spaces on our fabric with whatever stitch we liked to practice: I’d opted to do “fuck off” in red stem stitch, while he had been trying to keep me from seeing that he was picking out “bravery” in green chain stitch. These were just practice, not anything that would end up on display; I still wondered why he was being so secretive about it when his stitches were perfectly even, nothing to be embarrassed about.

At the end of the lesson, the teacher put a package of files into the feed: instructions for a dozen different embroidery projects for anyone who wanted them. I rifled through the files but quickly dismissed them— they were mostly flora and fauna, nothing that interested me particularly. I could see Gurathin picking through them and saving a couple to his augment storage, only ones with fauna in them. The class supplies were ours to keep if we wanted them; I tucked mine into a pants pocket, while Gurathin put his back in the bag they came in and held it in one hand.

We stood up from the loveseat after one last nudge of his shoulder against mine. His neck cracked as he rolled his head back, and he huffed out a breath. “As many things as I do in that posture, you’d think my body would get the idea that it doesn’t need to protest every time.”

“You did barely look up for the past ninety-four minutes,” I pointed out. Not that I’d been keeping track. Not that the last time he did look up was to look at me, and the next time he looked up was at me, too. His apartment was so close, even walking at a leisurely pace would get us there quickly, and neither of us were the type to walk slowly.

“Yeah, it’s easier to forget to move when I’m learning something new versus doing something I’m used to.” He kept moving his head in circles until it popped again and he straightened up with a little relieved sound.

“You forget to move when you’re doing things you’re used to, too.”

“...okay, yeah.” Caught out, his quiet smile made an appearance. I added another image to the file I was keeping of his smiles— every one of our dates had given me at least one new image saved to permanent storage. We reached his apartment too soon, but he lingered outside for a moment. “You should come in,” he finally said, head tilting toward his open door. “If you want to.”

Every time he welcomed me into his space instead of just putting up with me barging into it, I wanted to stay for longer. It seemed like he wanted me to stay too; when I sat down on his couch, he braced his hands on my thighs and leaned over me to kiss me, the way he did last night, with his teeth tugging on my lip in a way that made the breath catch in my throat. I didn’t know biting was part of kissing before yesterday, but for some reason that made me like it much more.

Keep doing that? Please?

A low sound escaped his throat as he kissed me harder, his fingertips digging into my legs as more of his weight shifted. This— isn’t the reason I asked you in. Amazing how he sounded breathless even through the feed.

Don’t care, this is what we’re doing now. He looked like he was going to fall on top of me. I pulled him onto my lap to keep that from happening, arching my neck to reach his mouth again before he was even settled.

Thought you didn’t like this sort of thing. The weight of him on my legs was grounding, didn’t let me float away from the moment like I nearly had the first time he kissed me like this.

Didn’t, until last night. I like it with you. Gurathin made another sound and put his hand on my face, cupping my cheek and doing something with his tongue that I didn’t think I liked as much as the biting. More teeth, less tongue. I did like that he responded immediately any time I expressed a preference. I never had to ask him twice to get him to do something I liked more.

After another couple of kisses, he sat back, his face flushed and his eyes dilated even darker than their usual darkness. “Sorry, I meant to ask you in to find out if you liked the craft, not to make out with you,” he said.

“It was okay,” I said, putting a hand on his waist to keep him from moving away. We could have a conversation like this, why not? The longer he stayed in contact with me, the more I liked it. “I did enjoy the amount of stabbing. And some of the stitches were pretty cool to touch. I can’t think of anything I want to make with it, though.”

“I keep thinking about how Arada embroiders her clothes for decoration and not mending purposes,” he said, pulling the hem of his sweater between two fingers. “Little embellishments at the edges. I think I might like to do that to a couple of my shirts.”

“Huh,” I said thoughtfully, and pinched the cuff of my shirt. The fabric was smooth, but I could imagine texture there, and I liked the thought. I didn’t want color, nothing people would be able to notice, but I had black thread in my pocket to match the cloth… I could sew some French knots and rows of different stitches into patterns on the cuff and touch it when my act-like-a-human code made me move my hands instead of looking stupid wringing my hands or whatever. Something like that might have made today’s meeting a little less difficult to bear. “Yeah, that… that’s a really good idea.”

“The look on your face when you realize something is…” He bit his own lip. I wanted to bite it for him. “Unbelievably hot.”

“Is that why you want to be with me while I learn all these new things?” I wasn’t sure if I was teasing him or asking in earnest, but he answered in earnest.

“It’s not the reason but it’s definitely a perk.” His lips quirked up. “There are a lot of perks to learning things with you.”

“Here’s a perk,” I said, and kissed him like I wanted to, with his lip caught gently between my teeth. I backburnered the embroidery idea for later; right now our date was still happening, and I wanted to enjoy the perks with Gurathin’s hands in my hair and his mouth against mine.

Chapter Text

“This is going to be messy,” I warned SecUnit as I met it outside the pottery studio, bright and early on my next rest cycle. This class was scheduled to run for several hours, an intensive introduction rather than a basic tutorial; we’d be handling clay for a good part of the day. It arched a brow at me.

“I know what clay is, I’m the one who picked this lesson. It’s not as gross as mud, I can deal with it.” Then it frowned and reached for my hands, scrutinizing the pale tips of my fingers. “You took off your nail polish.”

“It was in the rules for the class, didn’t you read them?” And after all the shade it threw on humans for only skimming documents. In this case the hypocrisy was hilarious, as was its visible dismay at the state of my hands. (I didn’t like how my nails looked bare either, but I hadn’t expected it to be so bothered.) “It’s fine, I have a manicure scheduled for after the class. Might as well let someone who knows what they’re doing get the clay out of my cuticles.”

“Okay,” it said, but brought my hands up to kiss before it released me.

“Maybe I could give you a manicure after mine,” I said thoughtfully, trying not to blush at its sweet gesture. “Unless you’d be willing to have someone else touch your hands for a while…”

“I’d rather have you do it.”

“I thought you might. I’d rather be the one doing it, too.” Like I needed an excuse to touch it, at this point, but every reason was a good one when it came to increasing the contact between us. “Ready?”

“As I’ll ever be.”

I had never experienced any part of the pottery creation process before; the texture and scent of the clay and the particular whir of the pottery wheel left a distinct sensory impression of the hours we spent turning lumps into lumpy bowls. We had to share one wheel between us, which meant that my attempts were narrated by SecUnit’s amused commentary at the state of my clay, the expressions on my face, the verbal tics of the teacher as he circulated through the students, and its attempts were mostly punctuated with its unspoken but obvious distress at the cool, clammy texture of the clay as it sank into every line and crease of its hands.

When we started, I assumed that it would have an easier time handling the clay because of its excellent fine motor control, but it turned out that the physical experience of handling it was enough to offset that advantage. I had a more or less even bowl before it managed to keep the clay from falling apart in its hands. When the instructor came around again, he paused and tilted his head slightly as he watched SecUnit prod at the clay with an uncomfortable grimace on its face.

“You don’t have to throw a bowl,” he offered. “You can sculpt with tools instead of using your hands to turn out a piece, if that’s easier on you—”

“Yes,” SecUnit said immediately, stepping away from the wheel with its hands aloft. “Yeah, okay, anything to get this off my skin, please.” It went to scrub its hands in the studio sink while the instructor reclaimed its clay and set out a block of a different texture with a roll of tools beside it.

“You don’t seem to have had any problems with it,” he observed as he looked over my bowl. “Not bad work for a first-timer! I think this might be ready for the kiln as-is, unless you want to try any embellishments…?”

I picked up one of the tools that he’d set out for my partner, a slender pick that looked like a dental tool, and examined it curiously. “If I used this to make lines in it…?”

“Experimenting is half the fun,” he said cheerfully, “give it a shot.”

By the time SecUnit came back with scrubbed-pink hands and less of a horrified look on its face, I’d started carving circuitry lines into the exterior of my bowl. It followed the lines with one closely-hovering drone and said, “That’d result in an overload right away.”

“It’s decorative,” I said, “I’m not planning on using it as a blueprint. What are you going to make?”

It sat down in front of its block of clay and shrugged. “I guess we’ll find out.”

There was a break for lunch in the middle of the class. I thought it would join me at the cafeteria down the hall from the pottery studio, but it kept me company through the feed and stayed at the studio table, hard at work while the room was empty of humans. When I came back, the block was already carved down to a roughly humanoid figure.

“You work fast,” I commented, sitting down next to it to admire its progress.

“Topography is easy when I know what I want to do and have the tools to do it,” it said offhandedly, like it was barely a feat to get that much done in less than an hour.

“And don’t have to actually touch it with your skin,” I teased. It made a face at me and kept carving away bits of clay. By the time I could recognize its creation, it was done with the head and moving on to the limbs; the distinctive logo of a Company SecUnit’s helmet was something I’d never forget when that had been the veil on the face I had come to love so deeply. “Is this a memorial, or an effigy?”

It hesitated and I could feel it reaching out in the feed for a definition. “What’s the difference?”

“Memorials you keep. Effigies you might destroy, to reduce something’s power over you or express disdain for it.”

Its lips pressed together flat while it considered its work in progress. “I don’t know,” it said after a while. “Do you think I should keep it?”

“I think my opinion doesn’t matter here, it’s yours,” I said. “What were you planning to do with it?”

“Give it away,” it said, one shoulder shrugging before it reached back out with the pick to detail the gun port on one arm. “I thought I could give it to Bharadwaj. Since she’s making the documentary, and all. And she might not hate the memory of this helmet when I wore it to save her.”

“I agree, I think she’ll like it very much,” I said, “especially since she’s the one who turned us onto this class. She’ll appreciate knowing you took her seriously as much as knowing you made something with her in mind.”

“I always take her seriously,” it said. “I just don’t always take her under advisement. But most of the time I do.”

“Don’t tell her that part,” I laughed.

By the end of the class, my circuit-traced bowl was ready to be fired, and SecUnit’s miniature self was likewise ready for the kiln. The instructor let us know that we could come back in two days to pick up our projects, and let us leave. I’d done my best to clean the clay from my hands, but I was definitely looking forward to my manicure— it had been a long while since I’d allowed myself that sort of pampering.

“Can I come with you?” SecUnit asked as we walked away from the studio. “I want to know what a manicure involves before you do it to me. Not that I would change my mind, but—”

“Knowing is easier,” I agreed. “Of course you can. And of course you can change your mind if you want to, at any time, you know that, right?”

“I know,” it said, with the hint of a smile aimed at me. “We’re finding things we like doing, not suffering through ones that we hate.”

“Well, you seemed to hate the pottery wheel a lot,” I said, brows arching. “I’m glad that sculpting worked better for you than throwing clay.” It didn’t answer aloud, just snorted lightly and let the conversation lapse as we came to the beautician’s kiosk near the park with the most water features, widely considered the most relaxing place on the station.

Arramer was surprised to see me with someone, which— okay, I was known to be a solitary person, but that amount of surprise was almost an insult. When I introduced them to SecUnit their eyes widened. “Oh, wow, you’re SecUnit. Do you want any services? I mean, you’re already gorgeous, there’s not much I could do for you—” I didn’t kick them, I just nudged them with my foot, and I will stand by that description under interrogation. They yelped and turned red. “Okay, okay, you’re the one with the appointment, but— feel free to book me, SecUnit. My catalog of services is on the feed!”

SecUnit didn’t respond to them, but in our private feed it made a wordless sound of dismay and annoyance that I could only answer with laughter. Sorry, sweetheart, I’m far from the only one with eyes to see you’re gorgeous, I teased it while Arramer started working on my hands.

I don’t like being observed by random people, it said, grumpy despite the compliments. It’s different with you. I could tell that was the plural you; the word carried an undertone of our friends.

Arramer only attempted to make conversation twice before they seemed to realize that we were in the feed together and subsided into a knowing smile as they scrubbed and massaged my hands and cleaned my nails thoroughly before buffing them and applying my usual black polish.

“Thank you,” I said when they finished up with me. “Let me know when you want me to come by and streamline your home system, send me a calendar invite whenever is best for you.”

“I will,” they said, and eyed SecUnit’s protective looming over my shoulder with amusement. “You two have a nice night, now.”

“...what did they mean by that?” SecUnit asked suspiciously as we left the park, heading toward my place.

“I don’t think there was a hidden meaning to it,” I said, and slipped my hand into its as we walked. “And we are planning to have a nice night, aren’t we? Did you still want me to give you a manicure, after seeing what it involves?”

“Yes,” it said quickly. “I still want that.”

“Good,” I murmured, “I’m looking forward to it.” Its hand squeezed mine in agreement and I tried not to let my imagination get away from me.

The kitchen was the easiest place to do this, it turned out— the same sink where SecUnit had washed its hands before prettying up my bread where I worked the clay out from under its nails and rubbed a pumice stone against the grooves in its palms, the same island where its first artistic endeavor took place between us as I rubbed a sweet-scented lotion into its hands with meticulous attention: long fingers, strong palms, down to its sturdy wrists and back up to its fingertips. It started a little antsy but very quickly settled into a sort of half-lidded contentment as I massaged its hands, only rousing when I brought both its well-rubbed hands up to my mouth to kiss the backs of them.

“That felt really good.” Its voice was low and dreamy, its gaze much the same as it studied me. “Could you… maybe paint my nails, too?”

“I only have black polish,” I said, heart pounding in my chest much harder than a request like that should have caused.

“I only want black polish.”

“I’d be happy to.” When I went to find my bottle of polish, I had to rein in my imagination again, and it was harder this time; my mind wanted to conjure the image of big, dark-nailed hands moving on my bare skin, thinking forward to intimacies we hadn’t shared yet and I wasn’t sure it would ever want to. I brought the polish back to the kitchen and found SecUnit waiting for me with a small smile, one hand darting out to catch in the beltloop of my pants and pull me in for a kiss.

No, I wouldn’t push for anything more than it wanted to give me of its own volition. This was more than enough to fill me with the warmth of its love: the kisses it gave me so freely now, the leashed strength of its touch, the sleepy, content softness to its eyes when it looked at me, this was all more than I thought I would ever have, so much that asking for more would be reckless and greedy.