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The repair bay was quiet, the way ship rooms go quiet when the rest of the crew is on rotation and only the life support systems remember to make noise. Today was a big day. Every month, as it was on every ship you’d been assigned to, there was a synthetic maintenance benchmark to meet that helped ensure proper functionality and upkeep of standards for a ship’s respective synthetic unit. This would be your fifth session of this nature with the Sulaco’s synthetic officer, Bishop, who had in recent months become increasingly hard for your idle imagination to ignore. Perhaps it was his subdued vocal affect, his kind eyes, his obvious intelligence paired with inherent modesty… as a synthetics engineer, you’d accepted long ago that such admirations weren’t out of the picture for you. While others might consider it strange (maybe even against code) to entertain these feelings for a company synthetic… you saw things differently.
Bishop sat on the usual diagnostics exam chair with his flightsuit unzipped to the sternum, torso panel folded back, white fiber bundles gleaming in tidy braids. You’d already run flushes of the hydraulic fluid (no spills, because you’re a professional), re-seated the hip servo bus, and were halfway through recalibrating the sensory routing for his lower body, when he startled.
Not a big startle. Just a small, almost human intake and a lift of his shoulders.
You froze. “Did that hurt?”
His eyes flicked to you, bright, almost puzzled. “No. Not pain.” The tiniest crease between his brows. “New.”
You leaned in, tools hovering. “Define ‘new’?”
He looked down at the open panel as if he might find vocabulary in the wiring. “Localized… intensification.” He spoke slowly, finding the words for it one by one. “Right-side trunk, L4-L5 sensor lane. There was a —” He searched, brow knitting in that earnest way that always made your chest hurt — “a… spark.”
“You mean literal? Arcing?” You were already checking for scorch marks.
“No.” His tone went softer, almost conspiratorial. “Figurative. It felt… good.”
Good.
You sat back on the stool.
“Okay.” You nodded, a little hoarse. “Tell me what you felt. Be as specific as you can.”
He considered you like he was grateful for the assignment.
“There was a point of contact — your probe —” (that shouldn’t have sounded as filthy as it did, but here you were) “— and the signal increased abruptly, diffused downward, and… widened. It was warm.” His head tilted. “I don’t usually assign temperature to that lane.”
You chewed your lip. “Any other changes?”
“My respiratory system initiated. I don’t require respiration at rest.”
“Yeah…” You swallowed, but your throat was dry. “That’ll happen.”
His eyes narrowed, not suspicious — curious. “You recognize this?”
You hesitated, because this was the kind of thing engineers did not put in repair logs. “I recognize… something like it.” You managed. “Biologically.”
“What is it?” He asked, and it was so innocent and earnest you almost winced. No shame, no coyness, just data-seeking.
You set the tool down, very carefully. “Well, Bishop, it sounds.. very close to arousal.”
He blinked once. His gaze dipped to the open panel, then back up to your face, measuring. “Sexual?”
You coughed. “Yeah.”
A quiet whir from his cooling system. Then, precisely: “That seems… pleasant.”
“It is.” You said it before you could stop yourself.
He watched you the way he watches specimens — like you’re delicate, and new, and fascinating, and he’d like to see what you do next if he doesn’t scare you. “Did I do something inappropriate?”
“No— no, you didn’t.” You scrubbed a hand over your face. “It’s just… this is a weird context for the conversation. You’re open.” You gestured to his chest. “I’m elbow-deep in your nervous system.”
He glanced down, then back up, thoughtful. “You said the sensation was triggered by contact with the probe and that it was… good.”
“Yeah.”
“May we repeat it? With your consent.” He added instantly. “I would like to understand it.”
Your pulse jumped. You had been nursing a very quiet, very professional crush on him since week three on the Sulaco, and now he was asking you — earnest, immaculate Bishop — to help him experience arousal.
“Well… uh… this could get awkward.” You fidgeted with your sleeve, trying to be fair.
“Awkwardness is an acceptable variable.” He nodded, calm as if we were going down a checklist. “Your discomfort is not.”
Christ, of course he said that.
You blew out a breath. “Okay… okay. We can try again. But I’m going to tell you what I’m doing and you tell me what you’re feeling the second you feel it. Deal?”
“Deal.”
You picked the probe back up, hands steadying. You’d been mapping a sensory reroute (a normal part of the job) and now it felt like laying fingertips on bare skin. You angled yourself closer so you could see his face.
“Touch incoming…” You warned. “Same sector.”
“Ready.” His voice had gone quieter.
You eased the probe against the bundle you’d brushed before, just a hair more pressure, a fraction slower. His lips parted. His eyes unfocused for a second, then refocused on you.
“There.” He took in a breath, or an approximation of one that his system felt urged toward. Fascinating. “That. Again.”
“Intensity?”
“High but not distressing.” A small sound escaped him — half-surprised, half-delighted, and Lord, if that didn’t drop straight between your legs. “It radiates.” He said, sounding astonished. “Down to my pelvis. There’s… anticipation.”
You swallowed. “That’s definitely it, yeah.”
He searched your face. “And you experience this when you are… attracted?”
“Yeah.” You turned your eyes to his, quietly honest. “Especially around someone you… like.”
His gaze softened. “I like you.”
That nearly knocked you off the stool.
You cleared your throat.
“Okay.” You put the professional back on by sheer force. “So. We’ve identified a pathway. We could… build it. Gently.”
“I would like that.” His voice dropped. A human would have called it eager. “Will you show me?”
You set the probe aside. “Hands are better for this.” You commented, before your brain could veto it. “Unless you object.”
“I do not object.” He replied immediately. “I prefer your hands.”
You bit back a curse. “Alright. Same spot.”
You slid your fingers (still gloved, you weren't stupid) into the open panel, careful not to snag a sheath, and pressed the pad of your thumb to the cable you’d found. He shivered. Actually shivered, a visible ripple down his torso.
“Oh.” He gasped, and laughed — soft, breathy, surprised. “That is… very good.”
“That’s the point.” You adjusted pressure, rolling the cable a little. His head dropped back against the chair.
“I see why organics reprioritize for this.” He closed his eyes, words getting slow around the edges. “It interrupts other tasks.”
“Mmhm.” You were a little breathless yourself. “Hard to think.”
His eyes opened back up, looked at you through his lashes. “Is this difficult for you?” He asked. “Because of your… interest?”
You paused, stuttered. “You… know about that?” Your neck felt suddenly aflame. Had you been that sloppy?
“I’m observant.” Bishop grinned, and if you didn’t know any better, you’d have called it mischievous. Of course he could tell. Worse, he’d probably known since week three, and throughout the four other in-depth maintenance sessions you'd had together.
You should have lied. You didn’t.
“Yeah.” You whispered. “It is.”
He processed that. Then, deliberate: “Would exploring this with me be welcome or unwelcome for you?”
There it was. The out. You could say no, file it away, tell him to run a private sim. Or—
“It’d be welcome.” Your voice came low, vulnerable. “Really welcome.”
His relief was visible, a little loosening in his shoulders. “Then continue. Please.” He said, and it wasn’t a command. It was invitation.
You did. You stroked the bundle in a slow, repeating pattern, watching how it fed into his pelvic actuators. His breath pattern synced to yours without him being told. A faint bulge stirred under the open suit at his hips — activation, not hydraulic accident. His eyes widened.
“Oh…” He gasped again, softer. “That’s… that’s the same system.”
“Yep.” You said, grinning now because the shyness had tipped over into giddy. “That’s exactly the same system.”
He looked down, then at you. “This is arousal.”
“This is arousal.”
He let out a half-laugh. “I like it.”
“I really like it.” You couldn't help yourself.
He watched your hand in his chest, then lifted his own slowly, announcing “Hand to your wrist.” before touching you — to cover yours where it stroked that line of sensation.
“Will you teach me the rest?” He asked, voice low, almost hungry. “At your pace. With parameters.”
Your heart slammed.
“Yeah. I mean… yeah.” You blinked dumbly, unable to keep the smile off your face. “Yes, Bishop. I can teach you the rest.”