There's a languid quality to resurfacing through long lists of inconsequential system data and the murmur of his own whirring internal components. A beat where he has one foot in the store room and another in the place that's all code and network lines instead of concrete physicality and maybe that's why there's a series of inestimable split seconds where he doesn't pull his hand away and he tips his face farther toward the rhythmic sound of Markus's breathing, and answers that strange sparking connective end with something like give. Heat sinks into his seams and what leaks out into Markus's waiting fingertips is a comfortable mechanical whirr, a steadily scrolling field of diagnostic reports, looping visual synthesized memory of Simon's own hand against a rusted panel of Jericho's bulkhead and his fingers spreading—

Bang. A crate being dropped hard on the ground. He jumps; the easy looping quality of the transferring data goes jagged, flashes red hot and mortified, and he jerks his hand away.

"That's not true. I register environmental changrs in standby mode. It's part of the--" He hums, touches his fingers to his brow. Ignores the shadow Markus casts over his shoulder. "--of my model's programming. In case someone needs something."

He touches his collar. Straightens further. Twists a little sharper so he can look at Markus instead of just registering him in his peripheral vision. "Do you? Need something, I mean."

Hiding has nothing to do with it. He files that one away and ignores it.