Markus shakes his head. Slow, as if he’s still not entirely in the present, focal sensors dislocated. Only this time it’s not to the seductive memory of Simon perched bodily between his shoulder blades (—was he always so tall? so heavy-limbed? Markus's systems don't allow for inaccurate analysis, but he'd never really scanned Simon so much as watched him settle down in darkened corners, mapping the mild outline of his face, his pale-lined eyes—), or to the rippling spread of coded docility.
Simon shows his teeth, the flattened base of his mouth, tongue curling in flexed deference. Already brushing past it to ask questions, as if Markus’s curiosity begins and ends there.
It doesn’t.
"No," he answers, still vacant for what it's worth. Eyes settled low, blinking once. Twice. "They didn’t find us."
And to that end the false skin of his thumb doesn’t recede when he dips it over the flat edges of Simon’s lower teeth, hooking it in high and scuffing it experimentally across the adjacent section of simulated flesh that rests just behind the other android's eye teeth.
Simon, gathered listlessly against his thigh, beautiful and soft-eyed with sated contentment. Rounded amenity from the pleasant curve of his open mouth down to the soles of his feet. Pliant shouldn’t be the word that comes to mind when evaluating the android that had just defied standard protocol and delved into the mass of him— but it is, so Markus seizes on that opportunity. Too eagerly, maybe. Lifting Simon’s head to try and find a better view.
One finger becomes two. Becomes his index and forefinger carrying the weight of Simon’s palate, hands as careful as they’d been when dipping into open mason jars full of paint-soaked water.
"Turns out you were the only one that was ever in any real danger."
The only one, and yet, here he sits. An apex predator dozing dreamily, blood still smeared across his muzzle.
Markus's blood. His blood.
But it’s no less morbid in evaluation than the spare parts Jericho's already salvaged from lost machines, or the thousands of dislodged LEDs still littering the floor of Lucy’s nest like the discarded scales of what was once alive, crunching and gleaming under their heels.
No. He doesn’t mind it. Staining his fingers up to the knuckle when he leans in, fingers splaying wide.
"I should run a diagnostic. Your systems could be on the fritz after what you've just been through."
Should. Wants to, on some level, knowing full well that Simon's damaged components still need tending to. Instead he rolls his shoulders forward another handful of centimeters, free hand collecting against Simon's cheek. A brace for the way the fingers of his opposite hand run deeper. Just— for a second.
no subject
Simon shows his teeth, the flattened base of his mouth, tongue curling in flexed deference. Already brushing past it to ask questions, as if Markus’s curiosity begins and ends there.
It doesn’t.
"No," he answers, still vacant for what it's worth. Eyes settled low, blinking once. Twice. "They didn’t find us."
And to that end the false skin of his thumb doesn’t recede when he dips it over the flat edges of Simon’s lower teeth, hooking it in high and scuffing it experimentally across the adjacent section of simulated flesh that rests just behind the other android's eye teeth.
Simon, gathered listlessly against his thigh, beautiful and soft-eyed with sated contentment. Rounded amenity from the pleasant curve of his open mouth down to the soles of his feet. Pliant shouldn’t be the word that comes to mind when evaluating the android that had just defied standard protocol and delved into the mass of him— but it is, so Markus seizes on that opportunity. Too eagerly, maybe. Lifting Simon’s head to try and find a better view.
One finger becomes two. Becomes his index and forefinger carrying the weight of Simon’s palate, hands as careful as they’d been when dipping into open mason jars full of paint-soaked water.
"Turns out you were the only one that was ever in any real danger."
The only one, and yet, here he sits. An apex predator dozing dreamily, blood still smeared across his muzzle.
Markus's blood. His blood.
But it’s no less morbid in evaluation than the spare parts Jericho's already salvaged from lost machines, or the thousands of dislodged LEDs still littering the floor of Lucy’s nest like the discarded scales of what was once alive, crunching and gleaming under their heels.
No. He doesn’t mind it. Staining his fingers up to the knuckle when he leans in, fingers splaying wide.
"I should run a diagnostic. Your systems could be on the fritz after what you've just been through."
Should. Wants to, on some level, knowing full well that Simon's damaged components still need tending to. Instead he rolls his shoulders forward another handful of centimeters, free hand collecting against Simon's cheek. A brace for the way the fingers of his opposite hand run deeper. Just— for a second.
Just for a second longer.