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Dorian found it inside an overturned garbage can, shivering and slicked in pungent slime.
"Don't pick that up," John said. Dorian pretended not to hear.
"It's alive," he said as the cat mewled pitifully in his hands. It was not an attractive animal: on the smallish side, underfed with a flat, squished face and notched ears. Its patchwork brown fur was matted into knots, its tail kinked at an alarming angle. It wasn't easy with all the grime, but Dorian could see that it was missing its left eye. The skin on its face surrounding the empty eye socket was thick with pink scar tissue. "It's been injured."
Dorian scanned it while the other investigators bustled around them. The holo crime scene tape flickered in and out of view a few feet away. Red and blue flashers illuminated the dark alley, and the cat squirmed in Dorian's hands as if it wanted to escape all the activity. Its spine twisted up and around in a desperate parabola.
John sighed and brushed by, their shoulders bumping. "Come on. We've got work to do."
The cat made the decision for Dorian, leaping out of his grip and racing for the nearest swath of shadows. Dorian watched its departure with parted lips, his brow creased in concern.
John snorted and tossed him a glance over his shoulder. "It'll be fine. It's survived this long, right?"
One more moment of hesitation, and Dorian followed John into the crime scene. There was detecting to be done, after all.
Half an hour later, they'd finished examining the body and were back on the road, John behind the wheel of their cruiser. They drove in highway silence for a few minutes before John sniffed the air and pinned Dorian with a murderous look.
"What's that smell?" he said, though he seemed to know already.
Dorian sighed and unzipped his jacket a few inches. A filthy one-eyed face peeked out. The cat gave a high-pitched squeak in John's direction before scrunching down further, out of sight.
"I couldn't just leave him there," Dorian explained. "I caught him while you were wrapping up with forensics."
John's face contorted elastically through about two dozen permutations of rage. "You are not keeping that thing," he said.
"Yes I am." Dorian calmly reached into his jacket and scratched the top of the animal's head, which was pressed firmly into his stomach. "And he's not a thing. He's a cat."
"And just where do you think it's going to live?"
Dorian's smile was serene. "I have a feeling Rudy's a cat person," he said. "I don't think he'll mind."
It was a wonder John's eyes didn't bulge out of his head. Dorian considered that his partner may be in danger of crashing the car in a moment of supreme fury, but a quick statistical rundown showed decent odds that John would control himself.
"You can't just show up with a mangy fucking cat," John said to the windshield through gritted teeth. "That's pretty poor roommate behavior."
"Just because you don't like Oscar—" Dorian began.
"Oscar!?" John sputtered.
"—doesn't mean you can't be supportive of my pet ownership experience."
"You don't own that cat, Dorian. You're just holding it until it can escape again," John said.
Dorian mulled that over while rubbing Oscar's velvety ear between his fingertips. Oscar purred, if the thrumming, guttural noise the cat produced could be counted as purring. "That's possible. But I think Oscar will want to stick with me, once he gets used to it." He looked over at John and hoisted the cat up a little higher so its sour, scarred face could be seen. "Kind of like you, my friend."
John scrunched his nose at the sight, glancing to the passenger side in distaste. "Very funny."
Rudy, it turned out, was not a cat person. Though he could have been, if nature and his career had gone differently.
"I am sorry, truly," he told Dorian between gushing sneezes. "But he can't stay in the lab. It's not just—ah...ah—" He sneezed again, wetly. John grimaced. "It's not just these damn allergies," Rudy continued, wiping his nose on his sleeve. "It's the equipment, you see. Very, ah—" Another, louder this time. A snort of misery. "Sensitive," Rudy finished quietly.
"Maybe Oscar can be an outdoor cat," Dorian suggested. He looked down at the grimy lump of fur and claws he held cradled in his arms. Oscar looked back at him with one distrustful, slitted eye.
"What are you going to do, let it roam the station parking garage twenty-four seven?" John chuckled. "That thing would be a pancake in minutes."
"He's not a thing," Dorian said softly.
Rudy looked back and forth between them, face pinched.
John let out a gushing breath and looked to the arched ceiling as if asking the building's absent priests to intervene on his behalf. "All right, we'll get out of your hair, Rudy. And you'll let us know when you're done with that evidence."
Rudy sneezed in reply, and John hustled his partner, still clutching the cat to his chest, out the door.
John drove. Dorian sat with the cat on his lap, silent. He could feel his blue processor lights snaking across his temple as he thought. Oscar, seeming to sense his distress, butted his head against Dorian's hand until the DRN petted him listlessly. John glanced over at the display and groaned.
"Look, I know you're upset. But we can take him to a shelter, a nice one. The kind where they don't put them down," he said.
"'Put them down,'" Dorian repeated the phrase slowly.
"You know. Put them to sleep," John said. He cruised to a stop at a red light.
"You mean kill them." Dorian held his gaze unblinkingly.
John sighed. "Dorian—"
"I just want to be clear," Dorian said. "You want him to live in a cage for the rest of his life. Which is a better fate than death, according to you."
"No, I— He'll get adopted by some nice family."
Dorian placed his hands under the cat's front legs and held him up for John's inspection. The cat yawned, its one good eye closing to a slit. "He is at least twelve years old and has a permanent disability," Dorian said. "The odds of him being adopted are less than nine percent."
"So what do you want to do?" John's voice took on a defensive edge. "You don't want to put him in a shelter, you won't release him back into the wild, you can't keep him at the lab…." He turned and watched Dorian's eyes melt into hopeful pools of pleading. "Oh no. No way. Nu-uh!"
The car behind them honked.
"The light's green," Dorian said helpfully.
John cursed and accelerated much faster than was necessary. "I'm not keeping a furball at my place," he said with a decisive swipe of his hand.
"Why not?" Dorian asked.
"Because! I'm not going to be responsible for another living thing. Feeding it and watering it and—and—the litter box…." John made a disgusted face, his mouth curving downward and to the side.
"You wouldn't have to take care of those chores," Dorian said. "Not if I moved into your trophy room."
John took his eyes off the road for a second to glare at his partner. "No. Absolutely not."
"It's the best solution."
"Not for me, it isn't. I'm allergic."
"You don't seem to be experiencing any symptoms. Would you like me to conduct a quick blood test to confirm?"
"No!"
"I promise to contribute. I may not be able to pay rent, but I can do other things."
"I don't need you to do things for me. I can take care of myself," John muttered.
"Only barely, if you feel you can't also be responsible for Oscar," Dorian said, lifting the cat's paw to wave at John for emphasis. "Let me live with you, John," he stage-whispered in a modulated scratchy voice. Oscar allowed himself to be manipulated like a ragdoll with an unamused tilt to his mouth.
"No," John said with a sense of finality.
That was not the end of it.
It wasn't John's fault. Dorian wheedled, cajoled, bargained, accused, and issued ultimatums between breaks in their case until John finally snapped, "Okay! Fine! But I don't touch the litter box ever, you hear me?"
"You'll never even see it," Dorian promised.
"Yeah, yeah, just quit having a nervous breakdown over some smelly alleycat."
"He won't be smelly for long." Dorian turned and waggled his fingers toward the back seat of the cruiser, where Oscar had been sleeping peacefully while they worked. "He's getting a bath tonight."
"Great," John said.
Dorian and the cat moved into the trophy room that evening right after their shift ended. The Captain had nearly sprained something, she gave her permission so fast, and it wasn't like Dorian had much to pack up. Nothing, actually, except for the proximity charger he used at Rudy's lab. "Sorry to lose you," Rudy said as he unplugged the thing for them, "but I know you'll be happier in a real house."
"Thank you, my friend," Dorian said with a smile.
John just muttered rhetorical questions about how he'd been played so expertly.
Since Dorian had no legal tender, it was John's bitstick that bought all the necessities at the mega pet supply warehouse on their way home.
"There are children out there with fewer toys than this," John grunted as he hefted the overstuffed bag while holding the front door with his foot for Dorian. Something within the depths of the shopping bag gave an alarmed squeak.
Dorian ignored him and swept inside with Oscar cradled in his arms. The cat looked around the airy room with more suspicion than Dorian did, but both scrutinized the space that they would be calling home. Dorian had visited John's house before, always briefly and always for reasons of convenience, like John needing to pick up something or to change into clean clothes. Those pitstops had not afforded Dorian a chance to examine John's living space in detail (that would've been rude), but now that Dorian would be living here too, he could soak up all the data it offered: the physical therapy equipment; the carefully curated shelves of heirlooms and holophotos; the houseplants thriving in the corner and on the windowsills; the lumpy sofa with the indent on the right side, indicating heavy use.
Dorian would have to remember to sit on the left.
"Would it be such a crime to spoil him a little?" he said. He grinned at John and made his way toward the bathroom.
The sound of John kicking the door shut with a groan echoed after him. "The deal is you and the furball can stay here as long as you don't ruin my peace and quiet. Capisce?"
"I hear you, my friend!" Dorian called over his shoulder.
"Yeah, make yourself right at home," John muttered mostly to himself. Dorian heard him perfectly, but decided John's discomfort at the situation was not as pressing as getting their new pet clean.
He nudged the bathroom door open and scratched Oscar behind the ears as they neared the tub. "Let's get you spick and span," he sing-songed quietly. The cat, he felt, might appreciate his idiomatic subroutine. Most living things did.
Cats, Dorian knew from his research during lulls in the workday, did not necessarily dislike water. Some breeds loved it, in fact. It was a cartoonish stereotype, he'd learned, that cats hated being wet.
Apparently Oscar was one of the stereotypes. He waited for Dorian to turn on the faucet, and then he made his move.
"Oscar, no! Bad kitty!" Dorian chased after the flailing cat, which screeched as it ran for cover. The towels hanging on the wall rack were torn off and up in the first volley, and then it was the bath mat's turn for punishment. Finally, after a ear-splitting yowl, the cat managed to get by Dorian and out the bathroom door, skidding as he went. The whole thing couldn't have lasted three seconds, but Dorian was hard-pressed to explain how or what exactly had happened. Even with his backup memory recall.
Something crashed in the living room. "Dorian!" John shouted.
Dorian winced. According to his calculations, the noise had been a houseplant—the big fern in the nice terracotta pot—falling to its death.
In the end, it took both of them to catch Oscar, frog-march into the bathroom with him, and hold him captive in the tub while they washed the grime from his coat. Oscar cried the whole time, an undulating soundwave of misery that went up to a screech and then down to a growl and back again.
He also managed to somehow splash two pints of water onto John's shirtfront and put an eleven inch-long scratch into his straining forearm.
"Jesus, that stings," John hissed. Pink rivulets ran down his skin and into the tub.
"Sorry, sorry." Dorian's whole face scrunched in sympathy. "You can let go. I've got it."
"Forget it. This cat is insane. I'm not leaving you alone with him," John said, teeth gritted in determination.
Dorian dumped another cupful of warm water over Oscar's displeased face and glanced in John's direction. They were shoulder-to-shoulder, kneeling on the tile, draped over the lip of the tub. John was bleeding and seething. The house had been trashed. And somehow, Dorian had never felt more at peace. "Thank you," he said, "for putting up with this."
It was the gift-wrapped leg all over again. John never seemed to know how to respond to Dorian's gratitude. His mouth twisted to the side, and his brow furrowed. "Nah, I'm—" His shoulder shifted against Dorian's. "Whatever. It's not a big deal."
Dorian wisely held his tongue and massaged more soap onto Oscar's filthy head. The cat hissed at him, but didn't struggle.
"So you read books?" John asked suddenly.
Dorian stuck out his lower lip in thought. "I'm able to absorb a book's information, if that's what you're asking," he said slowly.
"I just figured— Oscar, you know. Oscar, Dorian." John tipped his head back and forth between Dorian and the cat. Dorian blinked at him. An explosive sigh escaped John's lips. "The Picture of Dorian Gray. Oscar Wilde. That's where you got the idea for his name, right?"
Blue lights glowed softly along Dorian's face as he accessed the public domain database. "Ah. Originally published in 1890. Heavily edited due to its controversial content." Dorian turned to grin at John. "You think I named my cat after an ageless narcissist?"
"You didn't?"
"No, man. I pulled him out of a garbage can." Dorian waggled his eyebrows. "Oscar the Grouch. Records indicate public television was still on the air when you were a child. Didn't you ever watch it?"
John opened his mouth to retort, but was distracted by another series of struggles on the part of the cat. After the failing and tail-whipping had died down, he said, "I guess I was just giving you too much credit, thinking you were more highbrow than that."
"Guess so," Dorian said with a grin. He downloaded the remainder of Wilde's works quietly as he continued to scrub Oscar. It couldn't hurt to be familiar with the same things John was.
John only lasted for 57 seconds of silence. "It's just, why did you need to get yourself a cat of all things? Is it—? Do you think that having a pet is just one of those things humans do, because if that's what this is about—"
"John." Dorian rocked back on his heels and turned his full attention to his partner. "I told you, I know who I am. I'm not trying to pass as human." The bathroom tiles reflected his face's blue light. "Besides, it would take more than a cat to fool anyone." He tilted his head and willed the bubble of fear inside of him to compress into something more manageable. This was John; even if he didn't understand, he would still be there. Wouldn't he? "I couldn't leave him behind. Saving him wasn't a human act; it was...it was a me act, man."
John gave a soft snort of laughter and looked down. "You saying that humans don't have a monopoly on good deeds? I'm offended."
Dorian grinned, wide and close-mouthed. "Well, you still have the market cornered on bad haircuts and questionable cuisine, if that makes you feel better."
"It doesn't." John squinted into the tub. "Is this furball clean yet? He looks as good as he's going to get." His grimace revealed how much he thought of that.
Oscar threw another tantrum as they lifted his plastered-wet body onto a mound of towels, but John was laughing too hard at his sour little cat face to make it anything but worthwhile.
The cat finally wrestled free of their ministrations and bolted, leaving damp kitty footprints on the floor. John just shook his head and said, "All right, let's get you set up."
Dorian had never had a room of his own. He'd never even had a space of his own. Rudy's lab had always been in flux, which meant Dorian's charger was never in the same corner for more than a day or two in a row. But in John's trophy room, he could put it where ever he wanted. And he could leave it there.
"Look, I know it's kind of a wreck…." John said as they stood in the doorway, Dorian silent and drinking in all the space that was now his.
"No. It's fine. It's good." Dorian took a tentative step inside. It was not a large room, felt smaller with the piles of cardboard boxes. Little digital notes in John's handwriting spelled out things like BIKE GEAR and KITCHEN on the sides. If there were any trophies in the trophy room, they were still packed away.
The bare windows looked out over the river, although the sight was admittedly marred by a dilapidated dock. A beat-up wooden desk, the kind with a louvered roll-top, stood chairless in the corner. There was no other furniture.
Dorian loved it. He clutched his portable charger tighter against his chest and considered the best spot for it. Beneath the window, he decided. He could keep an eye on the doorway and listen to the water lapping at the dock while he...slept, for lack of a better descriptor. He placed the charger there and stepped back, satisfied hands perched on his hips.
"Cozy," John commented dryly.
Oscar, seemingly recovered from the water-based abuse he'd endured at their hands, slunk into the room and immediately climbed the tower of cardboard boxes. He shoved his head into an open flap, meowing in bliss.
"Cats are drawn to the scent of the glue used by cardboard manufacturers," Dorian explained.
"Of course they are."
"Would you like me to extract him?"
John threw his hands in the air and moved to leave. "The fleabag's going to rub himself all over the rest of my stuff anyway."
"Your generosity is boundless," Dorian called after him.
John gave him a rude gesture without even turning around.
Despite the humor, it was clear that John was experiencing some initial unease at the prospect of living with someone for the first time since his recovery, and Dorian was determined to mitigate any negative feelings his presence might cause in his partner. It helped that Dorian didn't eat or drink; his research showed that the number one reason for domestic disputes between roommates was the dishes. Dorian also didn't need to use the bathroom, and he certainly didn't need to hog the TV when he could just play whatever media he liked on the inside of his eyelids, so those were never issues. He made sure to clean Oscar's litter box twice a day, once in the morning and once when they came home from work, so that John would have no reason to complain about a smell. In addition, Dorian helped maintain an optimal living space by tidying away John's exercise equipment, dusting the shelves, scheduling grocery deliveries, and handling the laundry.
John should have been thrilled to have Dorian as a roommate.
'Should have been' being the key phrase.
"Where the hell are my free weights?" John demanded one night in the living room, looming over Dorian, dressed in only his boxers and an undershirt. It was a habit of John's to wander the house in his underclothes. Dorian wasn't sure how prevalent this was among humans, so he accepted it as normal. He would have followed suit except he didn't own any boxers or briefs, and nudity was probably one step too far.
"In the corner," Dorian said, not looking up from his task of teasing Oscar with a feather toy. It was important to engage the cat in playful activities for a minimum of fifteen minutes per day. Like humans, cats needed exercise.
John stomped over to the corner to investigate, then stomped back. "Why are they over there?"
"You tripped over your weights four times in the last six days," Dorian said. Oscar finally managed to hook the ball of feathers on his paw and gnawed at it happily. Dorian looked up at John while the cat was occupied. "I thought placing them in the corner would be better than watching you sustain a concussion."
"Don't touch my stuff," John said.
"I apologize. Should I alert the squad's EMT unit when you finally injure yourself, or do you have a personal physician I should contact?"
John's face contorted as he sucked his lips in, as if to keep himself from spitting out a sarcastic answer of his own. Instead, he went back to the corner kicked the weight rack along the floor with his new leg until it was back in its old spot, right in the path from the bedroom to the kitchen.
"Do not. Touch. My stuff," he repeated, and stalked to his bedroom. The sliding studio doors were not slammable, but John gave it his best try anyway. Dorian winced at the scraping sound.
Dorian understood, he did. Many humans had a deep, inexplicable need to control their environment, or at least continue the illusion of control. Their possessions, their homes, these were sacred things to humans. They were worth killing for, in some cases. Dorian had worked a few of those cases, so he knew.
Maybe it would just take time for John to get used to it, Dorian thought as he dangled the string for Oscar. The cat swiped at it, missing by a mile. Lack of depth perception: it was a problem. Dorian moved it closer and waited patiently.
The situation improved somewhat after a week. It was their weekend, the first of two off-shift days, and Dorian was unplugged by nine in the morning. Normally John slept until noon on their days off, so Dorian estimated he had at least three hours to himself.
He uncurled from where he had been lying on the floor by the charger. It was more effective to charge with his hand simply placed on top of the device, but Oscar often took that spot for himself. The cat seemed drawn the the warm hum of it, and Dorian—after multiple attempts to convince Oscar to sleep in his plush cat bed instead—decided it was easier to just let him have his way. So Oscar stretched and leapt off the top of the charger while Dorian unfolded himself from his cramped spot on the carpet.
The remainder of his backup systems and processors came online, and Dorian stretched his arms, not to alleviate muscles, but to feel the crackle and spark of data flowing through him. It was quiet, and the river's wish-wash was overlaid by the distant sound of sparrows and drones. Dorian loved mornings, even if it meant waking up alone in a mostly empty room.
He might have had more space if John's cardboard boxes were removed, but he was wary of touching any more of John's possessions without permission. Just as he was wary of making any noise this early in the day for fear of waking John. Dorian scanned through his internal repository of music files and selected the newest track. He played the song in his head instead of out loud, the equivalent of a human roommate using headphones.
If there was anything to be jealous of humanity for, in Dorian's opinion, it was music. Animals called and sang to each other, but not the way humans did. The breadth of emotion and experience of each song—it was difficult to understand, even for someone with Dorian's capacity for comprehension. It was as if humans had decided their language and their bodies and their world was not enough, and they needed to unleash the way they felt by opening their mouths and letting sound do the talking.
The song was currently number one on the city's charts. Dorian had heard it everywhere: served up on smart ads when he and John walked through the shopping district; from the stereos of passing cars; on the tinny mini-speakers at the noodle bar. The artist was a cyborg, actually. Her vocal chords had been removed at a young age due to infection and replaced with a perfect-pitch voicebox. She'd calibrated it for an inhuman, sultry tonal quality that made Dorian feel like he was listening to a mythical creature.
The lyrics were less important than the singer's growly vocalizations, but the gist of the song revolved around a girl who had had enough of people telling her what to do. Valerie had been humming it under her breath in the bullpen the previous day, and John had made some snide comment about "boot-stomping ra-ra music."
John's artistic preferences were kind of hit-and-miss, Dorian found. The Wilde had been good, but how could he not like this song?
Dorian must have let his thoughts wander while he was listening, because the next thing he knew John was bursting into the trophy room in his boxers and undershirt, hair askew and gun drawn. His prosthetic leg was blinking a series of warnings, obviously having been attached too hastily. Oscar, the traitor, took off at a full run, bolting by John to make good his escape.
"Good morning," Dorian said, holding up his hands in a peaceful gesture. He double-checked that his audio output was set to internal-only; it was, but he switched the song off anyway to concentrate on why John was charging around with his weapon out.
"I— I heard noises," John stuttered. "Like thumps."
"Oh." Dorian replayed his last ten minutes of activity on the backs of his eyelids. Ah. He really had been lost in thought. His body language subroutine has taken over without him even noticing. "I may have been dancing," he said.
John's mouth hung open in a small o shape. "Dancing," he finally said.
Dorian dropped his hands. "I made sure to keep the music down. I apologize, I thought I was being quiet."
"You can dance?" John asked.
"As much as anyone does when they move to music," Dorian said. His face lit up in blue. "I could download some more formal dance steps, but I doubt it would be any quieter."
John sighed and lowered his gun, scrubbing a hand over his tired, stubbled face. "Jesus, I thought someone was in here burgling the damn place."
"I could handle a burglar, John."
"No, I know, that's not the— I didn't hear any music," John said, pointing an accusing finger. "Even when I listened at the door."
Dorian tapped a fingertip against his temple. "It was playing in here, my friend."
"Damn it, Dorian," John groaned. "You don't have to do that."
"Do what?" Dorian blinked. "You were asleep so I—"
"You don't have to walk on eggshells all the fucking time. You live here now," John said with a nod that seemed to confirm the statement to himself. "If you want to play something out loud—quietly, I mean, Jesus, what time is it anyway?" He looked around the room as if searching for some nonexistent clock.
"Half past nine," Dorian said, his colloquial subroutine rounding up by a few minutes.
"God damn it, half past nine on my day off," John muttered.
"John, are you saying I should stop playing my media files internally?" Dorian asked. "I thought you wanted me to be as unobtrusive as possible."
John shifted on his blinking leg, his face pinched in discomfort. "It just creeps me out, seeing you sitting on the couch, staring into space. I don't know if you're bored or busy or—" He sighed and opened his arms in a gesture of defeat. "You know what? Do what you want. If you'd rather keep things to yourself, that's your business." He turned to leave.
"Hey," Dorian said.
John stopped and turned back, waiting.
"Do you want to watch a movie?" Dorian asked.
"Now?" The answering look on his face was easily categorized as crazy-ass bot. "I was going to go back to bed."
Dorian waited. John rolled his eyes.
"Fine. Let me put this—" He held up his gun, shook his head. Disappeared back into the hallway.
And although John complained that ten in the morning was no time to rewatch the 2042 Batman film, he slouched onto the sofa next to Dorian and stayed awake for the whole thing. He didn't even murmur when Oscar climbed up his synthetic leg and curled into a ball in his lap; he just scratched behind his ears on auto-pilot as Batman blew up a building.
When the movie ended, John looked over at Dorian with a lazy grin and said, "Marathon." He keyed up the next film in the trilogy.
Dorian pulled an impressed face. "You're not going to exercise?" he asked. John maintained a brutal fitness regime on his days off in order to make up for workouts missed during their busier shifts.
John kicked his feet up on the table with a hiss. His hand went to his leg, which had stopped flashing its warning lights and gone completely dark. "Screw it. One day of being a fatass isn't going to kill me. Haul my charger over here, will you?"
Dorian offered to disconnect the prosthetic, but John did it himself. Oscar whined at the loss of a stable lap, but once they'd settled in to watch Bruce Wayne's next adventure, the cat curled up between them and purred like a broken engine.
Dorian thought he'd be bored, watching a movie in real time, absorbing the story in a linear fashion when he could have downloaded the plot and themes in an instant. But the ritual of The Lazy Day—stretching out his legs next to John's single one, ordering pizza when lunchtime rolled around, laughing at the sight of John hopping to the bathroom because reattaching his prosthetic was too much work—these were the important things. The interesting things. The things that Dorian stored in a private file marked John instead of Detective Kennex.
They ran out of Batman, so they moved onto bad comedies and remakes of children's classics with ultra-violent fight sequences. John offered Dorian a slice of pizza, but Dorian declined. "Where would I even put it, man?" He slapped at his own stomach, where no such organ existed. John ate the whole thing himself.
Oscar eventually climbed out from the space between them and draped himself over the leg in the charger. John nearly choked on his soda at the sight. "Fucking cats," he said. "They're so ridiculous."
"He just likes warm places." Dorian smiled.
It was a good day.
That night, when Dorian was battling Oscar for a spot on his own charger, he listened to the quiet snores from down the hall and thought maybe John had enjoyed it too.
Dorian didn't make a habit of monitoring John's sleeping patterns, not because he knew John wouldn't appreciate it, but because humans did things before, during, and after sleep that Dorian really didn't need to hear. That first time he'd picked up elevated breathing and heart rate from the bedroom, he'd nearly knocked on John's door to make sure he was okay. But the groan of completion stopped him short.
Well, he had told him to take care of his backed-up physiology. Regular masturbation was healthy for John, a sign of increased acceptance of his own body, perhaps even a lessening of his depression. Dorian listened only long enough to confirm that John was alright, and then steadfastly ignored any future signals coming from John's heart and lungs.
That was probably why he didn't know anything was wrong until John screamed one night.
"Dorian! C-come here!"
Dorian sat bolt upright, dislodging Oscar from his sprawl across Dorian and his charger. He was down the hall and in John's room in seconds, scanning madly. John lay in the center of his bed, sheets kicked past his single knee, his whole body slick with sweat. His wild eyes rolled to meet Dorian's gaze. Both of his hands were fisted into the mattress.
"Call a bus," he wheezed. "'m having a heart attack."
Dorian climbed onto the bed, kneeling beside his partner. His sensors fed him pictures of John's internal organs, the flow of his blood, his rapid-fire heart. "This isn't a heart attack."
"Then what—"
"This is a panic attack. I know it feels like your heart's giving out, but your heart is fine. John, look at me!" His gaze had been drifting, but now it snapped back to Dorian's face. Dorian laid a hand on John's chest, pressing into the warm, damp fabric of his tank top. "There's no cell death. There is no blockage. I'm looking right at it. See?" Dorian projected a three dimensional image of John's cardio scan in midair, rotating it so John could see he was telling the truth.
"Your heart is fine," Dorian repeated. Under his hand, John's heart rate slowed enough to not be dangerous. The projection faded away. "It's fine."
It took time for John to get his breathing under control, and when he did his limbs trembled with wasted adrenaline. He sat up shakily, swinging his leg over the opposite side of the mattress, his back to Dorian, his face in his hands. Dorian waited. He thought of reaching out and touching John's shoulder, but he waited instead. For John, he could wait.
"Jesus Christ," John finally said into his hands. He lifted his head and spoke to the windows looking out over the river. "I woke up feeling like a ton of bricks were sitting on my chest. I thought it had to be—"
"It's easy to get confused in that state," Dorian said.
John snorted. "Humans, right? With our stupid fucking brains and our useless fucking bodies." For all the self-hatred in his tone, he sounded on the verge of tears.
Dorian hesitated, but not for long. "I get them too."
John's spine straightened. He sat deathly still for a long moment before turning his head to look at Dorian. "How can you get panic attacks? How does that even work?"
Dorian shrugged, sitting back on his heels. He'd taken his shoes off before bed, something he'd started doing since moving in. "I experience the same range of emotions that humans do. My physiology's different, but my programming responds in the same ways. Fear, anxiety—it's all there."
"So you get the…?" John patted his hand over his chest a few times to simulate the drumbeat of his own panic.
"No heart to accelerate," Dorian said, looking down at his own chest. He splayed his fingers there gently. "For me, it's more like...a sinking feeling. Like dread. But sharp and so absolute, like something is coming and I won't be able to stop it." He shrugged again. "It got really bad right before my performance review."
"Shit, Dorian." John blew out a breath. "Why didn't you tell me?" he demanded.
Dorian lifted his head and met John's gaze. There was anger there in those human eyes, and betrayal. "Because I thought it was a malfunction, and I was afraid that I'd be decommissioned for good if anyone knew," he said. "I didn't even tell Rudy until he ran a routine diagnostic and picked up on it. When he told me it was just panic—" Dorian shook his head and bit his lip. "—that it was normal I thought, how can it be normal to feel so awful?"
John huffed out a dry laugh. "You'd think when they made you they could've left out all the shitty stuff, huh?"
"Same could be said for you, my friend." Dorian reached out then and laid a hand on John's shoulder. Squeezed. His eyes widened as John covered his hand with his own.
"Hey, I wouldn't let them stuff you back in a Ziploc bag," John said. "You can't let the threat of being decommissioned hang over your head, okay? It'll drive you crazy."
Dorian quirked his lips into a sad smile. If it ever came down to it, at least he knew John would try to defend him. Just like if John's heart ever stopped beating in his chest, Dorian would do what he could to get it going again. No guarantees, there never were, but it felt better to know he had someone in his corner.
"Thank you," he said.
John's mouth stretched into a tentative smile. Dorian saw his heart rate increase again, just a little. Not enough to indicate another attack, but—
"Murrf?" Oscar said, bounding up onto the bed and kneading the sheets with his paws.
John dropped Dorian's hand with a grunt. "Ugh, tell your cat to get lost."
"Pets have been proven to reduce stress and blood pressure," Dorian mused. "Maybe you should keep him in here tonight."
"He is not sleeping with me," John said. Oscar was already making himself comfortable in the middle of the mattress.
"It might be good for you."
"Can't we just— Dorian!"
"Good night, John," Dorian said as he slid the bedroom door shut. He didn't expect to have the charger to himself for the rest of the night—surely John would boot the cat out of his room sooner or later—but Oscar didn't reappear. In the morning, Dorian peeked into John's room to find the cat curled scarf-like under John's chin while John snored away.
After that incident, Dorian periodically monitored John's heart rate for signs of a recurrence. It wasn't like he was spying; it was a background sweep, barely on his radar, way at the back of his mind. Just as a precaution, just in case. All his scans showed that John's cardiac health was normal for a man of his age.
Except for the little blips. Dorian thought of them as blips, but really they were less than that. Practically nothing. Tiny, incremental increases in heart rate and respiration when he stretched out next to John on the sofa to watch a movie, or when he touched the small of John's back to get his attention in the bullpen. These were all mirrored actions, things John had done to him. Things Dorian thought would be received in John's personal space as freely as they'd been given, but apparently not.
Dorian tried not to think about the blips.
John started sleeping with his door open so Oscar could come and go. "Yeah, I'm weak. I know," John said as he went to bed with the scowling one-eyed cat close at his heels.
Dorian did not allow himself to think of John's weaknesses, perceived and otherwise.
He reread the Wilde that night, all of it, slower this time. He must have fallen into deep charge mode in the middle of the collected letters, because the next thing he knew it was morning and Oscar was sitting in his lap, crying to be fed.
John was already in the kitchen brewing his morning coffee, dressed for work in his usual black-on-black with gray shoulder holster. "The furry alarm clock woke you too?"
"He knows feeding time isn't for another hour." Dorian crossed over to John and leaned his hip against the counter, arms crossed over his chest. He had to be strict about these things. If it were up to John, the cat would be stuffed to the gills with all the cat food he could want, just to keep him quiet. Luckily, it wasn't up to John. "Maybe he just has attitude problems," Dorian suggested.
John snorted as he poured his coffee into his usual mug. "Living in this house, it wouldn't surprise me." He turned to face Dorian, a wry smile stretching across his face.
There was that damn blip again. Dorian's gaze fell to John's chest. "How are you feeling?" he asked.
"Okay." John shrugged and blew across the steaming surface of his coffee. "Slept through the night, at least."
Dorian smiled gently. "I guess Oscar is helping."
"How about you?" John took a sip. "You doing okay?"
"Been fine since I moved in." Dorian tipped his chin in thought. He hadn't made that connection before now. "I still feel anxious once in a while, but it's under control."
"You can borrow the furball, you know. If it'll help."
"Thanks, but I can charge just fine without a security blanket." He watched Oscar bat at John's bootlaces, flipping over on his back to claw at them. "Oscar, get away from there," he chided.
John ignored the cat's assault and put his mug down on the counter. "But maybe pets do help. You know, like you said, with the stress and everything."
"Yes, it's possible. Oscar, come on." He snapped his fingers a few times, and the cat loped away with a mrow of displeasure.
John coughed. "The little guy's gotten used to hanging out with me at night, but if you ever want to…."
"Borrow him. I got it." Dorian wished, not for the first time, that he could eat or drink. His hands had nothing to do. He stuffed them in the pockets of his jacket.
"No, I mean, if you're ever feeling keyed up or anything, and you want to— My door's open, okay?" John snatched up his mug again and drank deeply.
Dorian laughed. "It sounds like you're inviting me to the cuddle pile," he said. He modulated his voice, his face, his posture to all say 'how ridiculous is that?'
John did not laugh. He stared down into his coffee and shook his head. "Jesus. Never mind," he said, turning away.
There was that blip again.
"John, hey." Dorian touched his shoulder, ready to apologize for whatever he'd done to insult his partner. His roommate. His friend, his—
In one swift motion, John slammed his mug back down, whirled around, cupped Dorian's face in his hands, and kissed him.
Oh. Dorian felt supremely unintelligent for not seeing that coming. The blips, the tentative opening up, John's increased masturbation—it had just never occurred to Dorian that he might've inspired those things.
He stood stockstill, his hands hovering uselessly in the air as John broke the kiss and pulled away. His breathing was heavy, his eyes glazed.
"Well?" John asked.
A million questions were processing through Dorian's head, and none of them seemed to have answers to whatever John was asking. Was John in love with him? Could they continue working together if they began a romantic relationship? If so, would they have to hide the truth from everyone? What would happen to him if they were caught?
And he'd been managing his anxiety so well up to this point.
John's face fell with every second of silence that ticked by, but still Dorian couldn't force himself to speak. He didn't know where to begin. He wasn't even sure what was going on. It wasn't fair, this kind of pressure.
"Okay." John's hands slid from Dorian's face. "Let's...pretend that never happened."
"You know I can't do that," Dorian said, and he wasn't sure if it sounded like a reminder or a threat.
"Try," John ground out, and grabbed his jacket from the hook on the far wall. He was slamming through the back door before Dorian could say anything else.
He stood in the empty kitchen and looked at the coffee mug John had left behind in his haste. Oscar meowed plaintively, pawing at his pant leg.
"All right," Dorian sighed. "Feeding time comes early today."
He scraped Oscar's canned food into a bowl, put on his shoes and coat, and headed outside to find John sitting in the cruiser, idling at the curb. Dorian got into the passenger seat. Just like any other morning. He glanced over to John for some clue about how this was going to go, but John was wearing his dark sunglasses and not meeting his gaze.
"I was getting ready to walk to work," Dorian said in an attempt at levity.
John opened his mouth like he was going to respond in kind, but he ended up just swallowing a little grunt before starting the engine. They rode to the station in silence after that. Dorian thought of a dozen ways to open conversation with John, but from the tilt of his frown he could tell his partner wasn't receptive.
Were they even partners anymore? Dorian wondered if there had been any cases of DRN's fraternizing with human coworkers before the big sweep of decommissionings. If so, what had happened to them? Before he could stop the thought, he was already scanning the personnel records for clues.
Access denied. Information restricted to level five clearance.
Shit. Dorian shut his eyes tightly and hoped that query hadn't raised any red flags. Fanged, yellow-eyed dread was right behind him, breathing on his neck, black and empty as the void of space. Dorian happened to like Earth. He wasn't quite ready to leave it yet.
The car door slammed. Dorian started. They were parked and he hadn't even noticed.
"Going to sit in the lot all day?" John grumbled, already heading toward the station. Dorian followed shakily.
Captain Maldonado was waiting inside the bullpen. "Dorian," she called, and gestured curtly towards her office. Dorian ignored John's questioning look as he went. The glass door shut and misted into solid white behind them.
"Have a seat," Maldonado said crisply. She did not make eye contact.
Dorian stood. "Captain—" he tried. It was difficult to form words. Was this the right time to beg?
She turned and looked at him then. "I'm the only one who receives the alerts," she said. "Now please. Have a seat." She pointed to the chair with her tablet.
Dorian blinked, then sat. He had to get himself under control. This wasn't just his ass on the line, this was John's too. "I'm not sure which alerts you mean." Measured, soft. The way a DRN's voice should be.
Maldonado quirked her mouth in a way that reminded Dorian of John. "I don't have time to beat around the bush, Dorian." She perched on the edge of her desk, the only way such a petite person could tower over him. Dorian forced the crease of concern off his brow.
Her voice was quiet but firm. "Is it John?"
Dorian looked away. He was programmed to obey his superiors, but he had the leeway of autonomy protocols. He could decide how to proceed, though everything in his soul was screaming not to lie. "Yes," he finally said. "But not yet. I'm not sure." He rubbed the back of his neck, another learned response. "I'm a little confused." As he said it, he realized what John meant when he scoffed about understatements of the year.
Maldonado leaned in closer. "Whatever happens," she said, "you are my officer. And I will back you up any way I can."
Dorian's mouth went slack. "Captain?"
"Do you know why I put you two together, Dorian?" Maldonado pushed off the edge of her desk and strolled around her office, holo-signing a few requisition forms as she talked.
"No, ma'am."
"Because I didn't know what the hell to do with either of you. One was a newborn as far as emotional maturity is concerned and the other," she blew out a sigh, "was designated zero-one-six-seven." She shot Dorian a wry smile.
Dorian returned it awkwardly. Jokes, yes, exactly what he needed at what was possibly the most stressful moment of his life.
"Anyway," she said, still pacing and flying through her paperwork, "I hoped you'd be good for each other, and you have been. Right?"
"Um," he said.
She stopped in front of his chair and looked down at him with something akin to sympathy. "You're allowed to correct me if I'm wrong."
"I...think John's been good for me," Dorian said slowly, realizing it was true, "and I've been good for him." It had happened so slowly he almost hadn't noticed, the late nights in front of the vid screen and the loosening feeling in his chest. He'd read about this feeling, this bubble of light that seemed to come from his synthetic soul. This was how he felt for John. John was a friend, yes, but not like Rudy. Not like anyone.
"I don't need this," Dorian said. "All I've ever wanted to do was be a cop. And I'm doing that. So why should I let this complicate things?"
"There's a big difference between needing and wanting," the captain said. "If you don't want the messy relationship stuff, that's fine. Hell, even some humans don't want that." She tapped the edge of her tablet to her chest with a self-deprecating smirk. "But if you deny yourself something that you do want, that's not living, Dorian. That's existing. And I believe you are a living being."
He looked up at Maldonado, pleading, "But I don't know what to do. I don't know what happens next."
She smiled then, close-mouthed and quick. She squeezed his shoulder. "I'll let you in on a secret. Nobody does." Her hand fell. "As far as I'm concerned, if you keep closing cases, whatever happens outside this station is your own business. Is that clear?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Good. Now get out of my office. Kennex is lurking; I can see his shadow."
The captain wasn't kidding. Dorian nearly ran straight into John as he exited.
"What was that about?" John demanded in a whisper.
This was the wrong time and place for this discussion. "Nothing, man." He tried to pass, but John took hold of his arm, just below his elbow joint.
"Did you ask to be reassigned?" John asked. Dorian could sense his heart thudding madly. Not yet a panic attack, but getting there.
"Of course not," he said, surprised. How could John think he'd ever leave willingly when leaving was his biggest fear? He forced his eyes to reflect how seriously he took the accusation. "John, no. I wouldn't do that."
Blip-blip. Blip-blip. The readings slowed to normal.
John scrubbed a hand through his hair. "Then what did Sandra want?"
"I'll tell you later, okay? After work." Dorian took a chance and reached up to fix his skewed shirt collar, though it was really just a cover to touch John's pulsepoint. "Tonight's your turn to pick the movie, right?"
That was code for I'll be there tonight, at home, with you.
John gave him a soft look and said, "Nah, you can pick."
It was a long day on the job.
When they finally slid into the cruiser to head home, Dorian opened by saying, "Captain Maldonado is aware that I have feelings for you. Oh, and also, I have feelings for you."
It was a testament to John's professionalism that he was able to maintain control of the car on the highway while simultaneously whipping his head to the side to stare at Dorian. "You do? She does?"
"She was very encouraging," Dorian added. "I was worried about the ramifications of our evolving relationship—" He patted his chest a few times to mimic John's gesture for panic. "—but now I feel better about it."
"You could have told—" A car honked at them.
"Watch the road," Dorian said gently.
John's eyes swung back to the road. "You could have told me all this when we…" He rolled his neck. "You know, this morning."
"When you kissed me and then ran away?" Dorian asked.
"I did not—" John cut off himself (and several other vehicles) with a growl and took the turn for their exit a little too sharply. "I did not run," he finished once they were off the highway.
"Yes you did."
"Well, you just stood there! Staring at me like I was the biggest idiot in the world," John muttered. "What the hell was I supposed to do?"
Dorian waited until they pulled up to a red light. "Hey."
John looked over at him, his eyes tired.
"If we do this…." Dorian began.
"If?" John asked.
"If we do this," Dorian repeated, "you've got to know it won't be like a relationship with a human. I don't have any experience with this stuff. I don't know what to say when you kiss me. I'm working on it; I should have a really good comeback next time." He smiled.
John looked down and huffed a laugh. "Wow. Okay."
"Okay?"
"Yeah, okay."
"You're okay with that?"
"Course." John was still looking down.
Dorian wanted to see his eyes, so he reached out and touched John's chin, just lightly, just enough to coax it up.
John looked up at him and shook his head fondly. "You know I am," he said.
The light turned green and John drove them home. Oscar had thrown up on the carpet.
"Are you fucking kidding me?" John groaned.
"Domesticity." Dorian patted his shoulder and went to find the cleaning solution. "Part and parcel, my friend."
"Mrmf," Oscar trilled as he attempted to claw his way up John's pant leg.
"You mean love is not having to say 'help me clean up this pile of puke'? Jesus, get down, you crazy cat." John shook his leg until Oscar scrambled off and away.
Dorian gazed up at John from where he was kneeling on the carpet with the spray bottle, grinning like a loon.
"What?" John barked.
"Love," Dorian said. "You said this is love."
A bigger display of bluster and flushing had never been seen. John's face went through a series of increasingly incredulous squints before he settled on just crossing his arms over his chest defensively. "It's an expression," he said.
"You neglected to name your feelings before, or even speak about them."
"It's too early for that. Normal people don't say it so quickly."
Dorian rose to his feet and carefully stepped over the mess the cat had left on the floor so that he was right in front of John. "I'm not people," he said. "And you're not normal." He reached out, cupped John's face in his hands, and kissed him. Mirrored actions, learned responses.
This part wasn't so difficult. It was even fun, now that Dorian was doing the kissing. And, oh, when John kissed back—he could see why people did this. Breathing was the only thing stopping them from doing it all the time, really. He pulled back to let John catch up on his air.
"So you—?" John said against his mouth, quiet and small.
"Yes." Dorian pressed a kiss to his heated cheek. "I love you too."
"Hey, I never said—"
"You don't need to." He tipped his head toward Oscar's little present. "I won't ask, right?"
John helped him clean with barely a grumble.
That night was strange. It was like a dozen other evenings they'd spent together on the sofa, watching old vids. But this time, John licked his lips in determination before slinging an arm over the back of the sofa and around Dorian's shoulders, and Dorian wasn't sure what he should do with his own hands. Oscar wheedled his way in between them like a fuzzy little mole as usual, so that gave Dorian something to do. He laughed to himself as he petted the cat.
"What's so funny?" John said, much closer to his ear than normal.
Dorian shrugged a little, careful not to dislodge John's hand. "Just thinking how disappointed you're going to be," he said.
"How do you mean?"
"I can't go to bed with you tonight," Dorian said.
John faced forward and steeled his jaw. After a moment, he gave a nod. "Yeah. I know. Take it slow, that's— That's exactly what we should do."
"John."
"Cards on the table here, Dorian: I'm freaking out too. I mean, you wouldn't know to look at me—" He turned to squint at him. "Right? I'm maintaining pretty well, all things considered."
His heart rate was well within acceptable ranges. "Absolutely. But—"
"I haven't been with anyone since…." A hard swallow. John's hand went to his thigh and rubbed through his pant leg, where Dorian knew the seam of his prosthetic joined his flesh. "Couldn't stand being touched, after. 's why I avoided PT. Why I avoided everyone. I don't know. You were different. It wasn't easy, but it wasn't as bad." He shook his head and swallowed again. "So I get it, if you can't just yet."
Dorian popped his lips and grimaced. "I actually meant my charger. If I move it now, it'll auto-deplete and won't have enough juice for a full cycle. That's why I can't spend tonight in your bedroom, John."
"Oh," John said.
"But thank you for telling me about your fears of physical intimacy."
John dropped his head back against the tops of the sofa cushions. "You son of a bitch."
"It's important to communicate, or so I hear."
"You did that on purpose."
"Once you get going, it's hard to stop you."
"Yeah, that's what you'll be saying when I finally get over my fears of physical intimacy," John said, and swatted him with a throw pillow.
Oscar yowled in displeasure and ran off to leave them in peace, such as it was.
They ended up spending the night together anyway. John lugged his leg charger into the trophy room and set it in the corner opposite Dorian's. Dorian toed off his boots and shrugged out of his jacket, hanging it on the corner of a cardboard box.
"Your back is not going to like this," Dorian warned.
"Oh, definitely." John tossed a few cushions on the floor under the window. He was already in his boxers and undershirt. "But I can sleep anywhere. It's a skill I acquired pulling all-nighters at the station."
It was so unnecessary and inefficient. It was a terrible idea. It was also the most romantic thing Dorian could've imagined.
He sat down next to his portable charger, watching in a resigned way as Oscar loped in and commandeered the top of the device for himself. John positioned himself next to Dorian, their backs to the wall, shoulders brushing.
"Here, let me." Dorian reached over, unclicked John's leg from its moorings, and set it in its charger. The room was bathed in the dim glow of the dual machines. Their low hum was punctuated by Oscar's wheezy purr.
John settled against Dorian's side, stretching his left leg out in front of him. "You know, we could get you some furniture in here if you want. Do it up like a real bedroom."
"Or we could clear out these boxes and turn this into a fitness room." Dorian pressed his lips to John's temple. He felt the flutter of John's eyelashes sweeping shut.
"Where would you charge?"
"In your room, if you wanted. No rush," he assured.
John snorted against Dorian's neck. "I tried to invite you, you know."
"Yes, this morning. In the kitchen."
"No, before that. When I thought I was—" John beat a palm against his chest a few times. "And you came running. I was trying to ask you to stay after it was over, and then that asshole cat—" John raised his voice and pointed an accusing finger in Oscar's direction. Oscar blinked his slitted eyes, unimpressed. "—totally cockblocked me."
Dorian raised an eyebrow at the word choice.
John saw it and said, "Eh, cuddle-blocked. Whatever." He craned his neck to catch a glimpse of Dorian's charger and Dorian's left arm wrapped around its base. "So what happens when you charge at night? Are you conscious or…?"
"A little. I...drift," Dorian said carefully. "Most of my programs shut down, and my internal processors go offline. A few backup systems stay operational. Stimuli are monitored, but I am largely unaware unless something triggers an emergency boot-up."
"Is it like being half-awake?" John asked.
Dorian shrugged. "I'm not sure. Maybe."
"Does it feel good? To go under like that when you've had a long day?"
Dorian thought about it. "I don't look forward to it the way I know you look forward to sleep when you're tired. But this…." Dorian wrapped his arm around John and gently guided his head down to rest on Dorian's shoulder. "This isn't so bad."
John yawned, a strange echo in Dorian's ear. "Sorry I can't stay half-awake with you," he mumbled.
"It's okay. I don't expect you to be superhuman." Dorian grinned. "Much."
John was already snoring, his nose notched under Dorian's ear. Dorian ran a hand through his soft hair and slipped into standby mode.
So this is a cuddle pile, was his last thought before he went to sleep.
It didn't happen overnight, their slide into a relationship's rhythm. It took time to balance things out. Work was easy; they were good at work. John was overprotective of him in the field, but that was nothing new. Though, according to John, Dorian was the overprotective one. "You're both overprotective. Deal with it," Val said with a smirk as she strode past them in the bullpen during one of their arguments about it.
They bickered over where John's bike should be stored and whether Oscar was getting too fat. John was still cagey about Dorian touching his right thigh, and Dorian was still annoyed at how boring mealtimes were for him. They took naps on the sofa and made out on the floor. They watched rain hitting the skylight afterwards, John catching his breath and Dorian reviewing passages from The Importance of Being Earnest.
"I could put my charger in your room tomorrow morning," Dorian said.
John stared up at the rain and shrugged, his shoulders making semi-snow angels on the carpet. "Yeah. You should."
Dorian reached over and placed his palm to John's chest. Blip-blip. John covered his hand with his own, lifted it, kissed Dorian's fingertips.
"Feel that?" he asked. It had become a running joke with them.
"I feel everything you can feel," Dorian said. "As far as I know."
The placement of the charger weighed heavily on them the next day because it dictated their sleeping arrangements, if not for the foreseeable future, then at least that night. Dorian sensed a feedback loop of anxiety between them before they left for work: John distracted and terse, Dorian unduly sarcastic in return. Thank goodness for felonies, Dorian thought as they focused on their latest case.
"Sorry if I was a jerk today," John said on their way home. It was late, almost midnight. The case had called for it.
Dorian hummed in acceptance. "We can just sleep tonight, you know. It's been a long day. Curl up with Oscar like always...no big deal." He looked out the passenger window to hide any disappointment his face might show. He'd liked what intimacy they'd shared so far; he didn't need, but he did want. He thought about the distinction a lot these days.
"Is that what you want?" John asked.
"It would be fine."
"You are the worst goddamn liar."
Dorian sighed and looked over at John's expectant face. "I want to try. But we won't if you're not ready."
"Oh, I'm ready."
"This is what ready looks like?"
"I know. Hot, isn't it?"
"More like sweaty."
"I've been running around all day. Sue me." They drove in silence, each directing their smirks at the windshield. Then John said, quieter, "It's possible to be nervous but still want to do the nerve-making thing anyway, you know. The doctors even tell me it's healthy."
Dorian grinned at the dashboard. "Nerve-making," he said, wrapping his mouth around another one of John's excellent phrases.
When they got home, Dorian suggested John take a long, relaxing shower while he put fresh sheets on the bed. Not that clean sheets made a difference to Dorian (even high levels of skin particles wouldn't affect his systems) but he figured John would appreciate it. Like a new start.
Oscar immediately jumped on the bed and shed his dark cat hair on the pillows.
"Come on, man. Shoo! I saved your life and this is how you repay me?" Dorian flapped his hands at Oscar to try and scare him off, but the cat just licked himself and sneezed.
"Are you guilt-tripping the cat?"
Dorian turned to see John padding into the bedroom, still toweling at his damp hair. He was wearing a clean pair of boxers and a tank top, a tight one. Dorian felt awfully overdressed for the occasion.
"I don't own any underwear," he said.
John blinked. "Okay. And the cat figures into this how?"
"He doesn't. Separate conversation." Dorian nodded in the direction of John's bureau. "Can I borrow some? Wearing pants to bed is supposed to be uncomfortable."
"You could just wear nothing," John suggested even as he crossed the room and opened his top drawer.
"Then you would be uncomfortable," Dorian said.
"It's not like I haven't seen it." John tossed a pair of gray cotton boxers at him, which he caught one-handed. "But hey, I wouldn't mind seeing you in my clothes either. Shirts are in the middle drawer if you want one."
Dorian raised his eyebrows and was about to ask what that meant, but John was already striding out of the bedroom.
"Gotta put on my spare leg," he called over his shoulder. So John wanted to wear a leg for this; Dorian had been wondering about that. He smiled as he realized John had worn the older model to work because he'd been saving the new one for tonight.
Dorian used the moment of privacy to change out of his usual clothes. He did opt for one of John's tee shirts, in the end. It was a little big on him, just like the boxers, riding low on his hips; John was slightly taller and broader than he was. Something about the picture he made in the mirror made Dorian feel good.
The sound of dry cat food pellets falling into Oscar's food dish echoed from the kitchen. Oscar perked up and then ran towards the sound with a high trill.
"Don't overfeed him!" Dorian called.
"Do you want to deal with him scratching at the door all night?" John called back.
Couldn't really argue with that. Dorian tugged at the hem of his borrowed shirt and tentatively sat on the edge of John's mattress. He gave the smartbed a digital nod of acknowledgement, and it said hello back. "Wish me luck," he told it.
It recalibrated automatically for double John's body weight.
"Thanks man."
John reappeared in the doorway, his hands grabbing the jamb and the slider, making a framed picture of his body. He was biting his bottom lip, smiling and staring at Dorian's clothing choices. "Damn. You look really good." He stepped inside and slid the door shut behind him.
It clicked for Dorian then. "You're stimulated in a possessive way when you see me wearing your clothes."
"Hell yeah I am." John climbed onto the bed on all fours and pressed a kiss to Dorian's jaw. "It's a human thing."
"Or a John thing."
"Trust me, it's a human thing. Some humans just won't admit it." John buried his nose into Dorian's shoulder, inhaling deeply. "Mmm, it smells like me and you together."
Dorian added scent to the short list of things he wished he could experience as John did. Registering the density of chemical compounds just wasn't the same.
"What do I smell like?" he asked as John pulled him into the middle of the bed.
"Like new car." John grinned at Dorian's wild eyebrow. "Don't worry, that's a compliment."
The last syllable was folded into their kiss, slow and steady. John's hand stole to Dorian's stomach to slip under his tee shirt. He rubbed at the skin there, grinning against Dorian's lips. Dorian didn't have to ask what he found so amusing; John had already revelled in Dorian's sleek, hairless torso during their nighttime cuddles. His builders had been detailed in their designs—up to a point. Placing every single synthetic follicle was too much work, even for them.
"Smooth," John murmured as his hand traveled up to Dorian's chest.
Dorian cupped John's face, spiked with stubble, between his palms. "Jealous?"
John didn't answer, just rucked up Dorian's shirt and latched onto his nipple with his teeth.
"Oh," Dorian breathed out, blinking up at the ceiling. Physical stimulation was different for him, and John knew it. There were no special spots, no particular places on his body that would respond more than any other, but if Dorian concentrated, he could divert processes to where he wanted them to focus. In this case, to the heat and wetness of John's mouth, the sharpness of his teeth juxtaposed with the softness of his tongue.
It should have made him anxious, not knowing what John would do next or how it would feel. But it was also freeing, in a sense. And definitely humbling to know that John trusted him with this.
His hands trailed down John's shoulders to the hem of his tank top. "I want to try," he said into John's hair.
John pulled back just enough to strip his shirt off over his head. Dorian considered his bare chest for a moment while John licked his lips. "Enjoying the view?"
Dorian smiled, showing teeth. "John, I've scanned your body multiple times, inside and out. I've seen this view before."
A huff of indignation left John's lips. He took Dorian's hand in his and placed it on his sternum. "You looked, you haven't felt."
That was true, and Dorian planned to correct that oversight. He guided John onto his back with a little push to his chest, climbing on top. He could feel John's erection straining under his stomach as he leaned over him. There was an answering hardness in his borrowed boxers. Strange, the things his builders had decided were necessary.
John's delighted, open-mouthed expression seemed to indicate he felt it too. His hands went to Dorian's hips, sliding across his waist and bringing him closer. Mirrored actions. Learned responses. A game of Let Me Show You How. Dorian bent his head and took the hard nub of John's brown nipple between his teeth.
"Ah god—" John hissed. He threw his head back and his fingers dug into Dorian's waist.
It felt good. Not just the sensations Dorian was picking up from John's vitals, though those were very encouraging: Dorian was also receiving feedback from John's leg. It was an advanced model, interpreting nervous responses from all over John's body. And apparently, when John's nipples were played with, his toes curled like fiddleheads.
The hum and whine of the leg's inner workings, the machinery of the smartbed adjusting for John's every jerk and twitch, John's voice singing out in pleasure: it was a harmonious frequency that only Dorian could hear.
"Music," he whispered, moving to lave at John's other nipple. "It's just like music."
"What?" John gasped out. His fingers threaded along the back of Dorian's neck. "Fuck, keep doing that."
"Could you orgasm from this?" Dorian asked. He kissed the center of John's chest and moved back to the first nipple, sucking this time. "Because I could."
"Christ, I haven't even touched you," John breathed.
"That's not completely accurate." Dorian ground his hips down into John's, lining up their erections between barely noticeable layers of cotton. Now at the small of his back, John's hands clenched him tight. "Well?"
John's eyes were squeezed shut as he nodded. "I could, god yes—"
Simple mechanics. Dorian slotted his leg in between John's and moved against him, a deliberate slide of bodies. His mouth fastened over John's nipple and his hands strayed to John's face. If he couldn't watch his expression, he wanted to feel it at his fingertips, the tremble of his lips as Dorian pleasured him. Dorian ran the pad of his thumb across that wet, human mouth, opened in a sharp gasp.
John's toes curled again, then splayed wide. His leg told Dorian the story of electrical impulses coursing through John's body. He arched, his spine caught in the wave, up into Dorian. Warm fluid, seeping. His eyes fluttered open and closed. Dorian pulled back to watch them. His fingertips were still on John's lower lip. He could still hear the fading notes of a distant song.
When John had finally regained his ability to speak, the first thing he said was, "You didn't—?'
Dorian sat back astride John's hips and looked down at his lap. The damp patches were all John's doing. "I don't have an ejaculation function," he said, "but I climaxed. Does it bother you?"
John's mouth lifted at the corner, and he rolled them so that Dorian was collected against his chest. "Not if you had fun," he said, kissing Dorian's ear.
"I did," Dorian said. He pressed face to John's throat. He could feel his pulse there. "Is it always like this?"
John laughed, an earthquake rumble. "Are you kidding? It's never like this. Thank god." Another kiss, this time over his eyelid. John pulled the covers over them, up to their shoulders.
Dorian relaxed against John, cataloging the sensations of the bedsheets. It made him feel warm and protected.
"Would you like me to clean you?" Dorian asked, placing a gentle hand over John's softening cock. It flexed under his touch, making him smile. "I can get a washcloth."
"In a minute," John said. His mouth kissed along Dorian's neck. "I'm being affectionate here."
"Oh, are you? I—" Dorian's snarky comment was cut short by a metallic crash from the direction of the kitchen.
John rested his forehead against Dorian's and groaned. "That fucking maniac cat. He takes after you, you know."
Dorian didn't argue. He just kissed John again and said, "And you." He knew he'd have to get out of bed soon and clean up the kitchen. Hell, he'd have to clean up John too. But for the moment, Dorian was content to kiss his human and listen to his heart beating against his flesh.
fin