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Outside, Steve finds Danny picking up the remains of his standard issue stun gun, ranting, "This was designed to emit a nonlethal charge to incapacitate the victim. It was not meant to be amplified to electrocute people nor jerry-rigged into an explosive."
"I know how a stun gun works," Steve says.
He's extremely good at it too. Robots are built with a specific set of instructions to be performed with exacting accuracy. In Steve's case, he is a killing machine of the highest order, programmed to complete dangerous missions by any means possible. A stun gun is but one of the many weapons he is proficient in.
"It can also be used as a bludgeon," Steve adds.
"Oh my god. Do you have a serial number? I may have to return you."
"I'm not broken, Danny."
That's not entirely true. Steve has long observed that the tiny human's presence triggers in him a range of anomalous reactions, like a jolt through his system or an unexplained surge of warmth. They make him pause mid-action at times, leading Danny to stare at him with an equally strange, almost wistful expression.
"Oh yeah? What's this?" Danny frowns at a tear in Steve's shirt. There's an ugly gash on his side, five inches long, no blood of course, but a open wound can cause a different sort of infection. Danny's hands, normally uncontrolled, become gentle and tentative as they inspect the cut.
"Jesus, Steve, this doesn't look good," Danny murmurs.
Steve shrugs, "I don't feel anything."
"That's ‘cause robots don't have feelings," Danny retorts, but beneath the veneer, Steve hears the sigh of regret.
At least Steve thinks he did. It may be he only imagined it. Not that his kind could actually imagine. Robots forecast, predict outcomes based on data and patterns, but they can't dream something out of nothing. That's hope, and they say hope, like love, is something only humans can do.
They're wrong, Steve decides. His fingers circle Danny's wrist carefully. He can hear Danny's heartbeat, a steady thump-thump-thump, signaling life and so much more. Steve commits the sound to memory.
"Hey." Danny's watching him again. He says softly, "No one's returning anyone, okay, babe? Now let's get you home before you rust."
Steve nods, and in the space under his left chest, the rhythm of Danny's heart plays back in perfect replication, as if it were his own.