Work Text:
David was still only halfway through writing the speech when he heard the front door go. Shit. If Charlie was back it must be late. Writing this crap got harder and harder.
"Duty... in a fairer society," he muttered to himself, absently. "Hmm, no... responsibility. In these difficult times, it is the responsibility of each of us to ask not 'what am I owed', but 'what more can I give?' Fuck it, I don't know."
He could hear Charlie opening the fridge door and clattering around in the kitchen. A few moments later a bottle appeared, apparently of its own accord, on the edge of David's desk. He looked up.
"Thanks." He hit save and groaned aloud. "I needed an excuse to stop looking at the fucking bilge I'm concocting before I throw up."
Charlie threw himself down on the sofa and switched on the TV. "I don't know why you worry," he said. "You recycle the same old bollocks every time, they never notice."
David attempted to freeze him with a look, but he wasn't paying attention. "Good night?" he asked coldly.
Charlie looked up at that, and the expression on his face made David wish he hadn't. "Yeah," he said. "Thanks for asking. Being able to pay the rent really turns me on."
The brightness of the laptop screen was starting to make David feel ill, so he shut it firmly and took his beer over to the armchair. "Sorry," he said. "It's possible I'm starting to poison myself with my own bullshit."
"Really? I think I assimilated mine years ago." Charlie half-smiled. "Actually, that might be the only thing holding me together."
He looked more tired than ever in the flickering light from the TV. David wished he'd held his tongue. But then he never could do that, could he? Always words and words and fucking words and talking. That had always been his undoing.
"So what, sort of... bullshit scaffolding?" he said feebly. "Look, are you--"
"What?" Charlie was flicking from channel to channel, frowning at the screen.
"Nothing."
"God, I miss the days when there was stuff on here you could fucking watch!"
"I know."
"It's not even funny any more. You can't even mock this shit."
"I know. Charlie--"
"Oh, what? Spit it out, David!"
He was always in this sort of mood when he got back from work. In theory, David could have gone to his own room to write and then he wouldn't have to put up with it. But he he was less and less comfortable with his own company these days. And anyway... he'd only have sat there, listening for the front door. For the sound of Charlie getting home in one piece. This time.
"Is it -- is it really bad?" he asked. And winced. He hadn't meant to ask.
But Charlie just smiled again. "You know what?" he said. "It'd be a hell of a lot worse if they were human."
David looked down at his hands. Stupid hands. "You make me feel sort of ashamed, actually," he said. "Just, you know -- at least you're honest about it."
"Oh, shut up," said Charlie, without rancour. "It's all the same, isn't it? You use what you've got. You're good with words, I'm..." he trailed off.
"I'm not sure which of us ought to feel more insulted by that," said David. "We both know you could have done... what I'm doing. You chose not to."
Charlie shrugged and took a swig from his bottle. "I ran out of things to say."
Everything was so fucked, David thought. So very fucking fucked. He put his beer down on the side table and, on impulse, got up and sat next to Charlie on the sofa.
"At least we've got money?" he tried, and immediately hated himself fifty times more than he already did. Still, that phrase had a different meaning these days. Money meant somewhere to live. A room you didn't have to share. Money meant enough food. Maybe a bottle of beer or two at the end of the day.
"Yeah," said Charlie. "You're right. Fuck 'em! Hmm... or should I rephrase that?"
David laughed uncomfortably. Charlie eyed him. He looked amused, which David had to concede was an improvement, even if it turned out to be at his own expense.
"What?" he said cautiously. "Stop looking like you can see into my soul. I don't like it."
"You want to know what it's like, don't you?"
"No! I --"
"It's ok, I don't mind."
"I -- oh, all right. I just. Can you tell?"
"Can I tell what?"
"That they're..."
"Robots?"
"Well, yeah. Is it -- different?"
Charlie half-smiled to himself, as if he'd just remembered a private joke. It wasn't a comfortable look. David felt the palms of his hands grow damp -- he half-wished he hadn't pursued this. And yet...
"When you touch them, they're a bit too cold," said Charlie. His voice was low and soft. The hairs on the back of David's neck stood up. "And their skin is a bit too shiny. Their eyes don't reflect light properly. You can see it, if you look. Anyone can." He gestured vaguely at the TV screen. A face peered out at them, promising better things, better times. "It's just that mostly, people don't. But I do."
David swallowed.
"Oh, and their cocks are telescopic."
"What?"
"And detachable. And they come engine oil."
"You fucker!" David threw a cushion at him, in lieu of anything more substantial. "I bloody believed you for a minute."
Charlie was grinning around the neck of his beer bottle. That was more like it, David thought. More like the real smile -- the one that made his face into something new and.... somehow surprising, every single time. David concentrated on hating himself for thinking things like that.
Then the smile faltered a bit. "Yeah, the first bit was true," said Charlie, and downed the last of his beer.
David looked away. On the TV screen, a man in a suit. A blue tie. And that ever-present face, blank and smooth and smiling, looking directly into the eyes of a nation. And talking. Talking. Talking.
"You know what I think?" said David slowly.
"What?"
David turned to face Charlie. He found he was shaking very slightly, so he reached out and gripped Charlie's arm. Just to steady himself.
Funny, he thought. He'd always wondered what made people do the things that changed history, or even their own lives. He'd never really thought he had the knack. Perhaps, after all, they just got tired of watching.
"I think," he said. "I think it's time for a change."
Charlie looked at him. For a long time he was silent, his expression hard to read. Then he smiled. Carefully and deliberately, he covered David's hand with his own.
"Well," he said. "You've got my vote."