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It wasn't as though he went out of his way to spend more time with the tanks, but every so often Batou would find himself having his lunch in the maintenance hangar. Sometimes his tank was out in the field, sometimes it was in, but either way there would always be at least one that rolled over while he ate. It would start going on about something in that chirpy voice they all had and he'd nod and eat his sandwich and mull something over. Usually another one would roll up next to the first. Sometimes a third, even a fourth. Once he'd had six, all going on at once about something which was probably only important to a Tachikoma. The constant white noise of advanced theoretical discourse helped him think about other things.
Sometimes one would ask: "Don't you think so, Mr. Batou?" And he'd shrug, which seemed to be enough most of the time.
Sometimes one would ask: "What do you think, Mr. Batou?" And he'd make a lame joke or complain about his sandwich and the tank would giggle and maybe waggle one of its `fingers' at him for not showing proper consideration to important matters. And then it would start chirping away again.
He wasn't sure what the tanks got out of his shrugs and unhelpful remarks, but it must have been something because he kept coming and so did they. It was a very workable situation.
Batou would catch himself, from time to time, tugging a bit of crust off the sandwich. Once he caught himself in the act of tossing said crust, and had to make up an excuse for his Tachikoma about why he was throwing bread at it--to see if you could catch it, he'd said. Just a game.
He was pretty sure the tank didn't believe him, but that really wasn't important. It would be hurt if he told the truth--or maybe it wouldn't maybe it would be amused, or embarrassed, or just decide it was a human thing. But he knew that he'd call it an insult if someone said the same to him, so he didn't.
Pigeons.
He'd never admit to one how much they reminded him of pigeons.