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Night City has an oldies radio channel. It’s not particularly popular, occupying what is essentially the witching hours of broadcast slots between Sunday evening and Monday morning. There isn’t much demand for music from a hundred years ago, either. Somehow though, the DJ manages to sound chipper even if only one person is tuning in, and V finds it easy to work when the sun is down. No time spent on if she’s wasting precious daylight hours having to fix her guns, or separate different ammos.
Where most things in V’s life have been in utter chaos, the time before dusk is allocated to her alone. Even if she spends it doing menial tasks, she missed having that small semblance of control.
It is during this time that Johnny usually glitches into view, parking himself next to her on the sofa. She’s cleaning her pistol in pleasant quietude, the radio cranked at a volume just loud enough to be enjoyed. Sometimes Johnny chats to her while she works, though tonight he seems content to just watch her do her thing, every so often taking a drag off his cigarette.
The last song fades off into silence, and then a new one starts with slow drums and a synthesizer. She’s heard this kind of build up before, a heart-wrenching power ballad probably from the 80’s. What she doesn’t expect is Johnny freezing in place, recognition clear in the small sliver of his eyes she can glimpse behind his aviators.
“Holy shit.”
V stops polishing the barrel and glances at him bemusedly, “What?”
“Don’t you hear that?”
V pauses, tracks her gaze in the other direction as if she’s trying to listen in for what he’s hearing. “The radio?” she guesses.
“This is fuckin’ Foreigner, V!” Johnny looks baffled that she isn’t picking up quicker.
“Gonna assume you’re a big fan.”
“Got brain rot if you aren’t.”
“Well, I am a corpse.” She muses, as the lead vocalist begins singing softly.
“Fuck. I am not sittin’ on this legendary ballad,” Johnny flicks his cigarette away and it promptly disappears before he stands in front of her on the couch, “Get up.”
V scoffs, picking up her cloth again and wiping at the trigger guard of her gun, “We’re not going out right now, I’m working.”
“Didn’t say we should leave the apartment.” Johnny turns up the radio and then reaches out his hand, offering it to V palm up, “Told you to get up, just humor me here.”
V stares up at him with a lilting smile, his earnest enthusiasm contagious. She sets her tools down and lifts her arm toward him. Johnny clasps her hand in his own, and despite it being neither physical nor warm, it still pulls her to her feet. He leads her up the staggered level of the lounge area and stands near the window, turning back to face her. It takes a moment to sink in what he’s planning because Johnny guides V’s hands up to his shoulders, his own hands move to grasp her hips. Even with the singer’s gentle crooning over the radio, V feels herself tense in sudden realization.
“We’re not—this isn’t,” V stutters a moment.
“Yes we are, c’mere.” Johnny tugs her closer by the waist and V makes an undignified noise at the back of her throat, reactionary both at Johnny’s bossy attitude and her own embarrassment from liking it. One of his hands lifts up to press on the bridge of his aviators, adjusting them higher up on his nose and then returns to her hip, just as a long synthetic tone transitions from the intro of the song into the first verse.
Her body feels strange where he touches her, a heavy pressure the only real indication that he’s there. V’s palms feel tingly where she’s holding his shoulders, no temperature difference between his metal arm and human one. And yet despite that, he feels solid and real, like all of it regardless of flesh or not, is normal. It’s all Johnny. It’s funny how someone who no one else can see, who is essentially a spectre, has such a complete and all-encompassing presence in her life.
It’s too dark in the apartment to be able to see much of Johnny’s features, his aviators also effectively hiding his eyes. The glow coming off neon architecture of Night City is filtering in through the window, casting them both in varied hues of diffused light. Johnny sways them both side to side, and for all her grace on the battlefield, V struggles to find the same rhythm.
“Ever done this before?” he asks after she’s stepped on his boot twice.
V glares at his sunglasses, unable to track his eyes exactly, but loading her expression with enough ire to make a point. “No.”
“S’easy. Doin’ fine.”
“Your toes are gonna be black and blue.” She grumbles.
Johnny lets out a short sigh, pulls her close enough that her chest bumps into his, “You’re thinkin’ too much, just be in the moment.”
“I am in the moment. The moment is stressing me out.”
Johnny tilts his chin down and finally she catches a glimpse of his eyes, “The moment isn’t over.” He says pointedly, and V’s ears feel hot. Their back and forth ends just as the first verse comes to a close, and the pre-chorus begins. Despite not knowing the song very well, V knows how all music generally follows the same overarching structure. And it’s clear that with Johnny’s relaxed posture, their bickering hasn’t interrupted any of the emotional peaks in the ballad quite yet.
V feels a little guilty about not paying much attention to the lyrics but she’s considerably ill-equipped for this type of scenario. Somehow, she feels like she has to avoid meeting Johnny’s eyes. It’s not often that she’s this close to his face unless it was with the intent to antagonize him. V taps the pad of her pointer finger against his metal shoulder as they sway in time with the song’s tempo, her gaze locked on the seam of where Johnny’s cybernetics meet his left collarbone.
He turns his head just enough to murmur a bit closer to her ear over the music, “See? Easy.”
V feels goosebumps prickle over her skin, but she nods mutely and finally, finally starts listening to the lyrics because if she concentrates any harder on Johnny, she may lose her mind. V closes her eyes, so taken by the intimacy he is willing to share with her and how unexpectedly affectionate the gesture is. At this point, the rise in the pre-chorus’ tension is too intense and overwhelming to ignore.
The music swells.
‘I wanna know what love is,’ the singer pleads.
Oh. That hot flush of emotion feels just beneath the surface of her skin.
‘I want you to show me,’
The backup singer rises up to meet the main vocalist in such a dramatic culmination, V is momentarily caught in the very real feeling inexplicably building in her chest. V’s head is angled down, her ears catching Johnny’s quick intake of breath.
She peers up at him, not really sure what kind of question she’s hoping will be answered by his gaze alone, but Johnny expertly angles his face in a way that makes looking into his eyes behind the aviators impossible. Somehow, it feels like she’s done something wrong, because it is not often Johnny is rendered completely silent. She feels as if she’s missed a signal from him and he’s not willing to send it again. So she swallows hard, tucks her head back closer to his shoulder and tries to settle back into the feeling of the song, instead. Johnny continues to lead the dance through the song regardless of how non-verbal he’s become, and V’s still putting all her trust in him to not lead her astray with whatever she’s supposed to be doing in this given situation.
‘I’ve got nowhere left to hide, looks like love has finally found me.’
V can’t tell if the lump that she feels in her throat is really hers.
But then, Johnny’s metal arm moves from her hip to the small of her back, baffling V because he moves like he’s become part of the music. He tugs her in until they’re pressed together, the fingers of his human hand pushing up the back of her shirt until his skin is on hers. The lull in the singer’s voice switches back to another pre-chorus and it hasn’t been long, but somehow the intensity of it is impossible for her to ignore.
When the chorus swells a second time, Johnny turns his head so that the roughness of his beard scratches against the high of V’s cheekbone. The corner hinge of his sunglasses bump gently against her forehead and somehow, the most invasive thought in this moment doesn’t feel like her own. It is quietly pleading in its insistence – as if she is being steered by a voice she can’t make out and yet trusts it all the same.
She peers up at Johnny again, and this time he doesn’t look away, he doesn’t deflect. So, V follows her gut instinct to reach up with both hands and carefully removes his aviators.
The moment before she can see his eyes feels like the longest stretch of time in her life. They are both breathing synchronously, turning a second into what feels like minutes. It’s only when she’s removed the aviators do they dissolve between her fingertips.
Johnny tilts his head less than an inch, and she sees his eyes flicker to her mouth. He gives pause long enough for V to hear doubt in the recesses of her mind, like it’s calling to someone else instead of her.
V surges forward first, or she thinks she does – because Johnny’s metal fingers are already combing through her hair at the nape of her neck when her mouth slots over his.
People talk about second nature, but V wonders how something she’s never done before can feel so intrinsic. How kissing Johnny feels like she is finding something she’d thought she lost a long time ago. There is no logical way to explain how they fit together, how easy it is to open her mouth to him and have him envelop her like he’s done it before. She nips at his bottom lip and she already anticipates the soft groan he makes in reply because she knows him, and she knows them. His grip tightens, tugging on her hair at the scalp just enough to feel real, and all she wants to do is sink into Johnny further and further, until the line of code that separates them ceases to exist entirely. Until they are both so deeply entwined that the things that make her up are the same things holding him together.
Johnny’s mouth is warm and wet, a stark contrast to the rasping scrape of his beard. Her lips feel raw already, his tongue a soothing balm against the rough burn of his moustache. He turns and crowds V against the window until she’s sitting on the ledge, his hands balancing her with a grip on her outer thighs. Her own moan is enough to pull her back to reality, because the song has almost completely faded out and with it, the spell that had suddenly overcome them both.
“—and with that listeners, I wish you all a pleasant Monday morning here in Night City.” The DJ announces, and Johnny hasn’t backed up from her personal space but he hasn’t moved in to kiss her again. V has trouble catching her breath, chest heaving with the effort, as if she had just now realized she needs more oxygen. “Thanks again for tuning in.” he concludes, and the radio goes quiet.
Johnny finally steps back, giving her enough room to stand up, “So?” he asks, his voice a little rough.
V stares at him, and then drops her gaze to his mouth which has become hypnotically kiss-swollen. Her eyes meet his again and the silence stretches out for far too long. V has so many fucking questions and absolutely no tact in asking them. “Good song.” she murmurs.
There’s a funny expression that passes over Johnny’s face, like her response isn’t all too surprising, but another ghost deeper between them that feels disappointed. He doesn’t argue or say anything more, he steps aside and then glitches out of view.
V takes another steadying breath, leaning against the windowsill. A glance at the clock tells her she needs shut eye before anything else, so she steps into the bathroom and gets ready for bed.
She washes her face in uneasy silence. This isn’t how she wanted it to end, but she doesn’t know how to ask Johnny what the hell is going on between them, now. She also certainly didn’t expect anything to happen vis-à-vis an intimate slow dance to Foreigner.
V brushes her teeth for longer than strictly necessary. When she leans back up from spitting in the sink, she catches a glimpse of her own reflection and then sighs when Johnny isn’t standing behind it.
She knows she has two choices: go to bed alone or take a chance on that small sliver of disappointment she’d felt crossed Johnny’s mind earlier. He’d offered up a lot by being vulnerable earlier, even if he didn’t say it.
V takes off her pants and kicks them to a corner, standing next to her bed in her sleep shirt and underwear.
“Johnny.” She calls out.
The silence stretches on, and she struggles not to give up. He can hear her, she knows he can.
She hears the familiar buzzing noise that announces his arrival, but he isn’t in front of her.
“Yeah, V.” he replies, voice measured and calm. He is behind her, talking to her back. Something he’s never done until now. But it’s for the same reason she doesn’t turn around – in this moment, they are both incredibly vulnerable.
She swallows, looks down to the tiling at her feet, “Have to listen to it again, sometime.” Her heart thumps so loud it feels like it’s drowning out her voice. “Together, I mean.”
It’s quiet, and then Johnny glitches into view, now standing in front of her. He steps into her space and she doesn’t flinch.
Johnny brings up both hands to cup V’s face and when she puts her hands overtop his, he kisses her again. Slower this time, like he’s committing her mouth to memory. And then, a few more brief kisses that land crookedly at the corner of her mouth.
V smiles and Johnny just shakes his head, exasperated.
“Need sleep, V.”
“Stay?” she asks.
Johnny kisses her eyebrow and then ushers her to bed, lying down next to her in the cubby with a hand on her stomach, “All you had to do was ask.”