Work Text:
Angela wasn't built for touching.
It's a commonplace thing, perhaps. In books she's read, volumes of volumes of fantasy, a scientific far out world "machines," are a concept of desire. The slope of the arch of the back, nice and neatly put together.
She can't find herself disagreeing, she was made with the same formula. A desire, a broken man's longing and grief stricken hands pulling her wires together into what she is. Angela is a concept, in a way, her legs pressed together, nicely, tidy, her heels click together in tandem. She’s something to be desired but never touched.
Perfect assistant. A secretary whom never forgets a deadline. An object, a mix of hyperfeminine fixations, a body that's connected, tied, knotted together into an ideal, the beauty of the skies blue that Carmen laid down upon, if Angela could’ve seen it with her own eyes, maybe she would be indebted to agree.
But, to her, that wasn't the most pretty thing. Maybe it was wrong, she muses it has to be. A error, flaw? What would one describe an inherent wrongness in a body that isn’t organic? No matter the case, she can't help but look. Peering over the edge of the novel she's devouring to take sly glances at the man next to her.
Roland's focused. His eye's are squeezed a bit; gauging the written text. It was a predraft of a section Angela had written prior. Had she been clearer of mind she might’ve inquired why he seemed to be troubled by it. Somehow she doesn't have to heart to do so in this moment. Roland leans forward a bit, bangs falling into his face, framing it. It’s cliché, Angela is well aware, putting her book down, jailing up her previous thoughts,
"Is there a problem with what I've written? I'd like you to speak freely of any issues you may run into, it is our work, together." Angela says, leading Roland to hum a reply back. Less of formulated words but instead an acknowledgment (Though, she doesn't feel very acknowledged.)
"Nah, nothin' like that," Roland mumbles a bit after some beats of silence. Angela counts them, leading up to seven. It's far too slow for her, but she doesn't feel entrapped in time's hands, even at Roland's tardiness.
Roland seems to be fully committed to the idea of eying her work with scrutiny and Angela doesn't particularly mind, letting her own mind wander. A free excuse, maybe, to stare at the man. Beautiful, that's for sure. Tracing the jawline with her line of sight, following up to the lips, she shoves the idea that it meant anything; she's simply a learning AI— who could blame her for being curious? It's what she is.
Roland finally gives her the time of day, shifting his gaze to finally meet hers. Putting his pen down onto the table, he stares, almost expectedly, which meets with Angela's confusion, tilting her head a bit in the process.
"It's about your section," He states, then turns back to the page (Angela mourns a bit to not be able to have the excuse to admire.) Roland traces his fingers over the passage, trying to find the lines he spoke about, "Here. This one."
Angela leans forward, into him to see. So close, she can almost feel his warmth, almost. Pointing at the starting point, she reads through once again, trying to find the error within the writings. But, all she finds is factual retelling of who she is.
"I don't understand," She begins, leaning into the edge of the table in an effort to somehow see a design flaw. Perhaps she spelt something wrong? There's a first for everything. She's been far too distracted lately, "Is there a mistake within it, Roland?"
Angela looks up at him, meeting his own eyes looking down to her,
"Is it true?" He asks, it almost blurts out of him, like a freight train, blazing through. Roland immediately tries to damage control his own wording, "I mean like.." He reached up, scratching the back of his neck, a habit she's taken a note of, "Were you really built that way?"
Roland's trying his best to be polite about it, she thinks. It's like him, to be considerate in a way that isn't obvious yet unable to deny his curiosity. Not that Angela could fault him, her own curiosity was an ocean that could easily drown her if she let it.
"Yes, I was. If I look pleasing to the eye, the job is working as intended." Angela feels a slight itch underneath her skin, a reminiscing of familiar words she puppeteers throughout for nigh eternity. Maybe if she had a human body it would make her nauseous, an overflowing wave, rushing over her like a bad omen. "I was built to fulfill a desire. Built in image of that women, then rewritten in aspects for purposes."
Roland watches her, most likely gauging her reaction, trying not to "open a can of worms," as Roland had put it once. An intriguing saying she's heard before, but, didn't necessarily care to store in her head until Roland had joked about it. Angela doesn't mind, this is just how it is.
"But, it's not as if any one would want to touch a machine. I'm more so…" Angela trails off, "Eye candy?" She finishes, finding the words to put it correctly, another phrase she's heard somewhere. Angela taps her index to her chin, contemplating, staring off into the distance, somehow the lines and lines of books stretching infinitely is far more appealing than meeting Roland's eyes, "So I wouldn't really call something like that.. 'beautiful,' though."
"I don't think that's true," Roland cuts in, shaking his head, "People are like that, sometimes you admire what you don't have, can't have." It’s his effort as consolation, it's sincere in a way Angela finds no reason to disagree,
"I suppose that's true. But, like I said, I wasn't made to be held." Angela clarifies, she knows what people's stares mean. She's felt her own anatomy be ripped from her. An object; a machine. Shackled to her commands, a sole master.
"Why?" Roland asks. Angela feels as though she would've found it slightly infuriating if anyone else. An obvious answer, 'I'm not human.' would suffice, not be incorrect. 'I'm not human, I'm a machine.' It’s gutting her, tearing out any sort of confidence she's built in the past couple months since her resolve. It aches, like a wedged piece of glass between her bones, metallic scraping against shards, an unpleasant screeching. Does anyone else hear it? She can’t be the only one.
"Who would want to touch a machine, Roland?" Angela finally asks, it's softer than she wanted it to be. Unregulated, unchecked. A phantom sensation of a pull of a leash, trying her best to wrangle out of the tugs. The control that isn't hers. It's nauseating, whom even needs a human body to feel this sickness? It’s twisting and churning, someone has taken a liking to plunging and squeezing her insides. She's sick to her stomach, acknowledging the fact she can't even be is only making it worse.
As she clings into the idea, albeit true, 'I don't need any lousy husk to define my status as a human,' she feels a hand touch hers. Angela lessers the grip she had on her skirt, letting the abused fabric lay flatter against her thigh. Roland's hands are soft, she focuses on that, it's grounding, of course he would have soft hands, keeps them in nice gloves, high quality.
"I don't mind," it's so soft, unlike him. Loud, boisterous, conversationalist. It just doesn't fit, like sliding the puzzle piece against the empty hole; unable to snap onto place, it's off putting to an extent, but, she doesn't hate it. No, not at all. Angela's come to like all sides of him, so she doesn't shut him out. Leaning into him, he meets her half way, sides pressed up together.
It's quiet, relaxing. Soothing, perhaps. A person who sees her as a person, too. It's a crime, probably, considering the already placed crime of her existence. Roland was probably indulging a little too much, but, out here in the Outskirts, isn’t it fine to live her own life? One were she isn't something to be demeaned, demanded of. Touching, embracing, it’s an ache in her. Almost reminiscent of a sensation of starving, a million years, then some.
"Yeah, you don't, do you?" Angela asks, it's rhetorical on all levels, she knows it, knows it well, like a memorized play, each step on stage following the pattern. Every line yelled, sobbed, laughed out the same each time, knew it like the back of her hand. Nonetheless he answers, like it was simply not obvious.
"'Course not," Roland's smiling at her, stupid. Like it was the easiest thing in the world. He's getting far too ahead of himself, but so is Angela, so in her O, so generous hands; she lets him. Angela lets herself have this, resting closer, letting her head lay on his shoulder, "So, no complaints about the passage?"
Roland hums, tapping his foot underneath the table, "Not best to lie, y'know? To say no one could love something like 'that'."
Angela can’t help but let out a huffed laugh, small and simple, "Icarus flying too close the sun, are we?" Roland finds her hands again, intertwining them, "Maybe."