Work Text:
“You want me to what?”
If you were any less shell-shocked, you probably could’ve come up with a better response. A ‘Oh, could you run that by me one more time, my dearest of dear friends?’ or ‘Would you mind repeating that? I just need to make certain I heard you right,’ was the next thing on your tongue, for sure.
“Listen, you don’t have to if you don’t want to– I can figure it out, find someone else to. I just figured I should ask and see if you’d be willing before I looked somewhere else and-” Lampert started to ramble, making vague gestures with his hands as his words all stumbled over one another in their rush to get out.
“Dude, just gimmie a second,” you cut them off, half-muffled behind the hands trying to rub some coherency into you, “I never said no, I just … wasn’t really expecting that.” ‘Wasn’t really,’ was an overstatement. Maybe even more than an overstatement, more like a huge-massive-hyper-statement, in your opinion. This was about the last thing you’d expected Lampert to be asking for at the early hours of your shift. There was no, ‘Where’s your replacement cables?’ or ‘When was the last time you guys dusted?’ Sure, you didn’t hate some surprises on your shift, it kept the day interesting, after all, but this was an entirely different kind of surprise.
“I mean, like,” you started hesitantly, only now dropping your hands back to the counter with averted eyes, “I could give it a try but, I’m not really an electrician or anything. I mean, I know how to fix some stuff but I don’t really work on uh …” You made a fluttery, trailing motion with your hand.
“Sentient light-fixtures?”
“Yeah. Yeah that’s uh, that’s a little out of my usual work.”
“I assumed as much, but it’s not like I’m just gonna tell you to ‘figure it out,’ and have you dig around in me,” Lampert laughed, some short little exhale that tugged at your heartstrings. You were surprised he was being so lighthearted about this, but you were also surprised he’d asked you in the first place, so maybe you were just thoroughly mistaken on your assesment of your friend.
You stammered for a few moments, struggling to find the words. Part of you wanted to just throw caution to the wind, to say yes. You might not be a surgeon, but you’re also a lot more familiar with electrical parts than you are organs. Another part of you said throwing caution to the wind when ‘caution’ was ‘I don’t want to destroy my friend’s body,’ was a very stupid thing to be thinking. “I get that, I just … Do you really trust me with this, man?” Your hands were digging into your head now, physically holding yourself together.
He paused for a moment at that, taking a breath. While, normally, this sort of hesitation would be enough for you to instantly call it off, you knew to give it a little longer. Well-spoken as he was, you’d talked with Lampert long enough to know that converting genuine, sincere thoughts to words could be hard for him.
“I’d say so, yeah,” he’d shrugged, hand coming up to fidget with his pull switch, “I’ve known you for … however long now, and it’s not like you’re a total newbie to this sort of thing.”
You sucked in air through your teeth, eyes unfocusing as you thought this over one more time. On one hand, you wanted to help your friend out and you knew you’d bend over backwards for him. On the other, you really weren’t sure you wanted to risk pulling the wrong wire the wrong way and frying him. You’d spared him a glance, meeting his awaiting gaze for only a few seconds. You knew you could say no, that he’d assure you it was fine and then find someone else. The problem was, you didn’t really want to tell him no. A sigh scratched its way out of your throat as you squeezed your eyes shut.
“Ok.”
“Really?” He’d perked up at your response, chain left swinging as he let go of it in surprise.
“Yeah, I’ll give it a go,” you muttered, “But you have to promise me you’ll help me out, I usually don’t have to worry about hurting people’s radios or anything.”
“Yeah! Of course, don’t worry about it. I’m sure you’ll do fine.”
A comfortable silence fell over the two of you, Lampert smiling to himself while you worked on clearing your head. You still weren’t totally sure about this, anxiety weighing heavy on your back, but you wanted to try. It’d save him some time and energy (and money, probably), and it’d give you an excuse to hang out with him for a while. You were lucky nobody had come in while you two were talking, you weren’t sure you’d be able to differentiate a one and a one hundred dollar bill in your daze. The dim overhead lighting kept buzzing and an incoherent ad played over the store radio.
You’d watched in silence as Lampert stuck a finger out to trace over part of the countertop, leaving a fingerprint behind in the dust. He grimaced.
“You really touched your face after putting your hands on this?-”
“Oh my god dude I do not get paid to clean this place.”
This suddenly felt like your first time ever stepping foot into your own apartment. Your space felt barren, like someone had been slowly robbing you for the past decade until all you had was their leftover blankets and pillows. You’d done your best to make a comfortable enough mattress out of your sheets, but it still felt like you’d just thrown Lampert onto a pile of rocks and told him to get comfy.
“Fuck, umm … I might have some more blankets under my bed or something,” you thought aloud, worrying the inside of your lip between your canines while trying to catalog every forgotten shirt or notebook you’d crammed under your bedframe.
You had your back turned to Lampert, who quietly watched you devolve into a pacing mess on the floor. Truthfully, he stopped feeling the hardwood about 15 minutes ago, but never found a good spot to interject with that info.
“I really don’t think that’s necessary,” he hummed, watching for the slightest of shifts in the tension of your shoulders. You’d never been bad on the eyes, but this seemed to be a particularly ethereal look on you, despite the way you’d slowly gotten more disheveled and still had yet to get out of your work uniform. He couldn’t really tell what it was, he’d been over to your apartment enough you’d told him where you kept your spare key, and he’d seen you in your uniform just about every day in all states of distress.
You finally shot him a look over your shoulder, frantic gaze meeting his own relaxed one before darting away again. Your shoulders lowered a little, fidgeting in place for a few moments before you’d finally turned around to face him.
“You sure there’s nothing I can get you? It’s no trouble,” You’d asked for the third time, grabbing at the back of your neck.
“Well, you could maybe help me with this wire thing I’ve got going on, I might’ve told you about it before.”
That’d gotten a short laugh out of you, more an exhale with a brief, flashed grin than anything. “Yeah, alright, man.” Despite the snark, you’d kneeled down by his side, hands sitting by your side. “So how do I uhh …”
“Oh! Let me just …” Lampert mumbles, unbuttoning his shirt to open himself up. Instinctively, you’d turned away, busying your eyes on some uneven paint on the wall. You knew there wasn’t any real reason to be shy, there wasn’t exactly anything there, but it felt more polite to do than not. You wondered if you should’ve put music on, the thudding of your heart in your ears was starting to feel migraine inducing. No, it probably would’ve been distracting, it was for the better you didn’t. Probably.
You waited for a few more moments of shuffling, “Alright, this should work fine.”
You’d looked back at him then, already scripting some conversation that ended up going unwritten and unspoken once you’d processed the scene. It wasn’t anything you hadn’t seen before, technically speaking, but it carried a different weight here. The light from across the room barely glinted off the collage of wires neatly lining his insides, a sea of blacks and greys in his chest. You could make out parts of a metal framework, only a little more complex than a skeleton, interestingly enough. You supposed it made sense, given his relatively humanoid body. It allowed his skin to move freely in some places, more akin to the way yours would in the soft of your forarm or the curve of your stomach. Something like a chestplate, the outermost layers of his torso were sitting beside him, resting delicately on his discarded shirt. Whoever made him should be proud.
“You ok?” Lampert suddenly spoke up, concern clear in his voice.
“OH,” you started, “Yeah, yeah. Sorry, got a little lost in thought.”
“You sure? It’s ok if you changed your mind, I know it’s a little weird,” he’d reassured, struggling on the last few words. Admittedly, he was nervous. He didn’t know why, this wasn’t fear of something going wrong, but more about how you felt about all of this. Sure, he didn’t have any reason to believe you saw him as some freak of nature, but something was nagging him to cover back up. It felt vulnerable in an entirely different way to show you everything like this, to be so unforgettably other to you.
You shook your head, reaching out to rest your hands on him. He tensed up at the touch, freezing to watch for your next move. “Nah, I’m all good, promise, but uh … I don’t really see the issue. Everything looks pretty well kept.”
“Oh, yeah, the top part should be fine,” Lampert explained as he pointed to the topmost layer of wires, feeling more relaxed with the near clinical conversation, “I’m usually able to handle tidying everything back up every now and then just fine. It’s just that I’ve got this knot at the very back I can’t get to.”
You made a little noise at that, staring down at his chest with thought. While you were busy making a mental map of how to go about this, he took the opportunity to study his surroundings a little more. He’d been here plenty of times, but something always seemed to be added or moved around every time he came over. Usually, it wasn’t anything huge, and if it was you tended to make it a point of conversation, playing it up like a grand unveiling. The changes all felt natural, a physical show of changing times. You had a few photos along the wall, mostly of some of your friends you’d introduced him to before.
He can’t quite remember how you’d roped him into it, but he had a feeling you made some kind of bet or favor. That tended to be the case. He does, however, remember a lot of the night after that. Namely, he remembers you making some sweeping, grand gesture with your hands when you introduced him, like you’d just thrown a grade-A celebrity in front of your friends. He remembers one of your friends telling him it was nice to meet the guy you’d been talking about so much, fully sincere in their words. He remembers ending up sleeping on your couch, too tired to walk back home that night, while you took to sleeping on the floor right beside it, insisting it was just like a sleepover. He also remembers almost stepping on you in the morning, but that’s neither here nor there.
He can’t help the smile that crawls onto his face at the memory, all the stupid little things you’d done for him that night and the dumb jokes you made that got snickers out of him without fail. Something flutters in his chest, hands readjusting idly on his lap with some spark of pent up energy.
“Lampert.”
He snaps to attention at that, head whipping over to look at you. You’re fixing him with some odd, wide-eyed stare, lips set in a thin line.
“What? What’s wrong?”
“Dude, you cannot just go all still and quiet on me like that. I was so sure I like, ripped something.”
“Wh- I was smiling! Why would I be smiling if I was hurt?”
“I don’t know!” You retorted, hands giving a stifled jerk in his chest, carefully carded through the wires. If it weren’t for not wanting to really rip something this time, you would’ve thrown your hands up in the air to really show him what exasperated looked like, he was sure of it. “Maybe you just got stuck like that?”
“’Maybe I just got stuck like-’ Oh, whatever. I’m fine, thank you for checking in,” Lampert sighed, looking back up at the ceiling. You just stuck your tongue out in response. He felt a little more aware of what was actually going on in the present, now, able to pick out the feeling of your fingers gently pushing cord after cord aside. His ability to feel things was significantly less expansive than yours was, but he could feel the dull warmth of your skin brushing up against cold metal, a foggy pressure on his frame.
He envied your heightened sensitivity at times, how you’d differentiate velvet from satin or comment on how soft something was. You’d try describing it to him sometimes, usually devolving into incoherent, if not poetic, rambles that went nowhere and left him with a very abstract idea of how silk felt. Some night where you’d both been out of it and desperate for some connection to someone, you’d traced his skin and called it smooth, and then you’d carefully touched the side of his head and said it reminded you of linen. He could understand smooth, could imagine how the visual translated to the physical, but linen was different. You’d stumbled your words for a few moments, starting and restarting multiple times over. Eventually you said linen usually felt scratchy, but got softer over time. Part of him wanted to feel insulted about the ‘scratchy’ bit, ignoring the connotations he knew from how you used it to describe texture that it usually wasn’t pleasant, but he couldn’t find the irritation at the time. He was too tired, too busy thinking about why you included how linen got softer with time, too busy thinking about how that related to him, what you were trying to tell him. In the end, he was mostly just too tired, and ended up falling asleep and forgetting about it in the morning.
He could feel you digging deeper into him now, leaning further over him to better reach without putting too much strain on other wires.
“Tell me if I’m pushing too hard,” you murmur, carefully parting the layers of copper and plastic to look for the tangled wires. “Mm, actually, can you hold that for a sec? I think I need a flashlight.”
“Oh, yeah,” Lampert hummed in response, quickly replacing your hands in himself. It was an odd angle, putting a little more strain on his arms than comfortable. As he’d moved to replace your hands, he’d brushed them briefly, registering that warmth again. He couldn’t tell what your skin felt like, if it was rough and scratchy or smooth and soft, but he could uniquely identify just how hot your hands felt against his.
It was the one sense he seemed to trump you in, given how your perception of it was limited to your body temperature. You’d be burning something awful and he’d have to tell you to lay back down, since, according to your temperature sensitivity, you were perfectly average. It made sense, you’d often make jokes about not knowing how he didn’t feel too hot whenever his light was on too long, referencing how you’d burned yourself on a light when you were younger. In the moment though, he was usually too baffled by how you’d managed such an injury to think about it. You’d complain sometimes about your hands being cold in the winter, tucking them into the sides of your neck for warmth, but he rarely ever picked up on it. Though, in fairness, you’d usually jolt in surprise when you felt how cold his hands were after being outside, a clear result of metal’s ambient temperature. No matter what you thought, you always seemed to be radiating heat, and he’d always be leeching off of it while you two sat together for some bad hallmark movie.
“There!” You blurted out, finally locating the bundle of wires bunched together among the ocean of identical strings. “It doesn’t look that bad, actually. Shouldn’t take me long,” you hummed, more to yourself than anything. You set your flashlight aside, leaning closer to his body to get a better handle on him.
As you started to delicately pry every last cable apart from one another, Lampert turned to studying you again. There was a light a little ways behind your head, leaving your face obscured in a shadow while it cast a halo around your form. He imagined you were probably fixing him with some intent look, tongue partway sticking out to focus on the knot, the same way you tended to whenever you handled someone else’s electronics. He didn’t stick around for too long whenever you were working, it didn’t look great for you if you were talking to someone for too long on your shift, so he tended to dip out after a minute or two. Sometimes, though, he’d end up talking to you about something he’d seen walking around that day while you were fixing something up. He admired how careful you could be with things as fragile as decades old circuitboards and crumbling watches, how much effort you put into making sure things didn’t get damaged any further.
That was probably part of why he’d asked you to help him with this, you were by all means technically skilled, no doubt about it. But maybe he also chose to ask you because he trusted you, beyond your skill. Asked you because he knew, on some intrinsic level, that you were someone who he could rely on. He’d done it in plenty of other regards, trusted you in moments where everything felt so disjointed and nonsensical like you were the only logical thing in the world. Without asking, you’d offered him friendship and understanding at every turn, given him a shoulder to lean on before he’d ever mentioned needing one. You’d given him your heart, and, in some way, he’d given you his.
The cables slipped back into place, the dull, constant aching in his back finally receding. You were grinning, pulling back out of his vision with some comment on how you’d been expecting worse. He hummed in response, not entirely hearing what you said, still lost in his thoughts. He followed you blearily as you got up, stretching your arms far over your head, starting into a conversation about if he wanted to do anything else while he was here, offering up a few suggestions that he didn’t catch. His hands found their place on his lap again, readjusting twice before he felt settled enough to answer.
“Can I tell you something?”