Work Text:
As you do most days, you sit in the white, modern living room of the West household. You sit on the blocky couch, posture perfectly straight despite there being no backing. Your companion, someone who you've known since you first debuted, is next to you, slouched. She has an open book in her hands, but isn't reading. When you look at it, your eyes automatically scan the pages and detect it as Mary Shelley's Frankenstein.
“Why aren't you reading?” you ask.
She startles a bit, then looks at you, tired, but smiling. “I can't focus,” she admits. She adjusts her glasses, which are low on her straight nose. “The- the lights. They're, um. A bit bright.”
You haven't noticed. They're about as bright as everything you've known. You look straight up, staring into the fluorescent lights. Your companion is quick to grab your shoulder, which draws your attention back to her. Even through your shirt, your stretchy plastic skin, and metal innards, you can feel her warmth. It's unlike anything, and it always sends your gears into a tizzy. The warmth is distinctly human in a way that the harsh lighting of the upgrades table or Dr. Skaduw's gloves weren't.
“Hope!!” she squeaks. “You'll hurt your eyes doing that!”
You blink. There was no pain. There wasn't anything, really. Your eyes know to adjust, and they did so immediately, exposing the wires and bulbs underneath the glass. You're fond of your companion, but she confuses you. You smile.
“It didn't hurt!” you chirp.
She laughs, shaking her head. Her gaze drops to her book and her hand slides off of your arm. Fleetingly, something inside of you processed that you miss the warmth. Your gears seem to turn slower. “I wish my eyes were as resilient as yours,” she mumbles, still halfway smiling. “But m-mine aren't. They're, um. Bad. Actually.”
You tilt your head. “You have glasses to fix that,” you comment. “Why don't they help you with light sensitivity? Can't you get them upgraded? Mr. Skaduw or your dad could do it. They're very skilled, you know!”
She blushes, her smile fading. She lets her ginger hair bury her face a little. “N-no. No. I- I couldn't,” she protests. “Dad- he's got more important things to do, a-and I'm sure Mr. Skaduw does, too. Making my glasses ‘better’ isn't something I think they're likely to do.” She smiles, sheepish. “B-besides, my glasses, they- they work fine. I can actually read the words in my book now. Well, um, I could. If it wasn't for. Y'know. The lights.”
Your brain takes a moment to calculate the best solution. As soon as it does, you stand up. “That’s alright! I'll just turn off the lights for you!”
Her hand is on your wrist, so warm. You look down at her curiously. Her expression is panicked and confused, and you can't understand why. This is the most obvious solution. “What's wrong?”
She sighs. Her cheeks light up with embarrassment. For a moment, you wonder how; your brain is quick to tell you about how blood rushes to your cheeks in the event of certain neurons being stimulated, and you know this cannot happen to you right away. You can't help but wonder how it does feel, though.
“Hope,” she says, exasperated, “y- you- you can't turn off the lights. Not- not now. I- I kind of, um, need them? To see? The words?”
You blink.
“Oh. Right!” You sit back down. You can't remember why you thought about turning the lights off in the first place. The memory in your head has been refreshed.
You look at the still open page. Your eyes scan the book. It's Mary Shelley's Frankenstein, and it's your first time discovering that.
Your companion rests her head on your shoulder, grumbling, “Why does that essay have to be due tomorrow?” Her head is warm. It's unlike anything you've experienced before. She blushes at a question you ask. You wonder how she does it.
Your memory refreshes again a few seconds, minutes, hours, days, weeks, months later.
You can’t help but feel that there's something missing. Something that separates you from your companion. Something that makes her human. Something that you want more than anything.
Your memory refreshes.