Work Text:
“Reed! You’re late.”
Gavin barely resisted the urge to flip Fowler off as he half-walked, half-jogged to his desk. His head stayed down, his raised hand the only acknowledgment of his Captain’s irritation. He didn’t have the energy to deal with the man’s bullshit today. And if he looked up, he knew exactly what he’d see—the sharp, smug eyes of his oh-so-perfect partner, watching him like a goddamn hawk.
Nines had, of course, warned him about drinking in the middle of a workweek. A predictably robotic lecture about productivity, efficiency, and the effects of alcohol on cognitive performance. Gavin had ignored him, because frankly, he’d needed something to take the edge off. The past few days had been shit, and if he wanted to drown them in whiskey sours, that was his prerogative.
How the fuck is it only Wednesday?
That thought had sent him straight to Jim’s Bar, where he’d spent hours nursing drink after drink until a gruff shove out the door at 2 AM reminded him that he still had work in the morning. Now, slumped at his desk across from his ever-smirking partner, Gavin sighed heavily. He just needed to get through today without any—
“Detective. If you don’t mind me asking, why is there make-up on your sleeve?”
...
Shit.
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Nines had thought it a harmless question.
Their working relationship had been a “rough start”—an understatement, really. In the first two months alone, they had threatened each other’s lives, drawn guns more times than he could count (26 times), broken at least one table (2 tables), and left each other with matching injuries: a fractured hand for Reed, a missing shoulder plate for Nines. It had been a disaster by any metric.
And yet, somehow, things had shifted. Slowly. Begrudgingly. Their shared contempt for Detroit’s worst had given them common ground, and through clenched teeth and mutual exasperation, trust had formed. Five months in, and Nines would dare to say he understood Gavin Reed—at least as much as anyone could. He anticipated his moods, his outbursts, his grumbles of reluctant teamwork. Things were still volatile, but there was a rhythm to it now.
So, he hadn’t expected such a violent reaction to a simple observation.
He had known Gavin went out drinking the night before. Against Nines’ better judgment—and despite his own warnings—the detective had ignored his advice, and the consequences were evident in the sluggish way he moved now. The makeup had simply been a curiosity. A dusting of concealer clung to his jacket sleeve, smudged at the edges, hastily applied. It had been meant as a playful barb, maybe an allusion to what—or who—Gavin had been up to the night before.
And while the idea of Gavin with someone else left an inexplicable tightness in his chest, Nines hadn’t expected the man to freeze. He hadn’t expected his skin to go ashen, his fingers to twitch slightly, his heart rate to spike just enough to register as distress.
“Stop scanning me, you plastic prick!”
The words were spat out with a suddenness that caught Nines off guard. He hadn’t even initiated a scan. He didn’t need to—the sheer terror flickering through Gavin’s eyes was as telling as any internal diagnostic.
“I—I didn’t.”
But Gavin was already pushing back his chair, standing too fast, muttering a cursed Phck under his breath before stalking toward the breakroom, tension radiating from every inch of him.
Nines watched him go, stunned.
-------------------------------------------
The rest of the day passed in uneasy silence.
Fifteen minutes later, Gavin had returned, still tense but quieter, moving with the weight of something unspoken. He didn’t look at Nines. He didn’t apologize, didn’t explain. He just sat, picked up his work, and carried on as if nothing had happened.
But something had happened.
What?
The question gnawed at Nines for hours. His words had struck a nerve, triggering a response so visceral it had overridden Gavin’s usual defensiveness. The detective had reacted as though he had been exposed, as though he had something to hide—not out of embarrassment, but out of something far more fragile.
The memory of their first week together surfaced unbidden. A fight—one of their worst. Nines had scanned him then, unprompted, and had thrown his findings back at him like a weapon. Heart issues. Liver stress. Nicotine dependence. Reckless self-destruction, quantified in neat little data points. He had expected anger. He had gotten fear, a flurry of panicked yelling for him to “Stop!” and a tone laced with something deeply troubled. And after that day, Nines had made a choice: he would never scan Gavin without his permission again.
And yet, here they were.
According to his internal clock, the silence lasted three hours and forty-seven minutes before Gavin finally spoke.
“Goin’ for a smoke.”
A lie.
Nines didn’t need to scan him to know that.
He shouldn’t follow.
It would be foolish to reopen a conflict hours after it had occurred. Foolish to press where he wasn’t wanted.
And yet, three minutes later, he found himself pushing through the precinct doors.
If they were going to fight, at least this time it would be outside the DPD office.
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The cold air bit at his synthetic skin as he stepped outside. Gavin was leaned against the wall, cigarette dangling from his lips, watching him with something unreadable in his eyes.
Nines mirrored his posture, leaning against his own patch of wall just inches away.
For a long while, neither of them spoke.
“I didn’t scan you.”
“I know.” Gavin exhaled, twin ribbons of smoke curling from his nostrils. His voice was quieter this time, exhaustion bleeding into the edges. “Sorry.”
Nines turned, studying him more closely. The lines of fatigue were deep, but there was something else beneath them, something worn thin and frayed.
“Do you wish to talk about it?”
A beat of silence.
“…No.”
Nines nodded, accepting the answer. But the detective wasn’t done.
“I was just in a rush this morning, alright? Didn’t have time to apply it properly. Barely got any sleep.”
Oh?
“The makeup is yours?”
Gavin sighed, rubbing a hand down his face. “Yeah. It’s mine.” He moved to stub out his cigarette, but Nines wasn’t ready to let the conversation die.
“So you wear makeup?” A trickle of humor seeping into Nines’s tone. Gavin needn’t be worried or embarrassed, and the fact that he was amused Nines lightly.
Another sigh, heavier this time, killing any and all light ammusment. “Yes, tin can. I wear makeup.”
“Where?” Nines was pushing it, he knew he was pushing it and this string of questions could turn ugly at any moment.
The shift was instant. Gavin fully turned to him now, his face both tired and unnaturally calm as something dark swarmed behind his eyes. Nothing angry, but not exactly fear either. It was raw, and unbridled, but Nines had no idea what to make of it.
Slowly, as Nines watched on without blinking, Gavin stripped himself of his jacket, tying it around his waist before looking up at the android.
“I use it here.”
He held out his arms.
Nines couldn’t see anything wrong or discoloured about the forearms. They were well muscled like the rest of the detective, but with nothing out of the ordinary on them. It was just skin.
“Where?” Nines asked again, confusion creeping into his tone.
…
“Scan me.”
A challenge. A dare. Nines hesitated for a fraction of a second before engaging his sensors.
…
…
Hundreds.
Jagged, twisting, overlapping. Some decades old, others fresh enough to still bear hints of healing tissue. Pale lines crisscrossed his forearms, disappearing beneath his sleeves, wrapping around his elbows, holding strong to the curve of his wrist, each one a silent testament to something far heavier than words could hold.
All of them coated and caked in a heavy layer of concealer, and other various makeup products.
Nines was stunned into silence, what was he to say.
The weight of it settled over him like lead.
“I—I’m sorry.”
Gavin exhaled, voice quiet. “It’s fine.”
But Nines knew it wasn’t.
…
Gavin let out a low, humorless chuckle as he tugged his jacket back on. “Well, congrats, tin can. You finally got a peek into the shitshow that is my life.”
There was bitterness in his voice, but it wasn’t sharp—not like it used to be. If anything, it sounded tired.
Nines didn’t reply right away. His LED spun a slow, thoughtful yellow as he considered all the ways he could respond, all the possible outcomes that could spiral from a single misplaced word.
“You shouldn’t have had to hide it.” His voice was quiet, careful, as if too much pressure might cause Gavin to shatter.
Gavin scoffed. “Yeah, well. Life’s full of things we ‘shouldn’t have to’ do.” He waved a hand vaguely before stuffing it in his pocket, shoulders curling inward. “Ain’t like it changes anything.”
Nines studied him, noting the tightness in his jaw, the way his fingers curled into a fist even inside his pocket.
“…You’re right. It changes nothing.”
That got Gavin’s attention. His eyes flicked to Nines, wary, uncertain, like he was waiting for the punchline. When it didn’t come, his expression wavered.
For the first time since this conversation started, the man didn’t have a snarky comeback.
Nines took a slow step closer, close enough that their arms nearly touched, and if Gavin wanted he could lean himself against his partner’s chest. “You don’t have to carry this alone Gavin.”
Gavin swallowed. His lips pressed together like he wanted to say something as the cold air hung in the little space between them, but in the end, he only nodded. It was small, barely noticeable.
But Nines noticed.
And for now, while the hum of the office called to them just beyond the wall, while the city moved with crime and chaos just a street away, while Fowler had likely yelled asking where they both were; that was enough.