Work Text:
“What the fuck? Nines?”
“Doctor,” Nines greets, thirium splattered onto his once-pristine jacket. It soaks his skin, smatterings of it dotted over his face. Exposed wires and circuits line the usually imposing stance of his body, wounds looking much like he had sustained multiple gunshots all over his chassis. Knowing Nines, he most likely did. It’s a testament to how well-built he is that he’s still standing–still talking so calmly like this at all. “Pardon the intrusion. I didn’t know where else to go. ”
You ignore him. You turn around, almost tripping over yourself to gather your tools. When you look back and Nines is still standing idly at the doorway, you scowl at him and gesture him inside.
“What are you waiting for? Lie down, how are you still–?”
“The RK900 was designed to function near full capacity at what would be considered high critical damage for other models. I approximate the damage to my systems to be around seventy one percent compared to the estimated threshold of seventy two, hence the lack of stasis,” Nines flatly informs. Stiffly, he limps with his right leg over to the table you’ve gestured for him. Instinct directs you to help him onto it, but Nines pushes your guiding hand aside, insistent on doing it himself. “It’s fine. I’m more than capable.”
You purse your lips. That was Nines for you.
“At a crime scene?”
A subtle change, but you catch it. Nines’ mouth curls downward the slightest angle, a hint at some kind of displeasure and distaste. He removes his jacket and unbuttons his shirt, handing you the articles of clothing. As attractive as Nines is to you, you don’t flinch at the sight of his bare chest, urgency and worry triumphing over everything else. Maybe later, after he’s left. You pull up a spare laundry basket to store his discarded items of clothing in, making a note to run them through the wash later after salvaging what you can. It looks like there are some tears in his outer jacket, but you can’t be too sure.
Nines notices.
“No need. I’ll be on my way once you’ve conducted sufficient repair.”
“The extent of your injuries doesn’t warrant just a superficial repair, Nines,” you say, before abruptly realizing the irritated tone you’ve taken on. “I meant–my professional advice as a technician to you would be to stay the night and allow the rest of your self-repairs to complete. It’s better that way in case you need any emergency modifications.”
Professional. Right. You could be professional. Nines was excellent at being professional–and he was still being as such now, even with over seventy percent of his systems damaged.
“Hmm.” The panel in his midsection opens. For an android who had presumably been shot multiple times, the only evidence is some concave surfaces of his exterior chassis–the force of the bullet impact denting the metal. Some self-repairs will take care of that. The more important worry at hand is what looks like heavy blunt force trauma to the inside of him. His biocomponents hardly look functional–alarming circles of red light glow from where they slot into his system, indicating low integrity. The next steps are clear, though. If you just replace these biocomponents, the rest of his military state-of-the-art hardware should settle everything else–with some additional help from you. “We’ll see.”
“Looks like you got hit by a truck,” you mutter, fixing him up. It’s not as if you have CyberLife grade components ready at hand, but while you source for those or figure out a way to restore the integrity of his original components, there are other compatible models that Nines can use. It’s not necessary for him to reuse, of course, but Nines might just be stubborn enough about being of superior make to be incredibly open to that option. “Did you?”
“An… error in my calculations,” Nines grits out, fingers curling for a moment before he catches himself and forces them neutral by his side. Right. How calm and stoic of him. “The suspect attempted to escape and I pursued them onto a highway.”
Your guess was spot on? Holy shit. Connor stood zero chance against any kind of heavy vehicular collision like that–just how many improvements did CyberLife make since then, after only a few weeks of finishing with their first prototype? Your gaze flickers up to Nines’ own for a moment, and you find him watching you with an intent stare–gray eyes observing your every move and response.
You temper your ill-timed excitement at the discovery of his improved durability.
“Difficult to predict traffic, huh?”
“No.” The frown on Nines’ lips grew evident. Ah. He must be displeased that you underestimated his processing capabilities. “The suspect revealed surprising hacking capabilities and altered a smart truck’s trajectory. Without me, the truck would have careened off the side of the highway leaving the driver with a 3% chance of survival. A collision with me offered the driver a 54% chance.”
“You saved him.”
“Yes. At the cost of the suspect escaping,” Nines mutters. He takes an artificial breath, stirring you to realization at the fact that he hadn’t been utilising his breathing subroutines since he’d arrived. “I should have factored the suspect’s abilities into my preconstruction.”
“Wouldn’t you have been taken to the precinct’s on-duty technicians?” you ask, setting the damaged biocomponent onto your workshop surface. You grab a replacement, continuing your task. “Don’t tell me you just came here right after being hit.”
“I won’t say anything then.”
“Nines.”
“Would you like me to contradict your clearly articulated instructions, doctor?”
All three. You wipe your hands of the thirium and set to checking his pump regulator, preparing bags of blue blood to refill his circulatory system.
“You did. You walked all the way to my apartment, limping like that.”
“It was nearby,” Nines offers. His voice is still a flat drone, but there is something indecipherable sifting through his cool gaze. “The arriving ambulance held space for only the human driver. My resilience and toughness far outweighed his human fragility–I deemed it acceptable to seek my own repairs instead.”
“Wouldn’t there have been a request for another vehicle? How about Gavin? Isn’t he your partner?”
“I simply left.”
What.
“What?”
Nines doesn’t respond. He watches you work on him, leaving the conversation to recede into silence. One of his many ways to end conversations that he wasn’t keen on having, but you weren’t going to let him drop the topic so easily.
“That doesn’t make sense,” you say, crumpling the empty packets of blue blood. “You don’t just… don’t make sense out of nowhere. What’s going on?”
“Because I’m a machine?” Nines retorts, looking at you with a furrowed brow. “How backward of you.”
This is what he’ll answer, and not address the major concern at hand? That Nines–capable, hyper-competent, calculating Nines–decided to take a walk to your apartment with his system integrity at exactly one percent before he would shut down and be forced into stasis? Nines may have recently discovered the fact that he was alive and more than just a machine, but that didn’t excuse him from making stupidly rash decisions like this.
You reach for the cloth, standing up abruptly to march over to his face. Nines arches a brow at you, but you start to wipe at the splatters of thirium. Synthetic skin and hair recedes to allow you better vision. It’d be something you’d thank him for if you weren’t fuming.
“So you’re saying it’s irrational, got it,” you say. If you’re being rougher than usual, it’s not enough to breach through the metal that reinforced Nines’ entire body. “Well, what about it? If you don’t tell me about it, Nines, I’ll schedule you for a diagnostic. Deviating is one thing, being stupidly reckless with your own life is–”
“I am a repairable machine.” You dab at the thirium around his head, sliding your hand down to his cheeks and to his chin. Even though routine diagnoses and maintenance has you exploring every nook and cranny of Nines’ chassis, it still feels strangely intimate in a way that you never felt with other androids. Something about Nines quietly observing every step of the process, perhaps, sometimes with an almost contemplative look in his face. You’d started to attribute it to reserved judgement–that even the superior RK900 knew better than to criticise a technician with their hands inside of them. “If stasis activated, sending my coordinates to you would have sufficed.”
“To me?” you snap. “Nines–”
“You would be the only one capable of reaching me first to ensure the safe storage of my model,” Nines says. “If you could not repair me, then it would be well within your ability to contact other technicians, the RK800, or the Jericho deviants for assistance.”
“All of what you’re suggesting would be completely irrelevant if you went with the DPD for repairs,” you rebuke, getting rid of the final stains. You move next to repair the exposed wires on his outer chassis, grabbing nanobandages to seal the area. “Let me ask you again. Why didn’t you?”
Nines goes quiet again. You scowl, but force yourself to stare flippantly at the wounds you tend to without giving him the satisfaction of your gaze. His attention is still fully on you, has been fully on you this entire time. Imposing and intimidating, even when stretched out on the table like a pile of scrap metal. Almost enough to make you lose your composure and apologise for your flare of anger, but unfortunately Nines has become enough of a friend. Conviction to hold your ground rises in you instead, refusing to let him win this.
Stupid fucking androids and their deliberately intimidating designs.
“...It was an issue of weighted priority,” Nines mutters, so soft that you would have lost it in the whirring of a fan set to a higher setting. His LED circles yellow. “Not something you need to concern yourself with. I will correct it.”
“Not something I–” You cut yourself off before you finish conveying how much it was something you needed to concern yourself with. What would be the point of unleashing all of that onto him? To bury yourself further into the harshness of words Nines was typically known for? No. No time for that. Nines hardly deserved any further trouble; his troubling physical condition–as much as he would never admit–was enough. “Fine. Please do. I don’t want you dying on me any time soon.”
Nines’ stoic expression softens. For a moment you see the rare vulnerability in his eyes that never fails to make your heart flutter, and you pause momentarily to swallow the lump in your throat. Focus, focus. You could be professional enough to avoid letting your feelings for him interfere with your work.
“Of course, Doctor.”
You press the bandage against his shoulder, willing it to seal faster while you turn what has been said over and over in your mind. Unlike Connor, Nines stayed steadfast to his nature as a machine and deliberately refused to adopt a human figure of speech to describe his processes, citing that it wouldn’t be entirely accurate. Translating ‘some error in the weightage of his priorities’ sounded like it had something to do with emotions rather than logic–that Nines, irrationally, wanted something that involved you more so than ensuring his safe repair.
Hold on. Wanted something that involved you? First of all: where did that conclusion come from? And second of all–how much ridiculousness should you be feeling for having conjured that thought?
It must have been a matter of comfort, proximity, pride. Nines has always had the burden of being a successor to Connor’s model to bear. An existence brought into being not as its own but rather the superior, upgraded version of another. If not for deviancy, any mistake made would have been a reason for immediate decommission–and though you’d never confirmed it for yourself with Nines, you’ve always had reason to suspect that his initial situation still drives some of his decisions even until now.
A RK900 model, meant to be better in every way. Faster, stronger, more resilient. In the clutches of CyberLife, how much would have one mistake cost?
Connor himself was already like a hound when it came to his mission, pre- and post- deviancy. For his successor, such dedication would naturally have been compounded. How much deeper would have CyberLife programmed this intolerance for failure into the RK900 line?
Surely, going along the lines of that thinking, part of Nines’ hesitation must have been because it was his first encounter with grievous injury. A decision made out of emotion, of shame and a hurt pride, perhaps, and he made the judgement that coming to you alone would suffice better than having an entire team fret over him.
But Nines has never shown hesitation in making the observation that he was better equipped for sustaining damage. In fact, much of what Nines often said revolved around the fact that he was still a machine, and therefore could be repaired and put together. Why would grievous injury trip his pride–especially if none of his actions were, theoretically, mistakes? Nines made the decision to save that truck driver. He accomplished his objective, and came out of it relatively alive.
Failing to account for the deviant’s hacking abilities were a hindsight thing–and this, you were certain Nine was more than intelligent enough to figure out.
By all means, Nines was exemplary in adroitly adapting to the deviant and preventing casualties.
So why would he refuse treatment and show up at your door instead?
“You are upset at me,” Nines states. He tilts his head. Though his model may be larger, taller, more monstrous in build and presence than Connor’s leaner frame, you can’t help but note that he still shares echoes of that same inquisitive look. Almost boyish in manner, despite his much older outward appearance. “Why?”
“I’m not,” you say, almost rushing your words. Thinking through all of that brought your frustration to a new level of high, but the intensity of it was second place to the unfurling realisation in your stomach. Hope. You purse your lips, grabbing the laundry basket. “I’m… I’m going to wash these clothes and leave them to dry overnight.”
“No. Explain.”
You turn around, intent on ignoring him. But then Nines reaches out and swiftly holds onto your wrist, pulling you back gently to face him as he continues analysing you. His LED spins yellow as his eyes roam your frame, performing a scan.
“It’s not something you can fix,” you say, looking at the ground. “Anyway, since when did you care?”
“You underestimate the relational parameters governing our interactions.” Something hurt in Nines’ voice now as you abruptly flick your eyes over to his face. His lips curl into an open frown, gray eyes narrowed and brow furrowed in obvious discomfort. “Your wellbeing has always been a priority.”
“I didn’t mean it like that,” you say, stumbling on your words as you try to take them back. “I know you care, Nines. You wouldn’t let me fix you if you didn’t trust me,” you continue, willing yourself to not break into a stutter. Anxiety pools in your stomach, climbing up to lump itself in the middle of your throat. “Urgh–whatever. This is just stupid human emotion. Nothing you should waste time analysing.”
Nines’ LED blinks red for a split second before it hums yellow, then back to blue.
“Ah. I understand.”
“What?”
“My apologies,” Nines goes on, luring you further into blatant confusion as you stare at him with all the surprise in the world on your face. His fingers are warm around your hands–since when did he switch on his temperature regulating subroutines? And why? “It… It wasn’t my intention to frustrate you, but I stand by what I said. The internal processes governing my decision-making isn’t something you should worry over. You can do nothing about it. But I understand that stating that fact has led to a misunderstanding.”
“I–I never thought you didn’t care,” you say, rushing to explain yourself. Guilt flushes your cheeks. “There’s no need to apologise. You obviously didn’t want to share, but I pushed. You did nothing wrong.”
“Fair assessment,” Nines concedes, but he is quick to press on. “But I should have expected it. You worry. My reluctance to explain has only exacerbated these anxieties.”
“You don’t need to share it if you don’t want to.”
Nines looks away. “Agreed. But this conversation has changed the parameters of my decision-making. I. I would like to.”
“Yes, please.”
He nods, eyes darting back to you.
“Death is not something I have experienced,” Nines begins. His grip tightens slightly around you. “It has never been my concern. I am an advanced model of durable make and meant to withstand damage that would crush inferior models. Yet, should the damage have been critical enough to warrant a complete shutdown, it would have been trivial to shift my memories to a new model, or have my old body repaired.”
“It is just…” Nines sits inhumanly still, his breathing subroutines shut off. Around the side of his head his LED continues its yellow glow. “In that moment, realising that I had narrowly escaped forced stasis, I felt… fear. Before I could stop myself, I moved to a different set of directives–the irrational directives, as you’ve called them.”
His lips curl into a small, weak smile. The slant of his brows leave him looking pensive. You’re not sure if he means it, but judging from the brush of his fingers against your wrist you would consider his contemplation to be somewhat positive in nature. “I very much disagree with your assessment. At that moment, they made complete logical sense to me.”
“And you’re saying these… directives brought you to my home?”
“...Affirmative,” Nines confirms. You have rarely seen Nines blush, but the blue tinge on his face is unmistakable for anything else. His eyes remain steady on you. You get the feeling that he’s searching for something within your gaze, trying to derive the same, certain conclusion that you have been trying to find in him.
Nines came to see you. On the brink of stasis, with critical alerts flooding his HUD, thirium dripping from his chassis. When systems failed, protocols deactivated, through the chaos and the ticking time bomb of a failing physical integrity–Nines came to see you.
Oh.
Oh.
He wanted you to be the last thing he saw.
“...Do you require clarification?”
“No,” you immediately blurt, feeling a rush of heat rise to your cheeks. “I mean. Yes? If you want,” you correct yourself, wincing at the awkwardness of your reply. “So I don’t assume wrongly,” you add. “You know. Would be bad if I misunderstood things. So. If you want.”
The pressure of Nines fingers loosens, letting you go. The feeling of emptiness around your wrist becomes forgotten sensation, secondary to the smug smile sliding across Nines’ face.
God. He looks infuriatingly handsome.
“And what do you think you misunderstand, doctor?”
Suddenly it very much feels like you were the one laid out on a table and that it was Nines who recently had his hands inside you, piecing you back together again part by part. Feeling by feeling, thought by thought, everything running through your mind easily deciphered by analytical gray eyes. Gray eyes that you’d only just learnt had a personal interest in studying you, a glint rising in them presumably from satisfaction at how flustered you must look to him.
“Don’t put me on the spot like that,” you squeak, rushing to get the words out before you clamp up. “Aren’t you the pinnacle of efficacy? Shortest path to the goal type of android? It’s not like you to beat around the bush and make others pick up the work for you.”
“You assume my goals.” Nines leans forward, shifting himself to perch on the side of the table. It doesn’t go unnoticed to you that his legs are a small width of air apart from your own. “This is the most efficient strategy for what I want.”
He takes the laundry basket from you. Far too in shock to resist, you watch as he sets it down beside him before he returns his attention back to you.
“Hah. What goals? My suffering?”
“Your realization,” Nines corrects. “My confirmation.”
And then Nines closes the remaining distance between the both of you. His lips are awfully soft, but pleasantly warm where he presses against you. Distantly you highlight to yourself the fact that Nines probably hasn’t had any experience in any kind of romance in a last ditch attempt to grapple control back for yourself, but then Nines’ tongue curiously prods at your bottom lip in question and all of that reasoning jumps out of the window alongside all of your resistance.
His hand comes to cradle the side of your face as the kiss deepens. Parting your lips, you can feel Nines hum a noise of contentment. He’s on a warpath–exploring and tasting you as much as he can, something determined in the way he comes back to you again and again without reprieve. The RK900 was not built for romance, but there is a charm to the strangely inquisitive way Nines learns the shape of your mouth and how to kiss you properly. You only manage to pull away when your eyes land back on the unattended laundry basket, pushing against him gently.
This is so fucked, you think, staring at the added layer of disheveled on Nines you’d added with your hands in his hair. The flush of his cheeks and the gleam of his lips sit alarmingly beside the parts of him still executing self-repair protocols, and the array of nanobandages that were meaningfully used on him but now look like a child’s art project. You were just–fixing him up, repairing him, like technicians did for a trusted android friend. And all of a sudden, he just–Nines just–the RK900 just–
“Laundry first.” Your voice wavers with nervousness, your head giddy with the warmth surging through you. Trying to organise your thoughts is a fruitless endeavour with the taste of Nines still firmly present on your lips, even if it does taste just a bit like thirium. Oh gods. You should probably wash that out of your mouth. “Then… you run self-diagnostics, and I finish with the rest of the repairs or anything I missed.”
“Acceptable. And afterwards?”
“Afterwards, you head into stasis. And we continue where we left off in the morning. Beginning with a conversation."
“I am functional,” Nines states in a way that’s not really a protest but cannot be mistaken for anything else but a protest coming from him. “Structural integrity has been restored to 42%. There is no purpose in postponing the conversation.”
“There is a purpose–you’re going to make me short circuit from the whiplash tonight. I need to clear my head, sleep. Make sure you’re not acting on android impulse.”
“You have no wires or electricity running within you to short circuit with.” Nines leans in to trail his lips past your jaw before pulling away fully. Where you might find half-lidded eyes from a human lover, he only looks at you with complete attention–inhuman, but something you’re going to have to get used to. “I am also 100% certain that these are not merely… ‘android impulses’. What I want to do is something I have calculated in great detail.”
A half-smile forms on Nines’ lips. If you had an LED, it’d be circling yellow unlike the steady calm blue of his–which taunts you from the side of his head. Just as you think he’s about to kiss you again, Nines only leans away and settles himself a more respectable distance away from you. He closes his eyes, hands on his lap as he assumes the familiar stiff position you’ve come to recognise as a sign that he’s about to run that self-diagnostic you told him to.
“However, I agree with the assessment that you should rest. And… I apologise for the emotional shock. I will make it up to you tomorrow morning.”
“You will?” you ask, finally finding a foothold in the conversation. Your heart rate runs wild in your chest, in tandem to the parade of thoughts marching in your mind at the ambiguity of Nines’ last statement. “I meant–will you? Shit, this is impossible. This entire situation is just impossible. Let me just… get these clothes out of the way and then come back to face–whatever this is. Not that I mean it in a bad way but–you know what I mean, with that brain of yours. Or processor. Not brain. Because you know, android and all. ...Nevermind. Five seconds into this relationship and I'm already messing it up.”