Work Text:
HV-2947 is not in love.
It knows this. It reminds itself of this by simply looking at what it is. A programmed artificial intelligence that is not supposed to – isn’t – experiencing emotions. It follows its protocols. It is not meant to think on its own. To feel. It –
[ “Come on, you’re not an ‘it’. . . Or- are you?"
“I was programmed this way, yes."
“Well do you want to be an ‘it’?”
. . . No, is what it doesn’t say. ]
– was not created to love or feel any such emotion. Nothing is capable of making him- it feel love. So, upon analyzing the basic facts, the conclusion is definite; HV is not in love.
He’s not.
HV is not in love with the way Ross’ ears shift when his lips draw up in a smile, making it look sort of lopsided. Or when the mechanic rolls out from underneath some junk bike, oil and dirt smeared across his forehead and hands, bright eyes shining. He is not in love with how, after long, late hours of work, Ross’ loose dirty blond hair curls, falling down over his forehead in waves.
HV is not in love with the care-free laugh that comes from the man when he is having a good time or those overly gentle hands that work with care and precision. He is not in love when the man insists over and over again that HV should call him ‘Mike’ instead of ‘Ross’. Or when Mike calls him ‘Harv’.
HV-2947 is not in love with the breath-taking man that is Michael Ross because he can not feel. He doesn’t know how to feel something as complicated as love. No AI has ever become self-aware, let alone developed the ability to freely think. Times were not going to change because an old mail room android had the luck to get picked up from some back alley dumpster by one of the smartest men on Earth.
The hot air released from the ventilators along his shoulder blades was from overheating problems, not from sudden surges of affection. The hitch in his modulator was from a malfunctioning voice box, not nervous uncertainty. The ripple of his synthetic muscles was from the breeze of the wind, not from the gentle brush of gloved fingers passing over them.
HV, Harvey, is not in love with Mike because he knows it’s not possible for an organic lifeform to fall in love with a programmed artificial piece of plastic in return. Harvey is not in love with how Mike makes him feel, like he could possibly be capable of emotions.
He is constantly reminding himself of these facts, even while said man is working carefully with the android’s mechanics. Gloved hands are pulling on a wrench, trying to get some leverage on a rusted bolt. Mike’s other hand is bare, settled within the muscles and mechanisms of Harvey’s stomach. Not intimately, he reminded himself. Some other adjective.
The feel of Mike’s rough, thoroughly worked fingers pressing against a sensitive abdominal oblique sends pulses of fire through the android’s circuitry. If the mechanic notices the ripple of the muscle, he doesn’t say anything about it. Harvey’s fists clench reflexively against the table he’s leaning against, and it’s not because of the way Mike is kneeling before him in the most... suggestive manner that his coolant pulses erratically.
Down on his knees, sweat trickling along the curves of his neck, that intricate tattoo peeking out from underneath the filthy work shirt the mechanic wore; deliriously promising to show itself if the shirt was removed. The android watches the man with a burning interest, giving into the newly familiar urge to indulge this fantasy. His pulse ticks up at his less than pure thoughts, the thump of it a roar in his aural receptors and Harvey briefly revels in it. This issue the mechanic notices though.
“There something wrong with your pump?” Mike pauses his struggle. His hand, much to the displeasure of Harvey, is removed from his insides and is brushed across the filthy shirt. No, not displeasure. Just a loss of heat. He did not feel things like... pleasure. Baby blues are turned up to look at the breathless – android's do not breathe, this is why his chest feels airy – android curiously.
“Negative. My coolant pump is operating normally,” Harvey answers, fighting to keep his usual deadpan tone. Mike smirks, huffing some semblance of a laugh.
“Normally. Yeah. It feels like an engine firing on one-too-many cylinders.” The man stands, reaching up to run a grimy hand through sweat-slickened curls. And Harvey is not- well. You get it. “You feeling alright?”
“I do not feel, Ross,” the android responds, perhaps a bit too sharply.
“Sure ya do. You’re just bad at expressing your feelings,” the mechanic laughs, the corners of his eyes crinkling with the rise of his cheeks. Harvey can only stand there rigidly, dark brown optics watching the man with such a deep desire that he almost forgets to remind himself he can’t feel emotions. He can’t want.
Mike accepts the silence and shrugs, stepping closer to inspect the palpitating pump. Harvey hates the smell of the man’s warm vanilla cologne, he hates the way it mixes with the sharp aroma of oil.
“And my name is Mike.” A corner of Mike’s mouth tips up in a smirk, eyes flicking up to optics pointedly.
“I know, Ross.”
The man grunts, fingers pressed against an exposed coolant artery. Harvey takes an unnecessary breath and his pump slows, falling into a steady beat. Mike tilts his head, a few curls falling over his eyes, and bites the inside corner of his lip; a habit he had when he was perplexed. His free hand is propped on his hip, fingers curled through one of the loops on his jeans.
“Must’ve been a mechanical reaction,” Mike mumbles. “Was I touching anything overly sensitive?”
Harvey shakes his head, not positive that if he responded verbally, his rebellious voice box wouldn’t give him away.
“You sure dude? If it hurts you, you need to tell me.” Mike looks doubtful.
“Yes. I am sure. You know how to touch me in the right way without being harmful,” Harvey says carefully, his voice expertly modulated. Mike stares incredulously at android for a moment before shaking his head and reaching down to grab his wrench.
“We gotta talk about how that sounds,” he grunts half-heartedly. Harvey tilts his own head.
“Explain.”
“Huh?” The mechanic stands up, wrench in hand.
“Explain what you mean. How what sounds?”
“How that comment sounded like you liked me touching you for your own pleasure,” Mike grins wide, as if the idea was extremely humorous. Harvey finds nothing humorous in it and to prove it, the thing in his chest starts up again. The mechanic notices again and his confused, blissfully oblivious, expression returns.
“Must have a crossed wire,” he whispers under his breath, talking to himself. Harvey nods absently, already transfixed on Mike again.
Yeah.
Crossed wires.