Work Text:
Work. Boring, mind-numbing work. You'd think, after living in the smack dab middle of nowhere, buried underground in a makeshift bunker that once used to be a horror amusement park ride, all one's responsibilities would drift away. Especially given the fact if said individuals found themselves in a predicament that allowed them to live without having to perform tedious duties day in and day out for a few scraps of cash a week. This would be the case, a dream, for most out in this world who begged for early retirement access, yet Clark — with no real sense of a job after running free from Sentre's cold, steely grip — refused to give into his luxury all these years later. As luxurious as living off a remodeled sno-cone machine to keep your food cold was.
Most would look at Clark and think of his routine as ridiculous, inane even, combined with the situation he's currently facing. Clark would severely have to disagree though. A man like him, degrees and all, found it quite difficult to relax in more commonly accepted manners humans confided with. Sitting in front of a television, occupying themselves in video game Hell, sleeping even, none of it appealed to Clark. Rarely did normal hobbies either. He fancied himself on work. Working until his back gave out, his brain oozed out of his ears, and everything else in between caused his body to shut down.
It bothered him to sit still, to not have his hands typing away or tinkering, to not be thinking endlessly about preparations for the upcoming day. He felt the need to move, to imagine, to build at every second of every hour possible. If putting together blueprints, taking apart new pieces of equipment for PC, tending to his garden or bacteria farms, scaring off scavs all proved fruitless in the rare occasions they did, Clark instead busied himself by walking around in circles. Pacing. Finding something to do no matter how mundane. He even would gravitate towards those useless tasks he despised (given enough push from PC). Knitting up some scarves, sewing holes in his jacket, or playing Pong or Chess with PC after a whole lot of convincing and banning Clark from accessing any other files on PC other than a relaxing gaming session. He supposed the strategic part of Chess helped improve the mind.
Nonetheless, he was a busy man. Once his days of a doctor were flushed down the drain, it really lit a spark under his ass of how much he missed and craved the adventurous stress of his job. Robots, humans, every living being always had fascinating and new principles to explore whenever he came into work. Getting knee-deep in research, wires, or organs was the highlight of his day. His life. Now, he had nothing. He was nothing. All that money, time, effort, slaving away on projects in order to walk across a stage, degree in hand barely anyone had yet achieved, was negligible. It rotted away in the home he never returned to.
Perhaps, in today's terms, after it all, this was a punishment. The constant hours of nonstop work to the point Clark didn't do so much as get up to go to the bathroom when enraptured within one of his fixations. Sometimes, he even refused to do that.
The only reason Clark took care of himself in the slightest was because of his computer friend, PC. PC reminded him to eat, upkeep his hygiene, take his medications, sleep, whatever the man needed done in that moment. Unfortunately, there were times, many times, where Clark would be stubborn as all hell, especially in the middle of one of his duties he claimed was more important than getting proper rest. He was a doctor for crying out loud and yet, he still acted like every single unhealthy habit he had currently wasn't damaging his health. It frustrated PC to no end. While with enough berating or physically picking up Clark and tucking him in (although PC had his suspicions that Clark would still not go to sleep and would instead stare at the ceiling for God knows how long), he could get the job done, but it rarely ended like how he wanted it to.
Clark and his damn excuses. PC always shook his monitor in disapproval when hearing them spouted out. Some PC could understand, others were mumbled garbage from a way too exhausted doctor who couldn't even stand if he tried. Despite this, how it annoyed PC, it also worried him to a much much greater extent. Being programmed by a wonderfully intelligent person who knew the ins and outs of every disease known to mankind really put a damper in PC's decision making process, his detail oriented approach to living. He recognized the word: hypochondriac. If it applied to fretting over every sneeze or coughing fit he took note of from someone other than himself.
He shouldn't, in fact, be a so-called hypochondriac. He was smart, could run through hundreds — thousands — of diagnoses in under a millisecond. Unfortunately, he never got a single answer without being able to check out further information on the individual he monitored with a very carefully crafted camera (one of the newest built for his model!). Thus, his unexplained behavior began because, oh, it could be the common cold, but then again it could also be organ failure for all PC knew. Just in case, he'd sneak a few choice words into their conversations with the purpose of downloading more symptoms of Clark's condition when given the chance. Clark usually saw through PC's act though, and often afterwards claimed he was perfectly fine or ignored these questions entirely.
PC wrung his claws together, as always, flickering mentally through the pre-collected data: Fatigue, nausea, headaches, unexplained weight loss, loss of appetite, hair loss, muscle aches, trouble thinking clearly, memory loss, and a few other smaller notes. Thinking logically, it all came down to sleep deprivation. Sleep deprivation wasn't good for someone of Clark's status. It worsened basically every system in the body, inhibiting the brain from doing its job in an efficient manner. It worsened, in particular, Clark's anxiety and depression. Physically and mentally, he was hurting himself. And PC couldn't stand for it any longer.
He tried to speak up about it but once the word exited his speakers, Clark interrupted him and brushed it off with a wave of the hand. Something had to be done, but what?
PC ran through the methods he's executed beforehand, marking them off in different categories on a chart, color-coded and written in his favorite font. One column was laid out for ideas that had failed, the next for ideas that semi-worked (paired with lots of grumbling anyhow), and another for ideas that worked surprisingly well. After about 30 minutes, PC came up short. His pixelated mouth flickered into a quick frown. No ideas were marked unto the green column. Most, in fact, laid smack dab in bold, nasty red.
He stored it away in a file and flashed a new blank sheet across his screen. Tilted "Brainstorming Ideas to Help Doctor Clark's Sleeping Habits", he immediately began frantically searching for whatever may be useful. His fans whirred, clicking sounds filling the room as the slow loading wheel of death while scouring the internet mottled his vision. When he finished, he was, once again though, at a dead end.
PC huffed, a puff of angry air exiting his vents. Wheeling back and forth, claws clacking together, he barely got enough ideas to fill a single page. Those he did find access to were either things he's already done or knew with an undying certainty, they were going to be automatically stamped with an additional red "No". Humans were so difficult. So complicated. From research past, he understood they could refuse sleep for around a whole week straight before their brain physically couldn't take it any longer. Obviously negative effects started to show on the third or fourth day, but it was possible. Robots simply couldn't do that. They needed to plug in at least once a day, maybe every other if they were careful, in order to keep their batteries charged. Without a power source, they were doomed to complete darkness. An incomplete death almost.
The thought made PC's circuits shudder. However, these differences made it seem impossible to find a connection, a solution, to tearing down Clark's stubborn walls into rubble rather than brick by sorry brick. Don't get PC wrong, he's made splendid progress with Clark over these harsh years, but it wasn't enough. It felt like PC was missing a piece. A key to unlock a secret door Clark withheld that didn't require any hammering of his hardy character or trudging along with a pickaxe and mallet. These moments made it where he wish he were human or a more powerful Artificial Intelligence. Some bots created before the war just began, like HRM bots for example, had quite the sturdy AI. Very impressive. It made PC just a tad envious he was a little past his prime, but no newer Personal Computer models such as he were finished in time all Hell broke loose.
Funnily enough, Clark always said he got compared more-so to a robot than a human by those around him. They had quite a bond that both doubted could be broken unless someone physically pulled the plug on either occupant. It strengthened the idea PC could do something more or less because of their similarities, but he knew there were still differences between them. Heavy differences. Concepts that Clark better understood then PC (at least, from his point of view), no matter how many technological traits the man possessed.
If only PC could understand...
He needed the tiniest human touch to his code.
His monitor swiveled to the mess of Clark's desk. One of them anyway. This one he fashioned for maintenance, planning, and storage of old computer equipment he'd discovered in the EX specifically to use for PC either for data transfer, parts, or energy. He was an extremely resourceful man. PC always loved that about Clark even if his work station was like a hurricane blew through. Old blueprints, scratch paper, pens and pencils, measuring equipment, documents, journals, bits and pieces of wires, screws, and plain junk, essentially whatever the doctor could get his hands on. The rest of this underground bunker served no better. Clark was resourceful, but also a hoarder deep inside. He couldn't part with the smallest useless bolt because "it could become useful someday". PC didn't mind unless he began to roll over the mountains of crap on the floor.
Nonetheless, among the pigsty, an item caught his eye; a VHS tape. The contents it held were mediocre at best although PC and Clark didn't watch too many movies together so he didn't have the biggest database to go off of. He did remember this movie struck his attention for a couple reasons though. First, it was placed under the genre of a "romance", probably the only romantic film they had located. And secondly, Clark wasn't too inclined to watch it in the slightest. Of course, Clark would rather be working himself down to the bone, but he came up with a surprising slurry of excuses to avoid watching it entirely. Stating how "cheesy" and "boring" romances were (PC discovered he quite liked the word cheesy that day. It rolled off Clark's tongue very nicely).
PC was obviously aware of the definition of romance. A couple of definitions. It could be used as a noun or a verb. The noun definition stated romance meant "a feeling of excitement or mystery associated with love." The verb version simply entailed it was another word for courting a person. Humans in present time took this word on one part and one part alone, that being the "love" aspect. An extremely interesting emotion in the mind of PC. Human, animal, possibly even bots, every being with a form of sentience seemed to grasp their own unique identity of love. Romance geared toward intimate love, but it didn't always have to be that way. The romantic art period after all focused on the mystery portion of romance's description. It was all about emotion, the supernatural, breaking away from order and boundaries.
How either side could be considered cheesy or boring intrigued PC. From how Clark voiced it, it appeared like he generalized all romance movies as such. With enough push though, PC was able to convince him to turn it on. Once color graced their static-filled busted up television set, PC became enraptured like no other movie had done in the past. His pixelated eyes sparkled through the twists and turns (and predictable nature) of the screen unfolding before his very camera. Fields and fields of new data. Handholding, establishing a connection between "partners", sweet names given to said partners, and best of all, kissing. Those scenes he paid close attention to. Enough so he barely had time to catch a glimpse at the way Clark squirmed and averted his gaze whenever the male and female actors drew in.
Was kissing something as intimate as, say, sex, PC wondered? He hoped not or else that would be a very awkward situation to explain why he had written and photographed data involving the art of kissing hidden away in one of his files. Thankfully, it just seemed Clark was squeamish in anything deemed stereotypically romantic. It could be a bit more on the sensual side he'd come to learn (he genuinely wondered what it would be like to have a tongue and mingle it with another human's after discovering such a fact. Humans and their weird mating rituals in general. It was so silly to PC because who would've thought inserting gustatory devices into one another's cavities would be so popular), however it didn't necessarily have to be.
He liked the idea though. He loved it. Love was as complex as the whole of a human. He didn't understand it beyond a simple meaning, but he'd collected enough information from his growing curiosity to make it out to be so much more. An emotion he'd be ecstatic to dissect and devolve into for hours on end. Too bad feelings were metaphorical instead of physical. It would've made PC's life a lot easier if that were the case...
PC stared at the VHS tape a little longer, clacking a finger against where his chin would've sat.
Those memories, small glimpses into a less calculated Clark popped up once more involving the doctor's squirmy self. PC's whole body buzzed in thought.
Perhaps he was going about this the wrong way. A little too analytical. There were occasions where solutions turned out to be completely opposite from what common knowledge first thought to solve the question at hand. Even if Clark was a logistic person who hardly relied on his emotions and rather shove it all into words in a book, getting him out of that particular mindset could lead to a breaking point. The key PC desired.
While PC wasn't built for emotional output either, he could act and use up his data stored in well-versed approaches.
The five measly pixels that formed his mouth upturned into a smile. Finally, he had an idea. An idea more plausible than the rest conceived beforehand.
PC immediately pulled back out the Brainstorming file again, scrambled out a few notes on screen and got to work planning for his upcoming attack.
✧✧✧
It took a bit of convincing in PC's secret awesome amazing plan for getting Clark to sleep (totally not what he had titled said plan), but he was ready. Everything was set in motion and today was, alas, a perfect time to execute everything out. Clark was at PC's desk in an old wheeled office chair they found abandoned in the desert. It was scuffed, leather ripped to shreds and could barely even wheel by itself without making an awful squeaking noise. However, it still had relative squish to it and that's all Clark really needed (it did not help his chronic back issues in the slightest PC would like to mention).
He usually switched between using the non robotic computer and PC given the current convenience of the moment. PC enjoyed being used for what he was built to do. The click clack of his keyboard always felt like tiny tickles running through his system, although he understood how the positioning could be uncomfortable in some circumstances. This model wasn't true to his actual model when he was built as most of his body had been destroyed in the scav attack that subsequently killed his voice module. Clark, as a result, had to improvise a lot of it. His body was perfect just like his improved voice, but it wasn't entirely perfect for being worked on.
As expected, a sorry sight lay beneath PC's vision whenever Clark did sit down in front of PC and shut himself off for the rest of the day and following night. From his internal clock, it was about four in the morning. Only a measly lamp and PC's brightly lit screen gave light to the bunker's inner darkness. It was more than enough to see familiar dark circles wrinkling up under Clark's slightly reddened eyes from staring at a screen for way too long, his furrowed brow, and scarily shaky hands. PC knew the exhaustion was kicking in when he began to notice jargon popping up on the document Clark was currently typing on. Jargon, word spam, pure nonsense that took Clark a worrying amount of effort to realize what mistakes were made before returning back to fix it. "Fix it", anyway. Those red squiggly lines were abundant across the page.
Clark carded his fingers through his thin strands of hair — greasy from his lack of showering lately — and then down to his eyes. He pushed up his glasses, rubbing the soreness from his crinkled skin as he frantically hit the backspace key for another mangled paragraph. At a final press, his yawning fits arose. He had been yawning every once in a while, but it was getting more and more consistent the closer the sun got to ghosting doom on Clark's backside. This yawn was a tad more aggressive. He hovered a hand up to his outstretched mouth, tears pinpricking at the corners of his eyes from the sheer force of such weariness. "Dear me.." he murmured, wiping away the wetness.
This was getting too out of hand. Clark promised, two hours ago, that he'd head to bed soon, but that promise dwindled the longer his butt stayed firmly planted in that filthy seat.
"Doctor," PC said in a hushed tone. His mechanical arms remained locked at his sides. Clark ignored him. He cupped his palm to his mouth, staring off at a random set of stray objects on the floor in delusion before returning his gaze back to a blaring white screen. PC opted to turn down the brightness for Clark's sake when they started, but it never seemed like it erased the damage set from this excessive amount of piercing blue light.
"Doctor," he spoke again, firmer this time. A quiet whirring also came as the gears in his arms loosened and crept around.
No response.
His three-fingered hands landed on Clark's shoulders, jolting the sleepy doctor to a rigid stance. As rigid as he could muster. It seemed like he was about to keep going if PC's green face didn't come online. Clark grumbled at the sight. "Doctor, I think it's time you head to bed."
"PC, we've discussed this. Do not disturb me when I'm working on you."
"It's very late. I think I can have a say in this." Clark's hand reached to PC's keyboard again and PC quickly closed his drawer. The mechanisms were slick though, sure to open again if he leaned forward (Clark had promised to install a lock one day), but he held sturdy. Clark's nose wrinkled. Tired and angry only opted as strangely cute when put together. PC held back a grin, merely storing the picture in his memory for now. "Bedtime."
"I'm not a child, PC, I control when I go to bed. If you're going to be stubborn like this, I'll work on my other computer." That hurt. Just a bit. More in an envious way because he wanted to be the only computer Clark touched.
"Nope. No more work on any computer. I'll just unplug it."
"And I'll plug it back in." Clark went to stand but PC was fast, stronger. His gentle grasp pulled Clark right back down. It was almost like carrying around a bag of grapes, not because Clark weighed as such but mostly because he didn't put up a fight whatsoever despite how grumpy his expression was.
"Clark.. you need to rest. You've done this for almost a week straight. I worry about you."
Clark scoffed, yet a small hint of softening riveted among his body language. Particularly when one of PC's fingers, acting in place as a thumb he'd imagine, began rubbing soothing circles into Clark's clavicle. "And I've told you countless times, PC, that I am perfectly fine. Just—" he cut himself off, sucked in a deep breath and weakly pushed away the metal at his shoulders. PC obeyed, releasing. It looked like even Clark didn't want to do that either, but the stubborn nasty part of his brain forced him to reject all touch and all sense of care. PC seriously wondered where it derived from. That was a different problem for a different day though. "Please, let me work."
"I don't fully comprehend why you're still working in the first place. You're not employed anymore."
"There are hundreds of things needed to upkeep maintenance of this park and our lives. Organization, safety, preparation, a-any of it." He balled a fist and pressed it against his lips to try and stifle back another yawn. PC shook his monitor slightly.
"Clark, the things you do on me and that other computer are.."
He didn't want to somehow diminish the value of any documentations kept away in PC's hard drive. He had tons built up over the years, it took perseverance, effort, patience, all of it PC saw as a wonderful part of Clark's being. Its only issue emerged when most of those documents weren't entirely purposeful to what Clark spoke of. Sure, there were some that held detailed informational reports on scavenger bots, Sentre operatives, engineering basis for whenever PC needed fixing, maintenance checklists for the park, actual important pieces that PC understood the labor put into them. The rest, on the other hand, were a completely different story. He knew why they existed. They were mere excuses to keep Clark awake and his fingers busy.
Clark got to finish PC's sentence though before he could. "Useless. You can say it."
PC blinked. His voice lowered in volume. "A little. You do amazing work on a lot of other projects, but sometimes, like tonight, I just.. don't see a point to what you're writing." Clark's prickly facade faded in seconds, a sadder one taking up the whole of his face. He averted his gaze, near shame written across it. A metal digit rose and tilted Clark's chin up before both of his clunky hands cupped the man's cheeks.
"Wh-What are you—" Clark mumbled, a mix of annoyance and actual confusion lilting his already tired voice. PC's touch, while cold, soothed over similarly chilly skin and with a hint of hope in his eyes, he saw Clark relax the tiniest amount. He leaned into the almost intoxicating affection, still and quiet for a couple of minutes until PC spoke again.
This was the perfect opportunity, PC thought. Poor thing was beyond ragged, as sad as a pile of neatly cleaned off bones, but perhaps it would be enough to get his persuasion in place. Although, the more he observed, the more he realized Clark might need this more than for a wake up call. He needed some proper TLC, dreadful sleeping habits aside.
PC tucked a thin piece of hair behind Clark's ear. "You're hurting yourself, Clark.." It must've been strange to hear such a comment from your own voice. Like convincing yourself from the inside, the nagging feeling pulling at your prefrontal cortex.
Clark's eyebrows wrinkled in another display of mild anger. He never backed down as was learned, no matter the circumstances. His fingers dug into the material of his pants and he once again tried pulling away. PC kept his hands in place.
"This is human nature, PC. You robots must understand. Driving yourselves to one singular purpose."
"Yes, but robots need to charge eventually. We refuse that and we damage our batteries. Humans refuse sleep, their energy source, and they damage.. everything. I beg you. Rest. That or I'll be forced to pull out the big shots and put you to sleep myself."
Clark tugged at his bottom lip between his teeth. "Oh yeah? I'd like to see you try because the only way you're getting my ass over to that couch is if you knock me out and carry me there yourself." PC laughed, a mechanical sound driven from Clark's own organic vocal cords. It was a little on the forced side because Clark had to manually record a set of different laugh files, but it got the message across.
"I could carry you over there, but I know your ways. You'll just stare at the ceiling in spite instead of actually sleeping."
"Exactly." Clark puffed out his chest, a dash of pride in the act. It amused PC greatly.
"You leave me no choice then," his tone was playful as he dragged the rolling chair forward a smidgen. It squeaked and Clark seemed to stare, wide-eyed, at the sudden closeness amidst their respective faces. Clark swallowed a weirdly tight lump in his throat. He wasn't entirely used to this sort of behavior from PC. Right when he was about to comment and ask what plan PC was about to initiate, he let out quite an undignified squeak — the same frequency as the chair it appeared — when he felt heated buzzes lace across his skin.
PC was.. nuzzling him?
It took Clark aback. His hands flew to the sides of PC's monitor, not to push away, but instead a means of grounding himself from the strange outburst of his friend. PC hummed, a note only he could make from his inner circuitry. Rich and powerful. He even had his pixelated eyes closed for good measure although he could still see the wriggling man in his secure grasp. Clark sputtered and stammered strings of nonsense out, just about as nonsensical as the paragraphs he was writing mere moments earlier. Up and down PC's screen rubbed, a hint of warmth beating into Clark's cheek, small fuzzy sensations like tiny electrical kisses prickling wherever touched.
The grip on his lower back tightened, where PC's claws had moved to previously, a motion of hoisting Clark up off his chair a little in order to more firmly brush glass to meat. It sparked a momentary panic under the sheer strength PC executed, one hand planted beneath his rear and halfway up his hip while the other trailed shivering dots of love over his spine.
PC took it slow. He hadn't started kissing yet nor went through with any other more affectionate datasets he had in mind. He figured "pet names" were going to be nipped in the bud particularly because he didn't have any recorded dialogue of the more commonly used terms of endearment out there, and for the ones he did, he thought a little too much for a first round. Him and the doctor weren't romantic partners anyway. He imagined it would be inappropriate for what he was executing.
Otherwise, he kept careful watch to ensure he wasn't making Clark super uncomfortable or upset. So far, he mainly had confusion etched on his features, slight panic, but nothing too serious. If Clark was turned off by any touching, he'd make it known.
A grumble exited PC's voice box when he bumped into Clark's glasses. With absolutely zero hesitation, PC gingerly grabbed ahold of them between two fingers and tucked them away inside of his drawer. Clark blinked haphazardly, PC now a green and gray blob of mismatched colors in front of him. A lack of barriers gave PC the full layer of confidence he needed to tip it over the edge. He smiled, big and wide, before leaning down to test the waters with a tiny kiss to Clark's forehead. He exaggerated his "mwah!" gleefully.
Pink dusted over Clark's cheeks. "P-PC—" he tried, but it was too late because PC had gone on the attack. One was addictive. That rosiness growing on Clark's face was intoxicating. An extra dose of electricity, such a sight resembled, bursting through his wiring, tingling every inch of his metallic self. Clark gasped as more were peppered anywhere PC's flat face could reach. They were soft droplets of rain cascading across his wrinkles, his eye-bags, his flaws, decorating them each in a healthy portion of care. These kisses were gentle, feather light. Beneath each one, the few strung together speech patterns of Clark's own recordings freed themselves. Clark could hardly stand it. His nails dug into PC's power box with equal caution, a place to hold on like he was about to pass out at any second, but delicate enough to not scratch or damage the paint. PC registered the touch and acknowledged it as a cue to continue onward.
Another and another and another and another. He ravaged the man in his arms. Clark couldn't think straight. Not only was he admittedly exhausted beyond belief, but when PC had stated that he was going to put Clark to sleep, this was not what he had in mind whatsoever. He had no plausible clue or explanation or anything to suggest why in God's name PC was currently kissing the ever living daylights out of him.
Unfortunately, Clark couldn't say he disliked it.
It seemed like all his muscles relaxed at once, melting, drowning in the odd essence of robotic love. He nearly found himself unable to breathe it was just so much. He hated how he was coming to terms with the glaring fact of how badly he craved this, an emotional desire he never knew he needed in his life.
Clark was a loner, that much is true. At the ripe age of 50, he was a virgin in every aspect of the word. No kissing experience past this (thank goodness PC didn't have real lips to make out with), no sexual relationships or relationships in general, no dates, no partners, nothing. It wasn't like he didn't try for a singular girlfriend in high school or college, but at the end of the day, he was either too preoccupied with his studies or found no one interested enough in a guy such as him. It hit him, a bag of stones to the head, what he was missing out on right then and there.
He was starving.
Starved of affectionate displays, of simply being touched.
He felt patterns etched into his back, up and around his shoulder blades, mapping the span of clothed flesh. They were simplistic, mostly circles or swirls until Clark picked up on a certain shape that PC kept doing more and more of. To the point where a noise of pure surprise ripped itself from his throat when freezing digits climbed their way up the back of his sweater and dotted — hearts? — against any area they could find. A full body shudder rumbled in Clark's bones, embarrassing soft noises further slipping from between his lips.
He gave in. Fully gave in at that moment. He let PC hold him, kiss him, adore him. His arms fell limply at PC's sides, resting on top of PC's cabinet and his eyes fluttered shut. For what few minutes lay, the whole world shut out completely. No worries, no stress, no burdening guilt. Clark hadn't been this free in years.
PC watched with fascination as those stubborn walls finally, finally, crumbled to smithereens and dust.
He sat Clark down, the hand at his back now slipping to his front where it traced mindlessly the puckered scarred flesh. Hunting down scavs could receive some harsh payments in the end. A part of PC desperately wanted to bring Clark over to the couch, strip him of his sweater, and kiss every single wound he owned. Worship him even. Tell him how everything was going to be okay, that him taking a break wasn't going to implode the world, that he shouldn't have to punish himself any longer. It ached PC's motherboard not to be able to spit those phrases out, but he didn't want to overwhelm Clark. Even positivity had its limits. Maybe another day. Another day he'd have Clark writhing under his tender gaze and truly make him, show him, how much he meant to PC. How he deserved every single second of what was transpiring.
He watched, whenever he put a little distance between each peck, how Clark's weary eyes followed PC's every step, his large claw examining the doctor's slightly pudgy self. They narrowed, probably a realization, when they saw how PC specifically focused on his scars and marks and moles, the details of his older figure. Subtle pokes and prods followed through every so often on top of what he was already doing. A favorite act of his.
Humans were so squishy after all, and PC could never fathom it. Soft inside and out. Delicate. Fragile. How it was supposed to protect an animal's internal organs always garnered PC’s attention because it should, theoretically, be the opposite. Something almost prey-like was pertinent, even when it appeared most often on predator animals — like cats with their primordial pouches. He liked knowing Clark was softer than average because ultimately it meant he was more likely to be safe from injury.
Another urge erupted in PC's mind, a nagging sensation to advance downward and end up kissing Clark's neck instead. He'd have to bury his screen past his jacket and scarf, it would be extremely awkward, probably impossible from the way he was built and their current angle, but it sure was a strong urge. He'd seen it done in that movie. The man holding his wife in an embrace and caressing her neck with his lips. She seemed enthralled. He wanted, a burning ache, for Clark to look that damn well pleased. It must be a sensitive spot for humans given its popularity in media. Sadly, to no avail, he'd add it to the list of things he desperately needed to try out at a later date. For now, he planted a firm kiss to Clark's jawline, eliciting a delicious shiver.
Somehow, that spot was enough to spark a memory in Clark's singular worn out brain cell bouncing around lethargically in his brain.
Those godforsaken kissing files he recorded a week earlier.
"You bastard—" Clark strained, leading PC to hum and stand up straighter. He cocked his monitor to the side, as much as he could, curious at the sudden insult. Clark let him go this long. "Those kiss noises you had me record. You said they were for the birds."
PC stilled, going silent before ejecting into Laugh Track Number 4, one of his preferred. It was loud, boisterous, real. "You are just now noticing this?" It was true. He obviously wanted to reenact the real deal instead of gently bonking his screen into Clark's face over and over, so he "tricked" Clark into recording a few more files for him in the form of exaggerated kisses. The type you'd give to an animal. They were meant for that, so he couldn't blame their cutesy sounds, but if it was sufficient enough to turn Clark into a puddle, PC couldn't complain. Perhaps this would convince Clark to record more tender sounds.
Clark huffed, close to pouting at being called out. "Shuddup.. m'tired, okay?"
"Oh? You are?" PC mused, a smirk growing among the greenery. Clark fidgeted in place.
".. No. I lied." PC giggled shortly after. He had a looser grip on Clark now, hands at his shoulders like how they first started because he needed to fully enhance his work. Those cherry red cheeks, similarly tainted nose and ears and even his neck (interesting! His chest felt hot when PC ran over it, was it also the same color?), half-lidded eyes originally filled with mulish ferocity now replaced with a beautiful look of fondness, hair sticking up slightly in different directions from the multiple position changes they experienced, racing pulse pounding steadily against his ribs; frankly, Clark was a mess. And PC couldn't be happier. When was the last time he had been so unprofessional? Truly, a good look. Surprisingly good.
The ache in his motherboard screamed to keep going, but he refrained. They kept this up any longer, PC would be no better than Clark staying awake. "So, have I convinced you?"
Despite what he just said not five seconds ago, Clark laced fingers messily with PC's own pair, and nodded. "You're.. very persuasive."
"Good. Think about this in the future because I won't hesitate to do this all over again." One last kiss. Just one more.
He leaned forward and accidentally caught Clark's lips this time, shocking even himself as he shot back, the frames of his glasses widening. Right in between his mouth and — honestly where his nose should've been — laid a kiss mark smeared on his screen. PC felt strangely woozy. "Whoops. My bad," Clark muttered, reaching up to wipe it away but PC grabbed his wrist before he got the chance.
"No. No no, leave it. I, um.. I'll clean it up later." He would not. Could he leave it there forever?"
Clark didn't hesitate when he was promptly pushed out of his chair and led over, the noises of wheels towing behind him, to the rickety couch he used as a bed. For the first time in what PC could recall residing with Clark, he willingly sat down, pulled the blanket over himself and snuggled up to the dusty old pillow nearby. PC slid two digits through Clark's hair, smoothening it back to a pretty stance.
"Good night Clark," he whispered, as low as his volume meter went. "I'm very proud of you, I want you to know."
"Wait—" PC stopped short as he was about to go plug in for the night, a hand at one of his claws. It was dragged down to Clark's mouth. Warm, wet puffs of air coated the metal for a moment or two as PC watched gears turn and click in a tired man's head. Once it was decided though, he gave the smallest, most tentative, of pecks to the very tip of PC's finger he held. "Thank you. Thank you.. so much, PC."
PC stared long and hard, two lines on either sides of his cheeks making their presence as a symbol of blush.
"Of course, Clark. Now, enough kisses for tonight. Sleep," he implored. Thank goodness his speech was pre recorded because he had an inkling of a feeling his voice would've trembled at every word just there. Their hands eventually parted. No hope lay for Clark to do his spiteful gesture of staring off into space. The minute that happened, he was gone, hushed whistles coming from his nose as an indicator of what PC fought for.
Mission accomplished.