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WX-78 wakes up to a sudden and loud crash from their roommate's room. Normally, they wouldn't care about this kind of stuff, but ever since earlier in the day when their system started acting strange, this interrupted a much-needed reboot. After a moment of building up the strength to get up, they groggily walk out of their room and bang on his door.
"SCIENTIST. WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT?"
"I-I've got everything under control, don't you—oh fuck—!" Wilson replies, getting cut off by another loud thump and a muffled shout.
"WHAT IS IT? DON'T MAKE ME COME INTO THAT WASTELAND OF A ROOM TO FIND OUT," they say. They are not in the mood to play guessing games tonight. Or… this morning, rather, now that they've checked their internal clock to find it to be nearly one A.M.
They can hear a groan from inside of the room, and then the sound of incredibly heavy furniture being slid across the wood floor. Several more clatters and crashes later, he opens the door and leans on the door frame in an attempt to obscure their view of the room.
"All good," he says, voice cracking. He's in his normal day clothes, but they're untucked and rumpled. He's not wearing shoes. His hair is a mess, he has bags under his eyes, and the room... Well, he's attempting to obstruct their view.
They rub their optical sensors and groan.
"IT IS TOO LATE FOR YOU TO BE DOING… ALL THAT YOU ARE DOING." They crane their head to look past him and into the room. "WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU EVEN DOING THAT COULD MAKE SO MUCH NOISE, FLESHBAG?"
He leans forward, blocking their view. "Oh, you know... Late-night experiments. Sorry for being loud. Won't happen again," he rushes, stepping back and grabbing the door handle.
Behind him, they can see his old thrifted solid oak dresser laying flat on the ground. There are papers scattered everywhere, and there's a glass beaker smashed on the ground leaking a weird substance. His arms, though already thoroughly scarred with burns, seemingly have new bruises forming with suspiciously wood grain-like patterns on them.
"...WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU DO?"
He smiles nervously. "Uh, d-don't worry about it. Again, I'm really sorry for waking you up," he mumbles, but shakes his head. "It was just..."
"EXPLAIN. I AM NOT LEAVING UNTIL I FIND OUT WHATEVER THE FUCK YOU HAVE GOING ON AT ONE IN THE MORNING," they grouse.
He curls in on himself just a little and scratches the back of his head.
"Well... I was doing research on harmful and toxic gasses," he begins, looking towards the broken beaker. "I took it upon myself to recreate some of these substances, to see if they were potentially more or less potent depending on the percentages of the different chemicals attributed to it."
"I'm no stranger to self-experimentation, and I suppose I did get to a point where I was able to effectively record data.." He says, glancing now to the open window. "But, in my haste, I overestimated my tolerance for such things."
There is a Dollar-Tree style (re: small) bottle of bleach and a bottle the same size of ammonia based cleaner sitting suspiciously close to each other on his desk.
"And… well, I got lightheaded, and my dresser was there, and it wasn't as sturdy as I thought it was going to be," he finishes.
"YOU MICRODOSED ON POISONOUS GAS UNTIL YOU ALMOST PASSED OUT? WHAT THE FUCK PROMPTED YOU TO—" They pause to groan in frustration. "AND I ASSUME YOU WON'T BE STOPPING, SCIENCE BOY?"
"I was doing research!" He yells. From the apartment over, someone hits the wall or throws something heavy at it, some way or another trying to convey to him to shut the hell up.
"And for your information, I will be continuing... as soon as I clean the mess up." Wilson says in a harsh whisper. "Now, you go on back to sleep, because you sure seem to need it," he says, muttering the last part.
*YES, I DO NEED IT, AND I DON'T NEED YOU KILLING YOURSELF AND THE CHANCE OF US GETTING OUR SECURITY DEPOSIT BACK WHEN WE MOVE OUT OF THIS PLACE."
They put a hand to their head. "JUST TRY GETTING SOME VOLUNTARY REST SOON. I DON'T WANT TO HAVE TO WAKE UP TO YOU LANDING HEAD FIRST ON THE GROUND."
Wilson mocks them under his breath and goes back into the room, shutting the door.
WX-78 grumbles some more as they walk back into their room, closing the door and laying back down. After some tossing and turning, they eventually fall back into a fitful sleep, waking up for a few moments throughout the rest of the night…
——————————————————
The next morning, WX-78 wakes up groggy and achy, lamenting their experience in the rain last week as their joints creak with every movement. They walk into the kitchen, not yet bothering to change their clothes, to find Wilson sitting at the kitchen table in his work uniform. He looks to be barely awake, the bagel on the plate in front of him untouched as he tries not to fall asleep sitting up.
"WE HAVE WORK OFF TODAY, DUMBASS."
They continue shuffling into the shared kitchen to find something to have for breakfast, and they decide on grabbing a packaged muffin and a store-bought smoothie they've been saving for a rainy day. They sit down at the table across from Wilson with a huff.
He's… not listening. He's drifting off, his head falling into his hand and slowly sliding down… and down... and down… until he nearly faceplants into his bagel and sits up very straight, blinking rapidly.
"Um. Hi. Good morning," he says.
"HI. IT SEEMS LIKE THE WEEKEND HAS SPARED US FROM WHAT WOULD BE AN UNFUN SHIFT TOGETHER." It's Tuesday, but it's the start of their weekend. They pause and properly examine him for a moment. "HOW MUCH SLEEP DID YOU GET?"
Not that they care, of course.
"Enough," he says, averting his gaze and taking a sip of coffee. "I got my research done."
"SURE. WHAT CONCLUSION DID YOU COME TO? THAT POISON DOESN'T FEEL GOOD?"
He frowns. "...If you must know, the data came back inconclusive, although I will state that gas created by fumes with more ammonia smelled worse."
He pauses. "It isn't pleasant."
His voice, which is pretty hoarse, certifies that statement as true. "Why're you so tired anyway? Is missing a few hours of sleep really that bad for a robot?"
"WELL, IT SEEMS LIKE GETTING CAUGHT IN THE RAIN A FEW DAYS AGO—BECAUSE SOMEONE FORGOT TO GET OUR CAR RE-INSPECTED—HAS LEAD TO UNFORTUNATE CONSEQUENCES."
They go to say more, but a knock at the door interrupts their complaining.
"YOU ANSWER THAT."
"What do you mean by—oh, whatever," he says, standing up and stretching for a moment. He trudges over to the door, stands up straight, puts on his customer service face, and opens the door.
A familiar slender man greets him at the door, and Wilson frowns.
Wearing a suit for no apparent reason, and with hair slicked back in a way to try to obscure his receding hairline, their landlord (who also happens to be Wilson's ex-boyfriend) stands in the doorway. He smells strongly of cigars as per usual, showing a clear disinterest in the rules he sets for people renting on his property.
"Say, pal… you don't look so good," he purrs, staring down at Wilson. "I heard from a neighbor of yours that there was some ruckus going on around one in the morning. Care to explain?"
"...Hello." Wilson says after a moment. With what little knowledge Wilson has granted to them about his old relationship, they know that it wasn't pretty. It mostly involved lots of fighting—somehow worse than WX-78 and Wilson's own situation, seeing as the two of them have never gotten seriously physical—and cheating from Maxwell's end. It wasn't until they went to sign the lease that they'd found out he was the owner, as Maxwell hadn't told Wilson about his moonlighting, but apparently he's owned these buildings for years. He'd had someone else give the tours, because 'of course that filthy man would have someone do his grunt work,' according to Wilson.
His reaction to Maxwell's presence is justified, in their receptors. Besides, he's not even that great of a landlord.
"To tell you the truth, my dresser fell on me last night," he says, seeming too drained to come up with a lie. "My lovely roommate came to check on me, and you know how they can be sometimes with their words."
Maxwell doesn't humor his joke, it seems.
"If you do recall, in your lease for your stay here at The Umbra Locus, it mentions that activities that may lead to loud noises must be avoided after nine. I believe," he says in a tone that says he knows damn well what he's saying, "that this is the second time this has occurred, and we have a three-strikes rule. If you'd like to renew your lease when the current one ends, I'd recommend keeping dresser-falling to before nine P.M. Good day." he closes the door before Wilson can reply and walks off down the hallway.
"Yeah, fuck you too, pal," he growls under his breath. Wilson stomps back to the kitchen and sits down, taking an aggressive bite of his now-cold bagel.
"I HATE THAT GUY."
"Tell me about it," Wilson grunts in reply and takes another sip of his coffee. "What were you saying before our benevolent friend came by? Something about me being responsible for our car?"
"YES. I COMPLETED THE REGISTRATION BECAUSE YOU DON'T LIKE THE DMV, AND YOU DO INSPECTIONS BECAUSE YOU KNOW WHO RUNS THE NEAREST SHOP."
"I'm not late on the inspection. It has another few months. You noticed the engine stalling last month and, well, I forgot. Sue me."
They stare at him, unamused.
"What, are you rusting? Need some WD-40, WX-78?"
WX-78 says nothing, shooting him an angry glare while he finishes his food.
"SO ARE YOU GOING TO KEEP WEARING YOUR UNIFORM ON THE DAY OFF, OR DO I NEED TO TELL YOU IT'S OUR WEEKEND AGAIN?"
"I was getting to it," he says, leaning back in the chair. He finishes his food and runs a hand down the side of his face. Wilson finishes the rest of his coffee like a shot, and goes back to the coffee pot (which is only used by one of them, yet is a full-sized pot) and gets another steaming cup.
"YOU DO REALIZE THAT DRINKING MORE COFFEE WON'T HELP IN GIVING YOU ENERGY AFTER A NIGHT OF NOT SLEEPING?"
"What do you know?" He takes a steaming sip, squinting at them from the counter.
"MORE THAN YOU, IT SEEMS." They finish their food and dump their dishes in the sink for Wilson to wash later.
"THAT ASSHOLE WILL HOUND US FOR ANY MISTAKE, AND YET WILL DISAPPEAR ANY TIME WE TRY ASKING HIM TO FIX THE DISH WASHER. WE REALLY SHOULD TRY FINDING A NEW PLACE AFTER THE LEASE ENDS."
"I thought you said you were gonna find another roommate because you hated me?" He says bluntly.
WX-78 grumbles. "THAT WOULD REQUIRE ME TO FIND ANOTHER FLESHLING TO USE, WHICH I DO NOT FEEL LIKE DOING."
"You don't have any other 'fleshlings?'"
"NOT ONES THAT I COULD USE LIKE YOU." They bump shoulders with him while walking out of the kitchen towards their living room.
"I AM GOING TO WATCH SOMETHING ON THE TELEVISION NOW, IF YOU WOULD LIKE TO JOIN ME."
"Sounds raunchy," He says, brushing his shoulder off dramatically. "What if I want another roommate? What if I hate you too?" He says, but he says it hypothetically.
They laugh at him. "AS IF."
WX-78 retrieves a blanket from their bedroom and sits down on the couch, wrapping the blanket around their legs. They look on the end table for where the remote should be, finding it to be gone.
"WHERE DID YOU PUT THE REMOTE LAST, FLESHLING?"
"I don't know. Figure it out," he says, abruptly leaving the room and going into his room. They just mumble to themself about how stupid he is to make themself feel better. They look around, eventually finding it on the floor under the sidetable.
By the time Wilson comes back, they've decided on a show to watch. He comes back wearing a hoodie, a pair of basketball shorts, and mid-calf socks. He flops down next to them on the couch, then shifts so he's leaning his head on the arm of it. He stretches his legs across WX-78's lap dramatically and turns to watch what they're watching.
"THAT GUY HAS CANCER AND IS GONNA START MAKING METH TO PAY OFF HIS MEDICAL BILLS. SEEMS LIKE SOMETHING YOU'D DO."
"I've seen Breaking Bad before, WX. Have you never?"
"NO? THIS IS YOUR NETFLIX, REMEMBER?"
"Right," he mumbles. Wilson reaches directly over WX-78, getting entirely in their space, to grab a pillow from across the couch and hold it to his chest while he watches the TV.
WX-78 just rolls their optical sensors at the action, continuing to watch the show.
As the episode goes on, it's clear that Wilson is not paying attention. He closed his eyes after about two minutes of watching the show. At some point, his breaths even out and he relaxes his grip on the pillow ever so slightly. WX-78 mentally chuckles to themself at the action, but chooses not to wake him up.
Sometime later, after Wilson has been asleep for about ten minutes, he starts to mumble in his sleep.
"...bad for rabbits... my cereal, you pillock..."
They turn to him, listening in on his strange sleep-ramblings.
"..fuckin' prick... can't have... 'til you lower my rent... jackass…"
They decide that they want to try influencing his ramblings, and so they say, quietly...
"ONE BILLION DOLLAR RENT."
He twitches.
"..shove it, Carter... back in your cage..."
"ONE... BILLION... A MONTH."
"..no more lettuce for you.."
They think for a moment "MAKE... METH..."
Wilson stops mumbling in his sleep, but he doesn't stir. He snores with his mouth open.
"HMPH."
They continue watching the TV, but they do a double take when they glance at Wilson to see him starting to… drool? They push his legs off of their own and get up in a flash.
Wilson startles awake. "H-uh? What?" He says groggily, reaching a hand up to absent-mindedly swipe at his face.
"YOU WERE ABOUT TO START DROOLING ON OUR COUCH!"
"Mmf. Sorry. Didn't mean to fall asleep," he says, leaning back against the couch and closing his eyes. He still clutches the pillow in his arms.
WX-78 continues to stare down at him incredulously.
"What do you want me to say?" He mumbles, leaning forward into the pillow.
"I—I DON'T KNOW!" They shout. They pause for a moment and let out a loud grumble, dramatically flipping his legs up and sitting back down, putting his legs back on theirs. "DON'T DROOL AGAIN. IT'S GROSS."
"...I'll try," he says unseriously.
Wilson takes his legs back from on top of them and pulls them up to his chest, squishing the pillow. He looks up at the TV. "Did I miss anything?"
"HE MANIPULATED SOMEONE HE USED TO TEACH TO GET HIM INTO MAKING METH. I LIKE THIS GUY."
"Sounds like something you'd like," he replies, mirroring their earlier statement.
Wilson stands up and goes into the kitchen, returning with a steaming mug of coffee. He sits down next to them, a little closer than he was previously, but he keeps his legs on the ground. He pulls the pillow into his lap with his free hand.
"AND WHAT THE HELL IS THAT GOING TO DO, FLESHLING?"
"Taste good," he replies, taking a sip. "Also, it's going to give me energy. You know, the thing caffeine does?"
"YOU DRANK A CUP AND THEN FELL ASLEEP. CLEARLY IT'S NOT GOING TO DO ANYTHING."
Wilson flushes a little and turns away, scowling. "I usually have at least three in the morning. The first one is a warm up."
They sigh at him, something they're glad they gave themself the ability to do, specifically for putting up with their roommate. "WHATEVER, WEIRD FLESHSACK. THERE'S A SHOW P—"
A loud crash is heard from outside, and everything in the apartment goes dark. It had been raining lightly since the storm that caught WX-78 a few days ago, and this morning had been no different, but the two of them had been too caught up in their morning squabbles to notice it turning into a thunderstorm.
"—YOU HAVE GOT TO BE SHITTING ME."
Wilson grins, although it can't be seen. Unbeknownst to WX-78, he sneaks around to the other side of them in the darkness. He slurps his coffee very loudly right next to their audio receptor.
WX-78 flinches away from the noise and practically growls at him.
"WHAT THE FUCK, SCIENTIST?!"
Wilson snickers to himself, taking another (quiet) sip. "Too easy."
They lay back down on the couch and groan. "I DESPISE YOU, AND I DESPISE THIS STUPID MULTI-DAY STORM! FIRST IT LEAD TO—WELL, WHATEVER IS GOING ON WITH ME—AND NOW IT'S CAUSED A GODDAMN OUTAGE!"
"WX, calm down. It's literally been a single minute." He pauses. "Wait, is there something wrong with you?"
"DO YOU THINK I'D STILL BE IN MY RESTING OUTFIT IF I WAS NORMAL? DID YOU NOT NOTICE HOW MUCH SLOWER I WAS WITH MY SHIFT YESTERDAY? I COULD ONLY STOCK EIGHT SHELVES PER HOUR! NORMALLY I CAN DO AT LEAST TWELVE!" They exclaim, throwing their hands up in the air dramatically. It makes their already-aching joints twinge with pain, and they scowl.
"...No? I don't stare at you while we work. Also… well, the outfit thing was a little different, I guess. You can have that one."
"EXACTLY. MY SYSTEMS AREN'T RUNNING AS WELL AS THEY COULD AND SHOULD BE. I TRIED RUNNING A DIAGNOSIS LAST NIGHT, AND EVEN IGNORING YOUR DRESSER FALLING INTERUPTION, I WASN'T ABLE TO DETERMINE ANYTHING."
"Aww, you poor thing," Wilson mocks, and they can feel a hand graze their cheek. "Does poor widdle WX have a gwitch in their system? Hm?"
WX-78 tries biting his hand. "GO FUCK YOURSELF."
He pulls his hand away and pats them on the shoulder twice. "Let's get some light in here and go from there," he says, setting his coffee cup down on the table.
"MAYBE SOME LIGHT FOR YOU." Their normally colorless 'eyes' begin to glow green. "NIGHT VISION."
Wilson begins walking over to the window and scoffs. "Whatever. I'll get the curtains—ah shit!" He squeaks, abruptly tripping over the couch, causing a loud thud when he hits the ground.
WX-78 sits up and laughs at him. "I SAW THAT COMING AND DIDN'T SAY ANYTHING!" They say, continuing to laugh.
"You piece of—rrgh!" He shouts, rushing back over to them to shove them into the couch.
"IT IS DESERVED. I HOPE YOU FALL AGAIN!" They say through laughter.
Wilson grumbles to himself as he opens the curtains in the room one by one, and then sits down by WX-78 with a sigh.
"If you need to recharge tonight, you're going to have to use the outlet at a Wawa or something."
"I HAVE A POWERFUL POWER BANK THAT I CAN USE TONIGHT. TODAY I AM THINKING OF TIDYING UP MY ROOM," they say. "YOU SHOULD TRY CLEANING YOUR ROOM, BECAUSE I ASSUME YOU DIDN'T DO SO LAST NIGHT."
"Hm. Maybe," Wilson says. He casually turns sideways and lays across WX's legs on his back, with his head resting on the arm rest beside them.
"Isn't your room always tidy? You're quite anal about it."
"YES, BUT I HAVE NOT CLEANED UNDER MY BED IN OVER A WEEK, AND SO IT IS CLEARLY DUE FOR A SWEEPING. UNLIKE YOU, I LIKE TO HAVE A CLEAN LIVING SPACE."
Wilson snickers at them.
"WHAT? BEING CLEAN IS NOT FUNNY, FLESHSACK."
"You haven't swept under your bed in a week? You filthy pig!" He exclaims, and then full-on laughs at them.
They groan at him. "FUCK YOU, ASSHOLE."
Wilson laughs a little longer before sighing and laying his head back down on the armrest.
"SO WHAT ARE YOUR PLANS FOR THE DAY, FLESHLING?"
"...Well, I thought I had work," he says. He thinks for a moment. "I suppose I could compile my research, although I haven't picked a college to inquire about it with."
"WELL, CLEARLY, YOU CAN'T CONTACT THE ONE YOU WERE EXPELLED FROM DUE TO THAT INCIDENT, ASSUMING THEY'D EVEN WANT TO KNOW THAT 'POISON ISN'T GOOD.'"
"I wasn't going to contact them," he says gruffly. "...They sent a cease and desist."
They laugh. "SHOCKED THEY DIDN'T SEND YOU A HITMAN."
"Oh, shut up," he says, frowning up at them. WX-78 looks down at him with a smug grin.
"I suppose my room is quite messy after the dresser falling scattered everything," Wilson mumbles to himself, then shrugs. "I guess that means we should get up now."
Despite his words, he doesn't move an inch.
"YOU NEED TO ACTUALLY GET UP IF YOU PLAN ON GETTING UP."
Wilson grumbles a little. "I would, but it seems my body is not cooperating."
"WHAT, DO YOU NEED ANOTHER CUP OF COFFEE?"
"...Probably."
"WELL YOU SHOULD HURRY UP AND GET IT THEN. IT'LL GET COLD SOON."
"..."
"WHAT?"
"My whole body hurts. I don't want to get up," he says truthfully.
"WELL TOO BAD. MY BODY HURTS TOO, AND YOU'RE ON ME, SO YOU NEED TO GET UP."
Wilson grumbles again. He slowly and dramatically slides off of them and grabs his cup, then walks to the kitchen.
"TOOK YOU LONG ENOUGH."
He mocks them under his breath as he pours the remaining coffee into his mug.
"AND NOW WE'LL SEE IF YOU REALLY NEED THREE CUPS TO FUNCTION."
"On a normal day," he adds. "I usually get at least five hours of sleep. And last night I got… well, I got enough," he says sheepishly, remembering the earlier conversation.
"RIIIIIIGHT. EITHER WAY, UNWISE."
"Unwise?"
"DRINKING SO MUCH COFFEE, DUH. BEING SO DEPENDENT ON COFFEE THAT YOU CANNOT FUNCTION WITHOUT IT."
"I'm not dependent on it. I was like this before I started drinking it," he retorts. "You're 'dependent' on oil. I don't want to hear it.''
"OIL IS LITERALLY NEEDED FOR ME TO FUNCTION. COFFEE IS LIKE ANOTHER UNNECESSARY FORM OF WATER FOR YOU."
He continues to mock them under his breath.
"WHATEVER," they grumble as they stand up. "I AM GOING TO CLEAN MY ROOM. LET ME KNOW IF YOU NEED ANY MORE ENCOURAGING WORDS."
He calls after them. "Have fun. I hope you feel better," he says with the highest amount of sarcasm he can fit into his slight European accent.
"I HOPE YOU DON'T." They walk into their room and close the door, and shortly after techno music suddenly plays from a speaker within.
——————————————————
After a short while of cleaning, (re: finally taking care of the minimal amount of dust under their bed), WX-78 sits at their desk and starts up their desktop… forgetting there is no power. They then try to find something battery-powered to tinker with, stopping after hearing a loud crash from Wilson's room... again. They walk out and to his door, knocking on it in a similar manner to earlier that morning.
"WHAT HAPPENED THIS TIME? BECAUSE I SWEAR IF YOUR DRESSER FELL ON YOU AGAIN, I WILL ANNIHILATE YOU."
"I'm just moving my bed! It's finedon'tcomein!" He shouts, rushing at the end, and another sound similar to the first can be heard.
"ARE YOU TRYING TO MOVE IT TO THE ROOF?!" They exclaim, trying to open his door to no avail. "FLESHLING, OPEN THE DOOR!"
"I'm busy!"
They can hear more crashing and banging from behind the door. "Leave a message! Come back later! Beeeeeep!"
They let out a short grunt of frustration. "BUSY DOING WHAT? IF YOU ACTUALLY ANSWER OR LET ME IN, I WILL LEAVE YOU BE, BUT YOU ARE CLEARLY UNWILLING TO DO THAT."
"I already—rrgh—told you, I'm moving my bed—ngh—so if you'll excuse me—" He says, and... well, it does sound like he's moving his bed if, they think about it hard enough, but it also sounds like he's ripping the floor up with it.
"I WILL NOT EXCUSE YOU. OPEN UP THIS DOOR!" They begin to wiggle his doorknob so aggressively that they briefly wonder if it'll break before he answers it. Not their problem.
They hear one final loud sound, and then Wilson opens the door. He stands there, disheveled, now in his day clothes, but they're untucked and wrinkled and one of his shoes is off. Behind him, they can see... well, his room is still messy, but it's a different kind of messy. His bed is on the opposite side of the room, and his dresser is now upright and where the bed was before; the drawers are all out and empty, and there are four separate very large piles of things in the center of the room. The bed is unmade, and they can see its stained sheets sticking out of one of the piles.
"...HOW IS DOING YOUR LAUNDRY CAUSING SUCH NOISE?!"
"I told you, I'm moving my bed." Wilson seethes, unusually snippy. He pinches the bridge of his nose. "It's moved now. What, do you want to make fun of me for actually cleaning it now? I thought it was too messy."
"WHAT WAS THE CRASHING, THEN?"
He throws his arms out, exasperated. "I had to drop it a few times while moving it. It's heavy. What do you want me to say?"
“YOU COULD HAVE JUST SAID THAT. WEAKLING," they say, and immediately turn around to walk back into their room. They shut their door before he can get another word in.
The best thing about having a roommate, in WX-78's opinion, is having someone on hand to insult at all times.
They can hear Wilson release a very exasperated groan, and he slams his door a moment later.
...At least it's not past nine.
They laugh to themself and pick up a book, something about the cycles of the moon, and begin to read on their bed to pass the time.
And then, as soon as they get into the book, the power comes back on, and all of the appliances in the apartment start beeping. After a moment—they'd just gotten comfortable—they slowly get back up with a groan and walk into the kitchen to reset the clocks of the microwave and the oven.
Wilson exits his room shortly after, but he walks past WX-78 instead of helping them. In fact, he shoulder checks them when he goes behind them to get the broom and dustpan from beside the fridge.
"WATCH IT, ASSHOLE."
He mocks them under his breath before going back to his room and shutting the door. They turn their head at that, but pay it no mind. They turn off the television in the living room and then head back to their room to start up their first person shooter of choice: Call of Duty, of course.
WX-78 is sure Wilson can hear them borderline yelling at other players through the wall (and their open door), but they don't particularly care. It's not past nine, after all.
——————————————————
Several hours pass, with complete silence coming from Wilson's room as WX-78 completes their day-to-day tasks. A bit past two P.M., he comes out of his room and shuts the door behind himself quietly. He has clothes under one arm and a towel under the other, and then he promptly walks into the bathroom to take a shower.
"TOOK YOU LONG ENOUGH. YOU SMELL HORRIBLE!" They call after him, snickering to themself.
Ten minutes pass... then twenty, and at twenty-five the shower water finally stops.
Wilson walks out of the bathroom and past their bedroom in a wifebeater and sweatpants, with a towel around his shoulders to catch the water dripping from his (for once) unstyled hair. He walks back to his room and closes the door halfway, choosing to ignore their presence once again despite walking in front of their room.
"GOOD AFTERNOON TO YOU TOO—OH, GOD DAMN IT!" They say, the minor distraction causing them to get killed once again. They quickly close out of their game before their teammates can start hurling slurs their way—of course you died, you clanker—and cross their arms.
"GODDAMN HACKER," they mutter, despite knowing it was their fault. After a moment, they look off to the side and wonder why their normally-boisterous roommate has gone radio silent. They decide to walk over to his doorway and peer into his room.
The room looks entirely different than it did before. The piles are gone, and the stained (but noticeably less dirty) carpet remains in the middle. The floors have been swept for the first time in… when did they move in again? The desk, although a little untidy, is at least the only part of the room covered in research papers. The closet is actually organized, at least shirts-wise, and the piled up things in the corners of it are now in boxes, although they're open and still a little messy.
The room is actually, genuinely clean. There's a candle lit on the desk, which now has several (albeit dusty) candles on top of it. The bed is even made, and on top of it sits Wilson with his legs up and his face buried in his knees.
"WILSON?"
"Go away," he responds immediately, curling in on himself.
"...YOUR ROOM LOOKS GOOD."
He scoffs and grips his legs tighter. "Yeah, go ahead. I'm waiting for it. 'Oh, you missed a spot.' 'Your cleanliness could never reach the same level as mine, fleshsack.' Just get it over with and go back to yelling at children over the internet."
They slowly walk further into the room uninvited, a sinking feeling settling into their chemical engine. "IT LOOKS LIKE A NORMAL ROOM. WELL-SWEPT, ORGANIZED, SOMEWHERE I'D BE WILLING TO BE IN."
"Why are you in here?"
"...YOU WERE QUIET AND I WAS CONFUSED." They answer candidly, and continue looking around. "THE CANDLE SMELLS NICE."
"'Course you were confused. You always say I'm annoying," he says, his voice taking on a wavering edge.
They pause for a moment. "AM I ABLE TO SIT ON YOUR BED?"
"Sure, but don't sit too close. It'd be awful for you to have to touch a fleshling," he mutters, scooting farther up the bed to give them room to sit.
They sit down. "YOU SAY THAT AS IF WE DON'T SHARE CONTACT WHILE ON THE COUCH OR IN THE KITCHEN."
"Yes, well, I can't ever tell with you. One minute you seem like you put up with me, and the next it seems like you hate—" His voice cracks briefly, but he continues nonetheless "—me, or at the very least love to antagonize me, and I'm not quite sure what I did to you."
They think for a moment, staring at the man with quavering shoulders as he hides himself from their view, burying his face further in his legs. They watch as the consequences of their hatred for their old self presents itself to them in their new body. In their need to have and maintain their superior persona over all living beings, especially humans, they did this. They did this.
They don't know why—perhaps it's whatever's going on in their internals due to the rain—but they feel something abnormal. They look at the closest thing to a friend that they have, and their mixed feelings simmer, nearly boiling over.
"I..."
The thoughts they are struggling to verbalize, ideas buried deep in their circuits in an attempt to drown them out, threaten to explode from within them. The words they speak come out strained.
"I DIDN'T KNOW YOU FELT THAT WAY."
They want to say more, but they don't know how.
"...Well, I do," he mumbles thickly. He sniffles once, and then sighs into the fabric of his pants.
Their gears churn inside of them on overdrive as things they'd tried to program out of themself rise to the surface once again, against their will.
"...I CAN TONE IT DOWN, IF IT WOULD..." They cringe at the words before they even come out. "...IF IT WOULD HELP."
Wilson looks up at them, then turns away from them to paw at the tears that had gathered in the corner of his eyes. He looks at them again, and then stares for a moment.
"I.. that would be nice," he begins, after a very, very long moment of deliberation. "Thank you."
He takes a deep breath. "This," he says, gesturing to his face, "is mostly a side effect of not sleeping. But I suppose this was bound to happen at some point."
WX-78 begins to speak, but they're almost glad when Wilson interrupts them.
"It's not entirely your fault. I know it's hard for you to tell when you're being a prick sometimes."
He contemplates for a second.
"But it's mostly your fault."
They let out a small chuckle. "YEAH, MAYBE."
"...I don't need you to change anything about yourself around me. I like how... I think you just go a little far sometimes. It would be nice if you lightened up a bit."
WX-78 huffs. "ONLY BECAUSE YOU ASKED SO NICELY," they say, the sarcasm in their tone glaringly obvious.
Wilson rolls his eyes at them and then releases his legs from his iron grip. He lays back down onto his pillow, closing his eyes.
"I AM HUNGRY," they say, desperate to change the subject. "ARE YOU HUNGRY?"
"I'm tired," he says helpfully, and they're grateful for his cooperation.
"I AM GOING TO ORDER DELIVERY FROM SOMEWHERE." They pull out their phone. "ANY IDEAS? TIRED ISN'T A RESTAURANT."
Wilson turns on his side and curls slightly around the side of them to look at their phone.
"TACO BELL... PANERA..."
Wilson lets his head drop to the bed.
"I don't really care all that much," he mumbles. "Damn. I haven't cried in like, a year. Think I really should have slept last night," he says mostly to himself. "Er, the point is, you can choose."
"YEAH, CLEARLY. I THINK I'LL DO PANERA, I HAVE A COUPON FOR A FREE SANDWICH." They open the app and start an order, adding their food to the cart, and then hand the phone to Wilson.
Wilson blinks up at them as if he'd been asleep in the minute they were doing that (and with how slowly he grabs the phone from them, he very well could have been) and then stares at the screen like a toddler to an IPad for a few moments.
They sigh. "DO YOU WANT ME TO DO IT?"
"No, I got it," he says, and he haphazardly puts in his order.
...It would've been faster if they did it.
"ALRIGHT, TOUGH GUY," they say, taking the phone back from him and placing the order. "25 MINUTES."
They shift themself so they're on the bed fully, laying down next to Wilson.
"DO YOU WANT TO JOIN ME IN MINDLESSLY SCROLLING WHILE WE WAIT?"
"Laying on my bed?" He asks, eyes wide in surprise. "At least take me to—wait, no, you bought me lunch," he mutters. "Oh, what the hell. Sure."
"EXACTLY."
They open up an app—Instagram, that'll do for distracting them from their own emotions—and start scrolling.
Wilson lays right next to them and pretends to watch, and at some point he dozes off with his head very lightly resting on their arm.
It feels like no time at all before there's a knock at the door that interrupts the scrolling. Wilson shifts around, but doesn't stir.
"ARE YOU GOING TO GET IT?"
"Mmm… what?" He says, opening his eyes. He rubs at them with one hand. "S'rry, what'd you say?"
"I SAID," they grumble, "I WILL GO GET THE FOOD."
They get up from the bed and begin to stretch.
"Wait, wait, no," he says, grabbing their arm. "It's raining. I'll get it."
"...I WILL JUST BE OPENING THE DOOR AND PICKING IT UP. DON'T WORRY, I WILL BE BACK."
He releases their arm and drops his head back down to the bed with a hum of affirmation.
They retrieve the food and come back to see him in nearly the same position they left him in.
"SEE? IT WASN'T THAT BAD." They set the bag on his bed and divvy out all inside of it on his bed.
Wilson doesn't respond, choosing to curl a little more around himself.
They nudge his food closer to him, like a chicken leg towards a sleeping dog's nose, unwrapping their sandwich with their other hand.
"FOOD IS HERE. IT'LL GET COLD."
Wilson slowly drags himself up and sits up. He stretches, raising his arms above his head with a grunt and a sigh. He takes the sandwich from their hands and, as if remembering he was hungry, unwraps it quickly and takes a very large bite.
"Theresh alsho shoup in there," he says through a mouthful.
While eating their sandwich, and without words they move his sandwich wrapper, revealing the bowl of soup and a spoon next to it, shaking their head.
"Thanksh." He swallows the freakishly large bite before speaking again. "I don't like to eat on my bed much, but this warrants an exception."
WX-78 is too busy eating to respond, so they just shrug.
Wilson finishes his half-sandwich in less than two minutes. "Oh, yeah. Can you explain how you can taste again? I know you explained it before, but I can't remember."
"DETECTORS IN MY ‘MOUTH,' they say between bites. "THEY TELL ME HOW GOOD SOMETHING IS, BOTH IN NUTRITIONAL STANDARDS AND TASTE STANDARDS."
"So.. a raw carrot should taste great, right?" He ponders, pausing to finish chewing. "And also, 'taste standards' is entirely subjective."
"NO. JUST BECAUSE IT'S SAFE TO EAT DOESN'T MEAN IT TASTES GOOD," they say, finishing off their sandwich. "I PROGRAMED MY DETECTORS TO ENJOY CERTAIN THINGS. SOME THINGS I CHOSE TO NOT ENJOY, AND SOME I AM NEUTRAL ON. IT IS NEARLY THE SAME AS YOURS."
"Well, humans' taste buds change over time," he says, pausing to take a long sip of soup, not bothering with the spoon. "I guess you don't have that chance. "
"I COULD IF I WANTED TO. JUST DON'T BECAUSE THERE IS NO REASON TO."
"Hm."
"WHAT, DO YOU NOT BELIEVE ME? IT WOULD TAKE TIME, BUT I COULD SHOW YOU."
"Do you like french onion soup?" He asks abruptly.
WX-78 makes a face. "NO. AND I WILL NOT CHANGE THAT."
Wilson chuckles. "Yeah, okay. I believe you." He finishes with his stuff and, after a pause, grabs all of the trash off of the bed and walks to the kitchen to throw it away.
"IF YOU GIVE ME A BETTER SUGGESTION I MAY CONSIDER IT!" they tell him while he's out of the room.
He walks back into the room. "I'm alright."
"SUIT YOURSELF," they say, stretching themself out on his bed, putting their arms behind their head. "NOW WHAT?"
Wilson gets back onto his bed, pointedly avoiding crawling over them (honestly.. he went a bit over the top with it, tip-toeing across the tiny part their body doesn't cover), scoots around them, pulls his decorative blanket around himself haphazardly and flops onto his pillow.
"I'm taking a nap. You're free to stay or go," he says, getting comfortable. "I don't have anything to do… Well, I need to make a dentist appointment, and get the car inspected and go grocery shopping, and—" He's interrupted by a yawn. "Er, you get it. None of that stuff I want to do. And so I am going to sleep. And not smell chloramine for a long, long time."
"THAT CAN BE DONE TOMORROW," they say, settling on his bed a little bit. "WHY IS YOUR MATTRESS SO COMFORTABLE? I THOUGHT WE BOUGHT TWO OF THE SAME TYPE WHEN WE MOVED IN."
Wilson huffs. "You're made of metal. You've probably worn yours down much faster than mine due to the density of the material you're made of."
"HUH. MAYBE YOU'RE RIGHT," they say, tilting their head up to think some more. "I WONDER WHAT MATTRESS WOULD WORK BETTER..."
"Perhaps one on the firmer side? If you're uncomfortable with it, you could always get more blankets and lay on top of them. Can you even afford a new mattress right now?"
"NOT NOW... BUT MAYBE IN A FEW MONTHS IF I BUDGET WELL AND LOOK FOR A SALE."
"Pssh. You, budgeting? You bought forty dollars worth of scrap parts last week for no damn reason."
They roll their optical sensors and turn to face him. "I TOLD YOU THAT THE BULK LOT WOULD BE WORTH IT WHEN FIXED. I FIXED A BROKEN CONTROLLER AND SOLD IT FOR THIRTY DOLLARS A FEW DAYS AGO!"
"Hmph," Wilson says, sighing. He looks a little solemn.
"PLUS, THERE'S A HARD DRIVE I'M WORKING ON. I HAVEN'T BEEN ABLE TO DECIPHER THE CODE, BUT IT MAY HAVE WORK IN PROGRESS FILES FROM A GAME FROM THE EARLY 2000's. IF THAT TURNS OUT TO BE ANYTHING IMPORTANT, I COULD GET SOME GOOD MONEY FROM IT."
"Hm." Wilson shifts a little closer to them so his forehead grazes their arm.
"YEAH. I HOPE IT'S A GAME I'VE HEARD OF," they say, choosing not to acknowledge his presence. "I DOUBT IT'S ANYTHING FROM A COMPANY LIKE NINTENDO, BUT WHO KNOWS?"
"How'd you even know it's on there?" He mumbles.
"I HAVE FILE NAMES. A LOT OF THINGS SIMILAR TO 'SF_27_ROOM8_BOSSBATTLE.' I REMEMBER THAT ONE SPECIFICALLY BECAUSE IT WAS THE FIRST ONE I SAW."
Wilson raises his eyebrows. "Mmm. Cool."
"YES. AND IF I CAN GET IT RUNNING, EVEN BETTER. WE'LL JUST HAVE TO SEE. I HAVE A PC FROM THE ERA THAT I COULD TRY RUNNING IT ON AFTER DECODING EVERYTHING."
"Why not your PC now?"
"TO AVOID THE RISK OF RUNNING IT ON A NEWER OPERATING SYSTEM, WITH THE POSSIBILITY OF IT CORRUPTING THE FILES DUE TO THE AGE AND SYSTEM DIFFERENCES."
"Right."
"I CAN EXTRACT THE FILES ON A NEWER SYSTEM WITHOUT AN ISSUE, BECAUSE I AM JUST LOOKING AT THEM AND DECODING ANYTHING STOPPING ME FROM RUNNING IT, BUT I CANNOT RUN THE ACTUAL FILES DUE TO THE PREVIOUSLY MENTIONED RISK."
Wilson nods, and they can feel his hair graze their shoulder plate. "Smart of you."
"YEAH. IT'S LIKE..." They try to think of an example that'd resonate with him.
"SEEING A CATERPILLAR THAT MAY HURT TO TOUCH. YOU CAN LOOK AT AND RESEARCH IT ALL DAY, BUT TO TOUCH IT WITHOUT A RISK, YOU NEED TO WEAR SOMETHING YOU KNOW IS COMPATIBLE WITH IT."
"Yeah, but you're not your PC. It'd be more like... Well, I don't have an example, but I understood what you said. I think."
"THE CATERPILLAR IS THE FILES, THE PROTECTIVE WEAR IS THE OPERATING SYSTEM. ALTHOUGH FLASHIER AND FASTER TO PUT ON, FINGERLESS GLOVES WOULD DO LESS THAN HAZMAT GLOVES FROM THE 40S."
"...I understood it the first time," he mumbles.
"OH. WELL, STILL." They yawn. "I AM GOING TO GO INTO REST MODE SOON."
Wilson suddenly stills. "...On my bed?"
"SHOULD I MOVE? YOU'RE CLEARLY TRYING TO MAKE YOURSELF COMFORTABLE ON ME."
At the statement, Wilson flushes ever so slightly. "I was just... you know, the bed is small, and all.." he mumbles, scooting back ever so slightly so they're no longer touching.
"I DID NOT SAY IT WAS AN ISSUE. I DO NOT MIND IT. IF YOU WANT TO STAY OFF OF ME BECAUSE I BROUGHT IT UP, YOU CAN. IF YOU DON'T, YOU MAY AS WELL COME BACK NOW."
Wilson hesitates, but returns to where he was, his face kind of pressed up against them now rather than grazing.
"Mmm… that reminds me. Why do you even yawn?"
"IT FEELS RIGHT."
Wilson chuckles, and they can feel his breath on their arm. "Fair enough." He pulls the blanket further up on himself to cover his arm and torso, and because of the way he's curled up, it covers him from the neck down.
"IS THE BLANKET LARGE ENOUGH FOR TWO PEOPLE? YOUR ROOM IS WEIRDLY COLD COMPARED TO THE REST OF THE APARTMENT."
Wilson hums non-commitally, lifting up the blanket in an invitation for them to try to find out.
They attempt to get in and, after a few moments of struggling, get comfortable (and closer to him.)
"Not much room," he mumbles quietly. He yawns, covering his face with the blanket.
"HPHM. IT CAN WORK," they say, letting their optical sensors close.
Wilson sighs and, well, he does something that can't be described as anything else but nuzzling into the side of their arm, too far gone in his tiredness to particularly care about how it may seem.
They consider laughing at him but do not, simply enjoying his company in this moment, and they let out a small smile as they drift off into rest mode.
——————————————————
After an hour of resting, WX-78 slowly wakes up, turning to see if Wilson has moved or woken up. A single glance tells them that he's knocked the hell out, snoring against their arm with his mouth open (but not drooling, thankfully.) He's in an odd position, with one of his arms sticking in the air, and he's kicked the blankets off of himself in a comical fashion.
They lightly chuckle to themself hearing his snore, reminding them of a cartoon character. They decide to idly rest a while longer, to see if it'll help to repair their systems some more… although, they will admit, it's mostly because his bed is comfortable.
They wake up again (they don’t exactly remember going into rest mode again) sometime later to Wilson silently moving away from them, and when he sees them, he smiles.
"HELLO," WX-78 says after a moment.
"Hi," he says, his voice crackling from sleep. "It’s weird, you don't look as mean when you sleep."
WX-78, of course, scowls at this, which in turn makes Wilson grin.
“What time is it?” He asks, stretching his arms above his head with a small grunt.
"YOU WOKE UP BEFORE ME. HOW SHOULD I KNOW?"
"You're a robot. You have an internal clock," he says gruffly, although not unkindly. He looks around the room with a perplexed expression on his face.
"OH, I KNOW. I WAS HOPING YOU FORGOT. IT IS 3:57 P.M." They observe his expression. "WHAT? SHOCKED THAT IT'S CLEAN?"
"Yes," he says bluntly. "I… don't know how I did that. I guess I was just fed up," he says honestly, looking off to the side. "Emotions are a hell of a drug."
"HMPH. I GET WHAT YOU MEAN." They say, and then they dramatically stretch, loudly groaning.
Wilson huffs. "Did you have a nice nap?" He asks, a little condescendingly.
"YOU'RE DAMN RIGHT I DID. AND YOU?" IT LOOKS LIKE YOU DID, they think, observing the way his hair is sticking out in six directions rather than the usual three.
Wilson shrugs. "More or less. I wish I was still asleep, but if I sleep any more I won't be able to sleep tonight. And we have work tomorrow."
"NO, WE DON'T. IT'S STILL TUESDAY. WE HAVE TUESDAYS AND WEDNESDAYS OFF, REMEMBER?"
"..."
"...DID YOU THINK IT WAS WEDNESDAY?"
"I thought I worked Wednesdays," he mumbles, laying back down on the bed dramatically.
They chuckle. "YOU HAVEN'T WORKED WEDNESDAYS IN MULTIPLE MONTHS. THAT HASN'T CHANGED."
"...Huh. Well, still, I'd rather try to sleep at night."
"SEEMS LIKE YOU DON'T ACTUALLY LIKE DOING THAT, GIVEN WHAT YOU WERE UP TO LAST NIGHT," they jest, and Wilson rolls his eyes.
"You know what I mean."
"I DO," they say. "BUT IT'S THE PRINCIPLE."
"Uh huh."