Work Text:
I hide myself within my flower,
That wearing on your breast,
You, unsuspecting, wear me too —
And angels know the rest.
- Emily Dickinson
𔓘
1800 ship time. You should have been in the mess having what passed for a meager dinner, but you were on a mission of utmost importance. It was like muscle memory making your way through the dimly lit corridors of the Sulaco's upper deck. A folded piece of technical paper sat hidden in your jumpsuit pocket. Your fingers brushed against it nervously, feeling the delicate creases you'd spent the last three nights perfecting. Artificial gravity kept your steps steady, even as your heart puttered a funny little pattern against your sternum.
You were heading to the lab. Again.
It had become something of a routine over the past few months, finding reasons to visit Bishop's domain. Sometimes it was legitimate: a systems diagnostic that required his unique input, a question about the atmospheric processors, a request for his analysis of some anomalous data. Other times, you simply invented excuses, transparent as the observation windows that looked out over the void of space.
If Bishop noticed the frequency of your visits, he never mentioned it. He simply welcomed you with that calm, measured demeanor that made your stomach flip in ways you couldn't quite explain. Or rather, in ways you refused to explain, even to yourself.
The science bay doors slid open with a soft hiss, revealing the pristine laboratory space beyond. Banks of equipment lined the walls, indicator lights blinking in slow familiar patterns. Specimen containers sat in neat rows, mostly empty of course, and screen displays floated above several workstations cycling through various data streams. And there, at the central console, sat your friend.
He looked up as you entered, his angular features catching the blue-white glow of the monitors. It cast devastatingly well-suited shadows across his face, and you swore you could count the peaks of his eyelashes in the silhouette.
"Good evening." He nodded towards you. His voice carried that distinctive measured quality that always made you feel like every word was carefully considered. "I wasn't expecting you. Is there a problem with one of the systems?"
"No, no problem." You said quickly. Perhaps too quickly. You cleared your throat, trying to sound more casual. "I just.. I wanted to stop by."
His head tilted slightly to the side, a gesture you'd come to recognize as curiosity. "I see. Then please, come in."
You stepped further into the lab, boots tamping softly against the deck plating. It always felt different here than the rest of the ship. Quieter somehow, more contemplative. While the rest of the Sulaco was all harsh angles and military sterility, this space had an almost meditative quality. You supposed that made sense. Bishop spent most of his time here, and he had a way of bringing ease to whatever environment he occupied.
"I've been working on the tertiary cooling system." You started in with small talk, falling into the familiar pattern of technical conversation that usually preceded your real reasons for visiting. "The efficiency has improved by three percent since the last maintenance cycle."
"Impressive." Bishop replied, and you thought you detected genuine interest in his tone. "The Sulaco’s fortunate to have such a dedicated engineer."
A prickle crept up your neck at the compliment. You busied yourself examining a nearby wet-specimen platform, not trusting yourself to meet his eyes. Inside, some kind of plant sample floated in preservation fluid, its leaves a deep green even in stasis.
"Where's this from?" You asked, grateful for the distraction.
Bishop turned from his task, swiveling in his stool to assess the context of your inquiry. "Mm, that. A terrestrial fern, propagated from the mother plant on the Weyland-Yutani Gateway Station. It was being cultivated in the greenhouse domes, but I've been intending to establish it here to assist with air quality." He rose from his seat and moved to stand beside you, close enough that you could detect trace scents of solvent and oxidizers. "I find Earth flora fascinating. The complexity of their biological systems, the way they've adapted to countless environments over millions of years. There's an elegance to it."
This was why you'd started visiting so often, you told yourself. Bishop's enthusiasm for his work was infectious, even if he expressed it in an understated way. When he talked about biology, chemistry, the intricate systems that sustained life, something in his voice changed. It became warmer, more animated — or at least, as animated as Bishop ever became.
"I know you do." You smiled softly, and then, before you could lose your nerve, you reached into your pocket. "That's actually why I made you this little something."
You pulled out the paper gardenia, its white petals carefully folded and shaped over hours of painstaking work. The technical paper you'd used gave it a slight sheen under the lab lights, and you'd managed to create a stem from twisted wire salvaged from a maintenance kit. It wasn't perfect, by any means. Your hands were better suited to circuit boards than origami. But, you'd tried your best, and arts and crafts were quickly becoming the only thing that really entertained you during the long hours. Well... almost the only thing.
Bishop's expression shifted, something flickering across his features that you couldn't quite identify. Surprise, perhaps. He reached out slowly, accepting the paper flower from your hand with a gentleness that made your breath catch.
"You made this." He repeated your statement, not quite a question.
"I thought... you could put it on your desk. Since you like plants, y’know, and we don't exactly have a garden on board." The words tumbled out in a rush. You felt your face growing hot despite yourself, which you were certain he would notice (like always). "It's just paper, obviously, nothing like the real thing, but I thought maybe —"
"It's a gardenia." Bishop interrupted softly, turning the paper bloom in his fingers. You warmed at his correct identification, though you hadn't expected any less. His eyes fixed on you with an intensity that made you want to look away. "Do you know much about floriography?"
Your heart stuttered. "Florio-what-y?"
"Floriography. The language of flowers." Bishop's thumb traced one of the paper petals with studied attention. "It was particularly popular in the Victorian era, though the practice has roots in various cultures throughout human history. Different flowers were assigned specific meanings, allowing people to communicate sentiments that social convention prevented them from expressing openly."
Oh.
Oh no.
"I... I didn't..." You stammered, feeling the blood drain from your face only to rush back twice as hot. "I just thought you'd like it because it's a flower, and you like plants, and —"
"Gardenias..." Bishop continued, low voice maintaining that same soothing academic tone even as your world tilted sideways. "...traditionally symbolize purity and sweetness. But in the language of flowers, they carry a more specific meaning." He paused, and you could have sworn you saw the ghost of something (amusement? affection?) flicker across his features. "They represent a sort of secret love."
You wanted the deck plating to open up and eject you into space. Your mouth opened and closed soundlessly, your mind racing through a thousand possible responses and finding none of them adequate. Had you really just accidentally confessed your feelings through a paper flower? This was worse than any nightmare scenario you'd imagined.
"I didn't know." You finally managed, your voice barely above a whisper. "I swear, I didn't know that. I just... I wanted to give you something nice."
Bishop looked at you for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then, with infinite care, he placed the paper gardenia on his desk, propped inside an empty beaker, positioning it just so beside his primary monitor.
"Thank you." You watched the corner of his mouth tilt upwards hesitantly, but eagerly, like he was trying something new and exciting. "I will treasure it."
You mumbled something incoherent (probably an excuse about needing to check on power couplings, or whatever the hell else you'd been neglecting) and fled the room with as much dignity as you could muster. Which was approximately none.
The next week was an exercise in carefully orchestrated avoidance. You found reasons to work in sections of the ship far from the science bay. You took mess at different times, volunteered for extra maintenance shifts, and generally did everything possible to minimize the chance of running into Bishop.
It wasn't that he'd been unkind. If anything, his response had been perfectly polite, perfectly Bishop. But that was somehow worse. You'd accidentally revealed your feelings, feelings you'd barely begun to admit to yourself, and he'd simply... accepted the gift. Thanked you. Placed it on his desk like it was any other specimen or piece of equipment.
You told yourself it was for the best. Bishop was an artificial person, yes, and one you respected deeply. But the idea that he might return these sorts of feelings was absurd. It should be absurd.
Oh, but your poor lovesick brain... it believed something different. You'd seen too much of his personality to believe he was incapable of feeling, as complicated as it may be for him to experience or understand. The engineer in you tended to agree with this, knowing intimately the complexities of Wey-Yu's current synthetic model game. Not that it mattered. The whole situation was mortifying, and the best thing you could do was let it fade into the background noise of shipboard life.
You were in the main dropship hangar fixing a finicky power relay, elbow-deep in a wall panel, when you heard the rightside hangar door open.
"MU/TH/UR's diagnostics report indicated you've been working for eleven consecutive hours." Bishop's voice crossed the room, and you nearly dropped your plasma torch. Shit. Could've been bad. "That exceeds the recommended shift length by three hours."
You didn't turn around, keeping your eyes fixed on the tangle of circuits in front of you. "Just wanted to get this finished."
"I see." Silence, then. Just enough to make you start to sweat. "May I speak with you for a moment?"
Your hands stilled. Ah. There was no avoiding this, was there? You set down your tools, wiped your palms on your jumpsuit, and finally turned to face him.
Bishop stood in the doorway, his hands clasped behind his back in a familiar pose. But there was something different about him tonight... a subtle tension in his posture, perhaps, or an unusual brightness in his eyes.
"I've been working on a project." He moved further into the hangar, looking down at his shoes. "I wanted to share it with you."
He brought his hands forward, and you saw that he was holding something delicate and intricate. A chain of paper flowers, each bloom carefully crafted and connected to the next. But these weren't made with white tech paper, like the gardenia you'd made. They were tinted a soft purple, the color achieved through what looked like careful application of diluted chemical dyes.
"Intended to be lilacs." Bishop clarified, offering the chain to you gingerly. "Syringa vulgaris, to be precise. I had to improvise with the coloring... we don't have proper pigments on board, but a diluted solution of phenolphthalein in a basic medium produced an acceptable purple hue."
You took the paper flowers with trembling hands, marveling at the craftsmanship. Each bloom was perfect, far more precise than your clumsy handwork. The petals were impossibly delicate, and he'd somehow managed to create the characteristic clustered shape of lilac blossoms.
"...Bishop, this is..." You looked up at him, confused, and overwhelmed, and so heart achingly fond you wanted to cry. "This is... beautiful. But why?"
"You gave me a gift. I wanted to reciprocate." He said it like it was as simple as anything. Perhaps to him it was. He watched as you turned the circlet in your hands, precious as a feather. "Purple lilacs also have a meaning in floriography."
Your heart started up that annoying hammering thing again. You swallowed a gob of spit that felt the size of an apple. "They do...?"
"Yes." Bishop's eyes met yours, steady and unwavering. "They symbolize the first emotions of love. First love, specifically."
The room suddenly felt too small, too warm. You stared at the paper lilacs in your hands, then back at Bishop, trying to parse the meaning behind his words. Was he... was this...?
"Ah... I see." You cleared your throat, hearing how hoarse you'd become. "Are you... is this..."
"I find myself uncertain of the appropriate protocol." Bishop admitted, and for the first time since you'd known him, he seemed almost hesitant. "I am aware that my nature complicates matters. My responses are the result of complex programming and neural network patterns rather than biochemical processes. But... the end result is functionally similar."
He took a small step closer, stompers quiet on the plating, his voice dropping to something softer. More intimate. It echoed less in the room, meant for you specifically.
"I value our interactions highly. I find myself anticipating your visits. I experience what my programming interprets as disappointment when you're not there, and satisfaction when you are. I enjoy our conversations, your perspective, your presence. There are… sensations I notice. New. Unprogrammed." He paused, looked down, computing something. "If I were human, I believe these patterns would be classified as distinct from a platonic level of interest."
Oh, you couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. Could only stand there holding his delicate gift while Bishop — gentle, intelligent, infinitely patient Bishop — essentially confessed that he was identifying feelings for you.
"But I wanted to be certain I wasn't misinterpreting your gesture." He continued, clasping his hands. You almost expected him to start fidgeting. "The gardenia could have been simply a kind gift from a colleague who knew of my interest in botany. You weren’t aware of the contextual history of it, after all. I didn't want to assume. So I thought... perhaps if I responded in kind, using the same symbolic language, we might achieve clarity."
"Clarity." You parroted faintly, at a loss for your own words.
"Yes." Bishop ducked his chin slightly. "Though I confess, I may have miscalculated. Your expression suggests confusion rather than understanding."
A laugh bubbled up from your chest, slightly hysterical but genuine. "No! No, no, I just... I can't believe this is happening. I've been avoiding you all week because I was so embarrassed about accidentally telling on myself, and now you're telling me that you... that you..."
"Experience feelings of intense preference for you." Bishop finished. "Yes. Perhaps romantic in nature, if that terminology is acceptable."
"Acceptable." You echoed again, and then you were laughing for real, the tension of the past week dissolving into something bright and wiggly inside of you. "Bishop, it's more than acceptable. It's... I mean, I do. Have feelings for you. Obviously. The whole flower thing kind of gave that away, unintentionally."
"I had theorized as much." Bishop hummed, and was that amusement in his voice? "But I wanted to be certain."
You looked down at the paper lilacs again, running your fingers gently over the delicate petals. First love. He'd made you flowers that symbolized first love. The intentionality of it, the thoughtfulness, the way he'd learned a new craft just to respond to your gesture in kind... it was so perfectly him that you felt your chest tighten with endearment so strong it threatened to make you yelp.
You returned your gaze to him. He was observing you raptly, eyes hooded in repose. You gulped. ""So.. what happens now?"
"I'm uncertain." Bishop admitted. "I have no experiential data for this situation. My programming includes much information on human relationships, but the practical application is..." He took a moment, seeming to search for the right word. "Daunting."
"We could figure it out together." You suggested, your voice tentative but hopeful. "If... if you want to, y'know. I'm a good teacher."
"I believe it." There it was. That little awkward and incredibly adorable half-smile. "I would like that very much."
The grin that spread across your own face in return felt too big for your body. You couldn't care less if it made you look mad as a hatter. Could have looked like a Halloween mask and you still wouldn't have censored one bit of the absolute joy you felt. You carefully draped the paper lilac chain around your neck, feeling the gentle weight of it settle against your collarbone.
"Can I..." You hesitated, considering whether this might be too much for him at this juncture. Or even too much for you. You took the plunge, anyway. "Can I show you something? Something simple?"
Bishop nodded at once, ever-curious. "Of course."
You extended your hand between you, palm facing him, fingers slightly curled. "This. Just... holding hands. If you want to try."
For a moment, Bishop simply looked at your offered hand, his expression thoughtful. Then, with that usual deliberate exactness, he raised his own hand and carefully placed it in yours.
The first thing you noticed was the temperature. Not cold, exactly, but cooler than human skin, with a faint warmth that suggested the activity of machinery beneath. His palm was smooth, almost unnaturally so, the skin flawless in a way that real flesh never quite managed. But it wasn't unpleasant. It was just... different, in a way that excited you.
Bishop's fingers rested lightly between yours, barely any pressure at all. You could feel him analyzing the contact, processing. Then, slowly, his fingers began to curl around your hand. The movement was tentative, experimental.
"Is this correct?" He asked softly, brows knit slightly as he concentrated on where your fingers hugged his.
"There's no wrong way." You assured him, a little breathless. "Just... what feels right."
You felt his fingers flex slightly, adjusting. His grip tightened incrementally, then loosened again. He was calibrating, you realized. Testing different pressure levels, finding the balance between too loose and too firm. The care he was taking not to hurt you made something tickly bloom under your ribs.
"Your pulse is elevated." Bishop observed, though he didn't pull away. "Approximately one hundred and fifteen beats per minute."
"Yeah, well." You managed a shaky laugh. "You make me nervous. In a good way."
His thumb moved then, a gentle sweep across the back of your hand, grazing the bumps of your knuckles. The gesture was so tender, so deliberately learned, that you had to blink back the sudden sting in your eyes. He adjusted his grip again, this time settling into something that felt natural. Firm enough to be present, gentle enough to be nakedly affectionate.
"This is..." Bishop paused, and when he continued, his voice held that same uncertain quality from before. "Pleasant. Significantly more so than I anticipated."
You squeezed his hand delicately, and felt him return the heightened pressure in reply, dancing with you perfectly. You giggled. His cheeks creased with a slightly wider smile than you were used to seeing on him. It only made you laugh more, and you rushed to clarify, not wanting to confuse him with such a reaction.
"I'm not making fun, you're just... you're so cute." You hid your face with your free hand, trying your best to settle down. "I love when you smile."
Bishop, to his credit, didn't drop the smile despite looking rather perplexed by you. He made an exhale through his nose, his way of expressing amusement that wasn't full laughter. "I've started to look forward to seeing yours, as well." His eyes slid across your face, resting where you hid your mouth from him. "I find your features and reactions... categorically appealing."
From anyone but Bishop, this would have sounded quite vague, but you knew this was a distinctly elevated appraisal in his eyes. You rubbed your thumb across his knuckles this time, almost subconsciously, and saw his eyes track the movement with interest. For a moment, neither of you moved. You felt the warmth spreading between your palms, the unique exchange between organic and synthetic. Bishop's fingers remained perfectly still against yours, and you wondered if he was memorizing the sensation, as reluctant to break the connection as you were.
"I should probably get back to work..." You said after a moment, but you didn't drop his hand just yet. "This power relay won't fix itself."
"You've been at it for 11 hours, as previously mentioned." Bishop never made an effort to hide his concern. "Perhaps, if it suits you, I could join you for a meal? The readout reported no intake today from you." He applied pressure to your hand again to punctuate his words, then looked to the side. "It... worried me."
You groaned, mentally cursing the ship's invasive monitoring, but of course adoring Bishop's unabashed sweetness.
"Have I offended you?"
You balked. "What? No, no, I'm sorry, I just... I'm not used to someone noticing these things. The whole not taking care of myself thing." On cue, your stomach made a noise of protest. Bishop fixed you with a pointed look. "Fine, fine. Lead the way, my knight in... jumpsuit-armor."
He grinned, almost cheekily, and turned for the door, pulling you along with your hand still locked in his. You could have sworn his chest stuck out a little more as he walked, glancing back at you every so often on your way to food and rest. Though you felt a little silly being led like a toddler through the halls, you paid no mind to the knowing smirks and other times outright questioning looks of stray crewmates. And of course, neither did Bishop.