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Some expect Nines to live like a ghost.
It makes sense in theory, considering that he is an android with bare minimum needs. He needs no air, no food, no water to survive. The closest thing would be the recharging pod that sits beside your bed, but Nines has taken to enjoying the quiet of laying underneath the sheets with you. It’s true that he could spend his nights simply in standing stasis at the most sinister corner of the room. It is also true that he could enjoy it within the comforts of a bed with high thread count sheets.
The second closest thing is a thing you’re the most proud of: android-friendly cookies in a jar that Nines eats when he accompanies you for meals. For all his claims of not needing sustenance, he has slowly warmed up to the idea of eating for recreation. You suppose it’s arguably like offerings for a ghost: unneeded but appreciated all the same.
But it’s this third closest thing where the comparison feels like it’s hit the mark: the moving in of his sparse belongings.
Nines has only lived for a grand total of two years. In this span of time, he had only accumulated enough belongings to fit snugly in one box when he first moved in: thirium, charging pod, clothes. He needs very little to function, and if given the directive, would have been indifferent to only having a pair of clothes to live out the rest of his life. He would live as the ghosts and the dead do, quiet and eerie and never taking up any more space than necessary.
The laundry would be mysteriously done and folded and hung neatly in their respective closets. The leaking faucets and creaking doors would be oiled up and fixed, and perhaps an upgrade or two might already be on their way. The floors would be vacuumed, swept, mopped to spotlessness and there would be no sign of the phantom that had done it all within a single night. The house might even provide the impression that it is self-sustaining, self-upgrading, self-repairing. If Nines truly put his mind to it, he could very impressively devise a strategy to avoid every other occupant of the house while still living within it.
All of this is true. And yet so is the converse. Nines is an android. Androids need little to function, and have all the hours in the day to go about accomplishing chores even after their shifts at the precinct. But Nines is also deviant. And the point that started the revolution in the first place was the topic of want.
Want, like the dark cat (affectionately named Cat) that now lounges around your kitchen counter–more amiable to Nines in that his ability to regulate his temperatures to the highest precision and capability of going absolutely still for hours on end has made him a popular nap spot. Cat, because he found it endlessly amusing to use the same naming scheme the humans at the precinct used to assign him his own name.
(Sixty. Nines. Cat, Nines had deadpanned, not looking up from the data tablet in his hand. All the same.)
Want, like the disgustingly yellow bookshelves that sit in the living room despite your protests, because for all of Nines’ systems being able to access every database on aesthetic appeal and interior design, he liked the horrible contrast yellow made in opposition to everything else in the shared space even if it was atrocious and so he suggested it when the both of you planned to move into this new apartment together.
Want, like the fact that said suggestion was the only thing that Nines had brought up without hesitation, and so you swiped your card and arranged for delivery by the next week.
Yes. It completely ruins the entire room, Nines had explained without so much of a twitch of his lips. He knew you knew he was offering up the Nines-equivalent of nonsense. But Nines’ brand of nonsense was never too outrageous or out there–and very often, you found quiet truths embedded inside. Always factual statements, never too different from Nines’ normal brand of honesty. But it is also a nice color. Like a centerpiece.
And want, like the way his hand drapes over you in bed, or the palm on your thigh when he drives, or the feeling of his fingers at the small of your back when going somewhere and Nines has all the freedom and excuse in the world to cite ‘security concerns’ when both of you know he just enjoys touch.
Could you really call a being with these wants a ghost?
Ghosts lingered. They moved through spaces, sometimes aimlessly or sometimes with vengeful purpose. They nudged things here and there, caused scares and mysterious paranormal events that would eventually be rationalised by the mind. They were terrifying in all the ways that mattered: form and function and sheer metaphysical terror at the implications their existence had.
Sure, sometimes Nines walked too quietly along the floorboards of the house. Once or twice (or thrice) he’s given you a scare from how silent he can be despite his frame and all. And sure, the whole concept of sentient androids has led to a few sleepless nights for you with many questions on what it meant for your own consciousness as well as the ever-present question of the existence of a soul. And fine, if you did strip every bit of Nines away from himself, it was nightmarish to imagine living with something designed as a military weapon that could incapacitate you before you could even blink.
But that didn’t take away from the fact that Nines now deliberately makes noise when he walks. It didn’t take away the fact that he is gentle and careful with hands that could and have crushed concrete with ease. It didn’t take away the fact that Nines has wants and purpose and isn't some wandering listless spectre.
And well. Ghosts didn’t make places feel more like–
Meow.
“You haven’t eaten.” A standard greeting from Nines. By that, you mean the absence of one, replaced by an observation pulled from a completed scan of your physiological signs. “I will cook.”
You turn around.
He’s left his coat by the rack near the front door, and is currently dressed down in only the dark high-collared shirt that still looks incredible on him even after so long. Cat weaves around his legs to nudge at his hand, demanding affection that Nines swiftly provides before picking them up.
In a few strides he crosses the hallway over to where you are on the couch, standing straight and tall. Though his hands are currently busy with holding Cat, you can imagine them clasped behind his back.
“Welcome home to you, Nines,” you say, propping yourself up on your knees to try and get to eye level with him. “Sorry. Got caught up in work. I could just get take out instead?”
“No. There is a new recipe I would like to try,” Nines murmurs, looking entirely straight faced even as he rhythmically pets Cat and very sweetly offering to cook for you. Cat purrs, nuzzling into his chest. “I have determined that you will enjoy it.”
God. He’s so endearing. You want to kiss him silly.
“You spoil me,” you say, rising up further to kiss him on the cheek. Nines bends down just a bit to help you–because CyberLife decided to make him annoyingly tall. He makes a sound you can’t really categorise–something in-between static and glitching that gets transformed into something like a grunt. In other words, the Nines-equivalent of blushing. “What would I do without you?”
Cat squirms in Nines’ hold, jumping off to pad somewhere else. These bipedal creatures and their courtship, they must be thinking, because their timing really is convenient.
“Order takeout for the fifth time this month,” Nines flatly answers. The corner of his lips twitch with amusement. You move closer, using the excuse to kiss him again on the other side of the cheek to draw really near. His freed hands curl into the linen cover of the couch, and even that microscopic movement fills you with satisfaction at seeing the tangible evidence of want. “You would most likely have gotten the same order as you did yesterday, judging from past week’s metrics.”
“Thank you for that insight,” you drawl, rolling your eyes. Still, you’re grinning because your face is so close to his, and this is something like a challenge-slash-taunt that you know Nines won’t obviously take. You’re right, of course, because Nines draws back–but you know you’re winning because his eyes flicker down to where you think your mouth is for a moment before abruptly jumping back up. “What if I really want takeaway?”
You really don’t.
“I will ensure the opportunity cost of me cooking is overshadowed by the monetary cost and poor nutritional value of the hypothetical takeaway,” Nines dryly says, reading you. “I am also fully aware of what you’re attempting to do. Consider it… postponed.”
You frown. “But I miss you. At least give me one kiss.”
Nines considers this. Just for a second. The very logical and bulletproof argument you just posed reaches something within him, because his LED suddenly blazes a bright yellow while his hands come up to pull you into an embrace.
You can’t help it–you close your eyes in contentment as Nines’ warmth envelops you.
“You can always join me in the kitchen whenever you want,” Nines murmurs, voice low and stupidly seductive against your ear. Promises, promises, you think, but the problem here is that Nines has always kept all of his promises. He’s even giving you his promised kiss here and now on the back of your head before letting you go. “Very well. That was your one kiss. I have ingredients to prepare.”
You slump back down into the couch as Nines pulls away. Merciless as he was originally designed, he doesn’t look back while he heads into the kitchen. Truly as single-minded and one-track as his predecessors–give them a mission and they’ll pour all of their focus into it. Well. Maybe you’ll stay here a bit, pretend that you aren’t as eager as you really are.
(You kind of need it. If not you’ll be heading in there with your own mission in mind, and who knows when you’ll finally get to have a proper dinner. Nines may be stubborn and determined, but even he is susceptible to getting distracted when you’re in the picture from time to time. It’s a coin toss, which speaks volumes since Nines never gets distracted otherwise.)
From the kitchen, something old and jazzy starts to play. It comes from Nines himself, another one of those repurposed design functions he adapted and tailored for his own needs. Him, so far diverged from his original purpose that he’s currently in the kitchen preparing food for you and going through a shared playlist to find a song of his choice to listen to.
Home, you think to yourself, finishing the thought from before. Hah. Nines? A ghost? Far from it.
The smell of herbs and garlic starts to crowd the air, a delicious aroma that sends your stomach rumbling. The kitchen has grown more lively with Nines around–a completely unexpected development from the very beginning. Now the groceries come in big bags and the pantry is constantly stocked with ingredients of all kinds because your boyfriend has a database in his head that he constantly scours for different meal ideas. Potatoes and beans and minced beef from the butcher, soy sauce and curry powder and mirin, an array of cheese and spreads and a constantly stocked bread box that sits prettily on an empty counter. Just the thought of all this food and love makes your chest ache with something tender.
“Will you be coming in here?” Nines calls from the kitchen, music volume dipping so that his voice cuts clearly through. He’s still skipping songs, trying to find something he likes. He’s gone through quite a few already. “I am deciding how I will serve you your meal.”
Your not-so-ghostly Nines: your personal chef. Ghosts could never.
You roll your eyes at that thought. Time to set this pointless debate aside, and go help him now that you’ve settled down. He’s obviously not done–he’s just computing many steps ahead, and it appears he’s arrived at the conclusion when he’s barely begun. You’re flattered that he’d even asked for your input this time around. Other times, Nines tends to get caught up in ensuring you never lift a single finger.
“Coming,” you say, getting up on your feet and heading to the kitchen. Cat’s ear twitches where they lounge on top of the fridge, surveying their territory. They’re cozily settled into a basket with pillows, a recent addition after you both decided that trying to train Cat off kitchen appliances was more difficult than simply accommodating them. “How can I help?”
“You can sit and watch,” Nines says, sleeves all rolled up as he plays at being busy at the chopping board–taking his time, doling out slices with a slow precision you know he could easily accelerate. “Prior experience informs me that you quite enjoy the show,” he continues. A pause. Then, utterly deadpan: “Specifically, my forearms.”
You snort. You take your time to evaluate said forearms, watching him work. “Nines.”
“I’m correct.”
“Nines.”
He hums. Non-committal and disclosing nothing. You don’t even want to describe it as him going back to focusing on the cooking, because that multi-core processor of his could do a whole lot of multitasking with sheer ease. He simply drops the conversation thread, lets you continue to ‘enjoy the show’ without interference.
Cat meows to announce themselves, jumping onto you. This time, it seems, they’ve realised that their favourite owner is too busy to attend to them. Well, all is fair in love and war. You’ll just have to spoil them further to sway them over to your side, won’t you? As you look over to find the cat treats, your eyes catch the glint of the thirium cookie jar on the table. You mentally note that you’ll have to go out for a restock again very soon. The earl grey ones, you think. Those are the ones he likes.
In the background, another song starts to play. This time, the melody finally makes it past the first verse.