Work Text:
You were quiet on the grass, watching the sun go down one evening
I asked how you were feeling - no, how're you really feeling?
So you pulled your heart out of your chest and held it out to me, you got blood on your shirt
You said here's what it does, and here's how it works.
What does it do and how does it work
by The Burning Hell
Power leaves traces, physical proof to return to. Feeling granted Genos no such luxury. Meeting Saitama moved something but no matter how often he visited the canyon that Power had carved just for him, he couldn't catch it. Even if Genos was diligent, walls curled around silent and absent of any kind of answer. He took pictures regardless and filed them away in the subfolder about sensei. It was time to go home, dinner was nearing.
Home met Genos barely any different than how he left it. Fleeting feeling overcame him right on time at 0.33 seconds from opening the front door. Kitchen counter had new shopping bag and Saitama-sensei moved from watching news to reading 49th volume of "Fuzz of Doom". The feeling never lasted enough time to analyse properly even if it happened consistently, sensor data was of no help. So Genos had to guess that the feeling was a response to coming in contact with extreme amount of Power because even meeting Tatsumaki produced no such response.
"Just how incredible sensei is," thought Genos but said nothing, only making a quick note regarding 49th volume in his journal.
Keeping notes on paper was a bit archaic, given the sophisticated machinery that composed mechanical hand holding the pen. But pressure readings morphed into simple human senses, paper texture against Genos' palm and the glide of the pen.
Dark summer evening stretched outside the window, warm and lazy. With dinner being done with and journal filled, only thing that was left to do was for Genos but observe sensei for any extra data.
Or not because by the time cyborg came to this conclusion Saitama already lightly tapped his shoulder. Hand landed firm but it was filled with no Power. In theory it made sense, Genos seen Saitama touch fragile objects before and mostly they stayed more or less assembled. In practice weight sensors prickled under the warm palm, as if metal still was skin. It was not unwelcome but lacked points of reference, which was extremely bothersome. And made evening even more confusing to get through.
Saitama just looked comfortable, just standing in front of the balcony door, hand left resting on metal shoulder. All the time advantage it gave Genos was wasted because when Saitama blinked away the thought that captivated him, few minutes that passed went unnoticed by cyborg. His memory was machine perfect. Yet it went pretty humanly blank, slowly overtaken with scents of late summer and wisp of warmed metal.
— Say, Genos, don't you think today's better to finish off that ice cream in the fridge? Weather lady on TV said it's gona get colder next few days. — He glanced down at Genos, whose face remained slightly perplexed, so just in case he added — You can still go for the takoyaki I got today, though.
But Genos was not really perplexed by the type of desert sensei had picked for the evening, although maybe he was leaning towards takoyaki. He suddenly came to realise that he was not too familiar with the metallic scent that lingered on his shoulder, even after Saitama walked away and towards the fridge.
"Metal does not have 'sent' of its own" answered his query a comment in the long forum discussion from few years back. "What people smell when they describe 'smelling metal' actually has to do with oils from the skin, oxidizing the surface."
Genos frowned further. Guess it made sense, he didn't get all that much of physical contact with humans. Few times when it did happened, moistly happened on the battle field where his sensors were already overwhelmed with metallic smell of the spilled blood and he was much more concern with detecting poisonous gas in the air than anything to do with his metal frame.
He looked over to the kitchen, blinked and diligently turned off small lamp on the table. It really was good time for takoyaki, would go better with a side of ice cream?
Morning rolls around, week filled with rains passes, Genos tosses another flavour of ice cream in the freezer and leaves a bag with takoyaki on the counter. He feel the 0.33 seconds pass every time until he comes home few hours early, feeling still clicks when he opens the door but this time it faintly clicks again when he scans the apartment fully empty. Diagnostics doesn't really reveal anything wrong. So he was left with archaic methods of figuring things out. He picks up a manga chapter from the table with one hand. It doesn't quite feel right, the weight of the object comes back a faceless, plain number. Nonetheless he places the book back where it was and picks up a pen from the small box sitting on the table corner like any other day. Genos jolts away, dropping the plastic stationary from how foreign it feels in his grip.
His system kicks into overdrive, startled by a surge of energy his core pulses with. Artificial adrenaline curses through, metal panelling shifting to get cannons at "ready". Genos subdues the panicled whirling of the core in his chest, internal warnings fall asleep one after another because there's no threat. There's nobody around. He's alone.
Regained control feels flimsy buy cyborg sill steps forward, eyes transfixed on the mundane casing of the pen. It doesn't mock him from where it fell on the floor, it couldn't, really. Because inanimate objects are incapable of such things.
Pen is round, plastic and solid. Properties of the object do not change for the world around but Genos feels the change none the less. He sits on the floor circling through the list of facts, over and over again.
Round.
Solid.
Plastic.
He would've liked to lie and believe that he was lost in those thoughts, like a human would but he is incapable of such things. His sensors pick up Saitama's approach before he steps foot on their floor. Something inside Genos' chest clicks for the third time in past 57 minutes. He hates the number scorching itself in the internal logs. But feeling dissipates because the pen he is still holding suddenly fills his hand with the warm weight of familiarity. There's only enough time to jump to his feet before apartment lock clicks, opening and Genos is facing his sensei, out of pure habit and without second thought.
— Hey Genos, how's… — Saitama trails off and tilts his head a little before hastily putting down his bundle of suspicious greens and crossing the room. — Did something happen'? Aw man, did King bother you with those melodramatic movies of his?
Genos did try to answer, which presented a challenge, Saitama got a rather firm grip on cyborg's face, index fingers curled under the jawline and thumbs fixed on the cheeks. He applies a little pressure on the cheek if guiding Genos' face to turn before taking hands away in surrendering gesture.
— Oh, sorry man that gota be… Uh very weird? You were about to say what was it about anyways?
The touch was short, warm and brought the same metallic scent again. Feeling of familiarity spread through Genos' face, starting from the spots on his cheeks and jaw where he still felt warmth lingering. He blinked for a good measure. And oil drop slipped down his cheek.
— I had my tactile module malfunction, sensei! — it did not produce expected reaction out of said sensei. Instead he got paler in the face and it took expression of something in-between distress and profound sadness.
— Damn. I made it worse then just now? — now it was time for Genos to look puzzled at what Saitama was saying. There wasn't a reason to hold his tongue about how it actually felt quite nice to have his face held yet he chose to trust intuition as to not make the situation awkward.
— No, everythi… — he stuttered, forcing the "okay" part had caused an echo of void feeling to press against the back of the throat instead. — It's going to be fine but it seems that I would need some maintenance.
— You already figured out how to fix it? Cool! Does it need to be looked at by that doc of yours?
Maybe it would've been optimal but in a moment Genos really did not feel like stepping through the doorway and hearing the clicking sound again. So he shook his head, and took a step back. Another thought of how he should've felt awkward occurred to him but even though he waited for it, the feeling itself never followed.
He found it quite amusing, certainly something worth writing down. And now it was time for small repairs. Toolbox was as good as new, in part due to diligence of its owner and part because small repairs were very recent development. Genos was much more used to going all or nothing an his mechanical parts being just spare change, falling on the ground that he cared not to pick up. It seemed like important data point, Genos took hand away from the handle of the box to not disturb half formed thought. Maybe if he took just a little more time before confronting broken element inside, he would understand.
He headed for the kitchen sink, dish soap would probably take care of grease stains better than hand soap in the bathroom. Paper towel is a
little scratchy but Genos wouldn't go ruining hand towels for such a non issue.
— Hey, catch! — Saitama yells from the living room. Genos barely has time to turn before soft roll of the towel hits just above his core. It pulses warmth in response, as soon as he lifted his eyes at Saitama-sensei, who looked like usual, with a hint of a soft smile. He even acted as usual, falling back on his reading spot almost immediately after.
— But I would be ruining perfectly good towel, — Genos struggled to identify where the retort even came from. Water kept rustling away in the sink, in a way that didn't let any charge accumulate in the air, instead everything felt horrifyingly homelike mundane.
— Hmm, it's a face towel, you gona be washing your face. I see no problem. — Saitama answered from the floor, no more concerned for the object than weather predictions of the next month.
Dish soap bubbled in the sink, taking away remnants of oil and releasing last nodes of tension. Charging into danger head first was easy but for Genos it was maintenance that felt most out of bounds. He dutifully turned the water on but hovered above the sink longer, watching last foam disappear.
Toolbox is out off the closet, and the instruments are out of the box, lined up on the off-white cloth like makeshift surgeon's table. Surgery must be performed with steady hands, which is not supposed to be a problem for Genos, his "hands" are a part of big, precise mechanism but he finds his limbs uncooperative. And still some thing has to be done, pushed through against fear or discomfort.
Removing jean vest is easy, though he takes twelve seconds more folding it. Easing a screw holding metallic scale flush against left side of his chest, yet he went through several extra checks before it.
Right where the gap between between fifth and sixth ribs would've been. Not that Genos was ungrateful but he found the way his metal was taking after human anatomy to be pointless.
Screwdriver is plastic and firm, with ridges along the grip, nothing special really, yet Genos hesitates before the next step. He has to disengage sensory centre, this time voluntarily.
One audible click and world around is simplified down to pressures and temperatures. Genos felt the chill spread along synthetic joints of his spine and fill his chest right up to the bottom edge of the core. His gaze wanders around the room, half conscious of how exaggeratedly long route he takes looking over simple furnishing, fighting against the draw of looking the only way he ever wished to look.
And he looks.
And the cold ebbs, utterly confusing Genos. It had nothing to do with tangible reality, it was something he felt, bright and clear against the blank slate of the void. Saitama was looking for his eyes over the edge of the book in his hands.
Unfamiliarity crushes the comfort of the silence but the urge to break it is something Genos knows well. And he falls right back onto that:
— Sensei, it appears I might need some assistance with disassembly.
— Sure! What kind of assistance?
And it's almost feels better before he processes that Saitama scrambles to put down the book and shuffle close. There's an urge in Genos to overanalyse this gesture, estimate the care in attentive eyes but he puts the stop to that. The surge of new feeling is already enough variables for the evening. Especially those that looked like care.
— Are you gona be alright though? I mean… — Saitama trails off instead of finishing the sentence just stares at the loose metal plate on the floor.
— Yes, — Genos pours all he confidence in that part. — This is not too big of a repair.
Saitama doesn't look entirely convinced but his expression shifts. Concentrated dedication, it's almost funny, really. It's like Genos was some complicated game combo that his sensei was desperately trying not to fail. No matter the reason, the screwdriver didn't feel as hostile against pressure sensors anymore and stiffness of the synthetic ligaments was no more. Second screw was out from the cavity and so was the third, leaving small metallic mechanism to be taken out.
— Sensei, that is where I would request assistance, switch is way too small to be extracted with my current limited tactile sensitivity— Please, — he added to sound polite, he did not have time to lament if it landed because Saitama stopped listening somewhere halfway as soon as he was sure that he got the gist.
Pried away on his palm metal part seemed insignificant , Saitama looked at it and pinched the cylinder between his fingers, to raise to the eye level.
— So, is this thing responsible? And while it's out you don't feel anything?
And no matter how simple was the question Genos hesitated. Without sensory inputs he didn't have anything to feel with. But it didn't seem correct either. So against his better judgement, he just answered
— I don't know.
Which earned him concerned look and instant stiffening of the atmosphere.
— Should we leave it to Doc? I really don't want to mess anything up, Genos.
And that's the question that Genos knows the answer for and it's burning on the back of this throat while he waits for the sentence to end.
— (Absolutely) No(t). Please hand me the detail, I need to look for the spare. I can not do it without visual match. — Formal, dry and way to hastily he cuts the conversation and turns to open cavity of the toolbox. Only daring to look at the object in his hand once fully facing away.
He does know were they are, almost instantly so, he recognises the switch, one of many, yet the model is few version behind. From way before switches could withstand constant use. Wasn't it supposed to get caught in one of check ups? Given just how many times it clicked in the single day of malfunctioning, there was an obvious corelation just why it suddenly gave up. Feeling he had no use in long years brushed past him. Want, was it… Acute drop of the staticky tension is nauseating with clarity. Followed by the cold flush of another long lost sense. Shame.
He feels his head spin. Want, acknowledged at last, thrashes violently in the metal cage of his chest. Pangs of shame bloom at the cracks, spreading roots into his core but they can not hold and lost to the storm.
It takes three seconds flat to locate and grab a hold of the fitting replacement and another two for turning back, so he is facing Saitama again. System desperately surges energy to the currently missing switch. And what Genos was just guessing was now abundantly evident.
He was also probably in love with his sensei.
Reflecting on that last part could wait until Genos got his sense of touch back.
Meanwhile for Saitama this few minutes did not constitute any significant revelations, he was measuring the room with his gaze. Just so accidentally trailing onto outlines of the shoulders before him. He admitted defeat some time ago. At this point he was desperate to not cross the line into creepy and disrupt the routine they built with Genos as little as he could. He was failing at it, significantly. Holding Genos' face was certainly a thing he did, yeah… Try sweeping that under the rug. Maybe he was better off excusing himself to the bathroom until Genos would've called him back but Saitama was not dense enough to rely on that. So he was back to the upper right corner of the room with his eyes once again. Before he could look over Genos one more time he turned back, presumably with the repair part. Well, it was time to get to work.
— Here! This goes the same way the other was. Repeated wear on the switch caused it to lose contact and… — The instrument box must've been enchanted, Saitama was slightly intrigued what could've happened for such a huge change of tone. Genos returned to his regular self and looked maybe bit too serene explaining intricacies of the mechanism. — Actually, you know sensei, that could wait. Can you complete the repair?
Oh, the box certainly was enchanted, that sure was a first, from Genos himself. His lecture barely got over the threshold of twenty. It was in fact Saitama taking up extra time.
More was less, so short "mhm" made for adequate answer.
The detail fell back in place as nothing was different but the screw was yet to be tightened securing it. Saitama couldn't figure just what angle the screw was supposed to rest so he was sorta stuck in the admittedly precarious position, screwdriver at the ready in the left and… thumb of the right hand was resting just under the repair sight. More so for the habit of keeping balance than for any real leaning on it. Palm of the hand was just a little too far for it to be over the spot where cyborg's core was whirling.
Couple seconds before Saitama was finally done with the task he witnessed a thing that was much more detrimental than the urge to keep the hand over the living core. The switch in the open cavity of Genos' chest quietly came alive and rather obviously executed what it was made for. Lucky for Saitama, he first managed to fix the screw where it belong and only then remember what they were fixing.
Tactile system came alive and gentle warmth from the hand on Genos' chest sparked his core into instant overdrive whirling hopelessly as Saitama took the hand off. Genos was starting to think that second part of his revelation needed to be addressed no later than this instance or more maintenance would be due soon for the wear on his cooling system.
— Hey, so how do you know if it is working fine again? — Saitama fidgeted with metal scale in his hands that was still separating them from complete repair. It was kinda easier than looking directly into the eyes but proved useless when significant amount of steam escaped Genos' shoulder vents, so Saitama met his eyes.
— It… did work, — eyes of the cyborg kept some of the serene glimmer — can you please assist with the outer part too?
— Sure thing man.
Even tough it was barely a minute, returning the hand where it previously rested proved to be quite different. Only half of it was from just how warm chest plate became to the touch, most pressing issue stemmed from the fact that it now was a live wire process. Making it ever more awkward and warranting a quick work. Or at least that was a reasonable plan.
Reasonable part of Genos was folding under the piling evidence that his goals an habits been shifted, little by little until what he saw before himself lost sharp angle with a single dot in the middle. Every time he stepped over the doorway of the shared apartment he was being changed, was he not? Stupid weak metal in his chest sure was.
And just like that everything was back to normal. Really, Saitama would've sworn up and down that he was managing great. Genos clearly was not informed of such norms, when work was done and Saitama almost went back to his tome of manga, cyborg asked in his most decisive tone.
— Saitama-sensei, can you please hold my face again?
So the pin dropped.
— Uh… I guess? — Saitama shuffled closer back, Genos was yet to move from same spot on the floor or put away repair parts. Damn it, right, repairs, — why? Is there more to fix?
Genos stared, it was equally possible that his eyes glowed brighter, though the expression on his face remained equally fragile as it was excited. It either was about to be some in depth explanation of absolutely inconsequential thing, he really lo…
— No, there are no further fixes but I wish you did… Did that again. It appears I might've developed feelings for you, sensei but I'm not sure what are they in nature.
…loved doing that. Saitama's brain was not doing him any favours with timing of finishing last thought. He looked at his hands, then closer at Genos, the fragile in his face was slowly morphing into feverish tension. Adrenaline blasted through hero's blood surging up to his fingertips making them tingle. He raised his hands, they fell back in place on the synthetic skin, tingling leaving at once, replaced by warm buzz.
Be it so Genos decided that his feelings were nothing but clear respect and admiration this suspended moment probably would haunt Saitama until end of his days. But first there's oil rolling along his thumbs and then verdict.
— I think I'm in love.
Saitama breathes a sigh of relief so big he considers it "serious series" in punch equivalent.
— Yeah, same. Pretty sure I love you too …Romantically. — He specifies, just because of bewildered look on cyborg's face. — So, what now?
— I… really want to be kissed. — Genos asks stifled, fighting against the floodgate of different shapes of "want" resurging.
Brush of the lips is the easiest thing they had to do this evening. As much as it is timid and ephemeral it remains the brightest on the night sky of their shared time.