Chapter Text
The RK900 does not require sustenance as a human does. However, his thirium supply must be replaced regularly, depending on his activity and stress levels. Diluted thirium is available commercially; in the event of an emergency, pure thirium is available through licensed CyberLife providers.
Gavin can’t shake the feeling that he’s being watched.
He’s alone in the breakroom—no, he’s supposed to be alone in the breakroom, pouring a cup of dollar-store instant coffee into a stupid mug that Tina had insisted on getting him for his birthday. The thing has cat ears and fucking whiskers and a knowing smirk, like it and everyone else knows who’s watching him and it can’t wait for the secret to be revealed in a bloody, horrific way that will surely end in his complete and utter humiliation and/or death.
Okay, maybe he’s being a bit paranoid, but it’s hard not to be with a partner like the RK900.
Jesus, it’s like the guy hasn’t even deviated yet. Gavin doesn’t know much about androids, but weren’t they all supposed to be free or some shit? His partner sure as fuck doesn’t act like it. It’s like his existence revolves around work and absolutely nothing else; RK900 shows up early and clocks out late, works through his breaks until Fowler forces him to stop because they can’t afford to pay him the overtime. As far as he knows, the android doesn’t even do anything. Even the receptionist droids—Lola and Matt—have their desks decked out with little personal effects: a potted plant, family photos, a candy bowl. Connor has a picture of himself, Hank, and Sumo, and a little dog statuette that Gavin had given him as a ‘sorry-for-being-a-dick-and-congrats-on-the-promotion’ present. The RK900’s desk is barren; hell, the only sign that someone works there is his gay-ass nameplate, which he didn’t even pick out himself.
RK900 Anderson —Connor’s doing, of course. Anderson. That’s fucking rich. He seriously doubts that RK900 even knows what family is.
As he stirs creamer into his dinky little mug, in the special-edition Mystery Precinct Flavor, he loses himself in his thoughts, all revolving around the plastic prick with the unfairly perfect jawline and the almost inhumanely bright eyes and the teeth which could definitely bite off his dick. It’s not that Gavin’s mad at his partner—at least, in general; RK900 just confuses the everloving shit out of him. The guy’s weird as hell, has the social skills and grace of a plastic spoon, and never seems to approach him like a normal fucking person…
“Detective Reed, you have been stirring your coffee for one minute and seventeen seconds. I suggest you get back to work.”
Gavin squeals and jumps about a foot in the air, whipping around and coming face to...well, chest with the man (android? mandroid?) in question. Stupid robots and their stupid heights—he’s not short, he’s not, RK900 is just freakishly tall. And that’s the only reason he has to look up at him. Absolutely the only reason.
Apparently, the android is just as startled; his perfectly symmetrical eyebrows shoot up, his eyes widen, and his light-thing flashes yellow. It’s a testament to his pride, or lack thereof, that Gavin gains a little satisfaction from that.
“I didn’t mean to startle you, detective,” RK900 starts, frowning, but Gavin waves him off, perching against the fake-marble countertop.
“Jesus Christ, you’re fine, just...don’t do that.” He takes a moment to catch his breath, shaking his head. It’s his luck that he’s stuck with this particular model for a partner, so sneaky and so goddamn tactless. Like he said, he’s not mad at RK900, he really isn’t, but it’s times like this where he has to make a concentrated effort not to chew the guy out. Gavin doubts that he’d be able to hurt the android’s feelings, but he’s very confident in Connor’s ability to make his life hell. The older model is weirdly protective like that.
That being said, he’s pretty fucking annoyed right now, and he bites his tongue. Snapping at his partner won’t make either of them happy right now.
“...Were you seriously spying on me?”
RK900 doesn’t even have the capacity to look ashamed.
“I wouldn’t call it spying, you were simply in view from my desk—” The android stops when he sees Gavin’s expression, eyebrows knitting together. He can’t stop the irritation creeping up on his face, fucking sue him. Groaning, he pinches his nose bridge then rubs at his eyes. It’s too fucking early in the morning for him to be teaching social graces to the world’s worst deviant.
“Don’t do that,” he complains, holding up a hand to silence RK900 as his mouth opens, inevitably about to ask another fucking question. “Not the watching thing, just...you don’t have to track every single thing I do . It’s creepy as hell, and I can handle myself just fuckin’ fine.” At least he looks thoroughly chastised—and, a bit like a scolded puppy.
“I apologize, it won’t happen again.” Even his apologies are robotic, holy fucking hell, but Gavin can’t really be mad at him. RK900 isn’t making any moves, not heading back to his desk or even pulling up a chair in the breakroom; in his defense, the chairs are kinda shit, but the guy doesn’t have to follow him around like a lost puppy. He knows that, right? Gavin wonders if that’s something he can ask without sounding like he’s reading too much into it. Well, there’s not much he can do about it, so he shrugs and turns back to his cup, dunking in a packet of Splenda, his absolute last resort because someone, who is definitely not Chris (that sweet-toothed asshole), used up all the real sugar.
The silence is deafening, and the murder-robot standing directly over his shoulder and looming over him in an early-1900s-vampire-movie-esque way isn’t really helping.
“...Why is it that you alter the composition of your drink so much?”
What.
The confusion must show plainly on his face as he turns to face RK900 again, and the android clarifies. “You claim to enjoy coffee, but you change it by adding creamer and sweetener. I don’t...understand.”
“Well, it’s mostly because this coffee fucking sucks,” Gavin starts, grimacing as he takes an experimental sip. Yep, more creamer. He’s gotta mask the flavor somehow. “It’s really bitter and weak and weird... can you taste things? Do you, like...know what bitter is?”
RK900’s blinky thing swirls an almost hypnotic yellow.
“I understand the human concept of taste,” he says after a beat, “but I am not equipped to...detect flavor, as you can.” He almost looks sad, practically pouting— not that the android was capable of pulling off the expression, but it’s as close as it could get with good ol’ 900.
- Nine-hundred. Nine. Nines?
Huh, kinda had a nice ring to it.
“So it’s like…” He waves his hand around, reaching for some kind of expression that would make sense to the android. Gavin can’t imagine what it’s like, not being able to taste things, and for a brief, heart-stopping moment, he feels bad for RK900. “You know how taste depends on how we, uh, process the molecules, right?” The android nods along. “So, like, it’s kinda like good coffee versus bad coffee. Good coffee comes from good plants, which relies on the soil and climate and shit, I guess, I don’t know. And that would...alter the molecules, I guess, somehow?” It’s a bullshit explanation, but the RK900—Nines—seems to understand.
“I see,” he hums, almost perking up a little. “You dislike this coffee...and you alter it so its composition is like good coffee?”
“Nah, just trying to mask the taste.” He takes a deep swig to punctuate this, nearly gagging because it’s so fucking gross. Nines frowns, watching him, his gaze boring a hole through his soul.
“...Then why are you drinking it?”
“Need it to survive,” Gavin snorts into the cup, downing it all in one painful go. “Not all of us can work for twenty hours straight, tin can.” He debates getting another cup; it’s gonna be hell on his taste buds, but he’s fucking exhausted. Ever since the talking hunk of metal (and emphasis on hunk) crashed headfirst into his life, he’s felt a quiet undercurrent of pressure to just...he doesn’t really know. He’s gotta be better, somehow, he has to at least match the android. And yes, he knows it’s near impossible without actually killing himself, but he has to— for the sake of his job, for the sake of his pride, for the sake of feeling just a fucking scrap of self-worth. Even just looking at Nines, he can’t help but feel inferior.
RK900 is stronger. RK900 is faster. RK900 is smarter.
But isn’t that the fucking point of androids?
It’s not something he likes to think about.
“God help me, my blood’s gotta be at least 20% coffee by now,” Gavin yawns offhandedly, pouring himself another cup of hell sludge.
A sudden white-and-black blur whizzes by his vision, and before he can react, it slaps his cup out of his hand. The cat face shatters on the floor, and the black liquid is quickly absorbed by the ever-starving amorphous organism that was once a carpet. His mouth drops open, too shocked for words as dude what the FUCK chimes over and over in his mind. It’s too late for words. Nines grabs him by the shoulders, forcing eye contact—and wow, he has beautiful eyes, hi gay thoughts—and looks at him like he’s the one who’s lost his damn mind.
“You’re in danger, I’ve contacted medical authorities but we need to go to the hospital right away—”
“Woah, woah, what?” Gavin has never been more confused in his life. “What the fuck,” he practically spits, “cancel that! Cancel everything, god, I’m fine.” The android looks...seriously upset. His mood ring burns an orange-red, and he’s showing more emotion than he’s ever seen on Nines’ face: eyebrows bunched together, mouth pressed into a thin line, face on the verge of crumpling. He looks like he’s about to cry, and Gavin is slapped with an alarming wave of guilt.
“But—you said your blood—” Even his voice, which barely has inflections on a good day, seems to waver, and Gavin feels like the biggest shitstain in the entire world, even though it’s not technically his fault. He struggles with the words; how does he even explain something like this?
“It’s...it’s an exaggeration,” he stresses, pulling back gently and holding back a sigh of relief when the android’s iron grip loosens to set him free. “I haven’t drank anywhere near enough to be any sort of danger to myself, and the caffeine would’ve killed me long beforehand. Okay?” He waits for Nines to nod; it’s uncertain, but it’s there, and he’s never been happier to see that stupid LED flicker back to yellow. “Okay, good, now cancel that...whatever you called, I don’t need the med bills from that.”
“...Done,” Nines confirms after a mere second. He fidgets with his sleeves, staring at the carnage on the floor. It’s pretty impressive, like a miniature scene from a kaiju flick, and the way the android frowns Gavin would think it’d pass for a real one. “I’m...sorry, I misunderstood. I thought…”
“Hey, man, no big deal.” Seeing his partner upset might be the most heartbreaking scene in the entire fucking world. How the android manages to switch from big badass tough guy to overgrown puppy in an instant absolutely astounds him. “Fuckin’ hated that mug anyway,” he tries to joke. Should he go in for a back pat? Would that be weird?
“I was...under the impression that your digestive system functions like mine.” At Gavin’s blank, confused look, Nines continues, “Whatever I consume, which tends to be diluted thirium, is absorbed directly into my bloodstream, and from there impurities are flushed out. I assumed that, well…” He gestures weakly towards the shattered ceramic.
“Oh,” Gavin says lamely. “That’s...that’s fair, honestly. But it takes a whole lot more than a little blood impurity to kill a human, okay? And you’d know long before it got to that point. Alright?” Nines hardly looks reassured, but he nods tersely anyway.
“What should we do about the mess?”
“Eh, just pick up the mug, this carpet’s seen a whole lot worse than a little coffee.” He moves to kneel down, but the android stops him.
“It’s my fault, I’ll clean it up,” he insists softly, looking at Gavin with a mix of determination and pleading. “You might cut yourself.”
“Jesus, Nines, I’m not a fuckin’ toddler. I can pick up a cup.” Despite his griping, he stands up and hovers awkwardly.. It feels wrong to just leave him there—the guy’s been more or less polite to him, despite his dickish existence, and he feels at least obligated to return the favor. Also, he really doesn’t want to leave Nines with that kicked-puppy look again.
Nines makes quick work of the ruined mug, damn those ultra-precise robohands, and disposes of the broken pieces with little flair. It’s a fitting funeral for a shitty cup. Gavin’s not gonna miss it.
“Press F,” he murmurs, motioning to take off his nonexistent hat. He pointedly ignores the look Nines gives him.
“...We ought to get back to work, Detective.”
“Sure, sure. Hardass.”
The next morning, Gavin comes into work as usual: coffee in one hand, absolute detestment of all existence in the other. He greets Lola—Matt’s out today—and hangs up his coat, and holy shit there’s something on his desk.
Oh god, oh no, Tina definitely replaced the hell mug. He’s afraid to even approach it.
...But it’s not mug-shaped.
He inches over like it’s a live bomb and picks it up just as gingerly. It’s...coffee.
No, that’s an understatement. It’s good fucking coffee, the kind he bets Elijah drinks while he’s sitting up in his stupid postmodern mansion, being rich and jerking off to his money and whatever else he does. And, of course, that means it’s fucking expensive. Like, really expensive.
Gavin feels like he’s being watched. Again. He turns around, and only catches a brief glimpse of cool blue eyes before the RK900 turns his attention back to his terminal, LED a swirling yellow and an odd, blue tinge to his face. He snorts and sets the gift aside, sitting down and getting to work.
“Fucking androids…”