[Felix Culpa AU: I, Robot]

[stilljustandrew]

It's Happy Hour, and there's a new guy behind the bar who gives his name as Jake; the Specials board reads HALF OFF FOR ANY ORDER INVOLVING A PUN.

This has led to a discussion of puns in particular and humor in general, between two regular patrons seated at the bar.

"-- but the 'hickory daiquiri' pun relies both on phoenetic similarity and awareness of an element of popular culture," Andrew explains earnestly, and takes a sip of his kahlua-spiked milkshake.

Comments

[stilljustandrew]

And there it is. There it is, clear and unapologetic and ugly.

The words hurt his throat as though he's screamed them. "He's not a Cylon, Felix."

[mr_gaeta]

"He's close enough."

Very flat.

"That's how the humanoid models started out. That's what the Centurions were like at first."

[stilljustandrew]

"Close enough because they're both AIs?" he demands. "You don't know anything about him, you don't even know what kind of circuitry his brain uses --"

[mr_gaeta]

Gaeta tenses visibly at the last phrase, and cuts in with, "I don't need to know. There is no reason to believe he doesn't have the potential to become something worse no matter what his underlying framework."

He uncrosses one arm just enough to jab a hand toward himself.

"It's not unique to my universe, you even have stories about it happening here and your AIs are frakking pieces of junk, Andrew."

[stilljustandrew]

There's a dull burning in his eyes, in his chest, in the pit of his stomach.

"Potential to become something worse."

His voice is hard.

"So, not like humans, then."

[mr_gaeta]

This reminds him too much of the conversation with Nathan Stark -- far too much. And it's so much harder to bear it when it's coming from the mouth of somebody that he thought understood.

"At least humans have the potential to go the other way, too," he says, very low.

[stilljustandrew]

"And machines don't."

No louder.

"Is what you're saying."

[mr_gaeta]

Calm, and matter-of-fact: "Never seen anything that proves otherwise."

Some of the frustration breaks away then, angling in a new direction to join up with a fragment of the earlier bewilderment: "Why are you acting like this is such a surprise?"

[stilljustandrew]

His vision blurs utterly between one breath and the next, the heat behind his eyes flaring into a sharp sting, and he turns his face away.

[mr_gaeta]

Stop it, pleads a tiny voice in the back of his mind. Look what you're doing --

He presses on, still seeking to understand.

"How long have you known me? Four years? More than that? How is this -- "

[stilljustandrew]

Andrew's jaw works for a moment, and then he turns and reaches for his knapsack where it rests against the wall a few feet from the door.



"I'm going out."

[mr_gaeta]

And that strikes as low and hard as a physical punch, shoving Gaeta's arms away from his chest.

He catches his breath, takes half a step, one hand half raised. "Andrew -- "

[stilljustandrew]

"I'm going. Out."

He shrugs the bag onto his shoulder, reaches for his jacket, without lifting his eyes from the floor.

[mr_gaeta]

As clear and quiet as a distant bell: Frak.

"Andrew, wait -- " Another awkward step.

[stilljustandrew]

He stops.

Doesn't turn around or look up; just stands there, slowly balling up the jacket in his hands.

[mr_gaeta]

Just as slowly, Gaeta's hand curls, and falls.

All that had seized him was the quick flare of too many nights away from each other lately, and the impulse to make him stop, and stay.

Now that that's accomplished, he doesn't have any idea what to say to him.

[stilljustandrew]

"What."

He still doesn't look up.

[mr_gaeta]

Gaeta closes his eyes.




"Never mind."

[stilljustandrew]

His resolve almost fails him at the sound in Felix's voice.

Almost.



"I'll be back," he says, in a whisper thinned to breaking. "I just --"

[mr_gaeta]

"Yeah."

He's already turning away.

[stilljustandrew]

The momentum's gone.

He makes himself move anyway, bunching the crumpled jacket under one arm and reaching for the doorknob.

And opening the door.

[mr_gaeta]

Gaeta hears the door open. He makes no further move to stop him, and half a heartbeat later, he hears the jamb click closed again.

He rakes his hands through his hair and stares up at the ceiling in beseechment, not moving right away.

When he does, it's to halfheartedly smack his fist against the nearest wall as he hisses out a much more vehement, "Frak."

[stilljustandrew]

If he'd looked, he would have seen that the door didn't open on Milliways.




Andrew doesn't have any particular place in mind; he's just walking, eyes on the pavement ahead of his feet, looking up only to cross the street -- not even then, if there are enough other pedestrians around him.

I don't know what to do. I don't know what to do.

It's not until the concrete changes to brick paving underfoot that he realizes he's on Central Park West, with the first dead leaves of fall brushing past his ankles on the wind.

I don't know what to do.

[mr_gaeta]

The easiest way to ignore it is the same way as always: keep busy with what needs to be done.

The apartment doesn't need much more than a superficial tidying, though. Gaeta takes care of it anyway, sweeping up the soda cans and takeout containers, sorting them out into trash and recycling. Neither of the bins are full, but he takes them downstairs to the dumpsters anyway, keeping watch on his surroundings the whole time.

Dinner's next. He digs out samples of everything from the fridge and eyes them critically, like they're a navigation problem in need of solving. It takes more than an hour to finish putting together the meal: shrimp, sweet potato fries, a cucumber salad tossed with honey and vinegar.

(He doesn't think twice about wrapping up a second plate for Andrew.)

He goes over the bills. He sorts out the ones he can pay from the ones Andrew will have to cover this month. He recycles the junk mail, and does the dishes, and scoops out a little more food for himself.

And then there's nothing left, and all he can do is sit on the couch and put in a movie as he waits.

[stilljustandrew]

He walks down to Columbus Circle, hands in his pockets. Spends about fifteen minutes leaning against the side of a newsstand and watching a pair of street performers, a young woman with multicolor-dyed dreadlocks playing a tall African drum and a slightly older man playing a violin.

He doesn't look at the denomination of the bill he drops into their open instrument case when he moves on.

There's a Whole Foods across the circle from here. With no particular thought in mind, he goes in, to emerge some forty-five minutes later carrying a single orange and a bottle of water.




Four blocks down, he carefully sets the orange down on the sidewalk next to a half-asleep homeless man, just behind the propped-up cardboard sign that reads PLEASE HELP.