Chapter Text
Your breath comes in short pants as you pelt down one of the Sulaco’s sterile, white corridors. Hudson’s angry voice echoes from somewhere behind you. He, Vasquez, and Drake are hot on your tail, seeking revenge for their newly-dyed uniforms. It’s all in good fun, of course- the three of them switched your fatigues out for a ridiculous bunny costume a week ago, and you were forced to do drills looking like a messed up Playboy ad- but you fear whatever form of embarrassing torture might be in store if they get their hands on you.
Your boots squeak on the laminated floors as you hook your hand on a doorframe and use your momentum to swing into what you hope is a closet, and your stomach drops when you realize you've stumbled into the lab- arguably the sparsest room on the ship. Your eyes quickly scan the room for a place to hide and land on a workstation that has a completely enclosed leg space. You scramble over to it, dropping to your knees as you go, and slide into the space just in time to hear someone close a cabinet somewhere in the room. Soft footsteps are steadily approaching the desk.
“Shit.” You whisper to yourself.
You startle when you lean out from under the desk to see that Bishop is right there, one hand anchored on the edge of the desk. He’s bent forward as if he was just about to investigate your hiding spot, brow slightly furrowed as he peers curiously at you. You hear your friends tromping down the hall and whisper, “You didn’t see me,” as you fold yourself back into the alcove. The door to the lab swishes open, and Vasquez’s angry voice fills the room.
“Bishop, have you seen our shithead coworker anywhere?”
“Can’t say that I have,” The android smoothly responds, and his sneakers come into view as he blocks the alcove and rearranges something above you, “Sorry.”
“Aw, man!” Hudson whines, “What’re we gonna do now?”
You listen to the three of them argue their way out of the room, their voices fading down the hall. Bishop waits for a moment before he steps away from the desk and extends a hand to you. You take it and allow him to haul you to your feet, muttering your thanks. His lips quirk into a tiny smile as you dust yourself off.
“I can only assume that the pink uniforms aren’t standard-issue.” He deadpans, stepping around you to get back to work.
“Ah, no,” You laugh, “They’re my own design.”
“Is this because of the costume from last week?”
“You saw that?” You groan, moving to stand to one side of the work station, “Yeah, because of costume. I figure if I had to endure a day of mortification, they could survive a week of mild embarrassment before the company sends ‘em new uniforms.”
“Why do you do it?” The android softly inquires, looking up from his work to meet your gaze.
There’s genuine curiosity shining in his eyes, and you find yourself smiling at him. For all of his infinite knowledge, the concept of something as commonplace as a prank escapes him.
“It’s funny.”
“That’s all?” He murmurs, frowning slightly.
“It’s, um… I could explain it, but I’d be rambling, and it would take a while.”
Bishop seems to perk up at the prospect of an explanation and gestures to an unused rolling stool that’s been shoved into a far corner of the room, “I’m technically on-shift for… the foreseeable future… if you’re willing to sit with me.”
You turn the offer over in your head. You haven’t interacted much with the android aside from the occasional passing greeting or some banter when he joins you and your mates at your table, and the more you think about it, the more you realize that you’d like to be friends with him. You nod to yourself and wander away to retrieve the stool.
“Was that sarcasm?” You scoff, glancing at Bishop over your shoulder.
He doesn’t look up from his work, and his response is a simple, no-nonsense, “Yes.”
Bishop spends the next two hours updating SDS labels and performing general lab maintenance while you talk at him. Your explanation of the joy of practical jokes leads to a conversation about the technical differences between pranking and hazing, and that, in turn, paves the way for talk about how you became friends with your fellows in the first place. He seems to be taking note of what you tell him- asking you blunt questions and stating his opinions on concepts that seem nonsensical. His openness is oddly refreshing, and he doesn’t shrink away when you get comfortable and decide to drop your social persona. On the contrary, the android only becomes more engaged in your discourse.
Your stomach has horrible timing and chooses to rumble in the midst of a lull in the conversation. You let out an exasperated huff, “Lunchtime, I guess.”
“Ah- I’d forgotten,” Bishop quietly exclaims, “Sorry for keeping you for so long.”
“No, no, I had fun!” You assert, grinning at the android as you stand up and push the stool back into its corner, “I haven’t really talked to you before. I liked hearing your thoughts.”
“I’m grateful that you felt comfortable enough to be yourself with me. I hope I get to see more of it in the future.”
His face is impassive as always, but there’s an undeniable warmth in his tone that has an embarrassed heat creeping up the back of your neck. Your lips part in a shaky laugh, and you mutter, “See you around, Bishop,” as you turn on your heel and walk out of the lab.
You see him again in the loading bay, less than a week later. One of the new pilots decided to land a dropship on a jagged cliff edge, and you got assigned to the wonderful task of patching the hull. You sigh as you pull your helmet on and lay down on a creeper. Hicks should really be doing this instead of you- he’s the better welder, anyway- but he and Ripley are on leave for the better part of the month. Your ion welder spits and fizzles in your hands as you roll yourself under the ship and begin tacking the new steel plate into place. You’re so focused on keeping your lines straight that you don’t notice Bishop’s shoes coming to a halt next to your head. You can’t see him through your helmet, so it’s only after you roll out from under the ship and flip up your visor that you startle and choke out, “Jesus Christ-”
“Why does Hudson exclusively use sexual humor with his friends?”
“What?” You wheeze, staring up at Bishop as you lay there and try to catch your breath.
“Private Hudson,” The android clarifies, “One of the three who were chasing you earlier this week.”
“I got that part,” You wave a dismissive hand at him, “What was the rest?”
“He and Drake bicker almost entirely in the form of sexual jokes- Can I sit here? Thank you- and I’d like to know why.”
You sigh as Bishop sits cross-legged next to you, flipping your visor down and reigniting your welder. The android pushes you back under the dropship before dropping his hands into his lap, waiting for your answer. You know that he can hear you over the noise- his audio processors are far advanced compared to your ears- so you talk at a normal volume as you ask, “Why didn’t you just ask one of them?”
“I did,” He shouts, “Drake gave me a vague non-answer and Hudson made another joke about intercourse.”
“Typical,” You grumble, “Well… people make sexual jokes at each other’s expense because it’s a subject that most people are generally very embarrassed about. You get a more visible reaction out of someone if you A.) Make a sex joke where they’re the punchline and B.) Make an outlandish assumption that the person then has to deny, thus furthering their embarrassment.”
“Why do it in the first place?”
“Why does Hudson do anything?” You counter.
“He wants attention.”
You nod as you finish your initial welds and pass the welder to Bishop, “Grinder?”
The android is quick to comply, slapping the tool into your hand and continuing to linger while you work. His company, though silent, is unobtrusive. You find that you don’t mind it, and after you’ve cleaned up your tools, you make a point of asking him if he’d join you for lunch.
“Do you mind another barrage of questions?” He replies, lips stretching into a faint smile.
“Do you mind a lot of very blunt answers?”
“I’d prefer them.”
Eating lunch with Bishop quickly becomes a habit, whether it’s the two of you at your own table or the android making a point of sitting across from you amid a crowded table of Marines. You start to respond to his confused tells on autopilot. Every time something puzzles him, Bishop pauses what he’s doing and tilts his head just slightly to the right, and you’re quick to supply an explanation. You can talk at normal volume- even whisper if you want to- and the android can pick your voice out amid the cacophony of shouting and cackling at the table. You find yourself looking forward to seeing him every day, and after two months of shared meals (and the occasional lab visit on your part), you ask him about his feelings on the matter.
The hallway outside of the lab is dark, per the Sulaco’s day/night lighting cycle, and the room itself is lit only by the wall-mounted spotlight over Bishop’s station. You’re perched on the exam table, cross-legged and drumming your fingers on your knees as you watch him work. With him, long silences feel comfortable instead of awkward. The lab has quickly become a safe haven when you’re tired of Hudson’s constant yapping.
“Bishop, are we friends?” You blurt out, feeling a momentary jolt of self-consciousness at the bluntness of your question.
The android doesn’t even flinch as he serenely replies, “I’d like to think so. I’d be glad to change your social category to ‘friend,’ with your permission, of course.”
“My huh?”
“Social category,” He murmurs, poring over order sheets for new medical supplies, “I have a basic profile of everyone on board, and I’ve been considering changing your social category from ‘UA Marine’ to ‘friend.’ Assuming that you wouldn’t mind it.”
“I’d like it,” You admit, nodding even though the man isn’t looking in your direction, “I keep mental files on people, too. Drake’s category is ‘asshole.’”
Bishop does his version of a laugh- little more than a single, harsh huff through his nose- and glances over his shoulder to give you a gentle smile.
Thursday
You barely hear your name being called as you rivet one last reinforcement plate into place. Squatting on the edge of the grease pit probably isn’t the safest option, but it’s the easiest- you can anchor the plate with your feet and keep the rivet gun fairly straight, anyway. You hear your name again in combo with the squeal of metal on metal, and turn just in time to see a stack of pallets cascading toward you. Drake is fast enough to catch a majority of them with his power loader, but two escape his grasp and skid toward the grease pit. Time feels slow and syrupy as you feel your feet slipping on the new plate. You can’t seem to get them under you, and finally, one of your legs slips into the pit- just in time for the pallet to come barreling across it. There’s a soft crunch- like stepping on a bundle of twigs- then pain and blackness.
Someone’s carrying you. You feel your body jostling as someone runs to medbay with you in their arms. You come to just long enough to see Bishop’s wide eyes staring down at you, and then the pain finally kicks in. All you can do is scream and black out again.
“Broken in two places-”
“-likely titanium-”
“-lucky it missed the rest of them.”
The first thing you register is how dry your mouth is. Your tongue feels like sandpaper, and your throat hurts like you’ve been snoring. There’s a soft, low humming in your ears, and after a few minutes of just laying there with your eyes closed, a voice joins the noise.
“Still with us, I see.”
“Unfortunately,” You croak, “Jesus-”
“Here.”
A glass is pressed into your hand, and you open your eyes as you gingerly try to push yourself into a sitting position.
“May I touch you?”
You nod, and Bishop’s quick to put a steadying hand between your shoulders. You mumble your thanks and down half of the water while the android stands beside you.
“Thanks for bringing me up here.”
“Any time. Not that I’m encouraging you to shatter more bones, but I’m glad I could help.”
“I get you.” You tiredly laugh.
Bishop plucks the glass out of your hands and eases you backward so you can lay down again. You shoot him a grateful smile which he returns with his own more subdued version. Your moment of peace is quickly shattered by the shouting of your friends as the door to the lab slides open to admit them. Hudson, Vasquez, and Drake tumble into the room and quickly surround you, gushing about how badass you are now that you have, “A literal plate of fuckin’ titanium screwed to your bones, man!”
Hudson brought you a tiny holographic projection of a vase of flowers and Vasquez got everyone in the platoon to sign a makeshift get well card. As the three stooges stand over you and begin to yap, Bishop quietly slips away. You catch his eye while he’s about to walk out the door and mouth a goodbye to him. His answering smile and tiny wave tells makes something flutter in your stomach, but you don’t have time to think about it as your friends descend on you.
Four Days Later
Six weeks. Six weeks at least until you can go back to work. You hadn’t been able to hold in your frustrated groan at the medic’s news. You get to spend your recovery in your quarters, but six weeks of being bored out of your mind seems like a fate worse than death. As you sit on your cot and debate strangling yourself with a blanket, the medbay door slides open. Your brow furrows at the sight of Bishop.
“Aren’t you supposed to be working?”
“Aren’t you supposed to be at home?” He immediately counters.
“I would be if the medic had remembered to bring me some crutches or something.” You grumble, swinging your legs off of the side of the cot.
The cast on your leg is a sleek, black polycarbonate thing that the surgeon molded to fit your calf. It’s better than the plaster ones from the old days, but it’s still an annoyance that has to stay on for the first three weeks of your recovery. You’re debating hopping back to your quarters on one foot when Bishop interrupts your train of thought.
“Where’s the medic?”
“On lunch, I think.”
“May I take you home, then?” Bishop offers.
“How?”
The android seems to consider your question for all of one second before he shrugs and holds his arms out toward you. You quirk a brow, eyes darting between his face and his hands, “You’re offering to… carry me home?”
“Seems like a better alternative than walking with you and risking exacerbating your injury. And everything about your body language says that you clearly don’t want to stay here.”
“Don’t we have at least one wheelchair around here?” You pry, frowning at the android.
He just shrugs again and continues to hold his arms out. You huff out a laugh and fight an internal war with yourself. It would be nice to sleep in your own bed, but it stings to admit that you can’t make it there by yourself. Bishop stays silent as you think it over, patient as ever. At length, you do one last visual sweep of the medbay to make sure none of your belongings are laying around. Once you’re satisfied that you won’t leave anything behind, you swallow your pride and give Bishop a nod. The android glides forward and pauses with one hand hovering over your knees and the other near your back.
“Can I touch you?”
“Why do you always ask?” You blurt out, “N-Not that I’m complaining, or anything-”
“I’m required to.”
You mouth, “Oh,” more to yourself than to him. It never occurred to you that touching a person without permission might be seen as a First Law violation. After a moment of turning the concept over in your head, you realize that Bishop is still poised above you, face impassive as ever as he waits for your response. You jolt and let out a nervous laugh, “Sorry- um, yeah, you can pick me up.”
Bishop’s hands aren’t exactly cold, but it seems like his body temperature runs much lower than a person’s- almost lukewarm. He’s surprisingly gentle as he gathers you up, and he waits patiently for you to settle against his chest before he starts walking.
“When do you not have to ask for permission?” You inquire, turning your head to watch where you’re going.
“When my inaction would cause a person harm.”
“So, if you’d been there when the pallets were falling, in theory, you could have dragged me out of the way and not broken any rules?”
“Something like that.” He murmurs, pausing at a hallway junction to let you give him directions.
You get odd looks from everyone you pass, and after the tenth person ogles you, you start to laugh. The action jostles you a little, and Bishop’s quick to tighten his hold on you as he peers down at you and mutters, “What’s so funny?”
“This,” You giggle, gesturing between the two of you with one hand, “You haven’t noticed everyone staring at us?”
“No.”
His answer is so matter of fact, and the delivery so deadpan, that your laughter only worsens. More and more people stare at the two of you as Bishop carries you through the halls, and when your laughing finally dies down, you look up to see that he’s staring at you. Warm green eyes scan your face with something akin to amusement, and when you ask about it, the android unashamedly states, “You have a good laugh and a pretty smile.”
Butterflies explode in your stomach, and you exhale harshly as your brain reels at the compliment. You feel your face heating up and look away in an attempt to hide it. Bishop misinterprets your reaction and quickly backpedals, “I’ve offended you. I’m sorry-”
“No, no! Not offended. No one’s ever said that to me before, and I wasn’t expecting it. Not offended, just embarrassed.”
“Apologies, all the same,” He softly replies and stops in front of a door that you recognize as yours, “Here we are.”
He does a half turn to help you reach your keypad, and it takes you a second to realize that he’s waiting for an invitation when the door slides open and he doesn’t move.
“Is there a way for you to override that?” You ask as you point the android toward your bedroom.
Bishop gently sets you on your bed before he straightens and does his signature confused head tilt, “Override what?”
“The permission thing,” You explain, gesturing with one hand, “We’re friends, anyway. You shouldn’t have to ask for my permission for everything at this point. It’s kind of implied that you always have it.”
He lets out a thoughtful hum at your proposal, lips quirking into a faint smile as he says, “I’ll consider it, but for now, I’ll keep my manners. I’ll see about finding the medic and having crutches delivered to you.”
“Thanks for getting me home.”
You offer a hand for him to shake and give Bishop a devious smile. The android gulps- actually gulps- and seems to fight with himself for a second before he takes your hand without your express permission and gives it a single, firm shake. He huffs out his signature laugh, and you find yourself chuckling with him.
“There ya go. Wasn’t that difficult, was it?”
“You have no idea.”