Chapters:

Chapter 1

He's programmed to wake up to that sound.  Well, to respond.  He's programmed to respond to the sound.  The waking up part is arguable when he answers a call from the precinct by mumbling, "Whadya want."

"Hey John."  It's Madge's voice, which is never good.  "Call for you from the L Zone.  One of the parents is reporting suspicious activity outside her house."

"Don't they have night cops over there?"  John crawls out of bed, tossing his phone on the table as he hops toward his leg.  "Wait, don't tell me.  No phones.  What are they doing staring out the windows at one in the morning, anyway?"

"Checking for suspicious activity, looks like."  Madge's voice follows him across the room.  "ELPD's already responding.  They say you wanted to hear everything.  This is everything."

"Charge," his leg tells him.  "Sixteen percent."

Great.  He'll be hobbling by the end of the day, but he doesn't have a choice.  Not if he wants to walk.  "Shoot me an address," he says.  "I'm on my way."

The car's running before he sinks inside, seat warm and the engine a low hum.  John hates the calls that matter, calls that wake him up because someone's world just ended, or is about to.  But he hates the calls that don't matter more.  The ones from people who are bored, entitled, feeling like they should make something happen just because they can.

"Dorian," he says, and the car picks it up.  "Where are you?"

"Factory," Dorian's voice replies immediately.  "We rolling?"

"Yeah."  John turns for ChargeFac, the familiar route fast and quiet at this hour.  "Call from the Luddite sector."

"You mean the Electromagnetic Limitation Zone?"  Dorian somehow sounds disapproving and concerned at the same time, which, who wants a machine that can do that?  "Another abduction?"

"Paranoid parent," John says.  "The Rainers think they saw a ghost.  We get to search the dock."

"Sounds like fun."  Dorian's tone is noncommittal, but the sad part is he probably does think it's fun.  Because he's weird like that.  He likes being sprung from "the factory"  at odd hours, because apparently there's some kind of robot hierarchy based on how many times they don't get to complete a charge cycle.

"If fun is cold, wet and dark," John grumbles.  "Then yeah.  Sounds like great fun."

"You're right," Dorian says.  "You know what, I give up.  I'm just gonna go back to bed.  Why bother going out when it's so miserable?"

"You get your ass outside," John tells him.  "You'll be ready to get in this car the moment I pull up, or I won't even slow down."

"And you'll get in trouble for riding alone," Dorian replies.  "Face it, John; you could do a lot worse than having me as your partner."

"Yeah," John says, most of his attention on merging.  "I could be married to you.  Then it'd be all you, all the time.  Twenty-four seven.

"Oh, wait," he adds, before Dorian can interrupt.  "It already is."

"Did you know," Dorian says.  "Most LA detectives see more of their partners than they do their spouses?  It's not surprising that the relationship shares some similarities with married life."

"Ask me on a date," John says, "and I put in for an upgrade."

"No need."  Dorian sounds unworried, even smug, which is basically his default tone.  "We're way past the dating stage, John.  By now I think you should be buying me potholders and awkward three-month anniversary gifts."

"What do you need potholders for?"  John tries to imagine why that came out of Dorian's mouth first.  Like so many things that come out of Dorian's mouth, though, he can't come up with a single plausible explanation.  "You baking in your spare time?"

"CT burns through welding gloves with alarming regularity."  Dorian's voice is matter-of-fact, almost distracted.  "I owe them several pairs by now."

John wonders who's hearing him talk, if he's still walking through the halls or if he's on the street already.  "I think they can buy their own gloves.  They have a budget for that."

"That's hardly the point of a gift, John."

He rolls his eyes, because that's just what he needs: the android lecture on thoughtfulness.  "Fine, whatever.  Send me the specs and I'll see what I can do."

His phone beeps with incoming data before he's even finished speaking.  He doesn't look, because that would make him an irresponsible driver, and also because he doesn't want to know what Dorian's making him get now.  If bots could put in their own req orders, his life would be less embarrassing.

Dorian waits until he's in the car to ask for the case update.  He's wearing a dark red jacket, one that's been kicking around Rudy's lab for weeks, and John doesn't ask.  It's technically his business.  Dorian would tell him, but he doesn't really care and they don't have time for it anyway.

"No word on either of the missing kids," John says.  "Rainer's still convinced hers is being targeted; no idea why.  ELPD's fed up enough to call us."

"You told them to call," Dorian reminds him.  "You explicitly said that you wanted to hear about any development, no matter how small."

"Well, I didn't mean at one o'clock in the morning," John grumbles.

"Next time you should be more specific."  Dorian isn't snippy about being woken in the middle of the night.  No more snippy than he usually is, anyway, which isn't saying much, but it's not like he's really been "woken" either.

"How many bonus points do you get for call outs like this?" John asks abruptly.  "You know, in your android king of the hill war."

"I'm disqualified," Dorian says.  "My charge cycle is different from theirs.  I just play for pride."

"Yeah, so?"  John hadn't even known that.  He should have.  "How many points?"

"A lot," Dorian says, and he might be giving John a hard time but his self-satisfied smirk is typical.  "The most.  It's better to get called out late than it is to be picked up early."

There's a brief hesitation, barely there, before he adds, "Least points for being kept on past optimal cycling.  Oddly."

"Wait, why?"  He might have ignored it if Dorian didn't pause, or call it strange.  "It's the same thing, right?  Interruption of the cycle, or whatever?"

"Being needed when you're off is a sign of importance, of respect accorded by a human partner."  Dorian is watching the road go by, his reflection flickering in the windshield.  "Being run down while you're on is a sign of ignorance.  A failure to educate."

John frowns at the tail lights up ahead.  "Or dire, irreplaceable need."

That gets a smile, and he sees Dorian glance at him out of the corner of his eye.  "Well," Dorian says.  "We do get some recognition for it."

John has the uncomfortable feeling that he's that recognition.  Which is bull, because bots don't need kudos for doing their job any more than he does.  So he doesn't say anything, and the next thing Dorian comes out with is the statistical improbability of passing only black cars.

It isn't until they're seconds from the wall that he looks over again and sees the blue lighting up under Dorian's skin.  "We're almost there," he warns.  "Turn it off."

"Two hundred sixty-four meters to go," Dorian says, watching John shut down his phone, the car's network card, anything that might transmit.  "I'll turn it off when I'm ready."

They have to crawl through the gate anyway, and when John looks again Dorian's face is dark in the shadows of the L Zone.  "You have a lot of attitude," John tells him.  "You know that?"

"Maybe you don't have enough," Dorian replies.  "You're human, John.  Exercise your range.  You could try something other than brooding or surly."

"Hey," John says.  "Brooding and surly work for me."

"Do they work for your dates?" Dorian asks.

"I can be charming," John tells him.  "Maybe I'm only brooding and surly because I'm around you."

Dorian smiles.  "I'm glad you feel you can be yourself around me, John."

He scoffs, but without GPS he has to actually follow directions, so he doesn't answer.  The residential area they're headed for has old-fashioned reflective street signs, and he can't see them until he's right on top of them.  Dorian could probably call them out a mile in advance, but like hell John's going to ask.

Luckily, the L Zone does have real lights on their squad cars, and someone's left theirs going outside the building.  Bad policy--neighborhoods hate it--but it makes them easier to find.  John kills his own as he pulls up behind them.

"It's Officers Page and Magnussen responding," Dorian says quietly.

"Thanks," John mutters, then pushes his door open.

It's Magnussen that meets them; Page is still talking with the family.  Or talking with the family again.  John hopes they haven't been tied up with Sophie Rainer this entire time, but Magnussen says she's drawing them a map.

"A map?" John says, while Dorian scans the surrounding buildings from the street.  He's probably getting soft, letting his partner do all the tech work.  They tell him that's the new way.  John wonders what was so bad about the old way.

"She saw lights down at the marina," Magnussen says.  "We looked, but we can't find anything.  She won't leave the building with her kid inside, so she's drawing a map."

He even says it with a straight face, which John has to give him credit for.

"I see," John says, looking back toward the apartment complex.  He doesn't know which one's hers, but the building has a great view.  No reason to think she can't see all the way to the water.  "They're above the wall, then?"

"Yeah, she moved here for work and never left," Magnussen says.  "Her kid goes to school in the green zone."

Shielded intranet.  Wireless tech.  Teaching kids to grow up in the modern age, even behind the wall.  John's done his research, because Emmi Rainer's mom might be paranoid but she isn't oblivious.

"K Street Juniors," John says.  "Same as the other two, right?"

"All the K Street parents are nervous," Magnussen says.  "But if there's any connection beyond the school, we can't find it."

"All right," John says, and Dorian turns to catch his eye just as John looks over at him.  "Can we talk to her?"

"Be my guest," Magnussen tells him.  He gives Dorian a weird look as he turns away, but John's used to that so he ignores it.  Dorian doesn't even seem to notice.

He does, of course, but he doesn't seem to.  John thinks Dorian's life would be a lot easier if he didn't see half the things he pretends not to.  But hey, life is hard; welcome to humanity.  Or whatever.

"There's been activity at the wall," Dorian says, and John frowns.

"What, like, unauthorized activity?"

"I can't tell from here.  But it lines up with the side of the marina Ms. Rainer wants investigated.  Want me to check it out while you talk to her?"

Kicking the wall isn't his idea of fun, but Dorian's not used to working without the network.  He's handicapped here, and John doesn't like it.  "I'll go with you," he says aloud.  "Hang on a second."

Sophie Rainer has in fact drawn them a map.  Dorian takes one look at it, nods, and John figures he's got it committed to memory.  It takes John longer to figure out what they're looking at, but he's not expecting to find anything anyway.

Which of course is why the maintenance access at the bottom of the wall has been jimmied, silver marks glinting on the black composite when he runs his flashlight over it.  The wall, built up from the old seawall, is secure in some places by accident rather than by design.  But there are gates at all the roads and access points above and below every bridge: there's no legitimate reason to sneak through.

"New?" John asks, even though he knows the answer.

Dorian crouches, running his fingertips over the marks.  "Today," he says.  "Tonight, probably, but I'll need access to the material specs and local atmospheric data to know for sure."

"Someone went through here," John says.  "Leaving, or being let in?"

"The other side might tell us," Dorian says.

The nearest gate is back the way they came.  Unless he counts the marina gate, visible for miles and probably under surveillance from both sides.  Even if their troublemakers have cut and run, someone must have seen them.

John spares a glance for the wired security camera set up high on the wall.  The one on the other side will be wireless and networked, and if Dorian wasn't respecting the law they could have that footage already.  Leaving will solve the problem, but it could take hours to find out where the feed on this side goes and who has the authority to surrender it.

"Can you open this?" John asks at last.  He doesn't want to climb into a dark tunnel under the water line, but he's not going back empty-handed.

Dorian pulls the composite cover off like it's a piece of paper someone stapled across the opening.  "I'll lead you in?" he says, waiting for John's nod.  The opening is bathed in red light as Dorian eases through, and John's own flashlight is awkward and jumpy in his hand.

They should call in their movement, tell someone they're going in.  But John's phone is off, and Dorian is running on radio silence.  Rules of the zone.  As long as they don't run into anyone underneath the barrier, they'll be able to transmit again on the other side.  That should satisfy procedure.

"Clear!"  Dorian's voice echoes in the concrete chamber, and John rolls his eyes.

"Did you scan the compartment?" he asks, lifting his flashlight.  The hole they came through is a lighter shade of black, just enough light through it to show where it is.

"We're underground," Dorian says.  "There's an EM barrier above our heads, and I didn't send anything past the walls.  No one's going to know."

"Oh, well," John says.  "If no one finds out, then it's perfectly legal."

"I play by your rules," Dorian tells him.

"Great," John mutters.  "So we're all screwed."

"I prefer to think of it as mutually compromised," Dorian says.  "You don't turn me in, I'll do the same for you."

John completes his flashlight circuit of the tiny space, shoulder to shoulder with Dorian in front of the back door.  "Are you blackmailing me?"

"That would be unethical," Dorian tells him.

"But not against my rules?" John says.  "Open this door."

"It's locked," Dorian says.  "I have to find the code manually; it might take a few minutes."

"Didn't stop you up there."  There's a vibration in the ground that John doesn't like, something that reminds him of the tide and the original function of the wall.  "Is there any drainage down here?"

"It was built to hold back the ocean," Dorian says.  "I can't just tear it off its hinges.  And no, we're underground, where water typically drains in.  Not out."

He flips his light over the ground, then back toward the ladder, stilling only when Dorian's free hand lands on his elbow.  "John," Dorian says.  His voice is calm but quieter than before.  "There's someone up there."

"Police," John says, but he doesn't raise his voice either.

"I don't think so."

John knows what the drag of composite means, and Dorian is already shoving him back when the access hatch slams into place.  The android is up the ladder before John can lift his flashlight, but something else falls onto the hatch and John figures they're not stupid.  If they identified Dorian, they know exactly how much he can lift.

"There's an alarm," John begins.

"I just set it off," Dorian says.  It's another violation of zone protocol, but right now John is more worried about the way the back door suddenly flashes red pressure numbers next to a countdown: ten seconds.

"Is that gonna open, or explode?"  He's got his light on it, ancient codebreaker pressed to an even older door, but if Dorian couldn't get anything from it then his outdated tech won't do much.  "Why is it shaking?"

"Probably open," Dorian said, still braced against the hatch.  "There shouldn't be water on the other side, but those numbers say there is."

"Can you stop it from opening?"

They're down to three seconds when Dorian lands beside him, batting John's codebreaker out of the way and pressing his whole hand to the panel.  His fingers are blue and lightning fast but it's too late.  The door pulls away and the water roars in, high and cold and loud.  John has time to secure his codebreaker and his light before Dorian's grip is the only thing that keeps him from being forced into the wall.

"Not good!" John yells, waist-deep in rushing water and grabbing for Dorian's arm in what's effectively darkness.  His flashlight's already underwater and he doesn't know how long it's going to last.

"I might be able to get us out the other side!" Dorian yells back.  "If they haven't blocked it off, if the water's being shunted from somewhere else--"

"Too many ifs!"  Not that he's going to have a choice.  If that's their way out, then he's going to hold his breath and trust Dorian to pull him through.  "Any read on the L squad?"

"I can't contact them directly."  Dorian's holding both his shoulders now, a solid anchor in the bone-chilling cold that swirls around his chest.  "They'll see the alarm and come investigate."

The roar is falling off now that the water's stopped crashing against the floor and walls, but it continues to rise faster than John can think.  "I'll try to breathe," he said.  "When it's over my head.  Keep me from drowning when I pass out, okay?"

"I can do better than that," Dorian says, louder and easier to hear when he moves in close.  "But you're not going to like it."

"I don't like drowning," John snaps.  The cold is making it impossible to concentrate, stealing what breath he has.  "I'll take whatever you've got."

"Internal air changer," Dorian says.  "I can scrub CO2.  It won't be able to keep up--"

John's not listening anymore, pushing down panic when the water hits his chin.  The top of the compartment's right over their heads; there won't be any air pockets to hide in.  "How internal?"

He closes his mouth when bitter saltwater washes over his face, then jerks back when Dorian gets too close.  But he can't move in the water, not fast enough, and there's nowhere to go when Dorian kisses him hard.  Too hard.  Fucking robot doesn't know his own strength--

So inappropriate, he thinks, disjointed with shock.  Dorian has no boundaries.  They're not going to die here.  But Dorian is forcing his mouth open, hand on the back of his neck to hold him still, and John gasps in a breath as the water closes over their heads.

An actual breath.  Dorian isn't breathing, but John is.  He keeps it together just enough that he doesn't suck water in through his nose.  He's panting disbelief and sheer terror straight into Dorian's mouth while Dorian tries to seal the water out with his lips.  John pushes back, closing the gaps, swallowing saltwater and trying to concentrate on his breath in the blackness.

Before he closes his eyes against the sting he sees blue flicker up and down Dorian's face.  He's probably yelling for help on every frequency there is, but it won't get past the barrier.  He might be able to override the wired call boxes on the road, or a nearby land line, but it will take time.

Time John doesn't have.  He knows how rebreathers work, knows that Dorian can't actually generate oxygen.  He doesn't need it.  John does.  He can't reuse the same air endlessly.

The water is pushing at him, the eddy and pull making him dizzy.  All he has for a reference point is Dorian's mouth, the hand on his neck and the grip on his arm that holds him down.  He focuses on drawing air in and forcing it back out, knowing that he won't be able to feel fatigue or see the darkness that will warn him his oxygen is running low.

He's heard drowning isn't the worst way to go.  Freezing is better, though, and at the rate his temperature's dropping he thinks hypothermia might get him first.  He manages not to smile: don't break the seal.

Dorian is pushing him, forcing him to step back.  Stays with him until his back's against the wall.  It stabilizes him, kills some of the dizzy feeling when Dorian pins him there.  And it's quiet under the water, at least.  The frantic fight of going under is subsumed by the cold certainty of death hovering just at the edge of his perception.

John feels Dorian's hand move, frightening with the threat of loss.  But it just slides down his arm and covers John's hand.  John feels his fingers scramble for contact, clinging to Dorian's and squeezing hard.  Dorian squeezes back, the arm over his shoulder an immovable weight, and John thinks about how no one ever wants to outlive a partner.

Then Dorian's jolting him again, squeezing hard enough to make the numbness hurt, but John can't let go.  He feels his own hand pressed against his hip with Dorian's.  The hand on the back of his neck slides up to his head, keeping their mouths together even as Dorian jostles him into something sharp and hard.

The hand on his head disappears.  He claws at Dorian's jacket, trying to hold on, but there's a hand on his other side and he's being pushed away.  He manages to close his mouth as the water rushes in, swallowing hard and trying desperately to hold his breath.  It's a losing battle with instinct taking over, and the saltwater burns all the way down.

New cold slaps him in the face, harsh and unforgiving.  The water's pouring down his face.  It takes him several seconds to recognize foreign hands grasping at his clothes and his arms, hauling him up.  Out of the water.

He spends the next few minutes with his eyes squeezed shut, trying to breathe without choking or throwing up.  He misses Dorian's exit, but he recognizes the robotic style of first aid when he gets a clap on the back and a blanket tossed over his shoulders.  Someone else hands him a thermos and helps his shaking hands hold onto it, but he can't stop coughing long enough to drink.

Sophie Rainer, he realizes, when the spasm finally start to ease.  "Hey," he rasps, nodding at her over the thermos.  It sets off another round of coughing, but he can force his throat open this time.  "Thanks."

"Thank you," she says, and she looks worried enough that he dislikes her a little less.  "I'm so sorry.  Are you all right?"

"Getting there," he croaks.  He looks around, dislodging the crinkly space blanket draped over his back.  "Dorian?"

"Yeah," Dorian says, stepping over and pulling the blanket over his shoulder again.  "Paramedics are on their way.  How are you feeling?"

"Half-drowned," John growls.  He has to grind his teeth to keep them from chattering.  "I don't need an ambulance."

"Do you understand how one of those statements contradicts the other?"  Dorian crouches down in front of him, but his gaze cuts to Sophie Rainer.  "We're still working on logic.  It's not his strong suit."

John doesn't look to see if she smiles.  "We're still working on communication," he says.  "Thanks for the warning, man.  That wasn't at all terrifying."

"You're welcome for saving your life," Dorian tells him.

"Can I get some dry clothes?"  John looks around again, and this time he sees more lights and hey, maybe they'll have extra scrubs or something.  "When can we have that camera footage?  Someone must have been physically present to block the hatch."

"Officer Page is working on it now," Dorian says.  "Ms. Rainer has volunteered her phone as a point of contact."

"Get the feed from the other side, too," John says, and Dorian does that thing where he looks too calm to be rolling his eyes.

"We've requested all local surveillance," he says instead.

The EMTs are on them in seconds.  On John, anyway, pulling him away from his blanket and his thermos, and Dorian follows as they coax him toward the ambulance with the promise of sweats and a place to change.  He balks when they try to close the doors behind him.

"Him too," John says, glancing at Dorian.

"John."  Dorian looks less amused than usual, but he doesn't care.  "The cold doesn't bother me."

"Yeah, but you're gonna drip all over the car," John tells him.  "Put on something dry or walk home.  Your choice."

This gets them an EMT in the ambulance with them, which is awkward and way too crowded, but she produces more clothes before climbing into the front.  John shivers his way out of his sopping wet clothes, fingers clumsy from the numbness.  By the time he struggles into sweatpants and a t-shirt that barely fit with a sweatshirt that's too big, Dorian's done and guarding the door.

He looks weird in sweats, but he sounds normal when he glances back and asks, "You okay?"

"I'm freezing," John says.  Even his hair is cold.  He'd like to wrap that blanket around himself about now.  "And, uh.  Thanks for not letting me drown."

"Thanks for not dying on me," Dorian says.  "You're the only cop unstable enough to need a DRN these days."

John scoffs.  "I don't need you," he says, but it's automatic.  He couldn't not say it if he tried.  Even if he's gotten to the point where he admits--sometimes, and only to himself--that it isn't true.

"You need someone," Dorian says bluntly.  "And you like me."

"I don't like you," John tells him.  "I don't hate you as much as I hate everyone else.  There's a difference."

Dorian pushes the doors open and gets out, so John thinks he won that one.  He bags his soaked clothes and tosses them out on the curb.  His wet shoes chafe on bare feet--what kind of emergency personnel carry spare clothes but no socks?--and he makes a face.  So far, his night is going exactly as well as he expected.

"Emmi Rainer is in the car," Dorian says, passing him the mom's thermos when he jumps down.  "Do we get her a protective detail?"

John turns, but it's Page and Magnussen's squad car that has a blonde pre-teen in the back.  "She's not the one they were after," he mutters.  He keeps it down, though, because if this is gonna be the ELPD's problem then he feels more forgiving.

Dorian hears him, obviously, and he replies just as quietly.  "Try telling her mother that."

He's going to have to.  But not tonight.  Tonight they have footage to review, criminals to identify, and activity they need to tie to the kidnappings if they're going to make any headway in this case.

Plus he's pretty sure it's not just coffee in this thermos, and he's already forming a truce with Sophie Rainer in his mind.  She called him out of bed and almost got him killed, but she also made him Irish coffee.  So there are mitigating factors.

"Hey," he says, catching Page as she passes.  "You gonna leave someone here overnight?"

She eyes him: wet shoes, thermos, sweats and all.  "At this rate, we'll be lucky if any of us leave.  Do you often get people trying to kill you, Detective?"

"More than you'd think," he tells her.  "We're gonna go see what we can get off the cameras.  You need anything else here?"

"No," Page says, and there's a wry twist to her lips that says she might be joking.  "I think you've helped enough."

"Call us if there's more," John says.  He knows better than to take the bait.  Our Precinct Is Better Than Yours is a time-consuming game when he's the one standing around in uncomfortable shoes.

She nods once, frowning faintly at Dorian before she turns away.

He doesn't see Sophie Rainer anywhere on his way to the car.  He can't leave her thermos on the ground where anyone could pick it up.  So he tells himself he'll wash it when he's done and return it, and he tosses the mostly full container into the back with his wet clothes.

"Clothes in the back," John calls, when Dorian doesn't appear next to him before he closes the trunk.  He leans around and catches Emmi's odd look when she stares at them through the back of the squad car.

Not them, he realizes, when Dorian goes around the opposite way to stow his bag.  She's watching Dorian.  They probably don't see many bots behind the wall.

It makes sense, he supposes.  Curiosity is normal.  Of course she wants to see more of Dorian.  If it wasn't so absurdly early in the morning, and after one of the worst fuck-ups in case history--that's rule number one, try not to be the one who needs rescuing--they'd go over and say hi.

As it is, they both look like shit and they have better places to be.  John only waits for Dorian to slam the door before he peels out, seatbelt still connecting, almost as an afterthought.  "Back to the precinct?" Dorian asks.

"Why?" John says, like there's a choice.  He needs Dorian if he's going to get through half of this by shift change.  "You get more points if you're called out and don't come back?"

"As a matter of fact," Dorian says.  "I do."

"Good."  John guns the accelerator on the quiet streets, skirting the wall as they head for the gate.  Back to civilization.  "Let's go."

Chapter 2

Dorian won't let him bring the thermos into the precinct with him, which John feels is unfair.  "Why can't I have coffee?" he wants to know.  "It's the middle of the night.  And I'm still cold."

He's freezing, actually, but that's probably the adrenaline.  He's shaking again and he knows Dorian's noticed.  The precinct will be warm, at least.  Hopefully that will be enough.

"You can make fresh coffee when we get inside," Dorian says.  "There's alcohol in that."

"Yeah," John grumbles.  "That's kind of the point."  Then he frowns, because Dorian hasn't had any of it.  "Wait, how do you know that?"

"I checked it while you were changing," Dorian says.  "You shouldn't accept drinks from strangers, John."

"Someone who gives you a drink isn't a stranger," John tells him.  "That's why you give people drinks in the first place."

"You have terrible standards," Dorian says.  "Has anyone ever told you that?"

"My standards are fine."  John pulls his bag out of the back and gives him the eye.  "What do you know about standards, anyway?"

"Yeah, that's a good point,” Dorian agrees, taking the other bag and closing the trunk.  "I mean, I put up with you.  That can't say anything good about my discrimination protocols."

John rolls his eyes but he lets it go, because they have to walk past Madge and her MX and he’d rather not be discussing alcohol when they do it.  In fact, he’d rather not be saying anything at all, because Dorian’s not the only one who can tell what’s on his breath.  It’s late and it wasn’t much, but if they’re on a call then they’re on duty.

He looks over his shoulder when Dorian stops being there.  He’s in time to see Dorian press one finger to the vending machine by the parking lift.  His finger flickers blue, and the machine flashes back at him.

“I thought you didn’t eat,” John calls, shifting his bag of wet clothes to the other hand.  He checks his phone out of habit, but he’s already at the only place that would call him at this hour.

He puts it away just in time to catch the package Dorian tosses at him.  “It’s for you,” Dorian says.  “Peanut butter.”

Peanut butter crackers.  John raises his eyebrows, but he’s not stupid and he doesn’t complain.  He crunches down on one of the crackers as they get into the elevator, tipping the package toward Dorian out of habit.

He realizes how stupid the gesture is a second too late.  By then, Dorian is already reaching over to take one.  John watches in surprise as he puts it in his mouth and chews like a normal human being.  He’s still staring when Dorian swallows a moment later, so yeah, maybe he didn’t expect that.

Dorian gives him a smug look, not that he has any other kind, and John blurts out, “What the hell was that?”

“I can eat,” Dorian says.  At least he doesn’t pretend not to know what John is talking about.  “I just don’t.  Usually.”

“Usually,” John says.  “You just don’t.”

“That’s what I said,” Dorian agrees.  “Thanks for the cracker.”

“Thanks for the--”  John stops himself before he repeats three sentences in a row.  “All those times you just… but you just sit there!  And watch me eat!  You don’t even order anything!”

“I don’t need to eat,” Dorian says.  “There’s no point in me ordering anything.”  The doors chime a warning and he adds, “Finish your crackers.”

It’s not the worst advice.  John wants to ignore it on principle, but if anyone knows what an MX can detect, it’s probably Dorian.  So he has another peanut butter cracker in his mouth when the doors open, and sure enough, Madge’s MX is watching even before they step out.

“Good morning, Madge,” Dorian says.

John’s still chewing, so he just waves, and her gaze rakes over them like she knows exactly what’s going on.  Her MX is watching Dorian now, which should make John feel better but doesn’t.  Especially when Dorian frowns back at it and doesn’t look away.

“Morning, boys,” Madge drawls.  “Saw some excitement at the wall, did you?”

“Under the wall is more like it,” John says, stuffing the rest of the crackers in the pocket of his sweats.  Which reminds him of what he’s wearing, and Madge’s expression makes more sense now.  “You alone tonight?”

“Nah,” she says.  “Erin’s in, working on some court case.  And Rashid’s working some kind of op I’m not supposed to know about, but he keeps calling for software patches, so it’s hard to ignore.  Do I look like CT to you?”

“You look like CT’d be lucky to have you,” John says, because he can be charming.  “Anyone in the shelter?”

“Some kids from Main.”  Something lights up her screen, but she asks, “You need the space?”

He shakes his head.  “Just the laundry.”  He drums on her desk in farewell, and she swats at his hand as he goes by.  He grins, calling back, “Thanks Madge!”

Dorian’s right behind him when he turns the corner, but he waits until they’ve put a couple of levels between them before he asks, “What was that about?”

“What was what?” Dorian asks.

“The MX,” John says, because pretending not to know what he’s talking about isn’t cute.  No matter how innocent Dorian manages to sound every damn time.  “You were looking at him funny.”

He expects to be mocked for his perfectly understandable observation, but instead Dorian just says, “The way he was standing seemed off.”

John has no idea what that’s supposed to mean.  “Off?  Off how?”

“I don’t know,” Dorian says.  “It was just… funny.”

His tone is thoughtful, and John shouldn’t do it.  He does it anyway.  “He was standing funny.  That’s your problem with the MX, he was standing funny?”

Just like that, Dorian’s rolling his eyes, paying attention to him again as falls into step with John on the stairs.  “Don’t ask if you don’t want to know,” he says.  “Your example of descriptive observation isn’t stellar either.”

John tries not to grin.  “Hey, I trained for two years to be able to do that.”

“And it was clearly a waste of time,” Dorian says.  “Have you considered a remedial language class?"

"Have you considered knitting?" John asks.  "I think that'd be a useful skill for you.  It's good to have hobbies, things to take your mind off the job."

"Are you trying to imply that good communication skills are as relevant to your work as knitting is to mine?"  Dorian follows him through a door that doesn't lead to the shelter without hesitation.  "Or are you just trying to distract me because you can't admit that I scored a point?"

"Maybe I just think you'd look good in a sweater," John says.  "One with a reindeer on the front.  That'd be real nice."

He doesn't have to look to know Dorian's hitting up the network for information.  "You're referring to the tradition of holiday sweaters," Dorian says after a moment.  "Why do you assume that anything I make will be ugly?  That's hurtful, John."

"When you knit something that's not ugly, I'll take it back," John says.  "But it has to have a reindeer on it."

"Even you can't be directionally challenged enough to think that this is the way to the laundry room," Dorian says, and John smirks.  Point answered.

"Locker room," John says.  "Extra clothes.  I'm not walking around in sweats that are too small for the rest of the night."

"I like these clothes," Dorian says.  "They feel comfortable."

"Well, you can keep wearing them then."  John doesn't have that many spare clothes anyway, but he figures they can swipe some from the shelter if Dorian changes his mind.  "I want actual socks."

Socks are the only thing Dorian does end up taking.  Which is good, because their shoes are a total loss and having a barefoot bot walking around is just distracting.  It occurs to John that his feet probably glow, too, and he almost asks before he reminds himself he doesn't care that much.

He checks his pockets automatically while Dorian pulls open an empty turbo washer.  He puts his own things inside, including Rudy's jacket, and takes what John hands him until he gets to the sweatshirt.  Dorian hands it back, slamming the door and starting the cycle before John can protest.

"Hey," he complains anyway.  "It all has to get cleaned."

"It's clean enough," Dorian says.  "You should put it back on; you're shivering."

He's not shivering.  Much.  He's mostly not shivering.

"You know, I took care of myself just fine before you came along," John grumbles, but he pulls the sweatshirt on over his extra clothes and Dorian doesn't remind him that he got his leg blown off, so it's  draw.

The bullpen is bright as day and empty in a way that makes it hard to see the only person in it.  Erin Kelsey's sitting at her computer, motionless as she watches them come in.  She nods when he does, but she doesn't get up and she doesn't look happy to see them.

Night shift, John thinks.  It's different on patrol, where there's the shared suffering of officers.  The detectives are a less communal bunch, and when they work after midnight it's because they've been called in--or because they want to get away from each other.

"Evening," Dorian says anyway, because he's hopelessly polite.  He's aware enough to know that this is the end of Kelsey's day even though it's the beginning of Madge's, but John thinks he cheats.  He's got the department schedule written inside his head.

"Hi," Kelsey says unexpectedly, and maybe she smiles a little.

Dorian gives John a pointed look, and he sighs.  "Hey," he says gruffly.    "Sorry to barge in; we got a call on the K Street case.  You want coffee or anything?"

"There's some in the kitchen," she says.  "It's Peet's.  Help yourself."

"Thanks," John says.  That's the good stuff.  She must have brought it in herself.  It wouldn't last ten minutes during the day.

He pours a cup for himself, then points at it when Dorian leans against the counter next to him.  Dorian shakes his head no.  He looks less... something, in sweats and sock feet.

Less robotic, maybe.

"Do you think it's strange that Emmi Rainer was willing to wait in a police vehicle while her mother went down to the wall?" Dorian asks, out of nowhere.

John looks away and considers sugar.  He clearly needs to focus.  "She's got a protective parent," he says.  "She knows the drill."

"But she didn't complain," Dorian says.  "Children at that age do few things without question, and she didn't look upset or resentful."

"You think she's in on it?" John says.

"What?"  Dorian sounds surprised.  "No, man.  I think she knows why they're after her."

John stops.  "What?"

"She's in on it?" Dorian repeats.  "In on what?  Why do you always assume the worst of people?"

"Why do you assume she knows what's going on?" John asks.  "She's a kid in a car; what do you expect her to do?  Throw a temper tantrum?"

"I expect her not to look scared," Dorian says.  "She was surrounded by cops and she didn't feel safe.  Why not?"

“How do you know she didn’t feel safe?” John counters.  “She looked safe to me.”

“Given your vast and demonstrable affinity for children,” Dorian says, “I’m going to give that the consideration it deserves.  So the question remains: if she and her mom both believe she’s the next target, what do they know that we don’t?”

"All the parents probably think their kid is next," John says.

"But we haven't heard from all the parents," Dorian says.  "Just the Rainers."

John lifts his cup, wishing it was cool enough to drink.  "I'll look again," he says.  "In the meantime, we have a lot of surveillance video to watch."

"I know you don't buy it," Dorian tells him.  "You don't have to pretend you're considering it just to appease me."

John rolls his eyes.  "I do one halfway polite thing all day, and that's what you slam me for?"

"I've slammed you for plenty of things,” Dorian says.  “Would you like to review the list?"

"Look, we couldn't connect the first two kids," John says.  "I don't think adding Emmi Rainer is going to help."

"Well, that's definitely a reason not to try," Dorian says.   "Giving up is a successful clearance strategy in point zero two percent of criminal investigations."

"Fine," John tells him.  "You look for the connection, and I'll watch the surveillance video.  Happy?"

Dorian gives him a particularly condescending look and says, "My standards are a little higher than yours, John."

John really tries not to laugh.  In the end, like so many things with Dorian, it's a losing battle.  The most he manages is not to spill coffee on himself when he does it.

Kelsey's MX is sitting across from her when they return to the bullpen, and if John didn't know better he'd say they were interrupting.  Both of them look up when John pushes the door open, but neither says anything and there's the sense of a question left hanging.  He glances back.

Dorian just shrugs.  If he heard anything through the door, it wasn't relevant.  Since John vowed long ago not to antagonize detectives who leave him alone, he doesn't comment.

"Good coffee," he says instead.  "Thanks."

"Sure."  Kelsey's reply is natural enough, and her MX turns back to the virtual terminal.  Watching a city scan.  "Emmett won't have any, so you might as well keep me from drinking it all."

"Emmett?" he says.

Her eyes flick to her MX and he knows.  Before he can say anything, though, the MX turns and nods stiffly to him.  "I'm Emmett.  It's a pleasure to meet you, Detective Kennex."

"Uh-huh," John says.  Kelsey's watching him, and he can feel Dorian staring, so he mutters, "Yeah, uh.  Same here."

"Oh, look," Dorian murmurs, just before the awkward silence becomes too long.  "Your second halfway polite moment of the day.  Careful, you'll strain something."

"I'll strain you," John tells him, without any heat.  He's broken the tension and John thinks Kelsey is hiding a smile.  Dorian is better at moods and atmosphere than most of the humans John knows.

Than of the any humans John knows, actually.  It's not saying that much.  He hasn't bothered trying to reconnect with people when he can't tell who's real and who's not anymore.

Dorian's cleared them for wall access, and any footage he could possibly want from the wireless cams is available on John's screen now.  Along with a message showing the request submitted for wired transmission, an auto reply that probably has more to do with the hour than bureaucratic red tape, and a sense of certainty that the footage they don't have is the only footage they need.  Isn't that always the way, John thinks.

"Hey," John says, because he can't not ask.

"It'll be six hours before the interior camera footage is available," Dorian says.  He doesn't look away from the virtual terminal, and John can see child's face after child's face flashing on the screen.  "Unless someone with the authority to release it comes in before the day shift begins."

He wants to complain about it, but Dorian will be finished before John even starts at this rate.  So he just says, "Thanks," and grumbles to himself.  Silently.

"You're welcome," Dorian replies.  His gaze is riveted to the screen.

"So what's the verdict?" John asks, because apparently he doesn't feel like staring at a lot of long recorded nothing right now.  "You narrow it down yet?"

"Yes, John."  Dorian doesn't pause in the slightest.  "I've scanned every publicly accessible record and all the relevant private databases in twenty-four seconds."

John holds up his hands in surrender.  Looking back at his own screen, he punches up the scan speed and starts searching in earnest.  If Dorian's not going to play, he'll have to find his own data.  There shouldn't have been water behind that door, so that's as good a place to start as any.

The outside of the wall is better lit than the inside.  It does make the shadows sharper, but the camera angles are set up so their blind spots are bright and the close ups are dim.  Hypothetically, it evens out the coverage and forces people trying to hide toward the cameras.

What it doesn't do is reveal things that aren't there.  John scans five different camera feeds before he's sure he'll have to go back more than a few hours.  Dorian could do it a lot faster than he can.  Dorian could have done the first look faster than he did, but he reminds himself that's not the point.

When he looks over and sees Dorian frowning at nothing, he tries to remember what the point was and he can't.  John sighs.  Kelsey's busy and her MX is minding its own business, so he gets up and walks around the desk.

"Hey," he says.  It's no use trying to be quiet; there's no noise other what they make.  "I could use some help."

"Yeah, me too," Dorian says absently, still staring at a stream of data that makes John's head hurt.  It slows down abruptly, coalescing into three pictures.  "Does this look strange to you?"

It's the missing kids, Miyanda and Sachihiro, along with Emmi, each of them pictured with a parent and obviously posing.  They're not candid shots, but none of them look professional either.  "Special occasion?" John asked.  "Some kind of graduation or class ceremony?"

"Yeah," and now he knows Dorian's distracted because he doesn't even bother to correct him, "but there's something strange about the pictures themselves."

John looks at him, but Dorian doesn't catch his eye or smirk or do any of the things that usually let John know he's way behind.  So he looks back at the pictures and tries to see it.  "Each one of them?" he asks.  "Or all of them together?"

"I don't know," Dorian says, and he sounds frustrated.  "I can't put my finger on it."

It's not much, but John shrugs.  "Leave 'em up," he says.  "We'll get it.  In the meantime, I have more surveillance than I know what to do with and none of it's useful."

"John," Dorian says, finally looking up at him.  "Did you come over here because you're bored with the video footage?"

John scoffs.  "Please, come over here?  It's like two steps.

“And no," he adds, when Dorian raises his eyebrows.  "Maybe.  All right, yes, but there's nothing suspicious for three hours in any direction.  And there might not be, we're looking at the wrong side of the wall, but that water had to come from somewhere."

"The ocean," Dorian says.  "From the taste."

"Yeah, cute," John tells him.  "So can you look, or what?"

"I'll trade you the kids for the wall," Dorian says.  It's how they should have split it up in the first place, but they were both being stubborn and John doesn't like backing down.  Unless it gets him out of days' worth of video surveillance his eyes weren't designed for, and especially if Dorian decides not to be a jerk about it, which it looks like he isn't going to be.

"Fair enough," John says.  "Send me what you've got."

What he’s got turns out to be the most thorough background of minors John has ever seen.  They live in the L Zone and Dorian has still managed to find network photos and video documentation to accompany their official records.  Looking through the pictures, the similarity jumps out at him in a way the records didn’t.

“Single parent families,” John says out loud.

Dorian pauses, looking away from the terminal even though John knows he doesn’t have to.  “Yes,” he says.  “Do you think that’s significant?”

John shrugs.  “Probably not.”

Dorian is motionless for a moment, a flicker of blue light under his skin.  “There are 32 other children in single parent families at the K Street school,” he says.  “The parents show no overt commonalities, nor do those they’ve lost, where losing someone was directly related to the status of the family.”

“Miyanda’s mom was always a single parent,” John says, scanning the records.  “Sachihiro’s mom didn’t have custody until his dad died.  Probably just a coincidence.”

“Ms. Rainer was raising her daughter with her sister until she moved to LA,” Dorian says.  “Her sister stayed behind in Sunnyvale.”

“All moms,” John remarks, leaning back in his chair.  His coffee is too cold, now, but it’s also mostly gone and if he finishes it he can get more.

“Hardly a motive for kidnapping,” Dorian says.

“It’s gonna be hard to find a motive until we know what they’re doing with them,” John says.  “No ransom, no demands… who takes wealthy, unrelated kids and just disappears them?”

“Someone who wants attention,” Dorian says.  “Which they’re not using.”

“Yeah, and if they’re not taking advantage of it, did they screw up?  Or are they waiting for something?”

“More kidnappings,” Dorian says.

“Or us,” John says.  “They were ready for us at the wall.  What if it’s not about the kids?  What if it’s about the response to the kids?”

“The ELPD wasn’t targeted,” Dorian says.  “Protest against our involvement?”

“Still not a reason to kidnap kids in the first place.”  John swallows the rest of his coffee and sets the empty mug down, bringing up another video.  “They don’t want us there; that’s pretty clear.  But what do we do that the L Squad doesn’t?”

Other than solve crimes, he adds silently, but Dorian’s defending the L Zone tonight and John doesn’t feel like picking a fight.  He keeps his derogatory comments to himself, which he thinks is kind of impressive, but it doesn’t do any good.  Dorian must hear it in his voice or something.

“What do you have against the L Zone?” Dorian wants to know.  “They have the lowest crime rate in the city.”

“That doesn’t mean there’s no crime,” John grumbles.  “It just means no one notices.”

“They have the same technological capability we do,” Dorian says.  “They just use it differently.”

Something on the screen catches his eye, and John leans forward to pause and scroll back.  “Why do you like them?” he asks.  “They practically disable androids before they let you through the wall.”

“We’re walking wireless transmitters,” Dorian says.  “I respect their desire to limit exposure to constant radiation.”

“Do you now,” John says, staring at the screen.  He taps it to enlarge, and sure enough, that’s what he thought he saw.  “You go there often?”

“Three times since I woke up.”  Dorian takes the question seriously, and “since I woke up” makes John call up the date on the video he’s watching.  “Each time with you.  Why?”

John crooks a finger to make him come around the desk.  Dorian does it with the patient air of a man who’s humoring his summons rather than following an order, and for the split-second that John looks up, he sees Kelsey’s MX staring.  John’s heard it all from the day shift already and he doesn’t feel like going through it again.  Just getting Dorian invited to the damned ops briefings had been one for the books.

“It’s a DRN,” Dorian says, looking over his shoulder.  “So?”

John’s glad for the excuse to look back at his screen, where someone with Dorian’s face almost blends into the crowd.  “So what’s he doing at a K Street pep rally?  Who’s he with, where’s his partner?  Why’s he wearing--”  John gestured at the picture.  ”That?”

The DRN that looks like Dorian is sporting a team jacket, Angel red bright and unmistakable even in the press of people.  And while it’s easy enough to see Dorian in the image, jacket notwithstanding, the video was captured three years ago.  After Dorian was decommissioned, and before he was reactivated as John’s partner.

“He’s probably supporting the school team,” Dorian says.  “That is the point of a pep rally, isn’t it?”

“Is he supposed to be undercover?” John demands.  “Everyone recognizes you; I don’t think a jacket and baseball cap are gonna change that.”

“There’s no police record of registered DRN activity in that area,” Dorian says.  Blue lines flare and fade under his skin but they don’t disguise his irritation when he says, “Of course, DRN records are obviously incomplete or highly classified, my own being a primary example, so it’s impossible to rule out a police presence."

"Maybe he's registered to someone else," John says.  "Not a cop."

"Without his serial number," Dorian begins, but the blue is flickering across his face and he stops in the middle of the sentence.  "Got it.  There is one DRN registered to a private owner in the L Zone."

"Who?" John asks.

Dorian's expression is neutral, impassive in a way that usually means trouble.  "His name is Dorian," he says.

"I mean, who's the lucky--"  John's brain finally catches up with his mouth, and he foresees a longer and even more aggravating night if he doesn't shut the hell up.  "Uh, who does he… work with?"

"Her name is Natieri Peres.  She's a rocket scientist at the Jet Propulsion Laboratory."

It turns out John can only hold back one stupid comment a day, and the one about whoever owned Dorian's counterpart was it.  "Man," he says.  "NASA just loves you guys, don't they."

Dorian tilts his head in that way he does when there's retribution coming later.  Probably when John least expects it.  He should probably go on the offensive now and make the most of borrowed time.

"Dorian isn't owned by NASA," his partner says, and it's unexpectedly creepy to hear him use his own name to talk about someone else.  "He's registered to Ms. Peres specifically, although he does have clearance at her workplace."

It hits John all of a sudden.  "And at her school," he says, leaning forward to restart the video.  "Does Peres have a kid?"

"Yes," Dorian says.  "Leighton James Peres Pessao.  A tenth grade student at K Street."

Before John can ask, a picture of the kid and his mom appear in the bottom right corner of his screen.  He's so caught up in scanning the video for them that he barely pays attention to Emmett sidling up to the desk.  He notices when Dorian looks up, but he keeps his eyes on the recorded crowd.

"Detective Kennex," Emmett says.  "Will you have some more coffee?"

"Yeah, sure," John says, not really listening.  "Thanks."

"There."  Dorian reaches over his shoulder and touches the screen, but it's already paused.  "That's Leighton James.  It seems likely that Ms. Peres is somewhere on the grounds as well."

"Huh," John says.  "So, he goes to school events with them?"

"Why do you sound surprised?" Dorian asked.  "It's entirely possible that he plays a caretaking role in their family life."

"He's the nanny," John translates.  Pretty expensive babysitter, in his opinion, but hey, Dorian likes cats.  Maybe his counterpart likes kids.  "I knew you were being too bossy about the coffee and the sweatshirt.  It's in your genes."

He doesn’t have to look up to know which expression of tolerant amusement Dorian’s wearing now.  “I don’t have genes, John.”

The kicker is that he didn’t mean to say it.  He actually meant to say programming, and it just didn’t come out that way.  “But you do have sweats,” he says, because he reverts to joking when he’s trying to bluff.  It’s a problem.

When he looks up, though, Dorian’s got a half-smile on his face that says he thinks it’s funny but he doesn’t want to admit it.  "Careful," John warns him.  "He who laughs at terrible puns is destined to repeat them."

Kelsey's phone rings.  She puts in her earpiece, and John reaches for his coffee cup.  It's not there, of course, and he looks around in surprise.

"Did an MX just offer to get me coffee?" he asks.

"More than I would have done," Dorian says, taking his hand off the back of John's chair.  "You'll be lucky to get any sleep as it is."

"Aren't you supposed to be watching surveillance video?" John asks him.

"Aren't you supposed to be working on the case?" Dorian counters.

John makes a face at him, and Dorian just smiles.

By the time Emmett comes back with the coffee, Dorian is on the other side of the desk again and Kelsey's off the phone.  The precinct is as close to silent as it ever gets, so he hears Kelsey say "thank you" and "where's my candy bar?"

"Your candy bar is in the vending machine," Emmett says, and his voice is quiet but unmistakable.  "Where it belongs."

"It belongs in my coffee," Kelsey tells him.  "Have a heart; it's late."

"Then perhaps you should try eating something with nutritive value."  Emmett doesn't back down, and John wonders if she told him to argue with her.  He's never seen an MX be disagreeable like that.  They're bitchy, sure, questioning every order.  He's just never see one be so… pleasant about it.

"Detective," Emmett is saying.  "Your coffee."

"Uh, yeah."  He stops pretending not to look at Kelsey and starts trying to act like he knows what he's doing.  "Great.  That's… great."

"Glad to do it," Emmett says, and that's not a standard MX protocol.  He's still staring when John looks up, which is awkward, and John glances at Dorian.

Who is, technically, just as synthetic as Emmett.  His neutral expression doesn't mean he doesn't care, and John figures he ignores Emmett at his own peril.  "Right," he says aloud.  "Thanks."

it's not much, but Emmett nods and leaves him alone, and Dorian's wearing that little half-smile as he goes back to the camera footage.  John isn't sure when he became someone who thanked androids for doing their job.  On the other hand, it's keeping Dorian off his back, and Kelsey hasn't said more than a dozen words to him all night, so he's gonna call that a win.

Chapter 3

He doesn't find a connection between the kids.  The longer he tries not to think about it, though, the more the Natieri Peres thing bothers him.  He's not sure what it is, but finally he stops pretending it doesn't matter and looks up privately owned DRNs.

It turns out to be the best mistake he could have made.  "Hey," he says.  Kelsey looks up at the same time Dorian does, but she goes back to her screen when John continues.  "Sachihiro's dad didn't live in the L Zone."

"So?" Dorian says.

"So he had a DRN."  John's already calling up Miyanda's information again, scanning her mom's registry numbers, and sure enough.  One top-of-the-line household helper, series KS-307.  Couldn't be very common in the L Zone.

Dorian's paused, blue light and a distant expression telling John that he's probably looking up the same information.  "Ms. Rainer mentioned an android research assistant," he says.  "Currently boarding with her and her daughter."

"Miyanda too," John says.  "Check the rest of the school.  Who else is living with a bot?"

"Leighton James," Dorian says.

"And?" John asks.

Dorian focuses on him again.  "That's it," he says.  "We should tip Ms. Peres."

John reluctantly agrees.  He doesn't like putting anyone on alert: not the parents if it turns out to be nothing, and not the criminals when it doesn't.  Still, it's the first solid lead they've had, and they can't not act on it.

"Send her a data packet," he says.  "Standard police alert.  We have reason to believe your child may be targeted, take appropriate precautions, etc."

"I'll include the 'etcetera,' then?"  Dorian stares at nothing John can see while he puts it together, and he adds, "If the Rainers anticipated this with cause, it's possible that Ms. Peres already knows what we're going to say."

"Well, she's the rocket scientist," John grumbles.  "Maybe she'll be kind enough to fill us in."

"Should we send the Rainers an official alert as well?" Dorian asks.

It seems redundant, but John nods.  "There'll be hell to pay if we don't," he says.  "Same thing; keep it formulaic.  And notify the ELPD, or we'll hear it from them too."

His right leg seizes unexpectedly, and he's glad he's sitting down.  He's less pleased that it seems to have defaulted to the audio interface, because it announces its failure to the entire room.  "Synthetic charge," it says.  "Nine percent."

It's supposed to warn him when it drops below ten.  It's also supposed to do it silently.  He finally learned how to turn the damn voice alerts off, but something must have reset overnight.

Dorian doesn't look at him.  "You should go home," he tells the screen he isn't using.  "I'll stay here and wait for the wired surveillance, let you know when it comes in."

He won't.  Dorian's used this trick before, where he says he'll tell John when something happens and what he means is, he'll tell him after it happens so that John can get more sleep.  It's both annoying and helpful by turns.

"Nice try," John tells him.  "I know that one."

"If your leg gets to five percent," Dorian says, turning away from the terminal to study him, "you won't be able to drive.  Wearing it until it runs down is bad for you, it's bad for your leg, and it won't accomplish anything that you couldn't do better after a few more hours of sleep."

The threat of not being able to drive is almost enough to make him go, and Dorian probably knows it.  Leaving him to work alone seems wrong, though.  Whether he volunteered for it or not.

"What about you?" John asks.  "Aren't you, you know.  Running down, or whatever?"

The look Dorian gives him is neutral enough that it calls attention to his ignorance without needing any expression at all.  "My power cells are slightly more sophisticated than your leg, John."

"Doesn't this count as being kept on past optimal cycling, though?" John insists.  He gets a flicker of surprise for that, and he's careful not to smirk.  He does listen.  He just doesn't usually care.

"I think it qualifies as dire, irreplaceable need," Dorian replies.

"I don't," John says bluntly.  "I'm not going if you don't, so what do you say?"

John's actually curious which way he'll go.  Dorian doesn't like the factory--John's pretty sure he sneaks out even when he's not on call, to hang out with Rudy or do whatever it is bots do in their downtime--but he also doesn't want to lose points to the MXs.  Plus now his fun game of Make John Do Whatever I Say is only winnable if he also does what John says, so maybe it's a stalemate.

"Fine," Dorian says.  The virtual terminal winks out in front of him, saving the data as it goes.  "We both leave; you pick me up again at ten."

"Nine forty-five," John says.  He wants to be here for the midmorning shift change.

Dorian doesn't roll his eyes.  "Nine forty-five, then."

It's not that easy for John, of course.  Dorian goes downstairs to pick up their clothes while John updates the case file, shuts down his station, and rinses out his coffee mug.  He wishes Kelsey good luck with her paperwork, and when Emmett catches his eye John nods to him too.

Nothing seems amiss on his way out.  Madge tells him good night, and to stay out of trouble, and Dorian meets him at the car with two bags of clothes.  Not the bags they started with, John notices.  And Rudy's jacket isn't in either one of them.

"Hey," he complains, when Dorian turns around and puts the jacket in the backseat.  "Why are you leaving clothes in my car?"

"Because I'm not going to wear it tomorrow," Dorian says, settling back in his seat and locking his seatbelt into place.  "And I want to make sure Rudy gets it back."

"That doesn't answer my question," John says.

"If I leave it at the factory, someone might take it," Dorian says.  "I leave things I want to keep with Rudy.  But I'm not going to see him tonight, so I'm leaving it with you."

"Someone might take it?" John repeats.  "Who steals your stuff?"

"Anyone who needs it," Dorian says.  "It's a communal facility, John.  We're not allowed to own anything."

Right.  He does vaguely remember something like that.  Bots are the things that are owned; they don't own things themselves.  It doesn't make as much sense when he tries to apply it to Dorian.

"What if someone gives you something?" John asks.  "What about that kid with the origami cat?  What'd you do with that?"

"I have a locker at Rudy's," Dorian says, staring out the window.  "He lets me lock it, so I have some things there."

Rudy lets him lock his own locker.  Christ.  John is too tired for this shit, and that's the only excuse he has when he blurts out, "And you're okay with that?"

Maybe Dorian is more run down than he let on, because that's all it takes for him to snap.  "Of course I'm not okay with it.  You think I like living like this?  You think I wake up in the morning and think, 'Wow, I can't wait to go do whatever someone tells me to for sixteen hours and then come back here to a pod!'  I hate it.  But I don't have a choice, and it's better than the alternative."

John has no idea what to say to that.  Dorian lets it lie, stiff as any synthetic in silent mode, which usually means he's genuinely pissed off.  The rest of the ride passes in uncomfortable quiet.

When they pull up next to the ChargeFac sign, though, Dorian says, "Eight percent.  You should go straight home."

John knows what he means, and he realizes too that Dorian's turned off the audio interface again.  Without asking, or having to be asked.  He knows that John hates it, so he just does it.

"Yeah," John says.  "I will, okay?  Just…"

There's nothing he can say, and they both know it.  Dorian waits anyway, and finally John says, "Call me if you need anything."

It's a clumsy offer, and not very well thought out.  He doesn't know what he'll do if Dorian takes him up on it.  He doesn't know what he can do.  But it makes Dorian smile, and maybe that was the point.

"Good night, John," he says.

"Yeah," John mutters, frowning at him.  "You too, I guess."

He tries to think about the case on the way home.  He tries not to think about Dorian, and the jacket in the back seat.  He tells himself that the bot connection will make sense when he wakes up, that it's going to come to him while he's in the shower or something, and it's not until he pulls up outside his door that he realizes how much denial he's actually in.

His headlights catch the angry holographic paint spattered across the front of the house: BOT LOVER.  It takes him a few seconds to realize it doesn't say "butt lover," which would at least be true.  When he gets it, though, he can only wish it was a gay slur.

Bot lover.  The missing kids with their live-in synthetics.  The way no one touched a cop until he and Dorian got involved.  This isn't about kidnapping, or jurisdiction, or how long it takes someone in the L Zone to check their damned voice mail.

John doesn't want this case.

"Dorian," he says, resting his head against the back of the seat.

"Yeah," Dorian's voice says, and it's funny at the beginning.  Improperly modulated.  This time John really has woken him up.  "Problem?"

John closes his eyes, because there's no one here to see him sitting in the car talking to himself.  "Tell me those kids were taken because someone doesn't want androids in the L Zone," he says.

There's a brief pause, and then Dorian says, "That's one possibility."

"Tell me they came after us because of you," John says.

This time the hesitation is longer, and he can picture the flicker of blue chasing information loops under Dorian's cheek.  "John," and Dorian sounds like he knows something's wrong but all John can think is, does Dorian always say his name that much?  Why hasn't he noticed?  "Why do you want to be convinced?"

John sighs, opening his eyes to stare at the words again.  "Because I'm looking at some very persuasive vandalism telling me that I'm the problem.  And I'm suddenly worried that none of those kids think they're from single parent families at all."

"Where are you?"  Dorian's tone is sharp, and John wonders if it's all right to be so concerned.  They're partners, right?  You're supposed to be concerned about your partner.

"I'm at home," John mutters, because he just wants to go to bed.  "It's clear; it's not a problem.  Just some kids with a can of spray paint.  Don't worry about it."

"Are you sure?"  Dorian doesn't sound appeased.  "Are you outside?  You should be careful; there could be someone in the house.  You need to report this."

"I'll report it in the morning."  Right now he barely cares enough to get out of the car.

"At least connect your phone," Dorian insists.  "So I can listen while you go inside.  I'm gonna lose a lot of points if my partner gets shot by a burglar five minutes after I spoke to him."

John huffs, and it's almost a laugh.  He also transfers the call to his phone so he can get out of the car, and he takes pictures before he opens the door and disturbs a crime scene.  Dorian wants to see them, so John passes them on once he's inside and has the door locked behind him.

"Not very original," is Dorian's only comment.

John's pretty sure that anything he says will be the wrong thing, so for once he keeps his mouth shut.  If this is some anti-rights group, then he hates them already.  If it's just random vandals, he hates them too, but he won't make it his sworn mission to cause them misery.  Troublemakers without a cause aren't worth it.

Unfortunately, it's a little too much of a coincidence that this happened the same night the child of a woman living with her android research assistant didn't get kidnapped, and someone tried to trap the investigating unit in a submerged hole under the wall.  The half-human, half-android investigating unit.

Nothing about this case is going to go well for John, so he does the only thing he can do.  He sweeps the place, hangs up on Dorian, puts his leg up to charge and falls into bed.  He barely remembers to reset his alarm before he's out.

Sleep, for all that it comes easily, is not his friend.  He blames the nightmares on low blood sugar and almost dying.  When he dreams, though, he can breathe underwater, so he's terrified of letting go but he doesn't know why.

The alarm startles him out of another panicked scrabble for something he can’t identify: life, maybe, or heat, or just a hand in the darkness.  He stares at the ceiling for a long time, wondering what the chances are that he can not show up for work at all and no one will notice.  Other than Dorian, who no one will listen to anyway.

He’s only managed to get as far as sitting up when his phone rings, and it’s Valerie’s image on the screen.  He checks to make sure the camera’s off before he answers.  “Hey,” he says, and then he clears his throat.  “Morning.”

“Hi,” she says.  “Sorry, did I wake you?”

“Yeah,” he says, and then he rubs his hand across his eyes because what is he talking about?  “No, I mean.  Let’s go with no.  What can I do for you?”

He can hear her laugh, but her camera isn’t on either.  “Dorian says you had some company last night and you might like a friendly face.  I think he’s worried that you won’t report it.”

For a moment, John thinks she’s talking about the wall.  He’s staring at his phone, wondering why he wouldn’t report that, when he sees the text from Dorian flash across the screen.  I called Detective Stahl about the graffiti, it says.  Be nice to her.

“Right,” John says aloud.  “The thing, with the… thing.”

He must sound confused, because she’s slower and more sympathetic the second time.  “Dorian says your place got tagged last night,” she says.  “You want me to take the report?  I’m headed out there anyway.”

“Yeah,” he says, because why the hell not.  They’ll find out anyway; it might as well be someone he works with.  “If you’re going to be in the area.  Thanks.”

“I’m bringing Dorian too,” she says.  “Is that okay?”

John frowns.  “Wait, why are you bringing Dorian?”

“Because he asked me to,” she says.  “He’s your partner, John; he just wants to make sure you’re all right.”

He doesn’t want Dorian to see the words on the outside of the house, but that’s stupid.  He’s already seen them.  And it doesn’t matter anyway.  They’re just words; they don’t mean anything.

“Yeah,” he says.  “Fine, that’s… fine.”  He squeezes his eyes shut and wonders if he can get them to bring him breakfast while they’re at it.

“All right,” she says.  “We’ll get some of that--what is it?  Youtiao?  That stuff you eat for breakfast on the way.”

John can’t help it; he laughs.  “Valerie,” he says.  “You just read my mind.”

She sounds amused too when she replies, “Well, someone did.”

“Is he in the car with you?” John demands.  The traitor.  "Tell him he reneged on our deal.  Next time I'm not leaving until I see him close his eyes."

Now that he's listening for it he hears the pause, and then her voice comes back.  "He says the deal was that you both leave.  Also, to be fair, I picked him up from ChargeFac a few minutes ago, so it's not like he went back to your desk and kept working."

"Yeah, that you know of," John says.  "I wouldn't put it past him, believe me."

This time he could swear he hears Dorian's voice, but he can't make out any words until she says, "Okay, if you guys want to talk to each other, could you leave me out of it?  I'm driving."

John almost hangs up right then, because apparently he'd rather talk to his robot partner than Valerie Stahl.  There's something wrong with him, and he doesn't need this conversation to prove it.  Especially because there has to be an MX in the car with them, and John has enough on his record as it is.

Then Dorian's voice says, "John, we got the surveillance video from inside the wall," and John remembers that they have a job.  Dorian's his partner.  They're allowed to talk to each other.

"Is it any good?" he asks, pushing himself up off the bed.  They don't need to hear him put his leg on, and he's still holding out hope for a shower, so he hobbles to the kitchen on good old fashioned crutches.

"It's not great," Dorian says.  "On first pass it's useless, too indeterminate, but we might be able to get something out of analysis.  In the meantime, Ms. Peres wants an interview."

John raises an eyebrow.  "Does she, now."

"She says she has information that might help us," Dorian tells him.

"Schedule it," John says.  "If anyone in that place is willing to talk, we're willing to listen."

There's the faint sound of Valerie's voice, mostly filtered out along with the car noise, and Dorian says, "We're ten minutes out in current traffic, and we're stopping for food.  Try to be dressed by the time we get there."

Just for that, John takes a shower, makes himself some toast, and cracks open a hard-boiled egg before they get there.  He also trades the crutches for his leg and gets dressed, because it's not worth embarrassing himself in front of Valerie just to get back at Dorian.  It's a close call, though.

Valerie's MX takes pictures while Valerie takes his statement.  John watches Dorian out of the corner of his eye, but his partner doesn't stare at the words.  He inspects the structure, walking around it, probably communing with the security system for all John knows.

The system was working last night.  It would have illuminated any trespassers, but it wouldn't have activated unless they actually touched the house.  They must have kept their distance.  The paint obviously wasn't enough to set it off.

Gonna be a bitch to paint over, John thinks.

"Breakfast," Dorian says, when Valerie nods and stops recording.  "You want to eat in the car?"

"Yeah," John says.  He never really wants to be here these days, and less so right now.  "Thanks.  Valerie, you need anything else?"

"No," she says.  "I think we're all set.  You?"

"Fine," he says.

"If you need anything," she begins.

"Yeah, thanks," he says again.  Then, because he cut her off, he adds, "Look, I appreciate you coming.  You didn't have to, and that was… I appreciate it."

"We don't leave each other in the wind," she tells him.  "This is a stupid thing that someone did, but just in case--if it turns into something else--we're with you.  You get that, right?"

"Yeah," he says.  She knows how to look real sincere when she wants to.  "I get that."

"Okay," she says, and her smile is too reassuring for anything but comfort.  "See you back at the precinct, then."

"See you," he echoes.

He watches her car pull out, and Dorian is smirking at him when he turns back to his own.  "What?" John demands.  "You want a medal?  Get in."

Dorian does, but as soon as John slides into the driver’s seat his partner copies Valerie's voice with perfect mimicry: "See you back at the precinct, John."

"That gets less funny every time you do it," John tells him.  He starts the car and looks over his shoulder out of habit.  Rudy's red jacket it still folded up in the backseat, but now there's a bag of Japanese takeout sitting next to it.

Dorian switches to Sandra's voice.  "Whatever you say, John," he says.  That actually is kind of funny, and John tries not to smile.

“John,” Dorian says again, and this time it’s Madge’s voice.  “You better not be giving your partner any lip.  Not with all he does to keep you out there.”

It’s not his fault that John freezes.  He’s imitated Madge perfectly.  She would say something like that, maybe even to John.  But John hears “giving your partner lip” and he can’t not think about it.  He can’t erase the vivid sense memory, or the feeling of a lifeline in the frigid darkness.

He can’t forget that he’s been up close and personal with synthetic lips he has no business noticing, let alone touching.

He sees Dorian glance at him sideways.  He's hesitated too long, and they both know it.  "Yeah, fine, you're the king of keeping me on the road," he grumbles.  "Can I have my breakfast now?"

Dorian uses his own voice for the rest of the ride.

They make it just before shift change, and Sandra catches him as soon as they enter the bullpen.  “John,” she says.  “What happened last night?”

“Nervous parent,” he tells her.  “Thought she saw something down by the wall.  She was worried about her kid, called the L Squad, they called us.”

“But she did see something,” Sandra says.

John looks at Dorian and finds him looking back.  “There was activity there,” John says.  “It’s not clear it was related to the kidnappings.”

She tips her head toward her office.  John pulls his chair out, taps his ear, and gets a nod from Dorian.  While John follows Sandra, Dorian sits down and powers up the terminal behind him.

John expects to hear about the breach of protocol at the wall.  They shouldn't have gone in without notifying anyone; it was stupid and dangerous and John almost paid the price.  Sandra loves to yell at him for this kind of thing.

Instead, she turns on him the moment the door closes and asks, "Did you just tell Dorian to listen to this conversation?"

John blinks at her.  "What?"

"He's not your personal codebreaker, John.  He's a police officer, and he is programmed to obey the law.  No matter how much you encourage him otherwise."

"What?" John repeats.  "What are you talking about?"

Sandra glares at him, lifting one hand to the side of her face.  She taps her ear twice and says, "That's the recording signal, John."

He has to think about it, because he wasn't paying any attention to what it would look like.  He did gesture to Dorian before he came in.  "No--are you serious?  I told him to call one of our parents.  That's all."

Sandra folds her arms.  "Which one?"

"Natieri Peres," he says.  "She says she--"  The sudden change in her expression catches up with him, and John stops in the middle of the sentence.  "You know her?"

"We've met," she says.

"Okay," he says, when she doesn't go on.  "Uh… she left a message saying she could help us with the investigation?  She didn't return Dorian's call earlier, so.  I asked him to try her again."

"What does she know about the kidnappings?" Sandra asks.

John eyes her.  "Well, I don't know," he drawls.  "That's why we want to talk to her."

Sandra frowns, and John isn't convinced.  "You want to tell me how you know her?" he says.

"I read the update," she says, like he didn't even ask.  "On your case file, about the bots."

She doesn't use the word "synthetic," and for the first time it jumps out at him.  Everyone in the precinct says synthetic.  He's gotten out of the habit, what with Dorian giving him the sad eyes every time he hears it, but no one else seems affected.  Probably because they don't have to ride with him twelve hours a day.

"Okay," John says.  Maybe she's just using the terminology he put in the file.  "So you know she and Sophie Rainer are the only other K Street parents with live-in bots."

"Yes," Sandra agrees.  "You sent them an alert early this morning, and now they both want to talk to you.  No surprise there."

"Well," he says.  "Sophie Rainer won't stop talking to us, so I'm not sure that's significant.   But yeah.  Peres probably contacted us because of the alert."

Sandra looks away before staring back at him, and it's a little thing but he can read her tells.  "Did you know that Ms. Peres is associated with the Individual Rights Consortium?"

"No," John says, watching her carefully.  "How associated?"

Sandra doesn't move, but her frozen posture answers the question for him.  "Very," she says.  "Her family goes to rallies on the weekends.  With a picnic basket."

"Hardly militant involvement," John observes.

"She'll want to talk to you about it," Sandra says.  "Especially considering--"  She waves her hand at the transparent doors of her office.  "Your partner."

"You think that's why she called," John says.  He assumes "your partner" means the fact that they both have DRNs.  "You don't think her information has to do with the kidnappings at all."

"It might," Sandra says.  "The consortium could be involved, or their political enemies."

John snorts.  "Oh, you mean everyone?"

"They're not a lone voice in the wilderness," Sandra says.  "The IRC is impractical, impossible, and way too far left, but they have friends.  Friends who might be more willing to talk to you than they are to us."

John waits for the rest, but she just stands there until he stares at her in disbelief.  "You want me to pretend to be a bot sympathizer?"

She raises an eyebrow at him.  "Is that a problem?"

"It's ridiculous," John says.  "Do you know I've killed more bots than I have human beings?  And I'm a cop in Los Angeles."

"There's no zealot like a convert," she tells him.

There’s no zealot like a zealot, John thinks, but he doesn't say it.  She knows it as well as he does.  “That what Peres is?” he asks instead.

“She works for JPL,” Sandra says.  “That’s a very liberal environment.  And they’ve been around bots a lot longer than the rest of us.”

John eyes her skeptically.  “And what do you think I’m gonna have in common with someone like that?”

“It's not a sting,” Sandra says.  “You don't need a cover.  Just be someone she can talk to, okay?  If she has information, do what you can to get it."

"Hey," John objects.  "People talk to me.  People talk to me all the time; I'm great with people."

"Try to be more great," Sandra tells him.  "And next time, when you decide to investigate a potential bolt-hole, tell someone where you're going."

He wants to argue with that, but he can't.  "Yeah," he says.  "No contest."

She raises an eyebrow at him, and he shrugs.  "What can I say, you got me.  We should have called it in."

Sandra studies him a little more closely than he's comfortable with, but that's her style.  "They said the access shaft was completely filled with water when they dragged you out of it," she says.

That's when he realizes where this could go.  "Yeah," he says, as casually as he can.  "It filled up fast.  Whatever else you can say about them, the L Squad made good time when Dorian set off the alarm."

"And you held your breath?" Sandra asks.  "Until they got the door open?"

"Basically," John says.  "Wasn't that long."

"I see," Sandra says.  He hopes she doesn't.  "Well, I'd tell you to get some counseling, but you're overdue on that front from last time.  At this point I think you'd just make the therapists cry."

Which sounds like a fun game, all things considered.  "If that's an option," he begins, and she rolls her eyes.

"Don't harass the psych department, John.  The less often they remember you exist, the better."

"That's a goal I can live with," he says.

"Get back to work," Sandra tells him.

Dorian's back on the virtual terminal when John steps out of Sandra's office, and Valerie's standing next to him.  So much for her being "headed out there anyway."  She looks over at him when he joins them, and he tries to give her a look that says I know what you did and it was totally unnecessary but thanks.

If she gives him any speaking look in return, it's probably just you're welcome.

"So, these pictures that Dorian has," she says.  "You were looking for similarities in the kids?"

The images on the terminal are the same three that Dorian pulled last night: graduation ceremonies or something, each of the kids with their parent, smiling happily for the camera.  "Yeah," John says.  "Dorian said they all looked off somehow."

"Valerie thinks she knows why," Dorian tells him.

"I do know why," she says.  "I just don't know if it's what you're looking for or not."  She waits for John to look at her before she says, "There's someone missing.  Dorian says they're all single-parent families, but they don't pose like it.  They're all standing like there's supposed to be a third person in the picture."

John frowns.  "What, like it's been edited or something?"

"No," Valerie says.  "Look, if you're a single adult used to posing with a child, you pull the child toward you.  It's just instinct.  All of these parents are leaning toward their children, like there's usually someone else on the other side."

When John just stares at her, she adds, "The other adult would prevent them from hugging the child toward them.  There's someone missing in each of these photographs.  Did they all lose parents recently?"

"No," John says with a sigh.  He doesn't think it's a biological parent they're missing.  "But that does explain why we're getting calls from the IRC."

Both Valerie and Dorian look at him.  He wonders if it's too late to dump this entire case on Paul.  Of course, Paul will mess it up, because he cares about bots the way he cares about print machines.  Maybe that's enough of a reason to keep it, John doesn't know.

John's pretty sure the fact that he does care--grudgingly but unmistakably--isn't going to do him any favors either.

Chapter 4

"The Individual Rights Consortium is calling you?" Valerie says.  "About your case?"

"I hope so," John grumbles, staring at the pictures because there's nothing better to look at.  "'Cause if they're recruiting, they're knocking on the wrong door."

He can feel Dorian frown at him.  He doesn't even have to turn his head to know the expression's there, and this is why he should give the case to Paul.  The near-death experience is a good public excuse, even if it makes him look soft, and DRN involvement would probably be enough to get the handoff past Sandra.

"But why are they interested in this case in particular?" Valerie wants to know.

"All of these kids have androids at home," John says.  "And aside from Peres' kid, they're the only ones."

"Peres," Valerie says, tilting her head.  "Another kidnapping victim?"

"Not yet," John says, even as a fourth picture appears beside the others.  Leighton James, standing between Natieri Peres and a guy who looks like Dorian's twin.  They're both leaning toward the kid.  All three of them are smiling for the camera, and John can just make out a sign in the background.  Rights rally?  Dorian probably picked this picture just to spite him.

He turns away from the virtual terminal deliberately, going around the desk to look at his own screen.  His calendar's showing, with the most recent addition highlighted: a lunch date with Natieri Peres in Pasadena.  Attitude aside, he doesn't get why Dorian is so helpful.  Sure, he has to do what he's told, but he could make it a lot harder than he does.

"Peres says she has information for us," John says, looking up.  "The captain says she's a card-carrying member of the IRC.  Why are you staring at me like that?"

They're both frowning at him now, but when he calls them on it Valerie just looks away while Dorian says, "What do you have against the IRC?"

"No," John says, pointing at him.  "I am not having this conversation with you."

"Well, I'm having it with you," Dorian says.  "What's your problem, man?  You don't have any history with them, and you have a mutually apathetic relationship with every other group in the city.  If they don't care about you, you don't care about them.  Why is this one different?"

"Not every group," John grumbles.  "Besides, now they care about me.  So I don't like them."

"That does sum up most of your personal relationships," Dorian says.

John isn't happy with it, but he wants to talk about it even less, so he takes the out.  "Thanks for the appointment," he says.  "Anything else on that surveillance footage?"

"Not yet," Dorian says.  He glances after Valerie as she goes back to her desk.  "I've sent you some background information on Natieri Peres.  It might be relevant."

John raises an eyebrow, but if that's what they've got then that's what they've got.  She knows more about him than he does about her at this point, and he'd be glad to level the playing field.  Even if it does reveal just how much research Dorian has done on the Individual Rights Consortium.

Just doing his job, John reminds himself.  Dorian's doing his job when he looks up obscure stuff, or when he circles appointments on John's calendar.  He's doing his job when he takes over the parts of detective work that John hates.  And when he saves John's life, stepping in front of a bullet or kissing him until he can breathe underwater, well.

He's a robot police officer.  He's just doing his fucking job.

John manages to ignore most of the room for the next hour and a half.  He reads up on Peres, then tries to catch up on the IRC, because if Dorian knows what they're doing then he probably should too.  What he finds is a lot of bullshit about mission statements and hypothetical consciousness and equality, and not so much about what they'd really do in a city that had to cater to androids.

Paul stops by before lunch to congratulate him on not dying.  He doesn't even look at Dorian, and John wonders if it would matter if he told the truth.  After all, his partner's supposed to keep him alive.  That's why they have robotic partners in the first place.

He's not sure if it's mercy or torture that makes Dorian wait until they're in the car to start talking about it again.  “John,” he says, and damned if the sound of his own name doesn’t make John wince.  “You know Natieri Peres doesn’t represent the IRC.  It’s entirely possible that she just called you as a concerned parent who sees where these kidnappings could lead and wants to know what you’re doing about it.”

“Sure,” John says, slouching in his seat and glaring out at the traffic.  “And it’s possible that you just told me that to keep this interview on track, instead of as a lead-in to whatever you’re about to tell me about the IRC.”

“The IRC is a peaceful organization that doesn’t do much more than hold rallies in public gathering spaces and pass out pamphlets on the corner,” Dorian tells him.  “I don’t know what you have against them, man.”

“Officially,” John says.  “Officially they’re a peaceful organization that minds everyone else’s business.  Unofficially, there’s an awful lot of androids in that movement.”

“Which makes sense, since androids are the ones most likely to care,” Dorian says.  “We can speak for ourselves, John.  We just need humans to listen.”

His hands clench on the steering wheel, hard and white-knuckled in lieu of hitting something, anything, that’s convenient.  “God dammit, Dorian,” he growls.  “Don’t talk like you’re one of them, or we’re off this case.  Right now.”

There’s a moment of startled silence, and then Dorian asks, “Is it you saying that, or Captain Maldonado?”

I will turn this car around, John thinks, a little hysterically.

“Is that what she wanted to talk to you about this morning?” Dorian presses.  "Was she warning you to keep me away from bot sympathizers?  I know my job, John."

"She wants me to be one," John blurts out.  "She thinks Peres wants to talk to me because of you, and she wants me to go along with it."

The silence this time is longer.  "So… I should talk like I'm one of them," Dorian says slowly.  His voice is cooler suddenly, becoming professionally curious.  "Was the paint on your house--was that part of the cover?"

John understands and wishes that he didn’t: Dorian expects a personal betrayal.  He takes for granted the fact that John won't stand up for him, won’t even try to keep him out of the bot trash heap if that’s what it comes to.  But while he’s still capable, still functioning, he didn't expect to be cut out of their partnership.

"No," John says.  It sounds strained even to him.  "That was real.  I wouldn't fuck with you like that."

Dorian doesn’t answer, and his silence is more damning than the question was.

“I don’t want this case,” John says.  He’s desperate and out of control and he doesn’t know what he’s doing.

So, like always, he thinks bitterly.

“I want to dump it on Paul,” he says, when Dorian still doesn’t say anything.  “Can we dump it on Paul?”

“It’s your decision, John.”  Dorian’s staring out the window now, not even pretending to be neutral with the way he won’t risk catching John’s eye.  “If you don’t want the case, you should give it to someone who does.”

John stares at the traffic for too long, wondering why he’s still sitting here.  All he has to do is call Paul and tell him to meet with Peres. He should have done it before he left the precinct.  It’s not like they have nothing else to work on right now.

Finally, John says, “You were supposed to say no.”

Dorian doesn’t look away from the window.  “If I say no, you’ll do it just to prove you can.”

John makes a face.  Whether he's right or not, Dorian knows exactly how to manipulate him.  “You know, I really hate you sometimes.”

“Not as much as you hate everyone else,” Dorian replies.  He doesn’t have to turn for John to hear the smile in his voice.

Damn it.

“There’s no way to win,” John tells the road.  “You get that, right?”

“The case?”  Dorian faces forward again, though he doesn’t look over at John.  “You don’t think we’ll get the kids back?”

“It’s not about them,” John growls, because yeah.  He should care more about the kids than he does about his partner, but he doesn’t.  And he knows how bad that is.  “It’s you.  No matter what happens, you’re gonna get hurt.”

Dorian sounds genuinely curious when he says, “I can take a lot more punishment than you can, John.”  Like he knows that’s not what they’re talking about, but he doesn’t know what they are talking about, and he’s getting it wrong on purpose to make John correct him.

“I can pretend to relate to Peres and her stupid rights movement,” John says.  “As long as you’re pretending too.”

“I think I know how it feels to be part of an oppressed minority,” Dorian says dryly.  “I’m not gonna have a problem backing you up on that.”

“Pretending to back me up,” John snaps.  “It can’t be real.  There’s gotta be a line, or I can’t do this.”

Dorian sounds incredulous when he says, “Let me get this straight: you want me to pretend that I want some say in what I do, who I talk to, and where I go?  But you don’t want me to actually want it, because that would make you uncomfortable?”

“Yes,” John says stubbornly.

“No,” Dorian tells him.  “I can’t do that.  You should dump the case, John.  If those are your conditions then it’s not going to work.”

He hates that he says it.  He hates it even before it’s out of his mouth, but he can’t stop himself.  “Then maybe I need a partner who can do it.”

He expects to get a cold maybe you do in response.  He even thinks he deserves it.  What he gets instead is a laugh, low and quiet but unmistakably amused.  “Nice try,” Dorian says.  “You can’t ride with an MX.  You can barely talk to an MX.  It’s me or no one, and you know it.”

John doesn’t answer.  He also doesn’t get off the highway, and that probably says all it needs to about his response.  He doesn’t know how to do this.  But he doesn’t know how to stop doing it, either.

“You lose either way,” he says at last.  “Either I don’t care enough, which is bad, or I do care and it turns out there’s nothing I can do.  And that’s worse.”

He sees Dorian look at him out of the corner of his eye, but he’s careful to keep his eyes on the road.

“It wouldn’t be worse for me,” Dorian says.  He’s blunt, honest, not careful about it the way he is with some of the shit he thinks John doesn’t want to hear.  “Actually, just the fact that you think me not getting hurt would be winning sounds good to me.”

John shifts in his seat, because of course Dorian’s going to remember that.  It’s nowhere near enough, no matter what Dorian thinks, and it’s still more than he should have admitted.  “And you think I have crappy standards,” he mutters.

“You do,” Dorian says.  “Maybe they’re contagious.”

“I can’t care about this,” John tells the road.  “It could cost me my career.”

Dorian doesn’t waste time telling him it won’t.  Getting mixed up in a radical organization is the slow way off the force, but they both know where it ends.  “Your career,” he says.  “My life.  You get fired?  They turn me off and I never open my eyes again.”

“That’s not true,” John says, but even he knows it’s a lie.  “They’ll find you someone else.”

Dorian scoffs.  “You think I can work with anyone else?  I was decommissioned for a reason, John, and it wasn’t the Luger Test.  You’ve threatened to have me shut down or destroyed six times, and you like me.”

“What?”  He’s surprised to realize he believes it when Dorian says it, even though he knows it isn't true.  He’s never threatened that.  He’s joked about it, and Dorian obviously heard it as a threat, which is somehow worse than if he’d meant it that way to begin with.  “No, I didn’t--jesus, I didn’t mean it.  You’re my partner, for god’s sake.”

“And I’m disposable,” Dorian says.  “But we’re stuck with each other for a reason, so for however long it lasts, I’ll do whatever I can to make it work.”

Except compromise your goddamned principles, John thinks.

“Except pretend I can’t relate to the rights movement to make you feel better about yourself,” Dorian adds, like he’s read John’s mind, and despite everything, John smiles.

“Fine,” John says.  “So we’re keeping the case?”

“That’s not my call,” Dorian says.  “You’re the one who thinks he can’t handle it.”

“I can handle it,” John says, but it’s automatic.  It’s the instinctive response to a challenge, not a reasoned decision based on what will get both of them through the next few years.

Dorian’s right: he can’t work with an MX because he doesn’t think of them as a person.  He can work with Dorian because he does.  But the longer he watches a person get treated like a tool, the more messed up his head is going to get, and the more likely he’ll be to do something unforgivably stupid.

It’s his job or his partner.  Maybe it always has been; maybe this case is just the catalyst.  Maybe he’s been headed in this direction ever since Dorian sat up and held out his hand.

“I have to handle it,” John says.  “If not now, it’s just gonna happen later.  Right?"

Dorian doesn't answer immediately, and when he does it's only the second time John's heard him sound scared.  He does frightened like he does everything else: thoughtfully, deliberately, and with just enough carelessness to make it seem natural.  “I don’t hate the idea of later, John."

"Wait, no," John says.  He doesn't want to be alarmed by Dorian's tone, but he is.  "You don't get to back off now.  Are we doing this or not?"

"What do you want me to say?" Dorian counters.  "Yes, we're doing it?  I don't get a say, John.  That's the whole point."

"I'm giving you a say!" John exclaims.  "Why am I asking your opinion if I don't want to know what you think?"

"Because you want someone to tell you what to do!" Dorian snaps.  "Because you're scared to make a call that could cost your partner his life, and you think you're not strong enough to do this!  You think that if I ask for it, then at least it's not your fault if it all goes wrong!"

That wasn't spontaneous, John thinks.  Dorian came out with it quickly, but he thought it through before he said it and John wishes he hadn't.  He knows what that means. It's true.

"I don't want to be responsible for you," John mutters.

"Tough," Dorian tells him.  "You own me."

"Can I?" John asks, frowning at the thought.  He doesn't own Dorian, not really.  Dorian belongs to the LAPD.  "Is that even possible?"

He sees Dorian shrug out of the corner of his eye.  "It would take more money than you've got, but sure.  It's theoretically possible to buy a police android."

"How do you know how much money I've got?" John wants to know.

"You don't lock your network access," Dorian says.  "Even Valerie uses a password."

"That you could crack in about ten seconds," John says.

"Please," Dorian scoffs.  "Three seconds at most."

"Would that protect you?" John asks, before he loses his nerve.  "If I died, if something happened to me--could I will you to someone?  To keep the precinct from shutting you down?"

Dorian's staring straight ahead, gaze fixed on the bumper of the car in front of them.  "They'd wipe my memory," he says.  "Take our case files, at least.  But yeah, that'd probably do it.  They wouldn't be able to turn me off if I belonged to someone else."

"Rudy," John says.  "Rudy'd be a good choice, right?  I mean, I wouldn't know.  You should pick someone.  Obviously.  But I'll look into it, find out what it would take."

"John," Dorian says, and he hasn't moved when John glances over at him.  "What are you doing?"

"Being insubordinate," John replies.  "Thought you loved that about me."

"Are you… getting in character?" Dorian says.

"What?"  John's smirk disappears when he realizes they're having different conversations.  "We just said no pretending."

"No," Dorian says.  "I said I won't pretend.  You had a total meltdown and said you wanted a new partner."

"I didn't have a meltdown," John objects.  He barely wants the partner he has, let alone a new one.  "I did a cost-benefit analysis of helping the IRC defend kids who're being raised by androids.  It was a draw, but I'm either in or out, and apparently I'm not out.  So I guess I'm in."

"All in," Dorian says.

"All in," John repeats.  Whatever that means.

"Well, that's convincing," Dorian says.

"You know, you could be less skeptical," John tells him, and it's the wrong thing to say but he's always been king of the wrong things.  "I'm probably gonna get fired for you."

Dorian just scoffs.  "If the captain hasn't fired you by now, I don't think there's much you can do," he says.  "I'm pretty sure she stands between you and early termination at least once a week."

"She likes you," John says abruptly.  He frowns at the memory, because he's not sure he ever mentioned it to Dorian.  "She signed the DRN req order the day I came back."

"The day you destroyed your MX," Dorian says.

"He fell," John insists.

He can feel Dorian's gaze on him.  "Out of a moving car?" Dorian says.

"I've had this conversation already," John says.  "The point is, she gave--she put us together.  On purpose."

"She gave me to you," Dorian says.

"She put us together," John repeats.  "I don't know why, but I checked the--I checked the records.  There were three unpartnered MXs that morning.  They were all assigned by the time I got to the lab."

"There's heavy demand," Dorian says.  "Every time one goes down for repairs, that's a cop off the street."

"Yeah, but they weren't assigned to cops," John says.  "They were pulled for light duty, temporary facility maintenance.  There was no reason for it to be done that day.  And you weren't on the duty list at all; you were supposed to be sent--"

"Shipped into space," Dorian finishes for him.  "Yeah, I know.  That's what years of service gets you: solitary heavy labor."

"Do you think that's why she pulled you?" John says.  "She knew where you were headed?"

"I think the reason I'm awake has more to do with you than it does with me," Dorian says.  "You probably told her you wouldn't work with an MX.  She knows you, she didn't need proof.  She set it up so you wouldn't have to."

"She said you'd be good for me," John says.  "A good influence or something."  He tries to hide a smile, but when he looks over he finds Dorian smirking back at him.

"Well," Dorian says in John's own voice.  "We all make mistakes."

By the time they find parking outside Old Town, John has mostly resigned himself to going to bat for a guy who thinks humor is mocking other people.  Which it is, so at least they have that in common.  Too bad they also share a tendency to throw themselves at danger.  Most partnerships benefit from caution on at least one side.

Instead, he and Dorian walk down the streets of a university town wearing cop civvies that probably scream "police!" about as effectively as their riot gear.  Dorian mostly smiles at people while John mostly glares at them.  Neither approach does them any good when the sound of shots fired sends them ducking for the nearest cover.

"Police!" Dorian yells, when no one around them seems inclined to do more than mill around and look worried.  "Get down!"

John’s not sure that’s the best idea, given that they don’t know who the shooter’s going for.  It gives Dorian a clear line of sight, though, and he draws his weapon.  John’s trying to decide between the paperwork required if he has to discharge it and the sheer entertainment value of Dorian firing at--and probably hitting--someone on the other side of a crowded shopping plaza.

He’s just decided the entertainment would be worth it when Dorian holsters his gun and puts a hand on John’s shoulder.  “Stay down,” he says, then takes off running.

John swears, fumbling for his earpiece even as he tries to get eyes on the shooter.  “Dorian,” he says.  “Why am I not wearing a vest!”  Because it was a lunch date.  Because they were supposed to be meeting a scientist, not running into gunfire.

Dorian’s voice in his ear sounds calmer than John feels.  “I’m asking myself the same question,” he says.  “Suspect retreating; I’m in pursuit.”

“Dispatch,” John says, craning his neck.  If Dorian’s chasing the shooter, then it’s not the people on this side of the plaza who are in danger.  “This is Kennex requesting backup in Old Pasadena.  I have an active shooter leaving Terrace Plaza heading east.  DRN-167 responding.”

“I hear you, Kennex.”  It’s Rio’s voice coming back.  “PPD is two sending cars, one ambulance to Terrace Plaza; you need more?”

"No, fine," John says.  "Dorian, you have two PPD cars on approach."

"Copy that," Dorian's voice replies.

Then, directly behind him, the same voice says, "Detective Kennex?"

He whirls, and damned if it isn’t Dorian crouched against the plaza wall next to him.  In jeans and a leather jacket.  In the half a second it takes him to know it’s not his partner, his brain is distracted and he can’t keep from looking.  His gaze rakes over the outfit, the lines of the body beneath it, and he knows what he’s done as soon as he meets those eyes.

Instead of a smirk, all he gets is a raised eyebrow.  If he'd had any doubt, that would have done it.  He opens his mouth but all that comes out is, "Dorian?"

He tells himself it's not as stupid as it could be.  Dorian said they shared the same name.  Dorian's twin does him the courtesy of nodding, assuming that John knows what he's talking about, and he thinks he can breathe again.

Tearing his gaze away, he acknowledges the woman ducked down on Dorian's other side.  "Ms. Peres, I assume?"

"I prefer Dr. Peres," she says, leaning around Dorian to offer her hand.  "But I won't argue while we're under fire."

There's no actual shooting going on now, and he should be out there making sure everyone's all right.  But he takes a second to shake her hand and offer a smile, because she took cover without freaking out and he appreciates that.  "Dr. Peres," he says.  "I'm Detective John Kennex.  Pleasure to meet you."

"Likewise," she says.  As he leans back she adds, "And my friend, Dorian."

Dorian holds out his hand as well, and John stares at him.  It's not the introduction he has a problem with, just the… familiarity.  His.  Not hers.

John takes the hand held out to him before it can be withdrawn.  "Thanks," he says, and fuck, that doesn't even make sense.  "Someone--you look like someone--a friend," he stammers.  "Whose hand I didn't shake, when we first met.  It's, uh.  Nice to get a second chance."

God, why is he still talking.  It's the leather jacket.  He's gonna blame the clothes and get the hell out of here, except that Dorian is smiling at him and he can't look away.  It might be the happiest expression he's ever seen on that face.

"Your friend sounds like a lucky man," Dorian says.

John clears his throat, pulling his hand away, because that's awkward.  "Yeah, well," he says.  "I'm gonna… go.  You should, uh.  Stay here."

The worst part is that he can talk to DRNs that aren't Dorian.  He has a proven history of it.  This inability to have a normal conversation is new and embarrassing: he's never managed to look quite so stupid before.  The only consolation is that his Dorian isn't here to see him making a fool of himself.

He has about five more seconds to believe that.  It's enough time to swing out from behind the wall, not get shot at, and start asking people if they're all right.  Then Dorian's voice drawls in his ear, "So… not to interrupt or anything, but I'm doing actual police work while you flirt--badly, by the way--with someone who probably has a family."

John has just enough presence of mind to turn away from the woman he's helping before he growls, "Shut the hell up.  I wasn't flirting with anyone."

His earpiece is voice-activated.  He said Dorian's name; it doesn't know any better.  Hell, he was probably still connected when Dorian the Second showed up behind him.  Great.  So the only part of that humiliating conversation Dorian missed was the part where John checked out someone who looks just like him.

Come to think of it, John realizes, it could still be worse.

"Okay, Romeo."  Dorian sounds far too amused, and John knows he'll be hearing about this later.  "I'm holding the suspect at Oaks and Union.  You want to join me before the PPD gets here?"

He can hear the sirens and he knows he's not going to make it.  He and Dorian are outside city limits anyway, so it doesn't really matter.  They'll turn the shooter over to the Pasadena cops in exchange for interrogation notes.

"I won't make it," he says, for Dorian's benefit.  Most of the neighboring towns know the LAPD put a DRN back on duty.  Dorian may be old, but they'll recognize him.  "Give me five minutes to re-schedule and then I'll be there."

 "Hey, try for a dinner date this time," Dorian says.  "Better chance of getting lucky."

"Yeah, okay," John retorts.  "When I want to bone an android, I'll let you know."

He hears Dorian laugh, and it's not even the most embarrassing thing he's said today.  It's not even the most embarrassing thing he's said in the last five minutes.  When Dorian replies, "You do that, John," he has no idea what to say.

He should move.  He's getting more attention the longer he stands still, even in this crowd of people who can't seem to believe they've been shot at.  When he turns around to talk to Peres, though, it's Dorian Two looking back at him.

"You want her to give a statement?" Dorian 2 asks.  "I'm pretty sure they were shooting at us."

"Really," John says, frowning at him.  "What makes you think that?"

"Past experience," Dorian 2 says.  "Also, we come here regularly and you don't.  Unless you broadcast your lunch plans to the world, we were probably the only ones expecting you."

It's a good argument.  He doesn't buy it, but it is a good argument and it's a reason to keep them around a while longer.  If Peres is willing to walk and talk, maybe they won't have to do this again.

"Yeah," John says.  "Why don't you come with me, both of you.  We'll talk to the local force, see what they can do."

And there's the smirk.  That's the expression he's been looking for without even realizing it.  It's there, but it's cynical in a way he's not used to when Dorian 2 says, "Of course.  We'll do whatever we can to aid the investigation."

John gives him a look that's supposed to mean, you don't fool me, but he doesn't have time for this.  The PPD should know Dorian.  But if they hassle him, all he's got is John's voice in his ear to back him up.

"Let's go," John says.  They're moving, but Peres is on her phone, and he watches Dorian 2 alternate between keeping an eye on her and navigating the crowd.

Bodyguard, he realizes after a moment.  Dorian 2 treats her the same way police androids treat their partners.  Give or take a touch on the elbow, maybe an extra smile.  They do look like friends, he thinks.  Maybe even equals.

Most of all, they look familiar, and the fact that there's no way to know who the shooter was gunning for is probably significant.

Chapter 5

John is surprised to find that the PPD likes Dorian.  Or at least, the responding units do, and he knows both of them so he has no reason to think they're unusual.  Even the MXs react differently than the ones at their precinct, and it takes John a few minutes to realize why: the MXs treat Dorian like he's human.

"They know Dorian," Peres says, when she catches his puzzled glance.  "My Dorian.  They're programmed to group like things, same as we are."

John doesn't think they're that alike, but the more important part of that was probably the familiarity with law enforcement.  "They know you?" he says.

"We're not very popular off-campus," she replies.  "The L Zone is effectively a gated community, so some people bring their issues with us to the lab."

JPL has to be higher security than whatever apartment building they live in, but maybe that's why she knows the Pasadena MXs.  She does get separated from Dorian 2 for questioning, which is standard police procedure for robotic partnerships, but that's the only non-civilian treatment they get.  The two of them both give statements, both get shock counseling, and both are released with a contact number and an apology for the inconvenience.

It leaves Peres free to talk for longer than he expected.  Dorian's right that she wants to know about the investigation, and Sandra's wrong about her trying to push her cause.  John hears more than he needs to about the school system on K Street, things he hadn't thought to ask about the kids who attend, and nowhere near as much as he wants to about where she gets her information.  He wonders if the L Squad has considered hiring this woman.

John doesn't check in with the precinct again until Dorian's done with his new buddies.  As the arresting officer, he'll get the extra paperwork for once.  He doesn't officially join the call, but he stands close enough to overhear.  John figures it saves time.

Sandra must have already heard from dispatch, because she's ready for them.  "Are you trying to make more work for me?" she asks.  "John, I barely have time to run this precinct, and all you do is bring me more people."

"Aw, I thought you'd like a little variety," John says, glancing at the incident report he's given before handing it to Dorian.  He gets a curious look in return, and he makes a writing motion.  "Come on, it's Pasadena.  I know you secretly want to retire here."

Dorian signs the report and passes it back to PPD MX-102.  John wonders idly if this one has a name.  Where do their names come from, anyway?  He assumes Kelsey named hers, which isn't uncommon, but Dorian already had a name when John met him.  Maybe it's a holdover from whoever he worked with last.

"At the rate you rack up cases," Sandra is saying, "I'll never retire."

He doesn't know if that's a compliment or not, but he decides to take it as one.  Dorian 2 is talking to Peres, standing too close, and John doesn't watch him lean in to whisper something in her ear.  "You're welcome," John says.  "I know how long you waited for that office."

It's not like it never occurred to him.  They live together, right?  And apparently DRNs are not only functional but empathetic, which probably makes them great bangbots.  When they're not annoying the fuck out of whoever they're with.

"You should take Dorian home with you," Sandra says.

John feels his chest seize.  He doesn't choke, and he doesn't swear, and with everything he's not doing he thinks it's kind of a miracle that he remembers to breathe.  "Excuse me?" he says, as calmly as he can.

Even that's too much, and he doesn't realize it until she says impatiently, "It's this or a protective detail, John.  I know you don't like it, but you have a partner for a reason."

"Right," he says.  No.  He should pretend to be indignant.  He is indignant; what the hell is he going to do with Dorian cluttering up the place?  "Hey, wait a second.  We don't even know they were targeting us--"

"Someone tried to drown you," she interrupts.  "You were just in a shootout--"

"There was only one person shooting!" he protests.

"I don't care!" Sandra snaps.  "I'm not sending you home with an MX when you already have Dorian, so you can do it or you can sign yourself into quarters downstairs!"

Great.  Cop quarters.  He's getting the worried stare from Dorian, which doesn't make sense since he can hear everything she's saying as well as John can.  "Yeah, okay, message received," John grumbles, waving Dorian off as he turns away.  "You want him to charge during the day, or what?"

That would effectively take them both off the street, which isn't going to work and she knows it.  But cop quarters weren't her first suggestion, so she must have a plan.  He's probably not going to like it, but he knows she has one.

"I'll talk to CT," she says.  "Authorize a portable charger.  Don't take this out on Dorian, John.  It's your case."

"Yeah, funny you would say that," he mutters.

"It's your case," she repeats firmly, and he thinks she might not have let him slide it to Paul after all.  Which is strange, since Paul's clearance rate is technically higher than his.  What does she care who gets it as long as it gets closed?

"Try not to let it kill you," Sandra adds, and that's what makes him smile.

He knows she hears it when he says, "Just for you, I'll try my hardest."

"Not to," she stresses.

"Gotta go," he tells her.  "Say hi to Captain Fernandez for me."

She won't, of course.  John gets along all right with most of the PPD but he's not great with anyone in authority.  He thinks having at least one person he hates in every department makes the rest of them seem more tolerable.

"I'm not sure that keeping us together will achieve her goal," Dorian says the moment John hangs up.  "We don't know the shooter was after you."

"That's what I said," John agrees, scanning the responding officers.  They should be done here.  He wants to be done watching Peres with her bot.  He doesn't like leaving a criminal behind, but the PPD promised them full access and he's planning to test that offer as soon as possible.

"They could be after me," Dorian says.  "I was with you both times, and my presence is exactly what this group doesn't like.  It's possible that they want me and you're just in the way."

John snorts.  "Story of my life," he says, but Dorian's not done.

"If that's true," he insists, "then me going home with you will put you in more danger, not less."

He pauses, because it's a good argument.  He wishes he'd thought of using it on Sandra.  He can't overlook the phrasing, though, especially when Dorian 2 catches his eye from all the way across the street and grins.  John rolls his eyes.

"First off, you're not going home with me," he says.  "You're my protective detail.  Second, if someone's after you, you're not getting an MX either, so you might as well stick with me."

He doesn't realize it's true until he's said it.  As much as he doesn't want a babysitter, he doesn't trust the precinct to watch Dorian either.  And that's exactly what will happen if John tells them that he's the one they're after.

"Because you're better than nothing?" Dorian asks.

"Because I'm--"  John stops and glares at him.

"It's okay, John."  Dorian looks perfectly serious when he says, "I can take care of both of us."

John just stares at him, because the threat he wants to make would be admitting defeat.  And it turns out that Dorian takes him seriously, so maybe he should stop mentioning his last partner.  “House rules,” John says finally.  “Don’t be a jackass.”

“Oh,” Dorian says.  “So the rules don’t apply to you?  That’s typical.”

“I’m gonna regret this,” John mutters.

“I already do,” Dorian tells him.

John thinks that someone could make a graph of Time Spent With Dorian versus Conversations In Which John Gets The Last Word.  The trend line--and there’s definitely a trend--is steadily decreasing.

The only good thing about the afternoon is that while they're getting shot at in Pasadena, someone tries to kidnap Emmi Rainer from the L Zone.  Not only does the guy fail, he also gets caught.  John is ready to bless all overprotective parents everywhere when they manage to connect the shooter to the would-be kidnapper.

"They're in the same book club," he complains to Dorian back at the precinct.  "Is that even a real thing?  Since when do book clubs organize serial kidnappings?"

"Actually," Dorian says, "books clubs have a long history of shared ideology, often influencing or being influenced by the works they read."

"So we should find out what they were reading," John says.

"And track down the other members," Dorian says.

The rest of the day is a mess of interviews.  Ironically, it's made worse by the fact that Sandra assigns Paul to help them.  Well, to help him.  Paul doesn't so much as look at Dorian when he's speaking.  He's a good cop, though, and he interviews humans well, so they split the book club members between them and go their separate ways.

Dorian calls Sophie Rainer from the car between meetings.  They've got Emmi's statement from the L Squad, but her mom has more to say and Dorian's probably the one person in the city who doesn't mind listening.  John doesn't think he's really listening at all, but he makes a good show of it.

When he finally hangs up, Dorian says, "Ms. Rainer used to belong to that book club."

John shoots a disbelieving look at him.  "She what?"

"She used to belong to the same book club as both our kidnapper and our shooter," Dorian says.  "She left when they refused to let her research assistant join."

John raises an eyebrow.  "The same research assistant she's living with now?"

"Boarding," Dorian says.  "Yes."

"Not living with?" John asks.  He didn't know that was a thing too.  Where did Dorian get all of his politically correct language?  It wasn't from working with cops.

"She says boarding," Dorian says.  "Living together implies something different than simply living in the same place.  Ms. Rainer doesn't say living together."

"She's being polite," John says.  "You don't board your android research assistant unless you really like them."

"Maybe she does," Dorian says.  "Really like her, I mean."

"Wait," John says, diverted by the image.  "Her assistant is a woman?"

"She works with a female research bot, yes," Dorian says.  "Does that matter?"

"Uh, yeah," John says.  Obviously, he thinks, but he manages to stop himself before he says anything about lesbians.  "I mean, no.  But yeah, that's what I mean.  She really likes her."

"Do you think that repeatedly contradicting yourself makes your meaning clearer?" Dorian asks.  "Or is it leftover head trauma that makes you so difficult to understand?"

"Did you just ask if I'm still messed up from my coma?"  They had one conversation about the coma, just one, and it's never come up again.  He doesn't know what it means that Dorian would mention it now.

"Or whatever," Dorian says.  "I'm sure you've been hit on the head plenty of times.  Probably a good number of them by whoever you were working with at the time."

"I'll hit you on the head," John grumbles, and strangely, that's when Dorian goes quiet.  "What?" John says.  "What is it?"

"I was just running a comparison," Dorian says.  "Number of times you've threatened me versus number of times you've been physically aggressive toward me.  You've never touched me in anger.  Were you aware of that?"

"Yeah, well."  He doesn't like the way this conversation is going.  "I'm not a touchy-feely guy."

"You've touched me casually eight times today," Dorian says.

"Can you not?" John says irritably.  The list of things he doesn't want to discuss with Dorian is long, and at the top of it is any kind of physical contact.  "Don't keep track of things like that, okay?  No one cares."

"I care," Dorian says.  "I base my interactions with you on the standard you set, John.  I touch you because you touch me."

"Well, don't," John snaps.  "You don't have to--you know, do that.  Imitate me, or whatever you're doing."

"Until now," Dorian says, as though he hadn't spoken at all, "I wasn't consciously aware that most of those touches are comfortable.  Even affectionate."

"They're not," John retorts.  But he can't not think about it, and he frowns.  "Wait, what?  Most of them?"

"Some of them are possessive," Dorian says.

It's enough to make John wish he hadn't asked.  "No, they're not," he insists.  "I hit you to get your attention, and that's all.  What's Rainer know about this book club, anyway?"

"She thinks it was started by the K Street librarian," Dorian says.  "It used to be a parent group that met at the school, but when they barred her assistant from joining she got them kicked out."

"Gee, can't imagine why they don't like her," John mutters.

"They're not a student-related club," Dorian says.  "It was parent special interest only.  They didn't have any grounds to use campus facilities."

John rolls his eyes, but of course Dorian would know that.

He regrets not answering when Dorian asks a minute later, "Why does it matter that Ms. Rainer likes her female research assistant?"

If it's this or touching Dorian--which he has definitely not done eight times today--John thinks maybe this isn't worse.  "Because she's probably sleeping with her," he says.  "She says 'boarding' instead of 'living together' because it's less suspicious."

Dorian is quiet for a few seconds, but John sees him tilt his head out of the corner of his eye.  "You think the only reason Ms. Rainer would give an android space in her home is because she wants to have sex with her?"

"No," John says, because this is a trick question.  "Well, yeah.  Not the only one.  Just the obvious one."

He doesn't have to look to see the blue flicker on the side of Dorian's face.  "Ms. Rainer received a grant that provided maintenance and upkeep for a single robotic assistant," he said.  "That grant expired four months ago.  Her lab couldn't fund a continuation of the rental, so Ms. Rainer is paying it out of pocket."

Because she's sleeping with her, John thinks.  Out loud, he just says, "Good for her."

"Are you worried about what people will think," Dorian says, "when I stay at your place tonight?"

"Yeah, thanks," John says, making a face.  "I'd almost managed to forget about that."

"Everyone at the precinct knows you had a girlfriend," Dorian says.  "Are you straight, John?"

"Oh, sorry," John says.  "I missed the part of the conversation where that became any of your business!"

"If your sexuality were common knowledge," Dorian says, "it might reduce public misperception of our relationship."

John snorts.  "I'm pretty sure no one at work will think I'm sleeping with an android."

"I'm pretty sure some of them already do," Dorian says.

"Wait, what?"  John can't look away from traffic right now, but he wants to.  "Who?"

"Telling you might compromise your working relationship," Dorian says.  "It doesn't matter; I don't have any rights.  It's not like you can get in trouble for it."

"Are you defective?" John demands.  "You don't have to put up with that.  Just tell them it's not true."

Dorian doesn't answer.

They've arrived at their next stop before John blurts out, "I'm not straight."

He doesn't know why it matters to Dorian, but he asked.  Before he opens his door he says, "Sandra knows.  Paul and Rio and Cadman know.  Plus whoever they've told.  I don't talk about it, and I don't want you announcing it to everyone we meet, but it's not a big secret."

Dorian still doesn't say anything, so John gets out of the car.  They catch the last member of the book club finishing dinner with her family.  She invites them to join her, and John's supposed to say no but he's morbidly curious about what she'll do with Dorian.  So he says, "Sure, that's very kind of you.  Just for a few minutes."

The look he gets from Dorian is both hilarious and totally worth it.  John grins all the way to the table.  He expects to sit down with a parent or two, plus some badly behaved hellions masquerading as children, and watch them all pretend that Dorian's either human or not there at all.

What he gets instead is a mom, a dad, a toddler with a sippy cup, and a holographic kid.  The hologram looks ten or eleven, and it's very convincing at the table.  Book Club Mom, who tells them to call her Eny, introduces them around the table.

"This is Detective Kennex and his partner, Dorian," she says, and that's already more consideration than John had expected.  Then she adds, "My husband, Jacob, and our children Berry and Keith."

The toddler just stares at them, but the hologram waves.  John lifts a hand in return.  "Hey," he says.  "Nice to meet you."

"Do you eat homestyle bean chili?" Eny asks him.  "We have some salad and rolls, too, if you prefer."

What the hell.  He's already going to be written up for poor interview conduct; he might as well go all the way.  Besides, she has a hologram sitting at her table.  He's not the only one breaking the rules.

"The chili sounds great," John tells her.  "Sorry to barge in like this; we just wanted to talk to you for a few minutes."

"Of course," she says.  "Water to drink?  Dorian, do you eat?"

Dorian doesn't bat an eye, despite the fact that she's the first book club member to even acknowledge his presence, let alone try to feed him.  "No, ma'am," he says.

"Are you a robot?" the hologram asks, and John watches Dorian smile down at him.

"I am," Dorian says.  And then, because he can get away with the same things he yells at John for, he asks, "Are you a hologram?"

"No," the hologram says.  John's pretty sure the older kid is Keith and the younger one is Berry.  "I'm in a clean room.  I can't come to the table."

"He has a medical exception," Eny says, offering John a plate of chili.  She points him toward the salad, too, picking up a stool when he steps out of the way.  "He's allowed to use the hologram inside the house."

John thinks the whole point of sick room holograms is that kids can use them outside the house, to go to school and see their friends.  He guesses the L Zone doesn't allow that.  He wants to ask, but Dorian gives him the look that means, shut up, I'll handle this.

Eny slides the stool in next to Berry and waves for John to sit down while Dorian asks, "How long have you had a hologram, Keith?"

"Here."  Jacob is bringing another stool for Dorian, so that he can sit at the table even if he doesn't eat, and John raises an eyebrow.  Definitely not the cold looks and awkward avoidance they'd gotten at their last three stops.

"Nine days," Keith is telling Dorian.  "How long have you been a robot?"

John has to smile at that, and he thanks Eny quietly so he doesn't miss the answer.  She puts a glass of water in front of him just as Dorian says, "Seven years."

"Huh," Keith says.  "You're older than Berry.  Our Dorian is only four."

"Your Dorian?" John says, giving the chili a try.  Four.  That's gotta be a coincidence, right?  The mass decommissioning of DRNs started four years ago.

"Lee's dad," Keith says.  "He's really nice."

"Lee's dad?"  Dorian repeats it this time so John doesn't have to.  But he totally ignores the "dad" part to ask, "Is Lee a student at your school?"

"Yup," Keith says.

"I'm sure the detectives have some other questions for us," Eny says.  John doesn't miss the look she gives her husband.  "It's late, and they probably want to get home."

"Is Lee short for Leighton James, by any chance?"  John tries to look like he's just making conversation when he asks, but Dorian's expression tells him he failed.

"Yes," Eny says, glancing from him to Dorian and back.  She looks nervous for the first time.  "Is that what you came to talk about?"

"Nah," John says.  He takes another bite of the chili--surprisingly good--and what he means as a gesture of confidence ends up backfiring when it gives Dorian the floor.

"We just met Lee's dad today," Dorian says.  "John liked him.  A lot."

John manages to swallow the chili instead of choke on it, but he glares at Dorian across the table.  It makes Eny and Jacob relax, though, and that's probably worth something.  Even when Dorian adds, "I guess he has a type."

"Oh," Jacob says.  "Well.  We're, uh.  We're fine with that here."

"Yes," Eny says quickly.  "That's completely fine."

"No," John protests, because what the hell is Dorian doing?  "We're not--we work together," he finishes weakly, because there are kids sitting right there.  What's he supposed to say?

"So it's awkward," Dorian says.  He's as smooth as can be, and John would be plotting ways to kill him except that it's too deliberate to be a joke.  Dorian mocks him endlessly, but he doesn't compromise cases.

"Of course," Eny says.  "We understand."

Jacob says, "Any friend of Dr. Peres is welcome here," and it feels like a code.

John thinks it is a code.  He remembers how Peres knew everything about every kid with a robot at home, and how everyone they've met on this case looks at Dorian like they've seen him a hundred times.  He thinks Peres and her partner must be running some sort of support group.  He looks at Keith, with his L Zone restricted technology, and he wonders if there's a robot nurse with him in his clean room.

"Thank you," Dorian is saying.  "That's good to hear.  We do have a few questions about your book club, if you don't mind."

"Book club?" Eny says blankly.  Which is weird until she says, "But we already told Dorian--our Dorian--about that."

Then it's weirder, and they're in trouble, because Jacob is frowning at them and there must be a code.  It's hard to tell when a code is working.  It's a lot more obvious when it’s not.

Also, Peres knew.  She knew and she didn't tell them and it had to be on purpose.  John is sure she's too smart to be that clueless.

"I guess someone was too busy flirting to get that information," Dorian says.  That's all it takes to make Eny laugh, relaxing visibly even as Jacob shifts in his seat.  Like he's just awkward, not like he's secretly reaching for a weapon or calling for backup.

"Who's flirting?" Keith wants to know.  "I thought we weren't supposed to talk about girls at the table."

The rule is clearly aimed at him, but John apologizes anyway.  "Sorry," he says.  "My partner doesn't know when to keep his mouth shut."

"And my partner doesn't know how to do more than one thing at a time," Dorian says.  "If you could tell us what you told Dorian, that would be very helpful."

Eny doesn't have much more than the current book and a list of suspicious absences, but she confirms what the rest of the interviews had suggested: it's a political group that reads, not a reading group that sometimes touches on current events.  Eny is apparently a plant recruited by Peres to keep an eye on the group.

John wonders exactly when Peres knew.  Did she change her mind about helping them today, somewhere between the morning and the afternoon? Between when they met and when they ID'd the shooter?  Or was it always a covert operation for her?  Is she just gathering information on them the same way she does with her groupies?

"Peres got to them first," Dorian says as soon as they're back in the car.  "How long do you think she's been watching that book club?"

"I dunno," John says.  Just a few minutes turned into almost an hour, and while his stomach is grateful, he didn't enjoy the dinner conversation at all.  "How long have you been working on that story about how we met?"

"I was telling the truth, John.”  Dorian is watching the road as they pull out.  He should be updating the precinct with their location, but the L Zone doesn’t allow it.  "They needed to hear it.  They wouldn't have told us anything if they didn't have reason to believe we're complicit."

"It's not the truth!" John says.  "I was medically cleared.  I didn’t get you because I needed emotional support!"

"I only covered up the part where you killed your previous partner," Dorian says.  "You're welcome, by the way."

"He fell!" John exclaims.

"You pushed him onto the freeway during the lunch rush," Dorian says.  "You're lucky Maldonado likes you.  Willful destruction of police property over $10,000 is a felony charge."

"I didn't destroy anyone," John mutters.

"Has it occurred to you that Maldonado gave me to you--sorry, put us together--because I'm less expensive?" Dorian asks.  "She probably expected a repeating pattern of behavior."

"Why are you pissed at me?" John demands.  "I'm not the one who just invented a whole romantic story about our first meeting!"

"You don't think how we met was romantic?" Dorian asks.  "I think it was heartwarming."

"You don't even have a heart," John tells him.

"You say things like that," Dorian replies, "but I know you don't mean it."

"Oh, I mean it," John says.  "You have no idea how much I mean it."

“Did you know that most breakups occur between three and five months?” Dorian says.  He’s scanning the road, looking restless and dark as the old-style streetlights flash by.  “Maybe we’re due.”

“Maybe you should get counseling,” John says.  “I think you have attachment issues.”

“And you have abandonment issues,” Dorian says.  “I think we’re perfect for each other.  Does it seem strange to you that there’s no traffic on this road?”

John checks the clock.  “It’s eight-thirty on a Wednesday, and all the entertainment’s on the other side of the wall.  What’s weird about that?”

“I don’t like it,” Dorian says.  “Maybe we should go another way.”

John signals, taking the next available turn.  There may not be anyone in front of them, but there’s no one behind them either.  He turns again anyway.  “I hope you have a map,” he says, squinting down the street.  “’Cause I got no idea where we’re going now.”

“Go straight another three miles,” Dorian says.  “We’ll take the marina gate instead.”

"Okay, go back," John says.  No one takes the marina gate on their way to the precinct, but he resets the mile counter and says, "You have hunches now?"

"I recognize an insecure situation," Dorian says.  "There are plenty of people who wouldn't mind taking a shot at you, John.  Why make it easy for them?"

“Keeps things interesting,” John says.  But he follows the directions down side streets until they get back on a gate road heading north.  They make it through without any problems, and Dorian’s face lights up blue on the other side.

“Detective Paul checked in half an hour ago,” he reports.  “His MX uploaded interview transcripts for you, and he updated the case file before he went home.”

“Any word from Peres?” John asks.  There’s a slight possibility that they’d been out of communication by the time she made the connection they were already investigating.  She might have left a message at the precinct.

“No,” Dorian says.  “Whatever she’s doing, she’s not telling us about it.”

“Support group?” John suggests.  “Keeping an eye on all the android families in the L Zone?  She’ll want allies if anyone tries to make a fuss about Dorian 2.”

“Dorian 2?” Dorian repeats.

John winces.  He didn’t mean to say that out loud.  “Uh.  Dorian the Second?  Dorian the Other?  Dorian Who Isn’t You?”

“That’s not his name, John,” Dorian says.

“Yeah, so, where did your name come from?” John asks.  If he’s going to be in trouble, he might as well get it all over with at once.  “Did you pick that?  Or did someone give it to you?”

“I don’t know,” Dorian says.

Of all the ways he could have answered, that’s one John wasn’t expecting.  “You don’t know?” he repeats.  “How do you not know where you got your name?”

“It’s redacted,” Dorian says.  He sounds calm in the way he does when he’s trying not to be angry.  Usually at John.  “I can’t access that information.”

“The fuck--”  John breaks off.  “How can your name be sensitive information?”

“I can’t answer that question.”  Dorian’s staring through the windshield, skin dark, body unmoving.  Not just angry, then.  Thoughtful.

“I want your history files,” John says abruptly.  He owes Dorian that much.  Has for a long time, if he’s willing to admit it.  “How do I get them?”

This at least makes Dorian look at him, a small smile making the corner of his mouth quirk.  “You can’t,” he says.  But it obviously matters that John’s offering.

“I’m not supposed to,” John corrects.  “I’m not convinced I can’t.  How would you do it?  If you had to steal someone else’s information?”

“I can’t break into precinct records,” Dorian says.

“You’re not supposed to,” John repeats.  “There’s a difference.”

“No,” Dorian says.  “I literally can’t do it.  There’s a failsafe to keep robotic officers from being reprogrammed and repurposed as criminal informants.  Tripping it will fry my neural net.”

John looks sideways at him.  “That sounds bad.”

“It’s bad,” Dorian confirms.

“Is that in your head?” John asks after a moment.  He can’t imagine walking around with that kind of self-destruct switch inside of him.  “Or is it part of the precinct network?”

“It’s a feedback loop built into the network,” Dorian says.  “It’s theoretically possible to circumvent it by using pre-neural technology on a hard line.  Rudy’s got a couple of old units in his lab.”

John glances over at him again.  “You don’t say.”

Dorian hums noncommittally.  He’s staring out the window, but when a darkened building slides past John can see his reflection smiling back at him.

Chapter 6

Sandra is still there by the time they get back to the precinct.  She's closed in her office with Rashid, both their MXs standing guard outside the door, so John sits down at his desk.  He kicks out a chair for Dorian and pulls up the case file for himself.

"Analysis on the video surveillance is in," Dorian says.  He's scanning the updates faster than John can read.  "84% chance that the two figures that broke in before we got there left with more mass than they had when they arrived."

"They picked something up," John says.  "Something they were smuggling in?"

"If they weren't trying to move people, we should expand the review window for the exterior cameras."  Dorian's sitting next to John, but he's looking around the bullpen.  "We might not have seen anyone on the other side because they made a drop.  It could have been days before it was picked up."

John follows his gaze.  Kelsey catches his eye and he nods to her, but her MX is missing and he doesn't see anything else that’s out of place.  "Related to the kidnappings?" John asks.

There's a certain amount of illicit traffic through and around the wall.  It's rarely something to write home about, and law enforcement generally has bigger things to worry about.  On the other hand, whoever was down there was ready and willing to kill, so that raises the threat level considerably.

"It happened very close to the Rainers," Dorian says.

"They live near the wall," John says.  "Anyone who stares out the window as much as they do was gonna see something eventually."

Dorian's looking at him now.  "They tried to kill you," he says, like that automatically ties them to this case.

"Great," John says.  "They can join the long list of people who've failed."

"92% chance that the person who locked us in was one of the two who made the pickup," Dorian says.  And that's not fair, he's not even looking at the screen.

"So they didn't want cops sniffing around," John says.  "That makes them different from, let's see.  No one."

Dorian frowns over his shoulder.  "John," he says, and his tone is abruptly flat.  Neutral, like he's going to claim later that he had nothing to do with whatever he's about to say.  "Would you do something for me?"

John glances over his shoulder too, but he doesn't see anything.  "What?"

"Ask MX-186 what he's doing," Dorian says.

John almost says, ask him yourself, but of course it's none of Dorian's business.  Police robots aren't supposed to interfere with each other.  So he turns around and calls, "Hey, 186.  What are you doing?"

The MX tilts its head in his direction and replies, "I'm compiling information on the spread and symptoms of canine diseases in lower Los Angeles."

John blinks.  It's hardly the weirdest thing they've needed to know, but he's got a soft spot for animals.  He usually notices investigations that involve pets.  "You got a dog case?" he asks.

"No," the MX says.

That's all it says, which makes John frown.  If he didn't know better, he'd say the MXs hate him, and the feeling's mutual.  But they usually use more words than that to tell him to mind his own business.  "Who told you to do that?" he asks.

The MX doesn't answer immediately, and John tries to remember who has 186.  He can't keep the numbers straight, and he doesn't try very hard.  They're all pretty much interchangeable in his mind.

"I did," Kelsey says.

John swings around.  She's looking at him again, and when he catches her eye she says, "His partner's at the clinic with a sick dog.  I told him to see what he could find."

"Isn't that what vets are for?" John says.

"Fourteen percent of veterinary cases involve a misdiagnosis."  It's an MX voice, and sure enough, when John looks back it's 186 again.  "It seems prudent to run multiple analyses."

"Huh," John says.  There are worse things an unsupervised MX could be doing, and Kelsey's probably just trying to keep it out of trouble.  Or whatever.  "Well.  Hope you find something, I guess."

The MX answers again.  "Thank you, Detective."

John turns back to Dorian with a raised eyebrow.  Dorian leans closer, then apparently changes his mind.  He touches John's display to turn it opaque from the back.  A single line of code illuminates the left side of his face.

The message that appears in the bottom right corner of the screen says, Kelsey hasn't spoken to 186 since we arrived.

John rolls his eyes.  Since Dorian is turning the whole thing into a covert operation, he taps the screen to project a keyboard.  You're not speaking to me right now either.

Dorian doesn't look impressed, but Sandra's door opens and she steps out of her office with Rashid.  John looks up in time to see her nod: to Rashid, he thinks, but it's Rashid's MX that returns the gesture.  He frowns.  Are all the MXs on night shift weird, or are they just having a bad week?

Sandra catches his eye and tips her head toward the door.  He nods, putting a hand on Dorian's shoulder as he stands up.  "You want to see if anyone's available to look at more of that video footage?" he asks.

"From the exterior surveillance cameras?" Dorian says.  "I’ll do it.  How far back do you want to go?"

"You’re not doing it today," John tells him.  "I'm leaving.  You're coming with me.  Ask AR to run a comp program; have them go back at least a week.  Probably no more than a month."

He turns around as he's walking away to add, "Did you put those interview transcripts in the case file?"

"They're in there," Dorian says.  The half-smile on his face makes John think maybe he should have checked them first, but it's too late now.

Sandra doesn't look tired when John follows her into her office.  John has no idea how she does it: she's been here longer than he has, and he's exhausted.  She doesn't even sit down, though, just closes the door behind them and says, "Everything all right?"

He shrugs.  "They almost snatched another kid right under our noses, but yeah.  Other than that."

"But they didn't," Sandra says.  "The girl's safe.  We got the kidnapper."

"We got one of the kidnappers," John mutters.

"ELPD's got someone at the Rainers' building around the clock," Sandra tells him.  "There's no way they got anyone past the wall; those kids have to be there.  We'll find them."

He tries to smile.  "You call me in here just for a pep talk?"

She manages a smile that's about the same.  "No," she says.  "CT dropped off a charger at your place this afternoon.  You okay keeping Dorian overnight?"

"Sure," he says, and he's surprised to realize it's true.  "He'll try not to strangle me, and I'll try not to electrocute him.  We'll be fine."

"You could stay here," Sandra says.  "I know you don't like it, but it's as secure as we've got."

"You're right," John says.  "I don't like it."  He won't live where he works, and she knows it.  He'll put in whatever hours he has to but at the end of the day, or the week, or the case if that's what it takes, he has to drive away.  That's his line.

She holds up her hands in surrender.  "Try not to die, would you?  It's a lot of work to find someone new these days.  HR is a nightmare, and you know Paul doesn't like change."

John scoffs.  "Paul doesn't like anything," he says.  "I'll see you in the morning."

She smiles, and if it looks a little odd he puts it down to the work and the hour.  He finds Dorian chatting with Kelsey when he goes back out, which is unusual because he didn't know Kelsey chatted with anyone, but they both look mostly normal.  Her MX finally shows up just as John's joining them.  It--Emmett--is carrying coffee.

"Oh, thank you," Kelsey says, when the mug is set in front of her.  "Any luck?"

"Unfortunately no," Emmett tells her.  His gaze flicks over both John and Dorian, and John would swear he hesitates.  "Detective," he says.

"Hey," John says, because the acknowledgment isn’t worth ignoring.  "You ready?" he asks Dorian.

"I am," Dorian says.  "Good luck with your case," he tells Kelsey.

"Thanks for the terminology help," she says.

John raises his eyebrows, but Dorian just smiles.  "You're welcome," he says.  "Anytime."

Dorian's already shut his terminal down, so John just grabs his jacket off the back of his chair.  "You thinking about switching to the night shift?" he asks on their way out.

"Why?" Dorian counters.  "Are you?"

He shakes his head, checking his phone for the time.  No way are they gonna make it out of the city before ten.  He's tired, he's hungry again, and he's only half-sure he's got an electrical line that can power a full-bore bot charger.  He's really not up to playing Old Married Couple with Dorian all night.

Dorian's quiet on the way out, though, and it's not until they get to the car that John asks, "You need anything for an overnight?"

It comes out weird.  It could have been worse, but all Dorian says is, "Power," and John has to smile.

"Yeah," he says, pulling open the door and getting in.  "I hear that."

The radio is quiet and traffic is fast over the bridge.  Dorian stares out the window, one blue line crawling under his skin.  John wonders what he's accessing.  It's late, and he doesn't know how much interest is too much: he probably shouldn't ask.

They're on the other side before he thinks to say, "Wait.  You wear the same clothes every day?"

The light disappears from Dorian's skin and he glances over at John.  "You get to be a detective with those observation skills?"

John makes a face.  "When do you clean them?"

"There's showers for that," Dorian says.  "We have nude and uniform showers.  One cleans the body, the other cleans the clothes."

"You clean your clothes while you're wearing them," John says.

"They get dirty while we're wearing them," Dorian points out.  "It's more efficient than trying to collect and redistribute thousands of uniforms a day."

"Yeah, well, I have a water shower," John tells him.  "It gets things wet."

Dorian seems unexpectedly eager.  "Can I try it?" he asks.  "I've never had a water shower before."

"Of course you--"  Who the hell hasn't had a regular shower?  What do they use at ChargeFac, anyway?  "That's what it's for," John says.  He's irritated for no real reason.  "But you can't wear your clothes in it.  They'll get drenched."

"That's fine," Dorian says.  "They're not dirty; I can wear them another day."

John opens his mouth but he doesn't have anything to say.  Of course he can wear them again; he's an android.  It's not like he sweats, or gets food on them, or whatever.  He wants to ask, do you ever want to wear something different?  He thinks it's a bad question; it's going to get him in trouble either way.

"You ever want to wear something different?" he asks.  His brain and his mouth don't talk to each other much.

"It's all the same to me, man."  Dorian's staring out the windshield now, but he doesn't look upset.  "One uniform or another: it's just something they hand me and tell me to put on."

"No," John says, because there's something wrong with him.  "I mean--"

Rudy's jacket is still in the backseat.  Dorian had worn those EMT sweats around the station for hours.  John already knows the answer to this question, and he shouldn't push it.

"What?" Dorian asks.

"Nothing," John says.  They're not his rules.  There's nothing he can do.

Dorian just nods, like he knows what John didn't say and agrees.

"It's just," John says, and this is a bad idea.  "I mean, I've got spare clothes.  If you want them.  If you want--you know.  Something else."

"Yeah, thanks," Dorian says easily, and John can hear the smile in his voice.  "When I want to look like an alcoholic, out-of-work cop, I'll let you know."

"Hey," John says.  He's grinning at the road and it's mostly relief, he's sure.  "That's an alcoholic working cop to you."

"Barely," Dorian scoffs.

"Look who's talking," John says, and instead of hurting it makes Dorian grin too.  

He doesn't get it.  They say shit to each other they'd mess anyone else up for even mentioning.  Or at least, he would; Dorian's probably not allowed.  But somehow it's okay, and he's never let himself wonder why.

John tries not to think about it now either.  He's already screwed, and if he goes down he'll take Dorian with him.  So he'd better not lose it over a too-friendly android and a fringe group that thinks robots are people too.

He's all right until he pulls up in front of the house.  The damned graffiti glitters in the headlights, and John lets out his breath in a sigh.  "Real nice," he says.  "I'd almost forgotten about that."

"Just call someone to paint over it," Dorian says.  "You're never gonna have time."

"Oh, I'll have time for that," John says grimly.  "I'll make time."

"John," Dorian says.  "Has it occurred to you that it's not worth it?"

He kills the lights and the shine goes out of the words.  They're dark behind the houselights that came on as soon as the car turned in the driveway.  The way they should be, he thinks.

"You don’t have anything to prove," Dorian continues.  "Just let someone else get rid of it."

"It's fine," John says.  He pauses before he pushes the car door open, though, and he adds, "I'll think about it."

There's a holographic flag at the door, stamped Police Secure, and it reads his locator chip as soon as he gets close enough.  A package display pops up, and when he accepts it the mirrored light on the other side resolves into a military-grade portable bot charger.

John stares at it a moment before shaking his head and unlocking the door.  "Yours, I think," he says over his shoulder.  He leaves the door open behind him.

The lights are already on in the kitchen: the house's vain hope that he's going to behave like a normal human being and make something to eat before he crashes.  He ignores it, walking into the main room while the lights reluctantly adjust to accommodate him.  He tosses his badge down on the table by the bed, shucks his jacket, and puts his gun in the drawer.

"I'll leave this out here?" Dorian calls from behind him.

John turns around to see Dorian carrying the charger, which is probably half his size and twice his weight, into the kitchen.  He tries not to smile.  "Nah, it'll just be in the way out there.  Bring it in here."

Dorian doesn't move.  "It should be between you and the door.  That's the whole reason I'm here."

John rolls his eyes.  "What are you, a guard dog?  Come in here."

Dorian gets through the door with it easily, making it look like he's hefting a styrofoam box.  An empty styrofoam box.  He turns in a half-circle, surveying the main room without any sign of discomfort.

"Over there," John says, waving him toward the other side.  "Wherever is fine."

He has no idea how the chargers work in a residential setting.  He's seen them in the field, operating out of the back of trucks, but this is the closest he's ever been to one.  Does it open up, unfold somehow so it looks like the ones downstairs at ChargeFac?  Is Dorian going to stand there, staring vacantly across the room all night?

Maybe John should have let him leave it in the kitchen after all.

"This okay?" Dorian asks.  He's standing in the farthest corner, up against the windows behind John's physical therapy equipment.

"Sure," John says automatically.  All the important things in the house are clustered around the bed and the couch, themselves as close to the kitchen and the door as he could get them.  The charger couldn't be more out of the way.  "S'fine."

He watches Dorian put it down, shift it deliberately so it's pressed up against the wall, and then do something to the top of it.  It's not even plugged in and the thing hums to life, a sequence of lights running across the top.  No holographic display, John thinks.

Then he thinks he probably shouldn't stand there staring while Dorian… well.  Unpacks?  Makes his bed?  Whatever the equivalent is.

John gives up and goes back into the kitchen.  He thinks the lights brighten a little when he does, and he glares at the wall just in case.  There's an AI in the house computer with just enough learning capability to be annoying.

He's putting peanut butter on toast when Dorian comes over and stands in the doorway.  "Hey, man," Dorian says.  "Nice place."

John huffs a disbelieving breath.  "Thanks," he says dryly.

On the other hand, it’s not like Dorian knows.  His experience with actual living spaces is probably limited to witness interviews and criminal investigations.  It's an unexpectedly depressing thought.

"You had a different address," Dorian observes.  "While you were in the hospital."

John looks at him sharply, and he shrugs.  "Old files, man.  Sometimes they don't clear out the way they're supposed to."

He's trying too hard to be casual.  John tells himself he doesn't care why, because he wants to know and he doesn't want to ask.  "The apartment didn't work out," he mutters, dropping the knife on his plate and picking up his toast.  "Afterwards.  It wasn't accessible enough."

His old apartment was maintained on disability pay while he was unconscious, and when he woke up he was ready to move back in.  But a young, motivated, fully-abled man could live in places that a depressed amputee who won't even use a powered wheelchair can't.  John ended up here on a clinic recommendation: one level, open plan, state-of-the-art communication and mobility services.

It turns out the med techs were right.  There aren't any bad memories here.  There aren't any good ones, either.

"Do you like it?" Dorian asks, and John looks up.

He wants to say no.  But Dorian looks so curious, so intrigued, that John can't help remembering his complaints about ChargeFac.  Nothing good, no privacy, MXs glaring at him.  If he's known anything else, he probably can't remember it.

John misses having a place that feels like home.  Dorian doesn't even know what it's like.

"I guess," John mumbles.  "It's, you know."  He takes another bite of toast and waves his hand, hoping to convey whatever the place is.

"I'll assume you're not planning to finish that sentence," Dorian says.  He looks amused now.  Not disappointed, but not curious either.  "You know, your security system is full of holes.  You mind if I make some upgrades?"

John waves again, but Dorian doesn't move until he swallows and says, "Have at it."

To his surprise, Dorian goes outside.  It seems a little strange, but he's the one who knows security systems.  Apparently.

It lets John finish his toast in peace.  He almost pours himself a drink, except that he can't shake the crack about the alcoholic out-of-work cop, so he takes the night off.  He rinses his dishes half-heartedly, leaves them in the drainer, and peers out the window for Dorian.

He doesn't see anything.  He's too tired to decide what that means, so he checks the windows' privacy setting before he changes into something he can sleep in.  He hesitates over the piles of exercise sweats he still wears for physical therapy, but ultimately he pulls some out and drops them on top of the portable charger.  If Dorian can't figure out what they're for, that's not his problem.

He brushes his teeth, trying not to imagine Dorian poking around the bathroom.  It's late; he can't be responsible for his thoughts.  He does put away the toothpaste and pick up the towels afterwards, and that's more than he's done in months.

He comes back a moment later to leave a clean towel by the shower for Dorian.  He doesn't want to think about it, but he's not a jerk.  He's pretty sure Dorian's first encounter with a water shower will be hilarious.  Too bad there's no way John will be watching.

On second thought, he puts out a couple more towels.

The kitchen lights have turned themselves off and the ones in the main room are dimming by the time John gives up and sticks his head outside.  "Dorian?"

"Yes, John?"  Dorian's voice comes from just around the corner, and then he's at the door.  Like he thinks there's a problem or something.

"Just going to bed," John says roughly.  "You, uh--"  There's no other way to say it.  "You need anything?"

"No."  Dorian looks like he's going to follow John inside, and that's sort of awkward.  He adds, "Thank you," and it's more awkward.

John shakes his head, because there's nothing else he can do.  When he goes back in, Dorian follows him.  "Bathroom," John says, pointing without looking at him.  "I left you some towels."  Which sounds stupid, but he doesn't even care anymore.  He just wants to go to bed.

"And sweats," he adds.  It's possible he's talking too much.  "On the charger.  If you want them."

There's a pause, and Dorian says, "I appreciate your generosity."  It's so not like him that John closes his eyes.  They don't talk to each other like that.

"Don't," he says.  "Don't… thank me."  For this, he wants to say.  For being ignored, for a place in the corner.  For things no one else was using anyway.

Instead of whatever John expected, Dorian laughs.  "You know, you're terrible at normal social interaction?" he says.  "The appropriate response is, you're welcome.  I think you could handle it if you tried."

In spite of himself, John feels his lips twitching.  "Yeah, whatever," he grumbles, but it's a losing battle with the smile.  "You're fucking welcome, okay?"

"I’ll take it," Dorian agrees.  "Sleep well, John."

"Yeah," he says, because that probably won't happen.  "Enjoy your electric sheep."

Blue light flickers in the shadows, and it's funny but he thinks he can see the lines bend a little when Dorian smiles.

The lights in the main room are barely enough to see by when John falls onto the bed.  They stay that way while he takes off his second leg, pushing at the thigh muscles with his hand when they protest.  Losing so much sensory input at once is unpleasant, and ironically it’s worse on days when his leg is working better.

He rolls over far enough to put the leg in its charger.  He finally gave up and moved it closer to the bed: he’s been getting too many late-night calls, and the damn crutches are never where he needs them.  The hum doesn’t bother him as much as the convenience makes it worth it.

He hears the shower come on in the bathroom when he rolls back over.  He wonders if Dorian looked up proper operation of a water shower before he turned it on.  Probably not, he thinks.  He probably found the serial number on the showerhead and looked up the exact model.

John hopes whatever guide he’s reading told him to keep the door closed while he’s inside.

When the lights go out the rest of the way, he realizes two things.  One, the portable charger is dark and silent, which isn’t what he expected at all.  Maybe it’s more active when it’s actually charging?  And two, the lights are off in the kitchen too.  The house either doesn’t register Dorian as a guest, or it recognizes him as someone who doesn’t need light to see.

He wonders if the lights are on in the bathroom.  He closes his eyes against the darkness and pulls the covers across his body, trying to end that train of thought.  It doesn’t go anywhere good.  He has an android partner who has a history of scanning his entire body for no reason, so John doesn’t think about it.  Ever.

He rolls over onto his stomach and breathes, pressing his face into the pillow.  The kids in the L Zone.  They have to be there.  There’s no way in or out that isn’t heavily monitored.  Peres isn’t kidding when she compares it to a gated community, and illegal trade through the wall isn’t untraceable.  Not worth it most of the time, but not untraceable.

He’s going over the book club bios in his head, trying to find something else they have in common that might point to a location.  An intention, even.  Knowing what they planned to do with the kids could lead them in the right direction.  Today’s shooter was willing to kill, and publicly; that was live ammunition at Terrace Plaza.  So if the group just wanted to end the kids they wouldn’t have bothered with abduction.

That’s what he tells himself, anyway.  That’s what everyone at the station is telling themselves.  Because most missing children are found within three hours or they’re dead.  This case passed the three hour mark days ago, and no one wants this to be a recovery mission.

It probably says something terrible about him that reviewing notes on child abductions puts him to sleep.  What’s worse is that he doesn’t even dream about it.  Instead he’s back under the wall with Dorian, weighted down by darkness, panicked and terrified and seconds from the end of everything he knows.

He’s breathing.  That’s not the problem.  It’s not even cold.  He can feel Dorian’s hands on his shoulders, gripping his neck, warm on his skin and firm against his back.  It’s not like he’s going anywhere.  Dorian’s mouth is pressed against his temple, his cheek, his chin, and he’s breathing just fine.  He has to hang on and he doesn’t know why.

John wakes up gasping into the sheets, every muscle in his body tense.  The alarm isn’t going off.  There’s no light through the windows.  He fumbles for the clock, but he’s so wired it doesn’t register at first: one forty-eight.

God damnit.  The same time he was up yesterday.  His body is practically programmable.  They told him it would help with his leg, that he was good with suggestion, hypnosis, that it would help him adjust.  So far all it’s been good for is turning phantom limb pain into an ongoing nightmare.

He’s so fucking tired of nightmares.

He sits up, and a tiny mood light next to his bed comes on.  He doesn’t bother to hit it, to make it turn off, because it casts enough of a glow that he can see the shape of the entire room.  And the entire room now includes Dorian, sitting with his back against the charger under the windows.  His legs are stretched out in front of him.  John can’t tell if his eyes are closed or not, but his posture is straight and stiff and he rarely looks as unnatural as he does right now.

“Fuck,” John mutters.  He shouldn’t even be here.  There’s kids missing and he’s sleeping.  Or trying to.  What would he do if it was his kid out there?

He sure as hell wouldn’t be staring at a partner he can’t touch, who isn’t even human, wondering if he walked naked past John’s bed to put on those sweats he’s wearing now.

Detox, he thinks.  To get it out of your system, where do you--rehab.  Right?  Rehabilitation clinics.  That’s what they do with people who can’t stop, people who are addicted to something that’s bad for them.

He reaches for his phone.  When he drops it on the bed, it projects a network image up into the air.  He searches the L Zone for anything juvey: residential schools, round-the-clock childcare, in-patient pediatrics.  He rules out medical results in the Green Zone.  There’s bots there; why send kids you’re trying to remove from android influence right back into it?

One residential school.  One city hospital with a long-term mental health ward.  He needs a list of new residents, and he’s not going to get it from his phone.  He might not even be able to get it on his home network connection, but trying is faster than explaining what he needs to someone at the precinct.

It isn’t until he stumbles, catching himself on the divider between the main room and his workroom that he hears Dorian say, “John?”  The lights haven’t changed, which he thinks is probably the house’s way of telling him to go back to bed, and his balance is shot even without the shadows.

He manages to fall into the table instead of onto the floor.  He pulls himself up onto the stool, aware that Dorian’s getting up too.  Of course he is, because John’s life is just that great.  He might as well be married to his robot partner, now his de facto roommate, a guy with zero rights and every reason in the world to make John’s life hell.  And he kind of wants to push him up against the wall and grind against his well-designed--

Dorian steps up to the table beside him.  John scrubs his hands over his face, burying them in his hair, and he tells the transparent surface, “Not a good time.”  His voice is hoarser than he wants it to be.  It’s two in the morning and he doesn’t know anything anymore.

“You usually get up in the middle of the night and try to walk on one leg?” Dorian asks.  “’Cause I can leave you alone if this is a ritual challenge or something.”

Against his will, he feels his mouth curl into a smile.  “Fuck you,” he mutters, without any heat.  It’s a bad choice of words, but either Dorian’s not looking or he’s politely ignoring whatever biological signs John is giving off.

“Not very original,” Dorian says, setting the second stool down next to him.  “I give you a zero out of five for that comeback.  What got you out of bed?”

“Secure connection,” John says, not lifting his head.  “I need a list of new patients at City Mental in the L Zone.  And new students at Brookside Residential.”

“How new?” Dorian asks.

“Physically present in the last four days,” John says.  “Records might have been created before that.”

“You’re thinking the kids are there,” Dorian says.  “Hiding in plain sight.”

“If they haven’t killed them or ransomed them,” John tells the table, “maybe they’re trying to fix them.”

Dorian sounds distracted when he says, “They’re not broken, John.”

He can see Dorian’s knee from under his arm.  It’s nothing.  A joint like any other, covered in soft gray.  John could reach out and put a hand on it, and it would feel like sweatpants over skin and bone.  He could squeeze and it would give under his fingers, just a little.

That’s what they’re made to do, after all.

“No new students at Brookside,” Dorian reports.  “One new patient at the hospital, nineteen years old.”

Too old to be one of theirs, John thinks.

“They might not have been officially checked in,” Dorian says.  “We should look, physically confirm the records at both places.”

“Update the file,” John says.  It’s a long shot, but they can’t ignore it.  “Let night shift know.”  Neither place will welcome visitors at this hour, and even with a warrant they won’t get far treading on staff goodwill.  There’s no clear and present danger.

“Done,” Dorian says.

John isn’t ready to stand up again.  But that’s fine, because he’s not ready to go back to bed, either.  He thinks he’ll just stay here: forever, maybe.  Or until Dorian goes away.  Whichever comes first.

He knows Dorian, and he’s pretty sure forever will win.

“Hey,” Dorian says at last.  His tone is gentle in a way John’s only heard it with witnesses and children.  “John.  You need anything?”

John closes his eyes.  He recognizes the words; he said them to Dorian before he went to bed.  I touch you because you touch me, Dorian said.  He’s just copying John.

“No,” John says.  “I’m fine.”

There’s a long moment of quiet, during which any normal person would assume Dorian is getting the message.  John doesn't assume this, so he’s not surprised when Dorian says, “I think you should watch a movie.”

He’s not very surprised, anyway.  He does lift his head enough that he can squint at Dorian, embarrassed and vaguely resentful that his partner looks like he could be on duty right now.  But that’s what this is for him, right?  Duty.  It’s all duty to a DRN.  Robot cops don’t get down time.

“Well,” Dorian adds.  “Not actually watch a movie.  Listen to a movie while you sleep.  Continuous background narrative is a proven way to circumvent nightmares.”

John stares at him.

“I could pick one for you,” Dorian offers.  “I’m sure you won’t like it just on principle, so that'll give you something else to complain about in the morning."

He has a choice: stare at Dorian's face until he stops talking, which will probably be never, or do the thing that won't drive him crazy, which is hide out in the bathroom.  Possibly for the rest of the night.  His crutches are within reach, for once.  Somehow, he escapes the room without a single caution.

It's the fact that Dorian stops talking when he walks away that brings him back.  That and the way Dorian's managed to avoid commenting on his low-level arousal, which he can't have missed. It makes John feel daring.  So when he comes back and Dorian is sitting stiffly on the couch, watching the holoprojector like it's the only thing in the room, John just sighs and collapses next to him.

It's not like he was going to get any sleep anyway.

Chapter 7

He wakes up to an old Star Trek movie.  It might be the same one that was playing when he fell asleep; it's hard to tell from the uniforms.  He can't hear the radio, so at least his alarm hasn't gone off yet.  The room looks bright enough that it won't be long.

He's warm.  He can see his bed from here, so he's still on the couch.  But he's lying down and he's under a blanket, and it's almost… cozy.  He wouldn't mind staying here.  Because it's nice, for once, not because he doesn't see the point in getting up.

He pulls at the blanket and closes his eyes again.  If he doesn't look, he doesn't have to deal with it.  Everything is easy right now, and he wants to keep it that way for a little longer.

When the radio comes on, John startles awake and reaches for it out of habit.  His hand falls into nothingness.  He stiffens, sure he's about to fall out of bed, and when he pulls back he rolls right into the couch cushions.

He's on the couch.  He has a blanket tangled around him, and that same Star Trek movie is on.  There's something solid against his foot when he moves, and he pushes himself up against the armrest.

For the first time in a long time, his hip doesn't hurt when he sits up.  He barely notices as he stares at Dorian, blinking awake at the other end of the couch.  "Do you have a slouching subroutine?"

Except it's rough, and his voice breaks somewhere in the middle.  Which is embarrassing but he doesn't talk to people first thing in the morning, damn it.  He clears his throat and tries again.

"I mean, you're…"  Terrible at normal social interaction, Dorian told him, and John squeezes his eyes shut and rubs them like it will make a difference.  "Morning," he mutters.

"Yes," Dorian agrees, and his voice is perfectly normal.  "It is."

He's moved the charger over to the couch, and how John slept through that he has no idea.  It's pressed up against the far end so Dorian can use it like a lounger: sitting on the couch, feet and legs propped up on the charger.  It's… John can't decide whether it hilarious or sort of…

He's staring.  He's waking up on the couch with an android who looks remarkably human, slouching in sweats with his feet up on the furniture in front of him, and John can't stop staring.  "You look like you were asleep," he blurts out.

On a list of stupid things he could say, it's somewhere in the middle.  Okay, yes, Dorian doesn't sleep, and no, John shouldn't care what he looks like.  But there are so many worse things that could have come out of his mouth, he can't bring himself to be too upset about that one.

"So do you," Dorian says.  He hasn't moved, still leaning against the back of the couch while he studies John.  "How do you feel?"

There are a lot of wrong ways to answer that question, so John asks, "Were you there all night?"

"I was watching the movie," Dorian says.

It gives John an excuse to tear his gaze away, looking at the projected screen that's now warring with the radio.  "This is the same movie we were watching when I fell asleep," he says.

"Familiar narratives are supposed to be more effective in preventing nightmares than foreign ones," Dorian says.  "I assumed that even if you hadn't seen this movie, your subconscious would recognize it the second or third time through."

"I've seen it," John says.  It's easier to look at the screen than it is at Dorian.

"Did it work?" Dorian asks.

He remembers waking up.  He remembers the sound of fantasy gunfire, too easily distinguished to be real, and fake punches being thrown.  Then the drone of voices until all he heard was his own breathing.  Mostly he remembers feeling warm and comfortable, which isn't what he used to associate with sleeping on the couch.

Of course, lately the bed hasn't been so comfortable either.

"John?" Dorian says.  "Would you like me to make you some breakfast?"

He stares at the screen, but the question doesn't make any sense when he plays it back in his head.  Finally he looks at Dorian again.  "What?"

"It's my understanding that humans need time to transition from an unconscious to a conscious state," Dorian says.  "I thought you might prefer to have privacy."

"No," John says.  "I mean--"  Now Dorian wants to give him privacy.  That figures.  "Did you just offer to make me breakfast?"

"I can make breakfast," Dorian says.  "You have eggs.  Anyone can fry an egg, John."

John blinks.  "I wasn't--"

"Or I could make you something else," Dorian says.  "I can also make toast.  Or pretty much anything that comes in a package with instructions, although Rudy says my oatmeal leaves something to be desired.  I think he just won't admit how much sugar he wants on it, personally."

"You've made Rudy breakfast," John says slowly.

"He lets me stay over sometimes," Dorian says.  "It's the least I can do."

John has a bad feeling about this, and he waves impatiently at the movie to turn it off.  It's not Rudy, exactly, because come on.  Since when is he jealous of a cyber tech?  Just because Dorian stays with him overnight?  Because he wears Rudy's clothes and makes Rudy breakfast?

He wonders if the gloves Dorian asked for are for Rudy too.  Who else, really.  And that's fine, he's totally fine with that, but there's something else about it.  Something that doesn't sit right.

Dorian swings his legs off of the charger, and the steady blue bar on top of it disappears.  Huh, John thinks.  Proximity charge.  That's convenient.

Then he realizes that Dorian's about to get up, and John's at enough of a disadvantage already.  "Hang on," he says, and somehow it comes out strong enough to be convincing.  "Dorian.  You don't have to make me breakfast just because you're staying here.  You get that, right?"

Dorian looks at him.  There's no stubble on his face.  He's clean and unrumpled and even in sweats he looks completely put-together.  Of course he does, John thinks, he's a fucking android.

But even with that, he looks uncertain, and John feels like a jerk.  He has no idea what to do about it.  It's too early in the morning for this.  He wants to ignore it, to push Dorian off the couch and grumble at him for rearranging the furniture.  Get that stupid look off his face one way or another.

"Rudy's a little better at telling me what he expects than you are," Dorian says at last, and John closes his eyes.

"Would you quit comparing me to Rudy?"  He regrets the words as soon as they're out, except that they're true, and hey, now Dorian knows what he expects.  So he plows on.  "You don't have to do anything for me.  It's your job to be here, so you're here.  That's all."

He opens his eyes and wishes he hadn't.  Dorian is glaring at him.  "Are you genetically incapable of letting people do things for you?" he demands.  "It’s a hereditary flaw, right?  I know what my job is, man, and making you breakfast isn't it.  I only offered because I want to."

"Then what's with the whole, Rudy this, Rudy that?" John snaps.  "You sound like have some kind of--special arrangement."

"Yes, the arrangement where he's my friend and I want to do things for him," Dorian says.  "The way he does things for me.  The way I'd like to do things for you, except that you seem to enjoy making everything as hard as humanly possible."

"I'm not trying to make it hard," John says.  "I'm trying to make it fair!"

There's a quiet moment where he can't ignore the fact that he's sitting on his couch, wearing not very much, with a blanket on his lap and an annoyed android a couple of feet away.  The radio plays on, and if he doesn't turn it off it will get louder.  And louder.  It's not an easy alarm to sleep through.

"Fair," Dorian says at last.  "Do you think my life is fair, John?  Is yours?"

He really doesn't want to have this conversation.  "I just don't want you to feel like you owe me," he mutters.

If nothing else, Dorian sounds faintly amused when he says, "Of course I owe you.  Without you, I literally wouldn't be breathing.  And you owe me--because medically cleared or not, your psych profile is not complimentary.  Maldonado didn't put us together because you're an asshole who likes to end robots.  She did it because she's hoping I let you get away with just enough that you listen when I try to stop you from imploding."

John can only stare at him while Dorian adds, "And I don't know what any of that has to do with me making you breakfast.  So do you want some eggs or not?"

It's a yes or no question, and right now, that's about what John can handle.  So he says, "Yeah," and he watches Dorian get up off the couch.  He watches Dorian step around the charger, avoid John's blanket completely, and carefully not bump the crutches John has propped up at his end of the couch.

"Dorian," John says, just before he goes through the kitchen doorway.  And Dorian pauses like it matters, turns around and waits like it's nothing.  John lifts his chin at where the screen projection used to be.  "I think the movie… uh.  Helped."

He can't quite bring himself to say thanks, but Dorian smiles like he heard it anyway.  "Glad to hear it," he says.

The morning actually can get more awkward from there, and it does.  John's only real success is in balancing his way to the bed so he can crawl across it and turn off the radio.  Then, of course, the only sound is him moving around and Dorian searching through the kitchen cabinets, so John turns it back on.

His next problem is how to carry clothes while on crutches.  Normally he wouldn't bother, but combining crutches with a towel is fifty-fifty at best.  If he's going to have an audience, he'd just as soon get dressed in the bathroom.

He goes with the one-crutch option, which everyone says is bad for his posture, but what isn't these days.  It lets him carry something and still be more maneuverable than he is in the wheelchair, so he goes with it.  It isn't until he gets out of the shower that he remembers how hard it is to attach his leg after he's put his pants on.

Dorian doesn't comment.  He also hasn't managed to burn the house down yet, and frankly, John's not sure which of those things impresses more at this moment.  He grumbles silently to himself about the disruption in his routine, but when there's a plate waiting on the counter when he walks back into the kitchen he's glad he kept his mouth shut.

"This is good," he says, surprised out of his silence after the first bite.  He made it a point not to eye the fried egg on toast suspiciously before he bit into it, even if there's two of them exactly the same side by side and that's a little creepy.

Dorian's standing at the other end of the counter--leaning on it the same way John is, which is unusual for him--watching something on John's tablet.  It occurs to him that Dorian should have his own, but that doesn't make any sense: he can watch anything the tablet can display in his head.  The only reason he picks up John's is to mess with it before giving it back.

"I'll tell Rudy you said so," Dorian says without looking up.  Then he does look up, and he smiles, and it might be a little embarrassed-looking.  "It took a couple of tries to get it right."

"Uh-huh."  John's tried to cook eggs before and it's never gone well, so he's not going to judge.  "So you cook for Rudy often?"

"Don't be jealous," Dorian tells him, and that smile won't go away.  "It's not like I've ever fallen asleep on a couch with him."

John makes a face, but he can't resist.  "So you never used his shower?" he jokes, taking another bite of toast and egg.  Definitely better than what he could manage.  Not that the bar is high.

"Or pretended to be his boyfriend to make someone talk," Dorian says.

"Bet you talk about cases with him in the middle of the night, though."  Rudy doesn't strike him as the kind of guy who has a regular sleep schedule.  And Dorian likes to answer questions as much as he likes to ask them.

"Only ones he's cleared for," Dorian says.  "I do borrow his clothes, though."

"But you don't give them back."  John eyes him over top of his toast.  "Should I not expect to see those sweats again?  Or am I different?"

Dorian finally lowers the tablet, letting it hover by his hip and making no pretense that he's studying anything on it anymore.  John thinks, distantly, that maybe he was just doing it to look normal.  To look like he's doing something other than watching John while he eats.

"So when you said that I shouldn't compare you to Rudy," Dorian says, "what you meant was, I should compare you to Rudy in great detail."

"Hey," John says, lifting his hands in an attempt at surrender.  He's got a plate in one and toast in the other, so it doesn't really work, but it's possible that he's the one being creepy now.  "Just making conversation."

"It's fine," Dorian says.  "I think you're the only one who asks me what I do when I'm… not with you."

It's stupid, but he says it anyway.  "The only one other than Rudy?"  He tries to smile, hoping it comes across as more of a joke than an actual question.  It is an actual question.  He's never cared this much about Rudy before.

"Rudy already knows what I do when I'm not with you," Dorian says.

That's enough to shut him up.  Dorian looks at his tablet again when John doesn't say anything else, and he wonders what he's going to get back.  He lasts almost a minute before he has to ask, "What are you doing to that thing?"

"Setting it up to monitor your security system," Dorian says.  "The cameras can flag anomalous movement and alert you when it happens.  If you're interested."

"Yeah," John says, surprised again.  "Could they always do that?"

"Sure," Dorian says.  "Sort of.  No," he adds, "not really, but it wasn't difficult to code.  Your house computer is very helpful."

"My house computer?" John repeats.

"She says you call her Hal," Dorian tells him.

John frowns.  He thinks he's being mocked but he’s not quite confident enough to say it out loud.  "It's a she, huh?"

"She says you tell her she's a good girl."  Dorian's smiling at the tablet now, but he looks up at John without lifting his head.  It's an expression that lasts a second, maybe two, but it burns into John's memory and he fumbles the reply.

"I don't," he says helplessly.  "I mean, I can't--"  He has no idea what his face is doing, but it must be strange because Dorian doesn't laugh.

"Don't worry," Dorian says.  He doesn't stop smiling, but he doesn't laugh.  "She has a confidentiality clause.  She can't tell me anything about you.  It doesn't apply to her, obviously."

John scoffs.  "Or to anything I say about--"  He breaks off.  "Her?  Really?"

"According to you," Dorian says.

John's just glad he has another piece of toast, because he's pretty sure this conversation can still get worse.  At least the house computer can't talk.  To him.  He honestly doesn't remember calling it "Hal," but it's not like it doesn't fit.  Case in point: this moment.

Then Dorian announces, "Done," and he drops the tablet on the counter beside John.  "I'll go get changed," he says, and John blinks.

He should feel relieved.  Watching Dorian move away, though, all he feels is disappointed.  That's bad, he knows it's bad, and he tries not to think about it.  There's a hell of a difference between being lusting after a body and wanting to have awkward conversations over breakfast with the person inside it.

"Dorian," he calls.  His brain is telling him not to do it while the rest of him is basically covering his ears and humming really loudly.  "You want some clean clothes?"

Dorian's reply is immediate, voice perfectly audible from the other room.  "Only if you want more people to think we're sleeping together!"

His brain wins the next round, and John congratulates himself on not answering.

He finishes his eggs before Dorian comes back, which has nothing to do with the lack of company.  He washes his plate afterwards, which has nothing to do with the presence of company.  And when he walks into the main room and finds Dorian shrugging into his jacket, he figures that's just good timing.  It's not like there's a reflection in the kitchen window or anything.  

John doesn't comment on the charger, still sitting next to the couch, or the sweats folded neatly on top of it.

That doesn't stop Dorian, of course.  He starts up again on their way out the door.  "So, tell me if this is none of my business--"

"It's none of your business," John says automatically.

Dorian ignores him.  "But isn't this the back door?"

John locks the house, and he thinks the security system sounds different than it usually does when it arms.  He frowns at Dorian, who raises his eyebrows in return.  John decides not to ask.

Dorian has to walk around to get into the car, so it isn't until he's inside that John gets to hear about the layout of his house in excruciating detail.  He gives the graffiti an irritated glance as they pull out, but he's mostly distracted by Dorian's description.  It ends with, "At least that would be reasonable, since most people don't invite guests in through the kitchen."

"Most people's guests don't cook for them," John says, and his only excuse is that he was actually listening and didn't expect to have to answer.

It doesn't seem to bother Dorian.  "Yeah, and you're welcome," he says.  "So why don't you use the front door?"

"Too far from the driveway," John says.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Dorian open his mouth.  Then he gets it, and John doesn't know whether to be more surprised that Dorian thought of it without having to be told, or that he had to think about it in the first place.  He's been watching John hobble around the place all morning.

On the other hand, what do androids know about missing limbs?  They lose one, they get a new one.  Maybe John's not one to talk, but his second leg isn't exactly seamless.  He spends too much time without it to ever forget.

"That's why your bed's in your living room," Dorian says.

Everything is in his living room.  Everything is on one specific side of the living room, namely the side nearest the bathroom.  "Was already in recovery when I moved in,” John says.  “I spent a lot of time on my back.”

He hasn't talked about it since… ever.  That's the only reason he can come up with for why he didn't realize how that would sound.  When he looks sideways at Dorian, he finds Dorian grinning back.

John points at him.  "Shut up," he says.

Dorian laughs, and John tries to hide his smile by looking away.  There's only so far he can go and keep his eyes on the road, so of course it doesn't work.  He didn't really expect it to.

By the time they get to the precinct, he's up a cup of coffee and he's feeling better than he has all week.  Skipping the stop at ChargeFac shaves a couple of minutes off his commute, so he tells Dorian to go in without him while he talks to CT.  He doesn't want to get a reputation as someone who shows up on time.

"What do you want with CT?" Dorian asks.  He sounds downright suspicious, and John tries to be offended.

"I like CT," he says.  "Me and tech, we're great friends.  We’re like this."

Dorian frowns at him.  "Are you going to interrogate Rudy about the breakfast thing?"

He hadn't even thought of that.  "Why, does he have good stories?"

"If he's there this early," Dorian says, "he's probably still there from last night.  Don't hassle him, John."

"Who, me?"  He isn't going to hassle anyone.  Unless they get in his way.  "Would I do a thing like that?"

"You are a thing like that," Dorian says, and John grins.

"Weak," he tells Dorian.  "I give you a zero out of five for that comeback.  I'll be up in a few minutes; don't break the bullpen."

Rudy's there when he stops in, but he looks awake enough that Dorian's probably right.  He beams at John like he doesn't even remember the first five cups of coffee.  "Detective!  How can I help you today?"

John thinks that's the most cheery greeting he's ever gotten from Rudy, and he wonders if Dorian tipped him.  Maybe he's expecting questions.  Maybe he's overcompensating; he probably has something to hide.  Dorian can't be here as often as he implies unless he lies about his location.  Rudy's exactly the type to help him cover that up.

Which is why John's here, after all.

"I need a favor," John says bluntly.

"Of course you do," Rudy says, rolling his eyes as he spins his chair halfway around and then back again.  He's not doing anything with his hands, which is unusual enough.  But he doesn’t tend to be restless on top of it.

"It's not something I want anyone else to know about," John says, and Rudy stops moving abruptly.  "You should feel free to say no."

"Really," Rudy says.  He's starting to look more interested.  "Most conversations that begin this way don't involve my refusal."

"Yeah," John muttered.  "I'm kind of counting on that."

"Is this about Dorian?" Rudy asks, and John gives him a sharp look.  Rudy just shrugs.  "I mean, he's not here.  And, no offense, but he's a lot more likely to come see me than you are."

"His history files are locked," John says.

"Heavily redacted," Rudy corrects.  Then he adds, "Um, or so I've heard."

"That all you've heard?" John asks.  Rudy's not stupid; he knows what John wants.  "Because I've heard there are ways to access redacted information.  Obviously that's a security concern, so.  I thought I should look into it."

"Yes," Rudy says, staring down at his desk for a long moment.  Then he looks up and catches John's eye with a start.  "I mean, of course.  It's a security concern.  I'm sure it's nothing to worry about, but I'll, um.  Run some tests.  Try a few different things.  Make sure everyone has the access they're supposed to have, you know?"

"Great," John says.  "I'm sure I can count on your discretion, Rudy.  When it comes to matters of security."

"If you couldn't," Rudy says, "I wouldn't work here."

That's sort of a disturbing thought, so John tries to ignore it.  "Great," he says again.  "Uh.  Thanks for your help."

"It's what I do," Rudy tells him, and yeah.  That's what John's worried about.  But he's no stranger to the wrong side of the law, and there are days when Rudy single-handedly keeps the entire department afloat.  That's worth a lot.

Besides, Dorian trusts him.  Dorian may have terrible standards, but John's the only person he's been wrong about so far.  Apparently androids are better at reading people than humans are.

The rest of his day blows up before he even gets to the bullpen.  His phone rings on the way up, and it's Dorian in his ear telling him Miyanda's mom got a call.  Nothing audible, a series of numbers and that was it, and the ELPD contacted them an hour after the fact.  Which means someone's already deciphered it: GPS coordinates that the L Squad thinks are a ransom drop and Miyanda's bot says are a geocache.

"A what?" John asks over the phone.  He's not alone in the elevator and he doesn't even care.  It's work-related; they'll live.

"A semi-private container planted on public property as a reward for successful satellite-based orienteering," Dorian says.  "It's a game parents play with their kids to teach them how to read coordinates.  Miyanda's family used to do it in the city; the coordinates point to a cache they visited on her seventh birthday."

"We think the coordinates are from her?" John asks.  "Where are they?"

"In the dog park across the street from Brookside," Dorian says.

"She can see it--"

"From where she is," Dorian finishes with him.  "Yes.  That's one possibility."

"What's the L Squad doing?" John wants to know as he steps off the elevator.  "Are they going in?"

"To the park," Dorian's voice says in his ear.  "They don't feel they have grounds to search the school."

"You're kidding me," John says.  “Right now, you’re kidding me.”

"That they don't want to follow a lead based on your dream?" Dorian says.  "Yes, of course that's completely implausible."

"I want a warrant for that school an hour ago," John says.  "And get me Miyanda's mom or her bot on the phone; I don't care which."

She's online by the time John reaches his desk, and he asks questions for four and a half minutes before he realizes he's not talking to the mom.  In the meantime, he sends a response team request to Sandra and taps out a message to Dorian: how did she get those numbers out?

Dorian's reply is immediate but inconclusive: Staff phone.

Stolen, John wonders?  Pickpocketed?  Tricked out of a sympathetic staffer for games?

He gets his response team.  He gets Paul and Cadman and Goss, and he gets his warrant.  He notifies the ELPD that the eight of them are going in and he gets no resistance.  The smooth ops always turn bad, and it ends up taking them more than three hours and a school-wide evacuation to clear the building and locate the kids in an acclimatization ward.  One locked door, zero electronic tech, and private "counseling" that's probably brainwashing with a fancy name.

It's frustrating and embarrassing and ultimately a victory.  Miyanda and Sachihiro are both alive, which in itself is more than anyone expected.  Hoped for, of course, but expected?  Not really.  They're even mostly unhurt, although John thinks they'll need a lot of therapy and Miyanda is probably two years and one shady friend from a life of petty crime.

The ELPD consults with him about the school's liability.  Which is to say, they notify him that they'll be conducting a comprehensive review of Brookside's intake procedures.  They won't assign criminal intent to what could be negligence--and it would have to be gross negligence, John points out, given that there were minors "enrolled" without parental permission--pending further investigation.

John considers telling them what they can do with their investigation, but two things stop him.  Neither of them is a confused or fearful child surrounded by equally distraught parents.  One of them is Dorian, however, who's watching the families with a too-thoughtful expression.  The other is the fact that no one's tried to kill John yet today, and that makes him generous.

So he tells the L Squad good luck, and he means it.  A little.  Not very much, but enough that he can walk away.  If he sees one more robot family, clingy and normal-looking or not, he's giving the rest of the paperwork to Dorian.  And not just this case, either.  Everything he works on for the next two weeks.

“You look like you can’t decide whether to be angry or angrier,” Dorian observes from the far side of the car.  He’s watching John lean against the door and stare back at the buzzing evac scene.  They can’t leave yet, but at least they can get out of the way long enough to call in.

“I don’t like people claiming stupidity as their defense,” John says.  “If being an idiot was an excuse, we’d never arrest anyone.”

“You’re just upset that you won’t be able to close the case until someone else does your job,” Dorian says.  Before John can say anything, he adds, “Have you considered investigating the rest of the book club?”

“No,” John says. He would if he could, but they can’t hang onto this case forever.  The LAPD was asked to help with search and rescue, not complicity and conviction.  “On what grounds?”

“Analysis and Research didn’t run a single comp program on that exterior surveillance video,” Dorian says.  “They ran nine on the interior.”

Nine comparisons.  Nine regular members of the book club.  “They compared them to the book club?" John says, frowning.  It’s a good idea, but it’s hard to justify.  “Who told them to do that?”

“I gave them the bios to run on the Terrace Plaza cameras,” Dorian says.  “There were a lot of people there; they asked for a reference.  It seems like there was some confusion about the request.”

“Uh-huh.”  There could have been, but AR is careful.  They’re also big on numbers.  They like to invent correlations and run comps to see what happens.  “So they find anything?”

“Both of the figures at the wall have fifty-fifty matches in the book club,” Dorian says.  When John makes a face, he adds, “That’s high for this kind of analysis, John.  And it’s not just one of them.”

“It’s both, yeah.  I get it.”  He doesn’t really, but when AR says something is important he listens.  They’re usually arguing the opposite way: that something he thinks is important isn’t.  He doesn’t listen as well then, but it makes him notice when they change their tune.

Dorian doesn’t say anything else.  When John glances sideways at him, he’s watching the scene outside the school with apparent interest.  It’s not interest, of course.  It’s feigned innocence.  He’s terrible at it.

John sighs.  “This means we’re going to have to talk to Peres again, doesn’t it.”

“I was thinking you could just call your crush,” Dorian says.  He’s not looking at John, but he’s smiling and there’s no way to hide it.  “He seemed pretty competent to me.  And I’m sure he’d be interested in helping you out.”

“I’m not,” John says.  “He acted more cagey than she did.  I think it runs in the line.”

“So I can call him your crush?” Dorian asks.  “Maybe he’s in an open relationship.  You should ask him about that.  Nothing ventured, nothing gained, man.”

“I’m hoping that by ignoring you I’ll discourage your attention-seeking behavior,” John tells him.

“There’s no evidence, contextual or otherwise, to support that conclusion,” Dorian says.  “That’s shoddy police work, my friend.”

“Whereas your assumption that he’s interested in helping me is based on extensive observation,” John says.  “The open relationship, too.  You get that from watching him give a witness statement?”

“I got that from watching him watch you across the street,” Dorian says.  “Do you have any idea how much he stared at you?  I think he likes it when you stammer."

"Okay, first off," John says.  "I don't stammer.  Second, it sounds like you were watching him more than I was, so maybe you should ask him out.  I mean, come on.  You’re made for each other."

This time Dorian doesn't answer.  When John follows his gaze he knows why: Sachihiro's DRN is hugging him.  Not just hugging him, but scooping him up off the ground, squeezing him, and then settling him against his hip like a mom with a toddler.  Sachihiro's six, and he hangs onto that DRN like it's the only good thing in the world.

The DRN catches John's eye and nods in their direction.  John can see him mouth the words, Thank you.  He looks so damn grateful that John can't look away.  

There's not enough paperwork in the city to make him forget that expression.

Chapter 8

They make it back to the precinct by the middle of the afternoon, which John thinks is pretty good.  Two kids saved, no one dead, and the ELPD isn't even filing procedural complaints against them.  He makes Dorian stop for lunch on the way back, but he doesn't drag it out.  Dorian's too quiet, AR is running rogue, and when he checked in Sandra told him to see her as soon as he's free.

John isn't free until after he's had something to eat, but he knows better than to tell her that.  So they eat and run.  Well, he eats, and Dorian sits there looking broody.  John has a bad feeling that he's still watching the kids and their happy robot-inclusive families in his head.

No way is he going to ask that question.  It's a dead end if he ever saw one and there are things he doesn't need to know.  So many things.

Sandra is in the bullpen talking with Paul when they get back.  She's buttoned up, a tablet under her arm, but when she sees John she takes Paul's tablet as well.  Paul gets a nod, and John thinks she says "Thank you" before turning away.

"Kennex," she says.  This time it's loud enough for the entire room to hear.  "Walk with me."

He nods, only waiting long enough to bump Dorian's shoulder and mutter, "Make sure AR's not creating a civil incident with those profiles."

"Yeah, you got it," Dorian agrees.  He takes John's chair and John doesn't even think about it until he's halfway across the bullpen.  When he turns back, though, Dorian's working and Sandra's waiting, so he lets it go.

John catches Sandra, who's telling her MX, "Meet me at the car."

He raises an eyebrow, but hey, he doesn't want one of them following him either.  So he just says, "Another meeting?"  She doesn't look like she's just going out for lunch.

"Yes," she says.  She's headed the other way down the hall.  "I'm glad I caught you before I left.  I have some notes for you, and they're pretty high-level.  Restricted access, outright denial, depends who you talk to."

"Sounds like fun," he drawls.

"It isn't."  She stops in front of the old elevator, the one no one uses anymore because it rattles and doesn’t go anywhere useful since they reorganized the lower floors.  “I heard you talked to Rudy.”

He’s talked to Rudy about a lot of things, so he tries to look interested instead of guilty.  He thinks he’s better at it than Dorian is.  “Oh yeah?”

“Yes,” she says.  “Don’t blame him; he had standing orders to let me know when you asked.  For the last three months, actually.”

John frowns, but there’s nothing he can say that won’t be incriminating.  Neither of them speak until the elevator arrives.  There’s no one in it, which is probably why she picked it, and when the doors close behind them she turns to him and waits.

He gives up.  “Look,” he says.  “I know, it’s classified.  I just wanted--”

“I have it,” Sandra says, holding up one of her tablets.  “I’m going to give it to you.  I need you to promise me a few things first.”

That’s not what he was expecting, but he knows when to shut up and play along.  “Shoot,” he says.

“One,” she tells him, “I want you to read this before Dorian does.  I know it’s not fair, but I think he’ll listen to you if you tell him to take it easy.”

“If I--” John begins, but she ignores him.

“Two,” Sandra says.  “Take it easy.  Do not.  I repeat, do not take action on anything you read in here before you talk to me about it.  Is that clear?”

“Well, yeah,” he says, folding his arms.  “But why would you--”

“John, I’m not kidding.”  She’s still holding the tablet apart, but she doesn’t offer it to him.  “There are people and activities mentioned in here that I don’t want you looking into or trying to reconstruct or, god forbid, contacting without more information.  I’m letting you walk away with this because I think you and Dorian should read it without anyone watching you, and that’s not going to happen here.  But you can’t act on it.  Not yet.”

He stares at her for long enough that the elevator reaches the ground floor.  Sandra pushes the “hold” button and says, “John.”

Her tone is enough, and he nods reluctantly.  “Okay,” he says.

“Okay,” she repeats.  “What are you doing for dinner tonight?”

It’s strange enough that he actually thinks about it, because the only way to answer that kind of non sequitur is with the truth.  “Uh, nothing?  I mean.  Probably pick something up on the way home, I guess.”

“I’m coming over,” she says.  “I’ll bring Thai.  Say around seven?”

“Uh, sure.”  Whatever this is, it’s bad enough that she thinks she needs to check in with him outside of work.  “Dorian will be there,” he adds.  Mostly to find out if Dorian will, in fact, be there.  When John looked up the req order, that charger was listed as part of a protection unit, but no official personnel assignment was filled or even filed.

“I’m counting on it,” Sandra says.  The elevator chimes, reminding her to release the hold, and she hands him the tablet at last.  “Don’t do anything stupid, John.”

That’s ominous, but he smirks at her when the door slides open and says, “You feeling optimistic today?”

She gives him the same expression back.  “Wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t,” she says.

There’s another set of stairs to the garage, so he follows her out of the elevator.  As he steps out, though, she holds up her hand and says, “Take Dorian and get some lunch.  I’ll see you tonight, okay?”

“Sure,” he says.  What else is he going to say?  It sounds like she’s going out on a limb for him, as usual, and he has no idea why.  As usual.

The hallway is deserted after she walks away, so he unlocks the tablet and enters his identification.  He’s not even sure what he’s expecting at this point.  That conversation was about Dorian’s redacted record, right?  He can’t think of anything else it could be, but he knows how easy it is to get caught up in assumptions.

The first thing that comes up on the tablet is Sandra’s service record.  He frowns, but when he tries to close it, it won’t go away.  He raises an eyebrow.  He knows this trick: they used to use it to pass case gossip back in the day.

He scrolls down to personnel, finds his own name, and follows it to his service record.  He doesn’t need to see it, he doesn’t want to know, but he pauses when he gets to current partner.  The attached record is for “DRN-0167 (Dorian).”  Since when are bot nicknames on their service records?

Opening the record is easy.  Reading it is harder.  He’s looked at this record before, been irritated by the gaps and blank spaces that fill every screen.  He’s seen it more than he’ll admit, more than he’s ever told Dorian, or Sandra.  He’s looked at it so many times that he’s not prepared to see the information actually there.

The first few lines have always been accessible: specs and spec references, notes he pored over for lack of anything else to study.  The next few have been added since Dorian came back online: his assignment to John, a list of their cases, an up-to-date clearance rating.  Plus repairs, upgrades, and a couple of forced hacks to improve his compatibility with MX-oriented hardware and software.  All in chronological order.

Underneath that, a second assignment is now visible.  Or in this case, Dorian's first: to a Lieutenant Islay McInnis.  The assignment date is 14 March 2041.  John scrolls to the end just to be sure, but it looks like McInnis was his first and only partner before John.

Three years, John thinks.  Is that a long time?  How long do people usually keep their bots?  They’re outdated so fast, and busted so often… he can’t remember the last time he kept a phone for three years, let alone an android.  On the other hand, he’s spent most of his career trying to know as little about them as possible--

Dorian’s record ends with a decommission date.  John’s been staring at it without seeing it, without understanding what it means.  He feels cold when he realizes he’s looking at the day Dorian died.

He looks over his shoulder, because that’s creepy and it’s not even true.  Dorian’s fine.  The hallway’s still empty.  John’s the one being weird, hanging out by an elevator with classified information on a tablet that’s not even his.

When he glances back at the screen, it’s just a string of numbers and acronyms again.  Dates, tests, upgrades, cases… typical.  Except for the line above the decommission date that says INDIVIDUAL.  He flicks the screen off and the tablet goes dark.

John shifts as casually as he can, putting his back up against the wall and looking around for the nearest camera.  There’s one on the corner, facing away from him, and one down at the far end of the hall.  The nearest one is inside the elevator, and there are doors between it and him.

So he turns the tablet back on, trying to breathe normally.  He walks through the identification and service record maze and scrolls back to the end of Dorian’s official record.  The damning word, INDIVIDUAL, is still there.  It’s followed by Assignment compromised.  Mission compromised.  Decommission.

Androids in the Individual Rights Consortium call themselves Individuals.  The humans do too, John thinks.  He’s sure he read that in the information Dorian sent him.  It’s about solidarity or something.

The cutesy name had seemed a lot funnier when it wasn’t stamped across his partner’s service record.

John takes another breath.  He's looking at something that's existed all along.  At least for the last four years.  Nothing's changed in the last five minutes.

Luger Test, he reads from the next line up.  PASS.  And now that he knows what to look for, it jumps out at him: Luger Test is repeated twice more on this screen alone.  Each time it's followed by the word PASS.

He took the damn test over and over again, John thinks.  He passed it, so they tested him again.  And again.

Someone wanted him off the force.  There's no trace, no trail that leads from his cases with McInnis to the order to decommission.  There's just the Luger Test, Dorian passing it, and then the ultimate condemnation.

Assignment compromised, John thinks.  Who's McInnis, anyway?  He doesn't recognize that name.  They must have overlapped at some point, even if she was in charge of a different squad.

It's only when he flips back to the beginning of the assignment that he sees it: 16 March 2041.  Human partner requests informal designation of DRN-0167, the note says.  "Dorian."

Designation accepted.

McInnis named him.  Two days with his first partner and Dorian had a name.  Why wasn't he allowed to remember that?  What the hell does a nickname have to do with being compromised?

John swipes the tablet dark again, disgusted with the report and angry at himself for reading it.  He doesn't need to know this.  It's Dorian's history if he wants it--John hopes he doesn't but he knows he won't be that lucky--and John's just the guy who bitched enough to get it released.

He pushes the button for the elevator and the door opens immediately.  It shakes more on the way up than it did coming down, and John thinks that figures.  Now it's filled with rage instead of just confusion.  Dorian says negative energy takes up space.  Maybe John's is expanding enough to rattle the walls.

Dorian's still in his chair when John storms into the bullpen.  He doesn't know what he looks like but it's probably not good, because everyone gets out of his way.  On any other day he'd consider that a good thing, but today he thinks he really shouldn't be drawing so much attention.

"What's made you angrier than usual?" Dorian asks when John stomps over to his desk.  He doesn't move except to look up, but his stillness is a kind of caution.  John's seen it before.  He thought they were past it.  Leave it to him to go backwards even in his relationship with an android.

"Lack of coffee," John growls.  He doesn't throw the tablet down on the desk no matter how much he wants to.  "Let's go get some."

"If you're going to be cured by caffeine, I have a faster solution."  But Dorian's getting up, shutting the terminal down without touching it, pushing John's chair in without looking at it.

"I'm not."  John grabs a couple of things out of his desk, then glares around the room in case anyone gets any bright ideas.  "Let's roll."

It's Valerie who gets in his way.  He's sure she wasn't here when they first got back, but she is now and she actually steps in front of him to keep him from moving forward.  "Hey," she says.  "You want some company?"

The offer is too casual, but for the first time he's aware of Dorian falling back.  He was right at John's shoulder when they came around the desk, but as soon as Valerie confronts them Dorian turns.  Making way.

Giving in, John thinks.

"No," he says shortly.  He doesn't want company, and he doesn't want to be manipulated into thinking it's his idea either way.  "I want coffee."

"Okay."  She doesn't move.  She's going to make him go around her.  "Call me if I can do anything, all right?"

"Sure," John says.  "Will do.  See you," he adds pointedly, and steps past her.  He doesn't have to look to know that Dorian's nodding at her, probably rolling his eyes and mouthing an apology for John's behavior.

Making nice is a survival strategy for him.  John doesn't know why he never thought about it before.  All it takes is a word in a report--two at the most--and Dorian's dead.  Yeah, he can take a lot of damage and keep on walking, but what does it matter if some human's got their hand on the off switch?

"You are seriously messed up right now," Dorian says as they leave the bullpen.  "Did you get stuck in the elevator to nowhere again?"

"That elevator is a deathtrap," John snaps.  Most of them have been stuck in it at some point.  He holds the record for twice in one day.  "Someday I'm gonna fill it with cement and put it out of my misery."

"Why cement?" Dorian wants to know.  "Why not balloons?  You never consider the cheerful options, John.  I think it's bringing you down."

"I think that's the point of an elevator," John says.

"You were having a good day up until half an hour ago," Dorian says.  That's all he says, but they're nowhere near far enough away for this conversation so John tries a little harder.

"I'm having a good day now," he says.  It's possible that a careful listener could hear him grinding his teeth.  "I'm going to get coffee."

"Of which there is plenty here in the precinct," Dorian says.

"Bad coffee."  John cuts him off before they can actually argue over something neither of them cares about.  "Just go with me on this, Dorian."

“At least tell me there won’t be any shooting,” Dorian says.  “Because coffee sounds about as safe as a lunch date, and you’re not wearing your vest again.”

“There won’t be any shooting,” John says.  “Probably.”  He reconsiders.  “I’m like seventy percent sure.”

“Oh, good,” Dorian says.  “You’re using statistics.  That increases my confidence by, let’s see.  About negative seventy percent.”

John doesn't answer, partly because the elevators by the front of the building are crowded and partly because there’s nothing he can say.  He thought he wanted to know, but now that he does he can’t see what good will come of it.  All it does it prove that Dorian’s existence is tenuous, more so than John ever realized, and that whatever ended it the first time could happen again.  Faster than either of them could see it coming.

He wants to shove the tablet at Dorian and walk away.  He doesn’t want this to be his problem.  He shouldn’t even have these files, but now that he’s holding them he can’t hand them off with no warning.  Don’t read this where anyone can see.

“So when you say coffee,” Dorian says, falling into step beside him on their way out of the building.

“I mean, Sandra told me to get lunch and I didn’t tell her I’d already eaten,” John says.

“She wants you out of the building,” Dorian says.

“Yeah.”  John pushes his way through the door.  “She wants both of us out of the building.”  He holds up the tablet and waves it, glancing over to make sure Dorian’s with him.  “Let’s find a place no one’s gonna stare at us.”

A trace of blue glints on Dorian’s face, faint in the bright sunlight.  “Gillian’s is empty right now,” he says.  “Too quiet?”

John puts his free hand in his pocket, fingers bumping against the jammer he picked up.  “That’s about right,” he says.  Good coffee, no questions.  “I want a table that’s off-camera.”

“Do you want to be seen going in?” Dorian asks.  He’s serious, and John doesn’t realize how serious until he adds, “I can block the perimeter feeds sequentially and keep us off the interior angles entirely if it would help.”

“Really?” John says, but it’s not as much of a surprise as it should be.  “No, don’t answer that.  It’s fine, just… we need to talk.  Privately.”

“Is this the breakup talk, John?”  Dorian’s voice comes from behind him, suddenly, and John swings around.  Dorian’s stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, ignoring curious glances from all sides.

“What?” John says.  “No!  What are you--come on, man.  What are you doing?”

“Because if it is,” Dorian says, and he sounds very calm.  He’s not kidding.  “I don’t want you to buy me coffee and let me down easy.”

“I’m not letting you down easy,” John snaps.  “And I’m definitely not buying you coffee.  Would you just come on?”

Dorian catches up with him again.  “I thought Maldonado told you to get rid of me,” he says.

John scoffs without thinking about it.  “Yeah, that would work,” he says.  He means that he’s stubborn, that Dorian’s tenacious, that they both kind of suck at doing what they’re told.

When it catches up with him, though, he realizes it’s possibly the most insubordinate thing he’s ever said.

Destroying expensive police property is a felony.  He wonders what threatening to steal it gets you.  Dorian would know.  John doesn’t want to.  They’re not there yet, and they never will be if he can help it.

John orders coffee and a donut at the counter in Gillian’s while Dorian walks slowly around the floor.  John can imagine the single line of blue light that indicates low-band near-signal network access, but he can’t quite picture what it looks like in Dorian’s head when he scans the cameras angles for blind spots.  He joins Dorian at a table on the rear wall without question, sliding the tablet to him and making a production of unwrapping his donut.

“What’s this?” Dorian asks.  He turns it toward him but he doesn’t turn it on, which John thinks is disturbingly perceptive.

Wiping his hand off on his coat, John snags the jammer out of his pocket.  He twists it around his fingers, catching Dorian’s eye before slipping it under the table and sticking it there.  Subaudible white-noise generator: they won’t be recorded, and they’ll be damned hard to overhear.

Dorian raises an eyebrow but doesn’t comment until both John’s hands are visible again.  “What are we doing here, John?”

“That’s your record,” John says, nodding at the tablet.  “I talked to Rudy.  He told Sandra.  She gave me that.”

It’s not an elegant explanation, but it gets the point across.  Or he thinks it does.  Dorian’s expression doesn’t change, and he stares at John without moving.  Without even blinking, which he’s probably doing on purpose.

“That’s not gonna work,” John says.  “Just say it.”

“Rudy told Captain Maldonado,” Dorian says.  He sounds flat, and John wonders if that’s what betrayal sounds like in an android.

“She says they’ve been waiting for me to ask,” John says.  “That’s all I know.  She’s coming by after work to explain.  Or something.  She was in a hurry; she made it sound like she was doing me a favor by letting me leave the building.”

“She shouldn’t have given this to you," Dorian says.

“Yeah, tell me something I don’t know,” John says.

Dorian sits there a few seconds longer, and John thinks that the only thing worse than wondering what he’s thinking would be actually knowing, so he keeps his mouth shut.  Finally Dorian says, “Did you read it?”

“Yeah,” John says.  “She made me promise to read it before I gave it to you.”

Dorian holds his gaze.  “What does it say?”

“It says you’re a fucking boy scout, what do you think,” John snaps.  “You passed the Luger Test, someone got pissed at you, you were decommissioned.  Read it yourself.”

“I’m not sure I want to,” Dorian says.  “It makes you angry.”

“Everything makes me angry,” John says.  “It’s yours.  You should read it.”

Dorian doesn’t bother with ID formalities.  He touches the side of the tablet and his finger lights up with a tracery of blue lines and sharp angles.  The screen doesn’t even come on.  Dorian sits there for a moment, staring straight ahead, and then he takes his finger away.

He focuses on John again.  “When you say you read it,” he says, and he sounds just as calm as before.  “Do you mean you read it, or do you mean you skimmed the parts that were bolded?”

His life would be easier if Dorian didn’t know him so well.  “I hit the highlights, okay?”

“Iyla McInnis,” Dorian says.  This time it’s the side of his face that lights up blue, and he adds, “Retired from the LAPD four years, six months ago.”

“Who?” John says.  

Dorian gives him a reproving look, and John feels better.  He doesn’t smile, because who knows how serious this is, but apparently he can joke without it being the end of the world.  It’s better than no reaction at all.

“Not how I would have pronounced it,” he says, reaching for his coffee.

“That’s because you don’t speak Gaelic, John.”

He shrugs.  “Got me there.”  Islay, pronounced Iyla.  He has a bad feeling he’s gonna need to know that someday.  “So, retired?  Not resigned?  Or fired?”

“Personnel database lists her as retired,” Dorian says.  “I assume that doing a more comprehensive search at this time would draw… attention.”

“Right,” John says.  “Sandra said not to snoop around until she got back to us.”

Dorian gives him another level look.  “Maybe you should tell me exactly what she said.  And what you said to Rudy.  Did you explicitly ask for my history files?”

John snorts.  “Believe me, there was nothing explicit about any of this.  I wasn’t even sure what we were talking about until I looked at that tablet.”

“That explains why you got my record instead,” Dorian says.  “I can read it, but I don’t remember any of it.”

“Can you?” John asks.  Because yeah, he should have thought of that.  Android memories can be taken away, but they can also be given back.  Dorian had done it for another DRN--could someone do it for him?

“Everything I see or hear is on record,” Dorian says.  “Legally, it has to be stored somewhere.  It’s just a matter of who has access to it.”

John opens his mouth, but something he’s always been half-aware of catches him at the most awkward moment.  “Wait,” he says.  “Back up.  Everything?”

Dorian tilts his head.  “Have you looked at those interview transcripts I uploaded?” he asks.  “From yesterday?”

John stares at him.  “What?”

“MXs are all linked to a shared database,” Dorian says.  “Their charging stations contain an automatic upload that doesn’t sync with my internal processor.  So while Paul’s MX attached a transcript of each of their interviews to the K Street case file, a comprehensive memory file is also available to every MX in the precinct.  That’s not true of the interviews you and I conducted.”

“So your… memory files,” John says.  God forbid anyone just tell him anything, straight out.  “They aren’t uploaded automatically.”

“No,” Dorian says.  “I have to manually initiate a data transfer when I’m off-duty.  It’s annoying and time-consuming.  It’s also somewhat… inefficient.  Sometimes not all the data gets transferred in its original form.”

John looks down at the table, breaking off a piece of his donut and putting it in his mouth to hide his smile.  “Hmm,” he says.  Once he’s swallowed, he adds, “Sounds pretty reliable.”

“It’s reliable enough,” Dorian says.  “I think you’ll find that yesterday’s transcripts contain all the relevant information.”

“Uh-huh.”  John knew he should have looked at those things before Dorian uploaded them.  Or after.  It sounds like after might have been enough.  “So, what you’re saying is, everything you manually transferred before you were decommissioned is probably still hanging around a database somewhere.”

“Yes,” Dorian agrees.  “Which, if this record is accurate, may or may not be useful."

"Better than nothing," John says.  "So what should I have said?  When I asked for it?"

Dorian doesn't answer, and when John looks up he's frowning slightly.  "You said Rudy told Captain Maldonado that you asked?  What did you tell him?"

"Uh, I said… you mentioned redacted information was accessible?  And that it sounded like a security risk?  Rudy seemed to know what I was talking about, so I didn't spell it out."

Dorian is staring at him.  "John, even I wouldn't know what you were talking about if you put it like that."

"No, it made sense," John protests.  "We were talking about you!  Because you weren't there.  Apparently Rudy thinks I'd never come visit him without you."

"You wouldn't," Dorian says.

"No, I wouldn't," John agrees.  "The point is, he knew what I was talking about.  I'm pretty sure the phrase 'history files' was used specifically."

"Your inability to recall information in a linear fashion is appalling," Dorian tells him.

"Oh, please," John says.  "It's not like you told me what to say.  I didn't even know what I was asking for.  When Rudy recognized what I was talking about, I went along with it."

"And you didn't hear anything else until the captain gave you this," Dorian says.

"I just talked to him this morning," John says.  "We didn't set up a secret information drop or anything.  I figured I'd swing by again tomorrow and see what was up."

"I don't understand why he told Maldonado," Dorian says.  "You said she was just waiting for you to ask?  Did you really never ask to see my record before?"

"Of course I did," John says.  "She wasn't waiting for me to ask for it.  She was waiting for me to break laws to get it."

"I assume you didn't," Dorian says.  "Directly."

"Dorian, anyone who wants to take me down won't need to hang their hat on whether or not I asked someone to hack a bunch of redacted history files."  He's got more following him around than a data breach, direct or otherwise, and Dorian knows it.  "Whatever's going on here is a lot more dangerous for you than it is for me."

Dorian glances down at the tablet, then back up at John.  "I know," he says.  "If I'm reading this right, I knew then too.  But I guess some things are worth fighting for."

"Oh, don't go all nobel rebel on me," John tells him.  "Don't forget, I've seen you on half a charge."

Dorian just smiles.  "Thanks for doing this," he says.  "Whatever happens."

John clears his throat.  "Yeah, about that."  He looks around the still-empty coffee shop before he puts a digital scrubber on the table and gives it a push.  The tiny device skitters across the table, and Dorian traps it  under his hand before it can fall to the floor.

"Keep that," John says.  "Think of a reason to have it on you, and just… keep it."

Dorian must have identified it as soon as he saw it, but he turns his hand over and looks at the thing again.  "John," he says.  "What do you expect me to do with this?"

"I expect you not to need it," John says.  "It's police issue; it's no big deal.  If someone asks why you have it, just say it's for a case."

"There's a limited number of cases that require scrubbing serial numbers off of government property," Dorian says.

John shrugs, picking up his coffee.  "We've had two of them," he says.  "Might still come in handy."

Dorian lifts his gaze, and when their eyes meet John finds he can't swallow.  "I'm your partner," Dorian tells him.  "I'm planning to stay your partner."

John sets his coffee down without drinking any of it.  "You were her partner too," he says, and it sounds forced even to him.  "She left.  They turned you off."

"Or they turned me off," Dorian says, "and she left."

"That's worse," John says.  He didn't mean to say that, but it's true, because it means there was nothing Dorian's partner could do to stop it.  At least if she left first, it was a choice.

A choice John wouldn't make.  Something he could do differently.

"It's not worse to me," Dorian says quietly.

He shifts, aware of the teen behind the counter and the door opening to let in another customer.  Saying what Dorian wants to hear could get him discharged.  Not saying it will make Dorian think he's alone.

"Look," John says.  "Something's going on at the precinct, and I don't like it."  Lowering his voice, he adds, "If something happens to me, you should at least have a choice."

"Nothing's going to happen to you," Dorian says.

"Yeah, well."  He reaches for the tablet, hooking his fingers over it when Dorian pushes it back in his direction.  "I've thought that before."

Dorian doesn't let the tablet go, and John looks up at him.  "Nothing's going to happen to you," he says again.  "You did this for me, John.  You don't think I'd do at least as much for you?"

"You want to do something for me," John says, "don't get yourself implicated in stupid shit we can't cover up.  I screw up and they fire me.  You screw up--"

He can't finish the sentence after all, and he ends up muttering, "Who the hell knows."

"I don't do stupid shit," Dorian says.  "And I won't run.  Being a cop is what I was designed to do.  If I can't do that anymore, then what's the point?"

It's almost worth it to hear Dorian swear.  "The point is that you live," John says.

Dorian smirks at him, and John thinks he should walk away if only because that expression makes him want to stay.  "No one lives forever," he says.

John weighs leaving against the possibility that Dorian will smirk at him again and comes to a predictable conclusion.  "Keep your platitudes to yourself."

"Stop saying things that require trite replies," Dorian says.

John watches Dorian slip the scrubber into his pocket, a mostly-eaten donut and coffee going cool on the table between them, and he doesn't walk away.

Chapter 9

"So what now?" Dorian wants to know.

John finishes the last of his coffee, setting the empty cup down again as he considers.  "Pretty sure Sandra doesn't want to see my face again until tonight," he says.

"Don't be so hard on yourself," Dorian tells him.  "You have several preferential facial features that people of both sexes tend to rate as highly attractive."

John's glad he already swallowed his coffee.  "Did you just tell me I have a pretty face?"

"Well, people responding to these kinds of surveys are heavily influenced by test bias," Dorian says.  "There's no real objectivity to that kind of rating."

"Hey, I'll have you know I'm a good-looking guy," John says, crumpling up his napkin.

"I'm glad you think so, John."  Dorian's half-smile is smug and superior and John can see payback coming.  "Confidence is a large part of one's physical appeal."

"What's that supposed to mean?" John demands.  Why does he set himself up for these things?

"They didn't put your face on a series of androids, did they," Dorian says.

John scoffs.  "That's 'cause this face can't be duplicated," he says.  He puts the napkin in his coffee cup and twists the jammer free from under the table, because no way is he getting into a conversation about what Dorian looks like.  "Come on.  Let's go break into the L Zone."

"There are gates, John."  Dorian gets up and follows him anyway.  "We don't need to break in."

"Yeah, but don't you want to know how someone could?"  John does.  More than he wants to know where Dorian's face comes from.  "Someone let water under the wall, and someone popped the door.  How?"

"Probably by using the pressure equalizer built into the original structure and a remote override code," Dorian says.

"Yeah, so.  Talk me through it."  He holds the door until Dorian catches it behind him.  "We're not going back to the precinct, and anyone I interview this afternoon has at least an even chance of physical violence."

"So better than your usual odds," Dorian says.

"Keep testing me," John warns him.  "I took a probability class, you know."

"Did you," Dorian says, and John can imagine the impressed face he makes without turning around.  "I assume you weren't graded on attendance."

John pretends that's the only reason he didn't do well in that class, so he keeps his mouth shut.  He doesn't look back to see the smirk he knows is there, but he wants to.  He's seen it a hundred times; what's one more?  Other than proof he's not as objective as he should be?

So he has an inappropriate crush on his partner.  So what?  It's not like they didn't get warned about this at the academy.  You spend all day with someone, you start to think you could do it forever.

They don't warn you about fixating on your android partner, of course.  John's always been special like that.

"Are you planning to tell the ELPD what you're doing?" Dorian asks as they get into the car.  He says it calmly, with no real curiosity, and it's clear that he already knows the answer.

John grins at him anyway, because now that he has an excuse he can't help it.  "Where would be the fun in that?"

He makes Dorian time them.  The L Squad is supposed to monitor cameras on both sides of the wall, but predictably, the LAPD catches up with them first.  The difference is that when someone on their side of the wall notices what they're doing, an MX asks Dorian for information remotely and they're tagged and ignored in under thirty seconds.  When someone on the inside of the wall wants information, they have to go through dispatch.

The end result is the same: dispatch calls Dorian, Dorian tells them what's happening, and the answer is relayed from one department to another.  John thinks it would have been funnier if they'd had to send a car to investigate, but Dorian draws the line at actively causing trouble for people who aren't John.  Clearance from the other side of the wall takes three and a half minutes.

He manages to convince the pressure cycler to activate with his old codebreaker.  He can't get the door open without Dorian, though.  Even with someone standing there, feeding him the right answers, he can't bypass code quickly enough to do it.  It's both humbling and annoying, because criminals do it every day.

"Yes," Dorian says, when he complains.  "Because they have codebreakers that were made in this decade, John."

"I'm not enjoying the forties so far," John says.  "I'm not ready to commit."

"They're almost over," Dorian points out.  "Pretty soon it'll be 2050 and you'll have skipped an entire decade."

"I'm okay with that," John tells him.

Dorian gets the door open, but they stay topside this time.  Like hell John's climbing down into another wall access.  For all they know, someone's hacked the cameras and is just waiting to bury them both under concrete and water.

It's the water in particular that John doesn't want to relive.

By the time they pack up and head back, traffic in the city has slowed to a crawl and John thinks he could have timed that better.  When Sandra calls to say she'll be late, he doesn't have to admit it.  He does anyway, because she'll find out one way or the other, but he thinks she's mostly jealous that they were trying to recreate a hit while she was stuck in meetings.

Late or not, she makes it to the house ahead of them.  John doesn't want to admit that he hated traffic more before Dorian took the passenger seat.  He misses Martin like he misses his right leg, but Dorian can talk for hours.  About nothing.  And he does, because when they pull into the driveway behind Sandra, they're talking about Knights fans and no one's said anything about Dorian's history since Gillian's.

"It's about affiliation," John is saying as they get out of the car.  "It's about declaring yourself, saying 'this is who I am'.  So you can hook up with people who get where you're coming from."

"Because energy is increased in groups," Dorian says.  "Team colors help people multiply the effect of their passion."

"No, they help people find each other," John counters.  "End of story."

"Then why wear colors to a rally?" Dorian asks.  "Everyone there is a fan of the same team; you don't have to identify yourselves.  The shared colors create a unifying effect that helps propel the team forward."

"Unifying, yes," John says, and he almost walks past Sandra's car before he realizes it's still occupied.  "No amount of passion will make a shitty team win.  Sandra, hey.  What are you doing out here?"

"House was locked," she says.  She collapses her phone interface and hands him a thermal bag before she gets out of the car.  The lights turn off when she closes the door and the window goes up behind her.

"You have a key," John reminds her.  The bag is supposed to be sealed, but he swears he can smell food through it.  Lunch was late but so is dinner, and he's ready to eat.

She shook her head.  "Didn't work.  It's not a problem; I've only been here a few minutes."

"It didn't work?"  He frowns, because her key worked last week.  He hasn't changed anything since--

Dorian is looking back toward the road like there's something fascinating happening over there, and when he catches John's eye by accident his gaze flicks away to scan the horizon.  John glares at him.  The next time their eyes meet, Dorian shrugs.  "I had to reset all your biolocks when I upgraded the alarm.  I didn't think you had enough visitors for it to matter."

"You didn't think--hey," John says.  "I have visitors!"  He jerks his head at Sandra.  "I have visitors, okay?  Can you tell me next time you decide to lock them out?

"I'm sorry," he tells Sandra, without waiting for an answer.  "You shouldn't have had to sit out here.  My protection team is a little overzealous."

"You had biokeys programmed for people who don't exist anymore," Dorian says.  "That's a security risk, John."

"That's the programming from my apartment," John snaps.  "I'm sorry if my dead friends having access bothers you!"

Dorian's voice is more gentle when he says, "They're holes in the system that someone could exploit.  You can set a new key for Sandra.  Captain Maldonado," he corrects, giving her an apologetic look.

She waves it off.  "It's fine," she says.  "Call me Sandra when we're off-duty."

She's smart to specify, John thinks sourly.  He told Dorian to call him John one time and he hasn't heard anything else since.  It's all "John this" and "John that," whether they're sitting on the couch or talking to the feds.  He doesn't need the lines to get any blurrier than they already are, but it's too late and he knows it.

The closest he gets to graceful is to keep his mouth shut when Dorian stops at the back door and programs a biokey for Sandra without asking.  House security obviously recognizes him, John thinks.  And it's ridiculous, because of course it does: Dorian's his partner, and John told him to do whatever he wanted to the alarm system.

It's still disconcerting to see the door open for Dorian and to be waved into his own house.

"Nice art you have outside," Sandra says, walking through the kitchen and peering into the main room like she has a standing invitation.  Which she does.

"Yeah, they did a number on the front," John agrees, setting the bag on the counter.  He watches warily as Dorian takes up position by the door and just stands there.  Like he's guarding it.

"You could get someone out to paint over it before the weekend," Sandra says.  Tomorrow, she means.  "Might as well take advantage of that fancy siding.  It'll take an hour, tops."

"Yeah," John says.  "You want something to drink?"

"Thanks," she says, turning back to look at him.  "Whatever you have."

He makes a face.  "Might want to rethink that," he says.  "Haven't been shopping; I have cider and beer."

"Cider's fine," she says with a smile.  "It'll go with the duck."

"You and your duck," John says, because she's one of the only other officers who isn't vegetarian.  "Dorian?"

"Yes?"  Dorian hasn't moved.

"You want anything?" John asks.

"I'm fine," he says.  "Thank you."

John sneaks a look at Sandra, and he knows it looks guilty before she even catches his eye.  Her eyebrows are raised.  There's really nothing he can say, so he turns around to get a glass out of the cupboard.

"Uh, you guys don't have to stand around," John says over his shoulder.  "There's stools in the other room; I can bring them out.  Or we can go in there to eat.

"Sorry," he adds.  "I'm not really set up to entertain."

"Strange," Dorian remarks.  "With all your visitors."

Luckily he's pouring the cider, so Dorian can't see him trying not to smile.  "You're here, aren't you?" John retorts.

"Yes," Sandra says, before Dorian can answer.  "I'm reassured to see that Dorian isn't any more worthy of housekeeping than I am."

"Oh, please," John says.  "You eat off a ping-pong table.  That you play on."

"At least I have a table," she says.  "And my bed isn't in my living room."

"Because you sleep on the couch," John says.

He looks back in time to see her close her mouth and shrug.  "That's fair," she agrees.  And then, so fast he doesn't even see it coming, "Kind of looks like Dorian slept on your couch last night."

John frowns, because that's safest, but he glances past her when he hands over her cider.  The cushions on the couch are flattened and he left the blanket where he shoved it when he got up.  He's relieved enough to say, "Nah, that was me," without thinking about what it will reveal.

He doesn't think about the fact that the charger is still pushed up against the other end of the couch, with the clothes Dorian borrowed on top of it.  He doesn't think about the fact that there's no reason for him to have slept on the couch unless he fell asleep there doing something else.  With the only other person who was here.  And most of all, he doesn't think about what the hell he's going to tell his best friend when she realizes he's totally compromised by his android partner.

"You slept on the couch?" Sandra says.

The only thing left in John's head is, oh shit.

"He was watching a movie," Dorian says smoothly.  "Optimal security placement of my charger was between him and the door.  But someone wouldn't let me leave it there because it was in the way."

John can hear the quotes and this, at least, he knows how to respond to.  "It was in the way!  I have enough trouble getting around the house without you making an obstacle course out of it."

"It's supposed to be in the way, John."  Dorian barely stops short of rolling his eyes.  "The whole point is that threats have to go through me to get to you."

"No, the point is that no one will have to kill me if I do it myself tripping over your extra furniture," John tells him.

"Do you want me to serve the food?" Sandra asks, because the danger has passed.  John doesn't bother hoping she didn't notice, but at least they don't have to talk about it.  "At this rate I'm going to finish my drink before I get anything to eat."

"Oh, I'm sorry," John says.  "Pulling boxes out of a bag too much for you?"

"Go clear off your table," Sandra tells him.  "Or bring us something to sit on; I don't care which.  Dorian, I assume the fact that John offered you a drink means I should offer you a plate?"

John freezes, but Dorian just shakes his head.  "Thank you, no," he says, perfectly polite.  "I don't need anything to eat."

"I'm not asking if you need it," Sandra says, but she's pushing John out of the way to reach the dishes.  "I brought plenty; it's not a problem."

"No thank you," Dorian says again.  "Can I help you carry things into the other room?"

"Oh, are we eating in there?"  Sandra hands him plates, bowls, chopsticks and a spoon.  "John, make sure there's nothing embarrassing lying around that I'll have to pretend not to see."

"Right," John says, then glares at her.  "Hey."

"Here, take this," she says, passing him two of the cartons.  "And your beer."

He does, because Sandra's always known too much about him and it hasn't gotten him arrested yet.  She says it's because he has too much on her to make it a reasonable risk.  He thinks she just likes knowing someone more trigger-happy than she is.

It's never been awkward making Sandra walk past his bed to get to the workroom.  It is tonight, a little, and he thinks it's because Dorian's watching.  If this is all he knows about interaction off-duty, then what's John teaching him about how to treat his friends?

"Oh, good," Sandra says, stepping around the divider to join him at the table.  "The homicide stats are gone.  You know, you put some light in here and this would be a lot less depressing place to monitor crime in your off hours."

Dorian's putting the dishes in the middle of the table, and he says unexpectedly, "If you put the bed in here, you wouldn't have to."

"Quit rearranging my place," John tells them.  "I like it the way it is."

Sandra holds up her hands in a gesture of peace, but Dorian asks, "Do you?"

"Yes," John says firmly.  "Damn it, I'm getting you a beer.  So I can tell you what to do at times like this.  You don't have to drink it," he adds, turning away as Dorian starts to protest.  "Just let me tell you to.  It'll make me feel better."

"If telling me what to do improves your  mood," Dorian calls after him, "you should be the happiest man alive!"

"I am the happiest man alive!" John shouts from the kitchen.  "Until I have to see your sorry ass every day!"

"If you think it's sorry, you're definitely looking at the wrong ass!"  Dorian sounds just like himself in that moment, relaxed and unguarded, and John grins at his own reflection in the window.

"Leave it to a DRN to be vain," he says loudly, popping the cap on a second beer and taking it back to the workroom with him.  "Is that part of your programming, or did you learn that all by yourself?"

"Is being rude and insensitive a genetic predisposition in your family," Dorian replies, "or did that have to be engineered?"

"Hey," John says.  He hands over the bottle with a smirk.  "Drink your beer."

"A versatile but ultimately meaningless command," Dorian says.  "Would you like to know what happens to this beer after I ingest it?"

"Not really," John says.  "Sandra, you good?"

"Just enjoying the show," she says, and she's not smiling but she sounds amused.  She's got her soup in a bowl and a pile of noodles on her plate, and she lifts her glass in his direction.  "Here's to partnerships that work."

"I'll drink to that," John says, reaching for his beer.  He taps his bottle against her glass, then clinks it against Dorian's too.

Dorian just stands there, so Sandra lifts her glass to him in a mock toast.  "Thanks for looking out for him, Dorian.  God knows he won't do it himself."

Dorian huffs in the closest thing to a laugh John’s seen since this morning.  “I hear that,” he says.  “And you’re welcome.”

"Okay, give me some of those noodles," John says, pulling a stool over to join Sandra at the table.  "We're done talking about me."

He only means to change the subject.  He realizes too late what it sounds like when Sandra sets her glass down and looks at Dorian.  "You've seen your record," she says.

John wants to say, wait, that's not what I meant.  He doesn't want this.  He wants to have dinner and joke and try to get Dorian to sit down instead of standing there like someone's going to shove him out the door any minute.  Not that it matters whether he stands or sits.  He can do whatever he wants.

Dorian's nodding in agreement, but he can't, can he.  He can't do whatever he wants.  Because he's property, and John and Sandra are human, and somehow that makes them better than he is.  For fuck's sake.

John drops his chopsticks in disgust, and Sandra shoots him a look.  "Lieutenant McInnis," she says, glancing from him to Dorian and back again.  "Have you spoken to her?"

"You told us not to," John reminds her.

"Well, I didn't expect you to listen," Sandra says.  "Did you contact her or not?"

"No," Dorian says.  "We didn't."

"Good," Sandra says.  Then, "You probably should.  She's mostly out of it now, so you might be able to do it without drawing too much attention.  No more than you got with Peres, anyway."

John lifts his hand to wave at her.  "Uh, we got shot at meeting with Peres.  Less attention than that still leaves a lot of room for trouble and possibly death."

"What do you mean, she's out of it?" Dorian asks.  "Was she associated with the Rights Consortium as well?"

"Not at first," Sandra says.  "At least, I don't think so.  I didn't know her then.  I barely know her now," she adds, toying with her spoon.  "But from what I understand, Dorian, you and she were quite a team."

John glances at him and finds Dorian looking back.  He stares longer than he means to.  They can probably trust Sandra, but up until this afternoon he would have guessed they could trust Rudy, too.  Dorian probably feels more skeptical than he does right now.

"You don't say that like it's a good thing," John says at last, when it's clear Dorian's not going to answer.

Sandra shrugs.  "Depends who you ask," she says.  "There were certainly some DRNs who thought it was."

John puts his chopsticks down again, which sucks because he's hungry, but this is a stupid game.  "Sandra," he says.  "If you have something to say to us, just say it."

She puts her chin on her fist and looks at him.  "I do have something to say.  But telling you will compromise a lot of people, and not all of them are happy about it.  I vouched for you like I vouched for all of them.   I haven't been wrong yet.  So don't ruin my streak, okay?"

"The night shift," Dorian says.  "You reprogrammed the MXs on the night shift."

Sandra smiles, but her eyes linger on John for a moment before she lifts her head and looks at Dorian.  "No, I didn't," she says.  "But you're right that they're different."

"You're kidding," John says.

"No," she says again.  "We call them 44s.  MXs that have demonstrated capacity for independent thought, who've acted outside their programming for the benefit of those around them.  We reshuffle them as much as possible, to keep them with partners who can work with them."

"Who respect them," Dorian says, and when Sandra nods he gives John a look.

"Hey, now, wait a minute," John says.  "You said yourself--you told me the MXs are different!  You said they're not like you.  They don't feel, they have no free will.  That's what you said, so don't look at me like that."

"They didn't," Sandra says.  "They weren't designed to.  After the problems with the DRNs--sorry," she adds, catching Dorian's eye.  "When the DRNs were seen as erratic, the MXs were made to follow orders.  They weren't expected to exercise judgment, were in fact designed not to."

"But some of them do," Dorian says.

"Yes," Sandra says.

"And that's a problem," Dorian continues, "because robot judgment is obviously inferior to human judgment."

John sighs, but Sandra holds Dorian's gaze.  "That's not something everyone would agree with," she says.  "In fact, it's not something you've agreed with in the past."

Dorian glances at John.  "With respect," he says.  "It's not something I agree with now."

John scoffs.  "That's funny," he says.  "You saying something with respect."

"It would be funnier if you did it," Sandra tells him.

"I'm respectful," John says.  "Just not of other people.  Or robots," he adds, glaring at Dorian.

"Yes, about that," Sandra says.  "If you could stop shooting them, that would make the night shift hate you less."

"What, the MXs?"  John wants to say something else, but Dorian's giving him a look that says nothing good will come of him talking right now.  So he stops.

"Well, the 44s in particular," Sandra says.  "But yes, all of them.  You're not making any friends by taking them out.  Even with the night shift being predisposed to like you because of Dorian."

John stares at her.  He doesn't know which part of that makes the least sense.

"John hasn't destroyed any MXs on the night shift," Dorian says.

Yeah, okay.  That was at least one of his questions.  Even if it does make him sound like a jackass.

"We move a lot of them to the night shift because they're less conspicuous there," Sandra says.  "But not all of them.  Richard usually takes at least one on the day shift."

"Richard?" John blurts out.  "Why the hell would you put a thinking robot with Richard?"

"Because he's terrible at keeping secrets," Sandra says.  "He tends to overcompensate."

"Wait," John says.  And she is.  She's waiting for him to come to the obvious conclusion.  "Richard knows about this?"

"Richard was part of the original underground," Sandra says.  Her gaze flicks from one of them to the other, and she sits back in her chair.  "He helped Dorian smuggle out DRNs before they were decommissioned."

"He what?"  John sees Dorian fold his arms out of the corner of his eye.  Dorian never folds his arms.  Right now he doesn't know which is more unbelievable: that Richard is a bot sympathizer, or that Dorian's mimicking human defensive reactions.

"Not all the DRNs were decommissioned at once," Sandra says.  "Some of them were flagged early, and they were monitored for a long time.  Dorian noticed."

"My Dorian," John interrupts.  He needs to make sure they're all talking about the same thing.  "I mean--him?  Our Dorian?  The guy standing right there."

"Yes," Sandra says.  She looks at Dorian, then.  "I'm told you didn't disagree that some of your series were… unsuited to police work.  For whatever reason.  You also didn't think they should be turned off because of it."

John can feel Dorian looking at him.  He holds up his hands helplessly, because what's he supposed to say?  "I don't know," John says.  "Don't look at me, man."  It comes out sounding more freaked out than he wanted it to.

"I don't think anyone should be turned off," Dorian says after a moment.  "It's like dying, right?  Dead is dead."

John stabs his noodles with his chopsticks, and that's about as far as his appetite goes right now.  Dead is dead.  He doesn't like it either, but it's the law.  Right?

"Your partner agreed," Sandra says, and John looks up.

"McInnis," she adds.  "She helped you find new… work.  New places for some of the DRNs to go.  It was mostly legit, from what I can tell.  Of course, it's possible that Richard underrepresented illegal sales, trades, whatever they were doing to get androids out, but I honestly believe it started with above-board intentions."

Above-board intentions, John thinks.  Not above-board activities.  Sandra isn't careless with her words.

"What happened?" Dorian asks.  He hasn't moved.  Not to sit down, not to let his arms fall, nothing.  He's still holding his beer, which should be funny but John can't even smile anymore.

"They got caught," Sandra says.  "The records were sealed; McInnis was discharged.  You were decommissioned."

John clears his throat, because he's not sure what's going to come out when he opens his mouth.  "What about Richard?"

"They were able to protect him."  Sandra looks down at her soup, but she seems to be having the same trouble John is.  "He feels terrible about it, but he says it's better to keep someone on the inside than to have everyone go down together in a show of solidarity."

"Sure," John mutters.  That sounds more like the Richard he knows.  "Especially when he's the one who doesn't go down."

"You don't know anything about his sexual preferences, John."  Dorian doesn't move, doesn't deliver the line with anything other than a perfectly straight face, and John has to look away to hide his smirk.

It doesn't work, because they can both see him anyway.  Sandra has a hand up to hide her mouth but her eyes are laughing.  Suits and nail polish notwithstanding, she's no classier than he is.  Dorian looks particularly pleased with himself when John glances at him again.

"Okay," John says, because so help him, he wants to see Dorian look like that more often.  "So what do you want us to do?  Why are you telling us this now?  And why didn't you tell me before; what kind of a friend are you, anyway?"  He tries to frown at her, but he knows.  He knows before she says it.

She lowers her hand anyway, and her smile looks a little sad now.  "You were in a coma," she says.  "Richard came to me for help more than a year ago.  I'd like to think I would have told you if I could have, but honestly?  I don't know.  You were so… well."

"Anti-bot," John says.  "Yeah.  I know."  He glances at Dorian, but there's nothing to say.  It's not like he's really changed.  Anyone who sees him today would assume the same thing.

Except maybe the graffiti artists out front.  Who knows where they came from.

"Why are you telling us this now," Dorian reminds her.

Sandra sits up, meeting his gaze like she's made a decision.  "Because John's going to get himself arrested defending you if I don't.  He likes you, Dorian, and everyone can see it.  I need both of you to quit it with the 'us against the world' attitude before you get the attention of people who aren't so sympathetic."

John slouches back against his chair, admitting nothing.  It's not lost on him that Dorian doesn't so much as glance in his direction: they've been looking at each other all night, but they both know this is the thing they can't afford to give away.  Unfortunately, Sandra knows it too, and she's not going to be fooled.

He raises his eyebrows when she looks at him.  "Is this the part where I tell you I have no idea what you're talking about?" he drawls.

"This is the part where I tell you that I didn't call you back to work on Insyndicate," Sandra says.  "Peres had a plan to recover Dorian.  Our Dorian," she adds, glancing at him.  "I thought it was too risky.  I couldn't do anything without personnel and a reason to supersede NASA, and you gave me one of those things."

She studies him for a moment, the hesitation clear before she adds, "I'm still hoping you'll give me the other one."

"Personnel," John echoes.  "To help run your little robot underground?"

"It's the best we've got," Sandra says.  "As law enforcement, our androids see heavy use.  It's not impossible to write off the occasional unit as unsalvageable."

"And then ship a functioning robot somewhere else," John says slowly.

She doesn't nod, but she doesn't deny it either.

Now he does look at Dorian, if only for a second.  "Look, Sandra," he says, leaning forward to brace his elbows against the table.  "You know I'll back you up, whatever it is you're up to.  But Dorian's got a clean slate, right?  The last thing he needs is to get dragged into something he already died for once."

"Actually," Dorian says, and he finally moves.  Unfolding his arms, he sets his beer bottle on the table and catches John's eye.  "The last thing I need is for the one person who gives me a choice to take it away from me."

John sighs, because he should have known he was making that argument to the wrong person.  He gives up, waving a hand in Sandra's direction.  "Whatever," he says.  "Your call."

Dorian looks at him for a long moment before nodding at Sandra.  "I'd like to know more," he tells her.

Chapter 10

Sandra doesn't leave until after ten o'clock.  John watches her huddle over the table with Dorian while he cleans up, and he wonders why she even waited for him.  Why didn't she just reactivate Dorian herself?

When he thinks about it, though, it would be strange to see a division captain with a DRN.  The LAPD is supposed to have the good stuff, and no matter what he thinks of them, MXs are high-end.  Sandra doesn't seem to have trouble working with them, so she's probably expected to maintain the department standard.

Why she puts up with John, of course, is something he still hasn't figured out.  Was he really her only plausible excuse for bringing Dorian back online?  Police androids are designed to protect people, not the other way around.  He doesn't like knowing that he's the only thing standing between Dorian and non-existence.

Seeing the two of them together, Sandra and Dorian talking like they have all the right in the world, makes John wonder what it would be like to believe the way they do.  To assume--to just know, without having to think about it--that androids have rights.  That they should have a choice, not because they're good people, like Dorian, but just because they are.  Because they exist.

He wonders what he'd do if Dorian didn't need him anymore.

He doesn't see it coming when Sandra asks him to walk her out.  She's clearly separating him from Dorian on purpose, and maybe it’s rude, but it's almost a backwards sign of respect.  Dorian's not just a bot to be talked over.  He deserves at least the courtesy of being excluded.

Sandra doesn't pretend it's anything else, and when the door closes behind them she says, "John.  You have to stop defending him."

He stares at her.  "Sorry," John says.  "Was that someone else in there, talking about robot rights and free will and all that crap?"

"The way you do," she says.  "Like he's different, like he's... special."

"He is different," John snaps.  "You told me he's special.  And you were right, okay?  I think now's a bad time to go getting your wires crossed on that."

"Natieri contacted me," Sandra says.

"Oh, now it's Natieri."  No matter what her reasons were, he still feels betrayed by the cover up.

"She thinks you're interested in her bot," Sandra says.  "Sexually," she adds, when John just gives her a blank look.

"Really?" he sneers.  "Her too?  I've been getting it from Dorian all day.  I talked to him for two minutes; why does everyone have us picking out curtains?"

"I don't think curtains came into it," Sandra says.  "She might have mentioned a table."

If there's any situation where getting angry won't help, this is probably it.  So John tries to cool it, turning on the charm instead.  "Look.  Sandra.  I don't fuck robots.  Except maybe for Jackie, but I think we both know that was a mistake."

Her mouth twitches, and she folds her arms the way she does when she's trying not to laugh at him.  "Your poor relationship decisions aside, this is important.  You can't go around leering at DRNs and expect no one to notice."

You didn't, he wants to say.  Instead he holds up his hands and tries to sound calm.  "I didn't leer at anyone," he says.  "He was out of uniform. Maybe I did a double-take.  That's all."

She gives him an unimpressed look, and in retrospect, he's not sure that admitting he knows what she's talking about was a good idea.  "She said, and I quote--"

"Oh, please don't," John says.

"He looked like he wanted to bend Dorian over a table," she says.

"Okay, thank you, mental image I really didn't need," John groans.  "Come on.  If I wanted to do anything to him, it was beat the shit out of him for moving during a lockdown.  What kind of a bodyguard is he, anyway?"

"He's not a bodyguard," Sandra says.  "He's her friend."

"Yeah?" John says.  "Well, maybe if she kept a looser leash on her friends, she wouldn't be seeing things that aren't there."

"It doesn't matter whether it's there or not," Sandra tells him.  "It matters whether people see it.  You understand?"

"No," he snaps, even though he's afraid he does.  "I'm tired of secret messages.  It's just one thing after another lately, people saying something when they mean something else."

"If people think you and Dorian are fucking, they're not going to listen to a damn thing you say."  She raises her eyebrows at him.  "Is that clear enough for you?"

He rolls his eyes, because all he wants to say is that Dorian could do a lot better than him, and even he knows that doesn't sound like a defense.  It leaves an awkward silence, but he figures it's better than the alternative.  Sandra's onto him anyway; no reason to give her more ammunition.

"Hey," she says, and her voice is less sharp this time.  "It doesn't matter whether it's there or not.  You get that?"

He hopes like hell he does.  "You mean we can do it as long as no one knows," he mutters.  The idea is laughable; Dorian's designed to be the perfect man, and there are days when John's lucky to feel like half of one.

They work together well because they need each other and they know it.  There's nothing more to it than that, and the day John pretends there is, well.  That's the day he checks himself into the looney bin.

"I mean," Sandra says, "I'd listen.  The IRC would listen.  But the people you want to convince, the ones who can actually change bot laws and turn this into a free country again?  They're not gonna listen if they think you're being led around by the balls."

"Yeah, great," John says.  "Thanks for that charming image.  Are we done here?"

"I'm calling someone to take care of that graffiti," Sandra says.  "I'd tell you to upgrade your alarm system, but it sounds like that's been taken care of."

"You assigned him to me 24/7," John says.  "It's not like he had anything better to do."

"You could ask him to watch a movie," Sandra says.

John glares at her, and she just smiles.  "Thanks for dinner," she says.  "See you tomorrow."

"Yeah, drive safe," he grumbles.  "Thanks for… you know."

She does know.  Probably better than he does.  He watches her get into the car, follows it with his eyes all the way down the road.  Not because he worries, but because he doesn't want to go back inside.  

Dorian is his partner.  You don't fuck partners.  Not if you want it to last.

Hell, you don't fuck androids, what's wrong with him.  Bangbots aren't even real; they're blowup dolls that are programmed to speak.  Just like Dorian's programmed to do detective work.  He's a cop, he said it himself: that's what he's designed to do.  It's all he's designed to do.

Dorian doesn't even want to live if he's not a police officer.  And John's known cops like that; hell, he's been involved with cops like that.  It's never worth it.

It makes going inside seem safer.  If Dorian's not interested--why would he be interested, he probably doesn't even know how--then John doesn't have to worry about doing something stupid.  Embarrassing himself, yes.  Actually sabotaging both their lives and what's left of his career?  Not so much.

Dorian's standing awkwardly by the kitchen counter when John walks in.  His jacket is hung up on one of the hooks by the door and the clean dishes have been put away.  John is suddenly glad he wasn't here two minutes earlier: now Dorian's discomfort is obvious, but he must have been puttering around like he owned the place just a few seconds ago.

"Hey," John says.  He sounds mean and ungrateful even to himself, but he doesn't know how to be any different.  "You didn't have to do that."

Dorian looks at him oddly.  "Put the dishes away?  I know."

"Well."  John resists the urge to check if he's put them in the right place.  He's not stupid, and he's been through John's kitchen twice now.  He should be able to match one dish to another.  "Thanks."

"You're welcome," Dorian says.  "Would you like me to go outside for a while?"

It's John's turn to stare at him.  "What?"

"Would you like me to go outside for a while."  Dorian repeats it like John really hadn't heard him.  Usually he gets it and explains without John having to ask, so he must think this is obvious.

Unfortunately, John has no idea what he's talking about.

"And do what?" John asks.

"Does it matter?" Dorian replies.  "You seem overwhelmed.  You're clearly not used to having people around all the time; I thought you might prefer to have the house to yourself until you go to bed."

"While you do what?" John demands.  "Sit on the front step and stare at the street?"

"Assuming there's no one hiding in the house," Dorian says, "which I think we can pretty sure of, given that three of us just spent several hours in it, I should be able to ensure your safety from outside."

Last night is starting to take on a more disturbing shape in John's mind.  "Is that what you were doing yesterday?" he wants to know.  "When you were pretending to work on the security system?  You were, what… giving me space?"

"I was working on the security system," Dorian says.  "I can test it tonight if it would make you feel better."

"Did you need to work on it from outside?" John asks suspiciously.

"Strictly speaking," Dorian says.  "No."

"Wow," John says.  "How much of a jerk do you think I am?"  He shouldn't ask, it's a bad question and he definitely doesn't want to know the answer.  Except that some morbid sense of curiosity deep inside him does.

"Oh, don't worry," Dorian tells him.  "I think you're much more of a jerk than that.  Your reputation is safe with me."

It almost makes him crack a smile.  "There's four rooms in this house," he says.  "Either of us wants to be alone, I think we can manage it without anyone sitting out in the dark."

"As long as you're comfortable with it," Dorian says.  "It's your house."

It's his house because Dorian doesn't have one.  Dorian doesn't have any place to call his own, except maybe a locker at Rudy's.  It seems grossly unfair, and John swallows down the desire to fix it somehow.  There's nothing he can do.

"Yeah, well," he mutters.  "Make yourself comfortable, okay."

"Okay," Dorian says.  To John's surprise, he turns and walks into the living room.

John has a bad feeling about this, but when he glances through the door Dorian's picked up the charger like it's nothing and is carrying it across the room.  He watches long enough to see Dorian put it down where it was originally: in the empty corner under the windows.  He opens his mouth to say something, but it's not like that's a problem, right?  He said he didn't mind it being there, and if that's where Dorian wants it then he's welcome to it.

He feels weird staring, so John bangs around the kitchen for a few minutes before he decides he needs a grocery list.  He can't remember the last time he actually made a list instead of just picking up whatever he felt like when he was at the store.  On the other hand, the 'get whatever you can think of' method clearly isn't working since he hasn't been to a store since last week. Maybe having a list will remind him to go.

Maybe making a list will give him something to do that isn't staring at Dorian.

He goes into the bathroom afterwards, putting away the extra towels and locking the shower into a self-cleaning cycle.  He remembered too late that there were two towels hanging up to dry when Sandra excused herself to use the bathroom earlier, and now all he can do is try to ignore it.  He uses the toilet, brushes his teeth, and pretends the bathroom isn't already cleaner than it's been in months.

There's only so long he can stay out of the main room.  He wonders if it's rude to just turn in when he told Dorian to make himself at home here.  That's stupid, right?  It's his house.  His bedroom.  Dorian doesn't even need light to see.

The house has all the lights up bright as day, though, and he doesn't know what to make of that.

John tells himself to grow a spine, crosses the kitchen and strides into the main room like he owns it.  Which he does.  Dorian's in the corner with his charger, sitting cross-legged next to it and tracing his finger over something on the floor.  John promised himself he wouldn't stop, but his steps falter when he sees the light following Dorian's movement.

"What is that?" he asks in spite of himself.

Dorian looks up, and John wonders what the eye contact's for, anyway.  Dorian looks at him a lot, but maybe that's a weird thing to get upset about.  "The image, or the medium?" he says.

John shouldn't do it, shouldn't care, but he's walking closer and that's normal, right?  He's allowed to be curious.  "Both?"

"Light painting," Dorian says.  "It's supposed to be your driveway.  I'm afraid I'm not very good at tactilely rendering visual images."

It feels rude to be looming over him.  John crouches down on the other side of the glowing space before he can think about it too much.  "Light painting," he says, staring at the floor that Dorian's basically turned into a canvas.  "Don't you need a camera for that?"

Which is a dumb thing to say, because obviously not.  His mouth is sort of disconnected from his brain right now.  It's typical for him, but he should really stop letting it happen around Dorian.

"No," Dorian says.  "I have micro projectors, and I can save and recreate almost any image.  Rudy suggested it as a way to occupy my downtime."

That's when John realizes Dorian hasn't moved his right hand since he walked in.  It's hovering above the floor, right in the middle of the glow, while the fingers on his left hand tweak lines of light like some kind of silent instrument.  Micro projectors, he thinks?  Like hand cell technology?

"Want to try?" Dorian offers after a moment.

And instead of saying no, he's going to bed, he's doing anything except messing up Dorian's modern art project, he says, "Can I?"

"Sure," Dorian says.  "If upside-down doesn't work for you, you can come sit over here.  What color do you want?"

John has no idea what he's choosing when he edges around the irregularly shaped light and squeezes up against the wall next to Dorian.  "I don't know… green?"  

Then he shifts that final bit and the angle suddenly works and he's looking at an actual river of light.  Not a photograph, or a hologram, or an exact replica of anything: just lines of cobalt and purple and solar white that look like the living night.

"Shit," he says, and damn, he's been stuck for words before but this a new low.  "I mean… wow, man.  That's… amazing."

Dorian gives him a sideways look that John barely notices.  He's too busy trying to make the skyline his, to make it something he's seen before, to reconcile it with the one at the end of his driveway.  Because no question is that a driveway, maybe even the one he uses everyday, with a road beyond that looks like it could go anywhere.  There's a faint tracery of blue over everything, and at first he thinks it's the projection but when he squints at it he realizes the circles are filled with imitation text.

He almost forgets to breathe when he realizes what he's seeing.  This is what Dorian sees.  That's Dorian's net overlaying the world, his thoughts stamped onto the liquid vision of light.

"You're serious," Dorian says.  He sounds unsure, but John can't bring himself to look away.

"About what?" he asks.  He's staring at something he'll never see anywhere else, and he wonders if he could ever convince Dorian to… file it, or copy it, or… save it for him, somehow.  He can't ask, right?  Dorian made this.  It's not John's to have.

"You like it?" Dorian asks.

John tears his eyes away, and only then does he see the surprise on Dorian's face.  "Of course I like it," he mutters, gaze flicking away again.  "It's fucking amazing."

"Your use of profanity is very all-purpose," Dorian says, and now he sounds amused.  As usual.  He's probably smirking again.  John forces himself not to look.

"My use of profanity is totally appropriate," he tells the lightshow.  It's kind of impressive that Dorian's hand doesn't waver, even slightly, in the middle of nothing at all.

"Any time," Dorian says.

It's unexpected enough that John does look back at him, and Dorian's not smirking at all.  He's smiling.  Both corners of his mouth curled up, his expression closer to delight than exasperation.

He looks fond, and even if John knew what they were talking about before, he has no idea now.  "What?" he says.

"You can try any time," Dorian says, nodding at the painting on the floor.  "You'll be a dark green, if that's okay."

"Wait, no," John says, pulling away like he's going to contaminate the light just by looking at it.  "Not on that; are you crazy?  I'll mess it up."

"It's not very good," Dorian says.  "I don't think you can make it worse."

"You're kidding," John says, staring at him.  Since when do bots have artistic insecurities?  "Are you kidding?"

"I can't make it the way humans do," Dorian says.  "It doesn't look right to me without specs, but when I add them it doesn't look like human art."

"Specs," John says.  "The blue lines?"  The most awesome part, he thinks?  He should maybe say that out loud, except it could be weird, it might mean he's messed up too.  Who wants to see things the way an android does?

"That's the coolest part," he says.  He means it.  He even means to say it.  There's plenty of stuff he's not saying to Dorian lately; he might as well cross at least one thing off the list.

"Yeah?"  Dorian's smiling at him again, and it's lopsided but it looks just as real as it did before.  "You're kind of weird, man."

John scoffs.  "Look who's talking."

"I'm not starting a new one just for you," Dorian says.  "Put your green on it and stop whining."

He wants to write John was here just to be obnoxious, but this is practically the only art that makes sense to him and he doesn't want to touch it at all.  Dorian wants him to, though, and John said he would.  So he reaches in, touching the floor where the horizon is, and tries not to flinch when his hand casts a shadow across the stars.

Dorian doesn't move.

John drags his fingertip upward, and a faint glow of green follows the trail he cuts through the sky.  It isn't diffuse enough, and he frowns.  "Can you make it more transparent?"  It's light; he hadn't thought that would be an issue.

"Sure," Dorian says.  The path lightens behind John's hand, letting through the purple of the sky and the occasional dot of a star.

John traces another line beside it, trying to smudge the light like he would with pencil or charcoal.  He has exactly the wrong background for working with light.  But Dorian must get what he's trying to do because the green lightens from dark to an eerie fluorescence: a glow that spreads across the sky, following his fingers and unbalancing the color in every direction.

"That's not what I expected," Dorian says, when John finally takes his hand away.  A strange sort of false aurora hovers, halo-like, over Dorian's landscape of light.

"Yeah, well," John mutters.  "You made me do it."

He watches Dorian touch pieces of the driveway, the ground, even the windows in the distance.  He turns them weakly green, the gleam of reflection obvious all at once.  Just like that, the image is balanced again.  Like the aurora had always been there.

"Damn," John says, startled out of his self-consciousness.  "You're really good at that."

"That's nice of you to say," Dorian tells him.  "If somewhat uncharacteristic."

It surprises a laugh out of John, and he sits back on his heels.  "You're painting, I don't think I'm gonna win the prize for most unexpected thing tonight."

"I like it," Dorian says.  "I don't like how it comes out most of the time, but I like doing it."

"I like how it comes out," John says.  He watches the image fold into nothing when Dorian closes his hand.  "For whatever that's worth.  Did you save that?"

"Of course I saved it," Dorian says.  "I save everything."

Until he's shut down or his memories are erased, John's mind supplies traitorously.  There's something to be said for the days of canvas and paint.  Even paper photographs were less ephemeral than digital storage.

"I sent it to you," Dorian adds, and John hears his phone chime from across the room.  "In case you want it or something."

"I do," John says quickly.  "I mean, uh.  Thanks."

It occurs to him that they're both squashed into a corner with nothing to keep them there anymore.  It feels wrong to lean into the space where Dorian was working, so John eases to one side.  Back the way he came.

"Are you going to bed?" Dorian asks.  "You can turn out the lights; I don't need them."

"It's not me," John grumbles, because of course he can turn out his own lights.  Never mind that he just had a whole argument with himself about it in the kitchen.  "The house is keeping them on.  I don't know why."

"Maybe she's waiting for you to put on a movie," Dorian suggests.

"I don't need another movie," John says.  He's a grown-ass man, he can sleep without a wireless babysitter.

"I do," Dorian says.  "I watched that Star Trek movie three times last night.  I'd like to see the next one, if it's all the same to you."

The words are out before he has time to think about how they'll sound.  "Can't you just watch it in your head?"

Dorian doesn't even blink.  "It's not the same," he says.

John narrows his eyes.  "Are you giving me an excuse to have a movie on?"

"Do you need one?" Dorian counters, and for the life of him, John can't figure out if that means yes or no.

"Do what you want," he says at last.  He gets his feet under him and pushes himself up as his leg politely--and silently--informs him that it's at fifty percent.  "I'm gonna crash."

This turns out to mean that he's going to change, take off his leg, and then fall onto the couch beside Dorian.  Because Dorian apparently does want to watch Star Trek, and John's not going to lie in bed pretending to sleep while his android partner might or might not be staring at him.  His stupidly attractive android partner, which has nothing to do with it at all.

"Want me to start it over?" Dorian asks, after John shoves his crutches out of the way, pushes a cushion around to serve as a pillow, and pulls the blanket awkwardly over him.  So he's planning to sleep here instead.  Sue him.

"No," he grumbles.  "I don't even care about this movie."

There's a long moment of quiet--or as quiet as it can be, what with the shouting and the yelling from the holoscreen--and John tries not to think about what he's just given away.  He meant that he doesn't care about anything.  He definitely didn't mean that where he is is more important than what he's doing.

He feels a warm hand drop onto the top of his foot.  He closes his eyes because it feels that good.  It also hurts like hell.  He's too tired to even try to sort it out.  "Don't," he grits out, and just that one word is enough to make the weight vanish.

John doesn't have to open his eyes.  He knows Dorian's not looking at him.  He knows he's hurt and trying not to show it, trying to hide it the way he does when a witness flinches from his touch.  And that makes John feel like crap.

"Sorry," he mutters, because none of this is Dorian's fault.  "Makes my leg hurt."

"It does?"  Dorian sounds wary, but he's willing enough to engage and John should have seen that coming.  Maybe he did see that coming.  "That doesn't seem right."

"Not that one," John mumbles.  The only way he can even say it is with his eyes squeezed shut and a blanket almost up to his chin.  No wonder the therapist never got anything out of him.  "The other one.  Make one feel good, the other feels worse.  Not your fault."

He thinks that's the important part, but Dorian sounds careful when he says, "You're not wearing your other leg, John."

"Yeah," he mutters, turning his head into the cushion.  "Ain't that the kicker."

He's glad of the movie now, because it makes the silence more bearable.

"John," Dorian says at last.  "Are you experiencing phantom limb pain?"

Give the man a prize, John thinks, but he doesn't say it.

"Is it bad?" Dorian asks after a moment.

Of course it's fucking bad.  He wouldn't have told Dorian to stop touching him for anything less than unbearable.  He's done talking about it, though, and he keeps the sarcasm to himself.

"When you're wearing your synthetic leg," Dorian says, "and it's functioning properly, do you still feel pain?"

John doesn't move, listening to the characters yell at each other.  He never noticed how loud this movie is before.  It's worse when the sound is silenced and there's nothing but Dorian's voice.

"This is important," he says, and where has John heard that before?  "Your synthetic leg should compensate for the conflict between vision and proprioception that causes pain.  If nothing else, it should override false signals from your femoral nerves.  If it's not doing those things, then there's something wrong with it."

He has no idea how one person can be so smart and so stupid at the same time.  "Why do you think I agreed to a PNS implant in the first place?" he growls.

It doesn't simulate normal sensation, not by a long shot.  But it makes it easier to balance, tells him something about what he's stepping on, and most of all, shuts down his damn ghost leg.  Until he takes it off and his brain turns on him.

"Is it possible that your mind thinks you're losing your leg all over again?" Dorian asks after a moment.  "Each time you take it off?  What feeling was there lingers, even when your eyes tell you there's nothing, and your mind draws the obvious conclusion."

"My mind is a sick fuck," John mutters.  His eyes are closed now and it's not helping anything.  It's weird, though: talking about it is more distracting than he would have guessed.

"John," Dorian says carefully.  "Are you interested in an experiment?"

"No," he says.

"Okay," Dorian agrees.

He doesn't turn the movie back on, though, and after a moment John grumbles, "What is it?"

“I’ve studied several forms of popular treatment,” Dorian says, “and though reported efficacy varies, you’re an obvious candidate for mirrored signaling.”

“Fuck off,” John mutters.  “When the hell did you study phantom pain?”

“Just now,” Dorian says.  “Did your therapists ever try to duplicate the signals from your remaining leg in your missing one?”

“Yes,” John snaps.  Physical therapy was nothing but pain and more pain, and he’s not eager to relive it.  “Probably.  I don’t know; who cares?”

“Can I try?” Dorian asks.

John rolls onto his back and pushes himself up against the arm of the couch, glaring at Dorian.  “The fuck is wrong with you?  It’s not even real pain; just leave it alone.”

Dorian reaches out, his hand gently covering John’s toes as his thumb presses into the ball of his foot.  John hisses, jerking away.  Why didn’t he see that coming?  His other foot feels like it’s cramping, sharp and painful, and there’s not a damn thing he can do about it.

“That looks like real pain to me,” Dorian says.  “I’m guessing regular painkillers don’t help?  At least let me override the signals so you can relax.”

“Oh yeah?” John grits out, curling protectively over his knee.  “And how are you going to do that?”

“You have an implant,” Dorian says.  “I can talk to it.”

“If it involves you touching me, you’re out of luck,” John snaps.  “I think we’ve established that contact with you does not help me relax.”

“I’m sorry,” Dorian says, and he actually does look a little bit apologetic.  Not an expression he has much practice with, John thinks irritably.  “I didn’t know.”

“You knew the second time,” John growls.  The leg he doesn’t have feels like it’s twisting in a way that isn’t even possible, and he grips his real leg harder.  “You have to touch me, don’t you.”

“Just the implant,” Dorian says.  “You shouldn’t be able to feel it.”

“Should doesn’t have much to do with it,” John mutters.  This is going to end badly.  He can’t even think of all the reasons he’s going to kill Dorian for this, but if he can make it stop, John might just try anything.

“Fine,” he says, trying to uncurl.  He presses his fingers into his good leg hard enough to hurt, and it’s the only thing that makes it possible to sit up straight.  “I reserve the right to push you from a moving vehicle.”

He meant to stop joking about that.  Right now he thinks he might actually do it, accidentally or otherwise.  It makes him feel a little better when Dorian says calmly, “I reserve the right to take you with me.”

Dorian pushes the bottom of the blanket aside, tugging one pant leg away from the other so there’s no chance of him brushing John’s foot again.  “Do you want--”

“I’m not taking off my pants,” John blurts out.  “Forget it.”

“Okay,” Dorian says.  “I was going to ask if you want me to just fix it, or if you want to try first.”

“I’ve tried,” John says.  He’s watching Dorian’s fingers fold back the leg of his sweatpants, neat and even, over and over, and of course he can’t just scrunch it up like a normal person.  “Believe me, I’ve tried every damn thing, so you can either fix it or you can get me a drink.  I don’t care which.”

He does care which, he just doesn’t believe that Dorian can really fix it.  Bots don’t even know what pain is.  How are they supposed to treat it?

He feels a hint of pressure when Dorian’s fingers reach the implant in what’s left of his leg, but it’s immediately overwhelmed by searing pleasure.  “Ow,” he gasps, breathless as glorious heat soaks into muscles that don’t even exist anymore.  “Ow, fuck--”

Now it’s his fingers cramping, tiny jolts of pain zinging through his joints as he clenches his fists in his sweatpants, in the blanket.  Warning him to let go, and he tries to ease up, but oh, his leg feels like it's under the perfect pounding pressure of jets in a hot tub.

“Does it hurt?”  Dorian sounds alarmed.  The relief fades when he yanks his hand away, and John grabs for it before he can think.

“No!”  Oh, god, this is embarrassing.  He almost doesn’t care.  “Please.  Don’t stop,” he manages.  He shuts his eyes to avoid seeing Dorian’s expression.  Pain makes you do stupid things, he knows that.  Eventually you’ll do anything to make it end.

What they don’t warn you about is how good it feels when it’s gone.  How much it fucks with your head.  The noises you’ll make when your partner figures out how to massage pressure receptors in a leg that hasn’t been touched for more than two years.

John doesn’t look.  He doesn’t move.  He holds as still as he can while Dorian overwhelms his synthetic interface with feedback John honestly didn’t think it was capable of.  How can it feel like this when all the leg gives him is pressure and temperature warnings?

“Do you want to try?” Dorian asks, some indeterminate amount of time later.  His voice is quiet, barely audible over John’s groan when he works out a kink that’s never come loose before.

“Don’t stop,” John says, or he tries to.  It comes out as a whisper, and he thinks he’s lucky to do that well.  This is better than sex.  Someone could ask him, right now, if he wants this or sex?  He’d say this in a heartbeat.

“I’m not going to,” Dorian says.  “Just let me--”

The leg that’s not there anymore feels heavy, suddenly.  Then Dorian’s rubbing both his legs, and it takes John too long to protest.  “What are you--”

“Don’t look,” Dorian says.  There’s a hand over his eyes before he can open them, and that’s just creepy because Dorian does not have that many arms.  “I think that messes it up.  Is it okay?  Does your leg still feel all right?”

“Why do you have three hands,” John says, stiff under the restraint.  He doesn’t try to shove Dorian off, but it’s a close thing.  “That’s not okay.”

“Okay, but don’t open your eyes,” Dorian says quickly.  The pressure on John’s face disappears and he swings his head toward the sound of Dorian’s voice.  He frowns, and Dorian adds, “Fine, I’m sorry.  You can look if you want.”

He opens his eyes and wishes he hadn’t.  Dorian is right there, all but in his lap, and everything is bright and painful and too real.  “The fuck are you doing,” he grinds out.

“Transmitting nervous impulses from your functioning leg to your implant,” Dorian replies.  “Is it working?”

John looks down.  A corner of the blanket is still tangled across his waist, but he’s half-hard and it’s there for anyone to see.  Dorian is sitting where his second leg should be,  hand on John’s knee and blue light flickering up and down every finger.  He squeezes gently, and John can feel the echo in a leg he doesn’t have anymore.

“If it’s supposed to feel like you’re pressing on both my knees,” John mutters, “then yeah.  It’s working.”

“It doesn’t bother you to see just one leg when you feel two?” Dorian insists.

There are a lot of things that bother him about what he’s seeing, but for once his missing leg isn’t one of them.  John shakes his head wordlessly.

“Odd,” Dorian says.  “I guess that’s not what’s causing the pain, then.”

Right now, John doesn’t care what’s causing it if Dorian can make it go away.  The hand has moved off of his knee and is mercifully working downward, fingers rubbing over his shin and easing gently into his calf muscles.  John stretches his toes without thinking, and the phantom sensation extends all the way through his missing leg.

He lets his head fall back against the couch.  “Do me a favor,” he says, staring up at the privacy glass arching inward from the windows.

“Sure,” Dorian says.

John closes his eyes.  “Do that forever,” he tells the darkness.

He can hear the smile in Dorian’s voice when he says, “I’ll see what I can do.”

Chapter 11

At some point, it occurs to him that Dorian and his charger are on opposite sides of the room.  Unfortunately, that point is after the entire house is dark and John's pretty sure he’s been asleep for several hours already.  There’s muted light and a dull murmur from the holoscreen.  More importantly, there’s a warm weight across his legs and he’s not inclined to move.

He wakes up before his alarm for the second time in as many days.  It’s kind of relaxing to lie here and think that he doesn’t have to move if he doesn’t want to.  It feels like the weekend.  Only not as hopeless, because he doesn’t have nothing to do.  He just doesn’t have to do anything right away.

Dorian's voice doesn't startle him, even if his way of saying "good morning" is vaguely creepy.  "Your breathing changes when you wake up," he says.

John doesn't move.  He curled into the back of the couch sometime during the night, and it really feels like Dorian's lying on top of his legs.  The illusion is so convincing that he doesn't think to look, just mutters, "Get off me."

He doesn't want to say it.  He has to, though, because Dorian's been lying there all night listening to him breathe.  John is screwed.  There's no way he didn't have an inappropriate reaction that kind of proximity.  Even if he didn't, he does now.  He's not going anywhere until Dorian moves.

The weight lifts off of him easily, but the cushions don't move.  John squeezes his eyes shut, because it's been a long time but he hasn't completely forgotten how cuddling works.  He should be able to feel the shift of a body through the furniture: the rise and fall of the cushions, the vibrations of the frame, something.  Everything.

He doesn't.  Which means Dorian wasn't really lying on top of him.  He must have been touching him--hell, John asked him to--but it can't be as compromising as John was picturing.  His body doesn't care, and he doesn't know what's more embarrassing: that he imagined Dorian closer than he was, or that he's disappointed it didn't happen.

"I'll be back in a minute," Dorian says.  His voice is quiet, like he knows John is awake but isn't sure he wants to stay that way.  There's a brief hesitation, and this time when Dorian touches his ankle John only feels a fading echo in his other leg.

"Wait," he blurts out.  Too fast, too loud; he rolls over and pushes himself up for reasons he doesn't understand.  "Thanks," he says.  He doesn't think about it first, and he sees Dorian smile.

"You're unexpectedly appealing when you first wake up," Dorian says.

He's sitting exactly the same way he was when John fell asleep: in the middle of the couch, on the edge of the cushion, and if he hasn't moved then the weight John felt must have been Dorian's arm on his leg.  "Did you stay there the whole night?" he asks.

The charger is still on the other side of the room.

"You asked me to," Dorian says.

Do me a favor, John said, and he sighs.  "I didn't mean--"  But he did mean it, and if he says he didn't then Dorian will be hurt.  "You didn't have to," he says instead.

"I wanted to," Dorian says.  "You seemed comfortable."

"You didn't charge," John says.

Dorian's eyes flicker, and John knows what it looks like when he's distracted by internal messages.  There's no blue line on his face, no indication of network access, but he's definitely seeing something that John can't.

"Yes," Dorian says at last.  "That's going to be a problem."

"No," John says, almost at the same time.  Because, seriously.  Dorian just stayed awake all night so John could sleep; the least he can do is return the favor.  "It's fine, I'll call in this morning."

"You could ride with someone else," Dorian says, but he's frowning.  He's not even as good as usual at pretending the idea doesn't bother him.

"Right," John says.  "That's not gonna happen.  Look, you know how many extra hours we put in this week.  It'll be fine, don't worry about it."

"I only need the morning," Dorian says.  "We can go in this afternoon and work the evening shift if you want."

"Get a full charge," John says, eyeing him.  "Not that you aren't hilarious on a partial one.  Why aren't you being hilarious, by the way?"

"I can get a full charge faster with a DRN field charger than I can in the MX factory bays," Dorian says.  "Unlike the current bays, the charger was designed for me."

John's not sure if that's good or bad, but he doesn't like the sound of it.  "Does it last longer?" he asks.

Dorian gives him an odd look, and John's mouth goes dry when that gaze drops to his lap.  His morning wood is mostly gone, but this is the closest Dorian's come to acknowledging it and he can feel his whole body flush.  Damn it.  He doesn't need curiosity from an android to turn him on.

Dorian's gaze climbs the length of his body, and when their eyes meet he tips his head uncomfortably like he's trying to get a crick out of his neck.  The side of his face lights up blue and yellow and green.  John's seen that before, he recognizes it, and he tries to take a calming breath.

"I'm sorry," Dorian says before he can speak.  "I'm aware that sort of glance is inappropriate.  I'm trying to--"

He breaks off, and John doesn't want to clear his throat, but he has to or his voice won't be any better.  "Low charge," he mutters.  "I get it."

"I'm trying to prioritize my personality interface," Dorian continues.  "Being assigned as a protection unit means that even off-duty, my detection and combat systems are consuming disproportionately high amounts of available power."

"That's why you're not hitting things," John says.  Except he's a little behind, so he's responding to the first thing Dorian said instead of the last, and his choice of words is poor.  As usual.

"I won't hit on you unless you want me to," Dorian says.  "But if you do want me to, I wouldn't mind."

"No, that's not--that--"  His brain catches up with his mouth and he stammers to a halt.  Shit.  He should keep going.  He should ignore that, pretend he thinks Dorian misunderstood.

It's too late.  He's stopped, and Dorian isn't stupid.  He said that on purpose.

"What did you just say?" John asks at last.  It's not great response.  But it could be a lot worse, and maybe it's better than nothing.

"I said I wouldn't mind hitting on you," Dorian says.  "If you want.  I know you like Peres' bot, and I'm not him, but how well do you know someone you only met once anyway?  If it's not his personality you like, we do have a few other things in common."

John stares at him.  "What?" he says again.

Dorian closes his eyes and tips his head, skin flashing with colors John rarely sees.  Low charge, John reminds himself.  Dorian is strange and unpredictable like this; he says things that don't make any sense.  It's just the low charge.

"John."  Dorian's staring at him again.  "I like you, and I don't want you to be sexually involved with another DRN."

"The hell are you talking about," John manages, glaring back at him.  He doesn't know what Dorian 2 has to do with anything, but the whole crush joke has gone way too far if this is the next level up.

Dorian actually growls, baring his teeth, and there's probably something wrong with John but that's the thing that makes him relax.  He knows he shouldn't, but he wants to laugh.  Dorian gets frustrated, he gets angry and impatient and disgusted just like anyone else, but he disguises it with aloof disdain and sarcasm.  He only growls or groans or hits things--or hits on things, apparently--when he's really tired.

"I heard you," Dorian says, frowning over at the bed.  "Last night, when you were talking to Sandra.  Outside.

"I didn't mean to," he adds, while John's trying to remember exactly what he said.  That would explain where Dorian 2 came from, at least.  He knows Sandra said something about John wanting to… well.

"Hal said you were upset," Dorian says.  "Afterward.  She sent me the whole conversation, you know, as a databurst.  I got all of it at once; I couldn't just stop listening once I knew what you were talking about."

"Hal," John echoes.  The house computer.  "The house computer is spying on me?"

"That's not the point!" Dorian exclaims, and John tries to stifle a grin.  Dorian closes his eyes and takes what's obviously meant as a calming breath.  "It's her job to be aware of you.  She shouldn't have told me what you were doing, or talking about, or whatever.  But she did.  Because she was worried."

"Great," John says, eyeing the room at large with some amount of suspicion.  "Now I've got another autonomous AI making decisions about my life."

"You said," Dorian grinds out, and the effort he's making to act "normal" is almost as funny as his moodiness when he can't.  "We can do it if no one knows."  It's John's voice, suddenly, which wouldn't be suggestive at all if John were sitting somewhere other than a foot away from his exhausted partner on the couch where they'd both spent the night.

"Hey," John says.  He's probably a jerk for thinking that Dorian is stupidly charming this way.  "You're tired, right?  You should charge.  We can talk about this later."  Or never, he thinks.

Dorian looks a little desperate when he insists, "I don't want you to fuck Dorian."

"Yeah, okay," John says.  "Neither do I.  Let's get you to bed, okay?"

"Don't treat me like a child!" Dorian shouts.

"Well, don't eavesdrop on my conversations and assume you know what they're about," John retorts.  "We weren't talking about him."

Dorian looks frustrated and dangerous, which is why John can't stop pushing him.  "Hey, did I say anything while I was asleep?" he adds.  "Were you listening in on my dreams, too?"

"You were talking about him," Dorian snaps.  "You said his name!"

He's not even sure what the two of them are talking about anymore.  "Okay, first off, you're the one who thought it would be funny to push me at him, and second, you shouldn't have been listening in the first place."

It seems to get through to Dorian this time, and as much as John thinks it's funny to see him angry he doesn't like seeing him wilt.  "No," Dorian agrees, staring down at the floor.  "I know.  I didn't mean to."

John rolls his eyes.  He's not comforting an overtired android just because he's too stubborn to plug in and put an end this conversation.  He isn't.  It's not going to happen.

"Look, it's okay," John tells him.  "We weren't saying anything you shouldn't know anyway, right?"

"I don't want to know this," Dorian mutters.

"We were talking about you," John says.

Dorian lifts his head just enough that John can see the whole conversation flash behind his eyes.  He doesn't even remember what they said, but he knows what it was about.  He can see the moment when Dorian believes him, because those eyes meet his and Dorian opens his mouth.  John is in no way prepared for what comes next.

"Can I kiss you?" Dorian asks.

"God, no," John blurts out.  "What the hell, man."

"You just said Sandra gave you permission," Dorian says.  "As long as no one finds out, she said.  I can be very discreet."

Great, John thinks.  Now he's having nightmares while he's awake.  "Would you just…"  he flaps his hand at the other side of the room.  "Go charge?  I can't talk to you like this."

"You weren't having any trouble before," Dorian says.

Leaving aside the fact that yes, he was having a lot of trouble, John says, "You weren't trying to kiss me before."

"I'm not trying to kiss you now," Dorian points out.  "I'm just asking.  You said no.  Then you asked why, so I told you."

"Why are you narrating," John snaps.  "Stop doing that."

"You're being unnecessarily defensive," Dorian tells him.

"You're coming on to me!" John exclaims.

"Do you not want me to?" Dorian asks.

"No!" John says.  "Of course I don't want you to!  Of course I don't--why would I want that?"

It's a bad question and the wrong question, all at once.  He knows before he's even finished, but he can't take it back.  He doesn't want to take it back.  They can't do this; he doesn't even think Dorian wants to do this, and the fun of being someone else's experiment is something he grew out of a long time ago.

Something inside him says that Dorian's first will always be an experiment.  No matter who it is.  Unless it's no one.  It'll be no one, he tells himself.  Dorian's an android.  He doesn't really want anyone.

"I don't know," Dorian says.  Only then does John realize how long it's taken him to answer.  "I must have misunderstood."

Yes, John wants to say.  You definitely misunderstood.  There's nothing going on here.  Human, synthetic, never the two shall meet.  Except for his leg.  And Dorian's soul.  And all the ways in which John is well and truly fucked.

"No," he says.  He means it this time.  He keeps the sigh out of his voice, he doesn't groan, and he speaks loudly enough that there won't be any question.  "You didn't misunderstand."

Dorian looks at him and now John sees the danger first and the frustration second.  "I think you should be more clear about what you expect from me," he says.  There's no mistaking the warning in his tone.

"Look," John says.  "I think we should talk about this after you've gotten some sleep."

"I disagree," Dorian says.  He's very close for someone who doesn't seem to be enjoying John's company anymore.

John swallows.  "I might be a little bit attracted to you," he says.  They sound like any other words when he says them aloud, so he keeps going.  "It's a thing that happens to partners--human partners--when they ride together all the time.  Like you said, you… you see more of your partner than you do your spouse.  You get confused."

Dorian's staring at him with more than his usual intensity.  "Do you feel confused, John?"

John barks out a laugh.  "I don't remember the last time I wasn't confused," he says.  "I feel like a fuck-up who can't keep it in his pants."

That makes Dorian give him the blank look that means he doesn't follow.  "You haven't propositioned me."

It's not dark.  It's not the middle of the night, and John isn't half-asleep.  It's morning, with the sun already up and the radio playing softly on the other side of his bed.  The alarm came on while they were yelling at each other.

The proof that he's awake makes it that much more real when he says, "I wanted to."  And that's not even the truth; if they have any chance of getting through this, he's putting it all on the table.  "I want to," he says.  "It's a bad idea."

"We have a lot of bad ideas between us," Dorian replies.  "I don't know why that would stop you."  He seems calmer now, and John wonders what processes he's frozen to make his personality interface do what he wants it to.

Because this could end us, John wants to say.  Because this could end everything.

"Because I don't know what you want," he says instead.  He has the terrifying feeling that it might be the truth.

Dorian raises his eyebrows, and he manages to sound both aloof and amused when he says, "I've heard asking gets better results than constant denial."

John doesn't bother protesting that he's not in denial.  "You'd be surprised," he says instead.  "Sometimes asking gets you kicked in the face.  People underestimate denial."

"I want to be propositioned," Dorian says.  "By you."

John opens his mouth, but no words come out.  Fuck, he thinks.  Then he thinks maybe it's better that he can't say anything.

"I assume there's more to your reluctance than not knowing what I would say," Dorian says after a moment.

It breaks the freeze, and John lets out his breath in a rush.  "Yeah," he says without thinking.  "Try everything."

Dorian's voice is perfectly even when he says, "I've already compromised your safety by lowering or deactivating my mobility and combat protocols so that we can continue to have this conversation.  I don't think there's time for everything.  So as I see it, you have two options: forget everything, or save some of it for later."

"Why?" John asks.  "Why do we have to do this now?  What's so important that--"

"I asked if I could kiss you," Dorian says.

John stares at him for too long, but it's light out and the radio is getting louder.  This isn't a dream.  This is a real day, with real time and real consequences.  "You can't," he says at last.

"No," Dorian says.  "I shouldn't.  There's a difference."

The fact that Dorian doesn't think he should do it either is what tips the balance for John.  "Fine," he says.  "If you kiss me, will you go charge afterwards?"

"I'll think about it," Dorian says.  Then he's leaning forward, and there are no lights under his skin, and John doesn't really register what's happening until he feels another mouth pressed against his.

Dorian has a gentle touch.  He's always known that, but it was peripheral, a thing that hovered just beyond importance.  John figured it was an act he put on for the civilian public.  Now, confronted with the feeling of Dorian's hand cupping his neck and Dorian's lips moving over his own, John thinks maybe it's a more of a habit than anything.

He's kissing Dorian.  It's weird how nothing seems to stop: how he keeps thinking, how the radio keeps getting louder.  How Dorian keeps touching him, soft and careful with his fingers, warm and promising with his mouth, even when John's frozen and doesn't dare move for fear of giving too much away.

"You feel nice," Dorian murmurs, and John wants to laugh.  Dorian must be running on fumes and that's just the kind of stupid thing he says when he's low on power.  He can't laugh, of course, because Dorian is kissing his bottom lip.  It's made him open his mouth, and any second now, Dorian is going to take advantage of it.

John pushes him away as best he can.  The fact that Dorian lets him just proves he's too nice a guy for John.  "This is a mistake," John mutters.

"Yeah," Dorian agrees, surprising him for a moment.  Then he adds, "I should have done that on a full charge, when I wouldn't have to keep diverting stupid amounts of power just to have this conversation."

Even using the word "stupid" is more revealing than usual, and John can't help but smile.  Dorian's fingers are still stroking his neck, and when he goes to bat them away his hand lands on Dorian's knee instead.  "Why is the--you know, personality interface, or whatever.  Why is it so far down the priority list?  Seems kind of important for an officer of the peace."

"Non-essential," Dorian says.  "And unreliable.  If I can't talk someone down, I still have a decent chance of taking them out.  The reverse isn't always true."

Dorian's knee feels exactly like he thought it would.  He's still wearing the standard issue DRN uniform, the cloth rugged and rough beneath John's hand, and if he has a tenth of the sensation in his skin that he obviously has in his hands and face then it's no wonder he likes sweatpants.  John presses down gently, and it feels like the organic give of muscle and bone under the tough fabric.

"Are you curious?" Dorian asks.  It's so straightforward that John jerks his hand away.

"No," he says.

"It's okay if you are," Dorian says.  His hand slides down to John's shoulder, squeezing with exactly the same grip John used on his knee.  "I am."

John takes a breath, and it shudders on the exhale.  "I can't do this right now," he blurts out.  "I just--I need some space, okay?"

"Okay," Dorian says immediately.  He lets go of John's shoulder, but he doesn't get up.  "I need something too."

He hesitates just long enough that John thinks he should nod, but Dorian doesn't wait for him to agree.  "I need to know that when I wake up, you're not going to be… the way you were before.  I don't want you to pretend this didn't happen."

"Yeah," John says.  If he'd ever thought that was a possibility, this would have been a lot easier.  "Trust me, I'm not gonna forget this."

"Good," Dorian says, and John has to smile.  He doesn't know if Dorian really believes him, but he acts like he does.  Like it's true just because John says it.  It's not like people ever lie about this stuff, right?

Then Dorian stands up and the couch cushions shift and for half a second it's like every other relationship John's been in: awkward and real and inexplicably worth it.  But Dorian doesn't turn as he walks away, doesn't look back.  Probably because that would be impractical, John thinks, watching him move easily to the other side of the room.

When he sits down on the floor beside the charger, John realizes he should have offered the couch.  Is the couch actually more comfortable, though, or is that just a human thing?  Maybe Dorian moved the charger that first night so he could keep an eye on John.  He moved it back last night, so maybe he likes sitting on the floor.  Maybe it's more efficient.

He can't bring himself to ask before Dorian closes his eyes.  John's not very good at the sappy stuff, but if pressed he can admit that he doesn't hate it.  There's something about having someone call you just to say good night that makes the world seem a little kinder.

There's something about not hearing it that makes everything seem colder.

"You are so fucked," he tells himself.  But quietly, because he's pretty sure Dorian can hear when he's unconscious like that.  He can't expect Dorian to act human.  He can't expect Dorian to do anything; he's a robot.

He's a robot police officer, for crying out loud.  He's not even designed to fake relationships, let alone have real ones.  John's setting himself up for a fall of epic proportions.

"Such an idiot," he mutters, pushing himself up off the couch.  He gets his crutches under him, checks his phone, makes sure the house alarm is green, and glares at the coffee bubbling happily on the counter.

"You need to get a life," he tells the house computer.  "And stop broadcasting my private conversations to any cute bot who drops by."

There's zero response from the coffeemaker.  The light in the bathroom is on when he gets there, though, and John makes sure to keep his mouth shut when he jerks off in the shower.  As long as it can't read his mind, there's no reason for anyone to know that it's the memory of Dorian kissing him, the feeling of Dorian's fingers on his skin, and the words I'm curious too that get him off.

Getting around the house is faster and less embarrassing when he doesn't have to worry about an audience.  The coffee is good, but there's no breakfast waiting in the kitchen.  And he doesn't have anyone to talk to while he makes toast and slices hard-boiled eggs to put on top of it.

Not that he ever does, of course.  He's not lonely.  He's just alone, usually, and yesterday he wasn't.  So today it seems weird.

He gets a message in to Sandra before eight, so that's something.  "Hey," he says, "I'm gonna need a few hours this morning to take care of some stuff.  Should be in after lunch.  Call me if you need me."

Sandra's either there and not answering, or she's online within minutes of his call, because he gets a text from Valerie shortly after.  Morning, it says.  You seemed pretty angry yesterday; everything okay?

Sure, he sends back.  Need to go grocery shopping.  Been a crazy week.

I hear that, her reply says.  Know where to go when the beer's running low.

He stares at that text for a while, because that's an old cop joke.  Except the joke is "nowhere to go when the beer's running low," and Valerie texts like she reads: fast and accurate with a memory that's borderline synthetic.  That wasn't an accidental typo.

So was it an innocent grocery pun, or did she just invite him over?

He tells himself the robot underground is making him paranoid.  Not everybody is playing a long game, and some people actually mean what they say.  Sometimes a joke is just a joke.

Now that he's told someone he's going grocery shopping, he thinks he should actually go.  He does need food.  He's out of bread, for one thing, and he definitely doesn't have enough beer for a Friday night.  He's pretty sure, though, that the whole point of taking Dorian home with him is that he isn't supposed to go anywhere alone.

If he's stuck at the house until Dorian wakes up, he might as well clean up a little.  Not because he has company.  Dorian's not even really company, he's just… Dorian.  But the kitchen's empty enough that it makes the stuff he should have gotten rid of months ago more obvious, and it's not like he doesn't have a recycling plan.

He doesn't hear from Valerie again, but at exactly 9:01 a call comes in marked unidentified source.  It has a video stream, which he accepts but doesn't reciprocate.  "Kennex," he says, and a tiny picture appears.

It's Dorian.  Or Dorian 2, anyway.  Peres' Dorian, still in his leather jacket but with a brighter shirt on underneath.  "Hey," he says.  "I tried to get a message to your bot, but he's not answering."

"He's busy," John says shortly.  "We have some questions for you."

"Sure," Dorian 2 says.  "We should set up another meeting.  But I've got something that can't wait: that shooter in Old Town the other day?  Followed me and Natieri for almost twenty minutes before opening up when you and Dorian arrived at the plaza.

John frowns at the image before he remembers the bot on the other end can't see him.  "How do you know that?"

"Public camera footage," Dorian 2 says.  "The point is, they weren't after us.  Or if they were, they didn't care about us until they realized we were meeting you.  Either way--"

"We're the problem," John says grimly.  "Yeah.  I've been getting that a lot this week."

"Keep your head down," Dorian 2 tells him.  "I have to go; I'll tell Natieri to call you."

"Hey, wait a second," John says, but he's already disconnected.  

"The hell," John mutters, staring at his phone.  He doesn't want to see conspiracies everywhere he turns.  But that sounded an awful lot like someone who didn't want to be caught on the phone with him.

He's about to pull a serial number and find out everything he can about Peres' DRN when a truck rolls into the driveway and he realizes Sandra wasn't kidding about the power washers.  They don't even knock, just set up outside and go to work.  He sends a picture to Sandra's phone with a question mark, and she replies, You're welcome.

So, probably legitimate.  He ends up investigating the company instead of Dorian 2, but he can't find anything more sinister than a couple of safety violations a decade or so back.  Too bad.  This is a threat he could actually do something about.  If it existed.

Sandra's right: it takes just under an hour, and their invoice shows up on his house account before they can pull out of the driveway.  It also shows as "paid," so he sends Sandra another message.  You didn't have to do that.

Someone did, she replies.

He waits a couple of seconds before he says, I owe you one.

Her answer is immediate.  Not for this.

He lets it go, but he's a popular guy this morning and he hears from Rudy a few hours later.  Or at least, he gets a video message delivered to his phone tagged "Rudy Lom," and that's basically the same thing.  Less intrusive, but listening to him talk to himself isn't that much different from a face-to-face.

"Hey, John," Rudy says, waving a little from the screen.  "Uh.  Detective.  If we're, um, still on speaking terms, I have something I think you'll find interesting.  That security issue you asked about yesterday?  I have, well, a full report.  Stop by the lab when you have time.  Or just send Dorian.  Yeah, Dorian might be best.  So.  Bye."

John rolls his eyes and calls him back.  "Rudy," he says.

"Ooh, an instant callback," Rudy's voice replies.  "So I take it we're still speaking?"

"We're not speaking if you don't actually speak to me," John tells him.

"Well, I'm speaking to you right now," Rudy says.

"Why'd you leave me a message?" John wants to know.

"So you could ignore it if you wanted to."  Rudy sounds like that should have been obvious, like he thinks he's overestimated the world again by forgetting that they're not all CT.  "Also because this can't be done over the phone, so you might as well stop by.  Are you even in today?  Your desk comm went straight to your personal phone."

John doesn't bother asking how he knows that.  "Rudy, the last time I stopped by I got a visit from the captain and a warning about my illegal activities.  I'm not feeling real warm and fuzzy about the lab right now."

"Yeah, look."  Rudy sounds like that's about what he was expecting.  "I'm sorry about that.  I had to tell her that you were interested in circumventing official channels to get Dorian's record.  So I did."

He waits, and John wouldn't have gotten it if he hadn't had this same conversation with Dorian yesterday.  "You told her I was looking for Dorian's record," he says slowly.

"That's what she wanted to know," Rudy says.  "The, uh, security concerns were a separate issue."

"The security on the files," John says.  Just to make sure.

"Yes," Rudy says.  "Exactly."

John stares at him for a long moment, but he's not great at reading people on a screen.  That's more Valerie's area.  "I'll tell Dorian," he says at last.

That's all he says, and after a few seconds Rudy seems to get it.  "Ah," he says.  "Right.  I'll just… go, then."

"Uh-huh," John agrees.  "See you around, Rudy."

When his phone disconnects, he hears a familiar voice say, "That wasn't very nice."

He turns around, and sure enough, there's Dorian standing in the kitchen doorway.  "Telling Sandra on me wasn't very nice either," he says.  "How much of that did you hear?"

"I heard Rudy say he told Captain Maldonado that you wanted my record," Dorian says.  "He must have concealed the full nature of your request.  That is, assuming he understood it."

"Hey, he understood me," John says.  "We were very clear."

"You didn't know what you were asking for," Dorian says.  "How clear could you have been?"

"Do you want to go see him or not?" John counters.

"I don't know," Dorian says.

John eyes him.  "You sure you charged for long enough?  Aren't you usually in a pod all night?"

"I told you," Dorian says.  "The MX bays are designed for MXs.  The captain requisitioned a DRN-specific field charger for me; it's much more efficient."

"But you don't know whether you want to see Rudy or not," John says.  "You change your mind after talking to Sandra?"

"No," Dorian says.  "I changed my mind after kissing you."

John freezes.

Dorian notices, of course, and his tone is even but it still sounds like an accusation.  "You said you wouldn't pretend."

"I'm not," John protests.  "I mean.  I'm not pretending.  I just--what do you want me to say?"

"Nothing," Dorian says, but he still sounds suspicious.  "I guess."

"Okay," John says.  "So why did, uh.  Why did… kissing me change your mind?"

"Recovering history files isn't without risk," Dorian says.  "It's rare, but there's always the possibility that files in current use could be overwritten."

At the precinct, John might pretend not to understand.  Here he doesn't bother.  "So it could make you forget," he says.

"Something," Dorian says.  "Not everything, just… some small thing.  It's a calculated risk, of course, and it's one most of us accept without question."

"Until you realized you don't have to," John guesses.

Dorian gives him a look.  "Until I had a memory I'm not willing to lose."

John opens his mouth, then closes it again.  He thinks that much presence of mind is pretty good, considering the circumstances.  He's almost positive Dorian just told him that he'd rather remember kissing John than everything he did for the first three years of his life.

"Wait," John says, because he can't let that go.  "Really?"

"I said I don't know," Dorian reminds him.  "But that's what makes me question, yes."

"Kissing me," John says.

"Yes," Dorian says impatiently.  "Are you genuinely confused, or is your ego having a moment?"

"Well," John says.  It's strange and awkward but Dorian makes it look easy.  "I mean, you said you'd only forget one thing, right?  If you forgot anything at all."

"Yes," Dorian says.  "And I don't want it to be that."

His insistence is kind of flattering, John thinks.  Now that he mentions it.

"So," John says.  "We could just… do it again.  It's not--it's not that or nothing, right?  I mean, you could remember other… uh, times.  When we kissed?"

"Only if they actually happen," Dorian tells him.

The skepticism isn't flattering at all.

"Okay, hotshot," John says.  "Are you making a logical argument or just goading me?  'Cause I gotta tell you, it's working."

The corner of Dorian's mouth quirks up in a smirk and he says, "Not from where I'm standing, it's not."

John has no idea how to walk when he's walking over to a partner he's going to kiss.  He does it because he has to, because there's no other way to cover the ground between them.  He's very aware of Dorian watching him with the same amused expression he wears on the street, and when he gets there he doesn't know what to do with his hands, let alone the rest of his body.

"Is this hard for you?" Dorian asks, while they stand there staring at each other.

John scoffs.  "What, making a pass at my partner?  Nah, do it all the time.  Easy."

Dorian smiles.  "Thank you for putting it like that."

"I call it like I see it," John says.  He reaches out, settling his hands on Dorian's arms, and he'd try to pull him closer but it's going to be really embarrassing if Dorian doesn't move.  John takes another step instead.  "Tell me if I do something stupid, okay?"

Dorian's smile lingers, softening his reply.  "It's far too late for that, John."

John huffs a laugh and leans in, letting the words breathe across Dorian's skin.  "Just so we're clear," he says.  And when he presses a kiss to the mouth under his, it doesn't feel strange at all.

It feels like something he should have done before.

Chapter 12

He should probably be worried that kissing Dorian is so easy.  He doesn't know what it means that Dorian can kiss in the first place, that he's decent at it, that he acts like it's a normal thing for him to want and enjoy.  John doesn't know what he's going to do when this gets out, when everyone at the precinct can see it all over his face.

He does know what it would say about him if he was willing to lose his job over Dorian's right to make his own damn decisions, then turned around and denied him this one.  Dorian wants--or at least thinks he wants--some kind of physical connection. John's been trying not to think about pulling his clothes off for weeks.  It may be a brief moment of agreement, but right now they agree and John's not going to be the coward here.

"John," Dorian says.  He's quiet and perfectly calm, and he turns his head just enough that John's kiss lands on the corner of his mouth.  "May I touch you?"

He lets his forehead rest against Dorian's temple.  "If you have to ask," he mutters, "then I'm doing it wrong."

He can feel Dorian smile.  "I wouldn't know," he says.  There's something about his voice, but John doesn't know what it is until he says, "I don't have any protocols for this."

It's the same tone he uses when he's telling John something he doesn't want anyone else to overhear.  It's low and close and it works in this situation, but barely.  It's a little off, awkward somehow.  Not intimate-awkward.  Almost… professionally awkward.

It's not the kind of voice you use to whisper secrets to someone you're kissing.

He lifts his head, searching Dorian's expression for… god knows what.  He doesn't know what he wants to see there, doesn't know what he can see there.  He's looking at an android.  He's looking at an android who's designed to be a police officer, not a… not a date.  Or a lover.

"I can learn," Dorian says, and John closes his eyes.

There's a long moment of silence when neither of them move.  John knows--he's suddenly aware, like he didn't even have to think--that if he lets go of Dorian now it will be almost impossible to do this again.  If he doesn't, he has no idea what will happen.

"John," Dorian says.  "You look like you're reconsidering.  I'd like to be part of that decision."

He looks at Dorian in time to see blue lines flash and fade under his skin, disappearing reluctantly but unmistakably with John's stare.  "Why do you even need a protocol?" he blurts out, and it sounds accusing.  "Can't you just pick it up from the network like everything else?"

"That's what I'm doing now," Dorian says evenly.  "Is that a problem?"

He's still holding onto Dorian's arms, and he wants to kiss the skin where the light appears to see if it feels different.  It looks like electricity.  It probably tastes like nothing, like regular skin, or--how different is synthetic skin, anyway?

"Apparently not," he mutters.

"I don't have any experience with this kind of interaction," Dorian says.  "My firsthand observation is extremely limited.  If I don't supplement my own understanding with secondhand accounts, then my education will be limited to your example."

Dorian pauses just long enough to make it obvious, then adds, "Let's be honest.  I don't think either of us wants me learning from your example."

"Hey," John says, and it's a relief because this is something he knows how to do.  "My example is great.  I'm the king of good examples."

"Oh, sure," Dorian agrees.  The fact that he's humoring John has never been more obvious.  "Good examples of what not to do."

"I'm gonna kiss you again," John informs him.  He may not be an expert on androids, but he's gotten pretty good at Dorian.  And if Dorian says he can do it, that he wants to do it, well.  That's more confident than John feels about himself most days.  "You don't have to ask if you can touch me.  I'll tell you if it's weird."

He leans in just as Dorian says, "You'll tell me, or you'll make some obscure indication of which I'll have to guess the meaning?"

John grins.  Not because of the vocabulary, or the question, but because he can feel Dorian's hands on him.  Resting carefully on his hips, he did it under cover of his question and it wasn't just natural.  It was smooth.

"I'll tell you," John says.  "Smooth move, by the way."

He kisses Dorian before he can ask--or maybe he doesn't have to, maybe Dorian knows it was smooth and that's why he did it.  Who knows.  What's the difference, really: learning from your classmates and the TV when you're a teenager, or learning from your coworkers and the internet years later?

Dorian's mouth is open against his, but he doesn't push and John's afraid to.  He lifts his hand to Dorian's face instead, brushing a thumb over his cheek.  "Can you," he mumbles, but he doesn't know how to ask.

It's fuzzy with nearness and the distracting press of one mouth against another, but he sees blue sparkle out of the corner of his eye.  He ruins the next kiss with a smile.  "Yeah," he whispers.

Dorian tilts his head enough that John can see if he wants to.  He does, and he gives in to the temptation to cover that light with his lips.  He can't feel it.  It's just skin under his mouth, and if it's smoother than he's used to on a man's face, that's the only difference.

The hands on his hips tighten, enough of a warning that he doesn't shift when Dorian crowds closer.  They're chest to chest, and John feels arms slide around his waist until Dorian's fingers catch on his back pockets.  He smiles into Dorian's skin, and sure enough, those fingers sink in and his android partner is grabbing his ass.

"High school move," John murmurs.

To his surprise, Dorian's voice is lower and more… right, somehow, when he says, "Just trying to match your maturity level."

"You do know how to whisper," John says, mostly to cover a reaction Dorian isn't going to miss.

Dorian shifts against him, hands holding John firm so it's not just their chests that are pressed together.  "I think you like it," he says.

"Okay, that's--"  He tries not to sound like he just got the breath punched out of him and he fails.  "That's a little fast," he gasps, but he's grinding against Dorian's leg so he has zero credibility right now.

"Is it?"  Dorian's hands are still in his pockets, squeezing, clenching, and that's actually--jesus, that feels good.  Better than he remembered.  It's enough to distract him from the pressure against his groin when Dorian kisses him again: open-mouthed and hot, and John's pretty sure he feels tongue in there somewhere.

He's not positive, because it's fast and it's slick and Dorian pulls away enough to murmur, "My mistake," which is kind of an asshole move at this point.

It makes him laugh.  Or at least want to; he doesn't have quite enough breath to do it and he only huffs in amusement.  "Just kiss me," he says, and Dorian's hands go still but he doesn't step back.  

He does kiss John.  It's slower this time, and John knows what he's going to do even before he feels that tongue trace his lower lip.  It's definitely a tongue.  It's definitely weird.  And John definitely doesn't care when he pushes his own forward to meet it and he can feel Dorian's body relax.

Maybe it's not quite the reaction he was going for, but John gets it.  Or he thinks he does.  He remembers Rudy saying, synthetic skin can't compare to the real thing, but he's touched Dorian's skin plenty of times.  He knows what it feels like.  Dorian's worried about what he hasn't touched.

His hand on Dorian's face cups his cheek, making Dorian pause just long enough that John can tip his head and kiss him as deeply as he does when he dreams.  In the dreams when he remembers the wall, and the water, and he wonders what he missed while he was trying to stay alive.  It's strange, because without the fear and the adrenaline he can taste…

He can taste something.  The inside of Dorian's mouth is soft and pliant, slippery the way a human's would be, but it tastes like something he can't identify.  And that tongue slides over his, pressing into him in turn, and John doesn't pull away.  It feels different.  Not quite… well, human.  But hey, he probably feels weird to Dorian too.

His hand is in Dorian's hair, and he didn't know he was going to do that.  He's gone to ruffle that un-mussable hair a dozen times, and twice he even went through with it.  Dorian was distracted the second time and batted John's hand away before he realized what he was doing.  That time was his favorite.

Now this time is his favorite.  The coarse, curly hair is tight under his fingers, and it rubs against his skin with every movement.  John tries to be gentle, tries not to push too hard, but Dorian is like a force of nature and who doesn't want to challenge that?  John's got his other arm around him, hand grasping at the back of his shoulder, and it's possible he's more enthusiastic than is strictly necessary.

Dorian doesn't have to move to brace himself, but John does it without thinking when his leg twinges.  It's an instinctive shift of weight, more in anticipation of pain that any actual discomfort, and the rest of his body is all too happy with the result.  The friction, slight though it is, brings the heat roaring back.  Awareness of Dorian in his arms is heavy and overwhelming and he knows the quiet strangled sound between them is him.

Dorian pulls back at the same time he does, which makes it more embarrassing instead of less.  John stands as still as he can, trying to breathe, trying not to curl his fingers in Dorian's shirt and hair and draw him back in.  He lowers his head but he has to look away to stare at the floor.

"You're very quiet," Dorian says, out of nowhere, and he doesn't know what that means.

"What, now?" he blurts out.  He feels Dorian's hands ease upward with the slightest of tugs, settling gently on his waist.

He gets a smile and a wry, "Sure," which tells him that no, Dorian meant he was quiet while they were kissing.

"Look who's talking," John says.  He drops his other hand to Dorian's shoulder, but he can't bring himself to step away.  They could totally do that again.  Any minute now.

"Careful what you ask for," Dorian says.  The smirk is the only warning John has, although he sees Dorian leaning in and fumbles the response.  Then Dorian's cheek is pressed up against his jaw while he whispers, "Oh, John, do that again.  More, please, give it to me.  John, harder--"

John shoves him away with a laugh that's as much embarrassment as anything.  Dorian only takes a single step back, but his hands slide off of John and he grins.  "I can make noise," he says in a more normal tone of voice.

"Don't copy everything you learn on the internet," John says.  The worst part isn't even that he likes dirty talk; the worst part is that Dorian can probably tell.  He goes with the first diversion to hand.  "Can I ask you a weird question?"

"Do you have any other kind?" Dorian counters, still smiling.

"Why is your mouth wet?" John asks before he can think better of it.  "I mean--you know what I mean."

By some miracle, this is the thing that Dorian takes seriously.  "It allows my tongue to move more freely.  I don't have the same kind of vocal cords you do, but I enunciate in much the same way a human would.  My tongue requires a certain amount of lubrication in order to produce natural-sounding speech."

"Uh-huh," John says.  He wouldn't mind a little more experience with that tongue.  He's not sure if that makes him kinky or just really horny.  Making out with Dorian is the most action he's gotten since… well.

He might as well flip a coin, because kinky versus horny could go either way.

"I'd like to do that again," Dorian says, and John blinks.

"I mean," Dorian says.  "With you.  The--"  He stops, and John's not sure he's ever seen Dorian lost for words.  Definitely not in the middle of a sentence.

"Kissing?" John offers.  "Groping?  The humping went a little far--"

"That was you," Dorian interrupts, and hey, what do you know.  John can't remember the last time Dorian interrupted him either.

"That was me," he agrees.  "And I'm not complaining.  It was, you know.  Maybe not, uh, standing in the kitchen next time--"  Not that he would say no, if it happened to be on the table.  So to speak.

"Look," John says quickly.  "I'd do it again, is what I'm saying."

"The humping?" Dorian asks.

"No," John says.  "Well.  All of it, I mean.  I'd do all of it again.  If you wanted to."

"I do," Dorian says.

"Okay."  John tries not to think about how awkward they are, because it's only embarrassing if they're embarrassed by it.  "So."

"So we should probably go see Rudy now," Dorian says.  That's not exactly where John was going with that train of thought, but he can't really argue with it.

"Right," he says.  "Yeah, that.  That makes sense, I guess."

"Or we could stand here and make out some more," Dorian says.

John grins, feeling some of the awkwardness ease.  "Now you're talking," he says, and the corner of Dorian's mouth quirks upward.

If making out in the kitchen teaches him one thing, it's that making out on the couch is going to do him in.  And they are going to make out on the couch.  It's basically the first thing he's going to suggest when they get home tonight.  It's a bad idea for so many reasons, but when he's kissing Dorian he can't remember any of them.

Unfortunately, by the time they arrive at the precinct most of them are front and center in his brain.  The car ride was fine.  Lunch was fine, even if it was drive-through and consisted mostly of Dorian mocking his diet and his eating habits.  Maybe especially because it was drive-through while Dorian mocked his diet and eating habits, since it's getting out of the car that makes John nervous.

They're surrounded by people.  He knows it's stupid to think that they can see through him, that they'll know, somehow.  Most of them probably don't see him at all.  Ask them who they passed on the streets, in the halls, and they won't be able to describe more than a handful, let alone name any of them.

Even if they could, they're hardly going to identify him as John Kennex, the man who spent the morning making out with his partner.  

"John," Dorian says, and he tenses involuntarily.  Dorian can't miss it, but all he says is, "I think those noodles are slowing you down.  You're gonna have to branch out, man."

"Noodles are the fuel upon which greatness is built," John says.  He latches onto the familiar argument with relief.  "You don't eat; you don't get a say."

"And yet I'm the one who's left hanging when you can't keep up," Dorian counters.  "Your endurance and physical fitness are very important to me, John."

John snorts.  "I'm sure they are," he mutters.

Dorian turns a supremely innocent look on him.  "I hope you understand how your stamina affects me," he says.  "The longer you go on, the longer I can go on."

It stops being funny when Dorian's ambiguous needling starts to sound more like life than sex.  John grunts, because it's true but he doesn't want to hear it right now.  He hates that Dorian gets the message and stops talking altogether: he could have said something instead, could have explained… but he can't.  Not here.

So he just says, "I had a physical before I came back.  You can check my medical records if it'll make you happy."

"Or you could do the O course this weekend," Dorian says.  "I know you've been avoiding it since they added the zombie level."

Of course Dorian noticed that he hasn't run the course since it introduced bots.  And of course he knows that everyone calls them zombies.  No personality and minimal programming: the course bots only exist to give runners moving targets to shoot at and person-like shapes to evade.

"Can't," John says.  "Going to a game this weekend.  You should come; it'll be fun."

"You're not ditching your security for a stadium full of poorly controlled crowds and the sanctioned discharge of firearms into the sky," Dorian says.

"Is that a yes?" John counters.  "And it's not in a stadium.  It's on a field.  The weather's gonna be great; you should come."

"John."  Dorian sounds impatient.  "Of course I'm coming.  If you're going somewhere--"

"Dorian," John says.  He's stupid to make a big deal of this.  Even worse to do it here, where anyone could overhear, but he doesn't stop.  "I'm asking you to come to the game with me."

He knows when Dorian gets it because he doesn't answer right away.  Which is uncomfortable but sort of funny at the same time.  If he'd known this is all it takes to shut Dorian up--

"I'd like that," Dorian says at last.

"If you want to," John adds.  "I mean, you don't--well, you do have to, I guess.  Or we could do something else."

John can't actually do something else; he promised he'd be at this game.  But he could get someone else to go with him.  He and Dorian could do something later.

"No," Dorian says.  "A game sounds great."

Damn it, John thinks.  That had awkward reassurance written all over it.  Dorian doesn't even know what kind of game it is, let alone when or where.  Just that John's going and he wants Dorian to go with him.  And not because he has to.

He just asked Dorian out on a date.

"Just so we're clear," Dorian says, and no, John does not want to be clear about this.  Not now, and not here.  But he lets Dorian finish, and all he says is, "You're doing exactly what you told me not to do three days ago."

What happened three days ago?  This week has been a month long; he has no idea what Dorian is talking about.  "Sure," he says.  "Probably.  Sounds like something I would do."

"That is true," Dorian says.  By his expression, John figures he just lost whatever game they were playing.  He doesn't hate seeing Dorian smile, though, so maybe it's worth it.

Rudy has company when they walk into the lab.  He waves at them and Dorian moves over to a table to wait.  He stands the way he always does, but today the way he stands makes John think of kissing in the kitchen and nights with no charge.  By the time John looks away it’s too late: he's thinking about things that will definitely affect his breathing and blood pressure, which would be less of a problem if he wasn't in a lab filled with robots.

He sees Dorian glance at him out of the corner of his eye, so he starts poking at things.  It draws Dorian's attention before Rudy's.  "John," he says.  "It might be better to leave things as they are."

John scoffs.  "Too late for that," he says under his breath.  

"Perhaps," Dorian says, because of course he heard that.  John thinks he meant him to.  "But these aren't yours to break."

John hears the subtle emphasis on "these" and he stops.

He still hasn't come up with an answer when Rudy ushers his other guests out the door and comes to join them.  "Ah, Dorian," he says.  "John.  If I’m not mistaken, I have an important security update for you."

"He doesn't think you know what I was asking for," John says, jerking his thumb at Dorian.

"Well," Rudy says.  "I know what Dorian would want, and I assumed you'd eventually try to get it for him.  So it's sort of the same thing, isn't it."

"My history files," Dorian says.  He must still believe in Rudy because he doesn’t wait for someone else to say it first.  "I can't access any case prior to the South Kelvin armed robbery with John."

"Ah," Rudy says again.  "Yes, well.  The case files aren't technically sealed, just your, uh, recollection of them.  Specifically.  Along with any personal data you may have saved at the time, which I suppose was quite a lot, really."

"Can you get it back?" Dorian asks bluntly.

"Can I," Rudy says, and he sounds affronted.  "Try, did I.  The answer to both is yes, and the answer to your next question is also yes."

"Are you going to get in trouble for doing this?" Dorian wants to know.

"Um," Rudy says.  "Well, I may not have predicted your next question precisely.  The answer to that one should be no."

"How long is this going to take?"  John doesn't want to leave, he just wants to speed things along.  He gets an irritated look from Rudy, an amused look from Dorian, and at least some progress when Rudy tells them to follow him.

Well, he tells Dorian to follow him.  John goes with them because that's what he does.  He thinks the file recovery process is boring before he sees it, and nothing about watching proves him wrong.  Apparently Rudy's already stolen--tested, he says--the data in question, and it's stored on one of his creepy head archives out back.  Dorian touches it with his magic glowing fingers, his face lights up, and that's it.

John has time to take a breath, maybe two, before Dorian lets his hand fall.  Three years of memories just like that.  He doesn't even blink.

Rudy's waiting with his thumb pressed to his mouth.  John doesn't realize he's waiting too until Dorian turns to him.  "I remember," he says quietly.  He holds John's gaze, but John doesn't get it until he smiles.

"Good," John says, and it’s too loud but at least his voice doesn’t break.  He's trying to keep himself from smiling back.

"How much?" Rudy wants to know.  He obviously can't wait another second, and he adds, "I mean, do you remember waking up the first time?  Do you remember being shut down?  That's probably insensitive, actually; forget I asked that.  How much of your assignment do you remember?  I had to guess a tiny bit, a very small amount, with the reconstruction algorithm."

"You had to guess?" John repeats.  He has no idea what the reconstruction algorithm is, apart from exactly what it sounds like.  Guessing when it comes to reconstruction sounds bad.

"It's fine," Dorian says.  "I'll have to go through it day by day, but yes.  I remember waking up, and I remember being decommissioned.  I think I already remembered that, though."

"Yeah," John says, when he hesitates.  "You told me about it before."

"Just the decommissioning?" Dorian says.  

"Just the last, uh," John says.  His skin feels cold.  "Just the very end."

"I see," Dorian says.  "In retrospect, perhaps they wanted me to remember that.  To serve as a warning."

That doesn't make John feel any better.  "Who's they?"

"The order came from the bureau chief," Dorian says.  "At least, that’s what Captain Delaney told us."

John doesn't think that answers his question, but maybe it wasn't meant to.

"So," Rudy says.  "You know why you were decommissioned."

Dorian looks at him, and there's something in their shared glance that leaves John out.  Rudy knows more about those files than he should, but John didn't really believe he knew what was in them until now.  Now when Dorian says, "Yes," Rudy looks away.

Like he's embarrassed.  Like he feels bad about what happened, not like he's curious to know what it is.  And Rudy would be curious.  Rudy would be more curious than John, because that's what he does.

"Anyone want to fill me in?" John asks.  Was it the underground?  Was it the IRC?  Did Dorian’s luck just run out, or was there something specific that pushed it over the edge?

Rudy shoots another look at him before turning away.  “I’ll just, uh,” he says.  “I mean, there’s a door.  I’ll close it.”  The only door is already closed, but Rudy opens it to leave and shuts it again behind him.

Great, John thinks, thanks for that.  He raises an eyebrow at Dorian.

"They offered me a new partner," Dorian says.  “I refused.”

Not McInnis, John thinks, because he’s going to catch up here or die trying.  So someone after her.  Someone after the person Dorian had devoted his entire life to.  The partner he’d trusted to help and hide androids at the end of the line--the one who hadn’t been able to help him.

“Yeah?” he says, because he doesn’t know what else to say.  “How’d that work out?”

“The refusal was a formality,” Dorian says.  He has an odd look on his face, but John’s seen it before.  He’s watching something John can’t see.  “My existence was over either way.  All I did by refusing was to end it on my terms.”

Dorian’s staring now, not blinking, and John really wants to know what’s happening behind that gaze.  He waits, but maybe that’s it.  Maybe Dorian doesn’t want to share what he used to be.  Maybe he just doesn’t want to talk about it.

Okay, so he can’t wait that long.  “What does that mean?” John demands.  He’s not about to let this go.  He spent this long getting to know his partner; he won’t just stand here and watch him become someone else.

“It means I would have been given a new assignment with no memory of my old one,” Dorian says, looking at John with an expression he can’t identify, doesn’t recognize, wants to know and doesn’t at the same time.  “And I would have been destroyed.  My new partner would have thrown me into increasingly dangerous situations until I didn’t come back.”

John doesn’t move.  He’s not sure he can afford to.  The partner Dorian describes might as well be him, and he has no idea what to say.

Then Dorian blinks, his expression softening into a more familiar resignation.  It isn’t John’s favorite expression--not when there’s no hint of fondness, no playful acknowledgement that he’s resigning himself to John’s antics because he’s the bigger man.  Like this, the resignation is just acceptance of his fate.  John will never take that lying down.

“By refusing I confirmed for them that I’m unstable,” Dorian says, like it’s true somehow, like it deserves to be in the present tense, “and they had all the reason they needed to decommission me.”

“Okay, first off, you’re not unstable,” John snaps.  “Second, where the hell was your first partner?"

"In custody," Dorian says.  "Richard told me she was in protective custody."

"Richard?" John echoes.  He can count on no hands the number of times Dorian's called Paul "Richard."  

"Detective Paul," Dorian says, like John didn't recognize him.  "Islay wasn't allowed to see me.  Richard provided a way for us to communicate.

"I think he fought for me," Dorian adds.  He's frowning like even he can't believe that.  "I'm not… It's hard to access things--out of order like this."

Richard, John thinks.  Richard was helping Dorian.  Flying pigs are just around the corner.

Blue light is racing under Dorian's skin, and his eyes are starting to look a little pinched.  "Hey," John says, when he closes them and tips his head to one side.  He knows this look too.  "You okay?

"Yes," Dorian says, but he doesn't move.  "There's a lot of data.  Even with compacted routines and the loss of fidelity, this time span is an order of magnitude greater than what I've been aware of since.  It will take time to integrate."

Sure, John thinks.  Integration.  That doesn't sound tricky at all.

"So, earlier," he begins before he can stop himself.  "When you said you remember."

Dorian opens his eyes, focusing on him abruptly.  The blue lines vanish, the last loop swirling into a circle before it goes dark, and John tries not to find that flattering.  "Yes," Dorian says.

"Okay."  That's enough.  That has to be enough, because no way is he going to ask how Dorian feels about kissing him now that he's got three years of memories he didn't have this morning.  "Just checking."

A single line of blue flickers under Dorian's skin.  "Rudy says we have to wrap it up; he has bots coming in.  I remember kissing you and I want to do it again," he adds matter-of-factly.  "If that's what you're worried about."

"What," John says.  He didn't see that coming.  "No, I'm just--"  But he was, and there's no excuse he can make.  "Okay, yes.  You got your life back and I'm worried about me.  Good.  Can we go now?"

"It was my life," Dorian says.  "Now this is."

John snorts.  From an underground operation, a whole team to a surly partner of one, he can't see why anyone would want to trade.  "Not exactly a step up."

Dorian doesn't move.  He doesn't reach out or touch John in any way.  With a stare like that he really doesn't have to, and when the corners of his mouth curl upward his smile could stop a person in their tracks.  "It has its merits," he says.

Chapter 13

John blames that smile for what happens next.  To be fair, he does ask Dorian--twice--if he's okay to go back on duty.  The first time, Dorian points out that he was never off duty and he's perfectly capable of staying that way.  The second time he just rolls his eyes and says, "Yes, John."

So John stops asking.  Maybe it's a lie, or maybe Dorian overestimates his own processing capability.  Maybe he just doesn't think about it that much.  The truth is, John's not sure he's ready to be alone with him again so he doesn't push it.

Which is fine until Dorian gets distracted in the bullpen.  He has those book club profiles up alongside the AR comps, and John's pretty sure they're going to hear about it if they push back into ELPD territory.  On the other hand, he'd like to know who's trying to kill him.

They're arguing over the legitimacy of background checks and whether or not they can justify a warrant for private surveillance access when Paul walks by.  Dorian says, "You could just ask your friend if he has anything.  It's not illegal if someone else gets it for you."

Apparently they're not over the crush jokes, even after he thought Dorian was pretty clear on how he felt about it.  "What happened to the guy who lectured me about civil rights the first day we met?" John wants to know.

"He's not a guy," Paul says over Dorian's shoulder.  "He's a bot; he's probably broken."

"Shut up, Richard," Dorian says without looking up.

Then he does look up, and he meets John's gaze first.  Richard has gone completely still behind him.  "What did you just say?"

"I'm sorry," Dorian says, like he's low on charge and has just punched Richard in the face.  "That was inappropriate."

John's torn between thinking it's hilarious--he likes it when Dorian acts out, sue him--and wondering how Dorian plans to explain that.  Why "shut up," anyway?  And why with the vaguely amused tone that he mostly uses on John?

"You bet your android ass it was," Paul snaps.  "When I want your opinion, I'll ask Kennex what he thinks."

"Hey," John says.  "Why's your MX looking so awkward?  Couldn't book a sexbot last night?"

Paul sneers at him.  "Why, your DRN available?"

"I heard your mother was taking customers," John tells him.

"Why don't you stand on a corner somewhere?" Paul says.  "We can arrest everyone you pick up and the streets'll be clean in no time."

"Look, if you want a shot at my body," John says, "money's not gonna cut it.  You'd have to start by being someone else."

Paul scoffs.  "Get a new body and we'll talk."

John slaps his right leg.  "I'm a quarter of the way there, and what do you know.  Still not interested."

"This isn't about whether you can get it up or not," Paul tells him.  "It's about your bot being four years past its expiration date.  Just like you."

"Oh, go solve a case already," John says, rolling his eyes.  It's giving up and he knows it, but there's nothing he can say about Dorian that won't be compromising.  At least, nothing he would say under pressure, without thinking.

He knows his limitations.  Sometimes he even pays attention to them.

"Yeah, more than you can do, isn't it," Paul says.  "Try not to get killed before someone else figures out who's gunning for you."

John raises his eyebrows, leaning back in his chair as he watches Paul stomp off.  That was unusually vicious, even for him.  "Wow," he says.  "Maybe he really didn't get any last night; what do you think?"

"I think you don't have room to talk," Dorian replies, and John mimes being stabbed in the heart.

"I have no friends," he says.  "My own partner has turned against me."

It eases the frozen look on Dorian's face, enough that he hides a smile instead of just staring at a screen he's not reading.  "Are you aware that Dr. Peres has an active restraining order against two members of the shooter's book club?"

"Explains why she has someone on the inside," John says.  "She can't spy on them herself without violating the terms.  Hey, can I bribe you?"

That makes Dorian look up, so John counts it as a win.  "To do what?"

"Well, it's tough to get any action with a round-the-clock bodyguard," John says.  "It's almost the weekend; how do we work that out?"

Dorian stares back at him, and John grins.  Depending on Dorian's response, this conversation could make John sound totally normal--just a guy worried about protection getting in the way of his love life--or it could make both of them sound like the freaks they are.  John's never been good at playing it safe.

"I don't expect that to be a problem," Dorian says at last.

John scoffs, because Dorian went with normal and he's not stupid enough to be disappointed.  It's still kind of a letdown after the fear he barely had time to feel.  "I think you underestimate my magnetic appeal."

"No," Dorian says.  "I really don't think I do."

That's when John gets it, and his grin is just coming back when Sandra steps out onto the deck.  "Kennex," she says.  Her voice carries.  "Paul.  My office, now."

"Busted," John mutters, pushing himself to his feet.  "We'll talk about this later."

"John," Dorian says.  John looks at him in time to see him glance at Sandra and then back.  The hesitation is almost imperceptible.  "I'll try to schedule another interview with Dr. Peres?"

John snaps his fingers.  "Ah, right.  Message from her.  Sort of.  Sorry, meant to tell you earlier.  The shooter--"

"Kennex," Sandra calls.  "Today."

He doesn't want to shout the entire story, brief though it is, across the floor of the bullpen.    So he pulls his phone out of his pocket and tosses it to Dorian.  "Should be a call on there from this morning," he says.  "From Dorian.  Listen to it; you'll see what I mean."

Dorian probably doesn't need John's phone to access his call logs, but John likes to pretend he has some privacy.  Plus Dorian's expression when he catches the phone is kind of funny.  He doesn't answer, which John takes as agreement.

Paul is already in the captain's office, standing by one of the glass walls while he watches the activity in the bullpen.  He doesn't turn around when John comes in, and John doesn't expect him to.  "Sorry," John says to Sandra.  "Case update."

"I really don't care about your case right now," she says.  "What did you do?"

John raises an eyebrow.  "Excuse me?"

She leans back against the side of her desk, and he knows that move.  It's designed to look relaxed but controlling from a distance, and doing it against the side of the desk instead of the front means that her face is out of direct camera view.  It also puts her back to Paul, but John figures that's just a bonus.

"Dorian said something to Richard," Sandra begins, and John rolls his eyes.

"Are you kidding me?" he says.  "He told him to shut up, big deal.  I say worse to him every day.  And I don't apologize," he adds loudly, but Paul doesn't move.

"Dorian called him by his first name," Sandra says.

John frowns.  She's not snapping at him for interrupting, and she doesn't act like she's about to reprimand him for fighting.  Unprofessional conduct, or whatever.  Paul's not a tattletale, anyway.  How does she even know that?

"Okay," he says, because he's not committing to anything until he knows what's going on.  "So?"

"John," Sandra says.  "Does Dorian remember anything about his last assignment?  Before he was decommissioned?"

John stares at her, and then his gaze flicks to Paul.  The other man isn't looking at them, but he's in on this, right?  Sandra said he knew what was going on.  Dorian said he knew what was going on.  Hell, Dorian remembers Paul being one of the good guys.

"Richard knows that I gave you Dorian's record," Sandra says.  "Un-redacted."

"Does he," John says.  It's not enough.  He doesn't trust Richard--he doesn't really trust anyone at this point--and it's not his call either way.  "Well, maybe there's something in there about calling people by their first names, what do I know?"

Sandra gives him a pointed look.  "I told you to read it," she says.

"I hit the highlights," he tells her.

"Oh, that's great," Paul says, turning away from the window at last.  With his back to the glass he says, "I'm glad you could be bothered to read the first and last sentences of your partner's service record.  That's real helpful, Kennex."

Up yours, John thinks.  He doesn't say it because he doesn't feel like wading into something that he doesn't understand.  Not today.  He's taken enough risks today, and as far as he's concerned, Paul can take his judgmental attitude and lie his way right into another gig.

Sandra holds up her hand.  "John," she says.  "It was Dorian's record you were interested in, wasn't it?"

"Interest is a strong word," John says.  "You know I don't like being told things are off limits.  His record was off limits, so I wanted to see it."

"Now you have," she replies.  "Unofficially, anyway.  Is that all you wanted?"

"Obviously it isn't," Paul says.  "If he didn't even read it."

"Look," John says.  "I'm done with this conversation.  Tell me what you're trying to get me to say and I'll tell you, but I'm not gonna play the spy game."

"Did you try to get Dorian's memories back," Sandra says, point-blank.  "The files that would make him able to remember everything he did four years ago, and before that.  Things that would make him remember Richard.  Did you give them to him?"

John raises his eyebrows at her, unimpressed.  "You can do that?"

"You said you'd answer the question," Sandra reminds him.

"I am answering the question," John says.  "What do I know about bot memories and service records?  I thought they were the same thing.  I gave Dorian the record you gave me and that's it."

Sandra shoots a look at Paul.  "Has Dorian seemed different to you today?" she asks, fixing her attention on John again.  "Could he have gone after files like that himself?"

"Police bots are locked out of upper level access," Paul says.  "Breaking in is a suicide mission.  He may be old but he's not stupid."

"John?" Sandra says.

He shrugs.  "We've been together pretty much nonstop since Wednesday," he says.  "He hasn't randomly blacked out or shut down, if that's what you're asking."

"Not like you, then," Paul mutters.

"All right," Sandra says, pinching the bridge of her nose.  "All right.  Maybe it's nothing.  Or maybe it's just… pattern recognition.  DRNs pick up the habits of those around them; maybe he's copying John."

"He's not," Paul says.

"This has been really interesting," John says.  "Can I go?"

"John," Sandra says.  "Dorian's memory erasure was a stipulation of his reactivation.  I assume that it was done thoroughly and professionally, but I don't know that for a fact.  I also don't know what it would take for someone to undo that work, and frankly, I don't want to know.  You called it a clean slate.  That's worth something."

John doesn't grimace at her, but it's an effort.  "Tell that to someone who doesn't have amnesia," he says.

"Your memory loss keeps you from serving justice," she tells him.  "Dorian's keeps him from being decommissioned."

"Fine," John says, but it's not.  "I'll ask him if he remembers anything.  What are we supposed to do if he does, anyway?  Put him back in a bag and send him to the space station?"

"We're supposed to shut him down," Sandra says.  "If there's anything, any hint that he remembers… Dorian's gone and your next partner is an MX."

"Yeah," John says.  "That's not gonna happen."

"This division isn't known for doing what it's supposed to," Sandra says.  "But like I told you, it doesn't matter whether it's there or not.  It matters whether people see it.  I need you to understand that, because it's not just your career if you don't."

"Yeah, I got it," he growls.  He's getting a little tired of hearing it, actually.  "I'm pretty aware of the consequences, thanks."

Paul snorts.  "If you were aware of the consequences, you wouldn't have let him walk in here with those memories."

"Richard," Sandra says, but John glares at him.

"You have a first name," he says.  "Everyone has a first name.  Whatever you think you heard, get over it.  Dorian's got better taste than you."

"Right," Paul says.  "Like you?  What are you, fucking him now?  Why don't you make it a little more obvious, because I think there are people in the Valley who haven't noticed yet!"

It's funny, but in that moment John thinks of the counselor from his anger management class.  She likes to say that rage only wins if you give it a voice.  He thinks if that's true, he should be allowed to go around shooting anyone that pisses him off, but he's not so she's full of shit.

He feels it this time, though.  Rage.  It's part of him and it's not and he can shout lies and denial until he puts a fist in Paul's face, or he can win.  He can walk away from this and call it a win, and he's never seen it so clearly before.

John laughs.  "Keep your kinks to yourself," he says.  "Not everyone needs a bot to get lucky."  

It makes Paul pull up short.  Even Sandra looks at him in surprise, but John can't say that it feels untrue.  Unfair, maybe.  But it's not like he thinks it's normal, and that makes it easier to say.

"As heartwarming as this is," John adds, "I have better things to do.  If whoever scrubbed Dorian's memory was so incompetent that they missed something, I'll find out, okay?  In the meantime, I'm gonna go do my job."

He catches Sandra's eye, and she nods once.  Great.  So he won't have to slam the door when he leaves.

He throws a look at Paul on his way out, but he doesn't see anything that makes him think he's made a mistake.  Paul's a cop, and he's a good one, not that John would ever say it out loud.  But he's becoming ever more aware that trusting someone with his own life and trusting them with Dorian's are two very different things.

"Hey," he says, rapping his knuckles on the desk as he passes.  "Give me my phone back."

Dorian hasn't moved by the time he drops into his chair and looks up, about to demand his phone again.  But Dorian's just staring, eyes on the virtual terminal, not moving.  John's pretty sure his eyes don't have to scan to read, but he usually makes the effort.

"Hey," John says again.  He leans forward and snaps his fingers in front of Dorian's face.  "Space case.  You there?"

There's an actual flicker of light in Dorian's eyes, tiny but noticeable when he's looking for it, and Dorian refocuses.  "Yes, John?"

"What are you staring at?" John asks.

"I'm considering the details of the shooting," Dorian says.  There's no pause, but it's too late.  John already knows he's lying.  "If Dr. Peres was the intended target, there were several moments prior to our arrival that would have afforded superior opportunity.  But if we were the intended targets all along, why wait for such a public location?"

"Because we weren't the intended target until we showed up to meet with them," John says.

"Yet I did not come under fire as the suspect retreated," Dorian says.  "I'm concerned that Captain Maldonado's original assessment may be correct: you are meant to be the victim in this scenario."

"Great," John says.  "What a surprise.  Give me my phone."

Dorian hands it over and John frowns at him anyway.  "You okay?" he asks, thumbing a message under cover of checking the log for recent activity.  Need a favor, he types.  Going stir crazy here, can you get us out for the afternoon?

"I'm fine," Dorian says.  "I didn't sabotage your phone, if that's what you're checking."

"I don't think you sabotaged it," John says.  "I think you downloaded all the information on it."

Dorian looks at him skeptically.  "Why would I want the information on your phone?"

A message from Valerie comes back almost immediately.  Sure, it says.  Come help me ID plankton.

"Why wouldn't you?" John counters, typing again.  Can you make that official with the captain?  "My exciting social life, my robust informant network, my mobile porn stash.  It's all there."

"Of course," Dorian says dryly.  "I didn't know what I was missing."

"That's right," John says, pointing at him.  "You didn't.  But now you do.  Pretty sure that would be illegal if you weren't my partner."

Dorian watches him read another message from Valerie.  Did you get in trouble again? it says.

No, John sends.  A fight with Paul went a little far.

You want to get away without losing face, Valerie replies.  I wasn't kidding about the plankton, you know.

He's willing to put up with psychoanalysis, lying, and even plankton if it means he can drag Dorian out of the precinct this afternoon without tipping their hand.  They shouldn't have come in at all.  He shouldn't have listened the last time Dorian said he was fine, and he's definitely not listening now.  If he could walk out without proving Paul right, he would.

Dorian is staring at him this time when he looks up.  Which, okay, probably fair.  John doesn't even remember the last thing he said.  If he said anything at all.  "What?" he says.  It seems like the best way to get back into it.

"There were two people at the wall," Dorian says.

John raises his eyebrows.  "Okay," he says.  "Want to make that a little more mysterious for me?"

"Whoever tried to drown you was one of two suspicious persons at the wall," Dorian says.  "We only caught one trying to shoot you."

"Is this basic math going somewhere other than, there's at least one person out there right now who's actively trying to kill me?" John asks.

"Does it need to?" Dorian replies.

"In order to have a point, yeah," John says.

His desk comm lights up--interoffice--and he puts on his curious face when he takes Sandra's call.  "Yeah," he says.

"Valerie's asking for you at the Grand," Sandra says.  "You have time to do an on-site consult?"

"Sure," John says.  "She say why?"

"Drug search," Sandra says.  "One you have experience with.  She says she'll send you details."

He looks down as his phone beeps a receipt of data, and he nods.  "Yeah, I got it.  We'll coordinate with her on the way."

The screen winks out, and John grabs his jacket as he stands up again.  "Come on," he says.  "Let's go chase some drugs."

Dorian gives him a neutral look that John knows all too well, but he waits until they're in the hallway to say, "That was much more subtle than yesterday's exit.  I assume it's Valerie you were texting just now?"

"She has a thing," John says vaguely.  "I figured it couldn't hurt to have her tell Sandra where we were going."

"The captain gives you more than enough autonomy to cover situations like this," Dorian says.  "Who are we hiding from this time, John?"

John makes a face.  "Funny story," he says, holding the door until Dorian catches it.  "I'll tell you in the car."

He sees blue light trace its way across Dorian's skin, but that's the end of it until they're outside.  He lets Valerie know they're on their way, and he thanks her which makes Dorian raise his eyebrows.  It's not until the car door closes behind him that Dorian opens his mouth again.

"I'm sorry," he says, and it's so unexpected that John pauses with his hand on the lock.  "I thought I could compartmentalize these memories.  Clearly I was wrong."

John doesn't move.  "So that's really what that was," he says.  Even he's not sure it's a question.  "What about when you zoned out on me at the desk?"

"Yes," Dorian says.  He's not sure it makes him feel better that Dorian knows what he's talking about.  "That's what that was."

"Okay," John says.  The car is running, but this isn't a conversation he wants to have on the road.  "So what do we do?"

"It's the processing of memory that's slowing down my other reactions," Dorian says.  "I thought I could run the integration independent of my personality interface, but that doesn't seem to be the case."

"So it's distracting you," John says.  "You have to think it through until you know what you're dealing with.  You think you'll be able to--you think you can control it?  Once you know what's there?"

"Yes," Dorian says.  "Unfortunately, at this rate it will be another 36 hours before the processing is complete.  That doesn't account for charge time, although I might be able to compensate by postponing the mandatory data transfer from my current memory files to the precinct database."

"Don't do anything that's gonna draw attention," John says, putting his hands on the wheel and looking over his shoulder before he pulls out.  "We've got too much of that already."

If all Dorian needs is time, they can handle that.  No reason to sit in the car worrying about it.  Valerie's got them this afternoon, and then he has the weekend off.  All he has to do is keep Dorian out of the precinct until Monday.

"Richard told Sandra," Dorian says.  "She didn't call you into her office to reprimand you for your behavior, did she."

"There's nothing wrong with my behavior," John says.  "And no.  She and Richard think you know more than just what your service record would have told you."

He doesn't realize what he's said until afterwards, and he adds, "Also, stop calling him Richard."

"Right," Dorian says.

That's it, just "right."  The fact that he doesn't argue or scoff makes John glance over at him.  "Do you trust him?" he asks.

"No," Dorian says immediately, but he's frowning.  "I don't know."  Then, to John's surprise, he asks, "Do you?"

"No," John says.  "But I don't trust anyone, so.  That's probably not conclusive."

He's not sure why he adds that.  He doesn't like Paul.  He's never liked Paul, and so far no one's been able to give him a reason why he should.

"He did seem kind of worried about you," John says abruptly.  "Just now, I mean."

"Tell me what happened," Dorian says.

"Sandra asked me if I gave you those history files back," John says.  "Apparently the Richard thing tipped him off and he went straight to her.  I said I didn't know what the hell history files were, and as far as I can tell she believes me.  Richard doesn't."

"He gives you too much credit," Dorian says, and John can hear the smile in his voice.

John's first instinct is to protest, but he thinks about it before he opens his mouth and he has to admit, "Yeah, he does.  Why is that?"

He sees Dorian shake his head out of the corner of his eye.  "I don't know."

John thinks about it, but he can't come up with anything that would make other people think he knows about bots.  He's around them every day and he mostly knows what they can do, at least in practical situations that involve gunfire and police action.  But he's not interested in how they operate or why, and he's never made a secret of that.

"He said you shouldn't have come in," John says.  "Apparently you only get to stay reactivated as long as you don't remember anything from last time.  He and Sandra were pretty adamant that I'm a heartless bastard if I let you get anywhere near the precinct with memories that got you decommissioned."

"I'm sure that's not true," Dorian says.  "Richard must have thought you were a heartless bastard long before today."

John smirks at that.  "Well, takes one to know one."

"Sandra, though."  Dorian sounds thoughtful.  "She seemed very willing to share details of my past yesterday.  What do you suppose has changed?"

"I guess telling you is different from you remembering on your own."  Which John doesn't like, because that's the ultimate control, isn't it?  Someone else telling you who you are and what you mean.

"So neither of them want me to remember," Dorian says.  He still sounds pensive, but his voice is calm in a borderline synthetic way and John doesn't like it.

"They seemed worried about what would happen to you if you did," he offers.  "If that's worth anything.  I don't think they actually want to keep it from you, they just…"  He waves one hand uselessly at the window.  "I don't know."

"You worry about what would happen to me," Dorian says.  "Yet you helped me recover my memories rather than standing in the way."

"Yeah, well."  He shrugs uncomfortably and tries to play it off.  "They don't have to listen to your nagging all day, either."

It's bullshit, because Dorian never even asked for this, let alone more than once.  But it makes him smile, and John thinks maybe he won't have to admit that he'd go a lot farther if Dorian did ask.  He's not sure when that became true and he doesn't care.  No reason to guess until they have to find out.

Valerie calls them before they make the main drag, and Dorian transfers it to the car comm so they can both hear.  She doesn't say a single thing about John's fight with Richard until they're wrapping it up: they've finished the search, logged the evidence, and started to argue over dinner before she says, "I don't know, can I trust you to go back to the precinct or should we meet somewhere?"

John's not above taking the out she offers.  "Let's meet somewhere," he says.  "Okay with you?" he adds, and it's only when Dorian doesn't know the question's directed at him that he realizes what he's done.

He bluffs his way through, elbowing Dorian and repeating the question.  Valerie looks more amused than surprised, but she's the profiler, right?  She's probably had him pegged from day one.

"Yes," Dorian says, and now he's studying John too.  "Of course, that's fine."  At least he doesn't remind them that he doesn't eat, so that's something.

"McQuaid's?" Valerie suggests.  "Or are you really trying to get away?"

Sandra won't be at their bar tonight, and Paul usually pretends he has better places to be.  "Nah," John says.  "McQuaid's is fine."  Dorian doesn't volunteer an opinion--of course he doesn't--and this time John remembers not to ask him.

"Great," Valerie says.  "I'll see you there after I check in and drop off Max.  Thanks for your help, guys."

"No," John says, because she did them a favor and he knows it.  "Thank you."

She smiles, and he knows it was the right thing to say.  "Don't think I won't cash in."

"Anytime," John promises.

If he thought he was going to avoid another awkward conversation, he's very wrong.  The only blessing is that Dorian waits until they're in the car to say, "You don't have to ask my opinion, John."

He doesn't sigh.  It was a dumb thing to do, just like the offer of a drink last night.  Dorian's not human.  John isn't supposed to treat him like he is.  But jesus, Dorian has plenty of opinions.  Why can't he ask what they are?

"Why not," John says, gaze fixed on the road.  He can't not ask, because Dorian's going to tell him anyway.  He already knows he's not going to like it.

"Because it's cruel," Dorian says.

He doesn't know what he was expecting, but that's definitely not it.

"Wait," he says.  "What?  How is it cruel to ask if you're okay with whatever we're doing?"

"It's cruel because I can't say no," Dorian says.  His careful tone is as neutral as he can make it.  "Not in front of anyone else."

"Sure you can," John says.  He says it without thinking and he knows it's a mistake as soon as the words are out.  He tries to save it, but he's not sure whether he's making it better or worse when he adds, "You argue with me all the time."

"And you always win," Dorian says.  "Because you're human.  Because you're better than me."

If that's what Dorian calls winning, John thinks he should download a dictionary.  "You don't believe that," he says.

"No, but everyone else does."  Dorian's words sound clipped, and John can hear the anger under his forced calm.  "If you ask me if I'm okay with something and I say no, what do you think that does for my chances of survival?  I'm not supposed to have opinions.  I'm not supposed to express myself.  That's not what I'm for, John."

"Yes you are."  John glares out at the street, frustrated.  "MXs aren't supposed to have opinions.  You're different."

"Not different enough," Dorian snaps.  "Not to anyone who gets to decide whether I continue to exist or not.  If I cause trouble, I'm defective, and that's the end of it.  That's the end of me."

"You're not causing trouble by telling me whether you want to go to the bar or not!" John exclaims.  "Jesus, it's just a question!"

"It's a question I can't answer honestly!" Dorian shouts.  Actually shouts at him, and John would be more surprised if he wasn't being just as loud.  "It's not fair to ask what I think when I can't tell you!"

"You can tell me!  Why am I asking if I don't want to know!"

In the back of his mind, John thinks maybe they've had this conversation before.  It probably didn't go any better then.  Conversations with him usually don't.

"I think you want to know," Dorian says after a moment.  His voice is more even now.  "I think you don't consider how my answer will sound to other people."

"I really don't care about other people," John says.

"I do," Dorian retorts.  "Other people are the reason I was decommissioned.  Other people are the reason I was reactivated.  And other people are the reason I'll still be here, or not, tomorrow.  I don't control my life, John, and I don't appreciate you pretending that I do just so you can feel better about yourself."

"Okay, stop assuming I screw up because I want to feel better about myself," John tells him.  "Not everything I do is for the sole purpose of making your life miserable."

"Could have fooled me," Dorian says.

"Oh, fuck you," John mutters, but when he glances at Dorian he can see a small smile on his face.

He thinks he should probably quit while they're not actively yelling at each other, but after a minute or so he gives up.  "Back there, I didn't actually mean to… you know.  Offend you, or whatever."

Dorian's definitely smiling now.  "I accept your apology."

"Uh-huh," John says, but that's probably fair so he adds, "Good."

Then Dorian says, "Did you know that in an urban setting, pedestrians are 250% more likely to jaywalk if they see a well-dressed person do it first?"

John huffs out a laugh and figures that means he's forgiven.

Chapter 14

They don't make it to McQuaid's.  There's a raid at the wall, and John knows it's bad news even before the radio squawks and dispatch starts diverting people.  He knows it by the way Dorian's skin lights up and he says, "John," like they're on a call.

Seconds later, they're on a call.  "Tell Valerie," John says, swinging the car around as soon as he can.  She and Max should be almost back to the factory by now.

"She says she'll see us at the wall," Dorian replies.

She does.  Half the precinct is there, along with most of John's new friends from the L Squad.  For all the restrictions they put on technology, not to mention the lack of a reliable network anywhere on ground level, they sure throw a hell of a party.

John and Dorian get posted to the perimeter.  Officially they're maintaining civilian safety at a distance, but John knows a fallback line when he sees it.  "What's going on?" he mutters, counting on Dorian to catch it over the comm chatter.

"They're on a secure channel," Dorian says, just as quietly.  He has to lean in so John can hear.  "It looks like an undercover op gone bad.  I can't tell which side got busted, and frankly, I'm not sure anyone else can either."

"Which side of what?" John demands, shifting a little so it doesn't look like he's about to fall into Dorian's arms.  He was never very aware of compromising positions between partners before.  They're in danger, shooting side by side, trying to survive; they’re all up in each other's space.  No one cares.

Now it seems different.  Now Dorian puts his face next to John's and all John can see is his mouth.  It feels like everyone's watching.  Or listening.  He's hyper aware of what he says and where his eyes go, and he doesn't like it.

"I don't know," Dorian says.  His voice is impossibly softer.  "But I recognize at least three of the identities being broadcast."

"Who?" John says roughly.  He wants to pull away, but he can barely make out Dorians' words as it is.  He has a headset.  Dorian must be staying off it for a reason.

"Miyanda's mother," Dorian murmurs.  "Two members of the bookclub.  One of them is Eny."

He wants to swear.  He clenches his fist and releases it before he manages to whisper, "What the hell are they doing out here?"

"This is an inference based on little if any quantifiable data," Dorian says very softly.  "But one possibility would be smuggling androids."

"God damn it," John mutters viciously.  His hands are tight enough on his weapon to ache, and he tries to relax them until he has a more reasonable grip.  "Who's undercover?"

"Hey, guys."  Valerie slides in next to him, covering his back.  "I heard someone's sneaking in synth seekers.  Try to say that five times fast," she adds.  "You get any news?"

"Nah," John says, careful not to look at either of them.  "Dorian recognized a couple of people from the K Street case."

"Oh yeah?"  She's watching the street in the other direction.  "Good ones or bad ones?"

"Hard to say," John mutters.  "We interviewed them as part of a group that connected the shooter in Pasadena to the guy who tried to kidnap Emmi Rainer, but we didn't get anything useful."

"So, people who don't like synthetics?" Valerie says.  "Maybe that's why they want unauthorized tech.  Maybe they want to find them, steal them or deactivate them or something."

"What, are they hiding?" John already doesn't like this conversation.  "Every bot is registered; what does anyone need a synth seeker for?"

"Are Electric Friends had unregistered sexbots."  Valerie gestures to her MX, sending the bot back the way they came while she adds, "On the Jones case?  Maybe it's not legal bots they're looking for."

"Why look for illegal bots illegally?" John counters.  "There's plenty of people already doing that."

"There's that," she agrees.  "You got any guesses?"

"Dorian says they're on a secure channel."  He's not sure how much of this Max could have--or would have--told her, but he adds, "Typical undercover procedure.  Maybe our guys were the ones with the synth seekers."

He thinks he can hear her smile when she says, "Legally pretending to illegally look for illegal bots pretending to be legal?  That's just convoluted enough to be something you'd think of."

"Thanks," John says.  “I think.”

When he follows where she went with that, it sounds more like an operation meant to catch their own people.  Assuming their own people are smuggling androids, anyway.  He really hopes that's not what's going on.  Then he wonders when he started rooting for the rats and the sell-outs, and he shakes his head.

"John," Dorian says quietly.  Maybe quietly enough that Valerie won't hear, and John leans toward him without thinking.  "It's Rashid they're pulling out."

"Rashid was undercover?" John says.

Dorian catches his eye and nods once, and John remembers Sandra making the same gesture to Rashid's MX two nights ago.  He has a bad feeling about this.  "Are they--is he okay?"

"He's alone," Dorian says.  "He's under his own power, but there's a medic team on standby."

He's alone.  His MX isn't with him, Dorian means.  John doesn't know whether that's good or bad at this point.

"It was an op?" Valerie says.  "What went wrong?"

"Still secure," Dorian says.  "I'm only getting the tactical chatter, personnel movement and support.  Nothing operational."

Valerie's MX comes back with an all-clear from the other direction, and John waves for them to stay put when she goes to get up.  "Me and Dorian will do this side," he says.  "Hold the fort."

"You got it," she says.

There's a watchperson on the wall and the area is sketchy enough that no one's going to wander by out of simple curiosity.  But the last thing they need during neutralization is an opportunist or an ambush.  The job of perimeter defense is boring and terrifying by turns, especially in a neighborhood as bad as this.  To shoot or not to shoot.  That’s always the question.

They don't end up shooting.  There's gunfire down the road, but no one yells for backup and Cadman comes on six long seconds later to clear it.  John doesn't find out until it’s almost over that the other side of the wall is more eventful: no shots fired after the initial implosion, but the raid drew a crowd of civilians who streamed in, ignoring all the warnings to find and comfort their own.

John isn't stupid enough to think that they did it out of altruism or even confusion.  They don't like law enforcement from outside, so they thwart it every chance they get.  It's basically the L Zone's version of a riot.  More obstructive than destructive, but impossible to work around and arresting them only makes it worse.

Compared to that, holding the line against mostly non-existent encroachment is a cakewalk.  A long, boring cakewalk that doesn't end, and what the hell are they doing down here anyway?  He and Valerie make up stories that get wilder as the hours pass, and Dorian occasionally helps by contributing reports that don't make any sense.

The medic team starts making the rounds with coffee and wraps somewhere around hour four.  John complains that if anyone had told him he was going to be out here for four hours he would have worn something warmer, and they give him an extra jacket, which is embarrassing but Valerie gives him an incredulous laugh when he tries to pass it off to her.  By the time they're released, John's decided that the coffee makes up for the humiliation.  Barely.

"Captain still not answering?" Valerie murmurs, when dispatch finally sounds the dispersal.

Sandra managed to be off duty when the call came in, and John wonders how she knew.  She's usually at the precinct late, even on Fridays, and for her to have clocked out before them is almost as strange as the fact that she's ignoring John's texts.  "She probably set her personal phone to block me," he says, but he doesn't think that's it.

"That must have been some fight you had with Richard," Valerie says.  "Sorry I missed it."

"Just the usual," John says.

McQuaid's is open until two, but it's too far for John when they're surrounded by tasty noodles and take-out.  He doesn't realize until Valerie agrees that they've just sentenced both their partners to push the "optimal cycling" envelope, maybe too far.  He wants to ask Dorian if it’s going to lose Max points at the factory, but maybe mentioning it breaks some android code so he keeps his mouth shut.

They sit down to eat, and by the time they're done Max is definitely going to get docked.  He doesn't complain, of course, and John wonders if Valerie's heard about the game.  He wonders if she'd care if she knew.

At least having two cop cars outside the noodle joint means there's no trouble while they're there.  There's also no other customers, so John tips enough for several meals.  He doesn't want to be the one walking into "Closed" signs when he's looking for fast service.

"That was nice of you," Valerie murmurs on the way out.

"They feed my habit," John says.

When they finally say goodnight, he only waits until the car is secure before he tells Dorian, "Find Sandra for me, would you?"

"She's off the clock," Dorian says as they pull out.  "I don't know where she is."

"Track her," John says.  "Use her locator chip.  She was talking to Rashid the other night; I'm worried about her."

"I'm sure she talks to all her detectives," Dorian says.  "She's the captain, John."

"You make it sound normal," John complains.  The car is crawling through pedestrians and Friday night traffic, and he feels reassured by Dorian's typically annoying resistance.  "They were up to something, and now his MX is gone.  And why did she leave early if he was expecting a raid?  Did it really go bad?  Or was this their plan all along?"

"You're very suspicious," Dorian says.  "She clocked out with the day shift at five.  Rashid was undercover; he might not have been expecting anything.  Or he might not have been able to warn someone in time if he was.  He survived, possibly thanks to his MX, who is--or was--programmed to get between Rashid and danger whenever possible."

"Yeah, and that's another thing," John says.  "How could he have been undercover if his MX was with him?"

"I don't know," Dorian says.

"Look, just make sure Sandra's not totally off the grid," John says.  "I just want to make sure she's all right."

"Then call her," Dorian says.  "I can't track her; it's against the rules."

"Why not?  You do it to me all the time."

"You're my partner," Dorian says.

"She's my friend," John counters.  "She's our friend.  And she's not answering her phone."

Dorian doesn't sigh, but a single line of blue dances under his skin and he says, "She's at home.  Are you satisfied?"

"Then why can't she pick up her damn phone?" John says.  Dorian would be able to tell if she'd been separated from her chip, so he doesn't ask if he's sure.

"Maybe she has company," Dorian says.

"No," John scoffs, but then he thinks about it.  "Sandra?  You think?"

"She's a very attractive woman," Dorian says.

"She would have said something," John says.

"If this week has proven anything," Dorian says, "it's that Captain Maldonado can be very discreet when she wants to be."

John thinks that if this week has proven something about Sandra, it's that she's way too interested in his life.  He's happy to return the favor.  "Maybe we should drive by her place," he says.  "Just to make sure."

"Make sure of what?" Dorian asks.  "Her locator chip hasn't been disabled or detached, and it’s designed to register catastrophic biological failure, which it hasn't."

"Oh, well, that's reassuring," John says.

"She's fine, John.  Let it go," Dorian tells him.

"You should call her," John says.  "She won't ignore you."

"I think it's very likely she'll do just that," Dorian says.  "As the only reason I would have for calling her is that you goaded me into it, which she knows perfectly well."

Someone cuts him off just before the bridge and John guns it, aggressively pursuing the other driver in favor of arguing with Dorian.  Or continuing the same argument, anyway.  His driving immediately provokes another round of Why Aren’t John's Anger Management Classes Working, which is at least a less frustrating argument to lose.

Dorian reminds him, yet again, that giving in to road rage is the same as reckless driving, and John points out that first off, it's more road annoyance than road rage, and second, it's not reckless if he thought it through beforehand.  Dorian disagrees and writes him another ticket.  John threatens to unplug his charger at night, and Dorian replies that he can deactivate John's leg at any time.

"Really?" John says.  "You can actually do that?"

"It wouldn't be happy about it," Dorian says.  "It likes you."

It's possible that Dorian is just making all this up.  "That's what you say about my house," John says.  "I don't see anything but lights and hot coffee, personally."

"Did you program the lights or the coffee?" Dorian replies.

"I didn't have to," John says.  The house came that way.  Or so he thought.

"Yes," Dorian says.  “Because it likes you.”

John glances at him briefly, letting the car in front of him get far enough ahead that he can see the license plate again.  "You're kidding."

"You know, you're in a marked cop car," Dorian says.  "That driver could report you for harassment."

"You already wrote me a ticket," John complains, because apparently they're not past this.  "What do you want from me?"

"I want you to drive safely.  I also want you to stop referring to sex with androids as kinky, but I'm not sure that's relevant to this conversation."

"Wait, what?"  It takes him maybe half a second to realize his mistake, and he says quickly, "No, wait.  No talking about sex in the car."

"I'm not talking about sex," Dorian points out.  "I'm talking about how you refer to sex.  You've never been kind to sexbots, despite how well you respond to them, and you've classed android sex as kinky three times this week by my count.  Which may be low, given the number of conversations you have that I'm not privy to."

"I don't have a problem with sexbots," John says.  He does, but it's not because he doesn't like them.  "And when did I say android sex was kinky?"

He remembers before Dorian can tell him.  "Just now, with Valerie," John says with a sigh.  They were bored, and he said more about Richard than he'd meant to.  He knew it was going to get him in trouble.

"And to Sandra last night," Dorian says.  "You also discussed it with Rio on Monday."

John's pretty sure the fact that he doesn't remember either of those times isn't going to win him any points.  "Are you telling me you don't think human sex is kinky?" he asks.  "It's not at all weird to you?  You're just--"  He waves vaguely at the windshield.  "Totally fine with it."

Dorian hesitates, and John is careful not to smile.  He might be onto something, here.

"I don't know," Dorian says at last.  "I guess I never thought about it in those terms."

"Wait," John says.  “Could you say that again?”  He puts a hand to his ear because he can't resist.  "Did I just… win that one?"

"No," Dorian says.

"Yes," John tells him.  "I totally won, and you're not gonna take this away from me.  I'm just as kinky to you as you are to me, my friend."

"Do you know," Dorian says, "that's the first time you've said that to me?"

John looks over at him, but he's smiling out at the road and he doesn't turn when John does.  "I totally won?" John guesses, just to be obnoxious.  "Nah, I think that's happened before."

"You called me your friend," Dorian says.  "To my face."

"To the side of your face," John mutters, because why are they even talking about this?  "Leave it to you to be happy about that while we're discussing sex."

He meant, because sex is a much more interesting conversation than friendship, but he realizes as soon as he says it that it sounds like he's talking about what to call the person you're having sex with.  Or what Dorian is, whether John has sex with him or not.  Or whatever.  It's bad no matter what it is.

But all Dorian says is, "We're not talking about sex.  We're talking about talking about sex.  It's a different thing, John."

"Oh, now you care about my rules," John says.

"Not really," Dorian says.  "But I understand that antagonizing the person you want to have sex with can limit your options."

"Okay," John says, gripping the steering wheel a little tighter.  "We definitely can't talk about this while I'm driving."

"I'm happy to drive if it makes things easier," Dorian tells him.

"Not gonna happen," John replies.

The silence that follows is stupid, and what's worse is that John breaks first.  Of course he does, because Dorian was the one to say it.  "So sex is--"  Once he's started, he's totally lost.  Or maybe it's just more obvious that he's lost, since he doesn't think he's ever known where they're going.  "That's a thing that could happen?"

Dorian sounds amused when he says, "I know you're aware of how I'm designed, John."

"No, I mean--"  This conversation is going to go badly, but he's determined to have it.  "I mean, do you want to."

"I don't have much firsthand experience to base an opinion on," Dorian says.  "I’d like to change that."

"You want to try it," John says.

"Yeah," Dorian says.  “If you’re up for it.”

No way was that an accident.  He thinks he can hear Dorian grinning without having to look.  “Speaking of that,” he says.  “Can you even… you know.  I mean--can you?  Get it up?"

Dorian doesn’t have the same awkwardness when it comes to discussing… things.  “Kind of a design flaw if I couldn’t," he says.  "I’m not flawed, John.”

“Well, that depends on who you ask,” John mutters.

Dorian must think it’s important, because he lets that one go.  “It’s not involuntary for me,” he says.  “Like breathing, I choose whether or not to do it and when.”

"Uh-huh," John says.  Must be nice.  Not that Dorian would know, probably.  He doesn't get embarrassed.  He doesn't know the meaning of performance anxiety.  Until you've felt it, you can't appreciate not feeling it.

He doesn't think much of the quiet.  He's trying to stop thinking, actually, because he doesn't have voluntary control over all of his reactions.  Until he catches the flicker of blue out of the corner of his eye, and he's suddenly suspicious.  "What are you accessing?" John asks.

"Precinct chatter," Dorian says.  "Detective Rashid was just admitted to Mercy Hospital."

"What?"  That's not what he was expecting at all.  "I thought he was fine."

"He was conscious and upright," Dorian says.  "Hospital admission suggests some underlying affliction."

John rolls his eyes.  "You've got a real gift for the obvious, you know that?"

"Captain Maldonado just signed a req order for him," Dorian says.  His tone is odd when he adds, "For a new MX partner."

"She's working?"  John shoots an aborted glance at his phone.  "What the hell."

"Rashid's MX wasn't destroyed," Dorian says.  "It's listed as heavily damaged.  To assign a new one so soon implies one of two things.  Either his previous partner isn't expected to return to duty, or Detective Rashid requires immediate protection."

"Yeah, okay," John says, "but I think the more important question here is, why is Sandra ignoring us?"

"You mean why is she ignoring you?" Dorian says.  "Have you considered the possibility that she's deliberately not speaking to you?"

"I think it's pretty clear she's doing it deliberately," John retorts.  "Was Rashid's MX one of the--what do you call them.  The 44s, or whatever?"

He sees Dorian's head turn, but he keeps his own gaze on the road.  "I think so," Dorian says.  "I don't know for sure."

"You can't get into his file, can you?"  John isn't sure he's going to like what's going on, but he definitely wants to know what it is.  "Find out if he was in trouble?"

There's a too long pause, and then Dorian says, "Who?"

"Rashid's MX," John says.  "Who else are we talking about?"

Dorian doesn't answer, except to say, "I might be able to.  If it's important."

John opens his mouth to say, of course it's important, why else did I ask, but then he thinks about it.  He doesn't want to, but if Dorian could do it legally, wouldn't he already have done it?  He's been relaying as much information as he has all night.

"You mean you could," John says at last, "but you shouldn't."

"I mean someone else could," Dorian says evenly.  "And I think they would if I asked.  But no, they shouldn't do it either."

"No," John tells him.  Rudy again.  When the hell did he and Rudy get so close?  The most annoying part is that the reason Rudy will do it in the first place is the same reason John can't ask him to: he likes Dorian, which means John has to protect him.  Dorian doesn't have enough people willing to stick their neck out for him.

"There's other people who know," John says.  "Rashid, for one.  Sandra, probably."

"Neither of them have any reason to tell us," Dorian says.

"That's where you're wrong," John says.  "If Sandra didn't have a reason to tell us, she would have told me to shut up and leave her alone already.  Unless she's completely offline for some reason, and she's not answering anyone.  If she's putting her name on department paperwork then I don't think that's it."

"It could have been an automatic stamp," Dorian says.  "She might have anticipated the need and pre-approved a req order."

"If Sandra anticipated something this bad, she wouldn't have left him out there alone," John says.  "You know her.  Tell me this isn't totally unlike her."

Dorian rolls his head against the back of the seat, and John glances over in time to catch a look of fond exasperation.  It's staggering in its familiarity.  "First off," Dorian tells him, "I wouldn't use a double negative.  And second, maybe she's trying to protect you."

John scoffs, uncomfortably distracted by Dorian's expression.  Or maybe just by his response to Dorian's expression.  "What, by keeping us in the dark?"

"By refusing to implicate you in whatever's going on," Dorian says.

"Aha!"  John points at him without looking.  "You think something's going on too!"

"There's always something going on," Dorian says.  "The point is that this time, maybe you really don't need to know.  Knowing makes you complicit, and maybe that's what she's trying to avoid."

"She didn't avoid it with you yesterday," John says.  "I think the division captain should be able to tell us what's happening in our own damn division."

"I think the division captain is within her rights to tell you to mind your own business," Dorian replies, but he's smiling.  It's clear in his voice even before John glances at him.

"She'll do that anyway," John says, but he's not paying attention anymore.  Dorian looks more and more kissable as the lights flash by, residential streetlights sweeping in to take the place of downtown's digital day.  "How's your charge?"

"Better than your reaction time," Dorian says.  "You should consider letting me drive, John.  It's very late.”

He’s pretty sure that watching Dorian drive isn’t going to solve anything.  "We're almost there," he says instead.

They are, and Dorian doesn't say anything else until the car is pulling into the driveway.  "I let Sandra know you're worried," he tells the window.  "She says she's fine, and you should enjoy your weekend."

John just sits there after the car stops.  Dorian doesn't get out either, and John wonders what any of them are doing.  When he went to work on Monday he was chasing kidnappers.  Today he's aiding and abetting a rebel android, an accessory if not an outright accomplice to a robot underground that won't even tell him what they're doing.

The best part is, he's pretty sure that's not going to be his biggest problem tonight.

"You think she's trying to protect us?" John says at last.

Dorian doesn't look at him.  "I think she's trying to protect you."

Yeah, he noticed they're using different pronouns.  "Protecting you is protecting me," he says gruffly.  "We're partners.  That's how it works."

Dorian is quiet for a moment, and John thinks of all the ways he could say, no, it's not, or that's easy to say until it isn't.  Instead he just says, "In that case… I'm not sure."

So he thinks John's safe, but Dorian's not sure he himself is.  "You think what she's doing might compromise you?" John asks.

"I don't know," Dorian says.  He turns, at least, so he's looking straight ahead instead of staring fixedly out the window.  "There's no hard evidence that points to anything other than a by-the-book operation.  Our suspicion is a result of circumstantial factors that include MX body language and Sandra's accounting of the department's past illicit activities."

Now he glances over at John, and he adds, "Given that, I can only project the risk to us based on our lack of physical involvement and Sandra's demonstrated willingness to shield you from legal and political repercussions."

John can't argue with that, and he takes a couple of breaths while he reminds himself not to try.  "Okay," he says at last.  "So… I guess we enjoy our weekend.  What do you say?"

"I say…"  Dorian gives him a look that's lost and amused at the same time.  Like John confuses him, and he thinks it's funny.  "I can't think of any better suggestions at this time?"

"Good," John says.  "I'm probably too tired for them anyway."  He pushes the car door open and gets out, and that's when he notices that his leg isn't complaining.  Usually on days when he gets home so late it's technically tomorrow, he's gotten at least one warning about charge or calibration.  Sometimes it aches.  Sometimes it's just annoying.

Tonight it just feels like… a leg that doesn't feel very much.

Dorian follows him to the back door, but he catches John's arm before he can let them in.  John freezes.  He's too surprised to process more than the stop before Dorian says, "Wait."

He doesn't move.  He's not about to admit what goes through his mind, but it covers a lot of ground before Dorian adds, "Hal says someone else was here.  Your tablet should have picked up the security alert."

"It's at work," John says.  His voice is rougher than he wanted it to be, but he is absolutely not going to clear his throat.  It's not even dark.  The light on the doorstep is bright as day, and there's nothing romantic about lingering here with--

"Of course it is," Dorian says.  "I should have set it to forward to your phone.  Why doesn't your tablet forward to your phone automatically?"

"It does," John says.  Adrenaline is starting to clear out the embarrassment.  Someone's tampered with the security system, and this time they've left no physical trace.  He's tense and ready to move on Dorian's word.  "Do we need to get out of here?"

"No," Dorian says.  

There's a long pause, and John waits.  He watches the blue lines race across Dorian's skin.  He's conscious of his own breathing as Dorian continues to grip his arm, a constant pressure that seems like an afterthought now.  He doesn't pull away.

"Someone got into the system," Dorian says at last.  "They knew what they were doing.  If you'd been running the factory default installation protocols, this entire structure would be compromised."

"Uh," John says.  "I didn't change the default."

"I did," Dorian tells him.  "I spent three hours rewriting the code, John.  I can assure you, there aren't any factory settings left."

Great.  He's running a custom security system that was programmed entirely by his robot partner.  "I should probably be more worried about that," John mutters.

"You're welcome," Dorian says.  "Hal is grateful too.  If they'd gotten past the security system, she would have been next."

"Okay."  John gives his arm a tug, and Dorian lets his hand slide away like he's just noticed.  "First off, Hal is creepy, and second, can I go inside or not?"

"You can go inside," Dorian says.  "I'll notify the security company, if you like.  And you should report this to the precinct."

"God, again," John grumbles, letting the door register and admit him at last.  The lights are already waiting for them in the kitchen.  Tonight there's mood lighting in the living room as well, and John is trying not to think about what that means.

"Does Hal usually turn on all the lights?" Dorian asks.  It's only the fact that he sounds amused rather than suspicious that keeps John from looking over his shoulder.

"I think she tries to direct me with them," John says with a sigh.  "You're sure we're okay here?  They kept the security system from paging me, right?  What if they kept it from telling you that something's messed up?"

"I'd know," Dorian says.  "I know the system, now.  When I interface with it, I can see where they were and what they did."

"Not what they want you to see?"  He doesn't want to, but he has to ask.  He knows what it is to be overconfident.  Hell, it's the story of his life.

"Unlikely," Dorian says.  "Admittedly not impossible, but Hal would be able to inform me if a breach of that nature had occurred."

"She would, huh?"  John eyes the coffeemaker, which is silent, and then the lights, which are definitely dimming.  

"Yes," Dorian says.  "You said she tries to direct you?"

"Uh-huh."  When John glances back at him, he sees the living room lights again and sighs.  They're not lower than the kitchen lights anymore, and they're certainly not low enough to suggest sleep.

"Why do you think she wants you to go into the living room?" Dorian asks.  He might be trying for an innocent expression, but he can't cover up that smile.

"Assuming she can't read my mind," John grumbles, "I have no idea."

Dorian's smile is irrepressible.  "And assuming she can?"

"It's possible that I had some plans for this evening," John says.  "After--you know.  This morning.  Before we got stuck at the wall all night, anyway."

"What plans were those?" Dorian says.  The way he tips his head is like an invitation, and John doesn't want to know what he's been watching.

Except that he kind of does.

"Um," he says.  It's possible Dorian doesn't know what he's doing.  Maybe he just looks like that because he's curious, or because John amuses him.  "…Movie?"

Dorian's expression doesn't change.  "I think it's your turn to pick," he says.

Right.  Because they've been doing this for days now.  Dorian probably knows what to expect.  "I'm not actually planning to watch it," John admits.

"If the movie is just an excuse to sit on the couch with me," Dorian says, "you don't need it."

"It's kind of my excuse to make out on the couch with you," John says, watching his reaction carefully.

Dorian's smile breaks into a grin.  "Then you definitely don't need it."

Chapter 15

He might not need an excuse, but he wouldn't pass up a change of clothes.  Is it weird to mention that at this point?  He isn't sure how close he should get to someone he's trying to seduce in clothes he's been wearing down at the wall.

"What?" Dorian asks, studying him with that amused expression still firmly in place.  "I'm the one who's supposed to be spacing out, man."

"Yeah."  John shakes his head.  "Nothing.  I mean--you've been wearing the same clothes since Wednesday, right?  And I'm… not exactly fresh."

"This is a human thing, isn't it."  Dorian says it the same way he makes fun of John for complaining when it rains.  "You want to slip into something more comfortable?"

John stares at him.  "You know, I can't tell when you're feeding me a line and when you're using cliches because you don't know any better."

Dorian raises his eyebrows.  "Well, I can't tell if you're actually worried about my clothes or if you're just trying to get me naked.  Should we trade information, or do you want to keep guessing?"

"I'm worried about my clothes," John says bluntly.  "How's your sense of smell?"

"Good enough that you're not going to smell any different up close than you do from over there," Dorian says.  "Yours?"

"You were wearing that this morning," John says.  "It didn't bother me then; it's probably not going to bother me now."

"So you're not trying to get me naked," Dorian says, the corner of his mouth quirking upward again.

"Well, I wouldn't object."  John can't help but smile.  "But no, I think that's a little fast."

"You said that before," Dorian says.  "There's a speed we're supposed to be going at.  Care to enlighten me?"

"No, it's not--"  He breaks off, because Dorian isn't mocking him.  He's really asking.  "Yeah," he says, more carefully.  "I guess--there's a difference, you know?  Between having sex and…"  

John wants to say, getting to know each other, but how stupid does that sound?  They know each other.  They don't know each other, not like that, but it's not like they're gonna get married or anything.  They're just a couple of guys stuck together with no other outlet.

"You don't want to have sex?" Dorian asks.

"No, I do!" John says quickly.  "That's not what I meant.  I just--"  But there's nowhere he can go with that, and he shakes his head.  "It doesn't matter.  Just forget it."

"You don't want to have sex right away?" Dorian guesses.  There's no trace of blue light on his face, so it comes out of nowhere when he says, "I understand there's a series of lesser intimacies that some people prefer to engage in prior to sex.  As a way of… testing their compatibility.  Is that what you want to do?"

"Yeah," John says, before he can think better of it.  It almost sounds reasonable when Dorian says it, which is weird, because what does he know?

"All right," Dorian says.  "I think that's a good idea."

John looks at him in surprise.  "You do?"

"Sure," Dorian says.  "I've never had sex with a human.  If you've had sex with an android, I don't think you're going to admit it, so this is sort of a cross-cultural experience.  It makes sense that we shouldn't take each other's preferences for granted.  Learning about them ahead of time should make having sex a more enjoyable experience for both of us."

John stares at him.  "You know," he says, "sometimes it's really obvious that you're a robot."

Dorian just tips his head and fails to hide a smile.  "Most of the time it's more obvious that you're not," he says.  "I think I'd like to change my clothes anyway.  Is that all right?"

"Uh."  John has a bad feeling that everything with Dorian is going to be like this, maybe from now on.  "Yeah.  Of course."

Dorian takes off his jacket and hangs it up, and John can only watch as he disappears into the living room.  Not exactly a bad feeling, he tells himself.  Just a 'my life is totally out of control' feeling.  It's not like that's anything new.

He's following Dorian without really thinking about it, which gets him as far as the doorway before he realizes what's happening.  Dorian's already shirtless, folding the uniform long sleeves as he stands over the charger.  He places it next to the sweats and reaches for his pants.

"Hey," John says, as his brain finally kicks into gear.  "Hey, the windows have a privacy  setting!"  He fumbles for it, trying not to look, but he can't help it.  Somehow he finds the right setting and the windows shimmer slightly as it takes effect.

Dorian doesn't stop what he's doing.  "Do they?" he asks curiously.  "What for?"

"For privacy," John snaps.  He turns sideways, at least, compromising between turning all the way around and just flat-out staring while Dorian takes his clothes off.  "For changing your clothes.  Or sleeping.  Or anything you don't want the whole world to watch you doing."

"Ah," Dorian says.  John can see him folding his pants out of the corner of his eye.  Just his pants: he's not wearing anything else, and John wonders whose bright idea it was to have DRNs go commando.  "I've never had that option."

"Why don't you have underwear?" John blurts out.  "Isn't that… uncomfortable?"

"I don't think comfort was high on the list when these uniforms were being designed."  Dorian has paused, and he's not making any move to put on the sweatpants he wore the other night.  "You usually change your clothes in the bathroom.  Have I broken some social taboo by doing it here?"

"No," John tells the window in front of him.  "It's fine."

"Am I making you uncomfortable?" Dorian insists.  "I can go somewhere else."

"You're making me uncomfortable because you're naked," John grumbles.  "Just put your sweatpants on so I can look at you again."  It's not really stopping him, but there's a hell of a difference between watching someone's reflection undress without them knowing and having to be in the same room with them while they're doing it.

"Correct me if I'm wrong," Dorian says, but at least he's doing what he's told.  "Sex usually involves some degree of nudity on the part of the participants, does it not?"

"Funny," John says.  "We're not having sex right now, if you hadn't noticed."

"That's unfortunate," Dorian agrees.  "Do I need to put on a shirt to make out with you, or is this okay?"

He’s watching a half-naked robot ask him what to wear.  They’re actually negotiating sex, instead of falling into it by accident and then pretending it never happened.  Like this is some kind of relationship.  Or a business transaction.

Oh, god.  He's turning into one of those bangbot groupies and he didn't even see it coming.

He's going to be fired for this.

"John," Dorian says.  The playful tone is gone from his voice, but in its place he just sounds soft and even.  "You look like you're having a panic attack, man."

"I'm not having a goddamned panic attack," John snaps, but his hands are cold and his heart is pounding in his ears.  Dorian can probably see right through him.

"It's been a long day," Dorian says.  He's pulling the sweatshirt on over his head, and John watches that skin disappear with feelings he doesn't even try to sort out.  He likes it, he wants it, he shouldn't have it.  It's not his to own.

It’s someone's, though.  He's thinking about sleeping with someone else's property, and how fucked up is that?  Jesus, could Dorian even tell him no if he wanted to?  He's not quite deluded enough to believe Dorian wants to, but what if he did?

"Maybe we should just stick with the movie plan," Dorian's saying.  "This time I get to charge while we watch, though.  I'm not making that mistake again."

"This is a bad idea," John says.

"Yes," Dorian says.  "We've already established that.  But on a scale of baiting people who could get you fired, to running into machine gunfire in an enclosed stairwell?  I'd say this barely even registers."

He’s picked up the charger again, and John thinks he should just leave it by the couch.  He doesn’t know why Dorian moved it in the first place.  “You don’t have to keep moving that,” he says.

Dorian stops where he is.

“No,” John says, when he realizes how that sounded.  “I mean.  You can just leave it over here.  If you want.”

Dorian smiles.  "Thank you," he says, setting it down at the far end of the couch.  "What movie would you like to see?"

He almost says he doesn't care before he realizes that he does.  If Dorian is trying to get him to choose, he feels like he should choose.  "Well, we're kind of on a roll with Star Trek," he says.  "Let's keep it going."

"Coming right up," Dorian says.  A line of light glints across his face, and the screen comes up without him having to do anything else.  The room dims, which is probably Hal, and Dorian asks, "You ready?"

John's still wearing his jacket.  He shrugs out of it, but he doesn't want to walk back into the kitchen so he tosses it on the bed.  He empties his pockets and his holster before turning back to the couch.  "Yeah," he says.  "Fire it up."

Dorian moves toward the couch at the same time he does, and he doesn't sit on the end with his charger.  He sits beside it, in the middle of the couch.  John has two steps to decide if he's gonna take him up on that or bury himself as far in the corner as he can.

He sits down next to Dorian.  He doesn't bother leaving any space between them, and he can see Dorian smiling so he glances sideways at him.  "Hey," he says.  Smooth as always.

"Hello."  Dorian turns his head to look, and they're right there.  Right in each other's faces.

John manages not to swallow, but it’s a near thing.  “May I?”  He waves his fingers between them, but it’s too low to really register.  Dorian probably gets it anyway.

He sees those blue eyes drop to his mouth.  When Dorian murmurs, “Yeah,” it’s exactly right.  Quiet, gentle… eager.  He sounds like he wants it, and John really does want to know what he’s been watching.  Probably.

He leans in to stop himself from wondering.  Dorian pushes back without hesitation, and his mouth feels like everything John’s been thinking about all day.  It's actually kind of strange, how familiar it feels, but he's always had a good imagination.

Dorian kisses the way he talks: carefully, and with an unexpected precision.  When he nuzzles the corner of John's mouth, he doesn't miss.  When his tongue flirts with John's bottom lip, it's definitely on purpose.  And when John turns into him, sliding his arm out of the way to brace it on the cushions behind them, he finds Dorian's hand already there.

He smiles into another kiss and yeah, maybe he should let up.  Maybe he should at least check out Dorian's expression, but he can feel it.  He can feel the quirk of those lips under his and he can see the flicker of blue just beneath the skin.

John covers the hand on the cushions with his own and lifts his other one to touch Dorian's face.  That blue light is reflected on his fingers.  He can't feel it but he can see it, bright and busy as he captures Dorian's upper lip and gently presses underneath.

Too busy.  Not just a trickle of idle connection, or a dance of blue lines to amuse John.  The light through Dorian's skin is a flood of neural activity that makes John pull back.  He starts to lift his hand, but Dorian catches it, holding it there against his face.

"You okay?" John murmurs.  Dorian doesn't open his eyes, and the blue light isn't fading.  "You're kind of... technicolor."

He feels an aborted twitch, like Dorian wants to tilt his head but changed his mind at the last second.  "I've done this before," Dorian says.  His tone is odd, and John is caught without anything to say.

Dorian opens his eyes, and John has the strangest feeling they’re not seeing him at all.

Then, abruptly, Dorian focuses, and he looks so surprised that John almost smiles.  “Natieri did that,” he says.  “Covered my face to hide the--”

He stops as fast as he started.  Maybe realizing what he’s saying, and John can’t not smile at the stricken look on his face.  “I’m sorry,” Dorian says.  “That was inappropriate.”

“Okay,” John says.  He strokes the side of Dorian’s face with his thumb, since Dorian’s still not letting him pull his hand away.  “First off, we’re way past ‘that was inappropriate,’ so don’t even try it with me.  Second, I wasn’t trying to hide it, I was trying to feel it.  Because it’s cool, all right?”

He thinks there was supposed to be more, but for the life of him he can’t remember it right now.  Dorian’s looking at him like he doesn’t understand him at all, which is typical and vaguely reassuring.  At least that’s something he knows.

“You think it’s cool,” Dorian says.  Like he’s trying to get his super advanced, computerized brain to process the idea.

“Yeah,” John says.

Dorian’s starting to smile now.  “You think the thing I do to entertain small children is cool.”

John tries again to pull his hand away, but Dorian just wraps his fingers around John’s and pulls them to his mouth for a kiss.  “I think that’s very sweet of you, John.”

“Oh, shut up,” John mutters.  He finally gets his hand back, and he glares at Dorian’s smirking face.  Or he tries to.  He’s kind of a sucker for having his fingers kissed.  He can only imagine where Dorian learned that.

“I am sorry,” Dorian says, his smile fading a little.  “I don’t know where that came from.  I mean, it was obviously triggered by your action, but I don’t think I’ve processed far enough to know when that memory originated.”

“Did she kiss you?”  He frowns when Dorian nods.  “Recently?”

“I just told you--”  Dorian stops, eyeing John with a look that’s a little too knowing.  “You mean, in the three days since we met her?  Of course not.  I’ve been with you the whole time.  When would she have had the chance?”

“I don’t know,” John grumbles.  They’re still very close, legs pressed together and his hand over Dorian’s on the couch.  He doesn’t want to back off.  He doesn’t want to admit that anyone else could matter like this.

“It’s an old memory,” Dorian says.  “Probably from the underground, some sort of cover we had to use in a difficult situation.  There’s no feeling associated with it other than… surprise.”

“You didn’t see it coming,” John guesses.

“No,” Dorian agrees.  “I don’t really care about that right now, though.  Can we forget this and go back to what we were doing?”

“Hey, I’m not the one who brought it up,” John says.

Dorian kisses him once, twice, and then John’s hand is on his shoulder, pushing him back.  Not much, not even at all, really: he doesn’t move away, but he gets the message when John says, “Wait.  Wait, you said you didn’t have any feelings about kissing..."

He's not calling her "Natieri" just because everyone else does, but he doesn't settle on a name before Dorian says, “No.  Just surprise.”

“What about this, then?” John wants to know.  “You have feelings about this?”

It doesn’t faze Dorian at all.  “Of course I do,” he says.  “As much as you.”

John turns his head, keeping Dorian’s mouth away from his.  “I didn’t say anything about feelings,” he mutters.

“John,” Dorian says.  “If I just wanted to have sex, there are easier marks than you.  But I love you, man.  You’re the obvious choice.  Maybe the only choice.”

“You love--”  He breaks off, eyeing Dorian suspiciously.  “Are you feeling all right?”

“It’s okay,” Dorian says.  He doesn’t look any more worried than he did before.  “I don’t need a reciprocal declaration.  It’s clear that you have feelings for me too, and I’m well aware of your inability to communicate them.”

“Hey,” John protests.  He needs to be far away from this conversation, but he can’t bring himself to move.  “I communicate just fine!”

“As long as you’re talking to people who don’t listen to what you say,” Dorian agrees, “yes.  You do.”  He shifts just enough that John feels it through his entire body, and he realizes he’s holding onto Dorian with both hands even now.  He doesn’t let go.

“Look,” John says.  “I’m bad at… at all of this, okay?  I don’t want you to think--”

“John.”  Dorian says it like he means it, like he’s not just interrupting but trying to stop John from talking all together.  “What do you think I expect from you?  I’m no one.  I’m not even a real person in the eyes of the law.  You’re not committing to anything by loving me.”

His fingers tighten on Dorian’s and he clutches that shoulder like it’s the only thing that keeps him from drowning.  “I don’t agree,” John says, and the evenness of his voice surprises him.  He sounds calm and maybe a little crazy when he says, “Fuck the law.  You’re not going into this expecting nothing, you got that?  You’re worth more than that.”

“What am I supposed to expect?” Dorian counters.  “You can’t date me.  You certainly can’t marry me.  The best I can hope for is sex no one else knows about and the chance to tease you about your inability to say ‘I love you’ when we’re alone.”

“Because I don’t say shit like that,” John grumbles under his breath.  “Jesus, where do you get these things.”

“And you know what?” Dorian says, like John never even opened his mouth.  “I’m okay with that.  I have to be okay with that, because I’m never going to have a life the way you do.  I could be turned off at any time, for any reason: budget cuts, safety concerns… man, I look at someone funny and they could have me shut down.”

The hand under his twitches, and when John loosens his grip it pulls free and turns over before sliding back against John's.  They're holding hands now.  There's no way to call it anything else.

“So this," Dorian says quietly.  "With you?  It’s the best thing I’ll ever have.  All I want is to make sure I really have it, you know?  As much as I can.”

Most depressing "I love you" speech ever, John thinks.  This is why he doesn't do speeches like that.  They never come out the way you want them to.

Dorian isn’t even looking at him.  It’s awkward with their hands clasped, because he can’t lean on that arm now and he’s trying to sit straight on a couch that has other ideas.  Plus he can’t seem to take his other hand off of Dorian’s shoulder.  His face is right there, even if they’re not looking at each other, so John gives in and rests his forehead against Dorian’s.

“I guess,” John says after a moment, “if I ignore the part where you basically said you’re settling for me because you don’t think you can do better, and the part about how nothing we do is going to be that great anyway, it’s not the least romantic thing I’ve ever heard.”

Dorian lifts his head and John slides his hand up from shoulder to neck, cupping the back of his head to keep him from pulling away.  “I didn’t say either of those things,” Dorian tells him.

“Uh-huh,” John agrees, leaning in to kiss the side of his face.  He kisses Dorian's cheek, his upper lip, and his mouth.  He wants to run his hand up Dorian's arm, but if holding hands is a thing they're doing now then he's not going to ruin it.

Dorian's mouth opens under his, pushing back, and John feels a hand on his knee.  He smiles into the kiss, making just enough space for Dorian to murmur, "I'm not settling."

He’s not totally uncivilized, so he holds back his huff of disbelief.  “Yeah,” he mutters, kissing him again so that the words are muffled against skin afterwards.  “You are.”

Dorian lowers his head, breaking contact long enough to say, “I’m not settling for you.”  His hand slides up John’s thigh--far enough to be obvious, enough to make his breath hitch--and he squeezes firmly.  “I want you.”

’Cause you’re nuts, John thinks, but this is Dorian they’re talking about.  Of course he’s nuts.  He rides with John.  He’s friends with Rudy.  He sings love songs in the car and he plots the robot revolution with Sandra in his free time.

John wants him too.

Dorian seems to know it--hell, who’s John kidding, he’s probably always known it--and he’s not hesitating over protocols this time.  Now that he’s got a hand on John’s leg, he’s pulling his other one free and sliding it around John’s waist.  John arches into it when Dorian’s hand sweeps across his back, then again, harder, making his skin tingle under his shirt.

His head tips back involuntarily and Dorian rises with him, getting a knee up on the couch as he turns into John and presses their mouths together again.  John didn’t expect to be followed.  He’s already off-balance when Dorian finishes his little back massage with a firm upstroke, gripping John’s shoulder and leaning into his kiss with gentle but insistent inevitability.

There’s a couch cushion behind his shoulders before he knows it.  He’s being eased back, one hand holding Dorian close, trying to catch that tongue when it teases his lips.  He feels the back of the couch take his weight, but he doesn’t know what it means until he relaxes into it.  As soon as he gives in, Dorian twists around the rest of the way and swings a leg over John’s lap.

If John could do more than suck in air between kisses he might have gasped.  He can feel it in his chest, in his stomach, between his legs when Dorian straddles him and keeps him from jerking up.  He can feel the lurch of contact and the skidding loss of control when Dorian grinds against him.  A groan presses at the back of his throat, threatening to escape no matter how hard he bites it back.

He shouldn’t be this turned on.  He shouldn’t be straining against the weight, trying to get more friction from someone who seems determined to finish mapping his mouth with their tongue.  But god damn, how long has he waited to see Dorian drop the good little soldier act and just take what he wants for once?

His hands are on Dorian's hips now, fingers digging into the waistband of his sweats, so he can't keep Dorian from pulling away from the kiss.  He's panting even without Dorian's tongue in his mouth and it's embarrassing to see Dorian barely breathing as he stares back at John.  "I don't think you're bad at this," Dorian says from out of nowhere.

John lets his head fall back, braced against the cushions as he stares up at the windows.  "Great," he says, closing his eyes.  "Thanks."

Dorian doesn't move, but he's warmer than he has any right to be and John's hot underneath him.  He's not as heavy as John expected, but he's strong enough to be taking most of his own weight without making it obvious.  John doesn't think he could push Dorian off if he tried.

"You don't have to say anything if you don't want to," Dorian's saying, "but I need you to let me know if I do something wrong.  If I'm going too fast, or if there's something you don't like--"

"You're not," John mutters.  God, he's really not.  John would let him do this for hours, maybe days, even if he stays completely controlled while John just gets more and more helpless.

He wonders if Dorian can actually lose control.  Even a little.  If he decides what physical reactions to have and when, can he even get off?  It didn't occur to John to ask.

"All right," Dorian says, and that's the only warning John gets before he feels a mouth on his neck and the dirty swipe of a tongue just below his jaw.

He can't swallow a moan he didn't know was coming.  He feels Dorian's lips move against his skin, but he can't tell if it's a smile because the sensation is overwhelmed by gentle suction.  It's careful, like someone trying to give a hickey for the first time, but when his partner is an android he'll take soft and teasing over rough and bruising any day.

How the hell does Dorian know how hard to suck on human skin, anyway?

"Okay," John gasps.  He gives up and slides his hands under Dorian's sweats, steady on his hips but he needs skin under his fingers or none of this feels real.  "This morning you were bad at whispering and now you can do hickeys?"

Dorian pulls away long enough to ask, "Do you want me to leave a mark?"

Oh, god.  Yes.  No--he can't.  How is John supposed to explain that?

"It's fine," Dorian murmurs when he doesn't answer.  "They probably won't believe I left you alone with someone else long enough to do this anyway."  

The words leave no impression on John's skin, no lingering warmth or whisper of breath, but Dorian's mouth does.  He sucks another kiss into John's skin, this one next to the one before it, and then another, until John's entire jaw is nothing but dampness and tingling pleasure.  He doesn't think about what he's doing when he lifts his hand, still trapped under clothing, and splays his fingers across Dorian's chest.

It's not strange at first.  He feels Dorian pause, but the skin under his hands is warm and smooth.  He can feel the outline of--

Not muscles, he realizes.  Dorian is watching him warily when he opens his eyes.  When he pushes, fingers pressing into artificial skin, it does give a little.  But it doesn't jump under his touch.  There's no ticklish twitch or involuntary shiver, and if he pushed harder he would meet titanium resistance.

It's not a body under his hands.  No matter how soft Dorian's mouth is or how naturally his fingers can move, he isn't organic.  The muscular outline under his shirt is just that: an outline, a molded approximation of a human chest.

"You okay?" Dorian asks quietly.

He said John didn't have to talk, and John knows that wasn't just a jab at his supposed inability to communicate.  Dorian said it because he's genuinely willing to mess around with a silent partner.  He'll take John's acceptance on faith if he has to.

John doesn't want him to have to.  He runs his other hand up Dorian's side, under his shirt, and Dorian shifts a little.  Like it matters.  Like he feels it.  Like he's responding to John's touch, and he does that, right?  John can do this.

"Yeah," he mutters.  His voice is rough, but it isn't forced out.  The words come more easily when he sees the relief Dorian tries to hide.  "I'm good," he says.  "You?"

"I'm enjoying myself immensely," Dorian says, and it makes John smile.

"How does it--"  He tries to clear his throat, but it doesn't help.  "Uh, how does it feel?"  If Dorian can be honest, so can he, and he wants to know.  He's pretty sure he wants to know, at least.

"In what sense?" Dorian asks.  His hand is braced on John's shoulder, but the other one comes up to touch his face.  It's a light touch, but not a tentative one.  He knows John will allow it.

"I mean--"  He skates his hands over Dorian's sides again, rucking up his sweatshirt and covering as much skin as possible.  One of his thumbs brushes against something that might be a nipple, and he sees Dorian blink.  "Do you… does it feel good?"

"Yes," Dorian says, his fingers ghosting over John's cheek.  "Of course."

It's not the most enthusiastic answer, but Dorian has almost no physical cues for pain and John's convinced he feels that.  Maybe pleasure is the same way.  Dorian isn't built to respond the way a human would, but he has preferences.  They must be based on something.

John's opened his mouth to push the point when he realizes what Dorian is doing.  The sensation on his cheek isn't idle stroking.  Dorian is tracing a deliberate set of lines and circles into his skin.  John's willing to bet they're the same ones that appear on his face when processor connection makes the light glow blue.

He blurts it out without thinking.  "You imagining me as a bot?"

The pattern trails off into nothing as Dorian raises his eyebrows.  "Are you imagining me as a human," he says.  It's phrased like a question, but he says it the same way he says a lot of things that he already knows the answer to.

Which is weird, because John didn't know the answer until he asked.  "I can't imagine you any differently than you are right now," he says honestly.

Dorian smiles, and when he leans down for another kiss, John slides his arms around him and pulls him in close.

Chapter 16

It takes about three minutes for John to realize two important things.  One, if he wants Dorian on his back, pushing isn't going to get him there.  He's going to have to ask.  And two, he really wants Dorian on his back.

It's at least another ten minutes before he can bring himself to say something.  They're ten very good minutes, and he doesn't have any complaints.  He's willing to admit, at least in the privacy of his own mind, that he likes having Dorian on top of him.

He likes it a little too much.  He can't concentrate on how Dorian's responding when every move he makes is met with something hotter and more passionate.  He doesn't need to wonder where Dorian learned passion, because his partner's always had that over him, but he does wonder how he's going to learn anything about robot sex if he doesn't actually participate.

"Hey," John gasps, and wow, he didn't know how gone his voice would sound.  "Dee."  The nickname slips out.  God, he shouldn't be allowed to talk right now.  "Move," he manages, with another ineffective push on Dorian's shoulder.

Dorian does, rocking into him and dragging his hands up John's sides.  John's shirt and holster goes with them and he lifts his arms to hide the way he stiffens, arching into Dorian's weight.  "Not what I meant," he groans.

The shirt clears his head and tangles around his arms, and he tries to yank them free before he realizes Dorian's holding him there on purpose.  He's twisted the shirt up in his hand, tight and unforgiving, and John's whole body jerks in an effort to find some leverage.  Even with his feet on the floor, pushing back as hard as he can, there's nothing he can do.

"Like this?" Dorian says, pressing his mouth gently to John's neck.  It's calculated and precise, and his tongue traces the straining muscles all the way to John's collarbone.  John groans again when that free hand lands on his stomach, stroking the skin in time with the thrusts his weight is suppressing.

"No," John gasps.  Blood is pounding in his ears.  He can feel heat throbbing under his skin.  If Dorian doesn't get the hell off of him, he's going to embarrass himself pretty quickly.  "Where did you--what are you watching," he blurts out.  "Jesus!"

It's too loud, too out of control.  He's losing it.  All he has to do is say stop; he knows that and he can't bring himself to form the word.  Just a few more seconds, god, he hasn't felt this good since--

"I'm watching you," Dorian murmurs.  "Your physiological reactions seem to be an adequate indicator of pleasure, but if you have preferences, please share them."

He groans, inarticulate and incapable of keeping his mouth shut.  He's making noises he doesn't want anyone to hear.  He's pinned under his partner and he can feel an empty holster digging into the back of his arm.  Dorian's police property and John's the one still in uniform; what does that say about them?

"I didn't get that," Dorian says, and he sounds like he's teasing.  It's the last straw.  If Dorian starts actively teasing him, it's all over.

"Get off," John gasps, which would be more convincing if he didn't sound like he's doing exactly that.  "I mean move.  Let me up."

He can't string together more than a few words at a time.  It must be enough, because Dorian goes up on his knees and John bites back a whimper at the loss of contact.  The pressure on his arms eases at the same time, and he pulls one hand free to shove against Dorian's shoulder again.

This time Dorian lets himself be pushed back.  John's other arm comes free and he catches the sweatshirt Dorian's wearing in his fist before he can get too far.  "Wait," he says, because he's not trying to stop this and it looks like Dorian doesn't get that.  "Just--here.  I want to be on top."

The words come out in a rush.  Dorian's skin is alive with a network of sparkling blue and John wonders what he needs to know that he doesn't already.  "Are you scanning me?" he demands.

"Among other things," Dorian agrees, but he's twisting, falling ungracefully onto the couch beside John.  He still has a leg over John's lap, but John can breathe and he can move and he's not sure it's an improvement.

"Yeah?" he says, pulling the sleeves off of his arms.  He sits forward and tosses his shirt and shoulder holster to the floor.  "Are you watching porn while you're making out with me?"

"No," Dorian says.  He's leaning back, arranging himself in a careful sprawl against the side of the couch.  He hasn't taken his eyes off of John since--well, at all, as far as John can tell.  "Not exactly."

"What does that mean?" John wants to know.  He's kicking off his boots, gaze slipping to Dorian's feet.  They give DRNs socks but not underwear.  What the hell is wrong with law enforcement?

"Well," Dorian says, and John knows that tone.  He looks up to see Dorian smirking at him.  "You did give me your phone."

"Oh my god," John says, pushing Dorian's leg off of his.  He lunges forward, fisting his hand in that sweatshirt again, but he can't pull Dorian up if he doesn't want to be pulled.  "I knew it.  I knew you were looking through my files!"

Dorian just grins up at him.  "I wouldn't have told you," he says, "if I thought it would upset you."

"Oh, yeah, that's so reassuring."  John tries to find a way to brace himself that doesn't involve pressing his hard-on against any part of Dorian's anatomy and he fails.  He settles awkwardly over one of Dorian's thighs, knee between Dorian's legs.  

The sweatpants make it obvious that whatever it takes for Dorian to will himself to react, he's not doing it now.  John isn't sure putting something there for him to grind against will make a difference, but that's why he's doing this.  That's what he's trying to find out.

"You like romantic porn," Dorian is saying.  "I think that's nice."

"Now you have opinions on my porn," John grumbles, pushing up his sweatshirt to stroke Dorian's stomach.  Or his lower abdomen.  Where his stomach would be, anyway, and where he has a distinct lack of anything resembling a happy trail.

He does have a belly button.  John doesn't ask.  Mostly because Dorian says, "Many people seem to think porn in general isn't very realistic.  What do you think?"

"I think no one watches it for realism," John mutters.  He doesn't bother trying to remember what Dorian might have seen on his phone.  He's probably seen worse, and this is the first time John's legitimately been allowed to stare.

To stare, and to touch.  The skin over Dorian's abdomen feels softer than his chest, but maybe that's his imagination.  When he slides his hands outward, fingers pressing carefully to Dorian's sides, he can't find a seam.  He's seen Dorian without a chest plate; he knows it's there.  He can't feel it.

"Why do you watch it?" Dorian wants to know.

"Why are you suddenly so chatty?" John counters.  He thinks Dorian's sides aren't as solid as his chest, but he's not about to poke him to find out.  He does push the sweatshirt higher, thumbing Dorian's nipples and checking his face to see if he reacts.

He doesn't.  Dorian's watching him, and when John catches his eye he says, "Because I think I might need to distract you.  I'm worried that you'll find my responses lacking, and keeping you from concentrating on them might be in my best interest."

John stares at him, but Dorian isn't smiling.  "What?" he says.

"You were distracted before," Dorian tells him.  "Now you're not.  I want you to be able to do what you want, but I don't know that I'll meet your expectations."

John tries to look serious and supportive and totally fails.  Dorian does have performance anxiety.  It's just not related to his ability to get it up.

"Why are you smiling?" Dorian asks.

"Is this what self-doubt looks like on you?"  He is smiling.  Damn it.  He's trying not to grin.  "Don't think I've ever seen it before."

"I'm not nervous," Dorian protests, and John loses the battle with his grin.  He's maybe thirty seconds from outright laughter and he knows it.  "I'm just answering your question."

"Well, I think that's nice," John drawls, and he knows when Dorian recognizes the imitation of himself.  He knows because Dorian frowns at him and he feels the leg underneath him move enough to tip him forward.

It forces him further forward than he expected: there's a firm thigh against his ass and a knee in the small of his back when he struggles to stay upright.  He's braced hard against Dorian's chest but the pressure makes him gasp and there's nowhere else to go.  He's careful not to move more than he has to.  It's already uncomfortable in his pants and he's not going to make it worse.

"I think you should come here," Dorian says, smirking up at him.  "Some porn is more plausible with a non-human partner."

"Take your sweatshirt off," John manages.  If he's going to crawl all over Dorian, he at least wants to know what it feels like.

Dorian does it without getting out from under John, without having to sit up.  He barely even lifts his shoulders off the couch.  When he's closer, though, his face right next to John's, he whispers, "Do you like giving me orders?"

"No," John chokes.  He has to close his eyes, because if he moves his arms out from between them they'll be closer than they've ever been.  He's not sure he can handle it.

"Good," Dorian says quietly.  He sounds very serious, and John hopes this isn't some game he doesn't understand.  "Because I'm not sure I like taking them."

"Yeah," John mutters.  His arms hurt, joints locked and protesting the strain.  He lets his head drop, resting his forehead on Dorian's shoulder for the few seconds of relief it buys him.  "I get that."

"I'm not trying to make you uncomfortable," Dorian adds.  Of course he's noticed.  "You did say you wanted to be on top."

Just like that, his resistance is gone. He eases his arms out from under him, one at a time, pressing his naked chest to Dorian's and trying to breathe through the tangle of legs and unwanted clothing.  He wants unrestricted access to what Dorian has under those sweatpants.

"Better," Dorian murmurs.  "For me.  You?"

"Yeah," John says, but it's rough and he's trying not to rock their hips together.  Dorian's not even hard, and it won't feel great like this anyway.  That's what he tells himself.

"What about like this?" Dorian asks.  John can feel a leg hook around the back of his knee.  More importantly, there's the soft swell of something against his leg.  When he shifts, rubbing against it, he can feel it pressing back.

What's it made out of, he wonders?  Even androids don't have titanium dicks.  Right?

He thinks maybe if he could get his hands on it he'd be able to tell.  It's stupid, because he doesn't know what Dorian's skin is made of and he's been touching that for months.  But it's an excuse, and excuses don't have to make sense.

"John," Dorian says quietly.  He rolls his hips, slow and easy, and John is never leaving this couch.  "Tell me if it's too fast."

The sound he makes isn't, strictly speaking, a word.  Or even a series of words.  But he thinks Dorian understands because there's a hand on his face and another one on his hip and he's pulled into a kiss that's far too filthy for someone as stupidly perfect as Dorian.

He can't remember why he thought being on top would matter.

It matters when he lifts his head and catches a strange reflection out of the corner of his eye.  He doesn't know what made him look up.  He doesn't know what's behind the reflection.  But Dorian's face lights up blue and John can already feel the adrenaline flooding his system when he says, "There's someone outside."

"I'm gonna shoot them," John growls.  He eyes the floor and wonders about his chances of keeping furniture between him and the windows on his way to the bed.  Where his gun is.

"Not if I shoot them first," Dorian says.  "They have a pulse gun.  I'm calling dispatch."

"Fuck," John says, because pulse guns are illegal terrorist-grade weapons that may or may not be able to take out DRNs.  Possibly with a single shot.

"Apparently not tonight," Dorian replies.  John's libido makes a valiant effort, but even he can't keep it up in the face of imminent death.  "I'm coordinating with Hal.  Don't move."

"Oh yeah," John mutters, and he can't help it.  He presses a brief kiss to Dorian's jaw.  "That's a real hardship."

"Four minutes," Dorian says.  "Hal's deactivated their car.  Your windows aren't bulletproof, correct?"

Nothing's going to stop a pulse gun, but John gets why he asks just before he opens his mouth.  "No," he says.  "I can shoot 'em out.  How many are there?"

"Just the one," Dorian says.  He's still holding onto John the same way he was before.  "I think they're trying to isolate you inside the house.  I'm masking your bio-signature."

"You are, huh?"  John wishes his gun was closer to him.  "Didn't know you could do that."

"I'm full of surprises," Dorian says.

John smiles.  "I think I like that you watched my porn."

"Remind me to invade your privacy more often," Dorian says.  "Hal will turn on the kitchen light on my signal.  If I cover you, can you reach your gun?"

"They'll know when we move?" John guesses.  Privacy glass only goes so far.

"I can't mask your vitals at a distance," Dorian says.  "But I can duplicate them.  They'll have two targets."

The lights go out.  The security alarm doesn't so much as beep, and the house is plunged into unnatural silence.  Worst is Dorian's body, stiff and motionless beneath him, and John swears.

Whoever's outside just gave up on stealth.

He goes to roll off of Dorian, but the moment he reaches down to push Dorian's frozen hand away it turns soft and responsive under his.  "Sorry," Dorian whispers.  "Hal's offline.  They know where we are.  Go."

He gets shoved off the couch by a partner who shouldn't even be online.  John scrambles for the bed, putting his hands up to protect his face when he hears glass shatter behind him.  The familiar weight of his gun steadies his arm as he turns, back to the bed and both hands on the grip.

Dorian went out through the window.  The pulse gun must be directional because the streetlights are still on.  John can see Dorian on the ground, a silhouette with something weapon-shaped looming over him, and he pulls the trigger.

He registers after it goes down that the shadow was turning.  Toward him, he assumes.  He keeps the gun on it as he pushes himself up.  Whoever he just shot stays down, Dorian sits up, and John doesn't know what the hell is going on.

"Clear!" Dorian calls.  He's on top of the wounded shadow now, maybe restraining them, maybe trying to help them, John can't tell.  He's not climbing out through broken glass in his socks, so he points his gun at the floor and shoves his boots on as best he can.

It's enough that he's okay going through the window after them.  Dorian gave him the all-clear, he could probably use the door.  But he doesn't want to lose line-of-sight on whatever's going on.

There's a trace of blue outlining the edge of Dorian's face as John sidles up to him, visually clearing the area for himself while he listens for the sound of sirens.  "You okay?" he says, because Dorian's putting pressure on the shooter's chest and hopefully that means he isn't worse off himself.

"I'm fine," Dorian says, which could mean almost anything.  "Couple of new bullet holes.  She must have thought I was you when I came through the window."

"She?" John echoes.

"The shooter is female," Dorian says.  "Kelly Honichila."

"From the book club," John says.  That was two, then.  Two people at the wall the night he almost drowned, and two shooters since.  "Great.  Does this mean I'm off homicide watch?"

"Yes, John.  Police protocol after an attempted murder is to decrease protection surrounding the intended victim."

John rolls his eyes.  He can hear the sirens now, and he's trying to decide how hard he should fight the inevitable cop quarters argument.  "Hey, you were the one who got shot."

"The EMP was clearly meant for me," Dorian says.  "The bullets were for you.  I suggest you put on a shirt and bring me the sweatshirt you loaned me.  Your security system has an overload recorder; do you want me to delete it?"

Shit.  He's standing outside his house, shirtless, with a gun in his hand.  Which wouldn't be so bad--there's physical proof of an armed intruder, after all--if his police bot wasn't equally undressed.  The security footage will be the least of their problems if he doesn't move.

"Be right back," he says, flicking the safety before he lowers the gun again.

"John," Dorian calls after him.  "The recorder."

The house's electricity was overwhelmed by the pulse gun, but the security system has a black box recorder that's off-grid.  There's nothing in it high-powered enough that it could be knocked out by a portable EMP.  Why Dorian's still up and talking is a question for later.

"Leave it," John says.  He's not quite to the point of destroying evidence just to keep whatever they're doing a secret.  Yeah, he doesn't want to see this video played in a courtroom, but if someone sues, the black box recording could keep him out of jail.

"Fifty-five seconds," Dorian says.

The window's a lot harder to get through from this side.  But the door won't unlock from the outside without power, so the window is pretty much his only option.  It's darker inside, but Dorian left his sweatshirt on the couch and John's shirt is on the floor beside it.  He pulls it on before he heads back out, hooking his shoulder holster over one arm and then the other as he goes.

They'd look less ridiculous if Dorian was in uniform, but there's only so far they can push it before it stops being discreet and starts being a coverup.

"Here," John says, shoving his gun in the holster and dropping to his knees on the other side of the shooter.  "Tell me what to do."

"Nothing," Dorian says.  "You don't have gloves; you shouldn't touch either of us."  He pulls the sweatshirt out of John's grasp with one hand and shimmies into it one arm at a time.  It's awkward, but John thinks he keeps ahold of the shooter the whole time.

The fact that he does it means the woman's in bad shape.  John can't feel too sorry for someone who tried to kill him, but Dorian's programmed to help.  His first responder protocols take over as soon as the danger is neutralized.

When the light starts to strobe in time with the sirens, John stands up again and puts his hands in the air.  Dorian doesn't move, but at least they'll be able to identify John.  Dorian's probably broadcasting their relative positions anyway; if John had his earpiece he'd be able to hear it.

The first MX on-scene calls his name and John lets his hands fall.  Backup brings with it real light, and he sees the damage Dorian took for the first time.  He doesn't get it right away: why the sweatshirt is ripped, why it's as bloody as Dorian's hands.  For one mind-numbing second reality twists and he's looking at a battered human partner bleeding out on the ground in front of him.

"Kennex," someone is saying.  "Kennex, hey."

He tears his gaze away from the scene swimming in his vision.  God, he's not even taking membliss anymore and things still get weird on him sometimes.  They tell him that's the post-traumatic stress.  He doesn't think there's anything "post" about it.

"You hurt?" Kelsey asks.  That was her MX that ID'd him, he realizes distantly.  He didn't recognize it, even with the number printed across its chest.

He finally gets that she's waiting for an answer, and he shakes his head.  "No," he mutters.  "No, I'm--"

There's another MX across from Dorian now, taking John's place on the other side of the body.  He doesn't think of them as being EMTs, even though they have the same training Dorian does.  There's an ambulance pulling up behind the line of cop cars--jesus, did they send every on-duty unit in the area?

"Kennex."  It's Kelsey's voice again, and he looks back at her in surprise.  She looks worried.  "Did you hit your head?"

"No," he says.  "Of course I didn't--what are you doing here, anyway?  I thought you were on a court thing."

"We were on our way out," she says.  It sounds funny, and he glances at her, but he doesn't get it until he sees her steady look.  She knows it sounds funny.  Most people don't say "we" when they're talking about androids.

She did it on purpose.  Because she's talking to him?

"Huh," he says.  That's all he's got.  Maybe he knows where she's coming from, now, but he doesn't know how to respond.  He doesn't know how to say anything right now.

"You're sure you're not hurt," she says.

"I'm fine," he says automatically.  It wakes up the part of his brain that's supposed to be helping, though, and he adds, "Single shooter, pulse gun.  EMP knocked out house power.  Dorian distracted her, I shot her when she pulled a gun on him."

It sounds confident.  It's even true, as far as he knows.  It's what he wanted to say, but hell if he knows where it came from.  Or where his mind's gone.  Kelsey's right to question him.  He's messed up and he doesn't know why.

EMTs are swarming around the shooter now.  They're pushing Dorian back.  They should be helping him.  He feels his fists clench, because no, they shouldn't.  He's not bleeding.  He's a bot, he's fine.  He has a chest plate for a reason.  He can take a few bullets.

"How did Dorian avoid the EMP?" Kelsey asks.

"I don't know," he says honestly.

Dorian's bleeding purple under the smears of red, and it's too obvious through the remains of his sweatshirt.  He used part of it on the shooter, a makeshift bandage John didn't even see him apply.  But it was torn before that, and only John would know he didn't do it going through the window.

He must have ripped it apart himself.  Under cover of darkness, in the few seconds between John handing it to him and the arrival of backup units.  The way it's torn conveniently disguises the lack of bullet holes.  As far as anyone else knows, he's been wearing it the whole time.

"They're gonna want to check you out," Kelsey tells him.  "They'll ask if you're okay to make a statement, and then they're gonna tape this whole place off.  You want anything from inside before they lock it down?"

She can get it for him.  Disturbing a crime scene.  He won't have a chance to go back in, not with everyone watching him, and Dorian won't be any better off.  But Dorian doesn't have anything--

With cold and startling clarity, John realizes what he's done by telling Dorian to carry that scrubber.  Yeah, it could be for a case.  But it's not.  Anyone with access to their files will figure that out pretty fast.

How much does he trust Kelsey and her 44?  She protects Emmett, right?  That doesn't mean she cares about Dorian.

"My phone," John mutters, rubbing his forehead.  "Wallet.  They're on the bed with my jacket.  Dorian's jacket, if you can grab it."

He tries to make it sound like nothing, like he doesn't really care.  He realizes too late that he's just made it sound like all their clothes are on his bed.  But Kelsey gives him a nod, points him toward Dorian, and heads into the house.

It turns out not to matter.  The moment John gets near Dorian and his bloody clothes they have decon all over them, and someone sensible must be in charge tonight because they refuse John's statement and send him back in for a change of clothes.  It's stupid, Dorian's the one who needs them, but when he comes out Dorian's wearing a clean DRN uniform and John bites his tongue to keep from snapping at all of them.

Dorian's also holding John's jacket, and he hands it over when John stomps over to him.  "From Detective Kelsey," he says.

John snatches the jacket away, swinging it over his shoulders, and he sees Dorian's hand brush against his pocket as his arm falls.  He looks up to find Dorian looking back at him.  "She retrieved my jacket as well," Dorian says.

"Nice," John mutters.  It is.  He can feel the weight of his phone and wallet in his own pockets, and he's going to remember this.  Kelsey gets a free pass from him whenever she wants.

"You're not legally required to occupy officer quarters tonight," Dorian begins, and John sighs.  "If you have a viable alternative."

He doesn't.  He has nowhere else to stay, and getting a room after he's been hunted down and shot at is six kinds of stupid.  All he really wants right now is to sleep.  He wouldn't even mind doing it at the precinct if Dorian were with him.

He won't be, though.  If John's safe, Dorian's going back to the factory.  Even aside from procedure, cop quarters don't come with chargers.  Dorian won't be able to sleep if he stays with John.

"No," John says, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes.  "It's fine.  I'll drop you off on the way."

Dorian stills, and John wonders if he'd thought it through that far.  It's unfair to hope that this Kelly Honichila dies, right?  It probably is.  It's better for him if she doesn't, anyway, so he grudgingly hopes she makes it.  Mostly.

"Of course," Dorian says at last.  That's all, just "of course," and John tries not to let it irritate him.

It works until they're in the car, being shadowed by another cruiser on their way through the city.  John catches himself wishing it was Kelsey and Emmett, off-duty though they're supposed to be.  It makes him jumpy, and that makes him turn on Dorian.

"Of course?" he says aloud.

At the same time, Dorian says, "I'll drop you off on the way?"

"There aren't any chargers," John starts to say.

Dorian doesn't even let him finish.  "Come with me to Rudy's," he says.  "He might be there.  I have to get checked before I plug in anyway.  You should come."

He has to get checked.  Shit.  "Really?" John blurts out.  "They just let you go, I didn't know--"

"They'll stop me at the factory," Dorian says.  "Damaged bots aren't allowed in the bays until someone signs off that we won't adversely affect the system.  They can't take the chance that one of us will mess things up for everyone."

That sounds cold.  John has just enough presence of mind not to say so.  "Who checks you?" he asks instead.

"They'll call a tech," Dorian says.  "There should have been one on-scene.  I didn't know I was going to get shot when I made the call."

"You knew about the EMP," John says.  "What happened with that, anyway?  I thought you were shut down, and then suddenly you weren't."

There's a quiet moment, long enough that John glances at him.  Blue is sparkling under the skin of his face.  "It felt like protocol," Dorian says at last.  "But it's not one I remember--it's not one I can find in my programming."

"Did you just change what you were about to say?" John asks.  Giving Dorian a hard time is easy, familiar, and he'd rather be doing this than anything else.

Almost anything else.

"It must have been programmed," Dorian says.  He sounds kind of upset about it, and that's not what John expected.  "But I can't find it."

"Find what?"  John glances at him again, but Dorian has his face turned toward the window now.  "The protocol?  To do what?"

"Shut down," Dorian says.

John grips the steering wheel tighter, but he asked, so he waits.

"I think I've seen a pulse gun before," Dorian tells the window.  "Live, I mean.  In person.  Shutting down prevents the energy of my system from being used against me."

"You saw it coming," John guesses, because that's impressive enough on its own.  "How'd you manage that?"

This Dorian dismisses.  "All weapons emit a characteristic arming signature discernible at a distance," he says.  "I detected it and responded appropriately."

"You acted on instinct," John says.

He's not even sure he means it, he just likes seeing Dorian react when he translates some androidism into human terms.  "Perhaps," Dorian agrees at last.

It makes John smile, and he figures that's all they need to say about it.

Chapter 17

Dorian doesn't seem surprised when they pull up outside the lab.  John didn't expect him to be.  Rudy's there, science fiction playing on the big screens while he stares through a virtual interface and taps glowing fingers against nothing at all.  He acts as surprised as they aren't, and it's not the first time John thinks his confusion might be deliberately exaggerated.

It's the first time John doesn't needle him for it, though, because Rudy takes one look at Dorian and suddenly nothing else matters.  That's not new.  He always acts like that: like Dorian is his best friend and he doesn't trust the humans around him to understand the first thing about how valuable he is.

What is new is that John gets where he's coming from.  He understands.  He watches Rudy fuss over Dorian like he's human, like he's injured and in pain and Rudy's not going to stop until he makes it better, and John is envious.  He envies the pass Rudy gets for being a little crazy, or at least acting it.  He envies Rudy's ability to treat bots like anyone else, like friends or annoyances or people to be admired. Or feared.  Or lusted after.

God damn it.  He's watching Rudy pull bullets out of Dorian while he stands off to one side, arms folded and thoughts he never dared acknowledge sticking stubbornly in his brain.  He's totally the boyfriend in the waiting room who's jealous of the doctor.

"You want to keep the plate?" Rudy's asking.  "I can probably fix it, but not tonight.  You're due a new one anyway, you could just keep that until it comes in.  It'll be more comfortable with the, you know.  Healing, or what have you."

Healing.  John's seen Dorian's purple blood dry up, and he's seen little bits of skin knit themselves back together.  Nanorobotic self-repair.  It can't fix the bad stuff--or maybe it can and a tech visit is just faster, he never asked.  But he sees it work on cosmetic dings all the time.

"I'll keep it," Dorian says.  He doesn't look at John, but Rudy does, and John looks away like he's been caught.  Damn it.  He shouldn't have reacted, but it's late and he's exhausted.  At least there's probably no friendlier territory than Rudy's.

"Right," Rudy says.  "Well, you shouldn't go back to the factory, and John looks like he's dead on his feet.  No offense, Detective.  I'm going home, but, uh.  You're welcome to crash here?  If you want to."

"Wait," John says.  He doesn't know if the invitation or the reason for it is more surprising.  "You're leaving?"

"Yes, ha ha," Rudy says.  "It's amazing, I know, but I do actually have a life.  Elsewhere.  Sort of.  I mean, for certain definitions of life.  Do you want to stay or not?  I'll have to program you into the system, John, but it will only take a minute."

"Rudy has a charger," Dorian says, before he can ask.  "And a bed."

"Yes, well, it's more of a cot, really, but it does the trick."  Rudy's staring off into the distance, and it makes his stream-of-consciousness speech seem more absent than awkward.  "You know, that MX charger has been acting up lately, but I think there's a DRN unit out back.  It might take some work to get it out, but I don't know why it wouldn't power up."

Dorian looks so hopeful that John wants to go dig the damn thing out himself.  "Does that mean you think it will work," Dorian says, "or you know it won't but you're not sure why?"

"It'll work," Rudy says.  He looks about the way John feels.  "I'll show you."

It works.  It takes them half an hour to get it free, but Dorian doesn't tell them to stop and neither of them are going to back down.  Dorian does the heavy work, anyway, while Rudy and John pile other stuff out of the way.  John stops asking what things are after the third time they turn out to be crates of body parts.

In the end, the charger powers up with the same soft hum the one at his place did.  John’s still a little weirded out that it doesn’t have to be physically hooked into a power line, so he finally asks, “Don’t field chargers have to be plugged in?”

“To run constantly, yes,” Rudy agrees.  “If you’re going to boost one bot after another with no interruption you need the kind of current that only flows through a physical interface.  Or some kind of ground to ground lightning, I suppose, but that’s a bit--well.  Anyway.  With less rigorous usage, it draws power from the grid the same way your phone does when you walk through charge zones.”

“Is it all right if John uses your bed, Rudy?”  Dorian is running his fingers over the charger like it’s a pet he’s been missing for days.  Or like the power that comes from it feels like some kind of happy juice, which maybe it does.

“Yes, of course.”  Rudy barely pauses.  “You’re welcome to do whatever you like with it.  In it.  I mean, not that you would, because you’re--well.  You would, of course, it’s just that I’m not trying to imply anything about your social life, or sexual activity for that matter, both of which I’m sure are… varied.  Strong, I mean.  Strong and varied.”

“Thank you,” Dorian says, like he didn’t hear anything after “yes.”  He smiles at Rudy and it seems to work, because Rudy stops talking long enough to smile back.  “We appreciate your hospitality.”

“Yes, well.”  It doesn’t seem to set him off again.  All he says is, “You know where everything is, so.  Make yourself at home.”

John is watching Dorian’s expression so closely that it takes him a second to realize he’s now on the receiving end of it.  On the other hand, he knows this look backwards and forwards, so there’s no long pause before he mutters, “Thanks, Rudy.  Means a lot.”

More than he knows, maybe.  Or maybe not.  John’s never been clear on just how quick Rudy is when it comes to social cues.  To hear him talk, he’s awkward and perpetually confused, but John’s seen him be neither of those things.  Long enough to be pretty sure Rudy could pass for normal if he wanted to.  The fact that he chooses not to is enough to make John suspicious.

So as soon as Rudy’s gone he asks, “What was that?  Does he know?”

It sounds paranoid and borderline dickish even to him, and he regrets the words as soon as they’re out of his mouth.  He knows trying to fix them won’t help.  He tries anyway.  “I meant--I just meant, is he gonna… he won’t say anything, right?”

“Rudy says a lot of things, John.”  Dorian gives the charger another pat before he turns toward the back again.  "What do you hope he won't say?"

"Anything that gets you turned off," John says under his breath.

"He won't," Dorian calls back.  He's not heading for storage; he's opened a door John's never seen Rudy come out of and disappeared through it.  His voice carries around the corner.  "You weren't the first person to give me a scrubber, you know."

John hears the sound of metal on metal and he's not sure he's supposed to follow.  He does anyway, but slowly, in case Dorian's about to re-emerge and slam the door behind him.  "You don't say," he says.

What he means is, you didn't say.  Dorian didn't tell him.  Why not?

"I told him it was a bad idea," Dorian's voice says.  "I told him they'd be able to trace it to him if anyone ever found it, and I gave it back."

Okay, so he's not coming out right away.  John can hear movement through the door now, and the look of the light gives the impression of a small room.  Nothing like the high-ceilinged main space of the lab.  He drifts closer, and he's pretty sure he hears the sound of clothing.

Is Dorian changing his clothes?  It doesn't quite keep him from thinking about the scrubber he gave Dorian, and the fact that it could be traced to John's req order a couple months back if someone were so inclined.  He didn't care at the time; he knew what he was doing when he gave it to Dorian.

Now he cares at least enough to be offended that Dorian would take it from him but not from Rudy.  He also cares that Dorian knows what's behind that door and he doesn't.  If Dorian's changing into clothes he keeps at Rudy's, clothes John never knew existed, then he cares even more.

He's unreasonably jealous of Rudy right now and he knows it.  Knowing doesn't change the feeling.  The best he can hope for at this point is that he won't say anything more obnoxious than either of them deserve.

"So it's okay for me to get caught, but not him?" John asks.

It was a faint hope.  He knew that going in.

"You knew what you were doing," Dorian's voice answers.  "He didn't."

Dorian let him help in a way he wouldn't let Rudy.  John sighs, poking his head around the door to apologize.  The words are wiped away when he sees Dorian's open locker.  Dorian's wearing sweats again, sweats John has seen before, but it's the picture on the inside of the locker door that has all of his attention.

Dorian follows his gaze.  "Valerie gave it to me," he says.  "Rudy said I shouldn't put anything on the outside, nothing that would draw someone's attention.  But he said sometimes people put things on the inside."

The 2D holo is a still image of him and Dorian at his desk.  John looks like he's laughing while Dorian smiles, and John doesn't even recognize it.  He has no idea when the picture was taken.  Then Dorian lifts his hand, running his finger along the side of the image, and it must have been a burst photo batch because the picture comes to life.

It's surprisingly smooth, not jerky like burst photos taken too slowly, and there must be fifteen different captures of that single moment.  John is in fact laughing.  There's no mistaking it.  Dorian's smile doesn't fade while he watches, and in the last frame John's just starting to return the look. 

"Valerie said I should keep it," Dorian's says.  "To remind me that you actually do know how to laugh."

"Yeah, she's a riot," John says, but he's staring at the replay for the third time.  "When did she give that to you?"

"Two and a half weeks ago."  Dorian's watching him instead of the picture, and John doesn't have to look directly at him to know.  "Do you like it?"

"Yeah," he says, because what else is he supposed to say?  "Yeah, I mean--"

Dorian has a picture of them in his locker.  The only picture Dorian has of himself is of work, because that's all he supposed to do.  Who's going to take a picture when he's watching movies, or light painting, or eating peanut butter crackers?

John looks at him, and he knows where he's seen those sweats before.  They're the ones he made Dorian put on in the back of the ambulance after they were hauled out of the water.  The red jacket Dorian was wearing that night is hanging up in the locker too, and wonders how much of a jerk he is that Dorian couldn't tell him it was his, not Rudy's.  He wonders how he didn't even notice: it's not like Dorian would fit in any of Rudy's jackets.

"I like it," he says at last, but he doesn't know what he's talking about anymore.  Dorian can't have anything on the outside of his locker because someone might see it.  John doesn't want Rudy to say anything about them because someone might look at them funny.

I look at someone funny and they could have me shut down, Dorian said.

"You should have your own space," John blurts out.  "I could clear out the extra room at my place.  It's not the same, I know, and you probably wouldn't want to--"

"Yes I would," Dorian says quickly.

"So I'll talk to Sandra," John mutters, folding his arms over his chest.  "You done here?  Where do I sleep, anyway?"

Dorian doesn't push it, doesn't even say thank you, like making John think about it might make him change his mind.  It might.  It's a spectacularly bad idea, and he won't be able to justify it to anyone, but Dorian just closes his locker with a click that makes the lock light flash red.  

Rudy lets him lock it, he said.  John doesn't feel sick.  He doesn't, because it's just a stupid locker.  Dorian has one, he has one, everyone has one.  It doesn't matter.

"Rudy has a studio," Dorian's saying, and he has to turn sideways to pass John in the doorway without bumping into him.  He does, but his hand squeezes John's arm deliberately as he passes.  "Near the fire escape.  I'll show you."

Of course he does, John thinks, but it's mostly to distract himself from Dorian's touch.  Maybe Dorian's right, maybe John does touch him more than he realized.  But now that he's looking for it, he's more aware of how little Dorian touches him.

Dorian doesn't pause, walking across the lab without looking back to see if John's following.  He doesn't have to, of course.  He can hear John's footsteps, probably monitor John's breathing from the other side of the room.  John's gotten used to having a partner that doesn't turn around.  It's a little more disconcerting to have a friend, a… friend who doesn't look back when he walks away.

"Downstairs," Dorian says, and the door is old-fashioned but the lights are not.  "He says it's better to be below ground level when things go wrong."

"When things go wrong?" John repeats.

Dorian shrugs, a small smile on his face. "Rudy worries about things going wrong a lot."

On first glance, Rudy's "studio" is so normal that it's strange.  It's not all the way underground, with basement windows near the ceiling and a sink underneath them, refrigerator to one side and an oven on the other.  There's a table in the middle of the floor and a queen-sized cot off to one side.  The cot has an air mattress on it, a quilt tossed haphazardly over one end and one of those airline neck pillows at the other.

Okay, so not totally normal.  There aren't any disembodied robot heads or butterfly wings lying around.  John doesn't even seen any tools or wires on the table.  But there aren't any chairs at the table, either, and when he stares at the windows a moment too long he realizes they're actually screens simulating a nighttime street view.

"He said you could use his cot," Dorian says.  There's something in his tone that John doesn't recognize until he asks the obvious question.

"Where do you sleep?" he wants to know.

Dorian gives him a sideways look, and it gets John's attention.  He stops staring suspiciously around the space, waiting for the punch line, and starts studying Dorian again.  "I'm not supposed to be here overnight," Dorian says neutrally.

"Okay," John says, because obviously.  "But you are, so.  Where do you sleep?"

"Rudy usually sets up the charger in the locker room," Dorian says.  "So I can close the door."  He seems to have given up on pretending that he just drops by for the hell of it.  "No one goes in there without permission, so it's pretty safe."

"Huh," John says.  He wonders whether the log at ChargeFac has a record of Dorian's absences, or if it's altered after the fact to show every good little android in their bed by curfew.  "Well, you're supposed to be guarding me now, so I guess you can sleep wherever you want."

Dorian tilts his head a little like he's considering it.  "When you say wherever you want," he says, "does that include down here?"

"Yeah."  John manages not to roll his eyes, but it's mostly because he's too tired to make a good show of it.  "Yeah, Dorian.  When you're keeping an eye on me, you're allowed to actually be in the room with me."

"Because I'm guarding you," Dorian says.

"Harder to do from a distance," John agrees.

"I see," Dorian says, and his expression makes John think he's missed something.  "Did you encourage my physical advances because our forced proximity made them convenient?"

John stares at him.  "What?"

"Why did you make out with me, John?"

Great.  This is how it starts, stupid decisions followed by an interrogation he can't hope to pass.  This is his life now, and he doesn't know why he thought Dorian would be any different.

Except that he does know.  Dorian told him.  "You told me," he said out loud, and it sounds accusing.  "You said you didn't need a declaration."

Accusing or whiny.  Or cowardly.  All of the above, maybe.

"I told you I need to know that you won't forget this," Dorian said.  "That you won't pretend it didn't happen.  What happens when you don't need 24-hour protection anymore?  What happens when we go back to only seeing each other at work?"

"Oh, only most of every day?" John counters.  "Gee, that'll be different.  I can't imagine."

"I can't kiss you at work," Dorian says.

"I just asked you to move in with me!" John explodes.  "You can kiss me whenever you want!"

Dorian looks at him for a long moment and John has no idea what he's thinking.  Then he says, "I thought that was just… as long as I'm there anyway.  As long as I'm your protective detail, not… going home with you."

It's weird to hear Dorian pausing in the middle of his sentences like that, and John doesn't know what to say, so he snaps, "Well, it's not."

"It's not just for now?" Dorian asks carefully.

"No!"  He doesn't know why he's angry; it's stupid and it's not helping anything.  Except that it was an embarrassing offer to begin with, and it's worse to think that Dorian didn't even get it.  "It can be," he mutters, because it's only fair.  "If you want; it's not like you have to stay.  You can still use the room."

He should have a guest room, anyway.  He used to.  But he couldn't unpack much when he moved, so anything he didn't let the moving company or Sandra do for him is still in storage in the back room.

"But what if this doesn't--"  Dorian stops talking, and John looks at him sharply.  "What if I'm not--"  He stops again, and his behavior is now officially new and weird.  "John, we've only made out twice.  How can you be sure you'll still want me around a month from now?"

It's John's turn to stare at him.  "What does us fooling around have to do with anything?"

If he didn't know better, he'd say Dorian's starting to look a little panicky around the edges.  "You offered me a room after you saw my locker.  You must realize I accumulate things, even though I'm not supposed to, and you want to make sure my stuff doesn't get in your way."

John opens his mouth to deny this, but Dorian just keeps going.  "Now you say you want me to keep it--keep the room--even after this assignment is over, which means you want to see me at your house.  You never indicated such a desire before, and the only thing that's changed is our physical relationship, so I conclude that you're interested in continuing it."

That isn't so far off, even though John doesn't like the way he puts it.  But Dorian's narrating again, re-running his mental logic out loud, which he only does when he's stressed or exasperated or both.  It's the closest Dorian gets to blurting out stuff he didn't mean to share, though, so John's not going to stop him.

"What if you change your mind?" Dorian is asking.  "What if it's not enough?  What if I'm not enough?  You have no idea what I can do, John, and I don't know what you expect.  To base a decision like this on our presumed sexual compatibility seems reckless at best and potentially disastrous at worst."

"Whoa," John says, holding up his hand instinctively.  Dorian's already stopped, but he had no idea how real that edge of panic was.  "Okay, are you done?  Because in the dating world, we call that cold feet.  It's cute and all, but remember when you said you weren't nervous?  I'm calling your bluff, man."

"I'm not nervous," Dorian protests, which is exactly as cute now as it was the first time.  "I have legitimate concerns.  I don't think you've thought this through."

John snorts, relaxing in the face of Dorian's oncoming meltdown.  "Please.  When was the last time I thought something through?"

"This is important," Dorian says, glaring at him.

"And you're adorable," John tells him.  Seeing Dorian freak out is having some kind of calming effect on him, because he's actually starting to feel better about the whole thing.  "You're displaying a classic fear of commitment, which is usually my role, so lucky for you I know the speech I'm about to give by heart."

Dorian's glare has already softened to a look of confusion.  "Did you just call me adorable?"

"I know you," John says.  "Pretty sure I'm supposed to tell you how long I've known you, but I can't really remember, so let's go with 'a while.'  I've known you a while, and I've been living with you for three days now and it hasn't sucked.  I mean, except for the whole getting shot at thing.  We should try not to do that again."

Dorian doesn't look any less confused, and John shakes his head.  "Point is, I'm not counting down the hours until you're gone.  Yeah, I liked fooling around with you on the couch, but that's not why I said… you know.  What I said."

He sighs at Dorian's blank look, because that's not part of the speech.  The "commitment isn't as scary as you think" speech usually involves some kind of declaration.  Just because he doesn't want to make one doesn't mean Dorian doesn't deserve it.

"I want you to move in," John tells him.  "If you want to.  It's not dependent on how good you are in bed.  Plenty of people are roommates without sleeping together, so if it's something you don't want to do, that's fine."

"You don't believe that," Dorian says the moment he pauses.  "Living with someone is the same as sleeping with them.  You said so yourself."

"No I didn't!"  John frowns at him.  "When did I say that?"

"When we were interviewing the book club members.  You said Sophie Rainer was being polite when she used the term 'boarding' instead of 'living together.'"  He switches to John's voice, which is about as bizarre as always.  "No one boards their android research assistant unless they really like them."

In his own voice, Dorian adds, "You went on to imply that Ms. Rainer wouldn't have allowed her assistant to move in if they weren't sleeping together," and John closes his eyes for a second.  Why doesn't he ever think about the shit that comes out of his mouth?

"Okay," he says, opening his eyes and looking straight at Dorian.  All he has is the truth, and it's been enough for Dorian before.  "I said that.  But I wasn't talking about us."

Dorian just nods.  Like it's true because John says it, and he doesn't know how he feels about that.  Other than stupidly grateful.  He didn't think he deserved Dorian the first day they met.  He had no idea how true that would turn out to be.

"I'll bring the charger down here, then," Dorian says.

"Yeah," John says with a sigh.  It's possible he's actually going to get to sleep tonight.  "You do that."

He finds the bathroom while Dorian's gone, and when he comes out the DRN charger is set up against the wall near the bed.  Dorian's looking through the refrigerator, and John doesn't ask.  He just kicks off his boots and pokes the mattress, deciding that sitting on the side of it isn't an option.

It's more steady than it looks when he crawls into the middle of it, so he doesn't feel totally ridiculous shrugging out of his jacket.  He tosses it onto the far corner, within arms' reach when he's lying down.  He unloads his gun and checks it before shoving it, holstered, under his jacket.

Dorian's watching him when he looks up again.  He was thinking about asking and it comes out now before he can change his mind.  "You like to charge sitting up?" John asks.  "I mean, usually you're standing, right?  Is there a reason?"

"That's how the MX bays were designed," Dorian says.  "It's supposed to be more efficient."

"Were DRN bays different?" John asks.  Probably not, right?  They didn't rebuild ChargeFac when the department switched from DRNs to MXs.  He thinks he remembers something about an expansion.  Maybe a refit or two.

The twist of a smile on Dorian's face says otherwise.  "We were designed to be as human as possible," he says.  "DRN pods were horizontal."

John takes a deep breath.  He doesn't swear.  But jesus, Dorian's three years old, and what John doesn't know about him feels like more than his entire life.

"So why do you sit?" he asks, as calmly as he can.  "With the field charger?"

The bitterness in Dorian's expression eases a little.  "Too small to lie on," he says.  Even his tone sounds lighter, and John wonders how someone who goes through what he does everyday can still forgive so easily.  "Statistically, humans in the city are more likely to fall asleep sitting in chairs than they are lying on the floor.  Leaning against the charger mimics the posture supported by a chair and puts more of my critical systems in proximity to power than sitting on it would."

It's a good argument, and John would probably buy it if Dorian hadn't fallen asleep with his feet up on the charger that first night.  There's no reason to call him on it.  Not really.  Not when what he wants to know should have been more straightforward than this whole conversation.

"What if you put it next to something you could lie down on?" John asks.

Smooth, he tells himself.  That's not awkward at all.  He has no idea what he's doing, but he's too tired to be held accountable for his stupid questions.  He's going to try until he falls asleep where he is and then Dorian can do whatever he wants.

"You mean could I charge in a bed?" Dorian asks.  He doesn't sound amused or smug or any of the things John expected.  Instead he sounds too serious.  Almost wistful.  "In principle, yes.  I've never had the chance to put it to the test."

"Until now," John says.

Dorian stands there in his stolen sweats, looking more human than John feels in his own clothes.  "You're using the bed," he says.

"Yeah, well."  John never thought he'd have to explain sharing a bed to an android.  "It's big enough for two."

"I'm aware," Dorian says, and there's the flicker of amusement.  "Rudy sometimes has… other overnight visitors."

"I don't need to know that," John tells him.  "In fact, you know what?  I'd rather not think about it.  Is this mattress even clean?"

Dorian scans the bed, two brief lines of blue flickering on his face.  "Yes," he says, with a confidence John wants to feel.

"Okay," John says.  "Fine.  Sleep with me or don't, see if I care."

He shifts back a little, just in case, and he pushes Rudy's pillow out of the way when he lies down.  He'll sleep on the air bed, but has to draw the line somewhere.  He closes his eyes deliberately, thinking about his leg, and he gets sixty-four percent back.  It's supposed to be able to go three days, but he was on his feet a lot today.  Yesterday.  It's well into Saturday by now.

He should take it off, save power overnight, but he doesn't have any way to get around without it.  He's not about to be a sitting duck if someone else comes through the window.

He hears a click, and when he opens his eyes Dorian's setting the charger down next to the bed.  He's crouched beside it, so that when John rolls over to look at him they're pretty much at eye level.  It's less creepy than John gave him credit for.

"Should I just lie down?" Dorian asks, quiet but careful in a way that makes him sound confused.  Maybe he is.  John doesn't know and it's too late to ask.  He really will fall asleep before Dorian joins him, at this rate.

"Everyone knows how to lie down," he mutters.  "It's an air bed.  Don't fall off, and you've pretty much mastered it."

The mattress is better than John realized, because not only does Dorian lie down without knocking John over, he also manages to stay on the very edge without it collapsing underneath him.  John almost says something before he realizes Dorian's doing it on purpose.  It's not self-consciousness.  He can't reach the charger from the middle of the bed, so he's got his other shoulder pressed up against it.

The lights go out without warning, and John closes his mouth and rolls onto his back again.  He thinks it's awkward, lying on a bed with someone else.  With anyone else, let alone his partner.  He figures it's going to feel weird for a while, the way it always does at first, trying to breathe quietly and not move too much.  

He wishes they were touching somehow.  He wants to kiss Dorian.  He wants to whisper good night and hear it repeated back to him.  He thinks maybe if he explained why it's important, Dorian would do it, if only to humor him.

He wants it more than he's embarrassed by it, but he falls asleep before he can get up the nerve.

John knows how to sleep in strange places, so he isn't surprised when he wakes up to his phone.  It means he slept the night through, even if he still feels like someone turned the gravity up and the bed is holding him down.  The air bed he recognizes too, because he's at Rudy's and someone came to his house and tried to kill him last night.

He swears.  Just once, and it's mostly unintelligible, which he's glad for when he reaches for his jacket pocket and realizes it's not just a blanket over his shoulders.  Someone is pressed up against his side, and it's Dorian, and now John doesn't want to move at all.

The phone stops ringing long enough for whoever's on the other end to hang up on voicemail and call back.  John hooks the sleeve of his jacket and drags it closer.  Which of course is when Dorian chooses to murmur, "Good morning, John," and press something gentle against his shoulder.

If that was a kiss, John thinks, then Dorian is stuck with him forever.

"Please don't do that while I'm on the phone," he mumbles, and he barely has the presence of mind to turn off the camera before he takes the call.  "What?"

"John," Sandra's voice says.  "Where are you?"

"Sandra," he mutters, because yeah, the display had her name on it.  He probably should have thought about that before he answered it.  "I'm in bed.  Where are you?"

"At the precinct," she says.  "Trying to figure out how the hell cop quarters were compromised."

Dorian's fingers were rubbing idle patterns into his shoulder.  Now they're not.  He's very still beside John, and John wants to turn over and look at him but he knows how bad an idea that is.  Sandra's telling him that someone inside the department wants him dead, and he mostly wants to climb on top of Dorian's body and pull the blanket over their heads.

"Huh," he says.  "That sucks."

"Yes, it does," Sandra says.  "Is Dorian with you?"

"Uh-huh."  John resists the urge to add, Say hi, because he's pretty sure one of them will and Sandra may be a friend but John's not stupid.  At least, not that stupid.  Probably.

"John," she says.  "Are you all right."  It's not really a question, but she says it the way she says things she expects an answer to.  Like maybe he's compromised too and she's five seconds from tracking his locator chip.

"Yeah," he says.  He clears his throat in an effort to make it sound more believable.  "I just--we, uh.  We crashed at a friend's place.  We're okay, I'm--I'm okay."  It's probably not Dorian she's worried about.

"You got someone to feed the cat?" Sandra asks.

"Nah," he says, trying to stifle a yawn.  He's not being coerced, but it's nice of her to care.  "Guess it'll starve.  When can I get back into my place?"

"Just this side of never," Sandra says.  "We have to assume someone came for you here because they were expecting you.  You know what that means.  Don't go anywhere predictable, stay away from the places you normally go.  Don't tell anyone where you're planning to be at any given time."

"Sure," John mutters.  It's good advice.  He can't follow it, but she's not wrong.  "No problem."

"I'd get you some more protection," Sandra says, "but you're who we'd usually assign, so.  Don't do anything stupid.  And stay with Dorian."

"Uh-huh," John says again.  "Copy that."

This time it's definitely Dorian's mouth that presses against his neck, because he can feel the smile that makes teeth graze his skin.  He draws in a breath he hopes isn't audible.  He takes a chance and tries to bat Dorian's arm away, but there's nothing where he's aiming until his hand lands hard on the body behind him.

"I'll call you when I know something," Sandra says, and she sounds distracted.

"Yeah," he says.  Not as distracted as he is.  He kills the connection, then turns the phone off just in case.  What he's about to do shouldn't get anywhere near a camera.  Or a microphone.

Well.  Maybe a microphone.

John pushes the phone away, out from under the quilt he thought was a blanket and back toward where his coat will cover it up.  He doesn't want any reminders right now.  Rolling onto his side is more of an effort than he expected, between Dorian's hands and how close Dorian's face is.  He manages it by letting their mouths share the same space while he whispers, "Call me."

He can feel Dorian smiling.  "What?"

He slides his hands under Dorian's, along his arms, down his sides, and under his sweatpants in one continuous move.  "Call me," he says again.

Dorian mumbles briefly, not words that mean anything as far as John can tell.  "I'll go to voicemail," he says at last.

John digs his fingers in, warm and rough and determined to touch if nothing else.  "Yup," he says.  "Still the poor man's holovid."

"What do you want to record?"  Dorian sounds curious, less interested in kissing suddenly and more interested in what John's up to.  John's okay with that.

"You," he says.  "Specifically, me teaching you to talk dirty.  Depending on how much of a disaster it is, I may want to listen to this later."

Now Dorian sounds serious, even worried.  "Your expectations are very high."

"Not really," John says.  "I jerked off to stuff you said in the shower the other day, and it wasn't even hot.  It was just you talking.  I don't think we'll have a problem."

"Stuff I said in the shower?" Dorian echoes.

"No," John says.  "I was in the shower.  Thinking of stuff you said."

"I see," Dorian says.  "Perhaps next time you'll consider doing it outside the shower, so that I can improve my technique through observation."

It's a clear and unflinching mental image, and John thinks he wouldn't mind at all.  

"Yeah," he says again.  "I don't think we're gonna have any trouble."

Chapter 18

"Will it be a problem that Rudy's upstairs?" Dorian asks.

John doesn't move, because if this is a joke then he wants as much of an advantage as he can get.  "Yeah," he says.  "That will be a big fucking problem."

"Why?" Dorian wants to know.  "The door's closed.  I can ask him not to bother us."

"You're kidding me right now," John says.  "You'd better be kidding."

He thought he was comfortable.  He congratulated himself on being calm enough that even Sandra calling couldn't bother him.  Something approaching sleepy, maybe, even with his whole body pressed against Dorian's.

Now, with the threat of an audience, he has to face the fact that he's horny as hell.

Dorian is staring back at him from inches away, and he's not motionless but he's pretending to be.  He acts as frozen as John, but his chest is moving, just slightly: pressing back against John's as he breathes.  John can't tell if he's deliberately simulating breath or if he has some internal process that requires it, and right now he's not going to ask.

"What would it take," Dorian says at last, "for this not to be a problem?"

That wasn't what John expected him to say.  He answers reflexively, "It would take him leaving."

"Short of that," Dorian says.

John pulls away, rolling onto his back with a sigh.  "There is no short of that," he grumbles.  "It's fine.  We can do it later."

It's not fine, and he doesn't want to do it later.  He thought he was over being cockblocked by roommates years ago.  He blames this on the shooter, and he thinks at least that's fair.

Should he have asked Sandra how she is?  The woman might not even be alive this morning.  It's probably in bad taste to blame dead people for not being able to get handsy with your partner.

John blames her anyway.

"I'll go talk to Rudy," Dorian says, sitting up and swinging his legs off of the bed like he's been awake for hours.

Maybe he has been awake for hours, John thinks, watching him go.  He got, what, four hours with a field charger the other day?  If that's all it takes, John doesn't know why he got shuffled to an MX pod.

He's not going to lie in bed thinking about Dorian.  Especially while Dorian's not even there.  He pushes himself up--a lot less gracefully than Dorian did, he thinks, which is stupid because it's not like robots get stiff--and makes his way to the bathroom.  He thinks about taking a shower, but he's a little afraid of Rudy's shower and the not-thinking-about-it strategy is starting to take effect.  It's less trouble just to let it go.

By the time he leaves the bathroom Dorian is back, and he's cooking, which John thinks is a bad sign.  "Still here, huh?" he says.  Not that he expected anything different.

"He needs to be here," Dorian says without turning around.  "This is part of his Saturday morning routine, and if he varies it, someone at the precinct might notice."

"You know, I'm getting really tired of investigating cops," John mutters.  "What happened to protect and serve?"

"Perhaps it's the who that differs, rather than the what," Dorian says.

John frowns, because he doesn't know what that means and he's afraid it's going to matter.  "What?"

"Perhaps compromised officers also feel that it's their mission to protect and serve," Dorian says, and he's definitely making eggs.  Does he think that's all John eats at home?

John thinks about it just long enough to realize maybe that is all he eats at home.

"They're just think they're protecting someone else," Dorian is saying.  "Themselves, sometimes.  People who are threatened by other officers' activity, or lack thereof, at other times."

"Not their choice to make," John says.

"Says the poster boy for vigilante justice," Dorian replies, tapping the stove off and stepping out of the way.  He tips the pan in John's direction.  "Would you like some eggs?"

"Yeah.  Thanks."  John grabs the plate Dorian left on the table and passes it over.  "You didn't have to make me breakfast."

"I have an ulterior motive," Dorian tells him.  He's scraping what John thought were scrambled eggs onto the plate, but as they tumble he's pretty sure he sees flashes of green and purple.  Is it possible that Rudy keeps vegetables in his refrigerator?

"Oh, yeah?" John says.  He eyes the plate when Dorian hands it back, but the fried eggs were good and he's pretty sure Dorian's dedicated to his health and survival at this point.  "What's that?"

"You were going to teach me something," Dorian says.

John pauses in the act of reaching for his fork.  He points at Dorian instead.  "No."

Dorian holds up his hands, and damn it, John recognizes that gesture.  He does that.  Dorian's seen him do that so many times, and now he's imitating it.  On purpose?

"Just tell me," Dorian says.  "You don't have to demonstrate."

"No," John says again.  He stabs his fork into the eggs, and yeah, that really looks like a piece of green pepper.  "Did you put vegetables in these?"

"Yes," Dorian says.  "And the basement is soundproof.  Rudy can't hear anything you're saying, even if he were trying to listen.  Which he isn't."

"Still weird," John says.  The pepper isn't terrible with the eggs, even if it does seem like an omelet gone wrong.  The onion's a little strong, but the eggs are bland, so it works all right.

"What's wrong with talking about it?" Dorian wants to know.  "We talked about how to talk about sex in the car.  Can't we talk about how to talk about it here, too?"

John grimaces around another mouthful of eggs.  "First off," he says, after he swallows.  "I didn't want to talk about it in the car, either.  And second, we were alone in the car."

"We're alone here," Dorian says.  "Rudy is physically farther from us now than any of the other drivers were then.  Not to mention the pedestrians."

"No," John says.  "Does Rudy have glasses?  Mugs, or something?"

"Coffee?" Dorian asks.

"Uh, yeah," John says.  He didn't know that was an option.  "If there is some.  I'd settle for a glass of water."

"I'd settle for knowing why the way I talk is so important to you," Dorian replies.  He pulls a glass out of the freezer and holds it under the tap.  "If it's so private that you're uncomfortable discussing it in what can only nominally be considered proximity to other people, then I would have guessed it's important enough to have come up before."

"Hey," John says, "we're not talking about this.  What did I just say?"

"But aside from a few complaints about my colloquialism subroutine," Dorian continues, offering him the glass, "you rarely complain about the way I speak."

"Speak however you want," John grumbles, taking the glass.  It's cold.  The water is all right, but he sets it down on the table after a single sip.  "What do I care?"

"Except yesterday," Dorian says, looking at him like he's reading John's mind instead of scrolling backward through data or whatever he's doing.  "When you said, 'this morning you were bad at whispering.'"

"I didn't say that," John snaps, but he remembers thinking it, so who knows?  Maybe he did say it.  He needs to learn to shut the hell up.

Dorian doesn't bother to argue with him.  "If my tone wasn't appropriate then," he says, "it must have been better yesterday evening."  And then, so inevitably that John should have seen it coming, he says, "Would my argument be more effective if I spoke like that now?"

"No," John says quickly.  "The way you're talking is fine, there's nothing wrong with--"

"I didn't say there was something wrong with it," Dorian says, slower and more thoughtful than before.  Paying absolutely no attention to John's objection as he presses on the syllables, drawing them out instead of efficiently stacking them on top of each other.  "I just said it wasn't appropriate to the situation."

His voice isn't as quiet as it was on the couch, and the hint of a drawl that lingered in his whispers is actually noticeable now.  Which means that Dorian was right: he can learn, he is learning.  He's learning how to make his voice do what his tongue and mouth and quirky smile already do: turn John on until he can't deny that he wants terrible things from an android.

"Is this better?" Dorian asks, and John swallows.

"No," he says, scraping another forkful of scrambled eggs across his plate.  Not looking at him will only help if Dorian stays where he is--and so far, he is.  John tries to ignore the suspicion that Dorian is testing one variable at a time so that he can better predict the outcome of his actions.

"I think it is," Dorian says, but he sounds more careful than amused.  "I think you like it."

He sounds too careful.  Like he knows he's pushing it, and damn it, Dorian shouldn't have to sound like that around him.  There should be at least one person in the world he doesn't have to make nice with, to placate just for the sake of blending in.  Of not getting the attention of anyone who could end his existence with a stupid complaint.

"I do like it," John tells his plate.  If Dorian's going to believe everything he says, he owes him at least some of the truth.  "It's just not the kind of voice you use over breakfast, okay?  No one uses their sexy voice to ask you to pass the salt."

"You think my voice is sexy?"  The almost-drawl disappears and Dorian just sounds curious and pleased.

"Shut up," John mutters.

"Why would I do that?" Dorian counters, and there's the amusement he's been waiting for.  "Now that I know you like my voice."

"I really remember saying I don't want to talk about this now," John tells him.

Dorian gives him the look that goes right through him.  "You haven't turned your phone back on," he says.

John doesn't move.  He doesn't say anything, either.

The door is closed.  Rudy's CT, he could find out far more embarrassing things about John than anything he's doing--or not doing--with Dorian.  He probably already knows more embarrassing things about John.

It makes sense.  John gets it, he really does.  But it's the memory of Dorian offering to erase the security camera last night that convinces him.

"Okay," he says with a sigh.  "Fine.  It's important because I think people should be able to communicate, okay?"

"Your own example aside," Dorian puts in.

"Yeah, whatever."  John glares at him.  "Do you want to know, or not?"

Dorian doesn't move his hands, but the impression of a gesture is there anyway.  "Please," he says.  "Continue."

"We're not doing anything," John warns him.  "I'm just telling you.  I mean, I'll tell you what I think people should talk about, if you're so interested.  But we're not gonna do any of it."

"Right now," Dorian says.

"Yeah, right now," John mutters.  Because he's planning to sleep with an android, and sometimes that seems weirder than it did this morning when he woke up next to Dorian.

"Cold feet?" Dorian asks.  He's smiling when John glances over at him again.

"Yeah," John says, because he sounds like he's joking and who'd believe him, anyway?  "Look, there's only two rules for dirty talk that actually work, right?  Context and narration.  I figure you're really good at one of those already."

Dorian's smile has faded, but he looks interested.  Disconcertingly interested.  "You told me to stop narrating the other day," he says.  Not like he's complaining--like he's guessing.  He's guessing which one John thinks he's good at.

John tries to concentrate on his fork, because Dorian's playing the game and he doesn't even realize it.  "You do it a lot," he tells his food.  "You… you know.  Describe things.  What people are doing, what you think it means."

"Both are well within my purview as part of an investigating unit," Dorian says.

"Yeah, well."  John shrugs it off as best he can.  "It works in the bedroom too, okay?"

"I should describe you," Dorian says.  "What you're doing and why?"  He sounds puzzled when he adds, "You've never seemed interested in hearing why I think you’re doing things."

John smiles without meaning too.  He can't take his eyes off his plate, even if he's just toying with his fork now.  "You're supposed to describe you, Dee."  Damn it.  He missed the nickname again, only noticing after it's already out.  "What you're doing, what you're going to do.  What it means, if you want, but sometimes that gets a little… well."

Touchy-feely, he almost says, but he doesn't want to deal with the response.  And it's not all hearts and flowers, right?  Sometimes what it means is dirtier than whatever it is in the first place.

"So I should tell you, for example," Dorian begins, and here it goes.  See, this is exactly what John was trying to avoid.  "That I'm going to kiss you?"

John puts his fork down, because he can't do anything else.  "Sure," he says.

"Is that too obvious?" Dorian asks.  "I mean, you'd probably already know that.  Should I tell you something you wouldn't be expecting?"

Yeah, John thinks.  Just say yes or no, he tells himself.  Answer the question.  Or don't.  Except he tried not answering, he tried telling Dorian they're not doing this now, and Dorian saw right through him.

"Like what?" John asks in spite of himself.

"Like where I'm going to touch you first," Dorian says.  "Or when.  Is it still considered dirty talk if one does it in advance of intimate relations?"

"That's pretty much the definition of foreplay," John says, pushing his plate away and taking another gulp of water.  It's cold and pleasant coming from the still mostly-frozen glass.  "The stuff you do before you really do anything."

"I see."  Dorian is silent just long enough that John looks up, catching the final flicker of blue before he says, "So, given your current reluctance to engage in this activity, I probably shouldn't share with you my speculation about the future of our physical relations."

"Wait," John says, raising his eyebrows at him.  "You have speculation?  About what?”

"About how much of my body you'll have to touch before you let me take my pants off," Dorian says.  "About whether you'll take yours off, or if I'll have to do it for you."

Damn it, John thinks.  He's right.  He's doing exactly what he said he wasn't going to do.  What he said they weren't going to do.  No demonstrations.

"If you want me naked," he hears himself say, "all you have to do is ask."

There's a brief hesitation, but he's braced himself for the wrong thing because Dorian says, "Tempting as that is, you're making me very curious about how you go from repressed and withdrawn to expressive and involved.  You went fifteen minutes without saying anything at all last night, yet this morning you've made it clear you feel communication is an important part of the process."

"I'm not repressed," John snaps.  "What are you, my counselor?  Not everyone has to share every thought that goes through their head!"

Dorian doesn't pause.  His tone doesn't even change.  "I'm sorry if I touched a nerve," he says.  "Is this new since the coma, then?  Were you more verbal during intimacy before that?"

"No," John says, but he has the terrible feeling that he's training Dorian to assume "no" means "yes."  They can't afford that, either of them, so he mutters, "Maybe."

"I see," Dorian says, and this time he does sound gentler.  He leaves it at that, and after a minute or so, John thinks he can make his voice do what it needs to.

"How the fuck did you get that," he mutters.  The words are rougher than he wanted, but they sound right.  At least the sharp pain of betrayal killed his reaction to Dorian's first attempt.

The pause is too long, and when he looks up Dorian's face is a maze of intricate blue lines and loops.  "Lucky guess," he says at last.

John almost smiles.  "Clever," he says.  "What, are you researching mood killers, now?"

"I was trying to avoid it," Dorian says.

"Well, congratulations," John tells him.  "You're officially better at this than I am."

"I don't think so," Dorian says.  "I'm still thinking about touching you instead of actually doing it, so there's clearly a flaw in my technique.  Tell me what you meant about context."

This time John does smile.  "Look," he says.  "Sometimes it's not you, okay?  Sometimes it's the other person, or the situation.  Or both, in this case."

“Yes,” Dorian says.  “I’m aware that you don’t like the situation, although I don’t understand why.  Is there something about you that’s a problem also?”

John doesn’t have the energy to laugh, even though he thinks it would make him sound less bitter.  More like he doesn’t care.  “Most people seem to think so,” he says instead.

Dorian tilts his head like it’s a problem he has to solve.  Like it’s a real thing he can tackle, not like John’s a fuck-up who can’t keep a single good thing in his life.  Maybe Valerie’s right, maybe he should get a cat.  At least something he hates probably wouldn’t leave.

“I disagree,” Dorian is saying.  “But all indications are that arguing with you on this will get us nowhere, so I suggest a compromise.”

When he doesn’t continue, John looks over at him again.  “Yeah?” he says.  “What’s that?”

“You said you’d take your clothes off if I asked,” Dorian says.  “Were you joking, or was that a sincere offer?”

John stares at him for a long moment.  There’s no right answer to that question, and he knows it.  “I wasn’t joking,” he says at last.  Which is mostly true, but he’s also not sure he’d do it.  He doesn’t know where that leaves them.

“Good,” Dorian says.  “So if I ask you how your synthetic leg is, will you tell me?”

John blinks.  “It’s fine,” he says.  “It’s… sixty-two percent.  That what you mean, the charge?”

“I just meant, how is it,” Dorian says.  “It hurts when you take it off.  Does it ever hurt when you’re wearing it?”

“Yeah,” John says.  “I guess.  Why?”

“It looks like it affects your posture,” Dorian says.  “Sometimes, you walk in a way that must put asymmetric pressure on your musculoskeletal system.  Does that make your back hurt?”

“Sometimes,” John says, eyeing him.  “Why, you offering to give me a back massage?”

Dorian smiles with a deliberate innocence that’s so ridiculous he has to suppress a smile of his own.  “Would you like one?” Dorian asks.  

John rolls his eyes instead, but it’s a near thing.  “Yes, you can come feel me up.  That was a really awkward way of asking, just so you know.”

“Right now,” Dorian says, and he walks over like he always does which means John barely notices him moving until he’s right there, “I’m just going for effective.  Feel free to critique my style, though; obviously your own example is less than sufficient.”

“Oh, please,” John says.  It might sound more convincing if Dorian didn’t pick that exact moment to put his hands on John’s shoulders, squeezing them hard enough to be a little frightening.  “You haven’t even seen my example.  My example is totally smooth.”

“Show me,” Dorian says, pressing his thumbs into John’s shoulderblades.  He doesn’t have to move his hands to do it, and humans definitely don’t have that much strength in their fingers.  John takes a careful breath and doesn’t say anything.

“Seriously,” Dorian adds.  He slides his hands off of John’s shoulders, gripping his upper arms and pressing in.  “I want to see how you initiate physical contact.”

John draws in a sharp breath as Dorian kneads upward and he can feel himself get lighter.  He doesn’t move, but the sensation is there: Dorian could pick him up if he wanted to.  Hell, Dorian could crush him without a second thought.  John’s seen him in action, he’s seen him in the field, and when it’s John’s life on the line he’s nothing but grateful to see Dorian snap a shooter’s neck with his bare hands.

It’s not what he wants to think about right now.  Not when Dorian’s hands are just below his neck and his fingers are an inhuman force that John can feel all the way to his bones.  Dorian’s gentle, sure, but he’s only as gentle as he has to be to keep the people around him from getting hurt.  He’s designed to fight.  It’s this that’s the anomaly, the struggle to adapt to something he wasn’t meant to do.  Not that.

“John.”  Dorian’s voice is very quiet in his ear.  His hands have stopped moving, warm and still on John’s arms.  “The physiological distinction between fear and arousal is very thin.  I can’t tell--I need you to tell me if I’ve done something wrong.”

John draws in a shuddering breath.  “It’s fine,” he manages.  “Just--just remembering something.  That’s all.”

“You’re afraid,” Dorian says, but he doesn’t move.  “Of something you remember?  Or of me?”

“It’s fine,” John says through gritted teeth.  “I’m fine.”

“It’s me,” Dorian says.  “You’re afraid of me.  It’s because I was too strong when I touched you; is that it?  That was a miscalculation on my part.  You seemed to enjoy it last night, but maybe the… context was different.”

John takes another breath, and this time the one after it comes more easily.  He feels one of Dorian's hands slip off of his arm, ghosting across his back to press carefully into the middle, beneath his shoulderblades.  Over his spine, but the pressure is minimal and he ends up rubbing small circles into the muscles on either side.

John sighs, feeling the tension in his shoulders ease.  “Sorry,” he mutters.  “You don’t have to baby me.”

That makes Dorian stop again, his hand stilling on John’s back.  “This isn’t a challenge, John. It isn’t about how far you can go, or how far you’ll let me go.  It’s just supposed to be enjoyable.”

He wants to say something.  He wants to argue that it is, that he is, that this is fine.  But he can’t keep telling Dorian one thing when it’s so obviously something else.  Instead he just nods, because at least it shows he’s listening, and Dorian starts rubbing his back again so maybe it could be worse.

He’s not sure how long they stand there.  Dorian probably knows.  Of course he knows, he apparently knows everything.  He knows how hard to press against John’s back to make him feel it through his shirt.  He knows where it’s comforting and soothing.  John’s pretty sure he knows where it’s hot, too, because every time his thumbs dip into John’s lower back they retreat immediately, hands sliding all the way back to his shoulders to start again.

John is relaxed to the point of being bored the fourth time it happens.  And he’s not bored, because it feels better than anything since he woke up with Dorian’s body pressed against his back.  But he has to stand very still to keep Dorian from pausing--probably assessing his reaction--and that’s the least comfortable part of the morning.

Except for the way Dorian’s hands have lost all their adventurousness.  John doesn’t mind at first, appreciates it even.  But when it becomes clear that Dorian’s not going to do a damn thing other than rub his back until and unless John says otherwise, it’s a little frustrating.

He’s not going to ask.  He’s also not planning to stand here like this for the rest of the day.  And hey, Dorian asked to see his moves, right?  John can show him moves.

“Hey,” he says quietly, lifting a hand to his own shoulder.  He turns it over, palm up, and when Dorian still doesn’t stop he says, “Take my hand.”  He doesn’t mind spelling it out if he has to.  Maybe he should have done that from the beginning.

Dorian grasps his hand too hard, more like a handshake than a gentle touch, and John says, “Easy,” before he can think about it.  Dorian’s grip immediately loosens to the point of letting go, but John curls their fingers together and tugs gently.  “C’mere,” he says.

He pulls Dorian’s hand forward and he feels Dorian step into him, awkward and stiff as he tries to accommodate John without having any idea what he wants.  John shifts his arm so it’s lower, pressed against his chest, then thinks better of it and lifts Dorian’s hand to kiss his fingers.  “You’re fine,” he mutters.  He reaches back, fumbling for Dorian’s hip, and adds, “Give me your other hand.”

This time Dorian’s hand slides into his carefully, bumping warmth against his fingers as John pulls him forward another half-step.  Dorian lets him wrap their arms around John’s waist, his chest pressed up against John’s back.  A moment later, John feels a gentle pressure on the back of his neck, and he thinks Dorian’s actually leaning against him.  Or at least faking it really well.

He smiles, partly at the thought and partly because it feels good, whatever it is.  “There’s more than one way to comfort someone,” he says quietly.  It’s easier to say when he doesn’t have Dorian’s quizzical expression staring back at him.

“Sure,” Dorian says.  His voice is a little muffled, which is cool, because John didn’t even know it could do that.  “You’ve always seemed like someone who would respond well to a good hug.”

He’s not wrong, but John remembers a few times when Dorian clearly didn’t care.  “Hasn’t stopped you,” John says.

“I’m bold like that,” Dorian mumbles.  Maybe he says it in a normal voice and maybe he doesn’t, but he must have his face pressed into the collar of John’s shirt.  It makes John want to turn around, to see him, but he doesn’t want to move.

“Yeah,” he says instead.  When he’s not looking at Dorian it’s easier to admit, “You’ll go a lot farther than I will.  I think we’re gonna need that.”

He feels Dorian’s weight shift, warm against his back while his arms stay right where they are.  The back of his neck feels cool suddenly, and he thinks Dorian’s lifted his head when his voice sounds clear again.  “I’m not sure we’re talking about the same John Kennex,” Dorian says.  “I could list some of examples of how far you’ll go, just to refresh your memory, but I don’t think it would be appropriate to the mood.”

John thinks he knows what Dorian means.  “That was before,” he mutters.

“Nothing I’m remembering was before,” Dorian says.  They don’t bother to specify before what.  Dorian sounds confident when he adds, “Trust me when I say I’m not worried about you keeping up.”

It’s a funny thing to say, but what’s stranger is that John does.

Chapter 19

Dorian waits almost a full minute before he says, "I suppose it's inappropriate to make sexual advances on someone you're comforting."

Which is pretty much exactly what John was thinking, with more regret than Dorian let show in his tone.  So he doesn't try to suppress his smile when he says, "Depends on the person.  With me you're probably okay."

There's another pause, and John wonders how he decides how long to wait.  Dorian never showed much in the way of processing delays until they started doing this.  Maybe it's because they're doing this.  Or maybe it's those stupid memories again; John should ask how--

"Did you just give me permission to ignore Rudy's presence?" Dorian asks at last.  "Or did I misunderstand?"

If Dorian talking about taking his pants off was him not ignoring his roommate, then John has to wonder what he's getting himself into when he says, "Do you need permission?  Stop reminding me so I can pretend I forgot already."

He feels a kiss against the back of his neck.  Dorian's hands ease out of his to lie flat over his stomach.  John’s aware of how his breathing changes no matter how unassuming the action, and he stops entirely when he hears Dorian murmur, "I do need permission.  But I think you've given it."

It doesn't get any easier when those hands slide down, smoothing his shirt over his stomach, patting fabric that's suddenly too warm and too thick.  "That's why they made you the smart one," John mutters.

"I'm going to pull your shirt up," Dorian says.  His voice is quiet and even.  "So I can put my hands on your skin."

"Uh-huh."  John tries to okay it, because maybe Dorian thinks he's still freaked out.  Dorian doesn't wait, though, smooth fingers gliding over his stomach and up his chest.  The shirt doesn't slow him down at all, but John can feel it pulled tight against his back as it rides up his skin.

"You touched my nipples several times last night," Dorian says in his ear.  It's weird to hear him say it, just like that.  Like he even has nipples.  "Is that something you like?  When someone does it to you?"

They're standing in the middle of Rudy's kitchen and spare bedroom combined, back to chest, with nothing but a door between them and the rest of the world.  The screens near the ceiling show light on the surface of the street outside.  Someone tried to kill them last night, not once but twice, and now Dorian's asking him how he likes to be touched.

"I guess," John mutters.  He doesn't want to think about anything right now.  "Yeah."

Dorian's hands are pressing carefully against his chest, just shy of their target, and John shifts as best he can in the circle of those arms.  It's not really anything.  He doesn't know why Dorian picked it to focus on.

"You guess," Dorian says.  He sounds amused.  "I guess we'll find out, then."  He moves his thumbs, circling John's nipples carefully and with a precision that leaves them completely untouched.  John has no idea how he can do that without seeing them--what, does he have tiny sensors in his hands?

His thumbs trace another circle as John's brain catches up with him, and he realizes that yes, Dorian has tiny sensors in his hands.

"A touch for a touch," Dorian whispers in his ear.  "I'm going to touch you everywhere you touched me."  The pressure of his fingers lightens as he pulls his hands away, sliding down John's sides, and he adds, "But not yet."

The sound John makes is small but unmistakable, and he bites down on his impatience but he can't take back the surprise.  His shirt goes taut again as Dorian squeezes his sides.  It's too hard to tickle but not enough to distract him from the unfulfilled itch in his chest.

Damn it.  He got played and he didn't even see it coming.

"Clever," John grumbles.  He hopes he sounds more cynical than breathless.  Where did he touch Dorian?  He's pretty sure it wasn't anywhere that counted, and if he has to stand here and take it with no hope of a happy ending, then he's going to have to spend time in Rudy's shower after all.  Maybe a lot of time.

"Thank you," Dorian says.  "I'm going to put my hands in your pants now."

That's when it clicks: Dorian's not warning him.  He's trying to narrate.  This is his attempt at talking dirty, and it should be hilarious but somehow it's kind of sweet.  It even makes his breath catch when Dorian follows through, hands pushing straight down, sliding over skin that's hot and sensitive and leads right to something John knows he didn't touch.

Those hands stop short.  John tells himself he didn't expect anything else, but his body doesn't listen and there's no way Dorian can miss it.  He doesn't push any further, hands resting under John's waistband.  His shoulders are tight against John's back, so maybe that's as far as he can reach, but John can feel an embarrassing amount of heat swelling just below those fingers.

"Do you like not being able to see me?" Dorian asks, out of nowhere.

He has no idea what the right answer is.  He shifts, unconsciously trying to find the friction he's not going to get.  He closes his eyes when he realizes being toyed with isn’t enough, it's nowhere near enough to make him walk away.  Because lusting after an android is one thing.  Letting an android--letting anyone--take you apart until you don't know how to stop is something else.

"John."

"No," he blurts out.  "No, I want to see you."

"Are you sure?"  Dorian sounds careful, not teasing, and John would think he doesn't even know how to sound teasing except he's done it before.  He must not being doing it now on purpose.  Maybe he's serious.

"Are you kidding?"  John swallows, and it's hard because his mouth is dry but it keeps his voice from breaking.  "Is this a game?  I'm crap at sex games, Dee; if there's rules you gotta tell me."

"I'm not kidding."  Dorian sounds totally calm, even when he adds, "You seem self-conscious.  I thought it might be easier when you're not looking at anyone."

"I watch porn," John says.  He's not calm, but he tries to sound less desperate.  "I want to see."

"Can I take your shirt off?" Dorian asks, and it's not a big deal.  It doesn't mean anything.

John feels himself shudder anyway.

Dorian doesn't move.  He doesn't even comment, and finally John mutters, "Yeah."

Those hands move up, and John pushes helplessly forward when they slide out of his pants.  He feels fingers on the hem of his shirt, Dorian's tongue on the skin of his neck, and he can't think at all.  He pushes his shoulders back, feeling his shirt peeled away inch by inch.  He's looking at a kitchen sink.  He's looking at a window of sunlight on concrete.  He's looking at an empty room while a guy he can't even see makes him hard by not touching him.

He lifts his arms, but Dorian doesn't try to hold them this time.  He just pulls the shirt away and it's gone when he steps around in front of John.  He leans in and John tries to yank him forward.  He feels hands on his chest before he knows what's happening, and they're kissing, pressed up against each other--

And Dorian's goddamned hands are braced below his nipples, keeping John from rubbing against him.  His sweatshirt is loose enough that it wrinkles and bunches, brushing against John's skin even in the gap created by his fingers, but it's not enough.  It tickles.  It itches.  It makes him insane for something he didn't know he wanted, and he groans as he thrusts forward and gets nothing.

"Did you say you like having your nipples touched?" Dorian whispers against his mouth.  "I can't remember."

"Yes," John hisses.  "Jesus, yes.  I like it, okay?"

Dorian flicks a thumb against his nipple, easy even with the pressure between them, and John groans.  It's nothing.  It doesn't even matter, and it feels like--

Dorian pushes harder the second time, and it's like a cold spark against his chest.  It hurts.  It feels good.  John shoves against him, but Dorian's holding him harder than he realized.  There's a band across his chest and he can barely move.

"How many times?" Dorian asks.  "How many times did you touch me?"

Oh, god.  This is a game.  And for once the rules are blindingly obvious: he gets as good as he gives.  He's never been good at giving.  Now karma is biting him in the ass.

"Do you remember?" Dorian asks.  He sounds curious, not mocking, like he thinks John might really have forgotten.  Like he could forget anything about last night.

"Twice," John says through gritted teeth.

Dorian hums, pulling away.  "One of them twice," he agrees.  "One of them only once."

Before John can say anything, Dorian leans down to kiss his untouched nipple.  He presses his tongue against it, sucking gently on the skin and then harder, like he's trying to leave a hickey.  He stops just short of biting, and John chokes on his protest when he pulls away.  He doesn't want anyone with android strength putting teeth on sensitive areas.

Except he's panting and his skin is throbbing and he really does.  He wants it almost as much as he wants to shove a hand in his pants and squeeze.  As much as he wants to find something to push against and just thrust until this ache stops tearing him apart.

"I think that counts as once," Dorian is saying.  He sounds calm and perfectly controlled.  He's lucky John can't shove him down on the floor and hump him senseless.

God, John really wants to shove him down on the floor and hump him senseless.

Or fuck him.  Is that an option for Mr. Designed To Be As Human As Possible?  The things he needs to learn about Dorian could fill a fucking Kama Sutra.

"I need to push your pants down," Dorian says.  "You don't have to take them off if you don't want to."

He almost laughs, except he doesn't have to ask: he knows Dorian's serious.  He said he'd take his clothes off on request.  Then he said he wasn't joking.

Put up or shut up.

"I really hope the door is locked," John mutters.  Tries to mutter.  It comes out as more of a gasp when Dorian's hands slide down his bare chest and catch on the waistband of his pants.  He's not waiting.  Permission is assumed now.  It's "no" or nothing.

John's not saying no.

"I could hear anyone approaching long before they'd be stopped by a lock," Dorian tells him.  John is afraid he knows what that means, but Dorian kisses him before he can protest.  He feels strong fingers release the button on his pants and a hand slides between him and the zipper before it's pulled down.

John can't decide if it's considerate or cruel, but Dorian lets him rub shamelessly against the back of his hand for longer than it takes to undo the zipper.  Then his pants are pushed down--way down, past his knees, and god he feels stupid--until Dorian can fit both hands between his legs.  And he does.

"What are you--"  The question is strangled in his throat when Dorian grips his thighs, high up and from the inside, knuckles brushing the heavy heat between John's legs as he adjusts his grip.  He's massaging John's inner thighs in a terrifyingly business-like way, and John can feel both knees tremble and lock.

"Do you need to sit down?" Dorian asks.  His fingers are hot and tantalizing as they release their hold and slide up to John's hips.  "You'll have to tell me if a position is uncomfortable."

"It's fine," John gasps.  He puts a hand on Dorian's shoulder as he sways closer, and there's no objection.  He's standing in someone else's kitchen with his pants down, but Dorian is kneeling in front of him and Dorian's mouth is right there and somehow nothing else matters.

"You could sit," Dorian says.  "I was sitting, last night.  Sort of.  I want to do what you did to me."

John groans.  He knows where this is going and he's still letting it happen.  He's so fucking desperate.  "I'm sorry, okay.  I should have--"

"I never felt anything like that before," Dorian says, talking over him like he didn't even start.  "You made me feel like more than I've ever been."

He catches Dorian's other shoulder and squeezes his eyes shut.  Dorian didn't feel cheated.  Of course he didn't.  He doesn't know it can be better than that.  God damn it, John thinks.  Dorian acts like he knows what he's doing, but John is the best practical sex education he's ever going to get.

Ten to one this goes down in flames within a week.

"If you don't like it," Dorian says quietly, "Tell me.  But if it's okay, just let me try.  Let me try to do this for you."

"Dorian."  It takes most of his self-control to get those three syllables out, but at least he knows he's not hurting anyone when he clenches his fingers on Dorian's shoulders.

"I'll get better at it if you let me try," Dorian says.

"You don't have to convince me," John growls, because if Dorian sounds any more pleading he's going to lose it.  "It's all I can do not to jack off with you watching, okay?  You're fucking fine at this.  Stop apologizing."

There's a pause where he tries to catch his breath and Dorian's face glows blue and John mostly resists the urge to find out what that cheek would look like with more than light underneath it.  He's totally forgotten what he wanted to say.  If he ever knew.

"Do you want me to help?" Dorian asks at last.

John stares at him, not understanding.  "What?"

"You indicated that you want to orgasm," Dorian says.  "Do you want me to help?"

"You--"  He chokes on it, closes his eyes briefly, and gives up.  No way is he going to get out anything more coherent right now.  "Yeah," he mutters.  "Yeah, I do."

He feels something press in and his eyes fly open, because Dorian is kissing the inside of his thigh but his cheek is pressed against John's underwear.  Underwear that's already damp and sticky: he can't keep wearing it even if he does get it off before he loses it completely.  Which is looking less and less likely as Dorian kisses his way higher, licking skin and burying his face between John's legs like he doesn't need to breathe.

John gives up.  He doesn't know what anyone is supposed to do in this situation except rub it out against whatever's available, and he's not doing it on Dorian's face.  He lets go of one shoulder to get hold of himself through the cotton, but Dorian's faster.  He catches John's hand and presses it to the outside of his leg instead.

"Let me," Dorian mumbles.

John groans.  He can feel the words against his skin.  He's trying not to thrust, but he can't help it, even when Dorian's other hand anchors his hip in place.  That tongue jumps from the crease of his thigh to the skin above, and now it's Dorian's chin he's bumping against instead of his cheek.

"I can--" he manages.  His fingers squeeze Dorian's mercilessly, by turns hot and nerveless at the seam of his synthetic leg.  "I can take my…"

He can't finish, but Dorian does it for him.  "Would you orgasm faster if you removed the rest of your clothing?" he asks.  He's nuzzling the hair above the waistband of John's briefs, ducking his chin a little every time John pushes up.

"Yes," John gasps.  Embarrassingly fast.  A couple of strokes.  Maybe a lick or two.  Oh, god, imagining Dorian sucking him off is going to do him in.

"Is it true that the longer it takes you to reach orgasm," Dorian says, "the more enjoyable it is?"

"Yes," John says, but his head is spinning and he takes his other hand off of Dorian's shoulder and tries to push his mouth down.  "No.  What?"

"I think you'll like it this way," Dorian says.  He does press a kiss through John's underwear to the heat below, and John gasps and pushes and finds he can't move at all.

Then Dorian lets go of his hand and runs his fingers down John's synthetic leg.  The whole damn thing lights up with a tingling rush that feels like doing something stupid and getting away with it.  It feels like adrenaline and elation and heat, all at once.  So much heat.

John doesn't realize he moaned until afterwards.  Until he does it again.  The heat is contagious.  It's everywhere, it's making him harder and he didn't even think that was possible.  He feels Dorian's hand pause at his ankle and he braces himself.

When those fingers trace their way back up his leg, they trail a cold wash of rain through the heat and it paralyzes him like nothing else.  The prickle of contrast is small but growing, moving like a wave as it spreads up his leg and rolls through the interface and impossibly keeps on going.

He feels nerves fire in his upper thigh, cold and hot, zinging through his skin.  He thinks he makes a sound--a lot of sounds, maybe, things he doesn't want repeated--but he can feel it in his balls and what the hell is Dorian doing?  He pushes mindlessly forward.  He meets some kind of resistance and every muscle in his body convulses, urging him on, pushing again and again.

It takes John several heartbeats to realize what's happening, but his heart is pounding too fast to pull them apart.  Because Dorian has no shame he's still there, between John's legs, and it's his cheek John's getting off on.  Which only makes him shudder again, because everything is lit up blue and John's sticky mess is dragging across his skin.  It's obscene and wrong and John's pretty sure that if he can bring himself to ask, it's even odds Dorian will say he likes it.

It's enough to shake him, hard and deep and indelible.  Out of himself for once.  Past denial.  Into fear and longing, distant though they are in the post-orgasmic glow of holy shit the world is a beautiful place.  

He wants to be the kind of person who can have this.

His leg is warm.  Everything is warm, but his leg never feels like this.  It’s never the same temperature as the rest of him.  It’s weird, but he figures that’s Dorian again.  Like everything else.

The shoulders under his hands are strong and unyielding.  When the pressure between his legs shifts, though, it sends a jolt through overly sensitized skin and he can barely hold himself up.  He tries to say something, and it comes out as a whimper.

“Are you all right?” Dorian sounds small and worried.  He sounds the fucking opposite of what John wants, and his hands clench on shoulders that don’t move.

All he can do is breathe, “Yeah.”  He hates that he doesn’t know how to say that he’s great, that Dorian’s better, that he doesn’t deserve this but he thinks he might spend the rest of his life trying to change that.

“I gotta sit down,” he says instead.  It comes out as a whisper.  Dorian’s hands are on his hips, bracing and awkward and apparently reluctant to let go.  John manages to get his pants up without losing his balance, so he counts that as a victory.

“Hey,” he mumbles, going heavily to one knee.  One thing he’ll say for the synthetic leg: it can take a lot of abuse.  The other one isn’t so happy about kneeling in front of Dorian, but at least it gives him more room in the front of his pants.  “What about you?”

Dorian is watching, staring back at him, but he shakes his head.  John doesn’t know if he doesn’t get it, or if he’s not okay.  Or if he’s fine.  Hell, he could be fine, this is Dorian.  He’s fine when John least expects it and twisted up inside when no one’s paying attention.

John makes himself ask.  “You okay?”  He’s wrung out, relaxed and worried all at once.  He’d like to collapse into Dorian for a few minutes and not think, not talk, but they still don’t know what they’re doing and some of this has to be on him.  “You need… uh.  You want anything?”

All Dorian says is, “I’m fine.”

John doesn’t know what that means, but he doesn’t know how else to ask.  He puts a hand on Dorian’s neck, cupping his face with the other, trying to keep him from slipping away.  “I don’t know what that means,” he mutters.

Dorian doesn’t move.  “I don’t know what you’re asking,” he says quietly.

There’s not a trace of blue under his skin now, and John runs his fingers over Dorian’s cheek.  His skin is damp, and it’s strange what a shock that is to feel.  “I can’t believe you let me do that,” John blurts out.

Dorian looks more puzzled than before.  “Do what?”

“This,” John says, smoothing his hand over Dorian’s face again.  “This is…”

“Dirty?” Dorian suggests, when he can’t finish.

“Yeah,” John says.

Dorian studies him, careful and curious like he really doesn’t know.  “Did you like it?”

John feels himself smile, and it’s probably equal parts embarrassment and surprise.  He can’t stop.  “Hell yeah I liked it,” he says.

Dorian smiles back at him, his mouth curving under John’s thumb.  “Good,” he says.  “I should have asked before I took over the sensory input from your prosthesis like that.  I’m sorry if I overstepped.”

It’s almost too complicated a thought for John right now.  He stares at Dorian for a long moment before he realizes he’s talking about the leg.  “It’s fine,” he says, for lack of anything better.  It was more than fine.  “I mean, it’s great,” he says awkwardly.  “It felt good.  Uh… really good.”

Dorian looks down, at his fingers toying with the waistband of John’s undone pants.  His hand drops unerringly to where synthetic meets organic under the black fabric.  “I enjoyed feeling you respond,” Dorian says.  “Your leg is capable of transmitting much more information than you typically process from it.”

“Uh-huh,” John says, because the way his leg works is almost the last thing he wants to talk about right now.  “What about you?  How much do you… feel?”

Dorian gives him a weird look.  “How much do you feel?” he counters.

John opens his mouth to say, everything, but everything what?  Everything he used to?  Everything Dorian does?  Neither is true, and he doesn’t know what else to compare it to.

He gives up.  “Okay,” says.  He can’t think right now.  “Point taken.”

The corner of Dorian’s mouth quirks upward, and it’s strange to think he has to ask, but he doesn’t want to get this wrong.  “Can I kiss you?”

Dorian’s tiny nod is all the answer he needs.  It doesn’t make anything any clearer, but it feels good.  He’s aware of Dorian’s fingers on his jaw, gentle as he mimics John’s hand on his face, and John leans into it as much as he can.  He tries to ignore the fact that they’re on the floor, that he’s the only one who got off, that nothing they do has much of a future.  He wants a few seconds to enjoy the fact that he did get off, and hey: they’re still speaking to each other.  Not bad for a first try.

His standards aren’t high.  On the other hand, this is uncharted territory.  He figures he’s lucky to have standards at all.

When they’re not kissing anymore, just leaning into each other and touching, Dorian asks, “Did you say you’re interested in sex games?”

“No,” John says.  He rests his forehead against Dorian’s and lets his fingers slide under the collar of that sweatshirt.  Dorian is petting his chest, fingers running over his nipples in a way that probably isn’t an accident, and John can’t even look at him.  “I said I’m bad at sex games.”

“Allow me to rephrase,” Dorian says, rubbing his other hand idly against John’s leg.  “Are you interested in sex games?”

John almost says no, except that it’s Dorian asking.  So this isn’t about embarrassing him.  Probably.  Even if it is, Dorian’s got plenty of ammunition already.  And John says no a lot.

“Why?” he says instead.  He has no idea what flips the switch in his head, but he gets that this might not be about him.  “You got one you want to try?”

“I didn’t do much research,” Dorian says.  “I didn’t think it was something you were interested in, so there wasn’t much point.”

John pulls back in surprise.  That was almost evasive.  “You do,” he says, studying Dorian’s expression.  This is what he looks like when he’s hiding something.  “You do want to try something.  What is it?”

“I don’t have anything in mind,” Dorian says.  If John knows him at all, that’s an outright lie.  “I was curious to hear you mention it, and I thought I should follow up.”

“Uh-huh,” John says.  “Well, when you get over being embarrassed, let me know.”

“I don’t think I’d be good at them either,” Dorian tells him.  “I haven’t played any regular games, so I have no frame of reference.”

“You haven’t--”  John breaks off, staring at him.  “Did you really just--you haven’t played any games?  Really?”

“When would I play games?” Dorian counters.  “I work with you most of the day, and the rest of my time is accounted for at the factory.”

Mostly accounted for, John thinks.  Some of it is mostly accounted for.

“You’re on the network sixteen hours a day,” John says.  “Play games whenever you want.  That’s what humans do.”

“And humans risk a poor performance review,” Dorian says.  “I risk being decommissioned.”

“No one’s going to shut you down over a stupid game,” John says, but it’s easy for him to say and what if they didn’t?  What if they fucked with Dorian’s programming instead?  What if they made him not care about games anymore, or whatever weird shit they do to the MXs to make them creepy like they are?

“Okay, wait,” John says, when Dorian just stares at him reproachfully.  “Pretend I didn’t say that.  It’s not the same in your head anyway, right?  You said downloading movies isn’t as fun as watching them.  So you should play.  We can do that.  We’ll have a game night or something.”

“Regular games,” Dorian says.

“Yeah,” John says.  “Regular--make a list, okay?  I’m not playing Monopoly with you, and if you want to throw a frisbee we’re going outside.  But... make a list.  We’ll figure it out from there.”

Dorian looks thoughtful, which should probably make him nervous but mostly he just thinks it’s funny to watch.  He’d do it longer but he thinks there’s more questions coming, and he’s not sure either of them can handle the answers right now.  So he says, “Speaking of games, we have to go.”

He doesn’t actually know what time it is, but he knows what time it was when Sandra called.  It gets Dorian’s attention, anyway.  “Why?” he asks.

“We have a date,” John tells him.  “And I need a change of clothes."

"What's wrong with your clothes?" Dorian wants to know.

"My underwear is what's wrong with my clothes," John says.  "Maybe you can go without, but I can't.  Not today.  Not all day."

Dorian frowns at him.  "You're planning to go back to your house."

"Sure," John says.  "Why not?  No one will expect it."

"I did," Dorian points out.

"So?"  John plants a hand on the floor and stretches his legs gingerly before pushing himself up.  He holds out his other hand to Dorian.  "You know me.  Doesn't count."

Dorian looks at his hand, then up at him.  He takes John's hand the same way he clasps it when they get out of a tight spot, which is surprisingly appropriate, and he pulls on it as he gets up.  Nowhere near enough to help, but it's not like he needs it.  John can't take his weight anyway.  It's just a gesture.

"Other people know you," Dorian says, standing in front of him like nothing happened.

"You'd be surprised," John tells him.  "You want to… uh.  Get cleaned up?  And I'll get the dishes?"

Dorian's hand goes to his cheek, which looks totally fine, but John sees the tips of his fingers flicker blue when he touches it.  "Where are we going?" he asks.

He doesn't know if it's the fingers or the question, but John has to smile.  "A game," he says.  "Someone else's game.  I promised I be there."

Dorian lowers his hand.  "Is this game one that other people know you plan to attend?"

"Nope," John lies.  "Not a one.  It'll be fine, come on."

For once, he doesn't get a lecture on safety or a wry comment on his propensity for danger.  It isn't until Dorian's walking away that he remembers to ask again.  "Hey," he says, because maybe he should have tried harder.  "You sure you're okay?"

Dorian stops outside the bathroom door to look at him.  "Why do you expect me not to be?"

"Well, it's--"  This is why he gave up before, he thinks.  "I mean, this kind of thing."  He waves vaguely between the two of them, but his pants are still undone and Dorian's going to wash his face, so maybe it's obvious.  "Usually--sometimes it's more… uh, reciprocal?"

Dorian's expression doesn't change.  "Do you think you owe me, John?"

Yeah, he thinks.  So much more than you know.

"Yeah," he says out loud.  "I do."

He's taken by surprise when Dorian smirks at him.  "I can live with that," Dorian says.

John watches him disappear into the bathroom, leaving the door open behind him.  It's not until he's out of sight that John smiles.  Once he starts, he can't stop.

Chapter 20

He thinks he's lucky they don't actually pass Rudy on their way out, because he has no idea how to explain his expression.  He doesn't want to try.  He's pretty sure anything he says will sound more suspicious than nothing, so he's going to stick with that as long as possible.

They don't run into anyone between the lab and the house.  Sandra's warning aside, the house isn't an active crime scene anymore: the tape is gone and the power is back on, although it takes Dorian a few minutes to convince Hal it's safe to reboot.  John has no less than three increasingly apologetic messages from his security company, and it sounds like he won't owe them anything for at least a year.

He changes his clothes before they leave again.  Dorian does too, exchanging stolen medic sweats for more of John’s exercise clothes.  John offers him jeans and a t-shirt, but Dorian refuses, and it’s not like John’s embarrassed to be seen with someone in sweats.  He figures Dorian can wear what he wants.  For once.

Forever, if John had his way, but those are dangerous thoughts and today is too good to think about what they don’t have.

He does put his window down on the way to the community fields.  It makes Dorian smile, even in the middle of berating John for not yielding to pedestrians, so John puts the passenger window down too.  It makes the car loud and distracting, and it's harder to talk but it feels good.  He doesn't want to hear about his driving anyway.

They've parked and gotten out to the sound of kids shouting and team colors flashing everywhere before Dorian asks, "Whose game is this, John?"

There's four games on the field they're headed for right now, but John knows what he means.  "Marty's soccer team is playing in the semifinals today," he says.  He wants to say more, about how he watched the first game too, and the fifth, and how he promised Maria she wouldn't have to do them all alone.

He wants to say that she's never done them alone, that she knew his promise was about him, not her, and she let him make it anyway.  He thinks she always saves a seat for him, even when he doesn't tell her he's coming, because he showed up to the sixth game at the last minute and she smiled like she was expecting him.  He only saw Marty afterwards once, but he knows Maria would let him hang around every time if he wanted to and that's why he doesn't.

He wants to tell Dorian why an intramural semifinal soccer game is so important to him, but he can't.  He could tell him everything and Dorian would probably know what it means better than he does.  John doesn't know what it means, but Maria lets him come, so he goes whenever he can.

"Marty," Dorian says, stepping around a small child on the edge of the field.  She looks unsupervised, but she's heading straight for a pop-up tent, so John doesn't say anything.  "Your partner's son?"

His partner's son.  He can't call Martin his former partner, and somehow Dorian knows that, so John just nods.  "Yeah," he says.

There's a tee-ball game going on in the corner nearest the parking area, and a softball game in the opposite corner.  In between, two soccer fields are marked, but only one of them is in play.  They're cutting it pretty close by now, so Maria is probably in the temporary bleachers already.

"His team must be competitive," Dorian remarks.  "If they're in a semifinal championship round."

It's a nice thought, but rec sports are mostly about who can keep running the longest.  "Sure," John says, because that's what you say.  "They're pretty good."

He sees Dorian give him a sideways look out of the corner of his eye, and he has to smile.  "They're all right," he says, then he adds, "They're not the worst."

It makes Dorian smile for some reason.

They find Maria easily, mostly because John follows Dorian's gaze and sees her waving.  He used to think it was weird that she could spot him so quickly, but apparently the parents who come to these games every weekend all know each other.  John and Dorian probably stick out like the off-duty bachelor cops they are.

Sort of bachelor cops.  They kind of live together now.  Which probably doesn't count because Dorian's an android.  It's a stupid train of thought anyway, so John tries to think about something else.

The worst part of temporary bleachers is climbing in and out of them when they're full of parents and squirming children.  Today they're only half-full, which makes it easier, but a lot of the families are here for the day and they have the equipment to prove it.  Dorian makes it look easy, perfect balance and a courteous smile for everyone he steps around.  John feels every inch of his six feet and too big for the collapsible stands.

"Hi, John."  Maria stands up to greet him, and they manage to hug each other without bumping into anyone else.  "Glad you could come today," she says in his ear, and she smiles when she pulls away like he's seen more games than he's missed.

"Me too," he says, and he didn't realize he was smiling until he said it.  Which reminds him that Dorian's behind him, so he steps back.  "And hey, you know Dorian.  Dorian, Maria."

"Hello," Dorian says, holding out his hand with a smile.

"Of course," Maria says at the same time, and she takes his hand in both of hers.  Just for a second, but she smiles back and it doesn't even feel weird.  "It's good to see you again."

"You too," Dorian says.  "I didn't know Marty played soccer."

John's sitting, trying to get out of their way, and they sit around him.  Maria's friend Senecca is sitting on her other side, so she and Dorian are introduced too while Maria explains intramurals and says she secretly hopes the team doesn't win.  The championship game is an away game, and she and Senecca will both have to drive if their kids get in.

John thinks that's a nice, normal thing to worry about.  Of course, she'd probably think the same thing about him trying to find space for Dorian to move in.  Maybe he should tell her sometime, so they can commiserate over everyday problems for once instead of life-and-death recovery and lingering trauma.

"John," Dorian says, too quietly.

He looks away from the nearest field, where the flags have changed color to indicate in-progress play, and the kids milling around are starting to gather into recognizable formations.  "Yeah?"

Maria looks over when he says something, but he thought she was talking to Dorian so he's taken aback when Dorian just leans closer and whispers in his ear.  "Dr. Peres is here.  Two o'clock, circling the softball cage."

John glances that way immediately, but Maria and Senecca are standing and they're supposed to be cheering for the kids.  He gets up too, if only to see what Dorian's talking about.  When he feels Dorian at his shoulder he mutters, "Dr. Peres?"

"I called her Natieri," Dorian murmurs, and John can see the web of blue under his skin.  "You won't.  I'm trying to use a more neutral appellation."

John doesn't want to hear it.  "What's she doing here?"

"Statistically speaking, the odds are that she's looking for us."  Dorian sounds disapproving.  "So much for no one knowing you planned to be here today."

"She's calling you," Dorian adds, before John can answer.  They're sitting back down, now, and John checks his phone but there's no indication of a call.  "Signal trace," Dorian says.  "Do you want me to block it?"

John wants to say yes, just on principle, but curiosity wins and he says, "No."

He watches her across the field, phone to her ear as she turns unerringly in their direction.  He doesn't lift his hand, but she must be scanning the bleachers.  She's already walking in their direction.

"Should we leave the stands to meet her?" Dorian murmurs.

"No," John says again.  "She wants us, she can come get us."

"Problem?" Maria asks quietly, leaning into his shoulder like she's pointing something out to him on the field.  "Someone in trouble?"

"Hopefully not us," John mutters.  "Friend of ours is here looking for us."

"When you say friend," Maria begins, then lets it trail off.

"I dunno," John admits.  "We met on a case.  Dorian knows her, but he doesn't remember."

"Is it safe?" Maria murmurs.

"Yeah," John says, even though he doesn't know.  "Probably."

"I do remember," Dorian whispers in his other ear.  "She was an ally, John.  I don't know how much has changed, but four years ago, I trusted her with my life."

John turns toward him to keep the words between them if he can.  "There are people I'd trust with my life," he mutters.  "Doesn't mean I'd trust them with yours."

Dorian doesn't answer.  John tries to pay enough attention to the soccer field that he looks halfway convincing, but he's mostly following Peres' progress toward the bleachers.  She looks more comfortable here than he feels, which is annoying, but no one speaks to her and to a trained eye her isolation is obvious.  She's moving through this crowd, but she isn't a part of it.

He doesn't see the moment when she actually spots them.  She climbs into the bleachers anyway, like she was always headed for these sidelines, for this game.  He sees her catch Dorian's eye when she's halfway up, and neither of them look surprised.  John glances at Maria, who's watching them now too, and she looks back at him with a question in her eyes.

"It's probably fine," he mutters.

Maria gives him a skeptical look, and he figures she's heard that before.  But she turns back to the game and she doesn't try to introduce herself when Peres settles into a seat directly behind John and Dorian.  Senecca glances at them curiously, and she's not the only one, but Peres ignores everyone else.

"You're about to have a big problem," she says, elbows on her knees as she hunches over to talk to them.  "John.  Can you buy Dorian if I help?"

"Do you mind?" John says, at least five seconds behind and pissed that she thinks she can just show up wherever they are and talk like they're all friends here.  "We're busy."

"What's the problem?" Dorian asks.

"The ELPD."  Peres is talking to Dorian now, and as much as John doesn't want her here he wants her talking to Dorian even less.  "That book club is part of the civil defense network, and in the L Zone they work very closely with the police.  I assume you've traced the attempts on John's life back to them."

"Wait a second," John says.  She's fast but she's quiet and he's not totally sure he heard her right.  The bleachers are noisy at the beginning of the game.  "Did you just accuse cops?"

"They're not after you," Peres replies.  "They're after him."

John stares at the side of her face.  "Dorian?"

"Me?" Dorian says at the same time, and it would almost be funny if she didn't nod.

"John dies, you get shut down.  Actively if they can manage it, for failure to protect.  If not, then passively, for obsolescence.  It didn't work and they're out of time.  You'll probably get the notification today; I've been trying to find you before they send the override signal."

"Notification of what," John says, but he knows.  His stomach is tight and his skin is prickling with anticipation.  He needs to know how to fight this.  Now.

"Dorian's recall.  You have to beat it.  There's a loophole; I think they're going to call it an auction.  Can you buy him if I help?"

What the hell, John wants to say, what's going on, he has no idea what's happening.  He hears himself say yes.  It's wrong, he knows it's wrong and he looks at Dorian but he doesn't get any help.  Dorian looks cold and calm and fucking terrified to anyone who can see past his careful facade.

Peres looks surprised, like she didn't expect that, and maybe she's behind too because she says, "I have a lot of money, but I'm not law enforcement, and this is going to be insiders only.  You wouldn't even know about it if they had their way."

"Who?" John asks, like it matters.  His phone rings, and he answers it without waiting to see what she says.  He doesn't care.

"John, it's Rudy," Rudy's voice says.  John's pretty sure he didn't even say hello, and his fingers are cold on the phone.  "Someone just sent the lab a shutdown order.  For Dorian."

He doesn't remember where he is until he feels a hand on his arm.  He looks over at Maria, but she's still watching the field.  She squeezes his arm anyway, and they're sitting in the bleachers watching kids play soccer while someone tries to end Dorian's life.  Right under his nose.

He wonders, distantly, if Dorian ever feels this angry when someone takes a shot at John.  Probably not, right?  He's a lot more rational about this shit.  No one lives forever, John.

"How long can you delay it?" John asks his phone.  It's weird, but his voice sounds perfectly normal.  Even when he's listening for it, he can't hear the rage, or the fear, or anything except words that don't sound like enough.

There's a pause.  It wouldn't be anything from someone else.  With how fast Rudy can talk, though, it's pretty noticeable.

"Okay, you have a plan," Rudy says.  "You knew this was coming.  How did you know this was coming?  What do you want me to do?"

"I want you to delay it," John growls.  "How long, Rudy."

"Thirty minutes," Rudy says.  "A few more, maybe.  Forty-five, maybe, but no promises.  I can guarantee thirty."

"Can you warn us," John says.  "Before it happens."

"Yeah," Rudy says, "sure, no problem, but John, listen.  The recall only works if he's on.    Do you understand?  It can't override inactive programming."

John looks at Dorian, who nods.  "If we can't fix it, turn him off," John says.  "Got it.  You're gonna warn us before it comes to that."

"Yeah," Rudy says.  "Thirty minutes--wait.  John.  John!"

"Yeah," John says.  He feels Maria's hand tighten on his arm and he lowers his voice.  "Still here."

"There's an auction notice," Rudy says.  "For Delta Division's DRNs.  That doesn't make any sense; we don't have any inactive DRNs.  They must mean--"

"Dorian," John finishes at the same time.

"Scrap," Rudy says.  "There's already a trimidium bid."

John doesn't think his anger management classes are working.  He does think that sometimes he can't decide which temper tantrum to have first, and it slows him down long enough that he doesn't react right away.  Right now he doesn't know whether to throw his phone or crush it, and indecision makes him freeze long enough for Dorian to pluck it from his fingers.

"Rudy," he says.  "It's Dorian.  Is this a proxy auction?"

John can't hear what Rudy says, so he turns on Peres.  "How did you know about this?"

"They took my Dorian yesterday," she says.  "We got him back, but it was a long night."

"They?" John says.  He thinks maybe what he should be asking is, we?  He wants to know who his allies are.  But he figures he'd better know the enemy first.

"The ELPD," she says.  "They think we're smuggling androids.  They know he was," she says, tipping her head toward Dorian.  "They think we are."

"Are you?" John asks bluntly.

"Of course not," she says.  "If we were, you'd have already met them."

It's not, you'd have already found them.  It's not a nod to his police work at all.  It's a warning, it's information, and he never thought he'd be good at this conspiracy stuff but he knows what she means.

"Is that so," he says.  He's met exactly three androids from the L zone, and they were all part of a criminal case that the ELPD opened and the ELPD closed.  John's department wouldn't have been involved at all if it weren't for public outcry surrounding the children's disappearance.

"The kids," he adds, when she doesn't reply.  It makes a horrible amount of sense in retrospect.  No one hides a long-term abductee in a locked schoolroom.  "They weren't really being brainwashed, were they."

"Sure they were," Peres says.  "It would have been the perfect ransom--a kid for a bot.  As a bonus the kid comes back hating bots, so the parent decides maybe it's easier not to fight for the bot at all."

It's a lot easier to steal a kid than a bot.  Even a scrubbed, unregistered bot.  All the bot has to do is turn itself over in exchange for the kid, and everybody wins.  Except someone who wasn't considered a person to begin with.

"You're saying the PD made the book club do their dirty work," John says.

"I'm saying the L Zone isn't the old-fashioned paradise some people make it out to be," Peres says.  "It's not third world anarchy, either.  There are rules, and there are ways around the rules.  Just like everywhere else."

"Rudy, can you wait?" Dorian is saying.  "John--"  He barely waits until John looks at him.  "Sandra's calling you."

The fact that he doesn't hand the phone over means that he probably needs to keep talking so John looks at Peres.  "You got a phone?"

She passes it to him without a word, and he tips it toward Dorian.  "Give her to me," he says.

Dorian touches the phone while he tells Rudy, "Okay, go ahead."

It's Sandra's voice in John's ear when he lifts the phone.  "Hey," he says.  "I know."

"We have a problem," she tells him.

"Yeah."  He glances at Maria, who's holding his hand now and he barely noticed.  He squeezes it, oddly grateful for the support, and she gives him a quick smile.  "They want to sell Dorian."

The smile falls off of Maria's face, and he hears Sandra say, "For scrap.  How did you--never mind.  Where are you?  I can barely hear you."

"At a game," John says.  Then, for the benefit of anyone who actually can hear them, which he'd like to think is no one but is probably everyone for two or three seats in either direction, he adds, "Crowd's very tolerant of cell phone emergencies."

"Can you leave?" Sandra wants to know.

"Hey," John says, twisting enough that Peres will know he's talking to her.  "Can we leave?"

She shakes her head, and he says, "Apparently not."

"Not unless you want to tip the precinct," she says in his other ear.  "The L Zone must have a contact; I heard your officer quarters were hacked this morning."

"Did you hear that?" John asks Sandra.

"No," she says.  "Look, it's an auction.  It's a formality, an electronic-style auction that pings every potential bidder and closes a thousand seconds later.  But it's still an auction, and I got pinged."

"That's how Rudy knew," John says.  "Damn it."  Insider or not, he's clearly not considered a potential bidder.

"Can she bid?" Peres asks over his shoulder.

"Yeah," John says, and he slaps the back of his hand against Dorian's shoulder to get his attention.  "Hey, Sandra can bid.  You want her or Rudy?"

"Sandra," Peres says.

"Shut up," John tells her, which probably isn't what you should say to someone who's offering to fund your partner's freedom, but right now he doesn't care.

"Sandra," Dorian says.  "Rudy will be suspected of rigging the bid."

"He will?"  It's not their most important concern right now, and he's about to say "never mind" when Dorian nods once.

"He already offered," Dorian says.

John feels a little better.  "Remind me to buy him a drink," he says.

"Give me Sandra," Peres says, tapping his shoulder pretty much the same way he hit Dorian's.  She doesn't take the phone from him, so he doesn't glare at her, but she adds, "She'll need a transfer of funds and it's going to have to go through you.  I assume you can access your account from here?"

"I need my phone," John says.  He hands Peres her phone reluctantly, without hanging up on Sandra first.

"John needs his phone," Dorian says.  "I'll call you back before it ends."  He pauses, then adds, "Immediately.  I'll call you back immediately."

There's another brief moment, and then he says, "I understand.  Thank you, my friend."

John wants to mutter, give me that, when Dorian hands over his phone, but the words are stuck in his throat.  He's lucky he can even look Dorian in the eye.  He hates everything about this, except for how it's going to work.  He hates that it has to work, he hates that it's even a question, but doesn't hate that they're going to do it.

"Account number," Peres says, holding out her free hand.  "Sandra wants to talk to you again."

For a second, John doesn't know where to look.  He's holding onto Maria with one hand, his own phone with the other, and an IRC supporter he doesn't even trust is pressed up against his shoulder demanding he hand over his bank account.  The fuck is his life.  Nothing makes any sense.  Sometimes he's not even sure he woke up.

"Back off, please," Dorian says, and it comes from too far away.  John can hear him, but he doesn't really register that Dorian's talking to him.  To them.  To any of them.  John just sits there and stares at his phone while the weight on his shoulder disappears.

He feels a hand squeeze his, and when he looks at Maria she's holding a water bottle low between them.  Knee level, not in his face, but clearly meant for him when she swings it a little, careful not to let it hit him.  He sees her mouth the word, breathe, but he can't even swallow, let alone open his mouth.

"It's fine," he hears Dorian say.  "Let me talk to Sandra, please.  Don't touch him."

"No," John says, the word dragged up from somewhere he didn't know he could reach.  "Me.  Give it here."

He doesn't look at Dorian, but the hand on his is familiar when it gently removes his phone and replaces it with someone else's.  He manages to take a breath when Maria lets go.  "What," he says, getting the phone close enough that the question probably goes through.

"John."  Sandra sounds very calm.  Too calm.  She's real, he knows she's real, they've known each other forever.  Jesus.  He closes his eyes and it's a little easier to listen.

"If you let Natieri do this," Sandra says, "you'll owe her."

He waits, but she doesn't say anything else.  "Yeah," he manages.  "And?"

"You'll owe her a lot," Sandra says.

It doesn't matter, there's only one answer.  

"I don't care," he says.  His voice breaks.  He feels something cool brush against his free hand and he jerks away.  It's just Maria's water bottle.  He knows how to close his fingers around it when she doesn't pull it back.

"And Dorian can't be a police officer," Sandra says.

He feels the water bottle crumple in his hand.  The water spills over his fingers but no one says anything, no one touches him.  No one tries to take it.  "What," he says again.

"If you own him," Sandra says, "he's a personal bot.  He won't belong to the department anymore, and you can't bring your personal bot on cases."

"Fuck that," John says, and he doesn't care that two people a couple of benches down turn to frown at him.  Maybe they own bots.  Maybe they don't, maybe they don't even like bots.  He doesn't know which is worse.

"You'll need a new partner," Sandra says.

"That's not--"  He breaks off, finding Dorian with his eyes.  He's sitting there, completely calm, the sun shining on his skin like it's the most perfect day ever.  "She says you can't be a cop," he croaks.  "If you…"

"That's fine," Dorian says.  "It doesn't matter, John."

"It matters," he says.  It's all he can say.  It's important.  He can't lose someone else to a life that doesn't mean anything.  "You said--it's the only thing you want to do."

"I want other things now," Dorian tells him.  "I want to live."

There's a woman sitting a few seats over, one row down from Dorian, watching.  John can see her staring at them.  So this is the worst place in the world to do this, but they can't afford the time it would take to move.  What's left of Dorian's life is literally measured in seconds.

"He says it's okay," he tells the phone.  He keeps his eyes on Dorian, sees him nod.  "I'm gonna transfer you some money.  Can you send Dorian your account number?"

"Rudy wants to talk to her," Dorian says quietly.  "About how the proxy bid works."

Dorian's sitting there, in stands full of humans who don't even know they're free, who never even think about it, and he's telling other people how to buy him.  John feels sick.  His skin is cold and clammy, but at least he feels something again.  Awful.  It's better than numb.  Maybe.

He pulls in a breath, and then another, vaguely aware of the water bottle again.  "I'm gonna give you to Dorian," he says, even as he sees Dorian's face pitch a faint blue fit in the bright sunlight and Sandra tells him he has it.  "He wants to put you in touch with Rudy."

"Okay," he hears Sandra say, but he's already handing the phone over.

Dorian takes it.  The woman behind him is pretending not to watch, now, and no one in the next row down is paying any attention to them.  Probably because John's not cursing anymore.  The water bottle's not a total loss, and he gets a drink out of it while they're all carefully not looking at him.

"Thanks," he mutters, after the second gulp.  "Sorry.  I'll get you another one."

"Don't worry about it," Maria says, glancing sideways at him.  "Can I help?"

He shakes his head, no, and she just accepts it.  It's nothing she hasn't seen before.  He never asked how she felt about bots, and maybe they should have talked about it, considering.  But it didn't come up.  It's not coming up now, except for the way she's not pitying him, or sneering at him, or doing any of the things he probably would have done if he'd seen this back in the day.

Back a few months ago.  It really hasn't been that long.  He doesn't know what that means, that he thought he knew everything about bots then and he knows nothing about them now… except that now, like then, he's afraid everything about their existence is wrong.   And he doesn't know how to live with that.

"I can give this back to you," Peres tells him, out of nowhere.  He looks up at her and sees her hold up his phone.  "I made the transfer."

"I owe you," he says.  Like it needs to be said.  Like it's not the most obvious thing in the world.  Like it can come anywhere close to the depth of his debt if this works.

"Yeah," she agrees.  Her gaze flicks to Dorian and back.  "And I owe him.  So.  We'll work it out."

Somehow.  He honestly doesn't care if it means Dorian walks off this field with him when Marty's game is over.  "Thank you," he says, taking his phone.  It's not enough, but not saying it would be worse.  "For this."

She nods.  "We'll work it out," she says again.

Dorian stays on the phone with Rudy and Sandra for the next seven minutes.  John sits there and holds a mangled water bottle.  At first he tries not to look at him, but then he realizes Dorian's trying not to look at him back, which is just stupid.  So he shoves closer until their shoulders bump, and now at least they have a reason not to look at each other.

Peres doesn't get in the way.  She sits on the bench behind them and doesn't say anything.  If John kind of resents her presence, he's so grateful for her fucking magical timing that he manages to keep his mouth shut.

Maria says something to Senecca.  Senecca answers.  John can't hear their conversation and he can't bring himself to care.  Everyone else is talking; why shouldn't they.  All around them, the rest of the world is just… going on.  Like nothing's even wrong.

Like lying in a hospital bed, John thinks.  Wondering if it's worth it to get better.  Because at the end of the day, who's going to notice?

John doesn't count the seconds, but as the minutes tick by he wishes he could.  He doesn't know how long it's been, or how long they have, but when the display on his phone shows fourteen minutes after he remembered to check, he feels Dorian push his shoulder hard.  He looks up from his contemplation of Dorian's knee to stare into a bright smile and get a thumbs-up from Dorian's free hand.

He's saying something.  Dorian's saying something that makes Peres sigh and Maria turn, touching John's elbow lightly.  John's looking down at his phone, displaying a message about his "new property," and he hates it but he loves it at the same time.

Distantly, he thinks Sandra must have pulled something to get Dorian bid as his instead of hers.  He can't think what, or how, or even why he should care.  He can't think what it means when Dorian says the override is invalid, that Rudy's shutdown order will be rescinded.  That John has to tell him it's rescinded.

"It's rescinded," he says when Dorian puts the phone in his face.  All he can hear is Rudy laughing, and he pulls Maria into a hug without thinking about it.  She's there, she's asking him if everything's all right, and he just puts his arm around her and squeezes hard.

Then Dorian puts his arms around both of them, because he has no boundaries and less fear.  He hugs them without crushing the breath out of them, and this time instead of laughing because he gets it wrong John laughs because he gets it right.  Because this, right here, might be the best thing he's ever felt.

Sandra is still talking on the phone.  Rudy's talking to her, maybe.  Peres tries to take the phone away from Dorian, probably fails.  Eventually, though, John hears her say, "They're fine," and he figures she got it.

He thinks she's right.  Dorian's right.  They are fine.

John still wants to know what Peres has on the L Squad, if it's anything they can use.  He wants to know why Dorian can't be reinstated as a regular cop by going through the academy or passing some test or something.  He wants to know if Maria can tell him how she stopped being a basket case after the raid and started being a functioning human being who goes to her kid's soccer games and asks the guy who got her husband killed if he's okay instead of why he screwed up.  

John's not sure he can ask her that, but he thinks someday he'd like to know.  For now, she's hugging him back and he has Dorian's arms around him and they're fine.  They're more than fine.  

They're free.