CosmicFleurs

“Is everything okay?” you ask.

The robot looks at you and flashes that wide, stupid grin you know far too well.

“Worried about me?”

You scoff. Still, Biohazard continues, and you swear his neon-green smile softens.

“You looked cute,” he murmurs. “So focused. So careful.”

Heat immediately rushes to your face, though thankfully he can’t see it beneath your protective mask.

“W-why are you saying that all of a sudden?” you stammer.

He makes something resembling a shrug.

“Why not?”

Yet he doesn’t sound teasing anymore. Somehow, he sounds sincere. His voice comes out low and thoughtful.

You fall silent, lowering your gaze to hide the redness spreading across your face, even if he wouldn’t notice it anyway.

“I was just… wondering why you were being so cooperative, that’s all. It’s kind of weird.”

Now it’s Biohazard’s turn to look away, but you catch a faint green flicker across his faceplate, something that might as well be the robotic equivalent of a blush.

He clicks his tongue, followed by a low growl.

“You prefer it the other way? I can do that.”

But he doesn’t sound like he wants to do you any favors.

You start pulling your hand away, only to jolt when his much larger mechanical hand clamps around your arm, stopping you cold. A gasp escapes you, and his grip tightens just slightly.

“No,” Biohazard growls, dragging your hand back and pressing it against the center of his chest.

His casing is warm. Even through the thick rubber of your black gloves, you can feel the faint vibration beneath the steel: his internal mechanisms purring steadily at work.

You’re not a mechanic, much less a doctor, but you can’t explain the strange feeling that settles in your chest as you feel that constant pulse. It’s like a heartbeat, and yet nothing like one at all. A reverberation that feels almost… healthy. Or at least it does when there aren’t any awful grinding sounds or chaotic motors rattling beneath layers of stainless steel that, despite its durability, still hasn’t escaped the slow corrosion of radiation. Small brown stains have begun eating into the metal like rust gnawing through a tin can.

In a strange way, it reassures you to know Biohazard seems healthy, all things considered. Or as “healthy” as a radioactive creature can be. As healthy as something made of circuits and metal could ever be.

He’s okay, you decide.

Despite everything, he’s okay... as okay as the world would allow him to be.

“What are you thinking about?”

You snap back to reality only to find Biohazard’s face suddenly inches from yours. You instinctively jerk back, but he immediately pulls you against his chest again.

“And I’m the one acting weird here, huh?” the robot mocks.

You hurriedly adjust your hazmat suit, ready to curse him out for being so rough, but then you meet his stare again, somehow even more unsettling now.

He refuses to let go of your arm. Aware of the difference in your size and strength, the robot is being surprisingly gentle.

Even more startling is what happens next. Without warning, he lifts your hand to his face. Your small gloved palm presses against the center of it as he slowly guides it upward to his forehead, his eyes gradually closing.

You blush hard and swallow thickly. The gesture is soft, yearning, vulnerable. Humble, even. He’s opening himself up to you, and internally, you’re panicking because you have no idea how to process it.

There are no taunts, no cruel remarks, only an unfamiliar calm and a quiet desire to connect. It leaves you breathless.

Biohazard does nothing except hold your hand against his face. But when your eyes meet his again, you understand immediately: he wants your touch. A shy invitation.

So you slowly flex your fingers and begin tracing along the contours of his faceplate, following the crescent shape that cuts across half his face as though it’s both the most fascinating and most confusing part of his intricate design.

But Biohazard realizes, sitting there on the floor beneath the harsh lights, that no amount of gentleness can make your touch any less fearful; as if your hands still expect to fall apart the moment they linger too long on him.

And the green robot hates that this has remained constant despite all your efforts to “heal” him, impossible as that may sound.

Deep down, it hurts him.

“Little Mouse…” he whispers, drawing your attention. “Do you know the last time I felt human touch?”

You look at him silently, a knot tightening in your throat.

He continues.

“Never.” His eyes open slowly. “You’re the first.”

Your heart tightens painfully, yet at the same time, an odd warmth spreads through you.

Biohazard leans into your hand. In the slightest movement, you swear it almost feels like he kissed your palm.

“I want your touch. Always…” the robot says quietly, though you hear him perfectly clearly. “But I don’t want you to do it with fear.”

You close your eyes for a moment, your hand sliding gently to his cheek, and you hear him sigh as he melts into the touch.