Meow

By the third week, the mask of polite banality had begun to slip as you became more comfortable with your job duties and, subsequently, more relaxed around him. Atom came circling the lab like a vulture. Kirsh had no doubt it was on Boy’s orders, and typically, he could ignore the other synthetic’s presence, but Atom was far more involved during this instance, prattling on in corporate speak which essentially boiled down to Boy wanting results, and now.

Kirsh tried to be diplomatic, wearing a tight smile and speaking in hushed tones in a way he anticipated would get Atom out of his lab quickly, but Boy Kavalier’s right hand was insistent. After about an hour of his lab being intruded upon, the smell of smoke reached his processors, and both he and Atom turned swiftly to find something on your workbench had caught fire.

Atom’s eyes flickered from the flames to Kirsh before muttering, “I’ll leave you to it, then.” His exit was immediate, and as the doors to the lab hissed shut behind him, Kirsh was about to turn to reprimand you, you calmly pulled a fire extinguisher from behind your workbench and put the fire out without any pretense. The flames snuffed out easily enough, just the remnants of foam and smoke tinting the air of the lab.

“God, what a nuisance,” you mumbled to yourself, though it was loud enough for Kirsh to hear. When your eyes met his, you didn’t even seem phased by the events that transpired. “Well, Dandelion, I’m going to clean this up and then go on lunch.”

Then you were a flurry of limbs and cleaning products until your workbench looked like brand new and smelled like disinfectant. You were out the door before he even realized you had been referring to him as Dandelion.

It would not be the last time, as the curious nickname popped up now and then in your day-to-day conversations, all the while Kirsh became more aware of your other tendencies. You were quick-witted, snarky, with enough professional politeness in your voice that it usually completely went over people’s heads, but not Kirsh’s.

You didn’t make idle conversation or fill the silence just because it made you uncomfortable, which was something Kirsh valued in a lab tech. You knew when to speak and what to ask when you did, but otherwise, you were resolutely silent during lab hours with a steely focus that could have been mistaken for robotic if Kirsh hadn’t already scoured your file.

He’d seen you in the mess hall off duty, though, sitting around a table with some of the other lab techs from different departments, a crooked grin spreading on your face as you all shared stories and jokes, camaraderie. You were likable.

Not that Kirsh liked you, he found you tolerable, and despite any initial reservations he might have had towards you at the start of your employment, you were a good and capable worker.

Even if you kept referring to him as Dandelion with increasing frequency.

It was six months into your employment when his curiosity finally won over.

It’s a late night in the lab, and you’re finally on your way out, already daydreaming about your mediocre, stiff mattress waiting for you back in your quarters. Kirsh, as per usual, will be pulling an all-nighter, if you can even call it that, when he has no need to sleep. “All right, Dandelion, specimens are back in the cold freeze. I’m heading out,” you relay.

Usually, he wouldn’t even pause in whatever he was doing to bid you goodbye, sending you on your way without looking up with a low ‘have a good night’. This time, however, he set down the forceps in his hand and turned to face you, causing you to freeze in place just a few feet from the door.

“You call me that quite frequently. Dandelion. Is there a particular reason?” he asks. His stare is inquisitive as he holds your gaze.

There’s a part of you that knows you should feel shame for what you’re going to say. But you had committed to this path months ago when you first let your little nickname for Kirsh slip, and maybe you’re a masochist because then you proceeded to double down. “Because I want to blow you.” Your voice doesn’t shake when you say it, you don’t even stutter. Worse yet, you don’t even allow him to reply because you’re out the door in the next breath.

He's silent, staring at the space that you had just occupied seconds ago, feeling as though his processors were malfunctioning in some way when specific images started to flash in his mind.

The lab door hissed open again, and his gaze snapped up to you standing in the doorway, looking a bit out of breath as though you had rushed back. “And also, like, your hair, or whatever.”