✦ current fix: alien ✦

The very existence of these spaces felt antithetical to the company's MO; however, giving the masses attractive playgrounds to distract from poor work conditions was definitely on-model. You found all of it enjoyable, in theory. In practice, you'd been moving through the floors like Dante on the boat with Phlegyas — though in this version, Phlegyas was in your head, so it was really ten times worse.

You picked a spot in the arcade room tucked off the main walkway, a narrower space where the cabinets were stacked close enough that the sounds overlapped. A generic pop soundtrack drummed over from one machine, tinny gunfire from another. A constant electronic buzz surrounded you. The air ran nice and cool through the overhead vents, but the heat from the screens and small clustered bodies of other shoring crews balanced it out. You kept your eyes on your chosen game. It was easier than scanning faces, or dealing with the fact that you had to be around people no matter where you went on the station. You were tired of catching somebody's look and having to decide what it meant, imagining you were being talked about, because you could hear that too, if you let yourself linger on it. The cabinet in front of you was taller than most, the art on the side panel decorated in a full-color fantastical print: a sword, a dragon, a cartoon knight with a red tunic and an exaggerated jawline.

Dragon's Lair.

The controls were comparatively simpler than the surrounding machines. You knew from prior experience though that the simplicity was part of the trap. This game, if this recreation honored the historical rendition, was all timing and patience. Succeeding at each scene demanded immense focus and breath control.

Even knowing this, you'd been stuck on the same sequence for twenty minutes. Dirk, the knight, ran into a corridor that should've been safe and of course was very much not so. The floor dropped out, then a set of swinging blades came in from the side. You tried to move left out of reflex. Too late. Dirk's body did a quick animated flail, and the screen lit up with a gruesome death scene. It was almost tauntingly graphic. You exhaled through your teeth and hit the start button again. At least here you could fail in a way that didn't provoke a tailtuck afterward.

Behind you, somewhere near the entrance, the sliding door expressed a soft pneumatic sigh underneath the noise of the machines. Light footsteps crossed the carpet. You noticed this detail because it was, in comparison to the marines' heavy footfalls, distinctly measured and quiet. It was a cadence you knew by heart at this point. You'd listened to it in the Sulaco's corridors, on the deck, in the medbay, in the galley at odd hours when you couldn't sleep and he could always be found doing something around the ship, even when it wasn't required.

He stopped at your side, just out of your peripheral vision.

"Hello." Bishop greeted you. His voice was a low chirr against the background noise, not louder than necessary but still not too soft to be missed. Exactly placed, just like the rest of him. Your hand hung on the joystick, eyes glued to Dirk's idle animation, the way the character's grip on his sword tensed and untensed.

"Hey." You nodded after a second. "I didn't think I'd see you down here."

"I'm not usually permitted so during shore leave." He looked around at the bright screens on either side of you. "However, I was scheduled for maintenance. A Gateway technician cleared my systems and authorized limited access to the recreational floors."

You finally looked over. He stood with his hands loosely folded behind his back. In civilian lighting he looked a little out of place, like he couldn't quite figure out where he fit in against the backdrop. There was a small adhesive tag at the edge of his collar, white with black print. REC CLEARANCE. It sat on him like a label on equipment. You grimaced.

"Everything okay?" You heard the softness in your own voice before you could correct it. Maintenance was not a word you liked, on his behalf. Maintenance meant people with tools reducing things to permissions and protocols. It meant someone else's hands inside him.

Bishop's gaze settled on your face thoughtfully. His kind of stare never felt rude, not like it did from other people… more like he was giving you the courtesy of being fully present.

"I'm functional." He replied after a moment of consideration. "The procedure was… invasive, by human standards. For me, it was routine. The technician was competent."

You nodded and left it at that. You tried to make your shoulders unknot, didn't succeed. He glanced at the cabinet screen.

"What are you playing?"

You snorted. "Dragon's Lair. It's a remake of an old Earth arcade thing. Basically a cartoon that hates you."

His head angled slightly, just enough to signal interest. "The animation appears hand-drawn."

"It is!" You smiled. This remake had preserved the classic cel animation quite well. "Laserdisc game. The gimmick is you don't actually… fight, really. You react. The game tells you what's about to kill you and you pick the correct input in the one correct moment."

"That seems stressful."

"Yeah, well… it is." You laughed once without much humor, then sighed. "Unfortunately that's kind of the point."

Bishop's attention returned to you. "Is this your preferred method of recreation?"

You faltered. 'No, not really' you wanted to say. You could've answered honestly, too, with 'I picked this because nobody expects me to talk while I do it' or even 'Because I can be angry at a cartoon knight instead of being angry at a real person.'

Instead, you shrugged with one shoulder. "It's something to do."

Something in Bishop's expression changed, a subtle focusing of his pupils. It was a look that told you he'd filed the shrug away as data, and the data didn't satisfy him.

"May I observe?" He asked innocently.

You turned back to the screen. While this was a game that required your utmost attention, Bishop's presence was usually a grounding one. "Yeah, sure."

He moved a small step closer, careful not to crowd you, a simple shift of him occupying the space alongside you. He didn't touch you or lean in next to the screen. You hit start again. Dirk sprinted, the corridor came up.

"Left…!" You narrated to yourself, and jammed the joystick. Too late again. The blades swung through. Dirk died with the same infuriatingly impressive animation. The cabinet chimed back to the opening screen, and you imagined bitterly that it must be pleased with itself.

"Fuck, come ooooon." The frustration climbed up your throat and out of your mouth. You slapped the side of the cabinet with the flat of your hand, not hard enough to damage anything, but hard enough to tell it you noticed the unfairness of it all.

Bishop's head turned toward you. "Are you feeling alright?"

His question was gentle, friendly, unlike the usual technical mannerisms he used on shift. He sounded like this most often when he was giving someone an opening, making the conversation approachable enough to say anything you needed to. You kept your eyes on the screen.

"I'm fine." It sounded rehearsed even to you. There was a pause on Bishop's end. In that pause, he didn't fill the space with consolations you didn't ask for. He didn't correct you. He just waited, sorted his thoughts.

"You're clenching your jaw." He voiced his observations after a bit. "And your heart rate has increased."

You groaned, running a hand down your face. "Can I have one hobby without it becoming a diagnostic?"

"I can stop monitoring you, if you prefer?" He offered at once, somewhat hurried. You swallowed, instantly regretting your words. It wasn't him you were frustrated at.

"No, no. It's not that. It's just…" You exhaled, stared forward at Dirk. He seemed keen to be killed again. "I'm just having a week."

"Hmm." Bishop nodded, shifting his weight to lean slightly against the cabinet. "Would you like to tell me why?"

You should've said no, kept your mouth shut and let this just be about a stupid game. But Bishop was the one person on the ship who never made you feel like you needed to perform your feelings for an audience. He didn't look for the most entertaining version of your story, he looked for the true one. You hit start again, more as something to do with your hands than because you had any faith in your timing. Once more, you went too late. You didn't even swear this time. You just stood there with your hand upon the controls, staring at Dirk's animated death like it'd personally insulted you. It was starting to feel that way, anyhow.

"It was Drake." You let out a long breath.

Bishop didn't leap at that, or react as if it were mere gossip. To him, it was just another piece of a puzzle. "What occurred with Private Drake?"

"We got into it about something stupid. Well, not stupid, but…" You shook your head once. "It blew up. I said something. He said something. Vasquez got between us. Now everybody's doing that thing where they're trying to be normal, but you can tell they've picked a side, or they've decided it's easier to just avoid it."

Bishop hummed, furrowed his brow while he processed. "Why do you believe they've picked a side?"

"I don't know." You huffed, feeling bitter and hating how it sounded. "That's the problem. I don't know what anybody thinks, and I don't want to ask… I don't want to make it worse. So I've just been… not around."

He was quiet for a moment. "You're isolating yourself to reduce the probability of further conflict."

"Yeah. Look at me, being so tactical." You couldn't help the cynical laugh that left you.

"There is some tact to your decision, even if it's rooted in avoidance." He let the faintest shade of dry humor show in his tone. "It's a rational response, given your stated fear of confrontation."

You swallowed again, but your throat felt tight. Leave it to Bishop to cut right through to the point.

"It's stupid, though. If I know all this about myself, why can't I just fix it?"

"Fear isn't stupidity. It's a physiological and social response. Humans are not designed to enjoy interpersonal hostility within a small group. It's destabilizing."

"Yeah, tell that to the corps." You restrained an eye-roll. Bishop's eyes stayed on you, though you sensed no pity or judgment under his observation.

"I can tell you this…" He took his weight off the machine to stand upright, folding his arms. "You aren't being maliciously excluded from the group."

You scoffed, an immature defense against admitting how much you wanted him to be right. "You don't know that."

"I've observed the crew's behavior over the past week. They haven't treated you as disposable. They have treated you as… temporarily difficult to approach. That's not the same thing."

You watched the game, went through the motions, met the familiar sight of Dirk's skull. The game was patient. It would let you die forever, if you wanted that.

"Why does that sound worse...?"

"It's less catastrophic." Bishop's mouth twitched up at one side, very slightly. "Which means there is more nuance to decipher."

You sighed out an awkward laugh, sounding more like a cough. He continued unphased.

"If you'd like, I could help evaluate some options. There are ways to repair your friendship with minimal to no confrontation."

You looked back at him, dubious. It was hard to believe Bishop had experience with this stuff, but you supposed all it took was observation and a little sympathy. "Like what?"

"Option one is a direct apology, focused on your own behavior, not theirs. It can be short and kept to specifics. That reduces potential for defensiveness."

You frowned. "Bishop, that is a whole confrontation."

"It can be brief if needed." He reassured with an optimistic timbre. "Option two is a written message. It carries the risk of misinterpretation, but allows you to structure your words without face to face pressure."

"And… option three?" You already knew you weren't going to do option one anytime soon, and the idea of a physical message made you worried just anyone could find it before Drake. The life of a marine wasn't exactly a private one.

"Option three is doing nothing today." Bishop uncrossed his arms. "Resting. Returning when you have more internal resources." You sighed at that. He noticed the look on your face, and went to remedy it. "You haven't failed at anything, this way. You're simply pacing yourself."

"You really think I'm not just… hiding?"

He didn't answer immediately. He just watched you, comparing responses behind his eyes.

"I think you're tired." He nodded, knowingly. "And you're hurt. You're protecting yourself the way you know how. That isn't cowardice, though it's definitely not sustainable indefinitely."

Your eyes stung. You blinked fast and looked back at the screen like it could save you from being seen. That'd been your intention after all, coming down here to lose yourself in a crowd, sink into something else for a few mind numbing hours. The ambience of the arcade filled the gap in conversation. A marine laughed down the row from you, their cabinet playing a chiptune victory song that made you feel all the more sour about your own game.

Bishop shifted slightly, a small movement that brought him closer without touching you. "Do you want to continue playing? I could provide assistance with timing, reduce your mortality."

You raised a brow at him, finding the idea of Bishop coaching you at an arcade game rather humorous. "You would do that?"

"I can observe patterns." He bobbed his head. "The sequences may have consistent cues. However, I don't want to reduce your enjoyment if playing alone is more preferable."

"Hah. Enjoyment's a strong word for this game." You laughed, for real this time. It was a masterful work of art, undoubtedly, but infuriating all the same. "Okay, then. Coach me."

"Thank you." His cheeks creased from a brief but wide smile, and you couldn't help but mirror it. "If I may…" He lifted a hand towards yours where it sat positioned on the joystick. "Could I direct your hand?"

It took you more than a second to reply, breath faltering just slightly. You were sure he noticed this, so you rushed to soothe whatever subroutines in his brain might try to tell him he'd made a faux pas. "Yes. Yes, please."

He looked relieved. You relaxed your hand so it wouldn't feel tense when he touched you, though it was difficult not to feel some type of way when his skin met yours. His fingers positioned themselves gingerly betwixt yours. Once comfortable, Bishop's attention returned to the screen, concentrating instantly. It was almost funny, watching him treat the absurdity of the visuals like he would equipment back in the lab. Then you remembered that he treated most things like that, if the person asking him to do so cared enough. You pressed start. Dirk set out and met the hall again.

"Now." Bishop signalled as he gently pressed your hand to the left. The timing was perfect. Dirk leapt to safety with a bold flourish. He squeezed your hand slightly when the sound of success chimed out of the speakers.

You blinked, breathed. "Oh."

"Good job." He encouraged you, though there was never much time to pause during this type of game.

Another trap, a flash of bright color on the source of Dirk's incoming threat.

"Down." Bishop pressed lightly. You obeyed. Dirk ducked, and the arrow booby-trap missed. You made an involuntary sound, some kind of half-laugh, half-disbelieving noise.

"Is this cheating?" You smirked and raised a brow at him.

"This is assisting." Bishop corrected. "Your hand is mainly in control."

"Hmm… if you say so."

You died two scenes later anyway. In the high of making progress, you got excited and jumped Bishop's cue. You groaned and leaned your forehead briefly against the side of the game, making direct eye contact with the wrapped print of the dragon's menacing face.

"Frustration is valid. However, you survived longer."

"Thanks." You mumbled against the cabinet.

"You're welcome."

He hadn't made a move to lift his hand, despite the death screen playing. You straightened as you realized, suddenly, how close Bishop was. You thought about how this was his first time down here, his first time seeing any of these spaces, how he'd come down here and chosen you to stand beside. A weird warm sensation filled your chest. You turned slightly, enough to look at him without fully facing him.

"Did it suck?"

Bishop turned his attention to you from where he'd been studying the menu screen. "The game? No, I had a pleasurable time."

"No, no…" Although it did make you happy he'd had a good time, despite how bad you were at it. "I meant the maintenance."

He was still for a second, scanning his own internal language for the right translation.

"It is… unpleasant to be handled as equipment." He finally decided on saying. "Even when the handling is necessary and professional."

Something behind your ribs panged. "I'm sorry." It came out a little too earnest to hide behind a subsequent joke, your usual attempt at lightening the emotional load of another.

Bishop's expression eased by a degree, even so. "Thank you. I appreciate your concern."

You swallowed. His hand was still alighted on your own. You thought of something, then, and decided to be a little selfish with his time. "What if we played as a team? We both get a button, and… we can still both do the joytstick. If that's okay?"

Technically you were playing as a team already, but… you wanted Bishop to play for himself as well, to feel invited and included. Besides, that other button was hard to remember in the split second frame this game forced you to make decisions within.

The proposition looked like it both confused and interested him. "Are you sure?"

"Oh, because I wouldn't want someone with ace pattern recognition for a partner?" You gave him a look and he fidgeted sheepishly, which you couldn't recall seeing him do before (outside of his usual idle finger-stimming). You'd be damned if you became the source of any of his anxiety, so you nudged him playfully. "C'mon, play with me, Bishop."

He settled. "Hmm… alright. I'll give it a try." You beamed wide as he readjusted his hand to sit over the rightside button, left hand remaining atop yours on the joystick.

The game killed you again eventually, because it always did, but you kept going, giggling under your breath instead of cursing. You failed with less bitterness in your chest. Between attempts, your hand tensed under Bishop's, looking to steady yourself as the game picked up. You were further than you'd ever been before in the story. From the periphery, you saw Bishop look at your hands, then at your face. He pushed the button on time regardless, effortlessly, which gave you a little bit of a thrill.

In between the next scenes, you felt a slight squeeze between your fingers. You glanced just a moment to Bishop, who was studying the incoming sequence.

"To stabilize you." He clarified without looking away, clearing the next cue perfectly. You replied with a worldless 'oh', hoping he knew you weren't phased by the sensation.

He adjusted only a slight bit further, likely measuring his own weight, how much pressure he could comfortably press against you. You appreciated that detail, though you would have taken him at any rate. It only mattered that he was there, reminding you you weren't alone unless you chose to be. Against your own, his fingers were on the cooler side of lukewarm. You hadn't noticed that before, really, your mind focused solely on getting somewhere in this game. He felt smooth, the texture more consistent than standard, but the gentleness of him wasn't simulated at all.

You fixed you eyes back on the screen, nearing the final scenes. With Bishop at the helm beside you, it felt like you had a bit more bandwidth for thought than before.

"What if I can't fix it…?"

Bishop's thumb moved, just barely, a subtle reassurance against your knuckles. "Then you'll still be you. And you'll still have value to the group. And to me."

Your throat contracted again, nearly making you miss a cue. You didn't answer, just squeezed his hand back once with an upward fold of your thumb. It was a small move which could be read as thanks, or as something else, depending on what he wanted to see. If it bothered him, Bishop didn't show it, and didn't try to interpret it out loud.

"Now." He pressed his button, and you followed up in the next three seconds with a final tug on the joystick.

Dirk plunged his sword into the chest of the attacking dragon, felling it in one blow. Your face lit up. The knight plucked the key from the dragon's throat and leapt to Princess Daphne, who sat patiently waiting for him to finally save her from her crystal prison. You looked to the side to see Bishop watching raptly, his mouth open just slightly. You'd seen this final scene before on uploaded records, but it felt ten times as gratifying knowing you'd made it here together.

Daphne pressed an adoring kiss to Dirk's cheek. The screen framed them in a little pink heart before fading to black. It had the effect of a mirror without the backlighting, and you saw your reflection there in the glass, noticing that Bishop was looking at you now instead. You turned to him, hands still slotted together. Maybe it was the high of finally having beaten the game, or the relief you felt at finally feeling anything but deep paranoia for the first time in a week, but a sudden boldness overtook you. You leaned over and pressed a kiss to Bishop's cheek (decidedly less voracious than Daphne — you were pumped up, sure, but you didn't want to overwhelm him).

You let it linger there for a few seconds before retracting suddenly, realizing you hadn't asked if he'd be okay with such a thing. You scanned his face for signs of distress. Bishop raised his free hand from the controls and grazed fingers over the spot you'd kissed him, eyes distant.

"Bishop, I'm sorry, I… I got excited, and we did so well at the game, and —"

"It's alright." He came back to you upon hearing the worry in your voice. He applied the tiniest bit of pressure to the hand that held yours. "I was surprised, but… I'm not opposed to it."

"Oh. Oh, good, then." You blinked, smiled meekly, then looked to the floor. "I'll remember to ask. Next time."

His brows raised a fraction. "Will there be a next time?"

You couldn't help the way your heart sank just a little. "If you want. There doesn't have to be." You really wanted there to be.

He nodded, opened his mouth to reply, then paused, caught on something interior. His brows furrowed. You found yourself wanting to press a thumb between them and rub smooth circles, tamping out his worry completely.

"I do, yes. I would like that." The sentences came out slowly, piece by piece. You wondered if something in his code was challenging him on this. If so, it gratified you to see him challenge right back, or at least push through the snags to say what he really wanted to. You'd be there if it ever became distressing.

"Hmm. Alright, then." You gripped the hand that held yours and swung it off the cabinet deck, pulling Bishop down along the row. "Let's try another one. Think we can find a game you can't pattern-detect?"

"Highly unlikely." He let you lead him forward through the scattered groups, careful not to trip on any stray ankles. "But I don't mind an experiment."

BONUS: epilogue, idea by @/nshtn !!

Everything always felt ten times smaller post-leave. It reminded you a bit of getting back into your mother's van after one of the only camping trips you'd been on as a kid. For a brief moment you had all the world to explore, and then it was back into the cramped interior of a vehicle. Granted, Gateway was hardly comparable to the outings you were afforded as a child, but the metaphor worked in your head. You found a way to adjust back to the steely insides of the Sulaco, leaving the corporate playground behind. Until next time.

Thanks to Bishop's encouragement, you ended up speaking with Drake that evening before it was time to board. Something didn't feel right about returning to the hull with this tension sitting so heavy between you. It turned out he was feeling weird about the whole situation as well, but wasn't sure how to approach it with you. So… he'd been in exactly the same position, much to your relief (and embarrassment). Vasquez was there for the reunion as well, who promptly trapped you in a noogie for being so emotionally constipated. The feeling of alienation melted away slowly once you realized just how warped your brain had made the whole thing seem. You scared the last of that feeling out by joining the others for a final drink at the least expensive Gateway rec bar, an excursion which promptly ended when Hudson threw up trying to tornado an entire beer in one go (for the third time that night).

You caught up with Apone in the bridge while he was lighting up his usual 'welcome back' cigar, trying hard to nonverbally communicate how much he didn't want to be bothered. You burst that bubble right away.

"Hey, Sarge."

"What is it now?" Apone didn't glance up from his lighting job, though the clicker was barely sparking.

"Next time we're on Gateway, I want Bishop to have his own rec floor pass. All-access, permanent. Same as us."

That got Apone's attention. He finally looked back at you with an arched brow, cigar hanging .

"You want what?"

"A pass." You tried to keep your voice firm. "So he doesn't have to wait on maintenance clearance to be allowed to exist like the rest of us. So he can actually… come with us, if he wants."

Apone made a short sound in his throat, either a sigh or swallowing irritation. He flicked his eyes to the corridor, like he expected someone to be listening. Noise leaked down the hall, someone laughing, another complaining about their bunk. Life resumed its patterns.

"Private —" Apone turned back to you. Your stomach tightened, knowing this was how he started when he was about to shut something down. "You know I don't handle corporate policy. That's Gorman, and even he can't pull much power."

"I know." You spoke quickly, a little desperate. "But you run us. You sign off on leave lists. You can ask for exceptions."

Apone just stared back. He pulled his cigar out to hold it between his index and middle, then smiled crookedly, shaking his head.

"Since when do you get sentimental about the android?"

"He's not 'the android'." You bristled, then remembered you needed him to hear you out, not give you an order back down the hall. "And I'm not sentimental. It's just… fair."

Apone sighed, weighing whether you were going to become a problem or whether you already were one. Finally, he jerked his chin down once in a nod.

"All right."

Your chest loosened a fraction. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." He crossed his arms, nodding again slowly, chewing on the idea of what he'd just agreed to. "I'll talk to corporate. Or whoever I can reach that doesn't make my head hurt. No promises. Those corpos like their rules."

"I'm not asking for promises." You offered some reassurance, grateful he was offering at all. "Just… try."

"Yeah, yeah. Go stow your gear. You've got one of the better cots, don't let Hudson make camp on it again."

You almost laughed. "Right away, Sarge."

"Damn right." Apone said more to himself, already turning away. His lighter finally clicked and sparked, and he drew in a heavy pull. He'd need it.

You left him there and headed back down the corridor, swallowed back into the guts of routine. The hallway had emptied out, all noise falling behind you. Suddenly, your footsteps sounded too loud. Everyone must've gone to the mess, or to the common areas closer to the east side. You decided to take the turns faster, assuming you were alone to rush as you pleased; only, on the first edge, you nearly walked straight into someone. You stopped short. So did they.

Bishop stood there, stock still, hands relaxed at his sides, posture calm. For half a second you didn't connect it, just tried to process the sudden shock of nearly toppling over on him.

"Oh!" You gasped, and felt heat crawl up the back of your neck. "You —"

"I overheard." He admitted, tilting his head towards the bridge.

You rose a hand to your forehead and rubbed your temple. "Bishop, I'm sorry. I didn't mean for you to… I mean, I didn't think anyone was —"

"I wasn't intentionally monitoring you." He soothed immediately, halting that exposed feeling of being surveilled before it began. "I was in the corridor helping Frost find his suit. Your voices carried."

You scrubbed a hand over the back of your neck. "Still. I didn't really want anyone else to know about it."

"I understand. And I apologize for listening."

You blinked, confused. "You apologize?"

"Even if the circumstances were incidental, you didn't consent to being heard." He stepped back from the corner to give you a slight bit more room. You relaxed your posture in response, hoping the shift in body language would suggest you weren't put on edge by him.

"Okay. Yeah." You relented. "Well. I didn't mean to make it a big deal, it just… bothered me. That you had to have a technician sign you out. That's not right."

Bishop's expression slackened minutely, the smallest shift of facial mechanisms. "You advocated for me."

"Of course." You nodded, like it was simple, obvious. "I'm kinda shocked it hasn't happened yet, honestly."

Bishop studied your face. He didn't look away bashfully, the way some people did when they were uncomfortable with gratitude.

"Thank you. I know it took considerable effort."

"I mean, I didn't storm the corporate offices, or anything." You couldn't help the snort that came out. "It was just a conversation with Apone."

"That isn't what I mean." He shook his head once. "You placed yourself in a position where you might be dismissed. Or teased, or told no. And you did it anyway. You've recuperated very well from your prior social discouragement."

Ah… well, it was true, wasn't it? Leave it to Bishop to make this into some big statement on your character. You looked past him down the corridor, at nothing really, gradually feeling too overwhelmed to look him in the face.

"I'm tired of things being 'just how it is.'" You sighed. "Especially when 'how it is' translats to some office asshole deciding you get less."

Bishop's voice became quiet, reflective. "I do get less. But I'm accustomed to it."

"That doesn't mean it's acceptable." It was imperative you pushed back against each and every statement like this. He always said these things like he believed them as much as he believed in the ground beneath his feet, like it was all an unquestionable fact of the universe and not some company-programmed grift.

He shifted his weight a little, not closer, not away. He might've been unsure how to respond, which made sense to you. It made you a little angry at the thought that it could be his programming keeping him from agreeing outwardly with you.

"There… is something else." Now it was his turn to avert his eyes. "If I may?"

"Yeah?"

"I would like to have joined you." He looked so hopeful and honest it made you feel a little blinded. "More than once, not only for the arcade. For the… casual time. The time that isn't work."

This time, when your chest got all tight, it was painful in a different way.

"You can." It wasn't even a question. "Always, if you want to."

"I do." Bishop slowly but surely punctuated himself with a small smile, which you returned tenfold.

"We'll make it happen, or we'll keep trying until it happens." You tried not to look too affected by the idea that he wanted the same things you did, meaning your eyes strayed everywhere but his face. They landed on his hands, one of which fidgeted a bit at his side.

"Could I…?" He raised the hand up slowly in suggestion. He didn't need to clarify. You understood what he was asking permission for. Touch, contact, a small human thing that pacified most worries. You surmised he'd liked having that contact before, helping your hand along in the game. And… you'd liked it as well.

You answered by meeting him in the middle, folding your fingers in between his easily. He relaxed visibly and you giggled a little at the obviousness of it.

"C'mon, I gotta make sure Hudson hasn't made my cot into a dog bed." You could see him now, passed out in a curled up ball after the liquor finally hit his system. He'd listen to Bishop though, and you had no qualms about using the XO against him.

divider by @/saradika :) thank you for reading! 💌 you can find more of my writing on ao3!

By the time Hudson wandered his way back into the galley, Bishop had checked the cake over three separate times. Once obviously for structure, then again for symmetry, and a third just to reaffirm prior findings. It sat on the counter beneath the lights, cooled properly at last. Its surface level, so far as Bishop could determine from the trimmed edge he'd removed earlier, was even throughout. The blue icing had gone on smoother than he'd expected. Not necessarily perfect, but smooth. He'd spread it carefully with the flat of a warmed knife, then gone back over the sides to correct the lines, because the first pass hadn't seemed quite right.

Now, a cluster of small white sugar stars dotted the top in carefully placed little arcs, forming hints to a few choice constellations that could fit the given frame (namely Canis Major, which contains Sirius, the brightest star in the sky and Bishop's personal favorite). Your name rested in the center, piped in neat lettering she'd performed twice on wax paper before committing it to the cake itself. She stood over it with the piping bag still in hand, looking down with intentness she usually reserved for lab work.

"Looks good to me." Hudson smiled around a mouthful of something he was still licking off his finger.

Bishop looked him over, considering. "That assessment would be more persuasive if it weren't delivered while consuming the surplus icing."

"Hey, I'm helping!" Hudson swallowed and held up both hands.

"You've said that several times."

"Uh, yeah, because it's true." The marine stepped closer, peering down at the cake with exaggerated seriousness. "See? Festive. Pretty color. Eerily even-spaced stars. Name smack in the middle. Boom, that's a functioning piece of birthday technology."

Bishop looked back at the cake. 'Eerie' wasn't a term she wanted to evoke, but… she got Hudson's meaning. It was in her nature to seek and perform predictable patterns. She set the bag aside and leaned in a fraction, scanning the lettering again. One of the smaller stars near the edge sat a little too far from the others. She corrected it with the tip of a clean knife, nudging it into alignment.

Hudson watched her do it and snorted softly. "Bishop, noooobody's gonna notice that."

"I noticed it."

"Yeah, but you notice everything."

That was… unfortunately true as well.

This part of the ship was quieter than usual at this post-shift hour. Most of the others were occupied elsewhere, which was part of the arrangement. Apone kept people moving, trying to keep anyone from stumbling around and spoiling the surprise. Hicks had taken it upon himself to gather decorations after seeing Drake carrying them to the staging room very obviously out in the open halls. Vasquez had threatened Hudson once already when he'd almost blurted the entire plan out in main mess, right when you were passing by. Bishop appreciated the group effort… though he also suspected the plan had become more elaborate than strictly necessary. It'd started with something much simpler.

Your birthday had come up in passing three days earlier during a meal. Hudson said something teasing about zodiac signs, Frost asked what sign this current part of the month was, and then someone had realized. There'd been expected noise after that. Complaints that nobody had known in advance, which incited a brief argument over whether a shipboard birthday counted if there were no real supplies to formally recognize it, and several bad suggestions for what constituted a celebratory meal aboard the Sulaco. Bishop had said very little at the time. Later, he went to check the stores.

The ingredients she found were limited but workable: shelf-stable flour, sugar, powdered egg substitute, a few packets of vanilla. It was enough to improvise some creative frosting. The blue coloring had been a fortunate find in a mislabeled supply crate, tucked between two sealed containers of drink mix. It wasn't an ideal shade, but it was pleasant to the eyes, and more vibrant than expected. Perfectly appropriate for such an occasion. She hadn't expected to be quite this concerned about the result. That part had been... more difficult to quantify.

Hudson reached for the bowl again. Bishop brought a hand up in front of his before he could scoop another fingerful of frosting from the edge. Hudson frowned slightly at the blockade, looking dejectedly back at her.

"May I ask…" Bishop removed her hand. "…that you leave enough for final corrections?"

Hudson recovered, grinning at her restrained politeness. "You absolutely may ask."

"And?"

"Aaand I might even listen… if you quit looking at the cake like it's gonna explode."

"It isn't going to explode."

"Well, there you go, then." Hudson laughed under his breath and leaned back against the counter opposite him. His eyes moved over the cake again, then Bishop's face. For once, when he spoke, his voice dropped a little from its usual boisterous volume. "You're really worried about this, huh?"

The XO didn't answer immediately. He looked down at the icing, the tiny white stars pressed into the blue, your name in the center. It'd seemed important to get that part right. The spacing, the curve of each letter. Something recognizable as curation instead of mere function.

"I haven't made this recipe before." He replied at last, thought notably not directly answering Hudson's inquiry.

The other shrugged. "So? It smells great."

"Yes. It's promising… but smell is only one variable. Texture is another. I have to consider sweetness distribution, moisture retention, the balance of each." Bishop crossed his arms. He glanced around the room as he thought. "I've taste-tested throughout, but my interpretation of those flavors isn't exactly identical to others."

Hudson's expression shifted, though not into pity. He was usually better than that with Bishop. He thought for a bit about how to reassure his friend without patronizing him. "You had me try it, too."

Bishop nodded and smiled just a little. "I did."

"And I said it was good."

"You said, and I quote, 'man, that's good as hell.'"

"Aha! Which means it was super good!" Hudson fixed him with a foxlike grin. He tapped two fingers against the counter. "And for the record, I stand by it. You did good, officer."

Rationally, she knew Hudson meant it. The guy wasn't subtle enough to lie convincingly, and certainly not about dessert. Still… certainty remained elusive. There was a difference between acceptable and successful. An even larger difference between successful and meaningful. The objective wasn't merely to produce something edible. She searched her brain for the right words… and realized she wanted you to be pleased. That was the element that'd made this whole thing unexpectedly delicate. She reached for the spatula and skimmed one last line smooth along the base where the icing met the plate.

"Okay. Seriously." Hudson pushed off the counter. "Can we stop doing surgery on a cake? It looks incredible. It did the last six times you smoothed it, too."

"That's a generous assessment."

"No, man. That's me holding back." He came to stand next to Bishop and mirrored his form, crossing his arms and staring broodily at the plate. "If I wasn't being respectful, I'd say it looks cute." Bishop turned his head curiously. Hudson, predictably, looked delighted with himself. "Yeah, that's right. Cute. You made a cute birthday cake."

Bishop observed Hudson's face, saw the smirk just waiting to erupt at the corners of his mouth. "I'm reconsidering your access to the frosting bowl."

He just snorted in reply. "Worth it."

Bishop reached for the serving tray, then. He lifted the cake carefully, checked its balance, and set it down again more centrally beneath the light. There. Stable... for now. He tried, against reason, not to imagine every possible way the evening could go wrong. The icing could split when cut. The body might be too dense. The sweetness might be excessive, in his effort to diminish the taste of the improvisational ingredients. There was the social aspect, as well. You might feel put on the spot by the attention. You might smile out of politeness rather than joy, and he would know the difference at once.

Hudson seemed to sense the direction of Bishop's thoughts, because he nudged the outer edge of the other's forearm lightly with his elbow.

"Hey. It's gonna make them happy." Hudson looked pointedly into Bishop's eyes. "Even if it comes out a little weird, which I do not think it will, they're still gonna lose it when they see this. Nobody's ever done anything like this for a ship birthday."

Bishop considered the sentiment behind that. The point wasn't perfection… it was just to express care. Care. Yes, that. It was a normal, everyday word, and it was true to Bishop. So, why did it feel so strange to admit?

"Yes…" He looked back down at your name again, written as neatly as he could manage. "I hope so."

Hudson, satisfied, slapped his palms against his thighs. "Right. That's my cue, I guess. I'm supposed to go find them before Vas decides I'm taking too long and comes in here to kill me."

Bishop allowed herself a small grin at the familiar crew antics. "A reasonable concern."

"See? Now you're getting into the party spirit." Hudson headed for the door, then stopped and glanced back over his shoulder. "Don't spiral while I'm gone!"

Bishop tilted her head, confused. "I don't spiral. If I did, something would clearly be wrong with my central processing unit."

Hudson shook his head. "Sure." He left towards his next mission then, the door sliding shut behind him with a mechanical hiss.

Bishop was left alone with the cake. She rested her hands against the edge of the counter, focused on having that as an anchor. After a period of about 10 wordless minutes, she reached out and adjusted one final sugar star no one else would notice. Finally, she picked up the tray, and turned to the door.

You were halfway through changing next to your locker when Hudson appeared in the doorway, trying (and failing) to look casual.

"Hey. You busy?" He leaned against the frame with forced smoothness, one hand braced overhead.

You looked up at him with a raised eyebrow."Depends. Why're you asking?"

"For no reason."

"Okay. Liar." You shook your head. "That's never a reassuring answer from you, anyway."

"First of all, rude." Hudson pushed off the doorway and idly wandered a few steps into the room like he hadn't in fact come here with an explicit purpose. "Second, I was juuust wanting to offer an invite. You wanna hang tonight?"

"Hang out where?" You narrowed your eyes.

"In the card room. Not too many options, y'know?" He shrugged, as if to say 'what can ya do?'.

You blinked once up at him. "The… card room."

"Yeah." Hudson looked back with a valiantly doomed expression, holding a very flimsy cover story together with his bare hands.

The 'card room' wasn't the main mess. There were a few smaller common areas aboard the Sulaco that got used more irregularly, depending on shift rotation and who wanted space away from everyone else. This room was one of the nicer ones, if anything on a military vessel could be called nice. There were padded benches bolted to the floor, a broad table scarred by years of tossing guns and knives around and cigarette burns from before half the crew had gotten yelled out of the habit. If you remembered correctly, there was even one wall panel speaker somebody once managed to coax into playing music without too much static feedback (though it took a good amount of rewiring). It was where various card games, petty arguments, and mainly drinking happened; sometimes all three at once.

You sighed. "Who else is there?"

"Nobody." Hudson answered too fast. To his credit, he seemed to notice the mistake immediately, and grimaced. "Okay. Bad start."

"Even for you." You rolled your eyes and turned back to your locker, the metal door creaking softly as you shifted aside the shirt you'd been about to change into.

Hudson exhaled through his nose and pointed like a petulant child. "You're making this hard."

"I'm not doing anything."

"You are!" He insisted. "You're doing that look."

You glanced at him from the corner of your eye, one hand still buried in the locker. "What look?"

"I dunno. It's like… the one where you already know I'm lying, and now I have to work around it." You barked out a laugh. Hudson's whole posture loosened as if that'd been his goal the whole time. "There we go. C'mon, just for a little while?"

You studied him for another second, then pushed off from the locker. "If this is just you trying to win credits off me again, I'm not interested."

"Whoa, ye of little faith!" Hudson clapped a hand to his chest in a show of mock hurt. You followed him all the same, knowing this would either turn out to be a weirdly proactive Hudson-brand prank or some other setup involving the others.

He talked the whole way, which didn't help his case at all. He filled the silence with a rapid string of nothings, complaining about Frost cheating him out of the last of his favorite protein bar from the most recent ration refill, speculating on whether Drake would ever stop abusing the communal music system, detouring into a story about Vasquez threatening to put somebody through a wall if they touched her 'secret' (read: not-so-secret) stash of strawberry popsicles she'd smuggled into the mess freezer.

You let him talk. It was funny, partly because you knew he knew it kept you from asking more pointed questions he'd almost certainly fail to answer. By the time he led you down the last corridor and stopped outside the destination, you were smiling in spite of yourself. He reached for the panel, then hesitated and glanced sideways at you.

"What?" You shot him a concerned look.

"Nothing." He straightened instantly. "Just, uh. Don't stand too close to the door. The acoustics in there kind of suck."

That was such a strange thing to say that you barely had time to process it before the door slid open.

"SURPRISE!"

The shout hit you all at once. You had to adjust to the barrage of stimuli, blinking dumbly into the brighter light of the room. The table in the middle was cleared and re-covered instead with whatever the crew managed to scrounge up on short notice: drinks (Apone distinctly labelled them as contraband, but was looking the other way for now), a few pilfered snack packs, and… whoa. Someone had managed to get their hands on an ancient set of Munchkin cards. You felt relieved to finally have any option in the library outside of poker and its subsequent cousins (mainly blackjack, or bullshit, which was Hudson's favorite even though he was a terrible liar).

Along the back wall, somebody had taped up strips of colored packing material. It was crudely done, but the gesture was there, and it was sincere. There was already music playing at a comfortably low volume through the old wall unit. You noticed the familiar notes of The Byrd's Younger Than Yesterday album, 'My Back Pages' to be specific — tinny and a little warped, but recognizable. You felt a twinge in your chest. How had they gotten their hands on a recording this old?

🎵 "We'll meet on edges soon," said I Proud 'neath heated brow Ah, but I was so much older then I'm younger than that now 🎶

Hicks sat at the table with a barely-concealed grin that told you he was trying not to laugh outright. Vas lifted two middle fingers in greeting from where she leaned back in her chair. Ferro, Drake and Frost all looked far too pleased with themselves. Apone stood near the far wall with his arms folded, his expression stern as it usually looked before it cracked into something friendlier. Even Ripley was there, one shoulder propped against the wall, mouth twitching with restrained amusement at your face.

You sincerely felt like you couldn't say anything at all. You forced yourself to, anyway. "…What?" Very smart, yes.

Hudson stepped in beside you to save you from yourself, throwing both arms wide as though he was personally responsible for every detail of the scene before you. "Happy birthday!"

There was enough laughter in the room to take the edge off the shock.

"You guys…" You tried to speak again, and then stopped, because that was apparently all your brain had to offer.

"Yeah, yeah." Drake came over to clap your shoulder with one big hand. "Try not to cry all over the table, we worked hard on this."

"Oh, yeah." Frost scoffed at Drake and gestured to him up-and-down."Worked hard on standing around and contributing nothing."

"Hey, not true!"

"You contributed less than nothing, actually." Ferro snorted. "In fact, you were in the way for most of it."

Drake sniffed, seeing he wasn't gonna win his case, and squared his shoulders. "Whatever. Still counts as being part of a team."

"You're all terrible." You shook your head in your hands, but you were smiling now. It was the kind of grin you could feel all through your face, and felt impossible to stop.

Hudson, basking in the success of having gotten you there without completely ruining it, nudged your shoulder with his own. "And looky here."

Movement at the back of the room caught your eye. Through the smaller service doorway, Bishop entered with both hands beneath a wide tray, stepping with the most even gait you'd ever seen. She was carrying a cake. Not a ration-bar stack made to look celebratory, either, but an actual cake; round and properly frosted, the icing a bright, soft blue under the lights. White sugar stars were placed across the top in small constellations. In the center, done in precisely elegant lettering, was your name. You stared at it, then at Bishop, and back at the cake again, because the amount of thought in it was truly hard to take in all at once.

She came to the table and set it down at the center, adjusting the tray by less than an inch until it sat exactly where she wanted it. Only after that did she lift her head. Her expression was composed mainly, but there was tension around her mouth. She was watching your face very carefully.

"See what we did?" Hudson pointed at the cake like a game show host unveiling a prize.

"You mean what Bishop did." Hicks corrected, taking a drag from a newly lit cigarette. He smirked at you. "She did the work. Bozo was just there to sneak tastes when she wasn't looking."

You smiled. The crew had done well to implement Bishop's expressed desire for dual pronoun usage, of which Hicks followed seamlessly from the get-go.

Hudson put a hand to his chest like some scandalized southern belle. "Hey man, I was integral to the operation!"

"You ate the icing." Hicks repeated and raised a brow for emphasis, knowing Hudson well enough to guess and be right 99% of the time.

"That was quality control."

Ferro passed by him on her way to get out plates and looked pointedly at him. "That was eating ingredients out of the bowl."

"It was research." Hudson shot back. "Rigorous, hands-on research!"

"You still have frosting on your shirt." Vas pointed with her thumb, smirking up at him smugly.

Hudson opened his mouth, considering a comeback, then just pointed at her when he couldn't come up with another defense. "You sound jealous."

"Of your scientific process?" She snorted softly and propped a boot up on the table. "Yeah. Broken up about it."

A few more laughs went around the room, all good-natured, but you barely heard them. Your eyes hadn't really left the birthday cake. The icing was almost impossibly smooth for something done in a ship kitchen, the edges clean and factory-line even. The stars were each set with obvious intention rather than scattered carelessly over the top. Amongst them you recognized Canis Major, heart twinging on the replica of each little star group. Your name in the center looked as though Bishop had taken his time with every curve. You stepped closer to the table.

"Wow…" There really were no other words. You looked up to meet Bishop's eyes at last, half-laughing now, otherwise you might've said or done something more embarrassing. "Bishop, you made this?"

You watched as he averted his eyes for just a moment before responding. "Yes." Matter-of-fact as usual, though his hands, now empty at his sides, flexed once before settling again. "But it is true… Hudson assisted with morale."

"Aha!" The marine in question interjected in between his banter with the others. "Words from the chef himself!"

"Well… thank you. Both- all of you." You felt your face twinge a bit with emotion. "This is beautiful."

The beginnings of something like relief struggled to make its way into view on Bishop's face.

Hudson made a triumphant noise. "See? Told you so."

"Told who what?" You looked over at him, confused.

"Our resident birthday engineer over here." He grinned and jerked a thumb towards Bishop. "He was in the kitchen acting like the thing was gonna fall apart."

"It displayed no signs of doing such." Bishop clarified a little pointlessly.

"He says that now." Hudson rolled his eyes.

More laughter rippled around the room, but Bishop didn't seem cowed by it. His eyes stayed on you. He looked an awful lot like someone waiting for something... though you could only guess what that thing could be. You stepped up to the table and bent in slightly to look closer. One of the little stars sat nearer to your name than the rest, as though it'd been shifted and shifted again until it felt just right, framing the letters. The lettering itself was so neat it made your chest ache.

"It's really gorgeous." You spoke more firmly this time. "I mean it."

"Thank you." Bishop's shoulders eased by a tiny degree, a movement only someone already looking at him would've caught. "I really am glad to hear it."

She had a deep hum in her voice you noticed only presented itself in candid moments with certain people. It was a sign that she valued this very much, if it wasn't obvious already from her body language, and the mere fact that she'd spent so much time and effort on the whole act of it. You felt your face heat up as the weight of all that caught up to you.

Apone stepped forward then, clapping a heavy hand once against the back of an empty chair. "Alright. Birthday guest of honor, get over here before Hudson starts taking credit for this whole damn operation."

"Jesus, don't get him started again." Frost dragged a hand down his face.

As expected, Hudson protested at once. "We've been over this! Bishop said it too, I helped!"

"Yeah, well that batter spoon's seen more action than you ever have." Drake snuck the quip in as he took a seat, shooting a smirk up at Hudson's aggrieved face.

The room erupted again. You laughed with them this time, though you were still a little overwhelmed. You moved to sit at the table while everyone started talking over each other at once. Bishop remained where he was at the head, his expression less tense now than when he'd first come in. He looked almost shy under the noise of everyone else, though there was something eager there too, impossible to miss once you noticed it.

Chairs scraped as everyone else found a seat. Ferro turned the music up a little; the song had shifted over to 'Wonderboy' by The Kinks some minutes ago.

🎵 Wonder boy, wonder boy Everybody's looking for the sun People strain their eyes to see But I see you and you see me And ain't that wonder? 🎶

You reached out, not touching, just hovering a finger near one of the stars, in awe at the artistry of it.

"It's okay." Bishop's spoke quietly from beside you. "You can touch it."

"Oh!" You smiled sheepishly. You hadn't noticed his approach. "I was just looking, really."

"That's also permitted."

You couldn't help but giggle, which he reacted to with a shy smile of his own. He looked from your face back to the cake, then to the table around it, mentally reviewing the next sequence of required steps. He was almost birdlike, you thought, when he started calibrating his surroundings piece by piece. It was cute enough to do strange things to your chest. His attention looked to snag on something then, noticing the distinct lack of one key detail.

"There should've been candles." He regretted, voice barely above a whisper.

You frowned. "What?"

She touched the edge of the tray lightly with two fingers, not looking at you now but at the centerpiece itself, tone thoughtful and a little displeased with her own oversight.

"Candles are customary." Her brows knit. "I checked three separate storage inventories in case the ship had them for emergency purposes, but there appear to be none aboard."

Something in the seriousness of this nearly made you laugh, but affection rose first and softened it. "Bishop..." She looked at you, face the very picture of fret. "This is already so incredible."

She stalled her worry, readjusting her expression. "Yes… alright." If you were satisfied, then… perhaps it wasn't as big a deal after all.

Apone, who'd apparently been listening despite appearing not to, stood up and dug a hand into his pocket. "We might not have candles." He produced a battered lighter, the metal scratched and dull with age. "But we got fire."

"There we go!" Hudson slapped the table hard enough to rattle everyone's cups.

Ferro smirked. "That your answer to everything, Sergeant?"

"Works often enough." Apone flicked the lighter once.

A bright orange flame sprang up, small but steady. Everyone made cheering sounds, half of them laughing at the idea of it and half genuinely charmed by the solution.

"C'mon!" Hudson grinned at you and jerked his chin towards the cake. "It counts. Make a wish, bro."

Apone held the lighter over the middle of the cake with resolute gravity, like this wasn't ridiculous at all and he'd personally officiated a hundred birthdays this way. Thankfully, every marine on the Sulaco was exactly the sort of person to commit fully once the bit became sincere, so no one laughed as you stood and leaned forward.

Make a wish.

Because you were standing in a military vessel somewhere in deep space, using a lighter for a candle, you thought momentarily on the absurdity such an ancient human practice had against the backdrop of the rest of it. The persistence of rituals, connection, and joy; it overtook you. So, in spite of the absurdity, your chest settled softly around something indulgently hopeful. You made a show of nodding to seal the decision, leaned in and blew the flame out. The room broke into applause.

"There." Apone snapped the lighter shut and tucked it away again with a satisfied side-smirk. "Now it's official."

Bishop stepped up a fraction closer to pick up the knife and server set beside the tray. She stalled for a moment, deciding on something, then held them out to you with both hands. "I think it's traditional for the birthday subject to cut the first slice."

"Oh! Yeah, okay." There was so much candor in the way she'd said it. You personally didn't really place much importance on the who-does-what part of it all, but you took the utensils anyway.

Your fingers brushed his in the exchange. Her eyes dipped once to the point of contact, then up to your face. It was only for a second, but you caught it. The others crowded in, which interrupted the moment.

"Alright." Hicks rubbed his hands together. "No pressure, now."

Drake winked. "Yeah, don't butcher it."

"Shut up." Vas elbowed him in the ribs. If anyone else had done it, it would've barely made an impression on the taller man, but because it was Vas, Drake bent in at the middle with a low 'oof' noise.

You set the knife into the icing. It slid through the blue top in a clean line, then down through the sponge beneath with almost no resistance at all. The first slice came free intact, balanced on the server. The cake inside was even, each layer spaced and settled perfectly. A little more applause met that, exaggerated and affectionate. You looked up on reflex to search for Bishop. He was already watching closely, of course, waiting for the verdict with the composure of someone standing beside a live wire.

"Well, go on." Hudson leaned in so far Hicks had to shove him back by the shoulder to keep him polite. "Give us a taste test."

You put the freed slice on a smaller plate for yourself, then took a section off with a plastic fork to finally make an assessment. The room went quiet as you lifted the bite to your mouth. There was no doubt in your mind that it would be just fine, but when you tasted it, you were surprised at just how much more than fine it was. It was… wonderful. The cake was soft but not fragile, sweet without becoming cloying, the vanilla warm and fuller than you would've expected from anything out of the ship stores. The frosting was rich, but not too rich. There was enough salt in it, somehow, to keep the sweetness from tipping over into excess. It tasted like somebody'd been very careful with their chemistry. Your eyes widened.

"Oh, wow." Bishop didn't say anything, but looked at you with such focus it almost made it hard to swallow. You managed to anyway. "This is amazing."

That did it. Relief bloomed, the tension in her mouth eased. Her shoulders dropped by a visible increment. If she'd been holding herself ready for disappointment, she let go of it all at once. Now, she looked rather bashful.

"I was hoping so." She nodded modestly. "Thank you."

"Yes!" Hudson threw both hands into the air in triumph. "And I predicted this, y'know. Hours ago."

Frost started distributing forks, Ferro plates. Drake attempted to steal the piece with the fanciest portion of your name for himself and got stabbed away from it with a fork by Ripley, who didn't even look at him when she did it. You sat your own slice down and made to cut for the others, to keep things civil, but Bishop was already there to offer his hands.

"If you'll allow?"

"Yes! I mean, please." You stepped aside, more than happy not to be the one in charge of distribution.

He began portioning the cake with an amusing amount of seriousness. Each slice was measured with quick visual checks before he cut. Not identical down to the atom, perhaps, but close enough that Hudson noticed immediately and started laughing.

"Oh yeah, she's doing math."

"I'm dividing the cake." Bishop affirmed without looking up from her task.

"You're dividing the cake mathematically."

"There's a finite quantity and multiple recipients. Precision is appropriate."

You stood near him and watched as he slid each piece onto a plate, checked that it was stable, then handed it off. When Hudson reached for an extra bit of frosting left on the knife, Bishop turned the utensil neatly out of range, prompting a response, and a subsequent reminder from Bishop that the private had already consumed more than three times the recommended serving size. By the time everyone had cake and a drink in hand, the room was broken into smaller clusters of conversation. Vasquez and Drake were arguing over the music (whether an old Queen recording would be too high-energy, or if Drake could finally have a turn and just play Hendrix like he'd originally wanted to — in the end, they hedged, and went with Stevie Nicks' Edge of Seventeen). Frost and Ferro were trying and failing to describe the rules of Munchkin to Apone, who just shook his head and lit a new cigar. Hicks stayed mostly quiet, much like Ripley, but his eyes kept cutting from you to Bishop now and again in between his other threads of people-watching. You tried not to think too hard about that.

At some point, Hudson dropped into the seat beside you with his plate balanced on one knee. He was around four vodka shots deep at this point, and was nursing the last of a craft beer someone had smuggled in from their last shore leave.

"Soooo..." He swiped icing from the side of his lip and licked it off his thumb. You didn't want to think about just how often he'd had to do that over the course of the day. "Pretty good surprise, right?"

"Pretty good?" You looked at him in disbelief.

He lifted his hands in mock-modesty. "Okay, outstanding surprise."

"There you go."

"Well, good." He nudged your shoulder. "He really wanted it to come out right."

Your gaze moved instinctively across the room. Bishop was standing near the far end of the table, commentating on something with Ripley who looked engrossed in what he had to say. She'd relaxed enough now that her posture no longer looked quite so carefully locked-up. She even smiled when Apone approached to ask her something about the Munchkin cards he was holding, looking befuddled by the meaning of some of the silly drawings.

"She didn't need to worry so much." You swirled the contents of your own drink, feeling a little sheepish for some reason.

"I kept telling him that, but y'know how she gets. It's like tunnel vision. I mean, dude, he was in the galley for hours. Wouldn't let anybody mess with it." He lowered his voice a little. "I did test bites, though. With permission, duh. She was all, 'Human taste interpretation remains variable, Hudson.'"

You laughed into your cup. "That's exactly how she said it, isn't it?"

"Hey, I've got my Bishop voice down perfect." Hudson straightened his posture, setting his face in the most neutral pose he could while buzzed. "Please don't apply your fingers directly to the frosting. Your cooperation would improve the outcome."

You laughed instantly, though Hudson definitely needed to work on lowering his voice a bit to get a true Bishop going. The alcohol made something warm and precarious-feeling unfurl low in your chest. Before you could continue bantering, Bishop looked over and caught you looking at him. He hesitated, then excused himself from Ripley to come stand beside your chair.

"I wanted to ask…" He began, his hands fidgeting just a little.

Hudson leaned back to stand up, grinning with naked delight. "I'm leaving. I can read a room."

"You so cannot." Hicks scoffed from somewhere behind him.

Hudson stuck his tongue out and went to pester the other man, who looked to regret activating Hudson at all. Bishop seemed not to notice Hudson's comment; or perhaps he noticed and chose not to engage.

"I wanted to ask… did we embarrass you?"

"Wh- no?" The question caught you so off guard, you looked up quick enough to pull something in your neck. "I mean no, Bishop, not at all. Why would you think that?"

"I was concerned, admittedly." She searched your face. "I know sometimes surprises aren't welcome. I thought we may have overwhelmed you… you don't always seem to enjoy being the center of attention."

"I don't, usually." You tried to reassure her with a smile, though you suddenly felt entirely too soft inside to hold it for long. "But… this was different."

She nodded slowly, regaining a more sure expression the longer she processed it. "You would tell me if it was unpleasant?"

"Yes. Of course, always." You reached out to place a gentle touch to her forearm, settling her nervous fidgeting. "Were you really that worried?"

The truth of it crossed her face before she could seem to decide whether to conceal it. "Yes." She said it so plainly it made something in you twist.

"Why?" Your brow creased, sad that she'd fretted so much over something that would've been a beautiful gesture no matter what.

The inquiry caught him off guard, having not reflected much on the thought and its implications within himself. He glanced down at the floor then around the room as he processed. Across the table, Frost and Ferro were debating their class choices for the burgeoning Munchkin game, which you knew would go swimmingly if the three empty bottles beside Ferro were any indication of her mental fortitude.

"Because I wanted it to make you happy." Bishop, quiet as it was, finally answered you. You'd caught it, and it was about as critical to your nervous system as if she'd laid a kiss right to your forehead.

So, suffice it to say, you didn't answer for a second. She seemed to realize how unguarded that'd been, and her fingers twitched a little. "I recognize that's perhaps too candid of a statement. Or perhaps not a particularly sophisticated explanation."

"It's a very good one." You nodded almost as fast as she'd spoken, swallowing thickly when she met your eyes. She relaxed, appearing to be incredibly soothed by the simple act of observing genuine happiness in your face.

Ferro shouted something obscene across the table, Hudson howled with laughter, and the spell loosened. You both looked over at the others, returning to the world around you. Everyone was getting cards out, or sorting through Munchkin game pieces confusedly.

You thought for a moment. "Hey. Come play cards."

"Now?" Bishop blinked.

From the other end of the table, Frost looked over. "That feels unfair."

"Why?" You raised a brow, ready for the answer you expected but would be disappointed by.

"'Cause Bishop's gonna calculate everybody into the floor, that's why."

"I don't believe that's how cards function." Bishop commented, and you could tell it was a small attempt at defending herself.

"Ignore them." You brushed her with an elbow, then nodded towards Hudson, Hicks, and Ripley, who looked to be nonplussed on the semantics of Bishop playing anything at all. "Come play with us."

She regarded the group with gentle uncertainty, the kind she tended to exhibit with most social invitations. It was like she expected the offer to be less real than it was.

"Yes. I would think I'd like that."

He did not, in fact, destroy everyone. He won enough to prove the others' concerns perhaps marginally understandable, but lost enough to keep the mood friendly, and submitted with a helpless smile whenever the rest of the table turned on him as a competitive unit. You caught him looking at you more than once across the game. Each time he did, he looked away just a little too late. The whole back and forth earned a chuckle from Hicks, who'd been keeping tabs on it all night. Ripley was too absorbed in her bluff technique, and Hudson was too many bottle under the table to notice much of anything outside of the pursuit of blackjack glory. When your friends were tired of trying to outsmart Bishop's technique at standard cards, they switched with the other group, and started a Munchkin campaign up. You were incredibly excited to find out how Bishop might interpret this particular setup.

When the opportunity came to pick between classes, Bishop, after spending a full minute reading through the rules with grave seriousness, selected the cleric from his hand.

Hudson laughed so hard he nearly slid out of his chair. "Of course you're doing cleric."

"The role offers useful recovery options."

"That's my pooooint." Hudson pointed loosely at him. "You're the faithful little helper!"

Bishop, unruffled, moved on to re-organize his cards in immaculate stacks, keeping her hand squared up with the edge of the table. Munchkin suited her less neatly than poker (though that only made her approach more endearing). She understood the rules quickly, or quicker than anyone else you'd played with, but the game didn't stay orderly for long. You could usually trust any Munchkin campaign to end up this way no matter who was playing. Hudson would beg for help one second and sabotage Bishop the next. Hicks played opportunistically, staying quiet until the exact moment he could interfere. Ripley was merciless, as you expected, trading in a way that informed you she was attempting to orchestrate her own victory three turns in advance.

You, having started out trying to be fair, weren't doing so hot. So, realizing there was no glory on your horizon, you found yourself more than once sliding a card into play just to see what Bishop would do with it. He handled every new absurdity thrown his way with admirable composure. At some point, you counted at least five persistent curse cards hung on him at one time. When Hudson tried to talk her into an alliance, Bishop listened fairly to the other's arguments and declined on logical grounds, only to get immediately got punished for it when Ripley and Hicks teamed up long enough to knock her down a peg. She didn't sulk, though. That wasn't in her nature. He just observed and studied as he formed his analysis.

"I see. This game is less about winning efficiently than preventing others from doing so."

Hicks grinned, teasingly smug. "Noooow you've got it."

Near the end of the game, you helped Bishop out in combat, and he turned to you with such open gratitude that it made your cheeks burn. Of course by then the whole table had been dissolving into laughter often enough that the actual score barely mattered. Bishop still played well — he couldn't help that — but it was true… Munchkin blunted the edge of his pattern-recognizing advantage, forcing him into bargains, setbacks, and the ridiculous social obstacle course of being ganged up on whenever he got too close to winning. He took it all surprisingly well and remained enthusiastic in a way you didn't often get to see. The act of being included in a game at all, you thought, might've had something to do with it. You made a mental note to explicitly invite him into more activities on future occasions.

The game finally collapsed under the weight of too many drinks, which turned into drunken arguments, and Hudson insisting the rules had become 'creatively flexible'. The table was a wreck of bent cards, empty cups, and one very contented artificial person quietly gathering the deck back into order while everyone else talked over one another.

The others in the room were a mess of passed-out figures, or nearly-passed-out figures, with a table's worth of booze tucked into them. Ferro, having given up halfway through the last round of Bullshit (the game, though you were sure it had been bullshit to play), sprawled loosely in her chair with a drink still in hand. Hicks reached over and took it from her before it could spill, which he knew he'd end up having to help clean. Hudson, red-faced and glassy-eyed from laughing as much as he was drinking, forgot what side of the argument he'd been debating from and let himself be steered into a bench along the wall with only a few weak complaints.

You lingered motionless at the table a little longer than you meant to. There was enough left to do that leaving for the night felt wrong. All the things a party creates still needed to be contended with: dishes, napkins, cards that had to be collected before they vanished under benches or into the seams of the walls. The remains of the cake sat off to one side now, down to a few spare slices and smears of blue icing against the tray. You sighed fondly to yourself and started stacking plates. Ripley sidled up beside you without fanfare and took the next pile before you could reach for it.

"Oh, you don't have to do that!" You grinned lopsidedly up at her.

She returned the smile. "Neither do you."

Fair. The two of you fell in together, moving around one another easily. She gathered cups and bottles while you collected utensils, folded up napkins, righted a chair someone had nearly tipped over. Hicks had already hauled Frost to his feet and was trying to get an arm around him without jostling him too much. Vas and Drake were woken up, proceeding to argue quietly on their way out. Apone had gone off already to make sure nobody wandered into the wrong hall with any of the scant remaining alcohol.

Across the room, Bishop was helping Hudson sit up straighter where he'd started to sag sideways against the wall. She stationed one hand at Hudson's shoulder and kept the other at his wrist to steady him, speaking to him calmly while the marine blinked back at her with the cooperative confusion of the very drunk. When Hudson let his head loll too far back, Bishop adjusted him quickly, making sure he wouldn't wake with a crick in his neck or slide down into a dangerous position in his sleep. You could too easily envision Hudson choking on his own puke tonight. As you observed, your hands slowed over the table. Ripley noticed, because she notices everything (for better or worse).

She cleared her throat, beginning casually enough that it nearly slipped past you. "So."

You looked over, focused returning to the task at hand. "So?"

"What was your wish?" She set the stack of plates down. The question was innocent enough, but you still felt your nerves snap to attention.

"I can't tell you that." You laughed a little forcefully, eyes dropping back to the table.

"And why not?"

"You know why not." You gestured to the air, the universe, the unspoken law of birthdays.

Ripley's mouth twitched at the side. "Ah, right. The rules."

"The rules." You nodded, solemn as a monk. "Very serious business."

"Apparently so."

You picked up two cups, nested one into the other, and tried not to smile too obviously at the image of the wish in your head. "If I say it out loud, it won't come true."

Ripley made a small sound, kind of like a scoff, as she shot a glance across the room. Your eyes followed hers, but you didn't move your head, so as not to be too conspicuous. Bishop had finished settling Hudson and was now crouched in front of him, speaking quietly while she eased the back of Hudson's head against the wall with more care than Hudson probably deserved after half the things he'd said that night. He mumbled something, and Bishop actually smiled at it. It wasn't the polite one she used when he was trying to smooth an interaction over, either. It was warm and unguarded, clearly fond. Sensing the attention, she looked back, offering you a nod before turning her attention back to Hudson. You ducked your head, subtle as a siren.

"Uh-huh." Ripley laughed through her nose.

You groaned. "Don't."

"I didn't say anything." She lifted her hands in surrender.

"You basically did." You moved away to sort things into either dishes or trash.

She picked up the deck box from the table and slid the cards inside squarely. "Okay, well then, all I'm saying is… I think your odds are good."

You paused in your steps, and looked back at her, a little helpless. Were you that easy to read?

She let you have your silence, then mercifully changed the subject. "You had a good night?"

"Yeah." That one was easier to admit. "A really good night."

"Hmm." She hummed thoughtfully, offering you a rare open expression, showing kindness without much armor over it. "Good to hear."

When the last of everything had been stacked, the cards boxed up, and the sticky ring marks wiped from the table, the room looked almost respectable again. Not untouched, but restored enough that whoever wandered in on the next shift would only have to guess at what'd happened there. Ripley took the last of the dishes and moved towards the service hatch. You followed, intending to help, and stopped abruptly when she did.

"Get some sleep." She shifted the dishes to one arm, making to open the hatch on her own.

"Oh, uh… you too."

She only nodded to the room behind you, and went. That left you with Bishop still in the room, straightening the last chair at the table as though it mattered that every single piece be left in good order. Maybe it did, but you guessed it was just another example of her inner inclination for organization. Either way, when she noticed you were still there, she straightened up and gave you her full attention.

"Would you like company on the walk back to your bunk?" She offered with no hesitation.

The room thinned around you. "Yeah, I'd like that." You folded your fingers together behind your back, hiding the nervousness of them.

The door slid shut with a hydraulic slide. Within the Sulaco, there was always something in motion, some system tending to itself in the background. Tonight was surprisingly quiet. What little sound remained took the form of the vents, of course, and the distant groans of people readying to sleep off the rest of their buzz.

The two of you navigated the halls in silence. It was comfortable, though. That was one of the things you liked most about Bishop. Silence around him didn't feel like something was being neglected. It was a shared experience. He never seemed to think every moment of quiet needed mending with forced conversation.

You walked side by side through the low-lit passageway, steps softened by the deck's worn down grip-strips. The lateness of the hour had started to settle into your body, manifesting as a loose heaviness in your shoulders and the pleasant drag of tiredness at the backs of your eyes. A little warmth remained from the drinks, though it had gentled now into something less buzz-like and more soothing. Beneath all of that was the feeling of afterglow from being cared for by your friends, which gave the ending of the night its own strange bittersweet ache.

Bishop matched your slowing pace without missing a beat. When you glanced over at him, you noticed a dried bit of blue near the rolled cuff of his sleeve, and smiled goofily.

"What is it?" He analyzed your face.

"You still have evidence on you."

His eyes dropped to his sleeve as he lifted his arm, turning it to inspect the spot. "Ah. That's unfortunate."

"Here." You reached out before you'd quite taken the time to really decide to, then checked yourself. "Oh… can I?"

He looked from your face to your hand, taking your meaning, and nodded wordlessly. You brushed your fingers lightly over the fabric at his elbow and rubbed the icing away with your thumb. It'd dried tacky, glazed onto the weave. Bishop went very still while you did it, so much so that you worried you'd freaked him out or crossed a boundary. You realized he was simply being attentive, as he always was where touch was involved, giving it his full notice.

"There." You drew your hand back. "Better."

He looked at the clean patch for a bit longer than a review of the correction required, then lifted his eyes back to yours. "Thank you."

The route to your bunk took you along one of the wider halls, where a long reinforced viewport cut through the wall and offered one of the ship's few unmediated views out into space. People tended to slow there without meaning to, even the ones who'd seen it a hundred times over, so you weren't surprised when you found Bishop doing as much. You slowed with her as she had for you.

She'd turned her head to face the glass. Beyond it, space opened up endlessly without a horizon. Only the dark and the stars sat in across it, their light so clear it felt surreal. The glass reflected the hall behind you, awash with a stripe of the ship's night-lights hovering over that great black distance.

Bishop stepped closer to the viewport. You subconsciously let yourself be pulled in with her, as if connected via an invisible rope. Beside you, her reflection in the glass was still and light up with the fuzzy blue glow from the hall lights. Her mouth parted a little. You'd seen that thoughtful expression before over instrument panels, culture slides, minute structures in a specimen. It was one of the things that made her seem most herself. A quality of earnest absorption. She didn't only observe, she gave herself over to the act of witnessing.

"They're very direct." His comment broke your reverie.

"The stars?" You followed his eyes to a particular cluster that shone brighter than the rest.

"Yes." His voice was quiet, placed carefully against the silence around the two of you. "They don't conceal what they are. A star burns, and the burning is visible from impossible distances." He seemed to consider that thought as he spoke it. "There's something efficient about that. Honest, too."

You smiled slowly, thoughtfully, trying not to let the last of the booze in your system treat his words too lightly. "That's very philosophical."

"It was meant scientifically." He grinned lopsidedly when he looked sideways at you. "But I recognize the overlap."

You finally allowed yourself a laugh under your breath. She looked pleased by that before her attention returned to the stars. The light from them did strange things to the planes of her face in the reflection. It sharpened one line, softened another. Made her look both very near and very far from you.

You looked out too, letting your thoughts wander, and felt thoughts of your birthday wish rise up in you again. It wasn't so abstract now, hidden in the safer territory of impossibility. It'd sat in you all evening, growing heavier the closer you came to being alone with him. The party had been wonderful, but it'd also stripped you of excuses. There was no doubt left, not really. Not after the cake, the way he watched you taste it, the relief on his face when you smiled.

'Because I wanted it to make you happy.'

The words willed themselves out before the rest of you could lose the nerve. "Do you want to know what my wish was?"

He turned immediately, alert but not startled. "You may tell me. If you'd like to." He tipped his head habitually to show he was really listening.

Your pulse climbed so quickly you nearly laughed again from sheer nerves. Your stupid, impossible birthday wish didn't feel quite so impossible anymore. The idea of saying it had seemed easier while it remained unspoken. In imagination, everything felt smaller, more manageable. Out loud, there was nothing to hide behind. You would say it and it would become real, one way or another. There would be no stepping back from it into vagueness or simple implication. You would have to sit with whatever followed.

"I wished…" You met his eyes once, found it impossible to look at him, and dropped your gaze away. "…that I'd be able to tell you how I feel about you."

She went still; not uncomfortably so, just still in the natural sense. Her attention gathered and rested entirely on you. You drew a breath and made yourself keep going.

"In a positive way." You amended the statement quickly, knowing too well how Bishop's brain could jam a loom with the various threads of meaning he could apply to otherwise innocent statements. "Very positive! I just... didn't want to make things strange for you. Or put pressure on you. You make me really happy… and that's part of the trouble, I guess." You let out a small, embarrassed sound that failed to disguise anything. "I kept telling myself not to say anything because I didn't want my feelings to become a burden you had to manage. But hiding it has started to feel worse than the risk of saying it. Tonight made that worse. Or, better…? I don't know." Your throat tightened around the next words. "So… yeah. That was the wish. To be brave enough to tell you, even if it meant being embarrassed."

Bishop didn't interrupt a moment of it. When you felt capable of looking up again, she was watching you with slightly raised brows, mouth parted just so. She didn't rush to soothe you, nor tidy your confession into something casual. She seemed to understand that it'd cost you something to say it plainly, and so she treated that cost with respect.

"Thank you." He turned his body fully towards you, now. "For deciding to tell me."

"Yeah." You swallowed and it hurt your throat. The sound of your voice was so hoarse, you winced. "No problem."

He lowered his head for a moment, not lookin away from you so much as inward, checking the rythym of his own thoughts before he could settle on what parts to share.

"May I clarify something?"

"Please." You leapt at the offer of further discussion, not knowing how on earth to recover otherwise.

"When you say you have feelings for me…" Bishop brought his hands together and smoothed a thumb over her knuckles, a habit that helped center whatever mechanism in her created trains of thought. "…am I correct in understanding that they are affectionate in a romantic sense?"

Spoken with such seriousness, it was almost unbearably endearing.

"Yes." You tried to smile despite feeling like you might throw up from the honesty of it. "Very much in that sense."

She nodded once, receiving your answer with the gravity it deserved. "And you were concerned that expressing those feelings might cause me discomfort."

"Yeah."

"I see." She fell quiet again.

You tried to reassure yourself that it didn't necessarily have to be a rejecting quiet. He was thinking. That was all. Bishop had never filled silence merely to keep another person from feeling it. If he paused, it was because he meant to answer honestly, and not before he'd found exactly the right words to represent himself. When he lifted his eyes to catch yours again, there was something newly legible behind them. Recognition, perhaps, after circling some internal truth and at last come within range of naming it.

"May I try something?" She scanned your face feature by feature before settling back into eye contact.

You blinked from the intense scrutiny. "Okay."

She raised one hand between you, palm angled slightly upward. The gesture was careful and unforced, an offering not an assumption. A space you could choose to enter or not.

"Would holding your hand be acceptable?" The tenderness of the question was almost harder to bear than the question itself.

"Please." You put your hand in hers.

His fingers closed around yours in slow measurements. Light at first, then firmer, checking pressure and receiving no objection from you. After a moment of feeling it out, they shifted, threading between your own. His hand was cool and dry and very steady in comparison to yours (hot, sweaty, and trembling just a little). The contact itself was simple. The effect of it was definitely not. He seemed to be analyzing that, too. His eyes widened the barest fraction, his pupils following suit. He looked down at your joined hands, moved his thumb moved once along the side of yours. Then again, a hesitant flex, exploring and confirming the sensation wasn't an error in interpretation.

"Bishop?" You checked in tentatively. You didn't want to interrupt his process, but you were also getting rather anxious.

She expressed a brief, thoughtful hum before her eyes re-focused. When she spoke, it was with genuine wonder. "I believe that I've also been attempting to avoid naming a feeling."

You just stared at her, heart threatening to stop. She kept hold of your hand and didn't appear to be considering relinquishing it.

"I understand that may not be an especially elegant response." She continued with the barest edge of self-consciousness under the careful diction, which provoked a nearly unstoppable desire to reach out and cradle her against you. "But the feeling itself appears to be... rather substantial."

Despite the pounding of your heart, a laugh escaped you. It sounded a little scared. "That bad?"

"No, no. Not at all." She shook her head to dispel your worry. "I… it's all just very… wow."

He spoke in a tone of soft astonishment that seemed to surprise even him, taken aback by his own simplicity. That made you laugh harder, properly this time, without being spurred by uneasiness.

"I'm sorry." He ducked his chin. "I'm usually more articulate."

"You are." You agreed, unable to stop the giddy grin on your face. "That's why this is really getting me."

"I see." He admired your joined hands again. "I don't dislike it."

The understatement of it made something inside you fold in on itself. You squeezed his hand gently, and his attention returned to your face at once. "Well, good. Because I really like it."

He drew a breath he didn't need. That small habit of his always caught at you. His little learned rhythm, a symptom (or intentionally chosen trait) of being among other people.

"I've been feeling something new for some time now." He picked up the thread again. "It's unusually strong. It's also made me uncertain of my own interpretation." His eyes moved over your face with quiet frankness. "You matter to me a great deal. Your presence is often the first variable I account for in a room. When something pleases you, I find that… significant. When something troubles you, I want to correct it. Tonight, I wanted very much to make you happy." The lines on his face softened as he considered the idea further. "That seemed to exceed ordinary fondness."

Your eyes stung a little. You couldn't help it. "That's exactly how it feels for me too."

The relief on his face was unmistakable. "Oh." He squeezed your hand, and you returned it, breathing heavy as he held you. "Oh."

The pair of you stood there for a while, just looking at one another, hand in hand before the viewport. The stars, remote and unwavering beyond the glass, winked back at you from their impossibly far homes across a void that no longer felt so lonely to look at.

"Happy birthday." Bishop traced her thumb on your hand again. "It feels good to say that directly, this time."

You smiled so hard it almost hurt. "It was happy. Thanks to you." Without thinking too much about whether it was wise, you lifted his hand and pressed a gentle kiss to her knuckles.

Bishop went utterly still, receiving a signal she perhaps didn't know how to process. When you lowered her hand again, something in her face opened so plainly it made your heart stumble. She looked almost startled by the force of her own response. You second-guessed yourself.

"Sorry!" You fretted, brows drawing together. "Was that too much?"

"No, no. Not unpleasantly. Quite the opposite." She replied too quickly for there to be any doubt about the answer you'd feared. She sorted herself, his voice dipping quieter. "Could I… try?"

It was your turn to organize your nerves. But really, what other answer was there, or had ever been there? "Yes… you could." You swallowed thickly. "If you want."

Bishop's eyelids lowered as he turned his attention to your hand, held dearly in his. You drew a breath in, heart skipping a beat. He raised your entwined hands to his mouth, turned your knuckles up to his lips, and pressed the most tender kiss to them you'd ever received. He closed his eyes, lingering, committing the act to memory. You didn't realize you were crying until you felt the track of a tear race down your cheek. He opened his eyes, sensing the shift, and released your hand to wipe the tear away. The movement shocked him, and he recoiled a bit, suddenly looking at a loss.

"I'm sorry, I should have asked." He clasped his hands together, like he was worried he may touch you again unprompted. "It's just that… you're crying. Did I upset you?"

"No, no, Bishop, absolutely not!" You wanted so badly to gather her up into your arms and erase all that thinking, the spiraling, the fear of misconduct. You wiped your eyes, hating that you'd distressed her so, and took a deep breath. "I'm just… so happy. I'm so, so happy and it feels like so much, and… sometimes it spills over. That's okay." You smiled wide, hoping she could see how genuine it was. "You're always so sweet. It's okay to touch me. I know you need to ask, it's good to. But you don't need to worry about it. I know you just want to help."

She looked a little pained, which pained you, and spurred you to action. "Here. Can I hold these? Please?" You brought both your hands in front of her, where she was holding them together stiffly. "Only if you're okay with that."

You waited patiently as she looked between the two of you, and came to the conclusion that the situation wasn't ruined by any percieved faux pas on her end. "I'm alright with that, yes."

You gently pried her hands apart and took each into yours, drawing in a deep breath. You pressed your thumbs to the center of her palms in clockwise circles, increasing and decreasing in pressure.

"My mom used to do this for me when I got too worried. She called it a 'paw massage'." You smirked at the memory, hoping the humor of it would assuage Bishop somewhat. "Does it help?"

He watched your hands work on his, and closed his eyes to focus on the feeling. The sensors in his palms, a network of some thousands of parts containing millions of connections, and indeed felt grounded by what information they shared with him.

"Yes. I feel…" He opened his eyes again. "…comforted."

"Then it's working." You repeated the motion several more times, slower and slower, then pushed his hands upright so you could slide your fingers between his and hold him close to your chest. "Better?"

"Most definitely." His eyes were hooded, looking a little sedated. It reminded you of how a dog might look while getting its ear scratched. "If it would be agreeable… I would like to continue this. With you. At a pace that feels comfortable."

"Another massage?"

"Mm. No, this." He nodded between the two of you. "Though I wouldn't object to the other, of course."

"Oh." You huffed out a laugh, hands tightened briefly around his a little more than you'd meant for. "Yeah. that would be very agreeable."

She smiled so brightly, then. It was more transfixing than the stars, you thought, seeing Bishop this happy.

The rest of the walk was entirely too short for your liking. But you'd gotten your birthday wish (in record time), and as Bishop gave you her nightly goodbye, you felt more than confident enough to give her a small kiss before she set off. She wouldn't get to tell you until the next day, but she sat in standby for the rest of the night, thinking about it.