#alien ash

"What're you doing, sweetheart?" You nurse a hot cocoa while sitting on your couch, a book folded on one armrest. Overlooking your view is the tail end of Ash, whose leg servos have been heard walking around the spaces behind you for the past two hours. You quite like the view from here - unbeknownst to him - so you have yet to pick your novel back up. "I'm checking the integrity of the grates." If he knows you're looking, he hasn't said or done anything to indicate it. His hands brace against the blue wall. It's above him - he's 5'5". What's he going to do? "Oh." You hum a discordant note. "Why's that?" "I wouldn't like anything to climb out of them." He punctuates his reply by leaning uncannily up to the grate on the wall, easily stretching himself by more inches than is possible. Watching him do it, however, makes you chuckle.

"What do you think would climb out? A frog, maybe?" You take a sip from your cocoa - he reminds you of what he might look like in a slapstick cartoon if he'd been run over. Flintstones, you think. And probably Fred's car. He'd fit right in with the Great Gazoo at his side. Your technical marvel… He pauses. His head turns to the side, one eye target-locking onto you. You wave your fingers at him just to see him break out of his usual Kubrick into a delicate, lovely smile that tugs on his cheeks. Ash looks so genuinely fond that his smile pulls your heartstrings with him like party favors. "Something like that." Hmm. That just won't do – he should be relaxing, not stuck in some sort of patrol mode, you think, resting your chin on your hand. How will you dissuade him so you can give him a warm mug of coolant, or fit him in an ugly Christmas sweater? You've even bought him green, a surprise, since he seemed to gravitate towards the color. "You don't dream, right? But you have memories." Of our shared nightmare. You clutch the mug a little tighter. "I'd never forsake my memories with you, whether positive or negative," he says, voice taking on a tone of even & absolute reality before he turns back to his task. His arms stretch before his fingers lock onto each screw, tightening them dangerously without ever picking up a screwdriver. Then comes his obsessive staring – constantly looking for something, even though all he ever finds is the dustbunnies. You can see the wrinkles on the back of his head from the rise of his brows all the way from your seat. "Ash, hon," you call for him, taking a final delicate sip before placing your mug aside. "Yes, love?" It's instant. "Could you come here a second?" He makes one last look through the grate before his head finally turns, mechanical in its swivel. "Of course." Then he moves back down – you hear something in his back click back into place, oddly enough – walking over to you as if he wasn't just assessing nonexistent threats.

You pat your lap kindly, and Ash sits in it, swinging his socked feet behind him. He's adorable like this, a big lap android – and surprisingly light. How many people can say they have that? "Did you require something?" Ash's voice is soft when he addresses you, lidded, droopy eyes on yours as you lean towards the end table and give him his mug, the one you've reheated twice since his fruitless search began.

It's thermophillic, and it's got the chemical representation of caffeine on it in white, so right now it teems with a variety of colors like a layered geode temperature map. You bought him it back when you two had touched down, before anything else could happen to distract either of you.

From that day on, Ash always used it. He'd rinse it each night, a ritual. You were certain that if it chipped he would collate the information to repair it and do it himself just to keep it in his possession. He received gifts quietly, but his love was loud.

He'd never been made to receive gifts. That, you thought, was why he deserved oh-so-many of them. It became your mission to spoil him with all manner of thing he never had. Ash had to begin to know that anything he desired would become his because you made it his lived truth… and you would make it his truth.

Presently, he takes the mug gingerly with a quirk of his brow, inspecting its' contents before his small smile creeps back. "Ah. You've heated my coolant and added cinnamon." He chuffs at you – you swear it – before taking a sip. Instead of falling back in place, his other brow joints the first. "Ah. No, it's propylene glycol…" Blinking twice, he places it back down on a coaster. "This suffices. The aroma is pleasant – the gesture is appreciable." A short, thoughtful, pleasant pause signals his inferencing, then: "You're trying to include me in your traditions."

You nod. Then, you pull the sweater you've hid behind your back out, presenting it to him. It's a sprucey green, not terribly warm, a pattern of tiny white christmas trees interrupted by white reindeer. In the center is one larger than the rest, 'nose' threaded with red.

Ash takes it, free hand receiving it while his other takes the important liberty of ensuring his fingers brush against yours as he pretends to look it over again for your human posterity. "Thank you," he hums, folding it neatly over his forearm. "I'll put it on later."

Your hands grip his other arm worriedly before he can depart again. His gaze instantly flicks back to you as if to quell your concerns. "Are you going to the grates again?"

"I can stay if you'd like." It's so quick that it clips the end of your request. Ash leans in a little, letting the garment drop between your shared laps so he can plant one arm on a slice of cushion near your hip, the other coming up to your jaw. His hand brushes your cheek, and you lean into the contact. "Yes, please."

His lids raise before the edges raise in turn, crinkling with the feedback of being desirable, wanted. A mechanical sort of purr leaves him, a cross between a vibration and a chirp. "May I give you a gift, too?"

You blink, not sure what he means. As far as you were concerned, you spent damn near every minute together when they were available – or was he a sneak shopper? "O-Of course?"

Ash leans in. His grip on your jaw tightens, though it is never a cruel thing; he's excited to bestow this. Then… he kisses you. His lips are soft and vaguely sweet, and his thumb rubs your cheek in tiny, soothing circles.