You should write Bing and Chase! Bing Average the ship!
Bing is on the ground, clutching one wrecked knee, his skateboard in pieces a few feet away. Some kind of sick cool stunt went horribly wrong, and now there are bits of circuity littered around the ground next to tiny shards of fiberglass while Bing sits there, beaming, thick black oozing out of the scrape.
“You okay, babe?” Chase asks. He kneels and reaches out a finger to prod at the injury. Bing doesn’t seem to mind it much, so it can’t be that bad, but there are exposed wires and Chase has a feeling they’re going to have to beg the Googles to patch him back together.
“Hell yeah, baby, I’m great!” Bing says. He stands up and repositions his sunglasses on his nose, reaching a hand to pull Chase back to his feet. “Shame about my board, though. Bummer.”
“Eh, you have a backup,” Chase says.
“True that!” Bing laughs and makes to take a step, but doesn’t do much more than make an aborted jerking motion. He frowns down at his injured knee and tries it again, but the leg won’t bend. Something is wrong with the joint, and every time he tries to convince his leg to take a step, it only groans and drips more fluid onto the concrete.
“Yuck,” Chase says, but there’s no feeling in it.
“Fuck,” Bing replies. He bends over and uses both hands to prod around in his knee, and Chase has to look away. He knows, of course, that his boyfriend is an android, made of metal and wires and bits of binary code, but watching Bing stick entire fingers into the metal of his body turns his stomach almost as bad as watching Schneep stick actual flesh together. It’s gross, made even grosser by the fact that Bing doesn’t even care. He’d explained, once, that all of his sensory systems operate entirely on an outside-the-body basis, so he never gets headaches or muscle cramping or any kind of simulated internal injury, but Chase still doesn’t like watching him wriggle his fingers around in the hollows of his leg.
“You okay?” Chase asks after a moment. He’s starting to worry. He’s been injured dozens of times on his skateboard, sure, and he’s stuck a bandaid on his son’s knee after a disastrous first attempt at biking, but he’s completely out of his element with robots.
“Better than okay,” Bing says, and when he looks up he’s grinning. “This leg isn’t gonna budge. Looks like you’re gonna have to bridal carry me to the Googles, baby.”
Chase smiles at him. “Just like in the movies!”
Chase gets oil on his jeans, but he decides that it just makes him look cool and grunge.
