#bing x reader

You tapped your fingertips along the table's edge in a rhythm you were only half aware of. If you were anywhere else, you might have been able to stave off the fear, but the room you were in—so bare that it could have been built yesterday—offered you no such reprieve. Instead, you were forced to flit between the empty door window and your own reflection in the metal surface below. Neither option appealed to you; the hallway was boring and you knew yourself too well to trust your blank expression, so what else did you have beyond your own frantic mind?

Nothing.

You had nothing. You sat alone in the headquarters of a mega-corporation, and you had nothing.

Except for the faint spark of hope that came with an explosion of noise out in the hall.

"Do you have any sevens?"

"This is Uno."

"Ugh." Bing flopped against the floor, torso bent awkwardly to both get his back against the floor and keep his legs crossed. "I'm bored."

Google watched with an unaffected air. This had, after all, been going on for two hours, and there was little sign of it stopping. You were in the lab, working on something that they weren't allowed to see, which gave them plenty of time to 'research human stuff'. You had instructed as such before kicking them out of the basement, but it was a struggle when you were the only human they could interact with.

Curiosity over what you were doing didn't help them settle, either. It was ostensibly a bug fix that required your full attention, but Google suspected that you simply couldn't focus around them. Whatever form of relationship the three of you were developing was new to all of you, and you had an unfortunate habit of throwing yourself into work to rid yourself of tricky emotions.

Google's eyes flicked up to meet Bing's.

"Is your inability to be patient an accident or programmed into you?" he asked. He leaned towards intentional. Confusing, but still intentional.

Bing pushed himself back up, huffing, "Like you're any better."

A blank stare was all he got in response, which wasn't rare enough to be an insult anymore.

"You can pretend to be cold as much as you like, doesn't mean you are. You're just quietly impatient."

The next few seconds were spent in a stand-off, as if electrical signals replaced words to carry their argument. The first side said the second was an idiot, the second side said the first was a hypocrite, the first obnoxious, the second oblivious, the first, the second, until Bing got bored again.

Google took that as a win, but the conversation passed when Bing got to his feet and peaked at the lab door.

"When d'ya think they're gonna be done?"

"They commonly work for six hours at a time."

Despite pointing it out, Google wasn't certain that it was true—at least, not today. He didn't mention that they had been working longer hours recently, again on projects they weren't to know about. Human emotions weren't his forté, but even he knew this wasn't a good sign. Thinking about you working yourself to death in the lab stirred an uncomfortable feeling in his gut, as though someone had gripped his wiring and pulled. Not knowing what you were working on was worse.

Regardless, he pushed his logic, stating, "As such, they will likely take a break in 46 minutes."

How they had managed to go more than 5 hours together was already a miracle. They had fallen into détente since their conversation a week ago, so it was a shared understanding that they were both getting to the end of their ropes. It was a small house once you got used to it.

A grin spread across Bing's face once he was at the doorway.

"Let's make it 46 seconds then, whad'ya think?"

Without waiting for Google's input, he slid into the hallway, eager to disturb you from whatever work was pulling you away. Google considered stopping him, but that would likely cause an argument. Really, didn't you want them to get along, and, surely, wasn't five hours long enough, and, obviously, wouldn't it be better for them to be with you?

To cover himself, he muttered some 'no's and 'stop's before following Bing to the basement stairs. You couldn't say that he didn't try—he just didn't try that hard. Instead, Google was walking at Bing's heels down the stairs to the basement. Plots for plausible deniability faded from his mind when the door to the lab was shouldered open.

At this point, you were completely isolated from the living world, swept up in lines of lime green lettering and the occasional missed punctuation. What sat before you now was a random string of letters that equated to nothing more than a key-smash. The code was as garbled as your brain, but, although the word vomit sickened you, you didn't have it in you to clean it up. You only made it worse when you slammed your head into the laptop, whatever was printed on the screen beaming itself into your mind before you could look up.

Sometimes you thought about what other career paths might have had in store for you. Would medical school have made you so distraught? Would a literature degree have choked you at the sight of an email? Would investing in bitcoin have possibly given you a concussion?

"Hey, babe?"

You screamed. Of course you screamed, because a 200 pound machine managed to sneak up on you, and that spoke more to your own survival skills than the stealth of the android at your shoulder.

Once you caught sight of the two standing behind you, your brain turned off the sirens. Your heart would take a little more convincing, but you weren't about to throw your laptop at them.

"Bing, don't scare me like that," you muttered as you laid a hand across your chest. Never mind the concussion, a heart attack was on your radar if you weren't careful.

"Sorry," he said, grinning in that way that told you he wasn't.

Google stepped next to him and leveled you with a look. "You were not responding."

"Yeah, I was working," you explained. It was rare for you to be so unaware of your surroundings, but it was taking all of your energy just to face the screen.

You were just about to spin your chair back around when you caught up to what was happening.

"Am working—you're not supposed to be in here."

"You haven't come up for air in a while, we were starting to get worried."

You glanced at Google to see if he supported this blatant expression of emotion, but you were met with a surprise. Nodding. Just one, up and down. Not huffing, not rolling his eyes, not balking at Bing's openness. Plain agreement.

Was this a problem? You didn't think your working hours were cause for alarm, you had been doing this for years, but…

You sighed.

"I have a break coming up in—" You checked the clock, "—49 minutes."

Google corrected, "44 minutes."

Clicking your fingers, you pointed at him. Now wasn't the time to argue over semantics, and he was probably right anyway. You didn't have a great record for keeping track of breaks, and a guy with an internal clock down to the half-millisecond was always a better reference point.

"44 minutes. I'll finish up here and then make something to eat, or something."

With that, you finally turned back to your laptop and immediately regretted it at the sight of your code spaghetti. There was a real word or two in there, which only made the pit in your stomach deepen. Even your subconscious was reminding you that you needed to work because this was important, this was your job, this was the thing keeping you out of prison.

You caught sight of two faces on either of your shoulders in the reflection, the angel and demon both telling you to do the same thing—or, rather, your mind was reacting the same way to both of them, and that was to stall your hands above your keyboard.

The men behind you read through the lines on your screen, but Google was the first to speak.

"Why were we prevented from seeing this code?" he asked, though his tone was as incurious as ever.

"Uh, no reason."

You willed your hands to start typing. The cursor continued to blink at the end of the line.

"You have been doing this for four days."

Had you? You'd barely even noticed. Time seemed to slip away in the basement. All the light was artificial, so the sun and moon trading places hardly registered to you.

But you couldn't say that. They were worried enough to come down to the basement, after all, so there was no reason to get them more stirred up about your health.

Instead, you muttered a quiet, "Yeah, you're right."

"This has happened only after the conversation about our relationship."

Then, even quieter, "Weird."

Silence flooded the room. The chirps and beeps from various machines seemed to fade, and you desperately wanted the clicking of keys to take up the empty space, but no. Nothing was on your side right now, if you even knew what side you were on.

Luckily, someone else did.

Bing leaned on the back of your chair, pushing you down slightly, as he asked, "How long's left on the contracts?"

He spoke so casually. You might have wondered if it were a front, a facade, a lie, but Bing didn't do lies. He knew what was wrong, and he knew what to ask, so he asked it. You envied his confidence.

A second passed before you said, "Yours has 12 days."

"And Google's?"

You didn't like saying it out loud—hell, you could barely stand thinking about it—but you couldn't put it off any longer. This was it.

"The extension ran out this morning," you explained, voice coming from another person's throat. "They could come any second now, and I- I know you said you had a plan, but I can't just sit here and do nothing."

What had Google said were the chances of them being taken? You had latched onto them at the time, but now you were coming up blank. They were low. You remembered that much because they had calmed you down. They were good numbers.

But Google wasn't the best at accounting for outside factors, namely human emotions, namely spite. You had avoided fulfilling the terms of the contract up until this point, and you were pretty sure the mega-corporations who held your soul weren't happy with you.

Switching his attention to your laptop's screen, Google asked, "What are you doing?"

Stressing yourself out, mostly, but he wouldn't take that answer.

"Finding stuff to fine-tune," was your response, and he nodded along as you traced the cursor over neon green letters. "They want you two to be perfect, so if you're not… y'know, maybe they'll give me more time to improve. Or something."

You brought a hand to your face and dug into your cheek. The bone that pushed back was grounding, but you were too far in it to pull yourself out that easily.

Deeply, you sighed. "But I don't know how long until they decide to take you anyway."

The image of those secret-service-wannabes, all dark suits and earpieces, taking Google from your home leapt helpfully to your mind's eye. The look in his eye when he left, and the look when he got back? You didn't want any of you to go through that again.

You were inches away from pushing your eyeball into the socket when your hand was gripped by cold fingers. Bing smiled down at you, bright and cheery and excited and you couldn't let him go to a warehouse.

He elbowed Google, who only just managed to restrain himself, and said, "Great minds think alike, eh?"

You huffed out a, "What?"

"Our plan," Google interrupted, "was and is to intentionally fail code and practical tests in order to be sent back to you for re-examination."

Once he finished, he shot Bing a blank look, which had long since translated to a threat against his new skateboard. It was returned by a teasing smirk and a tip of sunglasses. However, when both androids realized you were still quiet, they started to brace themselves for a scolding. Something small scale, a 'you should have told me, I would stop worrying' kind of thing that would probably end with a light slap on the arm, at worst.

What they were not expecting was for you to be absolutely livid.

You shot to your feet, shouted, "What the hell are you talking about!?" and tossed the chair to the side.

"Do you want me to repeat—"

"You are geniuses by fucking design, and you thought you could just- what, trick them by doing the same thing over and over?!" You gripped at your scalp desperately. "As if they'd never notice, and- and let you go, and- are you stupid?"

Bing was shocked into silence, his mouth hanging open like a skee-ball scoring hole, but Google's indignancy came out as, "My experience at the warehouse indicated their engineers were incapable."

"You're right!" You slammed your hand down on the table. "They are!"

It took a glance at your vibrant red palm to recognize how emotional you were getting. Yes, their plan was all kinds of idiotic, but they didn't need you yelling at them to understand, so you took a long, if not shaky, breath.

You felt bad for moving when Bing reached out to touch your arm, but you needed to come up with a better solution to your problem.

With a measured tone, you asked Google, "What makes you think that they can't do their jobs right?"

"I was returned to you at the first sign of a bug in my code."

"That's it?"

He waited, as if a bear trap would snap around his leg when you finished, but nothing happened.

Simply, he said, "Yes."

"And what happened to them?"

Bing cut in, "They got fired."

He drew out the last word in a way to make you laugh—and you did laugh.

With gritted teeth and a near-bloodless grip on the table, you laughed.

"So what do you think happens to the engineer who keeps causing those bugs?"

He opened his mouth to answer, but no one had to interrupt him for it to slip closed this time. The realization of what this meant hit both androids at the same time, and it dug as deep as their circuitry would allow before it hit something vital.

They could fail the tests, sure, but they wouldn't be sent back to you.

Wheels squeaked over the floor as you dragged your chair back, and you threw yourself down as soon as it landed in place.

"There's a difference between being broken and being imperfect," you explained. "If I can promise more, they might give me another extension."

It was wishful thinking, but what else did you have? Anything else would have required prior planning, and short-term plans were your specialty. Even the ones working their ways through your brain at break-neck speeds were for the here and now. It was how you got into this mess, of course, but you needed to find something to do.

You had to.

As you worked, Google watched over your shoulder, the ever-dutiful assistant to your mad-scientist persona. Bing, meanwhile, slid off to the side of the room. Helping was what he had been built for. What was a fully-sentient android good for if he needed a go-ahead before doing anything?

Maybe a schedule would work? If he and Google were basically hired by their respective companies to do shows and then return home at the end of the day? Bing was an optimist at heart and persuasive to boot. If it came down to it, he was sure he could get someone to agree to a contract.

But he also knew about the risks.

Staring at you and Google, he was all too aware that being stuck in a warehouse was within the realm of possibility. Things went wrong, people didn't stick to their word, and suddenly the coldness and paranoia that permeated the air around Google stuck to him, too.

He didn't know if his plan was worth the risk. He didn't want to go through all of that, and, though he would admit it only to himself, the thought of it happening to Google again sent a crackle of tension through his circuits.

Clicking through the considerable chunk of new code, you muttered some brands of tech to yourself and reached for a pad of paper to jot them down. Soon enough, you'd ripped the piece off and handed it to Google, who was in the midst of cataloguing it all directly from your verbal list. When his eyes cleared, he folded the paper and slipped it into a pocket.

"I'll see if I can get you compatible with other brand devices," you said to Bing once he'd waltzed to your side. "Door locks and plugs. Try the store on Vine Street, but let me know if you don't find anything."

Ordering online would have been better for your nerves, but you were in a time crunch; you didn't have the benefit of 24 hours, or even 24 minutes. The timer had already hit zero, you were just waiting for it to explode.

Google nodded, quick enough that you knew he was glad to have something to do, and started to walk to the stairs. Bing seemed content to stay next to you until you gestured after the other android.

"Think you can go with him?"

His eyebrows furrowed behind the tinted glasses.

"You sure?"

"Yeah, you'll be in public, and I…" you sighed, stress rattling through you like a freight train, "…you'll be safer together. I don't want anything to happen to you two."

Google stalled by the door, and you tensed up in anticipation of a fight. It wasn't a reflection of your faith in him or how responsible you thought he was—in fact, it was more for your sanity that they had safety in numbers—but you expected some resistance.

However, he said and did nothing. He just waited.

You didn't know if you appreciated the effort or regretted your outburst more. It had been less than ten minutes and you were constructing an apology, so you were leaning toward the latter.

Trapped in your thoughts, you hadn't noticed Bing grabbing your hand again, but the tight pressure from him squeezing brought you to attention.

"Don't worry," he said, "we'll be okay."

You returned his smile with a little less energy, but he was happy enough to scamper toward Google and the basement's exit.

"Good luck!" you called after them.

"See ya later, babe!" was accompanied by, "We'll return shortly." The click of the door punctuated their goodbyes.

You took a moment to yourself once the silence settled back in. You already missed them, but you couldn't tell whether it was fear or a certain cheesiness that spawned this longing in your chest. Pride at Google getting better with contractions was definitely part of the second, though, and it pushed a grin over your mouth as you turned back to your laptop.

The next fifteen minutes passed roughly. Unlike in your bouts of passion, you were keenly aware of every keystroke and backspace that went into code, and every misstep was made more torturous by the very fact that you would have to keep going after fixing it.

You just wanted to be done with it, but a knock at the front door kept you from bridging the gap. Although there was only a small amount of work left, you didn't want to leave your boys outside for too long, so you pushed out from the table and wandered from the lab.

Footsteps were matched by the cracking of bones as you leaned a hand against your spine. Your natural posture at your desk was comfortable in the moment, but you always faced the consequences when you got up.

You reaped what you sowed, as the saying went.

When you opened the front door, the blood drained from your face. Four people stood on your porch, all wearing suits and sunglasses and dizzyingly familiar frowns, and you reflexively slammed the door shut in their faces.

Your brain switched to survival. Keys were in the lab, you sprinted to the basement door, heard the turn of the handle behind you, threw yourself down the stairs so harshly that you might have broken something. It didn't matter right now. You shouldered your way through to your desk and scrambled for a pen and paper. Scribbling down a messy 'A + M ret staff', you briefly processed that the lines were still indented with the electronics list, but you tossed it out of your brain just as fast. You heaved a breath as you shoved the note under your laptop seconds before the lab door slammed to the wall.

Pieces of equipment, soldering irons and spare parts, fell to the ground at the impact, but there was a small part of you that thought they were just there to chat. It was possible; you had been the first to run, after all, so maybe they had just reacted—

Your skull cracked against the floor, and you saw stars. Had you still the presence of mind, you might have called it assault, but it probably didn't matter too much to the people handcuffing your hands behind your back. Instead, you were only aware of the relief that neither Google or Bing were at home.

You were being watched, you knew that much. Since you had been deposited into this borderline-interrogation room, you hadn't seen a moment of true isolation, and it was driving you mad. The calm and collected exterior that you were trying so hard to maintain was a stark contrast to the panic racing through your mind. You didn't know where you were, you didn't know where your boys were, and you didn't know if anyone else did.

If you didn't find out soon, you were going to tear yourself apart—and the desolate room wasn't doing much to distract you. It was obvious this place wasn't new; it was clean, but there had been other people held captive before you, if the vague scuff marks against the wall were anything to go by. They traced the room, a hiking path for your eyes that led you to the door.

It creaked open.

You knew the woman, but the man who followed was a stranger. However, because the former was the same lady who had taken Google and delivered him back to you, you guessed that he worked for Microsoft.

Which was just fantastic.

"Good afternoon," the woman said with the perfected air of a corporate lackey. Your frown deepened when your full government name was rattled off in the same way, but it didn't seem to affect either of them as they slipped into the chairs on the other side of the table.

"My name is Eliza Tucker," she said. Then, gesturing to the man, "This is Vincent Coleman."

"You can just call me Vince."

You stared down at his offered hand. A nicer person would have shaken it just to spare him the awkwardness.

The five seconds of silence was indeed very awkward before he got the hint and withdrew it, coughing.

Tucker continued on, "We are here to discuss your contract pertaining to the androids that you were commissioned to build and code."

"I know what I'm here for," you said; you didn't need her to reiterate what you had been hired to do, even if they were only covering their bases legally.

"Good," she said, "we can get right to it."

From a briefcase, she pulled a file and began flipping through the sheets of paper. There weren't many, and from your position, you could make out your headshot, personal details, and a big stamp spelling out 'CONTACT'. You wouldn't have put it past them for the rest of the information to be private, but you weren't a criminal. The most they could use against you was the thing they had you in for, unless they thought a couple of year-old speeding fines could be used against you in court.

You wanted this over with quickly, and you didn't care what they were going to pull, so you crossed your arms and stated, "I can't give them over to you."

Tucker met your glare with a blank look. "What do you mean, you can't? The contract stipulates that—"

"Yeah, I know what it says, but I can't do it. Morally, ethically, whatever. You can't take them and shove them in a warehouse until you're ready to show them off."

"You didn't seem to have any qualms about it last time."

You distinctly remembered being on the edge of punching her when you had first met, and the same impulse was stirring in your stomach the longer you had to look at her.

"Hey, hey, we're here to negotiate," the guy cut in. Your attention dragged itself over to Vincent, who wore an unconvincingly calm smile. "Not to get into unnecessary arguments, right?"

For his efforts, he received a frown from the woman beside him, but she settled back into her seat regardless. It struck you in that moment how familiar these two were—not in the literal sense, this was your first time meeting the man from Microsoft, but you recognized how they acted. The two were at complete odds with one another, but there they were, working together.

A wave of fear struck you right in the chest.

"Where are they?" you asked.

Vincent offered you another smile, shakier this time. "We were hoping you could tell us that."

You were between two minds. On one hand, the companies that were after your boys didn't know where they were. On the other hand, neither did you. Although they were sure to be safe if they had made it back home, you couldn't be certain nobody else had found them. All it left you with was an ugly mesh of guilt and hope.

A disbelieving noise from Tucker drew you back to her. "Their own robots and they don't know where they are," she spat.

"I don't have a tracker on them. The only thing stopping them from going wherever they want is the risk of running into your staff."

"They're not people, they don't want anything."

"Oh, I'm sorry," you said, "I didn't know you'd been living with them for the last year."

"The robots—"

"Google and Bing aren't—"

"You named them?"

"Would both of you shut up!?" Tucker yelled after Vincent's interruption. "You've had more than enough time to work out the issues with Alphabet's android—more than you should have, in fact—so we're here to collect on what was ordered."

You shifted to look at Vincent. He shrugged.

"You don't have long left on Microsoft's contract, either."

As if you needed the reminder.

"I'm just making sure we don't get into the same situation. Withholding products doesn't look great on your track record."

Subconsciously, you carded a hand through your hair. Consciously, you tried not to flip the table and make a break for it. The door was probably locked, anyway.

"Look, things have changed. Google and Bing—" You bared your teeth at Tucker when she went to interject, "—have both developed a consciousness that can't be sold off at auction. They have personalities and preferences, and they have different ways of seeing things, and they have humanity.

"Bing's so curious about how the world works, you should see the life in his eyes when he makes people smile—and Google's a stubborn bastard, but it's because he has a sense of right and wrong stronger than anyone I've ever met. You can't- you can't just brush that aside for your glorified laundry machine!"

Shallow panting underlined the silence after your monologue. Perhaps it was dumb to show your hand like that, but you had to get it through their thick skulls what they were actually doing. A corporate drone was one thing, a willfully ignorant jackass was another.

Gradually, Vincent's eyes widened at the same rate as Tucker's narrowed. They were both realizing different things, and you wondered which way they were leaning.

The more cynical of the two spoke up first, growling out, "What is wrong with you?"

Vincent snapped to look at her. "What?"

"They fell in love with their robots."

"Androids," you corrected automatically.

She ignored you, instead turning to her partner to repeat, "They fell in love with their robots."

When he didn't react, Tucker slapped him on the arm and picked up your file, a silent indication that you were done here. Or, rather, they were; the door slammed closed behind the two, but you still had to sit in this empty room with a thousand thoughts running through your mind. Chief was the question of whether that went well or not.

While much of the fence was free of guards, this was the only section that didn't have any security cams either. Google and Bing stood in the blind-spot of two cameras that rotated just barely short of their spot. It was imperative that they weren't caught too early, especially when they were working on minimal information about the actual building.

The taxi ride over was rough. It wasn't uncomfortable or awkward only because neither of the androids could muster such awareness; their thoughts were focused around a plan to find you and get you away from wherever the retrieval staff had taken you to. Google had figured they were heading for the closest corporation. In this case, it was Alphabet Incorporated, the headquarters standing tall and proud in front of them.

He was silent as he tried to figure out the logistics of climbing a twenty-foot stretch of wire without consequences. The hardest part was going to be getting down, but they didn't have much of a choice beyond finding another route in, and the time was ticking down, and they still had to get inside and find out where you were and then get you out, and…

Bing was twisting off the tip of his finger beside him.

"Self-mutilation will not intimidate the fence," Google said.

"I know that."

He wasn't sure he did until a brilliant blue glowed from the joint. Upon coming close to the fence, the wire peeled away as if it were nothing more than old flower petals. An arch was painted, big enough for both of them to fit through, and it popped out onto the grass once Bing reached the floor again.

Why you installed a blowtorch into a domestic android was a question for later.

"What?" Bing chuckled. "You never snuck onto a basketball court before?"

"No."

"Square."

With that, Bing slipped through the gate, Google on his heels.

The docking area provided the simplest access to the building. A hoard of trucks parked outside made for great cover as the two darted out of sight from security. People were patrolling, cameras were searching, but nothing caught them. Instead, the next obstacle to overcome was a locked door, no doubt alarmed but with a sensor attached to the wall next to it.

Before Bing could consider opening his wiring even more, Google pressed a hand against the screen. A shimmering light illuminated his digits, proceeded by two, quick buzzes and the door sliding open.

"Showoff."

Google walked ahead, but Bing still saw the satisfaction in his posture.

Now was time for the hard part. Alphabet, the company that owned Google, was staffed by too many people to avoid being seeing altogether. They wasn't anything they could do about their recognizable faces or the logos on their clothing, but they made it possible to sneak by if they kept their heads down.

And if Bing stopped nervously rambling.

"If they're trynna get something out of 'em, they won't be front 'n center, so it's somewhere alone. Out of the way, prob'ly behind a ton of locked doors. We can steal a keycard or do your hacker-hand thing or do both so we're able to get outta two places—"

Google could do something about that one, though; he grabbed Bing by the shirt, wrenched him back and said, "Be quiet, you are going to attract attention with your nonsensical, unhelpful, pathetic muttering."

He could see the gears turning in Bing's eyes, some stupid retort that wasted more time, but he didn't get to say anything.

Two scientists rounded the corner, and all four immediately tensed. Three curses and one censoring beep kicked off the fight.

The staff surged forward first, each digging in their pockets—it wouldn't be a dangerous weapon, but the uncertainty put Google on guard as he scanned the area. Bing kicked a rolling table from the side of the hallway into their path before yanking a sign off the wall to use as a shield. He dove at them, prepared to knock their hands into the open, but he came up short.

First law: they couldn't harm humans.

Bing brought the sign up to block one of the scientists' punches.

Second law: they had to listen to their orders.

Grunts and huffs and yelps—but no words.

Third law: they could protect themselves as long as they didn't hurt anyone.

The other made a jab at Google's stomach when he stepped into the fray. Undeterred, he grabbed their fist and wrapped it around their back, planning to push them into a wall and restrain them. Whatever was in their pocket wouldn't matter if they couldn't reach it in time.

However, they did reach it.

And they jammed the taser into his side.

75,000 volts of electricity rocketed through Google's body, leaving fried circuitry and components in their wake. Scorched earth. Smoke flooded from the gaps in metal plating and floated to the ceiling. The crash to the ground created an explosion of noise that drew all attention in a fifty-mile radius.

His name came out as a hushed gasp from Bing, but he covered his mouth immediately. Both scientists converged on the downed titan, which gave him the perfect opportunity to escape unnoticed.

However, he only took it when Google shot him a familiar glare, and he could have sworn he heard the words in his head—what was he doing, just standing there, if he wanted to be useful, if he wanted to help you, he needed to be free—that pushed him to turn and run.

When Google was tossed through the door, your first thought was barely a thought at all; it was more a rush of relief that flushed out fear from your system. However, when your second thought rolled around, that fear was back in full-force.

"Google!" you yelled as he curled in on himself, then dropped to his knees, then sprawled out on the floor like a broken toy.

Something like a cough wracked his body when he landed, but his entire body twitched in place violently. He was spasming so quickly that you barely saw him move between the jolts. You didn't know what this was, but you knew it was bad, and he wasn't getting up.

You rushed to kneel next to him and propped him up against the wall.

"Google, can you hear me?" You pushed his head up, desperately searching for the swirling of his eyes, but there was nothing. "H-hey, come on, we're not doing this again. You went long enough without speaking, you can't- don't- don't go quiet on me."

You couldn't do anything for him here. The room was empty. You were utterly useless in front of Google's body. Shell. Husk. Corpse.

At another jolt, you tore yourself away and jumped to the door.

"Hey, is anyone there?!"

Whoever had shoved him in with you couldn't have gone far.

"Hello?!"

Someone would have been walking through the hallway, a staff member or a janitor or one of the secret-service idiots.

One glance at Google told you that you didn't have the time to wait around and hope someone saw you.

"Just hold on tight, I'll…" you trailed off, focusing on your brewing plan.

You tried the handle just once, but before you had even processed that it was locked, you were grabbing the closest metal chair and swinging it down on the door. It broke open and you shot out under flashing warning lights. You dove into a couple of rooms in a frenzy, ducked in and out until you found some sort of lab, and then snatched the first toolbox you found. With your free hand, you stole a box of random parts. Things clattered around inside, but you didn't have time to check what it contained. No, you needed to get back to Google.

Dropping the box by his too-lax arm, you positioned yourself in front of his chest. An interrogation room wasn't the best environment for surgery like this, but you didn't have the privilege of your lab, nor the time to get there. He twitched once, twice, three times violently, but he calmed down long enough for you to peel away the breastplate panel.

Smoke plumed like a festival fire.

What you saw when you waved it away was a lot of fried wiring and flickering lights. Most everything had short-circuited, which meant a lot of replacements were due. Worst first, though, so you focused all your attention on not getting shocked as you pulled out busted wires.

Energy moved, your mouth was free to start its absent muttering.

"Wh-when you can speak again," you said with a melted wire in hand, "you have to, y'know, actually speak. We're not going back to how it used to be, okay?"

You fumbled a comparator but managed to keep it from clattering to the ground.

"You can be as opinionated as you want to be, you can complain about my schedule and my Roomba and humans, I don't care, just…"

Don't stay silent.

The next ten minutes were spent with your hands digging through Google's guts. Your nerves had steadied out halfway through, but you were nowhere near done yet. Many of the original parts were tossed in a pile of waste, and the scrap that you had found in the other room was sub-par at best. Of what you had taken out, only 70% could be fixed with what you had at your disposal.

You were reattaching a plate when a voice spoke from the doorway.

"Hey, did you break- where did you get that?"

Vincent had found you, apparently, right where he had left you. Really, he was the better of the two, but you didn't have the focus to spare on explaining yourself properly.

"A room," you muttered.

"You can't just steal—"

You whipped around to face him, furious and holding a red-hot soldering iron. "Do you really want to argue right now!?" you yelled. "I'm trying to save someone's life, and you want me to stop because I didn't ask for permission!? Either you stop bothering me or you come and help!"

You went back to your work without waiting for a response. The lack of one told you that he chose the first option, which was just as well. He would have been more of a distraction than a help.

"I don't know how you do it, Google," you mumbled under the noise of flying sparks. "Even when you're angry, you don't fly off the handle. Not that I've seen you that angry anyway."

The more you replaced, the less Google glitched. They were still running through his system, but they were becoming rarer and softer. By the time that you held the last of the wires that needed replacing by a pair of tweezers, there was a five-minute interval between jolts. This one was incredibly shallow, but you figured that it was just the impact of all the replacements.

"Your hand is shaking."

You huffed at Google's comment. "Yeah, well, it's kind of a high-stakes situation."

One half of the wire was melted, but you still tilted it to the side to check if the current had gone all the way to the end—you paused, eyes drifting to Google's face.

You promptly collapsed against him, wrist caught in his hand to keep the wire steady.

"You can't do that ever again," you mumbled into the circuits.

"I did not choose to be electrocuted."

You didn't respond; for the moment, you were content to listen to the whirring fans spinning consistently in a cave of not-flashing lights. He was alive. He was alive. There were so many potential outcomes, each worse than the last, but he was alive.

Distantly, you processed the pressure of an arm wrapped around your shoulder, and you finally let out a breath.

Minutes passed in that position, but you knew you had to move. You still had more work to do, and your hand was starting to ache from holding up the tweezers.

You jostled yourself back to the present as you leaned out, saying, "Right, hold still for a little longer."

He did so until you were done, at which point he managed to sit up straighter. This was the first time you had seen him so hunched, and you were glad to get back to the norm.

Brushing off your knees, you stood and held out a hand to help him up, too.

"Was Bing with you?" you asked, tugging him to his feet.

"We were separated when staff accosted us and—"

Another glitch wracked Google's body. You immediately jumped to support him as he doubled over.

"I-I thought I fixed- fuck, I'm so sorry."

One second passed, then another, and then he forced out a blunt, "It… does not hurt."

You didn't believe him. You had seen his smoking insides, of course you didn't believe him, and you showed it on your face as clear as day.

"I can bear it," he said, like that was any better. The first words of his next sentence were swallowed by another jolt of his system—the only things to get passed it were, "Unimportant now."

You didn't want to argue with him. Whether he was going to admit that he was hurting or not, it didn't change the fact of the matter.

"When we're back to the lab, I'll get you fixed up, alright?"

You had actual equipment there, tools designed with them in mind. First, though, you needed to get out of the building, so you took a step forward and felt the strain of shouldering a metal box. Stubbornly, you ignored it and pushed through the pain right until you got to the door.

You would have hoisted Google into the hallway had he not pulled himself away from you. He positioned himself to subtly lean against the door frame.

"Leave me here," he demanded. Or, rather, he said it, like it were an idea so casual that you had no reason to disagree with it.

You huffed. "I'm not abandoning you."

"It is in your best interest. You will get out quicker. You can come back."

All three reasons made sense, but you knew what he was doing, and two could play at that game.

"No. No, I'm not going without you."

"I am damaged," Google said slowly. "I can't function correctly, and they don't want me like this. You said so yourself—they want us to be perfect. If you take me with you, I will slow you down."

For a moment, you assumed that he was mad at you. It wouldn't be the first time that Google had used your words against you, and this could have been no different. A little jab because he was in pain suited him fine—but he wasn't being spiteful. He wasn't being petty. He genuinely believed the words that he repeated again.

"I am damaged."

What could you say? None of your objections had been taken on board so far, and you were running out of time. Flashing lights and wailing alarms were a dreadful soundtrack and a dismal reminder of the situation. Getting out of this room was the first obstacle of many.

You cast one look at Google and left.

He watched you run, ducking into other labs. There was little chance Bing would be in any of the nearby rooms, and each failed search took you further and further from him.

It was cruel to hold it against you. Google had told you to leave twice. There was no reason for you to stay behind when even he was telling you to go. It was for the best, he knew that, and between Bing and himself, he knew he could withstand the warehouse better.

Still, the electrocution seemed a kindness in comparison to the ache in his chest.

His steps toward a chair were intersected by another rapid pair in the hallway. They were getting closer, but he wouldn't dare hope it was you. You were a lot of things, but you weren't an idiot.

Pushing an industrial hand cart, you smashed into the doorway and sent a chunk of plaster skidding across the floor.

"You're right," you panted, and you brought the frame to his feet. "You're not perfect, Google. Glitching like that doesn't help you clean dishes or mop floors or whatever other chores you were originally designed for. Technically, you are damaged."

He could still feel the sharp spikes of rabid electricity in his hand. At best, he was damaged. At worst, he was dangerous. And yet you held out your own fingers close to his, and he took your hand as if nothing were wrong.

You squeezed tighter as you continued, "But things change. You're a person, whether you like it or not. Back when I showed you those movies, when you learned to speak, when you started deafening yourself so you wouldn't have to listen to me. That's human, baby!"

Laughter danced with the warning sirens.

"Lucky for you, humans don't have to be perfect. You can be damaged all you want. I'll try to help you feel better, but you're not worth any less either way."

"My material value is greatly diminished by my damage."

"That's not what I'm talking about."

With your free hand, you slapped the metal dolly and winced because you slapped a metal dolly.

Despite your wince, you grinned. "Now, hop up. We've got places to be."

Now, Google maintained that you weren't an idiot. You were reckless and bull-headed and impulsive and all manner of idiotic things, but, unfortunately for him, he loved you. Right now, getting strapped to a dolly was the price he had to pay to love you.

Bing's sneakers pounded over linoleum. He raced through one hallway, took the first left turn, and then threw himself down the next. He had been lost for the last thirty minutes as he tried to figure out both where he was going and where he should have been going. Both questions were clouded by his panic over losing you and Google. The only thing his mind could still process was running, and so he did.

Right into a familiar face.

But it was neither of the ones he wanted to see.

He assumed this was Eliza Tucker, the Alphabet employee everyone was calling out for when they spotted him. There was supposed to be someone else from Microsoft with her, but he had apparently gone MIA, leaving only her and whoever she was trying to call on her phone.

Bing slapped it out of her hand before she could open her mouth. An apology slipped beneath his tongue, but he didn't have the time for manners.

And, frankly, she deserved it.

"Look, I don't want any trouble," he said in as calm a voice as he could muster.

She glared back but didn't move for the discarded device. Instead, she spat, "You've already caused enough."

"Yeah, yeah, I know we have. So why not just let us go?"

"Too much effort and money has been sunk into this project for us to just let you go. Do you have an idea what this will do to the industry? Things like androids could revolutionize everything, and you want to throw it away, for what?"

He didn't give a damn about 'the industry'. Intangible stuff like that simply wasn't on his radar, and the corporations could collapse spectacularly for all he cared.

Tucker seemed to realize that she wasn't getting through to him, saying, "You're just a robot, I don't need to argue with you."

"You don't," he acknowledged. His processors were working overtime to give him a way out of this. Humans were his specialty, but he needed something different for this. The formality from Google that he had seen but never used.

He tried to keep his accent from slipping into the explanation. "I know what I think, and you know what you think. I'm not gon- going to change your mind 'cause it doesn't matter—but- but you saw what happened with Google. If we can't feel anything because we're just robots, imagine what kind'a damage we could do if we actually wanted to."

Guilt over trying to scare her was matched by relief that she was actually listening. A flicker appeared in her eye, wariness or doubt or something beneficial that made him take the risk of crouching down for her phone.

"You get a net zero or a net negative outta this." He stretched again to his full height. "But it's your choice."

With that, he held out the device. Other choices, different ways to do this, flashed through his mind. He could have snapped it in two, he could have held it hostage, he could have broken into it, called her boss, and used a voice modulator to call of the staff completely.

He did none of those things because, if there were one thing he had learned from being with you, it was the importance of choice.

Tucker dialed a number and held the phone to her ear. She maintained eye contact with him all the while, daring him to move, but he stayed still and waited.

"Ma'am? Yeah, it's me. We've had issues with the android project."

Had Bing needed to breath, he would have passed out by now. His fans were going haywire and his instincts were begging him to run, but no. No, he had to stay so that he could go back to you and Google with good news.

"We have to terminate the contract. I-I know, I know, but- look, it's gonna be more expensive to keep going."

And there it was! The stakes falling, Bing pumped a fist into the air and pushed the phone call to the back of his mind. He had done it! He had negotiated with a human and come out with exactly what he wanted! He was going to make out with you so hard that he'd fry a circuit!

As if the universe was rewarding him for such a good deed, two figures raced past the hallway—neither you nor Google noticed him, one too distracted by steering and the other by retaining his dignity, so Bing was forced to sprint after you. Electricity thrumming in his body made it an easy objective.

He skidded around the corner, painting a curve on the floor and causing a high-pitched squeal that made you look over your shoulder. What sliver of fear your face held melted instantly.

"Babe!"

"Bing?!"

You almost crashed to the ground from the force of his tackle, but his arms wrapped around your midsection to keep you upright. He was running hot from wherever he had been before, and you couldn't help leaning into it.

When Google attempted to shift the dolly away, Bing clotheslined him by the neck and locked him in place within the hug. One of your arms snaked around each of them—you were glad for the support that stopped you from collapsing in relief.

"Are you alright?" you asked, slightly muffled by the fabric of Bing's tank.

"Yep. You?"

"Perfect."

Both of your boys were here. You weren't alone, you weren't at home, you weren't even entirely safe, but you were together. It had been less than a day spent apart, but you didn't want to spend another hour like it. The moment of reprieve that this hug offered was a paradise.

Google reached his limit after ten seconds, saying blankly, "Let go of me."

Bing unhooked his arm but the grin stretched across his mouth let you know he wasn't getting off that easily.

Exhausted, you stretched out your arms and asked, "Ready to leave?"

"Yes," was Google's immediate answer, and you didn't blame him.

Surprisingly, however, it wasn't unanimous; Bing called out a quick, "Not yet!" and held out his hands pleadingly. "I had a little chat with one of those secret service dudes, and I don't wanna brag or anything, but I think I solved our problem."

"Really? Just like that?"

"Yep."

"And no threats this time?"

His smile seemed to grow wider but no more genuine.

"Don't worry 'bout it."

A concerned frown pulled at your lips, but any questions were cut off by Tucker rounding the corner with Vince in tow. The former approached with a look of pure disdain—which could have only meant good things for everyone else—but the man from Microsoft seemed more pensive.

They stopped in front of your trio with a sigh and your full name once again. You really wished she'd stop lording that over you.

"I have just spoken to the higher-ups," she said through ground teeth, "and it has been agreed that the risks of continuing this project outweigh the benefits. As a result, pending legal confirmation, you are released from your contract with Alphabet Incorporated."

Your heart jumped to celebrate, but your mind took the reigns for a second to say, "What about Google?"

"We cannot store the android. It's too risky. It's up to you what you do with it."

"And Bing?"

At this, Vince stepped up.

"Nothing's set in stone yet, but I don't think Microsoft will be coming after you either. If the first company to commission an android pulls out after getting it, they'll probably try to shut it down before anything goes wrong for them."

He shrugged and slipped his hands into pockets.

"Plus, you know, after what happened today…"

You weren't certain what part he was referring to specifically, but you weren't about to look a gift horse in the mouth. If it convinced him not to continue the contract, you were happy. Bing wrapping his fingers around yours like someone told they were having a child hinted that he was the same, and the light buffering in Google's eyes meant he was filing the information away somewhere important.

Tucker tapped through her phone before holding it out to you. The screen showed a contract, layers upon layers of legal jargon piling up to create a Frankenstein's monster. She scrolled to the bottom, where a dotted line demanded your name, and let you take the phone.

The second that it was out of her hands, Google plucked it from yours and started the arduous task all humans hated that was reading the terms and conditions. He jerked and jolted a few times as he parsed through the information, but it was done quicker and more eagerly than you could ever hope to yourself.

He gave you a shallow nod as he handed the phone back, and you didn't hesitate to scribble your signature across the designated section. You deflated instantaneously, an untied balloon or a brick pulled from a dam. Your legs felt like jelly and your pulse was only now catching up to the resolution. Such a combination made you light-headed, but you were conscious enough to tug your boys back in for a hug.

After spending so long on giant projects, it was nice to work on something small—and you meant that literally. The smart-pet was nowhere near the size of an android, but it still housed a lot of the same components. The recognition software, processing units, and sound-bites were the same. The dog couldn't talk, of course, but you mixed in the same noises to replicate the barks of a little pup.

Bing had resisted for all of ten minutes before he was loading up his own barks. He'd used them religiously for the first two days after you entered that phase of production, but a comment from Google that he was 'all bark and no bite' made the noises less common. You were proud of him for working on idioms, but less proud of yourself for letting the barks' meanings take up space in your brain.

You shook your head roughly. Mozilla had been hounding you for a prototype pet, and you were on the brink of calling it finished. Just a little more and it would be done. Yes, it was due in an hour, but you had never been good at deadlines.

"You should make it spin before it lays down," Bing offered. He was leaning on your chair, tipping it back in his attempt to watch over your shoulder. "And give it a collar and a little patch around its eye!"

"Am I the one making robots or are you?"

"Ya didn't give me the parts to do it alone."

Google had taken three steps into the lab before saying, "Don't be cra-crass."

He made his way to your desk with a mug in hand, which he placed a generous distance from the blueprints and metal filings scattered around the surface. You offered him a smile that was returned by a small nod.

Two months had passed since the contracts were trashed—two months of stress-free time with your boys. It wasn't a major departure from your normal life, but clearing the looming threat of being separated left you on cloud nine. Everything was easier, lighter, more enjoyable.

Nobody had escaped completely free of consequences, though. On your part, you put a hard boundary between you and any robotics that neared a hint of sentience. No more androids for you, which curtailed your reputation in the industry by a wide margin. However, you were content to work on projects that didn't risk gaining sentience, although they were of less importance.

Bing was subtle. Despite being so sensitive to people's emotions, he had a hard time expressing his own, especially when they were negative. He'd offer to accompany you on grocery runs so that he could 'flex his muscles to an adoring crowd', and jokes about the coffee machine being a bad companion were thrown over a desperate fear of being alone.

So, when the local kids complained about their school not taking skateboarding seriously, you jumped at the opportunity. A few emails with the PTA later, Bing was the proud coach of a middle-school skateboarding team. He taught them tips and tricks and terrifying moves that scared you and every parent who watched from the sidelines, but heart-palpitations were worth it to see the 4'2" line of high-fives when the clock struck seven.

Google's hold-over was a lot more obvious. No matter how hard you tried, the glitches were here to stay. He continuously reminded you that they didn't hurt and were more of an annoyance on his part, like a pop-up he had to keep closing, but there were some days when the guilt got the best of you. The very instance regret passed over your face, he was grabbing you and setting traps for you to fall into.

"Do you think I am damaged?" he would ask.

"No!" you would say.

"Do you think it was a poor price to pay for freedom?"

"No."

"Do you think I am worth anything less than before?"

"No…"

And then he would look at you, and you would look at him, and he would smile smugly, and you would groan, and neither of you believed anything he said but he made sure you didn't think badly about yourself for it.

On every other day, it was just something he had to live with. It warranted a few more check-ups and repeated sentences, but he was right when he said it was a good exchange for getting them back safe and sound.

Hands digging beneath your arms brought you out of your memories. Bing hoisted you to your feet while Google packed the smart-pet into a cushioned case. The container snapped shut after he added the instructions, and he carried it behind Bing, who was, in turn, carrying you like a cat.

You huffed. You should have made them weaker.

When the lab door was shut behind you, Google placed the package by the front door carefully. He was always so mindful of your work despite his cold exterior, or maybe he just wanted the cutesy thing out of the house.

Meanwhile, you were thrown unceremoniously onto the couch. Any thoughts towards complaining were redirected when Bing crashed down beside you, took your face in his hands, and pulled your mouth to his. The kiss was short and sweet, almost something you would see from Buggs Bunny, but he only separated so quickly to stare at your surprised face. Sneak attacks like this were common, and you were half-sure he was so fond of them because he liked seeing you flustered.

You shifted to the center of the couch, giving Google space to sit down when he entered the living room. How the legs were supporting all three of you was beyond you, but you could address that when they actually broke. For now, you were happy to listen to the androids debate what movie to watch. In one corner was Die Hard—which would undoubtedly spur another argument as to whether it was a Christmas film or not—with Titanic in the other, because Google had developed an affinity for critiquing the weird social rules and acting.

You were secretly vying for a new hematophobic horror movie that had recently come out, but you could save that for later in the night. Bing's arm around your shoulders and Google's hand slipped in yours made you think that you had all the time in the world.

And, this time, you actually did.

[WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO! I SWEAR I AM DONE WITH THIS SERIES NOW, YOU HAVE TO BELIEVE ME, PLEASE! In all seriousness though, I am pretty sure that this wraps up what was originally just a two-parter. This fic is also somewhat of a response to the request for a Google hurt/comfort thing, so I hope this satisfies you, dear anon! This also goes out to the person who commented on the last chapter asking for more, as well as everyone who has ever read or liked or reblogged this series. Thank you all so much, and I hope you've enjoyed!

YANCY

He…doesn’t understand

When he saw it he stared at it for a good several minutes

When you came home, you were surprised when he wasn’t waiting at the door

Like a lost puppy…as he usually does

You called out for him, but didn’t get an answer

When you walked into your computer room, you saw him holding your boob mouse pad of him

“Hun…what is this?” 

“The best purchase I’ve ever made.” 

He just…doesn’t get it

He’ll even try to hide it from you, but never actually throw it away

After a while, he starts to think it’s funny

But initially? Horrifying

BING

Literally. The best thing. EVER

He’s flattered you’d get something of him, but after all…he was the best there was

He’d even ask you where you bought it so he could buy one for himself

He more often than not stole it for his own computer until the one he bought came

“Bro. This is so cool, I’ve seen them on tik tok…but this is just too good.” 

You then had matching mousepads

Was it weird he wanted one of himself?

Yes. 

But also…hilarious

JJ

He…is so…distressed

How could you have something so unflattering of him?

He is over the top embarrassed

He would never throw something you bought away…but this was pushing it

He’s more upset that someone thought to make one of him in the first place

He will sign to you, “Please get rid of it immediately.”

“But I like it, I wanted it!” You’d respond

He would huff, and pout but drop the subject

He definitely didn’t like you having it, but if you wanted it…you could keep it

For now

MARVIN

Literally doesn’t care at all

He’d see it when it arrived, and he’d do a quick “heh” but otherwise not mention it

Every once in a while, you’d catch him staring at it

He couldn’t help it, it was such a weird little thing

Once, you heard him mutter to himself, “They would be bigger than that…” 

You never dared to bring this up

But he would even joke about shapeshifting into a female so you’d both know how he’d look as a girl

Try him…just test him…he’d do it

MARE

The laughter that came from this man when he saw it…it almost sounded like it hurt

He picks it up and stares at it, laughing for several minutes

Turning to you, he’d get a dumb look on his face

“You know what this means, right y/n?” He asked

“What?”

“This means I can custom make one of you.” 

He was finding this all too funny

“Mare…no.”

“Mare YES!” 

And he would steal a picture from you to get one

Rather you had boobs or not, you did on his mousepad

PHANTOM

He would honestly just…sigh

“Darling…why did you get this?” 

His serious reaction only made you laugh more

“Heheh…it’s funny.” You would laugh

He would roll his eyes, but smile after a minute

If this was something that brought you happiness, he welcomed it

It was…weird to see himself like that

But he had to admit, it was a little funny

Darkiplier

He was in his study, just thinking, while you made dinner

He heard a tiny “ow” and didn’t think much of it

He then heard a louder “OW” and a string of “fuck”s and got worried

He entered the kitchen, to see you gripping your wrist and holding your finger under the water from the sink

He thinks you burned yourself

Then you pull your hand away and he sees blood and immediately makes his way over.

“What happened? Are you ok? How bad is it?”

You don’t answer as you are too busy hyperventilating because goddammit it HURTS

He tries to take your hand to look at it but you won’t let him

You look so hurt and vulnerable and he feels so bad

If you’d asked him to help cook, and he didn’t take it, he’d feel a thousand times worse

Eventually, he gets you to sit down and calms you, just a bit, and goes to get band aids

He comes back to you looking like you’re about to have a panic attack

He quickly stands you back up, and you put your finger back under the sink.

He gently washes it with soap and apologizes every time you make a noise

He gives you the bandage and lets you sit on the couch

You calm down and lean on his shoulder

He lets you sit there for a bit, rubbing your arm.

You eventually look up at him

“I think I may have overreacted.”

He’d laugh and kiss your head and goes to finish cooking dinner

Wilford

He wasn’t even home yet

You told him you were starting dinner and he left wherever he was immediately.

He was picking up wine from the store when you called him

“Wilford please get bandaids”

He was confused and a little worried, so he asked why

“Please just buy some and hurry home please” and you hung up

Now, Wilford is hardly a reasonable man as it is. so when he ran out of the store (without paying) and sped down the road in his car to get home before you, like, died or some shit, you shouldn’t have been surprised

He may or may not have run into a pedestrian or two on the way

He threw the door open when he got home, gun in hand

“WHAT HAPPENED WHAT’S THE DANGER”

You’re sitting on a chair in the kitchen breathing heavily, holding your finger

He can’t help but laugh because, christ, he thought it was something BAD

But, to you, it was bad. and he was laughing at you.

You tear up, just a bit. you’re feeling a lot of emotions right now.

He sees and gets worried again because is it worse than he thinks?? is there another injury??? are you traumatized what’s happening?

He tries to look at the cut but you turn away, looking very upset

He tries to convince you to let him see but you won’t budge

You’re whining a little (which I do because I can’t emote properly) which makes him upset

He drops to his knees and holds out his hands

“C’mon, baby! Let me see! Let me help!”

He’s being overdramatic and stupid and it makes you smile. So you do.

He gently kisses the spot, as to not hurt you, and puts a bandaid over it, kissing that too.

He orders take out and lets you lay on his lap while he pets your hair

Yancy

He was practicing some dance moves when he heard you in the kitchen

You were cursing and breathing heavily

Logically, he should know that perhaps you hurt yourself making dinner

However Yancy is a bit of a dumbass so he thinks someone broke in or something

He walks in with a knife, only for you to stand there with your finger under the sink.

He sees the blood, so concludes that you cut yourself. But you look really upset?

He’s mostly confused.

He’s been through worse, you’ve been through worse, he KNOWS you have

So why are you so upset?

“Why are you so upset?” “I don’t know!” “It’s not that bad” “I know...” “What’s the problem?” “I don’t KNOW!”

You start to cry, just a bit, and Yancy panics

He doesn’t know what to do. He’s not used to this!

He wants to tell you to get over it, but also he doesn’t?

Like, he knows it’s the easiest thing to say, but also not the BEST thing to say

So he says nothing. He gets a band aid, puts it on your finger, and hugs you.

He holds you for a minutes until your breathing is normal

If you tell him you don’t wanna cook today, he orders pizza

If you tell him you can, he’ll try to help

You have to kick him out because the man doesn’t know what the fuck he’s doing

Illinois

He’s watching you cook and sees it happen before it does

Your finger isn’t in the right place, he saw you adjust

He tries to warn you but doesn’t do it in time

He winces because ouch

He processes what happened before you do, so he already has the band aids.

He turns the sink on, moves your finger underneath, and cleans it with soap

He puts the band aid on you and kisses your hand

He asks if you want to keep cooking or if you want him to cook

If you want to, he’ll help you with whatever you were doing first that made you cut yourself

If you don’t want to, he’ll finish what you were doing on his own.

He makes sure you’ve calmed down and holds your hand, rubbing his thumb over your knuckles

“Im being overdramatic...”

“No, you’re not. It hurt. You bled. You got upset. You’re ok now.”

He’s a very understanding and responsible man ^///^

Magnum

None of that goddamn crew can cook for shit, so you always have to

Mostly fish and vegetables you buy at different ports

Magnum and the others are just drinking and laughing when they hear you yell and curse from the kitchen

Magnum goes over to see what’s happening

He sees you holding your finger and goes to hold you

He’s very. protective, I’m gonna say.

“Oh, poor darlin’... are ye alright? Are ye ok? Awh, sweetheart...”

He doesn’t have bandaids, so he cleans a cloth and covers your finger

He makes you rest in your room (even though it wasn’t particularly that bad)

The other crewmates check in periodically to see if you’re ok

Magnum decides he’s going to cook

Yes, the ship catches on fire. No, he will not say how he did it

You have to finish dinner, otherwise the others are gonna kill themselves trying

Google

He’s recharging on the couch while you cook

He hears you curse from the kitchen and concludes you’ve hurt yourself

He doesn’t really see one injury as too much worse than another. they’re all bad

He knows what happens if even the smallest wound gets infected

He wants it dealt with quickly and efficiently

He walks up to you and grabs your hand, pulling it under the sink

He cleans it with soap, puts a band aid on it, and leaves

Dr. Iplier who, bitch?

He likes to sit when you while you eat, just so he can talk to you

You, however, don’t talk to him at all and he’s a little upset

He figures he was a bit too rough with you at first when he reaches for you after you stand up and you pull away

“I apologize for my methods, I wanted to make sure the wound was dealt with posthaste.”

“Well... I guess that’s a good enough excuse.”

You hug him, and he (hesitantly) hugs back

Bing

Probably the reason you cut yourself lmao

He enjoys bothering you when you’re busy

He hasn’t recieved his Designated Bing Attention Hours today and therefore you have to deal with a very clingy and annoying Bing

He’d be less annoying if he’d stop fucking TOUCHING THINGS but w/e

He bumps into you and you yell

He doesn’t realize that you cut yourself until you start cursing

He turns around to see you frantically turning the water on and gets very nervous

Shit, that was his fault? He did that? Fuck, you’re angry, aren’t you. FUCK

He leaves, immediately, and you have to deal with it yourself. 

He paces in your room for a bit, debating what to do

“Ok. Alright. What do people like. Phones? I could buy a phone. I could STEAL a phone. I could steal anything they want! Do people need graphics cards?”

He settles for walking back into the kitchen, apologizing, and walking back out

“nailed it”