#cronch

Your hand stilled, another Sugar Bomb halfway into your mouth, because of course. Eyes turning to the side, you let one eyebrow raise marginally upward. And there, right beside you on a military-grade (seriously, you had this thing upgraded after… certain activities had caused a minor destruction one month ago) couch, sat—if Securitrons could sit, which they could apparently—your romantic interest.

As in your boyfriend.

Robot boyfriend, to be exact.

Your precious robot boyfriend who, at the very moment, was—

“…Are you seriously narrating me eating Sugar Bombs?”

“Oh, ABSOLUTELY!” He bounced closer—the couch springs LOUDLY protesting (please hold, please hold, please fucking hold)—his wheel sticking out past the couch edge at an angle that probably violated physics but worked anyway. “Human consumption rituals are fascinating, Six! The way you just—” He made a grabbing motion in the air. “—take something into your mouth and crunch it into smaller pieces with your biological grinding apparatus! Sometimes I wonder what it must be like to just experience that tactile feedback, you know? To just take something crunchy and—”

Crunch.

You bit into the cereal, maintaining eye contact with his screen.

“—Yes! Exactly like that!” His claw squeezed your bare shoulder, three metal fingers gentler than they had been twenty minutes ago as they pulled you closer against his side. “Did you know that the auditory feedback of crunchy foods actually increases enjoyment by up to 40%?”

“Not really.”

“Of course you didn’t!” An adorable chuckle escaped him, that unwavering smile growing just a touch. “It’s a sensory experience! Multi-faceted! You’re not just tasting, you’re hearing your food, and I think that’s just—” He paused, the white monitor momentarily turning greenish and showing that familiar ‘Connection lost. . .’ before rebooting. “—really beautiful, actually! In a biomechanical way!”

“Mm.” You swallowed, already grabbing another Sugar Bomb from the box balanced on your lap. “You’ve been reading those pre-war science journals again, babe?”

“The ones about neuroscience and sensory processing? MAAAYBE!” His eyes turned to the ceiling, then back down to you in a manner than managed to convey both sheepishness and pride—a gesture that wouldn’t have been possible prior to his assertiveness upgrade, which you were really thankful for. “But can you blame me? I want to understand ALL the things that make you happy, Six! Even if it’s just—” Another demonstrative motion. “—cronch.”

Your lips pressed into a thin line. “Did you just say ‘cronch?’”

“I’m experimenting with onomatopoeia!” He announced cheerfully. “How am I doing?”

. . .

You blinked up at him.

He blinked down at you (you could almost hear the cartoon plink-plinks).

Taking your time, you reached into the bag and pulled out another sweet treat. You watched his gaze follow your fingers, probably calculating the trajectory, velocity, and estimated crunch decibel output, because apparently watching you eat required tactical analysis. Yet no matter how ridiculous, you didn’t comment on it. You just lifted your hand and pressed it against his flickering screen with clear, deliciously malicious intent.

Right in the center, where his nose would be. Jackpot.

His expression froze, glitched, then returned with a raised eyebrow.

“Oh! Um…” His jolly tone wavered. “Six! I appreciate the gesture, but I can’t actually—”

You pressed harder. Cru—No, wait. Cronch.

The Sugar Bomb compressed against his display, cereal matter beginning to crack under the pressure, leaving a small trail of irradiated sugar crystals across his permanent grin. Although, the grin in question was visibly starting to crumble at the edges (at least a little, just a tiny digital shake), which meant it wasn’t as indefinite as you once had thought.

But hey, confusion did that to everyone, even robots it seemed.

“—eat food, as I’m sure you’re aware, Six, given that I’m A ROBOT, and digestion requires, you know… DIGESTION! And while I’m VERY touched by the thought, I also…” He trailed off, focusing on your completely neutral face. And upon accomplishing nothing—because there was never any soul in your gaze to begin with—he instead slowly looked to the side. “…uhhhhhhhh—”

Crooonch.

The dry, sugary snack was now actively disintegrating against his screen, and somewhere in the back of your mind, you registered that this was probably the dumbest thing you had done all week. Which was saying something, considering you had tried to arm-wrestle a super mutant on your last visit to Jacobstown with your coat actively on fire.

But you had started this, and The Courier didn’t quit mid-mission.

. . . Even if the mission was… well…

“—yeaaaah!” Your partner found his voice again and let out a nervous laugh. His claw flexed against your shoulder, digits tapping against your skin. “Six, honey, I’m starting to think that maybe you’re trying to make a point here, but I’m not entirely sure what that point IS—”

Croooooooonch.

The Sugar Bomb finally gave up, crumbling against his display in a cascade of pieces that tumbled down onto his chassis and onto the couch. For a minute or two or three (time was irrelevant in time of such importance) you kept your hand there, palm flat against the glass like you were offering him the platinum chip all over again. And as the silence stretched, his screen went bright enough to illuminate the entire penthouse, coating your features in light.

Was it disorientation? Distress? Delight?

None of it mattered.

Not when—

“Yes Man.” You stared deeply into his eyes. “…You just got cronched.”

Silence.

The wind blew, your hair following its path.

              (It actually didn’t because you were inside.)

“I—” Your lover started, then stopped and made a strangled laugh. “…I’m sorry?”

“Cronched,” you repeated, dead serious.

“That’s NOT—”

“Congratulations.” You brushed the crumbs off his screen with your index finger that trailed downward in a sensual motion. And through it all, the same flat look on your face never wavered, not even once. “You’ve experienced the tactile feedback.”

[SPEECH 100/0]

                [SUCCEEDED]

Yeah. You were a fucking catch.

However, as surprising as it may have seemed, another moment of solitude embraced you both after that tactical nuke of a flirt. Then again, your seduction skills always managed to silence the object of your desires. Still, it was broken only by the dramatic orchestral swell from the pre-war romance still playing on the large console screen in front of you—because yes, you were watching a movie this whole time. Though “watching” might have been a stretch, considering neither of you actually properly focused on the riveting plot.

So, you observed as Yes Man’s display went dark for exactly three seconds—processing, calculating, visibly trying to understand what the hell just happened (the answer being: romance, obviously)—before lighting back up with that same sunny smile.

But something in his vocal modular had changed because—

“Six.” His eyes became lidded, a small digital blush appearing. “I think I just fell in love with you all over again.”

—it was more… dreamy.

But you—Courier Six—without batting an eyelid at the emotional stakes, merely settled deeper into his side (cold metal or not, cuddles were for everyone and he deserved them too) and reached for another Sugar Bomb from the box.

The crumbs fell.

The universe realigned.