Across the purple enamel, little smudges emerge in the wake of your exploration. Perfect whirls of your fingerprints left in oil, evidence of your touch. So rarely does he leave his own oils on you- usually only after a maintenance, after inspecting a joint that’s been flagged by his system.

You have never seemed to mind; he cannot hold your prints against you, either.

You turn his hand over- and he could resist. In the rote data of his servos he can see how much force you’re exerting to make his arm turn. A tiny green sliver of total force the actuator can output at any given moment. Your fingers slide down his forearms, onto the broad plate of his palms and over the textured rubber inlays. Your nails trace the outlines of each and Ramattra suppresses a shiver.

Extra grip. Rubber holds the stock of a rifle easier, less likely to damage components if there’s a bit of give. Easier to grapple with; humans can be elusive, could wriggle their ways out of grasps that weren’t yet tight enough, especially when slick with sweat or blood and-

You’re squeezing his hand. His optics refocus, dispel the memory file that has opened over top his display. Your thumbs dig into the circular rubber pad of his palm, pressing little circles into the sensors there.

You’re looking up at him, a peculiar expression on your face. His HUD flashes, concern.

Even if he has never sought their company before you, Ramattra has spent the majority of his life not killing humans, even more of his sentient life.

His HUD doesn’t know this, of course; his combat sensors are too deeply rooted in his systems to be plucked out entirely, to be toggled on and off. Ramattra dismisses the box that reminds him distracted targets are easier to kill.

“Where did you go?” You ask. You know, he thinks. You’ve spoken enough about what he’s done, what he’s seen. It’s not a bleak curiosity, it’s an invitation.

“Far away.” Is his answer. The geotag on the memory says 2,366.2 kilometers, east by south-east.

You hum and accept his avoidance. “Should I stop?”

“No.” Almost verging on distress, he responds much too quickly. He had not meant to disturb you with his thoughts and offers both hands in apology. “Please, continue.”

“I’m not keeping you from anything, am I?” You ask carefully, resuming your soothing trace over his knuckles.

He should be examining reports coming in from the bots in Paris. Right now, he can't bring himself to even run a cursory glance in his background processes. “I can rest for a while longer.”