WHO volunteers to help mr hal strider test out the sensitivity of his new body
It starts when their hands brush and Hal shivers. While the other Strider makes a fucking game out of feigning ignorance, he picked up on the reaction immediately. Now, the android is cornered despite having at least five inches of height on his aggressor and forced to cough up the truth.
"Dirk and Roxy are still tinkering with the sensitivity of my pressure awareness."
"It's called touch, dude. So, what, you're a walking minefield for sensory overload?"
Fuck. Dave's smart. He forgets that at times. Hal awkwardly presses himself back into the corner he's been trapped in and shrugs. "Not necessarily. The reaction is mostly triggered by interpersonal contact. Humans emit a low level electrical current through their skin that fucks with my pressure— sense of touch."
He sees those thin fingers lift, pulling from a worn pants pocket to hover mere inches from Hal's bare waist. If he had body hair, it would be standing on end with anticipation.
"Fucks with?"
"Arouses. A lot." He blurts it out, prays that Dave understands Hal isn't trying to hypersexualize their hangouts. (Much as he's entertained fantasies of it now that he can physically do something.)
Everything stops when Dave replies with: "Ah, cool. So it's a non-issue."
A bare palm presses to the android's throat, fingers curling into place against the faux-tendons. Hal's eyes roll back. His audio systems spike with a throaty groan, knees weakening.
"Oh, fuck."
