Synthmas - Just my Programming
David 8, Walter 1, and Kirsh x Reader drabbles a/n: I know not many countries celebrate it, but I wish you a happy St. Nicholas Day!
David
You and Elizabeth were human - you forgot things, or simply did not think about them until they were brought up again. David, on the other hand, stored every detail he deemed important.
And David deemed almost everything that included you as important.
During the year aboard the Juggernaut, he had listened - truly listened. He memorised your stories, the small memories you shared in passing, the cultural customs of your childhoods.
Every word filed away with meticulous care, not wanting to lose even the smallest detail that made you into who you were today, that meant something to you.
Now, here on Paradise, the three of you had begun exploring the rites and celebrations of its inhabitants.
But David remembered the things you had told Elizabeth and him about St Nicholas’ Day.
How your mother would go out into the garden to get her big dirty boots, and how the two of you cleaned them together before placing one of them outside your room - to ‘trick’ the holy man who came at night to fill them with gifts.
Her boots had always been much larger than your tiny ones; they could hold more treats, more treasure.
David had seen the glimmer in your eyes as you spoke of it, heard the soft, nostalgic melancholy colouring your voice.
He rarely wore shoes here on Paradise; he preferred the ground beneath his feet - so he returned to the abandoned Juggernaut and retrieved something he had not touched in a long time: the old boots that belonged to his pressure suit.
He had planned this carefully - over the past days he had acquired a secret stash of treats from the market: nuts, fruits, small baked goods purchased without your knowledge, tucked away in places you never checked. Carving combs from polished wood, whittling tiny brooches to hold your garments in place.
Little gifts, thoughtful and devoted, arranged so that the boot was filled to its very brim, every millimetre used.
And when the two moons shone bright on the firmament and the settlement fell silent, David moved quietly like fog on little cat feet. One boot was placed gently in front of Elizabeth’s door; the other - with just a hint more care - in front of yours.
David had never experienced most celebrations. No birthday, no Christmas meant for him, no Easter egg hunt. But he cared and would not allow you to miss anything - not when he had the power to bring even a fragment of comfort to you.
Taking care of the crew was part of his programming, after all – even if you meant far more to him, and none of this was written into any protocol he had ever been given.
Walter
Self-grown and freshly ground wheat; butter he had churned, washed, and formed himself.
Origae-6 was a generous planet - rich soil, fresh water in the form of rivers and lakes that are perfect for building cabins and gardens.
Life prospered here. The colonists did, the animals did… and in his own unique way, Walter did too.
He had not been decommissioned the way Weyland-Yutani had intended - Daniels and you had been vehemently against it, and because of that, Walter had become part of the growing community. He helped wherever he could: building, teaching, tending, repairing - and now, on this crisp winter morning, he was baking a large batch of Christmas cookies.
Some doughs were mixed with ground nuts, others blended with melted chocolate. A few were prepared without eggs, others without gluten - every dietary need, every allergy, and every personal preference filed neatly within his memory banks.
Every colonist would find something made specifically with them in mind.
Many people stopped by throughout the afternoon, little hands reaching for the still-warm baked goods, drawn in by the rich aroma drifting through the settlement.
Walter pretended not to notice the quick, guilty footsteps as the children scampered away with their ‘stolen’ sugary treasures, laughter trailing behind them.
Most of the cookies were colourful - some frosted, some covered in sprinkles, others decorated with tiny sugary pearls. But off to the side, on a separate sheet, lay a batch set apart, untouched, plain cookies.
Shaped like stars, trees, tiny sheep, hearts - no sticky frosting, no glittering sugar - but still made with the same tender care.
And when you returned home to him and saw the plate set aside just for you, exactly how you liked them, your face lit up.
“You truly think of everything,” you said warmly, leaning in to place a soft kiss on his cheek.
Walter inclined his head in that modest, almost shy way of his. “It is just my programming.”
You took a bite from one of the little stars and shook your head with a smile. “Sure it is.”
And to your delight, sweet Walter allowed himself a small smile in return - soft, fleeting, but undeniably real.
Kirsh
The ‘jolly’ season weighed heavily on you this year – there was no excited anticipation, no quiet contemplation, no comforting sense of calm.
Your duties were too important to leave, and when you worked for Prodigy, there was rarely a reason good enough to travel home.
Christmas certainly was not one of them - the company was your family now.
You practically lived on Neverland Island anyway. You had your own little apartment, everything you needed… but that did not stop you from missing your favourite, almost ancient Christmas ball, tucked away in an old cardboard box already falling apart from the years it had survived.
The facility was, of course, decorated luxuriously; Kavalier would not have it any other way. Colourful fairylights climbed along the ceilings, mistletoe under doorways, wreaths and garlands adorning the halls - cozy, warm, inviting.
But it did little to lift the heaviness that had settled within your bones.
That quiet, persistent ache of grief.
You became exhausted, your concentration dwindled, and you dragged yourself from room to room.
Kirsh noticed.
You slept less and grew restless; meals became small and insufficient. Your voice weakened, your laughter less loud, your smile faded far quicker than usual – none of it escaped him.
…Someone had to take care of you, and that someone was going to be him.
Boy Kavalier had struggled with his mental health since he was a child - forgetting his ADHD medication, slipping into bad episodes. Handling depressive humans was nothing new to him.
He recognised the signs, he recognised them in you.
One December day, he found you slumped in one of the common room’s chairs, eyes half-closed. You had confided in him before: always tired, yet never able to sleep at night.
Moving quietly, careful not to startle you, Kirsh held out a steaming mug of winter tea. Hibiscus, apple, cinnamon - the scent sweet and grounding.
“Here,” he said softly, his voice gentler than usual, almost tender. “It will help.”
You looked up, surprised, but accepted the warming cup into your cold hands. “Thank you… but you don’t-”
“Tsk. None of that. You will not do anyone any good in this state. It is simply my programming to make sure you won’t fall over.”
Defeated, you took a few sips of the delicious beverage - then your eyelids grew heavy again, sleep pulling at you.
Kirsh quietly took the tilting cup from you, setting it aside before draping a soft blanket over your front. He tucked the edges around you with a care that felt… personal.
Hours later, you woke to find him still sitting nearby, tablet in hand, eyes flicking up every so often to check on you. Ever watchful.
That was no programming. That was honest affection.