cyanopsiia.
-It’s not like Jack had much of a choice of who he would avail himself to when the mind-numbing tediousness, that–never failed to settle in for reasons tied to the inescapable fate of encompassing an ever-alert consciousness, finally settled noticeably upon his sentience like a steadily building layer of snow he’d somehow allowed to bypass his detection sensors long enough to find himself buried up to the neck. He finds it oddly annoying the people listed along his registry of consults known to endure his meat self’s notorious nagging, were also the most dead. And since he didn’t exactly want to ponder the fact he’d become even more wire-ridden than a certain than a certain tin can who never went all the way bot just so he could keep his beard, Jack took the only option available to him, and parked himself outside Athena’s door, all while chattering away at seemingly nobody in particular like those assholes who’d sooner stare at complete strangers while consorting their BlueTooth, than dare to appear any less CSI on their phone calls. But, seeing as feels he’s transcended beyond the use of cellphones entirely, as he can jack into the complimentary intercom inside her studio flat far easier than waiting for her to never pick up his manual calls out of the usual obligatory spite he finds more charming than cumbersome. It’s not like the internal clock in his systems blinking 00:00 would clue him in to the origins of the grouchy mood that he’d meet upon barging into the parting doors, since Athena’s never given him pause enough to consider her moods beyond an eternal “disapproving of his every action” kind of mood.
Her housing is a studio flat modest enough for her occasional nights spent on Helios, but for an android running on the fumes of an overloaded consciousness, it’s just small enough to crash through like a hurricane of nervous habits. A few books catch his eye as he chatters on about how she must have wanted to talk if she was nursing lattes this late, and by the time he’s through disorganizing those under the guise of interest, he stalks along the line of her peripheral vision just short of the frameless mattress. And then, he’s down—knees first into the mattress as he coils up by her as a snake might near heat-lamp. This is getting far more difficult than he’d originally anticipated—sitting awake in his office of all hours of the night spent occasionally rousing himself into the mentality of those sleepless nights he’d happily spent with his own caffeine injections from time to time. Now, he couldn’t even use those as an excuse to avoid the inevitable sleep mode already curling its preliminary updates in him like hooks as he tilted his face up to squint at her, an obligatory warning.-
…Don’t you dare draw dicks on my face, ‘Theaners. –Is one of many slurs that escape him as his eyes swivel to the globe of light on the ceiling, off-cast by the floor-side lamp by her mattress’s edge. Her accusation is met with a short, uncoordinated wave as he flicks her aggressions off per usual.- What, unbelievable I’m asking you to do your job? –Well, part of her job anyway. Maybe she wouldn’t have signed the agreement if she knew it included bodysitting. His eyes refuse to settle, looking properly dosed as he emits yet another disgruntled whine, face tilting into her thigh which was, surprisingly less comfortable than he thought it might be. Too muscly.- What a concept.
Athena feels that a few months ago, she most likely would have been even more uncomfortable than she is now. Surprisingly, she relaxes seconds into his intrusion, and it worries her just how comfortable she’s gotten around Jack. That would end up screwing her over in the end-- she knows him almost better than anybody, after all. When you see someone rise and fall and rise from power, you become familiar with all their demons and you even learn to befriend them. Still-- just because she gets along with him now, doesn’t mean that’ll stay the same. Hell, the next day, he might decide to replace her and end up stabbing her in the back-- both figuratively and literally. He’s smarter than that, though-- if he ends up no longer wanting her, he’d go about it in a way where she’d have no chance of surviving. He should know that no matter what he does to her-- she’d end up coming back to tear his kingdom down. She isn’t called a living legend just for fun, no-- she’s done enough to have that title stick her entire life. Not like she gives a damn, though. She has too many nicknames stuck to her to care about any of them. Jack’s pet, scary bitch, crazy bitch... yeah, the list goes on. Hyperion workers have too much time on their hands.
“I’m not going to draw anything on your face because I’m not five.” She rolls her eyes, though she snorts briefly in amusement at the thought. He’s sure he’d do that to her if she were to fall asleep on him, but that has yet to happen. Knowing her and her lack of trust in everyone, that’s never, ever going to happen. She sighs lowly, leaning her back against the wall next to her bed, though she still hasn’t done any movements to shove him off her lap. “I read over your contract more than ten times, and this part wasn’t in it. I’m sure you didn’t necessarily anticipate to come rest your head on my lap, of all places. I’m not known for being comforting or comfortable, for that matter.” Her blue eyes trail down to his face, studying his tired expression for a long while. If he didn’t like her staring, he’d have to deal with it, since he’s the one who’s here to bother her and not the other way around. She plays with her paper cup, digging her painted nails into the cheap material until she finishes the last drops of bitter coffee. She’s sure she’d get up for a refill if he wasn’t here. Idly, she ends up touching his hair, though it’s not to lull him into a state of peace or anything of the sorts-- it’s out of mere curiosity. She knows it’s real hair, but since he’s not very human anymore, she can’t help but wonder if they’re some strange implants. He’s rich as hell, so he can afford whatever sort of modification he wants-- if his metal-laced body isn’t proof enough of that, of course.
“You need a therapist. A real one, not me. Or you’re going to have to increase my pay if you plan to do this often.” She pauses, running her tongue over her lower lip. “Or maybe you just need friends, but nobody besides me likes you, so scratch that off your list.” As blunt as ever. It’d be pointless to sugar coat her words. Again, she runs her fingertips through his hair-- roughly and quickly enough to sting his scalp, surely. “You need to lay back on the hair gel. You’re too old for the pre- pubescent boy stuff.”
