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Oct 15, 2025

[art by @cptjh-arts]

One More Round

After running themselves ragged on a particularly brutal case, GV200 and his partner Nines retreat to their favourite bar for some well-earned rest. But peace doesn’t last long, as another patron seems intent on stirring up trouble.

Will GV give the idiot a hands-on lesson in courtesy, or watch as a well-intentioned—but dangerously outmatched—beanpole beats him to the punch? (Literally.)

Reverse!AU Oneshot // AO3

Pairing: Reed900

Tags: Fight Scenes, Hallucinations, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, First Kiss, Implied Sexual Content

Warnings: Violence/Injury Detail, Drug References, Homophobic Language

Written for CptJHart's 'D:BH TiersBigBang' event, collaborating with Cpt themselves!! Please be sure to give them some love on @cptjh-arts for the art included <33

The investigation had been a gruelling one—countless sleepless nights, high-risk stakeouts, and an unfortunate incident in which Nines almost landed himself in the witness protection programme.

Mercifully, it had ended, with the partners somehow living to tell the tale. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, they were finally able to relax.

There had only been one destination in mind.

The bar was dirt-cheap, hole-in-the-wall, and within convenient stumbling distance of the precinct. They’d scoped it out during another high-stress op, and it stuck, becoming their favourite place to unwind.

It might not have been flashy or luxurious, but it was theirs—and GV found a serene simplicity in that. Unoccupied with anything but good company and subpar drinks.

They had also not been shot at upon entrance, which alone made the worm-eaten door feel like the swinging gates of Heaven. It was nothing short of bliss.

…At least, it would have been, if not for the insufferable throng of mouthbreathers a few tables away.

Though usually quiet, the bar would occasionally fall victim to rowdy clientele. It wouldn’t have bothered GV, but the volume of this particular tone-deaf choir made them impossible to ignore.

Their bellowing jeers and heckles assaulted him persistently. Worst yet, it was absent from any form of inconsiderate obliviousness. The group knew just how disruptive they were being, and didn’t care to hide it, either.

Much of their ‘entertainment’ seemed to come at the expense of other patrons. They had taken a particular liking to the officers, as GV spotted them looking over on several occasions. Each stare was followed by whispers and another grating roar of laughter.

Nines had noticed as well and was finding it equally difficult to endure.

He was a man who valued his privacy, appreciated the pleasures of a comfortable silence. The constant disruptions were the equivalent of chemical warfare. A noxious cloud dispersed into the air, hanging thick and oppressive above their table.

His relaxed posture had locked up, growing more rigid by the second. The contented smile which had been present upon their arrival had withered into a frown.

It was at this point that GV ruled the behaviour completely unacceptable. Something had to be done, and it seemed the stoned bartender would be unlikely to instigate it.

And so, he took a gulp of his drink, holding it in his throat as he examined the group. He focused on one member in particular, identifying him as the lead knuckle dragger. A stout-faced Silverback, surrounded on all sides by loyal, screeching apes.

With a primary target established, he swallowed the thirium-based fluid. The glass was slammed back to the table, a sharp crack rattling through the bar.

It stalled several conversations, as heads snapped around in unison. This included those of the shitfaced primates, who glanced around dumbly, searching for the source of the noise.

"Is there a problem, meatsacks?”

Their bewildered looks turned inwards, towards each other, as their collective brain cell buffered. They were eventually able to ascertain that the android was speaking to them, and with the gruelling cognitive task complete, they sought guidance from their figurehead.

He was nothing short of outraged at having his fun interrupted, but attempted to save face, tucking the sensitivity beneath a mask of bravado.

Two of his friends were nudged before he whispered something into their ears. Whatever it was inspired great amusement, as a smug grin unfurled on his lips.

Attention was then turned back to GV. The smile slackened, and his abrasive pitch lowered into a drone of hastily constructed ignorance. "Don't think so, pal. I'm just enjoyin’ a drink with my buddies.”

This was bullshit, obviously. The man had enjoyed far more than ‘a drink.’ His speech was slurred, near incomprehensible, and his movements clumsy.

He held up his beer stein, drawing it in a lopsided circle. Droplets of amber were scattered in all directions, which he failed to notice. “Ain't that right, boys?”

The men indulged him by bobbing their heads and grunting mindlessly. GV, not willing to entertain them for even a second, ardently pressed on.

"Right, and you staring me down for the past hour is just my imagination.”

The stranger pursed his lips, the tight pucker proving remarkably punchable. He looked over his shoulder, pretending to mull over his words before shrugging dismissively. “Must be.”

Nines promptly disengaged. He picked up a drinks menu and buried his face in its pages, humming in approval at a coffee stain. His reading glasses remained perched on his head, shifted down without fanfare after he’d noticed.

The man had never been much of a drinker, more inclined to chug tea than shots, so it seemed unlikely he'd be selecting anything from the menu. Hell, the one drink he had ordered, a suspiciously pale red, sat untouched at his side.

GV didn't voice any doubts, far too lost in his growing contempt. He pondered on the most effective way to shatter Captain Dickwad’s facade. Then, it hit him, in a wave of impish inspiration.

His lips widened into an exaggerated ‘O’ before he nodded his head repeatedly. Emitting loud, exuberant hums, making a spectacle of the clarity. “Ahhhh, ahhh, I see, okay—”

Elbows were then propped on the table as he cradled his face. Batting his lashes in large, coy flutters, he continued in the raspy lilt of a lovestruck schoolgirl. “No need to be shy, big boy. If there's something you wanna ask me, just say.”

People were staring now, bewildered whispers whipping around them like a hurricane. GV relished it, stood brazenly in the eye, considering it the benchmark of a job well done.

“I’m warning you now, I'm not a cheap date...”

The syrupy proposal came complete with a kiss and a wink. His head tilted backwards, towards the men's room, before he delivered another shattering blow to the douchebag's fragile masculinity.

“But maybe you can make me change my mind.”

His smirk was compressed by a pinch of revulsion before it collapsed from his face. Nines, in his ongoing dedication to not getting involved, winced behind the menu—but resisted so much as an upward glance.

GV was exceptionally proud of himself. His chest puffed out like a peacock as he claimed the discarded smile. It became a gleaming badge of honour, worn for all to see.

There was a moment of protest in which the human glared at it. As though envisioning himself bashing it in, scattering pearly confetti all across the floor.

He didn't act, though. Instead, he turned away, preparing to lick his wounds. Or have his goons do it for him. They seemed keen enough, crowding around him in an instant and discussing something in a heated rumble.

GV didn't listen, entirely uninterested in the mindless drivel being spewed from their mouths, as long as they kept it to themselves.

Leaning back in his chair, straining its legs to near-breaking point, he picked up his glass and sipped indulgently. Pride and biofluid rushed his chest as he resisted the urge to prop his feet onto the table. A smug CEO who had just closed on a lucrative deal.

The satisfaction tapered, however, as he noted Nines had failed to emerge from his makeshift safehouse.

Concerned he might take up permanent residence, the android pressed a hand gently to the top of the menu. His lips parted to assure that the situation was under control and they wouldn't be bothered again.

Then, the stranger demonstrated the calibre of festering gutter trash he was. He blundered back in. This time, seeking to drag Nines into the confrontation:

“Hey. Stretch.”

His partner resisted the pull. Failing to respond, as though unaware the address was meant for him. That was, until the fucker started whistling. Loud and obnoxious, as if he were beckoning a disobedient dog.

“Helloooo, can you hear me?”

It wasn't long until his lackeys joined in. GV observed one of them wadding a napkin into a ball, presumably for use as a makeshift projectile. He glared viciously, daring the man to even try, unless he wanted to be picking lacquer from his teeth.

The pattern continued for some time, with the man whistling, Nines ignoring him, and GV readying to charge over, exerting some off-duty justice—

Then, the cycle was broken. The menu was set down. Hard. Enough to rattle the rickety base of the table, displacing a few droplets of wine.

In the time he’d known him, Nines had always been remarkably patient. The sort of person who would politely accept an error made on a restaurant order, provided the wait staff hadn't actively spat in it.

But this was not to be mistaken for cowardice. Nines was not a shrinking violet. He was a seasoned police officer—admittedly, one who was built like a utility pole—but he didn’t need to rely on strength. He had a sharp wit and a sharper glare. One so razored it cut grown men down to the size of snivelling toddlers.

Such a glare was being directed pointedly across the room. So ruthlessly withering, edged with disdain, it was a surprise the dick didn't turn to stone.

“Can I help you?”

Be it down to the man's inebriation, or a more baseline stupidity, he seemed to be entirely immune. Unable to sense the freeze-dried hatred perforating his skull.

"Yeah, I reckon you can, actually. You seem like a smart guy. On account of the..." The stranger paused, racking his brain, before giving up and making a gesture towards his eyes.

Nines watched on, his eyebrows raised. So high they risked flying off and punching a hole through the ceiling. Slowly, he raised a finger to the side of his glasses, tapping against the sleek plastic frame.

“An astute observation. One that I am sure is in no way derived from outdated stereotypes."

The stranger blinked, his expression devoid of any comprehension. It was as though Nines had stood on his chair and recited the works of Shakespeare—backwards.

He clicked his tongue and grunted dismissively before continuing. “Whatever. A question for you, Einstein, if you could enlighten us. Me and the fellas were just wonderin’, why does your android look so fucked up?"

Nines reeled, shock shattering the shell of his detached disdain. It was as though he had been transported back to a few hours prior. Flung into the bowels of a dimly-lit warehouse, being shot at from point-blank range.

"Excuse me?"

"Its face," the degenerate clarified, without a beat of hesitation. Reinforcing a concept of implied ownership that had long since expired post-revolution.

In any case, it shed some light on what had gotten him so pissed. It would have surprised GV to learn that he'd strapped androids to the back of his car, before doing so could result in a murder charge.

He was staring again, expression contorting even more than it had during their 'flirting.' As though the mere act of looking at GV was agonisingly painful.

"Like seriously, what the hell happened? Did it get hit by a fucking truck or something?"

Nines flinched again, as another bullet ricocheted off a nearby wall.

The android was quick to shield his partner from the figurative line of fire. Manoeuvring him to a safe zone, as he made clear to Dickwad that this conflict stayed between them.

"I was blown up, actually."

A beat of confused silence followed. The stranger stuttered, his jaw slack, lagging cognition struggling to process the information he'd received.

It was a response GV was used to, but one that proved particularly satisfying in that moment.

His scars were not an issue that he danced around, something to avoid discussing. There was no point pretending they didn’t exist; you could see them from across a football pitch.

Gnarled grooves of white and cobalt, branching like lightning across his face. They had left him segmented, the visible margins of a jigsaw puzzle. Except the pieces didn't quite fit.

The android wasn't ashamed. At the very least, not of the circumstances in which he had gotten them. If anything, he was pretty damn proud of it.

"My model was designed for Bomb Defusal,” he began, not particularly concerned if the dolt understood, but simply wishing to brag a little. “Do it well, but you know, shit happens. Working under pressure, making sure everyone gets out safely—

I'm sure your job is just as exciting, Greg. The perils of Insurance Appraisal."

The man paled considerably. If he hadn't been listening before, he certainly was now.

GV smirked, with assurance that his new criminal scanner was up and running, having identified him correctly. He refused to let up, twisting the knife, as the man could do nothing but sit and endure.

“That's your name, right? Gregory Peterson. Born 15th May 1998 in Rockford, Illinois. 157 pounds according to your licence, but I think that’s a bit out of date. Criminal record for petty theft, as well as some drunk and disorderly conduct.”

The android reclined back, shrugging his shoulders in faux commiseration before diving in for a final jab. “Shocking. You seem so put together.”

The jaw that had hung slack for the entirety of this takedown abruptly snapped closed. Greg seemed incentivised to expand his rap sheet. The red mist had rolled in, clouding his gaze as colour surged back to his face.

By the time he spoke again, his skin shone bright ruby, spreading all the way to his ears. "Why the fuck would anyone waste their time puttin’ you back together? Clearly, some parts went missing, because you look like something Picasso shat out."

It was clear Greg was proud of this zinger. He nudged the nearest of his lackeys, prompting them to congratulate it with a loud, brainless cackle.

GV, having been called significantly worse by significantly better people, seldom reacted. Instead, he rolled his eyes, preparing to deliver a clapback about how the man’s frying-pan compressed features inspired a similar comparison.

Then there was a noise beside him. Wooden chair legs, dragging forcefully across a cheap parquet floor. Nines had begun to stand, his expression stony, but otherwise unreadable.

It was a notable skill of his, the ability to bounce back from shock or upset. Dulling his emotional range to that of a department store mannequin, entirely invulnerable to harm.

Except this time, it came mingled with a tinge of dejection. He was not standing as proud or poised as GV had come to expect. The purple rings beneath his eyes spoke volumes, saying more than could ever pass the tense line of his lips.

He was tired—they both were. But for his human counterpart, the weight of this bore down considerably harder.

Nines removed his glasses, setting them down on a nearby napkin, protected from whatever mystery residue lurked beneath. He then reached behind him, feeling out the backrest of his chair. More specifically, the charcoal overcoat strung across it.

Suddenly, GV was no longer tired. Not one bit.

His physical modulators had charged without stasis, fueled by nothing but spite and defiance. The refusal to walk away from the bastard sitting across from them, giving him the satisfaction of winning.

He pressed a hand to his partner's shoulder, refusing to let up until he folded back into his seat. “Oh no you don't. You need to finish your drink—”

He glossed over the fact that Nines would sooner gargle thumbtacks than the crimson dishwater. What remained in his own glass was drained, knocked back swiftly, dregs wiped using his sleeve.

His lips contorted into a twisted hybrid of a grin and a snarl, as he continued through gritted teeth:

“And I'm still thirsty. I think I'll stay for one more round."

Nines bucked upwards, making a half-hearted attempt to resist. Even in peak condition, he wouldn't have stood a chance at overpowering the android. Reason was out of the question, too, with just how stubborn he could be.

Following another weak push, the man conceded. Sinking back, stiff as plywood, with all the resignation of a long-suffering spouse.

With assurance that he would stay put, GV summoned the attention of a nearby staff member. A young man sifting the perimeter of the seating, collecting discarded glasses at a sluggish pace:

“Hey, buddy.”

So lost in his vacant, robotic motions, it seemed he'd forgotten there were still patrons in the bar, capable of speech. He leapt several inches into the air, a precariously stacked tray of shot glasses half-slipping from his grip.

The contents crashed down like hail as his head whipped around, bloodshot gaze paradoxically blank and horrified. He flitted between the two, his mind lagging behind the address, before cobbling together a response through a prolonged drone of hums.

“Uhhhhhhhhh…c-can I…?”

GV didn't let him finish. He plopped his empty glass on the damp tray. It remained hung at a tilt, the slack-jawed barman having yet to steady it.

“Same again." In a show of gratitude, GV nudged the tray upright before his glass could join the pile of debris. “Thanks.”

“...I, um…I think you need to order at the, uh—”

“I’ll take a Blue Twist. Double. Chilled.” He kept the order cordial and monosyllabic, edged with just enough intensity that the kid understood it wasn't up for debate. “Appreciate it.”

Nines exhaled tersely through his nose. Quietly disapproving, but omitting any greater protest. He was too tired for it. Instead, he stared across the room in a drawn, vacant silence.

GV was struck by a twinge of guilt. Realising that, perhaps, he shouldn't have allowed pride to prevent his partner from leaving. Whether or not he could even be considered conscious at this point was up for debate. But it was too late to shift gears. The android had committed, stood his ground, and would sooner jam his dick in a toaster than sacrifice it.

He watched as the barman, having piled the mess back onto the tray, hurriedly scurried away. Balancing the base on one hand, as he waved down his colleague in a series of ill-advised, indecipherable hand gestures.

The drink arrived back in record time, albeit scarcely resembling the order made. A diplomat might call it a ‘creative interpretation’ of the recipe—although ‘impressive bastardisation' felt more accurate.

Because it was impressive, given that the brainless wonders managed just fine the first time. Perhaps they’d taken another trip to the herb garden in the supply closet.

Still, GV wasn’t that phased. A cursory sip informed the liquid was safe enough, would not send his systems into a catastrophic meltdown. He took a longer gulp, disregarding the bitter fizzing in his throat, all the while staring down Greg and his fuckhead friends.

They stared back. A cast of buzzards, scoping out a tempting slab of meat. They were still, for now, but with no telling when they might descend for another peck. He did not waver, defying intimidation, warning that their desired roadkill still had some kick.

Nearby patrons noticed this. Sensing an impending fallout, tabs were settled, goodbyes exchanged, as multiple groups made for the exit. The few that stayed were entranced, praying for the end of the truce. Ready to watch as this ushered all manner of verbal carnage—or something more entertaining.

Nines did not appreciate being made part of the spectacle, withering under the stares that walled him in from all directions.

He was an animal trapped in a cage, too weary to even paw at his bars. Hands remained clasped tight, nails notching grooves in his skin. His head arched forward, chin tucked, as cloaking strands of brown covered the sum of his face.

His intentions seemed clear: Wait out the discomfort, enduring the standoff, in whatever anonymity could be recovered.

Guilt grew more pronounced, winding knots through his circuitry, as GV accepted the role he had played in this. It hadn’t been fair for him to assume his partner's intentions. Perhaps he had wanted to leave, anyway, with the Bullshit Brigade and their antics serving as a convenient excuse.

Sacrificing his glass and the venomous staring contest he’d been holding with Greg, he placed a hand on Nines’ forearm. The buzzards watched closely, whispers following, as well as a few scattered whistles. The android tuned them out, closed off to everything except his partner.

“Hey…” His voice was a whisper, pace slowed. He traced soothing circles with the pad of his thumb, a grounding gesture he used to drag the man from states of paralysis. “We can fuck off if you want.”

Nines failed to respond, and so, he leaned in. Attempting to peek under the curtain of hair, drawing some engagement from it.

“Do you want us to do that? Fuck off? Go home?”

While the veil held firm, some brightness broke through, bleeding through the cracks. Nines, having registered the offer, began to respond.

His shoulders pulled back, opposing the slouch, as he flashed GV a small but appreciative smile. His head began to shift, the beginnings of a nod—

Unfortunately, at least one member of the opposing table had decent hearing. The chatter grew louder until it crescendoed into hollered mockery. Whip cracks joined whistles in the assembly, layered over colourful assumptions on the nature of their relationship.

This topic had been a subject of debate before, the source of endless gossip in the precinct breakroom. A popular but baseless rumour, regardless of what the android might have liked to be true.

But this was different. The language was laced with casual hatred, slurs tossed around like a football. Coupled with obscene hand gestures and under-the-table thrusts, the line between tasteless gibes and criminal harassment was starting to blur.

"Better do what Quasimodo says, Esmeralda,” one of the men sneered. The group clearly held low standards for creativity in their insults, as the reception seemed to suggest this was the funniest takedown ever conceived. “Or you might be sleeping on the couch tonight."

"Esmeralda married Pierre Gringorie, dumbass. You ever read a book without cartoon animals and funny pop-ups?"

Laughter died down, humour dampened by sincere resentment. This was most pronounced in Greg, who had reddened once again. Enraged GV and Nines still had the gall to be there at all, present for them to ridicule.

This time, disdain translated to action.

Hands were slapped to the table, chair groaning at the ample weight abruptly hauled from it. “You know, I’m gettin’ real sick of your attitude, tin can.”

Sidling out of rank, he began staggering towards the partners. He was barely able to track a straight line, but his bleary eyes maintained focus, grounded by ire.

A point was directed towards the android, slurred words hissed with venom. “That’s all you are. You know that, right? A tin can, a walking billboard for recycling.”

The closer the man got, the more reactive Nines became. Soon, he was on high alert, anticipating escalation, as he reached to grip his counterpart’s shoulder.

It was partly out of instinct—a desire to defend—but also the consequence of knowing the android would undoubtedly rise to the challenge. A reminder that it was not too late to disengage.

But it was.

Situational diplomacy, attentiveness—it had all erupted in flames the second Greg raised his finger. GV remembered himself instantly, consumed by pride and bravado as he shot to his feet. His lips moved fast, a retaliation hurtled before he could even process it.

“Oh, that’s rich, coming from a walking PSA for birth control.”

The comeback was met by snorts from a pair of nearby spectators. They leaned towards each other, glasses clinking, exchanging hushed bets on who would win the impending fight.

The flushed Greg was nearing purple. Holding his breath, his broad chest inflated to cartoonish proportions. He was bigger up close. Over six feet, built broad and sturdy, far less gelatinous than initially assumed.

GV remained undeterred, confident he could still take him—although it might not be a clean sweep victory. If he could come back from a concentrated blast of trinitrotoluene and shrapnel to the face, he could survive this.

“How about the next time you get blown up, you fucking stay that way?" Greg had reached GV now, snubbed nose inches from his face. He did nothing at first, just looked down, grimacing as though the android were shit on his shoe.

“Run along back to the scrapyard—and take your faggot friend with you.”

This inspired more of a response than any personal attack, triggering something primal in the android. Indisputable proof that any code which had prevented him from harming humans perished the nanosecond he deviated.

Greg was looking beyond him, scoping out Nines with predatory intent. The GV200 could feel the rise of his partner’s heartbeat, as though rattling within his own chest.

His growing lust for brutality ramped up with it, spiralling out of control.

> WARNING

> LEVEL OF STRESS: RISING.

Through the surging deluge of hatred, anxiety trickled. Gripping synthetic muscles with violent tremors, making it increasingly difficult to control his system functions.

“Let’s keep all the garbage in one place—”

GV knew he had to resist it, snap himself free from the paralysis, as Nines was studied up and down. The malicious curl returned to Greg's lips, reminding of his criminal track record.

He could, and would, hurt Nines with little to no provocation.

“—Unless you want me to take it out for you.”

Perhaps it had been the heightened sensitivity of all they’d recently endured. The multiple times he had witnessed Nines cheat death over the past few weeks. But something broke in GV, with impressive efficiency, at the threat.

Echoes of detonation rippled violently through his ears. He was cast back to that day, recalled in startling clarity, imagining a scenario in which Nines had stood slightly closer to the blast.

Unable to be welded and patched together on a metal workbench. Instead, smothered beneath fire and debris, to be recovered later, already long gone. Spared a scrapyard through virtue of humanity, only to be dumped in the ground—

> LEVEL OF STRESS: CRITICAL.

> NEW CORE DIRECTIVE ASSIGNED: DEFEND NOLAN STERN

GV saw red through a frenzied blanket of pixels and system warnings. His teeth were clenched, static hissed between them in growls. He readied himself to execute the function, fist lifting to the air. Just waiting for the human to advance so he could knock his fucking lights out.

It was never made.

Suddenly, Greg was seeing red, too, but not through a haze of anger. Rather, through the wine that had been hurled full pelt into his eyes.

“What the f—?”

The curse was aborted as the man tumbled backwards, folding like a rag doll against his table. Glasses clattered to the floor as limbs floundered in all directions. Some belonged to Greg, whilst others belonged to his bumbling cronies, engaged in a clumsy attempt to catch him.

GV stayed locked in place, his cognitive functions having ground to a halt. As his mind reconfigured, attempting to make sense of what the hell just happened, he registered the harsh screech beside him.

Nines had shifted from his peripherals, taking centre stage in his vision. He'd charged forward before the android could hope to absorb this, with all undivertible, unfaltering momentum of a runaway train.

This added to the dissonance, causing his mind to stutter further. These were not the actions of his chronically pragmatic partner. There was wildness to him, a lack of control in his bulged eyes and tensed jaw, that he had never seen before.

The charge across the bar was made in silence until finally, a voice emerged. So low and commanding it was practically solid, ice hardening every syllable:

“I believe I speak for everyone here when I suggest that you shut your fucking mouth.”

It was the uncharacteristic profanity, coming from a man who considered ‘damn’ to be pushing the envelope, that knocked GV from his stupor. Electricity pulsed through every synapse of his temporal processor as his arm released, flopping back to its default position.

Nines was now dangerously close to the group of tormentors. Greg, back on his feet, had wiped away most of the sticky residue. What remained were scattered streaks, drawn like warpaint down his face.

It seemed fitting, given what Nines had done. Instigated against forces which greatly outmatched him in strength and numbers.

Two of the lackeys had joined Greg, leaving their seats to shoulder him on either side. They formed an opposing blockade, with GV estimating that a single, tattooed forearm equated to the circumference of his partner's waist.

His primary directive flared in his sights, increasingly urgent, as he realised just how shit of a time Nines had picked to have his first temper tantrum.

But the red mist hadn't corroded all of his brain cells. Nines seemed to come to a similar conclusion, once Greg left rank, and charged forward to meet him in the centre of the bar. Phones were raised, ready to film, as the officer realised that the man was, indeed, very large up close.

The pace of his steps faltered, the flames of determination igniting his gaze quietly extinguished. They were replaced with annoyance, albeit self-projected.

If fanfare had been playing in his mind—a soaring, heroic percussion—it had waned into a deflated trombone upon acceptance of his mistake.

“...Right…Okay.”

Nines hit the floor before he had a chance to say anything else.

Retaliation had been harsh, swift—formed in a meaty fist clocked between the eyes. He lay on the floor like a paper doll—face first and limbs starfished. Hot air wheezed defeatedly from his lungs before he lost consciousness.

“Well, that was fucking stupid, wasn't it?”

Nines winced as the frozen peas were applied. Pressed to the right side of his face, still sore and puffed from the altercation. “Seriously, asshole. You knew I had it covered. What the hell were you thinking?

“I wasn't.” The man's uninjured eye scrunched closed, a frustrated huff passing through his nose before he continued. "I was angry. How dare he speak to you like that? You weren't doing anything wrong; he had no right.”

GV snorted at the Boy Scout Grade ethics. He often forgot the sheltered upbringing his partner had enjoyed, until a comment like this slipped through the cracks. An unflinching moral compass—endearing, if a little misguided.

"Tell me you've never faced real prejudice before without telling me."

“I've faced plenty.” Nines clipped, far too swiftly for comfort. It was not angry or combative, but firm. His gaze refocused, best it could with half of it obstructed, as he stared. “You heard what those men were calling us—you weren't the only one they took issue with."

GV, feeling deflated and a little bit stupid, abruptly withdrew the statement. He’d heard, alright. Had been damn near broken by it. It had been silly to gloss over this discrimination, for the virtue of being the ‘wrong’ kind.

"Right, that...wasn't fair. I'm sorry.”

Another aspect of his partner that he often forgot—but would never forget again, following the night's events—was that his stony exterior was not impervious. Withdrawal and deflection only got him so far until something broke through. When this happened, it hurt, and even his perpetual poker face couldn't disguise that.

Further pressure was applied, the frigid bite of the bag bleeding through the towel. Nines winced again, more pronounced, as he pulled back reflexively.

"Hold still."

"I'm trying.” The man clung to the base of his chair, grounding himself as his nails dug grooves into the varnish.

“Tch, humans…” The chastisement was punctuated by a playful click of the tongue. “So goddamn delicate."

“Apologies for my capacity to feel pain. I’ll strive harder to transcend these mortal limitations.”

“Damn straight,” the android quipped, suppressing the cackling laughter bubbling in his throat. The humour fizzled away as he peeled back the compress, noting the swelling had gotten worse. Risen into a raw, golf-ball-like welt, one which would be heavily bruised by the morning.

"...You didn't need to do it,” he said quietly, in a stark departure from his typical brashness. “Sticking your neck out like that—for me. I'm used to people talking shit.”

"You shouldn't have to be.”

"Well, I mean, you can't really blame them.” He forced a grin as he waved a hand vaguely in front of his face. A defensive snap back to self-deprecation. One that had become second nature. “Look at this trainwreck—probably wasn't worth the time it took to fix."

“Don't ever say that,” Nines countered, without a beat of hesitation. His voice was thin, pained, despite the makeshift ice pack no longer touching his skin.

A growing tension entered the room, but there was no chance to address it. Suddenly, the man pulled forward, placing a hand to the android's face and cupping it gently.

The pad of his thumb circled along the pitted groove in his cheek. Moving upwards, following smaller lacerations, before trailing to the prominent line which bisected his face.

Featherlight touches explored each section, traced like a map. Marking every splintered side passage before returning to the central path. Across his nose and up to his temple, discovering loose strands of white.

The damaged hair was twined around his finger, curled appreciatively before being released.

"You're beautiful."

GV froze, too stunned to speak, until his central processor lurched to life. His systems kicked into overdrive, scrambling to make sense of what was happening.

“...You're drunk.”

“Even if I was, it wouldn't change anything,” Nines retorted, charitably ignoring the fact that GV knew this wasn't true. “I had one drink, and I think you'll recall I never got to finish it.”

“Then that guy really did a number on you.” Setting the peas to one side, the android placed two fingers to the side of the man's head. Synthetic skin retracting, he tested the dilation of his pupils and took an in-depth reading of his vitals. “I think you must have a concussion or something, because you aren't seeing straight.”

"I mean it." In the absence of alcohol or adrenaline, there was a spark of something in his gaze. Bright and unmistakable, clear of fog.

Honesty.

Addressing all manner of unspoken truths, ones that had sat between them for quite some time. Lost in the shuffle of work, buried under friendly rapport whenever they did emerge.

Because GV couldn't believe it—not before his accident, and certainly not after. He'd never been much to look at, but seeing himself now, the full scope of his deformity, it seemed impossible.

"Do you want me to show you…?” The way Nines framed this, it was clearly intended to sound assured. But the voice was small, hesitant—a whisper seeking permission. “Do you want me to show you how beautiful I think you are?”

The scan revealed no anomalies. Nines, while battered, was otherwise sound. Nothing to suggest inhibited judgment. Despite this, GV feigned ignorance. Retracting the fingers slowly, sprawled into a V-shape.

"How many fingers am I holding up?"

The hand was claimed in a tight fist and pinned to his side, as Nines claimed his mouth in a fervent kiss. The movements were clumsy, shaken by need. Months of unspoken want and devotion poured into every touch.

GV felt giddy, his pump regulator straining to function. Circulating biofluid in dwindling quantities, pooled primarily in his stomach. And lower.

Before he became lost to sensation, forgetting his mind completely, the android pulled back. Holding his partner at an arm's length, trying desperately not to get lost in the sinful glaze of his eyes…

“Hey, hey—just—slow down a minute—”

…Dark. Needy. Pulling him in…

“You got lucky, jackass,” he snapped firmly, derailing the filthy train of thought. “A hit like that should've landed you in the hospital. I think you'd better lie down—before doing anything you regret.”

“I won't regret a thing.” The words were crooned, lightly husked from exertion and dripping with lust. “I'll lie down if you come with me…what do you think?”

Any resistance or doubt perished within seconds. Crumbling to dust and blowing away.

Because, really, how the fuck was he supposed to say no to that?

It was nearing daybreak when Nines rolled off him, shaken and spent. GV looked across the bedsheets, bathing in his afterglow.

The burning cheeks, ragged breaths and beads of sweat cascading down his face in streams. It was all so viscerally human—gorgeous. Even with the black eye. At that moment, the android felt like the luckiest son of a bitch alive.

There was a beat of silence while Nines sank from the peak of release. With his breathing steadied, he turned over, staring at his partner and moving to toy with his hair. He exercised all of the same tenderness he'd shown in the kitchen, before brushing the strands aside and planting a chaste kiss to the centre of his forehead.

GV allowed his eyes to flit close, savouring the feeling. It had been a strange night. They were no doubt banned from the bar—a consequence of him taking charge, kicking Greg to the curb with all the brutality that was deserved. But with the loss, they’d gained something considerably better.

All said and done, he regretted little of what had brought them here. Pleased beyond measure that they’d stayed for one more round.

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