Work Text:
I clean Murderbot 1.0's energy weapons. Not the two small ones in its travel bag, or the big ones stored in Perihelion's armoury. The ones built into its arms.
I do this after away missions. The first time, it was because 1.0 had fired its weapons during the mission, and protocol called for maintenance. 1.0 isn't as rigorous about following protocol as I am.
"The cubicle does that," it said, when I asked two cycles later if it had done the maintenance.
"You don't have a cubicle," I said.
"Well, ART does it."
"It hasn't yet."
"They're fine."
"I have a cleaning kit. I know how to maintain energy weapons."
1.0 looked annoyed, but its expression isn't always a good reflection of its internal state. It's been very clear that sometimes Its Face Just Does That.
I think the pause was to see if I would manage to form a question, but I didn't. 1.0 said fine anyway.
So 1.0 sat in its favourite chair to watch media on the display screen, and I laid out my weapon maintenance supplies. These were the first things I owned that were mine only: the screwdrivers and soft cloths, brushes and rods, solvents and oils, and the case that contains them all. Tarik gave them to me. I didn't know he had thought about me until he handed me the kit. It had my name on it.
It also contains a container of lens polishing compound and a laser collimator for aligning focus lenses. I bought them myself, with my hard currency. These are for 1.0 only. My projectile weapons do not require them.
I lay out my supplies and and I clean its energy weapons. I do this after away missions, whether 1.0 has fired its guns or not.
The first time, 1.0 was in control of its weapons. I had to ask it to open its port, extend its gun, turn its arm. Now I am in control. It sits, it picks its media, I request access (system system), and it grants me control.
I open its gunports one after the other, extending the energy weapons. I wrap my fingers around its wrist and tilt it just so. I brush particles off the housing. I open the protective panels and blow air across its wires. I drip oil on the friction points and slip the cleaning rod down its bore. I rub the cloth over every seam and panel of its inorganic parts until they shine.
I lift its arm and look down the bore of each weapon, checking the final lens alignment. I have no concern about this because its firing sequence is under my control, and it couldn't fire a shot if it tried.
I would have no concern about this even if it could fire a shot. It wouldn't try.
When I have finished the second energy weapon, I lay 1.0's forearm back on the wide arm of the chair. I put away my tools. I close the case.
I open another bottle. 1.0's nose twitches.
"What's that?"
"Oil. From a plant, Prunus dulcis. It grows on Preservation."
After 3.7 seconds, 1.0 says, "It smells nice."
I pour some on my palm. I lift 1.0's hand again. It jerks its hand back.
"What's it for?"
"Your skin. To make it softer."
"I don't need that."
"I use it. It smells nice."
"Well, you use it then. I don't need to be soft."
"You let Amena make your hair fluffy," I say.
"That was to make her feel better."
I say nothing. This is to see if it will manage to form an implication.
After a moment, 1.0's face wrinkles. "Okay," it says.
I lift 1.0's hand and put its knuckles in the cup of my palm, then rub the oil down to its fingertips. I turn its hand over, grip it palm to palm, and slide down again. I pause to rub my hands together, spreading out what oil remains, and 1.0 tries to take its hand back, but I catch its wrist again.
I press its hand between mine. I slip my fingers through its, stroking across the webs of each finger. I press my thumbs into its palm and push on the thick pads, stroking a slow circle around its palm, then back through the valley in the middle. The bones and tendons are more or less inorganic, but the skin is not, and the nerves of a SecUnit's hands are very sensitive. They have to be, for fine detail work.
The hands of most SecUnits are relatively soft—at least, the hands of most SecUnits that I have touched. This is both because SecUnits wear armoured gloves most of the time and because they regularly take damage that requires skin regrowth.
1.0 does not wear gloves and hasn't needed its hands repaired in a long time. It showers more often than the average human and does not, as it says, "want any of your weird soaps, Three." It likes Perihelion's unscented four-in-one cleaning fluid and nothing else. Its hands are dry, a little cracked on the knuckles and ragged at the cuticles.
Its hands need as much maintenance as its guns. So I will do this for it, too.
1.0's face is Doing Something. I don't look at it. I watch my work.
I grip its fingers one by one and gently pull, working to the tip of each. I flex its wrist and curl its fingers. My thumbs rub circles on the back of its hand. The smell of the oil gets stronger as it warms.
Eventually, the oil is as evenly distributed as it can be, barely more than a diffuse glow on 1.0's skin. I release its hand, pick up the bottle, and pour a little more in my palm.
1.0 doesn't argue when I pick up its other hand.