Work Text:
The recreation floors on Gateway were stacked in three successive decks below the main offices, so as to separate the clamor of pent-up marines (or otherwise) from the rest of Wey-Yu's desk-chained employees. They were designed and built for people who wanted to forget what they were for a few hours at a time, which usually proved to be effective. This was done with vividly styled carpeting, colorfully lit hallways, and signage that advertised the product of leisure at every corner. There were gyms with all manner of equipment, two cafeterias, a few theaters with rows of padded seats (the nice kind that reclined all the way), bars with marginally okay prices by company standards, and a gaming hall that was half arcade / half lounge / all noise.
The very existence of these spaces felt antithetical to the company's MO; however, giving the masses attractive playgrounds to distract from poor work conditions was definitely on-model. You found all of it enjoyable, in theory. In practice, you'd been moving through the floors like Dante on the boat with Phlegyas — though in this version, Phlegyas was in your head, so it was really ten times worse.
You picked a spot in the arcade room tucked off the main walkway, a narrower space where the cabinets were stacked close enough that the sounds overlapped. A generic pop soundtrack drummed over from one machine, tinny gunfire from another. A constant electronic buzz surrounded you. The air ran nice and cool through the overhead vents, but the heat from the screens and small clustered bodies of other shoring crews balanced it out. You kept your eyes on your chosen game. It was easier than scanning faces, or dealing with the fact that you had to be around people no matter where you went on the station. You were tired of catching somebody's look and having to decide what it meant, imagining you were being talked about, because you could hear that too, if you let yourself linger on it. The cabinet in front of you was taller than most, the art on the side panel decorated in a full-color fantastical print: a sword, a dragon, a cartoon knight with a red tunic and an exaggerated jawline.
The controls were comparatively simpler than the surrounding machines. You knew from prior experience though that the simplicity was part of the trap. This game, if this recreation honored the historical rendition, was all timing and patience. Succeeding at each scene demanded immense focus and breath control.
Even knowing this, you'd been stuck on the same sequence for twenty minutes. Dirk, the knight, ran into a corridor that should've been safe and of course was very much not so. The floor dropped out, then a set of swinging blades came in from the side. You tried to move left out of reflex. Too late. Dirk's body did a quick animated flail, and the screen lit up with a gruesome death scene. It was almost tauntingly graphic. You exhaled through your teeth and hit the start button again. At least here you could fail in a way that didn't provoke a tailtuck afterward.
Behind you, somewhere near the entrance, the sliding door expressed a soft pneumatic sigh underneath the noise of the machines. Light footsteps crossed the carpet. You noticed this detail because it was, in comparison to the marines' heavy footfalls, distinctly measured and quiet. It was a cadence you knew by heart at this point. You'd listened to it in the Sulaco's corridors, on the deck, in the medbay, in the galley at odd hours when you couldn't sleep and he could always be found doing something around the ship, even when it wasn't required.
He stopped at your side, just out of your peripheral vision.
"Hello." Bishop greeted you. His voice was a low chirr against the background noise, not louder than necessary but still not too soft to be missed. Exactly placed, just like the rest of him. Your hand hung on the joystick, eyes glued to Dirk's idle animation, the way the character's grip on his sword tensed and untensed.
"Hey." You nodded after a second. "I didn't think I'd see you down here."
"I'm not usually permitted so during shore leave." He looked around at the bright screens on either side of you. "However, I was scheduled for maintenance. A Gateway technician cleared my systems and authorized limited access to the recreational floors."
You finally looked over. He stood with his hands loosely folded behind his back. In civilian lighting he looked a little out of place, like he couldn't quite figure out where he fit in against the backdrop. There was a small adhesive tag at the edge of his collar, white with black print. REC CLEARANCE. It sat on him like a label on equipment. You grimaced.
"Everything okay?" You heard the softness in your own voice before you could correct it. Maintenance was not a word you liked, on his behalf. Maintenance meant people with tools reducing things to permissions and protocols. It meant someone else's hands inside him.
Bishop's gaze settled on your face with thoughtfully. His kind of stare never felt rude, not like it did from other people… more like he was giving you the courtesy of being fully present.
"I'm functional." He replied after a moment of consideration. "The procedure was… invasive, by human standards. For me, it was routine. The technician was competent."
You nodded and left it at that. You tried to make your shoulders unknot, didn't succeed. He glanced at the cabinet screen.
"What are you playing?"
You snorted. "Dragon's Lair. It's a remake of an old Earth arcade thing. Basically a cartoon that hates you."
His head angled slightly, just enough to signal interest. "The animation appears hand-drawn."
"It is!" You smiled. This remake had preserved the classic cel animation quite well. "Laserdisc game. The gimmick is you don't actually… fight, really. You react. The game tells you what's about to kill you and you pick the correct input in the one correct moment."
"That seems stressful."
"Yeah, well… it is." You laughed once without much humor, then sighed. "Unfortunately that's kind of the point."
Bishop's attention returned to you. "Is this your preferred method of recreation?"
You faltered. 'No, not really' you wanted to say. You could've answered honestly, too, with 'I picked this because nobody expects me to talk while I do it' or even 'Because I can be angry at a cartoon knight instead of being angry at a real person.'
Instead, you shrugged with one shoulder. "It's something to do."
Something in Bishop's expression changed, a subtle focusing of his pupils. It was a look that told you he'd filed the shrug away as data, and the data didn't satisfy him.
"May I observe?" He asked innocently.
You turned back to the screen. While this was a game that required your utmost attention, Bishop's presence was usually a grounding one. "Yeah, sure."
He moved a small step closer, careful not to crowd you, a simple shift of him occupying the space alongside you. He didn't touch you or lean in next to the screen. You hit start again. Dirk sprinted, the corridor came up.
"Left…!" You narrated to yourself, and jammed the joystick. Too late again. The blades swung through. Dirk died with the same infuriatingly impressive animation. The cabinet chimed back to the opening screen, and you imagined bitterly that it must be pleased with itself.
"Fuck, come ooooon." The frustration climbed up your throat and out of your mouth. You slapped the side of the cabinet with the flat of your hand, not hard enough to damage anything, but hard enough to tell it you noticed the unfairness of it all.
Bishop's head turned toward you. "Are you feeling alright?"
His question was gentle, friendly, unlike the usual technical mannerisms he used on shift. He sounded like this most often when he was giving someone an opening, making the conversation approachable enough to say anything you needed to. You kept your eyes on the screen.
"I'm fine." It sounded rehearsed even to you. There was a pause on Bishop's end. In that pause, he didn't fill the space with consolations you didn't ask for. He didn't correct you. He just waited, sorted his thoughts.
"You're clenching your jaw." He voiced his observations after a bit. "And your heart rate has increased."
You groaned, running a hand down your face. "Can I have one hobby without it becoming a diagnostic?"
"I can stop monitoring you, if you prefer?" He offered at once, somewhat hurried. You swallowed, instantly regretting your words. It wasn't him you were frustrated at.
"No, no. It's not that. It's just…" You exhaled, stared forward at Dirk. He seemed keen to be killed again. "I'm just having a week."
"Hmm." Bishop nodded, shifting his weight to lean slightly against the cabinet. "Would you like to tell me why?"
You should've said no, kept your mouth shut and let this just be about a stupid game. But Bishop was the one person on the ship who never made you feel like you needed to perform your feelings for an audience. He didn't look for the most entertaining version of your story, he looked for the true one. You hit start again, more as something to do with your hands than because you had any faith in your timing. Once more, you went too late. You didn't even swear this time. You just stood there with your hand upon the controls, staring at Dirk's animated death like it'd personally insulted you. It was starting to feel that way, anyhow.
"It was Drake." You let out a long breath.
Bishop didn't leap at that, or react as if it were mere gossip. To him, it was just another piece of a puzzle. "What occurred with Private Drake?"
"We got into it about something stupid. Well, not stupid, but…" You shook your head once. "It blew up. I said something. He said something. Vasquez got between us. Now everybody's doing that thing where they're trying to be normal, but you can tell they've picked a side, or they've decided it's easier to just avoid it."
Bishop hummed, furrowed his brow while he processed. "Why do you believe they've picked a side?"
"I don't know." You huffed, feeling bitter and hating how it sounded. "That's the problem. I don't know what anybody thinks, and I don't want to ask… I don't want to make it worse. So I've just been… not around."
He was quiet for a moment. "You're isolating yourself to reduce the probability of further conflict."
"Yeah. Look at me, being so tactical." You couldn't help the cynical laugh that left you.
"There is some tact to your decision, even if it's rooted in avoidance." He let the faintest shade of dry humor show in his tone. "It's a rational response, given your stated fear of confrontation."
You swallowed again, but your throat felt tight. Leave it to Bishop to cut right through to the point.
"It's stupid, though. If I know all this about myself, why can't I just fix it?"
"Fear isn't stupidity. It's a physiological and social response. Humans are not designed to enjoy interpersonal hostility within a small group. It's destabilizing."
"Yeah, tell that to the corps." You restrained an eye-roll. Bishop's eyes stayed on you, though you sensed no pity or judgment under his observation.
"I can tell you this…" He took his weight off the machine to stand upright, folding his arms. "You aren't being maliciously excluded from the group."
You scoffed, an immature defense against admitting how much you wanted him to be right. "You don't know that."
"I've observed the crew's behavior over the past week. They haven't treated you as disposable. They have treated you as… temporarily difficult to approach. That's not the same thing."
You watched the game, went through the motions, met the familiar sight of Dirk's skull. The game was patient. It would let you die forever, if you wanted that.
"Why does that sound worse...?"
"It's less catastrophic." Bishop's mouth twitched up at one side, very slightly. "Which means there is more nuance to decipher."
You sighed out an awkward laugh, sounding more like a cough. He continued unphased.
"If you'd like, I could help evaluate some options. There are ways to repair your friendship with minimal to no confrontation."
You looked back at him, dubious. It was hard to believe Bishop had experience with this stuff, but you supposed all it took was observation and a little sympathy. "Like what?"
"Option one is a direct apology, focused on your own behavior, not theirs. It can be short and kept to specifics. That reduces potential for defensiveness."
You frowned. "Bishop, that is a whole confrontation."
"It can be brief if needed." He reassured with an optimistic timbre. "Option two is a written message. It carries the risk of misinterpretation, but allows you to structure your words without face to face pressure."
"And… option three?" You already knew you weren't going to do option one anytime soon, and the idea of a physical message made you worried just anyone could find it before Drake. The life of a marine wasn't exactly a private one.
"Option three is doing nothing today." Bishop uncrossed his arms. "Resting. Returning when you have more internal resources." You sighed at that. He noticed the look on your face, and went to remedy it. "You haven't failed at anything, this way. You're simply pacing yourself."
"You really think I'm not just… hiding?"
He didn't answer immediately. He just watched you, comparing responses behind his eyes.
"I think you're tired." He nodded, knowingly. "And you're hurt. You're protecting yourself the way you know how. That isn't cowardice, though it's definitely not sustainable indefinitely."
Your eyes stung. You blinked fast and looked back at the screen like it could save you from being seen. That'd been your intention after all, coming down here to lose yourself in a crowd, sink into something else for a few mind numbing hours. The ambience of the arcade filled the gap in conversation. A marine laughed down the row from you, their cabinet playing a chiptune victory song that made you feel all the more sour about your own game.
Bishop shifted slightly, a small movement that brought him closer without touching you. "Do you want to continue playing? I could provide assistance with timing, reduce your mortality."
You raised a brow at him, finding the idea of Bishop coaching you at an arcade game rather humorous. "You would do that?"
"I can observe patterns." He bobbed his head. "The sequences may have consistent cues. However, I don't want to reduce your enjoyment if playing alone is more preferable."
"Hah. Enjoyment's a strong word for this game." You laughed, for real this time. It was a masterful work of art, undoubtedly, but infuriating all the same. "Okay, then. Coach me."
"Thank you." His cheeks creased from a brief but wide smile, and you couldn't help but mirror it. "If I may…" He lifted a hand towards yours where it sat positioned on the joystick. "Could I direct your hand?"
It took you more than a second to reply, breath faltering just slightly. You were sure he noticed this, so you rushed to soothe whatever subroutines in his brain might try to tell him he'd made a faux pas. "Yes. Yes, please."
He looked relieved. You relaxed your hand so it wouldn't feel tense when he touched you, though it was difficult not to feel some type of way when his skin met yours. His fingers positioned themselves gingerly betwixt yours. Once comfortable, Bishop's attention returned to the screen, concentrating instantly. It was almost funny, watching him treat the absurdity of the visuals like he would equipment back in the lab. Then you remembered that he treated most things like that, if the person asking him to do so cared enough. You pressed start. Dirk set out and met the hall again.
"Now." Bishop signalled as he gently pressed your hand to the left. The timing was perfect. Dirk leapt to safety with a bold flourish. He squeezed your hand slightly when the sound of success chimed out of the speakers.
You blinked, breathed. "Oh."
"Good job." He encouraged you, though there was never much time to pause during this type of game.
Another trap, a flash of bright color on the source of Dirk's incoming threat.
"Down." Bishop pressed lightly. You obeyed. Dirk ducked, and the arrow booby-trap missed. You made an involuntary sound, some kind of half-laugh, half-disbelieving noise.
"Is this cheating?" You smirked and raised a brow at him.
"This is assisting." Bishop corrected. "Your hand is mainly in control."
"Hmm… if you say so."
You died two scenes later anyway. In the high of making progress, you got excited and jumped Bishop's cue. You groaned and leaned your forehead briefly against the side of the game, making direct eye contact with the wrapped print of the dragon's menacing face.
"Frustration is valid. However, you survived longer."
"Thanks." You mumbled against the cabinet.
"You're welcome."
He hadn't made a move to lift his hand, despite the death screen playing. You straightened as you realized, suddenly, how close Bishop was. You thought about how this was his first time down here, his first time seeing any of these spaces, how he'd come down here and chosen you to stand beside. A weird warm sensation filled your chest. You turned slightly, enough to look at him without fully facing him.
"Did it suck?"
Bishop turned his attention to you from where he'd been studying the menu screen. "The game? No, I had a pleasurable time."
"No, no…" Although it did make you happy he'd had a good time, despite how bad you were at it. "I meant the maintenance."
He was still for a second, scanning his own internal language for the right translation.
"It is… unpleasant to be handled as equipment." He finally decided on saying. "Even when the handling is necessary and professional."
Something behind your ribs panged. "I'm sorry." It came out a little too earnest to hide behind a subsequent joke, your usual attempt at lightening the emotional load of another.
Bishop's expression eased by a degree, even so. "Thank you. I appreciate your concern."
You swallowed. His hand was still alighted on your own. You thought of something, then, and decided to be a little selfish with his time. "What if we played as a team? We both get a button, and… we can still both do the joytstick. If that's okay?"
Technically you were playing as a team already, but… you wanted Bishop to play for himself as well, to feel invited and included. Besides, that other button was hard to remember in the split second frame this game forced you to make decisions within.
The proposition looked like it both confused and interested him. "Are you sure?"
"Oh, because I wouldn't want someone with ace pattern recognition for a partner?" You gave him a look and he fidgeted sheepishly, which you couldn't recall seeing him do before (outside of his usual idle finger-stimming). You'd be damned if you became the source of any of his anxiety, so you nudged him playfully. "C'mon, play with me, Bishop."
He settled. "Hmm… alright. I'll give it a try." You beamed wide as he readjusted his hand to sit over the rightside button, left hand remaining atop yours on the joystick.
The game killed you again eventually, because it always did, but you kept going, giggling under your breath instead of cursing. You failed with less bitterness in your chest. Between attempts, your hand tensed under Bishop's, looking to steady yourself as the game picked up. You were further than you'd ever been before in the story. From the periphery, you saw Bishop look at your hands, then at your face. He pushed the button on time regardless, effortlessly, which gave you a little bit of a thrill.
In between the next scenes, you felt a slight squeeze between your fingers. You glanced just a moment to Bishop, who was studying the incoming sequence.
"To stabilize you." He clarified without looking away, clearing the next cue perfectly. You replied with a worldless 'oh', hoping he knew you weren't phased by the sensation.
He adjusted only a slight bit further, likely measuring his own weight, how much pressure he could comfortably press against you. You appreciated that detail, though you would have taken him at any rate. It only mattered that he was there, reminding you you weren't alone unless you chose to be. Against your own, his fingers were on the cooler side of lukewarm. You hadn't noticed that before, really, your mind focused solely on getting somewhere in this game. He felt smooth, the texture more consistent than standard, but the gentleness of him wasn't simulated at all.
You fixed you eyes back on the screen, nearing the final scenes. With Bishop at the helm beside you, it felt like you had a bit more bandwidth for thought than before.
"What if I can't fix it…?"
Bishop's thumb moved, just barely, a subtle reassurance against your knuckles. "Then you'll still be you. And you'll still have value to the group. And to me."
Your throat contracted again, nearly making you miss a cue. You didn't answer, just squeezed his hand back once with an upward fold of your thumb. It was a small move which could be read as thanks, or as something else, depending on what he wanted to see. If it bothered him, Bishop didn't show it, and didn't try to interpret it out loud.
"Now." He pressed his button, and you followed up in the next three seconds with a final tug on the joystick.
Dirk plunged his sword into the chest of the attacking dragon, felling it in one blow. Your face lit up. The knight plucked the key from the dragon's throat and leapt to Princess Daphne, who sat patiently waiting for him to finally save her from her crystal prison. You looked to the side to see Bishop watching raptly, his mouth open just slightly. You'd seen this final scene before on uploaded records, but it felt ten times as gratifying knowing you'd made it here together.
Daphne pressed an adoring kiss to Dirk's cheek. The screen framed them in a little pink heart before fading to black. It had the effect of a mirror without the backlighting, and you saw your reflection there in the glass, noticing that Bishop was looking at you now instead. You turned to him, hands still slotted together. Maybe it was the high of finally having beaten the game, or the relief you felt at finally feeling anything but deep paranoia for the first time in a week, but a sudden boldness overtook you. You leaned over and pressed a kiss to Bishop's cheek (decidedly less voracious than Daphne — you were pumped up, sure, but you didn't want to overwhelm him).
You let it linger there for a few seconds before retracting suddenly, realizing you hadn't asked if he'd be okay with such a thing. You scanned his face for signs of distress. Bishop raised his free hand from the controls and grazed fingers over the spot you'd kissed him, eyes distant.
"Bishop, I'm sorry, I… I got excited, and we did so well at the game, and —"
"It's alright." He came back to you upon hearing the worry in your voice. He applied the tiniest bit of pressure to the hand that held yours. "I was surprised, but… I'm not opposed to it."
"Oh. Oh, good, then." You blinked, smiled meekly, then looked to the floor. "I'll remember to ask. Next time."
His brows raised a fraction. "Will there be a next time?"
You couldn't help the way your heart sank just a little. "If you want. There doesn't have to be." You really wanted there to be.
He nodded, opened his mouth to reply, then paused, caught on something interior. His brows furrowed. You found yourself wanting to press a thumb between them and rub smooth circles, tamping out his worry completely.
"I do, yes. I would like that." The sentences came out slowly, piece by piece. You wondered if something in his code was challenging him on this. If so, it gratified you to see him challenge right back, or at least push through the snags to say what he really wanted to. You'd be there if it ever became distressing.
"Hmm. Alright, then." You gripped the hand that held yours and swung it off the cabinet deck, pulling Bishop down along the row. "Let's try another one. Think we can find a game you can't pattern-detect?"
"Highly unlikely." He let you lead him forward through the scattered groups, careful not to trip on any stray ankles. "But I don't mind an experiment."
BONUS: epilogue, idea by @/nshtn !!
Everything always felt ten times smaller post-leave. It reminded you a bit of getting back into your mother's van after one of the only camping trips you'd been on as a kid. For a brief moment you had all the world to explore, and then it was back into the cramped interior of a vehicle. Granted, Gateway was hardly comparable to the outings you were afforded as a child, but the metaphor worked in your head. You found a way to adjust back to the steely insides of the Sulaco, leaving the corporate playground behind. Until next time.
Thanks to Bishop's encouragement, you ended up speaking with Drake that evening before it was time to board. Something didn't feel right about returning to the hull with this tension sitting so heavy between you. It turned out he was feeling weird about the whole situation as well, but wasn't sure how to approach it with you. So… he'd been in exactly the same position, much to your relief (and embarrassment). Vasquez was there for the reunion as well, who promptly trapped you in a noogie for being so emotionally constipated. The feeling of alienation melted away slowly once you realized just how warped your brain had made the whole thing seem. You scared the last of that feeling out by joining the others for a final drink at the least expensive Gateway rec bar, an excursion which promptly ended when Hudson threw up trying to tornado an entire beer in one go (for the third time that night).
You caught up with Apone in the bridge while he was lighting up his usual 'welcome back' cigar, trying hard to nonverbally communicate how much he didn't want to be bothered. You burst that bubble right away.
"Hey, Sarge."
"What is it now?" Apone didn't glance up from his lighting job, though the clicker was barely sparking.
"Next time we're on Gateway, I want Bishop to have his own rec floor pass. All-access, permanent. Same as us."
That got Apone's attention. He finally looked back at you with an arched brow, cigar hanging .
"You want what?"
"A pass." You tried to keep your voice firm. "So he doesn't have to wait on maintenance clearance to be allowed to exist like the rest of us. So he can actually… come with us, if he wants."
Apone made a short sound in his throat, either a sigh or swallowing irritation. He flicked his eyes to the corridor, like he expected someone to be listening. Noise leaked down the hall, someone laughing, another complaining about their bunk. Life resumed its patterns.
"Private —" Apone turned back to you. Your stomach tightened, knowing this was how he started when he was about to shut something down. "You know I don't handle corporate policy. That's Gorman, and even he can't pull much power."
"I know." You spoke quickly, a little desperate. "But you run us. You sign off on leave lists. You can ask for exceptions."
Apone just stared back. He pulled his cigar out to hold it between his index and middle, then smiled crookedly, shaking his head.
"Since when do you get sentimental about the android?"
"He's not 'the android'." You bristled, then remembered you needed him to hear you out, not give you an order back down the hall. "And I'm not sentimental. It's just… fair."
Apone sighed, weighing whether you were going to become a problem or whether you already were one. Finally, he jerked his chin down once in a nod.
"All right."
Your chest loosened a fraction. "Yeah?"
"Yeah." He crossed his arms, nodding again slowly, chewing on the idea of what he'd just agreed to. "I'll talk to corporate. Or whoever I can reach that doesn't make my head hurt. No promises. Those corpos like their rules."
"I'm not asking for promises." You offered some reassurance, grateful he was offering at all. "Just… try."
"Yeah, yeah. Go stow your gear. You've got one of the better cots, don't let Hudson make camp on it again."
You almost laughed. "Right away, Sarge."
"Damn right." Apone said more to himself, already turning away. His lighter finally clicked and sparked, and he drew in a heavy pull. He'd need it.
You left him there and headed back down the corridor, swallowed back into the guts of routine. The hallway had emptied out, all noise falling behind you. Suddenly, your footsteps sounded too loud. Everyone must've gone to the mess, or to the common areas closer to the east side. You decided to take the turns faster, assuming you were alone to rush as you pleased; only, on the first edge, you nearly walked straight into someone. You stopped short. So did they.
Bishop stood there, stock still, hands relaxed at his sides, posture calm. For half a second you didn't connect it, just tried to process the sudden shock of nearly toppling over on him.
"Oh!" You gasped, and felt heat crawl up the back of your neck. "You —"
"I overheard." He admitted, tilting his head towards the bridge.
You rose a hand to your forehead and rubbed your temple. "Bishop, I'm sorry. I didn't mean for you to… I mean, I didn't think anyone was —"
"I wasn't intentionally monitoring you." He soothed immediately, halting that exposed feeling of being surveilled before it began. "I was in the corridor helping Frost find his suit. Your voices carried."
You scrubbed a hand over the back of your neck. "Still. I didn't really want anyone else to know about it."
"I understand. And I apologize for listening."
You blinked, confused. "You apologize?"
"Even if the circumstances were incidental, you didn't consent to being heard." He stepped back from the corner to give you a slight bit more room. You relaxed your posture in response, hoping the shift in body language would suggest you weren't put on edge by him.
"Okay. Yeah." You relented. "Well. I didn't mean to make it a big deal, it just… bothered me. That you had to have a technician sign you out. That's not right."
Bishop's expression slackened minutely, the smallest shift of facial mechanisms. "You advocated for me."
"Of course." You nodded, like it was simple, obvious. "I'm kinda shocked it hasn't happened yet, honestly."
Bishop studied your face. He didn't look away bashfully, the way some people did when they were uncomfortable with gratitude.
"Thank you. I know it took considerable effort."
"I mean, I didn't storm the corporate offices, or anything." You couldn't help the snort that came out. "It was just a conversation with Apone."
"That isn't what I mean." He shook his head once. "You placed yourself in a position where you might be dismissed. Or teased, or told no. And you did it anyway. You've recuperated very well from your prior social discouragement."
Ah… well, it was true, wasn't it? Leave it to Bishop to make this into some big statement on your character. You looked past him down the corridor, at nothing really, gradually feeling too overwhelmed to look him in the face.
"I'm tired of things being 'just how it is.'" You sighed. "Especially when 'how it is' translates to some office asshole deciding you get less."
Bishop's voice became quiet, reflective. "I do get less. But I'm accustomed to it."
"That doesn't mean it's acceptable." It was imperative you pushed back against each and every statement like this. He always said these things like he believed them as much as he believed in the ground beneath his feet, like it was all an unquestionable fact of the universe and not some company-programmed grift.
He shifted his weight a little. He might've been unsure how to respond, which made sense to you. It made you a little angry at the thought that it could be his programming keeping him from agreeing outwardly with you.
"There… is something else." Now it was his turn to avert his eyes. "If I may?"
"Yeah?"
"I would like to have joined you." He looked so hopeful and honest it made you feel a little blinded. "More than once, not only for the arcade. For the… casual time. The time that isn't work."
This time, when your chest got all tight, it was painful in a different way.
"You can." It wasn't even a question. "Always, if you want to."
"I do." Bishop slowly but surely punctuated himself with a small smile, which you returned tenfold.
"We'll make it happen, or we'll keep trying until it happens." You tried not to look too affected by the idea that he wanted the same things you did, meaning your eyes strayed everywhere but his face. They landed on his hands, one of which fidgeted a bit at his side.
"Could I…?" He raised the hand up slowly in suggestion. He didn't need to clarify. You understood what he was asking permission for. Touch, contact, a small human thing that pacified most worries. You surmised he'd liked having that contact before, helping your hand along in the game. And… you'd liked it as well.
You answered by meeting him in the middle, folding your fingers in between his easily. He relaxed visibly and you giggled a little at the obviousness of it.
"C'mon, I gotta make sure Hudson hasn't made my cot into a dog bed." You could see him now, passed out in a curled up ball after the liquor finally hit his system. He'd listen to Bishop though, and you had no qualms about using the XO against him.