RotM / TW Prompt 29-2-F
Data sat at the table where he had been dedicating his time to building a power source for Orac. He carefully leafed through one of the issues of The Strand the Doctor had gotten for him. He could move much more quickly, but was handling the magazine with exquisite care until he finally shut the book (which was in excellent condition and made him wonder how recently it had been released when The Doctor retrieved it). He laid it on top of the stack and placed them all back in a plastic container that he carefully sealed. Even lacking the acidic nature of human skin, he didn't wish to disrupt the paper too much or risk any further damage to it.
Swiveling in his chair, the android stared toward the bed in the center of the hotel room. Spot was curled up on the covers, pressed tight to the drape of the covers over Avon's legs and was settled warmly against the back of his knees. She looked quite content there, one arm awkwardly stretched out as if she had forgot she was trying to huddle and her ear bunched under her tilted head in a way that would make her jostle with irritation when she woke.
Avon himself looked content enough, as well. In his waking hours, he usually had a hint of a sleep deprived look. Perhaps it was the nightmares that did it to him; or just a force of habit that he couldn't break. Or he couldn't get out of the mind-set. He always preferred to see the comfort of him in a relaxed rest, whenever he managed it.
Data stood, easing out of the chair so that it wouldn't creak so much before he crossed the room over to the bed.
Over the holiday season, he received a number of excellent gifts. Mystery novels, holosuite programs, even a key for the TARDIS. Somehow, the present Avon gave him was the best of all of them. The simple gift of submission.
He hovered at the side of the bed, staring down at the sleeping man. Well, at first at him... but then at nothing in particular as he thought for a bit, going over everything he'd been learning. He spent most of his thought processes on the inner workings of the mysterious place they were trapped in so often, that he sometimes missed the obvious. The significance in those lingering looks. The fact that Avon would actually touch him and so few others. Despite his own admiration for the scientist and interest in his strength in the face of adversity, he had been unable to connect the pieces.
Focus quickly reattached to the drowsing man, and the android gently touched his hair with a pale finger. The touch grazed twenty-four individual strands with approximately 0.0021 kilograms of pressure. Calculated and exact and mechanical.
The corners of his mouth edged down, frowning at he turned his hand to brush a fingertip over another lock. Thirty-seven strands lacking sufficient oils to be considered optimally healthy.
He dropped his hand to his side, standing and staring robotically down at the human. He appreciated his gift, and he did draw pleasure from it. Compared to his usual input and statistics, that moment had been a considerable achievement. Basic pleasuring programming augmented with a bit of reference for unfamiliar material (which involved him flipping through a rather illicit book at the book store) in combination with responses from his emotion chip. On top of that, there was the gratification that someone that he perceived as incredibly strong-willed would desire him to be in control of them, while so many, even his friends aware of his rank, resisted his authority on the basis that he was a machine. It was very enjoyable for him. However, in comparison to what he knew his positronic brain was capable of receiving, it seemed insufficient for such a considerable moment.
His hand slid to rub the patch of forearm that briefly held human skin once upon a time. He knew he had the appropriate amount of receptors. Why did it prove so difficult to focus on the broad concept rather than the individual sensory analysis? Why was it muddled and stifled by the articulate readings? Why could he not enjoy the act of being intimate precisely as a human could, or at least more similarly?
He had to presume that Dr. Soong had intended for him to gradually develop the capability with perceptual progression as he did with most of his programming developments and evolutions. Though with the damage from the organic materials, the misuse by his brother, and the explosion of the Scimitar might have rendered him incapable of ever utilizing that portion of his programming even if it were to exist.
Expression flinching flat again, he stepped away from that side of the bed to walk quietly around to the other. He didn't want to disrupt the human's sleep, so he carefully settled back onto the bed. He was still fully clothed, even as Avon drowsed nude beneath the covers, but he never really thought to undress for bed as comfort didn't matter.
Comfort didn't matter because he couldn't feel uncomfortable.
He shut his eyes, preparing for a brief period of deactivation, before a pleasantly warm puff of air brushed by his cheek. ...Pleasantly warm. Seventy-eight degrees, he thought in retrospect.
Gold eyes fluttered back open, and he folded his hands over his stomach. It wasn't something he should give up on quite yet. The possibility was still there. He had felt that faint breath first rather than measured it.
Swiveling in his chair, the android stared toward the bed in the center of the hotel room. Spot was curled up on the covers, pressed tight to the drape of the covers over Avon's legs and was settled warmly against the back of his knees. She looked quite content there, one arm awkwardly stretched out as if she had forgot she was trying to huddle and her ear bunched under her tilted head in a way that would make her jostle with irritation when she woke.
Avon himself looked content enough, as well. In his waking hours, he usually had a hint of a sleep deprived look. Perhaps it was the nightmares that did it to him; or just a force of habit that he couldn't break. Or he couldn't get out of the mind-set. He always preferred to see the comfort of him in a relaxed rest, whenever he managed it.
Data stood, easing out of the chair so that it wouldn't creak so much before he crossed the room over to the bed.
Over the holiday season, he received a number of excellent gifts. Mystery novels, holosuite programs, even a key for the TARDIS. Somehow, the present Avon gave him was the best of all of them. The simple gift of submission.
He hovered at the side of the bed, staring down at the sleeping man. Well, at first at him... but then at nothing in particular as he thought for a bit, going over everything he'd been learning. He spent most of his thought processes on the inner workings of the mysterious place they were trapped in so often, that he sometimes missed the obvious. The significance in those lingering looks. The fact that Avon would actually touch him and so few others. Despite his own admiration for the scientist and interest in his strength in the face of adversity, he had been unable to connect the pieces.
Focus quickly reattached to the drowsing man, and the android gently touched his hair with a pale finger. The touch grazed twenty-four individual strands with approximately 0.0021 kilograms of pressure. Calculated and exact and mechanical.
The corners of his mouth edged down, frowning at he turned his hand to brush a fingertip over another lock. Thirty-seven strands lacking sufficient oils to be considered optimally healthy.
He dropped his hand to his side, standing and staring robotically down at the human. He appreciated his gift, and he did draw pleasure from it. Compared to his usual input and statistics, that moment had been a considerable achievement. Basic pleasuring programming augmented with a bit of reference for unfamiliar material (which involved him flipping through a rather illicit book at the book store) in combination with responses from his emotion chip. On top of that, there was the gratification that someone that he perceived as incredibly strong-willed would desire him to be in control of them, while so many, even his friends aware of his rank, resisted his authority on the basis that he was a machine. It was very enjoyable for him. However, in comparison to what he knew his positronic brain was capable of receiving, it seemed insufficient for such a considerable moment.
His hand slid to rub the patch of forearm that briefly held human skin once upon a time. He knew he had the appropriate amount of receptors. Why did it prove so difficult to focus on the broad concept rather than the individual sensory analysis? Why was it muddled and stifled by the articulate readings? Why could he not enjoy the act of being intimate precisely as a human could, or at least more similarly?
He had to presume that Dr. Soong had intended for him to gradually develop the capability with perceptual progression as he did with most of his programming developments and evolutions. Though with the damage from the organic materials, the misuse by his brother, and the explosion of the Scimitar might have rendered him incapable of ever utilizing that portion of his programming even if it were to exist.
Expression flinching flat again, he stepped away from that side of the bed to walk quietly around to the other. He didn't want to disrupt the human's sleep, so he carefully settled back onto the bed. He was still fully clothed, even as Avon drowsed nude beneath the covers, but he never really thought to undress for bed as comfort didn't matter.
Comfort didn't matter because he couldn't feel uncomfortable.
He shut his eyes, preparing for a brief period of deactivation, before a pleasantly warm puff of air brushed by his cheek. ...Pleasantly warm. Seventy-eight degrees, he thought in retrospect.
Gold eyes fluttered back open, and he folded his hands over his stomach. It wasn't something he should give up on quite yet. The possibility was still there. He had felt that faint breath first rather than measured it.