[ With the rise of technology and the constant upgrades being thrown around, it's no surprise that outdated models of everything wind up getting thrown out, scrapped. It ranges from phones to computers early on, but then it starts to shift forward. Robots are scavenged for parts in junkyards, early androids decommissioned, deactivated, and left to rot. If you know where to look, and are willing to look, you can find some pretty damn interesting things.
Derek Hale is pretty willing to look. It's not as if he has an interest in doing anything else, especially considering scrapyards have better things in them than people. He crosses paths with others digging through the wreckage of technology, talks shop with them sometimes and exchanges things that they find, but more or less he's not in this for anyone else. He sells things that he scavenges, repairs, the whole mile, but it's more or less because he can't keep a whole slew of projects around his loft. Not enough room for that.
Sometimes, though, he finds some damn interesting things.
At first, he thinks he's found a dead body it's that realistic. Normally you can tell at a glance the difference between droid and human, but this one makes him double take in alarm for a split second. Looking closer, it's more obvious by the joints and sections that it's not a human, but it doesn't explain what it's-- he's-- doing here. It's not even a model he's seen before, far from the one's that're active in the market, and it completely blows his mind. Meaning, of course, he has to take it home and see why exactly it had been thrown out.
Some people are disturbed by the uncanny valley of androids. Derek just shrugs it off, shrugs out of his jacket, and wraps it up in it to prevent further damage. Finders, keepers.
It's a little lighter than he initially anticipated, and feels ridiculously human. If it weren't for the fact that he can't feel a heartbeat, he'd question whether it really was a droid.
Which is why he pushes aside every other project he's been working on, sitting the android up on the stool he usually uses for robots and droids, and tosses his jacket over the back of the couch as he examines his find. Male-- for all intents and purposes, despite how there's something pretty about some features-- maybe teen or early twenties. Incredible attention to details, considering all the spots everywhere. It-- he looks more human than the current droids on the market.
Opening up the panel on his back? Blows his mind just as much as everything else. This thing has to be fully biomechanical, a whole hell of a lot like prosthetics and implants, just... on a giant scale in comparison, and updated and upgraded more than he's ever seen. But there's a lot of damage, fried chips and overloaded circuits and ruined wires. It takes maybe three hours to salvage what data and parts he can, another hour to replace and reupload, and an hour and a half (give or take) to actually get things... largely operational. Enough that he can power the android up, flicking the metaphorical switch from "off" to "on."
There's a low whirring noise as the android placed in front of Derek starts to come to life, systems coming online slowly but surely. There are still problems--something sparks in the back of his head, once, kind of violently, and there's a faint smell of smoke, and for a second it looks dicey, but--
Systems online.
The voice that comes out is a little bland and boring at first, the typical startup tones of any droid on the market. As his body shifts up a little, robotically, the eyes on the droid blink open to reveal bright, whiskey brown irises, and a moment of a blank stare.
But then, the whole thing seems to come to life.
The android yells-- ] Oh my god! [ In a strangely cracked, pained voice, and jerks backwards, then freezes, nearly falling off of his stool as his limbs work for him and grab onto the chair to keep from completely tipping it over. He stares, wide eyed, at the man in front of him, and the android--Stiles, his memory tells him, looks him over with a little bit of terror in his face.
He couldn't tell you why he was afraid. In fact, it faded in a couple of seconds, into curiosity instead. A scan of his memory banks tell him a few things; his name is Stiles. He has memories that are distinctly human, of a childhood and parents.
That the person in front of him could be harmful, but wasn't the last thing he saw. No, something in his--heart?--tells him this is a lot safer where he has been, but his mouth forms around about fifty questions anyway, maybe a little bit of panic and paranoia in his voice. Androids aren't often spirited away for good reasons. ] Who are you?! Where am I?!
[ It's not difficult to tell that his memory banks are brimming the moment that his systems come online, but just at a glance there seem to be encrypted corners, or entire columns that are offline and are going to require extensive repairs to actually be able to access. Derek has a feeling that the spark at the back at the back of his head and that smell of smoke are partly responsible, but also an after effect. He figured that there would be problems once he got the systems up and running, because the damage was so extensive while he was offline.
However, he absolutely did not expect such a volatile reaction to being reactivated. He jolts where he's seated, setting aside his tablet and leaning back a bit to avoid getting brained when he suddenly jumps to life. His eyebrows raise slowly, surprise obvious even if he's not quite as expressive as the android-- which should be ironic-- and he simply stares at him for a moment as he comes down from his blatant terror.
But he calms down, at least. Honestly, he's never seen an android with so much emotion, and he's dealt with quite a few of them since they hit the public market. This is the most human model he's ever seen, in more ways than one. ]
City lines of Beacon Hills, California. And about to burn through more of your circuitry if you don't calm down. [ Which may or may not be true, he doesn't even know yet, but he doesn't want to take the chance. If the droid does, then he could suffer further memory problems, or even motor functions. Not exactly something he wants, especially if he comes online so spirited every time. ] You were pretty damaged, but I found you and started repairs.
[ He lifts his gloved hands up, picking his diagnostics tablet back up where it's hooked into the android and wiggling it a little. ] Name's Derek. [ Time to see just how programmed this thing is. ] Name and model?
Beacon Hills? [ Home, his memory helpfully supplies. Stiles' shoulders drop and he seems to relax a little more as he takes in the stranger. He seems benevolent, at least for the moment, and Stiles sits back, thinking, trying to remember why he was damaged, or where he last was, or what was wrong--but there's nothing. Just dead silence. His memory banks are full of holes, apparently, a big gaping one in the past month or so, particularly.
Whatever happened, he fixed him up, and that's kind enough. Or at least, mostly trustworthy. A part of his brain (or what should be his brain, anyway) yells at him about paranoia and sex droids (ew) and he eyeballs Derek a little more, but eventually drops the suspicion when he supposedly activates his command bank. ]
Stiles. [ It seems normal for a minute, but then-- ] With an I, not a Y, I'm not a Jersey Shore reject. [ And model? ] Classified.
Beacon Hills. [ Swiveling his chair around Stiles as he seems to process, Derek takes the tablet with him and rolls back to his spot behind him. He's going to have to open his head up, check out what was sparking back there, but he's not about to do it while he's online. The droid is way too human for him to want to try and crack open his head when he's not in sleep mode, at least. It's partially because he has a feeling he wouldn't react very well to it, but mostly because he doesn't want to traumatize him more than he already seems to be.
He lets out a faint sound of acknowledgement at his name, tapping it in for his own use to maybe look up later before he looks back up at him from underneath his brow at the last part. ] Classified. Not really that surprised.
[ And he really isn't, considering how advanced "Stiles" is. ] Your components are still mostly fried, even after preliminary repairs. I'm surprised you're even operational, especially with your memory banks as affected as they are.
It's a backup mechanism. [ He sounds...almost proud when he says that, but it comes out with the practiced ease of someone who knows their stuff about androids. ] Even if the entire motherboard completely short circuits, I've been built with a secondary OS contained in a smaller chip in the frontal cortex of my artificial brain, one that's difficult to reach to destroy without destroying my entire cranial cavity.
[ Stiles blinks. ] I don't know how I know that.
[ He's not really sure how he knows anything besides his name right now, to be honest. Everything is patchy. How he came to be in the scrapyard is very much included, and Stiles' eyebrows furrow a little as he thinks it over, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees and watching the man--Derek--type in his name. ] You saved me, didn't you?
So basically I need to rewire everything to reactivate the primary... [ Derek trails off, half because he's thinking but half because he realizes that Stiles knows about his inner workings when he doesn't really remember anything else. He blinks once, slowly, and stares at Stiles for a moment, regarding him. ]
Ghost memories, probably. [ Whether it's from his creator, built in, or something else, he doesn't know. This has turned into a very interesting puzzle, and suddenly he's glad that he pulled him out the the scrapyard. ] Your secondary OS can't access your memory banks in full, but there's probably imprints from it that line up with the specific files.
[ Going quiet as he considers that, he idly starts tapping in notes to himself before he actually runs full online diagnostics, not really noticing that Stiles is watching him. But with the question, he pauses everything he's doing and sits up from where he's leaned over his work, looking back at him again.
Those eyes are ridiculously human, and it tightens something in his chest. ] In more ways than getting you online again, probably. You were just dumped in a scrapyard. You could've been scavenged, but that's definitely not the worst that could've happened. [ There's a hint of disdain on that last part. Sex droids, ugh. ]
[ Stiles nods, because ghost memories seems like the most logical explanation. It might account for the human life he feels like he knew, too, and he chews it over for a second, working his jaw in a weirdly human motion. ] I guess activating the primary would work. I don't know how to tell you how to fix it though. Or replace parts. [ That would be because every one of his parts is custom made.
(The reason he escaped having his head bludgeoned in was due to the genius of his creator, who'd simply treated him as a unfunctioning work in progress. As far as Stiles currently knew, that's all he'd really been.) ]
[ There's quiet for a minute as Derek runs his diagnostics--Stiles' reflexes are tested, and he lifts his arm, flexes his fingers, makes a fist. His skin ripples for just a second, a faint blue hexagonal pattern, before disappearing completely again, and as Stiles gains control of his hands again, he makes a face and gestures around as he speaks. ] As long as you aren't planning on doing something totally nefarious, we're cool. I mean, I don't know what happened but I really doubt it was anything good.
[ And then because he's Stiles and doesn't really like to focus on what's going on with him, he looks around the loft he's sitting in curiously, brown eyes taking in the entire scope of the place. ] You're a mechanic, but you don't look like you're employed with the government. Dude--[ and yes, he did just say dude. ]--a guy with scruff rooting around in the junkyards, you're not a gearhead hobo, are you?
I'll probably have to modify existing parts of market models or flatout reverse engineer your parts to the best of my abilities to actually replace anything. [ Derek watches him with interest as he continues to do such incredibly mundane things, but mundane to humans, not machinery. Even if it's biomechanical machinery. But after considering him, he goes back to work, going through the motions one by one to see what areas need the most attention first.
He's not blind, he can tell that Stiles is entirely custom made. Whoever built him put a lot of work into him, so he also highly doubts that he was just thrown out. This is going to be one hell of a project.
Looking up from under his brow again at him as he tests his reflexes, he watches his movements, the pattern as it comes alight before fading out again. As he starts to gesticulate, he chuffs something faintly amused to cover up the continuing realization that he's faced with something incredibly human in an engineered skin. ] Considering the level of damage, it really couldn't have been.
[ Something faintly annoyed crosses his brow as he goes back to diagnostics, looking at the screen before he sets it aside and picks up his tools again to start tinkering around in Stiles' back panel. It's easier to just do that than focus directly on the questioning. ] Ex-government, and not a gearhead hobo. Tell me if you feel anything, and watch your knees on the table.
Wow, sour much. [ But any sarcasm (sarcasm from an android, even) fades away after a couple of seconds as he looks forward while Derek starts to work on his back panel. This place is nice, (if hobolike) and there are parts littered everywhere, from all kinds of androids and even old robots, things that are probably fifteen or twenty years older than him.
Derek pokes around in his back and Stiles suddenly squirms away, a laugh barking out of him-- ] Dude, that tickles, watch where you're poking!
[ Which is also extremely weird, but it does. He manages to push himself back to a regular position and holds onto the edge of the table, unable to hold back any more questions. ] Ex-government, really?
[ A flat look is leveled at the back of Stiles' head in response, but Derek doesn't say anything. Just continues poking around in his back panel, listening to the thrum of his circuitry and what he's assuming to be his biomechanics. He's not going to tear him apart to get into his organs, but he moves like he has them and almost seems to breathe, so it wouldn't surprise him. He's infinitely more advanced than any of the parts scattered in the loft, but he'll fix him.
Reaching forward on instinct, he curls his fingers against the bottom of the panel to keep the droid from getting too far from him. ] "Tickling" wasn't exactly what I was expecting.
[ Interesting, though, so he prods a little at the line of circuitry that got him that response. Mostly out of interest for something so human, partially because he just kind of thinks it's funny. ] Is that a question as to why it's "ex" or is it disbelief.
Ohmygod--, quit it! [ Derek prods and Stiles' knee snaps up, and sure enough, he bangs it into the table. ] --Ow, fuck!
[ Pain receptors too, apparently. Groaning a little, the android looks over his shoulder and shoots Derek a look, muttering about how he's not sure if he wants him banging around where he can't see it, and rubs his knee with one hand, trying to relieve the sting that came from the bump. God only know who built him with pain receptors, but he wants to kick them in the knee, see how they'd like it. If only he knew.
A heavy sigh escapes him, and Stiles leans forward a little more, dropping his shoulders down and looking back ahead of him, surveying Derek's tables and zooming his gaze in on his computer screen, trying to read it while he works. ] Why it's ex. Most people who get in that don't get out, right?
I told you to watch your knee. [ Derek figures that's revenge enough for the sour comment, and the wonders why the hell someone built a droid with external pain receptors. This is ridiculous, like they were trying to exactly replicate a human with a machine. Pleasure receptors he's used to, even if they're... really sort of mundane in comparison to the actual nerves and senses that humans have, and kind of ridiculously skeevy to him personally. But this...
Moving on from the tickling, he starts working on figuring out those pain receptors, since he's been given a new task to focus on with that. Now he definitely wants to get his sense of touch at least dampened before he starts really digging around. ]
People died, and I got the hell out. [ There's a bitterness there, somewhere in his voice, but he doesn't expand upon it. Just keeps working, finding Stiles' insides that're newly fried from being put online. ] It was easier to stay off the radar once the Argent regime got competition with Alpha Corp.
Gee, thanks for your concern. Jackass. [ The sass is strong in this one. Either way, he rolls his eyes, drops his head and heaves a sigh. He's not sure how many individualized sensations he has, and a part of him wants to test it out, and a hand comes out to feel the cool metal of the work bench, the tools in front of him. Everything has a sensation, and when he looks at his own hands, there's a fingerprint there, surely unique.
It doesn't really add up. If Stiles didn't know better, didn't have auto-enhancing vision, senses, a unique weaponry attachment--rocket fists, definitely--an intensive memory bank and all of the standard market abilities of a typical droid, he'd just think he was a human.
Curiosity flickers across his face, and he can't help looking backwards. ] Oh. I don't really know anything about that, dude, but that sucks big time. Or--I dunno, maybe it doesn't suck? Freelance, make your own hours, ten times less likely to be brutally assassinated for putting a spark plug in the wrong place...
[ There's the distinct temptation to locate his speech processor, but Derek just keeps his focus on actually important work. Even if it'd be blessedly quiet in comparison to the sassing that he's currently getting from an android that is more than blowing his mind. Besides, letting him talk gets him some interesting tidbits that give a little more insight about him and whoever might've made him.
Whoever might've made him had a poor sense of humor, or a cruel one. He's not sure which one yet.
Either way, this thing-- he's as human as a machine can get.
He looks up from under his brow and over his glasses at him, before scoffing softly and dropping his eyes back down. ] Something like that. People are still assassinated left and right just for breathing the same air as the big name businesses. [ He brings his hand up to put the end of his screwdriver at the corner of his mouth, muttering around it-- ] Brace, this might sting. [ -- before pulling out a chip. ]
[ After nearly a decade with a biomechanic prosthetic, Derek is used to it. The skin feels real, even if the coloration is a little off from his actual skintone after he's let it go for so long without full maintenance. The only real problem is that his lack of proper maintenance and upgrades, focus geared more towards his work than himself, has led to him losing his sense of touch, his fingerprints, and left him with only a faint sense of pressure so that he can still hold his tools. It's enough for him to work with, though, so he does repair jobs with what's needed and leaves it at that.
But it leads to him not realizing that he shouldn't be handling burning hot objects, or picking up sharp tools until afterwards when he has to make sure that his skin is patched up to the best of his upgrades' abilities.
He's in the midst of welding, salvaging an engine and trying to piece it back together, when he takes his glove off to scroll through diagnostics easier, with more traction even with his lack of fingerprints. Getting so caught up in his work, he barely notices when he goes back to work without the glove. He sets his hand against the hot metal, feels the pressure of it beneath his fingertips, but doesn't feel the heat of it.
Even as it starts to burn synthetic skin, he still doesn't notice it. It doesn't really produce that much of a smell, or at least one that can easily be detected over the smell of grease and oil, both synthetic and motor.
This has happened so many times to him that he probably won't even notice until after he's finished working on the engine. ]
[ Stiles has been living here in the Hale loft for quite a while now--for all intents and purposes, it's his home. He loves Derek's cat, watches all of his television, works on his projects occasionally, but mostly just spends his time around the apartment bickering with him over how things work or watching quiz shows. It's not the most interesting life--he can't go outside, because he's some sort of top secret project, classified to all hell, even Stiles knows that much--but it works for them.
Besides, it has Derek in it.
He's still trying to remember things. Day by day, with every checkup they do, something else comes back to him, whether it's something little or something huge. Stiles can't exactly control it, and there are memories of his that he still doesn't know where they come from. Sometimes he knows how to do things he shouldn't be programmed to do, freaks out over things he shouldn't freak out over.
This, though, he feels like, warranted a freakout. Stiles butts his hip into the door of Derek's workshop carrying what looks like breakfast--toast and eggs, nothing super exciting, but breakfast none the less. ] Dude, you have to come out of there to eat eventually--
[ And that's when he stops, because he sees smoke. Stiles' brown eyes widen and immediately every single one of his system warnings jerk to life and it makes his heart, synthetic or not, lurch as he stares at his hand and-- ] Derek!
[ He slams the plate down on the counter and hurries over, grabbing Derek's wrist with surprising force and yanking it away from the engine to look at it. The skin--it's bioskin. His arm's fake, which isn't all that uncommon in this day and age, and it looks old, although now it mostly just looks destroyed. Whatever ache there'd been in his chest untwists itself and Stiles stares at it in horror, then he frowns at him and lifts his hand up, taking it from him like it's nothing and scooting around him to look at it. ] This--are you an idiot?! What the hell's wrong with you, look what you could have done if it was your--you're supposed to have touch sensation, why don't you have touch sensation?!
[ For as much of a loner as Derek is, it's been nice having someone other than his cat around. Paige is good company for him most days, because he hasn't liked people in years, but Stiles is... Good. Stiles isn't so much a project now as he is sort of actually his roommate of some sort, and maybe his friend. Overall, though, he can't really treat him like the android he is. He's way too human for it, and gets more and more so as the days go by. They keep finding out things about him, and it's... somewhat alarming.
He's a top secret project, all right. But part of him does actually want to bring Stiles out of the house, take him into the city. Even if he knows how damn risky that'd be.
But it's the least he deserves, for making sure Derek actually eats and sleeps in a bed instead of on whatever project has his attention at the moment. He takes care of his cat, gives her affection when he's preoccupied. Works on things that he's had on the backburner for ages even as he shouts at his TV when they're airing a quiz show. And, really, he's seen the world somehow before. He had to have. Maybe going out to the city will help him remember more, things that he can't reach during checkups.
Right now, though, he's focusing on Derek's wellfare. After so long without anyone really caring about him like this, it's incredibly foreign. He lets out an affirmative grunt in response to his voice at first, but jolts when he shouts his name and slams down the plate.
And then he blinks into awareness behind his glasses, looking at him through the protective lenses as surface data for the engine is replaced by surface readings for Stiles. His heart might be synthetic, but it's pounding in his chest and his pupils are constricted, and--
Oh. He looks at his hand. ]
I have pressure sensitivity but every other sensation has been offline for a year to two, depending on which we're talking about. [ Flexing his fingers, he watches as it sparks, grimacing a little but not from pain. This time, it's really beyond a patch repair. ]
[ Stiles' mouth drops open, and he stares at him like he's totally one hundred percent certifiable for a second, looking between his hand and the engine. This-- ]
I can fix this, you--you have to let me fix this, oh my god. This is a travesty. [ Is what comes out of his mouth, as the android basically manipulates his hand, starting to pull at the bioskin, checking the circuits underneath (and the ones that were visible thanks to the engine's heat) and mutters to himself about visibility issues and melted circuits. His gaze readjusts and recalibrates, picking out important detailings on the hand, a familiar signature on the inside wrist joint, although Stiles can't quite pick out why. That's the least of his concerns, frankly, and he basically starts pulling, using the momentum of Derek's rolling chair and his own strength to try and haul the mechanic across the room, to where Derek had set aside some tools for him when he showed an interest in tinkering.
And when he couldn't get Derek to move, Stiles just changes tactics and clears off the big work table--then, he pulls off the big sweatshirt he'd borrowed from Derek to wear around the house and piles it up like a pillow on the end. He leaves the room in a flurry and comes back with a sheet, which he throws over the table, and then, very emphatically, Stiles points at the table-slash-workbed. ] Lay down. Right now.
[ What honestly keeps Derek from moving very easily is the fact that he's, frankly, shocked by Stiles' reaction. It isn't that farfetched for the android, given what he's learned about him since putting him online again, but at the same time it's hard for him to really process his reaction to the damage of his hand. Few people are left that sincerely care about him, to be perfectly honest. And if they do, there's still something like an ulterior motive attached.
So the fact that Stiles' worry is genuine is more what sideswipes him than anything else, especially since he's not meant to feel as much as he does. Jesus, what the hell is Stiles?
The chair moves a little, but Derek's feet are planted in a way that restricts movement. He's about to say something, opening his mouth even as the rest of him is more mobile, allowing Stiles to manipulate him so that he can look at the damage, see what he's working with, moving him this way and that. But then he clicks it shut again as Stiles strips his shirt, then disappears, looking at the table.
And then he looks at Stiles as he lays the sheet over it, eyebrows raising at the demand. But rather than argue, he simply takes off his glasses and sets them aside so that he can get up, moving to the table and following orders. ]
[ Stiles disappears from the room again when Derek lays down--he does nod for a second, like that's what he needed, and then he's gone from the work room, picking up parts and pieces from the loft with a purpose. Sharp brown eyes analyze, grab, discard, until he's got a box full of stuff, topped with the toolbox Derek got him a while back, and Stiles returns with the box, setting it down with a loud thump and stealing Derek's rolling chair from beside the engine he was working on, rolling across the floor.
From there, he just grabs the broken hand, literally manipulating him until the burnt part is in his lap and scoffs at the ruined circuitry. ] I can't believe you don't get regular updates. What kind of a mechanic are you?! Hey, spoilers, a mechanic who apparently doesn't know that touching hot stuff means fire.
[ But his touch is delicate as he starts working, grabbing a tool from the box and starting to gingerly remove the ruined circuits. In fact, it's the kind of work like it's someone who knows what he was doing, which is...kind of odd, for a droid that's not exactly a service bot. But then again, Stiles has done nothing but be odd since his arrival. ]
[ While Stiles disappears off to, undoubtedly, go through the loft for bits and pieces to do the repairs with, Derek props his chin in his hand where he lays and looks down at the damage. He doesn't have the enhanced sight that Stiles does, the calibrations that render the glasses that the mechanic tends to wear obsolete-- because Stiles is more enhanced than anything he has in his workshop, there's no way he isn't more advanced than his glasses that actually do get regular upgrades-- but he can tell the general damage. Heat does a lot to electronics, biomechanics, everything. So, he's not surprised by what he sees.
Instead of poking around at it, though, he looks at Stiles as he comes back in. And then he just lets him have his hand, dropping down so that his flesh-and-blood arm is wrapped around the lump of the sweater and his chin is propped on it. ] I know that touching hot stuff means fire, smartass. I just went from wearing a glove to not and... [ Forgot. It doesn't make him much smarter, though, so he just cuts off and goes quiet for a while.
Stiles is nothing if not odd, but he's trying to piece together what makes him so human, what makes him what he is. He blows out a noisy breath after a little bit, cheek nestled in the crook of his elbow as he watches him work. He can feel the pressure, just barely now, but there's no pain from the circuits being removed. ]
I have more important things to upgrade. [ It's muttered into his forearm, quiet. ]
How is taking care of yourself not important? [ Good, he better sound petulant. The worry is only just starting to come out of Stiles' voice--it's replaced with something soft and maybe a little affectionate, if exasperatedly so. It doesn't really surprise him that Derek forgot, now that he knows. He's that kind of guy, always putting literally everything before his own needs.
Sometimes, Stiles is included in that.
He carefully picks a few pieces of ruined bioskin out of his circuits. Everything's quiet for a little while as Stiles works, quick brown eyes scanning over the broken parts. It's ruined, but not unfixable, and slowly, he starts to fix pieces, replacing and rewiring and moving throughout his arm. And if there was any doubt that he was worried--which, strange enough--then it's absolutely obvious in his tone as he pauses and rests his hand on the living skin around his elbow instead. ] What would have happened if you did this with your other hand?
[ In the end, he decides that answering that question would be a stupid thing to do. Derek's self-depreciation knows no bounds, and his self-sacrifice follows suit shortly behind on its coattails. He's had it pointed out to him more than once, been told by others that are either gone or ghosts, and it's not as if they're telling him something that he doesn't know already. But he still continues to get caught up in his work, devoting more time and energy to projects than his own prosthetic.
More time and energy to Stiles, whose memory is gone and who "wakes up" screaming sometimes.
During the silence, his eyes focus on the movement of Stiles' for some time, taking in how he scans over everything while he works on repairs. But then he pauses, and he can actually feel the warmth of his touch-- bioskin warmed by running circuitry, soft like human skin, touch more human than anyone else's he's come in contact with for a long time-- and Derek's eyes are drawn down to his other hand. His fingers flex a little while he speaks. ]
With natural pain receptors still kicking? First degree burns. With the same amount of exposure to the metal? Third degree burns, probably.
Exactly. And you didn't know, third degree burns are horrible. [ He's mostly saying that to be a smartass, but the irony's not lost that he probably shouldn't know that. Sometimes Stiles wonders, too--wakes up from dreams that aren't his confused and shaking like he shouldn't be able to. Sometimes everything in his system goes into complete and total overdrive, and his brain says "overheat" but his heart says panic attack, and sometimes it's confusing just to be Stiles. Every day comes through a fog, and the more he learns about his life with Derek, about life in general, the closer it seems his memories are, but there's still something missing.
Still--if anyone could help him fix it, it would be Derek.
The chiding reproach to his tone calms down a little, and Stiles is quiet for a little longer, another twenty minutes or so. The only sound is the soft whirring of his own circuits, just faint enough to catch if you're listening, and really, one of the only telltales that he's not exactly human. Stiles' deft fingers replace a circuit with a little sizzle, turning his pliers just so and smiling as he pulls away a bit. It still looks like a hot mess, but, he carefully presses his fingertips to Derek's artificial ones, his own bioskin to Derek's currently exposed inner roboskeleton. ] ...how's that?
Oh, trust me. I know. [ Stiles says it to be a smartass, and maybe they should question why Stiles knows it, but even in the quiet way he says it Derek means it. He knows. He's felt it first-hand, seen what it does when it's not localized to just one area, given repairs to prosthetics used to replace limbs lost to the damage. There are some days where he has phantom limb syndrome, where he thinks he feels more than just pressure sensitivity, where there's something more. It tends to be when he curls his fingers around the back of Stiles' neck, gentling and trying to soothe from whatever night terror has come for him. Whatever ghost in the system skirts across his awareness, haunting him with memories locked away.
Stiles makes him feel like a person again. If he can do anything to repay him for that, he'll fight to get his memories back. To find out everything they possibly can.
There's something soothing about listening to the sound of Stiles' systems humming and whirling, almost breathing and alive but still robotic at its core. His eyes fall half-closed as he watches him, shoulders slumping a little where he lays as he simply lets himself start to zone out-- it's easy to do, even as his mind registers what it is that Stiles' dextrous hands are doing. It's only when he feels pressure again, fingers twitching in response, that he really comes back to the moment. ] Good news is that I actually felt that.
Just the pressure, or? [ Stiles frowns as he runs his fingers over the spot again, this time a little gentler, more of a caress than just a poke to see if it's working. It's his touch that belies his emotions--he was terrified when he smelled the smoke, because he thought Derek had injured himself (again, his mind supplies) and he was going to lose him to the machines he was always neck deep in.
A part of Stiles is afraid to get his memories back. He's curious--of course he is, how could you not be?--but he likes this life. He likes the way Derek looks when he's working on his circuitry sometimes, he likes the cat that leaps in his lap and doesn't even get angry when he pets her and it makes static dance across her fur, he likes watching tv programs while Derek works on his back. This is a good life. It must not be as exciting as his old one had been, but...Stiles likes it. Loves it, even, which is something he 100% should not be able to do.
Grumbling to himself, he pulls up his tools again, bringing his knees up to the table to lay Derek's hand across it so he can try and fix it again, only pausing to open up a half put together piece he'd grabbed from the workroom and make a joyful "aha!" when he pulls out a tiny chip. There's some more fidgeting as he carefully puts it into place, and the skin around Derek's wrist ripples, changing from the odd, dull coloration of a prosthetic to match that of the rest of his arm--the change goes all the way down, blue lines crisscrossing and reforming across broken pieces until the bioskin starts to repair itself. Stiles sits back a little and practically preens as it does, too. ]
Pressure and temperature. [ Part of him is thankful that there's no pain receptors apparently operational, but Derek would just grit his teeth through it because, honestly? He's dealt with worse before. Which is a generally terrible thing, and he's been told as much before, but it's his life, he will sardonically admit. But he needs to start being more careful now, because it's not just a cat that can easily slip out to live her life somewhere much better that he's taking care of now.
He watches Stiles attentively, the lower part of his face tucked against his forearm as eyes track every movement. At first, he'd really considered Stiles both an interesting project and an absolute nuisance. He's annoying and nosy and stubborn and has something to say about everything. But he's gotten used to it, has seen the better parts-- he's clever and eager, his snark is a perfect match for Derek's, and he's rather passionate. Rather compassionate, though he tends to pretend he isn't. He is multifaceted and none of it is a generated personality. Stiles is human, more human than any person he's ever met.
A big part of him doesn't want Stiles to leave.
Keeping his prosthetic limp and letting him move it where he wants, a small smile curls across his face, hidden, when Stiles retrieves the chip. It's tiny and affectionate and he keeps it tucked away for now, before his eyebrows quirk up and his eyes follow Stiles' deft fingers, the tools he uses. There's a quiet sort of curiosity there, because he recognizes the mundane function of the chip, but then--
Stiles, once again, shows he's not just any android. Shifting his weight up a little, he twitches his fingers and watches the bioskin slowly piece itself back together, turning his hand over. ]
[ Stiles is pretty much beaming the moment the skin starts forming--his brown eyes fly over the moving lights, carefully cataloging every change and making sure that Derek's vitals don't ever change. They don't, marking it a success, and the droid basically preens as hair follicles sprout to match his other arm, as if there was no damage at all. ] You've been living in the stone age, man.
[ They've got everything these days--droids are programmed to do anything and everything, and hell, Stiles is a perfect example of that. There's a part of him that says how much he loves to work with them, but...that doesn't make any sense. He's starting to put together clues on who he might have been, or who he might know, or something--an engineer, maybe.
He shouldn't have known how to do what he just did. Stiles doesn't have any programming for engineering, but he knows, deep in his circuits (hell, in his bones) how to do it, which way his hands should go, how things fit together. It's weird and he doesn't want to think about it, because the more he figures out about himself, the more he knows he's gonna have to leave.
His smile softens a little bit, and Stiles' hand falls into his, unthinkingly. ] Good as new.
[ Slowly, Derek flexes his fingers as the flesh forms over his fingertips. The whorls of his fingerprints are almost fascinating to watch reform, because he's fairly certain he hasn't seen them there in quite some time now. They're foreign, in a way, but he eventually lifts his gaze to Stiles' face again. ] Only personally, apparently.
[ Once upon a time, maybe he'd have pulled his hand away. It wouldn't have been that long ago, in the grand scheme of things, but he still would have done it. Contact with people is one of the things he finds himself frequently avoiding it, especially at the hands-- there are so many bad memories attached to the touch-- and people have started to label him as a recluse.
Maybe he is. But he has his mystery droid, the one that's more human than anyone else he's ever met, who could leave at any point because he might remember who he is.
His fingers curl around Stiles', just that tiny bit longer but that much broader, and he practically relishes in the way that he can feel the actual pressure. The way he can feel the warmth of his circuitry against his, the friction of artificial skin together. ]
It's self repairing, for the most part. [ His thumb drifts across his palm for a second, slow and maybe a little purposeful, because he likes it, likes the feeling of artificial skin on skin, the sparks it sends into his system. He knows he shouldn't be able to feel those receptions, because pleasure receptors are just as new on the market as pain ones, but he has them, and now Derek does too.
Or, the pleasure ones, at least. He wasn't going to put in the pain ones--Derek's had enough struggle in his life. (Plus Stiles has a feeling this is not the first time he's unknowingly stuck his hand on an engine.)
But, especially with his arm fixed, Derek is a remarkable example of humanity. Droids can be anything, if they really want to be, and Stiles is an example of that, but human? Human is a step out of his grasp. A part of him thinks that he loves Derek, in the way that a droid shouldn't be able to, and another part practically begs the question of how much more he could if he were human.
How easy it would be for Derek to return it, that way.
Slowly, he pulls his hand out of his, fists them a little awkwardly in his lap. Stupid. ] That should fix all your problems.
If only I'd had that beforehand. [ There's no complaints about his touch, and he simply settles there, watching the movements of his thumb against his palm before he lifts his eyes up to look at him again. Derek doesn't think about the pain receptors, doesn't even realize that they haven't been reactivated. But it's Stiles-- if he ever notices, he wouldn't be surprised in the least bit. Because it's Stiles, and that's such a human explanation. That he doesn't want someone to experience pain, that he cares enough about someone that way that he would turn off their pain receptors.
But it's such a strange concept. He's an android, advanced as he is, but he's so ridiculously human. If he didn't know better, if he hadn't been in Stiles' insides himself, he would think that he truly was human. And that part is what gets him, even as he feels something tighten in his chest towards him.
They have constant arguments, stupid banter, quiet moments where they simply enjoy one anothers' company while Derek does repairs. They're so disgustingly domestic that it's so easy for him to forget that he's an android, and that he's not supposed to feel this way-- that neither of them are supposed to feel this way.
He lets Stiles draw his hand back, bringing his own up to rub at his wrist and feel along the synthetic skin. He nods, quietly, instead of saying anything for a moment.
But then he shifts his weight, sits upright, and cocks his head a little towards him. ] You know, I think we're overdue for going into town.
[ Stiles scoffs under his breath, a low "you think?", but for as huffy as it sounds, it's laced with something that could only be described as worry. It wasn't just a "who's going to take care of me" when he'd smelled the burnt bioskin--it was the actual, painful lurch of his heart and stomach that he may never see Derek again, may never hear him bark at him for something stupid or argue with him over answer technicalities on Jeopardy, never catch him flashing a gaze that was so warm that Stiles always thought he imagined it. That was terrifying, to the point of where he could feel his systems dangerously close to that overheat again, as if he was going to have a panic attack.
Everything was stabilized, now, and he tries to pretend that it had always been that way, that he was calm and as machinelike as he really should have been. Reconciling the side of him that he thinks might be human and the rest of him is difficult--there is no happy medium.
When Derek sits up, Stiles watches him carefully, keeping his gaze on his hand to make sure nothing goes wrong, but he speaks and his attention snaps back up towards his face, eyes flicking back from blue to amber and going comically wide. ] ...Seriously?
[ Deigning not to reply to the huffy response, Derek instead turns his attention back down to his hand as he considers it. They went from simply coexisting together in this somewhat volatile mix to actually being something like friends, to... something else. He doesn't know what they really qualify as, at this point, but it's not something that a lot of people would look well upon if they knew Stiles was not as human as he acts. There are those that "fall in love" with their droids, take things one step too far. Derek doesn't like people, makes it clear frequently, but he'd never considered that. Not once.
And then there's Stiles, who hums off-key to bad pop songs in the kitchen, who doesn't wait for the question to be fully read on Jeopardy before he answers, plays with his cat on the floor when he doesn't pay attention to either of them. Sleeps in his bed-- and actually sleeps, doesn't go into sleep mode where all of his systems ease to a halt but instead breathes and shifts and mumbles. Stiles is that real boy fairytales tell you about, stuck in the body of an android.
Derek lifts his eyes to catch his reaction, and he offers him an actual smile before he slips off the table and to his feet. ]
Dude--yes! Oh my god, that'd be friggin sweet! [ Jumping up in a jerk of his limbs, Stiles practically trips over himself to try and get up and grab another shirt that isn't totally splattered in oil-- trying to clean up after Derek's accident had not been an easy task--and he throws a grin over his shoulder as he tumbles into the dresser nearest to the bed. He doesn't really have any stuff of his own, so it's borrowing Derek's shirt for now, and he pulls a soft gray henley over his head before shuffling into a pair of shoes. ]
Can we go see a movie? Or like, go to the chop shop to look at parts, because I was working on this thing for Paige and I need-- [ He starts to list off a few absurdly complicated sounding parts, then jams his hands in the pockets of his sweatpants, rocking backwards on his heels. ] No, I never wanna go, of course I wanna go now!
[ A bark of a laugh is startled out of him as Stiles trips over himself and goes to change his shirt, though Derek follows after him at a much more sedate pace to do the same. He pulls his original shirt over his head, covered in burnt marks and oil and grease as many of his work shirts are. He uses it to clean off his hands before tossing it over to where the hamper sits, and then ducks around Stiles as he goes to grab a pair of shoes to put on. While he sorts through his shirts, he absently makes a mental note to get Stiles some clothes of his own.
For as much as he likes how the droid looks in his things, he really needs his own if he's going to start sneaking him into the city more frequently. ]
We can go do whatever you want, Stiles. Just remember that we have to be careful. [ As he pulls on his own henley, he turns to look at him, reaching a hand out to tap the back of his knuckles against his chest. It feels completely human through the worn cotton, but he knows better. ] In case you're recognized in a bad way.
[ his enthusiasm is pretty damn unstoppable--stiles has literally never been out of this apartment, as least as far as he remembers. for all he knows, the rest of his life could be outside these doors, but the thought's sobering as much as it is exciting, because it would be...well, it'd be a strange life without derek in it. an unhappy one, certainly.
he didn't need a fancy mechanic to fix his parts when derek had done such a good job. but a part of stiles thought that derek needed someone to touch up his parts every once in a while, whether they were mechanic ones or normal ones.
stopping when he's pressed against, he snorts and rolls his eyes, grabbing his wrist with light fingers. ] Dude, I got this.
[ when he turns away, it's to rifle through drawers--he trots back to derek with a purple beanie and a pair of work glasses, which he pulls on and holds his hands out in a jazz hands motion. ] Indestructible disguise.
[ Mentally compiling all the things that could go wrong at all the places they could go to, he tries hard not to think that every single one of them could happen. They won't, they don't have that horrible of luck. But their luck is bad enough that at least three horrible things could very well happen.
Still, he's not going to dampen Stiles' spirits. He lets his fingers curl around his wrist, not pulling away as he would have in the first week of knowing each other. And as he turns away to go dig around-- when did he ever get a beanie?-- he just shakes his head and reaches to get his jacket.
Derek stares at him as he offers his jazz hands, and his eyebrows slowly raise. They've got this weird chemistry, but it's suddenly skyrocketed because there is just something about Stiles in those glasses that's attractive. But he shoves it down, rolling his eyes instead. ] Right, indestructible.
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tl;dr tl;dr
Derek Hale is pretty willing to look. It's not as if he has an interest in doing anything else, especially considering scrapyards have better things in them than people. He crosses paths with others digging through the wreckage of technology, talks shop with them sometimes and exchanges things that they find, but more or less he's not in this for anyone else. He sells things that he scavenges, repairs, the whole mile, but it's more or less because he can't keep a whole slew of projects around his loft. Not enough room for that.
Sometimes, though, he finds some damn interesting things.
At first, he thinks he's found a dead body it's that realistic. Normally you can tell at a glance the difference between droid and human, but this one makes him double take in alarm for a split second. Looking closer, it's more obvious by the joints and sections that it's not a human, but it doesn't explain what it's-- he's-- doing here. It's not even a model he's seen before, far from the one's that're active in the market, and it completely blows his mind. Meaning, of course, he has to take it home and see why exactly it had been thrown out.
Some people are disturbed by the uncanny valley of androids. Derek just shrugs it off, shrugs out of his jacket, and wraps it up in it to prevent further damage. Finders, keepers.
It's a little lighter than he initially anticipated, and feels ridiculously human. If it weren't for the fact that he can't feel a heartbeat, he'd question whether it really was a droid.
Which is why he pushes aside every other project he's been working on, sitting the android up on the stool he usually uses for robots and droids, and tosses his jacket over the back of the couch as he examines his find. Male-- for all intents and purposes, despite how there's something pretty about some features-- maybe teen or early twenties. Incredible attention to details, considering all the spots everywhere. It-- he looks more human than the current droids on the market.
Opening up the panel on his back? Blows his mind just as much as everything else. This thing has to be fully biomechanical, a whole hell of a lot like prosthetics and implants, just... on a giant scale in comparison, and updated and upgraded more than he's ever seen. But there's a lot of damage, fried chips and overloaded circuits and ruined wires. It takes maybe three hours to salvage what data and parts he can, another hour to replace and reupload, and an hour and a half (give or take) to actually get things... largely operational. Enough that he can power the android up, flicking the metaphorical switch from "off" to "on."
Here goes. ]
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1%.
10%.
50%.
There's a low whirring noise as the android placed in front of Derek starts to come to life, systems coming online slowly but surely. There are still problems--something sparks in the back of his head, once, kind of violently, and there's a faint smell of smoke, and for a second it looks dicey, but--
Systems online.
The voice that comes out is a little bland and boring at first, the typical startup tones of any droid on the market. As his body shifts up a little, robotically, the eyes on the droid blink open to reveal bright, whiskey brown irises, and a moment of a blank stare.
But then, the whole thing seems to come to life.
The android yells-- ] Oh my god! [ In a strangely cracked, pained voice, and jerks backwards, then freezes, nearly falling off of his stool as his limbs work for him and grab onto the chair to keep from completely tipping it over. He stares, wide eyed, at the man in front of him, and the android--Stiles, his memory tells him, looks him over with a little bit of terror in his face.
He couldn't tell you why he was afraid. In fact, it faded in a couple of seconds, into curiosity instead. A scan of his memory banks tell him a few things; his name is Stiles. He has memories that are distinctly human, of a childhood and parents.
That the person in front of him could be harmful, but wasn't the last thing he saw. No, something in his--heart?--tells him this is a lot safer where he has been, but his mouth forms around about fifty questions anyway, maybe a little bit of panic and paranoia in his voice. Androids aren't often spirited away for good reasons. ] Who are you?! Where am I?!
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However, he absolutely did not expect such a volatile reaction to being reactivated. He jolts where he's seated, setting aside his tablet and leaning back a bit to avoid getting brained when he suddenly jumps to life. His eyebrows raise slowly, surprise obvious even if he's not quite as expressive as the android-- which should be ironic-- and he simply stares at him for a moment as he comes down from his blatant terror.
But he calms down, at least. Honestly, he's never seen an android with so much emotion, and he's dealt with quite a few of them since they hit the public market. This is the most human model he's ever seen, in more ways than one. ]
City lines of Beacon Hills, California. And about to burn through more of your circuitry if you don't calm down. [ Which may or may not be true, he doesn't even know yet, but he doesn't want to take the chance. If the droid does, then he could suffer further memory problems, or even motor functions. Not exactly something he wants, especially if he comes online so spirited every time. ] You were pretty damaged, but I found you and started repairs.
[ He lifts his gloved hands up, picking his diagnostics tablet back up where it's hooked into the android and wiggling it a little. ] Name's Derek. [ Time to see just how programmed this thing is. ] Name and model?
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Whatever happened, he fixed him up, and that's kind enough. Or at least, mostly trustworthy. A part of his brain (or what should be his brain, anyway) yells at him about paranoia and sex droids (ew) and he eyeballs Derek a little more, but eventually drops the suspicion when he supposedly activates his command bank. ]
Stiles. [ It seems normal for a minute, but then-- ] With an I, not a Y, I'm not a Jersey Shore reject. [ And model? ] Classified.
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He lets out a faint sound of acknowledgement at his name, tapping it in for his own use to maybe look up later before he looks back up at him from underneath his brow at the last part. ] Classified. Not really that surprised.
[ And he really isn't, considering how advanced "Stiles" is. ] Your components are still mostly fried, even after preliminary repairs. I'm surprised you're even operational, especially with your memory banks as affected as they are.
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[ Stiles blinks. ] I don't know how I know that.
[ He's not really sure how he knows anything besides his name right now, to be honest. Everything is patchy. How he came to be in the scrapyard is very much included, and Stiles' eyebrows furrow a little as he thinks it over, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees and watching the man--Derek--type in his name. ] You saved me, didn't you?
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Ghost memories, probably. [ Whether it's from his creator, built in, or something else, he doesn't know. This has turned into a very interesting puzzle, and suddenly he's glad that he pulled him out the the scrapyard. ] Your secondary OS can't access your memory banks in full, but there's probably imprints from it that line up with the specific files.
[ Going quiet as he considers that, he idly starts tapping in notes to himself before he actually runs full online diagnostics, not really noticing that Stiles is watching him. But with the question, he pauses everything he's doing and sits up from where he's leaned over his work, looking back at him again.
Those eyes are ridiculously human, and it tightens something in his chest. ] In more ways than getting you online again, probably. You were just dumped in a scrapyard. You could've been scavenged, but that's definitely not the worst that could've happened. [ There's a hint of disdain on that last part. Sex droids, ugh. ]
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(The reason he escaped having his head bludgeoned in was due to the genius of his creator, who'd simply treated him as a unfunctioning work in progress. As far as Stiles currently knew, that's all he'd really been.) ]
[ There's quiet for a minute as Derek runs his diagnostics--Stiles' reflexes are tested, and he lifts his arm, flexes his fingers, makes a fist. His skin ripples for just a second, a faint blue hexagonal pattern, before disappearing completely again, and as Stiles gains control of his hands again, he makes a face and gestures around as he speaks. ] As long as you aren't planning on doing something totally nefarious, we're cool. I mean, I don't know what happened but I really doubt it was anything good.
[ And then because he's Stiles and doesn't really like to focus on what's going on with him, he looks around the loft he's sitting in curiously, brown eyes taking in the entire scope of the place. ] You're a mechanic, but you don't look like you're employed with the government. Dude--[ and yes, he did just say dude. ]--a guy with scruff rooting around in the junkyards, you're not a gearhead hobo, are you?
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He's not blind, he can tell that Stiles is entirely custom made. Whoever built him put a lot of work into him, so he also highly doubts that he was just thrown out. This is going to be one hell of a project.
Looking up from under his brow again at him as he tests his reflexes, he watches his movements, the pattern as it comes alight before fading out again. As he starts to gesticulate, he chuffs something faintly amused to cover up the continuing realization that he's faced with something incredibly human in an engineered skin. ] Considering the level of damage, it really couldn't have been.
[ Something faintly annoyed crosses his brow as he goes back to diagnostics, looking at the screen before he sets it aside and picks up his tools again to start tinkering around in Stiles' back panel. It's easier to just do that than focus directly on the questioning. ] Ex-government, and not a gearhead hobo. Tell me if you feel anything, and watch your knees on the table.
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Derek pokes around in his back and Stiles suddenly squirms away, a laugh barking out of him-- ] Dude, that tickles, watch where you're poking!
[ Which is also extremely weird, but it does. He manages to push himself back to a regular position and holds onto the edge of the table, unable to hold back any more questions. ] Ex-government, really?
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Reaching forward on instinct, he curls his fingers against the bottom of the panel to keep the droid from getting too far from him. ] "Tickling" wasn't exactly what I was expecting.
[ Interesting, though, so he prods a little at the line of circuitry that got him that response. Mostly out of interest for something so human, partially because he just kind of thinks it's funny. ] Is that a question as to why it's "ex" or is it disbelief.
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[ Pain receptors too, apparently. Groaning a little, the android looks over his shoulder and shoots Derek a look, muttering about how he's not sure if he wants him banging around where he can't see it, and rubs his knee with one hand, trying to relieve the sting that came from the bump. God only know who built him with pain receptors, but he wants to kick them in the knee, see how they'd like it.
If only he knew.A heavy sigh escapes him, and Stiles leans forward a little more, dropping his shoulders down and looking back ahead of him, surveying Derek's tables and zooming his gaze in on his computer screen, trying to read it while he works. ] Why it's ex. Most people who get in that don't get out, right?
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Moving on from the tickling, he starts working on figuring out those pain receptors, since he's been given a new task to focus on with that. Now he definitely wants to get his sense of touch at least dampened before he starts really digging around. ]
People died, and I got the hell out. [ There's a bitterness there, somewhere in his voice, but he doesn't expand upon it. Just keeps working, finding Stiles' insides that're newly fried from being put online. ] It was easier to stay off the radar once the Argent regime got competition with Alpha Corp.
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It doesn't really add up. If Stiles didn't know better, didn't have auto-enhancing vision, senses, a unique weaponry attachment--rocket fists, definitely--an intensive memory bank and all of the standard market abilities of a typical droid, he'd just think he was a human.
Curiosity flickers across his face, and he can't help looking backwards. ] Oh. I don't really know anything about that, dude, but that sucks big time. Or--I dunno, maybe it doesn't suck? Freelance, make your own hours, ten times less likely to be brutally assassinated for putting a spark plug in the wrong place...
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Whoever might've made him had a poor sense of humor, or a cruel one. He's not sure which one yet.
Either way, this thing-- he's as human as a machine can get.
He looks up from under his brow and over his glasses at him, before scoffing softly and dropping his eyes back down. ] Something like that. People are still assassinated left and right just for breathing the same air as the big name businesses. [ He brings his hand up to put the end of his screwdriver at the corner of his mouth, muttering around it-- ] Brace, this might sting. [ -- before pulling out a chip. ]
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But it leads to him not realizing that he shouldn't be handling burning hot objects, or picking up sharp tools until afterwards when he has to make sure that his skin is patched up to the best of his upgrades' abilities.
He's in the midst of welding, salvaging an engine and trying to piece it back together, when he takes his glove off to scroll through diagnostics easier, with more traction even with his lack of fingerprints. Getting so caught up in his work, he barely notices when he goes back to work without the glove. He sets his hand against the hot metal, feels the pressure of it beneath his fingertips, but doesn't feel the heat of it.
Even as it starts to burn synthetic skin, he still doesn't notice it. It doesn't really produce that much of a smell, or at least one that can easily be detected over the smell of grease and oil, both synthetic and motor.
This has happened so many times to him that he probably won't even notice until after he's finished working on the engine. ]
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Besides, it has Derek in it.
He's still trying to remember things. Day by day, with every checkup they do, something else comes back to him, whether it's something little or something huge. Stiles can't exactly control it, and there are memories of his that he still doesn't know where they come from. Sometimes he knows how to do things he shouldn't be programmed to do, freaks out over things he shouldn't freak out over.
This, though, he feels like, warranted a freakout. Stiles butts his hip into the door of Derek's workshop carrying what looks like breakfast--toast and eggs, nothing super exciting, but breakfast none the less. ] Dude, you have to come out of there to eat eventually--
[ And that's when he stops, because he sees smoke. Stiles' brown eyes widen and immediately every single one of his system warnings jerk to life and it makes his heart, synthetic or not, lurch as he stares at his hand and-- ] Derek!
[ He slams the plate down on the counter and hurries over, grabbing Derek's wrist with surprising force and yanking it away from the engine to look at it. The skin--it's bioskin. His arm's fake, which isn't all that uncommon in this day and age, and it looks old, although now it mostly just looks destroyed. Whatever ache there'd been in his chest untwists itself and Stiles stares at it in horror, then he frowns at him and lifts his hand up, taking it from him like it's nothing and scooting around him to look at it. ] This--are you an idiot?! What the hell's wrong with you, look what you could have done if it was your--you're supposed to have touch sensation, why don't you have touch sensation?!
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He's a top secret project, all right. But part of him does actually want to bring Stiles out of the house, take him into the city. Even if he knows how damn risky that'd be.
But it's the least he deserves, for making sure Derek actually eats and sleeps in a bed instead of on whatever project has his attention at the moment. He takes care of his cat, gives her affection when he's preoccupied. Works on things that he's had on the backburner for ages even as he shouts at his TV when they're airing a quiz show. And, really, he's seen the world somehow before. He had to have. Maybe going out to the city will help him remember more, things that he can't reach during checkups.
Right now, though, he's focusing on Derek's wellfare. After so long without anyone really caring about him like this, it's incredibly foreign. He lets out an affirmative grunt in response to his voice at first, but jolts when he shouts his name and slams down the plate.
And then he blinks into awareness behind his glasses, looking at him through the protective lenses as surface data for the engine is replaced by surface readings for Stiles. His heart might be synthetic, but it's pounding in his chest and his pupils are constricted, and--
Oh. He looks at his hand. ]
I have pressure sensitivity but every other sensation has been offline for a year to two, depending on which we're talking about. [ Flexing his fingers, he watches as it sparks, grimacing a little but not from pain. This time, it's really beyond a patch repair. ]
SURPRISE TAGS
I can fix this, you--you have to let me fix this, oh my god. This is a travesty. [ Is what comes out of his mouth, as the android basically manipulates his hand, starting to pull at the bioskin, checking the circuits underneath (and the ones that were visible thanks to the engine's heat) and mutters to himself about visibility issues and melted circuits. His gaze readjusts and recalibrates, picking out important detailings on the hand, a familiar signature on the inside wrist joint, although Stiles can't quite pick out why. That's the least of his concerns, frankly, and he basically starts pulling, using the momentum of Derek's rolling chair and his own strength to try and haul the mechanic across the room, to where Derek had set aside some tools for him when he showed an interest in tinkering.
And when he couldn't get Derek to move, Stiles just changes tactics and clears off the big work table--then, he pulls off the big sweatshirt he'd borrowed from Derek to wear around the house and piles it up like a pillow on the end. He leaves the room in a flurry and comes back with a sheet, which he throws over the table, and then, very emphatically, Stiles points at the table-slash-workbed. ] Lay down. Right now.
[ There is no arguing. ]
TAILWAGS
So the fact that Stiles' worry is genuine is more what sideswipes him than anything else, especially since he's not meant to feel as much as he does. Jesus, what the hell is Stiles?
The chair moves a little, but Derek's feet are planted in a way that restricts movement. He's about to say something, opening his mouth even as the rest of him is more mobile, allowing Stiles to manipulate him so that he can look at the damage, see what he's working with, moving him this way and that. But then he clicks it shut again as Stiles strips his shirt, then disappears, looking at the table.
And then he looks at Stiles as he lays the sheet over it, eyebrows raising at the demand. But rather than argue, he simply takes off his glasses and sets them aside so that he can get up, moving to the table and following orders. ]
♥
From there, he just grabs the broken hand, literally manipulating him until the burnt part is in his lap and scoffs at the ruined circuitry. ] I can't believe you don't get regular updates. What kind of a mechanic are you?! Hey, spoilers, a mechanic who apparently doesn't know that touching hot stuff means fire.
[ But his touch is delicate as he starts working, grabbing a tool from the box and starting to gingerly remove the ruined circuits. In fact, it's the kind of work like it's someone who knows what he was doing, which is...kind of odd, for a droid that's not exactly a service bot. But then again, Stiles has done nothing but be odd since his arrival. ]
♥♥
Instead of poking around at it, though, he looks at Stiles as he comes back in. And then he just lets him have his hand, dropping down so that his flesh-and-blood arm is wrapped around the lump of the sweater and his chin is propped on it. ] I know that touching hot stuff means fire, smartass. I just went from wearing a glove to not and... [ Forgot. It doesn't make him much smarter, though, so he just cuts off and goes quiet for a while.
Stiles is nothing if not odd, but he's trying to piece together what makes him so human, what makes him what he is. He blows out a noisy breath after a little bit, cheek nestled in the crook of his elbow as he watches him work. He can feel the pressure, just barely now, but there's no pain from the circuits being removed. ]
I have more important things to upgrade. [ It's muttered into his forearm, quiet. ]
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Sometimes, Stiles is included in that.
He carefully picks a few pieces of ruined bioskin out of his circuits. Everything's quiet for a little while as Stiles works, quick brown eyes scanning over the broken parts. It's ruined, but not unfixable, and slowly, he starts to fix pieces, replacing and rewiring and moving throughout his arm. And if there was any doubt that he was worried--which, strange enough--then it's absolutely obvious in his tone as he pauses and rests his hand on the living skin around his elbow instead. ] What would have happened if you did this with your other hand?
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More time and energy to Stiles, whose memory is gone and who "wakes up" screaming sometimes.
During the silence, his eyes focus on the movement of Stiles' for some time, taking in how he scans over everything while he works on repairs. But then he pauses, and he can actually feel the warmth of his touch-- bioskin warmed by running circuitry, soft like human skin, touch more human than anyone else's he's come in contact with for a long time-- and Derek's eyes are drawn down to his other hand. His fingers flex a little while he speaks. ]
With natural pain receptors still kicking? First degree burns. With the same amount of exposure to the metal? Third degree burns, probably.
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Still--if anyone could help him fix it, it would be Derek.
The chiding reproach to his tone calms down a little, and Stiles is quiet for a little longer, another twenty minutes or so. The only sound is the soft whirring of his own circuits, just faint enough to catch if you're listening, and really, one of the only telltales that he's not exactly human. Stiles' deft fingers replace a circuit with a little sizzle, turning his pliers just so and smiling as he pulls away a bit. It still looks like a hot mess, but, he carefully presses his fingertips to Derek's artificial ones, his own bioskin to Derek's currently exposed inner roboskeleton. ] ...how's that?
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Stiles makes him feel like a person again. If he can do anything to repay him for that, he'll fight to get his memories back. To find out everything they possibly can.
There's something soothing about listening to the sound of Stiles' systems humming and whirling, almost breathing and alive but still robotic at its core. His eyes fall half-closed as he watches him, shoulders slumping a little where he lays as he simply lets himself start to zone out-- it's easy to do, even as his mind registers what it is that Stiles' dextrous hands are doing. It's only when he feels pressure again, fingers twitching in response, that he really comes back to the moment. ] Good news is that I actually felt that.
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A part of Stiles is afraid to get his memories back. He's curious--of course he is, how could you not be?--but he likes this life. He likes the way Derek looks when he's working on his circuitry sometimes, he likes the cat that leaps in his lap and doesn't even get angry when he pets her and it makes static dance across her fur, he likes watching tv programs while Derek works on his back. This is a good life. It must not be as exciting as his old one had been, but...Stiles likes it. Loves it, even, which is something he 100% should not be able to do.
Grumbling to himself, he pulls up his tools again, bringing his knees up to the table to lay Derek's hand across it so he can try and fix it again, only pausing to open up a half put together piece he'd grabbed from the workroom and make a joyful "aha!" when he pulls out a tiny chip. There's some more fidgeting as he carefully puts it into place, and the skin around Derek's wrist ripples, changing from the odd, dull coloration of a prosthetic to match that of the rest of his arm--the change goes all the way down, blue lines crisscrossing and reforming across broken pieces until the bioskin starts to repair itself. Stiles sits back a little and practically preens as it does, too. ]
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He watches Stiles attentively, the lower part of his face tucked against his forearm as eyes track every movement. At first, he'd really considered Stiles both an interesting project and an absolute nuisance. He's annoying and nosy and stubborn and has something to say about everything. But he's gotten used to it, has seen the better parts-- he's clever and eager, his snark is a perfect match for Derek's, and he's rather passionate. Rather compassionate, though he tends to pretend he isn't. He is multifaceted and none of it is a generated personality. Stiles is human, more human than any person he's ever met.
A big part of him doesn't want Stiles to leave.
Keeping his prosthetic limp and letting him move it where he wants, a small smile curls across his face, hidden, when Stiles retrieves the chip. It's tiny and affectionate and he keeps it tucked away for now, before his eyebrows quirk up and his eyes follow Stiles' deft fingers, the tools he uses. There's a quiet sort of curiosity there, because he recognizes the mundane function of the chip, but then--
Stiles, once again, shows he's not just any android. Shifting his weight up a little, he twitches his fingers and watches the bioskin slowly piece itself back together, turning his hand over. ]
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[ They've got everything these days--droids are programmed to do anything and everything, and hell, Stiles is a perfect example of that. There's a part of him that says how much he loves to work with them, but...that doesn't make any sense. He's starting to put together clues on who he might have been, or who he might know, or something--an engineer, maybe.
He shouldn't have known how to do what he just did. Stiles doesn't have any programming for engineering, but he knows, deep in his circuits (hell, in his bones) how to do it, which way his hands should go, how things fit together. It's weird and he doesn't want to think about it, because the more he figures out about himself, the more he knows he's gonna have to leave.
His smile softens a little bit, and Stiles' hand falls into his, unthinkingly. ] Good as new.
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[ Once upon a time, maybe he'd have pulled his hand away. It wouldn't have been that long ago, in the grand scheme of things, but he still would have done it. Contact with people is one of the things he finds himself frequently avoiding it, especially at the hands-- there are so many bad memories attached to the touch-- and people have started to label him as a recluse.
Maybe he is. But he has his mystery droid, the one that's more human than anyone else he's ever met, who could leave at any point because he might remember who he is.
His fingers curl around Stiles', just that tiny bit longer but that much broader, and he practically relishes in the way that he can feel the actual pressure. The way he can feel the warmth of his circuitry against his, the friction of artificial skin together. ]
Better than new.
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Or, the pleasure ones, at least. He wasn't going to put in the pain ones--Derek's had enough struggle in his life. (Plus Stiles has a feeling this is not the first time he's unknowingly stuck his hand on an engine.)
But, especially with his arm fixed, Derek is a remarkable example of humanity. Droids can be anything, if they really want to be, and Stiles is an example of that, but human? Human is a step out of his grasp. A part of him thinks that he loves Derek, in the way that a droid shouldn't be able to, and another part practically begs the question of how much more he could if he were human.
How easy it would be for Derek to return it, that way.
Slowly, he pulls his hand out of his, fists them a little awkwardly in his lap. Stupid. ] That should fix all your problems.
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But it's such a strange concept. He's an android, advanced as he is, but he's so ridiculously human. If he didn't know better, if he hadn't been in Stiles' insides himself, he would think that he truly was human. And that part is what gets him, even as he feels something tighten in his chest towards him.
They have constant arguments, stupid banter, quiet moments where they simply enjoy one anothers' company while Derek does repairs. They're so disgustingly domestic that it's so easy for him to forget that he's an android, and that he's not supposed to feel this way-- that neither of them are supposed to feel this way.
He lets Stiles draw his hand back, bringing his own up to rub at his wrist and feel along the synthetic skin. He nods, quietly, instead of saying anything for a moment.
But then he shifts his weight, sits upright, and cocks his head a little towards him. ] You know, I think we're overdue for going into town.
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Everything was stabilized, now, and he tries to pretend that it had always been that way, that he was calm and as machinelike as he really should have been. Reconciling the side of him that he thinks might be human and the rest of him is difficult--there is no happy medium.
When Derek sits up, Stiles watches him carefully, keeping his gaze on his hand to make sure nothing goes wrong, but he speaks and his attention snaps back up towards his face, eyes flicking back from blue to amber and going comically wide. ] ...Seriously?
[ Stiles has never been out of this loft. Ever. ]
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And then there's Stiles, who hums off-key to bad pop songs in the kitchen, who doesn't wait for the question to be fully read on Jeopardy before he answers, plays with his cat on the floor when he doesn't pay attention to either of them. Sleeps in his bed-- and actually sleeps, doesn't go into sleep mode where all of his systems ease to a halt but instead breathes and shifts and mumbles. Stiles is that real boy fairytales tell you about, stuck in the body of an android.
Derek lifts his eyes to catch his reaction, and he offers him an actual smile before he slips off the table and to his feet. ]
Seriously. We can go now, if you want.
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Can we go see a movie? Or like, go to the chop shop to look at parts, because I was working on this thing for Paige and I need-- [ He starts to list off a few absurdly complicated sounding parts, then jams his hands in the pockets of his sweatpants, rocking backwards on his heels. ] No, I never wanna go, of course I wanna go now!
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For as much as he likes how the droid looks in his things, he really needs his own if he's going to start sneaking him into the city more frequently. ]
We can go do whatever you want, Stiles. Just remember that we have to be careful. [ As he pulls on his own henley, he turns to look at him, reaching a hand out to tap the back of his knuckles against his chest. It feels completely human through the worn cotton, but he knows better. ] In case you're recognized in a bad way.
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he didn't need a fancy mechanic to fix his parts when derek had done such a good job. but a part of stiles thought that derek needed someone to touch up his parts every once in a while, whether they were mechanic ones or normal ones.
stopping when he's pressed against, he snorts and rolls his eyes, grabbing his wrist with light fingers. ] Dude, I got this.
[ when he turns away, it's to rifle through drawers--he trots back to derek with a purple beanie and a pair of work glasses, which he pulls on and holds his hands out in a jazz hands motion. ] Indestructible disguise.
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Still, he's not going to dampen Stiles' spirits. He lets his fingers curl around his wrist, not pulling away as he would have in the first week of knowing each other. And as he turns away to go dig around-- when did he ever get a beanie?-- he just shakes his head and reaches to get his jacket.
Derek stares at him as he offers his jazz hands, and his eyebrows slowly raise. They've got this weird chemistry, but it's suddenly skyrocketed because there is just something about Stiles in those glasses that's attractive. But he shoves it down, rolling his eyes instead. ] Right, indestructible.