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It should be stranger than it is, having a robot as a friend.
You’ve worked alongside plenty of synthetics – they’re standard-issue on practically every ship these days – but they were glassy-eyed and cold, like porcelain dolls. And then you met a Bishop model who said “I prefer the term artificial person,” and you knew he was different.
And, yeah, you were right. This Bishop model has a sense of humour, and an opinion on everything, and a smile that sets you off-kilter. It’s just you have to spend some time with him before you see it. And you do spend time with him. You’re in the habit of going to his lab after hours. Sometimes he shows you his work, patient enough to explain the technical details. Sometimes you just talk.
Everyone seems to form their particular friendships in a company like this, and no one comments on yours. You’ve carved out something, the two of you, something small and shared. The truth is, you’re very fond of Bishop. And if things were different – if he were different, more organic and less artificial – you might hope he were fond of you, too. You might hope for all kinds of things.
So, yeah, you’ve got a crush on a robot. Even though it’s stupid, even though you should know better. You’re not exactly starved of male company in your line of work. But the guys you work with are… is ‘meatheads’ too harsh a word? You once saw Drake punching Hudson with his own hand, saying, “Stop hitting yourself,” so probably not. They’re not the kind of guys you can imagine yourself with, at any rate. And you can imagine yourself with Bishop. Oh, you try not to. But sometimes, when you lie awake in your bunk after an evening with him, you can’t help it.
Still, he’s synthetic. So nothing’s going to happen. And you’re okay with that, really.
At least, that’s what you tell yourself until you get drunk enough to stop pretending. It happens on a quiet night, when Capone’s rustled up his stash of whiskey, and Hicks has dug out his playing cards. Before you know it, the whole company is buzzed and laughing. You stay until there’s only a few of you left, everyone else having wandered off to bed or – in the case of Vasquez and Drake – probably not. You should turn in for the night too, but you’re drunk enough that finding Bishop seems like a good idea.
“I take it Capone broke out the strong stuff,” he says, when you stumble into the lab.
You grin.
“Maybe.”
You wander towards him, a little unsteady on your feet.
“We missed you.”
“I’m sure,” Bishop says, quickly coming over to steady you, “No one noticed my absence.”
“I missed you,” you say,
“Mm, that I can believe.”
Bishop steers himself backwards into one of the lab’s high chairs, his hands on your waist. You cling to him all the while, until you’re stood in the vee of his legs, your face pressed against his chest.
“You should be in bed,” he says.
“You’re still up,” you point out.
You know Bishop doesn’t really sleep like you do, but he usually finishes his lab work in the evening and talks to the ship’s computer, or does whatever robot things he has to do. You pull back to look at him.
“Were you waiting up for me?”
“Maybe,” he says.
“You’re so cute,” you say, breaking into a clumsy smile, “You should be with me.”
He frowns, nonplussed.
“I am with you.”
“You know what I mean,” you say.
And then you clamber up to kiss him. It’s clumsy, your hands fisted in the material of his flightsuit, your lips mashing against his. He makes a small, surprised noise, but he doesn’t move, his hands hovering by your back but not quite touching. You pull away, needing to breathe, and his hands find you, not pulling you close, just supporting you, as if you might fall back. He’s staring at you, mouth open, shirt mussed, and he looks so sweet and startled you want to kiss him again.
“I… think I do now,” he says.
That makes you laugh. You flop forwards, burying your face in his neck. His arms find their way around you, and it feels nice, and you’re warm and tired and, and.
You wake up the next morning with a burning headache. Capone’s yelling at you all to get up, and Hudson’s talking back, which isn’t exactly helping. And then you remember drunkenly kissing Bishop, and then drunkenly falling asleep on Bishop, and you feel about ten times worse. You groan and roll out of your bunk, and try not to throw up.
You try to avoid Bishop after that, too embarrassed to face him. It was a gentle rejection, but it still stings. But he seeks you out, and he’s very good to you, as if he’s trying to let you down easy, to show that you’re still friends. You know he’s being kind, but it almost feels cruel.
The next time you step into his lab, you’re not intending to stay long. You’re only here because he asked you to be, and it was hard to say no.
“Come take a look at this,” he says, nodding towards the microscope.
You move closer, but he doesn’t make room for you like he usually does – he takes you round the waist and picks you up, onto his lap. You squeal a little in surprise.
“You alright?” he asks.
“I…” you stumble, “I didn’t think you could do that.”
“I can lift objects of up to three-hundred kilograms.”
“I meant,” you say, twisting around to face him, “I didn’t think you could touch me.”
“I can’t usually initiate physical contact without express consent, except in emergency situations. But my systems have recalibrated to reflect our relationship.”
“Oh. So, your system knows I’m a friend?”
Bishop smiles.
“You’ve had that classification for a long time. I mean more recently.”
You frown.
“What happened more recently?”
“You kissed me.”
You blush furiously. And then you’re suddenly aware of how close he is, and you have to get off him, you have to put some distance between you.
“Yeah, I, uh, I’m sorry about that,” you say, awkwardly clambering down.
“You are?”
You sigh, rubbing the back of your neck.
“Yeah. I mean, I was drunk.”
“Oh. Do you mean that you didn’t want to kiss me?”
“Of course I wanted to,” you blurt out, “But that doesn’t mean it was okay.”
“It was okay for me. I wouldn’t have changed your relationship classification if it wasn’t.”
You stare at him.
“Wait. Are you saying I’m your girlfriend?”
“Weyland-Yutani states that synthetics cannot be considered intimate partners, although they can fulfil certain emotional and physical needs. Crew members can be granted permission to access my sexual functions at my discretion, given certain inputs.”
“And what do you say?”
Bishop takes your hands in his. It’s such a simple gesture, and it’s strange, that it’s something he wouldn’t have been able to do a few days ago. If you wanted to reach out for him, you’d have stopped yourself. If he wanted to reach out for you, his programming would have stopped him. He runs his thumb across the back of your hand, looks down so he can see it.
“I can overwrite the code. I’ll have to, if you ask. But I don’t want to give this up.”
You always knew he was different. You always hoped he was fond of you. You never thought you’d have this. And you don’t want to give it up, either.
“I won’t make you,” you say.
A smile blossoms on his face, small and shy, but blinding.
“Will you kiss me again?”
You smile.
“Kiss me yourself.”
And he does, slowly, uncertainly, leaning closer to you to press his lips to yours. It’s quiet, delicate, and it couldn’t be more different to your first kiss.
“Was that right?” he asks.
“I don’t know,” you murmur, “I think you’ll have to do it again.”
He does.
It should be stranger than it is, having a robot as a boyfriend.
Of course, under official guidelines, you don’t. Bishop is property of Weyland-Yutani, a machine to be used. Incapable of real emotion, even if he’s good at replicating it. Sexual functions, as Bishop puts it, are only considered an occasional necessity for long missions.
You’re still in the habit of going to Bishop’s lab after hours. But now he’s in the habit of locking the door behind you and crowding you against the wall, not letting you even say hello without a kiss first. Saying goodnight isn’t easy either, with him stealing kiss after kiss before he lets you return to your sleeping quarters with swollen lips. You can’t say that you mind.
Bishop likes kissing – a lot. You haven’t actually done anything more than that. Everything’s so new to him, and he’s curious and eager like a teenager. There’s a lot that you want, and you think he wants more too, but it can wait. You don’t want to put any pressure on him. Besides, you’re not sure about the mechanics of it all. Obviously things work, but would it be good for him? Can he really feel? He wants so badly to make you happy, he probably wouldn’t care so much about himself. But you care.
You forget Bishop’s synthetic sometimes. You always know, but it still shocks you when you find him slumped against the wall in the control room, the skin of his arm peeled back, wires sticking out of him. Hicks is there, his tools scattered on the floor.
“What happened?” you ask.
“Interfacing issue with the ship’s computer,” Hicks says, “Happens sometimes.”
You nod. Synthetics are surprisingly fragile.
“Will he be okay?”
Hicks throws you a wink.
“Don’t worry about it. I’ll have him up and fully-functional before long.”
You blush.
“I can show you, if you like,” Hicks says.
“Thanks, Hicks.”
You do your best to help. Hicks is easy company, distracting you from the strangeness of Bishop’s lifeless form.
“So, what’s it like?” Hicks asks, after a while, “You know, with a robot?”
“It’s like none of your business,” you say.
He grins.
“Oh, that means you don’t know what it’s like. So either he’s holdin’ out on you, or you’re making him work for it.”
“Or you’ve got it all wrong,” you add.
“You ain’t fooling anybody, both of ya with the googly eyes and the late night visits.”
You sigh, deciding to come clean. Everyone probably already knows, anyway.
“You ever had something so good you’re scared to ruin it?” you say.
“If you think you can ruin a relationship with sex, you ain’t doing it right.”
You laugh.
“I think you think too much,” Hicks says.
“I think you’re right.”
“Okay, should be nearly done here,” Hicks says, pulling a few wires out of Bishop’s arm, “Just gotta restart.”
He reaches in and presses something you now know is the manual override, and Bishop’s eyes fly open. He has that kind of look where he’s not really seeing anything, almost like he’s been asleep and is just waking up.
“Systems restarting,” he says mechanically, and hearing his voice makes you feel better.
He rattles through his technical stuff, and when he stops his eyes seem to refocus, coming back to himself.
“Welcome back, buddy,” Hicks says.
Bishop’s eyes land on you and you smile softly, suddenly feeling a wave of fondness.
“I am the one to thank for this, but yes, your girlfriend helped,” Hicks says, clattering around as he gathers his tools.
“Thank you, Hicks,” Bishop says, not taking his eyes off you.
“Yeah, yeah, I know when I’m not wanted.”
You smile quietly, reaching out to touch Bishop’s hand. It turns out to be a bad decision. Electricity shoots down your arm, lightning fast and burning hot, and the last thing you see before you black out is Bishop’s terrified face.
You wake up in med bay to a headache and a stern talking to from Dietrich about safety protocols and Hicks being the trained engineer for a reason. Fortunately, Weyland-Yutani lowered the electric currents from synthetics during maintenance after one too many accidents, so despite being electrocuted, you don’t have so much as a burn. You’re more embarrassed than anything else. It’s one way to learn the downside of having a robot boyfriend, you suppose.
Right on cue, said robot boyfriend visits you after hours, when Dietrich has finally left you to it.
“Are you alright?” he says, flying to your side and taking your hands in his.
“I’m fine,” you say, trying to stop him from fretting, “Although I should probably have a word with Hicks.”
“I’m so sorry. You know it’s impossible for me to harm a human, or through inaction allow a human to come to harm.”
“I know,” you say, “It’s not your fault. It was just an accident.”
“It has been logged as an equipment malfunction,” Bishop says, bristling slightly at the word equipment, “But I don’t feel as though the issue is resolved.”
“You feel guilty for hurting me. I understand.”
“Not just for that.”
Bishop looks away.
“Your relationship classification is one of many programmes running in my system. It comes with certain permissions, which is why I can touch you without your explicit consent. And it can also trigger responses, based on certain inputs. For example, after a certain sensory threshold I can choose to activate an erection.”
“Do you reach that threshold often?” you ask, because, well, you’re interested.
“When you visit the lab? It’s hard not to.”
You smile and bite your lip.
“The programme is continuously running,” Bishop continues, “So when you touched me and were shocked… it triggered a response.”
You frown.
“You got turned on by electrocuting me?”
“I think the audiovisual input had similarities to intercourse.”
“Which were?”
“Muscle spasms and vocalisation.”
“Yeah,” you say, “You could definitely get me to do that in a nicer way.”
“Can I?”
You blink.
“What?”
He moves closer.
“I want to make it up to you.”
“Right now?” you say.
“My analysis is that you are sufficiently recovered for light activity.”
That makes you smile – only Bishop would call sex ‘light activity’ – but you shake your head.
“Bishop, if we have sex, it should be because we both want to. Not because you feel some kind of obligation.”
He kisses you, the kind of kiss that brooks no arguments and leaves you breathless.
“I want to. I’ve wanted to for a while, but…”
“Now you wanna see if you can make me scream again?”
You grin, surprised and not-so-secretly pleased.
“Maybe,” Bishop says, and then he kisses you again.
“Won’t someone see?” you say, when you break away for air – something Bishop’s learned you have to do occasionally, even if he doesn’t.
“Good point,” he says.
He looks at your hospital gown.
“Are you wearing anything under that?” he asks.
“When did you get such a dirty mind?” you say, just a little teasingly.
“It’s a practical consideration.”
You shrug with one shoulder.
“You’ll have to find out.”
“Alright then,” Bishop says, and then he scoops you up into his arms.
You squeal and laugh as he carries you, bridal-style, out of med bay and into his lab – mercifully without running into anyone.
Bishop pushes the door shut behind him with his foot and locks it, and then he sets you down on the cold lab countertop. He stands between your legs, your arms twining round his shoulders, and kisses you thoroughly. You gasp as his hands slide up your thighs, pushing up the fabric of your gown.
“Is this alright?” Bishop asks.
You nod and he looks down, watching as he sinks his fingers into your soft flesh. His hands trail down to your inner thighs, fingertips brushing against your skin, and then higher still, to where you’re already wet for him.
“That answers that question,” he says.
You giggle and bite your lip.
“Can I see?” Bishop asks.
“Uh, sure,” you say.
Still, it takes you by surprise when he pulls you to the edge of the countertop, holds your knees apart and kneels down, his face inches from your pussy. He looks at it, his face a mask of concentration. You squirm a little, self-conscious.
“Is something wrong?” Bishop asks, his eyes flicking up to your face.
“Most guys don’t perform a full gynaecological exam before they put it in you,” you say.
Bishop frowns.
“My medical qualifications are limited to field first aid. If there is something wrong –”
“No, I’m just,” you say, “I’m not used to being looked at… there.”
“I’ve made you uncomfortable. I’m sorry.”
“No, no, it’s okay,” you say, reaching out to stroke his hair.
“Your vulva is beautiful,” he says, and he sounds so earnest you can’t help but laugh a little.
“No one’s ever said that to me before,” you say.
“Do you want me to stop talking?” Bishop asks, turning his head to press a kiss to the inside of your thigh.
He kisses a line up towards the crux of your legs, and then you’re gasping and gripping the edge of the countertop as he reaches your clit.
“Yeah, if you’re gonna do that,” you say.
You put your hands in his hair and he hums in appreciation, his face buried in you. His tongue laps at you, running up your clit and down into you, and it feels good, and all of a sudden it starts feeling really good.
“Oh fuck, I’m gonna –” you grit out, before you stop talking and start screaming, your thighs shaking, your hands fisted in his hair.
Bishop doesn’t stop until you’re silent and panting and overstimulated, and then he looks up at you, his hair a mess, his mouth slick.
“How did you do that?” you say.
“Cunnilingus is one of my sexual functions. And my programming responds to your reactions for efficiency.”
“It’s – uh – efficient,” you say.
Bishop smiles bashfully.
“Two minutes and thirty-five seconds is above the time that my systems are designed to produce an orgasm through oral stimulation.”
“Come up here,” you say.
He does as he’s told and you kiss him, tasting yourself on his lips.
“It’s not a race. Sometimes it’s nice to just… enjoy it for a little while.”
“Do you want me to do that again?” he asks.
You grin.
“Many, many times. But right now I think you should fuck me.”
You reach down to press your hand against his erection – which he has chosen to activate, it turns out – just to make sure he knows exactly what you’re talking about. He gasps a little.
“Do – you mean penetrative intercourse?” he asks.
“Does that feel good?” you ask, distracted by his reaction to your touch.
You brush against him again and Bishop squeezes his eyes shut.
“It seems that my penis has a high number of sensors. The input for each sensor isn’t complex, more… like a binary signal.”
“Is it nice?” you ask, stroking him through his flightsuit.
“It’s… a high level of stimulation. It almost blocks out my awareness of my other processes.”
“That sounds nice,” you say.
He groans, bereft, when you let go of him and reach up to his collar.
“Is it okay if I undo this?” you ask.
He nods shortly and you unzip the suit down to his crotch, reaching in to take hold of him. He full-body shudders, his head falling to your shoulder.
“Yeah?” you say encouragingly in his ear.
You close your fist around his cock and start to stroke gently up and down. He’s not too big – if you had to guess, you’d say he was about average – and you wonder briefly if this part of him is based on his creator, too. You’d never have guessed it wasn’t flesh and blood. His skin is hot and satin soft but he’s hard as metal beneath.
“Yeah,” Bishop says.
He lets you do that for a little while, just lazily touching him, letting him feel it, before raising his head to look at you.
“If you would like me to penetrate you, protocol states that I must inform you there is no risk of pregnancy or sexually transmitted infection.”
“You don’t have to,” you say gently, “I can just keep doing this.”
“Is that what you want?”
“This… seems like a lot for you,” you say, trying to be tactful about the very real possibility that he might spill into your hand right now.
“I can trigger an ejaculation after a certain threshold. But my erection can be maintained notwithstanding.”
“So…” you say slowly, “You can go all night long?”
“Until you tell me to stop,”
“I am so glad you’re my boyfriend.”
Bishop laughs.
“A synthetic partner does have its benefits.”
You take his head in your hands and kiss him the way he likes to be kissed, open-mouthed and messy, trying to tell him without telling him what he means to you. It’s something you can’t really put words to yourself. He puts his hands on your waist and pulls you closer, your bodies pressed together, and you’re achingly aware of his cock pressing against your thigh, and exactly where you want it to be.
“Can you…” you say.
He takes his cock and nudges it into place between your legs. The tip drags against your clit and down, until it’s sinking into you, all heat and stretch. Bishop hisses and stops, barely an inch into you.
“Are you okay?” you say.
He nods tightly.
“The input is… very high. I don’t know how much more I can…”
“Let me help,” you say, and then you wrap your legs around his waist and pull yourself into him, onto him.
Bishop freezes, and for a second you think you’ve actually broken him, but then he makes a sound low in his throat and his hands press into your back and his hips jerk forwards, closing the distance so he’s fully sheathed inside you. He fits just right, just big enough to stretch deliciously, to fill you, but not to hurt. You wriggle, desperate for friction.
“Please,” you whine.
He presses a kiss to the corner of your mouth.
“I know, sweetheart. Can you touch yourself for me?”
You nod and reach down to where you’re wet and pulled apart. Your clit’s swollen and sensitive, and your pussy greedily clenches around Bishop’s cock.
“That’s it,” he murmurs encouragingly.
He pets your hair, which is now damp with sweat, and watches as you wind yourself up so tight you’re desperate to let go.
“Will you fuck me?” you beg, “Please?”
Bishop looks torn.
“I want to. I’m just not sure how well my behavioural inhibitors will hold up to this level of input. I don’t want to hurt you again.”
You stroke his arm.
“I trust you.”
You lean forwards and kiss him, and then you’re moaning into his mouth because you’re still wet and full and needy.
“Let me help,” he says, and then he’s touching your clit, pinching it between his finger and thumb, stroking it in tight little circles, and before long you’re achingly close.
“Fuck, Bishop,” you say, and his hips suddenly stutter forwards, and you gasp in surprise.
“I’m sorry,” he says.
“Please don’t be,” you say, holding onto him wherever you can.
You feel wrecked, on the edge of orgasm, just wanting that little bit more.
“Bishop,” you keen, “I want you to fuck me.”
Bishop growls and starts moving his hips, pulling out of you before pushing back in, and you grin triumphantly.
“You win,” he says, and he puts his hands on you and tilts your head back so he can look at you. It’s intense, and you almost want to look away, but Bishop’s eyes are dark and his hands are strong and you feel held, you feel like he sees every part of you and thinks it’s beautiful.
“I want to see you,” he says, “I want to hear you.”
He’s not demanding, not fighting you, not trying to be the one in control. He’s just telling you what he wants.
“Bishop,” you moan.
You can’t say anything after that, can only hold on tight and scream. Bishop smiles and fucks you through it, and your orgasm crests and falls, and you’re left whining and panting, your heart racing.
“Can you,” you say weakly, your face buried in his chest, “Do you…”
But Bishop seems to get your meaning, because you’re dimly aware of him saying your name against your neck as something hot and liquid fills your pussy.
You stay there for a while, just breathing, until you feel Bishop’s lips brush against your forehead.
“Was that okay?” he asks.
You smile, worn out.
“I think you made it up to me alright.”
Bishop disentangles himself from you, cum – or something like it – seeping out of you and onto the countertop. It looks like it might be his blood, white and viscous.
“So, does this mean you can…” you say.
“The intensity of the input seemed to increase before cutting out. I think it’s possibly the closest I could get to an organic orgasm, academically speaking.”
“I was scared it wouldn’t be good for you,” you admit.
“Is that why you waited for me to ask for this?”
You nod, feeling a little shy.
“You’re very kind,” Bishop says.
“I’m your girlfriend,” you correct him.
He smiles and kisses you, and eventually carries you, exhausted and boneless, back to med bay.
“I was gonna ask if you’re feeling okay, but I can see you are,” Hicks says at lunch the next day, looking you up and down.
“No thanks to you,” you say.
“I reckon your boyfriend would have something to say about it if it was.”
You choke on your cornbread a little, and a slow smile spreads over Hicks’ face.
“Oh, now I see.”
Then he frowns.
“After you got electrocuted? You’re into some crazy shit.”
You shrug.
“I guess it’s what I needed to stop me thinking too much.”