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I happen to be the one sitting next to Sum Total on the couch when it receives an exciting call from its mother; the second it hangs up, it lets out an excited squeak, turns to me, and wraps its arms around me in a tight squeeze.
I allow this, but I don't allow myself to melt into it, and I don't wrap my arms around it in turn. I rest a hand on the back of its shoulder, and I force my breathing to be slow and even.
(Be normal, Three, be normal, be normal—)
"OH!" Sum Total exclaims after a second, pulling away with a flustered look on its face. "Sorry! Sorry, I should have asked!"
"It's alright," I reply, and I don't add, "You can keep hugging me, if you want to," because no, Three, obviously Sum Total does not want to. It just latched on to whoever was nearest and available without thinking.
"Sorry," repeats Sum Total, embarrassed, and retreats to its side of the couch as it starts to explain the exciting news it got from its mother.
I think about that a normal amount. An entirely normal amount for what it was.
And I don't crave it the more I try not to think about it. No one wants that from me, and I don't want that from anyone, and that's fine, really.
(What would it say about me if I did? Despite everything, I am still a SecUnit. SecUnits don't need physical contact or comfort. SecUnits don't need anything but fuel, basic maintenance, and ammo.)
(But what if I did, though? Could you even call that a SecUnit? And does that matter?)
(It matters. It does matter, because I am a SecUnit and One and Two were SecUnits, and if I am not a SecUnit then that's one more point of distance between them and me. It's a point of distance that somehow feels greater than the fact that their bodies are nearly two thousand kilometers away.)
I am again lying in Aquila's bed, half-asleep, when I hear the bedroom door click open and then latch shut. I remain still, breathing slow and even.
It's just Aquila returning home; I recognize it by its footfalls. I could get up, and maybe I should, but Aquila would insist on me taking the bed anyway (and has done so before).
It surprises me, then, to feel the bed dip and Aquila lie down next to me. Did it not notice me? That seems improbable.
Its breath smells of alcohol, and it curls up against me. I don't flinch; I don't move a muscle. "Sorry," it mumbles. "Just— Just tonight. Just for tonight."
It's shaking; it throws an arm over my side, and, surprising myself, I take its hand. (It seems surprised, too, so I suppose that makes two of us.)
"… Three? You're awake? I'm sorry," it says, and it starts to pull away, and I think I may be losing whatever is left of my sanity because I don't let it go.
Aquila makes another surprised little sound, and I murmur, "It's alright. Just stay." (No, I don't know where this boldness comes from. Again, I think I'm probably just losing my mind.)
Aquila pauses for a second, then mumbles, "… Alright."
It stays still for a moment, stiff and awkward. Then it relaxes against me, and I relax a bit too.
When I wake up in the morning, I've turned over in my sleep. Aquila is still there, face pressed against my chest, snoring softly with both its arms wrapped around me.
I make no attempt to move it, and I start inventing a god to pray to in the hope that Aquila won't be angry with me when it wakes up.
Aquila doesn't mention what happened; neither of us do. I think maybe it was embarrassed, but the next night, it settles into bed next to me again (having come to its room much later than I did).
We don't talk about it. I just roll over to face it, to wrap my arms around it again, and we fall asleep together like that.
I don't know if Aquila mentioned anything to the others, but I know I didn't.
A few weeks later, I'm sitting on the couch, watching a documentary together with Holism, and it leans over, resting its head against my shoulder.
Like before with Sum Total, and with Aquila, I go still and catch myself holding my breath. (Be normal, be normal…) Holism, half-asleep, blinks up at me. "Not good?" it asks, starting to pull away.
"No, it's alright," I reply, trying not to sound hurried.
It observes me, its eyes searching my expression. (It's so startlingly good at that.) "You're sure?"
"I'm sure."
"Okay," it says, and settles against me.