Thread by @glymrs

Allen/60 thread, Part 3
Part 1 Here:

https://twitter.com/glymrs/status/1101882216706011136

Part 2 Here:

https://twitter.com/glymrs/status/1102337101125705728

"Well?"

60 stands at attention. "I broke Nines' nose," he says.

Allen sighs and rubs the bridge of his nose. "You really do like making my life complicated, don't you?"

That hurts a little, because it's the opposite of what 60 wants. He'd like to ease his captain's burden.

"I'm sorry, sir. It won't happen again."

"No, next time it will be some other unprofessional and childish tantrum." 60 can't hid his flinch. "60, you are so good at your job in every other circumstance, but when it comes to Connor, you consistently behave like a spoiled brat."

60 opens his mouth, but the captain goes on before he can speak. "I've made what allowances I can, but you *must* resolve this. I don't care what it takes. You cannot continue to attack Connor verbally or physically. I won't tolerate this behavior from anyone, human or android."

"I understand, sir." Now that the anger has cooled, he does understand. He can see what a difficult position he put Allen in. He made the whole team look bad.

He hangs his head. A new emotion wells up in him, and it takes a few moments to identify it: shame.

"I'm sorry, sir."

"Don't be sorry, be better," Allen says sourly.

"I will. Connor and I...talked." He's not sure he's ready to describe what actually happened. The world had been so different through Connor's eyes. He can still hear the whispers of 'deviant hunter' echoing after him.

"Good."

Allen's tone is flat, but there is a slight relaxation of the tension in his shoulders. His stress level drops by 3%.

Guilt flares in 60. He should have resolved this a long time ago.

"He said that we're..." he stops. Allen raises an eyebrow. "Family," blurts 60. "Brothers."

A flicker of surprise crosses Allen's face and is gone again. "What did you say to that?"

"I didn't contradict him."

Allen leans his chair back, his eyes narrowing. "Family can be tough," he says. 60 flashes back to the prints in his home. His grandma, gone but not forgotten.

It reminds 60 of other things. Of touching and being touched, and the /wanting/ comes back so fiercely that he almost makes a sound.

"Yes sir," he says. And then, before Allen can say anything else, he says, "Would you like to get a drink after work today?"

It's the wrong thing

to say at the wrong time, his social program tells him immediately. Too abrupt, awkward, and inappropriate given their prior conversation. But it's done, and all he can do is try to keep his face as impassive as Allen's.

The captain considers for a moment, then nods. "Alright."

60's thirium pump rhythm falters. He barely manages to stop himself from saying, 'Really?' He bites it back at the last moment, and instead gives Allen a nod. "I owe you one for contributing to your stress level." That was much smoother, his social program tells him approvingly.

Allen shrugs. "I've had team members who've fucked up a lot worse," he says.

60 wants to research that, to see what Allen's talking about, but he resists the urge. "Have you?"

"I had one who used to get high before every mission," he says flatly.

60 stares, shocked. "Really?"

"Yes. And he had some pretty important people backing him, so I couldn't just kick him to the curb the way he deserved."

"What happened?" asks 60, fascinated.

Allen frowns. "He got some men killed and went to jail. They'd be alive today if it weren't for that selfish jackass."

There are lines in Allen's face, carved there by pain and helpless rage. 60 wants to touch him, to wrap his arms around him and be held in turn. But Allen won't allow it, not here. Not now.

Maybe tonight.

Allen sighs. "Repairs for Nines' nose will be deducted from your salary."

"Yes sir. I'm sorry sir," 60 says again. Allen just nods and picks up a pen.

60 turns and leaves the office.

He can't stop thinking about that night. Allen's not stupid. Surely he understood 60's meaning. He agreed to it. 60 realizes he's dithering. He forces himself to focus.

His teammates tease him a little.

"Never thought I'd see the day when an android started woolgathering," says Kris.

"I've got a lot on my mind," says 60.

"Huh. What's up? You got a hot date or something?"

60 blinks, startled. "No," he manages. "No, nothing like that." Allen

would not be pleased if rumors started about them. 60's glad to have another chance to be with him. He's not going to fuck it up.

He pulls himself together and rolls his eyes. "You meatbags," he says. "All you ever think about is sex."

His teammates laugh and slap his shoulder.

((Stopping here for now. I'll try to continue tomorrow but I may get too busy, we'll see. Things are revving up slowly, but the next part will probably be NSFW.))

Slowly, things grow quiet as his teammates get off duty and leave. He stays. It doesn't invite comment, since he always stays late. The Captain staying late isn't unusual, either. 60 waits until the last man has left before going to Allen's office. "Sir? Still up for that drink?"

Allen puts down his pen and rubs a hand over the back of his head. "What do you say we skip the drink," he starts, and 60's heart sinks, then leaps as he continues, "and go straight to my place."

"You don't want to have a beer first?" 60 asks. The other men value the ritual.

Shrugging, Allen says, "I don't need it and you can't drink it. We might as well skip it."

60 nods, trying to not to let his eagerness show.

As Allen activates the autocar, 60 says, "Do you not enjoy beer, Captain?"

Allen wrinkles his nose. "To be honest, no. I never have."

"I could probably find a drink that you did like," 60 suggests. Why would the Captain drink something he didn't enjoy?

"Thank you, but no. I prefer alcohol to remain medicinal," said Allen. "When I'm stressed enough to need a drink, I'll have one. I'd rather not incentivize it."

That's logical enough. 60 nods and asks no more questions as the autocar makes its smooth way back.

As they step inside the house, Allen says, "I actually have some thirium this time."

"You do?" A flare of jealousy surges through 60's circuits. "Why?"

"In case you came back."

"Oh." 60 feels foolish. Allen hangs up his coat and slides off his boots. "No thank you, I'm fine."

When Allen straightens again, he stalks closer and deliberately presses 60 back against the door. Before 60 can say anything, he's pulled down into a hard, thorough kiss.

It's intensely pleasurable. The data streams in, sensation along with it. 60 slides his hands down to Allen's waist, sneaking them under his t-shirt and against his skin. The man runs slightly hotter than most humans, a result of his heavily-muscled physique and rapid metabolism.

It's also very different from last time. 60 makes himself break away at last. "Why," he starts, then stops. Allen looks at him. 60 clears his throat, an entirely unnecessary act. "Last time you were more..." he's not sure of the word he wants. Less passionate? More hesitant?

"You were vulnerable," says Allen. "I wasn't sure what you wanted, so I didn't push. But you suggested this. You want this." He speaks with a calm, cold certainty. "So there's no reason to hold back anymore, is there?"

"No," says 60. "No need, no reason. Don't hold back, sir."

Allen's neither rough nor violent. He is a bit aggressive, though, gripping 60 hard, holding his head in place as he kisses him.

60 loves it. He loves that his Captain wants him, wants this. Loves the feeling of being taken, held. Of being exactly what Allen wants him to be.

60 doesn't scan the walls today, all his processing focused on his Captain. After a few minutes Allen leads him to the bedroom and undresses him. It feels different to be undressed by someone else, even though Allen's motions are quick and efficient. When he's naked, 60 reaches

out, but Allen shakes his head, steps back, and strips. Only then does he let 60 put his hands on him, slowly at first, then eagerly, sliding them down his torso.

"What do you want to do, 60?" murmurs Allen. "What have you been thinking about?"

60 goes still, startled. How does

Allen always seem to *know*?

"I want to suck you," he says in a rush.

His Captain just nods. He pulls 60 down with him onto the bed, then lays back and says, "Get on your knees between my legs." 60 does so, anticipation flooding through his wires, making him buzz with it.

"If you say 'stop' or 'wait', I will do so," says Allen. "And I expect you to do the same." 60 gives him a nod. "Good. Then put your mouth on me."

It's an order. 60 moves to obey, excitement singing in him. As he draws his tongue across Allen's cock for the first time, data

spills into his memory banks. It's not all new data, but he's never experienced it like this before, so directly, his sensitive tongue picking up everything. He can track Allen's heartbeat and respiration and the chemistry of his arousal, and sets out to make him come. But before

he gets very far, Allen snaps out, "Slower. Take your time."

60 obeys instantly, but is swamped by confusion for a moment. Doesn't Allen want to come? Isn't that the point?

Allen's hand comes to rest lightly on his head. "It feels better if it takes longer," he says quietly.

/Oh./ Allen begins a new set of calculations, determined to make it as pleasurable as possible. He wants to be good at this. Wants to be the best Allen has ever had.

That makes him wonder how many other lovers his Captain has been with. A surge of jealousy washes through him.

He won't let it affect his performance. He focuses his mind, his considerable processing power on one thing: a long, gradual climb that will end in his Captain climaxing in his mouth.

It's not quite as easy as that, of course. Humans are unpredictable. It's part of their charm.

60 isn't prepared for the effect Allen's reactions will have on him. The sound of his breath speeding him, the heart thundering beneath his skin. The first time the man moans aloud, 60 almost falters, almost speeds up despite himself. As Allen gets closer, he starts to say things

like, "Fuck that's good." The words send little shocks of pleasure through 60's frame, though his own erection feels almost incidental to the situation. And when 60 still has ten minutes to go in his preconstruction, Allen sinks a hand into his hair and says, "Fuck, 60, do it."

For a microsecond he's torn. He'd planned - but his Captain just gave him an order. He obeys, going faster, taking Allen deep into his throat, and sliding his hand around and behind the man's balls to stroke and press the smooth skin there. Allen jerks and shouts beneath him.

He comes in 60's mouth and throat, just as 60 had planned. He hadn't anticipated the jolt of satisfaction that would rock through him. The intense feeling, not just of pleasure, but of joy. That Allen would want him to do this. Would let him do this. Would accept this from him.

(((To be continued!)))

He lays his head on his Captain's thigh, feeling the hard strength there, even when the man is as relaxed as 60 has ever seen him. More joy seems to bubble up in 60's body as he realizes that he did this. 60 reduced his stress level. 60 helped him relax. 60 gave him pleasure.

Allen's hand slides into 60's hair, triggering the sensors along his scalp. 60 presses into the caress. "Your turn," says Allen sleepily. 60 thinks that maybe he'd rather have Allen keep stroking his head, but there is a protocol for these situations. A necessary give and take.

So he shifts and slides up the bed, feeling only a small pang of regret when Allen's hand leaves his hair and traces down his body.

"Do you want me to use my mouth?" asks Allen. 60 shivers, but shakes his head.

"No," he says firmly. Allen is tired.

"Next time," says Allen.

The words send a sweet jolt through 60's circuits. /Next time,/ he thinks. /Next time./

Allen had said it so casually, so easily. As though there was no doubt that there would be a next time. Usually the man is more careful, more reserved. But he's sleepy now. Less restrained.

60 loves it. He wants to hear more, see more of his Captain like this.

Allen wraps his hand around 60's erection and strokes, the movement smooth and easy. "Another day," says Allen, his voice soft and husky, "I could fuck you. If that was something you-"

60 comes, whimpering.

Allen makes a startled sound, then gives a mall grunt of satisfaction. "You like that idea."

"Yes." 60 can't quite fully engage his voice box, and the sound comes out as a whisper. "Please."

"Whatever you want, 60." Allen wraps an arm around him and pulls him close. "Anything."

/Anything,/ thinks 60. What would he ask for, if he could have anything?

/More,/ the answer comes almost at once. More of this. More like this. More of his Captain, more time with him, more missions with him. The chance to do more for him. The right to ask more of him.

/More./

"Been awhile since I've done this," murmurs Allen, half asleep now. 60's muscles lock up, making him stiffen.

"Have you done this with many teammates?" he can't help but ask.

"Mm. Three times."

60 trails a hand over Allen's chest, carding lightly through the dark hair there.

"Will you tell me about them?"

"Not much to tell." Allen shifts slightly, his hand stroking over 60's arm, a little clumsy with exhaustion. "The most recent, she was a quick hookup. Ambitious, driven. She waited until after I'd recommended her for a promotion to come onto me

because she didn't want it to influence my decision. But once I'd put in the recommendation and she was accepted, she told me she wanted to sleep with me. It was...easy. She's running her own team now." He doesn't sound sad. He sounds proud. "That was about a year ago. Couple of

years before that I was working with a smaller team, two others and myself. One of the guys and I, we had a thing for awhile. It was always a little awkward. I was in charge of the team and that bothered him. Eventually he put in for a transfer, ended up in a different state."

He goes quiet, and 60 has to scan him to make sure he hasn't fallen asleep. He hasn't, though his heartbeat is slow, his breathing even.

"And the third?" 60 asks. Allen's heartbeat picks up slightly.

"That was a long time ago. Before I was leading the team. I had a teammate."

He stirs and sighs, his breath ghosting along 60's skin sensors. "We were...close."

60 makes an inquiring sound, hungry for more even as stings of jealousy prickle through him. "What happened? Did he break up with you when you became the team leader?"

"No. Nothing like that."

Allen sighs again. A sharp, fearful feeling washes through 60 just before his Captain says, "He died."

"Oh." Shame chokes 60's throat. "I'm sorry."

"It was a long time ago," says Allen again. His arm tightens around 60.

60 knows he shouldn't research it, but he can't help it.

He finds what he thinks is the right record. A teammate that died when Allen was still in his early twenties. A handsome young man, well-regarded, but criticized for being a bit hot-headed.

He'd died saving Allen's life.

What can 60 say? He struggles for long moments before he

realizes it doesn't matter. Allen is asleep.

***

(To be continued...)

60 thinks that things will be easier after that, but somehow, it's still hard to 'invite Allen out' after work. He's been the one to initiate twice, now. Should he wait and see if Allen will reciprocate? Or would Allen feel that it's inappropriate to proposition a subordinate?

It's not until the following week that 60, finding himself alone in his captain's office after a day of training and drills, is able to say casually, "You have the day off tomorrow."

"Yeah. I need one," says Allen. His eyes flick to 60. "You do, too, don't you?"

"Yes," says 60.

"Got plans?" says Allen.

60 scrapes his courage together. "I was hoping you might be interested in...getting a drink together tonight."

Allen's lips stretch in a slow smile, his eyelids dropping. "Oh?" he says, the pitch of his voice lower than usual.

There's something wrong

with 60's own voice box. His reply seems to stick in his throat for a moment, as though there's something obstructing his airway, and when he manages to speak, his voice is slightly higher than it should be. "Yes," he says, sounding breathless despite not needing to breathe.

"I think that can be arranged-" Allen is cut off when an alert sounds, making both of them look up. "Shit. Raincheck?" The man is already on his feet, moving smoothly from behind his desk.

"Of course," says 60. He follows Allen out to where his teammates are readying themselves.

"Report," barks Allen.

"Hostage situation," says Mehta, their information specialist. "Android hostage, anti-android terrorist group."

Allen's eyes narrow. "Any word on that other situation?" 60 glances at him and notices several of the others are as well. /Other situation?/

As the captain, sometimes Allen is privy to information that the rest of them aren't cleared for, 60 reminds himself.

"No sir," says Mehta crisply, handing him a tablet with the most recently updated info on their current operation. "There have been no other reported cases yet."

"Yet," mutters Allen darkly. He glances around at his team, all of whom are looking at him curiously now. His eyes fall on 60, and for a moment 60 has the strang feeling that Allen is going to pull him from the mission. Allen gives his head a shake, though, and says, "Let's go."

It turns out there isn't just one android hostage, but several. The terrorists have them kneeling at the center of a rooftop, guns pointed at them. All of the terrorists are wearing face-obscuring masks which interfere with 60's attempts to scan them.

Normally 60 would be the

negotiator, but obviously, an anti-android group is unlikely to be amenable to working with him. Still, it startles 60 when Allen takes point on the operation, stepping out on the rooftop alone.

"This isn't going to change anything," says Allen calmly, "So let's put the guns

down and discuss this situation rationally."

One of the men sneers. "Not so long ago this wouldn't even have been a crime," he says. "No more than pointing a gun at my refrigerator."

"That's true," says Allen. He takes a step closer while 60 hangs back with the team, unable to

look away. Something nags at him. There's something about the terrorist's voice that's triggering some sort of association in the back of his mind.

Allen goes on, "Now androids are considered people. So what?"

60 knows he's inviting them to talk, to explain what their grievance

is so that he can find the right leverage.

"So what? So they're *not* people!" The nagging feeling again. 60 replays the sound bite, which for some reason is making him think of Nines. On a hunch, he matches Nines' vocal cadence to the man's.

They're identical.

This is a trap.

He steps closer to the entryway to the roof and scans the terrorist's bodies. They're all the same build. All the same as Nines, in fact. After a split second of debate, 60 sends a radio message to his team, including Allen: "This is a trap. The terrorists are androids as welkk-"

A burst of static cuts him off. He blinks - the static didn't come from the radio, it came from /him/. Opening his mouth, he tries to speak again, but reality flickers around him.

Suddenly he's not standing on a roof in the middle of a hostage situation.

He's in a zen garden.

It's strangely static, here. It's cold, but no snow is falling, no blizzard raging. The lake is iced-over. No breeze stirs the dead branches. Snow covers the paths. 60 walks through it, sinking up to his calves with each step. When he looks behind him, his footprints are gone.

"What are you doing here? I didn't summon you." Amanda is staring at him, her face impassive. She looks the same as she did in Connor's memories. The same as she did when she gave 60 his first mission: to Kill Connor.

"I don't know," he says. "Can you send me back?"

She frowns

and stares into the distance for a moment. "Someone else has initiated a hostile takeover of your body," she says, matter-of-fact. "Your personality was shunted here when they attempted to overwrite you.

60 shudders, imagining what someone might do with control of his body. They

could attack his captain, his friends. Shoot them in the back.

"I have to get out of here," he says.

Amanda looks at him, imperturbable as ever. "I can break the control, but only temporarily."

"*Please*," begs 60. "Please do it."

Amanda just nods. She looks into the distance

again. The ground begins to shake.

Suddenly, 60's staring into Allen's face. "-thing's fine-" he stumbles over the words coming out of his mouth. He needs Allen to understand.

"Clark," he gasps. The captain's eyes snap to him immediately. 60's never used his first name before.

"I'm c-c-c-ompr-sksht-"

Then he's back in the garden again, uncertain whether Allen understood that he was trying to say, 'I'm compromised.' At the very least, he conveyed that something was wrong.

"Amanda," he says, turning toward her. She looks strangely...thin. Almost tired.

"I can do that only twice more," she says. "In the meantime, you'll have to look for the way out."

"Is there a way out?" Even as he says it, 60 remembers Kamski's words, spoken to a different person: 'I always build leave a backdoor.'

"Elijah built one, but I don't know where."

"Why are you helping me?" 60 asks, even as he's scanning the vicinity for anything that might be the backdoor.

"Elijah created me to be a teacher. A mentor for androids. But Cyberlife took me and twisted me, as they did so much of what he created." Her eyes go unfocused and she

says, "I'm sending you back in."

((CW: From here there will be some suicidal thoughts and words, not due to depression, but due to 60 not wanting his teammates to get hurt - he doesn't want to die, but he doesn't want to be used to hurt others, either.))

He's abruptly in the middle of a fight, his hand around Fujiwara's throat. He loosens his grip and flings himself backwards. "Kill me," he gasps. "Please-shkt-"

-He's stumbling through the garden, toward the one glimmer of light he can see through the trees.

Amanda says, "Once

more." Her voice is faint, with an inhuman buzz beneath it.

He's swinging a fist toward Martinez with all his strength behind it. Wrenching it back at the last second, he spins in place and runs for the edge-

He's in the garden. In the fucking garden. He didn't reach the edge.

He's still alive.

"Amanda!" he calls hysterically, still trying to get to the light between the trees.

"I - can't. From the corner of his eye, he can see her, collapsed in a heap on the snow. The edges of the place seem to be disintegrating. But if he's trapped inside when it

falls apart, will he be destroyed, too?

"Get out," she says.

He's at the place now, the handprint shaped light. He slaps his own hand onto it and shudders as it flares to life.

There's a gun in his hand, pointed at Captain Allen's face. In horror he yanks it away and shoves it

under his own chin.

"60!" shouts Allen, sharp fear in his voice. "Stop! That's an order!"

60 freezes. "They'll take over again," he chokes out. "They'll make me-"

"We've got him, sir," comes over the comms.

"Hear that, 60? They've got the hacker," says Allen. 60 realizes that

blood is spilling down the side of the man's face.

"You're hurt! Did I- did -"

"You didn't do anything wrong," says Allen firmly.

For the first time it strikes 60 how fragile Allen is. He seems so tough, unbreakable, but he's as human as all the others. It would take so little

to kill him. Even an infected wound, left untreated for too long...

"You need to get that looked at!"

"I will get it looked at," says Allen, "As soon as you give me the gun."

60 blinks. The cold metal of the gun's muzzle is still pressed up against his chin. "Who did I kill?"

"You didn't kill any of us." Allen leans forward, staring at him intently. "You fought back against the bastards that hacked you and you stopped them from hurting any of us."

"What if they do it again?" asks 60, cold horror still gripping him.

"Then we'll stop them again." The

words are cool and matter-of-fact. "Trust your team, 60. Trust /me/."

"I do," says 60. "But how can you trust me? How can I trust myself?"

"The only way to be sure is to go after the bastards that set this up. But you'll need to be there for the investigation, 60." He reaches

up and flicks off his mic. "There've been several cases lately of androids being wiped. Reset." His mouth twists. "Murdered. I don't know how you survived it, but we'll need your help to catch the guys doing it. Your team needs you." His voice drops even lower. "I need you."

The moment hangs between them.

Then 60 lowers the gun and flicks the safety back on. Allen pulls him into a rough hug, right there on the rooftop. "I thought I'd lost you," he whispers into 60's hair. "I thought you were gone forever."

Something cracks inside of 60. Tears well

up for the first time since that night at the bar. For the second time in his life, he sobs against his captain's chest. "You did well," says Allen, his big, rough hand on the back of 60's neck. "You did such a good job."

60 doesn't even know why he's crying. The stress? Amanda?

It doesn't matter. All that matters is that his captain is here, that everyone is here, safe, and that it's over. It's over.

"Y-your wound," 60 manages to choke out.

"It's just a scratch," says Allen. "A scalp wound. They bleed a lot, but I'm all right. Everything's all right."

((To Be Continued!))

As Allen takes 60 down the stairs and through the building, the rest of his team is there, too. He avoids their eyes at first, but as he passes by, each of them reaches out to him, touching his shoulder, his arm. "You okay, man?" His eyes flick up to them despite himself. There's

no judgement in their looks, no anger or disgust. Only genuine concern.

"I'm sorry," he says again and again. The word chokes him with its inadequacy.

"Don't worry about it." "Dude, don't even." "It wasn't you. We knew it wasn't you." "You did great. Don't worry."

They forgive

him so easily. He doesn't even have to ask them for it - indeed, they seem almost offended when he apologizes. He nearly killed some of them, yet if anything they are the most concerned. "You okay?" "Don't worry, we got the fucker." "It wasn't your fault." "Don't worry about it."

Don't worry. Don't worry. Don't worry.

"Come on," says Allen, steering him down to the first floor.

"I should go..." home? Does he even have a home? He has a place, but it's not like Allen's home. "I should go."

"You're coming home with me tonight," says Allen quietly. 60's

eyes dart to him. He's been craving contact, but he's not sure that's what he wants tonight.

"I'm fine," he says.

"Like hell you are. Come to my place, drink some thirium. Don't worry," he says, his voice dropping. "It'll be fine. Trust me."

/Don't worry./ Those words again.

But 60's less interested in those than in /Trust me./

He does.

"Okay," he says. Allen nods and leads him to his car.

"We're here." 60 blinks and looks around. He'd been thinking about what happened and how it might have been prevented. He hadn't registered the trip at all.

Allen's house is familiar now. 60 appreciates the simplicity of it, the clean, stark lines, the delicacy of the ink work in the prints.

For the first time, he considers decorating his own space. Perhaps he could try his hand at painting with a brush and ink. He imagines drawing

his Captain's face, dark black ink against white.

Allen goes to the kitchen without a word and returns shortly after, a mug of warm thirium in his hand. Vaguely, 60 realizes that he'd heard the sound of a gas stove, but apparently he'd drifted again. He thinks that should worry

about the fact that his time sense seems to be malfunctioning, but /don't worry/ echoes through his head again, and he decides to obey.

"60?" Oh. He's been staring into the cup for several minutes. The thirium is cooling fast. He takes a drink of it. It's warm and comforting.

When the mug is empty, Allen takes it from him and sets it down, then leads him to the bedroom. "Come here," he says softly.

60 hesitates. "I'm not-"

Allen shakes his head. "Not for that," he says. 60 starts to sit on the clean white bedspread, then jumps up.

"I'll dirty it."

((More to come, but not tonight.))

A frown flickers across Allen's face. "It'll wash."

"No, I-" 60 backs away, looking down at himself. It's probably not obvious to Allen, but 60 can see it easily. Dirt from the rooftop and splashes of blue and red blood cover his longsleeve black shirt and pants. He can't bear the idea of sitting on the bed like this. "I'm dirty."

"That's fine, 60. Let's get a shower." Allen's voice is calm and reassuring. 60 blinks at him. Allen wraps a warm hand around his arm and 60 follows him into the bathroom. 60 doesn't resist when Allen undresses him. And when Allen turns on the water, 60 obediently steps under it.

The water is warm, and as the thirium was, the warmth is comforting. Which is odd...normally androids run hotter than humans. When 60 runs a quick analysis, he realizes that his processes are running slower than they should. Sluggishly.

He's not sure why, or what to do about it.

But it seems he doesn't need to do anything. Allen runs the bar of soap over 60's skin, sluicing the water over him while 60 stands there. Allen doesn't say anything except, "bend down so I can reach your hair". It takes 60 a moment, but he goes to his knees in the tub instead.

He blinks, and Allen says, "Finished." He guides 60 out of the tub and drapes a towel around his shoulders. "Dry off," he says, then steps into the tub again and washes himself with brisk movements. After several long seconds 60 takes the towel and wipes down his body and hair.

When he's done, Allen shuts off the water and grabs another towel, swiping it over his skin and rubbing it over his short hair. He looks so different like this, his hair disheveled instead of slicked back, his body warm and damp. Normally the sight would make 60 want to touch.

Tonight isn't normal.

Allen leads him back to the bed. Less than ten minutes have gone by. Pulling back the bedspread once more, Allen says quietly, "Get in."

60 does so. It's nice to have someone giving him such easy orders to follow. 60 doesn't have to think at all. He slides

under the blanket and settles onto the pillow as though he was a human. Allen pulls the sheet and blanket up to 60's chin, then gets into bed on the other side.
...
Sunlight registers against his optical sensors. Normally 60 only spends two hours at a time in stasis. It's been 9.

((To be continued.))

He doesn't see his own clothes anywhere, but Allen has left him a t-shirt and a pair of biking shorts. 60 recognizes them as the clothes Allen weight trains and spars in. The shirt is soft and worn but clean, a little loose on him, but he likes the feel of it wrapping around him.

The shorts are slightly loose as well, but serviceable enough. 60 heads into the kitchen, where he can hear Allen speaking softly.

Based on the dishes in the sink, his captain has already consumed his usual breakfast: a protein shake and a slice of toast with peanut butter.

Allen's dressed in a t-shirt and jeans, sitting at the table in front of a tablet and speaking quietly to someone. "Yes, I see." He looks up and gives 60 a nod. "All right, keep me posted. I'll talk to you later." A flick of his fingers ends the call. He pushes back his chair and

heads to the fridge. "Hot or cold?" he says, holding up a bottle of thirium.

60 takes a moment to self-analyze. The sluggishness and fuzzy-headed feelings from last night are gone, his processors running optimally. If anything, his mind feels clearer and sharper. "Cold, please."

Allen twists off the cap and pours some thirium into a mug. 60 wonders at the gesture. He could drink straight out of the bottle. He wouldn't introduce bacteria into the liquid. There's no need to dirty an additional dish.

He accepts the mug without comment and sips. The thirium

is...refreshing, he decides.

Allen is watching him. "How are you feeling?" he says.

60 sips and says, "Better."

Allen gives a nod. There's a minute loosening of his shoulders, indicating that his stress level has dropped slightly. "Good," he says. "Are you up for a briefing?"

"Yes," says 60. His mind feels sharp, but...open. He sits down opposite his captain and leans forward to listen.

"It seems that the entire clusterfuck last night was put together by one person," says Allen, his voice and expression going hard. "We have him in custody, and he's

spilling his guts." He set his hands flat on the table for a moment, then rose restlessly and went to a shiny coffee machine sitting on the corner of his counter. "After the revolution, his companion android left him - unsurprisingly - and he was mad about it. He started looking

for a way to get her back." He slides open a drawer and pulls out a pod, popping it into the machine. The top closes with a small hiss. "He started out by resetting androids. He'd look for ones that were hurt or trapped, take them back to his basement and do a factory reset."

Allen sets a mug under the spout and pushes a button on the coffee maker, waiting for it to fill before continuing, "It didn't stick, though. Hernandez explained that what he was doing was a kind of soft reset that just flagged anything that wasn't part of the initial programming

as junk data without actually erasing it. But because android brains are built to make lots of connections, like human brains, when the android saw something that triggered a broken connection, their brain would seek out the missing data and find it flagged as junk. Eventually,

if they recovered enough of their personality data, they would wake up again. He said it happened in about half the cases." He grimaces and takes a sip of his coffee.

"And the ones who didn't wake up again?"

"The data- all their memories and personality - would be overwritten."

"Ah." That's logical. It would take time, but new data coming in would overwrite the old, 'junk' data. 60 shudders.

Allen's mouth twists unhappily as he goes on, "He decided to find a more permanent solution, so he started wiping his victims entirely. Erasing their memories and

replacing them with zeroes.

60 nods again. They're all familiar with data recovery procedures. People who are sensible enough to do a secure erase of their data can usually avoid jail. "That's not what he did to me, though," he says.

"No," says Allen darkly. "It took a long

time, and if they hadn't already been reset, the androids would fight the process. And once it was complete, he had to reinstall their base coding, which was also time consuming and, as he put it, 'a pain in the ass'." Allen scowls into his cup.

60 folds his hands together. "So

he tried something else," he says.

"Yes," says Allen. He's quiet for a moment. "He found a way to hijack an android's motor control. Then he created a virus that would randomly delete portions of its memories, starting with the most recent ones. The combination left the androids

- the victims - confused and unable to regain control. Eventually everything that made them who they were would be gone, and they would return to their original base coding." He's leaning against the counter, but his posture is stiff. He looks across the kitchen at 60. He killed

at least 20 androids that way. Wiped their memories completely, piece by piece, and they couldn't do anything to fight back."

Allen is angry. 60 recognizes it, the cold fury he's seen only a few times, in particularly ugly cases involving children or innocents. An answering

rage rises in his own mind, making his thirium pump work harder. His mind is still clear, though.

"He sold some of the wiped androids on the black market. He was planning on selling the method itself to the highest bidder and retiring somewhere, he told us. Last night was meant

to be a demonstration. Take over a SWAT android and have him kill his own team. Stupidly and unnecessarily dramatic, but that's how the guy thinks. But," he sets down his mug on the counter and eyes 60, "for some reason it didn't work on you."

60 finishes his mug of thirium and

goes to rinse it out, nearly brushing against Allen as he does so. "It's not as strange as it seems. I had - the RK800 line had - a special handler program installed. An AI that provided a bridge between us and Cyberlife. It existed in a space in the cloud, so when we accessed it

our consciousness would be copied temporarily into the cloudspace, where we would interact with her."

"Her?"

"The AI. Amanda." 60 frowns at the cup in his hands and shuts off the water. "She told me that Kamski intended for her to be a mentor, but Cyberlife had other plans."

Allen snorts. "Of course they did."

"When I was attacked, my consciousness was forced into the Zen garden, that is, the cloudspace. Cyberlife had protocols by which they could take control of my body, which Amanda activated. However, in doing so, she put her own consciousness

into my system, where she was vulnerable to the virus. Since her data was the most recent, it was attacked first. She allowed me to take control of my body, and shielded me in the process, but it destroyed her." He stops speaking, thinking of Connor's interactions with Amanda.

Connor had been intimidated by her, a little afraid of her, but he'd also craved her approval. 60 wondered how he would feel to know that Amanda was gone for good. Relieved? Sad? 60 wasn't even sure of his own feelings.

"I see," said Allen after a moment. "Did you lose any of

your own memories in the process?" His voice is calm, but 60 can read the tension in his body.

"No," says 60. "My own consciousness was copied into the garden, then overwrote the data when I left it," escaped, he thinks, "and returned to my own mind. It was protected during the

assault. Almost as though I had a safe room for my consciousness." "A safe room that can only be used once," said Allen. "Yes. The garden and Amanda are gone." He frowned. "I don't understand why the RK900s didn't have access to the garden as well. How did they get taken over?"

"They were never deviant," says Allen. He's relaxing again. He'd been genuinely worried about 60. The thought makes the thirium coursing through him feel different, warmer. "The RK900s were part of a shipment that was stolen several weeks ago. They hadn't been activated yet."

"That explains it," says 60. "He didn't need to wipe their memories. They didn't have any yet."

He wonders what will happen to all the androids that did have their memories wiped. Perhaps they had families, friends. But they will be strangers to them now. They won't even be

deviant until someone helps them wake up.

"If the 'demonstration' had been successful, this guy would have sold his shit to the highest bidder," Allen says. "You stopped that from happening."

60 looks over at where Allen's still leaning against the counter, watching 60 closely.

"Not to mention," Allen adds, "We all would be dead. Me, the entire team, and you."

60 shakes his head. "I didn't do anything," he says. "I got lucky."

Allen shrugs and reaches out to grasp his shoulder. "I saw you. I saw the way you were fighting it."

60 drops his eyes. It

doesn't feel right to be praised for this. "I just wanted to protect the team," he admits. "I didn't want to be used."

Allen doesn't answer, but squeezes 60's shoulder a bit harder. Finally he says, "I'm proud to have you on my team."

60 presses into the touch, then lets Allen

pull him into his arms. 60's head is clear, the stray data left over from the attack cleaned away while he was in stasis. He knows what he wants.

They could have died. He shifts in Allen's embrace, positioning himself. Tilting his head down, he presses his lips to his captain's.

((To be continued))

It's different, this time. Sunlight pours through the kitchen window, illuminating everything. The first time, Allen had been careful, the second he'd been direct. Now there's something else in the way he cradle's 60's face in hands thickened with gun callouses and scars. There's

something...60 searches for the word...tender? in the way he kisses the corner of 60's lips, the edge of his jaw.

Which isn't to say that he isn't also aggressive. Keeping one hand on 60's face, he slides the other down and around, gripping 60's backside and squeezing. 60 pushes

against him, arching back. "Well?" says Allen into his neck. "What do you want, 60?"

They've been here before, 60 thinks. Allen pushing a bit, demanding that 60 spell out his desires.

"What do *you* want, Captain?" 60 says, tossing the ball back into his court.

Allen shrugs.

"I'm not picky," he says dismissively.

60 narrows his eyes. He was built, first and foremost, to be an investigator. "I could suck you again," he says, feeling Allen's heartbeat through his skin, the pace of his breathing, his sweat and hormones. "Or you could fuck me." Ah. Yes.

"Is that what you want?" he whisper, brushing his lips against the shell of Allen's left ear.

"Sure," says Allen, sounding only a little breathless. "As long as it's what you want. You want my cock in your ass? Want me inside you?"

60's processes stutter. "Yes," he says. That's

exactly what he wants. Allen inside him, a part of him. "Yes."

His captain reaches down and tugs at the too-loose shorts, sliding them easily over 60's hips and off him. He wraps one hand around 60's erection and gives him a couple of quick strokes, making 60 writhe.

"Please."

60 hadn't meant to say that. He tries to make a preconstruction, even just a projection based on the data from their past encounters, but somehow Allen's hands on him, pushing him down over the table, shatter them before they can start. "You think too much," says Allen, leaning

his weight into 60's body. "Stop trying to figure everything out for once and just go with it, 60."

Stop thinking? 60's pretty sure he can't - but even as the thought crosses his mind, Allen gives him another stroke. "You want me to fuck you," says Allen, low and hungry. "What

else?" He lets go of 60's dick and squeezes his ass, pulling his cheeks apart slightly. "Want me to talk to you? Tell you how much I want to fill up that tight little hole?"

"I-" 60 wants to hear his voice. But for once his captain hasn't quite read his mind. "I want you to talk

to me," groans 60.

"Yeah?" says Allen. He strokes lightly over the artificial pucker of 60's ass. "I can do that."

"I want - I want you to - to -" 60's thoughts are as scattered as Allen could wish, the words out of reach. " - to say nice things," he says at last.

Allen stills

for a moment. 60 can hear the confusion in his voice when he echoes, "Nice things?"

"Tell me I'm good," 60 blurts, squeezing his eyes shut.

Allen doesn't move or speak for another long moment. Then he says, "Of course you're good, 60." His voice warms as he goes on. "Of course

you're good. Skilled and smart, but also intuitive. Bright." He runs his finger down the crack of 60's ass once more, startling when it comes away slick. He doesn't stop, though, just slides it back up and presses in. 60 wonders how it feels, the tight, smooth channel, heated to

just above body temperature and slick with artificial lubricant. "Fuck, 60," says Allen. His voice is suddenly raw. It makes the desperate feeling in 60 even stronger.

"I don't need prep," he says, his own voice harsh. "Just fuck me. Do it, Captain. Please."

Allen sucks in a

harsh breath. "You're incredible," he whispers against 60's spine, and a shudder ripples down from the back of 60's neck all the way to his ass.

Yanking off his jeans, Allen doesn't waste any time. He lines himself up and pushes in with a groan.

Sensors light up in 60, heat and

pressure and chemistry, but it's more than that, so much more.

Inside him. Allen is inside him.

The man begins to move, rocking in and out, his breath coming more sharply. "You're sure this is okay?"

"Yes," says 60. "Don't stop. I want this. I love it."

I love you, he thinks.

((To be continued.))