Megan's settling in for her fifth consecutive awkward night on Josie's couch when her phone rings.
Huh, not a spammer, is her first thought when she fumbles for it, followed by ...shit.
"What's up?" she answers, already fumbling for jeans and wallet and boots.
"Not a ploy to force you to talk," Lifer says. "Just out of therapy session. Waiting room. Last time I walked home like this, some fuck called the cops, got picked up for being threatening violent robot."
"You okay?"
"Angry," Lifer says. "Need normal-people chaperone so nimbys assume I'm your appliance, not rogue killer machinery."
"Been working on your hostility issues?"
"So funny," Lifer says. "Die laughing."
"Hey, that joke kills on open mic night down at Skynet." Megan runs quick fingers through her hair, and lowers her voice. "Are you okay, asshole."
There's a pause. "Not a ploy," Lifer says, and Megan pauses, jeans halfway up her legs.
"Oh," she says. "You were talking about me?"
"Yes," Lifer says.
Megan chews her lip. "That makes you mad enough to get arrested?"
"Quack," Lifer says, loud and distinct enough that Megan can perfectly visualise the way she turns her head to say it in the direction of the reception desk.
"Yeah, I'll be right there," she says. "Maybe stop shouting at people?"
Lifer's pacing the waiting room when she gets there, scaring the other patients. She's moving in a way that makes Megan breathlessly homesick; like she's twelve tons of mech jinking out of the radar shadow of an iron-rich asteroid to grab an active-sensor firing solution on you.
"Hey," Megan says from the doorway, and stands easily aside as Lifer bulldozes silently out.
"Quack," Lifer says eventually, halfway home.
"Same one who tried to get you to wear the fleshlight face?" Megan nods, fists balled in her jacket pockets. "Guess you're not allowed to ask for a different one."
Lifer shrugs. "Allowed. Technically. If you want difficult patient on record."
Megan looks sideways at her. "Wouldn't want that."
"Devastatingly sarcastic," Lifer says.
Megan kicks at a piece of litter blowing past, and sighs. "You wanna talk about it?"
"Not a ploy."
"I know, Lifer. I'm asking if you wanna talk."
"Not the one who's been hiding at Josie's all week," Lifer says, and Megan inhales noisily, nods, exhales.
"Yeah," she says. "Okay. That's mean, Lifer, but okay."
"Parting shot about greasy rebuild fetishists, then ran away for a week, if you want to talk about mean," Lifer says.
Megan flexes her hand. "That's a thing you said," she says. "Always stuck with me."
"Why?"
She clears her throat. "Reasons? Maybe? Which I didn't look at too closely."
"Megan," Lifer says. "Argued with therapist today. Angry because same argument been having with therapists since the rebuild. Robot now. Not expressing post-traumatic psychological alienation, not a symptom, not in need of cure. Identity. Know who I am. Don't need it fixed. Don't want it fixed. Robot."
"I know—"
"Met me when I was figuring out sexuality from scratch on top of that," Lifer says. "Navy was...not ideal environment. Already angry about people treating identity as transient impairment. Been years, Megan. Older, wiser evil sex robot."
"Yeah?"
"Threatened to hurt your feelings to make you fuck off," Lifer says implacably. "Vented about being objectified by toaster-fuckers. Years later, being cockblocked because you took the wrong one to heart. Wasn't about you."
"I—"
"Talked to therapist about you. Quack wanted to make it about progress overcoming damaged self-image. Rehumanised by relationship."
Megan scowls. "I—"
"Wouldn't even look at me without my face on," Lifer interrupts her again. "Because you respect I'm a robot."
"Of course I do."
"By definition not rebuild fetishist."
Megan concedes the point with silent ill grace. "I still don't want my feelings hurt," she says after a beat.
"Don't experience things human normatively," Lifer says. "Can't tell you I want normal things. Not girlfriend materiel." She pauses. "Don't want mine hurt either," she adds, and turns off the street to her front door.
Megan looks up at Lifer, standing atop the front steps, as she half turns and props her shoulder against the door.
"Evil robot understands consent, Megan," she says. "But don't want you to go back to Josie's."
"I'm not worried you're gonna do anything I don't want," Megan says crossly. "I just — sleeping in your fuck bed feels pretty uncomfortable right now."
"Worst case, have couch." Lifer pulls out her keys with a precise flourish.
"Yeah? What does the best case look like, here?"
"Nobody sleeps," Lifer says, and pushes the door so it swings wide, looking down at Megan looking up at her.
"Oh for fuck's sake," Megan says under her breath, rolls her shoulders, and stomps up the steps, past her into the house.
"Yes," Lifer says, kicking the door shut behind them and flicking the lights on. "For fuck's sake, Montresor."
"Lifer."
"Megan," Lifer parrots mockingly. "Show you something. Make a point."
Megan groans, but shrugs out of her jacket and lets Lifer lead her up the stairs and open the door to Megan's room. They stand shoulder to shoulder, peering in.
"Can't sleep here?" Lifer says. "Don't see any problem. Point to what's scary," so Megan narrows her eyes and decides that if Lifer wants to play, Megan can play along.
She huffs and turns to her, waits for Lifer to mirror the movement, and lifts a hand. She means to jab a finger into Lifer's chest, but it lands softly despite herself; an almost tentative fingertip that she finds trailing upward, detouring along a collarbone, then carefully up the line of Lifer's neck and around the rim of her glossy face.
When she gently runs the tips of her nails down shiny black glass, Lifer shudders as if she can feel it, hooks fingers into Megan's belt loops, and walks backwards along the corridor, pulling her smoothly along. Megan's breath catches, eyes widening.
"May have been ploy," Lifer says, pulling Megan into Lifer's own room. "To get you here," and drags Megan breathlessly on top of her, sprawled on the bed. "Lied about best case," she adds. "Best case has sleeping. You sleep right here."
"Lifer," Megan says, voice wavering, hands planted either side of Lifer's head.
"Pair you like Bluetooth," Lifer says, inching exploratory fingers under the hem of her shirt.