"I texted him a bit on Monday." Rhys answers, "Told him you thought he should come for dinner, which-- he immediately freaked out about, but also was completely up for. He wants to know when to come over."
"Tomorrow night?" Elijah wonders out loud, stepping back to let Rhys unlock
the door to his cabin as they reach it. "We'll have had the chance to do
any necessary fine-tuning by then."
And he won't have had the opportunity to start a mental inventory of
reasons to not invite Betelgeuse into his home.
"Tomorrow night would be perfect. Maybe I could do the cooking?"
Don't let him do it, Elijah.
It's sooner than Rhys thought it would be, but he's not about to argue. He pushes open the door to his room, and steps in, holding the door for Elijah to follow him in.
"...Maybe you can help me with prep," he offers, by way of compromise,
while he follows Rhys inside. "It'll be a useful test of fine motor
skills, and it keeps you away from high temperatures in case of problems."
"Sure. That makes me your sous chef, right? Or, wait--"
Inside his horribly decorated rose gold and black glass cabin, Rhys has a horrible, gaudy mahogany desk which is covered in mechanical mess that he's managed to scatter across it. In the heart of a hundred other projects, the prosthetic arm lays in wait.
"Is the sous chef the boss? Or like, the underling?"
Rhys carefully clears off some of the desk, then glances around, then back to Elijah,
"Uh, you good to work here, or should I just grab the parts and head back to your lab?"
"Oooh, okay, I promise not to go mad with power and try to overthrow your cooking superiority."
Rhys answers, leaning across his desk to dig through a box of tools. He draws out a small cardboard box of slim latex gloves, dropping them on the desk within Elijah's reach.
"You want me to sit on the edge of my desk? Or is this an okay height for you to work at?"
Rhys considers, then, reflecting on the unique nature of his current death toll, decides to sit. He feels steady enough, but if he does unexpectedly nod off, he doesn't want to be doing it while standing up.
"Okay. Let me know if you need me to do anything."
Elijah is hardly a chatterbox at the most informal of times, but when he's
working, it becomes clear how much his focus narrows in on the task. His
hands barely tremble, his gaze doesn't dart; he's practically a machine
himself in these moments.
He only speaks to Rhys to be passed something, or to check in on sensation
in the new components he's installing.
Ordinarily, Rhys is the opposite. A constant rolling ball of nervous, chattering tension, but right now-- this is nice.
Having that total, perfect, surgical focus entirely trained on him gives Rhys a warm little flutter in his chest, and getting to watch Elijah's face this close up as he works...
Yeah. Nice. It almost feels a little meditative, just staying still and quiet and letting himself be worked on.
"Reliable testing minimises variables," Elijah tells him, like he doesn't
know, as he inspects the output. "Looks good. As hard as you can, first,
and then we'll go through fine pressure."
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"Tomorrow night?" Elijah wonders out loud, stepping back to let Rhys unlock the door to his cabin as they reach it. "We'll have had the chance to do any necessary fine-tuning by then."
And he won't have had the opportunity to start a mental inventory of reasons to not invite Betelgeuse into his home.
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Don't let him do it, Elijah.
It's sooner than Rhys thought it would be, but he's not about to argue. He pushes open the door to his room, and steps in, holding the door for Elijah to follow him in.
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"...Maybe you can help me with prep," he offers, by way of compromise, while he follows Rhys inside. "It'll be a useful test of fine motor skills, and it keeps you away from high temperatures in case of problems."
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Inside his horribly decorated rose gold and black glass cabin, Rhys has a horrible, gaudy mahogany desk which is covered in mechanical mess that he's managed to scatter across it. In the heart of a hundred other projects, the prosthetic arm lays in wait.
"Is the sous chef the boss? Or like, the underling?"
Rhys carefully clears off some of the desk, then glances around, then back to Elijah,
"Uh, you good to work here, or should I just grab the parts and head back to your lab?"
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"The sous chef is the second in command," Elijah says, more generously than 'underling'. "I can work here. Do you have sterile gloves?"
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Rhys answers, leaning across his desk to dig through a box of tools. He draws out a small cardboard box of slim latex gloves, dropping them on the desk within Elijah's reach.
"You want me to sit on the edge of my desk? Or is this an okay height for you to work at?"
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"Sit if it'll help you stay steady," Elijah decides, putting his gloves on. "Let's get started."
Careful, steady, precise work. There's been too much....drama up to this point already.
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"Okay. Let me know if you need me to do anything."
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"I will."
Elijah is hardly a chatterbox at the most informal of times, but when he's working, it becomes clear how much his focus narrows in on the task. His hands barely tremble, his gaze doesn't dart; he's practically a machine himself in these moments.
He only speaks to Rhys to be passed something, or to check in on sensation in the new components he's installing.
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Having that total, perfect, surgical focus entirely trained on him gives Rhys a warm little flutter in his chest, and getting to watch Elijah's face this close up as he works...
Yeah. Nice. It almost feels a little meditative, just staying still and quiet and letting himself be worked on.
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Elijah barely even seems to breathe until he sees fit to take a step back, lightly running a hand over the newly installed forearm.
"...I believe we're ready for testing. Can you feel this?" he asks, tapping his fingers.
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The tapping sends a shudder straight down Rhys's back and he scrunches up his neck,
"Yeah, ah-- wow, okay, I'm gonna need to get used to that again..."
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Elijah smiles a little.
"Then maybe a break? A period of - general reacclimation, before we move on to diagnostic testing."
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And he really doesn't want to accidentally destroy anything or hurt anyone.
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"I - really only meant ten minutes or so. But if you want to press on, we will."
A brief pause while he consults his tablet, bringing up the array of tests necessary to establish good working order.
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Elijah has to look at his face for a moment, checking for signs of sarcasm.
"Usually, my...patients would be powered down while I was working on them," he points out. "This, I've had to learn with you."
TELL ME TO EDIT THE EMBARRASSING IMPLICATION OUT OF THIS TAG AND I WILL
There's nothing backhanded in it. Rhys is honestly low key pretty sure that his bedside manner wasn't always this good.
"I mean, not that I mind getting the same treatment as your robots. You still have that CyberLife uniform tucked away somewhere?"
He asks this, the picture of innocence.
NEVER
There's a pause.
He clears his throat.
"...Yes, probably. Take this and start squeezing when I say."
Tools for measuring grip strength aren't difficult to put together.
Re: NEVER
Rhys suggests, taking the tool in his hand, but now more focused on being as distracting from the task at hand as possible.
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"Rhys, you're the one who didn't want to take a break," Elijah says patiently, and taps his tablet. "Start squeezing, slowly increasing pressure."
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"Reliable testing minimises variables," Elijah tells him, like he doesn't know, as he inspects the output. "Looks good. As hard as you can, first, and then we'll go through fine pressure."
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Says Rhys, reaching out to drape his free arm lightly over Elijah's shoulder, as he squeezes as hard as he can.