Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

When Alex confessed to Parvin, she immediately fled the room. He felt awkward, holding his bouquet right outside her door, watching as she ducked into her dorm and to the open bathroom. She doubled over at the toilet, pulling her hijab away so she could cough into the porcelain bowl. He knew showing up after class with a nice outfit and some flowers was a bit forward, but he never imagined it to be nauseating. The least he could do was put the bouquet aside and follow her in to comfort her and gracefully take the rejection.

When he came into the bathroom, though, she wasn’t vomiting. Okay, technically she was, but it wasn’t vomit. She coughed up blossoms, multicolor roses that spattered with blood where her windpipe rubbed raw. Alex grabbed at his own throat in sympathy.

Parvin took his hand and forced him to stay until she was able to speak again. She’s always been so strong, wiping saliva away so she could explain. Hanahaki disease plants seeds of grief deep in the chest of someone who believes their love is impossible to return. Making the love known can fix it, but if you don’t, you could squeeze your heart with roots and fill your lungs with flowers until there’s nothing left to keep you alive.

She was going to let herself die in fear of him rejecting her. In college, he couldn’t fathom why. Isn’t it safer to take the risk, to move on with your life?

Now, Alex understands. It’s slow at first, only a cough. He’s probably coming down with a cold, right? Then it’s a tickle at the throat, like something phlegmy he can’t clear out of his lungs. He can’t get enough air when he inhales, and his ribs constrict oddly, but that could easily chalk up to a muscle twinge.

Then the first petal came. Alex sat on his bed, pinching it between his fingers with a scowl. It’s red like his blood should be, a speck of black in the corner, so it’s probably a poppy. He gets irradiated to hell and back, starts countless shootouts, and goes up against the Dark Knight himself, but the thing that does him in is fucking poppies.

Well, it doesn’t have to. He knows this came from that big, dumb robot, and G.I. may understand. He doesn’t even have to like him back, just hear him out. Alex could get rid of this disease, literally nip it in the bud, with three simple words.

“I’d rather die.”

“What was that, Alex?” G.I. turned his head, not looking from where he stood in the corner facing the wall. Alex appreciated the thought behind giving him privacy when he changes clothes, but there’s nothing to see for him, so…

“Don’t worry about it.” He shoved the petal into his pocket, standing and straightening his coat. “Just allergies.”

“Ah. I was unaware you had those.”

“Sometimes. You can turn around now. We’re leaving, anyway.” After the debacle in Pokolistan, apparently they had to make a public appearance proving they’re worth keeping around and can be trusted. G.I. was in a more compact body, and they should be attending a fancy gala with the caveat of playing nice with ordinary humans. Waller had unlimited checks for their fancy wear, so he’s both trying to look his best and a little bit like an asshole. A purple herringbone vest buttoned over his ribcage deftly hid the fact he had no neckwear, his snowy shirt undone to show off his sternum. The decision to make the back of his vest the same stark white wasn't his, but he liked the cufflinks that some chucklefuck decided to give him with the symbol for radioactivity on them. He whistled appreciatively at the cut of wide-legged pants, a pair of wingtip brogues miles better than the worn out slip ons he usually wore. “How do I look?”

G.I. twisted, then gave him a thumbs-up. “I enjoy it.” He looked down to his pale dinner jacket, his tie hanging undone around his neck. “However, I do not believe this is regulation length.”

“You should really know by now we don’t have fabric shortages anymore.” Alex strode over to set the single button, unable to believe pants with a well-made satin stripe could hang this loosely around his twiggish legs. “You know, zoot suits were a huge thing after the war.”

“Profoundly unpatriotic.” G.I. narrowed his eyes, much less intimidating with a homburg hat than a helmet. “Probably worn by Nazis.”

“I—no. No, G.I., they’re not worn by Nazis.” He hoped that was convincing enough, given how different their suits were. Alex had plenty of fabric, still stylish enough to be tailored, while G.I. was incredibly short cut with the most opulent detail being a crosshatch of eggshell. He had to adjust the coat to hide G.I.’s suspenders, shifting his feet to not scuff his companion’s oxfords. Now, to tie his tie, a rehearsed motion that he could perform with his eyes closed. They should show off a little bit, right? A plain green tie won’t do for someone like him.

There’s that catch in his throat, forcing his mouth shut to not spatter something unseemly all over G.I.’s coat. His fingers got all tingly while he untangled the mess in his head with both hands over G.I.’s heart. When he was done, he smoothed out G.I.’s lapels like nothing happened. When humans consider G.I. a man and not a monster, he’s deemed a decorated soldier, and he had a few decorations to show that stuck to his coat. Medals were too clunky, so there’s a space for ribbons instead, small cuts of thread that make it clear he’s to be respected. Alex thumbed over the squares without realizing just how close he was to the robot, who looked down with confusion.

“I have never seen anyone with their tie like this.”

Alex swallowed, the velvety petals settling in his stomach. “It’s a rose knot. It’s—uh, it’s just something for looking nice. Windsors are a little business-y, aren’t they?”

“Ah.” G.I.’s lenses dilated as he smiled, some realization crossing him that Alex didn’t consider. “And with my white blazer, we match!”

Alex turned on his heel, his hand to his lips as he felt another bud coming up. He hunched over as a tiny blossom popped out, barely glancing at it before he crushed it in his fist. “Let’s get going,” he replied with a nervous laugh.

He flicked the flower away before the robot could see it and quickly led him out the door. They didn’t have a lot of time before the guards would come in to check they haven’t killed each other, after all. When they left the cell, they were quickly led through the prison to where Bride and Weasel waited on the air strip by the plane. She wore a long white gown with a slit in one side, a sweetheart neckline showing off a tourmaline necklace. He’s never seen it before, but she keeps rubbing it with her thumb. She stopped when she saw them, turning and crossing her arms over a burgundy shrug the same color as her heels. “About time.”

“Alex needed to fix my tie.” G.I. gestured to the knot with a proud smile. “We match now.”

“Better than matching with a glorified dog.” Bride glared at Weasel, who got the message to stop nibbling on his hind leg. He had a bejeweled collar, not tourmaline like Bride’s but shining with moonstone inlaid into thick golden metal. “They tried to put him in a suit, if you could believe it.”

“How many people were mauled?” Alex asked, sidestepping Weasel as he stood on two legs and grabbed for his shoulders. He’s not letting the one who bit a chunk out of his arm act friendly, even if he was fighting a tickle in his throat as he inched closer to the robot.

“Three.”

“Sounds right for Weez.” He put his hands in his pockets, the shred of poppy he touched refusing to burn like all evidence should. “So, we’re color coded tonight?”

“To make it easier to find us and harder to hide blood if we try anything. As if looking like a bridal party helps them use their trackers they implanted.” Bride rolled her eyes. “Apparently, we have to stay in pairs, too. Weasel’s my date tonight.”

“Pairs? Date?”

“Well, I doubt you want Weasel to piss on your leg again with your pretty white trousers.” Bride whistled sharply to bring the furry abomination back to her side. “I’m not leaving G.I. with him, either. This is going to be our best chance to get a good drink, so you two better not fuck it up. I’d like more missions where we don’t have a human with a zapper in his hand telling us what to do.”

“Amen, sister.” Alex saluted her mockingly, only for G.I. to do it genuinely, and that earned another wheeze with a desperate clearing of his throat. Bride raised her eyebrow.

“Phosphorus?”

“Alex has allergies,” G.I. supplied, proud to flaunt his new knowledge. “He gets them sometimes.”

“What kind of metahuman still deals with fucking allergies?”

“Shut up, She-Hulk,” Alex snapped, watching the plane behind them finally open up to let them inside.

As he walked past, Bride questioned aloud, “how long has that name been on the backburner?”

“Long enough,” he responded, slinking into the plane’s belly and dropping to the uncomfortable benches. He knew Bride would take the seat next to him to avoid Weasel, but forgot G.I. could take the other side, their knees knocking together. Alex gulped again, the single petal in his pocket feeling like it’ll burn a hole through the fabric. He’ll have to hope the one he threw out in the cell isn’t discovered by the staff. Maybe there’s a flower smuggling thing going on they’ll accuse him of instead of the humiliation of hanahaki.

For a robot.

Bride crossed her legs in a facade of proper etiquette as she leaned into Alex’s personal space. “So. Alex.”

“Not on a first name basis with you.”

“But you are with G.I.?”

“He’s my cellmate. Kind of hard not to be.”

“His legal name is G.I. Robot. Mine is The Bride, Weasel is Weasel. You’re the only one who can have a first name basis.” Bride tapped her finger on her chin. “Do you have a last name?”

“Yes.”

“Phosphorus?”

“No.”

“A middle name? Is it Bill?”

“No!”

“Is it…Alan? Derek?”

“Do I look like a Derek?” She’s mocking him, he can see it on her face, and yet he’s still rising to the challenge. Bride took the free source of entertainment, and he welcomed the distraction from the metal weight on his other side.

Alex can’t rely on other people to keep the constricting vines loose around his heart, though. No amount of needling will fix this issue, not without saying his feelings out loud. He doesn’t even know if G.I. can reciprocate, so he’s not embarrassing himself like that. Dying in prison, alone and unloved, has been his fate since he saw his family in a pool of blood.

He’ll joke about meaningless things, keeping the truth locked away, to not involve the robot in his suicide.

Chapter Text

G.I. has sensors so he can emulate the feeling of touch. It got installed when he gained a new body, something simple to advance his usual way of navigation. Really, it had the straightforward application that if he feels something with his foot, he stops walking, just in case his optics stop working. He’s found an appreciation for touch since then, a literal new sensation that he can share with anyone. As the only one who can’t get cancer from Alex, he enjoyed his privilege as the sole person with permission to touch him liberally. To his delight, he found out he’s the only one allowed to call him Alex instead of Phosphorus, as well.

On the flight to the fancy party in D.C., however, he noticed that Alex kept acting weirdly about them touching. His sensors knew when Alex emitted more heat, even though it never hurt, and he could sense his temperature spiking before he even brushed by him. It’s always happened, and he believed for the longest time that’s simply how he reacts with his radiation. Today, or rather, tonight, now that they’ve arrived at the party with the sun going down, he’s spiked his temperature twice as much as usual. His heart keeps thumping hard and heavy, his breaths shallow, like he’s scared. G.I. couldn’t think of anything to be afraid of, when he’s been told repeatedly there won’t be any Nazis at the event, and even if there were, he wasn’t allowed to kill them. That last asterisk confused him, but he should obey until the time is right.

Until then, his main goal was to assuage Alex’s anxiety wherever possible. He’s been allowed to download all sorts of medical information for updated triage training, and he knows that it can help alleviate symptoms to engage in physical touch. It helps the brain release cortisol, which is good for humans, and aids in cognitively realizing they’re not alone and can discuss what they need for a mission’s success.

So, he’s glued himself to Alex whenever possible. He put his hand on Alex’s shoulder when they exited the plane, had their shoes brushing when they sat opposite each other in the armored car, and when the door opened to let them out where the world could see, he offered his arm. Alex’s crackling skull didn’t betray any emotion aside from a larger flicker of flame. Meanwhile, G.I. knew his lungs constricted. He wished he had x-ray vision so he could see through his shirt and into his chest, just in case he has something lodged inside. Scans of general health don’t explain why the skeleton hesitated.

Alex took his arm anyway, and when G.I. drew them closer together, his hand slotted into his elbow. He could feel the energy sloughing off of his partner in waves powering his own circuits, eyes brightening as he smiled. This was no red carpet, but they did attract a crowd, governmental bodies from interns to senators wanting to see their latest wave of soldiers from inside the glass-fronted building. G.I. puffed his chest out to make sure they saw his decorations from the service on his coat, ignoring the murmurs and pointed looks at Bride and Weasel in the lead. They had two escorts walking ahead who stepped to either side to open double doors, sweeping them inside so the guards behind them could shut it. G.I. looked down at the blue carpet, leading to stone stairs that went to carpet again then stone then the actual red carpet—he’s noticed a lot of walking with no known destination.

He glanced to the man walking beside him with a stiff jaw. “Do you know where we are?”

Alex seemed surprised, if not incredulous. “Was the Washington Convention Center not a thing when you were kicking?”

“I do not believe so, no.”

“It’s kind of the most important convention center in the country. Inaugural balls, nuclear summits, international press conferences…” He paused as they stopped for security, who blankly looked at the metal man and the walking x-ray and waved them through without using the wand. “I used to watch that stuff like a hawk to see if they’d cut more budget for funding medical research.”

“Ah. I never considered that to be a priority.” G.I. stopped when Bride did, waiting as the more important people pushed past. He was getting the same feeling he had when he did those media circuits ages ago, people studying him closely for reasons he can’t understand. Apparently their audience’s curiosity was sated for now, or at least enough to be shunted off to the elevators at the side while they laughed their way up the main staircase. G.I. watched Bride and Weasel go up first, then scooted in beside Alex with their own entourage of guards. He could feel Alex’s heart rate spike. Right, he burns everything he touches. It makes sense to not want to be in such close quarters. G.I. pulled his arm over his shoulders to use as a physical buffer, a warning to keep the normal humans back. Alex wheezed like he was being crushed.

“A—Phosphorus?” G.I. corrected himself with the scalding looks of their onlookers, one’s finger inching toward their holster. Odd for them to see someone choking on air as a threat. Maybe they are Nazis, looking for the first excuse to dispatch the robot designed to—

“I’m fine, G.I.,” he managed. “Just…your arms are a bit stronger than you think.”

“Oh. I’m sorry, Doctor. I’ll be more careful.” G.I. is able to complete great feats of strength, but he also has the dexterity to know exactly how much force to use when handling the average person. Even with the knowledge that he used the same amount of force he has for any normal human, he’s also well aware that Alex is much more durable and can take a hit easily. He said he had allergies, but don’t they just cause trouble breathing in humans? He shouldn’t have frail bones.

His theory of anxiety was gaining traction by the second, the elevator’s light blinking until they were at the third floor. If they’re not on their “best behavior”, as their superiors called it, they could get more shocks in the craniums as punishment for missteps. He can’t see his friends in pain like that over and over as a result of them making a mistake tonight. He knows it makes no logical sense to care if they’re hurt, or if Alex’s heart is jumping like a frightened rabbit, but he did anyway. He chalked it up to his advanced company bonding programming.

Alex slackened his tight shoulders when they got back into an open space, the walkway like a balcony that hugged the surrounding area. Three sets of doors opened to a milk white room full of chattering people, a sea of suits and dresses with decorated tables like islands in unsteady waters. The curved ceiling had diamond shapes elegantly woven into it like branches, matching blue and gold patterns across the floor. G.I. couldn’t get a good look of the entire area, resisting the temptation to extend his legs for a proper vantage point. “What is this?”

“A ballroom. This place has three of them.”

“Three rooms this spacious?”

“It’s for rich politicians. We’re lucky they only took over one city block for it.” Alex turned his head, that hitch in his breath returning. G.I. followed his gaze. There are flowers decorating the hall, set in vases at every table, as well as in spindly, towering pots that stood in intervals along the perimeter. It probably made the venue smell very nice, if G.I. could smell. As is, he could recognize the flowers when he ran them through his processes.

“How beautiful.” He walked over to the nearest table, dragging Alex along with him and making the heavily-jowled couple standing there scramble away. He leaned forward, brushing his fingers across the delicate petals to not harm them. “Carnations.”

“Oh.” Alex gulped, but G.I. had no source for the nervous tick. “You know flowers?”

“Of course. After they released me from service, the scientists gave me many topics to study in order to test my storage capabilities. They wanted to see if I could discern a meaning from something that is not immediately obvious, but is instead…symbolic, like art. All flowers have an assigned meaning by human society.” He giddily fired up the old folders in the back of his mind, using the same software for identifying Nazis to match the meaning to the flower in front of him. “These carnations are green, white, red, and pink. Carnations that are one color have a positive meaning, while carnations with stripes are negative. You also do not want to receive yellow carnations as a gift.”

“Alright.” Alex’s voice sounded scratchy, holding one fist up to his mouth. He coughed again, then asked, “What do these other ones mean, then?”

“The majority of the meanings are what’s given to most flowers of that color. White is innocence, pink is gratitude, and red is romantic admiration. It means ‘I love you’, with the deeper the red, the deeper the love.” G.I. pulled out that one by the stem, trying to look closer. He can’t see color that well, especially the same tint as his lenses, so it’s hard to see how “in love” they are. He held it out to Alex to look, since he has much better eyes.

Alex choked, swallowing heavily. He shouldn’t have anything in his mouth to swallow. “Wh-what are you doing?”

“You are aware of the color of my optics. It makes it hard to see between shades. I believe in humans it’s called color deficiency.” G.I. tilted his head. “Can you tell me how in love the flower is?”

“Oh. Uh.” Alex kept bobbing his throat, rubbing it with gritted teeth as he looked anywhere else. “Very deep. Pract-practically black.”

“That’s wonderful.” G.I. gave it to Alex, confused why he didn’t hold onto it and making his hands clasp around the stem, before taking out another flower of single-color petals. “This one is very interesting. The scientists could not find this definition in the almanacs they gave me, so they told me it verbally. The green carnation is for love between men. The exact reason behind it being chosen is unknown, except that it was popularized by a man who went to trial in the late 1800s for—”

G.I. stopped speaking, jaw still open, as Alex torched the flower he held into cinders. It happened so quickly he barely saw it. One moment, his companion was staring down at the bloom in his hands, spidery fingers wrapped around each other as they held the delicate plant close, and the next, it was gone. His fire flared so suddenly and violently that mere ash slipped out of his grip, no time to emit smoke. It ceased to exist at the trigger of something in his conversation, but G.I. couldn’t place what. He just knew that Alex usually had more control than that, frowning at the miniscule pile staining the azure floor.

“Why did you do that?” His voice has limited capacity for emotional tones, but he sounded disappointed all the same. Alex startled, dragged out of whatever thought destroyed the offered carnation, and looked back up at him. He opened his mouth, then hacked and clutched at his windpipe. Maybe there was smoke after all, something G.I. didn’t see in his surprise, and it irritated his lungs.

“Excuse me.” Alex turned on his heel and walked off while massaging his throat. Their besuited audience loved to watch them without interfering, like deer concerned that passing wolves are hungry, but they parted for Alex like he carried a plague deep within him. Maybe the heat that keeps his bones lit is that plague, and G.I. is lucky enough to be immune.

But he’s not that lucky, because he’s alone. G.I. slowly lowered the green carnation, replaying the conversation to find where he went wrong. He thought they were having fun with small talk the way they always do, finding something inconsequential to chat about to avoid the larger picture. Alex never liked talking about how they’re incarcerated, forced to kill who their leaders want with no choice in the matter. He does the job and cracks a joke to make it better.

G.I. just wanted to do the same. He couldn’t find it in himself to put the flower back after making it witness the death of its friend, so he snapped off most of the stem. He tucked the carnation into the breast pocket, letting the verdant petals stand on display like a brooch beneath his service ribbons, then walked into the crowd to see if he could find Alex. Enough people turned to glower at him that he turned to look back, annoyed when none of them popped up as a Nazi. He found one obvious bubble of avoidance, ready to apologize to Alex for whatever misstep he took, but instead he found a stitched together friend with a flute of champagne in her hand. Maybe he can ask her, stepping over a Weasel who curled up on the ground and slept through his boredom. “Hello, Friend Bride!”

“G.I.” She angled her head to look behind him. “Where’s Phosphorus?”

“He left. I believe I made a mistake in our conversation.”

“With a man that desperate for attention?” Bride exhaled quickly, like she didn’t have the care to laugh. “You seem to do no wrong with him, so I find that unlikely.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You’ve been attached at the bloody hip ever since you were rebuilt. I’m surprised he pisses without you.” She downed her drink, setting it on a tray attached to a passing waiter and grabbing a new one. “How could you possibly mess that up?”

“I could hear his heart rate elevating and believed he was anxious about being in close quarters with so many people. Anxiety is very bad for humans. I was distracting him by talking about flowers.” G.I. gestured to the one he had stuck in his jacket. Bride’s eyes widened, showing more interest in the bud than she had in the entire conversation. “I also gave him a flower, but he burned it and left me. I can’t fathom why.”

“Did you give him a green carnation?”

“No, I gave him a red one—hm?” G.I. backed up his train of thought with curiosity. “You know the meaning of the green carnation?”

“I was born two hundred years ago. I know a lot of history…especially of that sort.”

“What sort?”

She waved off his question, instead clarifying, “I don’t care what you two are doing, but he probably left because you were flirting with him in public. At a party where we have to be palatable to Washington’s deep pockets, that isn’t the best move.”

“I see. I will find him and apologize immediately.” G.I. turned to leave, halted, and twisted back to facing Bride. “What is flirting?”

“Pardon?”

“An apology is no good if I don’t know what I’m apologizing for. I have never had experience with flirting.”

“Oh.” Her face shifted to an expression he’s never seen her wear, setting her glass on the table next to her. “This is going to take a while.”

Chapter Text

Alex didn’t know a lot about hanahaki, his main previous experience with it only teaching him to learn more flower types so he doesn’t accidentally give Parvin a bad omen in his attempt to avoid roses. However, he knew from talking to his wife that most people only have one flower growing in their chest, and mainly cough up petals for many months before entire flowers leave their body in their final attempts to kill the host.

So how is he already holding an intact daffodil? Sure, their status as cellmates meant it was impossible to separate them, but he should have plenty of time to suffer before reaching the final stages.

But he’s a metahuman, mutated to burn anything he touches with radioactive fire, and therefore he should kill any vegetation before it takes root. The yellow flower in his hands presented a new terrifying possibility, though, two-headed with the dual faces looking in opposite directions. When he looked into how radioactivity affects types of life for his research, he found that plants were quite hearty and flexible in their survivability. Sometimes, they would have a mutation, such as the fasciated cluster he’s holding now, but they could thrive even with this setback. It’s highly admirable.

It’s also awful for him, the sentient nuclear meltdown, who makes and eliminates cancer as a dual edged sword to radiation. If cancer’s just cells overproducing in the body, and plants can thrive just fine as long as they’re given the opportunity to grow…

No superpowered white blood cells can fix him being a breeding ground for hanahaki, and he’s obviously not limited to just one flower. He could have dozens of flowers on scores of branches, hybridized by G.I. joining him in the cafeteria when he can’t eat, or staying up late at night swapping stories in their cell, or being the first person to touch him with affection in fifteen years…

His eyes watered as he gagged, spitting out sunshine tulip petals that shimmered unnaturally with his spit. He dropped it in the trash along with the poppy and daffodil. He needs to get back to the ballroom before the guards realize he slipped away.

Alex closed the door behind him as quietly as possible, checking his clothes for spots of blood. His healing seems to keep the plants from ripping up his throat enough to spit up crimson, although that may not last for long as the illness progresses.

Progresses. Fuck, he’s a ticking time bomb, isn’t he? He was going to ignore this slow crawl for as long as possible, but if he wastes away this quickly, it’ll hurt like hell. He needs a solution outside of avoiding G.I. all the time, especially if he wants today to go smoothly. Maybe he can go to the bathroom and force a finger down his throat, and after a few heaves the worst of it will clear. He’s also heard of people getting the flowers surgically removed, so if he can squirrel away a knife his healing factor might keep him from bleeding out long enough to chop up the stems and kill the plant…

“Alex!”

He stifled a flinch at the voice, angling his head back. He walked right past the table that Bride and Weasel stationed themselves at without realizing, too deep in his own sulking. Bride crooked a finger to beckon him over with Weasel chasing dream squirrels halfway under the table.

“Don’t call me that,” he protested lamely, dragging his feet to her table. She offered him champagne that he gladly drank, hoping to look like normal coworkers, not inmates. It burned the petals he kept back as well as his mouth. “Disgusting.”

“Mm?”

“Too fruity.”

“Too sweet as well. I was expecting an English taste but this is borderline French.”

“What?”

“It’s how we used to grade champagne when I worked in a winery. The French taste is so full of sugar that nobody makes it anymore.” She took another sip, wrinkling her nose. “Nobody except these amateurs. I doubt this was even made in the champagne region.”

“You worked in a winery?”

“I’m almost two hundred years old. I worked everywhere.”

“You’re shitting me,” he laughed, leaning against the table with his arms crossed. She did the same, grabbing a refill for her sparkling glass.

“Try me.”

“Pokolistan.”

“We were on a job there together. Try harder.”

“Bialya.”

“Hard to live there during the Cold War, but yes. I was a shepherd. Quiet, isolated.” Bride leaned into her palm. “Any others?”

“Rhapastan.”

Her shoulders tensed. “You want to know how it was there?”

“Hey.” Alex pointed with the hand still holding the champagne glass, voice lowering. “Rhapastan isn’t just drugs and fascism. My mother-in-law—”

“Your what?” Bride pounced on the slip up like a cat. “You’re married?”

Shit. He looked away quickly, the sting of alcohol and thorns hot in his throat. He was tempted to say that Bride planned this, but no, he’s just that stupid. Curse him and his need to have someone, anyone enjoy spending time with him. This is the closest to a friendly conversation he’s had with anyone outside of G.I.—

He managed not to cough this time, but petals certainly lapped at his tongue. Alex hated the crunch of foliage under his teeth, but he couldn’t swallow something like that without working his jaw and shunting it back down. There’s an olive branch right in front of him from someone who doesn’t bring forth flowers at their name passing through his head. He needs to take it, even if it’s an uncomfortable subject. “Was. I was married.”

“I’d imagine most relationships ending when you’re arrested for murder,” Bride offered. It’s too snippish to be nice, but she skipped right over the mockery.

“I’m sure she would’ve left if she saw what I did, yes.” He used the rest of his drink to replace a bad taste with a worse one, setting his glass on the table. Bride picked it up, put it on the tray of a passing waiter, and gave him another flute of alcohol. He hates drinking. He swallowed it anyway. “I liked it too much to stop.”

“She was gone by then?”

“Yeah. Lost her and my career, so I needed something new, and hey, if you love your job, you never work a day in your life, so…” Alex hated this topic, and quickly tried to set it on Bride again. “What about you? Any of your work bring you inner peace?”

“Not when a certain pillock followed me everywhere. As if finding a nice woman to settle down with wasn’t hard enough back then.”

His brain cranked slowly through her words, feeling there was something amiss. Bride twisted to have her back to the table, smiling into her glass. “Wait.”

“Yes, Alex?”

“You said woman.”

“Is there a problem?”

“Even if I had a problem with it, I wouldn’t say it to you. I’ve seen how much you can bench.” Alex rolled his wrist, trying to sound casual as he turned too. Facing the politicians made this conversation feel less private. Maybe that’s why she’s doing it. “Women, then? No men?”

She nodded. “You sound surprised.”

“Makes sense in hindsight. The main shock is you telling me.” He drummed his fingers on his leg, adding, “I mean, I know you’re being nice right now because we can’t be dicks to each other in public, but most small talk is about the weather.”

“Well, I just had to explain human sexuality and mating rituals to a robot, so suffice to say it was on my mind.”

“You—” He turned away, gagging. A full columbine, crimson, star-shaped, and the size of his palm, dropped out. Bride was too busy to notice, Weasel snoozing at her feet now rolling onto his back to get fur on her shoes. Bride nudged Weasel into waking up and moving away, looking back while he still had his hand in his pocket where he crushed the flower.

“What was that, Alex?”

“Why did you tell G.I. about that junk?” He growled, leaning in a hoarse whisper. “What the hell could he be doing at this stupid summit that he needs to know how-how that works?”

“Apparently no one explained romance to him. It seemed important for him to know.”

“Great, so now he’s going to apply that knowledge to sexually harass a senator?”

“No, we talked about that, too. He can hold his own interests and know when other people want you to back off. You just need to be clear about it.” Bride gave him a funny look, then knocked her drink back. Alex should ask about the percentages on these things before he commits to another one. It’s hard to keep a safe temperature around others with such enticing fuel. “He’s looking for you right now.”

Alex squinted over the crowd, looking for the hat sitting on top of the chrome dome. No one finds those things gentlemanly after the fifties, so it was easy to spot just beyond a group laughing obnoxiously. He had a tickle in his chest as he quickly turned to leave.

“No.” Bride’s steel grip wrinkled his sleeve. “We’re supposed to stay in pairs. If I have to keep Weasel from waking up and mauling people all day, you two need to handle whatever’s wrong with you.”

“There’s nothing wrong, I just—” He glanced back. G.I. had swivelled to look at him, face shifting to a smile as soon as they made eye contact. Oh, he’s happy to see him. Oh, he can feel something with spiked leaves strangling his lungs.

Bride didn’t release him until G.I. was at the table. “Alright, now you can go,” she told them. “Don’t get separated again. This is the easiest job we could get, and if you screw it up because you’re too busy fli—”

“Got it!” Alex interrupted a touch too loudly, linking arms with G.I. That was a mistake, the roots that laced his heart squeezing in time with the blood pumping in his veins faster and faster. G.I. tilted his head curiously, then started walking. Alex had to follow if he wanted to keep his arm in its socket.

As soon as they were out of sight, Alex felt G.I. lean to touch shoulders again, immediately tilting away and bumping into a representative. That prick’s been in office since Alex was in college, only with more wrinkles. The living example of why they need term limits looked him over with open disgust.

“Ah. It’s…you.”

He considered briefly whether they’d believe constantly being on fire causes him pain and if he can run away screaming bloody murder. Probably not, with G.I. drawing himself up for a polite greeting.

“Hello!” G.I. replied. “I am G.I. Robot, and this is my partner, Doctor Phosphorus.”

Partner? Alex was relieved he’s already green so no one could see his bout of nausea. G.I. never calls him that. Did Bride tell him to say that? Is that what she meant by “explaining romance”, telling G.I. to call him embarrassing things to rile him up?

“I know who this man is.” The politician’s ugly brown lipstick twitched as she spoke. “He kidnapped my son during his reign of terror.”

“Riiight.” Alex could meet anyone in the country, and they have to be a Gothamite. His chances of convincing her he doesn’t need a shock collar just plummeted. “Well, I’ve gone a long time without kidnapping people. Just goes to show, the prison system really works.”

“Mhm.” She ignored the robot like he wasn’t there, fixated on Alex with shrewd eyes. “If nothing else, you can be a reminder why we need to regulate nuclear energy.”

“Hahaha.” Laughing in monotone is an artform. “Would it make you feel better if I told you I never set foot in a power plant?”

“Of course not, Dr. Sartorius.”

“Please, Dr. Phosphorus was my—” The practiced snark shrivelled up in his mouth. He couldn’t have heard that correctly. “Pardon?”

“Alexander Sartorius, correct?” She sounded proud of herself, like she did anything other than drag an ugly name into the light. “I was at your trial. According to your lawyer, Rupert Thorne forced you to murder your family and caused you to develop insanity.”

G.I. blinked, his jaws slightly parted as he looked down at Alex. Was that surprise? Doubt? Pity? Alex dragged his arm through the gap between him and G.I. to put his hands in his pockets, trying to look unruffled. “They claimed I’m a man named Sartorius in a transparent bid for Arkham Asylum. Sticking me with the label of sociopathy was the most pathetic thing they could’ve done.”

“And you’re not?”

“A sociopath, or a pathetic nuclear scientist who killed his own wife and kid?” Phosphorus chuckled, ignoring the robot’s dangerous look. “I’ll let you in on something, schifosa—”

“I do believe that is enough.” G.I. pulled him back before he could crowd the woman’s personal space. “You are very rude, miss.”

She had her hand splayed on her chest, affronted. “Your date just insulted me in Spanish, and you’re calling me rude?”

“It was Italian,” Alex muttered, looking up to the ceiling to keep the flowers back by the power of gravity. Cordiality is a curse created by people who deserved to be flipped off in his book. Mentioning his family earned her some real colorful language with a death threat, not a tinted insult, but no, they have to be civil.

“I would advise against insulting my date at all,” G.I. replied. Alex could feel his eye twitching at that word. He ignored it when Bride said “date” as a joke about Weasel, because it’s Weasel, and you’d have to be a very specific kind of monster to tap that.

Date.

Partner.

Romance.

Love.

Nobody brings that shit up around him for years, and then it’s all they talk about, a parade of showing off that becomes a march toward his grave. Was he not as sneaky as he thought, hiding petals wherever possible, and they’re waiting until he makes an ass of himself by vomiting an entire plant on the ballroom floor? Was today specifically planned to torture him, making him play nice with crones from Capitol Hill that he could easily dispose of?

He came back to reality with G.I.’s metal fingers digging into his sleeve. G.I.’s voice is strained as he speaks, the words drifting through Alex’s ears like he’s clogged them with cotton. He hasn’t raised his voice, and neither has this politician, but they’re clearly not happy to be talking to each other. How long have they been talking? How long has G.I. been defending his (nonexistent) honor while he stands there like a statue?

Well, he’s supposed to be networking his way into being allowed outside a prison cell. Nobody said they should do that with lost causes, and Gothamites will never give him a chance. He needs a way to dip out, now. “G.I.,” Alex began with a lilt to his voice, splaying his fingers across the robot’s hand to stop him.

G.I. stopped mid sentence, switching his frustrated expression to a soft one. It’s ridiculous how attentive a bona fide murder machine can be. “Yes, Doctor?”

“We’re needed elsewhere.”

“We are?”

“Mhm.”

“We were in the middle of a conversation,” the woman growled. She’s either very bold to take that tone with a former mob boss, or Alex severely underestimated her stupidity.

Be nice. Be nice. This is the one time when I have to be nice. He tilted his head very slowly, like a dog begging its owner for a treat. “I don’t really care.”

“That’s—you—”

Alex clicked his tongue, interrupting her. “Come on, how can anything I say be impolite with this winning smile?” He gestured to his exposed teeth in warning, then led G.I. away. It’s nice to be pulling someone else around, not the opposite.

G.I. got into his personal bubble to make sure he’s not overheard. “Are you alright, Alex?”

“Hm? Yeah, totally fine. Just hate her, find her annoying, et cetera. I didn’t think you’d be the one trying to keep our heads cool through that, bullet brain.”

“If I can’t make the non Nazis see reason, then I can’t kill Nazis. It seemed logical.”

“Yeah, until she drove the conversation to Uglyville. We should’ve given her the bird the second she brought up my trial.”

“That did seem to upset you.”

“No it didn’t.”

“Your heartrate elevated, your temperature rose, and you had a lower oxygen intake at the topic.”

Oh God. Alex brought his free hand up to his chest, hyper aware of how this realization made all his organs squeeze. “You-you can tell how I’m breathing?”

“I thought I told you this.” G.I. blinked, but he doesn’t need to blink. Is that him scanning Alex? Shit, has he been doing that the entire time? “I am able to assess the wellbeing of all of my comrades. It is a part of my triage programming. I also had my database of illnesses updated when I was reactivated so I do not use obsolete knowledge in my analysis of physical and mental problems.”

“Can you see inside me?”

“Everyone can see inside you. You are transparent.”

“You know what I mean.” The flowers. The flowers, the stupid flowers, the ones he keeps shoving in his pockets. If G.I. knows about hanahaki, and he can see the plants growing in his chest, and notice them bubbling up every time he so much as thinks about the robot—

“If you have an internal problem, I’d need a more thorough scan. I usually don’t do those, since I only need to monitor if a Nazi died by my hands or needs another wound.” G.I. stopped walking and looked over. “Would you like me to do that for you?”

“Kill me?” Please, that’d make this whole thing so much easier.

“No. A thorough scan. It would be no trouble at all.”

“I—no, I’m good.” Alex wheezed, since knowing someone can see you struggling only makes it harder to hide. It was so simple to pretend to be fine around the snooty lady who hated his guts, but now he can feel it like fluid sticking to his lungs. Maybe it’s nectar globbing onto his muscles, pollen spraying into the airways to make sure the plant reproduces and only gets bigger.

“I mean it.” G.I. softened, if that’s even possible, and pressed his hand into his back. It’s exactly how Alex used to comfort his kid when he was sick, rubbing his thumb in circles right at the knobbly neck bone, and he hates it so much when someone else does it to him. He doesn’t deserve nice touches like this. “Alex, I have noticed your health worsening over the past several weeks. You have been experiencing heart palpitations and breathing as if something is constricting your lungs. I am also certain that, even with your usual radiation, you are running a fever. We should go somewhere else for you to rest for a moment.”

“‘s just allergies.”

“I do not believe you.”

Alex snorted, then hacked, then he was leaning more into the side of G.I. than he cared to admit. He only looked more worried at that. Alex strung together an excuse in his head, something that would work on a creature with less of a heart, but he had daffodils climbing up his throat. It’s too much to swallow without looking like vomit, too much to crush before spitting it out when he distracts G.I.

Alex couldn’t do anything. He was lucky to breathe through his nose, leaves and petals crowding his teeth and jamming themselves under his tongue. He drew his arms in close and butted his head into G.I.’s breast without saying a word. The robot understood enough to take the lead in their walk again and guide them off.

He should’ve begged Bride to let him take Weasel as his partner tonight. At least then, if he dies he knows the person at fault won’t feel bad about it.

Chapter Text

G.I. led Alex to the bathroom, the guards not bothering to walk them once they figured out where they’re going. The seating just outside the door would be perfect for the sick, although his partner broke away and made a beeline for one of the stalls instead. When he doubled over with his fire turning the toilet water to steam, G.I. came up behind him to make sure he doesn’t hit his head. He patted the small of Alex’s back, feeling his muscles tense under his shirt. He didn’t have time to pull away, retching into the toilet. G.I. couldn’t see what came out of his mouth, instead taking the time to organize all the information he’s received in the past hour.

Bride knew a great deal about “flirting” that she shared quite seriously. He already understood humans to be monogamous beings that mate for life, although she made a face at that. In their quest to show interest to a possible partner, they flirt. There are times and places when they do not find flirting appropriate, such as when they think they’ll be rejected, or that other people will look down on their choice of companion. He had flirted, that was a fact, and if he was not interested, it would be best to apologize. It would make sense for him to not be interested and apologize.

But he’s looking at Alex right now, breathing heavily under his palm, with skeletal fingers shadowing the porcelain that he held in a vice, and he had no interest in apologizing. He didn’t want to say that he was wrong when he gave him a flower. He was being kind to someone who was struggling, and that’s not something to be wrong about. He’s doing the right thing by helping his friend. No need to say sorry.

“Sorry.” Alex’s voice echoed a bit, lifting his head just enough to be heard. “I-I don’t know what came over me.”

“Are you intoxicated?” G.I. asked, going for the easiest answer. “Consuming alcohol can lead to vomiting and raise your heart rate.”

“Yeah. That’s probably it. I’m fine otherwise.”

G.I. frowned, brushing his fingers over his spine. Like he pressed a button, the man’s jaw practically unhinged before he buried his face again. There must be a clear cause-and-effect.

Bride did tell him that physical touch is a form of flirting. Initiating contact can make intentions clear. If Alex did not appreciate his affection, then he’d be clear by physically moving away. G.I. remembered guiltily how his temperature raised every time they touched, a classic sign of embarrassment, and shifted to keep his hands to himself.

A low, droning tone answered, pitching up in pain when it left Alex. It startled G.I. into looking at the skeleton, slack-jawed. Did he just whimper?

“Don leave. ‘m fine.” He sounded drifty, like when he first wakes up and sputters nonsense until G.I. gets him coffee from the cafeteria. All pretense of “allergies” dropped as he flushed the toilet, gagged, and hurled before G.I. could see if the water clears.

“I’m not leaving,” G.I. reassured him, crouching to not stand over Alex and avoiding studying the toilet. “I was trying to give you space. Bride informed me that touching can be too inti—”

“Shush.” Alex grabbed his arm without looking, pulling it until he had a cybernetic palm pressed into the crown of his skull. “Need you. Makes it all get out…” He coughed and spat some unknown substance in the water. “Goes faster if touching you.”

G.I. couldn’t think of a disease where that’s true, so the doctor must be speaking nonsense. He obliged anyway, running his hand down until he snaked it around Alex’s torso. Stabilizing his trunk seemed like the best option. He could feel Alex’s stomach pump like a piston under his fingers, shrinking as he heard the toilet flush again with no end in sight.

This is bad. Emesis is an extreme reaction to illness, one that might make his breathing worse if his stomach contents accidentally get into his lungs. He won’t stop coughing and heaving, barely getting a gasp in before it’s punched out. Touching Alex makes it worse, but Alex wants him there. He can’t just say no.

He’s scared. G.I. would never feel fear on the battlefield, but holding someone he cares about, not knowing why he’s hurting and only understanding it’s his fault, ties him into knots. He’s never had experience with this. He can’t find a solution.

The second Alex seemed to recover an inch, G.I. squeezed and pulled him close. Alex yelped, twisting in the arms locking him in like a cat wriggling free. G.I. didn’t let him, rocking back on his heels to hit the back of his jacket on the stall door.

“G.I., what the hell?”

“I-I apologize.” He worked his jaw carefully, muffled in the crook between Alex’s chin and shoulder. It felt like a secure spot, paying close attention to if his Adam’s Apple bobbed with more illness gushing from his mouth. “I panicked.”

“Pani—you can panic?”

“It’s as much of a surprise to me as it is to you. It’s never happened before, but when you whined, and you wouldn’t stop…” He shifted one hand over Alex’s heart, feeling it knock feverishly around his chest. If G.I. had organs, he knew he’d be matching that tempo. “I am worried about your wellbeing.”

Alex’s ribs dragged under his touch, too full to be real. There’s something dangerously wrong there. “I’ll be fine, G.I.,” he croaked, not believably. “Sometimes, people throw up. It really sucks, but it happens. Hey, if you know there’s an issue, you could even make it happen to clear it up—”

“Is that what you did?”

A shallow intake of breath, a traitorous rise in blood flow, and his translucent skin shining more brilliantly in a blush. Alex didn’t need to lie, he physically couldn’t. G.I. gaped in disbelief.

“But you were doing that for so long.”

“...Well, it wasn’t fixing it the first time around, and it’s not like I can die if I get a tear and cough up blood.” Alex cleared his throat, coughing into his fist. It’s no better than before.

“Need you. Makes it all get out. Goes faster if touching you.” He wasn’t saying random things in an exhausted state. He was being serious. Alex knew G.I. was making it worse, didn’t tell him, didn’t push him away, just let him selfishly touch skin to metal the whole trip and give him flowers and flirt—

G.I. knocked him off his lap, his sensors buzzing everywhere they made contact. He was foolish to think he could be on the same page and understand this. “I will wait outside,” he announced stiffly, standing and opening the door. He ached in sympathy when he knocked Alex on the head with the corner of it, but he couldn’t apologize. Saying anything, doing anything, could make Alex worse, and he’ll let him.

Why? G.I. avoided the mirror so he can’t see Alex’s face, walking out to the hallway and dropping on the couch he was going to offer to a sick friend who won’t trust him with the truth. The pots the size of people that speckled the hall in intervals and crossed past him alternated between the branches they held inside. Orange and peach blossoms, pulled from their trees by the branch and stuffed inside, seemed to mock him.

Purity and loveliness, captivity in unrealistic dreams. He didn’t want the meanings popping up in his head, but it’s like asking him to not have eyes. He can know the definitions, but that doesn’t mean he can use them in practice.

G.I. leaned forward to glare at the material of the couch, idly picking at the pattern. It’s floral, old, dusty from being stuck in storage and brought out just for the event. It had to be custom made, given how tiny pink beads clumped like berries in the white cloth, but he couldn’t figure out why someone would pick currant bushes for a floral pattern.

He’s been confused about a lot of things lately, it seems. An illness that could kill someone isn’t worth worrying about. Touching is how you show love but it only hurts them. He should apologize for kindness because it’s a fatal misstep in a relationship with another person. Those are just the abstract concepts, the emotional things that wiggle around in his wires and tangle him up in the wrong ways.

Then, he has the facts that cross between emotional and logical, and are supposed to ground the previous ideas, not make them nonsensical. Flirting can be physical contact, giving gifts, friendly conversations with no ulterior motive, declaring that you care, openly stating your appreciation for that person with them in vicinity, calling them kind words that codify the relationship…he is flirting with Alex. G.I. was told many examples of flirting, so he would stop doing it, and instead he kept going. His warning became an instruction manual.

What is wrong with him? He pulled off the pearl-shaped beads with the string connecting them dragging behind in a snap. He’s not doing anything that makes sense. Alex isn’t making sense, either, but he’s a person, and they like to defy logic.

Is G.I. more of a person than he previously believed? Is that why he has this harsh heat snapping through his circuits? The closest definition he could think of is frustration, but he doesn’t get frustrated. Disappointed, satisfied, happy, sad, sure, but not frustrated. It’s an impossibility like panic and worry.

Maybe he was programmed for more emotions than he thought. Some new dimension was added to his current relationships to make it where he can have a terrifying experience like hugging a beloved person on a bathroom floor, wondering if he can kill them with comfort. He knew Alex would let him, and unease stirred deep within him. He can’t enable that, not if he cares about the man. G.I. will wait for Alex outside until he’s ready, then he’ll fix what’s wrong, so he doesn’t have that fear driving him again.

That promise put him at ease enough to stop picking at the berries.

Chapter Text

The pain of getting smacked upside the head with a stall door pales in comparison to roots tangling Alex’s intestines. He should twist G.I.’s wrist, insist that he didn’t mean his words however they were taken, but he’s too miserable. Spitting up enough flowers to fill a greenhouse while hiding it from someone trying to comfort him (with no sign it’ll get better, unfortunately) would leave anyone weak in the knees. It wasn’t until the bathroom door shut that he realized, oh, G.I. staying with him through that probably meant he cared, and oh, he just crushed that under his heel with his flippant remarks.

Is that considered a rejection?

He slapped one hand to his neck and retched. He crossed to the mirror to make sure he isn’t covered in bathroom grime. He grimaced at his sleeve, where he had a dark smear at the cuff from wiping blood off his mouth. They never care if he walks around shirtless, right? He can make it work if he can’t get the stain out. Alex unbuttoned his vest, set it aside, and then his shirt, exposing his chest.

“Oh fuck.”

He usually can see between his ribs, literally clear skin glowing where green meat struggled to stay solid and not melt off in his perpetual heat. It’s simple, with monotonous shades making up his entire body: no blemishes, no scars, no hair, just green, brightness, and black. This is the most color he’s seen on himself in years.

Because it’s flowers. It’s a bouquet in his chest, razor leaves bunching between bones, blossoms battling for room around his organs. The stems could barely make room for his lungs and roots outlined his intestines and with a vice grip. No wonder he’s nauseous and short of breath. The only way for this much to be there would be to burrow through him, punching holes in meat that his powers sew up before it can kill him.

How does he remove it? He was hoping to slip a blade in a worst-case scenario, but his healing must be working overtime to make sure his lungs don’t collapse. He’s been stuck between coughing and puking because they haven’t picked one spot in his body to take root. It’s everywhere, lilies of every shape and color crushed together to stay inside his skin. Lily of the valley hanging by his lungs, spider lilies tickling his trachea, tiger lilies around his heart, lily of the Nile peeking around daylilies and calla lilies and oriental lilies staring straight ahead while trumpet lilies hide their faces—he can’t take it. He can’t have this much vibrancy struggling in his chest without it burning up.

Alex inhaled sharply, watching them rustle with the rise of his sternum. They already seemed wilted slightly, ready to collapse, but they’ll be replaced by something else soon enough, something that could be strong enough to dig through skin. He can’t stand here gawking. He needs a solution. Technically, if he’s survived this long, it isn’t impossible to remove it before he bleeds out. He studied cancerous tumors, he can remove them.

Maybe.

It’s better than confessing to G.I., having him say no, and making an ass out of himself. How does he start that conversation, anyway? “Oh, hey, you’re the only person in prison who’s nice to me so I imprinted on you like a baby duck, and now I have a huge plant trying to kill me from the inside.” Whimpering in pain after vomiting was enough to freak the robot out. If he sees it’s a terminal infection of botany—

Alex broke from his thoughts with the sound of claws clicking on the tile, their rhythm uneven like their limbs were too long to scramble on all fours comfortably. Weasel turned the corner of the bathroom, nose wrinkled as he smelled the cleaning chemicals. He’s as smart as Alex is emotionally available, but if he’s with Bride…

Weasel turned his head to look at Alex, his bulging eyes rolling to focus on him. His heavy breathing hitched, his nonsensical mumblings cut off. Alex grimaced at the sudden attention.

“What?”

Weasel’s ears flattened to his skull, a whine tearing from his chest. He sniffed the air again and his crusty lips turned into a frown. It’s too human, another whimper coming out. He kept staring at Alex.

There’s no way. He can’t smell illness, can he? Alex shifted, self consciously trying to close his shirt in his fist. “It’s fine, uh…boy. Don’t—”

Weasel leapt forward from his crouch, fingers hooking into his shirt sleeve. Alex squeaked, shoving the heel of his palm under Weasel’s chin to keep him at bay. Weasel only howled, grabbing and clinging with arms too loopy to get around. He had Alex in a squeeze with a rumble. Alex tried to stay upright, fingers popping over the sink, and failed with them burning right through it. They landed on the tile with a telltale bang, his teeth rattling as his backbone bruised.

Weasel couldn’t give less of a shit, annoying as ever and bunching his torso as tight as possible over Alex’s chest. He winced, feeling his skin burn in panic but gnashing his teeth to not do the same to the monster’s pelt. He has the dumb purring mutt glued to his sternum and rubbing their cheeks together, so he can’t afford an explosion of emotions. He’ll bide his time, carefully peel off the cockeyed creature, and then he’ll button up his shirt with no mind to the stray hairs and no one will know.

“What are you two doing?”

Just his luck. He stretched his neck to see Bride standing over them, her hands on her hips. She’s trying to look stern and failing, because she’s just as confused about their current situation as he is. Alex, in all his wisdom, waved awkwardly. “Hi.”

“I’m told by G.I. that I can let Weasel piss without me because you’re in here and trustworthy. Instead, I hear you both hit the ground and you’re letting him hump your leg.”

“He’s not—first of all, I wouldn’t let him do that. If he tried that, I’d spay him without anesthetic.” Alex sat up slightly, Weasel ignoring it to slot his head where his purring, drooling snout nosed into his windpipe. He hated how it helped with the petal scraps stuck in his passages like old snot, his throat feeling cleaner than before as he cleared it. “Second, I’m trustworthy?”

“We’re supposed to look like it. Remember being friendly for that princess bitch? Do that again. Easiest job in the world.” She kneeled without letting her knees touch the floor, narrowing her eyes at Weasel’s soothing sounds. “He’s done nothing but sleep on the floor tonight, but decides he wants to jump you as soon as he gets in here?”

“I don’t know either, okay? He whined at me and now I’m here.” Alex tossed up his hands helplessly. “He keeps fucking purring.”

“I don’t think he likes you enough to do that.”

“Feeling’s mutual.”

Bride huffed and grabbed Weasel by the scruff. She pulled him off despite his grunting protests, Alex chasing that scratchy fur. She inhaled sharply and shoved him back down. It’s unfair how strong she is to keep them separate with one hand each, scrutinizing his chest. Maybe the centuries-old crone won’t know why he has vegetative tenants inside him.

“Hanahaki.”

Nevermind. He tried not to sulk too hard as she dropped Weasel back on him, his throat hoarse. “Dunno why it made Weasel decide to be my friend all of the sudden.”

“Animals can tell when someone’s going to die. They want to be there as emotional support.”

“How reassuring.” Alex didn’t want to consider how thin the line was between human and animal with Weasel, trying to steady his voice and lacing more anxiety into it. “So, I guess I’m with Weasel now, you stick with G.I., and we don’t talk about this ever again?”

“While I’m tempted by the idea of you dying of love in the middle of a political gala trying to prove whether we’re capable of such emotions, I don’t want to replace you.” Bride sat down next to him, rearranging him with a wheeze so they could both lay their backs on the wall. “I have two guesses on the object of those flowers.”

“It’s not you.”

“I’m fully aware.” Bride’s lip quirked up, the closest to a smile he gets out of her most days. It’s unfitting for the gravity of the situation. “When I lived in Italy near the time of the Great War, I had a neighbor with hanahaki. When her paramour went off to battle, he was gunned down almost immediately. She could not confess as a result, and was found in a bed of yellow asphodels in the parlor.”

“Thank you for explaining how I’ll die, it made me feel much better.”

“Oh, shut up.” She knocked him on the head without getting burned. “I’m saying that if they die, the other person can keep them. So, is it possible these were for your late wife?”

His breath caught. “...No. No, they aren’t.”

“That took you a minute.”

“Because she—” He paused, Weasel whimpering and pressing in harder. He’s rolling his paws into Alex’s stomach in particular, like he can massage out the roots. Maybe he’s antsy because he can smell the flowers and puke on Alex’s breath. He’ll get some water before he has to talk to more dignitaries. “I loved her, but I had to stop after she died. She wouldn’t love Phosphorus if she met me like this, so it’s only fair.”

“Speaking from experience, it’s not that simple.”

“No, but I can’t go back. It’s best to move on now. Burn some bodies with the bridges and all that.” He chuckled, the air struggling to leave him. “She had hanahaki, but it wasn’t that bad. I got the special treatment.”

“How?”

“How much do you know about radioactivity’s effect on the human body?”

She held up her hand with her fingers making a big zero. He freed his hands to cough into them, then gestured as he spoke.

“The important bit is that it’s used in medicine to kill things you don’t want in the body. I’ve had to rearrange my personal theories on how that affects me given…” He stiffly brushed the edge of his ribs that wasn’t covered in a clingy Weasel. “Radioactivity is used to kill white blood cells in transplants so that then the body doesn’t fight it. I may be able to survive so much crap because my immune system bit the dust forever ago, and I don’t get sick when infections burn up before they get a grip on me. Usually, that’s fine.”

“Hanahaki isn’t an ordinary infection.”

“Nope! It defies all logic, makes every scientist want to jump off a cliff when they study it. It doesn’t need to enter the body, it just shows up, as the only organism in existence capable of spontaneous generation. So my affinity for killing all illnesses is negated, but oh look, a nice body with no immune system, how convenient. I can’t burn it, but it still spreads like wildfire.” Alex dropped his chin on Weasel, knotting his fingers in his pelt. Admittedly, it is helping to smooth out the tangles without thinking too hard on it. Stupid Weasel being stupidly relaxing. “I only started coughing last week, spitting up petals this afternoon, and flowers an hour ago. I’ll die on the flight back to Belle Reve.”

“Or you could remove your head from your ass and tell G.I. you like him.”

“No thanks. I’d rather hide in here with Weasel until the party’s over.”

“Okay.”

“Wait, what?” Alex choked and cocked his head as she stood up, brushing off the back of her dress. “You’re just leaving?”

“You’re a grown man, I don’t care to make you do anything. If you want to die in a bathroom because you’re stubborn, you can. I’m going to drink until no one can blame me for your disappearance.”

“I don’t think G.I. will—”

“I’ll tell him we’re swapping partners to keep things interesting. He can have plausible deniability for your croaking. Anything you want to make your toilet tomb more comfortable?”

He rattled with a low, off kilter laugh. Of course she’ll indulge his stupidity. It’s never stopped her before. “Make sure they get my name right on the urn.”

“And that name would be…?”

“Alexander James Sartorius. If they even try to put Phosphorus on there, I’ll come back from the dead again.”

“Understood.” She waved him off, her heels stabbing the floor until the door cut off all sound. G.I. was probably out there, waiting for him like a sad dog.

And he’s cowering from his problems with a weasel/cat/dog/man giving him the animal version of his last rites. Alex remembered how he used to visit cancer patients, and some of them had support in the form of furry friends to keep them going when nothing else would. He would study the way that radiation affected people too far gone to help, with a cat in their lap trying to heal their tumors with the power of love.

Love never works.

And even if he found Bride callous, the way she discussed her exit had a point: the current choice he’s making involves biting the dust under the paper towel dispenser, and that’s not the ideal way to go out. He shouldn’t resign himself to that fate.

Even if it’ll be mortifying to say anything to G.I., it’s better than dying, right? He got to the last stages of hanahaki so quickly they should preserve his body to study it. If he gets rejected, Alex can claim that how quickly the symptoms came on made him panic and confess to the first person he thought of.

Wait. If? No, no it has to be when.

G.I. won’t want him.

He doesn’t care—except he showed concern when Alex was hurting.

He’ll be embarrassed to be seen with him—although he proudly introduced Alex as his partner and date.

He’s too good for a killer like him—setting aside that when G.I.’s entire purpose is to slaughter Nazis en masse, they’re a match made in Heaven.

He may not be able to feel love like that—well, he expressed that emotions are possible, and he follows every other rule for acting like he loves Alex…

Weasel chuffed, shuffling like he could crawl inside of Alex’s skin if he wriggled hard enough. Alex welcomed the distraction from the blossoms in his throat, rubbing his fingers into the cartilage of Weasel’s ears. “You’re just a lovebug when you don’t have any havoc to wreck, aren’t you?”

He rumbled and twisted.

“Yeah,” Alex said, “either you’re really doped up, or I’m really close to dying.”

Weasel didn’t clarify that question. He couldn’t, even if Alex wanted the response. The truth goes down easy when it’s unclear. He’ll stay on this old floor for a while, letting his teammate offer meager comfort, until he finds the best answer. He could try self surgery, as dangerous as it is, to remove the invasion to his heart. G.I. may reciprocate his feelings and help him clear his lungs.

Or, he could die. His chest will burst with flowers of every variety, too quick to change because he can’t define what it is about G.I. that he loves so much. None of them seem to fit his exact emotions, how he feels about the robot and what he thinks he deserves. There isn’t just one flower for him.

Weasel kept his chest from catching until then.

Chapter Text

G.I. thought his time with Bride would be average. He wanted to spend his evening with Alex, needling for where he went wrong, but Bride informed him that Alex still doesn’t feel well and wants to be left alone. He could imagine why, fingers flexing like he could still hold the skeleton and feel the air rattling around his chest cavity. He decided not to sulk too much about it.

Then they moved to the next part of the gala, and…it was impossible not to mope. As always, everyone’s eating, and as always, he sat there and watched, busying his mind with counting how many christmas roses were faintly imprinted on the tablecloth. It’d be tolerable if they didn’t have an obvious absence spanning half the circular table. Bride laughed like the posh women in old movies when the guards questioned it.

“You know how it is when one of your companions isn’t house trained,” she said without elaborating. They left her alone at that, not wanting to clean up anyone’s mess if they go looking. G.I. wondered whether they’d even help with that if they found Alex hurling in the hallway, or if they’d think it’s a plot and shoot him. They’ve all become intimately familiar with how paradoxically cautious and carefree their guards are. G.I. could unload a full metal jacket on everyone here if they were Nazis, but Bride couldn’t have a serrated knife for her food. She cut through an iceberg wedge with strength instead of skill, making G.I.’s sensors protest at the screech of metal on the plate.

“I should bring food to Alex,” he decided, not standing just yet.

“He won’t want it,” Bride replied, wrinkling her nose at the leaves in her mouth. They do not have seasoning or dressing, which apparently makes food taste good, so her dish must be very bland.

“He is hungry.” His stomach’s empty, he has to be hungry. Even if he can’t keep anything down, Alex should eat something. That is a basic part of recovering from illness.

“He’s not going to want leaves for dinner.”

“They are quite hydrating and tasteless. That is good for nausea.”

She stopped with her fork hanging by her lips. “Nausea?”

“Yes.”

“How much do you know?”

“How much do you know?” G.I. countered, tilting his head curiously. She’s been acting odd since she went to check on Alex and Weasel in the bathroom and left without either of them. He wished she was as easy to read as Alex, who betrayed his emotions with temperature changes. Instead she makes facial expressions that he should understand with his catalogue of them, but she finds a way to be more subtle than he can parse. For example, he knows she’s hiding something, but he can’t tell if it’s out of embarrassment, shame, jealousy, or a well-meaning thought.

But she didn’t answer, and then the main course arrived to give her an out. G.I. glowered at the large dish in the center of the table. “Is that a chicken?” It’s too flat to be healthy, like it got deflated.

“A spatchcocked one.” Bride tore off a leg without using the serving utensils and took a bite, steam coming out of the meat where she broke the skin. “Enough for three people with Weasel’s appetite. A bit much for just me, though.”

“What is spatchcocking?”

She chewed with one finger up to signal for him to wait, then swallowed. “They remove the spine of a bird and make the ribs spread out by pressing down on it. It cooks better that way.”

“Does that not hurt the bird?”

“The bird’s already dead. It didn’t feel anything.”

“Ah. Then, is desecrating the corpse a punishment for what it did in life?”

“...No. It’s just a chicken.” Bride set her leg down. “Why do you think it’s punishment?”

“Humans like to punish other creatures for existing. That is why I was built, to make all Nazis fear their inevitable retribution. I suppose my line of thinking was incorrect because I was following that logic.”

“You have a point in there somewhere. They do love to punish each other. Themselves, too.” Bride took a fork, stabbing into the meat to let more heat out. G.I. did think it looked too hot to eat, although he doesn’t know if her tolerance is the same as a human’s. “I don’t know what emotions you’re capable of, but I think that one’s called ‘guilt’. Or ‘shame’. Same fucking thing.”

“Guilt is when someone realizes they have done wrong, while shame is a feeling of pain because of someone’s belief they are not enough.”

“And can you feel those?”

“I do not believe I’ve purported wrongdoing to let me experience guilt yet.” He shouldn’t sink in his chair, since that’s bad etiquette for a fancy party, but Bride has her upper body splayed on the table to protect her meal like a hungry lion, so he felt comfortable leaning in to sigh morosely. “Shame, however, sounds like an apt descriptor for recent thoughts. It is like the boredom I have when I am not killing Nazis, but worse and not Nazi related. An automaton is not capable of the companionship the Commandos demand of me, and that brings distress.”

“Didn’t you have a squad in the army?”

“Yes. This is not like the Easy Company, though.” He was not united in a common goal with the Commandos, since they weren’t actually going after Nazis. They are simply existing, playing board games in prison and sometimes taking media circuits or missions to foreign countries. They’re scattered, he shouldn’t care for their goals, and yet he still wants to help them. It’s beyond the acquaintance he had with his boys. “I was programmed for comradery. A relationship beyond work partners is not in my design.”

“I see.” Bride twisted her fork back and forth, contemplating that. “And can you experience grief?”

“Before, I did not think so. Many soldiers die of typhus, or sacrifice themselves to eliminate Nazi scum, and that does not upset me. But when I was told that Friend Nina passed while I was gone, I was…sad.” His shutters drooped, watching Bride’s face shift in sympathy. “I am supposed to call people by their rank, and if they have no rank, but are still an ally, I default to ‘Friend’. However, she was the first person I called that who truly felt like one. I did not get to see her off, and that hurts. I like to say goodbye, even if they cannot respond.”

“G.I.—”

“—but I do find it odd you’re asking such a question.” G.I. fixed her with a look, like he was a sniper finding his target through the pine trees. “Does it, perhaps, have to do with Alex’s illness, where you will not let me see him and try to keep me in here instead?”

Bride quickly looked down to her food, omitting any confirmation and yet the confession felt clear as crystal.

G.I. put his elbows on the table as he leaned in to speak. “I will keep my volume low to not cause disruption. Is Alex going to die?”

Bride gave up on keeping it secret, giving him a so-so gesture. “It’s not guaranteed,” she whispered carefully.

“So I can prevent it?” G.I. clamped his jaw, thinking. “But touching him hurts him.”

“Oh?”

“He would not stop coughing or vomiting when I was near him. He used me to make it continue, for reasons I do not understand.”

“Punishment.”

“Hm?”

“He’s intentionally making his illness worse as punishment. He could fix it, he just won’t.”

“Why?”

“He’s a stubborn asshole.” Bride shrugged, like that was reason enough. “He didn’t want me telling you, but we’ll all look stupid if one of our own punches out in a public bathroom of all places. I don’t want him dying, but you can’t force him to get better. He has to choose.”

G.I. couldn’t think of anything like that. He mainly knew battle bred afflictions, and that sort of infection sounded impossible. He could only loathe that he didn’t have the memory for the entire history of every medical problem known to man. He can’t place something with such an obscure cure.

“I’m going to visit him.” G.I. picked up a plate, breaking the chicken in half with a snapping of ribs. Bones breaking never sounded so haunting. He took his piece as he nodded to Bride, swivelled, and turned away. She didn’t stop him, and when the guards did, he reminded them his two companions are missing and ill. Suddenly, they were concerned about more than a robot carrying poultry down the hallway.

The only problem was that he found the bathroom empty. G.I. blinked, cocking his head to check for noise. Not a sound, and with all the stalls open, nobody could hide. Alex disappeared.

But to where?

Chapter Text

The nice part of having a crazed companion that seems intent on helping Alex out is that he had enough brain cells to rub together to navigate. Alex found himself shuffling along, his ribs straining and jaw creaking, but one hand clasped in the ragged claws of Weasel, who kept his nose to the air and tongue lolling. He didn't know where they were going. He didn't know why they were leaving.

He wanted to die. The thought made his heart sink, but it was true. He'd wanted to die since the moment he saw his wife's body at his feet. All that love, freely exchanged, evaporated into thin air and wasted. Even as he beat his fists against the confines of his wretched machine, some part of him hoped it would just kill him. He didn't want to leave this world with people believing he killed his wife—but he did, didn't he? If she never loved him, she wouldn't be killed by thugs who wanted his research. If he never loved her, she'd suffocate on roses. The best future for the both of them was one where he never existed. Even as he tried to fill that loveless void with money and power, bloodlust and booze, that remained true. Love killed her, and love will kill him, and he deserves it because he caused it all.

Weasel nosed open a door in the stairwell, and the night air irritated his throat more. Gotham's smog probably gave his family cancer, but Washington was no mountain breeze either. Alex gagged with one arm around his midsection. "Ugh."

Weasel chattered and nudged him to the edge of the flat roof. He sat down rougher than he meant to, exhausted. Alex could see the lights of the city against the pitch black, leaning forward to swing his legs over the side. His sickly green must ruin the whole picture, if someone bothered to see him up there.

He wondered if he'd still be burning if he died. Will the light inside finally extinguish? Will his radiation calm? Could he trigger a meltdown instead? Maybe, in that case, it's best that only Weasel is here. Even if the metahuman's a pain in the ass sometimes, he doesn't deserve to get cooked.

"Shoo." Alex flicked Weasel's nose, keeping him from settling in his lap again. "Don't want you here, mutt. Go back to Bride."

Weasel keened, eyes trying to focus on him but still spread too far apart.

"I get it, but seriously, it's better if I die alone. I don't want to drag anyone down with me. All the suckers I hoped to end already got buried." Alex made sure his shirt was fastened closed, just so whoever finds him doesn't see his shame. They'll probably figure it out during his autopsy—actually, no, because who would care to autopsy him? He's living radiation that he endlessly creates with every beat of his heart. It'll be obvious the vessels gave out under that strain. It's only because of some dormant gene in him suddenly deciding to rear its ugly head that he's survived this long in the first place. He doesn't need to worry about an investigation.

Weasel tucked his tail between his legs, ears flattened, but seemed to get the message. Alex let him go back downstairs with shoulders slumped as the click of claws dissipated. He can't desire comfort right now. It's selfish. Foolish. He's learned his lesson from love. Even if G.I. wanted him back, he'd only kill him. He doesn't know how many times G.I. could get destroyed before their superiors decide he's not worth rebuilding. He doesn't know how many bullets he can melt before one pierces his transparent skin. It's a reality he's seen in the faces of every person he's killed: death comes for everybody, both the worthy and the not. It makes people ugly, hate-filled, and desperate. It brings meaning to their screams. It's the sweat to their fear, the teeth nipping their heels when they flee, fingers knotted in their hair to force them on their knees. It's all encompassing.

All destroying.

He's taken comfort in that. As stated before, every squeeze of his heart is a miracle with such toxic blood flowing through it. He tried to make it count, ensuring that every movement ensured death came naturally to his enemies. He couldn't let them have this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity in a subpar way. It had to be grandiose, perfect, something to sear into the minds of anyone who witnessed it. Then he was done, and it was still beating.

He took over the underworld, and it was still beating.

He was wrapped in chains, and it was still beating.

He went across the world for causes he didn't give a shit about, and it was still beating. It didn't have a reason to beat anymore. He didn't have a reason to burn. He just kept doing it, because since when did infinitely breaking chemical bonds care what he thought? They've never stopped on his account, and they never will. It hasn't been for someone else's sake in years.

Then again, romantic asshats sometimes called love "one person's heart beating for another". Maybe that's why it kept going. Parvin would hate that, though. She'd be disgusted by the idea his desire for her fueled his bloodshed. He'd never allow that to be the truth, not when she was so against death. She fought it with every fiber of her being, and he was sure that her last breath was spent trying to preserve life in any form. To make her the reason for death would desecrate her memory.

But that's not what brings him to these schmaltzy ideas. It's moreso the thought of it beating for G.I. If he's living for G.I. right now, it explains why he hasn't just jumped off yet. It gives reason to him not stealing a knife and trying to cut the flowers out himself. It lets him persist just a moment longer, knowing death looms over his head.

But it's because death is there that he knows he can't let it last. He has to shove off eventually, whether it's asphyxiation or a nosedive to the sidewalk. He doesn't want his heart to beat for someone who will only get hurt because of it. He doesn't want G.I. to realize he has a heart somewhere in that metal shell, only for it to be for the worst person it could be. Alex is irredeemable, depraved, pointless. He can't deserve that. G.I. can't deserve that, either.

Alex felt the velvety petals scrape his teeth, pulling one out like a leech. It was round with countless scores of petals furling outward, dark as a vortex with the slightest tinges of blood on the edges. The dahlia could only be a light-sucking pit, watching it drop between numb fingers far down below. He should get a move on and follow it.

"Alex?"

Dammit. He spent too long fantasizing, and now he's lost his chance. At least G.I. seemed mad at him the last time they talked. Alex just has to push his buttons enough to get him to leave. He turned his head, ready to fire off some snippy remark, only to balk at a plate crowded with meat.

G.I. held the chicken where the red light from his lenses highlighted it. It was hard to see in the dark night, but slight tilts in the shutters of his eyes betrayed his smile. "I thought you may be hungry, and you're missing the banquet."

He was thinking about him. Bride was supposed to distract him to give Alex the space to die, and he was thinking about him enough to sneak off and bring him something to make him feel better. Alex couldn't breathe as G.I. sat down with his legs crossed on the rooftop.

"Alex, come here to eat. I do not want you to lose your food over the side of the convention center."

He could slide off right now. G.I. isn't close enough to catch him. It'd work. But then he'd die in front of the only person he didn't want to see him go through with it. Then G.I.'s thoughtfulness would go to waste. Alex stood stiffly and wobbled to where G.I. was, taking the plate and slowly sitting down again. With his own glow as a source of light, he could see G.I. better now, green contours brightening his metal frame while the fabric of his suit smudged. He was, in fact, smiling. Alex never thought he would call a robot attractive, but it seemed romantic feelings rarely care about abstract appearances. It was better to describe him as looking kind, safe, inhuman, lethal. There's a draw to being dangerous now. Maybe being a harbringer of death could make you exempt from the totality of it.

Alex picked up a wing, since that's what he's supposed to do, and dug his teeth into it. Honestly, the chicken tasted awful. It's the usual herb-crusted shit that rich people always acted like was the greatest thing anyone's ever made, yet they never used an ingredient that gave it real flavor. Parvin would never let them eat like that in their house, sometimes sending him to multiple grocery stores to get a single spice that would keep their food from tasting like wet paper. His son had more of a heat tolerance than him and always liked that sort of thing, so he was happy to oblige. Well, he had more of a heat tolerance then. Now…

"The chicken is spatchcocked."

Alex nodded, mouth full. There's so many specks of useless leaves on the meal that he could spit them out like bullets.

"It is supposed to cook the food in a way that tastes better. I thought they were simply punishing the chicken."

Alex snorted, forcing himself to swallow so he could reply. "With how bad it tastes, I think you're right. They'd only flatten the thing to ruin its appearance along with the flavor."

"But it's not punishment. It's a methodical ends to a goal."

"It could be both. Maybe the chicken was an asshole who deserved it."

"How could a chicken deserve spatchcocking?"

"Maybe it's a cock that cheated on its hen. That would earn a flattening, right?" Alex looked up, surprised to see that G.I. wasn't smiling anymore. Maybe he didn't get the joke? "A cock is a male chicken—"

"I understand that, Alex." G.I. shifted, clasping his hands in his lap. "I am simply concerned by that being your first idea."

"Lot of animals mate for life. They don't appreciate sleeping around."

"And when one dies but the other does not, do they pursue a new pairing?"

"Sometimes." Alex dropped the courtesy of eating food he wasn't hungry for, putting the bone on the plate and wiping his hands off on the rooftop. "Why do you ask?"

"That woman, she said you had a family that was murdered. Or, rather, that a man named Alexander Sartorius killed his family on the orders of another man. Was that true?"

"No." He picked at the specks on his fingers, not caring to burn them off. "Rupert Thorne killed them. I wasn't even there to get involved. He framed me afterward."

"I see. That sounds difficult."

"It was fifteen years ago. I've moved on—I had to move on."

"To pursue a new partner?"

He hacked, jaws unwinding before he could clamp them shut again. Alex gulped before vegetation could leave him, his throat weak. "What gave you that idea?"

"Alex." G.I. held one hand up like he wanted to touch him, then stopped with it hanging in the air. Then, he slowly, hesitantly, twisted his wrist so he was touching his own neck where his pulse would be. A few taps, and Alex understood with dawning horror he was telling him to check his throat.

Alex brushed his fingers across the muscles that connected his jawbone to his throat, feeling his jugular throb erratically. Something else twisted there, too, twitching just beneath the skin.

A flower that G.I. could see.