Athanasius had always been good with pain. Most of the time, he was able to rationalize it away, grit his teeth, and do what he needed to do. This was not one of those times. After the third attempt at separating the bullet from where it had fused with the internal frame in his bicep, he politely asked the tech to strap him down, and get it done. He was beyond frustrated with his inability to sit still, and felt bad for making his job harder than it needed to be. He had apologized, but the tech had simply smiled, told him it was no problem at all, and moved to get something that could hold up to Athanasius’ strength.
Once he could no longer squirm away, the bullet was dislodged in under ten minutes. A few wires needed to be soldered, and the “muscle” and flesh both needed to be stitched. It would be sore for awhile, and he would have to mind the stitches, lest they ripped open and caused him a need to return here. After wrapping the wound with gauze and handing him a stack of papers to fill out about his injury, the tech had left, leaving Athanasius alone with his thoughts.
Which, honestly, wasn’t his idea of a good time. Before this, before the gang, before Abel, before his entire life flipped upside down, he had been programmed as the perfect husband. His morning started with kissing his creator’s forehead, and gently rousing him from his sleep. While the male showered, he would cook breakfast, and have it all done by the time he was shuffling down the hall. After eating, he would help him with his tie, which he could never get right, and leave him to read his paper and drink his coffee. He would get himself dressed, and the two would head down to his creator’s laboratory, where they would spend all day testing new projects, new ideas, and simply enjoying each other’s company.
But obviously, something had gone wrong. In some way, he hadn’t been the perfect husband, because his creator had taken his own life, without so much as a reason why. Athanasius had researched extensively, and found that many people left notes to their loved ones when they committed suicide. So he had searched, and searched, and had never found anything. Now, he was alone, in an apartment with his creator’s belongings crammed into every nook and cranny, because he couldn’t afford to the bills in the house, but had refused to part with a single thing. His mornings started with him waking himself up, looking to the empty side of the bed longingly, and forcing himself away to do anything but sit at home and think about how much he missed his creator.
Lately, he had been researching how to reverse the programming of emotions. He had been pouring through his creator’s notes, trying to figure out the codes. Emotions were no longer a blessing. Now, they were a curse. And he was tired of them. He was tired of bittersweet memories. He was tired of nightmares. He was tired of watching couples walk down the street and feeling jealous. He was tired of the concrete feeling in his chest when he looked at the other half of the bed. He was just tired.
His attention was brought forward as a tear hit the paper he had been filling out. He cursed and carefully brought his shirtsleeve up to dab it away, before wiping at his eyes.
“Look at you now, Athan. Crying like a child. How silly.” he mumbled, sniffling a bit.
