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cosmicsirene · 2 years ago

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Eleven Years - Chapter 4

[Ao3 Mirror] Pairing: Ramattra/Reader (Gender Neutral) Rating: T (this chapter, Explicit future chapters) WC: 3.5k Warnings: Kidnapping; Stockholm Syndrome, imprisonment, isolation, manipulation, mind break, & future dubcon

[Chapter 1][Chapter 2][Chapter 3]

You’re already awake when the door opens. His toes click on the floor when he steps inside. You gnaw on your lower lip, barely flick your eyes up to his faceplate. Whatever awkwardness you feel, Ramattra’s posture echoes. Once more he’s brought a little mug of unrequested hot tea and he shifts his weight in silence, waiting for some cue. Proof that you're a little more put together than he left you.

You can’t bring yourself to speak first. No matter the guilt that chews at you, you can’t deny that it was.. nice.

No, nice isn’t enough to explain it. It was the only relief you’ve felt in… however long it’s been. You felt… cared for. No matter how you’ve rejected him at every turn, he still held you and let you cry in his arms, into his scarf. And it was nice. You missed him when you woke up.

“Are you… feeling better?” Ramattra advances cautiously.

You swallow, force yourself to nod before you can find your voice. “...yeah.”

“Good, I was… worried.” His synth bleeds with relief. Even that makes you want to sigh and lean into him again.

He steps closer, places the mug of tea on the nightstand- and you move to the far side of the bed. Ramattra recoils, hurriedly backing away from you. “My apologies, I-”

“No, no, it’s…” You trail off, look to the empty space you’ve made on the bed. Ramattra’s optics lock to your face, waiting for your features to sharpen into a sneer, into the cold, hateful gaze he’s endured for so long. It doesn’t come. “It’s okay.”

“Oh.” The vocalization slips by, higher processes locked up in reading your expression. His fingers twitch at his sides. It’s okay? Ramattra’s fans kick up higher, a soft hum reverberating from his chest. He doesn’t want to push too far. After that outburst on his last visit, he can’t handle another without delivering you to Shambali himself. You scooted away, but not in fear. The possibilities make his systems heat. He won't know if he doesn't ask. “May I sit with you?”

You nod mutely, not yet ready to speak again, but scooting a little further.

Ramattra moves at a glacial pace, gives you plenty of time to change your mind. But eventually the mattress dips under his heavy weight. He keeps a careful distance- physically and- mercifully- emotionally, not quite turned towards you. Even his hands, which itch to reach out and hold you again, are intentionally folded in his lap in a monumental show of restraint.

And now that he’s here, you don’t know what to say. Neither does he, it seems. In the silence, Ramattra’s fans eventually slow down, both of you lapsing into a comfortable co-existence. It’s… nice. Just being able to sit with him nearby, to finally see how he’s been so delicate with you. No matter what happens outside this room.

He waits, waits until you work up the nerve to speak.

“You were always nervous before.” You say. Your thumb worries the edge of the blankets- the golden thread there is all you can bring yourself to look at. It’s too much to meet his gaze while you can speak. “About… touching me, I mean.”

Ramattra hums, head tipping back towards the ceiling as he thinks. “I was afraid I would hurt you. I did not trust myself… and for good reason.”

“You were so afraid, but you never hurt me.” You shake your head, wrack your brain for any instance at all he could be referencing. But there’s nothing; he never initiated contact and only with continuous encouragement would he touch you with gentle, hesitant movements.

“A year after I left Shambali a man pulled a gun on me. I meant to disarm him, to strike the weapon from his hands and nothing more. Instead, I snapped his wrist.” Your stomach sinks- subconsciously you draw the blanket closer. Ramattra looks to his hands, shining black metal and rubber. Without even summoning the memory, he knows the sound it made. The guilt that followed. “I was not built to be gentle with humans… I did not want you to see that in me.”

“I wouldn’t have thought of you differently. Humans hurt each other by accident all the time.”

Ramattra rejects the notion with a shake of his head. “I’m not human. It would have been different if it was me.”

He does not need to add because of his designation. You know it. If any other monk were to fracture your ribs by hugging you too firmly, well, that’s an honest mistake. Almost cute. A Ravager breaks your ribs? It’s just confirming the fears everyone else holds for him.

Even if you wouldn’t hate him for it, you were not the only person he had to prove himself harmless to. Nameless’s barb about commanding omnics to their deaths still stings; the sentiment hardly new or uncommon amongst Ramattra’s peers.

The truth of it quiets you. You’d resented his hesitation, his longing for physical touch and simultaneous inability to act on it. That gridlock of need and resistance was… a good part of why you left. You wanted… affection. Freely given, freely taken. Not a carefully coordinated dance to be able to hold his hand, a negotiation just to kiss him.

But... you think about it. Yesterday he’d held you, cradled your face, stroked your hair… “You’re not afraid anymore?”

“I am.” Ramattra confirms. “But I’ve learned since then that fear is a tool. I should’ve used it, not run from it. I am more aware of my power and my limitations because of it. Because I want to touch you, I always did.” Heat floods your cheeks as a tightness binds your chest. Your breath comes quick and shallow with the admission. From the corner of your eye you watch that pyramid of lights turn towards you, dipping forward as he speaks again. “If… you want me to.”

If you want me to. Do you? Whatever he’s doing on the ground feels so far away- irrelevant to how he held you, how he shushed your sobs and stroked your back until you quieted down. How he held you for so long after you stopped crying, never once complaining, never trying to leave. Do you want him to touch you?

On Ramattra’s HUD the box of your vitals flashes red, an alert pinging his systems you’re not breathing... but you don’t move away. Ramattra steels himself, locks every actuator and waits. Every spare byte of memory is dedicated to analyzing your face: how your pupils have widened, your lips have parted as you finally take another breath. Slowly your gaze drifts up from the blanket to his optics- and he could not move if he wanted as you look for something on his faceplate. By the Iris, he hopes you find it.

The answer, of course, is yes. It always has been. How can you deny yourself this when you spent a decade suffering its loss?

Still, you can barely force your hand to unclench from the blanket’s edge, to turn palm-up and slide towards him. Ramattra moves just as slowly, inching towards you, waiting for your expedient withdrawal from him. But he finds only the softness of the fat pads of your palm and the warmth of your skin. He’s cool and firm and when he lets the weight of his hand truly drop onto yours. Pleasantly heavy, he's a weighted blanket just for your hand.

He never would’ve been that relaxed before.

Your eyes water as you hold his gaze- or think you do, staring into the black slits of his faceplate. When you can’t stop the tears that spill over, you shift to look at his hand folded over yours. He squeezes your palm once in reassurance- and you squeeze back.

Just as yesterday, he stays like this long after you expect a normal person would leave. Quiet, patient, letting you dictate the pace- and when you do nothing but occasionally stroke your thumb against his big, flat knuckles, he returns the affection.

Eventually he tenses and looks away- and you know your time together is closing. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t need to- you withdraw your hand from under his and swipe at your eyes, ridding yourself of the last of your tears.

“My apologies,” He murmurs- and he means it. He doesn’t want to leave. This was… everything he’s wanted for so long. You, really you, holding his hand.

“No, it’s okay.” You clear your throat, will away the proof of your vulnerability and instead summon courage. He’s afraid. He uses it to be strong. You can too. “Ramattra…”

He doesn’t even let you finish, eagerly leaning back towards you before you can even make the request. “Yes, anything.”

It makes you laugh- a single huff of air, the ghost of a smile over your lips and Ramattra is shining, warmth enveloping him all over and if this is not the touch of the Iris he does not know what it could be-- “Can I… have a clock? I’d… like to know what time it is.”

“Oh…” He straightens- and for a moment you’re worried you’ve asked for something off-limits. But instead Ramattra reaches out, almost touches your knee but doesn’t quite make it. “Yes. I did not consider that you don’t have one.” He trails off, looks away in shame. “But I will get that for you.”

Was it when he changed his colors? The plating of the back of his hand is cool and smooth, recently refinished, too- you’d swear he had plenty of nicks and scrapes the last time you held his hand.

Well… the time before last.

He’s lapsed into a comfortable silence, watching your hands move on his. You trace the shapes of his plates, circles the flat backs of maglocks that hold bits of him together. It's hardly more than you showed him yesterday, but he melts into your affection just the same.

Yesterday. You gratefully glance at the little alarm clock he’s found for you. Battery operated, but the display floats midair, displaying 7:42 AM in transparent purple.

It’s so painfully domestic. A single alarm clock gift (is it a gift if you asked for it?) and your chest hurts. It’s nothing like the one you had at home… but it’s something new, something that’s yours now.

Ramattra squeezes your hand, draws your attention back to him. “What are you thinking about?”

The answer comes without thought:

“Home.”

Ramattra looks away- and only then does your stomach sink. “Sorry-”

“No, I am sorry.” Pain laces Ramattra’s voice- though for what exactly you’re not sure. He stands, withdrawing his hand from yours. Fear clutches your heart like ice- he’s going to leave. He’s leaving. You’ll be alone and he’ll be upset and when will he come by again?

“I- I meant, thank you. It makes me feel more at home.”

“Oh,” He pauses, lifts his gaze to focus on the clock. “I… am glad, then.” His optics lock onto the floating numbers, watching as they tick over. In turn, you watch him, desperately trying to read the hard, unemotive plating of his face. Finally, he modulates an awkward noise, “Is there… anything I can get for you? That would make you even more comfortable here?”

More comfortable? You glance around the room, think of a hundred things that would make you happier: Your pillows, or blankets, or being able to pick clothes you like, or taking a walk, or-

Nausea rises in you. The world is so far away.

You… you should be grateful. Half your mind hisses this at you, spits venom with every word: he could’ve left you to die. It’s undeniably true, if he had not intervened, you would be dead, one more forgotten body among a hundred thousand corpses. He saved you. And half your mind whispers traitorously that he did this in the first place.

And cool metal touches your cheek. You gasp, startle- but Ramattra keeps his hand still, the backs of three fingers pressed to your face. His head is tipped to the side- curiosity or concern. Both, probably. He murmurs your name, soft and quiet and lain thick with sorrow. “What is it?”

He wants to help. He wants so badly to help, to ease your suffering. And you can only stare at him with wide, tear-filled eyes.

say something You tell yourself, trying to find anything you can offer him, to match his kindness with your own. “Books?” The words creak out of your throat, foreign and strange- it’s a neutral option. Something to do in the empty hours he’s away. Unlikely to upset him- but still, you watch his movements as he considers the request.

“Yes, of course. I can do that.”

He places the row of books on your dresser with confidence, but the tilt of his head and the momentary twitching of his fingers is all you need to see. Like all things, Ramattra waits for your approval, for any sign of your happiness. You look over the uncracked spines and the unblemished dust covers. Not just books but new books. Hard to come by with the near omnipresence of data pads.

His selection is, in the sweetest way, a blatantly awkward attempt to cover any interest. A buckshot spread in hopes to hit something you liked. The stack- which you don’t have a particularly orderly way to store- consists of a dense nonfiction examination of tea production and distribution in rural China; a murder mystery novella set in 2040s Chicago; The Untold Story of Omnic A which you imagine Ramattra picked himself; an urban fantasy series centered on a pack of werecats; and a travel book written by an omnic- the cover of which is a common service model standing in front of the Eiffel Tower.

A traitorous part of your mind pictures Paris burning.

Instead, you smother the thought and take the first book from the stack- the dissertation on tea- and give Ramattra exactly what he’s waiting for: a soft smile and “Thank you,”

You think Ramattra’s array glows brighter, but he definitely straightens up and lets his arms fall freely to his sides. “Of course,” He replies, voice smooth and relaxed.

As much as the books relieve your endless boredom, it’s still nice to have someone to talk to.

He must visit as often as he can. Sometimes only for a few minutes, long enough to sit with you, to hold your hand and ask where you are in your books. It gets easier to tell him each time, your enthusiasm growing steadily.

Sometimes his visits are longer, indulging you in a real conversation. The travel book brings many topics, some more light-hearted than others. "Do those futurist cities really look like that? Or is it all tourism?"

Ramattra modulates some amused huffing noise: "Yes though they are not as equal as they claim."

Other times there is no conversation at all. He enters your room and his shoulders are already sagging, as though the weight of his own arms has finally overworked the pistons and actuators of his back. Even if you greet him with kind words, it won’t overtake whatever he’s dwelling on. He simply sits on your bed and looks to you or to your floor. If you reach for his hand first, he’ll let you have it, squeezing once in silent thanks. When you lean against him and lay your head on his shoulder, Ramattra thanks every cosmic force that's lead him here.

Your apartment is warm. An early summer day, just on that cusp of being hot. It’s not a problem, you’ll just open a window, get a cool breeze going. It’s been a while since the weather was this nice, bright and sunny and warm.

But you touch the lift and all you can feel is wrong wrong wrong. Outside the window is white. Or is it black? You focus: no, no, that’s the alleyway. It should be brick and cement, old buildings that never got updated. The glass warps, renders reds and grays in strange, alien patterns that swirl before you, unfocused.

You back away. Your skin is cold, prickling harshly into goosebumps. But your apartment is hot, suffocating. You need- you need air.

Outside- if you can just get outside it’ll be okay. A few deep breaths, that’s all you need! The door-

Where was the door? Was it- was it near the kitchen? Or was it in the living room? What color was it? Why can’t you remember, you live here- lived here? The walls swim, distorting in shadows of brown and black and gray. No, no- it was- you’re burning. It’s all dark night and it’s sweltering, your heart pounds and beats against your ribs and you can’t move and he’s here.

Stark white. Brilliant purple. Lightless black

He’s speaking- he’s speaking and he’s saying your name, reaching for you-

His fingers are cool on your cheek, firm and soothing on your cheek. Grounding. Cold metal cups your face as he says your name again-

You startle awake, gasping into consciousness. Ramattra’s hand snaps backwards, withdrawing in an open-palmed gesture. Without words, without expression, he signals his surrender. You’re hardly aware, but the loss of contact is agonizing- because it’s loss. Your memory, your home, your safety. His touch is the only thing you have left.

You try to reach for him- find yourself tangled in the sheets, blankets twisted tightly around your body- but Ramattra understands. You can’t speak, but he reads something in your face, the pained pinch of your expression that brings him in again. He touches your cheek just as you free yourself- and all you can do is grab him by the cowl and pull.

A surprised noise escapes his synth, but he allows himself to fall towards you, all but covering you with his large frame. His weight is on your legs for only a moment before he shifts, quickly re-arranging himself to not crush you. You like the weight, wouldn’t have complained, it wouldn’t have hurt you- but he’s so considerate that it hurts-

And he murmurs your name again. It’s a question of what’s wrong and a promise to fix everything wrapped up together and you sob.

After ten minutes you end up dabbing the corners of your eyes with the bedsheets. A nightmare. You feel so stupid. The shuddering cries had dried up quickly, left you shivering miserably. When he was sure you weren’t going to launch into another round of sobs, Ramattra helped you to sit up and settle into his lap, then wrapped you up in the blanket.

“I dreamed I…” The words dry up. You turn your face into his shoulder, whisper the admission into the armored bars of his ribs. “I dreamed I left.”

You expect discomfort or anger, almost want him to be. You feel guilty, so shouldn’t he be mad? But Ramattra only hums, a soft rumble through his chassis as he draws you closer, settling his jaw overtop your head. “It’s alright.”

It makes your lip wobble again, your chest tighten. You reign yourself in again, nestling deeper into his embrace.

And when he speaks you can feel each word as it vibrates out from his throat. “Do you… still want to leave?”

It should be a trap- but the aching sincerity of it leaves you with only one option: to actually think about it. Maybe he did kidnap you… but he’s also keeping you safe. And your house is… gone. He’s taking care of you. Where would you even go? He’s…

Ramattra’s ventilation kicks up subtly, the softest rumbling of his fans as they spin faster. You twist your finger into his cowl, feel the layers of silk and golden thread. The answer slips quietly from your lips: “I would miss you.” Whatever answer Ramattra expected, this isn’t it. He almost jolts around you, a little noise of surprise, just barely flexing uncommanded. The truth of it sweeps over you as well, “I always missed you.”

“I understand.” He all but sighs, “Every moment I missed you. Moving on was never an option and to lose you again…” He draws back, just enough for him to look down at you, your eyes meeting the dark slits of his optics. “I won’t lose you again.”

Instantly, you shiver with his intensity. Your stomach tightens, but you’re not entirely sure what emotion is driving it. It should be fear, some rational part of your brain supplies, yet something else curls inside you. You press yourself against his chest again, duck under his chin just to escape his gaze.

It's not fair. It should be easy to be with him again. It was always easy in your daydreams...

When your eyes begin to feel heavy again you ask, “Will you stay a while? Until I wake up?”

He shouldn’t. Ramattra knows. You know. He’s operating globally, sieges in every time zone. His time with you has always been at risk of being cut short even by his own planned moves- to request hours of his time? Ramattra almost laughs, if it were anyone else asking this of him… but it isn’t. It’s you. It’s you and you missed him and he’s been waiting so, so long to hold you so freely.

Ramattra draws the blankets higher up around you. “Yes.”

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