A Bit Warmer Than I Would Have Guessed
Title from the poem "How the Cynic Falls in Love" by Kait Rokowski
When I realized I loved you
it was not romantic
Not flush with pink roses & wine
but rather normal
Rather standing in line at CVS
clutching a four pack of peanut butter cups
& cold medicine
It was a quiet realization
Like checking the weather I was currently standing in
"Huh. It's a bit warmer
than I would have guessed."
Holy bollocks, Eames thought, staggering through his flat to the sofa and giggling to himself. I really need to clean.
He picked up the takeaway container balanced on the arm of the sofa and moved it to the coffee table. There. That looked better. But there was a pair of trainers under the table, so he should just chuck them towards the bedroom. I'll put them away later, he promised himself.
But then in between throwing one shoe and finding the other, his head was awfully heavy and the couch was super soft-looking, and he would just think about all this cleaning tomorrow.
*BeepBeepBeep. BeepBeepBeep. BeepBeepBeep.*
"Grrmmgk," Eames groaned into the rug. "I'm up, I'm up."
*BeepBeep—*
"I'm UP! Shut the fuck up!"
He wasn't. He'd rolled over in the night and landed in an awkward pile beside the sofa, his face pillowed on a single trainer with his phone in his hand, squashed underneath him. The alarm deactivated anyway and Eames slept the sleep of the severely inebriated and soon to be unemployed.
*KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK*
"Delivery for Mr. Eames!"
"Grrmmgk."
"Mr. Eames! I need your signature!"
Eames hauled himself up on shaky limbs and staggered to where his landlord was attempting to knock down his door. "Alright, alright, one bloody minute."
He deactivated the locks and cracked the door, hissing at the strip of sunlight which hit him in the face.
"Mr. Eames! It is a delivery for you. I am required to obtain your signature!"
The short, curly-haired man smiled, his teeth white in his black beard, and Eames tried not to hate him. He thrust a digital pad at Eames, who pressed his thumbprint to the screen and forced his eye open as he held it up for the retinal scan.
"Thank you, Mr. Eames! Where would you like me to put it?"
Eames blinked at him, scratching his chest and trying to make his saliva glands work again. "Mmm? Jus' bring it here, yeah?"
"Of course, Mr. Eames! Thank you! I'll bring it right up!"
It took Eames from closing the door to falling back on the sofa to realize he hadn't been expecting a delivery.
*Ping!*
Eames groaned at his phone. "Check for new messages."
*You have one! New! Email!*
Eames pulled a sofa pillow over his face. "Read," he mumbled.
"Thank you for your order! Your expedited shipping costs have been charged to the account on file! Your Rosie!Bot cleaning robotics android will be arriving today! Please verify—"
"Wait, stop. What?"
Eames pulled the pillow away from his face, a sinking sense of dread pooling in his churning stomach. He turned his phone over and flipped through his recent purchases.
"God. Damn. Oh, fuck me sideways, I spent HOW MUCH?" Eames stared at the receipt, a smiling woman pointing to his tracking number, and rushed for the loo.
There was something about getting a package in the mail. Even if it cost an insane amount of money, and even if you weren't sure you wanted it, it was exciting to open the package.
He'd had to borrow a crowbar from Yusuf, who was probably expecting to never see it again, but Eames would show him. He had every intention to bring it back down. Just as soon as he figured out what the hell was going on.
The shipping crate was gigantic, and after tearing through the packing materials, Eames was looking at the plain brown cardboard box, and a packing receipt listing model number, make name, and purchase order number. But there was a problem. Aside from the fact that Eames had spent half his yearly salary, which he'd recently been informed he would no longer be receiving, on a robot to clean his house, he'd very clearly purchased the Rosie!Bot cleaning android, a fun and helpful addition to any modern household!
This, however, was not the Rosie!Bot. This was the Arthur!Bot "personal recreation" android, a fun and flirty addition to any open-minded household.
"Internet Search," Eames said in a strangled voice.
*Bing!*
"Arthur!Bot, U.S. Robotics."
*The Arthur!Bot will be released in just two short years! Put in your order now to avoid long wait times! The fully animatronic Arthur!Bot will feature a new operating AI system with more lifelike responses and will come with three enticing outfits! It will also showcase exciting features to enhance your pleasure, including a self-lubricating—*
"Ooookay, that's enough," Eames barked. He sighed.
After 25 minutes on hold with U.S. Robotics Customer Service, Eames' throbbing head was screaming and he decided, "Fuck it," and opened the box.
The advertising for Arthur!Bot was somewhat misleading because one of the three outfits was simply a leopard print thong, which didn't count. The other two were a too-tight white v-neck t-shirt with hip hugger skinny jeans, and the final one was a plaid button down and khakis. You know, in case you wanted to take your sex-bot to a wedding as your plus one and he needed something to wear.
So Eames couldn't afford this. And he was absolutely going to send it back. But he was a little… curious. Besides, it wasn't his fault they'd sent the wrong one. Plus, how was he supposed to know that the Arthur!Bot wasn't supposed to be on the shelves for two years? They fucked up. Pure and simple, mate.
And let's be honest. If he'd gotten the Rosie!Bot, he'd probably have had her clean the flat before he sent her back. So what he was considering wasn't really that unreasonable.
Arthur-the-sex-bot was heavy as fuck and not all that easy to get out of his crate.
"Wow, that's really life-like. Alright, come on you bloody... heavy… bugger, Jesus, what do you weigh 25 stone?" Eames panted, before getting smarter and just rolling the crate over and dumping Arthur onto the rug.
There were bits of packing fluff in Arthur's brown hair, and his skinny jeans had ridden a bit low on his hips, but otherwise, he appeared no worse for wear.
"Okay! Arthur, good to meet you, sorry you're facedown for our introduction, but hey, I'm sure you'll get used to that position in your line of work. Now. Let's see…"
Eames dug in the bottom of the crate and unearthed an instruction manual the size of his old chem text and a "Getting Started!" pamphlet. He grabbed the pamphlet.
"Brilliant. Here we are. To activate your new Arthur!Bot… dah dah dah… blah blah, okay, here. Say the following words whilst facing your new recreation bot. Speak slowly and clearly, enunciating to the best of your ability. Only say these words if you… yeah, yeah, good enough. Okay! Let's sit you up here…"
Eames heaved Arthur into a sitting position and leaned him up against the sofa. Then he cleared his throat.
"Cirrus. Socrates. Particle. Decibel. Hurricane. Dolphin. Tulip. Eames. Eames. Eames."
And then Arthur-the-sex-bot blinked.
"Who the fuck are you and what the fuck am I wearing?"
"Uh, I'm… Eames. I'm Eames. Your owner. Kind of. And those are your clothes. You came with them."
"Owner? What is this, Alabama in the 1700's? And why do I have the sartorial taste of a thirteen-year-old twink?"
Eames blinked. "Uh…"
Arthur looked around. "Ugh. Where are we? Is this a motel? Like… a really bad one?"
"Okay, you are going back just as soon as I can manage it." Eames stood and unbuckled his belt.
Arthur's eyebrows looked a bit alarmed. "What are you doing?"
Eames paused. "Uh. Trying out the goods?"
Arthur's eyebrows just changed to confused.
"Having sex?" Eames tried again.
Arthur raised a dubious eyebrow and looked around the flat.
"Do you… Jesus Christ, I can't believe I have to get consent first. Okay, do you want to have sex? With me?"
"Not particularly."
Eames threw his hands in the air. "Great. That's just great. Are you broken or something?"
"Are you? Aw, is that why you need an android? To help you out?"
"Even better! Condescension. Exactly what a person wants in a recreational pleasure bot. Fine. Do you clean things?"
Arthur snorted. "Do you? Oh, wait, apparently not."
"Great. Perfect. So let me get this straight. You're not going to clean anything and you're not going to have sex with me."
Arthur scowled and stood, his joints whirring for a second and then falling silent. "I am at work, Mr Eames. Try to have a little professionalism. Also, you could take a guy to dinner first. What would your mother say?"
Eames buckled his belt.
"No, I didn't mean to order it! I told you! And even if I had, you lot sent me the wrong bloody model!"
Eames paced, pulling at his lip, while Arthur explored the flat, scowling at everything and turning things over with a pencil.
"Well, can you just… I don't know, put the money back in my account and I'll send him back?"
He paused. "No, I didn't use him! Jesus, what kind of person do you think I am!"
He listened again. "Yes, I used the imprinting words, but that was only—"
"Well, I didn't read the—"
"Yes, but—"
Eames sighed. "Fine. FINE. Fine, fine, fine, no, I bloody well understand. Yeah, you're sorry, I'm sorry, everyone's sorry. Great, have a nice bloody day. No, thank you for your patronage."
He hung up the phone with a huff and saw Arthur looking at him.
"Do you want me to provide you with the definition of 'patronage', Mr Eames? It seems like you might need it."
"And you," Eames said, pointing a finger at the android, "can fuck right off."
Arthur sniffed and meandered to explore the bathroom.
"Fuck," Eames whispered, sinking to the couch and holding his aching head in his hands.
*Ding!*
"Check for new messages," Eames said miserably.
*You have one! New! Voice—*
"PLAY, god, bloody fuck."
"Hey, Eames, it's Ari. Waiting. At the airport. Where you said you'd pick me up. You remember me, right? But hey, listen, If you can't make it, don't worry, there's a guy here with a mullet who's offered to share a cab because he's positive we're staying at the same hotel. He's also offered to buy me a pair of red high heels because he says I'd look fantastic in them, and you know what? I don't own any, and him hinting that he needs my shoe size is really starting to entice me. So I may go do that, so that's probably where I'll be if I'm not here when you come by. Give me a call though if you want to do dinner sometime while I'm in town to see you. Love youuuuuuu, byeeeeee!"
Eames groaned and groped under the sofa for his other trainer.
