Author's Note: This fanfiction is heavily based on a series of roleplays that I did with my friend, whose pen name is thetoastlives. It is already proving extremely difficult for me to write. I feel like I'm presenting Pickles as out of character. Feedback would be appreciated. Thank you!
"Feckin' robot..."
The words are accompanied by a rough bump on the shoulder by Pickles as he passes you in the hallway. A whole host of nasty responses and dark words gather on the tip of your tongue, but you bite them back. Clenching your fists, you force yourself to say, "Good morning, Pickles," in the even tone of voice which you usually use. He makes no response, and you resist the urge to turn around and flip him off.
None of them have ever been particularly kind to you, and most of the time, you're all right with that. As long as they keep producing the music which puts you in charge of nearly half of the world's economy, you're all right. But for some reason, Pickles has taken a turn for the worse lately, and it's getting under your skin far more than you expected it to.
Who the hell does he think he is? He's nothing without me. Absolutely nothing. They wouldn't last a year without me, especially not that alcoholic bastard. Unwillingly, your mind wanders to a time when things were different, a time when you were younger, but you shove it to the back of your mind.
To calm down, you stop by Nathan's room and harass him a bit about getting everyone set on starting the new record, because you can only stave off the record company for so long, etc, etc. You only leave when he threatens to throw something at you.
The rest of the day proceeds much the way it normally does. You chase all of them around all day, trying your best to get them to be productive (except for Pickles-for some reason you can't bring yourself to approach him). It ends in a generally inconclusive and useless band meeting in which Nathan accuses you of being a dick cheese, Murderface complains about his lack of publicity, Toki and Skwisgaar pay no attention because they're too busy with a model plane and the guitar, respectively, and Pickles sits far away from you, moodily taking sips from a beer bottle. You feel like slamming your files down onto the table and asking him what the fucking idea is, but you don't. Later, you lock yourself in your office and wade through mountains of paperwork diligently. When you finish, it's almost 2 a.m. Most of them are asleep now, or at least you assume so, without allowing your imagination to wander too far.
Exhausted, you stumble into the Mordhaus kitchen to get something to eat. As you're searching around, you jump when someone speaks to you.
"Whatcha doin', Charlie?"
You spin around and lean on the counter, breathing heavily from the scare you just received. Pickles is hunched over at the table, a half-empty bottle of whiskey next to him. You exhale heavily. This is not something that you want to deal with right now.
"Well, seeing as I've been working for the past...12 hours, or so, I figured I might get something to eat before bed. Is that all right with you?" Your tone is exactly as it normally sounds, which at the moment, feels positively miraculous.
Pickles gets up and begins to cross the kitchen. You can tell he's far gone, which was obvious enough, anyways.
"Didn't think robots had to eat."
You're really getting fed up with this. He's pushing you to your very limits.
"Pickles," you say, casting your eyes to the floor. "I don't understand what I did to make you angry, but please either tell me what it is or leave me alone. Passive aggressiveness gets nothing done." It's plausibly the most mild thing you could have said in this situation.
"You just...you just kind of exist, yanno?" He sways closer to you. "You just...sit there...starin' at me with that god damn judgmental facial expression, like you think you're so much fucking better than I am." He's still about three feet away from you. You continue to stare at him, silently, your face the same expression as it always is, or at least you hope so. Vaguely, you wonder what Pickles is trying to accomplish with this moody attitude he's been putting forth lately.
And then, all of a sudden, he's right in front of you-so close that your noses could almost touch-and his hands are on either side of your hips where they rest on the counter. Involuntarily, you lean back slightly, but Pickles is too fast for you, pressing his lips to yours more quickly than you could blink.
You freeze, too surprised to do anything-either rational, like shoving him off by the shoulders, or closing your eyes and allowing it to happen. You just stop moving, stop thinking, even stop breathing, for four whole seconds-like the damn robot that you are.
Finally he steps off of you, gives you a look of sad disappointment, and leaves the kitchen, slowly but surely. When he's safely out of sight, you exhale heavily and run your hands through your hair. For the life of you, you can't figure out what the hell just happened.
You decide to go to bed and ignore it. Just pretend like it didn't happen, and maybe it will go away.