In Trouble

It started with a dirty word.

John, in the kitchen, pouring coffee while Dorian was making breakfast and blocking the fridge. This was a fucking one-person-at-a-time kitchen. It was a one-person-at-a-time apartment. "Move it, synth'."

Retribution was swift and unexpected. A sharp smack to his pajama clad ass that made him spill his coffee. "Jesus, Dee. Don't!"

What irritated the human seemed magical to the android. For the next few weeks, every snide remark had John scaling, twisting suddenly, protecting himself, flattening against walls to avoid Dorian's hearty swats. Nothing ever made Dorian laugh so hard as John's vulnerable, desperate, angry response to the very threat of a smack.

Try as he might, John couldn't convince Dorian of the impropriety of it all. It was simply too satisfying and had greatly reduced the venomous slights John liked to spit at Dorian around the house.

Then it happened.

Not at home. A crime scene. On the job. In public. A snide remark from John. The impact of the quick spank seemed impossibly loud. John froze, looked up at the two officers standing there, bug eyed, unsure. He turned to look at Dorian in horror.

"Mosquito," Dorian murmured, turning, walking away. Wincing. Smiling.