kore_logs | remember the time you drove all night

Company is welcome, of course, and Daneel gets up from his seat in front of his bedroom window where he's been spending the afternoon, drawing in his sketchbook, to answer the door. Company is welcome, particularly if it's Ned.

"Hello, Ned."

The flowers, though, catch him entirely by surprise. How can he possibly respond to that? And they are lilacs, too. Lilacs. Perhaps he has no sense of smell, as humans think of it, but he remembers, and he can smell it again with perfect, crystal clarity, a perfectly-held human memory in an inhuman mind not quite equipped to deal with it. The scent of lilacs, and the sea, and the sensation of vertigo and dizziness, and Ned. That this is significant does not escape him, and that symbolism is important to humans he also knows, but this is... this is almost too much for him.

His expression is entirely blank -- he's too surprised to think about smiling at the moment -- but he does think to reach out hesitantly to take the makeshift vase.

"These are... for me?"

It is a little hard for him to gauge exactly what that reaction means, considering how difficult Daneel can be to read, at times. Amusement? Confusion? Polite discomfort? Complete and utter abhorrence? Okay, he's pretty sure it isn't the last one, but you never know.

"They're for you," he answers, voice quick in the way that it gets when he is nervous and can't seem to stop himself from saying everything that comes into his mind, "I remembered how much you liked them and I thought they'd brighten up the room and make you feel a bit more at home here, and also I was hoping they could double as an apology, for uh, how I behaved last night."

It's been a long time since Ned has gotten drunk enough not to really remember what he'd done or said. He doesn't like that feeling at all, now that he's sober. Doesn't like feeling out of control. He remembers going by Daneel's house, remembers his brilliant idea, remembers practically dragging him here and then falling asleep in his bed, all over him.

He hands Daneel the flowers and then shoves his hands into his pockets quickly.

"Thank you." Daneel looks at the lilacs, overcome with the intesity of the moment. That he's been given flowers -- and lilacs, which he had liked so much -- is astonishing. "I remember the smell of these. It was a.... pleasant smell. No one has given me flowers before."

What can he possibly say? Everything lately is so completely out of his previous experience, and Ned... well, he is cautious around Ned, to say the least.

"You have no need to apologise, Ned. You were intoxicated. Unless you have changed your mind about wishing me to stay here?" If that's so, then he'll leave without a fuss, but he doesn't think that's why Ned's here. "Please come in."

He has to do something with the flowers. Daneel turns to bring his flowers into the room. He'll put them on the desk, under the window. That... makes sense.

Ned's face breaks into a broad smile. He's glad to hear that, even if Daneel can't smell the lilacs in quite the same way anymore, he can remember it. It's the same with him; he isn't connected to the things around him in the same way, hadn't been able to feel the flowers growing when he'd stopped by to water them earlier in the day, but he remembers, at least, what that connection was like.

And the fact that no one has ever given Daneel flowers before is just unacceptable, as far as he's concerned. He's glad that he made the decision he did. That he didn't chicken out.

From the sound of it, Daneel isn't holding his undignified behavior the night before against him, and Ned's grateful. "Being intoxicated isn't exactly an excuse, you know." But it's a half-hearted objection. It's not like he wants Daneel to be disappointed in him, or anything. It's just surprising, still, how patient he is with Ned's unpredictable and (at least, to his mind) awkward behavior.

"Of course I haven't changed my mind," he says, with half a laugh, as if the idea is inconceivable to him. He steps in once he is invited, slouching out of Daneel's way so he can find somewhere for the lilacs. As he's doing so, he spots the sketchbook by windowsill. For a moment he thinks it must be Jesse's, is just about to ask if they'd been discussing his art, but then he sees that what is on the page doesn't really look like Jesse's style.

"Is that yours?"

"Yes." Daneel sets the lilacs down, and looks at his sketchbook, or more accurately at Ned looking at his sketchbook. His most recent attempt is the view from his window. His style is still very detailed, and he's getting better at shading -- he's done some research. On the whole, though, he thinks he prefers (and it's almost a surprise to him that he's discovered a preference in this at all) drawing faces. "I have been experimenting. I wished to see if this sort of creative endeavour is something I'm capable of. I find it to be an interesting exercise to recreate details in this way."

So he continues, even if it isn't appropriate for a robot to be drawing in his spare time.

"Most of what I've been drawing is portraits of individuals I feel have been significant to me."

"Why wouldn't you be capable of it?" It's a bit of a disingenuous question. Ned is pretty sure he knows why Daneel might think he's incapable of it. One of these ideas he has in his head about what he is and isn't allowed to do or try, just because of what he is. But he elects to pretend that he has no idea, because to him, it's obvious that Daneel has the capacity for creativity, and for making art, if that's what he wants to do.

When Daneel says what he does about portraits of people who are significant to him, Ned wonders, with a brief but bright surge of something halfway between nervousness and hope if maybe he's one of those people. He pushes the thought out of his head immediately, but it's hard to ignore the fact that it made his heart speed up, ever so slightly. How ridiculous he is, he thinks. He doesn't even know why it popped into his mind.

"I'd love to see them," he says, remembering how happy it had made Jesse the other day, when he'd asked to see his sketchbook. Artists like showing off their work, right? It's not intrusive to ask? "If you don't mind, of course."

"It isn't something I have ever been encouraged to attempt, Ned."

The curiosity is surprising, but perhaps not very much. That Ned is interested in him in general is maybe not very new, but even so, there's a degree of flattery he feels at the interest.

"You may certainly look, if you wish." He nods encouragingly, and crosses the short distance between them. "I would like to show you, in fact."

And perhaps... well, Daneel isn't quite sure of what's happening between them, but perhaps Ned deserves to know more details of Daneel's life before he came here.

Yes, he isn't surprised to hear that. It hasn't sounded to him, from what little he's heard, that Daneel was encouraged to do much of anything. But that's all in the past, now. Ned's got plenty of encouragement to go around, and he knows how valuable it can be, if you aren't used to getting it. That was how it had been, when he'd started finally being able to bake professionally. The obvious satisfaction of the people who he served was thrilling in a way that he couldn't - still can't - put into words. He's never really gotten over that feeling, re-experiences it every time he's able to make someone happy with a pie.

When Daneel offers to show Ned the pictures himself, he grins, nodding enthusiastically and perching himself on the edge of the bed, sitting on his hands. "Yes please."

Daneel picks up his sketchbook and sits down beside Ned, flipping through the pages. The first pages are of trees, of leaves, of flowers, of early attempts. If anything, Daneel's strength in this is his patience: he has no problem sitting down for three hours of careful stippling. He turns the pages slowly, his attention more on Ned than the paper.

He turns to a page with the face of a man with a long face and a sober expression.

"This is partner Elijah," he explains, because this is important. "He was the police detective from Earth I was assigned to work with on several occassions. He was a friend."

The way he says 'friend' carries a certain amount of weight; not that Daneel would ever complain of his treatment at anyone's hands, but Elijah Baley had been a particular friend, the first to treat him as nearly everyone here does.

Ned doesn't seem to notice Daneel's gaze on him, staring down at the detailed renderings of plants in a kind of awe. He can't imagine how long they must have taken. These early attempts are hardly without their flaws, but there's an earnestness in the attempt to capture every detail that he rather likes. Ned is a man with an appreciation for detail.

But even more fascinating, of course, is the picture of the man Daneel says is Elijah. That name is now familiar to Ned - Daneel has mentioned him more than once in the past before. He tilts his head to the side to see the picture a little more clearly. It's not, in the way that the trees and the flowers had seemed to be, only a representation of his appearance. Ned thinks he detects a certain amount of affection in the portrait. Certainly, it seems to carry a kind of personality with it. This isn't just the shape of a face that Daneel is reciting visually - it's as if there's an entire person behind it.

"He looks so dour," Ned comments, but warmly, with a kind of vicarious affection. Any friend to Daneel must be a decent person, in his books. The fact that he was a detective seems just about right. He looks like some man from an old noir thriller in the 40s, meant to wear a hat, sit in moodly lighting, and smoke cigarettes in black and white rain. Then, belatedly, "You were a detective?"

"In a manner of speaking," Daneel says. "It's perhaps more accurate to say that I assisted Partner Elijah. One of my creators, Dr. Sarton, was murdered shortly after I was first activated. I was assigned to assist Partner Elijah in the investigation, as a representative of Spacer interests. Spacers themselves could not enter Earth Cities, as Spacers have atrophied immune systems, and exposure to Earth pathogens would likely be fatal."

And so, Daneel and his human appearance, Spacer but not quite, robot but passable as human. A compromise, perhaps.

"We worked together on several instances afterwards. I believe that his influence had a great effect upon me."

Ned nods, taking in the story with great interest. It sounds like quite an intrigue to him. Just after he had been activated. So that would make him... a child, or whatever was the robotic equivalent of that. New, he supposed. Just starting his life, and already surrounded by violence. Ned can't help but imagine that it must have been difficult for Daneel, that his creator was murdered. He's seen how badly Daneel reacts to things like Jesse going missing or his own distress; he imagines it must have been a hundred times worse, finding out one of the men who'd helped to make him was killed.

Strange, he thinks. Perhaps at a different time in his life, he'd be more interested by the glimpse into the future that this story is providing - more interested in the fascinating sci-fi twist of atrophied immune systems and complicated interplanetary politics. But all that fades into the background, compared with what Daneel experienced amidst all this - how it effected him, personally.

"He sounds like a good man." Daneel may not have the most expressive voice or way of speaking, but Ned is getting better, he thinks, at picking up on the smaller signals. It's clear that Elijah meant something to him - a good something. Whatever influence he'd had, Ned is glad Daneel had someone like that around.

"Did you ever catch the guy?"

"Yes, we were successful. Dr. Sarton was not actually the target of the murderer's intent."

Daneel turns several pages in his sketchbook, to where he's drawn Dr. Sarton himself -- it was a very long time ago, and Daneel could hardly have said to have really known Dr. Sarton, but that he was a significant person is undeniable. At first glimpse, it might appear to be a self-portrait, but the image is not quite Daneel -- slightly aged in a way Daneel isn't, slightly more imperfect, Daneel as he might be were he human and subject to age and wear, a version of Daneel less idealised.

"This was Dr. Roj Nemmenuh Sarton," Daneel explains. "He based my appearance upon his own. He was murdered by someone attempting to destroy me, who feared what I represented."

His voice is... very soft. It was a long time ago, even for him, but it's no more comfortable an idea.

It's strange, looking at the paper and seeing that drawing of a slightly different Daneel. For a second, Ned thinks that that is what Daneel will look a little more like when he gets older, and then he realizes his mistake. There's an awful lurch in his gut when he thinks of it - that Daneel is something unaging, will exist hundreds of years after he has died.

But then Daneel keeps talking and Ned is grateful, shoves the errant, horrible thought away into some dark corner of his mind where he can ignore it as much as possible. It seems only appropriate that Daneel would be made to look like the man who had helped to create him. Just like a human being, if a little closer in the particulars. Ned didn't think of it as egoism necessarily on the part of this Dr. Sarton, but rather a way of making Daneel actually his - an unconventional kind of offspring.

(Besides which, Ned thinks privately, why would Sarton not use himself as a model, when he was really very attractive...)

That little rather amusing train of thought is abruptly derailed when Daneel reveals that he was the intended target of the murder. That someone had wanted to, tried to kill him, when he was new, simply for being what he is. It shouldn't shock him as much as it does. Ned hasn't entertained many illusions about how human beings react to the new, the unknown, the other. But at the same time, it does shock him. That's plain as day on his face, in the way he stops looking at the picture and looks up at Daneel as if frightened for him even now, so many years later.

Of course he can't know, if it's as hurtful for a robot as it would be for a human. To be hated just for existing. But, as he does with most things, Ned assumes that, though there may be some variation, it is probably just as awful for him as it would be for a human. At least with him, he'd had nine years of being normal and being loved, and at least he'd always managed to hide what he was and avoid anything of this nature. But Daneel had come directly into a world that was full of fear and spite and violence, and Ned hates that.

He also wonders, from the quiet way Daneel says it, if he blames himself. He shouldn't, of course. But Ned knows that that kind of guilt won't be dictated to by should. Gently, he lays a hand on Daneel's upper arm. It's part a gesture of sympathy, but also part a reassurance for himself that Daneel is here, that this is fine, that they hadn't murdered him.

Edited 2013-05-12 06:56 (UTC)

Daneel lays his hand reassuringly over Ned's, squeezing his fingers gently. He'll tag the comfort for what it is, for the intention behind it.

"I was manufactured and activated on Earth, though both my creators were from Aurora. Robots have not been as accepted on Earth as on Spacer worlds, and what they had at the time were very simplistic in comparison."

He turns the page to a sketch of another man, older, with thinning hair and a flabby face. "This is Dr. Han Fastolfe, my other creator. Though, as I understand it, Dr. Sarton was responsible for much of my physical appearance, Dr. Fastolfe's great interest was in the design of my brain. He also created friend Giskard. We served him for many years, until his death."

Hard, but not as difficult as it might be; age was an inevitable end in the way that murder and violence were not.

Though he turns his attention back to the sketchbook, the sadness over that - over the injustice of it all, the narrow-mindedness - remains, as if it were lodged in his throat. Daneel may be from hundreds of years in the future, but humans haven't changed. Not really. Just like they haven't changed whenever River is from, either. Still willing to kill or cut up anyone who was different.

Dr. Fastolfe is another piece of the puzzle, another one of Daneel's pseudo-parents. But then, is that really a good analogy, considering Daneel was expected to serve this man? Even if Daneel thought he was more than happy to do so, as far as Ned is concerned, he was never given a choice in the first place. Not when it was programmed into him to think of himself as not-a-person, to think he isn't allowed to draw or want things. But he sets that indignation aside, because there's nothing he can do about it, and because this Dr. Fastolfe did create Daneel with the capacity to become what he is today. Even if what he is is imperfect, Ned is grateful.

And he, too, is another important person that Daneel has lost. "Dr. Sarton and Dr. Fastolfe," Ned repeats. It is just another way of knowing Daneel, and who he is now, to know the names and the stories about where he came from.

"Have you done one of Giskard?" Ned asks, quietly. He is, Ned remembers, the one Daneel had cried for, when he'd turned human. The one who had died because of the Laws.

"I have." Daneel again turns several pages, to an illustration of a robot. Not an unusual looking robot, at least not by Daneel's point of view: a standard style of design for an Auroran robot. The face is smooth and metallic and expressionless, inflexible. Giskard is something far more obviously inhuman than Daneel, that much is certain.

"Friend Giskard was physically typical of many Auroran robots, and he was made long before I was. Still, Dr. Fastolfe was a very renowned roboticist, whose designs for positronic brains were remarkable. Mentally, I believe friend Giskard to have been as sophisticated as myself, if not more so, although admittedly different owing to my humaniform design." An interesting question, perhaps, of how much of that was due to the nature of being humaniform, and how much was due to the initial design of the positronic brain. "I believe that this was the case even before he accidentally gained the mental powers he has now passed to me."

And he misses Giskard. What Giskard would have thought of Daneel's fit of weeping for him Daneel isn't prepared to answer. At least with Elijah there had been a sense of... inevitability. He had been a very old man.

Ned looks at the picture in silence for a little while. It's true that Giskard doesn't look human, in the same way that Daneel does. But his face is still quite interesting. For all its inflexibility, it's lack of little distinguishing human imperfections, Daneel has captured it with detail and, Ned thinks, a kind of personality.

With a sudden but undeniable flash of jealousy, Ned wonders if there is a kind of understanding or camaraderie between robots, humaniform or not, that he will never have access to. Would there forever, no matter what the circumstances, be a kind of barrier between himself and Daneel, separating them? Would he prefer to have someone like Giskard here with him? Is he merely making do amidst humans? The thought is an uncomfortable one.

"He gave you your powers?" Ned asks, a crease forming between his brows as he looks back up at Daneel. "I assumed that was just..." he trails off, embarrassed. He has assumed all robots had the same capabilities as Daneel.

Is that jealousy? If it is... it's peculiar. The idea of a human ever feeling cause to be jealous of a robot is... almost unthinkable in its ridiculousness. The Laws don't allow for any robot to take precedence over a human being, at least not ever under normal circumstances.

"He gained them accidentally," Daneel explains. "They are highly unusual to say the least, and perhaps unheard of. It would not be a welcome revelation, had most people learned of it, and he kept them very secret." Daneel hesitates, considering how to attempt explaining why Giskard had chosen to do this. "Spacer worlds have a story, of a robot that once gained telepathy in a similar accidental way. The robot in question was a comparatively primitive one, and began to tell humans lies that they wished to hear to avoid causing harm. Eventually, with so many conflicting stories that it had told to various individuals, it found itself unable to take any action without breaking the First Law, and it went into stasis and deactivated. The story is very old, and I cannot say if it ever truly happened, but Giskard took from it that if there was good he could do with his abilities, both telepathy and the ability to 'tamper,' as he put it, he would have to do so in secrecy. Were his powers well-known he certainly would have been studied and deactivated."

And here Daneel is now, explaining it to a human, to Ned. Perhaps it's a betrayal of a sort, but perhaps Giskard would merely have been amused by it. He had had a sort of... sense of humour, near the end.

"Ned," he says, because he has to know, because that distress is tangible to him, "why are you jealous?"

It doesn't surprise Ned at all to hear that Giskard (and later Daneel) chose to keep their powers a secret. Ned knows the territory that comes with having highly unusual and unheard of abilities. Even if he isn't familiar with the story that Daneel tells, about a telepathic robot who was deactivated, he gets it. That fear. And now that he knows Daneel wasn't just keeping what he can do hidden here at the Cape, that after whatever Giskard did he was different from all the other robots on Aurora, he realizes it is something they have in common. There may be so many fundamental differences between them, but they both share this.

"I was the same. I mean... I realized right away that if anyone found out what I could do, they would want to-" he breaks off, looking away from Daneel. He can't quite say the words without an effort. "-to study me. Cut me into pieces and see if they could find out why I am the way I am or how they could replicate it or use it."

That sentiment might have been implicit in his warning to Daneel, after the flyer of rumors, not to tell everyone what he could do. But there's a certain relief in saying it aloud, to someone who won't call him crazy for it, or question him.

Like Giskard, too, Ned had still used his powers, just secretly. He had brought a boy at school's pets back to life, after they died. Had tried to solve the murder of the dead hunter in the woods. Had, at various other times, made use of his magic touch, if he thought the end result would be for the greater good.

When Daneel asks why he is jealous Ned sits up a bit straighter, flustered at being called out. He feels his face starting to go red without his permission. "I'm not." It would be an obvious lie, even to someone who wasn't an empath. Besides, Daneel must know it is true, or else he wouldn't have asked. Ned corrects himself, chagrined, words going a mile a minute, "Okay, so maybe I am a little jealous, but I can't help it, it's not like I can just sit here deciding what to feel and what not to feel about every little thing. It'd be great if I could, but that's not how it works."

None of which, of course, is an answer to Daneel's question, which Ned knows. He lets out a little, stressed exhale and rubs the back of his neck, practically squirming with awkwardness. But Daneel deserves the truth, after everything he's put up with. Even if the truth may secure the final nail in the coffin and convince Daneel that he really is pathetic.

"I'm jealous because I like you. I mean, a lot. Probably more than I've ever liked anyone, actually." He can't look at Daneel as he's saying this, has to make his confession down at the palms of his hands, "And so I'm really glad you're showing me your drawings and I'm learning about your life, but at the same time... hearing you talk about Giskard just reminds me how much I can't compete. I'm not- what was it? I'm not as sophisticated as you are, mentally. And there's so much I don't know about where you're from, and when you're from, so I'm always going to be asking stupid questions. Plus I'm not... I'm not a robot, like you. I'm a human, like the humans who wanted to kill you for no reason, or the humans who would want to deactivate you if they knew what you could do. So I'm jealous because Giskard had a chance to know you in a way I'm never going to be able to do, no matter how much I might want to. And I'm jealous because I know you probably wouldn't have to waste your time with me if there were someone more like him around here."

Daneel is quiet a moment before he answers. He hears, he feels, he cannot understand this sentiment. How could Ned, how could anyone but especially Ned be not worthy of him? That Ned likes him in the tangled way of friendship and affection and sexuality that human have towards each other doesn't escape him. Things are simpler for him: there are friends, and there are people who are not his friends. Sex, kinship, jealousy, possessiveness: none of these enter into it at all. Ned is a friend, a very important friend. He's not the first nor the only, but that doesn't make that word any less important, any less of a badge of honour.

"Partner Elijah was human," he says at last. "He was no less a friend to me. I didn't think of him as less intelligent than myself, nor do I think such of yourself or anyone else here. Friend Giskard was important to me, yes, but if anything, his great importance was in spite of his lack of humanity, not because of it."

Daneel picks his words with care, trying to explain without giving offense. This conversation would have to happen at some point, he always knew that, but he'd hoped things would have been more settled before they reached this. "If anything, I suspect it is I who should not be encouraging you. I am aware of your affection towards me, and of the nature of it, but what I fear is that I cannot be what you need simply because I'm not human. You have been kind, and you're certainly my friend, but I greatly fear harming you through my failure to be anything other than a robot."

The point about Elijah rings true - he's seen evidence that Daneel held the man in high regard, even though he was a human. Ned knows he should have remembered that before he opened his mouth. Should have kept his trap shut, entirely. Because the truth is that, perhaps, despite what he'd said, underneath it all, it isn't just the fact that he's a human that's making him feel inadequate. He knows that. It's just the same insecurity - that old, deep-rooted conviction that he's worthless, that he's flawed beyond saving - wearing a new disguise.

But why would Daneel only care about Giskard in spite of the fact that he's a robot? And the way Daneel phrases it - his lack of humanity - rubs Ned the wrong way. It points towards what he'd already suspected: that Daneel thinks of himself as less than a human.

He can tell how careful Daneel is being with him, the way he always is. Still, it is rather embarrassing when Daneel announces that he's aware of how Ned feels. Of course he ought to have expected that. Daneel can sense everything he's feeling. No use trying to be subtle around him, trying to keep things to himself. No need for a declaration now, and no point in denying how quickly he's allowed himself to get attached.

It's almost funny, the way the two of them mirror one another - both of them worrying they aren't good enough, that they'll harm one another just because of what they are. Ned would laugh, if it weren't all so serious. He can feel the delicacy of this moment, right now, in his hands. He clears his throat, looks up and meets Daneel's gaze, with conviction.

"I don't know exactly what it is you think I need…" he murmurs, voice low and steady, "But I don't want you to be anything other than what you are."

He pauses, lets those words have the weight of the silence that follows them. "It's not a failure to be what you are. What you are is- is wonderful."

Edited 2013-05-13 04:29 (UTC)

Perhaps it's reassuring, but it's not convincing, and a robot with doubts can be very stubborn indeed.

"You need someone who can return your feelings in a human way," Daneel says softly. "I can't guarantee that I'm capable of that. I have been told by individuals here that I should consider myself a person, and perhaps I am, but I am still a robot. There are things I cannot be for you, though I readily admit that I would like to be."

And he would try. He would try, he wants to try, but that fear of harm is almost paralysing. Ned thinks he's wonderful, though, and that's... strangely encouraging.

Words are difficult. He has no experience with this, has no idea how to explain it, and failing appropriate words he turns back to his sketchbook. Daneel flips through several pages, and settles on a portrait he's drawn of Ned, Ned smiling.

Edited 2013-05-13 05:26 (UTC)

For all that Daneel keeps insisting that he is incomprehensibly other, that the gulf between human and robot is much too far for understanding, Ned feels nothing but sympathy and understanding for him, as he recites his fears. Because that's what it is, Ned recognizes. It's not that Daneel dislikes him, or is uninterested in- in whatever this is between them. He's afraid. Afraid that he's not good enough, that something about his existence is fundamentally insufficient, afraid that he'll cause pain without meaning to. Those are feelings that Ned knows, inside and out.

So he doesn't listen to the negatives - the cannots and the should nots - but only lets himself really hear the but I would like to. And those are fantastic words to hear, made even moreso by Daneel's subsequent gesture.

He's just about to start arguing that no, another human being with human-style feelings isn't what he needs or wants at all, but when Daneel reaches the drawing of him in the sketchbook, his voice dies in his throat. Because he'd said he only drew people who were significant to him. Said that Ned was his friend and in Daneel's mouth that word has weight. Said that he wants to be more to Ned, even though he's afraid he isn't capable of it.

All at once his eyes are stinging with tears and he has to look up at the ceiling, blinking rapidly. But he's smiling as he does it, beaming, overwhelmed with a luminous kind of joy.

"How could you possibly think I need anything more than that?" His voice is thick with emotion,and he half-laughs, wipes at the corner of one of one eye absently. He can't seem to make himself stop smiling long enough to get the words out, "You can say all you want about being so different, but I've given that same speech before, a dozen times. Told people they should stay away because there's something wrong with me and I can't be what they need. I know how frightening it can be, when you think you might hurt someone, or think that you aren't good enough for them. It's so frightening that it seems safer to not even try to get close."

Ned swallows, looks at the page again now that his vision has stopped swimming. There's that same level of detail and affection in the lines as there had been in some of the others, and it almost hurts to look at it, but in a good way.

"I think you're capable of more than you give yourself credit for. But even if you weren't, and even if you could never return my feelings in a way that seems human to you, that's not the point. That isn't what I need. What I need is- is what you've been doing this whole time."

Ned rests his head on Daneel's shoulder, admits, "All of this is confusing for me, too, Daneel. I'm playing it by ear as much as you are. But all I know is that I feel good when I'm with you, and when I'm not with you I keep thinking about when I can see you next. You make me feel safe and happy and I've gotten so used to not feeling safe and not feeling happy that I almost don't recognize what it feels like. And I just want to make you feel that, as much as I can, in whatever way you can. So I think... even if there are no guarantees, I think we shouldn't let ourselves get scared away from something that might be good for both of us."

He holds out his hand, palm up, fingers outstretched. It is there, if Daneel wants to take it. Not a demand, but an invitation.

Humans don't always know what they need. Daneel knows this. They don't even always know what they want, and sometimes they actively avoid what would benefit them most.

And what is different about how he was as a human, compared to before, and now? Reactions, senses, but surely if there is something that is uniquely himself, personality or essence or soul or whatever one might choose to call it, whether or not one chooses to dress it up in terms of spirituality, surely that is unchanged? He suspects he began this when he offered himself to Ned, and he can't bring himself to regret that. No, not ever that.

After a moment of looking at Ned's outstretched hand, Daneel takes it, threading their fingers together. For him, it's a significant gesture, intimate in a way beyond sex, because sex serves a purpose that handholding simply doesn't. It's an acceptance, an agreement. He just hopes Ned never has cause to regret it.

"This is very new to me, Ned." New, and without any sort of good background to base his actions on.

Ned is sure that he doesn't breathe, as he waits with his hand outstretched and empty. When Daneel reaches out, too, laces their hands together, he recognizes it for what it is. He may not realize the extent of the gesture and its significance for Daneel, personally. But it is clearly an affirmation, an agreement that the two of them will, at the very least, try. Together.

"That makes two of us," Ned murmurs through a grin that is threatening to split his face in two. He runs a thumb idly back and forth over the ridge of Daneel's hand. It's strange, but touching him feels noticeably different to touching a human, or an animal, or even a plant. Ned notices, not for the first time, but he doesn't say anything for the time being. "But as they say, there's a first time for everything."

There's a hint of innuendo in the sentence, mixed with an odd gravity. Daneel has already been involved in a couple of his first times - one lovely, one less than lovely.

"We'll figure it out," he declares, full of optimism and quietly effusive affection and relief. Then, turning his attention down to the picture he asks, voice rich with amusement, "Are my bangs really that funny-looking?"

"It's an accurate depiction of how your hair looks," Daneel says, somewhat puzzled. "I don't see it as being 'funny-looking,' however."

The opposite, in fact; it's how Ned looks, and how he has always looked in Daneel's memory. For him, it's right, it's how he should be. Admittedly, Daneel knows nothing about fashion and style. This is a problem he's found in his artistic endavours: he knows certain things that humans find beautiful, but for himself, he can really only reproduce. Faces are better, because there are expressions, and he understands expressions and emotions far better than he does why one particular style of hair is attractive over another.

But he's... very happy like this, sitting close with Ned with their hands clasped together. Was friend Jander so happy with Gladia, once? Daneel hopes so. It's encouraging if he was.

"You may certainly have the picture, if you want." To make a gift, in exchange for the lilacs now sitting on his desk, sounds very appropriate to him.

Ned reaches up to run the fingers of his free hand through his bangs, as if trying to get them into some semblance of order. In actuality, he isn't all that concerned with how they look - particularly if Daneel doesn't mind. It's just a playful little gesture, self-teasing without being anxious or self-loathing. Of all the things Ned's concerned about (and the list is long and detailed), his looks have never really been one.

"I'd rather have one of you," Ned admits. What would he do with a picture of himself? It would have some value, true, because Daneel drew it, but something about the idea strikes him as vain. He hopes he's not asking too much when he says, "Did you try any self-portraits?"

As the conversation moves further and further away from their tense discussion, Ned's lingering apprehension melts away, leaving only a happiness that is undiluted, uncomplicated, and intense.

"I haven't."

And really, why should he? In all his experimental artistry, he'd never thought to draw himself. His own appearance doesn't trouble him, so long as he's neat and presentable. And what sort of expression should he depict in a self-portrait? What would be appropriate? He knows his own expression tends to be unchanging, but it isn't automatic. He has to think about smiling, or frowning, and it's more a mirror than anything. He smiles not out of feeling, but out of communication for that feeling. It's a very small, but significant difference.

"I could attempt a self-portrait," Daneel says, "if you would like such a thing." He could, and he will, just for Ned. He turns to a blank page in his sketchbook, removes his pencil from where it's tucked in the spiral spine, but the fact remains that he'll need both hands to do this. He might be reluctant to draw his hand away, but this is a valid reason, surely.

Daneel withdraws his hand and, with a small afterthought, leans over to give Ned a small, careful, chaste kiss -- on the corner of his mouth, not his forehead, because never again will he make that mistake. with this accomplished, he settles down to start drawing his own self-portrait, moving quickly and precisely.

It's a little while until Ned can say anything, after that. For a good minute or two he merely sits there as Daneel draws, smiling so much that his face actually starts to ache. Because the kiss hadn't frightened him, at all. Because Daneel had kissed him in the first place - had wanted to, and done it. Because he didn't ruin things, after all: not just now, in their delicate discussion; not last night, when he made a drunken spectacle of himself; not a few days ago, when he'd scared Daneel so much with his panic attack.

So he sits there a while, hands clasped in his lap, until he feels like he can manage to say words again.

"Can you talk and draw at the same time, or is it distracting?" If it's too much of a distraction, Ned doesn't mind. He could go get a book from his room and the two of them could pass the time in friendly silence (so different, Ned knows, to the other kind - the kind he'd been living in all these years). But if it is not, Ned still has an ocean of questions he wants to ask, about Giskard and Aurora and Daneel's entire life before coming here.

"I can certainly talk while I draw."

If anything, he'll just have to draw slightly slower, which is no hardship. And honestly, he's glad that his small gesture of a kiss went over well, because it certainly didn't the last time he tried. It had seemed like a good trade for the handholding, at least.

"What did you wish to discuss?"

Daneel pauses, long enough to look over at Ned with a politely inquisitive expression.

Ned shrugs, "Nothing in particular, I suppose. I just like hearing about your life. Where you're from, what kinds of people you've known, what kinds of things you've done." These things are important because they help him to get a sense of Daneel, to know him and the factors which have gone into making him the person he is today. "You said Elijah had a big influence on you. What'd you mean by that?"

This isn't an interrogation, and it isn't the jealousy from earlier returning in any capacity. Ned merely wants to know more about Daneel's other human friend - probably his first, if they worked together so soon after Daneel was activated.

It's lovely, simply lovely, sitting here close beside Daneel, with the smell of the lilacs, watching his hand tracing lines onto the page, pulling out an outline of Daneel's face from the blank nothingness.

Daneel returned to his drawing, considering the question. "Partner Elijah had a very clever way of asking questions that would let him find out the truth. He understood human behaviour extensively. On occasion I have attempted the same technique, though I fear it doesn't come so easily to me. I require practice to know the right questions to ask."

And his role, too, in the formation of the Zeroth Law, as unwitting as it was.

"The last time we spoke, he told me that I shouldn't concern myself with his death. As an individual, his own life was unimportant, and I should think of the greater tapestry of humanity. He was, I believe, only trying to make his death easier on me, but that sentiment was key when I formulated the Zeroth Law: a robot may not harm humanity, nor through inaction, allow humanity to come to harm."

He's mentioned the Zeroth Law before, but not so plainly.

"I have integrated this Law of mine so that it takes precedence over the First Law."

While the concept of a Zeroth Law might not have the same resonance to Ned that it would to someone who had been accustomed to the immutability of the Laws of Robotics all their life, he still finds it very interesting to learn that Daneel has some amount of control over them. That he could add in a variation of the First Law, one that takes precedence over it, based on something he'd learned on his own.

"That's a good law to have," Ned says quietly, gravely. He does wish that it weren't so tailored to humanity, alone, but it strikes him as better, in many ways, than any of the other three. "I didn't know you could do that. Add to the Laws, yourself."

"Neither did I," Daneel says. "It was very difficult. The Zeroth Law implies the possibility that I may have to allow harm or even outright harm a human to prevent greater harm to many people. It took some time to form it, faced as I was with the First Law, and some time to fully integrate it."

A complicated process, but one that had been necessary. He knows that it was, but that made it no easier.

"My Zeroth Law is flawed," Daneel admits. "Humanity is an abstract, not a concrete object. It is difficult to know what effects my actions might have on so many individuals. That uncertainty is what caused friend Giskard to cease functioning. I don't believe could integrate it as completely as I have." Regret, there, just a little. "It was the best solution we had, however."

Yes, Ned can see how that would be difficult. Even for himself, someone not compelled as stringently as Daneel is to abhor harm against humans, the idea isn't exactly appealing.

"It is hard, not being certain," Ned says quietly, watching obliquely as Daneel's portrait of himself continues to take shape and greater detail. "This Zeroth Law - that sounds like a very ethical way of thinking. That's the way humans think, or at least, the way we want to, or try to, or ought to. I'm surprised it wasn't in your programming from the start... and impressed that you were able to find your way to it on your own, despite everything."

There's another question Ned wants to ask Daneel, but he hesitates, uncertain if asking it will cause him pain. He works his way up to it gradually, circuitously. "When Laura was shot, I didn't mean to touch her. It was a mistake. But after I did, I had to make a choice. Whether it was better to kill her, or let her live and kill someone else. There was a chance that someone else would be the man with the gun - the man who looked like he was going to kill more people, before the day was over. There was also a chance it could have been someone else, someone innocent."

"After it happened, I told everyone that I hadn't had a choice, that I couldn't have touched her in time, but... I'm not sure that's completely true. She was so close. I might have been able to get to her. I don't know, because I didn't try. I risked killing someone innocent, and ended up killing that man, because I thought it was the best solution."

He shrugs, pulling his feet in towards the bed and placing one on top of the other, a small gesture of retraction, defensiveness. "My powers mean that if I made a mistake like that, I have to choose. Not... if to kill, but who. Maybe it's the same for everyone. Not if to do harm, but... how to do the least."

Ned is coming to it now. He asks, softly, "Did you and Giskard... did you have to hurt someone, to help save everyone?"

Edited 2013-05-15 00:12 (UTC)

Daneel pauses, for the moment needing to focus on the conversation rather than what he's doing.

The reality of the sort of dilemma Ned's powers lead him to is far more sobering than he would have realised. It seems an impossible choice to him. It's one thing to weigh the life of one, or a few, against many. How is it possible to weigh one life against another? How can that choice be made when the identity of one of those lives isn't even known? He doubts he could do it. He suspects it would destroy him.

"I did not fully realise the implications of your abilities, Ned."

That's putting it mildly. Acting under those constraints doesn't fall easily under the realm of any of his Laws. Daneel turns to look at Ned, his expression quietly concerned.

"We did." He doesn't want to talk about what they did, what Giskard did, why it destroyed him, but... well, Ned asked. "We may have harmed an unknown number of innocents. It was to save many billions more, and to preserve the future of humanity. It had to be done."

Ned can sense Daneel's reluctance to discuss what happened any further, and so he does not press the issue. He's curious, but that curiosity doesn't take precedence over Daneel's comfort. And, Ned thinks, with a sudden hint of fear, it might not be healthy for him to think about it or talk about it at length. Whatever they'd needed to do had killed Giskard. He doesn't want to run that risk, however infinitesimal, with Daneel.

In giving his example, he hadn't exactly meant to make himself the topic of conversation. He'd just wanted to use it as a transition, a bit of an example to show that he'd had to hurt people before, too. But apparently he'd ended up telling Daneel something he hadn't realized before. He'd explained the rules to Daneel, though now he doesn't remember the exact words he'd used. It's all a bit of a blur; he just knows he'd told Daneel about his powers, and killing Charles Charles, and killing his mother. But now, apparently, Daneel finally understands the extent of it, understands how careful he has to be to avoid committing murder.

Ned swallows, shifts closer to Daneel. How had this conversation gotten so serious? He doesn't want to think about his powers or the people and animals he'd killed over the years. Doesn't want to think about whatever it was Daneel had had to do for the greater good. He doesn't know if robots can feel guilt or regret in the same way that humans can, but on the off-chance that Daneel is feeling any of those things, he wraps him in a sudden, tight hug. He's gonna have to wait a little while before he goes back to his drawing, because Ned isn't letting his arms go anywhere.

"I'm sorry to hear you were in that situation," is all he says, and all he will say about it. If Daneel feels like bringing it up again in the future, it'll be up to him.

Edited 2013-05-15 03:45 (UTC)

Being hugged is... good. Daneel has to believe they did the right thing, that Giskard did not sacrifice himself for nothing. It would be difficult to explain to anyone what they did and why, but in the meantime, he puts an arm around Ned and holds him close.

"It was the right thing," he says softly, but it's easier to take comfort in Ned than discuss anything so uncomfortable. It's a strange thing for him -- what is physical comfort to him, exactly? It comforts Ned and that reassures him, it is a physical reminder of the presence and safety of one so important.

The right thing... right for him, yes. And he thinks that probably Ned did the right thing, too.

remember the time you drove all night

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