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They've been sleeping together with some regularity for over a month. He should probably explain the situation. Emotional symmetry is expected, in physically intimate relationships. If this were a means to an end, he'd encourage such assumptions—playing to expectations. Performing. Lying.
But in this specific case, the relationship, the partnership, is an end in itself. It's not for a job, it is the job. He doesn't want to win the game, he wants to keep playing.
Therefore, witholding relevant information about the nature of that partnership would be ... counterproductive, rather than necessary.
It is probable that Crayce will find said information off-putting, upsetting, or disappointing. But she values trust and honesty more than she values convenience and comfort. It's why he trusts her. And while the physical aspect of their arrangement is interesting, ending it for the sake of preserving all the rest is also an acceptable outcome.
He knows that in many cases, arrangements like theirs do not survive such restructuring. But the thought of pretending, indefinitely, about this specifically, with this specific person, is ... undesirable.
"There's something we should probably discuss," Cipher Nine says.
Crayce eyes him sideways, then pulls a face. "All right, consider me braced for the bad news."
They're eating breakfast in bed. Killing the Cartel accountant earned them enough credits to indulge; they are in a nicer hotel than usual, and the room service here is quite good. He stabs a piece of fried tubers, chews, swallows. He keeps his tone even, neither apologetic nor cruel. "I can't love you."
"Wait, what?" says Crayce.
"There is a nonzero chance that my conditioning removed my capacity for romantic interest." He is well aware that at least some of his neutrality regarding the topic is itself due to that conditioning, but some is—conscious. Deliberate performance.
Because the thought of Serrin Crayce looking at him with skin-crawling pity, looking at him the way Raina Temple looked at him after learning the extent to which Intelligence shaped his mind, is repulsive.
Not that the performance of neutrality ever stopped Temple, but it was less intolerable than playing to her expectations would have been.
Crayce is frowning slightly over her omelet and toast. "Okay," she says. Then she sighs, and rubs the unscarred side of her face. "This is probably awful to say, but that's ... kind of a relief. Because I can't do love, either." Her mouth twists into a grim smile. "Just not wired for it, I guess."
"... Wait, what?" He sets down his fork. "You—but you're not—" Obviously, obviously, she's not a clean slate but if she still—
"So it's a—a thing you are," he says haltingly. "Not a thing that was done to you."
"Yeah. Well, so far as I can tell." Crayce grimaces. "Lotta people assume I'm burned out on relationships after an ugly breakup or something. Or I'm making excuses to avoid committing to anyone. Or I just haven't met the right person yet. But then they'll tell me you're supposed to 'just know' when you're in love with someone, and ... that sure as hell hasn't ever happened to me, so my money's on wiring."
He stares at her. He's supposed to respond. React. Something. Anything. But he doesn't have words for this and his face isn't moving, possibly because he doesn't know what to make it do.
"... You okay?" says Crayce, brow creasing in apparent concern.
"You're like me," he says slowly. "But nobody—made you. Like this."
She nods, cautious. Her frown deepens. "You've never met anyone else who couldn't do love?"
"... No." Cipher Nine clears his throat. "Or more accurately I've never met anyone else who explicitly declared themselves incapable of it, which probably isn't enough to draw any solid conclusions, and in my own case I don't actually know with certainty whether it's—conditioned, or inherited, or emergent, or—" He breaks off. Exhales. "And this is the first time it's been ... relevant."
It doesn't matter whether or not Hunter loved him. He refuses to grant his own feelings about Hunter a name beyond hatred.
"From what I've seen," Crayce is saying, "it's not exactly common. I'd've caught a lot less flak for it if it were. But it's not totally unheard-of."
"... Oh."
"Need a minute?"
"I—maybe?" He gestures, a bit helplessly. Vague gestures allow the viewer to project or extrapolate what they will onto them, and more importantly, they are not dead silence and stillness and inability to communicate, even when they communicate nothing.
He keeps breathing.
Crayce says, softly, "Can I touch your shoulder?"
People don't ask. Crayce isn't people, she's Crayce. Does he want her to—?
"Yes," he says.
She does. She puts her hand on it, and the synthskin blunts the skeletal metal armature beneath but it still does not feel entirely like a human hand. It's hard and cool and heavy through the thin fabric of his shirt.
It doesn't feel like Hunter touching him. It doesn't feel like anything or anyone else.
It's something to focus on. He keeps breathing.
(Why is he blanking like this over something as inconsequential as—as a shared absence? Why can't he just—)
But he can spiral over this. He's—allowed, or does not need permission, or—something. She indicated that he could take his time. She isn't demanding any specific response or result.
The only goal here is to keep the game going, and she knows what he's doing and why, and she's touching his shoulder.
"You can't hear the music either," he says. His voice is too thin, too fragile, and it swings upward at the end, almost a question. He did not intend any of this. He hates that it happened. He is stupidly, pathetically glad that it did. Maybe, if it's accidental, it's real. Maybe it will communicate something he otherwise couldn't.
Crayce frowns again, then seems to understand, expression clearing. She shakes her head. "Nah. Never have. You're not the only one, okay? Whether or not there's a, a reason for it—it's not just you."
"Right," he says, and then his chest goes tight and his throat closes. There is an echo of a burning sensation, as if this body is remembering what it felt like to shed tears.
He's like Crayce. She's like him.
Cipher Nine keeps breathing and moves his hands and says, "You. You can."
She sets her plate to the side and pulls him into an embrace. It doesn't feel like being trapped. It feels like armor. He holds her, too, and it's—it's good. It's good. This is something good.
This, of all things, this thing he can't feel or be or do, this lack-of, this absence, is something good.