Terminator Imagines

You Are Lying.

Uncle Bob still struggles to understand the sheer complexity of human emotion. He had thought that he'd gotten a grip on the baffling nature of these creatures, but with hindsight he now realises he has very little. Skynet had only programmed him to understand fear, amongst other basic human expressions, so his CPU very often struggles to correctly interpret the emotions portrayed by his human comrades.

One in particular is (Y/n), who he'd taken special care to observe, so he may discern her feelings and state of mind better. Mostly, he's right about what his systems pull out, the accurate facial recognition procedures finely honed into her nuanced expression, though his following conclusions from these are often somewhat skewed. Like today, for example. 

An hour and a half earlier, she had returned home from work, slamming the front door behind her as she entered. He'd gone out to investigate the noise, just in time to see her throw her bag into the corner, shoes following before she stormed upstairs, barely sparing him a glance. Instantly, his HUD had begun to analyse what it saw: tightened lips, furrowed brow, narrowed eyes, slightly flared nostrils and flushing skin. The matches had been swift to follow - 25% fatigued, 27% angered and 48% frustrated. Unsure of how else to respond, other than how John had taught him before, Bob had simply called up a quick "Hello", only to hear her bedroom door bang against its frame as she went straight to her room.

Now, he knows he should've followed up on his previous deductions. She hasn't come out of her room in ninety minutes, not even to eat, something that has caused warning objectives to appear on his HUD. Moving up the stairs, he runs through possible scenarios in his CPU, keeping his pace slow and unhurried, so as not to worry her if he had mistakenly scanned her before. 

Getting to the hall, he heads towards her room, using heightened auditory processors to scan the floor for possible clues as to what he should expect. Sure enough, he catches something, a low sniffling his system swiftly reminds him is known as crying by the human race. Frowning, he quickens his pace, getting to her door much faster now, taking the door handle in one fist. He halts himself before he opens, however, remembering what she'd said once before about privacy. Humans preferred if you knocked first.

Rapping sharply on the wood, Bob waits for a response, stationary by the door. 

A feeble response echoes from within moments later.

"I'm busy." The voice is cracked and broken, thick with emotions too strong for him to discern from here.

It is this that leads him to disregard her words, opening the door to her room with no further ado.

Instantly, he scans the room, taking in the sight of (Y/n) hunched on her bed, pressed against the headboard, tear-stained face turned to him. Watery eyes are wide as they meet his, hands lifting to swipe wayward tears from her cheeks, struggling to straighten dishevelled hair to give an impression of normalcy. Once again, his processors scan her emotions, this time showing a stark difference: 32% frustration, 68% helplessness.

"What is wrong?" He asks, going further into the room.

(Y/n) sniffs, turning away from him.

"N-nothing. You can leave." She tells him, voice register markedly different.

"You are lying." The T-800's scanners list the telltale features he's learned to associate with her dishonesty, confusion welling up inside him; why won't she tell him what's wrong?

"No I'm not." She bites back, clearly frustrated now.

"My visual scanners have identified at least three indicators of lying from your body language." He says before he can stop himself, stepping into the room properly, closing the door behind him.

"And? I still don't want you to stay." She sniffs, and he tilts his head. 

(Y/n) is still lying to him.

Going to the bed, he sits, looking over at her with as gentle an expression as he can muster. 

"Please tell me what is wrong." He pleads with her, knowing that his more "human" attributes often win him favours with her.

Reluctantly, she looks up at him, wiping away a tear as she does so, looking dejected and helpless.

"I...I guess I should probably have told you, or Sarah when we first moved in together, but I've been diagnosed with anxiety. I found out when I was thirteen, but I never did anything about it. I can't afford to do anything about it." (Y/n) looks down at her lap, "It's pathetic, but that's how it is. Sometimes it just gets a bit overwhelming."

Bob takes a second to process this, his HUD bringing up all he knows about the mental illness. It's not much, but he knows enough.

"That is not pathetic. It is not your fault, either, so your shame is misplaced." He tells her, awkwardly reaching over to wrap an arm around her, "You should have told us, but I am aware of reasons why you didn't, and so I see no reason why either Sarah or I can get incensed at your decision. With the knowledge of your condition, I can work to make life easier for you."

She stares at him, incredulous.

"You...don't think I've been irresponsible?"

"No, I think you did what you thought was right. You concealed the truth to keep us from worrying, no?"

Slowly, she nods.

"Then you were not irresponsible. We can help you now, if you'd like."

Again, she nods.

Sighing, Bob reaches over and pulls her into a hug, crushing her into his larger frame. She stiffens momentarily, but soon relaxes into his hold, not protesting when he manoeuvres her into his lap. Gently, he rocks the two of them, knowing it is soothing to most, leaning back onto her bed, which creaks slightly under his weight. In his grip, he can feel (Y/n) going limped, her pulse and breathing slowing into the regular patterns accompanying sleep, her exhaustion clearly taking over. 

Content to remain where he is, Bob puts himself into standby, pleased that he may have helped her.