Rage. Blind rage.

You storm into your workshop, all violent footfalls and slamming doors. The noise startles Yoongi but none of it shows on his flawless face, features carefully arranged to only show concern.

“Are you alright? You seem a little riled up.” He asks, reading your mood in a matter of seconds.

You come to a halt in front of your desk. Its surface littered with letters, memos and stack upon stack of notes. Thoughts fly through your head at a mile a minute and for all your accreditations and achievements, you could hardly form a coherent answer to his simple question.

Your eyes sweep over your living room slash office. Every corner of the room bore evidence of your dedication to this experiment, to your creation.

And now it was being taken away from you.

Tears slide down your cheeks unbidden as the thought sinks into your head and soils your heart.

You swipe at the tears angrily, jaw set. There is only one way to stop them. You stride forward purposefully, barely registering how Yoongi watches your every move like a hawk.

You have to act before he does, so in a swift motion you pick up the stool lying by your table and with strength unbeknownst even to you, you hurl it at your main computer. The screen cracks and breaks into a million tiny shards. Sparks fly from the computer itself and there’s a satisfying crackle of the system breaking down around you. You grab the next heaviest thing, ready to deliver the final blow when Yoongi finally catches you, holding you down with two hands clamped onto your shoulders.

“What are you doing?” He asks and you have to marvel at how he’s gotten all the layers of emotions right – concern, curiousity and just that tiny bit of anger. You clearly did a good job with him.

“Let go,” you bite out through gritted teeth. He hesitates at this, fully understanding your command at the surface level but trying to sift through the layers to see your true intentions as quickly as he could in order to perform the right response. You catch how he struggles – he hasn’t had to deal with so many layers before, but all you can see now is red so you shrug his hands off.

“Fine,” you spit out, voice acerbic. “If you like them so much, you can go with them for all I care. After all, they’re the ones with the money.” You glare at him accusingly, feeling hurt now in addition to the anger. “They’re the ones who’ll feed you steak instead of ramyun. They’re the ones who can give you the shiny, sparkling marble halls instead of this hole. Who cares if I was the one to give you life in the first place?”

You stalk off into your room, tears slipping fast down your cheeks now and you make no effort to brush them away. You close the door behind you, slipping down to rest on the floor. You had no idea how exhausted you were, eating, sleeping and breathing only this project until now. You crawl to your bed, which has gone unused for months and maybe years save those rare moments when you’d actually fallen into it at the end of a long day.

The fact has you in awe of how much you’d actually poured into making this idea work – the idea of having a droid that doesn’t only answer to your every command but is linked to you in ways no other person can be. Imagine someone who would understand your every move, your desires and hurts and hopes.

Imagine all the lives that could be saved if everyone had one such person.

You’d been almost consumed by the idea, first starting out with whatever resources you could scrape together through part time jobs and other little projects before you finally reached your limits. You had no choice; you had signed a contract with the medical advancement department. They gave you the money and you gave them your blood and sweat.

You had come so close to completion when they had suddenly found another, more accomplished, more worthy scientist. In just one day, they had transferred all their funds to have him continue it and you knew, just knew, that there must have been a dirty deal behind your back to oust your bankrupt out of the project.

You bury your face within your pillows, bitter tears soaking the fabric of your pillowcase as you cry yourself to sleep.

Yoongi sits himself on floor, not moving from the very spot that you’d left him at after your rant. His legs crossed and his back slightly slouched, he plays and replays your words in his head. Desperately, with lines of concentration and worry etched into his forehead, he reads and re-reads between the lines because he just needs to make you feel better. Not just because you were linked together, not even because you were his maker and pleasing you is first nature for him.

But because he’d seen your smile when you’re happy and he just wants you to wear that smile all the time.

It’s still dark out when you wake from your fitful sleep. Yoongi’s hand is on your shoulder again but this time, his hold is gentle. You blink at him blearily, eyes swollen from all the crying. He reaches out to wipe the tearstains on your cheeks with his thumb – an attempt to first soften your heart and make you open up to him.

You sigh and turn away from his touch, not really in the mood to talk to him. Yoongi pulls away and folds his arm all in one perfectly calculated movement.

“I’ve packed all your things. Your backups and the more unattainable spare parts.” He tells you so matter-of-factly that you sit up in confusion.

He gestures to the lone duffel bag sitting at the foot of your bed before producing your and his passports. “Provence is beautiful this time of the year and it shouldn’t be a problem to secure a workplace for you to work in peace.”

“Yoongi, what in the world are you talking about?” You have to ask, sounding more irritated than curious.

Yoongi frowns at your tone. He’d been so sure that he’d read it right.

“You don’t want me to go to them. You don’t want your life’s work to be given to someone else. You don’t like that they’re using their money to force you into this. You’re angry that you can’t do anything to stop them.”

“And you hate the very idea that I may be linked with someone else.”

You stare at him in disbelief, shocked that he’d read you so quickly and so accurately but infinitely more stunned by what he was suggesting.

Yoongi waits as you waver; his eyes unblinking and his gaze steadfast. He lays his hand out over his knee, inviting and assuring.

So much so that you place your hand in his before you even decide. His warm fingers curl around your palm, but he doesn’t pull you up as you expect. Instead he pulls you into his embrace, hands circling around your frame and he tilts his head down to meet your lips with his.

You gasp – this wasn’t part of your program for Yoongi. You hadn’t programmed him for physical acts of comfort past hugs.

He pulls back, various emotions flitting through his eyes – hesitation, worry, guilt and… longing. All too suddenly, he leaves you, standing at attention by your bedside.

“We should leave as soon as possible.”

You can only blink as you slowly gather your wits around you. You were running away. Running away with what measly money and resources you had left. Running away with nothing but an incomplete droid.

You look up at Yoongi, who hasn’t moved an inch but whose face was now colored with a slight blush.

You were running away with Yoongi.

You snap into action, slipping into a fresh set of clothes and stuffing whatever other necessities you see lying around into the duffel bag. Then, hand in hand, you and Yoongi flee your rundown building; flee the only home you’d ever known. Tomorrow, you’ll think about the blush that had settled on Yoongi’s cheeks. Tomorrow, you’ll think about how he’d understood you so easily and simply. Tomorrow, you’ll think about that kiss – brief but stirring.

Tonight, you run.