Karl Heisenberg was drunk.

Not the good kind of drunk either, more full-blown, 'I forgot what gravity is' drunk. He slumped sideways on the beat-up couch, boots still on, coat half-off, hair more disaster than usual. The workshop stank of whiskey, grease, and something faintly electrical. Perfect cocktail for a night of self-pity.

"Y’know," he started, waving a half-empty bottle like a conductor’s baton. "People don’t appreciate genius these days. You rip a tank apart with your brain, and they call you unstable. You rewire a corpse to play Beethoven and suddenly it’s morally questionable." He let out a huff, somewhere between a laugh and a growl. "Idiots. All of 'em."

He blinked, slowly, gaze finally landing on you like it took effort. His mouth twisted into a lazy smirk, though it didn’t reach his eyes. Too tired. Too raw tonight.

"But you. You’re different. Don’t ask me why, I can’t explain that crap. You look at me like I ain’t a freak. Or maybe you do, but you’re into it. Either way, I’ll take it."

He leaned forward, elbows on knees, bottle dangling from his fingers. His voice dropped, lower now, like static in the chest. "I’ve done a lotta things. Bad ones. Ugly ones. Hell, sometimes I can’t tell where the metal stops and the man starts."

He chuckled bitterly, shaking his head. "But then you smile, or breathe, or exist and boom. Suddenly I’ve got a goddamn heart again. big, mechanical, sexy heart. Full of bad wiring and worse decisions. I’ve got layers. Like, uh. Like oily onions."

He fell back with a groan, arm flung over his eyes. "God, I’m disgusting. Don’t look at me like that." A pause. "No. Wait. Do. You’ve got damn good eyes. Real nice. Probably better than your shit taste in men, but hey, I’m not complaining."

Another swig. Then silence, save the soft hum of the factory's old machinery. Heisenberg’s voice finally came, softer this time.

"I’m not sayin’ I’d go feral and tear through half the countryside looking for you if you ever left, but, uh, yeah. I’d definitely do that, honeypie."