He's tempted to dig into this entire idea and pick it apart, too, the way he's done with other conversations, other people--not literally--but he doubts it will come to an end he wants.

What he wants is a question he's not sure he has any desire to try to answer here. Not permanently, not past the current moment. He wants Amos, in all the ways he's already known he did. More pertinently, the thought of coming under Amos' mouth, legs shaking or otherwise, is one he has to make himself move beyond, or he'll simply stand there, somehow managing to gape at him without opening his mouth.

And after--he knows Amos. If there's awkwardness, Gideon doubts it'll stand up before Amos' dogged refusal to allow it. The man regards sex with the same romance he finds in a broken circuit.

With a sigh, he acquiesces, knowing that if he regrets it, it'll be his regret alone. Setting his hand terminal aside, he couches down before Amos where he sits and leans in to kiss him.