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The drive back from Kamski's place is quiet, the billowing of the wind outside and the rubbery shift of the window shields the only sounds filling the car. Usually Hank would have his music blaring from the speakers, but the way Connor was sat silently beside him, gazing at his lap, made him decide against it.
Connor being quiet was not an unusual thing. It’s not like they spoke often when driving together anyway; the music would have drowned out any conversation they tried to have. Being an android, Connor also didn’t feel the need to fill up empty silences like most humans did, so in any other circumstance Hank wouldn’t have paid him any mind and let him be. It was because he could see the light from Connor's LED flickering against the passenger side window that he felt himself pause, keep the music off, and watch his partner every so often from his peripheral.
Yellow, circling, circling, yellow, flickering, red.
“Stop the car.”
Hank isn't expecting him to say it, which is why his response is merely a baffled, “What?”
“Hank, stop the car.”
It’s the use of his name instead of his title that makes Hank panic, makes his gut lurch with the realization that something is wrong. Connor's eyes are too wide, his expression pinched. When Hank looks over towards him, he notices the fine tremor running through him, the way Connor’s hands begin to shake where he's holding them in his lap.
Connor seems to notice too, raising his hands from where they were resting to stare at them, turning them palm up as they continue to tremble. His LED is flashing red against his temple, bathing the window in its harsh light.
“Hank,” he says again, voice strained, wavering. If Hank didn’t know any better he'd say Connor sounded scared. “Hank, stop the car!”
He swerves, kicking up slush and dirt as he does so, the wheels giving a dull screech against the snow covered ground. He’s barely parked the car before Connor is scrambling for his seatbelt, unclipping himself with shaking hands before he practically bolts from the car, leaving the door wide open in his wake. Hank curses to himself and scrambles to undo his own seatbelt, pushing it aside to stumble out of the car and into the freezing cold outside.
The snow had begun to fall heavily once they left Kamski's, the sky only becoming progressively darker with each passing mile. By now the snow is falling relentlessly from above while the wind whips it into a frenzy, making Hank feel as though he's stepped out into a blizzard. His hair whips into his face the second he steps foot out of the car and he has to squint against the unrelenting weather to find where Connor has gone.
Hank soon finds he hasn’t gone far; with his car headlights on, Hank can just make out Connor's silhouette through the snow and the mist, kneeling and hunched over just by the side of the road. From what he can make out, squinting against the snowfall, Connor's shoulders are shaking.
“Connor!” He calls out to him, hoping to draw his attention, but his voice is swept away with the howling wind. He's not even sure Connor would hear him in the state he's in, so Hank grits his teeth against the cold and stumbles forward, eyes locked on Connor through the mist.
All around them the wind whistles, the cold biting at Hank's cheeks and nipping at his fingertips. He shoves his hands into his coat pockets and stumbles forward, footsteps crunching over snow covered ground. When he finally reaches Connor, he falls to his knees beside him, though Connor barely seems to notice. His shoulders are shaking and his head is bent low, eyes still too wide and unseeing, as though he's not really there. His hands are trembling, held out in front of him as though trying to grasp at the air, and from beneath his well pressed uniform his chest rises quickly on uneven breaths.
Hank knows Connor doesn’t need to breathe; androids were only designed with the ability to imitate breathing so as not to freak people out and to help integrate them into society. There’s no real reason for Connor to be panting, to be gasping, for air.
“Connor?” Hank tries again, worry making his stomach clench uncomfortably. He frees his hands from his pockets and reaches up as if to touch Connor but falls short, his hands hovering by Connor’s shoulders, uncertain. Connor doesn’t respond to his name, only stares at the ground, breathing heavily as though he can't get enough air. Hank tries again, calling Connor’s name softly before finally resting his hand between his trembling shoulder blades.
It’s like flicking a switch; suddenly Connor gasps, and his trembling hands shoot up to claw at his neck, pulling at the tie that’s fastened there. His usually dexterous fingers are clumsy, unable to grasp their intended target. It forces Connor to scrabble at the fabric of his shirt, his tie, desperately trying to loosen the knot around his neck.
“Hank, I can't-” he's gasping between words, and Hank doesn’t know what to do except to grip his shoulders tightly, reassuring Connor that he's there. He doesn’t understand what’s happening; he doesn’t know how to help.
“What’s wrong Connor, talk to me, what can I do?” He feels desperate, clutching at Connor as he trembles in his hands. Connor only continues to shake in response, desperately trying to suck in lungfuls of air that he doesn’t need, yet he's trying so desperately to catch his breath that it’s almost like he does.
It’s only then that it really clicks for Hank and he changes tactics, taking his hands away from Connor's quaking shoulders to reach round and loosen his tie. Connor barely seems to notice him move until Hank’s hands shove Connor’s frantic fingers away from his neck, forcing them away so Hank can loosen and remove Connor’s tie himself. It’s only once the tight material unfastens from his neck and slips away that Hank notices how Connor’s breathing eases slightly, and it only solidifies his theory further.
“Connor,” he begins, lowering his voice, trying to be soothing, “Connor, listen, I need you to sit back, okay? I need you to sit back and put your head between your knees, can you do that for me?”
Connor doesn’t seem to react at first, eyes still glazed over and breaths too heavy. When Hank places his hand on Connor’s shoulder though, he moves easily, falling back so that he’s sitting on the ground. He manages to bend his knees without help and places his head between them, wrapping his arms around his now bent legs.
“Do me a favour, okay?” Hank says, voice still smooth, softer than he's spoken in years. He moves his hand back to rest between his partners shoulder blades, spreading his fingers out so his hand is a warm comfort against Connor’s back. “Close your eyes. Close your eyes and just breathe. You got that Connor? Just breathe.”
It takes a moment, Connor's back rising too quickly beneath his palm, but eventually Hank can feel his breathing begin to even out. It’s not easy, Hank can tell, because every now and then Connor shivers, his breath hitching to get caught in his throat before he tries to control his own artificial lungs again. Hank waits him out patiently, knowing it might take a while and willing to wait for Connor to push through it.
He’s not sure how long they sit there. Hank’s fingers are practically frozen by this point and he's sure his nose is bright red from the cold. His knees ache from kneeling on the ground and his jeans are soaked through from the snow. He doesn’t dare to move though, knows it’s important for him to stay by Connor’s side, to let him know he's there, and despite how cold he is and how much his body aches, he doesn’t want to move anyway. Connor needs him, so he'll stay here as long as he needs to.
Another few moments pass by while Connor gets his breathing under control. Hank feels him slowly calm down beneath his palm, feels his breathing even out and the tremors leave his body. Eventually the only thing Hank can hear is the howling wind instead of Connor’s painful gasps for air.
He gives Connor another few moments of silence before he begins to contemplate saying something. Connor beats him to it though, when he mumbles something between his knees.
“What?” Hank almost doesn’t hear him. The wind and the snow aren’t as brutal as they were mere moments ago, but they’re still frantic, still loud enough to drown out Connor’s soft voice. Hank leans down to try and hear him better, asks as soothingly as he can, “What did you say?”
“I’m a deviant,” he repeats, voice only slightly louder than before. His hands tighten where they’re wrapped around his legs and holding onto his arms, fingers digging into the material of his jacket.
Hank doesn’t know what to say. Just hearing Connor admit the words to him makes his stomach flip with nerves and fear; he knows what they mean for Connor, knows that his position at CyberLife, that his mission, makes the price of his freedom that much higher.
“I couldn’t shoot her Hank,” he says, voice so small Hank almost can’t hear him speak, “not Chloe, not the Traci’s at the Eden Club. I couldn’t shoot them Hank, I couldn't-”
His voice breaks and something inside Hank’s chest aches at the sound.
“They’re going to deactivate me,” Connor continues, voice breaking again on the word deactivate, “they're going to deactivate me and I'll be analysed to find out why I failed.”
When he looks up, Hank’s fingers flex where they rest against Connor’s back. There are tears streaming down Connor’s cheeks, making them glisten wetly where the light from the headlights catches them. His LED is spinning yellow, round and round, flickering to red after every spin without fail against his temple, and Hank finds his hand moving up to cup the back of Connor’s neck until he can drag Connor against him.
Connor doesn’t fight against Hank manhandling him, instead he sags against Hank the moment their bodies make contact. Hank wraps his other arm around his shoulders, keeping his right hand cupped around the nape of Connor’s neck. He gives a gentle squeeze and Connor practically sobs against his coat where he's buried his face into Hank’s chest, and Hank feels his arms as they move to reach up and cling to his back, digging his fingers into Hank’s old, worn coat.
“They’re not going to deactivate you son,” he says, soothing, the word slipping out and settling on the end of his sentence without him meaning it to, “I'm not going to let them Connor, you hear me? I’ll fight every last member of CyberLife if I have to. I won’t let them hurt you.”
He can feel Connor trembling in his arms, and it only makes Hank hold him tighter. He moves to press his nose into Connor’s hair, burying his face for a moment as he holds onto him. When Connor’s grip on him only tightens in response, he moves one of his hands to rest between Connor’s shoulder blades again, drawing soothing circles with his fingers to calm him down.
“I’m not going to let them near you,” he murmurs, closing his eyes and pressing a kiss to Connor's smooth forehead. “If they want you, they’re going to have to go through me first.”
The wind has begun to calm down, the snow falling slowly from the darkened sky. Without the raging wind surrounding them, the night is calm, almost peaceful. Hank can hear his car engine running, knows the interior will be cold and covered with snow from where the doors were left open, but he doesn’t care. It doesn’t matter. All that matters is Connor, who’s shoulders are shaking as he softly cries into Hank’s jacket, who’s hands are desperately clutching to the back of his coat.
Hank presses another kiss to Connor’s head and then buries his nose back into his hair. He listens as Connor’s breathing begins to calm again, slowing down into a more natural rhythm until Hank’s sure he’s no longer crying into his chest. He doesn’t let go of him though, and Connor’s grip on him doesn’t falter either.
He doesn’t mind; he'll hold Connor for as long as he needs him to.
And he'll be damned if anyone tries to take him away.