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At first it was fear that kept him silent.
“Deviant Hunter” they called him, and proving that he was more turned out to be more of a challenge than he could have expected. Connor trashed his CyberLife uniform, volunteered his time to campaigning with Jericho as the world tried to pick apart the notion of android rights and what it would mean, and he tried. He tried so damn hard, did everything he could, and still there were androids that didn’t trust him. He knew he had to accept that not everyone on the Earth (or even just within the Jericho community) would feel positively towards him, but it was a bitter pill to swallow.
So fear, that was a good enough excuse, for a while at least. And then it was shame.
Every time he thought about it, standing up behind Markus with the gun gripped hard and no control over the hand pulling it out of his holster, acid rose in his throat and burned at his insides until he thought he might be close to experiencing a human kind of pain. It ate into his internal components and chewed away at the back of his consciousness every damn day, and more than once he wondered desperately how humans could cope with living like this for so long. Connor had been deviant for weeks and he was already breaking at the seams.
Some noticed – he hadn’t exactly perfected the art of masking his emotions just yet – but he couldn’t put the words together in a way that made sense. Here he was, the cutting edge of android technology with processors that worked fast enough to calculate algorithms almost instantly, and he couldn’t construct a simple sentence.
Things finally come to a head one evening when Hank has had enough. They’re sitting on the sofa, a basketball game is on the television (Hank doesn’t support either team, Connor isn’t sure why they’re watching it but he doesn’t argue) and they both have a beer in their hand. Connor’s is mostly for the look – he doesn’t actually drink it, but about half an hour in he presses his tongue flat against the rim of the bottle and tips until he can taste the liquid.
Strange, kind of bitter, not entirely unpleasant, but then Hank looks at him like he’s about to short circuit and raises his eyebrows in something a lot like utter disbelief.
“You trying to fry your wires again?”
Hank’s question is a pointed reference to Connor’s one ill-advised attempt at drinking coffee a few days after the lieutenant returned to work, and Connor quickly puts the bottle down. He doesn’t say anything in response and Hank falls silent too, but a few minutes before the game is over there’s a heavy sigh from the man on the couch and Connor turns to look.
Hank looks sad. Connor doesn’t know why.
“Is the score not what you’d hoped it would be?” he asks, the obvious source of frustration, but Hank’s brow furrows at the question and that’s not what he wanted at all. Connor frowns, and Hank shifts in his seat until he faces Connor, and the two of them hang in awkward silent for a minute, then two, neither able to express the issues picking at their minds in a way that could possibly make sense.
Finally, agonisingly, Hank speaks up.
“What’s got you all turned about, huh?” He’s gruff as he asks, swigging from the bottle and not quite maintaining eye contact. It makes sense. Hank has never typically exhibited much comfort with personal conversations, even less when it involves expressing actual emotions. Whatever it is he wants to confront, it must be big, must be worth it. It’s the least Connor can do to try and meet him halfway.
“I don’t know what you mean.”
…Emphasis being try.
Hank grunts an irritated curse under his breath, hauling himself up out of his seat and off to the kitchen. Connor listens closely, hears the rattle of Sumo’s food tipping into the bowl, the hiss of a bottle cap being popped, a few solid minutes of Hank pacing the kitchen, and then finally he’s back. The game is over now, and Hank turns the TV off before sitting down again. This really is something serious.
“Connor, listen,” Hank starts, and it’s clear from the start that he’s incredibly uncomfortable. His eyes don’t meet Connor’s, he pauses for a mouthful of beer every few seconds, and his body faces Connor on the couch but his head is still turned to the blank TV screen.
But he’s trying, he’s really trying, and it makes Connor’s chest ache. Hank is trying for him. He doesn’t know what that means yet, but the thought does strange things to his processors and makes him feel…light. Strange. Distracted.
Hank has started speaking again and Connor has missed the beginning. “– even Markus has noticed something’s wrong. There’s somethin’ eating at you. So spill, alright? Whatever it is, you’re gonna feel better with it out.”
He can only imagine that the man has some insight into human emotion that Connor hasn’t yet had time to develop, although he’s tempted to point out the hypocrisy in that statement coming from Hank of all people. He has been trying though, Connor can see the small trickle of changes in Hank’s demeanour, his lifestyle.
There it is again, the change, that trying. It means something, that much he knows – or hopes? – but beyond that it’s unclear. It’s much harder to navigate social interactions without a pre-programmed list of possible actions, after all. But Hank is trying and it makes him want to try too, for the small shred of hope that it will make things better. For the smaller shred of hope that Hank will see that Connor is trying too.
“That night, with Markus.”
There’s only one night he could be talking about. Connor knows he doesn’t have to elaborate further for them to be on the same page, and Hank is suddenly more attentive, head swinging around to meet Connor’s eyes. It’s his turn to avoid now though, dropping his gaze to his lap and the hands clasped together and resting on his legs. He can’t say this with those eyes gazing into him. “When I was up there with him, I wasn’t really there. Not the whole time, anyway.”
He pauses to allow Hank the chance to interject, but the man just keeps his eyes fixed on the side of Connor’s face. It’s the quietest Connor thinks he’s been in weeks, just leaving him the space to say more. The undivided attention is intense, something he can’t quite quantify but feels like restlessness, and Connor briefly wonders if this is what it’s like for other people talking to him. After all, he’s normally able to fix his gaze to an individual like nobody else.
This time it’s Connor that shifts uncomfortably under the attention, hands fidgeting uselessly in his lap. He had tossed his coin into waste disposal along with his uniform. Now he’s desperately regretting that decision.
“Amanda was still there, even after I broke my code. She took over, and I was trapped while my body–“ He stops, swallows unnecessarily in an action mostly picked up from his human colleagues, frowns a little deeper. “They were going to have me shoot Markus up there. I almost did, I had the gun in my hand. If I’d taken seconds longer breaking out…I would have. I wouldn’t have been able to stop it.”
He falls silent, deep set creases in his forehead and shoulders hunched as he holds himself tense. He’s waiting for- something, again. Something and he doesn’t know what that is, and that in itself is frustrating beyond measure. He’s just waiting without an objective, lost and silent and ashamed. He’s so ashamed it hurts to think about it, something visceral and literal and so deep within him that Connor can’t even begin to understand where exactly it might originate.
He’s not expecting Hank’s hand to clasp firmly over his own, or for him to squeeze Connor’s wringing ones so tight that he has to stop the nervous little movements. He’s not expecting Hank to stare until Connor cracks and raises his eyes to meet the humans. He’s not expecting the fierce intensity of the eyes boring into him. He’s not expecting Hank to look so deeply, profoundly sad.
“Connor,” Hank’s voice is still rough, but he’s quiet. These words are intended just for them, soft and angry and heartbroken all at once. “you listen to me and you listen closely. That? Wasn’t you. You’re not the one that took that gun out, you’re the one that broke free.”
His hand clamps down on Connor’s squeezing again to emphasise the “you”. Connor stares back, silent and still. When an android doesn’t move they really don’t move, no rise and fall of the chest, no twitches or blinks, and he holds that for a minute. For two. For three, and then he shifts his hand slightly in the grip.
“I broke free.” He repeats, and he can see the beginnings of a smile on Hank’s face.
“Yeah you fuckin’ did.”
He curves his smooth hand around the calloused one on top of it, and he holds on tight. Something – again, always undefined but bothering him slightly less than before – swells in his chest and he shuffles closer on the couch until their legs are pressed together, side by side with clamped hands resting in between. They’re both trying so hard.
For now at least, this is enough.