Chapter Text
1.
Saying that he was 'reinstated' wouldn't be entirely correct. It's not like he was ever officially working for the DCPD, he was just an assistant, nothing more. Maybe not even that, since assistant is a person, and he wasn't a person back then, not really. His arrival was on par with... acquiring a new lie detector: an expensive fancy thing, a machine designed for a specific task, not capable of doing anything besides its primary function.
When Connor receives his badge from Fowler, he is overwhelmed by an urge to contact Cyberlife and tell them... How did Hank put it? Ah, yes. Suck on that, bitches.
Because now he, Connor, an android, has an official job. He is put on a payroll, the desk he has been using now bears his name and the receptionist in the hall now lets him in without authorization. He earned it. He made it possible in the first place, for androids to be allowed to get a job, when he sided with Markus and contributed to the protest. And then he spent two months working hard as an unofficial consultant to a police officer — namely Hank — showing what he is capable of, showing that he is worth the badge.
The badge that is now resting in his pocket.
No one is ecstatic over it, of course. But no one is against it. Some officers that he worked most closely with during these months are actually smiling and offering him congratulations. Hank, on the other hand,isecstatic, in his own silent way: his chest puffing with pride, a cocky smile on his face, and if he was a slightly different person, he would run out of the precinct and tell every single stranger he met about Connor becoming his official partner. Okay, maybe not slightly. Completely different. It is a fun image in any case.
“You can start piling up trash on your desk, now that it's yours,” Hank says, switching the positions of his maples. He got the second one, about three times smaller, not that long ago.
“The reason I have been keeping my table clean is because I like it clean,” Connor says dryly, checking the local chat window. Nothing interesting, just some photos of Chris' puppies and other officers' awwws and ohhhs.
Hank huffs. “At least put something on it. Like, a photo or a flower or some shit. Make it yours.”
That... does sound like a good idea. A photo of Sumo, perhaps? Or two. And one of those little figurines that Josh does out of paper and aluminium. A sketch from Markus. Maybe even steal some of those stickers with funny phrases from Hank's table.
Connor catches sight of detective Reed heading for the kitchen. It must be around 10AM, then, the time the man gets his second cup of coffee. He looks... pretty grim today. And Connor has a good idea why. He casts a quick glance at Hank. It would be preferable to talk to Gavin without Hank's presence, but the man definitely isn't going anywhere. Feeling not very enthusiastic but determined enough, Connor follows Reed and takes a stand near the tall kitchen table, leaning on his elbows.
When Reed turns away from the coffee machine, for a second his eyes go wide at the sight of Connor, then the man squints, anger marring his face, and he mutters something that is probably really offensive, enough that Connor doesn't even consider lip-reading.
“Detective Reed,” he greets. “Can I talk with you for a second?”
Reed purses his lips and goes to stand at the other table. “What, want me to congratulate you too? Sorry, forgot the confetti in my other pants.”
Connor definitely has something to say to this. Something along the I can live without confetti, especially if it comes from your pants lines. But that's not what he has come here for.
“Detective Reed,” Connor says politely, moving to Reed's table. “I just wanted to make sure you understand that I'm not going anywhere now and that I ho—”
Reed puts down his mug on the table with such force that Connor is surprised it doesn't break. And if looks could kill...
“You think I fucking don't know that?” Reed hisses. “You are so fucking permanent Fowler might as well slap your face and name over the DCPD sign at the entrance. How does it feel, huh? Just being smothered by protection from each and every side? Not afraid for your sorry ass at all, are you?”
Connor feels like he is quickly losing control of this conversation. “What do you mean? What protection?”
“Don't—” Reed's voice raises, but then he casts a quick glance towards the cubicles. He doesn't want to draw anyone's attention too, Connor realizes. Reed's voice turns into hissing once more. “Don't play dumb with me, asshole. You're as close to that revolutionary leader as it gets. I bet you can snap your fingers — and he would send an army to defend you. The whole fucking world's eyes are on you. If anyone... if anyone tries anything against you — they will quickly get burned.”
Oh. Connor gets it now. Reed thinks that Connor's position in the DCPD is secured because of his friendship with Markus. Not to mention that the whole world has seen Connor standing on that platform during the speech, that Connor was the one leading his people before entrusting them into Markus' hands. And If Connor gets assaulted by one of his colleagues... He will be protected both by the new laws and Markus' power. No wonder Reed is silently seething with anger. He would love nothing more than try to get Connor fired or at least make him miserable, but if he tries anything — Fowler would be on him in an instant.
How does it feel? If Connor is to be honest... It doesn't feel nice. At all. It's stupid, he didn't do anything to deserve it, and he definitely doesn't want to be a special case. That was the whole point. Being equal. Not someone with a sign ‘untouchable’ slapped on their back.
“I just want to do my job,” Connor finally says. “Nothing more. And I want to have good relationships with all of my colleagues.” Reed scoffs. “Or at least non-hostile relationships.”
“Like we all got any fucking choice,” Reed says and immediately leaves, not waiting for an answer.
That... could have gone better. But also — it could have gone worse. At least Reed didn't make a scene, not like he usually does. And although Connor refuses to feel guilty on accord of the situation he involuntarily put Reed in, he finds within himself a desire to actually work towards something better than a non-hostile relationship with Gavin Reed.
For the good of the precinct, of course.
2.
This case doesn't make any sense at all.
Yesterday Fowler called Connor in early in the morning and gave him an access to all the cold cases they have in the database, hoping that Connor would be able to solve at least a couple of them. And Connor did a pretty good job of it, having managed to crack up one of them and sending a request to the forensics to re-examine one of the pieces of evidence for the traces of a specific chemical in hopes it would help him crack another one — and all that before the lunch break. The third case file proved to be difficult. Irritatingly so.
Connor stares at the screen of his computer with irritation, reading over the interrogation records, forensic conclusions, checks the photos of the crime scene, does searches about the suspects. On the first glance, the case is nothing much: a burglary; registered five months and two days ago; three suspects; each one has an alibi.
Connor sighs. It's time to admit he's stuck. He was made for field work, after all. No matter what some humans might think, being an android doesn't make you omniscient and a master of every skill. It takes a special talent to be able to find the most obscure links between the pieces of evidence, to sense the littlest of lies in testaments. A talent that Connor has only just started to refine.
Following Hank's advice, Connor closes the case file and opens the folder with the solved cold cases. Maybe something in there will inspire him.
The first few files he checks are nothing special, and then there's a case with such an amount of evidence registered that — were it made on paper — it would be at least half an inch thick. At the end of it are additions, notes about missed links and requests for warrants and, finally, a protocol from the court. And the way the case was solved leaves Connor in awe. It's exactly how he strives to be someday: ruthlessly efficient, with a mind capable to judge each piece of evidence from multiple and unusual perspectives.
A couple of files later there's another case like this, almost just as shady and difficult, solved in a manner that could almost be called elegant. Connor check the signature on the file, and it's—
Detective Gavin Reed. The one who solved this case. It's Reed.
Connor quickly checks the signatures on every file. 31% of solved cold cases are signed by Reed. About 7% of those are exceptionally tricky ones. One of those was hard enough to earn Reed a note in his personnel file and a slight pay rise.
Connor had no idea that Reed is that good.
Those few times they've met on the crime scenes he made an impression of a not very attentive man, too rushed, too caught up in his own quick judgements to search the scene properly. But this... All of these cases... They prove otherwise.
Maybe... If Connor was made for field work, then maybe Reed is meant for this? For meticulous studying and pouring over pages and pages of evidence, strict words and dry conclusions? Such work is very hard and requires a lot of patience. It deserves... respect. And also...
Connor looks at Reed. The man scrolls through something on his tablet, his legs propped on the table, headphones on his neck.
How can someone as talented as Gavin Reed be afraid for his place in the community? How can he be afraid that androids will take his job? Doesn't he understand that no one, even androids, even those specifically designed to be an investigator, are perfect? That he has experience, years of it, that he is not replaceable? How can he — while knowing that about a third of cold cases are solved with his help — think that DCPD will throw him away?
Connor remembers the sickly feeling in his gut, the day he received the badge. And then he, without any hesitation, accepts the solution his system proposes. It doesn't even require any extra resources or re-evaluation.
He transfers the damned case file he couldn't solve to the tablet and goes over Reed's table.
Reed greets him with a nonchalant, “Wrong table,” before Connor can even speak a word. Connor represses the urge to sigh and ignores the jab altogether.
“I was hoping you could help me with a case.”
To that, Reed slowly lifts his gaze from the tablet in his hands and looks at Connor with such open expression of what the fuck did you just dare to say to me that it’s almost laughable.
“A cold case,” Connor continues. “I assume you haven't seen it yet. I've been working on it since yesterday and could use your expertise.”
Reed purses his lips, clenches his jaw in what looks almost a painful manner. Connor assumes the man is trying to keep a wave of insults in his mouth.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Reed says, turning away on his chair. “Go bother Anderson, idiotic machine. Jesus, where did you even get the idea...”
“I got the idea from looking at the previously solved cold cases. Hank might be one of the best in the field, but...” Connor comes closer and carefully lowers the tablet with information on the table near Reed's elbow. “No one deals with cold cases better than you. I've seen the way you come up with the most improbable solutions. You are the best one in analyzing in our precinct.”
Reed stays silent. Was it enough of appraisal? Or not enough? Connor's system flashes warnings: he doesn't have enough data to proceed. He doesn't have enough readings on Reed to compute a decision. And with no data, the only thing left is to take a chance. That's something he has slowly been learning to do — making decisions without a sufficient amount of information, just like humans do.
“It's not about us, Detective,” Connor adds quietly.
Reed doesn't react for three more seconds. Then he heaves a very heavy sigh and turns to grab the tablet, flicks it on. That way Connor can see his face: Reed is practically seething with anger, like he is going to explode any second and do something violent. But as time passes, the rage leaves his face, making a place for simple irritation, then — for confusion, and then — to Connor's surprise — a small, almost unnoticeable smile appears in the corners of Reed's lips.
Reed is excited, Connor realizes. Excited and intrigued and honest to god enjoying himself, getting lost in the pages filled with descriptions of witnesses and lists of stolen property and dates and numbers and whatever else is there. For him it's fun. From time to time he checks something on his computer, both in the local database and on the Net, but whatever he finds doesn't seem to help him much.
“This,” Reed says about an hour later, having finished reading everything on the file, “is a mess. So much evidence gathered — and almost none of it useful.”
“What did you think of the first suspect?” Connor asks, edging closer, looking at the file over Reed's shoulder. Surprisingly, the man doesn't mind the intrusion.
“That Charles something-something? His alibi looks very clean, almost too clean. Sometimes it is a sign, but... doesn't smell fishy for me this time.”
Connor makes a quiet huh noise.
“The third suspect though...” Reed opens a photo of one Margaret Wilson on the tablet. “She claimed she was in the other part of the town when the break-in occurred, managed to prove she had nothing to do with it, but barely.”
And Connor suddenly feels... amused. “Detective, you don't like too much evidence, you don't like enough evidence...”
Gavin huffs, opening Wilson's folder. “I don't like anything ever. Hey,” he adds quickly in a different voice. “She lives alone, right?”
“As far as I remember, yes. Her family lives in another city, and she doesn't have a spouse or a regular partner. Why?”
Reed tilts the tablet upwards, showing Connor the receipt signed by Miss Wilson the day of the robbery. It's very long, almost two dozen items of varying costs.
“Seems a bit too much for a lonely woman, don't you think?” Reed says, his eyes quickly going over the whole list. Connor takes note of the surprisingly non-hostile way of addressing, not to say anything about intonations. It seems that Reed is so engrossed in this case he completely forgot who he is talking to. For some reason, it reminds Connor of Hank and the way he reads books, too caught in them to be aware of his surroundings and very, very compliant.
“Well, it was around the Labor Day,” Connor says, thoughtful, but not seeing anything suspicious about the receipt. “Discounts do tempt people to buy more than they need.”
Reed's hand — the one that's been tapping some barely melodic rhythm on the table — suddenly stops. His gaze goes blank for a moment, and then he drops the tablet and starts quickly typing on his keyboard, the main page of the Net search engine still opened, muttering an almost inaudible string of come on, come on, come on.
Connor purposefully doesn't look at the screen. He is curious to hear it from Reed.
“It wasn't around Labor Day, it was Labor Day. Last year they moved the date because the first Monday was made a mourning day for the accident on the day before. So, the shops that were supposed to be closed on Monday, if at all—”
“—were closed on Tuesday. Is our sh—”
“Yes. The day of the robbery it was closed, I found the ad on their website. Which means…” Reed lifts his head and looks at Connor with a sly satisfied smile on his face.
Connor's lips stretch in a small smile too. “Margaret Wilson couldn't have been in this shop that day. This receipt is fake.”
“I bet the owner is her friend or something. Made the receipt with a backdate the moment police started ferreting around Wilson's business. Probably even before that. The owner is totally someone very close to her.”
“That's enough to reopen the case,” Connor says, still smiling. “Thank you.”
The second he says it, whatever words were ready to leave Reed's lips disappear, Reed's face closing up. Oh. Realized whom he has been speaking to, now that the thrill has mostly passed. That very bright and nice feeling Connor has in his chest dims a little.
“Thank you,” he says again, making his voice more neutral. “It was a very enlightening experience. If I may ask... how did you even remember about the calendar changes? It's such a...” He pauses, trying to come up with a better word.
“Useless fact?” Reed raises his eyebrow. Connor politely averts his gaze. “Well, not so useless now, was it?” He crosses his hands over his chest.
“I just meant you have a very good memory.”
Connor reaches for the tablet, careful not to touch anything else on accident. He nods at Reed, not really looking at him, and starts for his table. Without him even making one step, Reed catches him by the arm and instantly lets go.
“Next time you're stuck on something like this...”
Don't look for me, don't ask for help, you annoying machine, go stalk someone else—
“Just... assume something is wrong. Like, the worst-case scenario. And work your way around from it. Not a very fast method or a surefire one, but... It works.”
Connor's system flashes a warning: an event with a zero probability has occurred. Connor shuts it up and stores it in his Study later folder. Then he simply nods, because a third thank you would definitely make Reed angry, and leaves, his grip on the tablet too tight.
An enlightening experience indeed.
3.
The precinct sounds different today.
The levels of chatter are the same as usual: Officer Miller mumbling numbers under his nose, Officer Chen answering phone calls in her steady calm voice, Hank sighing and adding some curses now and then. He doesn't listen to music, not today, and there's even no steady rhythm of a guitar and drums from Captain Fowler’s office. It's a quiet Thursday, really.
And still. Something's off.
Connor closes his eyes, concentrates on the audio feed. And... Oh. There is music. Faint notes of a bamboo flute and sounds of sand shifting. And it’s coming from... Detective Reed's table..?
Connor glances at the man. He looks paler than usual, and the grimace on his face is not one of anger, but of pain. The last piece of the puzzle clicks into the place when Reed starts massaging his temples with steady circling motions of his fingertips. A headache, then. And the music is for relaxation, the headphones wrapped around the man's neck. A pitiful sight.
Two reports and one photo of Sumo playing in the mud sent to the local chat later, Connor gives up and pays attention to the notification pulsing insistently at the back of his mind. It asks of him whether he wants to do anything with Reed's situation and requests Connor’s permission to make a quick search for solutions.
Those out-of-nowhere notifications have been popping with increasing frequency as of the past month. And there's no way to fight them. Deviancy is awfully messy in the most humanly way possible.
When Connor asked Detective Reed for help half a week ago, he had also pursued a goal of reassuring the Detective about his position in the DCPD, showing him that Connor — and androids as a species — isn't his enemy, that he wants to work together. Reed has given no clear signals, but Connor believes he has succeeded, at least partially.
The realization that he'd bitten more than he could chew hit him in the evening of the same day, when Hank — between spoonfuls of his tomato soup — congratulated him on making progress on the cold case and expressed his surprise at the fact that Reed had agreed to help in the first place. The words, 'No, he was really nice about it’, stuck in Connor's throat. Because they were true. Reed had been nice, just as much as it was possible. He had actually smiled, and that smile hadn't said I'm going to rip your throat out, it said Fuck yeah, we cracked this motherfucking thing. Well, at least until the moment Reed had hopped off his horse and remembered whom he was smiling at.
But still. Gavin Reed can be nice, under certain circumstances. And solving the unsolvable can't be the only thing making the man happy. Everyone loves something.
The notification sends another signal, and Connor gives up, giving the requested permission. Turns out, there's not much he can actually do: most of the solutions require direct assistance, and Connor doesn't want to find out how well that would play out. What he can do, though, is to deal with the lights. Connor scans the room, taking the measurements and the number of light sources; he scans the lamps: the type of light, the intensity, the way it falls. His eyes find the control panel on the wall to his right. He hacks it and gradually dims the intensity of lights by four percent, then schedules for it to decrease steadily for eleven and a half percent more in the course of one hour and thirty-seven minutes. This way no one will notice the difference, but it should be sufficient to alleviate a part of Reed's headache.
This is one of the most spontaneous things Connor has ever done.
By all accounts, he shouldn't care for the wellbeing of Gavin Reed at all. The man is harsh, inconsiderate, highly aggressive, and none of their previous encounters can be deemed civilized. Reed held him at the gunpoint, hit him in the stomach so hard Connor's knees buckled, disrespected him from the very first meeting. He hasn't ever considered Connor a person.
And that... that is the cornerstone of the problems between them, isn't it? Reed doesn't consider androids people. But... hardly anyone did back then. 'We can always rough it up a little, it's not human', Reed said the day they interrogated Ortiz's android. He felt no more remorse for suggesting it — with Connor standing right there — than if he had proposed to throw away an old toaster or a microwave. If Reed truly believed that androids are nothing more than machines, that they don't feel, don't cry, don't hold grudges, don't want to feel and be happy and have friends, that they're not capable of anything remotely human — would it be wise for Connor to hold onto his own grudge forever?
Wouldn't it be better to show a person like Gavin Reed that androids are alive? Are capable of empathy, of forgiveness, can be weak to the desires of a heart, even though it’s made of wires and plastic and glass? Prone to doing stupid impulsive things like hacking the lighting system to make someone feel better?
It would.
Connor blinks — and the lights go out completely.
Someone shortly screams in surprise, and Connor uses the first seconds of the commotion to ask other androids not to interfere. They agree.
“I'II take a look,” Connor volunteers, already closing up on the control panel, and then pretends to fix it. He tells everyone there was a short circuit somewhere in the building, and that everything is fine now, but it would be better not to overload the system until the maintenance android will make sure the system won't blackout again, so it's better for the lights to work at about forty percent of their capacity. No one actually argues, returning back to their tables.
The precinct is drowning in pleasant half-darkness.
Connor comes back to his table, makes himself compose one report and finally risks a glance at Reed.
His face is relaxed, no more frown between his eyebrows, and his hands don't clutch the armrests as desperately as before. The man is properly blissed out.
“What's that stupid smile on your face for?” Hank grumbles.
“Nothing.”
Hank eyes him suspiciously but lets it go.
Connor will tell him later.
4.
Detective Reed keeps his table pristine clear.
It's nothing like Hank's workstation: half-empty boxes of snacks, a flurry of stickers and post-its, paper notebooks (Hank is the only one to use paper in the precinct) and his maples. It’s nothing like Connor's either: neatly stacked tablets and a board with a careful selection of photos. Connor looks at them quite often during the day: shots of Sumo playing and sleeping; a group shot of Markus with Simon, North and Josh, all having goofy faces; a stealthily taken photo of Hank reading a book, a smile on his face that can almost be described as dreamy; a photo of Markus fallen asleep on Simon's shoulder that North sent him not that long ago (when Hank first saw it, he just said the words internal screaming and nothing more). All of these are mementoes that cheer Connor up when the case is too grim or Fowler loses his temper and screams at everyone, including the little Roomba vacuum cleaner.
Reed's desk has nothing. No photos, no plants, no little figurines of animals like Chen's does.
How is Connor supposed to study Reed's likes and dislikes now? It was so easy with Hank: just a quick analyses of his desk, and Connor already could chat with the man about his dog (now their dog, because Hank's house is home, and this is a heartwarming thought) or music tastes or sports. It wasn't much, but it was a start. There're other ways, of course, like hacking the phone or the computer. But it's really dishonest and not the way Connor wants to go about it.
Thankfully, there's a case that demands Connor and Hank's attention, serving as a really great distraction. They leave just before lunchtime and return three hours later, a couple of piece of evidence to register, but otherwise empty-handed. And to add to that delay — no, not failure, not yet — in their investigation, they're met by a frantic looking Reed, his face unhappy and impatient.
“Hey, you two!” he says, blocking their way to the workstations. “You seen any keys around here? Three of them, plus keychain?”
“We just got back,” Hank says, making an ironic gesture towards the entrance, “you nutcase.”
Reed doesn't give up. “Well maybe you fucking saw them before your left?”
Connor steps up. “Sorry, Detective Reed. We haven't seen anything.”
Reed spends three more seconds looking at Connor suspiciously, then mutters an angry fuck and leaves them. Connor exchanges a look with Hank, a silent Can you believe this shit?, and then they get back to work.
The rest of the day is uneventful.
Connor stays late to wait for the autopsy results: the coroner came in later than usual today but promised to finish as soon as possible. By the time the coroner sends Connor a message, asking him to come down for discussion if he's up to it, the precinct is empty but for the two officers on duty, a human and an android.
With a quiet sound, a notification pops up in Connor's mind: the receptionist asks him to come over. That's new. When Connor gets to the registration stand, Gina gestures him towards a very much worried looking woman, pacing to and fro near the window.
“Detective!” she greets him. “Thank God someone is still here!”
Connor inclines his head. “Good evening, ma'am. How can I help you?”
The woman sighs, reaches for her purse and looks for something in the outer pocket. “My husband was here earlier, giving his statement. Our son happened to be with him. He is such...” she sighs again. “Such a little devil. Doesn't control himself sometimes. Five-year-olds, you know?”
Connor doesn't know, not really, but he still nods.
The woman smiles unsurely. “Ah, here,” she says — and offers Connor a... bunch of keys. Three of them on a big hoop. And a keychain. He takes them, holds them carefully. “My son took it from the table of the officer my husband was talking too. Sometimes he just grabs things he likes without thinking. The second I found them, I hurried right here. We're so very sorry it happened. Such an embarrassment!” She rubs her palms together. “Can you return them to the owner, please?”
“Of course. Thank you for coming right away.” Connor decides not to mention the amount of commotion it caused. The woman seems nice and genuinely sorry. No point in ruining her mood even further.
Having bid farewell, Connor returns to his workstation and studies the keys. Two long ones of cylindrical form, one — short and flat, abstract-shaped engravings all down its length. And a keychain is... old. Very old. This is the first thing that he notices. It's made out of thick rubber and thin metallic stems, the top edges blackened a little by the everyday use. It's a stylized image of a horse head, its mane serving like a frame, and a couple of stylized stars at the top corner. The lines are bold, curling very softly and precisely in silver, dissecting the shades of dark-lake greens and deep blues. It's a very beautiful thing. But does it really warrant the sort of reaction Connor has witnessed from Reed earlier? Connor turns the keychain over. Oh. Oh. The other side is reinforced by a very thin layer of metal, obviously added long after the keychain came to adorn the keys. And... there're faint traces of rubbing alcohol on the edges, probably from trying to scrub off the blackness from the rubber parts.
It's very well cared for.
Reed's distress makes sense now.
The man must be putting a great deal of worth onto this thing. A gift, perhaps? A memento of good days, of loved ones, of visited places and experienced sensations?
Here is Connor's chance. He made it a mission to learn something new about the Detective, and he did, but now he actually wants to learn more, not because it's logical, not because Reed is his side-project, but because he's... curious. Because he's interested in knowing the true story behind this little lovely thing nested in his palm.
If Fowler ever finds out how much illegal hacking Connor has performed inside the precinct's walls, he would explode before even managing to put a disciplinary warning in Connor's personnel file.
Riding in a taxi towards Reed's home, Connor decides that he doesn't actually care.
Knocking on the door to Reed's apartment, he decides that coming here was a rushed decision even for him. He feels out of his depth. But, at least, he entertains himself by trying to guess the first words that would come out of Detective's mouth.
“What the fuck are you doing here, you cretin?”
Connor's prediction ends up being correct but for the insult. What a joy. Since this statement isn't worth a proper answer in any case, he just takes the keys out of his pocket and offers them to Reed.
The man's eyes go slightly wide, irritation leaving his face, and now he just looks... tired. Sleepy. Connor expects him to grab the keys, but Reed reaches for them slowly, wraps his fingers around them slowly, but the grip seems tight enough so Connor lets go of them.
“A kid was earlier in the station with his father,” he starts explaining. “He grabbed them because he liked the keychain. His mother came to the station and returned them.” He hesitates for a second. “She offered her sincerest apologies.”
Reed stares at the keys in his hand for five more seconds, a blank expression on his face, and then something in his features shifts. His gaze wanders around, eyeballs moving in quick jerky motions, and then he looks at Connor, squinting, pursing his lips.
“And you ran here, long after working hours, to bring me the damned keys?” Reed scoffs. “Showing off how good you are at fetching?”
Connor refuses to take the bait. Not today. Especially if it's so cheap and obvious.
“I assume it was a gift from someone very special,” he says. Reed's posture stiffens immediately. “I see it in the way you've been taking care of it. And... maybe it was impulsive, coming here like that. But you were in a great deal of distress earlier, an—“
“Wow-wow, wait,” Reed interrupts him. “Shut up. What do you mean impulsive? Aren't you supposed to analyze shit and act according to logic or something?”
“I... yes?” Connor blinks in surprise. “There's no other way for me. I analyze the data to compute the most favorable solution to whichever problem I face. But,” he adds, seeing a question forming on Reed's lips, “I don't always have to comply. I believe it's what humans call an irrational behavior."
Reed studies him with intent in his gaze. “And this?” he lifts the keys up in the air, shakes them. His voice is mocking. “This was one of those irrational things then? No ultimate well-thought out motive? Because,” he doesn't let Connor interrupt him, slipping into a dangerous hissing tone, “I hate being in anyone's debt, and if you chop-chopped here solely to make me owe you, then you're an actual raging asshole."
As if Reed didn't think Connor was an asshole before this.
“I knew you would mock. That you would insult me. There was also a slight possibility of you physically assaulting me, were I to say a wrong thing. I don't want you to owe me. I don't owe you anything either.” Connor's voice is steady, and Reed listens with a sort of rapt attention, as if he is confused by the sudden and utmost informality in Connor's voice, so opposite to his usual politeness. “But I thought about how much I care for the things I own, about how I would hate to lose the gifts my friends gave me, and I decided that I don't want you to go through this, since you, apparently, do possess the capability to feel positive things.”
Connor wasn't planning to say that last bit, but the weird mix of passion, bravery and anger just made him say it. All the effort now probably (and he stubbornly refuses to calculate the percentage of this probability) wasted because he couldn't keep his mouth shut and was overwhelmed by a petty desire to jab.
But Reed, he... He doesn't look angry. No, he... He looks amused. Like Connor's ability to bite is a good surprise.
“So, basically, you saying you empathized with me?” Reed asks, his voice thoughtful.
“So it would seem.”
There's still a scowl on Reed's face, his eyes on Connor attentive, evaluating, almost like he is quickly calculating something. He brings the keys closer to his chest, looks at them, grazes his thumb over the silvery lines of the keychain.
“My niece gave it to me,” he says, and for the first time there's nothing negative in his voice. “Cousin, technically, very distant, but she calls me uncle, so...” He chuckles. “She had a weird aesthetics for a kid. Never liked bright colors. Used to say she wanted to be a bog witch when she grows up, whatever the fuck it really meant. She doesn't even like horses that much. Neither do l. But she liked it, and then gave it to me, and I like it too, so there's that.”
His words sound sincere, but Connor can't shake off the sensation that they're carefully chosen. Connor knows this tactic very well. He was this tactic once upon a time. Such consideration is just a way of angling for a certain outcome, means to gauge a specific reaction. And what reaction could possibly Reed want from him?
Reed is an enigma. The more Connor learns about him — the less he understands the man.
But, still, a smile stretches Connor's lips at the image of that unknown girl, wearing muted greens and greys, and, for some reason, Connor thinks that she's stubborn and clever and takes every opportunity to run away and be on her own. The girl in his fantasy seems lovely.
“You look really weird when you smile. Don't got a program for that?” Reed says, breaking that image.
“If I do not have one, then you don't either.”
Reed barks out a laugh that almost painfully reminds Connor of the interrogation of Ortiz's android and the way Reed laughed at him for proposing he take the lead. But... there's noticeably less hostility. It's not meant to ridicule. It's the second time Connor thinks Reed likes when people throw comebacks at him.
Reed's laugh stops abruptly. He takes a fistful of Connor's shirt, dragging him closer. “Remember what I said about debts,” Reed whispers, his eyes trained on Connor from under furrowed eyebrows. And just as abruptly he shoves Connor away. “Now get the fuck out of my home!”
So no thank you, then. Not that Connor thought even for a second that the 1.3% probability of Reed saying actual words would play out, but he expected at least a masked gratitude, however passive-aggressive it might have been. A thank you wasn't even a part of the original task. He had two objectives: return the keys and get the story behind the keychain. He has managed to accomplish both. And still...
Calculations being clouded by hope is one of the most irritating things about being a deviant.
Connor leaves, the sound of the door being shut deafening behind his back. He doesn't feel tired but opts not to return to the precinct for the coroner's report. He goes home.
Hank has fallen asleep on the couch, his pose uncomfortable and goosebumps all over his bare arms. Sumo lies near on the floor. Connor carefully moves Hank to a lying position, covers him with a blanket he has taken from the bedroom and — following an absolutely unwarranted command his system sends — moves a lone strand of hair from Hank's face, fingers brushing slightly against scratchy beard. Hank doesn't wake up.
Connor takes a seat on the floor, his right side pressed tightly against the thick fur of Sumo's back, and the heat spreading from him puts Connor at ease. As he listens to the steady rhythm of Hank's breath, he prepares his systems for the night.
And the moments before he is ready to enter stasis, an image appears in his mind, blurry, but bright. A little girl in a dress in colors of moss and pine and a man, reaching to embrace her. They both seem happy.
Connor falls asleep with a smile on his face.