Chapter Text
Hank Anderson doesn’t know what love is. He thinks maybe he did, once upon a time. He’s forgotten, since then, if anything; years of trauma and depression wrung whatever that nerve center of his brain was dry, and hardened it like the rest of him. He knows the bottle these days, and that’s just fine—
“Lieutenant Anderson,” says an unfamiliar voice, breaking Hank from his train of thought. Whoever it is, they’re already annoying. “My name is Connor. I’m the android sent by Cyberlife.” Hank doesn’t grace it— he decides, mid-introduction— with a reply, and to his dismay it keeps talking. “I looked for you at the station, but nobody knew where you were. They said you were probably having a drink nearby.” Fucking narks. “I was lucky to find you at the fifth bar.”
“What do you want?” Hank mumbles, if only to get it to stop rambling.
“You were assigned a case, early this evening. A homicide, involving a Cyberlife android.” Hank decides not to make light of the fact that he was definitely willfully ignoring that assignment. “In accordance with procedure, the company has allocated a specialized model to assist investigators.”
“Well, I don’t need any assistance,” he hisses, gripping his glass harder. “‘Specially not from a plastic asshole like you. So just be a good li’l robot and get the fuck outta here.”
“Listen,” it starts again, the hint seemingly far from taken, “I think you should stop drinking, and come with me. It’ll make life easier for both of us,” it adds on the end, as if that sweetened the deal any more— Hank hates androids with his whole being. To be told to put down his glass of whiskey is a fight waiting to happen. He nods sarcastically and ignores Connor, willing it to go away and leave him alone forever.
“I understand that some people are not comfortable in the presence of androids,” it persists. Hank sinks lower on the barstool. “But I am—“
“I am perfectly comfortable,” Hank says through clenched teeth, still not even gracing the android with a proper look. “Now back off, before I crush you like an empty beer can.” He’s positive that’s it, then. It’s silent for a moment, and Hank convinces himself he’s won, and that he was finally being left alone.
And then, to his surprise, it says, “You know what? I’ll buy you one for the road. What do you say?” He doesn’t answer, and he’s not sure if it’s out of genuine reluctance or shock. Either way the android calls the bartender over again, and another drink later Hank thinks maybe he’s ready to get his job back between his fingers.
---
Hank only says yes because Detective Reed has a tendency to be a massive pain in the ass. Sure, it’s a stupid idea, an android interrogating an android, but what else did they have to lose? He gives Connor the go ahead, and go ahead he does. Reed gives Hank a look, and he decides it’s much more satisfying to spite somebody that gives a damn.
Connor enters the interrogation room, and to the dismay of everyone in the observation room, the first thing it does is examine itself in the two-way mirror.
“What the fuck is it doin’ now?” Hank blurts out, instantly regretting his apparent lapse of judgment. A few seconds later, Connor looks at the file on the table and sits. A moment or so after that and he’s talking at the man in front of him, silent still. A couple of minutes later and he manages to do something unheard of; he surprises Hank, again, when the suspect talks to him. Hank leans forward to listen, to watch him work. They get a confession out of it, slowly but surely. The observation room is silent.
Hank doesn’t use words to let Connor know he’s impressed with him; instead, he lets the gun pointed at Gavin’s head after he’d pulled his own gun on the android speak for itself. Connor doesn’t say anything, either, and Hank thinks maybe that’s tolerable. He thinks, too, that he’s glad this case is out of his hands, so he never has to see it again.
---
“You have a dog, right?” Something within Hank stirs at these words. He doesn’t like that Connor knows this when he certainly hasn’t ever said anything.
“How do you know that?”
“The dog hairs on your chair,” Connor answers, unbothered by his hostility. At least he had proof the son of a bitch had gone snooping. “I like dogs,” he continues, to Hank’s dismay. “What’s your dog’s name?”
“What’s it to you?” Hank spits, on instinct. The android’s face falls. Subconsciously, a wall goes down, but he’s certainly not going to feel bad about deflecting his questions. Instead, he follows up by saying, “Sumo,” because he also likes his dog, and not because he thinks Connor ought to know. “I call him Sumo.” And then, he goes back to his work.
---
He’s stuck with him, then, Hank concludes. Homicide cases seem to pour in nonstop these days, and Connor’s endless questions aren’t any relief from that. He’s curious, and persistent, Hank will give him that much; it doesn’t make the probing any more bearable.
He’s like a lost dog, if that’s an appropriate comparison. If Hank doesn’t drive him he ends up there anyway, standing rigid and quiet until Hank approaches. It’s more awkward than having a partner should be, he thinks. A bit of casual banter before an investigation, maybe a quiet outing at a bar some lonely Saturday night to sate the basic need for human interaction; that’s what it should be. Even-tempered and straight to the point have never been Hank’s strong suits. He doesn’t appreciate the psychoanalysis, either, but for all Connor’s intelligence, he’s still so simple, so seemingly lost. Maybe it’s charming, in its own way.
“So, what’s your conclusion?” Hank asks above the muted android music in the background, abandoning his burger for a moment. Connor seems to think about his answer before he responds.
“I think, working with an officer with... personal issues, is an added challenge,” he says, completely honestly. Hank stares. “But, adapting to human unpredictability is one of my features.” Connor winks, and Hank takes a bite of his burger to give his mouth anything else to do other than smile.
---
Connor knocks. Hank shrugs. Connor knocks again.
“Anybody home?” he calls, and Hank thinks it’s funny trying to imagine him as the ‘bad cop’. “Open up, Detroit Police!” It’s silent for a moment, and then there’s a loud, muffled rustling from somewhere behind the door. They both animate instantly, stepping away from the door.
“Stay behind me,” Hank says automatically, pulling his gun out, and not bothering to correct himself after playing back whatever it was he just said to an android.
“Got it,” Connor replies, just as quick, and obeys without question. Hank buries the newfound protectiveness with the apartment door he kicks open, and buries it even deeper when he watches Connor chase a suspect through crowded Detroit. He replaces it with something better when his life is saved at the expense of a suspect, and figures what the Captain doesn’t know won’t hurt him.
---
Hank wakes half dressed in the shower, sopping wet and freezing cold. He wishes he were surprised to see Connor standing over him, the familiar curious glint in his eyes. He’s at home, he knows that much, and that’s what makes the situation stop making sense.
“What the fuck are you doin’ here?” he finally blurts out, once he’s gained his bearings.
“A homicide was reported 43 minutes ago,” Connor answers, not missing a beat. “I couldn’t find you at Jimmy’s Bar, so, I came to see if you were at home.”
Hank’s already mad about the assumed break-in, but even with the alcohol still making his thoughts fuzzy, he doesn’t do much more than scold him. He’s not sure if he can do much more than scold him. He sends Connor off to mind his business while he finishes up with the drudgery of pre-hangover nausea.
By the time he’s dressed and tolerably presentable, Connor is in the living room, on his knees and obliging the lazy wag of Sumo’s tail. Hank offers the sight a short smile and retracts it as instantly as Connor notices his presence, standing so quickly Hank would almost call him embarrassed.
“Be a good dog, Sumo,” Hank calls, looking first to Connor and then to his dog, at the android’s heels and whining. “I won’t be long.”
---
Hank has a feeling, even before he opens the door. Besides the fact that nobody ever visits anyway, it’s storming out, and nearly 11:00 at night.
“We’re not working,” he says before Connor can even get a word out, his mouth open to respond. Hank notes once more how odd it is that androids are unbothered by the rain.
“I know,” Connor says, hesitantly. “With all the new recruits coming in since the android liberation, it’s getting... crowded, at the station ports. I—“
“You’ve been stayin’ at the station this whole time?” Hank asks suddenly, perturbed.
“Yes. Lieutenant, I was wondering if—“
“You’re going to ask if you can stay with me,” Hank says shortly.
“Yes,” Connor repeats. “Though I had planned on requesting permission first.” Hank is silent for a long time, mulling it over in his head. He knows androids have the ability to purchase apartments and houses for themselves, and he knows Connor’s paycheck has to be pretty enough to cover something like that. But if he’s apparently too stupid to remember that living alone is an option, Hank can do him this one little favor. After all, he can’t really blame him.
“You might... have to wrestle Sumo for the couch,” he says, eventually, his voice low. Connor’s face perks at the invitation.
“I assure you I will win, if such a confrontation occurs.” Hank groans.
“Just shut up and get inside, Jesus.” Connor does as he’s told and Hank thinks he’s pretty good at that. Sumo looks more than happy to see him, and Connor is well equipped to dole out pets. After Hank flops back down onto the couch, he wonders if offering up said couch was the best of ideas; androids don’t sleep last time he checked. Connor probably would’ve been fine standing quietly in the corner all night. It’s assuredly too late to go back on the proposal, however, and any qualms Sumo might have had are surely lost to Connor’s affection.