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It starts with an offhand comment from Fuckwad Anderson.
Now that they actually have something in common, ever since R came waltzing into the precinct with his shitty face and perfect ass, Gavin’s decided that Hank’s company’s not that bad. For an ancient, washed-up old man, anyway.
He’s someone to bitch about androids with when Tina’s out on her lunch break. Because even though the revolution’s changed a lot in Detroit, androids still need to be bitched about. Two androids, in particular.
“He changed his fuckin’ hair, Anderson. Just on the fly, with no goddamn warning! I woke the fuck up and there it was, like oh, hey, I’ve made you breakfast, and also I have pink hair now, surprise! Gave me a fuckin’ heart attack, since when the fuck can they change their goddamn hair?!”
Hank doubles over at his desk as he laughs; his coffee hazardously sloshing against the rim of his mug with every shake of his shoulders. “You clueless fuckin’ moron,” he manages, wiping tears from his eyes. “You didn’t know?”
“No, I didn’t fuckin’ know!” Gavin almost spills his own coffee, arms waving a little too enthusiastically in his annoyance. “When would I ever have a fuckin’ reason to know that androids can change their hair colour whenever they want, dickwad? Lay off.”
“You’re so easy to rile up, Reed. I’m just teasin’.” The smirk on Hank’s face doesn’t fade, though, and Gavin slouches further against the man’s desk. “Y’know he probably only did that to fuck with you, right?”
“Of course I fuckin’ know that. He’s an asshole.”
“Tell me about it. Runs in the family.” Hank takes a hearty gulp from his mug, then shrugs. “Still, I suppose I ain’t blaming you for freakin’ out. First time I saw Connor without his skin, I freaked the hell out, too, so I get it.”
Gavin must, please Jesus Christ, our merciful Lord and Saviour, have heard that wrong. “Come again?”
“Without his skin, Reed.” Hank doesn’t even blink when he says it, and it’s that most of all that has Gavin gaping down at him; grasping for some kind of answer that might garner the slightest bit of clarity. “What, you need a fuckin’ hearing aid? And you call me old.”
“What the actual fuck,” Gavin sees fit to go with, “without his skin? The fuck are you talkin’ about, Anderson, that’s seriously messed up.”
Gavin’s even more disturbed when Hank responds with one of the most unimpressed looks he’s ever seen, and he sees R.K on a daily basis. “What, you don’t actually think that’s their real face, do you? It’s fake, dumbass. Like… I dunno, like camouflage or somethin’. So they can look like us. Integrate into society better without us humans having a fuckin’ freakout. Not that it works half the time,” he adds.
Of course, Gavin’s seen the super twins do that creepy ‘cerebral link’ thing a hundred times; watched the white of their arms become visible at the slightest touch, for some weird fucking reason. Hell, it’s even happened when he touches R sometimes, in the heat of the moment. But it’s always confined to his hand, or his arm, never past the elbow.
Point is, Gavin’s never seen all of it before. He didn’t even know it was possible.
“So, what,” he begins warily, maintaining his attempt at a casual slouch and trying not to look like he gives as much of a shit as he actually does. “Connor’s, like, let you see him? For real? Without his… without his camouflage thing?”
“Camouflage thing,” Hank repeats with a smirk.
“Shut the fuck up, like you know squat about androids. You know what I fuckin’ mean.”
Mercifully, Hank ignores the defensive note in his voice, and instead swivels in his chair to glance up at Gavin properly. “Yeah. He’s shown me.”
Gavin doesn’t appreciate that expression; the one Hank uses on crime scenes sometimes, when he’s starting to see something that no one else can. And Gavin’s reluctantly accepted that Hank’s not a fucking Lieutenant for nothing; the man’s damn good at what he does. And whatever he’s seeing on Gavin’s face has obviously caught his attention.
“He showed me when I asked,” Hank continues, pointedly, emphasising the word. “Y’know what that is, Reed? Asking? It’s that thing you do when you want something and you stop bein’ a prick for two seconds.”
Gavin kicks Hank’s knee with the tip of his shoe, not very hard. “Fuck off, I know how to fucking ask for somethin’.” But he pauses, worrying the inside of his mouth with his teeth. “So it isn’t… I dunno, weird or anything? To just up and ask ‘em about it?”
Hank gives a shrug. “Don’t see why it should be. It’s what they really look like, isn’t it. Nothin’ weird about that,” he reasons, and his tone suddenly makes Gavin feel ten years old. “Think of it like… seein’ someone without make-up on, or without their wig or something’, if that helps.”
“…Right.”
Gavin can see Hank studying him from the corner of his eye, but his own gaze is fixed on the extremely uninteresting floor of the bullpen.
“Why the sudden interest anyway? Thought you didn’t give a shit about android business, and now suddenly we’re playin’ twenty questions.”
It’s Gavin’s turn to shrug, though his is tight-shouldered, and wholly less casual than Anderson’s had been. “Not interested. Never said I was.”
And Hank leaves it at that. And when Tina blessedly returns with two large Starbucks cups, Gavin moves on to bitch to her about his shit of a boyfriend instead.
But the conversation filters periodically into Gavin’s mind throughout the rest of that Wednesday afternoon, niggling and insistent. Why wouldn’t R have shown him, if it wasn’t a big deal? And sure, Connor and Anderson have been together for way longer, but fucking still. The petty part of Gavin – the part that’s never really changed since he was seventeen – is fucking bothered. Bothered that Hank Anderson’s seen something that he hasn’t been allowed to see yet.
‘When I asked, he showed me.’
Gavin bites out a shut the fuck up in his head on the drive home, drowning out Anderson’s maddeningly mature and ever-wise tone. But he begins gearing himself up to do exactly that. Ask.
He’s not quite petty enough to disregard some sage and simple advice, after all.
***
Gavin presses his hand against the panel, and the door to apartment number 87 clicks open after his prints have been scanned. It takes less than two fucking seconds, but Gavin still rolls his eyes. Screw R and his fancy security system. There’s no fun in it, unlike Gavin’s apartment. One hard kick to that front door and it would be busted for good.
“If your hair’s still pink, I swear to fuckin’ God.”
A pleased, quiet chuckle sounds in answer. Gavin lets the door close behind him, and finds R where he normally does on the android’s day off: laid over the ottoman like a supermodel, Gavin’s IPad in hand, motorbike helmet on the kitchen counter, and not a single fucking item out of place in any of the rooms. R’s hair is, blessedly, back to its gorgeous brunette; that wayward tuft hanging over his forehead, just begging to be brushed away.
Gavin shrugs his jacket onto the floor, because he knows it pisses R off – no matter how little the android’s expression changes when he does so – and stretches his arms above his head as he strolls further into the apartment.
It’s the kind of apartment Gavin might have been taken back to for a thorough fucking when he was in his late-teens, early-twenties. Probably by a handsome, well-off businessman; one who lived for his work and who always wore a fancy watch and probably ironed his fucking socks. Gavin prefers having R stay over at his place, but he gets it. R’s his own man, and it’s a pretty impressive apartment considering he’s on a detective’s salary. It’s always had Gavin suspecting – fantasising, his traitor, pervert brain supplies – about his boyfriend doing some secret service work on the side. A spy, maybe, like James Bond. He’s got the fancy diction for it. And the whole ‘I-could-kill-you-in-two-seconds-flat-and-still-look-damn-suave-while-doing-it’ thing going on.
“I wasn’t expecting you until eight.”
It’s R’s way of saying I’m glad you’re back early and I’m happy to see you. After six months of working cases, and three months of fucking on every available surface, making R sit through copious amounts of Netflix originals, and awkward dinners with Connor and Anderson, Gavin’s figured that much out by now.
And he allows himself a smirk in response before flinging himself onto the couch, over the android’s reclined legs. He winces when his ass makes contact; both the ottoman and R’s thighs aren’t exactly fucking soft.
Gavin crosses his arms behind his neck, the illusion of lounging hopefully obscuring his discomfort. “Yeah, well, sue me. I finished early, didn’t I, ‘cause I’m awesome. Paperwork’s fuckin’ done and done.”
R doesn’t even spare him a glance over the rim of the iPad. “I imagine that means you have survived only on strong coffee all day, with no thought spared for proper sustenance.”
I wish you’d take better care of yourself when I’m not there.
Gavin’s smirk softens to a smile without his fucking permission, and he plucks the iPad from R’s fingers and tosses it onto the neighbouring chair, which he knows from experience is every fucking bit as uncomfortable as the couch.
“You got food, don’t you?” Gavin pushes up; crawls until he’s holding his himself above R’s chest and grinning down into those steel-blue eyes. “If I ask real nice, I bet you’d make somethin’ for me.”
“If you ask,” R counters, and it’s so fucking close to what Anderson said that Gavin spares a minute to blink himself out of the weird cloud of déjà vu that follows. Apparently, he doesn’t blink fast enough or hard enough, because he’s blurting it out before he can consider what a terrible idea that is.
“Why d’you always camouflage around me?”
And granted, it’s probably not the dumbest or most embarrassing thing Gavin’s ever blurted out. But he’d wager that it’s close.
“I beg your pardon?”
Yeah, judging by R’s bemused expression, it’s damn fucking close.
“Camoflage,” Gavin repeats, leaning back until he’s sat on the other cushion of the couch, and, well, he’s started now. Might as well keep digging the hole. “Y’know. Your face.”
“My… face.”
“Your fuckin’ face, baby, you know what I mean–” Gavin stops himself. Takes a breath, and tries to sound like at least a half-competent human being. “Anderson said he’s seen Connor without his…” He’s hesitant to say ‘skin’, because that just sounds way too fucking creepy. “Without that,” he settles on, waving a finger up and down in front of R’s face. So much for sounding competent. “Like, he’s seen his real appearance. His not human appearance, y’know.”
R’s brows raise in understanding, and Gavin doesn’t know whether to pat himself on the back for managing to get his point across with that hot mess of a conversation, or to give R the credit for managing to understand a fucking word that came out of Gavin’s stupid mouth.
“I can only assume you’re referring to our cloaking device.”
Forget Terminator, Anderson. Turns out R’s actually the fucking Predator. “Cloaking device? Are you shitting me right now?”
R, wisely, chooses to ignore the comment. He shifts to a sitting position as well, legs crossed and hands on his knees; mirroring Gavin, although a far less slouched version. “I… can honestly say I’ve never considered it.”
Gavin just succeeds in holding back a scoff. “Jesus, Mr. Meticulous hasn’t considered somethin’? Call the fuckin’ cops.”
It earns him a severely unamused expression, but Gavin assumes he’s forgiven when he reaches across the couch to take R’s hand. The white skin, beneath what Gavin now knows is only a veil of pale flesh, appears instantaneously; neon-blue line trailing over R’s fingers, his palm, and stopping just above his wrist. It’s weirdly beautiful. Gavin’s always thought so, but the thought’s just way too gay to say out loud. No one’s that gay.
“Are you… is it…” Gavin takes another breath. Fuck these conversations, seriously, fuck them. “I mean, you don’t have to show me or explain or anything, I was just wonderin’ if it was a big deal or not. Anderson didn’t really think it was, so I figured I’d, uh… ask, I guess.”
He doesn’t mention that it’s a jealousy thing. That’s the kind of pettiness he’s trying to cut back on. But Anderson’s seen Connor, the real Connor, and they’re so in love it makes Gavin sick, and he is fucking jealous. It’s stupid.
“I can explain, if you like.” Gavin’s gaze shoots up, eagerness spiking hard, and it’s assuring to see that R’s smiling slightly; not offended, not defensive. Good sign. “Though I wouldn’t want to bore you.”
Gavin suspects it’s teasing, but it also fucking ridiculous because R couldn’t bore him in a million fucking years. And honestly, Gavin’s kind of fascinated by all that scientific, technological shit – again, not that he’d ever admit it. He’s not a fucking nerd. “Go for it, I got time.”
R smirks and shakes his head, but then he looks at the joined hands, considering. He releases Gavin’s fingers to push their hands palm-to-palm instead. “This,” he begins, and Gavin inspects the way the blue line pools around the tips of R’s fingers where they touch his own, “is common among androids. I suppose you could call it a sign of trust, or affection. It signifies that you give your consent to connect with them; to share information, or memories and thoughts.”
And if that doesn’t just hit Gavin like a freight train with a great big splash of reality. It was a sign of intimacy. Holy fucking shit. “So… what does it mean if it’s like… like this? Like, with a human?”
“I suppose it means the same. Although I cannot speak for others, besides Connor. For me, I find…” And Gavin will never get over these moments, when R all of a sudden becomes shy; when that faint blue tinge spreads across his cheekbones, and he ducks his head slightly until that dumb tuft of hair flops over his forehead. “I find I cannot control it when I touch you. This,” he indicates, again, to their hands; to the barely-visible spread of white against Gavin’s skin, “is the only instance of uncloaking that I cannot explain.”
Shit, this means something, and Gavin’s throat is tight by the time R stops speaking. R’s always in control, always a step ahead, there’s always a rhyme or a reason behind everything he does. And now he’s sitting in front of Gavin and telling him that this – this instinctive, intimate thing – is beyond his control and he can’t explain why. That means something, and Gavin doesn’t need to be allowed to see R’s face to know that, fuck Anderson and Connor and their gross relationship, they can fucking keep it, because this fucking means something.
“If you would like to see–”
“No,” because R sounds unsure and unwilling, and no, Gavin doesn’t need to fucking see. “It doesn’t matter. It’s cool. I, uh…” He interlaces their fingers, and it’s probably awkward and dumb as all hell, but Gavin doesn’t fucking care. “I like this. This is fine.”
He can feel R’s relief when he kisses him, and when he’s pulled down with him back along the couch. And Gavin notices, when he noses his way down to R’s jaw, that that blue line pools around his hand when it trails down R’s neck, and he grins. Good sign, for sure.