Archive of Our Own

“This it?” Hank asks, looking at the three boxes Connor brings with him on moving day. Most of the space in the boxes is taken up by a single computer and the mishmash of summer clothes Hank bought him on their vacation; Connor will try to unpack out of Hank’s eyeline to avoid judgement or pity. There's a reason he never brought Hank to look at his new place after his emancipation.

“Yes. Hey, Sumo. We're going to be roommates again.”

Sumo lumbers over and whuffs his hand before giving the boxes a good sniff. He turns back in and lumbers off.

Hank looks up from the boxes, apparently for the first time. “Jesus, Connor, you're soaked. Here, let me—”

He draws Connor into the house, taking his jacket to hang before disappearing and reappearing with a towel. Connor stands utterly still as Hank dries his face, hair, and shirt with care.

“Why am I doing this for you?” Hank grumbles.

Connor doesn't know, but he knows it feels nice, and he doesn't mention that today's icy rain—they’ve crossed into November since the trip—gives him no discomfort.

“Not a great omen for you moving in,” Hank says, putting the towel away, “but androids are above superstition, right?” He clears his throat and stands back, pulling a gift-wrapped rectangle from a shelf beside him and brandishing it. “Happy move-in day, Connor.”

Connor takes the box, registering weight and dimensions without meaning to. He blocks out predictions and unwraps the box carefully, then sets aside the paper and opens the box. Inside is a blue, V-necked sweater, the material soft to the touch.

“I hate anything I have to hand wash, but you're the one guy who won't sweat through cashmere—or drop food on it. Figured it was safe.” Hank rubs a hand on the back of his neck. “If you don't want it I can—”

“Thank you,” Connor says quickly. He takes the sweater out and puts it on over his slightly damp shirt, surprised at how well it fits. Looking down at the gift fills him with pleasure. “I didn't get you anything, though.”

“Consider it thanks for all the times you've saved my life, if you need another reason. C'mon.”

Connor follows him in, stepping over his boxes for now. Hank leads him to the bedroom and slides open the wardrobe, revealing a cleared space for Connor's things. The sight of it floods Connor with—something. He's not sure what.

“I didn't buy an extra bed, cause—well, you don't need a bed. That doesn't mean you have to sleep here, I just figured you'd make up your own mind.”

Connor turns to look at Hank. “You don't want me to share your bed?”

“Didn't say that,” Hank says, voice low, but he doesn't say anything else either, and Connor is left guessing.

Hank leads the way out of the bedroom and strides over to the fridge. “Didn't know where to keep it so—” he motions, and Connor rounds the fridge door to look. Hank has stocked a shelf with thirium, like he might stock a fridge shelf with beer for a human friend coming over.

“Room temperature is fine during winter,” Connor says. It sounds like a criticism. “Thank you,” he adds hesitantly.

“No problem. I kinda—wished I could get you more, you know? Feels like there's nothing I can do for you.”

Connor feels pleasure all the way down to his toes, body buzzing. He might not be programmed to feel pain, or cold, or heat, but his processing has staked value on a myriad of items, and being taken care of feels good . It's joy, pure and simple, and Connor has been learning the sensation since before he turned deviant.

“You do plenty,” he says. “I could download a hot-cold software packet, but it doesn't seem economical.”

Hank cocks his head. “Like the child androids, who need to be wrapped up warm?”

“Exactly. My body reacts to temperature data, and I find myself imitating human postures, but I don't feel ordinary cold as anything unpleasant. I'm not sure I want to.”

“I can see that.”

“It seems vain,” Connor adds, wondering how Hank feels on the subject.

“I don't think it's vain,” Hank says slowly. “You'd be trying to understand humans. Nothing wrong with that—but it's a pain. There's no need for you to experience it if you don't want to. You could always try someday when you're bored.”

Connor smiles. In android matters, it always feels like Hank gives him the benefit of the doubt more than he himself is inclined to. Hank would have Connor explore and be fallible and selfish. It's kind of him—a loving impulse, Connor thinks. As opposed to Connor, who would have Hank exercising ideally, eating ideally, sleeping ideally.

It's different , Connor tells himself, though he's not sure it is. He wants Hank to live for a long time, at the maximum possible performance level for a human. It's not a selfish impulse—or not just a selfish impulse. He thinks Hank will benefit.

Hank's benefit, increasingly, spells Connor's own benefit. Connor knows his own happiness has linked to Hank's, without his permission or any conscious choice, and Connor is still puzzling it out.

“I'll try it sometime,” Connor says, though he's not sure he will; it's odd enough finding himself huddling against a cold wind, compelled by some wrinkle in his programming.

Androids defend themselves from the weather because of how they were built—because they were built to emulate humans. Connor’s system is faulty because humans wanted androids with less-than-perfect bodies, who could freeze or overheat or die like a human would.

Who could experience attraction, pleasure. Why? Connor thinks, exasperated by the force of his own desires. He was tailor-made to solve crimes. Why does every manufactured atom of his body cling to Hank for meaning, purpose? What did his designers forget to take out?

“I think that concludes the tour,” Hank says regretfully. “You've been here enough to know where stuff is. What's mine is yours. Have at it.”

“You should tell me your rules for Sumo,” Connor says.

“What rules? Dog’s his own person. You two can work it out together. What, do you think you'd overfeed my dog? You , Mr. Salads-for-every-meal?”

Connor looks down at Sumo lying in his doggie bed, watching them both with an active tail. “You don't feel protective?”

“I trust you, Connor. You're one of the most anal people I know. I'd kill Sumo some way faster than you would.”

Hank is right. Connor has looked into canine care, and his research makes him one of the foremost experts on what food and exercise would enrich Sumo's life. He feels excited at the concept of testing it—of going to the store with Hank and buying the best, most cost-effective food. Training Sumo with clever use of snacks. Connor has a lot of wakeful hours a human could only dream of. He can make real progress with Sumo.

They head back to the door and the three sad boxes, and Connor doesn't get the chance to unpack away from Hank. Hank is right there beside him, helping him move the boxes to the bedroom to unpack, not commenting on the scarcity of Connor’s possessions. He notices, though, and the sensation of Hank seeing and not commenting feels like a physical force.

Connor tries not to mind. He's new at the being alive thing, and the odds are stacked against him. He tries to remind himself that what Hank feels isn't pity.

He hopes he's right.

“You keeping up with that Cyberlife case?” Hank asks, seated on the bed as Connor hangs up shirts.

Connor doesn't have to ask what case, despite the huge amount of litigation in the works against Cyberlife. There's one that actually affects him: a case designed to blow open the secrecy around a variety of cases, many of which Connor was involved in. The class action claims the public has a right to know.

“I'm following it,” Connor says. He has several feeds auto-uploading data into his programme, which he scans for pertinent facts. He even keeps an eye on the message boards that have cropped up for android use, where fellow artificial beings spout a complicated range of opinions.

No human can access those boards, not without an android's help. They've coded it with an authenticator programme that sends codes for the site every minute and requires a nearly constant connection. Only an android with the right authenticator can access the information.

New Jericho isn't a place; it's a swirling ball of opinion and thought, a new species’ stumbling attempts to think for itself. Connor is almost intimidated by it, but Markus considers it essential.

“Well?” Hank asks. “What do you think?”

“I understand the public wanting to know details,” Connor says. “On a personal level, however, it might be easier if the gag order continues to be enforced.”

“You don't want people to know your story?”

“What story?” Connor asks. He's finished putting things away, and he turns to look down at the seated Hank.

“Just—you know! Saving those girls. Realising there was more to life. You could write an autobiography and make bank.”

Connor tilts his head. “You think people would be interested?”

“Yeah, I do. We love that shit.”

Extra income would allow Connor certain liberties. A different legal case—much slower—attempts to make biocomponents more affordable, arguing a right to life for androids. If it goes through, Connor will have disposable income. Until then, though, his own maintenance drains his resources. It's an ironically human problem to have.

“I'll think about it,” Connor says.

“Really?”

Connor stalls in confusion. Hank had been the one to suggest the action. Why is he surprised Connor will at least consider?

“I just thought—huh. Well.” Hank scratches his head. “It seems unlike you, that's all.”

“You just suggested it!”

“I expected you to say no.”

“Why?”

“Cause you're a private person! Wait. Aren't you?”

Connor looks down at himself, then observes Hank. He doesn't know what he is; he's never sure about it, these days. It's not incorrect to say he'd like to keep certain things a secret, though he's not sure why.

“Additional income could secure a better future for both of us. Money isn't happiness, but until a certain level of income there's a strong correlation. We're not at the level where the line plateaus.”

Hank stares. “It's move-in day, and you're talking shared bank accounts?”

Connor smiles. “What's mine is yours,” he quotes.

“Are you planning on making me rich?”

Is he? Connor isn't sure, but he likes the thought of providing something special, something extra. He thinks of what kind of book he'd write, comparing it to what kind of books sell, and wonders if Hank was right.

It's a premature calculation. The case isn't done; no decision has been made.

Connor is a private citizen, and he's just moved in with his partner.

He has other things to think about.

Connor doesn't sleep in the same bed as Hank, not like they did on vacation. It feels like it’d be an intrusion, even though he wants to lay next to Hank like before. He convinces himself it’s for the best; now he's back at work, he's back at work. Doing things in half-measures isn't in his programming.

Playtime, as they say, is over.

A week passes this way. The job is taxing, especially in the current climate. Androids and humans are going off the rails right left and centre, and when there are no murders there are assaults, or threatening letters. Connor enjoys boosting Hank's reputation by solving cases at record speeds, and he doesn’t want to stop now. Crimes are puzzles he knows how to solve; he has all the tools. In fact, it’s literally what he’s made for.

Cohabitation with humans? His fellow androids were made for that, but Connor wasn’t. He guesses and stumbles, still bad at cooking, still unsure if Hank wants him to do anything more than occupy the couch beside him in the evening when they watch the news, or documentaries, or shows.

He wonders what possessed him on the island, when he'd been so bold. Had the hot, humid air made him glitch? Connor spends his days dedicating too much of his processing to the cohabitation problem, and his only saving grace is the amount of time he has in a day; his productivity hardly decreases, and still far outstrips any human’s.

The only one who feels guilty—the only one who knows how much time and energy Connor is wasting in spirals of thought about Hank—is Connor. Thankfully.

“Hey, Connor. Connor?”

Connor shakes out of his trance, seated at his desk opposite Hank’s. Hank is watching him, curious.

“Daydreaming?”

“Yes,” Connor says.

“Ha! Wait—really?”

Connor smiles. “More like day power-saving-mode-ing. What is it?”

“The case results will be out tonight,” Hank says. “On the gag order. Nervous?”

“Planning my autobiography,” Connor says. Then: “You don’t have to remind me. I have an alert set up.”

“You know, it’s considered polite to let people feel useful.”

“Ah. In that case, thank you. What would I do without you, Lieutenant Anderson?”

Hank laughs outright, and they receive a look from one of the officers. It’s not like they’re always serious at work—but Hank’s laugh had been loud, and some humans still struggle to see androids as people. Watching Hank laugh uproariously at some quiet comment from Connor has to be upsetting to some—like watching a fish walk. Androids were never programmed to be funny.

“Sometimes I really hate you,” Hank says, with a grin. Connor has learned that, a lot of the time, the things that make Hank the most annoyed also make him the most fond. He grins back.

“Is that so? I’ll have to adjust my settings.” He’ll do no such thing, of course, and the interaction ends there. It’s back to business, hunting down wayward androids and the humans that prosecute them. Not work Connor savours—he wishes they lived in a different world, that didn’t hurt Hank so much to look at—but work he understands.

They stay until the lights in the hall turn onto their energy-saving settings, and when it’s time to go Hank insists Connor wear a scarf and a jacket for the way home. The air is below freezing outside, but only just; Connor knows that before he exits the lobby.

“Any result yet, on that case?” Hank asks.

“No,” Connor says. “The result may be postponed until tomorrow. One of the jury members took ill.”

“Took ill, or…?”

Connor glances at Hank, a weird kind of pride swelling in his chest. Connor is just over two years old; how can he be proud of a man in his fifties? And yet… “I assume there’ll be an investigation.”

“Is Markus on it?”

Connor checks as they walk to the parking structure. It takes him most of the walk to answer, since the information isn’t publicly available, but eventually he says simply: “Yes.”

“Huh. On which side?”

Connor smiles. They’ve arrived at the car, and the dull clicking of the car’s door handles is music to his ears. He gets in, and savours the thud-clicks of the doors closing once he and Hank have sat down.

“The side of truth, of course,” he says into the car’s silence. He straps on his seatbelt.

“He wants the public to know things, huh?”

“I guess so.”

Hank starts up the car, the engine rumbling. The radio begins to vibrate with noise, but Hank turns down the dial—enough that Connor’s audio sensors don’t know how to engage, whether to tune in or tune out. He watches Hank as they reverse, as they begin to roll out of the garage.

“You know,” Hank says once they’re on the road, “if they remove the gag order you might get some attention.”

Connor looks at his knees, at Hank, at the cold vista of Detroit outside. “Yes.”

“Thought about what you’re going to do?”

Connor lets out an utterly unnecessary breath. He feels his gaze sliding away from Hank, like a human confronted with uncomfortable truths. His fists clench in his lap. “I don’t know. Write that autobiography?”

Hank chuckles softly, more noise than laughter. “Gonna have to write it damn fast to be ahead of the press. I hope you write better than you cook.”

Connor doesn’t. “How do you feel about it?” he asks.

“Me?”

“You sided with deviants. My own deviancy could easily be linked to your influence.”

“You’re not deviant , Connor, you’re—alive.” Hank glances at him again. “Nothing wrong with that.”

“The question, Hank.”

Hank looks out the front window, still gripping the steering wheel, but he drags a hand through his hair to push a stray lock back into his ponytail. “What do I think?”

“Yes. And how do you feel.”

Hank shakes his head. “I don’t know. I guess… I’d like people to know about you. What you did, who you are. Instead of being that tin can that got a job as a cop and kept it. But at the same time, it’s no one’s business but ours. Yours.”

“Ours,” Connor confirms. “Your part in the story may come to light.”

“What? I got my fool ass kidnapped by a replica of you, and nearly got us both killed? Great story.”

Connor shivers at the memory. Hank with his hands up, Hank in danger—and his own face staring back at him. Taunting. Cajoling. Utilising all the programming Connor himself was born with.

And then, not long after, Hank shooting that Connor in the face.

It could have been me. The thought has occurred to him more than once. It wasn’t him, because of circumstance—but if Connor hadn’t been himself, hadn’t been at the right places at the right times…

It’s a thought that niggles at him, and he shuts it down now. He’s himself. Humans are who they are because of the lives they’ve led, and so are androids. Just because base-state Connor is replaceable doesn’t mean Connor himself is.

He has to remind himself of that semi-frequently. The factory settings he had have been overridden a thousand times over; as Markus’s slogan goes, he is alive .

It’s easier to remember other androids are alive than to remember that he is. It doesn’t feel like an intrinsic right, where he’s concerned; he remembers that other, doomed Connor too well.

“Are you ever going to tell me how he got you to go along with him?” Connor asks. It’s been a while since he asked.

“Look,” Hank says. “He looked like you. Sounded like you. Said he needed my help—that’s all.”

That’s as much as Hank has ever given him, and Connor is itchy under his clothes with the need to know more—to understand the exact conversation, even the other Connor’s mood. What orders had other-Connor been operating under? Connor shakes the thought off.

“Does it bother you that you shot him?” he asks, and Hank stills. He wasn’t moving before—but Connor notices that, after a short inhale, Hank stops breathing entirely.

Eventually Hank’s breathing starts up again. “What?”

“That Connor had the potential to become human. Does it bother you?”

Hank pinches the bridge of his nose, not taking his eyes off the road. “Look, I’m not getting into a ‘does life begin at conception’ debate over androids. He was bad, you were good, that’s it. Done, over.”

“I followed aberrant programming for a long time before I became fully deviant,” Connor offers, not sure why he’s pressing the issue. “My experiences slowly added up. If I had died along the way, and been replaced—”

“Connor.”

“Yes?”

“Let’s not talk about this, okay?”

Connor doesn’t want to stop talking about it, but he subsides. Hank shoots him another glance.

“Are you prepping me for the press?” Hank asks.

Connor is surprised. “No.”

“You sure?”

“It was an opportunity to ask you things I’ve wondered before.”

Hank lets out a long sigh. “Look, I… I don’t know, really. How I feel about the whole thing.”

“Not knowing is an acceptable answer.”

“Is it?”

“I believe so.”

“Not gonna hit me for killing your twin brother?”

Connor’s breath gusts out. “It was him or me. Maybe him or the movement—I’m not sure.”

“Seems wrong.”

Connor has nothing to say to that. “I suppose it simplifies some things, to be a unique model.”

It doesn’t, not for him, but he doesn’t tell Hank that. He’d love a fellow Connor to tell him whether his experiences are normal or not—but like Markus, he’s a prototype. There’s no comparing notes, no seeing his own face on other androids—even though he knows now that Cyberlife made more of him.

“I’m sorry, Connor.”

Hank sounds serious. Connor is stunned, for a moment, and then he recovers.

“I… thank you, Lieutenant.”

Hank glances at him. “I’d kill a thousand of you, though. To keep the you-you.”

Connor’s circuitry fills with static. “There’s no need for that.”

“ Thankfully . I have enough nightmares about that guy.”

Oh. “Nightmares?”

Hank shrugs, and it’s the end of the conversation. They arrive back at the house, and the next thing he knows Sumo is barking at the door, pretending to be starving despite the neighbour who checks in on him at lunchtime, and Sumo’s wagging tail puts something to rest inside of Connor. This is now; this is where he is. All the other stuff is just… philosophy. Something for other people to dissect.

Connor is who he became, and who he became is an odd, one-of-a-kind android with a fixation on Hank Anderson, his partner. That’s plenty for any living being.

“God, I’m starving,” Hank says, straightening from filling Sumo’s bowl. “Shoulda stopped somewhere for dinner. Not sure why I’m so hungry, after that lunch...”

“I’ll make something.”

“Like hell.”

“Something simple. An omelette.”

“With the taste and consistency of plastic?”

Connor walks towards the kitchen, glad to be useful. Hank looks and sounds tired, his face set in that way it does sometimes when he has no energy; he might complain, but he falls down on the couch without moving to make his own dinner.

“Hunger is the best sauce,” Connor says.

“Nh. Gonna be delicious, then.”

Connor pulls on an apron over his clothes, tying it swiftly at the back. He’ll certainly do his best—but he isn’t a household model. His tongue is for sample analysis.

“You can count on it,” he says.

Hank falls asleep half an hour after he finishes eating. His eyes get heavy lidded, and his breathing evens out. The documentary about a jazz musician they were watching keeps rolling on the TV, but Hank is deaf to it, and Connor isn’t all that interested. He stoops next to Hank on the couch, and lifts him in a bridal carry. Perhaps Hank’s dignity would prefer for him to be covered by a blanket and left on the couch—but Connor has the mechanical strength necessary.

He puts Hank to bed, and Hank doesn’t really wake up. Just grumbles a little, hands questing for things to hold onto. Connor ends up getting into bed beside him.

Hank snorts in his sleep, flinching at something, and reaches out a hand. Connor lets his own outstretched hand be caught; Hank grips it firmly before letting his hold loosen.

“I’m here, Lieutenant,” Connor says softly. He wonders if that’s a comfort, or if it’s unsettling—to be watched in your sleep by a member of another species.

Hank breathes in huffs, disquieted.

“Hank,” Connor corrects, and he knows it’s not a sign that Hank’s breathing evens out—but he likes it anyway. Holding Hank’s hand, comforting him in sleep when his rest is interrupted. Tomorrow, the results of that case might become public. Connor and Hank might lose the privacy they have. Connor isn’t worried for his own sake, but he worries about their budding relationship. Since their vacation, they’ve fallen into pre-vacation patterns. It’s easy to be friends.

It’s something else to be something else. Is Hank having second thoughts? Against a backdrop of journalists, could Hank feel free to live his own life?

Connor finds himself hoping, selfish as anything, that the gag order remains in place. At least for a while longer. The truth can wait until he knows whether Hank wants to dismiss their kisses on the island as an experiment or a fever-dream. Humans are known to change their minds.

Connor is an android, and doesn’t have the same things to offer that a human does. Even with Hank agreeing he’s important, he might not be important in… that way.

You cross my mind now and then. An infuriating, programme-stimulated shiver goes through Connor. His own face and body in Hank’s mind, beckoning. Would Hank ever… did he ever think of him as more…

Connor shakes himself, and holds onto the part he can understand: Hank’s hand in his. Hank trusting him like this. That part makes sense.

He wants more of them to make sense, before anything changes.

“Holy hell. Connor, wake up.”

A hand begins to tap Connor’s shoulder, but he’s already booting up. It takes no time at all to sit up and swing his legs over the side of the bed, and he must do it too fast for a human because Hank recoils at the sudden movement. A moment later Hank pats him on the shoulder again absently: there there, sorry, you scared me. He beckons Connor over to the hallway, and then to the living room. All the blinds they have are closed, even the ones Hank rarely bothers to use.

“What’s going on?” Connor asks, like a fuzzy-brained human might—even though all he has to do is tune into his audio sensors. They’re picking up voices, and mechanical equipment, and he can feel a lot of stray signals originating right outside the house.

“Guess the results came in. Markus won.”

Connor stares at the closed blinds, pulling up an internal clock. It’s their day off—but they slept until past noon. Last night, he’d sentimentally booted himself down next to Hank, and nothing had woken him. The alerts he set blinked in the back of his mind, waiting for him to access them.

The ruling is in, like Hank said, and the gag order is gone. Connor can talk freely about his experiences with Cyberlife—and there’s a crowd of people outside wanting him to.

“Do you think they know I’m in here?” Connor asks.

“Not sure. I could go out and tell them to get off the lawn. If they ask me where you are, we’ll know they don’t know. You don’t have any location tracking enabled, do you?”

Connor shakes his head. He’s been very careful about being untrackable, at least for Cyberlife. He knows their methods too well, and doesn’t want to meet with a quiet accident. The only android more cautious with his data than he is is Markus.

Then again, Connor lives a static life: he goes to work in one place and lives in one place. That’s unsafe by its very nature. He fidgets, unsure.

“I’m going out there,” Hank says, and Connor doesn’t stop him. He retreats out of sight of the doorway, and listens as Hank—in a bathrobe, his hair a mess—goes to tell the journalists outside to buzz off.

“It’s my day off,” Hank tells them. “Go bother someone else at the station.”

“Sir!” come a dozen voices. “Sir, is it true—”

“Did you really—”

“Where is Connor?”

“Do you consider yourself the hero, or—”

Only Connor’s processing powers allow him to parse even that number of questions; to Hank it would be a jumble of sound.

“Talk to Captain Fowler,” Hank says clearly. Then, under his breath: “He’ll love that.”

Sumo barks, and Connor flinches hard. He had his sensors turned way up.

“Sumo!” Connor says, patting him. “Shh.”

“Is Connor inside with you?” someone asks—and Connor’s hand on Sumo’s head stills. That voice—that had been an android voice. One of AP700’s many possible audio tracks. “I believe I heard him.”

“Huh?”

Don’t deny it, Hank , Connor wills. If Hank denies Connor’s presence outright, and they find out Connor is living with him later, it’ll be a story. Connor knows how much humans enjoy salacious detail.

“Android journalists are on this?” Hank asks with genuine surprise.

“Of course,” the AP700 says, but it doesn’t let Hank distract it. “I believe I heard Connor’s voice inside. Is he staying with you?”

Hank deflects like a pro. “I heard my dog,” he says. “Listen, everyone, I don’t have a story for you right now. I just woke up. Set an appointment or something, and I’ll answer some questions. Meanwhile, stay off my lawn or I’ll arrest you.”

He walks back into the house and closes the door firmly behind him, looking troubled. Connor opens his mouth to speak, but Hank makes a shushing motion, heading for the kitchen instead. He runs the water.

“Can that android really hear you?” he asks. “He looked like a household model.”

“I think he was bluffing,” Connor says, extremely pleased that Hank caught on. “Either that or he has a custom build—which I suppose is possible.”

“Jesus,” Hank says. He looks down at the sink.

Connor, by contrast, is looking out the few windows that don’t have blinds on them. Why did Hank never get those some curtains or blinds? Why didn’t Connor think of it? It’s too late now. Maybe Connor should stay out of the kitchen—

Click. Connor looks towards the source of the noise, and sees exactly what he feared to see: someone has snuck around the back of Hank’s yard, and taken a picture that shows Hank in a robe and Connor in his usual clothes standing in Hank’s kitchen on their afternoon off.

Briefly, Connor considers flying out the window and tackling the person down—but the person is already running.

Connor turns off the tap. “We don’t have to worry about being overheard,” he says.

“What?”

“Someone just took my picture.”

“What ? Where? Did they—Jesus fuck, they were in my backyard! I’m going to—”

“Chase them down in a bathrobe?” Connor offers. “They already started running.”

“Aw, shit Connor. I’m sorry. I should have…”

“I was aware of the danger. Don’t worry. I didn’t intend to hide my current residence; it would be more trouble than it’s worth.”

Hank looks at him intently, trying to gauge the truth of his words. Is Hank thinking what he is—that there’s more to hide than just current residence? They haven’t really discussed what they are to each other since the island, only alluded to it.

“So you’re not thinking of leaving now?”

“No. Would you like me to?”

“No.”

Connor nods, glad that part is sorted. “I’ve thought of a use for our day off,” he says.

“Oh? Hope it’s not the zoo. Everyone out there will come along.”

“How good are you at home decoration?” Connor asks, indicating the windows without blinds. Hank’s brows rise.

“Utter shit,” he says, and Connor starts to smile.

“Should be fun, then.”

They hole up in Hank’s house making curtains out of old shirts, using a sewing kit Hank admits is as old as he is. It’s… fun, actually, especially when they get to the point of stringing them up and Hank nearly has a heart attack watching Connor trying to weigh the curtain-hanging string down on top of the cabinets with books and snowglobes.

“I’m sure the screws are somewhere ,” Hank complains, then: “Watch out!”

Connor nearly falls off the counter to keep a snowglobe from falling, and then again as he overcorrects.

Hank’s hands are on his hips steadying him, grip bruising. Heat lances through Connor.

“I don’t have the money to repair you! Jesus, Connor! Hold on to something! Drop the fucking snowglobe.”

“I’ll defend it with my life, Lieutenant!”

“Don’t! ”

Connor laughs, delighted at Hank’s panic—at Hank’s touch—and moves to duck down, crouching to face Hank, perched like a bird on the counter. He’s still holding the snowglobe.

“Your snowglobe, Hank,” he says, offering it like a vassal offering the holy grail to his king.

Hank takes the snowglobe from him—and drops it on the floor, not breaking eye contact. Connor gasps a breath. The globe makes a terrible noise, but it doesn’t break.

“Don’t get hurt,” Hank says.

“I don’t feel pain.”

“Well, I do. Have some sympathy.”

Connor stares at Hank. Is he suggesting it would hurt him to see Connor hurt? That’s…

Nice. It’s nice. He wants to lean down and kiss Hank, to try and disperse whatever it is he’s feeling, but perhaps there is such a thing as fate, because an alert pops up right as he’s about to lean in. He accesses it with a thought, finding an article on some mainstream news site:

‘Deviant police android living with police partner. Abuse by the department?’

Connor’s programme parses the article: a long thinkpiece about the Detroit Police Department having unfair treatment of androids, forcing Connor to work overtime in Hank’s house. If it wasn’t so ridiculous, Connor would laugh.

“Connor. Hey, Connor? What’s up? You went dead.”

“An article,” Connor says. “Would you like me to read it to you? Gavin Reed is quoted in it.”

“Oh, hell. Come down from there and tell me. I can’t imagine it’s good news.”

Connor gets down off the counter, but Hank’s phone goes before he can start reading out the article. Hank motions at him to wait and picks up the phone.

“Jeff?” he says.

There’s a tinny voice that goes on for quite a while: Captain Fowler, not pleased with Hank’s suggestion to journalists to bother the police department. Hank laughs uncomfortably.

“Look, what did you want me to say?” Hank asks, when Captain Fowler pauses to breathe.

Something about the audio degradation in phone connections makes calls harder for Connor to eavesdrop on, though he does his best. He hears R2D2, but not much else, and then Hank is replying.

“Yeah, he moved in a week or two ago. Cutting costs.” Hank looks at Connor and raises an eyebrow, silently asking if it’s okay to make excuses. Connor nods at him.

Connor hears Jesus and shitshow and need . He waits impatiently for the call to end, and when it does they head to the bedroom by mutual agreement; it’s better to stay out of sight while the curtains are a work in progress.

“So,” Hank says, folding his arms by the doorway while Connor seats himself on the bed. “I gather the article didn’t paint the department in a positive light.”

“No,” Connor says. “It was imaginative. Gavin Reed says you asked for a transfer three times since androids were given their rights. Are you keeping secrets from me, Lieutenant?”

Hank’s face goes wrinkled with disgust. “Gavin ? What the fuck is he saying that for! No, of course I haven’t. You’d be the first person I told—as a joke . Jesus!”

Connor laughs. “I know. I was joking too. I know you haven’t; I’m much too good at my job.”

“Hold it, R2. Let’s not get cocky.”

Connor bites his lip against more laughter. It’s just a momentary gesture, useless and human as a bunch of others—but Hank notices, and Connor’s sensors detect a jerking motion in Hank that the human eye wouldn’t catch. An involuntary twitch.

In response to Connor’s lip biting?

So far, Connor hasn’t had many clear attraction signals from Hank since moving in. His fondness is always clear, and sometimes he looks at Connor like he’s asking a question, but none of it speaks of romantic interest. Or rather—none of it sends a clear and unmistakable signal that he’s attracted. As time has gone by since that dreamt-up time on the island, Connor has begun to wonder if he imagined some of the things they said and did.

The jolt that shoots through Hank says he didn’t. Connor remembers his own body, the face Hank once described as goofy-looking , but it doesn’t make him self-conscious. Hank had said he was into it—had worried Connor was expressing an interest to please him.

“There were two theories,” Connor says, referring to the article. “One was that I was being forced to work overtime, and the other was that the department is scared I’ll run off if I’m left unattended.”

“Yeah, I’m sure I could stop you doing what you want to do,” Hank says sarcastically.

“I wonder if they’d ever guess the truth,” Connor says. He looks up at Hank, trying not to look like he’s asking for something. Do you still feel how you did on the island? Do you still want me?

It’s too easy to settle into old patterns. Too easy to play it safe. Connor understands, now, why humans stagnate when they could do and be more.

Another article alert pings. This one is different: Who is the android police detective who infiltrated Cyberlife? the writer asks in the headline. It contains interviews with the army of reserve androids Connor awakened to aid Markus. Connor senses the media circus is only beginning, but he doesn’t tell Hank just yet; he just keeps looking up at Hank, wondering if Hank will say anything.

“And what’s the truth?” Hank asks.

“That I fell in love with a human,” Connor says. Hank startles at the words. Hasn’t Connor used that l-word before? Maybe not. Hank has: the file is still in Connor’s files, kept in its original format where others were compressed to save on storage. Hank had said he couldn’t think of a more narcissistic thing than to fall in love with an android who’d literally shaped himself into what he wanted.

This is the price Connor has to pay for botching his confession. He’d made it sound like he wanted to experiment with Hank for fun, because he felt an attachment, and not because he loves him. Is that why Hank has only caressed his face and hugged him and ruffled his hair since the island? He’s waiting for Connor to decide on their boundaries?

“Love?” Hank says.

“Yes, Lieutenant.”

Hank waits for more, so Connor offers it.

“I’ve wanted to resume the relationship we began on the island,” he says. “I’ve been… unsure. If it would be welcome.”

Hank’s arms uncross. “You think I was just pretending back there?”

“Did you think I was?”

“Connor. You’re so young—still figuring things out. I’m not going to hold you to any agreement you make outside of work. Any of the stuff you weren’t designed for—that’s for you to lead on.”

“What if I want you to lead?”

Hank sucks in a breath. “Then you gotta tell me.”

Connor looks down at himself. He’s wearing his work clothes from the day before, even though it’s their day off. He undoes his tie and throws it on the coverlet. Next he unbuttons his shirt, the jacket still on.

“Um,” Hank says, watching. He wets his mouth. “What…?”

“I want you to touch me.”

“Touch?”

Connor nods. “I’ve been touching my own skin with the sensitivity up, and I get strange results, but—” He coughs. Even he isn’t brazen enough to just say but that’s nothing to what I’d feel if you did it.

“You want to experiment while all those journalists are out there?” Hank asks, sounding doubtful, but he’s looking Connor’s bared chest up and down with obvious interest. Interest and discomfort, because he wants to hide the interest; he visibly forgets what to do with his hands.

The journalists outside are part of the reason. More of them are arriving, and article alerts ding in Connor’s brain now like the beat to an unusual song. The media is catching up to months of silence, and Connor—Connor is at the centre of the unfolding story, or at least very close to it. He wants to know the truth of his own life before others come seeking it.

He stands. Hank’s gaze flicks down and up as Connor approaches, shirt open.

“You just want me to touch you,” Hank says. He looks past him at the blinds, and says in a lower voice: “You sure they can’t hear what we’re saying in here?”

“I’m sure,” Connor says. “Just don’t shout.”

Hank closes his mouth. When Connor stops in front of him, he just looks at him, and Connor looks back. He wills Hank to move: touch me, touch me, touch me, touch me . His synthetic skin sends false signals with how much he craves contact there.

Finally Hank reaches—but only to brush a thumb along Connor’s cheek.

“Fuck’s sake, Connor,” he says softly. “You’re not exactly helping my case here.”

“I always help with your cases,” Connor says. His exposed skin still sends false signals; he’s intensely vulnerable, intensely conscious of every inch of bared skin.

Hank holds Connor’s face, though he’s looking at his chest and stomach. “I know you’re a different species, but you look so...”

“What?”

“Young . I’d never go for a human guy the age you look. Maybe I shouldn’t even…”

“Are you in love with me, Lieutenant?”

Hank looks up. He wets his lips; words get stuck in his throat. “Afraid so. Doesn’t make me feel like less of a pervert when you’re standing in front of me like this, though. God—”

Connor’s patience ends. He grabs the wrist of the hand Hank is cupping his face with, and sets it firmly against his chest, over his left nipple. Hank jerks, but not away, and Connor shudders as he finally gets the contact he wanted. He bows over the hand briefly with the aftershock going through his system, completely overwhelmed.

Touch, touch, touch. Hank’s warm hand on Connor’s bare skin, skin that isn’t made for showing. It goes through Connor in waves and waves, awareness and pleasure and warmth. New paths form in his generated personality, his android aliveness . He’d known Hank’s touch would be different, but he didn’t know how much it would change.

“You okay?” Hank asks. His voice is rough.

“Yes,” Connor says, but it sounds strained. He straightens, wanting to crack a joke—but there’s nothing in his head but need. When their eyes meet, he grabs Hank’s face with both hands to kiss him, needing Hank like an air supply. More than an air supply. He takes all he learned on the island and forces it back into Hank, trying to make his feelings clear. He never wants to hear Hank say maybe I shouldn’t again.

Maybe it works. Hank’s arms come up around him to hold him close, bare android flesh to wrinkled cotton shirt. The line of buttons is a vague nuisance to Connor’s sensors, pleasurable and annoying at the same time. He sighs with it. What a discovery it is, to be alive.

Eventually—after a programme-changing stretch of time, where everything in Connor seems to rewire for pleasure instead of crime—Hank pulls back. He clears his throat, strokes Connor’s cheek.

“Hey. I take it back, okay? I’m in if you’re in. Don’t worry like that.”

So Hank had felt his desperation. That’s embarrassing, but—it’s good too. Necessary. He needs Hank to know.

Hank moves all the way back, then steps around Connor towards the wardrobe.

“Here—wear something comfortable.” Hank roots around looking for a sweater. “It’s your day off. Let’s finish with the curtains and watch a movie or something. Cook together. Whatever you want, as long as it’s inside. I’ll walk Sumo after.”

Connor watches, painfully in love, painfully wanting to say yes and stay with Hank inside—but he starts buttoning his shirt.

“First there’s something I want to do,” he says. Hank turns.

“Huh?”

“I want to talk to them. Outside.”

“What? No way, you should okay that with—I don’t know, Jeff or a PR team or something. This is going to get big—”

“Trust me,” Connor says, and picks up his tie.

The sight of Chicken Feed in winter brings a host of memories bubbling up to Connor’s surface, each one warmed now with hindsight. He drives a little way past it, where there’s a lot of clear space, and parks. By the time he steps out of the car, a huge group of media vans and cars has parked him in; they trailed him on the way here, and Connor drove slowly to make sure they followed. There’s a sound of screeching tires and opening doors.

People jump from their vehicles, shoving phones and mics in his face and bombarding him with questions. Connor says nothing, smiling vaguely and waiting for them all to settle.

“Hello,” he says finally, when people stop shouting at him—which brings another barrage of shouts. At least thirty people have filled the area around him, all jostling each other trying to get their story. Maybe waiting for silence isn’t the best option.

“This is where I’ll come to answer questions, if I want to answer them,” Connor says. The crowd hushes to hear. “There’s no need to stake out Lieutenant Anderson’s house. In fact, if you do , I won’t come out to answer questions at all. Is that clear? Even one media van, and I’ll reconsider.”

“Are you living together with your partner?” a woman shouts. “Are you being forced to stay there—”

“Hank and I are friends,” Connor says. He smiles slightly. “I like his dog.”

I like him.

“That doesn’t answer the question,” someone says.

Connor wonders what it is about a camera and a story that removes civility in humans—that makes it so they’re allowed to shout and demand answers. Have there been studies into the phenomenon? He should look it up when he gets back.

“I’m living with Hank, yes. I’m not being forced to stay there. I work for the police department because I want to, not because I have to. I’m being paid.” Though not enough . “I recommend you read some of the online articles written by an android writer calling themself iRobot if my living situation confuses you. The cost of android upkeep has risen drastically since we gained our rights.”

There, that should make for a nice boring article: police android complains about cost of living. Maybe they’ll forget he woke an army of other androids to storm the city.

Questions pour from human mouths, and it becomes clear people won’t forget about Connor’s part of the resistance any time soon. Still, he’s at least brought up a necessary issue during his five minutes of fame; Markus will be pleased.

Connor answers the journalists’ questions a little longer, being as boring as possible and side-stepping sensitive information, then nods at the gathered crowd. They’re hanging on his words now.

“I’m going home. I’ll come back to answer more questions here tomorrow if you treat us with some respect, and stay away from our house.”

“Come on, there’s no way we can—”

“It’s our job—”

Connor nods pleasantly, and gets back in Hank’s car. He turns on music he still doesn’t know how to listen to, rolls out of the busy lot—and looks forward to wearing a sweater when he gets home.

He wonders if he can get Hank to touch him under it by the end of the night.