Work Text:
December 31st, 2042
It was a masterful marvel that Connor was only now nervous. He’d been in twenty-three instances of near shutdown, four instances of primary biocomponents being removed without an authorized CyberLife technician present, and had been tortured twice. Maybe it was ironic or maybe it was faulty programming, but during all of those situations, Connor was able to maintain a level head and clear primary functionality.
But now? His stomach compartment kept jolting and registering errors, his HUD would turn to static at the sides of his vision, his throat was unyielding and was interfering with his voice module.
If this is what it meant to be human - truly and emotionally and exhaustingly human - then Connor now understood why they were always upset.
His preconstruction suite reminded Connor that this could end with good news. As soon as he entertained the thought, however, endless possibilities streamed into his HUD. So many variables, even depending on the quality and clarity of his own voice, could turn this whole thing south if Hank didn’t believe him.
It took nine months, two weeks, and three days for Hank to understand that Connor did want to be with him in the first place. That he wasn’t settling and he wasn’t “broken” and needed to be taken to CyberLife for repairs. And then, once they passed over that initial hump, did Connor feel that they could take the next step together.
Now it had been three years, three months, and thirteen days since the day they became exclusive. It had taken this long to get Hank to understand that this wasn’t a decision Connor took lightly. From gunshot wounds to broken and replacing biocompents to Hank finally needing glasses on a more permanent basis and everything outside and inbetween, nothing would make Connor leave Hank.
It was with all of this in mind that Connor had planned an evening and night out for the two of them. Connor had been planning this night since before Hank and him were official. Ever since the day after Hank invited Connor to live with him, when Connor had no place else to go and hadn’t seen Hank for weeks. Until they caught up with one another, Connor figured Hank never wanted to see him again. That Hank didn’t want anything to do with a deviant; no matter what they’d been through together. That fear ended up being a mirror to Hank’s. Once Hank had accidentally voiced that, nervously and only thinking of his roommate, Connor knew that he wanted to spend the rest of his life with Hank Anderson and no one else.
First on the list: hockey.
Hank had always enjoyed hockey. He often watched it with their coworkers or enjoyed viewing it at home. At least, that’s what he’d say. But all the while he’d be looking on his phone or on his tablet or falling asleep. It did annoy Connor, he supposed, but it was more of Hank’s insistence that he was paying attention than anything.
Throughout their living together, Hank had often expressed a desire to go watch it in person. When Connor asked why he hadn’t, Hank explained that he used to and quite often. When Connor asked why not now, Hank explained that he was too busy and he was a crotchety old man that hated all the people and all the noise. This worried Connor to no end. If he asked Hank if he wanted to go what if it was too obvious and would no longer be romantic?
His worries were unfounded when Hank wasn’t the least bit suspicious. Even when Connor purchased the tickets three weeks in advance. He worked his social parameters into overdrive as to not have his face look too giddy or too nervous or too excited or too... anything. But not neutral. Anything but that. Hank would have known something was up immediately if Connor’s face slipped into, what Hank would call, “resting machine face.”
Hank was hovering over Connor’s desk, watching him purchase the tickets online. After chuckling and sliding his hands in his pockets, did Hank speak, “Finally doing something I want, huh? Never thought I’d see the day.”
Now, immediately, that was a problem. Connor couldn’t let that comment go. If he did, Hank would definitely notice. If he was too nice or too rude, it would have the same effect. He had to make sure he had the perfect, Connor-like, “everything is perfectly normal” response in order to make this work.
“It’ll be better than falling asleep with the game on at home.”
Hank snorted, turned to walk back to his desk, “Yeah, yeah.” As the wheels of his chair clattered against the flooring, Hank muttered, “smart-ass,” under his breath. It sounded good natured enough and sometimes, just to make Hank feel better, Connor would pretend he couldn’t hear what Hank was saying. It was a silly compromise because everyone knew that Connor could hear everything. He would say as much, and often, when he was inspecting a crime scene or interrogating a witness.
It was four-thirty in the evening and they had found their seats near the front, but not too close, of the rink. Hank wasn’t one for big specetacles, so there would be no jumbotron interference. This was just the beginning.
Second on the list: Plucky’s.
Hank would say that the restaurant wasn’t “as bad as the Chicken Feed,” and perhaps on a level of cleanliness that would be correct. When it came to literally every other aspect to the establishment... well. But there was nothing wrong with indulging every once in a while. Humans tended to do better on diets if they had cheat days, it seemed. Hank was no exception.
To be fair to his boyfriend, Connor knew that the only reason they ever went here together was because of the android “drinks.” It was technically just thirium dressed up. Either in a slush-type form, in a pretty glass, and/or adorned with a little umbrella. But Connor had to admit, it was nice to have something to do instead of try not to watch Hank eat.
When Connor offered the restaurant once they’re filling out and headed towards the car, Hank isn’t suspicious then either. It makes sense that he wouldn’t be; they go often enough.
Hank gets his usual, opting for healthier bread and no mayo which puts a smile on Connor’s face despite all the error messages that are still clogging his systems. His thirium pump flutters so much that he forgets to order. Hank stares. Gives him a half-grin with one eyebrow up stare. Connor blinks, pulls his shoulders back, and orders his usual drink.
That interaction slides by, elevating a few of Connor’s worries about the night, and they talk about the hockey game. Their cases. Their coworkers. Hank remembered something stupid Reed said yesterday, which prompted Connor to recall an event from the day before that. Hank almost snorted his drink out his nose when Connor said, his elbows on the table while swirling his straw through the slush, “Nines didn’t think the blacklight would be a bad idea... But I knew better.”
Third item after they paid the check, Connor offered a walk through the park across the street.
This was not an abnormal resquest. In fact, the first time they went to Plucky’s together, Hank had requested a walk through that very park. Connor’s thirium would always beat faster when he saw that fountain. Hank had stopped them, pulled Connor into a tight embrace, kissed the space between Connor’s neck and ear, and said he was so lucky to have Connor in his life. Connor could only stare at that fountain and will his tears to not spill.
They just pass the fountain when Hank says, “You keep trying to prove you haven’t been acting weird all day, but it’s only making it worse. What’s going on, Con?”
Hank squeezes Connor’s hand twice. It’s always soothed Connor in the past. It does little now as Connor lets go of Hank’s hand, thirium pump feeling as if it’s going to fly out of his mouth.
Hank doesn’t take it badly, just turns his body towards Connor and lightly pinches his eyebrows together. A soft, questioning look that melts Connor in place. Hank’s next words almost completely disarm him, “What’s up, sweetheart?”
This is the best possible outcome so far, Connor knows this for a fact. Hank’s not angry. Not scared. He seems very receptive unlike other times when Connor has tried to initiate conversation in a similar fashion as a trial run.
The pathway they walked was cleared of snow, salt glinting against the eye and grinding against their shoes, but even if it wasn’t clean it wouldn’t matter. Connor couldn’t bring himself to care about the overall state of his dress pants when he got down on one knee.
“Connor, what’s going on?”
He reaches into his coat pocket, not looking away from Hank’s eyes. He doesn’t even have the felt box out yet before color drains from Hank’s face.
“Connor wait.”
He shakes his head, “I need to spend the rest of my life with you,” he pulls back the lid, it creaks open, “Will you marry me Hank?”
Hank’s cheeks are red now, whether from the color or due to his question, Connor is uncertain. His biocomponents are unresponsive or not reacting incorrectly. It takes literally everything within Connor to maintain eye contact and not shiver too much.
“Connor.” Hank’s mouth stays open a little, a puff of air curling out his mouth, the whites of his eyes turning red, “Are you sure?”
Option #391-c: The 300’s are Hank taking the news favorably. Shown by not storming off or yelling. Hank was crying, which also helped the percentage.
Connor had four speeches he could say with this response. But Hank could always tell. The “vocal resting machine face” Hank called it. So, instead, Connor would have to wing it.
He took a steeling breath in before speaking. “You are the most loving and dependable men I have ever known. You’ve become the best version of yourself because of how much you care about me.” Connor blinked, breathed out, “I think you’ve noticed how much I’ve changed as well. And not just to make you happy — you didn’t want that. You wanted me to be my own person. You’re the only human who’s ever wanted me to be my own person.”
Tears are welling up in his eyes, making his face flutter through all the emotions he’d been holding in: fear and worry and anxiety and hope and love and love and love and so much love he couldn’t hold it in any longer.
“I love working with you. I love being with you. You’re my best friend and that makes this easy. I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.”
Another breath to steel himself, “I love you, Hank. Marry me.”
“Connor… I…” Hank’s shoulders slump, tears falling into his beard, “I don’t know why you’d… Why all this... I don’t know what to say.”
One option appears above all else. Connor knows it’s risky. But knows that Hank will think it’s funny down the road, after they’re married. “Then say yes.”