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It starts out innocently enough. A little inside joke, reminiscent of the first time Detective Reed had asked Connor – in the sweetest of manners, Gavin insists – to bring him a cup of coffee.
Only this time, Connor adds ten packets of salt to the beverage, and the first gulp ends up spluttered over the Detective’s terminal.
With Gavin spitting curses and Connor sat contentedly across the bullpen, Hank admits aloud to being foolish enough to hope that that will be the end of it. But R.K knows, with unbridled certainty, that Gavin Reed is not one to leave a score unsettled.
No, the occasion only marks the beginning of an all-out war.
Come Wednesday, there are clamps on each five legs of Connor’s desk chair. The wheels, rendered useless, squeak and strain as he tries to move the seat out from under the desk. It’s futile unless he wishes to break either the chair, the floor, or both, and so Connor spends the morning perched on the desk, glaring in successive intervals between the imprisoned seat and the Detective. And Gavin, no doubt feeling the burn of vengeful brown eyes in the back of his skull, is in fine spirits for the remainder of the day.
On Saturday afternoon, Gavin’s tires have mysteriously gone missing. As has his steering wheel.
On Monday, everything on Connor’s desk is cased in clingfilm.
On Thursday, Gavin’s terminal starts playing Mr Blue Sky on full volume every time he opens an email.
And so on.
It’s another week before Captain Fowler reaches the end of his tether. Connor and Gavin are called into the office at precisely nine AM, after Connor arrives to find his desk covered from corner-to-corner in tiny metal shavings.
Hank and Chris come to join R.K at his desk, while he watches his brother and his boyfriend cringe under the Captain’s rather spectacular wrath.
“What’s the score now, Officer Miller?”
“Thirty to thirty-one in Reed’s favour.”
Hank shakes his head. “ I give up. Fucking idiots, the pair of ‘em.”
“Indeed. Though I can’t deny, the pigeons last Tuesday were quite creative.”
“By creative, I hope you mean a terrible fuckin’ idea.”
“They’re the vermin of the sky,” Chris says mildly. There’s a far-off look in his eye. R.K can almost see the reflection in his pupils, as though he’s recalling the copious amount of pigeon droppings over his desk that day, and the android makes an executive decision not to push the matter. He knows a man on the edge of sanity when he sees one. “I should transfer.”
“Fantastic idea, Chris, take me with you. Hell, I’ll pay for a fucking cab ride over there, my treat,” Hank remarks gruffly, shrugging down to sit down beside R.K’s monitor. “I thought you were supposed to be a good influence on him, Terminator, not make him worse,” he adds, jostling R.K’s calf with the toe of his shoe.
“Contrary to the belief of everyone here,” R.K sees fit to point out, “I am not actually responsible for Detective Reed in any manner–”
“Bullshit,” Hank cuts across him, adamant, “I’m still one-hundred percent certain that CyberLife sent you here as his handler or some shit. If that’s the case, you’ve been a spectacular failure so far.”
“I hear there are openings for officers in Canada,” Chris says to himself, wistful. “Canada sounds nice.”
“And don’t even get me started on Connor,” Hank continues. It seems both he and R.K have come to the silent agreement to leave Officer Miller and his thoughts be. “I know there’ve always been a few wires loose in those systems of his, but this is outta control.”
R.K hums. “Agreed. While it is reassuring to see him standing up for himself–”
“You mean spoon-feedin’ Reed back as much childish shit as he dishes out.”
“–it is perhaps becoming concerning to see him retaliate with such vigour. Particularly as his actions have now lent to a disciplinary on his record.” Fowler is stamping something in a pair of matching records; Connor’s and Gavin’s files, undoubtedly.
Hank gives another shrug, “Well, at least it ain’t the worst thing that could’ve come out of it. It’s only, what, Connor’s second? Third? I wouldn’t worry about it.” The Lieutenant is clearly far less bothered by this outcome than R.K himself. Then again, Hank has always had a penchant for being a good deal more relaxed than R.K in any given situation. “Don’t know if he realises he’s just makin’ it worse.”
R.K feels himself frown. “Explain.”
“What’s to explain. Is that turtleneck cutting off circulation to your brain?” R.K merely continues frowning, so Hank sighs and shuffles around to face him fully. “If Connor just stopped retaliating, Reed’d probably give up too and this pre-school prank nightmare would all be over. It’s that classic case of, oh shit, I get a reaction if I do this and it’s fuckin’ funny, so I’ll keep on doing it.” Hank cranes his head around to see Captain Fowler dismiss their respective partners from the office with what is no doubt a stern and unimpressed warning. “Fuckin’ morons.”
Despite the Captain’s disapproval proving a minor setback, the war itself proves to be far from over. It merely becomes a little less obtuse, a little more subtle, and about as passive-aggressive as anything could be between an over-caffeinated, high-functioning Detective and an android with about as much restraint as a cat confronted with a newly decorated Christmas tree.
It’s amusing. Thoroughly amusing. And R.K likely wouldn’t raise a finger to stop it, were it not blatantly clear that Hank believes it’s all getting a bit out of hand. And as any intelligent member of the DPD has learned, Lieutenant Anderson is always the voice of reason.
And so R.K takes it upon himself to relay Hank’s realisation to Connor, on the following dreary morning while they walk Sumo along the harbour.
“I thought this might come up at some point.” It’s Connor’s only response for a good twenty seconds; smiling down at the pavement, which is covered in a sheen of rain. He continues walking perfectly in step with R.K’s pace. “You and Hank are concerned about the impact this situation may have on my relationship with Detective Reed.”
R.K pauses, causing Connor to come to a halt several steps in front and glance back at him, whilst Sumo pants between them, oblivious to the change in atmosphere – Tension? Confusion? Amusement from Connor? – and letting raindrops catch on the large surface of his outstretched tongue.
Well, he wasn’t concerned before. But R.K supposes that, yes, now he’s concerned, now that Connor’s mentioned it. Connor and Gavin’s exchanges as of late have, on recollection, appeared a touch antagonistic at best and surprisingly hostile at worst.
R.K had thought they’d been making tremendous progress. Up until a fortnight ago.
Connor sighs quietly, “I thought that might be the case,” and R.K realises that he’d let every thought filter through his subliminal processor and onto Connor’s own wavelengths. Maybe I’m the moron, he confesses to an imaginary Hank, and he almost huffs a laugh when he can see that oh, you think so? nod of Hank’s exactly, down to the bob of his hair around his shoulders.
“Our concern can’t possibly surprise you,” R.K defends, though he’s gentle when he takes Connor’s arm and steers them to the nearest empty bench. They sit, Sumo’s head settling happily on Connor’s knee, and R.K, after some hesitation, decides to keep his light hold on Connor’s forearm. “Detective Reed is important to me, you know this. You know it possibly better than anyone. But should his behaviour be beginning to become somewhat… disagreeable towards you, I would discuss it with him.”
Connor’s smile widens a touch. “Nine–”
“And I’m aware that you’re more than capable of protecting yourself. But you and the Detective have only recently found better footing with one another, and I believe I speak for the Lieutenant as well when I say we dislike to see that progress being tarnished over such a thing as juvenile as this– this– thing that’s been going on between the two of you.”
“Nine–”
“And I’ll be the first to admit that Gavin started it, of course he did, he always does. I know better than most how much that man can push, and he doesn’t know when to stop, but I worry that if you keep retaliating it may start to thwart his confidence, and despite whatever he says or denies, he’s glad to have made so much progress with you and Hank, but if things keep going on as they have been then I–”
“Nine.”
It’s said in a specific tone; the one Connor breaks out before beginning a negotiation, and R.K falls silent. Connor’s looking across the bench at him, endeared and exasperated, and R.K is suddenly under the disturbing impression that he’s missed something extremely obvious.
Connor is also extending a hand to him, his cloak of skin drawn back to reveal the white shell of his casing.
“If it will shut you up for a moment,” his brother says, “maybe showing you will be more effective than a verbal explanation.”
After only the slightest hesitation, R.K connects with him, and he’s suddenly taken back to that fateful Monday. Salty Monday, Tina calls it; the day the war began.
Gavin shoulders open the door to the bullpen’s bathroom, “Dipshit, you seen your brother anywhere? Y’know, the weird looking one? Seven-foot, resting bitch face? Can’t find him anywhere.”
“I believe he’s out on call with Officer Person. Some trouble with a group of androids on the west side.”
“Fucker left without even tellin’ me. Thanks, appreciate it, partner of the fuckin’ century. Prick.” There’s no venom to his tone, even as Gavin crosses his arms and leans against one of the sinks. He’s probably wondering why Connor’s even in the bathroom at all. Then he peers down and notices the small bottle beside his hand. “Wait, you’re not… seriously?”
Connor tenses, a sick and tight sensation coiling in the region of his stomach as his gaze, too, comes to rest on the nail varnish sitting on the sink. “I was–”
Gavin notices the change in his posture immediately, and something in his expression starts to panic and placate all at once. “No, I meant the colour, dude. Grey, really? You don’t want blue or pink or somethin’, somethin’ that stands out? You can barely even see that shit, like, what’s the point?”
Connor’s shoulders relax, and Gavin’s do too, and then they both have this small, slightly nervous matching look on their faces that seem to agree, Okay, it’s good, it’s fine, it’s all good.
Gavin scratches the back of his neck awkwardly. “Didn’t realise you were into, uh… that stuff. Make-up and shit.”
Connor nods, though it’s more a jerk of his head. “I’m trying it out, now and again. I don’t want to… shock anyone by doing anything too garish to begin with. But perhaps… in the future… I might try it more often.”
Gavin obviously gives himself a moment to absorb this, before a kind of dawning comes over his face, and he nods slowly. “So, are you, what… transgender? Or genderfluid, or somethin’ else?”
Surprise flickers across Connor’s own face, as though he – like many others, R.K would assume – would expect Gavin Reed to be the last person on Earth to give a shit about these kinds of things. “Genderfluid. I think. It’s a… rather recent discovery, but since becoming deviant, I’ve never really felt like… myself. At least, not some of the time, in these clothes, or with this hair, or…”
He trails off, but Gavin’s still nodding, and something about that makes Connor feel warm. Warm, and strangely safe.
“Sure, yeah. I get it. Well, I mean, I don’t really, y’know, get it, ‘cause I’m not, you know, but… yeah. That’s cool. You should do whatever you want. Wear whatever you want, I mean.” Gavin runs a hand through his hair, and then gestures across at Connor, “Apart from put fuckin’ salt in my coffee again, asshole. Apart from that. I’m gonna get you back for that, don’t fuckin’ think I won’t.”
Connor laughs, and the nail varnish on his left hand suddenly looks a lot better than it did a few minutes ago. “I look forward to it, Detective Reed.”
It’s now Sunday, the day after the inflatable duck incident in the breakroom courtesy of Connor, and they’re walking through the shopping mall in the centre of Detroit. It’s Gavin’s day off, and Connor’s finished for the afternoon, and neither of them had mentioned to R.K that they’d made plans to meet up with one another.
“How’d you feel, dickwad? Good, bad?”
“Good.”
“Well, that’s good, right? It fuckin’ suits you.”
Connor’s been getting more confident since his conversation with R.K, and since he spoke with Hank about how he’s been feeling in regard to his identity. Yesterday and the day before, he felt himself in his uniform; with his short hair and tie and jacket. But today the uniform had felt wrong; like an itch under the skin and you don’t know where to scratch.
Now, he’s made his hair a little longer, reaching just below his ears, and while he is still decidedly male on close inspection, he feels more himself. Gavin had helped him find the clothes, and he’d pointed out some new varnish – blue this time, though Connor’s still unsure – and he’s wearing ankle boots that Gavin had thought would match his shirt, and yes, Connor feels far more himself today.
He sees his reflection, passing by a shop window. He looks good.
“Thank you, Detective. I appreciate you taking time out of your day off to–”
“Save it, tin can. Thank me by findin’ me a place with decent coffee, all right, how about that?”
It’s several minutes later, and at the open café, they’re being heckled by a man apparently on an outing with his wife and two children. He had taken a second glance at Connor, realised, and shouted something across the mall, and now he’s in Connor’s face and slurring insults about androids and disgusting and unnatural and Not in front of my kids and Connor could knock the man flat out in a second. He knows that he could, very easily and with little consequence, but he doesn’t want to cause any more of a scene, and he’s starting to think that all this isn’t worth it if this is how people will react–
And then Gavin’s slammed the man down onto the counter, and he’s cuffing his hands behind his back.
“What the hell is wrong with you, you son of a bitch, are you even a cop?! You can’t arrest me, I wasn’t doing anything–”
“Under the android’s legal rights act of twenty-thirty-eight, any public slander’s gotta be treated as a crime. That and I don’t want these nice people enjoyin’ their coffee to have to look at your genderphobic piece of shit face for any longer than they have to,” Gavin adds, snapping the cuffs a little tighter than he needs to before straightening up and shooting a smile at the man’s wide-eyed family, “And you’re settin’ a real bad example to these kids, fuckwad. Great job.”
“What the hell, they’re my fucking kids, you don’t get to tell me how to–”
“No, I don’t. But I can arrest your ass, so get movin’.” Gavin pushes him in the direction of the parking lot. “And if you say another fuckin’ word to my friend, I’m gonna let him take you out back and punch your insides out of your stomach. Like Alien, you seen Alien? When the thing bursts outta his stomach? Yeah, it’s gonna be like that, so I’d keep that mouth shut if I were you.”
He shoots Connor a wink sidelong, and gives his shoulder a tight squeeze.
“So, Hank knows, right? About you and all the genderfluid stuff?”
It’s the afternoon of the matching disciplinaries, and they’re on the roof. When they’d gone up there, R.K doesn’t recall. He must have been absorbed in work, or perhaps Tina had taken him out with her on her lunch break.
Connor nods, while shooting the cigarette between Gavin’s fingers a disapproving look.
“Shut the fuck up with that look, it’s been a stressful week.” Gavin takes a drag, though he cringes a little at the taste. “If you tell R, I’ll find the world’s biggest magnet and throw you at it.” He inhales again, coughs, curses, then stamps the butt out beneath his heel. “But Hank definitely knows, yeah? You told him? In vivid detail?”
Connor nods.
“And R, he knows?”
“I told him before I told Hank.” Connor pauses, and then adds, “And now you know, too.”
“Shit, it’s not like I’m gonna tell anybody behind your back. It’s your own fuckin’ business.”
“That wasn’t a threat, Detective.” He smiles when Gavin warily catches his eye. “I’m glad you know.”
Gavin smirks, going for unruffled, but there’s a pleased flush along his cheekbones. “Aw shucks, my heart grew three sizes today.”
“I mean it.”
“Yeah, I know.” Gavin leans over the railings, torso handing hazardously over the edge of the building. He’s always been too liberal with his safety whenever R.K is around; knowing that he wouldn’t dare let something happen to him that could be avoided. And now, it seems, he trusts Connor with that liberty, as well. “Jesus, did you think we’d be here after everythin’? I sure as shit didn’t,” he scoffs, “I thought you were a fuckin’ stuck up prick when we met. Never thought you’d be putting salt in my fuckin’ coffee and wasting money on ten-foot inflatable ducks. Seriously, I thought you were the biggest asshole.”
“The feeling was mutual.”
“I figured. Wanted to quit when Fowler mentioned he was lettin’ you on here full-time.”
Connor hums, as though the idea is agreeable. Gavin kicks him lightly in the shin. “Well, whatever you considered doing prematurely,” Connor says, “I’m glad you stayed.”
“Even though you’re gonna be finding metal shavings on your desk for, like, the next year and a half?”
Connor laughs, and Gavin’s mouth quirks upwards at the unfamiliar sound. “Yes, even then.”
They stand in silence for several moments, and it’s not uncomfortable. It’s easy. It’s content. It’s an understanding that, however different they are, there’s now something between them that’s entirely theirs.
“You know I’m countin’ on you to get me back at some point, right? No fun, otherwise, disciplinaries be fuckin’ damned.”
“You can count on it, Detective. Disciplinaries be damned.”
It’s only as they disconnect, and R.K acknowledges across wavelengths that this reading between the lines business is clearly not his or Hank’s forte – the pranks are their thing, you and Gavin have your thing, you and Hank have your thing, Gavin and Connor have theirs, they’re all right – it’s only as Connor draws his hand away that R.K notices the blue paint on his nails.
“The Detective was right.” Nothing else needs to be said. Connor and Gavin are all right. Now that R.K knows that, nothing else really needs to be said. “That colour does suit you.”
Connor smiles, and they stand, and Sumo, giving no indication whatsoever that he understood a single segment of that conversation, lumbers happily between them as they resume their walk.
***
“CONNOR!”
It’s a Friday morning, and Hank’s forehead hits the desk; banging down once, twice in defeated succession, while Connor peers over to the kitchen. “Yes, Detective Reed?”
“Don’t yes Detective Reed me, you shit, this is not fuckin’ funny!”
“I would disagree, Detective.”
As would I, R.K remarks, taking in the sight of all five-foot-nine of Gavin trying to jump and reach the mugs and coffee, which have, at some point since yesterday evening, been placed above the cabinets themselves. Far, far out of the Detective’s reach.
“You plastic, psychopathic, shit-for-brains fucker, get in here and take these down!”
“Perhaps if you ask nicely–”
“No, I’m not askin’ fucking nicely, get the fuck in here before I drag you the fuck in here–”
It’s easy to drown them out. A majority of the bullpen has mastered it by this point. And as R.K now knows, there is no cause for concern when their little feud rears its head – other than the Detective’s startlingly low caffeine levels, of course, which he shall see to momentarily if Connor himself doesn’t. But for now, he’ll let them have their fun.
When Connor at last relents and returns coffee and crockery alike to ground level, R.K watches as he fills the Detective’s cup to the brim, and Gavin compliments the colour of his nails in return.