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Hank is driving, one hand on the steering wheel, the other clutching a double cheeseburger.
He salivates at its rich, meaty aroma, and at the sight of the gooey cheese melting down either side of the bun. Duty calls, and there is no time for a proper lunch break today; no time for Pedro to convince him to gamble away his life savings on a horse. At least Hank’s wallet will thank him later.
His stomach growls audibly, and he eagerly lifts the burger towards his mouth.
“Lieutenant, can I ask you a personal question?”
Hank groans in deep anguish. He turns to see Connor sitting bolt upright in the passenger seat, his brown eyes fixed on him, as enquiring as ever.
“Can it fuckin’ wait?”
“No. This is important.”
“Fine.” He rolls his eyes.
“You shouldn’t eat that cheeseburger, Hank.”
“W-what?” His brow furrows. “That’s not even a fuckin’ question, Connor.”
“Please, Hank.” Connor’s eyes burn with powerful intensity. “Let me buy you something else for your lunch today.”
“Hmm. Let me think about it…” Hank eyes the delicious burger in his hand, appreciating how it oozes with its greasy juices, so impossible to resist. Connor would probably try and persuade him to get a salad instead. “Nope.”
“You should listen to me. You’ll regret it if you don’t.”
“Yeah. I doubt that.”
“As you wish.”
Connor purses his lips together, and Hank breathes a sigh of relief as he shifts to face the windshield again, staring out at the road ahead.
Ever since Connor became deviant a couple of months ago, he’s had some odd whims here and there. Obsessing over Hank’s calorie intake happens to be one of them. Hank figures it’s all part of the process. There’s a lot about the world for Connor to take on board. Hell, he’s probably a lot more self-aware than Hank ever will be.
Hank takes a deep breath to steady his nerves, bites into his burger, and chews it slowly, savoring its flavor.
“I wish you wouldn’t visit that detestable food truck anymore.” Connor’s voice is barely above a whisper.
“Jesus, Connor,” Hank speaks with his mouth full. “We’ve been through this. Gary’s my buddy. He makes the best burger in town, and my cholesterol levels are just fine – despite what you keep telling me.”
“But…”
“But nothing. What the hell’s gotten into you?”
“It’s the flu,” Connor says.
“Androids get flu?”
“No, of course not.” Now Connor’s the one rolling his eyes. Geez, Hank wonders where he learnt that trick. “I’m detecting traces of the influenza virus all over your lunch, Hank. Gary has it, and there’s a very high probability that you’re infected now too. Why wouldn’t you let me help you?”
Hank wants to tell Connor it doesn’t matter about not helping him, but he thinks he might throw up.
* * *
Hank never expected to wind up having an android as a roommate, but once he and Connor abandoned their deviant hunting mission, it seemed like the right thing to do. The guy had nowhere else to go, and Hank sure as hell wasn’t going to hand him over to CyberLife or those self-absorbed pricks at the FBI. It didn’t take long to convince Fowler that keeping Connor assigned to him would be beneficial for the DPD, and so, they remained partners.
It’s a funny thing, having someone around after being on his own for so long. Hank’s house feels a lot less empty, and maybe, if he’s honest with himself, it’s starting to feel like a proper home again. Connor isn’t the kind of roomie who hogs the bathroom or who steals Hank’s food – but they’re both adjusting, each getting used to sharing their private space, learning to put up with one another’s bad habits.
Connor still follows Hank around like a goddamn poodle, of course. Even when he’s trying to relax, Connor is there, watching his every move. He studies Hank. Scrutinizes him. Analyzes him. Tells him he’s going to come down with a particularly virulent strain of the flu after he’s already consumed a hefty portion of the contagion. Hank figures it’s just Connor’s way of doing things.
“Connor, do you know what a euphemism is?” Hank says as they sit down on the couch to watch a basketball game together that evening.
“According to my inbuilt dictionary, a euphemism is the substitution of a mild, indirect, or vague expression for one thought to be offensive, harsh, or blunt. For example, ‘to pass away’ is a euphemism for ‘to die’.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Hank waves his hand dismissively. “I thought you’d give me a perfect little automated answer like that. Pfft. Technology.”
“Was my response unsatisfactory?” Connor asks. “I can easily check for an upgrade to the latest version of my software…”
“No, no. It’s just…”
“What have I done wrong, Hank?” Connor begins to fiddle with the collar on his sweater. Shit, that’s never a good sign.
Hank sighs, concentrating hard on phrasing his words correctly. Jesus, how did he of all people wind up trying to teach anybody else how to become more human?
“People don’t like to hear bad news,” Hank says. “To be perfectly fuckin’ honest, society has a hard time accepting reality in general. You see that all the time as a cop. You understand what I’m saying?”
“I think you’re implying that I lack sympathy.” Connor lowers his head. “I find that quite disappointing after everything you and I have been through together.”
“That’s not what I meant. Stop taking yourself so seriously, kid.” Hank turns to face him. “You care about people, you sure as hell don’t like to see anybody suffering – human, animal or android. I just think we need to work on your delivery a little. I mean, you don’t need to tell everybody every little thing about themselves when you analyze them. You probably shouldn’t be analyzing them in the first place. You might freak them out.”
There’s a glimmer of mischievousness in Connor’s eyes, and his lips twitch into a smile. “This is because I told you about your impending bout of influenza.”
“Connor, there are germs everywhere. I’m exposed to them every single day of my life. We come across some nasty fucking shit in our line of work.” Hank grins. “The point is, I feel fine. You truly don’t need to worry about me, even if it is kinda cute.”
“But I do worry, Hank – as irrational as that may seem. Besides, the typical incubation period of the influenza virus is 48 hours. It’s perfectly normal for you to be asymptomatic at this stage.”
“Good to know.”
“And you aren’t getting any younger.”
“Geez, you really know how to compliment a guy. I guess I deserved that.”
“But it’s true!” Connor fixes his eyes on him sharply. “I don’t want you to suffer, Hank. I’d find it deeply regrettable if anything bad were to happen to you – particularly if it was something I could easily prevent. I… care about you very deeply.”
“Oh, Jesus.”
Hank runs his fingers through his unkempt hair and exhales slowly. Suddenly, it’s as though every nerve ending in his body is electrified.
Does Connor care about him that much? It’s been a very long time since anybody admitted they cared for Hank at all.
“I’ll be fine,” Hank says weakly, still flustered. “I’m in the prime of my life, just you see. And Connor? I care about you, too.”
He gets rewarded with a smile so sweet it makes him weak at the knees.
“Still, it wouldn’t hurt you to replace your evening bottles of beer with a nutritious kale smoothie. I could make one for you. The extra vitamin C will help boost your immune system.”
“Connor!”
“Okay, okay.” Connor holds up his hands. “No smoothie. Pretend I never mentioned it. I’m sure everything will be fine, Hank, just like you said.”
* * *
But things aren’t fine.
It’s exactly as Connor predicted – Hank starts to get sick a little under two days later, when he’s sitting by his desk at the station, on a snowy afternoon.
The room feels impossibly warm, and the constant humdrum of his fellow officers chatting amongst themselves makes his head throb nastily. But it’s the aching of his muscles that really gets to Hank – suddenly, he hurts in places he didn’t even know could hurt so much.
Shit. He’s starting to feel like death warmed up.
Connor is going through case files on the computer next to him, seemingly oblivious to Hank’s plight. He doesn’t want to have to ask him for help, to admit he was right all along. Hank rallies himself and tries to fight it, he really does – he’s always had a stubborn streak he could rely on during times like this. There’s no way he’s spending the next week cooped up in his bedroom feeling sorry for himself when Connor’s given him a reason to feel motivated enough to get up and come in to work on time every day.
Beads of sweat form on his forehead, yet he realizes he’s shaking with cold. It’s no good – Hank’s done. He’s so fucking done.
“Connor, help me,” Hank moans. “I feel like I’ve been hit by a truck.”
Hank immediately has Connor’s full attention. He turns towards him, his LED flashing yellow, his eyes unblinking.
“Oh, Hank,” he whispers. “You’re so silly, but I can’t help feeling like this is all my fault. If only you hadn’t eaten that cheeseburger or breathed in the contaminated droplets of air around Gary.”
“Yeah, well. Doubt I’ll be eating anything he’s touched anytime soon. In fact, I don’t ever wanna lay eyes on his face again the way I feel right now.” Hank’s stomach lurches. “You gonna drive me home?”
“I suppose now is a bad time to suggest you should have switched to a driverless car years ago.”
“No fucking way. I despise them,” he says. “You, uh, you can drive a regular car, right? I mean, I thought you were capable of doing pretty much anything.”
“Please give me a few seconds to process your request.” Connor’s LED starts to flash again. “I am now able to drive an automobile to a skill level substantially above average.”
“Well, that fills me with confidence.”
“I’ll get you home safely, Hank. I promise you.”
And Hank knows Connor doesn’t break promises.
* * *
The journey home is a blur of dazzling car headlights as they navigate their way through the snowy roads. The city is far too busy now, and Hank craves a bit of peace and quiet. All he can think about is being in his bed. He barely has the energy to critique Connor’s driving or to pay much attention to anything else in general. He knows he feels safe – probably because he trusts Connor more than he trusts most humans. He trusts him with his life.
“How did I do?” Connor asks as he switches the ignition off.
“Well, let me put it like this – you don’t drive like a cop,” Hank replies groggily.
“I was able to operate the vehicle competently, and I made sure to keep to within the speed limit.” Connor unclips his seatbelt. “But technically, I just broke the law for driving without a permit.”
“I’ll arrest you when I feel better.”
The house is already warm when they step inside. Hank figures Connor must’ve switched the heating on in advance. He once downloaded an app on his phone to do it himself, but he never managed to understand quite how to use it. A cell phone, Hank decided long ago, is supposed to be for phone calls and not a bunch of obnoxious shit he’ll never need.
“Geez, Connor,” Hank groans. “I’m sweating like a pig. Can’t you turn the heating down a little?”
“I’m afraid not.” Connor’s hands are around his waist, and he’s ushering Hank in the direction of the bedroom. “Staying warm and resting will help your body direct its energy toward the immune battle it currently faces.”
“You make it sound like I’m at war.” Hank’s aware of the fact he’s leaning against Connor, putting his weight on him. Shit, he hates feeling so weak.
“Your body is at war.”
Connor opens the bedroom door, switches the light on, and Hank screws his eyes up at the painful glare it emits. Everything is way too fucking bright, and at this given moment, Hank would be quite happy to become a vampire who never sees the light of day again. His bed is still unmade, and Connor busies himself by shaking the pillows and seeing that everything is ready for him.
“Get into bed, Hank,” Connor says, as Hank sits on the mattress. “I’ll fetch you some iced water and prepare some fresh chicken soup.”
“What are you now, a house android?”
A great feeling of shame washes over Hank, threatening to overwhelm him. He doesn’t want Connor to have to see him like this, to act like his goddamn slave, to pity him – no, he doesn’t want that at all.
He’d always hoped they’d eventually make it to this bedroom together in a more romantic capacity. He had the plan all figured out in his head. He’d drink a couple of stiff whiskeys to loosen his tongue, and he’d tell Connor how he felt about him. Because why wouldn’t an inch-perfect, eternally young and profoundly intelligent guy like Connor want to sleep with a washed-up old dude like him?
He feels like such an idiot.
“Come on, Hank,” Connor says softly, as he undoes the buttons on Hank’s shirt. Hank lies back on the pillow, and Connor takes his shoes and socks off.
“I can do this myself.” His cheeks redden, but not because of his fever.
“I want to help you.”
“Not like this.”
But Connor continues as though he’s not heard him. He unzips Hank’s pants, and with one deft movement he seemingly folds them and places them on the floor.
Hank lies back on the bed wearing nothing but his boxers. It’s been a long time since he’s felt so vulnerable, so exposed. Worse still, his boxers are jet black and covered in an obnoxious red lipstick print pattern. Jesus Christ, what was he thinking when he put them on that morning? It’s not like he was expecting Connor to see him half naked. Instinctively, he reaches for his comforter and pulls it over himself, hiding his body away from view.
“I… you can leave now,” he says. “I’ll be fine; just gotta rest up.”
“I’m more than happy to stay with you.” Connor smiles.
“No.” Hank shakes his head. “Go, Connor. Please, just go.”
He feels a sinking sensation in his gut when Connor turns away dejectedly.
* * *
He barely sleeps, and when he does, Hank is plagued by fever dreams.
They’re mostly silly, so exaggerated Hank subconsciously knows they’re not real. And yet they’re vivid enough to startle him.
He sees Connor without his skin on, just a shell of the person he recognizes, spewing out lines of code instead of words every time Hank tries to speak to him. Then, they’re back in the apartment full of pigeons and Hank is gagging at the stench of them. Suddenly, out of nowhere, the pigeons turn into hundreds of miniature flying Connors instead. All tiny, but perfectly formed.
Okay, so maybe that vision freaks him out just a little.
The room is pitch black when he wakes, yet Hank gets the distinct impression he’s not alone. He’s never really thought about it, but androids don’t make a lot of noise when they’re sitting still, doing nothing. He knows he can hear a soft electrical hum right there next to him on the bed, even though it’s barely detectable.
“Connor, I thought I told you to leave me be.”
“But you called out my name in your sleep.”
“I… did?”
“Yes. Eight times.” Connor switches the bedside lamp on, dimming the light to save Hank’s tired eyes.
“Oh, Jesus.”
“It’s all right, Hank. As intelligent as I may be, I’m not advanced enough to know what you’ve been dreaming about.”
“You were a pigeon,” Hank says dryly. “Actually, you were hundreds of pigeons.”
“I see.” Connor nods and folds his arms. “How strange.”
“Yeah.” Hank rubs his eyes. “What time is it?”
“It’s 10:46 PM. You’ve been in and out of it for several hours. How do you feel?”
“Fucking terrible.”
“I took the liberty of informing Captain Fowler that you’ll require the rest of the week off work.”
“Bet that went down well.”
“He was not sympathetic to your circumstances.” Connor purses his lips together. “But he did indicate his wishes were for me to stay home and look after you.”
“That was real generous of him.”
Connor turns his head to face Hank and stares at him with unblinking eyes. Hank’s sure he sees Connor’s body visibly tensing.
“Why don’t you want me to take care of you, Hank?” He clenches his fists. “Is there something wrong with my methods? Have I acted in a way that’s displeased you?”
“No, no…”
“My model is capable of processing several billion billion operations per second. I can ensure you I’ll manage your care at a very professional level. I can monitor your body temperature, your pulse; I will know if you’re developing a further infection and – ”
“Connor, STOP!” Hank puts his hands on his head. “Just stop, please. For fuck’s sake.”
“I can’t… I don’t know how to stop this.”
Connor’s LED blinks red, and he closes his eyes. Tentatively, Hank reaches across with a shaking hand and links their fingers together.
“You’re deviant now,” he whispers.
“I know,” Connor replies, slowly opening his eyes. “Why else would my emotions be so out of control? Why else would I be so terrified of you being sick?”
“Hey, it’s okay.” Hank squeezes his hand.
“Did you know CyberLife claimed the RK series would have a much stronger field of protection against deviancy compared to other models? And yet, I was still able to break my programming,” Connor says, as a single tear falls down his cheek.
“Then I’d say that makes you even more exceptional than I already thought you were.” Hank brushes Connor’s tear away with his fingers and strokes the side of his face. He smiles as Connor leans against him, as though he’s savoring his touch.
“I don’t understand why humans don’t have a cure for colds or flu,” Connor says. “Why must you suffer, Hank?”
“Because a lot of big pharmaceutical companies rely on people getting sick.” Hank tries to laugh, but he makes a dry coughing sound instead. “Wouldn’t want them going out of business now, would we?”
“I find the mere concept of such deceit deplorable.” Connor blinks several times. “And it’s simply unbearable for me to see you so unwell.”
“Hell, it’s going to take a lot more than a bout of flu to finish me off,” Hank says.
“But I feel so powerless, and you seem so vulnerable. Is this what happens when you care about someone?”
“We always worry about the ones we care about. It’s part of having a conscience, I guess.” Hank takes a deep breath. “All this is new to you, Connor, and at the moment your emotions are intensified because you’re still trying to figure shit out. Hell, I’m still trying to figure shit out and I’m in my goddamn fifties. My point is – be kind to yourself, give yourself time. You’re gonna be just fine.”
They sit together quietly for a while, with only Hank’s coughs and sneezes breaking the silence.
“I should search through my databases again,” Connor says. “There must be something I can do to alleviate your symptoms, or to lessen the duration of your illness.”
“No. Absolutely not,” Hank groans. “Just give me Tylenol and water, and I’ll be good. No more technology; no more analyzing. I don’t want you worrying anymore.”
“But why not?” Connor turns to him.
“Because I just want you. Can’t you see that? No bullshit, no fancy tricks – just you and your company.” Hank smiles weakly.
“You really must be sick.” Connor laughs.
“Is that sarcasm?” Hank furrows his brow. “Guess you are learning something from me.”
* * *
The next time he wakes, it’s almost 3 AM in the morning, and Hank is lying in a puddle of sweat.
He doesn’t need to put the light on, because he knows Connor is there on the bed beside him. The blue of his LED is the only thing illuminating the dark room.
“Don’t you ever get bored?”
“Androids aren’t afflicted by boredom,” Connor says.
“See if you feel that way when you’ve suffered through a whole week of this,” Hank replies.
“I’m perfectly content to wait for you to feel well again. It doesn’t increase my stress levels at all. In fact, the peace is… nice.”
“Does that mean you’re all right now?”
“I’m not the one who’s sick.”
“But earlier…”
“I feel more in control of my emotions since our talk, if that’s what you’re wondering. I’ve also done as you asked. I haven’t even so much as used my abilities to take your temperature, Hank, even though I wanted to.”
“Good,” he replies. “And thank you – I know that can’t have been easy for you.”
Seconds pass. Maybe minutes. It’s kind of hard for Hank to concentrate enough to keep track of time.
Their bodies remain perilously close, and Hank is only too aware of that closeness and what it would be doing to him if he was feeling more like himself. Hesitantly, he shuffles toward Connor and drapes his arm around his waist. Jesus Christ, there’s no way he’d normally have the balls to do this sober.
“Is this… okay?” Hank asks, in a wavering voice. “Can I hold you?”
“The answer is yes,” Connor says. “To both of your questions.”
Connor is rigid and unmoving beneath Hank, his hands still by his sides. Slowly, he returns the gesture of affection by pulling Hank closer to him, wrapping his arms around Hank’s back. It’s a little uncomfortable, more like being gripped in a vice than a warm embrace, but Hank figures he’ll take it.
“I feel better already,” Hank gasps.
“Am I hurting you?” Connor asks, lessening his hold.
“Maybe a little.”
“Hank, I’m so sorry,” Connor whispers. “I don’t know how to do this. I don’t know how to be with somebody.”
Is that what they are now? Does Connor want them to be together? Hank gulps and tries to swallow the lump in his throat.
“It’s okay,” he replies. “I’m kinda rusty myself.”
Hank repositions himself and rests his head on Connor’s chest. He smiles as Connor gently wraps his arms around him.
“Much better. I mean, it will be until I get too damn hot again.”
“I have an excellent cooling mechanism,” Connor says. “Perhaps you could make an exception to your ‘no technology’ rule so I can continue to hold you. I can cool you down when the fever gets worse.”
“Yeah, I mean, I guess I can see how that would be useful.” Hank sighs contentedly.
He closes his eyes and listens to the rhythmic beat of Connor’s thirium pump regulator, finding it oddly comforting.
“I like the way you feel, Hank.” Connor’s chin brushes the top of Hank’s head. “You’re very soft and pliable.”
Hank inhales sharply. “That feels good to you?”
“Yes. You’re… nice. This is very pleasant.”
His body was so much better ten or fifteen years ago. So much more muscular and more youthful, before he turned to drink. Having the flu doesn’t exactly make Hank feel any more attractive either. But the way Connor phrases and intonates his words is so sincere it convinces Hank he means everything he says.
They don’t lie to each other. They never really have.
“You’re pretty nice yourself,” Hank says so quietly it’s barely audible. He realizes he’s never meant anything he’s said more.
Hank’s just about ready to pass out again, their conversation having drained what little strength he could muster. He closes his eyes, and his breathing slows. Connor presses his lips to Hank’s forehead and kisses him softly. It’s the most unexpected but the most perfect gesture.
Hank lets sleep take him, knowing he’ll still be in Connor’s arms when he wakes up.