Work Text:
It started, as many less-than-favourable things did, quite normally. Connor was having a quiet break in the precinct breakroom, as is done. It was the lieutenant’s lunch time, and he was eating. Connor, however, did not have need of food. So he sat quietly, across from the man, facing a wall.
He was doing his best to ignore the noisy officers who had recently entered the room. He didn't know them very well. He’d seen them around, and they’d talked to people he’d talked to. But he’d never directly spoken to them in his time there. They were behaving like juveniles. They were shouting and pushing each other around. Perhaps they weren’t shouting, perhaps they were just speaking very loudly. Either way, it was grating on Connor’s metaphorical nerves.
He wasn’t annoyed at them, exactly. More just… uncomfortable. He imagined the feeling he got when the officers made noise like that was similar to the feeling of a human scrubbing at a particular part of their face too often, until it is irritated and raw. His feelings were the skin, and these people, their noise, was the hand with the washcloth.
It didn’t help that the fluorescent lights were flickering slightly and far, far too bright. Or that they were giving off an incessant buzzing noise that was barely covered up by the constant hum of the aircon. The combination of stimuli was worming into his skull, and grating, grating… why was nobody else bothered?
This whole thing was incredibly exhausting. And to make matters worse, the boisterous officers came over to his table, and left, taking Hank with them. The man seemed engaged in the discussion they were having now, and became a part of the rowdiness. They were probably talking about sports, Connor thought as the music started. Why were they playing music? And what was so cool about sports, anyway?
And now he was alone with Gavin of all people. Gavin and him had ‘made up’ a while back, but it was still awkward to be around the man, especially because it was plain to see that the detective still had suppressed issues with him. The lack of interaction between them as they sat across from one another seemed to be uncomfortable, but Connor never really could tell.
“So…” Reed started, his face an almost amusing display of ‘trying to be friendly and not wanting to’. “How are you?” He ended lamely.
Connor opened his mouth to speak, but instead he starting laughing. It was repetitive and felt calming. It made him feeling like he was gaining back some control of the situation. The problem? He couldn’t stop. For five minutes. Reed stared at him with increasing confusion the whole time, occasionally throwing in a few questions or statements, such as ‘what the fuck’ and ‘I don’t understand.
Connor didn't understand either. He wanted to explain, but he couldn’t talk.
When he stopped laughing, he became aware of the noises and the lights and the people again. He tried to speak.
What came out was stuttering, jerky noises. Akin to gibberish, perhaps like babbling, but closer to stuttering. Reed looked even more confused.
When Hank returned, Connor turned to him immediately. Making a few wild gestures in the air and fumbling on his words, the android finally managed to get across the idea that he couldn't seem to speak.
Connor was still smiling, though his eyes carried across the panic. He could make some vague noises and gesticulate and try and get Hank to read his mind by sheer force of will, but he couldn't talk and he didn't know why and nothing was working and it was all just a mess because this had never happened before and what was happening and maybe he was malfunctioning but the scans kept coming up fine so he couldn't be-
Break was over. As he tugged on Hank’s sleeve and managed to get the man out of the breakroom and back out into the central part of the precinct, he felt his body hunching in on itself slightly.
He couldn't look anyone in the eyes as they greeted him while he walked back to the desk. Everything was so much, how did anyone get any work done with this constant racket?
“Can you speak now?” Hank asked.
Connor didn't, couldn't look at Hank, but he shook his head. He waved his arms a bit, wishing he could communicate, but they’d never programmed him with any sign language and Hank wouldn't understand even if they had.
“Would you… like to go somewhere quiet?” Hank asked, and Connor nodded, still not looking at him, thanking him mentally for understanding, for knowing.
Connor shook. He shook like in a cartoon as he walked across and back to the break room. It was empty now.
A few days ago they’d added a couch to it. Connor turned off the lights, took a cushion from the couch and sat on the floor in the dark corner, hugging the cushion.
He squeezed the pillow tightly. He rocked back and forth slightly, and wrung his hands until they felt the android equivalent of sore. He pressed his face into the cushion and breathed, trying to make everything calmer.
He ignored the saline leaking from his optical units and he tried to stop the rocking but he couldn’t. He didn't want to do it, he didn't want to act like a human child. Every now and again he felt the need to hit his hand softly against the wall, or against his hair, or just wave it through the air.
He never did find a suitable way to expel the energy, but hitting the wall softly (of course not enough to damage him) helped a little, and so did the gentle rocking and the pillow squeezing.
It took two hours for it to stop, and by the end he was exhausted and confused and just wanted to go home.