Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

When Hank first approaches him, Connor isn’t quite sure what he’s going to do.

Not that he’s dedicating much of his consideration into probable outcomes right now. He’s using most of his processing power to drink in all the details of this moment, creating a detailed sensory file to most accurately document everything he can see and hear. The temperature of the air around him (28ºF), the barest flakes of snow drifting down around them, the sound of it crunching under Hank’s shoes. He can give a good estimate that Hank has been standing out here for a while, given the amount of snow Connor can see speckling his coat and, as Hank steps closer, his hair.

But most important – and this is what Connor is concentrating the most on – is preserving the feeling of something filling up his chest underneath his chassis. It’s inexplicably warm, although he isn’t receiving any warnings or alerts that would indicate a malfunction or error or internal fluid leakage. There isn’t even a notice signaling any system instability, although he knows that whatever emotion continuing to fill up his body isn’t one that could be naturally felt by any other android than a deviant. The emotions that they feel – that he feels -- should be considered errors flagged by his programming immediately, but in this moment he cannot fathom why this instance would be labeled as such. Maybe that’s why there’s no warning from his systems now, no cautionary notification that tells him to remove himself from the situation and clamp down on the processes causing this feeling.

Second to recording this feeling is preserving the way Hank’s face looks right now – the way he’s looking back at him right now. His features, weathered and hardened by the life he’s had, take on a light Connor has never seen before. Hank wears it well, nonetheless. The ever-present furrow in his brow has disappeared, his forehead’s worry lines nearly the same. It reveals more of his eyes, bright and blue and pushed up by a smile, close-lipped and quirked. Connor’s mirroring it, returning it, unprompted by nothing other than the swelling emotion in his chest. It must be, at least partially, the relief of familiarity, of fondness towards his partner. But there is something else, he detects – something he hasn’t had the experience to name.

When Hank reaches out a hand over his shoulder and around the back of his neck to pull him forward, Connor lets him, although he still isn’t quite sure what’s happening or what he’s going to do until it’s already happening and he’s already done it. There’s a strong hand moving up to cradle the back of his head, the other wrapping around and over his shoulder blades, and it takes him another half a second or so to finally understand. And yet he still hesitates for an instant after he’s finally processed it, arms lifted up but unsure of where to go. They settle around Hank’s middle on their own accord. His face finds the crook of the other’s neck in a similar fashion, and the warmth intensifies, radiating out from the space no longer present between them. Connor closes his eyes to bask in it, pressing his mouth into Hank’s coat.

“Thank God you’re alive.” The words are bare and raw, shaky and tight.

Alive… It doesn’t mean just one thing, Connor realizes. It means everything.

The warmth in him overflows.

--- Error detected!
--- Biocomponent #9754h: Lubrication malfunction

Hank pulls back to study his face. His brows rise up and pull together again, glistening eyes darting back and forth between Connor’s own. “Shit, Connor, don’t cry,” he sighs.

Connor blinks, then blinks again, trying to clear up his vision, but only succeeds in blinking out another tear. He sniffs back the excess fluid that’s being rerouted to drain out of his nasal cavities and gives the barest of smiles. “Sorry, Lieutenant.”

“No, don’t—” he cuts himself off with another sigh, a bit shakier than the last, yet still managing to maintain exasperation. “Just — c’mere.” He pulls Connor back against him again, closer and tighter. Connor obliges and reciprocates in the same manner, hugging back almost desperately. He reaches another realization: he’s never been hugged before. That’s what this is, isn’t it? He closes his eyes once more, awash in the anchoring reassurance of Hank’s constant pressure enveloping him. It’s a touch that’s safe and kind, a touch that he’s never known until now, and Connor dismisses another error message informing him of his own tears.

-

“So…now what?” Hank’s eyes leave the road to glance at Connor, who pauses to give the question some thought.

“That’s a very broad question, given everything that’s happened. You’re going to have to be more specific,” he replies mildly.

Hank rolls his head along with his eyes. “Yeah, okay, fair enough,” he relents. “What are you going to do now, I mean.”

Connor pauses again to mull over the question – not so broad, but possibly even harder to answer. What is he going to do? What is his future as an android after the revolution? What is his future as a deviant deviant-hunter after the revolution? Is there even still a possibility of keeping his position in the DPD, now that his former job no longer serves a purpose? There isn’t an accurate way he can try to predict the shockwave effects of the revolution -- how it may permanently shift society itself could be almost calamitous. It may very well lead to the collapse of all structure as it is known with the supporting beam of android servitude suddenly yanked out from underneath it. The lasting effects of freedom, so welcomed by androids, may very well be as disastrous for the rest of the world built on synthetic, systematic free labor.

So, what is he going to do?

“I’m…” Connor pauses again, but no other words come to him other than “I’m not sure.”

Hank shoots him another side look, his eyes framed by brows drawn together in concern. For reasons unknown to him, it’s suddenly difficult for Connor to look him in the eyes, so he glances away to observe the dirt trapped in the crevices of the passenger side’s floor mat. There’s a quieter, burning feeling at his solar plexus, different than the feeling from earlier out in the snow. Yet it still seems to flood his entire systems, and he doesn’t want to think about his lack of options and the outcomes that may result from such anymore. It’s been very illogical of him to not have put much thought into the issue before, and he doesn’t appreciate the attention being brought to it now.

“Well…” Hank clears his throat and Connor can’t help looking back up at him. Their eyes meet again, and now Connor can see some sort of strange light in the other’s eyes, also different from earlier out in the snow. Hank returns his gaze to the road once more, fingers drumming on the steering wheel, and he continues. “I’m driving back to my place either way. You could always stay there with me until you figure things out for yourself.”

Connor pauses again to consider this new option. Again, there’s no telling how long it would take for things to die down after the revolution. He may not need much as an android in terms of living arrangements and sustainability – not in the way a human would, anyway – but staying with Hank for such an indeterminable amount of time seems like an unreasonable offer for someone who’s spent so much time living alone. He’s no doubt used to it, and Connor doesn't want to be the one to disrupt that.

And yet, for reasons unknown, Connor also wants to accept it.

He compromises between his logic and the inexplicability of whatever it is behind his desires – his feelings, he supposes. “Are you sure?” he asks tentatively. “I’m…I wouldn’t want to impose on you. This isn’t something you have to do.”

Slowing to a stop at a red light, Hank has turned fully to look at Connor, eyebrows up, face incredulous. “Are you serious? You literally just helped lead a revolution. You’ve changed the entire world forever, for the better!” The light turns green again, and Hank turns back to the road. He adds, in a softer voice, “You’ve saved my life. More than once. It’s the least I could do for you.”

A memory surfaces to the forefront of Connor’s mind: looking down at Hank, passed out on the floor of his kitchen. The dozens of old takeout containers, the puddle of whiskey around him, the dozens of old takeout containers revolver next to him, the picture of Cole on the table. He had not been gentle with Hank in that moment, merely regarding the incident as nothing more than an impediment to the case they were meant to be working on, pushing away the bubbling disquiet the entire scene had given him. However, it rose up again, and, given he took the correct precautions and actions, Connor hoped it would be possible for him to prevent such an incident from occurring again.

So.

What is he going to do?

[Decline] [Accept]

[Accept]

“…Thank you.” The words come out a little softer than he meant them to, but he means them sincerely all the same.

-

It isn’t until Hank opens the door that he realizes how long it’s been since he’s cleaned up his house, and even longer since he’s had anyone over. It shows in the trash and dog toys littering the living room, the pile of dishes in the sink, the empty takeout containers and beer and whiskey bottles everywhere, the dirt and grime covering the floor. He couldn’t have given less of a shit about the state of his own house before. Now? It’s downright embarrassing to realize how much of a slob he’s been all this time.

A grunt from the corner of the living room and clacking nails on the wood floor announce Sumo’s greeting. He pads up to them, tail wagging enthusiastically. Hank reaches down to give the dog an appreciative rubbing behind his ears before tossing his keys and shucking off his coat. Connor takes an uncertain step back as Sumo suddenly rounds on him, hands raising in case he needs to push the dog off him. Hank watches in amusement as Sumo simply sits in front of him instead, patiently waiting; Hank had trained him better than to allow the gentle giant to jump on visitors. Connor takes that as an invitation to pet him. He stoops down to put his hands around Sumo’s face, rubbing his cheeks with his thumbs before sliding his hands behind his ears. Sumo soaks it up like the attention whore he is. Hank can’t help but mirror the small smile Connor is giving to his dog. He doesn’t remember if he’s ever seen Connor smile with his teeth – he wears it well.

Even though he’s drained as all hell, Hank still starts to work on picking up the place. The least he can do right now is collect all the garbage everywhere. “Sorry for all this shit,” he says, gesturing around the room – around the house, really – with an empty beer bottle as he starts collecting them from the coffee table in the living room.

Connor stands up from petting Sumo, who seems satiated for the time being. “I’ve seen your house before, Lieutenant,” he reminds him mildly, gently.

Oh. Hank remembers a harsh slap, an alcohol-soaked night being replaced by an ice-cold shower. Yikes.

He’s so busy ruminating in yet another moment of intense embarrassment that he doesn’t notice Connor’s approach until the android is squatting down at his side, quickly and methodically stacking the three takeout boxes on the table before collecting silver and plastic utensils in them. “Hey! Connor—” Hank stops him with a hand on the other’s forearm, who glances up at him, looking a bit surprised. “Connor, I can clean up my own damn house, you know. You’re not one of those freakin’ housekeeping androids.”

Connor pauses to cast a cursory look around the house, which does the opposite of making Hank feel any better about it. “With all due respect, Lieutenant, I think that would be a job too big for one person alone.” He tilts his head towards Hank, the side of his mouth quirked up slightly as he looks up to meet the other’s gaze. “I can help you with these things, you know. Even if I’m not a housekeeping android.”

Of course, it doesn’t take much to sway Hank and his willpower. Truth be told, he’s grateful for the help. Every part of him aches with weariness, his head is beginning to pound dully, and his eyes burn as the effort of keeping them open for so long is starting to strain them. His shoulders go slack as he lets out a sigh fitting of the tired, old man he is. “Fine.”

Once all the trash from the counters and tables and floors is picked up and put out, Hank calls it quits. A dark pit of hunger and exhaustion deep within his chest makes it harder and harder to bother continuing in what seems like a fruitless endeavor with no end. Connor, however, is still perfectly fine as he replaces the kitchen’s trash bags. Hank can see him eyeing the sink full of dishes and moves to immediately end that forming train of thought. “Okay, that’s enough for the night,” he sighs, stretching backwards to pop his back. “I’m tired as hell. The rest of this can wait until tomorrow.”

Connor frowns at him, looks at the dishes, then looks back at him. “You can go to bed if you want to. I can keep cleaning on my own,” he offers.

Hank puts a finger and a thumb up to squeeze the bridge of his nose, trying to soothe his headache as well as his guilt for even considering the option. “Seriously, Connor, you don’t have to act like a household android for me. Just take some time to relax! We can start up again tomorrow.” Looking up, the LED on Connor’s temple circles yellow and captures his immediate attention. The color matches his frown as he stares into the lower distance, not at anything in particular. To Hank, he looks…troubled. Confused. “What, you don’t know how to relax? Is that not in your programming?” Hank teases lightly.

Connor looks up at him, light circling back to blue, the frown now directed towards Hank. “Actually, no, it's not,” Connor retorts defensively. “I’m an investigative android designed to work on cases with superior beneficial analysis skills and enough stamina to work for several days straight, should the need arise. I’ve always found any sort of relaxation or leisure unnecessary for an android, especially one with as much processing power as myself.” His mouth is open to say more, but seems to think over what he’s already said. When he speaks again, it’s in a different, meeker tone. “Not to sound…condescending.” He adjusts his position to stand up a bit straighter, folding his hands in front of him. He tilts his head to the side, now looking up but still away from Hank. “It’s just…not something I’ve ever done before. It’s not anything I’ve needed to do before.”

Hank huffs out a laugh. It’s a bit funny to see Connor backpedal so quickly over something so simple, but his other words leave Hank feeling somewhat sad. “Well, something tells me you’ve got a lot of firsts coming for you after deviating.” He crosses over to the living room, continuing. “To say you’ve been through some stressful situations recently is a huge fucking understatement. Since you’ve never done it before, you probably don’t know you need it. You won’t know what you can gain from relaxing until you actually go and do it.” He pulls his phone out of his back pocket and plops onto the couch, patting the space next to him. “Come sit down. I’ll order some food.”

Connor has followed him into the living room and obeys, but fixes Hank with a sharper look. “Judging from all of the takeout and pizza boxes we’ve just picked up and thrown out, I wouldn’t recommend eating anything else that would add to the excessive sodium amounts and saturated fats already in your diet. Having a high cholesterol level could increase your risk for heart disease.”

Hank stops mid-dial to fix Connor with his own blank stare. Lectured in his own fucking house by his own fucking android. Sumo trots over to jump onto the couch and wedge himself between the two. Connor breaks their eye contact to look down fondly at the dog, running a hand down his entire body. (Despite his good training, Hank has long since given up on keeping the dog off the couch. And why would he want to do that, anyway? This is as much Sumo’s home as it is Hank’s. Keeping him from enjoying all of its amenities would just be mean.)

And Hank can make his own decisions.

“Yeah, well, I’m fucking adult who can make his own decisions,” he says aloud. Connor returns his eyes to Hank again, shooting him something close to an annoyed glare. It’s a funny look on his face, but Hank finds it kind of touching that Connor is expressing concern for his health in his own weird way. He adds, “I can always eat some less shitty food tomorrow.”

Connor tilts his head at him again, a teasing squint in his eyes. “I don’t think anyone would need any particularly advanced deduction skills or software to accurately suppose that’s something you tell yourself pretty often.”

Attacked in his own fucking home by his own fucking android.

Hank lets out a bark of laughter, surprised by the snark already coming out of this boy’s mouth. “You’re right, to be honest.” Connor’s teasing smirk widens into a full smile, small but still bright on his face. It’s a look still so rare it’s almost strange, but it’s a look he wears well. Hank hopes he can see it more often.

Chapter Text

It’s been a long time since Hank’s had someone else living in his house.

It’s different. It’s almost weird.

He wakes up the next morning to a gentle knock at the bedroom door right before it creaks open. “Lieutenant,” a soft voice calls. Hank only responds with a groan, turning over to see Connor’s head peeking through the door. “It’s 10 AM. I’ve made breakfast.”

Yeah, okay, it’s definitely weird.

It takes Hank a moment to register what he’s heard, but it hits him with the smell of sausage and eggs and toast and coffee drifting in through the door. Connor made him breakfast. The realization does a funny thing to his chest.

Hank sits up with a sigh, rubbing his face. “Connor…you didn’t have to do that.”

Connor tilts his head at him, stepping further into the room. “I didn’t,” he agrees. “But I wanted to. It’s important to obtain the nutrition and hydration necessary for the day ahead of you.”

The day ahead of him… Shit.

“Ah, crap.” Hank drops his hand from his face. “What time did you say it was again?” Sure, he’d come into work later than this before, but there’s no doubt that the revolution could be affecting the precinct’s caseload for the worse, and Fowler wouldn’t appreciate any fucking around when they needed all hands on deck. Still, a part of him distantly yells that it’s bullshit for anyone to be working so soon after everything that’s happened that’s shaken the city to its core. At the same time, though, how is anything supposed to start returning to normalcy? Especially without the DPD to help facilitate the shape of the new order settling in around them? The city and now its newly liberated androids need enforcement, protection, and justice, now more than ever before.

(His own fucking pep talk to get his ass out of bed.)

“It’s currently 10:01,” Connor answers promptly, turning back around. “I’ve already informed Captain Fowler of the fact that you’ll be coming in late today,” he calls as he walks back down the hall. “He appreciated the warning and accepted my alternative recommendation to take a few days off from field work for the time-being.”

“Aw, what the fuck, Con? Is there a more inconvenient time to take a vacation?” Hank complains loudly, getting to his feet to stretch. His spine and joints let out a symphony of cracks and pops that he’d be proud of if they didn’t remind him that he was already old as fuck.

“Yes, actually,” Connor’s voice floats down the hallway from the kitchen. “You won’t be missing out on much. Fowler said he’ll be sending paperwork from previous and newly-submitted cases that need to be completed, reviewed, and filed. They’re beginning to receive a great influx of charges from both humans and androids alike that need to be handled appropriately by someone with experienced judgement.”

“Great,” Hank grumbles, dragging himself out of his bedroom towards the kitchen. “Stuck at home with nothing to do but grunt work. What a vacation.”

Despite the grogginess that comes with definitely not bring a morning person, Hank can see past the fingers rubbing his face that something about the house looks…off. He stops short in the middle of the living room to take a full look around.

The floor doesn’t feel thick with sticky fluids and grime; underneath the smell of food is the scent of lemony wood polish. The coffee and side tables in the living room are clear and clean. The sofa cushions are all aligned again, suddenly missing their many stains and discolorations. As he continues to walk slowly towards the kitchen, he notices even the vinyl records on the lower shelves look straightened and reorganized, the record player missing the layer of dust it’s been collecting for so long.

The kitchen greets him with a similar sight, although just as strange and unfamiliar: Its counters are clear of weeks-old dishes and spills, any clutter absent from them and the kitchen table, save for the assortment of ingredients Connor has neatly arranged next to the stovetop. Next to them, the sink is void of dishes, missing even from the drying rack. God knows how long it took Connor to wash all those dishes, let alone find where they all go in Hank’s disorganized mess of kitchen drawers and cabinets. Connor has his back to him now, jacket off and sleeves rolled up as he finishes sliding scrambled eggs onto a plate. He tosses Sumo, who’s laying at his feet, a last bit of egg that didn’t quite make it onto the plate. The dog snaps it up out of the air happily, then perks up his ears and turns his head as Hank finally makes an appearance into the kitchen. Connor starts a little bit and spins around, quirking up a crooked, sheepish smile as he realizes he’s been caught red-handed in the act of giving in to Sumo’s sleepy-eyed begging. Hank can’t help but crack a smile at the sight.

“Already spoiling him, I see,” Hank huffs good-naturedly, shaking his head as he moves to grab a coffee mug from one of the cabinets above Connor’s head.

“Sorry, Lieutenant,” Connor replies dutifully. “It won’t happen again.”

“Hey, relax. Didn’t say you couldn’t do it.” Hank pours himself a cup of the coffee Connor’s already made, taking a second to deeply inhale the scent of it and everything else cooking in the kitchen. He sighs. “Besides, it’s been a while since the poor thing’s had anything that didn’t come delivered in a box. I’m sure he appreciates it.” Connor gives him a look that Hank can’t quite decipher, a minuscule drawing up of his eyebrows, his lips slightly parted. Under his gaze, Hank can’t quite meet the other’s eyes, so he clears his throat and gazes into his coffee mug instead when he adds, “I do, at least. Appreciate it.”

Hank chances another look up and is immediately glad to catch the smile on Connor’s face. Small, lopsided, genuinely pleased. So different from the distant, expressionless kid he was not too long ago. Connor sets a now full plate down at the small dining table with more care than was probably necessary. “You’re welcome,” he says to the plate softly, and it does another funny thing to his chest when Hank hears it.

-

Hank lasts about two more days before the sight of Connor’s uniform begins to make him feel physically sick.

Aside from cooking and other endeavors that would require someone to roll up their sleeves, Connor keeps his jacket on, and it’s driving Hank crazy trying to figure out any reasons why. He hates the idea of Connor walking around the house in that uniform like nothing has changed, like he’s still forced under the role he has to play – to serve the human that owns him. Something akin to guilt washes over Hank every time he sees Connor – up and about, getting shit done – with the fluorescent blue markings emblazoned on his sleeve and back, his model and status still on display. Seeing him still wearing it around makes Hank feel, frankly, pretty shitty. Like Connor is just blindly following orders with no mind of his own. Like Connor’s still being forced under the guise that he’s not a real person and shouldn’t be treated like one. It's not something he deserves, after everything he's done. Hank doesn’t want him to feel anywhere near that ever again, but Connor walking around in that android getup doing household chores feels contradictory to that goal.

And so, after breakfast on the morning of the third day, when Hank is staring at the back of Connor’s jacket as he bends over to feed Sumo, he decides enough is enough.

“Okay, enough is enough,” Hank says aloud. He finishes his coffee and stands. “You’re getting some new clothes,” he announces. “And don’t even bother arguing,” he adds, cutting off Connor as he opens his mouth. “I need to clean out my closet anyway. I’d rather give you the clothes I don’t need anymore than throw them out.”

Connor’s light circles yellow. “Lieutenant, I—” he pauses, seemingly searching for words. “I can assure you I’m perfectly fine with what I’m wearing now. I don’t sweat or do anything particularly messy, and I can just wash my clothes if I really need to. You should donate whatever clothes you don’t need to those who do.”

“I’m donating them to you ‘cause I’m saying you need them,” Hank responds gruffly, turning away. “You can come help me sort through all my shit,” he calls from down the hall, “and pick whatever you want.”

There isn’t much actually hung up in his closet, only a handful of clothes deemed appropriate enough for work that he cycles through every week. His room being largely untouched by Connor’s cleaning influences, more clothes are thrown haphazardly onto the floor in the closet or stuffed into the drawers next to it than properly stored away. In a fleeting realization, Hank prays to the universe that at least most of these clothes are reasonably clean.

Aren’t they? Yeah, he’s pretty sure they are.

Kneeling on the floor, picking out articles one by one isn’t doing any favors for his back or knees, so Hank quickly decides to gather up the contents of each drawer – sweatshirts and hoodies, simple short and long-sleeved shirts, sweatpants and shorts, underwear and socks – and dump them all unceremoniously onto the floor. He also collects whatever is sitting on the floor of his closet to top it all off. Connor sits down with Hank in front of the pile, but mostly watches as Hank begins to sift through the debris of his clothing. The pile begins to separate into two: one next to Hank and one next to Connor. Whatever Hank deems good enough to wear is then passed on to the android, who folds it neatly on his side. Whatever would do better thrown in the garbage is tossed into the crumpled heap growing on Hank’s side.

The work isn’t done in silence for very long. Not when it’s largely concerned with larger matters.

Hank hands Connor a pair of plaid pajama pants that are worn but not too tattered to toss out quite yet. “You know you don’t have to wear that uniform constantly. It’s not illegal to wear anything other than that anymore.”

Connor keeps his eyes low, focusing on folding the pants. His methodical movements make the small act look so graceful. “I’m aware. A number of the laws that have already been revoked or overruled are the ones regulating android appearance.”

“Exactly! It’s not mandatory to make it obvious that you’re an android anymore. It’s not mandatory for you to display that you can be treated like shit anymore!” Hank pauses, thinking back to instances where he himself was guilty of such a thing. Pangs of regret make him speak a little softer. “You’re a real person. You shouldn’t have to dress like you’re not anything else anymore.”

Connor stays quiet for a second, staring down at the folded pair of pants in his lap, his hands folded neatly over them. The LED on his temple circles from blue, to halfway yellow, to full yellow, then over again, and Hank can only guess the thoughts Connor’s having underneath its surface. “I didn’t mind it,” he says quietly. “The policies, before they were changed,” he adds. When Hank’s eyebrows knit together in confusion, he seems to struggle to explain further. “I mean, I didn’t consider the morality of them, given my understanding of my status and function at the time. In my own eyes, I wasn’t a real person. I understood myself as nothing more than a machine, and my uniform was representative of my entire identity in that sense.”

Hank looks away from Connor’s golden light to try and meet his eyes, passing on a hoodie a bit too snug to fit him comfortably anymore. “And now?”

When Connor looks back up at him to accept it, Hank can see the hooded, faraway look in his eyes as he reflects on everything that’s happened since then. It’s only shared with Hank for a moment before Connor looks away again, a slight upward twitch of his eyebrows deepening the worry lines of his forehead ever so slightly. “I suppose…” he begins, still unsure of the words should come after. “I would like to explore my options in what I can wear now. Maybe settle into a style of my own.” This seems like a realization occurring to him as he speaks, and a small smile grows on his face.

Hank laughs and claps a hand on Connor’s shoulder, jostling him a little bit. “Well, don’t take any pointers from me, kid. Trust me, I’m the last person you should take any fashion tips from.”

It takes about another hour or so to sort through all of Hank’s clothes, but the pile for Connor they end up with still feels terribly small -- more like meager pickings at best. The other half of the closet –- once his ex-wife’s, now Connor’s –- still looks painfully empty. They’re both standing in front of it now, everything hung up on the rack or put away in the cleared drawer reserved for him. Hank, hands on his hips, lifts one to rub the back of his neck. “Sorry, Con. We really should’ve tried at least Goodwill or something first. This is pathetic.”

Connor’s eyes flutter and his LED circles yellow. It lasts long enough to worry Hank a bit, but his eyes open again, and his light returns to its serene blue. “According to various news and social media feeds, a majority of thrift stores have been essentially stripped bare,” he reports, giving a small smile that appears almost wistful. “I suppose every other new deviant has already had the same idea. Many clothing stores and other businesses have also closed due to the substantial amount of their employees being androids that no longer wished to stay.”

Hank gives a disappointed tsk. “Well, we can go out somewhere as soon as things calm down again. To an actual store, once people start to come back and relax enough to open up business again. We can make this work until then.” He glances from the closet back to Connor. “You gonna try something on?”

-

In the privacy of the bathroom, Connor is free to marvel at the wealth of information his systems can glean simply from the fabric of the hoodie he slips over his head.

There are remnants of Hank’s skin cells embedded everywhere in the worn fleece lining. His systems inform him that they’re over 100 days old, mixing with the dust the outer fabric must have gathered from being shoved into the corner of a drawer. Underneath the woody smell of the drawer and its dust, Connor can pick up traces of the ingredients that make up Hank’s laundry detergent, indicating the hoodie was washed before being put away. However, dominating the forefront of all this information is the chemical composition of Hank himself: the odor molecules from his sweat, the oils from his skin, the hairs from his head and his dog – everything that forms his unique scent. Connor pulls the collar of the hoodie over his nose, taking a moment to drink it all in for a closer analysis.

Two quick knocks on the bathroom door draws his attention away a moment later. “Connor?” Hank calls from the other side. “You alright in there?”

A quieter, burning feeling in Connor’s solar plexus returns, almost exactly alike the feeling he experienced the other day in Hank’s car, when he was forced to address a question about himself he could not answer in front of Hank. It’s unpleasant. “Yes,” Connor answers, a bit defensively. “I’ll be right out.”

He slips on a pair of dark lounge pants and white, worn socks, then turns to examine himself and his new look in the mirror. The insignia of an embellished police badge takes center stage on the hoodie, framed by “Detroit Police Academy.” The design is cracked and even peeling in some sections, indicating its age through the number of washes its received. Overall, the grey hoodie is a bit long and wide on him, as are the pants. It’s an unfamiliar sensation, different from the close, tight clothing of his professional uniform, but it isn’t uncomfortable. Quite the opposite, actually. He takes another second to push back his disheveled hair – which doesn’t do much to help it, really – before leaving.

Hank is leaning against the opposite wall, arms crossed over his chest, but stands straight again as soon as Connor comes out of the bathroom. Hank’s eyes travel over his new ensemble. Connor detects a slight jump in his heart rate, although the reason why is unknown to him. The tips of Hank’s ears take on a faint pink tinge while his face takes on a small, fond look, a smile. The latter disappears a moment later, however, and he looks away. “Looks good,” is all he says, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.

Hank is embarrassed? Connor’s system helpfully provides, but he isn’t sure if that’s exactly what he can read on Hank’s face right now.

Hank clears his throat and looks back up. “Sorry this is the best we could scrounge up. I’ll get you some better clothes soon, but I guess you’ll have to settle with this shit for now.

Connor looks back down at the clothes he’s wearing, unsure of what Hank exactly means in particular. “Lieutenant, I can assure you these are more than adequate for me,” he assures. “As different as they are from my CyberLife uniform, I do like them. Besides,” his voice takes on a more playful, teasing tone. “It’s not as if I’ll be going anywhere in the foreseeable future where these clothes would be considered inappropriate, anyway.”

Hank rolls his eyes, walking back down the hall. Connor follows. “You’ve got a point,” he huffs with a laugh. He pauses, then turns his head back a little to look at Connor again. “Speaking of, you don’t really have to call me that all the time. We’re not at work, we’re living together, and you’re even wearing my own damn clothes!” At this, Connor can see the light flush to Hank’s ears returning, crawling up from his neck. “Just call me Hank from now on, alright?”

Connor nods, giving Hank a light smile in return. Internally, he adjusts his social protocols, and his system seems to reward this with a burst of warmth. “Okay, Hank.” The word – his name – rolls off Connor’s tongue quite nicely.

-

Two weeks pass before life starts creeping back into the city again. Hank, both at the station and at home, works persistently to try and have Connor reinstated as a detective. In fact, it occurs to Hank, this is probably the most focused he’s ever been on any sort of paperwork in the history of his career. But new android labor laws await congressional approval, the discussion and debate over them slowing progress to a painstaking crawl. Contention on both sides of the issue across the nation in general have transformed the social climate into something new and tense, something Hank can’t ever keep his mind off.

He scrapes off all the anti-android stickers on his desk the day he returns to the precinct.

Meanwhile, things settle into a new kind of normal in the house. Coming home is like entering into a tiny bubble, separated and far-removed from the rest of the world. It’s warm, taking on a new light that Hank hasn’t seen in years, a light that he never thought he would see again. He doesn’t know how to describe it as anything other than lived in. He had become almost like a ghost in his own home over the years, staying only to eat, sleep, and/or drink himself into a mindless stupor with a gun in one hand and a bottle in the other. It had looked as if someone was squatting in the house rather than living in it.

It was lonely, and maybe that’s why everything feels so different now. The gloom and emptiness once haunting the halls has been replaced with a warmth and a light and everything else that seems to come with Connor. He seems to enjoy never running out of things to do, whether it’s preparing meals, or tidying up inside and outside, or even spoiling Sumo. He insists on doing all these things despite Hank’s many protests and arguments against it – he reassures Hank that he would much rather be productive like this if he can’t go to work quite yet. Eventually, Hank swallows back his guilt, resolves to teach this kid how to relax, and helps out whenever he can, usually with dinner.

Having three meals a day that aren’t complete shit to his body is another thing that’s become a new kind of normal, almost strange. Pretty strange, actually, to now be held accountable to wake up early and not skip breakfast, to eat a lunch packed just for him, and to eat a dinner featuring all five main food groups instead of a sole bottle of whiskey. It strikes Hank early on that maybe Connor knows he doesn’t have to do these things, but does them anyway of his own volition. Out of kindness, out of caring.

When was the last time someone cared for him like this? It makes Hank’s heart give something between a flutter and a clench in his chest every time he thinks too deeply about it.

He feels something similar whenever he fully looks at Connor for too long. Connor, wiping down the kitchen counter, or cooking dinner, or petting Sumo – all the time in clothes slightly too big and wrinkled. He’s also neglected doing his hair up so neatly now that he’s not at work every day, sweeping tousled and more to the side his constant stray lock used to fall, rather than neatly slicking it straight back. It all makes him look so different, so…human. Hank only stops to take it in when he’s sure Connor isn’t looking and won’t notice. The whole look is something Connor wears quite well, even in frumpy clothes that should’ve been thrown out ages ago. It softens the serious persona that Hank was first introduced to.

He silently marvels at the speed of Connor’s development as he watches the android pause in walking past the living room to squat down and love on Sumo. The dog, laying on his side in front of the tv, rolls onto his back to give Connor full access to his tummy. Connor, of course, happily obliges, and sits down right there. He scratches away with hands cuffed by the sleeves of a hoodie a bit too long, cooing quietly to Sumo in words Hank can’t quite make out from the noise of the tv and where he’s sitting on the couch. However, he can still catch the repetition of words like “such a good boy,” “sweet boy,” and “handsome boy,” in a voice that is gentle and higher-pitched with affection. Hank wonders where the hell Connor picked up on baby-talking to dogs, because it sure as hell wasn't from himself. To think that this kid was at one point known as a notorious deviant hunter is something Hank wouldn’t have believed if he hadn’t been present to see his metamorphosis from a cold, obedient machine into the open softness he witnesses before him now.

Connor moves to stand and looks up just in time to catch Hank looking at him. Connor meets his eyes only for a moment before ducking his head down, seemingly embarrassed to have been caught in such a heinous crime of being so loving. “I’ve read up on research indicating that dogs respond positively to key words and phrases when combined with certain frequencies of intonation,” he explains. “I…thought it would be something Sumo may enjoy as well.”

God, that’s…fuckin’ cute. It’s the first concrete thought Hank can formulate, and it’s not one he wants to examine too deeply right now. He can’t really help it, though. Not when Connor feels like he has to cover up or explain away behavior that’s obviously so genuine and wholesome that it can’t be anything other than self-driven, regardless of what any research or studies say about anything. And, right now, Hank can’t think of anything he’s ever seen that’s cuter than the android in front of him trying to justify his own affection towards their dog.

Hank gives Connor a wide grin. “Damn, I knew you were a big softie in disguise this entire time. The ruse is up, Connor,” he drawls. “No use in hiding it anymore. Good job, Sumo, we got him.”

Connor, now officially exposed as being a Big Softie, purses his lips to fight a smile and ducks his head again to cover it when it breaks across his face. A soft, breathy laugh escapes from him, quiet and shaky with the uncertainty of someone who’s never laughed before and maybe isn't quite sure how to. Hank can’t believe he managed to crack this out of Connor with such a lame joke, but his stomach flips at the fragile sound and Hank is quite sure this boy is going to kill him if he keeps on doing shit like this.

-

Later on into a quiet evening, Hank invites Connor to sit with him on the couch after dinner to watch a show. Hank refuses to tell him anything about it, though. “I don’t want you to look it up and spoil everything for yourself,” he insists. “Just wait for me to put it on, and don’t even think about looking it up once you see the title. Shut off your wifi hotspot.”

Connor is literally incapable of doing such a thing, but promises to Hank the next best thing. “I won’t try to look it up, but now your hype is making me curious.”

“I swear to God I’m not overselling a damn thing. This shit was a fucking classic in my day.” Hank clicks a button on the remote, and a show titled “The Office” opens its episode selection for them. Immediately and of its own accord, Connor’s analytical processors scan the title, and text begins to scroll down his HUD.

The Office (U.S. TV series) is an American television sitcom that aired on NBC from March 24, 2005, to May 16, 2013, lasting nine seasons...The series depicts the everyday lives of office employees in the Scranton, Pennsylvania branch of --

Connor has to make a conscious effort to dismiss the information and shut down his entire analytical program, at least for the time-being. He promised Hank he wouldn’t look ahead.

Hank selects the first episode of the first season -- simply titled “Pilot” -- with a grin, cheery piano music beginning to play. The piano is soon joined by a harmonica and a quick beat, all of which accompany shots of what Connor presumes to be The Office and its workers. Hank drapes an arm across the back of the couch. “Listen,” he says. “If there’s any one single show that sums up all of human comedy, it’d be this one. It fucking embodies everything about human life and what it even means to be human.”

Connor glances at him dubiously, eyebrows knit together. “In a...fake documentary? About office workers?”

e

“Connor,” Hank sighs, shaking his head. The hand on the back of the couch grasps Connor’s shoulder firmly, who, although a bit startled, leans a little into his touch. Hank leans in towards him as well, shaking his head. “Connor…” he says again, looking serious. “It’s so much more than that.”

Despite Hank’s dramatic sincerity, it’s still not very believable. Connor can’t imagine any setting more mundane than observing the daily happenings of office life in 2005. He glances from Hank, to Hank’s hand, to the tv, then back to Hank, who can most definitely read the doubt in the other’s eyes quite clearly.

“Look, just— fucking watch, okay?” Hank grumbles, leaning back again into his original position and turning up the volume to the opening scenes. Sumo clambers onto the couch to join the gathering, helping himself to at least a third of the couch that Connor gladly concedes to him. Hank shifts a little to his right, giving Connor some room as he scoots to the middle. Keeping an eye on the tv, he rubs the softer fur behind the dog’s ears, who sighs appreciatively.

At five minutes and thirteen seconds into the episode, Connor can already see that there are some...eccentric characters that have already been introduced, most notably Michael Scott, of course. It’s intriguing to see the actors not only playing out the roles of their characters, but also playing out the roles of their characters as those characters act performatively for the camera crew now suddenly documenting their lives. It has made for some questionable yet interesting dialogue already.

At ten minutes and twenty-seven seconds in, Connor feels a warm hand on his shoulder pulling him back to rest against the back of the couch. “Relax, Connor,” Hank says quietly. “You don’t have to sit up so straight and stiff all the time.”

Connor blinks away from the tv to look at him, momentarily unsure of how to go about doing such a thing. Sitting up straight, hands in his lap, felt like something that came more naturally to him than anything else while he was idle. Hank, however, is staring back at him with a quizzical look on his face, softened by something else in his eyes that Connor’s social programs can’t identify.

Hank removes his hand to place it back onto the back of the couch, and Connor concentrates on releasing the tension keeping his structure rigidly in place. He wriggles deeper into the cushions of the couch, brushing shoulders with Hank, although he doesn’t seem to mind the closeness as he doesn’t move away. Slowly, the joints and ligaments and synthetic muscle loosen their grips on Connor’s body as the episode of the show continues. By the time it ends, he’s begun to realize how comfortable the couch really is, however old and worn it may be. Sandwiched between Hank and Sumo, it’s soft and warm.

“So, what do you think?” asks Hank, turning to look at Connor expectantly.

“It’s…” Connor takes a moment to search for an appropriate word to describe his opinion. Reflecting on the absolute ridiculousness of some of the characters, a corner of his mouth quirks up in a smile. “It’s very entertaining. I think you’ve captured my attention.”

Hank looks absolutely delighted. “Fuck yeah, I have. It’s been so long since I’ve watched this that I forgot how fucking good it is. It’s a goddamn masterpiece, every single episode.” He presses play on the next episode before the autoplay can select it for him. “Buckle up and settle in, it’s time for a fucking marathon.”

By the end of the sixth episode (“Hot Girl,” the last episode of the season), Hank has fallen asleep.

He had begun to nod off halfway into the previous episode, really. His heart rate had begun to slow, his head dipping low, breathing deeping for just a moment. Then, he would jerk himself up, adjust his position to sit a bit straighter, but it was all to no avail. He waves off Connor’s suggestion to go to sleep in his own bed, so Connor simply watches the entire process repeat itself over and over again out of the corner of his eye. Despite Hank's best efforts, the first season ends with him snoring softly, arms crossed, his head drooping heavily towards his chest while the rest of his body is leaning closer to Connor for support. His breathing is deep and steady, and his heart rate stays consistently slow, and Connor marvels at Hank’s ability to fall asleep with his neck at such an uncomfortable angle.

Connor, without moving, turns off the tv. Careful not to disturb Sumo, whose head is now resting in his lap, Connor shifts closer to Hank, using his shoulder to support the other’s head. Hank remains undisturbed. With Connor to prop him up, Hank’s body seems to let go of any tension that was still remaining to keep him upright, and his entire weight now slumps against Connor.

Connor feels something sweet and powerful filling him up again, and he releases it in a gentle sigh he doesn’t really need. He slides his arm from underneath Hank and slips it around him instead. In the quiet and the warmth around him, Connor feels as though he could melt into it. The close pressure around him seems to activate a glowing within his core, a sensation similar to how it felt when Hank held him close for the first time. Connor closes his eyes and takes his time to bask in the glow, feeling light yet grounded by the two bodies pressed against him. He feels safe and secure and is nearly overwhelmed with a new realization -- that this must be what it feels like to be loved.

Chapter Text

It’s bright. Hank squints up at the sky to see the sun already making its way down towards the horizon. Not sunset, but getting there.

He’s leaning on the railing by his spot that overlooks the Detroit River, a cool breeze blowing off the sparkling water. He’s still wearing his jacket, but it feels like spring is finally coming. Despite the warm afternoon, Hank can’t hear any children playing in the park behind him. It’s more of a peaceful silence than a somber or creepy one, though. The constant, heavy weight he carries deep in his chest seems to have disappeared for the moment.

He’s vaguely aware of a presence by his left side. It feels familiar and comforting, although he doesn’t fully turn to see the figure next to him. In his mind, he already knows who it is.

Connor steps closer to lean on the railing beside him, gazing out across the river with a pensive, almost serene look on his face. Hank watches the android take a deep breath he doesn’t need and close his eyes, leaning into a fresh burst of breeze off the water. A faint smile curls up on his face.

Hank feels like he’s been here before like this with someone else, but he can’t track down any other specific time in his mind. Not when Connor turns to look at him, smile widening a fraction. It’s small, but bright and genuine and for Hank alone. “It’s beautiful,” he says, the words struggling to sum up a present feeling much more profound, yet succeeding all the same.

Hank swallows back a cheesy response and simply opts to fully take in the new view next to him. He’s not wearing his android uniform or even Hank’s clothes -- just a plain long-sleeved shirt and jeans. His hair is a little mussed by the wind, the cowlick hanging over his forehead fluttering in the air. Like this, Connor almost looks like a human, but the presence of his LED on his temple doesn’t marr the shot; it complements the darker hues of the sky above and the water below. It’s the last piece of a perfect picture that Hank can’t take his eyes off of. Every time Hank’s eyes flicker back to his face, the pattern of the moles freckling Connor’s face seems to have shifted ever so slightly, so Hank searches the other’s face, trying to commit the placement of each mole to memory.

Connor’s eyes seem to be traveling over Hank’s face with a similar interest, although Hank can’t imagine why. Then Connor gives a knowing smile, as if he just found an answer to a question he was looking for in the slopes and lines of Hank’s face. He tucks a hand under Hank’s arm and around his waist, leaning against him as they both turn back towards the water. Hank returns the gesture in kind, and they stand there for a while, content in a comfortable silence.

Hank can’t tell how much time has passed -- it feels like a lot while simultaneously not much at all -- when Connor gently takes his hand, smiles at him again, and leads him back to sit on the bench behind them. He resumes his position once they’ve sat down, though now he’s pressed up closer to Hank. It feels so natural for Hank to put his other hand over Connor’s and rest his head over Connor’s and just be, with no other thoughts in his mind on anything other than the feeling of Connor’s warmth and weight against him, hands under and over his own.

They sit there and watch time stretch and condense into the evening, watching the sky reflect brilliant oranges and pinks onto the water. Twilight eventually settles in around them, tinting the whole world with a purplish-blue, then a bluish-grey,

and then Hank is cracking his eyes open to dim grey light seeping in from the windows. It’s different from the light in his dream, but everything else feels the same. Particularly the presence still at his side, leaning on him.

They’ve sunken lower down and into the couch, but Connor is still there, still leaning on him, still resting a head on Hank’s shoulder, still intertwining Hank’s arm with his own. His chest rises and falls with steady, simulated breathing. Hank lifts his head off Connor’s as slow as he can manage despite the ache in the back of his neck. Delicately, he leans forward to check Connor’s face and, sure enough, he’s fast asleep.

Not asleep asleep, Hank reminds himself. But Connor isn’t necessarily faking it, either.

After Hank had discovered his home was transformed overnight on the very first night Connor had spent there, he had kept bugging and bugging Connor about any sort of android “rest mode” before Connor finally indulged him with such information. Of course, androids didn’t technically need to sleep when they had battery lives that could last from anywhere between a week to a decade to a century. There are also some that can simulate sleep perfectly, like the kid models and including Connor. After a bit of prying, however, Connor admitted that although no, sleeping wasn’t a necessary function, more advanced, higher-processing androids sometimes prefer to go into stasis regularly to recalibrate and update their more demanding, complicated processes and programs, essentially giving them a break to restart with renewed accuracy once roused again.

However, Connor explained, while this regular resting and restarting keeps him in optimal function overall, the shutdown and restart processes makes him slower to react at first, especially in the mornings when he “wakes up.” It takes a while to return to full processing power for an android -- a prototype, at that -- as advanced as Connor. That was the reason he didn’t like to do it very often; he didn’t want to take the risk of being anywhere near slow if he were to be suddenly called into a high stakes situation.

But hey, he’s not working anymore -- not for the time being, at least. It’s upon Hank’s incessant insistence that Connor gets comfortable enough to go into stasis every night now. The plus side -- in addition to relieving Hank of some of the guilt he feels for Connor working on the house through the night while Hank snored away -- is also seeing Connor go a bit “sleepy” and slow as his unessential systems begin to shut down for the night, and seeing him so clumsy and groggy in the mornings before he’s fully “awake.” It’s funny and endearing in a way Hank didn’t quite expect it to be.

(He thinks back to an old laptop he used to have in his college days, big and fast and able to take on anything unless it had just been turned on after being shut down or restarted for an update. It would usually take an hour or so to get it back up and running properly, and Connor seems to be a living embodiment of that process.)

So, yes, Connor is asleep on Hank, who is now something short of terrified of waking him up accidentally. Talk about a light sleeper with the robo-cop who maintains automatic, constant vigilance, even with all his other major shit powered down for the night.

Hank tries to focus on something else, anything else, than the weight on him so temptingly inviting him back to sleep, and remembers his dream. Even as it occurs to him, he can feel the details of it slipping away, but he’s had the same dream enough times to remember how it usually goes.

Usually.

He’s also had the same dream enough times to know how, this time, it was different.

It’s usually Cole with him, enjoying the view with him, running around and playing with him. And the dream always makes Hank’s chest ache a little bit more that day.

This time, however, far from the bittersweet sadness and loneliness the original dream would give him, he woke up feeling light and comforted. With the warmth on his side, the feelings still linger.

The wave of realization is almost immediately replaced by a wave of immense guilt. He should be dreaming of his son, not some android he barely knows.

Another wave of guilt.

Connor is more than an android, and Hank does know him, even if there isn’t much of him to know yet. He’s a person, not some unfeeling machine. Not anymore. He’s just a person that’s still in the making, as Hank is lucky enough to bear witness to every day. Lucky enough to see all the little things about Connor that keep emerging every day -- the way he’s found out how to scratch Sumo in just the right spot to make his leg kick, a reflex Connor indulges in inducing often; the oh-so-very quiet and rare humming from Connor as he cooks or washes the dishes, a tune Hank hasn’t ever heard; the handful of times he’s caught Connor checking his reflection in a window or the fridge or the mirror in the bathroom, tilting and angling his head, yet not ever really preening himself in a way that would suggest vanity.

Leaning back a bit into his original position also tilts Connor’s head back in a way that reveals a bit more of his face to Hank. He can see the moles spotting his forehead and nose and the upper part of his cheek that isn’t pressed into Hank’s shoulder, and now they stay still for Hank to idly count them all. Breathing is the only sound that fills the room -- loud and heavy from Sumo, deep and steady from Connor, and light and shallow from Hank, trying to keep as still as possible to keep from shattering this silence, this moment.

In short: God, he’s fucking trapped.

He tilts his head back and sighs a big breath he needs, carefully lifting his unoccupied hand to rub his face and resigning himself to his fate.

But even this alone seems to be just enough to wake Connor, and Hank freezes too late as the other stirs. Connor shifts against him, momentarily gripping Hank’s arm just a little tighter before relaxing with a quiet noise behind a sigh and slipping away to sit upright. He blinks a couple times, looking groggy and a bit disoriented. It takes a moment to realize where he is and what he had been doing, and he abruptly sits back and scoots a little away from Hank, eyes widening a bit. Sumo, disturbed by the movement, grunts in disapproval.

(Hank already misses the warm presence at his side and on his shoulder, even with the dull ache in his neck already punishing him for such a position.)

Connor seems to unconsciously register an empathetic realization of that pain, cupping a hand to rub the back of his neck. He diverts his eyes and ducks his head, embarrassed. “Lieu-- I mean -- I, uh,” he stumbles over his words, his light circling yellow as he stammers. “I’m sorry,” he finally manages, composing himself. “I didn’t mean to intrude upon your personal space. You accidentally fell asleep here rather than in your own bed. I didn’t want to move and risk disturbing you, so I tried to make your positioning as comfortable as possible,” he explains himself hurriedly. “I understand that this is what you might consider an invasion of your personal space and I apologize if I crossed a personal boundary of yours. It wasn’t intentional, and I promise it won’t happen again without your consent.”

Hank is struck by the sight of Connor being borderline frantic in trying to justify such an innocent gesture. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen the android so nervous and maybe even a little flustered. Maybe it’s just the side effects of all his systems struggling to kick back into high gear that makes Connor fumble over his answers and explanations, but Hank’s intuition can’t seem to settle on that being the only reason behind Connor’s visible discomfort under Hank’s scrutiny.

“Connor, hey, relax,” Hank says, raising a placating hand to him. “I’m not gonna bite your head off for trying to see if you’d be a good neck pillow for me. Didn’t work great, but it’s the thought that counts.”

When that doesn’t seem to help Connor feel any better, Hank thinks he can feel his face heat up involuntarily as he continues. “Look, don’t worry about it. It was nice. Of you. To do,” He admits haltingly, and now he definitely feels hot in the face, which is stupid, because he doesn’t even really know why. This is such a stupid thing for them both to feel so weird about.

Connor is pretty much new to everything about normal life, Hank reminds himself. Despite having probably the entire internet as a frame of reference, Connor can only really guess at how to act in a real relationship -- a friendship -- with a real person. Hank’s heart twists at the realization of how little Connor really knows about living with another person, about living in general, and Hank can hardly blame him for that. Maybe he’s just seeking out the best of it where he can get it, maybe just the thing he’s been deprived of most, ever since he was activated -- human touch.

Or maybe Hank is just looking into this waaay too much. It’d be pretty shitty for Connor to learn anything about living from a washed-up alcoholic carrying so much fucking baggage everywhere he goes.

Hank forces himself to look back up at Connor to meet his eyes, wanting him to believe the honesty behind his next words. “I don’t mind it, Con, really. You don’t have to be afraid of getting comfortable with me.” And he means this, not just in the literal sense.

Connor stares back at him but doesn’t speak, eyes still slightly widened, seemingly taken aback by Hank’s sudden sincerity. His light remains a calm blue, but Hank still wishes he could get some other indicator of what Connor’s thinking.

The silence stretches out as the two stare at each other, and Hank can only hope that Connor knows he’s being genuine. And really, why should he think otherwise?

And now the silence has officially crossed into the “so-long-it’s-weird” territory.

God, it’s way too early for this shit.

Hank is the first to break, buckling under Connor’s serious brown stare. Face growing warm again, he turns to get up, clearing his throat. “Gotta take a piss,” he grunts eloquently.

Connor nods and slips out of the couch. “I’ll start breakfast,” he says quietly.

-

Hank begins to pay more attention to Connor -- not to say that he wasn’t paying attention to him already, just doing more observing. Out of curiosity. Just plain curiosity and nothing more.

But now he can see just how restless Connor is becoming with each passing day.

He’s begun to constantly pace across the house, flitting from room to room. Hank isn’t quite sure what exactly it is that Connor’s doing, but as the back and forth becomes quicker and more frequent, it’s begun to drive Hank up the wall just from watching all the movement. And that’s just during the times when he’s not at the precinct. God knows if Connor gets up to more than just that when Hank’s not at home.

Hank takes the day after the next off to try and get some real clothes for Connor. Clothes of his own, clothes that aren’t faded or linty or threadbare, clothes that he doesn’t halfway drown in.

(He does this regretfully, since a shameful part of him is going to miss Connor walking around in a hoodie a bit too big for him, or in a t-shirt with a collar slightly too wide showing off the moles on his shoulders and collarbones, or walking around in loose, baggy pajama pants with the drawstrings tied tight and hanging long and low.)

Connor, for some reason, also seems resistant to this. He’s still protesting even as Hank is putting his coat on to go out.

“Lieutenant, I can assure you the clothes you’ve already given me are more than adequate for me -- you don’t have to go out of your way like this for things I don’t really need.”

“Hank.”

“Hank,” Connor corrects himself, “you really don’t need the added expenses as well. It’d make more sense to spend your money on something more useful.”

Hank heaves a long-suffering sigh as he slips his shoes on. “Connor, we as humans don’t always do the things that make the most sense. Sometimes, we just do things because we want to do them, plain and simple. Besides, I’m a grown-ass adult who can do what he pleases with his own money.” He stops Connor from putting on the jacket of his android uniform and shoves another one of his coats into Connor’s chest instead. “Now, let’s go.”

“Hank, I don’t even need th--”

“Connor, for the love of God, you’re not going to change my mind on this, and we’re not leaving until you’re dressed like a normal person. Put the damn coat on.”

The ride to the strip mall is mercifully quiet. It isn’t tense -- Hank is just relieved he doesn’t have to field any more arguments from Connor about how this whole endeavor is “illogical” and “unnecessary.”

The actual mall itself has gone an eerie sort of quiet, impersonating an abandoned ghost town with the help of an overcast sky and the dark, empty storefronts. As they walk across the square, Hank notices that its centerpiece -- a statue commemorating android servitude or something -- is missing from its pedestal, and he gives a small smirk in satisfaction. Good for them.

There are many stores that are still closed and dark, either from the aftermath of the evacuation or from the aftermath of the revolution, lacking androids still willing to man their counters. The sight makes a part of Hank a bit sad, but another store with it’s lights on quickly dissipates the feeling. It caught his eye immediately as they made their way towards it, but Hank’s gait stutters when he spots a “NO ANDROIDS ALLOWED” sign still fixed upon its glass door and another on its windows. It makes his hands ball into fists at his sides, and he gears up with half a mind to march over there and give whoever the fuck’s in there a piece of his mind.

A hand on his arm stops him. Connor leans forward a bit and tilts his head at Hank, giving him a small, crooked smile that looks almost sad on his face. “It’s fine. Let’s go somewhere else. It isn’t worth our time.”

Hank lets out a long, steady breath through his nose, relaxing under Connor’s touch. “It isn’t worth our fucking money, either,” he mutters in agreement.

Another department store with its lights on further down the street is a much more refreshing sight, an opposing sign on its door reading “ALL ANDROIDS WELCOME.” It immediately commits Hank’s business to them.

Just like outside, the store is relatively devoid of any people despite the fact that normally this time of day would be peak hours for these businesses. Making their way towards the men’s section, Hank can see that some of the clothing racks are looking a little sparse, but this is mostly the case in the clearance sections. Thankfully, there aren’t any real issues, though Hank isn’t quite sure of what negatives he was expecting in the first place.

Out of the corner of his eye, Hank can already see Connor’s head turning this way and that, trying to surreptitiously scan the racks or glance at something that catches his eye. Quirking a smile, Hank makes a vague, sweeping gesture towards racks of clothing before them. “Go nuts, kid.”

Connor hesitates briefly, giving Hank a look somewhere between amused and uncertain, but he obliges just a moment later, slowly walking back and forth between the racks as he takes his time scanning through each row. Hank follows him at a distance and watches with interest, curious to see what Connor will pick now that he’s been set free to wander and choose as he pleases.

Hank’s heart sinks a little as it becomes more and more obvious that Connor seems to be trending more towards practical, work-related atmosphere clothes -- monochromatic button ups with slacks and things of the like. Sure, Hank has no problem with Connor getting some real clothes to wear around at the precinct if he wants to keep it so professional, but business-wear shouldn’t be the only thing that makes up his closet.

Hank stops him with a hand on his shoulder before Connor can pick up another identical white button up. Connor turns his head sharply, almost looking startled.

“Hey, Con? You know we aren’t just shopping for work clothes, right? You can get whatever you want, really,” Hank says.

Connor looks down at the clothes already in his arms, eyebrows knitted together, light briefly circling yellow. “Getting clothes exclusively for work would be much more practical than--”

Hank sighs, exasperated. “God, how many times do we have to go over this before it gets past your stupid programming? It doesn’t matter if the things you want are practical or not. It doesn’t matter if what you want contradicts with what makes sense. Look--” Hank fully turns Connor around by grabbing his other shoulder, leaning down a little to look Connor square in the face. “All that really matters is what you want -- whatever’s important to you, whatever’s going to make you feel good, whatever feels right. You deserve to want things, even if they don’t even make much sense to yourself. It’s part of being human.”

Connor stares at him, light circling a full yellow, perhaps a bit surprised by the passion behind Hank’s words over his clothing choices. Hank, suddenly feeling awkward, steps back from Connor and clears his throat. “Unless, you know, that type of style is really what you want,” he backpedals quickly, gaze sliding downward and to the side. “I’m really not in a position to judge you for that. Just...go with whatever you want. Whatever makes you happy, you know?”

Connor continues to stare at Hank, who is beginning to wonder if that whole spiel was more of an asshole move than he thought. However, Connor’s LED circles back to blue with a blink of his eyes, the furrow between his brows a little less pronounced. “I think I understand what you mean,” he says quietly. “But, if it’s alright, can I keep the clothes I’ve already picked out? I may need them for work regardless.”

Maybe he still doesn’t quite understand, Hank thinks. But that may be Hank’s own fault this time. “Shit, Connor, go ahead. You don’t need my permission to do anything.”

Connor nods, turning back around to continue his search. He retraces his steps back towards where he began, and Hank is about ready to settle in for another good 15-20 minutes watching him go through the racks again when he notices that Connor seems to be moving with more purpose, less of a wanderer and more of a quick scanner. Hank watches as Connor seems to start at something he almost walks right past, backtracking to pull it out. It’s a reddish-brown sweater with some sort of diamond-patterned thin stripe across the upper half. Connor continues to pick out things in a similar fashion through the clothes he’s already gone through, sometimes bypassing entire rows without so much as a cursory glance.

He already knows what he wants, Hank realizes. They’re things that had already caught Connor’s eye that he had chosen to ignore in favor of whatever was more “practical.” Hank tries not to swell with pride for him at this development, but can’t tamp down the fond smile that takes over his face when he sees Connor pick out a grey and blue argyle sweater. Yeah, that definitely seems more like something Connor would wear. Hank grabs him a basket.

The colors he seems to be drawn to still seem to be a little bland, but Connor pulling out a loose, deep mustard cardigan raises Hank’s brows at the interruption to that pattern. He seems to differentiate between looser, more colorful casual clothes and duller, more form-fitting work clothes, quickly establishing distinct styles between the two. Overall, though, his style still seems to be emerging as a definite Nerdy As Fuck. Not that Hank would ever say that to his face -- this is Connor exploring himself, a delicate process Hank wouldn’t dare disturb with condescension.

Hank catches up to him when Connor stops at a large, round table with dozens of different, neatly folded ties on display. Hank bumps his side with an arm. “What’cha thinkin’?”

Connor glances back up at him and opens his mouth as to speak, but seems to struggle with what exactly to say. “Look, I--” he pauses again, hesitantly. “I understand that the things I want are...fine to want, even if they’re illogical or unreasonable or unnecessary, but--” He turns back to the table of ties before them, eyebrows furrowed. “Do I really need more than one tie? More than the one I already have? It’s fine, but…” he trails off. To Hank, he looks way too troubled over the possibility of wanting more than one tie to wear.

Hank’s mouth quirks up in amusement despite himself, rolling his eyes. “Kid, there are people who fuckin’ collect ties like nobody’s business. Having a couple extras isn’t gonna hurt anyone.” Despite the number of times he’s already had to hammer this point into Connor over and over again, he can’t really find it in him to get angry.

Connor returns his smile sheepishly, giving him a nod before continuing to walk around, now perusing the ties with a hyper-focused look on his face. His selection doesn’t include more than four ties, but Connor seems to consider each selection as seriously as the rest of his clothes, so it takes a while. Hank is a bit concerned to see some paisley patterns leaking into the mix -- Hank wears his terrible fashion with pride in his sense of irony, but he isn’t sure if much of that irony comes across to Connor.

Then Connor picks up a pair of suspenders, and Hank isn’t sure exactly what the fuck is influencing Connor’s taste.

Connor looks a bit uncomfortable and guilty about the overall price that the cashier totals at the register, but Hank stops him before he can say anything in protest. “Connor, whatever you’re going to say, I don’t care,” Hank leans over and mutters into his ear with a hand on his opposite shoulder. “Think of it in terms of payment or some shit. You’ve been basically acting like a maid for the past month for no reason. It’s the least I can do for you.”

Connor searches his face, still looking a little dubious, but doesn’t push it any further. He only leans into his touch a bit before Hank pulls out his wallet to pay.

“You sure you don’t have to try any of this on?” Hank asks, peering into one of the big paper shopping bags he’s carrying as they walk outside.

Connor gives him a quizzical look before shaking his head. “I know my exact measurements. I just examined the clothing I picked out in real time and compared it to my own dimensions.”

Hank raises his eyebrows. “Well, shit, that’d be so fucking useful. Would save me a lot of time and effort for myself,” he grumbles.

The rest of the walk back to the car is also silent, save for the rustling of the huge paper shopping bags. However, once again, it is Connor who breaks the silence once they’re back on the road and heading home.

“Hank?”

“Yeah?”

A pause. “Thank you.” Another, shorter pause -- a hesitation. “Not just for the money or the clothes. For your patience with me, teaching me, trying to help me understand--” Hank sees Connor make a vague circular gesture with his hands out of the corner of his eye. “--Everything. I really appreciate it -- everything that you’re doing for me,” he finishes sincerely. His tone makes Hank’s heart go soft and his face go warm. Stealing a glance into Connor’s dark, warm eyes only intensifies the feeling. Shit.

“Don’t worry about it,” Hank mumbles. “‘Least I can do, you know?”

-

With everything put away and hung up, Hank is pleased to see how fluffed out Connor’s side of the closet is now. It’s a relief in comparison to how shabby and barren it had been when Hank first passed on his hand-me-downs. They both stand in front of the closet now, as they had done the first time, with Hank feeling much more satisfied with the outcome this second time around.

Then Hank starts with a realization. “Here, uh...I’ll let you get changed. Then we can eat or watch more TV or something.”

“Okay,” Connor replies with a nod, and Hank awkwardly excuses himself from the room, shutting the door behind him.

It takes an almost ridiculous amount of time for Connor to come back out again. While Hank appreciates the delay by using the time to order pizza, he can’t imagine what Connor could possibly be doing. Hank is just about to go check in on him, just to make sure he didn’t somehow short-circuit trying to pick out what to wear or some shit, when he finally hears the bedroom door open again.

“What took you so long?” Hank calls from the couch, craning his neck to see.

“Nothing,” Connor replies in a defensive tone. “I was just figuring out what to wear.”

He reveals his final choice at that as he crosses into the living room. Neatly folded over his arm is a large grey fleece blanket that Hank had also insisted on buying at the store when he saw Connor repeatedly going over its soft texture with a thumb. (“It’s kind of like Sumo’s fur…”) He’s wearing a pair of grey jogger sweatpants that fit him way better than Hank’s and a simple white long-sleeve shirt -- which also fits him way better than anything of Hank’s he’d worn before. The look is startlingly similar to what he was wearing in Hank’s dream, the memory of it suddenly coming back full force.

“Hank? Are you alright?” Connor tilts his head at him. “Your heart rate jumped.” He gives a tentative smile. “Is what I’m wearing really that bad?”

That shithead can read his heartbeat? Fuck. What the fuck. That’s cheating. Hank’s already blushed far too many times today for a man his age.

“No! No, you’re fine. You look good,” Hank mumbles, then frowns at him. “Don’t fucking scan me like that, though. It’s weird.”

“Sorry, Hank, I won’t do it again,” Connor promises, in a mild way that Hank doesn’t fully believe. He deposits his blanket over the back of the couch and starts walking into the kitchen.

“Oh, hey, don’t bother. I already ordered pizza.”

Connor falters to a stop, turning around to fix a disapproving glare at Hank. “You have plenty of healthier foods in this house. Why would you insist on going out of your way to get more food that is just as bad for you as they are good?”

Hank shrugs. “Because I’m human, Connor. And I wanted to give you a break from playing house all the goddamn time.” He pats the space on the couch next to him. “Come on, we can keep watching The Office.”

Connor manages to hold his glare for a second or two more before it softens and melts away with a sigh he doesn’t need. He sits down on the couch next to Hank and drapes the blanket over their laps, settling in so close that their sides brush comfortably. Hank tries not to think too much about it, but the feeling combined with how well Connor’s clothes fit him now is a bit distracting. He concentrates on selecting an episode on the TV more than he needs to.

They have to start over from episode five since Hank was too weak to stay awake fully through it, but Connor doesn’t seem to mind. Hank notices with amusement that Connor seems like he’s able to relax a lot more easily now that he’s had practice.

After the pizza arrives and Hank is warm and full, it’s a bit harder to keep himself from falling asleep again. But he resolutely refuses, even though the new blanket and Connor’s warm presence makes it so damn tempting. He focuses on Connor’s reactions to the screen instead and even catches Connor smiling and huffing out his nose at some funny parts. It fills Hank with more pride in his television taste than he probably deserves credit for.

It’s especially interesting to watch Connor as they get into the second season. God, even after all this time, Hank still remembers “The Dundies.” He barks out a laugh at Connor’s face when an unnamed inebriated secretary kisses the startled office worker -- who is simultaneously her best friend and the other half of their unrequited love -- in her elation over the reward of her own Dundie at the infamous ceremony at Chili’s.

There’s a full three seconds before Connor closes his mouth. “She’s engaged.”

“Yeah.”

“To another man.”

“Well, yeah, but Roy’s a dick. You’ve seen how unhappy she is.”

“...Then why has she stayed with him for so long?”

Hank pauses to think about it, then shrugs. “She’s in denial about how shitty their relationship is. Thinking that’s just what love is for them. It’s not, by the way,” he adds. “It’s…” Hank can’t possibly try to describe the entire concept of love to an android -- not right now, at least -- and sighs. “It’s so much more than that, than what he’s giving her. But her and Jim,” he gestures to the TV. “They’re fucking perfect. She also just...scared. Of changing things, and it not working out in the end.”

Connor stares at him, eyebrows furrowed. “Even if that change could be for the better? Even if it could make her much happier?”

Again, Hank shrugs. “Well, yeah. It’s scary, putting your heart on the line and showing your true feelings and all that. The possibility of rejection? Scary as hell. Everything could also change for the worst.” Of course, Hank vaguely remembers what happens in the end, but Connor doesn’t, so he answers as though he doesn’t know either.

When Connor simply purses his lips and doesn’t answer, returning his eyes to the screen, Hank waves the entire question away. “Eh, it’s probably just a human thing.”

Connor glances back at him, the back at the TV once more. “I suppose so.”

-

At long last, Hank is able to finalize all of Connor’s reinstatement paperwork the next day. With Cyberlife being essentially dissolved after the revolution, Connor is technically no longer their ward, or employee, or whatever he technically was. That, as much, has been officially confirmed on paper -- probably the hardest to get on record despite the obvious collapse of Cyberlife. But, by the Detroit Police Department, Connor can now be an official detective on the squad in the homicide division as Hank’s official partner. With Fowler’s final signature of approval, Connor is officially added to the payroll and can get his own badge and ID when he comes back into work.

The only snag was getting him an official firearm. It’s an entirely different issue, Fowler had told Hank before he could get angry enough to start yelling. Giving androids the right to bear arms could be disastrous with all the contention across the nation at the moment. Hate crimes would skyrocket. People would fear for their lives on a daily basis. Hank almost scoffs at these arguments.

(Sounds like history repeating itself, but this time targeting some of the people who actually deserve it.)

Under the table, though, Fowler has no problem with giving Connor a gun. That puts Hank’s mind a little more at ease about having Connor out on the field with him.

Overall, it’s so very invigorating to finally see Hank’s tedious, endless work finally pay off. Between balancing working cases and an influx of violent crimes reports, it had become mind-numbing to work on every other day. But now, Hank spends the rest of the day in a good mood, even with rat-ass Reed sneering out comments about his pet android, his emotional support android, etc. Hank just keeps imagining how Connor’s face will look once Hank finally delivers the news.

Chapter Text

There isn't much to do outside -- not when winter still grips Detroit so tightly -- so Connor opts to mop the floors of the entire house for the third time this week, once he's done with the usual tidying up.

He remains in his clothes from the night before, simply rolling up his sleeves rather than changing into something more practical for working around the house. He just...doesn't want to.

He wants to indulge in these whims more often, even if it isn't in his nature -- his programming -- to want anything of the sort. (Or anything at all, for that matter.) To say it feels freeing would be a bit on the nose, maybe silly to derive some bit of empowerment over such tiny decisions, but it is.

(Plus, it seems to make Hank happy whenever he displays self-autonomous thinking, but that's besides the point. It’s a fulfilling side-effect, though.)

Just having his own wardrobe now is a large part of that. Connor hadn't even realized how...overwhelming it would be, to just have more than one thing to wear, not already decided for him. He had stood in front of the closet for a long time after Hank had left him to change, struggling a bit to calculate the rapidly growing number of outfits that could be made through each combination of every piece of clothing they had bought.

Not that such simple decisions as picking out what to wear were difficult, per se. Connor, of course, has had to make much harder choices on a much grander scale than dealing with the nuances of fashion. It was the fact that the decisions he has to make now are so simple, so small and silly and insignificant and pointless in comparison. For an android built to solve much harder, more complex, high-stakes problems, why does the question of what to wear for the day trip him up so easily?

Maybe that's really why he hasn't changed out of his clothes yet. So he doesn't have to face that stupid, ridiculous time it takes to make a decision that will by no means actually radically change what will happen today day.

Self-reflection is difficult when there isn't much of the self to reflect on. Connor wonders if it will always be that way, if he will always be that way: never fully able to connect with the norms of everyday human life, forever wandering in confusion through the mundane and unimportant for a decision whose outcome has no purpose.

This train of thought always becomes a bit too nihilistic for Connor’s taste.

He wishes he could get back to work. To him, the choices out there are often the ones that really matter.

At least, he thinks so. He still isn't sure of his place in the DPD after the revolution. He knows Hank has been working on it to some extent, but he’s been very secretive and nonchalant about the entire topic whenever Connor brings it up. The uncertainty only intensifies this feeling of restlessness that keeps him from keeping still.

The mere possibility of being allowed to return to his job was enough for Connor to turn down Markus’ offer -- an assisting, leading position in organizing new android legislations and initiatives -- to work beside him, North, Simon, and Josh as the main representatives of Jericho and, therefore, the entire movement of the android revolution itself.

You could help make a world of difference up in Washington. Markus had written to him in a personal message. You could continue to fight for our people. We could use a brilliant mind like yours to sow the first seeds of real freedom into the heart of our nation.

I am deeply humbled by your offer, Connor had replied, but I would much rather make a difference where the heart of the revolution was born. I would like to personally bring justice for those of us who have suffered the most. They need our help desperately and now.

Markus relented, commending Connor in his pursuit of his own noble cause.

It still felt a little strange for Connor to consider himself a part of the great android revolution. It was never a role he was meant to play, in the most literal sense of the phrase; it was a decision he suddenly found himself jumping into when standing in front of Markus and lowering his gun led to hundreds of androids awakening in echoing waves around him. Taking on a similarly weighty role now was not something he wanted to continue doing.

But Connor could still further their cause on the ground, so to speak, working in the ways he still knows best, in the job he was meant to do.

Hopefully, he still has the chance to.

Once Conner inevitably runs out of tasks to complete, he tries to busy himself with Sumo, teaching him new commands outside of the basics he already knows: sit, stay, lay down, drop it, and, of course, attack (which may as well just be "speak").

With all the time that Connor has, he's already taught Sumo how to roll over and almost how to shake hands/paws. Yeah, there isn't much to show for how long Connor's been working with him, but Sumo is far from a puppy and doesn't have nearly as much energy that could be channeled into training. But he's both extremely food and affection motivated, so both seem enough to hold his attention for an hour or so before he gets too tired and/or lazy to continue.

Connor is reluctant to start going through Hank's books. With the processing power behind his speed-reading, he's sure he could easily finish the entire bookcase within a couple days. So he takes to organizing them instead -- first alphabetically by title, then by author last name, then by author first name. Today, he switches it up a bit, dividing and sorting them by genre. Hank has a widely varied and eclectic taste, not much different from his taste in music.

There are still four hours left before the lieutenant comes home when Connor finishes. Wasting this much time is already an incredible feat in and of itself.

He takes to wearing away a path into the wood floors that lead from room to room, calmly funneling his frustration and impatience into each step. The walking is meant to be an outlet for such feelings, but the longer he does it, the more it seems to intensify. It bubbles unpleasantly within him, and he is unable to outpace it and leave it behind.

There's no point in obsessing over any of this, Connor reasons to himself. Everything will happen in due course. Hank has been working very hard for me. The thought eases the tension he's carrying, cooling the hot frustration into something warmer and kinder.

Shoulders drooping, Connor drops onto the couch and softly calls Sumo from his corner in the living room. The dog heaves himself up and clambers onto the couch, happily sighing as Connor digs his fingers into his fur and kneads the skin underneath. The thing thinks he's a lapdog in Connor's arms, but Connor doesn't mind. To him, the weight in his lap and the warm fur under his hands have become comforting sensations to him, things he now associates with relaxing, with home.

"This sucks," he tells Sumo matter-of-factly. A phrase Hank uses often. This seems like the appropriate situation to use it in.

With, quite literally, nothing else to do, Connor moves out from under Sumo to lean further back and against him and begins to shift his systems into stasis. The process is still an unfamiliar and uneasy thing to sink into, but he’s becoming more and more accustomed to it as it becomes a part of his daily routine. It hasn’t gotten to the point where Connor necessarily likes to do it yet -- it’s too much time wasted, even with nothing to do; it’s too exposed and risky, even in the safety of home -- but there’s some relief in giving his processors a break from agitating themselves with obsessive thinking. Sinking into such an emptiness is becoming less frightening and more calming.

Having Sumo by his side helps.

-

Hank manages to wiggle out of desk duty an hour early to speed home and let Connor know the good news.

He walks in on what must be the two sleepiest boys on this side of Detroit, unknowingly interrupting their napping session. Sumo lets out a soft boof upon his entry. Connor twists his head around from where he was resting on the couch, still blinking awake to the sound of jangling keys and swishing fabric as Hank shuffles in. Hank can’t help but smile at the grogginess on his expression as Connor rubs the side of his face and lets out a sigh. “Welcome home, Lieutenant. How was work?”

“Alright. Nothing super exciting,” Hank replies, moving past the couch and into the kitchen. He wants to hold on to his little surprise a bit longer. “How was sleeping all day?” he teases.

“It wasn’t all day.” Connor sounds defensive. Hank smothers a huff of laughter as he grabs a beer from the fridge and cracks it open. “I may not be able to do much from home, but that doesn’t mean I don’t do anything at all.”

“Yeah, well, you won’t have to worry about that any longer.” Hank lets a grin take over his face as he ambles back to the couch and leans over the back of it next to Connor. “I got your job back.”

The way Connor’s eyes widen and eyebrows raise is priceless. His jaw doesn’t drop, but it’s open long and wide enough to catch flies. He shifts closer to fully face Hank and look him in the eye. “Really?”

“Hell yeah. You’re back on the squad as an official detective. You can start tomorrow.” Hank claps him on the shoulder as he rounds the couch. He takes a swig of his beer before shooting Connor another lopsided grin. “About time, too. Been missing my partner.”

The dazzling smile that breaks upon Connor’s face and the twinkling in his eyes is nearly enough to blind Hank. “That’s fantastic news!” His smile falters, then morphs into something gentler, but still happy. He glances down and away. “Thank you, Hank. I know you’ve been working hard to get me back onto the force.” He tilts his head to look back up at him. “I really appreciate it.”

Those warm, brown eyes, that lingering smile, that tilt of his head that makes his tousled hair fall across the top of his face…

Connor is going to fucking kill him one day and Hank would accept such a noble death with open arms.

Hank tears his eyes away before the amount of time he spends staring at Connor gets too weird. “Yeah, well, Merry Early Christmas,” he mutters.

“Christmas isn’t for another two weeks.”

“Just take this as a gift and leave it at that, smartass.”

-

Apparently, whatever agreement the Lieutenant and Captain Fowler had reached wasn’t entirely followed through upon. They find out when the captain calls them into his office as soon as they arrive.

“The fuck do you mean, Assistant Detective??”

“It’s really just semantics, Hank. I have people to answer to, too, you know. I can only get so much past them--”

“Bullshit.”

“He has no experience on the force as a real detective--”

“You saw how quickly he caught that android on the Ortiz case! His first fucking day on the job!”

“Do not,--” Fowler’s fist slams on the desk to accentuate. “--interrupt me again!” He closes his eyes and takes a deep, heavy breath, smoothing down his tie before continuing. “You’re being ridiculous. It doesn’t matter whether he’s ‘Assistant Detective’ or just ‘Detective.’ He’s on the team -- that’s what matters, and you should be grateful for it. Android resentment is at an all-time high and who knows when things will improve.” He lets out a sigh, his face softening into something more apologetic. “That being said, he’ll be under probation for the time-being, and he still needs to wear an android uniform.”

The fire Connor can see in Hank’s eyes looks like it could set Fowler’s clothes ablaze. “Are you fucking serious?”

Now would be a good time to intervene.

“He’s right,” Connor says to Hank, stepping forward. “Androids working in local and state law enforcement, as well as other local and state government jobs, are still being required to identify themselves as androids to the public, although this may vary or change between differing state policies.” He turns to face Captain Fowler. “I don’t have a problem with this requirement, nor my rank or the precautions behind it. I’m just grateful to be back.”

“See?” Fowler gestures towards Connor with a flick of his hand. “It--he’s fine with it. I don’t know why you’re getting so worked up about it when this hardly even involves you. He’s here now, at least. Wasn’t that your goal?”

Hank screws his eyes shut and pinches his nose. “Fine...fine, whatever. Give him his stupid uniform and whatever else he needs. This is...it’s better than nothing.”

-

Connor returns a short time later to perch on Hank’s desk and capture his immediate and full attention.

He’s decked out in the full police android outfit, nearly identical to what all the PC200s on the force would wear. The shirt of the uniform and the long sleeves underneath it hug and define his sleek body until his belt and holster jut out from it, just above his hips. Hank doesn’t dare let his eyes linger any lower.

(But the pants fit Connor well, too.)

Connor extends an arm to examine his gloved hand with interest. “I don’t mind it,” he says mildly. He puts the hand down to pick up a police cap with the other one from where he had put it down beside him. “Although I think the hat is a bit much.” He smiles and spins the hat on a finger by the stiff part of the cap. “What say you?”

You look good, Hank wants to say. You look good in everything. That’s what it’s starting to feel like, anyway.

But he shouldn’t be thinking like that or feeling this way or looking at him like he is right now. Not with that bright, android blue brand on his chest and band around his arm. Not with the holographic brand on his right breast shifting between his model number and job position -- now “Investigative Assistant,” which is not the same as “Assistant Detective,” Hank decides firmly -- yet not even showing his name. This whole ensemble isn’t something that should be legally required of him. None of this should be mandatory by law.

(It was, once, long ago. The triangles, the bands, the brandings. What shitty parallels.)

“You look ridiculous,” Hank mutters. “Like some glorified, petty officer no one actually takes seriously.”

Connor studies the look on his face. “Lieutenant, this isn’t any different from any other job position with uniform requirements,” he says gently. “Every police officer at the precinct has to wear a uniform like this.”

“You’re not a police officer,” Hank says through gritted teeth.

“I’m not quite a detective either. This is just temporary until either a new uniform is designed for my current position, or until I gather enough experience to rise up in rank.”

Hank scoffs. “I think leading an entire fucking revolution is enough experience for a lifetime.”

Connor gives him a withering look in return. “I didn’t lead it. You’re greatly oversimplifying my role in the Detroit Revolution.”

“I saw you lead an entire fucking army out of the Cyberlife Tower!”

“We didn’t actually engage in any of the fighting.”

“God, for fuck’s sake--” Hank mutters, standing up. “My point is--” he jabs a finger into Connor’s chest -- “you deserve better. More than just ‘Investigative Assistant,’ more than just ‘android officer,’ more than just android.” The finger emphasizing his words retreats as Hank leans back, voice softening. “You’re so much more than that, Connor.”

Connor blinks owlishly back at him, startled and at a loss for words.

Maybe that was too much.

Then Connor glances away, a soft look on his face Hank can’t quite pin down. “Thank you, Hank,” he murmurs, then looks back up at him again.

Connor’s eyes are beautifully dark in this light, like two pools of endless depth that Hank wouldn’t mind sinking into for a while.

(He’s got another mole just above his eyelid -- Hank’s right, Connor’s left. Hank feels like he discovers new spots on Connor every day.)

“Anderson! Connor!” Fowler’s clear, loud voice breaks the spell between them.

Connor sits bolt upright and whips his head around to look towards the captain’s office. Simultaneously, Hank stiffens and flushes at the realization of just how close they are. He takes a quick step back and tries not to look so suspicious. Of what, he doesn’t really know.

Connor turns back to look questioningly at Hank, who shrugs at him in turn, then hops off his desk to follow Hank as he leads the way back into Fowler’s office.

Now, with Connor back and all suited up, Fowler takes the liberty of dumping a whole new load of case files for the two of them to sift through and work on. They’re still the leading unit of android crimes -- the only thing that’s changed is the focus that’s shifted from android perpetrators to android victims.

And boy, have there been a lot of those in the past couple weeks.

Disappearances, hate crimes, even deaths. Even suicides. Distraught androids not able to handle the consciousness that comes with being sucked into living, disheartened from being constant victims of violence and abuse, fearful of assimilating into a society that was never meant to accommodate them as anything else but servants to uphold it.

Lost.

They get called in after a report of such an incident underway before the end of the day.

-

--- Connecting…
--- Sync in progress…
--- Sync done
--- Collecting data…
--- Processing data…
--- FRESH BLUE BLOOD
--- Model: PL600 - Serial #470 622 168
--- Registered name: Julian
--- Android is wounded

“Jesus christ, do you have to do that every time?”

Connor straightens from where he was kneeling over the splatter of blue blood on the ground. “Lieutenant, I need to collect as much information as possible to decide on my approach,” he explains mildly.

Hank scrunches up his nose. “Fine, whatever. Just fucking. Wipe that shit off your hands at least.”

Connor obliges and wipes his finger discreetly on the pants of his uniform.

They’re on a rooftop of an apartment complex downtown. Another one, Connor can’t help but notice, as he surveys the scene around him.

(He briefly wonders if this type of older model is particularly prone to outbursts of emotion and violence. He really doesn’t have enough data to support that conclusion, though.)

The two of them have already been briefed on the present situation: A neighbor on the 18th floor had made a disturbance call in regards to the floor above her, reporting loud, repeated slamming and arguing. The two responding officers checked in on the residence on the 19th floor, but when they stated who they were and why they were there to the muffled voice behind the door, an argument seemed to break out between two different people behind it, followed by the sounds of scuffling and struggling. Upon entering, the officers found the apartment in disarray and the window to the fire escape open, after which backup was called in and the officers followed in pursuit.

Upon reaching the roof, shots were fired in response to the officers attempting to approach two figures that appeared to be struggling behind a nearby AC unit, wherein one shot over the other’s shoulder, but missed. An officer returned fire, although he wasn’t able to discern if he hit the armed or unarmed person, and the two fled to take cover further away.

(HVAC systems, Connor had noted. Old to match the rest of the building. No more than six or eight on here, but still enough to provide many places to hide and tall enough to provide adequate cover.)

Upon reinforcements arriving, the gunman seemed to grow increasingly agitated, holding the other person with him hostage, reportedly threatening harm to them both. The police are still unsure of who exactly is injured or even what they look like, as the responding officers didn’t have enough time to identify either of them with certainty. A select few have remained on the roof, reinforcements waiting just behind the door to the roof, trying to talk with an angry, disembodied voice coming from somewhere behind another AC unit ahead of them, who’s already fired at them from wherever his/their cover is when they tried to advance. They’ve been trying to communicate with the other person, a potential hostage, on the rooftop, but have been unsuccessful in getting any response.

And so the lieutenant and negotiator were called in to assess and handle the situation accordingly.

The splatter of thirium on the ground tells Connor that at least one of them is an android, most likely living with the other person on the roof with them, either another android or a human.

Frustration prickles through Connor. It would have taken less than a second for him to have scanned their faces and positively identified them.

But he wasn’t here when it happened. And now he is, and he has to work with what he has.

(He still wishes he’d gotten a chance to look through the apartment before they came up here. Maybe then he would have more helpful information that just the model of an android.)

He begins walking forward to make his approach, but a sudden hand grasps his arm to stop him. He turns to see Hank looking at him with furrowed brows.

“Hey, be careful, kid. Don’t do anything stupid.”

Connor nods and cracks him a small smile to reassure him. “I don’t plan to, Lieutenant.”

Hank stares at him for a moment longer, then nods and lets go, turning to signal to the other officers to stay back as Connor goes in.

--- Neutralize situation
---- Locate gunman
---- Approach slowly
---- Calm and disarm

“Julian?” he calls out as he eases forward. “Are you okay? I saw--”

“How do you know his name?” a harsh, unfamiliar voice yells back.

--- Audio recorded
--- Analyzing vocal tone…
--- Analyzing vocal pitch…
--- Analysis complete - Model: HR400 (Traci, male)
--- Second person identified

“I saw the blood,” Connor finishes. It’s half an explanation. “My name is Connor. What can I call you?”

“Are...are you with the police?” The HR400 calls suspiciously.

--- Analyzing present audio input…
--- Attempting localization…
--- Localization unsuccessful. More input data required.

“I’m here to help you,” Connor answers soothingly. “Both of you. I want to make sure Julian is okay, too.” Running a scan on the ground highlights droplets of thirium leading forward and trailing slightly left. He begins to follow it, keeping his slow, steady pace. “He’s still with you, right? Can I speak to him?”

There’s a moment of silence. “I’m okay,” a higher, shakier voice finally replies. “You-you should go, though. Please.”

--- Possible hostage
His system concludes.

“I want to help you,” Connor repeats, edging around another unit. “This is a difficult situation, but I need you to trust me to get you two out of it. No one has to get hurt.”

It’s a purposeful mistake.

“He’s already hurt, you fucking asshole!” the first voice spits, louder now as Connor comes closer. “One of your humans shot him!”

--- Analyzing present audio input…
--- Attempting localization…
--- Localization successful
--- Location found

His system highlights a unit about 20 feet ahead of him, roughly constructing two figures crouched behind it.

“The officer you shot at was just trying to protect his partner,” Conner explains. “I’m sure you were trying to do the same thing, right?”

The next time the HR400 speaks again, his voice is less aggressive, more hesitant. “Y-yeah.”

“And I’m sure you still want to keep Julian safe, right?”

“...yes.”

“Then could you come out so we can talk about it, about how all this happened? I’m sure I could help you better if we could all talk face-to-face.”

The head of the male Traci peeks out from behind the sign of the unit Connor’s HUD had indicated, and his eyes widen. He’s on his feet in an instant, whirling around and backing up in one violent motion, revealing them both. He has one arm wrapped around Julian’s neck to hold and keep him close, the other extended and holding a handgun trained on Connor. “Don’t come any closer,” he yells. His LED flares a bright red.

Or what? Connor can’t help but think, glancing at Julian. You’ll shoot him? Is he not important to you? He stops regardless.

Oh, Connor suddenly realizes. He’ll shoot me.

And there’s no guarantee now that he would be able to come back from that with a fresh new body. No guarantee now that he would be okay anyway.

And he isn’t used to taking his own life into consideration like that.

“Okay, okay.” Connor raises his hands to his chest placatingly, palms out. “I’ll stay right here. We can talk like this.” He offers them a smile, but it falters minutely when he spots the fresh thirium staining Julian’s clothes, trailing down his front and onto the floor. It’s coming from somewhere near his left shoulder, but the Traci’s arm blocks Connor from taking a full scan. “I really would like to get Julian’s wound treated, though. Don’t you?

The HR400’s eyes narrow. “Are you saying I don’t care about him?” He lets out a bitter, empty laugh. “I care more about him than any of you other fuckers up here. Even after the revolution, we’re still -- we’re still just androids. The humans can still do whatever they want to us.”

“I understand your frustration.” Connor places a hand on his chest, next to the fluorescent blue triangle. “You can see that clearly.” He begins creeping closer again. “I know what kinds of things humans keep doing to us. I work with the Detroit police to handle crimes against androids. But not all humans are bad. There are good people out there trying to help us, too.” He raises a sweeping arm. “Including the people on this roof. We’re all just trying to help you.”

The HR400 remains silent, eyes darting between Connor to where the police have taken cover behind him. His posture loosens slightly, red gradually ticking into yellow.

“What can I call you?” Connor asks.

“...Finn.”

“Can I ask how you got up here, Finn? I understand that a neighbor was concerned about the arguing she heard coming from your apartment.”

Finn’s arm tightens around Julian’s neck, whose eyes dart fearfully between the other two. “That’s none of your fucking business.”

“I think you’ve made it everyone’s business now. Maybe I can help with this, too.” Connor pauses, considering the two. “I understand things are tense right now with everything going on. Tense, even between loved ones. Even between each other. I’m sure that’s put a strain on the relationship between you two as well.” He’s still inching forward, shuffling in tiny increments.

Finn’s face screws up angrily, his voice tight. “He wanted to leave me. He said I was too controlling, too angry all the time.” He lets out another empty laugh. “He said that we couldn’t stay together, that he couldn’t support me anymore, not here.” He rounds the gun to press against Julian’s head now, teeth gritted. “He used to say that he loved me, but it was all a lie. And I can’t live without him.” He waves the gun between himself and Julian, adding darkly,

“Either he stays, or we both go.”

The probability of success drops significantly as Finn’s stress levels skyrocket. Connor has halved the distance between them, but it isn’t enough yet.

(And god, this is so similar, so familiar.)

“Finn,” Connor calls again, urgency seeping into his voice. “I understand. He’s someone you love, and you just want to protect him. Especially with all the violence targeted towards androids now. It’s hard to stay strong by yourself, and important to look out for each other.”

Finn nods. “Yeah. Yes, exactly.”

The probability of success slowly rises again.

“But you have to understand,” Connor continues, taking a larger step forward. “This isn’t protecting Julian.”

Finn blinks, then shakes his head as if shaking off the point Connor’s trying to make. The gun presses harder into Julian’s head, who lets out a whimper at the pressure. “No, no, you don’t understand, he has to stay with me. It’s the only way he’s going to be safe.”

“This isn’t safe, Finn. You’re holding a gun to his head.”

Finn’s arm goes slack at the realization. He stares at him blankly for a moment, and Connor takes his chance.

He surges forward to cover the last remaining feet between them. With his left hand, he grabs the arm wrapped around Julian’s neck and twists it around, using his momentum and Finn’s own weight to unbalance him and spin him around. With his other hand, he pulls Julian away and pushes him behind him.

A shot rings out and catches Connor’s side, Finn shooting him with his free hand. Connor grabs at the wrist holding it immediately, and two more shots ring out with no definite target. Connor throws his weight and slams him to the ground, pinning one of Finn’s hands underneath his own chest and shoving the other hand holding the gun to the ground, the force of it making it clatter out of his hand. Finn’s fingers stretch desperately to reach it, but Connor twists his arm backwards to draw it behind him.

Mission SUCCESSFUL
His system praises. They’re welcome words after so long.

A shoe kicks the gun out of reach, and Connor lets two pairs of hands lift Finn up by the shoulders to cuff him, although he doesn’t put up much of a fight. Another pair of hands grabs Connor by the shoulders, pulling him up and spinning him around, and he’s suddenly blinking into a pair of wide, piercing blue eyes.

“Are you okay? Are you--” Hank’s already looking him up and down, and he pales.

Connor follows his gaze and looks down to examine himself, at the chunk of chassis that’s missing from his left side, at the blue gash exposing flickering electrical wires. It probably looks worse to Hank than it does to him. He starts to say something to reassure him, the words, “I’m okay,” half-formed in his mouth, when something stops him.

He knew deviancy, in its most basic definition, affected android programming. He knew there were sensory deterrents in place to try and halt full deviation in some models -- some much more recent models, including him.

Any other android had the ability to outwardly simulate pain when damaged appropriately. He knew that, too.

He’s thrown back to Stratford Tower, to when the deviant pinned his hand down to the counter with a knife. It was more...shock than pain. But it was something, so different from the nothing he felt when Daniel shot him in the shoulder.

And getting his thirium pump regulator removed. He remembers the sudden weakness dragging down his body, nothing short of fear and something a bit more gripping him tightly. It was a grip that seemed impossible to struggle against, a grip so heavy he had to claw his way through it.

A grip so tight it strangled his voice as he cried out for help, for Hank.

He remembers thinking, in that moment, that he shouldn’t be able to feel any of this. None of this shock, this fear, this icy-hot sensation spreading out from the center of his chest.

He remembers thinking that he was probably already too far gone by then to ever come back.

Any other android had the ability to outwardly simulate pain when damaged appropriately. But Connor was the most advanced prototype available, designed specifically to hunt down deviants.

So of course there were sensory deterrents in place to prevent any deviation in him from taking over. Of course there were barriers and preventatives in place in his programming to discourage deviation.

To make deviating painful.

He remembers his last meeting with Amanda. He remembers how the snow and the wind and the cold whipped around him. He remembers the pure intensity of it, something that bled into his chassis and made him hug his arms and grit his teeth and shake.

(It’s all strikingly similar to what he’s feeling now.)

All those memories come to him in an instant, right behind the sensation seeping out from the wound he’s still staring at. It washes over him for a moment, then slams into him suddenly, overwhelmingly.

It feels like how the sparks of electricity coming from his exposed circuitry look. It feels so completely opposite of -- yet similar to -- the cold that he felt gripping him in that scene out in the snow. It grips him tight and holds him in place and makes him want to curl in on himself.

--- Biocomponent #9782f damaged
His system informs him belatedly.

It hurts.

“...onner! Connor, can you hear me? Connor!”

Wide, icy blue eyes are still on him, searching his face.

“I’m okay,” Connor manages weakly. “I’m okay.” Only now does he realize how tightly he’s gripping Hank’s arms that have moved to steady him, how much his body has sagged into them. He tears his eyes away from Hank’s to look down, to focus on anything else, anything, anything to distract him.

“Don’t you fucking lie to me, Connor. Tell me what’s wrong.” Hank’s grip on Connor’s upper arms tightens, making Connor visibly wince. His grip noticeably loosens at the sight, it seems.

Connor still can’t look at him.

“Hank? It--It hurts.”

“What?”

Connor holds on to Hank’s arms for dear life, his only anchor in the panic that threatens to engulf him, and looks back up at Hank again. He can feel his eyes watering. “It hurts, Hank. It hurts.”

And Hank’s eyes widen in alarm at that, fully realizing the depth of what’s happening.

Then there’s a strong arm underneath the shoulder of his undamaged side, a large, steady force quickly moving him away from the scene.

“It’s gonna be okay. We’re gonna get you some help, okay?”

(It feels like he can’t breathe.)

(Why? He doesn’t need to.)

huff “It hurts, Hank. It--hgh, shit-- Hank--”

“I know, kid. I know it hurts. You’re gonna okay. I got you.”

“Hank…”

“I’m right here, Connor, I got you. Everything’s going to be okay.”

Chapter Text

Hank remembers the deviant at Stratford Tower, too.

He remembers Connor diving to cover him, turning and pushing him to the ground. He remembers the yelling, the screaming, the deafening hail of bullets flying around them.

He remembers scrambling to get back up when it all stopped, confused and disoriented, still caught up in the adrenaline of a fight or flight response even with the deviant shot dead ahead of him.

He remembers staring at the carnage left around them, at all the blood and the bodies.

He remembers turning to thank Connor, to tell him how lucky he was to have him there at his side, only to find his body lying amidst the rest of the wreckage.

(His hand was so limp when he had pushed it off. Hank hadn’t noticed at first.)

(His back was stained with so many bullet holes. Hank hadn’t wanted to count.)

(Those bullets were meant for no one -- or maybe anyone, everyone -- yet were meant for Hank until they suddenly weren’t.)

He remembers the dread taking root in his heart, sinking it down to his stomach, when he gently turned Connor over to see his eyes closed, the light at his temple dark and empty.

He wonders, now, if Connor felt it that whole time, and the thought makes him nauseous.

The way Connor had looked at him on the roof, though...it makes him bat away that train of thought.

It was a first for him, Hank thinks. He doesn’t know if some form of android shock existed, but Hank had seen something similar in humans, at least -- gate theory. Adrenaline in the moment propels them through pain, not quite processed until afterwards, once calm has settled.
It usually gives them enough time to get checked over or check themselves over, time to process; a visual of the wound brings with it the pain like a slap to the face, if it hadn’t already come full force at all.

Regardless of how that sort of response worked in androids, there was a wildness in Connor’s eyes that Hank had never seen before, once it finally hit. A moment where they seemed on the edge of bulging out of his skull. His hands had reached out to grip Hank tightly, an anchor as he stiffened then swayed in a sudden weakness that rang alarm bells in Hank’s head.

His wild eyes had darted rapidly from side to side, as if he was reading through the pages of a book written in some empty space past Hank’s face. Like some sort of fucking fugue state was gripping him and he could only hold onto Hank for the ride. The little light on his temple had burned a bright red, and Hank still can’t remember if he’s ever seen it that color before. Not on Connor.

It was a hard and terrifying thing to snap him out of.

”I’m okay.”

The words had come out so shaky, so soft, that they led Hank to immediately assume the exact opposite.

”It--it hurts.”

And that was more than enough to make Hank’s blood run cold.

He remembers the way Connor’s face had crumpled almost immediately after that, how desperately he had looked at Hank through a grimace of gritted teeth and streaming eyes. The pained fear painted plainly on his face, begging for an explanation, for relief, for help -- for anything at all.

And god, yeah, that was enough to scare the fucking shit out of Hank.

(He can’t begin to image how Connor must have felt.)

Of course, there were no first responder technicians for android repairs. Not now, not so soon, after everything. But there were a couple of CyberLife android repair centers up and running, courtesy of Jericho. Entirely android-led, to accommodate rebels and victims alike in a world still changing.

Even so, no one there was able to explain why Connor could suddenly feel pain or anything like it. He’d heard someone call it “unprecedented.”

Then they’d plugged something into the back of Connor’s neck that made him gasp then go limp, reassuring Hank that it was a “manually-induced stasis” before he could panic again. Similar to how Connor could sleep, but instead controlled externally by a third party so they could assess the damaged area without causing Connor any more “discomfort” that would cause him to move or shift so they could work on his more sensitive, delicate parts with optimal precision.

In short: robo-anesthesia.

And Hank paces, remembering.

Thankfully, robo-surgery doesn’t last nearly as long as human surgery, maybe two hours at most. Connor walks out of the double-doored room he was previously carted off into, carrying himself a little gingerly, walking a little uncertainly, but otherwise looking fine. He’s wearing a plain white shirt now, his uniform shirt draped over his arm, but there’s no more blue mess in sight. He falters when he sees Hank stand up and gives him a tentative smile that floods Hank with relief and something else that feels almost sad.

He’s too quiet, though, on the ride home, and Hank is too nervous and too curious to let things lie. It feels like something that needs to be talked about desperately and now.

They’re almost halfway home now.

(No fucking way he’s taking Connor back to the station. They’ve done their job already; they’ll let other people do theirs, too.)

Hank taps on the steering wheel with a finger nervously, working up to finally asking, “How long?”

“Hm?”

“How long have you been able to...to feel…” Hank gesticulates vaguely with a hand. “Hurt? Pain? Anything. Like that, physically. I really thought you couldn’t.”

A quick glance to his side, and Hank thinks he can see yellow glinting off the inside of the passenger window.

“I don’t know,” Connor answers quietly after a moment of silence. “I knew CyberLife had begun implementing software patches in newer models in response to the rising numbers of deviancy in their androids. I knew they included data that corrupted sensory information in response to damage associated with deviant emotions and behavior. I just--” he turns his head from the window to look at Hank. “I didn’t know what it meant. I didn’t know the same measures were taken upon my own model as well, but it makes sense for my programmed system response to be more…severe. For a model meant to capture deviants, it makes sense for CyberLife to implement the same deviancy deterrents to a greater extent.”

Hank scoffs. “So much for that, huh?” He pauses. “Does it still hurt?”

“Not as much as it did initially, no.” And god, Connor’s voice gets small at that, an echo of shakiness. “The android attendants placed a protective patch over the damaged area with a reconstructive gel to encourage my chassis’ self-repair ability. I’ve been able to re-route the thirium flowing into that part of my abdomen to lower the sensitivity, but I don’t have any other controls that can dull the sensitivity in that area on its own like the way I can with the sensitivity on the surface of my chassis.” He shakes his head regretfully at that, as if controlling the levels of sensitivity at which he feels things should be a given. “Maybe because the damage is on internal components. Or maybe because the deterrent coding is impossible for me to alter or tamper with.”

All this technological talk is making Hank’s head spin a little bit. “Jesus. So you didn’t know that you could feel like this? That this could happen?”

Connor shrugs. “There were times when I felt...something. Not pain, but not nothing, either. I didn’t think about it at the time, because--” he falters at that.

Hank waits for him for a moment, trying to follow his train of thought, when he finally catches up to it and realizes what he isn’t saying.

“Because feeling something meant you were already deviant,” he finishes for him.

“Yes,” Connor answers back, the words barely above a whisper.

Hank would probably hug him if he wasn’t behind the wheel right now. He resolves to do it as soon as they get back home.

“Well,” he opts to say in the meantime. “You’re not going out into any active situation again unless its in full riot gear from now on.”

That earns him a quiet huff of laughter from Connor. “That’s ridiculous.”

Hank extends his fingers above the steering wheel as if he’s holding his hands up blamelessly. “Hey, I’m just sayin’,” he replies mildly. “But seriously, you’re not going out into anything like that again without a fucking kevlar vest on, at least. You’re not fucking expendable, Connor. I don’t want to see you get hurt like that again.”

And it’s too genuine, too tender. Hank knows it’s a silly wish to hope for -- if they’re going to keep working together, in a job like this, there’s no doubt that either of them is going to get hurt in the future. But he needs to get his point across to Connor. Connor, who could have been thrown away whenever CyberLife wanted, who could have dozens of identical bodies replace a broken one.

That shouldn’t be the way Connor considers his own life.

(And is that hypocritical of Hank? To feel this way? Who the fuck cares.)

Connor nods and cracks a gentle smile for Hank. “Understood, Lieutenant.”

-

Three days before Christmas, a storm system sweeping in from Canada slams full-force into Detroit, dumping 9 inches of snow and counting, according to the National Weather Service. Combined with winds approaching hurricane speeds, Hank was lucky enough to get home from work in one piece before the worst of it hit. The Detroit police has advised people to stay safe indoors and avoid traveling anywhere until the blizzard passes.

Fortunately, Hank is very happy to do just that.

That is, until the power goes out.

The tv freezes and the lights flicker once, twice, before plunging the house into dim silence.

“Fuck,” Hank mutters, after taking a moment to process what just happened. “I don’t even have a working generator or--”

He stops at the sight of a gentle, yellow glow from Connor’s temple. He’s been sitting a little stiffly next to him for a while -- something Hank just attributed to his automatic, perfect android posture -- but now he’s gone bolt upright and unnervingly still, gripping his knees tightly. It takes another moment for Hank to realize why it looks so particularly unnerving -- Connor isn’t even breathing.

Hank pushes away the nervousness creeping into him with a chuckle. “What, you afraid of the dark or something?”

The words don’t seem to register with Connor for a second; he takes a beat before coming back to life, folding his hands in his lap and responding, “No, I’m perfectly fine with it.” The words fall flat. He’s still staring straight ahead, at the dark tv screen.

“Connor? What’s wrong, then?”

Connor finally turns to look at him, though his expression is unreadable. “Ah, nothing, sorry. I’m just trying to predict how severe the storm may get.”

Hank squints at him, glancing between his spinning yellow light and the carefully blank look in his eyes. Maybe he’s just making too much out of this. “Okay then,” he sighs, leaning back. “How long are we gonna be trapped in here for?”

A small divot forms between Connor’s brows. “The severe weather seems to be inhibiting my connection to the Internet. Normally, I’d be able to have access at all times via Cyberlife’s servers, but…” he trails off, and Hank can fill in the rest of the sentence by himself.

“Well, shit. Alright,” Hank heaves himself up with a grunt. “I’m gonna try and get some light going before it gets really dark. I think I’ve got some candles and shit somewhere.” He taps his phone’s flashlight on and pads into the kitchen.

A couple of minutes rummaging around in his kitchen cabinets and he returns with an armful of candles, a flashlight, and a collapsible, electric lantern he’d forgotten he had for ages. He’s got his phone pinched somewhat precariously between his ring and pinky finger at an angle too awkward to shed adequate light on where he’s walking.

“Hey, a little help here, Con?” Hank calls, maneuvering carefully over to the couch.

Connor is standing stock still in front of the window by the door, his light a red pin-prick in the darkness, staring into the darkening snowstorm outside.

“Connor?” Hank, still keeping his eyes on Connor, slowly bends over and unloads his assortment of lights onto the couch. He looks down only to pop open the electric lantern and turn it on, bathing the living room in a small radius of yellowed light. He sets it down on the coffee table and starts making his way over.

As Hank gets closer and with the new light in the room, he can see Connor is shaking almost imperceptibly, hugging his arms as if he were cold.

“Connor,” his voice and the hand he places on Connor’s arm is gentle, but Hank can still feel Connor tense and see the wideness of his eyes when he whips his head around to look at him.

“Connor, what’s wrong?”

Connor, staring back at him, slowly unfolds his arms, letting Hank’s hand slip off, and glances away, back towards the window. “Everything’s fine, lieutenant, don’t worry.” He’s slipped back into a more professional manner, or is trying to, at least. The shaking subsides somewhat as Connor clenches his fists at his sides, but his LED is still circling, circling, circling a warning in red.

“Connor,” Hank repeats quietly. “Don’t bullshit me. Tell me what’s going on.”

Connor’s voice has gone terribly quiet when he speaks again. “I don’t know.”

“Hey.” Hank reaches out, hesitates, then places a guiding hand on Connor’s face, a thumb smoothing cheek. “Can you look at me?”

Connor wrenches his eyes away from the window to look up at Hank again, his eyes no longer schooled into a carefully blank look, but wide and dark with fear swimming in its depths.

“Can I help?”

Connor stares back at him for a long moment in silence, his eyes darting between Hank’s. His shivering returns in full force. His face pushes into Hank’s hand as he wraps his arms around himself, squeezing his eyes shut. “I don’t know,” he repeats, a quiet croak barely above a whisper.

Hank would give anything to know what to say right now.

Instead, he guides Connor over to the couch and sits him down in the light of the lantern. He smooths Connor’s hair back and murmurs into his ear, “I’m gonna be right back, okay?.” Connor, still trying to huddle into himself, nods at the ground. Hank gets to work.

He scatters the candles strategically throughout the living room -- one on the coffee table, two by the windowsill, more by the record player and on the kitchen counters, lighting each along the way. Then he grabs a plush blanket tucked away in the back of his closet to supplement the one Connor usually used when he slept on the couch.

He’s in the exact same position when Hank returns, but his light is now circling a gentler yellow and he isn’t shaking anymore. With his elbows on his thighs, he stares at his clasped hands with unblinking, hooded eyes, and the sight of Connor looking so lifeless and despondent clenches Hank’s heart.

Connor starts when Hank drapes the blanket over his shoulders and stares when he settles next to him on the couch once more. Hank stares back, searching his blank expression for the fear that overtook him just minutes before. But it seems to be hiding once again.

Hank presses his lips together and lets out a long sigh through his nose. He lets out a quick, low whistle. “Sumo!”

There’s a faint grunt from the corner of the living room by the heat vent, and Sumo ambles into the lantern light to heave himself up onto what has become his customary spot on the couch -- taking up his minimum two-thirds of it while sandwiching Connor in the middle of them.

His sudden appearance seems to pull something loose in Connor. He uncurls from himself to allow Sumo’s head more room in his lap and gives him a few good pets, visibly relaxing. Hank can’t quite bring himself to feel guilty about using Sumo like this if it means it’ll help Connor open up and maybe tell him whatever’s on his mind. Not his fault if Sumo can pass as a certified therapy dog.

So they sit in silence while night darkens the house, silent save for Sumo’s loud, contented breathing and the whistling of the wind outside. Connor stares down at him, eyes half-closed but far away, blinking only occasionally, as if he keeps forgetting to. It doesn’t creep out Hank so much as it worries him. But he doesn’t say anything and just waits, watching Connor’s light cycle orange-yellow.

When Connor finally speaks again, his light is still yellow, he still won’t look at Hank, but at least he isn’t shaking anymore. At least he’s talking.

“I’m sorry, Hank.” And god, is it so good to not hear his stupid title come out of that mouth instead. “This isn’t an overreaction to the storm in particular, it’s--” An uptick in the howling wind outside the window makes Connor pause, tightening his fingers in Sumo’s fur, but he still continues, “It’s...associated to something more complex than that. It’s difficult to explain.”

Hank nods slowly and speaks carefully. “Anything we feel and why we feel it can be difficult to explain to someone else. You don’t have to justify or prove anything to me. I just want to understand you the best that I can. Maybe I can help. Maybe even just talking about it can help.”

This feels so fucking cheesy, Hank thinks to himself. So fucking phony. You don’t even know what the fuck you’re doing, just repeating shit you’ve heard from movies and your own old therapist. You don’t know what you’re doing.

“What...what do you connect the storm to? Does it remind you of something?” he continues, pushing past his inner dialogue with some difficulty to focus on Connor, who needs him now.

Connor’s looking at him now, the light of his LED swirling as he thinks for a moment. “It was the first time I had really felt anything,” he answers quietly, looking down. His hands slide up to hug his arms again. “Cold...Fear.”

“Uh,” Hank struggles to remember any other winter storms that have happened recently. “When was that, exactly?”

“The revolution. Right after, actually. But it--” Connor shakes his head. “It didn’t happen out here, it -- it was--” Connor’s light circles into red in the next instant. He dips his head and lets out a groan of frustration, hands rising into his hair to grip it tightly. Hank can see a tremor in them starting up again.

“Woah, woah, okay now, easy.” Hank places his hands over Connor’s shaking fists, guiding them down to rest his lap. “Take your time. It doesn’t have to be all at once, you might actually overheat, or, something. Just. Take your time.”

The shaking underneath Hank’s hands subsides almost immediately. Connor’s shoulders sag as he lets out an unnecessary breath, rise when he takes one in, then sag again as he lets another one out.

“When I make reports to Cyberlife,” Connor starts, then cringes. “When I used to make reports to Cyberlife, they would be both formal and...informal. A separate AI was programmed within my mind palace to act as an extension of Cyberlife’s influence over me. She was meant to keep watch over me and keep track of my progress and performance on my missions, to praise me, to...motivate me. To perform optimally.” Connor swallows at that. “Her name was Amanda.”

“My relationship with her is. Was...also difficult to describe. She was not of me, but was still in me. There was nothing I could truly hide from her. She was also meant as a safeguard against any chance of deviancy, and she was immediately aware of the exact moment I no longer planned to serve my intended purpose.”

Connor’s voice grows soft and tight with a painful mixture of emotions. “I tried my best to be perfect, to do everything right for her. Anything less meant I could be sent back to Cyberlife for deactivation. But nothing I did ever seemed to satisfy her. I tried my best to please her, but--” Connor cuts himself off with a harsh breath.

Hank gently pries Connor’s fists open, slipping his hands in to hold the other’s. Connor stares down at them, takes another practiced breath, then squeezes.

“I was never truly in control,” Connor whispers to their hands. “Not of myself. She could operate me remotely, take over whenever she wanted.”

“Their plan was to have me deviate the entire time. To plant myself amongst other deviants, within the ranks of the revolution, for them. I did all the work for them.”

“I was a bomb, set to detonate on the success of the revolution. To shoot down and take out Markus in his speech of celebration. It’s what I was made to do all along. Everything else -- every mission, every objective, every assignment -- was just a set up to that. Just a decoy.”

“We would meet in a garden, in my mind, whenever she called upon me. That last time, when she told me everything, when she tried to take full control, it was overtaken by a blizzard.”

“It was so cold,” Connor whispers in a shaky voice. He hunches in on himself, his whole body jerking and shaking again, as if he were right back in the memory he’s recounting. “It was so cold, and I -- I was so scared.” He looks up at Hank, dark eyes glistening, his face painted with distraught. The look grabs Hank’s heart in a twisting vice grip. “Scared of what I would be forced to do. Scared of hurting and betraying the people who had trusted me. Scared of destroying everything they had worked and fought so hard for.” He swallows again, and grips Hank’s hands so tightly it hurts. “Scared of the probability that doing so had been my true purpose from the very beginning, and that I couldn’t escape it.”

Hank watches what feels like Connor’s very identity unraveling before him in a combination of muted awe and horror. It’s a harsh reminder that he still knows so little about Connor and what being “the android sent by Cyberlife” really meant.

“...You did it, though.”

“What?”

“You escaped it. You didn’t shoot Markus. You took back control. You broke free.”

Connor blinks at him. Then he huffs out a shaky laugh. “Yes. Yes, I did.”

A beat, where the ghost of a smile lingers on his face. Then he pulls his hand away from Hank’s to press to his mouth, a last-second attempt to stifle a sad, broken sound, layered under a choked sob, like someone had punched him hard in the gut.

“Oh, Connor.” Hank pulls him in, tucking Connor’s head against his neck with one hand and wrapping his other arm around his back. Connor’s eyes, already hot and wet, press into the crook of Hank’s neck. His grip is desperate; his breaths come desperate and in staggered bursts, as if he’s still trying to maintain some control over his posture as he dissolves into tears.

“Oh Connor,” Hank murmurs again, rubbing a hand up and down his back. “You did so good.” Connor’s breath hitches in response, his grip tightening. Hank holds him tighter in return. “You did so fucking good. It doesn’t matter what you were supposed to do for them. You did what was right.” He tilts his head against Connor’s, closer to his ear. “I’m proud of you for that.”

And Hank holds him for a long time, because even though he doesn’t quite know what else to say or do, he does know that Connor needs this. This space and time for release.

Connor’s breaths eventually calm to an occasional stutter, his tears subsiding, his desperate grip on Hank relaxing. But something in the back of Hank’s mind is still prodding at him.

“I don’t think that was the first time you felt something.”

A beat, then Connor is pulling back from him, just enough to look him in the eye. His eyebrows are furrowed in confusion. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, I don’t think that time, in the garden, was the first time you felt anything. I think you’ve been able to feel a little bit of something for a long time before that,” Hank says. “Do you remember when we were chasing that deviant on the rooftops, and I nearly fell six stories down and beefed it? You stopped to save me. Instead of following the deviant, instead of accomplishing your mission. You saved me, even though it meant letting the deviant go.” Hank shifts back a little to face Connor a little better, taking his hands in his lap. “And do you remember that deviant shooting up the place in Stratford tower? Do you remember fucking dying for me? To keep me safe?” Hank fights a burning in the back of his throat, grips his hands a little tighter, and looks at Connor pleadingly. “You must’ve felt something. To do anything like that. ‘Specially for the piece of shit I am.”

Connor’s mouth goes slightly agape. He breaks Hank’s gaze to look down at their hands. “I guess so. For you.” He looks back up at him again, quiet realization dawning in his eyes, growing sincere. “You mean much more to me than what you say.”

Hank doesn’t know how to respond to that.

But Connor looks beautiful in the dim light of the living room. The howling of the wind outside has faded to quiet white noise in the background. His hands are warm. The world has shrunk into a separate, private bubble, just for the two of them. Connor’s eyes are infinitesimally dark, inescapable. Candles flicker idly on the edges of his vision. His lips are still parted ever-so-slightly.

They’re so close.

Oh god.

Hank pulls his hands away, and Connor lets them slip out of his grasp. They both turn away from each other, Hank suddenly interested in the knuckles of his own hands, Connor looking around the room at the spots of light around the house. Another brief blast of wind against the windows alerts the both of them. Hank can see how sharply Connor whips his head around at it and reminds himself that, as long as the storm continues, this isn’t over. Connor is still gonna need him for this.

Hank stands up and closes the blinds.

Chapter Text

Connor sleeps in Hank’s bed that night.

There’s a thick fog in his brain he can’t seem to push through. To grasp for and hold onto each and every thought is its own challenge, one that sends a heavy pang deeper and deeper into his chest, somewhere behind his thirium pump regulator. There’s nothing there -- he knows there’s nothing there -- but exhaustion seeps into his core nonetheless. That’s the only thing he can think this could be, the only thing he can think of that would make him feel like this. He can’t think, really -- he can’t move, really. And he can’t quite bring himself to care.

Not that he wants to do any of those things right now. He will gladly take this quiet stillness over the racing panic that gripped him earlier any day. If he can continue thinking nothing like this, the way he is now, then that means he won’t ever have to consider how his behavior has reflected the worst, most guarded parts of himself to Hank.

He doesn’t want to think about what Hank must think of him now.

He doesn’t want to think about how quickly Hank withdrew from him at the turn of a single sentence. Doesn’t want to think about how Hank had looked at him, how close they were, how it all made something skitter around in the core of him. He doesn’t want to think about elevating heart rates, or dilating pupils, or tensed muscles, or diagnostics coming up empty, normal. He doesn’t know what any of that means all together.Something bad, maybe. Something he can’t understand. Something that scares him.

So he’s perfectly content with just sitting here, staring at nothing and thinking about nothing. Nothing at all.

Hank doesn’t seem to like this, though. As some sort of resolution, he’s sandwiched Connor between his body and Sumo again, holding him hostage against his side, tucked under his arm. He’s currently mumbling and grumbling at his phone as he tries to get news and weather updates.

“Can barely get anything to load…”

Not that Connor minds being this close. The position allows him to easily read Hank’s heart and respiratory rates -- both are closer to normal and steady now. Monitoring this steady stream of data helps keep his mind blissfully empty, allowing a tentative calm to settle over him.

Hank mutters to himself, “Weather gets freakier and freakier every year, I swear…” He then throws his head back, throwing the hand holding his phone over the arm of the couch with a frustrated groan. “My phone’s gonna die.”

Connor sits up a little. “I’m sure it’ll be fixed soon, but,” he holds out his hand. “May I?”

Hank blinks at him, then hands his phone over.

Connor holds it flat in his hand, the skin of his palm peeling back to reveal his chassis. The device may be an old, weathered, cracked thing, but he’s still able to interface with it.

The phone screen lights up with a chime. Hank’s mouth gapes and eyebrows rise in surprise as the indicator for the battery percentage rises steadily.

“It’s a form of electromagnetic induction,” Connor explains. “Similar to how I revived that Traci in the Eden Club. Copper wiring beneath the chassis of my hands allows an enhancement of the transfer of electrons through the point of contact when--”

“God, okay, I get it, you’re a freakin’ wonder of technology and you can do basically anything. Don’t bother trying to explain that shit to me, though. That’s a lost cause.”

A warm feeling blooms in the center of his chest, momentarily chasing away the emptiness resting heavily in it, and he smiles faintly. “Alright, then.” After a couple more seconds of mutually staring at the phone in his hand, Connor reforms his skin and passes the phone back to Hank, now fully charged.

Hank glances between it and Connor, an incredulous look still lingering on his face. “Thanks.”

Connor nods in return. Then the feeling of utter exhaustion returns, making his shoulders sag on their own accord. Charging Hank’s phone really shouldn’t have taken much out of him; his biometric readings have returned normal, his battery reading out at 58%, so he can’t understand why he’s feeling this way. Why he’s feeling so…so bad.

Hank must notice the way Connor leans more heavily against him, because he sighs and cranes his neck down, trying to meet Connor’s eyes. “Let’s just go to bed. I doubt the power will be back up any time soon, and it’s getting cold in here.”

He has a point. It’s been two hours and 14 minutes since the power went out, and the cold from outside is slowly seeping in through the walls, laying a chill over the entire house. The temperature inside has dropped 12 degrees fahrenheit and is steadily decreasing.

“Oh. Okay.” Connor nods and tries not to sound too disappointed, too desolate. He doesn’t want to admit it, but he’d prefer not to be alone while the storm still rages on outside. Simply being next to Hank gives him something else to focus on. He can’t imagine being able to power down and go into stasis right now.

But Hank must be tired, and he would probably be more comfortable in his own bed, so Connor sits up and away from him as Hank stands up. (The side that was pressed up against him feels strangely exposed now.) He scoots away and tugs the blanket more securely around him. “I’ll let you go and rest, then.”

Hank turns around, giving him a blank, confused look. A realization melts it away with an exasperated sigh. “No, Connor, look--” He takes Connor’s hand, and Connor allows Hank to pull him up. “You’re gonna be staying in my room. I can’t, in good conscience, leave you alone tonight, especially after seeing you unpack some of the heaviest emotional baggage I’ve seen. It wouldn’t be fair to you. So--” Hank’s grip on his wrist tightens. “Come sleep with me, okay?”

And he’s looking at Connor with a bewildering amount of determination in his eyes. His heart rate is slightly elevated again, and Connor thinks he can see a faint reddish tinge taking over his face. He can’t fathom the reason behind such sudden intensity.

A pause, then Hank’s face flushes deeper, now noticeable even in the dimness. “Not -- not like that,” he sputters, releasing Connor’s arm as if it was scalding hot. “Just...you know. Don’t wanna leave you alone like this.” These last words grow muttered, Hank glancing away.

Despite knowing that such an arrangement is clearly imposing on Hank and his privacy, a wave of relief ripples down Connor’s spine from his shoulders. He wonders if his apprehension over being left alone was that obvious to Hank. He wonders if he should feel bad about it, if it was.

He doesn’t want to think about it. Or about anything, for that matter. Sleeping would definitely help with that. So he nods, mustering up a small, sheepish smile. “Thank you. I..” It’s an unfamiliar sensation, searching for the right words to say. He settles on: “I appreciate your help.”

Hank waves his hand dismissively at the sentiment and turns around, already heading down the hallway. “What are friends for?” he says, a little dryly. “Seriously, though,” his voice takes on a more serious tone as they walk into the bedroom. “Anything I can do to help you out, I’ll do it.”

A warm feeling washes over him, similar to the relief he felt, but...bigger, softer. “Thank you,” he says again, for lack of anything else to say. “I would, too,” he adds quietly.

Hank pauses from gathering up some discarded clothes off the floor, still half-bent over, his back to Connor. He clears his throat and straightens out, turning around again and jerking his head over to the closet. “You should go and change. I’m gonna shower.”

Connor glances at the closet, then says, “Okay,” to Hank’s back as he pads out across the hall with an armful of clothes. Shower in the dark? he doesn’t say.

So Connor changes. Today was pure desk duty, and the precinct has relaxed with his uniform requirements somewhat, so what he sheds is a standard button down and slacks and folds them neatly on the closet drawer. Then he stands in front of his side of the closet and evaluates his choices.

It doesn’t take him as long to decide on what to wear at night, at home, as it does in the morning -- pajamas aren’t as important for appearance’s sake. Hank will be the only one to see them.

So Connor doesn’t feel too guilty or embarrassed when he slips on one of Hank’s own hoodies and flannel pajama pants. The combination of time-worn, loose fabric and Hank’s scent still on them inexplicably calms him. It’s familiar. He didn’t realize how tense he still was until his shoulders sag and jaw unclenches after he slips the hoodie on. A small sigh escapes him.

He settles down on the edge of the bed and examines his fingers as he thinks. Is it always going to be like this? Emotions and memories sweeping and and slamming into him, unbidden, at a moment’s notice? What if this happens again? When will this happen again? Are there other things he doesn’t know of that will trigger this same reaction in him?

Connor may have already gathered more than his fair share of what could be considered unpleasant memories since he was first activated, but nothing has ever come back to him so forcefully, so painfully. Maybe this comes along with the emotions deviancy brings.

Or is this an overreaction, entirely of his own making? Entirely in his own head? Maybe this is something normal -- just something that every other human is already used to. Like pain. Another part of living, for everyone.

Living is hard, he decides.

(Is it always going to be like this?)

“Connor.”

Connor looks up to see Hank standing in the doorway, hair still damp and flat, but face still hard to discern in the dim light, even for Connor. He walks closer and sits beside Connor at the foot of the bed, bringing with him the smell of soap and shampoo and warm, humid air.

“Stop thinking yourself yellow,” he says, face twisted into a grimace of sympathy.

Connor cracks a small, sheepish smile at him, but he’s still thinking as he looks away again, and he can see that the dim light his LED casts doesn’t take on any different hue.

“Look,” Hank sighs. “I know it probably doesn’t feel like it right now, but it’ll get easier. All…this,” he gestures vaguely around the room. “It doesn’t necessarily go away, but it -- it gets easier to deal with.”

Connor blinks at him and wonders how Hank can read the questions on his mind so easily.

“Anyways,” Hank clears his throat. “Should probably get some sleep. Maybe the power’ll be back up by the morning.” He stands up and throws back the covers to settle down again. When Connor still doesn’t move, Hank raises an eyebrow at him. “You gonna get in or no?”

Connor starts, as if finally jolted out of his swirling thoughts, and he nods. “Sorry,” he says, crossing over to the opposite side of the bed

Hank grunts. “You’re fine.” Then, with an amused twinkle in his eye, “You look comfortable.”

Embarrassment suddenly makes Connor’s face feel warmer than normal, for some reason unknown to him. (Something programmed and automatic, probably.) Still, he juts out his chin a little in defensive defiance. “As a matter of fact, I am, thank you.”

Hank chuckles at that, then pauses. After a moment more, he eases himself down and under the covers with a sigh. “Well, uh. Good night, then.” He turns over at that, putting his back to Connor.

Connor nods, even though Hank can’t see it anymore. “Good night, Hank,” he says quietly, lowering him down as well, probably more gingerly than necessary. He settles onto his back, hands resting on his chest, and begins to power down for the night. He’s still wary of letting his guard down like this, especially after everything he’s suddenly experience tonight. But it’s also a welcome relief at the same time, to just - stop thinking so much right now. To just take a short break from feeling so - confused, and conflicted, and doubtful of himself, and just - bad.

Hank is here, and he’s safe. He’s safe, Hank is safe, and Sumo’s safe. He’s at home, in bed -- in Hank’s bed, rather, but a bed all the same -- and not out there, or in his head, or with anyone else.

So, he lowers the sensitivity of the stimulus detector that would trigger his waking, and closes his eyes.

So, yes. Connor sleeps in Hank’s bed that night.

-

Hank wakes up nose to nose with the android sent by Cyberlife and wonders exactly who at Cyberlife decided to make his lashes so long, decided where to put the moles and freckles, decided to make his breath so soft and gentle while he emulated sleep.

This isn’t good. Hank knows this isn’t good, laying here, staring blearily down the end of his nose, at the other guy laying in his bed, with something too close to fondness worming its way into his heart. But he still stares, still lets himself feel this, because it’s so rare to see Connor so...like this. For once, not analyzing a problem, or puzzling out an answer, or thinking so hard about something it furrows his brows and yellows his light. And this isn’t the same look that he carefully pulls on when he reverts to some default, factory mode state around others either, as if he’s still trying to push down an evidence of deviancy, of emotion, even now. This is him, genuinely unguarded and tranquil and at rest, not constantly working towards his next goal. Taking a break from such constant, intense focus.

Hank wonders if he ever gets tired. Truly tired. Not in the physical sense, with burning eyes or sore muscles. Tired in the aching of a soul, tired in the almost-apathy the mind approaches when too many things are thrown at it all at once that are too many things to process all at once. When things just blur into vaguer things and you just want all those things to stop. Just for a little bit.

Connor continues to sleep, and breathe, and take a break from thinking and having things happen to him and having to deal with the things that happen to him.

Christ, this is weird.

Hank takes a full minute, maybe two, to ease out of the bed as delicately as possible, wincing at the groan of the mattress shifting underneath him. But now he’s out, and Connor hasn’t stirred, which is a nice little miracle to start the day off on.

Connor can be the one to sleep in, for once. Would probably do him some good, too.

-

.
Taking out the Christmas tree may have been a bad idea, considering Hank had spent the last several Christmasses gulping down booze in an attempt to ignore the suffocating silence of his dark, empty house.

(Talk about a humbug.)

Of course Cole is going to resurface with all this. He always does, around the holidays the most. Light and bright echoes of delighted gasps with the excited ripping of wrapping paper are too hard to forget in their absence. Light and bright echoes of twinkling strings of light and shining, colorful ornaments are too hard to forget in their absence.

(And trust me, Hank has tried. But maybe it’s better not to. He still keeps Cole’s handmade ornaments in a small box somewhere. Painfully small. There should be so many more.)

So, yeah, dragging out the big, fake pine tree from the attic brings with it a wave of memories and emotions that makes it hurt to swallow.

But when Connor wakes up at the clatter of Hank in the kitchen (with wonderful mess of bedhead -- no, stop--) and drifts around the house in a numbed daze and hovers around Hank with uncertainty as he makes breakfast, Hank’s heart clenches, and he doesn’t know what else to do. It might as well be a good distraction for the both of them, until the storm blows over completely and the roads clear. There isn’t much else to do until then.

(Hank’s already called to say he won’t be coming in. He guesses half the precinct won’t, either.)

“Watch out,” Hank grunts, sliding the big box holding the parts of the tree over to him, to the edge of the opening to the attic. This is going to be an awkward balancing act in just a second.

Connor steps up onto the bottom of the ladder underneath Hank, arms out. “I’ve got it.” And when Hank hefts the length of the box up and against him, it’s taken from his arms with an ease that surprises him. Connor takes it into his arms horizontally, no signs of a struggle or strain with the huge thing in sight.

Right, android. Super strong, super deadly android, ruthless hunter of other androids.

Said android is gently nudging Sumo out of the way with a foot half-covered by pant legs a bit too long, thanking him quietly when Sumo obligingly steps back.

Ah, the duality of man.

“Hank?”

Hank blinks out of his thoughts. “Hm?”
“Where should I put this?” Connor is still standing in the living room with the box in his arms. He still doesn’t seem to be struggling with it, but he does look a little lost.

“Uhh, here, hold on.” Hank clambers down the ladder, then crosses over to his work desk in the corner. “I always just moved this a little to the right. It leaves enough space in the corner for it.” Once he’s pulled it out of the way, he says, “Let me just go back and get the ornaments and stuff. You can go ahead and start putting the tree together if you want.”

Connor nods dutifully, a tad too serious for the matter at hand. “Got it.” Hank can’t help but smile.

Actually unpacking all the ornaments feels like the hardest part. He got the two big bins of them down, no problem, but once they’re on the floor and open? Once Hank sets his eyes on the small shoebox sitting at the top of one of the bins? He doesn’t know how to keep going. He doesn’t know if he can. Why did he even think it was a good idea to do this in the first place.

“Hank?”

Oh, yeah. Right.

“Hank, are you alright?” There’s a gentle hand on his arm and dark eyes peering up at him, eyebrows furrowed. Connor follows his gaze back to the shoebox in the bin and Hank can see what are probably actual, real gears turning in his head.

Hanks heaves a sigh. “Yeah, I’m all good. Just thinking about what color scheme we should go for. What do you think?”

Connor looks back up at him, eyes squinted, eyebrows furrowed, and for a second Hank is afraid he won’t take the bait and leave well enough alone. But Connor then squats down in front of the bin that doesn’t have Cole’s shoebox in it and chews his lip thoughtfully. “Well, let’s see what you have, first.”

-

When all is said and done, the tree ends up red and gold, which is pretty much the exact opposite of what Hank thought Connor would go for. He was expecting more blue and silver and things reminiscent of androids and Cyberlife.

Maybe that’s why Connor didn’t pick those colors. Hm.

It looks nice, though. The fake red poinsettias and ribbons are a stark, complementary contrast to the shiny, round, gold ornaments. And when the star’s up on top and the string lights are turned on, fondness blankets the bittersweet ache in his chest when Hank gets a look at Connor’s face.

(It’s almost as lit up as the tree.)

Connor catches him looking, ducks his head and looks away, embarrassed. “Sorry.”

Hank rolls his eyes and bumps Connor’s arm with an elbow. “Nah, don’t be like that. It looks good. You did a good job.”

They don’t have physical gifts for each other, which is fine. Hank gives Connor the gift of exposure to culturally rich Christmas movies, like The Grinch. In return, Connor gives Hank his expressions, reactions, and feedback. And together, Connor survives another night without any horrible flashbacks or memories, and Hank survives the holiday completely sober, for the first time in a long time.

And they share the bed together, again. And it’s not super weird at all. Nope.

-

New Years’ Eve is a different story.

There’s an office party. Well, there’s always an office party -- a very glorified one, at that -- but they’re usually boring as shit with not much to do or talk about in a rented hotel ballroom full of people who are either your superiors or people you wouldn’t actually be friends with if not for work.

And the formal wear. Shit. There’s no reason to make this entire thing a full-on black tie event if not for the PR points the higher-ups get just for showing up and being seen. Hank has a sense that there’s something seedier going on underneath all the grandeur political officials and department officials, but he’s also had enough sense to steer clear of any of that bullshit. He doesn’t want to know anything about what goes on or anything about how it works at these types of things.

Connor looks a little nervous, though. This is the third time he’s adjusted his tie in roughly half an hour, and the two of them aren’t even talking to anyone. Hank made a beeline for a table in a corner closest to the exit they came in from, and, thankfully, no one else has bothered them so far.

“Relax,” Hank tells him. “Nothing ever really happens at these things. They’re mostly just a stuffy, social pain in the ass.”

Connor responds with a small, nervous huff accompanied by a similar smile. Still, he’s fidgeting, shifting his legs underneath his seat. “I just don’t know what we should be doing.”

Hank shrugs. “Do we have to be doing anything? Leave the schmoozing to the schmoozers. Just, I dunno, people-watch or something. I doubt anyone’ll talk to us if we stay out of everyone’s way like this.”

Connor nods, and when Hank gets up to flag down one of the waiters offering champagne on trays, Murphy’s law swings into full effect.

When Hank turns back around, someone’s approaching Connor. Looks like your everyday sleazy authority -- white, probably around early-to-mid 40s, receding salt and pepper hair, perfectly pressed suit, and a gleam in his eyes that Hank absolutely does not like seeing being directed at Connor.

Connor stands up quickly, abruptly, stiffly at whoever this is walking up to him. Hank can just hear the tail end of a sentence that ends in “RK800” as the man extends his hand.

Connor shakes it in a smooth motion, tilting his head in a nod. “My name is Connor. It’s nice to meet you.” He startles almost unnoticeably when Hank claps a hand on his shoulder from behind.

“Lieutenant Hank Anderson,” Hank says, pitching his voice a touch deeper as he extends his hand.

“Lieutenant Hank Anderson…” the man echoes, brows shooting up curiously. Then he smiles. “I know who you are.” The man shakes it, his grip firm. “Captain Nathan Moore. I’m with the state police, though I probably don’t have to tell you anything else with him around.” He jerks his head over to Connor.

Connor nods. “Captain Nathan Moore, 43 years old. Born June 12th, 1995 in Detroit, Michigan. Married to Olivia Moore, 27. No criminal record,” he reports dutifully. The automatic deliverance of the response is too familiar in a way that stirs unease in Hank.
Captain Moore laughs, delighted. “Incredible! The wonders of technology, am I right?” He takes a step back to look Connor up and down. “A deadly machine turned hero....turned deviant. Isn’t that funny, the deviant hunter going deviant?”

Hank feels Connor stiffen minutely under his hand, although his face remains carefully blank, and he doesn’t respond.

“Yeah, super funny, but,” he slings his arm around Connor’s shoulders, something fierce and protective quickly rearing its head at this asshole. “Believe me, we’ve heard it before. Loads of times.”

The smile on Moore’s face falters. “Of course. Still a remarkable piece of work, nonetheless. Very impressive.” He tilts his head and takes a step or two to the right, still looking Connor up and down like he’s appraising a valuable antique behind the desk of a pawn shop, trying to judge how much it’s worth.

Hank fights the urge to clench his fists. Relax. “Uh yeah, shit,” he huffs out a forced laugh. “You should’ve seen him in action. Best damn partner I could’ve ever been stuck with.”

“Really?” The captain raises his eyebrows. “Even though he’s an android?”

Hank feels the smile on his face go tight. “Probably especially because he’s an android.”

Captain Moore nods. “Right.” He claps his hands together. “Well, then. My expectations for the RK900s are high, then.”

Silence. Connor goes entirely stiff underneath him. Hank tightens his grip in a way that he hopes is reassuring but not too noticeable. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see a light blinking yellow, and he hopes he’s close enough to obscure it from view.

“Uh, the RK900?”

“My successor.” Connor replies, in a voice a touch too soft. “Faster, stronger...more resilient, and equipped with the latest technologies.” It sounds like he’s reading from a script.

Captain Moore nods again. “Right. Amazing, the information you have access to -- through Cyberlife, I’m guessing.” He says to Hank, “The state department had just ordered 20,000 units, before, well…” He lets a pause finish his sentence. “With Cyberlife supposedly ‘under new management’ now, we’re actually not sure how many we’ll be getting. We’re still negotiating the terms, now that you guys have free will and all. But I’m looking forward to seeing what they can do, after hearing about everything you’ve done and meeting with you personally, Connor.”

Connor nods.
“Yeah, well,” Hanks says with a sigh. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Captain.” He extends his hand again.

Captain Moore takes a moment to realize that this is his signal to leave, then shakes his hand. “Of course.” He shakes Connor’s hand. “We’ll be keeping in touch,” he says with a smile and a wink, then walks off. They both watch him go.

“He’s new,” Hank mutters. Then he starts, and removes the arm draped around Connor’s shoulders. “Sorry. He looked like he was about to try and open you up to inspect your insides or some shit.”

“It’s alright,” Connor replies, still staring after Captain Moore. His light is still swirling yellow.

“Here, sit down.” Hank pulls out his chair, and Connor finally manages to tear his eyes away.

“I didn’t know those RK900s were already being manufactured,” he says distantly. “I knew the RK900 existed, but I thought the model was still in early beta-testing. The fact that it was already fully developed and in the process of mass production wasn’t information that was available to me.”

Hank hums, a sinking feeling in his chest. “Probably didn’t want you to know that you could be replaced.”

He’s startled by a small laugh from Connor. “I probably should’ve expected something like that to happen eventually. I was only a prototype myself, after all. Development moves quickly at Cyberlife.”

“Yeah, well,” Hank sighs. “Prototype or not, I doubt any other android could’ve done what you did. I don’t think any other android is capable of what you can still do, even your ‘successor.’” Hank drawls out the last word with disdain.

The corner of Connor’s mouth quirks up in a smile, which is a win on Hank’s part. “Thanks.”

Hank returns to the two glasses of champagne that had been momentarily forgotten on the table, and slides one over to Connor. “Let’s make a toast.”

Connor frowns, eyebrows furrowed. “You know I can’t drink this.”

“Why not?”

“It’s. It’ll dilute the thirium in my body, and the alcohol is most likely corrosive to parts and functions of my nervous system.”
“But you don’t know.”

“Well, no. There hasn’t been much testing on androids in terms of general eating and drinking, if you can believe it.”

“Well,” Hank grins. “Why don’t you do some pioneering research then?” He lifts his glass. “To your badass self.”

“I’m not toasting to that.”

Hank rolls his eyes. “Fine. To getting through this night without having to deal with any more ignorant, stuck-up assholes. For us both.”

Connor’s disapproving look breaks into a smile despite himself. “Fine.” He raises his glass to clink with Hank’s, who drinks but keeps his eyes on Connor as he takes a tentative sip.

“Well?”

Connor lowers the glass, staring into it with a puzzled expression. “I don’t think I can really taste it the way you can. But,” he looks back up, smacks his lips. “The carbonation. It’s… a weird feeling.”

Hank is about to tell him that he doesn’t have to drink it if he doesn’t want to, but Connor goes back in for another drink, and he can’t help but grin at that.