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The first time Hank sees Connor naked is not in the way he suspects either of them were hoping.
He doesn't even realize Connor's been shot at first. The perp is already cuffed and Hank is mid-discussion with the officers on the scene by the time he notices the patch of blue spreading across Connor's shirt, creeping beyond the fingers he has pressed to his midriff. "The fuck is that?" he asks, frowning hard.
"It's nothing to worry about, Lieutenant." Connor's voice is neutral in a way that does not make Hank feel less inclined to worry. "I'm in no immediate danger."
Hank sets his jaw. "Let me see it."
When he reaches out to move Connor's hand away, the android twists out of reach. Hank's frown deepens. "Connor."
"A minor puncture," says Connor, though he seems to be watching Hank for any other moves. "It can be easily repaired by the station technicians."
"You need a hospital? If you lie to me, Connor, I swear to fucking—"
Connor’s face softens into a wan smile. "No, Hank. I don’t need a hospital."
Hank grunts, searching Connor's face for deception. The android's expression gives away nothing. "All right. Go get taken care of."
"It can wait until we finish here. I've diverted my thirium flow to—"
"Go. Get. Fixed." Hank reaches again to... rub his arm? Squeeze his shoulder? He falters midway, settling on a brusque shoulder pat. "I can manage here."
Connor hesitates, but nods. "Of course, Lieutenant."
It's another hour or so before Hank is able to leave the scene, and a 30 minute drive back to the station, which affords him plenty of time to mentally walk back through that interaction. They revert to ingrained roles on the job, more often than not: Connor polite but stiff, Hank gruff. It's becoming more and more of a contrast with life at home, their free time filled with friendly banter and, lately, sitting closer together on the couch than strictly platonic.
But if whatever dynamic they’ve established at work is making Connor feel like he can’t ask for medical attention, something’s gonna have to give, fast. Hank is still Connor's superior officer, it's his responsibility to...
Hank cranks up the stereo so he doesn't have to think.
When he finally walks into the station, the desk across from his own is empty. "Hey, Ben," he calls to Collins where he's hunched in front of his terminal. "Connor been back?"
"Sorry, Hank." Collins briefly lifts his head before turning back to his monitor. "Haven't seen him."
Hank twists his mouth. He could text to check in, but he knows where the repair wing is, probably best to go check on Connor in person. The thought of Connor being worse off than he'd made it out to be is terrifying, but not knowing is worse.
The android repair wing is just sci-fi-looking enough to not give Hank hospital vibes, but it’s not far off. Blessedly slate and chrome rather than stark white, the lab tables and diagnostic machinery in the glass-walled rooms evoke a vaguely medical atmosphere. Hank draws his arms tighter across his chest as he makes his way down the corridor.
Most of the rooms are dark and unoccupied, with the exception of one room where a tech works on the hand of a PC200, and another brightly-lit room at the end of the hall. When Hank draws close enough to see inside that room, he's seized with an unpleasant, sickly sort of heat.
Connor is not on the lab table, but suspended on some kind of equipment, a machine that rises from floor to ceiling, that is all arms and cables. Later, Hank wishes he could say that the shock he experiences is out of pure concern for Connor's injury, but that would be a lie.
The figure in the machine is Connor, but it isn't Connor. Hank's been around him enough to recognize his general frame, the shape of his facial features, but the rest of him is unrecognizable. Rather than the pale, freckled skin he's used to, this Connor is white and grey, built like a mannequin. He's completely smooth, missing his dark hair and eyebrows. But most distressing of all is his open chest cavity, all tubes and wires wound around a metal frame, pulsing blue. Thin rivulets of thirium run down his legs to drip on the floor.
It is a lot to see all at once.
An ugly part of Hank is gripped with the urge to turn tail and go back the way he came. But, at that moment, Connor's eyes flutter open and fix on Hank.
A beat passes where they see each other, and then something in the room starts to beep.
The tech visibly jumps and straightens from where she'd been leaning over a desk, working on a tablet. She first whirls to check on Connor, then follows his eyeline to see Hank standing in the hallway.
Hank doesn't move.
The tech crosses the room to the door in two brisk steps, leaning just her head out. "Can I help you, Lieutenant?"
"I was just..." Hank's tongue feels thick in his mouth. "Checking on Connor."
"We'll send him back to you when he's ready," she says, already closing the door. "It should be a few more hours."
And then the door shuts, the tech flips a switch, and the glass window fogs over, leaving Hank alone in the hall.
The day shift has long gone home by the time Connor returns from repairs. Hank doesn’t even hear him approach until he’s sliding into his desk chair, interfacing with his terminal, and going to work like he hasn’t just come out of the equivalent of outpatient surgery.
The silence between them is stony. It stretches on for two agonizing minutes before Hank clears his throat. “You okay?”
Connor’s eyes stay fixed on his monitor. “Yes, Lieutenant. Thank you for your concern.”
Silence returns. Hank tries again. “Past quittin’ time,” he points out, stretching to illustrate it. “And you should probably, y’know…” Hank waffles. “Take it easy.”
“I don’t require any recovery time, Lieutenant,” Connor says coolly. “I’m in perfect working order.”
Hank furrows his brow, willing himself not to snap. Maybe he should’ve minded his own business with the repairs, but he doesn’t think he deserves to be shut out like this. “...Suit yourself.”
Hank stands and gathers his jacket from the back of his chair, but Connor makes no motion to pack up for the day. “...Are you comin’?”
Connor’s eyes finally flick up in Hank’s direction, just for a moment. “I’m going to spend the night with Markus’s people. The repairs were more extensive than I expected and it’s best I stay with other androids for observation.”
That smells like bullshit to Hank, but Connor’s never been injured in this way since CyberLife stopped providing him with complimentary bodies. Maybe he really does need access to special care. God knows he won’t find it at Hank’s. “Then I… guess I’ll see you tomorrow, then?”
“Yes, Lieutenant. See you tomorrow.”
Hank doesn’t like leaving Connor at the station to go home by himself, but part of him is relieved to have a night to figure out what to say about… all that. Sorry I saw your chassis? I need a minute to reconcile what I saw back there with the guy I watch kung-fu movies with?
“Fuck me running,” Hank mutters as he starts up his car.
Hank drives home, lets Sumo out and in, pours some kibble into the dog's bowl and gives him a half-hearted pat. Heats up some leftover fried rice he's surprised Connor hasn't thrown out. As he shovels it into his face in front of the TV, he thinks about messaging Connor, but if he struck out as badly as he did back at the station, he can't imagine faring much better over text.
Later, he tries to sleep, without much success. He's agitated, dwelling on the repair wing and Connor's coldness, the discomfort with Connor's featureless white chassis and the hot embarrassment of having invaded his privacy in such a way.
He doesn't want to shuffle into the kitchen at 3 AM and grab the bottle of whiskey out of its cabinet, but it's preferable to lying alone in a dark room with his thoughts.
He takes the bottle and a glass into the living room and hunkers down on the couch, and as he twists out the stopper, he hears keys in the front door. It swings open and Connor sets one foot inside before freezing up in the doorway at the sight of Hank.
They stare at each other, both trying to recalibrate; Connor recovers first. "...I thought you'd be asleep," he says, stepping fully into the living room and closing the door softly behind him.
"Sorry to disappoint," Hank deadpans before thinking better of it. It's late.
Connor flinches at that. The keys jangle as he rolls them in his fingers. Hank scrubs at his eyes with the heels of his hands. "Sorry."
Not deigning to respond, Connor visibly hesitates before drifting over and gingerly sitting down on the edge of the couch. "You're drinking?"
"Was thinking about it." But Hank replaces the stopper in the bottle's neck and sets the lot of it on the end table. "What happened to staying with your friends?"
"They convinced me to come home."
"...Oh," Hank says lamely. He scratches the back of his neck. "How's your, uh..."
"I'm fine." Connor is still holding the keys and he seems to be using them as a point to focus on, turning the ring in circles with his fingertips. "Hank, I'm sorry you had to see that, earlier."
"Connor, you don't have to apologize." For the first time since Connor came in, Hank turns to really look at him, just in time to see the first tear roll down his face.
Connor is crying.
Hank's brain goes white. He's moving automatically, gathering Connor into his arms. The keys drop to the floor with a thunk. "Connor, hey. What's going on?"
Connor is rigid, pulled against Hank at an awkward angle. "This ruined everything," he says, miserably, into Hank's shirt.
"Ruined what, sweetheart?" Hank combs his fingers through Connor's hair.
Connor pushes lightly against Hank's chest, half-heartedly trying to extricate himself, but Hank's arms don't give. "I saw your face, Hank. It's all I can see."
Hank realizes, then, with horrible clarity, what that moment in the hall must have looked like from Connor's perspective. Looking up, injured and naked in every conceivable way, to see Hank staring in what could only have resembled horror. Hank reacts less viscerally to corpses.
He is the biggest piece of shit alive.
Holding him tighter, close enough that Connor makes a small noise when he pulls him in, Hank drops a kiss on Connor's temple and buries his nose in his hair. "Connor, no, honey. I just wasn't prepared. I wasn't ready."
Connor has Hank's shirt twisted in his fingers. "I didn't want you to see me that way."
This cannot be how this goes. Hank never doubted he would fuck this up in some way, but not like this, not because of some horrible, idiot moment where he hurt Connor in this deeply personal way without even realizing.
"Let me fix this," Hank says weakly. He can think of nothing else to say. "Let me see you. Please."
"No," says Connor, and he's pushing away from Hank again, moving to escape his arms. This time Hank lets him go. He doesn't go far, just straightening up where he sits on the couch, drawing away from Hank and folding his arms tight around his chest.
"I want to," Hank presses, reaching a hand out to Connor's arm, but Connor shrinks away.
"I don’t see why I should have to humiliate myself because you feel you have something to prove.”
That one stings. It stings because it’s true, and because Hank has made Connor feel like his body is humiliating by its very nature.
Connor won't look at him, so Hank sinks to his knees on the floor in front of him. He rests his hands on Connor's elbows, which the android permits. "You can see me, if you want. If that's not humiliating I don't know what is."
Connor doesn't laugh. "It's not the same."
“Why not?”
“Because I think your body is beautiful.”
Hank's throat constricts. “You don’t think I think you’re beautiful?”
No answer to that. Connor's eyes are cast down at his lap, still shedding tears Hank didn't know he could.
He wishes he were better at this. Better with words, better at not hurting the people he loves. He wishes he had some romantic declaration to chase away Connor's doubts. Instead he pulls Connor's hands to his mouth, passes grazing kisses against every knuckle, turns them over and presses his lips firmly, lingering, against his palms. "Connor," he exhales against his soft skin. "Connor."
Finally Hank feels Connor's fingers flex against his face, hesitantly stroking through his beard. When Hank looks back up, Connor is watching him. His eyes are wet.
Hank rises and slowly, giving Connor time to react, takes his face in his hands and kisses him.
"You are beautiful," he says when they part. "Of course I... How could you not know that?"
Connor surges up and collects Hank into his arms, just this side of too tight. Hank is forced to stoop down; returning the embrace, he nudges Connor to adjust their position, and they end up reclining along the length of the couch, wound together.
Hank draws one of Connor's hands back to his lips, kissing up his wrist, the heel of his thumb, the spots between his fingers, not in any hurry. At some point the texture of Connor's hand shifts into something no less soft, but smoother, glossy against his lips.
Hank holds that hand in a loose grip, gone white and gleaming in the hallway light. He turns it gently this way and that, examining the fine details, down to the delicately shaped fingernails. The pads of Connor's fingers are grey and soft to the touch.
He gently brushes a thumb against one of the pads, and Connor's fingers twitch in response. Hank cranes his neck to look Connor in the face, and for the first time since that morning, Connor's lips quirk in a small, fleeting smile.
Rolling them so that Connor is spread underneath him, Hank expands his exploration to kiss Connor's eyelids, his ears, down the column of his throat, the grooves of his collarbones. He stops when he meets the collar of Connor's shirt and raises his head.
The face that looks back at him is Connor's: the same rich brown eyes, the cupid's bow of his lips and the square jaw. It's also the same clean white as his hands, framed by grey panels on either side. Hank can see his serial number printed above his right eye.
Hank leans in to kiss him again, but Connor sits up and so Hank eases to the side to make room. Silently, Connor unbuttons his shirt and eases it off, lowering it to the floor. Then he hooks his fingers under the hem of Hank's shirt, and Hank lets him pull it over his head.
They undress each other without speaking; despite what they’re doing, the atmosphere doesn’t feel sexual, not really. Not sexual, but intimate—reverent, in a way—and a little bit sad. It’s not what either of them wanted from this moment, but it feels necessary, the new bedrock on which they’ll start over.
When they've shed their clothes, they lay back down together, face to face. Hank strokes a thumb back and forth across Connor's cheekbone. Connor's body is warmer than Hank expected—he doesn't know why he thought otherwise—and he can feel his heart thrumming against his chest.
"I was afraid this would scare you," Connor murmurs. "Even before what happened."
The image of Connor shifting away from Hank's touch that morning suddenly surfaces. "That why you didn’t want me to look, when you got shot?"
"Yes."
It wasn’t their professional relationship that had made Connor feel like he couldn’t bring up his injury. It was their personal relationship. Hank tries not to grimace. He rubs the pad of his thumb under Connor's eye where it's tacky from dried tears. "You still afraid?"
Connor thinks that over. "...I don't know."
"Thanks for being honest," Hank quips, he can't help it; the mood feels a little more hospitable to jokes. Then he sighs. "Look, Connor, I can't promise I'm gonna be perfect with this. This shit is new to me. But if there's one thing you need to know it's that I'm never gonna not think you're beautiful." He gives Connor's face a gentle squeeze. "And I'm gonna get better. You're worth being better for."
Connor's eyes mist over again. He lets Hank gather him back into his arms and draw him flush against him, and Hank feels him nod against his throat.
They lay together until Hank loses track of time, neither wanting to disentangle themselves. Hank reaches over his head and tugs a knit afghan from where it's tossed over the back of the couch, winding it around them both.
Hank falls asleep like that; when he rouses again there's pale sunlight filtering through the blinds. Connor is still tucked against him under the blanket, his artificial breathing rhythmic and slow. He's restored his skin, his hair brushing against Hank's nose, but Hank can still feel the cool plastic of his hand, pressed against his heart.