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The first time Connor tastes Hank, Connor knows.
He doesn't know what he knows. But his analysis function throws such a fit at the strange genetic information introduced to it that Connor stills for a moment, considering the new data.
"Connor, c'mon," Hank moans against his mouth, and Connor puts his confusion on hold, reasoning that collecting more data couldn't hurt.
He presses against Hank, pushing his tongue back into his mouth, and swallowing the noises Hank is making.
***
Later, he wonders if it might not be an error with his own system. He's exposed to Hank more often than any other person, maybe his systems have just been permanently compromised when it comes to Hank. Goodness knows Hank makes him experience all other sorts of strange errors. Maybe Connor just needs recalibrated. But all the calibrations and all the diagnostics on his own end don't fix the issue.
Or maybe Hank has some sort of rare condition that interferes with android analysis, making Connor's system identify him as an unknown species instead of the human he obviously is.
It's a very curious error. Very funny. Connor considers telling Hank about it. Hank would probably get a kick out of it.
Something keeps him from doing so. He doesn't know what. And besides, at the end of the day, it doesn't have an impact on the life they're building together. Hank has long since stopped commenting on any of the android oddities that keep popping up to surprise him, Connor feels as though he should do the same for this one human oddity.
Their months together turn into a year. Then two. Every day, he learns a little more about Hank. That Hank was salutatorian in high school, that a scar is from a bike accident and not a bar fight like he tells people.
That Hank was adopted and never knew his birth family.
Hank is miserly with himself. He protects himself from the world, and Connor knows that every piece of himself that Hank gives to Connor is a precious gift, an admission of trust. Connor holds these pieces close to his heart. He will protect Hank as fiercely as he needs to.
***
They have a courthouse wedding. A small, private ceremony. Connor has no attachment to the concept of a white wedding. Everything else would only be filler, so much junk to analyze and discard when all he needs is Hank and the promise of their devotion to each other. When the ceremony is over they leave directly for their honeymoon, a week on the east coast in a small rental house by a beach.
They stroll on the boardwalk, Hank making blissful noises as he eats fried shrimp. "Can we just stay here forever?"
"I didn't realize it was your life's goal to live in a Jimmy Buffet song," Connor teases.
But on the fifth day of their honeymoon, Hank's good cheer begins to fade. "Too many people here. Wanna go find a quiet spot."
"All the sex we have in the house isn't enough?" Connor tries to smile at him despite the strange undercurrent in Hank's voice. "You want to debauch me on the beach, too?"
"That's not it." Hank frowns softly, as though he isn't sure what he means himself.
Hank's restlessness doesn't improve even when they stay indoors, away from the crowds. Eventually Hank drags them both out of the house so they can hike to a smaller, rockier, more secluded beach. A wild, untamed slice of ocean that looks like it has never seen a tourist.
"This is more like it!" Hank takes off his shirt, and Connor chases him into the surf.
The waves here are rougher, pounding against them and sending them tumbling back to shore. Hank laughs every time and pulls Connor back into the sea. He coasts on the waves easily while Connor gets pushed under.
Later while they're taking a breather, Connor complains, "I'm going to have to irrigate myself to make sure I don't rust from the inside-out."
Hank doesn't respond. He has an open drink next to him, but he hasn't touched it. He's just staring at the sea.
"Hank?"
"Huh?" He blinks at Connor, an odd, murky look in his eyes.
"Are you alright? You seem off."
Hank just frowns. "Feel sorta weird."
Connor has heard about a human phenomenon called a sixth sense, where humans have premonitions they can't explain. Connor thinks that these premonitions are simply the result of the human mind making connections it isn't consciously aware of to come to a correct conclusion. Connor isn't capable of having this sort of sixth sense. He is always aware of every connection he finds between seemingly unrelated pieces of data.
So he knows now, without a shadow of a doubt, that he has to get Hank away from the ocean.
"Let's go back to the house," Connor says, pulling Hank up. "Please."
Hank sways slightly. "...Yeah, sure. Probably shouldn't be swimming if I'm coming down with something."
Connor loops his arm through Hank's to steady him as he stumbles toward the trail. A wave crashes against the rocks behind them, and Hank turns his head to look.
"Hank--"
"Wait. Do you hear that?" Hank takes a step towards the see.
"The ocean? I don't--"
"No, it sounds like..." Hank is pale, pulling away from Connor.
"There isn't anything there. Hank--"
The waves crash again, and Hank gasps like he's been punched in the gut. He breaks away from Connor, running towards the shore.
"Hank!" Connor chases him. Normally he can outrun Hank without question, but not now, and Hank's shirt slips through his fingers as he reaches for him. Hank runs fully clothed into the ocean, the waves folding him into them.
Connor crashes into the waves and is immediately tossed back onto the shore by them. He tries again, fighting with all his strength to follow Hank, but the sand slips from under him and he's pushed back. His every attempt is foiled the same way. The ocean will not accept him, spitting him back onto the beach no matter how he struggles against it.
On his last attempt, he's thrown almost head-first into a rock, the force of the blow melting his skin and hair away. As errors fill his vision and his audio processes stutter, something in the back of Connor's mind imagines the ocean is saying, Plastic thing. Foreign thing. You shall not pollute me. You shall not take what is mine.
When he can see again, the waves are calm and Hank is gone.
***
The coast guard can't find Hank. Connor wants to ride with the boats that go looking for him, but no matter how much he argues and pleads, he's left behind on the shore.
"This area isn't known for its rip tides," a guardsman says, and Connor keeps his face carefully set. As if a rip tide would keep him from Hank.
Hours go by without a trace of Hank. By the time a helicopter flies out carrying a searchlight into the darkening sky, Connor knows they think they're looking for a body.
Connor doesn't think they are. He wants them to pluck Hank like a fish from the ocean and bring him back to him. He wants Hank to come back to him somehow.
Connor doesn't leave the beach where Hank disappeared, not even for an instant. His and Hank's belongings sit abandoned in their rental house, and eventually he misses his return flight home. He's inundated with messages from friends back in Detroit. For this to happen on their honeymoon, how awful.
The coast guard notifies Connor a day in advance before they publicly announce they're suspending the search. Then the messages arrive anew, popping up on his HUD in a never-ending stream of sympathy Connor doesn't want.
Connor's friends in Jericho offer to book a new flight home, let him stay with them for as long as he needs. Connor refuses, saying he wants to stay where he is until Hank is found.
They offer to pay for a hotel. Connor doesn't reply to tell them that he literally wants to stay where he is.
When the coast guard packs up their search and rescue operation and moves out, he still stays. The sun rises and sets, and then the moon rises and sets, and he still stays. He doesn't need shelter the way humans do. The beach where Hank disappeared is far enough from the crowds that he doesn't expect to be bothered.
He wants Hank to be able to find him right away if he returns. He wants to be the first person Hank sees.
The days pass slowly, Connor accompanied only by the ocean and his own thoughts. Rarely, someone will come by to gawk. The android waiting by the sea for his love to return, like something out of a legend. But they invariably leave, uncomfortable in Connor's presence. The people who come by are more bearable than Connor's own thoughts.
He doesn't know whether Hank hasn't returned because he can't or because he doesn't want to. They had just promised to spend their lives together. It doesn't seem real that Hank could be staying away by choice.
Or maybe Connor has lost his mind and Hank is dead, like everyone else seems to assume he is.
Connor saw Hank run into the ocean, drawn there by something Connor doesn't understand. But if he's lost his mind how can he know if his own memories are real?
His joints grow stiff, his whole body perfused with saltwater air. His clothes grow mildewy. What sane being would choose to exist like this? He has a life and a job and friends back home.
But he and Hank were at the beginning of their new life together. How is he supposed to accept it's already over?
He begins putting himself in a low-powered mode most of the time. It curtails most of his conscious processes, leaving him existing in a state that barely painful at all. He alternates between thinking he'll go home when he's ready and thinking he can exist here forever.
Only half-conscious in this state, he doesn't at first notice when the sea begins to churn on a calm night. He only wakes up once the roar of the waves grows loud enough to pull him out of his sleep.
The wind isn't blowing. The earth is still. But the sea rolls. Connor watches, waiting to see if this is a sign or if this is just another of the ocean's moods.
The waves dashes against the shore, too wild to differentiate from anything they might contain.
As though it's being expelled from the sea, a figure slouches onto the sand. The figure lifts its head, and Hank looks dismayed to see Connor up there staring back at him.
Connor sees Hank mouth his name, stumbling up the beach, and then Connor is running for him, preconstructing a way to fall into his arms that won't knock him back into the sea. Landing in Hank's embrace makes Connor let out a stuttering cry of joy.
"Jesus Christ, Connor!" Hank's voice is hoarse and tight. "Have you been standing here since...?"
"Where have you been all this time? Why didn't you come back?"
"Connor," Hank breathes, "Connor, don't. Don't."
"Why!? I didn't know where you were, I didn't know—"
He's cut off when Hank lets out a choked, ragged sob and sinks down Connor's front. He clutches his hands to his face, sobbing with his eyes wide open. Connor goes to his knees, holding Hank, but Hank keeps crying harder than Connor has ever seen him cry before. "They lied," Hank chokes out, and grits his teeth, keening an anguished note.
Connor just clutches Hank, terrified because Hank's sobs don't sound horrified by whatever he's lived through. He sounds like he's grieving.
"Hank," Connor says, pulling Hank to his feet. "Let's go home. Right now. Let's go back to Detroit."
He's relieved beyond words when Hank buries his face in Connor's neck and nods vehemently.
***
Markus is kind enough to charter a jet to get them back to Detroit while avoiding the media. It's unrelenting. People are going wild over their story. A man disappears into the ocean, presumed drowned and lost, and his husband keeps a constant vigil until he somehow crawls out of the sea again, alive and well. It's like a fairy tale.
Connor just wants them all to shut up and go away. Nothing about this feels like a fairy tale to him.
Hank won't tell anyone how he survived. Hank won't even tell Connor how he survived. Connor is already pretty sure he knows, but there are details he doesn't understand.
The first and only time Connor asks what happened, Hank's face darkens and he leaves the room. Connor wants to be angry, but this is probably what Connor deserves for not telling Hank all those years ago about the strange glitch that left his system processing Hank's genetic data in such a bizarre way. Maybe then Hank wouldn't stare at himself in the bathroom mirror as though he doesn't recognize himself anymore.
Hank has changed since he got back. His body is stronger and bigger, muscle sitting under the familiar fat. His hair now always leaves a damp spot on the pillow no matter how long it's been since his last shower. The sea-air smell has faded from Connor, but it lingers on Hank.
"Will you tell me anything at all about what it was like?" Connor asks.
Hank stiffens.
"I'm not asking because I'm curious. I'm asking because I can tell it's hurting you. I want to understand. To help."
"Christ, Connor, can you just fucking lay off!?"
"Hank—"
"It's pretty obvious I don't like thinking about it, right!? What makes you think I'd want to talk about it!?" Hank stalks out of the room, and Connor can hear the bathroom door slam and the shower turn on.
Hank makes fish for dinner that night, descaling the creature like he has a grudge against it.
Connor worries, but apart from monitoring Hank and being kind to Hank, he doesn't know what else he can do. He hopes his presence is enough to help.
Slowly, Hank starts smiling again. The shadows leave his eyes. He relaxes into Connor, falling asleep on the couch with him. Things seem to go back to normal. In a way, things are better than normal, because now it's getting to a point where Connor can enjoy their married life. Sometimes Hank comes up from behind and plants a kiss on his neck in a way that chases all his worries out of his head.
But then one day Connor wakes up to the sound of heavy rain against the roof. Hank is already sitting up in bed, staring off into the distance. The smell of the ocean is thick in the air, and when Connor looks into Hank's eyes, they're murky, almost green in the low light.
Hank leaves the room without a word. He shuts himself in the bathroom, and Connor can hear the lock click.
Connor follows, putting a hand on the bathroom door. "Hank."
"Go away."
"Hank, I—"
"I said go the fuck away!" The force of Hank's shout reverberates through the hall
Connor doesn't move. He doesn't know if Hank is listening to hear him walk away or not. He can hear Hank mutter inarticulately to himself on the other side of the door, and he stands absolutely still so as not to disturb him. Standing vigil again.
Time passes. Connor can hear Hank moving around on the other side of the bathroom door. Eventually he stops moving.
"...Connor." Hank's voice is flat.
"Yes, Hank?"
"Can you hear something that sounds like a kid's voice?"
"No."
Hank hisses, and there's a soft thud.
"Hank?"
The shower turns on.
"Hank, please let me in."
There's a noise like Hank is banging on the side of the tub.
"Hank."
"Jesus fucking..."
"Hank."
A noise like a strangled snarl.
Connor leaves to get a screwdriver. He carefully dismantles the doorknob, unsure if Hank is aware of what he's doing. He can hear a low groan coming from the other side of the door, and maybe between that and the running shower, Hank can't hear how Connor is removing the knob one screw at a time.
The door clicks open, and Hank's frantic shout as he bangs on the wall—
"Don't fucking come in here!"
Connor braces himself against Hank's anger and pushes the door all the way open.
Hank is huddled in the tub, the shower curtain obscuring most of his form. A flash of silver disappears over the rim as Hank withdraws further into the tub.
Connor approaches and kneels down before pushing the curtain back.
Hank is hiding his face, the ribbed fins and scales on his arms catching the light. His tail is curled under him as if trying to hide. He's still wearing his sleep shirt, and the effect makes him look half-drowned. It's almost comical, but Connor doesn't laugh at the sight.
He disengages all of his skin as he reaches out to take Hank's hand.
Hank recoils when Connor touches him, but he blinks as Connor pulls his hand away from his face. Hank's eyes are strange, the scales even reaching up to dot his neck and face, but he still looks more like himself than Connor looks like Connor at the moment.
"Now neither of us are human," Connor says.
Hank's chest hitches with a strangled noise.
"You don't have to be alone," Connor moves to sit on the rim of the tub. "You're not alone no matter how much you might think you are. I'm always going to be here for you. No matter what. That was the promise we made when we married each other."
Hank looks like he wants to sink through the floor of the tub and tear his own hair out. "This is—"
"Something we can deal with," Connor says. "I can guarantee to you that from my perspective, this is not anywhere close to being the weirdest thing about you."
Hank finally looks Connor in the face. Connor watches how Hank drinks in the sight of Connor's naked chassis. It's still strange to him and probably always will be to some degree. Humans (Hank still included) can be so slow to adapt to anything truly bizarre. But Hank isn't looking at him with the apprehension that had been behind his eyes the first time Connor bared his chassis to him. No, Hank is looking at Connor as though Connor is a lifeline, an anchor. That alone is enough to give Connor hope.
"What's the worst thing about this right now?" Connor asks, stroking Hank's hand.
"It—" Hank looks like he's struggling to speak. "The... the voices. They're fucking lying, I know they are, but I can't—"
"Just listen to me," Connor says. "Concentrate on me and my voice."
Connor talks in a low and gentle voice, words of comfort and love flowing freely. At some point, he shuts off the shower. At some point, he eases himself into the tub and Hank holds him, shuddering as Connor whispers into his ear and strokes his hair. Eventually the shuddering stops and Hank relaxes, his eyes closed and his tail stretching out and curling around to fill the rest of the tub.
Connor knows there's still so much to figure out. How this works and how to take care of Hank when he's like this. Why it happens and for how long. This isn't the sort of thing Hank is suddenly going to be okay with just because he knows he has Connor's support. This is all still foreign and terrifying.
"You can't electrocute me when you're like this, can you?" Hank murmurs, and Connor laughs.
But it's getting better.
