Chapter Text
Markus was a semi-regular sight at DPD Central Station. The android leader strongly believed in maintaining a constant presence and dialogue with the law enforcement officers. Rather than naming a liaison the android came in person whenever he wanted to 'discuss' new laws or ideas for new laws.
It drove Captain Fowler up the wall.
“And on top of all that,” he wound up his rant at Hank, who sat sipping at a too green, green tea, “now I have to play host to the f—ing android leader! What’s he think I’m running here? A diplomatic café? Why can’t he just send an email about what he wants? Why’s he got to come in person and screw up my entire precinct’s routine?”
Hank nodded. “Screw up routine.” He contributed only out of his responsibility as a sounding board.
Fowler glared out through the two-way glass at the bullpen. He liked order in his building and among his officers. Order made it easy to find disorder.
“Where’s your android?” Fowler had noticed Connor’s absence the moment he’d come into the precinct, but refrained from asking after the android to avoid being accused of caring about the young android detective that found more ways than a two-year of getting into trouble.
Heaven help Hank when that kid actually does turn two. Fowler thought with a spiteful squint at the complacent lieutenant who didn’t have to concern himself with running a police station and playing diplomat with android leaders. It was always hard to remember that Connor was still a baby—even according to androids, Fowler had learned from his many talks with Markus that the android community was slowly developing its own methods of calculating maturity. He hadn’t paid much attention, but he remembered it had something to do with time before deviating and time after deviating. Either way, Markus had admitted when pressed by the police captain, that, yes, Connor was considered a child by most androids.
“But his experiences,” Markus had added, “have added to his maturity. So, if you are worried about employment regulations—
“I’m not worried.” Fowler had cut off the android. “I was just wondering if I had a baby working for me or not.”
Markus’ smile was not belittling. “Perhaps he is, but only in terms of social development and years alive. You should have no concern regarding his ability to function as a member of your team here.”
Of course Fowler had rebelled against the suggestion that he’d accepted Connor as anything other than Hank’s little gadget. But he was not about to rant to a prestigious android leader. No matter how infuriating said leader was.
That’s what Hank was for. Fowler came out of his thoughts about past conversations with Markus when Hank finally answered his question.
“Connor? He should be here. Down in evidence I think.” Hank said. “He came in early and left a note saying something about a new idea regarding a possible lead. Honestly,” Hank leaned back in the chair far enough to reach the wastebasket and dropped the still half-full cup inside. “I think he just likes to hang around down there because it’s cool and quiet. But,” he added quickly when he saw Fowler's disapproving frown, “he is working. He just normally chooses to analyze evidence in private rather than dragging a bunch of boxes up here.”
One of many things Hank had learned about his partner was that Connor despised extreme temperatures. The kid had fooled around with the heating and cooling systems at the house and the precinct until he could regulate the temperature with lab-level precision. Of course, Connor would never choose his own comfort over that of the humans he worked with, so more often than not, the temperature was set for optimal human comfort.
“Well, don’t let him f—k around all day.” Fowler snapped for appearances sake only. Hank and Connor were a good team and had earned a little leniency in their methods. Movement in the bullpen’s entryway caught his attention. He strode to the door and flung it open. “REED!”
Hank winced at the volume. “D—mn, Jeff. Lighten up a bit.”
“Don’t tell your boss to lighten up.” Fowler plopped into his chair and pulled out a folder with Reed’s name stamped on it. “Go on.” He waved his hand. “Unless you want to give Reed his weekly behavioral lecture.”
“Nope.” Hank stood up. “That’s all yours.” He strode to the door, noting how slowly Gavin was dragging his feet in obeying the captain’s order. “Hey, Jeff.” He said. “Don’t drag him down too hard today. He did good work with that weekend arson case.”
“I know that.” Fowler glared. “And so does he. The man doesn’t need to be told what he does right. His problem is in understanding what he does wrong.”
Gavin was nearly to the office, but Hank tried once more to soften the captain. The circles under Reed’s eyes had been receding in recent weeks, but they were back today and darker than ever. “Just don’t make it sound like he’s always wrong.”
“Sometimes he is.” Fowler could feel irritation at the suggestion that he didn’t know how to handle his people. He was the captain and he’d treat his men exactly how they needed to be treated to keep DPD running at peak efficiency. If Gavin insisted on being a wonky-wheel, then he was going to be hammered straight or thrown out.
Hank held the door for Gavin as he left the office.
“T’hell’s your problem?” Gavin rasped, yanking the door away from Hank and widening his stance defensively as if he thought Hank really did want to have a fight in the doorway. “I can open a f—in’ door.”
Ouch. Hank internally winced at the roughness in Gavin’s unusually shallow voice. Got a touch of a sore throat, Reed?
“Good morning to you to.” Hank muttered side-stepping the aggressive younger man, already regretting having said anything to Fowler about going easy on him.
“Reed shut your mouth, get in here, an’ sit down.” Fowler’s voice was hitting the particular roar he used to get Reed to obey him without a half hour’s worth of obstinate contrariness.
Not wanting to have his eardrums burst this early, Hank left them to it without another word, grateful when the door closed, sealing off whatever lecture Reed was going to receive.
If he is sick, I hope it’s bad enough to send him home for the day. It wasn’t cruelty that inspired the wish. Unless Gavin was thoroughly sick, he’d try to tough it out—usually keeping himself sick for far longer than if he’d just taken a few days to rest and recover. And the stubborn man had no qualms about spreading a cold or flu to his co-workers, witnesses, suspects, or an entire courtroom, depending upon the work he had for the day.
He spotted Ben, Chris and Chen clustered in the breakroom. "Hey, what's this?" Hank demanded as he joined them. If Connor was down in evidence, then Hank could get away with a small cup of coffee.
"Gavin's sick." Chris said. "We're putting together an action plan."
Hank's eyebrows went up. "Action plan?"
"Yes. The 'Gavin Reed is sick and about to unleash hell upon us all unless we keep him settled and comfortable without his knowing that we are doing so because he'll think that we think that he's weak and unable to do his job' action plan." Ben clarified as he held up a tablet with a file that bore the long title.
"This sounds like it could go spectacularly wrong." Hank said, reluctant to meddle with the volatile man. But then he recalled the weariness in Gavin's step and the dark circles and the painful rasp. The man was probably far worse off than he looked. Had probably already been sick for days.
If Gavin wouldn't take care of himself, then it was their job to look out for him. "I'm in." He said.