Work Text:
The first time Connor sees his own reflection, it’s in the back of a seedy bar.
His programming is urging him on to find his newly assigned partner, one Lieutenant Hank Anderson, highly decorated and respected once, now fallen from grace. How such a person would do anything but hinder the investigation is not quite clear to him, but questioning his instructions is not within his abilities. He is a machine, one that has been very successful at accomplishing its previous mission, at that, and he will not let himself be deterred from his current one by an inadequately behaved officer.
His facial recognition software has not revealed Lieutenant Anderson to him, yet, but there are still quite a few places left in this bar which he could search. It would be inefficient to venture to the sixth of eighteen likely bars, only to find that Lieutenant Anderson had been in here all along. Certainly, it would not look well on his status report and he could expect a reprimand from Amanda for such a lack of thoroughness. And that would be perfectly understandable. CyberLife did not spend an undisclosed, but sufficiently large, amount of money on its newest prototype only to have it fail at the simplest of tasks.
With that in mind, Connor enters the men’s restroom, planning to search every stall if that proves to be necessary.
Instead, he finds himself face to face with a mirror. He knows what he looks like, naturally, but it would be prudent to check his presentability, nonetheless. A crooked tie or a stray hair could ruin his carefully constructed appearance and mark the difference between mission success and failure. After all, there’s a reason he looks exactly as he does.
Approaching the figure opposite him, Connor experiences an odd sensation, like a current starting in his Thirium pump and passing through his artificial skin. Startled, he runs a quick diagnostic, but everything comes up clean. It’s probably a glitch, he is a prototype after all. He files it away for his next report and continues in his approach until he is close enough to make out enough details for his current subtask.
The face that stares back at him from the smeared glass is familiar and strange at once.
He takes in the wide, brown eyes, the long lashes, the moles and freckles, the uneven eyebrows, one of them slightly raised, the single curl of hair, the sparingly placed lines, the otherwise smooth skin, the high cheekbones, the round cheeks, the slightly receding hairline, the completely unremarkable ears, the straight nose – every detail carefully calculated and constructed down to the millimeter in order to project maximum trustworthiness and competence. His body is tall, but not too tall, slim, but not too slim, capable of being both intimidating and comforting, depending on what the situation requires.
He looks exactly how he’s meant to look – except for his tie, which is slightly crooked. Satisfied that this subtask has proven to be useful, he quickly and efficiently fixes the problem. The odd current passes through him, again, and the diagnostic turns up nothing, again. Another bullet point for his status report.
He files away the completely illogical urge to deactivate his artificial skin for said report. This bug should probably take utmost priority in getting fixed for the next iteration of his model, seeing as succumbing to that urge would be quite counterproductive to his mission.
Connor turns on his heel and exits the bathroom without having searched any of the stalls.
---
Months later, in the wake of the android revolution, Connor finds himself in a situation that feels eerily similar, even though they could not be more different on the surface.
He is standing a brightly lit dressing room, faced with another mirror, albeit a much cleaner one.
He has seen his reflection countless of times since that day, in mirrors, in windows, in the glass of the aquarium that Hank has gifted him quite unexpectedly, yet the odd sensation has never fully left him. He can now identify it as something between discomfort and joy, utterly contradictory and yet the only adequate description for this peculiar emotion. He could be wrong, though, as much as he still hates to admit that. Adjusting to being deviant has not been easy. His emotions are confusing enough as it is, even without being polar opposites. At least he can quite clearly identify the annoyance he feels at that fact.
Quietly letting out a sigh, Connor discards the shirt he is currently trying on, neatly folds it, puts it with the other discarded shirts and picks up the last one from the other pile. He should have known this would be pointless, like the last three times he tried to pick different clothes for himself and still ended up leaving in his old uniform, albeit without the jacket. The discomfort had just not been worth it. This time, he had even asked Hank along, in the hopes that his presence would help him decide, even if he’s not quite sure why he feels that way, exactly.
A lot of what he feels when it comes to Hank veers into the category of being utterly confusing. If warmth was an emotion, it would be his best guess, but as it is, he’s just more confused.
He hopes that he’ll figure it out one day. He knows that he likes spending time with Hank, more than he does with any other person and he knows that Hank feels the same way when it comes to him. Everything in his behavior points to that, even if he shows it in his own way.
Connor finds that this makes him very happy.
The shirt he is putting on now is a simple button-down with short sleeves in a light blue color that reminds him of Hank’s eyes. It’s why he picked it in the first place. A current seems to thrum under his fingers with each button he closes. He doesn’t need to look at his fingers as he does so, but he wants to. He likes it when he just gives in to the random urges he gets, even if he doesn’t quite understand them.
Hank likes it, too. Well, mostly.
There is one urge he hasn’t caved to, yet, and he doesn’t know if he ever will. Something about him utterly balks at showing Hank his chassis, yet he wants to, with an urgency that, again, is utterly illogical and contradictory. It’s getting stronger each day, too, and Connor hopes that he will figure it out before it overwhelms him completely.
He feels like that’s important, for reasons that are yet to be determined. Again.
He doesn’t know what he expected to happen, but the discomfort is still there when he finishes his task and looks up. The disappointment he feels is immediate and startling in its intensity. He reaches for the topmost button of the shirt, when he feels another inexplicable urge.
“Hank?” he calls out.
The impatient shuffling outside stops.
“You alright in there, Connor?” comes the delayed answer.
Connor considers for a moment. He doesn’t know what he wanted to accomplish when he followed that urge. It’s something that happens more than he’d like to admit.
“Connor?” Hank prompts.
He really should answer.
Before he can do just that, the curtain is swiftly drawn aside. In the mirror, Connor sees Hank freeze in the entrance, his expression changing from concern to... Connor doesn’t know what that expression means, but it’s quickly gone and replaced with annoyance.
“Could have answered. I was worried you’d shut down on me for a second there. Don’t do that shit again,” Hank grumbles.
“Sorry, Hank,” Connor replies, “I’d like your opinion on the shirt I’m wearing right now.”
Hank raises both of his eyebrows. “It would help if you turned around for that. It does look nice from the back, though.”
Connor does as he’s told.
Hank is much closer than he expected, which makes no sense, seeing as he calculated exactly how close he would be based on his position.
Connor suddenly feels his presence very keenly.
In his confusion he almost misses how Hank’s expression shifts again. It would be imperceptible to most people.
He is not most people. He is Connor.
Even if he’s still figuring out what that means.
Hank’s eyes are bluer than the shirt. His mouth is slightly open. Connor would like to lick the gap between Hank’s front teeth. He knows that it would be highly inappropriate for him to do that. He files that urge away for now.
“Does it look nice from, the front, too?” Connor prompts.
For some reason, this makes color bloom high on Hank’s cheeks. Connor feels like something in him shifts at that sight.
“It does.” Hank’s voice sounds different than usual.
Connor likes it.
“It reminds me of your eyes,” Connor says without prompting. Something stops him from blurting out the part about them being bluer. Even though it’s a simple fact. He should just say it.
Hank’s eyes widen at that, in a way some people would find comical. His blush deepens. Connor wants to lick his cheeks, feel the heat on his finely tuned sensors.
He definitely shouldn't do that, either.
“Connor, what the fuck.” Hank is whispering for some reason.
For one terrifying moment, Connor is convinced that Hank has heard his thoughts, despite the impossibility of that happening.
Neither of them moves.
Then, slowly, like one would with a skittish animal, Hank raises both of his hands. Connor tenses in anticipation. When Hank’s hands land on his collar to straighten it, his thumbs brush his neck. A current seems to pass through Connor, different from the one that appears when he sees his own reflection. Connor likes it. The heat feels nice on his skin. Connor wonders what it would feel like on his bare chassis. He really has to focus to keep his skin on. He wonders what Hank’s fingers would feel like in his mouth.
After a few more seconds, Hank slowly lowers his hands and clears his throat: “There, it was a bit crooked. I know how you like to be neat.”
Connor knows it was not crooked. He doesn’t say that he knows.
Instead, he thanks Hank and turns around again. He can’t quite bring himself to look back at his own reflection, yet. He looks at the spot where he knows Hank’s reflection will be. Their eyes meet in the mirror.
“It really does look nice, brings out your eyes,” Hank finally says. His voice still sounds a bit off.
The nameless warmth he now associates with Hank seems to flood Connor from head to toe. When he looks back at his own reflection he is startled to find that the discomfort has quieted down to almost nothing.
For the first time, he feels like the person in the mirror is actually him.
He tries to meet Hank’s eyes again, but the other man has turned away. The tips of his ears are flushed a bright red. With a mumbled “Come meet me outside when you’re done,” he is gone.
Connor simply looks at the curtain for another twenty-three seconds.
Then he picks up his usual white dress shirt and follows Hank.