Chapter Text
March 21st, 2039
Judging by the circumstances around him, there is not a single thing that would cause his life experience to be unmanageable. Connor’s species have been recognized and gradually granted rights making life significantly easier, for some. For others, it has been a struggle of adapting and loud teeth-gritting. It’s not too much easier to continue existing in this unnatural form nowadays, but it’s become far less restricting, at least for him.
There are plans brewing at the back of his mind, waiting for him to act on them ever so patiently. A clear image of the future he’s painted waiting for him in the attainable distance.
He has a home, a person he could one day call family if he doesn’t mess it up with him. Hank has opened the door of his house for him, letting him stay as long as Connor needs. That in itself is enough of a reason to keep going, just to look after the ageing man with a number of issues so enormous not even Connor is capable of carrying them all. To be fair, he’s not expected to solve any of them, and to him, assuring the lieutenant stays alive is already the greatest victory of all.
And it’s not like he hasn’t benefited from his meddling attitude. With the help of Hank’s imposing personality, the DPD has employed him as a rightful police investigator, granting him proper compensation for his work. Although he hasn’t been taking much advantage of that.
Connor contributes to the household where he can, but it hasn’t been unchallenging, not with Hank’s eagle eye and his opinion that Connor should keep all the money he’s earned for his own individual needs. Lately, he’s been too tired to argue about it, so there is an ever-increasing amount of cash accumulating in his rarely-used bank account. A great incentive to start spending it meaningfully.
There is something else too - a hint of a feeling spreading through his insides like a virus, creating unrest within his systems and he’s afraid the source is someone his surrounding expects him to dislike. Someone who’s hurt him.
But it’s not a bad thing, not inherently. It’s just a bit… scary. Nothing that isn’t a natural part of being alive, he assumes.
/ Connor’s life would be near to perfect if only he didn’t make that one mistake. //
It’s a lazy Monday afternoon, one of those rare peaceful moments where the commotion of the average day takes a break from pestering him. Just him and Sumo making themselves comfortable in the sunlit living room. He’s been trying to enjoy these mandatory leaves where his only responsibility is not dying. It’s been going well lately, introducing calm into his restless soul. Another thing he didn’t know he so desperately needed.
Connor settles his eyes on the tiny dust particles floating through the house with no care in the world and his chest expands at the simple beauty of it. It’s not that he’s never seen them before, it’s just the first time he really looks. And it nearly takes his breath away (were he to have any). But it doesn’t take long before his attention is redirected to the book sitting on his lap, waiting for him to resume their time together. It’s one of Hank’s favourites, so he’s trying not to rush through it, to read it as it was intended to. He now understands the appeal in touching the paper and feeling the time that has gone through the yellowed pages. Or at least the way it intrigues him personally, making him feel small and insignificant against the sheer amount of years it has been on this Earth, while he was still nothing but a concept. This too isn’t something that would weigh him down, though.
The story itself fails to speak to him on a personal level, but maybe that’s because he’s still learning how to be a real person. There are still countless things he can only picture or research, not having any idea of what it all really feels like. It’s not a problem though, for there’s still time to do everything and more.
So for now, he puts himself completely at ease with his guard all the way down, thinking that as of this moment, he is able to define happiness.
But life has a way of surprising you when you least expect it.
Because at that exact moment of contentedness, something pierces his system and violently removes him from the current moment, throwing him into a stormy sea of chaos and uncertainty.
An error he isn’t able to identify, no matter how many scans he performs. Because they always bring up an avalanche of garbled messages, ones he’s too obsolete to figure out, he thinks.
It’s not that he stupidly believed that everything would happen just as he envisioned it, that there wouldn’t be anything thwarting his path to happiness. He just thought that he could deal with whatever obstacles were about to come his way, as he has been told to expect.
What his calculations didn’t include though, was his lifespan being cut short. Androids were expected to live up to a hundred years and more, as long as they liked if they had the means to maintain themselves.
And yes, he has entertained the possibility of dying in order to accomplish his mission or to save another, but this… this just isn’t fair.
There is a timer ticking in a corner of his vision, distorted beyond comprehension. He has no means of reading the dropping digits, and if he’s honest with himself, he has no desire to.
He doesn’t need any tangible proof of his approaching demise to know it’s coming.
His body has been screaming this truth at him ever since that nice, sunny afternoon.
/ The first day of spring, when the air lost its bite and the first signs of greenery struggled through the clinging snow, the only life he’d ever known was beginning to seep from under his fingers. //
---
March 28th, 2038
“You’ve been quiet lately... Is something wrong?”
Everything.
But it’s not like he can say that to Hank with his impossibly blue eyes full of worry and his fragile heart already broken.
“It’s nothing. I’m just… thinking.”
It has been a week. Seven days of sleepless nights and unquiet evenings full of trying to find the best way to deal with his little problem.
His only saving grace has been the time he was allowed to focus on their current case. He wouldn’t take his mind off it for a second was it up to him, but Hank has strictly forbidden any work-related activities outside their office hours. Blackmailed him with Sumo-withdrawals, even.
The main reason he isn’t willing to risk it.
Liking dogs has always been a part of his personality, for as long as he can remember. It doesn’t matter whether the attribute has been programmed into him or not, there have been way too many pieces of himself he doubts are his own. No point adding to it.
He loves the old Saint Bernard because he’s chosen to, no different from the humans he holds dear in his heart.
It’s not like it’s important anymore.
He could shut down tomorrow for all he knows.
The only reason he’s so afraid to close his eyes.
“The case bothering you that much, huh.”
Sure, why not. It has been weighing him down lately, the fact that he hasn’t been able to solve it yet. Androids going missing without a trace all over the city, leaving behind no clues to work with. And then someone discovers one of the victims washed up on the bank of the river, looking like it’s never been alive in the first place. A grotesque mannequin with blue craters all over its body.
It had to happen just one day after his clock started moving towards something dark and undefined, too. An irony he isn’t able to laugh at.
Standing there in front of the corpse, about to analyze it just as he’s been created to do, a thought crawled into his mind. A dangerous one, stealing all the last traces of self-regard from him.
People are needlessly dying every day, all over the world.. What’s so special about my life that I should fear losing it?
Were he to ask Hank, he’s sure there would be a flood of potentially correct answers coming from the older man’s naturally gained wisdom. But he hasn’t.
He won’t, as long as he can help it.
It seems that the lieutenant has taken notice of his prolonged silence, for a big, calloused hand gently squeezes his forearm, a gesture that brings him back next to the food cart Hank likes to utilize for his lunch breaks.
“Maybe you should relax once in a while, put your mind off things. It usually works with humans, so... can’t hurt to try,” he says with his lips curling upwards, almost imperceptibly so.
Right now, this proposition sounds like the worst possible thing he could do. He needs some objective to focus on, something that overwrites the glaring error messages he’s too tired of constantly dismissing, lest he does something regrettable.
“Solving the case is my only priority. I can’t afford to ease up now, not when there’s actual evidence at our disposal. ”
He feels himself growing sharp around the edges, as if he’s shielding himself from the lieutenant’s kind words.
“Now you sound like my former partner. A machine who only cared about his mission.” The man shakes his head in disapproval, shoving the last piece of his burger into his mouth. The disappointment leaking from his accusation would cut his festering sense of self if it wasn’t numbed by the sheer force of hurt he isn’t sure how to process yet.
“Well, he’s not that much different from me, is he. The only thing that has changed since then is that now I choose to be this way.” Connor’s voice is somehow louder, more callous than he’s grown accustomed to. He hasn’t meant to retaliate in this way, purposefully aim at the weakest parts, it’d just slipped from him before he could realise what’s happening.
“I’ll wait in the car,” he utters before Hank has the chance to say something that would make this situation even less bearable.
Maybe it’s better this way. Easier. Making people hate him again.
It’s not that painful to say goodbye to those who didn't treat us with kindness, right?
The only issue is he has no idea how he is going to make himself believe that.
---
December 11th, 2038
“Hey, asshole!”
Nothing.
No acknowledgement whatsoever.
He should be glad it’s not a racist slur this time. Just because the tin can’s been granted rights or whatever, doesn’t mean he should start behaving like an arrogant prick. That is Gavin’s job, and he won’t let the plastic steal this one too.
“The fuck’s wrong with you. Got a bug in your software?” He approaches Connor’s desk, taking advantage of the short window when lieutenant-empty-bottle’s not there playing guarding dog.
“I thought you were talking to yourself since you’re the only asshole around.” The toaster blinks self-importantly and looks around the office, all within a painfully long second. “At the moment.”
“Clever.” Gavin claps his hands in a dramatic manner, trying to hold his emotions in check. He’s not here to start a fight, or at least not just because of that.
“I thought you might wanna make yourself useful while you’re here,” he snickers through his feigned amicability.
A notebook sits on his desk, full of computer gibberish he isn’t able to make any sense of. Found next to a man who’s suspected to have committed suicide. It has piqued his interest in a way he can’t quite put a finger on. He did plan to send it to the tech department first time tomorrow, but… this… this is too tempting not to indulge himself in.
“I think I’m plenty useful already, Detective Reed.” The way he says his name just drives him mad, for multiple reasons. None of which he particularly likes to think about.
This idea is starting to look less and less appealing by the second, but Gavin is not the one to quit. Besides, there is no way Connor would ever forget this incident, (nor would he be able to, probably), so the better looking he comes out of this the less self-deprecating anxiety will haunt him at the nights spent alone. Which, let’s face it, are most of them.
Not that he cares about what Connor thinks of him. That would be ridiculous.
So the thing his clever brain decides not to do is come up with a clever answer and put the deviant bitch in a corner. No, it deems the best reaction is to stand there, gawking with his mouth slightly open, feeling the heat crawl up his neck. Right now he wishes he had his gun in his holster, so he could aim it at himself and pull the trigger. Maye Connor would do it for him if he’s lucky.
“I am willing to help you, but for a price.” His voice hides a hint of mischief, something he certainly does not find charming when it comes out those perfect lips.
“Yeah? And what might that be, tin can?” He tries his utmost to put forward his intimidating voice, the one he uses to show the world just what an asshole he really is, but by the smirk forming on the android’s face he can tell his efforts have been squashed, no doubt thanks to the vexing feeling in his chest.
“You owe me an apology, detective.” The playfulness has now completely left his demeanour, effectively freezing the blood in Gavin’s veins. He’s seen Connor like this, cold and machine-like, a few times over the month he’s known him, and every single time it created within him a smorgasbord of fear and arousal and something else he’s too much of a coward to try and put a name to.
“Fucking androids,” he mumbles before turning around and hurrying to hide in the washroom, hoping that no one would follow him.
----
March 30th, 2039
He thinks he’s getting used to it. The fact that he might soon cease to function hasn’t influenced his everyday life that much,... so far. There are no detectable symptoms that would slow him down or make him less competent. Nothing but the dread and the constant reminder of his brokenness flashing dimly before his eyes.
The sun has already set, making way for another chilly spring night spent pondering about how long he can go on without entering sleep mode. He’s reaching his limit. Maybe a day or two before his systems autonomously shut down to prevent any irreversible damage, and unless someone turns him back on, he’ll stay that way. Comatose. Not a bad thing to consider.
He just needs to go somewhere no one will find him. Maybe he should do that regardless. Leave everything behind and disappear.
Unfortunately, there are things holding him here. People he’s grown too attached to, who he loves too much to hurt them this way. Threads so thick they can’t simply be cut.
There is no good solution to this. No matter what he decides to do his friends will suffer the consequences.
An alert warns about his steadily rising stress levels now reaching dangerous cyphers, but he has no way of comforting himself, not when he’s at work sitting in front of his terminal with not an ounce of concentration left to finish his current assignment.
So maybe this crisis does interfere with his professional life after all, who could have guessed.
Solving cases has always been something that would pull him out of his current reality, for better or for worse, but these past couple of days he’s been catching himself struggling to focus for extended periods of time.
He has tried to prepare himself for the inevitability of losing the functions to perform his usual task, but one can never truly be ready for the worst, can they.
His eyes scan the screen in front of him that is full of dates and numbers that make no sense to him, the realisation hitting him in the face like a sledgehammer made of lead.
He can’t remember what he’s supposed to be doing. The information is there, somewhere hidden within him, but he’s been denied access to it. Or at least that’s what it feels like.
And he wants to run, away from himself and further.
But a layer of ice encases Connor inside himself, freezing any attempts to move away. The only thing he’s aware of is the urgent need to calm himself down and the despair of not being able to.
And the numbers are rising.
Right now (and ever), self-destruction is the most terrible thing that could happen to him. If he really has to go he’d accept any other means of death other than causing it himself.
Please, please, please, anything but that, I beg you
“Connor!” A familiar voice interrupts his inner panic, a voice that often gives him hope and on occasion lights sparks in his heart.
̶A̶ ̶v̶o̶i̶c̶e̶ ̶t̶h̶a̶t̶ ̶h̶a̶s̶ ̶h̶u̶r̶t̶ ̶h̶i̶m̶ ̶s̶o̶.̶
“... you okay?” he doesn’t know how to answer that, or if he’s even able to in the first place. His eyes lock on the hands holding the edges of his desk a bit too tight while he tries to steady the almost imperceptible tremble striving to reign his limited movement.
Maybe he shouldn’t. Maybe it would be best if Gavin saw just how not okay he is.
Maybe then, the carefully concealed craving for help would be finally satisfied and he could finally rest, at least for a short while.
“It’s nothing, I’m fine.” And maybe if he didn’t answer in a bare whisper, Gavin would believe him. ̶(̶t̶h̶o̶u̶g̶h̶ ̶h̶e̶ ̶s̶o̶m̶e̶h̶o̶w̶ ̶d̶o̶u̶b̶t̶s̶ ̶i̶t̶)̶
“Can you stand?” It’s asked with so much care and worry he physically can’t dismiss Gavin’s effort to help. That and he’s too tired to fight himself anymore.
Connor tries to stabilize himself so they can leave this suffocating space, nodding when he feels like he can control his body again - at least partially.
There is a rough hand at the small of his back, burning a hole through his suffering. Something he never realised just how desperately he’s longed for.
“Let’s go outside for a bit.”
No doubt the detective feels the need to fill his lungs with smoke, and Connor can’t find it in him to blame the man at this moment. But that’s an issue to try and solve another time.
The back of the precinct building is far from the place he’d prefer to be currently in, but it’s better than having to be stuck inside his deceased mind all on his own.
It’s late enough that the office is almost devoid of any potential onlookers who would be able to judge their uncharacteristic behaviour, not that it would be a problem. No one but him and Gavin has the right to perceive that ambiguous thing that’s been slowly blossoming between them, after all.
The rainy afternoon has left behind the sort of grimy dampness that matches the tears too stubborn to come out.
Connor hopes the change of air will contribute to reestablishing his normal functionality, but It’s something else that makes him temporarily forget about his ailment.
Across the street, a couple of children scream as they chase a dog dragging a leash along the wet pavement. It’s not a busy road, but at this time of the day, the traffic’s crazy almost everywhere.
And the miniature schnauzer is heading right into the heart of it.
Connor doesn’t have to think twice, already hurling his plastic body in the same direction, desperate to prevent a tragedy.
“Candy! No!,” the girl cries before she starts to sob uncontrollably.
“You should have given the leash to me!” the older boy screams at her while seemingly deciding whether he should run after her too.
But before anything can happen, there is the loud screeching noise of a tire and the deafening honking sounds made by the cars that were forced to stop.
One vehicle has made a 180° turn, standing mere centimetres from a guy covered in blue sitting on his knees, holding something small in his hands.
“Connor! Jesus fuking christ, why do you have to be like this.”
The detective isn’t the only one hurrying towards him, and as the two children approach with tears in their eyes, bringing with them an unspoken question, he gestures with his head at the bundle of fur shaking in his hold.
“She’s alive,” they squeal in pure joy.
And Connor’s relieved too, feeling like he’s done the best thing in the world.
It takes the happy laughter of two children hugging the fragile creature he’s saved from almost certain demise for him to realise that all life is precious, maybe even his.
“Thank you, thank you so much, sir,” the girl smiles at him with such innocent genuineness. And he would thank her in return if only he was able to speak.
--
“What the fuck were you thinking, hm? Playing hero for no fucking reason!”
Connor wishes his wound actually hurt, so it could dumb down the pain that’s dwelling all over him, not attached to anting in particular.
He also wishes he could block out the yelling, but there are several reasons why he doesn’t, even though he’s very much capable of it.
“You could have died.” The loud blaming tone has turned into something tender, almost breakable.
“It takes... more than that.... to kill me,” he slowly pushes out the words, still feeling little frail.
He tries to smile to put Gavin’s mind at ease, but the truth of that statement prevents him from doing anything more than locking his eyes with the emotionally shaken man.
They’ve made their way to the bathroom, more accurately Gavin has luged him here.
Not wanting to make their confrontation public would be his main reason.
Wiping damp paper towels over the thirium on his shoulder might be another.
“I’m fine. It will heal itself, as I’ve already told you at least three times.” His voice is weak, reluctant to come out, but he’s made it work. There’s nothing he wouldn’t do to keep Gavin calm tonight.
Connor can’t deny it’s nice, though, being taken care of like this. If only it didn’t have to be precedented by so much worry.
He’s important to Gavin, he can feel it in every tentative touch, in every incomplete gesture he’s tried to show him.
That’s why he can’t share the awful truth with him. At least not yet. He fears it would shatter everything they’ve built together, even if it may not look like much.
To Connor, it means the world.
---
December 15th, 2039
Gavin doesn’t want to apologise. Not because he doesn’t feel remorseful (though whether he truly does is debatable), it’s the shame that comes with it he can’t stand. The admittance of misconduct. He can’t remember once saying sorry and meaning it, not ever since he was a child. His pride has never allowed him to.
The problem is, this time, he feels like he needs to. Not because what he’s done is that egregious or that he cares about the plastic, it’s just… Connor has been ignoring him ever since that day he got the stupid idea to ask something from the damn machine.
A machine that he hopelessly wants to interact with.
There’s something treacherous growing inside Gavin every time he catches the android talking to others, with the dumb grin plastered on his even dumber face,... looking so undeniably human.
He believes it’s petty jealousy, nothing else. Still, doesn’t mean he will tolerate it.
Instead of standing up and dealing with the situation in a manly matter, he grabs a piece of paper and scribbles something on it before throwing it at Connor’s head, just as all self-respecting adults do.
He can’t tear his gaze away from the way Connor’s mouth curls as he reads the carefully thought of words, not failing to notice the heat spreading across his own cheeks.
Sorry, I guess.
But Connor crumples it right back and puts it in his pocket. Which wouldn’t be that bad, but the robo-menace gets up and walk right towards him with a confident smirk on his face, nearly making his heart stop.
“Nice try, detective.”
He hates the way his voice oozes challenge, the way it makes him want to do unspeakable things to that walking talking sex-doll.
As Connor leaves towards the exit, he makes sure to brush his head with his plastic fingers, momentarily stealing the breath from his lungs.
Well, then.
If Connor wants war, he’ll get it.