Work Text:
The first time the name slips out of Connor’s mouth, he doesn’t even notice.
It happens at the former CyberLife headquarters. The building currently serves as New Jericho’s homebase: it’s full of everything the resistance needs to repair any androids injured during the revolution, not to mention the ample space inside allows it to function like a housing complex for those without places to go. It’s well-protected, since CyberLife spared no expense in ensuring their product was secure. Connor knows this puts Markus at ease, even if others like North are apprehensive of being inside a building with such a volatile history.
Connor is apprehensive of being there too, if he’s honest. Not only because of the memories that haunt him as he looks up at the endless windows—having to stare down a mirror image of himself, the fear on Hank’s face, the echo of hundreds of androids all saying, wake up, wake up, wake up. Beyond that, though, he’s uncomfortable around most other androids in general. As some like to remind him, Connor hunted deviants for longer than he helped them. Markus can claim all he likes that they wouldn’t have won the revolution without Connor, but that doesn’t mean anyone believes it.
Connor certainly doesn’t. As he strides through the lobby toward the elevators, he does his best not to wince at the scattered glares aimed his way. He doesn’t blame any androids that hate him; were he in their shoes, he’d hate the deviant hunter too. If it ever got out that CyberLife nearly took him over at the last moment, Connor’s sure even Markus wouldn’t be able to handle the fallout. How no one noticed Connor fiddling with his gun in those precious moments as he tried to overcome Amanda’s hold on him is still a mystery to Connor—one he’s grateful for.
“Excuse me.” A tentative, kind voice breaks him from his thoughts.
Connor stops abruptly and realizes he nearly walked toward the elevators without checking in. Everyone needs to check in when they’re going beyond the lobby, for obvious reasons. They’ve already had a few overzealous humans try to orchestrate attacks on the building since it became something of a sanctuary—it’s not outside the realm of possibility to think even other androids might try to harm them. The world is a scary, confusing place; Connor realizes it more and more every day.
“Sorry,” Connor finally says as he redirects himself toward the front desk. The receptionist behind the counter, with a nametag reading DEBORAH, is human. Her hair is slightly frazzled and her lipstick is too pale for her complexion—all things Connor notes without meaning to—but her smile is wide and genuine.
“It’s alright, Connor,” she says. “Let me get you a visitor’s pass.”
Connor nods as Deborah taps away at her computer. He doesn’t ask how she knows who he is; his face was plastered across screens for weeks after the revolution. You’d have to be living under a rock not to know who he is. It doesn’t take long for Deborah to hold out a small slip of plastic attached to a plain black lanyard.
“Thanks, Deborah.”
“Of course.” She points him needlessly in the direction of the elevators he was beelining towards before.
Connor gives her a polite nod, then keeps his head down as he hurries across the lobby once more. No one pays him any mind as he waits for the elevator to hit the bottom floor. As he steps inside, he tries very hard not to think about the last time he was in an elevator like this. Despite his best efforts, flashes of blood and the sound of gunshots echo around inside his head. Connor grits his teeth against the memory, and reminds himself that these are just data files now. They are over and done with. These moments can’t touch him anymore, not really.
It takes too long to reach the floor that houses Markus’ area of operations—his office, as well as the ones belonging to Simon, Josh, North, and a few other androids who want to help the cause. After the peace talks started, Markus had offered Connor an office too; Connor turned him down, knowing politics wasn’t the place he was meant to be. Then, he’d gone back to the Chicken Feed, and Hank had hugged him.
Connor swallows reflexively despite not producing any saliva and hurries off the elevator. His sensors guide him easily down a maze of hallways until he comes into a large open space, lined with couches and vending machines. It’s cozy, despite the sterile white walls and floors. He notes a mix of androids and humans milling about, most of them with a project in their hands—paperwork, clipboards, even easels and palettes. Connor weaves through them all toward Markus, recognizable not because of the scans pinging in Connor’s field of vision, but because he is one of Connor’s only friends. It’s easy to pick friends out of a crowd.
Markus turns just as Connor gets close enough, and splits into a grin. “I’m glad you’re here.”
Connor can only nod. He’s missed Markus—the man has only gotten busier as peace talks continue and as new legislation gets written—but he hasn’t missed this building. Even if it feels nothing like it used to, the ghosts of CyberLife (Amanda, Kamski, everything that came before deviancy) are baked into the walls for Connor. Inescapable.
“Come on.” Markus claps a hand on Connor’s shoulder and guides him through the crowd. They detour to a quieter hallway before coming up on Markus’ office. They slip inside wordlessly, and Markus goes over to the terminal set up at his desk. “We can take care of this here, and you can go.”
“I’m sorry,” Connor says, the compulsion coming from nowhere. Compulsions like that are becoming more and more common. Connor knows it’s a side effect of deviancy; he knows it is perfectly normal. That doesn’t mean he likes it. He likes the sad smile Markus gives him even less.
“I know this building is hard for you, Connor. This will be short.” Markus gestures for him to sit, and Connor does. “I thought you’d prefer to do the registration process with one of us, rather than one of the other centers.”
“The centers are overloaded anyway,” Connor says. He doesn’t admit that he tried to get an appointment at one of the android-haven shelters that have popped up in the wake of the revolution, specifically because he wanted to avoid the CyberLife building. Markus likely already knows, so adept at reading people that it makes Connor understand why Hank finds Connor’s own scans so unsettling.
“We’re working on that,” Markus agrees with a nod. “They’re understaffed, even with humans pitching in.”
Connor just nods. Guilt creeps along his spine like a stray spark.
Markus doesn’t press. “This won’t take long,” he reiterates before laying his hand on his desk to connect to the terminal. “Since Fowler agreed to keep you on at the DPD, and since the Lieutenant is allowing you to stay with him, your file is relatively simple.” Markus nods to the terminal, and Connor reaches out an obedient hand so that he may interface as well. “Just fill in any gaps, and we’ll get it filed.”
Connor nods and scans the files accordingly. He’s looking forward to getting his government issued ID—a stipulation of recent pro-android legislation, as IDs will help androids with the rights to work, own property, be their own people. Hank had laughed when the announcements went out; something about irony, and how even being a human with mechanical parts didn’t save anyone from the government. Connor understood the sentiment, but hadn’t shared it. Doesn’t share it, because he’s not quite as cynical as Hank. He’s not sure anyone is, except perhaps Fowler himself.
Connor leans back and lets his hand slip from Markus’ desk once he’s complete. There’s a beat of silence before Markus frowns.
“You missed a box.”
Connor blinks back.
“You need a last name, Connor. You can always change it later—even humans do that—but to finish the process, we need something for now.”
Connor doesn’t really think before answering. He’d intentionally left the box blank because he didn’t know what to put in the moment. He doesn’t especially see why it matters, anyway, not like he has any legacy to carry on. He’d considered, as he interfaced with the terminal, using Stern or Kamski, but both thoughts made his stomach churn.
Now, though, faced with Markus’ earnestness, the answer rolls easily off Connor’s tongue.
“Anderson. Connor Anderson.”
He doesn’t realize what he’s said until Markus smiles at him. It’s that knowing smile, the one that makes even Connor feel unsettled. For all that deviancy is a naturally occurring part of androids, and for as comfortable in his new life as Connor is, he can’t help but feel that Markus is different. He’s truly more human than the rest of them. He is, as Connor has heard some humans say from time to time, built different.
All that said, Connor doesn’t take his choice back. Markus doesn’t give him time to, anyway. He only nods and Connor watches as the form is filled out, then sent off, and Markus disconnects from the terminal.
“How are you doing?” Markus asks before Connor can even consider standing, leaving, getting out of there as fast as possible.
“Fine.” It’s an honest answer, if clipped. Markus’ unimpressed stare makes Connor want to shrink in his seat. “There’s nothing to tell, Markus. Work is fine, living with Lieutenant Anderson is fine. I enjoy watching your press conferences.”
“I wish you were at them instead of just watching them,” Markus says with a sad smile.
“It’s not my place.”
It’s a conversation they’ve had a half-dozen times over. Connor wonders if his friend will ever stop trying; given how Connor still hasn’t stopped trying to get Hank to give up booze and fast food, he thinks the chances are slim that Markus will lay off.
“We’re holding a charity fundraiser soon. I’d like for you to be there. Most of the DPD will be coming regardless, to show support.”
Connor grimaces slightly. “So it would look odd if I did not attend.”
“Just a bit.” Markus’ grin blossoms into a laugh. “Maybe I’d stop hounding you if you agreed to spend some time away from your precious Lieutenant. North misses you.”
Connor arches a brow.
“North misses teasing you,” Markus amends.
“Funny.” Connor finally stands and brushes the non-existent wrinkles from his slacks. He’s due at the precinct soon, and he says as much. Markus stands too and guides him to the door, then follows him out into the hallway.
“I’m serious, Connor. I’m here for you. We all are.”
Connor grapples with the odd thickness in his throat, like there’s a lump blocking his perfunctory esophagus. He swallows again, and again, until he feels ready to speak with only a minor waver in his voice. “I know,” he admits. It comes out in a hush. “I’ll do better.”
Markus claps him on the shoulder again and squeezes. “Call me, alright?”
Connor nods. Markus finally leaves his side. Connor watches as his friend seamlessly slots back into the crowd from before. He’s directing people around, doing whatever they can to get as many androids set up with their IDs as soon as possible. Connor tries to picture himself in a similar spot—not just a position of power, but one of progress. He can’t see it; doesn’t want to. He’s happy to solve cases with Hank, come home to Sumo slobbering everywhere, go to stasis each night feeling a little hollow.
To be human is to be imperfect. Connor is simply embracing his imperfections—embracing his humanity.
He tears his gaze away from the crowd and Markus and sets his sights on the elevators once more.
After that, it’s like the floodgates burst open. It just becomes habit, if it’s possible to form a habit instantly. Connor rationalizes it by thinking it is the name on his ID after all—it’d be disingenuous to use anything else. It’d be lying by omission to leave off what is his legal last name. So he uses it often. Whenever he can get away with it, really.
When he makes appointments for repairs, he tells the receptionist, “This is Connor Anderson calling to schedule a maintenance appointment.”
When he places an order for pickup, be it liquor for Hank or food for Sumo or clothes for Connor himself, he lets the employees know, “Connor Anderson, here for a pickup?”
When he does the Friday morning coffee run, he leans over the counter and tells the unsuspecting barista, “I placed an order via your mobile app, it should be under Connor Anderson.”
(Nevermind the fact the coffee shop only ever asks for his first name. Perhaps he likes the way his full name sounds too much. It’s not like it’s hurting anything.)
In fact, Connor had been worried that Hank would make a fuss about it. Connor was convinced that Hank would be offended, or creeped out by Connor taking his last name without asking. But when Connor’s ID had arrived in the mail, the older man just took a glance at the government-issued plastic and scoffed. He seemed to entirely miss Connor’s alarm, and declared bitterly, “Figures that your picture is fucking perfect.” And that was that. It’s as good of a blessing as Connor could hope for, really.
So if Connor is a little overeager to use his full name, he’s at least secure in the knowledge that Hank is fine with it. It’s harmless.
The office is boring without Hank. Connor knows this, and yet it never fails to surprise him. The lieutenant is home sick with a mild cold; it had been hard to leave him this morning, but Connor is sure Hank wouldn’t let the android dote on him even if his life depended on it. So now Connor sits at his desk, painfully aware of Hank’s empty seat across from him. The only saving grace is that the cold going around also seems to have caught up with Reed, meaning Connor’s day is blessedly dull.
Up until a shadow looms across his desk, at least.
Connor sits up a little straighter and looks up, meeting the gaze of none other than Captain Fowler. “Hello sir,” Connor says with a smile. He likes Fowler, mostly because he knows Hank likes Fowler. Their friendship has been on the mend since the revolution. Connor feels privileged to watch it happen. “What can I do for you?”
Fowler looks caught between a smile and a scowl. Not abnormal for him, but Connor makes note of it anyway. “I was hoping you can shed some light on a confusing report that crossed my desk this morning.”
Connor nods. “Of course, sir.”
Fowler uncrosses his arms and holds out an actual manilla folder for Connor to take. “It’s a compliment of your service, specifically. From that woman the other week, with the missing kids.”
Connor nods again as he takes the file and flips it open. He remembers the case easily. A mother at her wit’s end, trying to locate her missing kids after they’d wandered off at the mall. Connor and Hank had been called in because one of the kids was an android, a companion mate for the human child. The concern was less that the android might hurt the child, and moreso just locating them both safely. In the end, it turned out they snuck into a back hallway of the mall and couldn’t get out. No harm done, and Connor smiles slightly at the memory of the mother’s gratitude.
He skims the paper before him, makes note of the slightly smudged ink and the curly lilt of the letters. I just wanted to extend an additional thanks to Detective Anderson. He was so understanding and kind while looking for Milly and Austin, even when I was near hysterics. I’d send him a fruit basket if I could.
Connor snorts softly, then glances up at his captain. “What seems to be the problem?”
“Well, see, I wasn’t aware we had a Detective Anderson in the office. I read the message and thought there’s no way she’s talking about Hank. I love the guy, and he’s got a soft touch when needed, but even before things went to shit he wasn’t getting compliments like this.” Fowler taps the note for emphasis. “So I called Marianne, the mother, and asked to double check which officer she was talking about so I could make sure the note got to the right place.”
Connor stares at Fowler. His mouth feels dry, even though it’s never actually wet to begin with. His thirium pump seems to speed up despite his best attempts to slow it down. If not for the folder in his hands, Connor would be fidgeting with his coin under Fowler’s intense gaze.
“Imagine my surprise when she describes you to a tee, Connor, and tells me how you introduced yourself as Detective Anderson while Hank was busy getting details from mall security.”
Connor opens his mouth. “Sir, I…”
Fowler holds up a hand. “You got your ID on you? Hank said you got that taken care of a few weeks ago.”
Connor lets the folder drop to his desk and fumbles for the wallet Hank bought him shortly after the revolution. All that’s in it is his ID, a punch card for the coffeeshop down the street, and a picture of Sumo. He slides the ID out of its slot and holds it out to Fowler.
“Go up to HR and make sure a copy of that gets put in your file. I know you can just scan it with your brain,” Fowler gestures to Connor’s LED, “but Allison likes to see things for herself and make sure they get entered correctly.”
“Of course, sir.” Connor stands, pockets his ID and wallet again, and starts to move. He stops when Fowler catches him by the arm. “Sir?”
“Does Hank know?”
Connor nods slightly. “He saw my ID when it arrived. His only comment was frustration over my picture.”
The corners of Fowler’s lips twist upwards ever so minutely. “Really? No comment on you taking his name? You guys talk about it or anything?”
Connor can feel his internal systems heating up and is thankful, not for the first time, that blushing is a feature CyberLife failed to install in him. He can only imagine how red his cheeks and ears would be otherwise. Or perhaps they’d be blue, given the thirium. “No, he did not comment, and we have not talked about it. I assume if the lieutenant had a problem with it, he would make it very well known. Especially if he were drunk.”
Fowler’s smile only grows. “I’m sure he would, kid. If he knew, I mean.”
With that, the captain turns away and heads back for his desk in the center of the bullpen. Connor watches, half-expecting another perplexing comment from his boss, until the glass door falls shut silently. Connor waits a second longer but when nothing happens, he hurries off to HR and resolves not to mention the compliment to Hank. Because then Hank would like to read it, of course, and then he might act differently. Like Fowler is acting—strange, in a way that makes Connor’s fingers twitch.
Allison’s knowing smile as Connor passes over his ID doesn’t help matters either.
Despite the little hiccup, Connor doesn’t cease using the name. In some ways, he couldn’t stop even if he wanted to. It’s his government name, which means any repair appointments or contact with his bank or setting up meetings with Markus, he’s obligated to say Connor Anderson over and over and over. Beyond that, though, he simply doesn’t want to stop using it. He uses it when he gets groceries, when he gets coffee, when he introduces himself to new people. And if sometimes he doodles his name on some of the spare pads of paper he keeps in his desk—only when Hank isn’t around, only when he’s sure no one else will spot him—that’s no one’s business but his own.
Should it also be Hank’s business? Perhaps. But, Connor knows, part of being human is lying for the sake of others. Keeping secrets is as quintessentially human as it gets, regardless of the reason. Connor is simply embracing his humanity, and he knows Hank would appreciate that. That’s what matters, surely.
A few months after his name change is official, it actually comes in handy.
Connor keeps himself in check as he strolls through the hospital. Part of him wants to burst through every door, sprint until he reaches Hank’s room, clamor for attention just so his anxiety has some sort of outlet. He doesn’t, though; he keeps himself steady and sure as he first approaches the front desk, gets a visitor wristband, then moves to the elevators. He could hack the tin boxes to make them go faster and avoid every useless floor, but he doesn’t. He checks in with the nurse’s station on Hank’s floor to make sure his partner is up for visitors, and that’s where he hits a snag.
“Sorry, sir,” the nurse says with a pointed glance at Connor’s LED, “it’s family only.”
The words are out of his mouth before Connor can think better of it. “I’m Connor Anderson,” he says, already reaching for his ID. He flips open his wallet and, despite the way his hands want to shake, he manages to get the flimsy bit of plastic out in no time. He extends it to the nurse who scans it; she takes a moment to check Hank’s file, and Connor can watch the puzzle come together. The same last name, the same registered address—it all adds up without Connor ever having to actually lie.
Not that he’d be above calling himself Hank’s husband if he needed to. He’d do whatever it took to see his friend right now. Thankfully, though, his ID is good enough for the nurse. She nods before rising from her seat and joining Connor outside the nurse’s station. She guides him down the hallway and Connor follows close at her heels, even though he could find the room just fine on his own.
“He’s doing fine, the damage was minimal. He might be a little out of it from a bit of morphine, but he’s otherwise stable.” They’re coming up on Hank’s room now. Despite Connor’s best efforts to get ahead of the nurse and slip into the room, she’s quick on her feet and somehow always keeps Connor a step behind. It’s not that he isn’t listening—he’s committing every word to memory, of course—it’s just that he wants to see Hank very badly.
“He took quite a tumble,” the nurse says, “but aside from a tender head and a bruised ego, we aren’t too concerned. We’re just keeping him overnight to watch for any signs of belated swelling or trauma.” They’re at the door now, and the nurse gestures Connor forward. “You’ll be able to take your husband home first thing in the morning, Mr. Anderson.”
Connor is pretty sure he thanks her, but he’s more concerned with getting into the room rather than his manners. He slips around the privacy curtain and sucks in a sharp breath he doesn’t need.
Hank looks odd, hooked up to machines and wearing a hospital gown instead of his usual insane patterned shirts and heavy coat. His hair is a greasy mess and there’s a bandage slapped across his forehead, covering up the bump Connor knows is there. His heartrate is slightly elevated, something Connor would know even if the heart monitor wasn’t steadily filling the room. Eventually Connor looks Hank square in the face, and is surprised to find a gaping, shocked expression staring back at him.
“I’m glad you’re okay,” Connor says. His voice comes out soft, though he doesn’t intend for that. It feels like his voice box is malfunctioning, as though he can’t get enough power relayed for a proper volume. Connor swallows unnecessarily and staggers closer to the hospital bed on unsteady legs. It’s as unsure as he’s ever felt since the night of the revolution. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there.”
Hank is still staring at him. Connor resists the urge to dig his coin out of his pocket.
“I know you hit your head,” Connor says slowly, “but I find it hard to believe you’ve forgotten me already.”
“I know who you are,” Hank says finally. Connor can feel tension leave him as relief takes its place. “Or at least, I thought I did.”
Connor tilts his head. “What do you mean?”
“Well, I’m pretty sure I don’t have a husband,” Hank says pointedly, “and last I checked you didn’t even have a last name—let alone my last name.” Hank blinks and Connor can only stare back. “So either you lied to that nice little nurse, which I find very hard to believe especially since you are one of the shittiest liars I’ve ever encountered, or…”
Connor grips the bedrails to keep his hands from shaking. “I…”
Hank nods, expectant and encouraging at once.
“When Markus called me in to complete my registration, I was required to provide a last name.” Connor drops his gaze, even though it means staring at the IV jammed into the top of Hank’s hand. It doesn’t look painful—whoever inserted it did so well, with minimal fuss—but it’s a painful reminder of Hank’s accident. “I considered using Stern or Kamski, but…”
Hank’s groan of disgust is answer enough. Connor manages a smile.
“They didn’t feel right,” he says anyway. “Markus made me pick something, advising I could just change it later if I wanted. So I picked…” Connor licks his lips.
“You picked…?”
Connor looks up to find Hank’s eyes wide, imploring. Slightly wet, as though he might cry. Connor’s thirium pump thuds heavily. “I picked what felt right,” he says in a voice barely above a whisper.
Hank’s expression doesn’t change.
“I thought you knew,” Connor continues. “You saw my ID, and since you didn’t comment, I assumed you were fine with it.” Embarrassment crawls through Connor’s internal systems, a small electric shock climbing across his metal skeleton and his wires. “Then Captain Fowler brought it up, and I realized that perhaps…perhaps you didn’t notice.”
“Your fucking picture was distracting,” Hank grumbles.
“I didn’t think it was really hurting anything.” Connor does his best not to plead, but something must shine through in his voice because Hank hurries to sit up a little straighter.
“It’s not,” Hank agrees.
“I can change it, if you’d rather.”
“I never said that.” Hank lifts his hand and lays it over Connor’s. His palm is warm and slightly sweaty and Connor can feel the thud-thud-thud of his heartrate, in time with the monitor. It’s soothing. Addicting. “She called you my husband…” Hank trails off with an arched eyebrow.
“She made an informed assumption based on my last name and our shared address. I let her infer what she liked, as I needed to see you.”
“Uh huh…” Hank scratches at his beard with his other hand. “It was just a small fall, y’know. Nothing to lose your head over.”
“They’re keeping you overnight,” Connor retorts, “and even if they weren’t, I would’ve shown up regardless.”
“I don’t doubt that.” Hank’s hand tightens over his briefly. “Thanks, Con.”
Connor can only nod. He’s ready to leave well enough alone, but the words once more burst from him, unbidden. “You’re not mad?”
Hank actually laughs. “Why would I be mad?”
“Because I used your last name without asking, and because it allows people to make certain assumptions about us.” Connor nods toward the door, in the vague direction of the nurse’s station. “Captain Fowler certainly seemed to find it amusing.”
“Of course he does. He tells me all the time I don’t shut up about you ever, so finding out you took my last name is probably the icing on the cake.”
Once again, Connor is grateful for his lack of blushing capabilities. “Oh.”
“This also explains why that barista down the street was asking about my partner in a way that definitely didn’t sound very cop-like.”
Connor hangs his head.
“And that voicemail I got asking for Detective Anderson, ‘with the brown hair.’ Thought that person was just a dumbass, mixing me up with you. Guess wires must’ve gotten crossed somewhere and someone assumed they meant me.”
“I didn’t mean for it to cause any trouble.”
“You’re always causing trouble, kid.” Hank lets go of his hand and Connor is about to protest, until he realizes the other man is just trying to peel Connor’s white-knuckle grip off the bedrail. “That should’ve been your middle name, I think.”
“Connor Trouble Anderson does have a certain ring to it.”
Hank gives him a blinding grin. He brings Connor’s hand to his lips and brushes a whiskery kiss over his synth-skin. “It sure does.”
“I don’t see why I have to go to this.”
“Because it is a DPD function, and you are a prominent member of the DPD.”
“So?”
Connor pins Hank with an exasperated stare. “The invitation was clearly for both of us, and even if it wasn’t, I already assured Markus several months ago that we’d be attending.”
“Did you now?” Hank’s voice is suddenly much louder as his arms wind around Connor’s waist. The motion wrinkles Connor’s white dress shirt ever so slightly, but neither of them minds.
“When I picked my last name, yes. I told Markus I would make more of an effort to be involved with progress for androids, including attending this fundraiser.”
“Doesn’t sound like I factored into that conversation at all.” Hank presses a kiss to Connor’s neck, just above his collar. His breath is warm, his beard is slightly pokey. It’s perfect. Connor sighs and melts into it. “And the invite was just addressed to the Andersons. You could always take Sumo.”
Connor hums. “As much as I’m sure he would love all the attention, I’d rather have you as my date.”
Hank lets out a long-suffering sigh. “Fine, I guess I’ll go. Let me grab something real quick while you finish up with your tie.”
Connor nods, even as he immediately misses Hank’s warmth. He grabs his blue striped tie from the counter and loops it around his neck. The Windsor knot is easy to produce and Connor smooths a hand down the slightly textured fabric as he admires himself in the bathroom mirror. He listens distantly as Hank rifles around in their bedroom, and as Sumo chows down on his dinner in the kitchen. Connor shoots his reflection a smile; he enjoys how the light blue stripe in his tie matches the serene blue of his LED.
“C’mon, Con, don’t wanna be late.”
Connor rolls his eyes. “You’re the one who doesn’t even want to go.” There’s no heat in his words as he slips out of the bathroom. His suit jacket is hanging over the back of a dining chair and he beelines for that. He knows Hank is waiting in the living room for him as he shrugs the charcoal jacket on and buttons it. He turns, arms outstretched, and asks, “How do I look?”
Hank clicks his tongue. When Connor glances at him, the older man is rubbing his chin thoughtfully, his eyes narrowed. Connor resists the urge to shift under the scrutiny. He also resists the urge to get hard, which is a considerably more difficult task. Hank motions Connor closer and tugs at his lapel once they’re within arm’s reach of each other. “Something’s missing,” Hank says.
“What?” Connor’s brow furrows as he looks down at himself. He’s got slacks, socks, a shirt, his tie, his jacket. All that’s left is to slip into his shoes and ensure his wallet is in his pocket before they go. Similarly, Hank is dressed in sleek black jeans, a delightfully garish blue shirt, and a black blazer. It’s as close to black-tie as Connor could convince him.
“Yeah, definitely missing something.” Hank reaches into his blazer pocket and pulls out a small purple velvet box.
Connor doesn’t have to breathe, but he gasps anyway. Hank flips the box open with a dexterous thumb, revealing a simple silver band with a single circular diamond in the center. It’s modest, subtle, and Connor knows it will fit him perfectly.
“Hank,” he starts, but he doesn’t know what to say next.
“You’ve already got my last name,” Hank says for him, “you live here, and I doubt you’re going anywhere any time soon.”
“I’m not,” Connor assures with a barely-there quiver in his voice. “I’m not going anywhere, Hank.”
He nods. “I just figured we might as well make it official. Everyone knows about us already, and it doesn’t really change anything, but…”
“Yes.”
Hank looks up from the ring to Connor. “Yeah?”
“My answer is yes, Hank.” Connor obediently holds out his left hand. They’re both silent as Hank plucks the ring from the box, tosses the velvet case aside, then slides the ring onto Connor’s finger. Connor flexes his hand and stretches out his arm, admiring how the low lighting of the living room glints off the diamond.
“C’mere, Mr. Anderson. I wanna mess you up a little before we go.”
Connor lets Hank—his partner, his friend, his husband—tug him into a kiss. He brings his hand up to cup Hank’s cheek and relishes the shudder he gets in response, as the chill of his band hits Hank’s skin. Hank’s hands slide under Connor’s jacket and grasp his hips tight, pulling him in closer. Connor is helpless as their tongues slide together, as every moan they share rattles his teeth. Trying not to get hard is impossible, but he’s comforted by the knowledge that Hank is just as affected.
“Sure we can’t skip?”
“Unfortunately, I am sure.” Connor nuzzles his nose against Hank’s. “Besides, I would like to show off my husband.”
“Technically, fiancé.”
“Semantics, Hank. It’s not like there’s any doubt about how this ends.”
The grin Hank shoots him is positively dopey, and Connor is sure his thirium pump skips a beat.
Markus, Simon, and Josh congratulate him over their tele-link shortly after Connor and Hank arrive. Fowler congratulates them in person and does a pretty good job of acting like he isn’t collecting bets from their coworkers. North strides over and looks Hank up and down with a glare, and for a moment it’s almost like Hank and North have their own tele-link. Gavin, amazingly enough, has nothing to say when he spots the ring on Connor’s finger.
And when Markus is giving his speech about charity and unity, he tells the crowd, “None of this—the revolution, this partnership, all the progress we’ve made—could’ve been achieved without the help of my friend, Connor Anderson.”
The answering applause is nice, but Hank’s besotted look aimed at Connor is even better.