Work Text:
Connor finds out about the evening’s events when you swing by his desk on your regular noon lunch break, a daily routine you’ve both become accustomed to over the months.
“Hey, Connor!” You say, waving as you approach. “Hi, Hank.”
“Hello.” Connor responds, looking up from his work. Hank provides a grunt in lieu of a greeting.
You adjust your hair and smooth down your shirt before turning back to Connor. He tilts his head. Your anxiety levels are higher than normal.
“I’ve been meaning to ask you, um…are you available tonight? Some of us are getting together at the bar and it’d be really nice if you came.” You say, then your eyes flick to his partner. “Um, you and Hank.” You quickly add, though Connor suspects that the correction was mostly to quell your own anxieties instead of an unwillingness to have him along.
(Not many people are willing to put up with his partner's often gruff exterior, but you do. It's one of the many traits Connor likes in you.)
Hank cuts in, leaning back in his chair so far that it squeaks in protest. “Some birthday thing, right? That kid in Bio-Analysis?”
You nod, bouncing on your feet ever so slightly. “Yeah, he’s a friend of mine. He said we could invite whoever in the office, so…” You trail off. Your heart-rate is still very elevated, though your breathing has evened out since the conversation began.
“We’ll be attending.” Connor says quickly. Hank mutters something about free beer.
A smile forms on your face, a much more familiar expression on your pleasant features. He doesn’t know if humans commonly have ‘favorite’ expressions, but this is his favorite of yours.
“Great! Um, Connor, I’ll text you the address?”
“Okay.” He says, nodding.
“Okay! See you both later.” You give him and Hank a little wave before wandering back to your desk.
(Essentially, Connor is a walking supercomputer. A sentient one, at that. He should be able to easily sail through case files or analyze new evidence like it’s nothing.
So why does he keep getting distracted, his thoughts floating away to the possibilities of what’s to come?
He always feels a little guilty, forming pre-constructions of you in his brain. He wants his relationship with you to be natural, just the same as the one he has with Hank, or with Markus.)
(Deep down, he knows your relationship is different. Somehow.
He’s still running calculations to figure out exactly how.)
Connor (with Hank in tow) finds the bar quite easily with your provided directions. You’d even included the intriguing message "excited to see you <3”, but when he’d inquired to Hank about it, his partner just rolled his eyes.
You were speaking with the birthday boy at the bar when they entered and you immediately waved Connor over. He made his way through the small crowd to you. You’d changed clothes for the event, now wearing a much more casual outfit as you leaned against the bartop.
(It occurred to him suddenly that he’d never seen you outside of work. Your entire demeanor seemed more relaxed here. It was pleasing to see, something he found himself wishing to see more of.)
“Connor, this is Max. Max, Connor.” You introduced him to the other man, who held his hand out.
“Nice to meet you, Connor. I’ve heard a lot about you.” Max says, shaking his hand. There was some confusing emphasis on his words, one that Connor couldn’t quite parse.
(Human turns of phrase and sarcasm were still confusing, no matter how much Hank explained to him.)
Whatever the meaning, it clearly embarrasses you, raising your heart rate as you shove Max without much real strength. “Watch it. I’ll never bring you coffee again.”
Max just laughs. “Touché.” He glances at something past the crowd. “Oh fuck, they’re starting karaoke finally. The fact that they still have a machine here is at least 80% of why I chose this place.” With a flash, he’s off to the other side of the room, where a bar employee is setting up an old looking machine.
You turn to him, your face still a little flushed from Max’s comment. “Thanks again for coming. It means a lot that you showed up.”
“Of course. Thank you for inviting me.”
(A year or so ago, he'd be stared at in a place like this. Admittedly, a few of the older people sitting at the bar that aren't a part of the birthday party keep shooting him glares, but he could care less when you're standing in front of him with that smile on your face.)
“I’m going to go sign up for a karaoke slot,” You say, looking out over his shoulder. “Um, you should probably check on Hank. I haven’t seen him since you both came in.”
Connor parts from you and thankfully finds Hank sitting in a booth in a dark corner of the bar.
“They’re doing karaoke.” He informs Hank about your activities, the word feeling oddly foreign on his tongue despite being programmed to understand hundreds of languages.
Hank’s eyebrows raise. “Hm. A younger me would have jumped at the chance.” He mutters as he takes a drink of whatever is in his hand.
Connor files that information away for later in favor of asking the question currently on his mind: “What is karaoke?”
The look he gets in return is incredulous.
“What?”
“I understand the basic concept of singing to music,” he glances over his shoulder as the speakers on the tiny stage let out a sharp crackle of noise, “so I don’t understand how this is any different.”
Hank sighs, tapping a few fingers on the table. “Karaoke is, well, it’s just like singing but…look, you’ll see. Just sit down, okay? Having you hover there is freakin' me out.”
Connor slides into the seat across from him. The booth is a little sticky and he resists the urge to lick some substance on the table to discover what it is (Hank said he shouldn’t do that in public).
Max steps onto the stage, taking the microphone from the employee. He thanks the crowd for attending his birthday party, which earns him a few rowdy cheers. Then, he’s pressing something on the machine and the speakers are spitting out what Connor has come to know as music.
Toxic, Britney Spears. Released 2004 as a single and
He spots you just off to the side of the stage, grinning. You wave to him.
He waves back.
Max begins singing, backed only by the song’s instrumental. While he certainly does not have the same vocal range as the original singer, neither he nor the other patrons seem to care. He dances across the stage, a grin on his face, until the song is over.
Connor claps politely after noticing a few people cheering for his performance. He notices Max bend down and hand you the microphone, saying something to you. You glance over, making eye contact. Connor cocks his head. You quickly look away.
Getting up on stage, you do very much the same thing Max had just done; selecting a song off the machine then singing along with a great deal of enthusiasm.
Connor frowns. “Where are the original vocals?”
Hank shakes his head. “That’s not how this works, kid. You’re supposed to sing them yourself.”
“Why?”
He watches as you fail to hit the high note in the song, but simply laugh and spin around onstage. Despite your misstep, you join right back in where you left off, no signs of anxiety or discomfort at all.
Sighing again, Hank takes a long drink. “Because it’s fun? I don’t fuckin’ know.”
Connor inspects the table before him, running his fingers along deep grooves. It’s confusing, though he knows it shouldn’t be. Singing is enriching for humans, releasing all sorts of positive brain chemicals. But why go about it in such an…odd way?
“Connor!” You shout his name across the bar. He’s shook out of his thoughts to see you motioning him over excitedly.
He points at himself, as though there was another ‘Connor’ in the vicinity (odds were less than 1.8%).
You just laugh and keep motioning. A few of your fellow coworkers begin jeering him, so he finally acquiesces and joins you up on the stage.
“Have you done karaoke before?” You ask, clicking a few things on the machine in front of you. It was ancient, a thing from the 2010s or perhaps earlier.
Connor shakes his head. “No. Hank was explaining it to me. You sing very well.”
“Oh! Thank you!” He detects a slight spike in your blood pressure as you quickly glance away to scroll through the song options. “It’s fun. I’m sure you’ll like it. What song should we do?”
Connor studies the list of songs. Again, they are largely dated, but there are many he recognizes from listening to the oldies station in Hank’s car.
“Why don’t you choose? I can download any song into my memory banks quite easily.” He says, eyes skimming over titles and pushing aside bits of information about them.
“Hm, alright.” You say, studying the list one more time. After a moment, your eyes light up and you select a song so quickly that he doesn’t get the chance to see what it is. “Here we go."
The first few long chords play through the tinny speakers as you plug another microphone in and hand it to him. A few of your coworkers in the audience clearly recognize the song, letting out short cheers and whoops. Even Hank cracks a smile over his drink.
“What song did you select?” Connor asks, holding the microphone away from his mouth so nobody can hear your conversation.
‘What? You’ve seriously never heard Bohemian Rhapsody?” You say, staring at him like he’s just shot someone in front of you.
He quickly downloads the lyrics (published 1975 on the album A Night at the Opera and).
The progress has barely hit 100% as the screen indicates the two of you should begin singing. You launch directly into the song, with the hand not holding the microphone engaging in dramatic motions (he knows this to be related to the other human activity of dancing).
Connor only realizes he hasn’t started singing when you nudge him. He quickly brings the microphone to his mouth and tries his best to imitate human singing. His voice modulator isn’t built for this kind of activity, but he tries his best (for you).
You flash him an encouraging grin.
(Worth it.)
Once the first chunk of the song is over, you mimic playing a guitar along with the song. The bar’s decibel level goes up noticeably as people cheer you on, and you throw your head back and laugh.
Connor just stares.
He’s always so amazed by human joy. It’s odd the things people will do for happiness, or for the happiness of others. What they will do for fun or to make each other laugh.
Standing on this sticky stage in an uncomfortably hot bar surrounded by his coworkers, he can’t help but feel some strange warmth in his chest when he stares at you.
(System diagnostics tell him nothing is wrong. Odd.)
“Do you want the high or low parts?” You ask, eyes shining with excitement.
From his download, he knows you’re referring to the falsetto 'Galileo's’ that are coming up. He considers this for a moment, before an idea comes to him.
“High.”
You nod, not having enough time to respond before you have to go right back into the song. Inside his body, he plays with his voice modulator so that when he opens his mouth to sing his part, it comes out sounding just like his own voice but higher in pitch.
Judging by the way your mouth drops open with a laugh and you miss your next cue, it has the intended effect. You quickly recover but every time he uses the voice, your grin gets a little wider.
He switches it off as you move into the song’s ending. You reach over and throw your free arm around his waist, fingers clutching at his jacket.
Before he can properly analyze the situation, map out all possible outcomes, he does the same.
It’s overwhelming, trying to finish the song when all he wants to do is focus on all the data coming from you. Count your accelerated heartbeat, calculate the percentage of time you both maintain eye contact, measure the pressure of body parts against his synthetic skin.
But there's not enough time for all of that. It’s over all too soon, and you’re pulling away to place the microphone down on the karaoke machine. He does the same, an unfamiliar feeling settling in his gut at the loss of you against him.
Suddenly, though, your hand finds his. He looks at you, confused.
“Come on, we have to bow!” You insist.
The two of you bow together, the bar clapping and cheering for your performance. He stands back up and you make no move to let go of his hand.
“Connor.” You say, almost too quiet to hear over the noise.
“Yes?”
“Can I kiss you?”
He answers by leaning in.
You meet him halfway, bumping noses for a moment. You laugh again, and all he can think is how no song will be as perfect as that sound.
Your lips are soft and warm against his, your hand gently tangling in his hair. He pulls you closer, seeking more data, more information.
The cheers in the bar begin again, accompanied by a few wolf whistles. You pull away (all too quickly—he hasn’t gathered nearly enough figures for reference) and glare at everyone. The jeering continues and you can’t hold the fake anger for long, breaking into another joyous laugh as you finally pull Connor off the stage.
Perhaps he's beginning to understand this karaoke thing.