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Tell myself I won't no more, but here I go again. The way I fall so hard and fast, you'd think I'd never been... in love, love, love...
- - -
Love has never done Hank any good.
You'd think after 53 years of living and at least 40 of falling in love he would've learned by now.
But, no. Time and time again he gave his heart away, and time and time again it ended in misery. He's been cheated on, publicly dumped, ghosted, lied to, dumped for someone more popular, and just had more relationships than he cares to think about end with yelling matches and bad breakups.
And, of course, then there was his last relationship. And Cole.
Turns out that even though it was probably the most stable and dedicated relationship of his life it couldn't hold up to the combined grief of two people who'd lost too much in life already.
So he'd closed himself off to love. After burying Cole and watching his wife become his ex and then a stranger, he decided that nothing good could come of him giving his – now badly worn and broken – heart to anyone ever again.
And yet, here he fucking is, staring into a goofy, pale face, blue LED spinning rapidly and too perfect teeth all showing in a triumphant smile... and there goes his goddamn heart.
Badump badump, just like it used to, back when he was a different person, someone with something to give and room in his life.
There's no space for anyone now, every corner of his heart filled entirely with grief and bitterness. But said heart doesn't seem to care, thumping away at this stupid, happy robot, bouncing on his heels because he's deviant and they solved a case, and he's happy. And beautiful. And real.
But, christ, why did it have to be him?
If Hank was going to give his heart away ever again, why the hell do it to this smooth-faced, aggravating, snarky-ass android who seems to take enormous pleasure in getting in Hank's face and forcing him to do things he doesn't want to. Why not pick someone who has even the faintest idea what heartbreak feels like? Why not someone who's broken too?
Except... isn't he? Doesn't Connor have his own scars? Perhaps not of the heart, but certainly of identity and guilt.
Great, now Hank is trying to defend the whole thing when it has bad idea written all over it.
It would be doomed either way, wouldn't it? Hank is too human, too old, and there's no telling how long Connor is even built to last. He might outlive Hank by centuries. He might crap out in a couple of years. He doesn't seem to know himself, and also seems remarkably unconcerned by it.
“Humans don't know their life spans either. They could lose their lives from anything at any time,” he said, when Hank asked about it, and while the logic is sound it still feels kinda horrible to go on and not have any idea at all.
And outside of life spans, they're also just too different. Not only because Hank is human and Connor is an android, but they have nothing in common. Connor finds basketball vaguely intriguing at best, and while he enjoys music his tastes lean more towards pop and – for some reason – opera. Literally the only thing they seem to have in common is the work, and even that is pretty up in the air. Connor agreed to stay on with the DPD when androids gained their freedom, but he's still not sure he's staying. He's considering his options, apparently.
So he'll move on to something else, probably. And where does that leave Hank? Alone and heartbroken, once again. Fucking typical.
“We should get a drink,” Connor says. “To celebrate!”
“Can you even drink anything?”
“A lot of places have started selling thirium. I'm sure we can find one with the appropriate dingy atmosphere to suit your preferences,” he says, and Hank elbows him.
“Smartass. Fine, drinks are on me.”
And, fuck, he looks even more gorgeous and alive in the dim lights of a crusty bar, not too far from Hank's house, smiling and winking at Hank, like he has even the faintest idea what he's doing to Hank's sanity.
Badump. Badump. Badump.
He walks Hank home, annoyingly insistent that they shouldn't drive, even though Hank's pretty sure he's below the legal limit and Connor can't even get drunk. But it's hard to say no to the puppy eyes, and what the hell, it's a nice night. Connor stayed with him for a while after the revolution, but he's got his own crappy place now, so when they reach Hank's door it's goodbye. Or, rather, it should be, but Hank can't make himself end it, not yet. His heart is going and going and going, and, fuck it, he's just an old fool when it comes right down to it.
But maybe he isn't alone in feeling a little foolish, because once they run out of small talk Connor is still there, close and still smiling that little private smile of his. And Hank stops breathing when slender, dexterous fingers close around his own, and Connor looks up with a question in his eyes.
Yes, yes, yes, sings his heart, and he wants to tell it to shut the fuck up, this will never be good for anyone, it's going to end in complete disaster and agony.
But Connor's fingers feel good, the skin on his hand fading, inviting intimacy, and Hank is drowning in his gorgeous brown eyes as he leans in.
“Is this okay?” Connor asks, barely an inch from Hank's lips, and he should say no, he should, he should stop this before the pain.
Yes, yes, yes, whispers his heart, and, without meaning to, so does Hank.
Here he goes again.
End.