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Detroit’s buildings passed by in a blur. Connor craned his neck to follow the neon lights running up their sides, a cool glow against the cloudy sky. He’d lived here for a little over a year and a half now, but the city’s luminosity never failed to capture his attention.
Glancing forward again, he felt a lurch in his Thirium pump as he observed the speed at which they were approaching a yellow light.
“Hank, the light—”
“I know,” Hank snapped. Rather than shifting his foot from the gas pedal, he pressed down harder.
They sailed through the light approximately .5 seconds before it turned red. Connor consciously loosened his fingers where they had clenched the side of his seat.
“Couldn’t even get five fuckin’ minutes to work on the other cases before getting another thrown on top,” Hank grumbled, finally slowing as he jerked the steering wheel to pull the car into a spot along the street. It was almost at a 15 degree angle from the curb, but Connor refrained from commenting on it, or his other questionable driving tactics. The Lieutenant’s mood had been sour since he woke up this morning, largely due to a long night of Sumo howling at a thunderstorm. It had not improved since.
The two climbed out, heading down the busy street and toward a nearby alley. An officer leaning against the wall gave them a nod as they passed through the shimmering holographic tape cordoning off the entrance.
“What’ve we got?” Hank asked Connor as the two took in the crime scene. Like most city alleys, it was primarily occupied by refuse. Three dumpsters crowded the walls, each letting off their own unpleasant olfactory input. A small collection of rusted out trash cans were nestled beside them. Two of them had tipped over, spilling their contents over a heap of cardboard soaked from a murky puddle. It was there that the body of a woman lay, sprawled in the filthy water. The colorless LED beside her vacant eyes marked the reason they had been called here—another android murder.
This one, however, was different from their usual investigations: they knew exactly who had killed her.
Connor looked past the few crime scene investigators cataloging the scene, focusing on where two officers stood with a man whose ragged red t-shirt was splattered purple. A scan of his face identified him as Louis Waters, 36 years old with one criminal record for trespassing.
“Jesus,” Hank muttered as Connor finished filling him in on the information that had already been shared with them. “Haven’t had something like this in a while. So he’s claiming she randomly attacked him, and he killed her ‘by accident’ in self-defense?”
“Correct.”
“Right. Well, let’s take a look.”
They made a beeline for the body. Connor did ‘his usual gross shtick’ as Hank labelled it with a grimace, sampling the Thirium spilled from the woman’s body. The cause of death was almost certainly the sizable dent in the side of her head, which had been inflicted by the tire iron beside her body.
“Her name was Elinor. She was employed by a bookstore two blocks from here.” Connor gently touched the back of her hand, attempting an interface.
He was met with a wall of black.
“Her processor is too badly damaged to recover any data.” He pulled his hand away, adjusting his tie as he stood.
Hank was looking up along the two buildings fencing them in. “Don’t see any cameras.”
Connor glanced at the overturned trash cans. There was a splatter of Thirium on the wall beside them. “No. I can see if I can reconstruct anything from the environment.”
“You do that. I’ll go start asking some questions.” Hank turned, heading toward the self-proclaimed victim of the initial attack.
Connor opened his mouth to protest, but closed it a second later. He might be designed to interrogate suspects, but Hank had his own years of experience, and liked to take point sometimes. He hung back, crouching to survey the disturbed trash cans and Thirium stains on the wall. He turned up his audio reception levels, listening in as the Lieutenant walked over to introduce himself and begin questioning the man.
“I don’t know,” Louis said in response to a query about the deceased woman’s motives. “Thing was just standing there, then it started acting all weird. I think it was glitching out or something.”
“What do you mean by ‘glitching out’?” Connor glanced over in time to see Hank’s eyes narrowing, an edge creeping into his voice.
“Got all twitchy.” As if triggered by the word, Louis’ left eye gave a small spasm. His fingers drummed an uneven tempo against his thigh. “It started spouting something about killing humans. Then it attacked me.”
Hank looked the man over from head to toe. Connor suspected he knew the direction of the Lieutenant’s thoughts. His initial scan of Mr. Waters had shown that he had no injuries—apart from damage to his knuckles.
The android rose back to his feet, turning to go join them. His progress was halted by an approaching CSI, who asked if he had found anything noteworthy for her to mark by the trash cans.
“Was anyone else in the area at the time?” Hank asked in the background, turning to one of the other officers.
Connor uttered a polite ‘no, thank you,’ processing two different conversations at once.
“Yeah,” the officer said. “Chris is talking to a guy from one of the neighboring apartment buildings. Said he got a view of the whole thing going down. Oh, here he comes now.” He pointed to where Officer Miller had just appeared at the alley’s entrance, heading toward them.
Connor weaved around the CSI in time to catch Louis’ eyes darting from the approaching officer to one of the men beside him. His eyes landed on his gun.
Connor was already running toward them when the man made a lunge for the weapon, wrenching it free from its holster and turning it on Hank. The safety clicked off.
Everything slowed. He could see his finger squeezing the trigger, the flash of the muzzle. Calculations darted through his processor: every choice, the same result.
He wouldn’t make it in time.
The shot rang out.
The other officers grabbed Louis’ arms. Again, the odds flickered before Connor’s eyes as the man wrenched the gun up again. If he went to tackle him, there was an 80% chance he would manage to hit Hank again before he disarmed him.
He had no gun himself, so he could not shoot first.
That left only one option.
Connor lunged forward to close the distance, blocking Hank’s body with his own. The bullet struck his abdomen 2.54 inches to the left of his Thirium pump, jolting him backwards. He didn’t waver, pressing forward to attack.
Luckily, he didn’t have to. The man had been dragged to the ground by the two officers, weapon wrestled from his hands. By now everyone on the scene was rushing toward them, but Connor didn’t pay their shouts any mind.
He turned back to Hank. He had drawn his own gun, which now hung limply from his hand as he sunk to the floor. His face was glazed over with the onset of shock. Connor’s knees hit the pavement with a crack as he dropped before him, reaching for the expanding stain darkening the bright pattern of his shirt. The bullet had just missed his lungs, lodged between his liver and gallbladder.
Hank flinched as Connor pressed his palms down on the wound, eyes flickering up to meet his before moving down to the android’s own chest.
“Holy shit,” he breathed, voice shaking. “Connor, you’re—”
“It’s ok.” Warmth seeped over his fingers, running down his wrists. “You’re going to be ok.” He tried to ignore the tremble in his own voice.
Hands were on his shoulders, trying to pull him back. Someone was speaking into their radio. Warnings flashed across his vision. Thirium loss from biocomponent #3947. Contact nearest CyberLife repair center for assistance. Red, red, red.
He ignored all of it. The attempts to pry his hands away from his partner were futile. Even bleeding, he was stronger than them; the best candidate to keep the steady, hard pressure down on the wound beneath his hands.
Hank’s eyes were fluttering, shock and adrenaline beginning to lose the battle with blood loss.
Connor pressed down harder. “Stay with me,” he mouthed, uncertain if he spoke the words aloud or not. His audio processors were cutting out, every sensory input tunneling to the warmth on his hands, Hank’s paling face. It was thrown into flickering red and blue light, the scream of sirens finally cutting through the static filling his ears.
The hands that reached for them now were covered in blue latex gloves. One wrapped around his wrist, tugging.
Against every synthetic instinct in his body, Connor let go of Hank.
Paramedics swarmed between them. Hank was being lifted onto a stretcher, rushed away toward the waiting ambulance.
Connor rose to his feet, vision glitching around the edges. More warnings about Thirium loss flashed over his HUD. He swayed slightly. A steadying hand caught his shoulder.
“Easy there,” Officer Miller said beside him.
The ambulance doors slammed shut. Its wail echoed off the buildings as it took off, disappearing down the street.
“Sir, you need to come with us.” Another hand on his shoulder. An android stood at his side. The symbol she wore on her dark uniform designated her as part of the new android emergency repair technicians.
Connor didn’t have much choice but to let himself be guided toward a smaller ambulance. Despite the unerring accuracy of his internal chronometer, external inputs felt as if they were moving too fast and too slow at the same time. One of the technicians asked him to retract his skin while another helped pull off his jacket and shirt to reveal the damage. A Thirium line was inserted into a port on his arm. They asked him questions, and he answered in the unfeeling voice of a machine.
Someone grabbed his hand, and he didn’t even process what they were doing until he saw the red-stained towel being tossed aside. His eyes stayed glued to the bundle of fabric for the rest of the ride, LED reflecting the same color.
Compared to humans, the time it took to repair androids was negligible.
It was only 2.78 hours before he was leaving the CyberLife store-turned-android-clinic and stepping into a cab. Officer Miller had texted him the address of the hospital Hank had been admitted to earlier, which he interfaced into the cab’s directions.
Fifteen minutes later, and he was stepping through the doors of St. Francis Medical Center, a barrage of sensory input hitting him like a slap to the face. The waiting area was crowded, the chatter of multiple people creating a nervous aura throughout the room.
He headed for the front desk, waiting behind two other people before finally making it to the front.
“I’m here for Lieutenant Henry Anderson,” he said.
The woman behind the desk—Phoebe Hill, no criminal record—didn’t look up from her terminal. “Name?”
“Connor.”
One narrow brow raised. She still didn’t look up. “Last name?”
Connor opened his mouth, hesitating. The woman finally glanced up. Upon spotting his LED, her lips pressed in a flat line. “Oh.”
“I’m Lieutenant Anderson’s…colleague,” Connor supplied.
The sound of his name being called drew his attention to his left. Officer Miller was there, waving for him to come over.
“Please sign in on this form.” Ms. Hill passed a clipboard with a QR code attached to it. Android use only was printed beneath it in a small font.
Connor did as she asked, scanning and filling out the digital form as he stepped out of the line and headed towards Chris. He was greeted by a nod, and a long glance over the Thirium still staining his shirt.
“Hank’s supposed to be out of surgery soon. They told me we should be able to see him a while after that.”
“Have there been any updates on his condition?” Connor asked, Thirium pump beating a little faster.
“No. I’m sorry; hell of a day.” He gestured vaguely to Connor’s shirt. “How are you doing? Did they, uh, get everything fixed?”
“Yes. Thank you.” Connor managed a smile. Out of the members of the DPD other than Hank, Officer Miller had been one of the quickest to adapt to treating him as a living being.
The two sat down in a quieter corner of the waiting area. Connor took to fidgeting with his coin. The repetitive motions lacked their usual ability to occupy his attention. His chronometer ticked on, an even tempo to the discordant pings. He tried to focus on the smooth roll of metal against his skin, suppressing the mechanical instinct to run statistical analyses on Hank’s likelihood of survival, or the emotional one to wonder exactly what was happening to him right now—
“Crap.” Chris’s voice drew him back into the outside world. He was looking at his phone. “Fowler wants me back at the precinct.” He glanced up at Connor. “I can see if I can get someone else to come over and wait with you. Ben said he wanted to come, but he’s working a scene right now.”
Connor shook his head. “No, that’s not necessary.”
Chris looked like he wanted to protest. Instead, he clapped a hand on Connor’s shoulder. “Keep me updated, ok? We all care about Hank. One of us will come if you need us to.”
Connor nodded, quietly thanking him again. Then he was alone.
Another hour went by without a word. His coin pinged faster. Some of the other people were shooting him annoyed looks. Connor forced his hands to still, folding the quarter between his hands and wrapping his fingers around each other tightly.
“Excuse me? Are you here for Lieutenant Anderson?” A nurse stood at his side, offering a tentative smile.
“Yes.” Connor rose to his feet.
“He’s out of surgery and has been transferred to a room. You can come sit with him if you’d like.”
Connor had to consciously tighten his grip on his coin to keep it from slipping between his fingers as a wave of relief washed over him. At his nod, the nurse led him down one of the hallways, winding their way through the building until she opened another door.
“He was already awake for a little bit post-op, but he might be asleep for a while right now. He didn’t receive traditional anesthesia, so he should be coherent when he wakes up.”
After indicating the device he could use to summon staff if he needed anything, she left the room, leaving Connor with his partner. He grabbed a chair from against one of the walls, quietly setting it down closer to the bed. His eyes moved from the steady heart rate readout to Hank’s face. He looked paler than usual.
Connor reached out, hesitating for three of the heart monitor’s beeps before taking his hand. Instinctively, his system ran an analysis.
98.6°F
BPM: 68
Unconscious
He sat that way for 19.35 minutes, monitoring the tiny fluctuations in the Lieutenant’s vitals.
Hank stirred.
Connor looked up at his face as he sluggishly blinked open his eyes. It seemed to take him a moment to focus, brow furrowing as he took in his surroundings, then the android sitting at his bedside.
“Shit,” he said, voice hoarse. “I got shot again.”
The smallest smile pulled at Connor’s lips, exhaling the breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding.
“Unfortunately,” he said softly, not entirely sure why it felt like something was lodged in his throat.
“Are you ok?” Hank’s eyes went from his shirt to his face.
“I’m fine.”
Hank opened his mouth to say something else, but had to stifle a dry cough. “They got any water?”
Connor nodded, letting go of his hand to reach for a cup the nurse had left on the side table. He passed it to Hank, holding on for a few extra seconds just to make sure his hands were steady enough to hold it. He set it aside again after the Lieutenant had drained half its contents.
“Did we at least get the asshole?”
“Yes. Last I heard, Detective Reed had been assigned to question him.”
“Great, he can leverage their shared disappointment that I didn’t kick the bucket. Guy really screwed himself over; would’ve already been doing a good couple years for killing someone. Shooting a cop on top of that?” He shook his head.
“I do not think he was in a sound state of mind.”
“Yeah. That’ll probably be his defense, anyway. That girl never attacked him; he just wanted to kill her.” Hank scowled, shifting against the pillows. The movement made him wince. Noticing Connor’s concerned expression, he supplied, “They won’t give me any of the really good stuff ‘cause of my file.”
“It’s inadvisable for those who have struggled with addiction to be prescribed opiates,” Connor said.
“Fuck, what’d you think I was trying to say?” Hank dropped his head back.
Connor’s lips twisted to the side in a frown. “Is there anything I can do to help?” he asked.
“No.” Some of the Lieutenant’s irritation was replaced with weariness as he sighed. “Actually, yeah. Next time,” he reached over, jabbing a finger into Connor’s shoulder, “don’t take any more damn bullets for me.”
Connor tilted his head. “Given my body’s synthetic nature, it’s more likely for ballistic damage to be non-lethal. It was the best course of action.” Lingering guilt made his frown deepen as he added, “I regret that I wasn’t close enough to prevent the first bullet from hitting you too.”
“Fuckin’— No! It doesn’t work like that,” Hank pushed to sit further up despite a warning beep from one of the machines. “Just because you’re made of metal and wires or whatever doesn’t make it right for you to get shot instead of a human. It still hurts like hell and puts you at risk.”
Connor opened his mouth to reply, but Hank beat him to it. “And before you go listing off any fucking statistics, I don’t care. That doesn’t justify it. You’re worth just as much as any damn human. In some cases, maybe more.”
Connor considered this. Part of him was…touched that Hank thought that about him. The other part, which summoned up the image of the man bleeding out on the ground, balked at it.
“I wouldn’t do it for every human,” he pointed out, thinking of some of the criminals they had apprehended for truly objectionable crimes.
Hank averted his eyes. “Shouldn’t be doing it for anyone,” he grumbled.
“I’m sorry my intentions to save your life have offended you.”
He huffed. “‘Offended’ isn’t the right word. Just…don’t do it again, ok?”
“I’m afraid I can’t make that promise.”
“Christ, kid. Why do you have to be so fucking stubborn?”
“My personality has been partially influenced by the attitudes of those I spend the most time around.”
“Oh, very clever.”
“Would you be willing to make the same promise if the situation was reversed?” Connor asked.
“Fuck no. But I’ve got a valid reason. I’m 54, I’ve lived out the majority of my life.”
“I don’t consider that a valid reason.”
The two stared each other down. Connor folded his hands neatly on the edge of the bed.
“I believe we are at a stalemate.”
“You don’t fuckin’ say.” Hank groaned again as he shifted back. “Shit, I need a drink.”
At that moment, the room’s door opened, admitting a doctor. The man introduced himself as Dr. Carter, and began to brief them on Hank’s expected recovery.
“You should be cleared to go home tomorrow morning,” Dr. Carter finished.
“Tomorrow? I feel fine to get out of here tonight,” Hank said.
The doctor gave him an understanding smile. “We just want to ensure everything is functioning as it should be.”
Hank didn’t hide his scowl as the man finished speaking to them and left the room a few moments later. Connor understood his dissatisfaction, but felt glad that everything seemed to be ok. At least he would be able to keep him company during the time. That was, until a nurse appeared bearing a tray of food and informed him that the hospital’s visiting hours ended in half an hour.
“He’s just sitting here, not making me run a damn marathon. Can’t he stay longer?” Hank looked up from where he’d been warily eyeing the food on the tray placed before him.
“Are you immediate family?” the nurse asked.
Connor glanced at Hank, LED flickering yellow. “No.”
“Then I’m afraid you can’t stay outside of visiting hours.” The man gave what might have been a sympathetic smile before leaving.
Connor watched him go, LED still cycling yellow. Hank grumbled a curse as he stabbed his fork into the jell-o on his tray, sending some of the suspiciously neon green substance rolling out of the container.
“Sorry, kid. Next time I’ll try to adopt you or something before taking a bullet.” He shot him a wry smile.
Connor blinked, aware of a small spike in his stress levels and a sense of warmth in his biocomponents. It was a similar sensation to what he felt when Sumo jumped on him for pets, or when Hank put an arm around his shoulders and grinned at him with something like pride.
It was somewhat ridiculous. The Lieutenant was obviously just making a joke.
“Blegh.” Hank’s sound of disgust drew his attention back to the present. He was looking at the ball of mashed potatoes on his tray as if it had come to life and bit him. “How long was that in the freezer before they dug it out and served it to people? Wait, Connor, no—”
Connor leaned forward, swiping a finger through the substance and bringing it to his lips. His eyes narrowed thoughtfully.
“Probably close to six months.”
“That was a rhetorical question.”
Their conversation drifted while Hank finished what he would eat from the tray. All too soon, the nurse was reappearing to collect it and let them know that they had five minutes before Connor had to leave. On the bright side, he did hand them the small collection of Hank’s personal things from when he had been checked in, which included his phone.
“‘Least I can watch Netflix or something,” Hank said, picking the item up from the side table.
“Didn’t Netflix go out of business eight years ago?” Connor’s brow furrowed, his quick search showing a disparity with the Lieutenant’s statement.
Hank sighed. “I meant it as a general term for streaming shit. Fuck, you’re making me feel old.”
The android said nothing, but the small quirk of his lips must have spoken for him.
“Shut up. Now get out of here,” Hank waved him off. “Go love on Sumo for me, he’s probably gearing up to piss on the carpet if he doesn’t get let out soon.”
Connor stood, rounding the bed to stand on the side closer to the door. He paused, lingering by Hank’s side. “If you need anything—” he started.
“I’ll be fine.” Hank offered him a small, genuine smile. “See you tomorrow, kid.”
Connor hesitated, then returned the smile with a nod. He hoped it masked the reluctance he felt as he turned and headed for the door.
“Text me when you’re home,” Hank called behind him.
“I will.”
And he did. First a simple message letting him know that he had arrived at the house, then a picture of Sumo eating dinner. And another picture of him outside on their walk. The dog stuck his nose right against one of the neighbor’s freshly bloomed spring daffodils, which warranted another picture, at which point Hank typed back telling him to ‘quit spamming his phone with unsolicited dog pics.’ That was probably some kind of joke, but Connor wasn’t entirely sure.
The last text he received was at 7:19pm, when Hank mentioned he was streaming a sitcom, and might be falling asleep soon despite ‘the lack of Goddam pain meds.’
Connor acknowledged the message by wishing him good rest, and that was that.
He sat on the couch in the dark, empty house. Sumo let out a grunt as he climbed up next to him, sprawling dramatically over his lap. Connor pet him, trying to let his warm, soft fur soothe the nervous energy that wouldn’t stop creeping through his wiring. At every little unidentified sound, Sumo lifted his head, droopy eyes set on the front door.
“Sorry, boy. He’s not coming home tonight,” Connor told him softly. The Saint Bernard whined as if he could understand, resting his head back on his lap.
After a while, Connor turned on the tv. He wasn’t familiar with the show that was playing, but he didn’t really care. His attention kept drifting from the plot.
He hoped Hank was doing ok. That he was comfortable enough to get some good rest.
He watched his internal chronometer slowly tick from 9:23 to 9:24. Sumo shifted in his lap, sighing. Connor quietly echoed him.
It was going to be a long night.
Visiting hours at the hospital started at 9:00am. Connor was there by 8:45am. He parked Hank’s car, which he had picked up on his way home the night before, and headed inside.
Hank was in the process of being given a final assessment when he came in. He looked about the same as the night before: still tired and very eager to go home. Luckily, they didn’t have to wait long before the doctor let them know he was clear to be checked out.
“I am not riding out of here in a fucking wheelchair. I just proved that I can walk around just fine!” Hank said to a ruffled nurse.
“Sir, it’s hospital policy,” she explained in a tone wavering on impatience.
Sensing an escalating situation, Connor stepped in beside them. “We can probably get out of here the fastest if we just do what they ask,” he said to Hank quietly.
The Lieutenant rubbed a hand over his face with a groan. “Fine. But I’m not gonna be fucking happy about it.” He sat in the chair, crossing his arms with a grimace.
Connor sent the nurse an apologetic smile as they proceeded. “I’m sorry; I believe he is just tired and sore.”
Hank shot him an unflattering hand gesture the moment the woman turned away.
The rest of their departure was thankfully uneventful. They made it out to the car, and Connor proceeded to drive them straight home. When he pulled into the driveway, he quickly climbed out and walked around to the passenger’s side, taking Hank’s door as the Lieutenant pushed it open.
“Oh no.” Hank flicked him on the forehead, making him blink. “You are not gonna try to baby me like I’m coming back from fuckin’ war. It’s one little bullet, I’m fine.”
“Sorry, Lieutenant,” he said, moving on to open the front door instead.
Having heard their arrival, Sumo was circling the door like a shark. Hank’s appearance was akin to tossing a bloody piece of meat in the water. Connor quickly moved to intercept the 170 pounds of excited fur charging toward him, pushing the dog back into the house to allow them to enter.
“Yes, hello, I’m not dead,” Hank said, reaching around Connor to pet the dog placatingly. He was rewarded with a liberal amount of slobber and tail wags.
With Sumo calmed, Connor moved toward the kitchen, hanging the car keys on the key rack he had installed a few weeks ago.
“Shit,” Hank said behind him. Glancing over his shoulder, he found the Lieutenant surveying the kitchen and living room. It wasn’t hard to guess the source of his surprise. The dining room table sat completely free of its usual assortment of debris. The clutter of files and knick knacks on the coffee table had been sorted into an orderly grid. Even the pile of their mixed laundry that had formerly taken up residence on the armchair had vanished, folded and put away.
“I did some light cleaning while you were out,” Connor explained.
“‘Light cleaning’?” Hank ran a finger across the dining room table. “The place looks fucking spotless. How long did that take?”
“One hour and thirty-three minutes.”
“You never clean,” Hank pointed out.
“I usually only take responsibility for my own messes.” Connor crossed the room, pulling open the fridge door. “This time, I didn’t mind making an exception. Are you hungry?”
“No. ‘Think that cat food they fed me for breakfast managed to kill my appetite for a while. I could use a beer, though.” Hank came to stand at his side.
“I wouldn’t recommend the consumption of alcohol while taking pain killers,” Connor began with a frown.
Hank scoffed. “The stuff they gave me is so weak it hardly counts.” He reached for a bottle, but Connor’s hand stopped him halfway.
“It’s 10:30 in the morning,” he said, looking at him reproachfully.
“C’mon. One time isn’t gonna kill me.”
Connor gave his head the smallest downward tilt.
“Ugh.” Hank pulled his hand back with a dramatic roll of his eyes. “Fuckin’ fine. But I’m having one later.”
Connor decided to accept those terms. His long-term goal was to help Hank eliminate his alcohol intake completely, but that wasn’t going to be achieved today.
“Were all those tupperwares in here before?” Hank squinted at the fridge’s full shelves.
“Not all of them. I also had time to cook a few meals.” Connor closed the fridge.
“Jesus, kid, did you even sleep?” Hank turned, moving toward the hallway. When Connor didn’t answer right away, he looked back, eyes narrowing suspiciously. “You didn’t, did you?”
“I…didn’t take long to recharge my energy levels, which left a decent amount of spare time.” Connor laced his hands behind his back.
“Right.” The Lieutenant shot him a look that said exactly how much he believed him. Luckily, he didn’t comment further.
They spent the majority of the day in the living room, watching content ranging from trash reality tv to a film Hank had been expressing interest in renting for a while. Connor had requested the day off in order to stay with him, and didn’t leave his post at his side except to prepare lunch and dinner.
Hank raised a brow when he passed him a steaming bowl of chicken noodle soup. “Why’d you make the type of thing you eat when you’re sick?” he asked, sounding more puzzled than annoyed.
Connor’s LED blinked yellow as he glanced away sheepishly. “It was suggested as a top result when I researched nutritious meals to facilitate healing.”
Hank shook his head, giving a small chuckle. He tried a bite of the noodles. “Way better than that crap they serve at the hospital.”
Connor smiled in return, settling back onto the couch beside him.
By 9:00, he noticed Hank beginning to nod off. Judging by the lack of resistance the man put up when he suggested he head to bed, he really was exhausted. He received a gruff ‘goodnight’ and the instruction to ‘actually go the fuck to sleep’ before the Lieutenant disappeared down the hall.
Connor listened to the sound of him brushing his teeth, then the click of his bedroom door closing. Sumo shifted to stretch out further in his usual spot beside the couch, heaving a sigh. After a few moments of sitting in silence, Connor shifted to lay down on the couch.
As he stared up at the darkened ceiling, he found that his usual stasis sequence would not activate. He tried shifting positions a few times. Still no luck. His processor seemed only interested in focusing on the silence of the house, or pulling up random replays of the events from the past two days. A physical recall had him shifting his arms to press his hands deeper into the weave of his sweater, trying to drive away the feeling of warm, wet crimson staining his fingers.
Worry was one of the most difficult emotions to detect. Other feelings like anger or happiness would spring on him suddenly, palpable and bright like the strike of lightning. But worry was more like the creep of ice spreading across the surface of a pond—insidious and slow.
Connor turned over. His internal chronometer now read 3:16am. Sumo’s droopy eyes looked up at him from where he lay beside the couch. He reached down, smoothing his fingers over the dog’s soft head.
“I can’t sleep either,” he whispered.
After another long few moments, he kicked his legs over the side of the couch. He rose to his feet, careful to avoid the squeaky floorboard he knew was behind the couch as he padded silently in the direction of the hall.
Behind him, Sumo made a questioning rumble. Connor glanced back, lifting a finger to his lips. “Shh. Stay. Good boy.”
The Saint Bernard lowered his head with a soft chuff, watching him as he disappeared down the hall.
Connor paused in front of Hank’s door. He wrapped his hand around the doorknob, slowly turning it. The stabilizers in his hand made minute adjustments for minimum noise. Given former observations, there was a 36% chance this door would squeak if he pushed it open too quickly.
The door only whispered against the carpet as he pushed it open to a 25 degree angle. Success.
For the next 15 seconds, he stood completely still, listening. The only sound he could pick up was the deep, steady breathing of a sleeping human. Connor pushed the door open another 28 degrees, slipping inside.
Hank was where he should be: sprawled out asleep on his bed. Connor kept his footsteps light against the carpeted floor as he drew closer. Despite what one might suspect, Hank tended to be a light sleeper. He stopped to hover a short distance from his bedside. This close, he could also get accurate visual confirmation of his vitals despite the low light levels.
Hank’s breathing was steady and slow, indicating an even heartbeat. His facial expression was relaxed. There was a low likelihood that he was currently experiencing pain.
Connor watched, waiting for any indication that something was wrong. He didn’t even realize how long he had been standing there until he noted that his internal chronometer showed that it had been almost 8 minutes.
He should leave. Hank was clearly fine.
And yet…what if that changed? What if he wasn’t here to recognize the signs and help? Unbidden, the phantom sensation of warm blood prickled at his hands again, the Lieutenant’s face draining of color before his eyes.
The android shifted slightly from foot to foot. It wasn’t like he was doing anything to disturb Hank. He wasn’t even aware of his presence.
So he set aside his internal monitoring of the time, and let himself fall into the sort of stand-by mode that allowed androids to remain alert but still for long periods of time.
Hank slept on, undisturbed. That was, until, the distant sound of the household’s other resident snuffling around in the kitchen drifted in through the open door. For a moment, it sounded like all Sumo was doing was lapping up some water from his bowl. But then there was the tell-tale crinkle of the dog food bag being nosed at, followed by a metallic clang as the sweet giant accidentally knocked over his food bowl.
Connor winced. In front of him, Hank gave a small jolt, snapping out of a snore.
For the next 7 seconds, Connor wondered if he had lucked out, and Hank wasn’t actually awake. Then the Lieutenant let out an almost incomprehensible grumble.
“Sumo…Oh Jesus fucking Christ!” Hank sprung upright at a speed that must have pulled painfully at the stitches from his wound, right hand fumbling toward his nightstand. Connor estimated it was a fairly equal chance that he was reaching for the lamp or his gun that was stored in the drawer.
“Hank, it’s me.” He lifted his hands placatingly.
Hank paused his disorganized search. “Connor? The fuck are you doing?”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to disturb you.”
The bedside lamp flickered on, illuminating the room in a warm glow. Hank squinted up at him.
“‘Why’re you looming over the bed like you’re about to fuckin’ kill me? I didn’t see your little,” he made a vague circling gesture near his right temple, where an LED would be, “light-up donut thing.”
Connor refrained from making what Hank would likely label ‘one of his smartass comments’ about his word choice. “Disorientation is common upon waking up.”
“No shit,” the Lieutenant muttered. Despite his exhaustion, his gaze was becoming more critical as he watched Connor. “What are you doing up? I thought I told you to get some actual rest.” He shifted to lean back against the headboard, resting a hand over his ribcage.
“I was…monitoring your condition.”
One of Hank’s brows raised. “For how long?”
Connor was saved from answering that question by the sound of the door creaking open behind him. Sumo bounded cheerfully into the room, ignoring Hank’s splutter of protest as the dog leapt up onto the bed to give his owner a huge, sloppy kiss right across the face.
“Ugh, great, now it’s a fuckin’ party,” Hank muttered, trying to hold the dog at bay even as he scratched behind one of his floppy ears with his other hand.
Connor stepped in to help coax Sumo further down the bed, leaving the St. Bernard to sprawl against Hank with his belly hopefully exposed. The android smiled, indulging him by rubbing his hand into the soft fur.
Hank let out a tired sigh. “Listen, it’s too damn late—” he glanced at his alarm clock, “—or early for this shit.” He turned an accusing look on Connor. “You should be sleeping.”
“I don’t—” Connor began, but Hank waved him off.
“You know what I mean. ‘Recharging’ or whatever the hell you call it. Not in here gawking at me.”
“I understand.” Connor looked back down at Sumo, the enormous dog already half asleep from all the attention he was getting. “I just wanted to make sure everything was alright.”
When he glanced back up, something in the Lieutenant’s gaze had softened a little. “Well, it is. Or it will be if I can get back to sleep. Would increase my chances of being a functioning member of society tomorrow.” He scrubbed a tired hand over his face.
Connor nodded, but found himself fighting a frown. Now would be the appropriate time to leave and let Hank rest. But…
“You don’t need to worry about me, son. I told you, this ain’t my first time being shot.” Hank’s features still held that look that Connor had found himself on the receiving end of more frequently in the past few months. He was tentative to label it, but it seemed to apply most closely to…fondness.
Hank gave Sumo a light shove. Then a harder one. Both were ineffective.
“I think he’s intent on staying,” Connor pointed out.
“Just him, huh?” Hank grunted as he shuffled back into a reclined position. Sumo had the mercy (intentional or not) to slowly ragdoll a bit closer to the middle of the bed, giving him more space.
Hank sighed. He looked back at Connor, tilting his chin in a way that usually meant come here when they were in the field.
“The damn dog’s staying, you might as well too.” He gave the free side of the bed a pat.
Connor blinked. He moved to sit on the edge of the bed, glancing at Hank for confirmation before pulling his legs up and tentatively laying down on his back.
Hank clicked off the lamp, plunging the room into darkness. Connor turned onto his right side, the soft glow of his LED hidden by his pillow. Sumo was a dark mountain sprawled across the middle of the bed, warm paws pressed against Connor’s legs. Hank had shifted onto his side, one arm resting halfway across the mattress, the other tucked under his pillow. His eyes were closed.
This was optimal, Connor decided, content to visually monitor both Hank and Sumo. He would conserve a bit more energy by not needing to stand.
His eyes happened to be glued to Hank’s face when the older man cracked open one eye. He groaned.
“I can’t fucking sleep with you staring at me all night. Close your damn eyes.”
Connor wasn’t certain how the Lieutenant had been able to tell that he had been watching him. Maybe it was one of those ‘gut feelings’ Hank frequently relied upon.
He closed his eyes, and found himself confronted with limited input.
It didn’t matter. If there was a problem, he would most likely be alerted auditorily.
Most likely.
He managed to hold out for 32 seconds. Then—without opening his eyes—he slowly slid his left hand across the bed.
Hank’s hand was still where his memory had told him it would be. It jerked slightly at his touch, tensing as Connor wrapped his fingers around Hank’s wrist. His thumb settled precisely over his pulse point.
After 7 seconds, Hank’s hand relaxed.
“Goodnight, Con,” he mumbled into his pillow.
“Goodnight,” Connor whispered back.