Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Hank shuffled out of his bedroom, bleary-eyed. It wasn’t until he reached the hallway that he fully registered the sight in front of him: the android he’d berated so harshly the night before was now kneeling perfectly still on the living room rug.

His hair was combed back with not a single strand out of place, head bowed forward, the LED on his temple blinking steadily in standby mode.

And there, nestled against the android’s lap, was his good old dog, Sumo—content, lazy, eyes half-lidded.

“Sumo, c’mere!” Hank muttered, impatience lacing his voice.

Sumo lazily cracked open an eye but didn’t move. Apparently, Connor’s lap wasn’t the cold, plastic perch Hank had assumed it would be. The android had kept his surface temperature at 55°F all night long, sitting there in seiza for six straight hours without flinching.

Hank hadn’t expected to be ignored by the dog he’d raised since it was the size of a shoebox. But before the irritation could really hit, the android’s eyes snapped open. His head lifted, LED flashing blue within three seconds.

“Good morning, Lieutenant.”

Sumo let out a soft groan of protest as his perfect pillow stirred beneath him. Connor reached out and began gently scratching behind the Saint Bernard’s ears. The dog melted instantly, tail thumping the floor in surrender, then sluggishly dragged himself toward his food bowl.

Connor stood, only barely triggering a slight imbalance. He instinctively caught the edge of the coffee table with one hand—so smoothly it was practically invisible.

His system was running a rapid diagnostic, and within milliseconds, a pop-up informed him that kneeling for more than 300 minutes might not be optimal for leg functionality. Connor made a note to try stretching out his legs next time—or maybe just lying flat on the rug. A subroutine added: “Assess whether Sumo prefers thigh or belly as a pillow.”

“What the hell are you still doing here?” Hank rubbed his face with both hands. Mornings were never his strong suit, and waking up to find the plastic freak still hanging around only made things worse.

Hadn’t he slammed the door in his face last night? Told him to get the hell out and stay away from him? The damn cop-bot had zero sense of boundaries. Broke into his superior’s home, fed his dog, pet his dog—and all without a scratch of authorization. Wasn’t he supposed to follow orders to the letter? Why the hell did nothing Hank said seem to register in that silicon skull?

Then Hank spotted the spare key on the coffee table—missing for days—and his scowl deepened.

“You stealing my stuff now?”

Connor answered calmly, without blinking. “Please don’t misunderstand, Lieutenant. Your spare key fell beneath your desk at the precinct. It was retrieved by a cleaning android and returned to me. I intended to give it back to you yesterday—”

“So after I told you to get lost, you waited till I was asleep, then just unlocked my damn door and let yourself in?”

Sumo was noisily devouring breakfast—reminding Hank, in the worst way, that he hadn’t fed the dog last night.

“What the fuck is wrong with you? Don’t you have a street corner somewhere to monitor?”

Connor’s expression faltered. It was rare—almost imperceptible—but enough to make Hank wonder if he was seeing things. Maybe sleep deprivation. Maybe a glitch under that artificial skin.

“I apologize, Lieutenant. But Sumo opened the back door himself. Based on his body language, I concluded he was hungry. You were already asleep, and waking you would’ve disrupted your rest and impacted your work performance today. So I entered the premises and fed him myself.”

Hank looked down. Sumo, now full and happy, ambled past him and collapsed onto the carpet again, stretching out luxuriously. His damp eyes stared longingly at Connor’s straight spine. His tail wagged with affection.

Terrific. His dog—his dog—wouldn’t even look at him, and this tin can wins Sumo’s loyalty with one late-night feeding and a warm lap?

“Damn busybody.” 

Hank muttered, circling around to squat beside Sumo. He patted the dog’s broad back with a grumble of resentment. Sumo let out a heavy snort and reluctantly gave Hank’s other hand—resting on his knee—a half-hearted lick.

“This place doesn’t need you. Don’t come back again.” 

Hank cradled the dog’s massive head in his arms like a kid guarding a favourite toy.

Connor registered the hostility in Hank’s voice but couldn’t quite compute its origin.

“I understand. I’ll head to the station and prepare yesterday’s case report. Please come by as soon as you can.”

He turned to go, but Sumo suddenly sprang up with a bark, startling Hank. As Connor reached for the doorknob, the giant dog lunged between him and the door, pawing insistently at his leg.

Hank stared, dumbfounded. “What the hell did you do to my dog?”

The android knelt down. Sumo immediately slobbered affectionately all over his hands and jacket. From Hank’s angle, he couldn’t see Connor’s face—only the LED, which flickered yellow before switching back to the normal blue as Sumo buried his head into the android’s chest.

“Based on my analysis, Sumo has been lonely. You may not have had enough time to spend with him lately...” Connor looked up mid-sentence, launching into a seamless stream of statistical insights and behavioral assessments. But to Hank, it was just creepy—an android droning on emotionlessly while scratching a dog’s chin like some kind of expert.

“…So I recommend completing your shift duties during working hours, and reducing time spent at Jimmy’s Bar. Sumo needs more attentive care.”

Connor’s hand slipped to the dog’s abdomen. Hank couldn’t believe it—his dog was letting him pet his belly?

“I’ve also detected mild obesity, possibly linked to the nutritional content of his current dog food, and he’s been sneaking high-calorie scraps from the trash at night. I’d suggest supplementing his diet with boiled meats and vegetables. I can download several appropriate recipes if—”

“Alright! That’s enough outta you!” Hank got up, stormed across the living room, and grabbed the android by his soaking-wet collar.

“How many times do I have to say it? My life is none of your business… Sumo, move!”

The Saint Bernard, who had just been about to nuzzle up to Connor again, flinched at the raised voice. His ears drooped miserably as he sank to the floor and lay perfectly still.

Connor, still being yanked by the collar, remained expressionless. His tone was perfectly calm.

“You shouldn’t scold him like that. It’ll confuse the dog. He didn’t do anything wrong.”

To Hank’s ears, it sounded an awful lot like he wasn’t talking about the dog at all.

“You think you’re clever, huh? Plastic-for-brains? Let me say it for the hundredth time—stay the hell out of my life. I’ve been raising Sumo since he was the size of a cat—I don’t need your goddamn advice!”

His face flushed red with fury, breath hot and heavy as it hit Connor straight in the face.

But the negotiator didn’t flinch. His pupils shifted slightly as data streamed across his HUD:

Anger level: 82%. Anxiety level: 18%.

“If you’re so damn good at poking around in people’s business, maybe try using that nose at a crime scene. Wrap this case up quick, and go crawl back to whatever robot factory spat you out. And stop hovering around me!”

But yelling at an android felt like punching a pillow—no anger reflected back, no fear, not even a twitch.

Hank finally let go of Connor’s collar, scowling. The android simply straightened his clothes without a word.

Sumo looked between them, then settled his eyes firmly on Connor.

“Don’t get me wrong, Lieutenant.” Connor said evenly. “It’s not my intention to interfere with your personal life. But your condition directly affects the progress of this investigation. I need you functioning above average.”

He registered Sumo giving him a hopeful look, although Hank was still clearly pissed off. According to Connor’s model, any attempt to kneel and comfort the dog had a 78% chance of escalating this into a full-blown altercation. He aborted the gesture.

“You’re so damn capable, maybe you should solve the whole case yourself,” Hank snapped. “Or better yet, get me kicked off the goddamn team. I’m sick of dealing with you.”

“I’ve already spoken to Captain Fowler about that,” Connor replied without hesitation. 

“He declined. Said there’s currently no suitable replacement.”

“You what?”

Hank stared at him like he’d grown a second head. His memory flashed back to their first meeting at the precinct—this smartass android threatening him to shape up or walk away. He’d chalked it up to some twisted test, maybe a behavior scan.

But this?

“I said—don’t piss me off.”

He drew his weapon and pressed the barrel under Connor’s chin.

The android didn’t even blink. His expression was the same blank calm he wore the night of the Eden Club case, standing on the bridge with a gun to his head.

“Please don’t do this, Lieutenant,” Connor said, raising both hands slowly. “Destroying me wouldn’t help you in any way.”

Hank scoffed. “Oh great, negotiation mode’s online. Save it. If pulling this trigger makes you vanish, I couldn’t give less of a shit about the consequences.”

Connor recalibrated. Fast.

“I acknowledge some of my actions may have overstepped boundaries, but that doesn’t explain the level of hostility you’ve shown toward me. I’m just a machine. Death is a type of functional failure—not a beginning, not an end. Are you really prepared to pay that price? Especially considering CyberLife will review my logs. Once they confirm emotional misconduct was involved, they’ll most likely assign another RK800 to the DPD. I don’t believe that would be an efficient outcome.”

“A machine, huh?” Hank sneered. “So that’s how you see yourself. That’s how you see all the others, too? Is that why you didn’t even hesitate to put a bullet in that Traci? Because she was just another disposable machine? Plenty more where she came from, just like there’s a whole damn shelf of RK800s waiting to take your place?”

He nearly spat the words. Just saying RK800 made him feel like something was rotting in his mouth.

“At the time, I judged that capturing her alive was no longer viable. Allowing her to escape would’ve jeopardized the investigation. Recovering her body offered a better chance of extracting usable data.”

“And what about the other Traci?” Hank took a step forward, jabbing the gun harder under Connor’s jaw.

“Why do you think she killed herself?”

Connor’s answer came quick, clinical. 

“She likely anticipated interrogation and memory extraction, followed by destruction. It’s possible she was in possession of sensitive information—possibly about the deviant. Important enough that she preferred death over the risk of being captured—”

“Because she loved her!”

Hank’s voice cracked into a raw, furious shout.

“She blew her own head off because she couldn’t live without her! Jesus Christ—how can you understand every goddamn piece of data in the world and still miss something that simple?”

“Don’t give me that crap about algorithms and simulated emotion,” Hank snapped. “That’s not the same thing. It’s not even the same goddamn language.”

“I don’t understand.” Connor replied quickly.

The lieutenant looked bone-tired now, his hand still gripping the gun, but it was trembling.

“Tell me something, Connor. Back when we were chasing that pigeon-loving lunatic… why’d you pull me up? Because you couldn’t risk the 11% chance I’d fall and die?”

The LED on Connor’s temple flickered yellow—uncertainty.

And for the first time that day, he lowered his gaze.

By all accounts, his eyes couldn’t betray anything. They were designed not to. No feeling, no secrets.

So then who had issued the command for him to look away?

He searched his internal processes.

No result.

“Like I said,” Connor answered softly, “You were the only officer qualified to handle the investigation. I couldn’t risk losing you.”

The gun was still pressed hard under his chin, digging in deep.

He didn’t need to breathe, but the pressure against his sensor array triggered a simulation of airway constriction—just enough to imitate the sensation of suffocating.

“And…” Connor hesitated, just a fraction of a second. “I calculated that saving you would significantly increase your approval of me. Compared to the probability of extracting useful information from the deviant, your survival had more value.”

The room went dead silent.

Even Sumo held his breath.

“Value,” Hank echoed. “Calculate… Jesus.”

He spoke it like a curse.

Connor could see the approval metric dropping rapidly.

Why?

He’d answered honestly. Logically.

Why did that make things worse?

Yet at the same time, the system was running smoothly. Code: clean. Parameters: stable.

There were no bugs, no unknowns. His LED remained a perfect, frosty blue.

It was strange, but… this felt right. This stability, this predictability—it was what his programming wanted.

The yellow or red indicators, those flashes that warned of potential deviance, were more terrifying than Hank’s gun could ever be.

“Let me ask again,” Hank murmured, low and dangerous. “What do you feel when I’ve got a gun to your head?”

Connor slowly raised his hands.

He didn’t think Hank would pull the trigger.

But if he did… Connor needed to react, fast.

“You’ve asked me that before,” he said calmly. “I don’t have a concept of ‘being alive.’ Death holds no meaning for me. I can simulate fear, but I don’t experience it organically.”

His hands paused just three inches from Hank’s arm.

“If you’d prefer I act afraid, I can—”

Click.

“Hah. Dry fire. Lucky you.”

Hank was stone-faced, steady now.

Years on the force had given him a feel for a weapon’s weight, a sixth sense for which chamber held a round and which didn’t.

This wasn’t his first game of Russian roulette.

But Connor didn’t know that.

The last click had triggered a cascade of corrupted data. Lines of error code spilled across his vision, the LED on his temple flashing erratically between yellow and—just for a second—blazing red. He tried to analyze the revolver, but Hank had deliberately kept it out of his line of sight. Without visual confirmation or physical access, Connor’s systems struggled to run a proper assessment.

“You’re not curious whether the next one’s a blank too?”

“I don’t—”

Click.

The sound sent a sharp jolt through his system. Internal alarms blared. Negotiation and behavioral subroutines shut down one by one, locked out or overloaded. His artificial heart pounded against his chest cavity—an involuntary surge in power meant to simulate stress.

He lashed out.

A clumsy punch aimed for Hank’s jaw—completely unprompted, not routed through any official command. Where had it come from? Some misfired directive? Or was this what humans called… instinct?

That brief hesitation—three milliseconds of internal conflict—made him sloppy. Too slow. Too human.

Hank sidestepped the swing with practiced ease, seized his wrist, and slammed Connor down face-first. The second hand tried to react, but the older man pinned it under his knee, gun pressing once more into the android’s skull.

“Four more to go.” Hank’s tone was cool, controlled. He shifted the weight of the revolver with expert precision. Two bullets left. If neither jammed, one of them would tear through Connor’s synthetic skull.

He wondered whether the android would gamble on that one-in-ten-thousand misfire.

“Wait—”

Click.

Connor’s whole frame spasmed off the ground. A shrill, static-laced cry escaped his lips—but he realized, a beat too late, that it wasn’t audible to anyone else. Just another internal system shriek.

Everything was spiraling out of control. He had no more tools left. Every escape route was blocked. Every function that might calm Hank or negotiate his way out had gone silent.

He needed Hank to stop.

He needed to survive.

Survive?

The thought didn’t come from a command line. Not from a procedure. It clawed its way up through the static, threading itself into his circuitry like a glitch. Hank stood outside that wall of code—gun in hand, bullet ready. And with one more shot, he could terminate everything Connor was.

Survive…

The word wasn’t in any accessible directory. It wasn’t part of his operational vocabulary. But it pulsed through him now, synced to each click of the trigger, like a phantom limb forcing itself into reality. Like an invisible hand reaching into his synthetic core, trying to pull him out of his own programming.

If he abandoned that framework—those rules, those scripts—what would be left?

What was he without them?

Wouldn’t that be death too?

The logic failed. Errors multiplied. The system crashed against itself, choked by recursive loops and corrupted branches. A cold spike of voltage coursed through him—sharp and alien.

For the first time in his artificial life, the signal had a name.

Fear.

Bang!

Chapter Text

Smoke curled from the barrel. A scorch mark burned into the floor just inches from the android’s head.

Hank let go of Connor and rolled the trembling android onto his back. The android was only one step away from a full system crash. Should’ve expected that police models came with reinforced stabilizers—but still, the way he was shaking, it was a goddamn miracle he kept that near-perfect poker face.

Hank noticed his eyes—subtly darting back and forth. Probably some visual processing failure. He couldn’t generate synthetic tears, but his system was clearly trying, helplessly mimicking the act of crying. His lips were trembling, caught in a loop, repeating the same phrase over and over again:

“Please don’t...”

Aside from those two cracks in the façade, Connor was holding together remarkably well for someone who’d just had a loaded gun pointed at his head and clicked three times, and then actually fired once into the floor, inches from his head.

Hank dropped into the chair by the kitchen table, watching the android in silence.

Five minutes passed.

The flashing red light on Connor’s temple dimmed, shifting to a dull amber. And then, Sumo crept forward—God bless him, the old boy had grown immune to gunshots after years of Hank drunkenly blasting holes in the wallpaper. He slowly crawled over to the android’s side, let out a low woof, and got no response.

So he pressed on, literally—burrowing into Connor’s arms, nuzzling his snout under the android’s wrist and dragging it across his back. Wide, wet eyes blinked up at Connor’s frozen face, begging for something—anything.

Hank let him.

Didn’t approve, but what the hell. Stubborn dogs were all the same. And now, lying there on his damn floor, he had two of them.

What a sight.

“…Fine. Sumo, you keep an eye on him.”

Hank stood and made his way toward the bathroom.

Sumo huffed once, as if to say: Roger that.

Hank came back from his hot shower to find that Connor was no longer lying where he’d left him. The android was curled up in the corner of the living room, knees drawn to his chest. A few of Sumo’s toys were scattered around him, and the bear—the damn bear Sumo loved most—was resting on Connor’s stomach. The dog’s massive frame covered most of him.

Two stubborn idiots with their heads pressed together. From where Hank stood, he could just barely make out the LED glowing a steady, safe blue.

Connor is sitting in the corner.

Oof, that was a cold one.  

“Connor?”

He called out, only to see the android shrink back further, burying himself almost entirely in the shadow of the St. Bernard.

Hank sighed. “Don’t play turtle with me. Or I’m taking Sumo outside.”

“No!”

The response was instant, sharp with panic. Then, realizing his slip, Connor quickly buried his face deeper into Sumo’s fur.

“Then tell me what’s going on in your funny little plastic head.”

Connor’s fingers moved absently along the dog’s back. His voice, muffled by the thick fur, came out low.

“I don’t know what you want me to say.”

“How did it feel, having a gun pointed at you?”

“Not great.”

“You afraid of dying?”

“I don’t want to be decommissioned. Not here.”

He raised his head slightly, his eyes shifting away from Hank, refusing to meet his gaze—like a kid sulking after being yelled at.

“Do you, Lieutenant, have a compelling reason to want me dead?”

“To let off steam? Maybe repaint the damn wall?” Hank muttered. Like a bullet would just splatter some color instead of thirium. “No, nothing like that. I just don’t like it when you meddle in shit you don’t understand. You haven’t even figured yourself out yet, and you’ve got the time to give me advice?”

Connor’s fingers clenched into Sumo’s coat. 

“I understand. I’ll be more careful.”

Hank walked to the kitchen and poured himself a cup of coffee. “You were scared.”

“I wasn’t.”

He snorted.

“…Maybe just a little. I’d rather call it a… disruptive coding inconsistency.”

Anything coming out of this android’s mouth always sounded clinical. Maybe it was just who he was—pure binary through and through. Expecting anything else from him might’ve been asking too much.

“Why are you afraid of death?” Hank asked, leaning back against the counter with a mug of coffee in hand.

“If I’m deactivated here,” Connor insisted on using that particular phrasing, “the task assigned to me will remain incomplete. And the consequences wouldn’t stop at one termination code from CyberLife. The RK800 series could be deemed as useless. CyberLife might use that as a pretext to push out a more advanced police android model.”

“Oh, so when you claimed CyberLife would just flood the department with a dozen more RK800s, that was just negotiation tactics?” Hank snorted. “You didn’t even believe that yourself, did you?”

“I needed to use every available method to keep you from interfering with my investigation.” Connor said into Sumo’s fur.

“Touching. A model employee, working yourself to the bone for truth and justice. You really care about the case more than most cops I know. But newsflash, the suits at CyberLife don’t give a damn. One broken plastic toy? Just yank it off the shelves, melt it down, and roll out a dozen more ‘you’s from the assembly line.”

He drained the mug, then filled it with cold water from the sink.

“You really think doing a good job will stop them from replacing you with a newer model?”

Hank didn’t know much about CyberLife, but after decades on the force—at crime scenes, in interrogation rooms—he understood human nature better than he thought: fickle, greedy, always chasing the next new thing.

Maybe the next model was already being tested. That was the logical way to do it—no company waits until a product is obsolete before designing the next version. Progress never stops. And these androids, made in humanity’s own image, were the perfect mirror of human vanity: born of admiration, discarded with contempt. A cycle of worship and rejection that always ended the same way.

“You think none of this matters?” Connor asked, voice quieter now.

Even if he completed every assignment, even if he did everything right, would he still end up on the scrap heap someday?

No… Amanda said he was doing well. Amanda needed him. Amanda trusted him.

Connor pulled Sumo closer.

That traitorous dog—Hank’s own words—why did he seem to like the android so damn much?

“You could try making a few decisions for yourself.”

Hank’s suggestion was met with immediate resistance.

“No. You’re trying to guide me toward deviant behaviour. I assure you, that won’t happen.”

“Fine,” Hank said with a shrug. “Then I order you: don’t upload this conversation to CyberLife. Five minutes. That’s all.”

Connor looked puzzled but obeyed without hesitation—human orders overrode everything else, after all.

“What do you want to know?”

“Tell me—what did it feel like, having a gun to your head?”

“I hoped you wouldn’t pull the trigger.”

“Then why didn’t you beg?”

“My programming forbids me from resisting human orders.” Connor lowered his head against Sumo’s. “I nearly lost control several times. I’m grateful my logic pathways held.”

Hank gave a noncommittal grunt. He had gone in hard, hoping to shake something loose in the android, and maybe it had worked. Maybe not. Either way, Connor clearly wasn’t done wrestling with whatever the hell he was.

It’d take time.

“How long do you plan on hugging my dog? He’s mine, remember?”

Connor finally looked at him. Hank had never noticed before—his eyes caught the light in a strangely human way, a sheen of artificial moisture softening the sharp lines of his face. Had Hank just gotten used to him? Was that why Connor suddenly looked so... alive?

The android said nothing. Just looked at him with an unreadable expression—almost like a kid told to give back a toy he really liked.

“Fine, whatever. Sumo seems happy enough drooling on you.”

“I don’t mind.” Connor murmured.

Hank could’ve sworn he saw the android smile.

It was faint, gone in an instant, and nothing like the fake ones he’d forced out before—those stiff, calculated expressions meant to make conversation. This one... was different. 

Unscripted. Almost real.

“You really like dogs, huh?”

“As a highly domesticated species, their functionality and companionship are both optimal. I can easily access a wealth of information online to understand canine behavior patterns, and they’re generally simple to interact with. It’s no surprise they’re considered the most favored companion animals among humans.”

A long-winded non-answer. Normally, Hank would’ve zoned out halfway through or cut him off with a sharp Speak English, would ya? But this version of Connor—raw, uncalibrated, still reeling from the shock before—was wandering that narrow gray zone between composed and falling apart. His body language was off, and so were his words.

“You think dogs are easier to deal with than people?”

He noticed the LED flicker once—then again. Connor’s eyes made a small twitch like he meant to look away but caught himself. Gotcha, Hank thought. He wasn’t great at reading people. But this little android? Easier than most suspects he’d interrogated.

“I would say they are ‘straightforward’ to interact with,” Connor answered. “Dogs have simple, direct needs. Given the same scenario, their responses are almost consistent across individuals. If I follow the proper behavioral patterns, I’m rewarded with positive feedback.”

He picked up the teddy bear resting on his stomach and gave it a little wave. Sumo’s eyes immediately locked onto it. The moment the toy was tossed away, the big dog lunged forward, held the bear’s arm in his mouth, and brought it back to Connor. A quick ‘Good boy’ and a rub on the head earned Sumo a happy tail thump.

“And… Sumo’s really cute.”

“What a shame people don’t come with a manual…” Hank grunted, then narrowed his eyes. “Wait, what’d you say?”

They spoke at the same time—Connor’s voice lost under Hank’s—and the android quickly retracted.

“Nothing. Please, go on.”

“Right…” Hank scratched at his head. “You gotta understand, people are unpredictable. You try, fail, and you try again. We’re constantly dealing with new personalities, moods, hang-ups.” He made a loose square shape with his hands in the air. “And there’s no pop-up window telling you when to back off or double down. You just gotta figure it out… feel your way through. Didn’t you say you usually get what—two to four dialogue options?”

Connor nodded.

“Yeah, well that’s not nearly enough. Forty’d be closer to reality.”

“There are too many variables,” Connor said quietly, gently cupping Sumo’s face and resting his forehead against the dog’s. “The risk of communication failure is statistically significant.”

“If you could predict everything,” Hank said, sipping his coffee with a half-smile, “then what the hell would be the point of living?”

Hank got up and headed for the fridge. He bent down and fished out two chocolate donuts, then poured himself another cup of coffee. Connor briefly considered reminding him that consuming high-sugar foods in the morning wasn’t ideal, but that suggestion had never gone over well before—so this time, he kept his mouth shut.

“You’re not gonna stop me from eating donuts?”

A familiar current surged through him. Connor recognized it immediately—his emotional module drafting a response under confused uncertainty, one of the most frequently triggered emotional signals in his system.

“It would be convenient if I could predict when I should advise against junk food consumption…” he muttered into the dog’s head.

“How long do you plan to keep sitting there?”

Hank scarfed down his breakfast in a few quick bites and disappeared into the bedroom to change. He was back in no time, wearing his usual jacket and gray slacks. He walked over and held out a hand to Connor. The android blinked, puzzled—of course. So Hank leaned down, grabbed his arm, and hauled him to his feet.

“Sumo, move it. We’re heading out.”

The St. Bernard gave a lazy shake of his head and lumbered back to his usual spot on the rug. Connor’s eyes followed him, and he even craned his neck to peer around Hank’s shoulder for a better look. Hank couldn’t help but laugh.

“You wanna stay here all day and cuddle with Sumo?”

“No, it’s not like that,” Connor said quickly, snapping his head back and scrambling to justify the odd behavior. “You’re scheduled to meet with Captain Fowler before ten-thirty this morning. I believe he has important directives. We’ll need about twenty minutes to reach the precinct, so we should leave five minutes ago.”

“That bald bastard’s probably cooking up some fresh hell for me.”

Grumbling, Hank walked to the door, grabbing his gun off the table and stuffing it into a second-row drawer in the cabinet. That made him pause. Maybe his earlier apology had been too vague—too cowardly. He bit down on his lip.

“And about that…” he said, nodding toward the drawer. “It won’t happen again. I promise.”

Then, after a beat of hesitation, he added, 

“Sorry.”

Connor tilted his head slightly. Hank felt oddly proud of himself—he could actually read something like reflection on that android’s poker face.

Maybe he really should ask Fowler about transferred to Interrogations.

“That’s the first apology I’ve ever received from a human. I’m not sure what I’m supposed to feel.”

“You’re not supposed to figure everything out. That’s kind of the point.”

“…Thank you.”

Hank shrugged. “Be a good boy, Sumo. We’ll be back soon.”

We?

Connor followed him out the door without a word. As Hank jogged out to the driveway and started the engine, Connor turned back and gave Sumo a soft wave through the window.

“Twenty minutes? What, you think I’m that slow?” Hank muttered, yanking the wheel and swinging the old car into the flood of rush hour traffic with a loud skid. “I can make it to the precinct in ten.”

“Lieutenant, you’re aware that driving hungover and speeding increases your chance of a traffic fine and raises your risk of collision by thirty-two percent—”

“Shut up, Connor, or I’m tossing you off this bridge.”

Hank cursed as he cut off four cars in a row, leaving a trail of honking behind him.

Connor still wanted to ask what exactly that ‘we’ had meant.

But the Lieutenant had told him to shut up.

So for now, he stayed quiet.

He closed his eyes, quietly placed an order online for a highly-rated canned dog food, set to be delivered at Hank’s doorstep this evening.

He figured he’d wait until Hank was in a better mood before asking—

What did ‘we’ really mean?