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“Connor!” Hank isn’t fast enough. His hand grasps only air as Connor runs beyond his reach toward the deviant. Hank wants to chase after him, to tackle him to the ground and let the task force fill the deviant with all the fucking lead they’ve got after that hole it shot in his partner, but his cowardly body chooses for him. His knees hit the concrete as another gunshot sounds.
Hank watches in horror as Connor dodges bullet after bullet, clears a shipping crate, and grabs hold of the deviant in one smooth motion. This time when its gun goes off, thirium splatters thick on the shipping container behind the tousling pair. His brief amazement at Connor’s ability sours into pure panic. The lieutenant scrambles to his feet, shoving off of the concrete to race towards the androids faster than he’s run in years. He reaches out just in time to catch Connor as he stumbles backwards.
“Connor! Connor, are you alright?” The android doesn’t respond as Hank jostles him, searching every inch for a new wound that isn’t there. “Connor!”
“I-I’m okay.”
“Are you hurt?” The gunshot wound from the initial encounter is still weeping thirium, but other than that he can only see a light misting of blue over his face.
“I’m okay.” Connor affirms distantly.
He lets go of Connor to step back and press a hand to his forehead, as if to physically push back the migraine starting there. “Jesus, you scared the shit outta me…” Adrenaline finally catches up with his body and his chest begins to ache with the wild beating of his heart. “For fucks sake, I told you not to move! Why don’t you ever do what I say?” Hank can feel the anxiety morphing into anger, but one look at Connor’s expression and Hank’s stomach drops with dread.
“I was connected to its memory. When it fired, I felt it die…like I was dying.” The android finally looks up at Hank. His usually neutral face is twisted with distress. “I was scared.”
He seems so small for a moment; splattered with blue blood, shoulders hitched up, and searching Hank’s face with such a lost expression. The lieutenant huffs a breath through his nose and shakes his head. “Yeah, fuck this.” He grumbles under his breath.
Quicker than Connor can protest, Hank snatches his upper arm and pulls them both into motion.
A task force member steps in his way. “Hey! Where are you taking it?”
Not dignifying the officer with so much as a glance, Hank sidesteps her and waves a hand dismissively.
“We’ve got something downstairs to cross-reference.”
The pair make it down the flight of stairs, through the grim studio, and to the elevator with minimal looks or interruptions. As they wait for the elevator, Hank focuses on slowing his breathing from a strained wheeze to something more normal. By the time the doors slide open, he’s already feeling better, and even more determined to get Connor as far from this mess as he can.
The lieutenant steps into the elevator and Connor begins to follow but stops short as if meeting a physical barrier at the threshold.
“What about the investigation?” He protests, starting to turn back towards the studio. “I-I saw something…”
“Don’t care, tell me later. Just fuckin' follow me, would you?”
For once Connor does as he asks and the doors close behind them. Hank pushes the button for the first floor and if Connor notices or cares, he doesn’t say anything.
“Jesus Connor, you’re shaking.”
The android is trembling hard enough that Hank can feel it through the floor of the elevator but when Connor looks down at his own hands to confirm, he seems surprised. The android blinks hard several times before a deep frown sets itself onto his face.
“I am unable to disable this feature.” His voice is as even as ever, but the LED on the side of his forehead tells another story. It flashes yellow to red and back again - an unending display of Connor’s internal turmoil.
The memory of the interrogation floods Hank’s mind unbidden. The red LED and the sickening thud of the deviant slamming its head into the table over and over…Hank can feel his greasy lunch making a comeback. Without his permission, his hand shoots out to comfort Connor - ha, as if his touch alone could stabilize him - but the elevator dings and the doors slide open to the lobby. He corrects his hand’s course and instead places it on Connor’s back to guide him out of the elevator.
The sleek lobby is devoid of humans and androids alike - eerily quiet for the ruckus just beyond the pristine tinted windows. Protestors have the place surrounded. A thin line of police are holding them back from crossing the holo-tape, but just barely. Hank braces himself before pushing the door open.
The pair is immediately assaulted with a wall of sound. The protestors - anti-android if the abundance of insulting signs are anything to go off of - only grow in volume when they catch sight of Connor. Hank tries not to look at any of them. He nods to the police as they pass through the holo-tape and tries to hurry himself and Connor straight to his car.
The blur of movement doesn’t make sense in his periphery until an arc of paint falls heavy on his shoulders. When he gains his bearings again, he finds that Connor had taken the brunt of probably an entire can’s worth of blue paint.
“We’re police! The fuck is wrong with you people!” He yanks Connor back, keeping a firm hold on his arm. Neither of these does much to deter the mob, who seem hellbent on grabbing at any bit of them they can and hurling insults and objects. A soda can glances off of his forehead and Hank wraps an arm over Connor’s shoulders and rushes them through the crowd to his car.
He throws open the passenger door with too much force and all but shoves Connor inside. The android cautiously maneuvers his disobedient body out of the way just in time for the door to slam shut. Hank gets in on the driver side and finds Connor struggling with the seatbelt as big globs of blue paint drip down from his forehead into his eyes. He yanks and yanks and the seatbelt only ever stops short. He reaches up to wipe the paint away, but Hank pulls his hands away by the wrists.
“Hold on, hold on. I’ve got you.” He scours his car for a tissue or something, but there’s none in sight. With a sigh, the lieutenant thumbs the paint off of Connor’s eyelids and wipes it on his already ruined jacket. It's not a perfect solution, but Connor is at least able to open his eyes and secure his seatbelt.
The mob parts for the car, but only just enough to let them crawl through as people hit the car with their fists and hand painted signs. He grips the steering wheel hard, willing himself not to flinch. Connor doesn’t seem to be paying them any mind, and Hank is grateful for that. He’s absorbed entirely in frowning and blinking at his still trembling hands.
By the time they make it to his driveway, the lieutenant is exhausted. He groans as he eases himself from the driver’s side with stiff joints. Connor looks confused when he opens the passenger door for him.
“Why are we not at the police station?” He doesn’t move to unbuckle himself, so Hank leans down and does it for him.
“Kid, you’re covered in paint.” He reaches out a hand to help Connor up, but Connor only stares blankly at it.
“I have self-cleaning procedures.”
Hank thumbs away more paint from Connor’s eyelids before it has the chance to get into his eyes. “Even you’d have trouble cleaning this up in that tiny ass shower. Come on.”
The android cooperates, letting Hank lead him through the front door to the bathroom. Under the strain of supporting a trembling android, Anderson has to push against the wall to course-correct, leaving a blue handprint on his wall. He curses at it. Blue paint drips from their clothes, leaving a trail on his carpet. He curses at that, too.
“Out of the way, Sumo! If I have to scrub blue paint off of you, then I’ll really be pissed.”
Sumo, for his part, stands clear, whining at them from the living room but unwilling to come closer.
They stumble into the bathroom and Hank delivers Connor as gently as he can to the toilet lid. The whole structure seems to rattle with his near-violent tremors. Hank shucks off his paint covered jacket, leaving it on the tile while he rushes out to collect supplies.
His body hasn’t left fight or flight quite yet, still carrying tension in every aching muscle as he racks his brain for what he needs. Pajamas, a towel and washcloth - no, several washcloths, and a chair from the kitchen should do it.
When he returns to the bathroom, Connor is by the sink using his one nice hand towel to scoop chunky globs of paint out of his hair. Hanks cringes when he sees the paint Connor is getting on the sink and cabinet as he presses against it for support. With all of his shaking, more than anything Connor is spreading the paint through his hair and face, and sending fat drops of it to the mirror and sink. Hank leaves him be for a second as he sets up his station and feels for warm water from the bath’s tap.
“Alright son, come sit back down.”
“I’ve got it, Lieutenant.” Connor responds too fast and then pauses to blink at himself in the mirror. Like a faucet being turned on, a steady flow of tears begins to pour from his eyes.
Hank is by his side in a flash, hands on his shoulders whipping the android around to face him. “Connor! Are you ok?”
“Yes.” Connor replies, almost indignant. “Paint was obscuring my vision and needed to be flushed out.” His dictation is clean and harsh.
He pauses and blinks hard. His perfectly smooth face twists. “Lieutenant, there are too many errors and my self-diagnostic isn’t running. I may have to shut down and restart.”
The android begins to go back to base position, but Hank holds up a hand. “Wait wait wait, you’re way too heavy for me to move when you’re knocked out, and we need to get this paint off before it dries.”
Connor might not roll his eyes - it’s possible his protocol prevents it - but the faint twitch of his eyebrow sends the message of annoyance loud and clear. Hank bites his tongue not to call out his attitude. He wipes his ‘tears’ away instead and goes to plug the bottom of the tub.
“How waterproof are you? We need to get this paint out of your hair.”
“I can be entirely submerged in shallow water for up to an hour without damage.”
“Good to know.” Hank replies grimly. Well that’s a fucked up image. He has to shake it from his head. Connor moves to sit on the toilet lid again, hands in his lap, eyes calmly forward.
Despite the protest of his body, the lieutenant sits on the floor in front of him. Connor doesn’t say anything, but watches distantly as Hank picks up his foot and carefully unlaces his shoes. He tugs the shoe off along with his sock and repeats the same for his other foot. The lieutenant stretches up a bit to guide Connor’s suit jacket from his shoulders, and folds it in on itself in a meaningless attempt to not spread the paint any more than it already has. He tugs his tie free and starts in on the buttons of his shirt before Connor interrupts him.
“What are you doing?”
“If you can manage these buttons on your own, by all means.” Hank sits back on his feet to give Connor some space and gestures to the shirt.
It’s a valiant but fruitless effort, as the android’s fingers refuse to cooperate. He can hardly keep grip on a single button before the tremors pull his hand away from the fabric entirely. He huffs in frustration, though his face has returned to the picture of neutrality.
“Can I help?” Hank offers again. Connor acquiesces and his arms drop limply to his sides.
Hank frees the last button and stands with some effort. Connor might not feel pain like humans do, but he’s careful anyways when he peels the shirt away from where it’s sticking to Connor’s gunshot wound. It’s pretty sealed up at this point (not that Hank of all people could tell, being neither a doctor nor a…whatever the hell robots see when they’re hurt, but at least it wasn’t gushing blue blood anymore) but he doesn’t want to risk damaging him any further. Armed with warm water and a fresh washcloth, Hank dabs the edges of the entry and exit wound clean, picking any loose debris out with tweezers before sealing both shut with some duct tape.
“Not perfect but it’ll have to do for now. No use getting water in that. Up we go!”
Hank hooks his arms under Connor’s armpits and attempts the near-heroic effort of getting the apparently one ton tin can to his feet. By now, Connor’s LED is a concerningly solid red, and he seems to be looking through Hank entirely.
With as much grace and respect as possible while being one handed and supporting an extremely heavy deadweight, Hank maneuvers Conner’s pants off of him and guides him to the edge of the tub.
“Ha, kind of reverse Deja vu.” Hank tries to joke, but the android seems to not even be hearing him. “At least I’m not gonna spray you with fucking cold ass water while you’re down. See? Humans are better than androids.”
He eases Connor over the edge and as softly into the water as he can. Which means Connor practically breaks the bottom of the tub as he thuds into place. Hank winces (on behalf of the android or the tub, who can say) and sucks in a breath through his teeth, but again the bot isn’t phased.
Hank pulls the kitchen chair close and settles in.
For a heavy and very expensive piece of equipment with such a strong presence, he looks so small in the tub. To think, he was only really created three months ago…and what a shitty first few months of life its been. Partly due to some prejudiced asshole who’s a bitch and a half to work with. Fuck.
Hank dips his hands in the water to warm them before pulling Connor’s shoulders to guide him backwards. He cradles his head in one hand with his elbow propped on his thigh for support. Even the goddamn head is heavy. It nearly ruins the mirage of youth he had just seen for how much muscle it’s taking to keep his head just at the surface of the water.
He runs his fingers through Connor’s hair, bluntly working the bulk of the paint free before going in with shampoo. It’s partly unsettling and partly comforting just how life-like androids look. Hank’s never been this close, and certainly never touched any like this, so he’s never had the opportunity to see just how detailed they are. Sure, the skin is only a thin layer over a sturdy metal that can be felt if pressed, but it’s a layer with pores and purposeful imperfections. Hank runs a cloth in gentle circles, revealing more and more freckles underneath the paint. He didn’t even know Connor had freckles. Every strand of hair, too - perfectly stitched to the scalp. There might be faint seams here and there, but the overall effect is astounding.
Stupidly, Hank finds himself hoping this is evidence of a loving creator, not just a tactic to get humans to trust so wholly in their artificial companions. Someone who painstakingly painted on each freckle and carefully chose his exact mix of hair colors. Someone who took the time to decide on these warm, open, curious brown eyes. He runs a thumb over the side of Connor’s face and the LED flickers to glow blue in the murky blue water. The android stills completely in his hands and blinks his eyes open to stare at Hank.
“I still need to get the paint out of your ears and shoulders. Are you doing okay?” Hank finds his voice embarrassingly unsteady.
Connor only nods and lifts himself into a more upright position, holding still as the washcloth tugs at his ears and scrubs the rest of the paint from his neck.
It’s over too soon and suddenly Hank’s hands are pruny and there’s nothing left to clean. Not on Connor, at least.
“I can leave you alone so you can soak a little if you want.”
“No, I’m done here.”
Hank extends a hand, and Connor pauses. The lieutenant can almost see the analysis being run behind those intent brown eyes. It's a conscious decision when he accepts the help to stand. He’s steady enough now to leave him alone to towel off and get dressed, so Hank gives him some privacy by heading to the living room to prepare the couch for an unexpected guest.
“I can sleep standing up, Lieutenant Anderson.”
Hank looks up to see Connor in the hallway, practically drowning in the fabric of Hank’s pajamas. His heart seizes as suddenly it’s Cole standing there, seeking comfort from a nightmare. But Connor isn't looking for comfort. He’s back to his neutral face and blue LED, posture as perfect as ever. Each movement is precise and unwavering as he walks over to stand by Hank.
“Not after a day like today, you won’t.” He whips around to fully face him, jabbing a finger towards him for emphasis. “And definitely not at my house you won’t.” Hank provides his softest fuzzy blanket and a pillow from his own bed and retreats to deal with himself. Sumo can handle Connor for the moment.
Hank groans seeing the mess of the bathroom. Practically no surface is untouched. It looks like an android slasher film. Globs on the cabinets, drips on the mirror, handprints on the walls, the sink, the toilet. The floor and the tub are a nightmare. At least tile and glass he can clean. As for the carpet, their clothes, and- oh god - his car… He’s fucked. Might as well take it as a sign to remodel.
For tonight at least, he focuses on pooling all of their paint-soiled clothes into a ball and hopping in the scathing hot shower to scrub all of the paint he’s let dry down in his hair and skin. It's a bitch to get off, and he feels like he’s scraped off an entire layer of skin by the time he’s done, but eventually he is satisfied with his work.
Fresh and mostly paint-free, he finds Connor sitting stiffly on the couch. Sumo is resting his big head on the still-folded blanket in Connor’s lap, enjoying the absent minded pets.
“What, you need me to tuck you in, too?” He means to say it like a jab, but it comes out too soft and genuine.
“About the case earlier,” Connor starts, in that on-the-job tone that makes Hank cut him off.
“If this is evidence you saw, we’ll handle it tomorrow after a full night’s sleep.”
Connor shuts his mouth and turns forward again.
“None of this is necessary.” His voice is quiet. Walking around the couch, Hank can see the LED spinning yellow again. He pulls the blanket out from under Sumo’s head and shakes it open, letting it fall over Connor’s shoulders. Almost reflexively, Connor pulls it tight around himself. Hank eases himself down onto the couch beside the android, bringing his arm over his shoulders in hopes that the weight is some grounding comfort.
“Did it stop your shaking?” He asks after a moment.
Connor nods, finally looking Hank in the eyes instead of staring eerily into the void.
“Well, then it must have been necessary.” He shrugs nonchalantly. He doesn’t know a lick of android psychology, but if the old tricks work, then the old tricks work. “Get some sleep…or whatever.”
Hank pulls himself off of the couch again. With a head pat for both Sumo and the android detective, he heads for his bedroom, stepping over the gruesome trail of blue in his carpet. God what a weird fucking life he leads.