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It was snowing out.
Doppler radar indicated that the snowfall was to last for another two to three hours, producing perhaps another ten to twelve inches before skies cleared early in the evening. This snow bore no resemblance to the dark tempest that once raged through Connor’s mind palace; there were no black skies, no slate gray winds that wailed mournfully against his audio receptors, or icy needles that clung to his synthetic skin like a malicious entity trying to envelop him. The gray sky today was warmer, somehow, despite the below-freezing temperatures; the snow meandered down from above in small, but conspicuous flakes, dancing and twirling in the gentle breeze. What had already made landfall was soft, light—powdery, even. It vaguely reminded him of something confectionery, in nature. The shift and crunch of it under his Oxfords held a distinctly different sound profile than in his…initial interaction with the substance.
It still made something skitter in his thirium veins, all the same.
He still would have elected to stay indoors through it—the memory of that snowstorm was still all-too fresh, despite the passage of time—were it not for the nature of Sumo’s breed, coupled with the Lieutenant’s odd desire for Connor to, “Experience actual nature for once in your fuckin’ life,” to coax them outside. Standing in the middle of Rouge Park, stationed at the far west end of Detroit proper, felt like being transported to a completely different region of the world. The quietude of the preserve was almost unnerving to him; there were no honking horns, no foot traffic, no glittering LED displays tempting consumers into frivolous expenditure. In this oasis, there were only trees, underbrush, and 170 pounds of auburn and white fur ducking and weaving around massive trunks, and play-fighting with branches.
Connor held out a hand curiously, watching the flecks of snow drift, unbothered, onto his palm. His sensors registered the cold, and if he’d so wished, he could have zoomed his ocular units in to analyze the unique structure of each individual flake. He felt that would have ruined the mystique. It also meant that he would have seen the imperfections in his own synthskin, the tiny pixellated distortions that were invisible to the human eye.
Connor wasn’t human, though—no matter how lifelike he looked.
Hank, standing to his left, sniffed once, regarding him silently past a sheet of gray hair. Despite insisting upon going out into a snowy environment, he hadn’t fully dressed for the part—he had a tattered plaid scarf wrapped haphazardly around his neck, but steadfastly refused to wear either a hat or gloves. “Well, if you’re not gonna wear them, then, neither am I,” he’d said with a totter of his head. “Consider it the Fairness Doctrine.”
Connor had furrowed his brows. “Wasn’t that about news media?” He wasn’t certain why he phrased it as a question—he’d already known the answer.
Hank had, instead, turned away, yanking the front door open. “Yeah, yeah, details.”
Connor pretended not to notice the Lieutenant’s eyes on him, preferring to follow the trail of snowflakes to their point of origin, noting with some measure of amusement how many different shades of warmth were present in such an objectively cold environment. It was…serene.
In the distance, Sumo barked at a particularly large tree branch, headbutting it before flopping down to chew on one of its extremities.
Hank was still looking at him.
Connor’s head, turned upwards to the invitingly gray sky, tilted a hair, eyes tracking the movement of 867 different snowflakes in unison. “What do you think?”
Hank grunted low in his throat. “Doesn’t matter what I think. What do you think?”
Connor’s eyes flicked down and to his left. “It matters to me.”
Hank grunted again. “Probably shouldn’t.”
Connor’s head turned slightly, viewing Hank at clearer angle. “Why do you do that?”
Hank’s blue eyes, all the more stark against the gray backdrop, squinted briefly. “Do what?”
“Talk so poorly of yourself.” Self-deprecation to the extent Hank displayed was decidedly unhealthy. Surely Hank knew that.
Hank’s brows twitched in concert with a minute shrug of his left shoulder and tug of his cheek. He didn’t respond immediately. Did he feel ashamed? “Familiarity breeds contempt.”
“I’m plenty familiar with you, Lieutenant,” Connor answered, furrowing his brows, “and, I can say with authority, contempt is the last thing I feel.”
Hank rolled his eyes with a half-hearted sneer. “Oh, don’t get all fucking sappy on me, will you? It’s too goddamn cold for that.”
Connor’s head tilted to the left. “Remind me—who decided that?”
Hank’s half-hearted sneer deepened. “Hey, fuck you, I’m trying to give you some culture, here. Y’know, something good to look back on? Not everything in life’s gotta be a horror show.”
Connor, instead of answering, returned his attention to the sky, partially obscured by the intricate network of tree branches looming overhead. It was fascinating to see the way it all interwove with one another, each individual bud and branch its own separate entity, yet becoming something else entirely when viewed from afar. Each single branch seemed unimportant from such a farther lens, but without them, the picture wouldn’t be the same. They were all absolutely necessary, and contributed to something unique and beautiful.
He felt as though he were stumbling onto something profound; something that made him feel small and insignificant in the face of a greater truth. He carefully tabled the thought process for later review.
“Are you cold?”
“Huh?” Connor blinked, glancing at Hank, before looking down at himself. He hadn’t realized that he’d wound his arms around himself, much like he had during that first snowstorm. He had no innate temperature sensitivity, beyond dull, statistical recognition, and yet, he felt a chill dance down his spinal receptors.
Connor stared at the snow peppered against the steel gray of his blazer, felt it nestling into his hair, and gently tickling his jawline. He didn’t feel the same gnawing terror as he had that evening, but he felt the memory of it. He was fine. He knew this logically; he knew this emotionally. Yet… “Lieutenant? Can I ask something you something weird?”
“Everything you ask is weird.” Connor must have altered his expression in some way he was unaware of, because Hank immediately huffed out an exasperated sigh, adding, “But…yeah, shoot.”
His mouth worked silently for 4.372 seconds, his preconstruction software ramping up hundreds of different responses to his request, nearly none of which were even remotely positive. Stupid. It was stupid. The Lieutenant wasn’t the type to—
“May I—“ His brown eyes darted over to Hank for a split second reproachfully, before darting back to the safety of his tightly crossed arms. “…May I have a hug?”
There was no response.
Connor’s thirium pump regulator twisted of its own volition, which was quite an odd experience, as it had no autonomous movement capabilities. Bracing himself, he brought his gaze back up to Hank, and was pleasantly surprised to see no hint of discomfort in Hank’s largely unreadable expression—only a mild curiosity tugging at his brows, and a silent question.
It took Connor a shameful 2.84 seconds to realize that the Lieutenant was waiting for his consent before initiating contact. Connor didn’t know how to give that consent—there was, as of yet, still no manual on body language—so, he simply quirked the corner of his lips up in the ghost of a smile, shrugging his shoulders up less than an inch.
That seemed to satisfy the necessary requirements; Hank lifted his right hand to roughly torso height and casually waved towards himself. Connor moved as though his body were magnetically drawn to the Lieutenant, crossing the few short feet, and letting himself get dragged in the rest of the way.
Connor’s LED and cheek made contact with the scratchy fibers of Hank’s black wool coat, and briefly closed his eyes to help reroute his processors more efficiently into cataloging the sensory information provided by the Lieutenant’s strong, confident embrace. He slightly turned up his audio sensitivity, to better hear Hank’s heartbeat through the layers of clothing; he also heard the pattering of every individual snowflake across their shoulders, but somehow, the additional input didn’t impact his stress levels. He still had his arms wound around his own torso, the limbs still feeling uncomfortably cold, and preferred they stay sandwiched between himself and the protective barrier of the Lieutenant’s upper body.
The chill began to recede.
Hank’s voice rumbled to life somewhere behind his left ear, “I was surprised you asked. You’re not typically the touchy-feely type.”
Connor felt the words vibrate through the curvature that simulated his clavicle. He found it incredibly soothing; he wasn’t sure what to make of that information. “Neither are you.”
The responding hum resonated through his entire chestplate. The servos in his shoulders reported a 17% decrease in tension. “Not to people I don’t know or like. I know you. I like you,” adding sardonically, “somehow.”
Connor opened his eyes, glancing to his right as though he could bend spacetime to see the Lieutenant through his own winter coat. “So, this doesn’t bother you?”
“If it bothered me, I wouldn’t be doing it.” Connor felt the slightest touch of gray hair against the shell of his ear. If he were human, he imagine it might have tickled. (He had no idea what ‘tickling’ felt like.) “Listen, I know I’m not exactly an open book, but I’m not heartless, Connor. I don’t like watching people suffer.”
Connor couldn’t help but twitch his head a fraction in thought, inadvertently pressing his head farther into the Lieutenant’s shoulder. Had he been suffering? Was there a specific metric, or were there certain criteria that needed to be met? He’d just felt cold, did that appropriately qualify as suffering?
“Alright, what is it?”
Connor’s brows tugged together. “What do you mean?”
“I can hear your brain working, Connor. What’s going on in that head of yours?” Connor opened his mouth to reply. “And don’t fuckin’ tell me it’s nothing.”
Connor closed his mouth, and then tried again. “It’s nothing important.”
“Fuckin’ wiseass.” Hank nudged his right shoulder, jostling Connor’s head suddenly. His features scrunched in a silent scowl at the unpleasant interruption, while Hank continued, “Hey. You know you’re allowed to feel comfortable, right?”
“I do have that right,” Connor responded with deliberate vagueness, unable to voice what he truly felt. Hank would no doubt argue with him, over it.
Hank nudged his shoulder again. Connor scowled again. “Uh-uh. None of that shit. You’re allowed to feel comfortable, uncomfortable, and anything in between.” He exhaled, a small, pinched sound. “And—shit, for all you’ve gone through, you deserve to feel comfortable.”
Hank deserved to feel comfortable, too, for the exact same stated reasons. Connor determined that statement would not be received well. Instead, another thought slowly bobbed to the surface; he uttered it quietly, the words…timid. Fragile. “…This feels comfortable.”
Hank punched out another breath. Then, after a moment of silence, he sighed, voice softer than Connor thought it would be, “Yeah. Yeah, it does.”
Slowly, with that same level of fragility, Connor unwound his arms from his torso, and wrapped them around Hank’s chest. He ensured that he didn’t squeeze, or move without clearly telegraphing his movements, as to ensure the Lieutenant wasn’t caught off guard. Regardless of his previous comments on the matter, Connor had picked up on enough context clues to know that Hank very much did not like unexpected physical contact. He’d never worked up the nerve to ask why. The change in stance would allow Connor to move closer, if Hank allowed it.
Hank, in turn, shifted his arms to pull Connor in, closing the meager distance himself.
Connor’s eyes closed again, this time without his direct input. Such lack of control over his bodily functions should be a cause for concern; at this moment, he was utilizing too much of his processing power on triangulating which snowflake corresponded to which sound, and mentally mapping out where they landed. It seemed like a completely frivolous use of his preconstruction software—but, it also seemed like fun. Thus far, he found it an engaging, worthwhile exercise. Maybe he could mention that to Hank, later. Maybe he would think it was a worthwhile exercise, too?
Connor opened his eyes again, blankly watching white flecks pirouette in the frigid air, and felt another question rise unbidden. “Hank?”
Another hum vibrated Connor’s upper chest.
Connor had to keep himself from tightening his grip along Hank’s chest. “Why are you so nice to me?”
He felt Hank’s shoulders tense beneath his LED, and immediately felt his own tense in response. More gray hair ghosted over his left ear. “Why am I nice to you? The hell kind of a question is that?”
Connor’s eyes darted to his left, and attempted to shrug beneath the bulk of Hank’s arms. “An honest one?”
The Lieutenant made a small sound in his throat, that didn’t quite rise to the correct resonance frequency. Connor found himself slightly disappointed in that. “Y’know, most people wouldn’t call how I act to you ‘nice.’ Or, how I act in general, for that matter.”
“Most people wouldn’t hug me when asked. You did.”
“Most people are assholes.”
“Which proves my point,” Connor responded, eyes still looking to his left for reasons beyond him. “Most wouldn’t do this at all, let alone for an android, and yet, you are. Why?”
Hank sputtered for a second, something uncommon for him. His shoulders hiked up 0.7 centimeters in what Connor could only surmise was embarrassment. “Is this the type of shit you really think about when you have nothing better to do?”
Connor rolled his head to the right slightly in an approximation of a shrug, as his shoulders were still firmly held in place. “I’ve tried counting to 6.2 trillion before. Twice.”
“What happened?”
“I got bored.”
“Christ,” Hank breathed, snow-laden gray hair landing softly against the synthskin behind his earlobe as he regarded the back of Connor’s head. “We need to get you a hobby, kid.”
“I have my coin.”
“That’s not a hobby, that’s a torture device,” Hank riposted. “Something mentally engaging.”
Connor was intrigued. “What do you suggest?”
Hank snorted. “If I had one of those lined up, I wouldn’t have crawled into a bottle for three years.”
Connor frowned against the folds of Hank’s coat. “I feel like the circumstances were a bit more complicated than that.” He felt the tips of Hank’s fingers dig into his blazer with more force than perhaps the Lieutenant was consciously aware of; he shifted the topic back. “And, you haven’t answered my question. Why have you always been so kind to me?”
“Connor, I put a gun to your head and threatened to light you on fire,” Hank rebuked, “are you sure we’re talking about the same person, here?”
“Quite sure, Lieutenant. And, you know I’m going to keep asking until you answer.” Connor stared at a Northern Oak as though it were being interrogated. “So—why?”
Hank sighed through his nose; his tone was chagrined. “Do you really need to know?”
“If I didn’t, I wouldn’t have asked.” Connor ran that statement through his head an additional three times to confirm that he, in fact, needed to know. In all three cases, the query came back affirmative. There was a gap in his logic processors that needed to be filled, or else he would find himself wasting precious resources on this specific variable when he could least afford the distraction.
Hank remained quiet, at first. The light tinkling of snow against them filled his audio feed. Then, “I don’t know, never really thought about it.”
Something in Connor’s chest pulsed in pain. He put the automatic diagnostic on standby. He couldn’t effectively mask the derision as he asked, “Would you do something like this for Gavin?”
“I have,” Hank replied immediately. “Couple of times, in fact.”
Connor almost launched himself out of Hank’s grasp, at that. As it stood, he yanked his head back to gape at the Lieutenant; he needed to visually verify that Hank hadn’t suffered some kind of unforeseen head injury in the prevailing minute.
The Lieutenant, in response, just stared back, expression as unflappable as always. “What? I told you, I don’t like seeing people suffer.”
“Gavin??”
Hank glowered; something in his eyes was disappointed. The undiagnosed pain in Connor’s chest intensified by a fractional amount. “Look, Gavin is a caustic asshole that’s got it coming more often than not, but…” Hank’s expression twisted, glancing away. “Well, sometimes he’s got his reasons. He’s been through more than most.”
Connor, despite himself—very, very strongly despite himself—found his curiosity piqued. “Like what?”
Hank merely shook his head, eyes still focused elsewhere. “Not my story.”
Connor disliked Gavin on a profoundly deep level. Yet, here Hank was, saying that Detective Reed received the same level of affection at some stage of his life, and in spite of force closing multiple query requests, they kept popping up, anyway. To say it caused Connor some level of discomfort would be an understatement.
Hank, sensing the growing battle inside of Connor’s plasteel skull, looked back to him with an appraising glare. “If androids can be complicated and multifaceted, so can humans, you know.”
“I know,” Connor replied defensively. “But…it’s Gavin.”
“Yeah,” Hank agreed, pursing his lips. “And a year ago, it was me, too.”
Connor blinked, startled at the insight. Lieutenant Anderson was hardly a philosopher, but his ability to empathize and understand his fellow man—regardless of what color blood they had—gave him a shocking level of reach, when he chose to fully utilize it.
Hank continued to stare at him for another three cycles of his thirium pump. “So. You good, now?”
Connor blinked again, remembering with a hint of embarrassment that the Lieutenant was currently holding him in his arms without judgment or pity. He cleared his throat, which served no purpose, and dropped his gaze to the disturbed swatch of snow on Hank’s right shoulder. “Ah—yeah. Yeah, I think I’m okay, now. Thank you, Lieutenant.”
“Anytime.” Hank stepped back into his own space, but not before slapping his hand against Connor’s shoulder as he did. Without delay, he slid his bare hands back into the pockets of his weathered black coat, and bobbed his head to their right, where a 170-pound blob of fur was off in the distance, excitedly trying to perform a pincer maneuver on a four-story tall oak. “Now, let’s go get Sumo before he tries to tries to attack every tree in the forest.”
Connor also stepped back, arms falling to his side, and nodded in agreement. “Of course, Lieutenant.” He kept his arms at his side. He wasn’t cold, he couldn’t get cold.
He still missed the warmth.
Hank turned away, and took precisely one step before he halted, pivoting at his waist to catch Connor’s gaze over his shoulder. “And, to answer your question—it’s because I care.” He paused, eyes slipping to a point past them both, before they refocused on Connor. One shoulder twitched in a shrug, the barest hint of a smirk tugging beneath his moustache. “And, because you’re nice to me. Even when you shouldn’t be.”
Hank didn’t give Connor time to reply before he stepped off the faint trail, into the underbrush.
Connor’s mind was in a whirl. Hank hugged Gavin—multiple times—and refused to elaborate as to when, or why. His brown eyes flicked to the ground, where the Lieutenant had stood moments before, deep in thought.
…Would something like this constitute as a hobby?