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The doorbell jolted Hank awake. He’d dozed off in front of the TV somewhere between channels, an hour after he and Connor had trudged home from work.
"Connor! Get the door for your pal..." Hank grumbled, struggling to extricate himself from under his massive St. Bernard. "And don't think I forgot you promised to do the dishes!"
The android, who had been engrossed in an archive of Animal Planet documentaries, replied calmly, "I haven't forgotten, Hank. We’ll keep it down."
Catching a glimpse of Hank’s messy gray hair, Connor smiled warmly before hurrying to the hallway. He flicked on the light with practiced precision and turned the deadbolt. Nines stepped inside, bringing a draft of cool night air with him. With a stiff nod, he offered a clipped, "Good evening." RK900 still felt a lingering awkwardness about dropping by Connor’s place, especially so late. Sensing his guest's unease, Connor slipped an arm around him in a brief, reassuring side-hug.
Once they reached the kitchen and Nines had settled at the table, propping his chin on his hand, he finally spoke. "How was your shift?"
"Productive, actually. Even with the backlog from the revolution." Connor stood half-turned, multitasking between scrubbing plates and keeping an eye on Nines. "Had a minor run-in with Detective Reed, but that’s the least of the precinct's problems."
"An argument? Is he in a foul mood again?" Nines raised a thoughtful eyebrow.
"Gavin is rarely in a good mood, though he was arguably calmer than usual today." Connor reached for a towel to dry a pot. "Having a reliable partner is good for him." He shot Nines a pointed look, but RK900 quickly looked away, suddenly fascinated by the magnets on the refrigerator.
"I’m not sure 'reliable' is the word," Nines said slowly. "More like... efficient. I complete tasks, and the superiors approve. To be reliable, one must inspire trust. And someone like Detective Reed finds it easier to trust an imperfect human, even if that trust is illogical or dangerous."
Connor set the pot aside and began scrubbing a pan. Testing a hunch, he asked in a level tone, "Did something happen today?"
Nines’ shoulder gave a sharp twitch as he pressed his lips together.
"No. Or rather, what happened was that nothing happened." The predecessor knit his brows, processing the oxymoron. "I don’t know how to reach him, or why I’m even trying. We function well enough as it is, but..."
He trailed off with a sigh, reluctant to burden Connor. There was a more selfish reason for his silence: it terrified Nines to admit that efficiency no longer satisfied him. He craved the ability to form genuine bonds, independent of pre-installed social algorithms. It was far too late to deny it—the RK900 was relying less on the "Productive Interrogation" subroutines and more on his own evolving intuition. He hoped that through these clumsy attempts, he might develop a true sense of tact and a moral compass of his own.
Nines’s LED pulsed a frantic yellow—cognitive dissonance. Connor didn't miss it. Setting the dishes aside, he leaned back against the counter.
"You know, I think you’re already on the right track. You don't rise to Gavin's insults; you stay steady despite his outbursts." Connor’s voice dropped to a conspiratorial murmur as he stepped closer. "But that isn't enough. Detective Reed has a very fragile ego. Right now, he misreads your patience as condescension because he only sees your 'perfect' side. Try asking him for advice—for 'human intuition.' Play into his need for superiority. Or, next time you trip up, ask him to keep it quiet because you’re afraid of looking defective. Give him a secret to keep. It makes you peers. And praise him in front of colleagues—honestly and sparingly."
Nines fell silent, arms folded, studying Connor with a sharp, assessing gaze. The advice was logical, but a doubt remained.
"If I show him my flaws, what purpose do I serve? He lives in a world where everything breaks. I want to be... his island of stability. Do you understand?" Nines looked up, his confusion raw and visible.
Connor perched on the edge of the table. Hank usually grumbled about the furniture not being built for androids, but judging by the rhythmic snoring from the bedroom, he wasn't an immediate threat.
"You don't have to destroy that stability. Just show him that it costs you something to maintain it. Gavin doesn't value your help because he doesn't see the effort. Don't fake defects—just stop hiding the struggle."
Nines nodded slowly. The idea that effort could be more valuable than the result was a foreign concept.
"So... I should demonstrate that I am adapting at a personal cost? That I'm choosing to stay?"
"Exactly."
Connor beamed, unable to hide his pride. The fact that Nines was even asking these questions was a milestone. RK900 might still label his protective streak toward Reed as 'protocol,' but Connor saw it for what it was: Nines was learning how to love.
Now, RK900 rose from the table, a tentative, buoyed smile touching his lips.
"Thank you. Truly," He said, a hint of embarrassment coloring his tone. "I should get going."
"Anytime," Connor replied. As they walked to the hall, Nines took a lingering look at the home: the dog hair on the rug, the framed photo of Hank, Sumo, and Connor.
"Tell me how it goes tomorrow. Good luck, Richard."