Archive of Our Own

In order to continue employment with Detroit Security Contracting, we require all employees to provide up-to-date reports stating current health status. Our records indicate that you have not complied with this requirement. Your most recently filed medical report is dated March 2037.

Within 4 weeks of receipt of this letter, you must:

1. Attend a full physical exam with an approved qualified medical professional,

2. Send the results and full report to Detroit Security Contracting, including:

   1. Statement of medical clearance

   2. Negative drug test

If the above is not received within 4 weeks, your employment with Detroit Security Contracting will be suspended.

…

Your hands shake as you hold the letter in front of you. The word "suspended" practically jumps off the page. They might as well have highlighted it. You sink onto the couch, still clutching the paper tightly.

You can't lose your job. Private security is one of the last industries that hasn't been completely dominated by androids. The Android Act prohibits them from carrying firearms, and most of your clients want the assurance of a living human handling a gun. Even still, security jobs are hard to come by. You got lucky — a supervisory position overseeing an entire team of GS200s. You handle their assignments, ensure their software is up to date, and tag along on high-profile postings. You're damn good at your job. Maybe that's why you got away with this for so long.

Nearly three years since a physical. You still remember the last appointment like it was yesterday — the panic attack you had that morning in bed, the endless tapping of your leg as you waited for the doctor, how every time he had to touch you it felt like a violation, the dreaded blood draw. You hate everything about the doctor. Always have, always will.

So, basically, your job has just told you that you must live out your worst nightmare.

Logically, your first step should be to schedule an appointment. Unfortunately, anxiety is not logical. Instead, you drop the paper and scramble for your phone. You tap the starred contact on the list, praying to every god that does or doesn't exist that he's not working.

SOS

You type out the letters frantically. Your eyes remain fixed at the bottom of the screen, waiting for the three dots to pop up. It only takes a moment.

What's wrong?

The screen goes blurry. You shake your phone to try to clear it, only to realize it's not the screen, but your eyes. Hot tears pool in the corners as you tap out a response.

Gonna get fired

Less than half a second later, his name pops up at the top of your screen.

INCOMING CALL — Connor 🤖

You accept the call and put it on speaker, choking back the tears. Connor speaks before you get the chance. "What happened?"

"My job… they're gonna fire me," your voice wobbles as you try to explain without sobbing.

Connor says your name, voice infinitely soft. He must've upped his empathy settings. "Why do you think that?"

You wipe harshly at the wetness on your face. "I need a physical. Or else I'm suspended."

"I see." There's no confusion in his tone, which does confuse you. To your knowledge, you've never told him about your issue with doctors. Still, Connor is perceptive. "At the beginning of our acquaintance, I noticed how your heart rate increased when I was in uniform," he continues without prompting. "Since it did not occur when I wore plain clothes, I inferred that you were uncomfortable with medical personnel."

You're so stunned that you stop crying. It all clicks. Connor used to come hang out with you right after work, still donning his EMS uniform. The sight of the patch on his right arm, proudly emblazoned with the Rod of Asclepius, always made you stagger slightly. You hesitated to hug him when he wore it. You didn't think you had been so obvious.

Clearly, you were wrong.

You noticed how he stopped coming over right after work, instead choosing to swing by his place first and change clothes. You never guessed this was the reason why. It's simultaneously embarrassing and endearing. All you can manage to say is…

"Oh."

"It's nothing to be ashamed of," Connor says. "Many people suffer from iatrophobia."

You scrub a hand across your face and laugh sadly. "I… I don't know how I'm going to get out of this one."

"Is there anything I can do to help?"

Even though he can't see it, you shake your head. "I guess I just have to suck it up and make the appointment."

Connor is silent for a long moment. You stare at the screen of your phone, the timer slowly ticking up the seconds of the call. Finally, he speaks. "I have a… suggestion."

The hesitation makes you curious. Connor usually carries himself with a baseline level of confidence, so to hear him sound unsure is new. "What is it?"

The android speaks slowly, voice even. "I already have the foundational medical knowledge. The required data upgrade to receive clearance to do a physical is only 2.8 gigabytes."

You know what he's suggesting as soon as he says it. Connor's your best friend; you would trust him with anything. But doing your physical? Wouldn't that be crossing some sort of friendship boundary? You're shaking your head again before he can finish. "No, no. I… you can't. I mean, we can't. Wouldn't that be weird for you?"

He laughs over the line, and you can't help but crack a smile. "As an android, the 'weirdness' you speak of is quite a foreign concept to me. I can assure you I would remain entirely professional, should you choose to continue."

You gnaw at your lip, mulling it over. He's right; you know Connor would perform the physical with the highest degree of accuracy. And he would be a familiar face to guide you through the terrifying ordeal…

Connor doesn't stop speaking. "We could complete the exam in a place of your choosing. Your apartment, if that's where you're most comfortable. I would also be willing to offer my residence for the task." You haven't even given an answer, but he sounds confident that you'll agree. And the more he speaks, the more you think so too. "I'll wear plain clothes. We can use a couch or bed instead of an exam table. And since I am equipped with sensors for vitals and chemical analysis, the necessary equipment would be minimal."

The more he says, the more you're convinced. Still, anxiety pulls at you. It's not just being in a doctor's office or seeing that white coat that scares you. It's everything about it — the touching, the personal questions, the odd intimacy of it all. But who better to take you through it than your best friend? Someone who knows you, who knows your fears without you even needing to say?

You take a deep breath. "Okay. Let's do it."

…

You've been lingering outside Connor's door for nearly fifteen minutes. You know he knows you're there. But he's too kind to say anything or retrieve you himself. He knows how nerve-racking this is for you.

The two of you decided that you would wait three days after your call — enough time for Connor to download the data upgrade and prepare a space, just enough time for you to overthink everything and nearly back out. Now those three days have passed, and you're on the verge of walking away. To hell with your job; you'll find something else.

Who are you kidding? Your only experience is in private security; no one else will hire you without updated medical records. And breaking into other industries in the age of androids is a total pipe dream.

You knock.

Connor must've been waiting at the door. It swings open and he's smiling and saying hello and all of the anxiety melts from your frame. He pulls you into a hug — soft, warm, comforting. You'd never had an android. Never wanted an almost-human in your sacred home space (of course, your opinion has changed now). Before the android revolution, you always imagined them cold and firm. But CyberLife didn't take "life-like" lightly. You squeeze your eyes shut and rest your head on his chest, pushing away thoughts of the impending exam. You breathe him in — another sensation you expected to be different than he is. He smells of almost nothing. There is no metallic tang. He does not smell of copper or iron or platinum. Instead, there is a faint aroma of grass wafting from him. The barest hint of cigarette smoke. His EMT partner is a pack-a-day smoker. You've always thought it to be a bit of a contradiction.

He holds you until you pull away. He's still smiling as he places a hand on your lower back, guiding you into his apartment. "I thought you might enjoy a beverage first," he says, and motions to the coffee table in the living room. A delicate china set rests on a tray there, a freshly steaming cup waiting. You sink into the couch, almost forgetting what you're here for, and take a sip. The drink is warm and soothing.

Connor perches beside you, posture as impeccable as ever, and waits for you to drain almost half the cup. "I cannot fully understand why this fear of yours exists," he says gently, "but I will honor it as best I can."

You stare into his brown eyes. There is no deception, no judgment. You nod slowly. "Thank you, Connor. I… I am scared, yes. But you make it easier."

He smiles again, wider now. "I'm glad I can put you at ease. Now, shall we begin?"

You set the cup down on the tray with a clatter — your hands shake at the mere mention of the exam. You close your eyes and force deep breaths in and out through your lungs.

As you try to calm your racing heart, Connor speaks low and slow. "Nothing bad is going to happen to you. I will tell you everything I'm going to do. Just focus on your breathing." When you finally open your eyes to look at him again, he's closer. One hand rests on your thigh, drawing soft circles over your skin. "You're already doing great."

You huff out a laugh. "Is this how you are at work? With your patients?"

"Yes. I am programmed to ensure the safety and comfort of those in my care. Especially during difficult moments. My mission is always easier to accomplish when one is calm." He softens. "Since deviating, however, I have found that my programming and the way I desire to treat people often align. It is not so difficult to reassure someone." He stands and holds out a hand. "I reserved the guest bedroom for our purposes. You will be more comfortable there."

You hesitate only a second before allowing him to help you up. Once again, he guides you forward with a gentle touch at your back. The guest room is small but clean. A single bed in the center of the room, a wooden desk tucked into the corner. The bed is adorned with clean white sheets and two pillows. On the wall opposite the head of the bed, a small framed painting hangs — a miniature recreation of one of Van Gogh's Sunflowers. You smile. Early in your friendship with Connor, you'd taken a visit to the Detroit Institute of Arts together. You'd stood in front of Self-Portrait for nearly half an hour, gushing about the artist's mastery of color and his ability to convey emotion. Connor had been newly deviant at that point, learning to appreciate art as beauty rather than a measure of technical ability. He listened patiently to your adoring rambles, asking questions when appropriate. You recall the day with great fondness, and clearly, Connor does too. You realize he has placed the painting here to comfort you.

"Sit on the bed whenever you're ready," Connor instructs kindly.

Easy. Right? You step toward the bed. This is fine. Nothing bad will happen. Connor is here. No one is going to hurt you.

Your fingers run over the soft sheets. Slow moves. Nothing too fast, or you might panic.

You hop up onto the edge, just sitting for a moment. Connor waits, infinitely patient, on the other side. He murmurs a word of praise when you finally pivot to bring your legs up.

"Breathe," he says. "Focus on your lungs expanding. Let it out slowly."

So far, the anxiety remains quelled. It lingers on the edges of your thoughts, poking at you like an insistent toddler. But you keep it subdued. Feel the breaths coursing through you, grounding you.

Connor brings a hand up to your thigh once more and starts up those slow, soothing circles on your skin. "First, I will take your vitals. All I need to do is touch the inside of your wrist with two fingers. That will allow me to read your blood pressure, heart rate, respiration, and temperature. Tell me when you're ready."

There's something scarily personal about him being able to read all of that with a single touch. But not nearly as terrifying as having to do it with the equipment at a normal doctor's office — BP cuff, pulse oximeter, thermometer. You feel panic rising up at just the thought and have to drag your thoughts back down. None of those things are necessary. Connor can do all of it in just a moment.

You nod slowly. "Okay. I'm ready." You hold out your arm to him. It trembles against your will.

True to his word, Connor places two fingers very delicately against your skin. You feel your heart pound in your chest, your breathing quickening. "Shh," Connor soothes. "Deep breaths. Almost done."

It takes about five achingly long seconds, then he pulls away. "Good," he praises with a gentle smile. "All done with that. How do you feel?"

Your skin feels hot and itchy, your heart racing like a jackrabbit. If this were a doctor's office, you'd lie and say you were fine just to be done with it all. But this is Connor, and besides knowing he'd catch you in a lie, you trust him. "Not great," you reply shakily.

Connor takes half a step back, giving you space. "Tell me what you're thinking about."

You swallow hard, your eyes finding the little replica of Sunflowers on the wall. "I… I trust you. Completely. But anything medical, any type of clinical touch, it just scares me so much. Even if it's you. Even if I know I'm safe. I feel small and alone. Like… like a specimen, or something."

His LED cycles as you speak, blue to yellow and back again. "What can I do to make it better?"

The question stuns you. You gape at him, lost for words. Because the problem is, he's already doing it. He's making this as easy for you as he can. And you're still failing. "I… don't know," you say instead.

Connor gives you a smile, the sad kind that he only learned to produce recently. "Please tell me if there is anything. I do not want this to be traumatic for you."

You both sit in silence for a few minutes until your heart settles. You stare at Sunflowers, and he waits. Finally, you nod and say you're ready again.

"Next, I'll analyze your heart and lungs. I will place one of my hands in the middle of your chest and the other on your back. It will only take fifteen seconds." He doesn't move as he speaks, waiting for you to process the words.

It sounds horrifying to you. The touch, the waiting, the closeness. But again, you compare it to an actual doctor's visit. A stethoscope, the metal cool against your bare skin, a stranger's hands under your shirt. Those artificially deep breaths they always ask you to take. Yes. This is better.

This time, when you nod, Connor asks if you're sure. He has always been good about perceiving your anxiety. Scarily good. But you nod again and he proceeds. He steps closer, just beside you. His hands come up to complete the analysis. Your breath hitches. Sunflowers keeps your eyes from wandering elsewhere. You focus on the brushstrokes, the shades of yellow and brown. Connor's hands are warm through your shirt. Not clinical. Kind.

Fifteen seconds pass far more quickly than you imagined. And it's almost… easy. This time, when you breathe, it's slow and controlled. Panic lingers, but does not take over. You're almost proud of yourself.

Connor is too. He smiles at you, says another quiet word of encouragement. "Now I need to take a look at your throat. This part won't require any touching. Just open your mouth and say 'ah.'"

Thank god, something simple. It's over in a flash.

He tells you about the next step — checking your thyroid and lymph nodes in your neck. This has you trembling again. You imagine cold, clinical hands on your skin, pressing and feeling. Your own hand rises to the column of your throat. Your vision shrinks to a darkened tunnel, growing hazy. Your body trembles of its own accord. Connor gives you space to breathe. But when he notices you spiraling, unable to quell the panic on your own, he comes closer. He murmurs your name.

"Breathe. Focus on moving air through your lungs. Nothing bad will happen to you while you're with me." He keeps his voice low, even. "You've done so well so far. We're almost halfway through."

Your eyes find his, fixing on the dark brown depths of them. His LED flashes a comforting blue. He's not panicking. He's calm, collected. You try to channel that. Try to bring yourself down from the mountain of anxiety. It is a long, quiet process. Silently intimate. He continues to reassure you with soft words, never touching. The mountain shrinks. The world comes back into focus.

He's smiling, but there's a furrow between his brows and a note of concern in his eyes. "Alright?" he questions.

You inhale deeply and nod. "Yeah. Good. Do it."

His hands rise slowly, his gaze watching you. You flinch when he finally touches your neck, but it's not the chilled, detached touch you expect. He is infinitely careful. His movements are small and controlled. Again, it is over in moments.

You feel a bit silly for panicking.

What was it he had said? On your phone call, when you'd decided on this wild idea —

It's nothing to be ashamed of. Many people suffer from iatrophobia.

Perhaps you could come to believe that. That your fear and anxiety aren't silly or embarrassing. That you aren't alone in this. Perhaps you could even believe that you could get over it. With Connor beside you, maybe you could do anything.

"I need to check your abdomen now. You'll lie back and I'll press gently on your stomach with two hands."

And there goes all the confidence you nearly gained. It's like being asked to hold your breath underwater for ten minutes. Impossible. You'll die if you have to.

It's not logical. Fear rarely is.

But there is something about being on your back that has you absolutely quaking. Lying down before him, like you're exposing yourself while fully clothed. There's a certain vulnerability in it, and you're not sure you can handle that right now.

Connor's LED flickers red for a brief moment in the corner of your vision. He's speaking, but there's water rushing in your ears, a haze in your head, and you can't hear him. Your hands fist into the sheets as they shake. Hot, heavy breaths spill from your lips. The tips of your fingers go cold and numb. The world narrows to a pinprick of light. You're dying. You're actually dying and you're doing it in front of your best friend. Your eyes dart around the room. Where is he? He can't be here; he can't see this.

Oh. There he is.

Connor is beside you, sliding onto the bed. He gathers you into his arms, not squeezing, but lightly holding. At first, you fight against his grip. But then you realize it's just him. Your head falls against his chest. The artificial sound of his thirium pump thrums beneath your ear. Although he has no need for breathing, his chest rises and falls in a slow, easy rhythm. Your entire body feels tingly, like static electricity coursing through you.

Eventually, the water rushes from your ears and the world opens up. Connor's low voice floats to your awareness. He's murmuring a mantra over and over. "I'm here. You're safe."

You shift in his grip to look up at him. He's already staring down at you.

"We do not have to continue," he suggests in the same soft tone.

You want to say yes. To give up now, just spend the rest of the afternoon in his arms. But then the panic rushes back in — not in the same intensity, but still there. Not even about the exam. Your job. You can't lose your job. You blink away tears — had you really been crying? — and shake your head. "No. I… I want to keep going. I'm so-"

Connor's index finger lands on your lip. "Don't apologize," he says firmly. He adjusts to lift your chin with his thumb. "You have nothing to be sorry for. You've done very well." His finger drags repetitively down your jawline in a soothing motion. "How about we just do your blood tests? We can skip the abdominal exam."

You swallow down a bit of lingering nausea. "What about… what about the report? Won't they see it's missing?"

"It won't be missing."

His eyes fix on yours. You stare back. "You… you would lie?"

Connor shifts. Already, you know the idea makes him uncomfortable. But he soldiers on, "I would do anything that prioritizes your wellbeing. Continuing the exam would be… inadvisable."

Your head falls back to his chest. Relief floods your entire being. "Thank you," you breathe.

Connor is silent. Then, his lips press a gentle kiss to the top of your head. "Of course."

You remain in his arms until he reaches into his pocket. He pulls out a neat little white package. "For your blood test, I do need to obtain a sample. I assume needles are another trigger?" You nod. "You may close your eyes, if it helps."

He doesn't need to tell you twice. You hold your arm out and squeeze your eyes shut. A small pinprick and it's over. You keep your eyes shut for a moment longer, knowing precisely how he's going to test your blood — and that feels a little too intimate to watch.

"All done," he whispers, his hand rubbing small circles across your back. "You did wonderfully."

Your entire body relaxes. A long rush of air leaves your nose. It's over. And it was horrible. But… not quite as horrible as you expected. And now… "Can I…" you trail off, cheeks flaming.

"Of course you may stay," Connor replies. "You don't have to ask."

You smile to yourself. He wraps you in both arms, tugging you closer. You drift off to the steady beat of his artificial heart.