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Connor doesn't always understand Hank.
Despite his sophisticated social protocols, or maybe because of them, he sometimes has the sense that Hank is trying to say something without saying it. It was like that when he went to Washington, D.C. for a few months with Markus and Josh after the revolution.
He went to Hank's house the night before he left to watch the game - an early tradition of theirs, watching the Gears games together. Connor had said multiple times by that point that sports are only interesting because there's a human margin of error - he doesn't see the shots they make so much as all the ones they miss. He said the same thing that night, and Hank turned up the volume a few clicks like he was trying to drown him out. Connor would have been offended if he didn't plainly see the tension at the corner of Hank's mouth, a little, hidden smile.
Connor understands that part of Hank. He understands the gentle ribbing, the quiet companionship, the comfort in sitting there and forcing himself to slow down and do nothing at all.
Sometimes Hank is forthright. Sometimes he speaks with a look, or a laugh. Connor understands those, too. More often than not, he understands Hank's silence as well as his words.
But sometimes...sometimes he doesn't.
Connor didn't understand the way Hank pulled away from him that night when they were saying goodbye, for instance. Connor went to wrap his arms around Hank's shoulders, and Hank cleared his throat and stepped back, extending a hand for him to shake instead. He said, "Don't forget to take care of yourself while you're making big things happen, yeah?"
And that was it. Unceremonious, is what it was.
Connor was going away for three months, and he was going to miss Hank. He knows well enough that some people don't like hugs, that maybe Hank is one of them, and he also knows that the gesture will lose its meaning if used too frequently. Connor likes what it means, and so he saves it for when it matters. He thought saying goodbye for the first time since the revolution, especially for a few months, had enough weight to merit it. And besides, he and Hank have hugged before. They stood wrapped up in each other outside Chicken Feed for two minutes and twenty-three seconds, and Connor has the memory on recall to prove it.
He left Hank's house that night not knowing if this was a nuance, about the gesture or about Hank, that he doesn't understand, or if it's something else.
Connor doesn't like not knowing. He spends the three months in D.C. talking about labor laws and representing his people and getting to know Markus and Josh better and being endlessly, ceaselessly afflicted by the mystery. He interfaces with Markus and Josh multiple times, almost on a daily basis, throughout their time there. He asks them what it's like, always knowing what the other is thinking, never having anything between them.
Connor thinks about that almost every night as he lies awake in the hotel bed, putting off stasis - what they're doing is hardly any exertion for his systems, especially considering the high-stress functions he was designed for.
So he lies awake, and he thinks about interfacing with Hank. He thinks about how there wouldn't be any mysteries, nothing to solve, no misunderstandings to frustrate him and haunt him for three months. He thinks about how easy it would be.
But then he thinks about how Hank wouldn't be Hank.
Connor returns from that trip to a small apartment that's just as tidily organized as it was when he left it, to a new job at the DPD now that the labor laws have gone through. Hank shakes his hand again when Connor arrives for work in the morning, a formal gesture even though they meet outside and no one can see.
Connor's LED spins yellow all day.
He's glad to be back at work, at least. He's glad to see Chris, who was always kind to him, and Tina and Ben, even if he spends most of his day avoiding Gavin. He doesn't want to be written up on his first day, and he doesn't trust himself not to rise to the occasion if Gavin tries to start something again.
And he likes working with Hank, of course. He already knows that.
Connor may not be grateful for the crime scene they visit that afternoon, but he is grateful for the opportunity to lose himself in examining it. Evidence makes sense, if you look at it closely enough - and Connor always looks closely enough. There's little nuance to it, little variance around what it can mean. Connor reconstructs the attack on the victim, and he wishes he could reconstruct Hank's thoughts so easily.
"Lieutenant," Connor says when they're both packing up their things for the night. He calls him Hank when it's just the two of them, but that isn't appropriate here. He doesn't want to make Hank uncomfortable, or to overstep their boundaries. "The Gears are playing tonight, you know."
Connor doesn't say that he didn't miss a single game in D.C. He sat in his hotel room, and he watched every one. He doesn't say that D.C. was...a lot, for lack of a better way to describe it. He doesn't say that it was loud, that there were people protesting them everywhere they went, or that they were deciding the future for their people and Connor never knew if he was saying the right thing
He doesn't say that he liked spending time with Markus and Josh, but he was overwhelmed by everything else, or that he just wanted to go to Hank's house and sit there with the lights out, the game on at a low volume. He doesn't say that he tried to recreate it as best he could, but it just wasn't the same if he was alone.
Connor thinks through all of that, remembers every moment of those three months, and he also manages to worry that this isn't their tradition anymore, all in the time it takes Hank to say. "Yeah. I mean...did you want to watch it?"
Hank sounds surprised. Why does Hank sound surprised? Until Connor left for D.C., they watched every game together. It's their thing.
Connor likes that he and Hank have a thing. It's important to him that they do. "I assumed we would," he tells Hank. "We always do, don't we?"
"Yeah," Hank says. "I guess we do."
Connor gets to his feet, and Hank claps him on the shoulder as they walk out. Connor still doesn't understand when touch is allowed and when it isn't, but he's trying to learn.
He thinks for a moment about inviting Hank to his apartment, just because Hank is always inviting him into his home, and he wants to repay the favor. But then he remembers that he still hasn't had the chance to decorate, that there's no food for Hank in the fridge, and that he wouldn't get to see Sumo anyway. He's missed Sumo almost as much as he's missed Hank during his time away.
Another time, Connor decides, when his apartment is a little less sterile and he has the opportunity to go grocery shopping. Tonight, he wants to go to Hank's.
Connor still doesn't have a car - it's just one more thing he hasn't gotten around to yet. He came to work in a taxi, but he's content enough to climb into the passenger's seat of Hank's car. It smells like old takeout and like Hank's cologne, and underneath those scents, the older cigarette smoke permeating the fabric of the seats. Connor asked Hank once if he smoked, but Hank had just gaped at him and said, "Person I bought this off of smoked, I think. Jesus, how can you still smell that? I thought it was gone by now."
Connor likes that old, faint smell of cigarettes, even if it didn't come from Hank. It's part of him now, a scent Connor has associated with him since that first night they met and Hank drove to the crime scene.
The hotel room Connor stayed in in D.C. was a smoking room. It was all the hotel had available long-term. Markus and Josh hadn't cared for it, but Connor didn't mind. It was comforting, familiar in its own way.
"Uh," Hank says when they pull into his driveway, rubbing the back of his neck as he turns down his blaring music. "I didn't know you were coming over, so fair warning - the place is a mess."
Connor still doesn't understand why Hank seems surprised that this is still their thing, or why Hank wasn't expecting him. He was gone for a few months, but that doesn't change anything.
Connor wonders if he's missing something again, if something is different between them because he went away that he doesn't understand.
He hopes not. He liked things the way they were.
And because he doesn't want anything to change, Connor sets about determinedly falling back into their old routine. He kneels to greet Sumo the moment they're through the door, ruffling the dog's fur and laughing when Sumo paws at him. Hank retrieves his phone to order a pizza, which is normal for game nights, and, judging by a cursory glance at the takeout containers waiting to be recycled in the kitchen, especially common lately.
There are only a few beer bottles among them. That's good. Connor dismisses the warnings in his HUD, the custom ones he created regarding Hank's wellbeing. Eating out is fine - maybe Hank has just been busy.
Hank gets a beer from the fridge, and Connor doesn't say anything. He only says something when Hank starts on his third.
They fall back into their old rhythm easily. They watch the game, and Hank is pleased when the Gears score while Connor winces at every missed shot, immediately running reconstructions of how the ball could have gotten through the net. On the commercial breaks, Hank asks Connor about D.C., and Connor tells him what he can.
He tells him the things they accomplished, and the parts that he thinks will make Hank proud of him.
He leaves out everything bad. He doesn't say that he missed Hank, or that DC was too much for him, or that he would rather sit here with the lights out, saying nothing, listening to the game and Sumo snoring in the corner, than do any of the things he did there...even the things he liked. Hank has always said that he just likes a quiet night in, that he's too old at this point for anything else. Connor has lived so much less than Hank, but he knows now that he just likes a quiet night in, too.
For the duration of the game, Connor tries to figure out if something is different between them, or with Hank himself, on his own. He doesn't like having to prod Hank for answers. Some of that is because he knows how many insensitive questions he asked Hank during that first week they knew each other, how he just kept poking at Cole's death because he didn't know how to leave something alone then. Some of it is just because he likes to think he and Hank are beyond that, and he doesn't like knowing he's wrong. He wants to be close enough to Hank to know without being told.
It is...disappointing. And frustrating. Connor doesn't care for the feeling.
When the basketball game nears the final quarter, Connor decides he can't bring the uncertainty about what exactly is different here home with him. It frustrates him that he doesn't know on his own, but scans of Hank and his home are giving him nothing to work with. So he waits until the next commercial break, and then he props an elbow on the back of the couch, twisting slightly so he can face Hank. "We're still friends, aren't we?" he asks without preamble.
Hank chokes on his beer a bit. Perhaps Connor should have waited until there wasn't anything in his mouth. Usually he would think of it - he doesn't like that he didn't.
"Jesus, Connor," Hank says when he collects himself. "Yeah. Of course we're friends. Why do you ask?"
Connor shrugs. Nothing is really wrong beyond this dim feeling he has that something has shifted between them when he just liked their friendship the way it was. He feels his cheeks heating, and he doesn't like it.
He's overreacting. Nothing is wrong, and so he doesn't know how to explain to Hank what's bothering him.
He forces himself to go through the motions of inhaling deeply, trying to relax himself so he doesn't accidentally say something he hasn't carefully considered. What he settles on after running a few careful preconstructions is, "I don't know why you didn't assume we were going to watch the game tonight. We always watch the game."
"Hey," Hank says, voice softening when he looks over and sees Connor's face. He clicks the button to mute the TV, and then he shifts so he's facing Connor. "Shit, Connor, I honestly wasn't trying to offend you. It's just that you just got back, and I figured you might have other things to do. That's all."
Connor blinks. He knows his LED is yellow again. "What else would I have to do?"
"I don't know. Shit with Markus and Josh, or just unwinding at your apartment...I don't know."
Connor doesn't find his apartment relaxing at all. He finds it lonely, an empty, blank box that he hasn't figured out how to put himself into yet. "I can unwind here," he says, because he knows Hank wants him to have his own place and like his own things, and he doesn't want to disappoint him. "This is our thing, isn't it?"
Hank laughs at that. "Yeah. Yeah, I guess it is."
He reaches over and grasps Connor's shoulder, and Connor makes a note that comfort seems to be one of the circumstances in which touch is acceptable. It's good data to have, but he doesn't know what to do with it.
He wants touch between them to be permissible more frequently than it seems to be
"Things felt weird at work," Connor says. He doesn't know why he's saying it. 'Things felt weird' is a terribly vague way of describing what's bothering him, but he also doesn't know how to explain it in the first place. "With us," he says, although he doesn't know how much the clarification helps.
And yet, somehow, Hank seems to know what he means anyway. He sinks back into the couch and says, "Look, you're new. And you're the first android we've had on our payroll. Jeff wanted you back really badly, and so did I, but that doesn't mean other people aren't going to be assholes to you."
"Gavin doesn't bother me."
Hank cracks a small smile at that. "It's not just Gavin. It's that this is already going to be hard enough for you without anyone saying you didn't earn the job."
Connor's brow pinches together. "Everyone knows we were partners before. They know we're friends."
"That's not really what I..." Hank starts, but then he cuts himself off. "Look, you haven't been around for a few months. It's enough time for rumors to take hold, and you have enough stacked against you anyway that we don't need to feed any of that bullshit...okay?"
Connor runs a small process on the side to determine likely options for what Hank is telling him without actually telling him, although he thinks he already knows. Hank is uncomfortable mentioning it, and rumors tend to be about illicit activities, and it would have to be regarding something Connor might have done that would make Hank favor him at work.
And he really wasn't expecting to have anyone speculating that he and Hank might be sexually involved, but it doesn't entirely bother him. It's...interesting.
Interesting that Hank talked about him enough at work that someone made the assumption. Interesting to imagine Hank's hands on him. Interesting that Connor feels warm at the thought, and interesting that Hank might seem uncomfortable with how the rumors might affect Connor, and with telling Connor about them, but he doesn't seem to hate the thought itself, either.
It's just...interesting. That's all.
Connor sits back while Hank extricates himself from the conversation by getting up for another beer. It's only the second, so Connor doesn't say anything about the drinking yet. He still doesn't exactly like it, not after finding Hank passed out on the floor but it's not the most pressing matter right now.
When Hank returns to the couch, before he can open his beer, Connor says, "People think we're involved." It's not a question - he already knows the answer - but he does find himself interested in the details.
Hank doesn't have anything in his mouth to choke on this time - Connor made sure of that - but he still coughs a little at the observation, clearing his throat. "Yeah," he manages to say when he recovers. "Something like that. I hope that's not upsetting to you, or whatever."
Connor tilts his head. "Why would I be upset by it?"
Hank snorts at that. "Because most people are usually upset when someone says they slept their way up the ranks." He shrugs, looking back to the TV, even if Connor doesn't think he's really paying attention to the screen. "And because I thought you would think it's weird."
"Weird because...?" Sometimes Connor pretends to be obtuse, but right now he honestly doesn't know.
"Because it's me, I guess? We're friends, and you've never expressed any kind of interest in that sort of thing anyway. I just didn't think you would like it. Most people don't like when this happens to them, Con."
"Oh," Connor says, sitting back on the couch. "Okay."
He makes a note that touch is not acceptable at work.
Connor doesn't pay attention to the rest of the game, and he doesn't think Hank is either. He just sits there with his forehead propped in his hand, intentionally covering his LED while it spins yellow the entire time. He tries to listen to the game, but he mostly just listens to Hank breathing instead, and he wonders why he likes this thing he isn't supposed to like so much.
After the game, Connor offers to call a cab - it's raining, and he lives across town. He doesn't want to make Hank drive. But the thing about offering to call a cab is that Hank never actually lets him do it. Hank drives him home, and they talk about the case they're working, and for the most part, things feel normal.
Connor should be grateful for it. He has answers, and nothing is wrong. So he can't exactly say why, after he says goodnight to Hank and goes upstairs to his little apartment, the first thing he does is research fraternization rules at the DPD. It's strongly discouraged, but permitted, as long as it's disclosed to HR. That's good. He doesn't want Hank to get in trouble...and he doesn't want a report in his disciplinary file, either.
He and Hank couldn't be partners if they were in a relationship, and Connor wouldn't like that..but maybe it doesn't matter, considering what he would get in return
The second thing he does is research sexual function in RK prototypes. Connor isn't equipped with a genital component, and he's never given it a second thought. It's only a few months since his date of manufacture - no one has given him a reason to consider his functionality in that regard yet, but he would very much like to consider it now, even if he still doesn't know why he likes the thought so much.
He reads forums on android design through the night, ignoring any suggestions on his HUD that he should enter stasis, and in the morning, he has a cup of coffee waiting on Hank's desk. "Morning, Lieutenant," Connor says when he arrives.
"Hey, Connor."
Connor raises a hand to interface with his terminal, bringing the other up to cup his chin and hide his smile.
The thing about things being better for androids is that it doesn't necessarily mean things are resolved. The road to progress is slow, and there will always be people looking for ways to hinder it.
Some people just want to stand in the way, and others just want to hurt.
Androids can be hurt physically, the same way people can, but they're built sturdily enough that it's difficult work dismantling them. Now that androids are free to fight back, it's not so easy to maim them. They don't get many android assault victims at the DPD. That doesn't mean they don't get anything.
Connor and Hank are sitting on Hank's couch when they get the call. The game is over, and has been for almost an hour, but they've been talking. Connor had brought the Christmas present he bought for Hank in D.C. with him. He knew about Christmas, but hadn't realized it meant anything to him until he saw all the lights and the decorations in D.C., the Christmas trees visible through bay windows and the families inside. He didn't like that he was alone in D.C. for his first Christmas, or that Hank was alone in Detroit for the eighth year since he lost his family. So Connor spent weeks trying to find a shirt Hank would like.
He likes the one he bought. It's navy, with little neon birds on it. Hank had told Connor first that he didn't have to get him anything, but when he opened it, he laughed and said, "Is this because of the damn pigeons in that apartment?"
Yes, that was it exactly, but Connor couldn't get the words out around his satisfied smile. He had to settle for just nodding, and trying not to think anything of it when Hank clapped him on the leg before he disappeared into his bedroom.
He had returned with a little box, wrapped up with a sloppy bow that he clearly tied himself. Connor realized all at once that no one has ever given him anything before, no matter how small.
"Here," Hank had said, tossing it to him. "It's not much, but you know."
Connor found himself wondering if Hank would have told him he bought him something if Connor hadn't shown up with his gift, thinking that Hank seemed self-conscious about it, even if Connor doesn't understand why.
He traces a finger over the bow, but then the phone rings. "Hank Anderson," Hank says while Connor watches. "Ah, shit, really? Yeah...yeah, okay. We'll be right there." He hangs up and looks over at Connor. "They found a bunch of androids really fucked up downtown. Some kind of virus, they think. We need to go take a look."
"Okay," Connor says. He sets the present aside on Hank's coffee table and gets up to get his coat.
"You can open that first, you know. If you want to."
"I'll get it when we get back," Connor says. "I want to be able to enjoy it."
He doesn't say that no one has ever bought him anything before, but from the look on his face, maybe Hank already knows.
"Suit yourself," Hank says, but his hand lingers on Connor's back as he guides them out the door.
The situation isn't good. Androids, lured in with the promise of a drug to increase sensation, were given some kind of virus instead that affects their cognitive abilities. They've already been transferred to a repair facility, but they'll need to be in quarantine for some time. There's considerable concern that the virus may transfer over wireless networks, and an epidemic is likely exactly what the perpetrators want.
"I didn't realize androids wanted to feel," Hank says to Connor as they walk the crime scene. "You feel, don't you?"
"I do," Connor says, "but I'm an advanced model, with sophisticated sensory abilities. Most androids are just equipped with basic pressure sensors."
Connor thinks about what it would be like if he couldn't register the exact temperature of Hank's hand, or the texture of the slightly calloused skin, or the shape of his fingerprints.
He wouldn't like it. He knows that much.
Hank sighs heavily enough to puff out his cheeks. "This isn't good, Con," he says under his breath. They're far enough away that the other officers can't hear. "If people start weaponizing shit like that..."
Connor knows. It frightens him sometimes, how weak androids are, even if it's in different ways. He doesn't like how fragile he is, if only someone knows the right method to take him apart. He wishes Hank would lay a hand on his shoulder, like he does sometimes.
But they're at work.
Hank steps aside to talk with one of the officers, and Connor follows a recent set of indents in the carpet, made by different sized shoes than any of the officers'. The suspects weren't in the house when the androids turned up, they were told, but Connor follows them anyway.
They lead him upstairs to the bedroom, and he analyzes fingerprints on the windowsill when he scans the room. Located escape route, he notes, and he goes to open the window anyway, even if he doubts it will do much good.
There's a low balcony outside, he realizes, an easy hiding place, but before he can pull away from the window, someone strikes him across the back of the head and pulls him through, throwing him onto the balcony. Connor stares down the barrel of a gun, and the shaking hand holding it. His own gun is in his holster, much too far away.
Lying on his back, Connor holds his hands up. "It's alright," he tells the man, intentionally placating. "I can help you, but you have to put the gun down."
The man doesn't put the gun down. His hand shakes on the trigger and the gun is trained on Connor's head. He's so afraid that Connor doesn't trust him not to shoot carelessly even without provocation.
So he runs a few preconstructions, calculating potential risk and damage. And then he moves.
Connor twists on the ground, swinging his legs around so quickly that the man doesn't see it coming, swiping his feet out from under him. In his confusion and his panic, he fires the gun, but at least it isn't pointing at Connor's head anymore. He feels the bullet tear through his chest and lodge itself just above his thirium pump instead.
Connor grits his teeth against the pain and retrieves his gun, pointing at the man where he's fallen to the ground. "Put your fucking gun down," Connor says. "I'm faster than you."
Beneath him, he feels blue blood pooling on the ground, and his breaths come hard and fast.
Hank is there with the other officers a moment later. The other man is handcuffed and pulled away, and Hank falls to his knees at Connor's side, helping him sit up. "Hey," Hank says. "Talk to me, Con."
"I'm okay," Connor says, a static hitch in his voice. He's shaking. "I need help."
"Yeah," Hank says, pulling Connor's arm around his shoulders and helping him to stand. "Yeah, okay. Can you walk?"
Connor nods. He can, at least for right now. The thirium leak is bad, though, and the pain scorches through him with every breath, white hot.
"Rookie mistake," he says, trying for grim humor.
Hank doesn't laugh or crack a smile. "Happens to all of us," he says. He reaches up and runs a hand through Connor's hair, and despite everything else, Connor thinks he likes that new sensation very much.
There isn't an emergency health transport service for androids yet, so Hank loads Connor into the passenger seat of his car. "Hey," Hank says, pushing Connor's shoulder gently when he gets in the other side and finds Connor's eyes closed. "Talk to me. Where's the nearest place for repairs?"
There's a CyberLife facility across town, but Connor estimates a fifteen minute drive with traffic, and he doesn't have fifteen minutes before imminent shutdown. His core processors are untouched, so he could still be brought back online...but critical failure affects the memory. Connor has only experienced it once, but he knows he lost things, little moments with Hank that he can't get back, and coming back online, having to sync with all of his processes and systems again, is the worst pain he's ever known.
He doesn't want to do it again. And he doesn't want to 'die' in Hank's car either, even if he can be brought back this time. He thinks about Hank carrying him, lifeless, gone, into CyberLife, and he just...doesn't want to do that to him.
"Can you take me back to my apartment?" Connor asks around his labored breaths. Breathing doesn't do anything to help him, but it at least gives him something else to focus on. "It's closer."
"What the hell, Connor? Don't you need to go in?"
"It's okay," Connor says. "I have what I need for a patch job back at my apartment, as long as you can help me."
Hank is staring at him when Connor opens his eyes to look at him, so Connor nods at the windshield. "Watch the road, Hank." He tries to sound calm, gentle.
"I don't know jack about android shit, Connor. You're better off with someone who knows what they're doing..."
"We don't have time to get to CyberLife," Connor interrupts. "Please, just take me to my apartment. I don't...I don't want to die again."
"Jesus, okay," Hank says, reaching across the console to grasp Connor's arm. "You're okay, Con."
Hank drives as recklessly as he can, and without thinking much about it, Connor shifts enough to wind their fingers together. His eyes are closed, and his breathing is heavy, and comfort is one of the circumstances when touch is allowed, so Connor thinks nothing at all of selfishly keeping him close.
Hank's hand is warm, and he brushes the pad of his thumb across the back of Connor's hand, and Connor tries to understand why he feels so much safer when his thirium leakage is still just as severe.
Connor holds Hank's hand the entire way to his apartment, and Hank doesn't make a single movement to let go.
Connor really didn't want Hank to have to carry him anywhere, but when they get back to his apartment, Hank does, hoisting Connor up into his arms before he can protest.
Connor is glad they don't pass any of his neighbors on the way up. There's blue blood drenching his shirt, soaking into Hank's - Connor is sure it's enough to turn anyone's stomach, although Hank is steadfast about it.
When they finally make it inside Connor's apartment, Hank deposits him on the bed and clasps his hand when Connor closes his eyes.
"Hey," Hank says, laying a hand on Connor's cheek. "Stay with me, Con. Tell me what to do."
Connor forces himself to blink his eyes open, even if his eyelids are so heavy. "Bottom drawer," he says, gesturing vaguely in the direction of the dresser. "There's an emergency kit in there - some replacement veins, and thirium."
"Okay," Hank says. He brushes the pad of his thumb over Connor's cheekbone before he leaves his side. Some pitiful whimper pulls itself out from between Connor's lips at the loss of contact. He doesn't like it.
Hank returns with the little metal box a moment later, helping Connor sit up and unbuttoning his shirt for him. It's one of his favorites, a crisp white button-down that has some comfort in its familiarity, but Connor doubts he can salvage it with the considerable stains.
It's a ridiculous thing to be thinking at the moment, but the alternative is to think about his imminent shutdown, or about the heavy warmth of Hank's hand on his bare shoulder and how he likes it and wants so desperately to let himself get attached to it.
So Connor thinks about the shirt instead. The shirt is easier.
"Connor," Hank says, a hand coming up to cup his neck. "What next?"
"I'm going to open my chest cavity. You'll have to retrieve the bullet first, then replace the veins it ruined with the temporary spares. I'll walk you through it."
Hank is sheet pale, but he doesn't argue or protest. Connor thinks, not for the first time, that he wouldn't know what to do without him.
He lets his synth-skin fall away over his chest, and it occurs to him that he's never let someone, human or android, see him without his skin before. People have before, of course - he was designed and built - but never of Connor's own volition.
He expects Hank's face to change, for there to be some reaction at how different they are and the reminder that Connor isn't human, but there's nothing.
And Connor can't tell if it's the bullet in his chest or his overwhelming fondness for Hank causing it, but his thirium pump feels uncomfortably tight.
Connor lies back against his pillows, giving Hank room to sit on the bed beside him, and then he slides the access panel to his chest cavity open. "You're looking for the bullet first," he says. "It's lodged just above my thirium pump."
Hank retrieves his phone and turns on the flashlight, handing it to Connor. "Can you hold this for me?"
Connor nods, holding it above his chest, and Hank reaches up to affectionately push Connor's hair out of his eyes, the pad of his thumb brushing Connor's forehead.
It's another new touch, and another one Connor decides he likes very much.
"If this goes to shit," Hank says, "what do I do?"
Connor swallows hard. "My processors and memory units are fine. Take me to CyberLife and they'll bring me back."
Hank looks like he doesn't like that, like he doesn't want it, and Connor understands. He doesn't want it, either.
Neither of them mentions that they're talking about Connor dying.
Connor reaches for Hank's arm with his free hand and squeezes, hoping it feels like, "thank you."
Connor winces, grinding his teeth when he feels Hank's fingers brushing over his thirium pump. It hurts, but that's mostly just because things aren't put together right at the moment, and Hank's fingers brushing over his wiring, however gentle, aggravate it like poking a bruise.
"Does this hurt?" Hank asks while he gently pushes a batch of wires aside, trying to better see deeper into Connor's chassis.
Connor lets out a shaky breath, nodding once. "It's not you," he says quickly. "I mean, you aren't making it any worse. It just hurts."
"Yeah," Hank says. "Hold on, I think I see it."
The bullet is lodged between plastic and metal, and it takes some effort for Hank to remove it. When he does, setting it on the bedside table, Connor dismisses a warning in his HUD about increased, terminal thirium leakage. The bullet was stopping some of the bleeding, and now that it's gone...
Connor grabs for Hank's arm, a bit more wildly than he means to. Hank looks down at him, and Connor tries to keep his voice even when he says, "I need you to hurry."
Hank never panics. Connor's systems are going haywire, but Hank is always calm, steady at his side. He just grasps Connor's hand tightly and says, "Okay. What next, Con?"
Connor nods at the open kit. "Those little tubes are replacement veins for thirium regulation. They'll meld onto the others if you find where they're broken and fit the replacements onto them."
"Okay," Hank says, retrieving the little packet. "Lie back. I've got you."
Connor does, trying to relax onto the pillow while Hank roots through his wiring. He's grateful for Hank's phone in his hand, for something else to focus on, even if it's just holding it steady. "I ever tell you about the first time I got shot?" Hank asks. His voice is soft, but it still startles Connor in the quiet room.
"No," he says, staring up at his ceiling.
"Bullet grazed my arm...it was just a scratch, really, but I was the biggest fucking baby about it."
That startles a laugh out of Connor, enough of one that he almost drops Hank's phone.
"Keep that steady for me," Hank says, grasping Connor's wrist briefly. He's never touched Connor there before, either. "So anyway, I'm in the hospital, I'm demanding more painkillers...God, the nurses must have hatedme. I was twenty-five at the time, I think? So I was still really stupid, is what I'm trying to say..."
He keeps talking in that steady, easy voice, and he slowly puts Connor back together, resolving the diagnostic warnings in his HUD. It's not until Hank grasps him lays a hand on his arm that Connor realizes the last vein is fitted into place and the leakage warning is gone.
"Oh," he breathes, because it's the only thing he can think to say.
Hank squeezes his arm. "Are you okay? I didn't fuck anything up?"
Connor closes his chest cavity and lets his skin fall back into place before he slowly sits up, reaching around Hank for the thirium replenishment so he can ingest it. "I'm okay, Hank. Thank you."
"Jesus," Hank says, relief flooding his voice.
Connor knows his processes are still running a little slow, because he doesn't see the hug coming until Hank is already fitting his arms around his back, pulling Connor into his shoulder. He clutches at Hank's shirt, and he runs a diagnostic on his systems, and he commits the feeling of Hank's hand, warm and splayed over his back, to memory.
"Don't scare me like that again," Hank says into his hair.
"I'm sorry." Connor means it. He doesn't like making mistakes.
"It's not your fault," Hank says quickly. "I just don't like thinking about losing you."
He brings a hand up to thread his fingers into Connor's hair. Connor doesn't like what got them here, but he likes this. "Hank," he whispers into Hank's shoulder. "Can you stay tonight?"
"Yeah," Hank says, ruffling his hair gently. "Now drink your blue shit. I'm going to wash my hands."
He grasps the back of Connor's neck and presses his lips to Connor's hair before he pulls away. Connor wishes he wasn't running a full diagnostic, because that's new sensory data worth analyzing. He's glad Hank disappears into bathroom and he's alone for a moment, because he can't fight the stupid smile on his face.
Connor manages to wipe his face clean with some effort, and by the time Hank returns, he's sitting there ingesting the thirium replacement with an intentionally neutral expression on his face. "We should call into the station," Connor says when Hank sits on the edge of the bed. "At least we have a suspect in custody - they might have gotten something out of him in questioning. We could go down there..."
"Yeah, you're not going anywhere tonight, Con," Hank says, gently knocking his shoulder into Connor's. "Lieutenant's orders, or whatever."
Connor gives Hank a narrow look. "I'm in working condition."
"Yeah, and you still just got shot at. Chris can handle it, and that asshole will still be cooling his heels in our cell tomorrow morning." Hank sighs and scrubs a hand over his face, and Connor wants to touch him. He realizes that he knows Hank can touch him to comfort him, but he doesn't know if it's true the other way around. He's trying to understand the rules, but he doesn't always, and he's afraid to overstep.
He doesn't always understand Hank, and he's afraid to spoil something good.
Because this is good, even if Connor wants more, even if he thinks he'll always want more.
"Besides," Hank continues, oblivious to the thoughts echoing through Connor's processors, "if you're going to make my dig around in your guts, I deserve the night off."
He reaches for one of the spare pillows on Connor's bed before he gets to his feet. "I'll be on the couch, Con. Yell if you need me."
And Connor doesn't know why he does it, he really doesn't it (and that's frightening in its own way), but despite still not understanding the parameters of whatever exists between them, he still reaches out and catches Hank by the arm before he can go.
He doesn't know what to say when Hank looks at him. His preconstructions are running slowly, and his tongue sticks in his mouth. But still, Hank knows. He sighs, brushes the hair from Connor's forehead, and says, "Yeah. Okay."
They don't talk about it. Connor doesn't know if they should. But Hank does climb underneath the covers beside him. That's all it is, really, the two of them lying beside each other, Connor's LED, a calm blue, lighting up the room.
Connor closes his eyes and listens to Hank falling asleep, his breathing evening out, his faint snoring a secret just for him. He almost doesn't want to go into stasis himself. He doesn't want to miss anything. Nothing is happening, and yet it feels like so much is.
But his systems need time to sync and recover, so Connor reluctantly lets himself slip away. But even in stasis he's aware that, every now and again, their fingers brush together under the covers, as if they're trying to reach for one another in their sleep.
Hank can never sleep for more than a few hours.
It's residual from years of grief and depression and not quite being settled, and things might be slowly getting better the last few months, but it will be a while before the physical effects of that suffering wear off.
So he wakes up at four in the morning, in Connor's room, in Connor's bed, with Connor still in stasis beside him. Connor's fingers are brushing his under the covers, his synth-skin pulled back to reveal the white plastic of his hand, like androids do when they interface.
It's odd, seeing Connor so still. Hank has seen him in stasis a few times, but each time it makes him realize how much Connor fidgets when he's awake, how he's always moving and full of life.
It takes everything in him not to brush his thumb over Connor's cheek. He forces himself not to think about where that particular urge is coming from, at least not at the moment.
Instead, he grasps Connor's hand once before he gets out of bed. Once he's awake, he can never get back to sleep, so he might as well go home and feed Sumo now so he can be back by the time Connor is waking up.
Hank leaves Connor a note on his pillow saying he'll be back, and then he goes out to the living room to hunt for his coat. He hasn't been in Connor's apartment since they first moved him in, a month after the revolution. It's just a small place, living area and kitchen so tight they're practically all the same little room, but it's what was available, and Connor could go somewhere else now that he has regular employment, if he wanted to.
Hank knows Connor doesn't mind living somewhere small. That isn't what bothers him. What bothers him is how there's nothing personal in the apartment. No books, no art on the walls, no trinkets on the empty shelves. Connor has been in D.C., so he's been busy and distracted, but still. Hank thought the next time he came here it would look more like Connor's home. And Hank doesn't know how to properly explain why that bothers him. He just...wants Connor to have things that are his.
The roads are practically empty on Hank's drive home, and Sumo is asleep in his bed, none too concerned that he was alone all night. Hank feeds him and lets him out, and while he waits for him to be done in the yard, Connor's present, still on the coffee table where Hank left it, catches his attention.
When he leaves his house to return to Connor's, he brings it with him.
Connor is still in stasis when Hank gets back. It's longer than Hank has ever known him to rest, but he also knows stasis is necessary for proper and quick healing in androids after damage is sustained.
He forces himself not to worry about it. Instead, he sits on the edge of the bed at Connor's side, watching him sleep. It's boring, objectively - Connor doesn't twitch or shift, and Hank wonders if he even dreams - but Hank isn't bored at all.
It's another two hours before Connor wakes up. They're going to be late for work, but Hank has been late for work for a lot less.
When Connor does come out of stasis, he stretches a little bit, reaching one of his arms over his head while his eyes flutter open. The small, warm smile that spreads over his face when he sees Hank sitting beside him is enough to pierce through him.
It's uncomfortable. But it's also good.
"Hey," Hank says, knocking a fist into Connor's shoulder. "You okay?"
Connor rolls his eyes good-naturedly. "I told you last night already that I was in working order."
"That's not what I asked, Con."
Connor's face softens at that. "I'm okay."
"Okay," Hank says. "Good. I'll wait for you if you want to get ready."
Connor isn't long. Hank supposes that's one advantage of being made the way Connor is, always being so put together and not requiring the same amount of work in the morning as everyone else. A few minutes later, Connor emerges in a fresh button-down and another pair of black dress pants - Hank wonders how many pairs he has, and if he owns anything else.
"Do you want anything?" Connor asks. "If I had known you were coming, I would have bought some food, but I do have the coffee you like."
That takes Hank entirely by surprise. "You do?"
Connor shrugs. "You drink four cups of it at the station every day. And I like to be prepared."
"Yeah," Hank says. He feels like his heart is up in his throat, all over a goddamn cup of coffee. "Okay."
Connor smiles and starts towards the kitchen, but the little present on the coffee table stops him on his way there. "Oh, yeah," Hank says, rubbing the back of his neck. "I brought that for you, if you wanted to open it now."
Honestly, what's inside isn't worth the reverent way Connor carefully pulls the bow apart, slipping a thumb under the corner of the wrapping paper as if Hank doesn't wrap the sloppiest presents in Detroit. It's enough to have heat crawling up the back of Hank's neck, the way Connor is acting like it's so precious.
It's just a simple frame, with a picture of the two of them inside. It's the only one they've ever taken, from a few days after the revolution, when Connor was still staying with Hank. Connor is wearing the plaid button-down and the new dark jeans Hank bought for him earlier that day, and Hank looks sloppy next to him in his old, faded hoodie, but they're both smiling. Sumo even bullied his way into Connor's lap, looking at the camera with a happy grin.
The first thing Hank thought when he looked at it? That they looked like a family.
"I know you have it saved in your robo-brain already," Hank says, "but I thought you might like it for your place. You have to put some of your stuff here sometime."
"I just keep waiting for it to feel like home the same way your place does," Connor says, getting up to put the photo on one of his shelves and studying it for a long moment. "Thank you," he finally says. "This helps."
"Yeah," Hank says. "It's no big deal."
Hank supposes he shouldn't be surprised that Connor doesn't feel like this apartment is home, but it punches the air out of his lungs anyway. He knows how much time Connor has spent not knowing where he belongs, and he wishes that would come to an end soon.
But maybe that's wishful thinking. Hank is fifty-three years old, and he's not always sure he knows where he belongs, either.
He should say something, he knows. He just doesn't know what to say.
While Connor is making his coffee, he finally manages to get the words out. "Hey, Connor?" he says, looking up into the kitchen. "Are you happy?"
Connor finishes pouring the coffee and passes it to Hank, sitting beside him on the couch. "Why do you ask?"
Hank shrugs. "Sometimes you remind me of myself. And honestly, something was missing for me long before Cole or the drinking, but no one ever knew that. I always hid it too well."
"You think I'm hiding something?"
Hank looks back at his coffee, mostly just to avoid looking at Connor. "I'm just asking."
Connor nods, propping his elbows on his knees and rubbing his hands together. Hank catches him glancing at the picture of the two of them on the shelf. "I'm happy," he says, "but I think I'm lonely, sometimes."
Yeah, Hank wants to say. I think I'm lonely too.
"What about Markus and Josh?" he asks instead. "You just spent months with them"
Connor shakes his head. "I like them. I just..don't always feel right with other androids"
Hank instantly regrets not calling Connor more frequently while he was in D.C. He imagined Connor making new friends, doing important things - he hadn't wanted to weigh him down, or to seem like he couldn't get on without him. It never occurred to Hank that Connor wasn't getting on well without him, either, nor did he carefully consider Connor's complicated relationship with his own people, how he's always so tethered by his own guilt.
He should say that, maybe, but words have never been his thing. Instead, he reaches over and grasps Connor by the shoulder, holding tightly. Connor sags into it, relaxing under his hand. Hank likes it when he does that.
Maybe he likes it too much, and maybe he doesn't entirely know what to do about that. Connor has a bright career in front of him, and he doesn't want to fuck that up. But it's also been a long time since Hank has wanted anything, and even longer since he's thought he's worth something good - it's a hard feeling to dispense with.
Connor looks up at him with a warm smile, knocking his shoulder into Hank's before he stands up. "I'm going to schedule proper repairs with CyberLife a while, and then we can get to the station."
"You want me to come in with you when you go or anything?"
Hank doesn't know why he's asking - Connor has had maintenance before, and he's said it isn't an unsettling experience, as long as the repairs aren't critical.
He half-expects Connor to scoff at the suggestion, but instead he just smiles. "Sure, Hank."
Connor goes back to his bedroom to make his call, and Hank finds himself looking at the picture of the two of them while he waits, thinking that he might look sloppy next to Connor, and maybe he always will, but that he looks happy, too.
The suspect who shot Connor is named Devon Rogers, and he's a frightened college dropout with little helpful information.
That's what Chris tells them when Connor and Hank get to the precinct, anyway. He's the one who managed the interrogation. "He says the virus is transferred in little discs that fit over android LEDs, and that they're delivered by another dealer. He might know a drop-off location, but he isn't sure," Chris says.
"You got an address?" Hank asks.
"Yeah. It's down near Riverside Park. Apartment complex a few blocks away."
"He doesn't know when the shipment comes in?" Connor asks.
"Honestly, the kid doesn't have a goddamn clue about anything."
"You're sure he's told you everything he knows?" Hank asks.
"Got him a plea deal to lessen the sentence for shooting Connor in exchange for anything useful, so I think he's trying. He's just someone's lackey."
"Okay," Hank says. "That's okay. Connor and I can stake it out, see if we can find anything."
Chris nods, glancing at Connor. "Sorry about last night, man. I already told the guys they have to be more careful about sweeping the place before we say it's clear."
"It's okay," Connor says quickly, anxious to move past it. He still feels like it was his mistake. It's old guilt from the zen garden, maybe, where everything was his mistake.
"Thanks, Chris," Hank says before he and Connor go to their desks. "You want to try interrogating this kid?" he asks when they sit down.
Connor shakes his head. "I doubt there's much point."
"Yeah, me too, but you usually like to do things yourself."
Connor shakes his head. He doesn't want to say that he can still feel the bullet lodged inside his chassis, or that his fear of dying again is still sitting awfully close. "It's okay," he says. "Let's just see if we can find anything at the location he gave us."
"Sure," Hank says. "Strap in, though - stakeouts are the most boring shit I've ever had to do."
Connor thinks about how sitting with Hank doing nothing is his favorite thing he's ever done, and he just smiles and says, "I look forward to it, Lieutenant."
Connor wonders at what point he should say something about whatever he and Hank are dancing around.
On one hand, he doesn't want to fuck anything up, as Hank would say, and he knows Hank doesn't want to fuck anything up either. Hank has already told him as much. They work together, and people talk.
Connor likes the way things are.
On the other hand, if he's sitting upright on his bed, his neck port open, trying to replicate some of the sensations he read about while thinking about Hank's hands on him, maybe something has to give. It isn't doing anything for him, honestly. He knows exactly where his fingers are going, and so there's no surprise to it. And everything about his hands is impossibly smooth - no fingerprints, no callouses, little texture to it at all.
Hank's hands would be different, Connor thinks.
He'd like to know for sure.
A text from Hank pops into his HUD then, saying that he's outside, so Connor sighs, fisting his hands around the dark denim of his jeans and bowing his head.
He wants Hank's hands on him, and Hank in his bed again. He doesn't want to fuck things up. Equally important priorities, possibly conflicting objectives.
Honestly, he's frustrated. It's the only word for it.
Connor closes his neck port and retrieves his jacket. He would like to put the thought out of his mind entirely. but unfortunately for him, he can multitask.
Hank's car smells like his favorite Chicken Feed burger when Connor slips into the passenger seat. "You just ate that for lunch," Connor says without preamble. "I don't know how you don't get sick of it."
"That's because you don't eat anything," Hank says, putting his car in gear. "Besides," he adds, "if I have to spend the evening staring through a pair of binoculars based on some drugged up kid's tip, I'm going to eat what I want."
Connor holds a hand up in surrender, a small smile on his face.
The best they could do for a stakeout location is a restaurant across the street from the apartment complex their suspect told them about, It went out of business recently, but there have been people in and out looking to rent the space, so they should go unnoticed.
The heat is turned off, so Hank hitches the collar of his coat up higher around his jaw when they get inside. They seat themselves at a booth far enough away from the front windows that their movements should go unseen, and Hank sets his Chicken Feed bag on the table. "CyberLife got the biocomponents in for my repair," Connor says while Hank eats, watching the building across the street. "They scheduled it for Wednesday, if you still wanted to come."
"Said I would, didn't I?"
"You did. There just isn't really a waiting area, so you'll have to be in the room with me."
"I think that's kind of the point of taking you, Con."
Connor shrugs. "Some people find it disturbing. It isn't like a hospital. We're machines."
"I think I know what you are well enough after rooting around in your gut," Hank says.
Connor takes out his coin and flips it over his fingers, trying to keep his hands busy. He doesn't mention that he finds being repaired disturbing himself. Too many memories. He remembers dying and waking up suspended in one of those machines, unable to move or speak while CyberLife ran diagnostics.
He doesn't mention that he wants Hank there but he doesn't know how to blend those two worlds, either.
Conflicting priorities.
Markus and the other Jericho leaders have been lobbying for updates to the repair facilities, cosmetic changes that would make them warmer and less mechanical. Maybe repairs won't trouble him so much when those changes take place, but they aren't here yet.
"Hey," Hank says, reaching across the table and taking Connor's coin from him. "You okay?"
It's like that first night he spent at Hank's house after returning from D.C. Nothing is wrong - he has a place to live and a job he likes, and he has Markus and Hank. He feels adrift anyway, unmoored no matter how he tries to ground himself in this new world and the life he was never supposed to have.
Connor doesn't know how to explain that. He doesn't like not knowing how to explain things.
It's frustrating. He doesn't know how to explain it, but he knows how to lie to Hank even less.
"I really didn't like being in D.C.," Connor says, even if he doesn't want to admit it. It should have been an opportunity to do some good for his people, to make up for being on the wrong side of this for so long. But it wasn't like that. It was overwhelming, and he missed Detroit, and Hank and Sumo. He didn't like having to argue for their rights and their personhood - Markus and Josh had the resilience for it, but Connor just found it unsettling. It reminded him too much of the zen garden, and of CyberLife. None of the others ever had CyberLife in their heads the way Connor did.
"That's okay," Hank says softly. "I probably wouldn't have liked it either."
Connor nods, focusing on the apartment complex across the street so he won't have to look anywhere else.
"It might have been a bad tip," he says, even though he doesn't think Hank is done with the conversation. "There aren't any heat signatures inside."
Hank nods. "This place isn't terribly uncomfortable, at least. I've had worse." He finishes his meal, getting up and throwing the bag away. "So, you hated D.C.," he says when he returns. "What else is it?"
Connor thinks about telling Hank, about his hands and about his apartment that's never going to be home the way Hank's house is.
He thinks that he likes how things are, and how if he tells him, they'll change. They might be worse.
Conflicting priorities.
Connor receives the prompt in his HUD to manually select his objective. He dismisses it entirely, and deletes the priority about keeping things the same. He can't keep doing this, trying to function with this weight sitting heavy in his gut. He folds his hands in his lap and says, "I don't like my apartment."
Hank nods, tracing a finger around the lid on his pineapple soda. Connor doesn't experience smells and tastes the way human do, but he still doesn't understand Hank's preference for the drink. "I mean, we knew it was just a temporary shit hole when we moved you in. You have a good job now - we could look for something else."
Connor's processors catch on the word 'we', and he knows it won't matter. He could move anywhere else, and it wouldn't matter. He spent months in R&D at CyberLife, and then another three months being deployed to help with deviancy crisis situations before he was sent to Hank. He always came back to the same port at CyberLife, and he never had anyone. He's so tired of coming home to nothing, and he thinks Hank knows that feeling, too.
"I don't want to go anywhere else," Connor says. "I don't like living alone. I'm just tired of being alone."
"Yeah," Hank says, looking at his hands. "I get it."
Hank reaches for Connor's hand under the table, surprising him. They're at work, but they're also alone, and touch is permissible when Hank is trying to comfort him.
So Connor takes Hank's hand, and he holds it as he says, "I think I'd just like it if I felt like I belonged somewhere."
And Connor means to explain that, he honestly does, except that Hank moves before he can, getting out of his side of the booth and standing in front of Connor, putting a hand on his face. "God, sweetheart," Hank whispers, "I know you've been through so much, but don't you know that you do?"
His eyes are so blue. It's the exact thought crossing Connor's mind when Hank kisses him.
Connor tries to update his touch parameters, and then he throws them out entirely. There's so much new sensory information to take in - that Hank's hair is softer than Connor thought it would be, or that his lips are soft, too, or that the rough texture of his hands on Connor's cheeks is almost too much.
It's all so much.
Connor gets to his feet, pushing Hank's coat off his shoulders so he can feel the shape of his body more easily. It's familiar, of course, but it's different in this context. It feels all new.
Hank threads his fingers in Connor's hair, tugging gently when Connor opens his mouth against him. "Hey," he says, leaning his forehead against Connor's, stroking a thumb over his cheek. "We still have a location to watch, sweetheart."
Connor feels breathless, even if he doesn't need to breathe. "I can multitask," he says. It sounds like begging, maybe, but he's so far beyond caring. "I'll set up a process to keep scanning for heat signatures...just let me..."
What he's asking for, Connor honestly doesn't know, but Hank seems to. "Okay," he whispers, hoisting Connor up and sitting him on the edge of the table. "How does this work for you, exactly?"
Connor tilts his head. "How much did you hate having to put your hand inside one of my ports?"
Connor doesn't know what he expected, but Hank isn't unsettled by it at all. He kisses Connor's hair and says, "I didn't hate it. I just hated you being hurt."
Connor wishes all over again that he had been able to figure it out himself, that he wasn't going into this entirely blind, with only internet research to guide him. He tells Hank as much, but that just earns him a laugh. "That's pretty much how this goes for all of us, Con."
Connor makes a face, but he opens the port at the back of his neck anyway.
"Touch me," he whispers, and he never wants to forget the way Hank looks at him, like he's endlessly unique and not one unit in a model line of hundreds. That was the whole point of the revolution, that he's an individual, and Connor knows it, objectively...but he only really feels it when Hank looks at him like that.
Connor expects Hank to be hesitant, but he isn't. He lets his fingers slip into Connor's open neck port, tracing the ridges of one of the wires there, and Connor can't help the moan that falls out of his mouth. Because this is different. It's so impossibly different from his own experience trying this with himself. Hank's movements are sure and confident, even if Connor is quite certain this is the first time he's been with an android, and the texture of his fingers is rough, his callouses sparking against something inside Connor and sending a shiver over the entire length of his body.
And Hank keeps watching Connor with such intense focus, watching him worry his lower lip between his teeth as he tries not to let his eyes flutter closed. Connor is overwhelmed by it. He's never been so overwhelmed by anything.
"This actually does something for you?" Hank asks. Connor read so much while he was researching his own sexual functions about how humans were usually unsettled the first time they did this with an android. Hank doesn't sound unsettled, though. Hank sounds absolutely awed by it.
And that makes it so easy for Connor to let everything go, for his synth-skin to recede back where Hank's palm is cupping his neck. It's so easy not to care about all the ways they're different, or about trying to pretend to be anything other than what he is.
He never feels like he belongs among the androids, not when he's always been so removed from them. He doesn't feel like he belongs with humans, either, because of course he isn't one. He feels like he belongs here, though. He feels like it doesn't matter what he is, or what Hank is.
They just are.
Connor grasps Hank by the wrist and guides his fingers into his mouth, and he isn't sure what he likes better - the new rush of information to analyze, or the way Hank groans at the gesture.
Connor can short out, in theory, which some androids report seems similar in sensation to a human orgasm. It seems unwise to chase that while they're on the clock, but Connor honestly doesn't even care if he doesn't experience that until later. He's flying so high, it doesn't matter.
So he keeps Hank's fingers in his mouth, keeps focusing on the electricity rippling down his spine while Hank probes around in his neck port, and then he reaches for Hank's belt. He wonders if it's even possible for Hank to feel as good as he feels right now, but he wants to try to return the favor.
Hank goes to pull his fingers from Connor's mouth to help with his belt, but Connor bites down just hard enough to hold him there. Hank looks at him with pupils blown wide, and Connor shakes his head ever so slightly. He hadn't been kidding about being able to multitask.
Hank digs a fingernail into one of the ridges in Connor's metal spine as payback, and Connor's vision shorts out for a moment, everything going black and then the world bursting back into brighter focus. He wonders as he pulls Hank's belt undone and unzips his jeans if it's anything like seeing stars.
Connor isn't built with any sense of human attraction or preference, but he thinks as he slips a hand under the waistline of Hank's boxers to feel the length of him that whatever his preference is, Hank is all of it.
"Connor," Hank says when Connor closes a hand around him, pulling Connor in and kissing his forehead. His voice is gruff, wrung out, and Connor wants to string him along that edge for as long as he can. So he does release Hank's hand from his mouth then, slipping from his seat on the table and going to his knees in front of him.
And, just to be particularly cheeky about it, he looks up at Hank watching him with his mouth agape and winks as he pulls his boxers down.
And Connor doesn't know why it's so good, the sudden, slightly salty taste of Hank's skin when he takes the length of his cock in his mouth. It shouldn't do anything for him at all, but the sensation of it, the weight of Hank on his tongue, the moan it pulls from Hank's mouth, sends sparks shuddering up his spine even if Hank's hand has gone still in his neck port.
Connor pulls off just for a moment, bracing a hand on Hank's hip. "I shouldn't swallow," he says. "Let me know when you're close?"
Connor knows not swallowing is nothing remarkable at all, but with the way Hank is looking at him, like he wants to give him the sun and all the stars with it, he might almost be fooled.
Connor honestly doesn't know what he's doing when he closes his lips around the head of Hank's cock, but he stubbornly refuses to access a protocol for it. He wants to feel it out himself.
And it's easy to learn. Hank is responsive, guiding him with a hand gentle in his hair, moaning when Connor hollows out his cheeks. Within minutes of experimenting, Connor knows exactly how he likes it.
Connor's neck port is still open, and it isn't long before Hank's fingers are brushing over his wires again, sending sparks of electricity throbbing through him. "Jesus, Connor," Hank breathes when Connor takes him to the hilt, inhaling sharply before he closes his fingers around Connor's hair, gently pulling him off. "Come on," he says, pulling Connor up and walking him back onto the table.
Connor whines about it - he was going to finish Hank with his hand; he had already run the preconstruction - so he's thrown off when Hank reaches for the button of his pants instead. "Hank," Connor whispers while Hank unzips his fly, "I don't have..."
"I know," Hank says, kissing the corner of his mouth. "I still want to see you."
Connor doesn't know what to say to that. There's nothing interesting about the featureless pelvic plate, nor does it have the same heightened sensitivity as the wires inside his ports. But he also finds that he doesn't have any interest in refusing.
So he lets Hank pull his pants down, cupping a hand between his legs. It's warm, and despite not having many sensory receptors in that plate, Connor can dimly feel Hank's pulse thrumming through him. Connor wraps his arms around Hank's shoulders and pulls him down to him, kissing him messily as he lies back on the table, bringing Hank with him.
And it's true that this doesn't necessarily do anything for him, at least in the way it does for humans, but Connor still decides he likes Hank's weight on him, surrounding him. He likes Hank's cock pressed between the two of them, the way Hank thrusts into the heat between them, the way Connor's skin pulls back like he's trying to let him in closer, closer, closer.
Hank spills between them with a groan, pressing his face into Connor's neck, and Connor threads his hands in his hair while he rests there, listening to Hank's heart thudding steadily against his chest, so close it might almost be his own. Hank pulls away far enough to kiss him, gentle and sweet. "You're incredible, sweetheart," he whispers against him, so Connor can feel the shape of the words on his skin.
"I don't want to be without you anymore," Connor says, and Hank nods against him.
"Yeah. Okay."
Connor's neck port is already closed, but he still feels an excited thrill reach up his spine at the simple agreement.
"We'll have to disclose this to Human Resources," Connor says later, after Hank returns from the bathroom with a few wet paper towels.
"What'd you do, read the employee manual?" Hank asks while he swipes a towel over Connor's stomach. When Connor doesn't answer, he looks up and says, "Jesus, did you?"
"There's nothing wrong with being prepared, Lieutenant," Connor says, kicking Hank lightly in the shin. "You know we won't be able to be partners anymore," he adds as he stands and pulls his pants back around his waist. It's his only source of grief in all of this, when he's otherwise more elated than he's ever been.
"That's okay," Hank says. "I'm used to working alone, and we can put you with Chris. You two will get on well."
Connor likes working with Chris. Not the way he likes working with Hank...but still. It's worth the trade-off.
"Okay," he says, kissing Hank again.
"And listen..." Hank says, rubbing the back of his neck. "If you hate your apartment so much, you can move back in with me. If you wanted to."
And hell, Connor does want to, more than anything, but he can't resist needling Hank the smallest bit. "Isn't that moving a little fast?” he asks. “The average length of time people date before moving in together is..."
"You want me to rescind the offer, Con?" Hank asks, but his face is twisted in the way it does when he's trying to hide his smile.
"No," Connor says, grinning. "I'd like that."
"Good." Hank reaches over to ruffle his hair. "Me too."
A warning pings in Connor's HUD then, and he looks over his shoulder at the apartment complex across the street. Heat signatures detected, and a light on upstairs.
"Come on," Hank says, nudging Connor with an elbow and retrieving his gun. "Might as well close this partnership out with a solved case, yeah? I know how that gets you going."
"Very funny," Connor replies, but as he follows after him, he can't quite mask his smile.
He still doesn't know where he belongs, in so many ways. But for now, maybe slotting in so perfectly at Hank's side is enough.
The rest will come, in its own time.
And he can wait.