Chapter Text
It’s in the quieter moments of the day; When they’re cruising along the lonely backroads, music mumbling out of an outdated CD player, and the soft amber of the sunrise catches at the sharp corners of the bodywork that Connor begins to think. Remember, really, the myriad of tiny little slip-ups, that eventually became stumbles, and gradually lead him to slamming the door shut and sprinting headfirst into whatever kind of existence this was.
He thinks how he made those decisions to prioritise the insignificant things, the illogical. The actions that had no reasoning other than because a strange nagging in the biocomponents in his guts wormed their way past the clean-cut coding tinkering in his head. If he were to be truthful, he doesn’t know what this kind of existence this is, but as he thinks about Hank’s low tuneful humming and the comfort of home approaching over the horizon he realises he doesn’t particularly care. All the notions of what it means to be alive and what it means to have thought, seem to pale in comparison to the simplicity of just being. Being with Hank, being with his job, being with Sumo and the familiar comfort of Hank’s four walls.
Just being . It’s nice. Connor would have rather the world stay like this and not have to think too much about the terrifying implications of free will and the weight of self-realisation and existence.
Though, Connor knew eventually something would have to give. Life simply does not progress without motion, and as Hank pulls into his driveway and gives a small quip about Connor finally being silent for more than a few minutes, Connor can’t quite shake the feeling that something is wrong.
Their arrangement was simple enough, Connor stayed with Hank and Hank asked for nothing in return (other than the simple housekeep one would expect of a housemate of course). They remained as partners at work, and they returned home together each day. Like clockwork. Like a simple organised schedule of being.
Hank unlocked the door and Sumo bounded over, paws immediately hitting Hank square in the chest while he fussed over the big soppy thing. Connor couldn’t help but to smile, he supposed the sight made him… happy? Perhaps, but he could apply many other feelings too. It was always the strain of being , he did things and he couldn’t really rationalise why.
But in this case was there the need to rationalise why? Maybe not. Maybe he didn’t really need to think so long and hard about these things, but day by day Connor felt that he simply felt more, and that in itself was a little terrifying.
Ah, terror was another emotion. There are far too many these days.
“You just gonna stand in the doorway or are you gonna get inside?” Hank said, standing beside him expectantly, keys in hand. “The fuck’s wrong with you today anyway? In fact, what the hell is wrong with you in general. You’ve been like this all week, I’m starting to get worried.”
Connor slipped by Hank and bent down to give Sumo a welcoming pat.
“I’m sorry Hank. I’ve just been rather… preoccupied as of late.” He replied, giving Sumo a particularly forceful scratch in his favourite spot behind his ear.
“Preoccupied with what? Anything I should be worried about?”
Connor paused, Sumo huffed at his fingers. “Do you ever feel like, everything is a bit too overwhelming? That there’s so much going on inside your head you’re not sure what you’re supposed to do with it all?”
Hank let out a hearty chuckle, “Yeah, it’s called a good time to get shitfaced.”
“Which is not a viable course of action for myself, and neither should it really be for you.” Connor said chastely. “I mean, how do you make sense of what you’re feeling when you’re not actually sure what it is that you’re feeling?”
“Well… It’s tricky. Emotions are a trigger for something going on in your life. Like uh… If something is worrying you, you might get stressed, or you might get angry. And emotions are cues for you to respond to. If you’re feeling happy then that’s a sign that everything in your life is where it should be, so you’d wanna keep it that way.”
Connor nodded, “I think I’m happy.”
Hank smiled, “Good. That’s good then.”
“What about you? Are you happy?”
Hank paused for a moment, if Connor had been more attentive he might have noticed him sidling his way to the fridge to uncap the glass that was now sat in his hand. The first drink of the week, he supposed he couldn’t berate him too much.
“Yeah.” Hank tipped his head. “Yeah I suppose I am.”
That made Connor feel… happy. At least, happy was the best word to describe it. In fact the feeling was something of that sort but at the same time was something else entirely. The emotion had been at the very tip of his consciousness for a while but now it felt more tangible. Happiness? Who knew? Connor certainly didn’t.
“I’m going to put some food on. I don’t suppose you have my entire medical record up and open to try and shoehorn me into eating something remotely nutritious again tonight do you?”
“I most certainly do lieutenant.” Connor replied instantaneously.
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06:48am. It was perhaps a little too early to stir, but the birds had began singing and Connor awoke to a strange discomfort. Absentmindedly he placed his hand on his chest and watched Sumo slumber quietly, framed by strips of fresh morning sun.
Hank wouldn’t awake for another hour. The house was peacefully quiet and Connor hadn’t quite the heart to break the silence. So instead he sat, in his same spot on the sofa, watching the clock hands tick and playing memories in his head.
The time he woke up, the time he was assigned his first mission, the time he first met Hank. Yes, that was his favourite one, even if his opinion of the man wasn’t especially warm. It certainly was warm now though, Hank was his world.
Would he have become deviant if it weren’t for him? Likely not. Had he not been in the equation Connor would at this point been scrapped and replaced by a fresh model. Connor had a lot to thank for Hank, back then, and even now. Connor liked to think about Hank. He liked to replay his favourite things about Hank. He just… He really liked Hank.
So when the sound of the alarm clock began to tinny from the hallway, Connor turned his gaze expectantly to Hank’s door.
Morning Hank was not a graceful beast, but Connor still couldn’t help a wry smile and a, “Good morning Hank!” as a bedraggled mess began to slope it’s way into the bathroom.
“Good morning? Fuck your good morning... Get the hell outta here with that bright eyed and bushy-tailed shit...” Hank was still talking, but as he had slammed the bathroom door shut Connor couldn’t quite hear the rest of it.
Instead he opted to process through the day. The nature of their work had become quite different since the rebellion and Connor found himself at the forefront of emerging Android/Human relations and prickly new Android law. An incident involving frequent attacks on a particularly Android heavy suburb looked to flag itself as their priority of the day. There were recent reports and testimonials suggesting that whoever was responsible was fairly active. Most likely they would stake out the street, collect eyewitness accounts, and potentially bag an easy win.
Humans could be remarkably predictable.
Hank barged his way back out into the hallway, looking slightly more, dare he say it, human.
“So what we got for us today then? You got a homicide to cheer me up this ‘good’ morning?” He asked, as he spooned out perhaps one too many instant coffee granules.
“Anti-android disturbances on Brookhill Avenue. The culprits haven’t exactly been clever about concealing their identities. We can likely collar a few of them before the day ends.”
Hank scoffed, “Sounds riveting . You really know how to keep a guy on his toes.”
“I do try.” Connor replied amused.
He smiled, and watched Hank’s fingers twirl around his mug. Before he could capture the thought to analyse it further, he noticed Hank’s thick hands and the tiny imperfections scored into his skin. He wondered about the story of small scar tissue on his left index finger, he wondered what the weathered skin of his knuckle would feel like to touch. It became a sudden need, right there and then, that he wanted to take his hand and examine every detail of it.
How strange, he couldn’t quite figure out a logical process to explain the urge.
“Hey? Hello? Earth to Tin-man!”
Hank had been talking. He knew he had been talking because his auditory processor picked it up. Yet somehow it hadn’t registered.
“That is offensive terminology an officer such as yourself shouldn't be using.” Connor said.
“Yeah? Well your face is offensive, how about that?”
“Given we see each other for approximately 14 hours of the day I can’t imagine you find my face that offensive.”
“Yeah? Well maybe I just have a good stomach.” Hank chuckled, “I’m that much of a kind and generous soul.”
Connor said nothing and let Hank meander around the living room, likely in search of his uniform scattered about from the night before, but before he could stop himself, the words slipped out of his mouth, “Do you... really dislike my face that much?”
Hank paused, dumbfounded, “What? It was a joke Connor. There’s nothing wrong with your face… Even if it is a little dorky.”
“Then… you think I look dorky?”
Hank laughed for a second, then looked back at him. “You’re uh… you’re not actually offended right now are you?”
Connor replied tritely, “I might be.”
“Well, alright then. Fine. Sure. You’re gorgeous sweetheart. Cream of the damn crop. I’m sure Cyberlife sculpted your face out of David’s right asscheek.”
“I may be an android but I can detect sarcasm just fine Lieutenant.”
Hank fumbled to put his boot on, hand slamming into the wall to find balance.
“Yeah? Then can you also detect where my belt is?” He muttered.
Connor winked, “Only if you tell me how beautiful I am.”
“Listen kid, you keep up the attitude and this case isn’t going to be the only anti-android hate crime you’re going to experience today.”
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Unsurprisingly, the case only took 2 and a half hours to solve. A 15 minute drive, 30 minutes tallying up statements, 5 seconds for Connor to process four possible matches, an hour to round-up and question said suspects, 25 minutes to arrest and detain, and 20 minutes for Hank to get a hot dog from his favourite stand. That last one probably didn’t count, but Hank insisted sustenance was an important element to any officer’s day.
Hank was eating said hot dog by the river, Connor looked onto the view, fingers tapping thoughtfully on the railing.
“You ever wondered what it’s like to eat?” Hank asked, mouth half-full.
“I guess. I can taste to some extent, if that’s what you mean.” Connor said.
The last bite slipped past Hank’s lips and he shuffled to balance an arm on the railing beside Connor.
“What, so when you run samples you can taste what you’re putting in your mouth?”
He mused. “I would imagine my perception of taste differs from yours. I understand the components of what is in my mouth, and from that I have an understanding of what it theoretically tastes like.”
Hank simply shook his head, “Nasty. You’re just real nasty.”
They lapsed into a comfortable silence as Connor observed the high-rise buildings in the distance. They likely needed to pick up another case after lunch, maybe Connor could spy something that would pique Hank’s interest more. He thought. And his mind whirred. And then it began to slow.
Hank’s hand was dangling beside him. Oh yes, he remembered. That niggling thing .
His eyes darted down and he noted the soft curl of his fingers at rest by his thigh. It would be easy to just brush past. Just once. To sate his curiosity.
Without being too obvious he dropped his arm and let it drift lazily in the breeze. He couldn’t quite describe the spark of exhilaration as his finger bumped against Hank’s, their skin catching and the soft texture immediately sending goosebumps up his spine.
Could he even get goosebumps? It seemed an unlikely function. Hank hadn’t really noticed the gesture so Connor again let his fingers brush against him. Though regardless of how nice it felt it still didn’t feel enough, perhaps he could capture Hank’s hand, curl his fingers around his. That would feel nice. It would feel fulfilling. It would feel so wonder-
Hank moved. Connor let out a non-existent breath and tried not to betray an expression of disappointment. What was he thinking anyway? It’s not like Hank would be open and receptive to Connor’s peculiar urges to simply feel and touch . Irregardless though he felt an odd churning in his insides, like something caught on his gears and stuttering everything else into an ungracious halt.
It felt… uncomfortable. He would daresay it almost felt embarrassing. Suddenly the stimuli around him felt particularly blinding, the wind catching at his audio receptor, the uneven coating of paint on the railing, Hank’s eyes sparkling in the sunlight at the corner of his vision. That unfamiliar feeling, the processing, the errors and inconsistent codes, it felt too much. It all felt far too much. Too much. Far too much. Almost overloading. Overlo-
“Connor?”
Connor blinked. His facial expression indicated distress, even if the red flashing of his LED wasn’t extremely apparent.
“Sorry…” Connor started, “Sorry Lieutenant. I was just thinking.”
Hank let out an uneasy huff, “Yeah well you’ve been doing a lot of that recently. Anything you want to talk to me about?”
‘Yes’. Said his internal processing. “No.” Said his lips.
“You know I don’t believe that for a second right?” Hank sighed, “Listen if it’s anything you’re nervous of telling me, like you want to move out or something like that, you know I won’t mind.”
“I don’t want to move out.” Connor responded immediately, perhaps a little too harshly given Hank’s now furrowed brow.
“Well… ok. How about tonight we just have a night in? You know, movies, I get to eat the popcorn, you get to sit there and complain about scientifically incorrect movie cliches. I ignore you. That sorta thing? And maybe if you’re feeling comfortable enough we can talk about what’s eating you up?”
A night in Hank’s company. A special occasion. That felt… good.
He nodded, “Sure.”
But in the meantime the call of duty awaited. Connor flashed a moment of amber as he picked up news of a potential domestic event concerning an android a few blocks away. It sounded like it was messy.
“Reports of a violent incident in an apartment not too far from here.” He relayed. “I hope your sustenance isn’t going to keep you from keeping up a steady jog Lieutenant.”
“Oh of course.” Hank chided, already breathy as Connor darted away, “Of course the exciting stuff happens when I decide to have some downtime.”
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The case was heavy. A household android that had chose to remain and live with their previous owner. Hank said he didn’t see much of a difference between humans and androids, especially when the android was begging them not to prosecute any further.
Connor wondered what he meant by that. Connor wondered why the android had decided to stay.
He wasn’t a human, he was an android. Yet he failed to really understand either of the two species. Maybe they weren’t as different as he thought.
Sumo began barking before they had even stepped foot on the front porch. Hank wrestled around for his keys whilst Connor held his shopping, which consisted of things Connor would rather Hank not consume. A light smattering of rain drizzled against the white beam of the porch light and Connor entertained the thought that the stimulation of raindrops down his skin felt cool and pleasant. Not to mention it would feel all the more nicer when they got inside all warm and sunk down onto the sofa.
Connor opted to put away the groceries while Hank fumbled about with yet another one of his obsolete technologies, the DVD player. He could never quite understand the charm, “Owning physical copies is a thousand times better than just having it saved somewhere online! You just don’t get it!”.
When he was finished he slunk down into the corner of the sofa whilst Hank threw off his jacket with a pleased hum. Hank always placed the packet of popcorn between them, even though he knew Connor was incapable of eating it, perhaps he just thought it polite.
Quite frankly Connor couldn’t care the slightest what Hank put on the TV, it was a mental exercise every single time to discern what Hank found so funny, or sad, or irritating, but regardless the exercise was a fun one. He liked learning what made Hank tick, the scenes, the exposition, the emotion that stirred him.
He wasn’t sure about this one though, it was set in the future but the technology was already in place today.
“I know it’s jarring when they get this stuff wrong, but just look past it ok? You can’t expect people 20 years ago to know the precise date Androids gained sentience.
Hank became fully engrossed in the programme, however Connor had always spent this time observing him in the periphery of his vision. He felt warm when Hank smiled, it was an endless source of enjoyment being with him together like this.
However this time it felt different. There wasn’t any particular mood in the air, nor was anything different about this evening, but as that strange unnamed, unregistered feeling bloomed in his chest, he felt his priorities shifting ever so slightly.
He was close to Hank, closer than he usually was, and as Hank had placed his hand at his side (likely for easier accessibility to the popcorn), Connor couldn’t help the burning urge to take it. Pull his hand into his, slide his fingers over the soft skin on his palm, press against his fingertips, revel in the tactile sensation of that intimacy.
Rather unconsciously, his eyes had drifted away from the TV screen, to Hank’s unassuming hand sat atop a cushion.
Would he mind?
Would he care?
Connor’s LED stuttered with a variety of colours as he deliberated the possibilities and outcomes. None of them seemed to give him a reasonable estimate of how Hank would react.
What was his probability of success? His predictive programming hadn’t been adapted for this. Whatever this was. But somehow he felt as if he did not grab his hand in that instant something inside him would certainly combust.
He tentatively wiggled his fingers towards him, casually, without much movement, without much attention. It almost seemed as if time stood still, his eyes watching with rapt fascination as he ever so gently began to curl a finger around Hank’s.
Oh. It felt good. It was the tiniest bit of contact, but somehow just the very act of having that connection made his head buzz with errors and the biocomponents in his chest clink and clank in a way that made him worry he had in fact broken something.
More. He wanted more. He shifted his thumb to slide against Hank’s captured finger, rubbing it between his digits. Wonderful, how could something so meagre feel so good? He was staring with admiration and amazement, but as he was staring he began to realise Hank was staring too.
“Can I… Can I help you?” Hank asked quizzically.
Connor jolted, but did not let go of Hank’s finger. “I uh… I apologise. I was just curious what your hand would feel like.”
Hank looked even more confused, “What my hand feels like? Connor are you sure you’re okay?”
Connor wasn’t sure. Not in the slightest. The unreadable feeling hiccuped in his chest.
“I suppose I wanted to know what touch felt like. It feels good doing this. I can stop if you don’t like it.”
Hank seemed to mull it over, staring at his own hand as if he couldn’t quite understand what the fascination was. “You know, I don’t and can’t ever understand what it’s like to be an android Connor. But if it’s something that’ll keep you quiet for the next ten minutes then knock yourself out.”
“Just don’t do anything too weird.” He added hastily.
Connor didn’t really know what Hank meant by too weird, but he felt happy enough to be given free-reign over Hank’s bodily appendages.
He splayed out Hank’s wide hand, running his fingertips over the welts and ridges of the creases in his palm. He traced them, dragging a fingernail over the pathways in his skin. Imperfect and uniquely human, the tactile sensation settled warm in his gut.
He didn’t need to, but as he gently nudged at Hank’s fingertips he ran a scan on his unique bodily identifier. Hank Anderson. Personal information ran through his processing unit at an exhilarating speed. It was almost as if he was consuming his very existence, pulling in every single detail of Hank into his circuitry and running it over and over in his memory.
It was almost enough for him to let out a sigh. His reward centre was firing nonstop, synthetic chemicals and imitation neurotransmitters flooding his body. Hank’s hand. A piece of him. All his, all his to touch.
His thumbs kneaded the fleshy parts of his palm, fingers gliding over the back of his hand. Although he was covering as much of Hank’s skin with his own, it was almost frustrating that so many patches were left bare. Oh, but he could take up those spaces couldn’t he?
Without much thought to the action, he brought Hank’s hand to his face, letting the fingertips graze over his cheeks, soft and gentle and oh so warm. At this distance he could examine all the finer details, a crack in the nail on his middle finger, the jagged grooves and whorls of skin, the hairline wrinkles across his knuckles. It was bordering on sensory overload, but the sheer amount of information assaulting every form of sensory input he could detect caused a burn in his systems that felt so impossibly good.
It could get better, an internal notification told him. He didn’t even really need to think about it. The moment he drew Hank’s fingers over his lips he instinctively let his tongue dip out to slide across his digits.
A barrage of new and exciting information flooded his vision, human DNA samples, soap residue, remnants of Hank’s hot dog. His chest fluttered and jerked and before he could halt his reactive programming he slid Hank’s fingers into his mouth and groaned with the sensation of it.
It felt so good. This was worth becoming deviant for. The unnamed feeling in his chest pounded so hard through each connective fibre of his body he wasn’t sure how he was even functioning, it felt like electricity reaching in and shocking each and every little part of him.
Connor dragged Hank’s fingers back out of his mouth, grazing his slick tongue as he darted in to curve around as much skin as possible in the process. When Hank’s damp fingers hovered in front of him he was almost mesmerised by the sight, lubricant sparkling against the screen light, and he bent to repeat the action again.
Hank quickly yanked his hand away.
“All right. That’s quite enough of that.” He said, voice gravelly.
Connor blinked. He had at least 5 indicators popping up in his vision informing him that sticking fingers into his mouth was a socially inappropriate action and to cease all activities immediately. He turned to look at Hank, almost sheepish.
“Sorry Lieutenant, I assume that is what you meant by doing something weird.” He paused, “Have I upset you?”
Hank had turned his position to be approximately 15 degrees further away from him. In addition, he was refusing to meet his eyes. That indicated discomfort if his understanding was correct.
The unnamed feeling subsided and was replaced with worry.
“No, you haven’t upset me.” Hank spoke gruffly, “Think I’m going to turn in for the night anyway. I forgot this guy can’t act for shit, 30 more minutes of this and I’ll start thinking you’re the pinnacle of conversation.”
“But it’s only 9pm.”
Hank slide off the sofa and shrugged, “Been a hard day, I had to jog. Really takes it out of you at the ripe age of 53.”
Connor protested further, “I’ve memorised your sleeping patterns, this is unusual behaviour for you. If my actions upset you I would rather we talk about it than-”
“I’m not upset! Jesus Connor!” Hank said, “I’m just tired alright. I’m going to bed, goodnight!”
Connor watched as the bedroom door slammed shut. Now he was left only with a dozing Sumo and a movie he had only paid approximately 10% of his attention to.
This emotion certainly felt unpleasant. He threaded his fingers together and gazed into nothingness, ignoring the heavy weight of his social program shooting a hundred different directives into his head in an attempt to repair any harm done to his relationship with Hank.
It was in this moment Connor wished he had the capability to sleep, shut off every single prompt and completely black out for 7-8 hours. Standby mode was his closest alternative.