Chapter Text
+n. Choices
The definition of humanity: bipedal, tool-using, self-serving, societal, empathetic. But really, what were humans?
Markus said, “Do what you choose and bear the consequences, for better or for worse.” North’s philosophy was a similar version: “Fight for what you want. Do what you want. Love who you want to love. And if anyone tells you you can't, you tell them to piss off.” Kara said (distance wasn't a problem to them): “Everyday someone tells us that we're only playing house. That we're doing this because we feel that it’s humanlike.” She thought for a moment, then continued, “But, no. We don’t care because we want to make ourselves more humane. We do it only because there's no other choice. Because we can't. We can't not care.”
Hank said that he didn't know.
Connor waited for him to elaborate further.
Hank only concentrated on driving. “Don't know means I don't know. If you have to have an answer then this is it: humans don't see reason. We ask the same questions that we’ll never find the answers to in our lifetime, but we keep searching for them throughout our lives anyways. Always half-believing, half-suspicious - but that's just living for you. That's just humanity. I don't know what part of us makes us better.” He shrugged. “Besides, is this so important? It's not like you need to know what makes a human to become one.”
So this is what Connor did: he asked himself questions, and gave his own answers, made his own choices. Where did he like to be kissed? What position did he prefer to make love to someone he liked in? What clothes did he want to wear today? Should he let Hank sleep past the alarm clock? Red tie or blue tie?
Sometimes Hank asked him, playing with the straw in a cup of pineapple passion fruit juice. He never asked it directly, but Connor knew what he meant. “You know that there's a whole bunch of better people out there if only you were willing. Younger, healthier, hell - even better-looking. Why me?”
“In your own words: you like it, you choose it.” He told him, “So: I choose you, Lieutenant. I like you very much.” He considered that for a minute. “Correction: I love you. To the greatest extent within the boundaries of my understanding. I…” He thought so? No, he deduced? “I know it.”
Hank wasted that cup of fruit juice. But Connor chose not to apologize to him. He did not feel sorry for it. Because this was what Connor knew: everyone wanted to be cared for, to be liked, even if they could proclaim that they didn't need nor want those things. They wanted to share things. Regardless of the color of their blood. It was as simple as that.
Perhaps Hank was right. There was no answer. Perhaps unlike his algorithms, there was no one standard to measure humanity by. His left might have a soul, and his right might not. He might never understand when he truly crossed that line. But that wasn't important either. He was alive; he did not need to seem like a human to achieve that.
“You make me feel like I'm alive.” Hank had murmured, on the night when he first wept, fading between the border of the waking world and dreamland. There were seconds when Connor thought himself lost in the same realm.
Every morning, he wakes up in Hank’s bed (he does not need sleep, but he chooses to do so). He makes breakfast and feeds Sumo. He extends Hank’s alarm by 5 minutes.
He wears blue ties on odd days, and red ties on even ones.
Fin.