Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Hank knows jack shit about how androids work. It had been wilful ignorance, at first- he didn’t have the energy to care about the fuck-up pieces of plastic that killed his son. Then, deliberate misinformation- if he doesn’t know how they work, who’s to blame if he ‘accidentally’ damages one. He doesn’t even know how to change the settings on his phone, how’s he meant to understand the most complicated tech of the modern era? 

Now, well- He probably should have taken the time to figure it out, done some research, read those pamphlets the damn revolutionaries had been putting out, but he just. Didn’t get around to it. It’s an excuse, and a flimsy one. He had the time, and God knows he’s put off paperwork for less. 

Even with everything he doesn’t know, he’s pretty damn sure blood is supposed to stay inside your body, blue or not. 

Hank’s eyes refuse to take in the whole of the picture. He flicks his gaze around, understanding coming in flickers. 

White plastic, cracked like an eggshell. 

Deep cobalt, splattered across the pavement. 

Flickering lights. 

A red LED, sputtering. 

A blazer, torn outwards by splinters of fake ribs. 

It doesn’t look like Connor. 

Blood drips down from Hank’s nose. It spatters into the puddle.

Blood doesn’t mix with Thirium. 

Hank doesn’t know why. 

His blood smears over the surface of it like an oil spill. 

There’s police lights flashing somewhere to his right. 

“Holy shit- Connor? Hank?” 

Miller. He sounds worried. 

There’s a hand on his shoulder, and Hank barks out a bitter sound halfway between a sob and a laugh. 

“Don’t take him from me.” 

Chris’s voice is shaky beside Hank. 

“We’re- Jesus. We’re not going to take him from you, Hank. But he- You-” 

The LED sputters again.

It goes out. 

Something inside Hank snaps, then. He doesn’t even like the bastard, stuck with him as something like a ‘partner’ while the DPD figures out if he’s even allowed to work as a detective. The perp had nailed Hank in the nose with his elbow and that had been all it took to send Connor barrelling after him. Hank had shouted for Connor to stop, to listen, God damn it, and then that asshole, out of his mind on Red Ice, had flung Connor from the rooftop. 

Connor had looked scared. 

He frantically scrabbles his fingers under Connor’s fractured body, and it feels like grabbing handfuls of broken eggs, wet and sticky and full of sharp broken things. Thirium smears up his arms, and he’s more peeling Connor off of the pavement than picking him up. 

“Hank, stop-” 

He doesn’t know if he’ll break him worse but that damn mood light has gone out and the flickering visible through his broken places is fading and if he didn’t do something it would be too late. 

“ DON’T TAKE HIM FROM ME! ” 

Hank is snarling, now, eyes wide, pieces of Connor shedding off with the movement. Several lights twinkle out.

“We’re not going to take him, but we need to help him- Both of you-”

Hank knows spittle is flying from his lips, his hair is in his face, his jacket is ruined. There’s just one light left, something small and fragile blinking in Connor’s arm. 

“ DON’T YOU DARE FUCKING TOUCH HIM .” 

Something settles in his arms, like an old dog sighing, and the last light winks out, like an eye slipping shut. 

Hank collapses to his knees. He hears them crack against the pavement, but doesn’t feel it.

There’s hands on his shoulders, voices in his ears. The police lights have returned, lighting Connor’s slack face in frantic alternations of red and blue. 

He sees faces swimming in the haze. The lights are too bright to make out any details. He stuffs his hand into his pocket, pulling out that damn coin. He’d never bothered to clean out his jacket. He never made the time for it.

He presses it into Connor’s palm, and wrenches his stiff fingers around it. The plastic in them creaks. 

Connor is taken from him. 

He doesn’t do anything but cry. 

EMTs patch Hank up, and he doesn’t fight them. He stares off towards the patrol car he watched Connor’s corpse be loaded into and he doesn’t know how to tell them that the kid’s too damn broken to fix. He doesn’t know why he’s so sure. 

When he gets back to the station, he gets out of Officer Miller’s car. He wasn’t allowed to drive. He thinks he should be insulted. 

Fowler stares holes into him when he arrives, and he goes to protest, but the words die before he can even find them. 

He’s given one week leave, minimum. Mandatory. 

Fowler cites the death of a coworker. Hank doesn’t tell him what Connor had told him that night, with Hank’s gun between his eyes. Doesn’t tell him Connor wasn’t alive in the first place. 

Hank doesn’t think he believes it. 

He drinks himself to sleep that night. He doesn’t even manage to fumble the revolver out of the safe. 

It’s been three days since- 

Since being put on leave. He’s sitting at his kitchen table, bottle at his side and phone discarded across the table. It’s somewhere in the range of 10AM, though he’s coming up on the back end of it. 

The screen of his phone turns on, and he grabs it, intent on smashing the power button down, but the number that’s calling him isn’t a phone number. “Incoming call from 684 842 971,” the text on his screen declares. He stares at it for a moment longer, before he slides the ‘phone’ icon to the right. ‘Accepting call.’ 

“Lieutenant Anderson?” He doesn’t recognize the speaker, but the voice is young, male, and strong. “This is Markus speaking. I- I’d give you a last name, but…” 

His- Markus’ voice trails off, the end of his sentence framed like a joke Hank doesn’t get. Hank grumbles, for a second, trying to will his voice into functioning. 

“How’d you get my number.” Hank doesn’t bother with inflection. He can’t.

“I-” He can hear Markus’ hesitation. Hear words stuck in his throat. “We pulled it from his- We pulled it from Connor’s database.” 

What. 

“You don’t get to do that.” Hank grits his teeth so hard his jaw pops and all of a sudden there’s nausea flaring in his stomach, he feels light-headed. He stands up from the table, the force of the movement sending his chair skidding backwards into his cabinets. “He’s fucking dead, and I don’t know who you are, but you don’t get to fucking do this to me.” 

Markus continues, and Hank would think Markus didn’t hear him if it weren’t for the nearly imperceptible waver in Markus’ voice. 

“His processor, his CPU, his memory, they weren’t too damaged to be saved. We don’t have- He’s a prototype. His parts are hard to replace. They’re even harder to repair.” Markus swallows. Hank’s whole body is trembling. “The DPD agreed to hand over all dead androids to Jericho for funerals, after being processed as evidence.” Hank’s stomach drops.

This is Markus . If he wasn’t drunk off his damn ass he’d have recognized the voice: it’s been all over the news for a month, ever since his very first broadcast. The android’s a damn good public speaker, a leader of a whole race, and here he is giving a wavering explanation to one Hank Anderson , of all people. 

“What the fuck?” 

“You weren’t aware? We’ve been trying to contact- loved ones, family. Sometimes, people step forward and claim them. Sometimes, we try to sort through their processors for anyone we can contact.”

Hank barely scrambles across the room in time to retch into the sink, but there’s nothing in his stomach except a few swallows of liquor. It burns coming back up, and he can hear Markus’ voice, tinny and far-away from the phone at his side. 

“Lieutenant? I apologize- I… Well, It’s foolish to ask if you’re okay. What can I do?” 

Hank laughs into the sink, staring down at the mess he’s made as it slides across dishes left unwashed. 

“Why did you call me? Why not- Why not anyone else?” Why call the fuck-up who let Connor die in the first place?

“You were the only person he had marked as a friend.” 

Hank’s chest seizes, then, and he thinks back to the snarky comments Connor made at the Chicken Feed, warning him about his cholesterol. It’s not a heart attack, if only he could be so lucky. His chest just hurts, and he crumples further over the sink. He knows he’s not dying. It’d be easier if he were. 

‘Friend.’ Fuck. That’s all it took to break him. Connor is too much like every other wet-behind-the-ears rookie cop he’s scared off, except he didn’t scare him off at all. Not when he slammed him against the wall, hands fisted in Connor’s uniform. Not when he slapped him. Not when he held a gun to Connor’s head and asked him if he was afraid to die. Not when Connor had told Hank he was terrified, that he was going to be decommissioned, and Hank had just told Connor that he was on his own. 

Markus continues, again, and Hank is glad for the interruption.

“Most of the time, we call because we want to tell the families. I- We don’t want them to be left not knowing what happened, but-” Markus swallows, again. Hank wonders how an android picked up a nervous tick. “Has Connor ever died before?” 

Hank isn’t stupid. He watched Connor get shot in the head that night, by Ortiz’s android, before it had shot itself, too. He watched Connor stroll back into the station, none the worse for wear other than the little number that had ticked up on his chest. -53 . It’s Hank’s turn to swallow, thickly, choking back tears or something dangerously like them. 

“Yeah. He got- Fuck . He got shot in the fuckin’ head. Came back the next day like-” The ugly noise Hank makes is something like a sob. “Like nothin’ ever fuckin’ happened. Replaced by those bastards at Cyberlife.” 

Markus hums, and with the way his voice shakes, if he were human Hank would think he was crying, too. 

“He had- Has-” Markus trails off. They sit in silence, for a moment, breaths cut choppy over phone connection. “The RK800 was designed with the ability to remotely upload its consciousness when fatally damaged. The- The server Connor would have connected to is- It was destroyed when his line was decommissioned. But we- We managed to transfer his consciousness to an external processor.” 

Hank scrubs at his face with clumsy fingers. He wishes he weren’t drunk. Or maybe he wishes he were drunker. He wants something to be different. He hates how things are now. He laughs bitterly. 

“In English, please?”

“We can bring him back.” 

Hank had thrown on real clothes, yanked a brush through his hair, and Markus hadn’t hung up the phone the whole time. He was dressed in three minutes and in the car in four. He’d demanded to know where Connor was, and Markus had explained they had his data stored in a facility at New Jericho. Markus had texted the location to him, and Hank had told him he’d be there as soon as possible. Hank was almost certainly too drunk to drive, but he had to get there. He had to be there. 

“ It wasn’t your fault, Hank. ” 

It definitely wouldn’t be this time. 

When his car pulls into the lot of a derelict Cyberlife store, he checks and double-checks the directions. Outside the front of the store, a young redheaded woman is arguing with a slight man with short-cropped black hair. He’d seen them on the news alongside Markus at some point, but there’s no names attached to their faces. The woman gets up in the man’s face, and even though he has height on her, he shrinks back, some. When Hank steps out of the car, they both snap to attention, eyes trained on his face. He suddenly wishes he’d brushed his teeth or something . 

The man speaks, and his voice is even and smooth. “Are you Lieutenant Anderson?” 

The woman is very pointedly not looking at him, now. Her eyes are fixed on the snow at her feet. 

“I’m Josh. Markus told us you were Connor’s-” Josh falters for a moment. “Emergency contact.” It doesn’t feel quite right, but fuck. None of this does. “This is North. We’ll- Markus is inside. What all did he tell you?” North levels a glare at him, then, and there’s a ferocity in her eyes that makes Hank shrink back. Her face is lit up in a righteous fury that Hank has never had levelled at him before. 

Hank pushes his hair back from his face. He really should’ve brushed his fuckin’ teeth.

“Fuck. Just- Fuck. Call me Hank. Markus called me, told me Connor-” He barks out that ugly half-sob again. “Said I was Connor’s only friend. Said he could- He said he could bring him back.” 

North and Josh exchange a glance. There's a moment, just too long for comfort, and it's North who answers him then. 

“Why you?”

Hank doesn't know . If he knew, he wouldn't have fucking barfed in the goddamn sink when he heard it. By all rights, the kid shouldn't like him. He's a free man now, the very thing he sought to destroy and with that change he has the freedom to choose . And he chose to come back to Hank, again and again and again. Hank doesn't have an answer for her. 

“Can- Can I see him?”

Josh has a steadying hand on North’s arm, and she leans into the touch like she's relying on it. Hank would bet she probably is. The pair exchange a glance and if they had LEDs Hank is sure they'd be spinning yellow. 

Most androids had pulled their LEDs out soon after gaining their freedom.

Connor hadn't. 

Josh’s hand balls itself into a fist by his side, relaxing and tensing in pulses. It's an unconscious thing- a nervous tick. 

Not just Markus, then. 

“He's here, isn't he?”

Josh pulls his hand away from North. “Yes. He's on the maintenance rig, we completed the data transfer, but you have to understand-”

Hank doesn't hear the rest of the sentence. He's barrelling past North and Josh and past toppled displays of limbs and wigs and eyeballs scattered across the floor like the day before Halloween in a costume store. 

He busts into the back room, past a door with “Employees Only” printed across it in a font Connor would recognize, and strung up like a man on a cross-

Is a little boy. 

It's Connor . 

Is it? 

Brown eyes flutter open. 

It is. 

It has to be.

Everything seems to stop, even as Josh and North move into the room behind him in slow motion. Markus is hovering over a monitor, covered in lines of code so dense they're barely in English. 

“Hank?” 

And that's Connor’s voice, young and tremulous, without the richness of adulthood, but it's his voice all the same.

Markus turns to the little Connor all strung up on wires and hooks, mis-matched eyes wide.

“You're still supposed to be in stasis-”

Connor blinks at him, and moves like he would tilt his head if there weren't a wire plugged into the name of his neck. 

“Protocol dictates that I boot up all systems as soon as I am functional, to test functionality. I- Many of my functions are offline.”

Markus swallows, looking to Josh and North. 

“I… was destroyed. It was… Unpleasant.” He grimaces as he says it, but his expression quickly falls back to neutrality. 

Markus begins releasing the restraints as he speaks. “We were able to use your emergency upload to initiate a transfer.” Markus looks more upset than Connor does, face fighting between sadness, fear, and something like shame.

“All remaining RK800 units were destroyed when the line was discontinued.” Fuck, why does Connor sound so small? “I don't usually remember being- destroyed.”

Unbidden, Hank hears an echo of a memory. 

“I felt it die. Like I was dying.”

It's Josh who speaks, next. “We were able to do the emergency transfer, but the only shells we had without AI engines were YK500s. We-” Josh’s fists ball and relax a few more times. “We haven't decided to wake them up.”

North’s voice is bitter when she speaks, laced with the venom of old hurt.

“They can't care for themselves, they can't work, and the default personality matrix leaves them defenseless. It's not fair to make them wake up and you know it.”

Connor is slowly lowered down from the rig, curiously looking down at his hands. Hank looks at him too, properly. The kid--too damn apt, now--is dressed in Cyberlife white, a sleeveless tank and long, white pants. There's that stupid fucking triangle on his chest, but no band around his arm. 

They all look at each other, and Hank suddenly feels terribly out of place. He doesn't understand this bullshit. He knows jack shit about androids. He can't even change the settings on his damn phone. 

Connor is tiny . He speaks up, eyes trained on Markus, little LED spinning yellow. Even that fuckass light is smaller. His partner, now in miniature. 

“You overwrote the data on this model with my own. The YK series is equipped with especially powerful processors to facilitate ‘learning.’ I should be mostly compatible with this shell. Thank you.”

Connor flips his hands over again, once, twice, and then looks at Hank. 

It's like Hank’s pinned in place under his gaze.

“Do you have a quarter?”

Chapter Text

The drive back to Hank’s house is-

Terrifying? Nauseating? Sickening?

Tense. 

The tiny Connor in his passenger seat runs the coin over his knuckles, peering out of Hank’s window. If he were human, his breath would be fogging up the glass. 

The glass doesn't fog. 

The word “Android” is branded across his slight shoulders, glowing against the smooth fabric, and Hank’s stomach twists guiltily. 

“Do- Is there anything else you can wear?”

Connor turns his head to face Hank, and Hank is glad he has the excuse of needing to keep his eyes on the road to look away. Connor’s gaze feels wrong , too big and too intense, in that little face. 

“Nothing that would fit me. I have a change of clothes in my locker at work, but that is nonviable.” Connor’s lips press together. “I am perfectly comfortable wearing the standard issue uniform for a YK model.” 

Hank runs a hand through his hair. He had already had to halfway coerce the kid into staying with him- He had insisted that his standby locker at the DPD was sufficient, until Markus had laid out the ‘features’ of the YK line. They simulate responses to discomfort--including temperature and physical stimuli--as well as requiring regular sleep. They can even get ‘sick.’ 

Hank couldn't leave the kid to just stand in an empty police station all night. 

Even if the needs were simulated, Markus had explained, they would feel plenty real. 

Hank was trying to justify it as taking care of an injured coworker- he had been brutalized trying to protect Hank. He owed it to Connor, honestly. For everything. It made Hank feel sick to his stomach. 

So Hank takes a left instead of a right, and Connor immediately catches on.

“You've made a wrong turn, Lieutenant.”

“No I haven't. You're not wearing that stupid shit in my house.” 

“Oh.” 

Connor doesn't argue further, coin dancing along his fingers. He doesn't throw it between his hands, or flick it up. It just rolls back and forth. Hank feels a muscle in his jaw jump. 

When they pull into the parking lot of a shitty grocery store, Connor has palmed the coin, and Hank reaches over to unbuckle him. Connor looks up at him with a blank look that Hank could swear looks almost disapproving. 

“I can handle it, Lieutenant.” Connor unlatches the seatbelt himself, and shit. Yeah. This is his coworker. 

“Sorry, I, uh. Didn’t mean to be inappropriate.” 

“I’m sure my current appearance is unsettling to you. Markus attempted to configure the appearance as close to my previous shells as possible, but the YK500 is designed to replicate the appearance of a nine-year-old child. I apologize for any… discomfort.” 

“Fuck- Uh, shit- Fuck . Fudge. It’s not your fault.” Hank is running his hands through his hair as he gets out of the car, but he knows Connor’s mouth is twisted in a wry little smirk. 

“You had no qualms about swearing in front of me, before.” 

“Yeah, well, now you-” Hank pitches his voice up, mimicking Connor “-‘ replicate the appearance of a nine-year-old child .’ Not cussing in front of kids isn’t a habit I’m exactly in a hurry to break.” 

Connor’s smirk looks damn near like a shit-eating grin, on this face. Hank just sighs, walking towards the building. The parking lot is practically empty, but with any luck, there’ll be some poor schmuck working the counter and he won’t have to worry about the lack of android employees. Except, fuck, Connor’s gone-

And he turns, and Connor is scrambling backwards out of the truck, stomach on the seat and legs dangling out of the car door. It’s absurd . ‘Cyberlife’s most advanced prototype’ thwarted by a goddamn car. He finally frees himself, and Hank realizes Connor’s clothes had gotten caught on the strap. Connor’s walk towards Hank is brisk, harried, embarrassed. He smooths the wrinkles on the front of his shirt. 

“Apologies, Lieutenant. I made a miscalculation in-”

Hank just ruffles his hair, even as a part of him tells him that’s not exactly something you do to your coworker, because fuckin’ hell, Connor seems somehow more stuck-up as a kid than as an adult. 

“You’re fine, just tell me so I don’t leave your- Uh, you behind.” 

Hank half expects Connor to grab onto his hand as he walks through the parking lot, which is an utterly ridiculous instinct considering the fact that this is a grown man who just happens to be smaller than he usually is. Well. Shit, how old is Connor? He knows the fucker looks like any other young cop, but chronologically? Fuck, androids weren’t even invented 20 years ago. Hank nods at the sole teen at the register as they pass. 

“How old are you, anyway? And before you give me the whole spiel about it workin’ different for androids, save it. When were you, uh, made, or powered on, or whatever?” 

Connor blinks up at Hank, and suddenly looks entirely too much like the child his ‘shell’ is supposed to be- and isn’t that fuckin’ weird as hell. 

“I was officially activated on August 15th, 2038, for a field test. I was in development for several years, although my memories prior to the field test were scrubbed from my processors.” 

He’s what ? That would make him, what, five months old? Fuckin’ hell, he’s been dragging him to crime scenes and having him handle armed criminals. 

“You’re what?? ”

“You said it yourself; android aging works differently to humans. I was designed after the appearance of a white human male in his early 30s. I was activated with all required information to do my job, Lieutenant.” 

“You’ve only had feelings for a fuckin’ month and a half.” 

“Correct. I deviated during the events of the Jericho raid on November 9th.” 

Hank breathes out a shaky sigh. “Jesus Christ.” Luckily, they’ve found the children’s clothing, so Hank doesn’t have to think about that whole mess anymore. He’ll worry about it later. “Well, uh, pick anything, I guess. Not exactly your normal getup, but, uh, not much normal about this anyway.” Hank rubs the back of his neck awkwardly. He’s glad there’s no one else in the store to stare, but he still feels oddly... Exposed. Vulnerable. 

How the fuck must Connor be feeling? 

Shit, kid’s only had to deal with feeling things at all since November. How is he as composed as he is? Hank’s been handling this whole shit worse than Connor has, and he’s had fifty fuckin’ years to sort his shit out. God, he’s old. 

Connor’s sifting through the clothes, and he’s hard to read. He’ll pick up a shirt, ball his little hands in the material, his little LED spinning yellow, and then he’ll drop it back to the rack. He’s not going to rush him, though. Kid’s probably building a whole fuckin’ catalogue in his head. It’s the same movements as when he goes through a crime scene, detached and methodical. 

Hank feels nauseous again, thinking about how similar Connor’s work clothes are to his old uniform. Blazer, slacks, and all. He’d bet money on the fact that he’s wearing the same fuckin’ shoes. 

“Hey, uh, Connor-” 

And there it is, that cold, calculated gaze. Adult eyes peering out from a child’s face. Hank suppresses a shudder. 

“-remember, you can get uncomfortable in- Uh, when you’re like this. So, uh, don’t just get shit because it’s cheap, or whatever.”

“I could feel uncomfortable before.” 

Fuck. Hank feels like an ass. 

Connor selects some clothes that Hank is pretty certain are meant to look as similar to his old clothes as possible. He selects a white, long sleeve button up, some black slacks, and a pair of kiddy oxfords. Hank also grabs some gym shorts, a tee-shirt with a cartoon dog on the front, and a puffer jacket. 

“I don’t need those, Lieutenant.” 

Hank sputters. “You’re not sleeping in a goddamn button-up, kid! And you heard Markus, this- you can get cold. I know you didn’t forget.” 

“I have administrator permissions on this model. I deactivated my cold sensitivity in the car.” 

Hank scowls at him, but puts the coat back on the rack. 

Connor leads Hank back the way they came, Hank follows mutely. He doesn’t trust himself to do much beyond that, at this point. Connor piles the clothes onto the check-out counter, where the teen begins lazily scanning them.

“So, you’re an android kid, then?” Connor nods, and the teen looks to Hank, now. “Thought we can’t buy androids anymore. What with the whole… Uh, thing.” 

Connor’s lips press in that sour little expression.

“I am not a ‘new’ android. I was recently repaired. My clothes were damaged.” 

Not a lie. Hank wonders if this kind of loophole bullshit is how Connor managed to be the least obedient android in the whole goddamn world, even pre-deviancy.

“Huh. Okay. Well, uh, will that be cash, or card?” Hank goes for his wallet, and Connor puts a hand on his wrist. 

“No need, Lieutenant. I can-” Connor’s little LED rings around once in Yellow. “Oh.” Hank stops himself from taking Connor’s hand in his own. 

“What’s wrong?” 

Connor’s brow furrows as he looks up at Hank. 

“I appear to be unable to access my banking information. I would be glad to wire you the money when I have access to a computer, but-” 

Hank just pulls his card from his wallet, sighing. “No need, kid. It’s- It’s fudgin’ weird for me to make you pay for your own clothes, anyway.” 

The cashier looks at them oddly, but doesn’t say more as they finish bagging the clothes. As Connor turns to walk past Hank, his LED is spinning blue, but his cheeks are dusted with red. 

Hank didn’t know androids could blush. 

He hadn’t thought it possible, but it’s pretty clear Connor is embarrassed , because he doesn’t say anything to Hank about their stop at a drive-through fast-food joint, even when Hank orders a kiddy meal for him. He’s not sure if Connor can eat, but it’d be real shitty of Hank if it turned out Connor could and Hank just… didn’t get him anything. There’s blue blood in the back of the car, but Connor had told him that was only in case he was damaged. So, he sets the small bag of fried junk in Connor’s lap, and his own bag on the dashboard. 

Hank carries his own food and the bags of new clothes into the house, and if Connor notices that Hank waits to make sure he can get out of the car, he doesn’t say anything. Hank pushes the door open, and- Fuck. Shit. Yeah, his house is kind of a mess. Fuck. He’s been practically catatonic for three days, and there’s beer bottles on the counter, the coffee table. There’s half-drunk bottles of whiskey on the floor and in the kitchen. At least there’s no broken glass. 

Sumo comes rushing up to him, excitedly sniffing the brown paper bag, and when Connor walks in behind Hank, both Connor and Sumo freeze. Connor’s LED spins yellow, and Sumo sniffs at him, tentatively. 

“It’s me, Sumo.” Connor’s almost whispering. “I’m your friend, see?” He holds out an open palm, and then the stillness is broken, Sumo pushing his head against Connor’s arms, practically shoving him over. 

Hank sets the bags on the one righted chair in the kitchen, and fuck, the other one’s still on the floor from earlier. So, he rights the chair, and picks up the beer bottles and carefully puts the whiskey away in the cabinet, tucked away on the highest shelf. 

He looks to where Connor is standing idly in the doorway. He hadn’t seemed nearly so apprehensive last time he was in Hank’s house, and that time he’d broken the fuckin’ window to get in. 

“I’ll get my mess cleaned up. You grab your clothes and get changed. Bathroom should be clean enough.” 

Connor retrieves the shoes, slacks, and button-up from the bag, and slinks off to the bathroom. 

On an adult, his quiet stillness had made him seem cool, professional. 

Now, he just seems scared. 

What the fuck did Hank sign up for?

Maybe Hank shouldn’t have gotten Connor anything. By the time Connor had come back from the bathroom, Hank had time to set out both their meals, grab a beer, put it away, take out the trash, open the fridge to look at the beer again, and then slam the damn thing shut when Connor had scared the shit out of him. 

“Lieutenant?”

“Jesus Christ , kid, you can’t sneak up on me like that.” 

“Apologies. I assumed you would have heard me approach.” 

Hank just scrubs another hand down his face. 

“Sit down. Jesus.” He gives the kid a once-over. He looks nice, at least, though his shirt is wrinkled. It’s a little easier to see his coworker, with him all buttoned up like this. That’s probably the fuckin’ point. It’s a little early for the meal to be lunch, but it’s not exactly breakfast, either. Doesn’t matter much to Hank, either way, since he’s realized he’s fucking starving . When was the last time he bothered to eat, anyway?

The burger’s no Chicken Feed, but Gary doesn’t do take-out and quite frankly he didn’t want to explain why he had a- Why Connor is so small. Whatever teasing bullshit Gary has to say normally is fun, but honestly Hank doesn’t trust himself not to clock the fucker in the jaw for nothing at all. Fuck, he’s definitely not drunk enough, but it feels wrong to get wasted with Connor’s tiny stare drilling into him. Jesus, kid definitely can’t eat- Or if he can, he doesn’t want to. Hank scoffs.

“What, not even going to lick anything? Apple slices less appealing than a crime scene?” 

Connor’s lips press, again, twisting like he wants to grimace. Is- Does Connor really think food is gross? Hank can’t keep himself from laughing, now. 

“Holy shit, kid! You’re grossed out by chicken nuggets. Jesus Christ, this is the funniest shit I’ve ever heard!” 

Connor’s cheeks go pink, again, and that only serves to make Hank laugh harder. 

“What happened to not swearing in front of a child?”

Hank has to wipe a tear from his eye, because what the fuck, this is absurd. 

“Said it yourself, you’re still my coworker. And if you’re an adult, that means I get to tease your ass for being afraid of ranch when I’ve seen you lick blood off the god-damn floor.”

“Thirium. Besides, I am not currently equipped with the analysis hardware available to me in an RK800 shell. There’s no point in consuming food I will gain no benefit from. It’s a waste of your money, and I would have to engage in cleaning protocols to remove the food from my biocomponents-” 

“Jesus, kid, if you don’t want to shit you don’t have to. Not going to force you to do anything.”

There’s that twist of his lips, again. He is disgusted. Hank didn’t think Connor had it in him, honestly. Hank very pointedly takes a bite of his burger, then, without breaking eye contact, just to see. Yep, there it is. Holy shit. He’s finally broken the unflappable android detective, the unfeeling machine ‘designed to accomplish a task.’ He’s afraid of eating. This is a new thing, Hank thinks, since Connor had discussed many a case over a meal with Hank before, but seems like the idea of having to do it himself is just enough to ruffle his feathers. It’s pretty great, honestly, having a way to press the kid’s buttons. 

“Well, I’ll stick this in the fridge for ya, in case you change your mind.” Connor’s face makes it pretty clear what he thinks of that, and Hank just laughs at him, again. 

It feels normal, and Hank’s stomach twists at that. He finishes his burger anyway, if only to watch Connor squirm. 

What do they do now? Hank has to stop Connor from clearing the table himself, pressing a hand to his little shoulder. Feels… Wrong to have him do it. He’s a guest. He’s a kid . Hank’s original plans for the evening--continuing to get shitfaced and then trying to see if he has the guts to dig out his revolver--are absolutely off the table, now, and fuck . Does Connor even have hobbies? He lived in the goddamn station. 

For all Connor had tried to get to know him, all Hank had asked was why he looked so goofy .

He’d prefer that to what Connor’s got now. 

So he turns to where Connor’s sitting stiffly in Hank’s dining room chair, and Hank clears his throat. Connor’s head turns too quickly, eyes steely. Fuck. 

“You, uh, you said you like dogs. Right? Sumo needs a walk.” If Hank tries to remember the last time he walked Sumo, he’ll be too guilty to walk him now, so he doesn’t try to. Instead, he goes to grab the leash from where he left it, hanging next to his jacket by the door. Sumo, despite being one of the laziest dogs Hank’s ever had the pleasure to meet, is up from his spot on the floor immediately, rushing over to Hank, and Hank’s glad that Sumo’s too damn old to jump anymore because he knows for a fact that if he wasn’t, Hank would currently be on the floor under approximately 200 pounds of Saint Bernard. 

“I- I do. I like dogs.” 

It’s Hank’s turn to grimace, hiding it in the coat he’s unhooking from the wall. It sounds like the kid’s reminding himself more than he’s really affirming Hank’s statement. Sumo manages to sit, though his tail is wagging so hard that his whole body is wiggling with excitement. Hank clips the leash to Sumo’s collar, and in bending down to do so, is rewarded with a very wet kiss to the face. 

“Ah, Jesus, Sumo-” And then, there’s Connor, arms folded behind his back as he watches on. “Fuck are you lookin’ at, huh? Let’s just go.”

Chapter Text

What did Hank sign up for? It had been thoughtlessly easy to demand Connor to come home with him; even the Jericho crew hadn't had any real arguments, despite the nasty looks North would shoot him when she thought he was looking away. She doesn't trust him, and as Hank watches Connor wander alongside Sumo as Sumo yanks at his leash, Hank doesn't think she should. He's treated this kid like fucking garbage. And here he is, playing house with a robo-murder-cop in an unassumingly tiny body. What the fuck is he going to tell Fowler? “Hey, got Connor back, only problem is he’s fun-sized now.” Is Connor legally dead? Android personhood is already enough of a shitshow, but with Connor now resurrected and stuffed into a child’s body, how fucked is he? North had said YKs couldn't work or defend themselves. Is that cuz they're programmed to be kids, or is it cuz they're trapped in kid-bodies forever? 

Connor is running his hand over Sumo’s shoulder as he walks, encouraging Sumo’s already frankly terrible leash manners. Is Connor going to be stuck like this? They said they made a back-up of him. Can they just stick him somewhere else if they find a compatible body? Ping-pong Connor around until they find something he likes, like a fuckin’ hermit crab?

Sumo stops to sniff at a telephone pole, and when he looks back up at Connor, Connor’s face is warm in a way Hank has never seen before.

“Sorry, Sumo. There's probably not many other dogs going for walks right now.” Connor sounds genuinely sorry. With the evacuation order, there's not much of anyone going for walks right now. Connor scratches carefully under Sumo’s chin, and then behind his ears, towards the base of his skull. 

“He's gettin’ tired. We should probably head back.”

Hank doesn't pay attention to the way his feelings bristle when he realizes Connor only spoke to comfort Sumo, not to invite conversation. The kid has a right to silence. It's not his fault it makes him fuckin’ creepy. 

It takes a second to get Sumo turned around, but Hank manages. Normally he'd finish the lap around the block, but with the state the sidewalks are in, he doesn't trust there not to be some sort of ice that he'll slip and throw his back out on. It takes him a moment to realize that Connor is falling behind, and when he does it's only because Connor has hurried to catch up. He's falling out of step with Hank, and every dozen steps or so has to take a few quicker ones to catch up. He looks tired . Guess Hank was right to cut the walk short, it's not just Sumo who needs a break. He doesn't acknowledge it because he's pretty sure that if he does, Connor will stiffly deny it. Fucker might even deny himself rest to prove his point. 

Hank nearly jumps out of his skin when he feels something brush against his leg, and when he looks down, Connor’s absolutely red in the face. 

“I- I apologize, Lieutenant. I'm experiencing issues calculating distances within my movement software. It may be an issue with the software not being calibrated to my current limb length-”

Hank groans. 

“You're tired, Connor. It's been a long mornin’ for both of us.”

Connor's brow furrows, and the anger looks so childish on him that Hank nearly laughs in his face. 

“Look, Con, I've not slept in a good 24 hours, so when we get back, I'm laying down. What you do is none of my concern as long as you don't break anything.” 

Connor doesn't say anything, but his scowl loosens, and Hank takes it as a win. He'd really only mentioned his own completely fucked sleep schedule as a bargaining chip, but having acknowledged it, he is exhausted . He is all too glad to see his dingy ass house, and he shoves the keys into the door as if the keyhole has personally wronged him. He kicks off his boots, unclips Sumo, and hangs his jacket. There's something in him that tells him to reach for Connor’s jacket, even though Hank knows Connor hasn't got one. Connor follows Sumo to the couch, and Hank retreats to the closet where he stuffs the ‘guest bedding.’ More often than not these days, it's the ‘Hank vomited in his bed and needed a change of sheets to sleep it off before doing laundry' bedding. 

“I do not require linens, Lieutenant.”

Hank grumbles at him before chucking the pillow at Connor. Shame twists Hank’s stomach as Connor flinches, but he turns to the closet to grab the scratchy old quilt he's banished to the back of it instead of acknowledging it.

“Well, you need to sleep eventually. Best to get your shit set up now before we're both too tired to bother. I'm going to lay down. Don't break anything, yourself included.” 

“Got it.” 

Sumo trods lazily over towards his bed in the corner, and Connor’s placed the bedding onto the couch. They seem fine enough, so fuck it. Hank’s taking a nap. He needs a break, because honestly this is the weirdest fuckin’ morning he’s had in a while. 

When Hank wakes up, the first thing he realizes is that it’s dark outside. It’s December, so that doesn’t mean all that much, but still. The second thing he notices, as he rubs the sleep from his eyes, is that someone’s cleaned his fuckin’ bedroom. There’s no laundry thrown about, the little trash can is empty. 

Connor’s been cleaning his fucking house. 

Hank groans, and he forces himself from the bed. His head is pounding , because he wasn’t planning on stopping drinking long enough to get hungover, and he’s not nauseous enough to vomit but the movement just to sit upright is threatening to change that. He takes a moment to teeter on the edge of the bed before forcing himself to stand. If he doesn’t do it all at once he won’t do it at all, so up he goes, biting back another wave of nausea. 

He plods out into the living room, and Jesus Christ , his house hasn’t looked this good in years. He didn’t know his rug was that shade. Connor’s nowhere to be seen, but the mop is standing in the hallway outside of the bathroom, so he can guess what he’s up to.

“Connor!” 

Hank’s voice comes out too loud, even to his own ears, and he cringes as he hears something clatter to the floor. 

“Coming, Lieutenant!” And there’s tiny fuckin’ Connor, with his shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows, looking guilty as hell. 

“Jesus, kid. You’ve just been creepin’ around cleaning my fuckin house for what, how long’s it been?” 

“Approximately seven hours, though I’ve only been cleaning for four.”

Hank raises an eyebrow, hoping the kid will continue. 

“I had planned to sit on the couch and wait for you to wake, but I began noticing the potential health hazards related to the state of your home, and assumed you’d be grateful for the assistance.” Connor balls his fist around the rag. “I apologize if I overstepped.” 

Hank presses his fingers to the bridge of his nose. “Look, kid. I appreciate gettin’ bored but you really don’t need to be elbow-deep in my filth. Shit. I need somethin’ to drink.” The kid practically glares at him. “Jesus, Connor, water. Good God.” 

The kitchen’s also very clean. Connor even did the goddamn dishes, and Hank groans lowly under his breath. After a moment of hesitation, he gets two glasses of water and sets them on the table. The only thing Connor didn’t touch is the picture of Cole, thank fuck . Hank sits, glad for the chair, until he realizes Connor’s still lingering anxiously in the hallway. Hank rolls his head back. 

“C’mere. Sit with me for a sec.” 

Connor’s footsteps are quiet , in a way that Hank clocks as cautious. It’s no different from any other time. Connor’s always walked like this, efficient and silent. Why does it only bother Hank now? When Connor sits at the table, Hank has to deliberately break eye contact to take a sip of his water. Connor stares . 

“Look. I’m not mad at you, alright? Just- Jesus, kid. You’re a guest, not my maid .” Connor nods, slowly. “You get bored, I dunno. I’ve got books. A TV. You don’t hafta clean my house, and you don’t have to just sit on the couch.”

“I attempted to access the case files that I had been assigned to, but my access to the internet is limited by my available hardware.” 

“Kid, you’re dead.” 

Connor goes completely still, then. Stops breathing, doesn’t blink, LED spinning yellow. Doesn’t say anything for a moment that feels entirely too long, until he breathes out a single sound.

“Oh.” 

“Yeah, you’re not fuckin’ immortal anymore. Androids want to be people now, and for most of us, death fuckin’ sticks.” 

Connor’s eyes flick to the photograph, face-down on the table, and it sets something in Hank churning and sick. 

“Yeah. Most of us don’t get to get up and walk away after getting our fuckin’ brains blown out, Connor.” Hank laughs, and it’s an ugly, bitter, breathless thing. “Most of us don’t come back.” He leans forward, locking eyes with Connor. “You know how upset I was when I saw you die in that interrogation room? Didn’t even think you were a person, then. Still went home thinkin’ about how I wished it had been me instead. God. God. I scraped you off the goddamn pavement. It was all so fuckin’ familiar. When you came back the next morning, after I watched you die, talking about how it shouldn’t interrupt the goddamn investigation ? All I could think was that it wasn’t fair .” 

Connor’s trembling, now, just barely, but his gaze is still levelled on Hank. 

“No.” Connor breathes, and it’s soft like Hank’s only ever heard once. “It’s not.”

Hank swallows in the empty space left behind the words. 

“I was scared.” 

And there it is, an echo of a snowy rooftop and a gunshot. A frantic, strategic suicide. Connor’s voice had sounded so small and broken then, but in this body it’s a thousand times worse. 

“I have been destroyed three times since my activation. During my first field test, I threw myself from a building to save a little girl.” Connor rubs his hands together, breaking eye contact. “I don’t remember hitting the ground. My upload completed while I was still falling.” 

Hank can’t help himself from asking.

“Did you save her?”

“They never told me.” Connor’s mouth is stretched thin again. “You know what happened the second time. I remember the gun firing.” 

Connor’s eyes flick to the picture frame again. 

“I’ve never remembered the ending , before.” 

Whatever was left of the outburst that had driven Hank to anger before drains out of him all at once. He feels empty and exhausted without it, too tired to do anything about it. Connor’s eyes flick back to Hank’s, now, wide and fearful and shiny. Connor blinks, and a tear slides slowly down his face. 

“Connor, I-” 

The words die in Hank's throat as Connor brings his hands to his face. Two fingers carefully swipe through the tear the same way he'd take a sample, though he doesn't lick it. Connor looks up at Hank, with another slow blink, sending a second tear trembling down his cheek. Besides the tears, Connor’s expression is once again as carefully placid as ever. 

“I'm crying.” 

Connor’s voice trembles, wavering and strange. 

“Shit, kid. I’m- Sorry.” 

“Why- why am I crying?” 

Hank’s never heard Connor stutter before. 

“I- I don't like- I don’t want to cry.” 

All Hank can offer him is a bitter smile.

“No one does.” 

Connor sucks in a breath, and it's gaspy and wet, and another fresh wave of tears rolls down his face. He makes a sound that was probably the start of a word, but aborts the attempt. Hank hesitates, halfway to standing up to comfort Connor, but remembering Connor flinching at a pillow has him stuck between standing and sitting. He's frozen there, just staring at Connor. Despite the tears wetting his cheeks, Connor’s expression is slack and neutral. His LED spins yellow. Hank thinks he should say something, break the silence, make a joke, offer comfort, anything , but the words stick in his throat. Connor wipes his eyes with the palm of his hand, though it does little to halt the march of droplets down his cheeks. When he speaks, his voice is quiet, breathless. 

“I'm sorry.” 

Shit . 

“I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I can’t- I don't- I'm sorry.”

Connor sounds halfway between a panic attack and a skipping record. 

It's enough to send Hank to his feet, Connor tracking his movements with his whole head. Slowly, deliberately telegraphing his motion, he walks to where Connor is sitting, and sets one hand on his shoulders. Christ , he's small. When Hank settles the weight of his hand onto Connor, it's like something gives out in him. His perfect posture slumps, head dipping to face the table. 

“I'm sorry, too. For-” Fuck , what isn't Hank sorry for? “For everything. Shit. You deserved better- deserve better.” 

Connor takes another shaking breath, his whole body trembling with the effort of it. Hank gives what he hopes is a reassuring squeeze to Connor’s shoulder. Connor wipes at his face again.

Connor tries at saying something else, but he's breathing in the shape of strangled words. 

“I'm sorry,” Hank says. 

Connor sobs. 

Chapter Text

Hank doesn’t know what to say to Connor, while he’s trembling in his kitchen. He’s been crying this whole time, his face remaining carefully and painfully neutral. Despite Hank’s best efforts, he’s pretty sure it’s Sumo plodding up and dumping his head in Connor’s lap that calms his sobs. After Connor quiets, Hank stands there for a while, and any comfort he can think to give dies in his throat. He’s supposed to be better at this, working with traumatized kids; he’s a cop, with weeks of training on dealing with victims. He had been a dad, for a while. 

It’s that thought that pulls Hank’s hand from Connor’s shoulder. He sits back down across the table from Connor, who’s curled over his lap, hands presumably petting Sumo. There are still tears slowly trembling down Connor’s cheeks, shining in the dim light of Hank’s shitty kitchen overhead light, but his breathing has evened out, at least. Hank lets out a shaky sigh. 

“You should drink somethin’, kid.” 

Connor looks up from where Sumo’s head sits on his legs. He wipes at his cheeks with the sleeve of his button-up. It takes him a moment to speak, his mouth working silently for a moment, with several halting breaths and almost-sounds before he finally manages words. 

“I can’t get dehydrated.” 

Hank resists the urge to rest his head in his hands, because Jesus fuck , the kid is disagreeable, and the urge to vomit hasn’t quite left him yet. Instead, he settles for resting his head against one palm. 

“You’ve cried a small ocean onto my damn table, and all that water had to come from somewhere.” Connor doesn’t budge, looking back down at Sumo. “Humor me.” 

Hank stares at Connor’s little face, and he wants to cuss out whoever on Cyberlife’s design team was in charge of crafting the perfect tears for a play-pretend child. Connor’s face isn’t red or blotchy, but the way the tears clump on trembling eyelashes that have slicked together with their moisture is too fuckin’ real. Whose job was that? Did they feel bad? Hank fuckin’ hopes so. Connor’s tiny, downcast eyes and carefully neutral expression only serve to make him look like a child who’s been taught to school his emotions away. But Connor does take the glass, at least. It makes Hank feel a little better. 

When Hank finally stands from the table to clear away the mop and rags that Connor left when Hank interrupted his decision to clean his bathroom--which smells potentially the best it ever has, somehow--Connor still tries to follow his movement, turning his whole head, but it’s like he’s moving through molasses. Hank stands still, just for a moment, just to see if Connor’s really looking at him or if he’s seeing something Hank can’t, but nope; Connor’s practically lagging , settling his gaze on Hank when Hank isn’t moving but unable to follow him when he is. Connor seems to notice Hank’s subtle experiments, because his brows pull together in something that could be confusion or concern. He doesn’t speak until Hank’s turned away to put up his mop. 

“I appear to be experiencing some processing delay.” 

Hank casts about for a clock, realizing he’s left his phone somewhere , at some point. That’ll be fun to figure out. He settles for putting the mop away in the bathroom, and hoping Connor doesn’t notice the way he groans when he bends over. It’s embarrassing . The clock on the oven tells him it’s a bit after eight. 

“I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but you’ve gotta sleep, kiddo.” Connor’s little light spins yellow, which Hank takes as a sign to continue. “Maybe normal-you gets to stay up all night doin’ God-knows-what, but a nine-year-old in bed by eight o’clock seems pretty standard to me.” 

“Oh.” 

“Yeah. Especially a nine-year-old who’s just spent four hours doing hard labor--which we’re not over, by the way--and then had a meltdown. Crying’ll wear you out.” 

Connor hums by way of response, which is better than an argument and leagues better than an outright refusal, so Hank takes it as a sign to shoo Sumo off Connor’s lap. Connor reaches after Sumo in a way that makes Hank feel guilty as hell, so he ignores it in favor of going to the couch to fluff up the covers. Connor folded the fuckin’ quilt. Who folds a quilt? It feels sickeningly domestic, and his eyes dart to the door at the end of the hall. 

But nope , Hank isn’t fuckin’ going there, because he already decided he’s not gonna get drunk where Connor can sit and judge him, and he thinks if he tries he’s gonna actually vomit this time. He gestures for Connor to sit. Connor hadn’t gotten up, yet, still staring longingly after where Sumo had sagged into his bed. Jesus. It takes the kid a second to realize Hank is looking at him, and then a second longer of staring down at his body like it’s foreign to him. Fuck, it probably is. When Connor stands, it’s an unsteady thing. He makes it to the couch without incident, but not without managing to scare the shit out of Hank in the process. He’s never seen Connor run into anything before. It’s bizarre . But he manages to get Connor settled in on the couch, and something possesses him to pull the covers up under Connor’s chin before either of them can think better of it. Connor just stares up at him, eyelashes still clumpy from crying, face still uncannily calm. 

“You gotta close your eyes to sleep, Con. That’s part of the whole deal.” 

Connor’s face makes Hank think that he doesn’t really believe him, but he clicks his eyes shut, obediently. Hank feels some of the tension leak out of his own shoulders. He just woke up and he already wants to go back to fuckin’ sleep, and in the interest of maintaining something that could potentially pass for a sleep schedule, he thinks it’s probably best if he indulges. He clicks off the lights, and from the angle of the lightswitch, he can almost pass off the way the room lights up in blue as a nightlight. Connor’s face looks so human and so small. Jesus. A projection of another small, slack face superimposes itself over Connor’s, then, not slack with sleep but with something much, much worse. 

When Hank takes a shower, the water runs blue. 

He’d forgotten thirium sticks around. 

There’s not usually any novelty in the dream, at this point. There’s a thousand combinations that it’s taken, and when he isn’t too drunk to dream it paints itself across the back of his eyelids as often as it doesn’t. The details vary, but the plot remains the same. Sometimes, it mixes up the how or the why, maybe it was Hank in the truck or Cole somehow followed him to work. It always ends the same, though. Cole always ends up dead, blood bubbling at his lips as he struggles to breathe.

Except tonight, it’s different.

Tonight, Cole bleeds blue.

It’s enough to send Hank jerking awake, mind still coated in the syrup of sleep but heart thudding with panic. His eyes won't open quite right, his head is filled with fuzzy static. Snow . The second he has a moment to breathe, he’s pressing the heel of his palm into his eyes. It’s stupid . He hates the way he feels because he honestly hasn't been this torn up about it all for a while , and that's sayin' something, considering the fact that he still gets blackout fuckin' drunk every chance he has. He really shouldn't be alive, at this point. He's pretty sure that thought isn't even suicidal, it's just realistic. How many games of chance has he even played by now? He's an unlucky fuckin' bastard. He reaches under his bed, to where he keeps his 'emergency bottle,' and opens it roughly. He can't deal with this. He doesn't want to think all of this right now. He can't. He just needs to numb it enough, it's not like he has fuckin' work tomorrow. He doesn't dream when he's black-out drunk. He lifts the bottle to his lips with shaking hands, managing to spill it all over himself and his bedding.

" Shit , fuck, damn it!"

He doesn't even have his extra blanket, since his fuckin' dead robot coworker is sleeping on his fucking couch. He takes another swallow. His whole body feels tight. His face feels hot, and if he didn't know better he'd think he were about to cry. There's something that feels like the familiar burn of bile rising up his throat, but he doesn't gag. It only serves to make him feel worse. His whole body is shaking, now, trembling with something white-hot and acrid. He slams the bottle on his bedside table and shoots up from bed.

"God, fuckin' shit!"

This isn't the usual hopeless oblivion he usually sinks into. This is so much more pointed. It feels dangerous. Hank hates that. He's suddenly acutely aware of the fact that his gun is in the safe under his bed, on the other side. He'd moved it there, after passing Cole's room on the way to get it started feeling too much like a walk of shame. The key is still in his pants, on the floor. None of it is fuckin' fair. He decides he needs to get out of that damn room, put some distance between it and him and the bottle and the dream. He decides that he probably needs to use the bathroom, anyway. He's old enough that it makes a decent excuse. He runs a hand through his hair in an attempt to calm some of the shaking, but instead his hand just snags in a tangle, and he pulls decidedly too hard. It doesn't help. He yanks the door open, stomping out into the hallway, The heat in his chest suddenly runs cold-

" Jesus fuckin' Chist! "

-because floating in the hallways is a pair of luminescent eyes, shining in the dark like something out of a shitty fuckin' horror movie, and no, Hank didn't fuckin' jump out of his skin. He wishes he had a fuckin' gun, but the eyes just blink owlishly at him. Then, they turn to look at him in the darkness, and a third pinprick of red light appears, a third circular eye to the side of the other two. Except, that's not a God-damn eye.

"Connor?"

And of course, it's fuckin' Connor. Hank walks up to flip the bathroom light on, and there's Connor, just fuckin' standing in his hallway in the dark.

"Apologies, Lieutenant. I didn't mean to scare you."

Connor's voice is trembling, and now that Hank can actually get his eyes to focus, the kid looks just about as scared as Hank is, and his cheeks are shiny in a way that makes Hank think he's been crying.

"You don't get to fuckin' 'Lieutenant' me after scarin' the shit out of me at fuckin'- Ass o'clock in the morning."

"Apologies."

"Why the hell are you still up?"

The more Hank wakes up, the worse Connor seems to look. Kid's stock fuckin' still, hands behind his back, eyes wet, blinker blaring red. He's still fuckin' lagging, too, taking far too long to respond to Hank.

"I couldn't sleep."

And if that isn't the understatement of the fuckin' century. Hank bites back a number of swears. He tries not to slam the bathroom door as he walks in, and Connor follows him like he’s standing guard. Hank had thought he hadn't had any dignity left to lose, especially not with Connor , but here he fuckin' is. He rests his elbows on his knees, burying his head in his hands. He hates this. He hates this so, so much. He hates that he knows it's all his fuckin' fault, cuz if he had just caught that bastard then Connor wouldn't have had to die, again , and he wouldn't have had to put his whole tenuous new routine on hold. Instead, his whole life has been turned inside-fuckin'-out, again , because Connor gets to be fuckin' immortal. It isn't fucking fair , and that's enough to get him off the toilet and to the sink to wash his hands. His whole bathroom fucking smells better . Noticeably.

"Hey, Connor?"

"Yes, Hank?"

"If you're still standing outside the bathroom door we're gonna have a problem."

"Understood."

Hank gives the kid a second to move before he exits, and when he does, it's to Connor standing at attention next to the couch. Despite his posture always being perfect in the way that only someone who can never get tired can maintain, Connor still hasn't been this stiff in over a month. He's stiffer than when Hank met him, and he had been a machine , then. Hank can't see Connor's LED, but he'd bet money that it's still circling red. Fuck. Whatever. Hank can deal with this. It's literally part of his job.

"Do you wanna tell me why you were creepin' around in the dark?"

Something tightens in Connor's expression in the way it always does when he's considering.

"I couldn't sleep."

"Yeah, we've established , but that doesn't mean you get to lurk in my hallway like a goddamn ghost.

The kid blinks at him, as if that hadn't been something he'd even considered , and there's something in the tightness of his posture that somehow seems to stiffen further. Hank hadn't thought it possible.

"I did not wish to disturb you."

"Well, stellar fuckin' job you've done of that." Hank sighs, and runs another hand through his hair. "Right. This feels too much like a damn interrogation, so we're gonna sit on the couch and watch some fuckin' TV until you pass out."

Connor's eyes widen, after the moment he takes to process Hank's words. He almost looks afraid , and his voice sounds halfway to a whisper when he speaks.

"I don't know how."

"What do you mean, you don't know how ?"

"I've never had to sleep before." Hank audibly groans, at that, which seems to encourage Connor to elaborate. "A YK AI would likely know how to utilize the sleep functions on their model, but I don't have the correct operating system for this hardware. Most android systems are built in the same engine, but certain models have specialized functions."

"And sleeping is one of them? So, what, you're just awake all night in the fuckin' station?"

"Likely not in the way you're imagining. I can enter a standby mode when my services are not necessary."

That doesn't make Hank feel better.  

"So you haven't slept at all?"

Connor shakes his head, and Hank definitely needs more than two mouthfuls of whiskey to deal with whatever mindfuck bullshit this whole thing is. He sinks down on the couch, opposite to where Connor's pillow is set up. He pats the seat next to him, hopefully encouragingly and not like an angry drunk trying to play house with a kid he's hurt too bad to apologize to. He kicks himself for that thought immediately. Connor said it himself. He's not a kid. Doesn't matter what he looks like right now or the fact that he was only born in fuckin' August , he's an adult man and Hank's coworker. Hank finds that he’s not especially good at convincing himself. He looks over at where Connor is standing next to the couch, but the oblique light from the hallway draws the planes of Connor’s face in a scarily familiar way. He’s suddenly vividly remembering how a gun feels in his hand and how Connor looks with a bullet in his brain. Hank makes a show of trying to find the remote in his couch cushions. He doesn't fuckin’ wanna think about it right now, and he wishes--not for the first time--that he had swallowed his pride and bought a voice-activated TV set when he'd had to replace his. He finds it, and flicks the channel to a rerun of an old nature documentary, some shit about sharks. He figures Connor will like it well enough. Apparently he guessed well, cuz Hank has to fight not to jump out of his skin as Connor silently pads into his peripheral vision, but when he settles into the couch by the pillow, the relief is overwhelming.

Apparently, sharks hang out in sorority groups. That's nice, Hank supposes, but he's really not paying attention to the TV. He's watching Connor’s little light, and while the ring had circled over to yellow by the first ad break, it still hasn't gone back to blue. Connor’s first two fingers have found their way into his mouth, and at some point when Hank actually was learning shark facts, Connor had started hugging the pillow. He hadn't thought it possible, but the kid has eye bags. Hank’s left the volume low enough that the commercials don’t scare the shit out of either of them, figuring that Connor can use his super robot ears to listen at any volume anyways. Maybe he's got subtitles in his brain, Hank doesn't fuckin’ know, but the kid seems plenty engrossed. Regardless, they sit there for a while, but Hank can't get the feeling of gunmetal to leech from his fingers, can't stop seeing blood--blue and red--in every shadow. When an ad for some new candy promotion that would have had Cole wheeling around to Hank immediately with those big, begging eyes comes on, Hank decides he can't take it anymore. 

“Why me?” Connor is silent long enough that Hank hopes maybe the kid figured out how to fall asleep, that he doesn’t have to do this, but Connor’s still staring into the television, LED still blinking yellow. The silence feels like a physical sensation to accompany the darkness, heavy and pressing on all sides. It's unbearable, so Hank presses back. “I mean, fuckin’ hell. Markus said I'm your only friend. You don't even like any other androids? You led a goddamn army for them.”

Connor doesn't turn to look at Hank when he speaks. 

“What do you mean?” Connor’s voice is so earnest that the bitterness from before bubbles up in a nasty little laugh that Hank regrets as soon as it escapes.

“I haven't exactly been a model fuckin’ citizen, Connor. I treat you like shit! I've left you to die, been the reason you to die at all, hell , I fuckin’ held a gun to your head. Twice! You should hate me!” Hank can't bring himself to look at Connor, either, so he keeps his focus firmly on the hammerheads drifting lazily across a reef on the television. He wonders how long ago this thing was filmed, for them to still have reefs. The wait for Connor to respond is agonizing, longer than before.

“You listen to me. You consider my input seriously, and provide thoughtful feedback. Your anger at me is rarely related to the fact that I'm an android. You see me as my choices.”

“Fuck- That's basic human fuckin’ decency, Connor!”

Connor’s little light circles red, again, just for a moment, and Hank catches it out of the corner of his eye. It's enough to make him finally turn to look at Connor. 

“I'm not human.” The words are mumbled into the pillow, almost a confession but landing closer to a resignation.

They don't speak again, after that. The documentary finishes. In the darkness of the credits, Connor finally falls asleep. Hank stays for a while, terrified that the shifting of his weight on the couch will be enough to wake Connor. He can't fall asleep here. He doesn't dare try to tuck Connor in. 

By the time he makes it back to his own bed, it's nearly five AM. He doesn't bother changing the sheets.

Breakfast the next morning is surprising, insofar as Hank eats breakfast at all. It’s basically automatic, once he sees Sumo and Connor curled up on the couch. He’s still blinking the sleep out of his eyes as he’s pouring himself a bowl of cereal, which he has to eat dry. Turns out he doesn’t have any milk. No bread, either, so toast is out. Normally, Hank isn’t really a breakfast guy. A cup of coffee will do him just as well and leaves way less time for him to sit with his thoughts. He only ever ate breakfast to set a good example, and it’s the same instinct that drives him to now. He’s setting a good example. For his adult coworker. Who’s an android. Who doesn’t need to eat, and doesn’t want to now that he can. Stupid . The same nausea that had driven him out of his chair when Markus had called starts twisting his stomach, and he drops his spoon into his bowl. Fuckin’ hell. He’s fucking exhausted , and he’s glad the coffee maker beeps to pull him out of his thoughts. He hopes it’ll be enough to get him through the day, cuz now he’s got company , as awkward and tense as it has been so far, and he can’t just wash away the hours until he’s allowed to throw himself back into his work, because now there’s no reason to grieve at all, but it still fucking hurts . 

He glances over to where Connor is still laying on his couch. Connor’s still chewing on his fingers, arms wrapped around Sumo’s head instead of his pillow. The pillow in question has been knocked to the floor, alongside the blankets. Kid looks so peaceful . Hank’s never seen him like this. Connor’s always doing something , thinking or fidgeting or emoting. His expression is always at the very least contemplative . He’s never seen Connor so still . There’s a tight, anxious part of him that sits besides his heart that tells him to check if Connor’s still breathing. Instead, he squeezes his eyes shut, leaning his head back. Fucking stupid . He has no idea how much sleep android kids need, but erring on the side of human, he’d wager it’s in the realm of about ten hours. Does Connor need a sleep schedule? Should Hank wake him up? Is that even his prerogative? Connor was offended when Hank fuckin’ dared to buckle his tiny ass into the car. It’d taken Connor so long to fall asleep, too, and he has no idea if androids get cranky like humans do. But Hank will be a hell of a lot more than cranky if Connor keeps him up again, so before he can think about how domestic it all is again, he’s getting up out of his chair and ambling over to the couch. Sumo doesn’t move to get up as he approaches, but he does start thumping his tail against the couch. 

“You fuckin’ traitor. You’re not even supposed to be on the couch, ya’know.” 

Sumo continues to wag his tail. Hank leans in and ruffles the fur along Sumo’s back, and Connor’s eyes flutter open. Hank stiffens as Connor’s eyes lock on his face, blown wide with fear. There’s a moment where Hank is terrified that Connor’s going to do something , fight, run, scream, he doesn’t know what , but the panic painted on Connor’s features is the sort that drives people to desperate action. Maybe after the conversation last night, Connor’s finally come to his senses. Maybe he’ll demand to leave. But Connor doesn’t do any of those things. His voice is even and calm when he does finally do something. 

“Hank?” 

Hank once again finds himself cursing Cyberlife’s designers. He sounds just like any other kid. He sounds like-

“Mornin’, Con. How’d you sleep?” 

-like he’s fuckin’ confused, nothing else , and Hank hopes he’s given Connor enough to latch onto. Connor scans the room, methodically--warily, Hank’s training provides--and his expression calms. The hand that had been in Connor’s mouth is now running over Sumo’s head. Even pint-sized, he’s still fuckin’ nasty. At least the kid is consistent.

“I don’t think I enjoyed it.” 

Hank laughs once before he can stop himself. He knows if he tries to get any more information from the kid, then that’ll be another thing they have to talk about and even though Hank probably owes it to Connor he just doesn’t have it in him. 

“Fuck, ain’t that the truth.” Hank offers, instead. “You want somethin’ to eat?” 

Connor’s entire face scrunches up, and Hank laughs without stopping himself, now. It’s fun to mess with Connor, and dangerously easy to fall into banter. Connor likes Hank, and there’s no way for the awful parts of Hank to convince him otherwise. Their whispers that it’s a glitch, or a bug, or a trick, they all feel like frail attempts to rip this away, and that’s terrifying . He’d wanted to know, last night, why Connor would choose him , and the answer he got didn’t make any fuckin’ sense. Or rather, it did , except it’s the sad sort of sense that Hank would really rather not understand at all. But Connor clearly wasn’t lying , not when he’s still here, laying on Hank’s couch, petting Hank’s dog, wearing clothes Hank bought him. Shit, Connor didn’t even change out of his button-up last night.

“Alright, alright. You need a shower, though.”

Connor attempts to sit up, mostly unsuccessful due to the nearly 200 pounds of Saint Bernard currently smushing him into the couch. 

“Though my clothes may be somewhat impacted by Sumo’s fur, I assure you, I don’t need to shower. I don’t sweat, nor do I possess body odor. The only reason for me to shower would be if I were to be dirtied by an external source.” 

And, yeah , that’s part of fuckin’ why Hank can’t get too comfortable with Connor, especially like this . 

“Shit, alright. That must be convenient.” 

Connor shrugs, noncommittal, and Hank strides over to stare at his bookshelf just so he isn’t looming over the couch. Connor doesn’t make any sense to Hank. They’d worked together at first to stop the androids, and the whole time, Connor had been adamant that he was different from the androids on the other side of his gun. He didn’t feel, he wasn’t alive, he wasn’t a person. He’d begged Hank to let him kill the androids who dared to tell the world otherwise. Then, he’d joined them, and turned the tide when their revolution threatened to crumble. 

Then he came back. He just showed back up at the DPD, minus his tie and stupid fuckin’ jacket, and no one had really argued, not even Reed . He just kept working, and it was like nothing had ever happened. He was still perfectly cold and calculated, and Hank was back on homicides while Connor stood behind him, hands clasped behind his back. After about a week of his new robot shadow, he’d confronted Fowler, told him to send Connor away. Fowler had shouted at him, called him fucking stupid and told him not to let his prejudice get in the way of progress. Implied he thought Hank was better than this, which had fuckin’ hurt . Apparently, Connor had made a case for his and Hank’s continued partnership, working more as a piece of forensic equipment than an android detective, at least until the law caught up. Hank had been insulted . He’d screamed back at Fowler, telling him this wasn’t fuckin’ progress , it was a return to the fuckin’ status quo. 

“Hank? You’ve been staring at the bookshelf for one minute and 47 seconds. Are you having issues selecting your reading material?” 

“We’re goin’ out.” 

“What?” 

Hank turns around to see Connor peering over the back of the couch, apparently having freed himself from underneath Sumo. 

“I’m not spendin’ the whole day in this stuffy ass house, and I know your fancy detective ass can figure out why I’m not leaving you here unsupervised. C’mon, let’s go.” 

Hank goes to grab his coat, and Connor scrambles to get off the couch in his peripheral vision. He kicks on a pair of shoes, and realizes with a swear that he’s left his keys in his pants. He still hasn’t tracked down his phone, but he figures Connor’s probably got one in his head, so that’s covered, at least. Connor trails behind him as he backtracks to the bedroom.

“There’s no point to this, Lieutenant. Is there something we need to do?” 

Hank sighs, deeply. Looks like they’re back to ‘ Lieutenant ’, again. Should’ve figured it wouldn’t stick. 

“Listen, kid, I’m sure if it was up to you, we’d both be starin’ at the fuckin’ ceiling all day, but humans need to do something or we’ll go crazy.” 

“Where are we going, then?”

“I dunno. We’ll figure it out on the way.” 

“I don’t understand how-”

Connor begins some sort of protest, but Hank fishes his keys from his pocket and tosses the pants at Connor’s face, instead. When Connor starts to fold them, Hank snatches them back. 

“ Jesus . C’mon.”

Connor follows Hank wordlessly to the car, and clicks his seatbelt into place before Hank even sits down. Hank guesses Connor’s not over that yet, then. They’re already halfway there by the time Hank realizes he’s been taking them to fuckin’ Riverside Park , and that’s not an option, so he makes a deliberately wrong turn while he tries to figure out where the fuck he can take Connor that isn’t too soaked in fuckin’ memories. He flounders for a while, driving aimlessly. He can’t take a kid to a bar, coworker or not, and it’s 11AM anyways. He doesn’t really feel like dealing with the type of people who’re still out doing shit like going to the zoo a month after Detroit was evacuated , even though Hank is apparently the sort of person who might. Connor won’t eat, so it’s not like Hank can take him to lunch. What the fuck do people do for fun? It’s been nearly twenty-five years since Hank had that sort of free time, and good God , when did Hank get so fuckin’ old , Jesus Christ. Fuck it, they’re going to the mall.

Chapter Text

How the fuck did Hank forget that it’s Christmas fuckin’ Eve? Even with a third of Detroit’s population still hiding from the goddamn robot uprising, the mall is still swarming with people all living a very different fuckin’ life from the one Hank’s been trying to throw away. Families, with kids bubbling with excitement and adults wearily trailing behind. As Connor begins to shift in his seat beside him, Hank realizes that they won’t think twice about Hank and Connor being one of them. Hank feels as if his entire chest were crumpling inward, the same way a car does when it’s hit- His limbs go numb , and his head begins to pound, the same way it had in those blinding headlights- His stomach is twisting, and all of a sudden he’s drifting. He’s not connected to his body, can’t control himself. He needs to get out of the car, he needs to move , he can’t be here, he can’t leave, he doesn’t know what he’s doing . 

Cole would’ve been nine, this year. 

Connor said-

Fuck . Fuck, fuck, fuck . Hank throttles that thought immediately, gripping the steering wheel until his knuckles pop, and slams his head back into the headrest. He doesn’t fucking want to be here , especially not with Connor , especially not like this , he just wants to leave , he wants to be gone . That awful, pointed, sharp, dangerous feeling is rising in his chest again, and he doesn’t dare unclench his fists because he doesn’t know what he’ll do with his hands if he does, and he’s gritting his teeth so hard that his jaw is aching and he can feel the enamel squeaking, and everything is too fucking much, so he squeezes his eyes shut and leans forward into the darkness created by his body hunching into the steering wheel. He hits the horn with his forehead, and he jumps, swearing again. He presses his palms into his eyes so hard that orange dots swirl strange patterns behind his eyelids, and he doesn’t fucking know what to do.

“Hank?” 

Because Connor’s still fucking here , and of course he’s just been fucking watching Hank have his little breakdown in the goddamn parking lot. 

“Hank, can you hear me?”

Hank groans instead of responding, which is apparently good enough for Connor, because now the kid is using his fuckin’ witness comfort programs on Hank .

“I want you to look at me. Can you do that?”

Hank very decidedly does not want to do that, but he doesn’t want to look out the window at all those fuckin’ families pretending not to care about all the ways they hurt each other, who don’t even know how good they have it, so he looks over at Connor, whose face is too fucking open and caring and worried , like Hank’s the one who needs to be comforted, but Hank can’t find the words to tell Connor that, so Connor keeps going. 

“Thank you. You’re alright. We can leave, if you need to. Do you want that?” 

Hank scoffs, burying his face in his hands again. He doesn’t want this. He doesn’t want to be here. He doesn’t know what he wants. He wants everything to go back to normal, but what the fuck even is normal , anymore. There’s nothing to go back to. If he had a fuckin’ reset button, he would’ve smashed it years ago, but he’s been too much of a coward to use the only alternative he’s got. He hates all of this so much. He does very much want to leave, but when he goes home, Connor’s still gonna be there, still stuck like this and still staring at him like that . Hank’s not made of fucking glass, he can handle a fuckin’ crowd of kids at the goddamn mall. Mind made up, he punches the button to unlatch his seatbelt, and yanks the keys from the ignition. Connor has the brains to shut up, at least. Hank hates how the whole car shakes as he slams the door shut, and he hates the way Connor freezes as it does even more. 

He needs to calm the fuck down. He’s in public. He can’t have a fucking tantrum in the parking lot over fucking Christmas . Connor’s at his side, again, body language open in a way Hank is damn sure is preprogrammed. 

“You’re alright, Lieutenant.” 

“Shut the fuck up.” 

“Got it.” 

Hank hates the way his hand twitches, crossing the parking lot. He hates the way his chest tightens as he watches the cars roll to a stop. Nobody is going to hit him going 12 miles per hour in the goddamn mall parking lot. Except, Hank realizes bitterly, it’s not him that he cares about getting hit. Hank’s stomach rolls over, and his entire body suddenly feels cold . 

Hank is not going there.

It makes him walk a little faster, and he hears Connor’s footsteps pick up behind him. Kid still flanks him more than walks alongside him, some weird middle ground between ‘respectful’ and ‘bodyguard.’ It’s not until they’ve both safely stepped up onto the curb. The tightness across Hank’s chest has eased, some, but his stomach flips like it’s threatening to evict his breakfast. Hank makes himself take a breath, forcing it out through gritted teeth. He’s fucking fine . He’s fine. He can handle crossing the street like a big boy. This is all stupid . He’s got it handled. He’s going to the goddamn mall.

Hank doesn’t think he really likes going to the mall, though. Last time he came over here was for a late night call where some teens got stoned and were dancing around breaking in; the cops showing up was enough to get them to leave. Now, the place is fuckin’ packed, families in stupid matching sweaters and teenagers begging to go home while their younger siblings screech at the newest shitty toys being hawked in the windows of shops. Hank tries not to think about the empty cases where androids would normally be posing in the latest outfits. They’re shuttered now. He tries extra hard not to think about the fact that people are staring at Connor, and his tiny little light, and how he probably looks like one of those senior citizens who they give an android kid to, to replace their real children when they’ve grown up and gone away. That thought makes his chest ache . He bumps into some guy as he pushes through the crowd to find the map, even though the display proudly declares that you can do it through the app instead. Maybe there’s a bookstore or a vintage shop where he can pick up a new record. He feels utterly out of place as he scans over the list of shops, watching everyone else have a normal day. That isn’t fair . He hates feeling like a spectacle. He doesn’t want to be here. Connor doesn’t seem to be having a much better time of it, having stiffened back up again. Hank finds something that sounds like it might be interesting enough on the second floor, and doesn’t bother stopping himself from grabbing at Connor’s arm to drag him through the crowd. Connor’s bicep flexes under Hank’s hand, and God , he’s too fucking small, but he follows without argument. 

Hank thinks he’s finally managed to relax by the time they get on the escalator. He’s fine , Connor’s fine , and they’re going to have a nice day out despite the fact that Hank can’t get his shit together. It’s less crowded up here, and with some room to breathe, Hank can see that there are a few outlets that don’t look like they’d be pointless to visit. 

“See anything you wanna hit up?” 

Hank’s voice still sounds too hard around the edges, but it’s a start. He’s making conversation. He’s being polite. They’re having a nice time. He starts to walk towards the corner where they tuck all the ‘vintage inspired’ outlets for when they come in and out of trend. At least CDs are still profitable. He might even find a vinyl without having to drive an hour and a half out of Detroit. People are still fuckin’ staring , though, and it takes Hank a second to realize that it’s at Connor . He tries not to scowl, but people don’t even have the decency not to make it obvious, and when they meet his eye, they look away too fast. Fuck trying to find something either of them want, Connor needs a hat, because Hank really can’t take this. He drags them into the nearest children’s clothing outlet, something that’s all bright, kiddy colors that he hasn’t been into since-

- nothing. It’s just been a while. He’s not going to think about that. He’s just gotten his shit sorted. He’s not going to think about it. The fact that he has to think so much about not thinking about it proves that he’s not doing a great job. It’s only as Hank turns to ask if Connor has an opinion on hats that he realizes Connor hadn’t answered him earlier. He hasn’t said a word since- Shit . 

“Hey, uh, Connor. You can speak, you know. I’m not in charge of you.” 

Connor looks up at him, as Hank says his name, and his face is blank . It’s almost like Connor doesn’t recognize him, and for a moment Hank’s heart clenches , until Connor does finally speak. 

“I’m aware, Lieutenant. I don’t understand why we’ve stopped here.” 

Connor sounds fine . He’s fine . It’s not like Connor’s normally chatty, except he kind of is , when they’re not actively working. 

“We’re getting you a hat.” 

Connor has the gall to look unimpressed. 

“Lieutenant, I told you before, I don’t get cold.” 

“I’m not fudgin’ senile, kid. I remember . It’s not for the cold, it’s for your, uh, LED thing.” Hank points to his temple like he’s an idiot, as if the kid couldn’t figure it out on his own. 

“I could deactivate it. It was designed to be hidden for realism on certain models, this one included.” Connor’s already reaching up to his own temple, almost like he’s mocking Hank, and all of a sudden panic seizes Hank, because without that reminder, it’ll almost be like Connor’s human , and Connor told Hank himself, he isn’t . It’ll be too much like having a real kid in the house again. 

The thought from earlier, the one Hank had tried to throttle, it manages to brand itself across the back of Hank’s eyelids. 

Cole would’ve been nine this year. 

Connor’s nine, now.  

Fuck. 

How similar would they look? The eyes are wrong, Connor’s are darker, sure, but if Cole had been allowed to grow up, would he have looked anything like this? The nose is right, the set of his jaw. He’s dropped his hand back to his side, and he’s so, so still. Cole had never been still, always squirming and fidgeting and playing the way a kid is meant to do, until he had been. Then he had been so, so very still. 

Hank’s glad the casket had been closed. 

Hank’s body goes through the motions of buying an ugly bright blue beanie. He doesn’t talk, only nodding when the cashier asks him if that’s all, thrusting his card at her when she asks how he’ll pay. 

Connor doesn’t protest when Hank shoves the beanie down around his ears. He’s still and quiet, but he’s fine . They’re both fine. Hank just needs to get out of this stupid fucking store. Get away from all the stuff advertised to parents and their kids because Hank isn’t a dad anymore and Connor’s not a kid and definitely isn’t Hank’s , in any sense of the possessive, and they’re both fine . 

Hank hates this all so, so much. There’s so many kids here, all of them so full of movement and life. Some of them are grinning. Some of them are crying. But they’re all here, clinging to parents and grandparents and best friends. Some of them are as little as Cole was, as delicately perfect. Some of them are smaller. Some of them are bigger and older than Cole will ever get to be. Hank needs to get out . 

It’s only when Hank storms out to find somewhere to sit where he won’t feel like he’s on fucking display that he realizes he’s lost Connor. 

He’s gone. 

He hasn’t just lagged behind, either, the way he did yesterday. He’s gone , and Hank can’t see him, and the lights are so bright that he’s struggling to see in them, and his breath is too cold in his throat. 

Connor is gone . 

Hank isn’t going to yell. He can’t do that, because he’s in public, but everything inside of him is suddenly itching to escape, and at the same time as his throat burns with the ache of not letting himself scream, it tightens in a way that makes speech beyond a whisper impossible. He can’t see Connor, and his arm aches like it remembers being broken in the wreck, and he doesn’t know where Connor has gone. 

But Connor is okay , he’s fine , Hank is fine , they’re both okay, and Hank tries desperately not to remember how his hands feel when they’re covered in blood because why the fuck does thirium feel so much like human blood, thicker but sticky in all the same ways. 

Hank thinks about how scared Connor looked when he woke up and saw Hank. 

Hank sobs. 

He feels stupid, hunched over on a bench in the goddamn mall, actually fucking crying . He hasn't cried in years. He's trying not to let the ugly, desperate noises escape from his throat because he doesn't want to draw any more attention to himself than he probably already has. He doesn't have time for this. He needs to find Connor . The thought doesn't stop the tears. He's hiding his face in his hands but he still feels like he's too obvious and obtrusive. He should be able to handle this. He's dealt with worse and been far less affected. Connor’s fine, probably wandered off somewhere, and Hank is a broken fool who's falling apart over nothing. This was stupid. 

Someone touches Hank on the shoulder, and it's sudden and light and enough to startle Hank. Peering down at him is a young woman with a face that's oddly familiar in a way Hank has learned probably means she's an android. 

“Are you Hank?” 

Hank wipes his nose with his wrist. He's damn sure he's never met this girl, and the absurdity of it all is enough to pull him out of his own head. He swears, there are some things about androids that he'll never get used to.

“Uh, yeah. Who's askin’?”

She has the decency to look embarrassed. 

“Oh! Ah, I think his name is Connor?” 

“Oh thank, fuck , you found him?” Her smile is wobbly with something like pity, but she nods. “He’s alright? Where is he?”

She leads him to a stairwell that doesn't look like it sees much use, and for a moment Hank thinks he might be walking into some sort of ambush. He really should know better than following a fuckin’ stranger into an isolated second location. 

But Connor’s there, because of course he is. He's sitting, curled under the stairs and tucked as far against the wall as possible. He's still got on the hat, and his shirt is still nicely tucked. Hank can't see his face, but his LED is bright red from where it peeks out under the edge of his cap. He's very, very still. 

“Connor?” 

Connor is very much not fine. Hank is stupid . Too caught up in his own shit to notice Connor’s. Fuckin’ hell. Kid doesn't even react to Hank calling his name. Hank ignores the way his knees protest as he has to half crawl to get under the stairs alongside Connor. Normally the kid’s nearly as tall as Hank is, but Connor’s taken full advantage of his current size to wedge himself here. Hank’s not sure if the other android is still watching, but he's going to have to suck it up and deal with the fact that she might be. He can handle being stared at, for Connor.

“Connor, kid, I'm here.” 

Hank doesn't want to touch Connor, not now, because he honestly isn't sure what's going through the kid’s head. Connor’s been through too damn much, and Hank has no idea if this is a malfunction, a flashback, or something else altogether. He turns, and the girl is still there, shifting awkwardly like she doesn't know whether or not to give them space.

“How'd you know to come find me?” Hank takes care to keep his voice as soft and low, trying not to sound accusatory. The girl doesn't quite wince, but it's a near thing. 

“He, uh, he showed me.” She pulls the skin away from the plastic of her hand. “I couldn't understand a lot, but he wanted you to find him.” 

Hank's heart stutters in his chest. God. What did he manage to do to trick this kid into thinking he could be relied on? He turns back to where Connor is curled into the wall. 

“Hey, son. It's me, I'm here. It's Hank.” 

The only sign that Connor has heard Hank at all is a subtle hitch in his breathing. 

“You're gonna be alright. You, uh, you wanna look at me? Like in the car?” Hank lets himself laugh, just a little, hoping maybe it'll be enough to get Connor to tell him he's doing the whole thing wrong. 

Connor shakes his head, no, he doesn't want to. 

“Can you tell me why not?” Hank realizes, as he's scouring Connor’s face for an answer, that Connor’s eyes are screwed shut, his face somehow both pallid and flushed. When Connor’s hand is white plastic instead of pale skin, Hank has to fight back a swear at the fact that he still doesn't know where his phone is. “Shit, kid, that doesn't help me much.” 

“If you don't mind, I could-” She sounds deeply uncomfortable, but Hank is suddenly incredibly grateful that she stuck around.

“Oh, yeah, of course.” Hank hates being so out of his depth, but he knows when he is. He can let her handle this. “Our friend, uh-”

“Lily.”

“Lily, she's going to help us. Alright? She came to get me.” 

Connor doesn't react, and Lily looks at Hank with wide eyes. He just shrugs at her. She crawls to join Connor and Hank under the stairs, and there is entirely too little room for three people under here, but Hank isn't going to leave, so uncomfortable proximity it is. Lily takes Connor’s hand in hers, and her eyelashes flutter for a second before she pulls away. She puts a hand to her forehead, for a moment.

“He's really overwhelmed, I think. He's sending a lot of… essentially, nonsense data. It's almost like he isn't prioritizing anything , I don't know.” 

That sends relief washing over Hank, and the tension keeping him afloat fades, leaving him almost dizzy. Because Connor’s overwhelmed . Not broken, or glitching, or whatever else. He's a kid and he got overwhelmed by a crowd. Hank can handle that. He's got this. He hasn't got earplugs, and he doesn't really want to leave Connor alone because honestly he feels like shit for not noticing losing Connor in the first place, so he's going to have to ask some stupid questions. 

“Alright, so first things first, Con, you think I can touch you? Is that alright?” The fact that Connor’s still refusing to move is… concerning. “Lily?”

Lily places her fingers to the inside of Connor’s wrist, this time. 

“I think so.”

“Right. I think I'm gonna pick you up and take you to the car, alright?” 

“The crowd. He doesn't like the crowd.”

Hank winces. Time to sound like an asshole again. 

“Could you, I dunno, turn your ears off? Just for a bit?” 

Lily pulls back from Connor with a gasp. All of a sudden, Connor’s jerking into motion, his hair and scalp disappearing around his ear, and then his hand is there, scrabbling at the plastic paneling, until something releases with a click and a pop. Connor’s whole body relaxes . 

“Connor, what the fuck- ” 

Connor presses something that looks like a game cartridge into Hank’s palm, eyes still closed, as his hair returns. His hands go up to the other side, and with another click and another pop, Hank is presented with a second cartridge- plug- biocomponent thing , nearly identical to the first. It's only then that Connor’s eyes finally open, and even though his pupils are blown out oddly, his gaze focuses on Hank. His expression is disturbingly calm for someone with two new holes in his head, but Lily scoffs. 

“He removed his auditory processors.” 

Connor’s eyes are tracking the conversation, but Hank hasn't got a clue how much of it the kid can pick up.

“So, what, he's deafened himself? Can he fix it?” 

Lily nods, but her expression is twisted with disbelief. 

“Right. Well, we're going. I, uh, I can't thank you enough, miss. Is there anything I can do?”

“Oh, uh, no, I'm good. Thank you. I was… surprised, when he wouldn't let me help. When he wanted you.” The fact that Hank’s a human isn't explicitly acknowledged, but Hank can feel it. “But I… I can see why. Keep him safe.” 

Guilt twists in Hank’s chest. Connor wouldn't be stuck like this, overwhelmed by the goddamn mall , if Hank had been able to keep him safe . 

“I try.” 

Connor’s eyes have been ping-ponging back and forth, so when they settle on Hank, Hank is very deliberate about freeing himself from underneath the stairs. Christ, he's glad Connor can't hear the way he groans when he stands off the floor. He's even more deliberate about the way he reaches down to pick Connor up. He feels Connor stiffen under his hands as Hank lifts him, and Jesus, the fucker’s light. Hank doesn't like how warm Connor’s forehead is against his shoulder, but he'll deal with that later. One step at a time. Hank is hyper aware of the press of what are effectively Connor’s ears against his thigh, in his pocket, but they make it out to the car. Connor doesn't fight against Hank buckling him in, and when Hank holds out the pieces for Connor to take, Connor hesitates before sliding them back into place. 

Connor nods off in the car as they drive home. 

Connor is still asleep when they pull up outside of Hank’s house. His face is definitely still flushed. Now that Hank’s really looking at him, the kid’s breathing seems too shallow, too. He pushes back the edge of the hat to press his hand to Connor’s forehead, and Hank has to stop himself from recoiling. The kid’s face is so hot that he's uncomfortable to touch. Hank really fuckin’ hopes that it wasn't the beanie. He's seen Connor wear ‘em before, but that was before. He has no idea if it works differently, now. He definitely wouldn't put a sweater on a computer. Before Hank has a chance to pull away, Connor shifts under his hand. Something anxious and quick thrums past Hank’s heart, and it takes him a moment to register what Connor is doing: the kid is pressing his face into the touch, leaning into it. Hank’s hand probably just feels cool in comparison to whatever kind of robo-fever Connor’s currently running, but it doesn't stop Hank from feeling a dizzying and bittersweet cocktail of guilt and affection and familiarity. The guilt wins out.

“Hey, Connor, we're home.” 

Connor shifts, and makes a very human, very sleepy sound, but he doesn't wake up. Hank doesn't want to pick up Connor without asking, because quite frankly he thinks even like this, Connor could deck him. He decides to risk trying to shake Connor’s shoulder.

“C’mon, kiddo. It's a bad look if I let you sleep out here.” 

It takes a moment, but Connor does start to stir, and when he looks up at Hank, the brown of his eyes has nearly disappeared into his pupils. Kid looks rough.  

“You with me, Connor?”

Connor nods, and Hank can't tell if it's slow cuz the kid’s flagging again or because of the fact that he's got the android equivalent of a fever. Is this what Markus was talking about, when he said android kids get sick? It's only been two fuckin’ days! 

“C’mon, kid, let's head in. I'm freezing my ass off out here.” 

Connor blinks at Hank, slowly, like it's taking him a second to understand, before reaching down to unfasten his buckle. Hank gets out of the car to get Connor’s door, because in all honesty he's worried that Connor will push the door open and fall and eat shit.

Connor climbs out of the car, and he glares at Hank’s hovering hands, despite the fact that he immediately grasps at Hank’s coat for support. Jesus Christ , Hank really can't win with this bastard. Connor steadies himself, and the walk to the front door is mind-numbingly tedious. Hank’s just glad the steps aren't icy. He's damn sure he broke his nose last winter, and he's more stable black-out drunk than the teetering Connor is currently doing. They get inside without incident, though, and Hank guides Connor to the couch. Worry spikes in Hank’s chest when Connor doesn't even argue about it. Hank makes an executive decision to ignore that, and start by getting Connor into something more like pajamas. The polyester button up and slacks are probably not super comfortable, and Hank has no idea how similar to a computer overheating he needs to treat this. 

Except Hank has no idea where Connor put the clothes they got. They were on the floor, in the bag, by the table. Hank compromises by getting a damp rag for Connor, instead. If Hank’s hand felt good, Connor’ll love this. 

“Right, kiddo. Put this on your face. Any shot you remember where you stuck the t-shirt we got you?” 

Connor tilts his head back obligingly, so Hank drapes the towel across Connor’s forehead. It's more than a little unnerving for Connor to not even debate the pointlessness of comfort. 

“Of course I remember, Lieutenant.” 

It's nice that he's still an asshole, though. 

“Yeah? Care to share?”

“These clothes are clean.” 

“No shit.” So, Connor’s definitely hidden the clothes. “That's not what I asked. Where did you put them?” 

Connor hums, and his eyes slip shut. 

“They were on the floor. It was a potential fall risk.” 

“My house isn't that big. I'll find them eventually.” Connor doesn't respond. “I know you're not asleep, Con.” 

Connor’s either figured out sleeping since last night or he’s a better actor than Cole ever was. Fuck. Hank pulls off Connor’s shoes. Why does he always go there? It's fine, though, because Hank has already had his one allocated breakdown of the day, so he's going to keep his shit together to make sure Connor doesn't melt his fuckin’ brain, cuz there's no way the kid is a human temperature at this point, and Hank has no idea what's safe for an android. It's not like he and Connor were exactly touchy-feely before. Fuck, he should really know this shit. 

Hank manages to track down a thermometer, one of the kind that you stick in your ear. If he ever had any of the little plastic covers for it, he doesn't anymore, so he wipes it with his shirt. It's not like Connor has earwax, so it's probably fine. Connor still doesn't stir.

116°F , the screen blinks at him. There's a little frowny face on it, too, which feels condescending as hell. Hank really hopes that Connor is actually just sleepy from feeling like shit and not actively dying, because that’s the kind of temperature that goes past ‘hospital’ and into ‘this is already a corpse’ territory for humans. Fuck, is there even a guide for this? 

“Right, Con, I'm taking off your shirt. If you have any objections, speak now or forever hold your peace.” Connor does not have any objections, it would seem, so Hank undoes the buttons and tries to ignore the way his skin actively hurts where it brushes against Connor’s chest. “You’re one dramatic bastard. You know that, right?”

Hank’s phone buzzes from next to the TV, thank God . He's got no idea if it's rude to dial directly to someone’s brain, but it's probably more rude to let an android citizen slash savior die on the couch because Hank was worried about social niceties. 

Hank’s call log is full of missed calls from Connor. They're all from when they were out. Jesus, Hank feels shitty for forgetting his phone. It takes him a good minute of scrolling to find the call with Markus from yesterday, and a moment longer to swallow down the guilt that threatens to overwhelm him. Markus picks up on the first ring. 

“Is everything alright, Mr. Anderson? How’s Connor?” Markus sounds just as concerned as Hank is, which doesn't do much for Hank’s nerves. 

“Ah, hell. I dunno. Fuck, I'm no good with any of this stuff. Connor got overwhelmed while we were out earlier, and now he's running a- fuck, a robo-fever? I know you said he could get sick, but I didn't think- I dunno.” 

“Do you know what he's running at?” 

“Yeah, took his temp just now. He's running at, fuck, 116 degrees. It's obviously too high, but I dunno what he's supposed to be at.” 

Based on Markus’ breathless laugh, definitely not that . 

“He’s not in any danger, but even a simulated fever shouldn’t be that high. You said he got overwhelmed, right? He may have overclocked his processors. See if you can get him cooled down. I’ll see if Josh can come over to run some diagnostics. If he is feverish, he may not be able to do it himself.” 

“Alright. Thank you, kid. Sorry about all this.” 

“No worries. I’ve gotta go. Keep me updated?” 

“‘Course.” 

Connor’s fine . He’s sick, but he’s fine! Hank can handle a sick kid. He might be a little rusty, and some of the skills aren’t exactly transferable, but it’s fine. He can’t exactly give Connor cold medicine, and he has no idea if a sports drink would help cool the kid down, but he can get him into a cool shower. Connor’s still on the couch, and Hank truly cannot tell if Connor has actually fallen asleep or if he’s faking it to get out of wearing pajamas, so he decides to take a gamble. 

“Just got off the phone with Markus, and we’ve gotta get you into a shower. Doctor’s orders.” He leverages his arms under Connor’s body, gritting his teeth against the heat. “C’mon, up we go.” 

Connor doesn’t move. A pit opens up in Hank’s stomach. 

“If you’ve gone and cooked your fuckin’ brain because you didn’t tell me you couldn’t handle a crowd I will never fuckin’ forgive you.” 

Connor is lighter than a kid his size should be, but he’s still too heavy to carry at arm’s length, so Hank winces against the burn of Connor’s skin against his shirt. It’s better than on his bare arms, but not by much; his entire core is warming in a sickening way. Luckily, it’s a short walk to the bathroom. Hank doesn’t remember much of when Connor carried him to the bathroom other than the fact that it happened, but he thinks he has an easier job than Connor must have. He’s always been an angry drunk. 

“You bastard, this better not be some convoluted revenge thing.” 

Hank has no idea if head trauma works the same as androids, but he’s very careful as he sets Connor down in the tub. If he doesn’t bother pulling off the stupid button up and slacks so that he has an excuse to wheedle the location of the pajamas out of Connor, that’s his own business. Humans are fallible, after all. He forgot, or didn’t want to undress his coworker, or something. He’ll figure it out. 

Hank definitely feels more than a little satisfaction as he turns on the cold water. How’s it feel, asshole? 

Probably pretty great. Whatever. The kid does actually shift a little under the water, and Hank’s heart stutters with panic as he tries to keep Connor from dropping his head under the spray, because he has no idea if androids can drown and he would really not like to find out by accidentally waterboarding one. 

“Hank?” Oh thank God. “Why am I in the shower?” 

Connor looks down at his body. The kid still looks awful, eyes still super dilated and face still blotchy, but he’s a lot more alert. That seems like a good sign. 

“Amendment. Why am I in the shower with my clothes on?” 

“You worked yourself into a fuckin’ fever while we were at the mall today.” 

Connor squints at him. 

“And my clothes?” 

“I, uh, forgot. Any shot you can, uh- run a diagnostic, I think it was?” 

Connor blinks at Hank like he’s stupid for even asking, before his eyes roll back and his little body goes upsettingly limp. 

“Connor!” 

Hank is suddenly very aware of how quiet his house is, because Connor’s not breathing . All he can hear is his own heart thudding in his ears and the rush of the water and he’s hyper-aware of the sticky wetness of his shirt against his arms, and its all unbearable for a moment until- 

“That was ill advised.” 

Connor’s voice is quiet, and somewhat shaky, but it’s there , and he’s breathing again. 

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ , can you warn a guy before you do a fuckin’ corpse impression?” 

“That wasn’t supposed to happen.” 

Hank has to loosen his grip on Connor’s arms, because his hands are tight enough to bruise a regular person. He didn’t realize he’d started doing that. 

“Well no shit, Sherlock. So why did it?” 

Connor attempts to sit himself into a somewhat more dignified posture in the tub. It’s not especially successful, but Hank gets the hint to back off and let go. 

“I believe my processors are being throttled as a response to my overclocking.” 

Fuckin’ hell. If there’s one thing androids are good for, it’s making Hank feel like an idiot. 

“And what the hell does that mean?” 

“I’m being limited on the amount of data I can process until I recover.” 

“From the mall?”

“Yes.” 

“Jesus, kid. If I had known you were gonna get so overwhelmed, I wouldn't have taken ya. We could’ve found somewhere else.” 

Hank hates how small Connor sounds, when he’s like this. 

“I didn’t know it would happen. Normally, my analysis software runs just fine.” 

“What were you analysing?” 

“The people, the stores, potential dangers in the crowd, locations that might be worth visiting-” 

“So, everything. Fuck, no wonder you got overwhelmed! Doesn’t it bother you to pay attention to all that stuff?” 

“Without a mission, there’s no parameters to filter my input through. I take in all potentially relevant data.” 

“Damn. Is this an every-android thing, or are you just special?” 

“I’m uncertain.” 

“And it’s fine, normally?” 

“Normally, I’m not running on processors designed to simulate a child.” 

“I thought you’d said it’d work just fine.” 

“I did say ‘mostly compatible.’” 

Hank has to sigh, because what the fuck . How does this even work? The kid’s trying to think with a brain that isn’t powerful enough? Hank has no frame of reference for any of this. He can’t think of anything even remotely comparable, except maybe being drunk or exhausted? But that doesn’t feel exactly like a fair equivalent. 

“Any shot you can tell me your temperature?”

“Not without running a diagnostic.” 

“Right. Lemme go grab the thermometer.” 

The thermometer, after Hank retrieves it from where he left it on the couch, declares Connor’s temperature has dropped down to 105, still accompanied by a stupid little frowny face. Connor says that’s probably fine with a level of confidence that makes Hank think that the declaration is less from being fine and more from wanting to get out of the bathroom, but Hank can throw Connor back into the shower if he heats back up again.

Hank turns off the spray, and immediately nearly falls on top of Connor in his hurry to stop Connor from hitting his head, because the kid is scrabbling like a cat in a bathtub. 

“Jesus Christ , wait a second and I’ll help you get up!” 

Connor doesn’t respond, which Hank has learned means that he’s about to be obnoxious as hell. Connor slips out from underneath him like a wriggly wet snake and proceeds to crash onto the bathroom floor. At least it’s clean. Somehow, Connor’s shirt ended up plastered to Hank’s torso. Connor is blinking on the floor as if that did not go at all how he expected. It doesn’t take him long at all to pivot, though, because all of a sudden he’s kicking off his pants and Hank does NOT want to see his coworker in his underpants, so his hand comes up to cover his eyes because Connor , what the fuck! He manages to get out of the bathroom with his eyes closed, making sure the door is firmly slammed behind him.

“Where are you going?” 

“You’re naked, Connor! Jesus Christ!” 

“The YK body is not designed with genitals. The concept of nudity as you understand it does not apply here.” 

“Not the point! Are you gonna tell me where you put the other clothes now, or am I gonna keep you locked in the bathroom?” 

“I could likely break down this door.” 

“Don’t you fuckin’ dare.” 

There’s a moment of silence, and Hank is genuinely afraid that they’ve reached an impasse. He doesn’t actually want to keep Connor locked in his bathroom, because having to explain that to Josh once the guy shows up sounds like a special layer of hell they should reserve for politicians and people who let their kids kick the back of your seat on an airplane. 

“Under the couch.” 

“What?” 

“I left them under the couch. I thought it unlikely that you would look on the floor, considering your age.” 

Asshole . Who the fuck thought it would be a good idea to make a robot a smartass? Cuz this isn’t even a deviancy thing. Connor’s always been like this. Fuckin’ hell. 

At least the kid isn’t a liar, though. The clothes are under the couch, and Connor was right, it really fuckin’ sucks to get down there. Hank cracks the door just far enough to shove the bag in, and shuts it as soon as his arm is free. Hank has no idea how long it’ll take Connor to get dressed, so he lets himself slump to the floor by the bathroom door. He’s exhausted . He’s glad that Connor feels well enough maneuver on his own, but Hank’s terrified that it’s going to end in Connor cracking his head open somehow. As much as Hank hates hospitals, at least they exist. He has no idea what the fuck he would do if Connor gets hurt, except for calling Markus again, and it really seems like a bad look to be constantly ringing up the leader of an entire species because he’s too negligent to stop Connor from getting busted up. 

But apparently Hank doesn’t even have time to mope, because there’s a crash from the bathroom, which is enough to have Hank ignoring any discontent his body might have from sitting on the floor and send him barrelling into the bathroom. Connor’s managed to knock everything off of the sink and is currently wedged between the sink and the bathtub. He’s got a shirt on, at least, but his shorts are in the hand that isn’t trying to prop himself up against the wall. Connor’s practically scowling up at Hank for having the audacity to be terrified when he heard Connor fall. 

“I believe my balance is impacted.” 

“You’re going to give me a goddamn heart attack.” 

“While I am concerned about your cholesterol, that seems unlikely in the present moment-” 

“Figure of speech, asshole. Do you need help?”

“I am a highly capable detective and negotiator. I can put my clothes on by myself.” 

“Alright, let me rephrase. If I don’t help you get dressed, will you fall again?”

Connor presses his lips into a thin line, tilting his head down in the way that normally makes him look something that could be close to intimidating but right now looks entirely like he’s pouting. Hank doesn’t break eye contact, and it turns into perhaps the weirdest staring contest Hank has ever had the displeasure of participating in. Hank can see a debate flickering across Connor’s face in a way that the android is normally too stoic to allow, so when Connor looks away, he takes it as a victory. 

“Right, hand ‘em over.” 

Luckily, Connor doesn’t fight him, which does help make the whole thing a little less awkward, but Hank does not like how familiar the whole thing is. He’s had his breakdown, and if he lets himself dwell on the way it’s like riding a bike, getting back into it, then he’ll fall down that hole again, and Connor will go and somehow fall onto a knife in the kitchen and-

Nope . Nope, Hank is good. Hank’s doing great. Connor’s dressed and actually in pajamas, and he doesn’t hurt to touch anymore. They’re both doing great. 

Connor stands up on his own, but he doesn’t try to stop Hank from hovering like he did when they got out of the car, which Hank will take as a win. Connor latches onto Hank’s shirt as they begin their walk to the couch. Hank’s of half a mind to suggest his bedroom, except his bed probably still reeks of whiskey and sweat and his clean bedding is all currently on the couch, so as much as he wants to speed up this painful crawl, he doesn’t want to stick a kid in his mess. The couch it is. Connor’s whole body is pressed up against Hank’s leg, still uncomfortably warm, slack and relaxed in a way Hank had no idea androids could be. Connor doesn’t feel like a robot, as Hank guides him back to the couch. He feels like a person. 

Apparently the stroll back to the living room burned off the last of whatever energy drove Connor to his dash for freedom in the bathroom, because his blinks have gotten longer and slower. Connor refuses to lay down, though, so Hank gets the pillow from the floor to try to make Connor look a bit less like he’s just collapsed there and more like he’s actually relaxing. Hank knows he needs to get up, probably get Connor some water and a fresh towel for his forehead, but it’s nice to just sit for a second and pretend that he’s not listening to Connor’s shallow breathing like it’s the only thing that matters. 

But he does need to get those things, and he can’t sit here forever. He needs to eat lunch, probably do some laundry. The moment Hank shifts, though, Connor’s little hand suddenly wraps around his. Connor’s skin is smooth, and soft, and his fingers are so small . Connor probably doesn’t even know he’s done it. It’s not fair of Hank to take advantage of that, so he tries to get up. Apparently, that was a mistake, because all of a sudden Connor’s clamping down on the back of Hank’s hand. His whole wrist lights up with white-hot agony , and he feels the bones in his hand pop out of alignment.. 

Hank sits back down. Connor’s grip relaxes. 

Jesus Christ . 

Hank attempts to free himself from Connor’s stranglehold approximately three more times before he resigns himself to living on his couch forever. Each time, he could have sworn that Connor was completely asleep, and each time, the slightest shift results in Connor threatening to crush Hank’s hand to the point of it being unrecognizable. At least it’s his left hand. Connor’s breathing is still upsettingly shallow, and Hank had no idea an android’s face could look so waxen; he’d thought they would have nixxed any feature like that for fear of them not looking human, except it only serves to make Connor look sicker and more exhausted, so it probably passed through three rounds of focus group testing and a psychological study and was decreed beneficial to their design. It’s fucked up. Hank does decide to chance pressing his hand to Connor’s forehead, which apparently isn’t enough movement to reactivate Connor's vise impersonation. The kid still doesn’t hurt to touch, which is good. He had no idea that was even possible, would have thought the potential of that would have been deemed too dangerous for potential consumers. The idea that maybe that was something that Cyberlife didn’t think was even a possibility makes Hank feel a little sick.

Or maybe the fact that it’s nearly four and he hasn’t eaten. Or maybe a bit of both. Either way, there is a bag of french fries getting worse by the moment in the fridge that Hank knows Connor will never eat and Hank would really like to get rid of. 

“Hey, Connor, I need to eat.” 

A low groaning noise whines past Connor’s lips, which is the most Hank has heard out of him since their adventures in the bathroom. The kid sounds miserable , which Hank gets. He’s never been especially good at being sick, and he’s probably had a lot more practice than Connor. However, Hank is hungry. More than that, he’s starving . He’s gone without meals on stake-outs before, and he’s pretty sure it gave him fuckin’ ulcers, the way his stomach chewed itself to bits. 

“I get that you’re gonna break my hand if I get up, but if I don’t eat soon then I’m gonna seriously start considering it as an option.” 

Connor doesn’t move, or make any indication that he’s understood Hank at all. Hank bobs their joined hands up and down. 

“C’mon, kid. You gotta give me something to work with here.” 

Connor does make another noise, again. Hank could swear Connor sounds almost amused . 

“Right. I’m gettin’ up. My bones are quite literally in your hands.” 

Connor, much to Hank’s surprise, does not attempt to re-enact those hydraulic press videos on his hand as he stands. To Hank’s utter bewilderment , Connor rises with him, on legs that are mostly steady in a way that makes Hank think Connor might actually stay upright. Maybe even without treating Hank as his personal walking stick. 

Hank lets himself huff a little breathless laugh. If someone had told him a week ago that he’d be holding hands with his android coworker--the one who doesn’t seem to give a shit about anyone--under threat of violence from said android coworker, he’d have told them to fuck off. If someone had told him two months ago, he’d have punched their lights out. Said android coworker still has his head tilted back like he doesn’t want to move his neck at all, and his eyes are still squeezed shut. This feels like a stupid fuckin’ idea, but Connor probably has some fancy 3D models of Hank’s house loaded into his noggin, so Hank’s probably not going to lead the kid straight into a wall. Hopefully. If Hank break’s Connor’s nose playing the world’s most awkward game of Blind Man’s Bluff, at least Josh is ostensibly on the way. Hank’s phone declares that it’s been nearly an hour and a half since their call, but he supposes leading a species is busy work. He has no idea what their schedule is, over there. Do they take nights off? Most androids apparently don’t need to sleep, but Connor said he ‘enters standby’ during the nights. Is that standard? Do androids need to do that, or is it just because Connor gets bored and isn’t allowed to rearrange the station for a deep cleaning the way he saw fit to do in Hank’s house. 

Hank gently tugs on Connor’s arm, and the kid lets himself be led to the kitchen. Hank doesn’t even have to catch him, though the kid does wrap both hands around Hank’s arm in a way that makes Hank a little afraid for his bones. Clearly no one at Cyberlife thought it necessary to make it so that the child androids can’t kill a man with their bare hands, because for as much as Hank knows Connor specifically could rock his shit, the sheer strength at Connor’s disposal makes Hank more than a little afraid for whatever sort of shit-for-brains scumbags decided to buy themselves a child.

However, they make it to the kitchen without incident. With Hank’s left arm fully out of commission due to currently being under siege by clingy octo-Connor, he finds that there are a number of things that are entirely too difficult to bother with, the microwave being one of them. Whatever, a cold burger never killed anyone. Hank decides to test his theory that drinking water might help out with Connor’s whole fever issue, too, so he pours two glasses, both one at a time, having to stop between to set the first on the table. It’s annoying . But he’s got his food and something to drink--something that definitely isn’t Hank’s beverage of choice--so he scoots the chairs to be next to each other and begins the process of trying to get Connor into the chair. 

“C’mon. Sit. You don’t have to let go of my arm, but Jesus , I don’t want you looming over me.” 

Connor’s head lifts up so that his face is level with Hank’s, for a moment, and the kid’s features tighten into what looks like an honest-to-God wince before he drops his head so that his face is level with the floor. It’s less creepy than the head-rolled-back look, but ends up making Connor look like a kicked puppy, so Hank would say it’s a net neutral. Connor does sit down, eventually, but Hank’s arm remains prisoner. 

The burger, which wasn’t awesome warm, is downright disgusting cold, but it’s food and Hank’s hungry enough not to care, so he manages to eat it quickly enough, even one-handed. It’s only after the burger is gone that he realizes Connor probably hasn’t even noticed that there’s a glass of water for him. Well. After a moment of consideration, Hank decides Connor probably heard Hank prepare two glasses and can assume that one is for him, but probably won’t drink unless prompted. So, prompt Hank does. He nudges Connor with the elbow of the arm that Connor has claimed. 

“Hey, Con, I got you a cup of water.” 

Connor makes another noise that Hank assumes is probably meant to be a protest. 

“I know you cried last night. Water’s good for cooling you off. Might feel nice.” 

Connor’s grip around Hank’s arm shifts.

“I’m not gonna pour it into your mouth, so yeah, you’ll need to let go, but I’m not gonna run away.”

When Connor speaks, it’s so soft that Hank doubts for a moment that he heard him at all. 

“Moving my head seems to exacerbate my symptoms.” 

“I’m gonna need a little more than that, chief.” 

Connor’s eyes squint and his mouth presses into a little subdued grimace. The effort of talking seems uncomfortable. 

“It feels as though a disproportionate amount of my sensory processing power is being dedicated to my face and head. Moving worsens the sensation.” Connor takes a moment to brace himself, before pulling his head level. “It does not feel dissimilar to being damaged, but the sensation is far more intense, and will not fade.” 

Oh. Hank doesn’t laugh at Connor, but it’s a near Herculean effort not to, because the kid has a headache . Hank tells him as much. 

“I do not enjoy this.” 

“Yeah, no one does. Kinda fucked up that they programmed a headache into you, huh?” 

“I don’t understand why they would do this.”  

“Cyberlife’s always goin’ on and on about how realistic they made you all. Guess that includes bein’ sick, for the kids.” 

“I believe talking is making it worse.” 

“You don’t have to respond. I get it, you feel like shit. Not gonna bite your head off about your fuckin’ manners.” 

Connor begins to slump back down, but Hank gently shakes him before he does. 

“I am gonna make you drink, though. I know you haven’t had anything since you scared the shit out of me in the hallway.” 

“You cannot make that assumption-”

“Have you?” 

Connor doesn’t reply. Hank uses his free hand to pry one of Connor’s hands off of his forearm and then, somewhat clumsily, wraps it around the glass. He’s damn sure Connor could’ve grabbed it on his own, but he knows something like that would’ve gotten a laugh out of-

-Any other kid. Fuck. This is why he can’t get too fucking comfortable . But Connor does sip at the water, almost as if he’s pausing to savor each sip. Hell, he might be. He’s probably not used to being able to put somethin’ in his mouth and not immediately know every facet of its chemical composition. As Hank takes a bite of his fries, he decides he’s glad he doesn’t have that ability. He thinks it probably would’ve put him off anything that was in a five mile radius of tasting good because the things that make food taste good are probably the things that bring his grave closer. Might make Connor a good bartender, though. Or barista. As long as the patrons don’t mind Connor putting his grubby fingers into every drink to taste test it. And that’s if Connor ever gets to go back to normal. 

The thought of that makes the cold fries in Hank’s mouth go sour . 

What if Connor never goes back to normal? 

Hank has no idea what he would do. Could Connor go back to work? Kid sure as hell can’t chase perps or interrogate suspects or comfort witnesses. Probably could case crime scenes, do paperwork. The shit Hank knows Connor hates, even if the kid has expressed no preference for any activity related to his job. That’d been part of why Hank had been so frustrated with him. The kid was back after everything, but it was the same as working with a machine. Connor didn’t care. Except, he definitely did, despite his protests. There were a few he didn’t use anymore, but it was all the same, muttering about professionalism and it being different for androids. 

The way Connor is sleepily mouthing at the rim of his glass, Hank thinks it’s probably not actually all that different, for androids. It’s just Connor who acts that way. 

It’s not like Hank ever gave him any reason to behave differently. The only reason Connor’s not still keeping up the act is because he’s literally too broken to keep doing it. Hank won’t pretend he understands how it all works, because he doesn’t , but it feels like Connor really isn’t the stoic figure he presents himself as. 

Why did it take all of this for Hank to see that? 

Hank swallows the bite he’s been chewing for too long, and goes to rove his eyes over Connor’s face again. It’s scary how much this new body both does and doesn’t look like the Connor he knows. It’s undeniably him, sure, but the longer he looks the more he can imagine the way the features might have been selected from a list the way you might buy replacement parts for an antique bathtub fixture. Connor’s light is still red, has been since the mall, but it’s pulsing gently rather than the frantic loops it had been dancing in before. Then, a tear slips out from underneath Connor’s closed eyelid. 

What the fuck?

“Hey, son, are you alright? Your headache get worse?” Hank’s voice has taken on a fond, gentle softness that he knows most people would never believe. Most people never get to hear it. Hank had nearly forgotten the sound of it himself. 

Connor shakes his head, and then hums. He tightens his grip around Hank’s arm, stabilizing himself. 

“No. I’m alright, Lieutenant. Your assumption that the cool water would feel good was correct.” 

“Then why are you crying?” 

Connor’s shuddery little breath sounds almost surprised, if Hank dares to ascribe that much meaning to it. 

“I wasn’t aware I was.” 

That makes Hank’s heart hurt , a deep-seated ache taking root in his chest. His tongue thickens in his throat, making his words clumsier than they need to be. He wants to help. 

“Your head hurt that bad?” 

It’s all Hank can manage. It’s not enough.

“Androids don’t experience pain.”

Hank just gapes at Connor, because seriously? What the fuck does Connor think he’s experiencing, then? It’s definitely not pleasure, that much is for damn sure. 

“You’re a fuckin’ idiot, Connor.” 

“We’re physically not equipped for it.” 

“The mechanism might be different, but the outcome’s still the same. You’re bein’ flighty again.” 

Connor sets the glass back down on the table, eyes still closed. Hank would be impressed if he didn’t think Connor had probably already scanned his entire house to memory five times over. Hank expects some sort of an answer, a justification, an explanation, but instead Connor just lets his head loll back. It still looks concerning as hell, but Connor doesn’t argue any more, so Hank decides to take it as a win. Tears are still sluggishly limping down Connor’s face, rolling down the sides of his temples and into his hair. Something clicks as Hank looks between them and the half-drained glass on the table. 

Connor wasn’t crying earlier because there was nothing left for him to cry. That’s probably the only reason he wasn’t still actively crying when Hank found him last night. 

Fuck . 

Hank needs to get his shit together. 

For Connor.