Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The android revolution had changed a lot of things. It had given a whole fucking people the right to, well, be people, for one thing. And really, put in that perspective, what it had changed for one Henry Anderson probably wasn’t all that big a deal.
But to the people around Hank, it had been monumental.

It wasn’t to do with the revolution itself, of course, not really. Rather, all of it hinged on one of its heroes, Hank’s best friend turned roommate. Knowing Connor had been the spark that had jumped Hank back into being, after he’d nearly given up on himself. After the loss of Cole had drained away every last drop of joy and motivation from his life.

It hadn’t all changed in an instant, of course. But the night after the Eden Club, when he’d tidied up his kitchen and put cardboard over the broken window, something had shifted. He’d sat down at the table afterward and poured himself a glass of whiskey, only to realize he didn’t particularly feel like drinking it. The smell of it, mingling with his own, made him nauseous. And even if it had gone down with the thoughtless ease of habit, most of his second had been left to sit. Instead, he’d taken an Ambien and gone to sleep. It hadn’t felt like much in the moment, and it didn’t feel great the next morning either. But after one mouthful, the rest of the glass went down the sink, and that… that felt pretty fucking good. In his spine, at least, withdrawal was still a bitch.

Resolve wasn’t enough to change everything, of course, but he’d started. After the experience in the CyberLife Tower, when his literal trigger-point decision could have derailed the whole damn revolution, he’d felt the need to take stock of his life in a more direct kind of way. Because if he had had more than the one drink that night, he might have shot the most important person in his life. He ignored the fact that if he had had none, he might have realized that the cyber-prick who’d come to his door and pleaded for his help wasn’t actually Connor. But, he told himself, baby steps were still steps.

So he’d tapered down the drinking. He’d cleaned up his house, because when he was actually sober enough to exist in it, the mess had gotten under his skin. He’d even set the coffee timer to 6:30, because the smell of fresh coffee was motivating, when the alarm for the same hour was just a pain. And when he met Connor, after everything had settled a little, Hank had asked the android to move in with him. They’d fixed up Cole’s old room, filled with boxes that had never been sorted or looked at, and made it a living space for Connor. And if that hadn’t been the biggest fucking setback in the whole process.
He had known tackling Cole’s room would be tough, so he tried not to kick himself too hard when he’d had to step away for a drink the first time. Opening the old boxes, seeing baby clothes and stuffed animals in one, drawings and chewed crayons in another… he knew that would be hard. He still hated himself when the third drink had been straight from the bottle.
That had been the first night since the Eden Club that Hank hadn’t remembered going to bed. He still woke up in it, wearing clean pajamas and with a glass of water and a couple of aspirin on his nightstand. That had to be Connor’s doing, and he’d been both touched and embarrassed as all hell that his friend had to see him like that.

Which was why Hank had insisted that they actually sit down and talk. Cards on the table and accountability, that’s what tended to work for people, right? He’d been white-knuckling his coffee the whole way through. Because admitting that he was trying technically made failing an option, and that was more frightening than anything. But Connor had listened, reassured him. Believed in him, in that unquestioning way Hank found both endearing and infuriating, depending on his mood. He had admitted to scanning Hank’s vitals on a daily basis, and had seen some very real improvements. Even if the scanning thing was creepy as shit, it was also reassuring, in a way.
“I need you to call me on my shit,” he’d said, glaring at his coffee mug and squeezing it so tight the ceramic might crack. “Don’t let me bullshit you, Con. But let me do it my way.”

He’d stumbled a few more times while they prepared the room for Connor, but not nearly as badly. And when it was all done, and Connor had looked around, touching the walls like it was the Mona Lisa, it felt Good. Giving Connor a space of his own had been a good reason to let go of the old pain, and having him around made the house feel much brighter, more alive, too.

It was Connor who spurred the change in his diet. Still nothing huge, fuck if he was about to give up his burger and Coke, but being mostly sober did leave the time to actually cook most nights, and he felt better for it. And the android had wanted to learn, in spite of not being able to eat the food himself. He was fascinated by the smell of everything, the way garlic clung to Hank’s skin differently than his, and the way little touches of it sparked on his oral sensors. It gave Hank back some of the fascination, too. A lot of things felt like rediscovery when he watched them through Connor’s experience.
It was Connor’s presence that made the little everyday things actually enjoyable. They’d cook together, or Connor would cook when work kept Hank late; walk Sumo while chatting about nothing in particular; sit together on the couch at night, watching TV or listening to music, while the enormous dog lounged across both their laps.
He’d started using the gym at work, too. Sweating and working himself to a clean ache helped dull some of the edges the drink had left exposed. And hell, even if he wasn’t a young man anymore, his body felt better than it had in years.

All of the little changes impacted his work, too, and having Connor beside him made it even better. They were one hell of a team; even Fowler had admitted that. Hank had dug in his heels and leveraged his own shaky career to get Connor officially hired onto the force.
Jeff had grumbled at him, citing a potential lawsuit from what was left of CyberLife, but he’d given in. There was still a friendship left there, or at least the scraps of one, another thing that hadn’t quite broken, and that Hank might go back to mend now.

With everything else in his life looking up the way it did, Hank couldn’t help but start taking a little more pride in his appearance, too. He was still past fifty, and he didn’t intend to fundamentally change himself or try to pretend he wasn’t. But a bit of a trim, a good shampoo, and a slight upgrade to his wardrobe did start to make things look… different.
He’d realized just how much so on one of the rare occasions he’d actually gone out with his colleagues. A waitress with a cute smile and beautiful eyes had written her number on his napkin. He hadn’t called, of course. But he’d left the napkin in his coat pocket for a few days, enjoying the idea that he might.

Hank had been a bit of a tomcat when he was younger. He’d always been large; tall, broad and heavy, and people had been drawn to the gravity of him. He’d enjoyed the attention, of course. Hadn’t really stopped looking for it, if he was honest. Not until he’d met Irene. Or, more accurately, until Irene had gotten pregnant. It wasn’t ever meant to be anything serious, and once Cole was two, they’d stopped trying to pretend that it could be. He’d still done his best to be a good father, of course, which did put the brakes on his exploits, and then… well, then everything had gone to shit.
But the waitress had liked what she saw. Enough that she’d given him her number, and it had piqued his curiosity. The next time he went out, he’d been on his own. A young man had bought him a drink and practically sat himself on Hank’s lap before the glass was empty. Then he’d invited Hank back to his apartment.
Hank felt bad that he didn’t remember the kid’s name. But he remembered exactly how he felt as he drove home at nearly three in the morning, with post-orgasmic contentment still pooling in his stomach, and the taste of another man’s tongue still lingering in his mouth. He wasn’t eighteen anymore, but that night he’d sure as shit felt alive.

Chapter Text

The five days Connor had spent with the DPD had gone by in a blur of motion. Everything felt like it had happened all at once, from the first night walking through the soaking rain to Jimmy’s bar, right up until he’d leveled his gun at Markus aboard the creaking deck of the Jericho, when he finally stopped pretending.

Meeting up with Lieutenant Anderson after all of it, and getting to simply fall into the man’s arms, had felt like slipping under the weight of the world. Connor had clung to him as the cold settled around them. He had buried himself against the chest of Hank’s coat, and even if he hadn’t cried, he’d felt an ache in his chest he’d never known he was capable of.
He hadn’t had time to think about what to actually do with himself, now that his stasis pod at the CyberLife facility and his assignment to the DPD were no longer going to be constants in his life. Now that he would actually have a life.
His first real foray into human emotions might well have been one of existential dread, if not for that hug. The hug, and more so the invitation that followed it. The casual “listen, Con, my place isn’t anything grand, but it’s a place, and you’re welcome to stay.”

And even though he’d been invited to stay with Markus and “his people,” Connor had been all too eager to accept. Easing into the rhythm of life with Hank (as he insisted on being called outside work) and Sumo had made the transition easier. Learning to be a person rather than just a machine, for all its terrifying expanse, had been softened into just learning to be a good roommate.
Hank had taught him to cook, and even when his first solo attempt at a bean casserole had been classified as an act of biological warfare (according to Hank), it had been greeted with a smile. Eventually. Hank had made a face, then pushed the plate back slowly, and emptied most of his glass of water. “How about you order a pizza…” he’d then said, and grinned wide enough to show the gap between his teeth. “And then we’ll teach you about salt.” Hank hadn’t made it feel like failure the way his old programming did, hadn’t let Connor sit in the sting of it, but instead recounted some of his own past kitchen failures. The fact that Hank had laughed at himself (melting a plastic chopping board into a stove, giving himself food poisoning, and eating crunchy rice for nearly a year), and not once at Connor, had made him feel valued in a way he’d never really known before.

Hank had taken him to buy what he called “people clothes,” and been patiently encouraging as Connor tried to find his own taste. It had still been more formal than what Hank wore, and the man had put his foot down on a pair of pyjamas and at least one pair of sweatpants being added to the selection of slacks, button-downs, and white socks that Connor chose. The sweatpants, and Hank’s old academy hoodie, had quickly become Connor’s favourite things to wear at home, and the fact that Hank smiled whenever he saw Connor in them was a big part of why. Making Hank smile always felt like a tiny reward, echoing the mission completions of his old programming, but deeper somehow, for being entirely his own.
Hank had even given Connor his own room, in spite of his insistence that he was fine with the couch and the old suitcase that held his clothes. The room had been the first place that had been entirely Connor’s own. The first physical space that he got to inhabit, entirely for himself. Hank had insisted that he choose the paint for the walls (and complimented the faint sky blue he settled on) and shrugged off the expense of the unnecessary bed, the desk, and the small dresser that matched it. Connor had been stunned into complete silence for several moments when he’d found the faded Robocop poster Hank had tacked on the wall over his bed.

It had been in one of the old boxes they’d originally taken out of the room, along with other memorabilia from Hank’s first apartment. Other boxes had been harder for the lieutenant to deal with, the ones with comic books, stuffed animals, and toy cars. The things that had been Cole’s, and packed up along with the painful memories after his passing.
Connor had watched with nothing short of awe as Hank had cleaned his life up in real time, since even before he had moved in. Watching him lose hold of that resolve, as his painful past was literally pulled out in dusty moving boxes and laid bare, had been terrifying. Connor had done his best not to hover as Hank had gone through the boxes, just taken away all that Hank had dismissed for either the dump or the thrift store. He had entirely prevented himself from commenting when Hank had sorted through the last ones sitting on the floor, a bottle of Black Lamb whiskey clutched tight in one hand.
He had just sat and quietly listened as Hank talked about the things he recovered. About Cole, not the loss of him that time, but about his life. About the things he’d loved, the way he smiled; about how much Hank had loved being a father. When eventually the whiskey had gotten the better of Hank, Connor had taken care of him. Not like that first time, with a cold shower and a remark about a shrink.
Instead, he’d made Hank eat a sandwich and drink a glass of water before coaxing him into pyjamas and tucking him into bed. He’d left paracetamol on his bedside table and permitted himself to linger in the doorway, scanning the man’s vitals and letting the slow changes wash over his own worries. It felt like such small things he could do, when all he’d truly wanted was to keep Hank safe. Safe from the pain and from all that it had already taken from him.

Then he’d cleaned up the room, removing what he was allowed to and repacking the rest for later. He had resigned himself to stay on the couch, at least for the foreseeable future, and whispered his worries about Hank into Sumo’s fur when the enormous dog had come to comfort him.
He had still been fretting over how to bring up his concerns when Hank had sat him down and unceremoniously laid out his thoughts on the matter. That he was getting better, but that it would take time.
That he wanted to get better, but would have to do it on his own time, his own terms, and that Connor was allowed to “Call him on his shit. Please.” That Hank liked having him around, wanted to keep having him in his home. And that maybe they should go looking at furniture for the day, rather than diving back into the boxes right away. In turn, Connor had promised to ask before doing his body scans (which Hank had been surprised to learn that he did, but invited him to continue all the same).

In the end, Hank had stubbornly insisted that they finish the room. He’d stared down the boxes of grief, and when he’d broken the next time, rather than drinking to numb himself, he’d cried in Connor’s arms. Even though it made him feel guilty later, Connor had cherished that moment of complete trust. He logged every detail as they sat on the floor of the bare room, Connor curling himself around the larger man and stroking his fingers through his hair, as his chest grew damp from Hank’s tears.
It had felt like a turning point, for Hank, and for them too.
Connor had been let in, more completely than he’d ever expected. And while it hadn’t miraculously made Hank into someone who shared and talked about his feelings, it had cracked some of the emotional walls that Connor had always seen in him.

Hank had allowed Connor to care about him, all of him. It hadn’t been a thing to come easy, that trust between them, and Connor cherished it.
Hank had taught him to be human, but more than that. Hank had taught him what it meant to be a friend, how it felt to be cared for; what it felt like to love someone.

Chapter Text

Hank’s favourite part of living with Connor, or at least one of them, was mornings. The coffee was on a timer to start brewing at 6:30, when the alarm on the bedside table started to blare. He’d stretch and drag himself out of bed, regaining consciousness as he brushed his teeth and ran a brush through his hair. By the time he was dressed, and made his way to the kitchen, there’d be a steaming mug waiting for him on the table, milk and sugar already stirred in. More often than not, it would be accompanied by a plate of toast, or a cheese sandwich, that he’d actually have time to sit and eat, while Connor let Sumo outside, the dog having had his breakfast while Connor made Hank’s. He’d never be a morning person, but god damn if it didn’t feel a lot better without the spectre of last night looming.
Today though, things were different.
As Hank crossed the hall towards the bedroom, he heard Connor’s voice, hushed and with that sing-song tone he used for Sumo. “—yes, you’re very good at disposing of evidence, but this one is for Hank. Go to your own bowl now.”
He paused, but decided he’d investigate after taking a piss and getting his breath a little less lethal.
The scent that greeted him when he emerged from the bathroom again, feeling distinctly more human than ten minutes earlier, had him forgo the second visit to the bedroom. The smell was warm and sweet, and for some reason made him think of Sundays…

“You made pancakes?” Hank asked, stupidly perhaps, because the neat little stack on the table, complete with syrup and a picture-perfect knob of melting butter, was hard to miss.
Connor smiled nervously as he turned from the stove, in his checked pyjamas and the ridiculous ‘kiss the cook!’ apron Hank had won at the department Christmas party.
“Yes, I wanted to try my hand at a new recipe,” he paused, glancing guiltily at Sumo, who’d barely touched his own breakfast. “It… was a learning experience.”
Hank chuckled, and sat himself down at the table with a grin. “They look almost too good to eat. Not that that’s gonna stop me.”
He pretended not to look, as Connor all but lit up at the declaration, and then dove in, as the android went to pour his coffee.
“I hope they taste okay?” Connor put down the mug, lingering just a moment to wait for a reply. His cooking was still a little hit or miss, which made sense; cooking had definitely not been part of his original programming. He’d explained to Hank that while he could tell the exact chemical composition of things, he couldn’t actually taste them.
But cooking made him happy, and Hank couldn’t remember the last time someone had made him pancakes.
“They’re delicious,” he confirmed, after washing down the first bite with a sip of coffee. “Fluffy and perfect. Seems Sumo liked them too.” As Connor turned, Hank couldn’t quite help himself, but reached out and patted Connor’s ass, just below the ridiculous red bow of the apron. “Thanks, honey, you always take such good care of me.”
The android huffed at him, trying to hide his amusement, as his LED did a single roll through yellow and back to blue, and Hank’s shoulders loosened, knowing he hadn’t overstepped. Hank chuckled as he turned back to his pancakes, and Connor let Sumo outside. Then he went to get dressed, leaving Hank to enjoy his morning quietly.
It was a strange little thing they’d created for themselves. Connor enjoying his domestic role and Hank reaping the spoils, but it was good. For both of them really, and shit, probably for the rest of the precinct too. For all the crap people talked about Hank having mellowed, now that he had Connor taking care of him, he Had seen his work and relations improve. Of course, it wasn’t Just that he was easier to be around, when he remembered to eat actual food in the mornings, but it was part of it.

“Hank?” Connor raised a brow at him, as he returned to let Sumo back inside. “You should probably get dressed, or we’ll be late.”
That was one of his least favourite parts of living with Connor… the bastard was always so fucking Punctual.

It had been about six months since Hank and Connor had returned to work.
They still covered mostly android cases, along with three other human detectives, and three android ones, the only ones yet in the department. Hank had been the natural choice to lead the android unit, because he’d been partnered with Connor from the start. And while he would have considered resigning if anyone had told him that back when Connor had first sauntered in, it had become a point of pride for him now.
The legislation was changing rapidly, and their “temporary guidelines” shifted by the week. One of the androids, a lithe woman named Chit, had developed a habit of scanning through whatever came in and condensing it into easy bullet points for her human coworkers… Hank had developed a habit of bringing one of those little thirium juice boxes that Connor recommended, and leaving it on her desk in the morning, in lieu of coffee. She’d been a little confused at first, and he’d nearly dropped it out of sheer awkwardness, but by the third week, he’d noticed how she’d started underlining the passages he was most likely to forget.
Considering where he’d started, it had surprised him how easily Chit, Nines and Dexter had become as relatable to him as Reed, Martinez and Chen. But since getting to know Connor, as more than just a hovering, over-eager data processor with the disposition of a golden retriever, it was natural to consider other androids in the same way. If Connor was a person, and the kid had more personality than at least half the humans Hank had ever known, then it would be hard not to simply consider the rest of them the same.
Slightly quirky people, sure, but Hank had always had a soft spot for quirk.
Today was one of those good days, with just enough work to make the hours pass quickly, and a satisfying wrap-up dangling just at the horizon. They’d been circling a ring of android-part resellers, the kind of creeps who fed the traffickers specialising in non-deviated androids. Delicate work, because as soon as they started pulling on the spiderweb, the other bastards began to duck for cover. But they’d handled it well, circling for agonising weeks, and now they had at least six people to work for information. There was more to come too; Reed and Nines were still running down leads in the field, and they already had enough to put away at least a couple of main operators.
Today was definitely one of the good ones.

“You had somewhere you wanted to go tonight, didn’t you?” Hank asked, peering across the desk at Connor. “Going to the movies or something?”
“A movie night, yes. They are screening Gone with the Wind in New Jericho; some friends asked me to join, but…” His brown eyes flicked to the screen, and then back up at Hank, a slight crease between his brows. “I don’t think I’ll make it. I still need the last of Reed’s paper—”
Hank cut him off with a dismissive wave and an easy smile. “Fuck that, you go. I’ll grab takeout on the way home, make a night of it. I don’t want you to miss your movie.”
“Are you sure?” Connor was getting better at modulating his tone, to the point that the hopefulness in his voice sounded almost casual. “I know you’re not fond of paperwork…”
“Go, and that’s a direct order.” The smile had bloomed to a grin, which the android mirrored easily.
“Yes, Lieutenant.”

It hadn’t been his finest, most altruistic move, Hank knew, but he reasoned that Connor had needed a night out, a chance to see his less organic friends. But in truth, while Hank really did hate paperwork, he had his own reasons for wanting Connor out for the night… a reason named Matthew.
He’d met him at a bar called Blue, which Hank found to be a very pretentious name for a place that played mostly old jazz music and mostly served poured drinks rather than experimental cocktails. But he liked the vibe, and there was something of a victory to it, every time he sat down and only nursed a single beer before drifting off home. They’d started out talking about music, had a small argument over vinyl versus streaming. From there, it had easily devolved into a cheeky invitation for Hank to come experience Matt’s sound system.
It had been fun, but considering that Matt lived with two other guys in a midtown apartment, their options had been somewhat limited. And having to keep quiet only held so much novelty, when the boy’s voice in his ear had made Hank want to practically devour him.
So Connor being out was an excellent excuse for a little more breathing room, and his visits to New Jericho tended to run late, sometimes to the point of Hank driving into work alone.
Hank smirked at his phone, as he switched off his terminal for the night, and sent a text as he sauntered towards the parking-lot exit: “My place is free tonight. How about I grab some of that Thai curry you like, and prove the superiority of vinyl?”
All he got back was the address of a takeout place near Matt’s apartment, and a winking emoji. He should tell Connor, Hank mused, but he didn’t want the kid to feel obligated to stay out if Matt ducked out after the main event. He’d text him later, when he knew which way things were leaning.

Oh it was going to be a Good day indeed.

Chapter Text

Connor left the old CyberLife facility as soon as the movie had ended. He enjoyed attending the events at New Jericho, but sometimes they left him feeling a little… displaced. It wasn’t because he didn’t enjoy the company of other androids, but when Markus had called them ‘your people’ it had always struck a different note in him. On one hand, they were, of course. But the truth was, that he felt much more at ease among humans, and the more time he spent around Hank, and his other colleagues, the more removed he felt from them. He’d made peace, for the most part, with the things he’d done while still employed by CyberLife. While still under the influence of the “Amanda” program. But while the guilt no longer tainted his interactions, it didn’t really make him feel part of the community either. He still felt like a stranger among friends half the time, and tonight, he didn’t feel like making the effort. Tonight, he would much rather be at home. Maybe catch the tail end of the night’s programs on TV, snuggled up on the couch with Hank, Sumo snoring between them.

Home. The thought still made him tingle, in a way no other concept did. It had never been meant for him, he knew, the concept of belonging to a place, in a family unit (such as they were) and the silent rebellion of it, made the thought all the sweeter. It was something that belonged to him, in the same way as his room, his bed, his job; his seat at the kitchen table.

The cab let him out at the curb, and Connor noticed that the light was on in Hank’s bedroom. Maybe he’d retired early with a book, the way he sometimes did. Connor would look in on him, make sure he hadn’t fallen asleep with his reading glasses on again. Maybe he’d be invited to sit for a moment; they could talk about the movie, or their shared Saturday off.

He opened the door, and stopped dead in his tracks, a warning flashing across his HUD. Something was off, but he couldn’t place what it was. The house smelled like it always did, there were faint notes of music coming from the darkened living room. The door had been locked and the windows were intact. Everything seemed to be fine.

The noises coming from Hank’s room were distinctly not someone reading… he stood still for a long moment, transfixed by the sound of creaking bed springs, underlaid with heavy breathing, the sound of skin slapping against slick skin. Hank was….
Sumo stirred in the living room, and Connor hurriedly snatched the leash from its place on the coat rack, ushering the lumbering dog out the back door. Whatever it was Hank was doing, Connor did not want to disturb him. He’d take Sumo for a walk around the block, maybe a little longer, and then quietly make his way in the same way, giving his friend the privacy to finish.

The walk also gave him time to reflect. It wasn’t like he didn’t know Hank sometimes… entertained himself in private. Connor had experimented in that regard too, as part of his acclimation to human life. But it had never occurred to him that Hank might be doing more than that. Not that it should come as a surprise, of course. The lieutenant was a handsome man, and in these past months he had flourished, it was only natural that he’d pursue a partner. That other people would be drawn to him… but the thought of it still left Connor feeling strangely uneasy, in a way he couldn’t quite pin down.
He brought Sumo back in quietly, giving him one of the chewy treats from the cupboard, and made his way quietly to his room. He paused in the hallway, just for a moment, and listened. The only sounds he could pick up from Hank’s room now were quiet breathing. Allowing himself a scan (which he assured himself was only to make sure Hank’s vitals were normal, of course) revealed two sets of heartbeats, settled in even sleep patterns. He felt his own thirium pump tighten for a moment, as he quietly turned away from the bedroom door.

He didn’t know why his room felt so much bigger than it normally did, as he settled down to enter stasis mode. Why his bed felt cold, in spite of the house temperature being at its normal 70 degrees.
—
Connor heard the shower start, without having noticed the sound of the bedroom door. It was only 6, but sometimes Hank had trouble sleeping.
He manually flicked the coffee on to brew, and dismissed the morning newsreel from his HUD. If Hank was up early, taking time to linger over breakfast could help lean him into a softer start for the day; and scrambled eggs was one of the recipes Connor had down to a science.
He put on the apron, and set about quietly preparing the meal, leaving the pan only to pour the first mug of coffee, when he heard the water shut off. Eggs in the pan, then two spoons of sugar and a splash of milk in the mug.

The steps were off though… padding tentatively down the hallway, as if trying to find their way. It wasn’t Hank.

Connor felt someone step into the kitchen, and pause, their pulse slightly elevating.
“Good morning,” Connor offered, turning his attention away from the pan for just a moment.
Matthew Conway
Born on September 6th, 2006
Criminal record; none

His face scan deployed automatically, and Connor dismissed it with a quick glance, settling for “good morning. Would you like a coffee?”
The man was wearing Hank’s shirt, which hung loosely on his narrow frame, almost hiding the blue boxers beneath.

“Uh, yeah,” he muttered, eyes fixed on the LED at Connor’s temple “yeah, sure.”
Giving the eggs another turn, Connor nudged them off the hob and went to prepare a fresh mug for the human, who’d sat himself down comfortably in one of the chairs. He didn’t look up from where he was petting Sumo, as Connor slipped the mug in front of him.

“You sleep well, boy?” Connor was about to answer, a little confused about the man’s tone and choice of words, turning before he realised he had been speaking to the dog. “Wish I was that cheery at six in the morning.”
“Sumo is always in a good mood. Maybe because he spends most of his day sleeping. Morning is just an interlude, really.”
He kept his voice pleasant as he plated the eggs to serve. He’d make another portion for Hank; there were plenty of eggs left, and they wouldn’t be good cold anyway.
“I’m Connor, by the way,” he added, as he set the plate and a set of cutlery in front of the guest. “Nice meeting you.”

The man looked up at him briefly, little more than acknowledging his presence, before moving his attention to the food. “Matt. Can you call me a cab, for around 7?”

Connor blinked, surprised by the dismissal. Had he done something wrong? He realised that it might be awkward to run into the roommate of someone he’d spent the night with, especially if not prepared, but it didn’t seem like that was the case. He didn’t seem uneasy about Connor’s presence, so much as indifferent. Then it clicked, and the realisation sent a pang of hurt through Connor; he’d gotten so used to Hank and everyone else around him treating him the same as anyone else. Being dismissed as ‘just an android’ in his own home was unexpected, and struck him in a way that it never did in the field. He’d come to think of this place as his safe space, in a way he hadn’t even ever considered, and having that challenged, by a stranger wearing Hank’s shirt, smelling of Hank’s body wash, while drinking coffee that he had made, made Connor feel… Angry? No, that wasn’t quite it, or at least it wasn’t just anger.
Connor still ordered the cab, it was little more than a thought to do so, and he wasn’t about to start arguing with the man. Especially not over him leaving. He did let his voice drop, pressing it flat and robotic, more so than it had ever been before his deviation. “Your cab will arrive at 06:52.” The man didn’t seem to notice anything, having resumed cooing at Sumo between bites of egg.

Connor dumped Hank’s now-cold coffee in the sink, and rinsed out the cup unnecessarily, before going to feed Sumo. The whole time he buzzed around the kitchen, the man at the table just… ignored him. Not pointedly, the way one person might ignore another, but the way someone would just not acknowledge a piece of furniture in the room. The dehumanisation stung worse than it ever had in the field, or even in the office. Because this was home, this was safe. Hank’s kitchen, perhaps, but he’d come to think of it as his own too. Hank always called it “our place.”
By the time he heard Hank’s alarm, his shoulders all but sagged in relief, and he scurried to make Hank’s breakfast. Connor didn’t know why, when Matthew simply held out his nearly empty cup without a word, without as much as a glance, he still refilled it. He understood entirely though, while it made him feel like he needed to wash.

“Mornin’, gorgeous,” Hank greeted, as he stepped into the kitchen, leaning down to give Matthew a kiss. Connor didn’t miss the slight quirk of the other man’s brow, when Hank then turned the same smile to him. “Morning, Con, how was the movie?”
“It was good. The historical themes were interesting, and the cinematography was… quite beautiful,” Connor relayed, feeling his entire system settle back into its usual hum. Hank always had that calming effect on him, and while he hadn’t expected it to be different today, it was a relief to find it wasn’t. “How’s the eggs?”
“Fucking perfect, as always. Thank you.”

Connor smiled, went to let Sumo in, and then to get himself changed, trying to ignore the entirely too syrupy tone of Matthew’s “morning officer,” now that Hank’s attention was back on him.

Connor didn’t make a habit of disliking people. He had even learned to get along with the abrasive Detective Reed, now that they worked more directly together. But he realised, as he drew on his white button-down, he deeply disliked Matthew Conway. He just wasn’t entirely sure if his behaviour this morning was the only reason. It would be perfectly understandable, he reasoned, to dislike him on that background. But had he been a little predisposed against him? Had he already felt a little… threatened, perhaps?
He couldn’t quite identify the emotions that clung to his idea of Matthew, along with those of anger and awkwardness. But no matter what they were, he would need to find a way to deal with them. Given the fact that he and Hank shared a physical relationship, one that had evolved far enough for shared breakfast and pet names… his memory helpfully replayed the occasions when Hank had playfully called him Honey, or referred to him as ‘Cyberwife’ when they shared certain domestic activities. Connor dismissed it with a quick blink. Their domestic ease, and the somewhat casual level of affection of their friendship, did not equate him with a romantic partner.
Chances were, he would be seeing a good deal more of Mr. Conway, and he should at least try to make an effort.

But when he returned to the kitchen, and found Hank looking flustered, Matthew smirking as he ran his thumb along Hank’s knuckles, seeming entirely too pleased with himself for something Connor hadn’t heard, some little, petty part of himself, that he’d never really experienced before, decided to rear its head. He again dropped his voice into that flat, indifferently robotic tone and pointed out, “Your cab will arrive in 3 minutes, 45 seconds. Matthew.”
The man all but scrambled to his feet, making his excuses about work, and clothes, stealing a kiss and promising to text, before scrambling down the hall.
Connor wasn’t entirely sure what the expression on Hank’s face meant, as the lieutenant raised a brow and glanced after his companion.

“He seems nice,” Connor offered, beginning to clear the table.
Hank just shrugged. “Yeah he’s… cute. Been seeing him a couple of times. You didn’t need to make him breakfast though.”
Connor shrugged, and poured a second cup of coffee into Hank’s travel mug. “It’s no trouble. Besides, he didn’t seem much of a morning person, I imagine he needed it.”
This time, Hank’s searching gaze was on him, but he didn’t comment either, just took the mug with another, “Thanks, Con.”
—-

Connor spent most of the day at his desk, sorting through reports and streamlining the case, as Hank was in and out of meetings. The meat of the work was done, now they just had to prepare the case for prosecution. Connor’s mind kept flicking back to the scene that morning though. It was one of the benefits, and pitfalls, of his advanced analytical mind; that he could focus entirely on the task in front of him, and still fret over personal stuff in the background.

He knew he should give Hank space. That while they shared their home, Hank needed to have his own life too, and for better or worse, it seemed Matthew Conway would be part of it. It was good, really, that Hank was moving on with his life… he had seemed less burdened recently, a lot less lonely, and it was as good for him. Connor wasn’t going to let his own antipathy for the man stand in the way of that. It wouldn’t be fair, letting the man who’d already given him so much, lose out on a good thing, because he’d invited Connor into his life.
By the end of the day, he’d made his decision; he’d let Hank know that he was okay with the Matthew situation. Not because he needed to give his approval of anything, of course, but because he knew Hank cared about his comfort. Because it was what Hank would do, if it had been the other way around. And because he was okay with it. Or rather, because he knew he should be.

The chance came later that evening, when they’d settled in front of the television, Sumo tugged in between them on the couch.
“I was thinking,” Connor began, tugging his bare feet up under him where he sat. “There’s an event at New Jericho this Saturday…” Hank made a grunt, showing that he was listening, but not giving much thought.
“I could probably make a night of it, if you’d like to invite Matthew back. I could even—”

Hank cut him off with a quick glance, and a somewhat tight-lipped smile. “Thanks, but you don’t need to. Matt won’t be coming back around. Besides, didn’t you want to go to the farmers’ market Saturday? You sounded really excited about it.”

Connor blinked, his processors seeming to skip a beat, as he considered the information. Hank had seemed very fond of the man, and had mentioned they’d seen each other a few times before. It had seemed serious, for Hank to actually bring the man home, and now it sounded like it was… over. Had something happened over the span of just one day?
“Oh,” he muttered, blinking again, trying to infer and coming up entirely blank. “Oh, I thought you guys were… you seemed to like him?”
“Yeah well. Turned out he wasn’t my kind of people after all.”

Hank let the remark hang for an uncomfortable moment, and when Connor didn’t reply, he added, “Besides, I’d rather go to the market thing with you. It’s about season for strawberries, right?”

“No, strawberries won’t be until June,” he responded automatically, his thoughts stumbling on ‘my kind of people’. “It’s rhubarb currently, I think.”

“Think my aunt used to make a pie with those… think you could find a recipe?”

With that, Hank seemed to consider the matter closed, and they sank back into the amiable quiet of the television, as Connor’s mind continued to spin.
The only significant event between the night before and Hank’s apparent dismissal of Matthew as a romantic prospect had been that morning. And Matthew hadn’t really seemed uncomfortable—far from it, he had seemed quite eager to continue the relationship. He hadn’t even appeared to be uncomfortable with Connor’s presence. In fact, the only one who’d been uncomfortable was Connor himself… Had Hank ended the relationship because of him? It was the exact opposite of what he wanted, of the sentiment he was trying to convey. He knew it shouldn’t make him happy, and yet… Connor couldn’t help the slight warmth spreading through him, calming his internal processors, even as he tried to make himself feel guilty over it.

Instead, he got up from the couch, giving Sumo a reassuring pat, as the dog made to follow him, and quietly made his way to the laundry room.
He couldn’t say thank you, because Hank hadn’t actually told him that he’d done anything. But he’d change the sheets on Hank’s bed, and make sure to wash the T-shirt Matthew had worn. Erase the evidence that he was ever in the house, and in Hank’s life. And if he felt a little prickle of satisfaction in doing it… maybe it was just because he knew how much Hank liked fresh sheets.

Chapter Text

Something about that morning had been niggling at Hank. Far more than it had any right to, considering the honestly amazing night that had come before it.
It wasn’t that Matt had been rude, exactly… except he fucking was. Maybe not in a way that Hank would have considered rude a year ago, before getting to know Connor. But the fact that Hank used to be an ignorant asshole didn’t excuse it. People knew better now, damn it, or at least they should.

Maybe he should have mentioned that he lived with an android, not just that he had a roommate. But the thing was, aside from those foil pouch thirium drinks being part of his weekly grocery haul, he didn’t really think about the fact that he was living with an android. Connor was just, well, Connor. His colleague, his roommate; his best fucking friend, and Matt had treated him like he was Air.

In truth, it wasn’t just the fact that Matt had been an asshole that bothered him. It was more the way that Connor had just… taken it. In their own home, no less. Not because it didn’t bother him. Even if Hank hadn’t noticed the worried red of his LED, it had practically radiated off him how uncomfortable he was. Connor wasn’t ready to stand up for himself like that, and that made it Hank’s responsibility, as his friend. As a decent fucking person, really.
So when a text pinged in over lunch, Hank had to draw a steadying breath just not to bite the man’s head clean off without giving him the chance to explain.

Matt ;) 11:57; thank you for last night, I had a great time, even if sitting through morning meetings was a literal pain in the ass. We should do that again soon - Saturday? XoXo

Hank 12:03; my Saturday is kinda booked. Connor wants to go to the farmers market. You could join?

Matt ;) 12:04; lol seriously? You’re taking your coffee maker on a date? Never pegged you for the Domestic type. But hey, if you wanna do the farmer thing, we can go, leave the tin-can at home.
Matt ;) 12:04; or better yet, let it run the errands; I know a great little brunch place.

Hank glared down at his phone as one message quickly joined the next, and felt his anger once again flare. He had hoped that that morning had just been… a fluke. Nerves maybe, anything. As much as his gut had told him that the casual indifference of that morning had been ingrained, he had wanted to be wrong. In spite of years of hardwired intuition, he had wanted to be wrong about Matt, god damn it. He considered explaining it, typed and erased several iterations of “hey, about that,” but in the end erased it and cut straight to the core.

Hank 12:07; His name is Connor.

Matt ;) 12:07; for real?

Matt ;) 12:08; jeesh, yeah okay, we can let Connor handle the chores then. There has to be some benefits to keeping a droid around. Wouldn’t you much rather spend the day with me?

Hank could feel the glass of his phone screen all but bend under his fingertips. How was a grown ass man supposed to use a fucking smartphone anyway? A computer twice the size of the one he’d had in high school, and the damn thing could break if you typed a little too hard.

Hank 12:10; droid? He’s my Friend, and a fucking detective. have some respect.

He could see his reflection in the glass of the screen, the tight set of his jaw, the anger in his eyes. He felt it coiled in his gut too.

Matt ;) 12:10; ……..
Matt ;) 12:11; ugh, Fine. I’m sorry, okay? Can we just not…. I just really want to spend more time with you.

Hank drew another deep breath through his nose and tried not to throw the phone across the break room, but actually sound like a reasonable adult.

Hank 12:14; maybe this isn’t a great idea. I’m sorry Matt.

Matt ;) 12:15; what the fuck?
Matt ;) 12:16; god damn it. Okay. I’m not a jealous person, if you’re slipping it to the plastic when I’m not around, and want to play nice around it, that's fine. I just don’t want to spend time with it, okay?

He didn’t throw the phone. He settled for laying it down on the table beside his plate… with enough force that Chris looked up from across the room, with an expression like he wanted to abandon his plate and flee to safety. God fucking damn it, he needed a Drink.

He shoved the phone into his pocket and tried to ignore it when it continued buzzing a few moments later. Hank chewed his sandwich so meticulously that it made his jaw hurt, without ever tasting it at all.

Matt ;) 12:28; oh come on, it can’t be that good, since you were so ready to get it on with me.
Matt ;) 12:28; fuck, okay. I’m Really into you, okay? I’ll play nice around it.
Matt ;) 12:34; … Connor. I’ll be nice to Connor, okay? Just, talk to me.

He plucked it back out as he headed into the bullpen to resume work, scanning over the last messages, his teeth gritted so hard he thought they might crack. The bargaining was obvious. This wasn’t improvement, not even an attempt at it; this was just playing along to have his way, and Hank could feel his anger turning slowly into something deeper, more immediate.

Hank 12:35; you know what? No, we’re done here.

Matt ;) 12:36; what the fuck?!
Matt ;) 12:36; you can’t be fucking serious?
Matt ;) 12:37; I fucking get why you’re single, getting so pissy over a fucking glorified toaster. You’re a fucking joke.

The little icon at the bottom of the screen still showed Matt typing, pulsing out of sync with Hank’s hammering heart. He hovered over the “block” button for just a moment, considered the implications. Then he tapped it, and all but threw his phone onto his desk.

Shit… how had he misjudged the guy that badly? Truth was, he’d really enjoyed spending time with Matt, even when they weren’t naked. He’d liked his humor, the weird little observations he made. He’d liked Him.

He felt dejected, but as the day wore on, the anger didn’t really melt into sadness. Yeah, it sucked. And yeah, he’d liked the guy, but really, they hadn’t gotten past the initial “banter and blow jobs” stage. You weren’t allowed to get mopey about a guy when what you’d miss most about him was his lack of gag reflex.

Which… wasn’t fair, to either of them, but Hank didn’t let himself examine that fact just yet.
He also chose not to dissect the accusation about his and Connor’s relationship. Of course they weren’t sleeping together, but was there anything in their way of being around each other that could give that impression? Sure, he was a little looser around Connor than any of his other friends, but he didn’t really spend as much time with anyone else either. And if he was a little protective, it was just because Connor was new to… well, fucking everything.
It didn’t matter. They knew what they had, and if it worked for both of them? Then fuck it. It was good.
Hank declined when Martinez invited him to join the team after work, choosing to be painfully honest that he’d probably enjoy the drink a little too much that night. Pretended he didn’t see the tender pride in Connor’s expression, even if he felt it somewhere in his chest. He was doing it for himself, sure, but it felt good to know that it was seen. Especially when it didn’t need to be commented on.

Instead he suggested they grab a six pack of the fancy “blue juice boxes” that Connor liked, and a pint of ice cream. They’d watch one of the stupid old movies that Hank liked and Connor put up with, and just have a quiet evening on the couch. Tonight, that was what he really needed anyway. Not to get drunk and keep the conversation going with Matt, until he actually made an ass of himself. He’d walked away with his dignity intact. He’d rather like to keep it that way.

—-

“Why does everything associated with farmers have to start so god damn early?” Hank grumbled, as he slid behind the wheel of the car. At 8. Which was, in his opinion, entirely too early for anything to happen on a Saturday. “Not like turnips need a damn schedule.”
“Certain vegetables retain more sugar in the morning, subtly changing their flavor profile as the day progresses, and since photosynthesis halts—” Connor began excitedly, and Hank held up his hand to stop him. “Seriously, Con, it’s 8, can you just hold off on the science lesson.”

“Actually, Hank, it’s 8:06.”

Hank turned and meant to glare, only to see Connor, honest to god struggling to hold back a grin. Which had Hank himself barking out a laugh that made his seat vibrate, before scrubbing his hand over his face with a theatrical groan. “Fucking androids.”

The farmers market was honestly cozy, and exactly what Hank would have expected it to be, if he’d given any real thought to the matter. Little busy stalls selling everything from fresh produce and homemade foods, to handspun wool and overpriced coffee. Hank bought himself a cup, and let Connor set the pace as they meandered about, taking everything in. For a man who couldn’t taste, Connor was intensely fascinated by the fruits and vegetables on offer and carefully picked out samples for Hank to try: a piece of green asparagus, a small biscuit dipped in homemade almond spread, onion jam. Hank obliged on everything, and did his best to describe the experience of each, while Connor hung on his every word. His momentary pause and yellow spin on the description of onion jam as ‘just fundamentally wrong’ sent Hank reeling with laughter again, and Connor looked equal parts confused and… happy. Not just pleased, the way he sometimes did when he’d made a joke and saw it land, but just happy to be where he was. And with his company, which made 8 in the morning entirely worth it.

They picked up the green asparagus, some candy-bright rhubarb stems, which Hank dubbed celery in drag, and a variety of greens that he wasn’t entirely sure would all be eaten, but Connor had been curious about. There was a hunter selling cured meats, and they picked up some of the antlers Sumo liked to chew on too. Hank wasn’t the only one spoiled by Connor’s presence in his life… Sumo had always had it good; even when Hank had been at his worst, he’d never once let the old mutt be neglected in any way. But he was getting more walks, more visits to the dog park, and that was the only reason his excessive snacking hadn’t turned him into a barrel with legs.
The very first thing Connor had purchased with his own money had been a frankly excessive bone for the dog, which Sumo had paraded around for a week before burying it somewhere in the garden. The second thing, which Hank Had protested, was a “world’s greatest lieutenant” mug, complete with a clip art badge. He’d grumbled, especially since androids were still paid a fucking pittance compared to humans doing the same work, but had still brought it into work. He’d been teased mercilessly for it, as expected, but in a way that had felt good too. The teasing wasn’t mockery, and it felt entirely different from the remarks about his drinking. Equally earned, he supposed, but the tonal shift was unmissable.
And the custom-ordered “world’s okay’est detective” one that found its way onto Reed’s desk a week later, and which Connor had yet to fess up to, had just been the thing that cemented the joke.
Food shopping done, Connor had all but dragged him to a pastry stall, and insisted on buying him breakfast. Hank knew better than to insist on buying his own, and the way Connor looked at him when he all but groaned around a bite of flaky, buttery pastry was worth it. Staring at his mouth with an intensity normally reserved for crime scenes, waiting for him to describe the interplay of butter and sweetness, the chewy interior and the crisp, flaking exterior. The kid watched too many cooking shows, for a man who couldn’t eat.

They didn’t buy much of anything from the craft section of the market, though Connor spent ages letting his fingers slide over glazed ceramic mugs and soft knitwear. His fingers were sensitive, he’d explained when they’d been buying linen once, and Connor had practically petted every set of bedding in the store. The sensors had been meant to make him more efficient at his work of course, but Hank caught himself being fascinated at the way tactile sensations seemed almost pleasurable to Connor. A pleasure never really meant to be for him, but which had spurred Hank to bring home an assortment of little sensory fidget toys for him, almost to spite the fact. Now he watched those elegantly designed fingers trace over round-bellied mugs and thick woollen scarves with something akin to reverence, and the yellow spin of his LED seemed slower, almost. Like he was just lost in the sensations of it all.

Near the market exit, they’d walked past a row of flower stalls, and Connor had been transfixed by the sheer sensory overload of scents, colours and shapes. One seller had caught on, but rather than addressing the android crouching by a bucket of daisies, she’d turned her sharp eyes on Hank, a knowing smile on her lips.

“Shouldn’t you buy your handsome man some flowers?” she’d teased, gesturing to a curated display on the table. “I have the freshest tulips you’ll find in the city.”
Before Hank could say anything, Connor had stood up, LED a stark yellow, dipping red for just a moment as he blurted out, “We’re not together. Rather we are, but not in that sense, it’s more… we work together, colleagues. And he’s my roommate, and-“

The woman looked at him with a mixture of astonishment and slight amusement, which had made Connor stutter around his words even more. Hank should come to his aid, sure, correct the woman and let the whole matter drop. And maybe it wasn’t fair to Connor, what Hank implied when he turned a smile back to the woman and said, “Tulips? Yeah, I think my roommate likes those.”

But it had been the way Connor reacted, like Hank would be the one taking offence at the implication of them as a couple. The way Connor’s eyes had sought his, not hers, when he blurted his emphatic apologies. And the kid had practically cradled the bouquet the whole way home, careful not to scuff a single petal. And so what if he bought his roommate flowers, when Connor spent an hour arranging them, and then tried them on every surface of the house, to see where they’d be best displayed.

Hank had sat at the kitchen table, nursing the day’s third mug of coffee, and watched as Connor meticulously arranged every stem in the pitcher he’d found, when Hank had realised much too late that he didn’t own an honest vase. Trimming every stem just so, and shifting the flowers according to some invisible pattern in his head, or perhaps some complicated formula of light refraction.

Hank refused to think of Matt’s text, and just enjoyed the sheer happiness exuding off his friend, when Connor finally set the flowers down on the dining table. He neglected to point out that that was the exact spot where the whole process had started.
“They look good, Con,” Hank had told him finally, because sometimes a gentle nudge could keep him from spinning. Hank smiled over the lip of his mug as Connor looked up, almost shy. “Thank you, Hank. They’re beautiful.”

–

The experience with Matt had kept Hank home for a few weeks, even if he blamed it on wrapping the case and just being too damn tired to go anywhere. But you can only keep a bastard down for so long, and with the android-only movie nights becoming a weekly thing, it would almost be a waste for him not to go out again
His first encounter had been a woman named Inka, who leaned Entirely too hard on the “daddy” thing and nearly sent Hank scurrying back into the bushes. Then there was Tom, a guy from Blue with an easy laugh and a crooked smirk. They flirted, pretty quickly realised they worked better as friends, and left it at that. Over a couple of beers and a lot of tension-lifting jokes, Tom helped him set up a Grindr profile: shot the photos, vetoed three shirts, and told him to “smile with your eyes.” (What ever the fuck That meant). Despite Hank’s original scepticism, he got a couple of messages within the first week, and his solo Wednesdays suddenly looked a lot more interesting.

Chapter Text

“Shouldn’t you buy your handsome man some flowers?” Connor registered the voice and almost dismissed it, his focus caught entirely by the almost geometric perfection of a flower on display. Hearing a noise from Hank though, something akin to a chuckle, had him raise his eyes. And freeze. Because the woman was talking about him: about Hank buying him flowers. Because she thought they were together, romantically. Because she thought that they were on a date.
He’d seen other potential couples around the market, yes, both of same and opposite genders. A quick scan of his memories of their interactions at the market, overlaid with the behaviours of other visitors, brought up a startling realisation. While he hadn’t intended to embarrass the lieutenant, he had inadvertently dipped into many of those same behaviours. He had lost himself in the moment, and Hank had simply let him. Because Hank was too kind to correct him.
And now he had crossed the line so thoroughly that other people had noticed too, and may even have outed Hank’s sexuality. He hadn’t seemed particularly embarrassed when Connor had learned, sure, but they were close friends, and Hank had never expressed his preferences publicly.
“We are not together!” Connor told her, a little too emphatically perhaps, given the surprised look she gave him. “Or rather, we are. But not in that sense, it’s more… we work together. Colleagues.”
He looked up at Hank, trying to convey his apology. “And he’s my roommate. And—”

Before Connor could say anything more, which he hadn’t been entirely sure what was, Hank smiled and just turned to the woman, buying the suggested flowers. Connor took them carefully, still not entirely sure what to say, as Hank declared that they’d be going home to Sumo, and led the way back to the car.
The whole way home, Connor held the flowers carefully, letting his fingers play along the leaves and trace the brightly coloured petals, logging their texture and pigmentation, analysing their water content. But more than anything, trying to figure out what exactly they meant.

‘My roommate likes those,’ Hank had told the woman, but Connor could find no social protocol, other than marked anniversaries and special events (like loss, hospitalisation, in certain cases gratitude) for gifting flowers to a roommate. It wasn’t the first time Hank had gifted him something, of course. He had given him the RoboCop poster, because of the implied joke, and some of the clothes he’d kept but outgrown, because Connor needed something to wear. He’d given him a variety of garishly coloured sensory and fidget implements, to replace the coin that Connor had used to sharpen the calibrations of his dexterity arrays, because the constant flick and sound of it had annoyed Hank. But the flowers… they felt different. Not just because of the varied social implications of them, but because they served no purpose. Other than the fact that Connor had liked them, and Hank had noticed that he did.

That was why, once they were home, Sumo had gotten one of his new antlers to chew, and the groceries had been put away, Connor took so long to arrange them. He hesitated to cut even a single stem, cross-referencing several sources to do so just right. He carefully matched their length to the depth of the pitcher he’d chosen for them, based on principles from several housekeeping blogs and etiquette guides, and tried to find just the right arrangement for the mixed colours to complement each other. He moved them first to the windowsill, then the coffee table, and then the shelf, where they’d counterpoint the dark spines of Hank’s old books.
Because it had been a gift, meant just for him to enjoy. He had briefly placed them on the desk in his own room, between the tablet he used for work and the small box of sensory toys, but something in him rebelled at the thought. He wanted Hank to be able to enjoy the sight of the flowers too. And, in some small way, Connor wanted to place something of his in the shared space. Not because he hadn’t been encouraged to previously, of course; Hank had never once complained about a fidget spinner on the coffee table, or moved the knitted blanket Connor had taken from the closet and placed on the couch. But somehow, placing the flowers that he had been given into the shared rooms of the house carried a different weight. And perhaps, in a small way, Connor wanted the next person that Hank brought into their home to see them too. Because anyone who knew Hank would know that they hadn’t been something he’d purchased for himself. That Hank wouldn’t choose something so frivolous for himself, but for someone else. For him.

The problem with the placement, however, was that there was no set answer to it. No matter where he set them down, there were pros and cons, in terms of lighting, visibility versus clutter. Tradition versus taste. In the end, Hank was the one who helped him choose the spot, offering his opinion as a simple, offhand compliment, and Connor felt a soft prickle up his spinal cable at the choice. The kitchen table was about the most obvious spot in the entire house, and the first place a morning guest might notice them. The first place either of them would see them too, after leaving their respective rooms in the morning.

—

Over the next weeks, things went back to their usual rhythm, with the exception that the movie screenings at New Jericho became a weekly recurrence, for Connor to try and connect properly with the android community. And that Hank would bring home flowers, on a nearly weekly basis, when the ones on the table began to wilt. He usually wouldn’t say anything, just bring them in with the grocery haul, but Connor would feel that same flush of warmth every time.

Connor hadn’t given much consideration to what Hank did on Wednesdays. There hadn’t been any need. There’d be the odd takeout container in the garbage can, or an unwashed dish forgotten in the sink. One time Hank had fallen asleep in front of the tv, and another Connor had found him in bed, the door left purposefully open like an invitation to chat before turning in. It had, however, been nearly one in the morning, and Hank had simply nodded off with his book on his chest. Connor had gently shooed Sumo off the bed, and quietly closed the door.
He hadn’t considered what else might be going on, so it came as a surprise when he did the laundry and found one of Hank’s shirts smelling quite intensely of perfume. On inspection (to make sure there weren’t any stains to treat separately) he found traces of lipstick in a few spots along the shirt’s collar, and strands of cat hair on it and a pair of matching pants. The implications weren’t crystal clear, of course, but Connor still found himself tensing up at the possibilities. Of course, he hadn’t expected Matthew to be the last attempt for Hank to find a romantic partner, but he hadn’t thought about it in any more than the abstract sense. Perhaps he hadn’t wanted to, given the outcome last time, or perhaps it was an attempt to preserve Hank’s privacy. Now, he shoved the shirt and pants as far into the back of the washing machine as he could manage, as if to hide the evidence of his own snooping, and tried to put it out of his mind again. If Hank wanted him to know, he would say something, and until then, whatever Hank and this woman did in his absence was their business. He told himself it was courtesy, because it felt more manageable and clear-cut than worry.
The next time something was out of the ordinary about the laundry, it wasn’t the same perfume, but a man’s cologne, mingling with the smell of sweat and some stains Connor felt no desire to analyse. The week after, Hank even warned that he’d be home late, and changed it to seeing Connor at work, when he sent his apologies around two in the morning. Connor had been awake, but tried to tell himself that he hadn’t been waiting for his friend to come home.

Maybe he should have asked about Hank’s dating. Not to pry, and certainly not in an attempt to control anything—Hank had been very respectful about keeping anyone he might be seeing well away from Connor. Which, in light of how things had gone with Matthew, Connor was grateful for, but it also felt a little like being shut out from an important aspect of Hank’s life. But as the weeks wore on, and the trace evidence shifted from one potential partner to another, it felt like the window of inquiry had slipped firmly closed.
He kept attending the movie screenings, and other events that took him out of the house, and didn’t quite understand why it always left a little pull in his chest when he did. He told himself the reason he always paused and listened by the front door was because he wanted to respect Hank’s privacy, and didn’t analyse why the quiet always left a mingling of relief and longing in him.

–----

He wasn’t sure why he paused to listen when Hank picked up his phone in the break room. Perhaps it was because a call might change the workflow of his day. More likely, as he told himself later, it was because of the eager, self-assured smile on Hank’s lips when he glanced at the screen before answering.
“Hey there. No, I don’t mind at all, I was curious to hear your voice too.”
Hank chuckled into the phone, a soft, warm sound usually reserved for late evenings in private, and it felt strange hearing it shared with someone Hank had evidently never spoken to before.
“Eager, I like that,” he laughed, a hint of surprise according to Connor’s voice analysis, “but no, today is a late night, and Tuesday morning meetings are a pain, even if I sleep well.”
“You might leave me tired, but I won’t be sleeping long, I hope.”

Another laugh, followed by a faint flush on Hank’s cheeks that made Connor entirely sure this wasn’t something he, or anyone else, was meant to overhear.
“Jesus Christ, kid, I’m still at work. Let’s save that for when we’re alone. How’s your Wednesday looking?”
“Yeah, my place is fine. I’ll need to talk to my roommate before setting anything in stone, but I’m sure it’ll be okay. What do you like for breakfast?”

The idea of Hank inviting someone else into their home stung, but the ease with which Hank said he’d bring it up with Connor triggered an undefined warning impulse somewhere in his core.
Another pause to listen, and Hank frowned slightly, though the smile returned as he spoke.

“No, I get that, don’t worry. Morning traffic is a bitch, I get it. Yeah, I’ll see you Wednesday.”
The smile softened, affection written over the lines of Hank’s face as he added,
“Yeah, keep texting, I like getting to know you… Okay, I’ll see you then. Take care, sweetness.”

He hung up, the smile lingering on his lips as he returned to his sandwich, and Connor continued on his original trajectory towards the evidence room.
Later, rather than wait for Hank to bring up Wednesday and his potential plans, Connor simply informed him that the film scheduled that week was long and that he’d probably end up lingering after, as usual. “So please don’t wait up for me,” he said, and pretended not to notice the slight relief that crossed Hank’s face when he replied, “That’s alright, I won’t. Hope you have a great time, though.”
Over the next few days, Connor noticed Hank checking his phone often and smiling to himself before returning messages. It would have been the perfect window to ask, and part of him wanted to: to finally drag it all into the open, and have the needed chat about people, and space, and plans going forward. Part of him really wanted to, but another part of him, the loudest, kept him still, too fearful of the answers he might get.

–---

He'd meant to attend the movie screening. He had already been in the cab there, when he'd changed his mind and turned back towards the house. He'd catch Hank in the door and apologize for the late notice. It might make Hank worry of course, since he knew how much Connor had looked forward to the movie, but it would be short lived. Or maybe he'd change his own plans, and Connor would feel guilty... and maybe a little relieved.

The house was already dark when he returned though, the door locked and Sumo's quiet snoring the only sound in the house, aside from the quiet electric hum of the appliances.
He should message Hank, and let him know about the change of plans.
But first he'd take Sumo out for a quick walk. Given how early Hank had left, he'd probably just let him out in the yard, and he deserved a little extra, now that Connor had the time. He grabbed the leash from the coatrack, and Sumo was already barreling down the hall before he'd even been called, drawing an affectionate smile to Connor's lips. “Want to go pee on something?” he asked, mimicking Hank's usual invitation as he clipped the leash to the collar “Come on boy”.

He'd meant to message Hank while they were out, but Sumo's excitement had distracted him. It had also started raining while they were out, and by the time he'd dried off the wet saint Bernard, wiped the floor in the hallway and cleaned the bathroom, he reasoned that Hank would be mid conversation, and messaging him then would feel much too intrusive.
He went to change his own clothes, which were wet and dirty from taking care of Sumo. Slipped on his pyjama pants, and the worn-soft hoodie Hank had given him, before dropping onto his bed, eyes resting on the ceiling for a moment. He should message Hank, he had to, no matter how intrusive it felt. It would surely feel even more intrusive, for him to make it all the way home, and have Connor disrupt him then. Make it all the way home with his date...

He'd only just brought up the message thread with Hank, trying to compose a message with just the right balance of regret, apology and reassurance, when he heard the sound of a familiar engine outside, and then on the driveway.

Shit.

He blinked away the messages, and went to the door. His room faced the back of the house, there was no way Hank had seen the light from his window, he'd would have to announce himself for Hank to know he was there. Sumo padded across the livingroom, seconds before Connor heard the key in the front door, and Hank announcing “This is Sumo. Don't worry, he's a marshmallow in a fur coat, he just wants to say hi.”
The smell of damp wool and mud followed him in, as did a second pair of footsteps, lighter and more even in some way, and a light tap on the hallway floor. A knee against the hardwood, as the unfamiliar other slipped to a half kneel.
“Oh he's cute though. Hello Sumo” the stranger's voice was pleasant, and strangely familiar, which made Connor pause, hand on the door, listening “oh you really are sweet, aren't you? And such a big boy too, I bet you give great cuddles don't you? Yes you do.” the sound of fingers ruffling through fur, and Sumo's affectionate whine as he leaned into the touch.

“Oh is that how it's going to be? You're going to steal all the attention, huh?” Hank asked, his voice affectionately chiding, before sliding into a slightly more commanding beat “Sumo, go to your bed”.
The stranger laughed, or maybe giggled was more fitting, and the sound of the voice shifted, from crouching to standing, and then facing in a slightly different direction.
“Are you getting jealous? I can assure you, I much prefer bears over dogs”
The voice was painfully familiar, but Connor just could not place it without a scan, which felt too intrusive. Far more intrusive than what he was already doing.
“Are you a marshmallow too?”
the stranger asked, the slight purr in their voice sounding a little too artificial. His social protocols once again flagged nervous, along with the familiarity.
“You tell me....”
Hank's voice was low and a little husky, hinting at arousal. There was the sound of movement, and then... a wet sound, like lips meeting lips, mingled with a keening sound of a voice. Then it broke into that laugh again, strained and catching on the exhale.

“Hey, look at me” Hank's voice had softened, the husky undertone all but gone and replaced with light concern “are you nervous, kid?”.

“Mmmhh…. A little, I think” the stranger's voice still held the same strain, but softening.
“Your first time with a man?” A slight pause, and Connor could hear the knowing smile in Hank’s voice “or just your first time with a human?”.

Connor felt his entire system stutter, and he pulled his fingers back from the door like he'd been burned. The stranger was an android? As far as he knew, Hank had only ever been with human partners. Connor had never seen traces of thirium on any of his clothes in the laundry. But that voice... Connor isolated a sample and did a quick scan, the match coming up instantly: No human biomarkers. Voice pack 017, Model PL600.
Connor felt his throat tighten, an unnecessarily human convulsion, that did nothing to alleviate the tension he felt all through his system. Hank had spent the last several days flirting with an android. He had brought an android home. He was...

“You knew? I didn't mean to lie or anything, I'm really sorry-”
The apology was met with a soft chuckle, and when Hank spoke again, his voice was pitched lower, soft enough that Connor had to turn up the sensitivity of his audio processors to hear. Because damn it, he wanted to hear, any pretense otherwise was gone, swept away by the realisation of who. Or what. Hank had brought home with him.

“Don’t be sorry” there was a sound of skin touching skin. Not skin…. Not really. “I get it, you didn’t want it to be someone who was specifically into androids, right?” Another soft rustle “didn’t want it to be a fetish?”
“Mmmhhmm” there was a rustle of clothes, and a soft, wavering sigh.

He shouldn't be doing this. He had no right to listen in on Hank like this, absolutely no excuse. But he couldn't help himself, couldn't physically make himself move to reach for the handle again. Instead, he turned and lightly leaned himself against the closed door, anchoring himself against the solid wood. He felt the cold of the painted surface creeping through the fabric of the hoodie, but it did nothing the cool his already overheated body.
He'd never forgive himself for this, he knew that, but he couldn't stop himself either. He wanted it so badly he could feel it in every fiber of his being, every artificial nerve. He might never forgive himself, but it would almost be worth it, just to have this.

He let his eyes slip closed, and engaged his preconstruction software, matching one model to the shape and size of Hank, placing him in the familiar space of the hallway, just past the door to his bedroom. The stranger standing half a step in front of him, face to face. Only, it wasn't a stranger, the shape and measurements weren't those of a PL600, but Connor's own.

“It’s okay, I get that” more rustling “I could tell, sure, but that’s not why I took you home, okay? I like you”. There was a wet sound, soft and mingled with more rustling, as Hank kissed his companion. Kissed Connor, in the wireframe preconstruction. “but I like that you’re honest with me”.
The pair of them shifted, more sounds of kissing and a soft bump, as someone, probably the str... Connor, settled against the opposite wall. When Hank spoke again, the trajectory of the sound confirmed it.
“This being your first time, I want to make sure I take good care of you, okay” there was a breathy moan, as fingers rustled against fabric, and Hank’s voice was somewhere between a growl and a purr “so sensitive….. you like when I touch you?”
“Uhu…. P-please”. Connor nodded in unisence with the pleading voice, his hand moving on its own accord, matching the model of Hank moving in his minds eye.
“Good boy”

The lascivious tone of Hank's voice uttering the unfamiliar praise sent vibrations through Connor's entire body, and drew a strangled moan from his throat, that single sentence far more erotically charged than anything Connor had ever experienced.
“Tell me if you need me to stop, or slow down” Hank carried on, met by a fluttering intake of air, as a zipper was opened, and the sound of fabric sliding against skin.
“Please don't stop” the stranger's voice hitched around a needy whine, and Connor's fingers trembled accordingly, as he pushed his sweatpants and boxers down.
“Not unless you tell me to” Hank's voice was muffled, and mingled with the soft sound of lips trailing against skin, fingers moving further down. The wire model of Hank leaned in against him, kissing his neck, and Connor arched his back to meet him, fingers closing around the almost painful strain of his erection.
He mirrored the stranger's glitchy moan, and consciously chose to disengage his voice module, to not give himself away.

“Already so close....” Hank's voice was barely above a whisper, but another tweak of the audioprocessor, and he was speaking directly into Connor's ear “Should we move to the bedroom? Or should we just stay here... I'm sure you can manage a few times, can't you?”.
“More. Please” in his mind, the stranger's voice became Connor's own, as he grasped himself more tightly, fingers following the rhythm of the preconstruction.
He forced himself to stop when it did, even if his body was practically vibrating with barely restrained need.
The soft thump of knees, heavier this time. Hank was on his knees in front of him, hands on his hips, pulling him in. His hand began moving again, his fingers gathering the synthetic slick of precum already gathering at his tip, to mimic the wet sounds Hank was making as he used his mouth on him.
“Hank!” The voice was sharp, crackling around the edges with static. His hand picked up speed, began to lose rhythm, as the wire model bucked its hips and fisted its fingers into Hank's hair. “Hank, please, I. Please!”

The model faded into static crackle as his orgasm hit, and he cried out silently, in almost perfect unity with the stranger, who'd once again taken his place as the preconstruction faded.

“Such a good boy” Hank cooed, his voice rough after what he'd just done, but the praise was no longer meant for him. None of this was....

Connor dialed his audioprocessors back down, wiped himself on his underwear and discarded them into the laundry basket, before returning to his bed. He felt small, as he curled up under the comforter and closed his eyes again. Small, and cold, and more painfully alone than he ever had.

Tomorrow, he would talk to Hank. Confess what he'd heard, and swear never to do such a thing again. He'd even delete the recording he'd just made... and the one he'd make in a moment, when the creaking of Hank's bed became too much of a temptation to ignore. He'd never do it again, after tonight, never again. And maybe, Hank would forgive him.