Chapter Text
The aftermath of the android revolution is, to put it simply, a clusterfuck.
Oh, sure, the President made some big speech and they're technically citizens or whatever now, but change isn't as easy as all that. Detroit is the epicenter of a fucking explosion, metaphorically, and the DPD are the ones picking up most of the pieces.
Connor, despite everything, is very quietly rushed through the evolving system and offered - offered - a place as Hank's official, long-term partner. He accepts, of course, and he's issued a shiny ID card and his very own, absolutely legal firearm.
“How's it feel?”
“...Good,” he says, setting the gun on his desk and turning the badge in his hands. “It feels good. I'm… glad? For the opportunity.”
Hank grunts, nods. The kid still can't articulate for shit when it comes to things he's actually feeling, but he's getting there. Probably helps that Hank's asking him at every opportunity, forcing him to examine his feelings. The rest of the force - minus Gavin, unsurprisingly - are adjusting pretty well to Connor being a full-time member, though he's hardly had the time to socialise. Hell, he's still living on Hank's couch - not that Hank's in a rush to kick him out. Nah, he's kinda fond of him, maybe. Hell if he's gonna admit it out loud or anything, though.
“Motherfuck,” he hears from a corner of the room, and when he turns his head to look, sure enough there's Reynolds, rubbing her hip and scowling at the desk she just walked into. He likes her well enough, she's a good kid, an analyst from over the pond who transferred in a few months back. She's at least as bad with people as Connor, and she doesn't have the excuse of being an android to fall back on.
“Hey Reynolds,” Gavin yells across the bullpen, “I dropped a file, you wanna come over here and pick it up for me?”
The ugly leer makes his meaning obvious, but Reynolds, god fucking bless her, doesn't miss a beat.
“Suck my dick, Reed!” she calls back, attention fixed on the folder in her hand. She flips him the bird over her shoulder as she goes, silver nail polish glinting in the fluorescent lights.
Connor watches the exchange, LED flickering yellow, and turns to Hank with a frown.
“Officer Reynolds doesn't possess a penis, does she?”
“Nope,” says the girl herself, pausing beside their desks. Of fucking course Connor timed it that badly. She looks Connor over, tilts her head in an unsettlingly familiar fashion, and gives him a brief smile. “And even if I did, I'd still be a woman. And Reed can go suck a dick anyway, misogynistic prick.”
Connor seems to accept at least the former half of the sentence, neatly saving Hank from any kind of sensitivity training, and smiles back.
“I'm Connor,” he says, and Hank expects him to hold out a hand to shake, but he doesn't. So much for his social module.
“I'm Inara. And it's Miss, by the way, not Officer - I'm only an analyst, ugh, I can't imagine doing fieldwork and having to talk to people, gross. And shouldn't you already know that? Like, don't you have files on everyone in the precinct uploaded to your brain or fancy scanners or whatever? Seems like one of the perks of being an android, having a built in database and internet connection.”
Shit, Hank forgot how much of a motor mouth she can be, but she seems to realise it too, snapping her mouth shut and focusing her gaze somewhere around Connor's collarbone. Connor tilts his head to one side - that's where he recognised the damn gesture from - and blinks, once.
“Lieutenant Anderson informs me that it's considered impolite to scan people for access to their files instead of asking them first.”
“Huh,” says Reynolds, and then, “cool. Anyway, I have paperwork to do. Nice to meet you, Connor! Say hello to Sumo for me, Lieutenant!”
“And there she goes,” Hank mutters with a shake of his head, as the girl strides off, focus on her work again. She clips her elbow on the door on her way out, swears, and then absently apologises to the offending piece of furniture.
“...she is aware that the door frame is not sentient and therefore cannot hear her?”
“I'm not even sure she notices she does it,” Hank admits, scratching at his cheek. “Seems to like you well enough, though. Maybe it's the goofy face.”
“I was designed to integrate!”
---
Connor's second interaction with Miss Reynolds comes several weeks after the first, and begins much more strangely.
It begins, in fact, with her pausing in her walk across the bullpen, eyes tracking something, and then making an impressive sliding dash beneath the nearest desk.
Connor's.
“Miss Reynolds?”
“Bee,” she says, pressing her back to the freestanding wall that separates his and Hank's desks from the edge of the room.
“I don't know what you mean,” Connor says, after a brief attempt to extrapolate.
“There's a bee,” is the strident response, complete with an arm coming up from beneath the desk to point towards the far corner of the room.
A visual scan reveals that there is, in fact, a bee. A European or Western honey bee, apis mellifera, highly unlikely to cause harm and only minor pain and swelling at that, barring anaphylaxis.
“Don't tell me that it's more afraid of me or that it won't hurt me,” Miss Reynolds mutters, curled up and resting her chin on her knees.
“You must not be very comfortable sat like that,” he says instead.
His visual sensors begin to provide information without his input, still in scanning mode, and he catalogues it absently: Inara Zoe Reynolds, born 07/31/2010, female. Artificially dyed brown hair, grey roots. Green eyes, slight nearsightedness. There is a loose eyelash on her cheek. Several scars and flaking scabs signify that she habitually picks at her skin. The shape of her chin implies a significantly premature birth.
She tilts her head to one side and looks up at him, eyes narrowed. “I could do with a cushion or two,” she says with a shrug. “And you're awfully high up from down here.”
The first he cannot immediately provide assistance with, but the second he can. He carefully moves his chair aside and folds himself down to sit tailor style, with a clear line of sight to both Captain Fowler's office and the door to reception.
“Better?”
“Yep! Thanks, Connor.”
“It's no problem, Miss Reynolds.”
“You can call me Inara. Or just Nara.”
Connor just tips his head a little, neither assent nor rejection, and Miss Reynolds narrows her eyes at him, then smiles.
“Sorry about commandeering your desk.”
“I can work as well from here.”
“Huh. Cool.”
This is how Hank finds them, several hours later.
“Alright, what the fuck,” he says, sounding more exasperated than annoyed, eyeing the two of them sat on the cold floor, one beneath a desk.
“There’s a bee,” Connor says cheerfully, and points. The bee has been quite motionless for some time now, but is still present.
“Oh, for-- it won't sting you, Reynolds--”
“I am in prime position to punch you in the nuts, Lieutenant,” she tells him, leaning far enough out from under the desk to glower at him. Connor, still newly in possession of a sense of pain, shifts uncomfortably at the idea. Reynolds reaches out and pats him on the knee. “I wouldn't nut-punch you, Connor. You're nice.”
“I can be nice!” Hank protests, and Connor joins Reynolds in giving him an utterly disbelieving look. “Fuck both of you, then. Fine, stay under the desk, I'm not the one who'll get a disciplinary note for it.”
“Uh, as ranking officer I'm pretty sure you're like, responsible for stuff.”
“That made no fucking sense,” Hank informs her, and her response is-- Connor's database informs him the noise is commonly known as 'blowing a raspberry.’ Hank gives her the finger and stomps off around to his own desk.
(Fowler, when he emerges from his office, just sighs and asks Reynolds if she's working, at least. The tablet she waves in his direction appears to reassure him.)