Chapter Text
It's nearly six months after the revolution when something in Hank cracks open. Connor's visiting like he usually does on Tuesdays, and the two of them are out walking Sumo. It's mundane, if you discount the strange history they share. They're just a man, his best friend, and his dog, out on a walk. The weather's cool but comfortable, the sky's partly cloudy, and people--both human and android, these days--are going about their lives as normal.
That's what gets him, is the normalcy of it all.
"Normal" has meant a lot of different things to Hank, over the years. Connor only knows the current version, and snippets of the last. Everything before that, Hank's kept deep underground, far below and away where it can't tarnish his new life. Dead and buried, like--
Hank was sure he couldn't find a new normal, not like this. Not in a world where Cole wasn't. If he has, if he's started to heal and move on and live again, that means he was right.
If he was right, then Hank was wrong.
And if Hank was wrong, then the argument was his fault.
Sumo and Connor both notice the change in Hank at nearly the same time, both so perceptive in their own ways, and pause to look at him.
Hank stops walking. His head tries to keep going.
It's his biggest secret from Connor, his greatest shame. He didn't want Connor to judge him for his bad choices, to know how stupid he'd been for thinking that shitstorm could have ever worked out. It's the thing that's kept him distant from Jeffrey, because Jeffrey had tried to fix it when Hank didn't want it fixed. It's driven him away from everyone he used to know--everyone who knew the man he used to be and who could have told Connor the ugly truth.
How the hell do you tell your best friend that the guy who tried to kill him was the one who gave birth to your son?
The thing about normalcy is that it's so, so easy to shatter. Usually, it's been the world doing the shattering for Hank. His marriage crumbled, his son died, the guy he thought was the love of his life turned out to be a heartless prick, the androids had a revolution.
That's what he'd thought, at least.
That's what he'd thought.
He hasn't told Connor yet. How could he, when he can barely stand to look at this? When the truth is so much worse than the lie he'd been so desperately trying to hide?
Connor's learned to read Hank over time. He's gotten better at saving the personal questions for when they'll actually get him somewhere. He seems to know as well as Hank does that prodding this wound would backfire, so he hasn't asked. He hasn't said a word in the past hour. He gently pried the leash from Hank's hand, guided him home, and got him and Sumo both some water. Now, he's squeezed on the couch between them, stiff as a board, rubbing awkward circles between Hank's shoulderblades.
Hank wishes he'd figured this out when he was alone, and knows it would have gone much worse if he had.
He wants to tell Connor to leave. He wants to beg him to stay the night. He wants a fight. He wants a drink. He wants to put a goddamn bullet in his skull so his traitorous thoughts will shut the hell up. He wants--
He wants--
He needs to tell him the truth.
That's the last thing he wants.
Hank has a choice: Will he do the right thing, or the easy thing? The temptation to run from this looms large. It's been too big in the past, overwhelmed him. It's crushed him under its weight, and forced him into hurting the people he cared about most. Who could blame him, in the face of something so unbearable? Anyone would have given in, just like Hank did.
(He didn't. Hank fucking hated him for that.)
Hank stands. He walks into the garage and he shuts slams the door behind him. He wants to sink to the floor and stay there until the earth swallows him whole. He compromises by standing, frozen in place, until his legs unlock and he can press forward.
He's touched the box only once since he taped up all his pain inside it, back when he moved out of the home he'd shared with Cole. Connor was the one who carried its burden the last time, when he'd moved Hank from his old house into somewhere bright and new. He hadn't known what was in the box in his arms, any more than he'd known what Hank was carrying inside.
You can move the man out of the depression cave, but you can't move the depression cave out of the man.
He rips the tape off like a Band-Aid.
Connor turns to watch Hank go, and mostly doesn't flinch at the abrupt bang of the garage door. He drums a little beat on his thighs. He asks Sumo if he knows what's going on, just for an excuse to speak.
Sumo continues to chew his rawhide. He drools around it, making a valiant effort in his quest to turn the couch more saliva than fabric.
Maybe Hank will finally agree to buy a new sofa if Connor tells him the concerning results of his latest scan. Connor doubts it. He runs a statistical analysis and concludes that Hank will most likely continue to insist that it's pointless when Sumo would drool on the new couch, too.
If Hank comes back, that is.
When. When Hank comes back. It wouldn't make much sense for him to run away from his own house, nor would the garage have been the best exit when the front door is right there. It's probable that he'll return. Eventually.
Connor pushes his worries down. Anger bubbles up in their place. Equally useless. Getting into an argument with Hank would accomplish nothing. It'd likely make things even worse. What can Connor actually do, then? He's well past the days of missions and objectives, but situations like this still unmoor him. He's half-tempted to just go home, or force a manual stasis so he can escape the discomfort of this uncertainty. What he does instead is puts on the next episode of Shredder Inc.. He doesn't want to risk missing Hank if he comes back ready to talk.
He knows it's passive-aggressive. They've been watching together because Hank wanted to share it with him, but Connor's incredibly frustrated. He hopes he can broadcast the message that this isn't okay, and distract himself in one go. Hank's seen the show already, anyway. Connor's just keeping their Tuesday routine on schedule.
He's twelve minutes and thirty-eight seconds into a second episode when he hears the click of the garage door opening. Sumo lifts his giant head, ears perked.
Hank looks haunted, face drawn and eyes hollow. It punches the air out of Connor's mechanical lungs, and his anger with it. He turns off the show instead of pausing. He can rewatch with Hank later.
Hank slumps back into his seat. Silently, he hands Connor a heavy binder.
No, it's a photo album. Connor's never seen one of these in person before. It feels oddly sacred, a remnant of a world predating Connor's entire race. A reminder of the fact that Hank's existed--that he's been living and growing and changing--since before Connor's oldest ancestor was nothing more than an idea in Elijah Kamski's mind.
He hesitates. He looks at Hank, unsure. He feels too young for this. He feels like he's trespassing on some ancient hallowed ground.
Hank swallows. He looks as doubtful as Connor feels. He reaches across and opens the album himself.
Connor expects the younger version of Hank he finds in the photos. He isn't surprised, with Hank as upset as he is, to find pictures of Cole. What shocks him is just how many appearances there are of a smiling stranger with a face that Connor knows.
"Is that...?"
"Yeah. It's--" Hank lets out a shuddering, uneasy breath. "It's Gavin," and there's so much in the way he says the name. There are so many feelings there that Connor doesn't have the emotional vocabulary or the life experience to identify.
Connor feels so young. He feels so naive and confused and overwhelmed, and this doesn't make sense. Hank hates Gavin, he hates him, and Gavin hates Hank and he hates Connor even more, and Connor realizes he's never actually heard Hank say Gavin's name before. Would this have always been there if he had?
"The man you met wasn't the Gavin I used to know."
It's only Connor's advanced software that lets him steady his voice enough to ask, "What changed?"
Hank's head is bowed in shame. "I robbed him of everything he cared about, and told him it was his fault."