Chapter Text
Gavin Reed is going to kill himself.
Or, he was going to — and he still is, just not now. You must understand, Gavin had everything planned out to a tee; it was the most prepared he'd been for anything in his whole life. He had finished all the food left in his cupboards, so there was nothing left to go to waste. He had organised all of his clothes into two bin bags, one labelled Good to donate and the other labelled To throw out. Hell, he even had his will written, under the guise of 'Oh, well, police work is very dangerous, best be prepared for anything.' It seemed like a good idea when he realised that his premature death was becoming more of a when than an if. He left all of his money and books — not that he ever read them — to Tina. He didn't exactly have much of anything other than that. His apartment is plain and undecorated, practically the exact same as when he had moved in (He didn't want to leave anything that the next person to move in might have to cover up or change; sometimes it felt more like he was renting from the next owner).
The thing that finally pushed him over the edge was his cat dying. F.B.I. Special Agent Dale Bartholomew Cooper — or just Dale for short, the full name only came out when he was in trouble — was a great, big black and white cat. He was sleek and thin, yet somehow absolutely enormous, making his way up to Gavin's hip when he got on his hind legs to beg for food. He stalked around the flat like he owned the damn place, flaunting a little white bib, a white chin, and tiny white socks than barely covered his paws. He had a docked tail, but what was left of it was also white, and it twitched a little from side to side when he sat down. What really earned him the name of Dale Cooper, was his severe little face. He had the angriest eyes, and the sharpest face Gavin had ever seen on a cat. He looked like you could place him in one of the interrogation rooms at work, just have him stare at the criminals, and his gaze would be enough to make them confess. All it made Gavin do, however, was give him more biscuits.
He's looked after the old fuck for nineteen years, picking him up off the street after he got kicked out and was living right alongside him, and it all came to an end because the bastard managed to sneak out the door just one last time. It's a wonder he even managed to make it through the building without getting snatched up and brought back to Gavin's apartment, as usual. Everyone knew of Special Agent Cooper and his creaky old meow that sounded more like a chair on its last legs than a cat. But, no. He had made his way down to the first floor, and gotten flattened by a car.
Gavin had found him on the side of the road on his way to work. He broke down, holding the head of his poor little man in his hands while pitying strangers stopped to watch the show on their way past, offering halfhearted comfort. Gavin kept the ashes in a little urn — a white porcelain one with a lid shaped like a curled up cat and Dale's name painted onto the bottom — and spread a handful of them by the tree of Dale's favourite park. He started to bring him there once he got a bit old and weary and was no longer prone to sprinting off at the first sign of freedom (as if the little shit didn't have the life of Riley already). He would bask in the open sun, fur rusting in the light, closing his eyes and purring. Gavin would sit in the shade of the tree, listening to a podcast or music, and watch Dale roll around in the grass, only for him to slowly make his way out of his beloved sunlight, and end up right back on Gavin's lap.
There's no point thinking about that now, though. Gavin has all his affairs in order, and he had finally run out of his shampoo and body wash at the same time — that very same week he spread the ashes, as well — and he's going to give a thinly veiled goodbye to Tina, Fowler, Elijah and maybe Anderson and Connor if he felt it was deserved, and then he was going to end it. He even bought a new handgun, just so they didn't have to worry about retrieving his work gun.
But, he's had a change of plans.
"This is RK900," Fowler says, annoyance already shining through every syllable. RK900 stands with his hands clasped behind his back, regarding Gavin with a curious eye, though his expression remains calm and neutral. His eyes just barely flick to regard Gavin from head to toe. He's a bit taller than Connor, yet he's remarkably similar in every other aspect. The only difference Gavin can find is his eyes: they're a chillingly icy blue. Almost unnaturally so. So cold, so different from his predecessor, who practically looks like Bambi compared to him.
He's wearing his Cyberlife issued clothes: neatly pressed dress pants, dress shoes, a sterile white jacket, and a black shirt with a collar so high, any human would struggle to breathe in it. It is maybe the shittiest fashion Gavin has ever seen, and that's honestly rich coming from someone who only owns t-shirts, jeans and thrifted leather jackets. He can't help but wonder how the thing looks so intimidating, instead of looking like a fucking idiot.
"RK900," Fowler continues, "will act as your partner for the foreseeable future. He's technically made for F.B.I. work, but we're trialling him here for a while, first. I don't wanna hear a single fuckin' complaint out of you, Reed, it's not even 10AM, and I've already had it up to here with your shit."
"Fowler, you can't be fuckin' serious!" Gavin gestures at the Android, sputtering nonsense as he tries to articulate his anger, until it comes out as: "I'm not working with this fuckin' thing, you know how I feel about these goddamn RoboCop shits!"
"Did I not just say I don't wanna hear your bitching?" Fowler pinches the bridge of his nose, clearly trying not to snap this early in the day. "I don't give a shit if you don't like it, he will be assigned to your cases, because you are my best detective, and that is final. Do you fuckin' hear me?"
"C'mon, this- this has to be a joke!"
"I don't joke, Reed, now grow the fuck up, and get the fuck out of my office before you end up with another disciplinary on your file." Fowler looks back down at his work with such a finality, that any words Gavin had for the man die in his throat. He just turns on his heel and storms out, shutting the door so hard that for a second he thinks the glass might shatter.
Gavin makes himself a coffee, muttering under his breath about fuckin' Androids and fuckin' Fowler and some fuckin' last day, for fuck's sake. Tina, luckily, doesn't hear that last part.
"What's up your ass?" she asks, pulling her mug from the cupboard, smirking at the expression that must be pulling creases into Gavin's face. "Cat piss in your cereal while you weren't looking again?"
Gavin almost loses it, almost screams at her to not joke about Dale, until he remembers he hasn't even told her he died. He still sometimes wonders where the little shit could be hiding when he doesn't get greeted at the door by a loud, crackly mrrroaw. So, instead, he takes a deep breath and counts to ten in his head.
"I've got a new partner," he replies, calm as he can manage, though he still grits his teeth. "He's. A fucking. Android."
Tina purses her lips, snorts, then bursts out laughing. Gavin damn near crushes his coffee cup, squeezing his eyes shut and forcing himself to take a deep breath.
"Holy shit," she cackles, slapping his shoulder and doubling over. "You poor bastard! Is it the fucking Terminator over there? Please tell me it's Terminator."
"Yeah- yeah, it's Terminator—"
Tina shrieks a laugh and grabs Gavin's arm with both hands. He can't help the corner of his lips turning up at the sight. Seeing Tina laugh, even at his expense, does lift his mood just a little.
"I already can't stand him," Gavin chuckles now that Tina has simmered down to a giggle. "His shirt looks like a neck brace, right?" And Tina starts up all over again. Gavin doesn't understand how she can be this energetic first thing in the morning, but it's fun to watch.
"It does look like a fuckin'—" and she can't continue anymore through her wheezing. She manages to get out little snippets of her thoughts. "So fuckin' stupid... 's like a cone of shame!"
At that, Gavin finally laughs, leaning into Tina and covering her hand with his. After calming down, cracking a few more jokes about that seriously dumb jacket, they set off to work with plans to go to a local café for lunch. It could be his time to get his goodbyes out of the way. Have a totally not suspicious heart-to-heart and let her know she's the best damn person in the world. He'll figure out how to thank Fowler for all he's done for him later on, it isn't important just now. He has all day, after all.
He makes it back to his desk, only to find RK900 already sitting across from him. He groans inwardly and sits down, face like fizz. Out the corner of his eye, he spots the Android turning his head, spinning in his chair to face Gavin, hands folding in front of him on the desk. Gavin outwardly groans this time.
"I believe I should formally introduce myself, Detective," he says, and Gavin almost flinches. He sounds absolutely nothing like Connor, and it's fucking jarring. While Connor's voice is pretty mid range and peppy, this one's is smooth. Deep. It's like listening to honey, the sound of every syllable dripping down and settling into a strange tightness in Gavin's chest. He doesn't like it. Not one bit. "My name is RK900. I understand you are not fond of Androids, and I apologise for causing you discomfort. I do hope we can manage to work professionally and effectively, despite your distaste."
"RK900?" Gavin drawls, already bored up his stick-up-the-ass schtick. "Don't you have an actual name?"
"My name is technically Connor, since I am merely an upgrade of the Connor line, but I assumed it would be a bit confusing to have two near-identical Connors walking around the same precinct. I've yet to pick an actual name." Gavin wasn't actually all that interested in the answer.
"Uh huh," he sighs. "Cool. Whatever. Just don't think we're gonna be all buddy-buddy, like Anderson and his little boyfriend over there. Stay outta my way, tin can, and don't fuckin' talk to me unless it's about work." RK900 nods, and doesn't say anything else. His LED turns yellow for a few seconds, but goes back to its calm blue fast enough. Gavin turns to log in to his terminal.
He scrubs his face and downs half his coffee in one go, his lack of sleep catching up to him. The computer hurts his eyes a little, the thing already giving him a headache. So far, he doesn't have any cases to work on. Just paperwork and more paperwork. Busywork. Good. He usually hates busywork, but it seems preferable to starting something new, knowing he won't be around to continue it tomorrow. At least the Android could pick up anything he can't finish. A little morbid part of him wonders if this is God's way of telling him to get a move on; he's already been given his replacement, on the very morning of The Deed and everything.
It's then he realises.
If he does this today, it's going to look like he killed himself because he got given an Android as a partner. His death will become a precinct inside joke: Gavin Reed, the man who hated Androids so much that he ended it all rather than sucking it up and working with one. The very thought makes his face burn with embarrassment.
"Detective, are you alright?" RK900 asks, sounding a little actually concerned. "Your heart rate has increased quite suddenly."
"Did I not just say not to fucking talk to me?" Gavin doesn't mean to snap, but he does. He doesn't mind taking things out on some robot, a machine that doesn't even have a real name. What does he fucking care? This was supposed to be a nice and simple Final Day, like a dog getting giving a steak for breakfast before it gets put down, and here is this plastic prick screwing everything up! "Are you fuckin' deaf? Or are you just a fuckin' idiot?"
RK900's lips twitch into a frown, a spackle of red running through his LED. His face goes from completely blank to almost completely blank, with just a twinge of anger. His voice turns sharp and icy when he says: "I am trying to be professional, Detective, must you behave so childishly?"
"Oh, fuck you," he scoffs. "I told you to leave me the fuck alone. Now be a good little robot, and follow literally the simplest order I can give you."
"I'll have you know that, as a Deviant, I don't have to follow any of your orders." Gavin can hear the RK900 trying his best to keep a level head, to hold the high ground. He just rolls his eyes and turns back to his computer. When Gavin doesn't respond, RK900 turns back to his work as well. It's then that Gavin makes it his mission to make the thing dislike him as much as possible, because that means as little contact as possible, perhaps even a request for a transfer. Or maybe, one day, he'll snap and murder Gavin or something. Then he won't even have to worry about doing the big job himself. He smirks to himself at the thought of trying to frame RK900 for his murder. Just for a last laugh. He has to try especially hard not to snicker at the thought of him in some equally stuffy, high collared prison jumpsuit.
Six months. Gavin will give it six more months, and then he'll do it. It's far enough away that no one will whisper and gossip that he topped himself because he was assigned an Android, and close enough that it feels doable, even if the whole plan makes him feel that much more miserable. But, hey.
He's survived twenty-two years of I can't do this anymore, he can manage six more months of it.