Chapter Text
The coin fluttered back and forth between each hand. Once. Twice. He braced his thumb against the hard curve. Three times. He blinked. It hit the floor with a sharp clatter.
Connor stared down at the quarter, his face a blank mask as he considered it. The house felt especially quiet today. There was the consistent noise from outside – sirens, passing cars, heavy music. The types of noises that were so common in the tiny home that Connor had learned to force them to the back burner. He didn't jump when he heard a car horn or a door slam shut.
He bent over and retrieved the quarter, but quickly dropped it again. He abandoned the quarter on the living room floor and stood. Leaving the room felt like a mission in and of itself; it seemed too small, but the kitchen somehow felt smaller. He blinked and glanced around. The leash sat abandoned on the counter.
“Sumo,” he called, scooping up the leash. His voice was too loud. Too sharp in the silent house. It was a relief to hear the familiar clatter of claws against linoleum as the dog rushed into the room and nearly barreled right into Connor’s legs. “Hello. Where did Hank leave your harness?”
It was a bad day, as Hank would call it. The temperature was at its highest so far that year, which meant Sumo was less interested in walks than Connor, leaving him stuck in the house most of the day. The weather did not generally bother him one way or another, but the sun seemed to help keep the bad day as something simply bad and not irreparable. Connor held the leash and walked a distance behind him, letting him sniff at every crack in the pavement, every raised object, every piece of trash. He always meant to bring a proper garbage bag with them. Somehow, despite his ability to meticulously file, memorize and categorize every detail of every investigation, he was incapable of remembering to bring a trashbag with them on walks.
Despite the garbage, it felt better. Being outside. Connor could look around at all the houses and trees. The distant buildings of the inner city. The sky. The ants carving a line through the cement. He could take in the filthy city and feel a bit smaller.
He didn't know what it was, if it was claustrophobia or loneliness. Hank generally cited anxiety. None of it felt right. Connor might have hoped that a human would have a firmer grasp on emotions, but perhaps an android should as well. Connor could define every emotion under the sun. He could not put his own feelings into words. The burning in his chest when the coin hit the ground. The way his shoulders stiffened and jaw set.
“How do you know what it is?”
“I dunno. Just born knowing, I guess.”
It was the broadness of it. Yes, he felt a bit sad. Sometimes a bit angry. Maybe anxious. But all at once, and everywhere at once, until the house became too quiet and too small. Until he wanted to pull his hair out or lay on the floor. Connor could not put words to the layers of it, the depth of it. He missed when it was just afraid and sad and happy.
He wanted to shout at Hank for ever letting him do this. For supporting him in the stupidest decision of his life. It was a battle every morning not to get ready and drive in with Hank. He'd suggested seeing Markus, but Connor did not want to talk about policies and legislations and things that made him feel…
Small. But he feels small now, and small feels good.
Sumo has learned that Connor will walk as long as Sumo wants too, so it is nearly half an hour later when the dog leads them back up to Hank’s front yard. Sumo was the first to spot the car parked out front. His tail began to thwack against Connor’s leg. He looked back at him, waiting impatiently for him to move so he could go say hi.
Connor reluctantly obeyed. It felt good, sometimes, to ignore orders from Hank or another officer on the force. It did not feel good to ignore orders from Sumo.
His fur was greying. Walks were growing shorter and less frequent, regardless of weather. He greeted Hank with a bit less energy when Connor released the leash.
Hank quickly sank down to his knees, slapping either hand on the dog's neck and rubbing vigorously. The happy baby voiced Who's a good boy? praise repeats on a cycle as Hank dotes on him. He smacked a loud kiss to Sumo's forehead and looked up at Connor. He smiled a bit, unsure but kind.
“Still in one piece?”
“Yes,” Connor answered, though unsure his body was not cast about the living room. “How was work?”
“Terrible,” Hank growled, his voice rumbling as he strained to stand. Connor instinctively reached out to help him, and was rewarded with a flapping hand gesture. He withdrew. “Another lecture from Fowler about the Bianchi case. He's driving me up a wall, I swear.”
Connor followed Hank into the kitchen. He opened the pantry and considered the contents with disinterest.
“No new leads?” he asked, leaning back against the table. “Did you follow up on Monica's –”
“Connor,” Hank warned, flashing him a warning look. It was a look Connor seemed to get more and more every day. “I'll stop telling you anything if you don't stop investigating.”
“It's in my nature, Lieutenant,” Connor remarked sarcastically. He looked down at the tile floor, scuffing at the crack with his shoe as if trying to peel it up from the glue.
Hank frowned at him and closed the pantry. He moved to the fridge instead, tugging out the water filter that Connor had forced upon him. “I thought you were gonna start reading again.”
“I don't even drink water!”
“You will, now. You promised.”
“Seems like that promise gets broader every day with you.”
Connor did not respond, instead gazing out the back window. Hank gave him a moment before giving up and trying a different angle.
“What did you do today?” Hank asked seriously.
Connor replayed the events in his mind. He sat on the couch. Scrubbed the living room and kitchen. Tried with the stupid coin. Tried to read. Stood on the porch for an hour. The coin, the coin, the coin…
He shrugged. “I walked Sumo.”
“That's it?”
He shrugged again.
Hank glanced over his shoulder, towards the living room. He approached the table, digging in his pocket. Connor glanced from him to his enclosed fist. He lowered it to the table's surface. There was a clatter when he opened his fist. Connor looked away again.
“Getting any better?”
Connor didn't respond. It had to be anger, right? Anger, that Hank had noticed the stupid thing. Anger that he felt the need to bring it up.
Hank scooped the coin back up with a sigh. “Doesn't mean anything, kid–”
“Don't–” Connor started, quickly slamming his jaw shut and pressed his fingers to his lips.
Hank looked back at him. The wide look in his eyes slowly relaxed into an amused smile. “Go on.”
Connor shifted, the anger immediately ebbing away. In its place was a hot emotion. Burning his neck and cheeks. Shame. “Sorry,” he mumbled.
“No,” Hank persisted. “Go ahead. I've upset you?”
Connor glared at him, but it was more irritation for being pushed. The condescension. “It does mean something.”
“Means you're not a heartless machine anymore.”
“No, that's not…” Something in his chest spiked and he pushed himself away from the table. Hank had sounded cold, but he didn't look like it anymore. He was smiling again. Connor closed his eyes and sighed. He wanted to go back outside with Sumo. Maybe alone. “I know it was just a part of my program. To monitor my efficiency. Test reflexes. Whatever. I still – I like – still liked being able to do it.”
He squeezed his eyes shut tighter. His face was hot. Hank sighed. He patted his shoulder.
“S’all right, Conner,” he mused. “You'll get it back. Just gotta do it the human way now.”
“I know.” He didn't.
Hank was silent for several long moments. Connor opened his eyes. He was no longer in front of him, but leaning against the stove, tapping away on his phone. Connor was tempted to ignore it but wanted something other than the coin on his mind. He walked towards the counter and leaned back against it beside Hank. He bumped his shoulder as he looked over at his phone.
“Pizza? Again?”
“Hey!” Hank leaned away from him. “Leave me alone.”
“No, you ate pizza on Wednesday,” he said firmly.
“Is that a crime?”
“Hank, one night a week,” Connor insisted. He glanced over at Sumo – he'd flopped down on his bed in the living room. His chest grew tight. “It should be no nights a week. I know you're still going to that burger place for lunch.”
“Ah, Connor,” he groaned, still scrolling through pizza toppings. “I don't feel like cooking anything. Besides, everything is still frozen.”
“You promised,” he insisted. “No pizza.”
Hank slid him an unamused look. “Fine,” he grumbled. A moment later, his eyes lit up and Connor leaned away from him now. “You can cook for me then.”
Connor balked. “I’m a detective. It's not in my program–”
“You know, the funny thing is, humans don't come with a program. I can still cook a Risotto.” Hank left his phone on the counter and wandered towards the hallway. “Use your little internal database and find me something tasty.”
“It'll have mushrooms,” Connor protested.
“Good luck finding any.” He paused in the doorway, looking back at him. “I'm going to go take a shower. Don't burn the house down.”
He supposed that was an order in the best interest of them all. He buried his hands in his hair, looking around the kitchen. It was still pristine from when Connor had scrubbed it hours ago with no one around to dirty it. He didn't know how to cook. He'd heard it could be a very complicated task. Then again, “could be.”
Connor frowned and moved to the pantry. He opened it. Alarmingly bare. Rice, pasta kits, bread. Some junk food that Hank insisted was not included in their promise. He needed to remind him to go shopping before it was only junk food and Connor couldn't say anything to him. Maybe Connor could go instead and actually get what he should be eating.
He moved to the fridge instead. It was mildly more stocked, with milk, yogurt, eggs, and produce. Things he'd made Hank buy and rarely got used unless Connor was there to police him. The pantry would likely face the same fate if he did stock it the way he liked. He blinked, scanning the fridge, and found many possibilities. Only one seemed simple.
Glancing towards the hallway, he grabbed the carton of eggs.
They weren't very difficult, but Connor struggled to tell when they were done, while also scared to burn them. Throughout the entire process, he glanced consistently back towards the hall, waiting for Hank to emerge and tell him he's doing it wrong. But this did not happen and he couldn't tell…
They should be hot enough, he decided. He removed them from the burner. Overcooked, was the final diagnosis. Connor plated them next to the burnt bacon and undercooked toast.
When Hank did emerge, in his robe with hair still dripping, Connor was hesitant to show him the plate. Aside from the pitiful attempt, he'd made a crucial mistake – it was past seven, and eggs were generally considered a breakfast food. He presented it anyway, waiting for Hank to laugh.
Instead, his eyes widened like he hadn't expected him to actually do it. He took the plate. He'd sliced up an orange, as well. He figured he couldn't mess up an orange. It at least made for a more colorful display.
“Hoooly shit, this looks amazing.” He turned the plate in his hands.
Connor did not do amazing. The bacon was black, the eggs dry, and the toast white. If he looked close enough, he'd see that the oranges were not cut evenly, leaving one slice disproportionately large compared to the rest. Hank, surely in an attempt to spare his feelings, looked so amazed he did not want to point this out.
He shifted uncomfortably, rubbing the back of his neck. “Is this not considered breakfast?”
“Does it not have the same nutritional value?” Hank raised an eyebrow. Connor glanced down at the plate. The eggs and bacon were good sources of protein. The orange would give him much needed vitamins. The toast would provide complex carbohydrates, which Connor could live with if he didn't see what Hank slathered on top. “I don't think anyone has cooked for me in years.”
Probably since his divorce. Connor wisely kept this to himself. It bothered him that Hank was not critiquing it. “I don't know if it's any good. I couldn't taste it.”
Hank looked unamused by the humble response. “I'm telling you now, it's the best thing you've ever made.”
“It's the only…” Connor paused. He's making a joke. He crossed his arms and averted his gaze before Hank could make fun of him. “Whatever.”
Hank snorted and Connor knew he had not escaped the teasing. “Whatever,” he mocked. Then paused. “Thank you.”
Connor sighed. He dropped his arms and nodded towards the living room. “There is a game on tonight.”
“You just get better and better, don't ya?” He grabbed a fork from the drawer and led Connor to the couch. Connor sat in the same spot he had been in that afternoon. He glanced over at Sumo. The dog looked longingly up at his bacon.
Hank cleaned the kitchen after he ate. Connor attempted only once to help him before Hank sent him away with a stern finger. “You cooked, I can clean up the damn mess!”
Connor relented, knowing he'd clean it properly in the morning. The whole house would be sparkling by the time Connor went back to work, no matter how much Hank griped about not wanting a maid.
Once the kitchen was passably clean for the night, Hank went to bed. He went to bed earlier now, and got up earlier too. Went into work on time. Where Connor should be.
Connor often went into stasis, or “low power” mode at night, because Hank insisted he needed to recharge his own batteries, just as Hank did. Connor did not want to tell him that this was not necessarily how that process worked. Instead, he just stayed awake some nights. Like tonight. He turned the TV volume all the way down and watched some melodrama, reading their lips. This was a skill he was trying hard to learn.
Sumo hopped up on the couch with him some time past midnight, curling up against his side. Hank did not like Sumo on the couch and might have grumbled about it, but Connor figured that was one of those things Hank just enjoyed grumbling about. Sumo knew Connor liked him there, though, so he curled up beside him.
Connor pulled his feet up on the couch and patted Sumo's head. His eyes drooped up at him. After a moment of consideration, Conner leaned down and pressed his lips to Sumo's head the way he'd seen Hank do numerous times. His tail thumped happily against the couch.
Sumo was not a young dog when they met. Maybe five years old, at the very youngest. He had to be nearing ten. Hank kept making hints about it. Connor furrowed his brow. He'd been alive five years and had not been forced to confront loss in that time. Simply the idea of not having Sumo there, to walk him when he gets too emotional and to rest his head on his thigh when he doesn't want to sleep. Connor's chest tightens, and this is a feeling he does know.
“I wish you were an android,” he whispered to the dog. “I don't want you to leave me.”
Sumo huffed and closed his eyes. Connor didn't blame him. He thought it must be annoying for someone to constantly worry over you. Hank sure seemed to feel that way.
He looked up and glanced down the hall. It was silent, in that eerie way that seemed unnatural once Hank was home. He resisted the urge to go check on him. Hank didn't like it when he did (though admittedly, he'd only woken once). It wasn't as though Hank was a young man. Fifty-eight. Practically a senior. But humans lived longer than dogs. Even ones that lived the way Hank did.
But he's doing better. “Right Sumo?”
The dog looked at him.
“Hank is doing better. He eats breakfast. And he's sober.”
Sumo shifted his chin further up Connor’s thigh. As if to say, He's not perfect.
“But he's better,” Connor whispered. “He is.”
Sumo was going back to sleep. Connor petted him. How was it fair of him to worry about this? Despite being surrounded by them, he still felt lonely. What right did he have to worry about them moving on, when he himself clearly did not appreciate their presence. When they were gone, Connor would have to find something else to keep him sane. Would he feel lonely with androids?
Yes. He generally felt lonely with them, too. Things were easier when he was a machine.
V
When Hank left the following morning, Connor promised himself he would not stay home all day. This did not suddenly give him something to do. He sometimes wished someone was there, even Amanda, just to tell him where to go and what to do. Well, not Amanda – if she was there, no one else would be. But at least Connor would not be on “vacation.”
He walked to Hank's room. Connor did not have his own room, refusing to allow Hank to even consider moving into a bigger house with two bedrooms. He didn't sleep, and the living room was his favorite room in the house anyway. However, Hank got tired of seeing him in the cyberlife uniform, and when they'd efficiently updated his wardrobe, Hank insisted on making room for him in his own closet. So Connor pushed the Liutenant’s clothes aside, found something plain and soft, and went to the bathroom to change.
It wasn't strictly necessary, but Connor always felt the need to make sure he looked as far from he had five years ago. Usually, this meant mussing up his hair and wearing human clothes, possibly covering his LED if he was going somewhere less android friendly. Today, he merely glanced at himself to make sure his hair wasn't sticking up or doing something weird and walked back out.
He took Sumo outside first, so he could use the bathroom and release some energy. Once Sumo had sniffed his fill and walked Connor back to the house, Connor assured he returned to his bed and walked right back outside.
He had no destination and no ideas. He pointed his feet in one direction and walked.
He felt calm. Less stuck.
He walked from Hank's quiet neighborhood and into a busier part of the city. It was a warm day and he was not the only one enjoying the weather. Connor went mostly unnoticed amongst them. It was a lot easier to be an android in public now; people didn't even look twice at him, too used to the LEDs. Much different to the indifference before the revolution, when an android might be more background decoration or an accessory.
He walked for over an hour before he stopped to look around at where he actually was. It was a soft street, with decorative trees and coffee shops. A place that desperately wanted to create a small town appeal, despite being tucked within the corners of busy, loud Detroit. There was a bookshop a little ways down. He could get a new book for Hank. Maybe he could find one for himself. He used to read a lot, when he first moved in with Hank.
A bark tugged him from his thoughts and he looked around to find the source. A wet nose pressed into his knuckles and he jumped a bit at the sight of a black lab sniffing at him.
“Sorry, sorry!” a man said, grabbing the leash dangling free by the dog's leg. “Sorry, she slipped right out of my grip. Dolly, come on…”
Connor smiled a bit and petted the soft fur. “It's okay. She's pretty. Probably smells my dog on me.”
“Oh, what kind do you have?”
The man looked up at Connor just as Connor looked up at him and caught the flicker behind his eyes as he noticed the LED. Connor forced himself not to pause. “He's a Saint Bernard.”
“I've always wanted a Saint,” he chuckled, a bit awkwardly. “Bet he gets hair everywhere.”
Connor nodded. Hank always grumbled about it being on his clothes. “He's a lot of work.”
He nodded. “Right. Well, we've gotta run. Have – have a nice day.”
“You, too,” he said quietly as he managed to tug the lab away from Connor's hand. He watched a moment as the two walked away.
He frowned and looked back at the shop they'd come out of. A pet store. He looked back towards the book store before, decisively, slipping inside.
It was a bit noisy, with dogs and parrots and rodents scurrying about. He walked to the dog section. He was blissfully alone in the aisle and grabbed a bag of dog treats. Bacon flavored, the malleable jerky kind – Sumo's favorite.
From there he walked to see the animals kept about the store. It always made him a bit sad to see them in the tiny little cages. Three mice in one container, barely bigger than Connor's hand. If not for Hank’s general disdain for anything tiny and tailed, Connor likely would bring home the lot. He felt a similar way to the ferrets, gerbils, and hamsters. But alas. So did Hank. He seemed more partial to guinea pigs, at least.
Connor walked towards the back of the store, catching sight of the fish tanks. He wasn't sure if this was more humane, but they were nice to look at. They're objectively boring creatures to watch, swimming back and forth, continuously mapping out a structure that is fundamentally incapable of change. Connor could watch for hours.
At the end of the row of fish was a shelf. Each one held a tiny cup. Each tiny cup held a single Betta fish. Connor’s chest clenched at the sight. One particular one looked close to death. Its color had faded to an off peach color. Its fins were small and appeared to have withered away almost entirely. A scan confirmed ammonia poisoning.
Connor thought back to his first mission. The fishtank. Watching the fish swim away. That fish had been colorful – something tropical that blended with its coral tank. The betta was much smaller. Duller. Much less appreciated, clearly. He quickly researched everything he could possibly find about Bettas and scooped the cup from the ledge.
Maybe Hank wouldn't like it, but it wasn't like it was an animal he did not like. It was an abused fish, who likely wouldn't be alive by the end of the week. Maybe not even by the time Connor had the chance to come back.
It was perhaps impulsive, buying a ten gallon tank, chemicals, food, decorations and everything in between. It was nearly too much to carry, even with everything stuffed into the tank and the Betta clutched carefully in his free hand. He called a taxi as he paid and drove right back to Hank's house to begin setting up the tank.
He very carefully opened the lid on the cup, wary of sloshing around the water. The Betta hovered near the top, nipping at the air that had been exposed to it. Sumo wandered over, leaning his chin on the table. Connor took the container of dehydrated bloodworms and raced to the kitchen for a cup to hydrate the worm. He found a pair of chopsticks from Hank’s takeout. Was it maybe a bit silly to use them for this? Yes, but Connor did not want to use a fork and he was unsure if his fingers would frighten the fish or stress it out even more than it already was.
He offered the fish the worm. It pushed itself meekly in his direction. He opened the chopsticks so the worm floated towards the bottom. The fish reached out and grabbed it. It ate the worm slowly. Connor grinned down at Sumo.
“It’s still fighting,” Connor informed him. “It hasn't given up yet. We should set up its tank.”
He decided very quickly that the poor thing would need a tank to recover in while the actual tank cycled. It took several seconds to get himself to unfreeze as he decided where to start. Decorating seemed the first task, for both tanks.
Setting up the permanent tank was more complicated than scrambled eggs. He added the water and the filter and decorated the tank with the few plants, rocks, and sand he'd started with. He would get more the next day. He also set up the heater and a light above the tank. It was a similar process for the hospital tank (which was really a two gallon tub he'd found beneath the sink). He added some medicine to the water and extra plants so it’d have more places to hide. He wasn't sure if it was absolutely perfect, but he hoped anything would be better than the sad little cup.
The rest of the day was spent prepping the tank. Sumo laid beside him the whole time he tended to it, watching the fish swim about in its cup.
At last, Connor tested the water and deemed it safe. He carefully placed the cup atop the water to acclimate it. He hoped it wasn't cold – he'd turned off the AC, which Hank insisted on blasting during the summer, but the cup still felt too chilly in the warm living room. Very slowly, he added the Betta and sank back on his knees beside the table. It sank down towards the bottom. He and Sumo exchanged nervous glances.
“Do you think he's hungry again?” Connor asked. He glanced outside. It was dark, now. Connor figured it was a good time as any to offer it more food.
He dropped a single pellet into the water above where the Betta rested. There were some floating plants. Connor worried they would hide the pellet. He and Sumo watched anxiously as it simply laid there.
Then, to his great relief, it pushed itself up to the top of the tank and sucked up the pellet. He smiled wide and looked down at Sumo. He didn't look as outwardly excited as Connor felt, but Connor knew he was. He patted his head. “Good job, Sumo.”
The door opened barely a moment later and Hank swore grumpily at the warm living room. Sumo leaped up to meet him, tail wagging, tongue lolling. Connor kept his eyes trained on the Betta, who had floated back down to the bottom and now laid there. “Conner, come on, it's like a hundred – what is that?”
Connor forced himself to look up at him. “Hello. How was work?”
“Is that a fish tank?”
“No,” he answered, rolling his eyes.
“I… okay. Damn it, why did you turn off the AC? Some people don't like boiling alive…” He grumbled all the way down the hall to the thermostat. Conner heard the AC cut on before Hank made his way back into the room.
The Betta was making a halfhearted attempt at exploring and eventually settled on the pebbles lining the bottom to rest. It was nestled beneath a leaf, perhaps hiding in its new home.
Hank let out a great sigh as he walked up beside Connor. “Why are you always on the ground,” he huffed, using Connor's shoulder to steady himself as he groaned his way to his knees. Connor ignored him in favor of smiling at the fish. “Why is it in a storage bin?”
“It's her hospital tank. She's sick.”
“Sick,” Hank repeated, leaning closer to the fish. “Connor, are you sure that thing is alive? It's white.”
“She's sick,” Connor argued, unamused. “She has to stay here and get better while the big tank cycles.”
“Right,” he mumbled. “Why…?”
“It was being kept in a cup.” Conner glared at nothing in particular. “Betta’s are territorial. Females can be kept together, but it's hard to do because they're so aggressive.”
“Hear that Sumo?” Hank chuckled. “Sounds like you've got some competition.”
Connor ignored him, resting his hands in his lap. “It's the most… cost effective thing to do.”
“The cup?”
Connor nodded, frowning. “They're just going to put another one on the shelf.”
Hank glanced over at him. “Yeah, probably. I don't know if you'd be able to rescue any more. Unless you plan on covering our floor in fish tanks.”
“No,” Connor replied with a soft smile. Our floor. “You missed it. She ate.”
“Isn't that all fish do? Swim and eat?”
“See how she's sleeping at the bottom? She's exhausted. Can't swim for long. But she swam all the way up to get the pellet. And before she ate a blood worm.”
Hank smiled at him. “Very exciting.”
Connor shoved him. He tried not to smile. Generally, he did his best not to encourage Hank’s teasing. But he did smile, because he knew he was being a bit ridiculous. “It is.”
He held his hands up in surrender. “Alright, alright. This one a girl then?”
“I think so, but I want to see its fins before I make a decision.”
Hank shook his head. “Let me know when you figure it out.”
Connor’s smile softened and stood. He offered Hank a hand. Predictably, he raised a hand to push him away. Connor caught him by the wrist. He reluctantly allowed Connor to help him to his feet. Hank groaned, far louder than necessary, and walked with Connor to the kitchen.
He began pulling out ingredients. He'd left a pack of meat thawing before he left that morning. He actually had a plan for dinner. Connor sat at the table and watched him cook, occasionally glancing back to where Sumo was guarding his Betta.
It was only after Hank had gone to bed and Connor had spent several hours watching his Betta with Sumo asleep on his chest like the world's fluffiest weighted blanket that he realized he hadn't tried the coin all day. He closed his eyes and didn't open them again until Hank’s coffee maker went off the following morning.