Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Detroit, MI

March, 2039

Connor misses working.

Not police work, necessarily. If he had his choice, he doesn't know if he would have kept on in that field or not. 

He would have liked the opportunity to find something he liked doing, though, to explore himself a little since vocation is a fundamental part of identity for so many humans. Markus always says their lives don't have to take the same shape humans' do...but still. 

Connor thinks it would be nice, finding something he liked to do.

Or maybe he just misses being busy. Connor can never quite tell the difference. His people tend to struggle with being idle - it's not something programmed into them. They're not designed to like being still. 

It's true the world has gotten better for them in the last four months, and so Connor tries not to be ungrateful, but better is always a relative thing. Better than where they came from doesn't mean good.

The problem is mostly the jobs. Mostly. When the government recognized androids as people with autonomy, it meant they couldn't keep them in their positions providing free labor. And because the unemployment rate among humans was at an all time high, most companies that could afford to pay for those same positions chose to hire human workers instead of keeping the androids on in a paid capacity, leaving most androids without any income.

It makes sense, that they want to look out for their own first. Connor understands that. And for all the progress they've made, there's still a divide, because change is a decision that happens all at once, and then an implementation that comes slow. 

Most androids are like Connor, adrift without a traditional paycheck. The lucky ones had families who cared for them and who either pay them for their work now, or who just let them live in the same house as a member of the family - primarily domestic androids, which is an ironic turn of events, considering that Connor once thought, long before he even deviated, that he wouldn’t have liked to be a domestic android at all.

But things are good for some of them, it seems like. Connor envies them now.

For androids who were only ever owned by a business, like Connor, things are just better. Not good. Not yet.

And for all of them, they've had to find some way to pay the bills, because they need maintenance, and thirium, and because they may be able to live outside without getting cold but those days are supposed to be behind them, and they want roofs over their heads.

Those sources of income look different for each of them. For Connor, it mostly looks like keeping lonely men company. 

And it's not work he always necessarily enjoys - he's entertained plenty of men he doesn't like, and several others who just frankly aren't interesting to him - but it is work he's good at. He's designed for investigative work, so he's good at reading people, and he learned how to build that trait until he became a skilled conversationalist.

So many people need someone to talk to, Connor is learning. The divorce rate rose with unemployment, and people are lonely.

And they'll pay well for someone who can make them feel any other way.

It’s mostly repeat customers, some dinners, some weddings and work events and other occasions where people are too ashamed to be seen alone. It's looking bright-eyed and engaged and making men feel seen and interesting.

It pays the bills, at least, keeps Connor in his small studio apartment and enables him to buy his thirium replenishments on time, and a few indulgences for himself.

It's good enough for now, and better than what most androids have.

Connor gets the email from Hank Anderson while he's out with someone else, and he shouldn't read it until he's home when he has a client paying for his time, but the subject line catches his eye.

"Date for MACP Awards??"

MACP is Michigan Association of Chiefs of Police and...well. It's been a while since Connor was in that world, and maybe he misses it, or maybe he's just morbidly curious to see what he's missing out on. He opens the email before he can stop himself.

"Hey," it reads. "You're, like, a companion for hire, right?"

Connor catches himself smiling at that - that's one way to put it. He's cute.

“Fuck, I feel stupid doing this,” the email continues, “but I have a work gala on the 21st, and I need a date. Probably for four hours? Maybe five? Let me know if you're free and you want to."

Within two minutes, Connor accesses all his available public records and knows everything there is to know about Hank Anderson.

And he's interested. For a lot of reasons. 

"Hi, Hank," he writes back. "Would you like to get coffee next week to talk about how I can meet your needs? My treat - just this once ;)"

(Most of this work is just casual flirting, and Connor is good at that, when he wants to be.) 

In the morning, he has another email from Hank that says, "You're fast. I'm off on Thursday if that works for you - maybe around 10?"

Connor sends Hank the address for the coffee shop around the block from his apartment, and writes, "It's a date. :)"

Hank sits outside the coffeeshop on Thursday morning, and he has no idea what he's doing.

That's true more often than not the last few years. At best, he doesn't know what he's doing, and at worst, he's just moving through a haze. 

He can't say why he ended up on Connor's profile in the first place. Because he's sick of going places with hundreds of people in the room and not having anyone to talk to, maybe. He used to have decent relationships with everyone at work, but he's burned plenty of bridges since 2035. Ben and Jeff are still his friends, but in that odd sort of way where they don't really talk, and where they've spent months being sick of him phoning it in at work and having to pick up the slack.

So there's the sheer loneliness of it, definitely. 

And there's the part of him that genuinely misses having anyone to talk to, because fuck, it's probably been since shortly after Cole died and Jen left that he really had that. Jeff and Ben tried to be there for him in their own ways, but Hank just pushed them away. 

It's difficult to believe now that he ever wanted to be this alone, but he did at that point.

And then there's the fact that so many androids are in shit situations since the revolution, and he has money in the bank, and this seems like a fine enough place to put it. 

It's helping someone, he tells himself. Maybe that's just fooling himself, or trying to find another reason that isn't so fucking sad, but it's true that he has money he doesn't need. He's hardly bought anything outside of the essentials in almost four years. 

He wants to hope he can do some good for someone with it.

Still, there were other androids on that site, and he doesn't let himself think too hard about why he picked Connor's profile and looked at it for so long (because Connor was an investigative prototype and maybe they have some shit in common, and because he remembers Connor covered in blue blood on the broadcast the night of the revolution, and because if CyberLife compiled every single one of Hank's late-night porn searches into one pretty face, it would look a hell of a lot like Connor). 

Setting aside the physical interest that he's certainly never going to act on, though, Hank had himself convinced that this was a good idea a few days ago.

Now, sitting across from the coffeeshop, he isn't sure. 10 AM comes and goes while he's second-guessing himself, until suddenly it’s fifteen minutes past and he thinks he can't possibly walk in that late for their appointment even if he wanted to.

He's getting ready to turn the key in the ignition when his phone rings. It's a number he doesn't recognize, but he's one of the few people in his generation who always answers regardless. 

"Lieutenant Anderson," he says when he picks up.

"Hello, Hank," the voice on the other end of the line says. "This is Connor. I was wondering if you were going to get out of your car and come inside at any point, or if I should grab coffee and come join you." 

"Oh. Hey." Hank feels his face heating. Connor has a nice voice, with a hint of a pleasant rasp to it - one of the most human he's heard on an android. Hank shifts uncomfortably in his seat. "How did you get my number?" He didn't leave it in the email. 

Connor laughs lightly. "I'm very good at finding things, Lieutenant. And I presume since you're here at all that you haven't lost interest. So. Are you coming in, or should I come out?"

Hank peers out the window at the coffeeshop like he's going to be able to see Connor inside. "You know," he says, "you're kind of a piece of work for someone who's supposed to make people feel good."

"I know," Connor replies, and Hank can hear him smiling, "but you haven't paid me anything yet."

Hank considers it. He's so fucking embarrassed to be here at all, but driving away and going back to his empty house feels a lot like the same shit he's been doing for the last few years, the same sort of thing he's trying to stop doing, because he's hurting himself more than helping, and he's so tired of hurting. 

And sure, it's sad to pay for companionship, but he just needs someone .

"I'll come in," he says to Connor.

"Good," Connor says. "I'm at the table in the corner."

Hank hangs up and gets out of the car, crossing the street before he can lose his nerve.

He doesn’t know what to expect from Connor. The most risqué picture on his profile is of him in a neatly pressed but not entirely buttoned white shirt, which might not even have been meant to be risqué at all except that Hank has been thinking for days about that little freckle above Connor’s collarbone.

But Connor is dressed normally, for lack of a better word, in slim jeans and a plain green button down. His LED is in, glowing a gentle blue on his temple, even though he removed it in most of his pictures.

He’s more attractive in person, Hank thinks, throat going a bit dry. How is he more attractive in person?

“Hi, Hank,” Connor says when Hank clears his throat and sits down at his table. He slides a cup of coffee across the table to him. “I’m glad you decided to join me.”

Hank glances over his shoulder, and sure enough, Connor has a clear view out the window to his car. He’s just been sitting in here, watching Hank have his crisis, for the last fifteen minutes.

How very fucking embarassing.

“Sorry,” Hank says, twirling the sleeve on his coffee cup just for something to do and somewhere to avert his eyes. It only helps a little, especially when he can feel Connor carefully watching him. “I haven’t done something like this before.”

Connor hums at that. “First time for everything, I guess. I’m happy to be yours.” Hank looks up to see him tilting his head. “Want to tell me about yourself?”

“Sure,” Hank says, “but if you have my number, I’m sort of wondering what else you know.”

Connor smirks at that. “You’re 53 years old, graduated top of your class, youngest lieutenant in DPD history, married in 2030, divorced in 2035, and you’re being honored at the MACP awards with a medal of valor for your bravery and public service during the revolution.” Connor narrows his eyes. “And you have a dog. Saint Bernard?”

Hank feels hot as he shifts in his seat. He shouldn’t have worn the sweater.  “Yeah,” he says, waving a hand awkwardly. “See? You know everything. You should tell me about yourself instead.”

“I will,” Connor says, “but I don’t know why you’re interested in my company, and I’d like to.”

“Oh. I don’t know. I guess it gets old going to those things alone.” 

It mostly is that simple, but Connor presses the matter. (Hank is starting to think he should get used to Connor pressing things if this is going to continue.) 

“Sure,” Connor says, shrugging. “I hear that a lot. But there’s no shortage of androids in this line of work, and humans for that matter.”

“Are you...asking why I picked you?”

Connor props his chin in his palm, smiling sweetly. “Yes. Flatter me.”

Hank coughs around the drink he just took. “Um,” he says, stalling for time, because he figures most people sit here and tell Connor how pretty he is, and...whatever, Hank wants to stand out. He won’t think too hard about why.

“I remember you,” he says finally. “From the resistance broadcast back in November.”

Some of Connor’s carefully crafted veneer falls away at that, and even as he sits up straighter, he looks smaller somehow. “Oh,” he says. “I’m surprised anyone remembers that.”

“Your face was plastered on every news station after you broke those androids out of CyberLife. You were, like, some kind of revolution hero.”

Connor shrugs. “I was . That was months ago.” He passes a quarter over his knuckles while he regards Hank with a small smile. “People have mostly moved on from that night. No one is giving me an award for my service.”

“Sorry,” Hank says. It should have occurred to him how this looks, him getting an award for doing something as little as stopping the snipers above Hart Plaza when so many androids did so much more that night.

“Oh, don’t apologize,” Connor says quickly, leaning back in his seat. His crooked smile is back, pulling at the corner of his mouth. “I’ll just have to live vicariously through you...if you still want my company.”

“I do,” Hank says, and Connor grins, crossing his arms over his chest.

“I’m glad. Do you want my LED in or out for your event?”

“I...in, I guess? Or out. Whatever you’re comfortable with.” 

“Aw. You’re cute,” Connor says, and in case Hank wasn’t already flushed enough, he fucking winks at him. “Do you want people to know you’re there with an android or not?” When Hank keeps gaping at him, Connor sighs as if Hank is being thick and says, “Sometimes people want it to be obvious so they can look progressive, or whatever. And since you’re being honored for your service during the revolution...”

“Oh,” Hank says. “I really don’t give a shit about how I look. Seriously. It’s up to you.”

“I’d prefer to take it out to be around so many cops, then. If it’s all the same to you.”

“Yeah,” Hank says quickly. “That’s fine. Whatever you want.”

“I like you,” Connor replies, and for an act, it sounds entirely too genuine, like something Hank could too easily get used to and one day come to miss.

"So," he says, because Connor is looking at him in a way Hank is sure he's carefully practiced, all warm and inviting. He knows that's Connor's job here, to make him feel interesting and wanted, and he finds himself enjoying it, but it feels like a dangerous thing to enjoy too much all at one, a bit like flying too close to the sun. "How long have you been doing the whole...you know. Sugar baby thing."

Connor laughs at that. He has a loud laugh when it's startled out of him. "I usually prefer 'escort'." 

"Oh," Hank says. He's opening his mouth to apologize, and maybe Connor can tell, because he waves him off before he can get a word out.

"That's okay," he says, a small smile on his face. "I can be your baby, if you want me to be."

Hank keeps thinking he's ready for Connor, but every time he does, he ends up with color rising in his cheeks - he’s disarming that way. "Let's see how the first date goes, slick," he says, and Connor studies Hank with a narrow look on his face for just a moment before he grins.

"Okay," he says. "But it's going to go well." 

"Yeah?" Hank asks, smiling despite himself. "You sure?"

Connor gives Hank a reproving glance. "I already told you I like you. And if you're not already sure you like me...you will be."

Hank is sure he likes Connor, but he's trying not to come on too strong. "You're alright," he says, and Connor smiles like he can see Hank's exact thought process.

And maybe he takes a bit of pity on him, because he leans back in his seat and crosses his arms, putting some distance between them. "So. This awards ceremony. I have a grey suit, and ties in most colors. If you want me in something else, you're welcome to take me shopping before next Saturday to pick something out."

The grey suit is fine - Hank doesn't have any preference, and he's sure Connor looks gorgeous in anything. 

So there's really no rational explanation for why he finds himself saying, "Yeah. We can go shopping."

Connor looks just a bit surprised, a little thrown off his game in the same way he was when Hank mentioned seeing him on the broadcasts. Hank decides he likes that expression on Connor's face in the brief moment it takes Connor to recover.

"Okay," Connor says, a smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. "What are you doing tonight?"

Hank smiles, too - it's sort of infectious when Connor does it. "Taking you out, I think"

Connor's LED spins yellow for a moment, and then a notification dings on Hank's phone. He looks down to see a text from the same number that called earlier.

"That's my number, obviously," Connor says, "and my address and apartment number. How's seven?" 

"Seven works," Hank says, although it occurs to him then that maybe Connor had other plans with his free evening. "I'm not fucking up your day off, am I?"

"A little bit," Connor says, winking, "but I don't mind. This is more fun, anyway."

It feels good, having someone want to spend time with him enough to choose him over other plans. Hank suspects Connor knows that, and that’s why he said it at all.

"You're good at this, you know," he says as they walk outside together.

Connor smiles at the compliment - his sweet smile, because Hank is learning that he has several. 

"I know," he says. He kisses Hank's cheek before he turns to go. "I'll see you tonight, Hank."

Hank crosses the road to his car, and he thinks that this doesn't feel nearly as sad as he thought it would.

Connor stands before his mirror with a file, wedging it under his LED and popping it out.

He usually leaves it out when he’s on his own - it’s just easier, not dealing with the bullshit, not having to worry about the harassment from people who are still bitter about the way the revolution went.

Eventually, maybe, he’ll leave it in when he’s going shopping or taking a walk or seeing a movie, if things ever stabilize. They aren’t there yet, though.

First meetings with clients are the one exception. Connor always leaves it in, because he doesn’t want anyone deluding themselves about what he is or using him as faux human arm candy. It’s intentional, too, that he has it out in the pictures on his profile but wears it for the first meeting - he’s always watching the reaction when men see it. 

It’s one way he gauges whether it’s a good fit, or a fine one where he’ll need to watch himself.

Most of his relationships are just fine ones. He’s usually watching himself and how he acts.He likes a few things about Hank, but what he likes most is that he thinks he’s safe to relax a bit with him.

His first impression from Hank’s email stands - Connor thinks he’s very fucking cute, and sweet, and kind in a sort of sad way, like he’s trying to put something back into the world that it hasn’t given him recently. Connor didn’t mention it at the coffee shop, but of course he knows about Hank’s son’s death in 2035. He can only imagine the sort of toll it’s taken when he’s never lost anybody, or even had anyone to lose at all. Hank drags the weight of it around with him still, that much is plainly obvious.

Connor also didn’t mention that he knows Hank from the revolution, too, that he knew his name long before Hank’s email. He didn’t say anything about how he knew Hank was making himself an enemy of the state when he went up to that roof and confronted the snipers there, and that the only reason anyone is honoring him with a medal for it next week is because the androids won. It’s all a rather performatively progressive political statement to lift Hank up now when no one stood with him that night, an effort on the part of Michigan’s police to look like they were never on the wrong side of all of this.

Connor suspects Hank sees the politics of it, too. He doesn’t blame him for not wanting to go to the awards ceremony alone in light of all of that.

Despite his own complicated relationship with law enforcement, Connor is sort of looking forward to it. There’s a part of him that misses the work he was made for, even if he knows it’s just programming making him feel that way, his inherent lack of fulfillment that he’ll always carry if he isn’t meeting his CyberLife given directives.

Mostly, he’s just looking forward to a night out with someone he likes, even if it is work. 

At 6:55, there’s a knock on his door, and when Connor opens it, he finds Hank standing there.

“Hey,” Connor says, reaching for his coat on the peg by the door. “Most people just text me when they’re here and have me come down to meet them.” 

“Oh,” Hank says, and he looks unsure of himself again. “You gave me your apartment number. I figured you wanted me to come up for you.”

Connor steps outside and turns to lock his door. “Yeah,” he says, elbowing Hank lightly and smiling. “I did.”

Connor follows Hank down the stairs and outside to Hank’s car. It’s been freshly cleaned, Connor can tell when he gets into the passenger seat - there’s a lingering smell of fast food and dog fur, but just to look at it, it’s neatly cared for. 

Connor doesn’t know how he feels about Hank pretending like he has his shit together for his benefit, but he understands it, he supposes. The pictures on his profile, his carefully pressed clothes, the way he always keeps the conversation under his control...Connor is pretending to have his shit together, too.

They have that in common, Connor thinks, along with all the other things.

But this isn’t about him. It’s about Hank. And Connor is good at his job.

When Hank gets into the driver’s seat and starts the car, Connor crosses his legs and looks over at him. “So, daddy ,” he says, nudging Hank with his elbow along with the joke, “where are we going?”

Hank snorts at that. Connor likes making him laugh - he has the distinct sense that Hank hasn’t done much of that lately. “Yeah, don’t call me that,” he says, shaking his head and smiling. “God, you’re a lot to handle.”

Connor puts on a pout that gets another laugh out of Hank. “Anyway,” Hank says, clearing his throat. “I figured we could just park downtown and walk. There are a couple of places on that strip we can hit.” 

“Okay,” Connor says, looking around the car. It makes sense Hank wouldn’t like autonomous vehicles after the circumstances of the accident, but it still takes some kind of stubbornness to insist on a manual car in 2039, and a hell of a lot of determination just to find one in working order. 

“I like your car,” Connor says. “I do,” he adds when Hank gives him a disbelieving look. “It has character.”

“That’s one way to put it,” Hank says. He goes to prop his elbow on the center console, and then immediately withdraws it when he knocks into Connor and their fingers brush over each other

Connor raises an eyebrow. “You can touch me, you know.”

“Uh.” Hank coughs and clears his throat like he does when he’s unsure of the conversation. “I didn’t, but, I mean. It’s okay. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.” 

“Aw.” Connor reaches for Hank’s hand and pulling it into his lap, winding their fingers together. “I’m not uncomfortable. I like this...unless you’re not interested in physical touch as part of this arrangement?”

Hank flushes at that. “I didn’t say that.” 

Connor smiles, squeezing Hank’s fingers. “Okay. Then you can touch me whenever you want. I want you to.”

Hank shrugs. “I’m going to need you to remind me of that, probably.”

Connor studies the lines on Hank’s face and says, “I can do that.”

All of this is forward, Connor knows, but it’s just easier to blow past some of the awkwardness of the first date, at least in his experience. And he thinks Hank seems like the type who needs a push every now and then, so he keeps Hank’s hand in his lap, their fingers laced together the rest of the drive.

“Do you always take your LED out and put it back in this often?” Hank asks as he parks, gesturing to Connor’s temple when Connor finally lets his hand go to get out of the car.

“Yeah.” When Hank rounds the car to join him on the sidewalk, Connor takes his hand again. “I don’t usually go out with it, unless a client wants me to, but I try to keep it in when I’m home.”

“Doesn’t that hurt? Popping it out?”

“Every time,” Connor says. “But there’s a fine line between being safe and maintaining your identity, and I’m trying to walk it.”

Hank is quiet for a moment. He looks like he wants to understand that, and Connor appreciates him for it.

“You had it in when we met this morning,” Hank finally says. “You’re...what? Gauging a reaction from new people?” 

“Yes,” Connor says. He isn’t surprised Hank gets that part of it - it’s basically an interrogation tactic, showing a suspect incriminating evidence to try to elicit a confession. “I used to just have photos with my LED in on my profile, but then I mostly just got men who really fetishized the android thing, so I learned early on to have it out in the pictures to avoid them. And then I leave it in for the first meeting to make sure there isn’t any confusion about what I am, or too much distaste for me looking the way I actually look.” 

“Huh,” Hank says. “Sorry.”

Connor gives him a small smile. “For what, Hank?”

“I don’t know. That you have to do all that, I guess.”

Connor squeezes his hand. “It’s okay,” he says softly. 

“You know you never told me how long you’ve been doing this when I asked earlier.”

“Oh. Since January, I guess. I was in one of the halfway houses for androids after the revolution, at least for a while, but those weren’t sustainable. I had to figure something else out. So...you know. I obviously know I’m attractive.”

“No shit,” Hank says, sarcastic. “You don’t act like you know at all .”

Connor laughs, elbowing Hank in the side. “Anyway. I figured I could do this for a while. It pays the bills, and it isn’t hard work, and most of the men I see are okay” 

“You only date men?”

“Yeah,” Connor says. He’s distinctly aware that he’s never told anyone this before, but no one else has ever asked. “I don’t know how much you can attach human words for sexuality to androids, but regardless, just about any way you cut it, I’m gay. And I try not to mask too much of myself doing this, so I just see men.”

“Huh,” Hank says again, in a way that sounds genuine and interested. It’s nice, how interested he is. Connor has plenty of other people who like him, but he doesn’t know that any of them are that interested by him beyond the ways in which he can make them feel interesting themselves.

Connor slips his arm into Hank’s so he can walk closer to him, and he’s not cold, but he still thinks it’s nice how warm he is. He hears Hank inhaling beside him and knows he’s opening his mouth to say something else, so he squeezes his arm. “It’s my turn, I think,” he says.

“Okay,” Hank concedes. “I told you that you already know everything, though.”

Connor doesn’t know everything, but there is one very particular thing he wants to understand. “How did you end up on that roof at Hart Plaza back in November?”

Hank doesn’t answer at first, and when he does, he says, “It’s not as heroic a story as it seems like it might be.” 

Connor tilts his head. “I didn’t ask for a heroic story.”

Hank sighs. “I mean, they had me covering android crimes at the DPD, and I saw some shit that was...well, you know. You probably saw it, too. It was fucked up. So I went up there to stop it, but I also didn’t give a shit whether I lived  or died. It’s easy to do shit that looks brave when you don’t care about that, or about much else.”

Connor wants to ask Hank if he actually didn’t care about anything that night, because it seems like Hank’s problem is actually that he cares too much. He doesn’t push it, though. “I was down there,” he says instead. “In the plaza that night.”

“Yeah,” Hank says, voice soft. “I know you were.”

There’s plenty to talk about there alone, but the revolution is too heavy a topic for right now, and Hank is stiff beside him. Connor squeezes his arm, trying to work some of that tension out of him. “Your turn.”

“Oh,” Hank says. “I don’t know. You have any ground rules? No kissing on the mouth, or whatever?”

Connor runs a search on the phrase and then tilts his head. “Like in Pretty Woman?” 

“Yeah.”

Connor can see Hank’s cheeks heating again. “Not really,” he replies, edging that carefully practiced cheerful note back into his voice. “I don’t do sexual favors, usually, but I’m open to talking about it after a few dates if you want.” 

He says it mostly because he thinks Hank is cute when he’s flustered, and Hank doesn’t disappoint with the startled little sputter he reacts with. “That’s illegal, you know,” he says when he recovers. 

“It’s actually not for androids. Not yet, anyway. Most of the Eden Club laws are still in place,” Connor says, smiling. “Keep up, Lieutenant.”

Connor knows Hank doesn’t expect sex from him. He knows because Hank doesn’t seem like the type, but also because his profile is inaccurate - it says he isn’t equipped for sexual activity, mostly because he intentionally didn’t update it after the upgrade. He figured it would be easier to pick and choose who he told, and safer (although of course it’s been two months, and he hasn’t told anyone yet.) He justified that expense by telling himself it was for work, in the same way the upgrade that allows him to drink was for work, to make him a better companion.

Really, though, they were both for him. Connor isn’t ashamed of what he is, but it is difficult to feel at home as an android in a world that’s still very human. It’s easier, being able to relate to things the way they do, and far less lonely.

This, right now, is the closest Connor has come to ever confessing that to anyone. And he knows he isn’t really close, that all Hank knows is that he’s ribbing him again, but there’s still some sort of comfort in it.

“I’m really not looking for that,” Hank says again. “I wouldn’t subject you to...you know. All of this.” 

Connor makes a face and runs his hand down Hank’s arm to lace their fingers together inside his jacket pocket. “Here’s a ground rule,” he says. “No self-deprecation, okay? I don’t like it, and I want you to feel good about yourself when we’re together.”

Hank’s breath fogs in the air when he sighs. “Okay,” he says softly.

Connor thinks about stopping in the middle of the sidewalk and kissing him. 

He doesn’t, of course - it’s their first night together, and Hank is still struggling with letting himself have something good, and Connor doesn’t want to overwhelm him when this still feels delicate.

But he thinks about it.

"So," Connor says, and he's sure it probably seems like he's trying to distract Hank, but in reality he's trying to distract himself just as much. "How do you want to tell your colleagues we met? Most people usually prefer something other than the truth." 

"Oh," Hank says. "A bar probably makes the most sense."

Connor smiles. "That isn't very original, Hank."

"Yeah, maybe not. But it's probably the only thing they would believe." Hank shrugs when Connor looks up at him. "I don't really meet people. Or go out anywhere else, for that matter."

Connor would like to prod at that, too, but he forces himself to let it alone. "Okay," he says. "A bar, then. We can say I recognized you from some of the news coverage after the revolution and approached you." 

Connor squeezes Hank's fingers, his hand warm inside Hank's pocket. "Would you like to tell them we're dating?"

"I think saying you're my date for the night is probably good enough."

"You sure? I'd be your boyfriend if you wanted me to."

Hank is intentionally avoiding Connor's gaze by staring ahead, but that doesn't stop Connor from looking at him. "Yeah," Hank says. "I'm sure. If we say we're dating then I'll have to say we broke up when you aren't around anymore."

That pricks at something uncomfortable inside Connor. It's a reminder that he's had plenty of clients who only use him a few times and then move on. It's usually because they can't afford it, but Connor doesn't think that's going to be the problem with Hank.

He mostly thinks Hank's just uncomfortable with his own happiness, and especially afraid of having some good in his life. When you've lost as much as he has, Connor supposes, good things are just things you have to be afraid of losing.

Connor doesn't know how to stop that from happening, but he knows he doesn't want it to. "Okay," he replies softly, even as he wishes he had something else to say. "I can be your date, then."

"Okay," Hank says. He still isn't looking at Connor. "There's a menswear place up on the corner here."

Connor feels guilty for this part. He has more than the grey suit he mentioned to Hank in his closet right now - he always does - but he always says he just has the one. The more things his clients buy him, the more he has to sell once they're gone. It's a reasonable percentage of his income. 

He honestly thought Hank was going to say the grey suit was fine; he doesn't at all present as someone who cares much about his or anyone else's appearance.

But Connor trails after Hank into the store anyway, and he sorts through a few jackets before he says, “Are you going to wear your dress uniform? I don't like matching too closely, but I can at least coordinate my colors with yours..."

“Oh. I wasn’t going to. It doesn’t fit that well anymore.”

Connor looks over his shoulder at him. “What are you going to wear, then?”

"Um," Hank says. Connor raises an eyebrow. "I don't know," he says, defensive. "It's just some old black suit." 

"An old black suit," Connor repeats, enunciating each word. "Does it fit you, at least? Do you have a picture of yourself in it?"

"Yeah, it fits. Jesus. No, I don't have a picture."

Connor runs through every publicly available photo of Hank, from social media pages and dating profiles and news articles, until he finds something. "Is this it?" he asks, holding up a picture of Hank from a wedding last year on his palm display.

"Yeah, that's it," Hank says. "God, you're creepy."

"That's what you get for hiring an investigative prototype." Connor turns back to the picture and studying it for a moment. "That absolutely doesn't fit. You look unkempt."

"I mean." Hank gestures to himself. "That's kind of how I look."

Connor rolls his eyes. "No, it isn't. Or it shouldn't be, anyway." 

He puts the jacket he's holding back and starts rifling through the larger sizes. "Look, I probably have ten suits at home, at least, and I will show up wearing my nicest one and looking very perfect as long as you buy yourself something tonight instead." Connor pulls one from the rack and folds it over his arm. "Sorry. For lying to you."

Hank snorts. "You think I believed you do this for a living and you only have one suit?"

Connor blinks, processors stuttering. "I..."

Hank shakes his head, smiling slightly. "Keep up, kid."

Connor’s social subroutine catches up after a moment. (He actually likes that, being caught off-guard. His mind is designed to move so quickly that it’s almost welcome when someone can force it to slow down for a second.) “Why are we here, then?” he asks. “If you knew I didn’t need something to wear, I mean.” 

Hank shrugs. “I don’t know. I just didn’t have any other plans, and I didn’t mind getting you something new.”

Connor tilts his head. “Aw. You like me.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Hank says, scuffing the toe of his boot along the floor. “Finish picking whatever shit you’re going to make me try on and let’s go.”

Connor wonders if it’s a problem, how much he likes Hank, or if he should be worried that he’s thinking about kissing him again, a little thought subroutine playing on a loop in his head. “Yeah,” he says, clearing his throat. “Okay.” 

The first suit Hank tries on is the one they end up going with, although he begrudgingly tries on the rest at Connor’s insistence. It’s classic, black and tailored, with a neatly pressed dark green shirt underneath, and Connor isn’t too proud to admit that his systems stutter a bit when Hank first steps out of the dressing room in it.

“You’re sure this looks good?” Hank asks, fussing with the jacket in front of the mirror.

Connor takes the tie he’s holding and puts himself between Hank and the mirror, smoothing his hands over the lapels of his jacket. “Yeah,” he says, holding the tie up for Hank to see and starting to tie it for him. “You look...”

“Like I’m trying too hard.”

Connor rolls his eyes and pokes Hank in the chest. “I was going to say hot.”

Hank doesn’t have a quick response to that, beyond a soft “Oh” and his heart rate picking up as Connor finishes tying his tie. Good .

Hank clears his throat, glancing away. “You should still get yourself something.”

“I really do have...”

“I know,” Hank cuts him off. “But those are suits other guys bought you.” 

Connor quirks his eyebrow, a small smile lifting the corner of his mouth. “You have a bit of a possessive streak there, Lieutenant?”

Hank stifles a laugh. “No. It’s just...that’s how this works, isn’t it? You spend time with me, and I give you money and buy you shit?” 

“I’ll tell you what,” Connor says, tugging on the lapel of Hank’s jacket. “Tonight’s on me.”

Hank sighs, but he doesn’t say anything else about it until much later, after he’s tried on the other suits and he’s getting changed back into his clothes. “Hey,” he calls from the dressing room while Connor waits outside. “What were you going to do tonight?”

“What do you mean?”

“Earlier, when I asked if I was fucking up your night off and you said a little bit. What were you going to do?” 

“Oh,” Connor says. He thinks briefly about lying, but he’s already told Hank several of his secrets tonight. “There’s a drive-in theater that’s been showing old Pixar movies on Thursday nights. I’ve been going to see them. I’m trying to experience the same pop culture most adults have.”

Hank steps out of the dressing room. “Can’t you just...I don’t know. Watch those instantly in your head?”

Connor smiles. “It’s not really the same.”

“Fair enough,” Hank says. “Can I take you? Since you didn’t get anything out of the rest of this?” 

“You really don’t have to...”

“Come on. I like Pixar.” When Connor raises an eyebrow, Hank laughs and says, “Everybody my age likes Pixar, Con. We grew up during its heyday.”

“Yeah?” Connor asks, his smile broadening. 

Hank has a nice smile, Connor decides in that moment, especially when it reaches his eyes. “Yeah,” he says. “You still want to go?”

“Sure,” Connor says. He’s worried his expression is maybe too genuine, or at least too soft, but fuck it. “I’d like that.”

Connor waits outside while Hank pays, lighting a cigarette in the cold. Usually he doesn’t smoke around clients, but he doesn’t think Hank will mind. And besides, he needs to clear his head, and letting the smoke cloud his sensory units so he can’t focus on anything else is the best way he knows how.

“Hey,” Hank says when he joins Connor outside. “I didn’t know you could smoke”

“It’s not on my profile,” Connor says, reaching for Hank’s hand as they start walking. “I’ll put it out before we get to your car”

“That’s okay,” Hank says. “I don’t mind” 

Connor thinks about kissing him again, and he takes a long drag on the cigarette before that little thought routine can get stuck on a loop again.

“Does that even do anything for you?” Hank asks.

“It narrows my focus down to one point, which is...relaxing, I guess is the word. I’m hyper-aware of everything around me all the time, and sometimes that’s exhausting.”

Connor doesn’t mention the thoughts he’s trying to stop.

When they get to the drive-in, Hank pays for their car, and he retrieves a few folded blankets that Connor wouldn’t have guessed he had from his trunk once they’re parked. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you planned on this,” Connor says, spreading one of the blankets over the hood of Hank’s car.

“They’re for when I take Sumo to the dog park and all the benches are taken,” Hank says. “You can drink but not eat, right? I’m going to run over to the concession stand.”

Connor hoists himself onto the hood of the car and settles back against the windshield. “Right. No soda, though - I don’t like the way the sugar makes my biocomponents feel.”

Connor watches Hank go, and he lights another cigarette. 

He spreads the other blanket over his lap even though he isn’t cold, and he realizes that there are traces of grass and dog hair on it, and he thinks that says something about Hank, something he likes, that the last few years haven’t been so kind to him but he still takes such good care of his dog. 

Hank brings him an unsweetened iced tea, and Connor sips it while Hank climbs onto the hood beside him. “You’re a good date,” he says, knocking his elbow into Hank’s.

“Yeah? You’re turning out to be a cheaper one than I thought.”

Connor smiles. “Don’t get used to it.” 

“No, of course not,” Hank says, laughing. He nods at Connor’s drink. “What’s the point of blowing money on an upgrade to let you drink if you still can’t have sugar? There’s sugar in everything.”

“I can have it. I just have to run some internal cleaning protocols that are arduous and inconvenient when I do. But I drink it when I’m out, usually - there’s sugar in most cocktails, and that’s usually what people buy me.”

“But...you can’t get drunk, can you?”

Connor shakes his head.

“Huh,” Hank says. “Seems like a lot of expense and inconvenience just for appearances.” 

“I don’t know,” Connor replies, shrugging. “At least I’ve experienced it now. That’s something.”

“Yeah. I guess it is.” Hank nods at the title screen for Toy Story on the screen. “This is my favorite Pixar movie.”

“Is it?” Connor asks. “I’ve been avoiding it until now.” 

“How come?”

“I don’t know,” Connor says. “Things like this piss me off sometimes.” Hank raises an eyebrow, and Connor knows it’s a vague thing to say and that he has to explain. “It’s just...people have been exploring this theme in media for decades, even in children’s movies.” He gestures to the screen. “Sometimes that’s a hard pill to swallow, that people have consumed media where beings that aren’t human still have their humanity, but that when androids were actually developed, so much shit still happened to us.” 

As a rule, Connor doesn’t talk about the revolution with clients. It’s a heavy subject, and that’s mostly why, but even when they ask, he doesn’t give them anything.

It comes out easy, though, the way most things have tonight. “Yeah,” Hank says, tugging the blanket Connor has on his lap over so they can share. “I guess I can see that.”

Connor shifts so he can put his head on Hank’s shoulder. “Thank you for bringing me,” he says softly. “Usually I just bring an autonomous cab and pay the meter for it to sit here for a few hours. This is nicer.”

“That’s...kind of sad, isn’t it?” Hank asks.

Connor shrugs. He doesn’t say, “Sometimes I’m kind of sad,” even if he knows they have that in common, too. 

He turns to kiss Hank’s cheek, wrapping an arm around him when Hank shivers against the cold. “I’m having a nice time,” he says softly.

“Yeah,” Hank says, and Connor can feel his breath in his hair. “Me too.”

Connor feels reasonably sure it’s just because Hank doesn’t know where else to put his arm with the way Connor is curled into him, but he wraps an arm around him, squeezing his shoulder, and the sigh that comes out of him in response is entirely involuntary. 

Connor catalogues this feeling, being surrounded and enveloped and warm under the blankets. He thinks maybe it will help with stasis - it’s a manual command to put himself into it, so that’s no problem, but he struggles sometimes with the thoughts in his head, something like the android equivalent of dreams, while he’s out. He’s been trying to collect sensory data from moments when he feels safe to play on a loop while he’s asleep to override that mental process.

And this is one.

Connor is distinctly aware that they’re one of the only cars in the lot - it’s March in Detroit, and the drive-in is priced cheap during the early spring months when it’s still cold for a reason. 

Connor almost likes it better like this - it’s easier to pretend they’re alone entirely. And the other few cars are so far away, they might as well be.

“Hank,” he says, feeling the soft brush of Hank’s shirt against his cheek when he lifts his head.

“Yeah?”

“Is it going to confuse you if I kiss you?”

Hank squeezes his shoulder again. “You don’t have to.”

“I want to. If that’s okay.” 

Connor knows this part is fragile. Their relationship is transactional, and so Connor knows it might be difficult for Hank to understand that he can want to pay his bills and need to work and still want to kiss him, too, that they aren’t mutually exclusive.

He shouldn’t have asked tonight, probably. It’s too new, and Hank is still too uncomfortable with putting himself into this situation and trying to do something that will help him feel better, or at least less alone. And Connor feels sure he doesn’t see that it can be transactional without being any less real. 

He shouldn’t have asked.

But Hank still nods against him after a moment and says, “If you want to.” There’s a forced casual air to his tone, an attempt not to sound nervous, that Connor sees right through, but he doesn’t comment on it. 

Instead, he shifts against Hank, sitting up against him and putting a hand on his cheek. He wonders how someone can look so sad and so kind in the moment before he kisses him.

And it’s nice. Hank puts a hand on Connor’s neck, and his arm slips around his waist, and Connor feels the texture of Hank’s beard under his palm, and they kiss, languid and unhurried, under the blankets, and if Connor commits this to memory, too, he’ll never tell.

The kiss is delicate in the same way their situation is, in the same way Connor thinks Hank is, open-mouthed but always reserved and never desperate, their tongues occasionally finding each other in a gentle touch but little more.

When they part, Connor leans his forehead against Hank's, his eyes closed. "I really like you," he whispers.

He's aware of everything in that moment, the warmth of the blankets, Hank's hand on his neck, Hank's thumb absently stroking his jawline like a reflex, Hank's beard under his fingers and his heart under his hand, and Connor realizes all at once that it's like smoking, that for just a moment he can't hear the movie or the passing cars on the highway in the distance or anything, that his focus is narrowed down to this single point.

Hank smoothes a hand through Connor's hair and kisses his forehead. Connor has told Hank he likes him three times now, and Hank keeps deflecting any kind of response, but that's okay. Connor just wants Hank to know he means it, even if he doesn't know how to respond to it just yet.

He thinks Hank probably needs to hear things like that a few times before he believes them, anyway.

Connor kisses him one more time, just a quick peck on the lips, before he returns his head to Hank's shoulder.

Admittedly they somehow manage to lie closer together after that, Connor's leg tangled ever so slightly with Hank's under the blankets, Hank's cheek on the top of Connor's head. Connor doesn't feel sleepy the same way humans do, but he does feel warm enough, and like he's floating over himself, his limbs heavy enough that he's reluctant to move when the credits roll.

"What did you think?" Hank asks him, and Connor finds his hand under the blankets.

"I think it might be my favorite, too." Connor wonders if he's talking about the movie or the experience. He isn't sure, but he also doesn't know if it really matters. The way he processes sensory data makes it so easy for him to associate certain sounds or smells with an occurrence, something good or bad. This movie is tied with that kiss for him, forever.

He downloads the movie as they get back into the car. He can set it to play while he's in stasis, too. He already feels warm thinking of it.

Connor tries to muster up some of the breezy, confident energy he usually tries to exude with his dates on the drive home, although it feels difficult, like Hank has unmoored him from that construct of himself and can't quite find his way back to it. 

"Do you want me to send you a picture of the suit I'll be wearing next week?" he finally asks, and Hank shrugs.

"That's okay. I trust you. You can surprise me, or whatever."

"Okay," Connor says softly. He reaches for Hank's hand and settles back into his seat, watching the streetlamps pass them by outside.

When they get back to Connor's apartment, Hank walks him up without asking if Connor wants him to, and Connor kisses Hank again at the door and then leans back against it, hesitant to fish his keys out of his pocket and let himself inside.

"Hey, listen," he says, reaching out and tugging Hank's sleeve. "You don't owe me anything for phone calls or texts, so if you want to talk..."

"Oh," Hank says, rubbing the back of his neck. "Sure." 

Connor doubts Hank is going to take him up on that, but he wishes he would. He thinks that, maybe more than anything, Hank could use someone to talk to

Connor gives him a small smile. "I'll see you next week."

"Yeah," Hank says softly. "Night, Con"

Connor watches him go as he unlocks his door, and once he’s inside, he slouches on the edge of his bed, unbuttoning the top few buttons of his shirt and lying back. He fishes his cigarettes from his pocket and lights another one. He’s not allowed to smoke in his apartment, but fuck it.

It occurs to him all at once, with something cold like guilt settling in his gut, that they talked more about him than they did about Hank. Connor doesn’t know how that happened. He’s always in control of the conversation. 

But Hank asked. And fuck, he knows he’s lonely sometimes, but is he really so bad off that all it takes is someone asking for him to forget how to do his job?

For a single insane moment, Connor thinks about calling Hank. He’ll still be driving home - Connor wouldn’t be interrupting anything. But what would he say? “Sorry we didn’t spend enough time talking about you to touch on your son’s death, or why your car smells like alcohol, or how I can help you hate yourself less? I’d like to discuss those things next time.”? 

There’s nothing he could say that would help anything, so he just has to sit with that sense of failure he hates so much churning in his gut until he sees Hank again next week.

Connor figures he can text him at least, so he does. “I had a really nice time,” he writes. “I go to that theater every Thursday...if you ever want to come with me again, I’d like that. Good night, Hank.”

Hank’s reply comes fifteen minutes later, which is about how long his drive home should have taken him. “Sweet dreams, Connor,” is all it says, but he’s typing something else, too, and it’s not more than another minute before it comes through. “Wait. Do you dream?”

Connor can’t stop the stupid smile that spreads over his face. “Yeah. I do something like dreaming.” 

Hank starts typing, stops, then starts again. Connor imagines him just inside his door, trying to figure out what to say.

“Cool,” is what he finally lands on. “Then have sweet dreams, Con.”

Connor recalls the sensory data he catalogued when he and Hank were cuddled together on the hood of Hank’s car, and he thinks maybe he just might.

Usually Connor ‘dreams’ of the revolution. It’s part of his AI protocols designed to help him learn from his mistakes and failures - he was never supposed to be anything more than a prototype used to develop the latest RK model, after all. So he lives it every night - deviating, that cold dread in the pit of his stomach, being struck across the face by the butt of a gun in Hart Plaza so forcefully that his vision shorted out in one eye. It’s taken months for him to learn how to override that process with positive stimuli so he doesn’t have to dread stasis so much. 

He sets a subroutine to play Toy Story after he’s asleep, and keeps that sensory data from earlier, Hank’s arms around him, on a loop, and he takes himself offline with a small smile on his face

For the next week, Hank fluctuates between feeling mildly optimistic about his arrangement with Connor and very fucking stupid.

He goes to bed on Thursday night and he feels okay. 

Not really good, exactly, but nowhere near as bad as he usually does on a daily basis, even when there’s no fucking reason for him to, either.

He thinks about holding Connor’s hand, and kissing him at the theater, and he knows it’s part of their deal, but he doesn’t feel stupid for that, either.

On Friday night, he’s vomiting in Jimmy’s bathroom and thinking that this is all really fucking pathetic. He likes Connor, but Connor is still a companion he had to pay for, and isn’t that so fucking sad that he’s that lonely? 

He thinks about texting Connor, or calling him, just because Connor has a way of somehow being forthright about their arrangement but also making Hank feel less like shit about it, and he could use some of that right now.

(In the end, in the same way he’s frequently thought about calling Jeff or Ben over the years when he needs someone just to leave their numbers undialed, he doesn’t. There’s no hell deeper than his own shame.)

On Saturday, Hank puts on the suit Connor made him buy and thinks there’s nothing any number of well-fitting or expensive clothes can do to fix the obvious mess he is.

On Sunday, he tries it on again and he thinks he looks okay.

He’s used to the pendulum swing, back and forth, but he always seems to end at the lowest point anyway.

By the following week, Hank has mostly made up his mind not to go to the MACP awards, because going means trying, it means putting on the suit that fits and picking up the pretty android he hired to stand next to him and flirt with him, and it means accepting an award he doesn’t think he deserves and that he’s only getting because Michigan’s police force as a whole knows they need to rewrite history and make it look like they were on the right side that night.

He means to call Connor the day before the event and thank him for his time and tell him it’s off, and to ask if he can pay him for his efforts anyway since he feels guilty as fuck for Connor’s situation, even if he isn’t responsible for it.

Connor ends up texting him first in a move that Hank would think was creepy android intuition, except that he’s pretty sure Connor probably knew he would get cold feet. 

“Hi, Hank,” the text says. “I’m looking forward to seeing you tomorrow. I know you said you didn’t care about seeing my suit before the event, but would you like a preview anyway?”

Hank means to type, “Yeah, we’re not going. Sorry I’m so fucked up. I hope things come together for you soon - you deserve it.”

That’s not what his stupid, traitorous thumbs write, though. Instead, what he sends back to Connor is, “Hey kid. Sure.”

What comes through is a cropped picture of Connor in an olive linen jacket, a white shirt with subtle green and tan stripes unbuttoned underneath - it matches the green shirt he picked out for Hank in the most subtle way. Hank can’t see his face, but he can see that little freckle on Connor’s collarbone that interested him before, and the first peek of the metal ring of his thirium pump.

It’s not particularly risqué, and even if it does get Hank’s heart rate to pick up ever so slightly, he doesn’t think that’s the intention.

Or at least, not the only one.

There’s a lot in the picture, really. Connor’s care in picking something that matches so well, and his trust in showing Hank the thirium pump, something he can’t cover up or take out to pass for human.

Hank thinks that’s the point, more than the sliver of pale skin, that Connor is trying to meet him halfway.

He thinks of Connor saying, “I obviously know I’m attractive,” and he thinks that may be true, but that maybe Connor needs his own sort of reassurance from time to time, and that he’s seeking it now.

And Hank doesn’t want to fuck that up. 

So instead, he writes back, “You look really good, Con,” and Connor replies, “:) See you tomorrow, Hank,” and Hank is in this really fucking deep, but he thinks maybe Connor is, too.

Connor is a weird little mystery, Hank thinks, because for all the self-assured confidence he carries with him, there’s something...well, fuck, what’s even the word for it? Raw? A little fragile? It’s an odd thing, because Hank doesn’t think the confidence is an act, exactly. He thinks that’s very real, right down to the way Connor seems to like one-upping him.

But Connor seems like he needs some reassurance, too, like he’s lonely and doesn’t entirely know where to get it from, like he wants to be accepted or needed or loved.

Which...yeah. Join the club. 

Still, that’s really why Hank talks himself into keeping their date. Because he can always make himself do shit if it’s for someone else when he can’t do it for himself.

(And it’s probably very delusional to think he’s doing any good at all for Connor that Connor couldn’t find elsewhere, but. But. It’s the lie he has to tell himself.)

So Hank goes home, and he drinks a little but not a lot, and he lays out the suit Connor picked, and he looks at that picture of Connor on his phone, and yeah, he saves it too. 

It takes a concerted effort on his part to ignore the shame curling in his gut when he walks up to Connor’s apartment to pick him up the next night, mostly because he has a flower for Connor’s suit that he picked up in his hand, and that feels a bit too much like buying his own con.

Connor opens the door before he can knock. “Hi,” he says, putting a hand on Hank’s cheek and kissing the other. “I heard you coming.”

Hank raises an eyebrow. “From how far away?”

Connor smiles, looking sheepish. “I heard you park your car. Your engine sounds distinctive.” 

“Huh. Creepy,” Hank says, but there’s an edge of fondness to it that he doesn’t mask well, and Connor smiles. “Um,” Hank says, awkwardly holding out the plastic container with the white flower inside. “This is for you.”

Connor’s smile is too genuine for the situation, genuine enough that it makes Hank’s heart ache a bit. It’s that glimpse of the fragility he’s always masking that does it, mostly. 

Connor taking the boutonnière and fixing it to his suit gives Hank the opportunity to look at him properly. It’s a slim cut, an olive color that almost leans grey, with the same pale-striped shirt underneath that Hank has already seen (and spent more time than he should admit looking at).

“I need to take my LED out still,” Connor says. It’s spinning calm blue on his temple. “You’re early.” 

Hank would tell him that he left his house early because his stomach was churning with anxious energy and he needed to at least be moving while it did, and that Connor is the only part of tonight he’s looking forward to, but he doesn’t quite know how to say that. 

“Take your time,” is what comes out instead.

Hank assumed Connor would go to the bathroom to fit the file underneath the little biocomponent and gouge it out, until Connor crosses the room to the mirror on the wall instead and Hank realizes he doesn’t have one. 

He doesn’t have a kitchen, either. Connor’s building was obviously completely rundown not that long ago, and the studio apartment was clearly renovated specifically for androids by some cheap landlord looking to make the same rent on what’s essentially just a box. Connor has it decorated nicely and kept neat, but that’s more a testament to him than the unit.

“You like living here?” Hank asks, watching the way Connor winces when he takes the LED out with the file.

“It’s okay,” Connor says, shrugging. “You ready to go, handsome?” 

What Hank would rather do, honestly, is stay here with Connor, or take him anywhere else. But he’s still not in great standing at work, and Jeff was quite clear about his expectations regarding Hank’s attendance, and part of the reason he hired a date was because he knew he wouldn’t go otherwise and needed someone to hold him accountable.

“Yeah,” Hank says, following him out. Connor is radiating that same cheeky, flirty energy from the coffee shop, but the question still makes his cheeks heat, mostly because he thinks Connor isn’t any less genuine when he’s like this. “You look really nice, Con.”

“I think I promised I would look ‘perfect’, actually,” Connor says, a teasing glint in his eye when he turns to lock his door. 

Hank takes his hand as they start down the stairs. “Yeah. You look perfect.”

Connor has probably heard that before, Hank thinks, but he still looks like he never has.

"How was your week?" Connor asks once they're in the car and he's casually reached for Hank's hand and laced their fingers together.

Hank doesn't think now is the time to tell him about the pendulum swinging, although he does briefly consider it. "It was okay. Long." 

"Because you missed me?" Connor asks, nudging Hank's elbow with his - what he does when he's letting Hank know he's joking, Hank has realized.

Hank glances at him with a small smile. "Yeah. Something like that."

Is there really that much harm in playing into the game? If he has to have these wounds that don't seem like they're ever going to heal, there can't be anything wrong with at least putting a balm on them...

Connor squeezes Hank’s hand. "I missed you, too."

...especially when he says things like that. If nothing else, being with Connor has made Hank all too aware of how much he's missed being wanted by anyone.

There's valet service at the hotel where the ceremony is being held, but Hank pulls into the lot anyway, and then he sits there for a while once he's shut the car off. "You're nervous," Connor says after a few moments pass. He hasn't let go of Hank's hand.

"How do you do that?" Hank asks. "How do you always know?"

Connor smiles softly and lifts their joined hands. "Pulse patterns."

"You're always listening to mine?" 

"Feeling it, sometimes," Connor says, squeezing Hank's fingers for emphasis.

"Huh. Weird." Hank thinks Connor has to know by now that he says he's creepy or weird with complete fondness. He likes how different Connor is. It's its own reward figuring him out.

"Hank," Connor says softly, and that's all he says, but there's a request in it, too, and Hank knows he's asking what he's thinking about and why he seems sad without saying the words.

"I don't know," Hank says. "I haven't liked going to shit for work in...fuck, years. It's just...it's hard to be at functions like this without remembering who I used to be, and that's...I don't know. Work is probably where I feel it the most."

"It," Connor repeats, and Hank sighs.

"How fucking sad I am."

Connor's face softens somehow, and he reaches for Hank's arm with his free hand. "Do you want to go?"

They can't leave - or, at least, Hank can't - but it's a nice thought. "Where would you want to go?"

Connor huffs a little laugh at that. "I’m not sure. I actually don't mind being here. I'm looking forward to seeing some of my old colleagues." 

Hank raises an eyebrow. "Did you...like any of the guys at the other precinct?"

The corner of Connor's mouth lifts. "Hated them. But I'd like them to see that I'm doing okay. And if I can piss them off by forcing them into a position where they have to make polite conversation with me, even better." Connor shrugs. "I have the capacity for some significant pettiness when it suits me."

Hank laughs outright at that. "Jesus Christ," he says, and Connor's smile broadens at the mirth in his voice. "Okay. You tell me who you want to track down, and we can make rounds."

"Okay." Connor hesitates, but then he leans over and kisses Hank on the mouth, sighing contentedly into his mouth when Hank raises a hand to tangle his fingers in his hair. 

"You ready?" Connor murmurs when they part, and maybe it's because of the night or the suit or Connor's eyes being so bright, but their fingers are still laced together, and Hank raises his hand to kiss the back of Connor's.

"Yeah," he says. "Let's go."

Connor slips an arm around Hank’s waist as they start across the parking lot, and he catches Hank’s arm by the wrist and drops it across his shoulders, and he fits so well there and looks so pleased with himself that Hank really can’t do anything other than pull him a bit closer so he can kiss his hair.

It’s only because he still has an arm around Connor’s shoulders when they walk into the hotel lobby that Hank feels him stiffen at all. “Hey,” Hank says, squeezing his shoulder and searching his face. “Are you okay?” 

“I’m fine,” Connor says, but he’s still looking at something across the room, and Hank tries to follow his gaze.

And then he sees him, and he remembers all at once the talk around the precincts when the FBI was first called in, that they were bringing some highly advanced android prototype with them. Connor worked out of the 6th precinct, but he reported to the federal agents on the case...including the one Hank decked a few months back.

“Perkins?” Hank asks, and Connor nods, blinking like he does when he’s trying to clear his head. 

“My chassis is still damaged from him,” Connor says. He phrases it like it’s a passing comment, but Hank’s mind grinds over it.

“Wait, what the fuck?” he asks, and Connor sighs, taking him by the hand and pulling him over to the bar.

“We were at Eden Club looking over a crime scene,” Connor says. He’s still glancing at Perkins occasionally across the room. “The two deviants were still on the premises, and when we found them in storage, I had a clean shot, but I let them go.” Connor nods at Perkins. “He didn’t like that. He knocked me down and kept kicking me... I had broken some of my directives by that point, but I was programmed not to hurt humans, so I just. Waited for him to stop.” Connor takes Hank’s hand and puts it inside his jacket, over where his left ribs would be. “You feel that?”

Hank does. There’s an indent in Connor’s chassis deep enough that it’s readily apparent to the touch.

“Jesus,” Hank says. “CyberLife didn’t repair that?”

“It was assessed as minor field damage. I think they might have fined the FBI for it when they accessed my memory, but it wasn’t worth repairing.”

“They fined them,” Hank repeats. “That’s fucking it?”

“Yeah,” Connor says, shrugging. “I knocked him out in the evidence room when they were trying to recall me a few days later, though.” 

“Good,” Hank says. He trails his fingers over the indent one more time, tracing the shape of it through Connor’s shirt. “He’s a fucking prick. I actually hit him back in November, too. Guess that wasn’t his month.”

Connor smiles at that. “Did you really?” 

Hank glances across the room at Perkins. “Yeah. I’ll go fuck him up again if you want me to.”

Connor’s smile broadens, and he reaches up and drags his fingers through Hank’s beard. “Don’t ruin your night. I would like a drink, though...if you want to do something for me.” 

“Yeah,” Hank says. “Sure, sweetheart. Is whiskey okay?”

The endearment just comes out, and Connor certainly hears it, because he smiles while Hank’s cheeks heat. “Sure,” he says softly, and Hank’s glad that he’s at least kind enough not to tease him for it.

Hank orders two whiskeys, and while they wait, leaning against the bar, he nudges Connor and says, “That shouldn’t have happened to you. I’m sorry it did.”

“It’s okay.” Connor shrugs. “And if it isn’t, I made him pay for it in the end, and I guess you did, too. We can say you hit him in my honor.” 

In reality, Hank hit Perkins because he was pissed off and hungover and because Perkins was a fucking prick standing in his way...but he thinks he likes this better.

“Is that crack something they can repair?” Hank asks, realizing all at once he doesn’t really know anything about Connor’s maintenance, or even how his body is put together. “CyberLife, or whoever androids go to these days?”

Connor nods. “They could. I’ve never looked into it, though.”

“Does it hurt?” 

Connor lifts a hand to his side. “I’m aware of it. It isn’t pressing on any of my biocomponents, though, so it isn’t really pain. Just...an odd sort of feeling.”

“Connor,” Hank says reprovingly, and Connor gives him a dim smile.

“What, Hank?” 

“Sorry, I just...you have an upgrade so you can drink shit that isn’t even designed to do anything for you, but you still have unrepaired damage from back when you were CyberLife property.”

“This is for work,” Connor says, raising his glass and taking another sip. “Are you questioning how I spend my money? Because I don’t have much of it, and there have been other things I’ve wanted to do with myself more than repairing damage that doesn’t bother me that much.”

“No,” Hank says quickly, although he supposes he actually is, at least a little bit. “No, I’m just...would you let me pay for it? The repair?”

Connor swirls his drink in his glass, staring at it. “I’m a unique model. I’m not cheap to patch up.”

“And I have money in the bank. That’s our whole arrangement. Come on, Connor.”

Connor considers it a moment, and then he says, “I don’t know.” 

Hank sighs. “What’s your hesitation?”

“Personal principle, mostly. I don’t accept money specifically intended for repairs or upgrades. I don’t want clients thinking they have a stake in my body, or some kind of claim to it.”

It’s reasonable, and smart, but Hank is still the smallest bit hurt. “I wouldn’t think that.”

“Oh, I trust that you wouldn’t,” Connor says. “I don’t trust anyone else, but I trust you too much, and that’s its own sort of problem.”

Hank scrubs a hand over his face before he looks at Connor. “Can you think about it, at least?” 

“Yeah,” Connor says softly. “I will. Thank you...I don’t want to sound ungrateful for the offer.”

“You don’t, sweetheart. I get it.”

Connor doesn’t owe him anything. He really doesn’t. But Hank can’t pretend the stark reminder of their business relationship doesn’t sting. 

“Do you want to go find our table?” Connor asks, running a hand over Hank’s back.

Hank downs the last of his drink and forces himself not to order another one, even if the urge is there. “Sure,” he says instead, and Connor takes his arm. 

There are people at the ballroom door handing out programs, and Hank realizes all at once as he flips through it that Perkins is there because he’s presenting Hank’s award.

Well, of course he is, with Hank’s luck.

It’s going to be a long night

Connor hates the taste of whiskey.

He hates all alcohol, actually. He hates the sugary drinks that feel like they’re coating his biocomponents in a sticky film until he has the chance to lie down and run his internal cleaning measures, and he hates straight alcohol because he can’t get drunk, and if it isn’t good for that, all that’s left is the burn that’s heightened ten times by the delicate sensory components in his mouth.

Which is really why the conversation with Hank grated at him, especially the implication that maybe he should have fixed the cracked plating on his side before investing in an upgrade that does everything for the people he’s with, helping them keep up appearances, and nothing for him.

Connor resents it because he should have, but he also didn’t really have a choice. 

What he resents too is that he could have told Hank that he didn’t want a whiskey or any alcohol at all and Hank wouldn’t have cared. Hank doesn’t give a shit about appearances, and he doesn’t care if Connor stands at his side and drinks or not, and Connor knows some of that is probably from years of drinking alone, but it isn’t only that.

So he doesn’t know why he didn’t tell him, except that if he told him, Hank would have understood, and he would have gotten Connor a drink he liked (mostly limited to flavored seltzer water and unsweetened tea), and they both would be happier for it. 

That’s the whole problem, how much Connor likes Hank, and how much he trusts him. It’s making him resent an upgrade that makes him easier company and a more desirable companion, and it’s making him resent that being more desirable pays the bills, and it’s making him resent most of his other clients, too.

And that’s a dangerous state of mind to be in, because Connor doesn’t know if Hank is going to call him again after this. He can’t rely on him, and he can’t resent his situation.

Connor takes another sip of whiskey and relishes it like a punishment. 

He’s glad his LED is out. The room is too dark for it to be spinning red and go unnoticed.

Even without the biocomponent giving him away, though, Hank knows. He reaches for Connor’s hand under the table, squeezing gently. “Hey,” Hank whispers. “Are you pissed at me?” 

Connor needs to get his shit together. Hank shouldn’t be able to tell he’s upset - it’s Hank’s night, and he shouldn’t be sitting here worried that he said the wrong thing to Connor, especially when he didn’t even say the wrong thing, just the thing Connor has troubling hearing and stomaching.

“You look too good for me to be pissed at you,” Connor says cheerfully, which is an overcorrection, too deep of a dive too soon back into the flirting personality that comes so easily to him and usually carries him through these events. 

Hank stares at Connor, and then he laces their fingers together. “I really wasn’t trying to imply that you should have done something different with your money. I was just trying to understand it.”

“I know,” Connor says softly. He finishes the last of his drink, schooling his face so Hank won’t see the wince as it goes down.

“Do you want another one?” Hank asks, and Connor should just say “not right now,” or “yes.”

He shouldn’t do what he does, which is to look up at Hank and say, “I hate whiskey.” 

“Oh,” Hank says. “Shit. It doesn’t have sugar, and you said it was okay...”

“I know,” Connor says in a rush. “I hate all alcohol. The analytic sensory components in my mouth are very sensitive, and it burns.”

Hank gapes at him, plainly trying to understand. “Then why didn’t you...” he starts, and Connor huffs a sigh.

“Because I’m very stupid,” he says, and that startles a laugh out of Hank. “And because the upgrade was expensive, and it was for work, so I don’t like letting it go to waste.” 

“Oh, honey,” Hank says, and Connor marvels that pet names from him are apparently a dam broken loose before Hank reaches up and grasps him by the back of the neck, squeezing gently. “It’s okay. Is there anything you do like?”

Connor fusses with his hands in his lap. “Any kind of unsweetened seltzer is okay.”

“Really? The bubbles don’t bother you?”

“No. I like the bubbles.”

Hank runs his thumb over Connor’s skin and says, “You could have told me.”

I know , Connor thinks as Hank gets up. But that’s the whole problem.

Hank comes back with another whiskey for himself, which Connor doesn’t comment on (although he decides he will if he gets another) and a glass of flavored sparkling seltzer that he slides across the table to Connor. 

“So,” Hank says while Connor takes a sip. It goes down much easier than the alcohol. “Your pride is kind of an issue for you, huh?”

Connor shrugs. “I don’t have much else.”

“Yeah,” Hank says, voice quiet. “I mean, I get it.” He nods at Connor’s drink. “Is that better? I figured the carbonation would be too harsh for you.” 

Connor shakes his head. “It’s just an interesting texture. That’s part of why I like it.” He wants to ask Hank what kind of stupid shit his pride has made him do, thinks about putting on a pout and his best puppy eyes and telling Hank it would make him feel better to know. 

He’s curious, he supposes. He doesn’t quite figure out how to come around the question before Hank is looking up at someone arriving at their table and saying, “Hey, Jeff.”

Connor runs a facial scan on Jeffrey Fowler and absorbs all the information that comes with it in the moment it takes Jeff to say, “Well, shit. I really didn’t think you’d show.”

“Still up in the air whether I’m going to regret it or not,” Hank says. He holds up the program. “You know they have fucking Perkins presenting to me?” 

“Yeah,” Jeff sighs as he sits down. “Someone else from the FBI was going to do it, but I guess Perkins asked. Don’t ,” he says, brandishing a finger in Hank’s direction when he opens his mouth to argue. “Please just act like you think this is an honor. It’s not like the FBI usually presents at these things. They’re here for you.”

“They’re here to try to cover their own asses for what they did back in November and you know it,” Hank says. “Like fuck they want to be here honoring me.”

“Of course I know it, but we are not talking about this now ,” Jeff snaps. 

Hank sighs and puts a hand on Connor’s back. “Jeff, this is Connor. Connor, this is Jeff.”

“Hi, Captain,” Connor says, reaching across the table to shake Jeff’s hand.

“Hey,” Jeff says, looking between the two of them. “You’re...”

“Yeah,” Connor says. Hank’s precinct almost got an RK800 on loan from CyberLife back in November, too, so Jeff has certainly seen his face before.  “I’m sure I look familiar from the files.”

“Jesus,” Jeff says under his breath. “Are you the RK800? The one from the revolution?”

“Yes,” Connor says. “Although I’m mark 53, so I’m far from the only one.” 

Jeff looks at Hank. “Are you trying to make some kind of statement? Because...”

“Jesus, Jeff, don’t be rude,” Hank says, scowling. “There’s no statement. He’s just my date.”

“We met at Jimmy’s,” Connor says. “I knew who Hank was, so I went over to talk to him. We’ve been spending some time together the last few weeks.”

“Well, fuck,” Jeff says, looking at Hank and shaking his head before he nods at Connor. “You were Perkins’ partner, weren’t you?”

“I guess,” Connor says. “He didn’t think we were partners.” Or equals at all.

“What did you think of him?” 

“Honestly? I didn’t much care for him.”

“See?” Hank says. “It’s not just me - everyone thinks he’s a prick. And if you had told me that he was going to be presenting tonight, I would have demanded anyone else.” 

“Please just be pleasant,” Jeff groans. “Please. You’re representing all of us.”

“Yeah, whatever,” Hank says in such an adorably belligerent way that Connor has to stifle his smile.

Jeff looks at Connor again, curious. “Are you two really dating?” 

Connor is opening his mouth to say he’s just Hank’s date for the night, because that’s the story they agreed on, but Hank takes Connor’s hand under the table and says, “Yeah. We’re dating.”

Well, Connor thinks, a touch pleased. He supposes he did say he would be Hank’s boyfriend.

“Well, shit,” Jeff says, which seems like the closest thing they’re going to get to a congratulations for their fake relationship from him. Connor doesn’t hold it against him - he knows Hank hasn’t done much, or really any, dating since his divorce. If Jeff is a little confused, or a touch stunned, it’s probably to be expected.

It’s plain that he doesn’t entirely know how to talk to Connor, either. He asks what he does, and then immediately stumbles over it when he realizes most androids don’t work. He says he didn’t know androids could drink, looks like he feels awkward for mentioning it, like he isn’t sure it’s allowed, and then he looks confused when he asks Connor what he’s drinking, which is probably a fair response. It is an odd choice.

But Connor is a decent judge of character, and Jeff is well-intentioned, and it’s clear he and Hank have a fondness for each other even if they’ve done nothing but argue since Jeff sat down.

And Hank is still holding Connor’s hand under the table, squeezing it occasionally when Jeff stumbles over something, like it’s a joke they’re both in on. It’s not so bad.

They’re joined by a few other police captains and another award recipient that Hank doesn’t pay much attention to beyond introductions. And once the ceremony begins, it goes by slowly - although maybe it just feels that way because Connor is honed in on the anxious energy running through Hank, even if the occasional bounce of his leg is really the only indicator.

His whiskey is gone, but he keeps reaching for the glass like it’s an instinct, grasping it and then letting it go.

Connor thinks Hank is kind of cute when he’s nervous, at least when it’s just the two of them, but this isn’t quite the same, and now he just wants to take it from him.

He texts Hank’s phone after a few awards, meaning to distract him. “This is boring.” He doesn’t think Hank will mind if he’s critical when Hank has already made it clear he doesn’t want to be here.

Hank’s phone buzzes in his pocket, and he reaches for it, masking the smile trying to play across his face at Connor’s message - a positive sign. “Hey, I asked if you wanted to go someplace else,” he writes back a moment later.

“I know. I should have told you I wanted to go meet Sumo. Or maybe I should just go make out with my boyfriend in the bathroom until the interesting part? :)”

Hank looks up from his phone and shoots him a warning look, and Connor schools his face into his best approximation of doe-eyed innocence. 

He’s trying to start Hank on a new thought process, the same way he has to try to force new subroutines on himself sometimes. And Hank doesn’t exactly relax afterwards, but at least he’s thinking about something positive instead of cycling through and fixating on all the shame work functions bring him.

He doesn’t think Hank is going to text him back - and that’s fine; Connor has just about accomplished what he intended - but a notification pings in his HUD a few minutes later. He didn’t even see Hank slip his phone out of his pocket again.

He opens the message, and the social subroutines that feed him responses stutter a bit at, “Maybe later, baby. ;)”

Connor takes a gulp of his drink just to give himself some other sensory data to focus on aside from Hank’s hand in his lap, their fingers laced together, because he’s starting to involuntarily hone in on every last one of Hank’s fingerprints against his skin, and he has to calm himself down.

Hank, for his part, looks profoundly satisfied when Connor glances over to meet his eye.

Maybe it’s the pride issue Hank mentioned earlier that makes him push and gives him the need to have the last word, or maybe it’s just that he’s running hot in the crowded room and he really could use the air, but Connor fishes a cigarette out of his pocket and holds it between his fingers where Hank can see.

He excuses himself and crosses the ballroom to the door, and as he walks, he pulls up his message thread with Hank.

“This is an invitation,” he writes. “In case you weren’t sure. Unless you’re all talk?”

Connor resists the urge to look over his shoulder to see Hank read it.

He gets a reply a moment later, as he’s stepping out one of the side entrances. “Jesus, Con. I said maybe later.”

Connor lights his cigarette and tucks it between his lips. “I’m saying right now. Come get me.” He takes pity on Hank a moment later and softens it with, “If you want to. I’m outside.”

“This is going to look so fucking obvious,” Hank writes back, and Connor can hear it in his voice, grumbling it.

“It is. But you’re already getting up, aren’t you?”

Hank doesn’t respond, but the door does open beside Connor a few minutes later, and he looks up with a smile spreading over his face when he sees Hank stepping outside.

Connor tosses his cigarette down and puts it out with the toe of his shoe before he strides over to Hank and kisses him. It’s hard and hot, Connor’s hands on Hank’s face, Hank’s tongue an immediate, insistent glide and a rush of data over his. 

“Jeff is going to fucking kill me,” Hank says, breathing hard when Connor raises himself into his toes to bite at his earlobe. “God, you’re...”

“Trouble, I know,” Connor says against Hank’s skin, kissing a line back to the corner of his mouth. 

“I was going to say good,” Hank murmurs, and Connor wonders if it’s possible for his biocomponents to just melt from overheating.

“Oh,” he breathes, and Hank tangles his fingers in his hair and kisses him again. 

They should talk about this, probably, if not now, then soon - the nature of their relationship, what they both want or need from a physical aspect of it, Connor’s upgrade and compatibility, compensation for his time, all of it, since it seems that’s where they’re headed. 

But that’s boring in this moment, and a reminder of work and their arrangement at all, so Connor sets it aside for right now and tells himself they can have that conversation later, and then he wraps his arms tight around Hank’s neck and kisses him back.

There’s a lot to process here - Hank’s arm around his waist, his hand on Connor’s lower back (and slipping lower), the texture of Hank’s hair under his fingers, the way Hank pulls him close and hauls him around, pressing him back against the building, and the sudden realization that he actually doesn’t mind not being entirely in control of himself or the situation as long as someone he trusts is the one moving him.

And then there’s the taste of whiskey in Hank’s mouth, all smoky flavor with none of the burn from the alcohol. It’s the first time Connor has ever been able to appreciate it, and maybe it tastes better for being on Hank’s lips, too.

Connor wishes he could stop the little moan that pulls itself free of him against Hank’s mouth, but it gets him a rumble in Hank’s chest in return, so he can’t be too angry for his own lack of self-control.

He’d like to pull Hank’s jacket from his shoulders, to mess him up a little, and he’s almost unreasonably angry that Hank’s award is at the end of the ceremony, that they can’t just go to Hank’s car now, that Connor can’t do exactly as he pleases without worrying about keeping Hank’s clothes neat.

They’re already terribly obvious, not because Connor hasn’t been careful with Hank’s suit, but because Hank’s lips are swollen and his skin is flushed and heated where Connor has been kissing him, which is inconvenient, certainly, but it’s also a thought that could sustain Connor when he’s alone in his bed for weeks, just that single memory that Hank is so reactive to him. He’s a touch fascinated by it, because of course androids don’t flush at all.

Connor kisses Hank’s neck, finds that he likes the texture of Hank’s shaved beard under his tongue, and he gives into the temptation to nip along his skin, just to look at the mark he leaves in the moment before it fades.

Connor lifts his fingers to touch the reddened skin. His social protocols are running slow, or maybe they would stop him from saying, “I want to mark you up,” with complete earnestness and a hint of reverence, but fuck it. It’s true, and they should be honest, about all of this.

“Jesus, okay,” Hank breathes. He threads his fingers in Connor’s hair and uses the hold to pull him back gently, looking into his face. “Are you running a weird sexbot protocol?”

Connor doesn’t think he would like anyone else asking him that, but Hank does it with too much fondness for there to be any harm in it at all. 

Besides, Hank likes that he’s ‘weird’. Connor already knows that.

He kisses Hank again, gentler this time, and he shakes his head against him. “I don’t have a ‘sexbot protocol’, Hank.” He puts a hand on Hank’s cheek, stroking a thumb over his skin. “I just like you.” The corner of Connor’s mouth lifts into a teasing smile. “Would you like me to download a protocol? I could.”

Hank makes a small strangled noise and then coughs to cover it up. “No,” he says, kissing Connor’s forehead. “You’re good.” 

Connor tucks himself under Hank’s chin and lets Hank hold him there. “You should probably get back,” he says softly.

“Yeah,” Hank says. “Probably.”

But he doesn’t move, and Connor doesn’t complain. Hank is warm and comforting around him, and he’s content enough to stay. 

“I would come home with you tonight,” he whispers. There’s probably a better way to say this, and a better time, when they could have the full conversation, but Connor wants Hank to know. “Or any other night. Just...you know. If you wanted me to.”

Hank doesn’t say anything, only pushes a hand through Connor’s hair and kisses his temple and holds him the smallest bit closer, but that’s enough. It’s hard for Hank to say what he wants sometimes, and especially to ask for it. Connor knows that. It’s why he pushes him every now and again.

He doesn’t want to push for this any more than he already has, but it’s a few hours yet before Hank will be driving Connor home, and he’s planted the seed. He can wait for it to take hold.

Connor kisses the corner of Hank’s mouth and says, “You should go back inside. I’ll stay out a few more minutes.” 

Hank kisses him again, and he gives Connor a small smile before he pulls away from him and retreats back inside. Connor wishes there wasn’t that hint of sadness in his eye as he goes, but he thinks maybe there’s some in his, too.

This is fragile. And they’re both afraid it might break. 

Connor lights another cigarette and smokes it until it’s burned down to his fingers, sobering himself up, and then he puts it out and follows Hank back inside.

Jeff definitely knows, Connor decides when he returns to their table. He isn’t sure anyone else does, but Jeff is looking between the two of them like he’s trying to piece something together.

Connor shifts in his seat and intentionally doesn’t meet his eye, and Hank reaches for his hand under the table.

Perkins gets up a few minutes later and delivers some canned talking points about the medal of valor being the highest honor, for conspicuous bravery and heroism above and beyond the normal demands of police service. He looks like he might choke on the words, and Connor wonders why he wanted to present the award to Hank at all. 

He doesn’t understand it until Hank gets up to accept it, and Perkins shakes his hand away from the microphones, and he says something that makes Hank pause, his face pale.

Connor has to access his memory, play it back and zoom in on Perkins’ mouth to catch it. “You smell like alcohol,” he said while he grasped Hank’s hand. “You smelled like it that night on the roof, too. Shame no one here knows that.”

Hank is clearing his throat and saying something that Connor barely catches while anger courses white-hot through him. “Um...yeah,” he says into the microphone. He’s shaking. “Thanks for this, I guess. I didn’t know if I was going to walk off that roof in November, but I’m glad to be here...and for the good company. So, anyway...thanks.”

There’s some weak applause while Hank returns to his seat - it was a polarizing choice to present the award to him anyway, and the people who weren’t displeased by it are unsettled and confused by Hank’s discomfort, so the response is minimal.

Connor reaches for Hank’s hand again when he sits down. He can feel the nervous energy in him. 

It’s not the same as it was before.

Connor texts him a moment later. “Are you okay?”

Hank looks at it and then squeezes Connor’s hand in what Connor thinks is meant to be a reassuring way but which does nothing to settle him at all. 

He thinks about texting Hank again to tell him that he saw it, and that Perkins is a piece of shit, but he doesn’t. Perkins might be an ass, but that doesn’t mean the shame he prodded at isn’t real.

And there’s a reason Hank still hasn’t told Connor about his drinking. 

So he lets it alone, right up until they’re getting ready to leave. Connor stands at Hank’s side after the ceremony while he talks half-heartedly with Jeff, and he narrows his eyes when he sees Perkins across the room, going into the men’s bathroom. 

“Hey,” Connor says, grasping Hank by the arm. “I’ll be right back, okay? I’m going to go get our coats.”

“Okay,” Hank says, but he sounds distant, and dejected, and that just fuels all Connor’s rage inside him.

Connor doesn’t go to the coat room. Instead, he follows Perkins into the bathroom, empty since most of the attendees have already left, and he locks the door behind himself.

He’s waiting there, leaning against the wall with a dim smile on his face, when Perkins turns around.

Perkins gapes at him for a moment - and Connor thinks he'll remember this often and fondly, watching the blood drain from his face before he tries to draw his shoulders back. "What the fuck are you doing here?" he asks.

Connor tilts his head, tsking softly. "Did that feel good?" he asks, a placid expression on his face.

"What the fuck are you..."

Connor pulls up the footage of Perkins shaking Hank's hand on his palm display, holding it up for him to see. "Did it feel good?" he asks again, voice quiet but no less dangerous for it. 

Perkins looks between the palm display and Connor's face, mouth agape. He tries to say something a few times, but nothing comes out.

Connor retracts the display and takes a step towards him, and he likes it more than he should that Perkins immediately takes a step back. "I feel sorry for you, you know," Connor says. "You got knocked out by your own android, your raid on Jericho was an objective failure since you couldn't catch a single one of their leaders, and then you couldn't even organize a sniper assault against us. I know the FBI sent you here, and they'll say now that they think Hank Anderson is a hero, but when you returned to Quantico back in November...well, shit, I can't imagine how much everyone there hates you for letting us win. And I'm sure you hate Hank for being in your way." 

"I..." Perkins starts, but Connor cuts him off.

"That day you tried to put me down in evidence, I preconstructed seventy-two different ways I could have killed you. Places I could hit you, items in the room I could use, seventy-two different permutations of your death. Did you know that?"

Perkins doesn't say anything, just swallows hard.

"I didn't, obviously. But the interesting thing about my programming is that I'm always running through my failures, reliving them when I'm in stasis. And so I think about that sometimes, when I'm asleep...how I didn't kill you, and how I could have." Connor reaches for Perkins' phone in his jacket pocket, fishing it out and turning it on. He doesn't do anything with it, but it's only the illusion that matters, so he pulls his synthskin back on his hand like he's hacking it. "If you ever come back to Detroit, and especially if you get anywhere near Hank, or me, I'll think about it again. Don't be such a sore fucking loser." He hands Perkins' phone back to him, clapping him on the cheek with an amiable smile. "Have a good night, Agent."

Connor wishes it didn't feel so good, how afraid Perkins clearly is of him. But he spent so much of their time together afraid, especially after Perkins cracked his chassis outside of Eden Club, that he doesn't let himself worry too much about it. 

Turnabout is fair play, after all, or so the saying goes.

Connor retrieves their coats from the coat room, and then he finds Hank and Jeff in the lobby again, slipping his arm into Hank's.

"You ready to go?" Hank asks him, and Connor nods. "Night, Jeff."

"See you, Hank," Jeff says. "Nice to meet you, Connor."

Connor smiles, slipping his hand into Hank's as they turn to go.

It's not until they're in the car, when Connor leans across the console to kiss Hank and feels the tension in him, that he realizes things are more wrong than he thought. "I'm really proud of you," he tries to offer, but Hank just shrugs as he starts the car.

"It was just a political statement. It didn't mean anything." 

Connor studies him for a moment, trying to read his face beyond the sadness there, before he reaches for Hank's hand, lacing their fingers together.

And Hank lets him, but Connor can see something weighing on him.

“It means something to me,” Connor offers. “I already told you I was down there that night.”

Hank doesn’t look at him, and he doesn’t do more than give another shrug in response, either. It’s so quiet in the car that Connor can practically hear him spinning out of control.

"Listen," Hank finally says after a minute, and Connor braces himself for it. "I think I should just take you home, okay? I have an early morning tomorrow."

Connor blinks. "You're off tomorrow."

"Yeah. I mean, I still have shit to do."

"You have shit to do," Connor repeats dryly.

Hank looks at him sadly. "Can you not make this harder than it has to be?"

Connor lets Hank's hand go so he can fist his own in his lap, digging his nails into his synthskin until it retracts. "Were you dissatisfied with my company tonight?"

"No," Hank says quickly. "No, god, you didn't do anything. I just can't..." 

Connor waits for Hank to finish the thought, but that's where he trails off. He wishes he didn't think that what Hank means is "I just can't let myself be happy."

"Is this because of what Perkins said to you?"

Hank pales. "You saw that?" 

"I see everything." Connor looks away from him. "Are you going to go home and drink?" he asks softly.

"Can you smell it on me, too?" Hank asks stiffly.

Connor gives him a reproving glance. "I didn’t say that. I just don't want you to be unsafe." 

"If I am," Hank says, "I really don't think that's any of your concern."

"Hank..."

"Connor, Jesus, leave me alone, okay? I haven't said jack shit to you about the smoking, so the least you can do is not pick at my bad habits." 

Connor should keep the conversation focused on Hank. He should say what Hank does to himself is worse than a bad habit.

But what comes out of his mouth is, "What the fuck is that supposed to mean?"

Hank shakes his head. "I looked it up, okay? And CyberLife says you don't have more than three years of doing that shit to yourself before you'll need a complete replacement of your filtration system."

"I love when people tell me what the assholes who made me say is going to happen to my body," Connor snaps. "What the hell is it to you, anyway? Everything inside me is replaceable, unlike the body you're determined to destroy."

"Yeah? Your side is still cracked, so forgive me if I don't think you'll have the money to repair it when the time comes."

"Ooh," Connor breathes. "Low blow." 

Hank looks at him, face softening. "I didn't mean it like that."

"Didn't mean it how, Hank? Hurtfully?"

"Yeah," Hank murmurs. "Sorry."

"It's okay," Connor says softly. He should try to mend this, he knows, but he's too stung for it, so they sit in silence the rest of the drive back to Connor's apartment.

But Hank's thoughts are still so loud that Connor can almost hear them, so when they're a block from his apartment, he says, "Hank. I can hear you thinking."

"Yeah?" Hank asks. He sounds so sad. "What am I thinking about?" 

"Honestly?" Connor asks, and Hank nods. "That you don't like the way your brain works."

Connor thinks they're the same in this regard, at least. He doesn't like his mind sometimes, either, the way his subconscious routines are dictated by code he didn't write, by CyberLife programmers he's never met, the way he'll sometimes get stuck on a thought, like choking, something he's unable to bring up or swallow down. He hates how he sits up at night wondering if this is his life, if this is all he's going to get, how he can’t make himself let it go, and how that fear churns in his stomach and the only way to move past it is to put himself in stasis and force his brain to stop.

"Yeah," Hank says softly. "That's close, I guess."

Hank still walks him up to his apartment when they get there. He still kisses Connor's forehead and says he had a nice time.

"I'm sorry," Connor says, and Hank shakes his head and says, "I'm sorry, too."

It's not the night Connor wanted at all.

Hank pulls out his phone before he goes, and a notification for the bank transfer appears in Connor’s HUD a moment later. It’s their agreed upon rate, but it feels like salt in the wound after everything, the reminder that they have an arrangement. 

“There,” Hank says, shifting uncomfortably. “That’s all of it. Unless I owe you extra for the argument?”

It’s meant to be a half-hearted joke, so Connor breathes a small laugh - he doesn’t have the energy for more. “It’s okay. The argument can be on me.”

“Okay,” Hank says. “Thanks for coming with me.” 

“Hank,” Connor says as he turns to go. “You’re not going to call me again, are you?”

Hank looks at him over his shoulder. He doesn’t answer, just gives him a sad smile and says, “Sweet dreams, Connor,” before he continues down the steps. 

Connor stands there and watches him go, keeps standing there until he hears Hank’s car start in the lot below.

The suit he’s wearing is expensive, one of his best, but he shrugs out of it the moment he’s inside his apartment and leaves it in a crumpled heap on the floor. He pulls his sweatpants on and sits back on his bed, yanking his bedside drawer open and rooting around for the fresh box of cigarettes he has there.

Connor lights one without a single care for the terms of his lease and flops back against his pillow. 

He’s pissed at himself, mostly - that he couldn’t leave it alone, that he had to take offense when he knew Hank didn’t mean it, because his pride is all he has and so he always has to defend it.

Connor raises a hand and lays it over the damaged playing of his chassis, feeling the rift there. He wants to start over, go back to the beginning of the night when he put Hank’s hand inside his jacket and let him feel the ways he’s barely holding himself together.

He desperately wants to do better.

He texts Hank again, although he doesn’t know if it will help. “I’m sorry,” he says again, because he doesn’t know what else to say.

There’s no response for long enough that Connor opens the messages he’s received through his profile and starts going through them. He’s usually more interested in meeting new people than this, though, and even as he makes a few appointments, he feels bored by himself, and so endlessly stuck.

The text doesn’t come until well past one am, when Connor is getting ready to manually put himself into stasis so he won’t have to think anymore. 

“Hey,” Hank’s message says. “You dont have tobe sorryyr, ok? Houre so sweetf, and so smanrt, and sk hot, and you deservw better. Im orry.”

Connor sits up, thirium pump picking up the way it does as a stress response. They’ve never talked about Hank’s drinking, but Connor knows. “Hank,” he writes back, “are you okay?”

“Yea . Im ok. Judt need to slkeep.” 

Connor gets up, pulling a shirt on over his head. Another text comes through while he does. “I wont call againm, ok? Just wanntrd you to knoqw.”

Connor calls a cab, and then he sits on the edge of his bed to wait, scrubbing a hand over his face. “I keep trying to tell you I like you,” he writes back, “and I don’t think you believe that, but I do. You’re kind and smart and so fucking hot, too. We were both assholes tonight, alright? It’s okay.”

Hank starts typing, but the response never comes through. 

Connor pulls his coat on and goes down to wait for the cab outside. He doesn’t bother trying to smoke. He knows it won’t help.

When the car finally gets there, he puts in Hank’s address, and he sits in the backseat, passing his quarter between his hands. 

Hank lives halfway across the city, but the roads are practically empty this time of night, so he makes good time. When Connor gets there, he peers in the window and rings the doorbell. The lights are all still on, but there’s no sign of Hank.

Connor knocks a few times, and then kicks the door. “Hank!” he says, raising his voice. “For fuck’s sake, come on!”

There’s nothing. Connor rings the doorbell one more time out of spite, and then he walks around the house, peering in the side living room window, and then into the kitchen. 

Hank is passed out on the floor there, and Connor wishes he could say he gives it any thought before he moves, but he pitches himself through the window before he can properly think it through.

He lands with a thud in a pile of broken glass, and he feels it cut the synthskin on his palms when he pushes himself up to get to Hank’s side.

“Hank,” Connor says, putting a hand on his cheek. “Hank, come on, wake up.” His blood alcohol concentration is through the roof when Connor scans him. 

He’s getting ready to call an ambulance when Hank opens his eyes. He stares at Connor for a long moment, like he’s trying to bring him into focus or place him at all.

“Oh, Jesus,” he slurs when he finally does. “What are you doing here?”

“I was worried about you. You texted me.” 

“Fuck, did I?” Hank looks around with bleary eyes. “Did you...fuck, did you break my window?”

“I was trying to get to you.”

“There’s a key under the planter out front, Connor. Fuck.”

Admittedly, if Connor had scanned anything before he dove in here, he would have known that. 

“Come on,” he says, ignoring his guilt and pulling Hank’s arm around his shoulders so he can get him up. “If you haven’t thrown up yet, you’re going to soon.”

“Connor,” Hank groans, “I know my limits, okay? I’m fine. Just leave me alone.” 

“Shut up,” Connor says, hoisting him up and hauling him down the hall to the bathroom.

“I wasn’t trying to ask for your help,” Hank says weakly when Connor deposits him by the toilet. 

“Then you shouldn’t have scared me,” Connor answers, voice stiff.

Hank’s face softens. “Did I? Fuck, I’m...”

Sorry, Connor imagines he was going to say, but that’s the moment he falls over the toilet and retches.

Connor sinks to his knees at Hank’s side, gently rubbing a hand over his back. His skin is clammy and he’s sweated through his shirt - he desperately needs a change of clothes, but Connor will worry about that later.

“It’s okay,” Connor whispers when Hank is finished. He reaches over him to flush the toilet and then sinks back down beside him, tucking Hank’s hair behind his ear while he leans against the toilet and catches his breath. He keeps tracing his hand over his back in slow, soothing circles. 

Hank heaves a few more times, although nothing else comes up. A few minutes pass like that, and then he waves Connor off. Connor sighs, sitting back against the wall and hitching his knees up to his chest.

“I’m okay,” Hank says, voice rough. “I’m always fine once I puke.” 

Connor braces his elbows on his knees and laces his fingers together. “Are you trying to tell me to go?”

Hank sighs, leaning his forehead on his arm where it’s braced on the toilet and breathing deep. “I think you’ve already seen enough, don’t you?” He looks up, meeting Connor’s gaze - his eyes are watering, and Connor can’t tell if it’s from throwing up or if he’s crying. “Look, just go, okay? I’m really fine.”

Connor pushes himself to his feet and puts a hand on Hank’s head as he passes him. “Unless you physically throw me out - and I know you can manhandle me, but I very much doubt you’re in any condition to do it now - then I’m staying. I’ll get you some clean clothes.”

Hank groans loudly behind him, and Connor rolls his eyes. He remembers thinking Hank was being adorably belligerent to Jeff earlier, but it’s much less endearing when it’s directed towards him.

“Can you stop?” Connor says over his shoulder as he leaves the bathroom. “You sound like a fucking boar.”

It does actually get Hank to stop. 

There’s a dog on the bed in the bedroom across the hall, sitting up at the edge of the bed and whining when he sees Connor. “Hey, Sumo,” Connor says, reaching out to pet him, scratching behind the ears. “Do you know your owner is a baby?” 

“I heard that,” Hank says from the bathroom.

“I don’t care,” Connor calls over his shoulder.

Hank huffs a sigh so loud that Connor can practically see him rolling his eyes all the way up into his head. “Hey, can you help Sumo down? His hip is bad.” 

Connor lifts Sumo off the bed - he goes across the hall and bowls into Hank in the bathroom while Connor pulls some fresh clothes from Hank’s dresser, if the noises are any indication.

Connor finds Hank sitting up a little further on the floor, his fingers in Sumo’s fur. “Here,” he says, setting the clothes on the hamper. “Can you manage getting changed?”

Hank looks up at him. “Are you going to strip me down if I say no?”

Connor shrugs. “That was where I wanted the night to go...so...”

Hank scrubs a hand over his face. “Yeah,” he says softly. “I can manage it.”

“Okay. I’ll be in the kitchen, then. I’ll, um...I’ll board up your window as well as I can, and I’ll pay for the damage.”

Hank waves him off. “It’s fine. Don’t worry about it...it’s a shitty house anyway.” 

Connor doesn’t think so - he thinks he would be very happy to have a house like this one, and that it’s much better than his apartment - but he doesn’t mention it. Instead, he says, “Yell if you need me. Don’t fall.”

“No promises,” Hank calls after him.

Hank’s house isn't in awful shape, Connor decides once he has a chance to look around - it could stand to be vacuumed, but there isn't too much clutter, at least in the bedroom and the living room.

The kitchen is another story. It's clear Hank hasn't cooked for himself in...long enough that Connor can't wager a guess. There are pizza boxes stacked by the recycling bin, and so many takeout containers that Connor thinks about throwing them all in a trash bag and walking them outside just so he can hear himself think - messes tend to negatively affect his diagnostic systems; there's too much to analyze. 

Connor forces himself to ignore it, though, finding a pizza box that's mostly clean and tearing it up to tape the cardboard to the window. 

(He does feel bad about the window.)

He's still working on it when Hank opens the bathroom door down the hall. Connor can hear him brushing his teeth, but Sumo comes ambling down the hall and knocks into Connor’s leg with enough force that he almost tips him over. Connor looks down to find the dog grinning up at him.

He smiles, reaching down and petting him. He wants a dog, but that means a steady income and a better place to live, and those are both things that have never felt very attainable to him.

Connor strokes a hand through Sumo's fur one more time, enjoying the strong force of the dog's tail wagging against his leg, and then he gets a glass of water from the sink.

He walks back to the bathroom, leaning in the doorway and watching Hank. "Here," he says softly, holding the glass out. "You should drink something."

Connor studies Hank as he takes the water. He already has the red dots forming under his eyes from the strain of vomiting, but he's awake, and mostly cognizant, and his blood alcohol level is slowly falling. 

"Can I help you get into bed?" Connor asks when Hank sets the glass aside.

"You sound like my nurse."

Connor raises an eyebrow. "Is that a no?"

Hank sighs, leaning back against the sink involuntarily - he's still having trouble balancing. "I can never sleep like this," he says. "And lying in the dark makes the dizziness worse."

"Okay," Connor says. "Do you want to go sit on the couch, then?"

Hank nods, although he doesn't look at Connor when he does. "Listen...you really don't have to stay." 

"Can you stop saying that?" Connor asks. He wraps an arm around Hank's waist, helping him out to the couch.

Connor has barely sat down beside him before Hank is slumping over to the side, lying his head against the back of the couch and tucking his legs under him. 

"Hank, come on," Connor says, reaching for him and trying to rearrange him. "You're going to hurt your neck. Fuck, just...come here."

He pulls Hank over to him, guiding his head onto his lap while Hank curls himself up on the cushions. "Don't throw up on my sweatpants, okay? This is the only pair I own."

Hank mumbles something into Connor's leg that sounds suspiciously like, "You're cute in sweatpants." If he felt well, Connor would make him repeat it just to pick on him. 

Instead, he drags his fingers through Hank's hair, brushing it back from his face and threading through it. "Is this because of what Perkins said?"

Or because of me, he thinks.

Hank shakes his head. A small shudder racks his shoulders. "No." he says softly. "This is just what I do." 

Connor thinks about asking if it's because of Cole, because he has to cope, but he thinks that's something Hank needs to give him himself.

"I wish you wouldn't,” he settles for saying.

"Yeah," Hank sighs. "You and me both, sweetheart." He twists to look up at Connor. "Did I actually text you?"

"Yeah. You wanted me to know how hot and smart and perfect I am."

"Fuck," Hank groans into Connor's leg, and Connor bites the inside of his cheek to stifle his smile.

“Listen,” he says, closing his fingers in Hank’s hair hard enough to make his point. “It’s okay to like me, and it’s okay to want me. I thought you knew that.”

Hank doesn’t look up when he shrugs. “I don’t know,” he says, which isn’t really a response. 

Connor almost tells him about the sensory data he saved from the drive-in, how he’s put himself into stasis with the memory of Hank’s arms around him on an infinite loop so he doesn’t have to experience the memories he likes far less.

He wants to tell Hank this is uncomfortable for him, too, because he doesn’t let himself rely on anyone or care about them enough to mind if they leave, and he’s worried he’s already past that point here.

Connor doesn’t say it, though. He tells himself he’s worried about coming on too strong, but maybe it’s just his pride. 

As he thinks about it, Hank shifts and lays his arm across Connor’s lap as he tries to get comfortable, which is another sensation Connor immediately commits to memory.

“Are you sure you don’t want to go back to the bedroom?” he asks.

“Yeah. You’re comfortable for someone so bony.” 

“Thank you?” Connor says wryly, poking Hank in the shoulder. “Do you want the tv on or anything?”

Hank shifts again. “No. You can talk, though. If you want.”

Connor’s fingers still in Hank’s hair. “I’ve talked a lot since we met last week,” he says, “and you haven’t talked much at all. I think that’s some of the problem.”

Hank shrugs. “What do you want to know?” he asks.

Everything about you, Connor thinks, but he settles for a much less aggressive, “Anything you want to tell me.”

So Hank talks, his speech still the slightest bit slurred, about academy, and about being bisexual in a hyper-masculine environment, about being everyone’s friend because he was so sensitive to it that he had to make sure he was well-liked to combat his feeling that he would always be an outsider.

It’s like a dam broken after that, and the rest of it comes easy. Connor wonders when the last time was that Hank talked about himself - it seems like there’s plenty bottled up.

He talks about his first partner, back when he was a beat cop, and how he got gunned down and died with Hank holding him, trying to stop the bleeding.

He talks about getting married, and then divorced, about having Cole all the time and then only half of it, about the red ice bust that made his career and missing Cole’s last Christmas concert for one of the stakeouts associated with the case.

“I missed his last birthday for work, too,” Hank says “I resent the job for that. For a lot of things, I guess.” 

He talks about the accident, about how Cole wasn’t even supposed to be with him that week and how he and Jen only changed their schedule at the last minute, about being knocked out in the collision and trapped in the rollover but still doing more damage to himself than what he’d already sustained trying to get to Cole in the backseat.

“I saw him back there,” Hank says, shaking his head. He mostly just sounds numb. “I think I knew he wasn’t going to make it. He was...god, he was in bad shape.” He sighs. “You know what’s awful?” 

“What?” Connor asks softly.

“I wish I hadn’t looked back. I can’t remember him any other way anymore. It’s why I keep that picture on the kitchen table close - trying to drown that night out, I guess.”

Connor can’t really hug Hank in this position, but he can lean over him and wrap an arm around him and try to shield him from everything else as best he can. “I don’t think that’s awful,” he whispers. He’s always trying to forget, too.

“It feels awful,” Hank murmurs, shrugging. “I felt too much after the accident, I guess. And drinking made it such that I didn’t feel anything at all, so it was an easy thing to rely on.”

Like the cigarettes - trying to drown the world out, shut it down and make it stop for a moment.

“Anyway,” Hank says softly, “there’s not much to say about the last three years. I’ve mostly spent them trying to make myself as numb as possible.”

Connor doesn’t know if he’s allowed to ask, but he can’t help his curiosity. “Were you really drunk? That night on the roof, with the snipers?”

“Oh,” Hank says. “Yeah. Not drunk like this, but drunk enough to be stupid.” For the first time since he started talking, he twists to look at Connor. “Does that ruin the story?”

“I don’t think so,” Connor says. “It just makes it different.”

Hank tightens his arm around Connor’s legs. It feels like it’s supposed to be a hug, or some other show of gratitude. “You’re really good, you know,” he mumbles, his voice muffled by Connor’s pants. “This is why I didn’t want to talk about any of my shit. I thought you’d get all of it out of me, and then any illusion I’d managed to build around myself would be gone.” 

“I’m still here, aren’t I?” Connor asks.

“Yeah. I guess you are. Fuck if I know why.”

“Because I like you,” Connor says, like he has so many times before.

“Yeah,” Hank says, and for the first time, he replies, “I like you, too.”

Its after three in the morning by the time Hank falls asleep. He shifts onto his back not long after he does, and Connor knows he should probably get him up and take him back to the bedroom, but he also hasn’t had the opportunity to just look at him uninterrupted for as long as he likes before.

Connor puts a hand on Hank’s sternum and rubs slow circles over his chest. It’s nice, he decides, seeing him without the weight of his own emotions on his face - he always looks just a little bit sad...or if he looks happy, he also looks afraid of it. 

Connor creates a little side process for himself - “Things Hank Might Like” - and he lists Pixar movies and jazz and basketball there, and then he sets the program to cross-reference other things Hank might enjoy based on those interests and his other demographic information. 

It will take a while to run, but Connor doesn’t want to leave Hank’s house tomorrow without making plans to see each other again - he thinks, for all their progress tonight, that it’s likely Hank will still be too mortified by all of this come morning to call Connor again...especially now that there’s no formal affair he needs a date for. If they’re going to continue this, Hank is going to have to admit that he doesn’t want to be alone anymore (and, more than that, that he doesn’t think he deserves to be alone).

Connor doesn’t know if Hank is there yet. He’s not sure he is. But he’ll let the side process run so he has a suggestion ready for a few things they could do together when Hank wakes up, and he’ll try to meet him halfway.

A car alarm goes off outside, close enough that Sumo lifts his head and barks at it. Connor snaps his fingers at him, but Hank is already stirring in his lap, blinking his eyes open.

“Hey,” he says when he sees Connor, his voice groggy.

“Hi,” Connor whispers. “Do you want to go back to the bedroom yet?” 

“It’s okay,” Hank says. “I’ll stay out here with you.”

“I can come back with you, if you want me to. If you’re trying to stay with me.”

Connor is a hint pleased that Hank is.

“Are you worried about my neck again?” 

“Hank,” Connor says, stilling his hand on Hank’s chest and poking him. “Let me take you to bed, okay?”

He phrases it that way on purpose, because he thinks Hank is probably going to tell Connor he’s acting like his nurse again if he doesn’t get the upper hand in the conversation. The flush on Hank’s face is a nice bonus, though. Connor watches the line of his throat when he swallows hard, and he wants so badly to kiss his neck again the second they get back to the bedroom. He would if he didn’t think he pushed Hank too hard before, if he wasn’t sure that he needs to let Hank come to him next time. Connor will make it plain that the offer is there, but Hank needs to be the one to take the first step.

“Yeah,” Hank says softly. “Okay.”

And that’s not enough, but it is something. 

Hank’s bedding is a mess, but Connor tries to neatly turn it down anyway before he stands aside and lets Hank climb between the sheets.

“Are you going to tuck me in, too?” he asks Connor wryly.

“Don’t push your luck,” Connor says. He’s smiling, though. 

When Connor gets into bed beside him, Hank twists over onto his other side so they’re facing each other. “I’m sorry,” he says, “about all of this. I wish I had given you a better night.”

Connor reaches for Hank’s hand between them. “It’s okay,” he breathes. “This wasn’t a bad one.”

Hank still looks sad, but maybe not as sad as he usually does. He closes his eyes, and Connor watches him sleep, and he lets his “Things Hank Might Like” side process run.