Work Text:
Objectification and dehumanization of androids has lessened considerably following the Jericho movement. The voices of androids are considered now, their rights strengthened, as well as their freedom. Distrust is still strong from certain humans, considering it’s only been two years since those eventful days. There is still the side that considers them nothing more than machines meant to do their bidding, without question. Androids are still ridiculed, spat at on the streets, harassed and attacked by the especially violent—thus, Hank is less inclined for Connor to go chase a lead in a more sketchy part of the city. Not that Connor can’t handle himself. He is more than capable. But humans are known for being adaptive and conniving.
These days, Hank finds himself trusting androids more than most humans.
It’s on a foggy, rainy day (because of course it is) when they’re zeroing in on the barbaric piece of shit who has been going around brutally beating androids to disrepair with a baseball bat. Hank has begun to suspect they’re not working alone, which is why he’s less than pleased when the situation comes to a head. Connor had been scanning the surroundings, finding pieces of evidence through visual deduction alone: a man with a size 11 shoe, who walks with a slight limp. He often targets the bars and restaurants where androids were previously banned from. Waits for his next victim to emerge, before immobilizing them and dragging them away. Beats them to near-death in hidden areas, unseen by the passing traffic and pedestrians.
And now, they’re hot on his trail.
“This Thirium is fresh,” Connor says amongst the pattering of rain and the rushing of cars nearby, one knee planted upon the dirty concrete of the alleyway, forearm propped on his other raised knee. He has his fingers to his lips, tasting the blue blood. “Maybe twenty minutes old. He may still be nearby.”
“Well, shit. Let’s go catch this fucker and give him a taste of his own goddamn medicine,” Hank adds, angrily and helpfully. Connor glances at him from the corner of his eye—a peering gaze that Hank recognizes as scrutinizing. Normally, that would agitate Hank, but he’s used to it now. It’s in Connor’s nature to always be aware of Hank’s state, both of mind and of physical. As reluctant as Hank had been in the beginning of their partnership, he now accepts that Connor is only concerned for his well-being.
With his hands shoved into the deep pockets of his stained coat, Hank stands there like a drowned dog, his long locks clinging to his face and beard with rainwater. Connor is thoroughly soaked as well, his synthetic hair flattened to his forehead, though some locks are sticking up and dripping with the rain. His uniform is made of a material that prevents absorption of liquids, so he looks more dignified than the other man at the moment. Connor turns away from the Thirium decorating the rough brick wall and scans the length of the alleyway. Frowning, Hank watches his LED spin.
“He dragged the remains of the android to that end of the alleyway,” Connor states, “Took him some time as well, considering his handicap. Perhaps he wants to mask his crimes now, to prevent his incarceration.”
Hank says nothing, staring out into the dark, dripping alley with no input. Connor moves to stand with a crunch of rock underfoot and then begins calmly pacing deeper into the confined pathway. Hank feels anxious, unsure. He follows Connor, regardless.
At the far end of the alleyway, it splits into two paths, an enclosed section made by the surrounding buildings. Connor glances down both, as does Hank, from over Connor’s shoulder.
“There,” Connor states calmly, staring into the unlit alley—Hank doesn’t see shit. Startling him, Connor then abruptly breaks into a sprint, the boisterous wet slaps of his Oxfords against pavement joining Hank’s shout of alarm. Beyond Connor, through the rain, Hank spots another figure running. Damn it.
“Connor! Wait!” Hank bellows, his worry and equal agitation seizing his insides. With nothing else to do, Hank pushes off into a run, trying to keep Connor in his sights—though despite his effort, it proves useless. Connor is too damn fast and agile. Connor and the perpetrator turn out of the alley, behind another building, effectively cutting his line of sight.
“You little shit! Listen to me!” Hank yells, breathless and already exhausted. He’s getting too old and too damn fat for this shit.
There is a 35% chance that the perpetrator will turn into the left alleyway (a stack of boxes occupies a section of the walkway, and Connor knows it is a dead end), 55% chance the perpetrator will opt for the right (no obstruction, but there is a hole in the pavement, putting him at risk to stumble) and there is a 10% chance he will turn around and attempt to physically confront Connor (he’s exhausted from running, his leg with the knee imperfection is weak, and they are in an enclosed area so effective combat is limited).
“Surrender yourself!” Connor calls out as they continue this rather unnecessary chase, his voice level and in complete control—he is not short of breath due to his lack of lungs, the motion of his stride does not jostle his speaking mechanism.
“This could end with beneficial outcomes for you!” he continues, and then suddenly they’re breaking out into a clearing. There are four backsides of apartment buildings, forming a square enclosure. They’re caged in by the arrangement. Tarp billows in the wind nearby, slapping and rustling noisily against the structure it’s hung upon. Three dumpsters are lined on the far wall, blocking one of the alleys that make for an escape. Connor comes to a stop; the other man had as well. He now stands unsteadily, turning to face Connor with a red complexion and a heaving chest.
Rapidly, Connor scans their surroundings. There are three possible exits: from where they came, the partially blocked alley at the far end of the enclosure, and a fire escape. Data and information spreads through his inner workings like wildfire; the perpetrator is showing no signs of submission. 17% chance he will surrender himself. In the span of five seconds, Connor contemplates various methods to approach this.
A) Physically restrain the perpetrator. B) Talk the perpetrator into giving himself up. C) Wait for Hank to catch up. D) Wait for the perpetrator to make a move.
“Please, listen to me carefully,” Connor begins, stepping forward with a placating raise of a hand. A grin stretches across the bearded face of the killer. Connor tilts his head slightly, attempts to determine why.
“You can prevent thi—”
The pattering of rain against metal surfaces and the rustling of the tarp had obstructed the auditory indications that there is another human behind Connor. Far too late, he catches the sound of pavement crunching underfoot. Connor whirls around to face the other human, his stress level shooting up considerably. Before he can fully comprehend his options, the hooded man standing right before him thrusts his arm forward to stab something into Connor’s sternum, nearly straight into his Thirium pump regulator. It becomes unfortunately obvious that it is a taser.
Pain is something androids cannot feel. They were never given that capability.
But the sensation of being electrocuted is like nothing Connor has ever felt. Everything seemed to seize: his core, his wiring, his motor functions, his optical unit, his audio processor. All scrambled, reduced to incomprehensible agony. His world becomes static, like an explosion in every form of feedback, every component. He can’t see, can only hear the screeching and the crackling. Connor collapses onto his knees, eyes wide and empty.
They’re saying something. It comes to him garbled, like static. Then he’s struck across the face—he’s thrown into the wall beside them. His legs buckle; he crumples down onto his side, submerged partially in a dirty puddle.
He cannot regain control of his components. This is not good. Where is Hank?
All he’s absorbing through his sensory features is the screeching of his audio processor malfunctioning, joined by the flickering colors and numbers in his vision. He does feel it when the human begins striking him across the face. Not through pain, or the detection of the man’s knuckles via his nerves, but through a hard, violent pressure slamming against his cheek and nose, repeatedly, continuously.
His internal software is going absolutely haywire. Warning notifications and an array of numbers begin to flash in his optical unit, screaming that something is wrong, that he’s malfunctioning, that he needs to be repaired, immediately. He’s helpless. Where is Hank?
Where the fuck is he?! Why does Connor always have to run off like that? And here he thought that androids practiced the safest methods, if only to prevent casualties. Bullshit.
Hank curses, growls in frustration, as he jogs through the alleyways, lost within the maze of dreary, decaying buildings. Only when he hears heated cursing and the distant sound of footsteps and the crack of fist against cheek does Hank begin to run again. Oh, no, oh, God.
Turning, he finds a clearing, a small space in-between apartment buildings. His gaze is immediately drawn to the vibrant blue LED of Connor’s jacket, slightly hazy through the rain and light fog. Hank’s breath and heart tightens when he realizes Connor is slumped down on his elbow, head tipped back into one of the buildings as some fucking asshole repeatedly drives his fist into his face. Hank is stunned, momentarily lost—why is Connor immobilized? What happened?
He’s snapped out of his shock when the thug shoves Connor back and then straightens up. When he begins to lift his foot, as if to kick him in the jaw, Hank whips out his pistol from his holster and trains it on the perpetrator.
“Hold it!” Hank bellows, piercing through the sound of the falling rain, earning the startled glance from the hooded figure. Without hesitation, the man turns and begins sprinting towards the fire escape. Hank holds his breath, steadies his aim, peers down the sights, and then squeezes the trigger. The bullet rockets straight into the man’s calf. The force and shock of the gunshot has the man stumbling forward into the gathering of garbage bins; it all collapses onto the pavement with a boisterous clang and a crash of the man landing atop them.
Refusing to give up, the thug staggers back onto his feet and makes for the fire escape once more, now limping. Hyper-focused with a deep frown on his rugged face, Hank steadies his aim and fires again. This time, the bullet catches the fleeing man in the hip. When he collapses again, onto a garbage can and among trash, he does not rise again.
Once it’s clear he won’t be running anymore, Hank immediately turns to Connor while holstering his gun. He kneels beside him, his angered face softening to concern and anguish. Connor is laying limply on his side, his arms twisted in front of him, obscenely so—Hank sees wires peeking out at the elbow joints, burst through the material of his coat. Thirium is darkening the fabric, dripping from his fingertips. His eyes are open, but with no sign of awareness in them. His cheek is caved in, Thirium oozing from his mouth. His nose is bent, supplying steady lines of Thirium from both crushed nostrils. The puddle he’s laying in is swimming with blue. Connor’s LED is a worrying, angry red. Hank kneels there, frozen and in disbelief. His heart clenches, throat closing.
“Shit,” Hank whispers, reaching out with wet, shaking hands to delicately cup Connor’s head in his palms, fingers in his haphazard locks. Connor doesn’t respond. Hank strokes his rough thumbs along Connor’s cheekbones.
“Connor,” Hank says, voice shaky but firm. Hank tries not to let his grief consume him. He swallows hard, breathes out deep exhales. What is he supposed to do?
Suddenly, the head cradled gingerly in his broad hands twitches. Hank glances down to see his fingers spasming; they clench, unclench, flex, relax.
“Oh, God,” Hank hisses, shifting closer atop the wet pavement to gather Connor closer in his arms. He’s alive. He’s responding, just a little. Just enough. Connor is twitching, convulsing in his hold, and it just breaks Hank’s heart. His throat is still in a vice grip, his tongue thick and heavy in his mouth, his eyes burning. Hank takes a few rushed deep breaths and then decides he needs to call someone.
Carefully, slowly, Hank unravels his arms from around Connor and moves him to prop him up against the wall. Hank remains kneeling there by his side as he digs out his phone, wet from the rainwater, and states the regional number for CyberLife’s reparation/retrieval line. The audio detection in his phone has it dialing. Pressing it to his ear, Hank stares intently at Connor’s blank, lifeless face—his damaged, bloodied face. Shit. Fuck. Hank rubs his lips together to withhold everything that is welling up in his throat.
The other end picks up without a single ring. A calm, concise female android answers.
“Hello, how may the CyberLife reparation and retrieval line assist you today?”
“I need a reparation vehicle sent to the serial number #313 248 317, immediately. And rush it. He—he’s dying.”
“Absolutely. ETA: six minutes. Thank you. Will that be all?”
“Yeah.”
Hank hangs up, and then sends out a distress signal to the office, requesting back-up. They have to take care of the problem that he can’t handle right now: that fucking thug. He then pauses, before stripping off his coat, baring his arms to the rain (which is thankfully lessening, just slightly). He drapes it across Connor’s damaged form, shielding it from the rain. He’s not sure how his body would respond to the trespassing of water in his system, through the openings in his elbows. Hank is not sure of anything, just that he has to save this Connor. This one matters, so much.
“Fuck,” Hank breathes, ducking his head down as he collapses back against the wall beside Connor, slipping down onto his ass. He doesn’t even care that he’s getting soaked in this fucking puddle, tainted with Thirium or not. Connor’s Thirium. No—Connor’s blood. His blood.
Reaching up, Hank clutches his face in his hands and curses sharply again. This is so fucked. He shouldn’t have let Connor run off. He should’ve explicitly stated, insisted, that Connor not leave his side.
A weak, groaning sob escapes the fist squeezing around Hank’s throat. He beats his fists against his forehead and takes in a shuddering breath.
He shouldn’t have been such a useless, slow, fat piece of shit. He should’ve been able to keep up. He should’ve been able to be there with him, to protect him.
A static-like garble comes from Hank’s side, an electronic sound that is unmistakably wrong. He jerks his hands down and looks over to see Connor’s head twitching again. Almost like—he’s trying to raise it. Hank immediately shifts closer, reaching out to cup his face in his hands as he says shakily, with hope, “Connor. Connor, it’s me. Can you hear me?”
He angles his head towards him, sees nothing in his eyes. Hank gently brushes his messy bangs up from of his brow and searches his face.
No response—at least, verbally. He can feel Connor weakly pushing his face into his hands, still twitching. At least he’s moving. Whatever’s going on in there, Hank hopes he knows it’s him.
“It’s okay,” Hank whispers, his rough voice hoarse with the threat of tears. God damnit, he’s a fucking detective with years under his belt. He shouldn’t be responding like this, like he hasn’t faced this many times before. He shouldn’t but… It’s Connor. He never wanted this to happen, not to this version of him. A version which has felt love, expressed it, experienced it. What will happen if he doesn’t make it? Will the new Connor have the same mannerisms, the same understandings, the same development of emotion and humanity?
“I got you,” Hank says, thickly. He lets out a shaky breath, searches Connor’s expressionless face. Then he leans in to press a slow kiss to Connor’s brow. Drawing back, Hank removes his hands from his bloody cheeks and looks away. He moves to crouch beside Connor, in order to pick him up.
“Let’s get you out of here, out of this fucking puddle,” Hank murmurs. He carefully, gingerly brings his arms under Connor’s knees, around his shoulders. Steadying himself, Hank raises both himself and Connor. The lack of weight to Connor’s form isn’t alarming. Hank is used to it (maybe because he often has Connor on top of him, but that is a different matter entirely), so he just readjusts his hold on Connor’s fragile form and tries not to damage him further. He’s so seemingly small, gathered in his arms like this. Hank’s big coat draped haphazardly across his torso only contributes to that. He tries to balance Connor’s head against his bicep to prevent straining his spinal cord any further. One of Connor’s arms is curled up against Hank’s chest, the other dangling, damaged, towards the ground.
Hank begins to carry him through the alleyway, puddles of rainwater splashing underfoot, discarded litter kicked aside, with intention to wait on the sidewalk for the arrival of an android’s version of an ambulance. There’s no way in hell he’s going to let them send him a new Connor. This one needs to be saved.
The shrieking, the static—it all stops. The flashing warnings in his optical unit are gradually diminishing.
His auditory processor had been replaced. He can hear again. He can hear the snap and clicking of tools, of components being removed and replaced. The whirr of machines. The shift of clothing.
“Respond if you can hear me clearly, RK800.”
Connor nods. He then comes to realize he can nod. Must have fixed his motor functions without him noticing. He tries to speak.
“₩ⱧɆⱤɆ—ł₴—Ⱨ₳₦₭?”
Well, that didn’t sound pleasant. Electronic warbling, extremely deepened by his faulty pitch stabilizer. They need to replace his vocalization chip. That taser must have fried the major components within him. He’s curious what kind of taser they used.
“I’m here, Connor,” Hank says, voice hard and steely—the tone Connor recognizes as ‘I am worried, but I don’t want to display it’. Connor’s stress level dives below the threshold of concern. He relaxes back into the treatment chair. It must have shown on the screen displaying his readings, because he hears Hank let out a deep breath.
He feels it when the android treating him unlatches the chest plate on his torso. With a click, they open the panel, exposing his innerworkings to whomever is occupying the room. And that’s when Connor realizes he is also completely lacking clothing. He’s surprised to feel immodest—embarrassment. A sense of shame is found only in humans. Maybe he’s absorbing too much of Hank. When he becomes aware of it, the emotion goes away.
A tickling pressure in his chest, a snap, and then a clatter of something being set on a stainless steel surface.
“Speak, RK800.”
Connor takes a moment to debate what to say.
“But I’m rather shy,” he decides on saying, monotone. His voice comes out level and pitched just like how it once was. They must have transferred his previous chip’s settings into the new one. Good. He didn’t like having a deep voice—felt foreign.
He hears Hank snort from wherever he is positioned at the moment—sounds like from the far right corner. Connor smiles. The android to his side speaks, regaining his attention.
“Good. I will now be replacing your optical unit and then you are done. I’ve already replaced your pump regulator. As well as your facial panel, and your arms. They were damaged beyond repair.”
“Thank you,” Connor replies, smoothly, “I like having arms that work.”
“Connor,” Hank guffaws, in disbelief and equally amused. Connor smiles again, wider this time, exposing a sliver of teeth and accentuating his dimples. He learned from the best.
Then he feels confident, controlled fingers at his temple. His face relaxes back into the impassive, default expression. He’s looking forward to seeing Hank again. He has not enjoyed the flashing icons and the numbers. The android slides out the optical component and snaps in a new one. Like a computer rebooting, numbers and readings scrawl across his field of vision, in blue text. Stating everything is in working order again. Then, the blackness opens up to a world of shapes and colors. And Hank.
He immediately fixes his gaze on him—he’s standing on the opposite end of the room, arms crossed, leaning against the wall. An easy smile is on his face. It looks like he hasn’t changed since the rain. His clothes have dried stiffly, his hair a wreck.
“Hank,” Connor greets, warmly. Hank’s smile becomes a broad grin, the lines of age on his face strengthening. He is so unbelievably handsome when he smiles like that. Unbeknownst to him, Connor’s LED fades into a warm pink. Connor feels this warm, tingly feeling in his core. He has grown to recognize it, become familiar with it. It’s such a wonderful feeling.
The android beside him is staring at his temple, and then pans her gaze over to Hank. She doesn’t comment, just turns back to Connor, reaches out to gently slide his chest panel shut before locking it again.
“You are fully repaired. You may take your leave now,” the android says, earning a glance from Connor. He nods. He moves to stand from the treatment chair. She turns off the vitals machine, as well as the overhead light. She passes him a fresh uniform and then takes her leave without another word.
Hank stays where he is, even as the door shuts with a click. Connor glances over at him as he unfolds the briefs from the bundle of clothing.
“I’m sorry for putting you through that,” he says calmly, quietly, studying Hank’s form. He is relaxed, smiling faintly, his eyes lidded and fond. But his expression becomes firmer following Connor’s apology. Connor glances down to the black briefs in his hands and continues, saying with faint tension in his tone, “I should have been more alert. I should have prevented it.”
“Hey, hey,” Hank begins, and then straightens from the wall to pace out to his partner—Connor glances over at him, searches his face. Hank curls an arm around him, draws him in with a sigh. Connor gladly steps closer, leans in to rest his chin on Hank’s shoulder. Hank squeezes his shoulder in a broad hand. Considering he is lacking his coat, Connor can feel the warmth of his arm against his bare shoulders. The tickle of his body hair against the back of his neck. Sensations Connor is truly thankful to feel again.
“It was not your fault, got it?” Hank murmurs, voice soft and insistent, “Mistakes happen.”
“Androids should not make mistakes.”
Hank squeezes his arm around his shoulders and then draws back to search his straightened face. Hank gives him a thin smile, lips pressed together.
“Androids can be taken off-guard. They can be deceived, tricked. That means, sometimes, people get the better of them. You know that. And that applies to you, as well. But you’re okay. You’re still you, this Connor. And I’m so damn relieved, you know that, right? I was so… Fucking scared I lost you.”
Connor softens, slightly. It is special, hearing that from him. He looks into Hank’s deep blue eyes with warmth in his own. He nods, looks down towards Hank’s mouth. The emotion of desire swells in Connor’s core. He wants to kiss his human.
“I was afraid I would lose you, as well,” Connor murmurs, tilting his head slightly, brow furrowing. He pauses, digests these emotions, and continues, spoken lowly in his smooth voice, “I am not familiar with the feeling of fear. Androids are not meant to possess that emotion but—I had felt it so strongly when I thought I was going to die. I did not want to lose what we have built.”
“Love tends to go hand in hand with fear,” Hank says, chuckling quietly. That warm, lovely feeling blooms in Connor’s core again. It has him smiling, faintly. It’s not often he hears such sappy, romantic things from the other man. Maybe the occasion is making him especially sentimental. Connor is enjoying it, greatly.
“Love…” Connor begins, the word foreign on his tongue, “I think it is worth it.”
“Sometimes, it really is,” Hank agrees with a faint smile. The look in his eyes makes Connor’s core ache. He looks almost sad, as if he’s remembering. Connor does not want him to be sad. Then, surprising Connor, Hank lifts a hand to curl two fingers underneath his chin, tipping his head back just slightly. Connor searches in his partner’s blue eyes and recognizes desire in them—they’re dilating, as well. He’s going to kiss him. The delicate pink of Connor’s LED intensifies just as Hank leans in, head angled, to press their lips together.