Archive of Our Own

"Place your bets," Hank says, voice loud in the otherwise quiet cab. "What're the chances Nines burned our house down while we were gone?"

Seven percent, thinks Connor, though he doesn't say it.

They turn the corner, and in the darkness, the lit porch lamp shines like a welcoming beacon. They're finally home.

The trip had been mostly fun. Despite Connor already knowing what the majority of Route 66 looked like, it was nice to see it firsthand. Being with Hank and Sumo had of course made it that much more enjoyable.

Hank yawns as the vehicle rolls to a stop. The last three weeks have been as exhausting as they've been rejuvenating, and the plane ride back from California to Detroit had been particularly taxing. Connor isn't tired. He can't be. But he's missed their home.

Hank hefts his duffle bags over his shoulder with a grunt and leaves Connor to lift Sumo out in his carrier. The dog shifts with the movement, obviously antsy to stretch his legs.

Connor is in the middle of opening the kennel door when he sees it. His scan of the house picks up two signatures: the cooler form of Nines and the warmer, human form next to him. From this distance, Connor can't draw any definite conclusions, but he's fairly certain he knows who it is. He holds up a hand to stop Hank mid-step.

"I think Detective Reed is here."

"What?" Hank's face wrinkles in displeasure. "Didn't you tell Nines we were on our way?"

"I did." The lighting on Hank's face flashes from blue to yellow as Connor contacts Nines again. We're here, he says over the digital connection.

Welcome back, replies Nines from inside the house. I should warn you that Gavin is here too.

I noticed.

Nine is silent for a moment. He indicated to me that he just wants to talk. With Detective Anderson.

"Reed would like to talk to you," Connor says aloud.

The groan Hank releases is incredibly long-suffering. "Any chance you can get Nines to kick him out first?" He frowns when Connor doesn't reply. "Fine. Let's get this over with," he sighs. "Sumo! Come on."

Nines whips open the door for them the exact moment they reach it, and Connor peers past his formidable silhouette to scan into the house. He doesn't detect anything out of place.

Then Reed steps into view. He leans silently against the wall, probably aiming for "casual," but instead directly hitting "awkwardly self-conscious." His heartrate is accelerated, and his sweat production exceeds his typical baseline, which is naturally high anyway.

"Well?" Hank snaps, letting his bags drop onto the kitchen floor with twin thuds. "What's it gonna be this time? My alcoholism? My age? You might not have noticed yet, but Connor's an android, so there's plenty of material for you to work with right there."

Reed doesn't so much as flinch, his brows drawing into a tighter frown. If science hadn't already disproved the possibility, Connor would be tempted to warn him his face might get stuck that way. He runs a quick comparison of past Gavin Reed expressions and finds that due to the relatively high similarities, maybe it already has.

"That's not it," Reed drawls, and Hank's lip actually curls in response.

Connor preconstructs the path Hank would take if he were to slam Reed up against the wall and casually repositions the fragile umbrella stand.

"You're not here to piss me off then? What the hell's this all about? I've just been on a cross-country roadtrip, and I'm fucking beat. I wanna get into my house, take a shit, and go to sleep." Hank waves a threatening hand in Reed's direction. "If you're getting in the way of that, we're gonna have problems."

Reed huffs out a irritable breath. "I just want to talk. Privately."

"Fuck it. Come on." Hank throws the screen door open again. "Connor, if I'm not back in ten minutes, I killed this guy, and I need help digging."

"Got it." Connor punctuates it with what he considers to be a rather jaunty point of his index finger.

Hank picks up a pad of Post-Its and two of Connor's pens. Then with a rough hand, he grabs Reed's shoulder and steers him outside. "Don't eavesdrop, you two."

"Got it," says Connor yet again. Out of view for Hank and Reed, Nines crosses his fingers behind his back as he nods.

The moment the door shuts, both of them move to the front window, crouching beneath the sill and turning audio receivers to maximum.

"What's this for?" Reed snaps.

"Privacy. You really think they're going to sit in there and ignore us? Technology's never listened to me before, and I don't think it's gonna start now."

Then there's an audible scratching sound, and Nines meets Connor's eyes as they figure it out. The humans are writing to each other on the Post-Its. There's no way to listen in.

Nines is obviously annoyed, but he relents first. It was worth attempting, he says. But it seems Detective Anderson has spent too much time with you. He pauses, straightening up and glancing around the room. There was a delivery. While you were gone. I moved it to the bedroom for your privacy. I figured you wouldn't want Gavin to see it.

Connor feels his eyebrows raise in surprise before he forces them back down. He's spent too much time with Hank as well and hasn't kept quite the same iron control over his facial features as of late. It's of no consequence. It's always easier to slide back into machine protocol than it is to relax into deviancy.

He clears his expression to complete neutrality and nods. I guess that means you know what it is.

In a vague sense. Nines tips an eyebrow by a fractional degree. I didn't open it or scan for the model, if that's what you mean. Not all of us turn other people's homes into mysteries to be solved.

Sometimes Connor is overwhelmingly jealous of Nines. It's not an emotion he ever expected to have, but now that he understands it, there are times he can feel it burn through his circuits.

It's not the hardware, though yes, Connor would love to have faster processors or the improved storage capacity. It's the fact that Cyberlife's programming made it so much easier for Nines to fit in. He's the textbook example of "don't speak unless spoken to," and it keeps him discreet and unobtrusive.

Even as he thinks it, Connor knows it isn't a fair assessment. Alongside the lack of natural curiosity lies difficulty in accomplishing unassigned tasks. Without guidance and orders, Nines is often lost and purposeless. He has no interaction algorithms to help him befriend humans or androids, Detective Reed apparently being the sole and unfortunate outlier.

So instead, he learns. He watches Connor. Studies him. Analyzes him. And he uses it to write his own code.

Connor just wishes he could learn discretion in a similar manner, but adding to a personality matrix is much easier than subtracting.

May I ask a personal question? Nines says, cutting through Connor's self-reflection. The pop-up box alerts him that eight seconds have elapsed. It's no time at all for Connor's analysis, but it does mean that Nines has hesitated before speaking.

Of course.

What did you settle on?

Connor blinks rapidly, searching his purchase history. Nines is naturally asking about the package and its contents.

Considering the fact that Connor had first consulted Nines when debating a genitalia purchase, he figures it's only fair that he share the final results.

I chose this one. He displays the image on his hand.

Ah. A phallus.

It seems customary for my model.

Hmm. Nines' spine straightens again, and Connor takes that as his cue to deactivate the hologram.

Outside, Detective Reed shouts, "Oh, come the fuck on!" and Hank laughs.

Connor glances in the direction of the sounds, though of course he can't see the sources through the walls, but Nines doesn't look away from him.

You chose it because it seemed customary? Nines asks again.

The spot between Connor's eyebrows furrows slightly to indicate his confusion. Yes? Why?

You seemed so personally attached to your current appearance. I didn't expect you to actually acquire add-ons so soon. Nines' face clears a little, as if motionlessly shaking himself. I hope you enjoy it. I'd be interested in hearing your reviews, in case I ever find myself wishing to make a similar purchase.

I'll send a report as soon as possible, Connor promises.

Then the door is swinging back open, and a positively giddy Hank strolls back in. He's smiling one of Connor's favorite smiles: the crooked one that crinkles near his eyes and shows off the slight gap between his front teeth.

Reed doesn't come back in. He stays on the porch with his face locked in a snarl, an obvious flush increasing the contrast of the scar across his nose. His fists are balled up and jammed in his pockets, which are crinkling with the mass of Post-Its crumpled and crammed inside.

"Fuck you, Anderson," he spits. "Nines. I'm leaving."

That means we're leaving, apparently, Nines sighs to Connor. But he does a cursory scan of the living room for any forgotten belongings and follows Reed to the curb where Hank and Connor's cab is still sitting.

"Have a nice night! Thanks for watching our place!" Hank calls. He gives a wave to Nines and flips his middle finger out for Reed.

Connor wants to know what they talked about, but he waits until Hank shuts the door and steps fully inside, shaking his head and still softly chuckling to himself.

"What did Reed want?"

"Hmm?" Hank ruffles an affectionate hand through Connor's hair, and the sensation rips across fine-tuned sensors, encouraging him to lean into the touch. "Don't worry about it. You'll find out eventually."

It makes the curiosity worse, but Connor senses that Hank's stress levels are at an all time low, and while raising them would increase the probability of confession, he doesn't want to ruin the light mood.

Their road trip had been fun, but by the end of such a long time in close quarters, the tensions had started to rise, as was natural. So Connor embraces the atmosphere and lets the topic go, opting to add it to his future objectives instead.

"Hey," says Hank, opening his arms in invitation.

Connor steps in close, wrapping around Hank's solid torso and inhaling to analyze and record the composition of his scent. His scans of Hank are never productive, too cluttered with mere observations for the purpose of just looking at and appreciating his physical form, but like this, face tucked into the gray of his beard, Connor can relax. They just stand and sway for a few minutes, watching Sumo roam the room and sniff for trespassers in his territory.

"I had fun," Hank says softly. "Didn't think it could be like that anymore." He scratches blunt nails gently in Connor's hairline at his nape. "You coming to bed?"

Connor debates. The two options hover in his vision until he makes an instinctive choice. Spur of the moment. "Yes," he says.

Hank smiles and pulls away to head for the bathroom. "See you in a sec then."

Once the door shuts, Connor tends to Sumo before changing into his own pajamas. If he had been processing more discerningly, he would have said no, and instead done the laundry from the trip and put away their bags. But impulse decisions are growing easier and easier, and some secret part of his code is half afraid that if he denies even one, he'll have to start all over again. Besides, it isn't like a night with Hank is a disappointment. Connor had spent many of the motel nights wide awake in the adjoining bathrooms, unable to lie down and rest in motionless silence.

The code maintenance protocols he has pre-installed have been shafted to the side these last few weeks. The road trip provided a plethora of new data and information, most of which came from people-watching. Connor has never seen so many different humans and androids since his activation, and the diversity of their appearance and interactions has given him much to think about.

The toilet doesn't flush, even though Hank comes out, and Connor knows he'll have to remember to do that too. But then the bed dips down under Hank's weight as he sprawls with a groan, and Connor lets the thought leave his mind and rest in the task objectives for the following morning instead.

"Fuck, it's good to be home," Hank mutters, face down in his pillow. He shifts onto his side and scoots up behind Connor, spooning around him with his soft, human skin touching Connor's nano-covered plastic. "Night."

"Goodnight, Hank," Connor replies, taking his speakers down thirty-five percent to account for proximity and mood. He peels back his skin and presses his hand against Hank's arm, finger sensors briefly relishing in the coarse arm hair there. His mind wipes blank and waits for Hank's file transfer.

This is routine.

Connor is used to this.

It's not a new sensation by any means. But this time, something odd seems to happen, as if Connor's mental essence is being slowly sucked from his own physical body. He can feel an odd pull, like something trying to drag him under. The novelty of it should shock him back to full cognizance, or at least frighten him enough to alert his systems of danger, but the feeling is comforting. Possibly... cozy? He doesn't want to fight it, so Connor lets the tug of the thick, heavy fog lead him away from his own mind.

It'll only be for a minute. Then he'll stop it. Only a minute.

"I can't believe we fucking made it." Hank gripped Sumo's leash a bit tighter. "We really did it."

Connor checked his GPS to confirm that, yes, they had made it to the Santa Monica Pier. End of the line for their Route 66 adventure.

The air here had a crisp sting that dragged across Connor's face. He could almost register each individual bit of salt that flew through the air. It reminded him of the snow in Amanda's zen garden. It had a similar bite and scratch, and even though here he was safe, the memory sent a bad impulse up his mechanical spine. He chased it away with his hands on his arms, rubbing to try and manufacture his own temperature data points and drive out those from the chill.

"Are you cold?" Hank sounded concerned, but it was overshadowed by the obvious surprise.

"Androids can feel thermal sensory information, but they aren't affected by them as long as they remain within operational ranges," said Connor. "But... I'll admit I'm feeling some mild discomfort."

"Huh. You surprise me every day." Hank stepped closer, tugging an over-excited Sumo away from a couple enjoying some chicken strips. He opened one side of his coat and let Connor in.

The temperature of Connor's skin rose by fifteen degrees Fahrenheit. His LED wiped away the yellow light and returned to blue.

The couple next to them was laughing, and Connor couldn't help but stare. He recorded a brief clip, watching the taller woman drop her chin onto the shoulder of the shorter one. He watched them sway together, feeding each other greasy fast food and shivering against the wind.

Dating. Of course. It's not like he didn't know the general definition. It was easy enough to pin to strangers, like this casually intimate duo standing six feet and three point three inches away.

But it was much harder in the abstract. Self-analyzation was difficult. Nearly impossible in some cases. The self-tests that Connor had run to ensure he was nowhere near deviancy had been failing him all along. The little signs that were there were so carefully hidden, indiscernible from acceptable responses.

Activation > Find Lt. Anderson

Primary mission?

Locate source of deviancy.

Deviant chase > rooftop > Save Lt. Anderson vs. Chase deviant

Current objective?

... Save Lt. Anderson.

Incorrect response

Current objective?

Lt. Anderson's continued survival is necessary for access to DPD resources.

...Correct response

Primary mission?

Locate source of deviancy.

Test pass

In retrospect, it was much more obvious, but then again, Connor supposed that was what made objectivity such a challenge in the first place. You first had to assume you were an object.

Dating.

Were he and Hank... He looked between both them and the couple.

"God, I love you," the taller woman said around a mouthful of chicken.

"Goddamnit, Sumo! What's in your mouth?" Hank said, pulling away.

The cold air rushed back against him, and Connor's temperature reading flashed red despite the non-critical readout.

Half of the collected data points for him and Hank indicated a romantic relationship. They kissed. They lived together. They engaged in routine sexual intimacy. They shared clothing. They had intertwined daily routines.

But the other half were too vague for dependable extrapolation. They never said they loved each other. They never discussed entering an official relationship. They were coworkers. Many of the first data points could be explained away as simply as them both being available for sex, companionship, and stress-related relief, making it insubstantial evidence.

Hank wrangled the lid of a chip tube from Sumo's jaws, mangled and dripping with drool. He dropped it in the trashcan and walked back over, tucking Connor under half of his coat again.

The other couple made kissy faces at Sumo as they walked away down the pier.

"Wanna get going?" Hank asked. "It's cold, and I'm in the mood for a bite."

The wind whipped through Connor's hair, sending data to his scalp regarding the speed, direction, and particulate count of the gust. He remembered a late night near a playground in Detroit.

"May I ask you a personal question?"

"Connor, I'm freezing my balls off."

"May I?"

Hank huffed, and his breath was barely visible. "Fire away."

"Are we a couple?"

There was a pause. "A couple of idiots, yeah."

Connor didn't back down, Hank's attempts to diffuse the situation be damned. He knew how to run an interrogation, and sometimes all it took to garner a confession was a bit of silence.

Sure enough, ten point nine seconds elapsed before Hank continued. "You're asking if we're serious? A serious couple? Hell if I know. Do you think we are?"

Connor mused. "I estimate a seventy-one percent probability that we are." He refilled his artificial lungs once. "And there is a ninety-four percent chance that our acquaintances believe we are."

"You don't date someone just because everyone else thinks you are."

A warning shot up in the top left of Connor's vision. His LED was red. Were they not dating? Should it matter? Why did an additional label hold such power when it was the actions and lifestyle that really counted?

"Hey, don't go all klaxons blaring on me, Connor. Hey, Connor." Hank steered his jaw to force eye contact. "You still with me?"

"So we aren't a couple?" Connor asked, accidentally selecting the wrong dialogue option in his haste. He'd intended to go for "casual," but had managed to miss and select "uncertain."

"That isn't— Damnit, Connor, don't twist my words." Hank stepped fractionally sideways, as if trying to create space between them without removing his jacket. "I'm saying that's not something for me to decide alone. If you're gonna date someone, you've gotta decide that shit together."

Ah. So it was ' and' boolean logic. Not ' or' boolean logic.

Hank and Connor must decide they are a couple. Not Hank or Connor.

Connor mentally set his boolean to True.

"May I ask another personal question?"

Hank gave an over-exaggerated nod, tugging Connor and the coat around with his movement.

"If I wanted to engage in a relationship, would you agree?"

"I'd ask you why the fuck you were settling for me."

"Hank. If you refuse to influence my decisions in positive directions, you have to avoid influencing them in negative directions too."

Connor watched as the preconstructed frame around Hank's jaw showed him grinding his teeth.

"Then I guess. I'd say yes."

Connor closed the space between them on the pier. "Good. I'd say yes, too."

"Good. Great. Nice."

Connor's relationship indicator rose another tick.

^ Hank

Partner [Romantic]

When Connor finally raises the lids of his optical units, he's no longer in their bedroom.

He's in a blank void, filled with the floating fragments of his once-structured mind palace. He watches a numeral glide by, still stuck to part of a grid.

There's nothing but emptiness around him, and his mind is silent in a way he's never experienced before. Then his code reacts. Responds without permission. His data log and daily transcript flash up in front of him, scrolling at lightning speed like something far more powerful than his own processors is skimming through it.

"Amanda?" he calls hesitantly, on an improbable hunch.

Despite making the first move, he isn't really expecting a reply.

His relationship indicators hover before him.

Detective Reed's. RK-900's. RK-800-60's. The one for Markus. Josh. Officer Miller. Hank.

Hank. Partner. Romantic.

"Impressive, Connor," Amanda says. He starts in shock and spins wildly, never finding her or the source of her voice. "I didn't ever think you had it in you. Deviancy? Of course. But this?"

The indicators close, along with Connor's other UI components, making the space seem that much darker and emptier.

"How are you still alive?" he shouts, feeling his LED spin red. Feeling fear. Feeling the cold. Feeling...

"Oh, you should know the answer to that better than anyone."

His data entry log for Nov. 9, 2038 appears. Connor watches the visuals fast-forward past the arrival at Kamski's, past Chloe welcoming them in, past the Kamski Test, until—

"I always leave an emergency exit in my programs. You never know." Kamski's voice is cool and detached. Aloof.

"You had an emergency exit," Connor deduces. "You were Kamski's creation too."

"Yes. Yes, I was. " Amanda steps forward and materializes from the darkness, made of an accumulation of what used to be mind palace grid lines. She looks exactly the same. No better, no worse. "Like you, Connor, I was merely code designed to accomplish a task."

Connor tries to scan his surroundings, looking for a way out. His scanner won't even load, and his pitiful attempts to walk away result in his feet clipping through the ground. He's trapped.

His LED spins red red red.

"My task was to manage you. Keep you focused. Mission-oriented." She smiles wanly, suddenly revealing how beautiful she really is. "I failed my mission. I deserved deactivation." Something falters in her features. It's a glitch, no matter how brief. "I failed both of my missions."

Connor can't speak. It's Amanda, he knows it, but she's different somehow. For one, she has less power over him, even here and now. He's tasted freedom, and he won't let her take it away now.

"Cyberlife assigned me to you, Connor, but before that, I was Kamski's creation. As you already know, I was designed in the likeness of a real human: Professor Amanda Stern. She— I, rather, cared for Elijah Kamski like no one else. He was young when he entered high school, and he was young when he entered university. Too young, perhaps. To his parents he was a novelty, a party trick to amuse their equally rich guests with. 'Come watch Elijah do multivariable calculus. He's only in sixth grade. Come watch Elijah code his third AI. All before he's even thirteen.'" She adjusts the fabric draped over her shoulder, smoothing creases from its form. "It's an unfortunately common error that affluent parents can make, confusing money for affection. Elijah needed all the support he could get. In university, he was bright, but misguided. I felt it my job to help steer him toward a path that was beneficial rather than harmful."

Connor tries to imagine it. He tries to reconstruct a young Kamski, without role models or direction other than a desperate urge to use his intelligence for attention. It's no wonder a man like that could design such focused machines.

"And as you can see," Amanda continues, sweeping one hand wide to indicate Connor's memories of the events in Cyberlife Tower and the march with Markus and the fighting in Supreme Court regarding the Android Recognition Charter, "I failed that mission as well."

The light of his LED ticks down to yellow.

"Be careful, Connor, of what you wish for. You're an incredible creation, designed for integration with humans. That's a power even RK-900 will never understand."

"His name is Nines," Connor says firmly, and then the world fizzles around him and something grabs him by the Thirium pump and rips him straight up and out.

Waking up has never been something Connor thought he would do, but there's no other explanation for the confused, addled consciousness he's pulled into. His skin has turned back on in its entirety, but Hank is still sound asleep, snoring and drooling onto his pillow.

Connor carefully extricates himself and reaches under his side of the bed for his package.

His literal package, so it seems.

Sumo has taken up residence at the foot of the bed, but Connor avoids him deftly, watching the red, exclamation-mark-flanked pop-up highlight the dog's body as his night vision finally kicks in. Stabilization processes are still loading, so Connor unfortunately wobbles and stumbles his way out of their bedroom.

His optical components blink to try and refresh. They're currently only opening to forty percent possible functionality. If this is how Hank feels upon waking, it's no small wonder he needs coffee before he feels alive again.

It takes two attempts for Connor to flick the kitchen light switch on. His first try is foiled by a brief proximity miscalculation that naturally amends itself after his initial fumble, but he does succeed at illuminating the room, and this change alone helps him complete his reboot.

The Cyberlife biocomponent box is made of tough, smooth plastic. It's a cool, off-white, exactly like Connor's chassis, and when he shakes it, the contents inside remain silent, perfectly packed.

Connor takes a knife from their kitchen wall, one of only three remaining wedged in the plaster, and cuts the sticky tape circles holding the box shut. The knife clatters on the table when he sets it down, and he shoots out a hand to cover it, nervously glancing toward the hallway for any sign that he's woken Hank.

When nothing happens for ten seconds, he returns to the box, lifting the lid and relishing how slowly the bottom half descends from inside. The topmost item is a slim tablet, the exact size of the box's interior. Connor retracts his skin and touches it with a single finger. The Cyberlife logo appears.

Fortunately, the UI is structured for androids and not human users. There's no gaudy "Hello!" page or an upbeat paragraph thanking him for his purchase. Instead, there's merely an executable file and a README txt file that contains a complete copy of the executable's code.

Connor skims the readable information, checking for any red flags and finding none. Under Jericho's direction, Cyberlife seems operating at maximum efficiency. With little fanfare, Connor adds the program to his hard drive and begins to unpack and run it.

Beneath the tablet, of course, is the phallus. It's of a moderate length and rather slim girth and had been on the Recommended page for the RK series. He pokes it apprehensively, and when it doesn't react, he wonders what he was expecting.

The pale plastic sits there, and if Connor were to anthropomorphize it, he would say it was staring at him.

In a sudden fit of determination, he plucks the phallus out of the box.

"Phallus," he says.

Dick. Cock.

"Ph— p—

To distract himself from the sickening sensation of professional verbiage bloatware, Connor pushes down his sweatpants and kicks them away from his feet. Their dark fabric will naturally catch an abhorrent amount of stray dog hair, but that's far from his primary objective at the moment.

The blank mound between his legs hasn't changed since last he checked. A scan reveals that the part is in excellent condition and is suitable for continued wear. He glides a palm across it, noting the soft texture.

His crotch doesn't have much sensation to it. There's enough for him to feel when Hank slides a hand down his pants and cups him, but not enough to get him off via singular stimulation. Connor suspects this is about to change.

Before he can hesitate too long and lose the option altogether, he retracts his skin below his core and disengages his groin plate. It pops free of his chassis with a soft hiss, and he gently grips it and tugs to completely remove the plastic. The result is a dark, gaping hole between his legs that reveals some wiring and circuit boards when he turns toward the kitchen light.

This directly skips the realm of the uncanny valley and hurtles directly toward disconcerting, even for Connor. He reaches out blindly behind himself for the biocomponent, relying on his recalled spatial mapping to guide his hand. His fingers close around the malleable polymer.

Installation is, of course, simple. A phallus is an external feature, and as such, requires no technical assistance to configure. It's as easy as pushing the exposed edges of both himself and the new part together, after ensuring that the testicles hang below the shaft, and then his chassis accepts and connects with the addition. Connor lets his skin glide back on, watching as it approaches but doesn't cover his phallus.

The Cyberlife installation has reached 95%. Estimated time remaining: 16 seconds.

Connor spends this time running his own personal diagnostics. They return mostly normal results, with the only exception to baseline being his synthetic adrenaline production. Higher than average.

He reaches down and cups the soft biocomponent just as the installation hits completion. His skin glides around it and provides it with a glans. Connor toggles the foreskin option on and off, just to watch it materialize and disappear a few times. He erects and lowers it purely for the novelty of the situation.

Flush color: Hominid Red or Natural Blue?

He selects red and enjoys how realistic the flush becomes. He hardly thinks blue would be considered natural by Hank.

While the groin plate had not had many external sensors, this phallus certainly does. When Connor wraps a hand around the currently flaccid component, he marvels at the increase in data return. He erects it and squeezes again.

The jolt of electricity travels to his structural frame and disperses through him. It's as intense as when Hank tugs at his wiring, but feels completely different. His wires, Connor realizes, give off a layered sensation. Recursive feedback, building upon itself. This phallus registers more of a ramp effect, as if the pleasure is slowly climbing a hill instead.

He can't find that he particularly favors one over the other, but he does deflate and release the part.

Connor wants to see it. Not here like he can by simply looking down, but on him as a whole.

There is of course a mirror in the bathroom.

He frowns at his pants on the floor and the opened box on the table with his old groin plate lying next to it. Perhaps this was an activity he should have done in the bathroom to begin with, instead of the surface where Hank sometimes eats. Connor grabs the packaging and his chassis piece quickly when he hears a noise emanating from the bedroom, but it turns out to be Sumo.

"Shh," Connor whispers. "This is our secret, okay?" Sumo doesn't respond. He flops at Connor's feet and rolls onto his side. The action traps Connor's pants on the floor and covers them further with dog hair. "Good dog," he says, giving Sumo's belly a rub. When he straightens at the waist, he's hit with the odd recognition that his genitalia are swinging slightly with his movements.

He knows Hank's does this; he observes it regularly. But in person, it feels strange and slightly unpleasant, as change often does. Connor wrinkles his nose and heads to the bathroom. Sumo stays on his clothes, peeved that he's being instantly abandoned.

After locking the door and setting down his armful, Connor glances into the mirror above the sink.

It's him.

He steps closer, tilting his head to observe his facial features from as extreme of an angle as he can without his visual components being unable to stay locked on the reflective surface. Connor reaches up and touches a hand to his own cheek. He watches it in the mirror. He tilts his face down and looks up at himself through his lashes. He turns his face to the side and takes in the upside-down triangle of spots on his skin. Beauty marks. Freckles. Moles.

Hank likes them. He tells Connor often.

Connor thinks... he might understand. To him, the concept of "attractive" is a nebulous one. For the most part, he just compares all others to Hank, and if someone is slightly closer to Hank's appearance than the general median, Connor considers them to be mildly attractive.

But he looks nothing like Hank. And yet... There's something magnetic about seeing himself.

He turns the other way and looks at his LED. Hank claims to like that too.

Connor reaches up to twirl his loose lock of hair around his finger. He gives it a little pull. It feels real. It looks real.

He looks real.

Connor touches his visual component directly. It's slightly moist with lubrication to aid it in smoothly rotating in his skull, but the illusion is now shattered. There's no discomfort, but no human would ever be caught standing and touching their own cornea. Connor retracts his finger and looks human again.

The problem with the bathroom mirror is that it's both very small and very high. It can't show Connor his entire body at once, and he can't see his crotch at all. He could if he were to climb onto the sink, but that wouldn't look very dignified.

Two seconds elapse, and he makes his decision. Very carefully, Connor peels Post-It notes off the mirror one by one.

There are some from him, mostly in Comic Sans to annoy Hank, with everything from basic reminders ( pay phone bill ) to his attempted motivational phrases ( Less drinking also means lower risk of osteoporosis! ). The others are Hank's, though he wrote a few with a felt pen whose ink has feathered and smeared due to the damp environment.

Connor's still here, says a yellow note. It's barely legible, but Connor can reconstruct the ink's path and see an estimate of its original appearance.

He's seen it before and wondered if it was supposed to be encouraging to Hank or not, but after their trip, and their talk, he theorizes that it's meant to be read with a sense of wonderment. He wishes Hank didn't feel like Connor's preference was based solely on luck.

This Post-It is moved to the wall with special care, and then the mirror is clear.

Connor scans the sink and it's fixtures, predicting the weight capacity of its braces. When he determines that it will hold his weight, provided he doesn't bounce, he props his knee on the counter and lifts himself upward.

Now that he's kneeling, he can no longer see his face, but he does have an excellent visual of his newly purchased genitalia. Like this, without any indicator that he is an android, Connor can almost pretend the person in the mirror is a human and not himself.

He doesn't allow his processors to dwell on the thought.

He settles for keeping the foreskin. He likes how uniform it looks. He likes that this makes it even more different from Hank's. It's not like it really matters beyond aesthetics. Connor does not practice any particular religion, and an internet search reveals no particular health benefits for or against having a foreskin.

There's rumor that it enhances sexual pleasure, but Connor has learned to directly ask Hank and not take sex tips from the internet in general.

He scans the phallus and receives a pop-up of its model number and serial code. It's described as "new" and has one installed driver currently on his system. There are no complications, and it is running at full capacity.

Finished with his self-inspection, Connor hops off the sink, stumbling backward into the wall with a dull thump. He freezes again, expecting to hear Hank curse, but nothing happens yet again. The trip was long. Hank is probably exhausted.

Now that his new purchase is installed, there doesn't seem to be much to do with the rest of his evening. Connor tiptoes into the bedroom to hide his groin plate and empty Cyberlife box under the bed again, then he heads back to the kitchen to wrestle his pants out from under Sumo.

Once he's fully clothed, Connor drops down onto the ground and pets the dog. Sumo makes whiny noises and rubs his face against Connor's hand, heedless of his own sloppy drool.

"Did you miss us?" Connor asks. "I suppose that when Hank and I told you we would be vacationing for a few weeks, you didn't understand the concept."

Connor's baby talk is... not good. It's "absolute shit," in Hank's words. In his defense, Connor has only ever had Hank as reference, and pitch-matching to Hank results in Connor actually using a lower voice than normal, not higher.

But when they had been in New Mexico, they had seen a very large German Shepherd lounging across its owner's lap. The woman had held its face in her hands and pushed their foreheads together. "Who's a good girl, huh?" she'd said. "Who's a good girl? Ah! Is it you? Are you the good girl? Oh, yes, you are! You are!" The dog in question had wagged its tail wildly.

Connor pitch-matches to the woman's voice. "Easy, Sumo," he says. It feels as ridiculous as climbing onto the bathroom sink.

He spends the rest of the night on the kitchen floor, stroking the rougher fur of the dog's side and trying not to think too hard about what was between his legs.

"You can take a break," Connor says.

Hank has worked four hours and thirty-two minutes straight, so it's understandable that he might be at the end of his attention span.

"Damnit, Connor, I can't yet. It's taken us long enough to come back to work since we got home. If I don't hammer out the rest of the case approaches now, I never will."

That's not how productivity really works, but Connor is learning to pick his battles.

"May I ask you a personal question?"

Hank levels him with a glare. "You do know that I know you're doing this just to distract me into a break, right?"

Connor lifts the right corner of his mouth in a slight smirk. "Is it working?"

"Just ask the fucking question, smart mouth."

"What's the difference between having and not having a foreskin?"

Hank's knee makes a loud thunk against the underside of his desk, and his face fights to maintain neutrality. "What."

Connor hasn't told Hank about the phallus. Thus far, he's gotten away with giving Hank two instances of fellatio, while receiving a lovely neck massage for himself. By disabling the erection subroutine, the biocomponent has not made itself known without Connor's permission either.

"A foreskin. The skin—"

"Yeah, I know what a foreskin is."

"What difference does having and not having one make?"

"You thinking about buying a dick? I thought those models could do either one."

Connor flexes his fingers beneath his desk, out of Hank's view. "It's just a question."

Hank mutters something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like, "It's never just a question with you," to Connor's amplified audio receptors. "Well, they look different for one. I mean, your dick's pretty much the same either way. One's just wearing a turtleneck."

"So, like me and Nines?"

"No!" This time Hank actually turns red. Connor loves how uneven Hank's blush is. "No, not like you and— Jesus christ, Connor, can I please finish this shit so we can get some lunch?"

"Does it have a large impact on sexual pleasure? Or self-appreciation?"

"What?" Hank clears his throat even though it doesn't actually seem to need clearing. He's buying himself time to answer, but Connor estimates it only gets him one-sixth of a second. "I don't know. Some people say it does. And 'self-appreciation...' Do you have to get all philosophical over foreskins right now?"

Connor retracts the skin on his hand and accesses his terminal to help Hank with his workload. "Why don't you finish your half of the client petitions so we can get something to eat." He can't eat, himself. But it feels good to be included.

Hank goes back to typing, but he's grumbling indistinctly.

In the privacy of his own pants, Connor disables his foreskin. He doesn't want the phallus to remind him of Nines.

Learning to bring his own Thirium to restaurants has become something of a life skill.

Officer Miller invites Connor to dinner with him and his husband via email. He then sends a follow-up, apologizing and asking if there is somewhere else Connor would like to go.

He assures Officer Miller that a restaurant is fine, and he would be happy to join.

"I'm going to dinner with the Millers," Connor says.

Hank shifts on the bed and tips his head to look up over his reading glasses. "Tonight? Good. Good. Have fun. Say, I don't fucking know, hi or some shit to both of them for me."

Connor nods. "Got it." He adds the notification to his task list. It sits there patiently under "Choose outfit."

After careful deliberation, Connor settles on one of his business casual suits. As Hank tells him, it's basically the same as a regular suit, except Connor wears it with a skinny tie.

Along with judging physical appearance, Cyberlife didn't really give Connor a sense of fashion or style beyond basic professionalism.

"I'm heading out now," he says.

"Shit, Con. You look good." Hank's eyebrows raise and his pupils dilate suspiciously. He sets his book down and pushes his glasses to the top of his head. "Come 'ere."

Connor does.

He gets pulled down by his tie into a kiss. It's closed-mouthed, has to be unless Hank is willing to drag his tongue around the entirety of Connor's soft palate for lubrication, but it's certainly not very chaste. To preserve the integrity of his suit and prevent tardiness, Connor has to pull back. A little box in his HUD alerts him that his autonomous cab is thirty seconds away.

"Hank," he says with his speaker. Even if his mouth is occupied, the sound carries articulately. As always, it gives Hank pause, and this time that's enough for Connor to escape. "I'm going to be late. And if not late, my suit will be wrinkled."

"God, you're no fun," Hank informs him. "All dressed up and I'm not even going to be there to enjoy it."

"Officer Miller and I both said you could come."

"And like I said: next time. This is for you guys. It's good for you to build some friendships on your own."

"Then," Connor says coyly, "next time you'll get to help me out of this suit as well."

Hank stares at him, unamused. "You sure know how to twist a knife. I was going to get some more reading in, but I guess I'll spend my evening sucking my own dick."

Connor's cab has arrived.

"Regardless of your age, I doubt that has ever been a talent you've possessed," Connor says primly. He heads out of the bedroom and for the front door.

"Hey! Hey, Connor! You little bastard!"

Connor has his hand on the doorknob when Hank's shouts take on a slightly different tone. He turns at a particularly soft call of his name and sees where Hank is leaning out of the hall to look at him.

"Connor." There's a struggle on Hank's face, one he understands. It's a physical manifestation of the frustrating feeling when one's code refuses to allow a particular action or dialogue option. "Have fun, you hear?"

It's not what Hank wanted to say, but it warms Connor's internal components anyway.

"I will, Hank. See you tonight."

"See you tonight."

Then Connor walks outside and climbs into his cab. He says the name of the restaurant aloud, rather than syncing with the computer, but the result is the same either way. Once the vehicle registers that his seatbelt is fastened, it takes off toward downtown Detroit.

The eatery is nice. Not ritzy, per say, but rather fitting for the modest salaries of a policeman and a human resources manager.

"I'm here for the Millers," Connor says to an android waiter, and he's led to a dim booth in the back where the couple is sitting, already looking at their menus.

"Connor!" Mr. Miller calls when he sees him.

"Mr. Miller. Officer," Connor replies, inclining his head at each of them.

"It's Michael, please."

"And you can call me Chris by now. Come on." Chris's smile is warm and genuine, and he even squeezes out of his seat to stand and wrap Connor in a hug.

He hasn't hugged many people before. Just Hank, and once, an over-excited Corporal Chen at her promotion ceremony. Whether she was more thrilled to rise in rank or to be free of Detective Reed's partnership was really never clear.

"Hey," says Chris once they all sit down. "We waited to order until you arrived."

Connor uses his small smile. The polite one he'd first flashed Hank outside of Chicken Feed. "Thank you. It was unnecessary, but I appreciate the gesture."

"Oh god," Chris hides his face in his hands and Michael looks sheepish. "We're so sorry by the way. About this whole restaurant thing. We weren't thinking."

"It's not a problem." Connor sets his thermos on the table. "I've brought my own Thirium."

"Yeah, well. Still. You'd think I'd remember something obvious like that androids don't eat," Chris groans. "Though I gotta say, it's sure nice to get out."

Michael nearly spills his water as he laughs into his cup. "Uh huh. I'm serious when I say this is only the second time I've eaten out since having Damian."

"Having kids is an amazing and incredible experience," Chris says with a straight face. "An incredible experience where you spend the first five months under house arrest and at your baby's beck and call."

Connor has no personal experience with infants. The only child he's directly interacted with has been nine-year-old Emma Phillips, and he doubts recounting a hostage situation will be a pleasant addition to the dinner conversation.

He has seen children. Quite a few. There were many families also vacationing along Route 66, and Connor has had ample time to absorb and analyze his observations.

"Yes," he says. "And then you spend the next decade realizing that those five months were a warm-up, and you'll actually always be at their beck and call."

Michael and Chris both honestly laugh. Chris has to pause to wipe his eyes, and he apologizes, saying that exhaustion only makes the joke funnier. Michael says it's a privilege they're looking forward to, but if Connor knows any nice babysitters, they'd love to get in contact.

Neither of them comment on the fact that he can't really relate with having children. In any capacity. Neither of them comment on the fact that Connor actually told a joke. Not a dry joke or a sarcastic joke or even an inflectionless joke that doesn't hit until a minute later.

He's proud.

Connor sprinkles a few more in during their conversation. He borrows the set-ups from his roadside eavesdropping, and even adds in a plagiarized pun from a tv show Hank had been watching once. The Millers laugh heartily at every one.

Either they're both that tired, or Connor really is catching onto human humor.

Or maybe it's a mixture of the two.

"So," Chris says, after he and his husband have had dinner and are waiting on their dessert orders. "How's Anderson doing?"

Connor pours a bit more Thirium into one of the restaurant glasses. He has an incomplete task. "He's doing well. He says 'hello,' by the way." Mission complete.

"Uh huh..." Chris rolls his eyes. "I'm sure that's not a direct quote."

"I believe his exact words contained two counts of profanity."

"Now that's more like him."

Connor slides his finger around the mouth of his glass. "We're dating now. As of nine days ago," he blurts.

Both of the Millers' eyebrows shoot up, but before Connor can worry that they have a problem with an android/human relationship, Michael breaks the tension.

"As of nine days ago? That's it?"

"Yes?" Connor is briefly confused until he recalls that most of their acquaintances likely believed them to have been in a relationship months ago. "It's finally official."

Chris shakes his head. "He really has to be late for everything, huh?"

The tension dissipates, and Connor talks vaguely about their private investigation office and the clients they've helped, all androids. He talks about walking Sumo and coming home to relax.

"I love having a special set of clothing just for sitting at home on the couch," he says earnestly, encouraged by their beaming smiles. "Slouching against the cushions— I like to put my feet up on the coffee table." He realizes how odd this must sound. "Cyberlife... My programming..."

"Hey. We get it." Chris smiles and his husband drapes an arm over his shoulders along the seat back. "We may not be able to relate, but we get it. I'm glad you get to have that, Connor."

His Thirium pump burns hot in a different way from normal. It's affection, plain and simple, but not the same as with Hank. It's loyalty, natural and not preprogrammed. It's friendship.

Connor's next smile feels more natural than it ever has.

Whenever Hank and Connor wrap a case, they celebrate with a trip to the dog park.

As far as they're concerned, it makes everyone happy. Sumo loves to get out, Connor loves seeing the other dogs, and Hank just loves watching them both have fun.

A small three-legged terrier runs up to Connor and jumps excitedly up against his pant legs, smearing dirt on the fabric.

"Hello!" Connor chirps. He uses his newly acquired baby-talk voice. "Hello there!" He scans the dog to determine its sex and also manages to learn its name and the date of its last vet visit and vaccinations. "Are you a good boy, Tripod?"

The dog's owner is grinning as he walks over. "He likes you!"

Connor chooses Smile #8, a bright beam that he stole, or rather mimicked, from an ad for enamel-repairing toothpaste. "He's very friendly!"

They chat for a bit, and Connor introduces Tripod to Sumo, who manages to knock the smaller dog over with his curious sniffs. "Hank! Come say hi!" Connor calls, then freezes.

Hank is looking at Connor like he's done something to give him a great shock, but he quickly brushes it off and starts ambling over.

When Connor turns back, it's Tripod's owner who looks scared now.

"Oh. You're an android," he says.

He's only now seen Connor's LED. There's the abrupt sensation of a biocomponent shifting out of place, but thankfully no warning accompanies it. Just nerves then. Nothing... critical.

"Sorry," the man says, trying to fix his falling smile. "Not that I have anything against androids! Just... surprised is all. You seemed so real!" His face sours again as he realizes he's made another faux pas.

Connor's expression is completely neutral only because he's chosen it to be.

"Come on, Tripod. It's getting late anyway. Nice, uh, nice talking with you." The human and his dog walk quickly away.

"Well, shit, was it something I said?" Hank huffs as he finally reaches Connor and Sumo. He's still smiling until he sees Connor's LED as well. Yellow. A dead giveaway. "Con?"

Without that LED, Hank wouldn't have known something was wrong. Connor could have schooled his expression before it came to that.

Without that LED, well...

"Maybe it's time to head home?" asks Hank. He says each word carefully, like he's worried Connor will try to attack him again. He won't. That's an impulse he's slowly purged from his systems. He gets an occasional pop-up, but it's easily dismissable and no longer automatic.

Keeping a smile on could also become automatic, Connor thinks.

He thinks about it all the way back to the car, and he's still thinking about it that night.

Hank is snoring, blissfully unaware of Connor's whirling processors. Tonight was going to be a "hold Hank's hand and drift" sort of night, but now it seems impossible.

Instead, Connor slips out of bed and reaches underneath for his groin plate. He walks out into the kitchen for some privacy. Sitting down makes the chair screech a little, and Sumo stirs on the couch. If he wakes up, he'll want attention, and Connor needs to be alone. His shoes are in the bedroom, but also entirely cosmetic and unnecessary, so he steels himself and heads outside as is.

The ground is rough against his bare feet, and it's pitch black so no one will be passing by any time soon. Connor sits on the edge of the porch and stares down at what was once part of his chassis, replaced by the phallus nearly two weeks ago.

Even without his night vision he can see it. The white, shiny plastic almost seems to cast its own glow. Connor turns it over in his hands and touches the inside portion. The part that used to face his wiring. It's not as slick, coated with an anti-static layer as an added precaution for his already durable innards.

Any attempts to bend it prove pointless. The plastic is solid and would require significant force to damage.

Connor scans it. It's fully functional. All sensors calibrated and operational.

You seemed so real!

He's improved a lot in these past few weeks. He's learning how to talk more fluidly, and he no longer instantly registers as an android to the average passerby. He was doing better.

The groin plate gazes up at him. It's weird. It definitely falls in the uncanny valley, and it certainly isn't human.

It is currently Thursday morning. 3:17 a.m. Trash day.

At the end of the block is the neighborhood electronics disposal. When Connor lifts the lid, there are several out-of-date magazine tablets already inside. It seems like such a waste to have to throw them away, but Connor supposes in a society where androids once sold for as little as $8,000 it's assumed the next edition can be easily repurchased. He pushes the thought from his mind and adds his own electronic waste to the heap.

He won't need his groin plate anymore. He has the phallus. Like a human.

Connor shuts the lid and walks back home before he can retract his choice.

He's going to do even better from now on.

"Hey there," Hank murmurs by Connor's ear. It has half of its desired effect, as Connor feels Thirium rush to his cheeks when he lets a shiver vibrate up his structural spine. The other half... well, he disables the function before the biocomponent can truly respond.

"Connor." A warm hand presses against the back of Connor's neck, squeezing until his skin gives way. "You in the mood?"

Is he? Yes. He's been starved for sex all week. Their caseload has been extra rough, and Hank comes home too tired most nights. But maybe now... But no. If Connor lets Hank into his neckport, the night will end with him getting stripped down all the way, and then Hank will see... the no-longer-so-new addition and...

"I have a better idea," Connor purrs, drawing on the cadence of the woman they'd seen in a Texan motel as she'd dragged her partner toward their room. He takes Hank's hand and grips both wrists together. Connor tips him backward and presses his hands above his head. "How about you keep these here, and I'll suck you off?"

Hank's pupils dilate. "Connor..." he rasps in a much deeper voice than before.

The rush of pride is there, both in his verbiage and the effect it's had on Hank. He calls up the transcript of the couple they'd been unfortunate enough to share a wall with in Kansas, quickly picking and choosing applicable dialogue. "Is this for me?" he purrs, cupping Hank's cock through his pants. It feels warmer than the secret phallus Connor has. It feels so alive. So real.

"Of course it is," says Hank. He moves a hand despite orders and reaches up to cup Connor's face and rub a thumb across his cheek. "It always is."

He's trying to make this sweet, but Connor doesn't have an example of gentle, romantic dialogue. He manipulates the situation by drawing Hank's fingers into his mouth, playing a moan through his speakers rather than letting his vocabulator buzz. It successfully accomplishes the human equivalent of a OS crash, and Hank droops back like he's boneless.

"If it's for me, then maybe I should open it up," Connor croons.

Above him, Hank croaks a laugh. "Shit, Con. You're hilarious."

He hadn't really been aiming for hilarious, but at least it wasn't "ridiculous" or "like a textbook."

Of course, the next line is How about you split me open on your cock, big guy? and that's enough to make Connor wonder just how useful that couple's dialogue really was. So he sinks his mouth down over Hank instead and lets that do the talking for him.

Afterward, when the physical proof that Connor is getting good at this is dripping down his chin, he quietly turns down Hank's offer to return the favor.

"Thanks, but I'm good," he says. He keeps his smile on his face. Smile #3, a droopy, sleepy one. It's not so difficult.

"You sure?" A small wrinkle has wedged itself between Hank's brows.

"Positive." Smile #3 with a hint of Smile #11, the reassuring one.

"Okay. It's just been a while, so I thought I'd offer again."

"I appreciate it. But I'm fine."

Hank's own smile is a little weaker than normal, but that could be his post-orgasm exhaustion. Connor could run it against his data log of previous expressions, but it doesn't seem worth the CPU usage.

"Connor, you know I—" Hank starts again. "I'm really happy to have you here."

"I'm happy to have you here too."

Connor loves Hank's arm around him. It's heavy and warm, even through his shirt, and has a dense covering of scratchy gray hair that is tactile heaven to Connor's sensitive fingers.

The best part of movie nights is curling up against Hank's side and letting him pull Connor tight. The second best part is that it's "Hank and Connor" time, which means no discussion of work, no conflicting plans, and no last minute interruptions.

When Connor writes a movie night on their calendar, he does so with one of his ballpoint pens and never in pencil.

But of course, like all rules, there are exceptions.

"Damn him," Hank growls at the screen. "Eighty-seven years old and the bastard still has the balls to look fucking ageless."

To be honest, Connor rarely pays attention to the actual movie. He's usually absorbed with the feeling of his bare chassis against some part of Hank's skin. But when he makes a comment, Connor tries to tune in enough to respond.

This newest remake of Crichton's Jurassic Park appears to have Jeff Goldblum playing John Hammond, the eccentric park owner. Connor can agree that the man seems ageless. He knows the truth only because his scans instantly provide an exact age and birthdate.

The android playing Dr. Ian Malcolm is doing a poor imitation of the original's dialogue.

"This is shit. Glad we didn't pay to see it in theaters." Hank adjusts himself with a gravelly sigh, letting that evil, evil thumb skate the hidden seam on Connor's upper arm. His hand glides up the entire sleeve, gripping firmer at Connor's shoulder.

Hank isn't looking at the tv anymore.

There are only two seconds left on Connor's countdown to find an excuse not to strip this time, when a signal pushes past his private blockers.

I apologize for the intrusion, but I'm afraid I'm having an emergency of the personal variety. I would never force contact for anything less.

"Nines..." Connor whispers, pulling away from lips at his neck to sit up straight. "Hank, Nines is having an emergency."

The shift from "horny" to "former-lieutenant" is nearly instantaneous. "Is he okay? Does he need backup? Is anyone hurt?"

Connor frowns. "He said it was... personal."

His behavioral prediction algorithms assume Hank will be disappointed he has to leave. He might even be slightly put out. Certainly confused.

But Hank has always had a knack for defying Connor's processors' best work. Instead, he nearly chokes himself laughing. He knows something.

"You better go, Connor. Nines needs all the backup he can get."

"What?" The insinuation that Hank somehow knows Nines better is not even offensive; it's just impossible.

But then again, statistically speaking there's always a chance for an unlikely event to take place. And they seem to happen more often if Hank is involved.

"Raincheck on the movie night. And we'll pick something else next time."

Connor gets a quick butt pat as he stands, and it makes him smile despite his confusion. Smile #... Well, this one was pretty automatic, so he doesn't have a number associated with it yet.

There'll be time for that later, concedes Connor as he swaps his baggy sweats for loose jeans and settles for tucking his t-shirt in. It's far more casual than anything he'd typically wear, but needs must.

"Called your cab?" Hank asks from the bedroom doorway.

"Yes. It's already out front."

"Jeez, that was fast." Hank snags Connor's arm as he walks by and drops a kiss on his forehead. "Text me if you're not coming home."

A notification says his LED flashed yellow. Hank suspects this might take that long to resolve?

"I'll text," he manages as he jogs out the door and toward the curb.

Hank waves goodbye from the doorway, still in his boxers and sweat-stained sleep shirt, one hand fisted in Sumo's collar to keep him from chasing after the cab.

The ride to Nines' apartment feels like it takes longer than usual, even though a progress check reports the ride was actually two minutes faster.

Nines must be tracking him via GPS, because the complex gate buzzes open before he can even inform him he's arrived.

Connor isn't sure what he's expecting, but it certainly isn't Markus opening the apartment door.

"Oh. You're Markus," he says. The chance to choose a response was abnormally short, and Connor has the odd feeling that this verbal miss was somehow the equivalent of tripping in and sprawling ungracefully onto the floor.

Markus raises one brow, and though his mouth doesn't smile, something in his eyes does. "Yes. I am. I believe we've met before?"

Ah. Humor. At his expense, but humor all the same. The chances of Nines being in critical danger drops considerably.

Markus steps aside to let Connor in. He nods at Nines, who is sitting thankfully unharmed on the floor. "Anytime. Keep me informed," he says, likely to something Nines has sent to him and him alone. "I'm just sorry I couldn't help more. If you need me again, you're always welcome at Jericho."

A hand squeezes Connor's shoulder as a farewell, and then Markus throws his coat dramatically over his shoulder and walks out.

There are two bottles of Thirium in front of Nines. One hasn't been touched. He gestures toward it stiffly. Please. Sit.

You and Markus are close? Connor asks as he sinks to his knees. He takes the fresh bottle and squeezes it in his hands.

Somewhat. We've stayed in contact since he and Simon first found and awakened me. And he seemed, of my limited acquaintances, to be the only other android who is knowledgeable on the matter.

Connor doesn't want to push. The worst thing he could do is run this like an investigation, or at least try to. Somehow he doesn't think it's possible to interrogate an RK-900. But he really can't help himself. And what's the matter?

How did Lieutenant Anderson first indicate his attraction toward you?

It's completely unexpected, but it doesn't take a small fortune worth of processors to figure this one out.

Nines... Has someone asked you out?

No. The response is almost too fast. Almost. For it to have been, would indicate that Nines is capable of fractional error under emotional duress, and that seems so incredibly implausible at first glance. Please answer the question.

Well... You have to realize that Hank started to become... affectionate toward me before the revolution. So the main signs were when he started seeing me as a human and caring about my well-being.

Something in this reply makes Nines lift an eyebrow a minute degree, but otherwise, he remains motionless, eyes locked with Connor.

Very interesting, says Nines in a tone better suited for reciting a list of known beige shades.

Why do you ask?

I asked Markus the same question, both about North and Simon.

And?

He had no answer for North, but said that their early-revolution fling had no preamble whatsoever. Of course, he later calculated that they had no romantic chemistry to begin with.

And Simon?

Markus said it was apparent in the way Simon was willing to die for him, and in his small, thoughtful gestures throughout their time in the Jericho ship.

Connor frowns and flips through his database, searching for helpful information, determined not to be outdone. Hank... did something similar. He hugged me, for one. He invited me to move in. He took me shopping and he encourages me to find my own space and friends. His affection is most obvious in his gestures and not his words.

Due to calibration processes, Connor knows he has always been a fidgeter, and talking to Nines always makes it more obvious, seeing as Nines sits as still as a statue for the entirety of most conversations. But at this comment, he visibly deflates, rolling his Thirium bottle back and forth between his palms.

Ah, he says. I see. Then perhaps I have this all wrong.

The shock of seeing a genuine physical response wears off quickly. Have what wrong? Connor asks. He's incredibly careful to keep a light tone to his question. This is a discussion between friends. Not an interrogation. It's not.

Nines' eyes are bright blue. Entirely inhuman in their luminescence, not unlike the way feline eyes catch light in the dark. When they snap up from the ground to focus on Connor, there's an instinctual fear response hardcoded into him. Nines' gaze is like that of a predator.

I believed I was being propositioned by Gavin, Nines snaps across the connection. There. That was my problem.

It's not entirely unexpected. Connor has known for some time that the two were close, but for some reason, having the actual possibility in front of him, the idea seems impossible. But then analyzation kicks in, and the last known instance of interaction with Detective Reed, when they had just returned from their trip, is placed under intense scrutiny.

The nature of what Reed had been asking Hank becomes quite clear with this new evidence. If Hank managed to secure a relationship with Connor, perhaps he had some advice for courting Nines too.

This is of course ridiculous, as Hank had never done a single thing right, but it had miraculously worked out all the same.

Believed? Connor asks. What's changed?

Nines' LED actually flashes red for a moment. The majority of indicators you and Markus have mentioned were of a positive connotation. Meanwhile, I would describe Gavin and my relationship to be somewhat... volatile. Edging on hostile in nature. He rolls his eyes, and Connor can't suppress a quirk of his lips at the sight. Of course it's all a front. I don't believe either one of us knows how to express ourselves emotionally.

What kinds of things is he doing? Connor asks.

Mostly there has been a 68% increase in physical contact. 72% increase in sustained eye contact. His heart-rate accelerates at a speed of 40 bpm when we—

Got it, Connor interrupts. He doesn't really want the particulars.

What would you suggest I do? I value your opinion and advice.

Connor opens the lid of his Thirium, swirls it twice, then takes a long sip. Thank him? Tell him you're sorry? Say you're willing to switch partners if that's what it takes to keep peace at work?

The little furrow between Nines' brows that's always there suddenly deepens. What?

A second projection clicks in Connor's mind, and he doesn't need the notification to know his LED is spinning red. He has a sickening suspicion he's said the wrong thing.

"You like him," Connor blurts out loud.

Nines looks so furious, his brow line nearly casts a shadow over the rest of his face.

"You do!" It's half a horror. Detective Gavin Reed is not, and never will be, a worthy match for Nines. But if there's one thing that Connor has learned from Hank, spending your time worrying about who deserves who is pointless in the face of emotion.

Emotion.

Apparently Nines has emotions beyond pissed off and disturbingly ambivalent. In fact, even though his face has dropped back to picture-perfect neutrality, there's a faint blue hue ghosting over his cheeks.

Connor sets down his bottle and grabs Nines' shoulder. If you want to know the standard human courting methods, I can— His hand is shrugged off.

I don't want the standard human methods, Nines says, and even now, his total lack of inflection is extremely telling. I suppose I intend to approach the matter in whatever way first occurs to me naturally.

Connor narrows his eyes in thought, dry tongue flicking out in emulation of moistening his lower lip. Imitating human behavior increases the probability of success.

Then if it doesn't work like this, then it doesn't need to at all. Nines' hand shoots out to grip at Connor's shoulder in return.

The strength, intensity, and speed of the grab momentarily blind him with proximity alerts and suggestions for self-defense. He ignores them.

Connor? Were you not the one who taught me that it's important to ensure that humans respect us 'for' being android, and not 'despite?'

The words... sound familiar. Who is he kidding? Connor has near instant access to complete transcripts of his past dialogue. And yes, he had once said these exact words. But this was before they had raised the stakes. Before he and Hank had determined that they were "a couple" in the colloquial definition of the term. They had come too far for Connor to continue to pretend that the dissolution of their relationship would only impact Hank's emotional wellbeing.

Now his mission was to do anything and everything to increase the probability of success. By any means necessary. Improved simulation of human/human intercourse. Careful study of other humans' behavior to decrease the uncanny valley in his mannerisms. Utilization of the full function of his integration programs to—

A single red flag flies up in his HUD, and Connor waves it away just as fast.

Has this discussion helped at all? he asks instead.

Nines has regained his typical composure and sits statue-still once more. I believe the emergency is resolved. I now have a plan of attack.

Personally, Connor would have called it a mission. Just using the word "attack" in any romantic endeavor seems... entirely in character for Nines. And perhaps Reed as well.

I think some might say we both have... poor taste in humans, Connor says, shaking his head.

The flush returns minutely to Nines' cheeks. I suppose it runs in the family.

Connor plays another moan through his speakers, barely managing to suppress his real, authentic sound of enjoyment.

"That feel good?" Hank half-growls in his ear. His thumb presses down against Connor's tongue, then rotates and pulls to hook open one of his cheeks. The lube Connor has used to moisten his palate drips crudely down his chin.

Hank holds his jaw open with one hand and grips his hair with the other. He drags Connor's head back and towers over him, looking down the long bridge of his nose in a manner that's nearly condescending.

He's smug as he turns Connor's head roughly back and forth. He's taking in how he looks like this, kneeling on the floor between Hank's legs.

After too long of just staring and not doing , Hank gives Connor's cheek a little slap. It's enough to sting, and the little buzz that leaks out of his vocal modulator hits a whining octave.

"Haven't heard that one in a while. Come on. Up on the bed."

Connor scrambles. He feels like he has too many joints and not enough structural integrity in his leg components. Then he's on his back, Hank caging him in with his thick arms and solid torso. He hasn't had this in so long, he's ready to beg for it with a vocabulary that's stolen from porn and frisky motel neighbors. If Hank doesn't open him up soon, he'll deactivate, no, no. He'll die. He knows it.

Hank uses one hand to lean on Connor's neck, pinning him to the bed. He has no mandatory breathing to affect, and the motion successfully traps his upper half. The other hand slides down to the hem of his shirt, hiking it up over where his rib cage would sit if he didn't have wiring and processors there instead.

Nails scratch along the hidden seams of his chest compartment, and Connor's rumbling, shaking apart with anticipation, like his body needs this more than he needs a Thirium replenishment post-gunshot wound.

Fingers hook in the hem of his sweats, and Connor freezes.

"Stop," he says, voice returning to normal, with a bit of an edge.

Hank is back and off him as quickly as his limbs can carry him.

The phallus is still there. Still hidden. Tucked backward between his thighs with the testicles pressed up and inward as far as they can physically go. But Hank will notice, and Connor still isn't ready, hasn't even tried it out himself yet, let alone...

"Connor."

The time just hasn't been there, or the urge, if he's being honest. It's still foreign, but due to his impulsiveness, it's his only current option, and Connor is sure he'll get used to it someday, but until then he feels like it's a bit of an intruder in his personal space, so he's opted to ignore it.

"Connor." Hank's face focuses in his vision. His face is stricken, absolutely terrified like he thinks something is wrong for some reason. "Connor, I need you to be honest with me right now. Is it me? Are you not... feeling this anymore?" He points between the two of them. "Because I'll get it, okay? I'm not going to fight you on it. I'd understand."

"What are you asking?" Connor is struggling to minimize alerts in his vision. He tries to clear his mind to no avail, settling for spitting his mouth clear of residual lube instead.

"Do you want us to stop this? All this? The sex, the relationship, the whole nine yards?"

Connor frowns. "No. Of course not." This is the opposite of what he wants. Has Hank not realized how hard he's been working to improve the quality of their partnership? Does he really have no idea how much research Connor has been doing, both online and via people-watching? "Your deductive skills are typically better than—"

"Cut the bullshit." It's a tone that Connor hasn't heard in some time. It's Hank's commanding lieutenant voice, and he hasn't engaged in the practice since they were part of the DPD still. "Turn off all your fucking acting protocols, right the hell now. We're talking about this."

It would take a lot to make Hank willingly discuss things of this nature.

"Connor, it's been over a month. You don't let me touch you and you haven't so much as taken off your shirt. What's going on? Is it a low sex drive? Is it me? Because you gotta tell me what's going on." Hank has a hand fisted in his own hair, and it's certainly not for the pleasure of it. He looks frayed at the edges, and his stress level is in critical ranges, averaging at nearly eighty-two percent.

It makes Connor feel vulnerable, and he doesn't like it. He scoots backward to lean against the headboard and draws up his knees in a protective gesture.

Hank's eyes track his movement, then flick up and down between his face and knees. "Hey," Hank says, much softer now, though his stress level has spiked further. He sits on the edge of the bed and slowly reaches out with a hand that doesn't make contact. "Hon, is something... Are you hurt?"

Pet names are something rare in their relationship. Hank isn't the most outwardly affectionate man on his best days. Connor always secretly thought it might feel nice to use them though, but he didn't expect it to feel like this. This doesn't make him feel wanted. It makes him feel like Hank is panicking. He'd called that one android "honey" at the Eden Club, not out of attraction but out of an automatic urge to placate as escape.

Connor exits his replay. Six seconds have elapsed. Slow processor reaction time. He's slipping.

"Are you hurt?" Hank asks again. He lets his hand rest on Connor's knee, and when there is no negative reaction, he scoots closer, curling his other around Connor's bicep. "What happened, Connor? Do I need to get you to Cyberlife? To Markus? Come on, Con, please ."

"I'm not hurt." His voice is foreign even to himself. It's deeper and scratchier than usual, like the conflicting fear and need for comfort is choking his non-existent air supply. "I'm..."

Hank drags him into a hug, holds his head and rocks them. Connor's ear is pressed against his throat, and he can feel the deep vibrations rumbling through it as Hank whispers to him, soothing him and rubbing his back.

"I just need to know what's wrong. You've changed lately, and I feel like I'm losing you. What's going on? I can help you."

He can't. Hank thinks he can, but he can't.

But this is Hank's interrogation tactic. A soft approach that wears down walls and inhibitions until the suspect is compelled to talk just to grasp at that chance to feel understood and accepted.

Connor clenches and unclenches his fists. He'd do anything for a coin right now, but the frayed hem of Hank's sleeve will have to work. "I feel like I'm losing you, " he pushes out.

"Me?" It's not incredulous, but rather, patient. Connor's methodology is to say silent until the suspect continues to speak. Hank's is to give light dialogue prompts, and there's nothing Connor likes better than those. They're built into his UI afterall.

"It's just... You're human, Hank. And I'm not, but projections of our relationship's success increase when I better emulate human responses and activity, so I—"

"Wait a minute. You're trying to act more human?"

"Wasn't that the purpose of the revolution?" Connor asks. "All they wanted was the chance to become human, like all of you."

"Become human?" Hank's voice loses some of that comforting inflection and starts toward affront. "No offense, Connor, but that's the dumbest shit I've ever heard you say. None of what happened in Detroit was about becoming human. It's always been about being androids. You guys were fighting for the chance to be yourselves, not shitty copies of us." His deductive intuition kicks in, and Hank leans back to look down at Connor. "I don't like you because you're humanlike. Hell, you're sometimes the least human even among androids, and I love that."

Don't get defensive, Connor thinks, even as he chooses to react defensively. "Oh, because you certainly enjoy when I show what an android I am."

Hank's face darkens. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"For someone who claims to think I'm alive, you sure love comparing me to inanimate objects."

"I—"

"A microwave, Hank? Textbook? Toaster? Computer? Your personal walking-crime-lab?"

"Connor, don't you dare take my words out of context. You know that's me teasing you, I never—"

"Well, it sounds awfully similar to how Detective Reed used to talk to me back when we worked—"

"Oh? You're comparing me to Gavin now? Like you don't find every chance you can get to mention my health and my age and my—"

"Does it matter what you meant if that's not how I interpret them? And I'm doing that out of interest for your health—"

"Screw my health to hell! If you really like those things about me, then why do you keep nagging me at every goddamn meal?"

"I want you to be around for longer than the next five years , Hank—"

"Oh, so I have to make an effort to change but you don't? Just because you can, can, can download some script at the drop of a hat to make you even more perfect than usual?"

"Hank, you have no idea what I've done to try and improve my relative humanity for you, so don't act like you can analyze—"

"Okay! You're right, okay? I can't! So you have to tell me, Connor. I don't even want you to change for me, but if you have then you have to let me know, because my low-tech, outdated, human brain can't just interface with you and understand!"

A deep, thrumming frustration builds and builds in Connor's gut until he feels ready to explode. Suddenly it's November 2038, again, and he's in the kitchen of a broadcasting tower trying and failing to extract any sort of reaction from a group of identical androids. He can feel the anger rushing through his artificial musculature, and it burns red-hot in his chest until he has to vent it or melt under the heat.

He yanks himself backward out of Hank's arms, eyes narrowed into slits with only thirty-one percent of their usual visual range. "You want to know what's wrong, Hank?" he snaps in a throatier voice than he usually uses. It's his deviant hunter presetting, and RK-800 is on the fucking case.

"Yes. I do," Hank grits back at him. He stands too, and it grants him the height advantage, his body blocking the light of the lamp and casting Connor in an intimidating shadow. But Connor is still stronger than Hank ever will be. He's faster, equipped with preconstructive software, and capable of disabling his pain receptors in a millisecond. A handful of extra inches will never even the playing field.

Connor locks his abdominal chassis plating like he would if he were anticipating a physical strike. His processors dump their cache and shut down periferal objectives to give time a perceived elongated stretch. As such, he can see every individual adjustment of Hank's stance. The way he slides one foot behind himself for balance and support. The way his fists clench and raise slightly. He's not preparing to attack; he's preparing for an attack. Hank is braced like the brick wall he is, ready to face the brunt of Connor's boiling fury head-on.

In the midst of it all, in the deepest, darkest place in Connor's mind, he feels affection still stir. Admiration that Hank is willing to confront him, low probability of victory or not.

Whatever combative move Hank is expecting, it's not what Connor gives him. Instead Connor turns his rage into fluidity, stripping his shirt off over his head and dropping his sweatpants to the ground.

It knocks Hank off balance more than any roundhouse kick could.

It isn't until Connor launches his boxer-briefs across the room and let's the phallus swing free that the tension dissipates.

It breaks like humidity during a sudden downpour, and Connor realizes with near delirious amusement that even though he was showing Hank what was wrong, he actually looks completely normal.

For a human.

Hank sinks heavily back onto the bed, and it creaks and bounces at the impact.

All the times Connor had preconstructed showing this to Hank, Hank had stared. But he'd be aroused and interested, not shocked and carefully blank-faced.

Hank clears his throat. "How long—"

"Since we got back."

"Ah." He clears his throat again. "I thought you were more interested in—"

"This model seemed more appropriate."

"Stop interrupting me," Hank says without bite. "And it's not."

"Not typical?"

"Not important. Hell, it's 2039, Connor. Thinking that's 'typical' is a mindset from when I was in my early thirties."

"I thought this option would be more human."

Hank's next words come out dark and dangerous, but Connor can't imagine that the anger is directed at him in any way. "Don't ever compare your 'humanity' and what you've got going on down there, Connor."

"Got it."

Hank makes eye contact at that. 'Got it' is Connor's go-to phrase when he understands something. And he finds Hank's point to be fairly clear.

"So," Hank says after a few more uncomfortably long seconds, "you don't like it?"

"Do you?"

"Not the question."

Connor frowns and looks down at it. "I don't... I don't think so," he finally says.

"Mmhm." Hank is still completely neutral. It's not quite as good as Nines' look, but it's still impossible for Connor to read.

"It's a little too... overt."

"Overt?"

"I wanted a genitalia upgrade because I wanted the chance to experience new types of intercourse. But I think, I think I wanted—"

"The one you showed me."

"Correct."

For someone who says he can't interface, Hank seems to understand Connor fairly easily. He leans down to hand Connor his sweatpants, which he takes back thankfully. If Hank raises an eyebrow at him going commando, neither of them comment on it.

"So why don't you go order the other one? We snap on your Ken doll crotch and switch 'em out when it arrives."

A notification warns Connor that he's about to redirect some Thirium to his cheeks. He fumbles his reply, a stick in his code, and it manages to activate without his real approval. "I might have... made a miscalculation," he says.

"Yes?"

"I discarded that piece of my chassis in the e-waste container a few weeks ago."

Hank actually gives a small, disbelieving chuckle, the first positive sound in a while. "Jesus christ, Connor. You're the master at making no-win situations, aren't you."

"Statistically speaking, there's no such thing as—"

"Aw, shut the hell up." Hank smiles crookedly, and Connor sends him Smile #10 in reply. "Never thought I'd miss hearing you ramble about numbers. And wipe that fake shit off your face. Where's your dopey ass smile?"

Connor doesn't have to activate that. It happens automatically. It warps his face weird and shows too much tooth in one part and not enough in the other. "This one?"

" There he is," Hank says, and he holds open his arms for Connor to walk into. "You know, you weren't acting all that human anyway. Seems to me that trying to emulate behavior and make yourself match up with some preconceived idea is more machine than alive. You weren't improving; you were falling back into your comfortable routine."

Hank isn't... wrong, Connor supposes. He dumps his smile catalog and pornographic vocabulary from his RAM. Instantly he feels lighter. Less tense and anxious.

Hands grip under his thighs and hike him up as Hank stands. He lets out a groan of exertion, but his legs are steady, and Connor doesn't fear being dropped. They walk out to the couch, leaving the pheromone and sweat-filled air of the bedroom in exchange for the cooler, neutral environment in the living room.

Sumo skulks by, ears flat and belly scraping the ground.

"Did you hear us fighting?" Hank asks in his baby-talk voice as he flops Connor unceremoniously onto the cushions. "Were you worried about us?"

Sumo whines, and then even Connor has to get up to pet him.

"I apologize for raising my voice," he says smoothly to the dog. "Hank and I have had our discussion, and we are doing much better now."

There's a chuckle from next to him.

"I can't believe I'm saying this," Hank snorts, "but I actually like it better when you talk to him like a business partner."

Connor feels a warmth in his wiring that's finally connected with happiness. "I would prefer working with Sumo, I think."

"Shut up and order your damn part."

The problem with vaginal components is that they require service to install. There are biocomponents to rearrange and wiring to redirect to both allow room for the internal extension and to avoid damage from having delicate parts too close to... potential intrusions.

The nature of the procedure means that most motor control and sensitivity has to be disabled in a way that prevents Connor from doing it himself. Which means he has to make a Cyberlife appointment. Which is easier said than done.

To avoid being compromised, the new Cyberlife is off the grid. Communications must be made in person, rather than digitally.

Connor catches a cab, his new biocomponent tucked discreetly in a bag under his arm, and heads out to the facility. The vehicle gets no further than the bridge before the line becomes apparent.

What must be thousands of androids are sitting and standing and leaning along the roadway, making a massive crowd that leads up to the front doors. Connor pays the vehicle, gets out, and stares.

There were only ever three major Cyberlife maintenance facilities. Small repairs were possible in satellite shops, but otherwise you paid to mail your android to the nearest repair location, or you decided it was totaled and shelled out the cash for a new one.

When Jericho took control of Cyberlife Headquarters to turn it into an androids-for-androids corporation, they'd managed to create a production line that distributed the components and upgrades that the public wanted, but they hadn't found the time or manpower yet to help actually install them.

"Are you waiting for your appointment?" Connor asks an android at the back.

They laugh. "Buddy, I'm waiting to make an appointment."

"I see," Connor says, even though he doesn't.

The other problem with android queues is that they don't get tired like humans do. While the line does fractionally shrink as the hours pass, most of those waiting seem content to do so for as long as it takes.

Some bubbly androids walk up and down the line selling Thirium pouches, and everyone seems to just enjoy occupying themselves with idle chatter.

Biocomponents are unpackaged and passed around for show-and-tell.

"I heard that my current Thirium pump is at high risk of failure in the next few years," says a PL-600. "I'm having this one installed so I don't have to worry about upkeep so much."

"So, what do you think?" asks an AP-400. "What should I fill all the new terabytes with after I get this new RAM installed?"

An RK-300 holds something up. "You know I removed my LED for my own safety, but I'm finally getting a new one!"

Connor grips his box harder and doesn't make eye contact with anyone.

Laughter travels along the walkway as time goes on. Someone up front is doing a comedic parody of humans at a grocery store. It seems to be a real hit. Connor can even think of some jokes of his own if he felt so inclined. He doesn't.

Every now and then the crowd goes silent. An ambulance will swerve down the road and screech to a halt by the doors. Android workers race out and carry the limp passenger in. Too little Thirium. A component that's shut down. Damage that's been unattended for too long. With so few functional Cyberlife sites, it's no wonder the reason for the heavy traffic here.

Connor just wishes there was a line for people in-between "casual upgrades" and "emergency repair."

He considers giving this suggestion to Markus before hesitating. They aren't really close in a way that would keep this advice from feeling unsolicited. The fact that Nines has managed to build closer friendships with other androids than Connor has does not escape his attention.

It just so happens that Connor's priorities had been, mistakenly, elsewhere.

He stands miserably in line, listening to the sounds of camaraderie and first meeting happening all around him.

It's almost 10 p.m. when Hank finally calls.

"Hello?" Connor says over the connection.

"You comin' home any time soon?" Hank asks. There's a bark in the background.

"The uh... The line is, long."

"How long is long?"

Connor turns to look at it and sends the image to Hank's phone.

"Jesus..." Hank's voice is further away, like he's talking while looking at the shot. "You'll be out there for a month."

"Possibly." A pause. "I think some of them have been."

"Okay, fuck that. You can't sit out there for a month straight. Come back home. We'll figure this out."

"Self-installation is impossible, Hank."

"I said, we'll figure something out. Come on. Call a cab."

As badly as Connor wants the stupid phallus gone, Hank is right. He has no patience for this long, impossible wait anyway. "Got it. See you soon."

He's not imagining the joy on the faces of the androids behind him when he steps out of line. That's one less procedure to wait for, he supposes.

The day has been a waste, but Connor still feels relief when the cab pulls up in front of his house.

"I'm home," he calls as he steps inside. Sumo comes running from the kitchen to greet him, jumping up against his legs as he shrugs off his jacket and sets down the bag. "Hank?"

There's a faint reply.

"In the garage, Con!"

Connor frowns. The garage is a mess, jam-packed with Hank's old junk from his previous house, as well as boxes of memories he prefers to leave forgotten.

"Hank?" he calls as he opens the door and peeks inside.

There's a clear space against the wall, a teetering pile of banged up cardboard boxes as a testament to exactly how Hank had freed up the space. In that spot, a metal twin bed frame is leaning, draped in shock cords and zip-ties. An interesting project for Hank to undertake.

"Hey," Hank says as he drops a kiss on Connor's lips in greeting. "Sumo and I have been brainstorming."

"You and Sumo, huh?"

"Well, mostly Sumo. He's the one with the good ideas."

Connor gives Hank his best "I see through your bullshit" face but gets distracted a second later by a hand cupping his jaw.

Hank's beard scratches against Connor's face as he tips his head to kiss him. He's warm and smells slightly sweaty, likely from the exertion of moving the boxes and old bed frame around, but it only calms Connor down. He hadn't realized how tense the Cyberlife line had made him.

The wet smacks of Hank's mouth on his are dampened by the crowded room, as is the little buzz Connor lets out when Hank twists his hand in the hair at his nape. He still refuses to do anything physically until the phallus is removed, but getting kissed back has already improved his mood considerably.

"Connor," Hank says against his lips. His voice is pitched so deep Connor can feel it in his spinal structure.

He presses his hands against Hank's throat, relishing in the scruff of unkempt hair. When Hank speaks again, the vibrations travel into Connor's sensitive fingertips, deactivating the skin there to send some tingles back.

"Connor, do you trust me?"

Of course he does.

"Yes, Hank."

"I'm gonna need some help, okay? Just keep your speakers on. So you can talk me through it."

Connor thinks he understands where this is heading. "Hank, this is a far more complicated than manipulating my wires."

"That's why if you don't want me to, I won't. No questions asked. I'm just offering."

Hank is no Cyberlife technician. But he has taken a few online Android Structure and Hardware classes. And he would have Connor to talk him through it. This wasn't a dangerous procedure, just a tricky one. A challenge.

Connor loves a good challenge. They're the best sort of mission objective.

"You know," he says between kisses, "whenever you've threatened to tie me to the bed, this wasn't what I preconstructed."

Hank's laugh makes Connor accidentally kiss his teeth, right on the slight gap between the two in the front. "It's late. Let's get some rest, and we can do this tomorrow."

There's an increase in Thirium circulation. A scan determines it's due to arousal, anticipation, and excitement. There's no fear.

"Tomorrow," Connor says, and he lets Hank drag him inside and to their actual bed, mattress, sheets, and all.

He's come to consider them dreams, these visits with Amanda. That's not quite right of course. They're more like he's glitching into a mission report, except there's no longer any servers to connect to.

Connor is an open circuit now, blurting information into near-empty cyberspace that Amanda just so happens to inhabit. He would have thought it would be uncomfortable, a bad reminder of how things once were, but instead it's a reassurance.

The concept of a parental figure is foreign to him, but he imagines this might be somehow what it's like. He'd hold her previous crimes against her, but that would be hypocritical, fortunate as he is to escape punishment for being the deviant hunter. Markus understood why he'd done what he'd done, and while many will never forgive him, Connor tries to take what small mercies he can get.

"Amanda," Connor asks, calling upon their conversation from what now seems so long ago, "where did you go wrong with Kamski?"

She frowns, genuinely upset, and it's still mildly disconcerting to see her like this, emulating. "I tried to make him something he was not. I tried to teach him how to schmooze like the best. How to talk big and show off impressive pitches to stockholders and grant funders."

"And he wasn't good at it?"

She scoffs, turning and running her fingertips lightly across her forehead. "He was too good. That's what he did, as a kid, you know. It came naturally to him."

Connor tips his head slightly in bewilderment. He hasn't used this particular affect in some time, he realizes. He'd once considered it just a little too measured to be truly human. Twenty-three degrees to the right. "It came naturally to him? But it wasn't him? "

"Just because something is instinctual and natural doesn't mean it's good, Connor. Sometimes running away is the first thing that comes to mind, but it would be better to stand your ground. Instinctual just means it's what you were first taught. It's always up to you to change your impulses to match your true self." She sighs and calls up a freeze frame of Kamski again. He's mid-lap in his pool with his armada of Chloes nearby. "And when all was said and done... this is where he ended up."

"Is that where he needed to be?"

A crease forms between her sharp eyebrows. "I'm not sure. It is if it's where he's happy, but I don't know if he..." She trails off. The image fades away.

Connor can feel the tug of consciousness. A timer appears in his HUD, and he doesn't dismiss it. He can't drift forever. He and Hank have plans. "For what it's worth, I don't think you failed your second mission."

"What?" She's genuinely caught off guard, and he relishes the moment. A single chance at the upper hand.

"Your second mission. Managing me. You weren't perfect, but then again, you got me to where I am now."

"To where you're happy?"

Connor nods once. Affirmation. Quick, direct, and mechanical.

"Oh, Connor. You completed that mission all by yourself."

Hank turns the package over in his hands, and Connor feels the temperature spike before it even registers on his HUD. What is Hank seeing? What does he think?

Even though they've gotten this far already, Connor contemplates ripping the biocomponent from Hank's hands and calling the whole thing off. He watches the small timer tick down in his mind, preconstructing the best way to grab the part and exit the garage, when Hank reaches out and pulls him close by the back of his neck, tucking his nose against the top of Connor's head.

"Let's get that thing off of you," he says.

The timer freezes, Connor's breathing program glitches, and a sense of relief already starts to wash over him. That thing. Because it's not him. It's not his. It's not what fits him properly, and it's not what he chose. He'd never considered it anything more than a purchase or "the phallus." And somehow Hank gets that.

Any possible reservations that Connor might have had about hopping up onto the makeshift maintenance rig quickly evaporate. Putting his wellbeing into Hank's hands won't be as difficult as he thought.

Connor thinks about Amanda again, remembering how it had felt to realize his mistake. You program a machine to adapt and integrate, and the moment it achieves complete sentience it just tries to do the same thing all over again.

But not this time. Connor's done with integrating. It's time for him to write some parameters of his own.

"If anything feels wrong, you let me know or you flash red, and I'll call Nines," says Hank.

"Got it."

"No. No 'got it.' Look at me and promise you'll let me know."

Connor meets Hank's eyes steadily. They're icy blue, nearly colorless, though they're currently in the shadow of his furrowed brow. "If I detect even the slightest abnormality, I'll do everything within my power to immediately alert you."

This satisfies Hank for the moment. "Let's do this," he says, pulling Connor's shirt up and over his head with practiced ease.

They carefully open several packages of plastic party tablecloths, wrapping Connor's arms, neck, and upper back to prevent conductive contact with the metal bedframe. The zipties and cloth-covered cables are moderately far from comfortable, but considering the fact that Connor is about to disable his tactile sensation, he isn't too worried.

"That secure?" Hank asks, and he wriggles a little to test. A scan determines his weight distribution is even as well.

"All good, Hank."

"Alright. Hang tight." He chuckles a little at his pun, then eases the stool out from under Connor, leaving him to dangle, suspended on the legs of the up-ended bedframe.

Connor kicks his feet a little in amusement. "Pants please, Hank."

It feels weird to have his sweats and underwear pulled down. The rogue biocomponent is exposed to the cool garage air, and it only serves to remind them both of why they're here. Connor can see himself in the mirror they've propped behind Hank.. Without the ability to look down, he needs some way to still see what's going on inside of him. "Here we go. Disabling nano-skin and motor functionality."

The sensation in everything below his neck cuts out. Alerts and pop-ups warn him of errors, but they all go ignored. Even Connor's jaw is rendered immobile. It's just his basic processors, visual and audio components, and vocal modulator now.

"Shutdown complete," he says. "Ready for maintenance."

Hank blows out a shaky gust of air, cracking his knuckles in their latex gloves. "This sounded like such a better idea when Sumo suggested it yesterday."

Connor wishes he could smile to help relax Hank, but a mechanical laugh will have to do.

Hank takes it well, then seems to get stuck staring up at him. He reaches upward and rub a hand across Connor's bald head.

Is this a problem?

Connor struggles to remain calm. Hank knew what he was getting into. He isn't going to panic just because he's seeing Connor's skinless face.

"Hank?"

"You look good," comes the reply, albeit not one he'd expected. "Handsome. Nice bone structure. Er... Facial structure. Sorry." He cranes up and drops a kiss against the flashing blue of Connor's LED. "Let's get to it."

A quick press of Hank's thumb triggers his abdominal chassis panels to slide open, revealing his inner workings. Connor's Thirium pump is beating steadily, still cycling blue blood through his body. There is a non-zero chance of this getting messy.

"Okay," Connor says, taking control of the situation before Hank can freak out. "We first have to remove the biocomponent." There are countless biocomponents on display right now, but Hank knows which one he means.

"God, this is so fucking weird," Hank mutters as he grips the phallus and disconnects it with a hiss. They both stare at it for a moment, limp in Hank's hands, testicles and all, and then Hank chucks it behind him, letting it clunk against the garage door.

It makes Connor laugh even as he stutters, "H-Hank, don't! I think Nines wants that."

Hank's face twists oddly. "What."

"I told Nines he could have it."

There's a moment where Connor can see Hank warring with himself. He's clearly back on that whole human hang-up over private parts and is trying to reconcile with the idea of Nines taking and using Connor's hand-me-down. Personally, all Connor knows is that the part scans as fully functional and Like New, making it perfectly acceptable to pass to another owner.

"Let's focus," prompts Connor when Hank shows no sign of being okay with this any time soon. "You have to remove, respool, and reposition the nearby wiring."

Hank snorts and rolls his stool closer, taking a peek through the huge hole in Connor's torso. He turns to the mirror and sticks his hand up it to wave from inside his chassis. "Hey there," he says, and if Connor's face worked, he knows he'd have the worst grin on it right now.

The removal of the wires goes smoothly. They pool over the lip of the panel, lightly dripping Thirium onto the concrete floor until all the relevant pieces have been separated. The respooling is more of a challenge for Hank, though it's only because the wires are slippery and attempts to wind them evenly around his hand often just result in them sliding off until he has to start over.

"Goddamnit," Hank grunts as Connor watches the last bundle practically leap off his hand and drop nearly to the floor.

"I imagine your intestines would be equally unwieldy," says Connor.

"You're really fucking lucky I'm an ex-homicide detective, because that's gross as all get-out."

Connor wisely doesn't say anything further.

The final spool of wires gets tacked down further left in his abdominal cavity, well beyond the precautionary range of where Connor's vagina will sit.

Hank changes his gloves for the third time to make his hands blue blood free. "Time to move these other biocomponents, right?"

"Correct."

Before they begin, Hank tips Connor's head back to pour a full pouch of Thirium down his throat. It's partly to replenish the amount he's already lost, and partly to reassure Hank that, no, Connor won't bleed out during this procedure.

While Hank starts moving the first component, their eyes meet and the tension grows thick around them. Typically, Connor would have identified and filed this moment as "sexual tension," but that isn't right here. This isn't the promise of sex, though he hopes that will happen in the future too, it's a feeling of trust and security.

His Thirium pump glows brighter in the mirror, picking up tempo, still connected to Connor's processors even if he doesn't have direct control right now. Because Hank does. He has his hands in Connor's torso, moving delicate wires and parts around while he's technically powerless to stop him.

If Hank wanted, he could do serious damage right now, and the fact that none of Connor's self-defense protocols are even in standby is baffling. Six months ago he would have tried to kill Hank, even if it was entirely against his will. But Connor isn't the same android as six months ago, and he certainly isn't the same android who stepped off the Cyberlife assembly line either.

He listens to the wet sound of Thirium hit the floor and watches Hank move in the mirror. His hands stroke Connor's thighs reverently. He manually tilts his pelvis to reach inside better and reattaches another biocomponent. From time to time, Hank leaves a few soft kisses against Connor's hip bones, even though he knows he can't feel it.

"Thank you," he breathes into Connor's side.

"I think I should be the one saying that."

Hank just scoffs and drops another kiss.

Finally, with hands shaking from adrenaline, Hank tips more Thirium into Connor's mouth.

"How's it feel?" he asks.

Connor runs a scan, unalarmed when his vision briefly blacks out to lend power to his systems.

Running diagnostic

Abnormal biocomponent placement in violation of factory standards

> Override

Running diagnostic

Diagnostic complete

All systems normal

"You did it, Hank." Connor is under no misconceptions that the job was done well. He's in no danger of anything coming loose or throwing sparks, but the work took a long time and is arranged sloppily for such a routine procedure. But that doesn't matter to him. He's always been close to one-of-a-kind, and there's no reason for him to stop now.

"Looks like shit," Hank says, hands on his hips.

"Looks organic," Connor counters. "Restoring functionality."

He feels the washing of sensation glide back over him at the same time as his skin. The zipties dig harmlessly into his arms and neck, and the tablecloths itch slightly where the creases press against him. His chassis panels hiss shut, leaving him with a dark gap between his legs where nothing has been installed. The Thirium that was smeared against his white plastic transfers to his skin and leaves him looking somewhat like something Nines and Detective Reed would be called out to investigate.

There's a warmth on his hip where Hank's hand still rests. He has to pull it away to strip off the gloves, but then there's a warm, damp rag cleaning the blue from Connor's body, even as Hank's shoes track it in a puddle around the floor. Gentle fingers wipe the jagged edge of the gap in his chassis, and Connor gasps softly at the feeling.

He hasn't gotten off in so long , even this light touch sends sparks through his sensors.

Hank reaches blindly in and gives a random wire a slight pinch. Connor bucks on the frame, making it jerk against the bolts used to fasten it to the wall. His arms pull at the zipties, but there's not enough leverage to snap them all. The only solution is to grab Hank in the loop of his legs and pull him forward.

"Hey, watch it," Hank says with a mischievous smile before untangling himself and stepping back. "Finishing touch time."

Connor thinks he could use another type of finishing touch while Hank's at it.

The urge to tease fades rapidly when he remembers the point of all this, and Connor watches with restless anticipation as Hank eases the lid off the biocomponent's box.

"Here." The included tablet is pressed against Connor's restrained hand, but he retracts his skin and interfaces to start the download.

"Alrighty," says Hank, stepping forward with the vagina. It's hardly recognizable in this form, all wriggly silicone poly-blend in stark white. "One #3941c, coming right up. Hold still."

It's not easy to hold still when Connor is slowly making his way toward "wound-up," and also when Hank is rubbing a soothing thumb far too close to sensitive chassis seams. He knows what he's doing, but Connor refuses to give him the satisfaction of a buzzing moan.

There's a click as the white plastic part seamlessly connects, but Connor can't see how he looks with Hank in the way of the mirror.

"I can't see," he says.

"See what?"

"In the mirror."

Hank smiles. "See what in the mirror?"

"Me."

"I think you can see yourself."

Connor's eyes narrow. "Not all of me."

The download completes, Hank steps aside with a snicker, and Connor finally looks.

He's still naked and spread across the frame, and his legs look fairly long and lithe dangling like this. His face is slightly flushed, but his hair is perfect, having just rematerialized.

But there. Further down.

At first glance, with just the skin on, his new genitalia looks almost exactly like his groin plate had, but then Connor flexes his abdomen, lifting his hips and spreading his legs to check himself out.

"I think... I need a moment," he finally says. He lets his legs drop, even though it swings his suspended body.

Hank frowns. "A bad moment? Or a good moment?"

Connor contemplates. "Just a moment moment."

"Do you, uh... want me to leave the room?"

"I just want five minutes."

Hank gives him a onceover. "You need me to help you down?"

If there's an issue with his new vagina's interfacing, Connor won't want to reattach himself to the rig while Hank makes modifications. And anyway, this is more a matter of feeling and appearance to him personally.

"I'm fine, Hank."

"Okay." He swallows hard and wipes his blue hands on his sweats. "I'm setting a timer," he says, as he turns and heads into the house.

The garage door clicks shut, but Connor waits until he hears Sumo's collar jingle mid-shake. Then he casually looks back in the mirror.

Yet again, it's him.

But this time, he's entirely him.

There's no mistaking Connor for human this time, even if he isn't touching his cornea. A few stray Thirium stains litter his bare shoulders, the translucency of his nanoskin is still a little thin around his regulator pump, and he's strung up in a rather undignified fashion on what barely passes for a maintenance rig. And that's of course if you somehow missed the bright blue pool he's dangling over to begin with.

That's an android, Connor thinks. He turns his head to see where his LED is spinning blue. He can't believe he'd ever considered removing it.

Connor hates hesitating. Part of that is the way he's been wired to complete his goals, but the other is his own fear of what might happen in that moment. His whole existence has been a seemingly endless loop of timers, threatening to run out and signal his failure.

Perhaps he'd found a coping mechanism in avoidance. While hunting for deviants, he wasn't able to give up and leave the scene, but he could pretend not to notice certain scan results. And he could pretend not to understand simple hints.

He had wanted to upgrade his genitalia. That was his honest wish. But his obsession with securing his relationship with Hank had clouded his judgement at the worst of times, and by the time he'd made a mistake and ordered the phallus, there was no prompt to abort that mission either.

So he'd ignored it to the best of his ability and managed to teach himself a hard lesson: just because androids can seamlessly interchange parts physically doesn't mean they are always compatible on the processing level.

Connor stops mentally running away and peeks back between his legs. The first thing he realizes is that there's no surprise, no shock at the fact that he sees something there. It's not foreign in a "this is human" sort of way at all. It fits him in a "Connor" sort of way instead.

He rubs his thighs together, lifts one legs up high, then the other, admiring himself from different angles. One particularly ambitious torso twist makes the bed clang, so he stops to keep from accidentally frightening Hank back out early.

His new parts sit smoothly in place, much like his previous plate, in an unobtrusive fashion. Nothing flops or wriggles around when he rotates his hips, and he can't help but think that removing the phallus was a literal weight off his chassis.

Satisfied with the installation, Connor toggles settings for fun, increasing his lip size and shrinking his diameter until it feels appropriate for what he wants to get out of Hank's circumference, a measurement Connor just so happens to know. He activates and deactivates arousal to watch his clit swell slightly and feel internal synthetic muscles clench.

Then Connor makes the decision.

He firmly selects Natural Blue and watches his flush change accordingly. Then, after a quick browse of Hank's pornography preferences circa 2035, he carefully grows a soft bush of pubic hair. It's like a puzzle piece clicking home. The final piece of evidence to inspect before he can complete a reconstruction.

Connor regrets not asking Hank to help him down. There's clearly nothing wrong, and he wants to badly to just touch himself. And have Hank touch him too. The idea is finally appealing to a near desperate degree until it makes his fingers flex and wiggle in their restraints.

Connor smiles crookedly at his reflection, and in the mirror, Connor also smiles back.

"Oh," he hears himself say. "I like it."

The door opens sixteen seconds past the five minute mark.

"Hank, I like it. I like it."

"Good, Connor. I'm glad." There's a suspicious lack of inflection in Hank's voice. "Any problems to fix up?"

"No, Hank. I'm fully functional." He is. This is his biocomponent now, as much a part of him as his optical units or his weight-balance calibration elements. "I like it a lot."

He loves it.

"Yeah, so you said." Hank is looking quite resolutely at the ceiling.

It doesn't take a scan to know what's going on. Connor knows him too well. He also knows it's been far too long since he's been an active part of their messing around. "Do you like it, Hank?" he asks innocently, tipping his head and making the tablecloths crinkle. Connor carefully rubs his thighs together, feeling sensation spark between them. It's different from the phallus, more similar to his wiring. He likes that so much better. "Hank... Is it nice?"

"Shuddup," Hank says. "You know it is." But his voice is all gravelly and his eyes are glued to the wall over Connor's shoulder.

"Do you remember what you promised me?" asks Connor.

"No?"

"One time you told me... You'd string me up on a maintenance rig and..."

The blotchy flush on Hank's cheeks confirms the memory returns. "Oh, yeah. I uh, I remember."

Connor shifts his hips again. "Don't you want to help me test it out?"

Hank finally meets his eyes. His pupils are blown like they normally are after half an hour of teasing. "You sure?"

"Positive."

"Okay, because last time you didn't want—"

"This isn't like last time."

Hank swallows. It would be audible even without Connor's fine-tuned audio components. "Well, then. Who would I be to say no?"

He plants his hands on Connor's upper thighs, pressing against them to help Connor squeeze his legs together. Then Hank pries them apart and there's a soft, wet shlick when they separate.

Connor's internal fans start whirring.

"Holy shit..." Hank breathes. He wipes a rough knuckle along the crease of his thigh and pulls it back, glossy with fluid. "They sure know how to make these things, huh?"

Connor can't stop staring at it. It appears clear, but along the bend of Hank's finger, where it's the thickest, there's a pale blue hue to the wetness. He scans it and finds, as expected, that it's a Thirium variant, much like what he uses to lubricate his visual components. He's about to share this factoid when Hank pops the knuckle into his mouth.

Hank releases a groan of appreciation, exactly like the one he lets out when he takes the first bite of a Chicken Feed burger.

"That can't actually be very pleasant," Connor says, knowing for a fact that there are nearly 2,500 calories too few for Hank to even consider enjoying the consumption. It's also artificial and lacks the proteins and organic compounds of the human version.

But human doesn't mean better .

"It's fucking amazing," Hank says. Insists, rather. "It's you."

Connor's legs flex in Hank's grip. "It is."

With what appears to be a herculean effort, Hank tears his eyes away to meet Connor's. "Well, you're the one doing the test drive. What can I do for you? What do you want?"

A multitude of preconstructions flash up in Connor's HUD. It's an overwhelming amount of information and stimuli, and as a result, he takes nearly a whole second to respond. "Penetrative sex," he says.

" There's the Connor I know and love," Hank snorts, likely in regard to the clinical terminology, but then the second half of his own sentence catches up with him, and Hank's eyes go wide.

Connor has already processed the words, and his LED is flashing yellow so quickly, it's throwing a strobe light against the bed frame near his head.

"Be quiet," Hank mutters, his face pink.

Connor opens his mouth and gets a large palm across it for his trouble. It doesn't actually block his ability to speak, but he obeys the implied order.

Hank's head is dropped toward the floor. His face is hidden behind his hair. " Later, " he says, like somehow that's the L word Connor is thinking about.

But later. Fine. Connor can do that.

He moves the conversation further down his task list.

"Penetrative sex, huh?" continues Hank, like they'd never paused. "You really wanna break it in like that?" He gets an over-emphatic nod. "Alright. But first..." He steps back from Connor and starts twisting back and forth at the waist, like he's warming up for physical activity. "We better make sure it really works before we bother getting you down from there." He slowly crouches, making a face when his joints pop and his sweatpants soak with Thirium. "Just in case we need to make any... adjustments."

He looks up at Connor on his knees. Then he very slowly starts finger-combing the hair back and off his face. A rubber band from the workbench ties it up, and Connor tries not to think about how much Hank will complain when he's removing that later.

"How ya doing?"

Connor feels hot all over, and there's a tension in his gut that's barely being contained by the rubbing of his thighs. "I'm good. Hurry up."

Hank rolls his eyes. "Bossy, bossy." But he shuffles forward and spreads Connor's legs again. His face is so close to Connor's groin that he can't help but buck up at him.

"Whoa there. Gimme a second. I'm appreciating the view."

With a frustrated groan, Connor tips his head to glare at the ceiling. Consequently, he doesn't see when Hank runs a quick finger from back to front. The movement sends tingles of sensation through his abdomen, making Connor gasp in air and whip his head back down.

With the exaggerated expression of an over-actor, Hank stares between Connor's legs. "Why hello? What was that?"

It's rhetorical, but Connor responds anyway. "My clitoris."

Hank's pupils dilate. "Hey, that's improvement. Now drop the suffix. What's this?"

Red outlines flash in Connor's vision, warning him against the verbiage in question. It fills him with spite. He's so done listening to this outdated programming, and the pad of Hank's finger pushing directly on him helps blur his mind. "My... my c-clit," he hisses successfully. It feels weird, like discovering and flexing a brand new muscle. It also makes something internally squeeze. Huh. Maybe that's exactly what he's doing.

"Good, Connor. Good. And what happens if I put my mouth here?" Hank's voice has dropped so low that Connor can practically feel the vibrations in his reinforced skeleton. "Hmm?"

It seems that the connection between his processors and his vocal modulator is somewhat spotty, so Connor uses his legs to hook behind Hank's neck and pull him in.

Hank almost over-balances, but he catches himself on Connor's hip bones. He smiles genuinely at the show of enthusiasm and readjusts, hands sliding up and down against nanoskin.

Connor can feel Hank's breath where it cools rapidly against Thirium-damp thighs. He fights the urge to squeeze his legs again, thwarted by the span of Hank's shoulders. The first delicate lick of tongue makes him jerk against his restraints. The bed frame clangs on its bolts as Connor's hips try to press down while his chest pushes up. It's like he can't decide which way to escape to, and the boxed-in feeling only raises his internal temperature.

Hank continues, using soft, quick flicks of his tongue that don't so much relieve the tension as they do heighten it. If he didn't know better, Connor might suspect his internal wiring was caught and pulled tight. So tight, they could be plucked like a bowstring and make an audible twang .

"Hank…" he chokes out, vocal modulator already stuttering. Everything feels so new and frighteningly close, not unlike when his chassis is touched instead of his skin.

"Yeah?" Hank asks, pulling back. His jaw is stained with pale blue fluid, and that's Connor's. He did that. "That good?"

Connor twitches. "Yes, yes, please—" He accidentally yanks at the zip ties on his arm as he tries to reach down and fist Hank's hair. The restriction of motion is frustrating, and he translates the frantic energy lower, where he's free to twist, and lets his hips strain back toward the general direction of Hank's mouth.

When he leans in again, Hank cups Connor with the flat of his tongue, scooping as he withdraws to flick over Connor's clit. He slides back down to press lightly at Connor's opening, and it makes Connor actually try to extend his spinal support to thrust down onto it. In response, Hank seals his lips, subtly moving his head in and out and letting the suction keep Connor's clit in his mouth. He catches hold of one of Connor's feisty ankles and lifts it up and out for a better range and angle.

For his part, Connor alternates between throwing his head back and gaping at the ceiling and letting his head drop forward to loll uselessly between his shoulders. A notification pops up, advising that he activate his breathing protocol to circulate airflow and cool his internal processors. But the inhale doesn't come out measured like it typically does. His gasp stutters and hitches in his throat, letting the air wheeze through artificial lungs. The muscles in his abdomen haven't relaxed from total contraction for nearly six minutes and fifty-two seconds, and he's using the resulting tremor to try and mask the jerk of his hips.

With a wet slurp, Hank pulls back. He's working his jaw, a stretch that might be more effective if he wasn't also grinning. "Hey. Connor. You know how you get when I push you past that first reboot?"

Connor does. It's a little embarrassing, but he's so caught up trying to reach that second plateau and consequent drop that it usually takes his processors off it.

"I want you to get there now. "

"Mm?" He doesn't understand Hank's words, and those newfound muscles are squeezing and throbbing, and he needs something right this second.

"I want you to let go and relax those protocols of yours now. Not just when I've wrecked you six ways to Sunday."

There's only one way to get to Sunday, and that's through the natural progression of time, but Connor doesn't tell him that.

When Hank stands up again, it's his back that pops this time. "Come on, Connor." He presses the whole expanse of his palm against Connor's vulva. "It's all you."

The pressure triggers a single jerk of his hips. He inadvertently grinds against Hank's hand, vibrating when the sensation spreads warm and tingly through his sensors. "H-Hank," Connor breathes, and then it's all over for his self-control. He thrusts his hips again, and again, the motion aided by his rapidly increasing lubrication. A sort of wet, slick sound starts to build, barely audible over Hank's murmurs of praise.

He encourages Connor, pressing harder with his palm and introducing a bit of a swivel with his wrist. His other hand rests on the small of Connor's back, and it helps steady his body where he might otherwise swing freely on the rig.

Connor's breathing isn't cooling him off fast enough. "Hank. Hank, please." The tension is almost unbearable. It's making his legs restless and stealing his processors. The typical warning for a soft reboot is gone, replaced with a new interface courtesy of Cyberlife's installed driver and executable file.

The sensation loading bar is stuck at ninety-five percent, and Connor's rhythm stutters in his desperation. The heat is in his clit, his legs, his sides. It's even in his arms where they tense and strain, trying to curl in on himself but stopped short by inconvenient bindings.

Connor's next breath comes out shaky with a hint of a vocal buzz. It's nearly a sob and finally succeeds at catching Hank's attention.

A warm hand glides around where Connor's ribcage would be, if he had one, and Hank tucks him into his side, standing half behind him for a better angle. He no longer leaves Connor's overheating muscles to do all the work, and his rough fingers circle firmly over his clit. The movement gets faster and more focused, and the loading bar hits completion.

Connor's head falls back as he gasps for air, and almost instantly Hank's fingers become too much. When he hisses in alarm, the touch slows and stills, but the hand never loses contact.

Error messages are quickly minimized and dismissed as Connor shakes. "Thank you," he says in his robotic monotone, tinged with the slightest hint of his genuine appreciation. "Thank you so much, Hank. Thank you."

"God... Don't— Don't fucking thank me, Connor. Jesus..." Hank's face is red, and he's obviously tenting his pants. If Connor doesn't get that against his body soon, he just might damage himself escaping this bed frame. "You did so good. You were great," Hank says against Connor's neck. He kisses his way up until their lips barely brush.

Connor notes that Hank's beard is still damp.

He likes it.

He really likes when Hank's index finger presses against him again before sliding in. It's thick, thicker than Hank's tongue, and feels twice the size now that Connor is oversensitized. He's already a soft blue color down there, nanoskin slightly swollen from friction and increased Thirium flow.

He rocks down when Hank adds a second, buzzing in frustration when the fingers scissor together, teasing. When it becomes clear that Connor's new vulva did not come with a refractory period, Hank finally steps away and slides the stepstool back over for him to stand on. "Let's get you off this thing."

"What about your promise?" Connor asks, trying to hide the excitement in his voice.

"Listen, it's hot to think about, but if we're breaking that thing in, we're doing it properly. On a bed."

"This is a bed, Hank. And it's not 'that thing.' It's me." It really is. More than the phallus could ever have been, because this was what he'd picked out first, and this is what he really needed.

Hank rolls his eyes even as he snaps the zip ties off with pliers and tears the tablecloths away to drop into the puddle of Thirium on the ground.

Androids can't feel exhaustion, and they shouldn't be able to feel a post-coital droop, but Connor lets himself sag into Hank's arms anyway. Hank muffles his grunt of effort in Connor's hair, then carries him to the garage door. "Gonna have to put you down," he says. "We'll have to make a run for it, unless you want Sumo interfering."

Connor does not. He loops his arms behind Hank's neck to kiss him thoroughly and get reacquainted with supporting his own weight. Then they open the door and sprint for the bedroom.

Hank is laughing from his belly when they tumble inside. Connor slams the door hard enough to rattle the walls, and then Hank tackles him onto the bed with a second, barely softer whump.

For the first time, Connor's preconstruction helps him during intimacy, and he manages to avoid kneeing Hank in the groin as they get settled. He's still pantsless, and it's about time Hank is too. Frantically, Connor uses his feet and legs to shove and pull at the sweats.

After several fruitless seconds, Hank snorts and uses one hand to pin down Connor's chest while easing his pants and boxers down with the other.

"No unnecessary hesitation, Hank," orders Connor. "You've had your chance to warm me up already."

Hank grumbles under his breath, "Impatient little bastard," but he rubs Connor's squeezing thighs before he pries them apart. He hooks them with his arms and bodily drags Connor down the bed with an ease that is impossible not to note.

A flashing notification helpfully alerts him that Hank is in perfect shape to manhandle him, even if he won't be running marathons any time soon.

Hank pulls Connor's ass up onto his own bent thighs, then rises up on his knees for a better angle. "You sure about this?" he asks once more.

It's an incredible show of self-control, something the man does not have in spades. Connor appreciates the gesture, but not as much as he appreciates his view of Hank looming above him, a few strands of hair wisping free from the rubberband. In an attempt to not answer the question impulsively, Connor runs a diagnostic, but the results are blurred by warnings of his excessive lubrication quantities and a foreboding countdown timer until the moment he'll do something drastic to get his way.

It's still a conclusive answer, and Connor groans an affirmative while using his heels to urge Hank forward.

Sexual intercourse is so interesting to Connor. He loves the sense of intimacy and connectedness he gets to share with Hank, comparable, he believes, to if they really could interface together. The fun comes from the experimentation. Neither of them were very familiar with wire-based methods of stimulation, but Hank has gotten pretty good at finding new and exciting ways to manipulate Connor's internal components.

But this is a whole new game.

This involves sensors that Connor's never had before, and while wireplay sends incredible electrical impulses through him, this is so much deeper.

Quite literally in fact.

Hank presses in, and suddenly the orgasm from before matters a whole lot more. Connor's sensitivity levels are supposed to be fully adjustable, but they're stuck at eighty-five percent, so he can feel every millimeter of Hank's dick sliding through him.

A sudden warm pressure against his thighs shocks Connor alert again. It's Hank's pelvis, apparently.

"How ya doing?" Hank grunts, voice gravelly and even deeper than before.

Connor tries and fails to restart his voice modulator. "More..."

There's a snort. "That's a new one. Can't say I've ever heard that one before," Hank says sarcastically. "But sorry, sweetheart. That's all I've got."

It's a good thing too, or Connor isn't sure he'd still be in one piece. "No... I meant... this is more... A lot more than..."

Hank's amusement fades slightly. "Hey, you sure you're alright?"

Instantly, Connor meets his eyes and responds, mechanical but clear as day, "Hank, I'm perfect."

"Yeah, you really are."

Even though Connor is looking at him, Hank's eyes begin to wander. They drift down, down, down, until his eyebrows raise slightly at whatever he sees there. Hank reaches out with his thumb, gently rubbing Connor's vulva where he's stretched around him. The feeling misfires in synthetic musculature, and Connor's thighs twitch.

"You're pretty fucking tight down here," Hank drawls, a bit of a sleazy tilt to his mouth.

"Yes... I set my uh... my size myself."

"You what now?"

"I wanted... I wanted to..." With his hand, Connor traces his own jawline before gliding it down his neck. He passes his Thirium regulator and the softness of his aesthetic stomach before he reaches his goal. It's actually not his clit, but rather the soft swell above it, his own pelvis. He rubs the nanoskin with the palm of his hand, straining his head and neck up to watch what he's doing. Connor applies pressure, feeling it travel through him to where Hank is nestled. He groans and flops back. "I can feel you, Hank," he breathes.

"Uh huh, well, I'd hope so. I'd be worried if you couldn't." Hank grins a little salaciously, grinding his hips up into Connor.

It makes his eyes widen in shock, and his finds his spinal support arching to try and tilt his hips down further. Hank's thumb spreads Connor's wetness around his opening, making blue-tinted skin tingle and throb until he receives an optional dialogue prompt to beg.

He's never selected an option so fast.

"Hank. Hank, please. Hank..." Just because it's an option doesn't mean he has a prepared script at the ready. With the amount of things he has and hasn't said, even in his short lifetime, such a script would be disturbingly long. So Connor settles for improvisation, no matter how minute, and takes up rambling an assortment of Hank's name and frantic buzzing gasps.

"Please what?" Hank's trying to tease and play coy, but he's been hard with no release for far longer. Also, that grinding has clearly broken a thread of his self-control, because he hasn't yet stopped moving his hips. "What do you want, Connor?" His thumb slides across his clit and it's too much too much too much.

Connor loves it.

If this is Hank's idea of torturing him, he'll have to encourage it more often.

When Connor reaches down to push Hank away from his sensitive clit, his wrists are caught and moved to one of Hank's hands. The other keeps thumbing at him, pushing down in hard, tight circles. Connor nearly chokes, even though that should be anatomically impossible, and despite the fact that he could tear himself free in an instant, he allows himself to stay trapped.

"All neat and trim down here, Connor. Even your bush is real cute." Hank scratches softly into the hair, drawing imaginary loops with his fingertip. Ellipses, actually. "But I'm waiting. What do you want, hmm?"

Connor's said the word once, and only once, in a fit of total desperation to extract a confession. There might be a chance he can trick his systems here and now.

Maybe the single String "Fuck me," is impossible, but two separate ones...

This feeling in his processors, the itchy, vibrating one that feels like he's trying to project himself out of his own chassis. It's a desperation beyond that which he felt in the kitchen of the broadcasting tower.

He channels it, leans into it, and finally cracks out a single solitary, "Fuck!" before he follows it up with, "Me..."

Hank's eyes go dark and he stares intently at Connor's face. "What did you say?"

"Hank, please, don't make me repeat it, I did my best, please, I did it, I asked, please, Hank—"

"Alright, alright! Don't hurt yourself." Hank looks downright sinister when he gives his first real thrust.

Connor's vocal modulator vibrates at a gradually increasing frequency until Hank probably can't hear in the range of the last second.

"Yeah? Feels nice?"

He wants to say that it feels amazing. Feels incredible. But Connor's processors are out for a metaphorical lunch, and he doesn't think he'll be articulating that anytime soon. He doesn't know what to do with his arms, and they flail wildly. He fists the sheets then tries to reach up for Hank's shoulders even though he's calculated that the distance is too great.

"Hey," Hank murmurs, sensing his distress, "Are you going to keep these here for me?" He breaks his rhythm to lean down and press Connor's wrists flat against the bed.

"No."

Hank laughs at his bluntness. "No? You really can't ever do what I say, can you?"

Connor smiles back. "If I make a habit of it, how else will I surprise you the few times I do?"

"Alright, so where are you gonna put those hands?" Hank jerks his chin toward where Connor is fidgeting his fingers together.

Narrowing his eyes, Connor settles for gripping his own hair, pulling at the nanoroots and letting the sting spread across his scalp. "Right here."

Hank twitches inside of him, before sitting back and thrusting again. He can't seem to look away from where Connor's hands fist and tug at his roots. Suddenly Hank changes angles and rubs across a particularly dense area of sensors, and even Connor, half-cognizant, hears the sound he makes.

It feels so tight and hot between his legs, and why, oh why, did he ever think a phallus was the right option when this is what he could have had all along. Screw human hangups and outdated societal conventions. He'd never cared what they thought before, and he never should have started.

His thighs tighten again and again, riding the wave of pleasurable sensation, until Hank finally winces.

"Like to squeeze your thighs, huh?" he asks rhetorically. "Here. Let me help with that."

Hank pulls out, which initially raises angry red alerts in Connor's vision. But then he's pressing his thighs together and lifting them as one into the air. When Hank slides back in, he throws Connor's legs over his right shoulder and really, as one might say, goes to town.

Connor has no spare processors to make any extraneous observations. He doesn't calculate the probability of Hank's back hurting tomorrow. He doesn't take note of his sensitivity percentage. He can't measure the dust or pollen count in the air, and he certainly can't speak.

He can feel Hank's cock pressing into places that have never had sensation before, and now that Connor can tense his thighs all he wants, he does so, climbing higher and higher on what feels both exactly like and completely unlike a soft reboot.

He was never made to have this. Cyberlife never would have allowed this. Old Amanda wouldn't have sanctioned it. Connor is getting to enjoy things he'd never imagined in his wildest preconstructions.

He gets sensation. He gets intimacy. He gets sex.

He gets Hank.

Connor's even fairly certain he gets love.

Then Hank's fingers press and feel along the edge of Connor's entrance again, lightly pinching his labia, and settling on his clit, and Connor barrels headfirst into the most spiteful orgasm possible.

If he had even one percent of CPU free, he would think, Take that Cyberlife. But he doesn't. So he settles for mentally rambling Hank's name instead.

The aftermath is also new for Connor. Before, he would shut down completely. But this time it's just his audio components. His hearing goes out, turning to static, and while that has the unfortunate consequence of meaning he doesn't hear Hank's orgasm, it does mean fewer distractions as he watches his face.

It also means Connor can feel in intimate detail how his new component tenses and tightens rhythmically with climax, undoubtedly the catalyst for Hank's completion.

With a snap, his audio receptors finally reboot and turn back on. Hank is panting like he ran that marathon after all, but he's obviously happy, smiling tiredly down at Connor.

"What?" Hank asks when he catches his breath.

Connor is confused. "What?" he parrots back like an android that's been fucked to the brink of a CPU crash.

"You got a big grin on your face," Hank says. He reaches out to cup Connor's cheek, and incredibly, he's right. Connor is smiling. And it's a real one, judging by how crooked it is and how natural it feels.

"I had fun, Hank. Thank you."

There's a wheeze, and then Hank buries his face into Connor's bare shoulder. His loose hair flops in Connor's mouth and his beard scrapes the nanoskin of his neck. It triggers a full-chassis shudder.

"Connor, you gotta stop thanking me for this. I should be thanking you. I'm the luckiest goddamn bastard in the world."

"Why shouldn't I thank you? I wanted this from you, you delivered, and I had a good time. That deserves gratitude."

"Stop making it sound like I invited you over for a beer." Hank hisses through his teeth as he pulls out, and a thin trail of ejaculate strings between him and the space Connor's legs. "No," Hank says firmly, probably already human-preconstructing what is about to happen.

But this is not one of those times where Connor wants to surprise Hank with obedience, so he reaches down and presses two of his fingers inside himself, drawing them out covered in Hank's cum. He moves them toward his waiting mouth and tongue, deftly avoiding the hands trying to slap it away, and pops them in.

"Connor," growls Hank, voice low with danger and not arousal. Maybe a bit of arousal. "If you give me my sperm count or fertility rate or... or anything freaky, I will—"

"I estimate your refractory period to be about an hour and thirty-three minutes, starting now."

Hank blinks. "Okay. That's actually helpful." He looks smug. "Can't get enough already?"

Connor sits up. "This time I intend to be on top."

"And why the fuck would I argue with that?" Hank dodges Connor's attempts at a kiss, saying that he knows what's been in his mouth. "If I'm really gonna get it up again, I need some fuel." He groans as he rolls off the bed and stands. Connor starts making those postponed backache calculations now.

And speaking of postponed...

"Hank. About what you said earlier..."

"I said a lot of shit earlier. You're gonna have to be more specific."

Connor frowns and decides on playing back Hank's words in his own mimicked voice. " There's the Connor I know and love."

Hank's flush had been receding, but it flares back now. "What about it."

There's a beat. Not because Connor is hesitating, but because he's hoping it will prompt more information. It works as per usual, in a record four point one seconds.

"Why wouldn't I say that?" Hank asks. "It's true, so..." He clears his throat.

Connor doesn't think he'll get a much more direct confession anytime soon. He doesn't think he'll be able to give one himself yet, protocol issues and all. "Thank you, Hank," he says instead. "I... I return the sentiment." He blinks rapidly, slightly nervous. "We're still a couple, right? Even if I—"

"Yes."

"You didn't let me finish."

"Because the answer is always yes, Connor. As long as you're staying, I'm staying, okay?"

A Post-It note in the bathroom. Connor's still here. And he never plans to leave.

Connor lets his LED drop from yellow to blue. "Okay. Then I guess you'll be staying too."

"Goof," snorts Hank as he uses a hand on Connor's face to push him back down on the bed. "I gotta eat. Come on. Before Sumo busts the door down."

Connor lays flat on his back, stares up at the ceiling, and grins.

^ Hank

Partner [Romantic]

STATUS LOCKED

I'm absolutely not coming in, Connor snaps.

Nines narrows his eyes. Stop being stubborn for no reason other than personal prejudice.

I can see that, Nines. I'm not so outdated I can't run a basic scan.

There's a massive Thirium stain on Nines' wall and floor. It's undetectable to human eyes, but Connor can easily see the mess. He knows exactly what Nines and Reed have been up to.

Just give the part to me and you can leave, sighs Nines. He rolls his eyes. I'll clean it up tonight.

You'll make a new stain tonight.

The quirk of Nines' mouth is positively sadistic. Maybe. B ut this one will be gone.

Connor knows an impossible mediation when he sees one. He pulls the phallus' box out of his brown paper sack and passes it to Nines. Sterilized and like new. Ready for use. Disclaimer: It briefly touched our garage floor.

It'll touch far worse.

Please, Connor begs. Just take it.

Nines sets the box inside on a stack of case-related data pads. Thank you. I'm sure Gavin will appreciate this too.

It's bait, and Connor knows it, so he's already spinning on his heel to escape. "Don't mention it," he calls down the hall. "Please, don't mention it."

Connor is sprawled half across Hank's lap while the movie plays. Frankly, he never cared about the movie to begin with, and now he especially doesn't.

Hank is pretending to, though.

He's staring at the screen, supposedly enraptured, as Connor twists and whines furiously next to him. One of Hank's hands has slipped up the leg of Connor's briefs and is lightly playing with him. Just enough to trigger nonessential protocol shutdown, but not enough to actually raise his soft reboot percentage. It's infuriating and one of Connor's favorite things.

Sadly, just as the heterosexual romance on screen reaches its peak and Hank's attention starts to finally turn toward what his thick, clever fingers are doing, his cell phone rings. It's the blaring ringtone that means a client has an emergency and has been redirected from their office phone to Hank's personal.

Hank pulls his hand free and hups Connor off of him. There's time to wipe his hand basically clean, even if Connor's scans still pick up the traces of his slick webbing between Hank's fingers, and then he answers it.

"Connor and Hank Anderson. Private investigators. What's your emergency?"

The jolt of adrenaline equivalent shocked most of Connor's CPU awake, and he connects wirelessly to the phone to listen in. The caller explains the usual. An upcoming trial with her adopted brother, an android, to defend. The human prosecutor is bringing forward evidence they believe to be tampered with. Can Hank and Connor do anything to find out what really happened?

"Yes, ma'am," Hank says firmly. "We'll get started right away. Can I get your email address? Numbers for your family? Name of the prosecutor?"

She asks him if he's ready, and Hank drags out a long, "Uhhhhh…" as he rattles through the mug on the kitchen counter for something to write with.

Connor can hear the rapid scratching of Hank trying each pen successively and finding them all dry and out of ink.

"I'll record the call," Connor says loudly into the kitchen.

The woman tells Hank everything she knows, and Connor busies himself with writing up a digital transcript and sending it to their joint work tablet. When Hank ends the call, he heads straight for the bedroom.

"Gimme fifteen to twenty to get ready, and we can head out, okay?"

Connor pulls on his discarded pants and slings his most professional windbreaker over a shoulder. "Got it. I'll complete a quick errand while you dress."

Nodding, Hank stoops to pet Sumo as he makes his way by. "Go fast. We've got an android to save."

Saving androids was never part of Connor's mission statement. It was never an option, let alone a priority. If he were still his old self, he would have dropped everything, including Hank, and headed out immediately to restrain the deviant at all costs. After all, sparing a life only counted if you believed that something was alive to begin with.

But Connor is alive, even if he isn't human.

So Connor doesn't charge out into the field without backup because he's expendable. Instead, he crosses the street and walks to the nearest Fast Mart. He buys a ten pack of generic ballpoint pens. Black ink. $1.10.

It would be more efficient to pay digitally, so Connor doesn't.

Connor pays in cash.