Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

The coffee has gone stale again. 

Connor can see the acute distaste on your face when you take a leisured gulp absentmindedly, swallowing down, lips twitching as your attention drops away from the Captain’s speech to the styrofoam cup between small and tan leather-gloved fingers. Below the grove of your lashes, you stare at the beverage as if it’s critically offended you.

There’s been other times he’s seen such an expression of sourness blanket your demeanor — like when a suspect or perpetrator refuses to comply with police protocols during interrogation, or, when the tall and pointy shoes you’ve worn since the morning dig open the thin skin of your ankles by the end of your shift.

But you appear to smother it away, back to rapt listening. 

He doesn’t mean to watch you so intently, but deviated or not, he still processes. Prompted bodily scans indicate that you’re regulating normal and at completely safe levels: heart at 76 beats per minute, perfect inhalation patterns, blood sugar maybe a fraction too low with the lack of substance throughout the day.

But nothing that would cause him to be so adamantly focused, like there was a problem to fix. Or, unfocused — the datapad now in his lap at your arrival back to the precinct.  

Yet his gaze lingers.

You and Reed lounge adjacent while Fowler prattles on about the situation, pacing in short loops back and forth in front of his steel desk: two androids and a human female vanished from their home several days ago, and the responding officers left the scene without a lead on whereabouts or motive.

Connor has already been verbally briefed and downloaded the appropriate files for studying upon request, and he knows he’ll be assigned to partner up with whichever one of you two Fowler finds more fit to handle the case.

“Something eatin’ you?” It’s the gravel of Hank’s baritone that breaks his concentration.

Connor blinks once and swivels the chair back towards the blue hue monitor, carefully. When he meets the Lieutenant’s eyes, they’re narrowed accusingly, brushy brows knitted in the center of his forehead. 

“I was listening to the Captain’s assignments for the case.”

Not exactly a lie — he can hear the rasp of Jeffery’s larynx, a toilet flushing across the bullpen, one metallic spoon edge stirring thick and goopy pasta at the receptionist’s desk. Every second of his existence was analyzing, storing and sorting data, as some things never change.

But his tongue was refusing to reveal his real deterrence from work; lost, as minutes before, you’d walked by and greeted them so fondly, pulling dangling ringlets of your hair up so that it could swing with your saunter to the Captain’s office. 

You’d smelled of a crisp shampoo, snow-wetted skin and candy; something sweet hidden in your pocket. The sound of your service belt clinked with every step, gun and badge holstered onto your rounded hips. The squeak of rubber-lined boots on unclean tile echoes the back of his eyelids. 

“Anything good?” Hank simply shrugs it off. A lot of what Connor did on the daily still confuses the Lieutenant beyond comparison, but he’s long given up on being concerned. If anything, he’d consider his eyes as open as they could be on the android, especially after their dealings in the Uprising a little over a year previous. Deviancy was an adjustment for everyone. “Or just the same ole’?”

“The . . . ‘same ole’.” Connor replies with a polite smile. “Fowler is in the process of picking which Detective will travel to Green Acres Estates to continue the Giovanni investigation.”

“Ah — well, let’s hope it’s not Reed. The guy fluffed the last two busts; hasn’t earned it.” Hank shuffles through countless printed pages, licking at his calloused thumb when two stick together.

Connor’s mouth opens to relay exactly what Gavin had done wrong on both accounts — the details swirling through open and closed case files in his memory bank — but the door to Fowler’s office hurtles ajar, metal and glass grinding on one another with reveal. 

“Connor.” The Captain calls from up the short staircase. “You’re up.”

“Good luck.” The Lieutenant chuckles under his breath, half-watching the android as he stands promptly. But Connor’s back to focusing on what’s in front of him, and doesn’t give a reply. Instead his feet pan across the floors, sidestepping Gavin as he descends the stairs with clenching hands shoved down deep into the pockets of his jacket. 

The android is given a nasty look. It would appear the choice had been made.

“Good evening, Captain.” Connor greets as he reaches the office, door clasping back behind him just as quickly as he’d entered. There he finds his boss, and you — both at a professional stand. Your hands are folded behind you in parade rest, soft and considerate expression on your face as you stare at him.

At the growing probability of getting distracted again, he peels his attention away.

“How may I assist?”

“You and our newest Detective here are formally in charge of the Giovanni situation uptown. I’m assuming that I don’t need to re-brief you?” Queries the Captain.

“No.” Connor hums. “I combed through the updated documentation when I arrived this afternoon. Unless there’s new information to compile since then, I’ve created a list of appropriate approaches and can begin whenever.” 

“Great.” Fowler motions a hand in your direction. “I’ve filled her in too, but if there’s anything else I missed, I’m sure you’re more than capable of explaining the finer details.”

“Of course.” And Connor’s internal stability decreases slightly, back to scanning you — interested, and incapable of stopping himself.

There’s subtle freckles and blemishes decorating the skin he can see, your height far beneath his, even breathing. So very human. He’s had a handful of conversations with you since your transfer from Manhattan, each pleasant but only white-collar. Your credentials were superb — above average work in the police academy and high profile accomplishments with your former division and precinct. 

However, your designations and reasons for fresh location were simply labeled:

“Well alright then, you’re working the overnight . . . unless that’s an issue?” The Captain inquires, plopping back down in his chair. You shake your head once, and Connor has no qualms with working into the later hours of the evening either — it’s not as if he needs any sort of down time. Not for another few days, at the very least. “Good. Now: get out of my office.”

“Well,” You start as the pair of you exit upon command, taking the metallic steps down to the bullpen, “this is a first.”

“A first?” Echoes Connor. Your eyes daringly peek his way underneath two sets of full eyelashes as he rounds on his belongings, shutting down the desktop and collecting his datapad. Hank sits silently a few feet away, reclined with his arms crossed along his chest.

Connor isn’t incredibly sure of the way Anderson switches his gaze between you, like he’s trying to figure something out. 

“I’ve never been partnered with an android before.” You admit in honest, perching the curve of your butt on the corner edge of his desk. He’s starting to consider an error within his diagnostics, and even runs a system scan to be safe. After all, the scent of your body is frying a few of his sensory servers from where he slows both hands at your statement. “I mean, not that there’s a problem or anything. Just a first.”

“Don’t worry,” Jokes Hank, “he won’t bite.” 

“I didn’t think he would.” You cast an amused look over your shoulder to the Lieutenant, hair draping down your collar onto the peacoat keeping your innards warm. The weather of the city in late January reminds you of home — but Manhattan was in your past now, so you shake off the nostalgic strangle in your chest and regard your new companion fondly. “Anyways, rumor is you’re very good at what you do.”

“Thank you, Detective.” Replies the android, strapping his datapad briefcase across his torso. No longer required to wear a Cyberlife uniform, his usual attire for the frosty Detroit season consists of a black trench coat he purchased for the season and a fastened white button up beneath. He screams the essence of film noir — dark slacks, dress shoes, and entirely put together.

You find yourself watching him move as he scoots around the shared space, snatching a few pieces of paper from Hank’s filing cabinet regardless of how the Lieutenant feigns puckered annoyance. 

Connor seems swift, but careful. Tall and brawny.

“The same goes for you as well.”

“Yeah?” Gleams you, hopping down from your spot on his desk at the praise. It wasn’t so terrible to be noticed, was it? “I’ve been here two weeks and I feel like no one knows who I am. The guard at the front always checks my ID twice, like I’m not here and working every day.”

“You’ve been the topic of conversation for many officers.” Relays Connor.

He’s come across Donatello boasting about your left hook after a bar fight breakup last week, and a more derogatory whisper in passing from Reed and Diaz about the shape of your ass through your jeans on your first casual Friday. He recalls the energy in his chassis bleating at their statements; he notes it was then he’d begun to feel like there was something in disarray inside him. 

But what? His vision lacks error notifications, every component in his build operating like normal. Optimal, even. 

“Hopefully all good.” You flush a little pink at the high points of your cheekbones. He finds he enjoys the color, among many other things about you — like the shape of your brow and the curve to your chin, and —

— oh. Connor has an inkling to his issues.

“For the most part, they are.” He blinks, all hidden behind half-truths as he smothers away his own suspicions. “Are you ready?”

“Yeah, I have my things in the car from earlier.” You wave once at Hank as you stand to follow after your partner. “Enjoy your night, Lieutenant.” 

“Have fun, kids.” He answers after a pregnant moment, still poised like a statue in his spot.

Connor doesn’t notice the way his friend’s eyes burn holes into his back and shoulders, as you prance to his side in an attempt to keep the same pace. His legs were much longer, and built for agility. And you don’t mind the hustle — there was an incident to be solved, and you feel curious about the capabilities of your partner in the midst of it all.

“So — where are we going, Connor?” The keys jingle around your index and middle finger, noise pinging off the nearly empty parking garage pillars when you reach base level. “I have a few ideas, but I’d like to hear what you’re thinking.”

“After some deliberation, I believe The Shamrock should be the first location to begin our investigation.” He answers cooly as you unlock the vehicle from a few feet away. “It was the last time anyone saw Donna Giovanni, accompanied by her android. Initial Detroit police already did a survey due to the missing persons report, but . . .”

He’s come to a still stop by the trunk, grasping your attention. One sculpted eyebrow darts up as you wait. 

“. . . but?” You push. 

“It would be a safer and more expedient expedition if I were to drive.” 

Well, you weren’t expecting that. 

You’ve already opened the front seat and ditched your hand gloves, preparing to unsheathe your coat at the hooks in an attempt to avoid the stuffy way the government issued car heats you up. But your new partner is expressionless, motionless, serious, so your eyebrow stays raised in a moment of disbelief.

Did he think you were incapable of driving quickly, and with defense? 

“Oh.” You make a short snorting sound, shaking away the momentary lapse. Connor notices everything — the way the muscles in your jaw flex up and down, the wrinkles on your shirt rising from the belt-line as you remove the coat and toss it in a flourish to the backseat. He’s positive he’s offended you, which wasn’t the intention, but there was verity in his statement, and he stands by it. “I’m a great driver, so I think we’ll do just fine.”

“Still, I can be of assistance. It’s . . . late.” Or, truthfully, there was 60% less traffic in the city in the evening, yet an increase of fatal car crashes by 40% in the same duration due to other’s negligence. Many androids and humans alike enjoy self-driving vehicles, but multiple variables light up his HUD — unwilling to take that chance.

He’s coming up with the formal way of explaining himself, but you’ve already caved, switching sides with a hand out. The silver key ring dangles to and fro from your fingertip.

“Whatever makes you more comfortable.” You say in girlish sing-song, and it’s now he touches your skin for the first time.

His own, synthetic flesh is rung and wired with sensor veins coasting through every faux pore, built to retain for industry and not pleasure. He’s sure what he feels, however, is just that — your temperature is a perfect 98.8, smooth palms and blood-pumped muscle. Healthy, human. His processors flare at close contact, shiny blue LED flashing sunshine yellow so fast you don’t notice.

It wasn’t so much as he hadn't considered this could be attraction, but he hadn’t been aware it was something he was truly capable of emoting until now. Markus had kissed North in a sea of stares, wanton and unabashedly, and many deviated androids have already found willing, human companions after liberation. The capacity for romance and sexual scenarios weren’t out of grasp, and while he understands his own friendship and family within the dynamic shared with Hank Anderson, attraction has evaded him up until your nails touch his wrist when you deposit the keys.

“Consider it . . . for your safety.” Connor takes them, sloshing through his database to find the raw root of the problem. His thirium regulator beats at an increase of 15%, diagnostics reading levels of elevated stress. But it didn’t feel painful, or damaging like he might combust — just new.

He delays the internal scan as he takes his position in the front seat. Popping in beside him, you clear old paperwork and a pair of shiny high heels to the back with your jacket. Unaware of Connor’s minute malfunction, you switch off the police scanner for your own peace of mind and get comfortably belted into place. 

“Okay, so, The Shamrock first.” You try to continue your previous conversation like the blip-like interruption never began, stripping the rubber tie from your hair. Each lock falls to blanket your shoulders, relief pooling out each pore at the release of your scalp. 

“What was your plan, if not the bar?” Wonders Connor with a start to the ignition. His heightened availability for scent catches your shampoo again, eyes swiftly following a line down your straightened neck from his casual and calculated reverse, to the sharp planes of your face. He’s sure of it now, the fact that he finds you beautiful — which qualifies his surprise. He found red sunsets exquisite, and elder, intricate oil canvas paintings praiseworthy.

But you? His absorption at your every minuscule move gives him all the information he needs.

Attracted.

“I was thinking of the bar too, though another home visit to the Giovanni’s wouldn’t hurt either.” You attest, crossing your arms along your breasts. Out of respect, Connor’s hardly-veiled gaze ends at your collarbone. “I have a feeling a fresh look at the scene with you by my side will lead to something tangible.”

“Your faith in me in spite of our lack of previous cooperation is commendable, Detective.” Smiles Connor, tires squealing as he hits the gas. Hank was very much in favor of doing his own driving when partnered with the android, so having an opportunity at the wheel is slightly more enjoyable than previously contemplated.

Whatever makes him more comfortable.

“Yeah, well, I’ve been told you’re incredibly . . . thorough.”

Actually, you’d heard he sticks his fingers into unknown specimens and licks them clean, but you don’t say that. Your gaze does drift to the hands gripping the wheel, sizing up the digits.

The android, or, the man, beside you wasn’t the first you’d encountered — in the modern world, they live freely and for the majority at peace. You were fond of the newer CyberLife additions to your squad in New York City even before the protests and riots, with all their quirks and questions. They were revolutionized to adapt, to join society, and after the Uprising, through some trial and error, androids were given the lives they so desire.

But none like Connor. None made just as . . . interesting.

The ride to The Shamrock comes quicker than you’re expecting. Though you’ve swallowed a slither of motion sickness sitting passenger, you still reach for the briefcase in the backseat full of casework for inspection. Using Connor’s bicep as leverage, you pretend not to notice his stiffening underneath your fingers, or the way a gentle blue dusts the back of his neck from your twisted position.

He was receptive after all, checking off another box in your growing list of inquiries on all things him.

He’d caught your eye on your very first day. 

Connor wasn’t exactly hard to miss either, circular blue LED glowing round with contemplation. He was handsome, and a bit strange, fiddling back and forth with a little coin finger to finger while he read. Your introduction had been brief as the Captain dragged you to each person, with only seconds to say hello before dumping a frozen case in your lap and delivering you to a corner desk.

At the time you’d thought it was a form of hazing, but later found it was due to your track record in the Narcotics Division. 

Nothing felt better than a job well done. 

Still, you would be lying if you said you hadn’t thought about him. After all, you’d learned at a not so distant time, the fate of the new world once rested on his shoulders.

Admirable.

“Can we stop for coffee?” You pique about 10 minutes out from your destination. The evening edges closer to midnight, and though you didn’t feel fatigued yet, a gut feeling you’ve grown to trust warns you of a long adventure.

“Of course.” The blinker suddenly turns on for a left hand signal. “Are you feeling tired, Detective?”

“You can call me by my first name, you know.” You say it kindly, lips turning up as you peer out the window at streaks of orange and teal city lights, as they dance across newly fallen snow flurries. At least you were used to barren and gray skies, unaffected by such environmental crassness. “And no, not yet. But it’s always better to be prepared, right?”

“Yes.” Connor concurs, searching through the multitude of corner stores en route through internal GPS. You were in luck — two still remain open in spite of the witching hour. “You left your previous cup at the precinct. By this time of night, not many indulge, so the warming plate was left unattended for quite some time.”

Your head careens back towards him, eyes squinted with growing knowing.

“How did you know I was drinking coffee?” 

“I . . .”

His two options were to come clean or be deceitful, clear cut —

— and it didn’t seem ethical to tell you anything other than the honest answer. Not that his list of important topics for the night included sharing how he’d spent just about every second since your arrival back from a hard day’s work trained to your existence, so the android picks his words hesitantly.

“. . . was eavesdropping on your conversation with the Captain and Detective Reed. I’m capable of inspecting every environment within a certain amount of distance — you left your cup in his office, on the table beside a stack of folders.”

“You’re not wrong.” But your heart beats out of time for a moment, loudly, underneath all your ribs. “What else are you . . . ‘capable’ of?”

“I was designed for forensic analysis and reconstruction, as well as psychological warfare, including negotiation and interrogation tactics.” His head tilts as he considers his ever-palpable emotional crisis. “However, I’m adaptable. After completing my deviancy, I find I still have much to learn.”

“What would you like to know, now that you have the freedom?” You’re not sure what drives you to ask so many questions, personal and deeply seated ones too, but he doesn’t seem unsettled by them. If you were going to spend a couple days hunting for your three missing persons together, you weigh that it was a good idea to learn just who you’re working beside. 

“I’m unsure.” Connor reflects inwards — human life varies from android existence tenfold.

There are some things he knows he’ll never understand: hunger, for one, with no need to retain sustenance. He can maintain temperature and let it affect him if he so pleases, but his design model allows for maintaining through some of the more brutal environments without overheating or freezing. With recently installed receptors, physical pain and pleasure were understood. 

Emotion still sails in like waves of the sea tide; he’s felt anger and disgust, relief and joy. He hasn’t encountered issues with expressing his worries, though he distastes feeling vulnerable and exposed. Attraction was a touchable idea, still swiveling through his synapses with your eyes on his face.

Perhaps total relaxation. Or how to cook, even without purpose. Maybe lust.

“I don’t mean to pressure you, but if you think of something or have any questions, I’d be happy to help you. Everyone deserves the chance to learn something new about themselves.” And you mean it. It took you many years to be comfortable in your own skin, to love what makes your DNA so special, and the android beside you seems struggling to understand himself.

He doesn’t say much back, just letting his eyes ping to meet your pupils long enough that heat pools in your hands and temples. 

Connor pulls aside into a small coffee shop off of Hancock and Warren Avenue, parking as close to the entrance as possible for your ease. 

“I’ll be back in two seconds, okay?”

“Two seconds — one . . . two . . .” He jests in perfect count while you grab your jacket from the backseat and clutch it to your chest. A half-smile tugs the corners of your mouth while you shrug your coat back on, working at the buttons. He was as unexpected as he was fascinating. 

“Okay, smartass, I’ll be back in under 5 minutes.” You rectify.

“. . . three . . . four . . .” He’s still counting, though the corners of his lips have lifted to a grin too. Eyes rolling towards the felted ceiling, you kick the squad car door open with your instep and take to the pavement. 

There’s no line once indoors, and your gun, belt and badge get you a free coffee on the house from the kind samaritan behind the counter. As you await the devilish brew, you dare to steal a glance out the window where your new companion sits idle.

You liked him so far — perfectly mannered, friendly, with a growing sense of humor. You wonder if he’s still counting as you’re handed a printed cup, and return back sipping fondly at the rim.

The silence isn’t uncomfortable. You’ve been diligently reading the casework, illuminated by city lamps and a small glass screen. Your partner swivels through streets in the same position, hands at 10 and 2. You think once or twice that your android could be lost in thought, the pretty LED humming blue for the majority of the beeline uptown. Yet you catch it swirl gold against his pallor skin every so often. 

The Shamrock is on the cusp of it’s busy hour, bright neon clover green and navy lights beaming down on the parking lot as you pull in. There’s piles of litter overflowing from the trash, broken glass bottles crunching beneath snow tires. You take in the bunches of smokers in the street, their nervous frowns illuminated at police insignia and headlights. 

“Ready, Connor?” You turn your body to engage him when you’re sure your belt and badge are secure and in reach, leather gloves tightened to the wrist with a wiggle of all ten fingers. 

“I will follow your lead, Detective.” His head shifts subliminally, reading the way your heart pumps hot blood when he speaks with intention. There’s confidence written all over your face when you shuck the door back open and pull your hair up into a DPD standard ponytail again, showcasing the angles of your jaw — the pulse point on your neck that thrums with a rush from impending investigation.

He’s saving the way you look for a later date, in a private piece of his mainframe, since it sends his hard drive haywire. 

“We’ll talk to the bartender first, see if there’s anything we can get him to remember about Saturday.” You nudge him with the tip of your elbow. “Then the patrons. A place like this has regulars.”

“After you.” Connor’s holding open the hefty wood door, intentionally scanning every face he sees. Flashes of their stories bleed information across his optics.

There’s a mosh-posh of city folk here tonight — over three dozen clients, a few ex-cons that show instant discomfort at active Detroit police stumbling in, a pair of off-duty cops playing darts over whiskey sours, a couple deep in each other’s mouths in a private booth.

He doesn’t mean to stare once he spots them, but to his surprise: one of them is an android. He’s dressed casually and smiling ear to ear when they break for air, tucking curls of hair behind the lovely young woman’s ear with half-spoken endearments.

He follows a foot behind you and surveys as you find a slot on the counter vacated, hopping onto the forest green barstool while catching the attention of the server making shots. Still, his focus doesn’t waver, and the android across the dining hall can sense Connor’s presence — buzzing static electricity of being thoroughly scanned, alerted in proximity of familiar company like second nature. The android's eyes watch him back before sultry whispering to his girlfriend, forgotten.

He learns a new emotion then, unlocked somewhere low in his ever-stretching mind: yearning. How to want something similar.

Then he’s shutting off his curiosity as best as he can, rounding back to your side to assist. Regardless of his mental failure, his indicators are all certain there’s no one here directly related to the Giovanni’s case — no familial links, no neighbors and none of Donna’s business partners or coworkers present. 

It’s loud where you’ve stationed, speakers vibrating something close to screaming from well-placed subwoofers. So he leans close to the bridge of your earlobe, enjoying the heat that radiates from your body. There’s no need to touch you, but one palm curves your low bicep to let you know it’s him. Static and soft.

“I’m uncertain the current patrons are a viable source of information.” His voice is an octave lower, watching pink turn to red at his mouth so close to your face.

Connor’s trying something new, for his own gain — running tests at the levels of your comfortable side eye, heightened endorphins pooling out your pores. You don’t seem upset by it, or unwilling; almost relaxed to his grip on your arm. So he continues.

“I’ve run every face through the DPD customs, and there’s no links to Donna Giovanni or her missing androids. I’m extending my search onto other matrixes now.”

“Damn.” You breathe while the hairs on the back of your neck fly to attention. His breath is warmer than you imagined, so very . . . alive, voice like gooey honey. Does he require oxygen, or does he do it for normalcy? It takes a lot of your resolve to not melt completely into the touch — it’s been a long time since you’ve been so roused from something as simple as lips inches from your throat.

Yet maybe it was just Connor.

You’d have to be careful, or this friendly nature would hurtle into a crush. Flirtations. And that was never the best idea, not with a job on the line. 

“— as I was sayin’,” The bartender shells out across from the both of you, watching with an unbiased face as Connor straightens up under scrutiny and scans him more thoroughly. Fredrick Langdon, 52, divorced then remarried then widowed. A nicotine addiction. Mild unresolved scoliosis, “I think they came in all doe-eyed, huddled up, and left God knows how much longer after that. It was Saturday, so we were twenty times more busy than we are now. I see a lot of customers.”

“Do you see a lot of androids?” Connor wonders, and to your surprise, his hand doesn’t abandon the bone of your elbow as he begins his blasé interrogation. It rests there, pads of his fingers just the right type of tight, keeping himself close to you and on guard. You’re wondering if it is a lack of knowing what he was doing, or the complete opposite.

You let it slide.

“Sure, and I don’t got an issue with ‘em either. Payment is payment. Don’t drink much though — was under the impression ya’ll can’t.” Shrugs Langdon, wiping down at a sticky splotch along the bar top, pocketing a tip when another pair of partygoers dismiss themselves. He even grins a little as he continues. “Plus, you lot are usually nicer than half the — Jimmy, I said if you broke one more glass — sorry — as I was saying’, much nicer than the lowlives that come in. Manners, I tell you. Hard to find.”

“I know another few responding officers asked you these same questions, and it’s clear you’re running a very busy establishment . . .”

You lean across the counter, using a flutter of natural charm to bat your eyes inconspicuously. If Connor could break out into sweat, even he’d fold to his knees under that salacious gaze. Your stare seems to twinkle, as if you know a coy secret and don’t plan on sharing, fingertips lining the dampened napkin placed before you.

“. . . but if there’s anything that you can think of that might help me and my partner move along in our manhunt, it’d be a really big help.”

“Well,” The bartender huddles in too, arms on the bleach-stained wooden bar frame as he contemplates, “I told this to the boys in blue on Saturday, so it could be redundant, but . . . they were dressed like they were goin’ somewhere nice, or maybe came from somewhere nice. All classy like, ya’ know? Red dress, suit and tie type deal.”

Connor floods the documentation from original statements to his HUD immediately, searching for apparel on the list of details taken from the bartender on Saturday. There’s nothing matching his statement, but he does doubt it’s a lie. Fredrick’s heart rate stays the same, facial expression neutral, no fidgets. The android simply compiles it for later use. 

“I appreciate your time. How about,” You reach in your pocket with the arm that isn’t being held, pulling out a stack of thin business cards neatly pressed. Connor can read the fine print: your information and that of the precinct’s, and watches as your leather covered hands slide it across to Langdon, “if you think of anything else, you give this number a call?”

“Sure. I’ll keep it on me at all times, Officer.” The bartender laughs, tucking it down into his apron. Connor deduces the flirting as playful and not outright; the shiny band on Fredrick’s finger gleams like he still cleans it regularly, and he doesn’t burn in the way Connor would at receiving your number under such pretenses. “Good luck, Detectives. If you stick around for a drink, consider it on the house.”

“Maybe next time.” You reply just as sweetly, swiveling in your chair to face your new friend. He doesn’t move away despite how you wiggle to jump down, watching you watch him on two feet. “We’ll need to talk to Donna’s parents about where they were before, or where they were going, if they know.” 

“The Giovanni’s live . . .” He calculates it, temple light spinning an array of colors, then back to blue, “. . . ten blocks north. It shouldn’t take us more than twenty-five to thirty minutes.”

“Excellent.” Nods you, not noticing the lack of space to maneuver around him until you can’t. “Uh, Connor?”

“Yes, Officer?” The way he speaks it is accompanied with a tugging, sly smile, mocking the bartender. He dances around saying your name again, but he’s being outright playful. So you take the bait, putting one hand on his chest to push him away only to realize he’s . . . somewhat immovable, like weather-tempered rock, sturdy from erosion — tough, but there’s energy pulsating under fabric and synthetic skin.

Alive. 

“We should . . . continue with the investigation.” Your tongue traces your front teeth inside your mouth, trying to sound unbiased — but you’re growing a bit flustered. He’s running data on you; every inhale through your nose, the way your mouth fills with saliva. Canary spins red once before hovering back to a blissful teal.

You wonder if he can tell how long it’s been since you’ve felt so . . . tingly.

Interspecies relationships were no longer taboo, recalling that even one of your old squad mates had taken time from the force to vacation somewhere in the tropics with his kindly-spoken robotic lover. But you’ve never considered you’d follow in his lead. You barely know Connor from, well — not Adam, but a few formal conversations in the break room and your first job together. This didn’t qualify feeling so brazen. 

“After you.” He finally takes a step backwards, giving you an opportunity for escape.

As oxygen flows naturally again, you give him one final suspicious look before walking side by side in tandem.