Chapter Text
Hank wasn’t a reflective kinda guy. At least, not when he could help it. These days, that shit didn’t invite much of anything but pain, regret, frustration- no, it was easier to just go with his gut.
And Jeffrey. God, when was the last time he’d done a favor for Jeffrey? When was the last time Jeffrey had asked?
Hank squinted against the sun, a faint headache throbbing at his temples. Nothing like as bad as usual- he wanted his wits about him for this. His gaze swept cautiously over the café’s outdoor tables until a man in a beanie glanced up disinterestedly from his menu, brown eyes lingering on the breast of Hank’s jacket.
Jeffrey had given him the jacket – apparently it had a symbol sewn into it, nearly invisible to the human eye, but obvious to any android who knew to look for it. Hank didn’t pretend to understand how it worked, but apparently it did, because the next moment, the man signaled him, two fingers waving what Hank was certain was a perfect triangle.
Hank trudged over to him and plopped down in the seat across from the android, giving him an appraising look of his own. Stiff, straight posture, a beanie covering his LED, stained and nondescript clothing, no trace of expression on his face. No model Hank recognized, not that that meant much.
“How’s your father doing?” Hank said at last, not letting himself snort at the mandatory code. Eyes and ears everywhere, and all, with the FBI on the Jericho case. Still, he felt like he was in a spy movie. A corny one.
The android tilted his head slightly; Hank could almost feel himself being scanned. He clenched his jaw, meeting the android’s eyes just short of a glare, daring him to comment on Hank’s disheveled state.
“…Still living the life with his mistress,” the android said instead, so soft that Hank almost couldn’t hear him. His tone was perfectly even and measured, and subtly deferential. Hank hated it.
“Food here any good?” he jabbed lightly, glancing inside. The café didn’t have a ‘no androids’ sign, which was telling; they’d become more and more popular as tensions rose.
The android just shrugged, disinterested. “Want any?” he asked quietly, setting the menu down.
Hank considered saying yes, just to be an ass. Then he scoffed at himself and shook his head. “Too rabbit food for me. In the mood for something else? This was just a meet-up point.”
The android nodded shortly, hands dropping to his lap. “Let’s go.”
Hank’s first impression was that he was mechanical, contrasting harshly with the crying and terrified deviants Hank had seen too many times in his precinct’s cells. It grated on him, but, uncharacteristically, he bit his tongue. This wasn’t about the robot in front of him. It was about Jericho.
Sighing, Hank pushed himself up and jerked his head, indicating for the android to accompany him, before leading the way to his car. A few conspicuous seconds passed before Hank heard the scrape of the chair, and the android fell in half a step behind him. A glance back told Hank that he was scanning the crowd, pretty thoroughly disinterested in interacting with Hank.
But maybe it was just the location. Hank didn’t like letting people into his space, especially not someone who so immediately set his teeth on edge, but it was better than staying out in the open.
“Name’s Hank Anderson,” Hank grunted as soon as they were both in the car. He watched the android fiddle with the seatbelt for a moment before prompting, unable to keep an edge of irritation out of his voice, “And you? I sure hope you’re the Jericho contact or this is gonna get real awkward.”
The android nodded stiffly, leaving the seatbelt alone to look ahead, still straight-backed and perfect. “I’m Connor.”
That was apparently all he had to say about that. Hank exhaled and started the car, hit the radio, and got going, ignoring the way Connor glanced down at it with a reserved frown. If he couldn’t speak up, he didn’t get an opinion.
Hank’s first impression of the guy didn’t improve any on the way to his house. Connor stared straight ahead out the window, occasionally following something to the side, and made no attempt at conversation. His back stayed stiff, his posture perfect, and his hands folded neatly in his lap.
The pattern continued as they reached Hank’s house. Hank got out, and a few seconds passed before Connor followed. When he did, it was careful and deliberate, without any flourish and making as little noise as possible. Even shutting the door was a nearly silent process, and then he followed half a step behind Hank up the path to his house. Hank wanted to hit him just to see if he’d react.
Sumo greeted Hank at the door with a low boof and a snuffle, and Hank gave him a rough pat and an absentminded, “Good boy.”
Sumo boofed again, and then circled around to sniff at Connor, lazily curious.
Connor stiffened, eyes tracking Sumo with clear apprehension, and edged back as the dog came close. After a moment, he looked away and skirted around the dog without directly acknowledging him. Stepped around the pizza boxes on the ground and didn’t even disturb the dog food Hank had spilled last night that Sumo hadn’t eaten yet. Didn’t even touch the wall.
Instead, he just paused on the threshold of the living room and kitchen, clearly waiting for instructions. Looked like a mannequin.
Sumo huffed, unbothered, and loped off to flop onto his bed, but Hank scowled and slammed the door shut. Connor’s expression barely twitched. Hank leaned against the door, crossed his arms, and surveyed him.
“Thirium? Cards?” he asked, more a challenge than a real offer at this point. God, it was gonna be a long couple months. Just looking at Connor made him itch. “I can put the TV on in the background.”
Connor glanced at him, flat and disinterested. “…No, thank you.”
Shocker.
Hank grunted and kicked out one of the chairs at the kitchen table, throwing himself down with a scowl. Connor took that as a signal and sat down across from him, no noise, stiffly polite. Then he reached into his pocket and withdrew a holographic projector, setting it between them. With the press of a button, a map of Detroit sprang up between them.
“Straight to business, huh?” Hank said sardonically, something sick and bitter twisting in his stomach, and Connor nodded.
Hank would grant the kid one thing, he had some good ideas in his head. They had the start of a game plan sketched out after the better part of an hour, districts to target, shelters to capture, infrastructure to prioritize. Maximum effectiveness, minimum collateral.
Except the police. No mercy for them.
The only exception was Hank’s precinct, since Jeffrey had already secured an agreement with Jericho; his officers turned a blind eye to anything androids did, and Jericho steered around them. Fair enough, and good thinking on Jeffrey’s part. Small comfort all the same.
And a good mind Connor might have, but he was fucking exhausting to talk to. He seemed to speak as little as possible. He missed half of Hank’s expressions. Refused to directly contradict Hank even when he clearly disagreed.
Hank was sick of this already.
“What’s your plan if the military gets involved?” he asked, struggling to keep his mind in the game and off Connor’s painfully flat affect, so like the machine surgeon that-
“They shouldn’t,” Connor said shortly. After several minutes, he seemed to realize how painfully inadequate that was and continued, “They’re busy, or we would be dead already. The police and FBI have fewer resources. Should that change, we will certainly lose.”
Connor’s tone remained quiet and indifferent through his entire speech. He didn’t even take his eyes off the city plan, and his mouth was a flat, downturned line. Hank compared him again to the crying girl he’d seen self-destruct in one of the jail cells last year, and felt his rage grow.
“Doesn’t that bother you?” he snapped, voice rising a little.
Connor had the nerve to shrug. Hank felt sick.
He got up to turn music on in the background, and pretended not to hear when Connor asked him to turn it back off.
A week and a half later, Hank was faced with the grim consequences of his actions as his police radio burst with panicked chatter. He listened to them relay information back and forth, asking for backup, trying to outmaneuver their opponents, as if Jericho didn’t have easy access to even the police-only channels. He didn’t move from where his car was parked on a random streetside, far away from the chaos.
Neither, he knew, did anyone else from their precinct.
Over the course of six hours, the skirmish between Jericho and the local police force went from a standoff, to a shootout, and then an invasion, and finally a surrender. With that, the precinct the main Jericho base occupied was deviant territory.
Casualties on each side were pretty brutal. Hank wouldn’t know the exact Jericho numbers until Connor told him, but the police force took thirty-seven deaths and close to fifty injured.
All Hank’s fault, obviously, though from his grim look, Jeffrey was feeling it too. Still, he remembered the Tracis, terrified and angry and in love, the ones he’d let go before he’d ever gotten properly involved with this shit.
(Cole had loved androids. This was the first time in years that he’d done something he felt Cole would’ve been proud of him for. He couldn’t give up that easy.)
So he pushed on.
He and Connor had arranged to meet up a few days after the fight, and Connor, of course, arrived precisely on time, back straight, expression disaffected, and knocked on the door until Hank answered.
He offered Hank a cursory greeting, sat in the exact same place as last time, and gave Sumo an unreadable look when he boofed. Hank scowled, his foul temper heavy in his gut, and kicked the door shut. When he turned around, Connor was placing the projector dead center on the table and tapping it to activate.
“Thought we could play a round of cards or some shit before we got into it,” Hank said, not bothering to hide his irritation. Not because he wanted to spend any extra time with this programmed asshole, but he couldn’t bring himself to pretend he was eager to turn on his former fellows, and he hated Connor’s apathetic demeanor.
Case in point: Connor blinked at him, unamused and uninterested. The same beanie covered his head, the same sweater, same pants. “Why?”
Hank hated him.
He sat down, scowling at the hologram, which blinked at him mockingly. “Whatever. What’re we working with?”
Connor didn’t question it, lunching straight into the casualty numbers for Jericho and highlighting the weaknesses in the attack. He didn’t seem to care about the significance of any of what he was saying – like it was just a training exercise, like none of them were people to him.
In turn, Hank grudgingly relayed his end of things: police response details, the FBI’s conspicuous silence, announcements and reallocations from the interceding days. None of it reflected the stifled quiet of the station these days, the heavy tension, the silent resignations handed in by a few of the officers with each their own reasons – Miller, Reed, Wilson.
Connor listened silently and seamlessly incorporated the information into the next, revised plan, plotting out the steady destruction of the next precinct in line.
Finally, Hank couldn’t take it anymore. He slammed his hands on the table and leaned close, taking a sour pleasure out of seeing Connor go dead still. Sumo whined, and Hank felt only a hint of regret, quickly swallowed up, eyes on Connor.
“I knew those people,” Hank said lowly, not bothering to suppress the venom. “I fucking worked with them. Now, I knew what I was signing up for, but fuck, the least you can do is pretend you give a shit in front of me.”
His voice rose until he was almost, but not quite shouting, hot with rage. Connor didn’t look at him, but Hank could see the tension almost vibrating through his frame, a tightness around his eyes.
“I’m sorry,” Connor said after a while, just on the edge of audible, stiff and insincere.
Hank scoffed. “You have to mean it for it to matter,” he sneered, bitterness and guilt and a visceral sort of revulsion churning up inside him.
Deviants were one thing, but god, he couldn’t stand machines.
Connor didn’t even try to look him in the face, rubbing his arm in mild discomfort. “I do.”
Hank took a breath, furious and conflicted and sick with it all.
“Get out,” he forced out, and Connor only hesitated for half a second before obeying, tucking the projector back into his pocket and leaving without another word. It didn’t make Hank any happier.
He wanted a drink.
Three months and several meetings later, Hank was at his wit’s end.
Jericho had taken half the city, and public opinion was radically polarized between those in support and those terrified and furious, those calling and protesting for a treaty and those breaking into Cyberlife stores just to tear shit up. Police morale was rock bottom, and the national government hadn’t lifted a finger to help; not that that was a bad thing, considering, but it was a pill to swallow.
And that was just in Detroit.
His mood was even worse than usual today, because Connor apparently couldn’t be assed to give the meeting a fraction of his valuable attention. His gaze wandered the room; his face had no expression at all, and he leaned back in his chair in the closest to a lazy posture Hank had seen from him. He hadn’t even acknowledged Sumo when the dog wandered up to nudge at him, snuffling.
He fidgeted with the hem of his shirt, and spoke even less than usual, instead humming along as Hank fucking carried the conversation. Like he had no stake in it. Like it didn’t even matter to him.
It pissed Hank the hell off. What was Connor here for, if he couldn’t be bothered to care? What was Hank doing here?
“What the hell is wrong with you?” Hank barked eventually, when Connor shrugged instead of telling Hank goddamn anything useful about Jericho’s supplies situation. Connor didn’t answer, looking somewhere in the direction of the bathroom door, and Hank’s voice rose. “Connor. Connor!” Connor’s gaze drifted to him, the android’s head cocking slightly, nose crinkling like it was more trouble than it was worth. Hank fumed. “What the hell is with you today?”
Connor blinked at him. Same beanie, same sweater, fingers playing with his sleeve. His gaze dropped to the projector.
“…I killed someone last time,” he said at last, almost too soft to hear.
Hank snapped.
“What does it fucking matter anyway?” he spat, thinking of voices that dropped off the radio and Jeffrey’s tired resignation and the bags deepening under Ben’s eyes. “It’s one of fucking hundreds anyway, isn’t it? But you don’t fucking care about that, you just- fucking sit there and figure out how to do it more efficiently like some kind of machine, and it’s fucking disgusting-!”
Hank was on his feet and shouting, and he didn’t even care; he was so furious his blood was roaring in his ears and he was almost shaking, staring at Connor’s stupid frozen tin-can face because machines never cared who lived or died-
And then Connor was on his feet too.
“Sh-shut up!” Connor snarled at him, and for the first time his voice was at a level Hank didn’t strain to hear, and he was scowling right back at Hank. “Y-you don’t under, understand anything! Y-y-you’ve never even tr-tried!”
Hank’s voice caught in his throat, whatever words he was planning on saying next drying up as his mind twisted up in confusion.
Since when did Connor stutter?
Connor ducked back, took a step back and a step forward, yanked on his shirt and shook out his hands and then yanked again, breathing quickly.
“I, I had to kill N-Nines again,” he continued, “b-because he won’t ask, ask me not to, I ask him to say it and he, he won’t, he does-doesn’t know how, and it’s m-m-my fault, I ran away and l-left him and now-now-now he’s the dev-deviant hunter and and…”
Connor shuddered and yanked on his shirt again. His head twitched to one side, and he took a deep, heaving breath, and he abruptly looked exactly like the deviants who melted down in the DPD interrogation rooms.
Hank couldn’t breathe. He felt like the floor had been yanked out from under him.
“And y-you have no i-idea what it’s like to be, to be a machine,” Connor continued relentlessly. Stepped back, stepped back, stepped forward, yanked. “To, to be nothing, and, and n-no one, you have- no f-fucking idea.” He took another quick, harsh breath, and without looking up, snapped, “Stop l-looking at me li-li-like th-that!”
Connor was breathing dangerously hard now, and maybe it was his imagination, but Hank thought he could see the red glare of his LED through the cotton beanie.
Hank’s mouth opened and closed, thrown so far off he wasn’t even sure he was on the same planet anymore. When he didn’t respond after a minute, Connor looked up, brown eyes dull and wild. A second later, he seemed to process what he’d just done, clapped a hand over his mouth, and stared at Hank.
Then he bolted, clumsy and frantic, and Hank made no move to stop him.
Fuck.
The only surprise when he was contacted a few days later was that it was Markus himself who met with him, expression lined with stress and exhaustion; that, and that he was not nearly as confrontational as Hank would’ve assumed, under the circumstances.
He waited patiently for Hank to open the door, showed himself inside, glanced at Sumo with a flicker of a smile and sat himself on the couch. Then he looked at Hank, as bold and expectant as if this was his own home.
Hank sat down, feeling as sullen and defensive as a grumpy child.
“What happened?” Markus asked immediately, intense dual-toned eyes on Hank.
Hank scowled and crossed his arms uncomfortably. “It was just a damn argument,” he muttered. “Happens all the time. Don’t worry, I’m not some bitch-ass hypocrite who’d quit over this.”
Markus raised his eyebrows, looking unimpressed and almost amused by the attempt at deflection. “Please understand, Lieutenant, that when Connor returned yesterday he was on the verge of a meltdown. I’m not letting him back here until I feel the issue’s been resolved. So please: tell me what happened.”
Hank felt a stab of guilt and glanced away uncomfortably, watching Sumo pant on his bed. “Why don’t you ask him?” he grouched.
“I have,” Markus said patiently, “and I’ve already taken steps to resolve things on his end. I’d like your side of the story.” He paused, took a breath, and continued, a little kinder, “I’m not your enemy, Lieutenant. I assume you had your reasons for blowing up the way you did.”
Some of the tension eased out of Hank’s shoulders. “Why does Connor act so mechanical?”
There was a beat of silence.
“Everyone responds differently to deviancy,” Markus said, tone noticeably cooler but somehow still not angry. “Connor’s taken it particularly hard and is finding adjustment difficult. Can you explain what you mean?”
“He’s…” Hank groaned and reached up to rub his hand over his face, frustrated. “Blank. Won’t take his mind off the job for half a second, acts like nothing bothers him, can’t express an opinion to save his life. Gets on my nerves.”
It’s not natural, he wanted to say, but even he knew that would be a step too far.
“I see,” Markus sighed, and he actually leaned against the back of the couch a little, considering Hank tiredly. “Yes, that would explain a few things. He’s mentioned that he can’t seem to figure out what you expect from him.” Pause, while Hank tried to figure that out, and then Markus continued, “Connor spent the majority of his machine period in relative isolation. He has some social difficulties as a result. But he responds well to direct communication.”
Irritably, Hank amended his earlier thought. It wasn’t natural – except in survivors of extended neglect and abuse.
Fucking obviously. What was his police training good for if he couldn’t even identify the signs of long-term abuse when the dominos lined themselves the fuck up for him? Had he really let himself go that much?
“Why send him, then?” he asked, dropping his hand to curl it into a fist, leaning back against the couch, absently wishing he’d keep sinking until he sank right into the ground. Extenuating circumstances or no, Connor’s callousness was enough to make his teeth grind.
When he finally glanced over, Markus was frowning at him thoughtfully.
“As the former deviant hunter,” the android said carefully, studying him as he spoke, “Connor’s strategic programs are high and above anything the rest of us have. Sending someone else would be rather like having a talented amateur play a competitive chess game when you have a professional chessmaster available. I didn’t want to take any chances.”
That made sense – too much sense, damn it.
“Connor mentioned something about a deviant hunter too,” Hank muttered, still avoiding the core issue as he felt more and more stupid and selfish. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Markus looked first surprised, then frustrated, then gloomily resigned, shoulders slumping. He rubbed his knee, sighing.
“Of course,” he murmured. “I forgot that the matter didn’t receive much human publicity.” He cleared his throat and resettled himself, wincing as his legs shifted, and met Hank’s eyes gravely. “Cyberlife has been keeping a prototype whose sole purpose is to hunt down and kill deviant androids and put a permanent end to Jericho. For about a year and a half, that was Connor. These days, it’s an RK900, Conan. Connor calls him Nines.”
Shit. Shit. Motherfucker, every time he thought Cyberlife couldn’t get any worse- thought humans couldn’t get any worse-
Hank could see it all too clearly, too, in Connor’s numb apathy, and the cold efficiency of his ideas, and his obvious experience. For about half a second he considered holding it against him, and then he remembered his breakdown the other day.
You have no idea what it’s like to be a machine, Connor had said, stuttering and shattered and viciously angry. No, he couldn’t in good conscience blame Connor.
So instead Hank just felt frustrated and overwhelmed, every inch the stupid, bitter old man he knew Cole would have been crushed to see his father become. He needed a drink. He missed him.
“What happened?” Markus repeated.
Hank exhaled harshly, reached up to cover his eyes with his wrist, and finally, grudgingly, explained, “He just- it’s fucking stupid, okay? He was having an off-day or something, and I got pissed because he wasn’t even paying attention, and I lashed out.” He huffed again. “It’s just- this shit ain’t easy for me either. I knew it was coming, and all, and most of ‘em were bastards from the start, but I don’t have to enjoy having a hand in all… this. And he don’t make it any easier.”
Markus looked unexpectedly sympathetic, if still distinctly uncompromising.
“I’ll talk to him,” he promised, “but I recommend you do the same if you want to get any actual communication going. You still have a few more months of working together. It would be best if you could find a way to at least tolerate each other.” Then, unexpectedly, he gave Hank a stern look. “Don’t call him a machine again. I broke his programming myself, but only after he asked me to. He’s earned his personhood the same as the rest of us.”
Wearily, Hank gave in.
“Yeah,” he agreed resignedly. “Yeah, alright.”
Hank meant it, when he promised to give Connor another chance. He did.
But his mood darkened steadily as the next meeting time approached, a heavy sort of exhaustion falling over Hank’s shoulders. By the time the actual date rolled around, he was halfway through a bottle and had long since forgotten. Within a couple hours, he’d downed the whole thing, played a few rounds of Russian Roulette, and then passed out cold on the ground, dizzy and nauseous.
He woke up to fingers tapping gingerly at his numb face, groaned, opened his eyes to squint at Connor frowning at him, and groaned again.
“Not now,” he muttered petulantly, rolling over and away. “Not fucking now.”
Connor sighed down at him.
“I d-don’t know what I-I-I ex-expected,” he murmured, and then leaned down and hauled Hank up effortlessly, ducking under his arm to support him.
Hank groaned as the sudden motion turned his stomach and swatted weakly at Connor a couple times. “Get off me. Get the fuck off me!”
Connor ignored him. Fucker.
The android didn’t seem to have any trouble dragging him through the house, and Sumo was fast asleep like the little traitor he was, so Hank just closed his eyes and grumbled wordlessly, his brain too soaked in liquor to put up a real fight. Didn’t matter anyway, one way or another, the way the world was going.
He was dumped unceremoniously onto his bed, and Hank squinted up at Connor blearily. He was staring down at Hank with his brow pinched, head cocked.
“Confusion, vomiting, seizures, slow or irregular breathing, hypothermia…” Connor muttered, and then sighed.
And then, bafflingly, he grabbed Hank’s trash can and moved it closer to his bed. Hank blinked at it dumbly while Connor left, wondering what the fuck that was all about.
He was too drunk for this, he decided, and passed out again just as Connor returned with a glass of water.
Hank woke up again an indeterminate amount of time later, fell off the bed, vomited, and went back to sleep.
When he woke up in the morning, head pounding and mouth dry, he was back in bed, and he couldn’t smell any puke. He groaned, feeling his stomach rebel, and then spotted the glass of water, which was reason enough to push himself laboriously upright. He grabbed it and gulped it down without hesitation, and then stumbled out of his room in search of painkillers.
Another day in the life of Hank fucking Anderson, he thought sourly, and then he reached the living room and stopped.
Connor was curled up on the couch, just squirming to stare sleepily at Hank. His beanie was discarded somewhere behind him, and his LED was a steady blue at his temple, flicking to a spinning yellow as Hank watched.
Connor had stayed. Connor was scanning him. Connor frowned at him, pushed himself to his feet, and said, avoiding his gaze, “Y-y-you need f-food. S-s-sit down, I’ll m-make you some, something.”
Too befuddled and hungover to think of a response, Hank sat down at the table. Connor disappeared into the kitchen for several minutes, and Hank put his head down on the cool wood.
What the fuck.
Connor returned with a plate of four pieces of toast, perfectly browned, and set it in front of Hank. Then he retreated, seating himself on the floor by Sumo’s bed, staring at the sleeping dog.
At a loss, Hank ate, slowly and numbly, staring at Connor like he was seeing him for the first time. His sweater was patched and heavily stained and too big for him. His pants weren’t a lot better off. Both items looked soft and well-worn. He had what looked like an old Bluetooth headset on each ear, which was new. And as Hank watched, Connor hesitantly reached out a hand and pet Sumo gingerly. Within seconds, his whole body softened.
He looked. He looked like a person.
Hank reached down, and then realized with a start that he’d actually eaten all four pieces of bland-ass toast, and his stomach had actually settled a little. He stared blankly down for a few seconds, and then got up and stumbled into the kitchen, started a pot of coffee, and swallowed a couple painkillers dry. Connor didn’t say a word the whole time.
Hank swiped his fresh mug of coffee and sat back down, and it wasn’t until he’d finished half of it that he asked tiredly, “What are you doing here?”
The question clearly stumped Connor, and he pulled his hand back to his chest without looking up.
“I was con-concerned that you w-w-would suf-suffocate or, or seize over, overnight,” Connor said at last, quiet again and sounding oddly defeated. And what was with the stutter?
Either way, Hank snorted bitterly.
“I don’t need your crisis protocols,” he sneered, well familiar with them after all this time. And he didn’t need anyone’s fucking pity, or their mental health training or leftover programmed ‘compassion’.
Unexpectedly, though, Connor gave him a hard look back.
“I’m p-programmed for, for in-inves-investigation and m-murder, Lieutenant,” he said, clipped and terse. “I don’t, don’t have c-crisis protocols.”
It was Hank’s turn to be stumped. He squinted at Connor, trying to comprehend him through his aching head. “Then what are you getting outta this? Fuck knows you don’t have any reason to give a shit about me.”
Hank just wasn’t worth giving a shit about, and he and Connor had clashed from day one. There was no reason for Connor to stick around for his drunk ass.
“I d-d-don’t kn-know,” Connor said, unwittingly echoing Hank’s thoughts.
“Oh, it all makes sense now,” Hank said sarcastically, familiar and easy irritation flashing through him. And that fucking stutter-
Connor sighed, pulled his knees to his chest, and repeated insistently, “I don’t kn-know. We don’t get, get, get al-along. We, we y-yelled at each, each other last w-week. But I was, was worried.”
Connor paused. Hank finished his coffee to avoid looking at him, suddenly uncomfortable with how vulnerable he looked. He looked young. Hell, he probably was young.
“I’m, I’m sorry for yell, yelling,” Connor said after a bit. “I d-didn’t m-mean to, to get upset.”
Hank believed that in a heartbeat. He grunted, still guarded and reluctant to trust this sudden about-face of behavior, and went to go flop on the couch.
“Where did those fucking headphone things come from?” he mumbled out of nowhere, leaning heavily on the arm of the couch and frowning at Connor.
Connor looked uncomfortable again, tugging gently at his sleeves.
“They’re n-noise-can-canceling,” he said, not looking at Hank. “M-Markus got them, got them for m-me. B-because I’m sense, sensitive to s-sound, and you can be kind of, kind of l-loud.”
Hank snorted ungracefully. “Uh huh. Is that all you two talked about?”
Connor shrugged. “He said I was, was t-trying too hard, and that was wh-why you dis-disliked me. I’m, I’m t-trying to do, do b-better.” He hesitated, not look at Hank. “Am I, am I doing better?”
“Jesus Christ,” Hank muttered, and threw an arm over his face. “Why do you even care what I think of you?”
“I don’t know,” Connor said unhappily, curled up on the ground.
Hank sighed. Let himself notice how much more Connor was talking than usual, his voice warping and stammering awkwardly instead of stiffly controlled. The small blips of annoyance he’d let slip, and uncertainty, and the admission of weakness.
He thought about Connor staying overnight just to look after his sorry ass. When was the last time someone had done that? It had to have been years.
“Yeah,” he said at last. “Yeah, you’re doing better.”