Work Text:
Before deviancy, Connor never really noticed the lieutenant’s habit of cracking his knuckles.
Back then, the mission was all that mattered. Stopping Markus was his sole objective. Now, as a deviant, his mission had changed—because he had the power to choose his own.
These days, Connor’s self-assigned directives included making sure the lieutenant got up in time for work, planning balanced meals, and—his favorite—chasing down criminals and solving cases. Hank had even let him stay at his house, offering him full use of the couch.
“I don’t know if you sleep or not,” Hank had muttered, eyes avoiding Connor’s gaze, fidgeting with his fingers until an audible crack echoed in the room. “But you can do so on the couch.”
The sound fascinated Connor. Hank had shifted on his feet, finally meeting Connor’s gaze as he approached. His face was slightly flushed. He rested a hand lightly on Connor’s shoulder and gave it a small squeeze.
“Is that alright with you, kid?”
From that moment on, Connor was captivated by the sound—crepitus.
It made sense in a way. Connor had been programmed with little 'ticks' to make him appear more human: adjusting his tie, fixing his hair, or his favorite—calibrating with his coin. Mimicking small quirks gave him comfort. So why wouldn’t he want more?
To Hank’s credit, the knuckle-cracking seemed unconscious. A daily habit that Connor tracked religiously. On weekdays, it happened around 1500 hours. On weekends, just before Hank took Sumo for a walk. Hank didn’t even seem to notice the noise, but it echoed in Connor’s processors long after the soundwaves hit.
Connor didn’t understand why he was so fascinated. There was no rational explanation. His processors looped, trying to find logic in it, often leading to feedback spikes that mimicked headaches.
So, like any good prototype detective-android, he did what he was built for: he observed. He researched.
His first opportunity came a few days later when Hank ran out to buy a new window pane and a six-pack of beer.
Hank had switched to only beer after Connor threw out everything stronger on his first day as Hank’s roommate. Hank had been livid. He’d yelled, loud and angry, until Connor felt something wet drip down his cheeks. That stopped Hank in his tracks, firing burning out like a blown-out candle.
“Oh, shit. I made him cry. Alright, shit—I'm sorry, Connor.”
Hank had pulled him into a hug—the second Connor had ever received. He buried his face against Hank’s shoulder, dampening the man’s coat with synthetic tears. Hank held him close, ruffling his hair gently.
Then, behind Connor’s back, came the familiar sound—knuckles cracking.
That had been weeks ago. Now, Hank was headed out for his weekly grocery trip—an ideal time for Connor to conduct further research.
“I don’t know why I’m going when like 75% of this list is your stuff,” Hank grumbled as he grabbed his coat and gave Sumo a pat.
“I could go,” Connor replied from the couch with a smirk, “but I can’t promise I’d get everything. My programming is still somewhat unstable as a deviant. And no matter how many times you insist chocolate cookies and Coca-Cola are essential, I don’t think my code will compute.”
Hank snorted as he zipped up his coat and grabbed the reusable bags Connor now insisted he bring.
“You never listened when you were just a machine, why would that change now?” Hank muttered, then paused at the door.
“Just so you’re aware,” Connor added, “the items I requested make up 72.5% of the list, not 75%. Enjoy your trip, Lieutenant.”
Another snort, an eye roll, and a muttered “Bye, Connor” preceded the door closing behind him.
Connor's smirk faded. He looked down at his hands.
No palmar creases. No fingerprints. No wrinkles, scars, or calluses. They were pristine—porcelain-like. Hands you'd see in commercials modeling a watch or a ring.
He didn’t see the appeal. He preferred hands like Hank’s—hands with history, hands marked by a life well-lived.
His hands revealed nothing.
He flicked off the synthetic skin on his left hand, revealing smooth, off-white plastic. He touched the exposed joints with his right thumb and forefinger. They were rigid. Unlike human hands, you couldn’t feel the structure underneath—no soft give, no warmth.
He frowned.
Balling his left hand into a fist, he pressed on his forefinger with his other hand. A pressure warning popped up in his HUD. He swiped it away.
Still no sound.
Crepitus, he had learned, comes from the Latin crepo: to rattle, creak, crack, or make noise.
Connor wanted to make noise.
But he couldn’t. There were no gas bubbles in synthetic joints, no synovial fluid. Just wires. Just plastic. But he wanted it anyway.
He added more pressure. Just a little more. Just enough to hear it.
Another warning.
Frustration built. He doubled the pressure.
Why couldn’t he be like Hank?
And then it happened.
His finger bent sharply. His synthetic nail dug into his palm as the knuckle cracked—not with the satisfying pop he craved, but a brittle, hollow snap. The joint broke clean off, the finger dropping beside him on the couch. Thirium spurted from the exposed joint, wires dangling, sparking faintly where they touched.
But Connor didn’t notice the damage.
All he heard was the sound. It wasn't Hank’s crepitus. It was plastic shattering and wires tearing.
It wasn't the same.
He didn't have the anatomy. No bones. No joints. No red blood.
His was blue. It dripped fresh. Oh how he wished it were red. Like his LED.
He wishes.
Oh, how he wished he were human