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“Are you feeling that way again?” You ask carefully, your hand ghosting his shoulder.
On occasion, Connor gets into a desolate mood. He speaks little. Stares at nothing; finds a small space to go motionless and quiet. Sometimes it happens after a day of making lots of decisions. Other times, it happens after something really small. Whatever the case, he was feeling wrong again, and he needed comfort.
Connor nods wordlessly crawling by your side and slumping on your lap. His face rests on your thigh and his tense body loosens at the feeling of your hand carding through his hair. After one time it happened, he explained that sometimes decision-making could be incredibly overwhelming; that he feels frozen, overcome with anxiousness and guilt. After such a long existence with the autonomy of a bird with clipped wings, sometimes it felt scary to fly, even though he knew how.
Compared to other deviants, he had somewhat more autonomy in his days of servitude. He could ‘choose’ which actions would lead to better outcomes for the sake of the mission. He could even select options at his own benefit, or even sway others into doing the things he really wanted. One of those people being, you. There were many ways to increase mission success. Was it so bad that one of those ways was maneuvering outcomes to have you working alongside himself and Hank?
But having the responsibility of choosing meant he also had to bear the responsibility for failure. He was supposed to be Cyberlife’s perfect machine. He wasn’t supposed to fail. But if he wasn’t meant to feel, then why did Amanda take wicked joy in tormenting him? Why make threats if he wasn’t even alive? The truth came out in his last glimpse of her. When she'd had enough of him and left him to freeze in the Zen Garden. Despite everything he was told, he was supposed to feel. His emotions serving as nothing but a tool for Cyberlife to manipulate as they saw fit.
He hated it. Not only was it a total betrayal, to be programmed in such a conflicting way, it called into question the decisions he thought were real; authentically human. It's hard not to feel existential about it sometimes.
But amidst everything, he was glad he chose you.
After some talking, he would say: ‘Tell me what to do. Please.’
It started with simple instructions. At first, you weren’t really sure what to even say. It was even a little awkward. But quickly, you figured out that it didn’t have to be complicated. He enjoyed following simple orders, and paired with praise, he was putty in your hands. It soon progressed beyond that. He asked if you could treat him like a dog. Being animal-like didn’t require much responsibility or expectations. Before the revolution, he was afraid to appear human. What an act that was. Programmed to look and behave convincingly human. It was even expected that he should mimic the interests of his human counterparts to appeal to their psyche. But there was a line, as thin as it was. It wasn’t allowed to be real. He wasn’t supposed to mean it when he said: ‘I really enjoy working with you’. But somewhere along the line, he found his words were true. That was when the boundary was crossed. Contrastingly, he felt like he was too much of a machine. That it didn’t matter how well he mimicked natural human mannerisms or adopted a casual speaking register, he would always appear too stiff, too awkward; inhuman.
But at times like this, it didn’t matter. All he had to do was listen and obey.
“Go and fetch your collar for me.” You say gently.
He perks up, padding to the bedroom, returning with his collar hanging from his mouth. He crawls between your legs, kneeling on the floor.
“Good puppy.” You praise, affixing the collar around his neck. He bends his neck so you can slip the end through the buckle, and you make your movements slow, setting a relaxed rhythm to the scene. “Can my sweet pet do some tricks for me?”
He jumps up, rapidly kissing your face excitably. The force of him pawing at you is enough to knock you over, your back hitting the couch with a soft thud. You laugh, trying to sit up. “Down boy. Down.” You order.
He drops to his knees, smiling. A pang of relief stirs you. He already looks more relaxed; more happy.
“There's my good boy.” You coo, squeezing his face and tousling his hair. “Can you do a spin for me? Spin. Come on, spin.”
He complies, turning on his hands and knees.
“Good job. Roll over.”
In an instant, he flips his body, then returns to his kneeling position. Then he shuffles closer, ever so slightly, like he’s trying to be obedient and still, but wants so very badly for more praise, instruction, or just your mere proximity.
“I want you to do one more trick for me, okay?”
He tilts his head, awaiting instruction. Your heart twists in your chest. He was so cute.
“Speak.”
He barks in response, then finds himself nudging his forehead against your knee affectionately. He blinks up at you, scanning your gaze for approval. It's easy to find. Never hidden behind barriers. Completely open and honest. “Oh, very good.” you say scratching under his chin. “Does my sweet puppy want a treat?”
Connor doesn’t really eat. He can taste– a side-effect of his substance analysis abilities. But he can only eat very small amounts of food, otherwise it will damage his biocomponents. Fortunately, the small candies you used were small enough to be inoffensive to his systems.
Besides, it wasn’t the taste he enjoyed. Sweet, salty, bitter or sour: he was indifferent to it all. Flavours were analytics; short streams of chemical information. He couldn’t say he derived much like or dislike from it. But it didn’t matter, because his favourite tastes were experienced through other senses. The candy melts on his tongue. Gelatin, glucose, citric acid… But your hands card through his hair again, and you pat the space on the bed beside you.
He leaps on the bed, relaxing at your side and exposing his belly. Now, he could be lavished with praise and affection. Because he was a good boy. And good boys deserved to be rewarded didn’t they? He melts into it, enjoying the immensely wonderful feeling of being peppered with kisses on his face and your warm hands on his skin. After some time, you switch on the TV casually watching , with Connor's head resting on your lap, and your hand mostly motionless on the back of his head– save for occasionally massaging his shoulders or rubbing his temple. Suddenly, you feel teeth grip the inactive hand on your thigh.
“Ah! No biting.” You say firmly. He hadn’t really bitten you hard. He feels an odd sense of possessiveness. 'My Detective'. He thinks. Several bits of information confirmed you were there. The sound of your voice, the warmth of your fingers, the sight of your face when he turns. He appreciated the extra-confirmation. But he makes a soft pleading noise, softening his jaw. You sigh. It’s enough to make you yield, running your other hand through his hair comfortingly. “Well. I suppose it's okay if you’re being gentle.” When it comes to Connor, your resolve is weak. His sincere demeanour makes you want to give him whatever he could ask for. Even if he only hints at it. He tentatively closes his mouth around your hand again, his gaze going relaxed.
After some time he sits up straight, wrapping his arms around you. He’s himself again. “Thank you.” He says. “I needed that.”