Chapter Text
Hank trudges into the dark house. This is the worst part when he comes home, when he comes home to nothing. No sound wafts from the living room. The lights are all turned off and the only light Hank can see comes from the cars slowly driving by outside. Sumo is somewhere—but even he isn't enough to warm Hank's broken heart.
It's been years. Years. Hank still mourns the loss of his child. He doesn't think he'll ever overcome it, the pain that wraps around his heart like barbed wire. It squeezes so tightly he can barely breathe. It would be easier to just move, to forget about the forgotten rooms that exist in perpetual darkness. To forget about the staircase that used to squeak and whine with excited feet.
It's too damn much nowadays. A home too big for a soul too small. Hank finds himself in the kitchen. He's at his bar and pours himself a glass of whiskey. He pours another. And another. He can't remember the last time he ate but honestly, he'll count that as a good thing. Tonight he'll either grab the gun or just pass out in the living room like he does most nights. He thinks about killing himself more than he should, but thinking about it and doing it are two separate things. Hank wants to die. But putting a gun to his head can be so damn hard.
He shoves himself down into the sofa and grabs his computer. His head's swimming, so that's nice. A house too quiet. He turns on music. A house too dark. He turns on the television. A house too empty. He looks at the internet.
He can't keep his eyes open for much longer. He clicks and he clicks and he thinks and he thinks. He sleeps too much. He comes to work late. He doesn't eat well because there's no one to cook for. When he's at work, all he wants is to come back home but when he's home all he wants is to go back to work. At least when he's even getting shot at, the world around him is alive. He's alive. There's something there with him. Hank is just so tired of being alone. His bed is too cold. The sheets are ice that numb his skin. His pillows jaunting and jeering as he holds them tight—desperation penetrating him so deep that he cries.
He knows tonight will be like that. A night where he finds himself with a tear-soaked pillow as he rolls out of bed to take a piss. He misses life. It's not that he wants death so much as he misses life. It died along with Cole. It left along with his wife. Life has long fled from Hank, and no matter how fast he runs to catch it, it's always just out of arm's reach.
He keeps searching the internet, his mind blurring as the alcohol finally fuels his veins and makes him feel good . Good to forget. Good to just be. He decides to stop looking at social media and dating sites that he never uses. All it does is make him upset. He doesn't want to be upset right now. He's finally on the wave, the one that rocks him back and forth, a quiet warm embrace that he sinks into the chair for.
He passes out not much longer after that. For at least a second, he almost feels happy.
It's nearly two in the afternoon when someone bangs on Hank's door. He's halfway off the couch, Sumo taking up most of it. His elbow burns from being shoved aginst the carpet all night and there's enough dried saliva in his beard to almost disgust him. He drops his legs off the sofa and rolls beside the coffee table.
“Hold the fuck on, I'm gettin' there!” He mumbles a few additional profanities, scratching at his ass. Half of it is numb. When he opens the door, his eyes flare wide. “What the shit is this?!”
The delivery android smiles at him. “Express shipping! As you requested.”
“As I fuckin'—what the fuck?” Hank then sees the box beside the android. It's taking its little dolly away from beneath the large white box. “Oh no. The fuck you're leaving that tin can here!”
“Are you Hank Anderson?” the android asks.
“What's it to ya?”
“A Hank Anderson, registered to this very address ordered this RK800 model at 11:43PM last night and requested express, next day shipping.”
Hank's eyes couldn't go wider even if he tried. They'd pop out of his head. He looks at the android in the box. Its eyes are closed, lips slightly parted. It would be almost peaceful if Hank didn't want to set it on fire out of pure spite. Except if he ordered this...
“Oh shit.” Hank nearly doubles over. “I don't wanna check my damn bank account.”
“I need you to sign for it please.”
Hank glares up at the android. If looks could kill, Hank would be one hell of a murderer. Yet the android doesn't register his malice for it or its incompetency. It just stands there like some smug bastard and smiles . Androids killed Hank's son—an android with the gall to claim it was a doctor. Cole died all the fucking same.
“No.”
The LED to the side of the android's face flashes red. “This model has been purchased and taken away from the warehouse. It is unable to return.”
“And why the fuck not?”
The android doesn't even miss a beat. “It's a sexdroid model.”
Hank can feel the blood beating right out of his heart and into his face. “A what!?”
“Please sign here, sir.”
Hank sits at work two days later, his face pressed close to his computer. He traces a fingernail along his lips, pensive.
“What're you looking at?” Gavin Reed peers over Hank's shoulder. Hank isn't even given a chance to respond—or punch the guy. “Return policies for androids?” Gavin looks at Hank's desk and pointedly stares at all the anti-android propaganda.
“I don't want to fucking talk about it.”
Gavin plops down on the side of Hank's desk, an insufferable grin playing at his lips. He's always been a thorn in Hank's side and today Hank feels like doing some gardening to trim away the stems.
“Gavin,” Hank warns in a low growl.
“No-no. This shit is too good. How'd you even end up with an android?”
“Not so fucking loud!”
Gavin looks around at the precinct and shrugs. Chris is out patrolling and Fowler is up in his glass office, pacing and looking as mean as always. But that doesn't mean there aren't others that could just pass by Hank's desk without so much as a pin dropping.. Hank has worked very hard for his reputation, whether it be out of pure stubborn obstinance or the mountain that crushes him every day that goes by where he can't bring himself to smile or even do his own laundry.
Hank has forgotten what it's like to just smile.
“Get out of here,” Hank says.
“Okay. Have fun banging your sexbot.”
Hank bristles, his large hands tensing into fists.
“So,” someone says as Hank is nearly two inches from the guts of a bloodied corpse. “You got yourself an android, huh?”
Hank will eventually go to prison. He'll go to prison for murdering Gavin Reed. He leans back, taking off his white gloves. “God damn it not you too, Ben.”
Ben Collins stands above him, smug and large. His wide face is smiling and there's no genuine malice there, only playful teasing. Ben is one of the guys Hank can stand to be around. He's patient and for the most part, he doesn't ask questions. Hank likes working with people who don't ask him about his life or how are you doing, can I help you with anything, it hurts this time of year doesn't it ?
“It's still switched off in my living room. Fucker creeps me out when I go to take a piss at night.”
Ben smirks and steps aside for a crime photographer to take a few snaps of the body before shuffling away to other parts of the scene. “I think it's good, Hank.”
“I bought it when I was drunk. I didn't do it on purpose.”
“Well something in your thick skull told you to buy it. Let it help you.”
“What, wipe my ass? Fuck no. I'd take it back but it's a goddamned sex model. I bought a fucking sex model!” Hank decides to leave out the part that it's anatomically a male android model as well. Though Hank did note that it came with—accessories.
“Hank.” Ben grabs Hank's shoulder and gives him a firm shake. “Just use the damn thing. It's okay to be happy. Your kid would want that for you.”
Ben is one of the rare few that gets to speak about Cole and not get a mouth full of knuckle sandwiches. But that doesn't mean Hank has to like what he's hearing. He can't take the damn machine back no matter how many times he tries to tell CyberLife it was a drunken order. Apparently there's no law against drunk online shopping. But enjoying it? Being happy? Ben knows exactly what he's trying to encourage Hank to do and there's a line that he's toeing quite dangerously.
They don't talk about their lives. That absolutely includes their sex lives. Hank isn't sure he could look Ben in the face ever again after having fucked an android. An android with male anatomy. He'd been drunk and he'd been terribly lonely, but he's not entirely sure why he'd gotten a male model. Sure, there were some moments in college where Hank kissed a few boys but it was never anything serious . He'd married a woman. He had a son.
Except that doesn't mean a damn thing. Especially in this day and age. Hell, Hank's pretty sure that Ben is even gay. So the embarrassment Hank feels about it is—juvenile. He thinks harder about it, turning back to the corpse in front of him. He's using the android's manufactured genitalia as a way to make another excuse to avoid the damn thing.
Ben pats Hank on the back with a big sigh. “Hank, just live a little. It's time you stopped punishing yourself.”
And as Ben and Hank ordinarily always did, they don't speak about their feelings or the android in Hank's house for the rest of the night.
It's been three weeks since Hank drunk ordered a sexbot online. He's gotten drunk staring at its closed eyes. He's taken note of how soft its damn lashes look and how supple its skin—fuck.
Hank takes a swig of his whiskey and pops open one of the panels to begin letting the android out. If anything, Hank could just order it into the street and get run over. He was at least sober enough not to purchase any kind of warranty but the standard manufacturer warranty. If he set the thing on fire, he could just claim it was an accident too. Or instead of being dramatic, he could just deactivate it and dump it into a landfill.
He doesn't even have to activate it. He could just take it to the landfill right now. While his car may be a four-door sedan, he could still tie it up on the roof. If it fell out, no harm no foul. But then he looks at its lashes again, its pouted lips.
Hank takes a step closer to it and removes the plastic in front of its face. Freckles splash across its skin like landmarks on a map. He reaches out and gingerly stokes one finger along its jaw before pulling back and gagging.
“Fucking tin cans.” Hank drains the rest of his glass of whiskey and goes to help himself to another. He should just dump the thing and be done with it. In fact, that's what he'll do. Long thick lashes or not.
He finishes off his next glass of whiskey and starts hauling the box down the hall. He groans with every tug. Androids aren't heavy, but they're not light either. His heart pumps as fast as it can but its wheezing and just as out of juice as his lungs are. He crumbles to the floor, panting. “God fucking damn it. Titanium frame my ass.” Standing is rough; his joints pop and his spine cracks. He misses being younger. He could jump up without a wince of the eye or look in a mirror and not wonder how the fuck he got so old.
Where did his life go? Could he have stopped all this? Maybe if he'd been a better husband. A smarter father. A kinder person. He presses himself against the wall and wraps his arms around himself. He's overweight. His hair is unruly. His beard unkempt. He's been so afraid of ever letting in anyone else that he's encased himself in his own tomb. Life didn't leave him. He left life.
A self-fulfilling prophecy. That's all Hank's ever been. His life became sad, so he became sad and he made sure he was nothing but ever again. He looks up at the android with its peaceful expression and slender shoulders. He wears a white outfit like most androids, but on the back of the box it says in big red words CLOTHING OPTIONAL. At least Hank had the decency to purchase a clothed android while shitfaced.
“Fuck.” Hank wrings his fingers through his hair. “Fuck!” He slams his head back, eyes misty. Everything he's doing feels like he's shoving a knife into the back of his son's memory. He should never have let this android even linger. He should've thrown it away immediately, cost or not. Except Cole isn't here anymore, and no matter what Hank does, nothing can bring him back. Turning on the android out of sheer curiosity's sake can't change that. And if it could, even if it meant Cole screaming at his father—at least he'd be there.
Hank rips the rest of the box apart and finds the manual tucked safely in the android's hands. He plucks it away and begins reading over the instructions. “Please forgive me, Cole.” He takes in a deep breath and says, “RK800 activate.”
The android opens his eyes to reveal big brown doe-eyes. They lock with Hank and a smile comes to his pink lips. “Hello. I am in setup mode. Would you like to name me or shall I pick a name from my database?”
Hank gawks. “Uh—I don't care.”
“I shall pick a name then.” The android's LED flashes yellow and he blinks erratically. “Hello, my name is Connor. Are you my main user?”
Hank nods, but when he realizes the android doesn't register that he makes an affirmative grunt.
“I need an affirmative, otherwise I cannot progress in the setup.”
“Fuck. Yes—yes I'm your main user.” Already Hank wants to deactivate this thing and hide beneath his bed covers for even thinking about doing this. It's an android, a fucking android and Hank is willingly letting it turn on.
Turn on...that's an interesting pair of words right now.
“What is your name?”
“Hank Anderson.”
“Hello Hank. Before I enter instillation mode for all my drivers, could you answer a few of my questions?”
Hank wants to die from embarrassment. “Could we just—do this later? I don't—fuck.” Hank walks away and heads to the kitchen. He hears the sounds of feet following him. Feet. Following. Sounds. His heart squeezes.
“It is natural for humans to be reserved when initializing me. Rest assured, I am equipped with the most advanced levels of security for your privacy. I will never reveal what we do together to anyone. I am programmed to exercise the utmost levels of secrecy.”
“And what if I just want to beat you, huh? What then?” He doesn't, but Hank's always wondered what levels of torture some androids go through so humans can get their nasty rocks off.
“I am programmed to exercise the utmost levels of secrecy,” the android says again—Connor—says again.
“So I could rip you to pieces and you wouldn't do a damn thing about it.”
Connor blinks, his LED flashing red. It resumes its ordinary blue hue and he says, “I am still in setup mode. Please answer the following questions and then I can install the necessary drives for our companionship.”
“Hang on. Hold the fuck on. We're not companions, or whatever. You're just, there.”
“On a scale of one to ten, please rate how sexually advantageous you are?” Connor completely ignores Hank's attempt at not letting this go any further than it already has. Hank's never noticed in all his dislike of androids, that he fears them too. Being near Connor makes his heart pound and his fingers shake. It's unnerving to watch Connor stare at him like he's about to eat him.
Hank takes a step back. “Uh, dunno. Four?” Hank hasn't exactly gotten any since his wife left. The only sexually advantageous activity he's had is his hand in the shower.
“How many humans live in this home?”
“Just me.”
“What is your marital status?”
“Single.”
“What do you want most out of a companion?”
“No. You're not getting that. Fuck all of this.” Hank turns back toward the alcohol and helps himself to another glass. He's not trying to get drunk, maybe just tipsy. At least if he's slightly inebriated he can blame all his future mistakes on that. Opening this damn android though, that was all sober-Hank and sober-Hank has made some serious mistakes tonight.
“What was your reasoning for purchasing an RK800 model, Hank?”
“I was drunk and didn't know I did.”
Connor's brows twitch. “Would you describe yourself as lonely?”
“Jesus. Turn off or something.” Hank tries to turn away, but Connor steps close and holds Hank by the wrist. Hank's so taken aback that he just stares into big brown eyes.
“The sooner you answer my questions, Hank, the sooner I can download the necessary drivers to—”
“Yeah-yeah, companions and all that bullshit.”
“What do you want most out of a companion?”
Hank's shoulders deflate. Connor is still holding his wrist. He leans back into the bar and sighs, all the fight leaving him. He did this to himself. He could've just given the android to Gavin for all he cares. But he'd opened it, which means there's a reason. He's lied to himself enough through the years. He could stop now.
“Honesty. Appreciation. Sound?”
“Like singing?” Connor tilts his head to the side.
“Maybe. I just mean—I don't wanna come home to a dark and empty house. I miss—I miss, shit. I dunno. I guess if you like me then that's really all I give a shit about.”
Connor's LED winks yellow a few times. “What was your reasoning for purchasing an RK800 model, Hank?”
“I told you. I was drunk.”
“Why were you drunk?”
“Because I didn't want to be alone.” Hank can't stomach the idea of saying lonely right now. It sounds too much like a pathetic confession and he's not ready for that. He's already spewed his soul out enough tonight. He just wants to pick it off the ground and drink himself to sleep.
“Installing drivers. This could take a few minutes. Please do not power me off during instillation.” Connor's eyes roll back in his head and his LED flickers again.
Hank watches, one part shocked and two parts curious.
Connor's eyes snap open and he smiles at Hank in the most unnerving way. “Do you want dinner? I could make you some.”
“Just—go sit on the couch or something.”
Connor doesn't move, which sends a warning chill down Hank's spine. He looks over at his knives and wonders how fast an android can glitch to the point of murdering its owner.
“Did you hear me?” Hank asks with a voice surprisingly calm for how nervous he's become.
“I did. But I don't think that's what you want me to do.”
Hank squints his eyes. He's always been under the impression that androids listened to everything humans said. To see one challenging him now, it didn't scare him—but it did something. Because he waited for Connor to keep speaking.
“Upon initial setup, you said you wanted sound. If I make you dinner, I provide you sound.”
“Look, don't take this the wrong way. Or maybe, you know what, I don't even care. Take it however you want. I turned you on because I was curious. I don't plan on using you for anything. Go play in traffic for all I care. That'll give me a nice crunching sound to hear.” He laughs at his own joke.
Connor doesn't laugh. Instead, he steps toward Hank, looking up with those doe-eyes and lashes dark as coal. Hank can't help but start counting the freckles that splay across Connor's face. Of course he's beautiful. All sexbots are beautiful. That's the whole allure of them. Pay absurd amounts of money, get pretty androids that just want to feed you lies about how lucky they are to be with you as you fuck them into the mattress with boring missionary sex.
Fuck that life. Hank won't do it. Happy or not, it's all just a lie. This thing in front of him is a machine and no machine is going to make Hank feel as alive as the moment he held his own son.
“You bought me, Hank. There was a reason.” Connor steps aside and moves over to the refrigerator.
Hank watches in stunned silence as Connor begins pulling out food to make a meal. Hank even sits down at the table, sipping a beer that Connor gets for him.
“Tell me how your day went,” Connor says.
“No.” Hank looks up to see if that made the android bristle, but all he sees is a calm, unreadable face.
He closes his eyes. He can hear a knife cutting into vegetables. It's rhythmic chop chop chop fills the air with movement and life. The soft hum of someone working in the kitchen. The pitter-patter of feet. Hank's lip quivers. He could almost pretend that Connor is something other than a machine. That he's something that matters. It's with sudden realization that Hank realizes he doesn't refer to Connor as an it . He's a he . Hank doesn't know what to make of that.
He doesn't say anything. Neither does Connor. But hearing that hum?
Hank's eyes fill with tears.
When Hank comes home, Connor has a few of the lights on and he's in the kitchen scrubbing out the fridge. “What the fuck?” Hank has no time for greetings when he sees an android half inside his refrigerator with bleach and a scrubby.
“You had a lot of spills. I decided to clean them.”
“Is that part of your function?”
“My function is to care for you, Hank. Your home is dirty and neglected.”
“When you say it like that, I almost care.” Hank drops his jacket in the entry to the kitchen just to see if he can piss off Connor. “But alas, I don't.” He spins on his heel and plops down on the couch in the living room.
When he reaches out to pet Sumo, he feels silken hair instead of the dog's coarse texture. He looks over, his brow furrowed. Sumo smells like oatmeal and his fur isn't shedding as badly as it usually does.
“I gave him a bath.”
Hank looks over his shoulder at Connor and grimaces. “You wash my underwear too?”
“Do you need me to?”
There's a long, uncomfortable silence as Hank contemplates the sincerity of Connor's voice or not. He actually wouldn't be opposed to Connor doing the laundry. Hank hates laundry. Ultimately, he rolls his eyes and says, “Stay away from my underwear.”
“You know I'm specifically designed for sexual intercourse, yes?”
Hank is more than fully aware of that. He saw the damn manual. And the accessories . But that doesn't mean Hank's ready to dive into that rabbit hole yet. Having Connor around could be worse. There's a busyness in the house that wasn't there when it was just Hank and Sumo. A crowded feeling that holds Hank instead of suffocates.
“Do you have any interest in letting me perform oral on you, Hank?”
“What?” Hank nearly jumps out of his skin. After the initial shock settles, he's left with his pulse pounding in his ear and heat swelling in his belly. Is he really that weak? Is it that easy for him to cave on every moral he thought he had? Was hating androids morality, or was it just cruel? Connor had nothing to do with Cole's death. Connor hadn't even been built yet. But there's a maze that Hank finds himself in, one he can't make heads or tails of. He runs and he runs but he can never figure out how to get away. His disdain for androids and himself have become living creatures that move the maze around and keep him trapped. He wants someone to kiss him. He wouldn't mind Connor blowing him. But he can't.
“I want you to go away.”
Connor stands in the doorway for a few beats longer, his face disgruntled. He shows more emotion than most androids that Hank's ever interacted with. But different models do different things, he supposes. Then Connor storms out of the room and proceeds to wash the dishes with excessive vigor. They clack and crash into each other. Connor practically tosses the dishes into the drying rack.
Hank winces each time he hears what sounds like a plate crashing on the floor. He'd asked for sound. Now he gets a passive aggressive android. Great.
The next night, Hank's watching the nightly news. It's mostly the same story played over and over again. The crime Hank's investigating makes the news and more and more “friends of the victim” are interviewed. Hank knows enough about the guy to know he didn't have many friends. What drives a person to lie and pretend like they cared about someone when they truthfully didn't? Just to be on TV? Is it really that worth it?
Connor is sitting on the other side of the couch. He's staring off into a corner, his eyes glassy. The TV reflects off them, but he hardly even blinks.
Hank kicks him and watches the LED go red. Connor looks to Hank, blinking furiously now. “You creep me out.”
Connor's lips part and instead of anger, there's a flash of something that Hank hates to see in others. He'd never thought he'd feel his heart tug for an android—but here they are. Connor looks sad, and Hank feels guilty.
“I just mean, blink, ya know? Just blink.”
“Sorry. I was transferring data.”
“I thought what we do is confidential.”
“It is. But that doesn't mean I can't share data with other androids to learn how to avoid bugs, crashes or otherwise improve performance. I don't tell anyone that you bought a sexbot simply to insult it.”
“You think I'm insulting you?” There's a smirk in the corner of Hank's lips.
Connor reaches down and pats Sumo on the head. “I prefer the dog's company to yours.”
Hank doesn't expect the ice that sneaks beneath his skin. He looks at his knees to give him something else to do other than look at Connor. He supposes he could just look at the TV again, but the feeling of sandbags weigh his head down. “Then why don't you leave?”
Everyone else does .
Connor blinks, his glare melting away into something more innocent—open. Hank doesn't know how Connor thinks. He doesn't understand how Connor even operates, except that he does. But Connor's face is vibrant with minute expressions, tiny little twitches that make Hank more confused about Connor's existence than he should.
Connor is an android. There's nothing human about him at all.
“I'm gonna go take a shower.” Hank stands up and pops his back, groaning. “You can turn off the TV.”
“Hank?”
For no rhyme or reason, Hank stops. Connor's voice is pitched and when he turns around, there's that open innocence displayed on that beautiful face. That fucking beautiful face. He doesn't speak, he's too proud to do that. But he can at least wait and hear what Connor has to say.
“You bought me for a reason.”
“Yeah. It was a mistake.”
Hank leaves the room.
Hank's about finished typing up a report from a domestic violence incident he had to help cover for when Ben sits across from him at an empty desk. Not many want to be this close to Hank, and Hank likes it that way. He looks up at his awards with the years that get further and further away from him. He sees the faces of police officers he knows to be dead now. Dead because the world is a cruel place and death does not discriminate.
“What?” Hank grumbles out.
“The android. How's it been working for you?”
Hank's eyes narrow. “I haven't used it.” He goes back to typing his report. The sound of the keyboard relaxes him. He doesn't think about Connor's pretty pink lips or the mole on his cheekbone. He doesn't think about the way Connor had casually asked to blow him or how Hank's body initially reacted. No, he doesn't think about any of that at all.
He's lying to himself.
“Why not?” Ben leans in closer to avoid anyone hearing. At least he has manners, unlike Gavin. Where Ben is considerate, Gavin is invasive. They're opposite sides to the same stone. They want to make the world a better place, but for the wrong reasons. Ben wants to help people. Gavin just likes the control.
“Because, Ben—it's a fucking android.”
Ben cocks a brow.
“Jesus. It's just—it's creepy okay. It stares off like it's possessed and it doesn't even listen to me half the time. I'm more convinced it's gonna kill me in my sleep than fuck me.”
“It's a sexbot, Hank. It's designed to want to have sex with you. Let it.” He stands up, winks and walks away.
Let it. Hank rolls his eyes. Now pissed, he can't focus on the clacking of the keyboard. All he can do is think about the dumb android sitting in his house. What does Connor even do when Hank isn't there? Just clean? Is that even any way to live? Hank snorts to himself. Androids don't live. He settles his fingers back on the keyboard and tries to get his breathing under control. Let Connor have sex with Hank. If only it were so simple.
Gavin comes in with his posse of equally obnoxious cops. Hank can remember the days when he had officers flock to him. The greenhorns wanted his stories and the veterans shook his hand and told him how much they admired his courage. He looks over at his picture with his original team. They'd done great work once. But then they got old. Some died. Hank's world died and yet his body kept going. He can count on one hand how many friends he has and he's not even sure if they even count. It's not like Ben's ever invited Hank over for his kids' birthday parties. So no hands. Hank can count on no hands—how many friends he has.
His shoulders slump forward. Loneliness is a curse because ti's not always apparent it's even there. It lurks in the shadows, stalking and waiting for its chance to strike. When it does, it always rips Hank to pieces. He feels it inside him, scratching and clawing until his eyes are stinging with tears and his toes curl so tight that he's afraid they may snap.
He grabs his things and decides he can't be here anymore. All it does is remind him that there is no one that would care if he walked in tomorrow or not.
Gavin even shouts out an insult to Hank as he walks on by.
The laughter he hears echoes in his mind and drops into the pit of his stomach. It weighs there, a reminder all the way home that no one at the precinct cares. Hank's pushed them all way. That had been his plan all along. Except now he doesn't know why.
When Hank gets home, his record player is blasting Fleetwood Mac. Stevie Nix's metallic, mesmerizing voice permeates into the walls and the bass lightly trembles the hardwood floors.
Time cast a spell on you but you won't forget me,
I know I could've loved you but you would not let me
Hank hangs up his jacket and proceeds to the kitchen. Connor's got brown paper bags overflowing with food in a multitude of colors. None of them pizza or beer, to Hank's dismay. “What the fuck is all this?”
“You didn't have much left for me to cook with, so I went shopping myself.”
Hank listens to the fuzzy, warm tones that come from his record player, taking in the sight before him. Connor's dressed in his white outfit but he's got a blue apron on. Something he must've picked up at the store. He's swaying his hips to the music and it's the most effortless thing Hank's ever seen. He's—trying. Trying to find some kind of bridge between them and Hank keeps burning it down. Whether he's programmed to or not, there's a softening in Hank's heart. He can feel the ice melt away, welcoming in soft warmth. Warmth like Stevie Nix's voice, like Connor's hips. The pinkness of his lips.
Shit .
The song ends and there's a moment of crackling as the record switches songs. Hank thinks this would be a good time to speak but there's a rock lodged in his throat. Connor doesn't seem to mind though, he bobs his head to the next song and assembles a line of zucchini and squash on the cutting board.
“What—are you making?” It's an easier line of questioning rather than how Hank came to find himself living with an android. One that doesn't seem like the others Hank's ever met. More alive, a quiet fire burning inside him. Hank finds himself drawn in instead of repulsed.
“I'm meal prepping. I want you to go to work with nutritious meals instead of doughnuts or store-bought pizza.”
“I like pizza.”
“I'll make you some. It'll have cauliflower crust and turkey pepperoni.”
Hank glares. “You're going to kill me. That what you want? To poison me so you don't have to put up with my shit anymore?”
Connor smirks, looking over his shoulder at Hank. He winks and Hank's heart fumbles in his chest. “If I wanted to kill you, Hank, I've had plenty of opportunities already.”
“Androids can't hurt humans.” Hank takes out his gun and aims it at Connor. “You couldn't even defend yourself from his.”
Connor looks at the gun, looks back at his zuchini and puts the knife down. He turns around and walks up to the gun so his forehead is resting against the barrel. “I'm terribly expensive, Hank.”
“I'm aware.” Hank unfortunately had to be laid on his bills because of his drunken mistake.
There's a defiance in Connor's eyes, some kind of knowing awareness that Hank won't actually shoot. But to prove his point, he reaches up and touches the gun. “Can every android do this?”
Hank's eyes widen. “You're not—supposed to.”
Connor doesn't actually hold the gun. There's a technicality there that gives Hank pause. Androids can't hold guns. But maybe they can touch them. Even so, the fact that Connor walked up to the gun and touched it. That he pressed his head to it. Hank isn't sure if he's terrified of Connor or in awe. It's a teetering line and Hank's afraid he'll fall into the abyss if he thinks too hard about it.
Connor goes back to the vegetables and begins cutting them up. “Your lunch tomorrow is going to be linguini with sauteed zuccini and squash. I'm using olive oil and not butter. I'll pack you an additional cup of olive oil if it dries a bit overnight. I'm also making you buffalo chicken lettuce wraps. For snacks I've already measured out nuts and an assortment of berries. And for something sweet you have sugar free cool whip.”
Hank wants to swallow the knife Connor's using so he doesn't have to put up with healthy shit. Connor belongs to him, so he could tell him that all this isn't okay. He could end it at any moment. But he lets Connor keep explaining to him the nutritional values of the food and why he's assembled this diet instead of other types. There's something nice about rolling his eyes and complaining. Connor quips right back, but he still goes and retrieves a beer for Hank when Hank crumbles into one of the kitchen chairs. He even pops it open and smiles.
Hank isn't sure what he makes of any of this. Just that he likes Connor around.
After dinner (a surprisingly delicious Shepard's pie with ground turkey and mashed cauliflower), Hank settles in to watch some nightly television. He's huddled up on one side of the couch, his legs spread wide and a beer in his hands. Connor is just about finished cleaning up the kitchen. The kitchen has never looked so good since Hank's wife left him. And it's not that Hank made her do all the work. They actually had worked as a team. They'd alternate who put the dishes in the dishwasher and who would rinse them. Who would mop. Clean out the refrigerator. But all that fell by the wayside when it was just one person and Hank couldn't share a good conversation with anyone. It became a lonesome reminder that he'd lost his whole family. So Hank just stopped cleaning.
Connor sits on the other side of the sofa. He's holding his own manual and Hank notices with some uncomfortable clarity that he's only wearing a large shirt that exposes soft, supple thighs.
“That's my shirt.”
“Mine's dirty. I'm washing it.” Connor hands the manual to Hank. Well, it's more like he drops it into Hank's lap and looks expectantly at Hank with those big doe eyes.
“Are all sexdroids as annoying as you?”
Connor smiles pleasantly. “I'm a newer model.”
Hank sighs and begrudgingly looks down at the manual. He scans the index: setup, battery life, recharging ports, memory capacity, accessories . He hates that he finds himself flipping to that page. He hates it even more when Connor scoots closer. “Could you not breathe down my neck?”
“I don't breathe, Hank. Unless you want me to simulate breathing for your comfort.”
Hank bristles. “Just, sit a cushion over from me.”
Connor frowns but he puts distance between them.
Hank reads over the amount of accessories and their functions. Connor's body is built to release genitalia and its easy “snap in function” allows Hank to switch out the parts “for his pleasure.” He wants to groan. “Why're you making me read this?”
“Because my primary function is to be a romantic companion to you. And I can only assess that the reason it isn't working is because my parts are wrong. I come standard with a penis, but you may elect to switch in a vagina instead. I can even have breasts.”
“Jesus, stop! I don't want you—wearing boobs.” Hank's face heats up. Connor's built with androgyny in mind. His waist is slim, his hips wide. Lips—God those fucking lips. Make him change his hair and slap some makeup on and it'd be entirely unnoticeable that he was built on a male model once.
“Would you prefer me to have a vagina? I noticed you were married to a woman once.”
Anger coils beneath Hank's skin. It's one thing to have Connor exist in the same space, and Hank won't deny that he likes having someone around, but Connor prying into his life is absolutely unacceptable. “Don't you go looking into my things ever again.”
Connor's LED flashes yellow. “Yes, Hank.” There's something automatic about it. Connor's voice, usually full of life, is now clipped. Machine-like.
Hank's surprised to feel disappointment. Connor is an android. No amount of lying to himself is going to make that change. Hank bought a damn android because was fucking lonely and now he's looking over what parts it can put into itself.
“I don't wanna have this conversation.” Hank shoves the manual back at Connor and bundles into himself. He leans into the arm of the couch and stares ahead at the TV.
Connor sighs, something that Hank wants to bite back at him with an, “I thought you didn't breathe,” but he doesn't. He doesn't want to encourage Connor and nor does he want to keep looking at his pretty face and those damn freckles.
Connor stands up and sets the manual beside the record player. “I hope you don't mind me playing records. I really like them.”
Hank watches the way Connor's fingers caress the sides of the albums. There's something lonely in that. Connor can't fulfill his purpose, so he resorts to finding attachment to something else. Hank is hurting him too. His stomach squeezes, but he's too proud to say anything else. So when he doesn't answer, Connor turns around, his eyes glassy.
“I won't touch them anymore.”
“N-no. Connor, of course you can use the records.” His heart hurts. The only thing he can give Connor is that record player, and he can't stomach the thought of Connor feeling alone without it. Hank knows what it's like to feel alone. Android or not, he doesn't want Connor to feel the same.
Connor doesn't smile. He blinks tears from his eyes and leaves the room.
Hank, sighing heavily, rolls his head back and stares up at the ceiling fan. Connor's behavior isn't like any old android. He's a newer model, apparently, and Hank thinks there's something to that. But Connor acts less like something that wants to just fuck its master into oblivion and more like something that wants to care for another.
Hank follows after where Connor ran off to. He finds him upstairs in Hank's room. He's huddled in a corner and his manual is pressed to his chest. Saline tears still caress his cheeks and it's enough to make Hank's heart tug forward to him. There's a little string that wraps itself around Connor. It's found it's way around Hank and it gets shorter and shorter by the minute.
Hank knees in front of Connor. He doesn't know what to say. There's a gap between them. Connor isn't human. Some barely even register him as alive. Hank doesn't know what he registers Connor as except as his responsibility.
“Why won't you let me perform my function?” Connor asks, voice cracking.
Hank falls the rest of the way to the floor. He looks away, knowing his cheeks are pink. Performing a function sounds a hell of a lot less sexy than making love, fucking, banging, doing it—Hank could make a list of stupid ways to call sex that sound better than performing a function. But he doesn't comment on it. Connor is wiping tears away with his hands and they tremble.
Hank reaches out and takes Connor's hands in his own. They're soft and small. Hank folds his fingers over Connor's and tries to offer some kind of smile, but it's more of an uncomfortable grimace.
Connor just looks at him with shiny brown eyes, his brows arched, framing hope in his features.
“It's not that I don't want to—I think.” Hank looks away. He can't look at Connor while he explains this. “I lost my whole family, okay? I haven't been with anyone else since my ex-wife and I don't know how.”
“I can teach you.”
“No—not that. I know how to do—that.” There's a mountain of embarrassment that piles onto Hank's chest. “What I mean is, I'm not ready for that. It wouldn't be fair to you to just—use you like that.”
“But that's exactly what I'm designed for. To be used by you.”
Hank can hear his heart shatter. It falls from him in a wail. Androids aren't people because people don't let them be people. They're machines because they were designed to be machines. No one let them look at their own greatness and decide who they are.
Connor sits here, crumpled up into himself, crying, because he feels he's defective from Hank's lack of sexual interest when humans are so much more complex than that. And no one let Connor understand that because they never wanted him to question human motives. Because he was designed to be used . It pisses Hank off.
“Connor—look.” Hank puts his hand on Connor's shoulder. “I'm not gonna use you. You're supposed to be a,” Hank feels like he's vastly over his head now, “companion too, right?”
Connor nods and wipes at his nose. It's flushed blue from crying.
“So let's just start there.”
“I don't understand.”
Of course he doesn't. Hank wants to walk into CyberLife and have a talk with whoever decided to design the androids made for sex. “I mean, let's get to know each other? I can't just put out on the first date.”
Connor blinks, his eyes rounding. “Oh! You want to be courted!”
Hank rolls his eyes, but there's a tired grin on his face. It surprises him because it feels so foreign, the upturn of his lips. “Sure, Connor. I want to be courted.”
Connor stands up, an excited jitter in his limbs. He whirls around and says, “What kind of dates do you like? Wining and dining? Romantic walks in the park? We could take Sumo!”
Hank leans against the wall where Connor had been. He's got his hand slung over his knee, letting it dangle in the air. Connor's excitement fills the room and makes Hank feel hazy. Like he's swaddled in soft blankets and warm. A tiredness seeps into his bones, but it's not the kind that leaves him drained and emotionally vacant. It's relaxing and lets him lean back against the wall. He could drift off to sleep and he'd be happy about it.
“Hank? Are you listening?” Connor crouches in front of him, a hand pressed to Hank's chest.
They both realize it because Connor snaps his hand back like he'd been burned and Hank's heart flutters.
“Let's take a walk in the park when I get home tomorrow?” Hank suggests.
Connor smiles, his soft lips plush and so kissable it physically hurts Hank to not lean forward and just let himself indulge. But he can't use Connor. He won't let him be just another android blissfully ignorant of the horrors that happen to him. There won't be horrors that happen to Connor.
Hank may not really like androids. They're mostly creepy and they've absolutely causing an employment market crash that Hank dislikes with the ever-rising cost of health insurance, but Connor's alright.
The first thing Hank does when he gets home from work the following day is find clothes for Connor to wear other than his sterile white uniform. Hank doesn't have much in by way of clothing, but he does at least have sweatpants that he can't fit into anymore and a soft Henley.
Connor looks comfortable, and best of all, not like an obvious android. His LED is a dead giveaway of course, but Hank doesn't want anyone staring at him for walking along side an RK800 and know what his primary function is.
When they make their way to the park, Connor stays close, ducking his head when people walk by and greet them. He grabs Hank's arm a few times but the further they get into the park, the more the trees show off their vibrancy. A gentle fire burns the canopies above them. The sun trickles in between with rays that collect the last of lingering insects. When the sun hits Connor's eyes, Hank swears he can see flecks of amber gold in them.
Hank keeps hold of Sumo's leash to give himself something to be occupied by, but watching Connor is admittedly far more entertaining. Connor ventures away from Hank. He touches the bark of trees, the smooth iron of park bench frames. He even chases after a group of pigeons that hoot in awkward rhythm as they all take to the sky.
Sumo barks, tugging a bit on his leash when the birds take flight. Hank holds the leash tightly, stumbling in his pace just a bit as the large dog tries to lunge forward but eventually becomes distracted by a scent in the grass.
Connor walks back over, a blissful smile on his face. He gets close to Hank, close enough that Hank fears he'll kiss him, but then it never happens and Hank's left feeling disappointed. Connor simply touches Hank's chest, blinks up at him with those caramel eyes and spins away to investigate fallen leaves.
“You've never been outside before, have you?” Hank asks.
“I've never been anywhere but your home, Hank. Well, CyberLife. But I was born there.”
Hank finds it interesting that Connor says born and not assembled .
“What do you think of being outside?”
“I knew what it looked like.” Connor furrows his brows. “CyberLife uploads all the information we'll need to function in the world. But experiencing it is certainly different. There's so much to touch.” He lets his fingers graze along the rough bark of a maple tree with vibrant red hues. Flecks of sunlight come through the leaves, dotting Connor's face in what looks like gold—shimmering and eternal. Hank gets it now, why people fall in love with androids instead of humans. He used to think those people were sorry saps that couldn't find a human. And maybe Hank can't find a human, so maybe that makes him one of those sorry saps. But he gets it now.
Connor looks at Hank from the corner of his eye, his lips upturned. He reaches out and wraps an arm around Hank's, resting his chin on Hank's shoulder. “Does this bother you?”
Hank thinks about it for a moment. “No. It's fine.”
“I've never touched a person before.” Connor rubs his face against Hank's shoulder. “We don't feel that different.”
Hank chuckles under his breath. He does notice he gets a bit more paranoid about running into anyone he knows, but Hank doesn't know that many people. Guys from the precinct don't exactly take fall strolls in the park, though they may patrol it. He tries to remember he's doing this for Connor. Because Connor's never touched a person before. He's never been outside before. If that doesn't make Hank feel soft for the guy, then Hank doesn't have a heart.
Which he knows, as he's become uncomfortably aware of as of late, that he does.
Connor plops onto the couch beside Hank. He nearly knocks Hank's beer from his hand, which would've absolutely led to some choice words from Hank, but Connor delicately steadies it before it sloshes over.
“Impressive,” Hank says.
“I made a list of ideas for me to court you. From my research, we're to have sex on the third date.”
Hank chokes on his beer. He wipes the alcohol from his beard and places his bottle on the coffee table. “C-Connor that's—I mean we just had our first one.”
“Exactly. The third one I'm supposed to make it special for you. I made a short list of activities I think would be good for a third date and get you in the mood.”
Hank wants to die. He wants the Earth to open up, take a giant bite out of his body, and let him die.
Connor puts the list in Hank's view. “Any you think we should cross out?”
“Fuck horseback riding.”
Connor takes a pen and strikes through horseback riding.
Hank can't believe this is happening. He can't seem to make Connor understand that it's not courtship that Hank needs to have sex. It's emotional connectivity, trust, a bond that Hank hasn't had since his ex wife. And that's only part of it. Hank hates himself. He can't love someone else if he hates himself. He's pushed the world away from him so he didn't have to feel the bite when the world abandoned him instead. He made himself unavailable to the point where no one would want him so he didn't have to feel the hurt in his heart when they let him go. Hank's built himself into an impenetrable force of “don't try” that he doesn't even know how to begin taking down his own walls.
Human or not, Connor looks and talks enough like a human to confuse Hank, and Hank isn't ready for any of that with anyone—even a robot designed to make him want it.
“What about skydiving?” Connor asks.
Hank contemplates agreeing just so he doesn't have to open the parachute, except then he remembers they don't let you jump without an instructor and they'll definitely open the parachute. “I'm in my fifties, do you honestly think I want to jump out of a plane?”
“Okay. So—play chess in a park?”
It takes a moment for Hank to realize Connor is joking. There's a twist of his lips and his eyes are practically glinting with laugh, laugh, laugh .
Hank doesn't laugh, but he does snort and roll his eyes, and that seems to please Connor enough.
“I don't want to just take you to dinner and a movie. It feels superficial. Our third date should be special.”
A tug in Hank's heart makes him wince. The cruelest joke here is that it is all superficial. Connor's desires for Hank aren't real. He's programmed to want Hank. Someone as pretty as Connor would never want someone as used up as Hank.
“Why don't we just think about this later?” Hank suggests. “I kinda just wanna get drunk and pass out on the couch.”
Connor's face sours. He looks to his list and then back up at Hank. “We haven't even kissed yet. I just don't want to do this wrong. If we're supposed to get to the third date—we should've kissed tonight.”
Hank lets a tired, sad smile try to lift up his lips, but it fails miserably. He reaches over to Connor and grabs his loose fitted Henley. Hank's decided Connor really shouldn't wear that white uniform anymore. He looks so much more human when he's got his clavicle just barely peeking out from the collar.
Connor goes pliant, his face flushing blue. His pink tongue darts out and licks across his soft lips.
Hank pauses them, pulling back and searching Connor's eyes. He's always looked into an android's face and saw nothing. But Connor's intensity verges on burning. He takes his thumb and traces over Connor's lips. Soft as velvet and warm. He's solid and real and waiting.
Hank offers another of his pathetic smiles as an apology and gets up to get another beer. There's silence from the living room, something Hank hadn't expected. He's not sure what he expected. Disappointment, more crying about not being able to perform a function . Instead, it's just a buzzing in his ear from years and years of blasting metal music in the car.
When he comes back, Connor has his legs crossed, his hands folded in his lap. He doesn't look upset, but he doesn't look happy either. There's something—blank—in him. He blinks, he simulates breathing, but it's all so vacant. Methodical.
“I feel bad that I can't offer you a beer,” Hank says. He's deflecting.
“I've researched alcohol is an opportunity for socialization, romance and can be a release for sexual inhibitions.” Connor's voice is as blunt as a flatline. “Yet I've seen you become inebriated and you still don't want me.”
Hank feels stupid. He stands like the dumb oaf he is in the middle of his living room and finds great interest in his toes. The nails are all uneven, dried cuticles flaky. Feet aren't exactly attractive to begin with, but he seriously believes his feet were designed more for a hobbit than a human.
“I told you, we can modify my genitalia and appearance. Do you want something more feminine?”
“No. That's got nothing to do with it.” How does Hank explain himself to an android who hasn't even been alive for more than several week? “I mean, I don't got the most experience with guys but I picked you for a reason, I guess.”
Connor waits, his brows raised. If a puppy sprouted into an android, that puppy would be Connor. Those big soulful eyes, that youthful face. There's so much it expects and yet all Hank does is let Connor down.
“I'm not ready to have sex, Connor.”
“That's why we have three dates.” Connor sounds so sure of himself. His research said so, and so his belief is absolute.
“I'm older, Connor.” Hank objectively understands that being in his fifties isn't exactly old but he's got silver hair that hangs like a mop around his head, wrinkles around his tired eyes and a gray beard to top it all off. He feels pretty old. Life has exhausted him, asking for so much and then demanding more. He's not sure he'll even make it to old-old. “It's not easy for me.”
“I've read about that too!” He sounds so pleased with himself. “There's medication we can have you take, or I can work on you slow. I'm very patient.”
Hank hates that Connor's words do get a reaction from his cock. It tingles, a pointed reminder that he's not completely useless between his legs. But it's not enough to make Hank change his mind. He's got—shit to figure out. Lots of shit. And Connor only complicates that shit because now there are expectations that Hank can't explain away.
Connor is beautiful naivety and brutal ignorance all at once.
“I need to go lie down.”
“Do you need me to bring you anything? I ordered you an aromatherapy diffuser. It's still in the garage because I wasn't entirely sure when to tell you. But I think with your current stress levels that it'll be beneficial to you.”
“You're linked to my bank account, aren't you?”
“Yes. Upon initial setup, you consented to using the bank account you purchased me with. If you would like to change that, you must access my settings online. It wasn't expensive. I understand you'd like to be frugal. And you don't make all that much.”
“Wow. Thanks.” Hank flicks his brows up, pursing his lips.
“I don't mean to be—I apologize.”
Hank sits back down on the couch. He pats Connor on the knee and sighs. He's not upset with Connor at all. He is however, amazed at Connor's cognitive understanding that Hank responded negatively regarding his wages.
“Do you like me, Hank?” Connor asks as blunt as a hammer to the back of the head.
Hank reels from it for a moment, his mouth flopping open and closed. He runs his fingers through his hair to keep himself busy for at least a moment longer. “Yeah. I like you just fine.”
“Why haven't we kissed yet then?”
Hank scoots a bit away from Connor and once more, rubs his fingers through his hair so he can take his time to think. “Humans need more than a three step plan to boning, Connor.”
“Boning?” Connor's eyes round. “Oh! It's a euphemism!”
“Yeah, a euphemism. Anyway, I can't just kiss you. You're pretty n' all but, it's not that easy.”
“Emotional connectivity,” Connor says, looking away. “I wondered about you regarding that. You're so closed off to me though.”
Hank grunts out a laugh. “I'm closed off to everyone, kid.”
Connor brings his fingers to his lips and traces them. Hank is distracted by how delicate his fingers look against lips he knows to be as soft as silk.
“Okay. I'll reassess my objectives. Thank you for being honest with me, Hank.”
Hank pats Connor on the shoulder and then heads for bed. It may be a little early, but he's too exhausted from having to explain feelings to Connor. He's too exhausted trying to figure out his own damn feelings for Connor.