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"Remember, just let me do all the talking."
Connor nods to show that he understands, the second time he's doing so since entering the station. Hank had repeated the instructions on the way over as well, so it's really rather superfluous.
He can see the exact moment Fowler catches sight of them coming — even if lip reading hadn't been among his skills Connor suspects he could've easily made out the emphatic 'fuck me' that Fowler lets out.
Hank snickers. "He's happy to see us."
"Ecstatic, clearly."
Hank holds the glass door open for him as they reach the office, and Connor gives him a quick smile as thanks.
"Why are you here?" Fowler demands to know before the door has even fallen shut.
"Reporting for duty, Captain," Hank says.
"You've got a lot of nerve, you know that? You're lucky Perkins has his hands full as it is."
"Oh? What, the FBI isn't happy with how he handled things?"
"That's an understatement," Fowler replies. "It's all hush-hush of course, but from what I've heard he had strict orders to kill Markus."
"Bastard would've done it too, if given the chance," Hank mutters.
"As it is, he hasn't pushed for your badge. Still," Fowler says, glaring, "you're suspended. I can't have my men starting fights right here in the station."
"Come on, Jeffrey," Hank begins, but Fowler raises a hand to silence him. He then turns his glare to Connor.
"And you," he yells, pointing an accusatory finger at Connor, "tampering with evidence and assaulting a police officer! I meant for you to rub off on Hank, not the other way around."
Connor opens his mouth to explain, but Hank cuts in. "He was cracking our case, dammit! If you hadn't taken us off it it wouldn't even have had to happen!"
"I told you it was out of my hands!" Fowler yells back.
Connor is starting to think he should've been the one to tell Hank to keep quiet. This is heading the same way all talks between the two seems to go — a lot of yelling, and failure for Hank.
"And about that fucker Gavin," Hank snarls, "Connor was merely living out the fantasies of every cop here. He is a prick, Jeffrey! You know that."
Connor resists the urge to groan.
"If I may," he starts, only to have both men turn towards him with a resounding "No!"
...Well, at least they're able to agree on something.
Hank sighs. "Look," he says, voice serious. "Just give us a chance, alright? We were a good team, and I — I don't want to lose that."
Fowler settles back in his chair. He stares at Hank for a while, before pulling out a drawer. He removes a case file and tosses it down on the desk.
"I can't have the two of you in here," he says, "at least not until the decision on androids being able to hold jobs has been finalized. But there is one case that would be perfect for you, as it requires one human and one android. And it's fieldwork, so you don't have to show your faces here."
"We'll take it," Connor says, stepping forward to pick up the file.
Hank gives him a pointed look, eyes wide. "Not until we know what it is," he hisses.
"Too late. Your partner has agreed already, and that makes it official." There is a very pleased smirk on Fowler's face as he says that.
"Fuck," Hank swears.
"Come on," Connor tries, "it's a case. That's all we wanted, right?"
"You don't know him like I do. There's something really shitty about this case, and he's only too glad to foist it off on us. Just look at him, grinning like he's just eaten the juiciest canary in existence."
Fowler's smirk only widens at that, and with one last curse Hank snatches the file from Connor's hands and storms out of the office.
Connor offers a curt nod and turns to follow, knowing from experience that Fowler has no interest in conversing with him.
"He's not entirely wrong," Fowler says, stopping Connor in his tracks. "But it is an important case, especially now. Half the victims are androids, so we'll be sending a strong message by catching this killer."
"Understood, Captain."
Fowler's eyes narrow. "I don't know where I stand on androids yet — or you, specifically. But it's clear as day where Hank stands. Don't let him down."
"I'd rather die."
Maybe Fowler can tell he means it, for he gives Connor an affirmative nod before turning his attention back to the papers on his desk. Thus dismissed, Connor leaves.
Hank is waiting for him outside, pacing beside the car with the file held in a grip so tight it's turned his knuckles white.
"Why can't you ever do what I tell you?!" he asks when Connor joins him. "Should I start saying the opposite of what I mean, is that it?"
"Sorry."
Hank grimaces and rubs a hand over his face. The movement dislodges some of the snow from his hair, and Connor has to fight against the urge to reach out and brush the rest of it away.
It's been three days since the night they'd shared a bed. Three days Connor has spent desperately trying to catch another sign that pointed towards Hank having feelings for him.
Oh, feelings of friendship, definitely; Hank has been nothing but kind and generous — even took him shopping for clothes. But never again had he looked at Connor as if he wanted to share a kiss.
And Connor has been looking for it. Really, really hard.
This isn't the time to think about his mistake though, nor is it the time to examine the disappointment he feels over having misunderstood. They have a mission to accomplish, a case to solve.
"It's a possible serial killer," Hank says, "targeting couples. Couples consisting of a human and an android. See what I mean? Fowler, that asshole, probably couldn't find anyone willing to go undercover with only an android as backup — especially when said android..."
"Would have to pose as their lover," Connor finishes.
Hank doesn't seem excited about the prospect either, lending even more credence to the likelihood of Connor having completely misconstrued that night.
"We'll be painting a target on our backs, pretty much."
"Did the murders occur in the same place? Otherwise I don't see how we can hope to catch his attention — he could be anywhere."
"No," Hank says, flipping the case file open, "not the same place. But he might have picked them out in the same bar." He squints as he skims the text. "It was some French name, I already forgot it — ah, there, 'Avec Plaisir'."
"With pleasure," Connor translates.
Hank snorts. "Yeah, right."
Connor looks away — it's enough that he hears the aversion in Hank's tone of voice, he doesn't need to see it as well.
"Do the victims have anything else in common?"
"Nope. Just that they were in the bar on the same weekday. Tuesday."
"Which is today."
Hank opens the car door and tosses the file on Connor's seat. "We might as well get it over with. Let's just swing by Chicken Feed so I can grab a bite to eat, and then we'll go home and get ready."
"No, I can cook."
Hank shakes his head as he gets in the car. "You've cooked for me for the last three days, Connor." He closes the door after saying that, probably thinking that was the end of the discussion.
Not so.
Connor gets in, shifting in his seat so he faces Hank. "Your point being what? If you don't like the food I've prepared so far all you have to do is tell me. I'll try to do better in the future, but you need to give me some constructive feedback so I know what to avoid."
Hank glances over, grimacing. "Jesus Christ, I wasn't saying I haven't liked the stuff you've made! Are you kidding me? You saw the way I gulfed down the pancakes this morning, didn't you? If it weren't for you putting aside one for him, Sumo wouldn't even have gotten a taste."
A warmth spreads inside Connor's chest at the memory. The way Hank's face had brightened when first seeing the breakfast, going from morning grumpiness to delight; the way he'd eaten the pancakes, one after one; the puddle of drool from poor Sumo, sitting next to Hank and doing his best to look like he was on the brink of starvation; the way Hank had leaned back in his chair afterward, just looking at Connor and smiling.
"I just meant that you don't have to go through all that trouble for my sake," Hank continues. "I'll be fine with burgers."
"Right," Connor says, scoffing, "everybody's gotta die of something. I remember."
"Exactly," Hank says, reaching out to start the car.
"But it's no trouble, Hank. I like cooking for you."
Hank's hand freezes for a brief moment. Connor watches as he swallows and looks away. "Okay," he finally says, and that's it.
He starts the car and heads for home, and Connor doesn't push.
----
"You should put your arm around me."
Hank turns around. The brightly lit sign of the bar illuminates him from behind, turning his hair an odd shade of red. "What?" he asks.
"Most people will see that as a sign of us being together; see it as you staking a claim to me."
"Shit. How about we go in there first and look around? If we spot anyone looking suspicious then we can put on a show."
That isn't going to work very well, something Hank is probably aware of. Connor steps forwards and hooks his arm around Hank's — it's not as obvious of a gesture as his suggestion, but it'll do.
Hank twitches beneath his hold, but doesn't try to break free.
They enter the bar like that, Connor making sure to lean in and pretend to whisper something to Hank. It'd look a lot more natural if Hank would just relax a bit, but that seems to be beyond him at the moment.
Hank tries to move to an isolated corner booth, but Connor pulls him towards the bar counter instead. They need to be out in the open where everyone can see them.
Hank places an order for whiskey — a double — and Connor covertly scans the patrons. There aren't that many in the bar to begin with, and he can't get a clear reading on the faces of two of them. They're locked in an intense kiss, and seem to only have eyes for each other, so they're not a likely bet anyway.
He moves closer to Hank in order to whisper in his ear. "We got two people with criminal records. One for counterfeiting and robbery, the other for aggravated assault."
Hank shifts his head, which puts them close enough that their noses almost bump together. Hank blinks, mouth opened as if he'd been about to say something. He licks his lips, eyes flickering away as he pulls back slightly. "The latter is more likely, then. But it's not like the guy has to have a record."
"I know," Connor mumbles. "But it's a place to start. Also, the one standing by the bathroom appears to be agitated. His heart is racing, and there's residue of red ice on his shirt."
Hank glances over. "Could be trying to score, or maybe sell."
"He briefly looked at us when we entered but hasn't paid us any attention since then. We can probably put him aside."
"I'd still like to take him down. Especially if he's selling the crap."
"I know," Connor says, "I understand. But we can't blow our cover."
"Guess not." Hank lifts his glass and drinks. There's a frustrated twist to his lips, making Connor feel useless.
"We can come back later," he tries.
Hank gives him a lopsided smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. "It's okay, Connor. There's a million more just like him."
"Perhaps, but there are a lot less thanks to you."
His smile softens, turning fond. "Maybe we can cut down on that number even more. Together."
"Yeah, I'd like that."
Connor forces himself to tear his eyes away from Hank. For a while there he'd completely forgotten what they were supposed to be doing.
And it's not a second too soon that he remembers — the assaulter is standing and has started to walk towards the bar.
"The suspect is heading this way. Quick," Connor hisses, "kiss me!"
Hank's eyes widen. He falters for a moment, then his jaw tightens and he looks away. "No way. I've seen the kind of shit you put in your mouth, remember?"
Stunned, Connor remains still. He isn't about to force Hank to kiss him. At least now he knows for sure that he was imagining things that night. He should be pleased about that, right? The sure knowledge should be a relief compared to the confusion and misplaced hope he's felt lately, but...
It's not. It's not at all.
The suspect orders another beer and then goes back to his table.
"I don't like the look of that one, there," Hank finally says, inclining his head towards a young man sitting alone. "He glares at you whenever you turn your back."
"Two suspects to focus on, then."
Hank hums in response, toying with his drink. Some of the amber liquid spills as he spins the glass, prompting him to curse softly.
Acting on instinct, Connor reaches out and takes his hand. He brings it up to his mouth and licks the fingers clean. He is helpfully supplied with the brand and the alcohol percentage, but finds he can't focus on the analysis at all — the way Hank's eyes have gone dark, pupils large and dilated, has his full attention.
"Connor," Hank begins, but whatever he sees behind Connor interrupts him. "Less glare now, and more if-looks-could-kill."
Connor lets go of Hank's hand. "Okay," he forces out.
Hank turns back to his drink, and they spend the next few minutes in silence. Connor is painfully aware that, as a pair of undercover cops, they're a miserable failure.
But he has a mission to complete, and he intends to see it through. He wants to impress Fowler so that he'll be allowed to stay on as Hank's partner. Anything else is unacceptable.
They stay in the bar for a while longer, but nothing else happens. The glaring man leaves, and the assaulter starts getting seriously drunk — too drunk for homicide.
"We should go."
Connor nods in agreement. It's going to look strange if they stay much longer, it's better to establish a routine of coming in an hour or so once a week.
The snow is falling outside, making the empty street oddly silent. Hank had parked a few blocks away, and they start walking towards the car without talking.
"I'm sorry," Connor says at last. "I know it wasn't easy for you, and I'm sorry we failed since that means you need to go through it again."
Hank turns his head, frowning. "Don't worry about it, it's not a big deal."
"But I knew you didn't find me attractive. I should've thought before demanding you kiss me, at the very least."
Hank stops and stares at Connor. "I what? Don't find you attractive?"
"Well, yeah," Connor says, shrugging. "You told me so. Goofy face and weird voice."
Hank lets out a strangled laugh. "Wow," he says, "for someone so smart you can really be clueless."
"What do you mean?"
"What the fuck do you think I mean?" he snaps, and then he suddenly rushes forward and tackles Connor to the ground. For a second he thinks Hank has gotten pissed enough to beat him up, but the sound of a silenced gunshot hitting the asphalt right where he'd been standing makes it clear that isn't the case.
He rolls them over, putting himself between Hank and the shooter. The trajectory of the bullet means — there. He's crouched behind a container, raising the gun for a second try.
He hears Hank yelling at him as he scrambles to his feet, slipping on the thin layer of fresh snow and almost falling. Then he's running, dodging bullets while frantically calculating to make sure they won't strike anywhere near Hank.
He barrels into the shooter, focusing on knocking the gun away. He leaves himself wide open in the process and gets an elbow in the face; can feel the immediate wetness from his nose and taste the Thirium that gets in his mouth.
He lands a solid hit on the shooter — it's the glaring man — and then Hank is there, finishing the job by smashing his head against the container. He falls to the ground, out cold.
"Connor! Are you alright?" Hank's hands are all over him, as if to physically confirm that he hadn't been hit.
"I'm fine. You're not hurt, are you?" he asks, despite knowing the answer.
"You're bleeding," Hank says quietly. He cups Connor's face and brushes a thumb across his mouth, wiping away some of the blood.
"It's nothing," Connor mumbles, pulling away. "You should cuff him."
Hank's face darkens. "You're bleeding. It's not nothing."
He moves to the shooter and kicks him over none too gently. He bends down and cuffs him, leaving him lying facedown in the snow.
"I'm gonna call it in," he says as he gets to his feet, "and we'll wait till they get here. But then we're going home."
"We should make a report," Connor protests, only for Hank to shake his head.
"We're going home."
That said, he pulls out his phone and starts making the call. The shooter has sustained a concussion, and isn't likely to regain consciousness before the others arrive to pick him up. Connor steps away.
Hank joins him shortly. "They'll be here in five," he says.
He reaches out to touch Connor's face again, angling it toward the light from the street lamp. "It's still bleeding, I think." He sounds very unhappy about that.
"It's fine, Hank. Honest."
"You could've been killed." There is something distant in his voice, as if he's imagining a scenario where Connor is lying dead on the ground.
Hank's hand moves to the back of his neck, gently holding onto him as Hank bends his head and presses their lips together.
It's like the kiss shorts out something inside of Connor. He's aware of his hands coming up, grabbing onto the front of Hank's coat; and he's aware that his mouth opens beneath Hank's, in a clear invitation — but he's not aware of consciously doing any of those things.
It's as if his body is acting entirely out of its own volition. That's a new experience, but Connor can't bring himself to care.
Hank is first to break away, and he does so with a shaky exhale. His lips are glistening wet with a mixture of saliva and Thirium.
In the distance Connor can hear a police siren, closing in. He reaches out and wipes away all traces of blue from Hank's lips. He gives Connor a small smile before he turns to face the approaching car.
----
They don't talk during the drive home.
Hank seems to be deep in thought, and that suits Connor fine as he's busy trying to make sense of the night's events. It's a bunch of contradictions and cryptic statements, and he'd thought he had humans figured out, but clearly he doesn't understand them at all.
Doesn't understand Hank, in any case. And that's the one who matters.
"Hi, Sumo. Did you miss us?" Hank greets as they walk in the door and faces the immediate onslaught of one very excited dog.
"I can take him for a walk," Connor offers.
"No, I'll do it. You should take it easy."
"I'm fine," Connor repeats for what feels like the tenth time. "Come on, Sumo. Let's go out." He grabs the leash and a bag, and then takes off before Hank can come with any more objections.
The walk helps clear his head a bit, partly thanks to Sumo's obvious love for the snow. It always seems to bring him as much joy, regardless if he just played around in it a mere hour ago.
And that's how he decides to just be direct and ask. Hank is patient with him, and if he genuinely questions Hank he's sure to answer.
Probably. Maybe. Well, it's worth a shot, at least. It's not like he has any better ideas.
Hank has spent the time showering and getting himself a drink. He's sitting on the couch, staring at the glass. It doesn't seem as if he's actually had any of it, only poured it — perhaps just out of habit.
"Can I ask you a personal question?"
"Oh, great," Hank groans, "here we go again."
Connor sits down next to him. "Do you find me attractive?"
Hank reaches out for his glass, but Connor is faster. He grabs Hank's hand and squeezes it carefully. "Don't drink, please."
Hank squeezes back once, and then pulls his hand away. "Yes," he says. "I find you attractive."
"Not in the beginning though, right?"
Hank sneers, eyes stubbornly fastened on the glass. "Since the first moment I saw you."
"But you said..."
"I lied, for fuck's sake!"
Hank is finally meeting his gaze. Except now Connor kinda wishes he wouldn't. He blinks and takes the coward's way out, averting his eyes.
"I didn't want to admit it, even to myself. That's why I said all that crap about you. Then a minute later you wink at me, and it was impossible to deny."
"It was?"
"Yes, Connor, it was," Hanks slowly says, sarcasm practically dripping from his voice. "I normally don't get a hard-on while eating burgers, you know?"
Oh.
Hank sighs. "How about you let me get drunk in peace now that I've made a fool of myself, huh?"
Connor's hand shoots out, snatching the glass. "Then why didn't you kiss me in the bar?"
Hank stares at him. Connor stares back. The glass in his hand gets a crack, and he belatedly remembers to relax his grip lest it shatter. It's ruined though; just a matter of time before the crack grows larger and the fragile thing falls to pieces. "Shit," he swears. He knows the feeling.
"I didn't want it to be like that," Hank says quietly. "It was your first kiss, wasn't it? I... I wanted it to be special for you."
The glass slips from his fingers.
Hank catches it mid-air. He gives Connor a sheepish, self-deprecating smile. "That stupid, huh? Yeah, I figured — there was a reason why I didn't want to spill my guts."
"It's not stupid. Not in the way you think, in any case."
"Sure. Like what, then?" Hanks puts the glass down on the table, a bit too hard — the crack multiplies.
Connor leans forward, bestowing a soft kiss on Hank's lips. He pulls back a small fraction, just enough to speak. "As long as it's with you, Hank, it'll be special."
Hank surges forward, capturing his lips in another kiss — a lot less chaste, this time. Connor responds as best as he can, hopefully making up for what he lacks in skill with sheer eagerness.
Hank is panting when he pulls back, so he probably did okay. He feels strangely lightheaded himself, actually.
"Are you sure about this? I'm not a good catch, in any way."
Connor smiles. "Now you really are being stupid." He presses a soft kiss to Hank's forehead, and Hank responds with a pained sound before pulling Connor in for a tight hug.
They sit like that for a long time.
"Come to bed?" Hank finally asks. "I mean, not like that... That's not what I..."
"I know, I understand. There's no rush. And yes, I'd love to spend the night with you again."
Hank pulls back and glances down at Sumo, snoring over by the door. His smile turns amused. "This time, let's try not to wake you-know-who."
Connor grins. "Sounds like a plan."