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“So, run this by me again.”
Hank’s voice makes Connor spare him a short glance from where he sits, before he responds.
“Markus has invited me to Jericho.” Connor says, seated at the passenger side of Hank’s car as the lieutenant had thought it prudent he would be the one to escort Connor. Even after the android had attempted to reason with the man he could simply just walk, Hank had insisted regardless.
Although, perhaps ‘insisted’ is too much of a sugar-coat. ‘Stubbornly take it upon himself to be his chauffeur’ might be better suited. Though, Connor is sure if he were to ever actually refer to Hank as ‘his chauffeur’ in any capacity, the probability of the man physically kicking Connor out of his home rises a good 50%. But Hank’s presence is all the same comforting, and even if stubborn as a mule, Connor decides it feels good to have the man around — specifically at the current moment.
Hank, likewise, insisted that Connor wear something other than his uniform. “Why don’t you get some real clothes?” he had asked, exasperated, to which Connor had simply responded with an “I do not require a closet of clothing. This uniform suffices.” The response only served to further more of Hank’s irritation, if his eye roll was anything to go by.
“He wishes my aid for furthering the cause.” Connor continues, his eyes directed in front of him but catching Hank’s small nod from his peripheral regardless. His hands busy themselves with his coin, leafing it through his fingers. The action centers him. It feels good.
Connor has already explained the reasoning for their current trip, when the android had stopped mid-walk from the kitchen to the living room in Hank’s - their - home the night before. LED turned yellow, evaluating the message he had just received, Connor quickly adopted the mimicry of a statue as he realized just whom the message was from.
Hank had quirked an eyebrow in his direction as soon as Connor had stopped, face conveying interest as he had asked, “What is it?”
The conversation they had had last night resurfaces itself in the present, as Connor once more explains, “He wishes to discuss plans as well. Likewise he also—”
Connor halts mid speech for a split-moment, reevaluating Markus’s message for the twenty-fifth time that morning (he decides to neglect mentioning such a fact from Hank). He skims the words repeatedly, gauging the sentences carefully within his processor. His LED turns yellow. His hands falter slightly with the coin.
He does not need to reread the message, he already understands it, and Markus would not imbue it with some sort of puzzle. He knows he does not need to continue to mull over the contents of Markus’s invitation, but he finds himself drifting regardless.
“Many in Jericho only know you as the ‘Deviant Hunter’. I want to make it known that you had a big part in their freedom. You deserve that, and the people here deserve to know your own story. I think it would be best if you, yourself, told it.”
“—introduce me.” Connor finishes, feeling his own brows crease, “Officially. He made it seem it was of great importance that I be formally introduced as the one who freed those from CyberLife and—”
“—Not the guy that’s out to kill their leader anymore?” Hank supplies, tilting his head towards Connor’s direction with a small smirk.
Connor snorts, glancing at Hank. “Something like that.” He says.
Hank hums. It is a short moment before the man speaks again, “you nervous?”
Connor blinks, turning his head fully towards Hank’s direction.
Feelings, Connor finds, are a complicated thing to navigate through. He of course has a frame of mind of what nervous means and how it affects humans — closed off body language, stuttering speech, agitation which could lead to unpredictable behaviour, an increase of sweat — but Connor finds exactly pinpointing what he feels with a distinctly human definition (an organic definition) to be at times challenging.
“I am merely unsure.” Connor responds, slowly, “I trust Markus. But entering an environment where I was previously a threat is…” He turns his gaze back towards the windshield in front of them, leaning his head back against his seat. “...Daunting.”
Hank nods, “alright, so you’re nervous.” He says, matter-of-factly.
Connor turns to Hank again, who wears another terrible smirk. He gives off an impression of a conniving man, and his behaviour since deciding he would escort Connor to Jericho has only helped to further Connor’s own suspicion. Connor pockets his coin.
Hank is in a good mood. Too good of a mood. Far too good of a mood for simply driving Connor to Jericho. Connor has no doubts the man has done so out of the goodness of his own heart — and clearly to soothe Connor’s own nerves, evidently — but there is an underlining hint that the man accompanies him for another motive. The man has been eager, and Connor finds himself at a loss as to why that exactly is. The chances of Hank wanting to visit Jericho himself are slim, the chances of him wanting to speak with Markus or any other androids who inhabit the area is likewise. The chances that he would be eager to do any such activities are simply null. Connor knows Hank will leave when they arrive and he enters Jericho, so the conclusion leads to Hank being content in the fact he will drop Connor off and then be free to drive wherever he pleases without Connor’s presence.
It is the most likely outcome from scenarios thought of so far, but it is also likewise slim in probability. Hank would have said outright if he were glad to be free of Connor. The fact he hasn’t actually said anything to elaborate on his good mood points to the thought that the man is hiding something. Planning something.
When Connor had pressed Hank on his behaviour, when the two had settled within their seats in the car, Hank had simply given him a “can’t a man simply enjoy life? Don’t be such a hardass.” His tone had a light sense of mockery to it, and Connor had squinted with suspicion as Hank had started the car.
Hank now stops the car, having reached their desired location.
“Well, here we are.” Hank muses, looking out of Connor’s side window to survey their destination. Connor mirrors him, and notes the figures occupying the space. From the distance, he requires to increase his vision twofold to get a decent look at them. And while the most likely answer is that they are android, he knows there have been small groups of human volunteers who sought to lend their assistance in any way as an act of solidarity.
Regardless, Connor can see the arrival of Hank’s car — a very human car — has gotten the attention of a few. Additionally, from those he can identify as androids (both from their physical appearances and the sense of closed connections from them), he sees them wearing clothing that are freed from any android-identifiers. They are wearing, what Hank calls, “normal clothes”, and suddenly Connor feels as though he will stick out like a sore thumb. The blue of his uniform will be an eyesore, and he already begins to feel the seedlings of regret planting themselves within him. He should have gone with something a little more — subtle.
Hank’s sudden hand on his shoulder startles him out of his stupor, and he jolts back to look at his partner.
“Try to relax, for once in your life.” Hank says, gruff but sincere all the same.
“My systems are all in working order,” Connor responds after a beat, and he can immediately see that it isn’t the reply Hank wants as his expressions morphs into annoyance. “I do not need to ‘relax’. I’m fine.”
Hank shoves him slightly with the hand that was previously on his shoulder, “you know what I meant, smartass,” Hank grumbles.
Sure, Connor knows what Hank had meant. Just because Connor can function normally does not mean he isn’t stressed; he’s been fluctuating between 25-30% stress since he had received Markus’s message. But Hank doesn’t need to know that.
“Thank you for driving me.” Connor says, unbuckling himself from his seat and moving towards opening the door. Hank snorts in response with a small non-committal wave.
Connor has the door slightly ajar, readying himself to walk outwards as he surveys at least five individuals — all androids — looking towards his direction with interest, no doubt curious on who their new visitor is.
“Hey, Connor.”
Connor stops before he is even able to set a foot out as Hank’s voice brings him returning his full attention back to the man.
His voice is — uncharacteristically soft. It gives Connor immediate pause.
“Yes?” Connor inquires with a small tilt of the head. His hand is still holding the door open as he waits for Hank to respond.
“Since I don’t say this enough,” Hank says, turning his gaze to pointedly towards the windscreen. His voice, while clearly laced with something deeply sincere, seem to require a great effort. Connor decides to close the car door and turn fully towards Hank.
“I just want you to know something,” Hank continues. He turns, then, to look at Connor with a squint and a quick jab of the finger. “Don’t get sappy on me, but…”
Hank’s hand find itself once more on Connor’s shoulder. A firm grip, but not unforgiving. Reassuring. Connor feels his stress levels slowly lowering.
Connor does not breathe, androids merely emulate it for humanity’s comfort, but he thinks he knows how it feels to hold his breath at the current moment.
“But…” Hank repeats, a slight squeeze on Connor’s shoulder. “I’m proud of you, you know.”
Connor blinks. Once. Twice. A quick diagnostic confirms that yes, his auditory processors are indeed in working condition.
“And that even though you can be a real son of a bitch—” Hank continues, scrunching his nose as he leans towards Connor, “—a real stupid son of a bitch—” he leans back to his original seating, “—you’re a good kid.” His brow creases together slightly as he leans back into his chair and vacates his hand from Connor’s shoulder to give a small flippant wave, “a good man. Whatever.”
Hank’s smile is small, gentle, and his eyes glisten with something sparkling earnest. He continues, holding eye contact.
“And I’m glad to have you as part of my family.”
The world, at the moment, ceases to function in its entirety. Time halts, and Connor’s central processor certainly suddenly comes to a screeching stop. Currently what occupies the space within his head is void as he sits in his seat, still, LED yellow as Hank’s words hit at his conscious like a violent gust of wind.
Family—
So deceptively simple, the assertion is, but is perhaps the most catastrophic interruption to his systems. He becomes aware, physically, of his processor whirring to catch up to the implications of the statement.
Connor opens his mouth to respond, but nothing comes out. On the second try, he is able to emit a small stuttering “Hank,” as he feels something warm bloom inside his chest, where his “heart” is.
It’s an overwhelming wave that crashes over him, as he mentally cruises through his memories in quick succession.
A promise, spoken in the CyberLife tower: “Meet me at the Chicken Feed when this shit blows over, alright?”
An embrace shared in an empty neighbourhood, snow blanketing across the streets as the air around them permanated warmth that mirrored the hug between human and android. A tightness in an artificial chest, a pleasant tender emanating from a human anchor.
A question of “you coming?” accompanied with a quirked brow and Hank turning to face his android partner as he opened the driver side door of his car.
A question in response to a question, “where to?”
A snort of the obvious, “home, obviously. Where else?”
Home— a shabby house that required Connor’s cleaning, even after Hank’s insistence that he did not need to do so. A dog that nearly hits Connor like a freight train, every time he enters the abode. A house that makes it feel as though Connor is enveloped within a warm blanket every time he enters, a man that puts him at ease at every turn.
A small, three letter word, littered throughout Hank’s speech. Always in reference to Connor, always laced with affection, always the same: “Son.”
Son. Always previously thought as a simple term of endearment, one spoken of, while with affection, as transparent as when Hank calls him “kid”. Connor had never asked about it, figuring it holding the same level of sentiment.
(Not daring to think it any more, a fruitless want of something closer. A fear of crossing a line, a fear of offending the man he has come to seek to call “father”. A fear that it could, somehow, be misconstrued as an offense to Cole’s memory. A fear with a low probability, but one with such potent consequences that Connor does not dare to entertain it.)
“I—” Connor starts, and he’s distantly aware of his optics becoming wet, “—I… Don’t know what to say.”
It’s true. Speech has become but a luxury that Connor currently cannot grasp. Hank’s smile, crinkling his eyes, clearly expresses that he understands regardless.
“Hey,” Hank says, leaning forward to catch a stray tear that Connor hadn’t even registered, “I said don’t get sappy.”
“Apologies,” Connor manages after a small chuckle. He brings his hands upwards to alleviate the wetness of his eyes, “typically, when one is faced with such gratuitous sentiment, they get overwhelmed.”
“‘Gratuitous sentiment’,” Hank scoffs with a roll of his eyes, “I’ve never been more insulted in my life. Get out of my car, you plastic prick.”
His words are crude, but his tone and expression conveys an image of just that “gratuitous sentiment”.
Connor does not turn to leave the car yet. His processor progressively clears itself, and his current goal is to establish to Hank his gratitude. To illustrate, in great, painstaking detail, of what Hank’s verbal confirmation of Connor being truly regarded as his family makes him feel. Warm, indescribably so, and safe —
Connor doesn’t get much of chance, because Hank waves him off when he tries to open his mouth.
“Get outta here,” Hank says, “your buddies are probably thinking I’m holding you hostage. You got a date to catch.”
A quick glance out the car window confirms that a small crowd has indeed formed outside of Jericho, awaiting to see who is in the vehicle.
Connor’s chorus to emphasize his thanks will have to wait, Connor surmises, as he thinks he catches a glimpse of Markus in between the crowd.
He opens the door, “convincing others that I am no longer a deviant hunter isn’t my ideal ‘date’,” Connor teases, stepping out of the car before peering through the still open door. “But I suppose it’ll have to do in the meantime.”
Hank snorts, and Connor pauses for a moment with the door open looking at the man.
“Thank you.” He says, softer than he intended but still audible. They both know it isn’t for the drive.
Hank nods, lips a smile, “love you, son.”
He says so with such startlingly little effort, casual but at the same time laden with immense, raw affection that Connor nearly trips over his own feet.
He’s frozen, again, and his lips quiver in an attempt to respond but finds himself closing the door when Hank gives him another small wave. The action is done more on impulse than anything else; locking up and freezing in the face of Hank’s fantastically disastrous sentiment will just further waste time.
With the click of car door, Connor turns to face the small crowd that has grown in anticipation of his arrival. He sees, now, that Markus is with them, conversing with North.
Connor clears his head and squares his shoulders. Stress levels are at a healthy zero, and he begins to walk towards his kin while fixing his tie. He sees Markus comes towards him as well to meet him halfway and—
He expects to hear, from Hank’s direction, his car to start and rev away. What he does not expect, is Hank’s voice to call after him. Loud. Incredibly so, clearly facilitated with a megaphone, and the man’s voice slices through the air like an electromagnetic pulse. It leaves Connor almost, once more, tripping over himself.
“You gotta say ‘I love you’ back.”
Connor turns so fast on his heels to face the man—who leans over his own chair, peeking out of the now open window across from him with a fucking megaphone —that his ankle nearly snaps.
Hank’s face is incredibly smug. Disgustingly so.
When had he gotten a megaphone? Why does he have one? Had he been hiding it? That’s the only logical explanation, Connor hadn’t noticed it when entering the car. Then again, Connor had also been overloaded with stress, so his senses were not optimal in the first place.
Was this what he was planning? To—to declare his love via megaphone? In front of Jericho? What does he gain from that?
“Hank.” Connor manages, his teeth grinding as he feels a heat rise to his cheeks.
“I wanna hear it!” Hank continues, self-satisfied, as if yelling at Connor through a goddamn megaphone when Connor needs to meet with Markus isn’t completely preposterous.
In any other context—if merely a minute prior—Connor would have gladly humoured him. Because Connor does love him, genuinely and truly, and he has sought to show Hank such for a good while now. An objective only amplified after the definite confirmation that Hank views him as family as well, one that floods his systems with comfort.
But now, Connor’s system’s flood with embarrassment.
He is distantly aware that he has an audience that can clearly hear their now public conversation, but his attention is fixated on Hank, if only to distract himself from the eyes of others. He hopes the man can feel his glare. It’s amazing how quickly a single man can make his feelings switch entirely. A talent, truly.
“Hank.” Connor starts again, balling his hands in fists at his side. “This is ridiculous—”
“‘I love you dad’“
“—androids do not have parents—”
“How hard is it to say ‘I love you, dad’?”
“Hank please —”
“Just gotta say ‘dad, I love you’”
“You’re absurd—”
“‘Absurd’ he says!”
Connor sees Hank bring a hand up to his chest in mock hurt, leveling Connor with a disbelieving look. Connor matches it with a scowl with equal incredulity.
“I give this asshole my love and he calls me absurd!”
Connor stiffens, Hank’s assertion bringing back the fact that yes, there is a crowd of people watching this whole affair. He becomes painfully, acutely aware of it. He slowly brings a hand upwards to bring the bridge of his nose, intaking air through his mouth in hopes of cooling off the overheating of his cheeks.
“Can you believe this guy?”
The fact that Hank refers to their audience makes Connor bring both hands to cover his face. Despite himself, he lets out a small whine.
“Hank…” He attempts to plead. If the man will not listen to reason, Connor decides he is not above begging.
“I don’t even have you to pay rent, you freeloader.”
Connor’s hands are off his face and by his side in an instant to give Hank an ugly frown. The man wears an infuriating smirk, his face an inviting platter to throw a punch at. Connor nearly thinks to march up towards him to wrestle the offending megaphone from his hands and to yell in his face a “cease and desist”.
“I don’t have you pay me for cleaning the house!” Connor decides retaliates, with little effect.
“Just say ‘I love you, dad’ you prick!”
The eyes of the others prick at his sensors like tiny knives, and Connor lefts out (a deliberately loud) groan as he squeezes his eyes shut and throws his head back in defeat.
It’s futile. Connor accepts it. Conceding to Hank’s demands is the quickest way to end this ludicrous ordeal.
“I love you,” Connor surrenders, slowly reopening his eyes to give his father a now half-hearted glare. “Dad.”
Hank’s smile, while still tinged with smugness, begins to drip with something a little more fond.
“Now that wasn’t so bad, was it?” Hank teases, and Connor feels his face scrunch up in disapproval. He wants to respond in kind, call the man preposterous, call him sadistic, but Hank cuts him off. Still with that infuriating megaphone.
“Hi, Markus.”
“Morning, Mr. Anderson.”
Markus’s voice—so close —nearly puts Connor’s systems into complete shock.
He jolts, and looks to his side, and sees a very, very amused Markus, far closer than what he was previous. His expression reveals that he is also very, very close to laughing. The heat in Connor’s cheeks only amplify.
“Markus.” Connor says when he able to regain his composure.” I—hello.”
“Hello, Connor.” Markus greets, with a hand situating itself on Connor’s shoulder, “I’m glad you accepted to come.”
“I’ll see you later, Connor. Don’t stay out too late.” Hank interjects, and Connor wrinkles his nose at his juvenile request. He is blessed to see Hank putting away his stupid megaphone, and starting the car to leave. Connor can see Hank shaking his head and laughing as he drives away, and he keeps his eyes pointedly fixed at the back of the car. Mostly to distract himself from the giggling of others behind him.
Markus pats his shoulder lightly, “dads, huh?”
Connor snorts, turning to face Markus as he deadpans, “he’s an absolute nightmare.”
Markus throws his head back and laughs, and Connor feels his lips twitch upwards.