Chapter Text
[Only time will tell if we're all just cynics on the run
If we're all just cynics come undone ]
Hudson Taylor - Battles
Here is what Hank remembers, later:
It’s June, a sunny and beautifully blue day, about as far from an unseasonably cold and wet day in October as can be managed. He and Connor are in Hank’s car, on their way back to the precinct after Hank insisted on ducking away for lunch. He’d picked a close enough place that they could have walked - Connor had suggested as such, citing the gorgeous weather, and Hank had grumbled and insisted on driving. He won’t remember if he had a good reason why, later. Connor’d relented, on the condition that he could pick the music for the short drive. Small prices to pay, Hank thought, and agreed.
(They should have walked.)
It’s June, a beautiful Tuesday in 2040, and Connor is singing along to whatever-fucking-song’s on the radio, poorly.
Hank won’t remember what song it was, later - but he will remember that coming out of Connor’s mouth it had sounded like fresh hell, and that he’d laughed and said, “The fuck are you doing that for?”
He knows Connor can mimic voices - he could sing like an angel if he were so inclined. He remembers that Connor had glanced at him sideways and smiled, leaning forward to change the station.
He’d said, “It’s fun, Hank.”
He remembers going through the intersection, the light green green green. He remembers Connor starting to sing along to a new song on a new station. He remembers seeing the flash of chrome through the passenger window, the laying on the horn, and Connor’s LED in the mirror flashing a brief, blood-red.
And then—
What they tell him later is this:
While he was going through the intersection another car ran the red, hitting his car crosswise on the passenger side. Hank had been driving a modest city speed limit of thirty-five, and the other car had been going over fifty. Emergency response had been quick. Hank’s injuries (like the last time) weren’t life-threatening. No one died.
They tell him:
You got lucky.
And he did.
About two weeks after the crash Hank is standing in his bathroom, half-clothed, inspecting his fading bruises. He got lucky, he knows he did. He has a frame of reference for this, and his bruises were worse the last time around. Had more stitches, too. Twenty-one, last time, as opposed to the twelve this time. He got lucky.
His right hand’s in a cast, and his back lights up any time he tries to reach behind himself with his good hand, and his face looks like a toddler took a set of watercolors and went to town on it. His memories are in fucking shreds about it, skipping from the breath before the crash itself to the white-flash of a penlight in his eye at the hospital, hours later. The in-between a vague nothing, filled in by what he’s been told by others.
They tell him, when he says as much:
That’s probably for the best.
(It’s the same thing they told him when—)
He’s lucky. He splashes water on his face, finishes buttoning his shirt. The sleeve around his cast is difficult, so he leaves it undone, yanking on his light summer jacket heedless of the burn in his ribs and the undone state of that right arm’s buttons. He leaves the bathroom, thinking, What a fucking joke.
Connor is in the kitchen.
“Here, Hank,” he says, holding out his hand.
He presses two aspirin tablets into Hank’s waiting left hand, leaves a glass of water on the counter for him. His LED spinning blue in his temple. He looks pristine, untouched, his attention immediately sliding from Hank to the newsreel on the television. Hank swallows his medicine dry, sidelining the various aches and hurts of his body. He watches Connor, that spin of his LED, the careful press of his suit.
Hank thinks fuckin — and he stops himself, contrite.
He’s lucky.
Connor offers to drive them to the station. Hank’s casted fingers twitch, and he considers it and the twin ache in his ribs for a split-second before pride flashes hot in his gut. He refuses, maybe a little harsher than needed. “I’ve got a broken arm, but I’m not a fucking invalid, Con.”
A flash of yellow, followed by a soft, “Of course not, Hank.”
And, fuck - he should apologize for that. He watches that yellow get chased away quick by blue, pristine and untouched, and he holds his tongue. Gut still churning, not trusting himself to say it right.
They take the drive slow. Radio off, with Connor leaning his head against the passenger side window, his expression blank. It’s another sunny day. Hank clenches his good hand a little tighter on the wheel as they pass through each intersection.
It’s quiet. Only the hum of the engine, the roll of the tires over asphalt, the click of the blinker when Hank makes a turn. His own breathing and heartbeat loud in his ears. It’s around then that he realizes that Connor’s not breathing - and Connor’s an android, he doesn’t need to breathe, but —
“Hey,” Hank says, tapping his cast against the gear-shift, grabbing Connor’s attention. Connor doesn’t startle, but his breathing does start up again, and he raises an eyebrow at Hank. He can’t see his LED from the driver’s seat. “Looked like you were off in your head somewhere. You okay?”
Connor’s brow furrows briefly, then the expression smooths into a little half-smile. “I am functioning optimally,” he says, and when Hank’s mouth twists at that answer he amends it to, “I’m fine, Hank. I apologize if I worried you, I was getting a head-start on today’s emails. Loading the backlog took more processing power than I’d anticipated.”
Hank grunts. Yeah, he fuckin’ bets the backlog’s gonna be something to cry about. Two weeks away, jesus christ —
It could be worse, a little voice tucked way deep down whispers to him. Could have been a full two months, like the last time - they’re lucky right? Still, two weeks, for the two of them. He’s not sure why Connor took the time off at all. ‘I’m fine, Hank.' Fucking great.
Fucking androids, Hank thinks bitterly, and follows that with an immediate pang of guilt. His good hand tightens on the wheel. That’s not fair of him, he knows. It’s been nice having the company, this time around, it’s kept him from falling headfirst back into a bottle - and it’s not Connor’s fault that androids are built sturdier than 54-year-old human men.
(Sturdier than 6-year-old human children, too —)
Aw, hell. He was doing such a good job not thinking about that, too. He swallows down the bitter taste in his mouth, taps the cast against the gearshift again. Hones in on the dull ache it leaves, instead of the aching drumbeat of his thoughts.
“Good,” Hank bites out, resolutely turning his full attention to the road ahead, “Glad to hear it - just. Don’t stop breathing again, it’s fuckin’ weird.”
It's unsettling, is what it is. Hank doesn't like the reminder of what Connor would look like as a corpse. It's too close a thing for comfort.
Connor goes quiet again. He says, “Of course,” and that’s that. They don’t speak another word the rest of the whole uneventful ride to the station.
The welcome wagon waiting for them at the station is more or less what Hank expected - lots of staring, lots of whispering, a reasonable chorus of “welcome back”s and the like. Hank’s not an idiot, he knows what the gossip must’ve been like - resident recovering-alcoholic policeman involved in his second car crash in five years, and so close to the precinct? He’s sure the station’s been buzzing about it for the last two weeks. He grits his teeth and bears it, accepting the greetings and platitudes, making his way as quick as he can to his and Connor’s desks, Connor following quietly behind him.
It’s 9:00 AM, and Hank feels like he’s barely had a chance to log into his terminal (let alone dive into all the shit he needs to catch up on) when Fowler steps out of his office.
“Anderson,” he shouts, voice carrying across the bullpen, “My office, now.”
Hank stands, biting down a groan. He can feel a headache forming despite the aspirin he took. Connor stands with him, and Fowler fixes him with a light glare, pointing.
“Not you, Connor,” he says. He disappears back into his office, and Connor slowly sits back down.
“Eh,” Hank says, “He probably just wants to play catch-up. I shouldn’t be long.”
Connor nods. Says, “I’ll begin sorting through our emails.” Hank snorts.
“Don’t have too much fun without me,” he says, and is rewarded with the corner of Connor’s mouth quirking up.
Fowler’s activated the privacy screens in his office, and Hank breathes a sigh of relief when he steps through the door. It’s nice to get away from all the eyes, even if it’s only for a few minutes. Jeffrey’s sitting at his desk, hands folded in front of him, expression as open as it ever gets. He gestures for Hank to sit, so Hank does.
“It’s good to have you back, Hank,” he says, “How’re you feeling?”
Hank shrugs a shoulder, reaching with his good hand to scrub his beard. “Good to be back,” he says. He’s only a little surprised to find that he means it - he was going more than a bit stir-crazy at home, only realizing it now that he’s ready to work again. He wants to dive back into it and forget everything about the last two weeks — that’s better than the last time, when all he wanted was to dive hard into the bottom of a bottle. He still wouldn’t say no to a drink, now, but it’s not the first impulse. Progress, he thinks, mentally waving a tiny flag.
Jeffrey’s still waiting for an answer to his question, though, so he grins a little wryly, says, “About as well as can be expected, Jeff.”
Better than the first time. Lucky him.
Jeffrey pins him down with a distinctly unimpressed look, and Hank squirms, mouth twisting down. “Seriously, Hank.”
“I am serious,” Hank protests, “I’ve been better, but I’ve definitely been worse. I just want to get back to work.”
Jeffrey snorts, leans back in his seat. His gaze turns considering, “Well, I never thought I’d see the day you said you wanted to work,” he says, and he jerks his chin out to the bullpen, where Hank knows Connor’s at his desk, working with his head down, a little divot in his brow, “You sound just like him, you know.”
Hank dips his head, rubbing at the back of his neck. “Yeah, well,” he says, “His good habits are rubbing off on me, I guess.”
“Glad to see someone’s made some progress with you,” he says dryly. A pause, and then he continues, “How’s Connor holding up?”
Hank blinks. “He’s fine,” he says. “You know how he is.”
Connor’s steady. Sturdy. LED spinning an immovable blue.
“Yeah, I guess I do,” Jeffrey sighs. “Go ahead and get back to work. Take it easy, alright?”
“Yessir,” he says, and Jeffrey rolls his eyes. They stand.
“I mean it, Hank,” he says, and Hank waves him off, shuts the door behind himself. Makes his way back to his desk, shrugs off Connor’s inquisitive glance.
“See, just playing catch-up,” he says, draping his jacket over the back of his chair. He rolls up his sleeves and they get to work.
Sometime a little after noon, Connor’s LED flashes yellow for the third time in as many minutes, and Hank finally sighs and turns his attention away from the report he’s been writing up.
“Alright,” he says, “What’s up?”
Another yellow flash. Connor winces, looking very briefly guilty. “Jericho’s reached out to me,” he says, fiddling with a loose pen on his desk, “There’s a… situation.”
Hank blinks, tilts his head. “Let me guess, they need you to come in?”
Another flash. “Yes,” Connor says. Hank nods. Jericho business, of course. First day back and there are already fires to put out. Figures.
“If you need to go, then go,” he says, turning back to his terminal, “Don’t drag your heels on my account.”
Connor’s quiet for a long moment. Then he says, “Thank you, Hank.”
Hank grunts. “Must be important if they’ve reached out multiple times,” he says, “How long will you be, do you think?” He spares a glance away from the terminal, watches Connor stand up from his desk, straighten his tie. His LED spins yellow one last time before settling on a placid, resting blue.
“Late, I assume,” he says, smiling apologetically, “I’ve let the Captain know - don’t wait up for me.”
“Have fun,” Hank says.
Connor leaves for the day, and Hank settles back into a routine alone. He pops another couple aspirin, gets himself a coffee from the break room. Makes some awkward small talk with Miller while he’s waiting for it to brew. Goes back to his desk and revels in the silence. He’s up to his eyes in the backlog of cases and paperwork that’s been languishing for the past two weeks. Hours slide by, he finishes one coffee, the words on his terminal start to blend together, and Hank decides to go back to the break room for another coffee.
“Aw, hell,” Hank mutters when he sees his company.
Reed is already there - lucky fucking him - leaned back in one of the chairs, steaming mug in hand, feet up on the table like a fucking degenerate. Scrolling through something on his phone. Hank feels another headache building up behind his eyes, a tattoo on the inside of his skull. Reed glances up at his entry, hisses loud through his teeth, shit-eating grin spreading across his features.
“Fuck, Anderson,” he says, “You look like shit.”
Hank rolls his eyes, keeps on toward the coffee. “Don’t fuckin’ start, Reed,” he warns, voice a low growl. At least it looks like he left some fresh coffee in the pot, he thinks. Lucky him. He pours it one handed into his own mug.
He hears Reed shifting behind him, the slide of a chair and the thump of two feet hitting the ground. Measured steps coming closer, closer. Hank closes his eyes, bracing himself against the counter, and starts counting back from ten - nine, eight, seven, six --
“Didn’t realize you were back today,” Reed says, (five, fuck-) tone sounding almost conversational, if Hank didn’t know him.
“Time does fly,” he says lightly. Opens his eyes to find Reed’s settled against the counter, a few paces away. Staring at him with an unreadable expression on that face of his. “What do you want, Reed?”
Reed’s mouth pinches down at the corner. He crosses his arms over his chest, looking somehow more contemplative than defensive.
“Just,” he shrugs, something strange passing through his eyes. Hank feels coiled like a spring. “How’s Connor?”
Hank’s eyes narrow, hand clenching hard on the counter. White-knuckled. “The fuck do you mean, ‘how’s Connor? ’” he spits. “You trying to be fucking funny, Reed?”
Reed’s face twists. He holds his hands up, placating. “Christ, Anderson,” he says, barking out an awful laugh, “Down, boy. I may not like the tin man, but I’m not a fucking monster. I saw the photos.”
Hank goes very, very still.
Feeling a step outside of himself, he says, “What do you mean, photos?”
Reed shows him. Insists on doing it in a private room (“Trust me, you’re not going to want to be at your desk for this.”) - hands him a tablet and settles in against the wall, arms crossed and gaze averted. Photographic evidence for Traffic Incident 473; 6/12/2040; logged by A. Smythe
Reed’s right. He’s glad he’s not at his desk for this. He doesn’t want to see this at all, actually.
Hank thinks, that’s a lot of thirium. He doesn’t want to understand this. It doesn’t track, he can’t comprehend why there’s so much fucking blue in all the shining, shattered glass on the asphalt. It doesn’t parse, not until he scrolls through the next few, standard catalogs of the damage done to the vehicles, and he sees Connor.
He’s on the ground. Neck at the wrong angle. His right side crushed. Drenched in enough thirium to drown in. A human EMT is sitting with him in the photo, holding his left hand. His LED is a vicious, broken red. They took photos of the damage done to him like they took photos of the damage done to the cars. They took photos of him like he was a thing.
“Why weren’t they helping him?” Hank says, feeling incredibly distant from himself. “Why’d they just—“
Reed shrugs, looking resolutely at a flaw in the concrete wall. “The report says first responders were trained for human injuries,” he says, “It took longer for android EMTs to arrive.”
Hank looks at the damage done. The broken red spin of his LED, the dark eyes not at all empty. It’d be easier, maybe, if they were. He thinks, They got lucky.
(— androids are sturdier than —)
He stands abruptly, his stomach turning, eyes burning. Lucky.
“Excuse me,” he says thickly, pushing out of the room. He makes it to the bathrooms before he reacquaints himself with the coffee he’d been drinking. Lucky.
Reed follows him in. Leans against the sinks while he’s retching, staring politely at the ceiling. "Want me to hold your hair back, Anderson?" he asks. Hank reaches behind himself, flips him off.
“Fuck you, Reed,” he says heavily, leaning against the stall’s wall, dragging himself back upright. Flushes the toilet and stumbles back out towards the sinks. Mechanically he washes his hands, then rinses out his mouth, then splashes water on his face and presses his hands into the skin under his eyes, cast digging into the soft skin there. He wants to unsee — everything. That broken LED, that broken body. All that fucking blue. He wants to forget the last twenty minutes of the day, pretend like none of this ever happened.
(But that’s not fair to Connor, he thinks. God—)
Reed is still standing there, quiet. “What do you want,” Hank says, dead-toned, staring himself down in the mirror. Eyes bloodshot, face still like a child’s watercolor painting. From his periphery, Reed glances at him sideways.
“You really didn’t know, huh?” he asks. Uncharacteristically gently, for Reed.
Hank feels his stomach roll again. “No,” he says, choking it down, “No, I - my memory’s in fucking tatters, I can’t remember anything about the — and he didn’t—“ say. Connor didn’t say anything.
Hank didn’t ask, either. God.
What a fucking disaster. He swallows.
“I thought he was fine,” he says, feeling ragged, “I assumed he-“
Reed tilts his head, thoughtful. “Well,” he says, careful, “You know what they say about assuming.”
Hank barks out a mirthless laugh. “Yeah. I do,” he says, rocking forward. He scrubs at his face again before turning to leave.
“Where’re you going now, Hank?” Reed asks on his way out.
Hank considers for a moment, then says:
“Home.”
Hank goes home. He lets Sumo into the backyard, sparing a brief, blank thought to how slowly the old dog moves. They’ve both gotten so much older in the last five years. Hank hangs up his keys, hangs up his coat, takes off his shoes and leaves them near the door. All rote movements.
Hank keeps thinking, blue blue blue. Blue like the spin of Connor’s LED, these last two weeks, blue like the spill of thirium in an intersection. Why didn’t he say anything?
(why didn’t Hank ask?)
Hank keeps thinking about all the things that could have killed Connor, that Hank didn’t know about, because he didn’t ask - the thirium loss, the broken neck, the crush injuries. The time it took for someone who could help keep an android alive to arrive. All the things that would have killed Connor, if he were human, but didn’t because he’s not. He’s lucky.
God — he should have died.
They got lucky, and Hank just assumed —
It’s an easy enough thing to get his whiskey down from the high shelf. Move to the couch. Indulge in muscle memory in a way that he hasn’t, not for a long, long time. He wants to forget all the blue, the way Connor had looked in those photos - forget the way he’s been carrying it alone for these last weeks.
It’s selfish. Hank knows. He drinks anyway.
That night, Hank has a nightmare.
He dreams that Connor comes in through the door, soaked blue, neck broken, body crushed. He dreams that Connor stands there in the doorway, LED skipping red red red, bleeding and dying. Hank hadn’t known. Hank hadn’t known.
Hank didn’t ask.
He should have - Connor could have died, would have if he were human.
Hank dreams he is weeping, open mouth sobbing like he hasn’t for five fucking years.
Hank dreams that Connor says, “Hank,” and reaches for him with broken hands. The red LED skipping, stuttering. Fading. It strikes a bone-deep terror in Hank, and he presses a shaking fist into his mouth.
He says, “Connor, you should have died,” he should have, he could have, he would have - broken on-scene, snuffed in a moment, just like his son. Connor isn’t Cole, won’t ever be Cole, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t important, and Hank could have lost him. Would have lost him. Should have lost him. In the dream, Connor’s LED flickers out, flickers red, broken neck lolling, and Hank gasps for breath, saying again, “You should have died.”
In the dream, Connor’s eyes go dark. Mouth lolling open, soundless. The LED spins red one last time.
(And Connor says, “Hank, let’s get you to bed.”)