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It’s bizarre to feel lonely again, even though Hank spent the last several years painfully single, not even trying to date or cultivate new friends or hang onto the old ones. He was so used to driving home in his empty car, blaring old music to mask the lack of conversation. But he got used to Connor just as quickly, and now it feels odd to mutter case-related questions aloud and get no answers. The passenger’s seat is a conspicuous void where a handsome younger man should be, the dashboard lights dull without Connor’s glowing LED. It was even weirder at the precinct, with no one in the seat across from him, no idle banter or ingenious insights or even inane things like forced talk about the weather to ‘simulate humanity’. The whole thing just felt wrong.
The whole setup is wrong. Hank gets that androids have been gaining new rights every day, and of course vacation time had to come along, but Hank understands his android well enough to know that Connor doesn’t want time off, and forcing it’s insane. Jeffrey’s being ridiculous. Hank spent half the morning glaring up at his office. The next three days are going to be torture.
When Hank finally pulls into his driveway, his shoulders slump in relief, and he knows exactly how pathetic that is—he shouldn’t need to see Connor so badly. Once upon a time, he didn’t even like Connor. But they’ve evolved into a duo that doesn’t work apart, and he finds himself shuffling up to the porch shamefully fast. He’s got the keys out in a heartbeat, jams them into the lock, twists it but doesn’t open—first, he takes a breath, tells himself to calm down, because the last thing he needs is Connor scanning his quick pulse and teasing him for blushing.
He also can’t stay outside too long now that Connor’s likely heard him coming. Another breath, and he pushes the door open, wandering into his absolutely spotless living room.
He does a double take in just about every direction. The place is wildly tidy, the coffee table practically glimmering and his computer desk neatly sorted, all his records perfectly aligned. The house didn’t even look so good the day he bought it.
He should’ve known Connor would find something to do. He half expected to find Connor in the kitchen, cooking him dinner like some cliché domestic dream.
Instead, Connor’s curled up in front of the television, lying across the floor, Sumo slumped on top of him. The usual CyberLife jacket’s gone, hung on a peg behind the door, but Connor still donned the rest of his uniform for his day off—his shirt’s buttoned all the way up, and his tie’s slipped out of its clip to trail down his chest and off to the side. His soft brown hair is ruffled with the strange position, that one telltale curl down across his forehead. His eyes are closed, LED so pale it’s almost invisible. Sumo’s lightly snoring, clearly pleased with his new human-shaped bed.
Hank doesn’t like using his phone. He grew up in their heyday, but then he kept growing up, and the ever-advancing technology lost its appeal. Since there are no witnesses to judge him, he makes an exception and fumbles his phone out of his pocket, quickly tapping to the camera application before Connor wakes up.
Connor remains right where he is through Hank snapping several pictures of the most adorable thing he’s ever seen in his life. He has to resist the urge to make it his wallpaper. He doesn’t even care that neither of his boys bothered to greet him at the door, even though they knew when he’d be home. He might be mildly jealous of the cuddle pile, but he reminds himself his back’s not good enough to sleep on the floor anyway.
Connor seems just fine where he is. He’s not breathing, not making any noise, not moving at all, but that’s normal for him. There was a time when Hank honestly thought Connor was a glorified toaster, hell-bent on a pre-programmed mission and nothing else, but now Hank doesn’t find it hard to believe that Connor exhausted his system loving on Hank’s dog.
Although, at the rate they’re going, Sumo’s quickly becoming their dog. Somehow, Hank doesn’t mind.
Hank doesn’t have the heart to disturb them. But he also recognizes that there’s a slight possibility Connor didn’t mean to go limp on the floor. He kicks out of his shoes and strips his jacket as silently as possible. Just in case, Hank kneels down next to his andoird and places his hand on Connor’s shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze. Connor’s eyes instantly flicker open, darting up to Hank, though the rest of him stays still. Fighting to keep the grin off his face, Hank checks, “You doin’ alright down there?”
“I’m fine, Lieutenant,” Connor answers, in that same special voice he always has, not at all hampered by the yawns Hank would be riddled with. “I was recharging.”
“On the floor?”
“I’ve become accustomed to lying down while powered down, and you’ve cautioned against allowing Sumo on the bed or couch.”
And, naturally, snuggling Sumo was a major factor in his decision. Hank’s not even surprised. He can’t believe some people still think androids don’t have emotions. It’s telling that Connor hasn’t even tried to get up, clearly not wanting to dislodge the enormous Saint Bernard pinning him to the floor. He does ask, “Were there any interesting new cases?”
Not a single one. Hank shakes his head. A little old lady came in to complain about her android nurse demanding pay and accidentally spilled coffee on Reed, but that was about it. Hank was going to try and jazz up the story over dinner, but he had a late lunch at the office and isn’t that hungry yet. Or maybe he’s just distracted by other things.
He nods towards the hall and suggests, “How about you come recharge in bed.”
Connor tilts his chin to look at Sumo. Despite the drooping face and drool, Sumo is quite cute, in Hank’s humble opinion. But then Connor looks back at Hank, and his pretty brown eyes fill with something else entirely. Hank knows Sumo isn’t truly competition.
Connor lifts one hand to curl around Sumo’s giant neck and scratches beneath his ear. Sumo sneezes and shakes himself awake, only for Connor to tell him, “I am sorry. I’m afraid I must go now.” Sumo makes a whining sound as though he understands but hates it, and when Connor pats his hide, he climbs up to all fours and pads off.
Connor pushes himself to his feet. “Have you eaten, Hank? I can make you something—”
Hank’s already tugging him by the hand towards the bedroom. Sumo trails after them, and just the once, Hank lets him up on the bed, because it makes Connor smile. Hank lets them both curl up around him, and just like that, he’s not lonely anymore.