Work Text:
Hank sat on the couch past midnight, watching some show. Connor loved the show, and Hank... didn't mind it. (He would never admit he liked it.) So he continued to watch it. It had originally just been an excuse to get Connor to sit the fuck down.
Connor had been on his feet the whole damn day—most likely thanks to the fact they were missing work. The boy needed to chill out. He gets that he was made to constantly being doing shit, but god, was it annoying. He cleaned the whole damn house and made Hank's lunches for the week.
With a heavy sigh, his gaze moved to the relaxed form beside him. Connor had fallen asleep a little over an hour ago, Hank guesstimated. He noted his messy hair with a scoff. The android's hair was messy waves, having been messed up from the pillow his head rested on. It was odd to see it so... loose. The damn android seemed to always comb it down.
Connor's LED was a calm blue as he slept—or whatever the fuck he called it. He raised his eyebrow, shifting in his seat. For an android that 'didn't need sleep', he fell asleep pretty quickly.
The android laid on the couch, semi-curled up with his head on a pillow. Sumo was cuddled up at his feet - touching both Hank and Connor. The Saint Bernard was willingly sandwiched between the two. A small smile rested on Hank's face.
He was surprised at how quick Sumo had accepted Connor, the dog usually disliked anyone Hank brought to the house—that's if Hank let anyone come over. His house wasn't the... cleanest area ever.
Although the android couldn't really catch a cold, he still made sure to cover him with a plaid blanket to keep him comfortable.
With an irritated exhale, Hank's eyes fell to the table. Connor's half-empty blue blood bottle was on the coffee table, having fell asleep before he could finish it. Connor had gotten into the habit of never finishing the damned things. He would get on Connor about it whenever he woke up - it's not like Hank had much else to do but complain.
Right. The harsh winds against the house reminded Hank of his predicament. Detroit had been ever-so luckily blessed with 6 inches of snow—half a damn foot!
The roads were in horrible condition, and there were still several hours until the snowstorm was said to ease up. At least that's according to what Connor said. The android had been weirdly keen of dates and weather the last few months.
What was really weird was Connor's acceptance of missing work. He didn't argue or complain when Hank told him that they were calling in today.
Normally, the android disliked—maybe even hated—missing work... so the immediate acceptance was odd. No, more than odd. Concerning.
Paired with the quiet restlessness that Connor had all day: it was... an interesting sight. Hank dismissed the thought. Connor could handle himself, and frankly, Hank didn't really mind the android shutting up for a bit.
He felt Sumo shift slightly, moving closer to Connor. The dog ended up resting his head on Connor's knee. Hank's eyes flickered up to Connor's sleeping form before sighing and looking back towards the TV. It was an ad. Great.
Time passed slowly, but eventually Hank got up to piss. As he came back to the couch and flopped back down into the lived-in sofa, something caught his eye.
A familiar yellow.
Connor's light... thingy... flickered to yellow, the android's expression tensing slightly. His relaxed sleeping form stiffened - was he waking up?
A few minutes passed and Connor still hadn't roused. Hank had not taken his eyes off the detective, observing him closely with a hardened expression. His breathing, er... ventilation system, or something—he never really listened when Connor explained android stuff—seemed to quicken.
Hank furrowed his brow. Should he wake him up? Did androids dream? What if he was... malfunctioning or something? Hell, Hank didn't know.
Connor's expression was pinched, an odd look for the stoic android.
His index finger twitched, and Connor's light flashed red.
He jolted awake, immediately sitting up and startling Sumo. The dog jumped off the couch with a huff, glancing at Hank with a head tilt. Hank subtly startled too, sitting up straighter, and glaring at the android, "What the hell..."
This seemed too familiar to Hank. How many damn times did he wake up the exact same way? With name once said with love—now tainted with grief filled poison—on the tip of his tongue?
Connor's eyes seemed to dart around before settling on Hank. He just... stared at him for a moment. Like he was frozen, or seeing a ghost. Hank didn't look that bad, did he?
"Connor? You... uh, good?" Hank asked, not taking his eyes off the android.
Connor's light cycled back to yellow. He seemed to immediately try and compose himself, trying his damn best to shove down whatever nightmare he had. "Hello, lieutenant," he greeted awkwardly. "I'm... I'm okay."
"Right," Hank replied as he narrowed his eyes. "Huh... haven't heard that in awhile." Connor hadn't called him that outside of work in over a year. Nah, he wasn't fooling Hank. Must've been a hell of a nightmare to bring his police rank back out.
The android tilted his head slightly as he sat their for a moment—probably going over how he greeted Hank. Must've not realized. Hank raised his eyebrows as he observed Connor, crossing his arms and leaning back into the couch.
His breathing seemed to falter for just a moment. "Did I say lieutenant?" Connor narrowed his eyes, clearly still dazed from suddenly jolting from sleep. He rubbed his eyes with his fingers, taking a breath. "I didn't mean to," he muttered.
"Yeah," Hank said, noticing how Connor rubbed his eyes. He looked so... human. With his messy hair, how he was groggy from sleep. Shit, man.
There was a long silence before Hank cleared his throat. "Did you, er, have a nightmare... or something?" He stiffly asked, looking to the TV awkwardly. Suddenly, the ads were the most interesting thing he's seen.
"Androids can't have nightmares," he denied swiftly, slightly muffled by his hands still resting on his face.
"Jesus Christ..." Hank turned towards Connor, glaring at him. "So you just always wake up like that, then?" he spat out. His concern faded into irritation at Connor's evasion.
Dropping his hands from his face, Connor opened his eyes and looked towards the lieutenant, posture somewhat stiff as he furrowed his brow. "It's not important." He dismissed lowly. Connor looked back down, fixing the cuffs of his sweater. "It won't change anything."
"So you did have a nightmare."
"I didn't say that."
"You didn't have to," Hank sighed, running his hand down his face. Leaning back into the couch, "It's not that big of a deal. Everybody has them."
"I don't." Connor watched the TV, clearly just trying to avoid looking at Hank.
Annoyance was starting to boil under the lieutenant's skin. His patience was already thin, and Connor's attitude was not helping. "Are you hearing yourself?"
"I don't know what you're talking about."
Hanks gaze narrowed as his expression turned to one of disbelief. Was he really gonna act like that? "You don't– Are you being serious right now?"
"Yes." Connor didn't even bother to look at Hank, his tone forcefully reserved.
Hank stood up and scoffed, "You know what? Fine. Fuck me for even trying." He shrugged, storming off, but not before grabbing a drink. He wasn't drunk enough to deal with Connor's stubborn ass.
If Connor didn't wanna talk with Hank, then so be it. He shut his bedroom door with more force than necessary, and the walls vibrated throughout the house.
Hours after that slammed door, Connor sits in the same spot as he had hours ago. The house was filled with silent tension, and the wind brushed up against the house with a cold whisper through unsealed windows.
Connor stared at the TV, but he wasn't really watching it. Echoes of a familiar, once trusted, voice replayed in his mind.
Stupid. How stupid he was. How could he pick roses and expect not to get pricked by thorns?
A phantom weight stayed in Connor's right hand. He looked down at his hand, half-expecting a gun to lay there in his grip. Flexing his hand, he watched it open and close. Open. Close. Open. Close. Open.
Sumo whined, shoving his head into Connor's palm.
That almost roused a smile out of the android, "Good dog." His fur was soft against Connor's hand, and the Saint Bernard panted. Sumo loved having his ears scratched—something Connor had learned from Hank.
He moved his hands to the dogs ears, but halted. Connor pulled away hastily.
"Go lay down," he ordered. Sumo reluctantly went to lay in his favorite spot, by Hank's desk.
Connor stared at his hands. They could hurt others. They had hurt others. They would continue to hurt others. What was Connor, if not a weapon?
He liked to tell himself he wasn't, but when he fights, chases, shoots for the DPD—he doubts himself a little more. A weapon is a weapon, no matter who holds it.
If he felt guilty about being a weapon, did it make him any less of one?
A gust of wind against the window snapped him out of his thoughts. Right. The blizzard.
Without much thought, Connor felt his legs carry him to the window. He opened the curtains, the street light could barely be seen from the aggressive snow swirling around. Driving in this would be dangerous, Hank was right to call in.
Connor wondered if Hank was ever nervous about snow. If he ever feared his car would skid again while driving—if he feared losing someone again.
He glanced towards the direction of Hank's bedroom.
Hank did, Connor knew that. Connor had always known that.
But Hank did things to stop those from happening again. He didn't drive when roads were icy, he stayed home during blizzards. He pushed anyone and everyone away. His ex-wife, his friends, his co-workers.
He was being proactive—taking the steps so things that hurt in the past would never hurt again.
That's why Connor knew Hank would understand.
Connor blinked, staring at his own reflection rather than into the blizzard outside.
He wasn't sure when he had grabbed his gun, or when he had walked to the bathroom. But, he didn't leave. This was his plan, was it not?
Looking down at his hand, he scanned the gun. Smith & Wesson M&P9 M2.0, 9mm, Issued by Detroit Police Department.
Typical police department issued handgun.
It felt at home in his hand, and that made an unknown feeling rise in his throat. It made him want to drop the gun and never touch it again. He didn't.
Connor lifted the gun, settling it under his chin.
He felt his hand tremble.
He reminded himself he was protecting Hank.
He was protecting the revolution.
He was protecting himself, the only way he knew how. Just another thing he had learned from Hank, huh. How ironic.
Sumo scratched and whined at the shut bathroom door. Connor paused. Sumo. He opened the door, staring at the Saint Bernard, gun still in hand. Sumo almost sniffed it, before Connor hid it behind his back. He wouldn't worry Sumo.
Connor kneeled down infront of Sumo, but not reaching out to pet him. He felt his lips tug upward, "Take care of Hank for me, Sumo."
Sumo wagged his tail, and went to lay infront of Hank's door. He was always happy to listen to Connor.
"Good dog," he whispered softly, shutting the bathroom door once more.
The gun nuzzled under Connor's chin again, and he took a moment to let his gaze flicker to the note on the bathroom sink, written in neat, Cyberlife-ish handwriting.
He exhaled slowly, letting his eyes shut.
There was a knock on the door, "Connor?" His tone wasn't groggy or hoarse. Hank had never fallen asleep. Connor's eyebrows furrowed, almost wanting to answer.
But, Connor was never one to hesitate.
He pulled the trigger.
"Look, I'm s—"
Blue blood splattered across the wall.