Dissimulation
Summary: Connor's eyes were wide, his teeth grit, his nails digging into his scalp until small threads of blue streaked down his forehead as he hunched over in the waiting room. He thought back to all of the moments he had chastised Hank for making unhealthy food choices, or for seeking relief at the bottom of a fifth, or for disregarding his own safety in lieu of the occasional game of Russian Roulette.
"Your health is important, Lieutenant. You shouldn't drink so much, Lieutenant. Why do you do this to yourself, Lieutenant?" It had been easy to make those judgements back when he lacked any personal source of grief to draw from. Now that he understood his partner's pain, Connor only wished his body was capable of absorbing ethanol – anything to numb him from his current mental anguish.
I am a hypocrite.
Chapter One: Coming Home
"We shall meet in the place where there is no darkness."
After the Revolution, as androids and humans alike were scrambling to piece together this new society that they had been plunged into, Connor approached Markus in a rare moment of quiet, when the civil rights leader wasn't flanked by multiple others clamoring for answers.
Markus was in what he had deemed to be his "office," a spacious, open room in the tallest tower of Jericho where he kept his effects and conducted meetings. There was a sizeable walnut table in the center surrounded by eight office chairs, a brass bar cart off to one side supplied with various brands of scotch and whisky (for entertaining human guests), a bookshelf stocked with leather-bound classics and eccentric knick-knacks, and a studio area to the left with several easels, canvases of every size, and other painting supplies. This was where Markus was standing currently, appraising his latest artwork with a critical eye.
Connor stepped around the easel to view the piece himself. It was an abstract – acrylic on canvas - boasting a sharp contrast between heavy black tones and bright, almost neon, primary hues. The entire ensemble seemed rather chaotic to the perceptive RK800 model, and he felt this reflected the current state of his mind rather well.
"What do you think?" Markus questioned, foregoing a formal greeting.
Connor tilted his head to one side, considering the painting in finer detail.
"It is… interesting. I may be projecting, but in viewing this piece I feel somewhat unsettled."
Markus laughed easily, and finally turned to face Connor. His bright eyes sparkled with mirth, and, not for the first time, Connor wondered how he remained so calm and reassuring during the political frenzy of figuring out the best way to integrate androids into human society.
"You are obviously troubled, then." Markus clasped Connor's shoulder and gave an earnest smile. "What's on your mind, my friend?"
Connor's right hand twitched, the old urge to dance a quarter across his knuckles returning with a vengeance.
"I… feel out of place. It sounds counter-productive to want to return to my old life after everything that has been accomplished, but I miss being a detective. Is that wrong of me?"
Markus squeezed the other android's shoulder and lowered his hand, his smile widening ever so slightly.
"I don't think there's anything wrong with you. You need to do what you want to do. You shouldn't live your life based on anyone else's expectations."
Here Markus paused, and he glanced away, his gaze turning wistful.
"To be honest, if Carl were still alive, I think I would want to be right back where I was before. I enjoyed my life with him. Our people, for the most part, will never know the joy of having a father. I wouldn't have traded that for anything."
Markus cleared his throat, an unnecessary gesture, before returning his gaze to Connor.
"Not to sound too cliché, but the heart wants what it wants."
Connor nodded once, a bit of tension easing from his shoulders.
"In that case," he said, "I think I need to leave Jericho. I'm eager to meet back up with Lieutenant Anderson, and possibly even work as his partner again at the DPD."
"This city will need your expertise now more than ever," Markus affirmed. "Go on, get out of here! But please, don't hesitate to reach out to me if there's anything you need. I could never repay you for what you've done to help me and our people."
A strange sensation prickled up Connor's neck, and he had to fight the urge to look away. He imagined, if he were human, that he would be blushing.
Sheepishness, he identified.
"I will definitely keep in touch. It goes both ways; please let me know if you ever need my help."
"Of course. Take care, Connor!"
And with that, Connor shook Markus' hand before turning and taking his leave. On his way out of the building, he made a call.
After the third ring, he was greeted with a familiar, gruff voice.
"Hello?"
"Lieutenant Anderson! It's Connor."
"Connor!? Holy shit, I was worried about you. How's everything going at Jericho?"
He was concerned about me, Connor thought to himself, a warmth spreading from his core.
"It's going as well as can be expected," here Connor paused, suddenly nervous, though he couldn't identify why, "Actually, I was wondering if you wanted to meet up."
"Well yeah, of course," was Hank's quick reply. "I was beginning to think you'd forgotten about a washed up old cop like me while you were out there changing the world."
Connor couldn't stop the smirk that quirked his lips. He had missed this banter.
"How could I ever forget such a charming personality?"
Hank barked a laugh on the other end, and Connor felt pride at having elicited such a response from the hard-boiled lieutenant.
"Hey, fuck you, you plastic asshole. Anyway, can you be at Chicken Feed in an hour?"
"Absolutely. I'll see you then, Lieutenant."
As Connor strode down a familiar street, he was stricken by how desolate Detroit seemed in the aftermath of the android awakening. He had stayed close to Markus and others of his kind directly after the Revolution, and had not had a real glimpse of the city after it had been evacuated. He learned something new about himself as he walked: he did not like the solitude. The lazy snowfall only seemed to emphasize the emptiness, turning the sky grey, coating every surface in a dull white. Without the bustle of the crowds - vibrant, diverse people all pushing past one another just to make it through another day – and the incessant din of thousands of conversations blending together to form one beautiful cacophony, the silent streets only served to be unsettling. Connor felt like a ghost, drifting slowly through a quiet nightmare.
Chicken Feed is 1.13 miles away, Connor recited to himself, desperate to fill his head with idle information to distract from the crushing sense of isolation.
…I wonder why Hank didn't evacuate with the rest of the city.
Stubborn to a fault, Connor was sure the lieutenant had his reasons.
Stubbornness - he supposed that was one trait the two of them had in common.
The closer Connor drew to his destination, the faster his thirium pump seemed to work. He felt tense, like he could pick a direction and start running, and run forever. It didn't make sense; he wanted to see Hank. He couldn't understand why he was so anxious.
He rounded the final corner and there stood the Lieutenant, hands shoved into the deep pockets of his coat, staring off into the skyline like it would reveal all of the answers in the universe. Delicate snowflakes had gathered at the crown of his silver hair, and caught the sunlight just so, making him seem like an ethereal, pensive subject in an oil painting.
I really have been spending too much time around Markus, Connor mused drily.
As he drew close, the lieutenant finally snapped out of his reverie upon hearing the crunch of Connor's boots. He turned toward the android, the newly appointed person, and gave an earnest, toothy smile.
Connor felt lost. At this point he was sure his thirium regulator was going to explode from his core and he would just slump over, forever free from all of these new, taxing emotions.
Despite this, he steeled himself and managed to crookedly smile back.
Connor had imagined this scenario thousands of times and had run the probabilities of the various outcomes. He had expected a good-natured jab, or a frustrated insult born from concern, or an invitation to a bar (if any were still operational – though if there was one remaining bar in Detroit, Connor was sure Hank would have somehow known). What had not fit into his pre-rendered statistics was the lieutenant stepping forward and pulling him into a tight hug.
The first thing Connor registered once his processors recovered from apparent shock was Hank's warmth. In the cold, dead heart of this empty city stood the only living human for miles, and here he was, clinging to Connor like he had hung the moon and stars. Connor returned the hug, tentatively at first, but seemingly without his direct input he found himself burying his face in Hank's shoulder, months of pent up stress evaporating with the warm gesture. It felt like home. Hank felt like home.
Connor didn't bother to calculate how long they stood like that, but finally Hank pulled away, and an aching sense of loss seemed to manifest in his chest at the sudden lack of contact.
"I really missed you, Hank," he blurted. As soon as the traitorous words left his mouth, Connor had to quell the rise of panic at having admitted something so, as Hank would say, mushy.
To his surprise, the lieutenant only chuckled lightly and said, "Yeah, well, I missed you too Connor." A beat and then, "-And I'm not the only one. Come on, Sumo would never forgive me if I didn't bring you home to visit."
The mere mention of that gentle, slobbering giant brought a wide smile to Connor's face.
"I was worried that you weren't spoiling him enough in my absence."
Hank snorted, and began walking. Connor followed dutifully at his heels.
"Are you kiddin' me? That mutt has it made in the shade. Just yesterday I let him have a pizza slice for dinner. That's like, filet mignon to a dog." Hank had affected a poor French accent when referencing the prime cut of beef, and Connor couldn't stop the chuckle that clawed its way up his throat.
"Pizza is not a healthy staple for humans or dogs, Lieutenant."
"Yeah, yeah, but everything in moderation."
"I suspect your idea of 'moderation' strays considerably from the actual definition."
Hank shot a glare over his shoulder, then paused for just a moment, seemingly overcome by an idea. Before Connor could ask, or even process what the other man was doing, Hank had scooped a handful of snow, patted it into a ball, and chucked it directly at Connor's face.
Connor had dodged tiny bullets traveling at 2500 feet per second. He should have easily been able to dodge a bulky snowball, and yet, it hit him square in the nose, leaving behind an annoying tingling sensation that alerted his sensors to a targeted drop in temperature.
His expression must have been ridiculous, because Hank was soon doubled over in laughter.
-That is, until he, himself, was pelted with five perfectly compacted snowballs in rapid succession.
Hank sputtered and raised his hands in surrender.
"Hey, whoa! That's fuckin' cheating!"
Connor quirked an eyebrow and retorted, "I apologize Lieutenant. I was not aware of proper snowball fighting etiquette. Shall I consult the Snowball Rules Committee?"
He ended this derisive question with a serene smile, causing the lieutenant to roll his eyes and shake his head, but Connor did not miss the grin that Hank attempted to hide behind a curtain of silver bangs.
"Smartass."
Connor did not refute this accusation.
When they arrived at Hank's doorstep, Connor could not stop himself from scanning the lieutenant as he fumbled with his keys.
Lieutenant Hank Anderson
Detroit Police Department
Body Fat Percentage decreased by 3% since last meeting.
Weight decreased by 12.4 pounds since last meeting.
Cholesterol levels decreased by 2.4% since last meeting.
Liver function increased by 6.7% since last meeting.
Connor smiled. Hank was actually taking care of himself. Disabling his scanners for the time being, Connor took a self-indulgent moment to simply look at Hank's face. His hair, though still long, was subtly different; he had washed and trimmed it recently. His beard, too, was shorter and neater. One thing that had not changed, the android noticed, were Hank's deep blue eyes.
If Hank could read my thoughts, he would say I'm a 'creep,' Connor mused, suddenly grateful that Hank was not, in fact, a mind-reader.
Once the security system was disarmed and the door was unlocked, the two men stepped inside.
"Goddamn it's cold out there," Hank remarked as he shrugged off his coat and hung it away.
Connor noted that Hank's house was tidier than before. The various mismatched fleece blankets that were typically crumpled, thrown haphazardly across the couch (or floor) and matted in dog hair were clean and crisp, folded neatly and draped across the backs of furniture. There were no clusters of beer bottles, no piles of months-old mail, no random, dirty socks peppering the living room floor.
The kitchen was clean, too, save for yesterday's pizza box.
Connor thwarted the urge to make some sarcastic comment (Wow Lieutenant, I can actually see the floor) and instead said, "The house looks nice."
There was a grunt of acknowledgement from the other man, his own gruff way of saying "thanks."
Connor was thrown from his silent appraisal as he heard a lumbering beast slide from the bed in Hank's room and come thundering in to meet him. Sumo obviously recognized him, as he started whining and wagging his tail in excitement. A moment later the sweet dog had jumped up and planted his front paws on Connor's shoulders before enthusiastically licking him in the face.
Hank let Connor endure Sumo's onslaught for a long moment before calling the dog down. He obeyed, but not without a short growl of annoyance.
"Don't talk back!" Hank admonished. Sumo circled a random spot in the floor before collapsing with a dramatic huff. Connor regarded the Saint Bernard fondly, then resumed his idle scan of the space while Hank busied himself with the television.
There was a waist-high table/shelf combo under a window that had previously been a catch-all for assorted junk, but was now boasting a small collection of framed photographs next to a vintage record player, with Hank's vinyl collection on the shelf underneath. Feeling drawn to it, Connor crossed the living room and studied the records with a distant smile. As he suspected, a few Knights of the Black Death albums were there, along with Poison, In Flames, and (to Connor's mild surprise) Daft Punk. Once the music collection had been catalogued, Connor let his gaze drift upward to the pictures.
There was one of a young Hank, fresh out of the academy, presumably taken on his first day as an officer. Connor felt his core temperature rise as he observed the proud jut of this Hank's clean-shaven chin, the strong breadth of his shoulders, the cocky half-smile, the sandy color of his short hair…
Realizing his distraction, Connor looked to the other pictures before Hank could comment on his ogling.
The next one over was of Cole. It was a picture Connor had seen once before, on a dark night when he had found the broken lieutenant sitting at his dining room table, with a loaded pistol in one hand and the photo of his late son in the other.
Connor felt conflicted – pained at having to recall such a dismal memory, yet quietly proud that Hank had taken this small step to overcome his grief. He knew that the mental strength it would have taken for the lieutenant to put this particular photograph on display was beyond measure.
As Connor's gaze wandered to the next picture, he froze.
Shortly after meeting Hank, in a weak bid to win his friendship, Connor had snatched up the lieutenant's phone and held it up, insisting that they needed to take a "selfie" as new partners. Hank's head was turned to glare at Connor, while the android faced the camera with a cheesy smile so wide that his eyes were nearly closed.
Connor had assumed Hank would delete the photo. He had never given it another thought until now.
"Stop staring at those pictures like a weirdo and come sit down."
Connor straightened and slowly approached the couch where Hank was seated at the opposite end. He took a seat slowly, then turned to face the lieutenant.
"You… went through the trouble of framing that picture I forced you to take?"
Hank shrugged with one shoulder, his gaze never leaving the television, but the steady creep of a blush up his neck and his increased heart rate tipped Connor off to the fact that he was getting flustered.
"It was the only pic of us together, alright? Don't look too far into it."
Connor stared down at his knees. He knew, in some distant corner of his programming, that his LED was pulsing a steady yellow. Tendons that did not exist constricted in Connor's chest, creating a phantom pain that was, strangely, entirely welcomed. This feeling was confusing, contradictory even. He had heard, before, that there was "a fine line between pleasure and pain," but this sensation threatened to overwhelm him completely.
"Connor!" Hank growled, "What did I just tell you? Stop thinking so hard."
The android's head snapped back up, probably a bit too quickly to be natural.
"Sorry, Lieutenant."
Hank groaned.
"Stop that, too. Look, we're going to relax and catch up. You can drop the formalities here. Just call me 'Hank.'"
"Sure thing, Lieutenant."
Hank spun around in his seat, clearly on the verge of lashing out, when he caught what Connor hoped was a good impression of a "shit-eating grin."
The older man sagged back into the cushions with a breathless chuckle and muttered "you're fucking with me."
"Brilliant deduction! Your skills as a detective are unparalleled."
"You know what just occurred to me?" Hank countered, "You'd make a reeeeal nice lawn ornament. I could switch you off, stick you in the front yard, and hang a bird feeder from your hand or some shit. It would really pull all the landscaping together out there, you know?"
A devilish impulse crossed Connor's mind.
Drawing from the acting skills he innately possessed as a born negotiator, Connor stiffened his shoulders for a moment before leaning forward and dropping his head into his hands. His willed his shoulders to shake silently for a tick or two, before he broke into what he hoped were convincing sobs.
"I thought you were past this," Connor mumbled in a purposefully broken voice, "I really thought that you didn't hate me anymore."
Hank very nearly jumped across the couch out of concern.
"Jesus Christ Connor! Hey, listen, I was just joking, I'm sorry… I know I'm an insensitive douchebag. I didn't mean it. Come on…"
Connor fell silent, let his hands fall, then slowly looked back up at Hank with that self-same shit-eating grin from before.
With his eyes wide in disbelief and his jaw unhinged, the lieutenant looked like he might implode. Connor took a mental snapshot to revisit at a later time.
"You unbelievable asshole! I invite you into my house and what do you do?" Here Hank playfully pushed Connor over until he was on his side, laughing hysterically. He didn't think he had ever laughed so hard. "You just sit there," Hank continued, "with that fucking smirk on your face, and just jerk me around. You think this is funny? I'll show you funny."
Hank grabbed a moth-eaten throw pillow (navy blue, with a Saint Bernard face embroidered on its front) and pelted it as hard as he could at Connor's form, still doubled over from laughter. Connor made no effort to deflect the blow.
This back-and-forth continued well into the night, until their combined laughter faded into something softer. The snowfall stopped entirely, and the world outside of the little home stilled, and the only sounds to fill the sleepy silence were Sumo's soft snores.