Connor got up long before Hank; of course, it wasn't out of the ordinary for him to do so, as Hank had a tendency to show up to the station pretty late. Connor's comparatively lessened need for 'rest' meant that he had a lot of free time to do as he pleased. Whether or not it was too much time to himself...well, the jury's still out on that one. After he checked on Hank, he made a mental note to himself to take another look around the house. It was still, according to human standards, early in the morning; waking up Hank at 8 am would, without a doubt, make the man want to strangle him, and after taking a look at last night's homicide, the idea of being strangled seemed rather unnerving. Connor had just gained the ability to feel alive, so he wasn't going to squander the opportunity so soon.
Connor went to check that Hank was doing ok, even when he was asleep. After they got home last night, he made sure Hank didn't try to down a beer or six in an attempt to repress the images of the crime scene, but Connor could see the way he flipped over, readjusted the pillows beneath his head, threw the blankets on and off of himself. He wasn't sure if the tossing and turning was entirely due to the detailed, almost specialized nature of the crime scene...or if Hank might be having a nightmare regarding the accident that killed his son, Cole, three years ago. Either way, Hank's disturbance was becoming more evident by the minute; Connor couldn't bring himself to look away, but at the same time, he didn't want to watch his friend suffer. Strangling be damned, Hank was having bad dreams. For how long, Connor didn't know, but the bags under Hank's eyes were very telling of his lingering trauma.
Even though Hank was clearly struggling to settle down, Connor decided it was a safer bet to give Hank a few more minutes of restless sleep before trying to wake him up. Crappy sleep is better than no sleep at all, Connor thought. Need Hank at full strength...or consciousness. Better let him be.
Connor's natural curiosity drove him to explore Hank's house. It seemed that every time he decided to take a look around, he found something new. Thus, Connor had yet another opportunity to peruse the bookshelf behind the sofa. A myriad of genres, authors, and subject matters merely sat on the shelf, a layer of dust having settled on the shelves and the books themselves. Connor figured that Hank probably only had the will to browse through case files, and even that was limited to the time Hank actually showed up for work. Connor picked out a book titled Ceremony by Leslie Marmon Silko; he dusted off the blue cover with a silvery feather printed on it, and skimmed the entire book. Though the stylistic choice of flashbacks and a seemingly random bout of violence that served as the tumultuous conclusion made the novel difficult to understand, Connor supposed it was an interesting read. The novel had touched on identity crises, and for him, that certainly hit close to home. Connor gingerly slipped the book back in its place, and reminded himself to dust the house later.
Connor then made the mistake of going to check the cupboards, then the fridge; as expected, the only food item in the cupboard, a measly loaf of bread, was so moldy it was beyond saving. Something about the blueish-grey color that invaded almost every surface of the bread made him feel unsettled, so he was glad to close the nearest cupboard door as quickly as he had opened it. For the moment, Connor overlooked the startling amount of alcohol that also resided in the cupboard. As for the fridge, the only things in there were bottles upon bottles of beer and part of a Jimmy John's sandwich he'd seen Hank consume two days ago.
Connor felt an overwhelming sense of guilt settle into his synthetic gut; he had been so preoccupied with reprimanding the Lieutenant on his dangerous eating habits during the day that he'd forgotten about the paradoxical lack of food at home. It didn't help that he didn't even have a stomach himself, not to mention he couldn't feel the sensation of hunger as the younger androids could. Connor resolved to learn how to cook, and he would gladly accept the self-appointed duty of cooking for the Lieutenant. After all, Connor didn't need programs to tell him exactly how to do everything; he could simply adapt and learn how to complete new tasks.
Connor tossed the moldy bread into the trash, then swiftly picked up the overstuffed trash bag and threw it in the larger bin on the curb. For the first time, he was glad he could deactivate his sense of smell on command; a tiny grin appeared on Connor's face, glad to evade the surely putrid stench of hot garbage.
When he came back inside, Sumo greeted him at the door with a combination of lethargic, slobbery licks to the face and knocking Connor down on his ass. Connor couldn't help but smile at Sumo's antics and scratch behind his ears as he pet down his back. "Hello there, Sumo! You seem pretty energetic this morning, unlike your owner. You must be hungry. Don't worry, I'll get you fed."
Sumo visibly perked up at the mention of food, went straight to his food and water bowls, and lay down on the carpet to wait. After keeping his promise on feeding Sumo and giving him some water, Connor pet him a few more times before going to wake Hank up. It was much closer to 9 am than 8 am at that point; it seemed like Hank was having trouble sleeping anyway, so what would be the harm in waking him up?
Connor slowly opened the door to Hank's bedroom; though the squeaking of the hinges was barely noticable, Connor still cringed as he opened the door all the way and treaded over to Hank's sleeping form.
Hank looked ten years younger when he was asleep: the wrinkles in his forehead and the rest of his face seemed to blur, almost disappear in his resting state. Due to the nature of sleep, his steely, blue eyes were also hidden, which contributed to Hank's youthful, less troubled appearance. His slightly wavy, silvery gray hair was splayed across the pillow he wasn't holding with both arms, close to his body. Every now and then, he would flip the pillow over, pull the covers over himself more or just shove them off, maybe roll over to the other side of the bed. Hank's brow would crease and relax, and he would shiver at times. Connor was beyond concerned. Definitely time to put an end to this.
Connor walked over to the gray curtains and drew them open, sparing a glance behind himself to see if Hank would wake up.
"Oh, fuck off with this shit," Hank groaned, using a pillow to shield his eyes from the sudden infiltration of sunlight into every nook and cranny of the room.
Yep, Hank was awake.
"You should probably get up soon, Lieu-Hank. We need to head to the station to check out the files on 's case," Connor stated matter-of-factly, directing himself to go to Hank's current side of the bed.
"Let's make a deal: I don't leave this bed for, say," Hank paused, taking the pillow off his head and turning to face Connor, "another two or three hours? And you can go...occupy yourself. God knows what you do when I'm asleep," Hank muttered, putting his head back under the pillow.
"Hank, I'd really appreciate it if you stopped bitching for two seconds and got the hell out of bed," Connor started, "Please."
For a moment, Hank didn't reply, choosing to remain under the pillow and simply...process what he could have sworn on Cole's grave he'd just heard.
"Connor...did you just...swear at me?" Hank inquired, eyes comically widened in disbelief. "Twice?"
Connor quickly moved towards Hank's bedroom door. He took a step or two out of the room, then paused. "I plead the fifth, Lieutenant. I'd say more, but I'd like to speak to my lawyer first," he grinned, closing the door behind him.
Hank Anderson couldn't help but sit up in his bed, rubbing his hands over his tired eyes. His own fuckin' android had the audacity to not only wake him up before noon, but also swear at him twice before he was even awake to fully experience the rare occurrence. The changes in Connor's post-deviancy persona were going to give him a full-on heart attack before his cholesterol levels could. Connor could be quite the smartass for someone that wasn't even human.
Hank threw on a solid green button-up over a white undershirt. He picked up the pair of jeans he'd thrown on the floor from (he hoped) last night, put on his boots, and grabbed his trusty jacket on the way out of his room.
Connor was dutifully waiting on the couch, which faced away from the small hallway; he had let his chin rest in one hand, the other arm laid across his middle, eyes closed. Hank walked out and tapped Connor on the shoulder; Connor jumped, whirling around in time to see a shit-eating grin on Hank's face. "Serves you right, you cheeky little shit. C'mon," Hank nodded to the door. Connor practically flew off the couch and out the door, allowing the Lieutenant to hold the door for him.
"I'm gonna stop at McDonald's real quick," Hank said as he started the ignition.
Connor let him roll up to the closest McDonald's, order his two sausage egg biscuits, and both receive and consume his food before bringing up Hank's eating habits. They had just arrived at the station; after Hank put the car in park and turned the ignition off, Connor almost immediately placed a hand on his shoulder.
"Listen, I don't intend to target your eating habits again, Hank, but I figured we're actually friends now, so...hopefully, that makes it easier to talk about it," Connor started, then cleared his synthetic throat. "I was thinking..." Connor hesitated.
"...Yeah?" Hank was intrigued, but his gaze was expectant. "What're you tryin' to say?"
If Connor could blush then, he probably would have. He didn't want to accidentally chip away at their relationship by annoying Hank, but caring for Hank had become a priority...of sorts. "Ah. Well, maybe...I could try learning how to cook?" When Hank didn't respond for a beat, he continued. "It was just a suggestion, I mean, we don't have to if you're not in agreement. After all, it is your house, your rules, Hank, so actually, why don't you decide-" Connor began to ramble.
"Connor." Connor's jaw audibly clamped shut.
"Yes...?"
"Last night, when you tried to bring up me needing some more time outside my house...I was probably just fuckin' exhausted. So I probably sounded like an ass," Hank turned away from Connor to stare at the pavement in front of his car. "To be honest with you, my home is pretty damn comfy, which is kinda why I don't go power walking any chance I get. Power walkers look fuckin' dumb, anyway," Hank turned his head to look at Connor again. "But, anyway, I could probably use a home cooked meal. Haven't had one of those years," he chuckled. "Things were different then, and they're even more different now. I don't give a shit what you decide to food-wise, just...we'll talk about it later, ok?"
"Ok, Lieutenant," Connor agreed, grinning from ear to ear, a slight bounce in his step as he headed into the station.
"I said we'll talk about it later!" Connor was already out of earshot. "Goddamnit," he muttered to himself. What did I just get myself into?
Hank wasn't ready to admit to himself that it was more than just the food or exercise recommendations that he appreciated. At the back of his brain, he admitted that it was nice for another being to genuinely care about his well being, not just whether he was physically alive or not. A twinge of doubt wormed its way into his thoughts; maybe he didn't deserve it. Maybe he wasn't worthy of the compassion being thrown his way in copious amounts.
When Hank Anderson walked in the station and saw Connor's focused, intense expression break into a small smile the second he saw Hank...
Well, he didn't give two shits about worthiness after that.
Connor sat at the desk directly in front of Hank's, synthetic skin retracted up to his wrist, revealing the hard, white material underneath. He was scanning the case files, optical units trained on the terminal. Hank could only watch and wait for his verbal input.
"Our men searched every room, every vent in that house; even the basement was empty. I would assume the suspect left; judging by the tracks that lead out the back door, our guy left that way," Hank flipped through the log of evidence they'd picked up again. "The android was probably the one that opened all those windows, too...but why? The air conditioning system was already on; we could all tell that much. So why open all those goddamn windows?"
"Maybe...maybe other androids showed up later? Might explain why there seemed to be an alarming lack of genetic material other than Jamie's at the crime scene," Connor finished scanning the files, slowly removing his hand from the terminal. "The AP700 may have been used as a vehicle for the rest of the crime to be carried out. Considering Chris's decade-long comraderie with Jamie, and his choice to continue working for him, even after the deviant uprising...something, some kind of empathy still left in Chris's system may have prevented him from doing anything more than what he was directed to do. Strangled him in the kitchen, then a murder crew took over. Or so it seems."
"And what about the arrangement of Jamie's body? Holding his heart in his palms with the wedding ring inside? Maybe a lover or wife?"
"As it so happens, Jamie was married to a Mary Stevens; they got married in 2015, but they divorced in 2037. Guess what day they got divorced?" Connor prompted, a small smile gracing his lips.
"Uh, not sure. Halloween? Christmas? No, wait..are you serious?" Hank questioned, incredulous. "They got divorced on Valentine's Day?"
"Well, it was more like she served him the papers that day, but they actually battled over some property and financial issues for months in court after trying mediation. They seemed to really clash," Connor mused, reviewing the information in his mind palace. Connor continued to scan through more information, and almost laughed when he discovered another interesting aspect of Jamie's dysfunctional family life. "You know, she married again."
"Well, spit it out, Connor, we don't have all day. Who'd she marry?"
"They married on June 8th, 2039. A little less than a month before Jamie was killed. She married his brother, Mark."
