A/N: I had to translate like 70 pages of documents as part of my job before I could get back to this, including a divorce settlement. There's something really depressing about two people who used to be in love with each other having to call in a bunch of lawyers to decide who gets the item no. 763, 'a light green toaster'. Fuck that shit. On a lighter note, I found a picture of Bryan Dechart that'd go perfectly with chapter 7 of this fic, namely the restaurant scene:

vrakobor (d o t) kvalitne (d o t) cz (slash) bryan (d o t) jpg

Just imagine thirium in his glass instead of wine... that is, if you manage to solve the cipher I had to use to be able to write this link at all!

Connor prised the empty glass from Hank's fingers and placed it on the bar with a firm thud.

"I really think you've had enough," he said, his voice completely devoid of emotion.

"I don't give a shit 'bout what you think," Hank quipped and tried to get Jimmy's attention by snapping his fingers. The bartender pointedly ignored him.

The next second, Hank found himself bodily removed from his seat and dragged towards the exit.

"Fuck, just how strong are you?" Hank spluttered as he uselessly tried to shake off Connor's arm, which was squeezing his ribs like a vice.

People at the bar were probably looking at them funny now. For someone like Connor to haul a man of Hank's size away like this must have surely looked strange.

Connor didn't react to his question, instead choosing to silently drag Hank all the way to his car. Hank, who had stopped protesting the instant icy night air outside slapped him in the face and he felt himself sobering up enough to realize all resistance was futile, let himself be unceremoniously dropped on the passenger seat. He closed his eyes; the sudden relocation left him feeling dizzy.

He heard the car door on the opposite side clap shut with what sounded like an excessive amount of force. Then a click of the key turning in the ignition, followed by the purr of the engine starting up.

Unsurprisingly, the dizziness only worsened once the car got moving.

"Where did you learn to drive a car like this?" he asked to keep his thoughts away from his nausea.

"Having anticipated this state of affairs, I have downloaded a new protocol for this purpose," the android said, still in that completely mechanical voice. It's like day one all over again, Hank thought and his queasiness increased some more.

Were Connor human, Hank'd be sure he was being given the cold shoulder by someone colossally pissed at him. However, what this actually was was just him projecting. Again. Oh fuck, he was gonna be sick.

"Pull over," he choked up and moved to clamber out the car.

Thankfully they were not on a highway, so Connor was able to stop the car almost immediately, soon enough for Hank to refrain from vomiting until he was kneeling in some dry bushes on the side of the road.

All the bourbon he paid hard-earned money for promptly left his stomach, together with all the coffee and donuts he had consumed before. The hands that had previously surprised them with their inhuman strength were holding his hair off his face, lightly massaging his head in the process.

Stop touching me all the damn time, Hank wanted to say, but couldn't make himself do it, too needy for that touch, for the fucking kindness of it, too weak to shake off the gentle fingers caressing his scalp.

He must've dozed off during their short drive back, because he was awakened by another touch, this time far less gentle as Connor was trying to shake him awake.

"Please don't make me carry you inside," Connor was saying to him when he came to.

Hank gave him a weak snort.

"I'd like to see you try," he mumbled, but obediently dragged himself out of the car. When Connor's arm once again moved to support him, he didn't make even a token protest, just let himself be led into his bedroom, asleep the moment he fell on the covers.

…

In the morning, Hank was awaken by the sound of heavy rain clattering against his window, which felt like hammer blows right into his skull. He opened his eyes blearily to see that two advils were waiting for him at the bedside table, together with a tall glass of water. He gratefully accepted both and limped into the bathroom, where he proceeded to splash cold water onto his face for what felt like eternity.

When he finally made it into the kitchen, the house seemed empty; once again, Connor was out walking Sumo. This time, however, it felt like the android timed his walk like this on purpose, as not only the coffee on the counter seemed freshly brewed, but the scrambled eggs on his plate were still warm, meaning Connor had been in the kitchen mere moments ago, and must have left in a hurry to avoid Hank.

Hank remembered every word he had said to Connor in the bar, and the memory made him cringe.

He had been so angry last night. This morning, as he mechanically chewed on his eggs, made exactly the way he liked but still managing to taste like ash in his mouth, he wished he could stay that way. Because anger didn't hurt. Now, as he looked at the pouring rain outside the kitchen window while drinking the coffee Connor had brewed and eating the eggs he had made, he had a sudden revelation. In a moment of clarity, he could see his hatred towards androids for what it was – a convenient coping mechanism. Because he needed someone to blame, a culprit to be angry at, otherwise he'd be left with just all-consuming grief and gnawing guilt, and that combination would have probably made him play Russian roulette with all chambers full.

Hank took a sip of his now lukewarm coffee. This was all well and good, but the thing was that even if he stopped hating androids, what would be the point if androids didn't feel anything either way? Or did they?

The rain kept hitting the window pane, steady and merciless like punishing blows of the whip falling on a sinner's back, and there was no one to answer Hank's question.

…

By the time Hank got to the station, the shit hit the fan as the media had gotten the wind of the murders. In a record time, they connected the dots and contrived one of the most ridiculous conspiracy theories Hank had ever heard, according to which the Russians were spreading some kind of virus that made androids go ballistic.

The Second Cold War bullshit aside, Hank had to admit that there were some points of connection between the murder of Carlos Ortiz and those of the boys. One, a complete lack of any biological material left behind by the murderer in all the cases, as though he was a ghost. Or an android. Two, all victims were male, but Ortiz was almost a decade older than the second oldest victim, and anyone's imagination would be hard-pressed to think of Ortiz as in any way sexually appealing for his killer.

Three, a large kitchen knife had been used as a weapon in all three instances, through the blade size differed. Then there were the troubling messages in blood. They were notably absent in the warehouse, which would logically lead to a conclusion that the writings in Browning's murder were made by a copycat trying to throw them off the trail. The problem was that Browning was killed much sooner than the media could learn about Ortiz, so the copycat theory was off the table.

No matter how hard they looked at all these connections, there was always something that didn't add up.

Most of Hank's colleagues agreed with him that it didn't make any sense for Carlos Ortiz's android – or any other android for that matter – to become a serial killer targeting boys and young men. The media, however, were having a field day, buzzing around the station like a flock of mosquitoes and pestering everyone including android receptionists to give them their opinion on the murders. In the end, Fowler had to throw an emergency press conference during which he threatened to have them charged with obstruction of justice if they didn't leave his people to do their job.

When Hank finally got home, it was almost ten in the evening. Connor reheated his dinner and sat across him silently, watching Hank half eat and half feed Sumo with pieces of beef, feeling more tired than hungry.

Hank shifted under the silent scrutiny. Connor probably wanted to talk to him about what happened yesterday, but he was waiting for Hank to broach the topic.

How'd that even go, 'I'm sorry for more or less accusing you of killing my son'? But what was the point of apologizing to someone with no ability to feel, his common sense asked him, and he couldn't find any good answers to that.

In the end, Hank just thanked Connor for the dinner and left, feeling like a coward despite all his common sense.

…

For the next few days, the weather stayed cold and rainy, and Hank's mood was just as dark as the chilly nights on which he returned home after immersing himself in his work for hours on end, trying to dig out more about the young victims, see what connected them, find where the murderer picked them and how he lured them to those deserted places.

Police work was the only thing that had kept him alive after Cole, but even then he had been doing it mechanically, without any real drive. Now he had plenty of that; he wanted the murderer of those boys caught at no matter what cost, before that bastard could take another life.

What Hank lacked was youth and stamina; his body struggled to meet his new demands, pushing its limits as he kept reducing his sleep and skipping meals.

Connor must have noticed, but opted not to comment on it.

Conversation at home had become sparse in general; Hank spent so little time there now that they only had the time to exchange basic necessities required for their cohabitation. There were no lazy evenings spent in front of the TV, and almost no walks together. Most notably, Connor was keeping his hands to himself. In short, he was giving Hank some space, for which he was grateful, but at the same time he found himself missing the time spent together with the android and especially his touches. Those he was almost craving, and hating himself for his weakness.

In lieu of touching Hank, Connor played with his coin, tore paper napkins into identical squares and drew perfectly symmetrical doodles on discarded papers. It was maddening. What was even worse was that Hank himself was starting to fidget as well; if his hands stayed still for too long, they started to tremble. It might just be alcohol withdrawal, though; Hank was trying to stop drinking altogether while on that case, as alcohol was slowing him down and he couldn't afford that.

The trembling in his hands was driving him crazy, reminding him how old he was. How weak. Just now, when the letters of the report he was reading had started to blur together and he left to make himself yet another coffee, his hands shook so bad he managed to spill the damn thing all over the counter. Shit, what if he needed to shoot someone in this state? He'd never felt more useless in his life.

Hank sent his already cracked mug to the ground in a fit of powerless rage, glaring at it spitefully as it fell on the floor, bounced a little but stayed intact. Cop mugs were tougher than they looked.

"Just because this place's called the break room doesn't mean you should break things in here," a calm voice said behind him.

"Very funny, Ben," Hank said, feeling vaguely ashamed as he turned to face the other detective, who was always so friendly and composed.

"Is your new boyfriend still mad at you for last week?" Ben asked mildly.

"How-" Hank started, but then he remembered Connor saying that he had called the station when he had been looking for Hank. It must have been Ben he spoke to. Hank sighed; keeping your personal life private among detectives was damn near impossible.

Hank wanted to say that Connor was not his boyfriend, but then thought better of it, seeing as it was immensely preferable to the truth.

"He was pretty worried, you know," Ben went on. "Even though at first I thought the call was work-related, he sounded so damn formal I took him for a fed or something. He's not a fed, is he?" he asked, clearly worried.

"God no," Hank replied with a surprised chuckle and Ben let out an exaggerated sigh of relief.

"But I see how he could give you that vibe," Hank added, remembering Connor's unexpected strength he showed at the bar, the way he analyzed the world around himself, his astute observations and inquisitive nature.

"Some people are like that, revert to formalities when they're feeling anxious," Ben observed.

"Yeah, Connor does that sometimes," Hank admitted and suddenly he felt much lighter because of the opportunity to be able to talk about Connor with someone else. He didn't even realize that was something he needed.

"So is he still mad at you for not coming home to him?" Ben went back to his original question.

"Probably. Look, this thing between us, it's new, and it's complicated. Connor is..."

A plastic robot designed for sex I inexplicably found in my kitchen one day. Fowler probably suspects him of being a Russian spy assassin, Hank thought. Aloud, he settled with:

"Young. Coming from a completely different place than me."

And wasn't that the truth.

"Hank, you know I'm not really one for doling out unasked-for advice, but even though I only spoke to him for a minute, he seemed like he cared about you, like, a lot. And from I saw I think it's mutual. We know life's short, you and me both. So my unasked-for advice is: cherish what you have."

Hank wasn't the only one with issues. Ben lost his wife to pancreatic cancer a little over a year ago and was now raising his two teenage daughters on his own. Yet, if Hank wasn't friends with him, he'd never guess something like that had happened because unlike Hank, Ben was able to keep everything to himself, letting nothing spill over to his work life.

He respected Ben highly for that, and valued his opinion. So even though he usually really hated people sticking their noses into his business, he grumbled a thank you and mulled over Ben's words for some time after the other detective had left him alone.