November 6th, 2038
PM 05:26:11
WITSEC: The United States Federal Witness Protection Program, also known as the Witness Security Program or WITSEC, is a witness protection program administered by the United States Department of Justice and operated by the United States Marshals Service that is designed to protect threatened witnesses before, during, and after a trial.
Choosing a shower's temperature had never felt like a more crucial decision. Cold, to cool you off after working up a sweat; reduced to salt by the acidic bath outside, leaving a sticky residue clinging to your skin. Hot, to warm your chilled bones and sooth your aching muscles. You'd compromised, turning the dial to the midway point.
You tilted your neck, rinsing your chest as you massaged your shoulder. You'd been through a lot. You deserved a moment of peace, even if that meant cleaning yourself with your favorite scent of soap; with your favorite album looping helplessly on your cell phone; sitting on top of your favorite lounge attire.
You had a lot of favorites, and it would take an army of them to make you feel better after the last few months.
You frowned at the bruise on your stomach, your lip twitching at the view. It was big. Ugly. Almost as much of a reminder that you weren't invincible as the deformed scar on your arm; a red, healing crater that did little to restore your self-esteem.
A door shut on the other side of the bathroom. You froze, pointing your chin at the wall that shuddered.
You opened the curtain, the shower still running. You slipped your outfit on, water seeping into the cloth. You didn't have time to dry yourself. You left your phone playing on the sink's counter as to not tip off the intruder. Maybe intruder. Maybe paranoia. You weren't sure. Either way, you armed yourself with your revolver, retrieving it from your jacket; still dripping as it hung from a rack on the back of the door. Alternating footsteps came closer, pausing just on the other side.
Intruder confirmed. Paranoia doesn't walk.
You held your breath as they started to move away, sounding like they were headed down the hall. You lived here. You knew the layout.
How they got past the receptionist, security, and minute-long elevator ride was beyond you. Why'd they'd want to visit in the first place, was beyond you. You weren't a high-ranking official; you were barely a blip on the DCPD's radar. A street cop. The clean-up crew. Whoever was here had obviously made a mistake.
One you'd correct, regardless.
Every muscle tightened, like an automatic signal sent from the floor up your spine, directed out towards your limbs. Your hand wrapped around the door's handle, each finger taking its place one at a time; the knob filling your palm. You rotated your wrist, the grinding latch coming undone…and when you could turn it no more, there was an earth-shattering "click."
You shoulder-charged the door, and it banged against the outside wall; shuddering as it hit the rubber stop. Your gun shot forward, the grip slamming in your other hand as you brought the 6-round chamber level with your line of sight.
"HANDS UP, MOTHER FUCKER!"
An LED flashed red above a wide stare. A steep inhale was vacuumed into a mouth that hung open. Hands raised to cover a body, dressed in a suit. You knew him, but he wasn't supposed to be here.
Images of Daniel and the deviant from the interrogation flashed like a horror movie stuck on repeat.
Your chest heaved.
"He's not supposed to be here. Intruder. Danger. Defend yourself. Shoot to kill. Why are you hesitating? Neutralize the target. He's not supposed to be-"
"I'm not here to hurt you, Officer-" He bumped into an accent table as he retreated, stuttering your last name, "It's me, Connor!"
"What are you doing here?" You croaked, gun shaking.
"I wanted to speak with you about something."
"How did you get in?" The rage in your voice even surprised you.
"Officer Miller, he said your 'door was always open.' I thought…" He gulped, and collected himself, "I apologize for my misunderstanding. I didn't mean to frighten you. Please, try to relax. Your heart rate is accelerating rapidly. For someone in your condition-"
The rest of his diagnosis faded into white noise. The world came rushing in as you snapped yourself out of the flashback.
Your brows creased, and you lowered your gun an inch, "You…I…"
"It's okay. Everything is okay." His hand cupped around yours, and you flinched.
You dropped your weapon, arms flying to the side as you jumped backwards, nearly slipping on the wet floor. You caught the door frame, yelping in pain. You keeled over, hands bunching along the hem of your shirt and swearing under your breath. You may have only been bruised by the bullet, but it fucking hurt.
"I'm sorry." He frowned, cautiously extending his reach toward you, "Can I get you anything?"
"No, I'm…" You closed your eyes, shaking your head, "No, thank you…"
"Would you like me to leave?"
"No!" You hesitated, "Uhm…" You swallowed the pool of saliva collecting in your mouth, "I mean…No. Just…Give me a minute."
"Oka-"
You shut the door in his face. You muted the song playing on your phone. Turned the shower off. Dried yourself. Got properly dressed. Found a crazed killer staring back at you in the foggy mirror.
You swallowed hard. Started crying. Choked the tears down. Locked the trauma tight in the darkest corners of your mind until it suffocated...
Onward.
…
You traversed the hallway, pulling a DCPD-branded hoodie over your head. It was the one your friend gave you the day you'd both earned your badges. He'd got one to match. Said it was the most comfortable thing he'd ever worn. It was pretty soft…
Your eyes slowly rose from the floor, ashamed. Connor didn't seem concerned, like he'd already forgotten you'd pulled a gun on him.
His head was tilted to the side, his elbow supported by his wrist with a coin rolling between his knuckles. His chin rested on a fist as he studied your evidence shrine, eyes dancing between notes.
"Connor?"
His head turned, his blue light flashing.
"Hello."
You rubbed your arm, leaning against the wall.
"Hey."
"Your dedication to solving this case is admirable." Connor tucked his coin in his pocket, straightening his tie and folding his arms behind his back, "I wish Lieutenant Anderson shared your resolve."
You smirked, running a hand through your wet hair, "I'm sure he wants to get this over with just as much as I do."
"And yet, he exerts half the effort…"
His eyes wandered around the apartment, taking it all in. The spotless, white floor. The gray walls. The maroon and purple accents.
"Your place of residency seems rather expensive for an officer of your salary; however, property records indicate there has been no previous owner." A corner of his mouth creased, "Do you also partake in illegal activities like Lieutenant Anderson?"
"What are you trying to…Wait, what? Illegal activities?"
"Gambling." His eyebrow raised, "Lieutenant Anderson participates in illegal gambling."
You huffed, pushing yourself off the wall, "The only gambling I 'partake in,' is claiming the winnings on bets placed against my life, apparently…"
You rounded a corner, moving into the kitchen and retrieving an empty glass from a cabinet. You pushed it against the filtered-water dispenser in your refrigerator, the lever clicking against the rim.
"Why?"
You let go, turning around to face him, "Comes with the job." You took a sip of water, "You of all people…androids…whatever…Should know that."
"Why is that?"
"You got shot in the arm, saving that hostage. You knew you were in danger before you stepped outside that door, didn't you?"
"Yes, but I am a machine. I am replaceable. You took the same risks when you protected me from the deviant, but you are not replaceable. Why?"
"Connor…" You sighed, "You said you wanted to talk to me about something?"
"This is what I wanted to talk to you about." He pushed the flaps of his jacket aside, stuffing his hands in his pockets and rocking on his heels, "If you're feeling up to it, of course. If not, I completely understand."
His innocent smile melted the ice around your heart. You diverted your attention before you made a fool out of yourself.
"Before I answer your question, let me ask you something…" You stared into the glass, watching the water settle, "Why'd you save me, out on that terrace? I wasn't the hostage. I wasn't the deviant. I had no bearing on whether or not your mission was accomplished…"
His eyelids fluttered, his chipper demeanor twisting into a thoughtful one. His LED flashed yellow, and there was a slight twitch to his eye closest to it.
"All human life is invaluable. As I've stated before, you are irreplaceable. To quote Captain Fowler, 'There will never be another human being like you.' How does this pertain to my question?"
"I'm glad you brought that up. Do me a favor..." You grinned, "Run serial number #313 248 317 – 51."
He cocked his head, "…But that's my serial number."
"I know…Humor me."
His blue light flickered, solidifying in a matter of seconds.
"Done."
"And how many results came back?"
His features went flat. His shoulders tensed. His eyes darted left and right, as if looking for something invisible.
"…One."
"Exactly…" You rested your hands on the counter, lowering yourself onto a black, leather bar stool, "That's why I saved you."
"I'm afraid I don't understand."
"I think you do." You took the glass in your shaky hand, drinking more.
It clanked as you returned it to the countertop.
"Source lines of code aren't that different from strains of genetic code, Connor. They can be altered. Passed down through generations. Copied into databases and sampled. But that doesn't change the fact that, at one point, there was an original. One, single strand that can never be replicated as a perfect copy."
He kept his head pointed at the floor, his right hand fidgeting in his pocket, probably with his coin. The lines on his neck squirmed under a locked jaw.
"I see you've put some thought into this. The concept is…New. It will take me some time to process." He found you with distress on his face, "Thank you, Officer."
You smiled, "I think it's safe to say we're on a first-name basis, now."
"We are?" His cute, surprised expression returned.
"'If you're feeling up to it, of course. If not, I completely understand.'"
His eyes regained their warmth, a bright smile shining underneath them.
"I'd like that."
"Good."
You swung your legs to the side, wincing as you stood.
"Here, let me help you."
He moved quickly, bounding around the bar that divided the kitchen from the living room.
"I'm fine."
The muscles around your bruise started to cramp tighter than before. The activities of the day were catching up with you. Your hand traced the edge of the countertop, limping your way to the end. When you let go, you stumbled in place.
"…Maybe not."
His side molded against yours, his hand gently grasping your hip. The fabric of his jacket was scratchy on your palm as it pressed against his back.
"I've got you."
You looked up to find him in a half-smile, watching with care like his world was narrowed to you. Your face got hot, and you nodded towards the couch; white and welcoming with plush pillows and a heavy cashmere blanket.
"…Thanks."
He escorted you, supporting your weight as you sank into the memory foam cushions.
"You're welcome. Can I get you anything else?"
"You don't have to take care of me, Connor…"
"I know I don't have to. But I want to."
He seemed nervous, like a pup waiting to be tapped on the head with an old newspaper. You deflated, giving in.
"You do?"
"Yes." He answered far too quickly, "With your help, I think I may be able to solve the deviancy dilemma."
You bit the inside of your cheek. Of course, it was work related. You were foolish to think otherwise.
"That, and…" He rubbed the back of his neck, "I find your company preferable to those with…less tolerant, worldviews..."
You embraced an unexpected streak of bravery, "Is that why you don't want to…'forget me?'"
"I…Yes. Yes, that would be why." He swallowed, his eyelids blinking like a camera's lens, "At the crime scene, you asked me if I remembered you. I told you I did. I don't want to forget."
You smiled at that, "Your memory isn't backed up somewhere…'off-site,' so to speak?"
"It is. However, I am only to permitted to sync information relevant to my investigation."
"I see…"
His light spun, his hands returning to his pockets as he looked around. His chin rotated as if taking a panoramic shot, his lips parted from what seemed like intrigue and amazement.
You covered yourself with the blanket, igniting an electric fireplace with the click of a remote's button. You needed a cozy kind of warm if you were going to make it through the afternoon.
Connor's LED blinked, "It's dawned on me that I don't know much about you."
You left the flames alone, watching him instead, "Ask away."
"Why is your file protected by WITSEC?"
"Why are you trying to pull up my file?"
"I want to know more about you."
"So ask me questions."
"I just did."
"Another, question."
You weren't trying to be mean. You were just tired, injured, and digging up old skeletons was the last thing on your agenda.
"…Very well."
He paced along the perimeter of the living room. His fingers trailed the border of various shelves, lined with a blend of artifacts excavated from the ruins of your previous life; the one that came before DCPD, and the now.
"You and Officer Miller appear to be close." He picked up a framed photograph of the two of you.
Chris was holding his baby, and you'd stopped by their house to visit. His wife had taken the picture a month after Damian was born.
"How are things faring between you and your new partner?"
"I got lucky. Chris is a great guy. Hard not to get along with someone like him."
"It's becoming increasingly difficult to find common ground with Lieutenant Anderson." Connor returned the picture to its resting place, moving along, "I try to make conversation, but it seems fruitless."
He sounded sad, like all he wanted in life was to make a new friend.
"Give it time."
You knew how it felt to be isolated for being different. You meant what you said before. You got lucky with Chris. You didn't think you'd find that kind of friendship in someone again, but he had just the right amount of weird required to understand you. He may not have been in your life since you were a child, but still, it was a good start.
"Is there a reason Lieutenant Anderson hates androids so much?"
It struck you that you weren't the only one adjusting to a "new partner…"
"One, in particular." You frowned, "It's not my place to tell you, though. He will, when he's ready."
"I have my doubts, based on previous comments."
You rubbed your face with your hands, trying to stomp out the tired, "What did he say?"
"Today, he said I 'look goofy,' and have a, 'weird voice.'" His lips pursed, "Do you find me aesthetically pleasing?"
That woke you up.
"Uh…"
"I won't be offended if you do not. I simply wish to give CyberLife feedback, as both my appearance and voice were specifically designed to facilitate my integration in order to work harmoniously with humans."
"I, uhm…I don't know, I haven't given it much thought."
"Interesting…" Connor looked at you from under an arched brow, "Your hand-written notes timestamped at 1123, indicate otherwise."
You went cold, all the blood and heat in your body rushing to your face. And your ears. Those were scorching hot.
"Fuck."
You rattled your brain for an explanation, but words came blurting out.
"You weren't…supposed to see those."
"And you weren't supposed to be out looking for the deviant."
"How'd you know which car was mine?"
"It stuck out from the others. It struck me as odd, so I ran your license plate."
He gave you another side-grin. It's like the little bastard knew what he was doing…
"You have yet to answer my question-" He said your first name.
The gas-driven flames flickering upon synthetic wood contoured his features in amber shadows and orange highlights. His brown eyes were lit to bronze. You felt like you were going to be sick.
"Yes." You said, dryly, "I find you 'aesthetically pleasing.'"
His LED spun yellow, and returned blue moments later.
"CyberLife thanks you for your feedback."
For some reason, you doubted that made it into his official report.
"And, I might add, I do not think you are an idiot. On the contrary, I believe you to be quite capable." He gave you a polite nod, dipping his chin, "Even Captain Fowler frequently states that you are the best cop in the DCPD."
Your heart stammered. You took in a deep breath, jumpstarting your lungs that'd unconsciously taken a break. Connor continued to study your living space, his hand still rummaging in his pocket.
"You appreciate art, I take it?"
You looked up to a painting on the wall. A huge piece, spread over three separate canvases. Abyssal ink on the left and thick splashes of paint, spread thin by a heavy brush. Splotches of red breaking on the right, a reversal of its counterpart. A circle in the middle, running in a gradient from black to grey with white sponge marks highlighting its existence. Black and crimson lines running across the panels; picking up where one ended, undefined and sporadic in design.
All mounted on a gold sheet of metal to contrast it from your silver, matte walls.
"I do."
He studied it further, eyes narrowing.
"The signature in the corner…this is a Manfred. An original."
"Something else that can't be perfectly copied."
He returned a wholesome smile, his cheeks lifting under his eyes, "How did it fall into your possession?"
"It was a housewarming gift. A very personal commission."
"In what manner?"
You propped yourself up on an elbow, "Carl asked me what I wanted him to paint. I gave him a passage from my favorite book. He knew me quite well, back then…So he decided to portray me, as a person, and the reason he believed that book resonated with me."
"What book was it?"
You turned to a bookshelf, filled with leather and paper spines. You could've given him a straight answer, but this was an opportunity to dig for something deeper. To put your beliefs to the test. An opportunity for him to learn.
"Do you have any plans for the evening, Connor?"
He almost jumped at the question, "Well…No, not exactly. I could go back to the police station and review the incoming cases, but I wouldn't be able to actively pursue any leads without Lieutenant Anderson. He made it perfectly clear he had no desire to continue working until tomorrow."
"Do you like to read?"
He blinked, tracing your stare back to the shelves of books. He walked over, his chin lifting as he observed the sheer number of them.
"I've never read a physical book before, much less partaken in the activity in a recreational manner…" He looked at you from over his shoulder, "But I'd like to."
"Tell you what," You leaned into the arm of the couch, flattening a pillow with your back, "Why don't you read a few of those…and if you can guess which book I gave Manfred, I'll tell you why it's my favorite. We'll call it…" You nibbled on your lips, lost in thought.
They smacked as you arrived at a conclusion, "…The Manfred Test."
"That sounds…Pleasant." He reviewed his selection with a new excitement, plucking the first book he saw.
"'The Nicomachean Ethics,' by Aristotle…" His eyes became slits as he opened it to the first page, his finger dragging along the paper as he moved towards the lounge chair on the opposite side of a glass coffee table, "'How to live from the lens of an imperfect, and often by necessity, imprecise knowledge of the good and of the human condition.'" His attention lifted to you, "Are all of your books based on philosophy?"
"Most of them." Your eyes were heavy, and your words came as a mumble, "That's a good one to start with."
"I see." He sat down, resting the book on the table.
A digital beep came from his watch. He pulled up his sleeve, rolling his wrist to check the time.
"Waiting for something?" You yawned.
"A reminder." He placed his hands in his lap, "When was the last time you took your medicine?"
"Huh?"
"Your anti-inflammatory medication. Diclofenac."
"How did you…"
"I saw the bottle at your writing station."
You looked at your laptop, sitting on a round table surrounded by high-standing chairs. A nice set-up, with Detroit's skyline on the left and the rest of the apartment on the right.
"Ah…Uh…This morning, before work."
"Have you eaten in the last hour?"
"Yes…Why?"
"I set a reminder to make sure you took another round of your medication, in case I lost track of time. It's recommended you take diclofenac with food, and plenty of water. I suggest you take your second dose immediately."
A certain kind of fluttering tickled your heart, your belly warm like a heated coil. The genuine concern and care in his tone worsened your condition.
"Right…" You lifted the blanket from your legs.
Connor sprang from his seat, "No, stay there. Let me get it for you."
"Connor-"
"Please." He gave you that damn smile, his loose strands of hair dangling over his brow; shifting with a nod, "It's the least I can do."
You settled back into your comfortable spot, holding your stomach and closing your eyes.
This was nice. Having someone to help, without asking. Sure, you'd made due on your own…
But his company was "preferable."
He returned with the glass you'd previously filled, and the prescription bottle shook in his other hand. He passed you the water, twisted the cap off, and sprinkled a pill into his palm. You graciously accepted it, choking down the anxiety that followed contact with the smoothness of his skin.
"Like I said," He tightened the bottle's lid, "You must take it with plenty of water. A common side-effect of diclofenac is dehydration, which will slow your body's recovery process."
You smirked, popping the pill in your mouth and tipping the glass towards the ceiling. The water ran down your throat, and you slid the cup along the table.
His eyes shot open, and a small grin tugged at his lips, "You drank that like Lieutenant Anderson drinks whiskey."
"Makes sense…" You laid down, turning on your side, "'Lieutenant Anderson,' and I have shared a lot of whiskey together."
He returned to his seat, retrieving the book in front of him, "He, too, has a collection of 'real books.' He seemed quite reminiscent of…'the smell of the paper,' and how the 'pages turn yellow.'"
Connor took a meek sniff and rubbed a page between his fingers.
"I'm beginning to understand his fondness for them."
Your vision began to blur. The warmth of the fire and afternoon's sun put you in a trance.
"Stay as long as you'd like, Connor…" Your words came out as a jumbled mess, "This is your night off…"
"Technically, I'm making a house call." He smiled, "At least, that's what I told the receptionist."
You huffed, your eyes becoming harder to open with every blink.
"Noted."
A/N: Save for sharing a few excerpts with my betas, (Ele picked out the AO3 header screenshot, and Matt made a good suggestion regarding the "hand-written note," confrontation) I flew solo for the majority with this one, as they were busy doing social-people things. If you see any errors or something that didn't completely make sense, PLEASE let me know. I will not be offended.
Love you guys :3
HOPE YOU ENJOYED THE FLUFF! ;)
