Our relationship, or whatever fucked up tragedy we were calling it that winter, picked up intensity each night. After a failed interrogation, Hank would drink and go down on me in the bar's storeroom or the backseat of his car. After a write-up, we'd start in his car and end up somewhere between the living room coffee table and the bathroom doorway. Of course, of course, I was happy with his change of mind, using me to take out that frustration and exhaustion and anger. He only asked me once if he was hurting me, half-bent over his kitchen table, developing a thick red line from the edge of the wood at the top of my thighs.

'Of course not', I said. Of course not.

And between two consenting adults, what did it matter.

We didn't have much to say to each other. Just the complaints about his work and people and the department. Goddamn fucking androids and the rising unemployment rate.

'Why did that fucktard Kamski think this was a good thing. Shoulda just kept his creations to himself. Go fuck them in private.'

The scars were bothering him. Once, way before Hank, they were how I dealt with the pain of losing my brother. Now, more recently, they were welling back up from this, this... thing we were to each other and I wasn't sure how to deal. So if he wasn't nearby to fuck me senseless into the unwaxed flooring as his own way of dealing - typically accompanied by a half-sloshed over glass of something or cigarette smoke in my hair - I'd find a way to placate myself.

Day after Christmas and Hank was ass-up in bed, wet snores coming from his devil's lair of a mouth. I had bought him some stupid gag gift of candycane striped knee-socks which I was now struggling to get onto his feet without disturbing his sleep.

I treated myself to a hot shower, culminating sitting in the basin with my head against the cold tile. My skin was dry from the winter air, constantly washing, moisturizing, but the moisture never holding long enough that my hands wouldn't crack. Mindlessly, I was picking at my thighs under the spray, not even intending to break the skin and yet...

I heard Hank grumble, yelling, really, since I could hear him past the water and across the hall.

"What the hell did you put on my feet, Al?"

I pushed aside the shower curtain just enough to witness Hank, buck-ass naked in his blue robe and the dumbass Christmas socks from the Dollar Store. I had to laugh at the sheer disdain on his face and the socks that were so out of place on his legs.

"These things aren't even comfortable. Not even diabetic, don't need freaking compression-wear... What're you doing down there?"

He came closer to sit on the closed toilet seat and leaned forward. I was still giggling to myself but had calmed down as I noted the concern that had replaced the disgust.

"You gonna stop wasting water and tell me what the hell is going on?"

"I just want to sit, Hank, that's all."

"Nuh uh."

I held to myself tighter.

"Alex."

I sighed and leaned over to shut off the water before standing. I swiped the towel off the rack ignoring Hank's gaze. I really did not need that right now.

As I stepped out, he grabbed my wrist, but rather than reprimanding me again, he tugged me in, just to hold. The edges of his robe soft against my sides, stubbled cheek in my hair, and without judgement or that harsh piercing stare I used to receive with every visit only weeks prior, he held tight to me, as if the tiles would open up and swallow us whole, unapologetic. I was only vaguely aware, my own senses clouded from the hot water and exhaustion that I was still bleeding, very slow and steady drips mixed with the water, a faint pink dripping to the bath mat.

"Hank," I finally whispered.

"I know," he said. He withdrew completely to grab a wadded up towel from atop the sink counter and knelt to dry me off, pressing the fabric into my skin, his nasal exhales arousing an inadvertent sigh.

I curled my fingers through his hair, the lightest press instructing him.

"You serious?" he grumbled.

"Yes."

Still holding the towel against one leg, he wrapped his other hand around my ass to sandwich me between a solid grip and that mouth, fucking hell that mouth. We came to lay on the tile, my head still spinning a bit from the steam contrasted against the cold floor and Hank's warm breath fucking me dizzy. He gripped both of my wrists tight to the floor even as I struggled to free myself, but I knew he did it so I wouldn't scratch myself again.

The last time I topped him I hadn't even realized what I did until I smeared a light trail of blood on his cheek.

"Ah fuck. I bled on you."

"What?!" he nearly threw me off. "Are you-"

"No! Asshole. Geez, why are men so scared of that anyway. No I just - I fucking scratched myself somehow and got it on your face." I licked a finger to wipe it off; he tried to bat me away but didn't win.

"Gonna have to start tying those hands up, I guess."

"I guess you will."

He finished me on the bathroom floor, still holding my wrists so tight that I'd see bruises in the morning. He rested his chin on my pelvis for a few moments before he finally relinquished, stood up and rinsed out his mouth at the sink.

I pushed back against the wall as well, not quite ready to stand. I needed a minute.

"Really wish you'd stop that. Hate seeing it."

He was eyeing my legs again.

"I know. I'm going to, I promise."

"Yeah? When?"

Instead of answering, I grabbed my towel to wrap up and brushed past him to redress, or at least put on PJ bottoms.

Hank followed after a minute, that robe still swung lose and socks now unevenly rolled along his legs, he leaned against the doorway, fresh cigarette flopped between his lips.

"Alex."

"What." I was brushing my hair with my fingers when he repeated my name.

"What's going on?"

I faced him, acknowledging it was finally time to say this: "I'm going to stop tomorrow. I uh - I was out earlier, just, kinda walking the neighborhood. Found this little treatment clinic, I guess they're a whole you know, health service with a ton of locations. I signed up for their site in Toledo. I need this, Hank. And I am sorry that I'm only telling you now, that I only decided this now. It's fucked that it took me this long to realize it, to even want it. There's something about this - we both know deep down this isn't healthy. I just - I really hope you realize that I do care for you. It's been fun hauling your ass around, getting yelled at for giving a shit, enabling each other's fucking horrible habits. It's been nice to -"

"Stop. I get it," he said. It wasn't anger or disappointment or sadness that traced those words. A simple understanding perhaps, that I was the next to leave him.

"Hank-"

"Want me to drive you?"

"No, I - I'll just grab the bus. It's okay."

He grunted once, eyes unfocused along my body, before he turned away to slunk down the hall, putting out his cigarette against the wall.

I paused a moment before I followed him, gripping his hand to get him to stop.

"Hank," I whispered again.

He stopped where the rooms opened up, arms crossed tight. Sumo emerged from his bed in the corner to pad around us and down the hallway, purposefully trying to make me feel worse with those droopy eyes.

"I'm glad you're going, Alex. How long you gonna be there?"

"Oh, I - I don't really know. Not long, probably. I just need the time away - alone, I mean - I - Hank, I don't want you to think you're the reason I'm going."

"I'm a grown-ass man, Al. It was your choice to fuck around with me. Picking up a damn razor again. You need to stop that and if this is what does it, then good."

All I could provide was a contemplative nod. "Yeah," I said. "Thank you."

"For what?"

"Bit of everything."

"Back at ya."

I slipped out once he had fallen asleep in his inebriation. I wasn't good at emotional goodbyes, but I made sure to give Sumo a hug and some very well-deserved scratches behind his ears for putting up with our shit. I'd miss him.

The original plan was to only be in Toledo for a couple weeks and then see how I was feeling, but of course life doesn't work like that. I was there for a couple months before there were whispers, very faint hints, of androids not quite acting right. Little things at first, like not responding to an order immediately. Taking a second glance at a shop-window when they should have been looking at their owners' backs. Nothing on the news, nothing that couldn't be fixed by a quick trip to the shops or the landfill.

I stayed away from Detroit for the remainder of the year; it wasn't until well after the revolutions across the country, the uprisings, the new boundaries and laws, that I could even think of returning. There were so many reasons - excuses - why I didn't return immediately. Part of me was scared I would relapse, again, so I needed to find something else to do with my life, to be productive.

And 2039 would be the perfect year for that. If, no, when I returned to Detroit, I would have some stories to share with Hank. If he was willing to see me again.

It wasn't until I was mindlessly floating around a Red Ice thread online and came across a user who owned a bar there, who so happened to be dating an android, an android who worked for the DPD, that I felt that final, singular tug in my gut to haul ass back home, no argument required.

A/N: This fic is going on a hiatus for a bit as I catch up with Hank and Alex in 2040 in 'Experiences, Connor'. Once we get Connor's perspective on the matter, we'll resume Hank and Alex's view of things in 'Hankerings'. (I'm using these fics to experiment with narratives, so thank you for your patience. And a big thanks to the few of you who have been following their relationship!) ~AM