SURPRISE BITCHES. Bet you'd thought you'd seen the last of me :)

Here's a special gift for my wonderful friend. It's her birthday tomorrow (August 9th) and I love her sooooooo much and I hope she likes this oneshot :)

Prompt: REVERSE AU, reader is the android sent by Cyberlife and Connor is a washed out police lieutenant. Reader helps him through a bad time.

Redeemed

You'd only known Lieutenant Connor Stern for a couple of weeks. He was the human you'd been assigned to for the sole purpose of aiding in your mission to hunt down deviants; the lieutenant was good at his work, incredibly clever and practised exceptional observational skills while on cases. He had an analytical, calculating mind, but also treated others with care and compassion when it was required. He had been made the youngest lieutenant in Detroit at the age of thirty-two, four years ago.

Although admirable, Connor was not perfect.

It was plainly obvious he was depressed, he refused to open up to anybody about his feelings or mental state, and it was quite clear that his health had been deteriorating more recently. He avoided sleep and often overworked himself to the point of collapsing, but for the first time since you'd met him, and after at least two hours of trying to locate him, you found him several glasses of alcohol deep at Jimmy's downtown.

"Lieutenant", you greeted Connor, who was leaning heavily over the bar and signalling for the bartender to bring him another whiskey, "I've been looking for you for a while. We've received reports of a presumed deviant-"

"I don't give a ssshit…" Connor grumbled, shoulders tense. A brief examination of his body language was more than enough to indicate that your presence made him uncomfortable, something you had acclimated to and did not feel the need to point out every single time you greeted him.

"You shouldn't be drinking, lieutenant. We have a case."

"I sssaid I don't… guh... give a flying fuck."

His speech was completely slurred, and it was only due to your advanced audio receptors that you were able to dissect his crude statement. Connor flashed you a dense glare, his brown eyes so full of distress and anger; while it was true he had not been entirely friendly with you throughout your partnership in the case, you had never seen him look at you with so much animosity.

It was most likely due to his state of intoxication.

You scanned him automatically, finding that he was extremely dehydrated. The dark colouration below his eyes was symptomatic of a lack of sleep, and if you had to make an educated guess based on what you had previously discerned about the man, he had most certainly not eaten in quite some time.

"Stop fucking scanning me."

He had come to recognise the tilt of your head and systematic stare for what it was - the process of determining the physical state of his body - and he was not amused by it.

"I don't believe you are in the right physical or mental condition to work a case, lieutenant", you remarked, ignoring his hostile request, "You are currently insufficient in aiding my mission, but it is important that the report is investigated. I suggest you return home and sober up, get some sleep, so that we may resume our work on the case post-haste."

This did not seem to lighten his mood, nor did it seem like a welcomed suggestion.

"Just leave me alone... dumb robot. I'll go home when I... damn well please." He drew a hand back through his hair, trying to neaten up some of the disarrayed strands, though try as he might, a few brown locks fell back over his forehead, refusing to be swayed.

You cocked your head, assessing the situation and whether it was a more beneficial use of your time to attempt to convince him to leave the bar or to just leave it without him. You ultimately decided that with only a twenty-three percent chance of successfully persuading him, your time was best served looking into the investigation in whatever way you could do so alone.

"Very well, lieutenant. See you tomorrow." You took a step back and then made your way to the exit, ignoring the stares of several other customers as you took your leave, but the sound of an aggressive, unfamiliar man's voice made you slow your step.

"You better stay quiet asshole, I'm tryin' to watch the basketball." There was a threatening edge to the man's tone, and you looked over your shoulder to see somebody stepping up to Connor, challenging him.

Despite the fact that you had no reason to stay, you turned back around and attempted to determine the statistical possibility for violence to break out.

/Scanning…

/Name: Jamie Finch

/Date of birth: April 14th 1999

/Criminal Record: Assault, minor infractions

/Possibility of imminent violence: 68%

Before you could gently interject and diffuse the situation, Connor leaned back on his stool, hands gripping the edges of the bar surface, and pinned Jamie with a look of abhorrence, "Mind your fucking business."

/Possibility of imminent violence: 99.8%

There was but a momentary pause before Jamie's fist slammed into Connor's jaw, sending the lieutenant to the floor in a scrambled heap. Due to Connor's inebriation, his reaction times were heavily flawed, and he didn't quite have time to break his fall with outstretched arms; as such, his head hit the floor first, and he fell flat like a deadweight, with nothing but a lingering groan of a response.

You approached the miserable jumble of limbs on the floor that also happened to be your case partner, and promptly helped him up, slinging his arm over your shoulder in order to carry most of his body weight. Before leaving, you cast Jamie Finch a glance.

"My apologies for my partner's behaviour. Have a nice night."

You did not care for the man's reply, and quickly dragged the lieutenant out of the bar, silently scanning for the extent of Connor's injuries.

"You are lucky you are just bruised", you spoke after reaching conclusive results, "If it wasn't for your abnormally dense skull, you may have received a concussion." It was difficult to predict drunken Connor's reactions, but your social relations programme informed you that a touch of humour never hurt.

"Where... are you taking me?" He protested, ignoring your quip, "I wasn't done with… my duhh-rink."

"Yes, you are done", you told him outright, "We cannot carry out the mission if you are intoxicated, lieutenant."

"I'm fine… don't need your help", the lieutenant insisted, trying his utmost to squirm away, but you didn't release his arm, and continued to lead him to his car.

"Your keys, lieutenant?"

Connor made a disgruntled noise, reaching up to lightly press the pads of his fingers to his aching jaw, and then shook his head, making the move to step away from you and toward the car, but you held him back with a solid hand on his arm.

"If you mean to drive, I can tell you that will not be happening", you said, "now give me your keys."

Connor scoffed, reaching into his pocket to pull out his keys, but when you held your hand out to take them, he jerked back in blatant refusal.

"Lieutenant."

"I'm not letting you… drive my baby…"

You stared at Connor, watching him wobble and sway on his feet - even with your assistance to help him balance, he was a disoriented mess of a human. If that wasn't enough, he'd begun to shiver; the heat of the alcohol in his blood was not enough to keep him warm forever, and the worn leather jacket he was wearing was hardly adequate in keeping the cold elements from penetrating his body.

Without another word, you grabbed his wrist and pried his hands free of the keys, and hit the button to unlock the car. As Connor whined and meekly objected, you ushered him to the passenger seat, pushing him to sit no matter how feebly he tried to fight; you secured his seatbelt and made your way round the car to the driver's side.

By the time you were sat behind the wheel, Connor had retrieved the pack of cigarettes from his jacket pocket, popped one between his lips, and pulled out his lighter. In a moment of impulse that you would later come to review with uncertainty, you snatched the lighter and plucked the cigarette straight from his mouth, chucking them into the back seat.

"Why the hell did you do that!?" Connor barked.

You paused, your processor stuttering for a few seconds in your bid to search for an answer, until you simply asserted, "Smoking is detrimental to your health."

Connor fumed, "Why would that even matter to you? We're not gonna be working together forever."

You did not reply.

You had only been to Connor's home once, and even then he had not allowed you to step inside. You often met him at the precinct or at a scene in which there was a suspected deviant on the run, but had not previously been required to enter his house.

The mess was expected. Discarded clothes, papers, mugs and dishes strewn about the place from the lack of motivation to clean up, but there was also the fact that each and every room appeared to be dark and musty, as if the lieutenant was thoroughly against opening a window every now and again.

He locked himself in and blotted out the sunlight when he could, trying to forget the outside world even existed - at least, that was your judgement of the lieutenant's mental state.

Connor laid himself across the couch in the front room as soon as you'd lugged him through the front door, complaining aloud about the pain in his jaw and the bump on his head.

"Perhaps you should not have provoked that man", you countered his whinging, choosing not to turn on the light. Connor's eyes would most definitely be sensitive to the brightness, he wouldn't appreciate it, and besides, he really did need to sleep.

"Ugh… I should've arrested him… for assaulting a police lieutenant…"

"Hmm. I think you were a little too incapacitated to do that."

"Then... you should've arrested him…"

You looked down at him, "Why would I do that? I am programmed to apprehend deviants, not humans."

Connor picked his face up out of the pillow and glared back at you over his shoulder; you did not believe he could see you clearly in the darkness of the room, in his state especially, but he probably located the blinking blue of your LED and decided to scowl in your general direction.

On closer inspection, his face just looked… weary. He did not appear to have any sort of retort at the ready.

"Are you hungry?" You asked, surmising that it would do the lieutenant some good to have food in his belly.

Connor did not answer. He merely curled up further into a ball upon the sofa.

"When was the last time you ate?"

Again, no reply.

"Have you eaten anything today, at all?"

It was no surprise when Connor refused to offer a response for a third time. So with that, you decided to take it upon yourself to feed the man; he needed to be fit enough in the morning to help with your assignment, and going to bed on an empty stomach while heavily inebriated was not going to do him any favours in the morning.

You gave the fridge a perusal for a few ingredients that were still within date, and quickly whipped up a cheese omelette. The protein in the food would help to absorb some of the alcohol in his blood, which would lead to a faster recovery in the morning.

It did not take you long to prepare the meal. You returned to the lounge with the food you had cooked him and found, as expected, the lieutenant had continued to disregard the call of sleep. His eyes were on you as you approached and laid the plate down on the coffee table in front of him; he stared at the dish for a good few minutes in consideration, before an unreadable emotion passed over his face - one that sent your processor into a brief falter as you tried to interpret it, but were left unable - and he sat up, reached for the plate, and took a large bite.

Gratitude. It was obvious after he took the first bite, and the emotion became far more palpable. Even though he did not say it out loud, Connor was grateful.

You left him to consume the food, taking the opportunity to explore his home and learn more about him. The lieutenant had seemed to be high-functioning for the first two weeks of your partnership, despite his depression. He was a workaholic, that much was obvious just at a glance, but until today he'd offered no indication that he spent some nights drinking his life away; he suffered from insomnia, but had become used to surviving on just a few hours sleep per night. It wasn't healthy for a human, but he had learned to survive with what he had.

Your legs brought you down the hall where you browsed and scanned the few certificates and medals hanging on the wall; one photo in particular stood out, showing Captain Jeffrey Fowler shaking hands with Connor, presenting him with an award for becoming the youngest lieutenant in Detroit.

Connor had been so full of enthusiasm and determination back then, four years ago, and it was wholly apparent in his expression in the image. His face held a smile so bright, lighting up all of his handsome features; he'd been such a conventionally attractive man back then, but his face no longer held the same friendly and happy demeanour.

He appeared sour. Never smiling, always observing with dead eyes, a stark difference from the man he used to be. But nothing about the marks of recognition and achievements on the wall gave any intimation of what had happened to Connor.

You continued on, taking a moment to scan a houseplant that sat in one corner. It was a potted Monstera, usually a plant that was beautifully viridescent, but the one you were staring at had been neglected. It hung, wilted, its large leaves dried and brown, full of holes, dead from thirst.

It accurately reflected Connor's mental state, you noted.

You entered his bedroom at the end of the hall, and were greeted to a dim room that looked as though it hadn't been cleaned in some time. Books, papers, clothing, food wrappers and empty bottles all lay strewn across the floor. The wardrobe door was opened and piled with clothes in a very unkempt manner. There were cobwebs on the closed window curtains.

The environment was indicative of a lack of motivation to take care of one's own living space, evidently brought on by Connor's depression.

You stepped over the objects in your way and walked around the bed, finding a framed picture on the bedside table. It was the cleanest thing in the room and depicted Connor standing with somebody else - the other man in the picture had his arm slung around Connor's shoulders and looked remarkably similar to Connor himself. Both of them were smiling.

Running a quick scan solved the mystery of the man's identity.

/Scanning…

/Name: Niles Stern

/Status: deceased

/Date of birth: August 12th 2002

/Date of death: November 23rd 2036.

Today was November 23rd.

It took you all of two and a half seconds to deduce exactly why Connor's mental health had taken a very sudden dive. It was the anniversary of his twin brother's death, and he was mourning.

Well, he was having trouble mourning.

Connor was not good at dealing with his emotions, evidently.

You returned to the living room promptly to find Connor had finished eating and had shed his leather jacket, laying it atop himself like a blanket as he reclined across the couch, blinking tiredly. He needed to sleep, and judging by the state of his room, it was probably better for him to sleep in a more open area; it may have been cold in the lounge, but at least it wasn't murky and filled with dust in the same way his bedroom was.

Approaching the couch, you surveyed the lieutenant's state, figuring he would be able to take care of himself for the rest of the night. "Get some sleep, lieutenant. I must report back to Cyberlife now, I will return at nine o'clock in the morning."

Your legs carried you several steps to the door before Connor's voice pierced the silence of the room.

"Wait", he said, voice somewhat hoarse, "can you stay?"

You paused, your processor stuttering with hesitation, "...I… It is important that I report to Cyberlife-"

"Please", he begged, speaking your name imploringly. The tone with which he spoke was quite a bit different from how he normally addressed you; quiet as a whisper, gentle and beseeching.

So you thought, perhaps if you could soothe Connor's sadness, he might awaken the next morning in higher spirits with a more salient drive to work the case and aid in your mission.

You sat on the adjacent couch, the other side of the coffee table, and rested your hands in your lap. You ensured your expression was softer, and asked the lieutenant in a patient, assuring voice, "Would you like to talk about it?"

Connor exhaled audibly through his nose, "Talk about what?"

"The death of your brother", you answered plainly.

Connor was quiet at first as he absorbed the shock of your words, and then you heard his breathing speed up, watching through the darkness as his face scrunched up in pain. He did not speak.

Seeing the utter devastation in his expression made your thirium pump stutter in a very discomfiting way. Running a quick diagnostic revealed there were no abnormalities in your system, but that did not explain the reasoning behind the sensation in your chest. A twang of… something. You tried your best not to dwell on it.

"Connor", you spoke gently, "I know it is painful for you, but talking about it may be therapeutic. It is normal for humans to cry when upset, and helps to release stress. I believe you may need that right now."

Connor's throat made a rigid noise, like a whimper that had been choked back, and then he drew in a sharp breath, rolling onto his side to face away from you.

"Shut up", he whispered.

"You need not worry about judgement for experiencing feelings, Connor. I may not feel what you feel, but I understand the effects of grief in humans", you fell quiet, waiting to see if Connor would respond, but of course he did not. "I am curious about what kind of person your brother was. Could you please tell me about him?"

You hoped the request was a more persuasive way to get Connor talking.

The lieutenant was quiet and still, and the fact that you were unable to see his face made it very difficult to assume his emotional response. You thought about scanning him again, but decided against it, as there wasn't anything valuable to learn that your visual receptors couldn't already tell you. And plus, Connor hated when you scanned him.

After several noiseless minutes, you assumed the lieutenant had finally fallen asleep, but just as you were preparing to activate your standby mode, you heard his voice, quiet and resigned, and so full of gloom.

"He was a good man."

His voice was slightly muffled against the material of the couch, but you remained quiet, waiting for Connor to continue.

He drew in an audible breath to steel himself, "He was nine minutes younger than me. We did everything together since the day we were born, we were rarely apart. He was very intelligent… but he was very quiet."

You tilted your head, curiously asking, "Was he shy?"

Connor breathed a huff of stilted amusement, "I wouldn't say that. He just… liked to listen and watch people instead of being the centre of attention. I admired him… everything he did just seemed so brilliant, and I always felt like I couldn't compare…"

He trailed off, so you quickly prompted him to continue, "Was it difficult for people to tell you apart?" From the picture in Connor's bedroom, you had to assume they were identical from what you had seen.

"Nah", Connor responded, another echo of a chuckle on his lips, "Everybody knew when they were looking at Nines and when they were looking at me. Our dress styles were incredibly different… I dress like a hippie, as my brother always said, and he dressed like a prude." He snorted slightly, "He was always covered up… black, long-sleeved turtlenecks were all you could find in his closet. Then there's the fact that we acted like polar opposites. Where he was reserved and quiet, I was loud and outgoing. I think the only reason I was promoted to lieutenant is because, even though we were both very good at our jobs, I was more of a people person."

You smiled slightly, finding that you would have liked to meet Connor's brother. Another odd pang became apparent in your chest.

"Wait", you said suddenly, "Did you say Nines? I thought his name was Niles."

Connor shifted, moving back onto his back. Through the darkness, with your superior android eyesight, you noticed that he appeared to have shed a few tears, but had regained his composure for the moment.

"Nines was his nickname. Pretty much nobody called him Niles."

"Hm. Where does the nickname come from? Apart from the fact that it rhymes."

"He was nine minutes younger than me. So we called him Nines", Connor explained, as if it was obvious.

"Right." You were silent for a moment, "So you worked together with him, then?"

"Mm-hmm", Connor nodded, "He was always telling me how proud he was of me. That he was happy I got the promotion to lieutenant and that I deserved it the most. At first, I thought he was secretly jealous, but… I was wrong. He was genuinely happy for me. He wanted me to have it more than he wanted it for himself."

Connor's expression pulled into a frown, his eyebrows creasing as he blinked away fresh tears. "He was a good man… selfless and kind. People never really saw it, because he wasn't outwardly friendly like I was. People saw his quiet nature and assumed he was cold, but I knew the kind of person he really was… I always knew…"

"He sounds like he was a wonderful person", you stated kindly.

Connor nodded his head, and agreed, "He was…"

There was tentativeness surrounding him, like he wanted to say something more, but was in too much pain to actually say it.

"It's okay", you whispered, gently encouraging him, "Go on."

A long pause ensued, broken only after a few minutes when Connor blinked hard, and the tears in his eyes rolled down his face.

"We had an argument!" Connor snapped suddenly, as if a rush of anger had taken hold of him, but it was gone as quickly as it came, and he continued to utter in a weak, exhausted voice, "We were off work, enjoying our day off, and we started to argue… It was such a stupid… pointless argument… and I can't even remember what it was about. But he left - said he was going to the mall because he didn't want to be near me."

You felt something drop inside you, and you still did not know what it was, nor did your diagnostics conclude anything was wrong, but it still felt bad. You couldn't explain it.

"...and about an hour after he left, he tried to call me. But I was still mad, so I declined the call… I declined the call and I threw my phone down…"

His voice cracked as he spoke, clearly trying everything he could to keep the emotions from overflowing.

"And then… after another hour… I got a call from the precinct, and- and… they told me Nines had intercepted a robbery at the mall, he'd tried to stop the guy, but they had a gun, and Nines didn't. He was off-duty, he didn't have a gun-" he became a tad frantic, covering his face with his hands, "-he wasn't wearing a bullet-proof vest, he shouldn't even have been there. But he rushed the guy, and he got shot."

You felt there was something you should be doing, but your processor seemed to be caught in a pointless loop of discomfort. You stayed seated, hands still resting on your lap, and didn't say a word.

"They told me he was rushed to hospital in critical condition, but he was dead before I arrived…" Connor's hands fisted in his hair, disturbing the already muddled strands even more so, "But… but the worst thing is… they checked the call logs on his phone. He tried to call me after he was shot… and I declined it."

Another tremble in your thirium pump had you sitting up straighter, and leaning slightly towards Connor.

"He tried to call me because he knew he was going to die. Maybe he wanted to tell me he loved me, maybe he wanted to apologise to me, or maybe he wanted me to apologise to him… He just didn't want… didn't want me to live with the guilt in knowing my last words to him were said in petty anger."

You weren't sure what was happening to your components. They seemed out of touch, but you tried to ignore them, hanging on to Connor's heart-breaking words. He was practically pulling his hair out at that point, his face twisted into a tortured expression.

He finally let out a sob, loud and unrestrained, as if he'd been holding it in since the day his brother died.

"But I declined the call! I didn't get to hear his voice, I didn't get to tell him I loved him one last time because I was being a petty fucking bitch, and I hate myself for it!" He cried, his agony unrelenting, and finally you stood.

He was weeping angrily, coughing up violent sobs as he pulled at his hair, too distressed that he didn't even notice you'd moved until you were physically moving him. You pulled him up and sat on the couch, pressing him back down so that his head was cradled in your lap, and you held him like that despite the sudden shock that permeated through him.

For a moment, he stopped crying, eyes wide as you gathered him in your arms and proceeded to pry his fingers away from his hair, replacing them with your own hand which treated his head far more kindly. You caressed his scalp comfortingly.

"It's alright", you told him softly, "Just let it out."

And he did.

Connor released two years worth of pent up grief, pushing himself up to wrap his arms tightly around you, wailing into the crook of your shoulder until he was slumped and whimpering, his face no doubt red and temporarily marred with marks from the impression of your Cyberlife blazer.

"He would never have left… if we hadn't been having that stupid fight…" he sniffled, face pressed to your shoulder.

"It wasn't your fault", you told him immediately, "the fault alone lies with the perpetrator, not you."

Connor didn't agree, nor did he disagree.

"Connor", you spoke, some time after his frantic breaths had slowed, his sobs had quieted down, and you weren't even sure if he was still awake, "from what you have told me, your brother loved you so much, and you loved him too. I'm sure your brother did not doubt that fact. He knew it to be true, even if he wasn't able to hear it one last time. He knew."

You didn't expect a response, but to your surprise, Connor lifted his head for just a moment, and whispered, "Thank you." Your name lingered on his lips, too, and for the final time that night, you experienced a strange pull in your chest...

Software Instability^^^