Dissimulation
Chapter Two: Putting Down Roots
"He was a lonely ghost uttering a truth that nobody would ever hear."
When Connor's internal clock registered that it was 5:00AM, he was automatically drawn out of stasis. Diagnostics flashed across his field of vision faster than any human could track, but to Connor the rapid strings of information made perfect sense. All systems were functioning properly. He flexed his hands experimentally, rolled his shoulders, wiggled his toes. He noted that component #3599C, the primary joint in his right ankle, was moving with marginally more resistance than its counterpart on his left ankle. A quick scan confirmed that this was not a pressing issue – nothing that a bit of thirium-based lubricant couldn't solve, anyway. Otherwise, Connor seemed to be in peak physical shape.
Satisfied, Connor dismissed the numbers and reports that were generated automatically upon leaving stasis, and took to observing his immediate surroundings.
He was still on Hank's couch, and the other man was slouched over in an odd position at the opposite end. The television was on, broadcasting an infomercial advertising some useless kitchen utensil designed to hang and peel bananas. Sumo was heavy in his lap, his nose twitching occasionally as he dreamed.
Connor smiled down at the massive dog.
Of course, that's why I couldn't get up.
Resigned to his fate, the android settled deeper into the cushions and let his gaze drift back to the sleeping lieutenant.
Hank was slumped on his side, his feet on the floor (obviously, since Sumo took up so much space), and was fixed at an awkward angle. Connor found it strange that the lieutenant could sleep at all in a position that seemed so uncomfortable, even to an android.
Connor was debating whether or not to wake his former partner and usher him to bed so that he could rest soundly for another few hours, but one small detail leapt out at him, causing him to pause:
At some point during the night, Hank had pulled his hair back into a messy bun, presumably to keep it out of his face as he slept.
Connor leaned forward incrementally, careful not to wake the bear of a dog in his lap. He zeroed in on the silver wisps that had fallen loose from Hank's hairband to rest against the cut of a high cheekbone. There were small wrinkles – "crow's feet," as Connor had heard them called – that branched out from the creases in his eyelids: trivial imperfections that beckoned Connor's touch. Even Hank's eyelashes were fascinating in their fullness, softening a face that had otherwise been hardened by years of loss. Connor's gaze followed the hollow of Hank's cheek down to his mouth, to the minute part of his lips, revealing a glimpse of his incisors. The jut of his chin led back to the nape of his neck in a perfect line, displaying an area that Connor had never before seen due to the length of the lieutenant's hair. There was something vulnerable, intimate, about glimpsing that exposed column of skin, and an indefinable sensation stirred within the android.
Forcing himself to turn away, Connor silently admonished his own behavior. It was inappropriate to stare at people while they slept, much less to fantasize about caressing their face. Something akin to guilt churned within him, and he tried desperately to think of a distraction.
Pinging his internal clock, Connor found that it was only 5:11AM. He knew Hank well enough to know that if he woke the lieutenant at this hour, he ran the risk of being forcibly thrown through a wall – metaphorically, of course.
With slow, inhuman precision and patience, Connor managed to gently lift Sumo's torso, squeeze out from under him, and lower the dog back onto the couch all without rousing the beast.
After casting a warm glance at the sleeping duo of Hank and Sumo, Connor strode to the nearest window, drew back a slate-colored curtain, and peered outside.
Though the snow had ceased momentarily, the sky was still overcast, with no stars in sight. The surrounding houses were dark, empty husks leading out to the distant skyline of downtown Detroit. There were still a smattering of lights from the larger skyscrapers, but even from this distance Connor could tell that the city was much dimmer than what was typical.
Once he grew bored of gazing out at the dead city, Connor checked the time again – 5:23AM.
With a small sigh (another distinctly human affectation he had picked up along the way), Connor turned and padded over to the kitchen, deciding that he would wake the lieutenant early after all, but the odds of being dismantled at the hands of a grumpy, sleep-deprived Hank dropped considerably if there was breakfast involved.
Connor rifled through the cabinets and analyzed the contents of the refrigerator, his nose scrunched in concentration. He had never actually cooked before, but he was confident in his ability to follow simple instructions.
Unsurprisingly, ingredients were sparse, but the basics were there: bacon, eggs, waffle mix. Connor narrowed his eyes at the 2 weeks old "sell by" date on the egg carton as he pulled it from the fridge, but a quick scan confirmed that the eggs were still perfectly edible. In a matter of seconds, he accessed the internet internally and glanced over directions for preparing these foods, relieved at the simplicity of the recipes.
With the ingredients lined up neatly on the beige Formica countertop, (along with a long-abandoned waffle iron that Connor dug out and plugged into the wall), the android set to work.
After rolling up his shirtsleeves, Connor dumped one and one half cups of waffle mix into a mixing bowl, then cracked an egg on its edge and deftly dumped the yolk into the powder. Reaching for the vegetable oil, he removed the lid and poured approximately three tablespoons' worth into the mixture, then added a bit of water before whisking the components together with an egg beater.
As he stirred, Connor became momentarily lost in the lucid moment. There was something decidedly cathartic about taking these simple steps to cook a basic meal. His mind wasn't buzzing with percentages or projections; he was merely existing, bouncing from one menial task to another.
He couldn't remember a time when he had felt more at ease.
Connor had just finished beating the concoction into a creamy batter when the waffle iron chirped once, indicating that it had heated to the optimal temperature. Connor carefully tilted the mixing bowl until the batter poured into the built-in funnel atop the waffle iron. Once the iron was full, he stepped away and pulled a plate from a nearby cabinet while he waited for the batter to cook.
When the iron beeped again, signifying the first waffle was ready, Connor opened the appliance and peeled the fluffy waffle away before depositing it on the plate he had laid out. Repeating this process, he cooked another waffle which was soon stacked atop the first one, then moved to prepare the bacon.
Connor positioned himself in front of the stovetop and laid Hank's only skillet on the largest burner before turning the corresponding knob, settling on a heat output of 6. He tore into the vacuum-sealed package of honeyed bacon and peeled off four strips which he then placed on the hot skillet, flinching when a bit of grease shot up and caught him on the arm.
Hank had once emphatically claimed that bacon was "better than sex," and while the android had no experience with either bacon or sex, he did derive a strange sort of satisfaction from listening to the strips of meat sizzle and pop as they cooked.
Once the color and texture seemed satisfactory, Connor deftly flipped the strips over with a fork and leaned back to wait for the bacon to finish.
The relative peace of his first venture into cooking was interrupted by a muted thump before Sumo lumbered into the kitchen, his gaze immediately drawn to the skillet of bacon. Connor suppressed a chuckle and knelt to give to the dog a good-natured pat.
"I should have known you couldn't resist the smell of bacon," Connor muttered. Sumo whined pitifully in response. Unmoored, the android gave him one final scratch behind the ears before standing and shaking his head.
"Sorry Sumo, no 'people food' today. Eating pizza is bad enough."
Looking defeated, the Saint Bernard gave a short growl (a noise not unlike the one Hank made when inconvenienced) before turning to meander back to the living room. Curious, Connor followed after him.
The television was now broadcasting a talk show featuring four women who looked conspicuously alike as they all had blonde, shoulder-length hair and all wore cocktail dresses with varying bright patterns. They were clamoring to talk over each other about some celebrity, and, feeling annoyed at their pointless banter, Connor turned the TV off with a quick internal command.
Sumo had padded over to his dog bed in the corner and was chewing a bone in earnest. That just left the lieutenant on the couch, still sound asleep and slumped over in that odd position.
Unable to endure seeing Hank scrunched up like a pretzel any longer, Connor stepped around, knelt to grasp the other man's calves, and carefully picked them up before depositing them gently on the couch, so that he was stretched out in a more natural position. Hank mumbled something unintelligible in his sleep, but did not wake.
Connor knew what he should have done, at that point. He should have released Hank's legs before walking away and returning to the kitchen. Instead, enraptured, he gripped the other man's calves a little tighter, and wondered at the firm muscles beneath his fingertips, clearly apparent even through the thick layer of denim. With the way Hank carried himself, it was easy to forget that beyond the carefully constructed layers of laziness and apathy was an officer who had earned and maintained the title of Lieutenant, and rightfully so – Hank was a strong man.
Hank roused again at the sudden pressure, his head shooting to the side as he groused something about Gavin choking on a… phallus, but his eyes never opened and he soon stilled back into slumber, for which Connor was extremely grateful.
Hastily releasing his hold on Hank's legs, Connor became aware of a borderline smoky scent drifting from the kitchen.
Shit.
He fled to the stovetop in four long strides and raised the smoking skillet, scrutinizing the bacon therein with concern. The strips had shrunk considerably, and when he lifted them off and onto a plate, they were stiff. The color, too, was a bit darker than what he had researched in online photos. Connor hoped Hank would like them, nonetheless.
Connor had initially planned on washing the skillet before making scrambled eggs, but a scan of online discussions on cooking forums revealed that some people actually preferred to fix their eggs in bacon grease, to soak up some extra flavor. Drawing from the knowledge that Hank really, really loved bacon, Connor replaced the grease-slicked skillet on its burner and cracked open a few eggs.
It only took a matter of seconds for the yolks to begin to solidify, and so Connor fished out a spatula and took to stirring the eggs around. He paused to add dashes of salt and pepper, common spices that he learned would enhance almost any dish, and finally turned off the burner once the eggs had evolved into a fluffy mess.
The android frowned at the end result. Much like his attempt at cooking bacon, this iteration of scrambled eggs did not match the pictures he had referred to as examples. The bacon grease had tinted them light brown, a far cry from the shade of yellow that was supposedly the norm.
Feeling discouraged, Connor scraped the eggs into a bowl and decided to set the table. For better or worse, Hank would let him know exactly how the food tasted. At this point the android was certain that he had failed in his first effort to cook. However, he couldn't make an accurate assessment without feedback, so he went about setting the table, deciding that, if nothing else, this would at least be a learning experience.
He set a plate for Hank, with a fork and paper towel (the closest substitute for a napkin he could find) to the right and a butter knife to the left. Connor then arranged the plate of waffles, bowl of eggs, and plate of bacon on the table's center. He fetched a sticky bottle of maple syrup from the refrigerator, along with a stick of butter, and added those to the spread. Finally, he turned to the Keurig and began to make a cup of coffee.
As he waited for the coffee to brew, Connor was confronted with the problem of actually waking Hank. He suspected that slapping him in the face (as he had done once before, when the lieutenant was passed out on the floor in a drunken stupor) would not elicit a pleasant response. He could simply yell in Hank's face, but in doing so he would run the risk of being punched before the other man fully came to his senses. As Connor considered his options, his gaze drifted distractedly to the record player, and he was stricken with an idea.
Waking up to music might be pleasant, Connor reasoned, and so he glanced back over Hank's albums with a furrowed brow.
Heavy metal would likely startle him…
That left only one option: Daft Punk.
His mind made up, Connor pulled the album from its place, removed the vinyl, and set it on the record player. He lifted the needle onto the record's edge, and smiled when strange electronic notes filled the air.
"It might not be the right time…"
Hank groaned before dragging a hand over his eyes. After a moment, he sat up, rubbing the back of his neck.
"Good morning, Lieutenant," Connor quipped cheerily. Hank turned to him with narrowed eyes, before glancing at the digital clock beneath the TV.
"Jesus Christ Connor, it's 6 in the morning…"
A tic, and then:
"Hey, what's that smell?"
"I have made breakfast," the android replied. "Are you hungry?"
"I might not be the right one…"
"Huh," Hank grumbled. "Yeah, sure."
The lieutenant finally pulled himself to his feet and shuffled toward the dining-area table. Taking this as a good sign, Connor spun around and headed toward the Keurig in the kitchen, before grasping the warm mug of coffee and presenting it to Hank once he was comfortably seated.
"Thanks."
Connor nodded once and took a seat across from his former partner, resisting the urge to fidget. There was that anxiousness again, creeping up his spine, unconsciously setting every one of his receptors on high alert. Connor wondered if this feeling was similar to the "fight or flight" response in humans.
"But there's something about us I want to say…"
Hank lifted a waffle to his plate before helping himself to some bacon.
"Fuckin' A, extra crispy," he commented, looking pleased. Connor neglected to inform the lieutenant that the only reason his bacon was "extra crispy" was because the android had taken a special interest in Hank's calves, but he had the good sense to keep his mouth shut.
"Cause there's something between us anyway…"
"What's up with the eggs?" the lieutenant questioned, nodding to the corresponding bowl.
Connor groaned internally.
I should have known better than to experiment.
"I read that the flavor of scrambled eggs could be enhanced when cooked in bacon grease," he offered, forcing his voice to remain confident.
Hank pursed his lips and nodded slowly in a gesture of acceptance before shuffling some eggs onto his plate as well.
"I might not be the right one…"
Connor watched, enthralled, as Hank smeared some butter onto his waffle before dousing it in syrup. He cut off a piece and took a bite.
"Th'waffle's good," he mumbled through a mouth full of food. Connor relaxed into his chair.
"I'm glad to hear it. This is the first time I've ever cooked."
Hank looked up, eyebrows raised in an expression that made him seem impressed.
Belying his countenance, the lieutenant's gaze quickly dropped back to his plate and he muttered, "Yeah, well, it's hard to fuck up waffles."
Connor was perceptive enough to recognize the comment as praise, and his lips quirked in a small smile.
"It might not be the right time…"
"So what's your place in Jericho like?" Hank asked before biting off a piece of bacon with an audible crunch.
Connor threaded his fingers together on the table and shifted uneasily in his seat.
"Well, I don't exactly have one. I don't intend to return to Jericho, for a while at least."
"Oh yeah?" Hank replied, his head tilted in obvious confusion. "What, did you and that one guy, uh, the leader…" here he paused to cast about for an answer.
"Markus," Connor supplied.
"Right, Markus… did you guys have a falling out or something?"
"No," Connor began, "I just decided to leave. It might seem strange but, I felt out of place there."
The lieutenant grunted in response and bit off another piece of bacon.
"Makes sense, I guess. So where are you staying now?"
"But there's something about us I've got to do…"
Connor stiffened. It was a simple question, and a glaring oversight on his part. Where was he going to stay? He chanced a glance around and something ached within him at the prospect of leaving this place – the only place he had ever truly felt at peace.
Breaking eye contact and forcing a casual shrug, he said: "I've been looking into android-friendly apartment complexes. I suspect that once the locals return to their homes and businesses there will be several options available."
Hank narrowed his eyes at the android, bearing into him with the same glare he utilized to intimidate suspects. Connor shrank beneath the intense scrutiny.
"That's just a fancy way of saying you have nowhere to go."
"Some kind of secret I will share with you…"
"While I neglected to plan for my living situation before leaving Jericho, I am confident in my ability to…"
"Connor," Hank interrupted. "Just ask."
The android blinked in confusion.
"I'm sorry Lieutenant, I'm not sure what you mean."
Hank sighed and dropped his utensils on the table before straightening to continue the conversation at eye-level. Connor struggled to resist the urge to look away.
"I need you more than anything in my life…"
"Listen, you've gotta learn to ask for things if you want to make it anywhere in life. Nine times out of ten, you can get what you need just by asking." Hank paused and leaned forward. Feeling cornered, Connor pressed himself into the back of his chair.
"You need a place to stay?" Hank continued, "Just ask."
"I want you more than anything in my life…"
"I would never impose, Lieutenant…"
"Just. Ask."
Connor unlaced his fingers and began strumming them against the tabletop. He glanced from one wall to the other. His knee began to bob of its own accord. He imagined that, were he human, sweat would be beading on his brow at this point. Finally, after issuing a resigned sigh, he mustered up an ounce of courage.
"Hank… could I stay here until I figure out what my next step will be?"
Like a flipped switch, all tension eased from the lieutenant, and he refocused his attention to his breakfast.
"Yeah, of course. We can clear out my office tomorrow and set up a room for you."
"I'll miss you more than anyone in my life…"
It was several moments before Connor registered that his jaw was unhinged. He shut it abruptly, hoping the other man didn't notice the loud clack of his artificial teeth.
Well, that was easy.
Unsure of what else to say, Connor finally settled on, "Thank you, Hank."
The lieutenant waved a hand dismissively.
"Don't mention it."
Hank was halfway through his last piece of bacon when Connor, feeling emboldened, decided to ask one more favor.
"Do you think you could get me back on at the DPD?"
The lieutenant hummed in thought, chewing slowly.
He swallowed and said, "Well, I'm sure there will be some political hoops you'll have to jump through, but after everything you pulled off, I'd say Fowler owes you at this point."
A pause, and then, "Are you sure that's what you really want?"
Connor's head snapped up and he met Hank's gaze straight-on. He had never been more sure of anything in his (admittedly short) life.
"Absolutely."
Connor didn't miss the grin that flickered across Hank's lips.
"Well alright! As soon as they call me back in I'll see what I can do."
The android watched with baited breath as Hank finally speared a piece of scrambled eggs and brought it to his mouth. He seemed to consider the flavor for a moment, before his eyes grew wide and he turned to stare at Connor as though he were some sort of messiah.
"Holy shit… these are the best eggs I've ever tasted."
That same painful warmth from before erupted from Connor's core and seized him in a way that he could hardly comprehend.
As if to decompress from the pointedly serious conversation, the two men fell easily into mindless chatter, and Connor hardly noticed as the music from the record player faded away.
"I love you more than anyone in my life."