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“For fuck’s sake, Connor! What did I say?”
Too late to stop it, though. The android takes its finger out of its mouth and blinks at him in confusion, as though Hank is the one doing stupid shit like sticking other people’s body fluids in his mouth.
Or maybe it’s not that—boots have been tracking in for hours, leaving their crime scene wet and filthy after the rain, so it’s possible that Connor’s just licked the remnants of a mud puddle. Hank doubts it, but it doesn’t even matter either way because it’s all fucking disgusting.
“I apologize, Lieutenant.” Connor says, like it might even mean that, but they’ve been over this, so clearly it doesn’t. “I understand that you are uncomfortable with the procedure—”
“Uncomfortable.” Hank scoffs. He’s been on the force for decades; he’s got a stomach of steel. Doesn’t mean he has to put up with this, though. “I just don’t want you licking my crime scene, goddammit, we talked about this.”
“I’m analyzing—”
“We’ve got lab tests for that—”
“My results are immediate.” The android's still oh-so-polite, but its posture is set, stubborn like a child. “It is far more efficient for me to—”
“No.” Hank valiantly suppresses his rising violent urges. He shouldn’t have to argue with his own fucking android—isn’t that the whole point of them? “No licking, no analyzing, no more evidence in your fucking mouth, Connor. I mean it.”
The android inclines its head, which isn’t an answer, but Hank will take it as good enough. He’s not allowed to kick it, he reminds himself—plastic asshole probably costs more than his house and car put together. Ridiculous.
Plus, Hank doesn’t need a broken toe on top of everything. Bastard’s caused him enough trouble already.
Of course the dumbass keeps doing it.
Hell, he... it probably does at every crime scene, just waits for Hank to look away or wander off, so the few times Hank does notice, the crime’s already happened, so to speak. Which means that at least most of the time he doesn’t have to see it happen, but still. Ugh. He knows.
“Connor,” he warns when he finally does catch sight, but it makes no fucking difference. The android just looks up at him, attentive and undeterred, his...its...oh, fuck it— his head tilted in question.
Poodle, he thinks again, specific, because those fuckers are too intelligent for their own good. Just bright enough to get into all the shit they’re not supposed to, but not enough to know why they shouldn’t. Give him his big, lumbering, loyal idiot any day.
“I’m gonna start spraying you with a squirt bottle,” Hank threatens, but that just makes Connor frown a little, that confused crinkle between his brows that means Hank’s lost him again. CyberLife might have done their best to ‘facilitate his integration,’ but they did fuck-all for his language skills.
Whatever. He's got network access; Hank’ll let him figure it out— Yep, yellow LED, there he goes. And hell, maybe he really will bring a squirt bottle. It worked with Sumo—might help the lesson sink in.
Probably not, though.
Ok, so the licking’s still disgusting, but it’s hard to really yell at the guy when he seems determined to save Hank’s life. Hank tries preempting him instead.
“Here.” He moves as soon as they’re in the elevator, shoving the lollipop into the android’s hands before he can start fussing around with his coin tricks again—he always seems to find a new coin. Connor looks down at the brightly colored wrapper with focused interest. “I don’t want to see anything else in your mouth while we’re in there.”
“Androids don’t need to eat, Lieutenant,” Connor says, though he turns the candy over in his hand instead of giving it back.
“Don’t give a shit,” he returns immediately, though he...hadn’t really looked that far ahead. “You don’t need to, sure, but does that mean you can’t?”
“No,” Connor says, ever honest, fingers crinkling the wrapper. “Most models are equipped with the necessary biocomponents to convert food into a secondary source of energy, but it’s a rather inefficient process.”
“Well, it’s not about energy, so just put it in your fucking mouth.” Arguments with Connor always derail. Better just to shove him in the right direction.
For a moment, Connor gives him that look. On the surface, it’s the same calm, bland patience he seems to wear as his default expression, but by now, Hank can tell. It’s the one where he’s thinking of all the ways he can justify squirming out of an order that he doesn’t want to follow.
Hank, sadly, has seen it often enough to know it immediately. All that talk of android obedience and helpfulness, and he gets the one that’s cheerfully insubordinate whenever it suits him.
(That...should raise some red flags, maybe, but all it really brings up for him is questions. Suspicions. Ideas. Besides, Connor's some new, advanced prototype, isn’t he? Different from the others. And Hank’s not so hypocritical that he's going to report a partner for a little misbehavior either, android or not.)
“And keep it there.” He adds after another moment’s thought. He’s rewarded by the slight tightening of Connor’s jaw, and the lowering of his brows—also an expression Hank is familiar with, the one that sparks when he’s managed to push Connor to annoyance, or whatever equivalent his computer brain simulates. Hank smirks in triumph.
The android slowly, almost reluctantly unwraps the lollipop and, even more slowly, sticks it in his mouth. Hank rolls his eyes—blood and guts he’ll taste with no problem, but give him candy and suddenly he’s dainty. Jesus.
“So?” He prods after a moment, feeling vindictive. “What do you think?”
Connor shifts the candy around, his expression pensive. Then he says, “I wouldn’t recommend eating these.”
“Oh?” Hank can’t stop himself from raising his eyebrows. That’s dangerously close to expressing a personal preference. “Why not?”
“This single item contains nearly one-third of the recommended daily sugar intake for an adult human male.” Connor says, his precise voice slightly blurred around the stick in his mouth. He looks nearly offended by its presence. “And the Red 40 dye used as a color additive is listed as a likely carcinogen—”
Oh, for fuck’s sake. “Seriously, Connor, can’t you just—”
The elevator opens before Hank can assist him in removing that stick from his ass, and Connor sets off as though Hank isn’t speaking, focused on his mission as usual. Hank trails after him, scowling—this argument isn’t over, he decides.
Connor does keep the lollipop in his mouth while they’re in there, though. So that’s something.
Hank does not watch too closely as Connor examines the victim at The Eden Club. There are far too many...questionable fluids that the android might deem important, and Hank doesn’t want to know.
“So, how’s the plastic as a partner?” Tom asks him once when they catch each other in the station. His lips are twisted in something like sympathy.
“He’s a mouthy little shit,” Hank grumbles, and then snorts to himself because he means that in more ways than one. He can’t stop himself from adding, “but he gets the job done.”
“Oh yeah?” Reed butts in as he passes, like he’s been invited. “You putting that mouth to use then, Anderson?”
Hank can’t tell if Reed’s just being his usual asshole self or if he’s actively looking for a fight, but at this point, he really doesn’t give a damn. His gut sears hot and he glares at the wall, clenching a fist—a scuffle with a coworker will definitely add to his already oversized disciplinary file.
He looks back, sees the sneering curl of Reed’s lip, thinks of the gossip he heard about Connor’s first day, and decides fuck it.
What’s a few more pages?
After—
Well, after all of it.
Everything feels a bit shaky, still—he can’t deny there’s been a paradigm shift, both in his way of thinking and in the world at large. He feels battered, worn down; the changes had all come so fast and hard that half of it still feels like a dream.
And maybe it isn’t smart, stranding himself as one of the few humans left among a developing species that—perhaps rightfully—will view him as an oppressor, but...Connor still needs him. Still wants him there, and he’s not going to turn that aside.
How could he? He doesn’t have anyone else.
So he stays. Of course he stays.
“All right.” Hank says. He plops the plate down on the table in front of Connor with deliberate noise and sits, placing a can of whipped cream by his own elbow. His whiskey’s already there, thank god. “Let’s try this again.”
Connor stares down at the slice of chocolate cake and then back up at him with unwarranted wariness. His LED flickers yellow, circling. “We’re not on a crime scene, Lieu— Hank.”
“Should hope you’re not eating cake on a crime scene.” He snorts, and points a finger when Connor opens his mouth again. “I did my research this time—you guys do have taste buds, or somethin’ similar enough.”
“My base model does,” Connor agrees stiffly, “but the developers decided that the scanners should take precedence, as they have far greater utility in the field.”
“Uh-huh. You telling me you can’t switch those off for a bit, if you want to?”
“It’s… not recommended.” The android hedges, because he’s actually a shit liar outside of high-stress negotiations. Or maybe Hank just knows him by now.
“Well, of course fucking CyberLife ain’t gonna recommend anything that you might enjoy.” Hank scoffs, a curl of anger on his tongue that’s almost familiar now.
He doesn’t really get why Connor’s reluctant. To be honest, he's not entirely sure why he’s pushing this either. But it feels important—the idea, not the cake. Connor should know that he’s allowed to do things like this. Things with no purpose other than his own enjoyment, like eating chocolate. And maybe he’ll decide that he doesn’t like cake, or even eating, but that should be because he’s decided that for himself, and not because he’s been taught that he isn’t allowed liking at all.
“I don’t think—”
“Connor,” he says, “trust me.”
Connor stares at him, bright-eyed, analyzing. Circles blue to yellow, slowly back to blue again. Then he picks up the fork and takes a bite.
Falls still.
“Hm...” He hums, mouth full and eyes wide. Hank watches as he chews thoughtfully, swallows, and...takes another bite.
“Hah!” He slaps the table and points, triumphant.
“I suppose there might be something to it, after all.” Connor allows around a third bite of cake, looking like he's trying for haughty and missing by a long shot when those faint hints of a smile keep cracking through.
He looks...fond.
“So, is that you admitting I’m right?” Hank says, not relenting even as he feels his own face soften, like a fucking sap. “Ought to listen to your elders, kid.”
“Age is not always a reliable indicator of knowledge.” Connor retorts easily. “And, if anything, you really ought to factor your age more into your diet. The calories in this slice alone—”
Ah, but Hank had come prepared for that this time—he grabs the can of whipped cream and sprays it directly into Connor’s open mouth. The look of wounded indignation he gets in return makes him cackle for minutes afterwards.
Connor does finish the slice, though. And helps him with the rest of it, later.
"Seriously?” Hank turns his eyes away to the ceiling, exasperated. The rookie behind him makes an uncomfortable noise in her throat.
There are too many newbies nowadays, but some of the DPD never moved back into the city, and some of the ones that did quit in protest. And now, between the reintegration of humans and the new android laws the whole city’s a shitstorm. They need all the bodies they can get.
Upside is: it had been no real struggle to get his job back, to get Connor back in at his side, and even other androids along for the ride. Downside is, of course, dealing with all these fucking children at his crime scenes.
“Compromise,” Connor reminds him, once he finishes analyzing the dead man’s saliva, ugh. Somehow that’s almost worse than blood.
“Yeah, I don’t complain if you warn me, but that means you’ve got to give me time to look away first, asshole.” He nudges the rookie off and she gladly slips away.
“Of course, Lieutenant.” The android says, and he only falls back on calling Hank that when he’s overwhelmed, or when he’s just plain old bullshitting. Hank catches the way he glances after the fleeing officer and a suspicion sparks.
“Are you just fucking with the new guys?” He asks, incredulous, and the confused, innocent look Connor gives him is a complete and utter sham .
“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, Lieutenant. I was checking for ingested poisons.” Connor tips his head, and Hank can see him laughing, the fucker.
But then, the rookies probably can’t. And some of them are still pretty damn twitchy around androids. Hank bites down on the smirk threatening to grow.
“He died of a crowbar to the head.” Hank reminds him. “And you still can’t lie for shit, Connor. Didn’t I tell you to work on that?”
“I can lie perfectly well, when necessary.” Connor denies. Then he falls quiet, and the look he sends upwards a few moments later is sobered. Almost uncertain. “But it was not my intention to discomfort you, Hank.”
“I know, son.” Hank sighs, and he’s probably lucky no one’s in earshot to hear how easily that falls off his tongue these days. “Few seconds’ delay between talking and acting, remember? Not everyone’s a fucking supercomputer. Give us humans some time to process.”
“Of course.” Connor agrees, and turns a critical eye onto the rest of the victim—including the many violent, oozing lacerations.
Hank doesn’t know if those need ‘analyzing’ too, but he’s looked over plenty of the evidence already and there are neighbors he can question. He turns and hustles out of the room, not looking back. Connor will come find him when he’s finished.
Useful or not, he’s still not fucking watching that.