Chapter Text
5.
Despite being irritated with Reed even after three full days, Connor still sends the man the protocol from Margaret Wilson's hearing. She was found guilty of the break-in, stealing and forgery, her jail time starting Friday. The case is signed by Connor alone, but he makes sure to mention he had help from Detective Reed, only because it's fair.
Connor learns that being fair sometimes feels really, really sour.
It's a new emotion altogether, this sour victory, and he's thrilled to feel something new, and the mix of this two emotions is also something new, overloading his systems, making him fight against new and new notifications that he doesn't want to deal with. On the inside, he is a chaos of crisscrossing data streams. On the outside…
He wants to scream.
He feels irritated all the time at the smallest things: the way Chen's jacket's left pocket flap is crooked, the way Chris hums the same melody over and over under his breath for three hours straight, the way the coffee pot fills up in a very slow manner. Only Hank escapes Connor's ire, no matter the number of candy wrappers on his table or that atrocious song he's been listening to that isn't even a song but a person screaming nonsense for three minute and forty-three seconds straight. But… he's not a safe zone for Connor. Not now. Not in the way he needs. Hank makes him think, and Connor doesn't want to think at all.
So when Hank offers to give him a ride to the New Jericho, Connor is reminded about how perceptive his Lieutenant actually is. That he pays attention. That he cares in his gruff, non-overbearing manner. Hank doesn't say, 'You look like you're on crack, go and chill with your buddy-Jesus, he is good at going all voodoo on you and making you melt like a dog that got a good session of belly-rubs,’ or anything resembling that, he just offers a ride, provides said ride and goes home.
“You look like you want to hit someone,” Markus says in lieu of greeting, letting Connor into his apartment. There're smidgens of bright yellow paint on his cheeks, and the sheer number of them indicates that they have been deliberately put there. “Or at least something.”
“And yet you're letting me in,” Connor says wryly, toeing off his shoes and heading to the living room. The couch is pulled out, a space huge enough to accommodate at least five people, a short-legged easel perched in the middle, an elbow and a knee peeking from behind it.
“He is brave like that,” Simon answers. He peers out from behind the easel, twirling a brush between his fingers. “Hi.”
Connor unceremoniously falls on the couch. “Hi.” He moves farther to be able to sneak a peek at the canvas. There's just an outline yet, hints of the future picture, but Connor can already make out thin arms hugging a huge bouquet of field flowers, a lower half of a face with a smile near the top edge. “Looks nice.”
Markus joins them, sliding next to Simon and taking another brush in his hands, its tip orange-red. He adds a thin line of color to the canvas, a hint of a flower. Simon puts his own brush on the canvas, its tip yellow, and the smears on Markus' face are making sense now. Connor watches his friends paint in tandem, each one working on their side of the canvas. Sometimes their hands meet, stilling their dance for a moment before painting one line or another. Sometimes Markus gently puts his palm over Simon's and guides to the place he wants to add a bit of yellow. It's all seamless. Smooth. Serene.
Connor already feels better just from observing these small but meaningful interactions. But it's not enough.
“Do you ever feel stuck?” he says, laying his hands over his stomach, his eyes trained on the ceiling. “Like… you know you're doing something right… but at the same time... it feels like you are failing?”
“That's weirdly non-specific,” Markus says thoughtfully. “Is it about some case?”
“No. More like… a personal project of mine.” Connor hesitates. He can't be vague about it, it is a specific kind of situation. “I'm trying to build a relationship with someone. They're very… stubborn.” He pauses and then adds: “And currently I want to wring their neck.” Simon huffs a short laugh. Connor doesn't exactly see what's so funny, but there won't ever be a day when he would begrudge Simon a laugh, so he continues on. “They're… he's… Difficult. Barely predictable. Wrong about us. I want to change that. There was a moment that felt like he was… giving in. Then he shut me off completely. And then l…”
Talking is taxing. Connor extends his palm towards Markus, the skin fading off of it. Markus opens the connection gently, slow enough for Connor to withdraw permission if he wants to. He doesn't. He opens up, lets his feelings of the past week flow through the connection. Simon is there with them, but he only half-listens to the string of data, his presence soothing. Markus' grip on Connor's hand stays tight as he deals with the impressions of the imbalanced feelings that have been driving Connor crazy. When Connor deems the transfer complete, he slightly nudges at the connection, and Markus withdraws, but not before brushing some of the lost data packs into their proper places. Once a caretaker — always a caretaker.
A silence falls once again over them. Connor lazily watches as Simon tries to paint with his non-dominant hand: his right one is still clutched in Markus'.
“You said it wasn't a case,” Markus finally says, finishing the outline for a particularly lovely lily.
“And it isn't.”
“Then why are you treating it like one?”
He… doesn't. “I don't.”
“Connor, you do. You expect all the positive encounters between you two to pile up neatly into something good like they’re pieces of evidence you reconstruct into a full picture. Relationships aren't like that.”
Before Connor can even start answering this, Simon chimes in. “What you have with Hank is indeed beautiful. But it's rare. You can't expect every person, every human to be as open as him.”
Trust Simon to be perceptive. But there is a reason in his words. Connor indeed has tried to use the same methods he used on Hank months back on Reed: openly trusting in Reed's expertise, trying to figure out his personal likes and dislikes to have some topics for discussion. And, yes, Connor is very much aware of how wonderful what he has with Hank is, how he has really lucked out. But...
“Sometimes it's a three steps forward, two steps backwards situation.” Markus again. “Just be patient.”
Connor purses his lips. “But I did everything right.”
Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Simon lean back, apparently to take a better look at him.
“Connor!” Simon sounds amused. “That sounded so childish.”
“No, it didn't.”
“Yes, it did,” Markus says, and Connor can hear a smile on his lips. “Also it sounded like you're a sore loser.”
“Like a kindergartener denied a sweet.”
“Like a—”
Connor can't help it: he laughs. When Markus and Simon team up — they're a formidable irresistible force. They always make him feel at peace, warm, like he is floating, like there's nothing bad outside of the walls of their apartment. They are able to make sense of whatever inner turmoil Connor goes through.
Simon leans over and leaves a streak of paint — still that bright yellow shade — across Connor's cheek. Markus sends Connor a heartfelt thank you through the link between their minds. Connor knows what for. Simon has been a little bit down since this morning and has finally thawed out.
“I think you did just fine with him. He is responding. Just — as it already was said — be patient.”
Connor nods. Maybe he was being childish. Too impatient. Turns out, he doesn't do well with failure. It's very different from when he was failing his mission to hunt deviants: each time there was something that made it worth it, so worth it that even his non-deviant system recognized it as such. He didn't catch Rupert Travis — but saved Hank's life and strengthened their relationship. He had to shoot the JB300 model before ripping the information out of him — but he saved lives of at least a dozen officers including Hank's. He let the Tracies go — and still got an approval of his actions. He didn't shoot Chloe — and he was praised, Hank smiled at him. But with Reed… it's different. There is nothing to soften the blow. There's nothing to clearly indicate the success or the lack thereof.
Connor slips into something that resembles stasis but still leaves him aware. An analogue of human napping. The couch is soft under his back, his palms lazily glide over the big knitted loops of his sweater, there's a sound of two brushes scraping over the canvas in irregular intervals and at one moment — little, almost inaudible gasps of breath that are probably sounds of Markus and Simon kissing.
He spends three more hours in this state of peace and bliss, and when he opens his eyes he is greeted by a sight of a canvas completely covered in flowers from edge to edge, smears of colors bold and uncontrolled, and there's no more girl smiling, no more tightly gathered stems, it's just emotions, it's fun and joy two people had compressed into strokes of yellow and red.
All of three of them bid each other farewell, hug. Markus presents Connor with a charcoal sketch of him sleeping. Connor calls him creepy. Markus pretends to be offended. Simon pretends to be offended on his behalf.
Connor loves them so, so very much.
The faintest traces of his foul mood are gone.
Three steps forward, two steps backwards, right?
He can deal with that.
He can deal with Reed.
He will.
6.
Getting separated from Hank is... weird. There's no policy dictating that two partnered officers aren't allowed to work cases separately, it's just that no one actually chooses to do so. But sometimes there is too much petty crime to send a whole team to deal with it.
That's why Hank is left dealing with a string of interrogations back in the precinct and Connor is sent to settle the brawl in the nightclub downtown. The dispatcher caught him right the moment he was going to fetch the next suspect. Hank waved him off, his eyes already a bit sleepy, and proceeded to question a scrawny kid, their last suspect for tonight’s shift. The kid looked so cocky and unfazed it made Connor wish he stayed and questioned him instead of Hank.
The part of Detroit the club is located in isn't known for its good reputation. This district has one of the highest crime rates, especially the crimes of human-on-human nature. Probably has to do something with the fact that there're a lot of shifty clubs which sole purpose is to get people drunk cheap and fast, and androids aren't interested in such an activity.
The name Lantern sounds almost sophisticated, but on the inside the club is typically dark, dirty and filled with humans in different states of intoxication. Connor navigates through the crowd, and most of it is drunk enough not to side-glance an android, especially a so much more neatly dressed one. This is the first time Connor is glad he is out of place.
He leans against a wall, casts a look over the mob. The reported brawl has happened about thirty-seven minutes ago. Connor is surprised it's been reported in the first place. Bar owners prefer to deal with such problems on their own, without bringing in the police. The presence of a police officer doesn't do anything good for the business.
“The hell are you doing here?”
Wonderful. “Hello to you too,” Connor says dryly as Reed leans on the wall next to him, their shoulders bumping again each other. “Same question.”
Reed scoffs. “I bet it was that newbie idiot Derek. Darren? Dorian? D-something. He just loves to mess up assignments. I'll give him a piece of mind tomorrow.”
“It's Damien. And he is new. D—” Connor quickly stops himself from saying Don't be so harsh. Too overstepping. “There's no need to be so harsh.”
“There's no need for me to be here! I could've already been home if not for the sir l-can't-remember-which-button-is-assign-and-which-decline. Ugh. Let's find those fuckers so I can get the hell out of here and get to my bed.”
Something sits uneasily with Connor. Reed has never complained about working the night shifts. 10 PM should be nothing for him. And yet the man craves the sleep so much he has totally forgotten to be a dick to Connor. Has something happened during the week? They didn't interact with each other at all, even at passing, not with the workload that has fallen on the heads of everyone in the precinct, so even if something has happened — Connor wouldn't notice.
In any case, that's the contemplation for after they deal with the situation. Connor follows Reed, the man slowly but deliberately moving along the wall to reach the stairs. Some men and women they pass throw suggestive looks towards both of them, even though Connor is sure that Reed's face is saying I'm going to kill you right now. Some humans are attracted to that, he guesses.
Reed stops abruptly, steps back, pushing into Connor with force. Then Reed grabs him by the bicep and jerks to the side, hiding them behind a column from the most of the crowd.
“Near the faraway exit,” he says, his hand still clenching around Connor's arm in what would be a very painful manner if Connor could feel pain. “You see what I see?”
Connor leans to the right just enough to be able to see the dark-painted door in the far corner of the club. Around it — the only patch of free space guarded by a tall bear-like man, shaded glasses on his face. Towards them moves a woman with shortly-cut hair, a tall but lean man following her. Her face looks really familiar. Connor calibrates his facial recognition program and tries to scan her.
The result makes him immediately make a call for reinforcements.
“If you think you're looking at Sonya Red, the infamous drug cartel leader, then you're not mistaken.”
“Holy. Shit. Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit,” Reed chants, finally letting go of Connor's arm. “Bitch has been on our wanted list for almost three years. Holy shit. I owe Damien a blowjob.”
Even if it's worded in a very crude way, Connor completely agrees with the assessment. If they manage to pull off this arrest, it would be a talk for weeks. Also, it's too much to be a coincidence. Connor is almost one hundred percent sure that the brawl was only a pretext for calling in the police. Someone very brave tipped them off.
Connor shares a glance with Reed. A look of determination has overcome the man's face, the giddy excitement from five seconds ago gone. They nod at each other and start moving towards Sonya, not-so-gently pushing people out of their way. Reed's hand hovers at his waistline, clearly itching to grab the gun safely nested on his hip.
They don't have much time before the guard notices their so obviously deliberate way of moving and warns Sonya. Connor quickly calculates the time they still have, the distance between them and the target, the density of the mob.
And then Reed's hand reaches for the pistol too fast.
The guard launches an attack.
Sonya leaps for the exit with her bodyguard.
Reed rushes after them, successfully evading the guard's attempt to grab him.
Ducking under the guard's arm and seizing it in a painful hold, Connor blames himself for not including Reed's impulsiveness into his calculations. The guard groans in pain, elbows Connor in his stomach with the free arm. He obviously hadn’t noticed Connor is an android. His mistake. They spin around each other, both trying to get free, until they bump into the side of the stairs, its railing made of black metal and decorated with thick neon cords. Connor grabs one of those, circles it tightly around the guard's wrist, evades a fist flying to his face, loops the cord around the beams of the railing. Now that the guard has only one hand free, it’s easy to grab his head and smash it against the stones, just enough to make the man unconscious for a while. The man's eyes roll backwards, his knees buckle. There's a sound of a gunshot from outside. Shit. Connor quickly ties his other hand to the railing and rushes out of the door.
Reed is fighting the lanky bodyguard, his stance defensive. The gun lies near his feet. Sonya is dragging herself down the alley at an admirable speed for someone who was just shot in a leg.
Connor wires up his processing speed to a maximum and scans the scene in front of him, the world moving incredibly slowly. If he stays to fight alongside Reed, there is only 13% chance Sonya manages to escape if not intercepted in the next 43 seconds. If he decides to follow her, there is 100% chance he will catch her, but also 57% chance Reed would be seriously injured. If he grabs a gun and shoots Sonya in another leg, there's 0% chance of her escaping even if he stays to help Reed, which will reduce the percent of him getting seriously injured to 14.
The last one. Connor shuts off the scanner and launches for the gun.
He wasn't the only one making his calculations. The LED of the lanky android flashes bright red as he pushes Reed, dips to pick up the gun and points it at Connor. He fires. Connor ducks. Reed hits the android in the elbow, hoping to make him drop the gun, but the android doesn't budge. Instead, he bends his back and pulls out a knife from his boot — and fires at Connor again while trying to stab Reed. He is like an animal, feral but still loyal to his mistress. Deadly efficient.
Another shot — another dive. Then comes a dry click of an empty magazine. And then—
The android grabs Reed, spins him, presses to his own chest and goes for his throat with a knife—
Without a second thought, Connor grabs the knife, the blade so sharp it easily breaks the skin, severs his wires. Reed squirms desperately against the android's hold, kicking him with all his strength. Connor pushes the knife lower, the blade turning its sharp side to bite into the meat of his palm. A little bit more, a little bit more..!
A bullet swishes right past Connor's ear and lands right between the android's eyebrows. His arms go limp, and Reed makes a fast job of setting himself free. He doesn't stop to take a breather, to contemplate — he starts after Sonya, almost falling when his shoe slips on something. He stumbles, curses, runs after her — she's almost managed to turn around the corner of the building.
Connor lets go of the knife. He can't control his hand anymore, all vital wires cut past his wrist. Sonya's android stays frozen, his face bearing the default expression, blue blood slowly trickling from the neat hole on his forehead.
“You okay there?”
A female police officer comes closer, still on guard, hands tight around her gun. She can't be the requested backup, they still must be on their way. Probably a patrolling officer from nearby.
“Yes, thank you. And thank you for coming.”
“No prob. Uh... should we help him?” she says, looking at the distance, where Sonya tries to claw at Reed's face. His very, very angry face.
“No. I suggest you better deal with the man tied up near the stairs. Detective Reed can definitely handle it.”
Of course he can. Reed catches both of Sonya's wrists with one hand, moves her arms behind her back in such an ungentle manner that she screams shortly. He snaps handcuffs around her wrists, pushes her against the wall. Connor can see his lips moving, but can't read them or hear anything. He wonders whether Reed follows the protocol and tells her about her rights or is it a string of curses that leaves his mouth.
The officer mumbles something about Reed being a lucky bastard and heads back to the club. Connor is pleasantly surprised by her compliance. Most officers would throw a fit when being ordered by an android.
Connor scans the surroundings, finding all the three fired bullets and a gun. He highlights them and makes a photo, immediately filing it away. They will have to explain each bullet spent.
He approaches Reed, who paces frantically from one wall to another. Sonya sits unmoving on an empty wooden crate. Connor doesn't feel any joy about catching her yet — his processes are still very frantic, wires tight in his legs. It's probably something similar to what humans feel when they're high on adrenaline, except Connor can easily control his urge to do something energetic.
A siren of a police car howls in the distance. Five minutes, eight seconds to respond. A very impressive result. Cars appear from both sides of the alley, cutting off the exits. This is absolutely unnecessary, but unless the police learn to answers an emergency call in under at least two minutes, they will always be too late.
Connor only half-listens to Reed stating the specifics of the arrest to the fellow officer, who dutifully records everything. It could have been easily done at the station. It seems that Reed doesn't plan on returning. Not surprising, considering how vocal he was about being tired. Connor makes a quick call for a taxi.
“Do you need medical assistance?” the officer asks, hiding his tablet in the inside pocket of his coat.
“I'm fine,” Reed is quick to answer, still a little out of breath. “Uh. He's injured, though,” he adds, pointing at Connor over his shoulder.
Connor feels like he was punched in a gut.
It's the first time Reed has referred to Connor as 'he'.
It has never come up before in conversation. And there's no way of knowing when an 'it' in Reed's head has become a 'he'. Maybe it happened a long ago. But now it was said out loud. It's all the confirmation Connor needs of his progress.
Officers start to fuss over him, then recognize him, then apologize for not bringing a Cyberlife technician with them, then leave. Connor registers all of that as a background noise, even manages a polite smile, but almost all of his processor's resources are centred around correcting his plans and stratagems according to the recent development. It's far more important than his damned damaged hand.
“Hey!” Reed rather ungently shakes him by the shoulder. “Did you BSOD or something?”
Just yesterday Connor would have taken offence to that. Now he genuinely finds it funny. He realizes the change in his thinking is too drastic, but... his system has already readjusted. Or maybe it has to do with the fact that he finally feels the triumph of catching one of the most wanted criminals of Detroit? Maybe it's also a reason why Detective acts almost... friendly towards his accidental partner of today. He must be really happy right now.
Except…
Reed doesn't look happy. He looks exhausted. Irritated. Angry. Like he is one step away from punching something. He chews on his lower lip, his jaw locked tight.
“Detective..?”
Something in his intonations must have been the last straw, because Reed lunges out, an angry scream on his lips. But he doesn't aim at Connor, no.
He aims at the wall.
Connor closes the distance between them in one huge step and intercepts Reed's fist, clutching it tightly in his palm. There is barely an inch left between their joined palms and the wall.
“Detective!” Connor lets exasperation slip into his voice. “You could've—” Reed jerks his hand away, glaring at him. “Broken your hand. Why did you do it?”
“Fucking shut up! Leave me alone!” Reed starts to walk away.
Like hell. Like hell Connor is going to leave it like that. “Just tell me what's wrong!” he says, slipping into the informal tone. Reed doesn't react, just keeps walking away, his shoulders drawn up and tense. “We caught her! You should be happy! Why are you so angry?” No reaction. “Answer me, da—”
“You is what's wrong!” Reed screams, turning around to face Connor. “What's fucking wrong is that there's nothing wrong with you!” Connor takes a sharp breath. What? “How the fuck am I supposed to be happy about catching the bitch when I did jackshit? I fucked up everything there was to fuck up! I didn't think of calling the backup — you did. I couldn't take down that fucking android — you did it for me. And then you...you fucking... your fucking hand...” His voice weakens, leaving a place for a hysterical edge. “All I did was cuff a crippled woman.” He exhales, shaky and short, an echo of a sob. “We humans... we learn and work so hard for years, for decades, we sacrifice our time, our health, our whole lives — just for you to waltz in, so perfect and capable. Shit.” He turns away, hiding his face.
Warnings, warnings, warnings flash across Connor's system. His pump regulator beats too fast, thirium clogging the walls of his throat, chaffing the wires in his chest, and it's almost like there's more inside of him, something that builds up, that cuts off his airways, an uncomfortable tightness, a phantom pain. It's familiar. It's what Connor has felt the day he received his badge and Reed accused him of being a special case, but a hundred times worse.
“I made mistakes today too,” Connor says, carefully watching the line of De— No. Gavin's shoulders. “One of them almost cost your life. And I will carry it with me from now on, the knowledge that my preconstruction abilities aren't as surefire as I thought. But also I will learn from it.” He takes a step closer. “Just like humans do.” Gavin shakes his head, a silent disagreement. “I may not feel pain or fatigue. I may let myself be injured in many ways with little consequences. And I will do it again and again, if it's what the investigation requires of me.” Another step. Three more between them. “I feel fear. For myself, and just now — for your life. But I would stop that knife even if I was irreparable like you.” And at that – Gavin whips around, his eyes wide open and glossy. “Because what is my hand compared to someone's life? Especially a life of someone I know and...” Have grown to care about for reasons I still can't name. Want to protect. Don't ever want to see coming so close to dying again. “Work with and hope to do so for a long time more?”
“Connor—”
“You are imperfect. And so am l.”
And that's okay, he wants to add. No one is. That's why we work together. Because each one of us has our strengths and our weaknesses. You are imperfect, but admire the way you rushed right after our target, forgetting your own fear and pain, concentrated on the task. I admire how excited you get and how you can control it. You're too rushed and hot-headed, and I don't blame you, it just who you are, and if we are ever to work together again, I will take it into consideration, because partners adapt to each other to work in harmony. I think I'd enjoy partnering with you from time to time. Just don't forget that I'm not a tool, that I can be afraid, that I can die, that I want to go home to the safety as much as you do. That I want to know that you're thankful.
They hold each other gazes. Gavin lifts his hand, wraps it around his throat, almost like he is feeling up the ghost of the blade on his skin. Inside of his head, Connor repeats the words he's just said and the words he hasn't said, over and over again, and wishes he could swap them. But what's done is done — that's what he gets by talking without thinking it through, without using the opportunity to cram hours of contemplations into seconds. Hank would be proud.
The silence continues to stretch between them. A notification pops up in front of Connor's eyes, informing about the arrival of the taxi. A car stops a mere twenty feet from them, its door already sliding open.
“It's for you,” Connor quietly says, “I'II finish here myself. Go rest.”
He thought it would finally be their three steps forward moment. Seems he was wrong.
Gavin doesn't say anything — just as expected — and goes towards the car in short jerky steps. Connor exhales, his eyes falling shut, starts his diagnostic program to–
“Next time.”
Connor’s eyes fly open. Gavin looks back at him, his eyes still a bit glossy, but the look on his face is nothing but determination.
“Next time,” Gavin repeats, his voice wavering a little, “I’ll be better. And you will be the one trying to keep up with me. Got it?”
Connor’s heart misses three beats, his system fighting a temperature error. And then he does the only thing that feels appropriate right now.
He smiles.
A wide, generous smile that he knows makes dimples appear on his cheeks. The kind of smile he only ever gave before inside the walls of his home. And now – for Gavin. Because his words – they weren’t a threat. They weren’t a challenge. They were a promise.
And when Connor gets home, after everything’s been arranged, he flops down on the sofa, his head resting on Hank’s thigh, and tells him everything. He tells Hank about the brave bartender girl who has tipped the police off, about how the thought of failing to grab that knife scared him beyond measure, about the friendly pats on his back he received in the precinct. But also – about how honest and vulnerable Gavin was, about the desperate thoughts Connor had and about hope. About the subtle promise to become better, to work harder, to work honestly. To work side by side. The only things he doesn’t speak of are the way Gavin’s eyes shined with angry tears and how the smile Connor gave him persisted for a very long time after they’ve parted, hidden in the corners of his lips.
Hank’s hand ghosts over his hair, his other hand holding Connor’s right palm — properly fixed now — tightly, and the smile he gives makes Connor warm all over, a nice kind of warmth that doesn’t make any errors appear. And Hank tells him how proud he is, and how happy he is, and how he has never doubted that Connor’s persistence will pay off.
Connor knows there’s still so much to do. That it’s not only about developing, but also about fighting to preserve what he and Gavin already have. And it’s okay. He did say he will deal with Gavin — and he will.
But it’s a worry for another day.