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The police station is empty, and it's dark outside; there are no cops or androids or civilians here - only white and cold light, dim and soft. Hank doesn't know what he's doing here in the middle of the night. His terminal is switched off, his desk is strangely clean; Hank sighs and sits back. Somehow he knows he shouldn't leave. Somehow he doesn't want to.
Something touches his leg softly, and Hank looks down.
Connor is kneeling near his chair, under his desk; Connor looks up with a strange look in its brown eyes, something like a gentle tease
(Hank is not sure, he really isn't),
and something hot twists in his chest. He’s so aroused that it’s hard to breathe. Hank can't look away.
Connor looks back. With its perfectly pressed uniform, pleated trousers and polished shoes
(under Hank's desk)
it looks like - Hank can't describe it. Wrong, he thinks, wrong, wrong, it shouldn't be like that; Hank wants to reach out, but what will he do next? Will he touch its hair? Will he grab its shoulder, put it on its feet? What will he do?
The LED on Connor's temple flickers yellow, and Connor smiles. Now it'll start talking, Hank thinks, and doesn't know what Connor'll say
but then it puts its hands onto Hank’s thighs silently, and Hank shudders. He's so hard that it almost hurts; how come didn't he notice before?
Connor does it fast and familiar, as though it gives head to strangers every fucking day. It unfastens Hank’s jeans, starting with the fly, pulls them down with the underwear and smirks at the sight of Hank’s cock; Hank wants to say something, so he bites inside of his cheek hard, not to blurt out something stupid, not to ruin everything. Connor is silent too. At first.
Then it becomes too occupied to chatter.
It's the best blowjob Hanks had in recent years. Well, actually, it's the only blowjob in recent years, so Hank is not the one for fair judge right now. He hisses and bites his lips not to moan aloud, he squeezes the armrests because he wants to put his hand in Connor’s hair, and squeeze, and thrust into its throat, and so good, my God, it feels so good
(somehow he knows that Connor is trying. somehow he knows that there are no things like this in Connors' program
(it just can't be, Connor is a detective, not a prostitute)
(but, well, who knows: Hank thinks about odd interrogation methods and nearly laughs - it comes out as a half-laugh half-moan)
Connor gets awry, Connor memorizes what to do and what not to, Connor adapts
(strange that he can think about it right now, in the middle of maybe-the-best-fuck-in-his-life)
and also Hank knows, just knows, that if he looks down, Connor will look back, and all this will be over too soon)
He looks nevertheless, and Connor looks back - looks up, and its LED flickers yellow and its lips squeeze tight around the head of Hank's cock.
And then the alarm rings.
***
Hank opens his eyes and looks at the ceiling for a long second. It's 7 a.m., time to go out with Sumo; room is lit up with yellow morning light, the alarm is still beeping from the headboard, and Hank switches it off without thinking. He can still see the flickering LED, Connor’s almost questioning eyes; his throat is dry as a desert, but it can wait.
He's harder that he was in his fifteen.
"Fucking androids," he mutters, bumps the top of his head against the headboard, and shoves his hand into his underwear.