Archive of Our Own

"The instructions from CyberLife seem fairly straightforward," Connor said.

He was seated on Hank's couch, wearing only a t-shirt and white boxer briefs. The pamphlet instructions had specified that the gel could stain fabrics. The t-shirt was pushed up to expose his mechanical heart thing, which was protruding slightly from his chest. Hank was doing his best not to stare at it. Connor didn't seem too bothered about it.

"Alright." Hank blew out his breath, scratched his chin as he went on scrutinizing the pamphlet that the CyberLife technicians had sent back with Connor. "Fine, here goes nothing."

He sat down on the coffee table. He picked up Connor's newly-repaired leg under the knee, set Connor's foot on his thigh. He pulled one of the strips from the plastic pack and stuck the sticky strip directly behind Connor's knee, smoothing it over once with his finger to make sure it was stuck down.

Connor's heart-pump thing flashed with blue light.

"I've detected the electrical current," Connor said.

"Okay. That's...uh. What we want." Hank took out the pot of gel from the plastic case. "Now I'm supposed to massage something called...the Deep Vein?"

He shot a look at the instructional video that was running on his phone propped up against a cushion by Connor.

"I'm not a goddamn massage therapist," Hank muttered as he watched the instructor pass his hands deftly over the disembodied leg of an android, pointing to different areas on the leg as he worked.

"I can try to stimulate the vein myself," Connor said.

"Just give me a second."

When he felt like he'd got the just of it, Hank scooped some gel out of the pot onto his fingers. He looked uncertainly at Connor's hairless, lean, well-muscled thighs.

He scooted forward a little. "So you can either keep your skin on or remove it..." He consulted the pamphlet, turning the page with his dry hand. "You got a preference?"

"I would prefer to keep it on."

"Okay. Then let's do this. It's supposed to be—" Hank wiped some gel on Connor's warm thigh, spread it around like the guy in the video had done, "—something like this?"

He went on spreading the gel with awkward circular passes of one hand, then the other. He was completely out of practice, clumsy and self-conscious. He hadn't touched another man this intimately in a hell of a long time.

There was a beep from Connor's chest.

"The electrical impulse test is complete." Connor slid the heart-pump back into his chest. It settled smoothly flush with his skin.

"So now we just do this for a while? Aw hell, I'm just gonna go for it." Frustrated with his own tentative motions, Hank started kneading Connor's thigh more firmly, searching out a rhythm. He squeezed and stroked the warm flesh that was firm while also pleasantly dough-ey. "That feel okay? It's not hurting, is it?"

Connor opened his mouth to answer.

"Right, you don't feel pain," Hank said.

"Correct."

"The mad scientist said it was going to take a couple days to feel normal again." Hank frowned. "I don't know if I'm doing this right. I've been told I give a pretty good neck massage. Never massaged a leg before."

"Neither have I," Connor said, his eyes on Hank's face, his expression credulous, confiding, like he was saying something that might surprise Hank.

"You don't say," Hank said dryly. "I sure as hell never massaged my partner before." He huffed a laugh and shook his head, thinking back on some of the old-timers he'd worked with. Hard to picture any of those guys asking for a massage. He thought about Andy in particular, the old man, what the hell he would have made of this. Hank with an android for a partner, and doing this on a Wednesday morning.

Hank had found his rhythm, holding Connor's knee steady with one hand, rubbing the heel of his other hand slow and firm up Connor's thigh, working from the outer thigh, to the top of the thigh, then into the groin, like the guy in the video had done. Hank watched his own hand working in that slow, steady rhythm. It was slightly hypnotic. Bizarre to think that the skin he touched was synthetic when it felt so real.

Hank had been purposefully keeping his eyes away from Connor's crotch this whole time. Hence it took him by surprise when he finally noticed that Connor was sporting a hard-on.

Hank pulled his hands back. He stood up fast. He walked over to the fireplace.

"Uh." He stood there for a moment. "Alright. That's probably—good."

"I'm sorry, Lieutenant," Connor said. "It's involuntary."

"Don't worry about it," Hank said gruffly. "I'm—gonna go get dressed."

He went into the bathroom and shut the door, washed the gel off his hands. He brushed his teeth. He went into his bedroom and got dressed, taking his time about it.

As he sat on the bed pulling on his socks, he heard Connor letting Sumo out into the yard.

When he went into the kitchen, he found Connor was dressed as well. The android stood at the open back door, looking out into the yard where Sumo was sniffing around. He turned his head as Hank came in.

Hank didn't meet his eye. He busied himself with the coffee machine. He drew the rack out of the dishwasher and tried to pull out a clean mug. He'd stacked the bowls and cups too tight together and the mug wasn't coming out easily, kept catching on the plastic prongs in the tray. Finally he yanked it out roughly.

"Fucking thing."

"Lieutenant." Connor had turned from the door to face him. "I feel I should explain—"

"Jesus, there's nothing to explain. Just forget about it."

"I appreciate you helping me with my leg."

Hank slotted the mug roughly into the machine and left it to fill, thinking with relief that the conversation would end there.

"I'm sorry if I made you feel uncomfortable," Connor went on.

"For fuck's sake, Connor." Hank grimaced. "They gave you the equipment, I guess that's what's going to happen." He shook his head. "Why the fuck did they even—? No, never mind. Just—let me drink this in peace."

Hank brought up the photographs of the victims' bound hands and feet.

"Take a look at the knots."

Connor tilted his head consideringly. "Unusual. I'll run a search." His eyes flickered to Hank's. It felt like the first time they'd really looked at each other all morning. "It would be more efficient if you sent me the images. Your neural implant allows you to—"

"Now why would I do that when you're right here?" Hank put the tablet into Connor's hand.

"I could easily show you how to—"

"Just run the damn search," Hank said.

Connor passed his skinless fingers over the tablet screen and then handed it back.

"It may take some time to come up with anything."

They were sat in traffic when Connor got the match. An obnoxious jingle for a car dealership was playing on the radio.

"It appears to be a variation on a knot used on cattle in South America."

Hank shifted his hands on the steering wheel. "That's something. Ballistics got a match on the gun yet?"

No response. Connor was looking out the window.

"Hey," Hank said.

Connor glanced at him inquiringly.

"Your head's somewhere else today," Hank grumbled. He immediately regretted saying it, calling attention to the weirdness that had lingered in the air between them since the morning. That was something he hadn't expected with having an android for a partner—the getting to know the other guy's moods, being able to read the changes in atmosphere. He'd figured out pretty quick that the stuff about AIs not having emotions was bullshit.

They were having an off day.

"Apologies, Lieutenant," Connor said mildly.

Hank sighed. "See if ballistics found anything on the gun."

7AM the next morning, the doorbell buzzed.

Hank shuffled out of his bedroom, cursing under his breath.

Sumo was standing barking, his front paws up the window ledge, trying to see out through the blinds.

Hank pulled the door open.

"Good morning, Lieutenant."

Hank scrubbed at his eyes, blinking against the morning sun. "What are you doing here?"

He turned from the door, leaving Connor to come in and shut it. He rubbed his neck, still feeling half-asleep as he walked into the kitchen.

"What time is it?" He slapped the switch on the coffee machine, stood with both hands braced against the kitchen counter, yawning.

"Seven oh three." Connor stopped in the kitchen doorway. "We didn't agree on a time. I'm sorry if I came too early."

Hank turned his head and squinted at him.

Connor reached into his jacket pocket and brought out the orange plastic case.

"Oh no," Hank said at once, straightening up. "No way. You're on your own with that."

Connor looked at the case, looked again at Hank, not getting it. "The instructions state that an assistant is required to apply the strip while the internal nervous system check is running—"

"Sorry, not happening." Hank went to the fridge and pulled out a carton of milk. "The tech guy at the station can help you with it."

"As the officer I've been assigned to, you are responsible for overseeing my upkeep."

"The department technician will take care of it. That's what he's paid to do, that's his job."

"This is because of what happened yesterday. My physical reaction."

"Christ." Hank winced.

"I'd like to reassure you that it won’t happen again. I installed a new program last night which will enable me to have greater control—"

"Stop. Just— It's too early for this shit." Hank gestured to the plastic case Connor was still holding. "Just go and take care of it. You're CyberLife's most advanced RK unit, you can't stand there and tell me you don't know how to stick a piece of tape to your own goddamn leg."

The coffee machine started chiming, signalling that a mug needed to be inserted. Hank searched the dishwasher. He still hadn't unpacked it. He found the last clean mug and jammed it into the machine.

The kitchen filled with the smell of coffee.

Connor was still standing in the doorway. Hank grit his teeth. He opened his mouth to say something, but Connor beat him to it.

"I understand." Connor slid the plastic case back into the inner pocket of his jacket. "I'll use the android facilities at the station."

Hank nodded, looking ahead out the window.

"Good."

There was a pause.

"May I still ride with you to work this morning?"

"Yeah, Connor," Hank said, incredulous. "Come on. What do you think?"

"Thank you. I'll wait through here until you're ready." Connor nodded towards the living room. He said through here, using informal speech, as he'd no doubt been programmed to do to put people at ease. The moment Hank thought that thought, he felt like an asshole. It was the kind of thought he hadn't had since the beginning of their partnership.

Connor went and sat in the living room, in the armchair.

Sumo came in carrying a toy he'd found in the yard. He took it into the living room and stood near Connor's chair, biting the toy slowly a couple of times, the chewed-up squeaker honking wheezily.

Hank took his coffee into the bedroom.

After he'd showered and dressed, he came out to find Connor still sitting where he'd left him, a mini-display held in his skinless hand. Connor sat motionless, the way he always did when he was interfacing with a computer.

Their drive to the station was quiet.

A morning spent knocking on doors, interviewing neighbours, trying to find someone who'd seen something, heard something.

They stopped at a roadside place for lunch.

Connor hadn't been quiet exactly that morning, he'd talked, just about the case and not much else.

"So," Hank said finally, setting down his soda cup. "You gonna be like this all day?"

Connor looked at him uncomprehendingly. "I'm afraid I don't know what you mean."

Hank wiped his mouth with his napkin, balled it up, dropped it into the cardboard carton his taco had come in.

Connor didn't show up at Hank's house the next morning, which meant Hank got to sleep until his alarm went off, got to go through his morning routine such as it was without interruption.

Sumo pushed his bowl around the floor eating his breakfast. Hank ate a bagel.

The file on the Melgrave murders and Arlene Philips still sat on the table. Hank paged through it. The same old details. The same old case him and Andy had never been able to solve. He stared at the face of the dead woman for a while, one of the crime scene photos. He shut the file off.

"A warrant?" The guy squinted. "What's this about?"

"Maybe we can talk upstairs," Hank said. He glanced at Connor, who gave him the barest of nods. Hank wanted to keep the brothers separated.

"Sir, do you think you could show Connor here some of the units you've been working on?" Hank said.

Michael's shoulders were drawn up tense. He glanced at his older brother.

"Go ahead." Billy held out his arms. "We got nothing to hide here."

Michael packed the wiring back into the robot arm and shut the panel.

"Main workshop's downstairs." He wiped off his hands, then walked out through a side door. Connor followed him.

Hank went upstairs with Billy, the two uniforms close behind him. He handed Billy the search warrant as they stepped into the tastefully decorated loft apartment.

"Nice place," he said, taking in the expensive entertainment system, the single wall with nine mounted monitors, the kind of thing you'd use for surveillance. "The officers are just gonna take a look around while you and me talk."

"Like that, is it?" Billy tossed the warrant onto the couch. He went and leant against the large window, his arms folded. "Guess I got no say. You just gonna come in, turn over the goddamn place. What is it I'm supposed to have done?"

The female officer was half-in the doorway to another room and the male officer was looking through the drawers of a desk in the corner when they heard it.

A muffled Bang from downstairs—unmistakably a gunshot.

They all reacted at once.

"Fucking idiot," Billy hissed, bolting for the kitchen.

"Hold it!" Hank shouted, wrestling his gun out its holster.

Billy reappeared in the doorway with a Glock in his hand.

"Down!" Hank roared.

Bang—bang—bang

Three shots. They'd all gone to the ground. Hank crouched behind the couch. The male officer was on the floor, holding his arm. The female officer leaned around the side of the door, she shot twice, the glass partition in the kitchen shattered behind Billy. Billy got down behind the counter.

Hank grabbed the male officer and hauled him to cover. The guy kicked with his feet and squirmed until he was behind the couch with him. Hank checked him out—dark blood wet at the shoulder of his uniform shirt.

"Motherfucker," the guy grit out.

"Billy, you don't want to do this," Hank shouted into the stillness. A dog was barking somewhere in the building.

Connor? Hank sent the thought out desperately, accessing the implant without effort, adrenaline making it easy.

--Here, came Connor's voice in his head.

Keep the brother with you, Hank answered immediately. Call for backup. We got one officer down.

--Michael Sacriste has fled, do you require assistance?

Go after him, don't let the son of a bitch get away, Hank replied immediately.

--Acknowledged.

"I will fucking shoot you, you come for me," Billy shouted, his voice high and shaking. "You just fucking try it."

Fast, crunching footsteps over the grit of broken glass. Hank chanced sticking his head up, saw Billy climbing out a window onto a fire escape. Billy aimed haphazardly, got off another shot, but Hank was already ducked down again.

Hank glanced at the male officer.

"I'm fine," the guy said between clenched teeth.

"Ambulance is on its way," Hank said. "With me," he shouted to the other officer. In the kitchen, Hank leaned out the double hung window Billy had climbed out of. He retreated back at once and a bullet struck the brick several feet above his head, chips of brick sprinkling down with the rain. He looked out again—Billy was throwing himself down the steps, slipping on the wet stairs.

They climbed out onto the fire escape.

Hank could hear a siren wailing—sounded close by.

They reached the bottom of the fire escape just as a cop car arrived screeching into the mouth of the alleyway, cutting off Billy's escape route. Billy turned to run back the way he'd come. Hank and the female officer had their guns trained on him.

"Toss your weapon!" Hank shouted.

The rain was coming down, the lights off the police car smearing and flashing. The two officers were out of the car, behind their open doors, their guns drawn.

Billy turned in a slow circle, both his hands in the air. He turned back to Hank, his face contorted as he swore. He threw the gun aside.

"Down on the ground!" Hank barked.

Connor, Hank sent out through the communicator as he charged down the stairs to the workshop.

No answer.

He saw signs of the struggle that must have taken place between Connor and the younger Sacriste. Tools and equipment had been knocked off the work bench. Half a medical android lay face-down on the floor, its pale arm flung out—it was an MX300. Same model as the one from the organ farm.

A splash of blue blood on the floor. Hank looked down at that with a grimace.

He searched the basement for an exit and found none. Michael got out the way they'd come in.

Hank met the female uniformed officer coming down the steps as he started up them.

"Your partner?" she said.

"Not here," Hank growled.

Talk to me, Connor. Where are you?

Hank pressed his hand to his forehead. Rivulets of rain pulsed down the passenger window, pulled along by the wind.

"You okay, sir?" the uniformed officer said, glancing at him as she drove.

"There," Hank said sharply.

Two cop cars were parked at the mouth of an alleyway. A small crowd of people had gathered to look.

The car bounced up onto the curb. Hank was already pushing the door open before it had fully come to a halt. He pushed through the crowd, a young officer stopped him, his arms out waving people back. Hank showed him his badge and he let him through.

Two uniforms came out the alleyway holding Michael between them. Michael was cuffed, his face bloody, shiny with rainwater.

"Where’s my partner?" Hank said. "The android, where’s the android?"

One of the cops gestured back into the alley.

"They got into it back there. Android's busted up."

Ice in Hank's gut.

He ran into the alley. "Connor? Connor!"

It was dark, rain sheeting down, dribbling off the steps and railings of fire escapes.

He wiped his eyes, pressed his hand to his forehead, his mind accessing the implant.

Where are you? he sent out, as clear and loud as he could. Connor, goddamn it!

—red dumpster under the fire escape, came back, Connor's synthesized voice oddly sliced, like some words had cut out at the beginning. Hank jogged forward, looking around. He saw the red dumpster, broke into a run. There was garbage strewn across the ground from a trash can that had been knocked over.

"Connor!"

Hank found him behind the dumpster, leaning against the wall. He grabbed Connor's shoulder to steady him.

"You okay?"

Connor was holding onto the wall to keep himself upright, not putting any weight on his right leg.

"He resisted arrest," Connor said. His hair was matted wet to his forehead. "I've damaged my leg."

"Shit. Okay. Come on, kid, you're okay. I got you." Hank slung Connor's arm round his neck.

Connor leant into him and let Hank take his weight, help him hobble out from behind the dumpster. They made for the mouth of the alleyway.

"You're supposed to answer on the chip when I call you," Hank said, angry now, shook up. "What the hell you go radio silent on me for? Huh?"

The technician's voice came over the car speakers with a slight rasp of static.

"Okay, I'm looking at the readings the RK sent us. It's the right leg... Just a second."

A pause. The muffled patter of computer keys. Hank kept his eyes on the road, focused on driving. Connor sat motionless in the passenger seat, street lights flaring past the window.

"Yeah, the leg's a mess," the technician said finally.

Hank snorted, gripping the steering wheel harder. "No shit. So if I can't bring him in to you tonight, where can I take him?"

"Bring it in tomorrow," the technician said. "Lab advises you go ahead and remove the leg."

"What? Remove the leg?"

"Yeah, just take it off. The unit's more likely to damage itself dragging it around."

"Take it off, like—?"

"The RK will know what to do. Just lay the unit flat until you can bring it in tomorrow, don't let it try and walk around."

Hank made the appointment for the next day. He cut the call unceremoniously.

"Useless prick."

"I can go into my stasis pod in the designated housing centre tonight if that would be easier," Connor said pleasantly.

"You're not going in a fucking pod." Hank looked over at Connor in disbelief. "Go into your stasis pod—the hell are you even talking about? Like I'm gonna dump you in some storage locker after the heat we just caught? Your leg's busted again, you think I'm gonna just leave you someplace? That's not how this works." He looked ahead at the road, looked again at Connor. "Hey, you hearing me on this? You don't just dump your partner somewhere after shit like this goes down."

He shook his head and watched the road. Reflections of the car taillights ahead were streaming on the wet tarmac like running paint. Had Andy ever had to explain that to him? Something so goddamn basic? Even a rookie should know. But then Connor wasn't a rookie, was he? Not exactly.

Hank saw it again—Connor in that alleyway, behind the dumpster, leaning into the wall. He felt an echo of the fear he'd felt then, that span of time where he hadn't known what he was about to find, what state Connor might be in.

"The MX300," Connor said. "Down in the workshop."

"Same model as the one at the farm, I know."

"It was a deviant," Connor said blankly. Another street light flashed by, lighting his face in a pulse of sickly yellow light streaked with rain.

"What? Are you sure?" Hank said.

"I'm sure."

"You...read its mind?"

"It wanted to protect the Sacristes. It had gone against its directives as a medical android. Its programming shouldn't have allowed it to harm humans, but it was harvesting organs for them. It was a deviant."

"Well, you'd know."

Connor turned his head sharply to Hank.

"I mean because you're a goddamn bloodhound for deviants, Connor. Relax." Hank hunched up his shoulders. "I thought deviancy was supposed to be impossible now. After the changes CyberLife made. The antivirus." He glanced at Connor. "I thought all that was supposed to be over."

"The android will need to be examined." Connor was staring out the window again.

"Yeah, alright. Don't go getting fixated on that. Let's just— We've got enough to take care of right now."

Sumo was waiting at the door to meet them. For a moment it was chaos as Hank hauled Connor into the house, kicked the door closed, shouted at Sumo to calm down and get out the way so he could get Connor into the bedroom.

He sat Connor down on the bed, ordered him not to move while he quickly went into the kitchen to let Sumo out. The dog came running back in a couple minutes later, soaking wet, shaking water everywhere. Hank just shut the back door and ordered Sumo to his bed, ended up yelling when Sumo just kept bouncing around, and then the dog scurried away quickly. Hank shook his head, still muttering, feeling guilt as he went back to the bedroom. He could only think about one thing at a time.

He turned on the bedside lamp. Connor was soaked through. He'd made a damp patch on the duvet.

"So how do we...get it off?" Hank put his hands on his hips, stood a little way back, assessing Connor's leg with the same sense of dread normally reserved for assembling flat-pack furniture.

"I've stopped circulation to the leg," Connor said. "It's safe to remove it now."

Connor's face was glistened wet with rainwater. He was bleeding from his nose, blue blood smeared down his mouth and chin and staining the front of his white shirt. His hair was wet, a lick of it was stuck flat to his forehead.

It was wrong that Connor was in a state like this. Hair and clothes messed up like this, his leg mangled again.

Hank grabbed some tissues off the nightstand and handed them to Connor. "You're bleeding, just—"

"Thank you."

Connor wiped his face. He managed to make something so simple look awkward, his hand stiff and unpracticed in its movements.

Hank shook his head and crouched down. Under Connor's trousers, the leg was bent at a nauseating angle. Hank picked up the foot gingerly.

"Okay?"

"I can't feel anything."

Hank tugged Connor's shoe off and set it aside. He held Connor's heel in his hand. The sock on Connor's foot was wet with blue blood. Hank considered the problem of getting the trousers off.

"Hell, let's just cut them off you."

He brought back a pair of scissors from the kitchen and made quick work of the left trouser leg. Then Connor's leg was exposed. It was in pretty bad shape. An open fracture below the knee—broken skin, blue blood gunked up where a big shard of white plastic was sticking out like broken bone. Hank handled the leg carefully, wincing.

He paused as his fingers found something rubbery and buckled at the back of Connor's knee. Frowning, he ran his fingers over it. In a second he realized it was one of the adhesive strips. By the feels of it, it had been wonkily applied.

"Did the tech guy at the station do this?" Hank said, frowning.

Connor stared down at him impassively.

"I applied it myself."

"For Christ’s sake, Connor, you told me you were going to get it taken care of at the station!" Hank let go of Connor's leg and stood up. "And the—nerve massage thing? How about that?"

"I did it myself."

"This is because you hate that tech asshole who works on the station androids." Hank could see the guy's weasely face in his mind's eye. "That asshole—what's his name?"

"I have no personal feelings about the station technician—"

"Oh, spare me the bullshit." Hank shook his head. He looked at Connor, sitting there on the bed with his pale, mangled leg.

"It was my job," Hank said tiredly. "I was supposed to take care of your leg. You wouldn’t have got it all fucked up again if I’d just done what I was supposed to do. I knew you hated that guy—"

"You are ascribing my actions to human emotions."

"Okay, Connor." Hank knelt down again. It was pointless arguing with him when he got like this. "Come on. Let's take it off."

Connor put his hands around the top of his thigh. The skin went white. The leg became an android leg. Connor's hands changed as well, became skinless and plastic. There was a beep, a heavy mechanical click from deep inside the leg, like a car door unlocking, then the leg detached from the upper thigh. Hank fumbled for a second to catch it with both his hands as it started to fall. It was surprisingly solid-feeling.

He laid the leg over by the closet, then he pulled open a drawer.

"Let's get you out of those wet clothes."

The best he could do was a pair of shorts and an old DPD t-shirt.

He got Connor situated on the couch, turned on the tv to give him something to look at. He left him there, washed in the blueish light of the tv while he went to look in the fridge. He fed Sumo and leant against the counter and ate his own dinner—some Chinese takeout from the night before. He looked at the back of Connor's dark head resting against the couch cushion.

"I'm gonna get changed," he said.

Connor made no reply.

Sumo was asleep in his bed. The tv volume was low and murmuring.

"You think you should maybe do your stasis time thing for a while?" Hank said, standing behind the couch, resting his hands on the back. "Would that, uh, help with..."

As Hank looked down at Connor, he noticed Connor had his hand clamped over the stump of his thigh, right up where the thigh met the hip. Every so often the stump gave a small jerk.

"Hey, what's the deal with that?" Hank came round the side of the couch and sat down. "Do you think... We could try massaging it? That was the whole point of the massage in the first place, wasn't it? Come on, I fucked up your leg once already because I was being an asshole. Let me take a look at it."

"That won't be necessary." Connor went on gripping his thigh and staring ahead at the tv, his expression blank.

"Won't be necessary. Okay." Hank worked his jaw back and forth, trying to hold onto his patience. "You want to go on twitching over there, knock yourself out."

"You don't have to sit with me, Lieutenant," Connor said.

"Jesus. What the hell is your problem?" Hank pushed to his feet. "I fucked up. I'm sorry about your leg. Are you gonna let me help you or you gonna just stay like that to spite me—?"

"When I heard the gunshots coming from upstairs—" Connor said abruptly.

It gave Hank a queasy jolt, pulled him back to that loft apartment, crouched down behind the couch with his gun in his hand. The ringing silence that had followed the shots.

"Yeah?" he said, slowly sitting down again.

"Immediately afterwards..." Connor frowned. "And still now. Your biosignals have been...registering with exaggerated clarity." He went on staring ahead at the tv. "I can't...seem to dampen the readings. When it's like this, the impressions can be...quite intense."

"Wait, wait." Hank rocked forward on the couch, turning to face Connor more fully. "What the hell are you saying? What impressions?"

"It might be—better if we were in different rooms," Connor said.

"Connor!" Hank barked.

The android finally turned his head and met Hank's gaze.

"Have you heard of sympathetic experiencing?"

Hank lifted his shoulders in an impatient shrug, shook his head: no.

Connor relaxed his death grip on his thigh. He propped his arm stiffly on the couch's armrest. "It seems that the android somatosensory cortex is just as susceptible to the phenomenon of phantom limb as the human brain is."

"Phantom limb? You mean..." Hank glanced at Connor's stump. "You feel like your leg's still there?"

"No. I mean that sometimes I over-identify with the inputs I receive from your physiological monitor."

Hank's mouth hung open for a beat. "You...over-identify."

"It can happen after high-stress situations, when I've attuned my central processing unit to receive the maximum amount of information from your implant. I enter a state of heightened sensitivity. Sometimes it lingers. It's difficult to moderate, even when I've reassured myself that you are no longer in danger. Even when your biosignals have returned to normal, I experience a...shadow of what you're feeling. Physically."

"A shadow." Hank felt a prickle go up his spine, a sense of something uncanny. "Is that supposed to happen? Have you told them about this at the lab?"

"No." Connor looked up at the ceiling. "Sometimes when I'm in my stasis pod, I feel phantom sensations. A different heartbeat. Your heartbeat. I feel body temperature fluctuations, when my own body temperature is stable. Sometimes I feel touch—pressure, on my skin."

"How long's this been happening?"

"A couple of months."

"Why didn't you say something?"

"I knew that you'd find it disturbing." Connor looked at Hank now, steady, unblinking. "You dislike being connected to me, sharing your data with me. You find it intrusive. I've tried to disengage it when it's happening, but these instances of...sympathetic experiencing—I can't control them when they occur."

Hank shut his eyes for a moment and drooped his head to one side, rubbing his forehead tiredly, feeling like an absolute asshole for the second time that night. "Fuck. That's great. How often have I bitched about having this thing? And the whole time you've been going through this. You should have said something, Connor."

"I enjoy monitoring you."

Hank looked over in surprise. Connor was still staring at him, something child-like in his look, the directness of his gaze.

"I enjoy the sympathetic experiencing. I enjoy feeling what you feel."

He said it baldly. Hank recognized the style of the delivery, from times when Connor didn't know what to do with something, didn't understand something, and he'd just lay it out on the table and see what Hank made of it.

Hank sat silent, one hand resting on the back of the couch.

"Will you tell Doctor Lyndhurst about this?" Connor said. He spoke in a weirdly impersonal tone, inquiring, like an automated recording on a questionnaire.

Hank squinted at him. "Do you want me to?"

"No."

There was a pause.

"Do you think this...relates to deviancy in some way?" Hank said slowly, carefully. "Connor?"

The blue tv light shifted over Connor's face. Connor lifted his chin.

"I'm not a deviant."

"I know that," Hank said carefully.

"What I feel—it's not like human emotion."

"Okay. It's okay."

"I don't want Doctor Lyndhurst to know." Connor's eyes were boring into Hank because Hank had brought up the d-word.

"Then he's not gonna know," Hank said firmly. Connor went on staring at him. He looked lost. "Hey," Hank said quietly. "It's okay."

"Do you find it disturbing?" Connor's eyebrows came down, he tilted his head in inquiringly. "What I've told you?"

"I mean...it's a little fucking crazy, sure." Hank sank back into the couch. He thumped his hand into one of the cushions, trying to knock some shape into it. "You've got...data from someone else's body just...constantly running in your head. I know if it was me I'd be trying to claw my fucking brain out—"

"The data stream I receive from your implant is just a part of my awareness," Connor said, his eyes liquid with sympathy, his tone all patient and gentle like Hank was a child who needed reassurance.

"Yeah, I get that you think it's normal," Hank said flatly. "The other stuff, though, the feeling things that aren't even happening to you, stuff that's happening to—" me. Hank left it unsaid.

Connor was giving him a waiting look, just calm and waiting, something fatalistic about it.

"What?" Hank said irritably. "Do you want me to tell you it's wrong? I don't fucking know, Connor. You know more about androids than I do. What do you think?"

"I don't know either," Connor said.

"Why do you enjoy it? The experiencing thing."

A frown creased Connor's brows. He looked aside. His eyes moved slightly, like he was searching for something, or reading a hidden message in the carpet pile.

"That's...difficult to explain." He narrowed his eyes. "I'm not sure I fully understand it myself. I know I'm not supposed to enjoy it. Sympathetic experiencing seems to be an unintended outgrowth of human-android interfacing. Even when I'm just monitoring your physiological data, I find myself...enjoying it. I find it...reassuring." His mouth hung slightly open after he'd said the word and his eyes snapped to Hank's face, like he was expecting something to happen, like he'd just said something obscene.

"The way you talk about it, it's like I'm a goddamn pet hamster," Hank grumbled. "Just good to know I haven't keeled over yet, is that it?" He frowned as a thought occurred to him. "Wait, is it happening now? The—experiencing thing?"

Connor said nothing, sat unmoving, his head turned towards Hank, his body motionless as a mannequin's.

"You're shitting me." Hank laughed in disbelief. "It's happening right now?" He rubbed a hand across his chest. "Can you feel that?"

Connor's eyes tracked Hank's hand with an affectless, eerie sort of intensity. "Not exactly. It would require more concentration." His stump gave a sudden jerk as if he'd just been stabbed with a fork.

"For Christ's sake, let me take a look at that," Hank said.

Connor still had the case with the strips and the gel inside his jacket pocket. Hank fetched out the pot of gel, then he hung Connor's wet jacket in the bathroom on the shower rail to drip dry.

He sat on the coffee table, slicked his hands and laid the gel pot aside, then placed his hands on the stump. Connor's hand shot out and gripped his wrist.

"What?" Hank backed off. "Feels tender?"

Connor let him go.

"I'm sorry," Connor said. "You can continue."

The stump ended in an empty socket, a cavity where the thigh had fitted in. Hank kneaded the doughy warm flesh of the stump, careful not to let any gel touch the plastic casing of the cavity. His let his hands squeeze and knead, firm and slow.

"Lieutenant," Connor said in a tight voice.

A glance told Hank that Connor was getting hard in his borrowed shorts.

"Relax," Hank grunted. "Don't worry about it."

Connor's elbow went back to the armrest, came off again as he half-reached for Hank's hand.

"You don't have to do this," Connor said. "I can't—stop it. And I know it makes you uncomfortable—"

"You think you're the first guy ever got a boner when he didn't want one?" Hank said dismissively, both hands kneading Connor's stump. He'd pushed the leg of the shorts right into the crease of Connor's hip, pushed the edge of his boxer-briefs up as well to expose all the thigh.

"It made you uncomfortable," Connor said. "Before."

"Yeah, well." Hank sighed. "Caught me off-guard, that's all."

He could feel Connor's eyes on him while he worked.

"How's it feeling?" Hank said, for the sake of something to say.

Connor's hips gave a small jerk, the stump twitched under Hank's hands. He spread his good leg slightly, showing Hank his crotch, showing Hank how he was tenting his shorts.

Connor grabbed an edge of the quilt that lay on the couch and tried to pull it towards his lap.

"I said don't worry about it," Hank murmured.

"I think we should stop now," Connor said, stiffly, pleasantly.

Hank lifted his hands away. Connor's stump twitched again. Hank tried not to let his eyes linger on the pole in Connor's shorts. He searched for something to wipe the slippery sheen off Connor's skin.

He was surprised when Connor's hand landed on his arm. The hand was surprisingly warm, fingers and thumb squeezing Hank's arm gently, moving a little, like he was feeling out the shape of the muscle.

"What?" Hank said. "You want me to keep going?"

Connor had his head pressed back against the couch cushion. His dark, doe eyes were heavy-lidded, fixed on Hank.

"Want me to keep going?" Hank said again. He cupped his hands over Connor's stump.

"Hank..." The stump twitched fitfully.

"It's okay." Hank's voice came out rough. He'd been trying to ignore the fact that this was getting to him, but it was hard to pretend now. "You said it was involuntary, right?" He smiled self-deprecatingly.

"You're sexually aroused," Connor said.

Hank dropped his head for a moment, his hands still, cupped over the thigh flesh.

"Guess there's no point in lying, huh?" he said.

Connor shifted his head restlessly against the cushion.

"I can feel it."

"Christ." Hank massaged the stump slowly, kept his eyes down. "What do you mean?" he said reluctantly, almost a groan of reluctance. His pulse felt thick beating through him, it was making him hard, making his dick fat and stiff, shameless as a dog. He adjusted his dick in his joggers. Connor's good leg jerked a little. Hank laid a hand on that leg, held it still.

"You're seriously feeling this?" he huffed.

"Your readings are...loud." Connor was staring at Hank's crotch. "At the moment."

"Connor..." Hank said warningly, keeping a hold of Connor's leg, watching helplessly as Connor's hand moved, rubbed over his hip, then touching himself, rubbing the wood that was tenting his shorts, stroking himself in a daze. "Fuck, Connor. Hold on." Hank caught his wrist, drew his hand off. Maybe Connor didn't even know what he was doing—didn't know what it meant.

"This is fucking insane," Hank muttered. But then he let go of the kid's hand and stared as Connor touched himself again, rubbed his hand slowly over his stiff prick through Hank's old basketball shorts.

"I can't—" Connor's other hand gripped the couch cushion by his stump.

"What?" Hank said breathlessly. He touched himself, adjusted himself again, resettling his dick in the confines of his underwear and joggers, and he was giving himself a little squeeze too, and he saw in Connor's face that the kid was feeling it.

"Aw fuck. Connor, this is..."

"More," Connor said, his eyes moving from Hank's hand to Hank's face with rapt attention. "I'd like to...feel more."

So goddamn polite.

"More, huh?" Hank rubbed himself through his joggers, opened his legs a little to do it, his knee bumping Connor's knee, he gave his nuts a lazy scrub.

Connor's mouth fell open, his lips plump and shaped in surprise.

"Fuck," Hank grunted. "You feel that?" He fondled his dick slowly for the kid.

It seemed impossible, that a fucking implant in his brain was firing while Hank felt nothing from it, but he could see what it was doing to Connor, the way the kid was squirming all dazed on the couch, confused almost at what was being done to him, his hand moving between his spread thighs, copying Hank.

Connor reached out his free hand. Hank leant in, frowning, and Connor gripped his shoulder for a moment, fingers tight in Hank's t-shirt. Then he placed the palm of his hand to the side of Hank's skull, where the chip was, and his eyes rolled back, his eyelids blinking over and over.

"Shit." Hank huffed an uncertain laugh. "The hell are you doing?"

Connor took his hand away shakily.

"The hell're you doing, huh?"

"It feels..." Connor rubbed his hand over Hank's chest. He reached for him, struggling to sit up. Hank gripped his elbow to help him. Suddenly their faces were close and Connor was sliding a hand up his thigh.

"Woah, woah." Hank caught his hand, another breathless huff of laughter escaping him. "Kid—" This was going off the rails. What if more than Connor’s leg had been damaged during that fight in the alleyway? What if Connor’s mind wasn’t working right?

"Listen, maybe we should…"

Connor had his hand over Hank's thumping heart. He leant closer and his mouth pressed artlessly against Hank's.

"Shit, Connor,” Hank pleaded weakly. He let the kid kiss him again. "What the fuck are we doing?" he breathed against Connor's mouth. "Maybe...we shouldn't..."

Connor was tilting his head, nuzzling his very soft lips against Hank's, and at the same time Connor's hand slid between Hank's legs and rubbed gently over Hank's cock through his joggers.

"Fuck." Hank had his fingers in the kid's hair, holding his head, and he turned his head properly and gave in, kissing Connor's mouth, licking the tip of his tongue against his lips. "Open your mouth a little," he huffed, drawing back just enough to get an impression of Connor's dark eyes fixed on him, Connor's lips parting in a way that begged to be kissed.

"Yeah," Hank said weakly, already leaning in again, kissing again, and easing his tongue in. He shifted on the coffee table, opening his legs while Connor's hand cupped him. Connor's mouth was loose, he stayed quite motionless and allowed Hank to kiss him. His nose smushed against Hank's cheek, his eyelids fluttering again as he fondled Hank's cock gently.

"Aw fuck," Hank groaned, feeling how wrong this was, the situation sliding out of control, but he still reached down and covered Connor's hand with his hand, rubbing his prick against it, showing Connor how to cup him and rub him. It had been nearly a year since he'd last gotten laid. It was embarrassing how hard he was just having someone else's hand on his prick.

Connor buried his face in Hank's neck. He leaned heavy into him so that the coffee table creaked, his body flexing subtly in time with how he was rubbing Hank's prick.

It hit Hank hard—that Connor was experiencing something of what he was feeling, Connor was touching Hank, feeling his own hand through Hank.

"Is this...what you feel?" Connor said, his voice muffled against Hank's neck.

"What do you mean?" Hank winced with how good it was. He stroked his hand over Connor's stump, and tenatively explored the shorts to touch him, only to find the crotch of the shorts all wet. "Woah—what the hell?"

He took Connor by the shoulders and held him away.

"Wait," Connor said. "Hank—please—"

He wasn't used to hearing Connor say that. He patted the side of the kid's neck. "It's okay, just—let me see."

Connor lay back stiffly against the couch. Hank touched him, the hard pole in his shorts, slimy wet all round the head, the shorts all damp.

"Fuck, Connor. Did you...?" Hank eased down the waistband of the shorts, and Connor's boxer-briefs underneath, tugged them down Connor's stump and part-way down his left leg.

Hank just stared for a moment. Connor's penis was circumcised—it was plastic, of course, but it looked perfectly real. Stiff and twitching, wet, his ballsack draw up all taut and needy. No hair on him. He looked in every way very ready to have sex.

Hank put his thumb to the underside of Connor's cock, holding it still to admire it. "Why the fuck did they give you this? Huh?" He cupped the ballsack gently in his other hand. "Fuck, do you play with this?"

"No." Connor's hand was on Hank's arm, feeling the skin and muscle again. "Can I touch you, Hank?"

"You telling me you don't play with this?" Hank said roughly, his mouth running away with him, hypnotized by this android prick in his hand, curling his fist loosely around it and giving it a slow tug.

He just about fell off the coffee table when Sumo's nose suddenly butted his arm out of nowhere.

"Jesus—Sumo!" He put his arm across Connor, pushing the dog away with his other hand. "Get out of here! Go back to your bed!"

Sumo ignored him, nosing around at the gel pot on the table instead.

"Goddamn it," Hank muttered, grabbing the cap and screwing it back on.

Connor had his shorts balled up in his hand covering his cock, one leg of the shorts still hooked on his one leg, his thigh muscles tensing as he shifted on the couch.

"Come on." Hank stood up. He pulled Connor up, stood on one leg, he tried to get the shorts over his stump while Connor held onto his shoulders. Then, with a muttered curse, he gathered Connor up, hooked his arm under Connor's leg and picked him up. Sumo jumped up excitedly.

"No! Sumo, down!"

Swearing, Hank carried Connor to the bedroom, shouldered the door shut behind them, leaving Sumo padding around outside.

"Goddamn dog," Hank muttered. He put Connor down on the bed and the awkwardness of the moment crashed over him, the absurdity of what they'd been doing, and bringing Connor in here—bringing an android to his bed, a cop android—what the fuck did he think he was doing?

"Look, uh—" Hank rubbed the back of his neck.

Connor lay back on the bed and pushed the shorts down, his stump lifting as he pushed the shorts down his good leg, giving Hank a quick view of everything. A pretty little dusky pink asshole.

"Connor..." Hank stood there like an idiot, his mouth gone dry.

"I'd like to continue," Connor said, sitting up. "If that's alright with you." His eyes were on Hank's crotch.

"Let's just—fuck, let's take a minute here—" Hank had a hand on the nape of Connor's neck, his thumb stroking the buzzed hair there, as Connor was rubbing his wet mouth against Hank's prick. "Fuck me..." Hank muttered, widening his stance a little in spite of himself, looking down as the kid kissed his prick. A hot tongue slid out and rolled against him. Hank groaned.

"You know about—about this? You know this is—sex?" Hank squeezed his eyes shut as that hot slippery tongue rolled against the underside of his helmet repeatedly. "Jesus."

Then Connor turned his head aside and pressed his forehead to Hank's hip.

"What is it? You okay, kid?" Hank laid his hand on top of Connor's head uncertainly.

"It...it feels..."

Connor leaned back slowly. He looked up at Hank with a look like he wasn't with it, his eyelids heavy, and he rested back on his hand while with his other hand he cupped himselft between his legs, covering his cock and balls.

He lay down fully and gripped his penis in his hand, awkwardly squirming at the same time, his stump grinding clumsily on the bed.

"I—I can't—" Connor grit out.

"Okay, just—take it easy, kid. Come here." Hank got on the bed and climbed over Connor. He lay down, put his hand on Connor's shoulder, tugging at his t-shirt. "It's okay, come here."

Connor shifted up the bed, rolled over to face Hank.

"I want to—feel it—" Connor's hand moved restlessly on his prick. "Hank..."

"It's okay, Connor." Hank took Connor's wrist and gently drew his hand away. "Don't hurt yourself."

"I need—to touch you..."

"Alright. You can touch me. Come here." Hank eased Connor onto his back. He climbed on top of him and he took Connor's hand and guided it to his prick. He spat on his own hand quickly, wiped it on his prick, getting himself wet, then he prodded his swollen fat prick against Connor's loose hand.

"I liked it when—I tasted you...with my mouth." Connor allowed Hank to curl his fist around Hank's prick.

"Yeah, so did I." Hank leaned up on his hand and slowly started rocking his hips, fucking into Connor's fist slowly. "This is good too," Hank huffed. "Mn. Feel that?"

Connor made a small dip with his chin, a nod.

"Good. That's good." Hank sniffed, adjusted the way he was leaning on his elbow, the line of his hips, got comfortable and started rolling his hips again, the mattress squeaking gently, fucking Connor's hand while Connor's hand stayed curled around him just right.

"You feel that?" Hank said. "Feel good?" Because Hank was shaking a little with how good it felt.

Connor started blinking all slow, his mouth all loose. After a moment, his eyes rolled back and he started blinking rapidly.

"Fuck," Hank whispered, going still. "Connor? Hey, kid—"

Connor let go of him and arched slow like someone stretching, with so much sudden freakish strength that he lifted Hank up as well. Hank grabbed at Connor's torso as he rolled off him. Connor's eyes were half-lidded, his mouth open, he shook like he was stretching, while his penis twitched with a mind of its own and spat wet up Connor's t-shirt.

"Jesus," Hank said shakily. He reached tentatively over and captured Connor's twitching prick in his hand. As he stroked him, more semen (or a life-like approximation of it) dribbled out in a sudden rope of white.

"Fuck, that's it," Hank said in a gravely voice. "There you go. There it is."

When Connor eased down to lie flat again, Hank leaned up over him, staring down at him, a little terrified that he'd broken him. "You okay?"

"S'Good," Connor slurred.

"Yeah? It's good?"

Connor was staring straight ahead, his mouth open, his face registering a kind of blank shock.

"Connor? You with me?" Hank wiped his hand on his t-shirt and touched Connor's chin, turning his head so their eyes met.

"Yes, Lieutenant," Connor said softly.

Hank huffed a weak laugh. "Lieutenant?"

Connor's brows came together in a faint frown. "I'm sorry. Hank."

Hank's eyes moved over Connor's face and then couldn't help leaning down and kissing the kid's beautiful mouth.

He drew back, and for a moment he was arrested by Connor's trusting, dark eyes. The ejaculate all up his chest, his penis still hard. Hank stroked his hand over the leg stump. Wrong, this was wrong.

"I'm worried I'm...takin advantage of you."

Connor gazed at him. "What do you mean?"

"Just...this entire crazy fuckin situation!"

Connor's hand was on Hank's hip and he nudged him to lie on his side again. Hank figured he was saying without words that he wanted to stop, but then Connor wrapped his hand around Hank's prick again and he started tugging him with the curl of his fist just as tight as Hank had shown him.

"I want to...keep going," Connor said quietly. He studied Hank's face as he carefully tugged on him.

"Fuck." Hank cupped his hand under Connor's stump as they lay facing each other, cupping the tight little buttock. His cock was wet and dark, glistening in Connor's stroking hand. He'd taught Connor this. It seemed wrong. Like he was perverting him. Seeing Connor like this, lying here on his bed in a t-shirt and nothing else, looking completely human with his prick exposed, only the cavity of his leg stump giving him away, and maybe it was a thrill seeing him so obviously android at the same time as looking so much like a regular man.

Hank stroked his hand over Connor's hip, up under his t-shirt, stroking his back. He looked down between them at how Connor's fist was jacking him.

"Feels so good," Hank said, his voice choked. "Fuck. I been thinking about this." He watched his own hand sliding Connor's t-shirt further up his torso, so he could see more of him. "I thought about you like this." He'd been pushing it away, how long had he been pushing it away? "Jesus. You still feelin that?"

Connor's eyes were closed, his brows drawn together. His prick was twitching, up and down, a shameless wagging rise and fall. "Yes."

His stump twitched, twitched, and Hank cupped his hand all warm and firm over it, squeezed the meat of the thigh. Connor made a rough noise in his throat that had a faint tone like a synthesizer in it.

Hank thought about how it would feel to fuck him, just like this. Roll him onto his back. Some lube to wet his hole, push into him, right here on Hank's bed, hold Connor's leg to spread him, hold his stump like this and fuck his ass, let Connor feel it through Hank's body how good it felt.

"Fuck me with your hand," Hank said. "Like that. You feel how good that is?" He pressed his forehead to Connor's. Hank looked down between them again, at his prick peeping in and out through Connor's fist. "Yeah, like that. Tug it. That feels so fuckin good." His wet helmet was glistening wet with precome, Connor's jacking fist so steady and assured. "Unh, fuck, Connor. Don't stop. I'm so fuckin close." He kissed Connor's mouth messily. "Gonna come," he panted. "Can you feel it?"

"Yes." Connor's voice was soft, helpless. "Yes, I feel it."

"So close, baby. Fuck. Like that. Just like that." Hank lay tense, his eyes squeezing shut. "Aw, baby, fuck."

He came off like a pump.

Connor's hand didn't falter on him, even while Connor had a look on his face like he was getting a download from the goddamn universe. Hank grunted, shuddering, making a mess all over both of them. He took a second to realize Connor's prick was bobbing, spitting more come, almost in tandem with Hank's orgasm.

Hank lifted Connor's hand away when it became too much. Connor's hand went on moving restlessly for a few seconds, opening and closing on his thigh.

Hank rested leaning on his elbow. "You came again," he said, marvelling. He sprawled on his back with a breathless laugh, then reached over to the nightstand for some tissues.

"You okay, kid?" he said as he wiped off.

"Hank..." Connor lay flat on his back, staring up at the ceiling.

"Yeah, Connor." Hank took hold of Connor's wrist and wiped his hand off with a tissue, because Connor was making no move to clean himself up.

"Is that how it always is?" Connor said, his brows drawn together, frowning.

"I mean..." Hank tossed the dirty tissues onto the floor. "You made it good. For me." He cleared his throat awkwardly. "Was it...good for you?"

Connor turned his head to look at him. "Yes," he said, with solemn sincerity that was a little out of keeping with his appearance, naked as he was asides from a come-streaked DPD t-shirt, and missing his right leg.

Hank looked him over. "You wanna sleep? Do your—stasis thing?"

"That would probably be a good idea."

"Okay."

"I want to stay here," Connor said firmly. He pressed his lips together.

"Well where the hell else are you gonna go?" Hank said. "Let's just get you something clean to sleep in."

Hank got up with a groan and went bare-assed over to the chest of drawers. He pulled on some clean underwear, dug out clothes for Connor.

He glanced at Connor's leg, lying on the floor by the wardrobe. It seemed impolite to Connor, somehow, to have it just lying there, all smashed up under the knee and spattered with blue blood. He picked up a towel he'd left draped over the chair that morning. He covered the leg with it.

When he turned back to the bed, he found Connor was already out, his eyes closed, his mouth slightly open.