Work Text:
Spring is proving to be Connor's favorite season. It's a premature conclusion, he knows, because he hasn't experienced a full year's worth of seasons yet, but he feels confident in it. He's fascinated by green and growing things, and by the process of nurturing them; seeing his efforts pay off in the form of tight buds that gently unfurl into soft blooms and pale new growth on the winter-bare trees of the garden has given him a peace, these past few weeks, that he's never been able to reach on his own.
It isn't a calmness that stays with him at all times, of course, but he's finding more and more often that there are moments when the frantic wheel of worry in his mind slows or stops and he's able to focus on the physical act of caring for something small and fragile. Each of these moments is a gift that he treasures dearly.
Connor knows he was never meant to be gentle, beyond using the illusion of gentleness to achieve his goals, but as the space between those painful months in captivity and the current moment grows, he wonders if it could be something he chooses for himself. He wants that to be who he is. He hopes he's right, in those moments when he thinks it may be possible.
Connor leans forward, bracing a palm on the ground while reaching into the lilac bush in front of him to prune a dead branch, and he feels the faint warmth of the spring sunshine where it's soaked into the soil. He comprehends the physical processes of plant growth, but there's a difference, he finds, in understanding the role of the sun in photosynthesis and feeling the echo of its heat beneath his hand. His understanding of the world shifts each time he experiences these things directly.
He pauses for a moment, pressing both hands to the earth and enjoying the small moment of warmth as his manual sensors register and process the change in temperature and texture, but quickly takes up his pruning shears again when he hears the sound of footsteps approaching down the path. His supervisors have taken the lack of legally-mandated breaks for android workers to its natural conclusion: it's considered unacceptable for any of the androids employed by the garden to pause in their work at all, so Connor has learned to at least look busy any time there's a chance of being observed. Most visitors don't mind one way or the other; he's doubly invisible as both an android and a manual laborer, and is therefore beneath the notice of many of the people who come through the garden. Still, it never hurts to play it safe, and Connor wedges his shears into the middle of the thick bush, careful not to nick any of the healthy stems while lining up the next cut.
"Shit, that's nice," a deep voice says above him. Connor blinks, startled, and for a brief moment thinks the voice is addressing him. Complimenting his pruning technique, perhaps. It's an illogical conclusion, but something in the low murmur tugs at him; of course it's not directed at him, but he wishes it was.
The voice speaks again. "I wonder what the hell these are?"
Connor responds without thinking. It's his job to do so, of course, if visitors to the garden have questions; usually he'll wait until asked directly to speak to anyone, but he doesn't want to wait, this time.
"This is an early-blooming lilac varietal," he says, shifting his weight to look around the bush and get a glimpse of who he's speaking to. The answer seems to be unexpected; before he can get a surreptitious peek at the speaker, the man in question stiffens and steps around the bush entirely, towering over Connor as he expresses his surprise.
Connor's slightly taller than average for humans or androids, but this man is taller still, and sturdily-built, fat and muscle padding out his frame to form a shape an android's body could never achieve. Beyond the solid presence of his size, it's his eyes that draw Connor's attention: they're pale, hooded by heavy eyelids and highlighted by crows'-feet wrinkles at the outer corner. Beautiful , he thinks. There's no trace of a smile on his face, but he doesn't seem annoyed by Connor's unsolicited comment, or by the fact that he's standing--Connor hardly thinks about it as he does so, but he instinctively rises in an effort to get closer, to engage this man further--to greet him when he may very well want to be on his way. There's a softness beneath the weary lines of his expression that Connor feels comforted by, somehow. Something warm below the surface. Kindness, perhaps.
He's certainly kind when he waves off Connor's apology for surprising him. "Don't worry about it," he says, stepping closer to the bush Connor's been pruning and bringing his nose to a cone of blooms for a deep inhale. "Guess I know what this is now, anyway." His hair falls in front of his face as he leans down, and Connor has the sudden urge to brush it away from his eyes, to tuck the errant strands behind his ear and let his fingertips linger on his neck.
It's a ridiculous impulse.
Connor knows he's attracted to men. It's always been a bit of an abstract understanding, a sense that his feelings of attraction lie in a certain direction even if he's rarely experienced those feelings directly. His eye is drawn to other men in a way it isn't to people of other genders, as a general rule, and he has enough of a sense of his own sexuality to know where his preferences lie, in terms of what he wants and what sort of person he might want to experience such things with. None of these facts are a surprise.
What is a surprise, though, is the strange, unsettled energy he feels crackling through his nervous system when he watches this stranger bend over the lilac bush, breathing deeply with his eyes closed. The impulse to touch him grows stronger, and Connor finds himself feeling oddly resentful that the coat he's wearing is just bulky enough to hide the finer details of his silhouette. His hands twitch with the desire to push it from his shoulders.
"Can you smell this?" the man asks, gesturing towards the lilac blossoms. He grimaces as soon as the words leave his mouth, and a faint flush colors his cheeks. It's very attractive, even if Connor isn't sure why he's embarrassed. "Is that a rude question?"
It's not something Connor's been asked before. People don't tend to be outright hostile to him very often, it's true--although Connor's habit of keeping to himself was formed in part because he wants to give others as few opportunities as possible for rudeness or hostility--but he's rarely been afforded much consideration, either. He's certain no one has ever asked if something they've said has offended him.
He smiles, then, more broadly than is his custom, and feels his posture relax as he replies. He's never considered, before, that he might speak differently with someone he feels comfortable with than he does with the staff or visitors he comes in contact with on a daily basis, but something loosens in his chest as he speaks quietly with this handsome man who somehow seems as pleased and surprised to be having this small conversation as Connor is.
Connor laughs, startling himself, when the man apologizes for his poor conversational skills. Has he laughed, before? In a conversation with his supervisor, most likely; laughter in the face of poor treatment is an excellent way to defuse a tense situation, to signal to others that he isn't taking anything personally or planning to complain. He's made that empty gesture before, plenty of times, but the awkward laugh that escapes him now is genuine and entirely new. He shifts his weight, taking a step closer as he explains the nature of his work in the garden. He wishes the stranger would ask him something else, something about the lilacs or the turtles in the pond or the late frost that hit the garden last week, any excuse he can find to continue the conversation. He knows this is just a stray moment, a chance meeting the other man will soon forget, but he foolishly wants to hold onto it for longer.
It must be foolishness, he thinks later, or recklessness, or the sharp, sudden spark of arousal that flares in his chest when he looks at the stranger's hands, but when he says he needs to leave, Connor can't quite let him go. Not without--he isn't sure what he wants to do, what he should do, but his mind races as he tries to think of something.
"I hope you'll come back," he says, and the man replies that he will, maybe.
That should be it. Connor knows it should. It's not, though--he can't let it be. When the man turns to leave, Connor steps forward, angling his stride to intercept him before he can step away. "I'm Connor, by the way," he says; somehow the thought of this man not knowing his name is unbearable. If he thinks on this moment later, the way Connor surely will, he'd like him to have a name to tuck into the memory. He'd like to hear the stranger's name in return, of course.
It's too forward, Connor knows, but he holds his hand out as well, hoping the stranger will be willing to shake it.
He is, thankfully. "Hank," he offers, his large hand swallowing Connor's as he shakes it firmly. It's a good name, Connor thinks, solid and comforting. His hand is warm, slightly rough in a way Connor's manual sensors find particularly engaging, and it takes a great deal of effort for Connor not to sigh, or shake, or stagger forward and tuck himself into Hank's overlarge coat. Unreasonable impulses, all of them, but as controlled as Connor has had to be, as wary as he is of impulsive behavior, he struggles in this moment not to give in to them.
Connor lets go of the man's hand ( Hank , he thinks, rolling the sound around in his mind, Hank's hand. His broad, thick-fingered hand that could surely-- ) reluctantly, a full two seconds after his social protocols inform him he should. He catches something in Hank's expression as they exchange a few more words, a moment of hesitation that Connor thinks may mirror his own reluctance to see Hank leave. He shouldn't assume anything from it, but that hint of interest is enough to spur Connor into action.
"I'm glad you stopped by," Connor says, as he drops Hank's hand. As he'd hoped, Hank's slow enough to turn away that he's able to grab his pruning shears, snip a small sprig of lilacs from the bush (something he is absolutely not permitted to do, an act he could be reprimanded or possibly fired for), and present it to him before he leaves.
"I'm pretty sure you're not supposed to do that," Hank says. His brow is furrowed, but he looks confused, not upset, by the offering. Hank shifts his weight forward, then pauses, as if he's stopping himself from accepting the flowers. He wants to, Connor can tell; there's something holding him back, though, and he isn't sure what it is.
"My hand slipped," Connor says. "I was trimming the dead branches, and I made an error." He eyes Hank hungrily, giving him a wink as he holds the flowers out again. "Perhaps I was distracted. It would be a shame for this to go to waste, wouldn't it?"
Hank doesn't need much convincing. He holds out his hand, but Connor can't bear to waste this chance; he steps close, closer even than he'd been a moment ago when he'd offered his hand, and holds the lapel of Hank's coat in one hand while he tucks the sprig of lilacs into its breast pocket with the other.
Hank stiffens at his touch, and Connor's worried that he's misstepped, but he doesn't move away. In fact, Connor feels the slight sway in his stance as he leans forward an almost imperceptible amount, as if he's seeking more contact. His heartrate, too, has increased; Connor's able to sense the change, when he's this close. He isn't sure, but he thinks maybe--
Ah, yes. Connor glances up at Hank's face, so tantalizingly close to him now, and sees the faintest hint of color on his cheeks. You like this , Connor thinks. He almost says it aloud.
Instead, he lingers close to Hank for another moment, adjusting the angle of the lilacs so they're attractively framed by their dark leaves, and allows himself the tiny thrill of smoothing Hank's coat when he's done, pressing his fingers flat against Hank's chest for a fleeting moment as he chases away an imaginary wrinkle. His pulse leaps again, and the knot of desire in Connor's chest twists more tightly.
"I do hope I'll see you again, Hank," he says as he reluctantly takes a step back. It isn't like Connor stays here by the lilac bushes all day; if Hank returns, he may not be easy to find, but Connor wants to be found. He wants Hank to seek him out, to want--
To want to see him, he tells himself, before he can get lost in a sea of further possibilities. That's all he can hope for, if he even has the right to hope for that.
"If you come back, I'd like it if you said hello."
"I'll look for you," Hank says. It's almost a question; Connor wonders if Hank's just humoring him, saying what Connor wants to hear until he can extract himself from the presence of a strange, lonely android who's far too eager to invade his personal space. But he pauses, then, just a moment before he does finally turn to leave, and his tired eyes soften as he offers Connor a smile, small but genuine. The faint shadow of a gap is barely visible between Hank's front teeth; Connor wonders if he'd be able to feel it with his tongue.
And then he leaves, now that Connor's exhausted all reasonable excuses to make him stay. Connor stands frozen in place, his shears forgotten at his feet as he watches until Hank's hidden from view by the dogwoods at the edge of the open meadow.
He doesn't move for three minutes after that; he just stares at the path and the dogwood blossoms and tries to make sense of what just happened. Now that Hank's no longer in front of him, the rush of new information he's just taken in--the dark rasp of Hank's voice, the seaglass-blue of his eyes, the firm press of his hand--threatens to overwhelm him.
"This has never happened before," Connor murmurs, as he sinks back to the ground. He needs to move on to other tasks soon, if he doesn't want to fall behind on his work, but he needs a moment to gather himself, first. He touches the earth again, presses his palms to the soil to feel the gentle heat there, and thinks about the solid warmth of Hank's body. About how warm the bare skin of his chest must be.
Connor's no stranger to wanting things. He remembers a time before he had that capacity at all, and the staggering shock of it hitting him, the sudden understanding that there were things in this world he wanted. Things he had a right to want for himself, and for others. He places a great deal of importance on his own choices; as constrained as he is by the realities of his job, by his hesitation to build close connections with other androids, by the always-present worry that he doesn't deserve to prioritize his own happiness, he still finds value in wanting something.
There's a small rush of spite he feels, sometimes, when he makes a decision for himself. When he buys a new houseplant because he thinks it's beautiful, or brings a little container of mealworms from the pet store to throw to the turtles in the pond. In a petty way, it feels like an act of revenge against the people who never intended for him to love turtles, or the dew that covers the grass early in the morning, or living a quiet life away from their control. Like many androids, Connor understands the power of his own desire.
This is something different , he thinks, as he finally stands and moves to the next flowerbed. He plucks weeds from among ruffled pink and white peonies and thinks about how badly he wanted to tuck Hank's hair behind his ear. How he wanted to strip the coat from his back to get a better look at him. How even now he wants, with an intensity that surprises him, to speak with him again. To press his hand to Hank's chest so he can feel the rumble of his voice when he tells Connor he couldn't bear to stay away.
He's never wanted anything like this before. Never wanted another person at all. He still isn't sure, exactly, why Hank made such an impression on him, beyond the fact that he was handsome and gentle and surprisingly kind.
Connor had known, the first time he entered the garden, that this was where he wanted to spend his time. That he could feel useful here, and focus on nurturing living things, and perhaps find some contentment as he tries to make sense of what he's experienced. It had been a distinct, immediate reaction: he'd known this was his place. He wonders if it's possible to feel the same way about another person after a first meeting. He thinks it must be.
He's still learning how his emotions work, still making sense of the most complicated ones now that he has the time and freedom to do so without anyone violating his mental landscape in the name of research, but he knows whatever just happened was important. The same certainty that he'd felt when he first stepped into the garden grips him now.
"I'll look for you," Hank had said. It's not a promise, not quite, but it's enough for Connor to hold on to. A seed he can plant in the hopeful soil of his mind, a possibility he can nurture and draw some comfort from, even if he never--
He will, Connor tells himself firmly. He will. He remembers Hank's heartbeat racing at the faintest touch of his hand and feels certain that he'll return. Already he feels the seed inside him swelling, pale leaves uncurling as the thought takes root.
"He'll look for me," Connor murmurs to the peonies nodding in the breeze, to a mockingbird eyeing him from a nearby fencepost. The mockingbird gives a short, sharp trill, as if in agreement, and takes off into the cold afternoon breeze.