Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Connor’s heard you say so a hundred times before: Friday nights are not your favourite. He’s beginning to understand why.

Even on a usual day, the crowds that gather are rowdy and demanding, full of entitled nine-to-fivers who just want their first two fingers of relief. Tonight it’s worse: people swamp the place, all on their way to or from some big event in the city. They’re pushing and clamouring for attention so much that even your co-workers’ usual cheer has lost its sheen.

It doesn’t help that half the DPD are sitting in the back—in their corner of the bar—either. In any normal circumstances, a substantial police presence would be a deterrent against poor behaviour, but it’s so busy that no-one notices them at all.

There are plenty of people to watch, and Connor does. His eyes follow the young couple at the end of the bar, arguing in flirtatious whispers and brushing shoulders suggestively; the group of office workers venting over their drinks, gesturing for emphasis and sending vibrations across their table; the steady stream of people wandering through the door, shedding coats in the newfound warmth, cheering and greeting their waiting friends.

Hank would laugh if he called it a hobby, so perhaps it’s best to call it a study: with deviance comes emotion, but emotions mean nothing without literacy and context. Connor watches the ebb and swell of the crowd, searching for the telltale clues of emotion in faces and posture, mapping every twitch of brows, every smile, every dart of the eyes. It’s arduous and frustrating, but he’s building a map of feeling: reading the expressions of others and trailing red thread to where he discovers the same spark in himself.

You, however, stymie him: a crystal clear reflection on a still pond, rippling depths below hidden by the light above. Still, he tries.

The crowds help, in the meantime—at least with his research. Someone’s causing a ruckus by the door; you’re in charge, so it’s your decision to send your second-in-command Jo, the bartender built like a goddamn Greek god with brain cells to match, to kick out the offending patrons while you supervise.

The intervention—rough reprimand, in your case, and blithe, cheerful mediation on Jo’s—has the intended effect on the rest of the bar: they quiet down long enough for you to give them a cordial warning about the owners’ policies regarding service: namely, piss off the bartender at your peril. No-one, you’d confided once, had to know that the owner’s an idiot and that you make the policies.

You wander back to your haven behind the bar, dodging errant colleagues and shards of ice on the floor, and familiar, grumbling laughter greets you from beside Connor; as he studies your face, you don’t remark on it, or react to it, and he presumes it’s because you’re being quietly charitable. As Connor understands it, Hank’s been a semi-regular fixture in the place since even before you started working there—by human logic, he’d earned the right to test your patience from time to time.

“You’ve got some balls, kid.”

“Good thing someone does,” you say, deadpan. In a similar way to the dozens of other nights Connor had spent time in your presence, you aren’t particularly sociable: your attitude is prickly, full of sharp wit, but it… suits you. Hank doesn’t bat an eye at your accusing tone—he’s more than accustomed to your attitude. “Otherwise nothing would get done around here.”

You cast your eyes at Connor, who smiles apologetically. “Beyond the scope of my programming.”

Hank’s snorting softly when you turn to him.

“Hey, don’t look at me.” He lifts his drink halfway to his lips, gesturing with it to indicate all the other cops crammed into the space behind him. “I’m off duty.”

“What good are you, then?”

Hank huffs, indignant, only interrupted when someone bumps into his shoulder and he has to focus to avoid spilling his drink. Sarah, the uniformed officer at Hank’s elbow, apologises softly, and he waves her away with a gruff dismissal that Connor’s come to understand as care. She makes a joke—Connor’s sensors are full of the room, torn in fifty different directions by fifty different voices, and he doesn’t quite catch the words—and Hank laughs. It triggers in Connor a kind of rush that he catalogues as relief—a peaceful sense that all is well. It’s calming.

Blue eyes and brown follow you as you take the dishcloth draped over your shoulder and throw it at the ledge beneath the bar. Hank assesses your face in a practised way, looking for your mood with an insight Connor can’t quite replicate, despite his best efforts.

“I take it this case was a big one.” Your eyes flicker over Hank’s face, over the assembled police force behind him, even to find Connor—he feels some of his idling systems flare into life when you look at him, a warm blush of electricity at the attention. “Seems to me that you’re celebrating more than usual.”

“Yeah, you could say that.” Hank replaces his glass on the disintegrating cardboard coaster. “Gave us the fuckin’ run around, that’s for sure.”

“We succeeded.” Connor leans forward, resting one arm on the bar. “The officers involved carried out the operation admirably.”

Hank’s derisive snort doesn’t sting. Connor knows he doesn’t mean it, not in any substantive way.

“Course you’d say that. You’re the fuckin’ idiot who chased our guy across train tracks to tackle him.”

Connor considered the criticism, though not for long. It wasn’t the first time Hank had voiced it. “Better that than let him get away, Hank.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not dragging you out from under a train. It’s not like you’ll just… come back this time.”

Hank, gaining no ground in the conversation, looks at you and you give him a small half-smirk before shaking your head and looking away.

“Hold up,” you say, turning back and placing both palms on the bar, leaning into them, “you’ve died before?”

“Made a fuckin’ hobby of it.” Hank downs the last of his drink and sighs his satisfaction, replacing the glass with a gentle clunk, masked by the bustling chatter in the room.

“That’s not true.” His protest is weak and Hank knows it; Connor’s mouth is halfway open when Hank interrupts him.

“I’ve seen you almost jump off goddamn buildings, Connor. Fuckin’ picture of recklessness.”

It’s taken practice, but Connor can see through the cracks in Hank’s rough exterior and find the hard-won attachment beneath it. He doesn’t show it often, and he certainly doesn’t show it in typical ways, but it’s there—a quiet take fucking care of yourself buried in the words so he doesn’t have to say them aloud. So he doesn’t have to reveal himself. As ill equipped as Hank is to help him navigate emotion, Connor appreciates him and his attempt at being a guiding influence, even if in actuality their roles end up reversed sometimes.

Somewhere behind Connor, something attracts your attention. His eyes are immediately on your face, searching for problems, but the usual dark spot between your brows doesn’t appear, so you’re unconcerned, even if a moment later you’re grabbing your discarded dishcloth and excusing yourself under the guise of helping Jo out for a minute.

Ben Collins claps Hank on the shoulder and offers a second round of congratulations for the case closure; his eyes crinkle at the corners, his attitude mild and relaxed, and while Hank is very much resistant to the recognition, he relents under Ben’s placid tenacity. Hank knows he won’t be able to persuade him differently, so he doesn’t try.

Ben has one hand on the bar and is scanning for you, or one of your colleagues, when Connor notices you reappear in the crowd, a crate of glassware held firm against your hip, your expression slightly south of neutral—a warning for the people obstructing your way.

The crate appears heavy—you readjust it more than once as you pick your way across the room, irritation a short-lived flare across your features, until Jo walks up behind you and plucks it from your arms as if it weighs nothing.

Connor can hear you giving them hell for interfering, for popping up out of nowhere like that, but Jo laughs you off as usual and carries the crate to the other end of the bar before heading off to collect more glasses.

Your expression changes when Jo moves: as soon as you’re out of their sight-line, your furrowed brow and annoyance lessen; you exhale gently and cast your eyes away.

It’s a new behaviour, one Connor hasn’t caught before, and it fascinates him—a glimpse into your thinking, into the person you are behind your ten feet of personal space.

You give Ben a lopsided smile when you approach, recognising him every bit as much as Hank, and greet him as is your custom—with mild insult and his surname, despite his continued protestations that you just call me Ben. He knows you won’t listen, the same way you don’t listen to Hank, either, but the enduring effort shows his appreciation for your effort, for putting up with the squad, in a light and humorous way that allows you to accept it.

“Looks like you’ve got your hands full,” Ben calls to you over the ambient conversation, his cheeks flushed from the warmth of the teeming room and his last drink. You lift both hands, empty, at his assertion, and flash him a brief smile.

“Nice to see your eyes still work, Collins.” He laughs at you, full and hearty, and you roll your eyes without your usual exasperation. “You drinking? The usual again?”

“Oh… sure, don’t see why not.”

Ben catches Hank in idle conversation while you’re fixing his drink and Connor notices the same thing again: as Ben’s eyes slide away from you, your gaze softens, as though you think no-one’s looking. He knows that he’s too conspicuous, too close for you not to realise he’s staring if he pushes his luck, so he turns under the guise of shooting down another of Hank’s teasing jibes.

Connor glances back at you occasionally, looking for that same expression, wanting to catch another fragment of you behind your mask, but he looks away whenever you return the attention—he doesn’t want you to know he’s watching. He’s afraid you’ll hide yourself more if you know.

The second time you catch him, you ask if he wants anything to drink. It’s laced with a quiet sarcasm that comes from knowing Connor habitually doesn’t drink; there are thirium drinks available, a commercial ploy cheerfully dressed up as inclusivity, but Connor isn’t especially curious. He thinks about declining but stops, reconsiders, and instead reaches out for the chance to engage with you more.

At his word you pour it, liquid flowing fast and faintly blue, with a practised hand, and when you pass the glass to him, his fingers brush yours. The contact makes you pull away quickly, as if burned, and he wonders what it is about him that inspires the reaction, disappointed by the black mark on your otherwise pleasant interactions.

Hank huffs into the last dregs of his drink and Connor looks to him, knowing there’s something he’s missed but unable to spot it. Ignoring the weight of Connor’s gaze, or simply not paying enough attention to notice, Hank replaces his glass and exhales loudly, eyes scanning the faces of the surrounding cops in a familiar, restless way. While you’re so close, Connor’s unwilling to ask him his opinion outright, as much as he wants to know.

A shout by the door draws your attention and your ire. The tightening muscles in your jaw pull your face from careful neutral to simmering displeasure, which deepens as the sound of smashing glass echoes over the chattering crowd, quietening it.

“Whoa, whoa,” Jo waves two massive hands at the cluster of people, warding them away, using a dustpan as a surprisingly effective deterrent.

Connor watches the crowd react instinctively to the giant presence of the cheery bartender, stepping back to give them room while they collect the fragments littering the floor. You stand over Jo, protective though you’ve no need to be, one hand on your hip, the other pointed at the only person in the vicinity standing without a glass in hand.

He’d thrown it; Connor could hear the murmur run through from witnesses, and from your posture, it’s clear that the crowd’s speculation hasn’t escaped your notice, either.

You move your hand from pointing at the offending patron, ignoring his unconvincing protests, and tell him to get out, pointing at the door. He flounders, mouth opening and closing but devoid of coherent sounds, before he recovers some nerve. The tone of his voice puts Connor on alert, and he slides forward in his seat, moving his feet from the footrest to solid ground, ready.

Hank doesn’t take any notice until Connor starts to move. When he leans forward, one hand braced against the bar, Hank turns to squint suspiciously at the commotion. He absorbs it in with an old officer’s skill—one sweep to determine the severity of the situation, another to identify complications.

Connor doesn’t notice Hank’s shift in attitude. All the world has gone except for you, your angry stance, and the idiot foolish enough to talk back to you on your turf.

As Connor watches, a nasty smile spreads across the man’s face.

“Aw, come on, sweetie, you don’t wanna throw me out.”

Connor’s peripheral sensors note Hank shifting behind him and detect a hush in the corner where the cops are sitting, incongruent with the rest of the room. He dismisses all environmental analysis in favour of examining the man in front of you.

Approximately mid thirties, without checking the database; there’s alcohol splashed across his clothing—a cheap beer that’s popular but not renowned for quality. He’s dressed down, messily casual, and he leans into each step as moves towards you, making a show of it. He raises both of his hands in surrender, though his expression implies something else altogether. His attitude, his body language, sets Connor’s nerves firing all at once, a rush of heat and anger and something else he struggles to identify.

“Calling me ‘sweetie’ makes you less likely to get what you want, not more.” You jab your finger at the door again. “Now get out.”

“I’m not done.” The hands he’d held in surrender slip downwards in slow but sure increments as his smile fades. You stand undeterred, finger pointing resolutely. “I don’t think I’ll leave yet.”

Connor’s grip on the table increases again and he pushes down, lifting himself upright, until a hand on his arm holds him back.

“Don’t, Con.” Hank warns, though Connor turns to find his eyes fixed on you. “Look.”

With a dustpan full of broken glass in one hand, Jo climbs to their feet, lithe for someone so tall. They tower over both you and the obnoxious customer, who visibly pales and steps back, though Jo’s still smiling at you as if nothing’s wrong at all.

“You need anything, boss?”

You let the silence drag on. It leaves the man guessing at his odds of success; he shuffles on his feet after a couple of seconds, his smug expression vanishing almost as quickly as it had appeared. Between your demeanour and your colleague’s significant support, he seems to realise he’s fighting a battle he cannot win.

“Not sure yet.” Your tone is brusque when you answer. Jo takes a step forward, into the space between you and your adversary, using their height to your advantage without knowing. The man recoils, earning jeering laughter from the members of the crowd familiar with Jo’s conflict-averse personality.

“Fine, fine.” He spits the words, avoiding your eye, “I’ll go.”

Watching your face, Connor sees a twist of satisfaction he expects, coupled with a bitterness he can’t explain. It pulls at the corners of his thoughts more and more as the immediate danger passes, flooding him with questions—what are you feeling? Why do you appear so disheartened, even though the cause of your discomfort is backing out of the door? What is it about the rigid set of your shoulders, the strength of your tone and conviction, that makes him feel—

“Huh. Good.”

Hank turns away again, content that you have successfully resolved the incident, but the tension in your shoulders doesn’t leave, not even then the man’s snide friends follow him, trailing grumbling complaints.

A soft shuffle of people moving away and retaking their seats tells Connor that most of the DPD officers had taken to their feet, alert and ready, at the first sign of confrontation, but like Hank have collectively decided that you have the situation in hand.

He hears Hank release a long breath beside him; he sits back down and, with considerable conscious effort, he coaxes his systems back to a calm idle. His eyes don’t leave your face.

Jo claps a hand on your shoulder and calls good riddance to a chorus of cheering from the assembled crowd.

Just like that, the tension in the room breaks. The atmosphere slouches back to something more relaxed, but you don’t: the meaty paw on your shoulder makes you jump and you say something unkind—Connor doesn’t catch the words, only scathing cadence of your voice—but whatever it is, it makes Jo laugh as they walk away, telling you they’re off to find the glass bin.

You’re less sullen when you return to the bar. Connor notices another pattern: you’re more relaxed when there’s twelve inches of solid oak between you and the rest of the world. It’s strange—it doesn’t provide much in the way of physical protection. He wonders if it’s one of those human irrationalities—its comfort symbolic, rather than literal. Those are always harder for him to catch.

You place your hands on the bar, palms spaced wide, and lean into them, eyes on the crowd. There’s a tension in you that Connor wants to soothe away with the attentive touch of his fingers, but he knows how you feel about contact—namely, no touch unless you yourself initiate. Beyond the briefest brush of your fingers, you never have.

“Never fuckin’ dull, is it?” Hank rumbles, lifting his glass to his mouth and pulling a sour face when he discovers it’s empty.

With a hand out to take his glass, you shrug, but the motion doesn’t look as carefree as before. Your shoulders stay cramped and you avoid Hank’s eye—Connor’s surprised when you catch his, and feels a mild confusion bloom in him at the unreadable expression he sees there. Before he can ask anything at all, you’re looking away.

“Same again, Anderson?”

“What for? ’M I gonna get a buzz off another crappy soda?”

You raise an eyebrow at him, some of your blunt charm returned; Hank watches you in challenge. Connor recognises it as a re-stabilising act, Hank giving you something familiar to latch on to, a way back to yourself. He seems to understand something about you that Connor hasn’t quite grasped yet—he turns the idea over in his mind, examining it from different angles, drawing lines between Hank’s behaviour and your own.

“You wanna say that again, Lieutenant?”

Hank laughs loudly and Connor can’t help but smile. He’s better these days: sleeping more, eating more regularly, though maybe not very well. In attitude, he’s less irascible towards people, with a few notable exceptions. When he’s moving, his breathing isn’t so laboured, his pulse not so high. In all aspects, he seems lighter.

“You’re right. I apologise.”

“Nah, it’s fine. It is crappy soda.” You break character and flash a grin, but it only lasts a second. “The owner orders it in himself because I refuse to. I’ve told him it’s shit. He doesn’t listen.”

Hank’s laughing again. “Don’t bother with another. Think I’d better escort myself out before I’m kicked out. Heard the manager doesn’t tolerate bullshit.”

You hum softly and fold your arms, moving slow. Your posture is more relaxed and, even facing off against Hank—though in jest—you’re back at ease. You know Hank. You even know Connor, though not as well. Changing that ranks high on his list of priorities, though he hasn’t shared the intention with anyone.

The tautness in your muscles, your expression, has eased and Connor’s back to catching glimpses of your thoughts under the veneer of calm you wear, like watching for waves on the surface of the ocean.

“Wise choice.” It’s more sarcasm than praise and Hank scoffs as though he doesn’t believe you.

“Sumo’ll need me, anyway. Dozy dog gets crazy if I’m gone too long.”

Connor moves to get up and follow Hank, as you turn and place his glass in the crate with the rest of the used dishes, but Hank halts his movement with a pat on the back.

“No, Connor, you don’t need to fuckin’ follow me. You haven’t even touched your damn drink.”

Connor’s eyes travel down to the clear liquid, tinted blue, and he traces a finger along the condensation that gathers on the surface of the glass. If he looks for them, he can see the faintest traces of your fingerprints near the base. He abandons the impulse to leave, to shadow Hank and see him home safe, but stands anyway.

“I’ll at least see you off, Hank.”

Grumbling about not needing a babysitter, Hank pulls his jacket on and leans forward to toss some money your way. Nimble fingers pluck it from the air before it touches the bar and you smile, just for a moment.

“What, all this for some crappy soda?”

Hank waves a dismissive hand at you, but his irritation is insincere. “What, we complainin’ about tipping now?”

Your grin returns and stays for a little longer this time. It still lights your eyes when you look at Connor; he feels himself smile instinctively, a rare organic reaction. Your eyes linger on him a moment longer and he basks in it, the warm glow of your attention.

He can still feel it minutes later, despite the cool night air. It’s a paradox for his sensors, but not his mind; he knows the feeling is a consequence of his deviancy, knows that makes no sense, but he values it anyway. It’s another thing that reminds him he’s alive.

A white cloud of vapour appears in the air as Hank huffs into his hands and ploughs down the stairs to the sidewalk. The streets are still pretty busy, though rush hour is long gone—the late dinner crowd just leaving, the early evening crowd just arriving—but there’s a bright yellow taxi parked twenty paces from the door of the bar, so the pedestrian congestion proves no obstacle.

“Some fuckin’ week, huh, Connor?” Hank’s hands drag restlessly at his pockets and, finding nothing to mess with, he slides one through his mess of grey hair.

“No different to the last, really.” Connor studies Hank, noting his partner’s tiredness in the drawn lines of his face and hoping, perhaps in vain, that Hank will sleep well. “Or the week before.”

“Yeah,” Hank agrees, tone acidic. “That’s the problem.”

The taxi doors swish open at his approach. He lays a hand on the roof of the taxi and faces Connor, blue eyes bright and keen.

He looks as though he’s on the edge of speaking, shuffling available words to find the right ones and becoming frustrated the longer it takes.

“Ah, forget it.” He swipes a hand at the air between them. “Go back inside. Enjoy the night, Connor. Live a little.”

Connor favours Hank with a small smile as he awkwardly clambers into the taxi; Hank pretends not to notice the android’s fond gaze, choosing instead to grumble under his breath about his knees giving him trouble.

“Goodnight, Hank. Take some time to rest.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He stays leaning forward in his seat, hand across the door to keep it open. “I take it you’re still gonna be over on Sunday. For Sumo.”

Connor smiles properly, noting the lack of question.

“Of course.” For Sumo.

He’d bring breakfast for Hank, too, and take advantage of another opportunity to make sure he ate something nutritious—he is without a doubt better than before but, being himself, is stubbornly resistant to change. Luckily, Connor is patient, and every bit as stubborn as Hank himself.

Offering a last goodbye, Connor stands back as the taxi doors close and it pulls away into the evening traffic, raising one hand to wave Hank off.

On his way back inside, Connor finds some of the other officers have had similar ideas and collected their coats—Ben has his slung over his arm while he chats with Chris, both sidling past bar patrons on their way to escape. They both bid Connor a pleasant goodnight, with Ben reaching up to tap warmly at Connor’s shoulder as he passes. Before long, both of them are gone into the night.

Hank’s seat at the bar is still empty, and Connor’s glass sits exactly where he left it, collecting more condensation as the ice melts. He retakes his seat and lifts the glass, savouring the cold and wet sensations against his fingertips. It absorbs all of his attention, while the space behind the bar is empty of you.

In a storm of laughter and some distant cursing, you return, holding a bottle of clear spirit aloft by its neck, the look on your face gratified and triumphant. It changes when you spot Connor, sat in his seat as if he never left—whether you know or not, you’ve exchanged the bright glint in your eyes for surprise, your calm smirk swapped for slightly parted lips.

Your reaction distresses Connor, for reasons he can’t quite articulate. He wonders what he’s done to make you react to his presence in this way, and what he should do to make things better, consciously ignoring the pull he feels low in his chest.

“You’re back.”

“I am.” He tilts his head as he watches you, fingers still curled around his glass. “I saw Hank to his taxi.”

You nod absently. “And here I thought you’d left.”

Connor thinks he catches some reproach in your voice, but it’s inconsistent with your other behaviours, so he dismisses it as wishful thinking on his part.

“No.” He smiles at you, soft and genuine, and you break eye contact to replace the bottle of alcohol on its shelf, carefully turning it so that its label faces the room. “I’ve not finished my drink, after all.”

Your hand freezes for a moment on the bottle.

“Maybe when you’re done, you can escort Reed to a taxi, too.” You’re talking almost to the glasses stacked behind the bar instead of Connor, your face still hidden, an unreadable tone shaping the edge of your words. “I swear, police or not, he keeps going as he is and I’ll break his nose myself.”

Connor finds himself grinning at the thought, but he tempers himself; you, facing the other way, completely miss his amusement.

“I wouldn’t recommend it,” he says. Your eyes flash when you look at him. “As satisfying as it might be in the moment, the consequences would be quite the opposite.”

“That is the only reason I haven’t done it.” You pause, your eyes over Connor’s shoulder, trailing across the assembled cops. “That, and it’s ridiculously easy to goad him into demonstrating just how stupid he is.”

Connor smiles again, knowing through experience that you’re correct, but he hides it when your eyes return to his face. Unbeknownst to you, he remembers exactly what it’s like to put Reed in his place.

“What happened?” Connor’s head tilts as he watches you; you jerk a thumb over your shoulder, towards the spirits, and smirk. “He made a dumb bet. Said he could take a shot of our hardest stuff without reacting. I said he’d choke on it, so he dared me to do better.”

“And you did?”

“No.” You lean on the bar, same spot, same posture as always. “I don’t drink. He knows that.”

Unconsciously, Connor leans forward, mirroring you. “So, what did you do instead?”

“Told him that if he succeeded with a shot of my choice, I’d cover his tab for the night.” You shrug. “Then I added a little capsaicin to keep things interesting.”

Connor finds himself at once mournful that he missed the scene and understanding of the context for the intermittent coughing at the back of the room. Scattered laughter follows it.

“Detective Reed could attempt to press charges.” Connor points out.

“His pride won’t let him,” you say, matter of fact. You’re blithely confident in your understanding of your regulars. “Besides, I took him some water, too. What’s he got to complain about?”

“Hank will be sorry he missed it.”

You scrutinise his face for a few moments. Connor tracks his own reflection in your eyes, puzzling out the meaning in the weight of your stare. He doesn’t know what you’re thinking, doesn’t know where to begin decoding your expression.

To give himself space, he sips gently at his drink, thinking to analyse the components, but the first thing he notices is a mild fizz that shorts out his sensors—not badly, but enough that it surprises him. It sends a sensation like static over his tongue, bursts that alternate between intense stimulation and complete lack of it, teasing the synthetic nerves. Beyond that, the traces of sugar, acidity and thirium seem almost uninteresting.

He’s never experienced a sensor malfunction that wasn’t a threat. It’s an unusual but not unpleasant feeling, the waves over his delicate nerves, and Connor finds himself reaching to experience it again.

“So,” you say, brushing a forearm across your head and letting your eyes drift, “The force seems glad to have the case over with.”

Connor tries to speak, but with his tongue still tingling, he finds it a little difficult to control.

“Yes,” he answers after a moment. “It’s been a difficult operation. We’ve been working with external departments to track a large red ice ring across Detroit. We located almost all the key ringleaders and have arrested them.”

You seem faintly impressed. “You make it sound so easy.”

“I don’t mean to.” Connor weighs his words, sliding his still static-laden tongue across the inside of his teeth. “It was a coordinated effort of many officers, both inside the Detroit Police Department and outside.”

In the gentle lull between words, your lips purse and your eyes drift down from Connor’s face, catching the half-full glass in his hands, before darting back up again.

“Earlier Anderson said you’d died.” Your head tilts as you consider his face. “Is that true?”

Connor places his drink on his allotted coaster but doesn’t let go of it: he spins it in place instead, slowly, using the tactile feedback to ground himself through a wave of irrational uncertainty.

“Yes, but not in the way you would think of death.” Your expression doesn’t change, other than the appearance of the shallow dimple between your brows. “Not really. My memories, my consciousness, used to be uploaded to a new body via the old CyberLife servers.”

“Used to be?”

“Yes. CyberLife doesn’t exist anymore, so I am effectively mortal in the same way that you are.”

Something about your expression leads Connor to believe this confession troubles you.

“Maybe not in quite the same way.”

*

Connor thinks of you often. Your face appears to him seemingly at random, your words drift through his mind whenever he hears Hank say something sarcastic, or when Reed’s smoking habit makes him hack and cough; he’s preoccupied with the strange aloofness of your attitude, your tendency to pull in close and then pull away again, faster, as if he could cause you harm by proximity.

Humans are not the most predictable creatures, but Connor reasons that between deviancy and his prototype personality software, he should have been able to make more progress with you. CyberLife designed every part of him for seamless integration with humanity. You should not be an exception and yet, every time you met, you held him at arm’s length. It was frustrating and saddening.

Worse still, he has little cause to see you.

The DPD frequents your bar—it is yours in all but deed—at the ends of cases, particularly the tough ones that require proper celebration. While the red ice case had been closed—and they’d received a hamper from the vice team as a thank you—there were plenty of others demanding attention, none of them easy to solve.

He hasn’t seen you for a month.

The day they return marks a week-long bad mood of Hank’s. The case has dragged on for at least twice that, passed on from another detective that spent a month’s effort to no avail, and their solve had come from a gifted bit of evidence, pure random happenstance—a forgotten note, incriminating their suspect, covered in easily identifiable fingerprints. No incredible detective work, just dumb luck.

Hank doesn’t find that satisfying. He grumbles his discontent all the way through writing the report, through debriefing with Fowler, and all the way through lunch too, for good measure, until Connor suggests they head off early and take advantage of their lighter-than-expected day.

Naturally, Hank is receptive to the offer of alcohol and a quiet place to drink. The two leave in the early afternoon, following their late lunch, departing with a few short words of farewell from Fowler and the officers on desk duty.

Connor feels light, excitable, and he takes a few minutes to realise that it’s because he anticipates seeing you again. There’s something about you that intrigues him: you have a strength and fortitude he admires, but more than that, there’s something beneath, some other side of yourself you don’t show. He wants to understand it, to prise you open and see you with his own eyes… and he can’t do that from afar.

The bar is almost empty when they arrive. A smooth jazz song plays on the radio and Hank mumbles appreciatively; Jo isn’t working, by the look, but one of the other bartenders is—a slight thing that recognises Hank but widens their eyes at Connor as they spot his LED.

Hank takes his customary seat without hesitation. Connor takes the seat on the other side of him, trailing fingers across the fine wood grain of the bar, cataloguing the dents and chips in it from careless revellers, casting his eyes over the bare brick walls covered in art and photographs, the low side lights on the walls, and the haphazard furniture.

The shy bartender doesn’t approach, and doesn’t have to: in fewer than two minutes Connor hears your voice emanating from the staff door, echoing off the sparse plaster walls, your sharpness beaten from the sound by the continued reverberations.

“—and you tell him that if he even so much as thinks about…”

You back into the main bar, shouldering the door open roughly on your way, calling to whoever is behind you. The sound stops abruptly as it leaves your mouth when you see the two officers waiting for you.

A heavy sigh leaves you, your mouth pulled into a thin line, and you seem to forget what you were doing the moment before.

“Never mind, I’ll deal with it later,” you shout when you recover. Then, to Connor and Hank in mock deference, “Gentlemen. What can I do for you?”

“Gimme uh…” Hank teeters on the edge for a moment, torn between choices. “Fuck it. Give me the whiskey.”

Connor can feel Hank’s eyes hover on the side of his face, but he doesn’t look; he’s not interested in judging Hank’s choice—it’s the first drink he’s had in two weeks, and he’s not been truly drunk in a handful of months—and he’s more concerned with the tightness in your expression, the fading anger in your eyes. You’re hiding it now, as usual, but the burning feeling remains in trace amounts.

You pull a whiskey glass from the shelf and reach for the black label whiskey without looking. Two measures you pour, one after the other, and the amber liquid splashes as you tip it carefully into the glass before sliding it with practised fingertips across the counter.

Hank wraps his fingers around the rim of the glass, tracing the edge with the meat of his thumb. He’s in no rush for the burn of the alcohol now he has it within his grasp.

Connor’s mind is full of the deft move of your fingers, the glinting liquid in droplets of burnt gold, the smooth fluidity of your motions, the quiet focus in your eyes. He doesn’t notice that you’ve stopped, that you’re watching him with veiled suspicion, not until he hears Hank chuckling to himself.

“Connor! You got a glitch in your software or something? She asked you a question.”

Hank raises his glass to his lips, still curved with a faint smirk, when Connor turns his apologetic expression back to you.

“I’m sorry,” he says, voice coloured by something close to embarrassment, though the word itself doesn’t fit quite right. “I was… distracted. What did you ask me?”

You fold your arms but, far from the expression he expects to find, Connor sees concern in your face, building almost to accusation. You’re quick to remove it, though Connor still feels reactive alarm sweep over him, a pervasive cold that does not match his environment.

“Do you want a drink?”

“Yes. Please.”

That seems to surprise you, but you acquiesce, mixing liquids at pace and muddling them before setting it before him, the same blue tone as before. While he looks at the glass, his sensors replay the taste, the memory of the sensation almost as strong as the real thing. It brings with it the urge to repeat the experience, a push to feel it again, to enjoy the immediacy of the strange tingling across his tongue.

He takes a sip and feels it run, like static, through his mouth. His tongue chases the sensation, running along the seam of his lips from the inside and feeling them tingle.

Connor catches an up-tick in your heart rate, but loses track of it when you turn away.

“Good stuff, huh, Connor?”

Hank’s eyes flicker between Connor and the repeating game footage on the muted TV screen at the end of the bar, a sliver of humour wedged in the deep blue.

“It’s certainly an interesting sensation.”

“Ha. Well, don’t go getting drunk. You break enough stuff while fuckin’ sober.”

Connor swallows a mildly sarcastic retort with another sip of the pale drink, knowing that while Hank is mostly correct, Connor’s arrest record is better for it. What are a few doors—or windows or, one time, a car—in the grand scheme of things? Not an obstacle, that’s for sure.

Given the brush off by Connor, Hank’s attention wanders to you. You’re cleaning some utensils a few steps away, remaining in their orbit but unobtrusive. Hank leans forward, gesturing to get your attention, but you’re lost in thought and don’t notice.

“So.” You turn to Hank, eyebrow raised, with your hands frozen in place. “What’s going on around here?”

Connor recognises Hank’s professional curiosity, gently sticking its nose into something that sounds messy. He also recognises the smile you use when someone asks something you don’t want to answer—it’s the most common one you use.

“Nothing much, same as always in this place.”

“Didn’t fuckin’ sound like nothing much from here.” He’s rough and pointed in his way of speaking, but you don’t seem fazed: you seem to prefer the direct way he speaks, and your smile loses some of its sharp edge. “You in trouble?”

“No.” You set down the cloth in your hand and replace the utensils, clean, back where they belong. “Someone will be, though.”

Jo walks through the staff entrance at that moment, their great head turning one way and then the other looking for you. They beam when they find you, one hand raised in greeting, and stride over, holding a sticky note out towards you.

“Hey!” They thrust the note at you, wedged between two fingers, with undue enthusiasm. To your credit, you barely react, even when the paper zooms dangerously close to your nose. “Went down just like you said it would.”

“Yeah.” You pluck the paper from their hands and tuck it into your pocket. “Figured as much.”

“Real grumpy isn’t he? Anyway, said to give him a call. Said he’ll be around on Tuesday for the usual.”

You sigh, your eyes closed, and push the paper further into your pocket as if burying it. “Fine. I’ll deal with it, don’t worry.”

The sweet smile on Jo’s face dissipates as they watch you, worn and frowning. Connor sees friendly concern mixed with optimism and marvels at how mismatched you are with your co-workers, and how supportive you are towards one another despite your differences.

“You’re the best,” is all Jo says as they lightly punch your arm and manoeuvre away. “Holler if you need me.”

You don’t respond, but your eyes follow Jo as they leave, and Connor notices that softness again, delicate after the harsh tension you wore before. The curiosity in him builds, a tension of his own that grows the longer he’s puzzled by your concealed behaviours.

You catch him watching. Irritation flashes across your face, writ large and obvious, but you don’t confront him. Instead, you turn away and hide your face, your fingers still fumbling at the edge of your pocket.

Hank chooses that moment to stand and stretch, mumbling under his breath about the bathroom; Connor folds his arms against the bar as he goes, watching your movements, knowing you’re trying to track him without being obvious.

“Stop watching me, Connor.”

Your instruction has barbs. Connor feels their bite, their weight. Thinking of the preoccupation in your expression, he ignores the warning.

“Do I make you uncomfortable?”

“No.”

There’s something about the speed at which you answer, even though your heart rate stays steady, that makes him think you’re not quite being truthful.

“Has something else happened?”

“No.” You turn to face him again, your face set, fingers twitching on your hips. “Just leave it alone.”

“Surely, if nothing has happened, there’d be nothing for me to leave.”

You spear Connor with a sharper look than before and he recognises that he’s made a misstep; you lean close and he sees the cracks in your armour up close, spider-web like crazing all over, the gaps between exposing something raw and, if he had to guess, painful.

“Listen carefully, Connor. Leave it the fuck alone. Keep yourself and your detective bullshit out of my business. Are we clear?”

Despite asking a question, you didn’t wait to hear his answer. He frowns, following you as you walk away, slamming a shoulder into the door to the staff area far harder than was necessary while you make your escape.

Hank catches your hurried exit on his return and slows, narrowed eyes fixed on the door.

“What the fuck happened?”

“I…” Connor looks from the door to Hank and back again, surprised by the depth of the hurt he feels at your rejection. “I don’t know.”

Hank takes his seat again, side-eyeing Connor as he does, disbelief clear in every line of his face. Connor faces his drink, frowning, letting his idle processors track and count the bubbles in his glass while he works through the interaction again.

He’d expressed concern. Asked if he’d overstepped, which you had denied. More so than usual, you shut down every opportunity to talk, building a wall between you that muddled his ability to read you, to understand.

It crosses his mind that there’s something about him, some fundamental aspect of his character that offends you, and grief washes through him at once: he has no evidence for the fear but it sits coiled in his chest regardless, a dead weight.

Tensions across Detroit have not eased, not even close, and pockets of anti-android sentiment very much still exist, though they’re smaller and less voracious than in previous days. Old thoughts of self-doubt creep into Connor’s cognitive processes, a familiar but unwelcome, rich-toned voice whispering a reminder that he has no natural place in the world, no matter whether he choses humanity or the new deviant nation.

Connor has difficulty extricating your behaviour from his feelings about it, so tangled are the two. His irrational wants, hopes and insecurities warp and distort fact and, though his memory is perfect, every time he views it again his interpretation differs. He watches a dozen iterations of you, eyes ablaze, telling him in no uncertain terms to leave you alone. Every time it stings in a new way and every time the desire to reach out for you comes back, a fresh wave of hope that’s more foolish than the last.

He can’t share his thoughts. He doesn’t have the words to communicate them to Hank; Hank doesn’t quite have the capacity to hear them as Connor needs him to, so he remains silent, considering, while his partner drains his glass.

“Hey, uh, Lieutenant…Connor…”

“Jesus Christ, Jo, call me Hank.” He places his glass back down with a rattle, not even aiming for the coaster. “You’ve known me long enough.”

“Sure thing, Hank.” Jo gives them both a lopsided grin, but for once, it doesn’t stick. “Listen, don’t take the boss personal, okay? It’s been an intense few months.”

Connor adamantly does not ask what Jo means, but it doesn’t matter, because Hank is there already.

“Anything I should know about?”

“I shouldn’t say. It’s, like, an internal thing.” Jo rubs at the back of their neck, light grimace on their face. “S’not a police matter. Nothing illegal. Just… you know. Stressful.”

Jo gives Connor a meaningful look, almost pleading, before shuffling off to nudge their shy colleague, staring at them from the other end of the bar, and encourage them back to work.

Hank hums low in his throat at a frequency Connor has labelled displeasure. It seems appropriate.

The afternoon mood sours, slowly but surely, until neither much feels like sticking around. As the late afternoon crowd filters into the bar, Hank readies himself and moves towards the door, calling Connor with him.

Connor, his thoughts every bit as full of you as they were when you left half an hour ago, follows quietly, without protest.

The evening isn’t dark, though the street-lights have come on, adding an unnatural blue-toned light to the surroundings. There are fewer people than there were last time they’d visited, and no taxi waiting for them on the road; Hank ambles off, head turning back and forth down the busy roads in an opportunistic search for passing cabs.

Connor notices Hank’s expression turn to one of success and almost turns to check, to connect with the cab company and issue destination instructions, but he doesn’t get the chance.

He hears a voice, and the slight echo of a voice, close by—from the alley down the side of the bar.

It’s tense, frenzied even, the words spoken too rushed for him to parse them. It holds his attention because it belongs to you.

You’re talking in short, hurried bursts between long silences, your voice rising and falling with a degree of feeling Connor has never heard in you before. It scratches at the inside of him, against his audio processors, against his patience—it should thrill him to hear you showing emotion so openly… and it would if you didn’t sound so utterly devastated.

“What kind of threat is that?”

A dozen heartbeats, three ragged breaths.

“Go on,” you breathe, “just do it. But listen—do it and I walk. And if I walk, you know everyone else will too.”

Waiting for your next words, stuck with only the occasional hitch in your breathing, the seconds drag. Connor counts them, stepping closer, grateful that Hank’s focus is on the taxi, so he hasn’t noticed that Connor is eavesdropping on you.

You laugh bitterly, startling him into pausing.

“You’re a fucking coward, you know.” You lace the words with conviction, hard and forceful, but your voice nearly breaks when you say them. Connor’s so preoccupied with the fracturing sound that he almost misses the soft choking noise that tells him you’re trying not to cry.

“Go on. Go ahead, I fucking dare you.”

Everything about you moves in shuddering waves.

Connor can see you at last, around the corner, but in profile you’re difficult to read and he’s reluctant to approach; his feet drag across the sidewalk and his pace slows further. He still wants to see you properly, but he knows that to see you and confirm that you’re okay, that you will be okay, he’ll have to make his presence known.

He doesn’t want you to know he’s seen you like this.

The distance between the two of you is little enough that he can hear the muffled voice of the other speaker. He catches one in every half-dozen words—they’re poorly chosen, baked in dismissive snark and particularly unpleasant when describing you. A white hot burning sensation sears Connor’s mind, pushing him forward, keeping him alert. The only full sentence he catches is the last.

“It’s not as if you’ve got anything else, sweetheart.”

The line clicks as the call drops. A clatter fills the alleyway, metallic and echoing, and Connor watches your phone skid across the floor away from your feet.

Your breaths come in short, smothered gasps, seconds apart, while you try to get a handle on yourself, hands grasping for purchase on the rough brick behind you, sliding further down as your fingers slip helplessly over the jagged edges.

You surrender to gravity, ending up crouched, knees to your chest with your back against the wall with your face cradled in your hands. Connor’s fingers flex, then dig into his palm. He steps forward, mindful of the noise he makes.

Even though Connor’s straining to hear, you make barely any sound. Your shoulders heave with the effort of holding the feeling in, of hiding the sound and keeping yourself together.

Connor feels it again, stronger than he’s ever felt: the need to reach out and touch you, to lend comfort with the soft brush of fingertips, to pull you back from whatever threatens to swallow you. To wipe the tears from your cheeks with his thumbs, pull you close and hold you, to remind you that the pain is temporary.

You’re too far away—physically, but figuratively, too. Connor has learnt your rules: physical contact of any kind is not permissible, so he can’t comfort you in the way he wants. It… hurts, in a way he’s unaccustomed to, in a way that makes him want to do something about it.

You shiver and let out a few shaking breaks, then a sigh, before lifting your head to wipe the moisture from your eyes.

It doesn’t work. Connor can still see the security light reflected in the tear tracks on your face, a stark contrast with the flush of your cheeks.

He runs a stress analysis program. It’s obvious you’re stressed, of course, but the degree is high—higher than he would have guessed by observation alone. The program points out other things too: the trembling in your arms that worsens in your fingers, your nails biting into the skin of your arms, the slight pull of your cheek where you’re biting the flesh inside to keep from crying.

You fold your arms across your knees. You’re slouched: your usual drawn-tall posture, relaxed and confident, is utterly absent. Connor charts every inch of your demeanour, prickling anger running over his skin as he does, noting that he has an unwavering desire to make sure he never sees you so hurt again.

He’s still stepping forward, mind full of nothing but the agony on your partially obscured face—in full view now. His movement catches your eye and you give a violent start, then swipe unsuccessfully at your phone once or twice before abandoning it to push, with difficulty, back up to your feet, hands dragging at the brickwork.

“Connor? What the fuck—”

“Are you—you seemed to be distressed, I wanted to—”

“I thought you’d left already, I…” If possible, you look more upset than before. The reactive anger is still present as a thin layer of varnish over your hurt and panic. “Are you spying on me?”

“No.” Connor raises two defensive hands in a placating gesture. “Of course not, I—”

“Then what the hell are you doing here? Why would you…” Where you’re usually quick with your words, you’re stalled, stumbling over your phrasing while you react to his presence. “You had to be able to hear… if you knew, why would you come over here?”

You look away from him as fresh tears fill your eyes again, as if by turning your face you can will him not to see.

“Why wouldn’t you just leave me the fuck alone?”

Connor’s lips part, but he loses the reassurance perched on the tip of his tongue, shot down by the coarse edge of your question. The only thing he has left to fill the strained silence is the truth.

“I want to help.”

You stare at him for a moment, your face frozen, before turning away. It doesn’t hide your expression, not how maybe you’d prefer, and Connor’s more perceptive than most—he catches the fresh threat of tears that you blink away. He notices the tremor in your shoulders when you take a steadying breath, too.

“Don’t say shit like that, Connor.”

Connor feels doubt creep through him, a low, cold fog around his confidence. He’s accustomed to a certain uncomfortable distance between you, a barrier you maintain to keep everyone out, but this rejection of his action—one of simple, genuine care—stings the most. You are alone, in pain, and his offer has left you aggrieved instead of comforted.

He feels a sick twist within him, a holdover from Amanda, one that returns every time he knows he’s made a misstep. It feels cold, all-consuming, like so much snow on his skin despite the pleasant autumn air. Over time and with support, he’s banished most memories of Amanda’s voice, her condemnations, but the feeling of dread remains, a dark shadow on the walls of his mind.

When you face him, you start, rocking back and against the wall behind you, fingers outstretched for balance. Connor wonders what you see in him that inspires such bitter remorse, such pity. He tries to wipe the hurt from his face, following your shining example, and your face falls further.

“I’m sorry.” Connor straightens his posture with considerable effort, then lets his reaching hand fall back to his side. “I’ll… leave you alone.”

One of the tears you’ve been fighting breaks free and carves a path down your cheek. It glows in the powerful glare of the security light. Connor thinks you’re beautiful—even when you’re so sad, even when the harsh artificial light washes out your skin.

Even when you don’t want him.

He’s turning when you speak, but it’s the shuffling sound of your footsteps that concerns him: you’re unsteady and he pauses, tensed and ready to move if you lose your footing—rules about touching be damned.

“No—oh, fuck, Connor, I…”

Your hand reaches out for him but at the sight of his face, when your eyes meet his, you seem to lose your resolve and you pull your hand back, coiled in frustration, and hug yourself with it instead. Another barrier between the two of you.

“Please, I—god, I’m sorry.”

One of your hands moves from holding your arm to your face, wiping away conspicuous evidence of stray emotion, letting it linger where it covers your face, as if it helps you.

Your hand drops abruptly and when you meet his eye again, he sees some of your will return, steely and strong but this time paper thin. It’s a marked change. It’s composure thrown hastily over emotional turmoil. He’s seen it before—in Hank, in the deviants he’s chased down. In himself, when he’s brave enough to look.

When he doesn’t move, you take a step forward. He wants to speak, to comfort you and tell you it’s fine, even though he’d be lying. He’d get over it eventually, he knows, and maybe it would ease some of your suffering. Connor can’t bring himself to tell you it’s okay that you keep pulling away from him.

His mouth is stuck, tongue cemented to his soft palate, mind obsessively monitoring and processing the beat of your heart, the quaver in your breathing, willing for some kind of inspiration that would show him how to cross the divide between you.

“Connor, I’m… fuck, just… just give me a second.”

You use both hands to wipe your face, then sweep them back over your head before you let them fall. Your eyes stay closed while you take three deep breaths, with Connor counting silently, and when you open them he’s turned so he’s facing you directly again. The attention makes you waver, but eventually you regain some measure of control, enough that you decide to proceed.

“I’m sorry.” Your voice is lower than before and serious—not your usual tones, something different. Connor always listens when you speak, but this time he maps the shape of every word.

“Really, I mean it. You didn’t deserve that. Or that shit inside earlier,” You cast around, frustration obvious on your face. “You shouldn’t have to apologise. I’m… I’m making my business your problem.”

Connor watches you, aiming to express empathy, but finding it difficult to judge his success from your expression. It’s still hard to speak, but he dislodges his tongue, somehow, and the anticipation of his words makes you flinch—only slightly, but there it is. It leaves Connor wondering what on Earth he’s done to make you believe you can expect harshness from him when it’s the last thing he wants to give you.

“What is the problem?”

A cloud passes over your expression, threatening your thin layer of of calm.

“It’s not your problem, Connor. Really.” You’re forceful—by the shift in your expression, more than you intended to be. “Fuck. Sorry. What I mean is, you don’t have to worry. I’m not your responsibility.”

The fragile smile you summon is utterly unconvincing.

“Talk to me.”

You blink and look down, away from his eyes for a moment. When you look back, you seem determined, but you don’t say anything, as if you doubt yourself.

“Please. I want to help.”

An offer of help, for the second time, is what makes your resolve crumble. You wobble backwards one step and let a humourless laugh escape you, a brief gasp of air that echoes strangely in the empty alley. You shake your head.

“I’m pretty sure I’m beyond help.”

Connor’s aware that you’re intending to be funny, trying to diffuse the tension, but with the absence of your sardonic tone and easy smirk, the joke doesn’t land quite right.

The question Connor wants to ask rests on the tip of his tongue, balancing there, torturing him. He needs to ask. He dreads the answer.

“Is it because I’m an android?”

Your face falls slack as you stare at him. The indisputable unexpectedness of the question fills Connor with lukewarm relief—not the declarative refutation he needs, but it’s… enough to tide him over.

“What?”

The shock doesn’t leave your face, and the word leaves your mouth slowly, as if you’re struggling to form it.

“Do I make you uncomfortable because I’m an android?”

“Oh god, no. No.” Connor’s relief doubles and doubles again, flooding his sensors with rippling static. “No, it’s… not that.”

Your voice is small; you’re horrified. It’s the easiest he’s ever been able to read you and, while that’s a comfort, the lingering something holding you back, whatever it is, still bothers him.

“What is it, then? Why don’t you want—”

“It’s because you’re fucking police, Connor, I—”

The words are a rushed mess, cut off before you can finish, forced from your mouth before you can second guess them. The impulsive surge seems to reinvigorate your customary irritation and you relax, if only by a fraction, thanks to its comforting presence.

“Are you…” Connor frowns, searching for the best phrasing. “In trouble?”

“No.” You’re emphatic, but Connor catches the undercurrent of panic you’re trying to disguise. “No, it’s… fine.”

“Do you need me to intervene?”

“God, no, that’s the last thing I want.”

He can’t make much sense of that, beyond the sting, but he acknowledges it with a slight nod, his eyes falling from your face for a moment while he accepts this second, albeit smaller, rejection.

“Fuck,” you say. “I’ve messed this up.”

Your hands cover your face again, muffling your voice, but Connor recognises the drag of self-conscious criticism in your tone, that hard-to-please edge you use on others, and for yourself, as a front. Little by little, you’re returning to yourself… but that means that, ever so slowly, you’re retreating from him.

You take one long, gradual breath before you take your hands away from your face. When you meet Connor’s eye again, you look almost like yourself. He can’t bring himself to grieve your temporary closeness when you look so much more at ease.

The corner of Connor’s mouth raises slightly, unasked, and by some miracle you mirror him.

“Look, the owner of this place is a deadbeat and a jackass. The place is falling apart, and he somehow trusts me more with the key code to the safe than he does the payroll for my own staff.” You take a long breath. “Which he then fucks up. Every damn month.”

He nods to show he hears you, but the way you exhale, slow and deliberate, keeps him silent.

“He’s interfering with how things I run things, but he won’t do anything he should be doing… and when he’s called out on it he’s…” You avoid Connor’s eye. “Unreceptive.”

Connor’s scanning for the registered proprietor before he can catch himself. Seven seconds later he minimises the search, cognisant that you’re unlikely to appreciate the intrusion.

“Are you in any danger?”

“No.” You consider for a moment, and it strikes Connor that he’s never truly watched you while you’re thinking—you’ve always been closed off to him.

Something inside him swells; he feels a rush of something familiar but new in its strength, affection like warm rain over his synthetic skin, chased with searing heat that burns low and hot in his abdomen—

“No. He’s harmless, just… just a complete dipshit.” You sigh and rub at your eyes. “He’s running the place into the ground while he’s off doing entitled idiots do. Gallivanting off the coast, probably.”

“So you’re worried about your job. Your financial security.”

“It’s not—” You scan his face and your cheeks heat, but some of your usual demeanour returns, that coarse nonchalance, undercut by the fervent nature of the interjection. “I’ll probably be fine, but the others…”

Connor watches the crease between your eyebrows deepen and he understands—he watches a dozen memories of you inside the bar: your expression changes as Jo passes, lifting something for you, taking over with the annoying regulars, interjecting to save you from small talk. He remembers every time you’ve ever stood, unyielding, in front of a customer that you’ve called out for harassing your staff, unfazed until the last, a shield for your staff against harassment and abuse.

Care. You don’t show it often, but he can see it—it runs deep, right through your burning core.

“I see.” Connor smiles at you, soft and small, still uncertain. “You’re holding things together for them.”

You stay quiet, but you exhale, casting your eyes over his expression—entirely free of judgement—and Connor knows you well enough to accept it as confirmation. It would take too much for you to admit it in words.

Silence stretches between the two of you, not cold or unfriendly, just… neutral. Comfortable. Connor tracks your breathing, noting that you’ve relaxed, and he’s gratified to see you calm again.

“Can I ask you something?”

Your guard flashes up, a reflex against invasive questions, but Connor watches you breathe through it and, when it’s lowered again, you nod.

“Shoot.”

“The owner. He threatened you.” You seem a little surprised, but it’s a far cry from the stoic reluctance or the shutdown that Connor expects. If anything, you seem almost embarrassed. It doesn’t suit you at all. “What did he say?”

“Oh.” There’s the barest trace of a smile curling the corners of your mouth and Connor judges, by the way you suppress it, that you’re amused against your will.

“He threatened to call the police.”

The ghost of mirth in your eyes, your wry delivery, and the sheer absurdity of the threat—calling the police to the bar they already frequent—sets something alight in Connor, and he laughs.

You do, too, carried by Connor’s purposefully light, unobtrusive presence and the easing of tension in the air.

For the handful of seconds it lasts, the lightness of your laughter captivates Connor. He’s never seen it before—so he saves the memory, immortalising you with your nose scrunched up and your eyes bright.

He enjoys this side of you—he feels it so much that the word isn’t big or loud enough to capture the breadth of his emotion.

“I mean it, Connor.” You shuffle your weight from one foot to the other, keeping eye contact steadfast. “I’m sorry. You don’t deserve to be treated like that.”

“You’re forgiven.”

He gives you a gentle half smile, faintly amused, and sees genuine gratitude in you as you comprehend his acceptance.

The moment stretches out between the two of you, silent but full, a lull of understanding that replaces the unfeeling, yawning void that was there before. Neither of you move to speak; you bathe in the newfound stillness, the calm that wraps around you, brushing against your skin like the autumn breeze.

Reality waits for you both at the mouth of the alley, announced by Hank, shouting for Connor. He’s placated by an easy one moment, Lieutenant and the sight of you, four paces distant from Connor and still a little dishevelled.

Hank nods, lips pressed thin, his eyes moving between the two of you with unhidden scepticism. He waves a hand at Connor, not quite casual enough to be dismissive, mumbles I’ll be in the taxi and ventures back the way he came, throwing a cautionary look over his shoulder before he disappears from view.

“Can we make a deal?”

Connor’s eyes find you again, a thin tension covering your face, and he frowns.

“What kind?”

“I… can’t read you.” Your jaw clenches for a moment, as if you’ve admitted fault, before you decide to press on. “And I don’t want this kind of thing to happen again. Can we agree to be… direct with each other? Like we are now.”

The question hangs in the air, fading with each passing second, but Connor nods, subduing the smile that threatens to take over his face, and it vanishes before it gives him away.

“I prefer talking like this,” he says, and you catch his eye, bristling under his attention. “I think I understand you better now.”

You laugh again and Connor has difficulty pinpointing where you lie between nervous and relieved—there’s still a stiffness to you, a shifting boundary you’ve placed around yourself, and while he’s disheartened that you’re still hiding he knows it’s the closest he’s ever been to seeing you as you are.

“Okay, so we’re direct and declarative, and we ask when in doubt. No judgement. Deal?”

“Deal.”

And that’s all.

Connor’s attentive as he leaves, turning back more than once to watch you, and though the red shifted sunset casts a warm glow over everything, he finds the warmest feeling comes from knowing your eyes are following him every step of the way as you part.