Chapter Text
It's 9:30 am, you’re on your third coffee, decaf, and Connor still hasn’t shown up.
It’s so un like him that everyone at the office has been on edge for the last hour and a half. The last time he’d been late, it had barely been ten minutes, and it had been because he’d managed to track and apprehend the most elusive serial killer that Detroit had ever seen.
It’d taken the police department five years to find the killer’s identity. It’d taken Connor ten minutes to figure out where he was, two days after finally being assigned to the case. You had to admit that androids were way more efficient, making the human equivalents look useless and wasteful. Thank god the androids had reached an agreement with the humans for equal rights—allowing for everyone to coexist in peace.
“Fuck,” Hank slams his folder down on his desk, scaring you in the process because of your connected cubicles. It’s been four years since you’d joined the team, fresh-faced and green from the police academy. You’d gone in right as they began to make android-focused changes. Training had shifted to focus more on figuring out how to work with androids.
As the only one in the office with this training, you’d immediately been assigned to work with Connor. Even with all the training with the robots, working with one had still sent nerves down your spine. The careful, neutral way he’d regarded you had made you feel uneasy.
Until you’d accidentally made him laugh.
Then, everything changed.
“That fucking android has got everyone in fucking knots.” Hank gripes as he clicks around on his computer. “Can you please go check on it? I know you’re closer with him.”
You freeze at this, feeling slightly caught. It’s on the tip of your tongue to ask him more, to see if he knows anything about these feelings you’ve harbored, and if he knows anything about how Connor feels.
You glance at the watch on your wrist, your eyebrows drawing together as the minutes tick by and the doors remain firmly closed.
“Okay, I’ll go make sure he didn’t fall into a ditch and his processor froze,” You push back against the desk and gather your coat.
A few people notice you getting up, and they seem to let out breathes of relief.
You hunker down into the collar of your winter jacket. You curse yourself for moving to Detroit, as you do every year when you’re hit with the Midwestern winters. Thankfully, Detroit is more advanced than it had been when you’d first arrived. Heated sidewalks—an advancement for America, every bus stop offering heating and air conditioning, streetlamps that emit heat, new plants that absorb the bitter cold, and gadgets that catch the bitter cold breeze before it can steal the warmth from your cheeks.
Truthfully, the winters aren’t that bad, it’s just the wind.
You make the familiar trek to Connor’s apartment. Your first time visiting his apartment had been after agreeing to carpool to a work party. That had been a few weeks after you first heard his laugh. You’d still worn the blush of half embarrassment, half pride at earning Connor’s authentic laugh. But, you were also way more comfortable being around him. Alone with him.
You arrive at his apartment, heart racing as you near the unfamiliar building. You are half nervous that it is the right place, half nervous that it is the wrong. Once you’ve found the room number he texted you, you knock tentatively.
Quiet enough that a human ear wouldn’t have been able to pick up on, but an android ear would.
And one does
No audible footsteps precedes the opening of the door. One second, you’re staring at the wood of the door, contemplating turning around and hoping no one notices, and the next you’re staring into deep brown eyes.
Your heart rate picks up.
His eyebrow flicks up.
Of course he could tell. One of the only times that you truly hate androids.
You clear your throat, “ready to go?”
A twinkle finds a spot in his eyes, and decides to call it home, “of course.”
You step back to allow him space to close the door. You’re hit with a waft of his scent: clean and comforting, like freshly-washed linens. It’s similar to being enveloped in a hug.
This time, the step back is a concentrated act.
You fall into the passenger seat as Connor slides into the driver seat. His hands rest naturally at his sides, despite the steering wheel. Though, steering wheels are more for the look than the use, since all cars are self-driving now. His LED spins yellow as he connects with the car. It reverts back to blue a moment before the car’s engine turns on and the car begins to reverse from the parking spot.
Silence falls upon you like a layer of snow: soft, but also condensing.
Then, Connor turns to you with a tentative smile. And, a faint blue blush.
Now, you relive the memories with a blush, as you step up to the apartment. You take the stairs. He’d told you before that the elevators were eight minutes slower, and had made you promise to use the stairs if you visited him. Efficiency is Connor’s bread and butter.
30, 31, aha, 32 . It is exactly the same as before, but entirely not.
Taking a breath to steady yourself, you lightly rap your knuckles against the door.
You know he can hear it.
A beat.
A minute.
Two minutes.
Three minutes.
You knock again, louder.
This time, you hear some shuffling. You strain your ears to pick up the sound. More shuffling, what sounds like furniture being bumped into. You frown. Connor is nothing if not graceful.
You’re still frowning when the door cracks open. Your eyes jump to find Connor’s, and your heart simultaneously jumps and slows. Working side by side with him does nothing for how you react with him. Maybe it actually makes it worse. Because you know him closer. Know him better.
“Hey,” you say, as if you’re not the one knocking on his door in the middle of the morning. You glance down, and furrow your brows when you find him in a hoodie and sweat pants. Gone are his normal pressed jacket and slacks. You didn’t even know he owned a hoodie nor sweatpants.
“Hey y/n,” he all but sags against the doorframe, and you rush to catch him.
“Are you okay ?” panic seizes you as you hold onto an entirely too warm android, “why are you so hot?”
Connor smirks at you, deliriously, “Are you hitting on me, y/n?”
You huff to cover your flush, and drag his arm over your shoulder. “C’mon. I’m going to get you inside, and then you’re going to tell me what’s wrong.”
His head lolls to rest against your shoulder, and you have to ignore the way that your heart races.
“There’s nothing wrong,” he tries to tell you. “I’m perfectly fine.”
“You are literally falling asleep on me,” you reply, walking in the clean kitchen.
“I just wanted to test if you’d be able to bear an android’s weight. That’s all.” You roll your eyes, but turn to the living room and gently set him down.
You lean forward and press your hand to his forehead, checking for his temperature the human way before remembering that he’s in fact not.
You’re about to open your mouth to further question him, only to be cut off by a sudden whooshing sound. It’s so close that you start looking around to see where it’s coming from. It almost sounds like it’s coming from Connor.
Connor gives you a frazzled smile, “it’s my internal fan. It’s trying to cool me down. Evidently, it’s not working.”
“Your internal fan?” You hadn’t realized that he’d had one. “Why do you need to cool down?” You hazard a seat on the couch as well, leaving a good foot of space between you two.
At work was a different story, you could pretend that you were just co-workers and that you didn’t go home at night and lay awake wishing for more while dreaming about twinkling brown eyes. Here, though, it was hard to ignore your feelings in a space that he inhabited. You have to push away the far-fetched fantasies of living here with him. Of sitting on this couch with him and cuddling close, watching a movie or criticizing a cop show. Cooking in the kitchen with him correcting you on everything while you pretend you’re not charmed. “Your” things merging with “his” things to become “our” things—the most dangerous fantasy of all.
Connor sighs, eyes trained towards the tv that is directly in front of the couch. You finally notice it, and realize that it is playing a movie. An old looking movie. One you haven’t seen since you moved away from home.
“I,” he begins, “I need an update.” He whispers so low that you have to lean forwards to catch the words before they get eaten up by the sound of his fan.
The words take a moment for you to process. As you take the words and digest them, absorbing the meaning, you watch the blue of his LED spin and spin and spin.
“An update?” You repeat, watching his slow nod. He looks almost…almost bashful.
Embarrassed.
But why would he be embarrassed about that?
Slowly, you prod for more. “Okay?”
He folds, then unfolds, then refolds his hands. “It’s a very long process because the update has to take hold of my entire body and change my system. It causes my system to get very hot and very slow. I have problems with navigating, problem-solving, just talking, and I feel awful .” Connor says the last part with a sigh, exhaustion whispering from the way his shoulders are hung or the way his eyelids seem to flutter over his eyes.
You blink at the dump of information. Five minutes ago, you hadn’t realized that androids had internal fans, now you’re learning that they need updates, and these updates screw with everything.
“So,” you begin, his expression looks as though he’s ready for you to be freaked out, so now you want to prove him wrong, “how long does this update take? Usually only a day or so?” At least, that’s how long your phone updates take.
“It really depends on storage, type of system, and a ton of other things. It’s especially,” he coughs and tries to drag himself to sitting upright, “especially since I am, you know, an older model,” he throws the words off of his tongue like they leave a disgusting taste.
It clicks.
You understand why he’s so hesitant to admit that he is having issues or that his update is taking longer. He is embarrassed to admit that he’s older. That he’s not a new model and that is fresh off of the technology block with all the fancy gadgets. Connor, who always prided himself on being efficient and good at his job, is not as advanced as other androids out there. Connor, who always needs to be faster and smarter and quicker, will lag behind other androids.
“Connor,” you find yourself reaching for his hand, ignoring the searing heat, “it’s okay. You’re feeling unwell. That’s okay. If you’d like, I can stay with you and help you in any way possible.” You still weren’t exactly sure what this update entailed, but you wanted to be there for him.
You expect him to turn you away, to say that he’s got it all handled and that he doesn’t want to inconvenience you. You can see that he wants to.
You’re about to fight him on it when he sighs.
“That would actually be nice,” he squeezes your hand and now it feels as if you’re the android with the update.
“Great, what can I do?”
Connor winces, as though not used to having someone help him, “Can you get out the fan from the closet door right there,” he gestures, “I need to cool down so that my system can actually take on the update.” You nod, and let go of his hand to fish out the fan. After hunting down a socket, you plug in the fan and set it on its highest setting before pointing it at Connor. He closes his eyes against the onslaught of cold air. You try to hide your shiver, but even half delirious, he is more observant than the normal person.
“Oh, I forgot how cold it is outside, here,” he reaches down and pulls his hoodie over his head and then tosses it to you. You gulp at the sight of him in just a shirt. Synthetic muscles bunch underneath a plain white cotton t-shirt, making your mouth dry.
The cloth is warm in your hands, meaning that he is really burning up. Connor has allowed you to borrow his jackets numerous times over the course of your partnership, and each time the hoodies were a neutral temperature in your hand while they had that crisp, clean smell to them.
Without complaint, you slip on the hoodie and revel in the cocoon of warmth. You settle back on the couch. “What else can I do?”
“I—I'm not sure,” his eyelids are fluttering.
Without thinking, you lean forwards and gently pull him towards you. He easily cooperates and in a second, his head is laying on your lap. His eyes close and his LED spins blue slower. Without thinking, you begin running your fingers through his hair. It should be unnerving how similar the texture is to real hair, but it is strangely grounding.
You hear Connor’s internal fan begin to turn down and a sigh of relief escapes you and blows across his face.
“This feels nice,” his voice is raspy. You’re almost not sure what he’s referring to until you realize he’s talking about you playing with his hair.
“You have very nice hair,” you reply softly. The weight of his body against yours is like a drug.
The corner of his mouth ticks up, “I can tell you where I got it.” You huff a laugh and his grin grows wider.
His grin reminds you of when you first were able to make him laugh.
It was completely on accident, but it was definitely needed.
It’d been about three weeks since you started working with him, and you’d still been extremely nervous around him. Avoiding eye contact and talking way too softly for a human to hear. Looking back has you cringing.
But, the awkwardness finally broke one day when you’d been trying to talk to him about a case and had gotten so flustered you’d started rambling.
“So the robber went to the bank and demanded $100M, and the bank pulled the silent alarm, but we’re guessing that the guy got nervous and—”
“Wait,” Connor had said, you assumed he’d held his hands up too, but you couldn’t tell from the way you were looking away. “What was his motive?”
“Girlfriend.”
“His girlfriend?” He’d repeated skeptically.
You nod, getting more and more flustered. “He had actually been catfished into thinking that his girlfriend was Vanessa Hudgens and that she needed $100M to make the next High School Musical .”
The silence that followed had you look at Connor, finding that his eyebrows were knitted. “He robbed a bank for a Disney movie?” His incredulous tone had you making a joke.
“Have you ever seen High School Musical? Anyone would rob a bank for the chance to see another basketball dude learn that he can be a music person either, peak American cinema right there.” You’d punctuated this with an eyeroll and then an intense blush. You’d chanced a look at Connor and had caught the look of utter shock before he bowed in the middle, roaring in laughter.
You’d flushed intensely, but had felt immense pride at being able to make him laugh. His laugh had the whole department pausing for a moment and looking over, adding to your embarrassment.
“Jesus,” Hank had remarked as he shuffled past, “did you finally make it past the stuck up his plastic ass?”
This sent Connor into another fit of laughter, though this time you joined in until you were both a laughing mess.
Watching him with laughter filling his inhuman features had softened your heart and eased your fear, allowing you to see him as almost human. Allowing you to realize how charming he really is, and how attractive you find him.
You blink, bringing yourself into the moment, to find that the morning light has softened to early evening light. Your neck is beginning to ache from looking down at Connor’s sleeping form. Although, sleeping isn’t the correct term. The correct term is “recharging”. CyberLife’s way of keeping androids from seeming too alive.
His temperature has dropped some, although still a bit fevered at your touch. The tv is playing a rerun of an old show and you glance around for the remote. You don’t dare to shift too much, unsure if he’d feel your movement and if it’ll wake him.
You find the remote in the coffee table drawer, untouched since he can just connect to the tv directly. You make sure to turn down the volume before flipping through the channels.
You’re still perusing the channels when Connor slightly shifts on your lap. You freeze.
He turns, his eyes still closed, as he brings his arm up to almost loop around your waist. You freeze until he is finished, settling as he nuzzles at your hip.
It’s the burning in your lungs, begging for air, that makes you realize you have stopped breathing. Air fills your lungs as you suck in a breath, trying to relax.
Physical contact has always been your weakness. You always crumble into a hug, always up for holding hands—especially with your friends, and you love throwing arms over shoulders in casual possession. That makes this touch all the more painful and pleasurable.
You extract your hands from his hair for a half second, just to reach forward and turn on the coffee table lamp, only to be stopped by a soft protesting sound.
You glance down at Connor. His eyes are still closed, his thirium pump beating sluggishly, but he softly says,
“Don’t stop,” his lips almost brush the fabric of your pants. Warm breath skating over your body to send chills up your spin. “It feels so good. You feel so good.”
You’re not sure how to respond, so you continue running your hands through his hair. Flipping through the channels, you find yourself stopping when you see a rerun of The Twilight Zone . It was the episode where the townspeople believe there are aliens, and begin falling prey to sheep mentality. It reminded you of the first time you’d seen the episode: in an introductory psychology class back in high school.
You blink.
High school was so long ago that it’d been at a time where androids hadn’t yet even become a big thing.
“I’ve never seen this episode,” Connor says weakly, not even opening his eyes.
You cock your head, “I thought you were recharging.”
Connor groans faintly, “I am, but I am still semi-awake.”
“Are you feeling any better?” You ask softly, still not quite understanding all that happens during an “update”.
He shifts himself, pushing himself further up on and over your lap. “It’s a little better,”
You brush a curl back from his forehead, “What does it feel like?”
“My entire system feels way too heavy and too slow. I feel dizzy when I stand, and all my pop ups and readers tell me that there’s an error. My legs feel as if they’re not going to hold me.”
You purse your lips to the side. “Why is it like this?”
“It’s to allow our system to get ready for the update. Since, the updates not only give us new features, they also fix old problems. So, it has to figure out what problem there is. Plus, back when CyberLife was still human-owned, it was a way to slow down the older models to encourage owners to replace their androids.”
“But not anymore?”
“No. Now, the androids work with the humans to make sure that all androids stay functional for as long as possible.”
Bolsteriously, you bypass just running your hands through his hair. Drunk on the feeling of physical contact, you begin to gently map out his features with the strokes of your fingertips. His soft synthetic skin, the slight warmth helping to make him seem even more alive.
He presses his face further into your touch when you pass over the ridge of his nose.
“When will the update finally take effect?”
He hums in response, “I think I can download it soon, but it will take at least 12 hours or so for it to finish.”
You think this over. Despite androids being the most advanced thing in the world, you’re not sure that you’d be able to handle the pressure and the stress that comes with the updates. An update and replacing meant, quite literally, life or death to an android. Humans can always change jobs, learn new skills, and reinvent themselves. You knew, for a fact, that before the revolution, androids were not given the same liberties. Now? Now you’re not sure.
Connor mistakes your silence for hesitation, and his bleary eyes slide open, then he’s pushing himself upright. You miss the feeling of his touch and his slight warmth—even if it’s a sign of ill health.
“Y/n, you don’t have to stay,” he says groggily, “I wouldn’t ask that of you.”
You lean forward, catching his hand. He all but slumps into you, his head falling onto your shoulder. “It’s okay, Connor. I don’t mind. You’ve saved my life plenty, the least I can do is make sure you’re not alone when you’re going through this.”
“You’re such a good friend, y/n,” Connor leans forward to plant a soft kiss on your cheek. The heat from it spreads from your cheek all the way across your face and then down your body, all while his words send a pang to your heart. That’s all you’ll be to him.
The truth is, you’ve never been happy with just that. As soon as you were more comfortable with him, you wanted more from him. You’d realized this on the carpool trip.
Connor turns to you, gently smiling as if he knows that you’re still a little nervous. From how often you catch him simply observing you, this time with brown eyes lit in curiosity, you imagine that he probably has gauged a great deal about you.
“So, y/n, I always wondered, what brought you from Texas to Michigan? It can’t be the weather,” you politely chuckle, it isn’t exactly the first time anyone has made the joke, but you appreciated the friendly inquiry nonetheless.
“Well, I actually didn’t plan on moving this far north. I wasn’t exactly planning to move from Texas in the first place, but the police academy relocated me to Michigan, and so here I am.” You shrug, “It definitely took some getting used to, but I wouldn’t say that I’d changed anything.”
“Do you miss Texas, or your family?” This time, he asks out of pure curiosity, not obligation.
You drum your fingers on your legs, “It’s hard not to miss it in the winters, but I’d say that I’m happier here than I probably would be back home in Texas—careerwise at least. In Texas, I doubt I’d have been able to rise as fast or get to work on the cases that I do here.” You say this as you turn to watch the passing cityscapes. You remember your classmates from the academy, who had chosen to stay in Texas, were still pushing paperwork and licking the bottom of the shoe at the same time that you were being handed cases and were able to work on them as an equal to Hank and Connor.
“But,” Connor prods gently, “family-wise?”
You turn back to look at him, taking in his gentle brown eyes. “Family-wise, I miss them a lot. Back home, we were really close. Both sets of my grandparents lived, at most, 30 minutes away. So, every Sunday, we’d have a huge family dinner. It was always so loud and so crowded, but it was so nice to be able to grow up that close to my entire family. My cousins lived close, so in the summer we’d bike to their house and then bike to the beach. We lived on the coast,” you explain, unable to keep the smile at bay. Talking about your family always does this.
Connor listens, seemingly enraptured. You remember that he doesn’t exactly have a home, nor a childhood. Your heart aches for him, and you share more in an attempt to make up for that.
“My eldest cousin, Dani, was the first to go to college in our entire family, and so when she got accepted into Texas A&M for Engineering—with a partial-ride, our parents went all out. They had one of the biggest parties the town, and maybe the state, had ever seen. Everyone who lived in town knew, and if they didn’t, they were about to. At the time, it’d been so embarrassing for Dani and all of us. But, looking back now, there is nothing embarrassing about it.” You smile at the memories, “they were just so proud of us.” Tears begin to prick your eyes, and you try to turn so that Connor would just think that you’re admiring the scenery still.
“How did they feel, then, about you moving across the country?” The question is small, harmless really, but it has your chin quivering in a shameful manner. You know, logically, that there’s no way he didn’t notice that, given he’s a freaking android detective, yet he still gives you the dignity of pretending not to notice.
“Well,” you only speak once you trust that your voice won’t betray you, “they would never tell me not to do what I wanted, but they didn’t want me moving so far away. Especially since I was so young. But, they still pitched in to buy my flight ticket and send me enough money for a year of rent.” Your vision gets cloudy, and you wait for them to clear again. “But I haven’t talked to them in years.” The admission is guilty as it leaves you in a whisper.
You’re able to feel the confusion emulating off of Connor. But you don’t need his judgement.
You pulled yourself upright, thanking the being above that you’re finally approaching the sight of the bar. Allowing for a reprieve from whatever this was.
“I’m sorry,” Connor finally says as the car parks itself. You take a shaky breath before you turn to look at him. Once you do, you find yourself lost in his gaze. Falling into his gaze is akin to falling into a warm vat of chocolate. “But I hope you know that I will try to make it so that you never feel lonely.”
Then, he smiles at you again, and goddamn it if you aren't already in love with him now.
After that conversation, he’d taken it upon himself to become your best friend. All the while, you’d been on a steady fall into love with him. You’d thought he was in love with you too. The gentle way he’d look at you, the soft hand squeeze he’d give you whenever you guys were walking side by side, or the way he always brought you coffee—and knew your progression: two caffeinated, then two decaf.
He’d finally confessed one night. A Friday evening when you’d gone out to the bar together. This had been about a year after knowing each other.
“I like someone,” he says above the roar of the bar.
Your heart freezes. Could it be? Does he really feel the same?
“Who?” You ask hoarsely, taking a swig from your beer.
A faint blue blush creeps its way across Connor’s face. He opens his mouth and your heart begins beating faster and faster. You almost can’t hear him over the sound of your heart.
You watch his lips move, watching as he finishes whatever he says, and looks at you nervously. It takes a millisecond for your ears to catch up and to actually capture the admission in the air before it’s swallowed up.
“Drew from Interrogation."
Oh.
Oh.
Oh.
“That’s great,” suddenly you can’t look at him. The neon lights are too harsh on his soft features. Your nose stings: the place reeks and probably hasn’t been cleaned since it was established. Your vision goes blurry: your stupid ophthalmologist had convinced you to switch to contacts, you can’t see anything with them. You feel as if you can’t breathe: the bar was way too crowded, you and Connor had been dodging elbows for a good half hour or more.
“Please don’t tell him,” he beseeches.
Your next mouthful of beer tastes bland and is all too bitter. You wince and let out a cough. Connor pats you on the back to help you, and you flinch away from his touch.
“Scout’s honor,” you send a quick too-wide smile his way, and then hop off the barstool. “I am beat after this week, so I’ll probably be getting going.” You can feel his eyes on you, and you ignore them as you gather your coat and then fish out a twenty dollar bill.
“Y/n, wait,” You stop Connor by looking him in the eyes. You take in his concerned eyes. Eyes that you had thought sought for you in any crowded room. Eyes that you’d hope would one day look at you with all the tenderness in the world.
These eyes had never belonged to you. And never would.
You set the bill on the bar, and then slide it towards him. Then, you weave your way through the crowd with such speed that even an android would have struggled to keep up.
In some of your darkest hours, you’d wished that he’d have chased after you and taken back the name he’d said. Explained somehow that it had been a mistake.
A few weeks later, Drew and Connor had announced their relationship to the precinct.
He’d looked for you in the crowd of people congratulating them, an anxious look on his face, and you’d smiled as widely as you could. What looked like relief had flashed across his features and then he’d turned to smile at Drew while squeezing his hand.
You’d promptly turned and puked in the bathroom.
You’re awakened by the sound of something akin to a jet roaring in your ear. You scrunch up your face as you feel a heat licking at your legs and lower body.
So hot it might be fire.
Your eyes snap open.
Connor’s eyes are still closed, early evening has turned to night, the tv turned itself off, and his internal fan is so loud you’re going deaf from it.
Oh no. Oh no.
“Connor, Connor,” you gently prod, trying to wake him. You can barely hear yourself over your beating heart, a dropping sensation starting in the pit of your gut. What will you do if he doesn’t wake? Do you just turn the fan back on and hope that helps? Should you call someone?
“Please, please. I need you to wake up, Connor,” you whisper to yourself.
Relief breaks over you when he lets out a disgruntled sound, “I’m too warm,” he murmurs against your pants.
“What do I do?” The words fly out of you.
“Get me to the bed,” his eyelids flutter and then he’s trying to push himself up. You quickly swoop in and put one of his arms around your shoulder as you head towards the hallway. It takes a while to get there, given that this huge machine is leaning primarily on you. Finally, you stumble into the bedroom and—ceremonially—drop Connor onto the plain blue sheets. You rush back for the fan, and plug it in before aiming it at the sick android.
He groans as he slowly scouts himself up to the pillows.
You’re hesitant to get on the bed, feeling as though that would break some sort of code. It’s been one year since Connor and Drew had dated—and broken up—but you still feel as though you’re trespassing. But then Connor is patting the spot beside him, and who are you to deny him?
The mattress gives way beneath you, cushioning your knees as you slowly settle beside him.
“How are you feeling?”
Connor is about to answer when suddenly he blanches and immediately rushes to his feet. He stumbles while getting up, and you leap over the bed to steady him. He makes his way to the adjoining bathroom.
“What—” you’re cut off by Connor collapsing in front of the toilet, leaning over and shuttering as he empties his stomach. You try not to scrunch up your nose at the sound, the sight, or the smell, but regular human puke is bad enough, Connor—with his ability to consume twice as much as a human can—is throwing up things that should never be swallowed in the first place.
Holding your breath, you grab for a washcloth and begin wetting it with some warm water.
You turn as Connor finishes. He reaches to flush it, before scouting back to lean against his toilet. You kneel beside him, and tip his head back, gently wiping his face and mouth.
“That,” he replied hoarsely, ‘is how I feel.” He tips his head back so that he’s looking at the ceiling, and you gently brush his hair back from his face. After placing the towel in the hamper, you grab a plastic cup from near the sink and fill it with some water.
“Here,” you pass it to him, and he downs it in one gulp.
You’re not sure if you should pull him up or if you should leave him here, but when you go to crouch down beside him, he begins leaning towards you and ends up half on your lap.
“Connor, should we go back to your room?” You’re unsure if he even heard you.
He lets out a groan of protest, “it’s cooler here.”
“Okay,” you shift so that he can lay more comfortably over you, his head pillowed by his own hoodie.
“Talk to me,” he whispers.
“About what?”
You secretly wonder how this will affect your relationship. Will you go back to being friends tomorrow, or will it be changed? Will Connor finally see you as more?
“Anything. Have you talked to your family?”
You smile to yourself, of course Connor will remember to ask about your family while he’s unwell. Passing a hand over his hair, you reply, “No. But, I’ve been thinking that maybe I’ll call them sometime. Maybe I’ll go down this summer, I’m not sure.”
“Wow, I see how it is. Leave me all alone in Detroit,” he smiles against your forearm.
“You’ll be fine. You’ll have Hank.” You grimace to yourself as you say that. Hank is definitely not the type to want to hang out outside of work. Although, if there's a bar involved, that’s a different story.
Connor chuckles, “I’ll just invite him out to drinks, he can’t refuse.”
“Exactly,” you smile down at him.
Silence lapses around you, and you’re not sure how much time has passed before he speaks again.
“I think you should.”
You startle at hearing his voice, having drifted into your own daydreaming. “Do what?”
“Call them. I know they miss you.” He shifts to peer up at you.
“Okay,” you press his hair back from his forehead, though you freeze when he pulls back. You hold still as he pushes himself up and off of you, instead choosing to lay on the cold bathroom tiles. Hurt flashes through you, but you remind yourself that your body heat is probably not helping his temperature problem.
“My update is working now,” he says, “I’ll probably be okay now. You should probably go home and get some rest. And eat.” He turns to smile at you. “Thank you so much for helping me.”
You blink, unable to process how quickly things changed. One moment he is cuddling with you, the next he is practically kicking you out.
“Are—are you sure?” You want to reach out, but you remember the way that he pulled away from your touch, and a dooming sensation starts in your stomach.
No, it’s okay. He’s just still feeling unwell. It doesn’t mean anything. He still likes you. He’ll confess tomorrow.
You can see it: he’ll confess tomorrow that he is so thankful that you helped him, and he’ll confess that he’s been so blind. That it’ll always be you.
It’ll be okay .
“Yes, I don’t want to keep you any longer. You should get home.” He smiles deeper at you, that same soft look in his eyes. And then, he sits up and plants a kiss against your cheek.
And you’re convinced.
You’re all jittery the next morning.
You’d gotten no sleep, too anxious wondering and hoping that things have changed between you and Connor. You reply the whole evening, and you’re sure.
Now, you just wait for his dark hair to come through the door. For his smile to light up your chest and for him to say something that shows that he has realized that he’s in love with you.
“Did you take a shot or something?” Hank grips as your bouncing leg bumps into your desk for the third time. “Whatever it is, I want to make sure I never have it.”
You roll your eyes, too nervous to reply.
And then, you see him.
Butterflies erupt in your stomach and you’re grinning like a fool. Because he’s grinning like a fool. Your heart soars. It’s true. Three years in love with him paid off after all. You’ll finally be able to love Connor the way that you want to. The way that he deserves.
You almost miss the person he has an arm wrapped around.
And when you do, your heart sinks.
Or maybe it shatters.
You’re not sure, because you’re too busy seeing a giddy Connor with his arm around an equally in love Drew.
Did he call him after you left? Had he spent the whole evening wishing that it was Drew instead of you? Had he kicked you out so that Drew could come over?
“Well this is unexpected,” Hank says when they finally stop by your desks. You can’t bring yourself to look at them. Instead, look at your keyboard. Looking feels like confirming. You don’t want to face this. Not while your fantasies are still fresh in your mind or while you can still feel the press of his arms around your waist or the heat of his lips against your cheek.
You still have his hoodie. You were going to give it to him today. You’d fantasized that he’d smile down at you when you handed it back and tell you that you can keep it, that you can keep all his hoodies from now on.
“I was feeling down yesterday because of this new update, and it turns out that the update helped to better equip androids for families.” You catch the motion of Connor turning to look at Drew from the corner of your eye. “I realized that I didn’t want anyone else.”
You can’t breathe. Can’t see. Can’t think.
How long after you left had the update finished? Had he realized? Had it been while you were there? After everything that you’d done, he still saw you platonically. You would never be a person that he’d want in the way that you wanted him. You would have to stand back and watch him have the life that you wanted with him.
Maybe one day he’d introduce you to his kids.
You stand up, abruptly.
“I need to use the bathroom,” you tell the floor, skirting past all of them. The rest of the precinct was drawn near to see what the news was, and so it was easy for you to disappear into the crowd.
At least, you’d thought it was.
“Y/n! Y/n! Wait,” Connor calls, and you speed up. “Hold on.” Fingers wrap around your arm, stopping you in your tracks.
“Yes?” You ask politely, hoping that he will ignore the water in your eyes.
He cocks his head, “are you okay?”
“Yes,” you let out a fake laugh, “just allergies you know?”
He raises an eyebrow, but is kind enough not to point out that allergies in the dead of winter aren't normal.
“I just wanted to thank you for taking care of me. Last night was awful, and I’m so glad that I had you to help me through it.” He smiles that same stupid fucking smile, and you want to scream.
You want to ask him why he insists on taking your heart and dragging it further and further. Why can he not see that you’re standing right here? You’re so tired of loving him and getting nothing back. You want to yell at him, to ask him how he was able to be platonic with you after wrapping his arms around you. How could he be so damn platonic when he knew more about you than anyone else? When he was the only person that seemed to care about you?
You’re about to, but then you see him glance over his shoulder at Drew. A look of such soft love that you know two things.
One: That you’ll never ever find yourself on the receiving end of that look, not even if you lived to be 1000.
Two: That you can’t ruin this for him.
Because no matter how hurt you are, no matter how much you wished that he’d like you back, you know that it’s not his fault.
And you know that all you want is his happiness. He could break your heart into a thousand pieces, and you’d still cut yourself putting them back together if that would please him. If that would make him smile.
“Of course, Connor, what are friends for?”
If your voice lacks some of its conviction, or if your smile doesn’t quite reach your eyes, Connor doesn’t comment. He’s too busy looking at his boyfriend.
“You’re the best friend I could ever ask for.” He envelopes you in a hug, squeezing you so tight. You close your eyes against the embrace. Willing yourself to remember every detail of this feeling. Of being in his arms.
The moment is over all too soon. One moment he’s softly smiling at you, and the next he is walking away from you. Towards Drew.
You turn to the bathroom and finally allow yourself a good, deep cry. Your hopes and your desires from the past three years running with your tears. You hope that they never come back.
You fumble for your phone. Needing someone now more than ever.
You call your mom.