finalflight | PSL; [It's bigger than us, it's bigger than everything]

[Androids don't feel, is the response that doesn't need to be said. So many times has it been his rebuttal that it's just an implied thing, hanging over them like a shadow, filling in the empty space with words that they both know is flickering through Connor's mind.

Besides, no time to reply, not with Hank stumbling forward, too far from the car to use it as something to brace himself against. Connor moves quickly, in that inhuman way of his, to shift facing the Lieutenant and throwing out his arms to steady him in the best way he can.]

Lieutenant- [An exhale of breath, a tiny ingrained human-like quirk. Picked up or pre-programmed is anyone's guess.] Hank. You really shouldn't drink so much.

[Another reiteration, something he's said more than once before, but never does it catch and settle in the other.]

Yeah, well. [Hank holds onto Connor’s arms for a second, getting his feet under him.] When the department can’t get me, they just send someone else. Figures the only guy stupid enough to drag me in at night’s a goddamn android.

Besides, I did okay, didn I? Walkin, talkin, mighta actually got some shit done. It’s just the last part of drunk’s hitting me all at once, ‘s all.

That's not the point. The department shouldn't have issues contacting you at all.

[But he supposes this isn't really the time for a lecture, nor is Connor really the lecturing type. Only the concerned application of the same advice over and over again, wondering why Hank can't see the reasoning behind his words. (But knowing why, all the same.)

Connor will keep holding onto Hank until the man rights himself properly.]

Of course you did "okay". But imagine the clarity you could possess if you weren't inebriated.

Don’t have to imagine. [Okay. Feet: under him. Ground: solid. Car: right there. Hank steps away from Connor, pats him on the shoulder in thanks, then makes his way toward it.] My memory still works. ‘M not that old. If you wanted to work with that guy, I got some bad news for you.

[Hank keeps a hand on the car as he makes his way around it, plopping into the passenger seat and letting his head fall back against the headrest with a relieved sigh. He doesn’t open his eyes to see if Connor’s in listening range, just keeps going and if Connor hears it he hears it.]

You’re goin about this all wrong if you wanna work with someone like that anyway. Let me dig my own grave deep enough and maybe Fowler’ll change his mind, put you with someone else after all.

[He hears it, even as he walks around to the driver's side once Hank is seated. Opens the door, scoots in, closes it. Doesn't start the car just yet, only turning his body to look at him.]

I don't wish to work with someone else. You're my partner, and I'm allowed to be concerned for both your health and how it affects both of our jobs.

Yeah?

[Hank cracks his eyes open and, for a second, just looks at him. He was going to try not to push this, the whole emotion thing. Wasn’t he? But fuck it. Connor’s the one who brought it up. And if all this shit Hank's just set into motion is going to be worth it, he actually wants to know.]

Even though it’d be more efficient to work with a partner you didn’t have to drag around? You sure it’s logical, to waste time being all concerned about me?

[The response to that is so immediate that Connor might as well be a caricature of himself. The quick circling of his LED, the way he brings his focus to starting the car. The engine stutters to life.]

We've worked several cases together. I would rather not have to start from a blank state, trying to build a new relationship with another officer.

[The topic of emotion and concern (he should've used a different word, he knows that now) is like a magnet that pushes Connor away from it. Always dancing around the concept at a safe distance; manageable, vague. Non-committal.

But even so, it settles wrong on his tongue, on his mind. Twisting Hank up in his processing as just some statistic, a progress bar that he doesn't want to reload, just doesn't seem to encompass his true thoughts on the matter.

Connor grips firmly at the steering wheel, but they still have yet to drive off.]

...That being said, is it wrong to be concerned? I would like to consider us on relatively friendly terms, but if I've overstepped my bounds in saying so, you should let me know.

[That gets Hank's eyes to open all the way up and he sits forward, leaning on his elbows. Cononr's started the car, but he isn't driving it yet; he's invested. He really wants to know.]

Are you... asking me... if it's okay to worry about me?

[Programmed to do about a billion calculations a second, and the guy can't even pick up his own contradictions. This answer's going to take a second to figure out.]

Well... Okay. I guess if you were human I'd tell you not to bother. But I know what a human wants, I know what they're expecting. But you, Connor? Shit, I don't know. When I don't get my shit together, and then I don't get my shit together, and a little while later - surprise! - I still haven't got my shit together, what are you gonna do? I mean, god knows I can't tell you what to do, you'll run your give-a-shit protocol all day if you want, or just whenever you really wanna start fuckin with my head, but I guess I just want to know what you want out of it. Do whatever you guys do instead of feel if you want, but what do you expect me to do about it?

[Some things remain impossible to pin down with numbers and algorithms and the vast network of subroutines that make up Connor's brain. These little terrible whispers that he can't put neatly into a box, categorize them, throw them into the depths of the false, electric ocean in his mind to let them drown and go away. It always floats back up, like flotsam sticking to the shore.

He believes he's miscalculated, taken the conversation towards another place which only keeps bringing in more of those considerations that he can't keep at bay. He shouldn't have said anything, his grip is steady on a steering wheel that hasn't moved yet, but here they are. The inside of Hank's car might as well a confessional, it feels like a hollowed out space where words are suddenly hard to form.

He's unravelling what Hank's reply is. Getting to the meat of it. Discarding the chaff, and the question is clear: what does Connor want out of any of this?]

I... [The word want is still full of burs and he drops it.] ....would prefer for you to be happy, healthy, and overall contented with your job, Hank. And I know it isn't something that I can say, and your mind can suddenly flip a switch, and all's better. The human brain doesn't work like that. It's full of too many connections that are cannot be turned off, too many pathways that lead to a myriad of associations.

[For a rare moment, he almost doesn't know where he was going with this line of thinking. He always has a point at the end. It's slipped past his fingers, it's so simple.]

And I know I can't change that. I'm just an android, programmed to say the right thing, to map out the most efficient way of tackling a case. To get on your good side so that percentages in efficiency rise by steady degrees. Just a machine, designed to accomplish a task.

[Words that should ring familiar.]

And yet beyond all of that, there is still the ancillary wish to see you feeling better. Can't it be that straightforward?

Edited 2018-08-03 21:22 (UTC)

It's not even that simple with humans, Connor. What makes you think it would be that simple with you?

[He sighs.]

My efficiency's never going to go up, Connor. But if you're really too lazy- [He eyes Connor here, pointedly.] -to work with someone else, sure, I'll help you accomplish your task. We'll work on the case. And when we solve it-

[He half-shrugs with the arm that's not holding him up.]

I guess it can be that straightforward for you, Connor, because you don't have to worry about what's going to happen afterward. You can just drag me outta my house, keep me from falling on my ass, and tell me you give a shit, and then you can fuck off back to big daddy Cyberlife, and that'll be it.

[He sits back, looking up at the ceiling of his car.]

So, sure. Do whatever you want. No skin off your nose.

[Lazy? The word feels like a slap to the face, after all he’s just said. That despite Hank’s myriad of issues, he chooses to work with him because of the fledgling relationship they’ve built — both work-centric and an undefined friendliness that Connor finds beneficial to both himself and possibly the other man.

But maybe he’s wrong, with how swiftly all of that is dismissed right under his feet.]

That has nothing to do with it. It’s irrelevant.

[That after the case is through, he can wipe his hands clean of his partner, and forget all they’ve done together. As if Connor’s self-proclaimed worry is just a thin veil he wears to propagate the success of the mission.

He thinks of the time that he said would be whatever Hank saw him fit to be. To fill the mould, to be a friend, or just a machine. He wonders if he can rein himself back in, all those little loose pieces that have fallen out of line, and go back to doing that.

Suddenly Connor feels as if he wants to get out of this car and just walk the rest of the way back to the station; just call Hank a cab and get him home that way.

But that would be irrational, inefficient. An actuator moves in his jawline. Connor puts the car into gear and begins to driving in earnest. Eyes forward, tone utterly, painfully even.]

I’m not certain what you want from me, Lieutenant.

[I want you to be real. I want you to stay.]

[Almost unconsciously, Hank shoves his hand in his pocket, the post-it note with the number of Dave's burner phone making a crumpling noise as he tightens his grip around it. Hank slumps against the door, watches the city pass outside the window.]

Nothing you could give me anyway, Connor. Don't worry about it.

[Connor’s ironically fallen into I’m-Just-A-Machine mode as the only way to portray his dissatisfaction at the path the conversation took. The only way he knows how to process it is to not process it at all.

Though his reply is bitingly fast, no hesitation when he hears that crumple in Hank’s pocket. He’s of no inclination to be subtle about anything now.

Connor’s eyes remain on the road.]

What does the note say?

[Hank grimaces at him, just a quick glance over before he goes back to frowning at the window. Connor doesn't know when to let the fuck alone, does he?]

[Christ, of course he doesn't.]

It's just...

[Fuck, what is it just, again? If the world was a better place, he'd be sleeping by now.]

Dave's gonna call us if he learns anything, I said that, right? I just need to know his number, so I know to answer his calls. Why? Thought I was leaving somethin out?

[If you didn’t agitate your android, Hank, you’d be sleeping right now.]

His file will be attached to the police report. You have his number that way. You can look it up, just like any other case we’ve worked.

[His words are purposefully being utilized as needles trying to poke holes through everything.]

[Never fear, Connor, Hank has rarely met a provocation he did not rise to and he huffs, glaring at Connor in disbelief.]

I'm stupid, and drunk! Okay? What the fuck do you want from me?

[A twitch along the ridge of his brow.]

Read the number off, Lieutenant.

[Stubbornness flares, probably not helping.]

What?

[Shit. What the fuck did he do wrong? Fuck, he probably a whole truckload of mistakes - but he might not have done it at all, sober.]

[Shit.]

Why the fuck do you need me to read it, is your wi-fi offline? You just told me the number's already in the report!

[He shouldn’t press the issue, he knows. Any further and it’s a show of distrust, which is detrimental to a partnership’s very foundation, and yet-

And yet what does it matter, if Hank told him it’s no skin off of his nose either way?]

Because I want to know if what’s in the file matches with what’s in your pocket.

What the hell, Connor?

[It's not like Hank hasn't heard guilty fuckers make these same denials for years, decades. But he also knows what those other guilty fuckers do - the longer you put off giving actual confirmation, the longer you get before the sword comes down and cuts off your fucking head.]

What the hell do I know if it's the same? I didn't write it, I haven't even called the guy for years! Not since he got fired, started a business - he coulda changed his number ten times since then! What the fuck is this anyway, what do you even think I'm doing? Fucking treason?

Of course I don’t expect you to know his number. Otherwise he wouldn’t have written it down and given it to you.

[Look at those processes go. Look at all the blinking and circling his LED is doing.]

But he knows that you have his file. He has no reason to give you his number, unless it’s something not in police records. Not common knowledge that could otherwise be found by looking up his business on the internet.

[The last part is added in case Hank makes the argument that their files are out of date.]

Read me the number, Lieutenant.

[He can check it against what’s on file when he goes back to the station later.]

[That sounds a lot - and feels a lot - like the moments before Connor closes his jaws around whatever poor sap happens to be in the interview room with him. This is Not Good. Still, if Connor's going to take Hank down, he's going to have to work at least a little harder than that for it.]

No. Not when you haven't told me why you want me to. What exactly am I being accused of, Connor?

[Connor, in all his cleverness (but it’s a page from the same book that Hank’s been working out of for years), avoids the answer by returning it with a question.]

Are you hiding something, Lieutenant? Is that why you don’t want to tell me?

[So Connor doesn't know. He doesn't know what, at least. He does know there's something. That's good to know, at least. For now.]

I don't want to tell you because you're being an ass. Why are you going so hard on this? Is it because I told you not to bother braiding us those friendship bracelets?

[Is it even possible to piss an android off enough to throw them off their game? Probably not. Is it possible to piss Connor off? Maybe Hank's about to find out.]

Edited (too tired to resist the urge to add more) 2018-08-04 01:53 (UTC)

[A small fraction of it is a bluff, in a way. Connor has no idea what it could be, if it is anything. Can’t even fathom would what have changed so quickly that Hank would be stuffing secrets in his pockets, but here they are, all of his investigative senses practically singing against the inside on his brain. Telling him that something is off.

But not much good if he doesn’t know what that something is. He thinks back to Dave, wonders what he could possibly need to keep in touch with Hank for, outside of the case they’ve just come from. Can’t fathom the connection, given that it was just renewed today after so many years. Maybe he is over-thinking. Maybe he is just looking for a reason.

The sarcasm leaning against the friendship bracelet remark has his LED spinning again, dips into yellow ever so briefly, before glowing blue. But Connor keeps his eyes on the road — he hasn’t looked at Hank once throughout the whole of this conversation since he started driving.]

It’s because you’re being evasive, and I don’t understand why. We’re supposed to communicate with each other, and if something has happened, you should tell me.

[It almost sounds like mediation if not for the short clip of his tone.]

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