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

[bleps]

((ooc; cont. from here))

[Anything happening within the walls of Hank's house is now being shattered by the blaring of the doorbell. Once, twice, a third time for a bit longer. Less an actual doorbell and more of a buzzer, a harsh thing that is sure to grab the attention of anyone possessing a heartbeat within. The very obvious sign of someone (a certain RK800 unit) at the door, hoping to find the Lieutenant at his home if he cannot be located at his usual haunts. The sort that serves alcohol, mainly.]

Lieutenant?

[The voice should ring familiar, if not slightly muffled by the obstruction before him. Connor stands waiting, straight-backed, staring at the closed door like the obstacle it is to his entry. The usual curl of hair that falls across his forehead sways in the breeze as he waits, only half-patiently.]

Lieutenant! [The downwards cant of his head, just slightly, eyes averted to the side; the look of someone listening for noise within.] Are you home?

Comments

[bleps]

[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.

[fuck1ngusernam3]

[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.

[bleps]

[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?

[fuck1ngusernam3]

[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?

[bleps]

[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.]

[fuck1ngusernam3]

[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?

[bleps]

[A twitch along the ridge of his brow.]

Read the number off, Lieutenant.

[Stubbornness flares, probably not helping.]

[fuck1ngusernam3]

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!

[bleps]

[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.

[fuck1ngusernam3]

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?

[bleps]

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.]

[fuck1ngusernam3]

[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?

[bleps]

[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?

[fuck1ngusernam3]

[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.]

[bleps]

[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.]

[fuck1ngusernam3]

[Hank hasn't stopped feeling like he's on the wrong side of the interview table. This time it's that dilemma that gives you the sweet spot, that question they ask themselves that leads to their own confession: The cops know anyway, so won't it make things less shitty if I tell them?]

[Connor doesn't know what's up but he knows something is, and he's right. Partners should tell each other the big shit. Or, human partners should.]

[Fuck it. In for a penny, right? Besides, there's only so much room for self-delusion in this car. They should tell each other this shit. But-]

What if you're - hypothetically - what if one partner's safer if the other one keeps his mouth shut? Better off? Shouldn't the other one just... trust him? Shouldn't he just try to trust him?

[bleps]

[Well, if that’s supposed to make him feel better about all of this, it doesn’t. It just switches out one mode for another — irritation and the indignity at not being told the whole truth, at not being trusted, right back into that nettle of what he was talking about before. Concern.

Connor barely knows how to process so much flipping back and forth. Doesn’t know how to transition easily from one to the other without subroutines bending over backwards to accommodate what they were never programmed to do — deal with the complications of an RK800 unit moving from mind state to mind state so quickly that they hardly know what to do with themselves.

Because, especially now, there’s the realization that if Hank is keeping something to himself to protect him, he is causing the man undue trouble. He is potentially putting him in danger and doesn’t even know it; Connor doesn’t even blink, doesn’t even flinch, when faced with danger just around the corner. But to know that it’s Hank carrying some shapeless burden for his sake, something he can’t make out—

Connor goes quiet. For a long, long time, and it seems like he has nothing else to say, as the city glides past them through the window. It’s hard to tell if it’s condemnation or the slow, careful considering of how to approach this. His LED circles a steady blue.

It isn’t until they pull into Hank’s driveway, Connor putting the car in park and killing the engine, does he finally speak.]

I think you should tell me anyway.

[...is what he’s decided on.]

[fuck1ngusernam3]

[Hank leans forward, elbows on his knees, and lets out a tired laugh.]

Of course you do.

[He runs his hands through his hair, wanting to sleep, wanting to be done, just for a little while.]

This’d probably have a chance, if I could. I’m the last person in the world who oughta be...

[He sighs.]

You gonna let me outta this car if I say no?

[bleps]

The choice is yours. I won’t keep you sequestered on your own driveway if you choose to not tell me what it is.

[And that’s not a lie. Connor can concede one thing with Hank that he won’t with perpetrators in an interrogation room: leeway. With the concept of trust being thrown back in his face, he’s vaguely aware he’d be a hypocrite not to.]

[fuck1ngusernam3]

[Hank opens his mouth to say something, stops, remembers for the millionth time tonight that he’s trying not to push the emotion thing. He doesn’t want to push the guy so hard he has to report some kind of error to Cyberlife, but not pushing at all feels like letting the damn company have him. Maybe there’s a happy medium here.]

That’s a different tune from just fifteen minutes ago. Guess I’m lucky you decided you like me again.

[bleps]

[Connor just looks at him, lips pursed. Takes that as Hank declining to tell him, since it lacks an explanation.]

I don't like unknowns existing in concepts that are supposed to be devoid of them. It's as simple as that. But if you are asking for me to trust you, then I will.

[That's android speak for: our partnership has been nothing but transparent before, and I don't know how to feel about something being hidden, unclear, or uncertain about any of it. But fine, I guess.]

...Do you need assistance getting to or entering your home?

[fuck1ngusernam3]

I can open my own damn door.

[He opens the car’s door, swings his legs out, and just sits there. He takes a breath and half-looks over his shoulder.]

You trusting me with this, that... That means something.

God, I hope you don’t end up regretting it.

[Then he stands like his ass is on fire and hurries away toward his front door, not looking back.]

[bleps]

[Hank, that is so very the opposite of comforting.

But he says nothing as Hank leaves and heads away. Connor watches for a moment, then exits the car himself — he closes the door and moves over to the passenger’s side to do the same, since Hank just left his wide open in his hurry to retreat back to the house.

He frowns, his LED blinking as he wordlessly orders an automated cab to come pick him up. And in a few steps, Connor moves to the sidewalk, simply waiting for it, wordlessly, stoically, the way androids are apt to do.]

[fuck1ngusernam3]

[Hank making it into the station by about half past ten the next morning actually turns a few heads - or maybe those heads turn because he looks terrible. Not too terrible, but the red eyes and the bags underneath them don't add anything good to his whole usual look. He plops into the chair in front of his desk, leans the side of his face against a hand, and looks at Connor.]

Looking shiny and new as usual, Connor. What do you do, get here at the asscrack of dawn and just start working?

[bleps]

I arrived here at 4:03 AM in order to start working, yes.

[A shorter amount of time than usual, staying at Cyberlife the night before. Would rather work on the case, the wheels spinning in his mind about too many things, than spend hours remaining in his storage unit, with only the ambient hum of technology and the steady rhythm of an armed guard’s footsteps to keep him company.

He had been working diligently, and on his monitor are lines and lines and lines of code. He’s found an adapter for the USB; it’s an archaic thing, plugged into the screen. The only thing that seems plugged into anything at all.

But he pauses, sparing a glance at Hank. Eyes his state, which doesn’t look all that well.]

You look like you hardly slept at all. And you’re... early.