DETROIT CITY POLICE DEPARTMENT

“A tack on my seat? Really, Gavin?”

He loves hearing everything about Hank, finding new depths and intricacies to the man, the lieutenant who is so much like a father to him, who’s helped him grow and become truly more than a machine (a good portion of that development is certainly due to him, his rough sort of kindness, and a strange desire to impress him and make him proud that Connor had grown somewhere along the way). Either way, he no longer stood ramrod straight, all correctly proportioned… he allowed himself to be softer.

Is curiosity a deviant trait? Connor makes a note to himself to look into that more at another time. Maybe it’s something that was ingrained into him from the beginning to make him a better detective, to help him find clues easier. Does that mean he was at least a little deviated from the beginning? On that rooftop… could he have saved that man? That deviant? At least he’d saved the girl… He failed to suppress a shiver, the memories of falling overwhelming him as hard as he tries to keep them controlled. He doesn’t like that. Not at all. At the very least, he should have control over that. As Hank talks again, he’s (thankfully) able to refocus on the question, not searching for it on the internet (that would be cheating), but trying to get the answer on his own. His LED flashes gold with the effort.

“I don’t know. What did the fig say to the table?”

The change in physicality since Connor broke through the deviancy barrier was not lost upon Hank. Appearing much less rigid these days compared to his first encounter with the android upon having been faithfully retrieved at Jimmy’s Bar. Back then, Anderson would have considered him to be some kind of well-trained dog--a Poodle--in contrast to the present and how Connor’s sustained reliability and dependable punctuality has kept the lieutenant accountable. Re-learning how to be responsible for himself has been a task that Hank has struggled with less with having Connor’s support at his side. Self-confidence and inner strength has begun to slowly return to the older man through Connor’s influence and Hank knows that he has to find a way to thank the android in a meaningful way -- that is, once he is no longer embarrassed with addressing it. The relationship between the both of them has meant a great deal more to Hank than he ever though it would and keeping things unsaid, while being within character for the lieutenant, still didn’t sit right with him. One doesn’t assist with turning a man’s life around without a proper and gracious expression of profound gratitude, after all.

Icy blues watch as Connor considers the joke; of course, the first thing he wonders to himself is whether or not Connor was bold enough to cheat his way through the joke. The joke was simple in nature: while it was something Cole had come up with on his own, Anderson knows that somewhere in the world, another father has written a similar story about a similar son telling a similar joke. The smile on the lieutenant’s face seems to reflect a fond warmth as he recalls Cole’s expression as he looked back up at Hank while telling the old joke, Hank would never forget how proud his son appeared to be of his own wit. 

His eyes go to Hank’s pockets, and focus on the sudden tension in his forearms, making Connor’s eyebrows start to stitch together in concern. Was he in pain? Did something happen? He made a note to ask about that later — he didn’t want to spoil the conversation, after all.

If Connor had a heart, and not a thirium pump, it would be broken by the fact that androids and humans had such important key differences. Sure, they looked almost identical, and with the removal of the LED, could look completely identical, but androids were completely mechanical, and therefore, completely fixable. Well, except for advancements in technology striving forward and the releases of different models (post-revolution, he wasn’t sure how he felt about that. More androids would, of course, be better, but the idea of a living person’s personality, their whole identity being shaped by a few presses of a button and sold for various reasons… it didn’t feel right) would mean that certain parts wouldn’t be made anymore, and newer parts would no longer be compatible with older models… Connor squeezed his eyes shut. His train of thought had lead him down a worrying path that he hadn’t even meant to go down. He was just trying to think about how Hank’s life could possibly be extended.

Again, he’s afraid that saying the wrong thing will make Hank distrust him, no longer regard him as his son, so he doesn’t say anything about the possibility of him becoming a cyborg of sorts for the purely selfish reason of Connor wanting to spend more time with him. But god, when he smiles, all the android wants to do is be small and tuck his head under Hank’s chin in a hug, to be comforted at told that he’s doing a good job. Perhaps it’s a remnant from Amanda. “What’s your favorite joke?”

He nods, confirming Hank’s research into the matter to be true. “Yes. And ‘mom’ likely also comes from baby talk — the child in question going through the motion of suckling without there being a breast or a bottle in its mouth, and vocalizing.” Maybe it’s another machine remnant, but he can’t totally understand the appeal of babies. They just get in the way. “It’s alright. I like it when you tell me things you’ve learnt.”

Ice-colored orbs catch the way that Connor’s brow seems to pinch together and silent curiosities begin to run rampant within the lieutenant as a result of the android’s display of concern for his father-figure. That sort of subtle physicality was worlds away from the stiff body language that Connor had exhibited when the duo had first met at Jimmy’s bar. Had it been something he’d picked up through deviancy? Or was it simply something he learned from being around humans? 

Had Connor always been so... human? 

Your favorite joke, his silently parrots. The lieutenant shifts his weight from one foot to another, eyes drift upwards in a thoughtful manner as he considers Connor’s question. Of course, mind goes to a collection of cheesy dad jokes and bad puns that he used to playfully bug his son and his ex-wife with; or the occasional off-color joke that Detroit’s finest had passed around to each other within the precinct; Hank remembers some of the rather antagonistic jokes he had heard about Jeffrey--and he recalls sharing a few about detective Reed, too--but no, his favorite joke was none of these. Instead it was something Cole had come up with a long time ago. “My kid came up with it and I thought it was pretty clever.”

For better or for worse, Connor’s always tracking Hank’s state, physically and mentally (as much as he can without directly looking into his mind, maybe through interfacing), and he notices his deep breath and the almost… tenseness, the apprehensiveness he seems to have letting it go, and recognises why that might be — on a psychological level, it might be something to do with being afraid to lose things, his son, maybe even him. He can’t directly communicate these findings, though — that would be… extremely strange and would probably be upsetting for Hank to find out in such a weird and emotionally charged way, so he reached out, putting a hand on his shoulder and squeezing gently. Connor couldn’t imagine what it would be like to lose someone like he had, but he understood why he would be nervous about losing him — he was terrified of losing Hank, of outliving him. He thought it might be possible, that as a prototype, he would run down at about the same time, but he was still nervous.

He considered the lieutenant’s question, before shaking his head. “I haven’t heard about that.  As far as I know, we’re built to be perfect, more or less. I mean, we do have some flaws, or product issues. I meant it more as a joke, honestly. Did that work? I’m still trying to learn how to do that properly.” He frowned, lowering his head a little to think about it, and then pausing, lifting his head just a little so that Hank might feel inclined to give him some tips. “I don’t have difficulty pronouncing Lieutenant. But ‘Dad’ is less syllables, so it’s easier to pronounce. At least, I presume it is for humans. Less of a mouthful, right?”

As he hides his hand back into his black coat’s pocket, he coils his fingers in his hand tightly, both hands now morphed into uncertain fists; clenching, grasping -- anything to hold on a little longer, right? 

It was a subconscious action that usually appeared any time he was faced with the subject of loss... Assuming there wasn’t a burger or a brown bottle already occupying his hand. Gaze lingers on the android (his android? -- his son.) and mind begins to question what Connor had been able to pick up from Hank. He’s seen his investigative prowess, and as much as he hated being analyzed -- and, probably saved a few times from over-indulging whatever cheap enough spirits he can get his hands on -- he questions if Connor could detect his discomfort currently. Could he see a super x-ray of his hand in his coat? He already assumes Connor can pick up his increased blood pressure, rather, he’s certain that Connor can tell it is noticeably higher than his normally elevated level. 

The remark about jokes is enough to ease Hank out of his alerted state, almost like coaxing a nervous cat out of a tree. Facial hair moves as lips pull into a warm, Hank-like smile and he dares step a bit closer to Connor. “Gettin’ there.” He starts, a humored huff in a flawed attempt to pretend that nothing was wrong. “You’re catching on to the idea that absurdity breeds humor.” 

i’m sORRY I DIDN’T MEAN TO.