#but here's some garbage

You felt like you were going insane, like someone had decided to scramble your mind. Your eyes--wide, wide, wide--flickered from the ground, to your reflection in the dirty, cracked mirror, and then back to the ground again. You looked like a mess. And you were, all things considered. The only good thing, the one small mercy whatever deity had decided to grant you that day, was that you were alone. Nobody really used the precinct's break room. Everyone preferred to work straight through their shifts, finish as soon as possible, and get the hell home.

Home... you wished you were there. You wished you could crawl into bed, feel the comfort of your warm blankets--a stark contrast to the frigid air in the station. But you knew you couldn't. Captain Fowler had given you a case, and stars be damned, you were going to crack it. As a recent transfer to the Detroit Police Department, you needed to prove yourself. And having a panic attack in the middle of your shift was not the way to do it. No. You had to pull yourself together. And you would... just after a few more minutes.

As much as you wanted to breathe, as much as you wanted to do anything, really, you couldn't. And so you leaned heavily against the counter top, staring at the cracks in the linoleum floor. Counting them might be a good idea, but your brain felt so foggy, so tired, that you wound up doing nothing. Nothing. That was what you'd been doing for as long as you could remember. In high school, while countless students--friends--were bullied, you'd done nothing. College, the time you were supposed to come into your own, and you'd done nothing. Even now, as androids started to win their rights, but still faced violence, what were you doing? You were standing in the break room, having a goddamn panic attack. You were doing nothing.

Dimly, you heard footsteps approaching: lithe, quiet footsteps that did nothing to ease your anxiety. If anything, they made it worse. No. No, you couldn't get caught in this state. What would everyone think? Hell, Captain Fowler would probably fire you on the spot. That thought alone brought tears to your already red eyes. You struggled to compose yourself, to plaster on a smile that would tell whoever was coming that you were alright. You just needed a minute.

"Are you using the coffee pot, Detective Y/L/N?"

At the sound of Connor's voice, you tried your best to sound normal. "N-no. Go ahead."

You internally winced, knowing the ragged tremor in your voice gave you away. Keeping your back to the android, you shifted until you were no longer blocking the coffee pot. Your knees threatened to buckle, but you managed to keep your balance. More footsteps echoed as Connor came closer. The sound of a ceramic mug being gently set against the counter reached your ears, and with a jolt, you realized he was standing next to you. Shit. He couldn't see you like this. Connor was still so new to being a deviant, new to emotions. You didn't want to give him anything else to think about.

"Detective Y/L/N..." There was a type of odd... gentleness to his voice, something that sounded foreign coming from an android. Even a deviant. "Are you alright? Your stress levels are..." He seemed to struggle for the right word, finally settling on: "high."

You barely bit back a "no shit, Sherlock," knowing the expression would be lost on him. Instead, you focused on calming yourself down. "F-Fine," you stammered, wincing again at your shaking voice. "I'm fine."

Something told you he was skeptical. You could practically see his brow furrowing. Finally, you risked a glance at him, only to find those brown eyes watching you with what seemed like concern. Quickly looking away, you felt tears leak out of your eyes. You tried to stop them, but they wouldn't quit, and just like that, the damn broke. You turned to face Connor completely, barely resisting the urge to run out of the room. For a moment, he simply stared at you, clearly confused.

"I," you began, but the words suddenly turned to ashes in your mouth, and you covered your face with your hands. Choked, broken sobs escaped your lips, not quite loud enough for anyone else to hear, but enough that you felt yourself spiraling out of control.

Connor stayed quiet for a moment, then gently asked: "Is there anything I can do?"

Raising your head, you blinked away more tears and, after sucking in a deep, shuddering breath, managed: "I... I don't know."

"Do you like dogs?" The android's tone shifted from concerned to lightly conversational.

Caught off-guard by the question, you frowned as you considered it, wondering where in the hell that came from. Still, Connor was expecting an answer, and you knew you needed to give him one.

"Y-yeah?" You couldn't help but frame it as a question while you swallowed a sob.

Connor's lips twitched, and he leaned against the counter. "I do too. Hank--Lieutenant Anderson--has one. His name is Sumo."

Despite everything, you couldn't help but smile. Sumo, you thought, feeling the panic beginning to ebb away, piece by piece. That's adorable. You slowly straightened out of your defensive, borderline-hysterical slouch and leaned heavily against the counter.

"He's a Saint Bernard," Connor continued. You didn't miss the way his hands hovered slightly by your arms, as if he ready to catch you, should you start to fall. "I try not to feed him too much, but he's always hungry. I think you would like him."

You found yourself smiling wider. The fog in your head was clearing, allowing you to think without spiraling down into a dark place. Mercifully, the tight sensation in your chest and throat eased up a bit, and you breathed easier. Deeper. Slower. After a moment of hesitation, you discovered you could speak in a relatively normal voice.

"I think so, too," you managed, briefly shutting your drying eyes. No more tears, you were pleased to find. "I've always wanted a dog. And a cat. Just... animals in general."

When you opened your eyes, you saw Connor nodding. You smiled again--genuinely. Although exhaustion made its way through your body (all-too-familiar, given your history with panic attacks), you knew you were pretty much ready to go back to work. You imagined you must look terrible. Still, you couldn't bring yourself to care. In all honesty, the relief, the knowledge that everything would be okay, was too strong for you to give a damn about your appearance.

Wordlessly, Connor grabbed a paper towel, soaked it with water from the sink, and handed it to you. You took it with a grateful nod and began dabbing at your eyes. It felt cool against your inflamed, irritated skin. When you were done (and when you looked more put-together and less like a freak-show), you tossed the paper towel in the trash and turned to the android.

"Thank you," you said, voice still slightly thick. "Seriously. I..." Unsure of how to continue, you simply repeated: "Thanks."

Connor offered a small smile and tipped his chin in what resembled a nod. "Your stress levels look... better."

Barely holding back a laugh, you pushed away from the counter. "What were you doing in here, anyways? This room's usually empty."

"I was..." Connor suddenly looked troubled, his LED flashing yellow. "Making coffee."

You frowned at his shift in demeanor and crossed your arms over your chest. "You like coffee?" Something wasn't adding up in his story. "But I thought--"

"It's not for me," the android interrupted as he glanced aside. "Detective Reed wanted some, and expressed... anger when I initially refused. I didn't want the situation to get worse, so--"

"So you agreed." You didn't phrase it as a question, your fingers curling in anger. It's always got something to do with Reed. You sighed, uncrossed your arms, and murmured: "You okay?"

Connor's brow furrowed as he clearly tried to analyze what you said. "I... my systems are functional, if that's what you meant."

"No, Connor, I meant are you okay. Y'know... emotionally."

There was a brief moment where you thought you would have to explain yourself further, but then Connor caught on. "I don't know," he admitted, sounding more confused than ever. "I... I think so."

You smiled softly and took a step toward him, careful not to crowd his space. "Good. Just try to ignore Gavin. He's an ass."

"That's... accurate." Connor returned your smile. "Thank you, Detective Y/L/N."

"After everything, I think we're on a first name basis," you said, wanting to roll your eyes in exasperation. "You can call me Y/N." You didn't wait for him to agree, instead opting to start walking toward the door. "And let Gavin make his own damn coffee. We need to get back before Fowler kills us."

Later that day, after you'd both returned to your desks, you felt your anxiety levels sink to an all time low. And when Gavin started giving Connor a hard time, well... no one could prove it was you who loosened the bolts on the prick's chair.

(Though the knowing smile Connor gave you after Gavin fell flat on his ass was enough to make your heart sing.)

A/N: Okay, so this is my very first [Character] x Reader type of fic. I honestly had no idea what I was doing, but if you liked it, a review/reblog/like would be great! Let me know if you want to see more of these in the future.