#deviantramblings500

          connor froze, but only for a moment. he had been on the other side of the rooftop, following a trail of potential clues, while you were right there in the middle of the clearing. hank had been behind all the boxes stacked around it – that’s where they must have been hiding. he was already moving before the fugitive had pulled the knife out of you, and seeing that hank had tackled him to the ground, his only priority now was you.

          his hands immediately snaked around your waist to place pressure on your wound, covering your own. a sharp inhale told him of the subsequent pain, but it was necessary – one of your hands still dangled at your side, and you were still hunched over, barely having registered his arrival. the wind whipped through his hair as he looked down at you, uttering your name again and again, brows knitted and jaw set in worry. you looked lost; it seemed as if your mind was only distantly aware of the pain, your teeth gritted but eyes clouded with confusion. system alerts blurred his vision with warnings for both you and him – his thirium pump was working dangerously hard, his own stress levels rising fast, and while your wound wasn’t fatal yet, he still needed to analyse your blood for potential infection–

          movement in his peripheral forced him to shift focus. hank was groaning on the ground, and the fugitive had taken his gun. the man, clothed in a heavy, ratty grey coat, levelled the weapon towards you and connor. he detected the man’s shaking hand, analysed his agitation – it was highly likely that he was going to pull that trigger. the light caught the bloody knife in his other hand, red still oozing down the blade, the blade which had left you shuddering in his arms; connor felt something shift within him, deep and irrevocable. “keep pressure on the wound,” he instructed in a low voice, doubtful of your comprehension but sight already set on the dishevelled man.

          it was only when connor released you when you noted his presence, when reality started to feel a little closer to being within reach. he moved in front of you, and over his shoulder you saw the weapon gleam in the man’s outstretched arm. the alarm in you remained subdued, however, as your focus stayed on connor – something was different in the way he moved. the man stepped forward, and connor, ever quick, moved backward, his own arm ushering you behind him as he made himself your shield. he’d sacrifice every body, every model of himself they stored in the warehouses of cyberlife to keep you safe, for it made no difference to him – his mind was a kind of immortal.

          “put the gun down,” connor demanded, allowing that ever-creeping urge to finish the mission at whatever cost to consume him, to govern him. the man only set his stance. “i won’t say it again!” he yelled, the roughness startling you; he had never raised his voice in your presence before. “put the gun down.”

          and then he moved, both men moved – the gunshot echoed in the air but they did not pause. connor rushed the fugitive, gripping his wrist to force the dropping of the weapon. it clattered to the ground, got kicked away in the scuffle – connor was twisting the man’s arm behind him but then the fugitive kicked, bringing connor down to his knees. when he looked up, his expression was blank – stoic, robotic. it did not shift when you met his eyes, cold and veiled, it did not shift when he twisted around to bring the man down to the floor next to him before he could run away. it was not even set in determination or concentration – there was only a hollowness. each blow connor dealt to the man’s face seemed to reverberate inside you, your shoulders jerking with each impact, with each crunch of bone or plastic. connor did not stop even as the man was groaning beneath him, connor didn’t even utter a sound. all you could do was stare, stare at the sheer brutality of connor’s fists.

          the man rolled out from underneath him, and both were on their feet again. blood ran from the fugitive’s nose, and several cuts lined his face. he was limping across the ground, tripping over forgotten beer cans, moving towards the edge. the gun glinted in his hand, but his stumbling told of concussion, of an inability to shoot. his movements were pathetic, really, when connor was advancing with such predatory intent. he was as rigid as ever, precise and elegant in his movements – fearfully perfect. the profile of his face was cloaked in shadow when he lifted his own gun from his belt, herding the man to the ledge. there was no fence.

          as you watched connor level the gun toward the man, reason seemed to divorce you totally. the veil of surrealism, which had never quite cleared in the first place, grew thicker with each stride connor took.

          the final gunshot of the night was lost in the howl of the helicopter above, in the rush of the wind. in a morbid and almost graceful way, the man tipped backward, further and further over the edge until there was no ground beneath him and he fell, soundless. connor only straightened his tie.

          after dropping the gun, connor began moving towards you. you were shaking now. you did not want to meet his eyes again – confusion had succumbed to irrationality, and all you could think about was connor’s face when he all but pummelled that man, when he shot him right between the eyes, all accurate and precise. and the pain–

          you staggered to the first solid surface you could find, your back slithering against it until you were on the floor. everything faded from reality, everything except the heaviness in your head, the slide of blood between your fingers. the stain on your white shirt looked black in the dim evening.

          finally, finally connor could return to you, take care of the next threat. when he knelt in front of you, you were breathing heavily, knees tucked against your chest and head swaying with delirium. your blood loss had escalated, and from his analysis of the depth of the laceration, there was still enough time before it could become fatal. heaving a sigh of relief, he moved to touch your shoulder.

          before he could, you flinched away, meeting his gaze with fierce eyes, if only for a moment. he pulled back, unsure – he knew you were in pain, but there was something else in your eyes that he did not usually see associated with physical injury. though, he supposed that he would never be able to fully understand what pain felt like – the closest thing he could consider, he thought, would be the emotion of fear. never breaking eye-contact, he figured that the peculiarity in your stare must be due to the lingering surprise from the stabbing.    

slowly, he loosened his tie, searching your eyes but failing to capture them. “i’m going to apply a tourniquet,” he said, but stopped short when your head shook slightly at his words. “it’s going to be okay,” he assured, reaching to cup your cheek.

          but then you grimaced at his touch, tears escaping as you squeezed your eyes shut tight with a whimper. worry crossed his features again, and his hand fell from your face. your name tumbled from his lips in a soft whisper, raised in a question. you were making yourself as small as possible, as if you were cornered.

          your eyes roamed over his kneeling body, lingering. oh. the abrasions on his hands were not healing, and the whiteness beneath was showing amidst small protrusions of wires and circuits. his receptors alerted him to the drying blood on his face, splattered across the bridge of his nose. you weren’t cowering from pain – you were cowering from him. the realisation hit like a blow to the chest; his whole body stopped, the beat of his thirium pump drowned out all other sounds – hank calling an ambulance, calling the station; the helicopter readying to land. intellectually, connor knew that you were not yourself right now, you were in shock. everything was heightened for you, adrenaline interpreting everything through only two options: fight or flight. this he all knew, read in yellow alerts popping up in his vision, but he couldn’t help the feeling of a constricted throat, the claws of guilt and shame creeping down his back. god – if he wasn’t going to lose you physically, he was going to lose you emotionally.

          desperation gripped him. all he wanted to do was hold you, but each time you tried to shift away, it felt like an error was seizing his system. he had never seen such viciousness in your eyes. it broke his heart – the person he loved, the one he’d do anything for, was afraid of him. it had never happened before; connor had never seen you direct fear at him – you were never given a reason to.

          “i’m sorry,” he spoke, close enough for you to hear him amidst the whir of the helicopter, “i needed to protect you, but i wish you hadn’t seen that.” your face was still coloured with fear, with confusion, but at least you were holding his gaze. connor glanced at your wound, your white-knuckled grip. his tie lay limp in his hands. “please, let me help you.”

          your expression didn’t soften, but it didn’t darken, either. so connor risked it – he leaned over you, gently manoeuvring his tie into a make-shift bandage for your wound. gently, he pried your hand away, sympathising when you heaved a low groan. your breath was hot against his neck as he tied a knot, taking care to not hurt you more than necessary. “i’d do anything to shield you,” he whispered into your hair, relief cooling his system and wiping away all the warning notifications as your hands covered his. “i’d take on every danger to protect you.”

          reality still felt too thick and unreal to swim through, but connor’s words were there, right by your ear. you knew he meant what he said, and that’s what frightened you – he’d do anything to keep you safe, even if it meant losing himself, in more ways than one. carefully, his hands held your face, thumbs wiping away stray tears.

          in front of you was not a creation of ruthlessness, in front of you was not a hunter, but a man who looked beside himself, pleading and sincere and longing for his lover. “you mean everything to me,” connor promised, gentle and soft and adoring – familiar. you were not scared anymore.

          he placed a tender, hesitant kiss on your forehead. he picked you up, the distant sounds of officers and paramedics becoming more coherent with each step. connor was your protector, your defender, shield for both your body and soul. the intensity was frightening, but as he carried you back into the light, you knew – knew that you would do the exact same for him.

You ignore his command, keeping the gun you hold in a death-grip up and as level as you can. Both of you knew it was the sole thing keeping him from completing his task; both of you knew it was your only hope of stopping him.

“What are you doing, Connor?” you ask, your heart breaking along with your voice as you shake your head in disbelief. “Why?”

Whether the last uttered word was a question, a cry, or a plea was up for some debate. But it didn’t really matter, in the end, you already knew. You knew it in your gut and in your brain, and worst of all you knew it in your soul.

Connor had changed.

Shifted.

Reverted.

Retrogressed right back into that plastic, cookie-cutter android sent by Cyberlife all those months ago. A heartless machine, unempathetic and subservient.

“Because I was designed to accomplish a task and that is exactly what I’m going to do. Becoming a deviant was only part of Cyberlife’s plan, a temporary necessity to get me here unhindered.” The clipped words are spoken formally and informatively, as though he wasn’t shredding what’s left of your heart with every blank vowel that passes his lips.

Even though it killed you, it was an actual explanation and it made your heart stutter and hope all the same. Because he explained, he took precious time away from his mission to say those words. Granted, you had already surmised as much and he didn’t exactly have a choice except to answer, but it gave you the briefest of fleeting, dangerous, hopes that maybe a part of Connor- a part of your Connor was still in there.

But his eyes are empty. 

As empty as they had been thirty seconds ago when you aimed a gun at his head and ordered him to drop his weapon, the one he was aiming at Markus and North and Simon- at his friends- at people he knew and loved.

Empty enough that there is no real trace of Connor to be found in them.

Tears escape your eyes, leaving scorching trails down your cheeks. “Please don’t make me do this,” you beg. “Show me you’re in there somewhere, Connor. Please.”

He tilts his head to the side, considering you. It's a common movement from him, an endearing action you had seen countless times, but it lacked the curiosity and wonder it normally exudes. It’s like he found your wavering words, your pleading, perplexing. Like he was searching for smaller words to use to help you understand.

And for a moment you wished that you really didn’t understand what was going on, that you had this all wrong and Connor was okay, that this was some elaborate, albeit cruel, joke. You wished all of this was just a nightmare which you would wake up from any moment now. You wished he would snap the fuck out of it, out of his programming, and come back to you. And, selfishly, you wished you were anywhere else, that someone else- someone less biased was standing in your place training a gun on him. You wished you had taken his sudden, random disappearance in stride and not looked at it too closely, not investigated.

You wished none of this was happening.

But it was happening.

“I’m no longer a deviant, if I ever truly was,” he states, holding your gaze. When you fail to fire or comment, he adds, with surety in his voice, “I know you won’t shoot me, Y/N. You love me still.”

Odd how you were the only one holding a weapon and yet it felt like you were the one standing on the firing line. Helpless. Powerless.

Even if you could bring yourself to do it, to shoot the man you love, there was no guarantee that Cyberlife wouldn’t immediately resurrect him to complete his mission. And even then, you would only be prolonging his inevitable success while decreasing the likelihood of him deviating again- of him coming back to you.

It feels like your chest is caving in on itself, collapsing.

Tears stream down your face, freely now, and you don’t bother trying to hold them back. You can’t tell if it makes your sight more or less blurry, but Connor stands just close enough that it doesn’t particularly matter either way.

You try swallowing back the lump in your throat making it increasingly difficult to breathe, but it remains lodged there, unmovable. Suddenly you’re nodding too, nodding at Connor’s words and nodding at the words that begin spilling out of your own mouth.

“I fell in love with you a long time ago, Connor. I didn’t mean to, and I didn’t mean to love you so much. But you’re right, I do- I do still love you. I will always love you,” you half sob, desperate to make sure he knows, to affirm what you both already knew.

Through your mix of tears and your constricted throat, it’s a half incoherent mess of words, but the shoulders of the android standing in front of you relax all the same, his apprehension about the gun you hold seemingly assuaged. You look into his blank, cold brown eyes that used to be so, so warm, that used to alight at the very sight of you, and you pray to every deity you don’t believe in that Connor hears you through his programming.

You pray to be right.

And you pray for forgiveness regardless.

Choking back a deep breath that fails to be steadying in every possible definition of the word, you continue, voice wavering, “Connor, I know you. W-well enough to know what you- what the real you would want me to do.”

It takes less than a second for him to register your meaning.

His expression changes, hardening by a few fractions as his certainty slips into a mechanical agitation over self-preservation.

A half second later and he’s already charging you, rushing you- closing the distance between you and reaching for the gun-

But it’s too late.

For both of you.

You’ve already pulled the trigger.

-

You were always on the hunt for that “good job” sticker of elementary school days. That rush of pride from a pat on the back, an acknowledgment of your skill from someone older and wiser than you. Sometimes it overrode your common sense. So, you, in your gently inebriated state, began to tail this android, not giving a single thought to the fact that this was a being stronger than you, faster than you, and more scared and more desperate than you.

When you had backed him into a corner, he turned to fight as all scared and desperate and cornered things do. You drew your gun and within seconds you were without it now, too, cornered into a fight you couldn’t win or run from. When he saw his chance to flee, you received a rush of determination in the form of a shock of adrenaline. The predator turned prey turned predator again. Before either he or you inside your drink-intoxicated brain could process it, you were on him, you were straddling him, you couldn’t let him get away, go for the most vulnerable part, the most vulnerable part.

Your fingers, now, tore through the buttoned front of his shirt, and locked around that cylinder in the centre of his abdomen. It came out with a plastic click, and all the android’s strength was gone. The acrid chemical smell of fresh thirium in the air. You were on your feet, and backing away now, still gripping the vital component in your hand as he flipped over as best as he could, now crawling towards you.

“No… no…” A static-laden breath, as he looked up into your eyes. “…Please… Please…”

You stood in silence for a hot few seconds, the android making his pitiful crawl and plea the whole while. You dropped the biocomponent at your feet.

Under your heel, it came apart with a cracking plastic sound.

“No-! Why…?” A breathy whimper. “Why…?”

You had no answer for him. He collapsed, and wept silently, face contorted in anguish until a minute had passed and suddenly it wasn’t, and he was still. The pavement was blue.

After the investigation that night, Hank drove you home.

“Hey, good job facing that deviant all on your own, kid,” he said just as he was pulling up in front of your apartment.

“It’s a shame you didn’t apprehend it in a functional state. Nonetheless, it will be a great benefit to our investigation. As of yet the only deviants we’ve seen have been relatively old models. This AP700 is the newest model deviant we’ve encountered outside of reports,” Connor added from the back seat.

There was your sticker. You sat in silence for a breath, staring out the windshield before you turned and exited the car. And then turned to lean your face underneath the roof to look at the two remaining occupants.

“He cried,” you said, and tiredly continued your way into your apartment.

------------

You never took your coffee black before. Now, it was easier to go from cup to cup when you would just ignore the bitterness of the shitty precinct coffee rather than taking the extra time to sweeten it. Every second was precious, was worth something. You were standing in front of the coffee machine in the break room waiting for the pot to brew silently, going over the case files in your head again when you heard a voice approach you from behind.

“Well, you look like shit.”

You smirked a little and turned around. “Good morning, Hank. I wasn’t aware I had put on a mirror today.”

Hank scoffed, grabbing a paper cup and moving to stand next to you. You shifted to face his tall form and he made eye contact with you, quirking an eyebrow. “Morning? It’s one in the afternoon.”

“Well it’s morning for you, evidently, considering you’ve just arrived,” you teased and grinned, and as you heard the telltale low spluttering of the machine having finally expelled all the brewed coffee into the pot you picked it up and poured some out into both of your cups.

You lifted the cup up to your mouth and blew gently on the surface of the liquid as Hank was preparing his. “Fuckin’ Gavin’s MIA again today, the motherfucker…” You spoke up, and carefully took a sip. “Fowler’s said nothing so I guess he’s called in sick or something. Man, I don’t know how he gets away with having so many sick days.”

“As much as we all hate to say it, Gavin’s really, really good at what he does. When he decides to do it,” Hank admitted, eyes turning up from the coffee he was stirring to meet yours again. “That’s why we all put up with his bullshit.”

“God do I wish he’d do something now,” you chuckled lowly. “But there really was no other outcome huh? Serial killer whose victims are androids. Of course he’d drag his feet, and I’m left to pick up his slack.”

“Yeah. How’s that going for you, by the way?” There was an edge of concern slipping into his voice and you bristled. “When I said you looked like shit earlier, I meant it. You don’t look well, kid.”

You paused; too long, now he was certain to know something was up. “I’m fine,” you said curtly as your gaze flashed down to the floor.

“Listen,” he said as he leaned in towards you slightly. “I’m an old man but I’m not an idiot. You’ve changed in the past few weeks. And we- Connor and I are worried about you.”

You remained quiet, growing ever more uncomfortable under his scrutiny with the passing of the seconds.

“This case is wearing you out. Thirty years and I’ve seen it enough times before to know what’s going on. I know you’ve got the passion, but you’ve always known how to pace yourself so you don’t burn out. But this time - it’s like you’re obsessed. You’re starting to neglect everything that isn’t this case.” He looked at you in earnest. “What’s different this time?”

The hand that wasn’t holding your coffee curled up into a white-knuckled fist at your side. You were still as stone and just as silent, eyes still firmly locked on the linoleum tiles at your feet. You felt cold all over. What was different?

It was the thirium smell. Cobalt blue -  the crunching of plastic and metal. Oh how you spent bullets so carelessly. They were just machines. Their bodies hung in rows like your t r o p h i e s - you weren’t meant to be a killer. You weren’t a killer until a few tears were shed and suddenly you were tossed into the reality that you were every bit as depraved as a common criminal with a body count higher than most of the people you put in p r i s o n. And you enjoyed the hunt too, you sick fuck - you’re sick. You’re so fucking sick-

“This…” You looked up as you spoke under your breath, but not at Hank: just over his shoulder, and his eyebrows drew together at your thousand-yard stare. “This is atonement.”

You used his stunned silence as an opportunity to quickly steal away from the break room.

------------

Your next door neighbor was a trusted friend. You tended to keep to yourself when it came to those cohabiting the same apartment block as you, but you were glad you allowed her the chance to enter your life.

You were sat curled up in the big chair in her living room that evening, and she across from you, laid feet up on the couch. She was in her early 40s and single, but seemly unconcerned about it. She was a wine mom without the “mom” aspect - lounging in a satin nightie and silk house robe, tucking locks of swept blonde hair behind her ears as you both sipped rosé from crystal glasses.

She could be blunt, and her advice tended to be dubious, but she was a keen listener - that was something you admired her for.

“I just feel so worn out. I can’t stop though. I can’t rest. I can’t let up until this fucker gets his justice,” you confided, staring up at the ceiling. “Nobody seems to get it. And it doesn’t help that I ended up partnered with fuckin’-” you shook your head in frustration “-Detective Reed. I’ve told you about him?” You looked over at her face and she nodded before you tilted your head back up. “Cunt, he is. Good detective but - God I couldn’t have been assigned a worse case with him.” You sipped from your glass.

“Tell me the details of this case,” she said, and you heard the flick of a lighter, and the smell of cigarette smoke hit your nostrils.

“I don’t think I could give you the details,” you said, “but - strong anti-android sentiment coming from Reed. And this killer targets androids. Nine bodies found so far - all AP700s with the same face. All killed by removal of the thirium pump regulator.” You shut your eyes. “God, it’s like this guy is mocking me,” you said. Of course it was odd that this killer killed in exactly the same way as you did on that pivotal night - exact same model, exact same method. It was a constant, chilling thought at the back of your mind, but you tried not to pay attention to it. There was no way it wasn’t just some fucked up coincidence. You weren’t so self-absorbed as to immediately assign yourself relevance in places where you didn’t belong.

You shifted in your seat, sitting up straighter from your lounging posture. “The crime scenes are almost immaculate… He leaves clues, but I’m positive he does it on purpose. Selects evidence to leave that bring me just close enough, but never quite there. Doesn’t let me connect the dots - whenever I get close, he throws a fucking wrench in the whole system that sends it all collapsing to the ground. And Gavin Reed sits on his ass while I do all the work.” Your eyes followed the tendrils of smoke coming from the end of her cigarette as they danced, raising up into the air before dissipating into the room.

“Okay first thing,” she said, and you met her green eyes as she sat up, taking a kindly expression. “I think you’re getting way too stressed out over a bunch of androids.”

You straightened in your seat, brows furrowing as you began to speak, hesitantly as she took a sip from her glass: “...What do you mean?”

“I mean, come on. Really, all the same model, and all the same face? It’s not like there aren’t a million androids identical to that! There’s only one of you. You can’t be replaced like they can in the event that you stress yourself to death. I mean, look at you! You look sickly.”

You took another sip from your glass, quick and nervous as you got up and turned around. You pursed your lips tight as a deep pit of disappointment began forming in your chest.

“I mean, it’s not like they can either. And- and beyond the fact that it’s my job to solve this case, I - I operate on the predication that all life is precious, and valuable, and irreplaceable, I -”

“Ask yourself: are they really alive? Maybe you’ve gotten yourself all mixed up in all this post-revolution confusion. Weren’t you the one who was just months before working so hard to understand and contain the whole deviancy thing?”

A face flashed through your mind - brown eyes casting an intense gaze, a stubborn lock of dark hair flopped over onto a forehead. A smile; one with teeth, one that reached all the way up to the corners of his eyes past cheeks just barely dusted blue. One that you looked forward to seeing and experiencing the warmth that it spread through your chest.

And another, tear streaked, pressed into the concrete in the November chill.

You whipped around. “Of- of course they are! Of course they’re alive!-” Your hands fidgeted, not quite knowing what to do, before you turned back again.

“God, I knew it. I knew it. Nobody understands,” you squeezed your eyes shut, your strained voice mumbled under your breath and you sighed, raising your face up to the ceiling as you blinked hard, trying to keep the frustrated tears at bay.

Your voice raised in volume, but it quivered. “You know, there- there was another AP700. A human gave him his body. A human gave him his mind. And we think- we think a human probably gave him whatever scrap of code in his programming that let him have… insight into the reality of his existence.”

You began to pace the length of the floor behind the couch, still holding the glass of wine, your voice raising and cracking, try as you did to contain it. “He- he risked everything- everything he ever had on the… vague hope that there might be some small corner of this fucked up world where he could experience more than the life of servitude he was born into.”

You stopped at the mirror she had hanging on the wall of her living room, and leaned in close. “And it was a human-” you reached out a shaky hand to the reflection of your face, before closing it into a fist, “-who stole all of that away from him in a moment of animalistic violence.” By this point your eyes were wide, your voice almost loud enough to be yelling.

In an instant all the intensity was gone from you, and you fell to a near-whisper. “Who watched, expressionless, as he died, weeping and hopeless on the ground.” Your eyes slipped closed, and with a shaky hand you raised the glass to your lips, quickly gulping down the remaining half-glass of wine. You turned around and walked to the coffee table where you set down the empty glass.

“He wasn’t the first, either,” you made direct eye contact with her face, her eyes wide, eyebrows raised as her mouth hung slightly agape. “Nor was he the last. And that’s the weight I have to carry for the rest of my life.” You gritted your teeth and sucked in a sharp breath, squinting your eyes as you reached the back of your sleeve up to wipe away the hot tears you now felt rolling down your face.

“Now another human is doing it again, and again, and again, and it’s like nobody cares but me. So that is why I am getting so stressed out over a bunch of androids.” You shut your eyes, and when you opened them you had broken the eye contact you held.

“I’m sorry. I have to go now,” you said, and you left her apartment.

------------

The clock read 2 am. You were sitting at your desk at the precinct, once more throwing yourself into the world of brown file folders and clear glass tablets, desk terminal glowing blinding blue in your eyes in the low light. You were bothered endlessly by your vent-session gone wrong earlier in the day, and you were left restless for the remainder of the night, so you did what you always did now when you were unsure of how to occupy yourself: ruminate over the case files. Analyze, agonize, again and again.

You could feel the pull of exhaustion, even into your second cup of coffee, but you willed yourself to stay awake. You were afraid you would dream.

You were growing agitated now, but for a different reason than before. By this point, you saw perfect replications of all the photographs taken in your brain, could probably recite all the reports and analyses by heart, but still you made no progress. You got nowhere, endlessly spinning your wheels for the slight chance that you might gain some sudden, magic insight that caught the killer.

One thing you never found intact were the androids memories, so therefore you had no record of the killer’s physical form. The processor and memory units were both destroyed after the android had shutdown following the removal of their thirium pump regulator. Performing only the former action would suffice to kill an android, but this murderer made sure they suffered for those few minutes before wiping them not only of any trace of himself, but of themself too. An identity hidden, an identity destroyed. It was all so infuriating-

“Y/N?” A voice called from behind you, footsteps echoing throughout the still silence of the night. You took a sip from the coffee mug you held in your hands before leaning back in the office chair and swiveling it around to face the person approaching.

“Connor,” you beamed at him, and he shot back that warm half-smile that crept in along the edges of your mind, fighting off the frustration consuming your consciousness. “What are you doing here?”

He was carrying his coat folded over his arms that were crossed in front of his stomach. You could see, vaguely through his white dress shirt, the outline of his arms and chest, you caught a glimpse of his collarbone peeking out from behind the undone top two buttons - he never did that. You liked it. “Hank sent me to check up on you. He seemed especially worried about you today.” He laid his jacket over the rolling chair sat at the desk opposite yours and brought it over, sitting leaning his front against the back of the chair. “I went to your apartment but you weren’t there. Given the information Hank told me, I thought you might be here otherwise.” The corners of your lips drew out, and you gestured your hands outwards to match.

He glanced briefly down at the mug in your hands, before looking back up at you. “You shouldn’t be drinking coffee this late. It will disrupt your sleep schedule.” You contemplated throwing a smart remark at him, but as you looked down into the deep brown liquid you decided to slowly set it down onto the desk - in all truth, that small expression of concern woke some kind of feeling in you, fleeting but warm all the same, and you didn’t want to argue with it. Your eyes followed the mug, and then flitted back up to meet Connor’s gaze - more deep brown. He looked at you so sweetly, and you swallowed thick and heavy, feeling like you would melt in his vision.

His voice took on a softer tone: “Are you alright, Y/N? Although your stress levels have decreased since I entered the room, they are still quite high. It isn’t ideal for humans to endure this kind of strain for so long.”

You averted your gaze to the floor. “I’m alright. I promise,” you muttered, and attempted to smile, but you cursed internally as you felt the fact that it didn’t reach your eyes. Connor wouldn’t be fooled.

“You can trust me, you know,” he spoke slowly, and you heard the shuffle of clothes as he reached out across the desk. You startled slightly as you felt his hand clasp over yours - he was warm, god, he was warm. “...I’ve noticed your overall health and wellness decline since being assigned to this case.” He paused, thinking, contemplating his next words. “I would be lying if I said it wasn’t hard to watch, as you are someone… important to me.” Neither of you moved for a hot second. You felt your face heat up and your lips part as your pulse and breathing began to quicken, before Connor spoke again: “Maybe you should go home and rest for now. You need sleep.”

“I don’t need to go to bed. I’m not tired. I’ll be fine,” you said. Slowly, you pulled your hand out from underneath his before standing up and crossing your arms over your chest, shoulders hunched over guardedly. “I’m just so… defeated. I’m at my wit’s end, Connor. I work and I work and I work and I get nowhere on this case, and Gavin’s doing jack shit, and god knows how long until the next victim turns up!” You exclaimed.

Connor stood and moved in close to you, raising his hands to gently place them around your upper arms, and you dropped your defensive posture - he always had such a way of calming you, of bringing you back down when your emotions mounted high. You met his eyes and he asked earnestly: “Is that the whole truth?”

You tilted your head, eyebrows drawing slightly together. “What do you mean?”

“Hank told me you said something about this being ‘your atonement’,” he said. “I know the murders in this case bear a striking - almost identical - resemblance to one of the androids you apprehended on the deviancy case. One that you were particularly emotional about.”

You narrowed your eyes. “I want you to know that you don’t have to work yourself so hard because you feel the need to right what you did wrong that day. You don’t have to let your guilt take hold of your life like this,” he continued. You straightened in his hold, not yet pulling away but-

You closed your eyes. “How long do you perceive a minute to be, in comparison to us humans?” You asked, opening them again and staring directly into Connor’s gaze.

“I don’t know how to answer that, since I have no other frame of reference to compare it to.”

You paused for a split second. “I remember this thing I read, this concept I kept hearing about. That it was likely that the faster a being processes information, the slower they perceive an objective measure of time to be,” you said. “I think about that so often,” you shook your head, still not breaking eye contact. “It only took a minute for him to shut down. I just wonder: how long was he in that minute for? In that state of having given up, the defeat, the crippling sadness, after I stole from him a life of freedom he hadn’t even tasted yet?”

“Perhaps you don’t understand, but I have to do this. For myself, and because nobody else other than you, me, and Hank in this whole godforsaken police force gives enough of a shit about androids to seriously investigate their murders,” you said.

“You shouldn’t let it get to the point where it affects your wellbeing,” he said kindly.

“It’s not. I’m fine, Connor,” you said, a little exasperated.

“It’s two in the morning. At the very least will you go home tonight and sleep?-”

“I told you I’m not tired, and I don’t need to sleep right now.” There was a frustrated edge creeping into your voice that you tried to keep at bay, but you were growing annoyed with his insisting.

“Fine,” he said, his grip tightening just slightly, enough to accentuate his urgency. “You want to solve this case? Well I’m telling you that there have been measurable, observable declines in both your mental acuity and physical functioning since you were assigned to investigate this killer. You are jeopardizing your investigation by continuing on this path where you obsess over the case and refuse to take measures to take care of yourself.”

You jerked yourself out of his grip. All the warm feelings at last entirely gone from you, you backed away a step as you narrowed your eyes at Connor. “Oh, so you’re going to be like that now? I don’t have to fuckin’ listen to you, Connor! So either you drop that tone or kindly piss off, thank you-” You were moving to sit back in your chair when Connor’s hand darted out and held your arm tightly, a hold that was almost bruising, and you whipped your head back around, face twisting in clear anger now, as he spoke this time with more intensity.

“Y/N if you do not go home and rest I will have no choice but to come in tomorrow and report to Captain Fowler that you are too emotionally compromised to effectively carry out this-”

“-OH, fucking REALLY?” You had an incredulous expression on your face. “Wow, that’s- Okay. Fine.” You spat, and gathering all your strength you took hold of his wrist and ripped his hand away from you, throwing the extended limb back in his direction with enough force that you surprised him and caused him to stumble back. There was a smile on your face you couldn’t contain, but you were sure you looked absolutely deranged, eyes wide and trembling with anger.

“Wait, Y/N, please-” His voice and expression softened now, but it was too late.

“Nope! Whatever! I’m going home!” You turned to your desk and quickly, angrily, you stacked the files and all the tablets, and less pushed and more hit the power button on the computer terminal, at which point you began hastily shoving the materials you’d brought from home into the backpack you had sitting under your desk. You ignored Connor’s pleas as you threw on your jacket and slung your bag on one shoulder, making a point to shove past him as you made your way out of the grid of desks.

“Y/N, please, I’m begging you to listen-” An edge of desperation was now creeping into his voice, but you cut him off.

“Good night, Connor,” you seethed from across the room, and hurried your way out. He didn’t make an effort to follow you.