cretaceous-android

[cretaceous-android]

Cars

A/N: So, this is my first post. I thought I ran a headcanon blog, but this is more like a short fic, so, apologies for that. This fic contains swearing, so if you’re uncomfortable with that, I suggest you should skip this one!

Genre: Bit of angst, bit of happy parental feelings. 

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When Hank was a little boy, he and his father used to bond over cars a lot.

  On sunny days, he would sit next to his dad, singing along with jazz songs that were playing on the radio, and watch his father work on whatever old car the man had managed to get his hands on this time. Dusty Chevrolets, rusted Oldsmobiles, and worn-out Buicks, young Hank had proudly proclaimed that he loved them all, to which his dad had chuckled, patted his son’s head, and told him he was a good kid. “The best a man could ever ask for.”

  Hank wasn’t sure if that was the truth (there was Ryan, down the road, after all. Little fucker knew how to do cartwheels. Hank didn’t know how to do cartwheels) but he went along with it anyway, because seeing his dad happy made him happy, and perhaps he loved that even more than seeing cars.

Decades later, however, Hank discovered that his dad’s words definitely weren’t true.

  Because now he was staring down at a little boy, his own boy, sitting next to an old (still, slightly newer) car in his garage, playing with tools and asking weird questions like “why are tires made of rubber and not clay?” or “could you run faster than a car, if you tried?”

So, no.

Ooooh, no.

Hank would be damned if it wasn’t Cole who had the title of “best kid.”

  He taught Cole everything he knew. Which tools were used for what, the history of old cars, and how to drive one (which, truth be told, just meant he sat the kid down in the driver’s seat of his parked car, and let him go: “WOOOoooOooosh!” while he moved his little hands around the wheel as if he was steering.)

(“Look, dad!” Cole had said at one point. “No hands!”)

(“You’re supposed to keep your hands on the wheel, kid! You do this when you’re older, I’m going to have to arrest you.”)

  Except that, “when you’re older” never came.

Cole died, in a car accident, and suddenly, Hank wasn’t so sure if he had been worthy of his father’s praise. Suddenly cars made his heart race in fear, and anguish, and nausea. Suddenly, Hank didn’t know how to joke around, or smile anymore.

Suddenly, Hank was alone.

Until one day.

That day.

It was November 5th, 2038, when that goofy motherfucker showed up, introduced himself as “Connor, the android sent by CyberLife” and proceeded to unapologetically ruin his night by dragging him away from his booze, and giving him a lovely view of evidence-licking instead.

  “Thought these fucking things were supposed to be fancy” he had told his colleague Chris, who, easy-going as he had always been, just chuckled. “Look at it!” Hank had continued in annoyance. “Second time he’s fucking licking things.”

They had watched the android move around for a few seconds.

“I’m going to fucking puke” Hank muttered.

  And yet, there was something about the android that made Hank’s life a little brighter.

Maybe it was the innocence the robot somehow had in his eyes, even though he wasn’t a deviant at all. Perhaps it was the way he, obnoxious as it was, seemed so dedicated, and determined to do his job. Or maybe it was all those weird questions he always asked.

(“Did you know hotdogs contain-”)

(“I don’t give a shit what they contain, Connor. I’m here for a good time, not a long time.”)

But Hank put up with it.

  For a single day, at first. Then two days, then three, four, and finally, the fifth day, when the famous, goofy, Deviant Hunter finally turned deviant himself, and Hank found himself moving around like he had done years ago. Protective, and proud, with that fatherly-instinct boiling underneath his skin as if it had never even left in the first place. It was that instinct that made him punch Perkins in the face (although he really just hated that cocksucker as well) and it was that instinct that made him secretly beam at the sight of Connor freeing the other androids at the CyberLife tower.

Months later, Connor sat on Hank’s couch.

  “Lieutenant, I-”

“Told you to call me Hank.”

“I apologize, Hank” Connor continued, politely correcting himself. “I understand it’s your birthday today. I have a gift for you.”

  Hanks first instinct was to tell the kid, as kindly as he could, to fuck off. He didn’t want any presents, or the mushy crap that came with them, but he knew from experience how stubborn Connor could be, and so he held his tongue. Watching Connor fish a tiny, wrapped-up package out of his hoodie’s pocket, he frowned, and wondered what on earth could be in it. It was too small to fit any kind of whiskey bottle in it, and Connor had been annoyingly insistent on quelling Hank’s drinking habits, so he was pretty sure it couldn’t be that.

  “You didn’t have to do this” Hank sighed, to which Connor’s eyebrows shot up in the same, innocent expression he always had on his face.

“I know” he said, pushing the package in Hank’s hands “But I wanted to. I understand it is customary for humans to receive gifts on their birthdays, and I felt like that shouldn’t be ignored in favor of your humility.”

  Hank rolled his eyes, knowing damn well “humility” was code for “stubbornness”, and began unwrapping the gift, feeling Connor’s eyes following his movements the entire time.

The paper came off, and then-

A tiny car. Hank felt something inside of him go quiet.

  Staring back at him was a tiny miniature Chevrolet, safely stored inside a little glass box that looked newer and shinier than anything else Hank had in his house.

“I saw you watching a car like this drive past us the other day” Connor explained. “Your heartbeat increased, the way it does when human’s see something they’re fond of, and since you seemed rather engaged and interested, I assumed you had an appreciation for old cars. Unfortunately, I do not have enough money to buy the actual car, but-”

“Oh, shut up and come here” Hank interrupted, pulling Connor into a hug, and squeezing his eyes shut to prevent any tears from escaping. He didn’t want Connor to see him like this, but he couldn’t help himself. Not with this.

 “Thank you, son” He spoke after a few seconds of silence, his voice weaker than he would have liked it to be.

“You’re welcome, dad.”

Hank hugged Connor a little tighter.