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aricat7 · 13 days ago

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A Break in Formality - Chapter 2!

(A HankCon Fic)

Link to Chapter 1 - https://www.tumblr.com/aricat7/781067118909259776/a-break-in-formality?source=share

Chapter 2:

Connor doesn’t leave Hank’s car.

Just as it was back at the investigation, refusal to obey is an apparent and easy option.

His foot taps repeatedly—like he’s seen humans do when they’re anxious (and now fully understanding why they did it)—as he waits for Hank to trudge out of the bar. He desperately wants to talk to him about what happened back at the investigation. A buzzed Hank, Connor hypothesizes, will be more susceptible to that topic of conversation.

It’s been thirty-four minutes since Hank stormed off, so his return shouldn’t be too long now. Connor predicts he’s only ordered two drinks—just enough to melt that burst of… well, whatever it was that had lassoed Hank into drinking about it. Connor wants to know.

A taxi pulls up in front of the car at thirty-seven minutes, and the lieutenant nearly stumbles out of the bar. It’s clear more than just two drinks are involved.

Determined, Connor bolts out of the car. “Lieutenant!”

A step away from entering the taxi, Hank stops—begrudgingly—and looks over at the home of that familiar, goofy voice. “You’re still here?! I told you to go back to the fucking station!”

“Not until you and I talk things out, Hank,” Connor presses, approaching him with no intention of failing his new objective. “It’s vital if we’re going to continue working together efficiently.”

“Fuck that! Just do as you’re told before Fowler gets on my ass about your absence!”

“That shouldn’t happen. I sent Captain Fowler an email stating that CyberLife requested my presence at headquarters for some tune-ups and that you had a family emergency.”

Though his brow knits tight in frustration, his mouth hangs partially open in shock, snowflakes clinging to his thick beard. “You lied to Fowler? Jesus, you really are broken.”

He reaches for the door handle, but Connor swiftly steps in between.

“Why did my decision not to call CyberLife cause you so much turmoil that you had to drink on it?”

Hank scoffs and lifts a pointed finger. “No. No, no, no. No. Not drunk enough for that conversation.”

“Then I’ll buy as many as it takes for you to talk to me.”

Hank debates on pushing him aside, but anytime that aggressive side of Connor plays on the field, it secretly never fails to weaken him in the knees. The alcohol coursing through his system surely doesn’t help in that aspect, nor does it stop him from concentrating on how the specks of snow cluster on Connor’s lashes.

“Look,” Hank says with a drawn-out sigh, “how about you be a good robot and drive us to my place. If I’m getting plastered, I’d rather it be within the comfort of my own home.”

Connor gives a nod, and the android equivalent of a stomach flip happens from being called a “good robot”—for a reason he recognizes, but refuses to process.

“Alright.”

Hank starts to follow Connor, but the drunk man literally gets off on the wrong foot and ends up hugging the taxi to keep him from falling on his face. “Real smooth, Anderson,” he mutters, trying to collect himself, but Connor is already at his side and slinging Hank’s arm over his shoulders.

Once situated in the car, Connor drives off, Knights of the Black Death occupying the silence gaping between them. Despite Detroit’s freezing weather, Connor doesn’t bother turning on the heater, having sensed Hank’s elevated body temperature when he helped him into the passenger seat—courtesy of having had one too many.

When they’re about halfway home, Hank bluntly asks, “Why didn’t you call CyberLife?”

Not hearing an immediate answer, he looks over to see a blinking yellow LED.

“Because I didn’t want to.”

“Yeah, you’ve said that. But why didn’t you want to?”

Connor’s hands change position on the wheel, knuckles tightening. He remains focused on the road ahead, not daring to glance at his partner.

“It would’ve resulted in a major inconvenience on us. They would’ve come down and investigated you and I about what’s going on, or maybe even had me taken away from you.”

Hank lets that sink in.

Why does that even matter to you-

Nope. Hank wasn’t going to think about that just yet. Not drunk enough.

Nothing is said again until Connor applies the brakes at a terribly placed stop sign that was hated by many—one of them being Hank.

“Of course you stop at this stop sign,” Hank gripes.

“You need to stop at all stop signs, Lieutenant. It’s the law.”

“You need to stop at all stop signs, Lieutenant,” Hank mocks in a childish fashion, eliciting the faintest chuckle from Connor.

“Are you fucking laughing? You can do that?”

Somehow, that made Connor chuckle some more. “Please, Hank. I’m driving.”

“Yeah, some of the best goddam driving I’ve ever seen, too. There’s no way I'm distracting you. I’m not even bugging you, your thingy is still blue.”

With a full-on smile, Connor saves this experience under ‘Favorite Memories’. “Enough.”

That smile has a chokehold on Hank—he’s never seen him smile like that before. “You want me to shut up? Thought you wanted me to talk. Thought that’s why you’re dragging me home instead of charging your batteries at the station.”

That toothy grin drops like an internal switch flipping from playful to serious. “Are you wanting to discuss-”

“Nope. Need my handle first, buddy.”

“Okay, Lieutenant.”

~~~

Hank is able to walk into the house on his own—for the most part. They’re greeted by a very happy Sumo, who almost knocks both of them over by jumping on them.

“Sumooo! Relax, son!” Hank laughs, kneeling down carefully to ruffle up the large Saint Bernard.

“What would you like to drink?” asks Connor, who’s already in front of the kitchen shelf lined with booze.

Giving Sumo a few more pats, Hank lifts himself back up with a grunt—like the old man he is. “I got it. You don't have to play waiter.”

“I’m expensive equipment that doesn’t come out of your paycheck, Lieutenant. You might as well make the most of my capabilities.”

Connor steps aside for Hank to pick his poison.

“You really think you’re just equipment?” Hank asks, choosing a near-empty bottle of scotch whiskey and opening the cupboard above for a glass.

“Technically, that… is all that I am.”

That claim doesn’t sit right with Connor when he says it. It doesn’t with Hank either, and he regrets dipping into the serious topic before he’s pounded a few more drinks.

He pours his drink and offers it to Connor, who looks at it, confused.

“What? Never had a drink? You lick evidence and shit, so it’s not like you’ve had nothin’ in your mouth before. Wait, do you even piss?”

In a not-so-subtle fashion, Hank’s eyes drop to Connor’s crotch.

“Anything I ingest is stored in my waste compartment. To empty it, the contents are expelled out of my mouth through a flushing process. I activate it when it’s the right time and place—before it reaches maximum capacity.”

“So you are built like a Ken doll,” Hank says, still staring.

“Is that disappointment in your voice I detect?”

Hank doesn’t acknowledge the question, his attention remaining locked on Connor’s groin.

“I don’t have the parts for urination, Hank,” Connor crosses his arms and smirks. “But I do have eyes, and they’re up here.”

Hank snaps out of it with a hard blink and a shake of his head. “You throw everything up?”

“Essentially, yes. Though I haven’t yet encountered a situation where I needed to consume a beverage or a meal.”

Hank raises the glass nearer to Connor. “You wanna?”

The android glances from the drink to Hank. “Do you… want me to?”

“You didn’t care about what I wanted earlier. Now you do?”

“Speaking of earlier—”

“You downing this or am I?”

//HANK’S ULTERIOR MOTIVE?

“I already know what it tastes like, Hank.”

“You just told me you’ve never had a drink!”

“That is correct. But I am installed with knowledge of what different consumables, such as whiskey, taste like.”

“Okay, but you’ve never experienced the taste.”

The world around them vanishes as they hold each other’s gaze—for what feels like a whole five minutes for Hank, though Connor’s internal timer reads 5.47 seconds.

Solemnly, Hank explains, “There’s a difference between knowing something and experiencing it, you dingus.”

Connor contemplates this and ultimately finds solid reasoning behind it. He accepts the offer and slowly tips the glass, letting the amber liquid coat his tongue and trickle down his interior.

Hank is right.

“It tastes exactly how I thought it would,” says a pleasantly surprised Connor.

“You like it?”

“It’s a bit aggressive. Potent. Strong. Yet the warmth that follows it is soothing.” He meets Hank with a fond expression. “It almost reminds me of someone.”

Hank swallows, ignoring how much that comment beautifully affects him—and how the alcohol saturating his brain only heightens it.

“So you hate it.”

“If that’s the case,” Connor’s voice simmers to a low tone that Hank’s never heard before, “then why am I wanting more?”

It takes Hank a beat too long to be pulled back into reality.

“Jesus. Bolts loosened after one sip?”

“I’m not drunk, if that’s what you’re asking. I can’t experience alcoholic symptoms.”

“Bummer.” Hank refills the glass in Connor’s hand and reaches into the cupboard for another one for himself. “Would loveee to see a shit-faced robot.”

“I could simulate being one. I am capable of many impersonations.”

“Do me.”

Connor quirks an eyebrow. “Do you?”

Flustered—and annoyed at himself for being so—Hank fumbles and almost overflows his glass. “Shit, no. That’s not what I meant—fuck, Connor! Is it your mission to constantly catch me off guard?”

“No. My mission has always been to obey your orders.”

“Yeah. You suck at that.”

Connor sets his drink on the counter and leans back, gripping the edge with both hands. He sighs dramatically and uses his voice mimicry ability to speak in Hank’s exact voice. “Fuckin’ androids! Wish Connor would stop following me around like a poodle!”

Hank freezes mid-sip. “What the fuck. Don’t ever do that again. That’s creepy.”

“My apologies. I’ll make a note of that.”

Hank continues glaring at him as he finishes his sip, shaking his head in amusement.

“Shit. What time is it?”

“Five fifty-seven PM.”

“Gears game is about to start. You uh… wanna watch it with me?”

Connor accepts with a little upturn of his lip. “I’d like that.”

//PROBABILITY OF SUCCESS - 82%

Hank grabs a couple of unopened bottles of scotch—along with the one he and Connor haven’t finished yet—and they make their way to the living room, a slight drunken sway in Hank’s steps. They set everything down on the coffee table, and Connor casually slips off his shoes, jacket, and tie, folding the jacket and tie neatly onto the arm of the couch. It’s the most domestic act Hank’s ever witnessed from the android, and he can’t help but notice the shy reveal of a collarbone peeking through as Connor undoes a few buttons at his collar.

“Not gonna lie,” Hank loses the restraint not to ogle as he plops down on one end of the couch, “thought your clothes were stapled to you or somethin’.”

Connor claims the other end, appreciating this newfound sense of comfort that he’s decided to test. “It’s not surprising that you would think that way.”

“The fuck is that supposed to mean? You callin’ me stupid?”

“Well, compared to a highly intelligent android such as myself…”

Connor lets the jab hang in the air, satisfied to see the Lieutenant grin.

“Fuck you, you talking calculator.”

Sumo pads over, tail wagging, and hops up between them just as the game starts. Throughout the night, Hank shouts loud, drunken commentary at the screen while simultaneously explaining the ins and outs of the sport to Connor. Connor is, of course, well aware of the mechanics of every sport in the world—but he enjoys letting Hank ramble and “educate” him anyway, matching his drinking pace through it all. They stop halfway through the second full bottle, and by then, Hank is completely slumped and sprawled out.

Sumo starts whining.

“Oh shit, dinnertime for you, huh bud?” Hank pets him with a limp hand.

“I got it, Hank. You stay here.”

“Oh, I take orders from you now, huh?” he slurs.

//PROBABILITY OF SUCCESS - 91%

Connor proceeds to the kitchen and fills Sumo’s bowl to the brim with kibble. He then grabs a water bottle from the fridge for Hank and heads to the bathroom to fetch the waste bin to place beside the couch—just in case.

When he returns to the living room, the TV shows a winning game from the Detroit Gears, but Hank now occupies the entirety of the couch, lying on his side and fighting to stay awake.

Connor kneels beside him.

“Lieutenant?”

He grunts, eyes shut tight.

“I can understand you being upset at me for not following your instructions earlier during the investigation, but please—I want to know why it drove you to drink. I need to know.”

Hank takes a deep breath and forces his eyelids open, a troubled haze clouding his pools of blue.

“Because you’re not perfect. You’re supposed to be. But you’re not.”

//MISSION: COMPLETE

Connor gets an answer—but it raises more questions.

“You get more human every day, Connor.”

“But I’m not a human, Hank.”

“Yeah… I know. Just a machine.”

Every circuit screams at Connor to argue—but he doesn’t. He can’t. Not with Hank in this state.

“Just a machine…” His tired eyes trail down to Connor’s lips, and the huskiness in his voice is instantly pinned as Connor’s favorite audio clip. “So if… if I were to do something really stupid right now… it wouldn’t mean a damn thing, right?”

Before Connor can react, the LED circles yellow, and his eyes fall shut.

“Connor?”

Saddened that he might’ve upset him—and being wasted—Hank succumbs to a deep sleep.

#detroit become human fanfiction #detroit become human #hankcon #hank and connor #hank anderson #connor rk800 #fanfiction

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