“What, is your check engine light on again?” Hank’s tone is light; he has no reason to be worried. Even with routine maintenance, things like this pop up every so often.
When Hank finally catches up and glances at a clock, he’s surprised to find that Connor’s break ended an hour ago and he still isn’t back.
The reply is instantaneous. “Yes. It’s just taking the technicians longer than I anticipated to find the root of the error. I have an uncommon problem, it seems!”
Hank feels uneasy. Connor is rarely ever wrong about anything.
He jumps when his phone buzzes a long, insistent note. Not a text, Connor is *calling him.*
He hurries into an empty briefing room and his hands shake as he lifts the phone.
“Hank.” And from how flat and mechanical Connor sounds, Hank *knows.*
“No.” Hank grips the wall for support. “Connor, no. No.”
“You need to come to the maintenance center, Hank.”
The cables pop free and the next instant, Connor meets Hank and is in his arms, clutching him so tightly that it hurts
Connor reforms his skin down to his clavicles. Hank knows what he wants and runs his other hand through Connor’s hair.
The technician doesn’t know. A critical error could shut him down in days, or it could be over a year.
“What’s going to happen to him next?”
The technician doesn’t know. It’s impossible to predict how Connor’s code is going to butcher him.
“Hank,” Connor says in that flat, mechanical voice, still clutching him. “You’re not helping. Let’s just go home.”
“Are you okay?” He asks Connor one morning.
He says it so frankly that it makes Hank’s throat close.
Hank doesn’t want that. He wants to do nothing but shut the blinds and curl up in the dark with Connor for the rest of their lives. But he can’t bring himself to object.
“Someday soon, if I can’t move the way I want to,” Connor says. He cuts himself off, unable to finish.
Hank brings Connor’s hand to his face and lets his fingers card through his beard.
Connor’s just staring at him, mouth set in a grim line.
“Jesus fuck.” Hank sits up in bed, drawing Connor’s hand into his, examining it. “When? When did it start?”
“A little after three in the morning. You were still asleep.”
“You didn’t wake me up?!”
He keeps murmuring until Connor lowers his face and his hot tears begin dripping onto both of their hands. Hank pulls him close, rocking the both of them.
Hank stops rocking. “Is it bad?”
Connor tucks his head under Hank’s chin. “No.”
Hank starts to rock again.
“If I play my memories of what it feels like to hold your hand, It feels like the real thing,” Connor whispers against their laced fingers. “I’m so glad I archived so much data.”
Hank snorts. “As if there’s anything proprio about you at all.”
It’s a dumb joke, but Connor smiles anyway.
“Now I won’t have to worry about all your fragile meat body getting shot at or stabbed.”
“You don’t get to call me fragile when you’re falling apart at the coding.”
“Yes I do. I get to say whatever I want.”
Hank wants to tell Connor he’s not a broken machine. He doesn’t know how.
They’re at their desks when Connor makes a soft noise of surprise and plants both his arms on his desk with a thud that makes Hank jump.
“What does that mean.”
“My balance is—“ Connor pauses, probably deciding by how much to underplay his problem so Hank won’t worry. “...impaired.”
“Whoa now. You’re okay. Lean back into your chair.”
Connor does, and when he doesn’t stop, the chair begins to tip backwards.
“Jesus.” Hank grabs Connor to steady him.
“I’m fine. This doesn’t impact my ability to work.”
“Doesn’t impact—Connor, look at yourself! You nearly fell out of your chair.”
“Stop touching me!” Connor snaps, pushing Hank away. Connor dips to the side but grips the desk to stay upright.
In the end, the decision is taken out of his hands. Fowler notices Connor’s behavior and puts him on indefinite medical leave
Hank puts in for his retirement, effective immediately.
Fowler asks if he’s sure he doesn’t want to just go on leave too. He can have all the time he needs.
Hank is sure.
“Don’t take this out on me! I’m just trying to help!”
“I don’t need your help!” Connor yells back.
Hank drinks to forget the guilt on top of everything else.
Hank goes to investigate and he finds Connor twisting on the floor, his skin appearing and disappearing in random patches.
“I can’t—“ Connor gasps, moving as though he’s trying to grab Hank and his limbs aren’t cooperating. “I can’t—feel anything! It’s gone, it’s all gone!”
“It’s okay, I got you, baby,” Hank murmurs, hoisting Connor in his arms. “Stop moving.”
Connor stills, going stiff.
“Relax.”
Connor does. He settles bridal-style in Hank’s arms
Connor rolls head head bonelessly to rest against Hank’s chest, looking up at him.
“I got you. We’re fine. We’re not falling.”
Connor’s face crumples. “I can’t feel you.”
“I thought I had more time!” Connor’s voice is tight, fitful. “This is too soon, I had the progression charted! It wasn’t supposed to happen all at once like this.”
“I thought I had more time,” Connor repeats. “I thought I’d get to touch you again, I thought—“
“I know.” Hank has to whisper for how tight his throat is. He wipes the tears flowing down Connor’s face with his thumb. “I’m here. I got you.”
Hank asks if they’re aware of any support groups.
“The only way I can know you’re there is to see you,” he mumbles, which isn’t a request for Hank to stay awake, but Hank just can’t leave Connor alone like this. Not now.
The woman is able-bodied. Hank doesn't think about why she might be selling a wheelchair.
He's grateful that he won't need his savings for anything else.
It takes a few tries, and it's a clumsy process, but when Connor lifts the straw to his mouth for the first time, it's like a weight lifting off Hank's chest.
Hank lifts Connor's hand to his cheek and kisses each finger.
"It's a rule that humans aren't permitted at these meetings," the group moderator explains, "so everyone can freely express any sentiments they might have."
"Some feel anger towards humanity for purposely designing them with contrived durability."
Hank murmurs, "Connor, I can leave, it's--"
"No." Connor's hand scrabbles for Hank's. "I respect your rules, but I don't think this is the place for me."
Connor's shoulder jerks in what might be a shrug. "I can understand why they feel that way. It's probably a common topic of discussion." His voice is flat.
A little codependency isn't what's going to kill them.
"Oh," Connor says, blinking. "No. When you lifted me off the floor, that sensation stopped. Ever since, I've sort of felt like I'm floating." A shadow passes over his face. "And sinking, sometimes. But not falling."
"Just ignore it," Connor whines, and Hank grunts in agreement.
It rings twice more, and then there's a pause. Then whoever's at the door lays into the doorbell, sending a long obnoxious buzz through the house.
Hank groans and pulls on some pants.
Hank nearly pinches himself to make sure he's not in some dream or hallucination when Gavin sneers, wrinkles his nose, and says, "Jesus, Anderson. When's the last time you bathed?"
Okay, he's real.
Gavin has a sour look on his face. He shuffles his feet and shoves the baked ziti into Hank's hands. "Yeah. So, uh, sorry for your loss or whatever."
"Connor's not dead," Hank says automatically, somehow not the least bit offended by Gavin's Gavinness.
"Nines," Gavin says. "So how's the tincan doing?" He peers around Hank as if he expects to see Connor.
Hank squints. "...Is this Nines trying to be nice? Or does he just want you to report back on what's happening to Connor and how fast?"
Hank imagines proud Nines with his skin shifting uncontrollably, barely able to lift a cup to his lips. He tries to imagine what Gavin would do, how Gavin would react.
His mouth goes dry.
Gavin sniffs, relaxing a little.
"Thanks for the lasagna, Reed."
"It's a baked ziti, you fucking pleb." As Gavin walks away, he says with a scowl, "And I better get that casserole dish back!"
"Can we try something?" Connor says with an unusual light in his eyes. He settles into Hank's lap. "Give me the fork."
Hank pops the ziti into his mouth. "What are you doing?"
"I'm feeding you. Hold still."
Hank bursts into laughter. He covers his mouth, mortified, but then Connor joins in, incidentally smearing sauce on Hank with the fork
Hank ducks his head to bite it, but then Connor moves and the fork smacks Hank in the ear.
"Fuck, I'm bleeding," Hank laughs, wiping tomato sauce from his hair.
"Yeah? And you're not contributing to the problem at all?"
"I don't see how I could! I don't eat!"
And then Connor somehow drops a ziti down Hank's shirt and mashes his elbow into it, squishing it between Hank's shirt and chest.
"I feel a little bad about wasting so much of it."
"Eh. I bet Gavin eats the same way."
"Hank, get the carpet cleaner and the spot remover. Otherwise it'll leave stains all over."
Hank grunts noncommittally.
Connor's face goes blank.
"Hank." Connor isn't emoting at all. "What are you going to do after I'm gone?"
Hank looks away. The silence hangs in the air.
"Connor—"
"Do you even realize what you do to me!?" Connor jerks in his wheelchair. "Every single day since you've retired I have been dreading the fact that I won't be there to stop you when I'm gone."
"Thousands of dollars on thirium," Connor yells, "Half your savings gone! Wasted!"
"It's not a waste," Hank says as gently as he can.
Connor's voice breaks on the last word, and Hank goes to him. He kneels down in front of Connor's chair, folding his arms and resting his head on Connor's lap.
"Don't do this," Connor begs. "Please. I want you to live. You deserve to live."
Hank can feel tears drip into his hair. So do you, he thinks.
Then he goes and gets the carpet cleaner and the spot remover. He carefully erases every stain while Connor lowers his head and cries with relief.
Hank keeps buying thirium. "It's fine," he tells Connor. "A single guy doesn't need much in savings."
"Oh." Connor seems surprised.
Hank passes him a towel. "What is it?"
"I... think I can't gauge my thirium levels anymore." He blinks. "...I can't gauge anything. Internal temperature, conductivity, nothing."
"I can't adjust anything to compensate. "Connor's wearing an expression of detached curiosity. "I think it's going to be soon, now."
Hank can't help but clench his jaw. He runs a hand through Connor's hair, letting it disappear under his hand.
Connor shakes his head, raises his arms. Hank pulls him into his arms, holds him close.
"No. I want to be home. With you."
"Do you want me to do anything? Say goodbye to anyone? I can do anything you need me to do."
Connor shakes his head. "No. No. Just hold me."
Hank kicks the wheelchair away. They don't need it anymore; won't need it ever again.
"What?" Hank's heart thuds in his chest. "Don't tell me you don't—"
"Of course I know who you are." Connor sounds amused, impatient. "But I can't access my archived long-term memory. The oldest ones."
"Cyberlife," Connor murmurs against his neck. "Fuck Cyberlife."
"Yeah," Hank says with a chuckle. "Fuck Cyberlife."
Connor hums.
"You were wearing jeans with a blazer, and I said who the hell dressed this poor kid—"
Connor laughs softly.
"You were a cowboy back then?"
"Shut the fuck up. And you said 'Affirmative. I—Am—RK800—Codename—Connor.'"
"I did not speak in a monotone. You're being culturally insensitive."
"Still with me?"
Connor nods.
"I'm glad we didn't die trying."
"Me too, baby."
"We saved the world," Connor mumbles.
"Yeah. Yeah, we did, baby."
"I love—" Hank interrupts himself with an ugly sob. He bites his hand, rocking himself and Connor back and forth, mouthing the words he doesn't have breath to say anymore.
It's a good death, Hank decides. Much better than others he's been involved with.
Hank lays Connor out on their bed. He gets his gun. He gets his phone and he makes a call.
He lays down next to Connor and pulls him into his arms. He kisses him softly, one last time.
He doesn't think there's anything waiting for humans or androids after death. But it's a comforting thought. A good lie.
END