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Connor shouldn’t be here. 

Not like this; smears of blue blood across his face and bare chest, shirt ripped open, Cyberlife jacket somewhere a few feet from them on the roof they’re on, along with a few buttons that had snapped off in their struggle. 
Not in this position either; splayed underneath Hank on top of him, stretched out, arms reaching over his head and wrists crossed where Hank had pinned them to the ground earlier, before figuring out that this isn’t supposed to happen.  
Not like this. 

“Why aren’t you fighting?” Hank pants, out of breath from their earlier fight in which he’s certain Connor could’ve broken the ribs that at the moment only feel as if bruised. The android could’ve easily dislocated the arm when he’d had it manipulated behind Hank’s back just minutes ago, rather than let go and option to instead shove him away from him and throw a punch when Hank had turned back around to face him. 
A punch that’s left his skin stinging, but again, no tooth knocked out, no crack in his jaw. 

Hank has seen this ‘machine’ fight before. Connor incapacitates any threat within mere seconds, avoiding being damaged except for taking the occasional blow in calculated manners to open up a spot for him to attack right back. Connor doesn’t lose, not against androids, and not against humans. 
And he sure as hell isn’t careless enough to not even brace himself for the various punches Hank had thrown at him; taking them to the face head-on, not flinching or attempting to dodge whatsoever. 

Despite not having noticed throughout the struggle itself, in hindsight Hank is slowly coming to figure out that this hadn’t been as much of a fight as it had been a dance. Connor had followed the motions, had taken violence but returned it not even half the amount received. 
Minutes have passed, minutes that should’ve had Hank sprawled on the rooftop’s gravel, bleeding and aching, perhaps even dead. 

And he’d expected that, even when having charged at the android. Hank knew that without a weapon to fire a bullet to lodge itself between Connor’s eyes, there’s no way he could stop him. 

And yet here he is, sitting on top of the android, aching only marginally where he’d been punched and kicked. His hands are on his own thighs -which in turn bracket Connor’s waist- having removed themselves from the android’s wrists when a struggle hadn’t come up against the restraints. 

Connor gazes up at him, hair disheveled not only by their battle but as well because of the snow melting on the strands and wetting them. 

“Why?” Hank tries again, frowning as he sits back on the kid’s thighs, brushes a hand over his face before the sweat on his brow can come to sting his eyes. 

“You won, Hank. It’s over.” Connor airily says, left shoulder shifting as he shrugs lightly, gravel crunching underneath his shirt at the movement.  

“Don’t give me that shit, Connor. You could’ve fucking popped my skull right off my shoulders ten times by now, why the hell are you just lying there?” 

Connor tilts his head sideways, eyes darting across Hank’s features –surely running several scans and preconstructions- and it has to man brace himself for an attack. 

It never comes. 

“Would you rather I do that, then?” The android asks. “Fucking pop your skull right off your shoulders, such as you colorfully describe it?” 

Taken aback by the calm tone and hearing the android curse, Hank is at a loss for words. 

“You are suicidal, after all, Lieutenant.” 

The lilt to his voice is cold, a touch mocking, demeaning, and it pokes the earlier rage that’s simmered down in Hank. Like stirring smoldering coals, flaring them right back up to that earlier burning fire. 
The man clenches his teeth, grinds them, knows Connor can likely hear it with his fucking android ears. 

“Did that start before poor, little Cole died?” 

It ignites, and Connor does nothing to stop the fist from ramming into his face. The punch hurts Hank more than it does the android –he knows- but it is still satisfying to watch the thing move his head to the side, spitting blue liquid onto the snowy ground next to him before looking back up at Hank. 
Connor brings down a hand, wipes his mouth, and rather than clean his face, it only serves in smearing even more of the blue across his pale features. 

Hank tries to calm his breathing, swallows around the tightness in his throat, the motion causing his ears to crackle lightly around the blood rushing through them. 
He’s furious. 

Furious over a machine taking his son’s name in its mouth. Over how Connor lays his hand back down next to his other one above his head. body remaining stretched out underneath Hank, as if relaxed on the cold, hard surface of the roof they’re on. 

This thing hasn’t a clue about grief, about the struggle of losing someone close to you, let alone your only child. Connor is corrupted, a tool for Cyberlife, used by them to accomplish a mission. Connor doesn’t care about humans, about Hank, about Cole. Connor is incapable of feeling shame or regret. 
Not even the anger he’s seen in him before had been genuine. 

Connor follows a program coded into him and though Hank keeps messing up the thing’s pronouns because he’d hoped at one point that his partner had been more than just a robot, he knows this. 

Regardless, he’s unsure as to why he’s still breathing, as to why Connor has yet to kill him or at least knock him out to proceed with his mission. It’s not like the android has much time left to stop the revolution’s leader holding a speech various stories down, in the middle of the street. 

Why hadn’t he taken the shot when Hank had walked up to him? Connor could’ve done it, could’ve shot the other android a split second before Hank would’ve planted a bullet in the back of his head. His aim is impeccable, as is his speed... Why isn’t the android just finishing what he’s supposed to do? 

Why is he laying here, placid and bathing in the snowflakes fluttering down on top of them? 
Why is he trying his damnedest to get under Hank’s skin? Is there sadism programmed inside of him? Does Cyberlife have a price on Hank’s head, had they told Connor to make him suffer before his death? 

“I’ve always found you intriguing, Lieutenant.” Connor admits before finally moving to lean on his elbows. 
Hank should be cautious, should shove him back down, but the air shifts around them, a new direction taken. 

“You’re self-destructive, distant and rough around the edges. You push others away, as if frightened they’ll get their hands on you, peel away those layers of feigned animosity, of made-up crudeness and selfishness.”  

Their eyes meet. 

“What would they discover there? Underneath your snarls and foul words. An even uglier beast? A selfish and hungry creature that’ll devour anyone with a kind touch?” 

Hank frowns at Connor’s observations, wonders if there’s a point to his analysis. Wonders if it’s necessary to look this deeply into a human being, even if his partner. 

“Or a lost man? Old and worn and tired and eagerly awaiting the day he’ll decompose right into this filthy earth, meet his son in a heaven he doesn’t even believe in?” Connor continues with a calm voice, eyes unblinking as they hold Hank’s. 

“Because you don’t, do you? You don’t believe in a god, you don’t believe in life after death and you know you’ll never see him again. Is that what keeps you alive, then? Knowing that once you’re gone, even your memories of Cole –no matter how hurtful- will cease to exist in this realm? Do you enjoy torturing yourself with his memory? Do you rather suffer than end it all?” 

The words leave him breathless. It doesn’t matter if they’re factual or not, if they ring true to Hank or not, the sharpness to Connor’s slicing words mean nothing when they will always succeed in stabbing him, no matter how dull the edges, twisting in his gut until he physically has to exhale a pained breath. 

“It’s admirable that you continue living. As if out of spite. As if you’ve yet to avenge your boy’s death.” Connor adds quietly before he reaches up, curls a hand into the collar of Hank’s shirt.  
The movement is slow, unthreatening, and Hank doesn’t even realize he’s being pulled down until a cold breath fans out over his face. 

“Well, here’s your shot, Hank. Cole died because of an android. Perhaps if you kill one of us, it’ll set the record straight.” 

It would never set the record straight. Of course, it wouldn’t. But the grief is there; ugly and coiling and all-consuming. It makes excuses on the regular; for drinking, for being crude and distant, for ripping Connor’s hand from his shirt and stumbling up to his feet. 

“You’re a piece of work.” Hank accuses with a hiss, his heart clenching hard enough that he fails at putting any volume into his voice. His shoulders sag as he watches Connor sit still on the snowy ground. 

Connor considers him for a moment, blinks for the first time since they’ve been talking. 

“So, that’s it?” Connor asks as Hank picks up his handgun which the android had swiftly slapped from his hand when their fight had ensued. 

“You’re going to arrest me, or shoot me, and walk away from this?” 

Hank walks closer to the machine, eyes him up and down, makes sure to keep enough distance between them so he doesn’t get a leg kicked out from beneath him. 

“What do you mean ‘this’?” 

“Us, Hank.” 

Hank takes note of the android using his first name to beckon familiarity, to soothe the earlier words spoken to him about his son and his suicidal tendencies, to lure out memories between them; have him go easy on him. 

“After all, I am aware you do care about me.” Connor boldly claims and rather than deny it, Hank immediately throws back a snarky reply. 

“Yeah, but you don’t, do you, Connor?” 

Connor tilts his head farther to the left, searches something on Hank’s features, unbothered by the gun in his right hand –even if it’s yet to be aimed at him-. 

“I would, if I was capable of such an emotion.” 

This takes the lieutenant by surprise, and he’s aware it shows on his features; frowning deeply, lips parting in the start of a sneer. 

He can’t trust this thing, it’s deliberately attempting to confuse him –succeeding- and Hank just can’t figure out why. He doesn’t understand why he is still standing there, his hair dampened by the snow, the cold seeping into his clothes, numbing the tips of his fingers.  
Too much time has passed, without a conclusion. 

“Shut the fuck up, Connor.” Hank growls, checking if his pistol’s safety is turned off as he holds it pointed at the floor, ready to lift it were the damn thing to try anything funny. 

“I like that.” Connor mutters, soft and when Hank glares at him, the android appears almost coy. 

“I like when you show personality, Lieutenant. And I am not referring to the crude warnings that you bark at anyone in vicinity. Those crude words you spew in irritation at your colleagues, they never quite go hand-in-hand with the physical reactions you portray around myself.” 

The hairs on the back of Hank’s neck stand up when Connor shifts his weight, attempts to get up before he sits back down with a huff. 

“You’ve damaged my leg.” Connor says softly, surprised, stares at his right limb for a moment –likely scanning it- before he quirks a wry smile. “Severely. It will need replacement.” 

Hank doesn’t believe a word he is saying. 

“Help me up?” The android asks, reaches a hand out towards him as he waits for the lieutenant’s help. 

He says it so lightly, no weight to his words and no shadows on his features. The request worded without animosity, as if they hadn’t just gotten in a fist-fight, as if he hadn’t just ripped Hank’s heart out by talking about Cole, by reminding him of how dead androids really are... How much they lack in humanity... Or at least this one. Cyberlife’s prototype, their pride, their bloodhound; a killer on a mission. A  weapon

Which reminds Hank of their fight and how he’d come out on top. He still doesn’t get it, and plans to ask Connor about it once more as he reaches out his hand to pull him to his feet. 

Yet, Hank finds himself silenced by how swiftly Connor gets up. He doesn’t limp, hardly uses Hank’s hand as a leverage to pull himself up and their eyes meet soon after the android is standing in front of him. 

“Why is it that you keep giving me the benefit of the doubt, Hank?” 

A solid question that is dangerous to reply to. Thinking back to the few days they’d spent working together, Hank remembers various times in which he’d made excuses for Connor to himself. Excuses that simmered down the agitation he feels towards the lack of deviancy in his partner. Made up reasoning to explain to him why it’s not too late. 

Even earlier tonight, arriving on the rooftop, finding Connor peering off the edge of it, sniper rifle set up to blow the revolution’s leader’s plastic skull right open. A deviant who by now is already long gone from where Connor had set up for the assassination. 
It’s too late for Connor. He’s failed his mission and perhaps this explains his tempered mood right now. Perhaps he’s made peace with the fact that he’ll be destroyed the moment he returns to Cyberlife.  

Ludicrous... There’s no peace to be made. Connor certainly doesn’t care whether he’s disassembled or not. Unlike Hank, who’s chest aches at the thought of saying goodbye to his partner. 
He’s believed... For a while, really believed, the kid would turn out deviant. 

But then why... Why didn’t he take the shot? And why didn’t he win his fight with Hank? 

“Why didn’t you shoot him?” 

Connor’s LED swirls to red. It’s a flicker, a welcoming change after having witnessed the circle being yellow ever since Hank had stepped on the roof. 

“Why are you still holding my hand?” Connor whispers, cocks his head and even though Hank should be surprised at the remark, should shake him off and take a step back, he’s aware that that is what the android aimed for. 

Connor wants Hank to be uncertain, wants to shake him, catch him off-guard. But he’s having none of this shit because there might be a chance... Connor didn’t take the shot. Connor didn’t win. And his mission does not match these outcomes. 

Connor doesn’t fail. Doesn’t doubt or make mistakes. Something more is going on. 

The android blinks when Hank holds his hand tighter, tugs him close enough that their chests bump before Connor takes a hesitant step backwards. Hank does not let go, yet allows some space between them as he glares down at the shorter man. 

“Answer me, Connor.” 

“I...” Red... Yellow. Connor blinks. “I didn’t have a clear shot.” 

“You’ve shot androids from ridiculous distances before, right between their fuckin’ eyes. You’ve shot moving targets. You’ve shot offenders holding a hostage right in front of them.” Hank accuses him, voice a rumble as he tugs on the hand he’s holding. Again, Connor resists, tries to keep space between them. 

“Why didn’t you shoot him, Connor? Matter of fact, why the hell did you let me win our fight, huh?” 

“I told you, Lieutenant, I didn’t have-” 

“Bullshit!” Hank shouts, surprising the both of them when he shoves the android away and instead raises his gun at him with both hands. 

There’s something in there... In that thick skull, behind those dark eyes, underneath that pale skin. 

Glancing at the barrel of the pistol, Connor deliberately exhales, as if calming his nerves. It’s a ruse, of course... Hank’s never seen this kid take a breath in his life. That’s a deviant thing and by now, he might have figured out that this is what Hank desires... Might be faking it. 

“Why’d you let me win, Connor?” Hank’s lips curl in a smirk, though there is no amusement to it. Just a tense line on his face which he hopes has the android read him all wrong, or get him on edge with contradicting signs in his body language. 

“By Cyberlife’s ordering, I am not allowed to kill humans.” It’s spoken as if read from a manual, an obvious standard reply. 

Hank paces towards him slowly, lowers his gun in a single hand, using his free one to shove Connor backwards when he doesn’t move. 

“You could’ve incapacitated me.” He remarks, steps forward again, shoves Connor again. 

The android grows tense, stumbles backwards, LED continuously swirling red. His mouth opens, but no words come out, his eyelids flutter, snow on his lashes. Blue blood on his cheeks, under his nose, across his lips. The shade of thirium on his skin is dark, almost black in the night, except where snow’s mixed with it, creating faded patches. 
He looks alien... And that’s what these fuckers are... They’re so unlike human beings. 

Or, no... Not all of them... This one. This one. The one Hank doesn’t want to be. 

“But you didn’t. Instead you chose to let me mount you, let me pin you down, didn’t even fucking struggle either.” Hank’s voice gets lower, his heart pounding, his stomach coiling as the pieces of the puzzle begin to click together. 

This prick... This prick isn’t a machine... Is he? 

Connor no longer startles when Hank shoves him again, follows him with unhurried steps. 

“You let me punch you. More than once... Look at yourself, Connor. Look.” Hank lowers his eyes to the android’s chest, where blue blood has run down from his mouth, over his chin, down his throat, onto his chest, soaking the lapels of his button-up, tie long gone. 

Connor dumbly follows his gaze, prods at his bared chest before he startles when Hank shoves him again, nearly catching him off balance. 


“Why the fuck would you let me do this to you, Connor? You think this is all you’re worth? To be wrestled onto the ground by an old cop, while your target escapes? To be destroyed by Cyberlife for not having accomplished your mission, huh?”  

Another shove, another few steps forward for Hank, backwards for Connor. 

“Do  you  think that’s all I’m worth?” Connor returns, breathlessly, eyes wide and if it weren’t for the vicious words spoken to him earlier by the android, he would’ve been shaken from his anger in that moment.  
But instead, Hank steps closer, pushes him again, delights in how he keeps stumbling. 

“Even now, you’re not fighting back, Connor.” 

“Fighting you is not my mission.” 

“Bullshit.” Hank hisses, pockets his gun swiftly and shoves him one last time before he watches him sway backwards as he’s at the edge of the roof. 
Connor, this time around, does gasp, loud, shaky, realistic, arms swaying. 

Hank grasps him by the collar of his shirt, the white fabric stretching taut as the android’s weight nearly tugs the both of them to the abyss. 

But the lieutenant was prepared, had seen it coming, and he holds him neatly as both their feet are on the edge of the roof, Connor’s upper body dangling off. 
All Hank needs to do to kill him is let go. Let him fall to his death. 

Connor’s arms move closer, hesitant as they sway before his hands finally grasp Hank’s wrists. 

“If I took the shot, I knew you would kill me, Hank. And I didn’t want you to have to pay for my repairs.” 

It’s the lamest lie he’s ever heard Connor say. Hank scowls. 

“Or you didn’t want to die.” The lieutenant tries. 

Connor considers his words, smiles softly from the corner of his mouth before one of his thumbs brushes across the back of Hank’s hand. 

“You are the one who doesn’t want me to die.” The android returns swiftly, and if it weren’t for the red in the kid’s LED betraying the bluffed confidence, Hank might’ve dropped him out of spite. 

“The shit you’re saying, Connor, doesn’t add up. You say one thing, act one way, then switch it up on me continuously. How many times did you change tactics just tonight alone, huh? What happened to your preconstructions? What happened to being so damn cock-sure of yourself you never need to second-guess what you’re applying?”  

As expected, the android doesn’t reply. His lips thin, smile gone. 

“Doubt, manipulation, fear and anger, trying to hurt me, and now trying to console me by stroking my hand... Is that all in your programming? Or are you just going on what you ‘think’ will help you out? Are you just following an instinct, of which the outcome is terrifyingly uncertain?” 

The thumb on his hand stops in its ministrations, a gust of wind has snowflakes dart between them. Hank’s back aches at holding Connor above the abyss beneath, but he can’t pull him back yet... Can’t drop him either. 

“You won’t care if I drop you?” Hank asks when Connor fails to reply. 

Again, the android doesn’t answer, but his features are tense, no more aloof demeanor, no more smiles and witty remarks. 

“The finality of it, doesn’t bother you?” 

“Hank, no matter how much you want me to be a deviant. I am not.” The words are crude, meant to sting; impersonal and downright sneaky and Hank sees right through it. 

The kid might be a robot, might be a top-notch prototype designed to hunt androids, but it as well has been created to appear human. And Hank has been human fifty-three years longer than this idiot. 

“Moment of truth, Connor...” Hank says, watches that red LED flicker. “How much of a machine are you, really?” 

Connor frowns, not understanding Hank’s words before his eyes and mouth open wide as Hank loosens his grip. 

He feels it then, how Connor holds on more tightly onto his wrists, hears it in how the gravel underneath scrapes across the bottom of Connor’s shoes as he tries to step forward and away from his death, sees it in the tremble of his lips as a sharp gasp tumbles from them. 

“Did that have your thirium pump skip a beat?” Hank asks, readjusting his grip and leaning back. 

Despite starting to form a word, Connor’s jaw snaps just, his brows furrow. It’s a childish expression, petulant, not one suited for when almost having been killed by someone. It would’ve been amusing in any other setting. 

“Have you considered that I myself am unsure?” Connor tries when he’s seemingly collected his wits. 

As much as the android is not to be trusted, Hank’s opinions waver. They’ve already been fluctuating the entire night, influenced by anger as much as hope, fighting each other endlessly, weaponized by longing as well as a harsh realism that comes from years of living a shit life. Of being betrayed and let down. 

It’s never-ending... This futile suffering with no light at the end of the tunnel. And Hank has been wanting, these past days. He’s been craving change, he’s been catching glimpses of positivity, of what-ifs... 

What if Connor goes deviant? 

What if deviants are human? 

What if Connor, with his witty remarks, his determined intelligence, his flirtatious glances, was human? Would Hank not have shoved him up a wall by now to kiss him? Would he not have thrown him on his bed, worked him open impatiently with his fingers before fucking him? 

Hank knows he would’ve. But it’s this identity of Connor, the fact that he’s a machine, that leaves Hank in the dark. Nothing can’t be trusted, not body-language, not words, not even acts. 

Though he did wait for Hank to reply, Connor soon enough understands an answer won’t be given. 

Pale hands let go of Hank’s wrists, instead reaching up to grab onto the dip where bicep meets shoulder. He squeezes hard, once, beckoning Hank to meet his gaze from where it had grown distant in thought. 

“Pull me up.” Connor says softly. 

“I don’t want to get destroyed. Pull me up.” He repeats, the volume rising along with his eyebrows. 

Trepidation is visible on his young features and though Hank isn’t certain if it’s a mask or not, his heart clenches uncomfortably. He steps backwards, pulls Connor with him. 

It doesn’t make sense for Connor to advance on him and reach for the pistol Hank had put in his shoulder-holster before. As unpredictable as a machine might be, Hank knows something is up with whatever Connor’s attempting to do. 
Something if off about how the android retrieves it, leaving just enough time for Hank to realize what is happening and wrestle the weapon from his grip.  
Something doesn’t add up when considering their conversation, their unpronounced truce.  

Something isn’t right in how prepared he is to take a step back even before Hank’s raised the gun, a deja-vu hitting him square in the face when pointing it back at the android. 

Hank doesn’t speak. 

“I don’t want to get destroyed.” Connor repeats his earlier confession, though there’s no emotion to it. 

The android steps forward, comes closer until the barrel of the gun comes to press against his forehead. 

“Is that what you want to hear, Lieutenant?” He tilts his head backwards slightly, the gun sliding between his eyebrows. He never looks away from Hank’s gaze, and as much as the lieutenant is left puzzled, he doesn’t either. 

“What else would you like to hear me say?” The android continues, his voice far too quiet, almost drowned in the snow and wind whipping around them; mussing hair and clothes. 

“That I am a deviant? That I care about you? That I will give up on my mission just for your sake? I’m a machine, Hank. Less than a week ago you hated my guts, and now you expect me to, what? Sink down to my knees and beg you to run away with me from Cyberlife, from Detroit?” 

Not quite, but close to it. As selfish as Hank is, he doesn’t want Connor to just deviate for  him . He wants it for the kid’s sake. No matter his conviction of him just being a bunch of cables and programming, Hank remains haunted by an unfamiliar sense of hope; it’s greedy and hot, won’t leave him alone when he lies in bed at night nor when he is near Connor.  
This mentioned hope, the one that has a veil over his normally observant eyes and suspicious believes, warns Hank. What if Connor is in fact deviant? He cannot be destroyed by Cyberlife. He cannot be killed on the job –let alone by Hank’s hands-, he should not be living his life chasing a mission and goal programmed into him when there is so much more to realize and unwrap. 

When there’s so much more personality to him than this manipulative bloodhound. Hank’s seen it, caught just enough glimpses of it to leave him starving to dig deeper, peel away layers of plastics and metals, look inside of him and find Connor. Not RK800, nor that damn serial number Hank can’t remember for the life of him. But  Connor

That’s who Hank’s been working with. That’s the kid he wants as his partner, his buddy to drink with. Not this machine keeping up appearances, not this robot stifling and muffling the deviant inside. 

“I want Connor.” Hank simply states, convinced that this prick in front of him is something else than his partner. 

Connor’s face is impassive as he reaches up a hand, slowly. Fingers wrap over Hank’s hand and the man’s prepared to lower the gun. He has no desire to shoot the android and he’s aware that if this thing’s intention had been to kill him, he’d be long gone by now. 
So, there’s no real reason for his heart to skip a beat or his stomach to jump. 

Or well, there wouldn’t have been, was it not for Connor pressing down Hank’s hand until the barrel of the pistol rests against his lips. 

Something perverted within him already knows what is going to happen. There’s no  reason  for it to happen, and he can’t quite connect the dots in Connor’s reasoning... But the silence, the eye-contact between them that just won’t break, the lightness to Connor’s grip on him... 

Hank watches in disturbed awe as Connor spreads his lips, wraps them around the metal of the handgun; shiny silver against pink lips smeared with blue blood. 
The color scheme is one Hank’s never seen before, and he’s so distracted by the incongruous beauty of it that it takes him a moment to place the darker, slicker pink joining the picture. 

Connor’s tongue presses up against the underside of the barrel, like one would against a cock, and the imagery isn’t lost on Hank. It shoots straight down to between his legs. 

A pause follows, in which Hank doesn’t know whether to pull his gun away or knock the idiot’s teeth out. 

The android decides for him, however; tightening the grip on Hank’s hand –uncaring of the finger resting on the trigger-, opening his mouth and sliding the length of the barrel inside of it. He slathers it with his tongue, an abundance of synthetic saliva dripping off of the weapon unnaturally. 
And still, as disturbing as it is, Hank’s mind only awakens curiosity; how wetly and calculated would that mouth devour a cock? 

The swelling in his dick forces Hank to adjust his footing, allow some space where he’s feeling trapped in his pants. It doesn’t work, and instead the movement only manages to have the handgun clack against Connor’s teeth. 
Of course, the android doesn’t mind. On the contrary, a soft sound escapes his throat. It’s short and sweet, quite clearly a cut-off moan. 

There’s relief settling in Hank’s chest when Connor pushes his hand away from his face slowly, even though it has his stomach knot at watching the kid’s lips slide over the smooth metal. 
Relief is short-lived, since the android makes sure to repeat his earlier action; inserting the barrel right back into his soft-looking mouth, eyes fluttering along with the yellow in his LED. 

How long Hank can stand there and watch the android blow his pistol, he isn’t sure. The earlier whiskeys he’s downed, the leftover endorphins from the battle between them, the remnants of hurt and agitation, sink inside the lieutenant. He’s on edge, his nerves on alert, his blood rushing through his body fast and hot; urging him. 

There’s little patience left. 

Despite telling himself to step away from this, throw in the towel and give up, Hank shoves the gun deeper into Connor’s mouth when the latter cocks his eyebrows at him as if mocking his indecisiveness. 

The android flinches, metal clattering against his teeth loudly, but he doesn’t move away. Rather, Connor opens wider, closes his eyes, allows the tip of the gun to reach deep inside of him. Were he human... He’d have gagged by now. 

Connor waits, just like that. Hank, as well, stands still, surprised at his own anger momentarily having taken over; having made him shove the weapon so roughly into his partner’s mouth. There’s a long moment’s hesitation in which the lieutenant tries to decide how much exactly he’d overstepped his own borders, his own morals. 

With heart pounding, and stomach knotting, Hank retrieves the gun, watches pink-and-blue lips give and shape easily around the ridges; proving to the man that Connor’s lips must be incredibly soft and supple. 
When only the tip is left within his mouth, Connor opens up again, makes sure to have his tongue support the edge of the barrel so it won’t slip down his chin. And he just waits... Eyes once more on Hank’s face, he waits for him to insert it back. 

When Hank does, when he does slide it back inside Connor’s mouth, when he watches those lips wrap back around the silver cylinder, he finds his mind quiet. The voice of reason has fucked off, likely traveled downtown to discuss the abandoning of morals together with Hank’s dick. 

He’s been seduced before. Plenty of times. As a detective busting operations and interrogating suspects, it’s more common than one would think. People backed into a corner will grasp onto many different tactics to get out of whatever shit they dug themselves into. 
Even in his personal life, especially when younger, it’s happened. By women and men. 

But Hank isn’t easily influenced. Sees right through people and can tell from a while away when someone will just end up being a pain in his ass after sharing a one-night-stand with them. 

Connor, however... Is a different story. Connor, isn’t readable, isn’t predictable and has no human imperfections. 
Connor, along with his peculiar beauty that contrasts harshly with his shit-attitude, is very tempting. 

Hank knows, as he removes the gun once more –entirely this time-, that he’s biased by his own hopes and by what he believes he’s seen in the kid. He knows, as he pockets his gun and looks away, that he has a soft-spot for Connor, no matter they’d gotten in a fist-fight. 

And a very naïve part within him, beckons the question; what if Connor has a soft-spot for him too? 

It’s grasped out of thin air, this assumption, surely. But Hank’s had some practice in fooling himself over the years; plenty talented at lying at himself and never facing his own demons unless he can drown them in liquor and threaten them with a bullet during a game of Russian Roulette. 

So, when Connor steps forward, coming to a halt in front of him, placing his hands against his shoulders, Hank doesn’t move away. 
Nor does he budge an inch when Connor stretches up, slides his tongue from his bearded chin, over his lips and to the tip of his nose. 

“You’re bleeding.” Connor explains, as if this an adequate reason behind licking his face. Red blood mixes with the blue on the android’s lips before he licks it away.  

He hadn’t even noticed he was bleeding, though now he does feel the numbness in his nose. The punch to his jaw must’ve connected with his nose at some point. 

“Could’ve used your fingers.” Hank mutters quietly, knowing that even though his voice is steady, Connor can notice the fluctuating in his body temperature and in the pace of his heartbeat. 

“Now, where’s the fun in that?” The android returns, lips quirking up in a half-second smile. 

“Fun...” Hank quotes, tries out the word in connection to Connor. Connor doesn’t have fun... Even if he was human, the lieutenant is sure he would be a boring man who enjoys crossword puzzles, doing chores, and prefers tea over coffee. 
Then again... Apparently the kid’s idea of fun also includes licking faces, so there’s that. 

“Back to cocky, are you? You suck my gun like a damn whore and think you’re back in charge?” For once, Connor is more surprised by Hank’s words than he himself. 

“I was under the assumption that whoever is sexually aroused more, tends to have less control over themselves than the other.” The robot says simply, his LED a cool blue as he tilts his head. Hank suppresses the urge to choke on his own spit at Connor so boldly stating what is going on here; a game of turning him on. “However, I can assure you, Lieutenant. I am more than willing to have you in charge over me, instead.” 

And there it is. What more of an invitation does Hank need to fuck the thing’s motherboard right out of its skull on this very roof? 

When Hank grabs him by the collar, a sharp gasped ‘Hank!’ spills from Connor’s lips before they clash with the man’s. 

It isn’t a kiss, not when fueled with agitation and anger, a touch of desperation and query. It’s a demeaning act, one intended only to subdue the receptor. Hank’s lips are dry and rough, pry open Connor’s absurdly soft ones, so their teeth can clack, so his tongue can violate the insides; searching for all those cruel words and calculated observations he’s heard spoken before. 
It’s gluttonous devouring. Greedy, impatient, more telling in its urgency than it is in what it’s normally perceived as. 

He wants to swallow him whole, hair and skin, consume Connor to get him in his system, wear him down and mold him to fit his own opinions. 

Connor gasps again, when Hank pushes his face into him so hard he is forced to crane his neck. It’d be painful... For a human... But Connor, Connor can be broken and put right back together. Physically, emotionally, in any way Hank can think of. 

With this truth in mind, Hank steps forwards; places a leg behind Connor’s and advances. As was the plan, the android trips and Hank follows him swiftly down, uncaring that impacting on the snowy roof hurts his kneecaps. 

He doesn’t wait. Doesn’t wait for Connor’s LED to stop swirling red, doesn’t wait for his own morals to creep up his spine and accuse him in his ear of doing the wrong thing. 
Hank reaches down to Connor’s belt, unbuckles it and then hardhandedly tugs his pants off his narrow, pale hips. 

And Connor... Fuck, Connor. He works with him eagerly; lifts his pelvis, bends his legs as the fabric is pulled off him. The android’s eyes are wide, his lips parted, his arms next to him, hesitant of where to touch or grasp, and as Hank looks down at him, he notices how young and human he actually looks. 
From the expression on Connor’s face, to the limp dick between his legs; a young man... Getting fucked on a flat roof. The only thing betraying his true identity is the red circle in his temple and the blue blood smeared across his mouth and chest. 

Hank, sitting on the kid’s thighs, travels his eyes up and down Connor. Undoing the two buttons that had miraculously survived throughout the night, Hank splays his hands across his chest as he pushes open the ruined shirt; revealing two rosy nipples.  
He pinches one, just to see if this machine can get turned on to begin with. Connor flinches, a sweet and short sound stuck in his throat. 

It doesn’t matter if he can... This isn’t about fucking him into deviancy. This isn’t for Connor’s sake either. It’s simply to take it all out on him, a form of revenge, if you will. Hank’s broken and he wants to undo this thing underneath him; undo the whirlwind of emotions he put Hank though, undo the memory of him as his partner. Hank wants to leave this roof with a clear mind and empty heart; remember Connor only as the machine who’d used Cole’s name in vain, Connor who’d been fucked into the pavement as if nothing more than an object, like the rest of them. 

In the back of Hank’s mind, he is aware that this newfound animosity –this venom- is caused only by hurt and disappointment. Because Connor isn’t what he wants him to be, and he’ll fucking punish him for it. 

“Hank-” Connor tries when the lieutenant maneuvers them around a bit so he is kneeling between the android’s legs which he holds up by the ankles before dropping them on his shoulders. 

Hank doesn’t look at him, fears his reasoning will waver, fears he will humanize the thing even more than he already has... And shouldn’t have. 

Instead he clasps one of the android’s thighs, reaching down with his free hand to unbuckle his pants and take out his half-mast erection.  

As he strokes himself to fully-hard, idly, Hank notices how Connor’s digging his fingers into the snow. It urges him to look up the length of his body; observe how his fair skin and white shirt get lost in the pale snow around him, streaks of thirium outlining some of his muscles. 

It’s aesthetically pleasing, Hank is sure, but his depraved mind only urges him to look back down between Connor’s spread legs, lifting his ass and double-checking if he even has a hole to fuck. There does; pink and tiny. It’s hairless and far prettier than any asshole has the right to be. Much the same can be said about the rest of Connor. 

When Hank –after spitting in his hand and stroking the saliva along his length- aligns himself against Connor’s hole, the android’s breath stutters. 

“You will tear me.” A hand comes up, presses gently against Hank’s stomach as if urging him to not slide inside of him. 

Hank glances up at him. 

“It will cost in repairs.” Connor adds. 

“How much?” 

Connor blinks at Hank’s question, likely not having been able to preconstruct this side of him. 

“I can only serve you an estimate.” A pause. “Between four to seven-hundred depending on-” Connor’s voice is cut off with an exclaim that sounds eerily much like a yelp of pain, when Hank pushes inside him. 
The fingers on his stomach curl into the fabric of his coat and Hank is breathlessly amazed not only at how tight he feels, but as well in how Connor spreads his legs wider and arches up into him. 

“Shit.” The lieutenant whispers as he dips his head, fog leaving his lips along with his hot breath. 

The socked feet that were dangling off his shoulders before, now rest on top of them. Hank can feel every single one of Connor’s toes press into the fabric of his jacket as he uses the leverage to tilt his hips higher. Hank groans at the movement, the tightness around him only intensifying. It’s close to painful. 

“Loosen up.” Hank urges, pressing his eyes shut as he holds on to Connor’s calves, the fabric of his high socks soft. 

“I can’t loosen up, Lieutenant. You’ll have to fuck me open.” 

Hank almost barks a laugh at that. The absurdity of the situation hits him in the chest. Connor spread out underneath him, his LED still swirling red, his toes buried against the collar of Hank’s jacket... The words he said and has been saying all night... A sentence formed by a machine one moment, a reminiscing of Connor the next. 
Who is he fucking? 

Pulling our slowly, leaving only the tip inside, Hank can see –even in the dark- that there’s thirium on his dick. The kid was right about tearing. 

“Spread your legs.” Hank mutters as he grabs Connor’s ankles and lifts his legs from his shoulders. 

Connor, again, obeys. His knees fall open while his ass remains tilted up thanks to some top-notch plastic muscles Hank can see shift underneath the skin lining his stomach. Unlike himself, this thing could probably fuck for hours, perhaps even days. 

Shoving back inside, faster and rougher than before, has Connor’s LED flicker. His brown eyes close and his entire body arches up. A moan doesn’t fall from his lips, but the language of his body already has Hank tumble head-first into depravity. 

Hank tries it again, more viciously this time, can feel blue blood leak down his own balls. 
This time, Connor cries out sharply, for a second even attempting to sit up before he settles back down; readjusting his position to receive more. 

There’s uncertainty to whether or not Connor is faking the pain he’s in. Only deviants experience pain, after all. If it is in fact a feigned reaction, then Hank is left to wonder whether Connor’s acting as if he’s hurting for the sake of Hank feeling pity for him and backing off... Or worse, if he is doing it because he is aware it only turns him on more. In which case, Connor would be even more observant than Hank could ever fathom. 
After all, this android is capable of reading his body. Surely, he’s noticed how every sound he makes has the lieutenant’s erection twitch. 

“Hurt?” Hank asks, because he’s a pathetic man who still is hoping for this android to go human on him. 

It takes a while for Connor to reply. His jaws clench and unclench repeatedly before he meets Hank’s eyes. 

“Yes. Keep going.” 

The mere thought of Connor experiencing pain and wanting it to continue sends whatever blood was left in Hank’s brain, straight down to his dick and he loses no time in pulling out and thrusting back inside of him. 

Again the android cries out, arches into him and when Hank sets a rhythm –one without any build-up, just a pounding that is unrelenting in its pace and force- Connor throws his head back into the snow, eyes closed and mouth open. 

It’s faked, it has to be. Not even a human getting the fuck of their life will this quickly lose themselves in it. But Hank doesn’t care, just enjoys the show, watching his thirium-smeared cock slide in and out of the kid’s hole, watches his body shift up and down across the roof’s surface; streaks of black gravel appearing where Connor’s left arm scrapes away snow with the thrusts shoving him around. 
Which reminds Hank of the android’s right hand, still fisted into his jacket, though no longer limp, but rather tugging at him whenever he fucks into him.  
This added leverage, along with how Connor has started to shove himself down on Hank’s cock –meeting his rhythm effortlessly- has the man nearly spill inside of him prematurely. 

“I’m loose.” Connor uselessly shares and Hank would’ve commented on how unnecessary it was to mention –because he can  feel  it, he can feel how loose and open and wet he is inside- if it weren’t for how attractive Connor sounds when saying it. His voice is airy and light, fragile to some degree, even his pronunciation is too lax, forging the illusion of him being overcome with pleasure. 

Hank licks his lips, tastes leftover blood in his moustache, readjusts his grip on the kid’s ankles before deciding to plant his hands behind his knees instead. He shifts his weight, leans forward and over Connor, curling his body with him so his ass is tilted up higher and Hank can fuck into him deeper. 

“There!” Connor gasps, eyes snapping open as he moves his hands up and buries them in Hank’s hair. 

The Lieutenant frowns lightly, ignores how the kid talks and acts like the twinks he enjoys watching in his weekly browsing session of porn videos. He wouldn’t be surprised if the android had downloaded his internet history, had watched and disassembled each dirty video he’s ever watched to find matching aspects in all of them.  

The mere assumption annoys him, has him shove Connor’s arms away. 

“Don’t touch me.” Hank snarls, digs his fingers into his fake flesh and fucks harder into him, balls slapping wetly against Connor’s ass. 

“Yes, sir.” The android gasps, as if the demand only turned him on more. And even the ‘yes, sir’ reminds Hank of his preferred porn flicks. 

This bastard... He’s still acting, making a fool out of Hank who’s chasing his orgasm like a man starved. 

For a second, he considers ripping out the android’s thirium pump, have him on the brink of death before he spills his seed into his bleeding ass and put the regulator back inside of him. 

But as he glances down at the circle-shaped edges of the pump, barely visible between the thousands of snowflakes unwilling to melt on top of Connor, Hank’s attention is caught towards an entirely different aspect. 

He’s hard. 

Hank halts, and Connor’s gasping deforms into a whine. His fingers scrape across the gravel before they curl around handfuls of snow, and even his hips weakly thrust against the man’s cock before stilling entirely. 

“Is this a program running?” He doesn’t know why he asks, since Connor has no problem lying to him. 

“What?” Connor asks and his brows are furrowed. He looks annoyed and confused, a little dazed. The android licks his lips, glancing down his own body where Hank is looking, before he lets his head fall back down on the ground. 

“No, yes. Technically, I guess. I just, I’m not supposed to have it programmed in me.” His voice is still whiny, his tone exceptionally hurried and uncertain, stuttering over words here and there.  

Glancing at the erection between them, the lieutenant reaches down, wraps his fingers around it. Connor jumps, hisses, before settling down and whimpering softly. 

He strokes it a few times, with a loose grip and slow pace, and watches enthralled how the boy pumps his hips along with his fist. The movement has Hank’s dick inside of him shift, as if in turn being jerked off obnoxiously tenderly. 

Though wanting to ask plenty of questions and comment on the perversion of Cyberlife designers, Hank instead places one of Connor’s legs back over his shoulder, the other one wrapped around his hips as he sits up and fucks back into him. 

“Yes.” Connor hisses, lets the s carry on until it stutters into the night-sky; even the letters fucked out of him by the man. 

Thrusting into Connor with the same unrelenting and rough pace as before, Hank watches how the LED on his temple does not once change from its impeding red. Something is going on up there, in his software and wiring, something is being shoved around and rearranged. As much as it might be wishful thinking, Hank still fucks Connor harder the louder the kid gets. 

And he does get loud. 

The earlier gasps and tiny yelps morph into lewd and long-stretched whines. Occasionally they make room for high-pitched moans, little cliché ‘mm mm mm’s with every thrust into him. And Hank is all for it, it hits every spot inside of him, spots he didn’t even know he had. 
Everything about this android is a turn-on, no matter if fake. It’s pornography reincarnated, as if the android’s plugged into Hank’s mind and retracted every perverted thought inside of it; throwing it right back into his lap for him to see in a different view. 

Fresh. Unique. It has him starving. 

“Shit, Connor.” The lieutenant whispers when the android reaches between his legs, wraps his fingers around the cock Hank’s neglected in favor of holding on to his thigh and hip; pulling him down to spear him on his dick repeatedly. 

Watching calm-and-collected Connor, of all people, jerk off, is mind-numbing. 

Hank pants, slows down, entirely enchanted by the motion of pale fingers sliding over a hot-pink cock. 

Connor doesn’t take long. His eyes are closed and his LED flickers like the lights in a damn dance-club, he keeps moaning, aborted sounds here and there that come dangerously close to pronouncing ‘Hank’ or ‘Lieutenant’. 
The muscles underneath the synthetic skin on his stomach shift, and Hank wipes the snow off Connor’s chest and belly to see more of what is going on. 

It’s eerily impressive how life-like the build-up to an orgasm is. Even before Connor comes, Hank can feel the rhythmic pumping around his dick, like an ass hungry to milk him for all he’s worth. It has him pick up his own pace eagerly, mouth agape as he observes the android chasing his own heady orgasm. 

Hank fucks him hard, pounds him into the gravel, can’t keep up where the kid’s long legs are anymore as he has to steady himself by planting his hands at Connor’s head. 

When Connor begins to outright mewl, his body writhing, his muscles shuddering, his legs closing and pressing against Hank’s flanks, the lieutenant has to bite his tongue. He wants to groan bullshit along the lines of ‘fuck yeah, come for me, Con’, and that shit just won’t do. 

So, Hank clenches his jaws, feels his body growing tense from head to toe as it automatically tries to stall for Connor to come and have Hank’s dick in an absolute vice-grip. 

His eyes drill into Connor’s head, watching every expression on his face. The wrinkles in his forehead as his eyebrows lift, the dullness to his half-lid eyes, the tip of his tongue resting on his bottom-teeth as he continues to pant. 

Connor arches his throat, his body stuttering to a halt along with his panting. A single second of silence and then the android comes crashing down in a shuddering wave that carries over in his body as much as through the long-winded whine leaving his lips. 

Had Hank been thirty years younger, he’s pretty sure he would’ve fucking fallen in love in that moment. 

But as it is, Hank is no romantic, is no optimist either, and all he desires in this moment is to fill this android up with his seed. 

Hank picks up his pace, fucks him fast and in shallow thrusts and is turned on enough to not even avert his eyes when Connor looks up at him. The kid disobeys a previous order, reaches up and wraps his fingers around Hank’s biceps. For a second, he assumes it’s because Connor actually  wants  to touch him, yet, when he sinks deeper into the android’s ass, he figures out the grip had been to adjust their position in slotting together as it allows Connor to tilt his hips. Allows Hank to fuck so deep inside of him he fears he’ll lose himself forever. 

“I like it.” Connor whispers and Hank isn’t sure what the hell he is talking about. He doesn’t care, his breathing stuttering along with his hips as he feels his nerves momentarily relaxing before they tense again in their chase to climax. 

“I like when you show personality, Lieutenant.” He repeats words he’s spoken earlier, as if they have some meaning to them, as if this confession will topple Hank over the edge. 

“Shut up.” Hank grumbles, his body trembling as he pounds the android’s ass. 

Connor smiles lightly, but doesn’t speak, his LED a slow sway of gold. 

Hank fucks him for plenty of seconds and doesn’t manage to reach orgasm until Connor, after the circle on his temple swirls one loop into red, grabs the back of his head and tugs him down to kiss him. 

Not unlike the kiss Hank had forced on Connor earlier that night. This one is forced onto  him . It’s rough and hard and incredibly, painfully human in its imperfect hunger. Connor’s hands travel to his cheeks, nails scraping his beard and when Hank’s tongue slides across the android’s, they both moan in unison. 

It’s the moan that does it. 

He thinks... Hank can’t tell what exactly makes him come, but one moment he’s making out with his partner and the next he is gasping in Connor’s mouth, blinded by a white heat that rushes through his body mercilessly. 
It shakes him, something in his brain jolting at the intensity of it, having him forget the world, or what is up and down, left or right. His semen spurts into the boy’s slick hole, fills him up hotly and after another full-body shudder, Hank rides out his orgasm by slowly fucking into Connor’s seed-filled ass.  
The squelching is loud and dirty in the quiet night, stifles anything fragile that could go on between them. 

The spell is lifted and Hank slowly pulls away from Connor still holding his face. 

“Fuck.” Hank exhales, voice shaky as he pulls out. He watches blue and white seep out of the android’s hole, mixing and melting what little snow was left behind underneath their grinding bodies. 

Connor sits up, unabashed, naked but for the ruined button-up hanging off his shoulder on one side, off his arm the other, and the black socks reaching to just under his knees. Miraculously, neither of them had sagged down to a narrow ankle. 
His legs are long, his stomach flat and chest broad. He’s painfully handsome with blue on his pale skin and hair curling at the edges where snow had wet it. 

The exhale from Hank is long and he stares at Connor for a long time. 

The android holds his gaze, doesn’t blink, his LED switching between red and yellow at a steady pace. 

“I’m sorry for the things I said.” Connor says, voice back to its normal lilt, entirely unaffected by the fuck they had. 

“About Cole. And you.” He clarifies and Hank doesn’t quite believe him but he doesn’t have much of an option other than tuck himself away and stand up. Connor’s eyes follow him. 

“I had to fuck the regret into you, is that it?” Hank jokes bitterly, absent-mindedly taps the toe of his shoe against Connor’s ankle.  

Again... He obeys, spreads his legs while answering dryly. 

“No. I never meant what I said. I just... I just did.” His left shoulder shrugs. The LED is yellow. 

Hank considers him for a moment, tilting his head and prodding the slight gap between his teeth with the tip of his tongue. 
What is Connor saying? 

The previous words spoken by the android come back to him; ‘ Have you considered that I myself am unsure? ’. 

Tired and clear-headed as he is in this moment, Hank wonders if he’s misread everything. What if this android is in between? What if he isn’t quite a machine anymore, and isn’t a deviant just yet? What if Connor’s fighting as much against his programming as Hank is his alcohol addiction and self-destructive habits? 
What if telling the difference between Connor’s mission and his actual wants, is as difficult for him as it is for Hank to make up his mind who is to blame for his son’s death; the android who operated on him, or the human surgeon too drugged out of his damn mind to do his job? 

What if Connor and Hank, are not quite that different after all? 

What if Connor is on his way to deviancy, such as Hank is on his way to recovering from the loss of Cole? What if they’re both walking different paths, leading up to the same goal? Which is; to find themselves, accept themselves, figure out who they are. 

In the deepest of their cores, beneath the layers of machine and the layers of habit and addiction, who are they? 

“How much is that gonna cost me?” Hank nudges his chin down, glancing meaningfully between Connor’s spread legs where he’s stopped leaking blue blood and semen. 

Connor might not be a human, but he still reads between the lines, still smiles rather than gets confused when Hank changes the topic. Because it’s an absurd and perverted way to shake hands on a truce. 

“Just for you, I’ll run a self-repair.” Connor suggests. 

“Just for me, huh?” Hank chews on the words, observes the wide brown eyes and soft lips, wonders if fucking the android’s ass until it got damaged truly had been the key to allowing him this epiphany. 

“Help me up?” Connor requests as he reaches up a hand and again Hank recognizes the words as they’d been spoken earlier. The android does it intentionally, perhaps to remind Hank of the change in atmosphere from back then to this very moment. 

The same words, but entirely new emotions, new people perhaps. 

Hank helps him to his feet, mutters that he’ll fetch his clothes which are sprawled around on the roof, but Connor stops him with a hand on his elbow. 



The android is quiet, his LED golden, his demeanor so much closer to the partner he knows. This... This is Connor. And Hank isn’t stupid, knows the machine is in him, the coding and programming, still override plenty... But Connor’s breaking through it; perhaps ripped down a wall of restraints and commands. 

In the end, Connor doesn’t have to say a word. Hank recognizes the ‘sorry’, the ‘give me another chance’, the 'will you trust me?’ in his eyes, in how he tries to speak but falls silent, repeatedly. 

Hank knows it, because he’s been in this position himself. Hank knows it, because it’s human behavior, and he’s got fifty-three years on this deviant. 

“C’mere.” Hank mutters, clasps a hand on the nape of Connor’s neck and tugs him against his chest. 

Connor goes with him, face buried into the man’s shoulder. The android exhales, inhales, exhales once more. The kid’s breathing... One of the first signs. 

With a heat coiling in his chest, Hank holds him closer, presses a kiss on Connor’s LED which has finally settled back to blue.