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Humans, Connor feels, are in a way more mechanical than androids.
Before Connor’s entry into his life and his home, Hank had lived his every day with a pretty exact schedule, even if he didn’t mean to. He’d have gotten up at midday, eaten whatever had been left from the night before, fed his dog and let him outside to do his business, and headed to work. When he got home he would do one of two things; lie on the couch and drink himself into oblivion or do the same at a bar. He would order food, eat half of it, get tired and drag himself out of his clothes and into bed, and continue the cycle upon waking.
It was a programme, a series of conditionals: ‘if X then Y’. If ‘Sumo hungry’ then ‘feed’, if ‘working’ then ‘change outfit’, or if ‘sad’ then ‘drink’. There was no Y for the X that was Connor, at first, and Connor would admit that he was a little smug about that. That he did get some sense of enjoyment about setting Hank’s life off kilter. And to be fair, he had every reason to enjoy that! His involvement in Hank’s life had been nothing but positive since the revolution, so he thinks. He’s prompted Hank to cut down on his drinking at home, to get up earlier and to eat a more varied diet. He even had a seventy eight percent involvement in Hank’s attending both therapy and AA meetings.
He tries to keep Hank’s life from falling back the way it had been, tries to create new paths in his programmes, but it’s been having the same effect on Connor. He’s learning to live with Hank, coming out of stasis in the mornings and anticipating hearing Hank pouring himself a bowl of cereal in the kitchen. Learning to enjoy these things, which scares him, because he knows this is meant to be temporary. He’s here until he finds somewhere else to live, and he’s just trying to improve Hank’s life in the meantime, trying to show him that there's more to live for, even if that just consists of of morning reruns of Frasier and actual breakfast foods instead of day-old pizza. Trying to get him to stick with this after Connor has to leave. Even though he doesn’t want to leave. Even though sometimes after Hank goes to bed he preconstructs his own path to that bedroom to lie down next to him.
“What’s on the agenda today?” Hank asks, setting a hand on Connor’s shoulder and leaning over where he sits at the table doodling as he thinks. It’s achingly domestic, but the part that tugs at Connor’s insides the most is that he can’t do what he wants to, which is tilt his head to the side and press a kiss against Hank’s wrist.
“Just a walk with Sumo.” He says instead, keeping his eyes on the paper as he draws a perfect copy of the kitchen window. “And you’re almost out of milk, so it would be good to stop by the store on the way home.”
“Mhm. Nothing else?”
“No, Fowler won’t require us in this weekend unless there’s an emergency with the case we just finished.”
“Fuck yeah he won’t. You wanna feed the pooch while I shower?” Hank pats Connor’s shoulder and withdraws his hand. Connor misses it.
“Will do.” He nods, watching Hank leave the room with a towel slung over his shoulder. When he hears the water running, he looks back to his drawing; a perfect copy. Inhumanly accurate, and exactly what he hadn’t been aiming for.
He crumples it up and throws it into the recycling bin he’s put beside the general waste, where he knows it’s fallen on top of a letter from the Android Housing Society that he threw away yesterday. None of the places they’d offered were what he was looking for.
He shovels dry food and warm water into Sumo’s bowl and holds a finger out for him to wait while the food softens. The dog has a sensitive stomach and a habit of wolfing down his biscuits without chewing. Connor watches with a smile before he goes back to his drawings.
Humans may be more mechanical in some ways, but at least they can be creative. At least they can show their inner thoughts with their art. Connor has yet to be able to. There’s no way to show the soft feeling he gets in his stomach when he looks at Sumo through a drawing. It’s just a dog on a page, a replica of reality. The light through the kitchen window warms his heart, but on a page it warms nothing. He pushes the pad out of his way and gives up.
Instead, he turns on the news. He could simply download the data, and probably will, but he likes to have the human take on things, hear and assess the feeling in their voices as they give their lines. The newscaster is talking about the political climate, the frigid relationship with Russia. She’s not paying much attention to what she’s saying, Connor sees her eyes scan the words from her screen but doesn’t see them give any hint of emotion from it. He watches anyway.
When Hank comes out of the shower he joins Connor on the sofa in just his towel which is. Just not fair. Connor has to shake off a preconstruction of leaning against Hank’s shoulder and playing with the wet curls of his hair, but he can’t help looking at Hank. It’s not wrong to look, right? Not wrong to appreciate the swell of his stomach, the strength of his arms. Not wrong to follow the downward curve of his nose and watch water trail out of his beard around his lips. Not wrong.
He looks away a second before Hank looks at him, perfect timing to prevent his staring being
“Did you wanna do anything else while we were out?” Hank hums, shifting to put his feet up, big calves stretched out in front of him.
“I was thinking about buying some new clothes.” Connor muses. “You are always bemoaning me about not being 'dressed for the weather’.”
“Yeah, because you dress like a fuckin’ Mormon chippendale!”
“I like formal wear! I hardly see why that would make me look like a religious evangelical or a stripper. And for that matter, I'm not sure why you equated me with a chippendale since my clothing is far more conservative than simply -”
“Yeah yeah, equations whatever. I'm just glad you're finally taking me up on the fuckin’ new clothes thing.” Hank's cheeks are oddly red, possibly an after effect of the unnecessarily hot showers he insists on taking. It's a good look on him.
“Don't misunderstand me.” Connor lifts a finger to Hank, face serious. “Firstly, I am not allowing you to buy me anything. And secondly, I'm going to buy myself a new blazer if I have to deviate a second time to do so.”
Hank snorts. “Firstly, you fuck off with me not paying. I owe you at least clothes for the amount of shit you do for me at work. Secondly - I'm not actually gonna argue with that one because you're fuckin’ ruthless and I think if you wanted a blazer that bad you'd tear it from my cold dead hands.”
Connor frowns. “I'd never kill you for an item of clothing.”
“Figure of -”
“There would be absolutely no reason to. I'm capable of carrying four times my body weight, I would just have to hold you still and I could pluck your fingers from the fabric like clothes pegs.”
Hank's face goes a deeper shade of red. Connor's constant monitor of his vitals registers a spike in his heart rate. Huh. He must actually be afraid of that.
“Alright, fuckin’ murder bot.” Hank coughs a little. “You can have your fuckin’ blazer.”
They end up going to the mall after walking Sumo, dropping him off at home to go back to sleep on his bed like the lazy old boy he is. It's a Thursday, and Connor knows Hank is grateful for the lack of kids. He himself is glad of the lack of crowds, though it leaves him no excuse to walk close by Hank's side. Hank leads them straight to a large store at the back end of the mall, stopping to pet the plastic statue of a white dog at the door. Connor follows his lead, letting his fingers follow the red circle around the little guy's eye as he gives him a scratch. It's funny how nice it feels to imagine life in something completely inanimate like that.
Hank lets Connor lead then, following him to the clothing section of the store and leaning against a mirror when Connor stops at a selection of jeans. It's not hard for him to look for clothes. He has a hundred processes going on at once in his computers, analysing racks of trousers for the fit and color selections takes seconds. He knows what his size is, and knows what to buy to suit his body. He's not picky when it comes to that. What he is picky about, however, is colour.
Different coloured denim has different properties. Black denim tends to be softer, and as well as collecting dirt easier it shows that dirt more obviously. Light washes don't suit his skin tone or hair colour and are often, regardless of intended cut, tighter around the thighs than other washes. Darker blues are his favorites, but are stiffer, less likely to be a stretch material. He considers his options and picks up one pair of black, and one pair of a ripped, dark blue, both slim fitting but not skinny. The ripped pair is to appease Hank, more his style than Connor's.
Hank raises an eyebrow when he picks them up but says nothing. Connor rolls his eyes and moves on to shirts, letting Hank be inscrutable.
He picks out a plain blue v-neck tee and some polo necks. They, he thinks, are more casual than work shirts, but still attuned to his sensibilities. He also, much to Hank's melodramatic dismay, finds a new blazer.
As they go to check out they pass through the women's section, where Connor picks up a thick, bottle green turtleneck sweater, partly in the hopes of Hank liking the texture enough to touch him more often.
Hank pays (of course) and they leave, Connor wearing his new blazer and feeling maybe a bit proud of himself in his choices. It feels good to like how he looks, to have a choice in how he looks.
They're almost home - that's the worst thing, is they're almost home - when someone comes up behind Connor with a knife, digs it deep and hard into the space between his shoulder blade and back, and yanks it downwards.
The cut is calculated, that much is obvious. The whole thing is calculated, the stab, the pull, the push to get Connor off balance so that the attacker can sprint away.
Connor isn't able to follow. The knife has been left inside of him, interfering with the magnetic connection between two pseudo-muscles that help to lift his leg. Hank doesn't even try to follow. He drops his bags to the ground and rushes to stem the blood flowing down Connor's back.
“Shit! Connor! Are you alright? What the fuck just happened?”
“My new jacket.” Connor says, and his systems go into emergency low power mode.
When he comes to, he's sat in the bathtub. His sensory input comes back slowly, touch before sound before sight. But once it's all back, he's able to assess the situation. He's in a bath of thirium, still dressed, and Hank is sat nervously on the lid of the toilet; head in his hands, blood pressure high.
“Hank?”
“Connor! Oh fuck, you - that was scary. Shit.”
Connor looks around, finding his vision lagging just a little. He shakes his head to calibrate himself and then focuses on Hank, who is now looking at him with palpable relief.
“I'm sorry for scaring you.”
“You're sorry? That fuckin’ guy'll be sorry when I catch him.”
“It's not fair to assume the perpetrator is male, Hank. That would limit the investigation and could lead to us not finding them.”
Hank laughs nervously, blood pressure lowering, which is exactly what Connor had been hoping for.
“God, you're still a smartass even when someone took a fuckin’ chunk outta ya, huh?”
“Nothing was removed from me, Hank. I'm okay.”
“You're a far fucking shot from okay, but go the fuck off.” Hank groans. “The bastard stabbed you! And we didn't even notice them come up!”
“We can figure out why that was the case afterwards, Lieutenant.” Connor says. “For now, this is an immense waste of thirium, and there are many other ways of doing this that won't be so economically inefficient.”
“Man saves your damn life and you don't even thank him.” Hank mutters, but his stress levels even out just a little more. “I had no idea what the fuck to do.”
Connor lifts his hand out of his blood bath and holds it, stained with blue, out to Hank.
“I know. Thank you for helping. This may not have been the smartest thing to do, but with your limited knowledge it was incredibly intuitive and actually quite effective.”
Hank blushes and looks anywhere but Connor, reaching out to grab his hand without looking.
“I'm glad it helped. I - I didn't wanna have to take you up to CyberLife. Don't matter if Markus is in control now, I still can't trust that fuckin’ place.”
Connor shudders, mind drifting back to the last time he was there, the mirror image of himself with a gun to Hank's head. “Thank you. I'd rather not go back as well.”
“It's all good.” Hank pats the palm of Connor's hand and drops his arm to his side. “ How can we make this more effective, or whatever? Get you outta that bath?”
“An IV would be preferable.” Connor muses. “And actually very straightforward.”
“I'm gonna have to stop you there, bud. I don't have needles, or bags for blood. Wasn't exactly expecting to need them any time soon.”
“We won't need needles.” Connor lifts his wrist and lets a small panel flip open. “Do you have a bicycle?”
“Why would I -” Hank cuts himself off, face falling. “Yeah, actually. It's, uh. It's small, is that okay?”
Connor’s heart (his metaphorical one) gives an uncomfortable jerk. “Oh. Yes, that’s fine. But I can find an alternative, you don’t have to -”
“It’s fine.” Hank stands up, back to the light so he looms in sad shadow above Connor. “What do you need out of it?”
“The inner tube, from a wheel.”
Hank sags a little, relief in the curl of his lip “That it? Fuck, I have a spare wheel around somewhere.”
“That’s it.” Connor smiles up at him. “I’m sorry that my first question stressed you out, that wasn’t my intention.”
“I know, jackass.” Hank leans over to ruffle Connor’s hair, then stays with his weight on his arms on the side of the tub, close enough that Connor could lift his arm and rub comfort into his cheeks. “Cole used to love that fuckin’ bike. Couldn’t ever bring myself to get rid of it. He once busted the wheel so bad the fuckin thing exploded when it burst ‘n it took a week for me to get a replacement. He whined the whole fuckin’ time, so I made sure I always had a spare lyin’ around just in case.”
“That’s thoughtful of you.”
“Sure.” Hank snorts. “Not wanting him bitchin’ and moaning about his bike every five seconds. Very thoughtful.”
“You’re too hard on yourself.”
Hank stands up again and waves Connor off without answer. He disappears quickly to the garage, and Connor hikes up the sensitivity of his hearing to keep a track of him as he rifles through things in search of the wheel.
He finds it pretty quickly, and comes back to the bathroom with it under one arm. The spokes are painted red, peeling just a little from being somewhere damp for an extended period of time.
“Got an easy way to get the tube outta here?” He frowns as he sits and tries to tug the tyre away from the metal.
Connor gestures for Hank to hand the thing over, which Hank does immediately. And that’s the first time Connor is aware that he can’t move his other arm. He runs a diagnostic which, in all honesty, should have been his first impulse upon waking, but wasn’t - likely due to his body not knowing how to react to Hank’s bath. The wound on his back severed the ligaments acting as rhomboid muscles, as well as cutting clean through a number of connections that served to pass impulses to his arm. It was a dangerous attack. Had his attacker managed the same incision on the other side, Connor would have been almost helpless to protect his vital components. He’s grateful Hank was there with him to serve at least as a deterrent.
Without the use of his other arm, Connor clamps the tyre between his knees and peels away the outer layer of rubber with ease, taking care not to damage the inner tube. It comes apart in two sections, with rubber having ripped away still clinging to the metal frame. Connor shoots Hank an apologetic look, wincing at the rise in Hank’s heart rate. He doesn’t appear upset, and his blood pressure is lower than is has been, but that rise must be due to Connor tearing the tyre apart. He unscrews the dust cap on the tube to make it easier to remove, and rips through one section of it with his one hand. Pulling it away from the frame, he’s pleased with the result: a single long rubber tube, just the right diameter to connect to the port inside Connor’s wrist. It’s long enough that Connor will be able to sit on the bathroom floor with the other end inside the bathtub while he’s repaired.
Ah. Repairs. The extent of his damage means he’ll require replacement parts, which means someone else needs to perform the repairs for him. Markus’ number appears in his UI, but he pushes it away, shame sitting in his gut. He doesn’t want anyone else knowing about this, knowing that the most advanced combat model CyberLife ever developed was able to be stabbed on the street without being able to do anything. Which means...
“That it?” Hank asks. His fingers are drumming against his thighs. “What’re you meant to do with that?”
Connor slots the tube into the space in his wrist, holding it up to show Hank as the material is sealed airtight against him.
“Woah. Creepy.” Hank comments. “What next? Can your, uh, self healing shit get to your back?”
Connor shakes his head. “There’s damage internally that can’t be healed. Some wires were severed that will need replacing, and there was a thirium line severed - the reason I bled so much - that will need to be patched up.”
“Shit, that mean we need to take you to a fuckin’ repair shop?”
“No.” Connor answers maybe a little too quickly. “I mean. I don’t want to.” He lets his head droop and watches his reflection in the rippling, steadily diminishing thirium below. His LED is yellow, pulsing with the beat of his heart. “It’s… embarrassing.”
“Embarrassing. Getting stabbed is embarrassing to you?”
“I’m supposed to be highly intuitive, fully aware of my surroundings at all times. I don’t want people knowing that some - some jackoff on the street was able to attack me and I wasn’t aware enough to defend myself.” Connor looks up to gauge Hank’s reaction.
Hank looks dumbfounded, but as Connor watches his expression slips into understanding, and he places one hand on the side of the tub. “Listen, Connor. You’re not fuckin’ Spider-Man. ‘N you aren’t God , either. You’re not all knowing, and you’re not all seeing. Yeah, you have some pretty fuckin’ neat systems in place that let you know when shit’s about to get rough, but sometimes you just can’t know that. Maybe that person wasn’t a threat until it was too late. Or maybe they could do something to bypass your fuckin’ supercomputer. We’ll figure it out, but after we get you patched up.”
Connor stares at him.
“Well? That okay?”
He nods, hesitation making his head catch a little in the movement.
“Great. Now, what do I gotta do?” Hank rubs his hands together and shakes them out.
“Excuse me?”
“If you don’t want anyone else knowing about this shit, either you gotta fix it yourself, or I’m fixing it for you.” Hank nods towards Connor’s limp arm. “And I’m pretty sure that first one is out of the question, so what do I do?”
Connor processes that for a moment, and a small smile blossoms on his face. “You could start by getting me a towel and a pair of pants.” He pauses. “Something comfortable, this may take a while. You may want to change yourself, actually.”
“On it.” Hank salutes and walks out of the room. “Wanna borrow some sweatpants?”
“Please.” Connor’s systems hum a little from just the idea of getting to wear Hank’s clothes.
Hank comes back in with a pair of grey sweats that have a hole worn into one knee, and a towel, both of which he places on the toilet lid.
“I’ll let you get dressed in privacy, yell when you need me.”
“Will do.” Connor smiles at him, letting the expression stay on his face as he watches Hank close the door behind him as he leaves.
The first thing Connor needs to do is remove his clothes. His shirt and jacket are effectively ruined, and though it saddens him to do, he rips them when he pulls them away from his non-functional arm. His trousers though, despite being bathed in blood, are still fine, and he fiddles with the belt for a minute, finding it a lot more difficult to undo one handed than he would have anticipated.
The second thing to do is reroute flow of thirium away from the damaged line. He does so making sure to keep a reservoir of blood in his arm, where the cycling lines would lead it. Then he needs to stand, keeping a slight hunch in his back so that no extra thirium spills from him while he doesn’t have the ‘IV’ running.
He steps out of the bathtub, paying no mind to the blue trickling down his now naked body, it’ll evaporate quickly on the wooden floor, and he’s more preoccupied with himself for now. He doesn’t bother drying his chest or arms, just drags the towel around his legs, between them, and then over his stomach. He doesn’t want to get too much blood on Hank’s pants.
The pants in question are, obviously, oversized, but it’s not like that matters. Connor pulls the drawstrings in so that the band sits low on his hips, just under the jut of synthetic fat on his stomach. It feels nice, having something of Hank’s like this. Even if the circumstances are less than ideal.
“You can come in now.” He calls and Hank, who had obviously been waiting outside the door most of that time, enters.
“You good?” He asks, setting down a heavy looking toolbox and coming to hover over Connor, eyes flicking over him as if performing his own scan on Connor’s wellbeing. It gives Connor an excuse to admire him, now that he’s taken his button up and jeans off, leaving him in just a t-shirt and boxers.
“I’m good.” Connor affirms. “What did you bring with you?”
“Oh. My, uh, my old toolbox. Didn’t know what we might need, but I have some, uh, stuff in here from when the ex didn’t wanna get an electrician in.” He scratches his beard sheepishly. “Okay. Maybe not my toolbox, maybe theirs. But they left it behind when they moved out, and that was years ago, so I’m pretty sure I can say it’s mine now.”
“Can I look inside?”
“Knock yourself out. Actually, wait, I’m worried you might fuckin’ do that again. You sit down ‘n get that fuckin blood tube of yours workin’. I’ll show you what I got in this.”
Connor nods and lets Hank help him sit on the floor, atop a folded towel that Hank shoves down when he realises that’s where Connor will be sat. He weighs the bike tube in the tub down with the frame of the wheel and lets his system cycle some thirium out to replace the air in it, before it reverses and pulls a little thirium into him to replace what is evaporating with exposure to the elements. He doesn’t need to pull any more in than that, just what he loses during this process, and the process is set out to be a long one.
His knees are drawn up in front of him, feet against the stem of the sink to keep from slipping, and he rests his good arm atop them as he looks over to Hank.
“We won’t be needing much.” He assures him. “However I’m afraid that some of what we need may not be available to you, so this may end up being a temporary fix.”
“Like what?” Hank challenges.
“Wiring, preferably silcone coated.” Connor frowns. “I don’t see why there would be any in there.”
“There aren’t, but I have a reel of twelve gauge under the kitchen sink for when we needed to redo the sockets in the bedroom, that do the trick?”
Connor runs some calculations. “That should be fine, actually. Do you have any wire cutters?”
“Those are in here.” Hank nods, pulling them out with a
“I don’t suppose you have a soldering iron, if you were rewiring?”
“Uh, somewhere.” Hank digs around in the toolbox. “Ah, yep!” He pulls out a battered looking cardboard box from which he retrieves a thankfully less battered looking iron. “There’s some metal for it in here too.
“That’s - that’s actually incredibly useful.” Connor raises his eyebrows. “We don’t need anything else.”
“Fuckin ace.” Hank grins. “Lemme just grab the wire and we can get down to it.”
The wire is a bright yellow, which will clash with Connor’s carefully crafted internal makeup, but he says nothing. Better yellow wire than sitting on the bathroom floor for an extra hour and a half while he makes Hank go to the hardware store.
“You ready?” Hank asks. He’s sitting on the closed lid of the toilet bowl again, except this time with Connor in front of him his legs are spread so that he can lean and do his work. It’s unfairly distracting, his calves either side of Connor’s body while he gets ready to tinker with him. “This gonna hurt?”
“No.” Connor assures him, though he has honestly no idea if that’s the truth. He’s never been repaired before, what with CyberLife’s tendency to replace him. “I’m ready though. You’re going to need to start by manually opening the panels on my back. I can unlock them, but the damage means they won’t open on their own.
“And, uh. What the fuck will that look like? And how am I meant to do it?”
Connor huffs a small laugh and proceeds in bypassing the safeguards to open the panels on his back. He hears Hank’s small, confused noise as the skin on his back ripples away like a mirage, and then more understanding as, with a soft pop, the panels come loose.
“Pull from the loose side out, the damaged one will come off fully, but the other will only swing open.”
“Roger that.” Hank hums. There’s a moment of hesitation, and then his fingers are curling around the sides of Connor’s panels and pulling.
And it tickles . Which is not in the slightest what Connor was expecting. He lets out an unexpected titter before managing to clamp his hand over his mouth.
Hank stops stock still. “Shit, you okay?”
“Yeah.” Connor says into his palm. No use hiding the truth. “It tickles.”
“Tickles?”
“I assume that’s what this is. It feels like little bursts through my circuits.” He rolls his good shoulder to get rid of the residual feeling. “Not bad, though. No pain.”
“Alright.” Hank sounds unsure. “What next?”
“You need to detach the connections from my scapula and pull it back.”
“I need to - your shoulder blade? Pull it where ?”
“There should be two ligaments below it connecting it to muscle there, the rest have been cut already. Then you need to pull it towards you so that you can reach what is underneath.”
“And that won’t hurt?
“It won’t hurt.”
“Shit. Alright. How’m I getting these bottom bits off?”
“Just pull at them, they’re connected at ports that I’ve loosened for you.”
Hank takes a deep breath and places his hand in Connor’s back.
It doesn’t tickle this time.
The press of Hank’s fingertips against his sensitive insides makes Connor’s eyes roll a little, a jolt of cold pleasure running through him, liquid and divine. He’s glad he still has his hand over his mouth, because he’s able to stifle the small squeak he makes in response to the touch. Fuck. That’s different. He keeps his mouth in his hand as Hank comes up with his other hand and tugs lightly on one of the connections, testing it. The feeling flows down Connor’s body and has his dick pulsing. Shit. Hank tugs a little harder and the connection snaps away, sending a shudder through Connor.
“You alright? That tickle? Or hurt?”
Connor shakes his head, gulping down a moan that had been growing in his throat. “It’s fine.” He says, stiffly. “Though I’d appreciate getting through this quickly.”
“Right.” Hank agrees, and tugs the next connection out with no warning, pushing the moan in Connor’s throat out . “Shit, too fast?”
Connor shakes his head. “No, just - get on with it. Shoulder next.”
“Okay, I’m gonna count down for this one.” Hank says. His fingers skirt up to the top of Connor’s scapula and Connor has to squeeze his eyes shut to stop them rolling all the way back in his head with the pleasure of it. “Three, two, one.” He yanks Connor’s shoulder blade the way one would open a sticking door, except Connor doesn’t think a door would find it so fucking arousing.
Connor has to bite down on his thumb to hold back the whine he wants to make, but that does nothing to stop the arousal growing in his - Hank’s - sweatpants. He shifts his legs a little and can tell by how slick he is already that he’s going to be honestly dripping by the end of this torture.
“That okay? Didn’t hurt?”
“All good.” Connor projects his voice through his speakers rather than trying to open his mouth, hoping that it sounds less strained that way.
“Alright, what do I do now I’m in here?
“Ca-” Hank’s fingers brush against some of Connor’s wiring, even more sensitive than his skeleton, and he squeezes his thighs shut. “Can you see the damage?”
“It’s hard to, uh, hard to tell? Everything in here’s sorta just sticky? There’s little blue lights everywhere and - oh! I see some red ones back here!” He pushes his fingers in to move something out of his view and Connor actually has to shut off his voice box to stop Hank hearing that moan. “Uh, shit, yeah. I see where it’s hurtin’. There’s a couple things that were cut right through, and I think this right here was nicked by the knife.” He touches a lead Connor hadn’t realised was injured, but Hank’s fingers brushing over its silicone makes Connor’s pussy drip as a large red warning notification pops into his head.
“That you can, ah, can patch with electrical tape.” Connor shivers a little as Hank’s fingers withdraw, one nail catching a little at the sensitive, cut edge.
Hank wraps the tape slowly and carefully, each press of his hand against it to secure it driving Connor wild. He wants something in his hand to squeeze, so he can distract himself from the throbbing between his legs and Hank’s touch and his presence and his size bending over Connor.
“Wires next, or the uh, the thirium thing?”
“Thirium line.” Connor nods, headbutting his arm as he does. “That next. It’ll require soldering the metal line above it and pushing into place, but it should heal on its own.”
“I don’t need to tape it up?”
“No, no. You don’t.” Connor can feel himself getting wetter at just the idea.
“Alright, you’re the boss.” Hank pulls out the soldering iron and tries to get himself situated to line everything up. “Shit. I, uh, I think I’m gonna need to sit down there with you, alright? I can’t reach things from up here.”
“That’s okay.” Connor squeaks.
Hank lowers himself off of the porcelain slowly, pushing Connor forward to sit at a better angle behind him. He’s flush against Connor’s ass now and just the press of the soft bulge at his crotch against him is tantalising. Connor’s mouth waters without warning and he has to swallow it down and push the thought of what could be in his mouth out of his mind.
“Much better.” Hank grunts, his voice just that much closer now. Connor can feel his wetness dripping down to his ass and hopes with every fiber of his being that this will be over before he manages to soak through Hank’s pants and into the towel. “I’m gonna have to lean my arms against you, alright?”
“Alright.” Connor says, his voice coming out smaller than intended.
Hank rests his arm on the open panel on the other side of Connor’s back and it no longer tickles. It feels over sensitive and makes him jump from the touch, but doesn’t tickle Hank apologises and soothes him, running his hand over Connor’s bad shoulder comfortingly. That hand disappears inside of him, brushing past wires so carefully it feels like Connor is being pulled up and up with the pleasure he’s feeling, unable to come down. It lands on the thirium line, wrapping around it securely and trying to lift it to meet its other half. The lubricant inside of Connor, however, makes that difficult. The line falls from Hank’s hand like soap, but feels to Connor like someone tugging softly at his dick. His responding moan is small, small enough that he can hope Hank doesn’t hear it.
If Hank does, he doesn’t mention it, simply lifts the line up again and holds it in a tighter grip. Connor wishes that that was any better, that it didn’t feel like welcome pressure against desperate parts. Hank gets the two sides to line up and runs one finger along the join before doing anything else, tender and soft, making sure they’re exactly right. Another unstoppable moan out of Connor.
“I’m gonna, ah, gonna solder now.” He coughs, voice rougher than Connor was expecting.
Connor nods into his arm, trying not to shudder at the feeling of Hank’s stomach rumbling against his back with his words. Hank turns the soldering iron on and then begins the wait for it to heat up. Connor can feel the fibers of his thirium line slowly knitting back together, but more than that he can feel every shift of Hank’s digits on him. The gentle squeeze of his hand, the blessed heat of him, every callous on his skin rubbing at the sensitive receptors all over Connor’s insides.
“There we go.” Hank says, and Connor whines at the sound of it. The iron is held above the metal it needs to fix while Hank swaps the solder from one hand to the other, his fingers on Connor’s tubing shifting and sending little bursts of desire downwards. Connor doesn’t feel the soldering, blessedly, but he feels the heat from it. His body warns him of danger but he knows he’s not in any, because he’s in Hank’s hands. Hank wouldn’t hurt him. There’s a subtle thrill to it, to having Hank melting him back together while he touches him like that, to having Hank right up against him like he is.
Hank’s breathing has picked up, and Connor realises that he didn’t hear it pick up. Didn’t hear it because he’d been moaning as it had. Shit.
“Wires next.” He says, trying to hide his embarrassment. “You’ll need to remove the solder from either side before you do anything else, then cut a piece the same length as the old wires.”
“Exact same length, or is there room for me to fuck up?”
Connor’s computer supplies that there’s room to fuck him . But that’s not helpful, or entirely accurate, so he doesn’t say it. “Not exact, but please be careful.” He says.
“I’ve got you.” Hank assures. “I’ll be real careful, Connor.”
Connor groans, mouth falling open into a pant from all the heat building up inside of him. He tries to keep still as Hank starts on the first wire, but his feet push out in front of him and his ass is pressed more solidly against Hank’s crotch, which is a lot less soft than it had been. Hank is careful, as promised, but the feeling of the solder directly against him is so much and Connor can’t stop the expletives he spits as he moans through it. He’s on fire and on edge, pussy soaked and dick still throbbing to remind him they’re there, but he can’t do anything about it. He has to sit still and let Hank take him apart and put him back together, and if it wasn’t so fucking good and so nice and so goddamn hot it would be torture.
Hank pulls away for a second to cut a wire the right length, and if Connor were coherent enough to speculate, he might think that the rub of Hank’s definitely hardening cock against his back was purposeful. But his brain is fried and all he can do is resist pushing back into it and groaning. He’s shaking with how hard it is, how hard to keep as quiet as possible and not rut back against Hank or touch himself and finally get off this edge he’s on, but he doesn’t want to make this weird and he just asked Hank to fix him, so how can he get off on this? Shit.
Then Hank’s hands are inside him again and melting metal over his connections that runs through his veins and feels so fucking good that he can’t help his shaking when it turns into a drawn out shudder and makes Hank accidentally pull the wire loose again.
“It’s okay.” Hank murmurs, keeping a hand on his lower back while he holds the wire and waits for the solder to solidify, which takes too long with the temperature inside of Connor and means that hand is on his wire and he feels the way Hank squeezes experimentally at the silicone while he rubs the small of Connor’s back. “Four more, then we’re done.”
Connor whines and throws his head back to rest against Hank’s neck for a moment, panting into the cool air of the room. Hank soothes him a little more, keeping that wire between his fingers because he doesn’t know that that’s what’s driving Connor so wild.
Connor forces his head to fall forward again and tells Hank to keep going please keep going. Hank obliges, and begins on the next wire, the press of the solder hot but the pleasure it causes icy, white flame and desperation. He gets this one off quicker, and the new one he adds he gracefully doesn’t leave his fingers on, just lets it sit while it sets and doesn’t know that Connor’s dick is so hard he hurts from it. Doesn’t know about the wetness soaking him through and how when Hank presses his cock against his back like that Connor is thinking about how much he wants it inside him right now.
Three more. Connor isn’t sure he can manage one , but there are three more. When Hank removes the next one Connor’s hips buck forward involuntarily, an error popping up warning him that his muscles aren’t responding correctly. He dismisses it, bites his lip, and tells Hank to keep going.
Two more. Hank’s fingers feel like salted ice on the next one and Connor reaches out blindly and finds the edge of the bathtub with his hand, gripping it for dear life but carefully enough to not break it. Hank smooths the wire into place and Connor’s pussy responds eagerly, practically gushing at this point, so so hot in comparison to the cold want and need flowing through both Connor’s arms, coiling in his muscles and threatening to force his hands to his dick, to give just a little stimulation, more than what he’s getting by just squeezing his thighs together.
“That’s it. One more after this one.” Hank says, voice low in Connor’s ear like it was designed to drive him mad. Like whatever God there is decided to create Hank Anderson and give him that fucking voice just so that he could take Connor to pieces at this moment. So that he could create a pulse of arousal through Connor so bad that tears prick at the corners of his tightly squeezed eyes. Hank solders carefully over top of the first edge of the new wire that Connor didn’t realise was in, and then his elbow shifts on the too-sensitive plastic of the inside of the panel and Connor feels this ache and his arm jolts, fist closing and crushing the plastic of the bathtub beneath it like butter.
“Sh- shit. I’m sorry I- fuck. I didn’t m-mm-mean to.” Connor gasps, looking up at the damage and blinking away tears before they can roll down his cheeks.
“Hey, it’s okay. It’s alright.” Hank assures him. “Fuckin’ thing’s old and nasty anyway. I could do with an excuse to get a new one.” As he speaks, he removes the last broken wire, his words not doing much to distract Connor from the pleasure shooting through him with it.
Connor whimpers and can’t find a way to react. The only words his mouth seems capable of forming are ‘fuck’ and ‘sorry’, which fall out at intervals while he hears Hank strip the last wire behind him, his audio processors suddenly and without warning upping their sensitivity. He forces them back down, but can’t seem to get them back to normal, having to settle for a volume that’s not quite too much, but that picks up Hank’s ragged breathing far too well.
“It’s okay Connor. Almost there, almost done. I’ve got you.”
Connor whimpers and nods, his head still moving past his command for it to stop, like the lag from earlier has caught up on him. When Hank solders the final side of the last wire Connor makes a noise between a sob and a moan, so so glad that the white hot pleasure has stopped, but so desperate for more than what he’s been getting. Hank closes his panels, fitting the one he’d had to take off without being told how. Then his arms are around Connor’s middle and he’s hushing him and telling him he’s okay which is unbearable because Connor can feel the (softer again) line of his cock against his ass and he’s helpless to stop the way his back arches to push his ass against it. But Hank doesn’t seem to notice, or care, his big hands stroking softly at Connor’s stomach as he soothes him.
“It’s okay. You’re not gonna hurt any more, I’m so sorry.” Hank says, head against the back of Connor’s back. “I didn’t ever mean to hurt you. Let's stand you up and get you somewhere comfortable, okay?”
Connor nods and lets Hank help him to his feet, vaguely aware of the background process that’s started to redirect thirium flow to his arm. Hank grunts a little as he helps Connor up, and lets him lean against the wall while he disconnects the IV from his good arm.
“Wasn’t bad.” Connor coughs. He doesn’t want Hank to feel like he’s hurt him, not ever.
“Huh?”
“It - it wasn’t hurting.”
“Oh.” Hank says. His eyes move from Connor’s face to his bare chest for a second before flicking back up, but then they’re drawn further down and seem to get stuck on the wet patch on Connor’s ( Hank’s ) pants. “I, uh. I guessed.”
“You guessed?”
“You started - you were making these noises, and every time you did these little lights flashed inside you. Blue ones, so I thought it might be okay? And you were running blue the whole time, else I would have stopped.”
“You - you kept going though?”
“Yeah. I, uh, I got distracted wanting to make you make more noises. But then you started crying and - I was scared it did hurt and I wanted to finish fast so I just, sorta shoved that last one in there, it’s probably not as well done. Sorry.”
“You wanted more?” Connor stares at Hank like it’s the first time he’s seeing him. He takes in the red flush to his cheeks, the elevated heart rate, the chub still there in his pants. “You wanted me?”
“I -” Hank laughs nervously. “Yeah. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have taken advantage of the situation, it was wrong and I never -”
“Shut up.” Connor tells him.
“Huh?”
Connor doesn’t answer right away. He opens a panel at his abdomen and looks Hank in the eye. In a shallow breath, he whispers; “Please?”
Hank drops the tube into the bathtub and before Connor’s overstimulated senses can register it he’s in front of him, crowding him up against the wall and pushing his thigh between Connor’s legs. As soon as Connor’s dick gets the slightest hint of friction his knees buckle, and Hank is the only thing holding him up. Connor ruts against him with no real pattern, especially once Hank’s hand pushes into his abdomen and he finds a thirium line to grab hold of. Just the feeling of it there sends that same hot need through Connor as with his back, except this time his dick is getting what it needs. He’s so close still except he can feel the edge falling away beneath him. His mouth forms words that Hank swallows in a kiss and Connor comes just like that, so hard that his hand, scrabbling for something to grab, claws a hole into the wall before his vision whites out, pleasure flowing through him -
REEBOOTING… 87%... 89%... 94%... 99%
INITIALISING…
Connor opens his eyes and finds himself looking up at the ceiling of Hank’s bedroom. He rolls his shoulders and finds both of them moving perfectly well, as if he’d never been stabbed. For a moment he wonders if he’d been dreaming, in stasis with his imagination getting away from him.
“Connor?” Hank’s voice comes from across the room. “You awake?”
“Yeah. I’m okay.” He sits up, still shirtless, still in the wet pair of Hank’s sweatpants. The feeling coming back to him in a wave of fucked out exhaustion.
“Jesus. You scared the fuck outta me, Con. I thought I’d fucked you to death.”
“Mmph.” Connor sighs, lying back and gesturing tiredly for Hank to come join him on the bed. “You almost did. That whole time you were edging me, I thought I was going to combust if I didn’t get some relief.”
“Sorry about that.” Hank says, sounding smug and sheepish at the same time. “You sure you’re alright?” Connor feels a weight on the bed next to him, and then Hank is lying at his side.
Connor turns to face him, meeting clear blue eyes under a furrowed brow. “I’m alright. I rebooted when I, ah, when I orgasmed. It was intense.”
Hank snorts. “Yeah, no shit.” He agrees. His hand hovers above Connor’s waist, and Connor smiles when it settles, warm against his skin. “We should really talk about what happened, huh?”
“Yeah, that would be a good idea.”
“Wanna nap first?”
Connor rolls his eyes. “I don’t nap.”
“Will you let me cuddle you while I nap?”
The smile grows into a grin, and Connor wiggles closer to Hank, tucking himself neatly against him. It feels right, a piece slotting in where it belongs, like cogs in a machine fitting to work together.