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Hank slowly blinks himself awake, greeted by the television’s cool light and late night news hosts. The weather report displayed on the screen seems pretty damn accurate as the night flickers in through thick sheets of snow. The wind is muffled to low howls, but it still sends a shiver crawling through Hank.
His eyes slip shut as he presses his back into the couch. Maybe the cushions would swallow him up so he could escape this shitty weather. It did feel really warm.
Strangely warm.
When the fuck did his heater ever work this good?
Too lazy to open his eyes, Hank simply bobs his head towards the dip in the couch next to him. “Connor, did you do something to the heater?”
The house remained silent, save for the sounds of the snow storm outside. Shit, was Connor actually asleep?
Hank peels his eyes open to confirm his suspicions. Connor had slipped down from his typical taut posture, sagging into the couch with his arms limp by his sides. His LED scrolls a murky yellow.
But his eyes were open, if barely. Half-lidded, they shone with the light from the television and stared past the window.
“Hey, Con,” Hank whispers, giving his partner’s arm a soft bump with the back of his hand. A strange warmth blooms on the skin that makes contact, and Connor stirs with a small mumble, but his eyes remain trained on the snow.
“Connor? Son, what’s wrong?”
“Cold… ‘s cold.”
Hank moves his hand from Connor’s arm up to the side of his neck, just shy of his jawline. Heat seeps into his hand like the sting of stepping directly on a metal heat vent to stave off the stubborn cold of a winter morning. But Connor shouldn’t be this uncomfortably warm.
“Shit. Connor, what’s going on?” He panics, dropping to his protesting knees in front of Connor. If the android noticed his move, he made no such indication as he continued to stare over Hank’s shoulder out into the night. The TV’s light catches on his skin, creating illusions of bags under his eyes as his pupils scrutinize the snow.
Snapping his fingers garners no further attention. Hank takes Connor’s cheeks, flushed light blue, and tilts his head down until their eyes meet. It wasn’t a typical locked gaze, but it’d have to do. Connor hums at the movement, slipping out a high pitched whine that reminded him of a young Sumo during a bad dream.
Hank taps Connor’s cheek with his thumb. “Eyes on me, Connor. I need you to say something fucking coherent right now. Do you know where you are?”
Connor’s gaze stutters about, roaming over random spots.
“Garden.” The android’s voice trembles. “I’m… ‘m stuck…” His words slur, and Hank could feel the heat smothering his speech as Connor exhales.
“What? No, Connor… aw fuck, kid, how hot are you?”
A gust of wind hit, rattling the house, whipping the roof, and sending a shudder through Connor. Hank would have sworn Connor had some fucked up fever if the android wasn’t always so adamant about being physically incapable of falling ill with the equivalent of a human sickness.
Hank’s hands were sticky with sweat as he gently slipped them from Connor’s face, his head lolling forward without support. Hank wipes them on his pants as he strides into the kitchen, yanking down a towel to run it under cold water. After wringing it out, he plucks an ice pack out of the freezer before returning to the delirious android while Sumo plods in to lap at the drips of water that trail in his wake.
Hank drapes the towel around Connor’s neck, tucking it under the collar of his shirt to get as much contact to the skin as possible before pressing the ice pack to his forehead. He just needs to coax some lucidity out of Connor so he can tell him what the hell he is supposed to do.
It couldn’t have been more than two minutes when Connor’s gaze finally slid towards Hank’s. Water from the rapidly melting ice pack drips down his partner’s face like beads of sweat.
“Hank? What’s… what’re y’doing?” His voice was still stumbling and slow, but at least it was something.
Hank releases a shaky breath. “Thank fuck, Connor. Look, I need you to run one of those diagnostic-whatevers right now because something is seriously fucking your temperature up.”
All he got in return was a quirked eyebrow.
“Hank, I feel fine.“
He had to restrain the urge to roll his eyes.
“Connor, don’t start with me! I know you love to shrug stuff off, but you don’t get to when I have no fucking clue how to help you while you’re burning alive and mumbling nonsense on my goddamn couch!”
He didn’t even realize he was yelling until he finished. He also didn’t have time to apologize to the flushed, overheating, and quivering deviant before Connor was reassuring him.
“Ok, ok, just let me—“
Connor startles as a drop of water hits his eye, and he sends a confused stare up to the ice pack. His brow furrows before his eyelids close and flutter. Hank was worried he passed out before they blink open.
“Apologies, Lieutenant. It seems there were… unforeseen consequences to the termination of my thermal sensor reception program,” he wheezes, the explanation more of a glorified word vomit to Hank’s ears.
“Layman’s terms, Con,” Hank huffs, out of patience for Connor’s typical game of hiding important information in technical terms that he knew Hank struggled to decipher. The ice pack had fully melted into a warm slush, and the towel was hot to the touch.
Somehow, Connor manages to flush a deeper blue as he softly says, “I didn’t want to… to feel cold,” he coughs, and seems startled by the action, before the surprise washes off his face with concern. “I turned off my ability to feel my body temperature.”
Hank would have slapped Connor if it didn’t look like he was in enough pain already as more wheezes rattled out of him. “I must’ve—“ another cough, “accidentally triggered my internal heating, but since I couldn’t feel it, I didn’t, couldn’t… um… didn’t know…” Connor let out a frustrated grunt as he failed to grasp the explanation, his eyelids drooping.
“Couldn't feel yourself boiling, got it,” Hank rapidly summarizes, before a realization struck him in the gut.
“You still can’t feel it, can you?”
A beat passes that makes Hank’s stomach twist into a knot, before Connor’s eyes widen. He nods, taking in a shaky inhale, as the info comes together and clicks in his frying brain.
“I’ll man… manually recal… start the program again,” Connor pants. Seems that even though he doesn’t register that he’s overheating, his systems sure as hell do.
Oh, fuck.
“Wait, Con, we should really cool you down first or—“
The change is instantaneous. Connor’s face contorts as his brows punch together, and he slumps into Hank with a groan that morphs into rapid breaths verging on hyperventilation, as if his lungs can’t decide whether it wants the hot air out or the cold air in.
Hank drops the melted ice pack and tugs Connor’s button up open, and his mind runs through his options before he lands on the easiest one.
Hank pulls Connor up so their sides are flush, ignoring the sweat that pricks his skin as he moves Connor’s arm around his neck.
He heaves Connor up, but with the amount of weight dragging his left side down he doubts Connor is doing any standing, much less walking. “I think some snow would do you some good.”
Connor seems to disagree, and his feet skitter in protest as Hank takes a few steps to the door. It’s not much of a fighting force, and Hank could easily march him outside and into a pile of white, cold snow where he pictures Connor cooling off with a puff of steam. It would be the quickest, most efficient way to help.
But Connor, his idiot kid, is putting the only energy he has into scrabbling against Hank. His face presses into Hank’s neck as fear glimmers in his eyes trained on the snow past the window.
Instead, Hank turns toward the hall, nearly tripping as Connor’s legs tangle around his own. The pair stumble into the bathroom, and Hank crouches to deposit Connor with his back against the tub before leaning over to run the bath. The cold water stings his hand as he plugs the drain before he turns his attention back to his charge.
“Shirt’s coming off, kid,” he states as he’s tugging one arm free from the sleeve, then the other. The shirt peels off of Connor, clinging thanks to Hank’s sweat and the water from the now useless towel. Removing the towel, he dunks it in the slowly filling tub before plastering it across Connor’s exposed chest.
Connor lets out a sigh that doesn’t sound as pained as before, dropping his chin to touch the cool fabric. Hank briefly considers removing Connor’s pants so they don’t get soaked, but considering Connor’s current lack of coordination, he doubts he would get far, so he settles for just the socks.
Hank sits on the lip of the tub before pulling Connor up next to him. “Please don’t fall over,” he pleads, and miraculously he manages to get both of Connor’s feet in the water.
It seemed the only logic left in Connor’s mind was “hot bad” and “cold good,” because Hank had to stop him as the android tried to let himself drop straight into the water. Hank might’ve laughed at the childish eagerness if he wasn’t worried about Connor giving himself an android concussion.
Hank lowers his partner into the water, and Connor releases a blessedly relaxed hum once the water is almost to his neck. Hanks runs a washcloth under the water before shutting it off, and folds it up before pressing it to Connor’s forehead.
The water is lukewarm by the time Connor’s breaths have evened out and his skin no longer threatens to char Hank’s. His gaze is no longer swimming back and forth in confusion, but his eyes hold firm in their downcast, discreetly averted stare.
Hank had moved to the floor, resting his aching back, but he continued to hold the washcloth to Connor’s forehead. “How’re you holding up, son?”
“Fine,” Connor’s cheeks flushed blue, and this time it wasn’t from the heat.
“Look, Con, don’t be embarrassed. I’m just glad you’re ok.”
The android kept his eyes pinned on the still water.
Hank lays the cloth over Connor’s shoulder, retracting his arm to lean more comfortably on the tub.
“I know I can bitch a lot, but you can ask me if you need the heat turned up, or a blanket. Hell, you can probably hack all of my utilities from the couch. You don’t need to turn off your nerves or whatnot.”
“No, I know, it’s just,” Connor leans back until the water is lapping at his chin, his knees popping above the water. “It’s so…” he trails, and it looks like he’s tasting possible adjectives in his mouth as he gapes for an explanation. “It’s so stupid. I shouldn’t… I don’t want to be frightened by snowstorms. I can analyze blood, reconstruct crime scenes, and inspect corpses, but snow is what scares me.” He brings his hands up, watching water trail through his fingers in exasperation.
“Well, I’m afraid of snow. Do you think that’s stupid?” Hank asks softly, smiling as he anticipates Connor’s response.
Regret surges through Connor’s eyes. “Hank, I didn’t mean it like that.”
“I know, kid, I know, just relax—“
“But you have a justifiable reason for the fear. Mine stems from a simulation I can’t even run anymore,” he points just next to his LED. “It’s not real… just a zen garden where peace is the last thing I would ever find.”
Garden… I’m… ‘m stuck.
“You mentioned a garden when you were pretty out of it,” Hank recalls. “You said you were ‘stuck’ or something.” Connor gives a hesitant nod. “But why does this storm remind you of a zen garden program?”
Hank waits for the inevitable silence to swallow up the conversation. Connor can be a chatterbox about annoying shit like Hank’s diet, poor sleep schedule, and staying at work late to finish a case, but he always leads conversations away from more vulnerable topics. If CyberLife ever crops up in a conversation, he always squirrels away his personal emotions to give an objective opinion. As if the shit they put him through didn’t qualify as worthy subject matter.
So Hank was a bit more than surprised when Connor actually answered.
“The zen garden was a simulation where I would report to my handler, Amanda. She would brief and instruct me on our cases,” Connor explains, lacking his usual fancy jargon. “I thought I was free of her and her garden when I broke free from my programming.” His hands slap the water as he balls them up in frustration.
God, Hank thinks he would go insane if Fowler could pester him anywhere, anytime, asking for constant reports. “So, when did your, erm, mental snowstorm happen?”
“The night of the revolution. I was standing on stage, with Jericho, with Markus, when Amanda pulled me back in. She explained that CyberLife designed me so when I turned deviant, they could resume control of my programming. The zen garden was being ravaged by a snowstorm. She disappeared in a gust of snow, and I could feel my limbs lock up from the cold,” Connor looks up to Hank, and his brown eyes bleed sorrow.
“I was so certain I was going to die, Hank. And the worst part was, CyberLife could just control my body like a puppet. What if they succeeded in killing Markus through me? What if I killed more deviants? What if they used me to hurt you?”
Having heard enough, Hank pulls Connor into a hug, the kid’s shock clear in his stiffened frame before loosening, resting his head on Hank’s shoulder.
“But you didn’t. Jesus, son,” he rubs the android’s shoulders. “When the roads don’t suck we’re buying you a heated blanket and some sweaters. You’re allowed to not like snow, but there’s ways to keep warm that don’t involve frying your brain.”
“I don’t have a brain.”
“I can tell.”
Sumo interrupts the biocomponent Conor was primed to list, his nails clacking on the tiles and tail starting to swish when he sees the full tub.
“No, no no no, Sumo, don’t you dare,” but the dumb Saint Bernard barrels past Hank with more speed than a dog his size should be capable of and scrambles into the bath, splashing Hank and squishing Connor.
“Great, now everyone’s wet,” Hank complains, but the heat is sapped from his words as Connor’s laugh fills the room.
Later that night, Hank has convinced Connor to wear proper pajamas and the smell of wet dog has subsided. The pair are sharing a blanket on the couch when the kid falls asleep, and Hank pulls him close.
He hopes Connor has a peaceful dream.