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Saint Bernards are not watch dogs.
Hank is pretty sure that if a burglar broke into his house and murdered him in his bed, Sumo would come over with his tail wagging like, “Do you want to be my friend?” Then again, Hank didn’t get Sumo for the purpose of being watch dog.
After Cole, he needed something.
Anything.
A distraction, a friend, whatever you want to call it. And Sumo is a good dog. But way too inviting.
Hank forgot to lock his front door when he went out. He doesn’t realize it until he’s been gone for three hours, chugging coffee and stuffing his face so he’ll be sober for work tomorrow.
He went five rounds of Russian Roulette last night. Seems like the fates are trying their damnedest to keep him alive. For some reason. He gave up after the fifth empty click. Figured whatever. Tomorrow is just another day.
After he lay passed out on the bathroom floor for about an hour, he dragged his sorry ass outside to get some fresh air. From there, he decided he was hungry and walked to the all-night diner down the street. It’s not as good at Gary’s food but it’ll do in a pinch.
And from there, he decided to go to the park, sit on the bench he used to use when he was watching Cole play on the jungle gym. It was after four in the morning so there were no kids there, thank God. Last thing he needed was for the local moms to start thinking he’s a pedophile or some shit.
At about five, he slowly rises from his bench and trudges back home, his back aching and his head aching and his heart aching. It’s right about then that he remembers he never locked up and wonders half-heartedly if some guy high up on red ice is gonna be inside waiting for him with a gun.
Saint Bernards aren’t watch dogs, after all. Not that it matters.
Hank convinces himself to at least stop and listen at the door for a minute. The lights are on, but he doesn’t hear anything. Then again, he might have left the lights on himself.
He doesn’t remember.
With a sigh and a soft “Fuck it” Hank goes inside.
Regardless of his willingness to die, Connor’s voice still scares the shit out of him. “Oh, Hank.” The goddamn plastic popped out of nowhere.
“Agh, Jesus H. Christ, Connor! The fuck did you come from?” Hank stalks inside, still pasty and green from the alcohol in his gut.
“My apologies, the door was unlocked when I arrived so I assumed you had stepped out for a moment. I decided to wait for you here.”
“Where? The fucking shadows?” Hank grouses. He grabs the bottles off the kitchen counter and chucks them into the trash can, ignoring the feeling of Connor’s eyes on him. Probably scanning. Probably analyzing the levels of alcohol in his blood or some shit.
Connor tilts his head. “No, the couch.” He points. Surely enough, Sumo is lounging on the sofa with his belly up and his feet in the air. Damn dog has really taken a shine to Connor. Fucking traitor. Doesn’t even look up when Hank gets home, but as soon as Connor shows his face, he goes full-ham.
Hank grunts. “Well, what do you want? Let me guess, the department’s got a new case for us. Fuckin’ vultures. Don’t they know I’m busy?” He sniffs the open container of takeout on the table and suppresses a gag.
“Actually, Hank, I stopped to see you,” Connor says. By the time Hank turns around to shoot him a withering look, Connor is looking at Sumo, who has climbed down off the sofa to sit next to his feet. “And Sumo, of course.” Connor smiles gently and scratches the top of the dog’s head.
“What for?” Hank asks, ignoring the kind-of-good feeling that warms inside his chest for a second. “You that bored now that the revolution is over?”
“No, I don’t get bored,” Connor tells him. He doesn’t mean to sound condescending, but he does. Hank mocks him silently while he tosses the takeout container into the garbage. “I just decided to come see you is all.”
“At five in the morning?”
“You’re never asleep at this hour,” Connor says, but there’s a coloring in his voice that makes Hank pause and look over his shoulder. Connor is watching him closely. His face is passive as ever, but there’s something in his eyes…
Hank turns the rest of the way around and folds his arms. “All right, spill it. What’s wrong?” He looks the boy up and down but there’s no sign of anything physically wrong with him. Nor does he seem particularly upset. If anything, he just looks…
Concerned.
Then, all at once, Hank understands. “Oh, I get it… Jane Whittaker called the station again, didn’t she?”
Jane Whittaker is Hank’s next-door neighbor. She’s only been living there for three months and she’s already called the cops on Hank four times for public drunkenness. Evidently, she doesn’t know he is the police.
Apparently, it’s “frightening” to see a man stumbling around drunk outside at four in the morning.
Then again, it doesn’t help that he usually has his gun on him. In his hand. And is a loud drunk. The yelling slurred obscenities at the moon kind.
“Yes, she did,” Connor confirms.
Hank snorts in disgust. “Well, clearly I’m not gonna shoot someone in a drunken stupor. I’m not passed out in some alley chokin’ on my own vomit. I’m home, safe and sound, so you can just fuck off, Connor. I’ll see you tomorrow at the station.” He turns away and stomps off to the bedroom.
But, true to nature, Connor follows him.
“Actually, the station didn’t send me. And I wasn’t really concerned about any of those things,” Connor confesses. He taps his LED and says, “I heard the call and thought maybe…” He hesitates, picking his words carefully. “You could use some company, is all.”
Right on cue, his eyes travel down to the gun tucked in Hank’s waistband.
Ohhh. So, that’s what’s going on here.
Hank chuckles bitterly. “You know, Connor, you’re a real fucking piece of work.” He wrenches the gun out of his jeans and throws it on the kitchen table, then jabs a finger in Connor’s face.
“Well, just for your information, asshole, I made it through three years of hell after Cole died. And I did it alone. I don’t need you fucking poking your head in every time I get drunk. Got it?” His breath stinks of whiskey, even he can smell it, but he goes on yelling. “I don’t need your help, I don’t need your sympathy, and I don’t fucking need you to babysit me. So, just get the hell outta my house!”
He wheels around so he doesn’t have to see the look on the kid’s face. Sure, he’s being a huge dick, but it’s about time Connor learned you can’t save everyone with compassion and understanding.
Some parts of this world are too dark for that shit.
The sooner he learns that the better off he’ll be.
“Okay,” Connor says after a moment. “I’m leaving.” He doesn’t sound angry, the way a normal guy would be after being screamed at like that. There’s not even a hint of spite in his voice. He just sounds resigned.
Disappointed.
Hank stops in the hallway leading to his bedroom and listens to the clicking of Connor’s wingtips on the wooden floor. They pause and he hears the rustle of fur, Connor petting Sumo goodbye for the night.
Then, the front door opens and closes and Hank deflates with a sour-smelling breath.
He’s such an asshole.
He wakes to his alarm, six hours later.
Time to get ready for work. Fuckin’ yippee.
Hank showers and dresses and eats a stale donut and a cup of coffee for breakfast, then drives to the station. The whole time, he tries to remember what he said to Connor last night. It was all such a blur. He was absolutely wasted, but he knows he said some pretty dickish things to the kid.
Something about Connor being an asshole…and not wanting him around…
Dammit.
In the light of day, he realizes what was actually going on. Connor wasn’t just being some mother hen who thought Hank wasn’t to be trusted with a weapon, even though he has ample evidence to support that opinion.
He was just worried, plain and simple. He drove all the way to Hank’s house at five in the morning to make sure he was okay. Just to give him some company.
And Hank chased him off like a rabid dog.
Connor is at his desk when Hank walks in.
They don’t have a big case right now, just a couple little things. Post-revolution Detroit is pretty quiet most of the time, and Jericho seems to be doing a hell of a job at policing the deviants. So, for the most part, the Detroit police are sitting on their asses waiting for a robbery or a break in. Something in their jurisdiction.
Connor is scrolling away on his terminal, looking into some case or another when Hank comes up behind him.
“Morning,” Hank says, feeling even more awkward than he thought he would. His plan as he was getting out of the car was to just act like nothing happened, apologize in a few days when he doesn’t feel quite so horrible about it.
Connor—God bless him—simply looks up from the terminal and says, “Good morning, Hank.” Then goes back to work. No cold shoulder, no Big Talk. Just “good morning.”
Hank sits down in his chair, shoveling the empty donut box and old paper cup of coffee into his trash can. He powers up his own terminal, glancing at Connor while he does, but he seems engrossed in his research.
“We got a case?” Hank asks.
“Yes, one came in this morning.”
“Well then—” Hank gets up again. “What are we doing sittin’ here? Let’s go.”
“There’s no need,” Connor says without looking up from the screen. “I’ve already handled it.” Click. Click. “I’m filing the report as we speak.”
“Already handled—you went off without me?” Hank crosses his arms. “Since when is that protocol?”
“Apologies, Lieutenant. But considering the state you were in last night, I wasn’t sure you would be in any condition for working. So, I handled it myself. It was easy enough.” Click. Click. Click.
Hank narrows his eyes.
So, that’s how it’s gonna be, huh?
Hank sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Connor,” he says, impatiently. “Listen, about that, uh…” He hesitates, feeling eyes all over him. The whole damn station is looking at them.
Hank’s cheeks warm up. He grabs Connor’s elbow and hauls him to his feet. “Come on, we gotta talk.”
There is little in the way of privacy at the station. The only rooms that would provide any sense of discretion would be the restrooms and there’s no way they’re talking about this in front of a bunch of fucking urinals. So, they end up in the break room.
Of course, it’s little more than an alcove shooting off the rest of the station, but at least it’s quiet. Sort of.
Gavin’s there, sipping coffee like a douche, but Hank gives him a dirty look and tells him to scram. “Excuse me?” Gavin says, like a prick. “What? You and your plastic boyfriend need a second to get freaky?” He laughs at his own joke, but Hank holds his scowl and eventually, Gavin gives in with a bitchy sigh and leaves.
Connor watches him go with a kind of satisfied light in his eyes. He doesn’t smile; Connor would never be so openly rude to anyone, not even Gavin, but he looks fuckin’ happy about it.
“What did you want to talk about, Lieutenant?” he asks once they’re alone.
There it is again. Lieutenant.
“Why you calling me that?”
“I’m merely showing you due respect,” Connor says. “Is that a problem?”
So, this is what having an android pissed at you is like. Huh. “Listen, Connor,” Hank says, deciding to just buckle down and do it like a man. “I’m sorry, all right? So, can you just knock this shit off? I know you’re pissed.”
Connor is quiet for a moment. Hank can see the not-so-metaphorical wheels turning in his head. Finally, he sighs and stuffs a hand into his pocket, toying with his coin. “I’m sorry too, Hank,” he says softly. “I never meant to make you feel like you needed a babysitter, or that I didn’t trust you. I was only worried.”
“Don’t apologize. I was an asshole. I know that.” Hank rubs the back of his head. He feels…buzzy. Nervous. He’s never been good at apologizing. That’s probably why things didn’t work out with his wife.
The only time he ever apologized to her was after the accident with Cole. He apologized for killing their son. That was the only time, and she didn’t accept it. Not that he expected her to.
Connor is studying him again. After a second, he says, “You seemed sad last night. Did something happen or…?”
“Nah, just the usual.”
“Ah.” He looks like he wants to say something else, but stops himself. Hank has an idea what it was though.
“Hey, so, if you’re not still pissed, how about dropping by again later? Sumo sulked all night after you left. I think he’s pissed at me for chasing you off the way I did. He’ll probably be mad at me until he sees us make up.”
Connor smirks at the floor. “Yeah, if you want. I promised him a walk anyway and never got around to it.”
“Then it’s settled. Now, let’s get back to work before Fowler gets on our cases.”
That evening, the three of them—Hank, Conner, and of course, Sumo—take a walk down the street outside Hank’s house. It’s late autumn and all the trees are bare, brown leaves blowing across the sidewalk. It’s brisk but Connor insists he doesn’t need to wear anything warmer than his usual blazer and tie.
Sumo walks way ahead, all 120 pounds of him tugging like a champ, but Connor barely budges. Sometimes it’s easy to forget he’s about ten times sturdier than the average person.
“So, I’ve been thinking,” Hank says about four blocks into the walk.
“What about?” Connor asks when he doesn’t elaborate right away.
“I think I’m gonna give up drinking.”
Surprised brown eyes go huge and Connor stops in his tracks. “Really?” he says. “That’s—a very big decision.”
Hank looks up at the flock of geese squawking overhead so he doesn’t have to look at Connor. “Yeah…I’ve been meaning to get around to it for a while. Now seems like the right time.” He tries to keep his voice light, like it’s not a big deal.
In reality, it’s a huge fucking deal.
In the past, he always justified his drinking with that charming one-liner: “Everyone’s gotta die of something.” He was depressed and lonely and really, who the fuck cared if he choked on his own whiskey-vomit someday? It’s not like he had anyone who would miss him.
“It won’t be easy,” Connor warns him. Not because he doesn’t think he should try, or that he can’t do it, just so he knows.
“Yeah, yeah,” Hank mutters, tugging up the collar of his coat. It’s freezing out. “Let’s turn back before I lose some toes.”
“Got it. Come on, Sumo.” Connor guides Sumo across the street to the sidewalk leading back to the house. The dog goes right along with it. Bastard. He never listens to Hank like that.
By the time they get back, the sky is growing dark. Sumo collapses on the sofa, panting like he just ran a marathon, and Hank tosses his coat onto the kitchen table. He ignores the fact that Connor picks it up and hangs it on the rack by the door instead.
“I should get going,” Connor says since he’s by the door anyway.
Hank grunts and sinks onto the couch with a soda instead of a beer. “All right, see you tomorrow.”
“See you tomorrow. Good night, Sumo.” Scratch, scratch. The dog thumps his tail. Connor turns and walks to the front door.
He stops as Hank takes a sip of his soda. “Hank,” he says thoughtfully.
“Mm?”
“I just wanted to say I’m proud of your decision. And I think Cole would be too.”
Hank’s throat swells. He nods wordlessly and stares at the record player beside him. “Thanks, Connor.” A beat. “And thanks for keeping an eye on me. I know I’m a dickhead sometimes.” He glances over his shoulder.
Connor half-smiles. “My pleasure, Hank. Good night.”
“Night, son.”