Work Text:
The precinct thinks him soft.
This doesn’t escape his observations. It would be a software error for it to; what would be the use of the thousands of processes constantly running in the back of his consciousness if not for the basics of dissection and analysis–the very processes he was constructed for? Connor knew it as an RK800 before his supposed deviancy. He certainly still understands it now even as an individual regarded to have their own wants, feelings, and needs.
“Thanks, Connor,” Officer Tina Chen expresses, reaching for the mug of coffee placed on her desk. Lately, it’s been in Connor’s daily routine to make his rounds serving coffee around the bullpen in the morning. It was an absurdly simple calculation. Doing so improved morning work efficiency alongside long-term relations, and he enjoyed the simple routine of it.
Acting like a slave after the revolution? Just wonderful, Reed had spit the first time Connor came with coffee. This was a difficult decision to make because Connor’s newfound freedom and emotions wanted to ‘accidentally’ exclude Reed, or at the very least, conflate his order for that of a strange salt-coffee connoisseur. It was all the more difficult to continue to keep up this routine including Reed, but a compromise was eventually made in refraining from adding cream a few millimeters short from what the detective usually preferred. You sure you’re deviant, prick?
Knock it off, Hank said. He had expressed similar sentiment earlier in the morning but in a much nicer way, angled towards concern. Unlike Reed’s barbs, Connor decided he much more appreciated Hank’s way of asking. Jeffrey wants those case files by noon, Reed. Get to it.
The Lieutenant had been softened by their first turbulent week together, and was now statistically more likely to view whatever Connor did in a much more positive light than when they had first met. An excellent outcome–the next objective now was to have Hank openly call Connor his friend.
Not for validation or affirmation–Connor knew the Lieutenant saw him that way. It was just interesting to consider what would have the Lieutenant admit it, and Connor found that he enjoyed the act of teasing. Their camaraderie had improved enough anyway for all of it to be harmless fun.
“Hey, Connor. Good morning. Doing the coffee thing again?”
Oh! You. Connor turns from the coffee machine where he’d been busy with preparing your share. Usually he would take careful precaution to serve you first, but you had informed him you’d be late and requested he handle whatever was asked of you for the time being if anything urgent came.
Cold coffee in the morning wasn’t nice. Connor strived to be better than merely nice.
“Good morning. Yes. I enjoy the routine.” Connor stirs the coffee with mechanical precision, taking care to blink and glance away to the side briefly in compliance with standard human social etiquette. “Your coffee, Detective.”
“Thanks,” you say, taking the mug from him. You redundantly blow it (he’d already ensured the temperature was within drinkable parameters) before taking a sip, humming quiet approval before you set it onto the break room counter. “Why the… show of being a barista?”
“These drinks are too simple to be considered barista recipes,” Connor replies, turning down a self-initiated systems request to scan you. It’s much more enjoyable to let himself really look at you properly and catalogue your body language from there. You look lightly disheveled, presumably from the late start you had to your day. Still, his systems feel a minute buzz at how pleasant you look in spite of it. “Unless you have a request? I would be willing to accommodate you, Detective.”
“Maybe some flavoured shots,” you say, and it takes Connor a moment to recognise that you’re teasing. The corner of his lips twitch into a smile as he halts the analysis programs already calculating what type of flavour you would likely enjoy. For future testing, he catalogues the probable top three as vanilla, caramel, and chocolate. More data is needed to confirm his hypothesis, so a segment of his processing turns towards considering inviting you to the newly opened android-friendly cafe down the block some time next week. According to his calculations, it’s likely that you’d say yes. Probably. Hopefully. “Kidding. But really. Why all of this? You don’t have to, you know.”
“It’s–”
“There are other routines to settle into,” you say. “Ones that don’t have Reed sneering at you, you know?”
Ah.
“I think even Reed understands that it’s wise not to prod the hand that provides you coffee.”
“You think so? I think it’s only making him more complacent.”
If even after losing horrendously in a fight couldn’t change his attitude, nothing Connor could ever do would.
“That’s not good. Do you think adding salt to his coffee tomorrow morning would make him more palatable?”
You snort. Unflatteringly characterised as an explosive rush of air through your nose, but such description doesn’t actually do it any justice. No dictionary definition pulled from any database could possibly capture how much he likes the crinkle of your eyes as laughter moves through your body.
Yes–movement. Motion. A response moved by surrounding circumstances. What an interesting concept it is to minds like his, specifically minds made out of calculation and probability. Unprompted reactions like these flow through you so seamlessly, ripples in a sea of humanity that Connor hurriedly marks in his memory banks for review later.
Even with deviancy, it’s hard to think of his own emotions as something that moves, much less nudge.
“Probably even worse.”
Connor hums in agreement.
When your amusement ceases, your hands come together to fiddle in a classic sign of nervousness. It’s not uncommon for you to be nervous around him, but you’re taking longer than usual to voice whatever it is circling your thoughts. The best approach he’s found is to give you some space but still show active interest towards whatever is unsaid–that is, body language turned towards you and instant attention (with a milisecond delay of around 60ms) when you speak.
Sometimes, Connor wonders if there’s anything else he could do to pull all that uncertainty and uneasiness away from you. He’s had different theories: to make himself less intimidating, perhaps, or maybe even more warm. So far the evidence is discouraging. Variations in his behaviour along those lines of thinking unfortunately hasn’t afforded him much progress yet.
What a mystery it all is. At least it’s one that Connor is eager to dissect until the problem is turned inside out and upside down. So in the mean time, while he tries to determine what could settle the root of your unease, companionable silence will have to do.
“The precinct thinks you’re soft,” you say, still hesitating even as the words leave you. “Sometimes I worry they’ll start treat you like an errand boy. Doesn’t that bother you?”
Isn’t that interesting. Connor allows himself to lean against the break room counter in a casual stance, hands by his side.
“No. Why would it?”
“Because you’re–” You catch yourself, brows furrowed as you pull back whatever you going to say. “You’re capable. More so than any of us. But you’re also very good at making people forget what you’re really capable of.”
“It helps,” Connor says. “There are limits to what I can do if I’m not trusted, and navigating workplace politics becomes easier.”
He thinks about Nines. About Sixty. About the way there is always a wide berth surrounding them, an invisible solid delineation of other. Nines with his too tall, too broad stone stature, and preference towards blunt honest truth–even if that truth is the nature of his original designation as a military machine. Sixty with his ticking fuse of a temper and knife-like sharpness he often uses to cut right to where it would sting, his uncanny insight turned from an empathetic understanding to a tool of hurt.
If not them, then himself. Someone has to pick up slack and maintain a companionable closeness with the humans of the precinct.
“I–” You frown, letting go of an exasperated sigh. Looking away, your fingers increase their pressure on the coffee mug by a substantial amount that indicates consternation. “I know. And it’s a tough time especially now, so… It’s just…”
“Does it bother you?”
“No, no. Just. I hope you know that you don’t have to do anything like that around me,” you say. “You’re my–partner. We work together a lot, so I want you to just feel comfortable enough to just be however you are. Without all the… ” Your hand gestures vaguely in the air. “Downplaying yourself. I… like you as you are.”
He feels the quiet smile on his face before he properly registers it. A part of him wonders if it still looks lopsided and supposedly awkward in the way the non-practiced, non-intentional smiles that leave him do.
But it’s alright, isn’t it? Because you’d like to see it. Clumsy as it is, strange as it is.
“I appreciate the care, Detective,” Connor softly says. “I like you as you are, too.“
The precinct thinks him soft. You don’t.
That’s what Connor likes about you.