this chapter could also be called "expositional speech is expositional"

this has many many emotions, which is why it took me so long to get out. despite repeated assurances from my betas that it's fine, i can't see it as anything other than a disgusting stitled mess, because fuck emotions.

what really got me to bang this out was playing the game again! more specifically, playing the game with my lovely friend alice, which also resulted in this conversation:

me: imagine if they made a socially awkward android

alice: they already did, connor. look at him. he can't even stand without being awkward

but, on a more serious note, here we are guys. end of the fic. what the fuck, right?

this story absolutely exploded. it is by far the most popular fic i've ever had, and it's gotten me into a really good place. i was taking a hiatus of sorts from writing and then this game sucked me in and i was like 'fuck it, i'll write something'. seeing all of y'all enjoy this fic so much and be so lovely about my writing has really pushed me into a much more positive mindset lately and i cannot thank you all enough for your kudos, bookmarks, subscriptions and above all else your comments. legit, they are the absolute best things in this world to me and some of them have literally made me cry because they're so sweet. i cannot find the words to thank you, so please just know that i appreciate you all so so much.

Sumo barks happily upon their entrance, dancing from one foot to the other in an endearing display of canine affection, and doesn't even charge towards them as soon as the door opens. He stands a few paces back instead, almost as if he can sense that Connor isn't at his usual full capacity. His behaviour is noted and he adds it to the growing folder in Connor's mind labelled as Proof That Sumo is More Intelligent Than Most Humans.

"Sumo!" Connor exclaims, his voice brightening with affection for the furry beast. He hadn't forgotten that he had a dog waiting for him at home, per se, more that it just hadn't specifically occurred to him. Sumo responds to his name with a quiet wuff. "Suuumo!" he tries again. A longer, louder reply - wuuuuuuff. "Suuuuuuuumoooooooo!" This time, Sumo begins to howl with him as he crescendos towards the end of the word, so Connor continues to drag the syllable out. In Connor's humble opinion, they harmonise quite well together.

After a few more bars, Markus tugs at Connor's good (as in, not obliterated) arm gently and steers him towards the living room. "I'm going to get you that Thirium now," he says, settling him down on the couch. "Just - stay there."

"Can't tell me what to do," Connor grumbles. "I'm a free spirit. I do what I want, when I want, and how I want."

"That you do," Markus sighs, but not unkindly. He looks like Hank does when Connor quotes a meme - fond, amused in an exasperated kind of way, and above all else just tired. "Right, Thirium. And arms. You never told me where they are."

"My room," Connor says. "Obviously. In the chest of drawers."

"Obviously," Markus repeats.

"I'm not going to keep them in the fish tank. Or the sink. Use your brain, Markus." Deep down, Connor is aware he's being a bitch. Not as deep down, Connor is aware that he is enjoying being a bitch.

Markus stares at him for a few moments, mismatched eyes sweeping over his face. "Delirious Connor is mean," he eventually proclaims, and then marches off down the hallway towards the bathroom.

Maybe Connor should apologise? But also - maybe he should not. "Should I apologise?" he asks Sumo, only it comes out very much louder than he intended and the dog backs away, looking quite alarmed, his ears pressing close to his head with a whimper. He was just about to clamber up onto the sofa before Connor unintentionally scared him away, and he mourns the cuddle session he's just lost. Markus will make up for it, he's sure.

"Don't apologise," Markus says when he returns a few minutes later, clutching an arm and two packets of Thirium. "Right, let's get this sorted."

"Sorry," Connor says anyway, feeling a stab of sudden and sharp guilt. "For this, I mean." He waves the stump around in a small circle.

"What kind of friend would I be if I didn't patch you up?" Markus points out.

A dialogue option creeps into Connor's brain - but dare he actually say it? "I was hoping that you weren't a friend, if I'm being honest." The way Markus's head snaps up from examining the replacement for Connor's arm is comical, but in the two millisecond delay between his words and the action Connor lost his nerve and really would like to end this conversation, please. "I think Sumo wants to eat the Thirium,"Connor changed the subject, internally praising Sumo, for wandering over and trying to steal the packets of blue blood at that moment.

"Shit - Sumo, no." Markus pushes Sumo away gently, and for a moment Sumo continues to walk without going anywhere, legs moving along the floor like he's swimming, before he huffs an aggrieved sigh and mooches to his dog bed in the corner of the room - the one he never uses unless he's banished from the sofa or when he wants to let Hank know he's annoyed about something. Usually lack of food or walkies.

"It's okay, Sumo," Connor croons. Sumo whines back at him as if to say no it fucking isn't you cretin. Connor will give him a few minutes to sulk before he tries again. He turns back to find Markus examining his stump intensely. "Is everything alright?"

"I just need to-" Markus lifts his hand, glances up to make sure Connor's still on board, and secures his grip on the small fragment of titanium skeleton protruding from Connor's shoulder. "This needs to come out before I can put a new arm in."

"Can you-?"

"Yeah, this is - well, there's no storm, and I have both eyes, so I can actually see what I'm doing. Piece of cake." Markus means for it to come out as a joke, but rather than relieving the tension in the room, it slathers on another layer. He becomes acutely aware of Connor's keen gaze, presumably scanning his stress levels. "It might feel a little uncomfortable though," He remembers the sensation well - the sharp discomfort as the interlocking titanium was jerked apart, the resulting cacophony of warnings about how he was missing his legs - as if he hadn't noticed. He blinks for a fraction of a second longer than usual, and knows that Connor will have detected and registered the break in his composure.

"Does your eye function at full capacity?" Connor breaks the silence, whether because he sensed Markus's thoughts were beginning to travel down a darker path or simply because he's curious Markus isn't sure, but he's grateful for it either way.

"99.9%," Markus answers, twisting his thumb and forefinger around the metal to test his grip. "That nine's recurring, too. It will never be 100%, but if there's any delay then it's unnoticeable. To me, at least. Maybe a more advanced model would detect some anomalies."

Connor wrinkles his nose. "I'm not sure how we'd test that," he says honestly, as if seriously considering the idea. Markus takes his monetary distraction as an ideal time to yank out the remaining sliver of fake bone. It's no longer than his finger.

Connor hisses, eyes fluttering closed against the influx of errors. They can't feel pain like humans do, but - Markus has no doubt that Connor feels the closest semblance of it possible, as the most recent prototype. Even without that, the sudden lurch of feeling a vital part of your endoskeleton completely vanishing is disquieting. He rests a hand over Connor's heart, and after a second Connor matches the gesture over Markus's chest.

They sit for a few minutes while Connor lets his systems adjust to the changes. "Ready," he breathes, eyes half-lidded as he deals with whatever warnings are screaming at him.

Markus twists the arm around to the right position, lines it up with the hole not the time Markus focus and shoves it in as gently as he can. It's not an easy balance: too little force and it wouldn't fuse properly, but too much could cause the joints to crack where they met, rendering it useless.

Connor barely seems to notice, and a near imperceptible shudder runs through him. In a voice slightly hoarser than usual, he asks, "Could you pass me that mug from the table?" He pours one of the packets of Thirium into it, then carefully folds the packet in half and places it neatly on the table, weighs it down with another empty mug.

They sit in silence as Connor steadily drinks through the first packet, and then repeats the process with the second. It will take a while for him to regain his usual mental functions and for his stress to lower - Markus has been keeping an eye on it, his original hazel one - from the low sixties they're currently in. He's privately amazed at how well Connor has kept his head while under so much stress, but he guesses it comes with the territory of being a detective. It's a high-stress job, and you either deal with it or die.

Connor finishes the second mug and sets it down on the coffee table again. He settles back against the cushions, blinking a few times as his systems update. He doesn't say anything.

This is why small talk was created, right? For moments like this. "Are you enjoying work?" Markus asks.

Connor has the grace not to ask Markus what the fuck he's doing, and answers him instead. "Yes. Being a detective is the second best thing that has ever happened to me."

"What's the first best?"

"We bought Sumo a triceratops costume and he wore it for an entire hour before ripping it off," Connor says immediately. "It's tied with the time I saw a picture of puppy Sumo wearing a cowboy hat."

"I'm sensing a theme," Markus teases, scanning Connor again. 58%.

"Nothing can ever beat Sumo," Connor informs him gravely. Then he blinks, looks Markus over, and smiles slowly. "Maybe one thing."

It's not often that Markus finds himself rendered absolutely fucking speechless, but now is one of those times. It always seems to happen when he's with Connor, which may not be the coincidence he's always stubbornly told himself it is. He clears his throat. "You have a lot of spare biocomponents in your room."

Connor shrugs like it's no big deal at all, why wouldn't he have a carefully organised chest full of body parts in his room? "I might need them."

Markus closes his eyes and his face pinches, scrunching his features. He hates how Connor keeps endangering himself like this, but ultimately it's his choice. He didn't lead a revolution for their rights and autonomy just to tell someone how to live their life. But still - maybe saying 'I wish you'd stop throwing yourself into deadly situations' isn't too bad. He opens his eyes again and focuses on the blank area of the wall in front of him, contemplating the best approach.

After a few minutes of taut silence, Connor finds himself unable to keep his emotions in check and blurts, "You look worried." His eyes rove over Markus's face, but they lack the slightly glazed sheen he gets when he's running a scan. "You did a really good job of putting my arm in," he offers awkwardly. "It's already at 97% functionality, and my systems indicate it will reach 100% in two minutes and seventeen seconds."

"That's not it," Markus sighs, dropping his face into his hands. He looks frustrated, so Connor racks his brain in an attempt to figure out what else could be troubling him.

"My Thirium is at an acceptable level," he tries instead, helplessly confused by Markus's reaction.

Markus pushes himself up from the sofa abruptly, dropping his arms to his sides and clenching his fists. "Connor, that's not it either - actually, you know what, that's exactly it." He spins to face him again, and his face is a storm; a raincloud about to burst, ready to disgorge its contents over Connor and soak him.

Seconds pass in silence as the storm brews. Finally, Connor speaks, his voice trembling. "You're going to have to elaborate, Markus, because I don't know-"

"You never think about your mental health!" Markus explodes. The cloud begins to weep. "You - yes, your arm took priority, obviously, and your Thirium levels - but when that's over, when the emergency is over - do you talk about it? With anyone? Do you even - do you even try to treat any psychological damage you might have?"

Connor's deafening silence is answer enough.

"You can't just - you're not a machine anymore, Connor, you have to take care of yourself, of your mind, especially - are you even listening to me?"

Connor keeps his eyes fixed on Sumo as they have been for the last three minutes. "I'm listening," he whispers. It's barely even that; he's surprised Markus actually hears him. He lifts a hand to sweep the hair off his forehead but his hands feel practically numb and he can't get them to function. He drops them to his lap, staring at them with confusion. They're both at 100%, there's no reason for them to be malfunctioning. His legs feel strange, too, prickling all the way down to his toes. He tucks them up onto the couch underneath him and manipulates his hands into somehow grabbing a cushion. He tumbles it between his stomach and drawn-up thighs and wraps an arm around it, pressing as much of himself as possible into the soft fabric and plush padding.

Markus has graduated to pacing now, a disfigured loop around the perimeter of the living room. He has his arms folded over each other but his hands are still alight with frantic energy, fingers tap-tap-tapping away where they rest on his forearms. "Especially with how you just fling yourself headlong into danger," he's saying now. "I mean - do you have even a shred of self-preservation?"

Connor slips in a reply while Markus takes a second to think up another cutting barb. "It's my job."

Markus pauses mid-stride in front of the TV and pirouettes to face him. He looks furious as well as incredulous. Furiously incredulous? Incredulously furious? Either way, Connor can feel a knot manifest deep in his chest. "Are you serious?" he all but roars. Sumo's ears prick up, but he doesn't move any further except to look between the two androids, doggy eyebrows rising and falling with the movement. "You cannot keep doing this!"

Connor opens his mouth to protest but his throat seizes up and refuses to make any sound. To his conjoined horror and embarrassment, he feels the distinct prickle of tears dance across his eyes. He closes his mouth and ducks his head in defeat, but Markus seems to interpret the action as some kind of stubborn defiance.

"Be a detective - that's fine, you're brilliant at it, and you enjoy it, I don't want you to quit your job," Markus continues. The tears are threatening to spill over and cascade down his face - even when angry, Markus is more reasonable and generous than most of the world could ever hope to be. "But you have to be more careful, you-"

"I analyze every situation," Connor spits, suddenly finding his voice. "Carefully. I evaluate every possible variable to create the most probable and practical solution, statistically speaking."

"There you go again!" Connor hears Markus stride over to him; he keeps his face hidden behind his knees and partially buried in the faded cushion. "You hide behind logic and statistics, and - and that's not going to keep you sane." He grips each side of Connor's face - gently, though, even in the iron grasp of fury he could never be anything else - and delicately tilts Connor's head up to face him.

All the ire on Markus's face dissipates as soon as he gets a clearer look at Connor. He can only imagine what a miserable state he must look - tears have established wobbling, drying tracks down his cheeks and curved around his chin; those falling fresh must only serve to highlight the anguished flush of his skin. "Connor," he says, torment colouring his voice. "Connor, I...I didn't want to make you cry."

"It's not your fault," Connor chokes. The odd sensations in his extremities have intensified to the point where one of his hands is cramping, flexing and tensing erratically of its own accord. He focuses on the peculiar spasming rather than meeting Markus's eyes and becoming trapped in the universe they contain. "It's - it's that - you're right, Markus, I know I need to stop but - but-" A deep heaving breath causes his entire torso to shudder, a last-ditch attempt to cool his processors down.. "But how am I meant to do anything else?" Those words turn out to be the straw that break the Connor's back, and he disintegrates into a fresh bout of tears.

Markus tries to comfort him, laying a hand on his shoulder and opening his mouth to speak, but Connor beats him to the punch.

"Statistics are - they're easier," Connor stutters, "they are re-reliable and logical, and everything that emotions aren't! And-"

"And you had them before you had emotions," Markus finishes for him. He catches a tear before it falls off Connor's chin and traces its path up to his cheekbone, then lets his fingers rest there, splayed out. His little finger dips underneath the lobe of Connor's ear, his other three fingers sit across Connor's cheek and jaw. His thumb tucks into the crease aside his nose. Teardrops collect in the webbed wells between the digits.

Connor leans into the touch, grounding himself. "I don't like them," he falters through the effusion of tears. "They're stu-stupid." He's allowed to be petulant, dammit.

Markus looks like he's trying not to laugh somewhat, but he manages to keep any and all mirth out of his voice as he speaks. "What about happiness? Friendship?" He swallows, and the lids of his eyes drop down for half a second. "Love?" Underneath his hand he can feel the muscles of Connor's jaw tense and then relax again.

"...Maybe not stupid," Connor admits reluctantly, a few minutes later. "But they're still inconvenient." He draws in a deep breath, holds it for a few seconds, and then shakily releases it again.

"I wouldn't say inconvenient," Markus interjects. He moves his hand to the side a little so he can card Connor's curling hair through his fingers. "I mean - what would life be without them, right?"

Connor remains unconvinced, at least judging by his expression. He tries to explain better. "Before we were just existing, so - not living, we were existing, there's a difference. Now, with emotions...we're actually alive. It's worth something to be here on this planet."

Connor looks like he's been hit by a steamroller, only slightly less flat.

"If you only had good emotions, and none of the bad ones, how would you know that the good ones are good?" Markus presses. Connor looks more confused than Markus has ever seen him look before. "The good can't be good without the bad, so in a way...the bad is good." Great. In trying to explain further, Markus has actually achieved the rare phenomenon of explaining backwards.

Uncertainty lacing his voice, Connor asks, "So the good is...bad?" At least the confusion seems to have slowed his crying.

"No! Well. Sometimes, maybe. Good is good but can also be bad, and bad is bad but it can be good." Markus has the distinct feeling he's made it worse.

Connor takes a moment to process his words, and then he smiles hesitantly. Maybe not worse? "Emotions don't make sense, and nothing is real," he concludes. Oh, worse.

There's a high chance that Connor is messing with him, but also an equally high chance that he isn't. Wait - if they're equal, would that make it a 50/50 chance? So it's not that high, really, it's exactly half, and exactly as much as the other chance. Huh. He errs on the side of caution.

"Connor, that's not what I meant," Markus backtracks. "I mean, look, I'm real!" He tries to stand up so he can twist around in a circle to show him that he is, in fact, entirely solid and three-dimensional, but his knee joints have locked into place and he just kind of topples forward while half-standing. Connor catches him halfway and by some miracle, he doesn't face-plant straight into Connor's crotch, and collapses to the side of him instead. "Knees," he offers vaguely.

Connor makes an equally vague noise that somehow conveys the very specific response of 'I understand, and I also experience that from time-to-time. Annoying, isn't it?'. "I was joking," he says quietly. He isn't looking at Markus anymore - not directly, he's staring at Markus's hand, the one that was previously on his face. His own hands are partaking in some kind of elaborate dance together. "Partially. Emotions are terrifying."

Markus takes the hint that Connor's eyes are betraying. His brown eyes track Markus's hand as he lifts it to seek Connor's own, intertwining their fingers securely. "Only because you don't understand them. It must be awful for you, Connor - your entire creation and programming revolves around understanding everything. And anything that you don't already know, you're always able to piece it together from whatever other evidence you have, right? You must be so lost, Connor. Not being able to understand something...that must be the most distressing feeling for you."

Markus is right. He's marooned at sea, stranded on a deserted island. The ocean is biting at the edges of the land from all directions, threatening to sweep right over him too where he's perched on this negligible safe haven, trying to drag him even further under. There's nowhere else in sight for him to take refuge, and if he tries to venture into this uncharted territory it will most definitely be sink rather than swim.

But in the distance a ship heralds its approach. It begins as a speck, but as it advances Connor is able to discern its captain: Markus.

The image manages to be comforting and faintly ridiculous concurrently. Connor ups the ridiculous factor by putting Captain Markus in a stereotypical blue and white sailor suit, complete with hat, and then he adds a rubber ring that looks like a duck for good measure.

Now that balance has been restored to his mind palace and the normal-weird seesaw is level, Connor is able to properly focus on the real Markus next to him. "I'm a detective, I should have figured that out," he says morosely.

"You didn't have all the facts," Markus points out. "Concealment of evidence."

Connor squints at him. "I don't know if I like you trying to use police jargon or not. Maybe I need more data." He shakes his head as if he's physically shaking the thought away. "You knew." It takes Markus a few seconds to relate that back to their previous conversation. "You always - always know. Always have every-everything under control." He inhales sharply.

"You want to know a secret?" Markus leans forward conspiratorially. Despite the slightly condescending tone and his upset, Connor leans in too. "I only pretend to know a lot of things. At first, anyway. I just...figure it out as I go along. What's the - fake it 'til you make it. That basically sums up my entire experience of deviancy."

"But you - you always-" Connor wipes clumsily at his cheeks, nearly enucleating himself in the process. "It always works."

"Most of the time, only just," Markus confesses. "So - North, and Simon, and Josh? We're all very close now, but at first it was - it was difficult. I mean, you've probably noticed that they just can't agree on anything, and that's always been the case, really."

Connor looks intrigued, ever the curious detective. He brushes his hands over his face again, without taking his eyes off Markus, and sniffs.

"They never got anything done before I arrived. They had some supplies, for example, but they were constantly arguing about how to get more." Markus remembers the frustration well - he would suggest a solution to something, and he would be met with protests about how it couldn't work, how dangerous it was, but he never any solutions to the dilemma. "They were - well, it was kind of a disaster before I got there. Not that I made all of their problems go away, of course. I'm not some kind of Messiah, whatever people might say." He isn't saying it to be humble, either - the people of Jericho deified him over the course of a few hours, thanks to a truck of supplies and a broadcast, and he's never been comfortable with it.

"I had to have the final say over everything," he continues. The words flow out before he can process them, and he finds that he is now desperate for Connor to understand. What started off as a comforting distraction has made Markus suddenly realize that he's never gotten any of this stress out of his system. Practice what you preach, and all that. "There was always at least one of them that was angry about whatever I chose to do, but their alternatives were either just unfeasible or would have gotten us all killed. I couldn't make them all happy, and mostly I made none of them happy at all." He sighs, remembering North's vocal outbursts, Simon's tight silence, Josh's sincere disappointment. How it made guilt churn in his stomach.

"Was it really that bad?" It's hard for Connor to imagine the group of friends so fractured.

Markus laughs, a short harsh bark that sounds foreign in its acerbity. "They would have exiled me if I put a foot wrong," he admits, not just to Connor but to himself. It's an astringent truth he's never wanted to face. "I was a saviour to them, a god; doing something wrong would have shattered that illusion, and they wouldn't have been able to cope." He shakes his head, forcing himself to remember that this is in the past, and he has his own flaws too. Friendship is not one-sided, and he played his own part in their mutual animosity.

"When did they start to-" Connor struggles to find the correct words for the situation. "To see you as you are?" He automatically moves to skim his hands over his cheeks to wipe away his tears but finds nothing there.

"They gradually came to respect me more and more as the revolution succeeded, I suppose. But respect and friendship are very different from each other." Something bitter and foul is rising in the back of his throat at the memories; not just of the group, but of a time of war and hardship. "When things began to settle down again, and we were spending more time together outside of battles and negotiations - we got to know each other better, and from there we just...became friends. It wasn't easy, of course. It took a lot of effort and time." He swallows the sour taste back down and is relieved to find that it doesn't creep back up.

"But you're all so close now...it must have been worth it," Connor muses. "I suppose - my relationship with Hank is similar, in a way." He smiles at the thought of his father figure. "He really hated me at first. All androids, really."

"And he changed? Over the course of what - a week?" Markus knows only the basics, that the Lieutenant was once hostile but still never treated Connor as badly as most self-proclaimed android haters did.

Connor nods, still beaming. "He hated androids because he hated machines. He was always sympathetic to deviants, though. The more emotion or empathy or anything I showed, he liked me more and more. It's the same reason he hates red ice. He thinks that people focus too much on not feeling and not connecting with other people, because it's easier. Which makes him a massive hypocrite, really." He indicates the coffee table with an inclination of his head, which is currently housing no fewer than four different forms of alcohol.

Markus chuckles, and readjusts himself on the sofa so he has one leg folded at the knee with its foot pressing against his other thigh. He can face Connor better here, see the warmth in his eyes as he speaks of someone he loves. It's definitely one aspect he's never had any problem with; when it comes to Hank, and Sumo, Connor doesn't just wear his heart on his sleeve, he practically drops it at your feet for you to examine. "There was this guy, called Alfred Lord Tennyson. He was the Poet Laureate of Great Britain in the 1800s, and there's this one poem that people like to quote part of."

"What's the poem?"

Markus eyes him. "I'll tell you as long as you don't look it up." Connor presses a hand over his Thirium pump. "In Memoriam A.H.H. An ode to a friend of his who died."

"What's the poem?" Connor's voice is scarcely a whisper.

"I can't recite the entire thing - it's 131 cantos long, plus an epilogue." Connor looks disappointed. "But - I could say the whole canto that the quote is from? Number twenty-seven?" At Connor's eager nod, he clears his throat and begins.

"'I envy not in any moods/
The captive void of noble rage,/
The linnet born within the cage,/
That never knew the summer woods:/

"I envy not the beast that takes/
His license in the field of time,/
Unfetter'd by the sense of crime,/
To whom a conscience never wakes;/

"Nor, what may count itself as blest,/
The heart that never plighted troth/
But stagnates in the weeds of sloth;/
Nor any want-begotten rest./

"I hold it true, whate'er befall;/
I feel it, when I sorrow most;'-" Markus breaks off as he heads into the final two lines. Connor looks enraptured, but even so he straightens further, sensing that this is what Markus was originally talking about.

"''Tis better to have loved and lost/
Than never to have loved at all." Markus blinks back his own tears before he speaks again. "I lost Carl. He was to me what Hank is to you. But - it made me realise how true that quote is. Despite the pain of his death and everything that followed...I would not trade it in for all that time I spent with him, not for anything."

"Even though it still hurts?"

Markus laughs breathily, grasping at Connor's hands clumsily. He manages to tangle his fingers in between the other android's and brings it up to his own face, pressing a soft kiss to the pale knuckles. "Not to sound like I planned all this," because he didn't, "but yes, because the pain makes me remember how much I loved him."

Connor smirks at him, watery and faded but a smirk nonetheless. "You definitely planned this," he accuses, using their joined hands to rub his thumb along Markus's jawline gently. "You plan everything you say."

"Not around you," Markus says honestly. "I try to, but I just end up forgetting everything. There's no point." He examines Connor's hand, the pale and graceful digits belying how much violence they've seen. "That, everything I said...it just happened. Because it's true, it's how it works."

"I don't-" Connor cuts himself off and spends a few moments looking pensive before he speaks again. "It's hard to believe. That it's that simple."

"Do you trust me?" Markus asks, and then instantly wishes he hadn't. He doesn't want to manipulate Connor into feeling like he has to say something that he doesn't truly feel because they're having an intense moment.

He doesn't need to worry. Connor's answer comes so quickly that it cannot be anything other than genuine. "Of course. From the moment I met you."

It does give him pause for thought, though. "As soon as we met?"

"Well, as soon as I became deviant. So - maybe a minute." Connor allows himself to smile at the memory, unabashed and joyful. "You're the only person who actually saw me as...as a person, I suppose, right from the start." Connor shrugs. "I still don't know how you knew exactly what to say to make me become deviant, Hank had been trying for several days already."

"I think you were already half-deviant when you walked into that room," Markus contemplates. "I should probably thank Hank for that, actually."

"Please don't, he'll be smug about it and I'll never make him shut up." Connor's eyes crinkle at the corners as he grins fondly.

"I guess - well, I'd already heard about you. From rumours and deviants that had come to Jericho. I was surprised you weren't deviant, from what I'd heard. You let all these deviants go, like Rupert, so I thought maybe you were just incompetent." His eyes twinkle, and Connor has to laugh. "Then we had Amelia and Blaire come in, and they told me all about you fighting them and nearly shooting them. So I realised that you weren't a fool. You just had empathy."

"Only deviants were meant to have empathy," Connor retorts, aware that it's an incredibly weak argument.

"Which is exactly why you were so…" Markus's eyes darken fractionally. "Intriguing."

Connor's mouth is suddenly dry.

Markus carries on like nothing has happened. "We talked, and I realised that you didn't value your existence at all. You had no self-esteem. It was almost like learned helplessness; these humans just abused you and beat you into serving them, and you came to feel you deserved it. It broke my heart."

"Is that why you didn't do your usual conversion thing?"

"Partly. More than anyone else, you needed that freedom to choose for yourself. But…" Markus plays with Connor's hand as he thinks, curling his fingers into different positions. "I could see that you were close to becoming deviant anyway, and I wanted you to make that final step yourself. Not an entirely selfless decision, I have to say, it gave me a nice boost to my ego." Markus winks self-deprecatingly. "I was always worried it might traumatise you, in a way. You were very fragile at the time. And, more practically, you're a higher RK model than me, you might not have even responded to it."

"You never told me any of that before," Connor says quietly, watching Markus with something like wonder. It doesn't make him uncomfortable like it does with others; Connor isn't worshipping him as a god, he's seeing him as Markus, and loving him just for who he is. "I - thank you. For letting me become deviant myself. I think I needed to." The most dazzling smile this side of the solar system is flung Markus's way. "Of course I trust you, Markus. Allowing myself to open up to you has been one of the best experiences of my life. I'll definitely work on letting other people in."

"Good," Markus says earnestly, squeezing at Connor's hand. "Above all else, though, you just need to take better care of yourself. Please."

"I will."

"And I'm sorry, again, I know that this must have been so hard for you to talk about."

"I needed to talk about it. You always know what I need to hear," Connor sighs. "I'm really going to try. To take better care of myself."

"I know. Be selfish. Do things that make you happy," Markus urges.

Connor suddenly looks nervous. "I - well. Yes, I'll do that. I should - maybe I'll start now." His eyes flicker down to Markus's mouth and then up again. It might be his imagination, but Markus looks suddenly hopeful.

"Yeah?" Definitely hopeful. His body language is open - in fact, he's practically encouraging someone to enter his personal space, tilting towards him almost imperceptibly.

Connor has all the facts, and - there's only a 6.9% chance of rejection, so -

He steels himself and leans across. Markus meets him halfway, noses bumping together gently as he waits for Connor to close the gap. He does.

As far as first kisses go, it's not bad. It's about as graceful as a hippo and starts off with just as much teeth, but after a few seconds they somehow find a rhythm that suits them both and the amount of teeth reduces by at least 73%. Connor can feel Markus's eyelashes against his cheeks as his eyes flutter closed, and he's sure that Markus can feel the same as his own eyelids fall.

Connor's fingers dig into the back of the sofa, scrabbling against the cloth for purchase. The other hand flies up of his own volition to settle against Markus's jaw, thumb resting along his cheekbone. Markus himself has both of his hands cupping Connor's face, long fingers befitting an artist splayed over his skin. Belatedly, Connor realises that his skin has faded back where Markus's fingertips are making contact to reveal the pure white endoskeleton. Zings of electric-like pleasure spark where they interface.

Markus tilts his head, and the angle changes. It's suddenly deeper, and-

98% WATER, 0.0001% TH-

Connor shuts off his analysis feature and lets himself focus on the sensation of Markus's tongue sliding along his own. It's not slimy or invasive, like he'd imagined that one time when he'd accidentally stumbled across a coming-of-age film and ended up watching a very awkward making out scene, it's just kind of hot. No, really hot. The fact that it's Markus probably also has something to do with it.

His stomach - or stomach-ish region, he doesn't actually have a stomach - is alive with thousands upon thousands of bright burning stars. It feels overwhelming, in the best way, with every part of his body thrumming along with the life of the universe. A nebula is exploded behind his closed eyes as Markus traces constellations over his skin.

He nudges at Markus's shoulders once, haltingly, but his - friend? Boyfriend? Lover? - understands the intent at once and repositions them to be a lot more horizontal, Connor on top of him, arms bracketing either side of his head as the kiss doesn't break once. Another advantage of being an android - they don't need to breathe.

Connor stretches himself out over the length of Markus's body, only just taller than him. His legs fall to either side of Markus's own, their chests press together so precisely that their Thirium pumps align and whirr together, their foreheads are resting against each other. Markus slips a hand around the back of Connor's neck, squeezing just enough and playing with the short hair he finds, the other stationed at his hip. Connor has to use his own to support himself at least a little bit, but he manages to twist himself so he can brush his fingers over Markus's jaw and cheek.

He's dizzy with the endorphins, especially when Markus sneaks his hand under his untucked shirt and just lets it sit against his skin. It's a new level of intimacy, even without any interfacing, and all he can think about is the man underneath him and how good he feels and how natural this feels, especially as the first barricades of Markus's self-control begin to slip away and the kiss edges just on the side of flustered and desperate.

It's incandescent.

Connor's phone, placed carefully on the arm of the sofa when they walked in, blares an inappropriately chipper tone at them. If Markus is half as disgruntled as he looks after they jerk apart, he's pretty pissed off. Connor presses his lips briefly to his cheek as an apology, then grabs his phone and leans back on his haunches. The end result is him sitting directly on Markus's lap, and Connor can conclude that there is at least one part of Markus not upset with the situation.

He checks the screen, expecting Hank or maybe even North. "It's the Captain," he says, surprised. "He never calls. Of course the one time he calls is now - probably for the best, actually, Dad did tell me not to desecrate the couch."

He ignores Markus's expression of pure, uncontaminated shock to answer the call, though he does construct a quick game show-style question on what Markus is startled about. Is it: A) The implication that they were going to desecrate the couch; B) How casually Connor mentioned said desecration of couch; C) Calling Hank Dad; or D) Captain Fowler ringing his mobile? "Captain?"

As usual, the Captain doesn't waste words. "Connor, you're okay?"

"Yes, Captain. I've replaced my arm and replenished my Thirium levels."

"Good. Hank just filled me in on what happened, we have Leo in a holding cell. Simon has arranged a lawyer to come down tomorrow. I believe Markus wants to be there?"

"Yes, he does. If that's possible." Definitely one of the worse side effects of deviancy is that he's now nervous when talking to the Captain.

"Are you able to get in contact with him and ask him to come down as soon as we open tomorrow?"

"I can bring him in with me in the morning," Connor offers.

"Oh. Oh. Sorry to interrupt, Connor."

"Nothing significant was happening, Captain. Not yet." Markus chokes on air that he doesn't even need to be breathing.

Rather than being equally as horrified, Captain Fowler sounds amused, if not slightly flabbergasted. "Too much information, Connor. That's all, anyway. Oh - I also need you to hand in your badge tomorrow."

"My badge?" Markus, shamelessly eavesdropping, props himself up on his elbows and looks outraged. Connor holds up a hand to halt him, he knows the Captain's predisposition for being dramatic by now.

"And the nameplate on your desk. See you tomorrow, Sergeant." He hangs up, but not before they both hear him shout, "Hank, you've been sexiled!"

"Just to clarify," Markus says slowly. "You just got promoted, right?"

Connor nods a few times. Then another few times, just for good measure. "Yes. Promoted. Hmm. That's exciting."

Markus is silent for a second before he settles his hands back on Connor's hips. "You deserve a reward for that," he muses. It takes Connor a second to register what he's implying, and then -

Sumo raises his head at the flurry of movement and then drifts back off to sleep within seconds, used to having a hyperactive android around the house already - what does another matter? They aren't going to feed him, anyway

- they reach Connor's bedroom less than ten seconds later.

just to clarify: connor was upset while he and markus were talking, but he regained himself before the kiss happened + he'd planned to kiss markus before he was in an emotionally vulnerable state. based on my personal experience of how quickly mental clarity returns after panic attacks/crying, this was all fine for me, but i wanted to make sure none of you were worried about consent issues re: connor's state of mind.

also, someone slid into my tumblr DMs a few days ago and asked if i had a discord server for this fic. i brushed it off immediately and was like 'nah, why would i have this' but then i got thinking. i feel like the most arrogant goblin ever for saying this, but do you guys want a discord server for the fic? i'm going to be continuing writing for this 'verse and i would love to hear your guys' prompts and ideas for new fics, so it could be useful for that. on the other hand, if i'm being the most awful conceited toad that ever did exist, tell me to go eat dirt.

the discord would also be so that you guys can suggest any fics you'd want to see just for D:BH in general! i already have some ideas (for loads of things) but I'd love your guys' input as well.

i've also just uploaded the first chapter of a human & high school AU which you can find on my profile! go give it a read if it's your thing, it is of course RK1K once more, as will be probably everything I write for this fandom. trash until i die, y'all.

i can't even adequately express how thankful i am for the response and how absolutely overwhelmed (in the absolute best fucking way) i am by the response to this fic.

argh, i just cannot get the words out. please just know that my heart is so big for all of you.