A/N: If you're one of my regular readers have no excuse for this. I live for found father-son relationships. I posted that Silent Measures chapter and spent two hours writing this. It's 3 AM. I have a fever. Why do I do this.

Edit 9/6/18: I've moved this story from Misc. Games into the newly set up DBH category, but the category sometimes still shows up as Misc. Games on the top bar once you've clicked into this story. FFN's sometimes strange like that.

Hitting the Wall

Eirian Erisdar

A year and six months after his proper induction as a Hank's partner in homicide investigation, Connor hit a wall.

Literally.

It started when he took a bullet through the knee during yet another of their too-often-occurring suspect chases (the ones that always left Hank huffing and puffing out the suspects' rights to remain silent, while Connor, by experience, very carefully avoided pointing out that he had no lungs to get winded and could very well state the suspects' rights himself).

But yes. The wall.

As expected, the bullet severely compromised the structural integrity of the advanced polymer that made up his right kneecap, and as his right leg folded under him, Connor noted with a sense of calm that his face would very shortly make considerable impact against the low concrete wall 0.63 metres in front of him.

It wouldn't hurt. Not as much as a human, at least. But android polymer for RK800s was extremely expensive, and since his independence, he no longer had access to Cyberlife repair services.

Not that he would trust them with replacing even a fingernail.

Connor sighed internally. His meagre salary would be stretched extraordinarily thin this month, and as much as he enjoyed learning to define the myriad of new emotions he had experienced in the past eighteen months, annoyance was not one of his favourites.

He had even spotted the perfect birthday present for Hank two days ago – a present for Sumo, really, but Hank was the kind of human that would appreciate meaningful gifts for those close to him rather than impersonal ones himself.

Well, it looked as though Hank would be getting those sugary things humans called skittles this year, because if Connor's calculations were correct, this was going to leave him with one whoppingly huge–

His face smashed into the concrete, and his optical sensors blurred.

"Kid! Kid!"

Connor's eyelids closed and opened again, once, spreading a new layer of dirt-resistant oil over the transparent surface of his irises, and his vision cleared.

His neural processing pathways took a little longer to rearrange themselves.

"Connor! Wake–"

There was a figure hovering over him, and it was only when a rough hand collided with his cheek that Connor matched that grizzled face with an identity.

Lieutenant Anderson.

No. Hank.

"Given the significant impact my face has just made with reinforced concrete, it follows that it would be unwise to expose it to further trauma," Connor said, after a moment.

Hank stared down at him.

"Is that the ridiculously long version of 'Why did you hit me?'"

"Yes," Connor replied. There was something trickling down his temple. He brought up a hand and dabbed at it. It came away blue.

Hank was looking at him like he sometimes looked at Sumo when the gentle dog ate a sock. "Are you gonna be okay? I'm not sure how much my reading on android engineering is helping with this, but that's a lot of blue."

"Yes. My readings state surface-level damage only to my face. As for my knee, fluid-containment measures should kick in shortly." Something occurred to Connor, then, and he sat up so abruptly that Hank leapt back with a yell.

"The suspect!" Connor babbled – or at least he thought he babbled, because the speech came a lot quicker than it usually did, and his stats were dipping a lot more than he expected at the sudden rise to sitting position – "He's getting away–"

"Oh, for cryin' out loud, Connor," Hank grumbled as he stood, dusting off his knees. "He caught his own ricochet back over the wall there. It's just a graze, but he's gone and fainted at the sight of his own blood. Doesn't say a lot about his constitution for murder."

"Oh," Connor blinked.

"Speaking of murder, my phone's gone and murdered itself off the edge there. I don't suppose you're up for contacting medical for this guy?"

Connor nodded, and fell silent for a moment as he made the request through radio channels.

Then he reached up, clasped Hank's offered hand, and heaved himself to his feet.

His right calf and foot fell off.

Hank nearly twisted his own ankle leaping back, and almost brought down both of them as he did so. "Oh, for goodness' sake, Connor!" he yelled as he stared down at the leg in the bright summer sunshine, still encased in smart, blue-black jeans and single ankle boot. "That isn't right!"

"There's no need to worry, Hank, I can reattach it," Connor said sincerely, hooking his right arm securely around Hank's shoulders and balancing on his left leg.

"Oh, just shut up," Hank moaned, scrubbing at his newly-pale face with his free hand. "Why did I ever adop–"

He fell silent, cutting himself off.

Connor looked at him curiously for a moment, and then back at the leg on the floor. He opened his mouth.

"I'm afraid I can't balance well enough to pick it up myself, so if you wouldn't mind–"

"Shut up, Connor."

"Okay."

Muttering to himself, Hank gingerly picked up the leg, and handed it over into Connor's waiting hand as quickly as possible.

"Thank you," Connor said with a small smile.

Hank stared at him for a moment. Then he began half-carrying, half-dragging him back towards the door that led off the roof.

Connor frowned. He opened his mouth to enquire after Hank's closed expression, but then Hank exploded into a tirade when he opened the door and remembered that this was a ten-floor building without a lift, and Connor abandoned his question and focused on not unbalancing Hank as he hopped down the stairs one at a time, his right leg swinging in his free hand.

Five dollars.

Connor looked down at the crisp green bill in his hand, and felt a very human sense of despair.

He should have expected this – he had expected this, after the number of zeroes on the bill for his replacement parts. He had calucated it himself. But somehow it was only after standing in line at the bank and getting to the counter that it really sunk in that he had five dollars with which to buy Hank a birthday present.

By his newly-reattached right leg, Sumo let out a somber woof.

"You're right, Sumo," Connor said, scratching the top of the Saint Bernard's head. "This is not ideal."

Does offering to walk one's dog count as a birthday present?

Probably not.

Taking Sumo's leash in his free hand, Connor tucked the bill into his jacket pocket and wandered into the city.

He passed by android families out on walks; shops manned by humans and androids alike, and promisingly, a group of young persons very obviously comprised of both android and humans seated jumbled together in a café, all in a heated argument over a comic book.

The sunshine was bright and warm on his thermal sensors, and soon Sumo's tongue hung out, panting in the summer heat.

Seeing this, Connor took them on a detour to nearby park to get an ice cream. It would bring his five dollars down to two, but Sumo's expression seemed too desolate.

The ice cream seller raised an eyebrow at the circle on Connor's temple, but handed over the scoop of ice cream anyway.

Connor dipped a finger into in the cold sphere and passed his fingertip between his lips. Analyzing the components was nearly an instantaneous matter; once he was sure that the ice cream was safe for canine consumption, he crouched down in front of an eager Sumo and let him have his feast.

Sumo finished his cold treat and proceeded to thoroughly lick Connor's cheek.

Connor laughed before he could help it. "Sumo, stop, you know how sticky that makes my face–"

Passersby were stopping to stare at them, now. Connor noted between attempts to push away Sumo that more than one group of young women flung glances his way before giggling amongst themselves, turning back to glance at him again with bright eyes and flushed cheeks.

Sumo nudged his cheek with a damp nose and headed off in a direction of his choosing, leaving Connor to scramble to his feet before the leash drew taut.

"Sorry, excuse me," he apologized to one such group of women as Sumo tugged him past them, and they hid their mouths behind raised hands, giggling too hard to meet his eyes directly.

Curious. Connor made a note to ask Hank about this particular behaviour later.

Connor relaxed into an unhurried pace, and let Sumo take him where he would.

The park gave way to streets, and streets to sparse scrubs, and then Connor finds himself being led through rows of grey stones.

Graves.

This graveyard was beautiful – stones hewn from every shade of natural rock, and each covered with a blanket of flowers, rooted in the soil.

Sumo picked up his pace, woofing gently as he pulled Connor along, down a gentle hill and across two rows of smaller graves–

Sumo stopped, and Connor dropped to one knee beside him to scratch under his collar, just as Sumo liked it. "Where have you brought me, Sumo?" He murmured.

"Woof," Sumo replied, solemnly, nosing the grave in front of him.

Connor raised his head, and froze.

If he had breath, it would have hitched in his chest.

Cole Anderson

Beloved son

23 September 2029 – 11 October 2034

Hank's son.

For a long, long moment, Connor was seized by an inexplicable certainty that he should go – to take Sumo and run, away from this place with its almost-sacred secrets, and never admit what he now knew to Hank.

But then.

Standing there, Connor stared at the bare grass below his boots, and the gravestone there, already rain-marked after five years – and an idea came to him, born of a sudden feeling in his stomach that he could not place. It was not programmed, not could it be encapsulated in code.

Sumo nudged his leg, as if to say, Well done.

He stood there for a little while longer, and then turned to find the nearest market.

"Happy birthday, Hank," Connor said as he placed the small package on Hank's kitchen table. The table was bare except for a six-pack of beer that Hank seemed to have the foresight to buy in advance – Connor could not eat, but he could drink a measured amount of liquid for analysis reasons – which made him a possible drinking buddy.

Hank hadn't invited him, exactly, but the gruff jerk of his head after they finished the day's work translated well enough.

Connor watched as Hank blinked.

"You didn't have to, Connor," he said, slowly.

"But I wanted to," Connor replied, a smirk at the edge of his mouth.

Hank looked away with a grunt and reached for the package. "You didn't get me something stupidly expensive, did you?"

"Two dollars," Connor said, with no inflection whatsoever.

Hank paused halfway through unwrapping. "For real?"

"It was all I had in my bank account," Connor said, truthfully. "Replacement parts are hard to come by–"

Hank's grey hair shook as he barked a laugh. "This'll be a story for the history books, I can tell."

The last of the packaging fell onto the table.

Hank's brow furrowed as he looked at the assorted sachets in his hands, and then back at Connor's expectant face.

"You got me birdseed?" Hank said. His face was on of utter confusion. "I think you meant to get me dog food? Sumo here can't–"

"These are not birdseed," Connor interrupted, placing a quick-fingered hand on one of the sachets. "These are flower seeds."

A pause.

"I'm still not getting it," Hank said.

Connor's eyes slid away.

"Sumo led me somewhere on our walk yesterday," Connor said. "To a graveyard." Despite the calmness in his voice, his left hand fished his silver coin out of his jacket pocket, spun it agitatedly between his fingers – heads and liberty, tails and–

"He led you–"Hank paused. He stared at the cheap seed packets under his hands.

Connor watched the realisation dawn in his eyes the same time the wall came up.

And Connor knew he had run into a wall again. Figuratively, this time.

"I'm…I'm sorry," he murmured. He was stammering, he realised, something that wasn't programmed into him, or that he recalled doing before, except in times where his control was slipping – "I shouldn't have – I should have left right away, I didn't think, I thought that it would be nice if you could plant these over–" He cut himself off, sharply, head jerking away and to his fist clenched around his silver coin.

Silence. Hank did not raise his head.

"I'll go," Connor said, quietly. Something was aching in his gut, tearing at him. Real pain, he thought. Was this what it was like for humans, every moment?

If it was, it was a wonder humans did not shatter at the merest breeze.

His eyes stung with tears he did not now he could produce. He turned.

A hand caught his elbow.

Connor's head swiveled to his left, slowly.

Hank was scrubbing roughly at his eyes.

"Hank?" Connor ventured.

Hank looked up, eyes dry but red-rimmed. "Aw, you really must be worried," he grumbled. "Your circle-thingy's gone all yellow."

Connor thought he might collapse in relief. His systems were certainly registering less-than-optimal function, despite perfect condition.

Hank looked away, quickly. "You're doing the thing with the eyes again," he complained. "Don't do the thing with the eyes."

"What thing?" Connor said, after a moment.

"The eyes," Hank groaned. "Crap, it looks like you're a kicked puppy or something."

Connor did not understand.

But then Hank's hand jerked his elbow, and Connor found himself pulled into a gruff hug. A hand rested on the back of his head.

"Thanks, Connor."

Connor found his face smushed into Hank's questionably-clean jacket, and he had to be careful of his own arms, not to return the hug with too much power.

But he did not mind.

It was warm.

END

I've crossposted this to my tumblr, which is basically my penname stuck together for the url. Have a lovely day, everyone.