Connor remembered showing up at the address, and he remembered standing outside on the sidewalk for a good four minutes, after noting the alarm on the premises. He remembered debating whether or not he should leave, and he remembered an AP700 opening the door and welcoming him inside.

He didn't remember walking through the foyer into what looked like a lounge, but he must have done that, because here he was, sitting on a couch in the midst of a well-furnished room… with what looked like a giraffe in the corner and dinosaur bones hanging from the ceiling (Connor supposed they may have been real, but he was too mentally preoccupied to bother scanning them). He didn't remember when he'd been left alone, either, but he didn't want to wander the place searching for the AP700 again, so he just waited.

He wasn't tracking the time, but he estimated he'd been sitting there for at least a few hours… not that it mattered, because it wasn't like he was going to get bored of it. Even with emotions, androids didn't really get bored, because there was always some sort of file to sort, or data to process, or test to run inside of their heads. Speaking of which, Connor had uploaded some DPD records into his head before getting suspended, but right now he really didn't feel like organizing them. In fact, he was feeling like something he didn't quite know the name of – but he knew it wasn't boredom. It had been there for some time, but he'd been ignoring it; it felt like a deep weight resting and bubbling somewhere in the pit of his figurative stomach, but he didn't know what feeling it was supposed to be.

That, in itself, was one of the hardest things about being deviant – not just experiencing an emotion for the first time, but actually trying to understand it. Most of the time, it wasn't so bad, because a lot of his emotions had been pleasant; they just… happened, but Connor let them happen because they were good to feel – like when he'd laughed for the first time.

Conversely, unpleasant emotions were typically few and far between, but they were always so jarring when they happened – mainly because he wanted them to stop so badly, but he never knew how. At least before, he'd had someone to help him through it… now the weight remained, because he was alone.

Alone. Adjective. Definition: Having no one else present; having no help or participation from others; isolated and lonely.

Connor shivered, though he didn't know why.

He'd never had to worry about being alone before, because he'd never been anything but alone. Before becoming deviant, he'd never had friends – or even enemies. People had been either relevant to the mission or not; and if they were, they were either beneficial accessories or rebellious obstructionists. Once his mission was completed, it didn't matter if he ever saw them again, because he had no reason to want to. He could have been alone forever, and it wouldn't have mattered, because he'd never known anything but being alone.

(…Well, he'd had Amanda, to be fair, but he'd never been able to go to her for support. She always called him, so even if he had felt alone, she hadn't been someone he could have found solace in, because their visits had always been on her terms. And to be honest, she probably wouldn't have approved of his sentiments anyway.)

Either way, he was alone now – like he'd been before – but this time it was different, because now he knew what it was like to not be alone; he had been happy for the second half of his life. So going back to the isolated life he'd once been so accustomed to… well, it felt like a massively depressing reversal.

Lonely. Adjective. Definition: Sad because one has no friends or company; without companions; solitary.

Connor stared at the suggested word, conflicted. Was that what he was feeling – lonely? That must have been it. And even if it wasn't, there was nothing to tell him otherwise.

Something like a clink registered in Connor's auditory processors; without thinking, he was on his feet and turned towards the sound. The AP700 from last night had returned, but he didn't seem terribly concerned with the detective android. Rather, he seemed to be gathering up a tray of what looked like breakfast food.

…Breakfast? Connor's eyes flicked to the curtained windows, and his internal clock informed him that it was now a little past 10am. (At this point, he supposed he shouldn't have been so surprised that he'd lost track of the time again.) The AP700 suddenly met Connor's gaze and smiled politely.

"Good morning," the caretaker said. "You've been invited upstairs for breakfast."

"…What?" Connor asked, voice a little more snappish than he'd intended. Luckily, the other android didn't seem to mind.

"Carl wants to meet you. He isn't in an ideal state to come down, but he is well enough to speak with you. He's invited you for breakfast," he said matter-of-factly, before beginning to move through the doors back into the foyer, and then up the stairs. "If you'll follow me, his room is right this way."

Connor suddenly felt very self-conscious, but he obliged the AP700 nervously. What else could he do? To turn down the offer would just be impolite, especially considering he'd rather oddly spent the night here. The least he could do was meet his host.

"You must be Connor. Markus said you might be coming over."

Connor didn't remember walking up the stairs or through the bedroom doorway, but he must have done that, because here he was, eyes immediately settling on the source of this new voice – a human man with white hair and tattooed arms, sitting in a bed not unlike the ones issued to hospitals. He scanned him out of habit.

Manfred, Carl. Born: 07/13/1963. Lives: 8941 Lafayette Avenue, Detroit, Michigan, USA. Height: 5'5". Weight: 136 lbs.

"I-I'm sorry, Mr. Manfred," Connor heard himself say as the AP700 moved to set down the breakfast platter. "I didn't mean to intrude. I can leave if you—"

Carl waved his hand dismissively. "Eh, you don't need to be so formal. You're my guest. And if you don't have any plans, I'd like you to join us for breakfast." After a moment where Connor didn't move, the AP700 moved to help Carl sit up. "Thank you, David," the man said quietly, and the caretaker welcomed him, before saying something about confirming a doctor appointment and leaving the room.

"…You can sit down, if you'd like," Carl said after a long awkward silence, slowly gesturing to a seat beside the bed (away from the monitors displaying the man's vitals and such). "…I never get to use these chairs, so someone might as well." He paused. "…They're expensive for some reason, too, so you don't have to worry about it being uncomfortable."

Connor awkwardly obliged, and sat in the chair (albeit stiffly). "…Your house is… very nice," he managed, though he chastised himself for sounding so customarily – and rather unconvincingly – vague.

Fortunately, Carl humored him. "Eh, that's all money gets you in the long run," he said. "…A big house and a bunch of unwanted attention." He paused, then looked back at Connor. "…I'm glad you decided to stay the night; Markus doesn't invite many of his friends over, so it's always a pleasure to have someone visit."

Connor couldn't find more to offer than a polite smile and nod.

Carl watched him for a moment, then spoke again. "…Do you have a place to stay?" he asked. "You can stay here if you like; David and I wouldn't mind the company."

Connor blinked, then felt his lips twitch upwards. "…Thank you," he said genuinely. "I… I have a home, but… I appreciate your offer."

The man nodded in acknowledgement. "You have a family, then?"

Connor hesitated, admittedly a little tense. "…Yes, I… I think so."

"Well, you should bring them along next time," Carl said, shifting in the bed. "Like I said, I don't get many visitors. They worry I'll explode if I talk too much." He shook his head wearily.

Connor had absolutely no intention of ever bringing Hank here, or even telling him he'd been here – if he could help it – but he couldn't say that. So he said nothing, nodding politely.

"But that's what families do, isn't it?" Carl went on, the question more of a statement. "…Worry." He looked at Connor again. "…You know, you came here rather late last night. I'm sure your family is worried about you."

Connor straightened in his seat. "No," he said quickly, and perhaps a little too forcefully. "…I-I mean, I don't think so." Hank hadn't sounded horribly worried last night – in fact, he'd seemed rather apathetic about the whole thing.

"Do they know you're here?"

"Well, no, but… it's not…" Connor trailed off, unsure how to proceed.

Carl waited a few moments, but then eventually spoke again. "…I don't want to make any assumptions," he said, then paused. "…But I would like to be honest. Is that alright?"

Connor hesitated, then nodded slowly.

"I've met a lot of people in my time. And too many of them have worn the same face you're wearing right now." The old man was quiet for a bit longer before continuing. "…Troubled. A little lost." Another pause. "…Like you're missing something."

Connor shivered, avoiding the man's gaze, but otherwise didn't respond.

Carl watched him for a few more moments, then sighed. "Now, I'm no therapist. I'm just an old man stuck in a hospital bed. So correct me if I'm wrong." Another pause. "…But you come across as someone who thinks they've lost something very special. And they don't know if they'll ever get it back." He stopped again, as though he was waiting for affirmation.

But Connor was still quiet.

Carl waited a few more moments, then spoke again, voice even more gentle than before. "…You know, I've worn that face, too." He shrugged. "…Most people do, at some point or another." He paused again. "…I wore it for years, after my accident. Because I lost two things that day." Another pause. "…One was the use of my legs, and the other was my will to paint." He shifted in the bed. "…Now, one of those things came back. Do you know why?"

Connor looked up and hesitated, then awkwardly shook his head.

Carl shrugged. "…To be honest, I don't know. I don't have all the answers to life." He stopped for a moment, and looked as though he was contemplating. "…But I'd like to think it's because it was the thing that inspired me – the thing that made me feel alive."

Connor looked away again, LED blinking yellow for a fraction of a second.

"…Things like that – things that are meaningful to you – never really go away." Carl shifted in the bed. "But… they can be harder to deal with when you're alone."

Alone. Adjective. Definition: Having no one else present; having no help or participation from others; isolated and lonely.

Connor wrung his hands absentmindedly, the heavy feeling in his chest making a reappearance. He was still silent.

"…When I first met Markus," Carl frowned softly. "I thought he was just a senseless machine, there to remind me of how broken I was."

Connor looked up again.

"But… over time, I realized that he was there to help me pick up the pieces. And he became more than my property… my caretaker… my friend." The old man paused, the corners of his mouth twitching upwards as he gazed distantly across the room. "…He's my family – my son."

Son. Noun. Definition: A boy or man in relation to either or both of his parents; a male descendant.

Connor stiffened. "…But… you're not…" he interrupted without thinking, his LED spinning yellow. "…Y-you can't be…" He trailed off, suddenly realizing he'd spoken aloud, and awkwardly looked away from Carl's curious gaze.

"Can't be what?" the man asked.

Connor hesitated to answer. "…It's just… h-he can't be your son. You can't be his…" He stopped, unable to say the word.

"…Is it because we're a different species?" Carl asked, sporting an expression that Connor might have been able to recognize if he wasn't so flustered.

"N-no," the android said quickly, LED flickering. "That's not… I mean… I-I don't know." He paused, eyes darting around as though he was searching for the right words somewhere on the floor; unfortunately, all he managed to come up with was another shaky "…I don't know."

"…Markus and I may not be biologically related," Carl said after a few more seconds of silence. "But that doesn't mean he's not my son."

Connor made a noise somewhere between confusion and frustration, mouth opening and closing a few times. "…But you can't… you're not… th-that's just how it is." He ran a hand through his synthetic hair, frowning and furrowing his eyebrows as his yellow LED spun and blinked furiously. "The definition… i-it doesn't…" A pause. "…You can't do that."

"…Why not?" Carl asked simply, and Connor blinked.

"…Because…" he trailed dumbly, "…b-because…" He shook his head again, feeling suddenly very helpless. "…You just can't."

Carl couldn't have been Markus' father, and Markus couldn't have been Carl's son.

It shouldn't have mattered how much they knew about each other, or how many things they did together, or how many conversations they had. It shouldn't have mattered how long they knew each other, or how many jokes they made, or how many fights they had.

They couldn't be father and son, because that's just how it was, and how it would always be.

A father was someone who donated his genes, and a son was someone who inherited them. A father was someone who raised a child from birth to death, and a son was someone who'd been taught how to survive in the world. A father was someone who had legal guardianship over their child, and a son was someone who resented that fact in his teenage years.

Father and son were legally, genetically, and emotionally bound to one another. And if anything, Markus (or Connor) were only one of those things.

There was no way for an android to be genetically related to a human, which was obvious. And adoption might have been a solution, but androids still hadn't been granted a citizenship law (Jericho was working on it, but laws were slow), so until then, they were still just property. (At least Markus was registered under Carl's name; as far as the records were concerned, Connor still belonged to Cyberlife, and the government. Hank didn't own him, he just… let him stay with him.)

And maybe they were emotionally close. But that didn't make them father and son. They were just… co-workers, partners, friends. They couldn't really be family.

Connor willed himself to say his thoughts aloud, but for some reason, his voice wouldn't come.

Carl studied the android for a few moments, then pushed away his breakfast tray. (Connor hadn't noticed him eating at any point, but he clearly must have, because now it was empty.) "…Sometimes a family is something you're born into. And sometimes it's something you find on your own."

Connor frowned (almost skeptically), but said nothing.

"…You won't find that in any dictionary… but that doesn't mean it doesn't happen." Carl paused for a long time, and then his eyes narrowed. "…That's what you're missing… isn't it?"

There was a long silence.

"…I… I don't know," Connor admitted finally, his voice (that had suddenly returned) barely above a whisper. His LED blinked red for a moment, before returning back to yellow. "…I guess… I wanted to be a family, but… an android shouldn't be able to be anyone's son. It's impossible."

"…Wanting a family is a part of being alive. And anyway, nothing's impossible." Carl made a noise like a scoff. "…Anyone who's seen the news should know that."

Connor was quiet. Even if the man was right – that he could be someone's son, albeit not in the technical way – he didn't want to be just anyone's son. He wanted to be Hank's son.

"…B-but he doesn't want to be a family. He doesn't want a son, because he already has one, and… I can't replace him." He paused for a few moments, aware again of the heavy feeling in his stomach, but Carl didn't reply, so he heard himself go on. "…I said something that… I-I guess I've wanted to say, but…" He shook his head. "I shouldn't have said it. And I apologized, but…" He trailed off, and there were a few seconds of silence.

"…He denied it?" Carl speculated quietly, encouraging the android to continue.

"…No," Connor replied, voice surprisingly shaky. "…I didn't… mean it." He paused again, staring holes into Carl's bed sheets and ignoring the alternating red-and-yellow reflections in the hospital-grade monitors beside him. "…And I… I wanted to, because I'm the one who messed it all up. But… I'm not sorry – I'm still not sorry… even though I know I should be." Another pause. "…I-I'm not supposed to keep wanting this; I want to… to stop wanting this, but… I just can't." He wrung his hands. "…He doesn't need another son – he doesn't need a-a replacement." Another pause, the feeling in his stomach he'd forgotten about suddenly beginning to churn again. "…Nothing makes sense anymore, and… I just don't know what to do." His voice hitched, but it was alright, because he found himself at a loss for words anyway.

After a long silence, Carl spoke again, his voice soft and gentle.

"…I have a son named Leo. And when he first met Markus, he thought that I was replacing him." He paused. "…But Markus was never meant to be a replacement; he was an addition to the family." He paused again. "…Maybe I've known Leo for a longer time than I've known Markus. And maybe Markus and I have had less disagreements. But none of that matters, because I care about them the same… they're both my sons."

There was another long silence, and then finally Carl continued.

"…This person. You clearly care about him."

Connor fidgeted, but managed a single minute head nod.

"I assume he cares about you."

But shit, I still care about you, you idiot.

Connor nodded softly again.

"…Well, I'm no expert. But I would say it's likely that there's room enough for two sons in there somewhere."

Connor said nothing, still frowning. He wanted to be convinced, but… something still twisted in the pit of his metaphorical stomach. He set a reminder to run a diagnostic on his abdominal and thoracic biocomponents, but said nothing.

"Doctor Bishop is here, Carl," said a sudden voice from the bedroom doorway, which Connor's auditory processors told him was the AP700 from earlier. "Just let me know when you're ready, and I'll send him up."

Carl grimaced and shifted in the bed, muttering something about 'fragile machines' as he glanced at the blinking monitors beside him, but Connor reacted before he could say anything.

"I-I should go. I wouldn't want to keep you from your appointment," the detective android said quickly, moving to stand (and ignoring the weightless feeling in his legs).

"Oh, don't worry about that," Carl insisted, waving a hand dismissively. "That quack always shows up an hour early… you don't have to leave because of him."

Connor's LED spun yellow for a few moments before returning to blue. "…A-actually, I think I just… need some time to think." And he wasn't… really lying. He did need a break, but if anything, it was to distract himself from thinking.

"Of course," Carl nodded, and Connor nodded back genuinely.

"…Thank you for everything." He felt oddly numb, but ignored it, along with the churning feeling in his torso he hadn't yet identified.

"Eh, you don't have to thank me," Carl shrugged. "All I did was talk. Anyone can do that." He moved to hand the empty breakfast plate off to the waiting caretaker – David, Connor remembered – and then looked back. "…You know, if I haven't scared you off, you're welcome back any time. It's always a pleasure to meet some of Markus' friends."

"Thank you," Connor said again, and one corner of his mouth twitched upwards. "It was a pleasure to meet you too." He gave polite goodbyes to David and the (unusually) human doctor, and then he was back on the street.

He wanted to take a mental break, but the weight in his stomach had spread to his chest, and it was too distracting to think about anything else. His scans came up negative, so it was nothing functional. It must have been those irritating emotion programs that he couldn't keep a handle on anymore… what had he decided it was? Loneliness?

How could he have been lonely? He'd spent the better part of an hour in a conversation, and the conversation had been about the problem he'd been wanting to address. Perhaps it was because he wasn't addressing it with the person he should have been.

Connor began walking aimlessly down the sidewalk again.

Maybe he should talk to Hank. Maybe it was all a big misunderstanding. Maybe it could all work out after all.

…Or maybe it wouldn't, and maybe Hank would push him away. Connor frowned; even with the advice he'd been given, his doubts still lingered.

But… maybe that would be okay, he told himself. If Hank really did cut him off for being honest about his feelings, he could handle it, just like he'd done with Amanda. And Amanda could do a lot worse to him than Hank ever could.

Hank couldn't take control of him, or deactivate him, or trap him inside of his own mind; Hank couldn't do anything to him.

Connor was stronger than him, faster than him, and smarter than him – not to mention the fact that he didn't feel physical pain. Connor could complete more cases in two hours than Hank could in two days. And he'd been afraid of being considered an inconvenience? (…Connor didn't want to think of himself as superior, but… the realization that he really didn't… need Hank was startlingly jarring.)

Did he still want to be close to Hank? Naturally. Did he still want to resolve this issue? Of course. Did he want things to go back to the way they were? Obviously.

…But Connor didn't really… need any of those things.

He wanted them, sure, but if Hank didn't make a move to meet him in the middle, he could… technically still move on with his life, because Hank had never really given him anything he needed. True, he had been a dependable emotional support, but… now he had at least one other person who had been more willing to discuss this situation (that still meant a lot to him) than Hank had – he had someone to fall back on now. If Hank cut him off, or kicked him out of the house, or abandoned him, he had someone else who was willing to take him in.

He didn't want to have to have a person to fall back on, because he wanted Hank to accept him, but… if worst came to worst…

And anyway, Hank needed Connor, didn't he? Without him, the man had been a frequent alcohol abuser with a history of violence and suicidal tendencies. And Connor had worked so hard to help him through all of his personal (and meaningful) issues. Yet when Connor brought his own inner and sincere feelings to the table, Hank brushed them aside?

Connor's knuckles tingled, and the weight inside his chest was suddenly growing at a massive rate, feeling warmer the whole time.

Angry. Adjective. Definition: Having a strong feeling of (or showing) annoyance, displeasure, or hostility.

The android stopped walking.

…Was he… angry? He'd told himself before that he didn't have a right to be angry, but now he was coming to realize that maybe he did. He'd been hurt too, so why did his feelings have to play second fiddle? Why did Connor have to comply to Hank's repressive coping mechanisms? Weren't they supposed to be equal? Wasn't Connor supposed to be a living being, with just as much of a voice as a human?

Resentful. Adjective. Definition: Feeling or expressing bitterness or indignation at having been treated unfairly.

Maybe that's what he'd been feeling. Did he want to feel this way? Had he planned to? Of course not. He'd never been angry before (inconvenienced, if anything), and he'd certainly never wanted to be resentful towards Hank, but… here he was.

He ran a finger across the ridge of the quarter in his hand (that he didn't remember taking out of his pocket) as an alternative to massaging his knuckles.

…Alright. Suppose that maybe Connor was angry. Suppose that maybe he was resentful. And maybe he did have a right to be. Maybe Hank did Connor more than Connor needed Hank, and maybe there was no happy ending to this.

Connor's fingers twitched.

He didn't know if he was thinking straight – emotions had a habit of interfering with his logical solution development – but he did know that they needed to talk. At this point, Connor wasn't sure what he was going to say anymore, but if he'd taken anything from Grace, it was that he had to get his feelings out in the open. And maybe – like Carl had said – Hank wouldn't reject him.

Connor felt himself stop walking.

He didn't want to feel angry. But he hadn't wanted to lie about being sorry either, and he'd done that all the same. It had felt… wrong, because Connor had never lied to Hank before. Had he even known it was a lie at the time?

He checked the time. It was a bit later than noon, which meant Hank still had at least two hours before his assigned lunch break. Considering the man was unaccompanied, the probability of him visiting somewhere unhealthy were particularly high, so Connor set a GPS destination.

Maybe Hank didn't want Connor around solely because he filled his emotional needs. Maybe he didn't want him as a replacement son. Maybe he actually cared about Connor as his own person.

The heavy feeling in his chest (which he'd categorized as anger) was still there, but it was dissipating. Now he felt… almost hopeful. He didn't feel anxious anymore, even though he did still have his guard up. If Carl and Grace were really right, he didn't have anything to worry about.

Still, he had a back-up plan, because Connor rarely went into things without one. If things did go south, Connor still had a home, and he had friends. If Hank didn't want to hear it, or pushed him away, well… it would hurt him a lot more than it hurt Connor… wouldn't it?

Another feeling – this one feeling weirdly numb and empty – spread through him, but he didn't have the emotional energy to designate it. Instead, he ignored it, and began walking to the address in his database, telling himself that everything was going to be fine.