FIVE

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VOULEZ-VOUS
━━━━━━(●'ω`●)━

"HERE'S YOUR COFFEE, CONNOR," you tell the Detective, a pleasant smile on your face as you place his coffee on his desk.

He glances up from his computer screen and smiles broadly, "Thanks! This is exactly what I need right now." He takes a sip from the coffee and hums contentedly.

You wonder how he can stomach something so sugary.

"Wait, what happened to your shirt?" He suddenly asks, sounding concerned, which is something you're not used to.

Smiling politely, you lean against his desk, "I spilled your coffee on my shirt a little earlier. My apologies, Connor. I hope you don't mind too much."

"Christ," he frowns, his expression reading sympathy, "are you okay? That must've burnt."

What? You stay silent. Processing. Why is he concerned about you? It's not something you expected... It feels strange. Once again, your LED turns yellow.

"Although my biocomponants are capable of malfunctioning in a way similar to pain," you begin, "the coffee wasn't warm enough to burn through my synthetic skin and cause any serious damage, so your worry is unnecessary, Connor."

He clears his throat, "Right..."

"Is there a desk I can sit at?" you ask, abruptly.

Connor thinks for a moment and scrunches up his eyebrows in a way that reminds you of a sleepy animal. After a moment, he nods his head and points to the mostly empty desk next to his.

"That should work," he smiles.

You nod your head in thanks and take a seat at your new, temporary desk. Connor gets back to work. You stare at him for a moment, analyzing his desk and surroundings. His workspace is very cluttered and messy, filled with little knick-knacks.

Colorful post-it-notes are stuck all around his desk with pieces of information written on them and photos of cute animals are scattered about, near the post-it-notes.

Some are reminders, like the one that reads "Don't eat seafood ): = allergy" or "sep 28th milk goes off" and others have strange numbers scratched onto them. As you scan his desk, you also can't help but notice the faint traces of dog fur on his chair.

"Can I ask you a personal question, Connor?" you say, interrupting his work.

He stops typing and looks over at you, his heart-rate accelerating. Again. "Huh? Oh, sure!"

You smile politely. "There are seventy-five post-it-notes on your desk which is an unusual amount for one person. Might I ask why you have so many?"

Connor's ears go pink in embarrassment, just like you predicted. He awkwardly rubs at the back of his neck and averts his eyes like a teenager that's been caught doing something against the rules.

"Uh," he stammers, "I'm a bit of a scatter-brain. You know, I once forgot I was allergic to shellfish and so I didn't know why I was breaking out with hives at last year's Christmas dinner and wasted an hour at the hospital... Uh."

You blink at him.

He grimaces, "Ah, yea. I'll stop talking now."

"Why?" you frown. "I appreciate your conversation."

Connor freezes. ⍓

His warm brown eyes suddenly widen with surprise and he looks openly stunned. It was like you had just told him something he'd never heard before.

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