Deviant Behavior (Connor x Reader)

House Call

November 6th, 2038
PM 05:26:11

Choosing a shower's temperature had never felt like a more crucial decision.  Cold, to cool you off after working up a sweat; reduced to salt by the acidic bath outside, leaving a sticky residue clinging to your skin.  Hot, to warm your chilled bones and sooth your aching muscles.  You'd compromised, turning the dial to the midway point.

You tilted your neck, rinsing your chest as you massaged your shoulder.  You'd been through a lot.  You deserved a moment of peace, even if that meant cleaning yourself with your favorite scent of soap; with your favorite album looping helplessly on your cell phone; sitting on top of your favorite lounge attire.

You had a lot of favorites, and it would take an army of them to make you feel better after the last few months.

You frowned at the bruise on your stomach, your lip twitching at the view.  It was big. Ugly.  Almost as much of a reminder that you weren't invincible as the deformed scar on your arm; a red, healing crater that did little to restore your self-esteem.

A door shut on the other side of the bathroom.  You froze, pointing your chin at the wall that shuddered.

You opened the curtain, the shower still running.  You slipped your outfit on, water seeping into the cloth. You didn't have time to dry yourself. You left your phone playing on the sink's counter as to not tip off the intruder.  Maybe intruder.  Maybe paranoia.  You weren't sure.  Either way, you armed yourself with your revolver, retrieving it from your jacket; still dripping as it hung from a rack on the back of the door.  Alternating footsteps came closer, pausing just on the other side.

Intruder confirmed.  Paranoia doesn't walk.

You held your breath as they started to move away, sounding like they were headed down the hall.  You lived here.  You knew the layout.

How they got past the receptionist, security, and minute-long elevator ride was beyond you.  Why'd they'd want to visit in the first place, was beyond you.  You weren't a high-ranking official; you were barely a blip on the DCPD's radar.  A street cop.  The clean-up crew.  Whoever was here had obviously made a mistake.

One you'd correct, regardless.

Every muscle tightened, like an automatic signal sent from the floor up your spine, directed out towards your limbs.  Your hand wrapped around the door's handle, each finger taking its place one at a time; the knob filling your palm.  You rotated your wrist, the grinding latch coming undone...and when you could turn it no more, there was an earth-shattering "click."

You shoulder-charged the door, and it banged against the outside wall; shuddering as it hit the rubber stop.  Your gun shot forward, the grip slamming in your other hand as you brought the 6-round chamber level with your line of sight.

"HANDS UP, MOTHER FUCKER!"

An LED flashed red above a wide stare.  A steep inhale was vacuumed into a mouth that hung open.  Hands raised to cover a body, dressed in a suit.  You knew him, but he wasn't supposed to be here.

Images of Daniel and the deviant from the interrogation flashed like a horror movie stuck on repeat.

Your chest heaved.

"He's not supposed to be here.  Intruder.  Danger. Defend yourself. Shoot to kill. Why are you hesitating? Neutralize the target. He's not supposed to be-"

"I'm not here to hurt you, Officer-" He bumped into an accent table as he retreated, stuttering your last name, "It's me, Connor!"

"What are you doing here?" You croaked, gun shaking.