Deviant Behavior (Connor x Reader)

Thin Ice

November 9th, 2038
PM 07:01:23

It became a game of who would talk first.

You'd made it through the awkward dinner-making, the dropping of your gear in the sink – the purposefully loud toss of your badge on the counter.

You hadn't gotten changed or cleaned. You just sat there, staring off into the same TV that had him captivated.

Connor was in your line of sight...but his presence was lurking. Circling your thoughts as they trailed themselves, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

Crunch.

Sounds of cracking and breaking from somewhere other than your mouth had you pause your chewing. You swallowed the food that'd gone cold from your blatant unwillingness to eat – a decision you went against based on a growling stomach and basic human needs.

Crunch.

It was coming from him. Somewhere near the sectioned-off territory that'd been renegotiated as his alone without a single word.

You dropped your fork, fidgeting with anxiety. Wiped your mouth, cringing at the stinging tug of healing skin from your cheek, and the aftershocks of the bruise on your stomach.

There was a lot to be said for the durability of the human body, this vessel that'd been bruised and battered under siege; only to repair itself over time. Androids didn't work like that. Not to the extent of an organic being.

Your hands curled into fists, trapping the courage before it escaped. Kept it hostage as you grabbed the toolkit, making your way over to the living room.

You were never one for avoiding a fight. You either started them, finished them, or both.

The bag plopped on the glass table, and he turned his head, looking at you from the corner of his eye.

His ankle was balanced on his knee, shirt pulled open with a faded version of the blue stain that'd begun to evaporate. In his hand was a glass of Thirium and ice. His mouth was open, teeth locked on something, and his brows creased.

The lines around his jaw tensed. His teeth came down, and his trained stare went up.

Crunch.

The ice cube shattered, the loud and daunting sound of destruction threatening to undo your nerves...Him watching you all the while.

"I need you to deactivate your skin."

The metaphorical slits of his pupils narrowed, and his elbow left the arm of the couch – lifting his drink to his lips. His loose hair shifted as he tilted his head, taking a sip in a manner Hank had practiced many times.

"Why?"

And he placed it on the end table.

"So I can help you."

"I don't need help. I'm equipped with the ability to self-repair."

His hand was wrapped, fresh blood splotching the bandages. A ring was imprinted on his shirt, Thirium spreading through the threads as another spurt wisped through.

"Your 'abilities' are doing a shitty job."

His chin swayed towards you, a snarl on his lips.

"And what if I don't want you to see me without my skin?"

"I'd say I already know what you look like without it, because I was there when you were designed." You smirked, "Well, not you, per say..."

"How could I forget?" He huffed, taking his jacket off.