Those first six months after the revolution fly by faster than Hank can seem to catch or count them. The city comes out of lockdown, tentatively at first, like a burrowing animal poking its nose out of its den after winter, and Congress eventually decides that androids really maybe are people after all, or at least something close to it. Hank's suspension is lifted and Connor says he wants to come back, truly, but only if he can work full-time as Hank's partner.
That part, at least, seems to mend itself.
A lot of shit changes, Hank thinks, but so much of it stays the same. They'd caught a bad one a couple days ago—dead kid. Seven years old. Little boy with dark curls and freckles, his glasses broken on the floor not too far from the body. There's a good chance Hank might've gone home and cleaned his mouth out with his revolver that night if things were different. If Connor hadn't showed up after work, temple flickering yellow, and gently pushed his way inside the house. Their house? It didn't feel like just-Hank's house anymore, even if Connor rented a little apartment closer to the station.
They didn't say much, but turns out sitting in companionable silence while some shitty old movie plays on the tube is better than drinking yourself into a stupor or—worse. Connor even ordered pizza from Hank's favorite joint down the street without being asked, and although he didn't have much of an appetite he'd choked down a slice anyway because it was important to do things like that for the good people in your life, or so his therapist says. Hank's doing better, he swears he fucking is, but sometimes shit hits too close to home. One of his healing nerves held too close to the flame and scorched raw all over again.
Connor knew—but then again, Connor seems to know everything.
The little boy's name had been Marley. Like the singer. Or worse yet, like that goddamn dead dog movie Hank watched once and then never again.
Eight days after they saw the body for the first time, Hank's busy staring at his blank terminal screen to kill the last hour of his shift when Fowler calls him into the big office. He doesn't even hear the first address—a short but friendly enough, "Hank? A moment."—until the second one follows a few long seconds later, this time loud enough that it booms across the bullpen and draws some stares from the less-seasoned officers. "Lieutenant Anderson, in my office please."
The first thing Hank sees when he looks up is the scarlet circle at Connor's temple, flaring there in some underlying stress signal even while he ostensibly tries to focus on the screen in front of him. Their eyes briefly meet while Hank stands, his chair rolling backwards across the tile, but Connor's expression gives nothing away beyond the slightest furrow on his forehead. It's been there in some omnipresent crease since that first night they caught the bad case, and Hank's had to stop himself more than once from reaching out to swipe a thumb over it, like Connor's expression is a dimple he can smooth out of wet clay.
Some kind of steep fucking metaphor in all that, Hank thinks as he sighs and walks toward Fowler's office. Man was supposedly made from the dust of the earth—even men who were built rather than born.
"Sorry, Jeff," Hank says once he closes the door behind him and sinks down into one of the empty chairs across from Fowler's desk. "Kinda...well. Just had a lot of shit on my mind here lately."
"That's what I'm worried about, Hank," Fowler says without pause, leaning back in his chair to watch his star Lieutenant. He looks tired himself, but now that they're alone his hardass Captain's tone softens some into that of an old friend. "I know the Shepherd case hasn't been the easiest."
Hank's eyes immediately stray to the brass plaques and awards on the wall behind Fowler's desk. He clears his throat and rolls one shoulder, suddenly very much interested in not having this conversation right now. "Cases with kids are never easy for anybody," he says at last. "You know that."
