Connor RK800
Fandom: Detroit: Become Human
Words: 627
*Trigger Warnings* mild violence (Hank’s yelling, not actual harm), workplace tension, android discrimination, light flirting
You didn’t ask for an android partner — but you didn’t mind one either.
Working under Lieutenant Hank Anderson meant you were already used to unpredictable moods, overflowing files, and a partner who claimed to hate androids almost as much as early mornings. So when Captain Fowler informed you that *you* would also be assisting the new RK800 prototype, you didn’t argue.
Hank did enough arguing for the both of you.
“I don’t need a damn machine watching over me,” Hank muttered as Connor followed the two of you across the bullpen, walking with that immaculate posture that somehow made people even angrier.
“Hey, c’mon, Hank. He’s not doing anything wrong.”
Connor’s LED flickered in mild confusion.
Hank scowled at you like you’d chosen violence.
You were halfway through processing a crime scene when Connor crouched beside you, his eyes glowing faintly as he scanned evidence. Hank hovered in the doorway, arms crossed, broadcasting disapproval like a nuclear signal.
Connor leaned slightly closer, tone gentle.
“Detective, I believe I’ve identified—”
“Connor,” Hank barked, “if you say the word ‘analysis’ one more time—”
“Hank!” you cut in, exasperated. “He’s trying to help.”
Connor’s eyebrows lifted a fraction.
You could swear you heard a soft chime — relief?
“Thank you,” he said quietly.
You didn’t know androids could sound almost… shy.
It quickly became a daily routine.
Connor offers help.
Hank threatens to break something.
You swoop in like Connor’s unofficial bodyguard.
When Connor tried handing Hank his coffee?
“I don’t need caffeine delivered by a glorified Roomba.”
You snatched the cup before Connor’s LED could flash to yellow.
“Hank! Drink your coffee and be nice.”
Connor looked at you with something suspiciously close to *gratitude-coded admiration*.
When Connor reported an observation mid-case?
“I swear to God, plastic boy—”
“Hank!” you snapped again.
“Stop verbally assaulting Connor.”
“I’m not assaulting him,” Hank said.
“I’m verbally educating him.”
“You’re traumatizing him!”
Connor blinked slowly.
“I am… not traumatized.”
“Don’t lie for him, Connor.”
Connor had no idea whose side he was supposed to be on.
Androids weren’t meant to stare — but Connor did.
Not in a creepy way.
In a processing something unfamiliar, intriguing, possibly mission-critical way.
Whenever you defended him, he straightened.
Whenever you smiled at him, his thirium pump kicked up a fraction.
Whenever you touched his arm while pulling Hank away from throwing hands… well, he almost blue-screened.
One afternoon, Hank stormed off after yelling something about androids ruining society.
Connor looked at you, LED spinning.
“Detective… Why do you defend me?”
You shrugged.
“Because you’re trying. And because you don’t deserve to be yelled at every thirty seconds.”
He tilted his head.
“I find your empathy… statistically rare.”
A beat.
Then:
“I like it.”
Your heart skipped.
He noticed.
His LED flickered for half a second before returning to blue.
You pretended not to see.
He pretended not to malfunction.
The next time Hank tried to “educate” Connor, you stepped between them again.
“Lieutenant Anderson,” Connor said from behind you, “I believe Detective Y/L/N is preventing further physical altercations.”
“Damn right I am,” you muttered.
Hank threw his hands up.
“You know what? Fine. You two can babysit each other. I’m going to get lunch.”
He stomped off, leaving you and Connor standing close — too close — in the empty hallway.
Connor looked at you with something warmer than anything you’d ever expect from an android.
“Thank you… for protecting me.”
You smiled.
“Anytime.”
His LED glowed a soft, steady blue.
But his eyes — they were doing something entirely human.
Markus RK200
Fandom: Detroit: Become Human
Words: 786
*Trigger warnings* no major triggers, light teasing about android emotions, mild romantic tension, sensitive themes of identity, android feelings (very soft)
Carl’s house always smelled faintly of oil paint and old books—an oddly comforting combination that you’d come to associate with quiet evenings, warm lamplight, and the gentle, almost reverent way Carl treated both art and the people who loved it.
You were one of those people.
He had invited you first out of politeness—“Come by if you want to see the new pieces. Markus will let you in.”
But you kept coming back because art didn’t just hang on the walls here… it breathed. It felt alive.
And somehow, every time you stepped inside, Markus was waiting.
Not because he had been told.
But because he always seemed to know.
Carl set up the chessboard. Markus stood across from him.
You sat at the piano.
Your usual place.
Your fingers hovered above the keys as Markus made the first move—a pawn sliding forward with smooth, precise control. He didn’t need to look; his sensors told him everything. Still, he kept glancing up every few seconds.
At you.
Carl noticed, of course. He always did.
“Markus,” he said lightly, “if you lose tonight, you can blame it on being distracted.”
Markus paused with his hand over a rook.
“I’m not distracted,” he said, too quickly.
Carl laughed—a warm, knowing sound.
You smiled down at the keys, cheeks warming.
Your fingers slipped into the opening notes of a piece Carl liked you to play. Soft, slow, the kind that filled the corners of the studio without overwhelming it. Music that made the marble statues feel less cold and the rain hitting the windows sound softer.
Markus made another move.
Then looked at you again.
And again.
And again.
“She plays beautifully, doesn’t she?” Carl mused.
Markus straightened. “Yes. She does.”
You tried to keep your focus on the piano, but Markus’ voice had a way of sinking beneath your ribs, settling quietly there.
Carl leaned back in his wheelchair, watching the two of you with a smile that was all fatherly amusement.
“You know, Markus,” he said, “for someone who claims they can’t feel… your face says otherwise.”
Markus’ LED flickered yellow.
“I—Carl, please.”
Carl laughed again, absolutely delighted.
You finally glanced up, and Markus froze mid-move, completely caught.
There it was—the softness.
The intrigue.
The way he looked at you as if you were another piece of art in Carl’s home, one he didn’t quite understand but could never look away from.
You paused your playing. “Need help choosing your next move?”
It was meant as a tease.
But Markus went still—processing the tone, the smile on your lips, the playful raise of your brow. Something in him warmed, softened.
“I don’t think you’d give me good advice,” he said finally.
“Oh? And why not?”
“Because you’d want me to lose.”
You pressed a hand to your heart in mock offense.
“I would never sabotage you.”
“Wouldn’t you?”
For an android, his voice held a surprising amount of warmth.
Carl wheeled closer to his painting. “Young love,” he muttered, loudly enough for both of you to hear.
“Carl,” Markus said again, LED flashing an embarrassed yellow.
You hid your laugh behind your hand.
He noticed that too.
Later, when the game was over and Carl retreated to his studio—
You lingered at the piano, letting your hands rest on the cool surface of the keys. The lamp beside you cast Markus in soft amber light as he came to stand near the piano bench.
“You always play that piece,” he said quietly.
“Because Carl likes it,” you replied.
“And you?” he asked.
You looked up, meeting his eyes.
“I like playing when you’re here.”
Markus didn't move for a moment.
Then—slow, careful—he sat beside you on the bench, close enough that you felt the warmth of his frame, though he technically shouldn’t have radiated heat at all.
“What do you like about it?” he asked.
Your fingers brushed a few keys, a shy little melody.
“You don’t look at the music. You look at me.”
Markus’ LED flickered.
“I look because…”
He hesitated, searching. Choosing.
“…because your expression changes when you play. You look at peace.”
“Is that rare?”
A faint smile touched his lips.
“It is.”
You didn’t realize your hands had stopped on the keys until Markus reached out—hesitant, gentle—and placed his hand over yours.
Human warmth.
Artificial skin.
Perfect stillness.
“I like when you come here,” he said, voice softer than the piano beneath your hands.
“I… look forward to it.”
Your heart squeezed.
“Me too.”
Carl, from across the room, didn’t even pretend he wasn’t listening.
“About time,” he muttered.
Markus ignored him for once.
He only looked at you—really looked—and you felt something shift between you.
Something gentle.
Something blooming.
Markus RK200
Fandom: Detroit: Become Human
Words: 830
*Trigger Warning* rain, emotional confusion, gentle romantic tension, android identity conflict
The rain started just as Carl was finishing his last brushstroke of the night.
A soft drizzle at first. Then a steady curtain that blurred the windows and filled the studio with the muted roar of water on stone.
You stood at the door with your coat half-buttoned when Markus appeared beside you, silent as always, but something in his posture felt… tentative.
“Let me walk you home,” he said.
You opened your mouth to protest—you didn’t want to be a bother, and Markus wasn’t exactly built for strolls in the rain—but Carl spoke up before you could.
“Go,” he said, waving a hand. “The night is dark and Markus could use the fresh air.”
Androids didn’t need air.
But Markus still inclined his head respectfully.
“Thank you, Carl.”
Carl smiled—one of those small, knowing, fatherly smiles he reserved for moments he found important.
Moments he didn’t want Markus to miss.
Outside, the rain was gentle but persistent.
Markus stepped ahead of you long enough to unfurl an umbrella—Carl’s umbrella, classic and worn but steady. He held it above both of you, adjusting slightly so the edge covered more of your side than his own.
You noticed.
“Markus, you don’t have to—”
“You’ll get soaked,” he said simply.
“And you won’t?”
“I don’t mind.”
You laughed softly. “Of course you don’t.”
But he tilted his head, and there was something… searching in the way he looked at you.
“Is it strange?” Markus asked. “That I want to do this anyway?”
Your breath caught.
You weren’t sure how to answer that.
So you walked.
Side by side, your footsteps echoing in the quiet street. The umbrella created a small, intimate world between you—just the hush of rain and Markus’ careful presence beside you.
A block later, you spoke first.
“You know… you’re allowed to enjoy this.”
Markus glanced down at you. “Enjoy?”
“The rain. The walk. The company.”
His LED flickered yellow.
“I’m not sure I’m meant to,” he admitted. “But I… notice things when I’m with you.”
“Like what?”
He hesitated—something he rarely did.
“The way your breathing changes when you’re cold. How your smile looks different when you’re trying not to laugh. How you pause before you touch the piano keys, even if you know the song perfectly.”
A beat.
“And how being near you feels… different.”
You slowed to a stop, the rain tapping softly on the umbrella.
“Different how?”
Markus stared straight ahead, as if afraid to look at you.
“I don’t know. That’s what frightens me.”
“Frightens you?” you echoed.
He turned to you then, eyes dark and earnest.
“I keep wondering if this is… a glitch. A deviation. If I’m misinterpreting data. If I’m forming patterns that aren’t supposed to be there.”
His voice drifted lower.
“Or if this is what Carl means when he says I’m more than what I was made to be.”
Your heart tightened.
“Markus… you’re not misinterpreting anything.”
His LED pulsed amber, almost troubled.
“You say that so confidently,” he whispered.
“Because I see it too.”
The moment stretched—quiet, fragile.
A car passed in the distance, tires hissing on wet pavement.
Somewhere a streetlight buzzed faintly.
And then, in a motion so subtle you barely felt it at first, Markus shifted the umbrella to one hand—
—and let his free hand brush yours.
A feather-light touch.
Tentative.
Testing.
You didn’t pull away.
He noticed.
And he froze.
Not like an android halting.
But like a person who was terrified to misstep.
“Is this…” he murmured, glancing down at your intertwined fingers—still only barely touching—
“…okay?”
You slid your hand fully into his.
“Yeah,” you breathed. “It’s okay.”
His fingers closed around yours slowly, as if he was afraid too much pressure might break the illusion.
Or break him.
When you reached your building, Markus lingered.
Rain pooled around your doorstep, and the umbrella shook slightly in the breeze. But neither of you moved.
“Markus?” you whispered.
“Yes?”
“Tonight… did something change for you?”
He searched your face with unreadable eyes—android precision mixed with something human in its softness.
“I don’t know,” he said quietly. “But I want to understand it.”
You swallowed.
“And Carl?” you asked. “What would he say?”
A small smile tugged at Markus’ lips—a rare and gentle thing.
“He’d say,” Markus murmured, voice low and warm,
“that whatever this is… I should let it.”
You felt your breath catch.
“And do you want to?”
Markus stepped closer, the umbrella dipping with him, bringing your faces inches apart.
“I think,” he said slowly,
“I want to see you again tomorrow.”
Your pulse jumped.
“I’ll be there.”
Something like relief washed over his features—so human it made your chest ache.
He released your hand last—slowly, reluctantly—before stepping back into the rain and lowering the umbrella.
“Goodnight,” he said.
“Goodnight, Markus.”
You watched him until he disappeared around the corner.
You swore—just for a moment—you saw him touch his chest.
As if trying to locate the unfamiliar warmth settling there.
