how on earth could a person actually manage to articulate something like this about oneself and one's estranged former collaborator and then willingly publish it for anyone to read...my god man don't TELL US this...
I have been lovingly sent by KC to request for a Connor fic
RIGHT SO I’M (kinda) BACK PEOPLE. I’M BACK AND I’M JOINING THE PROTECTING, CHERISHING, AND LOVING CONNOR SQUAD
(for reference, I did put this in the same sorta universe that @luvleekaotix-imagines set up in her stuff for Connor that’s set up in this piece which is so fucking cute I love it, I love KC, and of course. I love Connor. Bye.)
Connor had an interesting relationship with clothing. Prior to his deviance, his preferences could hardly be labelled “preferences” at all—more differing ideas of function. His uniform was the go-to, but the casual wear, that was to go unnoticed—as a deviant hunter, he was, after all, not welcome among the deviants he was searching for, so, play the part.
But that was before. This is now.
It was fun for you to watch him branch out in his choices, get new outfits—you couldn’t ever call him a frivolous shopper, no, that is the furthest thing from Connor, even as he embraced a world where he could like, and dislike, and just, well….be.
So you caught new things in his wardrobe over time. You caught blue and brown and green. All sort of neutral, a little earthy, but he was growing. And it was sweet.
Hank didn’t seem to notice any, but when could you expect he of the strange shirt pattern fame to care much about what his partner is doing with his own clothes? Still, though. You made the point to tell Connor that he looked good whenever you saw him wearing something new.
And for the you that couldn’t help but smile a little whenever you saw Connor smile, it made you happy that he seemed genuinely pleased whenever you did.
And when more was added to the meaning of the word “partners” that seemed to be what Connor always described the pair that you and he made, then you got to see more of his life up close.
A lot of tiny things made you feel like you were getting to know him better—and given the pseudo-human he was emulating in the before, to be known as him himself, who he was beneath commands, and who he is above them all now, that meant a lot to him. A lot of tiny things made you happy to know meant a lot to him.
Blue is his favorite color. As soon as he told you that, a lot of little things seemed to line up in a row, how he always seemed to be wearing something blue, how he always seemed to steal the pens with blue ink from your desk rather than the ones with black (though you never formally accused him of that, as he would always return them, he’s good like that, as opposed to Hank, who asks to borrow one pen and steals another ten over the course of a month or so), how the color found its way in little bits and pieces in his everyday life.
He likes dogs. He said he likes dogs to Hank that first time, trying to get the lieutenant to warm up to him, but he found he genuinely does like dogs. They’re friendly, and they don’t judge him for what he is or who he was, or, for that matter, who he is.
He doesn’t mind that they can get a little loud sometimes (he could use a little friendly sort of loud), he doesn’t mind hair everywhere (just like he doesn’t mind cleaning), or their dependency—he likes knowing that something needs him. Not a double, not a program, him.
When Connor said again that he liked dogs in earshot of Hank, he replied, “I knew I liked you for a reason.”
He likes comfortable clothes. Soft fabrics, nothing too hard to move in—initially it was another function thing, if it’s comfortable, it’s easy to move in, and if it’s easy to move in, it means he doesn’t risk life or limb every time he goes running after some deviant in a dangerous situation.
And that reason still has its virtue, but now? Now he finds himself wearing those casual clothes more often. Now he finds himself buying more of their kind, wearing them most times he isn’t going out to work as a private investigator proper.
And of course, with that extended meaning of the word “partners,” comes a wonderful perk of…“borrowing” some of that extended wardrobe.
Connor is….unaccustomed to many of the perks of having you as his multi-meaning partner.
There are some things that humans learn socially that androids haven’t had the chance to. Some of the many are the ones he learns with you.
He knows he’s smitten.
It occurs to him that “smitten” wouldn’t have been the word he used before, but ever since his deviancy he’s been trying in strange, small ways to branch out. And smitten and him and you just seem to fit like a puzzle he hadn’t known he could figure out.
A lot of words to describe a lot of things about you.
A lot of words he learns to enjoy.
And a lot of perks he learns to understand, and enjoy, in his way.
Like you stealing his clothes.
He learns you like blue, too, or at least remain partial to this one blue hoodie he has. He can understand why, it is rather soft, but you have an awful lot of nice jackets, too. This tendency has a habit of disrupting morning routines a little, but…
He can admit the twinge of enjoyment, strange and foreign as it may be, of seeing you in his things. He likes sharing his life with you, why would sharing his clothes be a boundary? If anything, it’s just proof of just how much of you he’s gotten involved with. It’s pleasant.
Though it does come with its own new issues.
Like the mornings where you know it’s just a matter of time before he finds you seated on the couch in his hoodie while he’s still in the bedroom.
So you spend your time relishing the warmth, flicking through a magazine, before you saw him poke his head into the room in the corner of your vision.
“You’re wearing my jacket,” he stated.
You looked down for a moment and back up at him, an, ‘oops you caught me’ smile on your face. “Looks like it.”
“May I have it?”
You hum, flicking your eyes down to what you were reading before, and then answer, “No.” You look up again, on the silence, and his expression is something close to a bemused smile. “What? It’s cold.”
“I imagine turning the thermostat up might help with that,” he replied, matter-of-factly.
“Yes, it would, but I don’t wanna do that.”
“Would you like me to, instead, then, since you’re so comfortable?”
Noticing immediately that he misconstrued your stubbornness for laziness you put down the magazine and make a noise somewhere between a whine for pity and a groan of complaint, draping yourself over the arm of the couch. “Noooooo. Connor, I literally just turned it down because I like stealing your hoodie, it would’ve been too warm in here if I hadn’t.”
“Ah. I see.” An awkward silence extended as he seemed to wait for something, only to get you offering your greatest puppy dog eyes.
There was a funny amount of enjoyment he had every time you failed to remember how little those worked on him in times like these.
“May I have my jacket?” he asked again, his voice soft in that ever-patient tone.
“I made this apartment a frozen hellscape to steal your clothes, and you won’t even let me have that, what kind of monster are you?” you ask, playing at sounding incensed with him, and seeing little more than that patient smile in response (you loved, in that strange way, how he has become so used to your pseudo-theatrics where before his reaction was confusion and offered questions), you whine and groan again before getting up and walking over to him, unzipping the hoodie as you went. “Fiiiine,” you agreed, drawing out the vowel to highlight how really and truly this inconvenienced you, and that smile of his grew a little more fond when you handed the jacket to him.
“Thank you. And if it’s any consolation, I promise free use when I get back,” he offered in consolation as you passed him in the hall to reach the thermostat.
“I’ll hold you to that.”
Another thing that had made you happy, in its own, strange way, was to see Connor developing habits of his own firsthand.
Like kissing you on your forehead, just a little right of the center line of your face.
You imagine it started in response to you doing about the same to him, but it made sense for you to kiss him in that spot. There was a freckle on his forehead. It was a nice freckle, so you kissing it every once in a while seemed like something nice to do.
You imagined he knew this was why you started, he just didn’t know how to reciprocate for such a specific reason.
Unsurprising awkwardness turned sweet in the face of fondness.
hellow again, fit !! i know it hasnt been long since i last visited you but .. i dont have any other choice !! youre one of the most fun to talk to. youre just so ... reactive O_O
i was thinnkiing .. about spreen . you havent failed me telling the truth yet, so i dont expect you to now !! thats crazy, isnt it !! you hate talking to me so much , but [[ EVERY OPPORTUNITY ]] you tell me the truth ..
whats your thoughts on spreen !! im sure you have many . ive been observing ^_^ -spectator
You... piece of shit.
Fine. I don't want to punch another hole in my wall. Spreen.
[He says his name like he's opening Pandora's box.]
What am I fucking meant to say about Spreen? He's a coward. He's supposed to help me. He's supposed to be here, helping me raise our boy. I don't even know where he's fucked off to.
[It sounds like Fit's shifting in his chair, like he's sitting up to look at something.]
He didn't finish his house. I can't even remember if he helped make Ramón's-- but he didn't finish his. The front of it's, like... sort of rustic, or medieval.
[Sounds like he sits back down.]
I want to blow it up, [he whispers.] It'd be so easy to. Fucking trivial, with how small it is. But I can't. I'm not even holding back for Ramón's sake, man. Maybe he'll come back, and he'll see the crater, and he won't think about staying.
I hope he's listening. I hope he knows I want him to come back, even though I just-as-equally want to punch his fucking lights out 'till he respawns. I hope he knows what's good for him.
