Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It surprises literally no one that they end up in bed together.

The deviant leader and former deviant hunter, it’s almost a book cliché.

Connor had been still struggling, with the concept of himself, independence; and the overwhelming feeling of emptiness that someone so used to being told what to do smacks their head against, once they have no more instructions. Markus had been a literal port in the storm, the person to look up to.

The deviant leader himself, instead, had found himself surprisingly alone in his crowd of friends and followers alike –he knew he could count on Josh, Simon and North, but as equal as their footing was he’d still be ‘Markus’; they still look for his eyes before making decisions and he’ll always be a guide before being an individual.  The irony of feeling ‘different’ after teaching everyone that they can be different if they want to didn’t escape him, but it didn’t make him laugh either.

And in that middle ground they met –the two surviving RK prototypes, ‘special snowflakes’ North would call them– slinking away in the shadows to discuss anything, from the concept of individuality itself to something as seemingly pointless as why the color red is called ‘red’.

They are kindred spirits in their uniqueness, processors tirelessly working much faster and on many more things compared even to other androids, and each is really the only person the other feels on equal footing with.

So really, Connor is not surprised that they do end up in bed together –he is a detective, he sees the clues, reads the body language, knows the RK technical specifics… from the very start of the day, he knew it would end with them together in bed.

But he is surprised when he wakes up alone.

‘Wake up’ in a loose sense of the word –androids can technically enter a sleep state that, while not entirely needed, is useful for de-cluttering processes and reorganizing memory banks; not unlike defragmenting a hard drive and quite similar to what dreaming does to the human brain. Before deviating, he only ever did it when necessary… last night, when Markus hugged him to his chest and whispered “stay” to the nape of his neck; Connor decided that entering sleep state could prove to be quite pleasurable.

Admittedly, he hadn’t really thought about the depths of his relationship with Markus, even as he recognized the flirting and welcomed it even— he just smirked at Hank the one time Markus came by the station and the Lieutenant just pointed out gruffly “Your boyfriend’s here”— but he didn’t think it would just be a ‘get in, get it done, get out’ sort of deal.

Not with Markus.

Recalling the previous night, Connor can almost still feel every kiss, every touch, the rare, beautiful loss of composure as he and Markus crashed down together with a passion –there’s still a tear in his hand from where he inadvertently smacked hard against the corner of the nightstand. To his credit, Markus had pulled back slightly at the crunching sound, but Connor just pulled him closer by the belt buckle with his good hand and all but growled “Leave it” against his lips.

And let’s not get started about what having Markus actually inside him felt like –not only physically, but in every sense of the word: they spent the entire time connected, hand in hand and with no barriers holding their emotions back, while their subroutines got more erratic and errors started briefly flashing at them as they lost control together—

He has to blink and shake his head.

Yes, those feelings were exactly why he didn’t expect he would wake up alone, sleeping face-down on the rumpled bed in the silence, the only trace of Markus being the discarded t-shirt on the floor.

And, well, the fact that this was technically Markus’s place.

So painfully evident by all the art supplies scattered here and there, unfinished sketches and tubes of color making him think of Markus with an almost aggressive intensity.

He is still new to emotions but… it’s definitely painful, to wake up alone.

Not wanting to dwell further on it, Connor retracts his good arm from where it was absently brushing the empty space Markus left behind –had he been doing that the whole time? That’s embarrassing, even for him– and goes to push himself up.

There’s a jolt of pain from the hand that’s still sporting the tear, and Connor flinches in place.

rA9, this is so pathetic.

“Oh, you’re awake. I thought you’d sleep longer, I have some bio-repair supplies for your hand.”

Markus?

“Markus?” of course— his mind offers, now that he’s not panicking anymore like the needy mess he most definitely is not; he should have had more trust in Markus and in what is actually going on between them.

Of course it wouldn’t just be about the sex, and of course Markus would still be worried about his stupid hand injury. It doesn’t stop Connor from inwardly cringing at how needy that sounded.

“Is something wrong?”

The RK800 is caught, his interface is evaluating between the option to be sincere or try to be casual. A few small moments of silence pass, slightly awkward, until Connor eventually shakes his head.

“No.” he says softly, “I just thought you were gone for a moment. Software instability, you know how that goes, don’t you?” He closes it off with a wink, and enjoys immensely the way Markus bites at his own lip, made bashful by Connor’s bold-faced honesty and yet visibly pleased by the statement.

He managed to play it off a little with a joke, but he’s still grateful when the other lets him save face: “Let’s just get that hand of yours patched up.” Markus says, and then proceeds to crawl onto bed towards him, as opposed to walking until he was by his side, which would have been both more efficient and practical.

But then Connor wouldn’t have enjoyed the vision that is the RK200 crawling into bed for him while wearing only his unbuttoned trousers, never once taking eyes off him.

Practicality can go fuck itself, to borrow a few choice words from Hank.

“Come here, let me see that.” Right… why is he even remotely thinking about Hank right now?

Connor doesn’t resist when Markus motions to take his hand, relishing in the gentle touch even as polymer skin makes way to pristine white.

Markus is nothing but careful as he opens the packet in his hands, unfolds the heating pad and removes the protective membrane. “This will heat up enough to melt the myomer surface and merge it with the liquid polymer from the pad.” He feels the urge to explain, even though he’s well aware that Connor knows perfectly how to perform such minor repairs, “The excess substance will evaporate in a couple of hours.”

A cheeky smile finds its way on the RK800’s lips. “Any idea on how to spend that time?”

There’s something just so natural about hearing Markus laughs softly, equal part amused, exasperated and aroused. “I’d rather you took it easy and rested.” It feels like the missing piece of his identity.

“But I will be so bored…” Connor looks at the other and tilts his head, in that ‘innocent’ way of his that sometimes is actually not innocent at all and Markus knows it.

Still, there’s a reason why they click together so well, and Markus doesn’t let him have it this easy. “I’ve got just the thing.” He assures, with the type of wink that makes Connor want to say ‘yes’ to anything.

…he didn’t quite expect Markus to make him lay face-down on the bed and start painting on his upper back.

He has to admit, though… it’s surprisingly relaxing. He doesn’t know how much time passes, he feels the paintbrush roam over his shoulder-blades several times over, dip down towards his lower back and come back up, sees Markus change color over and over… his back is probably a complete mess right now, but… “This feels nice.” So much so that he’s closed his eyes and let himself enjoy the experience solely through his touch sensors and the soft sound of the brush tracing along his back.

Markus only hums in agreement at first, and Connor chances a sideways look at him. “Yes, I imagine it would.” He says, voice whisper-quiet as he concentrates on his task, mismatched eyes focused and beautiful, watching over Connor with something akin to reverence, as if Connor is the extraordinary one out of the two of them.

He is, in his own way, but the sheer adoration in Markus’s eyes makes him feel a burning need to reciprocate, to put him on the receiving end of such a look, because, oh boy, does he deserve it. “You’ve never felt it yourself, before?”

The RK200 minutely shakes his head. “Not really. I would sometimes paint on my arms, to soothe myself in moments of high stress, but…” he shrugs a shoulder, “I doubt it is exactly the same.”

“How about I have a go at you, then?” Connor proposes, pushing himself up with his good hand, “I’m no genius painter, but I think I can run a paintbrush down your naked back. In fact, I think I’ll be quite good at it.”

Markus would ask him where on earth did he learn to be such a flirty little shit, but they are literally in bed after having sex and sleeping together in the verbatim sense of the word, so it’s not like he can fault him about that kind of humor. “Well… if you want to…”

Connor wants to.

He takes the palette and brush while Markus snakes himself to lay face-down –yes, snakes. Markus doesn’t simply shift; he’s way too sinuous in every single movement to compare him to anything but all things graceful and silent. Connor would know, they fought side by side during the Jericho raid and those brief moments of teamwork were the most seamless cooperation of his entire life, before and after deviancy.

The temptation to just forego the painting altogether and just dive down for his prize and show Markus exactly how much he missed him, in the brief moments he thought himself seduced and abandoned, is very, very strong… but Connor always completes his mission, and right now his interface is alight in a corner with the prompt ‘Paint on Markus’… which is not at all unpleasant.

With a slight smirk, he smears the brush in both green and blue before starting a line following the curve of Markus’s right shoulder-blade.

“Mm…” the brush almost falls from Connor’s hand at the pleased little hum that his lover makes –there’s no two ways about it, they are lovers. They left early from the inauguration of the first business to be owned by an android they all were attending to, spent the night at Markus’s place and were now… well, not ‘sleeping in’ per say, but spending time in bed doing nothing just for the sake of being together just a little while longer.

Connor himself will admit to quite a few naïve moments, but he isn’t stupid. They’re lovers.

The very thought stretches a smile across his lips, and he dips the brush in the red –only it was still dirty with the greeny-blue mix, so the final color comes out purple– and draws a tiny little heart on the RK200’s other shoulder.

Markus can feel the lines being drawn, and even with his eyes closed, he smiles. “Tell you what—” he says, turning suddenly ad tugging at the leftover plaster on the other’s hand, “I think that’s plenty of time for your hand to be all better.”

“Markus, the sheets—”

Connor’s protest his feeble at best, even though he sees the light-coloured cotton immediately get stained in the paint from Markus’s back –the other android doesn’t seem to mind in the least, as his hands find Connor’s waist to tug him close. “I don’t care, I can wash them.”

“Whatever happened to ‘resting’?” oh he’s a huge hypocrite. Especially because he readily follows the tug without a fight and happily straddles Markus’s lap. But that doesn’t mean he will make it that easy.

Then Markus purposefully bucks his hips upwards to punctuate his answer: “Fuck resting.”

Well.

That’s a welcome change of heart. And Connor always gives into Markus eventually. It’s a thing.

It’s his favorite thing, actually –not having to be rational and controlled all the time.

Markus has ways to make him lose himself that go well beyond the physical gratification of sex.

Which is saying something, but here’s the thing: just as he suspected, sex with Markus is not just sex… taking now, for example; they’re both covered in paint and they know it will make an absolute mess, but does either of them care?

Markus laughs wholeheartedly when, after running both hands down Connor’s back, he brings one up to caress his lover’s neck and face as they kiss and inevitably covers the side of the RK800’s face in a messy smear of colour; and Connor is no better once he sees a bright green handprint of his own hand just under Markus’s left pectoral.

If he could be bothered to search his database, it would tell him that yes, having sex can incite laughter to the point of being hilarious, provided that the emotional connection between the individuals having intercourse is deep, intimate and comfortable.

But Connor doesn’t care to look it up; and he doesn’t really have to –he’s fine with just feeling, more and more until everything loses meaning except one name, Markus, Markus—

It’s only their second time together, but Connor knows that he will always love to come with Markus’s name on his lips.

By the time they’re done, the bedsheet looks like a Jackson Pollock painting and they’re still laughing while they redress themselves. “You know… I’m sorry for ruining it for you.” Connor eventually mumbles, once the last of his giggles die down.

“What?” Markus is still falling from cloud nine, “Connor it’s just a bedsheet—”

“No, not that…” it’s his turn to be slightly bashful, now –they do seem to take turns a lot in being insecure. It’s a rather sweet thought, to have such a give-and-take relationship. “The painting thing… you said it soothes you when you’re distressed…”confusion turns into realization in the RK200’s mismatched eyes, and before Connor can blink away from their beauty Markus is already in front of him, clasping both his hands.

“It’s okay. Your presence soothes me more than any paint ever could.”

“That’s a lie and you know it.”

“True, you drive me absolutely crazy.” Markus concedes easily enough, stealing a quick, chaste last kiss, “But in the good way.”

“You, smooth talker.” Connor rolls his eyes at his lover’s antics, and reluctantly breaks their embrace, “I really have to go to work, now.”

Right. The outside world is still a thing. Silly Markus. “Same.” He sighs, “Can I come see you when I’m done?”

“I’ll tell you if I get some downtime.”

They seal the deal with a kiss –“the very last one, Connor, I promise”– and then each goes about his own day.

Hank has a field day when Connor turns up in his perfectly pressed and pristine uniform, but with streaks of paint still on the side of his face and poking out from his collar, not to mention the small smear of light green on the corner of his lower lip, as if someone ran a paint-smeared thumb over it.

Connor can actually see the different stages of confusion, realization, shock and finally amusement.

“You look like you had a fun time.”

“I did!” he chooses to reply cheerfully, not even remotely rising to the Lieutenant’s teasing tone, “Markus and I were—”

“Yeah! I know!” Hank physically throws his hands out in a ‘stop’ motion. “Or rather, I can imagine. But I don’t want to. Please.”

“—painting.” The android finishes, looking at his friend with slightly raised eyebrows and a radiant, perfectly innocent smile. “It got a little bit away from us.”

Hank just shakes his head, visibly done with the day already. “Yeah, I’m sure that’s what the kids call it these days.”

Connor wishes he could sympathize, but for him it’s the best day ever purely on account of the warm memories that will forever fill his core.

The next time he goes to see Markus they’re not alone, North, Simon and Josh were already there hanging out; but Connor sees a new painting that looks suspiciously like the ruined bedsheet from their morning together, carefully stretched out on a wooden canvas frame and left out to dry.

Even as the other androids express curiosity over it and compliment Markus, who keeps a surprisingly straight face through the whole thing, Connor shakes his head, smiling secretly to himself with a mutter. “So much for washing the sheets.”

He loves it.

If it always ends like it did today, Connor is more than willing to be Markus's canvas for the foreseeable future.

Or, you know... forever.

Forever is good.

Chapter Text

If he didn’t know any better, Connor would start thinking Markus had developed a kink. It didn’t happen every night, but every now and then Markus would distract him with kisses and then start dragging a brush somewhere on his body –sometimes he forewent the brush altogether, running paint-smeared fingers down Connor’s sides and enjoying the way the RK800’s movements would stutter at the cool feeling of paint touching his skin.

Huh. Maybe Markus isn’t the only one with a kink.

Point is, Connor has noticed a pattern.

Every now and then, foreplay would turn into Markus painting on his body, the painting would turn back into foreplay and they would turn another set of bedsheets into an absolute mess of colors.

Not that he’s complaining, those nights are some of the best— more than once he has screamed Markus’s name while his lover filled him in both body and mind, their fingers twined tightly in a connection beyond any other; feeling every emotion on top of every touch, Markus’s other hand buried in his hair and his lips trailing down Connor’s neck, uncaring of the paint staining them both as everything around them dissolved into a need for more, closer, so close—

Connor blinks himself out of the memory, LED briefly going yellow as he pushes it back into a secondary subroutine. He has to be at work soon, for crying out loud. His hair is as clean as he’s going to get it –he will simply have to suffer through Hank’s teasing when the Lieutenant sees him with a pink streak on the side of his head.

It’s become a thing of sorts –on most days he manages to hide a good 99% of the traces of color he can’t quite wash away, but on the days he can’t he’s been telling his colleagues that he’s helping Markus with his painting, which is… not that far from the truth and less traumatic an explanation for the people at the precinct.

He grabs Markus’s shirt, climbs down the stairs and turns to go into the studio, where he finds his lover kneeling on the floor in is jeans, staple gun in hand, carefully stretching their latest… collaboration, over the wooden skeleton to dry.

There’s still a dark grey downward pointing hand print on the left side of Markus’s lower back, disappearing well underneath his jeans. Connor is especially proud of that. He creeps silently forward, until he can kneel on the floor as well and hug the RK200 from behind.

“I still can’t believe you’re getting away with this.”

Markus chuckles at his lover’s words, and nestles willingly into the arms circling his chest, briefly halting his work to clasp a hand over Connor’s wrist. “Excuse you.” He says, without a single shred of shame, “These pieces are going to be displayed at the N’Namdi Gallery next week. It’s art.”

“It’s the imprint that our bodies leave on bedsheets while we make love.”

 “I stand by my previous point.”

Oh, the absolute cheek on this one. It started out as a joke, really. A little while ago, Markus took the very first bedsheet-painting they made, framed it and hung it in his office of sorts –to have something to remind him of better things while he’s talking to diplomats and bored out of his mind, he said.

Then some very influential person or other happened to see the painting and like it, started asking questions about it and “How amazing, you are an artist on top of everything else? You should do an exposition of your works!”

The ‘painting’ Markus is stretching out onto canvas right now makes number sixteen.

“I should out you.” Connor quips, with no real malice behind it, as he lets his hands slot around his lover’s torso and he relaxes a bit forward, leaving feather-light kisses on his shoulder while Markus finishes stapling the edges of the sheet.

Once he’s done, Markus turns around on his knees to face the RK800 without having to break free from his arms. “And ruin our fun?” he briefly touches both sides of Connor’s neck with his hands, then just lets his forearms drag forward, until he can rest his upper arms on his lover’s shoulders, bringing himself nose to nose with the other android. “You wouldn’t.” He punctuates it with a quick lick at Connor’s lips.

Connor makes a show of turning his head to the side. “You’d deserve it just for what you did right now.”

They spend several seconds just looking at each other, each unwilling to let his gaze waver.

Eventually, Markus caves: mismatched eyes drop downwards and he starts laughing. “That was terrible, I’m so sorry.” He manages in-between chortles, hiding his face in Connor’s chest.

“Hey now…” Connor coos, pushing a hand under the other’s chin to get Markus to look at him, “You were very credible… for about two seconds.” They both laugh some more. “Seriously, any longer and I would’ve punched you in the face.”

To be fair, it’s not that Connor doesn’t believe Markus to be sexy, quite the opposite, it’s just that the whole over-the-top seductive persona is absolutely laughable, especially so because he doesn’t need it. Once they’re done laughing at Markus’s stupid antics, the actually get off the floor and step back to examine their latest masterpiece.

Well, masterpiece may be a big word for it, but it’s lovely to look at and there are a lot of feelings behind it.

Some of the other bedsheet-paintings, Connor knows, have been modified here and there; Markus added strokes of color occasionally, after stapling them up, merging shapes into vague figures –just enough for them to look like something, but still so vague that no two people would agree on what.

Except for the one where he blatantly retraced Connor’s hands, where they left an imprint –the right hand was splayed open and clear as day, the left much messier and barely recognizable, since at the time it was twined with his lover’s. Connor remembers that particular night well; Markus was a comforting weight behind him, making him lose his mind nice and slow until he felt like he was coming apart at the seams.

But the best part about that particular night is that he got to return the favor afterwards. Connor privately thinks Markus rarely looked as beautiful as he did lying on his back for him, mismatched eyes half-lidded and hungry as he watched Connor grab him by the legs and trail a few little kisses on the inside of his knee before moving his way up to his prize.

Coming to think of it, Markus might be right, each one of these sheets is indeed a work of art –and he will be kind of sad to see them go, when they inevitably get bought by rich, business-savvy people who will not pass up the chance to have a painting from the very first free android artist.

“You know what?” he mumbles into his lover’s shoulder, hugging him from behind again, touch receptors craving every second of contact, today, “I will miss them.”

Markus just covers Connor’s hands with his own and bites at his lower lip. “Well… we can always make more.”

Hank gets invited to the big day –Connor owes it to the Lieutenant for putting up with so much of his bullshit– and of course Markus’s closest friends are there too.

It’s a good thing that they’re here; Markus is predictably whisked away here and there from critics and gallery directors alike, all with questions about such a peculiar collection and why the name ‘Nightshades’ for an entire series of paintings that are singularly titled only with numbers otherwise.

Really, Markus, you couldn’t have been more obvious if you tried.

“So, do you like the exhibition, Lieutenant?”

Hank looks out of his element, at the very least, but he does manage a shrug and a half-smile at Connor. “Eh, it’s alright, I guess.” He says, “Not really my thing. …is this really what you’ve been helping Markus with?”

The RK800 has to bite back his smile. “Well, I didn’t really do any painting, but… I was there, yeah.”

The confused and slightly suspicious frown on Anderson’s face tells Connor his partner is well on the way to figuring this out, but whatever he was about to say gets interrupted by Simon, North and Josh, who have rescued their fearless leader from the clutches of boring art critics –man, they really are as bad as Carl said they were.

“Ah, Lieutenant Anderson! Glad you could make it, Connor tells me this isn’t your usual idea of fun.” Markus greets him with a polite smile and bright, eager eyes, so much so that for a moment Hank wonders what the hell that is about. Then he remembers that this might very well be the first time they’re around each other outside of the DPD and without any crisis going on.

“Uh, sure.” He stumbles over his words slightly, “I mean… just because it ain’t my thing it doesn’t really mean anything.”

Also, he has to concede that some of the colors in these are really kinda pretty. Though it makes him curious –virtually none of it looks like it was done with a paintbrush. Now, Hank knows artists mix media and all that shit, but he really can’t figure out what kind of tool would leave such random shapes without the tell-tale hint of bristles. Aerograph, maybe?

“I don’t know, Markus, I don’t understand it…” North steps closer to the painting hanging on the wall opposite to them, while their fearless leader gives Connor a quick kiss on the cheek as an apology for getting himself dragged away.

Simon seems to be having fun, at least. “That’s the thing, North, you’re not supposed to understand it.” He says, “You’re supposed to let it evoke an emotional response in you, and revel in that.”

She doesn’t seem too convinced, and takes a few steps back to look at the thing in its entirety. Something seems to click in her mind, after she thought to scan the painting to analyse its elements.

Her voice is broken by barely restrained giggles when she speaks up again. “I— I don’t really know…” she has to pause to contain her laughter, “Is it just me, Markus, or does that— look like there’s a buttprint?”

Markus holds North’s gaze, mouth pressed in a tight line and fighting the urge to smirk, eyebrows arched and eyes challenging her to continue.

If the blonde android wasn’t sure before, her friend’s look is a dead giveaway and she outright smacks a hand on her chest and audibly gasps. “You didn’t!”

Simon and Josh have caught up at this point; and are staring at Markus with the same absolute shock.

“So much for ‘emotional’ pieces, Simon.” Josh mutters, and it’s all Markus can do not to burst out laughing himself, but he manages to keep it in, if only just barely.

“You are, singlehandedly, the absolute worst.” North declares, emphasising the last word with a pointed finger at Markus’s chest, “I love it!”

It’s quite the involuntary satire, after all –put a respectable enough name behind something, make it look unusual and colourful… and you’ll be amazed at how many people will pay for it and how much.

Connor himself finds it quite funny, and even though it’s a bit of a joke at the humans’ expense, the paintings themselves are indeed quite colourful and pretty, so he can’t really bring himself to feel bad for it either –after all, does it really matter how they were made, if people like them as they are?

Chancing a look at his partner, he finds that Hank is now looking back and forth between the painting and him. Possibly remembering the pink in his hair from a week ago, being the exact same pink on the canvas hanging right before them.

It’s his turn to try and hold somebody’s stare without laughing.

“You mean you—”

“Me?” He curiously tilts his head, the very picture of innocence.

“And him—”

It’s a close thing, but he manages to keep a straight face. “Indeed.”

“Jesus Christ, kid!” Hank has known for a while that Markus and Connor are romantically involved –as has anyone at the DPD with eyes and a semi-functioning brain, considering how often Markus drop by and the amount of times he tries to sneak a quick ‘hello’ or ‘goodbye’ kiss; but the RK800 guesses this is, as they say, too much information. “How do you even—”

He still can’t quite bring himself to feel bad about any of it. “Oh come on, Hank, I’m sure I don’t have to explain it to you… do I?” he asks, in his best ‘eager to be helpful’ tone.

The reaction is immediate. “No! God! Fuck’s sake, Connor!”

North is still laughing. “Oh, this makes this whole event so much better.”

Of course she would think that. Chuckling under his breath, so does Hank, once he recovers from the whole ‘oh God please why did I have to think about that?!’ moment –he has to admit, as far as pranks go it’s freaking genius.

Glancing at Connor and Markus, the Lieutenant allows himself a private smile –they really seem happy together.

“Markus! Markus, a word please!”

The call comes from somewhere to their left, and the RK200 makes a show of turning his face upwards in despair. “Oh no, they found me again!” he stage-whispers, quickly grasping his lover’s chin. “If I’m not back in ten minutes, go without me, save yourself!”

“Isn’t that a little dramati—” Connor’s question gets cut off by the soft pop of lips against his own, moments before Markus turns and steps away, towards yet another wealthy personality that wants to be seen talking to him.

“Of course sir, what would you like to know?”

“Oh— I didn’t mean to interrupt, is the young man your boyfriend?” so they were seen kissing. Oops. Connor’s LED flashes yellow as he processes the human’s question –he’s pretty sure they know he's an android, what with the flashing light on his forehead, and yet this person referred to him as ‘the young man’. Not ‘that android’. Silently, Connor hopes Markus will be especially nice to that one.

Oh who is he kidding? It’s Markus, he’ll be nice to the goddamn houseplants. “Well, the word doesn’t really do it justice, but yes.”

The pride in his voice at declaring Connor his significant other is enough alone to make the detective’s heart swell with more affection for Markus –a feat he didn’t think possible— and he’s pretty sure he has a stupidly dreamy expression as he watches the RK200 walk away.

“You seem happy.”

Connor has the option to be sarcastic and tease the Lieutenant some more, but there’s something in Hank’s tone; it’s almost as if he’s surprised, as if he didn’t think it possible for Connor to actually be happy, and is relieved to have been proven wrong.

He fishes a quarter out of his pocket and starts fiddling with it, to try and appear casual as he answers. “I am."

“Good. It would have looked bad on my rap sheet if I had to shoot a few rounds at your boyfriend’s ass.”

Oh, Hank. Connor’s interface offers him a multitude of response options, but he can’t bring himself to pick any of them and just laughs for a moment. “What is it with people thinking we can’t handle our relationship like adults?” he asks instead, with more than a little amusement in his voice, “I can assure you, if I thought Markus was mistreating me I’m perfectly capable of kicking his ass myself.”

He’s pretty sure Markus has had to say the same thing to North. Hank seems to actually consider his words.

“Fair enough.” He says eventually, “But if it ever comes to it, just say the word and I’ll hold him down for you. Got it?”

Connor shakes his head fondly. “Whatever you say, Lieutenant.” He replies, like he usually does when he’s about done with Hank’s shit.

“Don’t sass me.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, I’m the very picture of innocence.”

Hank eyes him with a decidedly not convinced expression and then gestures around them. “You’re the very picture of something, alright.”

Ok, he has to concede that point.

By the time the event comes to an end, seven of Markus’s paintings have been officially purchased, and there’s what amounts to a bidding war going on for three more. If they had to boil it all down to one good thing, is that whatever profit comes out of this, it will be used directly to strengthen the support network for those who are still vulnerable after the dust settled.

Connor is going back with the Lieutenant for today— he wants to make sure Hank eats a proper meal and doesn’t drink too much; and he also wants to give Sumo some love.

“Okay, lovebirds, keep it up any longer than that and I’m gonna have to separate ya with a crowbar!”

The protest seems to do the trick –Connor and Markus pull back from their admittedly quite slow and long kiss to try and avoid laughing their asses off. “See what you’re doing to my reputation?” the detective chastises, even as they smile at each other, foreheads still touching.

“Making sure the world knows you’re taken?”

Connor knows his attempts at faking naïve innocence are getting less credible the more people around him get acquainted with his particular brand of sarcasm, but Markus is absolute rubbish at pretending. He shoves the RK200 away. “You’re the absolute worst.”

The quote doesn’t escape Markus. “…and you love it.”

“Shut the fuck up.” It’s not quite an ‘I do’, but it still comes with a tug at his collar and a quick last kiss, so Markus counts it as a win.

He doesn’t need to hear it said, anyway –it’s there, every time Connor lets him take a brush to his skin; it’s there when they entwine hands and get lost into each other…

It’s there in the way Connor walks away with a disgruntled Hank Anderson, but turns to wink at him.

« I do. »