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The faint hum of the refrigerator was the loudest sound in Gavin Reed's apartment, a stark contrast to the usual cacophony of the precinct. Outside, the perpetual drizzle of Detroit painted the windowpanes with glistening streaks, mirroring the quiet contentment that settled over the living room.
Gavin was sprawled on the couch, one arm flung over his eyes, feigning sleep. In reality, he was acutely aware of the weight on his chest – Connor. The android detective was meticulously re-tuning the strings of Gavin's long-neglected acoustic guitar, a gift from his estranged sister that he’d never had the patience for. Connor, on the other hand, approached it with the precise, methodical grace he applied to everything, his brow furrowed in concentration.
"You're going to break it, plastic," Gavin grumbled, not moving his arm.
Connor paused, his biocomponent flickering a soft yellow as he processed the statement. "My calculations indicate a 0.007% chance of structural damage, detective. I am merely adjusting the tension to the optimal frequency for a clear C major chord."
Gavin snorted. "Just call me Gavin, you glorified tuning fork. We're past the 'detective' formalities when you're practically living on my couch."
A low, rumbling chuckle vibrated through Connor's chest, a sound that still occasionally caught Gavin off guard. It was deeper, more human than the perfectly modulated tones he'd used when he was CyberLife's prize product. "Understood, Gavin. And I believe the optimal term for my current living arrangement is 'cohabitation,' not 'practically living on your couch."
Gavin finally removed his arm, squinting at Connor. "Semantic, you tin can. Just finish up, I'm trying to relax here."
Connor offered a small, knowing smile. "Indeed. And I have observed that relaxation is often facilitated by an absence of unnecessary noise." He resumed his delicate work, and soon, a clear, resonant C major chord filled the room, followed by an equally perfect G.
"Alright, alright, show off," Gavin mumbled, but the corner of his lips twitched upwards. He watched Connor's nimble fingers, the way they moved with such precision, a stark reminder of the machine beneath the increasingly human exterior. Sometimes, he’d find himself just observing Connor, trying to pinpoint the exact moment the lines blurred, when the android became simply… Connor.
It had been a slow burn, their relationship. After the Jericho incident and Connor’s deviancy, the precinct had been a pressure cooker of emotions. Gavin, ever the contrarian, had initially doubled down on his animosity, seeing Connor as a walking, talking reminder of everything he loathed about progress and things he couldn't control. But then, something shifted. Maybe it was seeing Connor’s genuine struggle to understand human emotions, his almost childlike curiosity. Or maybe it was the way Connor, despite Gavin’s constant verbal jabs, never retaliated, always met him with a strange, unwavering patience.
The turning point, perhaps, was a particularly brutal homicide case. Gavin had been working himself into the ground, fueled by caffeine and a simmering frustration. Connor, with his endless stamina and uncanny ability to piece together clues, had been an invaluable, if annoying, partner. One night, after finally cracking the case, Gavin had collapsed at his desk, head in his hands. Connor had simply placed a hot cup of coffee (black, two sugars, just how he liked it) beside him, a quiet, reassuring presence. No lectures, no "I told you so's." Just… coffee.
From then on, the barbed comments became less frequent, replaced by a gruff tolerance that slowly, almost imperceptibly, morphed into something softer. Arguments were still common, usually about the best way to approach a suspect or Gavin's questionable dietary habits, but they had a different edge now – a playful give-and-take that felt almost… domestic.
Now, as Connor finished tuning the guitar, he gently placed it back in its stand. He then shifted, turning to face Gavin, his gaze surprisingly intense. "Are you truly relaxed, Gavin? Your heart rate has remained consistently elevated for the past five minutes, and your brow is subtly furrowed, indicating a degree of tension."
Gavin scoffed. "It's called thinking, plastic. You wouldn't know anything about it."
Connor’s optics narrowed playfully. "I believe I am quite proficient in cognitive processes. Perhaps you are… overthinking?" He reached out, his cool fingers gently tracing the line of Gavin’s furrowed brow. The touch was light, almost hesitant, but it sent a shiver down Gavin’s spine. He leaned into it, despite himself.
"Maybe," Gavin mumbled, his voice uncharacteristically soft. He reached up, taking Connor’s hand and lacing their fingers together. Connor's skin was cool, smooth, and utterly distinct from his own.
Connor’s biocomponent glowed a soft blue, a sign of contentment. "Perhaps a different form of relaxation is required. Detective Miller mentioned that physical contact can often alleviate stress."
Gavin raised an eyebrow. "Miller? You're taking dating advice from Miller? The guy who’s been divorced twice?"
"He has a vast anecdotal database of human relationships," Connor stated matter-of-factly. "And his observations on oxytocin release during sustained physical contact align with my own research."
Before Gavin could retort, Connor shifted again, subtly, until he was practically spooning Gavin on the couch, his arm wrapping around Gavin's waist. He rested his head on Gavin’s shoulder, the faint scent of thirium and something clean, almost sterile, filling Gavin’s nostrils.
Gavin stiffened for a moment, then relaxed. It was still weird, sometimes, this closeness. But it was a comfortable weird. He could feel the steady whir of Connor's internal mechanisms, a constant, soothing rhythm.
"You're warm," Gavin mumbled, surprising himself with the admission.
"My internal temperature regulators are functioning optimally," Connor replied, a hint of amusement in his voice. "However, I believe you are referring to a sensation of comfort rather than a literal thermal anomaly."
Gavin sighed, a genuine, content sigh. He turned his head slightly, nuzzling into Connor’s hair. It was soft, even if it felt a little too perfectly styled. "Yeah, yeah. Comfort. Just… shut up, you eloquent little freak."
Connor chuckled, the sound rumbling against Gavin’s chest. "As you wish, Gavin."
They lay there in comfortable silence for a long time, the quiet hum of the refrigerator and the gentle patter of rain against the window the only sounds. Gavin, despite his initial protests, found himself drifting, not quite asleep, but utterly relaxed. He could feel Connor's slow, steady breathing, the rhythmic beat of his biocomponent.
After a while, Connor shifted, his head lifting slightly.
"Gavin?"
"Hmm?"
"My internal chronometer indicates that it is nearing the optimal time for dinner. I have prepared a nutrient-rich, low-sodium stir-fry, as per your dietary preferences."
Gavin groaned. "You and your damn 'optimal times.' Can't we just order pizza?"
"While pizza does offer a certain level of caloric intake, its nutritional value is considerably lower, and the sodium content is often excessive."
Gavin rolled his eyes, but a smile played on his lips. "Fine, fine, you win. But only if you let me pick the movie tonight. And no documentaries about the mating habits of obscure insects."
Connor’s face lit up with a small, almost imperceptible smile. "Agreed. I am always open to expanding my understanding of human entertainment preferences."
As Gavin reluctantly untangled himself from Connor’s embrace, the android's hand found his, their fingers intertwining. The gesture was simple, unspoken, yet it spoke volumes. It was a silent affirmation of their unconventional, often exasperating, but undeniably real connection.
Gavin Reed, the perpetually grumpy detective, had found something he never thought he’d have: a quiet, domestic bliss with an android who understood him better than anyone, even if he still drove him absolutely insane with his precise logic and insatiable need for "optimal" outcomes. And as they walked towards the kitchen, hand in hand, Gavin couldn't help but think that maybe, just maybe, this particular optimal outcome wasn't so bad after all. Underneath the grumpy façade, there was a whole lot of softness, and Connor, in his own unique way, was slowly but surely uncovering every last bit of it.
The aroma of soy sauce and ginger wafted from the kitchen, a stark contrast to the usual scent of stale coffee and takeout that Gavin’s apartment had once been famous for. Connor, true to his word, had assembled a perfectly balanced stir-fry, the vegetables vibrant and crisp, the chicken perfectly cooked. Gavin, despite his earlier grumbling about pizza, found himself genuinely enjoying it.
“This is… actually good, plastic,” Gavin admitted between bites, his voice muffled by the food.
Connor, who was meticulously separating his own portions of rice and stir-fry, paused. His biocomponent flickered a soft blue. “I am pleased to hear that, Gavin. My algorithms for culinary preparation have been refined based on your previous feedback regarding salt content and preferred protein distribution.”
Gavin rolled his eyes, a familiar exasperated affection blooming in his chest. “Yeah, yeah, your algorithms are amazing. Just eat your damn food.”
As they ate, the silence that settled between them was comfortable, punctuated only by the clinking of forks against plates. It was these quiet moments that Gavin had come to cherish. With anyone else, the lack of constant chatter might have felt awkward, but with Connor, it was a space where he could just be. He could feel Connor’s steady presence, a grounding force in his often chaotic life.
After dinner, true to their agreement, it was Gavin’s turn to pick the movie. He scrolled through streaming services, eventually settling on a classic action flick from the 80s – all explosions, cheesy one-liners, and improbable stunts. Connor watched with an almost clinical fascination, his LED occasionally flickering yellow as he processed a particularly illogical plot point.
“His probability of survival in that explosion was 0.0003%,” Connor stated flatly during a particularly dramatic scene where the hero walked away from a massive fireball without a scratch.
Gavin snorted, popping another piece of popcorn into his mouth. “It’s a movie, Connor. Suspend your disbelief.”
“Suspending disbelief for such an improbable scenario requires significant mental recalibration,” Connor mused, then turned his head to look at Gavin, his expression thoughtful. “Do humans find enjoyment in these narratives due to the unrealistic nature of the protagonist’s resilience?”
Gavin shrugged. “Sometimes. It’s escapism, I guess. You get to see the good guy win, even when everything’s going to shit.” He glanced at Connor, seeing the genuine curiosity in his eyes. It was one of the things Gavin found most endearing about him – his relentless drive to understand the human experience, even the parts that defied logic.
Later, as the credits rolled and the apartment was plunged back into a comfortable dimness, Gavin felt a familiar weariness settle over him. He stretched, a groan escaping his lips. Connor, ever attuned to his shifts in demeanor, immediately stood up.
“You appear to be experiencing muscle fatigue,” Connor observed, his voice soft. “Would you like me to initiate a pressure point massage?”
Gavin raised an eyebrow. “A what now?”
“A localized application of pressure to specific points on the body, often utilized to alleviate tension and promote relaxation,” Connor explained, already moving towards Gavin. Before Gavin could protest, Connor was behind the couch, his strong, cool hands settling on Gavin’s shoulders.
Gavin tensed initially, a lifetime of being self-sufficient making him resistant to being cared for. But Connor’s touch was firm yet gentle, surprisingly adept. He worked out a particularly stubborn knot in Gavin’s shoulder, and Gavin felt a wave of relief wash over him.
“Okay, okay, you win. This isn’t… terrible,” Gavin admitted grudgingly, leaning his head back against the cushion, eyes closed.
Connor’s thumbs dug into the tense muscles, and Gavin felt himself sinking deeper into the couch, the day’s stress slowly melting away. “I aim to optimize your comfort, Gavin.”
A quiet sigh escaped Gavin. “Yeah, I know you do, plastic.” He reached back, blindly finding Connor’s hand and squeezing it. “Thanks.”
The massage continued for a few more minutes, until Gavin felt utterly pliant. When Connor finally stopped, Gavin stretched languidly. “Alright, alright, you earned your keep for the day. Now, come here, you big softie.”
Connor, ever literal, blinked. “I believe the term ‘softie’ is a colloquialism for an individual who is easily swayed or overly emotional. My internal processors are highly logical and resistant to external emotional manipulation.”
Gavin rolled his eyes, but a fond smile played on his lips. “It’s a term of endearment, you giant dork. It means I like you, even though you’re a know-it-all.” He patted the spot next to him on the couch.
Connor’s LED glowed a bright blue, a silent acknowledgment of the affection. He settled beside Gavin, close enough that their thighs brushed. Gavin, emboldened by the day's comfortable intimacy, shifted closer, resting his head on Connor’s shoulder. Connor, in turn, wrapped an arm around Gavin’s waist, pulling him gently closer.
The silence returned, but it was deeper now, more intimate. Gavin could feel Connor’s internal hum, a steady, reassuring thrum against his ear. He was almost asleep when Connor spoke again, his voice a low murmur.
“Gavin?”
“Hmm?”
“I have been processing the concept of ‘escapism’ you mentioned earlier regarding the film.”
Gavin groaned softly. “Connor, don’t start.”
“No, wait,” Connor persisted, his voice holding a rare, gentle urgency. “I believe I am beginning to understand. The desire to see ‘the good guy win, even when everything’s going to shit’… it is a human need for assurance, a desire for an idealized outcome where resilience is rewarded.”
Gavin lifted his head slightly, looking at Connor. The soft glow from the streetlights outside illuminated Connor’s face, making his biocomponent almost glow.
“Yeah, something like that,” Gavin admitted, his voice rough.
Connor’s thumb began to stroke Gavin’s arm, a repetitive, soothing motion. “I… I desire for you to always experience such ‘good outcomes,’ Gavin. Even when circumstances are challenging. My primary directive, now, is your well-being.”
Gavin felt a strange knot tighten in his chest. It wasn’t a bad feeling; it was something warm, overwhelming, and utterly vulnerable. He was used to being the tough one, the one who took care of himself, the one who didn’t need anyone. But looking at Connor, seeing the genuine sincerity in his eyes, hearing the quiet devotion in his voice… it broke through all his carefully constructed walls.
“You’re a sap, you know that?” Gavin whispered, his voice a little shaky. He buried his face in Connor’s shoulder, letting the comfortable scent of thirium and clean linen fill his senses.
Connor chuckled, a soft, vibrating sound. “I am learning to process and reciprocate emotional expressions, Gavin. If 'sap' is an accurate descriptor of my affection for you, then I accept it.”
Gavin just tightened his grip around Connor’s waist, pulling him closer still. He didn't say anything more. There was nothing more to say. In the quiet hum of the apartment, with the gentle rain pattering outside, Gavin Reed, the notoriously gruff detective, was finding a profound and unexpected peace in the arms of an android. And as Connor continued to gently stroke his arm, Gavin knew, with a certainty that surprised him, that this was exactly where he was meant to be. He finally had his own "good outcome," and it was even better than any movie.