Detroit Become Human: Every Breath You Take (Connor x Reader)

Chapter 2: Deviant Grief

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A week ago, I should've been nothing but a pile to mop up on a sidewalk-but there's a first for everything. Like an android programmed to rescue a hostage choosing to throw himself over the edge of death to save someone who shouldn't have mattered.

In keeping to many firsts, Gavin stood in the small bleached hospital room with me. One leg was propped against my bed while he smacked a wad of gum as loudly as possible. The stench of sweat roiled off him like muddy water. It was an effort not to scrunch my nose, one I failed miserably at.

"You'll be discharged soon," he drawled. He didn't add his usual spice of curse words, which unnerved me, making me pick at my hangnails.

I'd expected more jabs from Gavin in the wake of my coworkers collecting information on the events that'd left my dad dead, my mother distraught, and my sister numb to any comfort.

Did Emma hate me? I'd ripped away the life of someone she'd loved. Someone I'd loved.

"Shit," I muttered. A bead of red bloomed from the tiny nick my nail had made.

"If that's your attempt at wrist slitting, you're doing a fucking great job," said Gavin, his lips pulling back in a jeer.

To think I'd thought Gavin was capable of human decency.

"Why don't you demonstrate?"

He raised a brow. "Yeah, wouldn't you be fucking delighted."

"Don't you have somewhere to be?" I snapped.

"Soon as you get discharged, sweetie," he practically purred, winking at me.

"You're disgusting," I said.

Breathing through my nose, I stared straight ahead at the dreadful, bleached walls. My patience was running as taut as the gauze keeping me whole.

Of all my visitors, Chris Miller had been overjoyed that I'd not smashed my skull to pieces. Bless the man, I'd buy him a whole year's worth of his favorite coffee. Hank hadn't dropped by-probably too wasted to bother. Mom had settled into a chair by me while Gavin had idled by the window. No doubt listening into a family dynamic I'd tried so hard to bury.

After I'd decided to become a cop, my mom had withdrawn into shades of disappointment, insistence towards my having chosen the wrong path, and finally disdain.

There would be no swatches of colorful fabrics, no makeup, nothing. I was not the designer she'd always wanted me to be.

To both my heartbreak and my luck, she'd never uttered a single word until right before she'd left.

And it was simply, "Why didn't you stop it?"

There was no way I could tell her the truth. That, on the way home from work, I'd picked up a present for dad, a beautiful, gold-plated wristwatch. The one he'd ogled from the windows down the street on our way to the mall, exclaiming how no one understood true value anymore now that technology had soared to a limit none had seen before. I'd wanted to buy it in person instead of using android delivery service. That way, it was more personal.

I couldn't tell her, because she didn't want to blame Daniel for what had happened. Her whole life had been "ruined', according to her, when I'd stepped out of the ivory birdcage she'd built.

To her, pinning dad's death on me was more convenient if she could channel her resentment onto something else that'd gone wrong. I wish I were being harsh but growing up hearing her belittle me when I had differing opinions, some as simple as, "blue is my favorite color", instead of her desired "rose," culminated in a range of verbal abuse the likes of which dad hadn't been around to hear.