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

Chapter 12: How to Become Human

Elijah Kamski and Carl Manfred shared two sides of the same coin. The side of grim postulations and bitter cold - it was fit for a predator thirsting after knowledge, sharpening his mind to extremes on Nietzsche and cutthroat examinations. The other side was ripe for nurturing that knowledge, guiding it from the vestiges of one's mind through careful forefathers, like Shakespeare, Odes, and Plato.

I was excited to return to Carl's cage of a world, where everything glittered and seemed secure, but I was also on edge for exactly that same reason. Cages, no matter how gilded, are still cages. Carl's was the kind that protected yet prodded growth in a specific direction, tended to like a blooming flower by a gardener.

The painter's home was situated on Lafayette Avenue, a fancy little name for where the fancy (not little at all) mansion sat, bordered by pristinely manicured shrubs and a sprawling, immaculate driveway. It was a fairytale house, the place where dreams nestled and stars went to bed. Many viewed Carl's towering stately mansion to be a reflection of the man. They wouldn't be wrong, as long as they were referring to his older self, who'd turned to art after a horrible accident had left him wheelchair bound and repentant over his past sins.

Hank parked right against the curb. "Well, get a load of this shit," he said, peering out through his window up at the mansion. He craned his neck up, as if expecting the house to grow like a redwood until it touched the heavy, snow-pregnant clouds. "Reminds me of that drawing you made. Did you honestly think I was stupid or something? I'd recognize this place anywhere - Connor could fuckin' draw it and I'd still know what it was."

If Connor did it'd look like a blueprint, lacking any artistic impression, because he saw the world as numbers and concrete facts. My view was both the blessing and the curse of viewing the world with the eyes Carl opened for you. Everything became an anaemic copy until you poured the life you saw into into it. When Carl had first seen my work, he'd called it the equivalent of an English major writing up pretentious drivel and expecting to be crowned atop the literary canon. Despite such a crushing critique, Carl had said I wasn't a complete failure, because the passion for life was hiding in my shallow brushstrokes. He'd have to peel off the layers; and would I be willing to tear down my walls?

Connor, who was normally well-prepared to retort with something like 'CyberLife didn't program me to draw anything but code', remained where he was. He kept his head bowed, his shoulders hunched, and his leg continued to bounce.

"I told you I'd take you home if you're sick," Hank said, his voice unusually soft.

Connor stilled his leg. "I cannot get sick, Hank."

The man drummed an erratic rhythm on the steering wheel before shutting off the music. He combed his fingers through his mane with a frown, but refused my offer of a hair tie as always, even though I insisted it'd do the trick. Dammit. One day, I vowed as we stepped outside, I'd get him to pull his hair back.

The sky was already shaking powdered snow onto the gingerbread mansion and I shoved my hands into my jacket pocket. It was chilly, more so than earlier.

Hank wandered ahead, and I secretly delighted at how he was probably dying to see the famed artist's dwelling in the flesh. There was the sound of a car door closing behind me and I turned to find Connor striding after us, his LED a ring of solid yellow.

I stood up on my tiptoes to press a hand to his forehead. He jumped at the contact, as if he'd not even registered I was right there next to him. "I can't really ever tell if there's a temperature difference," I told him. "Daniel once told me he was very cold, but he was warm to the touch. Like always. Like you."