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When Hank and Connor arrive at the station, Hank is out of the car and halfway across the parking lot when he notices Connor isn’t at his ankles like a gosling. He turns around, and looks back to see Connor sitting in the car, still, a look of worry on his face. As Hank comes closer he sees how the android’s light is flashing yellow. Connor is sitting pressed as far back into the car seat as possible, staring at the ground outside the half-open door as if it’s going to swallow him whole as soon as he touches down on it. Connor’s systems have registered absolutely nothing as a danger, and now his thirium pump is working too fast, hurtling the liquid that powers him through his tubing systems, and it’s overheating. Startling Hank, Connor’s breathing function starts up abruptly, the cooling systems beginning to work along with his thirium pump, keeping it cool as it powers on at 138%. “Connor?” Hank asks quietly. The android startles. Actually startles. And then he stiffens and pushes himself back into the car seat even further. “Come on, son,” Hank urges quietly. Connor moves jerkily, like he’s glitching. Connor himself wonders if he’s malfunctioning as he rapidly freezes, continues, goes back, continues, freezes, moving like a scratched disk. After about seven minutes of this, his foot hasn’t even landed on the asphalt parking lot ground, and Hank sighs. “Fuck this,” the Lieutenant says, “we’re taking a sick day.” Immediately some of the tension leaves Connor’s body as he drags himself far back into car as fast as he can, slamming the door behind him. The noise of the door makes Connor tense and freeze again before he settles slightly again. When Hank climbs into the car and turns the key, it starts up the radio, and loud screaming music full of chaotic energy blares from all around them. The sounds feel like they’re tearing into Connor’s sensors, his audio unit feels like it’s going to ignite. He twists the volume down so hard the knob comes off between his fingers. But at least the noise is gone. Connor starts to ‘space out’ as Hank would call it. Things start to feel less coherent as he tries to grasp both his thoughts and feelings while also hanging onto the reality around him. He looks down at his lap, seeing his hands rub and twist together relentlessly in some kind of nervous fiddling. He tries to stop himself from doing it, but the action only becomes replaced by his hands rubbing, his nails scratching against his trousers. Is he malfunctioning? Possibly. He doesn’t notice that they’re home until Hank’s hand lands on his shoulder, and then he registers the visual input of what he’s seeing outside the car window and his GPS automatically kicks in to confirm the location. “Let’s get out of the car, yeah?” Hank suggests quietly. Connor doesn’t speak. He knows he can, but for some reason it feels like there’s a hand clasped over his mouth, and he’s not allowed to open it and talk. Connor nods instead and steps out of the car with ease, the issue from before no longer present, though he doesn’t know why. He feels like there are people watching him, gazes crawling over his being, but he can’t turn around and check, because something tells him that something bad will happen if he looks anywhere but down. They enter the house, and Connor tentatively takes a seat on one of the couches, still looking at his lap. “Connor, look at me,” Hank asks softly. Connor raises his eyes to stare at a spot of peeling paint on the wall about 2 meters behind and three centimeters to the left of the Lieutenant’s head. Hank sighs. “Okay,” he says, kindly, “Why don’t you want to look at me?” I don’t know, Connor wants to answer, but the invisible hands are still over his mouth. “I- I- I-” he’s a broken record. He can say it. He knows he can, but why can’t he? This doesn’t make sense. It’s like he’s broken. He must be broken. His LED, a steady yellow up until this point, flashes a brief red. He shrugs. Hank sighs. The Lieutenant walks over to a CD-player and starts searching through a stack of the outdated music mediums. In an ordinary situation, Connor probably would have made a joke about Hank still owning and using the practical museum pieces, but the jab doesn’t even come to mind, or if it does cross his mind it produces only a frown from the android, and he doesn’t say it out loud. The quiet sound of a soothing collection of string instruments, mainly cellos, emanates none too smoothly from the speakers, damaged from playing loud aggressive tunes too frequently. But it is no less calming for Connor. Hank seems to sense the music’s effect on the android, because the man smiles and speaks, “Cole wasn’t much of a sleeper. But this always helped him along.” Connor still doesn’t want to go outside. He still can’t speak, and he still can’t meet Hank’s eyes. But he feels safer now. “Hey Connor,” Hank says, and Connor glances is in his general direction to see the man holding up a pouch of blue blood. “Can I put this in the microwave?” If you take it out of the bag first, Connor wants to say. He gives Hank a desperate look, as if willing the man to suddenly gain mind-reading abilities. “I can’t tell what you’re thinking Connor. Come on, son, just speak to me,” Hank says, almost on queue. Connor feels his hands begin to rub and scratch at his trousers again. His LED flashes red again. Rubbing his temples briefly, Hank cuts open the pouch with the kitchen scissors, and pours it into a pale pink mug. “Let me guess,” he says, “I can microwave it now, right?” Connor turns away from Hank’s general direction and nods. A few minutes later, Hank is sitting down next to Connor softly, handing the android a mug of warm thirium, which is calming to drink, and Connor feels softer still. Why is this happening to me? Connor wonders. Evidently the sentiment shows on his face, because Hank’s hand comes up to rub circles on his back. “It’s ok, son,” the man says softly. “I get it.” This must feel very one-sided to him. I can’t speak, I can’t look at him, I can’t move. It must be annoying for him, trying to figure out what I need. Connor feels the saline solution drip from his optical units as Hank pulls him into a hug. Connor will never understand how hugs are so nice. Why? It makes very little logical sense. His LED flickers crimson for a second. The next day Connor shows up to work. He sasses Reed, he shows off his forensic and deductive abilities, and he has a fun time. But sometimes, he has days like the one before. He doesn’t know why, but it’s going to be ok. His dad’s there for him.