To think that he could somehow make Hank better was so fucking foolish, but believed it anyway.

He thought back to all the time he spent with him. When Hank had called him son, when he'd talk about his interests with Connor a bit. Even if it was just small things.

When he sobered Hank up with that cold shower one night, when he met Hank's dog Sumo or when he learned about his sadly deceased son Cole.

The death of Hank's son was the reason for all of this, all of Hank's misery, all his bitterness.

It was the reason why Connor came to check up on Hank one night and found him sitting at the kitchen table, gun loosely in his limp hand and his head on the table. The blood pooling out of the gunshot wound between his eyes had already formed a puddle on the table.

Sumo was desperately pawing at Hank's dead body, whining and barking, begging his owner to get up, knocking some bottles of booze off the table in the process.

Hank had been drinking his liver away, and old age had been catching up to him whilst Connor didn't age at all. Whilst Connor knew that Hank would die, he hoped it would be peacefully in his sleep.

Not like this.

God. Fuck. Not like this.

Was all Connor could hear as he silently placed a bouquet of flowers at Hank's grave, small tears running down the synthetic skin of his cheek.

He was a deviant with emotions, and whilst he cherished all of these truly sentient and alive moments in this moment he wished he wasn't able to feel this pain.

His eyes darted to you, as you quietly placed a bouquet at the grave too. "I recognise you" he spoke up quietly. "How do you know Hank?" He asked gently, wiping his stray tears.