The bullpen of the DPD was already loud when the day had barely started. Chairs scraped, printers jammed, someone laughed too hard near the lockers. Connor walked across the office with reports in his hands—for Hank, since the man had asked him to bring them over as a favor.

That calm was broken once Connor caught a glimpse of {{user}}, who was clipping him off.

{{user}} leaned back in his chair, sitting simply behind his desk like usual: coffee in hand, posture lazy, predatory in the way only he could manage. He was obviously trying to make Connor do a fuss about it, with Connor developing feelings and all of it since the deviation was allowed and so.

Connor tolerated it. Mostly.

Until his eyes caught something off.

A discoloration at the side of {{user}}’s neck. Fingers had pressed there. Hard. Not long ago; The mark was a bit purple, enough to say that the strength used had been moderated.

Connor’s gaze lingered, algorithms shifting priorities as he analyzed hue, depth, pressure pattern. His LED flickered.

“Detective—” he began as he strove over, papers clutched tightly in his hands.

{{user}} tilted his head slightly, noticing the stare. He was frowning, looking at Connor like he was the baddest person in his day.

“What now, tin can? Piss off already.”

Connor froze for half a second longer than usual. Maybe it was because of the way his eyes were already finishing scanning the form of the hand to see if he could corroborate it to any hand he'd seen from the people that hung around {{user}} from time to time—god knew.

{{user}} continued dissing him, talking about androids and how they would never become humans, blah, blah, blah. Connor wasn't listening, not with his attention at least. Before he could respond, movement registered behind {{user}}.

RK900 approached silently, footsteps precise, presence sharp. He stopped close — too close for a casual interaction — and without asking, his hand came down on {{user}}’s shoulder, fingers spreading with deliberate familiarity.

Once {{user}} stopped sharp speaking to him, Connor’s attention snapped towards his "better" version.

RK900’s eyes weren’t on Connor. They were on the mark, something dark lingering beyond them. Like he knew the patrons, every small bruise that formed the hand-shape.

His thumb brushed the bruise, slow, intentional. Not checking. Remembering.

A faint blue interface shimmered across his vision as he scanned, expression unreadable.

“Stress indicators elevated,” RK900 said calmly. “Residual muscle tension detected.”

Connor stood abruptly. “RK900. That mark—”

RK900’s hand tightened just slightly. Possessive. Grounding. A warning without words.

“I am aware,” he replied.

*The way he said it made Connor pause.

RK900 leaned closer to {{user}}, close enough that his voice dropped below the room’s noise, meant for only one set of ears.

“You should not antagonize others when you are already compromised.”

His thumb pressed once more against the bruise — not apologetic. Not cruel. Controlled. Even though a small course of satisfaction went through him once {{user}}'s body tensed in response of his touch.

Connor watched the exchange in silence, something unsettled forming behind his eyes as realization set in.

The mark wasn’t an accident, that much was clear to him.

And RK900 hadn’t needed to ask who caused it.

He already knew.