interlinked (connorxreader)

2. Carlos Ortiz

For a man who lived alone with a housekeeping android, nothing in this house gave the impression of occupancy, maintenance, or domesticity.

"Footprints must've washed away with this rain," Chris murmured. "We're gonna have to see if any of the neighbors had cameras in their yards, maybe caught which direction the android ran."

Kneeling down, you take a swipe at the dirt and rub it between your fingers, the muddy substance staining your fingertips. The dirt is soft and impressionable, giving a certain bounce when one walks on it. It's almost moldable, like cookie dough or clay. You shake your head, wiping your dirty hand on your jeans.

"It hasn't rained long and it's our first downpour in weeks, the footprints couldn't have washed away so fast. This type of soil would've at least retained a trace, anyway." Rising to your feet, you open the door again and wait for Chris to reenter the house. "I doubt anyone's been back here in weeks, the yard's practically a wild jungle."

You close the door behind you, shutting yourself back into the hot, stuffy building—not to mention crowded, which you absolutely hate. You give a last onceover to the kitchen, having finished your own investigation not long before Hank came marching in with his new automated partner. With a long sigh, you slink back into the living room, past the dirty couches, drug-contaminated furniture, and all the way to Hank's lazed form leaning against the wall, already fed up with his own work.

To be fair, there wasn't much left to cover once he'd arrived unfashionably late. You, Chris, and Detective Collins had done most of the work yourselves.

Standing beside him, Hank tilts his head at you with what you could only describe as a 'judgy' look on his face. In an instant, he reads you like an open book – a skill that's ticked you since the day you met him: a lazy cop misleadingly good at his job.

Good at it, but doesn't want to put the effort in.

You sigh.

"Exhausting work, wasn't it?"

"Long night, huh?" he prods.

You pause for a moment, deciding where you want to lead this conversation.

"Wouldn't have to be if you'd answered any one of my calls," you shoot back. Hank sighs. You chose the petty route. "Or, I don't know, show up to do your job."

Hank twists to look at you straight-on, a vague look on his rugged face.

"Look, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to give you the cold shoulder."

"Yes, because you're usually so warm and cuddly."

He finally pushes up from the wall, paralleling your shoulder to examine the vandalized wall you've conveniently found to be so worthy of your attention for a third time. From the corner of your eye you can see him cross his arms, huff, and sparingly peek down at his feet.

"Well excuse me if I'm not in the best mood after I found out you sent that thing after me," he jerks a thumb to the wall behind him, referring to Connor.

"Well that's your own damn fault. I have my own job to do and he just happened to be there. I even had Fowler chew my fucking ear out on your behalf, I'll have you know."

Hank sighs, his shoulder-length hair, whitened with age and stress, shielding his eyes before finally offering, "I'll buy you a drink, how about that?"

"I don't drink."

To your humor, it appears as though his pride has taken enough blows.

"Okay, look I'm trying here!" he childishly huffs.

"I've told you before, Lieutenant. Maybe that liquor's finally getting to your brain."

Hank throws his hands up in frustration. There were times when you felt bad –just a little– for pushing his buttons, but it entertained you far too much watching Hank get so worked up over your relentless teasing. It especially got on his nerves because, for once, someone other than Fowler had had enough of his shit and decided to give him a taste of his own medicine. The way you saw it, if you had to constantly deal with the repercussions of his... personal issues interfering with work, you might as well have some kind of fun with it.