Predecessor (Connor x Reader)

19 - Recognition

You freeze.

You could. You want to. Every instinct in you is screaming to step aside.

But you can feel Connor's gaze fixed on you—heavy, searching—and Hank standing rigid behind him, waiting for your next move. The air between you hums with tension, strung so tight it feels like even breathing wrong could snap it.

And if you move—if you let Rupert go—what happens next? What do you become in their eyes?

You swallow hard, a feeling you're still getting used to. You make your choice.

"Okay. You've said what you needed to," you say quietly, eyes on Rupert. "So go."

Rupert's jaw clenches. His fists tremble. He stares at you—one last time. And this time, the look isn't relief. It's something deeper. Recognition. Of you. Of your choice.

And then, he bolts.

And Connor instinctively steps forward, reaching his arm out. But you step in front of him this time. And he doesn't push you aside. But the tension is clear. Not anger. Not quite betrayal. But conflict—sharp and undeniable.

None of you say anything.

The apartment is still.

The only sound left is the flurry of feathers... and the absence of footsteps.

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You slide into the passenger seat. Hank climbs into the driver's with a grunt, and Connor settles into the back without a word.

The doors close. The silence wraps around you. Tight. Heavy. No one speaks as Hank pulls the car into traffic. The wipers squeak across the windshield, clearing the misty drizzle that's starting to fall. You stare out the window, your own reflection hazy against the grey city beyond.

You can feel both of them thinking. Turning it over. Again and again.

Finally, Hank breaks first.

"You gonna explain what the hell that was?" His voice isn't angry. Just rough. Tired.

You shift slightly. "I didn't think arresting him was the right thing."

"You always decide who gets to walk and who doesn't?" Hank asks, but there's no bite in it. Just genuine confusion.

Connor speaks before you can. His voice is crisp, professional. "Our duty is to enforce the law. Not interpret it."

You glance at Connor, but he's staring out the window, jaw tight. It's that posture again—the good soldier—the side of him you almost forgot he had.

Not the Connor who brought you coffee this morning. Not the Connor who told you last night he believed you. You feel it like a sting. It's a reminder, there are still two sides to him. And only one belongs to you.

"Maybe forcing him into a cage would've made us the real criminals." You say.

Connor's hands flex slightly where they rest on his knees. It's subtle. But you see it in the mirror. He's wrestling with himself. Logic and instinct.

Hank sighs, rubbing his forehead. "Kid has a point," he grumbles. "Wasn't hurting nobody. But still. It's not right... lettin' 'em just vanish like that." He drums his fingers on the steering wheel. "It's not right. And it's not wrong. It's just... hell, I don't know."

After a long pause, Connor finally speaks. His voice is low, not sharp, but not soft either. "You fight for them like it's personal."

A beat.