Just a Minute Longer? //Detroit become human // Connor x Reader

Queen of Hearts

* It's two in the morning, I have work tomorrow, and I've barely given myself a chance to edit this crap I'm so eager to put it out. For everyone here early, I apologize in advance for any trash grammar and crap writing. Forgive me *  

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The overhanging light sways back and forth, caught in the looping current of the ceiling fan. it fills the silence with white noise alongside the methodical drip drop of condensation gathering weight on pipes and spilling onto the floor, blades spinning in a blur of old wood hanging precariously from a thin rod in the ceiling

Your reflection stares back at you in the wall-length mirror. 

Dark bags hang under your eyes above a splatter of dried blood on your cheek and a small purple bruise taking shape along the edge of your jaw bone. In your reflection your hands twitch impatiently,  palms up between a patch of chipped paint and blue blood where the queen of hearts stares up at you from the inside of your wrist.

She's just barely visible past the cuff of your jacket - composed of smooth, twisting lines and a red face turned rosy pink with age - poised, elegant, and cruel looking her silver eyes watch you above a haughty grin, listening to the hands tick around the clock on the wall. 

Its easy to get entranced by her wicked eyes.

A green vein runs through the side of her face, protruding from the flawless skin like a grotesque scar that contorts the side of her face. You run a dirt-crusted finger over it, pressing lightly until the vein recedes with a staticky sensation and crusted blood chips from the crevices of your fingerprint. A tendon moves – her mouth twitches into an evil smile – and as the light flickers softly she flickers back.

The front door screeches open, dragging across the floor and carving deeper into the rust covered semi-circle that sweeps around the frame as a blinding yellow light floods in from the hallway. Recoiling, you press back into the hard wooden chair and shrink away from the collection of low, rumbling voices that surface from outside.

Stars shoot across your vision in burning pops of black and yellow, blinking heavily and cursing under your breath as heavy footsteps approach from the darkness. In that moment - shoving your hands over your eyes and pressing into your eyelids -it occurs to you that you ought to try and escape, to leap out of your chair and over the table - barrel towards the moving figure and rush the door - but by the time your eyes stop burning and your vision returns to a semi-clear state the door is creaking shut. It seals with a lock and bolt.

Footsteps – a fairly large man no doubt, based on the slow heavy steps and broad-shouldered outline – moves towards you from the entrance. Slouching into the chair across you he joins you at the table under the dangling bulb, spreading two gloved hands with the words kick ass printed across the knuckles between you. He leans forward and his face emerges clearly, speaking in a gritty voice. 

"Mornin' princess."

Low hooded eyelids shadow the majority of his brilliant blue eyes in the heavy lighting. A pair of parallel forehead creases and strong frown lines stand at attention as he grins, lips just barely visible between strips of coarse grey facial hair above and below his mouth. A thick Police Department sweater that looks a hundred years old peeks out from a corduroy jacket, the words L.T Hank Anderson inscribed beneath a small printed crest surrounded by various splotches of dried up stains and bleach marks. 

Hank's shoulders slump as he wiggles his left arm out of his corduroy jacket and reaches into an inside pocket, scrapping a glove inside before resurfacing with dirt lined fingernails and a comparatively cheery pink queue card with a heart drawn on the back. Despite the tacky design, there's something menacing about the way he draws out the card and lays it on its face. You pull the sleeves of your jacket down and cover the queen's eyes.

"Let's make this quick, I have things to do," He says, leaning back into his chair until the front legs narrowly hover above the ground. You blink heavily - utterly lost within the rapid change of pace - but square your shoulders and stare right back into his uncomfortably steely gaze. He clears his throat in a nearly theatrical manner.  

"(Y/N) (Y/L/N)," Hank reads off the card. 

Your blood stops cold. "...Huh?"

He looks towards you through lowered brows. "A thirteen-year long record of association with one of Detroit's most prominent drug organizations, it seems." 

Your heart rate spikes with a feeling akin to your insides bashing the front of your chest. "...What?"

He doesn't hesitate to cut you off. "-nearly 3 years of illegal red ice dealing, two known cases of assault-" 

"Wait, why-" 

"-a falsely registered job, and blood money in the bank."

Your hands tremble on the table. 

He hums and opens the lapel of his jacket to tuck the small card back where he'd dug it out from. "Should I continue?"

How does he know?

Anxiety bounces around frantically inside your head as your nails dig into the thick layer of paint covering the table, peeling bits off underneath your fingernails. Your chest feels like it has a loose screw – rattling around as your heart slams up against your ribs.

How does he know?

"Those are some serious crimes there," Hank remarks, slipping the paper back into the recesses of his jacket. "I mean, I'm no lawyer, but that's gotta stack up to what – nine, ten years? Maybe even more. As for the fines I'm not too sure," he shrugs, fishing his discarded glove back out and stretching it over his fingers, fixing you with a devilish stare. "But I'm sure it more then you can afford to lose."

The clock on the wall seems louder than ever, piercing the tense silence between you with ticks that feel like tiny explosives popping inside your stomach.

How the fuck does he know?  

Your voice catches in your throat and comes out as a weak rasp. "W-why are you telling me this? Just what is it that you want?"

You were so careful. Darting in between shadows and staying out of the limelight, using your contacts to bury your past under yards of paperwork, money, and cover up stories. It wasn't feasible – no, fuck it - it shouldn't have even been possible for this man to uncover such neatly wrapped details from your past. The amount of time, cross-referencing and legal work it would have required to work out the fine details would have been so grand that even a team of detectives may have needed months to piece together the fragments of your life.

You weren't worth the time. You'd been living a peaceful life for the last couple years, keeping to yourself and working a feeble part-time position to make ends meet, only traveling around in your small town of residence on the outskirts of Detroit. So why - after all this time - would the police choose to place a giant target on your back? 

"What do I want?" Hank chuckles and leans across the table with a determined look in his eyes. 

"Well, firstly, I want you."