bakerstreet | dress codes.

[ because dale is nothing if not a sharp dressed man. i'm thinking some sort of time sensitive scenario in which dale and company are dressed Like That while trying to navigate the northeast washington wilderness could be pretty fun. ]

[More than likely party crashing while tracking a lead.]

"It is such a bore putting on one's dress-clothes," muttered Hallward. "And, when one has them on, they are so horrid."-- The Picture of Dorian Gray || Chapter 2

{Somebody come rescue him, he hates dinner parties}

Edited 2019-07-25 23:13 (UTC)

[Orpheus has three pairs of clothes max and all of them are worn out, so this is a nice change of pace.]

[ Gotta fit in, right? She's dressed to the nines. ]

(( Help...She's not happy!

Kink list of do/do not's on profile, as well as information on Dolly))

(Going to go ahead and write a starter because this evil piece of amazing fanart has had me wanting a situation like this for so long and I want to write it out while I have the chance. I mean I changed the outfit a teensy bit, but still.)

Hank feels like a moron.

He doesn't look like a moron, apparently, according to some people, but those are the same some people who designed this fucking outfit for him in the first place, so some people can't be fucking trusted. These are the same 'some people' who guilted him into going to a fucking charity ball to represent the rest of the cops, so he has to behave or risk screwing up all the community outreach bullshit he's been working so hard on.

It's hell. He's wearing a dumbass tiny cape and it's actually nice, is the weird thing, the silk on its inside matching his dumb little ascot thing, the material on the outside the same dark shade as the vest, the whole thing heavy enough to hang around him like a coat, which does a lot to hide his waistline. He's pretty sure that part's intentional, like they knew designing the damn clothes that Hank wasn't prepared to be this guy, that the guy he is would stand out here like a sore thumb, be all fat and tired and blotchy in a room full of beautiful rich people who all have exercise routines and skincare regimens and who haven't ever seen a hamburger that wasn't made of soy and cost three figures just to think about eating it.

Okay. Maybe Markus wasn't thinking all that when he and whoever else whipped this thing up. Maybe there's some shit going on in Hank's head right now that doesn't have much to do with whether or not this fucking suit was made to show off what Hank looks like or to hide it. But they curled his fucking hair - curled a part of it anyway, with an honest to god curling iron - and he's wearing a fucking cape and a lot might actually hinge on whether Hank can pretend to be that guy, again, who can represent the force cause he has his shit together, pretend he has his life together, pretend that he can do this, and honestly Hank thinks he's entitled to a little bit of insecurity.

And a drink. Fuck it. He's entitled to a drink. And yeah, maybe he isn't as gentle as he could be when he slides through the crowd toward where he thinks the drink table ought to be. Maybe he nudges a few people out of the way a little harder than is polite, or whatever, and maybe his tone of voice isn't all that sorry when he apologizes. Maybe anyone who gives a shit is going to have to fucking suck it.

Edited (nitpicking) 2019-07-26 02:55 (UTC)

The one person that gives the most shit about Lieutenant Hank Anderson — and everything his thirium-pumping heart can give — arrives at call time exactly.

There's no reason for Connor to wear his Cyberlife uniform now after the revolution except for a lack of clothes initially, but as life passes and Connor finds his spot in the world better and better with only more improvements coming in and that includes his taste of clothing (black and red and not as out there as Hank). He enjoys suits with ties the most because he's become used to them, but he also enjoys them even after deviancy when it comes to work and, now, formal occasions that he gets to go to because his partner is the representative of the DPD tonight. In a way, so is Connor. Not that he's the main attraction in particular, but he doesn't mind at all that he can just watch from the audience's point of view. it means he gets to do what he pleases without being disturbed.

it means he gets to look at hank all cleaned up for tonight, to which he can't help but smile to himself as he walks towards him while fixing up the ruby-touched tie that gives a hint of accent from all the black he wears. an outfit he buys himself just for tonight, and for any other future uses when necessary. now, he doesn't particularly match what hank wears but, again, he doesn't mind not being noticed too much when it's hank that's here to show what good the police have been doing. no longer a deviant hunter, though an expert on one (so is Niles) especially when crimes involve androids. despite there being several people around that he's curious about, brown eyes can't help but look at one of tonight's honored guests.

"I like what they did to your hair," Connor says with a wink.

Is it genuine? Is it a tease? Can't it be both? Because Connor just can't help himself as he looks towards the bar for the briefest moment to see if Hank orders anything just yet before he faces his partner once more, hands behind his back with his head tilted just slightly. After all, Connor's always had a similar style with his hair sleeked back yet with a slight curl of a bang hanging out. Not as luxurious as Hank's is for tonight, but simply a preferred style. Hank's current hairstyle makes him wonder what it would be like to run his hands through it — something to test later, perhaps.

Hank opens his mouth reflexively but all that comes out is a soft breath, the skin between his eyebrows crinkling up. He never knows how to take it when Connor does shit like this.

He glances behind him at the bar. The bartender’s at the other end of it, busy, and Hank doesn’t know if he’s glad about that or not. It’s not like he made the promise not to drink during this thing anywhere but in his own head but Connor knows him, knows all about ninety-nine percent of Hank’s bullshit, and breaking that kind of promise in front of him - even if Hank’s the only one who knows about it - feels... weird.

Well, the guy’s busy right now either way, so whether to order something or not’s future Hank’s problem. Present Hank looks back toward Connor, frowning, and his eyes slide guiltily down off Connor’s face. He lets his body follow the direction of his gaze and leans, his bare forearm sliding against the cold countertop, gloves squeaking a little as he curls his fingers. The posture makes the cape slide around and cover him a little - still the best thing about this fucking outfit - and by the time he’s settled he’s able to meet Connor’s eyes.

“Don’t you give me shit about stupid hair,” he says, sounding annoyed, because Connor’s probably the only person in this whole building right now who he can get away with sounding even a little bit as uncomfortable as he feels. He runs his eyes over Connor’s own outfit, trying to make it less of a look and more of a normal kind of look over the guy, just a glance real quick at all of him. “Specially since you actually got out of this with a little bit of dignity. No one likes a sore winner.”

Connor, laugh? Not quite a Connor thing to do. However, looking at Hank rather amused with a smile on his face is. Of course he understands just what's made Hank walk all the way to the bar in a temptation to drink that Connor hopes he doesn’t, or doesn’t too much. They’re both so far removed from what they consider normal of their daily lives, dressed up so elegantly as they’re expected to be for tonight’s event. Logic dictates that Hank would retreat to somewhere more familiar and comfortable, like the quietness (and the drinks) of Jimmy’s bar. This, however, is the closest he’ll be when they’re busy with the charity ball. Something Connor is thankful for because he doesn’t enjoy Hank drinking too much, especially in his house.

No more heavy drinking that leads to playing with five empty chambers and one with lead; Connor gives himself a new mission because of it after everything’s over and deviants are free. It’s why he hopes that Hank doesn’t drink too much tonight, whether here or home. Small changes can lead to better things.

“Well, I think you look good tonight wearing an outfit you’re not used to,” not that Connor doesn’t think Hank doesn’t look good on a regular day when he falls for Hank and all the flaws that comes with him, “I’m not saying you should wear things like this more often, but you do clean up well for when the situation needs it.”

Built to extract information when necessary and to work with finding people (other androids in particular, but he can obviously analyze many other things that helps others in different cases), Connor is simply himself at this point despite all the hardware and metal beneath his plastic body — his own person that no one else is even though there are other RK800s in the world. No other RK800 would replace who he is at heart, the person that steps in closer until his elbow meets Hanks while he offers the lieutenant a smile that becomes more natural over time.

Teasing Hank is fun, too.

"Markus and his friends could make any asshole clean up well," Hank snorts, letting his head hang so that just for a second, his hair falls over his face. Or- he tries to. The gesture'd been automatic and he'd kind of expected to to work but his fucking hair's all ironed and gelled to hell and back and just kind of sticks in place, except for that one curled up chunk that doesn't cover shit. All it does is hang in front of Hank's eye and remind him he doesn't get a break, not even a pretense at one.

This whole place is so fucking open, and he's never minded that on its own, never thought big open spaces were more than a little weird and off-putting, but that's when he's not in this big open space with a lot of people who see Hank wearing these dumbass clothes and expect him to actually be the kind of guy who wears them. There's something about that but he doesn't get a break, not for another few hours when this whole show is over, so he lifts his head and looks over at the bartender, raising his hand to catch the guy's eye. He feels Connor's elbow against his as he does it, feels the arm Connor'd stepped close enough to brush against his.

He needs a goddamn drink. The bartender's still busy, but not as much; it'll only be a minute.

"All I did was stand there and get measured. How'd you get out of it, anyway? I look like I'm waiting for the Phantom of the Opera to drop a chandelier on me, but you look..." He trails off, eyeing Connor and trying to come up with a safe adjective. "Classy, you know? Natural."

Connor doesn't miss the slightly notable pause between Hank's words. It's the reason why his smile stays.

“Simple: I told them," some people, "that I had a suit from a certain store, and they let me decide on my own clothes from there.”

Wit and manipulation sewn into his system with a metaphorical fine needle despite the explanation seemingly simple as Connor words them out. The first step is to convince himself to a point as well as go through a short preconstruction — what ifs and maybes scratched off. The second is the way he says his words and pulls off his actions. Sure, Hank believes his voice is a mistake during their earlier interactions but they most especially work with others and subsequently he ends up with his answers one way or another. Aside from all the data he downloads and can research within half a second, Connor's smart and he adapts.

Previously his excuse would be that he's built the way he is, but now Connor gets used to the fact that he's simply his own person now. Along with not needing to ear his Cyberlife uniform anymore, he doesn't visit the building unless repairs and parts are needed and even then it can simply be ordered in by the DPD when necessary. Connor, however, can be costly so he makes sure to take care of himself better now. He's no longer just a walking computer anymore, he's no longer simply a thing. No, he's a person whose emotions and feelings only have even more room to grow.

"I didn't actually have it of course. This is just from a recommended place I've researched on, and then they said okay after I arrived in it."

In other words: Connor gets away with it.

"You mo-" Hank glances at someone a little ways beside them. The person looks great, like everyone else in this fucking place, and looks comfortable with it, so- probably someone rich. A donor, and close enough to maybe hear him. He'd better watch his mouth. "-onster," Hank finishes, after a split second pause. "Markus just let you get away with that cause he likes androids better."

It's a dumb joke to make, especially here where he's supposed to be representing something that matters, where he can't be the guy who makes those kinds of jokes. He can't afford to be. But he makes it anyway, mutters it, then turns to face the bartender coming toward him and lifts his chin in a nod. "Whiskey, neat," he says, and watches the guy's hands and the glass and the whiskey coming together instead of letting his gaze fall anywhere near Connor's face.

"So you came up with the uh, suit and color scheme and all that by yourself?" Hank asks, glancing toward Connor briefly before his eyes slide back away. "Didn't know you were into fashion."

There's a lot Hank doesn't know about Connor. Which feels weird, sometimes, sometimes some detail, some little preference Connor has, will come up and Hank will feel like he should have known it already, like he's just using Connor, leaning on him as hard as he does and not actually trying to be Connor's friend in return, not trying to learn anything about him. But lots of it's probably stuff Connor didn't know either, the kind of stuff you just find out about yourself over the course of living, and telling himself that helps to keep the guilt away. Which is probably a good thing. Hank, moody son of a bitch that he is, always has enough 'shitty friend' related stuff to feel guilty about without piling more bullshit on top of it.

"That new? Figures you'd have good taste right out of the gate."

At Hank's response, there's only a subtle, cheeky smile on Connor's lips.

Not only does Connor know the insides and out of Hank Anderson, but he knows exactly what he was going to say before replacing his words with "Monster" — and it only brightens the amused look on his face that just shows up more often around the man he can call his partner. It's his partner's habits that his processors remember well after being around him for so long like the times he goes to sleep and time times he wakes up when it's a day off. He also knows the kind of alcohol he favors the most, which doesn't surprise him the slightest as the scent of the alcohol in Hank's glass is all too familiar to him at this point. It's something they're working on with the hopes of the best outcome that Connor sometimes simulate in his mind about the future.

"Not exactly new, no, but I'd say improving," because Connor's already a sharp dressed man with his tie in place, just as Cyberlife initially models him — but that specific taste in fashion sticks even after ripping apart the firewalls in the end, "Like it?"

It's pleasing to his circuits that run electricity and data through his system like blood in veins that Hank assumes he already has good taste in clothing, memory flashing back images so quickly he recalls the state of Hank's closet. A large assortment of styles that Connor can't help but describe some as hippy, stripy (he picks stripy when he first visits a drunken Hank), and streaky (a good close second choice). He also remembers a floral pattern in the bathroom that night as well as the numerous plants around his house, and it only makes Connor note floral in addition to the initial three. So, to Connor, Hank's own taste in fashion isn't so bad to him. Not when he enjoys what he sees, and Connor most definitely enjoys Hank in all aspects.

That includes the insanely high class-styled outfit Hank dons on for tonight. An ascot — it's most definitely not Hank's style of clothing, it's clear that he isn't a fan, but it still looks good on him. There's absolutely no shame in Connor's system in regards to his attraction to his partner at this point in life.

"I'm guessing they'll want a picture with you later on. It would be a natural request considering you represent the department as a whole."

Hank takes the glass from the bartender, thanks him, then turns to Connor, raising his eyebrows a little at the question. Being asked prompts another look over Connor but Hank doesn't get more than halfway before he realizes his eyes are lingering more than he wants, and he pulls them back up to Connor's face with a faint little half smile. "Come on, you don't need me to tell you when you look good," he says, and leans an elbow back onto the counter and looks around the place cause that can be a normal kinda thing to say, when you look normal when you say it, when you pay enough attention to the way your eyes are pointing.

So, he looks out at the crowd without really seeing it, the glass feeling heavy and cold in his hand, for all he has to feel it through gloves, and he sighs when Connor goes on. He sighs, moves his gaze down to his whiskey, and he takes his first sip, slow, making it last. His posture loosens a little, minutely. "Yeah," he says, like the word tastes bad coming out. "Lotsa people probably will. Wouldn't be so bad if it wasn't for all the fuckin-"

He stops, grimaces at that guy sitting near them out of the corner of his eye, then ducks his head, pressing the heel of a hand against his eye and then running that hand through his hair, messing up the formerly-perfectly gelled back strands of it a little more than he realizes. "All the sucking up," he mutters, making sure to keep his voice low. "I swear, the old me used to be better at that shit. How about you, how're you doing with all the, uh- all this? That part comin natural to you too?"

"Come on, you don't need me to tell you when you look good,"

Words that have Connor's heart preen despite knowing what kind of outcome it would result in once Hank sees him in the black and red clothing, yet sometimes hearing it confirmed with his own mouth (not exactly, but in a very Hank way it obviously is) is, once again, pleasing to the core of his system. Connor has his own set of clothes that he ends up picking for himself just like how he gets to pick his own outfit for the night, uniform included because he's a true hired detective now. Now, he isn't the type to dress up for anyone in particular — there are events were certain clothes are appropriate and what not, of course — but it's nice to tease Hank's mind now and then like when he takes over one of his older hoodies for himself.

At present, it's not teasing Hank but it's a plus. Already the android makes himself more comfortable by folding his hands together and leaning against the bar.

"I've been good, actually. Some people have asked me if I was still affiliated with Cyberlife, to which I already say no to, or about my LED."

His LED, because many androids that have already tasted their freedom after the revolution takes theirs off. Connor, however, still has his on and it shines like a bright neon sign in the dark of the night. Currently he simply doesn't have the urgent mood to pry a part of himself off — the one part that could be discarded and have him blend in with everyone else as though he were of flesh and blood. Still, even he knows his own individuality at this point even with his successor having the same face as him. Most certainly not the same personality when he recalls how the RK900 unit is supposed to be stronger and better than him. The existence of Niles doesn't bother him — not when they have yet to share the same crime scene.

Removing ones LED is something to consider, but not a priority even though he end up imagining himself without it now and then. A conversation for another day when brown eyes watchh the way Hank ruins part of his hair — and Connor's fine with it because it's just like his partner to do so with something he doesn't enjoy.

"I've also seen some familiar faces from Cyberlife here. They asked how I was doing, what it's like to work in the department," a brief pause, "Along with the news that Kamski is most likely to arrive later on. He'll most likely remember us."

Hank makes a disgusted noise, something phlegmy deep in his throat. It's the best public alternative to the creative namecalling he might do if Connor'd delivered that news in private. "Yeah, I bet he will," he mutters, and doesn't take a drink, because he's making it last. "That's gonna be a blast. Hey, uh-"

He glances at Connor, looking guilty, then looks down at his drink. "I didn't think about you having to talk to, uh, the guys who, you know..." He waves a hand at Connor's everything. The people who built you, is what he isn't saying, because it's weird - it shouldn't be weird but it's weird, people aren't built except that they are, now, and the guy half-in charge of community outreach or whatever is the last person who should still be twitchy about android shit and it'll only take one stray wrong expression in front of the wrong person before everyone in the whole damn city realizes that he is twitchy about it, before the people Hank's trying to help all realize what a fucking fake he is, and he hates this 'public face of the force' shit so, so much. He hates it a lot more than he used to. He's only realizing that now, he didn't expect to hate it this much but he does, because he's the one doing it. Him now's the one doing it, not the him he used to be.

Fuck it. He closes his eyes just long enough to take a deep breath through his nose, starts to move to run his hand through his hair again, catches the gesture in time to press the heel of his hand against his temple instead. He goes ahead and takes that drink that he'd, for a second, fooled himself into thinking he'd be saving.

"Didn't think about how weird that'd be for you," he murmurs, looking out at the crowd. "Didn't really think about much, I guess. But you don't have to stick around and do it if it's too... y'know. If you don't want to. You can leave, I'll tell everyone something came up."

Edited (forgot to let you know I'm tagging slower than I want to atm b/c of writer's block/stress, sorry DX) 2019-08-23 11:43 (UTC)

"I'm okay, Hank."

Fact slips out of Connor's mouth already as he shakes his head. Kamski as a threat to him? After the test that Connor ends up passing by not pulling the trigger — after he leaves the garden nearly freezing to death in data — it couldn't be. Rather, it most likely would not be now that he gains autonomy of himself instead of listening to Amanda (how is she now?). No longer an agent of Cyberlife, instead Connor is now part of the DPD with a uniform and everything. He's essentially a normal human being aside from the led that stays a constant blue with the confidence he has beneath his chest. They'll be fine — and if Kamski does become suspicious, Connor would know. Or Hank would do something about it. Whatever comes first, Connor will prepare himself well.

For as much as Connor desires to take hold of Hank's hand, he doesn't because this is a formal event despite part of him not caring at all should people see them together. The problem, obviously, is that it's work and issues may rise when it comes to whoever somehow sees them. Again however, Connor doesn't quite care as much as someone else would. He adores Hank and thinks of him as handsome no matter what hairstyle or clothing he wears whether it's everyday or a special event like today. His adoration for Hank is also the reason why he can't help but genuinely smile towards the man he faces, still leaning on the bar because no one calls for them yet.

"I'm not here for them. I'm here for you — I'm here to support you for being the representative of the DPD. I'm here to support you as your partner," which, of course, Connor means in two ways, "And I'm not certainly not here to make trouble."

Maybe later, of course.

Hank just looks at him, lips parted, eyes for a second a little wide. Then he looks down, head hanging, and slumps over enough to casually bump his shoulder against Connor's arm. "Appreciate it," he murmurs, apparently to his drink, and takes a breath to say more- then he stops, sighs the little breath out through his nose. He purses his lips, running his tongue over his teeth. His mouth tastes like whiskey and he thinks about that for a second, and he thinks about Connor, who puts up with his shit, and he thinks about Connor putting himself here with all these people who built him like he was a fuckin doll just so Connor could help Hank. That's why Connor's here. Hank takes another slow, bracing breath.

His mouth hangs open for a second longer than it should when he hesitates and when he stops hesitating his voice is even lower than a murmur, a volume that'll carry maybe to Connor's high tech ears, and not a single inch further.

Connor's here for him, right? Then Hank can say this for him. He can. He can say it out loud.

"The guys who come to fancy shit like this only want the good press. They wanna hear how great everything's going, pat themselves on the back, maybe go home and write an op-ed about how, 'oh, the future's so goddamn bright'..." He trails off, thinking about those kinds of headlines, thinks about seeing them what feels like a couple different lifetimes ago. He can smell the whiskey when he breathes in, if he tries hard enough to focus on it.

"...I shouldn't even be in charge of this shit," he admits, voice hard. "Let alone bragging about it to these assholes. I've been thinking, uh, there's a couple- a couple guys who could learn to do it if I stepped down. Still gotta talk to Markus about it." The hard tone to his voice disappeared somewhere along the way and Hank doesn't try to bring it back, and he doesn't look up. He doesn't want to see Connor's face when he admits it, that he can't get his shit together and do this after all. But after that stuff Connor said, about supporting him - Connor deserves to hear it. He deserves to know what Hank's been thinking before Hank gives in to the pressure and quits right here in front of god and everybody.

Edited (clarity) 2019-09-22 11:12 (UTC)

[ ota, crossovers/canon/au welcome! ]

[ raleigh in a suit is real nice. ota ]

[ooc: For a mission! Prefer shippy type prompts, please!]

[ Could be at some fancy party/gala event to wreak inconvenience. He wears a casual suit more often than not but scrubs up very nicely and has a tendency to look rather dashing (especially in a three piece). ]

Oh, Lady Martha! How wonderful it is to see you here.

[So far tonight, Bedivere hasn't seen anybody he knows. At least, until now. He smiles as he walks over, clad in a dress uniform.]

Forgive my impudence, but you look very lovely tonight.

[ What she's wearing. ]

dress codes.

esme frost ( the gifted )

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Tulip O'Hare (AMC Preacher)

Basil Hallward || The Picture of Dorian Gray || M/M

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Nanno | Girl From Nowhere

Dolly Iris Jones// Hetalia OC// F/M Ship

Hank Anderson | Detroit: Become Human

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sorry for the delay! work happened

it's all good we're on no schedule

bless u bc it went from worst to better

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diana prince | dceu

raleigh becket | pacific rim

Jyn Erso | Rogue One | OTA

Crowley | Good Omens

Saint Martha | Fate/Grand Order

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Satsuki Kiryuuin | Kill la Kill | OTA

Lois Lane, DC Comics

Nico Acosta | OC | M/F

Evie Montgomery | OC | OTA