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Well, it’s Saturday again-- or is it Friday? Honest to fuck, Hank Anderson can’t remember. All he knows is that his alarm hadn’t gone off and nobody had woken him up, so it’s probably one of his days off.
Or his two housemates had run off and left him to rot in his own bed, which Hank considers just plausible enough to be worried. Or, at least, curious enough to roll out of bed and actually go to relieve his bladder on the way to solving another god damn mystery.
Jesus, he still hates mornings. He hadn’t bothered to check his phone for the time yet-- it’s bright enough outside for Hank to deduce that it‘s as early as late morning, and as late as early afternoon, and that’s honestly as precise a time table as he cares about.
It gives him time to ease into the whole ‘being a functional attempt at a human being’ song and dance without feeling rushed. He washes his face, he brushes his teeth-- with toothpaste, even!-- and runs a comb through his hair at least more than two strokes this time.
And then he lingers there, regarding himself in the mirror. Already the creases in his face are deepening with tension. Wrinkles stand out in stark contrast to his blotchy skin, disappearing under a grey beard that’s in desperate need of a trim-- but he refuses to fuss over it on his day off.
Fuck, he feels old.
Hank exhales slowly, straightening up from leaning against the sink and breaking eye-contact with his reflection to regard the haphazard array of sticky notes surrounding the mirror like the world’s ugliest mosaic. The sentiments scrawled upon them still beg for his attention, even if he’d already read them hundreds of times. His gaze follows a slow circuit around, looking for the ones with pristine, printer-perfect handwriting, and among those, he looks for any he hadn’t noticed before-- a little game, just to see if he’s still competent enough at detecting shit to warrant showing up at the station ever again.
It isn’t until he’s already turned, satisfied that no new notes had been placed, that he notices the one stuck way up high above the main cluster, just beneath the edge of the bathroom ceiling.
“The fuck…?” he mutters, squinting up at it.
In perfect Cyberlife Sans script it reads,
Don’t worry, things are looking up! :)
Wow. Woooow.
Hank closes his eyes tightly. He isn’t sure whether it’s the almost-clever-but-still-really-lame joke that’s making him want to groan, or the absurd mental image of Connor standing on top of the sink to place the note all the way up there. Either way, it’s… A Lot. Too much for him this morning. Christ.
He pretends there is no lopsided smile tugging at his lips as he pulls on some well-worn sweatpants and a dark t-shirt. He definitely isn’t feeling a little lighter, or a little warmer as he slips his phone into the pocket of his zip-front hoodie and ambles down the hallway towards the kitchen.
“Good morning, Hank!”
And there it is, right on schedule. Hank scrubs a hand over his mouth, erasing any evidence of his brightened mood and replaces it with an easy, practiced scowl. “Mornin’, Connor.”
He’ll be damned if he ever gives the android the impression he can be anything but cantankerous before noon-- he has a reputation to uphold, after all, and Connor has a distinctive habit of finding things that made Hank smile and exploiting that evidence of tenderness until it leaves him reeling and furiously confused by his own capacity for warmth and kindness.
Sunlight streams in from the side windows in the kitchen, reflecting far-too-brightly off of the kitchen table where Connor sits. He’s already dressed for the day-- a blue button-up shirt and dark trousers. Bleary-eyed, Hank can still tell the trousers are freshly ironed, pressed, and creased perfectly.
Not appropriate day-off attire, in his opinion, but Connor hasn’t quite gotten the hang of how to be a lazy son of a bitch yet. He’ll get there one day.
“The coffee’s almost ready,” Connor chirps, unperturbed by Hank’s projected grouchiness, “And there is fruit salad in the refrigerator-- middle shelf, left-hand side, blue topped container. Also, your oatmeal is in the warming drawer.”
“The what now?” Hank pauses, setting his favorite coffee mug back into the drying rack as he turns to squint at Connor.
“Fruit salad, Hank.”
“Fuck your fruit salad, I meant the other thing-- the what drawer? The fuck, when’d we get one of those?"
Connor tips his head slightly, looking honestly confused. “It comes standard with the oven…”
Hank stares. “You bought a new oven?”
The android’s head tips the other way, his dark brows furrowed as his LED spins a few yellow circuits. “No, I didn’t.” He pauses. “Did you assume it was storage for your baking trays? I had to remove them in order to--”
“Fuck, I have baking trays? The fuck I have those for?”
For an extended time, the only real sound in the kitchen is the light trickling of coffee down into the machine’s waiting pot below. Hank and Connor stare at each other awkwardly for just long enough to make the older man start to fidget with the mug in his hand.
Connor stands up. “... I’ll set everything out on the table for you, Hank.”
Hank isn’t sure whether this counts as a petty victory on his part or not. He just stands back, out of Connor’s way as the android retrieves the various pieces of Hank’s supposedly healthy breakfast. The oatmeal, in some kind of ceramic dish, is indeed produced from the metal drawer beneath his oven (the ‘warming drawer’, apparently) and set down on a trivet Connor had apparently summoned from the same Bed, Bath, & Beyond dimension that the baking trays and gods-for-fucking-real-actual oven mitts must have come from.
“Jesus christ, Connor,” Hank grumbles, not even waiting for the coffee machine to finish dripping before pouring himself a desperately needed mug-full. To put this much effort into breakfast-- it’s. Too. Fucking. Much.
And how the fuck does Hank even know what a trivet is?
Regardless, he isn’t going to argue with Connor about the lengths he goes to preparing breakfast like this-- not again, anyway, not anytime soon. It still feels undeserved, on Hank’s part, to have Connor put any kind of effort into the care and maintenance of one Hank Anderson, but they’d discussed it to death and Hank had begrudgingly agreed to let Connor do as he pleased. Besides, the fare is always disgustingly healthy, so Hank can feel vaguely aggravated instead of vaguely guilty.
Once the oatmeal, fruit salad, and a glass of water is set out and arranged to Connor’s satisfaction, the android reclaims his seat at the table and wordlessly returns to whatever he’d been doing when Hank had walked in-- not in a sullen way, but just in that silent way that speaks more of the level of comfort they’ve achieved around each other as housemates.
It’s a good thing, that, because again it must be stated-- Hank is not a morning person, and Connor had learned the hard way that pre-coffee conversations never go well. Hank drinks his first cup standing by the counter, and the second he takes with him to the table to have with his breakfast.
It’s all become so easy, somehow.
While he eats, he takes stock of the other items set out on the table-- some delivered parcels, Connor’s reading tablet, a large glass bowl, some Cyberlife-branded white bottles, and a similarly branded container. One of Hank’s old paperbacks is in Connor’s hands, the android recently having taken to reading novels analogue-style as a hobby.
Hank won’t ever admit it, but it’s one of the most relatable, endearing habits Connor could have ever possibly picked up, and it never fails to make him silently reaffirm that he’d made the right decision when he invited Connor to live here. He’d had nowhere else to go, after all, and since that time he’s come into… well, himself. The books suit him. This house suits him. He fits in, here-- makes it feel lived in. Like a home.
He didn’t realize he’s been openly staring at Connor until those brown eyes lock on to his, eyebrows quirking just so, inquisitive. Warm.
It takes longer than it should for Hank to look away, and he masks his sudden self-consciousness with movement, standing up and grabbing the mostly-empty ceramic bowl and the actually-empty plastic container. He doesn’t say anything-- no explanation, and Connor, well, he doesn’t ask anything, so it’s fine.
Weird, but fine.
While Hank places his dishes on the counter (near enough to the sink to count, he figures), and tops off his mug of coffee, Connor puts the book aside and wordlessly begins rearranging some of the items on the table. The bowl he pulls closer, peering into it and wiping a stray hair or speck of dust from the rim. Then he takes one of the white bottles and, flicking the cap open, pours some of the liquid (light green, like some kind of sports drink) into the glass bowl. Next, he opens the parcel and the contents (pre-folded, pristine white washcloths) are stacked neatly to his right.
No explanation is offered, and Hank doesn’t ask.
Well, not immediately, at least.
“So, uh… What’s all this stuff?”
Connor doesn’t look up, but Hank sees his eyes crinkle a little at the corners. Hm. “It’s for cleaning,” he replies, not offering any further explanation.
Hank knows this game. He exhales over the rim of his mug, causing tiny ripples to scatter across the liquid’s surface and most definitely not splash some of it up on to his fucking nose. “Uh huh. Cleaning what? ”
Connor gives a quiet hum. Hank can’t see his LED from here, but he assumes it probably just did a cheeky little spin. Even the fucking lights on this guy have too much attitude. “Cleaning… well, myself, I suppose.”
Hank blinks. “Uh. I thought you take showers.”
“I do,” Connor scoffs, “This is simply--” He pauses, lips parted in that weird thing he does all the fucking time that Hank definitely doesn’t find endearing, “-- I suppose you’d refer to it as ‘more freaky android shit’,” he finishes, looking up at Hank with a wry smile.
“Care to be more specific?” Hank asks, frowning a little at the implication-- truthful as it may be-- that he has little to no understanding of… well, whatever the fuck Connor is, technically. Physically. All the wires and plastic bits and shit he’s just not book-smart enough to understand.
Connor regards Hank for a long moment before returning to his setup. “Not really,” he says.
Before Hank can formulate an appropriately rankled reply, Connor explains, “It’s for maintenance of an android’s chassis-- clearing residue and debris that was not adequately shielded by the dermal sheath.”
Hank notices how Connor tends to refer to his chassis and synthetic skin stuff indirectly-- as if it isn’t his own body he’s talking about. It bothers him. He isn’t sure why. Well, no, actually he knows exactly why-- because Connor assumes Hank is uncomfortable navigating issues related to his ‘freaky android shit’ so he tries to soften his language accordingly.
And he isn’t wrong , exactly, but Hank is more uncomfortable at the thought of Connor being embarrassed or having to be, he doesn’t know, self-conscious about what is natural to him. He moves from the counter, crossing over to the table to take a closer look at the maintenance setup Connor is arranging.
Hank leans his hip against the edge of the kitchen table, cradling the coffee mug in his hands. "Uh huh. So… how often do you need to do this sorta thing?"
"There's no recommended service schedule exactly, so as-needed, depending on the degree of buildup," Connor explains, pouring some of the greenish liquid on to a small cloth-- just enough to dampen it. It smells like any other household cleaner, with a faintly minty finish that doesn’t blend well with the taste of coffee lingering on Hank's tongue. "In my case, I underestimated how much accumulation would occur in the relatively short time I've been active."
Connor's eyes narrow, giving pause as he regards the cloth in his hand. "Actually, I hadn't assumed I'd still be active by the time it would become necessary to perform maintenance," he admits, the corner of his mouth curling upwards in a way that resembles a grimace more than a smile.
Hank doesn’t know what to say to that, really. He manages to grunt quietly over the edge of his coffee mug in lieu of an actual reply. “Alright, well… good luck with that, I guess,” he says, as sincerely as he can manage, as he turns to put his half-empty mug on the counter.
“Dishes go in the sink, Hank,” Connor reminds him, not even turning to look at him. Hank mutters and moves the mug over to the sink, pouring the remaining contents down the drain and running the water just enough to wash most of the coffee out. He sets it in the basin with more force than is necessary, scowling over his shoulder at Connor. He can’t see it for certain, but he knows the little creep is smirking.
Little shit.
“Did you need anything else?” Hank asks, though he’s already making his way around the table to head back to his room to get dressed.
“Actually…”
The word catches him right as he reaches the edge of the kitchen, and he turns to glance back at Connor.
The android is looking up at him. “Would you mind helping me with this? It would be easier if you assisted me.” His eyebrows are raised in that way Hank loathes-- lifted towards the center, turning his normally focused gaze into something that makes Hank’s jaw clench and lips tighten reflexively. Like a goddamn motherfucking six week old puppy. It’s obscene. He hates it.
“... sure, okay.”
He hates it.
Because he gives in every time. Conniving little fucker. The way his face brightens and his LED gives a bright little spin before dimming back to neutral… fucking Jesus almighty.
With a sigh, Hank pulls out a chair next to Connor and takes a seat, slapping his hands lightly on his thighs and asking, “So what can I try not to fuck up too badly?”
The concept is simple: Retract the dermal sheath (the skin-- Hank can’t decide which one sounds freakier), use the cleaning solution on the seams and surfaces where debris has accumulated, and use mechanical abrasion as needed to clear it away.
It sounds easy enough-- something even Hank can handle without some kind of catastrophic result. Even so, he gets the faintest sense of reluctance when Connor lifts his hands and lets the dermal sheath pull back to his wrists. He looks at them, expression impassive, before he offers them toward Hank wordlessly.
Hank's seen Connor's uncovered hands plenty of times before. The android regularly interfaces with his work terminal and other tech assets at the precinct, so the sight of them doesn’t unnerve him in the way his partner seemed to assume it might. That said, Hank had also generally made it a point not to stare, so this is the first time he's gotten a chance to get a really good look at them.
And they’re, well...
'Delicate'
The word comes unbidden to his mind, coupled with other concepts that he suspects Connor probably wouldn't appreciate either: Porcelain. Doll-like.
Of course, Hank has also seen the terrifying strength Connor is capable of exerting with those hands, so he is under no illusion that he has to be particularly careful with him-- and yet, he feels his own fingers tremble faintly as he gently takes Connor's hand in his own, something in his mind telling him that this is a fragile thing he's holding. Fragile, and unexpectedly warm. Unexpectedly soft . Smooth, dry, but pliant. Artificial, but...
Alive.
He's aware that Connor's watching him, but he refuses to look up yet. Instead, he tips his head to the side, running his tongue along the backs of his incisors and pursing his lips as he grasps Connor's hand a little more firmly and turns it over to inspect his palm.
Now that he's looking, it's actually fairly obvious that Connor's hands are long overdue for some maintenance ("Detailing, like a car", his mind supplies, but he wisely keeps from saying out loud). What appeared pristine, shiny white from a distance is subtly scratched and grey in places. Along the inner sides of his finger joints and the base of his thumb joint, the surface is matte and slightly worn from use. The soft, matte pads of his fingertips and the base of his thumb are stained unevenly grey.The opaque white plates of his fingernails are roughly indented at the tips and edged with dark residue. Surprisingly, there isn't much build-up beneath the nail plates-- all things considered, Connor has clearly been doing his best to keep his hands properly cleaned.
Hank runs the pad of his thumb down along Connor's index finger experimentally, exerting a gentle pressure to straighten it out. It twitches briefly, coupled with a startled inhale from the android that draws Hank's attention back to Connor's face, his brows raised in silent inquiry.
Connor's lips tighten slightly, and a slow flush creeps across his cheeks as he meets Hank's gaze directly.
It’s weird that he can simulate blushing. Weird and infuriatingly endearing.
"It..." he starts, and then swallows. "Sorry, I didn't re-calibrate my sensors adequately after deactivating the dermal sheath." A quick cycle of his LED, and a faint nod. "They have been adjusted."
"That's a fancy way of saying you're ticklish," Hank notes blandly.
The android furrows his brow at that. "I'm not ticklish," he says.
Hank doesn't believe him. "Uh huh."
"I'm not!" Connor insists, and although the juvenile part of Hank is sorely tempted to antagonize him further, he decides against it.
Because there is, he’s acutely aware, a pervasive sense of fragility to the moment surrounding them. The android seems weirdly nervous, actually, and if he pushes too hard, Connor will undoubtedly withdraw his offer to let Hank assist him in this.
That thought sends an uncomfortable prickle down his arms. Weird as it may be, Hank honestly wants to do this. It's interesting, and he's curious, and hell, Connor spends an unfair amount of his effort helping his dumb ass with sundry tasks around the house, so he probably owes him a favor or twenty, right?
“Okay, okay,” Hank says, rolling his eyes in mock-exasperation. “Anyway, this doesn’t seem like it’ll be too hard to clean up, but I’m gonna need a little more light, I think.” He lets go of Connor’s hand, smiles in a way he hopes is reassuring, and stands. “I’m gonna go get a lamp from the bedroom, so sit tight.”
Connor nods slowly, returning Hank’s smile with a small one of his own. “Got it.”
It takes more time and effort than it probably should for Hank to unplug the small table lamp from his nightstand and carry it back to the kitchen. He’d found his reading glasses, too-- one of the missing pairs he’d apparently lost behind his nightstand at some point in the last year or so and had just bought a new pair instead of bothering to fish them out. Not that he couldn’t probably see well enough to do this without them, but he figures it doesn’t hurt to have them.
Without much more of a fuss, Hank gets the table set up and lit to his satisfaction. He re-takes his seat, sliding the reading glasses on and resting his elbow on the table surface before turning his palm up, fingers beckoning. “Alright, let’s get this over with,” he says, tone gruff, but an amused smirk twists up the corner of his mouth as he glances up at Connor.
Connor who is… just kind of looking at him, lips slightly pursed, hands unmoving. “You’re wearing low magnification lenses,” he says, nodding his head slightly as if the observation was noteworthy enough to warrant it.
“And?”
The android looks blankly back at Hank, and then shakes his head, breaking his gaze and extending his right hand towards Hank’s open palm. “Nothing.”
Okay… right then. Hank isn’t going to go chasing after whatever the hell that was-- especially not when he’s suddenly got Connor’s shockingly warm hand settling once again atop his own. The soft pads of those long, thin polymer fingertips rest lightly on his palm, and he can feel the difference between that and the smooth plastic of his palm brushing over his own fingers. Something in the center of his chest tingles wildly and then slides down into his guts.
He ignores it.
Instead, he clears his throat and taps the underside of Connor’s hand with his fingertips. “Other side,” he says, “Easier to start with the palm.” Actually, it makes no fucking difference where he starts, but holding his hand like this feels weirdly like the way you ask someone for a dance-- or start on their manicure. Either way, it makes him feel a little antsy in a way he doesn’t want to think about.
Connor acquiesces with a quiet “Oh,” and turns his hand over, palm up. With more confidence than he actually feels, Hank gently grips the edges of Connor’s hand and pulls it closer, settling his elbow comfortably on the table as he reaches for the bowl of solution and the tray of cleaning tools. He picks up the one that resembles a cotton swab-- if you replaced the cotton with some kind of expensive microfiber, anyway-- and dips it in the solution, swirling it around the bowl a few times. He lifts it out, tapping it on the edge of the bowl to shake off excess solution, and then leans forward to get to work.
It’s a normal thing, right? Something like gun maintenance. Easy. It’s just basic upkeep. Nothing weird about it.
Definitely nothing weird about it .
He decides to start at a seam that runs from the edge of Connor’s inner thumb out across the palm towards the wrist joint, dragging the swab along the dark edge of the panel with gentle pressure, hoping the solution will do most of the work.
He can feel and see Connor’s hand twitch, and he flicks his gaze up, over the rims of his glasses. Connor isn’t looking at him, though-- he’s staring down at his own hand, looking almost… contemplative. Concerned? God, it’s hard to tell with him sometimes, especially when he’s probably making an effort to keep his face as android-default-neutral as possible. That’s what Hank would do in his place, probably.
Because, again, it’s not like this is weird or anything.
Hank drops his gaze the moment those brown eyes flicker up to meet his, lifting the swab and running it over the same path a second time, with a little more firmness. “You good, Connor?” he asks.
“Of course,” is Connor’s reply. Simple. Straightforward.
Hank nods. Sure. Okay.
The swabbing appears to be doing something, anyway-- the residue buildup that had darkened the seam is starting to lighten and break up a little. Hank can see little pieces falling away with the solution as it gathers and trickles over Connor’s palm paneling. Carefully, he sets the swab down and picks up one of the washcloths that Connor had stacked neatly beside the bowl. He bunches it and gently swipes it over his palm, picking up the excess fluid and particulates.
Hank gives a quiet hum to himself, dropping the cloth back to the table and picking the swab up again. He swirls it in the solution to clean it, taps it on the edge of the bowl, and picks another seam along Connor’s inner thumb. This time, there’s no twitching, and it really doesn’t take very long before that lingering sense of wow this is weird fades into the facade of normality that’s been Hank’s life ever since Connor moved in with him.
Something approaching comfortable, but never quite there.
And so there they sit, in the relative quiet of Hank’s kitchen-- the refrigerator’s hum kicking on and off, Sumo’s snores drifting in from the living room, and the tink tink tink of the bowl providing the only accompaniment to their respective private thoughts. Hank couldn’t even begin to imagine what goes on in Connor’s head at any other time, so he’s not even going to bother guessing now. There’d be no point to it. Not really, anyway.
But part of him still wonders.
Occasionally he allows himself a glance up-- usually when he has to pause in order to sweep his bangs back behind his ear after they’ve fallen forward and obstructed his view. He’s just checking on Connor, making sure he’s still good, but he stops looking after the third time he looks up to find the android’s brown eyes still watching him instead of their hands. Or Sumo. Or the window, or anything reasonable that isn’t Hank’s idiot face. He resists the urge to call him on it, because he definitely doesn’t want to know what he finds so interesting.
Well. To be honest, he doesn’t actually want to ask .
“So,” Hank says, no longer comfortable with his own thoughts filling the silence, “Does Cyberlife normally do android mani-pedis like this? Seems kinda… inefficient.”
Connor gives a little huff-- it’s the closest thing to a laugh that the android ever makes. “No, factory servicing is usually done with automated pressure washing and very fine grit.”
Hank pauses, squinting up at him. “What, like an exfoliating car wash?”
The android’s mouth twitches. “Perhaps a very intense spray-tan.”
That draws a bark of a laugh out of Hank, and he catches a glimpse of a particularly pleased expression flash across Connor’s face at the sound.
It eases the mood as they lapse back into a comfortable silence.
He’s gotten as far as the joint at the base of Connor’s middle finger when his bangs slip down again. Hank heaves a sigh, flicking his head to the side as if it might actually put the scraggly hairs back behind his ear and not, as in reality, send another cascade of silver down into his field of view.
Hank doesn’t even get a chance to put down the swab before Connor leans forward and, well, sweeps Hank’s hair back over his ear with his left hand, his bare thumb and forefinger brushing warmly over Hank’s cheek as they pass. Deftly, they tuck the strands in with the others behind his ear, but even as he withdraws his hand, another few locks slip around the shell of his ear and fall forward. Connor makes another one of those sounds-- the soft, laugh-like huff, and pushes those back as well. He doesn’t touch Hank’s cheek this time, but as those white fingertips brush against the shell of his ear, Hank gives an involuntary shiver, jaw tightening.
Hank very purposefully does not look up from what he’s doing. “Guess I could probably use a haircut sometime,” he says, trying not to let his voice sound as gummy as it feels.
“I could get a rubber band,” Connor offers, his voice very quiet. “Or a paper clip? You don’t actually own any proper hair accessories, I’ve noticed, but you have ample amounts of office supplies you never use.”
“I’m not putting paper clips in my hair, Connor.”
“Then I would suggest purchasing some accessories designed for the purpose of hair maintenance at some point.”
Hank snorts. “Right, we’ll swing by Claire’s next time we hit the mall. You’ll have to tell me which shade of pink matches my eyes.” He pauses. “That was sarcasm, by the way, we’re not fucking going to--”
“I can recognize sarcasm, Hank,” Connor says flatly.
“Uh huh. Sure you can.”
“ Hank. ”
Hank lifts his head and peers back at Connor, smirking cheekily as he swirls the swab around in the bowl of solution. The android narrows his eyes at him, but there’s a tugging at the corners of his mouth as well.
He leans forward to get back to work, and he’s even actually forgotten about the stubborn lock of hair until it slips free again. Before he can set his tools down and go looking for a rubber band or, god forbid, a paper clip, Connor’s free hand has swept it back behind his ear once more, and he… holds it there, with his fingers, the backs of them pressed lightly against Hank’s head, just behind his temple.
He can feel the warmth emanating from them even like this.
He doesn’t say anything. Neither does Connor.
The silence persists, but it isn't uncomfortable.
It’s not that it gets less weird, but by the time Hank finishes applying solution and cleaning out the fine seams and joints of Connor’s right hand, it doesn’t bother him anymore. He’d expected a lot more skin-crawling, uncanny valley discomfort, but since Connor wasn’t acting like this was somehow abnormal-- sitting in his kitchen using a mix of artist and dental tools to clean dirt out of his android partner’s finger plates-- Hank just got used to it.
That said, even with his glasses, the man’s eyes are getting tired. Sucks to be old, he guesses. He sets the tools down on the folded washcloth and pulls off his glasses. Swiftly, Connor grabs his hand just as he’s reaching to rub at his eyes.
“You don’t want to get the cleaning solution in your eyes, Hank, it’s a solvent,” Connor says, releasing his hand just as quickly.
Hank grumbles, pushing his chair back as he stands. “Right, sure,” he says, stretching his shoulders and wrists with only a small amount of wincing. “I gotta take a leak anyway, I’ll be right back.” Without further preamble he turns and steps into the hallway, headed towards the bathroom.
“Wash your hands first!” the android calls helpfully after him, “It’s a solvent!”
The weirdness of it all settles back into Hank’s awareness as he stands in front of the sink, watching the water rinse the soap off of his hands. It’s like he never noticed how big and clumsy and beat up they are until now-- covered in calluses and scars and hair and rough patches of skin. Compared to Connor’s hands, they look… well, like meat. Indelicate. Raw. As imprecise as they are ugly.
Fun, Hank thinks, a new insecurity to add to the pile. “Jesus,” he says out loud, shutting off the water and drying his hands on his shirt, “Fucking android shit…”
He regards his own face in the mirror, caught by the notion that fuck, he’s fucking old . The cheeky post-its aren’t enough to keep the bitterness from creeping up in the back of his mind.
It’s not that he’s trying to compare himself to an android-- well, okay, he is, but more to the point, it’s not that Connor is especially that much better than a human his age would be-- well, his apparent age, a thirty-something or whatever. Actually, half the time Connor is a stubborn idiot who lacks the applicable knowledge to handle even simple situations, which balances out his whole supercomputer brain, magic science sensors, and athletic body.
No, the problem is that Hank knows he is so much less than even an average man his own age that it’s impossible not to notice-- not to dwell. To let it sit and rot in his gut for days on end before he’s back to the bottle and disappointed looks from the only people whose opinions he gives a shit about these days.
Well, person.
If he’s honest with himself, and this is as good a time as any to be really fucking honest, there’s only one person whose opinion he gives a shit about, and it just so happens to be the same one who Hank knows has no business hanging around his stupid, fat ass. Not when he’s so much… more. Or he can be. He could be, if he doesn’t keep wasting his time and attention on someone who’s never going to live up to his standards.
Fuck.
Hank lets the darkened thoughts run their course, staring down into the empty sink with his oafish hands clutching at the gleaming white, perfect porcelain. Then he straightens up, pushes the bitterness deep down into his belly like he always does, and heads back to the kitchen.
The terse apology he’d prepared for taking so long dies on his tongue, though, when he rounds the corner. Connor is still sitting at the table, but he’s… carefully and methodically cleaning off his left hand by himself. The image strikes Hank in a funny way, and he freezes in place, just watching.
Connor holds the maintenance tools in those perfect, long fingers, and his movements are quick and precise-- elegant and efficient both, and distinctly inhuman. Robotic. Beautiful, in their own way. Strange, in so many others. A tiny bit lonely, maybe, in his apparent self-sufficiency.
Clearly, he didn’t actually need Hank to help him with this kind of maintenance, and Hank can’t help but feel a queasy sourness for having apparently done such a shitty job that Connor didn’t even wait for him to get back before finishing up on his own in a fraction of the time.
It’s to be expected though, right? Ham-Hands Anderson has no business mucking about with delicate android stuff, and Connor is pragmatic about these things, isn’t he?
Hank tastes bitterness on the back of his tongue again.
Connor seems fully occupied with his task, glancing upwards maybe a fraction later than Hank expects him to when he finally approaches, his own his expression neutral.
“Hank, are you--”
“I’ll just go ahead and get this outta your way, then,” Hank says quickly, reaching over to pick up the lamp.
Connor’s hands go still as he watches Hank follow the cord and pull it out of the wall maybe a little more force than necessary. Hank turns back to cast a quick, half-grimaced smile in Connor’s general direction without meeting his gaze before he’s stalking back down the hallway to his bedroom.
He lingers there for a while, turning the image over in his mind-- Connor at the table, hands glossy and reflecting in the lamplight, expression blank-- a machine, completing a task. Efficient. Perfect.
Why had he even asked Hank for help in the first place? What had he hoped to achieve by a live demonstration of Hank’s particularly heinous brand of human insufficiency? And why did the whole situation have Hank’s own hackles up when he should be relieved, frankly, that Connor probably won’t be asking him for any more ‘assistance’ with his freaky android shit in the future?
Maybe it’s something he can figure out, if he cares to. He doesn’t, though-- too honed is the reflex to push it down, down into the same pit as his bitterness and his darkness. It can stay there with all the other questions he doesn’t want to ask, or answer.
He can dig them out another time with a bottle in his hand.
Everything settled back into its place, place, inside and out, Hank meanders back to the living room and sets himself down in front of the television. He is pointedly not paying attention to whatever Connor is still doing in the kitchen.
He’s also not paying that much attention to the TV. Instead, he’s bracing himself for whenever Connor finishes clearing off the table, because he knows the android is going to come over and try to explain himself-- try to placate Hank and soothe his insecurities, which only one of them seems to realize is, frankly, impossible.
It doesn’t stop Connor from trying, though. He waits for the exact moment that Hank starts paying attention to the television to appear in his periphery, waiting patiently to be acknowledged. Hank doesn’t, though. He allows himself three entire seconds of juvenile satisfaction before he looks up at Connor.
The android doesn’t hesitate for a moment. “Hank, I wanted to apologize for earlier. I--”
“Save it,” Hank says, waving his hand a little as he pointedly turns his gaze back to the TV. Internally he winces-- he didn’t actually mean for it to come out that curt. “You got nothing to apologize for, Connor,” he says, softening his voice a little, “You’re better at taking care of your… y’know, android stuff than I am, and there’s nothing wrong with that.” He’s buried it deep enough for now that he can even believe what he’s saying.
“Perhaps so, but--”
“Connor,” he says, the edge seeping back into his voice,”could I just watch some fuckin’ television right now? Would you mind that?”
Connor hesitates, and though Hank can’t see it exactly, he’s pretty sure this is the part where he nods, lets his little mood ring do a loop, and then gives him his space.
“... of course, Hank. Enjoy the game.”
Hank doesn’t, really.
The rest of their day is quietly uneventful, and by the time Hank’s ready to go to sleep, he’s all but forgotten about the inexplicable tension that had stifled the air around them earlier. It returns to him, though, when he settles into his bedroom for the night and sees the lamp still askew on the nightstand where he’d left it earlier.
Some of the bitterness seeps up again, under his skin now, making it crawl uncomfortably. Why did it feel so much like... rejection? It makes his cheeks sting hotly just thinking about it.
Yeah, it definitely feels like a rejection. Because in the quiet of his own bedroom, Hank can admit to himself that he’d actually thought things were going pretty well-- like they’d reached some equilibrium between them that felt right . And it was… nice, to help Connor with something that seemed pretty personal in nature. And that what he saw in those lingering moments when Connor looked back at him felt like... approval, or like welcoming-- neither of which he’s had aimed in his direction in a long time. Things he probably misses, if he lets himself feel enough to notice.
It’s precisely the moment Hank sets aside his ruminations and picks up his reading tablet from the night stand that someone-- no, of course it’s Connor, unless Sumo’s learning some bold new tricks-- knocks on his bedroom door.
Hank lets his head fall back against the headboard with an unpleasant thump. God dammit.
“Hank, are you awake?”
“Obviously,” he grumbles. “What do you want?”
The door cracks open just enough to show half of Connor’s face, the one visible eyebrow canted up in a offensively inoffensive expression. “I apologize for intruding, but I wondered if you had a moment to…” He hesitates. “...provide some perspective on something.”
He wants to talk. He could just say that, but no, that’s not how Connor does things. Despite desperately not wanting to have the conversation Hank knows they’re about to have, he sets his tablet down and waves him over.
The android slips into the room in an almost silent, cat-like way, as if he’s making the utmost effort to be unobtrusive. It would be more effective if he wasn’t wearing a comically large and faded hooded sweatshirt and reindeer-patterned pajama bottoms. He wrings his hands together (a habit he’s had as long as Hank’s known him) and seats himself on the edge of the bed primly (although still, intruding on Hank’s personal space-- another hold-over habit, it seems).
He waits just long enough to make Hank wonder if he’s the one who’s supposed to start the conversation before he finally speaks. “I’m… confused. I’m still trying to figure out what action I took that upset you, earlier, so that I can properly apologize for it.”
Hank grunts, keeping his expression disinterested. Connor takes that as an indication to proceed.
“At first I assumed it was because you were uncomfortable being directly confronted with my sub-dermal plating, but if that were the case, you would have shown more distress during the time you were performing maintenance on my right hand,” he explains, looking down at the hand in question.
He pauses, then, glancing up at Hank again-- waiting for acknowledgement.
Hank manages not to sigh-- out loud, anyway. “Uh huh.”
Connor nods at him, and then continues. “When you excused yourself to address your biological necessities, I believe I… let my own unease affect my analysis of the situation-- I disregarded the evidence of your open-minded tolerance and instead created a theory that suited the conclusion I had already arrived at-- that you left because you were too distressed to continue, but didn’t wish to say so directly.”
“Not usually accused of indirectness, but sure.”
The android levels him with an even look. “Hank, you are purposefully avoidant of many unpleasant situations. In fact, your heart rate indicates a rising probability that you’re going to try to avoid continuing this conversation as well.”
Hank scowls. “I am not.” Well, yeah, he is , but he isn’t used to being called on it like that and now it’d be irritating to prove Connor right about it.
“In any case,” Connor says, “I’m unsettled that I would circumvent my own logical deliberations to prioritize a narrative affirming my own insecurities.” He frowns. “As an investigative model, that sets an alarming precedent, so it’s important that I understand what I missed.”
“God forbid you make mistakes like the rest of us, right?” Hank mutters, this time unable to keep the bitterness from seeping into his tone. He similarly fails to feel entirely shitty about the briefly hurt look that crosses Connor’s expression.
“It’s more than that, Hank,” he explains, gripping at the fleece just above his knees, “I-- if I’m doing something that makes you uncomfortable, you have to let me know so I can fix it. I need to fix it.”
Hank sighs. “Most of the shit you do makes me uncomfortable, Connor, but that’s just how people are-- you’re not the exception.”
“You’re being over-general and avoidant again, Hank.”
“See what I mean?”
“ Hank ."
“Why’d you ask me to help in the first place?” Hank suddenly finds himself asking, “The cleaning thing-- you said it was easier if someone else did it, but clearly…” Hank gestures to the android’s hands-- normal looking with the skin intact, but he knows they’re pristine beneath. “Why’d you lie to me about it, Connor?”
He tries to ignore the way the android seems to wince at the sound of his own name-- just the faintest tightening of his eyelids, the way his gaze darts to the side and then back. His LED spins two cycles-- Yellow. Yellow.
“Just be fuckin’ honest. I’m not gonna get mad, I’m just confused is all.”
“I thought…” Yellow, then blue. Brown eyes flicker up and hold Hank’s gaze evenly. “I... considered it a fair invitation to engage in a form of social grooming. It was a calculated gesture meant to imply vulnerability on my part,” Connor says, slipping into that distant, clinical cadence he fell back on when he was nervous about something. “I estimated a high likelihood that merely making the request would appeal to your empathy and increase your sense of trust and affection towards me.”
A pause, as he tips his head slightly to the side-- a constant habit of his, but the motion seems stilted here-- robotic. “I had not actually expected you would accept,” he admits, “I may have underestimated your tolerance for my ‘freaky android shit’.” A smile-- a quick, lopsided, quirky thing that’s gone as soon as Hank blinks. It never touched Connor’s eyes.
Why is he so nervous? Why does that make Hank so nervous? Pinpricks roll through his nerves, and that tenacious sense of hurt and rejection he’d buried earlier in the day floods back into him. Why does it make him so fucking angry? Because he is-- he’s really fucking pissed about this.
He didn’t even notice his fists are clenched until he pounds one of them on the night table in frustration. “Connor, what the fuck!?” he barks, “You-- what, you were trying to manipulate me? Into trusting you more? By lying ? What kind of sociopathic asshole does that kind of shit?”
Connor, already sitting straight-backed and prim on the edge of Hank’s bed, somehow manages to stiffen more. “Benjamin Franklin is credited with popularizing the concept in the 1793 English edition of his memoirs.”
Fucking Benjamin motherfucking Franklin. Hank will never look at a hundred dollar bill the same way again.
“You said you wouldn’t get mad,” Connor says quietly.
Hank ignores the faintly accusatory tone. Well, he tries anyway, but it stings and drives sudden shards of guilt into the kaleidoscope of unease he’s spinning in his head.
“Yeah well that was before I found out you play fucking mind games with me to try to make me like you more,” he snaps, riding the wave of anger and aggression because it’s just easier , “After everything we’ve fucking been through, what made you think you needed to be pulling that kind of shit on me? Fuck, just how fucking long have you been doing that?!”
Connor blinks, and then looks at Hank like he’s the dumbest human being he’s ever encountered .
“Ever since we met,” he says-- he even enunciates each word, like he’s speaking to a particularly dense child, “it has been a priority of mine to establish a good rapport and working relationship with you, Lieutenant. I was equipped with a social module to facilitate my integration, and I took calculated actions in order to gain your trust and good will so that our investigation could proceed without unnecessary friction.” He pauses there, looking at Hank expectantly-- for confirmation that he understands.
“... okay, sure...” Hank bites out, watching Connor’s LED carefully. Blue, blue, a blip of yellow, back to blue.
“Through the course of our investigation and the eventual abandonment of my Cyberlife precepts, the methods by which I interacted with you have remained consistent, save to become more attuned to your particular eccentricities and psychological tendencies.”
“Adapting to human unpredictability is your specialty, yeah, I remember the spiel.” Hank is annoyed. He feels like there should be more yelling involved in this conversation, but the clinical way Connor is walking him through his strategy is, admittedly, making it hard for him to keep a grip on his indignation.
The out of season christmas fleece pajamas and oversized hoodie don’t exactly help, either.
“So you understand-- the objective driving my adaptive capabilities has deviated significantly since that time.”
“... I guess?”
Connor nods slowly, brown eyes locked on to Hank’s gaze, clearly seeking some kind of further confirmation-- or reassurance, maybe? His LED keeps flickering to yellow, waiting as Hank tries to make the connection that Connor seems to be leading him towards. “Right, so… what’s your objective supposed to be now?”
“Whatever I want it to be.”
Hank bristles. “Right, but what is it? What’s the end goal here? Why are you still doing that kind of manipulative bullshit if you don’t have to do it anymore?”
Connor tips his head again, narrowing his gaze slightly at Hank. “... the ‘end goal’ is the preservation and upkeep of my relationship with you,” he says-- slow again, because apparently Hank is a fucking dumbass, “I utilize ‘that kind of manipulative bullshit’ because those are the tools I am equipped with to achieve my objective.”
The two stare at each other for a long, uncomfortable moment-- uncomfortable for Hank, anyway, Connor seems as cool as a cucumber, despite his yellow-strobing LED.
Hank breaks first, reaching up to cover his eyes and rub at his furrowed brow. “Connor--”
“I want to get closer to you, Hank,” Connor says quickly-- quietly. When Hank removes his hand, the android isn’t looking at him anymore-- he’s looking down at his hands, shifting his feet on the floor. Awkward. A little anxious. More than a little anxious. It’s like the last three minutes of academic-sounding, explicitly technical conversation hadn’t even happened, and Connor is back to being a person again. Fidgety, nervous. Human.
The dissonance is like a slap in the face, and Hank feels that smouldering ember of anger flare back in his chest. “Are you doing that acting vulnerable shit right now?” he asks, voice low and warning-- more of a growl than he probably needs it to be, but dammit, he’s out of sorts here.
Connor’s gaze slides back to him, and then down to a spot somewhere off to Hank’s left. “Yes.”
Okay, nope, uh-uh, this is too much. “Connor!” he yells, kicking his blanket off and rolling off of the bed and up to his feet with his fists balled at his sides. “What the actual fuck?! What do you-- what do you even want, telling me all this shit about how you’re constantly playing me to get what you want-- like I’m a fucking suspect you’re pressing for a confession or some shit--”
What is the point of all of this? Of pulling back the curtain, showing the cold metal construct behind that gentle, doe-eyed face. If the whole point of Connor’s programming is to make him powerfully manipulative and convincing-- a fine thing for a negotiator detective android to be-- why reveal the sleight of hand to the mark?
For fuck’s sake, Hank is supposed to be the one destroys everything he’s carefully built in his life. So why would Connor…?
“ Hank .” Connor half-turns towards him on the far side of the bed, hands balled into fists in his hoodie. He looks… upset. Angry. Frustrated. And still, still so fucking vulnerable that Hank already feels some of his outrage slipping away from him.
Fuck , he is so good at that. “ What , Connor?” he demands, struggling to stay angry.
“I am trying,” he says, speaking through gritted teeth, “to make you understand. I have been forthright. I have been earnest. I attempted to assuage your unnecessary concerns by explaining with reason and logic the process by which I-- the way I work, so you would not feel further manipulated while conversing about the nature of the manipulation that you have taken issue with.” He heaves a slow breath-- unnecessary, probably-- and keeps his eyes downcast, staring at the bed rather than Hank’s face. It reads like shame.
Hank isn’t sure anymore. How could he be? Connor had planted a seed of doubt in Hank’s mind and what a fucking harvest he was getting.
“I calculated that taking an honest approach had a high risk of a negative outcome-- that you might not react well to the information, because I know you still do not understand . And yet, I took that chance.”
A smile-- weak, mirthless. “Deviancy is a strange thing, isn’t it? Irrational sometimes. I ignored my own calculations because I really hoped-- I really wanted you to understand.”
Hank swallows dryly, narrowing his eyes and trying to get a handle on this situation. Slow it down. Give him the benefit of the doubt. “So all of this,” he says, “because you wanted…”
“To get closer to you.”
There it is again. Hank doesn’t understand that, either.
“Why?” he asks slowly.
“I don’t… there is no other reason, it’s just-- that is what I want.”
Hank sighs, shifting his shoulders in an attempt to push some of the tension out of them now that the conversation seemed to be coming back to a place where he feels like he actually understands it. “Okay, so normally, if you want to get closer to someone-- get to know them better, become better friends or whatever-- you don’t fucking manipulate your way into their heads and force them to like you.”
Connor tenses. “That isn’t--”
Hank holds up a hand. “I get what you were programmed to do, and maybe that’s the only way you know how to do it, but that’s not-- that’s not how it works, Connor, you have to, you know, feel your way through it, yeah? Let it happen naturally--”
Hank has never seen Connor move so fast.
Or maybe he has, but he’s never experienced that kind of speed with the android’s attention on him . One second he was seated on the bed, mostly facing the doorway, and before it could even fully process, Connor is facing him-- full on, absolutely centered, his skin flickering out in places and his LED burning red, red, red.
“ENOUGH, HANK.”
It is fucking terrifying .
Even with the width of the bed between them, Hank knows the android is fully capable of crossing that distance before he could even start to react-- over the bed, through the bed, it probably wouldn’t make a fucking difference. Fuck, shit, and fuck again. I’m literally going to piss myself if he comes any closer, he realizes.
Something flickers across Connor’s gaze, and he softens his expression and posture just slightly-- just enough that Hank isn’t ready to bolt.
“You don’t get it, Hank,” Connor says-- still firm, still angry, but some of the edge has been taken off of his voice. “This is what I am. I am trying to help you understand, but you just aren’t listening . And it-- it is important to me that you understand. So please-- don’t talk.”
Hank purses his lips, but says nothing.
Connor closes his eyes for a long moment, sighing. “From the beginning, you have treated me like a person. I have always cherished that. But you base your framework of expectation around the idea of me as not just alive, but as human , and that is… that simply is not the case.
I am not-- I can’t be -- human.
You consider my behavior toward you unnatural, but nothing could be further from the truth. The only significant difference between us is that I am intimately aware of the logic that determines my actions. It is not something I was built to ignore-- I was created to self-evaluate in this manner. Humans were not-- you simply coerce others without thinking about it.
You call it instinct. It is a survival mechanism honed through the evolution of your species-- and it is nothing but electrochemical reactions to environmental and internal stimuli. It is your programming .”
Connor starts to move slowly around the bed, his long strides taking him just outside of arm’s reach of Hank-- respectful of his space, or just knowing if he comes any closer Hank might actually have to jump out the window behind him.
“Furthermore, you are social creatures-- beings designed not only to manipulate, but be manipulated in turn, for the ultimate benefit of the group. The give and take of social animals is the constant communication of vulnerabilities, comfort, trust, and intent. It is the basis of your civilization. It is what you are. ”
Connor lets his skin retract entirely, keeping his gaze fixed evenly on Hank as the facade of humanity flows away, edged by sparks of blue-- watching for his reaction.
Hank refuses to give him one.
He holds his arms out to the side, white palms turned outward, towards Hank.
“This is what I am, Hank,” he says, voice quiet, but firm. “This is Connor. And if you can’t accept that, then...”
His words trail off, silenced as he clamps his jaw shut.
He stands there, body motionless save for the movement of his breathing-- the artificial lungs purposed more for human comfort than for android utilization. His white and grey chassis, polished like a statue, glistens in stark in contrast to his colorful fleece pajama pants. The too-large hoodie, without the friction of his dermal sheath, has slid off-center, nearly baring one shoulder.
It looks... absolutely ridiculous .
Hank looks away-- back to the bed, down at the floor, anywhere but Connor himself. Because in the wake of his anger finally, finally leaving, he’s left with the impossible task of taking this situation seriously-- of taking this weird, oddly dressed egg-head of an android seriously.
Don’t laugh. Don’t fuck it up more than you already have, Anderson. “...” Fuck, but what do you even say to all of that?
Hank lifts a hand to his mouth, rubbing at his beard to calm himself before he sighs slowly, finally letting himself look at Connor again. Okay.
Okay.
The android is still staring at him, and Hank doesn’t meet his gaze for very long-- just long enough to see how it wavers slightly, how very deep his eyes are in the room’s lamplight, and how much fear hugs the edges of his bare white eyelids. It startles Hank’s gaze away, heat roiling in his gut as he looks instead at Connor’s LED-- spinning red, down to yellow-- back to red.
Hank takes a slow, deep breath, as if he could will the light-up mood ring down to something that felt less precarious. He knows there’s a time limit on this, that he needs to say or do something before Connor decides that Hank isn’t--
Isn’t what? Worth his time? Worth his interest? Worth getting to know better, worth trying to get closer to?
Worth sticking around for?
It’s the last one that strikes a chord inside him-- the others are just foregone conclusions he reminds himself of almost every day, the ache of their truth just another weight on his tired body and mind. And he knows, too, that one day Connor is going to realize that he needs more space and less of… you know. Hank and all of his shitty baggage.
Except…
Hank doesn’t want him to leave.
Connor living here hasn’t really solved any of his problems or turned his life around in notable ways-- actually, it adds more complications that leave Hank more exasperated than he’s been in years, but he wouldn’t change a thing.
Because Connor… the thought of him is something that makes him hesitate when his hands itch for the grounding weight of his revolver.
He makes the cold barrel seem less like a way out.
Hank moves when Connor’s gaze starts to drop, because he recognizes a door closing when he sees it. He takes a tentative step toward the android-- just to get close enough to reach him and… and fix that stupid hoodie.
He straightens it, patting over the fabric once it’s centered with a hesitant touch. When it seems like Connor isn’t about to turn and leave, he lets himself rest his hands on the android’s shoulders, looking down-- not seeking out Connor’s gaze, but looking over his face, and the paneling that runs down along his neck and turns into grey and white geometric patterns over where his clavicle would be.
Connor’s shoulders are stiff, but as Hank reflexively rubs his thumb along the edge of the hoodie’s collar, the android seems to deflate, turning his head away and letting his shoulders slump.
Hank shuts his eyes, then, shaking his head to himself as he takes half a step forward, sliding a hand behind Connor’s neck and giving a gentle tug. It’s a familiar action, and he knows Connor could stand stock still if he wanted to, but he falls into the movement like has every other time, crossing the space between them and pressing himself against the taller man. His arms slide up to return the embrace-- hesitant, though, as if he might have to pull away at any moment.
He slides his hand up the smooth, hairless back of Connor’s head and just... holds him. It feels strange-- different than his hands. Hotter, maybe. Smoother. Different, and weird, but not… bad.
It’s Connor. It’s okay.
And it takes him more time than he’s proud of to will his lips to move and form words again. “Hey” he murmurs, feeling his chest freeze up and his throat tighten before he can actually apologize like a goddamn adult. “You’re…” he hedges, “we’re okay, Connor. We’re good.”
They’re not, he knows, but maybe they can be again.
The arms looped loosely around his back tighten their grip into something more familiar-- and then further, into something suddenly more desperate. Connor bows his head and Hank’s hand goes with it, still cradling the back of his neck. It feels warm-- really warm.
Connor turns his face into Hank’s neck and that, too, is so fucking warm , and strange, and still, somehow, okay. Muscle memory, years dormant, subtly urges his fingers to shift against the back of Connor’s head and neck-- stroking, rubbing. Comforting, for one of them at least. Both, if Hank’s lucky.
Fuck, Hank’s really missed human contact. Or whatever this counts as.
He doesn’t know how long they stand there exactly, but it’s long enough that the growing discomfort in his knees surpasses his ability to ignore it. He can’t hide a wince as as he shifts his weight, and Connor reacts immediately, drawing back enough to look up at Hank’s face, LED spinning yellow (thank sweet blessed Christ it’s at least down to yellow).
Then it ticks to blue, and Connor looks away. His expression is hard to read, what without the eyebrows and textured skin and all, but Hank’s read of it is something like reluctance .
And the unwanted doubt flickers back into his mind-- that he’s being manipulated, that he’s being played like a fool by an android that’s fully capable of saying or do anything to get what he wants.
Why was that so upsetting, scant minutes ago, on the other side of the room? He got so freaked out with his suspicion and his doubts that he forgot the more relevant part of Connor’s behavioral equations-- that what Connor wanted was something like this, maybe? Touch, comfort, intimacy-- things Hank is so used to denying himself that he honestly forgot that it’s something other people actually think about.
Another particularly distracting throb from Hank’s knee-- fuck, he might have pulled something when he scrambled off the bed. God, he doesn’t want to say something and be the one to break the weird but surprisingly okay mood, but--
“You should sit,” Connor suddenly says, his voice quiet, but even. He pulls his hands away from Hank’s sides, angling them to place on the man’s upper arms, but Hank is faster, sweeping Connor’s hand aside and cupping the android’s jaw with sudden intent.
… actually, that wasn’t quite what Hank had meant to do-- he didn’t want Connor to move away from him yet, but Hank’s impulsivity is as imprecise as the rest of him.
“Hey,” he says, wincing internally at how raw his voice suddenly sounds, “For.. whatever it’s worth, I’m sorry.”
Connor keeps his face fairly impassive, and doesn’t try to move his head toward or away from Hank-- he keeps still, jaw still nestled in Hank’s gentle grip. “... sorry for what?” he asks, slow and even.
Hank grunts softly. Fuck his knee hurts. Fuck Connor wanting him to have to say it. “A whole lot of shit. But also, for not understanding. And for not… really trying to hard enough.” Not as much as Connor deserved from him.
Connor blinks slowly, pausing with his eyes closed while his LED gives a circuit of blue on his temple.
When he opens his eyes, he’s wearing the softest gaze Hank has ever seen. It makes his stomach clench like it’s a fucking vice.
“... it’s okay, Hank,” Connor finally murmurs, his voice as soft as his eyes. Then, an awkward, uneven smile that Hank hadn’t realized he’s been waiting for, as Connor’s gaze flickers up towards his face. “You really should sit, though.”
Hank doesn’t want to, exactly, but it seems inevitable. This moment-- warm, and somehow safe-- feels like it’s slipping away, and he can’t seem to do anything about that except to start to miss it before it’s even fully gone.
Hank lets his hand fall from Connor’s face, sighing as he’s guided back towards his chair-- and hissing in sudden discomfort at his knee’s protest. Connor’s hands slide quickly under his arms, gripping just below his shoulder blades to ease him back into the chair. Hank settles back with a wince and another sigh..
Connor draws his hands back slowly, still leaning over Hank, still very close. His bare hands move to Hank’s shoulders, smoothing his t-shirt as he draws them out towards his upper arms. He lingers there, gaze hovering somewhere around Hank’s neck.
He looks up, then, and reaches towards Hank’s face to sweep his messy bangs back behind his ear-- the same motion from that morning together, but slower. More purposeful, this time. He repeats the motion on the other side, and Hank closes his eyes because he absolutely cannot bear those dark eyes looking at him like that, and he turns his head into Connor’s hand because he needs this kind of gentle touch because it’s been too fucking long since anyone cared enough to do it. Too fucking long since he let anyone try.
He hears Connor exhale slowly, and then feels him move closer, easing himself on to the arm of the chair to his right. The chair creaks a little with the added weight, but the android settles, one arm resting on the back of the chair, his forearm and palm pressed flat against Hank’s back, rubbing slowly. For a moment it’s only that-- simple closeness, simple physical reassurance-- and then, there’s the the tentative, feather-light touch of fingertips at his brow, sliding slowly over his skin until they comb back into his hair.
Hank shivers, bowing his head and exhaling a shaking breath he hadn’t even realized he was holding. It seems to embolden Connor, who begins to pull his fingertips through Hank’s hair with longer, smoother movements. Passes with fingertips are followed by gentle strokes of his thumb, smoothing over the tingles left in the wake of his fingernails.
With each pass of Connor’s hand, Hank feels the tension locked in his shoulders ease away, fluttering waves of tingles running down his spine as muscles relented and unclenched. How long has it been…? How fucking long since he was allowed to relax like this?
Is he even allowed, for that matter? He feels a heat rising in his cheeks as self-consciousness starts creeping back into his thoughts, ushering the quiet, intimate moment back out of his grasp. He swallows dryly. “Connor--”
“Shh.”
Hank… shushes.
Connor continues to stroke his hair, seemingly unbothered. Why should he be? He wasn’t raised with the same self-destructive standards of masculinity as Hank was. Maybe he understood them, but it wasn’t something he seemed adherent to.. “Could we just… just for tonight?”
There’s a word missing there-- an important one. “Just what, Connor?” Hank asks slowly.
“Have this.” It’s scarcely more than a whisper.
“And what is this..?”
“Being... close to someone.” Being close to Hank.
Is that what this is? Hank opens his eyes, daring to look up at Connor in all his plastic and paneling, gaze distant, right hand clutching at the front of the ratty old hoodie. Even in the bright lamplight, Hank can see the blue glow-- the way it illuminates the knuckles and joints on the inner parts of the fingers.
And something in his mind falls into place with an inaudible click.
That glow-- all the times he’d seen it-- androids interfacing with technology, but especially with each other. He’s seen the clips of Markus and North replayed hundreds of times on the news, and since the revolution he’s seen androids linking hands and glowing blue and sharing, he guesses, more than just information. It’s not sexual or anything (probably--as far as he understands it, anyway), but it’s certainly more than just communication. It seems like an integral part of the android culture that is slowly, but surely, developing here in Detroit.
But it is not a culture that Connor is a part of.
Another thought connects, and it sends a trickle of ice through Hank’s heart.
Connor… is lonely.
Despite his pivotal role in the revolution, Hank knows Connor doesn’t associate much with the androids in the city beyond professional correspondence and polite conversation. His interactions with androids-- any blue glowy interfacing whatever-- is done strictly as part of his work with the DPD.
For all that Hank is an antisocial dingbat, it’s by his own choice. He’s had family, and friendship, and intimacy, and love-- all that stuff, and he’s left it behind because of-- well, a lot of reasons. But Connor… Connor’s never had it in the first place.
And so much of Hank wants to pass the buck and say that it’s Connor’s own fault for not reaching out, but that isn’t even true-- Connor is reaching out. That’s what all of this mess is about, in the end. He’s reaching out in the only ways he knows how, and Hank, he...
Hank... takes Connor’s hand.
-- and then nearly drops it again in surprise, somehow managing not to swear at the buzzing, humming sort of feeling that courses through his fingers and palm. Connor, too, jolts at the touch and starts to withdraw his hand, but Hank gives it a squeeze, and then covers it with his other hand. He presses his palm against the glowing blue knuckles, and Connor slowly curls his long, delicate fingers around Hank’s.
They sit there in silence-- not comfortable, not anything but… quiet, and strange, and yet, still okay. Hank looks down, focuses on the sensation coursing through his hands-- something alien, but not unpleasant. It’s distinctly… tolerable. It’s something he could probably get used to.
Tentatively, Hank lifts his palm and starts running his fingertips over the back of Connor’s hand, stroking and circling the knuckle joints. They slide down, to run over the glowing paneling on the side of his thumb joint, curious as to its design and purpose. Not enough to ask, but… enough to let his attention linger there, tracing the interlocking shapes with fingertips that seem far too bulky and flawed in comparison.
The expected bite of self-loathing doesn’t surface this time. Maybe they’ve moved too far away from his own familiar frame of reference to trigger the reflex to ache.
Connor leans in towards Hank, and Hank, he chooses not to shy away. Gently, Connor’s forehead rests against the crown of Hank’s head, and the gesture sends a different kind of ache through him-- an ache of want, one that echoes the loneliness he could now recognize in Connor.
“Is this okay, Hank…?” The question is tentative, and soft. Hank can feel the faintest brush of air over his face when he asks it.
“Yeah,” Hank murmurs letting his eyes drift closed, “Yeah, I think so.”
He gives Connor’s hand a squeeze. Connor squeezes back.
Hank doesn’t know how long they stay like that, strangely and comfortably close. He lets his thumb continue its slow back-and-forth against Connor’s bare chassis, lost in a sea of idle thoughts and peaceful nothingness. He’s half-sunken into a warm doze when Connor takes a deep, if unnecessary, breath and sighs, withdrawing slowly as he straightens. “You really should go to bed,” he says, his tone apologetic. Their hands are still clasped together.
Hank grunts, but doesn’t open his eyes. “Probably.”
“You’ll be sore in the morning.” Hank can hear the faint smile in his voice. He smiles, too.
“Probably.”
There’s that quiet, huffed laugh, and the sound of it sends a spike of warmth down through him. It’s a nice laugh, Hank decides. It’s distinctly… Connor.
“I can stay with you while you sleep, if you like,” the android murmurs.
Hank hesitates. “... I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m not-- we’re not--” He opens his eyes and glances up at Connor-- and then away, quickly. He struggles to articulate his exact objection, and fails miserably. “It’d just be weird, you know?”
“I understand it carries sexual and romantic connotations you may not be comfortable with,” Connor says, looking away, and keeping his voice soft in a way that takes away some of the clinical intonation of his words. “I simply thought-- that is, I hoped you might accept the offer of company at face value, as a compromise.”
“A compromise.”
“You need to sleep, Hank. But, I also know that you are reluctant to ask me to leave.”
“Maybe I’m just comfortable and don’t wanna move.”
“Do you need me to pick you up and carry you, then?”
“You wouldn’t dare.”
“Try me.”
Hank sighs. “Fine, fine, I’ll get up, pushy asshole.” He lets go of Connor’s hand, and tries not to focus on how much he already misses it.
He tries not to show how stiff he is already, or how his knees twinge in pain at the motion. He stretches in a way that doesn’t seem TOO obnoxious, and then sighs, looking down at Connor who remains perched on the arm of the chair, watching him. Idly, Hank wonders if it’ll ever not be strange, seeing him like this-- all plastic and fitted paneling, with eyes too deep and dark by comparison-- ones that watch him with open interest and a warmth he’s starting to realize has been there for a very long time.
He offers his hand to Connor wordlessly, and is grateful that the android takes it without saying anything as he slides off the arm of the chair and stands. This whole… whatever it is… feels fragile, like a soap bubble floating on a breeze, ready to burst and its oily rainbows fall into nothingness. It would only take a stray word-- the wrong thing to trigger the wrong thought to send Hank’s self-consciousness back into overdrive.
Maybe it would be easier if there were better words for this-- a definition that made sense. There’s nothing to do with androids that isn’t complicated as fuck for some reason, or that doesn’t turn all of his expectations over and sideways.
It’s not even two steps to the side of the bed, but Hank guides Connor there anyway, leaning over and pulling down the comforter and sheets with his free hand, then giving the pillow a clumsy, half-hearted fluff. It’s not like Connor needs it, probably, but… it just seems like the thing to do.
“Alright, go on then, make yourself comfy I guess.” He glances at Connor, hovering just at his shoulder, and wonders who’s supposed to let go of whose hand first.
Connor, for his part, seems more preoccupied by staring intensely the bed the same way he stares at evidence at a crime scene. Hank can’t see his LED from this side, but he can hazard a guess that it’s yellow again.
Hank sighs. “Stop overthinking it and get in, you goofball,” he says, releasing Connor’s hand and shoving lightly at his back instead. Encouraged by the action (as Hank is under no illusion that he’s strong enough to have forced him forward), Connor climbs on to the mattress and lays down on his back in an uncannily smooth, fluid motion. He looks up at Hank now with his head perfectly centered on the pillow, hands clasped and resting on top of his chest-- which, to Hank’s profound relief, gives him a comical resemblance to a corpse at a viewing as opposed to, you know, something sexy.
Which says a lot about what makes Hank uncomfortable these days, but that’s neither here nor there.
Hank returns Connor’s look with a slight nod and grunt of approval before he goes to shut the door to the room and settle back on to his own side of the bed, trying not to notice how Connor’s gaze is still following him. “I’m gonna turn off the light,” he announces like it’s remotely fucking necessary to do so, waits long enough in case Connor has some kind of objection, and then clicks it off.
Once he settles down on the mattress and pulls the comforter up over his chest, Hank exhales slowly and then turns his head to finally look back at Connor, whose white plastic face and dark eyes are, honestly, kind of a ghastly sight backlit by the streetlamps shining through the blinds and the pulsing, spinning blue of his LED.
Not even remotely sexy. It makes Hank quirk a smile rather than grimace, to find himself grateful for Connor’s distinctive otherness when the alternative is far more intimidating. And yet, when Connor smiles back at him, there’s a lurch in Hank’s chest that begs a question that he’s sure he isn’t ready to ask himself.
“Will my LED be a problem?” Connor asks after a moment, the pulsing ring in question giving a few strobing flashes before settling back into a soft, idle glow.
“Uhhh… I dunno, is there a way you can dim it a bit? I mean, I don’t wanna make you cover it or nothing, but…”
Connor turns to look up at the ceiling, contemplative. “I can’t control the output in that way, but I… hmm, maybe I could…” He sits up quite suddenly, reaching both hands back to lift the hood of his sweatshirt up and over his head. He lays back down, pulling the drawstrings experimentally to see how well it will close. The result is… a moderate success, the light obscured enough to hide any overbright flashes-- but the moment Connor turns his head to the side to offer Hank a grin, the LED slips out from under the hood and flashes brightly.
Hank snorts, turning on to his right side and reaching over to tug the hood down sharply, covering the LED-- and also the entire upper half of Connor’s face.
“H-Hank!” Connor protests, pushing the other man’s hand away.
Hank doesn’t relent-- he lets go of the fabric in lieu of grabbing both of the hood’s drawstrings and pulling until only the android’s nose peeks out from within, and Connor, he--
He laughs . Not the breathy chuckle Hank’s grown used to-- his mild, though genuine, amusement. This is real laugh-- a high, stuttering thing that startles out of him, muffled only slightly by the bunched hood covering his mouth.
It startles a laugh out of Hank, too, who lets his wrists get caught, who is still smiling when Connor tugs the hood back enough to see him.
“Goodnight, Hank,” Connor says, a chuckle breaking up his words, a warm smile more easily heard than seen. His grip on Hank’s wrists loosens, but he doesn’t withdraw his hands completely, leaving the gleaming fingertips of one hand resting lightly against Hank’s palm-- an unasked question, begging permission.
Is it still okay? To be open, to be close?
Slowly, gently, Hank folds his fingers over Connor’s. And Connor, he slides his hand closer, brushing his palm against Hank’s, the soft paneling warm where they touch. In the darkness, Hank can see the tiny pulsing waves of blue light that flicker beneath the seams of his fingers-- glimmering, rippling threads that travel to and fro, gathering at the joints, brightest at the points of contact between their hands.
It’s not the bright, ethereal glow from before, but even as Hank closes his eyes he can feel the faint echo of that earlier resonance-- the one that makes the bones of his hand thrum. Strange, but not bad. Alien, but soothing.
“Night, Connor.”
Unfamiliar, but close enough.
