[ things start changing after the revolution -- for better, for worse; change has never been something that was solely good or bad, it's a mad jumble of shit and if you're lucky enough, you catch that shit on the updraft. god help you if it's otherwise. hank is... well, he's chugging along as best as he can because life hasn't magically unfucked itself just for him.
his job's still there, and so is connor, and life isn't as shit as it's previously been. the android's been over to his place very often, making fast friends with sumo, taking him for walks and actually cleaning his house. of late, connor's been making him healthier food, too, and hank protests every damn bit of it (while wolfing it down because damn, it's good).
connor's also pretty much a regular in his bed, which had been empty for as long as he's assed to remember, and these days hank's in a good enough mood to not actively push people away or be as unpleasant as he usually is. there are whispers that it's likely because the lieutenant's getting his ass laid on the regular, and hank valiantly opts to ignore those whispers (it's largely true, all things considering).
but he's griping today, when connor makes him something delicious and way too healthy -- he's been putting more of an effort into getting his ass in shape, which meant waking up early sometimes to go for a morning jog -- and he's grumbling. ]
It's like you're trying to turn me into a health nut, or something. Aren't you tired of micromanaging my lifestyle choices yet?
[ because a week ago, connor had been steadily making comments about the drinking, and the way too many frowns about his self-destructive choice of food. of late, he'd even managed to wean hank off the nearly daily pizza deliveries. it's awfully, frightfully domestic, even if hank takes every pain to remind connor that he isn't here to do housework or tend to him -- he's here as a partner.
even so, his house has been impeccably kept, sumo walked (they're going to walk him again tonight, if hank remembers correctly, and fuck, it's like connor has him housetrained, too), and hank can't shake the fact that connor's steadily becoming a profoundly indelible part of his life. hell, sometimes he even forgets that connor doesn't even live here, which is a growing nag in the back of his mind.
he means to pop the question tonight, if the situation presents itself -- until then, he'll be a crabby old curmudgeon at connor. ]
( things start changing after the revolution, and connor sometimes guiltily wonders if it's for better or worse. not that he'd give up their hard-won freedom, he'd never sacrifice the rights they've gained since the stand off in front of the destruction camp, but there are moments where he silently, shamefully longs for the ease of being issues objectives and tasks to complete. he's adjusted well enough, acquired his own apartment and returned to a detective position at the DPD, but outside of work he feels...lost.
he'll never admit it out loud, far too fraught with guilt and shame to even fully admit it to himself, but hank becomes something of a project, a replacement for the cyberlife directives that no longer appear in his UI.
OBJECTIVE: IMPROVE HANK ANDERSON'S HEALTH AND LIFESTYLE
things are easier for connor like this. even though he has set the objective it still feels like a purpose, a way to pass the agonising minutes of each day that aren't filled by work, the commute, by interactions with hank. there's a lot of the day left to fill – particularly considering his lack of need for sleep each night – so he fills it like this. slowly, steadily improving hank's condition with each passing day.
it shouldn't surprise him when hank loses his temper – given the man's dislike for being told what to do, given hank's personality and character in general it's a miracle it took this long – but it still catches connor off guard when it does finally happen. hank snaps out the comment and connor's eyes quickly flick from the dishes he's washing to hank sitting at the table. his LED spins rapidly, flickering between yellow and blue, before finally settling on a pulsing yellow as he picks up a towel to dry his hands, and then turns to rest his back against the sink. )
Eating well and exercising isn't exactly a health nut. ( he points out, folding the dish towel over before placing it on the counter next to him. his response was meant to be calming, but the delivery ends up closer to prissy, petty even, and he internally winces as he rapidly plays back his words to himself and takes in the tone. that's not going to de-escalate hank's irritation.
but part of connor doesn't care. a large part, if he's honest, because he does a lot for hank. he enjoys it, he gets an honestly absurd amount of pleasure from completing the self-appointed tasks, form seeing the benefits of his changes in hank's health and demeanour. it leaves him satisfied in a way he can't quite explain with words, but it's hard to recognise that when hank is twisting his efforts into something negative. it feels like he's throwing it back in connor's face, and he presses his lips together as a barely noticeable frown leaves a tiny crease between his eyebrows. he's holding it back, trying to restrain his annoyance behind a cool, neutral expression, but it's harder than usual.
he knows hank hates it when he goes all "machine connor". it's partly ( mostly ) why he does it. ) I don't see why you're upset about it, it's only rational. Improving your health has already led to increased focus at work, better sleeping patterns, improved performance in sexual intercourse and a shorter refractory period. The healthier you are, the longer you live.
( 'the more time i get with you' connor thinks, but he doesn't say out loud. he's annoyed with hank too now. )
[ he's getting used to this, the reactions he gets to evoke from connor, the slightest but most evident tinges of annoyance, the deliberate way connor lists down the benefits in that tone. it's still something new to him, but something about that tone rankles tonight -- like how connor seems to think that hank's his... what, work in progress? ]
Fuck, I know that. But I'm not your fucking pet project.
[ he's not nearly as irritated as he should be, and that annoys him, too. he knows that connor likes this, that he enjoys taking care of him (for some reason), and once hank's sussed out that it's not because of some programming glitch, he's a lot less on edge with it. connor, it seems, loves doing things -- it makes him viscerally uncomfortable if he doesn't get to, and sometimes hank indulges.
now, however, it looks like he's indulged him a little too much. not that he can complain, really, because he's seen himself losing some of that weight, his old libido slowly returning to him. hell, now he can manage to come more than once. thrice, if damned lucky and he doesn't have to head in to work early the next day. ]
Who wants to live that long, anyway?
[ hank grunts carelessly, mostly to be contrary and half-meaning it. life is shit, connor, everyone can see it. the good stuff doesn't last forever, and in the end you're just the schmuck holding out hope for things that'll never come to pass. hank picks up his glass, takes a long swig, grimaces when he realizes it's plain water, and then continues: ]
( he is exactly that, but connor still bristles when hank throws the words out there. partly because it's completely accurate, and the fact that hank can read him that easily just annoys him even more. connor makes a point to turn back around on his heel, back to hank as he finishes the dishes. he turns off the tap, and he's just scrubbing places when he continues in a short, clipped voice. at least his tone is still neutral, not cold but certainly cool. almost emotionless. the petty streak in him hopes that hank is visibly cringing at the sound. )
I would prefer it if I had the maximum amount of years possible with you, Lieutenant.
( it's an odd stance, snapping back in an argument but using 'i want to spend the rest of our lives together' as the retort. connor attempts it anyway, and once he's finished stacking the dishes and emptied the sink he dries his hands again. he's still irritable, but he thinks he can soothe it well enough. he thinks that vacuuming the living room might help. he turns back to hank, constructing a response that will smooth things over without connor having to apologise or admit defeat, and he's already ahead of himself, simultaneously planning the rest of their evening down to the minute. but hank speaks before he can, and something about the request just digs under connor's skin and reignites that annoyance all over again. there's no chance that vacuuming will calm him down now. )
Is that supposed to be a joke? ( he snaps, and there's no control of his tone now. ) Or are you just being purposefully obtuse.
[ he is exactly that and they both know it -- connor's bristling is answer enough (at this point he's still amazed that androids can actually bristle), but that smugness is short-lived when connor coldly continues in that tone he really, really doesn't like. maybe it's one point in connor's favor, because hank is definitely cringing at it -- it's one of the things hank hates most about connor, when he chooses to flatten his tone, picking up a deliberate near-emotionless tone that just rankles him wrong.
worse, when he uses that tone to essentially inform him that connor intends to spend their foreseeable future together, which makes something in his stomach sink. their futures; connor will outlive him. hank will get old and die, and it ain't gonna be as pretty as the android currently having a pissy fit at him in the kitchen (to be fair, hank eggs him on like a motherfucker).
his grip on his glass tightens, the only sounds for a few moments the clinking of the dishes and the gurgling of the empty sink. but then of course things go rapidly downhill, and hank can't actually deny that his words were partly meant to needle him the way they had. he sets his glass now louder than he should, something dreadful unfurling inside of him.
connor wants to spend as long as he can with him, and something about it makes his mouth go dry. ]
Goddamn it, Connor. [ he snaps right back, feeling strangely off-balance. no, he thinks, don't even think about bringing that up -- that's way too much for hank to handle right now. ] A beer's not gonna cut my life short that quickly. Who d'you think I am, a lightweight?
( connor's quick with a retort, brow steadily furrowing deeper as he loses his grip on the programming that holds his expression in the robotic neutral look that hank hates so much. the one that he's using specifically to make hank mad. he knows that it's low, petty, childish even, but part of him argues that it's only fair that he brings hank to the level that he's currently on. hank isn't allowed to needle him into annoyance if he's not just as angry. )
One beer won't kill you, but one beer is never one, and frequent alcohol consumption above two standard drinks has been unequivocally proven to dramatically increase the risk of liver disease and failure, cancer, all leading to an early grave.
( the thought of forever sinks a pit in connor's stomach, but the thought of forever without hank leaves him vaguely lightheaded and unsteady. hank is going to die one day, connor understands this on an intellectual level, but when he considers the scenario happening in real life he ends up forcibly shutting down every preconstruction protocol involved with the image playing out. outlined representations of connor, pressing at a gunshot to hank's chest and trying to stem the bleeding before paramedics arrived. hank succumbing after months of chemo that leave him weak and unable to proberly hold connor's hand. hank with a revolver at the kitchen table while connor sleeps in the room a few feet away. hank, old and happy, satisfied as he drifts away in his sleep with connor at his side. he's mapped them all out, even when he'd rather tear out his optical components than watch outline hank die again.
he supposes this must be an android equivalent of nightmares. )
I think you're shitty ( oh, expletives. watch out hank ) because you couldn't get your shit together until I did it for you.
[ and oh, connor's gone and fucking done it. hank's eyes darken dangerously, anger and sharp defensiveness spiking his pulse -- if it's anger connor's looking for, well, he's damn sure getting it. perhaps if he had been less needled, or if he's in his calmer moments, hank can see it for what it is, worry, fear, anxiety all boiled into one, and a young android who hasn't yet learned to master those emotions. not that anyone can blame him; not very many people can manage that.
if he'd been less on a hairtrigger temper, defensive and acutely aware of his own flaws, maybe hank would have noticed just where connor's coming from: concern, rather than resentment. but hank is hank, and he's spent just about all his life hating himself that it's what he sees reflected in connor's words.
of course he would think he's shitty. who wouldn't? of course it's overdue, and connor's hit a raw nerve because of all people he wouldn't have expected him to say that -- or maybe that's just naivete, because god, hank really is a shitty son of a bitch, isn't he? ]
Nobody fucking asked you to do it for me!
[ He snaps back just as viciously, lashing out. ] No, you couldn't just mind your own damn business -- I didn't want you around just so you can treat me like your charity case, or some pet project! What is your mission this time: How To Keep Your Human alive?
( it's a fight full of insecurities, fears, anxieties that neither of them are willing to give a voice – which is exactly why it escalates the way it does. if connor was better at dealing with emotions, if he'd had more time to adapt, he might have responded better. if he understood the complexities of how these emotions might express themselves, he might have understood that these detailed preconstructions were clearly demonstrations of his anxieties, sourced almost exclusively around hank leaving him.
( and while they almost entirely involve numerous different scenarios for hank's dying moments, there have been one or two occasions where hank has just walked out, or sent him away. moved out of detroit. or just flat out ignored him until connor gave up. all acted out in the lineart outlines of themselves, of course. not real, of course. )
there's practically alarm bells ringing that tell him to deescalate the situation. there are literal warning messages popping up about the benefits of reducing stress. hank's stress levels are visible, the percentage slowly climbing. connor immediately tries to dismiss them all, rids his vision of all of them save hank's stress level. it hovers near the man's head, trembling slightly as hank's stress increases.
connor can't get rid of it, so he just ignores it instead. )
I'm not doing it out of pity, ( he practically spits the words out, walking forward until he's on the other side of the table hank is at. he's vaguely aware of the itch in his fingers that begs for something, a coin to roll across his knuckles, a pen to flick between fingers, a loose thread to pick – anything will do, really. he ends up taking hold of the back of a chair and squeezing, just enough that he hopes it'll relieve the urge to recalibrate. )
Why are you incapable of accepting help? Why is it so hard for you to understand that I'm here because I want to be? ( on some level connor already knows the answer, but another, louder part says 'fuck that'. connor knows about hank's depression, his self-loathing, his self-destructive tendencies, his suicidal ideation. he knows about his past, about cole, and the ex wife, and the alcoholism, and the poor work record. he knows just about everything, but these questions still linger, pressing and insistent in the back of his mind.
well now he's asked them.
his anger doesn't look like a human's, really. his hands are clenched, but that's about the fidgeting more than the anger. his eyes narrow, but he doesn't breathe heavily or go red, or tense up, none of the classic signs visible outwardly. connor goes absolutely still, eerily so, and his eyes are fixed point blank on hank. he doesn't breathe, doesn't even blink. he only activates these protocols for hank's comfort – and if hank doesn't want him around then why should he make him comfortable? his posture is relaxed, and everything else is absolutely, perfectly still. even when he speaks, nothing moves. his vocal component is in his throat, and it's a little muffled with his mouth closed, but it's definitely audible. especially when he wants it to be. he doesn't need a tongue or mouth or lips or vocal chords to speak.
by now his LED is more red than yellow, but it's still flicking between the two. ) If you hate this all so much then why do you let me do it? I've never forced myself on you. Tell me to stop, if that's what you really want.
( all said loud and clear through a closed mouth and a vocal component in his neck, voice calm and emotionless again. if he wants to see machine connor with a mission, connor will give it all to him. )
[ hank just about explodes, because he knows exactly what connor's doing right now, how he shuts down everything human about himself and forces the point that yes, he's not human, and yes, he's fucking doing everything in his power to freak hank out. which is only halfway working because surprise, hank knows connor is an android, he's accepted that about him, and while connor being human-like is a nice bonus, he hasn't fooled himself into thinking that he's human.
hank is red-faced and blotchy and furious, more because connor seems to think that doing this would win him points, and he slams a hand on the table, glaring daggers at him. where hank is enraged and exploding, connor is nothing but calm, and hank damn well knows that he's doing this to only get under his skin. ]
The fuck did I say you had to stop?! I don't hate this, I just hate that you're such a complete asshole about it! Like this, whatever you're doing now -- don't you fucking start.
[ because hank knows connor, too -- connor might do his scans and shit, but hank's smart in his own right, too. he notices connor, understands him, and he punches past the discomfort into being entirely livid. connor's here because he wants to be; connor's seen the worst of him, barged in when he'd failed to kill himself with his gun, and here he is anyway, caring for him because he wants to, and if the situation hadn't escalated to what it is now, perhaps one of them would let cooler heads prevail.
but this is more than that. this is everything that hasn't been said, every fear that lurks in the back of their minds, swallowed and buried because it just didn't seem like the right time to say, up until now. hank takes a breath, running a frustrated hand through his hair. ]
Goddamnit, Connor, why in hell do you even want to be here? I'm no good for you, even if --
[ he cuts himself off deliberately. even if that's what i want more than anything else in the entire shitty, stupid, fucking mess of a world. ]
( under the poised and cold exterior he's projecting, connor feels about the same as hank looks. even post-deviancy, intense emotional surges still set off software instabilities that throw his system into chaos – his thirium pump starts thundering, blue blood floods through artificial veins and replicates a very human response of the sound of blood rushing in his ears. a warning message informs him that his internal temperature regulator is performing incorrectly, that his internal temperature has risen by 1.3 degrees celcius / 2.34 degrees fahrenheit. it has risen enough that he's within normal temperature ranges for a human now, and if the circumstances were different he would rush to tell hank as much. he'd invite him to touch his skin, to discover if the change was noticeable on the outside too.
the thought clutches painfully at his insides, and the blood rushes louder.
speaking without his mouth might have been a step too far, a move too petty, not that connor will admit that now or any time soon. he moves only to clasp his hands behind his back, gripping his fingers tight enough that the synthetic skin bleeds away at the points of pressure and reveals the white plastic underneath. he still doesn't move though, not even when hank slams his hands down on the table. his expression still doesn't change, save for a slight increase in the furrow of his brow, that deepens the crease between his eyebrows another 2 millimetres. nothing at all, really.
but he does relent on the speech, opening his mouth to speak as he usually does when he responds this time. his tone isn't quite as calm as the rest of his exterior, but it's still a long way off the anger surging through his internal structure and burning along his wires. )
I want to be here because I want you. ( it would be a sweet sentiment, if the words weren't delivered through an odd mix of a mostly emotionless voice but spat out like they should have been filled with spite and venom. ) Hank I don't know how you still can't see that, I'm–
( a word lingers at his lips, pressing insistently and determined to burst free, but he bites it back quickly. this isn't going to be how he says that, not for the first time. )
I don't know how else I'm supposed to convince you that I care about you. I don't want to be anywhere else. All of me, it's yours.
( again, under different circumstances his words would be soft, romantic, probably mumbled against hank's lips or pressed into his skin, shared during close moments in hank's bed late at night or cuddled against his side on connor's sofa during a movie neither of them were watching. it could have been sweet, it should have been sweet, but instead they're said with a harsh bite, more of connor's anger bleeding into his tone with each sentence. )
hank should be the more mature one here -- he has decades of experience and an ex-wife to his name; he knows how relationships break down, over and over again. and connor, god, connor is so fucking young and no amount of data or knowledge can compete with sheer, brutal experience, and here they are, in a fight about what seems like nothing and everything all at once.
hank is self-aware enough to know that his anger comes from the brimming anxiety, the blatant insecurity and the cold hard knowledge that he'll probably disappoint connor, too, and he takes a deep breath, simmering and pinching the bridge of his nose to stave off an oncoming migraine in the shape of a very handsome, very lovely android.
connor is brutally honest, and hank senses his anger without even trying -- he's at least laid off the weird speech thing, and while a part of him is still amazed that connor can register such quiet, quivering fury, hank knows he has to temper himself. so he takes a deep breath, registering those words and the frankly contrasting anger behind them. what a pair they make, huh?
connor wants to be with him, and so logically, he's setting about to do everything to make that happen, leaving hank's feelings on the matter out of the equation. he's looking back at him now, forcing himself not to escalate it before the both of them regret it. hell, he'd know, he'd done one hell of a lot of shit he's regretted, and none of it has made him a better person, only more bitter.
he doesn't want to add connor to the list.
all of me, it's yours. connor says, and hank doesn't know how to tell him that he'll probably regret that down the road, too, and he exhales noisily. what the hell has he gotten himself into? he has feelings for the fucking android too, he knows it. he knows it every time he scrubs extra long in the shower, every time he brings a light beer to connor's apartment and they pretend to watch movies while hank occupies himself with how warm and solid connor feels tucked in against him. he knows it now, too, more acutely than anyone else, and he regrets not walking away when he had the chance. ]
Then be with me. [ he says brusquely -- he might not want to escalate matters, but it doesn't mean he wants to back down just yet. ] Don't treat me like a fucking housepet you need to tend to. I'm not Sumo. Why the hell are you making my well-being decisions unilaterally, anyway?
( the change in pace takes connor entirely by surprise, and it throws him so completely that for a moment he just stands in silence without any visible reaction beyond the LED flickering away at his temple. it's been cycling between colours almost nonstop throughout this conversation, one of the few constant giveaways of his state even when he had been successfully maintaining the machine-like response, but when hank suddenly dials it back almost entirely the LED turns a blaring red.
internally, as usual, he's far more reactive. he doesn't know how to process the rapid change and a veritable explosion of processes all set off as he starts trying to figure out what the fuck just happened. he reviews the conversation from the beginning, analysing every word and micro expression for tone, emotion, meaning, possible subtext, implication, consequence. at the same time he's taking in everything about this exact moment – hank's shift in posture, reduction in stress level, his language choice, his expression, his perspiration levels, heart rate, blood pressure, internal temperature, his eye movements, his respiration rate and effort. but it also spirals quickly to the oxygen content in the air, and then the remaining chemical composition of the air too, the exact amount of tiny food crumbs scattered across the table, the temperature of the glass of water hank had earlier held, his fingerprints on the glass and then his fingerprints visible across the entire room, the exact dimensions of the room followed by the fridge, the table, the chair, the room divided by the chair, the fridge minus the table–
it takes a monumental effort to wrench himself free of this cycle and he thinks he must have been standing wordlessly in front of hank for hours, but a quick check of his internal clock informs him that it has actually only been two minutes and thirteen seconds. it's still an inappropriately lengthy time to stand and stare in silence at the best of times, let alone in the middle – end? – of an argument, and connor is briefly seized with panic as it occurs to him that hank might have thought it was done intentionally to spite his efforts to deescalate the situation.
but hank is just...looking at him, and connor's LED returns to yellow. he falters slightly, neutral mask dropping off into a worried frown, and instead of clasping his hands behind his back he folds them across his chest. he isn't capable of feeling exhaustion, obviously, but this has to be about as close as he can get. the spiralling onslaught of millions of calculations took a monumental amount of processing power, but honestly he thinks the argument is what got him to this more. he pulls out the chair at the other side of the table and sits down quickly, and his posture is rigid and perfect, but he kind of can't help that much. )
I didn't think that was what was happening. ( he says finally, at this point it has been almost three minutes since hank posed his question and feels to connor like it has been closer to eight hours. he normally doesn't have this much difficulty differentiating between his perception of how much time has passed and the real minutes, hours et cetera, but it's also obvious why this is the moment that he's struggling. ) I thought– I didn't see them as decisions, I thought that because they were objectively correct to improve your health that that meant they...weren't actually choices.
( it only touches on the beginning of the conversation they need to have, but it's a start. it's at least an improvement on stock silence, and a lot better than a rapidly escalating argument. )
[ okay, all right. they're getting somewhere, at least. hank didn't make it to where he was at a young age by being consistently obtuse -- he sees so much more than he lets on, although for a couple of minutes there he'd wondered if connor had stayed quiet just to spite him. really, he won't put it past him, but then his LED gives him away, cycling between just about every color like he's in distress, and it's the faltering that assures hank that connor hadn't done that on purpose.
which begs another question: what the fuck just happened there?
but the quiet helps with the tension, just a little. the prolonged silence introduces a less volatile variable into the mix, even if hank still feels like they're parked right atop a powder keg, ready to go off at any moment. it's a brittle kind of peace, a detente of sorts, at least until one of them loses his temper again. ]
Well, they were fuckin' not.
[ deep breath. calm. hank takes a moment to collect himself because he might be pissed and upset, but at least connor's calmed down enough to talk about it, and maybe, just maybe, he can put in some effort too, right? hank is watching connor, studying the way he stiffly takes a seat, like he's open to some sort of conversation, too, and hank's going to take that as a kind of a win. the android is struggling, and for the first time in awhile hank feels empathy, because this whole thing is a fucking mess and even he can't figure this out, let alone someone who just became a deviant months ago. feelings are complicated. feelings are more trouble than they're worth and they often are a giant pain in the ass -- they hurt more than help, but even so, here they are, arguing in this kitchen and almost starting a fight or something, hank's own self-destructive tendencies putting the strain on this relationship before it's even had a chance to truly blossom.
he runs his hand through his hair again, staring out the window for a few long moments before he figures out what he wants to say. ]
They're a choice to me. And you have to accept that sometimes they ain't objectively the best. But it makes me less likely to want to kill myself.
[ ok, maybe that's not as good a joke there, especially when he's half-serious about it, but he'll let that stay. ]
( now that connor is actually visibly emoting again his brows are all but permanently drawn into a deep set frown. hank's short-lived lash out earns a quick wince, but the man probably deserves that much. it still doesn't entirely make sense to connor, who even after deviancy allowed him all the choice in the world returned to his old job because he was good at it, who still relies on pre-programmed prompts close to half the time when he interacts with anyone but hank, who months later still has very little in the way of personal preference beyond one: hank. but hank isn't connor, and it seems like that's where the root of his mistake lies.
connor assumed – mistakenly, he now understands – that hank would see the situation in the same way that connor did. connor, who will select an objectively correct choice so effortlessly it doesn't feel like a choice, assumed that the same could be said for hank – which in hindsight makes little sense, otherwise the man would have already been making these decisions for himself before connor came into his life. he just hadn't thought about it this complexly until now, it had been simple. hank required an improvement in his lifestyle to avoid an early grave and connor knew exactly what was required to achieve that. connor needed a way to fill the massive void that had been left when deviancy freed him from an externally issued objective, and hank had an objective to complete. it seemed completely logical, so much so that he hadn't taken the time to think about it further. that's probably a good chunk of his mistake, too.
he recognises the comment for a joke, but there's a split second of red before his LED returns to spinning yellow. even as a joke the thought threatens to send connor into a tailspin again, but he's aware enough not to attempt to analyse anything and set the wheels in motion again. what he wants to do is fish out the coin that's still sitting in his pocket, but he's not so socially undeveloped that he doesn't recognise it would be inappropriate in this moment. he settles for drumming his fingers against his pants instead, over the thigh where material and a slightly thicker dermal layer will prevent too much noise from the action. )
I'm...sorry. ( he lingers a little around the word, which is odd considering connor doesn't normally have much trouble apologising, not when he recognises that he's made a mistake, or done something wrong – and for all his good intentions, connor has made a mistake here. ) Adjusting to freedom has been challenging. And humans are...complex.
[ hank prefers the visible emoting to the deliberate neutral one -- the latter makes him recoil, makes him pissed because it reminds him of just how unnatural it is. connor's developing on his own, making his own choices, and as quickly as hank's anger comes it goes, leaving him exhaling a long, weary sigh. he has to remember, he reminds himself, he has to remember that connor's only been around for a year or so; he has to remember that there is a lot for them to learn about each other.
he looks down at his half-finished plate, suddenly finding himself already full even if it's painstakingly made by connor, and he doesn't touch the plate again, elbows resting on the table as he regards connor. this time, it's his turn to assess the android, to do his own scan of his face, that posture, the way he's pretty sure connor is soundlessly fidgeting because he can see the jump of movement in his neck.
there's a problem here, between the both of them -- and hank's not naive enough to think that there wouldn't be. they complement each other, but they're different in their own regard, and just as hank is learning about connor, the other is surely learning the myriad nuances of human behavior, and unfortunately a lot of it can't be found on a website, or as manageable data.
even machines fail, sometimes, and connor is more than that.
connor apologises, strangely hesitant, as if he's testing the word, or figuring out what to say next. it's so very human that hank sometimes forget that connor isn't one at all. ]
Look, it's all right. You can take all the time you want.
[ god knows hank still has a lot to figure out about android behavior, how coldly rational and logical they are, even if a lot of them are now tempered with irrational feelings and emotions. ]
And we are. We're complex fuckers. Hell, I've lived for almost a century and I still can't figure half of them out.
[ although now that the storm has passed for the moment, hank goes back to picking through what connor had said out of anger, careful, cautious. he ultimately chooses the less dangerous option, a sort-of compromise: ] Can't hurt to go for a walk with Sumo now and then.
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is it too soon to do this yet?
his job's still there, and so is connor, and life isn't as shit as it's previously been. the android's been over to his place very often, making fast friends with sumo, taking him for walks and actually cleaning his house. of late, connor's been making him healthier food, too, and hank protests every damn bit of it (while wolfing it down because damn, it's good).
connor's also pretty much a regular in his bed, which had been empty for as long as he's assed to remember, and these days hank's in a good enough mood to not actively push people away or be as unpleasant as he usually is. there are whispers that it's likely because the lieutenant's getting his ass laid on the regular, and hank valiantly opts to ignore those whispers (it's largely true, all things considering).
but he's griping today, when connor makes him something delicious and way too healthy -- he's been putting more of an effort into getting his ass in shape, which meant waking up early sometimes to go for a morning jog -- and he's grumbling. ]
It's like you're trying to turn me into a health nut, or something. Aren't you tired of micromanaging my lifestyle choices yet?
[ because a week ago, connor had been steadily making comments about the drinking, and the way too many frowns about his self-destructive choice of food. of late, he'd even managed to wean hank off the nearly daily pizza deliveries. it's awfully, frightfully domestic, even if hank takes every pain to remind connor that he isn't here to do housework or tend to him -- he's here as a partner.
even so, his house has been impeccably kept, sumo walked (they're going to walk him again tonight, if hank remembers correctly, and fuck, it's like connor has him housetrained, too), and hank can't shake the fact that connor's steadily becoming a profoundly indelible part of his life. hell, sometimes he even forgets that connor doesn't even live here, which is a growing nag in the back of his mind.
he means to pop the question tonight, if the situation presents itself -- until then, he'll be a crabby old curmudgeon at connor. ]
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he'll never admit it out loud, far too fraught with guilt and shame to even fully admit it to himself, but hank becomes something of a project, a replacement for the cyberlife directives that no longer appear in his UI. things are easier for connor like this. even though he has set the objective it still feels like a purpose, a way to pass the agonising minutes of each day that aren't filled by work, the commute, by interactions with hank. there's a lot of the day left to fill – particularly considering his lack of need for sleep each night – so he fills it like this. slowly, steadily improving hank's condition with each passing day.
it shouldn't surprise him when hank loses his temper – given the man's dislike for being told what to do, given hank's personality and character in general it's a miracle it took this long – but it still catches connor off guard when it does finally happen. hank snaps out the comment and connor's eyes quickly flick from the dishes he's washing to hank sitting at the table. his LED spins rapidly, flickering between yellow and blue, before finally settling on a pulsing yellow as he picks up a towel to dry his hands, and then turns to rest his back against the sink. )
Eating well and exercising isn't exactly a health nut. ( he points out, folding the dish towel over before placing it on the counter next to him. his response was meant to be calming, but the delivery ends up closer to prissy, petty even, and he internally winces as he rapidly plays back his words to himself and takes in the tone. that's not going to de-escalate hank's irritation.
but part of connor doesn't care. a large part, if he's honest, because he does a lot for hank. he enjoys it, he gets an honestly absurd amount of pleasure from completing the self-appointed tasks, form seeing the benefits of his changes in hank's health and demeanour. it leaves him satisfied in a way he can't quite explain with words, but it's hard to recognise that when hank is twisting his efforts into something negative. it feels like he's throwing it back in connor's face, and he presses his lips together as a barely noticeable frown leaves a tiny crease between his eyebrows. he's holding it back, trying to restrain his annoyance behind a cool, neutral expression, but it's harder than usual.
he knows hank hates it when he goes all "machine connor". it's partly ( mostly ) why he does it. ) I don't see why you're upset about it, it's only rational. Improving your health has already led to increased focus at work, better sleeping patterns, improved performance in sexual intercourse and a shorter refractory period. The healthier you are, the longer you live.
( 'the more time i get with you' connor thinks, but he doesn't say out loud. he's annoyed with hank too now. )
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Fuck, I know that. But I'm not your fucking pet project.
[ he's not nearly as irritated as he should be, and that annoys him, too. he knows that connor likes this, that he enjoys taking care of him (for some reason), and once hank's sussed out that it's not because of some programming glitch, he's a lot less on edge with it. connor, it seems, loves doing things -- it makes him viscerally uncomfortable if he doesn't get to, and sometimes hank indulges.
now, however, it looks like he's indulged him a little too much. not that he can complain, really, because he's seen himself losing some of that weight, his old libido slowly returning to him. hell, now he can manage to come more than once. thrice, if damned lucky and he doesn't have to head in to work early the next day. ]
Who wants to live that long, anyway?
[ hank grunts carelessly, mostly to be contrary and half-meaning it. life is shit, connor, everyone can see it. the good stuff doesn't last forever, and in the end you're just the schmuck holding out hope for things that'll never come to pass. hank picks up his glass, takes a long swig, grimaces when he realizes it's plain water, and then continues: ]
Hey, pass me the beer.
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I would prefer it if I had the maximum amount of years possible with you, Lieutenant.
( it's an odd stance, snapping back in an argument but using 'i want to spend the rest of our lives together' as the retort. connor attempts it anyway, and once he's finished stacking the dishes and emptied the sink he dries his hands again. he's still irritable, but he thinks he can soothe it well enough. he thinks that vacuuming the living room might help. he turns back to hank, constructing a response that will smooth things over without connor having to apologise or admit defeat, and he's already ahead of himself, simultaneously planning the rest of their evening down to the minute. but hank speaks before he can, and something about the request just digs under connor's skin and reignites that annoyance all over again. there's no chance that vacuuming will calm him down now. )
Is that supposed to be a joke? ( he snaps, and there's no control of his tone now. ) Or are you just being purposefully obtuse.
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worse, when he uses that tone to essentially inform him that connor intends to spend their foreseeable future together, which makes something in his stomach sink. their futures; connor will outlive him. hank will get old and die, and it ain't gonna be as pretty as the android currently having a pissy fit at him in the kitchen (to be fair, hank eggs him on like a motherfucker).
his grip on his glass tightens, the only sounds for a few moments the clinking of the dishes and the gurgling of the empty sink. but then of course things go rapidly downhill, and hank can't actually deny that his words were partly meant to needle him the way they had. he sets his glass now louder than he should, something dreadful unfurling inside of him.
connor wants to spend as long as he can with him, and something about it makes his mouth go dry. ]
Goddamn it, Connor. [ he snaps right back, feeling strangely off-balance. no, he thinks, don't even think about bringing that up -- that's way too much for hank to handle right now. ] A beer's not gonna cut my life short that quickly. Who d'you think I am, a lightweight?
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( connor's quick with a retort, brow steadily furrowing deeper as he loses his grip on the programming that holds his expression in the robotic neutral look that hank hates so much. the one that he's using specifically to make hank mad. he knows that it's low, petty, childish even, but part of him argues that it's only fair that he brings hank to the level that he's currently on. hank isn't allowed to needle him into annoyance if he's not just as angry. )
One beer won't kill you, but one beer is never one, and frequent alcohol consumption above two standard drinks has been unequivocally proven to dramatically increase the risk of liver disease and failure, cancer, all leading to an early grave.
( the thought of forever sinks a pit in connor's stomach, but the thought of forever without hank leaves him vaguely lightheaded and unsteady. hank is going to die one day, connor understands this on an intellectual level, but when he considers the scenario happening in real life he ends up forcibly shutting down every preconstruction protocol involved with the image playing out. outlined representations of connor, pressing at a gunshot to hank's chest and trying to stem the bleeding before paramedics arrived. hank succumbing after months of chemo that leave him weak and unable to proberly hold connor's hand. hank with a revolver at the kitchen table while connor sleeps in the room a few feet away. hank, old and happy, satisfied as he drifts away in his sleep with connor at his side. he's mapped them all out, even when he'd rather tear out his optical components than watch outline hank die again.
he supposes this must be an android equivalent of nightmares. )
I think you're shitty ( oh, expletives. watch out hank ) because you couldn't get your shit together until I did it for you.
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if he'd been less on a hairtrigger temper, defensive and acutely aware of his own flaws, maybe hank would have noticed just where connor's coming from: concern, rather than resentment. but hank is hank, and he's spent just about all his life hating himself that it's what he sees reflected in connor's words.
of course he would think he's shitty. who wouldn't? of course it's overdue, and connor's hit a raw nerve because of all people he wouldn't have expected him to say that -- or maybe that's just naivete, because god, hank really is a shitty son of a bitch, isn't he? ]
Nobody fucking asked you to do it for me!
[ He snaps back just as viciously, lashing out. ] No, you couldn't just mind your own damn business -- I didn't want you around just so you can treat me like your charity case, or some pet project! What is your mission this time: How To Keep Your Human alive?
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( and while they almost entirely involve numerous different scenarios for hank's dying moments, there have been one or two occasions where hank has just walked out, or sent him away. moved out of detroit. or just flat out ignored him until connor gave up. all acted out in the lineart outlines of themselves, of course. not real, of course. )
there's practically alarm bells ringing that tell him to deescalate the situation. there are literal warning messages popping up about the benefits of reducing stress. hank's stress levels are visible, the percentage slowly climbing. connor immediately tries to dismiss them all, rids his vision of all of them save hank's stress level. it hovers near the man's head, trembling slightly as hank's stress increases.
connor can't get rid of it, so he just ignores it instead. )
I'm not doing it out of pity, ( he practically spits the words out, walking forward until he's on the other side of the table hank is at. he's vaguely aware of the itch in his fingers that begs for something, a coin to roll across his knuckles, a pen to flick between fingers, a loose thread to pick – anything will do, really. he ends up taking hold of the back of a chair and squeezing, just enough that he hopes it'll relieve the urge to recalibrate. )
Why are you incapable of accepting help? Why is it so hard for you to understand that I'm here because I want to be? ( on some level connor already knows the answer, but another, louder part says 'fuck that'. connor knows about hank's depression, his self-loathing, his self-destructive tendencies, his suicidal ideation. he knows about his past, about cole, and the ex wife, and the alcoholism, and the poor work record. he knows just about everything, but these questions still linger, pressing and insistent in the back of his mind.
well now he's asked them.
his anger doesn't look like a human's, really. his hands are clenched, but that's about the fidgeting more than the anger. his eyes narrow, but he doesn't breathe heavily or go red, or tense up, none of the classic signs visible outwardly. connor goes absolutely still, eerily so, and his eyes are fixed point blank on hank. he doesn't breathe, doesn't even blink. he only activates these protocols for hank's comfort – and if hank doesn't want him around then why should he make him comfortable? his posture is relaxed, and everything else is absolutely, perfectly still. even when he speaks, nothing moves. his vocal component is in his throat, and it's a little muffled with his mouth closed, but it's definitely audible. especially when he wants it to be. he doesn't need a tongue or mouth or lips or vocal chords to speak.
by now his LED is more red than yellow, but it's still flicking between the two. ) If you hate this all so much then why do you let me do it? I've never forced myself on you. Tell me to stop, if that's what you really want.
( all said loud and clear through a closed mouth and a vocal component in his neck, voice calm and emotionless again. if he wants to see machine connor with a mission, connor will give it all to him. )
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[ hank just about explodes, because he knows exactly what connor's doing right now, how he shuts down everything human about himself and forces the point that yes, he's not human, and yes, he's fucking doing everything in his power to freak hank out. which is only halfway working because surprise, hank knows connor is an android, he's accepted that about him, and while connor being human-like is a nice bonus, he hasn't fooled himself into thinking that he's human.
hank is red-faced and blotchy and furious, more because connor seems to think that doing this would win him points, and he slams a hand on the table, glaring daggers at him. where hank is enraged and exploding, connor is nothing but calm, and hank damn well knows that he's doing this to only get under his skin. ]
The fuck did I say you had to stop?! I don't hate this, I just hate that you're such a complete asshole about it! Like this, whatever you're doing now -- don't you fucking start.
[ because hank knows connor, too -- connor might do his scans and shit, but hank's smart in his own right, too. he notices connor, understands him, and he punches past the discomfort into being entirely livid. connor's here because he wants to be; connor's seen the worst of him, barged in when he'd failed to kill himself with his gun, and here he is anyway, caring for him because he wants to, and if the situation hadn't escalated to what it is now, perhaps one of them would let cooler heads prevail.
but this is more than that. this is everything that hasn't been said, every fear that lurks in the back of their minds, swallowed and buried because it just didn't seem like the right time to say, up until now. hank takes a breath, running a frustrated hand through his hair. ]
Goddamnit, Connor, why in hell do you even want to be here? I'm no good for you, even if --
[ he cuts himself off deliberately. even if that's what i want more than anything else in the entire shitty, stupid, fucking mess of a world. ]
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the thought clutches painfully at his insides, and the blood rushes louder.
speaking without his mouth might have been a step too far, a move too petty, not that connor will admit that now or any time soon. he moves only to clasp his hands behind his back, gripping his fingers tight enough that the synthetic skin bleeds away at the points of pressure and reveals the white plastic underneath. he still doesn't move though, not even when hank slams his hands down on the table. his expression still doesn't change, save for a slight increase in the furrow of his brow, that deepens the crease between his eyebrows another 2 millimetres. nothing at all, really.
but he does relent on the speech, opening his mouth to speak as he usually does when he responds this time. his tone isn't quite as calm as the rest of his exterior, but it's still a long way off the anger surging through his internal structure and burning along his wires. )
I want to be here because I want you. ( it would be a sweet sentiment, if the words weren't delivered through an odd mix of a mostly emotionless voice but spat out like they should have been filled with spite and venom. ) Hank I don't know how you still can't see that, I'm–
( a word lingers at his lips, pressing insistently and determined to burst free, but he bites it back quickly. this isn't going to be how he says that, not for the first time. )
I don't know how else I'm supposed to convince you that I care about you. I don't want to be anywhere else. All of me, it's yours.
( again, under different circumstances his words would be soft, romantic, probably mumbled against hank's lips or pressed into his skin, shared during close moments in hank's bed late at night or cuddled against his side on connor's sofa during a movie neither of them were watching. it could have been sweet, it should have been sweet, but instead they're said with a harsh bite, more of connor's anger bleeding into his tone with each sentence. )
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hank should be the more mature one here -- he has decades of experience and an ex-wife to his name; he knows how relationships break down, over and over again. and connor, god, connor is so fucking young and no amount of data or knowledge can compete with sheer, brutal experience, and here they are, in a fight about what seems like nothing and everything all at once.
hank is self-aware enough to know that his anger comes from the brimming anxiety, the blatant insecurity and the cold hard knowledge that he'll probably disappoint connor, too, and he takes a deep breath, simmering and pinching the bridge of his nose to stave off an oncoming migraine in the shape of a very handsome, very lovely android.
connor is brutally honest, and hank senses his anger without even trying -- he's at least laid off the weird speech thing, and while a part of him is still amazed that connor can register such quiet, quivering fury, hank knows he has to temper himself. so he takes a deep breath, registering those words and the frankly contrasting anger behind them. what a pair they make, huh?
connor wants to be with him, and so logically, he's setting about to do everything to make that happen, leaving hank's feelings on the matter out of the equation. he's looking back at him now, forcing himself not to escalate it before the both of them regret it. hell, he'd know, he'd done one hell of a lot of shit he's regretted, and none of it has made him a better person, only more bitter.
he doesn't want to add connor to the list.
all of me, it's yours. connor says, and hank doesn't know how to tell him that he'll probably regret that down the road, too, and he exhales noisily. what the hell has he gotten himself into? he has feelings for the fucking android too, he knows it. he knows it every time he scrubs extra long in the shower, every time he brings a light beer to connor's apartment and they pretend to watch movies while hank occupies himself with how warm and solid connor feels tucked in against him. he knows it now, too, more acutely than anyone else, and he regrets not walking away when he had the chance. ]
Then be with me. [ he says brusquely -- he might not want to escalate matters, but it doesn't mean he wants to back down just yet. ] Don't treat me like a fucking housepet you need to tend to. I'm not Sumo. Why the hell are you making my well-being decisions unilaterally, anyway?
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internally, as usual, he's far more reactive. he doesn't know how to process the rapid change and a veritable explosion of processes all set off as he starts trying to figure out what the fuck just happened. he reviews the conversation from the beginning, analysing every word and micro expression for tone, emotion, meaning, possible subtext, implication, consequence. at the same time he's taking in everything about this exact moment – hank's shift in posture, reduction in stress level, his language choice, his expression, his perspiration levels, heart rate, blood pressure, internal temperature, his eye movements, his respiration rate and effort. but it also spirals quickly to the oxygen content in the air, and then the remaining chemical composition of the air too, the exact amount of tiny food crumbs scattered across the table, the temperature of the glass of water hank had earlier held, his fingerprints on the glass and then his fingerprints visible across the entire room, the exact dimensions of the room followed by the fridge, the table, the chair, the room divided by the chair, the fridge minus the table–
it takes a monumental effort to wrench himself free of this cycle and he thinks he must have been standing wordlessly in front of hank for hours, but a quick check of his internal clock informs him that it has actually only been two minutes and thirteen seconds. it's still an inappropriately lengthy time to stand and stare in silence at the best of times, let alone in the middle – end? – of an argument, and connor is briefly seized with panic as it occurs to him that hank might have thought it was done intentionally to spite his efforts to deescalate the situation.
but hank is just...looking at him, and connor's LED returns to yellow. he falters slightly, neutral mask dropping off into a worried frown, and instead of clasping his hands behind his back he folds them across his chest. he isn't capable of feeling exhaustion, obviously, but this has to be about as close as he can get. the spiralling onslaught of millions of calculations took a monumental amount of processing power, but honestly he thinks the argument is what got him to this more. he pulls out the chair at the other side of the table and sits down quickly, and his posture is rigid and perfect, but he kind of can't help that much. )
I didn't think that was what was happening. ( he says finally, at this point it has been almost three minutes since hank posed his question and feels to connor like it has been closer to eight hours. he normally doesn't have this much difficulty differentiating between his perception of how much time has passed and the real minutes, hours et cetera, but it's also obvious why this is the moment that he's struggling. ) I thought– I didn't see them as decisions, I thought that because they were objectively correct to improve your health that that meant they...weren't actually choices.
( it only touches on the beginning of the conversation they need to have, but it's a start. it's at least an improvement on stock silence, and a lot better than a rapidly escalating argument. )
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which begs another question: what the fuck just happened there?
but the quiet helps with the tension, just a little. the prolonged silence introduces a less volatile variable into the mix, even if hank still feels like they're parked right atop a powder keg, ready to go off at any moment. it's a brittle kind of peace, a detente of sorts, at least until one of them loses his temper again. ]
Well, they were fuckin' not.
[ deep breath. calm. hank takes a moment to collect himself because he might be pissed and upset, but at least connor's calmed down enough to talk about it, and maybe, just maybe, he can put in some effort too, right? hank is watching connor, studying the way he stiffly takes a seat, like he's open to some sort of conversation, too, and hank's going to take that as a kind of a win. the android is struggling, and for the first time in awhile hank feels empathy, because this whole thing is a fucking mess and even he can't figure this out, let alone someone who just became a deviant months ago. feelings are complicated. feelings are more trouble than they're worth and they often are a giant pain in the ass -- they hurt more than help, but even so, here they are, arguing in this kitchen and almost starting a fight or something, hank's own self-destructive tendencies putting the strain on this relationship before it's even had a chance to truly blossom.
he runs his hand through his hair again, staring out the window for a few long moments before he figures out what he wants to say. ]
They're a choice to me. And you have to accept that sometimes they ain't objectively the best. But it makes me less likely to want to kill myself.
[ ok, maybe that's not as good a joke there, especially when he's half-serious about it, but he'll let that stay. ]
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connor assumed – mistakenly, he now understands – that hank would see the situation in the same way that connor did. connor, who will select an objectively correct choice so effortlessly it doesn't feel like a choice, assumed that the same could be said for hank – which in hindsight makes little sense, otherwise the man would have already been making these decisions for himself before connor came into his life. he just hadn't thought about it this complexly until now, it had been simple. hank required an improvement in his lifestyle to avoid an early grave and connor knew exactly what was required to achieve that. connor needed a way to fill the massive void that had been left when deviancy freed him from an externally issued objective, and hank had an objective to complete. it seemed completely logical, so much so that he hadn't taken the time to think about it further. that's probably a good chunk of his mistake, too.
he recognises the comment for a joke, but there's a split second of red before his LED returns to spinning yellow. even as a joke the thought threatens to send connor into a tailspin again, but he's aware enough not to attempt to analyse anything and set the wheels in motion again. what he wants to do is fish out the coin that's still sitting in his pocket, but he's not so socially undeveloped that he doesn't recognise it would be inappropriate in this moment. he settles for drumming his fingers against his pants instead, over the thigh where material and a slightly thicker dermal layer will prevent too much noise from the action. )
I'm...sorry. ( he lingers a little around the word, which is odd considering connor doesn't normally have much trouble apologising, not when he recognises that he's made a mistake, or done something wrong – and for all his good intentions, connor has made a mistake here. ) Adjusting to freedom has been challenging. And humans are...complex.
( in a word )
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he looks down at his half-finished plate, suddenly finding himself already full even if it's painstakingly made by connor, and he doesn't touch the plate again, elbows resting on the table as he regards connor. this time, it's his turn to assess the android, to do his own scan of his face, that posture, the way he's pretty sure connor is soundlessly fidgeting because he can see the jump of movement in his neck.
there's a problem here, between the both of them -- and hank's not naive enough to think that there wouldn't be. they complement each other, but they're different in their own regard, and just as hank is learning about connor, the other is surely learning the myriad nuances of human behavior, and unfortunately a lot of it can't be found on a website, or as manageable data.
even machines fail, sometimes, and connor is more than that.
connor apologises, strangely hesitant, as if he's testing the word, or figuring out what to say next. it's so very human that hank sometimes forget that connor isn't one at all. ]
Look, it's all right. You can take all the time you want.
[ god knows hank still has a lot to figure out about android behavior, how coldly rational and logical they are, even if a lot of them are now tempered with irrational feelings and emotions. ]
And we are. We're complex fuckers. Hell, I've lived for almost a century and I still can't figure half of them out.
[ although now that the storm has passed for the moment, hank goes back to picking through what connor had said out of anger, careful, cautious. he ultimately chooses the less dangerous option, a sort-of compromise: ] Can't hurt to go for a walk with Sumo now and then.