[ 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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[ 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.