[At some point during all that, Hank looks away. Connor has a way of doing that, of just laying Hank's heart out in front of him like it's easy, like it's simple, and he wonders how much of that's because of Hank's magic fucking skin and how much is just... Him. Just Connor, knowing, like he had when Hank had first got here, before they'd even really touched at all.

Not that Hank's going to ask. He's cracked himself open wide enough for this asshole once already.]

If I got myself a... a fuckin anchor, it sure as hell wouldn't be someone who's just here cause they got orders to stick close to me. It'd be someone who was here cause they wanted to be.

[It feels a little uncomfortable to say, and only gets worse after he says it. Because he knows - hell, they both probably know - that this hypothetical person doesn't exist, because Hank isn't about to let them exist, because Hank's going to keep his mouth shut. His eyes slide away, again, from Connor's face.

Fuck it. Hank lets himself slide down the wall, setting his elbows on his knees and rubbing his hands up over the sides of his face.]

Do you actually do anything in the evenings? Do you have, like, hobbies? Or do you just wait around for a chance to come fuck up my buzz?