[Connor doesn’t reply to this text, deciding instead to make his way directly to Hank’s room. When he arrives, he finds the door shut and Sumo plopped on the ground against it, in that way animals do when they clearly want in somewhere but are barred by a closed door and lack of opposable thumbs.]
Hey Sumo. [He says lightly and — ignoring decorum, because what’s the point of knocking when Hank is like this? — he opens the door. Eyes peer in, but first he lets Sumo through, if the canine is so inclined.]
[Sumo perks up and makes his way in and Hank doesn't look over at either of them, just keeps tracing over the older lines of ash on the wall next to him. He doesn't need hand-eye coordination to do this - he's been here long enough that he's redrawn this shit plenty of times by now.]
You really think it still means anything, or do you just like saying it?
[Connor follows just behind Sumo, but his eyes never pull away from Hank on his bed, who’s tracing something into the wall with ash.]
Because you’re a Lieutenant. Do you think that changes just because we’re no longer in Detroit? Am I no longer an investigative android, by that logic?
[But Connor’s voice has lost a small degree of its usual emphatic delivery. The rhetoric is a little quieter, tossing out a scan over Hank without saying as much, to check his status.
Said scan blossoms past the man and to the drawings on the wall, too, by their very nature. And Connor pulls his gaze away to see what he’s sketching.]
[Connor can probably figure the status of a number of things in this room, even without a real thorough scan. Sumo’s status: over at his food bowl, eating. Hank’s status: drunk as fuck. Of course. The bottle’s status: in its usual spot, on the gap on the floor between the bed and the wall. The wall’s status: currently being redecorated with a series of shapes that look vaguely like a little cat hanging off a branch and the caption, in all caps, HANG IN THERE. Ha ha.]
Maybe that’s why you’re so set on all this... all this fuckin... this stuff. When you’re not investigating any more you’ll be... I don’t know. Junk, right? Go into retirement as a mannequin, you got the face for it already, and the stick figure legs. People aren’t like that, Connor. We’re not... not what we’re for, like you. Its not like that for us.
[Connor’s fingers curl in on themselves, close to his palms, before he forcibly relaxes them. Eyes cast themselves over the faux motivational poster of a cat being drawn on the wall, which means nothing to him in terms of irony or experience.
He purposefully avoids one branch of the conversation, the one that centers around his fate when he’s no longer fulfilling the purpose sequestered to him. Junk, or delegated to perpetual standby, collecting a fine sheen of dust while he stands in a storage unit somewhere.
No, this isn’t about him, and he won’t allow Hank to bend the subject in his direction.]
Humans require a sense of purpose too, Hank. Androids are simply pre-installed with one.
[Connor crouches down and grips the bottle on the floor, holding it up to see if there’s even a small remainder of liquid at the bottom. Tips it over at an angle to let a droplet fall onto his finger, then presses said finger to his tongue. Real-time analysis routines kick up into life — what are you drinking, Hank? What’s the proof of this alcohol?]
[The hand holding the stick sinks down to Hank’s lap and he leans his head against the wall, frowning, to watch Connor.]
Sorry Connor, this pity party’s only for poor schmucks who had their purpose uninstalled. But if you really wanna see if you can get drunk I bet this shit could do the trick. Could go get more, long’s you don’t blame me when it strips all your little screws and gears or whatever the hell it is you got in there.
[He doesn’t respond immediately, pulling his finger away and looking at it — as if the answers are there. And in his mind’s eye, they do crop up with expected efficiency. Connor frowns.]
160 proof. [what the heck hank] Who’s providing this to you? The alcohol content is inordinately high.
[Unless bootlegging is one of Hank’s secret skill, Connor doesn’t think he’s tossing together moonshine on his own. He gives the man a look wrapped up in both assessment and vague concern.]
[Hank’s voice is soft, thoughtful, and then half his lips twist up. When he looks from the bottle to Connor his gaze isn’t clear, but it’s closer to it than it’s got any right to be.]
Why, you thinkin maybe I don’t need that gun after all? You gonna go track down my dealer, kick his ass?
[If there’s an edge to those words when he says it, eyes snapping up to meet Hank’s, it’s gone as quickly as it arrived. Connor sets the bottle down with a small clink as it settles onto the ground.]
You can’t keep doing this to yourself just because of the circumstances that we currently find ourselves in. I know this isn’t our home, and sometimes things are... difficult to understand, but it isn’t the hopeless situation you seem to be making it out to be.
Nah, not hopeless, Connor. Hopeless is kinda... I don't know.
[He shifts against the wall, looking down, his hair falling over his face.]
It's stupid, I know it is, but I can't- I can't handle this like you can. I told you that. Even the stupid shit, when they tell me this shit and I, I just can't- If this felt more like I was dreaming I think I could handle it. But it- the whole-
[Talking about it's harder when Connor's right here, looking at him. Connor knows about it, says he found him passed out on the floor afterward, even, but it's still hard.]
It'd make it make sense, you know? If I was just done, that'd make all this make sense. I don't know why you're tryin so hard to prove me wrong but- fuck, does it matter? I'll remember how to get my ass up and perform tomorrow, and the day after that, and whenever you wanna make bff bracelets and investigate shit I'll be there and, shit, does it really matter what I'm thinkin while I'm doin it?
[Connor's yet to straighten from his crouching position, trying to catch Hank's expression from under that veil of hair, as if while under deep scrutiny he could unearth a solution to this problem. To Hank's constant, deep-seated dysphoria, as if it were something he could reach out and wrest away from him if he tried hard enough.
He can't, he knows.]
Of course it does. [A simple reply, at least, because it's an easy enough question to answer.] Do you think I don't take your mental and emotional state into account? Are you under the impression that I only care if it affects your performance in day-to-day activities?
[More importantly-] Is there anything I can do to make... any of this easier for you?
[Hank lets out a long, slow breath. Then he slouches a little more, shoulders hunching. After what feels like a long couple seconds Hank shakes his head, not looking up. After a couple more seconds, he actually has an answer.]
You could promise you're not gonna give the guy who makes this one hundred-sixty proof paint thinner any shit. I know it's- I know... I know what I am, Connor. But. It helps. I guess you wouldn't know but just- letting all the shit float to the top, just letting it- It's good, sometimes. I know it doesn't look like it, but it helps. I know you don't get that, but can you take my word for it, that you're just- I don't know. I don't know what you are. I don't know what I'm trying to say. Maybe you oughta ask me when I'm sober.
[It helps, Hank says, and maybe he believes that it does. Connor knows that he relies on it, that it makes reality (both versions of it -- here and in Detroit) easier to contend with, dulling the edges of broken pieces.
But Connor, based on the knowledge he possesses of humans and why they act the way they do, knows it doesn't really help. That this is temporary, and he's just seeing a small segment of the circle that forms a perpetually revolving cycle. Over and over and over. The proof's in the Lieutenant's past, in his file, from a decorated officer to a man who can't be bothered to show up to his job on time.]
...Maybe. But I can't agree with some of that; crucially, I can't agree that this helps you at all. Not in the long run.
[He looks at the nearly-empty bottle next to him, reflecting the faint glow of his jacket back at him.]
I just want a name. I only want to talk to whoever's making this, nothing more.
[Hank laughs. It's a surprised sound and, of course, not a happy one.]
You sound like me. Sort of.
[He closes his eyes, about as slumped over and closed off from Connor as he can get without turning his back to him.]
That last part, anyway. Though, I mean, one person doesn't really make a supply and drinking shit's not illegal, on my end, anyway.
[He just breathes for a second, quiet, too focused on it, on just breathing, on wading through all the shit Connor's stirring up to recognize the clue he just dropped. Maybe Firo won't mind so much - anyone who makes a living running shit that fucks with people's self control probably out to be used to just this kind of leak.]
Dunno why you're so worried-
[He stops, swallows, and a hand reaches under his hair to rub at his face.]
Why're you so worked up about the long run, anyway? Seen guys go harder than me for twenty years or more before their liver kicks it. Really think talkin bout the long run's gonna convince me? 's pretty optimistic. Told you that, didn't I? You're an optimist. Weird as hell.
He's too much of what he is, to not pick up that little clue like it were sticking out like a sore thumb. As if it were highlighted amongst the rest of what Hank was saying, and Connor will partition it away to the back of his mind to tend to. Already, his database pulls up an array of names and faces that he's familiar with; he hems them away, one by one, when parameters of time period don't match.
All this, and he doesn't say as much. Keeps the majority of his attentions on Hank, while background processes whir quietly elsewhere.]
And didn't I already tell you? I'm only being realistic.
[Connor stands instead of staying on the floor, leaving the bottle where it is. He moves to a nearby chair to have this conversation instead of looming over Hank -- the implication being clear: he is going to involve himself in a conversation.]
Hank, is it that you miss home, or is it that you miss the... predicability of it? A standardization of expectations that can't be found here?
[That seems to be the case, according to what he can glean from him. But he does wonder if Detroit calls to Hank in different ways than it does to himself. Connor, who feels the tug of obligation -- of work unfinished -- like a noose around his neck.]
[He mutters it to himself. There’s a phrase you’d only hear out of a plastic mouth.]
I miss... dunno. Miss real food. I miss whiskey. Kind of miss white noise- TV, you know? Other than that - fuck, it’s actually easier here? In a fuckin... fucked up kind of way? Outside the weird shit, I mean. Don’t even have to get up in the morning.
[Sumo, done eating and unhappy with the floor, wanders over to the bed and hefts himself up onto it, his head nudging Hank’s arm as he does. Hank jerks back like he’s been shocked, only taking in what touched him after he’s gone far back enough to accidentally wedge himself on the other side of the bed between it and the wall.
He looks at Sumo a second and laughs, embarrassed, closing his eyes again and rubbing a hand over them.]
[Connor sits, hands in his lap, fingers curled gently in on themselves. He watches as Sumo clambers onto Hank’s bed and bumps against him consequently — just as he watches as the Lieutenant jolts away from the touch.
Saying that he thought it was Connor makes something rear up in that part of himself that he’s keeping cordoned off and away, ignored. It feels like stark disappointment.]
Because of your power, you’re afraid of a repeat of what happened...? [He suppositions, lowly. To view that’s how Hank might react if Connor reached for him is less than encouraging. ]
Fuck, aren’t you? You know I- You know where my head’s at right now, that’s the whole reason you’re here, right? Although, I mean- shit.
[Hank pauses, taking in the way his attempts to un-wedge himself just made him slide in a little deeper, at an angle. Well, he didn’t need that dignity, anyway. It’s not like he was using it.]
I mean, I finished that bottle off and I’m still here, so unless you wanna go through my shit for sharp objects there’s nothing left for you to stick around and watch out for, so.
[Connor watches him again for a few long moments, then there's only the rustle of clothing as he stands and walks over to Hank. Extends a hand, offering to heft him up from where he's found himself stuck.
The unspoken answer to that is therefore made clear, regarding any doubt, any anxiety of an emotion-sharing repeat. (Steel his insides, become stoic, solid, unmoving by the threat of it again. Be like an android should be.) And if not, Connor is quick to say it:]
I'm not going anywhere; where else am I going to go, or what else am I going to do for now? And I'm not going to refrain from helping you just because there may be a chance of your power activating. Going forward, that simply won't work.
[Hank looks at Connor. He looks at Connor’s hand. Looking at him now, at that naive, stubborn piece of shit that’s only ever wanted to help, that’s only ever wanted to hang around him and wanted to help, it stirs up the same desperate, ugly bullshit it stirred up when Connor’d said he was coming to Hank’s room, the same shit it’d stirred up when Hank had said okay, sure, maybe there’ll be a point when I’m your partner again and Connor had smiled at him and Hank had smiled back.
The surprise on his face twists into dismay, then anger.]
You don’t even know what emotions are, you stupid shithead. I don’t give a shit if you’re willing to do that to yourself again but I’m not. No. Fuck you. No.
[He tries to shove himself away but there’s no more away to move, and the only thing that moves is the bed from under him, making him slide down a little bit more.]
Shit.
[Kind of trapped now, isn’t he? Hank’s voice, under the anger, goes desperate.]
That won’t work why? What the fuck is it you want to even do?
[He expected protest. Maybe that's why Connor doesn't seem to be bothered by the anger, standing still as he is, hand continually extended in an offer of help that won't so easily be dismissed.
Hank says he doesn't even know what emotions are, and maybe he doesn't. Maybe all he knows are the errors that are flickering across his coding, how they dance in his chest even now, especially now. But he'll take those words and twist them into wretched defiance; let them enforce an android's ingrained nature to be unflappable in the face of human emotion, to let Hank's angry display hit him in a wave and roll right off of his shoulders.]
I want to help you. I want to be able to work with you without having to be concerned about your concern of me. I want you to trust me when I say that I can handle it; I mean it this time. I can. I'm not made of glass. I won't break.
[Maybe that's a lie; it doesn't matter.]
You're right when you say that I don't know what emotions are, and you should consider that a reason to not be concerned. If I experience what you're feeling, then what? I'll jettison them out of my mind, labelling them as yours. Compartmentalize and pay no real regard to the experience. What if we find ourselves in situations where I have to grab onto you? Or the other way around? I can't hesitate, and I won't let your power break my focus.
So we work through it. Take my hand.
[Maybe Hank's power won't even activate. Maybe it will. But this trust has to happen; otherwise it's not a partnership at all.]
Edited (my turn to nitpick) 2018-10-20 23:15 (UTC)
[The panic in Hank's voice breaks through the anger at the end there, cracking right into the middle of the word, and Hank's eyes dart over Connor's shoulder, trying to figure out if he has enough room, if he could make it, if he was fast enough.]
What if it's not your decision to make, Connor? What if this shit's private? What if I don't want you to fuckin know!
[That last word's harsh with effort as he shoves at the bed. In Hank's head, with the confidence of the fairly drunk, Hank imagines moving the bed would stagger Connor long enough for Hank to get to his feet and be out the door and be- Where, after that? Who cares. Out of arm's reach.
That's what Hank imagines. What really goes down is this: Hank falls on his ass. Hank scrambles to his feet. Hank's shin slams against the corner of the bed and he heads down toward the floor and failure. That's reality. Reality's tough. Even in a sort-of coma dream in your own head, things don't always go the way you want. That's life.]
[Hank is graceless like this. It's easy for Connor to read his body language, the movement gone clumsier thanks to the drinking; he can, analytically, estimate just when Hank's about to fall to his knees, just when he's about to hit his shin on the corner of the bed, watch that fall about to happen-
He ducks down to catch him with an arm, everything Hank had said registering, but none of it overriding his priority. Keep him safe. It's instinct. He can't not try to catch him, though how successful he is depends on how cooperative the other wants to be.]
Hank! Please be careful.
[He's already accepting rejection, the android part of his mind gauging based on past experience. But Connor is stubborn, and so here they are.]
[Hank reaches down toward Connor's arm with an actual gasp, it's stupid but that's what he does, the contact after so much nothing hitting him like a shock. It'd be better if it was, if he'd just grabbed a live wire and his hand was just spasming, just his fingers twitching while the current finished shorting out his heart.
But, nah. The universe wouldn't be that nice. This is just good old fashioned pathetic need, this is just grasping out of some vast and echoing emptiness and onto something and pulling, pulling hard even though he knows it won't lift him up out of the water. But some dumbshit part of him still says there's a light up there on the surface, there's got to be one up there, and it'll drag in anything it needs to if that'll get that light a little closer.
The last time anyone's really touched him he was sick as hell, coughing his lungs up and Cayde had sat a hand on Hank's back and let it stay there. That was a long time ago; not that long, technically, but technically doesn't account for waking up in this unreal nothing-place in his unreal nothing-bed and just staying there, nowhere to be and nothing to reach for, not even the rotten old lifeboat that is the station he doesn't really look at, the investigations he avoids, the other officers who don't really look at him, anymore.
A hand just reaching out to keep him from falling over like an asshole isn't going to pull him up and out and into solid ground and open air but that dumbshit hopeful part of Hank's going to take it anyway, even if it pulls Connor into the dark and empty muck down here with him. Because Connor wants to help. There's a hand on Hank's arm like a spotlight, a current stirring up the muck, and the dumbshit mouth that hand belongs to says it wants to help.
What Hank feels about Connor is pretty front and center in his mind right now, and he knows it. Feeling so grateful shouldn't feel so shitty but it does, the dumbshit part of Hank that reaches for that rope Connor wants to hold out to him all crusted over with disgust, sinking into a dark, hateful tide, a sense of reaching back into the memory of a light that went out years ago and smearing the muck all over it, too, that bitter, resentful acid that eats away everything it touches, inside and out.
There's a hand on Hank's arm and he wants to pull it closer and send something warm and light along through it, he wants to move closer and he wants a fucking hug and he wants to see that stupid, goofy face smile at him again. He wants to pull the hand closer and shove that stupid face into the muck until it's all eaten away to show the smooth and empty nothing under it, its real face that's built beneath, and he'll pull himself in with it, and he'll take what was a shelter and make it a one hundred and sixty proof weight and pull it over him until that dark and hateful acid burns into his eyes and rushes down his throat and puts things right, and eats him away, inch by inch, and eats away that other thing, too, that empty shell that started all this in the first place, that pukes out empty promises without even knowing what they mean, and Hank doesn't want to let go, he'll hold them both down and put things right and hold everything under until it's all burned away, until they're both all burned away, inside and out.
What Hank feels about Connor is pretty front and center in his mind, right now. And he knows it. And he loosens his grip, can't really bring himself to pull back but fights through all the...
He fights through all of it just enough to loosen his hand, all the edges inside of him going cold and brittle with horror, still touching Connor but loosely enough that Connor could easily pull away, and Hank leans back, eyes wide, mouth open to- to what? He can't think. All he can think about is his horror and worry and his shaking breath.]
[When Connor was still new, newer than he is now — a perfectly blank slate with perfectly clear directives, every piece of him aligning neatly in sharp, ninety degree angles — the thought of oblivion didn’t faze him. He knew what it was, of course, from a strictly empirical standpoint. Fear, anxiety, a bright and singing self-destruction, human insecurities that controlled their actions depending on how deep it all ran, on how long it lasted. But this oblivion, this dark thing, wouldn’t touch him — couldn’t get past the white sheen of plastic, too smooth and too perfect for it to hook its tendrils into. Simply sluiced off of him and pooled at his feet. All he had to do was step over it.
But months had passed. The low, cold hum of CyberLife walls, a mundane tempo finally shattered by the crescendo of the deviant cases. And after that, becoming a member of Astoria’s ragtag Circle, speaking with those from beyond his home. Bearing different expectations of what he is, what’s he’s capable of doing. Feeling. Being.
And time, slow and possessing a decaying touch, had sent hairline cracks zig-zagging through his perfect wall of plastic, burrowed holes in the armor until that darkness could crawl in and curl up inside, until his eyes were covered with the stuff and he knew those walls were cracking, could feel the pressure building from within. Marred, broken, pieces of him becoming imperfectly embedded with redundant errors.
Reaching towards Hank, reaching to help him, is like putting his hand into a pool of that stuff. Not just letting it come to him, but diving in headfirst into a black hole with nothing on the other side. It swallows him whole, it feels acidic, it feels like he’s going to drown in it, just as if it feels like he’s the one reaching up towards the light. It’s a feedback loop of what he feels and what is being felt, it’s hard to discern where Hank begins and Connor ends. But it tears at him, it laughs at whatever blockades he thought he could build as protection, oozing around them, crashing up and over them like a vicious wave. And Connor feels it, he feels what it’s like to be fine with this abyss, to know that there’s nothing else there, that he’s going to dissolve into it and that’s fine, that’s all it’s ever going to amount to anyway, just go numb and close your eyes and eventually it’ll all just come to an end.
His LED spins red.
But Connor knows there’s something else there. He’s there, and it’s like reaching up to see a mirror of himself, a hand that’s beckoning him to hold on tight no matter what, that there’s an anchor in the dark. That if he can hold on and not fall too deep into the mire, maybe there’s a surface just above his head, maybe there’s light and a breath and a reason to feel okay about not feeling okay. And he reaches out and grabs for it, and he knows that it’s him, he’s the pillar in this sad moment in time, he’s the only glimmer of stability and this sends lightning through him, makes Connor steel himself with desperate determination, and something snaps.
He returns to reality, and he hasn’t pulled his arm away. Cognizance bursts like fireworks, and all he can see is Hank’s expression, horrified, looking at him and no, that’s not what he wants. He doesn’t care about the rest, doesn’t care about what’s just happened to him or the pieces that keep slipping from his fingers no matter how much he tries to cling tightly onto them.]
Hank, Hank— Don’t… don’t worry. I’m fine. [His voice shakes, but his eyes don’t move from the other’s.] I’m fine.
[He won’t move away. He won’t detach himself this time. Blessedly, the light at his temple fades into yellow. He asks the only question that matters.]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
Hey Sumo. [He says lightly and — ignoring decorum, because what’s the point of knocking when Hank is like this? — he opens the door. Eyes peer in, but first he lets Sumo through, if the canine is so inclined.]
Lieutenant?
no subject
[Sumo perks up and makes his way in and Hank doesn't look over at either of them, just keeps tracing over the older lines of ash on the wall next to him. He doesn't need hand-eye coordination to do this - he's been here long enough that he's redrawn this shit plenty of times by now.]
You really think it still means anything, or do you just like saying it?
no subject
Because you’re a Lieutenant. Do you think that changes just because we’re no longer in Detroit? Am I no longer an investigative android, by that logic?
[But Connor’s voice has lost a small degree of its usual emphatic delivery. The rhetoric is a little quieter, tossing out a scan over Hank without saying as much, to check his status.
Said scan blossoms past the man and to the drawings on the wall, too, by their very nature. And Connor pulls his gaze away to see what he’s sketching.]
no subject
[Connor can probably figure the status of a number of things in this room, even without a real thorough scan. Sumo’s status: over at his food bowl, eating. Hank’s status: drunk as fuck. Of course. The bottle’s status: in its usual spot, on the gap on the floor between the bed and the wall. The wall’s status: currently being redecorated with a series of shapes that look vaguely like a little cat hanging off a branch and the caption, in all caps, HANG IN THERE. Ha ha.]
Maybe that’s why you’re so set on all this... all this fuckin... this stuff. When you’re not investigating any more you’ll be... I don’t know. Junk, right? Go into retirement as a mannequin, you got the face for it already, and the stick figure legs. People aren’t like that, Connor. We’re not... not what we’re for, like you. Its not like that for us.
no subject
He purposefully avoids one branch of the conversation, the one that centers around his fate when he’s no longer fulfilling the purpose sequestered to him. Junk, or delegated to perpetual standby, collecting a fine sheen of dust while he stands in a storage unit somewhere.
No, this isn’t about him, and he won’t allow Hank to bend the subject in his direction.]
Humans require a sense of purpose too, Hank. Androids are simply pre-installed with one.
[Connor crouches down and grips the bottle on the floor, holding it up to see if there’s even a small remainder of liquid at the bottom. Tips it over at an angle to let a droplet fall onto his finger, then presses said finger to his tongue. Real-time analysis routines kick up into life — what are you drinking, Hank? What’s the proof of this alcohol?]
no subject
[The hand holding the stick sinks down to Hank’s lap and he leans his head against the wall, frowning, to watch Connor.]
Sorry Connor, this pity party’s only for poor schmucks who had their purpose uninstalled. But if you really wanna see if you can get drunk I bet this shit could do the trick. Could go get more, long’s you don’t blame me when it strips all your little screws and gears or whatever the hell it is you got in there.
no subject
160 proof. [what the heck hank] Who’s providing this to you? The alcohol content is inordinately high.
[Unless bootlegging is one of Hank’s secret skill, Connor doesn’t think he’s tossing together moonshine on his own. He gives the man a look wrapped up in both assessment and vague concern.]
cw mention of suicide
[Hank’s voice is soft, thoughtful, and then half his lips twist up. When he looks from the bottle to Connor his gaze isn’t clear, but it’s closer to it than it’s got any right to be.]
Why, you thinkin maybe I don’t need that gun after all? You gonna go track down my dealer, kick his ass?
no subject
[If there’s an edge to those words when he says it, eyes snapping up to meet Hank’s, it’s gone as quickly as it arrived. Connor sets the bottle down with a small clink as it settles onto the ground.]
You can’t keep doing this to yourself just because of the circumstances that we currently find ourselves in. I know this isn’t our home, and sometimes things are... difficult to understand, but it isn’t the hopeless situation you seem to be making it out to be.
no subject
[He shifts against the wall, looking down, his hair falling over his face.]
It's stupid, I know it is, but I can't- I can't handle this like you can. I told you that. Even the stupid shit, when they tell me this shit and I, I just can't- If this felt more like I was dreaming I think I could handle it. But it- the whole-
[Talking about it's harder when Connor's right here, looking at him. Connor knows about it, says he found him passed out on the floor afterward, even, but it's still hard.]
It'd make it make sense, you know? If I was just done, that'd make all this make sense. I don't know why you're tryin so hard to prove me wrong but- fuck, does it matter? I'll remember how to get my ass up and perform tomorrow, and the day after that, and whenever you wanna make bff bracelets and investigate shit I'll be there and, shit, does it really matter what I'm thinkin while I'm doin it?
no subject
He can't, he knows.]
Of course it does. [A simple reply, at least, because it's an easy enough question to answer.] Do you think I don't take your mental and emotional state into account? Are you under the impression that I only care if it affects your performance in day-to-day activities?
[More importantly-] Is there anything I can do to make... any of this easier for you?
no subject
You could promise you're not gonna give the guy who makes this one hundred-sixty proof paint thinner any shit. I know it's- I know... I know what I am, Connor. But. It helps. I guess you wouldn't know but just- letting all the shit float to the top, just letting it- It's good, sometimes. I know it doesn't look like it, but it helps. I know you don't get that, but can you take my word for it, that you're just- I don't know. I don't know what you are. I don't know what I'm trying to say. Maybe you oughta ask me when I'm sober.
no subject
But Connor, based on the knowledge he possesses of humans and why they act the way they do, knows it doesn't really help. That this is temporary, and he's just seeing a small segment of the circle that forms a perpetually revolving cycle. Over and over and over. The proof's in the Lieutenant's past, in his file, from a decorated officer to a man who can't be bothered to show up to his job on time.]
...Maybe. But I can't agree with some of that; crucially, I can't agree that this helps you at all. Not in the long run.
[He looks at the nearly-empty bottle next to him, reflecting the faint glow of his jacket back at him.]
I just want a name. I only want to talk to whoever's making this, nothing more.
no subject
You sound like me. Sort of.
[He closes his eyes, about as slumped over and closed off from Connor as he can get without turning his back to him.]
That last part, anyway. Though, I mean, one person doesn't really make a supply and drinking shit's not illegal, on my end, anyway.
[He just breathes for a second, quiet, too focused on it, on just breathing, on wading through all the shit Connor's stirring up to recognize the clue he just dropped. Maybe Firo won't mind so much - anyone who makes a living running shit that fucks with people's self control probably out to be used to just this kind of leak.]
Dunno why you're so worried-
[He stops, swallows, and a hand reaches under his hair to rub at his face.]
Why're you so worked up about the long run, anyway? Seen guys go harder than me for twenty years or more before their liver kicks it. Really think talkin bout the long run's gonna convince me? 's pretty optimistic. Told you that, didn't I? You're an optimist. Weird as hell.
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He's too much of what he is, to not pick up that little clue like it were sticking out like a sore thumb. As if it were highlighted amongst the rest of what Hank was saying, and Connor will partition it away to the back of his mind to tend to. Already, his database pulls up an array of names and faces that he's familiar with; he hems them away, one by one, when parameters of time period don't match.
All this, and he doesn't say as much. Keeps the majority of his attentions on Hank, while background processes whir quietly elsewhere.]
And didn't I already tell you? I'm only being realistic.
[Connor stands instead of staying on the floor, leaving the bottle where it is. He moves to a nearby chair to have this conversation instead of looming over Hank -- the implication being clear: he is going to involve himself in a conversation.]
Hank, is it that you miss home, or is it that you miss the... predicability of it? A standardization of expectations that can't be found here?
[That seems to be the case, according to what he can glean from him. But he does wonder if Detroit calls to Hank in different ways than it does to himself. Connor, who feels the tug of obligation -- of work unfinished -- like a noose around his neck.]
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[He mutters it to himself. There’s a phrase you’d only hear out of a plastic mouth.]
I miss... dunno. Miss real food. I miss whiskey. Kind of miss white noise- TV, you know? Other than that - fuck, it’s actually easier here? In a fuckin... fucked up kind of way? Outside the weird shit, I mean. Don’t even have to get up in the morning.
[Sumo, done eating and unhappy with the floor, wanders over to the bed and hefts himself up onto it, his head nudging Hank’s arm as he does. Hank jerks back like he’s been shocked, only taking in what touched him after he’s gone far back enough to accidentally wedge himself on the other side of the bed between it and the wall.
He looks at Sumo a second and laughs, embarrassed, closing his eyes again and rubbing a hand over them.]
Fuck. Thought he was you...
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Saying that he thought it was Connor makes something rear up in that part of himself that he’s keeping cordoned off and away, ignored. It feels like stark disappointment.]
Because of your power, you’re afraid of a repeat of what happened...? [He suppositions, lowly. To view that’s how Hank might react if Connor reached for him is less than encouraging. ]
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[Hank pauses, taking in the way his attempts to un-wedge himself just made him slide in a little deeper, at an angle. Well, he didn’t need that dignity, anyway. It’s not like he was using it.]
I mean, I finished that bottle off and I’m still here, so unless you wanna go through my shit for sharp objects there’s nothing left for you to stick around and watch out for, so.
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The unspoken answer to that is therefore made clear, regarding any doubt, any anxiety of an emotion-sharing repeat. (Steel his insides, become stoic, solid, unmoving by the threat of it again. Be like an android should be.) And if not, Connor is quick to say it:]
I'm not going anywhere; where else am I going to go, or what else am I going to do for now? And I'm not going to refrain from helping you just because there may be a chance of your power activating. Going forward, that simply won't work.
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The surprise on his face twists into dismay, then anger.]
You don’t even know what emotions are, you stupid shithead. I don’t give a shit if you’re willing to do that to yourself again but I’m not. No. Fuck you. No.
[He tries to shove himself away but there’s no more away to move, and the only thing that moves is the bed from under him, making him slide down a little bit more.]
Shit.
[Kind of trapped now, isn’t he? Hank’s voice, under the anger, goes desperate.]
That won’t work why? What the fuck is it you want to even do?
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Hank says he doesn't even know what emotions are, and maybe he doesn't. Maybe all he knows are the errors that are flickering across his coding, how they dance in his chest even now, especially now. But he'll take those words and twist them into wretched defiance; let them enforce an android's ingrained nature to be unflappable in the face of human emotion, to let Hank's angry display hit him in a wave and roll right off of his shoulders.]
I want to help you. I want to be able to work with you without having to be concerned about your concern of me. I want you to trust me when I say that I can handle it; I mean it this time. I can. I'm not made of glass. I won't break.
[Maybe that's a lie; it doesn't matter.]
You're right when you say that I don't know what emotions are, and you should consider that a reason to not be concerned. If I experience what you're feeling, then what? I'll jettison them out of my mind, labelling them as yours. Compartmentalize and pay no real regard to the experience. What if we find ourselves in situations where I have to grab onto you? Or the other way around? I can't hesitate, and I won't let your power break my focus.
So we work through it. Take my hand.
[Maybe Hank's power won't even activate. Maybe it will. But this trust has to happen; otherwise it's not a partnership at all.]
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[The panic in Hank's voice breaks through the anger at the end there, cracking right into the middle of the word, and Hank's eyes dart over Connor's shoulder, trying to figure out if he has enough room, if he could make it, if he was fast enough.]
What if it's not your decision to make, Connor? What if this shit's private? What if I don't want you to fuckin know!
[That last word's harsh with effort as he shoves at the bed. In Hank's head, with the confidence of the fairly drunk, Hank imagines moving the bed would stagger Connor long enough for Hank to get to his feet and be out the door and be- Where, after that? Who cares. Out of arm's reach.
That's what Hank imagines. What really goes down is this: Hank falls on his ass. Hank scrambles to his feet. Hank's shin slams against the corner of the bed and he heads down toward the floor and failure. That's reality. Reality's tough. Even in a sort-of coma dream in your own head, things don't always go the way you want. That's life.]
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He ducks down to catch him with an arm, everything Hank had said registering, but none of it overriding his priority. Keep him safe. It's instinct. He can't not try to catch him, though how successful he is depends on how cooperative the other wants to be.]
Hank! Please be careful.
[He's already accepting rejection, the android part of his mind gauging based on past experience. But Connor is stubborn, and so here they are.]
cw for suicidal thoughts. also melodrama alert?
But, nah. The universe wouldn't be that nice. This is just good old fashioned pathetic need, this is just grasping out of some vast and echoing emptiness and onto something and pulling, pulling hard even though he knows it won't lift him up out of the water. But some dumbshit part of him still says there's a light up there on the surface, there's got to be one up there, and it'll drag in anything it needs to if that'll get that light a little closer.
The last time anyone's really touched him he was sick as hell, coughing his lungs up and Cayde had sat a hand on Hank's back and let it stay there. That was a long time ago; not that long, technically, but technically doesn't account for waking up in this unreal nothing-place in his unreal nothing-bed and just staying there, nowhere to be and nothing to reach for, not even the rotten old lifeboat that is the station he doesn't really look at, the investigations he avoids, the other officers who don't really look at him, anymore.
A hand just reaching out to keep him from falling over like an asshole isn't going to pull him up and out and into solid ground and open air but that dumbshit hopeful part of Hank's going to take it anyway, even if it pulls Connor into the dark and empty muck down here with him. Because Connor wants to help. There's a hand on Hank's arm like a spotlight, a current stirring up the muck, and the dumbshit mouth that hand belongs to says it wants to help.
What Hank feels about Connor is pretty front and center in his mind right now, and he knows it. Feeling so grateful shouldn't feel so shitty but it does, the dumbshit part of Hank that reaches for that rope Connor wants to hold out to him all crusted over with disgust, sinking into a dark, hateful tide, a sense of reaching back into the memory of a light that went out years ago and smearing the muck all over it, too, that bitter, resentful acid that eats away everything it touches, inside and out.
There's a hand on Hank's arm and he wants to pull it closer and send something warm and light along through it, he wants to move closer and he wants a fucking hug and he wants to see that stupid, goofy face smile at him again. He wants to pull the hand closer and shove that stupid face into the muck until it's all eaten away to show the smooth and empty nothing under it, its real face that's built beneath, and he'll pull himself in with it, and he'll take what was a shelter and make it a one hundred and sixty proof weight and pull it over him until that dark and hateful acid burns into his eyes and rushes down his throat and puts things right, and eats him away, inch by inch, and eats away that other thing, too, that empty shell that started all this in the first place, that pukes out empty promises without even knowing what they mean, and Hank doesn't want to let go, he'll hold them both down and put things right and hold everything under until it's all burned away, until they're both all burned away, inside and out.
What Hank feels about Connor is pretty front and center in his mind, right now. And he knows it. And he loosens his grip, can't really bring himself to pull back but fights through all the...
He fights through all of it just enough to loosen his hand, all the edges inside of him going cold and brittle with horror, still touching Connor but loosely enough that Connor could easily pull away, and Hank leans back, eyes wide, mouth open to- to what? He can't think. All he can think about is his horror and worry and his shaking breath.]
i live for this kind of drama
But months had passed. The low, cold hum of CyberLife walls, a mundane tempo finally shattered by the crescendo of the deviant cases. And after that, becoming a member of Astoria’s ragtag Circle, speaking with those from beyond his home. Bearing different expectations of what he is, what’s he’s capable of doing. Feeling. Being.
And time, slow and possessing a decaying touch, had sent hairline cracks zig-zagging through his perfect wall of plastic, burrowed holes in the armor until that darkness could crawl in and curl up inside, until his eyes were covered with the stuff and he knew those walls were cracking, could feel the pressure building from within. Marred, broken, pieces of him becoming imperfectly embedded with redundant errors.
Reaching towards Hank, reaching to help him, is like putting his hand into a pool of that stuff. Not just letting it come to him, but diving in headfirst into a black hole with nothing on the other side. It swallows him whole, it feels acidic, it feels like he’s going to drown in it, just as if it feels like he’s the one reaching up towards the light. It’s a feedback loop of what he feels and what is being felt, it’s hard to discern where Hank begins and Connor ends. But it tears at him, it laughs at whatever blockades he thought he could build as protection, oozing around them, crashing up and over them like a vicious wave. And Connor feels it, he feels what it’s like to be fine with this abyss, to know that there’s nothing else there, that he’s going to dissolve into it and that’s fine, that’s all it’s ever going to amount to anyway, just go numb and close your eyes and eventually it’ll all just come to an end.
His LED spins red.
But Connor knows there’s something else there. He’s there, and it’s like reaching up to see a mirror of himself, a hand that’s beckoning him to hold on tight no matter what, that there’s an anchor in the dark. That if he can hold on and not fall too deep into the mire, maybe there’s a surface just above his head, maybe there’s light and a breath and a reason to feel okay about not feeling okay. And he reaches out and grabs for it, and he knows that it’s him, he’s the pillar in this sad moment in time, he’s the only glimmer of stability and this sends lightning through him, makes Connor steel himself with desperate determination, and something snaps.
He returns to reality, and he hasn’t pulled his arm away. Cognizance bursts like fireworks, and all he can see is Hank’s expression, horrified, looking at him and no, that’s not what he wants. He doesn’t care about the rest, doesn’t care about what’s just happened to him or the pieces that keep slipping from his fingers no matter how much he tries to cling tightly onto them.]
Hank, Hank— Don’t… don’t worry. I’m fine. [His voice shakes, but his eyes don’t move from the other’s.] I’m fine.
[He won’t move away. He won’t detach himself this time. Blessedly, the light at his temple fades into yellow. He asks the only question that matters.]
Are you okay?
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