[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.]
[Hank hears the noise he makes, the surprise sounding almost like pain, shaking breaths still too loud in his ears. He stares. A little confusion's inching its way around the horror, because he knows how he feels about Connor. He knows. Not all of it must of gone through. The hard edges of his horror spread through his mind and everything there goes tight and sharp, worried, but there's no building walls here, not like this, and Connor's question sends a shot of appreciation through him, dimmer than before as his mind switches tracks to the here and now, to the fact that he just tripped like a moron, as he decides that's got to be what Connor's asking about.
The appreciation's all wrapped up the same disgust, dragging it back into the same muck that's oozing over the background of his mind, the same resentment for the thing that started all this and still doesn't understand, the same thing beating behind it all that might actually be hatred, real hatred, Hank isn't sure and doesn't want to be, and everything tightens up more, the acrid disgust turning inward and everything going staticy with dread before Hank forces his hand open and pushes Connor's arm as hard as he can and scoots himself backward on the floor, his face twisting up and looking angry.
The look fades over a second into something more normal, not quite neutral, and he twitches his shoulder in something that's supposed to be a shrug. He tries to look over at something else, anything that's not this, but he can't, quite.]
Banged the shit out of my shin. Be a hell of a bruise but I'll probably live.
[Eyes search Hank, almost too long, almost wishing for him to say something in return. And suddenly the time presses forward again, and he's pushed away; Connor has to balance himself by pressing his other hand onto the floor, and Hank's standing up. Angry, he thinks, but not quite. Something else, that disgust, wrapped up in a nebulous feeling else he can't pin down.]
Not just your shin.
[If Hank looks away, even for a second, Connor brings up a hand to rub at his eyes. It's the second time he feels the sting of something at their corners, blinking it away back to normalcy, the emotions too poignant and sharp to not create some kind of unwanted, physical reaction. He shakes his head, sets his jaw, and stands.]
That's not what I mean. And I'm here to aid you, if that's... what you want.
[Are you okay?, meaning far more than just how he felt after he tripped.]
[The world goes a little sideways as Hank stands and he controls the sway with the ease of long practice, going one way and then the other just at the right angle to land against the wall and prop himself up there. Hank looks back from doing that just in time to see Connor rubbing at his eyes and he goes still, and his shoulders hunch up with shame, his face twisting around as he tries to keep more of that shame from making it onto his face.
He's not really that successful, he mostly just manages to look ashamed and kind of pissed about it. He still doesn't know what made it through his squishy human brain into all those stupid stubborn circuits, but shit, just a little bit was probably enough.]
What about what you want? There's got to be something in your... your logic that's more than just 'aid the human'.
[He folds his arms around his chest, trying to think of some reason Connor shouldn't be doing this that doesn't involve asking if he knows, does he know how much Hank hates him? That whole thing? It's hard to think around it, to think of something else. It takes him a second.]
You're just gonna keep getting knocked on your ass, it's not, forcing this shit's just not gonna work.
[The question that keeps coming back around to him, as if he were caught in some kind of loop. What about what you want?
Hank's body language remains closed off, and while Connor is still a little shaken, his LED still gone yellow, the android is far more eager to connect. Maybe that's nothing new. Maybe despite knowing of Hank's hatred -- of feeling it just now -- it doesn't seem to matter.
(It's not news to him, Hank. That muck might've tried to pull him under, to override all that he is, but he knew, already, that it existed. The man had shown it to him on more than one occasion back home. He had his reasons for despising what Connor is, a bias that isn't so easily erased, unless he's allowed to reach out and touch that underlying tragedy, trying to sweep it cleanly away.
Connor knows he's far, far from that point.)]
It doesn't matter what I want. [Kamski had asked them that question. He had replied similarly.] And no, I won't. You can't deny that this instance has gone better than the other two. I'm functioning just fine; more undeterred than before. This is viable, Hank, and there's no reason why you need to hesitate when you're around me.
[He tries to hunch a little further into himself. What he really needs is to sit down, he feels and probably kind of looks like he needs this wall next to him a lot more than he's really comfortable with, but he's not going to sit down while this little standoff is still in progress.]
Well, it matters to me. Does what I want matter? Do you even give a shit about that or are you gonna keep trying to steamroll over it just so you can... I don't know, give me a big old android hug? What the hell is it you're even going for here?
What you want is just to do the same thing you’ve always done. All of this, the drinking, the escapism, just like in Detroit.
[Does he care what Hank wants? Of course he does. Does he think that what Hank wants is good for him? Not at all.
The conversation feels like it’s gone in circles. Like they’re both missing some critical point that neither wants to touch to push it forward. Dancing around it like it’ll kill them if they do.]
Which is... fine, I suppose, if we were back home. I had no agency over you there, and I don’t here, either. But this place is jarring for you; confusing for you. If you refuse to accept the reality of it, how you’re feeling right now is only going to increase over time.
I’m not asking for us to be close, not if that’s what you don’t want. [Though there’s a pang in his chest (impossible, he thinks, but it’s there all the same) when he says that.] But I just want you to know that I’m here for you to rely on. Even if you need someone to anchor to, only to share in your dysphoria. I can do that. I can be what you need me to be.
[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?
[Stop deflecting. He sees that for what it is, even if it is topped with annoyance. Never mind the fact that he doesn’t have hobbies, no, beyond observing the routines of the others here.
Connor continues standing as he is.]
I thought we had made it clear that I’m making an independent choice to do this. [Dangerous to say that, but he couches it in formal rhetoric, so maybe it’ll be fine.] It has nothing to do with my assignment to you back home.
[Hank looks up, hands hanging between his knees now, his gaze sharper, again, than it's got any right to be. He has no trouble looking up at Connor, now.]
What else could it fucking have to do with? Every time I think I'm starting to get a handle on you you pull the rug out from under me. You won't leave me alone, you say it's cause we knew each other back home. You say it's cause we're partners. And I think, 'okay, an android gets an order and then it gets shoved into a setting totally different from anything it was ever programmed for, its bosses aren't around, it latches onto the last order it got as hard as it can.' That makes sense, right? Then you say it doesn't matter what you want - which means you want something. To be my friend? Why? And then we circle back around to the orders thing, which, okay. Kind of a stretch, but okay. Then you tell me it's not that at all, it has nothing to do with your orders, so- what? What's left, Connor?
[Connor, who had been so quick to make his points and arguments, seems to stall out here. He can talk circles around his reasoning all day, in an attempt to push past the interrogation and focus on Hank instead. But when the Lieutenant spells it out like this, each little step of their laughable exchanges with each other, Connor has no room to maneuver.
The truth, really, would be simple. That he just wants to be friends, but Hank always follows it up with a why. Why. And Connor knows that the answer is entrenched in parts of himself that he doesn’t want to bring to the light, nor have Hank begin to question with the same fervency.]
That’s not something I—
[He sets his jaw. Want to talk about.]
Can’t you just accept my help without questioning it? Does everything have strings attached in your eyes?
[Hank laughs as he says it, the sound full of disbelief with a nice little side dish of contempt.]
You're asking me that? Are you serious? You, the guy who wants to dig into every little detail of my fuckin life, you want me to stop asking questions? What, you're allowed to fuck me up but not the other way around? You want me to stop askin questions you've got to start breaking up my little parties a lot later, cause I'm gonna have to be a hell of a lot drunker than this. I mean, we can do that, pick this up another night when I've got more to drink, but those are your choices. Either I keep asking questions or you just let me do my thing. Either you're a little plastic duckling that doesn't know any better than to just keep following me around, or- I don't know. How the hell do you expect me to let you do anything if I don't know why? If I don't know you?
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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.
no subject
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.]
no subject
[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?
same
The appreciation's all wrapped up the same disgust, dragging it back into the same muck that's oozing over the background of his mind, the same resentment for the thing that started all this and still doesn't understand, the same thing beating behind it all that might actually be hatred, real hatred, Hank isn't sure and doesn't want to be, and everything tightens up more, the acrid disgust turning inward and everything going staticy with dread before Hank forces his hand open and pushes Connor's arm as hard as he can and scoots himself backward on the floor, his face twisting up and looking angry.
The look fades over a second into something more normal, not quite neutral, and he twitches his shoulder in something that's supposed to be a shrug. He tries to look over at something else, anything that's not this, but he can't, quite.]
Banged the shit out of my shin. Be a hell of a bruise but I'll probably live.
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Not just your shin.
[If Hank looks away, even for a second, Connor brings up a hand to rub at his eyes. It's the second time he feels the sting of something at their corners, blinking it away back to normalcy, the emotions too poignant and sharp to not create some kind of unwanted, physical reaction. He shakes his head, sets his jaw, and stands.]
That's not what I mean. And I'm here to aid you, if that's... what you want.
[Are you okay?, meaning far more than just how he felt after he tripped.]
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He's not really that successful, he mostly just manages to look ashamed and kind of pissed about it. He still doesn't know what made it through his squishy human brain into all those stupid stubborn circuits, but shit, just a little bit was probably enough.]
What about what you want? There's got to be something in your... your logic that's more than just 'aid the human'.
[He folds his arms around his chest, trying to think of some reason Connor shouldn't be doing this that doesn't involve asking if he knows, does he know how much Hank hates him? That whole thing? It's hard to think around it, to think of something else. It takes him a second.]
You're just gonna keep getting knocked on your ass, it's not, forcing this shit's just not gonna work.
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Hank's body language remains closed off, and while Connor is still a little shaken, his LED still gone yellow, the android is far more eager to connect. Maybe that's nothing new. Maybe despite knowing of Hank's hatred -- of feeling it just now -- it doesn't seem to matter.
(It's not news to him, Hank. That muck might've tried to pull him under, to override all that he is, but he knew, already, that it existed. The man had shown it to him on more than one occasion back home. He had his reasons for despising what Connor is, a bias that isn't so easily erased, unless he's allowed to reach out and touch that underlying tragedy, trying to sweep it cleanly away.
Connor knows he's far, far from that point.)]
It doesn't matter what I want. [Kamski had asked them that question. He had replied similarly.] And no, I won't. You can't deny that this instance has gone better than the other two. I'm functioning just fine; more undeterred than before. This is viable, Hank, and there's no reason why you need to hesitate when you're around me.
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[He tries to hunch a little further into himself. What he really needs is to sit down, he feels and probably kind of looks like he needs this wall next to him a lot more than he's really comfortable with, but he's not going to sit down while this little standoff is still in progress.]
Well, it matters to me. Does what I want matter? Do you even give a shit about that or are you gonna keep trying to steamroll over it just so you can... I don't know, give me a big old android hug? What the hell is it you're even going for here?
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[Does he care what Hank wants? Of course he does. Does he think that what Hank wants is good for him? Not at all.
The conversation feels like it’s gone in circles. Like they’re both missing some critical point that neither wants to touch to push it forward. Dancing around it like it’ll kill them if they do.]
Which is... fine, I suppose, if we were back home. I had no agency over you there, and I don’t here, either. But this place is jarring for you; confusing for you. If you refuse to accept the reality of it, how you’re feeling right now is only going to increase over time.
I’m not asking for us to be close, not if that’s what you don’t want. [Though there’s a pang in his chest (impossible, he thinks, but it’s there all the same) when he says that.] But I just want you to know that I’m here for you to rely on. Even if you need someone to anchor to, only to share in your dysphoria. I can do that. I can be what you need me to be.
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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?
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[Stop deflecting. He sees that for what it is, even if it is topped with annoyance. Never mind the fact that he doesn’t have hobbies, no, beyond observing the routines of the others here.
Connor continues standing as he is.]
I thought we had made it clear that I’m making an independent choice to do this. [Dangerous to say that, but he couches it in formal rhetoric, so maybe it’ll be fine.] It has nothing to do with my assignment to you back home.
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[Hank looks up, hands hanging between his knees now, his gaze sharper, again, than it's got any right to be. He has no trouble looking up at Connor, now.]
What else could it fucking have to do with? Every time I think I'm starting to get a handle on you you pull the rug out from under me. You won't leave me alone, you say it's cause we knew each other back home. You say it's cause we're partners. And I think, 'okay, an android gets an order and then it gets shoved into a setting totally different from anything it was ever programmed for, its bosses aren't around, it latches onto the last order it got as hard as it can.' That makes sense, right? Then you say it doesn't matter what you want - which means you want something. To be my friend? Why? And then we circle back around to the orders thing, which, okay. Kind of a stretch, but okay. Then you tell me it's not that at all, it has nothing to do with your orders, so- what? What's left, Connor?
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The truth, really, would be simple. That he just wants to be friends, but Hank always follows it up with a why. Why. And Connor knows that the answer is entrenched in parts of himself that he doesn’t want to bring to the light, nor have Hank begin to question with the same fervency.]
That’s not something I—
[He sets his jaw. Want to talk about.]
Can’t you just accept my help without questioning it? Does everything have strings attached in your eyes?
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[Hank laughs as he says it, the sound full of disbelief with a nice little side dish of contempt.]
You're asking me that? Are you serious? You, the guy who wants to dig into every little detail of my fuckin life, you want me to stop asking questions? What, you're allowed to fuck me up but not the other way around? You want me to stop askin questions you've got to start breaking up my little parties a lot later, cause I'm gonna have to be a hell of a lot drunker than this. I mean, we can do that, pick this up another night when I've got more to drink, but those are your choices. Either I keep asking questions or you just let me do my thing. Either you're a little plastic duckling that doesn't know any better than to just keep following me around, or- I don't know. How the hell do you expect me to let you do anything if I don't know why? If I don't know you?
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