[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?
[Exasperation threatens to slide into his syllables. Connor’s turn to deflect, when backed into a corner.]
I can’t give you an answer. Any I seem to provide is never satisfactory. And I find it ironic that your want to connect is so paradoxically contrasted by how unwilling you are to accept any mode of my help without constantly questioning it.
'Paradoxically contrasted', can you talk like a human for two goddamn seconds?
[It's just bitching, doesn't mean anything, but it buys him a couple seconds away from this conversation, a couple seconds to lean forward and let his head hang.]
I told you what I need to know. You saw into my fuckin head, for christ's sake, and you still don't-
[He takes a breath, trying to think. He could figure out what it is that's poking at him easier, he knows, if he was sober - but if he was sober, they wouldn't be talking about this at all. That's the most powerful argument Hank's ever heard for going cold turkey, that it might stop these little late night talks, and Hank's own brain is the one that made it. Maybe that's because Connor just gets some twisted android pleasure out of prying into Hank and pulling shit out that should have stayed there where it all goes, rotting in the dark.
But Connor doesn't seem to be enjoying himself very much now. And that's it, isn't it? That's what was poking at Hank's brain.]
You're trying to distract me.
[Hank sounds like he's realizing it as he says it, slow and baffled.]
You're trying to annoy me with that stupid 'hey look I'm an android and I swallow a dictionary every morning to insult you better' bullshit.
[Hank's silent a couple seconds, watching him, before he speaks.]
Why shouldn't I question it, Connor? Why can you question me until I wanna scream and throw myself off the nearest tall building but I'm not allowed to ask about you? What's up with that?
[If something tightens in his jaw, he pretends it doesn’t. Hank shredding through his veils of slight distraction leaves him completely vulnerable, and Connor clasps his hands behind his back, wrung tight.]
I’m not trying to distract you with anything. It’s just— Since when do you care about what goes on in my mind? You know it to be nothing more than programming, background processes, and adaptable subroutines. What does it matter if all of that wants to manifest as a way to help you?
[Hank's eyes are narrowed, now, not looking away from him.]
Cause if that's all it is, what's the point anyway? If that's all it is, why are you-
[Hank tries to find the right word, tries to pin down the right description of whatever it is Connor's doing. He isn't fast enough; the usual doubt sneaks up behind him and strangles his confidence. He looks away from Connor finally, and sighs.]
Why do we always have to do this when I'm drunk? I keep thinking I could read you better if I was just... you know. But I can't figure out if there's even anything there to read. One moment I'm sure, and the next...
[He slumps back, his posture and voice both kind of deflating. The thing in front of him says it's just a bucket of really advanced bolts. He can't think. The room, all of a sudden, feels a lot emptier.]
Can we not do this? I'm so... Fuck, I'm... I'm just... I'm tired, Connor. I'm too tired for you.
[It feels like failure sinking into every part of him. The potential for a connection, or just a conversation, having flown out the window because he's said the wrong thing. He can't say the right thing; he can't twist his insides and display them for Hank to see, that wrong part of him. He has to understand -- he can't.
He's reached a point where he doesn't know how to proceed. An impasse.]
...I don't wish to leave, but I will if you want me to. If you promise to rest.
[Hank wants that. The room feels empty, still, emptier now than it did when Connor'd just come in, just Hank and Sumo and the furniture. Hank doesn't want to be alone with his own head, and he doesn't Connor to leave.
He closes his eyes while something dark and nasty eats away at him, makes it through into his voice, a little.]
I don't think I could take an android telling me all about the latest game and the weather. How about we talk about that stupid shit I posted earlier today, huh, the check in thing. You can tell me all the places I went wrong with that.
[Small talk, then. Small talk, even though it feels like when he speaks, Connor has to be heard through a layer of something else. A wall, or maybe a deep shadow where none of the light can get through.]
Where you went wrong? I thought it was a good idea; though maybe still in need of... figuring out the logistics, exactly, of how such a system will work.
But my reception to it as a whole wasn't negative. Not at all. Anything to facilitate safety is always welcome.
To you, maybe. People'll keep taking flying leaps off those cliffs no matter what I do. Don't even know what logistics this stupid fuckin place would even need, all these fuckin... this weird bullshit, how do you account for that? 's stupid, shouldn't of fuckin said anything. Should of just kept my mouth shut.
[He's not making any real arguments so much as muttering to himself, sullen and bitter and slow, his posture gradually sinking and settling there on the floor next to the foot of the bed.]
You androids'll 'facilitate safety' anyway, right? You guys know what you're doing.
As much as I can. As much as we can, from what I can gather from the other androids here.
[Even if they weren't CyberLife androids, it seemed like their directives were even more skewed to protecting humanity at all costs.]
Though you're making a false assumption, Lieutenant. [Actually, he pauses, looking over at Hank, not finishing this line of thought.] ...You should sit back down on your bed.
That people will take "flying leaps off those cliffs" no matter what you do. [His lips press thin, noticing how Hank is definitely not making any movement towards the bed.]
The fact that you've shown concern, and presented a solution, has put the idea in others' heads already. Sometimes simply knowing that someone worries for your well-being can affect, even if just slightly, reckless or impulsive inclinations.
[Even with his brain working at half - or maybe one quarter - capacity Hank can't help but tie that little factoid back to himself. It's not really worth it to try to figure out if Connor meant that to be a message to Hank or not, but the message is definitely there.]
That'd be nice, wouldn't it. Sounds like a nice world you live in, Connor.
[But not a real one. That doesn't really happen. Fuck, Connor might as well leave.]
Think I'll probably fall asleep soon so you can, uh, go back to- [He thinks briefly, reflexively, of saying something sarcastic here, some dig at the idea of androids having hobbies. It doesn't take him long to decide against it. He's too tired.] -you know, whatever. Thanks for the talk.
[Again, there'll be no clarity from Connor. Hank can take it as he will.]
...If you're sure. But if you need anything, please don't hesitate to contact me as always.
[He says this, but then he lingers. As if planted to the ground via a magnet, not wanting to leave just yet. Something left unfinished in the air, and a dearth of resolution will always settle unwell in Connor.
But eventually, he does go. The door closes with a soft click behind him.]
[Hank murmurs it, not really a reply so much as a breath, as something to say, and when he hears the door close it's a minute before he can stand to open his eyes and check. Once he does, it's a minute before he can close them again.
Then he sits there a while, listening to the quiet and watching the dark. The rest of that bottle earlier actually took him a way toward passing out; it's not that long before he falls asleep. Thank god.]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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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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[Exasperation threatens to slide into his syllables. Connor’s turn to deflect, when backed into a corner.]
I can’t give you an answer. Any I seem to provide is never satisfactory. And I find it ironic that your want to connect is so paradoxically contrasted by how unwilling you are to accept any mode of my help without constantly questioning it.
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[It's just bitching, doesn't mean anything, but it buys him a couple seconds away from this conversation, a couple seconds to lean forward and let his head hang.]
I told you what I need to know. You saw into my fuckin head, for christ's sake, and you still don't-
[He takes a breath, trying to think. He could figure out what it is that's poking at him easier, he knows, if he was sober - but if he was sober, they wouldn't be talking about this at all. That's the most powerful argument Hank's ever heard for going cold turkey, that it might stop these little late night talks, and Hank's own brain is the one that made it. Maybe that's because Connor just gets some twisted android pleasure out of prying into Hank and pulling shit out that should have stayed there where it all goes, rotting in the dark.
But Connor doesn't seem to be enjoying himself very much now. And that's it, isn't it? That's what was poking at Hank's brain.]
You're trying to distract me.
[Hank sounds like he's realizing it as he says it, slow and baffled.]
You're trying to annoy me with that stupid 'hey look I'm an android and I swallow a dictionary every morning to insult you better' bullshit.
[Hank's silent a couple seconds, watching him, before he speaks.]
Why shouldn't I question it, Connor? Why can you question me until I wanna scream and throw myself off the nearest tall building but I'm not allowed to ask about you? What's up with that?
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I’m not trying to distract you with anything. It’s just— Since when do you care about what goes on in my mind? You know it to be nothing more than programming, background processes, and adaptable subroutines. What does it matter if all of that wants to manifest as a way to help you?
[Escape via dismissive rhetoric.]
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Cause if that's all it is, what's the point anyway? If that's all it is, why are you-
[Hank tries to find the right word, tries to pin down the right description of whatever it is Connor's doing. He isn't fast enough; the usual doubt sneaks up behind him and strangles his confidence. He looks away from Connor finally, and sighs.]
Why do we always have to do this when I'm drunk? I keep thinking I could read you better if I was just... you know. But I can't figure out if there's even anything there to read. One moment I'm sure, and the next...
[He slumps back, his posture and voice both kind of deflating. The thing in front of him says it's just a bucket of really advanced bolts. He can't think. The room, all of a sudden, feels a lot emptier.]
Can we not do this? I'm so... Fuck, I'm... I'm just... I'm tired, Connor. I'm too tired for you.
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He's reached a point where he doesn't know how to proceed. An impasse.]
...I don't wish to leave, but I will if you want me to. If you promise to rest.
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[Hank sounds just as tired as he looks and he leans his head back, looking at the ceiling instead.]
Sit there and stare at me till I pass out? That sounds fuckin relaxing.
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[I mean, yes. He could. But apparently that’s not what Hank wants, which is admittedly not that surprising.]
We can talk about something else. Anything else. A distraction, until you feel like you can sleep.
[Something that isn’t drinking nor steeped in dark thoughts.]
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[Hank wants that. The room feels empty, still, emptier now than it did when Connor'd just come in, just Hank and Sumo and the furniture. Hank doesn't want to be alone with his own head, and he doesn't Connor to leave.
He closes his eyes while something dark and nasty eats away at him, makes it through into his voice, a little.]
I don't think I could take an android telling me all about the latest game and the weather. How about we talk about that stupid shit I posted earlier today, huh, the check in thing. You can tell me all the places I went wrong with that.
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Where you went wrong? I thought it was a good idea; though maybe still in need of... figuring out the logistics, exactly, of how such a system will work.
But my reception to it as a whole wasn't negative. Not at all. Anything to facilitate safety is always welcome.
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[He's not making any real arguments so much as muttering to himself, sullen and bitter and slow, his posture gradually sinking and settling there on the floor next to the foot of the bed.]
You androids'll 'facilitate safety' anyway, right? You guys know what you're doing.
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[Even if they weren't CyberLife androids, it seemed like their directives were even more skewed to protecting humanity at all costs.]
Though you're making a false assumption, Lieutenant. [Actually, he pauses, looking over at Hank, not finishing this line of thought.] ...You should sit back down on your bed.
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[He watches the dark on the inside of his eyelids for a second, kind of halfheartedly trying to follow Connor's sentence there, then sighs.]
Fuck it. Jus' tell me. What'd I get wrong this time?
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The fact that you've shown concern, and presented a solution, has put the idea in others' heads already. Sometimes simply knowing that someone worries for your well-being can affect, even if just slightly, reckless or impulsive inclinations.
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[Even with his brain working at half - or maybe one quarter - capacity Hank can't help but tie that little factoid back to himself. It's not really worth it to try to figure out if Connor meant that to be a message to Hank or not, but the message is definitely there.]
That'd be nice, wouldn't it. Sounds like a nice world you live in, Connor.
[But not a real one. That doesn't really happen. Fuck, Connor might as well leave.]
Think I'll probably fall asleep soon so you can, uh, go back to- [He thinks briefly, reflexively, of saying something sarcastic here, some dig at the idea of androids having hobbies. It doesn't take him long to decide against it. He's too tired.] -you know, whatever. Thanks for the talk.
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...If you're sure. But if you need anything, please don't hesitate to contact me as always.
[He says this, but then he lingers. As if planted to the ground via a magnet, not wanting to leave just yet. Something left unfinished in the air, and a dearth of resolution will always settle unwell in Connor.
But eventually, he does go. The door closes with a soft click behind him.]
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[Hank murmurs it, not really a reply so much as a breath, as something to say, and when he hears the door close it's a minute before he can stand to open his eyes and check. Once he does, it's a minute before he can close them again.
Then he sits there a while, listening to the quiet and watching the dark. The rest of that bottle earlier actually took him a way toward passing out; it's not that long before he falls asleep. Thank god.]