[Heels dig into dirt as they come to a stop. Connor thinks that if he were a different sort of an android — made for strength instead of analytical fervor — he could just sweep the man off of his feet and carry him without issue.
Still an option, but a difficult one. Especially if Hank puts up an admittedly lousy fight, but resistance is resistance, and his friend doesn’t need to exert that kind of effort right now. And Connor also doesn’t know how gracefully he could manage it.
He frowns, sets his jaw, tries for plain explanation again:]
We’re not in hell. We’re in the Temple. You’re sick — not drowning, not dying — just sick. You need someone to tend to you and to bring you back to bed to rest. Do you understand?
[He doesn't look up when he says it, still staring, fascinated, at his feet. His knees, now. He swallows.]
Besides, you said I was dying. With the whole... Structure, Struxa? Struxta. The robot planet that killed off all the puny humans. If none of them survived, what's so special about little old me.
But why would you be here? You've only ever done what you're programmed to, that shouldn't land you here. Unless saying CyberLife isn't here counts as robo-heresy. Aren't you guys supposed to act like CyberLife is everywhere?
[His LED flickers a bright yellow again, and Hank is frustratingly treading into that territory of conversation that he has nicely cordoned off for himself.
You've only ever done what you're programmed to, and Connor shakes his head. No, he hasn't. He can list of examples of such, times and decisions regarding the safety of the Lieutenant, of escaping deviants, that generally go against the cut-and-dry parameters of his processing. Most of it can be reasoned away easily, of course, but some of it-
No time for those thoughts, no time to let Hank try to turn this into an argument. Those errors that crawl and worm their way around some partitioned corner of his mind don't deserve the spotlight, and so Connor just reaches out and snaps his fingers in front of Hank's face.]
[Hank's whole body jerks, his shoulders flinching into a hunch, and he blinks toward Connor's face, eyes wide.]
You. Right. You're-
[Hank's starting to lean back, away from Connor. He does it slowly; the longer he speaks, the more of his weight will be pulling back from whatever grip Connor's got on him.]
You. No problem.
[Nevermind the quicker, deeper breaths he's taking now, deep enough that his lungs start to make the barest hint of a crackling noise on the tail end of each one. Nevermind the way his voice nearly shakes. Hank is holding it together; this is good enough.]
What? Something special I'm supposed to be looking at?
[He has his attention, wavering thing that it is, and that's good enough for now. When the human mind is dancing around in a haze, it's harder for Connor to connect, harder for his words crafted from reason to land and stick; but catching his eye contact as if it were ensnared in a net, even with Hank leaning away, he can talk some sense into him.
There's a lot of ways he could reply to that. For Hank's sake, he pushes down something that might be edged with slight sarcasm (his own stress levels have continually climbed in these weeks, making amicability harder when someone refuses to cooperate), and instead speaks evenly, calmly.]
Someone trying to help you. Someone trying to relay to you that you're not dying, because we don't know for certain that the plague on Struxta acts similarly to how it did in the past. This place is... strange, in many ways. Astoria is working to find a cure. And I'm not going to let you die.
[Hank opens his mouth, then shakes his head, then closes it. His eyes flick down over Connor and then he forces his eyes up, where the view is still freaky but at least there's something almost human there to focus on. He sets his jaw, tries to harden his expression, takes a shaking breath.]
Why? You should hate me!
Wait. That's not... Fuck, my head...
[He squeezes his eyes shut, pressing the heel of his hand against his temple.]
You should... You shouldn't give a shit. You're supposed to take orders, right? What if I, uh...
[Hank tries opening his eyes, grimaces, then looks away at himself, where the view isn't much better but is easier to deal with.]
If I ordered you to go value someone else's contributions instead, go nursebot someone else? Cause, why not? They're all as bad off as me, I bet.
[Hate him? That makes Connor's eyes widen, but Hank's stumbling correction eases the spike of confusion that the exclamation had caused in the pit of his processing.]
Sorry, Lieutenant. But currently your orders and null and void if we're off the deviant case.
[Technicalities are wonderful things when trying to explain his own actions away. Connor tugs at Hank again, a little more forcefully this time, to get the point across: he wants him to keep walking.]
But I told you before, you just didn't want to listen. And I doubt that repeating myself now will be any more effective in making you want to believe me.
[That he felt something akin to friendship with the man back in Detroit, is his meaning. His explanation regarding that he had been a few days in the future, and that future had afforded them experiences that made Connor consider Hank as his partner, and therefore one worth being concerned about.]
[Hank flinches when Connor tugs at him, stumbling forward a step - and maybe more, if Connor keeps pushing it, but his steps are slow and not really voluntary.]
Cause you're not making sense! If you did hate me, if you - I don't know, went deviant and started kicking the shit out of me, that I'd get. But you just- You say we're off the case and then just keep acting like I'm your- Like you need me to finish the case at all. And you keep- I can't, uh-
[His hand jerks up in a sudden, impulsive gesture and rubs hard at his eyes.]
I can't remember what your face is supposed to look like. 's a stupid fuckin face anyway.
[Insults regarding his appearance never cause an offense that are more than superficial, though perhaps the dissatisfaction runs a little deeper when it's Hank uttering them. But it's not so easily ignored, despite the very hypothetical that he would be deviant, which makes his hackles rise. Because there are a multitude of things he could say to that, but Hank's statement was a strange one.]
What do you mean you don't remember? You're looking at it right now.
[What is Hank seeing, through the twisted reality of fever? The man's steps might be clumsy, but if he's not falling over, Connor will keep trying to make him walk with him. Otherwise, he's sure they'll just stand in the coliseum and argue all day.]
[He stumbles forward, moving mostly on momentum, not paying attention to his feet, trying to think. It doesn't seem that hard a concept when he thinks about it. But when he thinks about saying it, that he can't remember whose face that is, maybe it does sound kinda...]
You guys all kind of, um- I don't mean 'all you guys look the same' even though, like. You're literally designed to have models that all look exactly the same. But I mean... The ones that do all the healthcare stuff, they uh, they have this... I don't know, this program, I guess, they're all supposed to be... Reassuring, or something. It's bullshit. At least- with the adults, I mean. We know the difference. If a scalpel's digging into my guts I don't want it to look up at me and be like, 'hey, my name's Bob and you're gonna be okay,' or whatever, I just want it to know its job and stick to it. One of them, I mean, it's gonna try to tell me I'm not dead cause that's what it's supposed to do, but the one I got, uh- got chained to for that stupid case, it's supposed to just... The case, you know? I'm a means to an end. And then we all know what we're supposed to be.
[He frowns at the rusty gate in front of him, knocked off his train of thought by the sight of it. He tries to climb back on.]
But you, you sound... I can't tell. I look at your face and I can't remember which one you're supposed to be.
[For a lingering moment, Connor is ready to chalk up everything Hank is saying to delirium courtesy of the fever. Ramblings that have meaning behind them, but the meaning is winding and irrelevant to the moment at hand. But then the man keeps speaking. And Connor stills his step just for a moment, looking at him, scrutinizing him, because he hears the question for what it is, Why aren't you acting like the machine you're supposed to be?]
I... I don't-
[Undestand what you're trying to say, would be the easiest escape route to take. A flat-out lie. But Connor can't, not with how Hank looks right now, but the issue is that he doesn't know how to scrape together a reply to that. Feels that sensation of code not lining up properly in the shadowed corners of his mind, of recursive routines that want to flare up and dance in front of his vision, but he pushes that all aside. Has to, can't afford to waste time talking about why he can't bring himself to do anything except help Hank.]
A lot's changed between what you last remember, and what I last recall.
[The answer is out before he realizes it, as if pushed past his lips by some unknown force.]
Wouldn't it just be easier for you to think of me as your partner wanting to aid you? Just for today, just for your sake.
[Don't make him laugh. Really, don't; he bends forward, and hacks and coughs and gasps for breath. After a moment he manages an answer, rasping and amused.]
If this were for my sake you'd drop me and let me rot. Didn't I say it? Circle number seven. Shoulda been nine, treachery fits, doesn't it? But violence against the self, that's, you know, fine. Guess you don't get to choose. And you, you just - a partner wouldn't touch that shit. A partner's just - just for cases! It's not like the movies. Did one of your programmers just watch Lethal Weapon one too many times, so you think that's what we're supposed to be? A partner means I work with you. And then I carry my own weight.
[He pauses, panting, frowning at the gate, swaying a little.]
[It wasn't meant to be amusing, and yet Hank laughs at it. Because of course he does, because nothing here can be easy, and because Astoria apparently couldn't be bothered to close the gap between them for a few days at most, otherwise Connor has a suspicion that he wouldn't be experiencing this kind of pushback.
Why can't the Lieutenant just accept the aid? Frustration feels like something crawling along his false-skin again (he needs to runs a self-diagnostic, he needs to assess his own levels of stress), and Connor frowns deeply. Doesn't reply at first.
And then, as he pushes open the metal gate, hinges whining-]
Sorry, Lieutenant, but if you're hoping I'm going to indulge you in your propensity to slowly kill yourself, then you're going to have to find someone else.
[He swallows, as if cutting off whatever else he was going to say, and continues.]
You did work with me, once. I told you that we worked the deviant cases together, and though you don't remember it, those experiences still have sway over my decision-making process. That's why I'm doing what I'm doing.
[He pauses, self awareness sinking in, and sounds briefly amused.]
And if I’m telling you that, right now, you know you’re talking bullshit. Unless I grew ten feet and learned kung-fu in the couple days you say we spent on that case, there’s nothing about that extra time that could possibly have made it suddenly a great strategy to devote all this extra time to me. There’s no point in getting on my good side, you know? I mean, if you were human-
[He closes his eyes, hoping that will make the dizziness easier to take, and when he opens them he’s leaning even closer to Connor, close enough to get an eyeful of features that may or may not actually be there. He lurches back instinctively against the closest thing - the gate, which he hasn’t gone too far past. It is, shockingly, not that good for staying still under a sudden push. It is fantastic, however, at making an unholy rusting shriek and Hank squeezes his eyes shut again, pressing a hand against the side of his head.]
[It’s an automatic response, and for an android, that means that it’s fast — quick with how he steps towards Hank again, quicker still how his arm reaches out to grasp at the man’s shoulder to steady him. The protesting screech of the metal gate doesn’t so much as make him blink. He only registers it as unneeded stimuli, and his processing chooses to neglect it altogether.
Another instance of Hank being quick to lean away from him when he gets too close. That’s a problem, one that he needs to clarify or rectify, if he wants to lead him away from the sparring area with minimal issue.]
Why do you keep pulling away from me?
[Tossing aside everything else that was said for now.]
[Hank's wide eyes lock on Connor, and his quick, shallow breaths stick in his throat. He sets his jaw and lifts his chin, trying to hold his voice steady.]
Is that- Is that what you look like, under your skin? Is that what's really in there?
[He doesn't try to pull away again but does begin to step back, stopping when his leg nudges the gate into another shrill movement. Hank flinches when he hears it and his gaze loses its focus, his voice gains a hint of frantic anger.]
I don't need an ambulance, you bet your plastic ass it's not worth the fight to get me into one. You can treat me right here or you can just fuckin leave.
[What he looks like under his skin? Eyes widen slightly, and Connor raises his free hand to look at his palm. The illusion of skin is still there, still not going anywhere; he knows that this function of his is gone. No way for it to recede and leave only plastic-white in its wake. Smooth and unmarred.
His LED spins. Connor runs cursory a self-check in half a second. His systems verify what his eyes are telling him, that he's still appearing as he should, because he has no choice; doing anything else is locked to him.
Even so, he can't help the idle way a hand feels at his chin, his cheekbone, before dropping it down again. He looks at Hank, worried, as the gate swings back against his weight.]
You're imagining it. My skin- I can't turn it off. [There's something frenetic and frantic in Hank's voice now, and that keeps him from stepping forward again. He needs to calm him down first and foremost.]
Please, Hank. No matter what you see, I'm not... I'm not going to hurt you. I need you to cooperate.
[Hank frowns, staring at him. Then he squeezes his eyes shut, putting a hand over his mouth. He swallows, and swallows again.]
You... Connor, right? Right. They never talked to me that way, like they need me. They never need humans, that's where we went wrong. But you... you saved my life, remember? On the roof? Bullshit. But you...
[He opens his eyes, tries looking just at Connor's legs, at his own. He swallows, looks away, then sets his jaw and looks up at Connor's face.]
[He's not sure he likes the look in Hank's eyes, like he's looking past him, or seeing someone other than himself. The question has the interior of his mind whirring to make sense of it.]
"Trouble"? No, I-
[He moves forward, but slowly this time. Extends a hand to see if Hank might latch onto it, or his arm, or let him draw close enough to guide him again, or anything.]
Just like I saved you on that rooftop. I want to do the same now.
[If he twists the rationale around to align with Hank's, will it work?] You just have to let me help you.
[He remembers how he felt, then. It might as well be then, the horrifying, abrupt feeling of nothing under his feet and of needing Connor - wanting him, even - to help. His arm stretches out, slow, tentative. Before it gets there he hesitates, watching Connor's arm like it's about to bite him. When he grabs on he doesn't grab tight, can't really bear to and shudders as he does it. But he does it.]
Fair warning, uh, I think- I think I'm gonna be sick.
We're not, uh. We're not on a roof, are we? Or in hell. [He raises a hand to press again against his temple and starts slowly tilting to one side, without really realizing he's doing it.] I think, I think I was in... I was just trying to find a kitchen.
[Promising, the way Hank reaches out. Connor experiences what can only be described at a thread of hopefulness, even if his friend is all manner of hesitation right now. Better than nothing, and he shakes his head.]
It’s fine. If you’re sick, you’re sick.
[They both know Connor’s a police android, and it’s going to take a little more than seeing Hank getting sick to squick him out. Old hat, buddy.]
Were you-
[Ah, he has to reach out with his other arm and place it lightly on Hank’s shoulder so that he doesn’t lose his balance. Please don’t tilt like that.]
Were you hungry? You’re far from the kitchen. We’re outside.
[Hank stares at the - the hand - on his shoulder for a moment, takes a couple quick, shaking breaths, and then most of his weight goes in the direction his body'd been leaning because he's looking at the ground and trying to be sick. Trying, mind you. The only thing that comes out is a string of bile and he shudders, making a noise that's equal parts deep discomfort and disgust.]
This sucks. Fuck. Haven't been this sick since, since after... It was that case, that big red ice bust and then, you know, you're lucky if they wait four hours to start crying again, and my body just fuckin...
[He ends the sentence with a breathy, kind of farting noise instead of actual words, sounding like a balloon trying to deflate, then looks up and around, squinting and blinking like he's trying to focus.]
I'm not supposed to be outside. Sara's gonna be so fuckin pissed, she already had to do the whole, uh... [He puts a hand in front of his stomach and then pulls it outward like it's bigger than it actually is, miming the concept instead of saying it.] ...pretty much by herself, now I'm wandering outside and comin home with a fuckin android...
[This time Hank is the one trying to pull Connor along, in whatever direction his feet happen to be pointing. They're not very steady, those feet, but they're moving. Somewhere.]
[He’s realizing that he’s not sure which is preferable. That Hank is transitioning into a different sort of hallucination, a different sort of ramble, as opposed to the one where the believed himself to be nestled in one of the not-so-cozy circles of hell. It’s still a departure from reality, but at least it’s a more grounded illusion. Yet when Connor opens his mouth to say something, suddenly he’s the one being guided.
Clumsily guided, in the wake of an old life of Hank’s — police work and an ex-wife. He struggles to come up with a proper sort of reply, trying to tug Hank in the proper direction as he finally decides on words.]
This way. And it isn’t so bad. At least this android can lead you back to where you need to be.
[He stumbles in the direction he's being tugged, rocking forward with coughing and struggling to hack up the crud in his lungs. When he finishes he's a little dazed, panting, trying to get his thoughts back on track.]
She... Right, she, she wouldn't of let you in, so you wouldn't know where I live. Right? They creep her out as much as they do me. So if you wanna be the new nanny, you're gonna be disappointed. She doesn't want any of those, like, the ones that help you with the kids. We're gonna raise him ourselves. So there's really no point in you coming with. You get that, right?
[Connor isn’t sure how much further he should play into this growing illusion. But if it leads Hank to his room, and eventually to a state of bedrest, he’ll do what needs to be done. For now.
After the coughing fit:]
I’m sorry she feels that way, but I’m not going to be a caretaker for your household. I’m just trying to help you back home, where you can lie down and not have to strain yourself further. Then I’ll be out of your hair. All right?
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
Still an option, but a difficult one. Especially if Hank puts up an admittedly lousy fight, but resistance is resistance, and his friend doesn’t need to exert that kind of effort right now. And Connor also doesn’t know how gracefully he could manage it.
He frowns, sets his jaw, tries for plain explanation again:]
We’re not in hell. We’re in the Temple. You’re sick — not drowning, not dying — just sick. You need someone to tend to you and to bring you back to bed to rest. Do you understand?
no subject
[He doesn't look up when he says it, still staring, fascinated, at his feet. His knees, now. He swallows.]
Besides, you said I was dying. With the whole... Structure, Struxa? Struxta. The robot planet that killed off all the puny humans. If none of them survived, what's so special about little old me.
But why would you be here? You've only ever done what you're programmed to, that shouldn't land you here. Unless saying CyberLife isn't here counts as robo-heresy. Aren't you guys supposed to act like CyberLife is everywhere?
no subject
You've only ever done what you're programmed to, and Connor shakes his head. No, he hasn't. He can list of examples of such, times and decisions regarding the safety of the Lieutenant, of escaping deviants, that generally go against the cut-and-dry parameters of his processing. Most of it can be reasoned away easily, of course, but some of it-
No time for those thoughts, no time to let Hank try to turn this into an argument. Those errors that crawl and worm their way around some partitioned corner of his mind don't deserve the spotlight, and so Connor just reaches out and snaps his fingers in front of Hank's face.]
Hank. Look at me.
[Blatantly ignoring the question, go.]
no subject
You. Right. You're-
[Hank's starting to lean back, away from Connor. He does it slowly; the longer he speaks, the more of his weight will be pulling back from whatever grip Connor's got on him.]
You. No problem.
[Nevermind the quicker, deeper breaths he's taking now, deep enough that his lungs start to make the barest hint of a crackling noise on the tail end of each one. Nevermind the way his voice nearly shakes. Hank is holding it together; this is good enough.]
What? Something special I'm supposed to be looking at?
no subject
There's a lot of ways he could reply to that. For Hank's sake, he pushes down something that might be edged with slight sarcasm (his own stress levels have continually climbed in these weeks, making amicability harder when someone refuses to cooperate), and instead speaks evenly, calmly.]
Someone trying to help you. Someone trying to relay to you that you're not dying, because we don't know for certain that the plague on Struxta acts similarly to how it did in the past. This place is... strange, in many ways. Astoria is working to find a cure. And I'm not going to let you die.
I just need you to follow me. Can you do that?
no subject
Why? You should hate me!
Wait. That's not... Fuck, my head...
[He squeezes his eyes shut, pressing the heel of his hand against his temple.]
You should... You shouldn't give a shit. You're supposed to take orders, right? What if I, uh...
[Hank tries opening his eyes, grimaces, then looks away at himself, where the view isn't much better but is easier to deal with.]
If I ordered you to go value someone else's contributions instead, go nursebot someone else? Cause, why not? They're all as bad off as me, I bet.
no subject
Sorry, Lieutenant. But currently your orders and null and void if we're off the deviant case.
[Technicalities are wonderful things when trying to explain his own actions away. Connor tugs at Hank again, a little more forcefully this time, to get the point across: he wants him to keep walking.]
But I told you before, you just didn't want to listen. And I doubt that repeating myself now will be any more effective in making you want to believe me.
[That he felt something akin to friendship with the man back in Detroit, is his meaning. His explanation regarding that he had been a few days in the future, and that future had afforded them experiences that made Connor consider Hank as his partner, and therefore one worth being concerned about.]
no subject
Cause you're not making sense! If you did hate me, if you - I don't know, went deviant and started kicking the shit out of me, that I'd get. But you just- You say we're off the case and then just keep acting like I'm your- Like you need me to finish the case at all. And you keep- I can't, uh-
[His hand jerks up in a sudden, impulsive gesture and rubs hard at his eyes.]
I can't remember what your face is supposed to look like. 's a stupid fuckin face anyway.
no subject
What do you mean you don't remember? You're looking at it right now.
[What is Hank seeing, through the twisted reality of fever? The man's steps might be clumsy, but if he's not falling over, Connor will keep trying to make him walk with him. Otherwise, he's sure they'll just stand in the coliseum and argue all day.]
no subject
[He stumbles forward, moving mostly on momentum, not paying attention to his feet, trying to think. It doesn't seem that hard a concept when he thinks about it. But when he thinks about saying it, that he can't remember whose face that is, maybe it does sound kinda...]
You guys all kind of, um- I don't mean 'all you guys look the same' even though, like. You're literally designed to have models that all look exactly the same. But I mean... The ones that do all the healthcare stuff, they uh, they have this... I don't know, this program, I guess, they're all supposed to be... Reassuring, or something. It's bullshit. At least- with the adults, I mean. We know the difference. If a scalpel's digging into my guts I don't want it to look up at me and be like, 'hey, my name's Bob and you're gonna be okay,' or whatever, I just want it to know its job and stick to it. One of them, I mean, it's gonna try to tell me I'm not dead cause that's what it's supposed to do, but the one I got, uh- got chained to for that stupid case, it's supposed to just... The case, you know? I'm a means to an end. And then we all know what we're supposed to be.
[He frowns at the rusty gate in front of him, knocked off his train of thought by the sight of it. He tries to climb back on.]
But you, you sound... I can't tell. I look at your face and I can't remember which one you're supposed to be.
no subject
I... I don't-
[Undestand what you're trying to say, would be the easiest escape route to take. A flat-out lie. But Connor can't, not with how Hank looks right now, but the issue is that he doesn't know how to scrape together a reply to that. Feels that sensation of code not lining up properly in the shadowed corners of his mind, of recursive routines that want to flare up and dance in front of his vision, but he pushes that all aside. Has to, can't afford to waste time talking about why he can't bring himself to do anything except help Hank.]
A lot's changed between what you last remember, and what I last recall.
[The answer is out before he realizes it, as if pushed past his lips by some unknown force.]
Wouldn't it just be easier for you to think of me as your partner wanting to aid you? Just for today, just for your sake.
no subject
If this were for my sake you'd drop me and let me rot. Didn't I say it? Circle number seven. Shoulda been nine, treachery fits, doesn't it? But violence against the self, that's, you know, fine. Guess you don't get to choose. And you, you just - a partner wouldn't touch that shit. A partner's just - just for cases! It's not like the movies. Did one of your programmers just watch Lethal Weapon one too many times, so you think that's what we're supposed to be? A partner means I work with you. And then I carry my own weight.
[He pauses, panting, frowning at the gate, swaying a little.]
That's all. That's all that means.
no subject
Why can't the Lieutenant just accept the aid? Frustration feels like something crawling along his false-skin again (he needs to runs a self-diagnostic, he needs to assess his own levels of stress), and Connor frowns deeply. Doesn't reply at first.
And then, as he pushes open the metal gate, hinges whining-]
Sorry, Lieutenant, but if you're hoping I'm going to indulge you in your propensity to slowly kill yourself, then you're going to have to find someone else.
[He swallows, as if cutting off whatever else he was going to say, and continues.]
You did work with me, once. I told you that we worked the deviant cases together, and though you don't remember it, those experiences still have sway over my decision-making process. That's why I'm doing what I'm doing.
no subject
[He pauses, self awareness sinking in, and sounds briefly amused.]
And if I’m telling you that, right now, you know you’re talking bullshit. Unless I grew ten feet and learned kung-fu in the couple days you say we spent on that case, there’s nothing about that extra time that could possibly have made it suddenly a great strategy to devote all this extra time to me. There’s no point in getting on my good side, you know? I mean, if you were human-
[He closes his eyes, hoping that will make the dizziness easier to take, and when he opens them he’s leaning even closer to Connor, close enough to get an eyeful of features that may or may not actually be there. He lurches back instinctively against the closest thing - the gate, which he hasn’t gone too far past. It is, shockingly, not that good for staying still under a sudden push. It is fantastic, however, at making an unholy rusting shriek and Hank squeezes his eyes shut again, pressing a hand against the side of his head.]
no subject
Another instance of Hank being quick to lean away from him when he gets too close. That’s a problem, one that he needs to clarify or rectify, if he wants to lead him away from the sparring area with minimal issue.]
Why do you keep pulling away from me?
[Tossing aside everything else that was said for now.]
no subject
Is that- Is that what you look like, under your skin? Is that what's really in there?
[He doesn't try to pull away again but does begin to step back, stopping when his leg nudges the gate into another shrill movement. Hank flinches when he hears it and his gaze loses its focus, his voice gains a hint of frantic anger.]
I don't need an ambulance, you bet your plastic ass it's not worth the fight to get me into one. You can treat me right here or you can just fuckin leave.
no subject
[What he looks like under his skin? Eyes widen slightly, and Connor raises his free hand to look at his palm. The illusion of skin is still there, still not going anywhere; he knows that this function of his is gone. No way for it to recede and leave only plastic-white in its wake. Smooth and unmarred.
His LED spins. Connor runs cursory a self-check in half a second. His systems verify what his eyes are telling him, that he's still appearing as he should, because he has no choice; doing anything else is locked to him.
Even so, he can't help the idle way a hand feels at his chin, his cheekbone, before dropping it down again. He looks at Hank, worried, as the gate swings back against his weight.]
You're imagining it. My skin- I can't turn it off. [There's something frenetic and frantic in Hank's voice now, and that keeps him from stepping forward again. He needs to calm him down first and foremost.]
Please, Hank. No matter what you see, I'm not... I'm not going to hurt you. I need you to cooperate.
no subject
[Hank frowns, staring at him. Then he squeezes his eyes shut, putting a hand over his mouth. He swallows, and swallows again.]
You... Connor, right? Right. They never talked to me that way, like they need me. They never need humans, that's where we went wrong. But you... you saved my life, remember? On the roof? Bullshit. But you...
[He opens his eyes, tries looking just at Connor's legs, at his own. He swallows, looks away, then sets his jaw and looks up at Connor's face.]
Are you, uh. You in some kind of trouble?
no subject
"Trouble"? No, I-
[He moves forward, but slowly this time. Extends a hand to see if Hank might latch onto it, or his arm, or let him draw close enough to guide him again, or anything.]
Just like I saved you on that rooftop. I want to do the same now.
[If he twists the rationale around to align with Hank's, will it work?] You just have to let me help you.
no subject
Fair warning, uh, I think- I think I'm gonna be sick.
We're not, uh. We're not on a roof, are we? Or in hell. [He raises a hand to press again against his temple and starts slowly tilting to one side, without really realizing he's doing it.] I think, I think I was in... I was just trying to find a kitchen.
no subject
It’s fine. If you’re sick, you’re sick.
[They both know Connor’s a police android, and it’s going to take a little more than seeing Hank getting sick to squick him out. Old hat, buddy.]
Were you-
[Ah, he has to reach out with his other arm and place it lightly on Hank’s shoulder so that he doesn’t lose his balance. Please don’t tilt like that.]
Were you hungry? You’re far from the kitchen. We’re outside.
sort-of vomit cw
This sucks. Fuck. Haven't been this sick since, since after... It was that case, that big red ice bust and then, you know, you're lucky if they wait four hours to start crying again, and my body just fuckin...
[He ends the sentence with a breathy, kind of farting noise instead of actual words, sounding like a balloon trying to deflate, then looks up and around, squinting and blinking like he's trying to focus.]
I'm not supposed to be outside. Sara's gonna be so fuckin pissed, she already had to do the whole, uh... [He puts a hand in front of his stomach and then pulls it outward like it's bigger than it actually is, miming the concept instead of saying it.] ...pretty much by herself, now I'm wandering outside and comin home with a fuckin android...
[This time Hank is the one trying to pull Connor along, in whatever direction his feet happen to be pointing. They're not very steady, those feet, but they're moving. Somewhere.]
no subject
Clumsily guided, in the wake of an old life of Hank’s — police work and an ex-wife. He struggles to come up with a proper sort of reply, trying to tug Hank in the proper direction as he finally decides on words.]
This way. And it isn’t so bad. At least this android can lead you back to where you need to be.
no subject
[He stumbles in the direction he's being tugged, rocking forward with coughing and struggling to hack up the crud in his lungs. When he finishes he's a little dazed, panting, trying to get his thoughts back on track.]
She... Right, she, she wouldn't of let you in, so you wouldn't know where I live. Right? They creep her out as much as they do me. So if you wanna be the new nanny, you're gonna be disappointed. She doesn't want any of those, like, the ones that help you with the kids. We're gonna raise him ourselves. So there's really no point in you coming with. You get that, right?
no subject
[Connor isn’t sure how much further he should play into this growing illusion. But if it leads Hank to his room, and eventually to a state of bedrest, he’ll do what needs to be done. For now.
After the coughing fit:]
I’m sorry she feels that way, but I’m not going to be a caretaker for your household. I’m just trying to help you back home, where you can lie down and not have to strain yourself further. Then I’ll be out of your hair. All right?
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)