[He knows, intrinsically maybe, that this is not what Hank means. But trying to delve into Hank’s meaning requires him to face a truth — that in the end, when the case is over, when CyberLife comes swooping in back in Detroit (if they ever return home— will they return home?), he’ll be gone. Stored away, or assigned to another case. Maybe taken apart if he can’t make progress on their current one, and he can’t help but think about that sense of “self” they talked about not that long ago, the way it’ll be eradicated with each part they remove from him—]
I won’t leave as long as we’re here, in this place. [Compromise. As long as they’re in the temple. That’s comfort enough, it should be. He leads them down the hall, closer to Hank’s room.] We’re in this together.
[Was that really what he was worried about? Something in him clenches, though he has no heart, only a Thirium pump. A misinterpretation of internal data, maybe.]
That doesn't mean it's real, Connor. It doesn't mean you're real. You can't just say 'we're in this together' like it makes you fine, like it answers the fuckin question.
[Hank tries to pull away just far enough to face Connor, chin tilted up, jaw set, frustrated. The hand that reaches for Connor isn't reaching out of dizziness, though Hank is that. He reaches out of frustration, wanting Connor to answer the question right, wanting him - impossible as it is for something like him, impossible for code and circuits - to just understand.
Hank's hand is reaching out and some other part of him is, too. Whether through whatever grip Connor's using to lead Hank or through Hank's own reaching hand, out it comes: a desperate need for connection, a search for emotion - true and human emotion, a need to reach out and feel real blood and bone and heart reaching back, affection in its infancy with fear slipping sharp fingers around its neck and heavy self-disgust trying to drag it down into some dark and oily pit where something else once used to live.
Hank's thinking of the night he woke up in this stupid, trippy place, thinking of Connor meeting him and saying it so plainly: 'A gun on the ground,' he'd said, 'and your son’s photo on the table,' and while those specifics aren't a part of what Hank's sending, the associated emotions are: betrayal, injustice, a need to turn unnatural calculation to something organic and warm and real.
That's what he needs. He needs this damn machine to feel that, to just feel something, anything, to know even half of what his dumb, dogged refusal to give up the act is doing to Hank.
He feels almost clearheaded for a second, all the bullshit the various parts of his body's throwing at him almost not mattering half so much as the need for Connor to just get it.
He won't, of course. It won't. It can't. Hank realizes that as he stares, angry and nauseous and heavy and weak, into Connor's eyes. But hell, maybe that moment of mental clarity - rare, with as shitty as he's been feeling, and so pretty damn nice all on its own - is enough. Just knowing exactly what he wants to say and feeling like he has, even if it was all in his head, maybe that's enough.]
[He’s trying to pull words together to argue the point, to tell Hank that he is real, that he’s a presence that is to be relied upon just like he was made to be, and that should mean something, but Hank reaches out to him. Connor lets him, because he has no reason to pull away. The contact is skin on skin, and something activates in a rush, in a wave that crashes into his coding and sends measures of it scattering into pieces while he’s invaded by— by what?
He can feel it. It’s secondhand, but suddenly it’s as good as his — (like the rooftop at Stratford Tower, snow falling, bullets grazing his jacket, the letters Jericho playing in his vision, fear, fear, and then death) — and Connor lurches back. Their hands remain connected. Emotion slides and thrashes through him like an angry serpent, coiled around his insides.
There’s a hollow want, there’s self-disgust, there’s a feeling of betrayal at a cold calculation and plain statement. Indignity, the desire for something more human to be plucked out from the wires and tubing that make up his insides, to know if something like that even exists — does it exist? What’s in there, only programming and subroutines and numbers based on probability and all that CyberLife designed it to be? Is there a person left choking in all that efficiency? Will that person stay, or disappear like a shade of a memory, a false thing? Who is he? RK800 #313 248 317-51. Who is he.
Hank is graced by a moment of clarity, but all of that is stolen from Connor. His LED blinks into the red, wide-eyed, and some terrible cognizance makes him realize that this isn’t him, these are emotions that don’t belong to him, why is he feeling this way with Hank looking at him like that, this is just like before on the roof and his body wasn’t made to filter through these emotions, not even made to house emotions—]
What—
[Connor jerks his hand back, severing the connection. Everything jolts back into place, like magnetic parts snapping back into their proper slots, and yet still wrong. A few items can't quite fit the same way as they did before. Pieces losing form. More errors for his quiet collection.]
[Hank tilts forward when Connor jerks away from him and, for once today, catches himself, taking a step nearer to Connor to do it and bracing a forearm on the wall. He squints at Connor, his eyes darting over to the little light on the side of his head.]
What was what?
[He frowns, looking and sounding baffled, because he honestly is. He reaches out again, aiming toward Connor's LED, wanting to brush his fingers against it.]
I didn't see anything, Connor. I was about to get mad at you, but that's it, nothing happened. Just us here. You're not seeing weird shit too, are you? [And if he actually sounds worried, well, yeah. He - this whole place - has a good reason to worry, if Connor's mind is starting to fuck with him as bad as Hank's is.] Cause that's all this place needs, a rogue android.
[The association is already built, and it’s still too raw for Connor to push it aside. Hank’s touch creeping towards his LED earns him a step back, away from fingertips, LED pulsing, shaking his head.]
No, I don’t— I’m not—
[“A rogue android”? No. That wasn’t him, that was something else, and Connor tries hard to process it, stares at a nondescript part of the environment just past Hank’s shoulder, then down to the ground.]
That was like before, on the roof, you… You wouldn’t remember it, Hank, but those emotions weren’t mine.
[His voice shakes, just a little, but “just a little” means a lot for an android who often remains calm, even-toned, articulate.]
[Hank goes still, his eyes narrowing, the concern in his voice filtering into his expression, now. His eyes dart over Connor, watchful, because Connor must be seeing shit, whatever's fucking Hank up must be getting into him too, somehow. The hand that'd been trying to touch Connor spreads its fingers, palm out - no weapons here, not going to touch, everything's fine - and his voice goes slow, measured and, hopefully, reassuring.]
I don't know what you mean, Connor. Do you wanna explain it for me? What emotions? What are you feeling?
[The correction is quick, eyes snapping back up to Hank, focused in a half-panicked, sharp way. How does he explain, the locution of it is something he’s currently straining to achieve?]
I told you, they weren’t mine. [That has to be clear. Hank needs to know that whatever just crawled through him, he claims no ownership of it. Detach himself as quickly as possible from the experience, find a way to reason it into oblivion.] But it was like— Like someone reaching in and searching for something, wanting feeling. I can’t explain it.
[Not now. He’s too lost in the wake of what was a confusing feedback loop to understand it properly.]
You really didn’t... experience anything? [Was it only him? There’s something far more disturbing about that, and Connor already knows the answer when his eyes skirt Hank’s face.]
I'm sorry. [Whatever answer Connor wants to find in Hank's face, it probably isn't there. Hank gives his head a slow shake, and the only things on his face are confusion, and wariness, and worry. He moves his head slow, lowers his hand slow, is moving everything slowly, at the moment, wary of whatever's going through Connor's head and not wanting to startle him.] I didn't see anything. Just you. But hey, I'm feeling kind of weird myself today, maybe we can sit down and figure this out. You feel up to doing that? Telling me more about, uh, what exactly it was you weren't feeling?
[Connor looks at Hank, nearly looks through him, the ring on his temple eventually fading to yellow, forcibly aligning his thoughts as the other man speaks to him slowly, calmly.]
No, it’s— [If Hank didn’t feel anything, then what was it? Eyes flick down to the hand that grasped him, trying to make deductions — the touch, the flood that followed, the way it was quelled when Connor pulled away. But one-sided only? Was the problem with him?]
I’m sorry, but I only want to return you to your room. If there was an issue, I can deal with it myself later; maybe there’s something strange happening with Astoria’s magic, affecting my processing.
[He steps forward, reaching out to steady the man and guide him again (pausing, hesitating, a fraction of a second), then committing to the act.]
[The line of Hank's shoulders and the line of his mouth both sort of droop in unison, his shoulders going from high and alert to low and slumped, his face twisting up a little. His voice droops to match, all the care and caution dropping right out of it.]
Right. Forgot, you can run your own diagnostics, you're a big boy. Just don't freak out on anyone on your way back, okay?
[He turns toward his room and pushes himself off the wall, trying to push himself away from Connor's steadying hand, as he does it. He sways, scowling, and sets off toward a door that, hey, is probably the one he's looking for. Who cares? They all look the same, and in dreamland doors open up wherever you want them to, anyway. That's probably how it works.]
[Funny, how it doesn’t take much to flip the switch, as if the ground they stood on was wafer-thin and given to fault lines that any of them could fall through, at any given moment. It seems to be their mode of habit — spikes of cooperation, followed by dips of anger and confusion, miscommunication, and Connor finds himself right where he started: with an irritable Lieutenant and stress levels of his own that need to be carefully monitored. Errors bouncing around in the recesses of his thoughts, constant, consistent.
He has to slingshot himself back into reality, to something grounded, compartmentalize everything or Hank is going to walk away into someone else’s room, bursting with fever and hallucination, and want nothing to do with him — why? Because he wanted to focus on the matter at hand? What did Hank care if he didn’t want to talk about it now, as opposed to later? What did it matter if he still helped, still showed that he wanted him to be better? Wasn’t that enough? In the wake of what’s just happened, it feels...
unfair.
What does he want from him?]
That’s the wrong door, Lieutenant.
[Clipped words, he just stands there for a moment, watching.]
What, like it matters? If I can't dream logic my way back to Sumo I'll just call Sara to come get me. You don't gotta stick around, okay, I'm not outside anymore, I'm out of the way, and you said yourself you got your own shit to take care of, so...
[Hank flaps a hand in Connor's direction, pursing his lips and blowing a dismissive burst of air at him.]
You've done it, you're free from whatever stupid obligation you think you've got, you can go uh... tighten your screws, or whatever it is you guys do.
[Made to be patient, made to be amicable, made to be ingratiating and appealing and encouraging. He pushes all of that up, flagging it as a priority, to help bolster against the nagging frustration that keeps piercing through all of it like an arrow through vellum.
Results are mixed.
He steps forward, closer, angling himself to try to catch Hank’s eyes with his own.]
Sara’s not here. We’re not in Detroit, we’re not in Michigan, we’re not even on Earth, and this isn't the past. Here, it’s just you and me, and I’m the only one trying to help you. So let me.
[Hank's expression hardens and he lifts his chin, trying to stay steady enough not to look away from Connor's eyes, and his voice comes out sour.]
You know what spaceman, if you're the only one maybe that ought to tell you something. Why don't you just point me to door you want me to use and take off right back to Pluto, if I'm wasting that much of your precious time?
[His jaw sets, LED flashing a vicious yellow. Connor deigns to straighten, to align himself in all the minutely perfect ways that only an android can stand, flicking his eyes over to a room a few doors down and to his left. Indication enough, if Hank's lucidity (or lack thereof) allows him still to infer like a true policeman.
Because his words are not reflective of the answer his look gives the man.]
I'm not the one wasting time. I'm the one wasting effort.
[Hank's sudden deep breaths catch on something in his lungs and he tries to stifle it, managing to shut the coughing down after a couple seconds and trying to control his breathing. His nostrils flare as he takes the breath to say something, then abandons it, then starts to speak a second time, and abandons it again.
It feels like he stares at Connor, jaw set, for a long time.]
Well, since you're too stupid to know when to quit I guess it's a good thing we're done then, isn't it?
[He turns, stumbles and, thank god, manages to catch himself well enough to throw a last line over his shoulder.]
Congratulations. Now you get to fuck off.
[He tries to walk slow, listening hard. If he's lucky he'll hear Connor turn around and start walking off before Hank gets close enough to whatever place that asshole'd been looking that he has to start trying random doors.]
[Insults that would sting more if he hadn’t heard them all before. Skin a little thicker, shielded by agitation nettled just under the surface. A stare met with a stare, Connor’s own an easy thing to fall into, the annoying placidity of an android basically a default state to comfortably rely upon.
And yet despite everything, Connor still takes no pleasure in watching Hank stumble down the hall. Highly unlikely he’ll even know which door is the correct one; and so those dreaded footsteps do come. They’re steady and fast-tempoed and they meet him at his side, then pull forward to the right door.
Connor swings it open, like some kind of highly displeased chamberlain.]
[Hank stops, his jaw working, listening to his Connor grinding whatever dignity Hank has left under his heels with every step closer that he takes. He only looks up to sneer at Connor as he walks past him, and he makes it almost all the way to the bed before he has to stop and lean against the wall. He wouldn't know it was his room if Connor didn't seem so sure; these bland walls and twisted up, sweat soaked bedsheets could belong to anybody. There's only one thing in 'his' room that actually makes it worth coming back to.
The way he looks around for Sumo isn't something he can totally hide but Hank tries to be subtle about it, and tries to be subtle, too, about how long it takes to remind himself that that's what he left the door unlocked for, so Sumo could go out while Hank was too busy being out of his mind to take him. So. Sumo knows how to go out on his own when he needs to, and that's fine. That's good to know.
He flops down onto the mattress, hunching forward over his knees with an arm curled loosely around his stomach.]
Looks like you did it, got me right where I'm supposed to be.
[He closes his eyes, taking slow breaths through his nose to try and hold off the nausea.]
[Hank lets out a sigh that sounds almost pained, before it turns into coughing.]
No, Connor. No.
[He sets his elbow on a knee, pressing the heel of his hand against his head, and takes a second to grab a hold of his tone and pull it down a couple notches toward something calmer. It comes out mostly just sounding tired.]
You got valuable shit to do with yourself, right? So why don't you just go fucking do it. I don't know why you're here, but whyever it was, you did it. We're done. Go make sure you didn't, I don't know, catch what I got so you don't flip out again, I can sit here on my own just fine.
[The hell of it is, he remembers now why he left in the first place. He remembers sitting here and realizing at least part of why he felt so deeply shitty was probably because he was too sick to keep track of time, and didn't remember when he last ate. But if Connor has to stick around wasting his effort for as long as that will take Hank thinks he'll probably scream, and then maybe throw up. So, fuck it. Sumo's dog food fills itself up every day, somehow - if Hank feels like he's about to starve he'll just fucking eat that, and in the meantime he'll just keep taking these slow, deep breaths through his nose, because when he can manage that without coughing it sort of helps. Going on another wild adventure to try and find the kitchen doesn't feel like it's worth the effort, anymore.]
[Hank’s in his room now, and more attempts for Connor to help are going to be cut down before he can even entertain the idea. Like a wall shifting into existence, insurmountable, slamming down in the clear empty space between where one stands and the other sits.
Fingers twitch and he raises a hand to rest on the doorframe, considering with a demeanor that could be easily read as unease, if someone really knew him — too stiff, too perfectly angled, voice too clear-cut.
Agitation still lives in him, too, crawling along his insides.]
Rest, Lieutenant. Have someone else bring you food or water if you require it.
[His other hand moves to shut the door behind him, to leave Hank alone as badly as he wants to be, and Connor does so without giving the man time to properly respond.]
[Hank doesn’t look toward the closed door, just keeps his head down, breathing in the smell of himself and old sweat, listening to the dead empty air of his empty apartment. He doesn’t try to sound angry; there’s no reason, now.]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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[He knows, intrinsically maybe, that this is not what Hank means. But trying to delve into Hank’s meaning requires him to face a truth — that in the end, when the case is over, when CyberLife comes swooping in back in Detroit (if they ever return home— will they return home?), he’ll be gone. Stored away, or assigned to another case. Maybe taken apart if he can’t make progress on their current one, and he can’t help but think about that sense of “self” they talked about not that long ago, the way it’ll be eradicated with each part they remove from him—]
I won’t leave as long as we’re here, in this place. [Compromise. As long as they’re in the temple. That’s comfort enough, it should be. He leads them down the hall, closer to Hank’s room.] We’re in this together.
[Was that really what he was worried about? Something in him clenches, though he has no heart, only a Thirium pump. A misinterpretation of internal data, maybe.]
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[Hank tries to pull away just far enough to face Connor, chin tilted up, jaw set, frustrated. The hand that reaches for Connor isn't reaching out of dizziness, though Hank is that. He reaches out of frustration, wanting Connor to answer the question right, wanting him - impossible as it is for something like him, impossible for code and circuits - to just understand.
Hank's hand is reaching out and some other part of him is, too. Whether through whatever grip Connor's using to lead Hank or through Hank's own reaching hand, out it comes: a desperate need for connection, a search for emotion - true and human emotion, a need to reach out and feel real blood and bone and heart reaching back, affection in its infancy with fear slipping sharp fingers around its neck and heavy self-disgust trying to drag it down into some dark and oily pit where something else once used to live.
Hank's thinking of the night he woke up in this stupid, trippy place, thinking of Connor meeting him and saying it so plainly: 'A gun on the ground,' he'd said, 'and your son’s photo on the table,' and while those specifics aren't a part of what Hank's sending, the associated emotions are: betrayal, injustice, a need to turn unnatural calculation to something organic and warm and real.
That's what he needs. He needs this damn machine to feel that, to just feel something, anything, to know even half of what his dumb, dogged refusal to give up the act is doing to Hank.
He feels almost clearheaded for a second, all the bullshit the various parts of his body's throwing at him almost not mattering half so much as the need for Connor to just get it.
He won't, of course. It won't. It can't. Hank realizes that as he stares, angry and nauseous and heavy and weak, into Connor's eyes. But hell, maybe that moment of mental clarity - rare, with as shitty as he's been feeling, and so pretty damn nice all on its own - is enough. Just knowing exactly what he wants to say and feeling like he has, even if it was all in his head, maybe that's enough.]
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He can feel it. It’s secondhand, but suddenly it’s as good as his — (like the rooftop at Stratford Tower, snow falling, bullets grazing his jacket, the letters Jericho playing in his vision, fear, fear, and then death) — and Connor lurches back. Their hands remain connected. Emotion slides and thrashes through him like an angry serpent, coiled around his insides.
There’s a hollow want, there’s self-disgust, there’s a feeling of betrayal at a cold calculation and plain statement. Indignity, the desire for something more human to be plucked out from the wires and tubing that make up his insides, to know if something like that even exists — does it exist? What’s in there, only programming and subroutines and numbers based on probability and all that CyberLife designed it to be? Is there a person left choking in all that efficiency? Will that person stay, or disappear like a shade of a memory, a false thing? Who is he? RK800 #313 248 317-51. Who is he.
Hank is graced by a moment of clarity, but all of that is stolen from Connor. His LED blinks into the red, wide-eyed, and some terrible cognizance makes him realize that this isn’t him, these are emotions that don’t belong to him, why is he feeling this way with Hank looking at him like that, this is just like before on the roof and his body wasn’t made to filter through these emotions, not even made to house emotions—]
What—
[Connor jerks his hand back, severing the connection. Everything jolts back into place, like magnetic parts snapping back into their proper slots, and yet still wrong. A few items can't quite fit the same way as they did before. Pieces losing form. More errors for his quiet collection.]
What was that?
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What was what?
[He frowns, looking and sounding baffled, because he honestly is. He reaches out again, aiming toward Connor's LED, wanting to brush his fingers against it.]
I didn't see anything, Connor. I was about to get mad at you, but that's it, nothing happened. Just us here. You're not seeing weird shit too, are you? [And if he actually sounds worried, well, yeah. He - this whole place - has a good reason to worry, if Connor's mind is starting to fuck with him as bad as Hank's is.] Cause that's all this place needs, a rogue android.
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[The association is already built, and it’s still too raw for Connor to push it aside. Hank’s touch creeping towards his LED earns him a step back, away from fingertips, LED pulsing, shaking his head.]
No, I don’t— I’m not—
[“A rogue android”? No. That wasn’t him, that was something else, and Connor tries hard to process it, stares at a nondescript part of the environment just past Hank’s shoulder, then down to the ground.]
That was like before, on the roof, you… You wouldn’t remember it, Hank, but those emotions weren’t mine.
[His voice shakes, just a little, but “just a little” means a lot for an android who often remains calm, even-toned, articulate.]
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I don't know what you mean, Connor. Do you wanna explain it for me? What emotions? What are you feeling?
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[The correction is quick, eyes snapping back up to Hank, focused in a half-panicked, sharp way. How does he explain, the locution of it is something he’s currently straining to achieve?]
I told you, they weren’t mine. [That has to be clear. Hank needs to know that whatever just crawled through him, he claims no ownership of it. Detach himself as quickly as possible from the experience, find a way to reason it into oblivion.] But it was like— Like someone reaching in and searching for something, wanting feeling. I can’t explain it.
[Not now. He’s too lost in the wake of what was a confusing feedback loop to understand it properly.]
You really didn’t... experience anything? [Was it only him? There’s something far more disturbing about that, and Connor already knows the answer when his eyes skirt Hank’s face.]
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No, it’s— [If Hank didn’t feel anything, then what was it? Eyes flick down to the hand that grasped him, trying to make deductions — the touch, the flood that followed, the way it was quelled when Connor pulled away. But one-sided only? Was the problem with him?]
I’m sorry, but I only want to return you to your room. If there was an issue, I can deal with it myself later; maybe there’s something strange happening with Astoria’s magic, affecting my processing.
[He steps forward, reaching out to steady the man and guide him again (pausing, hesitating, a fraction of a second), then committing to the act.]
We’re almost there. Come on.
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Right. Forgot, you can run your own diagnostics, you're a big boy. Just don't freak out on anyone on your way back, okay?
[He turns toward his room and pushes himself off the wall, trying to push himself away from Connor's steadying hand, as he does it. He sways, scowling, and sets off toward a door that, hey, is probably the one he's looking for. Who cares? They all look the same, and in dreamland doors open up wherever you want them to, anyway. That's probably how it works.]
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He has to slingshot himself back into reality, to something grounded, compartmentalize everything or Hank is going to walk away into someone else’s room, bursting with fever and hallucination, and want nothing to do with him — why? Because he wanted to focus on the matter at hand? What did Hank care if he didn’t want to talk about it now, as opposed to later? What did it matter if he still helped, still showed that he wanted him to be better? Wasn’t that enough? In the wake of what’s just happened, it feels...
unfair.
What does he want from him?]
That’s the wrong door, Lieutenant.
[Clipped words, he just stands there for a moment, watching.]
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[Hank flaps a hand in Connor's direction, pursing his lips and blowing a dismissive burst of air at him.]
You've done it, you're free from whatever stupid obligation you think you've got, you can go uh... tighten your screws, or whatever it is you guys do.
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Results are mixed.
He steps forward, closer, angling himself to try to catch Hank’s eyes with his own.]
Sara’s not here. We’re not in Detroit, we’re not in Michigan, we’re not even on Earth, and this isn't the past. Here, it’s just you and me, and I’m the only one trying to help you. So let me.
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You know what spaceman, if you're the only one maybe that ought to tell you something. Why don't you just point me to door you want me to use and take off right back to Pluto, if I'm wasting that much of your precious time?
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Because his words are not reflective of the answer his look gives the man.]
I'm not the one wasting time. I'm the one wasting effort.
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It feels like he stares at Connor, jaw set, for a long time.]
Well, since you're too stupid to know when to quit I guess it's a good thing we're done then, isn't it?
[He turns, stumbles and, thank god, manages to catch himself well enough to throw a last line over his shoulder.]
Congratulations. Now you get to fuck off.
[He tries to walk slow, listening hard. If he's lucky he'll hear Connor turn around and start walking off before Hank gets close enough to whatever place that asshole'd been looking that he has to start trying random doors.]
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And yet despite everything, Connor still takes no pleasure in watching Hank stumble down the hall. Highly unlikely he’ll even know which door is the correct one; and so those dreaded footsteps do come. They’re steady and fast-tempoed and they meet him at his side, then pull forward to the right door.
Connor swings it open, like some kind of highly displeased chamberlain.]
It’s this one.
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The way he looks around for Sumo isn't something he can totally hide but Hank tries to be subtle about it, and tries to be subtle, too, about how long it takes to remind himself that that's what he left the door unlocked for, so Sumo could go out while Hank was too busy being out of his mind to take him. So. Sumo knows how to go out on his own when he needs to, and that's fine. That's good to know.
He flops down onto the mattress, hunching forward over his knees with an arm curled loosely around his stomach.]
Looks like you did it, got me right where I'm supposed to be.
[He closes his eyes, taking slow breaths through his nose to try and hold off the nausea.]
Now is your job fucking done?
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Do you need anything else?
[He’s also noted the lacking presence of a certain canine in the room, just as he caught Hank’s own searching look.]
I can fetch Sumo for you.
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No, Connor. No.
[He sets his elbow on a knee, pressing the heel of his hand against his head, and takes a second to grab a hold of his tone and pull it down a couple notches toward something calmer. It comes out mostly just sounding tired.]
You got valuable shit to do with yourself, right? So why don't you just go fucking do it. I don't know why you're here, but whyever it was, you did it. We're done. Go make sure you didn't, I don't know, catch what I got so you don't flip out again, I can sit here on my own just fine.
[The hell of it is, he remembers now why he left in the first place. He remembers sitting here and realizing at least part of why he felt so deeply shitty was probably because he was too sick to keep track of time, and didn't remember when he last ate. But if Connor has to stick around wasting his effort for as long as that will take Hank thinks he'll probably scream, and then maybe throw up. So, fuck it. Sumo's dog food fills itself up every day, somehow - if Hank feels like he's about to starve he'll just fucking eat that, and in the meantime he'll just keep taking these slow, deep breaths through his nose, because when he can manage that without coughing it sort of helps. Going on another wild adventure to try and find the kitchen doesn't feel like it's worth the effort, anymore.]
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Fingers twitch and he raises a hand to rest on the doorframe, considering with a demeanor that could be easily read as unease, if someone really knew him — too stiff, too perfectly angled, voice too clear-cut.
Agitation still lives in him, too, crawling along his insides.]
Rest, Lieutenant. Have someone else bring you food or water if you require it.
[His other hand moves to shut the door behind him, to leave Hank alone as badly as he wants to be, and Connor does so without giving the man time to properly respond.]
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[Hank doesn’t look toward the closed door, just keeps his head down, breathing in the smell of himself and old sweat, listening to the dead empty air of his empty apartment. He doesn’t try to sound angry; there’s no reason, now.]
Prick.