systolicarray | ://i had a feeling i could be someone

( Hank studies the palm. He doesn't understand it, he doesn't need to understand it. He listens to Connor's experience. His mind had an opportunity to evoke some rampant thoughts, but he wanted to remain steady present with Connor.

What he needed now, maybe what they both needed, was an initiation of acceptance for one another. But that is me, Hank. Was for Hank to appreciate Connor, even as he was now.

Hank's eyes trail across Connor's hand. He notes the fingers look slimmer, lighter, and less (lack of a better word) meaty. Hank would have snorted at himself, perhaps even reprimanded his vocabulary deficit to this part of Connor's life. He didn't know the name of when androids shed their pigment. Did Connor want him to know?

Hank lowers his face and lifts Connor's hand to administer a few more kisses. He directed Connor's hand to run across his mouth, over his beard, and up again. His mouth kisses the length of fingers and even pops the tips of them into his mouth. He lifts his head, glances at Connor, then lowers his face to flatten his tongue against Connor's palm. He gives an eager, moist, and thorough lick up Connor's palm to his fingers. He doesn't stop there. His eyes open, and he watches Connor's white face. Connor's irises were an incredible vibrancy against the pristine canvas. Hank dips Connor's fingers into his mouth and keeps going until he is sure he meets the threshold of gagging and stops. )

[ hank never really does what he expects, does he? his mouth falls open, but no sound comes out. when he told hank that it felt different to be touched without his artificial skin, he wasn't lying, but he hasn't had much experience with this. he's turned off the skin to his hands often enough to connect with other androids, when the act was necessary, but that never necessitates more than fingers clasped carefully around another wrist. this was a deliberate, sustained sort of physicality, hank's rough tongue tracing the shape of his thin fingers, tasting the alternating textures, between the slick and shiny plastic and the soft, matte pads of his fingers and palms.

for a few moments he forgets what he was thinking altogether, and then hank takes his fingers from his mouth and he wonders what the hell it is they're both doing. he drags a breath in through his throat. ]

Y-you don't have to do that, Hank. Really. It's just strange to actually— I guess I just didn't think you would want to see? It's not like there's any reason for me to turn it off any other time.

( Hank remains verbally silent, however his actions steadily increase in volume. He pulls on Connor's wrist, his other hand scales the other's forearm and pushes up the fabric of Connor's sleeve. His mouth follows the newly exposed trail of Connor's synthetic body. Like a dog with a bone, he isn't letting go. Hank was on the trail he was determined to follow.

He knew this was Connor, he wasn't confused in the slightest about who he was exploring. Nor did his body forget who this was, as physiological pings indicated sexual attraction. His heartbeat palpitates, his face flushes, and his gut tingles with erotic throbs pulsing from his mind to his cock.

He wanted to take this slow, however. He wanted to appreciate every inch of Connor. ) Get undressed. ( Pointedly neglecting to respond to the content of Connor's words. )

W-wait, I just wanted to talk to you... I didn't mean...

[ connor leans backward, but he doesn't remove his arm from hank's grip. maybe hank can feel it through the plastic, cool to the touch but warming faintly with hank's intervention, the pulse of his thirium pump beating blue blood through his body. it's speeding faster than his usual even baseline, even his LED spinning in agitation. ]

I'll undress if you want to see, but I... I don't know if I can do this right now...

( That puts everything on pause. I don't know if I can do this right now-was a pretty fucking obvious break in the progression of where Hank wanted to go. It was enough to bring up irritation for Hank.

His stomach tightens. The previous passion within him hits Connor's resistance and falls into the pit of rejection. It wasn't a good feeling, but Hank demonstrates some control over his raw reaction. He straightens on the couch and brings his hands to his lap. What the fuck do you want from me? Spoiled and unfair thoughts begin to cycle through his mind. )

[ it's the silence that speaks of something uncomfortable, the atmosphere shifting around them untill he finds himself regretting the choice to bring this up at all. why had he even done it in the first place? what had he thought he was going to accomplish?

had he wanted hank to comfort him? but if that were the case, then he should let him do it in a way he would enjoy too. connor takes a breath and smiles at hank, bright and a little brittle, his hands once again folded in his lap. ]

I'm sorry, I just didn't expect you to... [ well. ] I know I'm an advanced prototype, but I can't always read your intentions.

( Hank didn't understand Connor's bewilderment. ) My ... intentions? ( Hank pulls a breath, adjusts on the couch and leans back onto the cushion. He exhales. ) What do you think I was doing?

I... I don't know.

[ that's sort of the point, isn't it?

connor would be blushing if his skin were activated, humiliated by his own confusion. but the plastic covering his body is just plastic, and although it's lined with thousands upon thousands of sensors to facilitate his various functions, unlike the human epidermis, there are no veins, no capillaries. just pure, pristine white.

he forces the smile to remain on his face, but he still can't hide his nervousness. his fingers clasp, his hands moving against each other. ]

I don't know, Hank.

( Maybe the better question, then, is: ) Connor, what do you want me to do? ( The heat on his face is now more fueled by agitation than it was by lust. In fact, he's not in the mood and the more he stares at this plastic face the less he's enticed to kiss it. )

I... I... suppose I...

[ what does he want? what does he want? his mind races, trying to piece together his desires into thoughts, words, actions— into something that a human being can parse and digest, into something understandable. it's hard. because he doesn't understand these things himself, he doesn't know where the roots of his feelings are buried or where the seeds of his sprawling insecurities were scattered from.

and now hank is upset with him. it makes it hard to think, and that's something he struggles with too, because the emotional state of another person shouldn't impair his functioning in any way, and yet it does, and he doesn't know what to do— his eyes dart worriedly back and forth, but they don't settle on hank's face for long, like he's afraid of what he'll see there.

he tries to steel himself. to force his voice to sound even, and the smile to remain on his face, but it's quickly crumbling. ]

I suppose I just wanted to be reassured.

( Hank watches as Connor takes a moment to processes what he wants to respond with. He's seen this sort of displayed complication before. In particular, Hank thinks about the time they were at Kamski's house. Fucking prick. His brows draw together, and his face darkens with discontent. Why did Connor linger? Why didn't he leave with Hank? Hank tried to get Connor to just go, but it was like Connor couldn't. He had to satisfy some curiosity to be in that place Kamski put him. You have to choose a side... As if it were black and white.

Some things were black and white, sure - but Kamski put a gun in Connor's hand and told him to shoot. )

How do you want me to reassure you? If it's not ... that way?

[ the answer is deceptively simple, but perhaps too simple for hank to see— he didn't have a choice. literally. refusing altogether would have meant deviating then and there. the only reason he could deny kamski at all was becasue of hank's order to the contrary. cyberlife had, however unknowingly, given him a loophole.

but his thoughts are a million miles away from kamski and his messed up little games. they're rooted right here in hank's living room, immovable, unnamable. he wishes... he wishes he had simply gone along with it. maybe doing what hank wanted would have made him happy. this is just—

connor finds himself shaking his head, and his smile twitches as he keeps it pinned to his face. it seems reluctant to stay there, and as he speaks it weakens more and more, until by the time he's finished, it's completely gone. ]

I don't know. How do you reassure a person? I know there are several different methods, but wha— what makes someone feel better? I don't... know what I want. I don't know how to know what I want. I'm sorry. I'm really sorry.

( He needs a drink. His body is beginning to feel the stress of the situation. First, his gums go numb with the anticipation of alcohol. Then the anesthesia travels down his throat, to the pit of his stomach, then out through his limbs. Hank shifts uncomfortably in his seat. His eyes go to the kitchen, then down to the floor between the couch and coffee table.

He's listening to Connor apologize, he hears the distress, but all he wants is a fucking drink.

He glances at Connor, and the white synthetic-face brings him to stand, and he walks away from it.

It. Who is asking how a person ought to be reassured. It. Which is apologizing for being unable to compute, process, and respond accordingly to the situation. It. Which just rejected Hank.

He goes straight for the whiskey, not even bothering with a glass. )

[ his eyes widen when hank stands, and his heart leaps into his throat with anticipation of... something. he thinks, maybe, that hank might reach out to him, just for a fraction of a second, before... before he doesn't. the plummet into his gut leaves an immeasurable numbness in its wake, his fingers and toes tingling like the pins and needles sensation that human beings experience on their limbs being enervated with blood. he doesn't know what causes it in his case, but when hank grabs the whiskey he immediately stands up to follow him.

he places his hand over his wrist, gently. hank could easily dislodge his grip, if he wanted to. ]

Hank, please don't. Not because of me. It's— it's fine. I'll be fine. You don't have to do anything. I won't ask again, I promise. A-and we can do anything you want, okay? Okay?

[ connor leans into his space, trying to meet his eyes, his own eyes pleading. there's a smile there, tremulous, like he's about to crack in two. oh, he's messed up so badly. why did he ask? why did he do it? what was he expecting, if he can't even tell hank what he wants? he's under no obligation to give him anything.

he rubs his thumb over the back of his hand, gentle, trying to soothe. ]

I really didn't mean to be so demanding. I... I know it's not easy...

( Connor's hand on his wrist sends Hank's down to the table, slamming the bottle on it. The dramatics were a point that Hank would concede to Connor's wishes, for now. He looks to the hand on his wrist, unsure he can commit to looking at the other's face. Although Hank can register the emotion in Connor's voice and those lapses between words - what purpose did that serve? Was this an imitation pulled from various scenarios in which emotion disrupts the words while also delivering the message cohesively between silence and noise? Just how many fucking scenes did Connor see in movies, read in books, even study in life that would give him the perfect replication of distress?

But with that face...? If Hank looks at it, the facade would then crumble, and Hank...

Hank can't stomach the painful inconsistency of Connor's desires and what he needs. Hank wasn't a need, he was a desire, and that's all he was to Connor.

And at that moment ... Connor did not desire him. ) It's not about what I want, Connor.

[ the muscles of his arm relax, but only just. he doesn't breathe a sigh of relief. not after the way hank set the bottle down, or the way he felt the vibration travel up his arm to his shoulder. but he leaves his hand where it is, staring at their hands, almost overlapping, wondering at the contrast between them.

he swallows, trying to gather his thoughts into some semblance of coherence, which isn't experience he's had often. ]

That's not true. I care about what you want. And I'm sorry if I've made you feel like I don't.

[ after hesitating for several seconds (several seconds which feel like an eternity to him) he lays his head against hank's shoulder. his other arm rising, settling with his palm flat against hank's back, just beneath his shoulder blades. his body is warm, especially in comparison to his own, and it feels good to him to lean against his body this way, to take some of his strength and imagine it's his own, to imagine that he isn't in need of the tenderness he's so starved for. ]

( Hank moves his hand from the bottle and turns toward Connor. His gums still feel weak, but the rest of him sobered up quickly enough to have strength in the embrace. He closes his eyes and presses his face against Connor's neck. He exhales, and his lips tremble. He was overwhelmed with emotion, and the insecurity within him bubbled beneath his skin - or it was the stress making his body sick for the drink. )

Don't... apologize. ( He grips the fabric on Connor's back. ) I wasn't ... what I was saying. I know you care about what I want, but this wasn't ... about me, Connor. ( Heat rises and his forehead is beginning to feel clammy. The longer he sits in distress, with the bottle in reach, the stronger the withdrawal symptoms become. )

Everything is about you to me.

[ there's a little more strength behind his smile this time, and his tone of voice changes too, to be lighter— it's meant to be a joke, but it doesn't really carry. and he should probably feel self-conscious about that, but somehow he just doesn't. there are other things that matter to him, naturally. he has beliefs, desires, a moral code. there are things he wants that don't have anything to do with hank (freedom for his people, markus's approval), but his life largely happens either in this house, at the station, or in the car ride between them.

when hank turns, connor takes his hand from his wrist and brings it up to join the other. his panicked breathing begins to ebb as his heartbeat, similarly, settles. his cheek rests against hank's shoulder. the plastic is slippery against his shirt. his voice is soft and weak and soggy. ]

I like this.

( Hank's insecurity significantly lowers to Connor's statement. They seemed to be heading toward pleasant territory, much more agreeable than where they were. However, the fire continues to allude him. He huffs, his body aches, and perspiration begins to form on his forehead. Hank tilts his head from Connor, his eyes still avoiding the other's white face.

He clenches his fingers to Connor's clothes. He liked this too, but he would also like that drink. Hank starts to count from one to ten, over and over again. After he reaches ten, he asks himself: can you go for another set? Trying to push off answering the whiskey's call. )

Yeah.

[ connor is silent for a while, listening to hank's breathing, his heartbeat. mostly, he's thinking about why he's acting this way. there must be a reason for what's wrong with him. he already knew that he liked it when hank held him, but that can't be the answer to all his problems. wouldn't be nice if it was, though? wouldn't it be nice if... if he didn't have these problems? if he didn't feel this way?

hank probably feels the same. about his own problems, too.

he lifts his head, but not all the way. ]

Let's sit down?

[ he stops, swallows. his LED has finally returned to blue, but it flickers yellow again for about one point five seconds. ]

I'd like... for you to hold me. I mean, if you want to.

( Hank's hands move over Connor's clothes. He's agitated but doing his best to keep those hands on Connor rather than reaching out for that bottle. He welcomes the invitation to take a seat and quickly moves from the kitchen to the couch again with Connor. 4, 5, 6, 7, 8.. By the time they hit the couch, he's had about forty sequences of the countdown. )

Course... Course I want to, Connor. ( His palms are sweaty from the amount of movement. Hank's breath hitches, and he pulls Connor in for a hug.

Hank's seated with his back leaning against the cushion, and his arm is around Connor. His other hand holds Connor's. )

[ connor folds himself into hank's lap when they sit, one arm around his side, the other laying between them, their hands touching. with his head on his shoulder, he continues to stare, wondering at the contrast between them, wondering at how any of this is possible. he moves his fingers against hank's, the soft matte plastic of his fingertips plush against hank's damp fingers. his eyes dart toward his face, but hank still isn't looking at him.

he feels strangely calm about that fact, and wonders if it's a defense mechanism. after several seconds, almost a minute, he speaks. ]

... Do you want me to turn it back on?

( The uncomfortable lingering call of the liquor on the table was still loud in his mind. He had to keep his hands busy, and he needed to keep his mind busy. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, ... Hank closes his eyes, and he lifts Connor's hand up again to his face. It's not enough to count, to talk, to breathe - he needs that oral fixation. )

No, baby... let me.. ( His body vibrates, his temple beaded with sweat, and his mouth takes to Connor's fingers again. Slipping each one in between his lips. His other hand is clenching on the back of Connor's shirt, so tightly, that his knuckles are white. )

Hank...

[ at least this time he isn't so startled that he almost jumps out of the skin that he, ironically, isn't even wearing. he rubs the tips of his fingers against the flat of hank's tongue so that he can feel the slight texture. the intent was to be able to allow him to grip, even with his synthetic skin deactivated. the smooth and shiny plastic is frictionless in comparison; where hank was gripping his shirt, the fabric slid over his back and hung unevenly off his shoulders. it's one of hank's, so it's already a bit big on him. ]

Could you tell me what's wrong? I know you're upset, but I don't know why. I'd like to make it better, if I can...

( His breath is heavy between Connor's fingers. When the other asks for clarification, Hank pulls his head back. Hank's flesh is sickly-white, sweating, and clammy. The pupils in his eyes pulse with uncertainty.

He forces himself to be honest. )

I want that drink. ( Indicating that Connor can't cure Hank's ailment. )

... I know. But you didn't when you got home. You didn't until I—

[ connor stops, and swallows. it clearly had something to do with the exchange that had happened a few minutes ago, but it was clear from the confusion in his eyes that he didn't know which part of it. it seems important to him to know, even if it can't fix things.

he unwinds his arm from around hank's middle and sits up, slinging his arm around his shoulder, instead. resting his cheek against his head, and petting his slim, white fingers through his hair. his next words are mumbled, in deference to how close his mouth is to hank's ear. ]

You didn't do anything wrong, you know. I know it must be stressful to deal with my... insecurities.

( Hank reflects on Connor's earlier comment: don't drink because of me.. Hank's trembling remains but his arms move around Connor. They're strong, secure, and confident. )

It's not you... Connor. I have.. I have a fucking disease, I'm an alcoholic... this isn't your fault. You're... you're .... you keep me... You've kept me alive.. Connor.

I know I'm not responsible for your alcoholism, but...

[ clearly something he did, or said, or something about this situation altogether made hank want to drink, and while it's not his responsibility to never say or do anything that might cause stress, it's worth addressing. isn't it? but he's clearly not wording it in a way that makes hank open to that idea. or maybe they're just misunderstanding each other.

but for the moment, he forgets to ask. what hank says strikes him to silence, and he's left clinging to his shoulders like hank is the life raft, even though he just told connor he's the one who keeps him floating. connor kisses the crown of his head, eyes squeezed shut, a few stray hairs sticking to his lips with static electricity. they hold each other tight, and after a while his plastic begins to warm with hank's body heat, enough that connor begins to feel warm himself. his voice is still soft when he speaks; that slight, soft texture more pronounced at this volume. ]

You know that's mutual, right? I wouldn't be here if it weren't for you, Hank. And I'm... I'm glad to be here. What you've given me... I'm not sure you can comprehend the enormity of it. For that matter, I'm not sure I can, either.

( Hank's hand shakes against Connor's back. His throat swells with hot emotion, making it difficult to breathe pas the burden of his shame and desperation. His chest vibrates down to his gut, and he, once again, struggles to follow along with Connor's words. He struggles to be present with Connor as the drink promises to unhinge the trapped emotion in his throat. Baby ... please.. He begs Connor, too afraid (or perhaps sensible) to do so outside his mind.

Hank feels like he cannot give Connor the attention he deserves right now. All that he can think about is that liquid gold, the cure to his trembling body. )

[ connor swallows around something in his throat, his eyes stinging abruptly. the surge of emotion takes him off guard, but he can't help it. he feels guilty, guilty enough to want to cry about it, no matter how unbecoming that is. thankfully, hank can't see his face, and even if he could it wouldn't be obvious. smooth, white plastic holds no evidence.

he just keeps saying the wrong things, doing the wrong things— asking for too much. he holds onto hank a little harder, resting his cheek against his hair.

after a few minutes, he reactivates his skin. it doesn't matter anymore. ]

It's okay, Hank. Everything's going to be okay.

( It wasn't until later that night that Hank was feeling ready to revisit the mess of what had happened earlier that day. He had come home to Connor wanting to talk with him, and it felt like he had fucked that encounter up. He honestly thought that Connor had just wanted him to come home and fuck him silly. Hank was insensitive, and he didn't stop to listen; instead, he more than less attacked Connor with his own agenda.

He wanted to apologize for that.

He finds Connor and reaches for his hand. )

I want to apologize for earlier... I didn't let you talk. I didn't listen.

[ connor lets the subject drop without a fight, although he can't help that the questions remain in his head like sticky burrs, uncomfortable and difficult to remove without pricking oneself on them. mostly, he dwells on the question of what he did wrong: each separate action seems so benign on its own, it's difficult to picture how they added up into this disaster.

human beings aren't rational. he knows this, and he expects it. but sometimes he forgets that he isn't rational either. an android, once deviated, is no better than a human. in fact, they're often worse, and nowadays he understands why. adults are expected to self-regulate, but it was a skill that took practice.

fittingly, connor is so wrapped up in his own thoughts that he doesn't expect hank to approach him later. he's been sitting on the end of the bed, staring into the closet, for the last half hour. trying to decide if he should change into something besides hank's hoodie before they go to bed. (in about a half an hour, he would suggest that they lie down to sleep. he's been trying to encourage hank to have a more consistent sleep/wake cycle. this was of course more difficult when you lived with someone who didn't have to sleep at all, so he felt it his duty to at least try to encourage better habits.)

when hank reaches for him, connor takes his hand into his own. he offers a small smile. ]

It's okay, Hank. I overreacted. That isn't your fault.

( Hank sits next to Connor, holding his hand with both of his. He takes a moment to accept Connor's words silently, though he wants to protest and shift the blame to himself. He feels more in control and ready to listen - which means he isn't about to reject Connor's feelings about his culpability in the uncomfortable encounter earlier. He gently squeezes Connor's hand between his two before he lifts Connor's hand to kiss.

He lowers Connor's hand and looks to the brunette. )

Can... Can we try again?

We can. That is, if you're sure.

[ connor can't help looking uncertain. and although he feels like he should explain himself, he can't help but worry that over-explaining might ruin it again. his eyes dart from hank's eyes down to their hands, just for somewhere else to look. hank's hands are so warm. not like his at all. although, as he continues to hold him, the plastic begins to warm to a like temperature, easily absorbing the heat. ]

Do you want to... now?

If you're sure. If you want to wait, then we can find another time when we're both ready for a serious conversation.

( He's just as much comfortable waiting to talk about this when Connor's ready for it. Some things need to be discussed with a neutral headspace. Hank's headspace felt neutral but also tired.

His tolerance was strong though, he felt secure and in a better physiological state than where he was earlier. )

I'm ready. I think it's going to be difficult no matter when we have it...

[ connor sighs, his brow creasing, his LED flickering. it's blue, though. so at least that's something. ]

I just wanted to tell you, it's all right if you're uncomfortable seeing me without my skin active. I have complicated feelings about it too.

( There wasn't any need for Hank to confirm Connor's account of his feelings. Hank was obvious, but Connor wasn't so Hank has to ask: )

Can you ... talk about those feelings?

I can. I'm not sure how well I'll be able to explain myself, but if there's anything you don't understand, you can ask. Okay?

[ connor's eyes slide away for a moment, in the direction of the window. as it's night, there's nothing to see outside. in the distance he can hear the sound of water, the boats moving against the dock. ]

Sometimes I feel like I'm... not a very good android. I've wronged my own people. Even if I thought I was doing the right thing, I still... Well, I did it. On some level I'm aware I'm not fully responsible for my actions then, but I still did it.

But, obviously I can't be human, either. I am what I am. So when I see myself that way, or someone else has to see me that way... Sometimes I feel inadequate. Like I'm not good enough either way.

[ connor sighs, his shoulders sagging like they're being weighed down by something. ]

And I'm... particular about my appearance. I think that's a part of it, too. Because you're right, I don't look like me when my skin is turned off. I look like any other android. And I don't want to look like just any other android. It's a matter of... individuality, I guess.

[ he pauses again, his LED blinking as he thinks. he returns his eyes to hank's face and offers a small, wry smile. ]

Do you know, when I realized that there was more than one Connor, I confronted my handler about it? I really should have known, but it never occurred to me... I was so upset. There are androids out there who have hundreds of doppelgangers. Same model, same appearance... And they don't have a problem with it. But I couldn't take it.

Sometimes... Sometimes I wish I were human.

://i had a feeling i could be someone

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