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

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://i had a feeling i could be someone

[ connor is sitting on the couch when hank comes home from work, his feet flat on the floor, his hands folded in his lap. his eyes are closed, his LED flickering every so often, but his eyes flutter open at the almost inaudible creak of the floorboards as hank steps inside. the sound of rain, fuzzy white noise, fills up all the space in the room. and then hank closes the door and the sound is emptied out in exchange for silence.

in that silence, connor greets hank with a welcome home and a bright smile, asks him about his day, and they talk for a little about work, talk a little about what connor did on his day off.

it isn't until hank has settled in on the couch that connor finally says what he had been waiting to say since he sat down on the couch, a couple of hours ago. ]

Hank... There was something I... Well, I, I don't know if it's a question, exactly.

[ head down, he stares at his hands. ]

But, whenever I turn my skin off, or suggest anything that might involve that... sort of thing, you— you always tell me to turn it back on, or...

I was just wondering. If there's a reason why.

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( 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.

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://i had a feeling i could be someone

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