Thread by @robofingering

Summers in Detroit are too fucking hot, Hank thinks, on a particularly miserable, humid July night. He remembers them being hot and miserable when he was a kid, especially that summer the a/c broke and his parents couldn't afford to fix it for a month. He'd felt like he was

melting every night as he tried to sleep, but he knows it's even hotter now. Just a bit warmer, every year.
Still, Sumo needs to go out; he does better with a real walk at night, not just a snuffle around the yard.
Hank does too, he's realized.
So: as the summer progresses,

Hank takes him for walks later and later until he's clipping on his leash no earlier than 9:30, when the sun's at least mostly down. It's pitch black by the time he's far from home, but Hank finds that he likes being out that late. Sometimes the fireflies are still out then, too.

His neighborhood isn't exactly quiet but it isn't lively either, and not much happens late at night. Hank doesn't ever feel uneasy walking by himself; his neighbors either like or tolerate him, the folks in the area who are naturally distrustful of cops know he won't hassle them,

and it isn't like Hank looks like an easy target for anyone who might want to try and mug someone out with their dog in the dark.
Sometimes Connor comes with him on these walks, and Hank enjoys that. He spends all day with Connor at work, sure, but just like he finds himself

turning unusually introspective when he's alone on these walks, the conversations that pop up between him and Connor when they're out late with Sumo have been interesting, and often very different than what they talk about when Hank's enjoying a beer on the couch and trying

to convince Connor to relax a little. He knows Connor wasn't made to relax, knows it comes harder to him. He feels like Connor unwinds just a little bit more when they're out together in the dark, even when they don't talk at all.
Connor's current learn-to-chill-the-fuck-out plan

seems to be focused on trying out new hobbies and slowly making friends, which Hank thinks is a great idea. He's sure his own company can't be all that exciting. Connor has his knitting circle on Sunday afternoons at the yarn shop, and he's mentioned a photography class run by

some guy who still works in actual film; Hank's pretty sure Connor'll come home with a vintage camera before long, maybe try to set up a darkroom in a closet or something. It seems to be good for him; Hank's seen his mood lighten bit by bit as he slowly expands his social circle

and spends time figuring out what he enjoys and wants to spend his time on.
When Hank worries that eventually Connor won't want to spend time on him, he pushes that thought to the back of his mind as quickly as he can. Sometimes he has to chase it away with another beer or two.

Tonight, Connor's at one of what he just calls his "meetings," and while he hasn't directly said it's an android support group, Hank gets the idea that's the group main purpose. Connor says it's good to talk to other androids about their experiences, how they're settling into

life after the revolution and being recognized, at least officially, as people. Some are doing the jobs they'd been programmed for, happy to be recognized with at least a nominal wage (thinking too much about android minimum wage laws makes Hank's head hurt, to be honest, but

he knows there's a long way to go on that front before their wages are even remotely fair). Others have struck out in entirely new directions, and an increasing number are choosing to eschew official work at all; there's a thriving barter economy in the small android communities

that have sprung up across the city, where someone's been able to buy up an old apartment building or sprawling multi-bedroom house and turn it into a home for a dozen or more androids. One of Connor's friends lives in such a building, and the stories Hank hears secondhand about

her life there remind him of stories a long-dead aunt used to tell him about living in a commune when she was young.
Hank has a hard time picturing what the meetings are like. He imagines a dimly-lit church basement, a circle of folding chairs, a group of androids holding hands.

Silent and still, their hands bare and white and pressed together as they share this week's stories of how shitty humans have been to them lately. He feels creeped out by the thought, by the imagined silence, and is then immediately irritated at himself for it.

Hank shakes his head as if to dislodge the thoughts piling up within it. Sumo snuffles at the base of an oak tree before carefully positioning himself to leave his own mark for the next dogs to sniff and piss on.
"Ready to head back, boy?" Hank murmurs, and leans down to ruffle

the thick fur on Sumo's neck. Sumo bumps Hank's hand with his snout and allows himself to be turned around, so at least Hank's spared the indignity of fighting with a 170-pound dog who doesn't want to return home just yet. Once, Connor picked him up and carried him like a baby

for three blocks when he didn't want to turn around; after that, Sumo had been less likely to make a fuss about returning home when Connor was there, lest he suffer the fate of being carried again.
Connor is able to charm just about anyone, it seems.

Hank feels a little guilty for thinking it, as he walks home, but in a way it's nice to have these nights by himself, when Connor has other commitments. He's used to living by himself, of course, having his own thoughts for company at night and nothing more (unless he chose to

drown out even those, on nights when they were too much), but it isn't that his life feels too crowded with Connor in it. It isn't that at all, he's glad to have him around, but.
Sometimes it's too much, and Hank feels like he has to get away from Connor and the way he

The problem is, Hank thinks to himself, Connor just *fits* into his life in a way he hadn't expected, a way he couldn't have imagined. When Hank had offered to let him stay, he hadn't given too much thought to it; he just knew that Connor had nowhere to go and he knew as well,

with a surprising amount of clarity considering the booze-soaked haze he'd been operating in for several days on end, that he wanted him close. That something in him needed to be near Connor, to *know* him.
Even though Hank would have said, only a week before, that there was

nothing in an android that could be known by a human, nothing of substance. Nothing real.
But Hank couldn't think of anything more real, more substantial, than the feeling of Connor in his arms that first morning, and that feeling had led him to pull Connor along to his car, to

bundle him in and take him home.
It hadn't been easy, adjusting to Connor's constant presence in his life, at home and at work, but even in the worst moments, when he drank too much (because he still did, of course, especially at Christmas when he couldn't leave his house without

seeing reminders of happy families, small children clutching presents, and general holiday cheer no matter where he looked) or snapped at Connor because he was embarrassed about the state of his house or his drinking or lack of a social life, or when Connor had crying fits and

two terrifying days where he didn't talk or move at all because he was having to process too many emotions and unspoken human rules and the confusion of disliking things for no reason: even then, through all of that shit, when it hadn't been easy it still felt right. It worked.

Yes, Hank knows he keeps himself and his house cleaner now that Connor's there, to save what's left of his pride if nothing else, and it's good for him to have someone other than Sumo around at night, when his thoughts press in on him too closely. He hasn't played a game of

Russian roulette since the night Connor jumped through his fucking window; he's been tempted a few times, pressing at the thought all day like a bruise, finding comfort in the pain it brings him. But he hasn't gone through with it. He doesn't--he doesn't want Connor to find him

like that again.
(He thinks, occasionally, of Connor helping him into the shower when he isn't drunk and angry.)
Hank's mind slips off and around the idea whenever he tries to put into words how he feels about Connor, and Connor's place in his life. He can't quite hold onto it.

Where he worries, though, what makes him treasure nights like this where he can be alone with his thoughts, even when they're still a thorny tangle he can't pick apart, is that life with Connor feels so natural, so comfortable, as they've settled into each other, that it makes

him think, sometimes, that it's something else. Or that it could be.
Sometimes Connor just *looks* at him, and Hank feels so much softness in his gaze, and the weight of all of Connor's attention on him, and it's like one of those weighted blankets he used to have; the pressure

makes his restless mind still for a moment. Calm.
He doesn't know if Connor understands what it feels like, when he looks at Hank like that. Has no fucking clue what Connor thinks in those moments. There's no way he can just ask him, of course. He can't ask him any of it.

Hank can't sit down with Connor and say "you're beautiful, not because of how you were made but because of who you've chosen to be, and even when I'm furious at the world and at you and at myself I feel better sharing my home and my life with you. Please stay." He can't say it

but he can feel himself thinking it, louder and louder, all the time. And that's what fuels Hank's guilty sigh of relief the nights Connor's away; he doesn't want to pretend Connor doesn't live there, but sometimes he wants to pretend he isn't afraid he'll leave.

Sumo's pace slows as they make their way back home. Hank knows that even in the cooler night, the heat is rough on him given his thick coat. "Not far now, buddy," he says, as they turn onto their street, and for a moment he thinks Sumo understood him, as his tail wags and he

trots homeward with more purpose. But no, it's just the sight of Connor stepping out of a cab in front of their house. Hank sighs, laughs, and drops the leash so Sumo can lumber up to Connor without pulling Hank's arm out of its socket in his excitement.
Connor, of course, kneels

on the sidewalk so he can fuss over Sumo, who barrels into him with enough excited force that Hank's surprised Connor isn't knocked over.
"What a good boy, I missed you too," Connor coos. He smiles at Hank as he catches up, and Hank imagines for a moment that it's meant for him.

"He's ridiculous," Hank grumbles. "The old mutt sees you every day but still goes wild every time you come home."
"I take it as a compliment," Connor says, while rubbing Sumo's chest. "I'm happy to see him as well."
Hank turns abruptly, fumbling in his pocket for his keys.

Once he's inside, Hank refills Sumo's water dish first thing; he even puts an ice cube in it to help cool him off more. The moment he sets it down, Sumo's slurping it up in big, noisy gulps, and Hank wishes he'd brought a water bottle along on the walk. Next time.
"How'd your

meeting go this week?" Hank asks, as he settles into he couch with a blissfully cold beer in his hand. He presses it to his cheek and the side of his throat for a moment before he even bothers to take a drink.
Hank knows there's plenty that gets discussed in these meetings that's

none of his business, and probably not for human ears at all, and that's fine. He never wants to pry.
(He maybe wants to pry a little, but he knows better than to try. He doesn't want to be rude, he's just curious sometimes, is all.)
But he usually asks, when Connor returns

home, how it went or what they talked about, and Connor shares what he's comfortable with.. Sometimes it's just nice to see Connor's eyes light up when he talks, or hear his quiet laugh when he relays a funny story (android humor doesn't always make sense to Hank, but it's still

nice to see Connor laughing so it's fine), and he's genuinely interested in the little tidbits of conversation Connor shares with him. He thinks, too, that Connor enjoys these conversations as well.
Tonight, Connor seems a little on edge as he sits next to Hank. His gaze is fixed

on Hank's beer, still dripping condensation down Hank's neck, and Hank awkwardly takes a swig.
"Bad night? It's all right if you don't want to talk about it," he mumbles.
"No, it's not that," Connor says quickly. "It was interesting, but I'm still processing what we discussed.

"How so?"
"Much of the meeting was spent discussing the newest enhancements that have become available. Antonia just underwent the procedure that allows her to ingest beverages, and she was eager to share her experience with us."
"Antonia, is she the one who's into, what was it,

pottery?"
Connor nods, seemingly pleased that Hank remembered. "Yes, she's trying to set up a small ceramics studio to teach classes."
"Does she have a favorite drink so far? Can she even taste anything, or just drink it?"
Connor makes his "how do I explain this concept to a

human?" face, which Hank finds equal parts frustrating and endearing. Maybe closer to 75% endearing.
"The procedure didn't give her a true sense of taste, but she's able to differentiate between different different aspects of taste in other ways. She reported that attributes like

temperature or acidity bring to mind different colors or textures that can be pleasurable to experience. So far, her favorite beverage is lemon juice."
Hank imagines drinking a glass of pure lemon juice and winces. "So the drinking upgrade just gives you synesthesia?"

Connor shrugs. "It isn't entirely accurate, but I think that's the best explanation I can give that will make sense to you." He pauses as if to collect his thoughts before continuing. "I've been considering undergoing an enhancement procedure."

Hank nods encouragingly. "Well, yeah, if you want one, go for it." He waggles his bottle, now half-empty, at Connor. "Don't want to feel left out while I'm having one of these, huh? Maybe you'll let up on me a little when I want to pick up a six-pack on the way home." He means it

as a joke, but winces when he hears the words out loud. Before he can apologize, though, Connor speaks again.
"It isn't that, although it might be nice to share a beer with you, Hank. There's a new package of genital components and sensory upgrades that allows models such as

my own, which weren't created to have a sexual function, to experience sexual response and orgasm."
Hank's hand slips on his bottle of beer and he nearly drops it in his lap. He opens his mouth to respond, but all that comes out is a strangled, choking noise. Connor presses on.

"A new member of our group recently had a penis installed and was generous enough to let the group inspect it up close if we were interested."
Hank pictures the same church basement he'd imagined earlier, except this time the circle of androids is taking turns touching someone's

dick. Would it have been clinical? Did this guy just jerk off for a crowd? Or...
He squeezes his eyes shut, willing himself not to think about Connor tentatively reaching out to wrap his hand around another man's cock. His face is hot, and he's sure Connor's noticed.
"I, uh."

"I take it you're interested?"
Connor nods.
"And this guy just dropped trou in the middle of the meeting and whipped it out for you?"
"We don't have the same taboos around nudity that most humans seem to. While I understand this might sound strange to you, it was helpful to me."

"Helpful," Hank repeats. He feels completely unprepared for this conversation.
"Yes, but." Connor frowns. "It feels like a complicated decision. I don't know." He looks at Hank with his soft puppy eyes. "What do you think I should do?"

Hank's reply:
🍎: Why are you asking me?
🍊: Hell yeah, go for it
🍋: Is there someone you want this for?
🥝: What do YOU want?

Hank gulps down the last third of his beer to give himself a moment to think. Thinking about Connor and sex is something he's desperately tried to *avoid* doing for months now, but if Connor's comfortable enough to ask him for input, he doesn't want to just brush him off.

"Well shit, Connor, I didn't know this was something you were thinking about. I think what matters more than anything is what you want, though." Hank takes a deep breath. "Is sex something you think you'd enjoy?"
Connor looks down at his hands, clasped tightly in his lap.

"I think so. I'm curious about what sexual pleasure feels like. Based on my enjoyment of the limited nonsexual physical intimacy I've experienced, I suspect I'd enjoy sexual intimacy as well."
"Okay." Hank wishes he had another beer, maybe four more beers. "But?" He prompts.

"What makes you unsure, here?"
"The thought of initiating and navigating a sexual relationship is stressful, for many reasons. Usually I can predict possible outcomes to my actions, but it's more difficult, in this case, to know what could happen." He sighs. "I also know many

people find that sexual urges are distracting or lead to poor decision-making. I'm able to multitask, but still, I'd hate to make a decision that impacts my ability to focus on other things.
"I guess it's hard to know if you'd enjoy sexual feelings if you don't know what they

feel like," Hank says. "You've had to get a handle on a lot of feelings already, these past few months."
"Hank." Connor fixes him with a steady, serious glare.
"Huh?"
"I am more than capable of experiencing sexual desire."
"Oh." The implications of this sink in and Hank feels his

face heat up again. "Oh, so you--"
"I know what it feels like," Connor says quietly.
He's still not looking at Hank, but Hank nods anyway, and makes a small sound of acknowledgement. He isn't sure what to say.
"I'm aware that many people consider sex to be an important component

of a romantic relationship, so I'd be a more desirable partner if I had genitals and the ability to orgasm."
"I think you have to make a decision on what feels right to you, Connor. Don't get a dick to please some person you haven't even met."
"Is that the component you'd

recommend?"
"What?" Hank's starting to think he's hallucinating this entire conversation.
"I'm not limited to just a phallic component, or even one model if that's what I choose; all genital options would be compatible. There are a few different size and cosmetic options for a

penis or a vulva, so if I decide to go through with a sexual enhancement I'd have further choices to make." Connor frowns a bit, and rests his hand on Hank's forearm where it's draped over the back of the couch. "I'm sorry if this topic is making you uncomfortable."
"I'm not

uncomfortable," Hank starts to say, but his protest peters out at the look Connor shoots him. "Okay, maybe a little. I'm not used to talking about this. But that's on me, there's nothing wrong with you asking." He takes a deep breath. "I get that you wouldn't ask if you didn't

trust me, and that means a lot. I want to help, but I don't want what I'd choose for myself, or what I like, to be what you go by when you make this decision. People have all sorts of different sexual tastes, you know? You can't try to make yourself someone's ideal partner

whether you're planning what sort of junk to install or just saying what you think they want to hear."
Connor's hand is still resting lightly on his arm. What the hell, Hank thinks, and he covers Connor's hand with his own, giving it a little squeeze. Connor looks at him in

surprise but he smiles, and rubs his thumb once over the soft skin of Hank's wrist.
"Thank you," Connor says, and if it's for the touch or the advice, Hank isn't certain.
Connor seems content to leave the conversation there for now, which is a bit of a relief; Hank suddenly has

a lot to think about (and perhaps even more to attempt to NOT think about), and there's only so much he can take in at once. It's late enough by this point that he's able to make his excuses and go to bed, although not before Connor asks him about his plans for the weekend.

"The heat's going to break just a bit by Saturday," Connor says. "I was wondering if you'd like to go somewhere with me."

"The farmers' market, huh?" Hank says. "I wonder if that guy who sells pecan rolls still has a booth there."
Connor's LED flickers. "There's a Sutton's Bakery on the current vendor list, although reviews report the pecan rolls usually run out in the first hour."
"We'll just have

to get there early, then," Hank says. "I haven't had one in probably five years and they're fucking fantastic."
"It's a--" Connor blinks. "It's agreed, then. Saturday morning."
"Sounds good," Hank says, "but now I really am gonna hit the hay."
Hank does go to bed, although sleep

eludes him for a long time.
It's a lot to take in, the knowledge that Connor can, and apparently DOES, feel desire. It's exactly the sort of knowledge Hank's been hoping to avoid, because it's easier, in theory at least, to keep his thoughts on track if he can categorize Connor

as entirely nonsexual. He's been trying so hard to keep from thinking of Connor this way; if he doesn't let himself want a relationship with him, he won't be as upset when it doesn't happen.
That's been the plan, anyway. It's worked all right, if imperfectly, so far.
But.

Hank thinks about what Connor had said earlier. His enjoyment of nonsexual physical intimacy. Hank doesn't know what Connor gets up to at his meetings, educational dick-touching aside, and maybe it's a cuddly knitting circle, but he knows for sure, because Connor had told him,

that the hug he gave Connor that first morning after the revolution, when he was just so *relieved* and happy to see Connor that he couldn't help but pull him close, was the first time he'd ever been touched with kindness. He can't help but think of that moment, and of the other

times he's put a hand on Connor's shoulder for comfort or clapped him on the back when they made a breakthrough in a case. Remembers Connor's arm around his waist one night when he was too shitfaced to make it to his bed on his own. Fuck, even tonight. He pictures Connor's hand

where it had rested on his arm and imagines it sliding up to his bicep as Connor slips onto Hank's lap. Thinks about cradling the back of Connor's head in one hand as he grips his hip with the other, pulling him in as close as he can, close enough that Hank can grind up against

Connor as he licks into his mouth and--

Fuck.

This is the exact situation Hank has been desperately been trying to keep himself from. It feels wrong to think about Connor like this, but he's honestly amazed he managed to avoid it for so long.
He'd been drifting before, close

to sleep, but now he's wide awake.
"Fuck it," he grumbles to himself; the guilt can be Morning Hank's problem. He kicks off the covers and palms his cock, mostly hard already, through his boxers before shoving the waistband down. He imagines Connor touching him almost clinically,

examining his cock like he's inspecting floor models before deciding on what he wants to install for himself. "I imagine it's sensitive," this Connor says, as Hank grips himself loosely. "I'd like a full demonstration, please."
And christ, if Connor was really here, really

watching, Hank would draw it out for him, let him see how hard he is, how much he wants him, but for now he just wants to come, wants to please this image of Connor he's conjured who's watching him all dark-eyed and hungry as he sweats and pants and jerks himself so roughly it's

nearly painful. "Beautiful," he pictures Connor saying, even though he knows no one's ever used that word to describe him. "I want to see you, Hank. I want you."
He can't hold back any longer.
Hank holds his breath as he comes so he won't cry out, won't breathe Connor's name.

He feels a wave of guilt rise up but he's too exhausted to care, in that moment; he knows he'll care in the morning, that he'll be ashamed of his lack of control, but for now he just hopes he can sleep. It's a restless, shallow sleep in the end, but at least he manages it at all.

The guilt does indeed come for Hank in the morning. He blinks awake ten minutes before his alarm, rising up out of a dream that dissolves from his mind the moment he tries to remember it; what does come to mind, instead, is the conversation he had with Connor and what came

afterward, once he'd gone to bed. "You can do this," he mutters to himself, mustering up the courage to leave his bedroom and face Connor. "You can live with him without being a horned-up creep, because he's your best goddamn friend and you know better than to fuck that up by

thinking with your dick. Get your shit together." Angry pep-talk complete, he steels himself for the day ahead.
On the way to work, Hank decides he'll just detach himself a bit from the situation, and by the time the day's well underway he's sure he can stick to it. No mooning

over Connor. No thinking about what sort of parts he may or may not want to install.
Definitely no thinking about what he looks like naked now, before any changes have been made. Is his groin a blank, featureless curve, like a doll's? Does it have any sensation as it is now?

Hank makes a fist as he listens to a briefing in the mid-afternoon, letting his nails bite into his hand to keep his mind on task. What does he need to know about this new case? Who is he going to have to interview tomorrow? If he were to cup his hand at the joining of Connor's

legs and rub just a little, would it feel good to him? Would Connor like it if Hank pressed against him with his thigh, or.
Or if he trailed kisses up Connor's inner thighs before tenderly licking and kissing that smooth expanse, would he say--
"Hank."
Shit.
Connor's standing

in front of Hank, giving him a curious look as the other officers file out of the room. Hank tries to cover up the fact that he has no idea what Connor's just asked him, or what the last five minutes of the briefing covered, but it's clear Connor isn't buying it.
"You haven't

been listening," he says.
Hank shakes his head and follows Connor back to his desk. "I haven't, I'm sorry," he says, as he sits. "I didn't mean to ignore you, or zone out at the end there, I just." He shrugs, not sure what to say that isn't "I was too busy being curious about

your body." Surely that wouldn't go over well, especially not at work.
Connor perches on the edge of Hank's desk and nudges his knee with his ankle. "Are you all right? You've been distracted and withdrawn since this morning." He frowns a little. "Is it because of what we

discussed last night? I didn't intend to upset you."
This is exactly the situation Hank wanted to avoid. "Hey, no, it's not that. You didn't upset me at all, okay? I'm glad you felt you could talk to me and that you're looking into new things. That's good. I just..."

Hank takes a deep breath and finally makes eye contact with Connor, who's watching him intently. His eyes are soft, concerned. "It was so fucking hot, I didn't sleep great last night, and I'm letting it get to me today, sorry." A minor lie, but surely he can be forgiven for it.

He's focused better on less sleep before, but if Connor finds it odd, he doesn't say anything. "I need to turn up the fan at night, see if I can get it cooler in the bedroom." Or take cold showers. That could help with more than one problem.
"I could take care of Sumo's walk

tonight, if you'd like, since the heat doesn't impact me as much," Connor offers. "Plus it might allow you to get to bed earlier."
Hank considers it. He could let Connor take care of Sumo, have another bit of time to himself where he isn't so caught up in how fucking good it

feels to spend time with him, and pretend he'll fall asleep at a reasonable hour. He could, and he's sorely tempted to.
The thing is, though, that trying to ignore his feelings for Connor clearly isn't working. Maybe he's going about this all wrong.
"Nah," he says. "I was going

to ask if you'd come out with me on his walk tonight. It does me good to get out, just like with him. You can keep us old dogs company, if that's all right." He bumps his knee back into Connor's foot and is rewarded with a gentle smile. "For now let's..." he trails off.

"Well, shit. For now, you should probably let me know what I missed in the last few minutes of that meeting."
Connor smiles at him and hops off the desk. "Sure thing, Hank," he says, and circles around to his own terminal.
Hank swears to himself he won't lose focus again today.

It's a good walk, that night. Like before, they wait until the sun's mostly down before heading out, and Hank remembers to grab a water bottle on their way out the door. They turn the other way at the first intersection, right instead of left, and wander their way through the

relative quiet of the neighborhood.
Sumo picks up the scent of a rabbit or squirrel or something for half a block and tries to drag Connor along in his pursuit, but he quickly realizes it's not worth running in the heat and returns to his normal slow, snuffling pace before long.

"You got the right idea, boy," Hank says, and gives him a few firm pats at the base of his tail. "Don't rush after anything on a night like this. Gotta take your time." He pours some water into one cupped hand for Sumo to lap up, then takes a few gulps himself, making sure to

save plenty for the walk home.
After that, the three of them walk without speaking much, taking each turn based on where Sumo's nose leads him. Hank knows the neighborhood well enough to trust he won't get turned around.
While he does enjoy talking with Connor, Hank deeply

appreciates the silences between them. Other than a few tense nights when they've been in shitty moods or at each other's throats, which hasn't happened for a couple months, silently sharing space with Connor feels comfortable in a way Hank isn't used to. He often gets moody

if he's around someone and conversation dies out, like he's disappointing them by not having anything to say. Like he needs to apologize for not filling that space with something.
There are times when a silence between people feels like a void he has to yell into or it'll swallow

up everything in the room. With Connor, it just feels intimate. A way to share space even if they don't have thoughts to share with each other.
Another way that having Connor around hurts sometimes, because it feels like something it's not, but still Hank knows it's precious.

Most of the rest of the walk is spent in that sweet, close silence. The humidity is so oppressive it feels like a blanket, almost like it's dulling the other sounds of nighttime. Cicadas yell at each other in the trees. A group of teens curses and laughs while playing basketball

in a driveway. They all seem very far away.
When they decide to turn around, Hank gives Sumo another few slurps of water, drinks some himself, then shrugs and upends the bottle over his head, letting the last few splashes cascade down his face and neck. "Sorry," he mumbles,

seeing that a few drops have gotten on Connor's sleeve. Hank plucks at his own shirt where the water and his sweat have plastered it to his chest. "Feels good, though."
"Don't apologize," Connor says, and while he sounds tense, and Hank sees a flash of yellow from his temple,

he has a smile on his face when Hank turns to look. They slip back into silence again.
"Thanks for this," Hank says, once they're only a few more blocks from home. At Connor's confused look, he gestures at the humid night around them. "It's good to have you out here with me. I'm

sure Sumo appreciates it too, considering how much he adores you."
Sumo looks up at the sound of his name and noses at Hank's pocket, then at Connor's, hoping for a treat. "Big baby," Connor says to him, "you have to wait. Good boys get treats at home." Sumo just wags his huge

feather-duster of a tail and gives up after another hopeful sniff.
"I like spending time with you," Connor says quietly, after another silent minute.
"I know it isn't as exciting as all the other things you have going on most nights," Hank replies. He's finally feeling like he

has a life again, but it's still mostly the life of a homebody; Connor's so new and full of life that he wants him to be able to experience more than Hank can offer. But selfishly, these small moments feel much larger to Hank, and he's grateful for them.
Connor steps forward to

unlock the door, and drops the leash the moment it opens, allowing Sumo to bound past him towards the kitchen. But he stands in the doorway and turns to face Hank, stopping so suddenly Hank freezes on the second step just before he knocks into him. He's backlit by the lights from

inside, but Hank can see the streetlights reflected in his eyes.
"I don't think about you like that," he says, still quiet. "You aren't less exciting." He reaches out and

Connor cups Hank's cheek in his hand, thumb brushing against the soft edge of his beard. Hank is pinned under the soft weight of Connor's gaze, afraid if he moves or breathes the moment will be lost. Still, he can't help but lean ever so slightly into the curve of Connor's hand.

He can't help but be drawn to him.
"I mean it," Connor murmurs. His thumb strokes Hank's cheek and his fingers curl under to tangle in his beard. "I'm exactly where I want to be."
Hank feels a suggestion in the pressure of Connor's hand and allows his head to be tilted up

slightly. For a thrilling, terrifying moment he thinks Connor's going to lean down and kiss him.
Connor just smiles, though, and trails his fingers down Hank's neck as he pulls his hand away. "Let's get you inside and cooled off," he says.
Hank has absolutely no idea how he's

supposed to cool down after...whatever the hell that was. The a/c's blasting inside the house, and the chill that prickles over his chest where the shirt's wet and sticking to him is welcome, but it isn't enough to combat the heat he can still feel in his cheeks, like Connor's

touch had been enough to burn him.
"Gonna take a shower," he calls out to Connor, who's fussing over Sumo while he eats his promised treat.
"Good boy," Connor says, and Hank briefly thinks it's meant for him before he sees Sumo lick his face in response.
He shouldn't be jealous.

Once he's in the safety of the bathroom, Hank slumps against the closed door. "What the hell was that?" he says out loud, quiet enough that Connor can't hear (fuck, hopefully quiet enough for that) but loud enough that the unanswerable question hangs uncomfortably in the air.

Hank feels like he's falling in slow motion into a trap of his own making. The carefully built, painstakingly maintained partition he's spent the last eight months building around his feeling for Connor has been pulled down and he has no idea what to do with himself. Out on the

front steps...he'd thought Connor might kiss him. He'd almost moved forward to meet him halfway. What if he had? What if he'd misread the situation so badly that he saddled Connor with an unwanted kiss out of nowhere? He had to have been misreading it. Nothing else makes sense.

He angrily pulls his wet, sweaty clothes off and turns the shower on,not even waiting for the water to warm up at all before he steps into the tub. He can't let himself read more into Connor's interactions with him than what's really there. Connor likes spending time with him.

Hank knows that. It confuses him, sometimes, but he knows Connor enjoys his company. He's familiar.
He hopes he's more than that, desperately wants to be.
But Connor has also said he likes physical contact, and Hank knows that while he was programmed with certain parameters

concerning touch and closeness, in order to inspire connection with humans without being too forward, it's become clear, as he's developed his own tastes, that he's comfortable with a wide range of casual contact.
Maybe gentle face-touching is just a pat on the back, to him.

He knows he can't map his own feelings onto what Connor does and come up with an answer.
Standing under the stream of the shower, no longer ice-cold but still cool enough to make him shiver, Hank presses his hand to his cheek as if he can still feel the ghost of Connor's touch.

As he's toweling off, Hank isn't any closer to understanding what the fuck is going on with Connor. It's late and he wasn't entirely lying, earlier, about how tired he was, but going to bed now feels like running. Still, he doesn't have the energy for much else.
Should he:

An exhausted, petulant part of Hank wants to just avoid the question altogether; if he stays in the bathroom, he doesn't have to face Connor *or* take the cowardly route directly to bed. He can sleep on the bathmat in a nest of old towels.
He sighs. Not only would it be damp and

uncomfortable, he's sure Connor would be banging down the door within a couple hours, trying to figure out what Hank was doing in there. And the thing is, Hank doesn't want to avoid Connor. He just doesn't think he can bring himself to ask what the hell is going on. Not tonight.

Hank finds himself almost sneaking across the hall to his bedroom; somehow his new awareness of Connor's interest in sex makes the thought of Connor seeing him with only a towel around his waist feel awkward in a way it didn't before. Hank isn't in the habit of parading around

nude or anything, but he hadn't worried too much about the occasional moment when Connor might see him without a shirt, either. Even with his renewed sense of modesty, Hank can't bring himself to throw on anything heavier than an undershirt and an old, stretched-out pair of

boxers before he wanders back to the living room. It's fairly cool in the house, but he still feels like he'll sweat right through anything more substantial.
Connor's on the couch when he walks in, sorting through a half-dozen skeins of yarn in different colors. He flashes a

smile as Hank sits on the other end of the couch and cracks open a seltzer. Whether he's smiling at Hank's general presence or his decision not to have another beer for the night, he isn't sure, but it's still a chance to admire how pretty his face is when it lights up like that.

"I thought you might be off to bed, since it's nearly midnight," Connor says, but there's no reproach in his voice, no suggestion that he wants to send Hank away for his own good. "You've been tired today, and we have an early morning tomorrow." He pauses and smiles again, this

time a little softer. Shyer. "And the next day, too, if you still want to get to the market early enough for those pecan rolls."
"I absolutely do," Hank replies, pleased that Connor remembered. He knows it's easy for him to remember small details like that, but it still feels

good to know Connor's listening, that he cares enough to save the data somewhere or however he manages memory. "And I'll go off to bed soon, I just..." he trails off. "I don't understand why you touched me like that, and I wish I'd kissed you except I didn't know if you wanted

me to" isn't exactly something he can say right now. If Connor could read minds, Hank's sure the words would be blaring across the room as if he was shouting through a megaphone, but instead they're just rattling around inside him. He shrugs. "I just wanted to come sit with you

a while first, if that's all right."
"Of course it is, Hank," Connor says, seeming pleased.
"What are you working on?"
"A few of us in my knitting group are all going to make the same sweater. I'm trying to decide what color will work best, so I can get started tonight and have

the first few rows done by Sunday." Connor picks up a dark green tweed skein and squishes it thoughtfully. "What do you think about this?"
"Kinda hard to think about sweaters in this godawful heat, I'll be honest," Hank says, "but that's a nice color, sure. Uh, what kind of

sweater is it?"
"I don't have a physical copy of the pattern, but--" Connor holds his hand out, and projected on the little screen thingy Hank always forgets he has is a picture of a man in a cozy-looking cabled cardigan with a thick shawl collar.
Hank feels like he's going to

start sweating just looking at it, but it does seem like it would be nice to wear in the winter. "Yeah, that color seems good. Kinda piney, I guess."
Connor nods.
"You realize I know absolutely nothing about knitting or fashion or whatever, right? My opinion's not worth much."

Connor rolls his eyes. "You can still tell me if you like a color or not."
"Well then yes, smartass, I like it."
Hank had moved closer to Connor in order to peer at the projected sweater, but once Connor puts the picture away he doesn't bother to move away again. He grips his

drink in both hands so he won't be tempted to drape an arm over Connor's shoulder.
Maybe he'd like it, though?
He gulps the rest of his seltzer; that thought seems like his cue to fuck off to bed so he doesn't do anything impulsive. He's been known to do shit he wouldn't

otherwise be brave enough to do, when it gets late enough and he's feeling tired and punchy.
"All right, boss," Hank says, slapping his thighs as he stands up. "I probably should head to bed so I can be less of a mess tomorrow."
He can't help himself.
As he walks behind the couch

to throw the can away in the kitchen, he gives Connor's shoulder a soft little squeeze and ruffles his hair as well. "Good luck with your sweater."
For a moment Hank thinks Sumo's chewing a squeaky toy off in a corner somewhere but nope, that's just a squeak of surprise coming

from Connor. "Thanks," he says, a moment later. "Sleep well."
Hank really fucking hopes that was a good squeak, as much as a squeak can be positive, and not an "oh no why did he touch my hair" squeak.
By the time he settles in bed, he really is tired enough that there's no energy

left for mulling over what's happened with Connor for the past couple days. Hank's never been so relieved to be this exhausted; he often takes an hour to fall asleep, but tonight he's out in less than ten minutes.

Somehow, Hank must have slept through his alarm; the light pouring in the kitchen windows tells him it's late morning, close to noon. Connor's sitting at the kitchen table, dressed in a thin, gauzy robe Hank's never seen before. He isn't sure if Connor realized how sheer it was

when he put it on; it's clear, even from several feet away, that he doesn't have anything on under it. The robe isn't tied shut, and Hank can see a scattering of freckles across Connor's shoulder where it's slipped down. He isn't sure he should be seeing this, but he's transfixed

by the sight, and Connor nods and beckons him closer.
"You said you'd help me," he says.
Hank doesn't know what he means, but he wants to help Connor if he can, so he sits on the floor next to him and waits.
Connor picks up a plum from the bowl on the table in front of him and

digs his nails in, pulling it in half to remove the pit. Juice streams down his fingers and drips from his wrist to the table. He stares directly into Hank's eyes as he presses his first two fingers to Hank's mouth, and it's the most natural thing in the world for him to suck

them in and lick them clean. The juice floods his mouth, sweet and sharp, and he can't help but moan at the taste, and at the feel of Connor's fingers pressing against his tongue.
Connor bites into the plum, and a stream of juice slips down his neck and along his collarbone.

He bites again, and pulls his fingers from Hank's mouth, only to use them to spread the flowing juice across his chest and down his torso. Beads of it glitter like jewels in the shafts of sunlight streaming in from the window.
On his knees, Hank's still tall enough to lick lines

of juice off of Connor's chest. He follows Connor's fingers to his neck, to a nipple, down to his navel, and licks him clean wherever he can. Connor sighs and shifts beneath him, and Hank can't help but moan as if he's the one being kissed all over. He spreads his hands over

Connor's thighs where the robe's been rucked up high enough to leave them bare. The fabric's pooled between his legs; what's between them is still a mystery. He wants to dive in and explore, but Connor's fingers haven't led him there yet. No instructions have been given, but

Hank knows those are the rules of this game, so he smooths his hands over Connor's thighs and licks along his collarbone and tries to ignore how hard he is.
Once Connor's mostly clean, with only a thin sheen of stickiness remaining, he slips his hand into Hank's hair and tightens

it, tugging firmly and pulling Hank's head back until he's looking into Connor's eyes again. He isn't sure he could look away even if he was able to move his head; Connor's eyes are soft and deep and Hank wants to sink into them and lose himself entirely.
He feels a hand on

his cock, rubbing gently through his underwear, and he knows it's Connor touching him, even though one hand is in his hair and the other has joined Hank's hand on his own thigh. It has to be him. He whines and bucks his hips forward, chasing more friction, and the hand moves away

until he stills himself. It starts moving again, and Hank knows he has to keep still or Connor will stop.
"Are you mine?" Connor asks. He's been so quiet, this entire time.
"What?"
Connor's grip tightens, both in Hank's hair and on his cock. "Are you mine, Hank?"
"Yes," he rasps.

"Tell me," Connor says. The hand in Hank's hair scratches delicately against his scalp before tightening again.
"I'm yours," Hank pants. "I'm yours." He's so aroused he's struggling to remain still, to keep from rutting against Connor's hand.
"Of course you are."
Hank nods.

"You're mine," Connor says, and he strokes Hank faster, slipping beneath his waistband to grip him directly. "Mine."
"Mine."
"Mine."
and then his voice shifts and warps; the repeating sound resolves not as Connor's voice, dark and possessive and hungry, but as his goddamn alarm.

Hank nearly knocks his phone off the side table in his haste to turn the blaring alarm off. "Jesus Christ," he groans, flopping back against his pillow. "What the fuck was that?"
Details of the dream are slipping out of his grasp as he tries to remember them, blurring and fading

as most of his dreams do shortly after he wakes. He remembers Connor's hand in his hair, and the taste of something sweet.
"I'm yours," he says to himself, quietly.
The sheets are tangled around his legs, and as he shifts against them, trying to pull himself free, the fabric

pulls tight across his cock, still hard and aching from the dream he no longer remembers. He has time, if he's quick--and with how worked up he is, he's pretty sure he will be--to take care of himself and still get to work on time. Connor won't check up on him until at least a

half-hour after his alarm goes off, if he hasn't come out of his room by then, and it won't come to that.
Hank doesn't bother to assemble much of a fantasy; he just wraps his thoughts around the threads of the dream he can remember, the feeling of kneeling in front of Connor in

a sunny room and the few words they exchanged, and sure enough, he's so turned on that it's only the work of a few minutes before he's biting his lip to keep from crying out as he comes. He feels a little better, but also a bit ridiculous, he realizes, as he washes his hands.

It's been years since he's woken up that hard and needed to jerk off so badly the moment he woke up. Alcohol, grief, and depression had done a number on his dick and on his sex drive, for a good while. Lately, though, with all of these factors....not cured, surely not, but slowly

getting better, plus his feelings for Connor that he's increasingly unable to ignore, his body's remembering what desire feels like.
"Me and Connor both, apparently," Hank mutters to himself, as he leaves the bathroom in search of coffee.
If Connor hears him, he doesn't reply.

Thankfully, Hank finds himself better able to keep his focus at work today, which is a relief after the disaster of the day before. For this new case, he and Connor have been given an intimidating pile of evidence and witness statements to comb through, looking for connections;

it's tedious work, in a way, but Hank finds himself drawn to this kind of pattern-matching, especially when his mind's preoccupied with something else. Sorting so closely through piles of data helps Hank drown out anything else that's taking up space in his brain, so he finds

himself well into the afternoon before he even thinks to look at what time it is, or think about taking a break.
Hank catches Connor's eye as he stands from his desk and stretches. "I'm gonna run across the street and grab a sandwich, I think," he says.
"Should I come with you?"

"Nah," Hank replies, although he likes that Connor asked. There's no reason for him to accompany Hank other than to share his company or trade theories about a case, and it feels a bit early to have solid theories yet. "I'll bring it back and keep working, so we aren't here too

late, so I'll just be out for a few minutes."
"Okay, Hank," Connor says, and turns back to his terminal with a sweet smile.
Hank has an overwhelming urge to kiss him, which would obviously be a terrible idea for a few reasons, but he allows himself the indulgence of patting his

shoulder as he walks past. He doesn't hear a squeak, this time.
It's still hot and disgustingly humid outside; when Hank steps outside of the climate-controlled DPD building, he feels like someone's hit him in the face with a wet sock. It's cloudy, at least, so the sun isn't

making things worse, but it's a pretty miserable day.
Hank hears the first rumble of thunder when he's ordering his sandwich, and by the time it's ready, he sees speckles spread over the sidewalk outside as the first fat raindrops fall. "Shit," he mutters to himself. No umbrella.

At least he doesn't have far to go, and he doesn't really mind getting wet that much. Plus, it's not raining too hard. He shrugs and steps outside into the oddly warm summer rain.
There's a flash and more thunder, louder this time, when Hank's at the corner waiting for the light

to change, and by the time he's at the front door of the DPD the light summer rain has turned into a true thunderstorm. He stares outside from the safety of the lobby, noticing how much darker it is than it was even ten minutes ago. Hank's always loved thunderstorms, and he

wonders if it'll still be storming later in the evening, when he's back home. Maybe he can curl up with a beer and a good book on the couch and listen to the rain. As he walks back to his desk, he imagines Connor curled up with him too. He tries to imagine Sumo there as well, but

his couch is only so big, after all. He can sleep right in front.
Hank's distracted enough by his embarrassingly domestic fantasies that he nearly collides with Gavin Reed as he rounds the corner into the bullpen.
"Jesus, Anderson, you look like a drowned rat," he sneers. "What

happened to you?"
Hank just raises an eyebrow and cocks his head towards the window. "It's raining outside, champ," he says. "You figure it out."
Reed rolls his eyes. "Why not send your plastic pal out to get lunch for you? I'm sure he doesn't care if he gets wet."
"He's my

partner, not my butler, and you know that." He turns away to head back to his desk. "Don't you have an investigation to fuck up? Better get to it."
"Fuck you, old man," Reed spits.
"You couldn't handle me," Hank says mildly, and walks away before Reed can formulate a response.

Hank's used to ignoring most of what comes out of Reed's mouth, so it isn't until Connor blinks and freezes for a moment, as he looks up at Hank's approach, that he considers that maybe he *does* look like a drowned rat. He isn't completely soaked, but his shirt is wet enough

that he can feel it clinging to his chest, and water's dripping from the wet ends of his hair onto the floor. He probably looks pretty pathetic, actually.
"You okay, Connor?" he asks, when he continues to stare, LED doing a slow blink in bright yellow. "Everything all right?"

He tries to follow the line of Connor's stare. "Is there something on my shirt, other than, you know, a bunch of water?"
Connor blinks and brings his focus up to Hank's face. "Everything's fine, sorry. You just caught my attention drifting for a moment." He frowns slightly. "Do

you have a change of clothes? Your shirt looks like it's." He pauses. "It's very wet."
"Nah, but I'll be fine." Hank prods at his chest; his shirt really is soaked through. He thinking about the back of his chair pressing his cold, damp shirt into his back and says, "Maybe I'll

try to at least wring this out in the sink or something." He drops his sandwich, happily protected by its wrapper and still dry, onto his desk. "Back in a sec, okay?"
"Do you need help?" Connor asks, his voice tight.
"All I'm doing is taking my shirt off and sticking it under an

ancient hand dryer, Connor, I think I have that under control. Maybe warn the guys so no one has to be subjected to the sight of me in an undershirt, huh? Might be bad for morale."
"I think you're underestimating your appeal, Lieutenant," Connor says, almost as if he's offended.

Hank snorts. "Oh, I'm sure. Maybe I'll enter the department-wide wet t-shirt contest and see how well my 'appeal' goes over."
Connor's LED flashes red for a moment.
"Jesus, it's a joke, don't worry. I won't subject anyone to this." Hank laughs as he heads to the bathroom, but for

a moment he does wish he had more to show off. In his idle fantasies about Connor--which he really had to cut down on--his own body didn't really come into play that much. It was easier to focus on the idea of sensation, or on Connor, who he's sure could win a wet t-shirt contest

with no trouble. He's sure Connor means well, with comments like that, but in the end it just makes him feel a wider gulf between where he is and where Connor thinks (or wants to suggest he thinks, to be polite or encouraging) he is.
Hank tries to push all that out of his mind

as he enters the bathroom, which is thankfully empty. He strips off his wet shirt, leaving him in only a thin undershirt, and wrings as much water as he can out in the sink.
He squeezes some out of his hair, too, although there's only so much he can do with it without a towel.

The high-power dryer can't quite dry his shirt out entirely, but it upgrades it from "dripping" to "slightly damp," which Hank counts as a win. He briefly considers drying his undershirt as well, but he's wasted enough time already, so he goes into a stall, strips off his

undershirt, and puts on his shirt without it, bundling up the damp undershirt to take home and deal with later. He's wasted enough time already, and he still needs to eat his lunch and return to the thrilling work of combing through databases for a few more hours.

⭕️BONUS SCENE:
Connor stares as Hank walks away, admiring how his wet shirt clings to his wide back and shoulders. Not quite as enticing as the front view, but still a compelling sight.
He's thankful the rain came when it did, even though he feels a little guilty for being glad

about something that's inconveniencing Hank.
He chooses his favorite of the images he took of Hank moments ago and overlays it in his field of vision. His damp shirt outlines every curve of his torso, and if he zooms in (which he does immediately, of course), he can see the stiff

peaks of his nipples. Desire spreads through him, and he has the somewhat shameful thought that if he'd made up his mind about genital components already, and had the sensory upgrades installed, it would be easier to do something about his desire; instead, he knows he'll feel it

flowing through him until he's able to calm down or distract himself.
He has plenty of work to do, an easy source of distraction right in front of him. It's important work, and when he's at work that's what he needs to focus on.
But.
He knows the other officers don't know exactly

how quickly he's able to process data. If his output is decreased by 25%--if it's decreased by 50%, even--he's sure no one will notice.
Instead of turning his full attention to his job, as he knows he should, Connor spends the entire time until Hank returns on an elaborate

preconstruction of Hank in the thinnest, tightest white t-shirt imaginable, soaked through until it clings to his body like a second skin. Connor would be able to see everything: the dark shadow of his tattoo, the tantalizing lines of his body hair, the soft divot of his navel.

Connor shifts in his seat, restless and wanting, and comes one step closer to making that decision. He knows what he wants, despite his lingering worries: in the general sense, he's curious about sexual stimulation and what it might feel like, but specifically: he wants Hank.⭕️

Hey y'all, what goes on w/Hank and Connor after work today? (in-universe it's friday)

1: Connor has a book club meeting
2: They chill & watch terrible tv together
3: They cook a meal together
4: Questions about potential upgrades, etc are asked

Connor stares at Hank for a moment when he returns to his desk, but he quickly figures out it's because he forgot to button an extra button to make up for the missing undershirt, and it was probably weird to see that extra bit of his chest. Don't want to show too much cleavage

at work, Hank thinks bitterly.
The rest of the workday passes without any fuss, thankfully. His sandwich is delicious, and by the end of the day he thinks he's starting to make some connections between cases that were previously thought to be unrelated, and which might make them

more able to track their perpetrator's next moves if they can extrapolate from there. It isn't a puzzle solved quite yet, but it's another step. A solid one. They're waiting on more information that won't be available until Monday at the earliest, so Hank doesn't feel bad about

leaving more or less on time at the end of the day.
"Friday's when your book club meets, right?" Hank asks Connor, as he's starting to wind things down for the day. "D'you want me to drive you somewhere on my way home?" Connor's happy to take cabs if he's going somewhere on his

own, but Hank still likes to offer a ride when his schedule allows it. And Hank's schedule, being what it is, rarely has a conflict.
"Usually, yes," Connor replies, "but several members had scheduling conflicts tonight, so we decided to cancel." He smiles. "My schedule's wide

open."
"Great," says Hank. He's glad Connor has so many interests, that he's meeting new people and learning about what he likes, and he absolutely doesn't begrudge him that time. He knows it would be shitty of him to resent Connor for actually having a life, or for thinking he

has any sort of claim on him or his time. It's not like Connor doesn't already spend plenty of time with Hank, after all.
But still, there's a spark of warmth Hank feels when Connor says he's free for the night. Spending time with him might feel complicated, especially lately,

but he still cherishes it. He thinks back to the idle daydream he had earlier, while watching the rain: curling up with Connor on the couch, sharing space while the thunder rolls overhead. He sighs quietly. It won't be quite like that tonight, but he looks forward to it anyway.

Hank's relieved to be able to change into dry clothing once he's home. His overshirt never dried entirely, and as he takes it off he feels goosebumps prickle up his arms as the air conditioning hits his skin. It's a bit of a novelty to feel cold at the height of summer.

They settle into what's become a familiar routine, that night. Connor lets Sumo out in the yard to do his business, and then sits at the table, chatting with Hank as he roots around in the fridge to find something he can make for dinner. Hank tries to keep work talk to a minimum

at home, but some nights they'll compare notes and bounce ideas off of each other for a few minutes before he waves his hand and declares them officially off the clock.
Tonight, Hank declares the house a work-free zone the moment he starts cracking eggs for an omelette. It had

been a couple years since Hank had regularly cooked for himself, but he's a decent cook when he puts the effort in; in the last few months he's been getting back in the habit. Turns out he does feel better when he isn't living off of takeout all the time. It hadn't felt worth

the effort, for a long time, to put any energy into taking care of himself any better.
As he pours the beaten eggs into a pan, Hank wishes, not for the first time, that he could cook for Connor. He's glad he'd started cooking again, sure, but it feels so much better to cook for

someone other than just himself. It's been a long time since he's had the chance, and he misses it. He knows, for a sharp moment, that this train of thought is dangerous to follow too far; some of his best memories of cooking for others are too painful to look at head-on.

Still, Hank thinks, as he eyes his spinach and pepper omelette to see if it's fully set, it would feel good to make a second one of these for Connor, wouldn't it? To watch him close his eyes happily when he has a taste of something particularly delicious? Maybe he'd make a small,

happy sound when he discovered a new taste, a little sigh or moan of pleasure...
Hank realizes this is veering dangerously towards "imagining Connor during sex" territory, and tries to course-correct. "Do you ever wish you could eat stuff?" he asks. "Feels weird to eat right in

front of you sometimes, like I'm being rude."
"It doesn't feel rude to me," Connor says.
"I get it, but my ma really drilled it into me that it's rude to eat in front of someone without offering them anything. Sometimes when you watch me eat I can hear her in the back of my mind

telling me off for not feeding you too, even though I know I can't."
Connor looks thoughtful. "I've considered it, but while I find the idea of eating and drinking interesting, I think I'm more interested in the ways people bond over shared experiences with food and tradition.

I like watching you cook, and hearing about what you enjoy; I know that isn't the same, but I get enjoyment out of it, and I can experience some of the intimacy involved in sharing food without experiencing that food myself." His LED flashes yellow, briefly. "Taste is the sense

that seems to be the hardest to translate into comprehensible data for us, so the quality of the available upgrades is behind what's offered by other options."
Hank feels his face flush at the thought of the other options; it's clear which ones Connor's talking about.
He busies

himself eating his omelette, buying time to get his thoughts in order. It feels like Connor wants to talk more about his potential upgrades; he made that clear when he brought it up earlier, and only dropped the conversation when he noticed Hank was uncomfortable with it. He

isn't sure if it's a good idea to discuss the "other options" with Connor or not; he's a little more invested in the topic than he should be. He doesn't know if Connor would want to talk about this if he knew how Hank feels. Would he be uncomfortable if he found out later?

Okay, Hank tells himself. You're his friend. He feels safe coming to you with this. Don't be a fucking creep about it. Just...just talk. Like a normal person.
He clears his throat. "About the procedure you mentioned, y'know, earlier this week."
"The genital attachment and sexual

enhancements, yes," Connor replies brightly. He loves providing detail when he knows Hank's feeling awkward about something.
"You still making up your mind about it?" Hank carries his plate to the sink, plots it in the pan that's already soaking, and grabs a beer from the fridge

before heading into the living room, waving Connor in after him. He settles into his customary corner of the couch and Connor, after a moment of hesitation, sits in the middle, turned towards him. Their knees are almost touching.
"I think I'm coming closer to a decision," Connor

says. "I think it's something I want to do."
"Okay, that's good," Hank says, and stumbles to correct himself. "I mean. I think it's good either way, just. What I mean is, it's good that you're feeling more certain about it." He's glad to have a drink to distract himself with.

A downside of androids not being able to eat or drink, Hank figures, is that they can't shove something in their mouths if they need a second to gather their thoughts.
He asks a question that's been at the back of his mind all week. "How safe is this whole business, anyway?"

"It's safer than a surgical procedure for humans, certainly, although there is some risk inherent in the process. This is all new technology, after all. After some consideration, and conversations with Lukas, I've determined that it's an acceptable level of physical risk."

"Lukas, is that the guy from your group who gave everyone the, uh, hands-on demonstration?" Hank still doesn't know quite what to think about that.
Connor smiles. "Yes, I've been messaging him this week with questions as they come up. Of course I understand his experience won't

necessarily be the same as mine, should I choose the same enhancements he did, and to be quite honest I don't think I have the same sexual preferences he does, but it's been helpful to know someone who's gone through this process already."
Hank's burning with curiosity at the

thought of Connor's sexual preferences, but he doesn't ask. That feels like a guaranteed way to make things weird, and it isn't his business at all, as much as he might want it to be.
"The difficulty," Connor continues, "is that most of my apprehension isn't related to the

potential physical risks. Those seem easy to prepare for."
Connor's fingers fidget restlessly on his leg, a gesture Hank recognizes; he hands over the bottlecap from his beer and receives a grateful smile as Connor rolls it across his knuckles.
"I wonder, though," he says, "how

prepared I am for the possibility of sexual rejection."
Hank feels a brief, irrational rush of anger aimed at the hypothetical person who would turn Connor down. "No way is someone going to reject you," he says. "I guess not everyone's compatible with people they're attracted to,

but someone would have to be crazy to turn you down outright. I mean, I'd ask if you'd looked in a mirror lately, but I know you have." He reaches out and gently tugs the unruly lock of hair Connor's always smoothing back when he examines his reflection. "You--you're a catch."

"Not everyone is attracted to men," Connor points out. "Human concepts of gender seem far removed from how most androids relate to it, if we relate to it at all, but for romantic and sexual purposes I'm happy to be seen that way by potential partners." He shrugs, as Hank tries to

process that sentence, and continues, "plenty of humans wouldn't want to date an android in the first place."
"If that's the case, maybe you'd be better off without them."
"It would still be a rejection, Hank. It would still hurt." Connor looks startlingly close to tears, now.

"Sure," Hank says hesitantly. "But--"
"Pretending no one could want to reject me isn't a kindness, Hank," Connor says, heatedly. His LED blinks rapidly between yellow and red, but Hank doesn't need to see it to know he's getting upset. "Don't tell me that. I know it isn't true."

Hank wonders, with a queasy jolt to his gut, if it's happened already. Is there someone Connor wants to be with, someone he's approached, who said no? Is Hank pressing at a hidden wound because he doesn't know about it? Because Connor didn't want to tell him? He doesn't know

what's going on but has a strong suspicion he's fucking something up.
Again.
Connor has the bottlecap clenched in his fist now, and his posture's so tight Hank's worried he'll squeeze it hard enough to cut himself.
"Aw shit," Hank says. "I'm making a mess of this, huh?" He covers

Connor's tense fist with his hand and squeezes gently, rubbing his thumb over his knuckles to try and loosen his grip. "Hey," he says quietly. "Do you need a hug?" He tugs gently against Connor's hand.
And it's selfish, he knows, because of course all he wants to do when he sees

Connor upset--especially when he knows he had a hand in it--is hold him. (Of course it's all he wants to do the rest of the time, too.) But he thinks it might be what Connor needs right now as well.
Connor hesitates, just long enough that Hank lets go, not wanting to pull him

into something he doesn't want, but after a he nods and leans into him.
Hank wraps an arm around his shoulder, coaxing him a bit closer, and when Connor starts to curl against him he pats his chest, shifting a bit so he's leaning back against the corner of the couch.
"C'mere."

They've hugged since that first time, of course they have. Small moments of comfort, warm and soothing but not quite with the force or relief of that first hug they shared out in the cold.
But Connor just melts against Hank's chest, face pressed into his shoulder, and there's

something in the way he's holding onto Hank, perched halfway in his lap to get as close as he can, that makes the moment feel nearly as important as that one, somehow. Hank can't help but wrap his arms around him and nestle him in closer.
It's so tempting to nuzzle into Connor's

hair and kiss his forehead, but he settles for smoothing a hand down his back in slow, even strokes, while he tries to slow his breathing down. He has no idea if that's calming for Connor, since he doesn't have to breathe in the first place, but it's calming for Hank, and he

could certainly use it.
"I forget sometimes," Hank says, after a quiet minute, "how new so many things still are, to you. I feel like such a fucking mess, a lot of the time, and it's easy to think you have your shit together so much better than I do."
Connor lifts his head to

look at Hank, but doesn't say anything; thankfully, he's learned that it can take Hank a while to put his thoughts into words. He's out of practice when it comes to talking about how he's feeling. About much of anything, really.
"But that isn't fair to you," he says.
"It's not,"

Connor replies, his voice muffled slightly against Hank's shoulder.
"I know, and I'm sorry," Hank says. "It's been a long time since I first tried to think about what I wanted from sex and relationships and stuff, and it's easy to forget how fucked up that whole process makes you

feel when you get started. I mean for me you had teenage bullshit wrapped up in it too. Not sure if that's worse or not."
"People expect teenagers to be full of bullshit, though, right?"
"Oh yeah. It's required, I think."
"Hank."
"Hmm?"
"I'm absolutely full of bullshit and it's

terrible."
Hank chuckles at this and squeezes Connor just a little closer. "God, I know the feeling."
Connor fixes him with a sharp look. "But you don't, Hank. I appreciate your sympathy, I do. But your experience isn't and can't be equivalent to mine."
"You can't say you're full

of shit and it sucks and not expect me to agree with you," Hank grumbles.
"I'll allow it."
"Here's my point, and then I'll shut up," Hank says. Connor relaxes a bit and tilts his head up towards him, and Hank has to focus on what he means to say and not on how easy it would be to

kiss him.
"I think anyone would be lucky to have a guy like you interested in them. For sex, or a relationship, or whatever. Whether or not you get any fancy new parts put in. I guess I'm biased because I'm." He scrambles for an end to that sentence that isn't "in love with you."

"You know, I'm with you all the time. So I've had a lot of chances to see how charming you are. I just don't want you to sell yourself short, is all." He pats Connor's back a couple times, like he does when he tells Sumo what a good boy he is. A couple gentle thumps to give his

hand something to do that isn't twining itself into the hair at the back of Connor's neck, where he wonders if he's sensitive. "I know I didn't do it right, but that's all I meant by it."
"Thank you," Connor mumbles into his chest, where he seems to have decided to settle.

He seems content to stay where he is, making no move to get up or shift away, and Hank settles his arm back across his shoulders, letting his other hand drift to Connor's lower back. Connor hums contentedly when he tentatively rubs it in small, slow circles, so he lets himself

enjoy the feeling of the curve of his back under his hand.
He thinks maybe he should get up, or make some excuse to draw away, but he doesn't want to, and he doesn't think Connor wants him to either. It feels like they could both use the comfort, so he stays.

DOES HANK FALL ASLEEP LIKE THIS

Hank wakes up slowly, confused by the presence of something heavy and warm on his chest. The crick in his neck tells him he must have fallen asleep on the couch again, but the warm presence pressed against him is more of a mystery, in his half-awake state.
He feels a smooth

expanse of skin under his fingers when he flexes his hand, and the motion teases out a small, gentle sigh from Connor.
Oh.
Connor.
Who's cuddled up against him on the couch.
Hank's eyes snap open as the previous night comes into sharp focus in his memory. Connor's watching him,

eyes soft and smiling.
"Good morning, Hank," Connor murmurs.
"Hey," he replies, and because this feels slightly unreal, and because Connor had chosen to stay there after all, he dares to brush a loose curl back from Connor's face. Connor closes his eyes and leans into his touch,

and Hank lingers just long enough to trace the curve of Connor's ear before he drops his hand to the couch.
"Didn't mean to fall asleep," he says. "You could have woken me up and herded me off to bed."
Connor shrugs. "I was comfortable. You're comfortable." He emphasizes his

point by giving Hank's soft side a gentle squeeze.
And maybe Hank should feel weird about Connor grabbing a handful of his chub, but the thing is: it feels good, and if it makes Connor want to stay curled up against him like this, all warm and sweet, he really can't complain.

It's past dawn but not by much, Hank figures; the pale, hazy light in the living room makes this entire situation feel unreal and dreamlike. The fact that he woke up to Connor draped across his chest makes it more so, of course. Hank doesn't feel awake enough to quite work out

just what this means, if it means anything at all, but he suspects if he doesn't chase down this thread now, he'll lose his chance.
Still. He'd rather just enjoy the moment. He tentatively rubs his hand down Connor's back, like he did the night before, but instead of trying to

soothe his hurt he just wants to give him warm, tender pressure. Connor sighs and settles his head on Hank's chest; he's placed his face angled mostly down into the small valley between his pecs and by accident it looks like he's about to motorboat him, and Hank fights the urge

to laugh.
"What is it?" Connor asks, and he starts to raise his head but Hank gently presses it back down and smooths his hand over his shoulders.
"Nothing, I'm just having a moment," Hank says. "It's still early, isn't it? Guess I didn't get enough sleep." He knows he could

reach behind him and grab his phone from the table to check the time, but he'd rather stay put for now.
"It's 6:21," Connor answers. "You could go back to sleep, if you wanted. The market doesn't open until 8, and there's no need to arrive right when it opens."
"Sure there is,"

Hank says. "Did you forget those fucking delicious pecan rolls? Anyway, enough sleep or not I'm wide awake now, so I may as well roll with it." He yawns. "Maybe I'll make some coffee first, though."
"All right," Connor replies, but he doesn't get up, and Hank doesn't try to shift

him off, even though he really could use some coffee. Plus, his neck and lower back are starting to yell at him, and now that he's awake he really needs to take a piss.
Hank thinks: all that can wait, at least for a few minutes longer.
He thinks: I have no idea what's going on.

The needs of his body win out, eventually; after a few more slow breaths, during which he tries to memorize the feeling of Connor curled up above and beside him in case this never happens again, he shifts a bit and taps Connor's shoulder.
"Gotta get up for real, now," he says.

His back pops when he gets up, and while he winces at the sound he does feel a bit better afterwards. Less tense. He figures a stretch and a hot shower will loosen things up; hopefully he won't be sore all day, but if he is, he figures it will have been worth it.
He starts up the

coffee maker after a brief bathroom detour and busies himself while it brews by washing the dishes he'd left in the sink the night before. There's a dishwasher right next to him, but having something to do with his hands seems like a good idea. Hank feels awkward and fidgety,

unsure about what to do with himself or what to say to Connor, who he can see is quietly working on the sweater he'd started knitting a couple nights ago. Maybe it shouldn't feel like something's changed between them, and Hank again reminds himself that he shouldn't assume things

about Connor's feelings based on what he'd think about a human doing the same things, but waking up with Connor on top of him like that...he can't ignore how good that felt. How *right* it felt.
Hank's been trying so hard not to fall for Connor, but if he's honest with himself he

knows he crossed that bridge long ago. It's pointless to pretend otherwise.
If he can't have what he really wants--it seems so silly to think Connor would want the same thing that he doesn't dwell on it too much--he wants to be okay with what he has. It has to be enough. It will.

Hank repeats this to himself as he finishes his coffee, as he lets Sumo out in the yard, as he stands under the hot spray of the shower, letting the warmth seep into his neck and shoulders.
Don't think about what else you want from him, he thinks. What you want to give him.

Resolve builds in Hank's chest as he gets dressed. He feels the awkwardness and confusion he'd felt upon waking up start to bleed away.
"Is this the sort of market you can bring dogs to?" he asks, once he's ready to go. "Should we bring Sumo along?"
He steps out into the living

room, where Connor's waiting for him, and his newfound sense of resolve collapses immediately.
Connor's clearly dressed for warm weather, even though he doesn't overheat in normal temperatures the way Hank does. He's wearing a t-shirt covered in a lively pineapple print and a

pair of shorts so short Hank feels his breath catch in his throat. Hank has tried not to think too much about what Connor's thighs look like, just like he's done his best not to imagine the rest of him naked, but now he knows, and the knowledge will haunt him forever. There's a

fucking mole just an inch below the bottom of the shorts, for fuck's sake, and all Hank wants to do is get down in front of Connor and kiss it. He's trying so hard not to stare like a fool that he misses Connor's response and has to ask him to repeat himself.

"I said that sadly, this market doesn't allow any pets, just service animals, so we'll have to leave Sumo at home."
Hank shrugs and tries not to look like he just had a near-religious experience seeing Connor's bare legs. "Makes sense, I guess. Should we, uh, get going?"

"Sure!" Connor says, and he looks genuinely excited.
This was his idea, after all; Hank figures it shouldn't be surprising that Connor's looking forward to it.
"Silly question, maybe," he says, as they step outside. The rain had stopped sometime overnight, but it had brought

slightly cooler weather with it. Hank's sure it'll warm up as the day progresses, but the morning air actually feels good, which is a welcome surprise. "But what do you get out of going to a farmers' market, when you can't eat anything?"
"It's still appealing," Connor says. "Do

you remember what I said yesterday, about being interested in how people relate to food?"
"Sure," Hank says. "Bonding over traditions, right? And you like watching me eat."
Connor gives him a little smile at that, although Hank thinks he'd be blushing if he had the ability.

"I find the ways people relate to food interesting. I think there will be plenty of things there to hold my attention." He smiles at Hank as they settle into the car. "Honestly, I thought you might enjoy it, and I wanted to do something with you this weekend. Something we hadn't

done before."
Hank's glad he has driving to focus on, so his mind can't go too far down the road of contemplating all the things he and Connor haven't done together. He shoves thoughts about the pale expanse of Connor's thighs aside, although he's sure he'll revisit them later.

The market's on the outskirts of the city, closer to the farms to the northwest, although of course there are more urban farms within Detroit now than there were when the market first opened. Hank enjoys the drive; the streets are quiet this early on a weekend, and he thinks

about how long it's been since just went driving anywhere. For fun. It feels like an old-fashioned thing to do, even for someone his age, but he used to enjoy it.
He has a thought.
"You've never been outside the city, have you? I mean really outside of it. Out in the country."

"No," Connor says. "I'd like to someday, though."
"What if--" Hank feels self-conscious as the suggestion starts to tumble out, but he may as well see it through. "What if some day we drive out somewhere, take a--a hike, or something? Out in the woods? Or whatever you want."

"That sounds wonderful. I'd love to go hiking with you, Hank."
"Let's go in a few months, though. When it cools down a little, and when the leaves start to turn."
Connor rests his hand on Hank's shoulder for a moment, and when Hank glances over, he's giving him a sweet, soft

smile. "I'll remind you, then. When the leaves change, we'll go."
Hank thinks, not for the first time, how small Connor's world was designed to be. How limited. He deserves to see so much more, experience more, than he has so far. And Hank wants to be there for it, if he can.

The market's grown since the last time Hank visited. There's a broad, open-sided shelter set up in a field, lined with booths selling produce, flowers, and baked goods. It's early, still, but there's a good-sized crowd already.
The pecan rolls Hank's been looking forward to are

somehow even better than Hank remembered. "I really wish you could taste this," he says, around a mouthful of toasted pecans. "Fuck me, it's so good."
"Tell me about it," Connor says. "What does it taste like?"
"Well, shit, now I have to think about it," Hank grumbles, but he's

happy to narrate his breakfast if that's what Connor wants. "It's, uh, some kind of sweet bread, and there's a fuckton of pecans in here and they've rolled it up with a bunch of spices." He takes another bite and chews thoughtfully. "Cinnamon, obviously. Nutmeg? I think that's in

there, too. Maybe orange zest or something."
"Can I?" Connor asks, his fingers outstretched.
"Uh, sure, knock yourself out."
He dips his forefinger in the sugary spice goo that's started to drip out of the roll and brings it to his mouth. Hank knows he doesn't *need* to watch

this, but it's hard not to watch Connor delicately place his finger in his mouth for analysis.
"What do you think?"
"The sugar content's quite high."
Hank laughs. "Well yeah, I could have told you that, boss. 's what makes it so good."
Once Hank's finished eating, they head into

the market proper.
"I should have thought about what else I wanted to get, huh?" Hank asks, as they pass by the first booth of produce. "I guess tomatoes are probably in season, I'll grab some of those at least. Maybe make some sandwiches this week." He's peering at a display of

multicolored tomatoes, lost in thought, so he doesn't pay attention to what's at the next booth over until Connor speaks up.
"Hank, do you want to try a plum?"
Hank turns slowly, half-expecting to see Connor in the gauzy robe, but no, he's dressed normally, even if those tiny

shorts have his dick just as interested. He's holding out a small slice of yellow plum that clearly came from a man holding a sample tray and not from the sexiest dream Hank's had in his life.
Still, he can see a hint of juice on Connor's fingers. He wants to suck them clean.

Connor raises his eyebrows, a silent repetition of his question, and Hank realizes it's been a few seconds since Connor offered the slice of plum to him and he's just been staring at it. At Connor.
"Oh, uh. Yeah! Sure," he says, shaking himself out of his reverie and stepping

around to the next booth. Before he can reach out to take the plum, Connor smoothly steps right in front of him, lifting the slice to his mouth. "C'mon, you don't have to--" Hank starts to protest, but Connor ignores him completely and slides the plum into his mouth before Hank

can manage to avoid it.
Connor's fingers stay chastely outside of Hank's mouth as he pops the fruit in; if Hank had leaned forward and taken the plum himself, he could have sucked a finger or two into his mouth along with it, and made sure they were clean before he let them go.

Hank had started to wonder, recently, how sensitive those fingers would be in a more personal context, not just when used for police work.
But he can't think about that at the moment, he really can't, because he doesn't want to be a creep with a huge, visible erection striding

through the farmers' market and terrifying the nice families who'd stopped by to pick out a nice goat cheese and some flowers to take home. He's mortified enough already, he doesn't need to traumatize anyone on top of it.
Connor's watching him, of course, because he's eating

something so Connor will be interested to hear what he thinks, and he tries to school his expression into something thoughtful. He chews slowly and enjoys the juicy sweetness of the plum, which really is fucking delicious. It's soft and ripe and he HAS to stop thinking about

juice dripping everywhere before he embarrasses himself.
"It's good," he finally manages to say, in response to Connor's questioning look. "Really good, fuck."
"A little messy, though," Connor says. He lifts his fingers to his mouth and Hank has to turn away the moment he sees a

glimpse of his tongue.
"Jesus Christ," he mutters. Between this...this plum-based torment and Connor's outfit, he's pretty sure he won't have a moment's peace for the rest of the day.
"Which one was that?" Hank asks the man holding the tray of samples, and he directs him to a

crate of small, rosy-gold plums nestled in between larger bushels of peaches. He can't resist getting a half-dozen of them, even though he worries he's going to get turned on just eating them. As if he isn't constantly trying to tell his dick to calm the fuck down already.

They take their time, strolling through every stall even though there isn't that much Hank actually wants to buy; it's nice just to walk with Connor and make idle comments about what's in season and which booth's vegetables look the nicest.
Sometimes Connor touches his forearm to

get his attention in the lively crowd, and Hank can't stop thinking about how it would feel to rest his hand on Connor's lower back as they walk along, or drape an arm across his shoulders to steer him over towards something he knows Connor will like. His hand twitches at his

side, longing to ruffle the hair at the base of Connor's neck.
He picks up some tomatoes for sandwiches, a loaf of dark rye bread, a small, precious container of blackberries. Connor asks the man running a goat-milk soap booth so many questions about the intricacies of soapmaking

that Hank has time to smell everything twice; he leaves with a bar of eucalyptus and mint scented soap and Connor's managed to earn an invitation to an upcoming soapmaking workshop by the time the conversation's over.
"I swear, Connor, you can charm the pants off of anyone in ten

minutes," Hank chuckles, as they step to the side of the crowd to tuck the soap away in their growing collection of purchases.
"You say that, but somehow, your pants are still on," Connor replies dryly.
"You know what I mean," Hank grumbles, flustered. He's not entirely sure what

Connor himself means, to be honest, but it hits a little close to home.
Connor just winks at him, and slings the tote bag over his shoulder. "I suppose I just need to turn up the charm."
Hank doesn't know how to say he's so enthralled by Connor's charm already that there's no

point trying any harder, but he gets that it's a joke anyway, so he lets it go.
He does indulge himself just a bit and gently rests his hand on Connor's back as they re-enter the stream of shoppers in the market. Just to make sure they get through the crowd together. That's all.

Connor leans into Hank, just for a moment, and walks a little closer to him once his hand settles there. Hank drops his arm, once they've moved out of the thickest part of the crowd, but Connor smoothly loops his arm through Hank's and pulls him into a booth full of flowers.

"Uh," Hank says.
"All right?" Connor asks, quietly.
"Yeah, just. Yeah."
"Anything I can help you gentlemen with?" the booth's attendant calls, from behind a huge bucket of gladiolus stems she's bundling into bouquets.
"Just admiring for now," Connor replies. "Hank, do you have

a favorite flower?"
"When I was younger I tried to be an orchid guy for a minute," Hank says. "Couldn't keep them alive too well, though, they're fussy. These are nice, though," he says, pointing at a spray of dahlias, each petal fading from peach at the tips to a pale yellow

near the center. "I'm sure I have a vase somewhere at home, you think we should get some?"
"Seems like a crime to have a handsome young man on your arm and not buy him flowers," the attendant says, and Connor's laugh in response is so sweet to hear that Hank can't help but agree.

Connor offers to carry the flowers, since he doesn't want to put them in the bag with their other things and risk them getting crushed, and Hank feels a little twinge in his heart when he hands them over. It's been a long time since he's given someone flowers, and of course this

isn't like he showed up with them as a gift or anything, but it makes him think about other sweet little things he'd love to do for Connor.
It doesn't help that the booth attendant gives him a wink and a knowing smile, like she's in on a secret. Hank wishes he was in on it, too.

Connor cradles the flowers gently, but the moment they step out of the booth and into the growing crowd, he takes Hank's arm again, like it's a natural reflex. Like this is what they always do, when they're together.
Hank thinks maybe this is just his life right now: a string of

moments with Connor that lead to confusion with a side of simmering arousal. It isn't that he dislikes it, because of course he doesn't, but he hasn't been able to gather his thoughts enough to figure out what it all means, and he's afraid to ask directly.
Because the thing is,

and Hank's finally able to admit this as they continue walking together and he sees other couples--people who are clearly romantic partners, with no ambiguity to be found--whose body language and slow pace and sappy smiles mirror what's happening between Connor and himself:

This feels like a date.
It's been ages since Hank's been on one, sure, and he knows that as good as he can be at police work, he can be entirely clueless in his own life, but he doesn't know what else to call this feeling, this energy that's brewing between the two of them today.

He just can't imagine asking Connor about it. If Hank's wrong, or if Connor's maybe trying to practice what dating feels like so he can go out and have some fun with (younger, more attractive, more deserving) partners once he feels confident, Hank doesn't know what he'll do.

His face feels hot, not just because the market is heating up as the morning progresses and the crowd gets thicker. It's hard to be pressed so close to Connor and not feel like he's overheating. Connor notices, of course.
"Do you want to take a break?" he asks, nudging them off

to the side of the crowd again, and he points towards a cluster of trees at the edge of the market shelter. "We could sit in the shade for a bit, if you'd like to cool off away from everyone."
That sounds good to Hank; he's ready to get off his feet for a little while, and he's

probably done all the shopping he needs to do. He's getting thirsty, too, but that's easy enough to fix. "Sure thing," he says. "Why don't you head over and get settled, and I'll meet you there in a sec, after I grab a drink." Connor nods and gives him a smile, probably excited

that Hank's remembering to hydrate in the heat, and Hank heads for a nearby booth where a beekeeper's selling glasses of honey-sweetened lemonade.
Hank takes some deep breaths as he waits in the short line for his drink. He wants to enjoy this time with Connor without worrying

about what it means and what Connor's thinking. Without worrying about how hard it's becoming to keep his own feelings safely hidden away, and whether he'll be able to keep them contained at all for much longer.
Maybe he's already failed.
He's probably going to have to say

something to Connor, if things continue in this vein. But, he decides, for today he's going to do his best to just enjoy it. He doesn't know if this means he's being a coward or just practical.
Hank's mildly surprised to see Connor animatedly talking to someone as he approaches

the shady spot with his drink. Connor gets along well with others, sure, but he doesn't necessarily go out of his way to start conversations with strangers. Maybe this person was complimenting his pineapple shirt. Or his legs, for that matter.
Connor can see Hank over the

newcomer's shoulder and waves him over with a smile as he approaches.

WHO IS THIS PERSON???
🧶: a friend from Connor's knitting group
🍆: Lukas (the android who got a dick attachment & did a show-and-tell presentation)
🥤: Antonia (the android who got the drinking upgrade)

OH ALSO!!! How does Connor introduce Hank to them?

Hank's even less interested in chatting with strangers than Connor is, most days, but he shrugs and wanders over, bracing himself with a gulp of sharp, sweet lemonade. As he approaches, though, it becomes clear that this isn't a stranger at all, at least not to Connor.

He's smiling too much, and he reaches out and touches the other person's arm as he talks: that's something he'll do with Hank, and with other friends, but Hank's never seen him touch someone he doesn't know like that.
It's nice to see. He knows Connor enjoys that kind of friendly

physical contact, and he's glad there are more people in the world he feels comfortable having it with than just himself. He wants so much for Connor, and while a lot of those wants are tied up in Hank's own desires, he also wants the rest of his life to be as full as possible.

"Ran into a friend, huh?" Hank asks, once he's reached the two of them. The other person turns at the the sound of his voice, and Hank sees he's another android. Not a model he's familiar with, but his face looks like it was designed to be blandly handsome. Unobtrusive.
The thing

about deviancy, Hank thinks, as he sees this android's wide, expressive eyes and sharp smile, is that once you develop your own thoughts and preferences, you aren't going to be bland anymore. Connor's always been good-looking, Hank can admit now, but the more expressive he gets,

and the more excited he is about the world, the more beautiful Hank finds his face.
"Yes!" Connor chirps, almost manically. Hank can't tell if he's excited or nervous; likely it's a bit of both. "Lukas, this is--"
"Of course I know who this is," Lukas says, as if he's offended

Connor would assume otherwise. "Hank, it's a pleasure to meet you after hearing so much about you." He shakes Hank's hand and gives him a clear once-over before letting go. "You are a big boy, aren't you?" he asks, placing a hand over his heart. "And you bought him flowers, too."

"And HANK," Connor says firmly, as if Lukas hadn't spoken, "this is my friend Lukas, from my Wednesday night meetings."
It's at this moment that Hank remembers where he's heard that name before.
"Oh!" he says, and scrambles to continue so it doesn't sound like he just remembered

the existence of Lukas' new dick. "Oh yeah, from your meetings. Connor has a lot of good things to say about that group, so it's uh, it's great to meet you."
"We were just going to sit in the shade here for a minute, to take a break from the crowd," Connor says. "Would you like

to join us?" He looks at Hank as if he's asking him as well, and Hank nods; he isn't going to say no to spending time with one of Connor's friends, even if all he knows about this one is that he isn't afraid to whip it out for a show and tell session. And that he just called Hank

a "big boy," for fuck's sake. What was that about?
The three of them settle on a patch of lush grass in the shade. Connor lets his legs stretch out in front of him, crossed delicately at the ankle, and it's such a temptation to stare. The mole Hank had noticed earlier on his

inner thigh can be clearly seen if he peeks over, which he tries his hardest not to do.
Hank fishes ice cubes out of his lemonade and sucks on them as Lukas and Connor catch up. He doesn't have much to contribute, which suits him fine; sometimes it's nice to just sit back and let

conversation wash over him. He's better at listening than talking most of the time, anyway. He laughs where it's appropriate, nods along when a good point is made, and otherwise occupies himself with keeping cool and watching Connor.
"Speaking of which," Lukas says, after a story

Hank had only been half listening to because he'd been distracted by Connor's mouth, "have you made a decision about those upgrades you were considering?" He waggles his eyebrows as he says it; even if Hank hadn't already known what he was asking about, it would be pretty easy

to make an educated guess.
"Yes," Connor says. "I think I have."
Hank perks up just a bit at this, but he doesn't press for more info; he figures if Connor wants to let him know the details, he'll say something later.
Plus, he figures Lukas will do plenty of pressing on his own,

and he's right.
"Well? Are you going to share the details? Maybe a model number, if you've picked one out? Or a size?" He frames a few suggestive shapes and sizes with his hands, his smile getting wider as his hands travel farther apart.
"I do know what you're talking about, you

know," Hank says. It seems like Lukas is trying to be subtle, but Hank is pretty sure he's incapable of it so he wants to throw him a bone.
"Oh, of course he would have discussed this with you!" Lukas says with a giant, shit-eating grin. "What do you think, Hank? I assume you're

in favor?"
"I'm in favor of Connor doing what he wants with his own body," Hank says. It was awkward to discuss this with Connor himself, in the privacy of their own home, but doing so in a public park with a near-stranger is so weird he just rolls with it. "I don't think my

opinion needs to enter into it at all, honestly."
"That's a sweet thing to say, but surely you have your preferences?"
"I mean." Hank suspects he's stumbled into an entirely different conversation, one that he's not prepared for. "I don't see how my preferences should matter."

"Well, let's assume they do, just for fun." Lukas suggests. "As a thought exercise. What sort of, ah, sexual equipment do you prefer, in a partner? What would you choose, if you had options?"
Hank glances over at Connor, who's been quiet for a minute; he's flashing yellow but

gives Hank a tight, apologetic smile when they make eye contact. Is he embarrassed to be discussing this in public, or that Hank's been pulled into the conversation? He seemed fine talking with Hank about it before, but maybe it's different to have a friend around at the same

time. He doesn't want to upset Connor and isn't sure what the right move is, here.
He's also hesitant to give this guy a monologue about what he prefers in a partner and in bed.
"I'm easy to please," Hank says, slowly, and that gets another sweet smile from Connor, although Lukas

waves his hand dismissively.
"Come on, you have to have something."
"When I'm into someone it doesn't matter what I find when I get in their pants, you know?" Hank shrugs. "Really, I, um. I guess I'm into everything. All, uh. Options."
"Hank."
"Yeah?"
"Are. You. A. Size. Queen."

⌚️Connor: WOW GEE look at the time
😳Hank's flustered, deflects/ignores question
🤷‍♂️Hank: not...particularly?
🤔Hank: yeah, kinda?

Hank nearly chokes on the ice cube he's just popped into his mouth, but he's able to cough for a moment and recover. He has no idea how to respond to this question, or even better: how to avoid responding entirely, but before he manages to work it out, Connor's hand clamps down

on his forearm.
"Hank," Connor says, a bit too loudly, "I didn't realize it had gotten to late. Sumo's appointment at the groomer's is at 11, remember?"
Hank does not remember, but he's not stupid, so he nods and tries to look concerned. "Oh shit, yeah, what time is it?"

"Time to be on our way, I'm afraid," Connor says. He stands up quickly and offers a hand to Lukas, who looks amused, as if he thinks Hank can't manage to refuse a question and Connor's come to his rescue.
Lukas' smile wavers, though, as he accepts Connor's hand up; for just a

moment, Hank sees a patch of white spread across their fingers as their hands touch and their skin peels away. Lukas winces. "Connor, I--"
"It's all right," Connor replies with a smile, although Hank suspects it's not all right, whatever it is. "I'll see you Wednesday?"

"Sure thing," Lukas says. He pulls Connor into a hug and ruffles his hair as he steps away. He shakes Hank's hand again as Connor gathers their purchases together, and while Connor's back is turned, he shakes his head and murmurs "you gotta buy him more flowers."
"What?"

"Figure it out, man," Lukas says, and offers no further clarification.
Connor walks quickly towards the car, not turning back to see if Hank's following; Hank has to hurry to catch up to him. "Hey," he says, when he reaches the car. Connor's staring at the passenger side window.

Is he checking his reflection? Trying to avoid looking at Hank? He has no idea. "Connor, are--" he reaches a hand out, then lets it fall to his side. He can't tell if it would be welcome. "Are you okay?"
"Not really."
Hank unlocks the door and is at least glad Connor gets in; he

has the vague worry he doesn't want to be near him at all right now. "I know we aren't taking Sumo anywhere today, so do you want to tell me what that was about?"
"No."
Hank takes a deep breath. He's been knocked entirely off-kilter; the easy closeness (affection?) that's been

simmering between them all morning is gone.
"Not yet," Connor says. He traces his fingers over the delicate petals of one of the dahlias. "Give me time? I'll tell you later."
"Sure," Hank says, hesitantly. "I hope I didn't say something wrong back there."
"I'm not mad at you."

"That's not a no," Hank sighs. "I'm sorry. For what it's worth, this was really nice." He waves his hand to indicate the market behind them. "I enjoyed being here with you."
"Me too, Hank," Connor says. "I just need some time. Let me know when we're home." He closes his eyes, and

a moment later Hank sees his LED pulse in the slow, regular rhythm that indicates he's gone into stasis. It's a very clear end to the conversation.
"What the fuck happened?" Hank mutters. He rests his forehead on the steering wheel and lets the a/c blast him straight in the face.

Hank takes his time driving home. He isn't sure what he'll do when he gets there, how he'll occupy himself if Connor's still distant or if he tells him he seriously fucked things up somehow, so he takes a longer route, staying off the highway and winding through less-familiar

neighborhoods. He thinks about stopping for an early lunch, but after eyeing the bag of food on the floor by Connor's feet he decides against it. If he has an appetite later, which is feeling less and less likely by the minute, he'll make himself some tomato sandwiches.
He steals

glances at Connor every so often as he drives. He doesn't see him in stasis that often, and it's always an odd sight; his artificial breathing is much shallower, just enough to keep him from looking like a mannequin, and his face is smoothed out and slack, without any of the

expression it usually carries. He looks less like himself, but Hank still wants to wrap his arms around him; just like last night, when he'd fumbled his words and upset Connor by mistake, all he wants to do is pull him close.
This time, though, he isn't sure just what he's done

to upset him, and not knowing makes him embarrassed and angry with himself. He knows he should be able to figure it out.
That's what Lukas had said to him, right? What else had he said? Buy Connor more flowers?
Connor has the dahlias cradled gently to his chest, so he won't crush

them in stasis. "Jesus christ," Hank mutters, because he's pretty sure Connor can't hear him, "I'd buy him flowers every goddamn day if he wanted." He can think of so many things he wants to do for him. With him. But if he doesn't know it's welcome, he can't...he can't just start

throwing flowers and gifts and kisses around. And. The rest of what he thinks about. He can't just beg Connor to tell him details about the upgrade he's apparently decided on by now because he's thirsty for information about what Connor wants sexually and maybe wants specific

details to think about while he's shut up in his bedroom at night wondering what he did to mess things up between them.
Fuck, he feels like a dirty old man just thinking that when he knows Connor's in distress.
Hank had started the drive trying to give himself time to just sit

with his feelings and with the events of the past few days before he started chasing any thoughts down rabbitholes, but by the time he pulls into the driveway, his mind's in a dark, messy tangle and more than anything else he's furious at himself for missing something obvious.

Once the key's out of the ignition, he hesitates with his hand outstretched towards Connor once again. He's seemed so happy to have Hank touch him, especially these last couple days, but would he accept it now? He isn't sure what else to do, though, so he places his hand over

Connor's and strokes his thumb over his knuckles for a few seconds.
Connor blinks rapidly and Hank sees the moment the still mask of stasis drops and his face floods with life again. He pulls his hand back, in case Connor doesn't want to be touched right now (or at least, not by

Hank), but second-guesses himself: if he does want contact, did drawing away so quickly just hurt him more?
He sighs. He can't let himself get so caught up in his own thoughts like this, although he knows it's too late to stop it from happening.
"We're, uh. We're back home."