Thread by @CeilingKiwi

More than anything, Connor wants to interface with Hank. He wants it with an aching longing that consumes him. He wants to know the shape of Hank’s mind, he wants Hank’s thoughts echoing in his head. He wants to share Hank’s joy and Hank’s grief as if Hank’s feelings were his own

It tears him apart to think this is something they’ll never be able to give each other. Every time Connor spots a pair of androids interfacing, it’s like a stab in the chest. It’s such an easy, casual way to exchange information.

But it’s also such an intimate act that Connor wants it more than anything else in the world.

There are so many beautiful aspects of Hank’s humanity that Connor adores. He adores the warmth and the softness of Hank’s body.

He adores the subtle ways Hank changes day by day; the growth of his hair and the blemishes on his skin. He adores watching Hank eat and watching Hank sleep and knowing that this incredible being has lived decades that Connor can’t even begin to imagine.

Hank’s history, Hank’s lived experiences, Hank’s human soul are all precious to Connor.

But this is a bridge they can’t cross together. Just one of the countless little ways Connor and Hank will never truly understand each other, no matter how much they love each other.

Hank rolls off of Connor, panting and sweaty. Connor’s own cooling system is whirring away, and although he doesn’t experience exhaustion the way Hank does, when Hank gives him a tired, sleepy smile, Connor tries to mimic it, letting his eyelids dip and his brow relax.

He reaches for Hank’s hand. His skin dissipates as their fingers lace.

Hank’s smile widens. “Heh. It’s so cute how it does that. It’s an automatic thing, right?”

“Yes,” Connor lies.

“Cause your system wants to connect to me.” Hank is smiling like that isn’t something heartbreaking.

“Exactly.” Connor requests a connection. His request times out. He requests a connection again. It times out.

Over and over, again and again, as if Connor tries hard enough, he’ll somehow be able to push through and force something inside of Hank to accept the interfacing.

Hank huffs softly and closes his eyes. He’s so beautiful at this moment, and Connor tries with all his might to transmit everything he feels at this moment. His love and his longing and how badly he needs Hank, how badly he needs Hank to *understand.*

Connor is breaking apart under the weight of this loneliness and he needs Hank to save him from it.

Hank doesn’t open his eyes. His respirations are slowing, and Connor knows it won’t be long until he falls asleep, sated and content.

Connor folds himself against Hank’s side, shutting his eyes tightly. “I love you, Hank,” he says.

It’s not enough.

“I know, baby,” Hank murmurs. “I love you, too.”