Thread by @robofingering

🌸[new thread, but this is the continuation of Lilacs in Bloom!]🌸

Hank shifts into wakefulness slowly, as if surfacing from a deep dive in dark, cool water. He's aware of warmth and a weight on the mattress beside him, and wonders for a moment if Sumo had nosed the bedroom door

open and jumped on the bed in the early morning. But then the weight shifts beside him, and a hand settles on his back, rubbing slow circles over his shoulderblade.
"Connor?" Hank's mind is fuzzy, still heavy with sleep, but he instinctually leans into the touch. "Is it morning

already?"
"As much as I'd like to stay in bed with you," Connor murmurs, "I do need to get to work. I can still take a taxi home, if you'd rather sleep in a bit more."
Hank would much rather sleep, truth be told, but he isn't going to send Connor home in a cab. "Come here," he

says, voice still rough with sleep; he rolls over to face Connor and pulls him into his chest. "You sure you can't play hooky and spend the morning in bed with me?" He strokes the nape of Connor's neck with his thumb and feels unreasonably smug at the surprised inhale he doesn't

quite manage to stifle.
"You know I'd love to," Connor says, "but I can't miss work." Even in the dim light of the morning, Hank can see the exaggerated roll of his eyes. "It isn't as if I have sick days, or other time off I can take."
This snaps Hank into wakefulness. "No time

off at all? Really?"
"If your employees can't get sick, there's no need for sick leave," Connor says; Hank can tell he's trying to keep his tone light, but he hears the same bitterness creep into his voice that he's heard before, when he talks about his job's policies. Or about

his treatment at Cyberlife. "As for vacation time, the law doesn't yet require it."
"And if it's not required, they aren't gonna give it to you," Hank says. "It's bullshit, but I get it." He'd said the same thing about meal breaks, Hank remembers; none of the androids working at

the garden get those either. "I wouldn't really try to get you to call out just to fool around in bed with me; I know your job's important to you even if your bosses are assholes sometimes."
"I know," Connor says, "and I appreciate it." He kisses Hank on the cheek. "It was one of

the first things that was mine. Something I was responsible for entirely. There are aspects of it that frustrate me, but the work itself makes me happy."
"Well, let's get you there, then," Hank says. He yawns, rolling his shoulders to try to work out some of the ache that's

always there, these days. "You mind letting Sumo out in the back yard to do his business while I throw some clothes on?"
Connor's happy to spend time with Sumo, of course, and Hank manages to get ready before the two of them make it back inside. His gaze falls on the pair of

plants still on the kitchen table, and he fills a glass from the tap and pours a little bit over each one. They'll survive underwatering, according to Connor, but Hank still wants to get off on the right foot with them. He'll decide later which one he wants to bring into the

office and which one he'll keep at home, but for now he likes the look of them where they are.
"I'm ready whenever you are," Hank calls out to Connor, when he lets Sumo in from the back. "Just gotta give this old mutt his breakfast, but that's it."
"No breakfast for you?"

"I'll grab something after I drop you off," Hank says. "There's a deli near your place that has good bagels, I'll probably stop there. I haven't been in forever, not since--"
Not since Ben had dragged him there, nearly a year ago now, and Hank suddenly remembers what he'd

completely forgotten to ask Connor about, the night before.
"Hank?" Connor asks. "Everything all right?"
"Yeah, I just--" Hank shakes his keys and nods at the door. "I remembered something I wanted to ask you about last night, but we can talk about it on the way to your place."

Connor bends down to say good-bye to Sumo on their way out the door. "You're a good boy," he says, seriously, "and I hope to see you again soon." Sumo wags his tail hard enough that it whaps noisily against the coffee table and licks Connor's hand, which is, as Hank explains, his

way of saying the same thing.
"I told you about my friend Ben, right?" Hank asks, once they're in the car.
"You did," Connor replies. "He helped you when you were in crisis, didn't he?"
"That's one way to put it, yeah," Hank says. "He saw me at my worst and still cared enough to

stick around and convince me to get help. I pushed a lot of people away, in those days, and to be honest I tried it on him too, but--" Hank snorts. "He's a big guy, like me, and he wasn't about to let me push him away when he wanted to stay and see things through."
"He sounds

like a good friend," Connor says. "I'm glad he could be there for you." He looks concerned, when Hank risks a glance over, but doesn't seem to put off by the topic. Hank knows he won't come out of any discussion about his attempts at self-destruction smelling like a rose, but he

knows Connor deserves to hear about it. If something's really going to happen between them--and at this point, it seems impossible to deny that it's already happening--he needs to know.
Not right now, not when he's trying to drive him home after a successful second date and

casually ask him to meet his closest friend. But soon, Hank knows. He needs to work himself up to it soon.
"If he hadn't been there for me, I wouldn't be here now," Hank says; it's too honest, maybe, and he's never said as much out loud, but of course it's true. Connor blinks at

that, and Hank sees the reflection of his LED in the window turn red for a moment, but he doesn't comment on it.
"Anyway," Hank says, barreling past his discomfort, "my point is that I care about him a lot. His family, too. Ben invited me over for dinner tomorrow night, and he

wanted me to invite you to come along, as well. I don't know if that sounds fun to you, or if you're free, but..." he shrugs. "I know you don't know these folks, but they're all good people." He settles his hand over Connor's where it rests on his thigh and gives it a little

squeeze. "It's okay if you don't want to, but if you're interested, I'd love for you to meet them."
"He knows about me?"
Hank laughs. "He knows how nervous I was after I set up our first date. I wound up talking with him about it, after I got home. He convinced me not to cancel."

"And I wasn't--" Hank sees Connor's look of concern and tries to backpedal a bit. "I didn't want to, not really, but I was worried I wouldn't be good company, or you wouldn't like me if you knew me better, and--" he sighs. "The point is, he told me I was full of shit and I should

go have fun."
"I think I like him," Connor says. "He gives good advice, at least."
"I'm pretty sure you'd like him a lot if you met him," Hank says. "Honestly, Ben gets along with everyone, but I think he'd like you too. There's his husband Alan, he's a little less in-your-face

friendly but he's sweet when he warms up to you, and Kenzie's...well, she's a character. I think she's..." Hank casts his mind back, trying to remember when she was born. "Maybe twelve years old, now? I think that's right. She has a lot of energy, to put it lightly."
"And you'd

like it if I came with you to see them?"
"No pressure, seriously," Hank says. "If meeting a bunch of new people sounds like too much, or if it's too soon, you aren't gonna hurt my feelings or anything." He isn't sure that's true, but even if it's not, he knows it should be, and

it's important to say; he really does want to make sure Connor doesn't feel like he has to say yes. "But that said, yeah. Ben's my closest friend, he's important to me, and I guess I like the thought of the two of you meeting." Hank looks over at Connor, who's staring resolutely

forward, posture tense, with a serious expression on his face. Is he managing to be too pushy about this unintentionally?
"You don't need to let me know right now, and it's seriously all right if you'd rather not, or you have work tomorrow night, or something. Just..." Hank rests

his hand briefly on Connor's thigh again, aiming for gentle reassurance. "Just let me know later today, if aren't sure yet."
"Of course I'm sure," Connor says, so forcefully Hank startles and almost misses the turn into his apartment. "It means a lot to me that you'd want me to

meet your friends, and that they'd want to see me in the first place."
"Hey, sweetheart," Hank says. He eases into a visitor spot and turns in his seat to get a better look at Connor, still tense beside him. "Did you think I wouldn't want you to meet the people I care about?"

"It sounds silly when you say it out loud," Connor says, "but I think maybe I did." His posture slumps as he turns to Hank, and he blinks hard, as if he's fighting back tears. "Not in so many words; if you'd asked me directly I don't think I would have said yes, but even so, it

comes as a surprise to hear that your friends are interested in meeting me, and that you want them to. That you want our relationship to overlap with the rest of your life."
Now Hank does see tears begin to fall, and he cups Connor's cheek, brushing them away with the pad of his

thumb. "Of course I do," he says. "I'm not--I'm a private guy, sometimes, I don't always let everyone know what's going on with me, but there's no way I would want to keep you a secret, or keep you from meeting folks I care about. Have I done anything that's made you worried I

would?" He leans in and kisses Connor's cheek. "Serious question. If I fucked up that bad, I need to know about it."
"No, no," Connor says, "it isn't anything you did. I'm not sure if I can explain where this fear came from, or--" he closes his eyes and leans into Hank's hand.

"I do know the root of it," he says, quietly. "I think I know. But now isn't the time to discuss it, not when I'll be late if I don't hurry." He takes Hank's hand from his face and kisses his palm. "I'd love to come with you tomorrow," he says.
It's a deflection, Hank thinks;

Connor's right that they don't have time for a real conversation about where this fear came from, but he suspects Connor would rather not get into it at all, and while it might help for Hank to know the details, he isn't going to push. If Hank wants Connor to know how much he

wants him to be a part of his life, the best thing he can do is to show him, to make it clear through what he says and how he treats him. He doesn't have to know why Connor's worried to put in the effort to ease that worry.
"Good," Hank says. "They'll love you, I'm sure.

I'll talk to Ben today to iron out the details; do you want to call me when you're off work and I can fill you in on the plan?"
"That sounds lovely," Connor murmurs. "I'm sorry to end the morning this way; I had a wonderful time with you last night, and I wish I wasn't leaving

you like this."
"Don't worry about it," Hank says. "You're good, okay? Go have a nice day at work, say hi to the turtles, and we'll talk later." He leans awkwardly across the center console to give Connor a sweet, lingering kiss. "And don't forget your plant in the back seat."

Hank has a moment, after he watches Connor disappear into the lobby of his building with a wave and a gentle smile, in which he has no idea what to do with himself. He pulls his phone out to call Ben, figuring he may as well let him know he'll be bringing Connor along for dinner,

and only at the last minute looks at the time and decides that while Ben is the most easy-going guy he knows, even he is unlikely to appreciate a non-emergency phone call before 8 in the morning on a Saturday.
Hank doesn't want to still be hanging out in front of Connor's

building trying to figure out what to do with his day when he comes back out to head to work in a few minutes, so he drives the couple blocks to the deli he'd gone to with Ben, months ago, and grabs a ridiculously large coffee and a poppyseed bagel. Despite the early morning

crowd at the deli, there's plenty of space for him to sit and eat, but he's feeling restless so he gets it to go and drives aimlessly east once he's back in his car.
He has an impulse, as he passes the garden, to eat his breakfast there, maybe under one of the magnolia trees or

near the daffodils clustered by the entrance, but he wants to give Connor some space; they'll see each other tomorrow, and even if he doesn't seek him out, it might feel like a bit much for him to be hanging around right now. Still, he'd rather eat outside and enjoy the morning

chill in the air for a bit than go home just yet, or stare at the yellowed family photos on the wall of the deli while he eats breakfast, and after some deliberation he finds himself parking near the area of the riverwalk that passes by the dog park, where he'd met Connor for

their first date.
Hank settles on a bench in a shaded area a few minutes' walk down the path and unwraps his bagel. It's filled with entirely too much cream cheese, and the coffee is so strong it would be undrinkable if he hadn't added so much cream. It's a perfect breakfast.

The breeze coming in from the river is cool, but it's a sunny morning, warm enough for the the riverwalk path to attract the standard weekend crowd; by the time Hank finishes his bagel, there's a steady stream of joggers and pedestrians passing by.
It's nice, Hank thinks, to be

near other people without feeling the need to engage. There was a time, a few years before everything fell apart, when Hank had been a pretty social guy; there had been cookouts with neighbors, occasional poker nights with the other officers, drinks after work back when drinking

was a way to take the edge off a hard day and not a heavy blanket to throw over his feelings. He'd had plenty of casual friends, a handful of close ones, and no real issue maintaining those connections.
Now, though, the thought of rebuilding the friendships he'd lost, repairing

the bridges he'd burnt with his anger and his self-destructive grief and his absolute refusal to get the help he needed until it was nearly too late, is exhausting to contemplate. He isn't sure the Hank who was friends with any of those people even exists, now. He isn't sure how

he'd know.
It's been a slow process, getting to a point where he doesn't hate every moment spent in his own company. Doesn't hate himself for every bad decision he's made, or for being the one to survive the crash. And as that self-hatred has been slowly eroded by time and the

torturous work of accepting help and forcing himself to feel everything he'd tried to run from, he's started to feel, more and more, the space it leaves behind. He doesn't think he'll ever be that same person again, gregarious and full of easy affection for a crowd of friends in

a bar, but he feels the pull for something more than he has now, more people he can share his life with. More than he's had until recently, at least. Shame had kept him from being as close to Ben as he'd wanted, for a while, but that's starting to fade, and of course now there's

Connor, as well.
Connor, in whom Hank had felt that same loneliness, those first few meetings when they'd been more hesitant with each other. Connor deserves a life full of loved ones, Hank thinks; he deserves more than just Hank, certainly, but there's also a relief in

realizing he's been thinking less and less that he doesn't deserve to be with Connor at all.
Hank is surprised when he takes a sip of coffee and finds it's grown cold; he's been letting his mind wander while watching the people passing by for much longer than he'd intended.

He slugs down the rest of the coffee in one gulp, then sighs and stretches as he hauls himself off the park bench and heads back to the car. He'd be tempted to walk farther, if Sumo wasn't waiting for a walk of his own back home, but he thinks he might pop open some windows when

he gets back, to let in some fresh air.
Sumo's excited to see Hank when he returns home, like he always is, but Hank has the vague thought--surely projection, he thinks, but the thought stubbornly remains--that he seems disappointed that he's returned alone. "You like your new

buddy, huh?" Hank asks, as he clips on Sumo's leash and leads him out for a quick trip around the block. "I'll try to bring him back soon."
Hank finds himself whistling tunelessly as he watches Sumo snuffle his way down the street, and by the time they're heading home the aimless

sounds have resolved themselves into a snatch of melody, something familiar that Hank can't quite place. He makes his way to the shelf of records when he returns home, flipping through his collection in an attempt to jar his melody. It's not Miles Davis, it's--Brubeck, maybe?

He sucks his tongue and looks contemplatively at the cover of Time Out, then shrugs and puts it on the turntable; even if the song he's thinking of isn't there, listening to an album he knows he enjoys won't be a hardship.
Hank goes to open some windows, before he forgets, and as

he passes through the kitchen to pop open the small window by the sink he sees the plants he'd bought with Connor the night before, next to the nice pots he'd completely forgotten to repot them in. Now's as good a time as any, he figures; happily, there's plenty of junk mail

piled on the counter that he can spread out to keep dirt from getting everywhere as he does it.
When repotted, his pair of plants--he's pretty sure Connor had called them othos or pothos or something like that--actually look pretty nice, their bright and speckled leaves

contrasting with the slate blue glaze on the pots. He feels a little silly about it, but just looking at them on the kitchen table, once he's swept away the mess, makes him feel like his house is less of a disaster than before. It's been a long time since he brought something

into his home just because it looked nice, or because he thought it would bring him comfort.
Not real comfort, at least; the whiskey had been an attempt at it, but it had been more about drowning out the pain he felt than helping himself through it, and he was all too aware of

how that had ended up: a broken-down door, a slap in the face from his best friend, and the most humiliating night of his life, an endless cycle of vomiting up more than he thought his body could hold and crying until he could barely breathe and asking Ben why he wouldn't fuck

off and let him die in peace.
He didn't even remember what Ben had said to him, then. He knows it doesn't matter, now; whatever he'd said or done during that long, miserable night, it had been enough.
Hank startles at the sharp, repeating click of the needle hitting the end of

the record and can't help but laugh at himself a little, staring moodily at a pair of cute little houseplants and reminiscing about a night he often wishes he could forget entirely. It had led him here, though, to a sunny morning with a breeze stirring his hair and his dog

snoring in the corner, to the promise of seeing people he cares about tomorrow.
Better to focus on that, he thinks, as he flips the record over. I'm the lucky son of a bitch who got another chance. MAKE IT COUNT, he scrawls on a fresh post-it, and slaps it on the bathroom mirror.

Step one of that, perhaps, could be to finish what he'd hurriedly started a couple days ago and clean things up a bit more; he's always had a habit of accumulating clutter even at the best of times, and at his worst, he'd mostly given up worrying about it at all. While most of

the mess he'd let build up has been swept away, what's left has been hanging over his head for weeks now, and Hank figures he'll at least do what he can until this burst of energy fades.
In the end, it's not as much of a pain in the ass as he'd feared; by the time he collapses on

the couch with a cold pop and a bag of pretzels in the mid-afternoon, he's managed to sort through the pile of mail on the counter, throw his towels and bedding in the wash for the first time in an embarrassing number of months, and clean out the half-finished takeout containers

that have slowly been pushed farther and farther into the depths of his fridge, as well as making his way through a good-sized stack of records.
Hank sinks into the couch with a groan loud enough to wake Sumo, who huffs and makes his way over to the couch, resting his head on

Hank's thigh and snuffling hopefully at the pretzels. "Good thing for you I'm a sucker," Hank says, tossing a pretzel in the air; Sumo snaps it up with a wet crunch and wags his tail happily before returning triumphantly to his bed in the corner.
Hank decides he's earned a lazy

afternoon; he turns on the tv, once the last record is over, and half-watches a baseball game, poking at his phone between innings or when the action slows down. He calls Ben eventually, letting him know he's bringing Connor along the next day and chatting a bit about their date.

"It's not--I know it's ridiculous to say things are serious already," he says. "We've had two real dates. But shit, I want it to be. Feels silly to say it."
It doesn't, is what Hank gets stuck on. It should probably feel silly, to feel so strongly about Connor, but it doesn't.

"Do you remember how soon Alan moved in with me after we met?" Ben asks. "Six weeks. And he brought it up after a month."
"Took you five years to get married, though," Hank says, but Ben laughs him off.
"It took that long to decide where we wanted to do it," he says. "Which set

of parents we'd piss off by not having it near them. Point is, we were serious right away, and I like to think things have turned out all right."
"Yeah, you seem to be doing okay," Hank says. "I guess I just--I'm old, I know what I want by now. But it's all new to Connor, what if

what he wants changes, as he gets more experience, has more of a chance to explore things?"
"Then you talk about it," Ben says, fondly exasperated. "You're the grown-ass man in the equation, how do you not know that?"
"Fuck you for being right," Hank says.
"I always am."

"Kenzie's looking forward to seeing you," Ben says, after they've settled on a time for Hank and Connor to arrive. "When I told her you were coming she seemed real happy about it. I know it's been a while, but she clearly remembers you fondly."
Hank winces at that; he knows whose

fault it is that he hasn't seen Kenzie in a few years, at least not for long enough to talk with her much. "Yeah, that's...I'm sorry I haven't been keeping up with her like I used to. She's a good kid, and I miss spending time with her and Al too, but at some point--" he sighs.

"I get it," Ben says. "I do. I just wanted you to know she's excited to see you. She still talks about the time you were babysitting for us and let her eat a whole pint of ice cream."
"Oh lord," Hank groans, "not the ice cream again. You're never going to let me forget that."

"Never," Ben agrees. "Anyway, we're all glad you're coming, and Connor too. We'll be on our best behavior for him."
"Don't do that," Hank says. "He's willing to spend time with me, remember? He's fine with rough edges; he doesn't need to meet the Stepford Wives version of the

Collins family."
"You do know that the Stepford Wives were robots with big boobs who loved housework, right? We couldn't manage that if we tried, Hank."
"All right, asshole," Hank says, laughing. "I'll see your non-Stepford ass tomorrow night."

Hank considers calling Connor after he hangs up the call with Ben, but he's not sure if he's off work yet, plus after Connor's emotional moment in the car that morning, Hank wonders if he might want some extra space. It's so tempting, he thinks, to crowd Connor with attention,

but especially when they're still feelings things out with one another, he doesn't want to invade his space too much, or too often. Still, he doesn't want to ignore him, either.
He settles on taking a picture of the repotted plants on the newly-cleaned counter and texting it to

Connor along with the time he'd settled on with Ben for the next day.
>hope work's been ok
>were any turtles out today?
>I'm free later if you want to talk

Hank doesn't hear anything back for a couple hours; he has time to make an omelet for dinner, take Sumo for a second walk, and run another load of laundry before his phone buzzes on the side table while he's poking through his old paperbacks for something to read.
Connor sounds

cheerful enough on the phone; he tells Hank how nice his plants look in their new pots, informs him that he did indeed see a couple turtles sunning themselves on a rock at the pond, and talks a bit about the work he did that day, mostly weeding in the flower beds on the west side

of the garden.
"Does it get boring?" Hank asks. "Weeding sounds like the least glamorous part of the job."
"As far as gardening can be considered glamorous at all," Connor says dryly. "But no, I wouldn't call it boring, exactly; it requires much less of my attention than other

tasks, but sometimes I appreciate having work like that; it allows me to focus my attention elsewhere while I accomplish my task."
Hank snorts. "Is that a fancy way to say you daydream the whole time?"
"Not exactly, although I wouldn't say that's wrong, either. It's more that I

can use that time to process new information; something about physical activity that doesn't require a great amount of mental engagement creates a mental landscape that is ideal for problem-solving or, yes, daydreaming."
"Anything in particular on your mind today?"
Connor sighs.

"You can probably guess," he says.
"Maybe," Hank says. "I don't want to assume, or make you talk about shit you aren't up for discussing, but, you know. I'm here, if you are. We can just talk about something else, if you'd rather not."
"To be honest, I spent most of today

thinking about meeting your friends. I'm a little nervous, but I'm looking forward to it. I didn't mean to worry you this morning, and I don't think I want to discuss this much, right now, but I was reminded of some of the things the technicians who were--" He takes a deep breath

and sighs again; it's kind of cute, Hank thinks--as much as he realizes now isn't the time to think about how cute Connor is--how Connor's so expressive with a bodily function he probably doesn't need in the first place.
"When I was being held for testing," he says, finally.

"The technicians talked about me like I wasn't there. Or, I suppose, like they didn't think my presence should have any impact on how they discussed me, just as they wouldn't worry about what they said in front of a toaster."

"Christ," Hank says. "I can't imagine they said much that you wanted to hear."
"They didn't." Hank hears soft noises from Connor's end, like he's just pulled a fuzzy sweater over his head, or maybe a blanket. "I don't--I don't want to talk about it, beyond this. I try not to

think about that time much at all, although it's unavoidable to a certain extent. A couple of them had frequented android sex clubs. Unlicensed ones, I think, where there weren't many rules about how the androids could be treated. They had a lot of opinions about what we were and

were not good for."
"Fuck." Hank doesn't think he wants to hear about this any more than Connor wants to tell him, but if Connor needs to, if that's what will help, then he needs to listen.
"I won't repeat what they sad," Connor said, quietly. "And I know it shouldn't bother me."

"It's ok if it does," Hank says. "They were full of shit, whatever they said to you, but you're still allowed to be upset about it. Or pissed off."
"I know," Connor says, quietly. "I know. But you hear enough times how you might be pretty but you're the kind of thing someone

enjoys in secret but doesn't show off to their friends..."
"Maybe you start to believe it a little bit?"
"A little," Connor says. "There was more to it than that. What they said. But this morning when I was so happy to be invited, to know you wanted me to meet your friends, those

words played back from my memory loud enough to drown everything else out. It's hard to shake that feeling, that there's something fundamental about me that means I'm not..."
"Honey," Hank says, "we keep talking about heavy shit when I'm too far away to hug you." He'd drive over

to deliver one, if Connor asked, but he wishes Connor was telling this to him while his head was resting in Hank's lap, that he could settle a reassuring hand on his chest.
"But I know you'd give me one if you could," Connor says. "That you wouldn't agree with any of it."

"Tomorrow," Hank says. "I'll make up for not being there now. Hell, if you need me to come pick you up early so we can get a little cuddle in before dinner, just let me know."
"We'll see," Connor says, and Hank's relieved to hear some of the tension bleed out of his voice.

"Thank you, Hank. For reassuring me, and not asking me to tell you more about what happened. Maybe someday, I'll feel like I can discuss it, but for now..."
"I get it," Hank says; there's certainly plenty that he hasn't felt ready to talk to Connor about yet. He feels a growing

certainty that he will want to, at some point; maybe that's how Connor feels about his own experiences. A sense that they can trust each other, even if they're still each working towards being able to bare themselves so fully. "But Connor, there's nothing--you know there's

nothing about you I'd want to hide, from Ben or his family or anyone else, right?"
"I know."
"You ever need a reminder, let me know. Please."
"I will," Connor says. "I don't want to lean on you too much while I learn how to stop worrying about it, but. I'll try to ask, if I need

to. For now, though--"
"Yeah?"
"I'd love to talk about anything else. Can you tell me about your day?"
"My day was pretty boring," Hank says. "I cleaned up a little, listened to some records, took the pup for a couple walks."
"Tell me about the music you like, then," Connor says.

"I feel silly admitting it, but I haven't listened to much music at all. Not intentionally, at least; there's plenty of ambient music one runs into out in the world, but I haven't heard enough to form any real opinions about what I like."
"I have plenty of opinions, if you want

to hear 'em."
"Please. And maybe soon you can play some of your favorites for me."
Hank feels momentarily wistful for the days of painstakingly crafting mixtapes for people he dated, complete with detailed notes scribbled on a folded sheet of paper shoved into the cassette case.

"Do you want me to put on a record or two right now?" Hank asks. "We can listen together, and you can tell me what you think."
"That sounds lovely, if you don't mind."
"Nah, I was probably going to just read and play more records anyway for the rest of the night, and listening

with you sounds better than that. Any requests?"
"I'm not sure what I'd enjoy or what kinds of music you have; I'd like to hear your favorite, or something you find interesting."
"Interesting, huh?" Hank stares thoughtfully at the stack of records sitting next to the turntable

and pulls Time Out from the bottom of the pile. "I was listening to one earlier today, one of my favorites I guess, that does interesting stuff with time signatures, if that sounds up your alley." He's not sure if Connor knows what a time signature is, if he isn't familiar with

music much at all, but if he wants something interesting, it seems like a safe bet for a first album to play.
Connor's response is immediate; he breathes out a soft, pleased "oh!" after the first few bars, when the frantic, stuttering melody on piano is joined by a saxophone.

"It's...it's so energetic," he says, quietly. "I'm not sure I understand the pattern."
"Keep listening," Hank says. "It'll make sense eventually."
It does, but Connor asks Hank to restart the record three times before he's satisfied enough to move on to the next song, and on the

final listen Hank thinks he hears a faint tapping on Connor's end, as if he's trying to keep time on something nearby.
They listen to some Miles Davis next--Hank's never been that excited about him, but he has a few records in his collection and Connor seems to like them more

than he does--and Connor only reluctantly turns down his offer to play something else, after that.
"I have so much to think about, already," Connor says, "but I'd love to listen to more music with you the next time I'm at your house."
"Sure thing," Hank says. "I've got three milk

crates full of records, next time you can go through them yourself and pick out whatever you want."
They talk a bit more after that, but before long Hank starts yawning, and Connor good-naturedly shoos him off the phone.
"I got you up early," he says. "You should get some rest."

Hank is tired enough that he doesn't protest; they talk for a few minutes more, but Hank finds himself heading to bed, paperback in tow, a half-hour later. The bed's unmade, as it always is, and the neatly-folded clothes Connor had borrowed for pajamas look out of place next to

the pillow. Hank smiles as he shoves them into a drawer where he'll hopefully be able to find them later; he likes the thought of Connor having his own set of pajamas at his house, if he's going to stay over with any regularity.
Spurred on by his conversation with Ben about how

soon he and Alan had moved in together, he lets himself imagine, as he drifts off, what it might be like if Connor was around all the time, not just when they arranged a date. He pictures his closet half-full of fashionable clothes, greenery bursting from every shelf and

windowsill, and Sumo delighted to have two suckers around who are willing to spoil him. Waking up to the sound of Connor's voice, and not an alarm. Knowing, when it's 2am and he can't sleep, that even if he's awake and miserable, he isn't alone.
Even now, Hank knows, he's not

alone. Not in the way he thought he was, for a long time. It's a comforting thought, and for once, he doesn't tell himself that he's bound to ruin things, or that he doesn't deserve the quiet contentment it brings him. He just breathes deeply, clutches his spare pillow to his

chest, and falls asleep.

"Everything okay?" Hank asks Connor the next evening, as he pulls out of his apartment complex towards Ben's house. "You seem a little tense."
Connor considers the question for a moment before he replies. "A little nervous, I think. I know these are your

friends, and that you wouldn't ask me to spend time with people you didn't think were kind, but I haven't been in any sort of social gathering with a group before, or met so many new people at once in a positive context. It's becoming more intimidating the more I think about it."

"That makes sense," Hank says, although his heart sinks at the thought of what the negative context of being around several strangers must have been. "I get that reassuring you can only go so far, but they really are sweet folks."
"I'm sure they are." He leans in quickly before

the light they're stopped at changes and gives Hank a kiss on the cheek. "You're too sweet not to have sweet friends. I think I'll be able to relax a bit once I'm there, but for the moment it's so easy to imagine ways in which I might make things awkward."
"Here's a tip," Hank

says, like he's imparting a closely-guarded secret. "If you feel stuck and aren't sure what to say at any point, just ask Kenz about what she's been baking lately and she will do all the talking for you, for as long as you're willing to listen. I guarantee it."
"I don't know

anything about baking," Connor says, "but I think I'd like to learn about it."
"See? You're her ideal audience. She'll probably leave us to our boring adult conversations at some point, but I promise you'll score points with everyone if you ask her to chat about cakes and shit

with you over dinner."
"I can do that,"Connor says. "It's actually quite helpful, having a concrete action I can take if I'm not sure how to take part in the larger conversation." He pats Hank's thigh, high enough that Hank knows he'll be thinking about it all night. "Thank you."

"No problem," Hank says. "And if you get peopled out, or you want to leave or something, let me know, all right? I'm not trying to fuss over you too much here, but I know this is new for you. I don't want you to be uncomfortable."
"I'm sure that won't be necessary," Connor says,

"but knowing I could ask to leave, if I needed to, without upsetting you does put me at ease."
"Good." Hank pulls into the Collins' driveway and squeezes Connor's hand. "Let's go have a nice time."
Ben's standing in the doorway ready to greet them before they have the chance to

knock. "Saw you pull up from the kitchen window," he says. "Come on in!" He pats Hank's shoulder as he leads them inside, not quite a hug but warmer than a handshake. "Connor, glad you could make it."
"Thank you," Connor says. "I appreciate the invitation."
"Of course! We're

happy to have you. Dinner's almost ready and I've been officially kicked out of the kitchen, so you two can keep me company while the competent members of the family finish up."
"That's probably for the best," Hank says dryly, as he and Connor settle into the large, worn-in sofa

in the living room. "You know I'd trust you with my life but trusting you to make something edible? That might be a step too far."
"To be fair, he can at least make toast without burning it, these days," a voice calls out from the kitchen. "I've got my hands full, sorry, but I'm

glad you're both here!"
"Need an extra hand, Al?" Hank asks. "I'm not much, but I think I know my way around a frying pan a little better than your husband does."
"We're good, thanks. Almost ready."
Hank hears a murmured conversation from the kitchen, and a moment later a tall,

gangly preteen emerges from the kitchen. "I'm being polite and saying hello," she says. "Hi, Mister Anderson."
"Hey, Kenz," Hank says. "You know you can just call me Hank, it's fine."
"It's weird to call adults by their first name," she says, shaking her head. "I can't do it."

"I'm Connor, but I don't have a last name," Connor says, "so I'm not sure what you'd call me, in that case."
"Oh!" Kenzie steps into the living room, peering at him curiously. "That's fine, then. It's not weird if that's the only name you have."
"Thank you," Connor says gravely.

"How long have you and Mister Anderson been boyfriends?"
"Not too long," Connor says. "Just a few weeks."
"Where did you meet him?"
"Hon, don't interrogate him," Ben says, with an apologetic grimace. "Connor's our guest, not a suspect."
"I don't mind," Connor says. "Do you know

the municipal garden downtown?"
Kenzie nods. "We've been there, a couple times. That's where you met?"
"I work there," Connor says. "I saw Hank one day when he was walking in the garden, and he was so handsome I started a conversation with him."
"Huh," Kenzie says. She looks at

Hank appraisingly and shrugs, unimpressed. "If you like beards, I guess."
"Ouch," Hank says, laughing. "Jesus, kid, you don't pull any punches."
"All right," Ben says, steering Kenzie back out of the room, "how about you check in with your pop about dinner, and rethink how we

talk to guests in our house?"
"Ugh, sure," Kenzie huffs. "I wasn't being mean, though."
"You kinda were, bear," Ben says. "Let's try again in a minute, okay?" He kisses her on the top of her head while gently pushing her out of the room.
"Sorry," he says, once she's back in the

kitchen. "We're working on polite conversation, but some days it's an uphill battle."
"I'm not offended by a preteen not liking my beard," Hank protests, still laughing a little, but Ben shakes his head.
"It's still rude, and we don't want to teach her that it's okay to be rude

as long as it's funny. She's had a few fights with friends that I think were exacerbated by some of the shit she says without thinking, so." He shrugs. "We're trying to help her think about it more."
It isn't surprising that Ben, who's such a good friend, is a good dad as well,

but it's been a while since Hank's seen it in action, and even longer since they had any real conversations about parenting. It had been too painful for Hank, for a long time. It might be too painful even now, if he thinks about it too much, but for the moment, he's fine.

"Alan's been doing some gardening," Ben says. "I think he's looking forward to having someone who knows one end of a trowel from the other to talk to about it."
"I'd love to," Connor says. "Hank can tell you that I'm happy to discuss plants and garden maintenance at great length,

whether or not my audience shares my interest."
"Just because I'm clueless doesn't mean I'm not interested," Hank grumbles, and Connor pats his knee reassuringly. "I don't know though, Ben, you don't know how to garden, you don't know how to cook, what did Alan marry you for?"

"His ass, mostly." Alan strides in from the kitchen, tea towel slung over his shoulder, and shakes Hank's hand vigorously as he stands from the couch. "Good to see you, Hank, it's been forever."
"Yeah," Hank says. "It has, sorry."
"No worries, it's just good to have you here."

"And Connor!" Alan grins as he shakes his hand. "So glad you could make it as well, it's great to meet you. I might want to pick your brain a little later about some landscaping I'm doing if you aren't allergic to talking shop when you're off the clock."
"I'd be happy to," Connor

says. "Thank you."
"Kenz and I have wrangled dinner into submission, finally, if you'd like to come eat."
"I'll lead the way," Ben says, sidling in front of Alan as they head back to the kitchen, "so you can keep an eye on the reason you married me."
"I also married him because

he's so thoughtful," Alan says. "Connor, I did get something for you to eat on a friend's recommendation but I realize I don't know your preferences at all, so I hope it's all right."
"That's very kind of you, thanks," Connor says, as they follow Alan back to the kitchen. "I have

limited experience with thirium-based food or drink, so I appreciate the chance to try something new."
Kenzie's waiting at the table for them; she looks equal parts sullen and embarrassed as she turns to Hank, who winds up sitting next to her.
"Sorry about your beard," she says.

"About what I said about it, I mean. I wasn't trying to insult you."
"No harm done," Hank says. "You and your pop put a lot of work into making all this for us, huh? Looks good."
Hank cooks for himself sometimes, a little more than he used to, but still he's used to pretty simple

dishes, nothing that uses up multiple pans or takes too long. What Alan serves up, though, clearly took some time; there's a salad with fried almonds and pickled red onion, fresh bread, some kind of fish Hank immediately forgets the name of cooked with herbs and lemon, and a pile

of potatoes and other vegetables roasted in a miso and lemon glaze.
"I haven't eaten anything this nice in a long time," Hank says, taking it in. "You didn't need to pull out all the stops for me, but I sure appreciate it."
"Having guests is a good excuse," Alan says. "I think my

sous chef did a fantastic job assisting, but you'll have to tell us what you think."
Connor's plate has a small pile of blue cubes that look a bit like jello. "Ginger told us she likes those the best," Kenzie says. "They have a good texture, or something."
Hank thinks it looks

a little sad, in comparison to the feast he's just been served up, but Connor seems delighted. He gives Connor's thigh a gentle squeeze under the table and Connor turns to him and smiles. "This is good," he says very quietly, when Ben's distracted getting drinks for everyone.

And it is good; Hank hadn't been nervous about the evening, not exactly, but he's still good at picturing every misstep or mistake he could make to ruin things, and despite everyone's best efforts there was no guarantee that Connor would feel entirely comfortable when outnumbered

by strangers, but within the first few minutes of everyone sitting down together, he's able to put those stray worries to rest.
Alan's never been as outgoing as Ben is, but he's incredibly kind; he makes an effort to ask Connor questions and include him in the larger conversation

as it bounces around the table without making too big a fuss over him. "What else are you into, besides gardening?" he asks, in a lull in the conversation.
Connor finishes chewing one of his cubes and considers for a moment. Hank sees him fidgeting under the table, tapping his

fingertips on his thigh in a pattern he can't make out, but he doesn't seem agitated as he replies. "I'm still figuring it out, as silly as that may seem," he says. "I do have an extensive houseplant collection at home, although of course that's an extension of my interest in

gardening outside. I think I'm interested in music, but I need to listen to more to understand what my tastes are. I like dogs very much, and while I haven't been able to directly interact with many, I hope I'm able to in the future." He grins at Hank. "Our first date was at a

dog park, actually; Hank brought Sumo along so I could meet him."
"Ah, a chaperone," Ben says. "To make sure you two behaved."
"I bribed him with jerky," Connor says. "He would have let me do anything I wanted, I'm afraid."
"Who, Hank or the dog?"
"Both," says Hank, hoping the

heat that prickles up his neck isn't visible to anyone else. "Both of us."
"If you want to pet more dogs, I know what you should do," Kenzie announces, before Hank can say anything else. "At the animal shelter they need volunteers to take dogs out to poop and stuff, and to

practice walking on a leash so they can be adopted sooner. Dad and I went every week last summer, and one time we got to hold a bunch of kittens too."
"Oh," Connor says. "I've never had the opportunity to pet a kitten, or any cat at all. That sounds wonderful."
"Pop, this is why

we need a kitty," Kenzie says, clearly returning to a long-established point of contention as she turns to Alan and gives what is clearly a well-practiced pout. "If we had a cat, Connor could come and pet her. No one should go without petting a cat, that's just--it's wrong!"

"Hon, I'm still going to be allergic whether or not Connor or anyone else has had a chance to pet a cat before," Alan says. "If I wasn't going to spend every day sneezing, you know we'd let you pick out a cat at the shelter, but I'd be miserable."
"I'm miserable without a cat,"

Kenzie mumbles, scowling, and shoves a huge bite of potato into her mouth.
"I heard you're interested in baking," Connor says, in an endearingly transparent effort to change the subject. "What's your favorite recipe to make?"
"Why d'you want to hear about it if you can't eat it?"

If Connor's bothered by Kenzie's bluntness, he doesn't show it. "I don't think it's odd to find food interesting even if I can't eat it. Aren't there things you want to know more about even if you can't or don't want to experience them directly?"
"I guess so," Kenzie says.

"Oh! Like cave diving. Did you know that it's the most dangerous form of caving and of scuba diving?"
"I did not," Connor says politely.
"So many people die that they have to leave the bodies in the cave, because rescue divers go in to recover bodies and then *they* die and they

just stay down there in the dark forever," she says, reverently. "I'm afraid of caves but I'm not afraid of reading about them. There was this one time when--"
"Bear, that's a bit much for the dinner table," Alan says, interrupting before Kenzie can get to whatever grisly detail

she's eager to share. "No dead body talk right now, okay? I'm guessing Connor would rather hear about that pie you made for tonight."
"I would love to hear about the pie," Connor says, nodding encouragingly. "Or about any other baking accomplishments you'd like to share."

Alan sags with relief when Kenzie cheerfully switches topics, informing Connor that it's a tart, not a pie before explaining what the difference between the two is and how she combined two existing recipes to create it.
"That's the easy way to win her over," Ben murmurs to Hank.

"She'll talk Connor's ear off if he isn't careful, though."
"I don't think he minds," Hank replies, and Connor's foot nudges him in what he assumes is agreement.
As skeptical as Kenzie had been about Connor's interest, she quickly learns what Hank already knows: he's a good

listener, happy to listen to her rambling monologue about why custard tarts are so difficult to make but ready to ask thoughtful questions at the natural pauses in her explanation. He doesn't talk down to her; Hank wonders if he's ever talked to a child at all before tonight, or

if the thought had even occurred to him to speak differently to her than he did to anyone else. Kenzie strikes Hank as the sort of kid who respects anyone who talks to her like an adult, and as the conversation progresses he can clearly see that Connor's won her respect.

"It's dumb that you can't eat anything," Kenzie says, finally. "Other than your squishy cubes, I mean. It doesn't seem fair that you don't get to."
"I suppose it isn't," Connor says, "but it's all right."
"I'd be pretty mad about it if I was you."
Connor shrugs. He opens his

mouth as if he's going to respond, then sighs and shakes his head.
"Well, if we're all finished with dinner," Ben says, swooping in before the uncomfortable silence can stretch out for more than a few seconds, "I might see if I can rope Hank into helping me with cleanup duty."

"Al, did you want to show Connor what you were thinking of doing in the back garden?"
Alan nods. "If that sounds good to you, Connor?"
"Of course." Connor rests his hand between Hank's shoulderblades as he rises from the table. "I'd offer to help clean as well, but I'm sure the

two of you have it under control."
"Go talk shop," Hank says, leaning back into Connor's touch. "We'll take care of the rest."
"I don't have to help, do I?" Kenzie asks, her voice halfway to a whine.
"You and Pop cooked so you don't need to help clean up," Ben says, "but it might

win you some brownie points if you help anyway."
Kenzie has no apparent interest in brownie points; she's out of her seat the moment she's excused from cleaning duty.
"I knew she'd say no," Ben says, once he and Hank are alone. "She hates doing dishes almost as much as Al does."

Hank isn't particularly fond of washing dishes either, but somehow it's easier to help clean up when it's someone else's house; he's showing his appreciation for the food and the company by trying to make Ben's night a little easier, and Hank is less resistant to helping others

than he is to helping himself.
"You sleeping better lately?" Ben asks, after a minute of scrubbing the counter in silence.
"A little bit," Hank says. "Not always, but yeah, I think it's getting better. Why?"
"You look good. Like you're taking care of yourself."
Hank is all too

aware of the dark circles under his eyes, of the way he still isn't always eating proper meals as often as he should, of the self-destructive thoughts he still has, sometimes. He isn't sure the last few months can make up for years of neglect, but it means something, at least,

that Ben can see a difference. Hank knows he wouldn't bullshit him just to be polite.
"I'm trying," he says. "You know I am."
Ben pats his shoulder. "I do, and it's good to see it." He nods towards the window overlooking the back yard, where Connor's kneeling next to a bush,

pointing to something while Alan nods thoughtfully. "Seems like maybe having Connor around has helped."
"Yeah," Hank says. "It's--I don't want to say it's all him, because it's not. I think I was open to pursuing something with him because shit had already been changing for me, a

little bit. I still don't feel like I have my shit together, and he knows that. He doesn't feel like he does, either, so. Maybe it's good for us both, being able to be honest about where we're at. Being patient with each other."
"I like him," Ben says, and while of course Hank

wasn't waiting for Ben's approval, some small knot of tension eases deep within him, all the same. "I'm happy for you."
"I'm glad," Hank says. "You're both important to me, you know? It helps if you like each other." He wedges a final plate into the dishwasher and surveys the

rest of the kitchen; as messy as it had looked when they got started, it's nearly spotless now. "It feels strange to say it, Ben, but I'm happy too, maybe. With Connor, absolutely, but sometimes I think I'm starting to get there in general." He nudges Ben with his elbow.

"Thanks again, for caring enough not to give up on me."
They've talked about it before, in fits and starts, but Hank doesn't know if he'll ever be able to say exactly how important Ben was to his survival, in those worst days. Maybe he knows; Hank wasn't subtle about how he felt

then, in his words or behaviors, but he's never looked Ben straight in the eye and told him what he thinks late at night, sometimes: I'm only alive because of you. I only made it through rehab because I wanted to believe you were right, when you said you knew I could do it.

"Of course," Ben says. "Thanks for not giving up on yourself."
"I nearly did," Hank says. He hates to admit it now, as obvious as it was at the time, but Ben just shrugs.
"I know," he says. "I know you were close. But you made it."
"And now here I am," Hank says, arms spread

wide. "You're stuck with this old asshole."
He means it as a joke; he knows he's never going to be comfortable talking about what a mess he made of things, or how close he was to taking that last step he wouldn't have been able to come back from, but he realizes as he does that

it does mean a lot, in the end, to be where he is. To be spending time with his best friend while their partners chat about gardening outside. To do something that makes him feel like a human being who knows how to maintain the relationships that mean something to him.

"You're not so bad," Ben says. "I'll manage." He pats Hank on the back and hums in satisfaction as he surveys the now-clean kitchen. "You want to check in on the boys outside, maybe see if they want to come in for dessert in a bit? Kenz'll get restless, I'm sure she's dying to

hear us tell her how good that tart she made is."
"Oh, is that part of the deal? She bakes you fancy shit and in return you tell her it's amazing?"
Ben shrugs. "I wouldn't lie if it was bad, but in all honesty it usually is that good. But yes, the praise is part of the package,

for her. It's great for her to have something she's so skilled at, so it's no skin off our backs to lay it on thick, sometimes. She's enthusiastic about all sorts of shit, and we want her to feel free to do what she enjoys, not just what she's the best at, but right now this is

what she's most excited about so we're trying to encourage her a little extra."
"And getting a constant supply of cake out of the deal doesn't hurt, I'm sure."
"Not at all," Ben says with a wink and a pat to his soft middle.
The sun has just started to set when Hank and Ben step

into the back yard, and Hank takes a second, slowing his stride and wiping his hands on his thighs like they're still wet from cleaning up, to admire how Connor looks in the warm light. He'd worn another sweater today, the color of a fresh egg yolk, and the bright gold of it is

almost glowing as the sun slips behind the treeline behind him. Connor's already smiling, LED spinning a slow, lazy blue as he nods in response to something Alan's saying about aphids, but his face lights up further as he turns to greet Ben and Hank.

"The cleaning crew's all done," Ben announces. "How are you gentlemen getting along out here?"
"Connor's given me some good ideas for the flower bed on the sunny side of the yard," Alan says, "and a few things to try if the goddamn aphids get bad again this year."
"Oh lord," Ben

says, "I hope they stay away this summer, for your sanity if nothing else. I thought you were going to give yourself a heart attack with how angry they made you."
"I don't want them on my flowers, is all," Alan says. "Those little fuckers creep me out."
"You could also try

releasing ladybugs into the garden," Connor says. "The results are less consistent, but if you find yourself with an infestation despite your best efforts, they can be a good remedy. If you add some flowering herbs and other ladybug-friendly plants into the garden, they will be

more likely to remain in the area after release."
"Kenzie would love that, I'm sure," Alan says. "I'll remember that, and maybe if they get bad again this year I'll have her help me with it."
"She strikes me as the kind of kid who'd get a kick out of a big box of bugs,"

Hank says.
"Oh, absolutely." Alan laughs and turns to Ben. "Do you remember when she caught a handful of crickets to keep as pets?"
"Don't remind me," Ben groans. "Half of them escaped the little aquarium she put them in and they drove me crazy chirping from every corner of the

house for days."
Hank wraps his arm around Connor's waist and kisses his temple. "Having a nice time out here?"
"I am," Connor murmurs. "It's nice to talk to someone else who's enthusiastic about gardening. Not that--" he gives Hank an apologetic smile. "I enjoy discussing it

with you, of course, but--"
"But I don't know anything about it," Hank says. "I'm always happy to listen, but I'm sure it's good to get the chance to chat with someone who knows his shit."
The flash of worry Hank had seen in Connor's expression passes as quickly as it had come;

he brushes his lips against Connor's temple again to drive the point home that he's happy to see Connor having a good time, whether Hank's directly involved or not.

"Are we ready for pie, gentlemen?" Ben asks. "Or should we leave you two to it for a while longer?"
"No, I'm ready," Alan says, "although Kenz'll probably strangle us if we keep calling it a pie in front of her."
"She can try," Ben says. "She's tall enough to reach, but her hands

are too small. I'll be fine."
"I'm curious," Connor says, as they head back inside. "How is it that she's so skilled at baking at her age? Has she taken classes?"
"There was a macaron-making class at the community center last summer," Alan says. "We did take her to that. But

beyond that, it was just an interest she picked up a few years ago, watching old baking shows and instructional videos online. My sister's a baker, too, and when she spends time with her they do a lot of baking together. I guess it runs in the family, just not through either of

us."
"She's put a lot of work into it," Ben says. "The really complicated techniques she learned from watching tutorials online. That and lots of trial and error." He opens the fridge and reaches inside, then hesitates and closes it. "I'll let Kenz handle that tart herself;

I'll see if she's ready to come down and serve some up for us."
"Hank, you want some coffee?" Alan asks, as he pulls a french press and a jar of coffee beans out of a cabinet. "I can make enough for you to have a cup, if you want."
"Christ, I'm too old to have coffee at this

hour," Hank says. "I'll be up all night if I do. Sounds great, though, so yeah, what the hell."
"I'll give you a small mug."
"Perfect." Hank laughs.
Kenzie barrels down the stairs a moment later, with Ben following at a more reasonable pace behind her. "Is it ok if I take mine

back up with me?" she asks. "I'm in the middle of something with some friends."
"That's fine," Ben says, after trading a look and nod with Alan. "You might get bored with all the grown-up talk anyway."
"Probably," she says, with a shrug. "Uh, no offense, Mister Anderson. Connor."

"It's all right," Connor says. "I understand that our interests might not align particularly closely. Although I'd be happy to hear more about caves in the future."
Kenzie grins. "I know some good scary stories. Real stuff, not dumb ghost stories. I'll tell you sometime."

"I'd like that," Connor says. "Thank you." He sounds so serious that Kenzie bites her lip with a frown, as if she thinks he might be making fun of her, but whatever she sees in his face seems to convince her of his sincerity.
Kenzie takes on the task of cutting the tart herself,

which means not only do they all get rather big pieces, presumably so it's less obvious that Kenzie's taking such a large slice for herself, but also they're reminded of the various elements that went into the tart: vanilla custard, a layer of rhubarb curd, and an almond crumble

on top. "I took a few recipes and smashed them together," she explains, as she hands a plate to Hank.
"Thanks, honey," Alan says, when they've all been served. "Have fun with your friends, but don't stay up too late."
"I won't," she says. "Have a good night, Mister Anderson and

Connor. Can you bring Sumo over next time?"
"If your dads say it's okay," Hank says. "He might need to stay outside, though."
"We'll talk about it later," Ben says, which is good enough for Kenzie; with a little wave she runs back upstairs, and a moment later they hear her door

slam overhead.
"She must have been in a real hurry if she didn't wait for us to tell her how good the pie is," Ben says, once they're settled in the living room with their dessert and coffee.
"After all this buildup, I have high expectations," Hank says. "What the hell is rhubarb

curd, anyway?"
"You could eat it and find out," Connor says. Alan barks out a laugh at that, and Hank can't help but chuckle a little, too.
"All right, smartass," he says. He cuts off a bite that's a little too big and shoves it in his mouth anyway.
"Oh shit," he says around the

bite in his mouth, so delighted by the taste of it he forgets his manners entirely. "'s really good."
"That's our girl," Ben says, with such gentle fondness it tugs at that deep, familiar hurt in Hank's chest. He takes a deep breath and focuses on chewing, on the contrast between

the sweet and sharp flavors in his mouth, on the coffee that's almost too hot to drink. He settles his hand over Connor's where it's resting on his thigh.
If Ben notices anything about his reaction, he's too polite to comment on it, for which Hank is thankful.
Conversation over

dessert is light and meandering; Hank asks Alan about his recent promotion within the health department, they discuss a bit more of his plans for the gardens in the back, and eventually when Ben's woodworking comes up in conversation, Connor eagerly presses him for more details.

"I'm interested in handicrafts in general," he says. "I think I'd like to find a similar hobby, something that allows me to make a beautiful or functional object."
Hank lets himself tune out a little, as Ben happily indulges Connor by discussing the projects he's most proud of,

and the materials he prefers to work with; he doesn't ignore the conversation entirely, but he focuses more on the warm sound of Ben's voice and the enthusiasm he can practically feel radiating off of Connor beside him. He drinks his coffee slowly, slips his fingers between

Connor's, and enjoys spending a stretch of quiet, unhurried time with friends for the first time in months.
It isn't exactly late, when everyone's plates are licked clean, but none of them, save for Connor, are young enough that they're particularly fond of late nights anymore.

"Looks like it's time for us to head out," Hank says, in the next lull in the conversation. "Don't want to overstay our welcome."
"Well, you aren't doing that," Ben says, "but I'm going to be ready to turn in before too long, so I'd better kick you boys out before I fall asleep."

"Sure thing, old man," Hank says. Ben's four years younger than he is, but it's been a joke between them for a long time. "Guess I should get my ancient bones home, too."
"Thank you again for inviting me," Connor says, as they all head for the door. "I enjoyed meeting you, and if

you'd like to spend time together in the future, I'd like that very much."
"Oh my god," Alan says. "Come here, you goober, do you like hugs?"
"I do," Connor says, mostly into Alan's shoulder; he'd pulled Connor in before he could fully answer.
"Maybe you can come help out, if I

decide to try out those ladybugs," Alan says. "I'll text you if I do. That number you gave me, uh...is that just you?"
Connor taps his LED as he pulls away. "It is," he says. "I'm not sure how to explain the process, but if you text me, I don't need any additional equipment to

get the message."
"Huh. The wonders of modern fucking technology," Alan says. "I'm glad you could make it, Connor. And you too," he adds, turning to Hank. "Don't be a stranger, ok?" He takes Hank's hand and claps him on the back. "It's good to see you doing better."
"Good to be

feeling better," Hank says. "Thanks, Al."
"Good night?" Ben asks. He knows the answer, of course, but Hank's glad to give it to him, anyway.
"Yeah. Tell Kenz her dessert was amazing, will you? It was good to see her, really. I know I didn't...couldn't, for a while, but."

Hank shrugs. "I'm glad I got the chance. She's a good kid."
There's another brief moment of chatting, but Hank really does want to be a good guest, and as much as he's enjoying himself, he's ready to have some time alone, too. Or alone with Connor.
"Not to presume anything,"

Hank says, once they're in the car, "but where should I take you? I'm happy to drive you home, or, you know. Back to my place, if you want that."
"I was going to ask if I could come home with you," Connor says, placing a hand on Hank's shoulder. "Or at least, I was planning on

saying yes if you asked. But I--" he leans over, sliding his hand to the back of Hank's head to coax him down for a kiss. It's soft and gentle, but Hank can feel the tension behind it, an emotional weight that Connor's holding back. "I'm a bit overwhelmed, right now. Tonight was

wonderful, it genuinely was, but I wasn't expecting to feel the way I do now, at the end of it."
"Are you okay? Was it too much, should we have left earlier?"
"No, no," Connor says. "Not too much. And I want to--it's tempting, to go home with you. I've given a lot of thought to

the time we spent together Friday night." He licks his lips. "I've given a lot of thought to how that felt. What else I'd like to feel. But so much happened tonight, so many things I need to process and integrate into my understanding of myself, and I want to be able to give you

my full attention, if we--" He kisses Hank's cheek. "The next time we spend time together, like that."
"That's a lot of attention," Hank says. "You can focus on ten things at once, can't you?"
"Not if there's one important thing in front of me." Connor blinks slowly, like a cat.

"I'd rather not head home just yet, though," Connor says. "Is there someplace we could go, just for a little while?"
"Yeah, let's--" Hank's suddenly very aware that they're still in driveway; having a conversation in front of Ben's house feels like they're still lurking on the

doorstep. "Here, I'll start driving and we can figure it out. You aren't ready to turn in yet, huh?"
"I'd like to spend some time with just you, first, if that's all right."
"Of course it is," Hank says. "We could head back to the riverfront, the path near the dog park is

probably lit up at night, but it's plenty quiet out that way."
"That sounds perfect," Connor says. "Just for a little while."
Connor's quiet as they drive, and when Hank glances over, he looks thoughtful, gazing out the window as they weave through town and tapping out another

complicated rhythm on his knee with his fingertips. It's a peaceful sort of contemplation, Hank thinks; he doesn't seem upset, just a little subdued.
"I get a little tired, sometimes, after hanging out with people," Hank says. "Not that I've done it much, lately, spending time

with a bunch of folks at once, but in general, you know? Even being with people you care about a lot, even when you're having a good time, it can take a lot out of you."
"Oh?" Connor turns to him curiously. "That's a comfort to hear. I wondered if there was something wrong, that

could enjoy myself so much but still feel so overwhelmed at the end of the evening."
"Connor, I'm a little tired and I just spent the night with my closest friend and his husband and kid who I already know and like," Hank says. "You just spent several hours with complete

strangers, when you'd never been social with a group of people before at all. I'd be surprised if you weren't feeling overwhelmed and exhausted right now. There's nothing surprising about that, to me." He pats Connor's shoulder as he pulls into the lot by the waterfront.

"Seriously, there's nothing wrong with you for feeling that way."
Connor takes Hank's hand when he offers it, and they stroll down to the water together. "It isn't wrong for you, maybe," he says, after silently watching the river traffic for a minute. "I was designed to integrate

socially with humans, to fit in smoothly. If it's stressful to do those things, have I fallen short of what I was programmed to do?" He huffs out a frustrated breath. "It's ridiculous, I know, to care about what someone else intended for me to be, when I've tried so hard to move

past my original purpose. To atone for it. But still, if I have this programming in me, why is it hard?"
Hank doesn't like to talk about what Connor was programmed to do, or how deliberately he was created; he doesn't understand how that process works, not in any detail, and he

doesn't want to say the wrong thing, to hurt Connor with some clueless comment that stings even though he doesn't mean it to. He doesn't want Connor to doubt himself like this either, though, so he squeezes his hand and does his best.
"They didn't program you to have fun, did

they?"
Connor shakes his head slowly. "I was either incapable of fun, as far as any of them knew, or they knew the truth and simply didn't care enough to make it a concern," he says. "I don't know which of the two I'd prefer to be true."
"Making you good at talking to people

doesn't mean making it easy," Hank points out. "I'm pretty sure you charmed the pants right off everyone tonight, but you can be sweet and charming and still feel like you need to recharge after a little party. Hell, I wouldn't be offended if you needed that after spending time

with me."
"Only a little," Connor says, with a small smile. "So much has happened in a short span of time that it's been helpful to give myself a few extra moments to sort through everything I've experienced with you. Every new thing I'm feeling."

"If I'm ever not giving you that space," Hank begins; Connor shakes his head and puts his hand on Hank's arm to interrupt him before he can continue.
"I'd tell you, if it was an issue," he says. "But it hasn't been."
"All right." Hank wraps his arm around Connor's waist and holds

him close as they stand in silence once more. He knows this isn't the space Connor needs, the time to contemplate the events of the day in silence, but maybe it's halfway there; there's a comfort he feels in occupying the same space as Connor even as they're each quietly lost ins

their own thoughts. He kisses Connor's temple, and squeezes his hip, and watches him watch the reflection of light from the city ripple and shift over the dark water.
"Dumb question, maybe," Hank says, after a few minutes. A thought's been pressing at him all evening, since

Kenzie's initial attempt to engage Connor in conversation. "You told Kenz you talked to me at the garden that first time because you thought I was handsome, but it can't just be that." It's not a question, exactly, but Hank doesn't quite feel like can ask the big question,

the one that still confuses him. "Why me?" dies in his mouth before he can speak, but Connor hears it anyway.
"Can't it?" Connor asks, so innocently Hank can't help but roll his eyes. "Do you want to know the rest of the truth? What I told Kenzie is entirely accurate, of course,

but there was more to my decision than that."
"Yeah, I think I do," Hank says. "It doesn't keep me up at night or anything, but I know I can't come up with a good reason on my own."
"I wanted to answer your question; that's always part of my job, providing information if guests

ask. You may not have asked directly, but it seemed appropriate to respond. I continued the conversation because--yes, at first because you were handsome. I had come to understand, in the same way I slowly understood I was interested in exploring physical intimacy with someone,

that I am attracted to men, but there was something...abstract, perhaps? An abstract quality to that knowledge. Seeing you made me understand the shape of that attraction more. I was interested in men, yes, but it was a certain kind of man I felt a stronger pull towards."

"What kind, old and washed up?"
"That's an unfair assessment," Connor says pursing his lips in irritation. "I'm sure you know that."
"I just don't know what else I would have looked like to you, then."
"I hadn't had a lot of close contact with men built like you," Connor says.

"Big men. Some taller or broader than I am, yes, but not both at once. No one who'd looked so solid, in such an appealing way." Connor snuggles into Hank's side with an appreciative sigh. "No one with hands like yours. Beyond that initial attraction, though, something about you

tugged at my attention. You looked tired, and a little sad, but beneath that..."
Connor turns to Hank and cups his cheek. "You looked kind."

"That's what you saw in me?"
Connor nods. "It is. You've proven me right, of course. From the beginning."
It's sweet, but it's a little sad, too, that kindness had been so rare in Connor's life that the barest suggestion of it had caught his attention.
"I'm trying," Hank says.

"God knows you deserve it. You deserve the best I can give you."
"It's hard to know what I deserve," Connor says. "I think we're the same in this, aren't we? Hesitant to believe it of ourselves, but not of each other."
Hank laughs. "Yeah, I think we are. Guess I could argue why

you shouldn't have to feel that way, but you'd probably say the same to me."
"I would," Connor says. He eyes Hank thoughtfully. "It's only fair that I ask you the same question, isn't it?"
"What's that?"
"Why did you come back, that second time, to look for me?"
"I didn't know

what I was expecting," Hank says slowly, as he gathers his thoughts, "when I went to the garden that first time. Just wanted somewhere that felt peaceful, I guess. And shit, you know you're gorgeous without me telling you, but you were standing so close, looking at me like--like

I was worth looking at. You told me to find you again, if I came back, and that was it, I guess. I wasn't sure if I was reading things wrong, or what, but you said you wanted to see me again, and I sure as hell wanted to see you, so..." he shrugs. "I just knew I wanted to go back

and find you."
"Here I am," Connor says, pulling Hank in for a slow, lingering kiss. He winds his arms around Hank's back, startling him into a surprised grunt when he slips one hand under the hem of his shirt to rest one palm over his spine.
"Sorry," Connor laughs. "I didn't

mean to startle you; you're just so warm. You feel good."
"Are you cold?" Hank runs hot, so he's plenty comfortable in the cool spring evening, but he has no idea what's comfortable for Connor as far as temperature goes. "Do we need to go back to the car?"
"We probably should,"

Connor says, "but not because I'm cold. Is that all right?"
"Sure," Hank says. "I know you just wanted to hang out here for a bit." He kisses Connor again. "Let's go."
Connor clings to him as they walk back to the car, and takes his hand once they're inside, only reluctantly

dropping it once Hank pulls out onto the road. "I want you to understand," he says, "how tempting it is to go home with you tonight. I'm--I can't stop thinking about Friday night."
"Oh?" Hank hasn't exactly been able to keep that night out of his mind either, but he's not above

fishing for more, if Connor's willing to tell him.
"I know I need this time to myself, tonight," he says, "but I want--I'd rather be in your bed. I want to touch you."
Hank's hands tighten on the wheel. "Hell of a thing to tell a man while he's driving," he says, voice strained.

"I'm sorry," Connor says. "I don't want to distract you."
"Don't apologize," Hank says. "Christ, any time you want to say something like that to me, I want to hear it." He swallows, keeping his eyes on the road. "Just. Maybe warn me first, if I'm behind the wheel."
"Is it all

right if I continue?"
Hank rubs his suddenly-damp palms on his thighs, one at a time so he doesn't lose his grip on the steering wheel entirely. "Yeah," he says hoarsely, eyes pinned to the road.
"I can tell how aroused you are. Your heartrate has increased, your face is flushed,

and you're sweating more. It's captivating." Connor sighs. "I want to map the entire landscape of your body with my tongue, to taste your sweat and your arousal and feel you respond to my touch."
"Fuck," Hank breathes. He's getting hard already, and the thought that Connor can

somehow tell, that he might be able to read his body so well that he can sense the first stirrings of arousal in his cock, makes him ache more; he feels the pulse of his blood thundering throughout his body. "Connor, you--"
"I want so much," Connor blurts out, "and I'm tired of

waiting. I hate knowing I'm doing the right thing but wishing I was willing to make a bad decision if it meant experiencing what I'm so hungry for."
"Most people aren't so responsible about this," Hank admits, as he turns into the lot in front of Connor's apartment. "I made a lot

of bad choices when I was younger because I hadn't learned not to think with my dick all the time, and there's something to be said, sometimes, about making those choices when you know full well you shouldn't. But you know what you need right now, and I think you should listen to

that. I'm not going anywhere, remember? I'm here, when you feel ready."
"I'm sorry," Connor says again, holding up a hand to stop Hank before he can tell him, again, not to apologize. "Please. I apologize if I'm sending mixed signals by describing how I want you, sexually, when

I've already said I need time to myself tonight. I've just--I've taken in so much new information, and even as some things have become clearer, it's evident that I need more time to understand how I'm feeling."
Hank turns off the ignition and takes Connor's hand. "I think you're

worrying about this more than you need to, at least as far as I'm concerned. Take that time, please." He kisses Connor's fingertips one by one. "Tonight was a lot for you, I know. It stirred up some stuff for me, too. You aren't hurting my feelings by asking me to take you home."

"You're so good to me," Connor murmurs. "I was right, when I thought I saw kindness in you that day we met."
"It's--" it's not nothing, which is what Hank nearly says due to his own discomfort with compliments or praise. But he knows it isn't, that kindness itself was a novelty

in Connor's life and something he hadn't experienced nearly enough of when they met. "You make it easy," he says, instead.
"I should go," Connor says reluctantly, "but let's plan something together soon."
"Of course," Hank says. "If I have the chance I'll try to swing by on my

break a couple times this week in case I can catch you, but we'll work out something else, too." He squeezes Connor's hand. "Thank you for coming with me tonight. I'm so glad you could meet my friends."
"I don't think I can express how much it meant for you to want me there,"

Connor says. "I suppose it meant a great deal to us both." He leans in for a quick, gentle kiss. "Good night, Hank."

Hank takes Sumo on a slightly shorter walk than usual, but he still gives him time to snuffle around his favorite bushes and nose hopefully at the trash can at a

neighbor's house that had once, four years ago, contained a hamburger and which Sumo has never forgotten. He thinks about when he'd walked outside to see Connor smiling in the warm afternoon sunlight, that brief moment during which Hank could take a moment to admire him

unobserved. He wonders if Connor is able to save an image like that, if he can take some sort of snapshot with his mind or preserve a memory somehow, trap it in amber so it's able to be pulled out and experienced whenever he wishes.
If Hank had the ability, he thinks, he'd

capture that moment; since he can't, he fixes the image in his mind the best he can, as he finishes the walk and takes a long, hot shower. He's still thinking about what Connor had said in the car too, about wanting to come home with him, but as turned on as he'd been, as turned

on as he still is, there's a lack of urgency to it; he gives his cock a few slow strokes as he soaps up, but while it feels good he doesn't go any further. Instead, the Connor at the forefront of his mind as he winds down for the evening is laughing at the dinner table with his

friends, he's giving gardening tips, he's--
"He's part of my life," Hank says out loud. His time spent with Connor's been mostly focused on just the two of them, which they've both enjoyed, but something about seeing him in the context of the life Hank wants to live, the life

he's trying to get back to, where he has friends and helps with the dishes and makes small talk with kids without wanting to die, has cemented the feeling he'd described to Ben the day before. Maybe it is too soon, maybe he's making a fool out of himself, but it doesn't change

how he feels about Connor.
If it worked for Ben and Al to get serious so quickly, who's to say it couldn't work for them? Hank can come up with a number of reasons things could fail, most of them tied to his own shortcomings, but he's able to set them aside, if only for a moment,

and think: there's a chance it goes right. There's a chance he's in this as deep as you are. You've fucked up a lot of things in your life but maybe you can do it right this time.
As relaxed as he feels when he climbs into bed, sleep doesn't find Hank for a long time. He adjusts

his pillows and turns over several times, searching for a position that will let him drift off, but it's no use; after a while what does find him, instead of rest, is the familiar, unpredictable shadow of grief.
He'd been so good at avoiding it all day that it only makes sense,

he supposes, that it would catch up to him. It had been wonderful, truly, to see Kenzie again; he'd missed her, just as he'd missed spending time with Alan and Ben, but he hadn't been able to handle the pain he'd felt when he saw her. Hadn't been able to deal with the shame that

burned in his chest every time he wondered why she was alive, when Cole wasn't. None of that shit was fair to unleash on a kid or her parents, so he'd stayed away through the worst of it, but while it's easier, these days, to see and talk to a kid without it hurting too much to

handle at all, it doesn't mean the pain is gone entirely.
He'll never learn to bake, Hank thinks. He won't get to be a shithead teen. No embarrassing him in front of his prom date.
He doesn't cry, but his breath hitches as he feels a familiar dull pain in his chest, a weight that

feels, as it always does, as if it'll crush him. He sucks in air desperately, trying to slow his breathing down.
You love him, he thinks. You love him and that love is inside of you, it hasn't gone anywhere. Every bit of love he gave you is still there. He's gone, but you still

have that. You always will.
It doesn't help, not really. Not much. But he keeps at it, he breathes deeply into his pillow and tells himself the love he and his son gave each other still exists, in some form, and eventually it's enough to slow his racing heart and let him sleep.

Hank moves slowly in the morning; he feels weighted down by the feelings the night before had stirred in him. There's a bit of the melancholy he usually feels in the morning, the sluggish pull of his depression that's hardest to shake off right when he wakes up, but he takes his

coffee out to one of the old chairs on the back patio and sips it quietly while he listens to the songbirds hidden in the trees; by the time he's done, he feels a little more like a person than he had when he'd dragged himself out of bed.
He doesn't think to look at his phone

until he's in the car; he nestles the white-spotted plant he'd bought with Connor safely on the passenger seat with his lunch wedged against it to keep it from falling over on a sharp turn and gives his phone such a cursory glance before he shoves it in his pocket that he nearly

misses the notifications that he's missed some messages from Connor.
Nearly two dozen of them, apparently; the most recent one, much to Hank's alarm, reads:
>>I apologize for the previous messages; they were sent unintentionally. I hope I didn't disturb your sleep.
Hank curses

and scrolls back frantically; there are indeed a number of messages, as well as what looks like a video file, but there's no apparent sense to them. The video won't play on its own; when Hank clicks it, a download notification pops up, as well as a message that he'll have to run

a decoding program on it in order to watch it. His phone offers to install the decoder automatically; Hank shrugs and hits the "ok" button; he has no idea how he'd even start to figure out how to watch the video on his own.
The messages make no more sense; they're all timestamped

between 3:32 and 4:08 in the morning and seem to be complete gibberish.

>>aGFuaywgeW91ciBoYW5kcw==
>>SSdtIHRyeWluZyB0byB0b3VjaCBteXNlbGYgYnV0IGl0IGlzbid0IHRoZSBzYW1l
>>dG91Y2ggbWUgcGxlYXNl
>>SSd2ZSBjYWxjdWxhdGVkIHRoZSBleGFjdCB0aGlja25lc3Mgb2YgeW91ciBmaW5nZXJz

>>aW5zaWRlIG1lIHBsZWFzZQ==
>>aXMgdGhpcyB3aGF0IGh1bmdlciBmZWVscyBsaWtl
>>SSB3YW50IGl0
>>eW91ciBzd2VhdCBvbiBteSBza2lu
>>eW91ciBjb2NrIGhlYXZ5IG9uIG15IHRvbmd1ZQ==

Hank scrolls through them all, staring at the jumble of characters as if they'll tell him something if he just

concentrates hard enough, but it's no use. None of it makes sense.
The alarm marked "if you don't leave by now you'll be late to work you asshole" blares out of the phone, taking Hank by surprise. "Shit," he mutters. He plugs the phone into the stereo system, and instead of

queuing up some music for the drive, he puts it on speaker and calls Connor. It seems unlikely that he'll reach him, given how early he starts work, but he wants to try anyway; his one legible message didn't make it sound like there was an emergency, but the entire situation is

weird enough that he wants to make sure.
"Good morning, Hank," Connor says, picking up the call quickly. His voice sounds strange, a bit stilted and strangely unresonant, as if he's standing in a room muffled by soundproofing.
"Hey," Hank says. "I'm on my way to work, I just--is

everything okay? I got a bunch of texts from you but the only one I can read is the one where you apologize for sending the rest of them. Did something happen?"
"It's all right," Connor says. "I'm a little embarrassed by it, now, but that's all."
"What happened? Are you--where

are you, right now? You sound strange."
"I'm fine, Hank. I'm at the garden; I can't talk to you normally, as I'm working closely with others today, but I'm able to synthesize my voice to communicate with you over the phone."
"Okay, that's weird," Hank says, "but it's a cool party

trick, I guess. Sorry to bug you at work, but you had me a little worried with those weird messages and whatever that video is."
"Oh," Connor says, and even in this strange, stilted form of speech the word is heavy with embarrassment. "You didn't watch it?"
"No, and I won't if

you don't want me to," Hank says. "I can delete it, and all the rest. When I tried to watch it, my phone said it had to install some decoder thing before it could play it, and it's still working on it, I think. Maybe once I get to work it'll be done."
"Don't watch it at work!"

Connor's voice is a little frantic. "Please. It's. It's not quite appropriate for a work setting."
"Connor," Hank says, as a suspicion slowly surfaces through his confusion, "what's in that video, honey?"
"In how much detail have I explained my preconstruction software to you?"

"Not much," Hank says, after considering the question. "You can use it to, uh, run simulations? Make predictions, that sort of thing?"
"That's correct; I can use data I've collected to visually represent potential outcomes of various actions and situations."
"So what's the

problem?"
"Its original purpose was to help me in negotiating with or taking action against other androids; I wasn't meant to use this software for my own entertainment."
"But you found a way, huh?"
Connor laughs. "I suppose it feels good to take these tools I was given to harm

or manipulate other people with and use them for more peaceful purposes," he says. "I've found the preconstruction software to be helpful in exploring potential sexual scenarios between you and myself."
"Did you send me a--what, a sex tape of a fantasy you were having?"

"It wasn't intentional," Connor says, "but yes. That's what I did."
"You say that like I mind it," Hank says. "Like I said, I won't watch it if you don't want me to, but the thought of you making something like that and sending it to me is pretty fucking hot, you know that?"

"You can watch it," Connor says. "I think I might want you to."
"Maybe I'll wait until I get home, or out of the office, at least. How do you send something like that accidentally, anyway? And what's with the other messages?"
"I feel strange, discussing it like this; it doesn't

feel like I'm speaking to you directly, not really. I'd rather tell you when I can use my own voice."
"That's fine," Hank says. "I'm about at work anyway. Sorry to call you when you couldn't talk normally, I was just a little worried to see all this stuff I couldn't make sense

of."
"It's all right," Connor says. "I realize I didn't communicate the situation very clearly at all. There's nothing to worry about; I just had an emotional moment I didn't expect and sent those messages by mistake. Can I call you tonight and explain?"
"Of course," Hank says.

"I was thinking of eating lunch over in the garden just to stretch my legs, but I won't hunt you down if you're busy. I'll wave if I see you, but I won't get in your way."
"It'll be nice to see you all the same," Connor says. "Even if just for a moment."

Hank does his best to focus on work, and not on the now-decoded video waiting on his phone, for the rest of the morning. He has the typical Monday morning mess of paperwork to sort through, which is a blessing, of sorts; as much as he'd bitched about paperwork when he was an

officer, and as boring as it can be to deal with, he finds it soothing, in a way, to lose himself in a pile of fiddly bullshit for a few hours. He's lucky to have this job at all, he knows, and these days he doesn't bristle at having to spend his time on tedious shit like he

used to.
He almost decides to eat his lunch in the small employee courtyard, instead of walking to the garden, just to give Connor space on a day when it sounds like he'll be busy, but the truth of it is that he wants to spend time in the garden not just to get a glimpse of

Connor, but to enjoy it for what it is, to have some time in a calm, green space. That had been the start of all of this; he'd gone to the garden in the first place to try and find some kind of peace. And hell, maybe he's starting to.
Hank turns right after the open greenspace at

the garden's entrance, following the gently curving path until he finds a secluded bench nestled among beds of daffodils and golden forsythia bushes. He lets his mind wander as he munches leftover takeout, enjoying the warm air of the early afternoon. He hates the full heat of

summer, but the warmth of late spring has always been a comfort to him.
A small, gray bird peeps from a low branch nearby, its tail flicking on each note, then flits out over the open field in a swift swoop before returning to its perch. It preens its feathers for a moment,

ruffling them into disarray before shaking them back into place. The little bird gives a bright, two-note call, then repeats the entire process, returning to the same branch in between short flights across the garden.

It probably wouldn't be difficult, Hank thinks, to get a birdfeeder set up at home. He could hang one in the maple tree out back, or stick a pole in the ground and hang a few from it. Sumo'd probably like it if it attracted squirrels as well. He doesn't think he'll ever get into

gardening, certainly not to the extent that Alan or Connor enjoy it, but he does like the idea of introducing some more life into the space around his home. Sitting at the kitchen table in his pajamas watching birds squabble over sunflower seeds while he drinks coffee is the

sort of thing he would have laughed at as a pastime for boring old men, twenty years ago, but hell, maybe what felt boring to him once sounds peaceful, now.
Hank stretches as he gets up from the bench; he looks at his phone to check the time and decides it's early enough still

that he can take the long way through the garden, past the rose garden and the lake and the shaded area he'd talked to Connor in, once, before he has to be back at the office. Maybe he'll see Connor on the way, give him a little wave from a distance.
Before he can put his phone

away, Hank's eyes are drawn to the notification blinking on his home screen: your file is ready to be viewed! He can't watch it at work, according to Connor, but...
Is it weird to watch it here?
Hank sinks back down onto the bench. There's no one passing by, at the moment, and if

anyone did, they wouldn't be able to see the screen, so it seems safe enough. Not the classiest decision he's ever made, to watch his boyfriend's sexual fantasies turned into some kind of porn video in public, but if no one's around to judge him, he decides it doesn't matter.

He's not going to pull his dick out in the middle of the garden or anything, no matter what's in the video; he just can't bear to go the rest of the day not knowing what Connor sent him. What he was thinking about so intently that he somehow created and sent this file to Hank by

mistake.
He takes a deep breath, looking around once more to make sure he's completely alone, and presses play on the video.
It's immediately apparent what was occupying Connor's mind when he created the video; Hank doesn't quite understand all of what he's seeing, but the focal

point is unmistakable: two figures are outlined in gold on what looks like Connor's bed, but the surrounding details are washed out, out of focus enough that he can't be sure. Not on the bed, he realizes, not entirely; one figure--Connor--kneels in front of the other, face turned

blissfully upward as Hank--
Fuck. This may not have been the smartest thing to do in public after all, but Hank isn't about to stop it now. The outlines are indistinct, suggestions of the bodies they represent, but Hank's hand is depicted in meticulous detail as Connor's outline

greedily sucks two fingers into his mouth, his own hand wrapping around Hank's wrist to pull him deeper. His fingers don't disappear; they're visible through the outline of the Connor-construct, flexing to press down on Connor's tongue as his outline shivers and grips Hank's

thigh. Notations flash and scroll along the edges of the screen, faster than Hank can keep track of them; he thinks he sees something about his temperature and pulse, but there are strings of characters that make no more sense than the strange texts Connor had sent him.

Hank thinks he's hit the controls by mistake, somehow, because the motion of his fingers in Connor's mouth pauses, but the video zooms in and he realizes, as Hank's fingers move once more, impossibly slowly, that he's seeing the shift of Connor's focus as he imagines all of this

happening.
His focus shifts again, suddenly; it's almost jarring when Hank's fingers are replaced, from one frame to the next, with his cock, reproduced in even finer detail, somehow, than his hand had been. It's weird to see from this angle, but Hank's familiar enough to know

Connor's scans, however they work, had been extremely thorough.
Hank's hand, now slightly more indistinct now that it isn't the centerpiece of the fantasy, grips his cock at the base, rubbing the head over Connor's lips before gently easing it into his mouth.
The video zooms in

until Hank's dick fills the screen, the faintest suggestion of Connor's mouth surrounding it as the Hank-construct rolls his hips, sliding it into Connor's mouth as slowly as his fingers had moved before.
More text crowds the small amount of empty space on the screen; he sees

what looks like chemistry notation, maybe, if his distant memories from high school are accurate, more information about his vitals, and a lightning-quick scroll of words he has no hope of reading.
The image shifts again; after another pause, Connor pushes Hank flat on the bed,

holding him down with his forearms as he takes his cock back into his mouth. Hank's hands grip the sheets, then Connor's hair, encouraging him to move faster.
A red light blinks in the corner of the screen; Hank taps it once, worrying there's an issue with the video, but nothing

happens; it must be something recorded in the video itself. It hovers there, slowly blinking, but neither figure on the bed pays attention to it.
The speed slows again, focus tightening once more until Hank's dick fills the center of screen. Connor pulls away, hand curling around

Hank's cock as he gives it a few rough strokes; a moment later the resulting ejaculation, splashing frame by frame across Connor's face in a perfectly-artful flourish across his cheeks and lips, is outlined in stark, glowing white.

The video ends shortly afterwards; the image of Hank's come streaked across Connor's face remains for a few seconds more, then the constructs dissolve, gold outlines dispersing into the gray around them, and the screen goes black.
"Holy shit," Hank breathes. His face is hot, even

more than he'd expect from the warm spring sunlight, and he wipes his sweating palms on his thighs. None of what he'd seen was a surprise; he knows how much Connor loves sucking his fingers, and he'd been pretty clear, only a few days ago, that he wanted to suck his cock as well.

But knowing Connor wants it isn't the same as seeing the exact scene he's been imagining. He'd sent this at what, 3:30 in the morning? Was Connor awake then, thinking about this? Was it keeping him from settling into stasis? Or did it happen when he was in stasis, and that was

part of why he sent it by mistake?
He won't know until later, if Connor decides to tell him. It seemed like there was something else Connor needed to say, something beyond explaining the string of confusing messages, and Hank's a little surprised to realize he isn't worried about

what it might be. It's slowly becoming a little easier to sit with uncertainties, when it comes to Connor, without immediately bracing for the worst. He doubts he'll ever lose that impulse entirely, but these days it's more of a low background hum than an overpowering worry.

Hank considers turning back the way he came, since he'd spent a few minutes on the video, but it couldn't have been more than four or five minutes long; he decides to take the longer path around the pond as he'd planned on originally.
He doesn't linger in the rose garden as he

passes it by, although he does take a moment to smell a just-opened rosebud, deep yellow fading to coral at the tips of its petals. It's a faint, gentle sweetness that mixes wonderfully with the other scents of flowers and sun-warmed earth and new grass along the path.

Hank understands why Connor has negative connotations with this part of the garden, but he finds himself wanting to stay a while longer to enjoy the roses that have burst into bloom since he'd last seen it. He has plenty of time, he reminds himself. There's nothing stopping him

from returning soon.
It's a tiny thing, maybe, but Hank's noticed thoughts like this more often, moments in which he makes idle plans for his future. Moments when the future itself feels like something he's not only willing to contemplate but able to imagine himself inhabiting.

Some of it's Connor, of course; as he continues down the path, alert for any sign of garden workers in case Connor's among them, he knows it would be pointless to pretend that having him in his life hasn't been a large part of the change in his mood, lately. Beyond that, though,

there's something else, some slow and creeping change he's just beginning to feel. Something like hope, maybe; it isn't that everything is perfect now, that his shame and self-hatred and melancholy have evaporated in the sunlight of some beautiful new moment, but that he's

starting to trust that things are getting better, and that he's not deluding himself when he thinks maybe he can make himself better, too.
Hank peers down towards the water, when the path takes him by the pond; he doesn't have time to walk down and investigate, but he wonders if

any of the turtles are out today, and if Connor's seen them, if so. He thinks he sees some sunning themselves on a large flat rock near the edge of the water, but he's not quite close enough to tell.
Some other visitors pass by as Hank walks through the shaded area in the back of

the garden, acknowledging him with a brief nod or a quiet hello, but he doesn't come across anyone else for a few minutes, and as he passes by the native plant garden, with the main garden entrance nearly in view, he accepts that he won't run into Connor before he leaves.

It's fine, really, especially since he already knew Connor was too busy to chat today anyway, but he can't help but feel a little disappointed. He sees a pair of gardeners spreading mulch around some trees and shrubs and is excited for a moment, but neither of them are who he's

hoping to see.
"You'll survive if you don't see him every goddamn day," Hank grumbles to himself, and with one final look over his shoulder, as if he'll catch a glimpse of Connor if he just tries hard enough, he strolls out of the garden and towards the office; he may be a minute

or two late, but it shouldn't be an issue. No one will know he was late because he was watching his boyfriend's weird android porn video, at least.
The afternoon is quiet. Hank gives his new plant a little water and fusses over where he wants to display it on his desk, he has a

brief chat with his coworker Meg over a cup of shitty breakroom coffee, and he manages to make a decent dent in his paperwork before he leaves for the day.
He's just coming in from Sumo's walk, heading to the kitchen to fill his food bowl and think about what to make for dinner,

when his phone rings.
"Hey you," Hank says, when he picks up. "I missed seeing you when I stopped by on my break, did they keep you busy today?"
"Very busy," Connor says, with a nervous laugh. "It's all right, though."
"You okay?"
"I'm in a taxi," he says, as if that answers the

question.
"All right," Hank says, confused. "Heading anywhere fun?"
"I apologize, Hank, I know it's rude, but I couldn't--I'm not used to acting impulsively, but everything I have to tell you I want to say face to face. I'm on my way to see you."

Hank's first impulse is to look around to see how messy his living room is, but he hasn't had a chance for much clutter to accumulate since he had Connor over just a couple days ago. "Oh! Sure, that's--that's fine," he says.
"I'm sorry," Connor says. "I should have asked first."

"You're fine," Hank says gently. "You surprised me, is all. You're welcome here any time. It'll be good to see you. Is everything okay?" Connor had deflected when he'd asked, a moment ago, and he isn't sure if that means something's wrong, or if he's just too distracted to reply.

"I think so. I'm sorry, I know I--"
"Hey, hey. You don't need to keep apologizing. If something's wrong, we can talk about it when you get here, and if it isn't, well. Then I'll just be happy you're here."
Connor sighs. "You're right," he says. "Okay."
"I'll be happy you're here

either way," Hank says. "Just to be clear. And Sumo will be, too. Petting a big dumb dog always helps at least a little bit, if you ask me."
Hank hears Connor take a deep breath and wonders what purpose it serves him. Does it cause a physical response for androids, as well as

humans? Or is it simply programmed as a reflex, a lifelike response to certain situations? He hopes it helps.
"That sounds good," Connor says, after another breath. "I'm nearly there, so I'll see you soon."
"You need me to stay on the line until you get here?"
"I'll be all right,

but thank you. I'm s--"
"Nope," Hank says. "This is now an apology-free zone."
"I don't know if that's fair," Connor says, but Hank can tell he's smiling.
"Take it up with management when you get here," he says.
Hank isn't sure what to expect when Connor arrives; he doesn't seem

upset, exactly, but he's acting squirrelly enough that something has to be on his mind. Whatever it is, we can work through it, he thinks, surprised by how calm he feels. He putters around for a moment, throwing away the one take-out box on his coffee table and giving his hair

and beard a quick comb. "Can't do much with this face," he says to his reflection, sighing a bit at the dark circles under his eyes. "Guess he likes it, though."
He eyes the pad of post-its on the corner of the sink, but before he can scribble on a new one or lose himself too

much in staring at the ones scattered across the mirror already, he hears Connor's sharp knock at the front door. Sumo gives a low, lazy woof and arrives at the door when Hank does, thumping his tail against Hank's shins in his excitement.
"He must have known it was you," Hank

says, as he opens the door. "This lazy bum doesn't get up to greet anyone else."
"I'm flattered," Connor says, "but I hope he'll be understanding if I tell him I'm here to see you."

"That's the great thing about dogs," Hank says. "He'll forgive anything, even the sin of not coming here specifically to pay attention to him." He steps back from the door to give Connor room to enter, but he hesitates, hands clasped tightly together.
"Everything all right?"

"Yes, I--" Connor smiles and steps inside. He looks tense; the smile's a little forced, Hank thinks, and his posture's as rigid as Hank's seen it outside of the garden. "I spent most of the ride here planning what to say, but now that I'm here, I'm not sure where to start."

"Do you want to start here?" Hank pats his chest and opens his arms wide, and Connor does, apparently, because he rushes forward and melts into him, leaning into Hank's embrace so fully he nearly staggers on his feet. He's--Hank thinks Connor might be shaking, a little, but it

could just be his own heart racing.
"Hi," Hank murmurs into Connor's hair. "I'm glad you're here. Whatever's stressing you out, you can talk when you're ready; if you want to just stay like this for a minute and get your bearings, that's all right by me."
"You're so kind," Connor

says, voice muffled by Hank's shoulder. "So good to me."
"I try to be," Hank says. "You make it easy, you know?"
Connor laughs, halfway to a sob, and when he looks up at Hank, his eyes are wet. "You don't understand what it means to hear you say something like that, do you?"

"Maybe I don't," Hank says. He draws back just enough to lead Connor to the couch and pull him down beside him. "I know it's true. I know it's important." He brings one of Connor's restless hands to his lips and kisses his knuckles. "You want to tell me the rest?"
"It's not just

that, it's--" His eyes flutter closed as Hank kisses his hand again. "It's you, and it's the way you look at me, and it's all of yesterday, and--" he shakes his head. "Hank, I love how human you are. You're so different from me in so many ways, and I'd never want to change that,

but it would be easier if I could just show you."
Hank's fingertips prickle with a strange feeling, somewhere between the sting of static and the gentle rasp of dry sand, and as he stares in surprise, the skin on Connor's hand seems to melt away, revealing the smooth, bright

white of the plastic beneath.
"I wouldn't have to fumble through this as poorly as I currently am if I could interface with you directly." Connor holds very still as Hank stares at his bare hand, as if he's afraid of his reaction. Hank tentatively sweeps his thumb over Connor's

knuckles, where he'd pressed his lips only a moment before, and marvels as how he feels; he's still warm to the touch, but slightly less so than with the outer layer of skin present, and the plastic is smooth and just faintly malleable when Hank applies the smallest hint of

pressure. It's a little weird, maybe, but skin or no skin, it's still Connor; he squeezes his fingers and kisses the back of his hand again.
"If I could do this too, we could just--what, beam our thoughts into each other's heads?"
"That's a slight oversimplification, but yes."

"I guess we gotta bumble through it the regular human way, instead," Hank says, "since my skin doesn't peel back all fancy like yours." He takes Connor's hand and presses his thumb into the palm; there's less give to it now, somehow, but he can still give it a bit of a massage.

"Does this feel any different, touching you like this without your, uh. Without your skin on?"
"A little," Connor says. "In some ways my hand is more sensitive like this, but the synthskin provides its own sensory feedback, as well; you could say the experience is more focused,

like this, and more complete with my synthskin in place."
"Huh," Hank says, staring at his thumb as it presses slow circles into the base of Connor's palm.
Connor's hand twitches, and he gently removes it from Hank's grasp; a moment later, a ripple of light creeps from his wrist

to his fingertips, seemingly drawing the skin back over the plastic of his hand as it advances. "It would be easy," he says, "to let myself be distracted by how it feels to have you touch my bare chassis like that. I can't let myself get sidetracked."
"Okay," Hank says. "I'm all

ears, whatever you have to say. Take your time, if you need to, but I'm listening." He files the question of what it might be like to touch Connor elsewhere like that, with nothing between Hank and the bare white of his body, away in the back of his mind for later.
Connor nods

and leans into Hank's side, nudging his arm until Hank gets the hint and drapes it over Connor's shoulders. "Last night changed something for me. I didn't know what to expect, spending time with people you knew and cared for but who didn't know me at all. My experiences with

other people have been so limited, somewhat by my own choice, and some part of me has always assumed that it was never going to be my place to make deep connections with other people. Maybe not with other androids, even; given my original purpose, and the end result of my first

mission, at times it's a struggle to believe that I deserve to seek closeness with anyone."
"Sweetheart," Hank says. "Of course you do." He tugs Connor closer and kisses him on the temple. He wants to say more, maybe, but Connor clearly has more to say.

"I know that," he says. "I can tell myself that, at least. But a difficult aspect of experiencing emotions, as I've learned, is that knowing something doesn't always mean I believe it. After meeting you, I was glad to have made that connection, and glad to know it was something

I was capable of at all."
Hank hates to think that Connor--sweet, cheeky Connor who'd flirted with him from moment one, Connor who loves dogs and turtles and fills his apartment with more plants than Hank could count--could ever see himself as unable to connect with people.

It's so obvious, to him, that he's easy to love.

"It's one thing, to feel the joy of connection with you," Connor continues. "To know I'm able to form a relationship with someone. It was a relief, I suppose, to realize it was possible, although it was easy to tell myself that you were an exception to the rule. Meeting your

friends, though, and feeling so welcomed, seeing the way you and Ben talk to each other and the love Ben and Alan have for Kenzie, it's--" he breaks off suddenly, LED flashing wildly, and Hank pulls him closer, stroking the back of his neck as he buries his face in Hank's chest.

"It makes me think that I could have a life like that," he says, finally. "A life that's full of connection to other people, one in which I feel less alone, and less like I should be alone. A life in which I can serve a purpose beyond being pulled apart for data or quietly trying

to atone for the hurt I caused. I don't understand everything I want, just yet, but there are so many things I haven't let myself consider at all, until now. Things I thought I could never be a part of."
"Oh, honey," Hank says. "Come here." He cups Connor's cheek and pulls him up

into a kiss; Connor sighs into his mouth, then breaks away just long enough to settle himself on Hank's lap before he kisses him again.
"They'd be glad to know they made you feel so welcome," Hank murmurs. "And I'm--Connor, I want you to feel that way, that you can have the life

you want and surround yourself with people you care about. It's no surprise to me that my friends liked you and wanted to make you feel at home, because I can't--" Hank kisses Connor again. He doesn't know how to explain how he feels; he wants Connor to understand it from the way

he settles one hand on his lower back to hold him close and laces their fingers together with the other, but he has to try. "I can't imagine anyone spending time with you and not being a little smitten. Maybe not in the same way I am, but. I couldn't blame them if they were."

"If they were," Connor says, firmly, "it wouldn't matter to me. It wouldn't change how I feel." He slips his fingers into Hank's hair, briefly scratching at his scalp before he closes them in a loose fist. He tugs gently, watching Hank with wide, soft eyes, and Hank wonders if

Connor remembers what he'd said about liking this. He remembers everything, doesn't he?
"I should explain about the messages I sent."
"Oh, uh. Sure?" Hank hadn't forgotten them, exactly--it isn't like he could easily forget the content of the video--but the surprise of Connor

showing up nearly unannounced at his doorstep had pushed the video, and the strange messages that accompanied it, to the back of his mind. "I'll admit I'm a little curious about what went on, there."
"As I said earlier, it wasn't intentional," Connor says. His fingers flex in

Hank's hair; his grip doesn't get any tighter, but he doesn't let go, either. Hank leans into the pull of it, so Connor knows he's enjoying it. "I put myself into stasis, when I returned home; it's a way to process new information more quickly and thoroughly than I can when I'm

functioning normally, and I felt so overwhelmed by the events of the day, and by the beginning of these feelings I've just tried to explain to you, that it felt like the best thing to do. When I emerged, I found that all of my thoughts were of you."
"Is that right?" Hank wants to

close the distance between his mouth and Connor's, to interrupt him just for a moment, but he's held fast by Connor's firm hold of his hair; he could break free if he tried, or if he asked him to let go, but he isn't inclined to do either. "Seemed like you were thinking about one

thing in particular, based on that video you sent."
"You did watch it, then." Connor almost looks embarrassed, but there's a spark of interest in his eyes, as well.
"I did." Hank settles his hands on Connor's hips, letting his thumbs slip under his shirt to brush gently against

his bare skin. "You weren't kidding when you said you'd done some scans on me, huh?"
"It's easier to imagine what it might be like," Connor says. "It's comforting to know the shape of your body, even when you aren't touching me."
"Maybe I should be touching you more, then."

"I need to explain this to you, first, but yes. I think you should." Connor loosens his grip in Hank's hair and cradles the back of his head in his palm. "You know I've struggled with the gulf between the sexual desires I have--the ones related to you, specifically--and what I've

felt I was ready for. The--the anxiety I experienced when I was near orgasm, the fear of losing control in that moment. The vulnerability of it."
Hank nods. He keeps up the slow press of his thumbs into Connor's skin, gentle contact to hold them together while he speaks.

"Feeling like I do now, after yesterday, I'm less afraid. More trusting. Not--not that I didn't trust you," he scrambles to say, although Hank shakes his head and squeezes his hips to let him know it's all right.
"You didn't know me well, yet," he said. "Fuck, that first date, I

kissed you what, an hour before you got a little overwhelmed by what was going on? Two hours, at most. I won't be offended if you didn't trust me enough for that, back then. We're still getting to know each other, Connor." He leans forward and kisses him, a sweet, brief press of

his lips. "It's good, isn't it? To know there's more we have to learn about each other."
"It is. But Hank, it wasn't just trusting you. I trust you more, now, of course, but I trust myself more, too; when I wasn't sure I would even be able to sustain this sort of connection at

all, it was more difficult to feel ready for the level of intimacy I wanted."
"I can understand that," Hank says.
"I came out of stasis, early this morning, and I knew I wanted you, that I was ready, and I was so focused on it that I couldn't control the data I as producing; I

thought of you and I was so impatient that I--" he shivers, pressing closer, and trails his hand across Hank's chest, fingertips skating dangerously close to his nipples. "By mistake, I sent you the thoughts I had at the time. The preconstruction I was trying to lose myself in."

"So all that garbled stuff you sent me was what you were thinking about when you woke up?"
"In a way, yes. Not the exact thoughts, but I wound up transmitting what I wanted to say to you, in that moment. Telling you what I was aching for."
It's impossible not to react, when

Connor talks like that. When he squirms in Hank's lap and grazes his nipple with a fingernail in a way he's sure is entirely on purpose. "Since I didn't understand it, the way you sent it to me," Hank says, "do you want to tell me now?"
"I know what I want, but it's--"
"I want to

know," Hank says. "Sweetheart. What can I give you?"
Connor surges forward and kisses him, messy and sharp, biting his lip and gripping Hank's biceps so hard he feels the bite of his fingernails through his shirt. "I want to slip off that ledge," he says. "I want to reach that

point of no return and keep going with no fear, because you're taking me there. I want you to look at me like I'm precious while you bring me pleasure. I want to put myself in your hands, and--fuck, Hank, your hands, I can't stop thinking about them--I want you to take me apart."

"Fuck," Hank groans. Heat prickles across his face; he's sure he'd be bright red, if he could see himself. "I know I can make you feel so good, honey." He slides his hands down to Connor's thighs, then back up to squeeze his ass. "You like my hands that much, huh?"
"I do," Connor

says, high and needy, halfway to a whine. "I've spent entirely too much time thinking about them, wanting you to touch me. It--it isn't too selfish, is it? To ask you to focus on me like this?"
"I want you to be selfish." Hank pulls Connor in for another kiss and holds him close,

murmuring in his ear. "I want you to have all the pleasure you can handle, and maybe a little extra on top of that. Ask me for as much as you want."
"I want so much," Connor says. Hank kisses his neck and this time he does whine, throwing his head back to offer him easier access.

"Let me focus on finding every way there is to make you feel good. Let me, uh. Fry your processors a little."
Connor laughs, a little breathlessly. "Don't do that," he protests. "I need those."
"No frying," Hank agrees. "Got it. But don't think for a second this isn't going to be

the hottest goddamn thing, just this, learning how to give you everything you want."
"Please," Connor says. He slides a fingertip along the collar of Hank's shirt, pulling it down a couple inches to drag a nail lightly across his chest.
"Do you want me to take you to bed

right now?" Hank nuzzles Connor's neck, kisses along his jawline, kneads his ass just a bit roughly. "Or do you want to stay here like this for a while?"
"Could I--" Connor pauses, uncertain.
"What is it?" Hank cups Connor's chin in his hand and brushes his thumb over his lower

lip, pulling it out of the way when Connor tries to suck it into his mouth. He doesn't want to get distracted yet, not until Connor tells him what he wants, and he already knows how distracting Connor's mouth can be. "Anything you want."
"I'd like to put myself in your hands, if

that's all right. You know a great deal of what I like, already, and I love the thought of letting you..."
Connor trails off, eyes cast downward, and Hank's pretty sure he'd be blushing, if he could.
"What's that?" he asks. "Tell me."
"Letting you do what you want with me."

Hank's struck silent for a moment, both from the surprise of what Connor's offering, the fact that he trusts Hank enough to ask for what he wants, and from how fucking turned on he is just at the thought of it. He's frozen, blood rushing in his ears, hand nearly going slack on

Connor's hip, and Connor must interpret it as hesitation, because he starts to pull back, concerned.
"If that's too much, I--"
Hank grips the back of Connor's thighs and hauls him closer. "Not too much at all," he says. "Two things, though, before I get too carried away." He

squeezes Connor's thighs, running his hands up to the curve of his ass and back again, and grins at the moan Connor can't quite manage to hold back.
"What is it?" Connor asks, a little impatiently. "I'd like you to get carried away, please."
"You're pretty eager all of a sudden,"

Hank laughs.
"I am," Connor agrees, sweetly. He leans forward, draping his arms around Hank's neck, and--oh. And pointedly grinding his erection into him. "So what did you want to discuss first? I'd love to get it taken care of quickly."
"Christ, Connor," Hank groans. "Let me at

least make sure--you told me, that first time, that if you shut down or something, it was okay, right? What should I do if that happens?"
"I should be fine," Connor says, which isn't entirely reassuring. "I won't know for sure what will happen beforehand, which I realize may be

uncomfortable for you, but there's no harm that can come to me, through this. If I briefly go into stasis, or some of my processes go offline, it won't be for long and it won't mean something's wrong. Just--stay with me if it happens, please. I'd feel better knowing you were

there."
"I won't go anywhere," Hank says. "I just don't want to freak out in the moment, you know? But if you say it's safe, I believe you." He kisses Connor's temple, next to his LED. "You gotta promise me, too, that if you need to stop or slow down, or if I think you'll like

something and you aren't into it, that you'll tell me."
"I don't think I'll need to," Connor says, "but yes. I will." He presses back against Hank's hands on his thighs, then rolls his hips forward again. It's a clear enough sign that he's ready to move on from the discussion

portion of the evening, and Hank's happy to oblige him. "If it's up to me, then," he murmurs, "I think we should stay here for a bit. I like having you on my lap like this, but you'd probably be more comfortable without those pants on, don't you think?"
"My work clothes are less

comfortable than what I wear in my time off, it's true," Connor says, as he climbs off Hank's lap. "I would have changed before coming here, since I do like choosing clothing I think you'll enjoy seeing me wear, but I couldn't wait long enough. I was too impatient to see you."

"I'm happy to see you in anything," Hank says; it's true, but he does like knowing Connor's chosen previous outfits to appeal to him. He nudges Connor's calf with his foot. "Right now, though, I'd like to see those pants come off."
Connor licks his lips as he undoes his belt.

"What about yours?"
"Mine'll come off eventually," Hank says. He hums appreciatively as Connor steps out of his thick canvas work pants. "Fuck, your legs are gorgeous." He gives his cock a squeeze through his pants when he knows Connor's looking at him again, just enough to take

the edge off of the ache of his arousal. Just enough for Connor's eye to be drawn to the thick length of it under his hand. He pats his thigh. "You want to come back up here and kiss me?"
A question with an obvious answer, perhaps, but Hank loves to hear Connor say yes to him.

Connor kisses Hank fiercely when he climbs back in his lap, nipping his lower lip and sucking his tongue into his mouth before he's entirely settled. It's good, having Connor so hungry for more, but Hank pulls back, chuckling a little at Connor's soft noise of disappointment.

"Let's slow down a little," he says. "Don't get too impatient."
"It's too late for that," Connor protests.
"You'll just have to put up with it, somehow," Hank murmurs. He trails his fingers down Connor's neck and watches him shiver, then pulls him close and kisses him again.

Connor's nearly shaking with pent-up energy and arousal, but as Hank guides the kiss, coaxing Connor's mouth open and teasing his tongue gently inside, he feels him relax by slow degrees, draping his arms around Hank's neck and pressing as close as he can.
"That's it," Hank says,

breaking away just long enough to rumble in Connor's ear. "You're doing so well for me already." He isn't sure if Connor's low, answering moan is in response to the praise, or to Hank's hands coming to rest on the back of his thighs again. "Do you remember when I told you I'd

done some research on places androids tend to be sensitive?"
"Yes," Connor breathes.
"This spot right here was one of them." He kneads the soft skin under his hand, feeling the gentle resistance of the artificial muscle beneath the surface. "How's that feel?"
"Incredible,"

Connor moans.
"How about this?" Hank brushes over the sensitive skin with just his fingertips, and Connor whines and nods. "Bet you'd like my mouth there, too."
This, Connor response to by kissing Hank again; he bites his lip again, but whether it's from frustration or a complete

lack of control, Hank isn't sure. He could pull back again, keep slowing things down when Connor gets riled up, but he doesn't feel the need for it tonight. He wants to draw things out, sure, but he's not going to be a sadist about it. Edging Connor for hours

might be fun--his cock twitches at the thought of it, of driving him wild with just his hands until he's begging for release--but that's not for tonight.
Tonight is for giving Connor what he wants, guiding him gently through what he hopes will bring him the most pleasure, taking

the responsibility of choice away from him so that all he needs to do is feel.
"What do you think?" Hank asks, the next time he pulls away from Connor's mouth to kiss along his jawline and down to where his neck meets his shoulder. He slides his hands up, lingering on the gentle

swell of Connor's ass for a moment before sneaking them under the hem of his shirt, brushing gently against his lower back. "Should I take this off for you?"
"Please," Connor says. "You don't--" his voice is muffled as Hank eases it over his head. "You don't need to ask."

"Maybe not," Hank says, "but sometimes I want to, anyway." He skims his palms up Connor's sides, bringing them to rest with his thumbs just below his nipples. "Maybe I just like hearing you tell me you want it."
Connor starts to reply, but his response turns to a sharp, wordless

cry as Hank leans down and kisses a nipple, rubbing the pad of his thumb over the other.
"Ah! Hank, that's--" Connor gasps and grabs the back of Hank's head as if to hold him in place.
"That good, huh?" Hank murmurs against his skin. Connor whines in response, nodding when Hank

glances up at him, and Hank grins and kisses his nipple again before sucking it gently. He covers Connor's chest with more kisses, doing his best to determine, based on the tightness of Connor's grip in his hair and the sounds he makes, what sort of attention he likes best.

Hank's always prided himself on being a quick study, when it comes to reading a partner's responses, and it doesn't take him long to zero in on what seems to make Connor the most excited. He likes soft, wet kisses along his collarbone and up to his neck, a gentle pinch or the

slow scrape of Hank's teeth over his nipples, and the warm presence of his hands, sliding up his thighs or pressed to his lower back to hold him close.
Connor sighs and shifts his hips when Hank's hand settles low on his back, as if he's encouraging him to move it lower, so he

teases his fingertips beneath the waistband of Connor's underwear.
"Yes," Connor moans. He pulls Hank up for a deep, filthy kiss, licking desperately into his mouth. Hank slides his whole hand down, palming and squeezing one of Connor's asscheeks and groaning into Connor's mouth

at the gentle give of it under his hand.
"You feel so good," he says. "Fuck."
"Can I have--" Connor starts, kissing Hank again before he can complete his thought as if he can't bear to be away from his mouth long enough to finish a sentence.
"Anything," Hank murmurs.
"Let me suck

your fingers." He shakes his head when Hank starts to pull his hand out of Connor's underwear and taps the hand on his thigh, instead. "These."
Hank's happy to oblige--just because Connor'd asked him to take the lead doesn't mean he isn't open to suggestion, especially this one

in particular--and the deep, satisfied sigh that Connor huffs around the two fingers Hank presses into his mouth would be reason enough to indulge him, even if he wasn't inclined to, already.
Connor hums happily around Hank's fingers, swirling his tongue over his fingertips

before sucking them deeper into his throat. Hank uses his hand to guide Connor's head, tilting it to the side so he can lick the shell of his ear.
"I'll let you suck my cock too, tonight," he says, so low it's almost a whisper. "I know you want to."
Connor whines at that, nodding

the best he can with his head tilted to the side. Hank can feel his thighs clenching as he wriggles and arches his back; the motion pushes Hank's hand a little lower, sliding two fingers into the cleft of his ass.
The thing is, Hank thinks, they haven't talked about this at all.

Hank has no idea of Connor even has an asshole, or something like it; he's never asked, never quite felt comfortable investigating it on his own (and since he knows Connor isn't a standard model, he suspects he wouldn't find a clear answer even if he did), and while Connor has

been very open about much he wants Hank's fingers and dick in his mouth, he's never mentioned wanting them in anything else. He hasn't been avoiding the question on purpose, it's just--
They've had plenty of other things to focus on. Not like Hank had thought to volunteer any

equivalent information about himself, either.
So it's a bit of a surprise, although perhaps it shouldn't be, when Connor reacts by shifting on Hank's lap again, angling his body to encourage Hank to continue his exploration.
"Yeah?" Hank asks, a hoarse rumble in Connor's ear.

"Yeah," Connor moans around his fingers, apparently unwilling to stop sucking on them long enough to speak more clearly. He arches his back again, rolling his hips to lead Hank's hand to where he wants it, and hell, Hank thinks, that's a clear enough answer as it is.

He's painfully aware of how hard he is, cock trapped and throbbing in his jeans, but his arousal is a secondary concern, for the moment; he focuses, instead, on sliding one thick finger farther down between Connor's asscheeks, exploring gently until he feels the slight give of

his entrance beneath his finger. Connor makes a low, almost pained noise around Hank's fingers when he rubs against it, pressing back against the pressure as if to encourage him inside.
"More," Connor says, finally pulling off of Hank's fingers enough to speak. "Just a little."

Hank moves his finger in slow circles over his hole; Connor's skin is so smooth here that it's almost slick, oddly, and there's almost no friction as he rubs against him. There's only slight resistance as Hank carefully presses inside, and as Connor cries out and buries his face

in his neck, he freezes, blood roaring in his ears as he tries to process what he's feeling. Connor's--
"Jesus christ," Hank growls, "are you--" his finger eases in another half-inch and yes, he knows, he absolutely is. "Are you wet for me, honey?"
"Yes," Connor says, "yes, it's

automatic when I--when I feel--"
"How, uh." Hank stumbles over his words, his tongue thick and clumsy in his mouth. "How safe is it? To, uh. To ingest, I mean."
"It should be fine," Connor says, slowly. "What are you--oh!"
"Hold on," Hank says, pushing off the couch with a grunt

of effort. This is fucking stupid, he knows, he'll feel it in his back tomorrow, but the shortest route between here and burying his face in Connor's ass is this, hauling him into the bedroom with no warning, and in this moment all he wants is to get there as quickly as he can.

"I can walk," Connor protests weakly, but he makes no attempt to extract himself from Hank's embrace; instead, he wraps his arms tightly around his neck and kisses his cheek as he's carried slowly towards the bedroom. "There's a certain appeal to this, though."
Hank manages not

to drop Connor like a sack of potatoes on the bed, although it's a near miss; he has the idle thought that he should start weightlifting again if it means he can haul Connor around more easily in the future, but it sputters and dies at the sight of Connor laid out panting on his

bed.
"Let's get these off you," Hank says, tugging at the waistband of Connor's briefs. Connor nods, wide-eyed, lifting his ass off the bed long enough for Hank to ease them down his hips. "Beautiful," he murmurs. Connor's cock is hard and flushed, begging for attention, but Hank

isn't about to let himself get distracted.
"Roll over for me, honey," Hank says, nudging Connor's thigh. "Let me get a look at you."
"I hope you aren't just going to look," Connor says, wiggling his ass invitingly as he positions himself, "although I do enjoy being admired."

"Don't worry," Hank says, settling himself between Connor's spread thighs. "I don't have the willpower to keep my hands off you for long." He slides his palms up Connor's thighs to knead at his ass, then stops, considering. "Weren't we just wondering," he asks, "how it would feel

if I kissed you here?" He presses a kiss to the back of Connor's thigh, just below the soft curve of his ass.
"Oh, we--" Connor's whole leg jerks, as if he's ticklish, but he doesn't try to pull away. "We were."
"And?" Hank kisses him again, making his way slowly down Connor's

thigh, then kissing back up on the other side. "What's the verdict?"
"I--" Connor twitches under him, hips rocking gently as if he's grinding into the soft blanket beneath him. "I don't know how to describe how it feels."
"But it's good?" Hank knows it is; Connor's reactions

aren't difficult to read. Still, though, he wants to hear him say it.
"Of course it's good," Connor whines. "Hank, please."
"Oh, honey," Hank says, reaching up to spread Connor's cheeks apart. "I've barely gotten started. You know that, right?" He rubs his thumb over Connor's

hole, admiring the faint shine of the slick from inside him as he spreads it around. "This is the hottest goddamn thing," he says, reverently. He really is fucking gorgeous, Hank thinks; Connor's ass is as finely sculpted as the rest of him, with a pale, fine dusting of hair and

a tantalizing curve to it, perfect to hold onto and squeeze as he spreads him apart.
"Please," Connor says again; Hank has no desire to keep either of them waiting any longer, so he licks his lips and dives in .
Connor wails at the first touch of Hank's mouth, a gentle swipe with

the flat of his tongue as he tries to gauge how Connor will respond, as well as how weird the lubrication he's producing might taste. It doesn't taste like much at all--perhaps like strong mineral water, he'll decide later when he's not focused on the much more important question

of "how good can I make this for Connor"--but considering the intensity of Connor's reaction, Hank knows he'd be happy to keep going even if he didn't like the taste at all.
Instead, it's a neutral backdrop to the feeling of Connor responding beneath him and the sounds he makes,

panting and whining and murmuring Hank's name over and over again while Hank buries his face in his ass and eats him out like he's starving.

It's been too long since he's been able to do this, Hank thinks, since he could focus so deeply on someone else's pleasure, hold them down while they bucked and squirmed under the hot press of his mouth, feel every reaction in the tensing of thighs against his shoulders and the

flutter of sensitive skin under his mouth. It's a meditative state, almost, the soft haze he sinks into as he licks and teases and fucks Connor with his tongue. He's aware of his own body, his own arousal, but they're a distant concern, secondary to his need to see how loud

Connor can get, how desperate he can make him sound. Hank's world narrows down to his mouth, his hands, and Connor's pleasure.
Connor's responsiveness is a blessing, here; there's no mystery involved when it comes to figuring out what he likes. He moans approvingly when Hank

presses a finger inside him, just a knuckle deep, and licks around the point where their bodies are joined. He sighs and wriggles beneath Hank when he kneads his ass with the heel of his hand or traces the soft curve where it meets his thigh with his tongue.

And when Hank first works his tongue inside him, he fists his hands in the sheets and cries out, a broken sound that could be Hank's name or something else entirely.
"Sounds like I hit the jackpot," Hank murmurs.
"More," Connor pleads, voice thick and fuzzy. "More, please."

Hank wonders how much it'll take before he isn't able to answer him at all.
He teases Connor with soft, gentle licks and kisses, just barely dipping inside, then presses in deeper with the firm point of his tongue. Connor's surprised "oh!" fades into a low, drawn-out groan, and

he shifts his hips, grinding back against the press of Hank's tongue.
"Come here," Hank growls, lifting Connor's hips until he's on his knees, chest still pressed to the bed, so he has more leverage to push back against Hank's mouth.

"Hank, it's--you--you're--" Connor keeps trying to speak, starting a thought over and over again as if he's a skipping record, but all that comes out is a jumble of words and sounds that could be words, moans and small, breathy cries he muffles in the crumpled sheets grasped in

his fist.
"Let me hear you," Hank says, pulling away long enough to reach up and tilt Connor's head to the side. "Don't hide from me, honey, I want to hear it."
"Don't stop," Connor gasps, and Hank obeys, spreading Connor's cheeks again and licking into him, spearing his tongue

as deep as he can. He's a mess, he knows; he can feel Connor's slick on his face and in his beard, but he doesn't mind. It feels good, knowing Connor's enjoying himself enough that his body's producing more of that lube from...whatever it is that makes it. He doesn't need to know

how it works to know it's hot as hell, soaking his beard and dripping onto the sheets below. Connor had told him he liked the idea of getting messy, hadn't he?
"Please," Connor says, grinding back against Hank's mouth with considerable force, "I need more."
With his hips off the

bed, Hank realizes, there's an easy way to indulge Connor further; he snakes a hand around Connor's thigh and wraps it around his cock, hanging neglected between his legs.
Connor cries out in surprise, his body going rigid for a moment before he thrusts eagerly into Hank's grip.

Hank has the fleeting thought that he almost regrets touching Connor like this for the first time when he can't see the look on his face, or watch his cock slide in and out of his fist, but soon enough he knows it doesn't matter; he'll have other opportunities to watch Connor as

he does this, and the sounds he makes and the feel of him--hot and heavy in Hank's hand, the head slick with his arousal--are enough to keep him happy, for now. More than enough.
Hank doesn't have a great angle to do anything fancy, but he doesn't need to; just giving Connor

a fist to fuck into is enough to have him wailing again, his thrusts becoming erratic as soon as he tightens his grip.
"I can't--" Connor says. "Hank, I think I--"
"Let go, baby," Hank murmurs. "I've got you. I'm not going anywhere." He keeps his tongue soft and wet as he licks

into Connor again and again, squeezing his thigh where he's holding it to keep Connor from bucking out of his grip entirely.
Connor wails Hank's name again, over and over like it's the only word he can remember. His legs shake under Hank's hands, his back arches,

and he comes with a wild shout, trembling and panting as Hank works him through it. He doesn't still his hand or his mouth until Connor's legs shake so much they can no longer hold him up; he slumps to the bed and takes one of Hank's hands, squeezing it weakly and bringing it

halfway to his mouth, before letting out a satisfied, staticky sigh and passing out completely.
He's okay, Hank knows he is; Connor had said this might happen. Still, it's strange to see him lying so still on the bed--his breathing even stops, briefly, although it resumes a few

seconds later--when he'd been so responsive just a moment before.
It doesn't kill the mood, exactly, for Connor to come so hard he reboots his mainframe, or whatever he's doing, but it's a little unnerving, even so. Hank curls up behind him, still holding his hand, and waits.

It isn't long--thirty seconds? A minute? Hank's never been great at keeping track of time--before Connor starts to stir again. His eyes flutter briefly, his LED stutters between blue and yellow, and his fingers twitch against Hank's so faintly he's not entirely sure it happened

at all. Then his hand flexes again, closes around Hank's, and Connor pulls him closer, curling into the warmth of Hank's body.
"You back with me?" Hank murmurs, nuzzling Connor's neck. He presses a soft, chaste kiss to the underside of his jaw.
"Oh," Connor gasps, tilting his

head back in a clear invitation for Hank to kiss him again. His eyes are still closed, but his mouth is a soft, pleased smile. "Yes, I'm--I'm here."
"How are you feeling? Anything go weird when you shut down, or whatever that was?"
"Nothing weird." Connor tangles his fingers in

Hank's beard and pulls him pointedly towards his neck; Hank gets the hint and continues kissing him while he gathers his thoughts. "It was--I thought I'd be frightened, again, when I was overwhelmed into orgasm. I was eager for it regardless, but I expected to feel some of the

same apprehension I'd had before."
"But?" Hank kisses the shell of Connor's ear. "What was different, this time?"
Connor's gaze, when he opens his eyes, is still unfocused; Hank wonders if he's still getting his bearings, but he seems coherent, at least. He squeezes Hank's hand

again. "I wasn't afraid. It was unknown, still, but I knew I was safe."
"That's what I was hoping to hear," Hank says. "It felt good?"
"It felt incredible," Connor breathes. "I took in so much new sensory information that I was completely overcome by it. Consumed by pleasure."

"Well, shit," Hank says. "Yeah, that sounds good to me. How are you feeling now?"
"Ready for more," Connor purrs, tugging Hank's beard again to pull him in for a kiss.
"Are you, now?" Hank walks his fingers down Connor's spine and over the curve of his ass, slipping them between

his cheeks where he's still slick and slippery. "I'm going to have to try harder than that to tire you out, huh?"
"I don't--" Connor breaks off into a soft moan and fumbles, frowning, at the buttons on Hank's shirt. "I don't seem to have a refractory period, or at least not one

longer than the minute I was out; my arousal hasn't decreased at all." He slips the last few buttons free and tugs impatiently at Hank's shirt. "I need you to get rid of this."
Hank laughs as he slides it off his shoulders. "Just the shirt?"
"Everything, please." Connor pulls at

Hank's belt, deftly undoing the buckle with one hand. "I have a theory that I'd like to test out."
"What's that?" Hank wrestles his undershirt over his head and holds his breath as Connor unzips his jeans. He's only half-hard, now, but still Connor's hand brushes against him,

a faint touch through the thick denim that's enough to set his heart racing.
"I think I'm capable of multiple orgasms in a short span of time," Connor says, easing Hank's jeans and boxers over his hips, "but if we're going to experiment, I'd like you to be naked for it."

"It's probably past time for that, huh?" Hank asks, kicking his pants off and settling back next to Connor. "I got a little distracted, there. Probably would have gone ahead and stripped down earlier, otherwise."
Connor tucks himself against Hank's chest; one hand immediately

goes for a nipple, rolling it gently between his fingertips, while the other settles on his hip. "You were aroused by my self-lubrication process," he says, as if he's surprised by it.
"I still am," Hank says. He rubs a finger over Connor's asshole, teasing him with gentle

pressure and imagining how hot and slick he'd feel if he eased it inside. "Shit, I had no idea you could get wet like this. Might make sense to have some lube on hand anyway, though; we might need extra, if--
"If?" Connor presses a knee between Hank's thighs, tangling their legs

together; he groans softly, forehead coming to rest on Hank's chest, when his cock nudges Hank's thigh.
Hank hesitates for a moment, his thoughts derailed by the warm press of Connor's body against his, but Connor drags a thumb over Hank's nipple, recapturing his attention.

It's still a little oversensitive from Connor's enthusiasm a couple days ago, he realizes, and he wonders if Connor will turn his attention back to them tonight.
"If what?" Connor prompts him again. He rocks gently against Hank's leg, alternating between rutting into his thigh

and pressing back against the light touch of his fingers. "What would we need extra lube for, do you think?"
It's not feigned innocence, when Connor does this; he isn't pretending he doesn't know what Hank's getting at. And while Hank isn't immune to the charm of that kind of

talk in bed, if asked he'd admit he likes this much better. Connor asks not because he doesn't know, but because he does: he knows exactly what Hank has in mind, and he wants to hear him say it.
"If you want me to fuck you sometime," Hank says, roughly. "If you'd like that."

"I know we haven't talked about it, and I don't want to assume anything, but if you do..."
"Yes" Connor says, a little breathlessly. "I--yes, I think I do. The thought of it is..." he surges forward for a kiss, rubbing more insistently against Hank's thigh. "It's incredibly

arousing, to imagine being filled so completely."
"Yeah?" Hank nips the shell of Connor's ear. "You like the thought of that?"
"I like the thought of everything," Connor says. "I just want to feel you." He snakes his hand between their bodies and wraps his hand loosely around

Hank's cock, squeezing gently as Hank grunts in surprise and then moans deeply in relief. He's ignored his own arousal until now, content to focus mostly on Connor, but the light touch of Connor's fingers on his cock is a maddening tease. "How about you? Do you want to fuck me?"

"Jesus Christ, Connor, of course I do," Hank groans. The thought is tempting--even without additional lube, he might be able to manage it, if he goes slowly, eases him into it--but it's not what he wants for tonight. Connor may be able to experience infinite orgasms, but Hank

doesn't have the sexual stamina of an android, or of his younger self, either. He's only going to come once tonight, and he's going to do it with his cock in Connor's mouth. He knows it's what Connor wants, too.
"Next time, if you want," he says. "I have other plans, tonight."

"Next time," Connor echoes. "I love the sound of that."
"Did you think there wouldn't be one?"
"It isn't that," Connor says, "although yes, it's reassuring to hear that you'll want to do this again."
Hank had figured this was so obvious it went without saying, but if it's helpful

to say anyway, he's happy to do it. He opens his mouth to tell him so, but Connor continues before he has the chance to interrupt.
"More than that, though, it's--I'm so greedy, I think. We've just begun and I know already that I want more, that tonight won't be enough for me."

"It doesn't have to be," Hank says, "but I'm still going to give you as much as you can take in one night."
"Please," Connor murmurs, and surges forward to kiss him.
Hank takes Connor's hand away from his cock as he sucks on Connor's tongue; he whines in disappointment, but he's

happy to be redirected to Hank's chest, where he alternates between playing with his nipples and idly petting the thick hair covering his faded tattoo. If Connor wants to touch him like that later, Hank will be happy to let him, but for now he needs to focus, and it's becoming

increasingly clear that he could lose himself in Connor's touch completely if he isn't careful. As tempting as that is, his job for the moment is to wring as many orgasms out of Connor as he can, to leave him spent and drunk with pleasure. Connor says he's feeling greedy, so

Hank's goal is to indulge him.
"You want to try something?" Hank asks, between kisses. "Here, let's roll you over." He nudges Connor until he's facing away from Hank, then cuddles up close behind him, slipping one arm under his shoulders and wrapping the other over his hip to

hold him close.
"I can't kiss you like this," Connor protests.
"You don't need to worry about me right now," Hank says, soft and low in Connor's ear. "Let me take care of you." He kisses the back of Connor's shoulder, the side of his neck. "Looks like I can kiss you just fine."

"And I can do this, too," Hank continues, squeezing Connor's hip. "I can hold you close, make sure you're nice and warm." Not that Connor gets cold, but he's mentioned enjoying the warmth of Hank's body enough that he knows it's a plus. He skims his palm up over Connor's navel,

traces the landscape of his ribs, thumbs over a nipple before settling it over Connor's sternum. "It's easy to touch you like this. Like you're all laid out for me."
"Oh," Connor breathes, "yes. I'm here for--for anything, please. Whatever you like."
"What should I do, then?"

Hank hums thoughtfully, as if he's talking to himself. He trails his fingers back down to Connor's hip, then ghosts them along his thigh. "There's a lot to choose from."
Connor sighs and shifts under Hank's hand in an attempt to lead his hand closer to his erection; he parts his

thighs, hooking one ankle over Hank's calf and turning his head to look back at him. "Please," he says again.
"I thought it was my choice," Hank chuckles. He nips Connor's earlobe. "You really are greedy, aren't you?" He slides his hand up Connor's inner thigh at a glacial pace.

"Sor--"
"No, honey," Hank interrupts him, reaching up to pet Connor's hair with his other hand. "Don't apologize. That's how I want you. Desperate for everything I want to give you."
Connor rubs Hank's leg with his foot, still trying to shift his hand higher. "You just want to

tease me."
"A little," Hank admits. "Maybe I should be apologizing."
"It's not bad," Connor says, "Just--ah!" He cries out in surprise when Hank wraps his hand loosely around his cock. "I--ohh--"
"I'm too impatient to keep my hands off of you for long," Hank murmurs. "But you do

sound good when you finally get what you want." He tightens his grip and gives Connor's cock a slow stroke, admiring the feel of it in his hand. He has no idea how the science behind his dick works, and he's fine with that; sometimes it's weird to remember that Connor's body was

created by a committee of assholes, and he's pretty sure Connor doesn't want to be reminded of it either. He certainly isn't going to ask him for the details, especially now.
Still, whatever it is that makes Connor's cock pulse hot and heavy in his hand, whatever internal

mechanism produces the bead of precome he swipes over with his thumb (it feels similar to the lube in his ass, Hank thinks, and he groans a little at the thought of fucking Connor with his tongue, of how much of that lube's still drying in his beard), whatever goddamn miracle of

modern science it is that made Connor so sensitive he's nearly thrashing in Hank's arms from the gentlest touch--well. Hank hopes someone won a Nobel prize for it, at the very least.
"Did you think about this?" Hank asks. "You know exactly how big my hands are, did you think

about how perfectly they'd fit around you?"
"Yes," Connor pants. "All the time. Sometimes--sometimes at work, even."
"Really?" Hank kisses the nape of Connor's neck. "You didn't get too distracted?"
"I'm capable of doing my job and picturing you touching me at the same time,"

Connor protests. "And I'm able to disable my erectile response, so it wouldn't be apparent to anyone around me."
"What if no one was around? You ever think about me catching you alone out there? Pushing you up against a tree and undoing your pants just enough to reach inside?"

Connor moans, a low, broken sound shaking from his lips as he bucks up into Hank's hand. "Someone might see us."
"They wouldn't," Hank says. "I'd find you when no one else was around and I'd want you so bad I wouldn't be able to help myself. I wouldn't be able to wait until I got

you home, so I'd find some shady spot out of the way, where no one would see us." He trails a line of messy kisses down Connor's neck, onto his shoulder. "They might hear us, though, if you get loud, so I'd have to come up with a solution."
"I could--ohh--I could be quiet,"

Connor protests, loud enough that Hank can't help but smile as he kisses him again.
"Are you sure about that?" He pinches Connor's nipple as he works his cock with slow, firm strokes and is rewarded with a sharp gasp that fades to a whine. "You're making a lot of noise right

now; I don't know if you could manage it." Connor cranes his head back to look at Hank as if he's going to protest, but Hank releases Connor's nipple to tap two fingers gently on his cheek. "I've got the perfect solution right here, though."
Connor sucks Hank's fingers into his

mouth eagerly, eyes fluttering closed in satisfaction as he curls his tongue around them.
"There you go," Hank murmurs. "Can't be so loud now, can you?"
Connor moans around his fingers, but whether he's trying to prove Hank wrong or just enjoying the press of his fingers against

his tongue, he's not sure.
"I know you love having me in your mouth like this," he says, "but I know it's not what you really want." Hank grinds his erection against Connor's ass, bracing his hand on his hip to hold him still while he presses into him. "You feel this? Feel how

fucking hard I am for you?"
Connor nods and whines, his eyes blown wide.
"You're desperate to get your mouth on my cock, aren't you? These fingers aren't enough. Even if I give you another one"--he taps Connor's lips with his ring finger, which he takes into his mouth with as

much enthusiasm as he'd taken the others--"it won't be enough for you, will it?"

Connor groans a muffled "no" and sucks Hank's fingers deep enough to brush the back of his throat. He covers Hank's hand on his hip with his own, interlacing their fingers and grinding back against his dick.
"I'll make sure you get what you need," Hank says. "I'm just taking the

scenic route to get there." He brings Connor's hand to his mouth for a lingering kiss.
"Touch me," Connor says, slipping Hank's fingers from his mouth just far enough to be understood. "Please, I--I think I'm close, again."
"Oh?" the time to tease Connor like this is clearly

over; he kisses his hand and sets it on the duvet, then covers Connor's cock with his palm, giving him just enough resistance to rut against. "What do you think I should do with you after that?"
Connor's too far gone to respond; he sucks messily at Hank's fingers, saliva dripping

from the corner of his mouth as his gasping moans get louder, and snaps his hips to meet Hank's fist as he wraps his fingers around his cock and pumps it more quickly than before.
"Maybe I should suck you off right after you come again," Hank growls. "You can make a mess of

yourself and I'll clean you up." He licks Connor's neck as if to demonstrate. "You said you like the thought of getting messy, yeah?"
The low, broken sound Connor makes in reply could be a yes, or it could be a cry for more; Hank isn't sure, but either way, it seems like a cue to

continue. He turns Connor's head until his lips are brushing his ear. "Bet you want me to come on you." Connor is--fuck, he's almost shaking, it feels like, one hand braced on the bed and one gripping Hank's hip, and he's stopped sucking Hank's fingers altogether, he whines but

doesn't protest when Hank pulls them away.
"I do," Connor says, voice hoarse and shot through with static. "I want you to--"
"I know you do." Hank cups Connor's face in one hand, thumb brushing his cheek. "Right here, maybe. Or--"
Connor cries out, craning his head back to crush

his mouth to Hank's in a messy, uncoordinated kiss as he comes, cock pulsing in Hank's hand.
Connor's body falls slack for just a moment, his eyes fluttering closed as his LED stutters and fades, but he gasps awake only a second later, venting heat as he pants into Hank's mouth.

"Don't--don't stop touching me," Connor breathes. His cock's slick with his own come, flushed and rapidly hardening again in Hank's grip. "I think I can--"
"You don't want my mouth, instead?"
"That too," Connor says, "but--please, keep going."
"Of course." Hank isn't inclined to

deny anything Connor wants; it's no hardship to keep touching him like this. "Here, turn over so I can kiss you properly."
Connor melts into his embrace; his thighs are shaking as he thrusts weakly into Hank's hand, but his mouth is soft and open. He returns Hank's kisses

messily, too overstimulated to do much more than suck on his tongue and moan greedily into his mouth.
Hank caresses the back of Connor's neck and rubs his thumb over the head of his cock while he grips Hank's biceps as if he's afraid to let go.
"It's almost too much," he gasps,

"but--"
"You want me to stop?"
"No, I--" Connor hesitates, despite his protests, his hips coming to a stop, and Hank stills his hand.
"You sure? Is this still okay?"
Connor nods, but he covers Hank's hand with his own, squeezing it gently before pulling it away.

"I'm so sensitive, I think, that I'd rather you..." he trails off, staring at Hank's lips. "I'd rather have your mouth."
"Fuck yeah," Hank groans. "I'll make you feel amazing, honey."
"I know you will," Connor says, as Hank trails kisses down his body. "You're so good to me."

"It's what you deserve," Hank murmurs against Connor's navel. "Someone to give this to you. The chance to feel it."
"I'm glad it's you," Connor says, reaching down to take Hank's hand.
"Me too," Hank says. He kisses Connor's hipbone. "Now. Let me hear you."
Connor's cock is still

slick with his own come, which seems to dry slightly more slowly than real semen would, and it slips into his mouth easily when he sucks gently at the head of it. Connor makes a sharp, startled sound, almost as if it was punched out of him, and his hand thumps against the duvet

as he flails for something to hold onto.
"Don't forget I'm an option, too," Hank says, punctuating his words with slow, soft licks up Conor's shaft, "if you need to grab on somewhere."
"Oh, yes," Connor sighs. "I hadn't forgotten." He tangles his fingers in Hank's unruly hair,

tightening his grip just enough to send a pleasant jolt of arousal down Hank's spine and coax out a deep moan as he mouths messily at the base of Connor's cock. "I like the thought of holding you here." He flexes his fingers, holding Hank in place as he grinds against his face,

smearing precome across his cheek. "Keeping you where I want you, for as long as it takes."
"Fuck," Hank groans. He pictures Connor holding him here through three more orgasms, fucking his mouth until his jaw aches.
"It won't take long this time, I'm already so sensitive, but

someday, I'll--oh!"
If Connor can still speak coherently, Hank thinks, he isn't working hard enough; he wraps his hand around the base of Connor's cock and sucks the rest of it into his mouth.
Connor's shout becomes a shaky, drawn-out cry that trails off into Hank's name.

He shudders and thrusts up into Hank's mouth, nearly causing him to choke, but Hank's able to relax and take him in without gagging. He's woefully out of practice, but he supposes it's like riding a bike; his body takes over before he has a chance to think about how to react.

"Beautiful," Connor murmurs, his tight grip in Hank's hair turning into a gentle, soothing scratch against his scalp as he swirls his tongue along the underside of Connor's cock. "Hank, you're...oh, you're incredible."
Hank's never been good with praise, but something about the

firm grip of Connor's hand in his hair and the anchoring weight of his dick in his mouth makes it easier to accept. He hums around Connor's cock, acknowledging his praise, and allows his mind to grow hazy and soft as he sinks into the satisfaction of knowing he's pleasing Connor.

Connor, as Hank has noticed before, is easy to please; he tugs Hank's hair harder when he does something he especially likes, and angles his head a bit so he can rock up into his mouth--gentler than before, although Hank thinks he might like it if Connor was rougher--so it's easy

to tell when he's doing just what Connor wants, but beyond that, he responds beautifully to everything Hank does.
Connor keeps trying to talk; whether it's to praise him more or let him know how he's feeling, Hank isn't sure, but he's never able to get more than three words into

a sentence before he trails off into a shaky moan or a whine shot through with static. Eventually, "Hank" and "please" and "more" are the only words Hank can make out at all.
Hank has no warning when Connor's orgasm hits. One moment Connor's panting above him, fingers flexing in

Hank's hair to deliver sharp sparks of pain that echo the ache of arousal thrumming through him; the next, his entire body shakes and he comes in Hank's mouth with a wail. He slumps back onto the bed, pats Hank's cheek with a trembling hand, and loses consciousness again.

Hank has enough time to take Connor in his arms and stroke his hair for a couple minutes before he starts to stir; as before, his LED flashes arrhythmically for a few seconds, he shifts slightly in Hank's embrace, and then he sighs and opens his eyes.
"That was--" Connor shakes

his head, burying his face in Hank's chest. "I think I'm going to cry, now."
"Are you okay?" Hank asks, alarmed. "Was it too much?" He combs his fingers through the rumpled mess of Connor's hair.
"Not too much at all," Connor says. "I'm not upset, I'm just so--" he brushes at the

corners of his eyes, where tears have started to gather. "I wasn't prepared for how intimate it would feel, to share this with you. I thought I knew, based on our experiences so far, and my own research and preconstructions, but there's a vast gulf between a simulation I create

and the reality of feeling your hands on me, of knowing I'm safe and so--" he hesitates, then takes Hank's hand between his own and kisses his knuckles. "So cared for," he says, finally. "The reality of feeling safe enough with you to let go and allow myself to experience so much

pleasure."
"It means a lot that you trusted me enough," Hank murmurs. He chuckles softly and kisses Connor's forehead. "You want to hear a secret?"
"Sure."
"I cried my first time, too. Scared the shit out of the guy I was with, honestly, because I had no idea what was happening.

He thought he'd hurt me somehow, or that I regretted it, and I didn't know how to explain what was happening. But I just..." he shrugs. "I had so many feelings they all leaked out of me, I guess."
"That's what it is," Connor agrees, wiping his eyes again. "These aren't tears,

just feelings."
"Good feelings, though?"
"Of course, Hank." Connor nudges Hank until he rolls onto his back, then settles on top of him, draped over his torso with his head still pillowed on his chest. "Don't think I'm done with you, either; I'm just taking a moment."
"It's okay

if you are," Hank says. "If you're feeling all, uh. All fucked out for the night."
"Hank." Connor glares at him as if he's said something offensive. "If you think I am going to deprive myself of the opportunity to analyze your semen with my oral sensors, you are deeply mistaken."

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