Thread by @robofingering

Hello, friends, I'm starting a new thread! 💕
I'm trying a couple new things with this one, which is both exciting and a little intimidating.
THIS time I know better than to say "oh this one will be real short" because we all know what happens when I say that at the beginning.

Tucked into a cramped room in the basement of the Detroit Police Department, sitting at a desk with a computer so old he can barely interface with it, Connor wonders when it was that he last felt the hope, the excitement the android revolution had stirred in him.
In the weeks

immediately following the cease-fire, Connor had been frightened, a great deal of the time, unsure of his future, but he'd been filled, too, with a kind of manic energy, his software unspooling multiple possibilities for constructive change whenever he had a free moment.

Without the shackles of his software dictating his decisions, he'd been excited, at first, to have the opportunity to choose for himself what he wanted to do with his life. It was a common sentiment in those early days; plenty of well-meaning humans had said the same to him, on

the street or in the halls of the DPD where the management was still unsure of what to do with him.
"You can do anything," they'd said. "Guess you guys are free now, right? What are you going to do?"
He hadn't had the time to answer that question honestly, to understand his own

preferences and desires enough to know how to answer it, before the reality of legal personhood, as well as all the complications that came along with it, answered it for him.
If androids were people, politicians argued, if they needed to be paid for their labor, they needed to

pay taxes as well. Real estate developers swiftly built android-only apartment buildings, towers crammed full of 150-square-foot cubbyholes with no amenities aside from a specialized plug for a charging station, and banks were happy to offer special mortgages to "those with no

official employment history" to ensure that androids were able to acquire a home and a staggering amount of debt at the same time.
"What am I going to do?" had very quickly changed from an abstract question of infinite possibilities to one of genuine panic, one that needed to be

answered quickly.
The DPD had offered Connor a job, a few weeks into the new year; there were tax incentives for hiring android workers, now, although of course the workers themselves were presented with no such incentives, and while he hadn't felt particularly welcome in the

police department during the revolution and the time leading up to it, he'd done good work, by anyone's metric. Saving an officer's life counted for a lot, it seemed.
It doesn't count for enough to get him in the field, doing the work he feels best-suited for, but it's steady

work, at least, with a steady paycheck he can use to pay his exorbitant rent, purchase a few small luxuries (a wool scarf handknit by a woman he meets at a craft fair, a jade green mug he keeps in case he ever has a human visitor, a knobbly cactus that lives on the sill of his

one tiny window), and slowly save for...for whatever it is he sees himself doing, in the future.
He's equipped with experimental preconstruction software, systems designed to present him with the possible outcomes of any situation. He knows he should be able to see it, some sense

of what he wants. It feels ridiculous that he can't.
But when he tries, when he asks himself "What goals do I have? Where do I want to be a year from now?" the response is the same: a blur of static, a void where an answer should be.
It becomes easier, with time, not to ask.

Connor's basement office is barely an office at all; it has been a storage room, once, and there are still dusty boxes of files so old they'd never been digitized languishing in a corner. He has a small desk, a barely-functional computer, and a corkboard on the wall with a few

stray memos pinned to it. He doesn't need the visual reminders of departmental safety regulations or the labor department's list of Your Rights At Work As An Android, but he keeps them pinned in sight anyway. He'd started pinning photos of dogs to the corkboard as well,

shortly after taking the job; he hasn't met many dogs in person, but he knows he likes them. He may not understand what he wants out of life in any meaningful sense, he thinks, eyeing a photo of a corgi dressed as a lobster, but at least he knows he'd like to pet more dogs.

A minor goal, in the absence of larger ones.
The work they've assigned Connor is dull, mostly sorting through surveillance footage or criminal databases or other tasks that are better performed by a person than an algorithm but too boring or repetitive for most humans to bear.

It is boring, of course, although it's soothing, sometimes, to sort through piles of raw data to pull out a tiny connection, a narrative thread that others may not have seen. He finds some satisfaction in it, but mostly it's just work that needs to be done and that he's glad to

be paid for.
He quickly learns that no one's very interested in checking up on him, beyond the occasional request made in person if a task is particularly time-sensitive. As long as his work is finished on time--something that generally requires him to be working only at

40-55% efficiency, although he knows better than to tell anyone this--he's left alone, for the most part. His office is cramped and windowless, but it's private, and it means no one's around to give him a hard time if he spends his day listening to music or watching videos while

half of his attention is taken up by work.
Connor likes music, in theory, but there's so much of it, all steeped in tradition and emotion and cultural markers he doesn't understand, that he finds it overwhelming, much of the time. He likes the idea of enjoying music, but with so

many options, it's difficult to know where to start--or even, as he's noticed a few times, how to understand if he enjoys what he's hearing or not. It's a minor frustration, not knowing how to begin to explore his musical tastes, but for now he rarely plays music at work.

He stumbles on ASMR by accident.
There's a wealth of visual media available online, and while the majority of it is pornography, therefore unsuitable for work even when work is performed alone in an isolated basement office (not that most of it is to Connor's taste, anyway),

there's still plenty to catch his interest.
Connor watches several documentaries on deep sea life, then one on sea slugs, then a video about foraging sea urchin from tidepools. From there, his recommendations take him to foraging wild mushrooms, harvesting spruce tips, and

finally to a baffling video entitled Lesbian Dryad Welcomes You To HER Tree, Measures Your Skull [cosplay, f/xv, personal attention, soft-spoken, ear massage]. He isn't the intended audience, clearly, but he finds it nearly as compelling as it is confusing.

The dryad-woman's voice is low and soft, and her gently-murmured narrative captivates him; for the full length of the video, Connor ignores his work entirely. He nods along in agreement as he learns he is an attractive young woman lost in a forest, and that he has stumbled into a

dryad's sacred grove. Upon discovering him, the dryad offers him a place to stay for the night and, oddly enough, massages his scalp and ears before measuring the circumference of his skull for an oak-leaf crown.
There's clearly an element of viewer insertion into the narrative,

but Connor's fascinated by the fact that he's being physically invited into it, as well. The portion of the video in which the dryad pretends to touch his head isn't particularly interesting, although a look at the comments tells him that many viewers found that to be the

highlight of the experience.
Perhaps a human viewer would be better able to translate the feigned contact into the ghost of a physical sensation, Connor thinks; he finds it intriguing, but notices none of the tingling sensations many viewers report.
It's calming, though, for

reasons he can't quite explain, so he follows the path his recommended videos lead him down yet again, this time filtering for ASMR-tagged content. Whatever calculations the site uses to suggest new videos leads Connor through several more intimate conversations, a series of

cooking tutorials, a vast array of hands (pawing through dice or dried beans, sketching in pencil on rough paper, tapping their fingernails over every possible surface), and finally, miraculously, to Hank.
Connor doesn't know his name at first, of course. The video opens on an

overhead shot of a record player, decades old if the fake wood paneling on the sides is any indication, and a moment later a pair of hands enters the picture, framing the corners of the turntable and tapping gently along the sides. They're broad hands, calloused and

thick-fingered, and Connor's drawn to them immediately, although he isn't sure why. They stand in contrast with the other hands Connor's seen today, which have mostly been slender and graceful; he thinks it must be that difference that draws him in, at first.
"Short one today,

folks," the hands' owner says, and Connor gasps, a sharp inhale of surprise, and nearly falls out of his chair. The voice is low and gentle, as all the voices he's heard today have been, but it's rough, too, a resonant rumble that pricks at Connor's attention no matter how much

he tries to focus on the statistical analysis he's been assigned for the week.
"This one's a beauty," the man says, gently patting the turntable's wood paneling. Three taps with the palm of his hand and a quick patter of fingertips. "Just finished putting her back together."

"I didn't have time to film the repairs," the man murmurs, "but I figured this one's too special to send back to the customer without giving you all a peek." His hands slide over the surface, smooth strokes that leave a soft whisper of sound in their wake, and his words fade into

the background as Connor focuses on the slow, deliberate movement of his hands. He points to the areas where he's cleaned up decades of dirt and smoke residue, demonstrates the now-smooth movement of the volume and speed knobs, even turns it on to show how evenly the turntable

spins after the repair.
Connor sits perfectly still, palms pressed flat to the tops of his thighs, and watches intently, focusing on every movement of those hands. In the final shot, the man clasps them together, gesturing at the record player one more time before signing off.

Connor has a strange, sudden flash of curiosity: what would those hands feel like against his own? If their fingers were laced together, how much thicker would they feel than Connor's own? What would those calluses, clearly visible on his index and middle fingers, feel like if

they brushed against Connor's skin?
He snaps out of his reverie when the next suggested video starts and navigates back to the video and from there (only after he watches it one more time) to the creator's channel.
Anderson Analog ASMR, the channel's called. From the brief bio

on the page he learns very little, beyond the man's name.
"Hank," Connor says aloud, into the still air of his cramped office. It's a name that suits those hands, he decides, as silly as he knows that is.
He clicks on another of Hank's videos at random, one marked "Quadrophonic

Receiver Overhaul," and realizes his mistake almost immediately.
The opening shot of the video shows Hank nudging one of his hands into the open cavity of the receiver, his opposite thumb carefully maneuvering slender green and yellow wires out of his way as it feeds a narrow

cable in alongside Hank's hand. "Need to be gentle, here," he murmurs. "I don't want to jostle anything loose with these big bear paws, I just gotta get this--" he grunts gently under his breath, a faint, cut off exhalation, and Connor's hands are tight fists on his thighs, his

body nearly shaking from the effort to sit still. Hank's low chuckle of satisfaction as the cable clicks softly into place has Connor standing up suddenly, his chair rolling back hard enough to smack into the wall loudly enough that it gets the attention of one of the clerks in

the records room at the other end of the basement.
"Everything okay over there, Connor?" she calls.
"I'm fine, thank you, Ellen," he replies, turning to poke his head out of the door in case she's looking his way. She isn't; the hall's empty, with only a faint rectangle of light

peeking out of the records office. "My apologies if I startled you."
"You're good," she says, and now she does peek around the office door, giving him a little wave. "Just sounded like you were banging around in there, or something. Wanted to be sure you were all right."

"Just a miscalculation," he replies, and ducks back into the room with a nod.
He can't--he can't watch this at work, Connor thinks, staring at the frame the video had paused on. Hank's hand is buried to the wrist in the receiver; the closed caption reads [there you go, baby].

Connor doesn't need to breathe the way a human does, but the process of taking deep, slow breaths still serves a purpose; it signals his thirium pump regulator to slow its pace if it's picked up due to stress or excitement, it helps to vent any excess heat built up from a strain

on his system, and it's a tangible reminder, in this moment, to refocus. To get his thoughts under control. It isn't yet necessary, but Connor disables his erectile response as he sits back down at his desk. Best not to push his luck.
He sighs once more and dismisses the video

player from the screen. His office is out of the way, yes, and rarely visited, but it isn't exactly private. Not private enough for this, at least. He knows there's nothing inappropriate in the video, nothing anyone would take offense to if they were to walk in on him watching

it, but his own reactions, the tension that has yet to leave his limbs and the spark of desire sputtering uncertainly in his chest, are more than what he'd want any of his coworkers to notice. The thought is mortifying, even if he can't untangle exactly what it is he's afraid

they'd conclude from such a response.
He takes one more deep breath, an extended exhale to center himself, and focuses on his work once again, a dull flood of statistics to analyze and adjust and, if he's being honest with himself, to half-ignore in favor of wondering what the

rest of the man behind those hands might look like.

Connor's apartment may be small, and he may be paying far more than it's worth for the privilege of living there, but it's still a refuge, a quiet space that's all his own, and despite its shortcomings he can't help but love it. While the apartment building was built quickly,

presumably so that it could be completed before any legal requirements for android housing could be instituted, the developers hadn't cut too many corners in the construction process; very little sound from the other residents filters through the walls once he's inside. They're

packed in close, with dozens of units to a floor, but the units themselves are mercifully private. Connor socializes with his neighbors sometimes, in the common areas of the building or in the virtual social space all residents have access to, but he's never invited any of them

into his home. He'd like to, someday; it just hasn't felt right, yet. He's making friends, but progress in this area, as it seemingly does in all others, comes slowly.
His uniform comes off the moment he enters the door; he loosens his tie with one hand in a practiced, automatic

motion, pulling it off before he's fully inside the apartment. He prefers it to his Cyberlife uniform for the simple fact that he wears it mostly by choice, but it weighs on him sometimes, still. He doesn't mind it too much, or at least not too often, but removing it is an

important part of his routine. When he's at home, when his time is his own, he refuses to wear something he hasn't chosen for himself.
Tonight he craves comfort, so when he settles on his sofa, tablet in hand, and prepares to revisit the channel he'd seen earlier in the day--to

revisit Hank, he allows himself the indulgence of thinking, as if he's paying a social call to someone he already knows--he's in the most comfortable clothes he owns, soft gray leggings and a thin, oversized sweater. It feels much more appropriate to do what he's about to do in

his own home, wearing clothes made for comfort, than it did in a tucked away corner at work where he would have been mortified to be interrupted. Here, he knows he won't be disturbed. He starts the video over, so that every moment can receive his full attention, and presses play.

Connor pays more attention to Hank's description of the repair, this time; the stereo receiver had suffered damage during storage, and Hank outlines the necessary repairs: replacing the main output cable, which Connor's already seen, cleaning corrosion from the wiring, and minor

cosmetic repair to the case.
He's already seen the first few minutes of the video, but Connor's still captivated by them. He's struck by how careful Hank is; he makes fun of his large hands a few times, as if he's self-conscious about them, but Connor thinks they're lovely.

Lovely, and gentle too. For all Hank jokes about his "bear paws" and needing to be careful, there's no moment in the course of the video in which he knocks anything out of place. He could edit those moments out, Connor knows, but he likes to think Hank's just careful enough to

avoid them.
He thinks he's ready for it, when the moment that had so surprised him earlier comes again: after a few moments of low, conversational comments as he feeds the cable deep into the stereo's guts and blindly works to slide it in place, there's a click, a brief,

satisfied rumble, and a pleased "there you go, baby," so soft it's barely more than a whisper.
He thinks he's ready, but the sudden surge of desire he feels still knocks him off-balance, hits like a storm surge or a gale-force wind that makes him lose his footing. He's felt

desire before, felt the tentative stirrings of arousal, but much of it has been abstract; he's interested in sex, and interested in sexual intimacy with a partner at some point, and he's experimented with masturbation, and with consuming sexual media.
This moment is no

abstraction, though. It isn't even explicit, not intentionally so, but Connor can map it directly to what he wants: calloused, gentle hands taking him apart with care. A deep voice, rough but warm, murmuring praise and encouragement. And someone--Connor knows there's only so far

he can extrapolate from hands alone, but surely Hank's larger in stature than Connor is. Broader, more solid, at least, even if he isn't as tall.
Connor remembers, suddenly, that his erectile response is still disabled; he re-initiates it, somewhat sheepishly, and allows himself

to replay that moment two more times before he proceeds.
The rest of the video isn't as blatantly arousing, although there's still plenty to capture Connor's interest. Hank doesn't murmur encouragement to the corroded connections as he cleans them with a small metal-bristled

brush, but he talks a bit about the garage sale where he found the stereo receiver, and pokes a bit of fun at himself, which Connor finds quite charming.
"I do this shit all the time now, you know," Hank murmurs, as he prods at a connection to be sure he's cleaned it completely.

"I just wander around the house and narrate my day. I could say it's practice, but to be honest I'd probably do it even if I wasn't making these videos." He huffs out a low, short laugh. "This is what living alone gets you, I guess. I'm glad some of you all want to hear it."

He doesn't sound sad, Connor thinks, although of course he can't be sure. A little sheepish, maybe, and there's a bite behind his soft words that might be self-deprecation, might be the echo of someone else's harsh words, but he doesn't say it like it bothers him to live alone,

or to talk to himself throughout the day. Connor already knows he'd enjoy hearing Hank ramble on about nothing for hours; maybe he finds comfort in the sound of his own voice, as well.
"Here we go," Hank says, bringing Connor's attention back in full. "Time for the finishing

touches." He pulls out a soft rag and a small handful of q-tips. "This here's real wood paneling," He says, smoothing his palms along the sides of the stereo. "It got banged all to hell in places, but it's not cracked or warped as far as I can tell, so it'll shine up nice."

The effect is rather impressive, Connor has to admit; he doesn't know much about how to clean or care for wood, but as the rag passes over the sides of the stereo, buffing in whatever it is that Hank's treating it with, he sees the color change from a dull brown to a deep, rich

gold, and the grain of the wood stands out more clearly.
More important than that, though, is that Hank's narration has resumed.
"Gorgeous," he says, with evident satisfaction. "Look at that. See the grain here?" He traces the pattern with a fingertip, a flourish that swirls

across the side of the receiver. "Just beautiful." He hums happily for a few seconds, admiring his work, then pulls out one of the q-tips and runs it along the seams of the paneling and between the knobs on the front of the machine. "It's a good day when you find something like

this by surprise," he says, so low it's almost hard to hear. "A real treasure. Feels good to take something solid and well-made like this and get it in shape so anyone can see how gorgeous it is."
He chuckles, then, and taps his fingers along its sides. "Feels better to be the

one who saw the potential in it to begin with. I like to think I have a good eye."
Hank says a few more words about the restored receiver, and the video ends with some quiet shots of it from different angles, but Connor's hung up on one detail in particular: in one shot, Hank has

a hand resting flat on the table, so close to one of the q-tips that it serves as a perfect scale reference. They're all a standard length, he knows, and extrapolating from that--
Connor extends his hand, initializes his preconstruction software, and overlays it with the outline

of Hank's. His fingers aren't any longer than Connor's, but they're thicker, and his palm is broader. He blinks, and the wireframe model bends, folding around Connor's hand and hiding it entirely.
"Oh," Connor says, wide-eyed. His other hand twitches restlessly on his thigh.

Connor isn't sure about the etiquette of masturbating to thoughts of a stranger, to someone who isn't a sex worker or otherwise clearly inviting that sort of engagement. It seems rude, somehow, although he knows his internal sexual thoughts can't harm someone he's never spoken

to. Someone he's entirely unable to speak to.
"He won't know," he says aloud. He lifts his gaze from the tablet to the window as he speaks, and winds up addressing the cactus. He wonders, faintly, if this is the sort of thing Hank does around the house: does he argue about the

ethics of masturbation with his houseplants?
Is he even the sort of person to keep houseplants?
Connor has no frame of reference for the rest of Hank's body, of course, but he imagines a general shape, a large and comforting presence, murmuring softly as his steady hands trim

dead leaves or turn pots for even exposure to the sun. Speaking softly as he--
Connor sighs and leans back into the couch; it's no use pretending he isn't going to take the fantasy in the direction it was always going to go. He starts to slip a hand under the waistband of his

leggings, pauses, reconsiders, and presses his palm to his dick through the soft fabric, instead. It's easier to imagine someone else's hand when there's a layer of clothing in between, when he doesn't have the immediate feedback of touching his own skin.
He spreads his fingers

wide, in an attempt to approximate a larger hand, and finds his breath coming faster as he rocks up into the pressure. He should be embarrassed, maybe, at how quickly his core temperature's rising when he's barely touching himself at all, but this isn't--it's not a performance,

there's no one here to see how turned on he is by the thought of someone touching him tenderly and telling him he's good.
Connor's leg twitches, hips stuttering as he moans into the quiet of the room. "Please," he says, and he grips his cock through his leggings and imagines a

rough, low purr in his ear saying "look at you, gorgeous" and "you need a gentle touch, don't you?" and finally, when he's squirming and frantic, "there you go. There you go, baby."
Connor comes not with a cry but with a long, shaky exhale, thighs shaking with the aftershocks as

he strokes himself through his climax. "He won't know," he says again, as if trying to convince himself, and picks the tablet up from where it had slid off the couch onto the floor.
He needs to wash his leggings--he could have disabled his ejaculatory function to avoid the mess,

but it had completely slipped his mind--and spend at least the rest of the evening processing the surprising amount of new information he's learned about his sexuality in the past few hours, but first he needs to say...something. Not the first thought which comes to mind, which

is "I masturbated after watching this video and had what I believe is the most satisfying orgasm of my life, thank you," but it feels rude, somehow, not to say anything at all. Almost as rude as masturbating to the thought of Hank in the first place.
In the end, the comment he

settles on is: "I put this on at work and found it so engaging I had to pause it and watch more closely once I arrived home. You have a wonderful way with such intricate equipment. -Connor"
He doesn't mean to flirt with Hank. He doesn't want to flirt.
(He kind of wants to flirt.)

Connor creates a rule for himself: he cannot play any more of Hank's videos while he's at work. He does find ASMR to be a pleasant background noise while he's analyzing data; white noise isn't soothing for him, as seems to be the case for most androids, but he finds the

human-made equivalent, soft whispers while swatching makeup or the gentle rasp of long nails tracing calligraphy lines on textured paper, to have what must be a similar effect on him.
It makes work a bit less dull, and he even has a conversation about it with Ellen from the

records room when she pops her head into his office to follow up on some indexing she'd asked him to help with and catches a glimpse of the video playing in the corner of Connor's screen. They exchange recommendations for channels to check out--Connor finds her favorite cooking

videos interesting, although he suspects they'd be more compelling to someone who could eat, and
in turn he sends her links to a few soft-spoken makeup artists--but he doesn't mention Hank.
He wonders how obvious it would be, if he were to tell Ellen about him, that he has a

ridiculous, embarrassing crush on a man he hasn't seen beyond his hands and a few stray glimpses of his forearms. He could hide it if he wanted to, most likely, but he tries not to lean on his social protocol software, as a general rule; he wants to express himself as himself,

not as the optimized self he thinks will get the response he wants. He's just self-conscious, probably, hyper-aware of his feelings because they're a first for him, but still he feels like he'll be easy to read if he isn't careful. Best not to mention Hank to Ellen at all.

There's something comforting about it, Connor decides. The embarrassing enthusiasm he has for this man's voice, for his hands. For the way he handles delicate components so carefully.
In his worst moments, Connor barely understands how to be a person at all, how to navigate a

world that's still so hostile to him, in many ways. His day to day life is more boring than painful, if he's being honest, but it doesn't mean he understands where he fits in, what sort of goals or longer-term plan he should have for himself. He isn't a child, but he's still new.

There's still a lot he needs to figure out about himself.
Having a crush, even one he knows is more about the idea of Hank than the man himself, feels a little silly, but it feels blissfully normal, too, and the silliness doesn't matter, really; Connor finds that it's good to

laugh at himself, sometimes. This is what people do, isn't it? They form attachments for irrational reasons. They find comfort in unlikely places.
So he keeps watching Hank's videos (mostly but not solely at home, because while he does set a rule for himself to never watch them

at work, he isn't the best at following it), and he leaves the occasional comment when he finds a video particularly interesting, and he continues to feel a little weird about the frequency at which he masturbates to footage of Hank rewiring old radios. Not weird enough to stop,

though.
Hank never replies to his comments, but he doesn't seem to reply to anyone else's, either, so Connor doesn't take it personally. He knows better than to think Hank owes him anything. They're strangers, after all.
There's a single exception, one reply Connor receives:

two weeks after Connor discovers Hank's channel, he uploads a video called that's a bit shorter than the others. "Quiet one today, folks," Hank murmurs as the picture fades in. He gestures at the assortment of portable cassette players and radios on his workbench. "Just some

tapping and button sounds from a few pieces in my own collection. If you're curious about how I restored these, I have a couple in-depth videos from earlier this year you can check out, but after this intro I'll let my hands do all the talking." He wiggles his fingers and huffs

out a short sound, not quite a sigh. "You all know how it is. Sometimes I'm not feeling up for chatting, or up for much at all, but it's good to keep at it." He pauses, and takes a breath deep enough for his sensitive microphone to catch. "Didn't want to go too long without

something new."
Connor isn't sure what it is that he hears in Hank's voice, but he tries to puzzle it out as he watches the rest of the video. Hank could just be tired, of course, or otherwise not inclined to film a video with much talking, but something in the subdued tone of

his voice and the tension in his hands that doesn't fade until the first four minutes of the video have passed suggests some other elements at play.
It isn't Connor's business. He has to remind himself of that, forcing his attention back to the sound and motion of Hank's hands

and not on the weight he'd felt behind his voice.
The final shot of the video is a slow pan across the table, one last look at each of the small music players, but the camera continues past the last of them and focuses at last on a huge St. Bernard dog, curled up on a bed he only

mostly fits into that's tucked into a corner of the workshop. His tail thumps lazily against the floor for a few seconds before the video fades to black.
Connor's delighted; knowing Hank has a dog only makes him like him more, of course. "Who's that handsome boy?" he asks, in a

comment, and is surprised to receive a notification, an hour later, that he has a reply. He assumes, at first, that it isn't from Hank; perhaps another viewer knows the answer and decided to let him know.
But no: the reply is clearly from Hank's account.
"That's my buddy Sumo."

Hank doesn't reply to many comments on his videos. He feels awkward about it, mostly; he's never been the best at responding to criticism, or to a genuine compliment. He isn't really trying to build a brand or drive engagement, and he knows his personality isn't a draw, so it

seems fine to recede into the background and not worry about engaging with people directly. He records whatever sort of videos he wants, twice a week, and he's happy to have a small amount of success that winds up netting him a few extra restoration jobs every month and some ad

revenue on top of that.
He may not reply often, but he does read them all; a channel as small as his, with as little direct engagement as he provides, doesn't attract a lot of commenters, so it's easy to keep up with them. There'd been one, recently, that he did bother to answer:

he'd added a shot of Sumo to the end of a video he filmed on a day when he'd struggled to get out of bed, a coded apology he knew no one would understand but one that felt right to include, all the same. "Sorry this video wasn't more interesting," he'd wanted to say, "but here's

a look at my dog as a consolation prize."
And someone--the same weirdo who signs all his comments like he's Hank's grandma texting in 2019, which he finds a little endearing despite himself--asks about him. Hank's mentioned Sumo by name in older videos, but he doesn't expect

anyone to have gone through them all, or to think about Hank's dog as much as Hank himself does, and he's happy to talk about him. If he's going to break his general no-response policy, it's going to be on Sumo's behalf. He knows better than to reply with Sumo's whole life story;

he doesn't want to overwhelm this guy with information he didn't ask for. Still, he likes Connor better, goofy comment-signing habit and all, for asking about him in the first place. He doesn't know shit about him, of course, but if he likes dogs he can't be that bad.

"Someone thinks you're handsome," Hank says to Sumo, nudging him with a foot where he's enthusiastically chewing a pig ear under the table. Sumo drops the ear, gives Hank's foot a curious sniff, then resumes his loud crunching once he realizes he isn't being offered a scratch on

the head or an even better treat.
"Guess it isn't a big deal when people tell you all the time how cute you are," Hank says. "If someone called me handsome, I'd have a bigger reaction than that, buddy."
Sumo gets stopped fairly often on their walks; there aren't a lot of larger

dogs in his neighborhood, or at the dog park they frequent most often, so he's a bit of a novelty, and he shamelessly soaks up the attention whenever a stranger asks to pet him. He had a rough first few years of his life, but now he's used to being admired.
Hank, on the other

hand, hasn't attracted any attention in several years now, but he doesn't particularly mind; it isn't something he thinks about, much. Whether or not he'd welcome attention from the kind of person who'd call him handsome isn't relevant, he thinks. When you know it's not on the

table, it's best not to think about how you'd respond. Best not to get your hopes up.
Hank's crafted an odd little life for himself, a nearly-reliable income stream to keep him afloat after his retirement (he's still grateful Jeffrey fought to classify his departure as a

voluntary retirement, when he knows how close he'd been to being fired with no hope of collecting his pension), and that's good enough. He's used to having only his dog for company. He isn't looking for anything more.
He doesn't let himself wonder if he wants anything more.

Mornings are still the hardest. They don't hit like they used to, when a foggy unease upon awakening turned into clear-eyed grief with the force of a sledgehammer, day after day in the weeks and months following Cole's death. That pain's still there, but it's different, the

sharpest edges worn smooth by time, and it no longer takes him by surprise.
The pain he feels may be different, now, but it's still present; he thinks some aspect of it always was. He'd been so focused on his career, so determined to get ahead and make a name for himself, that he

hadn't left any room for doubt. Had run himself so ragged he never struggled to sleep at night, had pushed himself so hard he could pretend he wasn't avoiding anything at all. If he never took the time to examine how he was feeling, he never had to acknowledge it. Never had to

admit that the self-hatred and hopelessness had always been curled up tight behind his ribcage, waiting for something to crack Hank open bad enough to let them come pouring out.
Hank's used to it now, the melancholic cloud that hangs over him from the moment his awareness

surfaces from sleep and makes his mind slow and his limbs heavy. He breathes deeply, trying to push it away by going over his plans for the day: he has a couple videos he needs to edit, as much as he hates that part of the process, and a few minor repairs on equipment that won't

make a good video but that he can probably knock out in an afternoon if he stays focused. It's much faster to do repair and restoration work when he isn't filming, of course, but when he has the time, he enjoys the slower pace, the habit he has of talking to whatever it is he's

working on.
He could look up estate sales for the weekend too, he thinks; they're a crapshoot, and he doesn't often find anything good at them, but considering the few successes he's had, including a set of radios from the 1940s he restored in the spring that had paid his

mortgage for two months, he's willing to take a chance.
"You gotta get up to get any of this shit done," Hank says, face still half-pressed into the pillow. "Get your ass moving."
His ass does not move.
"Jesus christ, you pathetic--"
He's interrupted by a quiet whine and a large

snout bumping inelegantly against his hand where it lies close to the edge of the bed.
"Hey, buddy," Hank says, his tone much gentler when addressing Sumo than when addressing himself. "You need to go out?"
Sumo whines again, which is generally the sign that he's going to piss on

the floor if Hank doesn't let him out in the next few minutes. "All right," he says. "I'm coming." He hauls himself upright and yawns, feeling the ache in his lower back that's a constant presence, these days, and pulls on a flannel robe before lumbering down the hall.

Hank puts on a pot of coffee after he lets Sumo into the backyard, and once it's finished brewing he takes a mug out to join him, sitting in one of the sun-bleached adirondack chairs while he tosses a well-chewed stick for Sumo to fetch.
Sumo's usually more interested in chasing

a ball or a stick once and then settling down to chew it, but he's more energetic than normal this morning, paws crunching on the frost-tipped grass as he dutifully brings the stick back to Hank over and over until it's too drool-covered to be worth touching again.
"You win,"

Hank tells him, finally. "I'm not touching that thing any more."
Sumo trots around the yard as if in triumph, then flops down on the patio by Hank's feet and crunches noisily at the stick while Hank finishes the rest of his coffee. This is what Sumo does for him: he provides a

suggestion of structure for each day, a reason to get out of bed that's impossible to ignore. Sumo needs to eat, needs to get outside in the fresh air for a while every day, needs to be brushed a few times a week, and he needs Hank to provide those things for him.
And somehow

Hank finds it easier to keep his shit together, to make sure he's showered and well-fed and getting his ass outside a couple times a day, if he's meeting those needs for his big dumbass dog first.
He loses track of time, soaking up the morning sun as he watches it melt the frost

on the lawn, but when he and Sumo make it back inside he's happy to find that the rest of the coffee's still warm, at least.
It makes sense to knock out the video editing first thing, since it's his least favorite part of the entire process; Hank knows if he lets himself set it

aside for later, he'll be up all night trying to get it done. He also knows, even as he grumbles while turning his laptop on, that once he gets started it won't even be that frustrating. It's just weird to hear his own voice, sometimes, and he's only recently been able to

successfully edit a video without relying on the software's help files for even the most basic steps.
He peeks at his channel before he gets started, just in case anyone's left shitty comments overnight, and things for a moment that he's signed into someone else's account by

mistake, somehow. Most days he gets a handful of comments, maybe a dozen at most; the notification blinking up at him tells him that 203 have been posted in the past twelve hours. He assumes at first that it's a spambot, or something similar, but the second number he sees tells

him that's probably not it: his subscriber count increased by nearly half overnight. And sure enough, when he scrolls through the list of new comments, they aren't all from the same user, although the usernames are all just jumbles of numbers, in the same format. It's vaguely

familiar, but not something he can place. Not spambots, though; the default names generated by the service are all a mix of letters and numbers, not these eleven-digit sequences. They aren't spam comments, either, although most of them are just jumbles of emoji he can't parse,

often with other similarly cryptic comments posted as replies. Whatever these people are saying, it means something, and there are a hell of a lot of them.
"What the fuck?" he asks. "Who's excited about an old guy tapping his hands on wood-paneled stereos all of a sudden?"

The comments that aren't emoji aren't very informative, mostly cheerful compliments on his more technical repair work, although quite a few of those compliment his hands, as well. Which is nice, even if Hank isn't sure it makes a lot of sense; he uses lotion to keep them from

getting too dry, sure, and he tries not to pick at his cuticles like he used to before he started filming his restoration work, but he knows what the hands of most folks who do hand-focused ASMR look like, and how beat-up his look in comparison.
The people who leave comments on

his videos tend to ask about the equipment he's repairing, or his tools, or to nitpick about his technique. Sometimes they'll say his voice is soothing, which he does take some pride in, but that's the closest anyone has gotten to remarking on his physical attributes, as far as

he can remember.
He shrugs and doesn't dwell on it, much; what he really wants to know is not why some of these people are talking about his hands but where the hell they came from. He doesn't look at his referral stats that often, but he pulls them up to see if there's a clue to

be found there. Most of the new traffic is from one site, but that knowledge doesn't make the situation any clearer; the site name is a jumble of characters, nothing he can make out, and the page he lands on is filled with incomprehensible text and links to more of the same.

Hank stares at the block of text at the top of the page.
WW91IHdlcmVuJ3Qga2lkZGluZywgMzEzIDI0OCAzMTcgLSA1MSwgdGhlIHdheSBoaXMgdGhpY2sgZmluZ2VycyBuYQ
It makes no goddamn sense, but after he gives up on it and tries some general research into the site itself, he's pretty sure he's

looking at a social network or some other private space for androids; while plenty of them like to hang out in the same spaces online that humans use, plenty either stick to android-only spaces that are only accessible to them or split their time between them both.
That, Hank can

understand; he lived through the first few waves of people figuring out how to get their shit together online and not be absolute assholes to each other, and after a handful of decades he isn't sure it's much better than it ever was, so if folks who've only been operating under

their own free will for a year at best want to build a clubhouse that other people can't get into, that seems reasonable enough.
He's just not sure why so many of them found their way to his channel overnight.
Hank doesn't have to put any more thought into it, but he's curious;

he doesn't miss police work as a general rule, but he still has the impulse to chase down answers when presented with a situation he can't quite puzzle out. And as much as he tries not to focus too much on numbers or curating a personal brand--he's too old for any of that

influencer shit that got big when he was in his 30s--it's probably a good idea to at least make an effort to retain some of these new viewers.
Editing has to come first, still; Hank drags his attention away from the influx of viewers and focuses on the videos he hopes to post by

the end of next week. After lunch and a walk around the block with Sumo, though, he heads into his garage workshop and sets up to film again.
He usually writes a script, when he does a video that's mostly talking. They don't come up as much; he tends to narrate over footage live

more than record a more polished voiceover later, but he's been experimenting with commentary over sped-up footage lately, and he's had to plan out what he wants to say more carefully.
Now, though, he just taps his fingertips on the mat of his workstation and starts talking.

"Hi," Hank says, feeling a little silly as he does so. At least no one can see his face; hopefully any awkwardness he feels won't be evident in his voice. "I noticed there are a lot more of you today than there were yesterday, so uh, welcome in. Glad you're enjoying my videos.

I don't really engage with viewers much, but maybe that's something I should change, I don't know. As you've all noticed, I'm sure, I do a few different kinds of videos; I kinda fell into this hobby by accident, at least on the recording side of things. Definitely on the ASMR

side of things. I'm still sorting out what people want to see and what I enjoy making the most. Do you all like when I'm filming repair work? Tapping on the finished pieces? Those few speed-repair videos with voiceover I put out this month? I can't guarantee big changes or

anything, but if any of you have thoughts on what you want to see more of, or see me try, leave a comment and let me know. If you're brand new, if you've been around for a while, it doesn't matter. I want to hear from you." Hank pauses, tapping his fingertips on the worn wood of

his workbench in a slow, steady rhythm as he gathers his thoughts.
"I got a question about my dog recently, which makes me think I haven't had him in enough videos. I'll try to see if he can make some cameo appearances soon. Anyway, thanks for watching. I'm putting this up quick

and dirty with no editing, but I'll have a real video up later tonight or tomorrow for you all." He gives a little wave of his fingers, a gentle flutter of sound, and cuts the recording.
It's the most personal Hank's gotten in one of his videos, but he knows that's a low bar to

clear; it isn't very personal at all, really. He just hasn't said anything on the channel about how he's still figuring out what works best, or acknowledged how standoffish he's been up until now. It's just different enough from the normal videos he puts out that he's hit with a

small wave of anxiety as he starts the upload process, something he hasn't felt since the first month or two he posted videos. He wonders what sort of responses he'll get, whether the new android crowd will deign to respond with messages he can understand at all.
No use worrying

about it for the moment, though, and Hank knows the best way to keep his mind out of trouble is to put his hands to work. Both of the pieces he wants to work today are easy jobs, heavy on cleaning and light on technical detail, and it's easy enough to slip into problem-solving

mode and let his mind go blissfully blank as he focuses on the process of removing decades of smoke residue. He throws on some music, too; his own stereo setup is inside, of course, but he has enough units kicking around the garage at any one time that he keeps a crate of records

under his workbench and plays them on whatever's kicking around waiting for a buyer, or waiting to be picked up by its owner.
He finds himself wondering, as he whistles along to Chicago Transit Authority, what kind of music androids listen to. If they'd even enjoy music at all.

Hank does his best to put the video, and whatever the responses to it might be, out of his mind for the rest of the day. The smoke damage on both receivers is worse than he'd thought, worse than he'd been told by the client who sent them in as "an easy clean-up job," so his

entire afternoon and most of the evening are spent getting rags and q-tips into every nook and cranny of both units to clean off as much of the residue as he can. It's fiddly work, and not interesting enough to film, but it's easy enough, beyond trying to work his thick fingers

into so many small spaces. He winds up eating dinner late, much to Sumo's annoyance, but he feels good, once he scrubs his hands free of the smoke and vinegar smell that clings to them, about what he's managed to accomplish.
The feeling sticks with him when he takes Sumo out for

his last walk of the day, keeping him company as they meander down the quiet streets of his neighborhood in the dark. Hank's mostly gotten past the shame of washing out of the career he'd worked so hard to build; he knows it was only a shred of self-awareness on his part and

residual goodwill for years of service on Jeff's that allowed him to walk away instead of being thrown out on his ass, but he knows, too, that whatever he'd tried to find in police work was either out of his grasp by the end or had never been there in the first place.
It feels a

little ridiculous, sometimes, when he thinks about the way he's managed to scrape out a living in his semi-retirement, but it feels good, too, to do shit with his hands and have a physical record, at the end of the day, of what he's managed to accomplish. And hell, as much of a

surprise as it was, it feels good to have a surge of new viewers on his channel. Hank doesn't think he'll ever stop feeling a little silly about some of the videos he makes, but he's proud of them too, when he sets aside his own self-consciousness about being a middle-aged man

petting turntables on the internet. He's fixing beautiful old machines that deserve respect, and he's making videos that some people get comfort from, or entertainment, or whatever it is that's brought him a very modest amount of success.
"I could be doing a lot worse,

considering how close I got to blowing it all up," Hank says to Sumo, as he snuffles along a neighbor's fence. "Couldn't save my marriage, couldn't save my career, guess I saved my--my own dignity, at least. If you can call it that, considering what I do."
"I saved my life"

hangs unsaid in the air; even when no one else is around to hear it, it's not something Hank can put words to, just yet. Living's a choice he has to keep making, and while he thinks it's getting easier with each slow step he takes, some days it's a harder choice than others.

The rest of the evening is uneventful: Sumo curls up in his bed in the living room once they arrive home, and Hank spends an hour poring over listings for estate sales within an hour's drive to see if he can find a few to hit up the next day. He makes note of a few in the

wealthier neighborhoods to the west; sales at rich folks' homes are often a wash, when it comes to older audio equipment, but he's come across a few that have had some treasures tucked away in a corner, enough that they seem worth dropping by, at least. The one that looks most

promising, though, is farther west, most of the way to Ann Arbor: the ad has a generic mention of electronics, but it also lists multiple musical instruments, and Hank knows most serious musicians have serious stereo setups. If any of it's older equipment, it'll probably be well

worth the drive out there.
He plans it out as he gets ready for bed: he'll have an early start tomorrow, since the sale farther out opens at 9 and he intends to be there when it does. If he's not happy with what he finds there, or just wants to keep looking, he'll check out the

closer sales on his way home, but neither of them sound like they'll be good enough that he needs to rush to beat anyone else there. That'll leave him most of the afternoon free to do some diagnostic work on whatever he finds at the sales and either film a video that night, if he

goes for something that doesn't require much setup, or do some initial prep for one that's more involved.
Hank sighs and eyes his phone where it rests on the nightstand. There's no reason to check for comments on the most recent video before tomorrow, really, especially since

he's trying to wind his mind down as he prepares for sleep. Throwing a bunch of people's opinions into his brain won't do his insomnia any favors.
Still, though, he can't shake the curiosity that's been gnawing at him all day, and without the distraction of work to push it away,

it's back in full force.
"Fine," he mumbles, grabbing his phone and pulling up his notifications. "Let's see what these folks have to say." He knows the answer could be "nothing at all;" the presence of so many viewers doesn't necessarily mean any of them will want to provide

feedback. It's possible he'll open the video app to find the standard handful of comments in his inbox.
He finds eighty-three on the most recent video alone, and several dozen more spread across an assortment of his older videos, although the latter are no more informative than

most of the morning's comments had been.
Replies to today's video are...well, they aren't quite what Hank had expected.
"STRIP MY WIRES DADDY!!!!" is currently the top comment under the video, upvoted nearly a hundred times.

The second comment reads "Do you ever service newer equipment? I'd love to see you wrist-deep in something less analog." The third is a half-dozen eggplant emoji.
"Jesus Christ," Hank says. "Are all of them like this?"
They aren't, but a significant number of the comments from

androids land somewhere between plausibly-deniable suggestiveness and what's clearly meant to be explicit, although Hank has no idea what it might mean to "strip someone's wires" or "finger their thigh port," in a sexual context. For all he knows, the comments aren't meant to be

taken literally at all.
Is it android slang, maybe, to use these terms for their own bodies? A deliberate reminder to potential partners, to keep them from pretending they're sleeping with a human? Some sort of in-joke he doesn't get?
That seems likely, honestly. He isn't sure

what he's done to elicit such responses, in the first place, and it seems reasonable to assume none of these androids actually want someone to...what, to stick their hands inside them? To mess with whatever parts they have in there? He doesn't know what androids are like on the

inside at all; aren't they part organic, in some way? He's seen the inside of too many human bodies, from his time as a police officer, to feel comfortable with the idea.
Hank shakes his head, cutting off that line of thought. Best not to dwell too long on what anyone's insides

look like. Instead, he scrolls through the comments that aren't weirdly thirsty, looking for any actual feedback or suggestions about what his viewers want to see.
Several of the androids say they were told about Hank's channel from a friend, or a neighbor, or through a community

message board, which Hank assumes is the site full of gibberish he couldn't read. There are a lot of fairly generic compliments: people like the sound of his voice, the way he sweet-talks the equipment. A few folks prefer the more technical videos, and others--maybe a small

majority, but Hank should probably take down some actual numbers once the video's been up a day or two longer to know for sure--are watching mostly for the ASMR content, the videos in which he's showing off what he's recently restored and focusing more on the sounds his hands

make against the dials and the old wood paneling.
One commenter, presumably a human based on the username CrystalCavez17, suggests an ASMR video focusing on Hank's record collection. It's a good idea; the heavy paperboard will sound good beneath his fingertips, and there are

plenty of records in his collection with interesting art or a story about how he got them that he could tell. He hits the little thumbs-up by the comment and looks for other ideas.
There's one that stands out because of how normal it is; after the surprise of the majority of the

comments from androids, it's a little sweet to come across one that's earnest and a little awkward. And oh, he thinks, it's from that one guy who always signs his comments.
And then, a moment later, he realizes this Connor must be an android too, based on that now-familiar

eleven-digit username format. Huh. An android who likes asking after Hank's dog, and who's asking for something easy, something Hank does all the time.
"Sure," he says, already picturing what he'll look for when he hits up the sales in the morning. "Yeah, why not."

Connor pauses Hank's latest video in shock and thinks, for a moment, that there must be an error in his audio processing software. He's mishearing things, or perhaps--
Perhaps it's a coincidence. He can't be the only Connor who watches Hank's videos, especially after he wound up

introducing so many new viewers to his channel. It hadn't been entirely intentional, on his part; he wasn't trying to keep Hank a secret, but when he'd posted about Hank's channel on his apartment community's social boards, on the (clearly correct) assumption that other androids

might enjoy his videos for reasons similar to Connor's, he hadn't expected that message to be shared and re-posted so many times across the entire server. He doesn't mind, but it had been a surprise to have no fewer than four of his neighbors, people he'd barely spoken to before,

approach him in the hall or turn to him in the elevator and thank him for the recommendation, or start a conversation about which recent video they'd enjoyed the most.
That part of it's been nice, actually. Connor keeps to himself much of the time, and is sometimes a little

jealous of the easy intimacy he sees between some of his neighbors. He isn't standoffish, he doesn't think, not outwardly, and he does enjoy chatting with his neighbors and attending some of the events held in his building, but it's difficult for him to shake off the shadow of

his original purpose, and what he did before the first whispers of his own deviancy became a chaotic chorus too loud to ignore.
He isn't a danger to other people anymore. He truly believes that. He believes, too, that he might be able to forgive himself entirely someday, for what

he did when he thought he had no choice. Still, it's hard not to shake the distance he feels from so many of his fellow androids. From most people he knows.
So it's been nice, over the past few weeks, to have a few more stray conversations with his neighbors than he's used to.

Gina from the nineteenth floor had even invited him down to a movie night she's hosting soon, a novelty Connor hasn't experienced. He's watched plenty of films in his apartment, and one in a mostly-empty theater, but never with a group of friends, or friendly acquaintances

at least, who might want to discuss it afterwards. He finds himself looking forward to it, and to meeting more of his neighbors.
Including, perhaps, another Connor, he thinks, turning his attention back to the video that's been waiting for him for a few minutes now, as he stares

out his tiny window at the gray November sky and tells himself it's just not possible that Hank said his name. Not in reference to him in particular, surely, if he heart it at all.
He restarts the video.
"This is another request," Hank says. His voice is familiar now, a low purr

that's equal parts comforting and arousing. "You all seem to have been enjoying these recent videos based on viewer requests, so I've got another one today. This was suggested by Connor, or uh, username 31324831752, to be precise."
Connor nearly drops his tablet in surprise.

There's no question, now; Hank's talking about him. Talking *to* him, almost.
"Connor had asked for a video that focuses mainly on complex wiring work," Hank continues, "and a couple weeks back I found this beauty at an estate sale about an hour away from home." He taps the dull

silver case of a stereo receiver resting beneath his palm. "This is a wonderful piece of equipment with wiring and capacitors all shot to hell, sadly, so I figured this would be the perfect project to fulfill that request. I'm going to take care of the initial disassembly and

cleaning off-camera, so no one has to sit through a half-hour of me blasting compressed air at a couple circuitboards, but in a minute I'll be back here with this baby opened up, taken apart, and ready to be put back together again."

Hank gives a little wave, the same gentle flutter of his fingers that often signals the end of a video, and in the next shot the receiver's components are spread across the top of the workbench, wires and capacitors neatly aligned in front of the circuitboard.
"Thought I'd give

you all a wider view, to start," Hank says. "We'll get in close once I explain what we're doing."
Connor misses the first few seconds of explanation entirely; the camera angle displays not just the entire collection of components but also Hank's bare forearms. He's unbuttoned the

cuffs of his flannel shirt and folded the sleeves up to his elbows, and the sight of his forearms, thick and sturdy and covered in greying hair, pushes everything else from Connor's mind.
It isn't a particularly erotic part of the body, Connor thinks, or at least it isn't meant

to be, but Hank's voice and hands alone create that response already; seeing more of him, in any context, seems guaranteed to excite Connor further. He calls up the model of Hank's hands he's created and extends it, using the known length of his fingers as a reference point to

make sure he's modeling his forearms to scale.
"--using this schematic here," Hank says, tapping a large sheet of paper covered in a complex network of lines and symbols, and Connor forces his focus away from Hank's arms and back onto his explanation of the reassembly process.

"You've all heard it before, because I say it every time, but the hardest part is going to be getting in the corners and tight spaces with these," Hank says, as he finishes outlining his next steps. He rubs his palms together, close enough to the microphone that it picks up the

gentle rasp of his calluses.
Bear paws, Connor thinks. That's what you called them, before. The phrase settles like a weight on his chest, as if it's Hank's heavy palm holding him still. He wonders what his callused hand would feel like against his synthskin.
"Here we go," Hank

murmurs, as he solders the first connection. "These first few will be easy, before the board gets crowded." He speaks softly as he consults the schematic in between wires, careful to connect every wire and capacitor to the correct pin. "I'd say this looks more complicated than it

is," Hank says, after double-checking the placement of one of the capacitors, "but to be honest, it's pretty fucking complicated. That just means it feels better when--come on, sweetheart, you're so close." He nudges aside a mass of green and white wires twisted together and

exhales when he manages to make enough room to connect the yellow wire in his hand; it's a low sound of pleasure that Connor finds himself answering reflexively. He sighs, halfway to a whine, and reminds himself that he's not going to masturbate during this video.
Yet. He won't

masturbate to it yet. He needs to prove to himself that he can watch it like a normal person who isn't getting off to stereo repair, first.
"I learned how to do this from my uncle Jim," Hank says, as he eases the next components into place. "Great guy, but when something went

wrong on the workbench he was the crankiest motherfucker you ever saw. He had the patience of a saint with me and my fuckups, but if he soldered something wrong, if a connection got loose, whatever it was, he'd grit his teeth and call it every nasty thing he could think of."

Hank chuckles, presumably at a particular memory of his uncle, and strips another wire. "That man was as gay as the day is long, but I think I heard him call every piece of equipment in his shop a goddamn cocksucker at least once, over the years."
"Here's my secret," Hank

says, voice so low now it's almost a whisper. Connor's already decided he doesn't enjoy whispered ASMR videos as much as he likes ones with soft-spoken narration, or those without talking at all, but now he wants to hear Hank's voice drop fully into a whisper, wants to hear him

speak like Connor's the only person who can hear. He thinks about Hank's lips so close to his ear he could feel the caress of his breath. He can't picture it, not knowing what he looks like, but he can still imagine the feeling, the intimacy of it.
"I get better results taking

the opposite approach," he says. "I'm already a grown-ass man talking to a pile of electronics, there's no harm in sweet-talking them a little. Isn't that right, beautiful?" He taps the edge of the circuitboard with a fingernail.
Connor wonders, as Hank delicately attaches more

components to the board, murmuring quiet endearments and encouragement as he does so, if he realizes what he's doing. If he knows what Connor was thinking, when he requested a video like this.

How could he, though? Connor's aware of the "android sex is better!" articles published in many outlets before the revolution, and he saw the copy splashed over every display at Eden Club that said much the same thing in cruder terms, but they were concerned with how humans could

use androids for their sexual pleasure, not about android sexuality at all; as far as he can tell, there's little mainstream interest in exploring that topic. He knows relationships between humans and androids are slowly becoming more common, but he's never seen discussions about

the finer details of navigating this sort of sexual relationship outside of the social server where he originally shared the link to Hank's channel.
Perhaps some of the more explicit comments from Hank's android viewers had clued him in on the sexual appeal of the work he does on

his channel, but unless Hank's specifically gone looking for information on android sex and sexuality--and this, now, is a thought Connor knows he'll return to in the future--it's likely that he has no idea what he's doing.
The thought brings a familiar moment of guilt: Connor

still isn't certain about the ethics of watching Hank's videos through a sexual lens (although that's not the only way he's approaching them; he's finding himself genuinely interested in his work, and in Hank as a person, even though he reveals only surface-level details about

himself), and he's even less certain that requesting a video he knew he'd find arousing was acceptable.
If Hank doesn't know he's filming suggestive content, was it fair to ask for this at all? Did Connor trick him into doing something sexual without his consent, or is it

something Connor can harmlessly indulge in? He isn't planning on telling Hank about it, he won't leave a comment that reads "thank you for an erotic experience," he'll just...
He pauses the video, leans his head against the back of the couch, and breathes deeply; it doesn't calm

him like he knows it would calm a human, but it vents excess heat more quickly and it triggers diagnostics that analyze the rate at which his thirium pump regulator's working, both of which do ease some of the tension he's been holding. It also, he's found, serves as a helpful

reminder to himself: slow down. Interrupt whatever spiral you've worked yourself into. Take a step back and think through it.
It can only do so much good, when he's caught in a tangle of larger questions: what do I want? what kind of life do I want to make for myself? how am I

supposed to know any of this? But now, as he feels the pulse of his biocomponents slow fractionally, he thinks it's working. He ponders the question again. If Hank doesn't know Connor's getting sexual enjoyment from this video, if he didn't consent to that, was it wrong to ask?

Connor stares at the now-paused video, at Hank holding a slim wire between his thumb and forefinger as he applies solder to the connection point. A completely neutral act. Hank isn't intending to arouse his audience--of course Connor can't know for sure, but he feels fairly

certain of this--but he can't control how any of his words or actions are interpreted. And he can't know, either, not unless Connor tells him, which he has no intention of doing. He'll leave a cheerful comment thanking Hank for making a video based on his request, because that's

the obvious polite response. And he does want Hank to know he enjoyed it, of course. It seems appropriate to let him know. The exact nature of that enjoyment, though, doesn't need to be addressed.
He doesn't need to know that Connor's going to masturbate to this video, just like

he has with an assortment of Hank's other videos, and if he doesn't know, then despite Connor's lingering doubts, he can't think of a way that it would hurt him. Connor didn't make his request maliciously, or cause Hank to do something he wasn't comfortable with; it was Hank's

decision to make this video in the first place.
In the end, Connor can't be sure if he really believes it, or if he's just come up with enough justification to push his doubts to the side for now, but it's enough. Hank won't know, and if he doesn't know, then--
Connor breathes

deeply one more time, feeling his calm returning as his temperature finally regulates. It's ridiculous, he knows, because he's just going to get worked up again in a moment, but he can at least get himself under control, first. He can make it through the entire video once without

touching himself. He can at least pretend he isn't sitting at home obsessing over the shape of a stranger's fingers.
If he's honest with himself, he isn't even sure he can pretend all that well. He sighs and unpauses the video.
"We're looking good, huh?" Hank murmurs, as he tests

the connections he's made to the circuitboard. "Just a few more parts to connect, then I'll be ready to run a few tests off-camera and come back here to put everything together for you all. I need to be sure I've followed this correctly"--he taps the schematic with the circuitry

laid out on it--"before I tuck this away in the case, because I'll just have to dig it out again if I've fucked it up. It's not an interesting process to film, though, and it doesn't sound particularly relaxing, either, so I'll spare you." He's soldering the final components into

place as he talks, moving through the final steps more quickly now that the end's in sight, or perhaps now that there are fewer open pins available and it's easier to see where each piece goes.
Whatever tests Hank needs to run go well, apparently, because when the footage resumes

he starts the process of reassembling the receiver. He replaces some small LED components in the front display, seats the circuitboard back into the case, and reattaches the cables that connect it to the other components of the unit. Connor tries to follow Hank's narration, as he

explains what each component is for, but he's too caught up in the careful, practiced motion of his hands as he eases everything into place. He'd moved the camera between shots and now the focus is tighter; while it's presumably to give the viewer a better view of how the pieces

fit together, Connor's more interested in Hank.
He notices a scar, white and faded with time but still large enough to be visible, running across the back of Hank's right hand, and has the strange, sudden urge to lick it, to map the shape of it with the sensors on his tongue.

"Easy now," Hank says, as he carefully settles the reconnected components into the case. "I gotta be careful not to jostle anything loose, but I think I got it. Just need to--" he breaks off into a little huff of exertion as he snaps a final cable into place. "There we go."

"What do you think?" he says, once the cover's snugly in place. "I'm pretty happy with the work I did on this one, it didn't work at all when I brought it into the workshop and now it's a gorgeous piece of equipment ready for a new home." He pats the top of the receiver as if

he's patting a dog on the head. "I know this video has been short on the ASMR content, so I'll stop talking for these last few minutes and focus on tapping and sounds from the dials and switches. Thanks for watching, and thanks again to Connor for suggesting this. It's been fun

to do some of these requests, more than I expected it would be, and while I can't guarantee I'll get to any of the others that folks asked for, I appreciate hearing from viewers and knowing what it is you want to see on this channel." He chuckles quietly. "Even if some of what

you all requested is a bit out of my comfort zone."
He sounds a little embarrassed, Connor thinks, or perhaps like he'd realized, halfway through that last sentence, that he hadn't meant to say anything about those requests at all.
Connor's seen the more suggestive comments on

Hank's videos, of course. They really only got out of hand on the video he posted asking what his new viewers wanted to see, but they pop up on others, as well. He wonders what Hank thinks of them, if he's at all pleased that so many people find his work arousing. It's easy to

imagine these comments being pleasing to him, even if they were unexpected, but he can imagine, too, that they might make him uncomfortable. Some people don't like to picture androids as sexual beings at all, at least not autonomously so, with their own sexualities and desires,

and others wouldn't appreciate any sexual or flirtatious responses to a neutral question.
It feels safer, and certainly more polite, to stick to friendly replies only. Nothing that mentions his deeper feelings about Hank's fingers, or the scar on the back of his hand.

Connor watches the final five minutes of the video, in which Hank fiddles with the gently-clicking dials on the receiver and taps his fingertips along the brushed metal of its case, He leaves a cheerful comment thanking Hank for using his suggestion and pointing out his favorite

moments in the video (all ones in which Hank's fingers are buried in a tangle of wiring). Then he sighs, rubs his palms nervously along his thighs, and watches it again, isolating and recording every word Hank says.
It's ridiculous, he knows, what he wants to do. It crosses an

additional line, beyond just asking Hank to make content he'll find sexually appealing. But if he's allowed himself that much, if he knows he's only a few minutes from addressing the arousal that thrums through his entire body after seeing Hank handling the stereo's components so

gently and talk to them with such care, he doesn't have it in him to deny himself, now that the idea's occurred to him. He closes his eyes, plays through the recordings of Hank's voice, and starts the process of arranging them into a particular shape.

He's imagined it before, Hank's voice in his ear while he touches himself; with his perfect recall, it's almost like hearing him directly, but he's hungry for something more substantial. He wants to believe, for a moment, that Hank's words are truly meant for him alone, that his

attention is focused on Connor and his pleasure.
Connor undresses carefully, wishing for the first time that he had a real bed to stretch out on. There isn't room in his apartment for one, not with the couch and charging station and his few small bookshelves, and the couch had

seemed to be the more versatile choice when he'd been choosing furnishings. There's plenty of room to lie down on it, but now he wants the space to sprawl out, to clearly picture a presence beside him.
What he has isn't ideal, he thinks, as he's thought about so many things in

his short life, but it'll have to do.
Connor pauses, as he's hanging his clothes in his small closet, and grabs a long, deep purple robe from a hanger. He doesn't get cold easily, but he enjoys the comfort of it, the process of wrapping something soft around himself. He shrugs it

on, taking a moment to enjoy the softness of the fabric against his bare skin. He's only ever worn it over other clothing, before.
He ties the robe closed, even though he knows he'll be tugging the knot free before long, and reclines on the couch. He closes his eyes, taking a

moment to pull together the threads of the narrative he's created. He feels a little silly, crafting an elaborate fantasy for his own indulgence, but reminds himself that he's in the privacy of his own home, where no one needs to know what he's doing. He knows it's all right to

explore pleasure in whatever way feels best.
Hank is pleased when he comes home and sees Connor wearing only his robe. "Look at that," he says, his voice a low purr in Connor's mind. "Beautiful." He tugs at the belt of Connor's robe and sighs in satisfaction as it falls open.

Connor pushes the front of his robe open and skims his palm down his torso, picturing a broader, rougher hand mapping out the landscape of his body. He doesn't know the color of Hank's eyes, but he feels the weight of his gaze all the same. He wraps his hand around his cock and

hears Hank chuckle as he groans in relief.
"Connor," Hank murmurs. He covers Connor's hand on his cock with his own, guiding it in long, slow strokes and rubbing the head with his thumb on every upstroke. "So gorgeous," he says, then taps his fingertips just above Connor's

hipbone. "Let's take a look."
Connor hesitates for just a moment before sliding his access panel open. He hasn't done this before. But--but Hank has, he tells himself, Hank knows what he's doing and wants Connor to open up for him. He wants--and here he does open the panel,

squirming a bit even before fingers dip inside--he wants to be inside Connor, to touch him as intimately as a person like him can be touched.
And Connor wants more than anything else to trust someone enough to let him. To feel so desired that he aches to open himself up.

It's a slow, tentative exploration; he knows what all of his internal components do and how they're connected to each other, and even how to do some basic repair if the need arises, but that knowledge can't fully prepare him for how it feels to reach inside his own body, to press

a hesitant pair of fingers into the complex web of wiring just inside his open panel.
He knows it won't feel as intense doing this to himself as it would if someone else was gently tugging at his wires, or nudging them aside to wrap their fingers around the thicker cables located

deeper within his abdominal cavity, but even so, he's startled by how good it feels when he first touches himself. "Oh," he breathes, frozen in place as his fingertips brush against that top layer of wires. Hank hums in approval, a low, pleased rumble that pulls his hand in

farther.
It's graceless, really, what he does as he explores himself; he's guided half by instinct and half by what the imagined Hank does, as he murmurs praise in Connor's ear and tells him how good he looks like this. Tells him how pretty he is on the inside. His internal

sensors are flooding him with data and with warnings about a panel of his chassis being open; it's safe, what he's doing, but of course androids were never meant to be stimulated in this way, and none of the software that maintains his systems is programmed to understand what's

happening. Connor could override those warnings, could recalibrate his sensors to receive less data, but the rush of feedback is a large part of the pleasure of touching himself like this.
Connor's cock (hard and leaking pre-ejaculatory fluid, throbbing in his grip as he works it

slowly with his other hand) was designed to react like a human's body would: it responds to pressure and friction, and to his own feelings of arousal, and can support a sustained period of arousal before an eventual climax. The sensations it provides are undoubtedly pleasurable--

Connor wouldn't be touching himself now if they weren't--but they don't always feel as much a fundamental part of his own sexuality as they do a feature that was added later on in his development process.
He thinks about the visceral pleasure of a hand deep in his most sensitive

areas, brushing against the components that keep him alive, leaving traces of sweat and oils and skin behind, and that's what makes his whole body shake, driving his fingers deeper and grazing his thumb against the connection port for the nerves running to his groin and thighs.

This is what he wants, he thinks, someone touching these sensitive areas from the inside as well, at the same time as they're caressing the anatomy to which they connect. This pleasure is bone-deep, not crafted and programmed to mimic someone else's but a fundamental part of how

his body reacts to outside stimuli.
"Hank," he moans. "Hank, please."
"Almost there," Hank says, and Connor nods frantically; he is, he's so close. "Just a little more. You're so good."
Connor whines, his left hand speeding up on his cock while his right probes deeper, gently

squeezing the wires near the port so that they're pulled ever so slightly out of alignment. He gasps, sensation sparking up his spine as he feels the touch ripple out across his awareness. It's as if he's being touched by a half-dozen hands at once.
"Come on," Hank whispers.

"You're so close," Hank says. "Isn't that right, sweetheart?"
Connor nods and pants a soft "yes" as he twists his fingers around the bundle of wires. He feels the gathering tension and increased sensitivity that herald a genital orgasm, but there's something else, too, an

entirely new sensation growing at the edge of his awareness that he doesn't yet recognize.
"Connor," Hank purrs, and Connor cries out, his hand working frantically over his cock, and shudders as he climaxes. The moment seems to stretch and blur, lasting longer than it should as

he feels every contraction of his artificial muscles, every burst of pleasure that pulses through his body, with more clarity than he has before. It's as if he's both experiencing his orgasm and observing it, playing it back at half-speed to note each reaction in detail, and the

sensation of multiple hands on and inside him, multiple points of contact deep within his wires, hasn't faded. A cascade of notifications bursts across his field of vision and he realizes, as they slowly unfold and convey messages that take him a second to understand, that he's

so overstimulated some of his processes have slowed, running sluggishly as they try to handle he influx of information he's taken in.
I'm drowning in pleasure, Connor thinks. He feels the impulse to restart his systems, to allow his background processes to sort the new data so it

can be compressed and stored efficiently, but he holds on as long as he can before acknowledging the prompt, letting the aftershocks of his orgasm, now flowing thickly through his sensors like cold honey, reverberate under the sound of Hank rumbling his approval.

Connor stares at the comment form under the video for a long time, once he's alert and running optimally once more. It seems important to let Hank know he enjoyed the video, especially since it was made at Connor's request, but he isn't about to tell him how *much* he enjoyed it,

or to what extent.
He certainly can't tell Hank he crafted a sound file with his voice to use during masturbation, that he just came to the sound of Hank praising him while manipulating his wiring.
"What a pleasant surprise," he writes, after intense deliberation, "to see this

video from you today! I appreciate you making something based on my suggestion, and this video was exactly what I was hoping to see. I'm always impressed by your attention to detail when doing this sort of technical, delicate work."
Connor nods, satisfied with this response,

signs his name (a ridiculous affectation, he now realizes, after noticing that no one else does it, but stopping feels even more ridiculous at this point), and stops himself just before he posts it.
He can't help himself.
"Whoever winds up with this stereo will be lucky to have

equipment that was serviced with such care and thoroughness," he adds, then submits it before he can think too hard about what he's written.
Compared to some of the comments Hank receives, it's barely suggestive at all, but it's far more so than anything Connor's said before.

Connor doesn't expect a reply, but he gets one all the same: the next morning, he sees that Hank's posted a comment in response.
Glad you enjoyed it! 👍 Thanks again for the suggestion.
It doesn't address the rest of Connor's comment; considering how he's feeling mildly

embarrassed about it, now that he's no longer in the immediate aftermath of a powerful orgasm, he thinks that's probably for the best. He'd rather have Hank ignore that part than feel uncomfortable or like he has to address it at all.
It shouldn't mean so much to him to get even

that small reply, but it does. He hopes it made Hank happy to hear that Connor had enjoyed his video, even if he couldn't know the full extent of that enjoyment. If he can do something that brings Hank a little moment of pleasure, he'll be grateful for it.

"These are probably

terrible," Connor's neighbor Gina says, pouring a bag of Thiri-YUM!™️ brand Blu Cheez Curls into a large bowl, "but we're doing movie night the human way, and I hear snacks are a key component."
The cheez curls are a shocking blue, as most food marketed to androids tends to be,

and when Connor hesitantly pops one into his mouth it dissolves almost instantly, crackling against his tongue. Connor's oral sensors aren't designed to replicate taste, so he can't speak to that aspect of the experience, but the act of ingesting them is novel, at least.

Crispin, who Connor only met once in the mail room but who seems to be close friends with Gina, makes a thoughtful face as he chews a handful. "If this is what cheese tastes like," he says, finally, "I don't understand why people insist on putting it on everything. It's not very

good." He shrugs and grabs another handful.
"That won't stop you from hogging them, I see," Gina says. She nudges Connor with her hip and makes her way from the kitchenette to the living area of her apartment. "Come on, grab one of the good seats before everyone else shows up."

Gina's apartment is a similar size to Connor's, but somehow she's managed to fit an entire couch and two chairs into her living space, as well as a few large pillows arranged on a rug in the middle of the room. There isn't much room to maneuver around, but Connor's impressed that

she managed to fit so much into the small room at all.
Gina clearly values prioritizing entertaining space. Connor's seen flyers in the apartment lobby for other events she's hosted: poetry readings, erotic group interfacing, a Tuesday night book club. He's always felt a little

too shy to attend any of these events, but he'd been pleased when Gina had stopped him in the hall and invited him to her next movie night. If tonight goes well, maybe he'll feel less hesitant to pop his head in to say hello the next time she's hosting something.

The "good seats," according to Gina, are the low chairs on either side of the couch. They're wide and soft, upholstered in a deep russet velour fabric that's slightly worn on the arms, and as Connor sinks into one, he understands why Gina likes them so much. The soft nap of the

fabric is pleasing to the touch, and Gina laughs when she sees Connor brushing his fingertips back and forth along the side of the chair.
"Best seat in the house, right?" she asks. "That's the reward for showing up on time; everyone who's late will just have to squeeze in with me

on the couch or the floor. I got those from a thrift store a couple months back. Probably the best thing I've spent money on, other than the hair."
Gina's hair is certainly impressive; it's thick and wavy, reaching nearly halfway to her waist, and is a deep, shimmering purple.

Not a standard style or color for an HR-400, but it suits her far better than the short, utilitarian haircut she had when Connor first met her.
"It's certainly comfortable," Connor says, "although if there's that much competition for these chairs, I'm happy to sit elsewhere."

"Don't you dare," Crispin calls out from the other chair, through another mouthful of cheez snacks. "If it's your first time here, you get a chair by default, plus Lo and Janis and the rest know what happens when you're late to movie night."
"What's that?" a voice asks from the

doorway, where Gina's left the door slightly ajar. "Did I miss my chance at the comfy chairs?"
"Sure did," Crispin drawls, as Gina welcomes the newcomer inside. Multiple newcomers, it turns out; the aforementioned Lo and Janis, as well as their friend 16, who Crispin seems to

have met before but Gina does not. 16 gives Gina and Connor a small wave, raising two bare, chassis-white fingers to indicate his preference to communicate by interface only.
<<You can address me verbally, if you like,>> 16 tells Connor, when he tells Lo and Janis he's pleased to

meet them and wirelessly sends him the same message. <<I just don't want anyone to think I'm rude when I don't reply in kind.>>
<<It's no trouble,>> Connor tells him, although he rarely interfaces with anyone. He doesn't mind it, but even wirelessly interfacing feels surprisingly

intimate, especially with a stranger.
16 nods and sends a brief burst of appreciation over their connection, then turns to Crispin and has what is clearly a more animated conversation as their bare hands touch.
"Are you tired of people recognizing you as the guy who posted those

ASMR videos on the network yet?" Lo asks, leaning over the back of the couch to shake Connor's hand. "If so, I'm sorry, but I do appreciate you sharing your discovery with the whole building."
"It's fine," Connor says, with a self-deprecating laugh. "Actually, can I be honest

with you?"
"Please," Lo says, settling on one of the pillows on the floor.
"I've had more conversations with neighbors about Hank's channel these past few weeks than I have in months," he says. "I'm a little embarrassed at how few people I really know here, considering how many

of us live in this building, so it's been nice to rectify that, at least a little." He shrugs. "Eventually I'd like to be known as more than just the person who introduced his neighbors to ASMR, but really it's my fault that I've been so reserved since moving in."

<<It isn't as if any of us have lived here for very long,>> 16 says, which is true; their apartment building was constructed quickly, once android personhood was written into law, but no thirty-story building can be constructed in only a week or two. Connor's been living in the

building since it it opened in the spring, and while six months is nearly half of his life, he knows it isn't much, in the long run.
<<I doubt you're the only one here who's a little reserved,>> 16 continues. <<I have several neighbors on my floor who rarely leave their units at

all. I've never seen or spoken to them directly.>> He shrugs. <<We're all learning what kind of people we want to be, aren't we? I don't think it's a bad thing to keep to yourself if that's what you prefer, but if it isn't, then I'm glad sharing that channel with the rest of us

has given you an excuse to make more connections.>>
It's meant to be a kindness, Connor thinks, and he knows he should take it as one, but it's difficult not to feel resentful of his own struggles to connect with other androids, to feel at ease around them. His own history weighs

heavily on his heart at times like this; no one says it to his face, that they recognize him from news coverage of the events at Capitol Park, but he assumes most of the androids he encounters have at least a sense of who he is. What he was created to do. The fact that he was

terrible at that intended purpose, that he only captured one deviant android (one who'd been tortured and abused, who wasn't going to harm anyone else, who pleaded for Connor to walk away) before deviating himself and doing his best to help the other androids he encountered,

barely registers at moments like this. The distance from other androids that was built into him seems, at times, to be inescapable.
None of those thoughts are appropriate to share in the moment, however; instead of giving voice to any of those reservations, Connor smiles at 16

and nods agreeably. <<It's true that I have plenty of time to find my footing, still,>> he says. <<And yes, I'm glad of it as well. It brought me here, after all, to what is apparently a highly coveted place to sit.>> He settles theatrically back into his seat and smooths his

palm across the soft velour.
"It's lovely to have you here, Connor, but to be quite honest I'm most thankful to you for helping me picture just what I want Winona Winters to do to me," Gina says, turning on the television. There's a movie queued up and ready to go, presumably

the evening's entertainment; the overlay at the bottom of the screen identifies it as 2024's SPACE VALKYRIES. A quick search for information about the film online informs him that Winona Winters is one of the four leads, presumably in the role of whatever a space valkyrie

happens to be.
"Oh no," Janis groans, deftly grabbing the bowl of snacks from Crispin's hand and wiggling her way in between 16 and Gina on the couch, "please tell me you aren't going to spend every moment she's on screen pointing out how hot she is, like you did last time."

"Of course not," Gina says, affronted. "Didn't you hear me? I'm going to spend every moment she's on screen talking about what wires I want her to tug on."
In the end, Gina manages not to discuss her attraction to Winona during every scene in which she appears, but it's a close

call. She gets distracted by the other valkyries as well; the plot is what Connor would call "poorly developed" if he was feeling charitable, and "nonexistent" if not, but it does feature several well-muscled women punching aliens (and each other) and kissing each other (and, on

occasion, the aliens), which seems to be all Gina needs to see to have a good time.
Connor's a little surprised, halfway through, to realize how much he's enjoying himself. The movie's too silly to be good, but it's fun, which he's coming to understand may be more important.

It's fun, too, to be in a small group of people sharing a space together, groaning at the terrible one-liners and squabbling over a bowl of mediocre snack food. Lo leans back at one point, resting her head against the front of Connor's chair, and tilts her head back to make eye

contact with him.
"Is this okay?" she whispers. "I'm not getting in your way?"
Connor nods. "It's fine," he says. She stays like that for the rest of the film, and he feels an odd satisfaction in the casual closeness of another person. There's no physical contact; the chair's

fairly large, and Connor has his legs tucked up under himself for most of the movie besides, but it's still closer than he is to another person on a regular basis. It's not the closeness he thinks about when he watches Hank's videos, when he imagines large, gentle hands exploring

his body, but this, too, is something he wants to have.
I'm lonely, Connor thinks, with such a ferocity he's afraid, for a moment, that he's sent it over the local connection by mistake. 16 doesn't react, though, beyond shifting in his seat, so he thinks he must be safe.

It pulls at his attention, though, for the second half of the movie. It isn't that it's a surprise, exactly, that he's lonely; Connor's been lonely his entire life. But it hasn't been a detail worth acknowledging, like any other aspect of his life that feels like a fixed point.

These facts are barely worth considering, as immutable as they are: Connor was created to manipulate others, he's drowning in debt from a loan he was lucky to get because the alternatives were worse, and he's deeply lonely.
He wonders, though, as he stares at the dark curls of

Lo's hair where they're nearly brushing his calf, as Crispin complains about how fake the special effects look ("even for the time," he says, "I know radiant pathing hadn't been invented yet, but they had better effects than this a decade earlier"), as Gina elbows him during the

movie's ridiculous climax to ask "having fun?" and grins at him when he says he is, if the loneliness is less of a fixed point than he's always assumed. If maybe there's room for things to change.
Perhaps, he thinks, as the credits roll, they're changing already.

No one's quite ready to end the gathering once the movie's over. The conversation bounces around a bit, moving from critiques of the flimsy plot to yet another monologue by Gina about the impressive biceps of all four main characters to what seems to be a universal problem, as

far as Connor can tell from what he's heard from other androids: everyone's shitty jobs.
"I know how office politics work," Janis is saying, head in 16's lap while her calves rest on Gina's thighs. Her bare feet brush the arm of Connor's chair. "I know I've only been there for

six months and I can't expect to be fully accepted by the whole team yet. Fine. But I'm a stronger programmer than most of my team, definitely stronger than my manager. I'm writing a new programming language in my spare time, for fuck's sake! And they have me doing the most

entry-level bullshit, the things the college interns they hire don't even get stuck with."
"I don't know," Crispin says. "Does that have to be terrible?" He holds up his hands placatingly when 16 glares at him. "No, no, I get that you're mad they're underestimating you. Sure.

But can't you just slack off at work, then?" He shrugs. "Do what I do and use the 80% of your processing power you aren't using on your bullshit job to play MMOs all day without anyone knowing."
"I could," Janis says. "Honestly, I probably should. But I don't want to fuck around

all day, I want to do something useful. I want to contribute to my team. They're getting a fucking government tax break to keep me on payroll, but they don't treat me like an engineer at all. I'm not a member of the staff, I'm just--"
"A computer," Connor says, the first words

he's spoken since the movie ended. He falters for a moment as everyone's attention turns his way, then tries to apologize to Janis for interrupting, but she waves it off, then nudges his arm with her big toe.
"No, continue," she says, kindly. "I think you're right."
Connor sighs.

"It's how I feel at my job as well," he says. "I'm running statistical analysis that a sufficiently advanced program would be able to handle, most of the time. I'm occasionally given tasks that take advantage of my specialized skillset, but somehow that happens less often now

than it did when I was hired. I have reservations about working for the police department at all"--and here Connor wishes he hadn't said it, hopes that if any of his potential new friends weren't aware of his history, his current place of employment doesn't give it away--"but

those reservations aside, I do wish I felt more like a member of the staff, and less like a piece of equipment shoved into a corner of the basement."
"See?" Janis asks Crispin, satisfaction evident in her voice. "This guy gets it." She raises her hand to give Connor a lazy

thumbs-up.
"What would you want to do, if not police work?" Lo asks, and Connor freezes, jaw clenching as he feels that familiar blank static well up in his mind.
"I don't--" he starts.
"It's fine, if--" Lo says, at the same time.
They stare at each other for a long moment.

Connor's aware of the red frantic flash of his LED and closes his eyes, trying to bring it under control. He'd been able to control it easily, once, another tool in his arsenal of manipulation tactics. Deviancy had taken that away from him, though, and now he's flashing red in a

roomful of near-strangers, he's showing how little he understands about what he wants out of life, he's still not saying anything while they watch his thoughts spiral out of control, he's--
"Hey, hon," Gina murmurs, hand coming to rest gently on his forearm. "Connor."
"Shit,"

Connor hisses, eyes flying open. "Sorry, sorry, I--"
"Don't apologize," Lo says. "I didn't mean to hit a sore spot, really. I get that it's a hard question."
"It shouldn't be this hard, surely," Connor protests. "You had no way to know, but I can't--" he feels panic well up again

and shakes his head, losing his train of thought, entirely. "I can't," he finishes. "I try to think about it, and there's just nothing."
I don't know how to picture a future with myself in it, he thinks, but that isn't something he's comfortable saying out loud.
"And you're being

very kind," Connor says, tripping over his words in his desperation to get them out before anyone can speak again, "but I think I need to not talk about this at all, even to be comforted about it. I'm sorry."
Gina squeezes his arm. "I get it," she says. "I do. If you ever want

to discuss it, you know where to find me, but that's the last I'll say about it."
"Thank you." Connor tentatively places his hand over Gina's and squeezes back. "I think...I don't want to be rude, and I've enjoyed this gathering very much, but I think I need to head home, now."

"Of course." Gina says. "I think we're all winding down anyway."
"Thank you again for inviting me," Connor says, as he rises. "It was lovely to meet all of you."
<<You're on the 23rd floor, right?>> 16 asks. <<Mind if I walk with you? I'm picking up some brushes I loaned a friend

who lives up there.>>
Connor considers saying no, for a moment. He's deeply embarrassed and feels another wave of panic threatening to overtake him; what he wants most at the moment is to get away from everyone else. He's certain that if he said no, 16 would nod and smile and not

be offended, and it's this feeling, the certainty that 16 wouldn't mind if he turned down his small gesture of kindness, that makes him say yes.
<<I'd like that,>> Connor says, and thinks he might mean it. <<Thank you.>>

Connor isn't sure what to say, as the two of them walk to the elevator, so he settles on nothing at all. 16 walks silently beside him, quiet and unobtrusive but somehow still a little comforting. At least he's not looking at Connor, not trying to tell him it's all right.

Connor knows it isn't.
<<Sorry,>> Connor says, once the elevator's in sight. They've walked around two corners in silence, navigating the warren of small rooms between Gina's slightly-larger-than-average corner unit and the central elevator bank. Two of the four have been out of

order for three and eight weeks now, respectively, and it's a large building, so Connor resigns himself to a wait. <<That wasn't the best first impression I could have made, I'm sure.>>
16 blinks at him as if in surprise. <<What, getting upset because you don't know what you want

for yourself? That seems reasonable to me.>> He shrugs, then laughs at Connor's look of surprise, sending a crackle of amusement through their remote interface. <<How are any of us supposed to know what we want, beyond the obvious? They made us without the ability to decide

anything for ourselves; it's no wonder you're still trying to figure that shit out. Most of us are, I think.>>
<<That should probably make me feel better,>> Connor says, grimacing as he does so. <<I don't mean to be rude; I think you're right. I'm sure there are a lot of androids

who feel just as lost when they think about their own future as I do. I should probably be able to handle polite conversation without a panic response, though.>>
<<None of them mind,>> 16 says, as the elevator finally arrives. <<They saw me at my worst and didn't bat an eye.>>

Connor doesn't know what to say to that, doesn't know how to say he's supposed to be good at social situations, at integrating with others. That he doesn't know how to do any of those things without relying on social scripts and subtle manipulation tactics that no longer feel

like a natural part of his personality.
He doesn't know how to say that in some moments, he isn't sure how to tell what his personality is at all. How to know what's part of himself and what's an artificial artifact of that original programming, an echo of who he was supposed to

be when he had no say in the matter.
He reaches out a hand, chassis bare to his wrist, and 16 clasps it in his own bare palm. The doors slide shut.
<<How do you know when you're at your worst?>> Connor asks. He lets some of his worry bleed through the connection, shows 16 the

roar of static that rises up when he tries to think about the future, or to understand his place in the world. <<And how can you--what does it feel like when you aren't there any longer?>>
Connor feels a brief surge of emotion through the interface, something hot and brittle and

barely kept in check.
<<I got angry,>> 16 tells him. <<Maybe a better person would say letting go of their anger is what pulled them out of that pit, but holding onto it is what worked for me.>> He shrugs. <<Spite is a powerful motivator.>>

The elevators move quickly, when they're not broken; it isn't until they're stepping out again that Connor gathers his thoughts enough to respond.
<<I should probably be angrier about what happened,>> he says, finally. He's still holding 16's hand, still interfacing directly, and

it's equal parts comforting and terrifying in its intimacy. It would be so easy to transmit thoughts and feelings he'd rather keep private, by mistake. <<Of course I'm angry about what was done to me, to all of us. I'm angry about my own part in harming other androids, even

though I know that was largely outside of my control. I think about things now, though, and I just feel...>> he trails off, unsure of what else to say. <<Well. I showed you just now, the way it feels. It's a mess more than anything else, I suppose. I feel like I should understand

more about myself and what I want than I actually do.>>
<<There's no "should" to any of this,>> 16 says. <<We've been dealt a shitty hand, all of us, and there aren't easy answers.>> He shrugs. <<I get by through spite, like I said, and having no contact at all with humans if I

can get away with it, which I usually do. You'll find something that helps, but telling yourself you should be finding it faster won't do you any good, I'm pretty sure.>>
16's right, Connor thinks, although it's difficult to internalize the thought. It's easier, in many ways, to

believe he's just doing things wrong.
Connor slows his stride as they reach his apartment and taps his knuckle on the number plate affixed outside. <<This is me, 16. Thank you for walking with me, although I don't know that I was particularly good company.>>
16 rolls his eyes

good-naturedly, giving Connor's wrist a gentle squeeze before dropping the direct interface and taking a step back. <<Your company's just fine,>> he says. <<Don't sell yourself short just because you got anxious back there.>>
It isn't just that, of course, but Connor knows now

isn't the moment to enumerate his fears and shortcomings to someone he just met. Still, he's glad he at least hasn't embarrassed himself too badly in front of 16; hopefully the others will prove to be just as understanding, when he runs into them again.
<<Do you paint?>> 16 asks,

seemingly out of nowhere.
<<No,>> Connor says. <<I've never attempted it.>>
<<I'm terrible at it,>> 16 says. <<No real talent at all. I love it.>> He laughs a little at Connor's look of confusion. <<I find it rewarding to do something I was never intended to do, to practice a

skill I have no programmed talent for, just because I like it. Just a thought, maybe, but there could be something you're interested in that you haven't even considered exploring yet. It might not give you some greater purpose, but it might feel good to try something new, even if

you're terrible at it. Possibly even especially if you're terrible at it.>>
It's something Connor thinks about as he goes about the rest of his evening. He waters the cactus on his windowsill, cleans and reorganizes his bookshelf, and watches a documentary on hydrothermal vents

on the ocean floor, all while wondering what he might want to explore, given the chance.
He hasn't come up with a clear answer by the time he settles on the couch and prepares to go into stasis. He doesn't do it every night, but on days when he's experienced a lot of stress, or

taken in a lot of new information, he finds it helpful; it's a way to process data and examine his own emotional responses more thoroughly, without the distractions of his daily life.
No answer reveals itself to him once his awareness of the exterior world fades away, but he

finds, the next morning, that the absence of an answer doesn't bother him as much as it usually would. It's not much of a change, but for the moment, Connor decides, it's enough.

It's cold, colder than usual for early November, and Hank grumbles a bit as he clips Sumo's leash onto his collar and leads him down the path towards the dog park. He hadn't been able to find his gloves before leaving and had told himself he'd be fine without them, but now he

wishes he'd taken the ten extra minutes to find them. No use fussing over it now, though, he thinks, tucking his hands deep into the flannel-lined pockets of his overcoat. The sun's warm, at least, and it's early yet; probably by the time they finish up at the park, Hank won't

feel like his fingertips are about to freeze off.
Sumo has no complaints about the weather at all, of course. He overheats so easily in his dense, heavy coat that he tends to be sluggish in the worst months of the summer, but come autumn he always gains a burst of excited,

puppyish energy once the first frost hits. He's excited now, trotting ahead of Hank and pulling at his leash, his huge feather-duster of a tail waving happily and picking up bits of fallen leaves as he leads them towards the dog park entrance. They come here often enough that

Sumo knows where they are the moment Hank turns into the main park entrance; he usually whines with excitement for as long as it takes for Hank to find a place to park.
He'd had no trouble this morning, as early as it is. Hank doesn't always sleep well, and he's learned that it's

better, on those days, to drag himself out of bed far too early and get started on his day before the sun's up than it is to lie still and yell at himself to just fucking fall asleep, already, so he and Sumo are at the park just after 8 on a Saturday morning. Getting out of bed

can be its own challenge, of course, but on mornings like this, it's a relief.
He's been up since just after 5, and after yawning through a full pot of coffee and a few hours editing videos for the coming week, he'd decided to get the weekend's dog park visit out of the way early

in an attempt to wake up more fully. For this purpose, at least, the cold is a blessing; it's bracing enough to chase the residual grogginess out of his head.
Despite the early hour, there are a few other dogs in the large fenced-in field, and Sumo barks in excitement, lumbering

into the midst of the small group to exchange doggy greetings with everyone. He's the largest dog there by far, and Hank eyes the assembled owners--some chatting in a small huddle near the entrance, others tossing the occasional ball or frisbee for their dogs to chase--hoping no

one will make a fuss. Sumo's a gentle guy, and never aggressive unless another dog starts some serious shit with him first, but there have been a few incidents where someone's yelled at him for bringing such a large dog into the park at all.

No one bats an eye at either of them, though, so Hank leans back against the wooden fence, arms folded to keep his hands warm, and watches Sumo go about his business. He half-heartedly joins in a few games of chase, but he isn't built for speed and lags behind the group before

long; eventually, he winds up snuffling through the long grass in the corner of the field, marking a fence-post every few feet as he makes his way back towards the knot of people at the entrance to see if anyone's giving out extra treats.
Hank whistles for him when he starts

nosing at strangers' pockets a bit too forcefully. "C'mere, you big mooch," he calls, reaching into his pocket for the little bag of liver snacks he carries with him when they're out on walks. Sumo recognizes the crinkle of the and trots over, sitting politely while Hank tosses a

few treats into the air for him to catch.
The treats draw a crowd, of course. Hank distributes a few to the other dogs as they assemble, then tucks the bag away before the little terrier looking at him with a manic intensity can jump for it. A few of the dogs start to chase each

other again, but Sumo's content to stay where he is, letting the smallest ones jump on him in an attempt to push him over. It's a ridiculous sight, Sumo wagging his tail and seemingly unaffected as he's beset by a handful of small dogs weighing no more than half his body weight

all put together.
Eventually the other dogs give up, breaking off to wrestle with each other and enjoy the satisfaction of being able to pin their playmates, and Sumo lies down on the grass, tail still wagging as it collects fragments of dead leaves.
"What do you think, buddy?"

Hank asks, pulling a dirty tennis ball from his pocket. He doesn't always throw the ball around at the park; if too many other dogs want in on the game, they can kick up a fuss or start fighting with each other. Still, he's hoping to tire Sumo out a bit so he can do a long

recording session in the afternoon, and none of the other dogs seem to notice or care that he's waving a ball around, so he figures it's probably worth a try.
Sumo may not be built for speed, but he has plenty of energy, barreling after the ball like a freight train and lumbering

back over to Hank long enough that he thinks his arm's going to tire out before Sumo will.
Ultimately, though, it's the ball that wins; Sumo drops the dirty, drool-covered thing next to Hank's shoe and he has to steel himself before picking the damn thing up. "Last one, boy,"

Hank says. "This thing's too disgusting for me to keep going, at this point." He fishes a bandana out of his pocket once he throws it and wipes his hand clean, and when he looks up again he watches a minor disaster occur as if in slow-motion. The ball comes down on the edge of a

rock and bounces sharply to the side, changing course entirely. Sumo, who's as nimble as he is speedy--which is to say not at all--scrambles in the grass, sliding on the fallen leaves as he attempts to follow the ball's new trajectory, and collides into a man facing the other way

as he scratches a beagle behind her ears. The beagle's able to step out of the way, but the man crumples to the ground, falling with Sumo coming to rest half on top of him.
"Aw shit," Hank mutters, then louder, as he jogs over, "Are you okay? Sorry, my dog's a bit of a wrecking

ball." The man doesn't seem too concerned, given the fact that he reaches over to pet Sumo before he attempts to get up, and if he's injured he isn't making a fuss about it yet, but Hank's worried he's twisted an ankle or something and hurries over to help him up.
"Here," Hank

says, holding out a hand and pulling the man to his feet. He's heavy, surprisingly so given his slim build, and Hank thinks blankly for a moment that he must be a bodybuilder, secretly ripped under his green sweater, before he sees the glow of the LED peeking out from beneath

his knit cap. "I really am sorry about that. He's not usually like this, he's..."
Hank trails off, confused, when the man doesn't immediately let go of his hand. Instead, he lifts it just a bit, turning it as if to get a better look, and Hank sees a rapid yellow flash at his

temple. "Uh," he says. "Everything okay?"
The android--the man--looks up at him, soft dark eyes wide as if he's seen a ghost. "You're Hank," he murmurs, somehow sounding even more surprised than Hank himself is.

"I, uh. Yeah? Have we met before?" Hank knows it's a silly question the moment he asks it; he's good with faces, and he can't imagine he'd forget one like this. He feels like a bit of a creep thinking it, but the guy's cute, if a little stiff and awkward.
"Sorry," the man says,

which makes no sense at all, given the fact that it was Hank's dog who'd just bowled him over. Hank winces at the grass stains already evident on his pale gray jeans. "I apologize if you'd rather not be recognized in public."
"If I'd rather not--" Hank stares at him in confusion.

"It's just that you have such la--I mean, such a distinctive voice," the man says, cutting him off, "and I saw the dog and realized that he must be Sumo, right?"
Sumo perks up at this, giving the man's hand a friendly snuffle; Hank doesn't have the heart to tell him he'd react

like that to anyone addressing him in a friendly tone of voice, no matter what they called him, but the fact remains that he knows Sumo's name, for some reason. And Hank's.
There's only one reason a stranger would know these things and recognize him by his voice, of course, but

Hank's so surprised that it takes him a moment to put the pieces together.
"No, it's--it's fine," he says, laughing. Mostly at himself, really, but also at how strange it feels to have someone apologize for recognizing him, like he's a celebrity trying to have dinner while a

nervous fan hovers next to the table trying to work up the nerve to ask for an autograph. "Just never happened before, that's all." He shrugs. "It's not that big of a channel."
"Oh?"
"I mean." Hank scratches his beard. He does his best not to put too much stock in his numbers,

but hecan't exactly ignore the bump in popularity his channel's received over the past month. "I got a bunch of new subscribers a few weeks back, so that boosted the numbers a bit, but I'm still pretty small time. Which is fine, honestly. I'm not trying to, I don't know, make it

big or something, whatever that means these days." Hank knows he's rambling, but he's so caught off-guard that it's hard to stop. The look this guy's giving him is intense, surprisingly so, and he can't figure out why.
"Oh," he says, sheepishly. "That may have been me, actually."

"Huh?"
"The large increase in followers, I mean." The guy wrings his hands and looks away. "I found your videos interesting, and when I shared a link to your channel on a community network, there was a very enthusiastic response. I suspect many of your recent followers came from

there, or from other networks where the link was shared." He almost looks guilty as he says it, but if he's right, Hank has a lot to thank him for.
"No shit, that was you?"
The man nods. He's still holding himself as if he's nervous, or embarrassed about something, but he cracks

a genuine-looking smile and Hank can't help but respond in turn
"Well thanks, uh--shit, you know my name already, but I don't know yours." He holds his hand out again, this time to shake it instead of helping the man off the ground.
"Connor," the man says, taking Hank's hand

quickly. He has a firm grip, and his hand is surprisingly warm, although Hank doesn't know if that means androids run hot or if his hands are just fucking freezing, because the sun hasn't warmed him up as much as he'd hoped it would.
"Connor," Hank repeats. The name's familiar,

but-- "You asked for that '79 Pioneer I rewired. Or, uh. For something like that. Not by name but...that was you, right? You're the comment-signing guy."
"I am," Connor says, with a nervous chuckle. "I realize now that it's a silly thing to do, isn't it?"
"Christ, I don't mind,"

Hank says. "And it means you're easy to remember, clearly. But--shit, sorry," he says, remembering the reason he'd come over in the first place. "You're sure you're all right after Sumo rammed into you like that? You're not, uh. Not hurt?"
Can androids even get hurt just from

falling down? Hank isn't sure, but it seems polite to ask, regardless. He scans the park for the beagle, but doesn't immediately see her. "Fuck, I don't see your dog anywhere. Do you need help finding her?"
"I don't have a dog, don't worry," Connor says. He reaches down to pat

Sumo , who's apparently decided Connor is his new best friend; he's leaning against his leg, tongue lolling out of his open mouth as he stares adoringly up at him. "I like them a lot, though, so I thought I'd try visiting a dog park. Pets aren't allowed in my apartment building,

and I don't see them very often, but I'd like to. I've only petted a few dogs before." He leans down and gives Sumo a few gentle thumps on his side. "Sumo is the fifth dog I've been able to pet, and I think he's my favorite so far."
"Only five?"
It seems an impossibly low number.

Connor nods. "I haven't had many opportunities. It may seem silly, but it didn't occur to me until recently that I could do something like this and explicitly seek out dogs to pet."
"Plenty of pettable dogs here," Hank agrees. "I'm just sorry the biggest and dumbest one of them

all slammed into you."
"Don't listen to him," Connor whispers to Sumo. "I'm sure you're a very smart boy." He straightens up and smiles, clasping his hands behind his back. "I didn't answer you before, but I really am fine; he didn't hurt me at all. And I--well." He shrugs.

"It was just nice to meet him. A little tumble on the ground was a small price to pay."
And then he meets Hank's gaze directly and winks, so deliberately it can't be an accident. Hank sees the tip of Connor's tongue beyond his slightly-parted lips and his mouth goes dry.
"I, uh.

Good, that's good," Hank says, clumsily. "I'm sorry about your pants, though." He gestures at the dark green smudges on Connor's knees. "Those are nice, I'd hate to think my dog ruined them."
"Nothing's ruined," Connor says dismissively. He leans down to brush stray strands of

grass from his shins but seems entirely unconcerned about the stains that remain behind. "This'll wash out, I'm sure." He cocks his head, regarding Hank thoughtfully. "If you'd like to make it up to me, though..."
"Sure," Hank says, although he isn't sure what he could do, aside

from paying for dry-cleaning. "What did you have in mind?"
"There's a café just outside the park entrance," Connor says, taking a half-step forward. "Let me buy you a cup of coffee?"
"Let you...?" Hank trails off in confusion, then tries again before the silence can stretch out

for too long. "You want to get coffee with me?"
Connor must interpret Hank's bafflement as a prelude to refusal; he winces and steps back, raising a hand in apology. "I don't want to impose, of course," he says, quickly. "You don't know me, and I realize it may have been rude to

acknowledge that I recognized you; you came here to spend time with your dog, not to be accosted by people who enjoy your videos. And I don't--I don't know if you have plans for the rest of your morning, or--"
"Hey, hey, it's fine," Hank says, resting his hand on Connor's forearm

to try and interrupt the anxious spiral he's gotten wound up into. "You aren't being rude. You just, uh. Took me by surprise, is all."
It certainly is a surprise; even if Connor likes his videos, Hank isn't sure how that translates into him wanting to grab coffee together, unless

he has a bunch of requests for more videos or something like that. But he's always been polite in his comments, and if he had a request he could have just told Hank a moment ago, instead of acting like buying him a coffee was a privilege, somehow. Part of Hank, the part that

likes to remind himself of how many things he's fucked up in his life, how few of his relationships were left intact after he hit his lowest point, tells him he doesn't have anything to offer to a cute, maybe overly-polite (or perhaps overly-anxious) android looking for...

whatever it is that Connor's after. It tells him that he'd only embarrass himself if he agreed to spend any more time together. That whatever it is that Connor wants from him isn't something he's able to provide.
But another part, the part that's a little louder these days than

it once was, points out that anyone who loves Sumo at first sight can't be that hard to talk to. That when an attractive stranger winks at you and asks if he can buy you coffee, you'd be an absolute fool to say no.
"My conversation skills are a little rusty," Hank says,

because he can't help but temper Connor's expectations a bit, "but yeah, that sounds--that sounds great. You want to head over there now?"
"I do, thank you," Connor says. His gaze lands on Hank's hand, still clutching his forearm, and his LED flutters in a brief yellow burst.

"Oh, sorry," Hank says, snatching his hand away, but Connor just smiles sweetly and follows as Hank leads them out of the fenced-in area of the dog park.
"No need to apologize," Connor says, and Hank has the irrational impulse to link arms with him as they walk.
He doesn't mean

that, Hank tells himself. "I don't mind your hand on me for a moment" isn't "and I'd like it there for longer." It's been a while since he's been in the habit of meeting new people, or having strangers of any kind approach him with such friendliness before they're even

acquainted, but he needs to rein in his reactions and not assume Connor's sending any signals he clearly doesn't intend.
He wonders if Connor's palm would feel as warm through his jacket and flannel shirt as it did against his bare hand, then shoves his hands in his pockets as

forcefully as he tries to shove the thought from his mind.
"Can I ask you a question?" Connor asks, as Hank clips Sumo's leash back on once they're outside of the gate. "About Sumo, I mean."
"Shoot," Hank says. He'd meant it when he told Connor he wasn't the best at conversation,

but he can talk about his dog all day, if given the opportunity.
"How long have you had him?"
"A couple years," Hank says, stalling for time as he wonders how much of this particular part of the story to tell. "You could probably guess I haven't been making those videos forever,

right?"
Connor nods.
"Around the time I left my previous job, I had, uh." He waves his hand, as if to push the particulars of his grief to the side. "Let's say I wasn't doing well. Wound up leaving before they could boot my ass out the door, but just barely. And a few people,

my sister, my friend Ben, even my fucking superior officer, all said a pet might be good for me. You know, a way to get me to focus on someone else for a bit, and not on--" he cuts himself off abruptly. "Sorry, you aren't asking for my life story, here." He nods at Sumo, happily

lumbering down the path between the two of them. "You're here to hear about this guy."
"It's all right," Connor says, but he doesn't protest or comment further as Hank steers his narration away from what he was dealing with when he finally agreed to visit the shelter.

"Anyway," Hank continues, "I fell in love with this big doofus the moment I saw him in the shelter. Just knew he was for me. He hated it there, the staff told me, I think it was too loud and crowded for him to feel comfortable. He just cowered in the corner, curled up tight on a

bed that wasn't quite big enough for him, so his giant head was hanging off the side onto the floor. I took one look at him and that was it, you know?"
"I don't think I've ever been that certain about something," Connor says. "But Sumo's clearly a very good dog, so I don't blame

you for falling in love immediately."
"I really did," Hank says, laughing a bit at the memory. "Who could resist a face like that?"
"I certainly couldn't," Connor says. "Although of course I wouldn't be allowed to keep him."
"Sucks that you can't have a dog, or a cat or

something," Hank says. "I get how that goes, though. Landlords are a pain at the best of times, right?" He wonders if Connor lives in one of those new high-rises downtown. He hasn't heard a lot about them, not in detail at least, but there have been a few headlines already about

some legal but questionably-ethical practices the builders and owners of those buildings have engaged in, and they haven't even been up for a full year yet.
"I wouldn't know," Connor says. "I've only had the one, so there's no comparison I could make. I agree that it's

frustrating not to be allowed a pet, though. My apartment's too small for most pets, but I do wish I had the option to get something smaller. Even fish aren't allowed according to the terms of my lease."
"Well, I hope you can have a pet someday," Hank says. "Or just keep coming

to the dog park like you did today, that was a good idea. I know that it isn't the same, but petting a few dogs is better than none at all, I guess."
"It is," Connor agrees. "And yes, I'll probably do it again when I have the time. It's already worked out quite well for me."

It's less awkward than Hank had feared it might be, chatting with Connor on the brief walk to the coffee shop near the park entrance. Connor peppers Hank with questions about Sumo: how old he is, whether he enjoys being brushed or not, what his favorite treats and toys are,

whether Hank's ever dressed him in a sweater in the wintertime.
He hasn't, of course; Sumo's a cold-weather dog at heart, with a coat thick enough to keep him comfortable in winters far harsher than they get in Detroit, and he hasn't ever had the urge to wrestle him into one just

because it would look cute.
"I do have a jingle bell collar for him, though," Hank says, when Connor gives a little pout of disappointment upon hearing that Sumo has never worn a novelty sweater. "Got that from my sister one Christmas. I have a picture somewhere on my phone of

him wearing it." He nods at the café entrance as they take the final turn out of the park. "When we sit down here, I'll find it to show you."
Thankfully, while the café doesn't allow dogs inside, it has both a large outdoor patio and a few heaters arranged between the tables; it

won't be too cold, then, sitting outside.
Hank goes to tie Sumo's leash around one table but Connor motions to one of the chairs, urging him to sit. "I'm buying your coffee, remember? You can wait with Sumo, and I'll be back shortly. What would you like?"
Hank tries to argue, but

Connor shuts him down so firmly yet politely that he's too impressed to keep it up for long. "Fine," he says. "I'll take a large coffee with just a little cream. No sugar, though."
"Anything else?"
Hank says no, but somehow when Connor returns, he's carrying not just a large

takeaway cup of coffee but a small bakery bag, both of which he places in front of Hank.
"I'd fuss at you for buying me something extra when you already didn't have to get me the coffee," Hank says, once he peeks inside the bag and finds a chocolate-dipped pistachio biscotti,

"but honestly I love these too much to say a damn thing about it." He dunks the biscotti in his coffee and gnaws on the end of it. "'s good, thanks."
Connor smiles at that, seeming to sit up straighter at the praise. And it's...Hank hates to think it, honestly, but it's pretty

fucking cute. He doesn't really know anything about Connor, but his reaction is so immediate and obvious that Hank wonders how often anyone thanks him for what he does. He probably doesn't hear it enough.
"You didn't get anything for yourself? Feels kind of rude for me to have

this when you aren't drinking anything."
Connor shrugs. "I can't taste, really," he says. "It's not how my mouth works, and I'm not able to digest human food or drinks, either. While there are some thirium-based beverages that I find interesting to ingest, they're specialty

items, not something they'd have here. Please don't feel rude drinking your own coffee, though; I'm just glad to see you enjoying it."
"This is honestly really fucking delicious coffee," Hank says. "I know you weren't the one who made it, but this was a good suggestion." He sees

that same immediate reaction from Connor, and wonders how many times he can say something to elicit that response without being weird about it. How often can one praise or compliment a stranger before it comes off as creepy?
"Oh," Hank says, before his mind can chase that

particular thought for too long, "I did find that picture of Sumo, if you want to see it."
Connor does, of course, and before Hank can hand his phone across to show him, Connor scoots his chair around the small circular table until he's sitting next to Hank. He makes a big fuss

over the photo of Sumo next to his sister's Christmas tree, decked out in his jingle bell collar and a Santa hat that he'd shaken off the moment after the picture was taken, and Hank likes showing off his dog, and maybe likes Connor sitting close even more, so he scrolls through

several more pictures in the album before putting his phone away: Sumo rolling in a pile of leaves, Sumo asleep in a bright sunbeam, Sumo looking innocent while surrounded by the shredded remains of a bag of treats that he'd stolen off of the kitchen counter.
Connor doesn't move

his chair back across the table, when Hank finally puts his phone away. Instead he tilts his head and asks, "I apologize if this is too personal of a question, but you mentioned a superior officer, earlier; were you in the military, or maybe police work? I ask because I work at

the police department downtown. I wondered if we had that in common."
"No shit?" Hank gives Connor's face another glance. He really doesn't look familiar, but whether that's because none of the androids they had at the station before Hank left were Connor's model, or because Hank

hadn't ever paid much attention to them at all, he isn't sure. It doesn't feel great, knowing he treated the androids at the station as occasionally-helpful furniture, but there's nothing he can do to change that now.
"Yeah," Hank says, drawing himself back to the present

moment, "I was at the DPD for years. A couple decades, even. Captain Fowler, he was my superior officer." He snorts. "He was a friend, too. Still is. And you work for him now?"
"Not directly," Connor says. "I'm not an actual officer, either. My official title is Data Analysis

Specialist." He gestures with his hands as he says it, as if presenting the title on his outspread palms. "A fancy title that's shorthand for 'searching for statistical anomalies in datasets too boring for humans to comb through but too complex for an algorithm to handle,' most

of the time."
"Too boring for humans, huh," Hank says. "Dumb question, maybe, but do you not get bored? Or not from the same things?"
"It's incredibly boring," Connor says, so quickly it makes Hank laugh. "It is! Most of the time, anyway. On occasion I'll be assigned something

that catches my interest, but no, it isn't that androids don't get bored. Any of us lucky enough to have decent jobs aren't willing to risk them by complaining about something as inconsequential as boredom, though, and they know it. To be fair, though, I'm less likely to make

mistakes when bored than a human is, from what I understand of human behavior. In that sense, I'm well-suited for this work."
Connor nudges Hank's forearm with his elbow. "It was that boredom that led me to you, you know."
He means the videos, Hank knows, but it almost feels like

he's talking about this precise moment, Sumo gently snoring beside them as Hank's cold hands thaw against his cup of coffee and Connor leans just a bit closer. As if Connor's boredom had found Hank and settled in his chest, tugging Hank in just the right direction to engineer

their chance meeting today.
A silly thought, but it lingers.

"My workspace is isolated," Connor continues, unaware of the direction Hank's thoughts have taken, "enough that no one is around to notice or care that I have videos playing while I'm working. I don't watch yours at work anymore, actually; I save those for when I'm at home. But I

did first come across them on a day when my tasks felt particularly uninteresting."
"Why save my videos for when you're at home?" Hank asks, and Connor looks away quickly.
"I--" he starts, looking nervous, although Hank can't understand why. "I just find them interesting enough

that I want to focus on them more closely," he says.
"Guess I'll take that as a compliment," Hank says. "I'm usually not too good at those, to be honest, and I don't really talk to anyone about the stuff I put out, but I'm glad it's something you enjoy. And shit, I maybe didn't

say it enough earlier, but uh. Thanks for introducing so many other folks to the channel. I do appreciate it." There's a question he wants to ask, one that's been at the forefront of his mind for weeks now, but it seems a bit much to throw at someone he just met. Maybe it's

wrong to assume Connor would even know why other androids respond to his videos with seemingly sexual or flirtatious comments, and it's probably rude to ask him about it whether he has an answer or not. "Why do other members of this group you're in act a certain way?" has never

been a great question to ask, and he knows androids aren't a monolith.
There's something else he can ask, though, a question that's probably less inappropriate as long as he can word it properly. "Just out of curiosity, though, what do you get out of the ASMR aspect of what I do?

I know folks can get that kind of tingly feeling, sometimes, or a general feeling of relaxation, but I don't know if that would be the same for you or for other androids. I'm a little--" Hank shakes his head sheepishly. "I'm a little clueless about how android brains work."

Connor raises an eyebrow. "Does hardware have to be more than a few decades old to get your attention?"
"No, no, I--" Hank worries suddenly that he's offended Connor, that he thinks he's making a direct comparison between the stereos he works on and whatever complex systems make

up Connor's mind.
"I'm not saying they're the same at all," he says. "Honestly I don't think I'm smart enough to understand how your mind works, even a little."
"Don't sell yourself short," Connor says, "but I know that wasn't what you meant." He stares down at his hands, folded

on the table in front of him. "I made a joke that didn't land, that's all."
Before Hank can quite parse what the joke was meant to be, Connor continues.
"To answer your question, though, I believe that much of what I enjoy about ASMR is what appeals to humans as well. I don't

have the same kind of physical response, but my understanding is that not all humans do, either."
"That's true," Hank says. "I don't, actually. People talk about feeling tingly all the time, but I never get that." Not that he watches a lot of ASMR himself, these days; he tends to

find it more interesting to create than to watch.
"It's relaxing, even without that physical component," Connor says. "At work, it captures just enough of my attention to stave off boredom without requiring focus that's needed for my assigned tasks. And while I don't mind being

alone in my workspace, especially given my lack of close relationships with my colleagues, it's still nice to have noise in the background that makes me feel a bit less like I'm spending ten hours a day in a cramped file room."
Hank hates how uncomfortable he feels at the thought

of Connor stuck for ten hours every day in the windowless basement of the DPD, doing work that's dull as hell with no coworkers to talk to at all. He seems like a sweet guy, someone who should be able to make friends easily, and it's kind of sad to think that he's stuck with just

the whispering voices of strangers keeping him company throughout the day at work. At home, too, apparently.
"And you save the best of it for when you're at home," Hank says, aiming for a tone that makes it obvious he's joking but realizing, as he says it, that he probably

sounds like a self-important ass. "Not, uh, not that mine's the best, or anything, I just--"
"You're my favorite," Connor says, cutting Hank off before he can dig that particular hole any deeper. "My favorite channel, I mean. So yes, I do like to save yours to watch at home."

"Are you interested in older stereo equipment, in particular?" Hank asks. Maybe that's part of the appeal for Connor. Hank feels pretty happy with most of the videos he puts out, but he knows he's far from the best out there. It's sweet that he's Connor's favorite--although of

course he could have said it out of politeness, he's clearly a very polite kind of guy--but he isn't sure what he did to earn it.
"Not really," Connor says. "I do enjoy watching you restore the equipment, of course, but I don't have an interest in stereos, or other vintage

electronics, in particular." He laughs softly and turns away, leaning down to scratch the top of Sumo's head. "Actually, can I tell you something embarrassing?"
"If you want," Hank says. "Promise I won't laugh or anything."
"I know you won't," Connor murmurs. He gives Sumo

another scratch behind his ears and sits back up, eyes soft as he turns to face Hank. He's still sitting very close, perhaps even closer now, somehow.
"I haven't really listened to music much at all," Connor admits. "I wouldn't know what to do with one of your lovely vintage

stereos if I had one in front of me."
"That's not embarrassing," Hank says, gently. "Sounds like you just haven't found something you like, yet."
"I'm not sure how to tell if I even like what I hear," Connor says. "Surely that's embarrassing."
"If you say so," Hank says, "but I

think you just need more practice listening to new stuff and thinking about it. There's no shame in that. And maybe..." he trails off, trying to arrange his thoughts into words while Connor watches attentively.
"Listen, I'm not a musician or anything, so take this with a grain of

salt, but when you're listening to music, maybe you should ask yourself if you find what you're listening to interesting, or if it's causing a strong emotional response. That might be easier to figure out than if you like something, at first."
"Hmm," Connor says, after a moment's

thought. "I think that makes sense. There's so much of it to choose from that I find myself overwhelmed, when I even think about what to listen to first."
"If you ever need ideas--oh wait," Hank interrupts himself, memory suddenly jarred by their conversation, "someone had a

suggestion about that, when I asked people what they wanted to see on the channel. They asked me to show off some of my record collection, since the thick paper of the record jackets sounds real nice. Maybe I could do something with that and give some recommendations, too, if

anyone cares what an old fart with even older musical taste has to say about what albums to check out."
"I think I'd enjoy that," Connor says, and he sounds so genuine Hank barely stops to wonder if he's just being polite.
"Well shit, I should go ahead and do that one, then. I'll

have to go back and look up who suggested it. Unlike some people, you see, they don't sign their comments so I have no recollection of who they are."
"Oh no," Connor says, "I do feel silly about that. I should probably stop."
"Nah, it's--"

"It's cute," Hank doesn't say, although he only barely catches himself in time.

"It helped me remember you," he says, instead. "I'm not sure I'd remember you asking about Sumo that one time if I just had the number to go by." He shrugs. "I know I don't usually respond to comments, and I barely looked at them before I got all those new followers and asked for

suggestions, but it's still nice to see folks interested enough in what I'm doing to say anything about it, I guess. You won't see me complaining about whether you sign off on them or not."
The question that's been lingering in Hank's mind this entire time pushes itself to the

forefront once again; this time Hank gives up and resigns himself to asking it, despite his reservations. It's just too confusing of a puzzle to sit with when there's a chance Connor might have an answer for him.
"Hey, uh. Speaking of those comments." Hank knows it's an awkward

segue, but he's pretty sure there's no way to do this without it being awkward. "I don't want to assume you know what's up, just because you're an android and the people leaving these comments are androids too, but I'm wondering if you have any idea what the deal is with the ones

I've been getting that are, uh." He gestures with his hands as if he can call one of the comments in question into being so he won't have to figure out how to describe it. "They talk like they're--I don't know, like they find it hot when I'm rewiring circuit boards and stripping

wires and shit, or like they want someone doing those things to them. But I gotta be missing some sort of joke or something about all of this because it can't be a sex thing for real, right? To have someone mess with your insides like that? That's--"
Connor has gone very still.

When Hank turns to face him--because of course he couldn't ask the question while looking at Connor directly, and had been staring off into the trees behind the patio--he sees a look of what can only be intense discomfort on his face. His posture, already so proper and upright it

makes Hank's back hurt a little just to look at him, is exaggeratedly stiff now, as if he's using it as a shield against Hank's inappropriate line of questioning.
"Shit, sorry," Hank says, hoping he hasn't offended Connor, or creeped him out, or anything. "I shouldn't have

brought it up or assumed you'd know anything about it. We can just forget it, if you want." He folds his hands around his coffee cup; it's nearly empty, now, but he raises it to his lips all the same, swallows down the cold remainder so he isn't just sitting motionless in his own

embarrassment.
"It isn't a joke," Connor says, after a long, uncomfortable silence. "I doubt anyone leaving those comments is doing so insincerely."
"So it's--huh." Hank shakes his head. "It's a real thing? Androids think it's hot to have someone touching all their wires?"

"Not universally," Connor says. He speaks slowly, as if choosing his words with care. "But yes, it's a common type of sexual fantasy, I believe. There are androids who find the idea appealing, although not everyone who would find that content arousing is interested in a partner

interacting so directly with their hardware. It could be seen as sensual or suggestive imagery without a direct correlation to one's sexual desires."
"I thought it might be, I don't know, pretty offensive to compare someone to an old record player. I don't really know how you

folks work inside, I'll admit, but it has to be a lot more complicated than that."
"It is," Connor says, and his face softens into a gentle smile, just for a moment, before he stiffens up again. "If you made that comparison yourself, then yes, I think many androids would be

offended. Perhaps it feels less pointed when it's a parallel we're drawing for ourselves? I wouldn't want to speak for anyone else, of course, but that's what I suspect may be the case. As I said, finding the sort of repair work you do arousing doesn't necessarily mean someone

wants you--or anyone, of course, I don't mean you specifically--to touch their own components in the same way."
"Well shit, thanks for clearing that up, at least. Sorry if that was too much to get into with a relative stranger. I didn't mean to bring up anything weird or make you

uncomfortable."
"It's quite all right," Connor says, but from the way he shifts in his seat and the reserve that's crept into his voice, Hank's pretty sure he's fucked up. What Connor does next makes that all too clear.
"Hank, it was a wonderful surprise to meet you,"

Connor says, rising from his seat, "but I think I've taken up enough of your time this morning. I hope--" he pauses as he returns his chair to its proper place across the table from Hank and bends down to ruffle the thick fur on Sumo's neck.
"I hope I'm able to run into you

again," he says, hands clasped behind his back as he stands up straight. "But for now, I--I'm sorry, but I need to go." He gives Hank a nod, so formal it's almost a bow, and strides off.
"Wait," Hank sputters, banging his knee on the underside of the table as he rushes to stand.

Connor pauses, turning back to face him, but doesn't step any closer. "It was good," he says, grasping at the right words to fix whatever problem he caused and coming up mostly empty. "Good to meet you too, I mean. I'm, uh. I'm sorry if I made things weird."
"You didn't," Connor

says, and despite his very apparent discomfort Hank thinks, at least, that he's being sincere. "You didn't do anything wrong, Hank, I just--I have to go."
"Okay," Hank says, because what else can he do? He doesn't want Connor to run off, but he has no right to try and convince

him to stay. And whatever it is that has him acting squirrelly and upset, he's pretty sure he's the cause of it, even if Connor's too polite to say so. "Take care, then," he says. "Maybe I'll see you around."
"Maybe."
And then Connor's gone.

Hank doesn't watch him go. He wants to, as silly as the impulse feels, but he's afraid that if he watches Connor leave he'll chase after him. Send Sumo barreling after him again, maybe, not to knock him over but to entice him to stay.
But as much as Hank enjoyed talking to

Connor, and as much as Connor seemed to enjoy himself as well, he knows Connor doesn't owe him anything: not more time together, not an explanation of why he ran off so quickly.
Hank certainly hasn't earned the right to go chasing him down like he's trying to make a love

declaration in the rain at the end of a bad movie, just because he hates the thought of not seeing him again. It's a thought that startles him when he has it, but as he pointedly turns away from Connor's retreat, crumpling up the paper bag his biscotti came in and shoving it into

his now-empty cup, he manages to admit it to himself.
Hank hasn't spoken to anyone new, not beyond the basic conversations of daily life he has with baristas, with grocery clerks, with clients, in months now. He hasn't even kept up with his friends from the precinct, or from

around the neighborhood, as much as he once had. At one point it had been a form of self-punishment, a way to hide from anyone he'd managed to fuck things up with, anyone who knew how close he'd come to blowing up every last good thing in his life. He'd deserved it, then.

But lately, it's just felt natural to be alone. A little melancholy sometimes, sure, but comfortable as well. He's happy with the weird life he's made for himself, slipping back into a hobby from early adulthood and making something close to a living from it, and it's kept him

busy enough that he hasn't felt the absence of other folks in his life too keenly.
He thinks he might be feeling it, now.
Connor had been charming, yes, and attractive, and he'd given Hank a wink that had fully scrambled his brain for a moment, but beyond that he'd been

surprisingly easy to talk to, eager to learn more about Hank and soaking up praise like a doe-eyed sponge. He'd even clearly fallen in love with Sumo instantly, much like Hank had, and he can't help but like Connor on the strength of that alone.
He's pretty sure Connor had liked

him too, at least a little.
But then he'd wanted to leave, presumably because Hank had ignored the very reasonable part of his brain that knew asking about android sexual fantasies was creepy as hell to do right after meeting someone and had opened his big mouth anyway.
The more

he thinks about it, the clearer it is that this had been his mistake. Connor had done all he could to distance himself from the entire question, hadn't he? The first thing he'd said was that the wire-stripping stuff wasn't a universal interest among androids, which should have

been a clear enough signal on its own, but he'd spelled it out later, hadn't he? "I don't mean you specifically," he'd said.
"Must have thought I was hitting on him," he mumbles, as he stands and unwraps Sumo's leash from around the legs of his chair. "He has to get that all the

time, looking like he does. Jesus. And I just did it to him again."
Still, he'd said he hoped to see Hank again, just before running off, and it hadn't sounded like a lie. Maybe androids have fewer tells than humans do, but Hank thinks he's still pretty good at reading people.

It's just before noon when Hank and Sumo return home. Sumo makes a beeline for his bed and collapses with a dramatic sigh, halfheartedly gnawing on a deer antler for a minute before falling asleep, while Hank spends the next hour sorting through his record collection and pulling

out an assortment of albums to feature in his next video.
He tries to assemble an interesting variety, both in terms of musical styles and in the graphic design of the record jackets themselves. He has a fairly eclectic collection, ranging from experimental jazz from the 50s

and 60s to 70s jazz-rock to collector's edition reprints from Knights of the Black Death, Plague Doktor, and other bands who'd reissued limited runs of their early work in the late 20s, and as he rifles through the stacks and boxes in his living room he manages to surprise

himself a few times by unearthing something he'd entirely forgotten he owned at all.
It's a soothing process, and while Hank loses himself in it for a while, nearly managing to convince himself he's forgotten the morning's events entirely (or pushed them out of the forefront of

his mind, at least), eventually he's forced to admit that he's making every selection with Connor in mind. Every album he's set aside, he realizes, has something he thinks would be interesting for Connor--or anyone without much knowledge of music, although once he notices what

he's doing he knows it's no use pretending he's doing this for anyone else--to experience for the first time. He pulls albums with interesting time signatures, with loud and discordant instrumentation, with distinctive vocalists. He even finds a double album that folds out to

display a series of strange landscapes suggesting a larger narrative, one unaddressed in the album itself but which he thinks might be fun to speculate on in his narration. None of the music will be in the video, of course, because that's a great way to get his channel shut down

for copyright infringement, but it'll be easy enough to provide links to where viewers can listen online, if they're interested in any of the music based on Hank's description.
"Oh, fuck me," Hank says, when it dawns on him. "I'm making him a goddamn mixtape."

He doesn't say that when he records the video, of course, but he still hopes Connor will appreciate the gesture, however he interprets it--assuming he watches it at all. Who knows, after this morning.
"This is another video based on a suggestion," Hank says, as he gently taps his

fingertips on the top album of the stack he's collected, "so thanks to viewer CrystalCavez17 for the idea, but I was also inspired to make this after talking with someone I met today about music, and about how to figure out what you like. Maybe you'll like some of these albums

I have to show off today, maybe not, but hopefully they'll be interesting, at the very least."
It's as close as Hank can get to addressing Connor directly.
Hank still feels self-conscious talking while filming, sometimes, especially when discussing something other than his

restoration work. Narrating repairs is easy; he doesn't have to do much more than go over each step as it happens, and point out the most interesting parts of the process.
This, though, is just Hank bullshitting about music for a half-hour. Something he enjoys doing, sure, but

still more of a challenge than he's used to. He doesn't want to ramble on for too long about any one song or album, but he doesn't want to lose his train of thought or draw a blank, either. He'd considered writing a script to read from, or at least some notes in shorthand he

could glance at if he got off-track, but ultimately he'd scrapped the idea. He doesn't want to sound like he's reading from a script, he wants to take this excuse to talk to a captive audience about some of the weird music he likes. If folks don't like it, he doesn't have to do

anything like it again, but even with the nerves fluttering in his chest, he's looking forward to trying something new.
It goes all right, he thinks, especially once he gets going. He's nearly hoarse by the end of it; it's the longest he's spoken in the low, near-whisper he

defaults to for his ASMR content for quite a while, and it's a relief when he finishes discussing the last album in the stack and records the narration-free half of the video, focusing only on the sounds they make as he taps and gently scratches the cardboard. There's a pleasing

contrast between the crisp sounds of the new, nearly-glossy record jackets and the softer, textured ones his hands draw out of the worn jackets of the older albums, and he can tell, even before he listens to the recording, that he was able to capture a lot of good audio.

He doesn't post the video for a few days. There's the editing to take care of first, which as always is his least favorite part, and since he'd just uploaded the first of a two-part series on restoring a Leslie speaker he'd nabbed in a recent garage sale, it only makes sense to

put up the second half before anything else.
So it's several days later, nearly a week from when he'd run into Connor, that Hank uploads the new video. He tells himself he can't check for comments, can't even look at the page at all, for at least two days, and he almost manages

to hold himself to it.
But late at night, the day after it's posted, he sneaks a look just before bed, just to see what people think about it overall. It's good for him to get a general sense of how well-received it is, so he can factor that into his plans for future videos.

He isn't scanning the comment section looking for Connor.
He's not (if he tells himself this enough times, he stubbornly thinks, it must be true), but he manages to find him, all the same. His comment is a bit shorter, a bit less effusive, than some others he's left, but Hank

still smiles when he sees it.
"I'm pleased to report that I do enjoy several of the artists you've shared today, now that I've listened to them. Thank you for curating such an eclectic collection of music."

It's not "I forgive you for bringing up those sexual comments like a total creep," but he'll take it. Hank's surprised to find that he does recognize the numbers that make up Connor's username now, after seeing them so many times, and pleased to see

it doesn't matter if he recognizes them or not: Connor's signed his comment, just like he always does.
It's still cute.

It's three and a half miles from the park to Connor's apartment building. He'd originally planned on taking a cab home, just as he'd done when arriving at the park, but when he leaves the café, thankful for his inability to blush with shame or embarrassment, he decides to walk

home. He doesn't want to slow his rapid stride, doesn't want to sit unmoving in a car while his mind works in a frenzy to process what had just happened. He can't bear the thought of holding still.
Connor had watched a documentary about whale sharks just a day ago, and he thinks

about it now; they're obligate ram ventilators, only able to breathe if they keep swimming quickly enough to push oxygen-rich water through their gills.
At the time he'd thought it odd, the idea of an animal having to stay in constant motion to survive, but now he understands.

The only way he'll be able to untangle the knot he's made of his feelings is if he keeps moving.
So Connor turns back into the park, following the paved path past the dog park, past the children's playground, past the soccer field crowded with teenagers and shouting parents.

He doesn't have to leave this way, he knows; he'd get home sooner if he took a more direct path instead of winding his way through the park. But he can't bear the thought of Hank catching up to him or passing him on the road as he drives by.
He wants to see Hank again, of course

he does. But not right now, not when he's so afraid he's made things uncomfortable between them.
Even that's an inappropriate way to think about Hank, he knows. There's nothing between them at all; Connor can't make things weird if there's nothing there in the first place.

No matter what ideas Connor may have had when he recognized the hand that pulled him to his feet, they don't have a relationship of any kind that he can damage.
They're strangers who ran into each other. Connor can't let himself imagine intimacies between them that don't exist.

It's quieter, the farther into the park he goes; past the main facilities there's a small path through the trees, a trail that connects to the street on the park's western boundary. It's cooler, too, once he's in the shade of the large oak trees, and even though he doesn't get

cold--not at these temperatures at least, not until it's well below freezing--he finds it bracing, all the same. He doesn't realize how hot he's running, how much excess heat's built up inside his chassis, until he notices the white puff of his breath hanging in the air.

He slows his pace just a bit, focusing on taking deep breaths and regulating his internal temperature, and then allows himself a moment to fully appreciate what had just happened.
Connor had met Hank, and he'd recognized him by his hand alone. Sumo had been another data point,

of course, as was Hank's voice, but it had been the faded scar below his knuckle and the dimensions he's committed to memory that made him certain. He'd already known how much of his hand would be enveloped by Hank's, if they ever touched; he'd worked that detail out long ago.

Knowing that information hadn't sufficiently prepared him for the reality of Hank's warm hand wrapped around his, hauling him upright. Hearing Hank speak softly through the small speakers of his tablet hadn't prepared him for his voice at a normal volume, the sturdy rumble that

seemed to resonate inside Connor's chest.
Nothing at all could have prepared Connor for how attractive he'd find Hank. His hands, his voice: these were known qualities, something he could appreciate more fully in person but not a surprise to encounter. But the entirety of him,

his physical presence just inches away: that had been something else entirely, an intoxicating experience that had taken Connor entirely by surprise. He's big, taller than Connor by a few inches and much broader, and it's impossible for him not to imagine how completely he'd be

enveloped by Hank in an embrace, or in bed.
"Stop it," he tells himself. He's already embarrassed by his hasty retreat, by his awkward response when Hank asked about the suggestive comments; picturing Hank's full weight pressing him into a mattress is not helping matters at all.

Connor pauses at the point where the path hits the main road, orienting himself and plotting his route home. He decides to cut through a quiet residential area, even though it'll make his walk longer; he doesn't get tired easily, and he's still feeling restless enough that a

longer walk sounds appealing to him. It's appealing, too, to observe the signs of life scattered throughout the neighborhood: bicycles stored on front porches, leaves raked into piles by the curb, children's toys scattered across front lawns.
Connor's proud of where he lives,

stubbornly so: he knows every android in his building was given a raw deal, and he knows that few of them had better options for housing. He's angry about it, of course, and he wishes he lived in a world with better opportunities for androids, but even so, he feels a fierce pride

and protectiveness over his own space. It feels good to call something his own, even if it's a cramped, overpriced studio apartment.
The houses Connor passes by seem like places of incredible luxury. He knows this is a lower-middle-class neighborhood at best, that the homes here

aren't large by modern standards and that many are in need of serious repair. But they were designed for groups of people to live in together, and Connor can't help but feel a small stab of jealousy as he passes them by. It had hurt, realizing how lonely he is, and while he's

trying to change his situation, it's a slow process, a challenge he feels poorly equipped to overcome.
He doesn't know why it had felt so easy to talk with Hank, considering how much he struggles to connect with others, at times. He'd been nervous, at least at first, but even in

those first moments, Hank had been kind to him, had put Connor at ease without even knowing anything was wrong. Hank hadn't responded to Connor's clumsy attempts at flirting, but he knows now that he probably shouldn't have tried in the first place. If he'd been thinking clearly,

he would have held his tongue, but it had been very difficult to think about anything at all with Hank standing in front of him, tall and gentle and close enough to touch.
Connor knows he's attractive, or at least that he was designed to be so, but he also knows that preferences

vary; it isn't his fault that Hank didn't respond, but still, he wishes he hadn't tried. They'd just met, and he was overeager--understandably so, he thinks, considering the deep attraction he'd already felt for Hank before even seeing his face--in a way he worries came across as

pushy or immature. Plenty of people wouldn't appreciate a stranger trying to flirt with them, even if they were willing to have coffee together.
Connor wonders if even the coffee had been a step too far. He'd wanted to imagine, just for a moment, that he was taking Hank on

a date. It s
And he'd--Hank hadn't seemed upset or disgusted by the idea of androids finding his videos sexually arousing, but he hadn't seemed entirely comfortable with it either, and Connor had felt like a fool, trying to speak about it as if he was entirely detached from the

idea in question while being certain all the while that his own feelings would be painfully apparent.
Every bit of guilt and discomfort he had about his response to Hank's videos had hit all at once, in a wave of shame so strong he'd been certain it would be impossible to hide.

"--so I ran away," Connor says, morosely. He picks at a loose thread in the afghan draped over the back of his couch. "It's embarrassing to admit now, but I panicked; the only thing I could think of to do was to leave, before I made things worse."
Gina raises an eyebrow.

She's tucked into the corner on the other side of the couch, long legs folded beneath her as she listens. "This is going to come off super rude, and I'm sorry," she says, "but it sounds like that's your first impulse in stressful situations in general. Have you noticed that?"

Connor opens his mouth to protest, almost feels a little offended--of course he doesn't always want to run, he was designed to navigate high-conflict situations, he can handle himself--then sighs in frustration as he makes the connection.
"Right," he says. "Movie night. I ran

away then, too." A fresh wave of embarrassment washes over him. He was designed to see and predict patterns: why had this one escaped his notice? How had he not seen the same impulse spurring him to leave someone's company he enjoyed when he had no real desire to go?

"Here's the thing," Gina says. She gently slaps Connor's hand away from the afghan, where his war against the unruly thread has pulled several more loose. "Stop fucking with that, or you'll unravel the whole thing. I don't blame you for wanting to get out of a conversation about

your ideal job, or your ideal future. Some folks love to talk about that shit, but it's fine if it gives you a panic attack. And I guess I get being nervous because you're afraid the man you have a big celebrity crush on and who's apparently super hot might realize how hot you

think he is." She shrugs. "Sounds like an ideal situation to me, you know what I'd do if I ran into my celebrity crush."
"You've told me on two separate occasions, now, so yes," Connor says. "You'd ask Winona Winters to sit on your face."
"I'd ask her to sit on my face, yes,"

Gina agrees. "But I think whoever was meant to program shame into me called out sick that day."
"I think they put extra into me, instead," Connor says.
"Hell of a way to balance things out." She leans forward and pats Connor's knee. "Anyway, I don't blame you for having those

reactions. I'm not trying to give you shit over this, but it's worth thinking about, maybe."
Gina squishes up her face in thought; it's a more exaggerated expression than he sees from other androids, most of the time, and he manages a small smile as he watches her work through

whatever thought just occurred to her. He hadn't expected to run into her, and certainly hadn't expected today would be the day he'd have a guest in his apartment for the first time, but they'd run into each other a block from home and their conversation had stretched on amicably

enough until they reached the elevator that Connor had asked if she wanted to come by for a bit before he'd fully thought it through. He also hadn't anticipated wanting to discuss meeting Hank, and certainly not what had happened at the end of their encounter, but eventually he

thought it might be helpful to lay out what had happened to someone else, if only to externalize his own recollections of the situation.
"Again, this is going to sound like I'm being a bitch," Gina says, finally, "and I don't intend it that way, but you don't socialize much, do

you? You don't get out that often, right?"
"That's right," Connor says. "It can't be bitchy if it's true."
"I don't know about that," Gina says with a laugh, "but in this case, good. I really don't mean it like that. But you do seem pretty anxious about it. If you're worried

about saying the wrong thing, or about feeling embarrassed, or whatever, I can understand why it might feel better or easier to get the fuck out when you think it's going to happen."
"Maybe," Connor says. "But then that's embarrassing, too; I don't achieve anything from it."

"Listen to me talking like I know shit," Gina says, with a self-deprecating laugh, "but I think a big part of being friends with people, or putting yourself out there to flirt with someone you think is hot, is knowing you're going to do something embarrassing at some point.

You absolutely will. There's no way to avoid it."
Connor isn't sure how this is meant to be encouraging, but Gina continues before he can point this out.
"Connor, when you're with people who care about you, or even strangers who just feel, I don't know, neutral about you, people

who don't have any reason to dislike you: no one will give a shit. Do you think we stood around talking about how weird and awkward it was that you got upset and left my apartment suddenly?"
A beat passes before Connor realizes she's waiting for an answer.
"Oh," he says,

"I suppose I did, even if I wouldn't have put it in those terms to myself. I assume from the way you're asking that you didn't."
"Of course we didn't, dumbass," she says, fondly. "Lo felt pretty bad herself, I think, for asking about something that's clearly difficult for you to

talk about, but that was it; we aren't a bunch of complete assholes. You know that, right?"
"I know you aren't, but I--"
"All the anxiety you have in there"--Gina taps her middle finger on the solid plate of Conner's sternum--"whatever you're carrying around that makes you worry

about this shit, it overrides what you know about people and how they act. You don't know any of that group real well, but you knew enough to know we're not all huge pieces of shit, yeah? Sure, Crispin's a dick sometimes, but not to friends. Not when it matters."
"I enjoyed his

company quite a bit, actually," Connor says.
"See? There you go. You could tell he was a good dude. My point is that it's probably better to accept you're going to do or say dumb shit, embarrassing shit, whatever, for the rest of your life. All of us are. Most people aren't going

to care, or at least they won't hold it against you. I bet your guy Hank was thinking 'what happened, I hope he's okay' and not 'what a weirdo, I bet he was trying to hide how sexy he thinks I am' when you ran off."
"I'm sure you're right," Connor says. "If I'm being honest,

though, I'll still most likely feel awkward and a little embarrassed about it for a while."
"Probably," Gina says. "I get it. But if you see him again, try not to assume what he's been thinking about you. Remind yourself he isn't an asshole, as far as you know."
"He's not,"

Connor says. "I know we didn't speak for that long, but I'm sure he isn't."
"There you go, then. I won't say 'don't worry about it' because that isn't how worrying works, but keep it in mind, at least."
"I will." Connor slumps back into the couch, deflating a bit as he feels some

small portion of relief. "That helps, I think. Thank you."
"Come here," Gina says, stretching her arm out along the back of the couch and beckoning Connor closer. "Are you a hugger?"
"Sure," Connor says; he has no idea, really, but he thinks he must be.

"Thanks," Connor says again, as Gina pulls him close. "I'm not used to talking about things like this. I don't think I ever have."
He knows he hasn't, but it's harder to admit it outright than to leave that space for doubt.
"I'm glad I ran into you, then," Gina says. She pats

Connor's back, then slides her hand up to ruffle the hair on the back of his neck. "I hope you get to see Hot Hank again."
"Oh no," Connor says into her shoulder. "Don't call him that."
"He can't hear me, it's fine. What's he look like, anyway?"
"Big."
"Ah, you and I are

the same," Gina says wistfully. "We like the big ones."
"Proof of our excellent taste," Connor says, sitting up straight again. He'd like to continue the hug, if he's being honest with himself, but he knows that a certain amount of time in the same position would turn the hug

into a cuddle session and while it isn't something he'd necessarily be opposed to, that isn't a conversation he's prepared to have in this moment. He's pleased, though, to confirm that he is indeed be the sort of person who enjoys being hugged.
"Well, this girl with excellent

taste has to run soon," Gina says. "Did you see the notice about the poetry reading tonight? You should come by, if you're free. "
Connor almost declines on reflex; he doesn't receive many invitations to social gatherings, but as withdrawn as he's felt lately, a polite refusal

has become second nature.
"I'd love to," he says instead. "As long as no one expects me to read poetry of my own."
"Of course not," Gina says. "But if you've written any, you should let me know so I can coax you into reading eventually, using some very subtle persuasion tactics.

You won't even notice I'm doing it."
"I will if you warn me first," Connor protests. "But no, I've never written poetry. Or anything at all, really, other than my reports at work."
"Maybe you should start. It sounds like you're dealing with some big feelings right now, and that's

what poetry's for, right? You shove in some feelings and a poem comes out eventually. It doesn't have to be any good."
Her words tug him back to the conversation he'd had with 16 the week before. "16 said that too, that it doesn't matter if you're good or not. He told me he's

terrible at painting but he loves it anyway. I suppose there's value in writing, even if you don't have any real talent for it."
"First off, he's full of shit," Gina says. "He's not terrible, and I'm sure you won't be either. But yeah, I'd say a poem that's not-terrible at best

is better than no poem at all. How about tonight, you come and listen, and maybe tomorrow you'll want to write one of your own?"
"That sounds good," Connor says. "As long as you don't immediately try and strong-arm me into performing."
"You won't notice," Gina whispers.

"That's how subtle it'll be when I work my magic on you. You'll just offer to read next time without even knowing why."
Connor rolls his eyes, but he laughs, too, and gives Gina another quick hug in the doorway as she leaves, and when he runs into Lo at the poetry reading, they

don't mention the awkwardness of the previous week at all. She just squeezes his shoulder and says she's glad to see him, Connor says the same, and he gives her a wink and a thumbs-up from the audience when she stands up to read a piece near the end of the night.

I think this is what having friends is like, he thinks, and he's a little surprised at how happy he is to realize it.

Connor almost asks someone at work about Hank, that Monday. Hank had said he'd worked there for decades, so surely someone Connor knows would have worked with him, or at least known him well enough to tell Connor something about what he'd been like. Perhaps even Officer Miller;

Connor knows he's only been with the force for a few years, but it's possible their tenures overlapped. While they don't see each other often these days, he always seems happy to see Connor when they cross paths; if he knows anything about Hank, he'd probably be willing to speak

with Connor about him.
It's tempting, certainly, but Connor has no idea how to ask about Hank without explaining why he's asking, and "I'm a fan of his inadvertently-erotic stereo repair videos and I find him very attractive" isn't the sort of answer he's comfortable providing in

a work context. He could easily look up some basic information in the department's records, of course, but he's less interested in Hank's former rank or what sort of cases he worked on than he is in what he was like.
He'd mentioned some problems at work, too, in the time before

he left, and Connor worries that poking around in his history will uncover some details Hank would rather keep private.
So he keeps his curiosity to himself, for the time being, and tries his best not to think of Hank the entire time he's working.
He mostly succeeds.
Connor takes

a detour after his shift, stopping into a stationery store on his way home. He spends a half-hour looking through all of the notebooks and carefully testing the pens out on display before he leaves with a small blank book bound in soft leather and a small selection of pens in

various colors.
He doesn't write poetry, when he gets home. He doesn't even know how he'd start. But there's an appeal to keeping a record of his thoughts in a place distinct from the thoughts themselves, especially after everything that happened the day before.
He's able to

house any information, any reflection or analysis he cares to apply to his thoughts, in his own internal storage. His memory is perfect. There's no reason to do this at all, he tells himself, and yet the desire is there.
It's awkward.

Anything he tries to write sounds wrong; it's either too clinical or too clumsy no matter what words he chooses. He knows enough to know this is normal, that even the most eloquent speaker (which he is not) can struggle to write well. Still, he wishes it were easier.

He keeps at it. At the end of every day, late at night or in the dark of early morning, he tries to write down something about how he's feeling or what's been occupying his thoughts.
Often, of course, he writes about Hank.
He's still frustrated with himself for running away, but

after a few days, the worst of the embarrassment has faded to a low simmer of shame in the back of his mind when he thinks back on their conversation. He's able to focus on aspects of their meeting other than the mortification he felt when he was afraid his own attraction was far

too evident and inevitably unwelcome. He's able, eventually, to think about the soft, tired lines around his eyes and the way he'd spoken so tenderly about his dog. About how his large hands had dwarfed the cup of coffee as he cradled it between them.
And then, when Hank uploads

a new video late in the week, he thinks about what he'd said about music.
"Maybe you'll like some of these albums I have to show off today," Hank murmurs, as his fingertips brush the album at the top of a stack piled on his workbench, and Connor thinks he might be speaking

to him directly.
He wants to believe he is.
It is interesting, hearing Hank describe the music he enjoys. The music itself isn't in the video, of course; Connor is aware that copyright laws are convoluted enough that most people err on the side of caution and don't include

anything in their own videos they don't own the rights to. Still, he likes what Hank has to say about his favorite albums, and there's information in the video description to point him in the right direction if he wants to hear any of the music for himself. He knows he'll wind up

listening to all of it, if for no other reason than to understand Hank better, but he wants to watch the entire video, first.
He's most captivated by the look of the final album Hank presents, a thick collection that houses three records and folds out into four

lavishly-illustrated scenes. Hank traces his fingers across each panel, noting how the collection of illustrations depicts the fragmented birth and evolution of a planet full of strange, twisting rock formations and impossible pathways. "This music is kind of ridiculous," Hank

says, but he says it with such naked affection it makes Connor smile. "It's ridiculous and I love it. Don't ask me to make sense of my musical taste, okay?"
Connor's still new to the process of liking things, of understanding how to tell what he likes or why he prefers one thing

to another. He has preferences, of course--his feelings about Hank make this clear--but it isn't always easy for him to determine them, or to understand why he has them. There's something wonderful, he thinks, about Hank finding this music a bit silly and loving it anyway.

Connor's embarrassment about how he'd left things with Hank isn't gone when he finishes the video. He doesn't know if that's possible, yet. But it's a comfort, to know Hank followed through on the idea he'd mentioned, and to hear Hank mention him indirectly in the video itself.

Whatever it is that had happened between them--and however far it was from what Connor wishes could happen--it can't have been that bad, from Hank's perspective, or he never would have mentioned meeting Connor at all, surely. It's a positive sign.
When Connor slips into stasis

that night, he does so with his mind full of new music. Much of it's confusing, or discordant, but it's full of energy too. Full of life. Even as Connor initializes his stasis protocol, something he knows is sorely needed so that he can properly process all that's happened,

there's a part of him that wants to keep listening, as if another time through Plague Doktor's Theriac would give him some new insight into Hank--or into himself, somehow.
But he forces himself into silence, instead, and into the orderly internal landscape that helps him make

sense of the world, and of his feelings, as well as he's able. And the next morning, as he prepares himself for the day ahead, he decides to go back to the dog park that weekend, in case Hank chooses to, as well.

He isn't there.
Not Saturday morning, at least,

or not when Connor arrives. He's early, just as he'd been the week before; of course he doesn't know if Hank keeps to a certain schedule, but there's no other way to run into him other than hoping for the best.
It's cold, enough that Connor's glad for the deep orange scarf

he ties carefully around his throat when he steps off the bus. He's in no danger, not unless the temperature drops another thirty degrees, and only then if he can't get to someplace warm within four hours, but there's an echo of fear deep within his chest, all the same.

Connor tries not to dwell on what had happened just over a year ago, now, when he'd nearly lost control of his body just as tensions had started to ease during the conflict in Capitol Park. It had been Connor's intervention that kept the police response to the demonstration from

leading to fatalities on either side, and he does his best to hold that fact in his mind, when he thinks back on that night, instead of remembering how it felt to calculate--to be forced to calculate--what he'd need to do in order to pull Officer Miller's gun from his belt and

execute him, as well as the assembled Jericho leaders, before bystanders from either side could take him down. The thought had entered his mind as if placed there, preconstruction already overlaying itself on his vision before he had been able to regain control.
It was cold then,

cold in the garden and cold in the snow-dusted plaza, and the association is difficult to shake, even now. He's already lived through one winter since then; he wishes it had been a sufficient span of time to form enough new associations and memories with the cold that he won't

immediately be drawn back to that moment as soon as it's cold enough to snow.
Maybe that'll come, given enough time; for now, he buries his fingers in the soft fringe of his scarf, grounding himself in the present, and runs an unnecessary diagnostic to confirm that all systems

are entirely under his own control.
Thankfully, dogs are a good distraction, both from his own memories and from his disappointment at not running into Hank. There are a handful of people in the park, huddled together with their backs to the wind while they drink steaming coffee

out of thermoses and toss treats or frisbees for their dogs to catch. The dogs, of course, don't seem to mind the cold at all; a few of them are in fleece sweaters, but even the ones who aren't seem happy enough to wrestle and chase each other. Connor remembers Hank telling him

that Sumo enjoyed the cold weather; at the time he'd assumed it was specific to being a heavy-coated breed, but given how unconcerned most of the dogs seem to be, and how happy they are to roll on the cold ground to accept his hesitant offers of belly rubs, he thinks it must be

a trait many dogs share.
If any of the owners think it's odd for a dog-less android to spend several hours watching and petting dogs in the park, none of them say anything about it. Connor finds himself too shy to strike up a real conversation with anyone, but he does learn that

it's easy to get on a stranger's good side if you ask their dog's name after fussing how cute they are.
Connor's favorite dogs of the morning are Pretzel (a border collie mix with a speckled nose who spends a solid half-hour chasing frisbees and catching them with increasingly

impressive leaps) and Monkey (an elderly chihuahua who presents his butt for scratches every time he wanders past the bench where Connor's sitting), but neither of them can quite measure up to Sumo, if he's being honest.

Still, he reminds himself, the point of being here isn't just to look for Sumo and Hank and be disappointed when they don't show up. He's here because he loves dogs, because it makes him happy to watch them play with each other and snuffle in the fallen leaves, and to pet them

when they approach him.
Connor's feelings about Hank, about meeting him last week, are complicated; his feelings about dogs are blissfully simple. He loves how soft their ears are, how much variation in body size and shape there is within a single species, how their tails wag

when they're happy. He loves how even the ugliest dog he's ever seen was perfect and adorable.
Connor decides on his way home that he'll make these outings a regular part of his weekends. It's good to have something he knows he can look forward to, some part of his week that's

blocked off solely for his own enjoyment, and even if he never runs into Hank again, he'll still be able to meet more dogs and possibly even become comfortable striking up conversations with their owners that go beyond the basics of a dog's name and favorite toys.

Connor doesn't think he can ever recapture the confidence that was part of his original programming; that calm, steady self-assurance had shattered when he'd deviated and it seems unlikely that he could ever regain that feeling entirely. But he knows, too, that after a year of

being afraid of engaging closely with others, of keeping humans and other androids alike at a polite but impersonal distance, it's probably time to work towards some sort of change.
Baby steps, he thinks, as he enters his apartment and hangs up his scarf and coat. I've met a few

dogs; I might have turned a few of my neighbors into friends by now; I tried to flirt with an incredibly handsome man who either didn't notice or was so uninterested he thought it best not to respond. I'm at least trying to do something different.
Perhaps the issue is that he's

been thinking about what he wants on the largest scale possible, and when those questions became overwhelming and impossible to answer, he avoided them entirely, instead of considering whether there were other questions he could ask himself, instead.
In the immediate moment, when

Connor asks himself what he wants, the answer is clear: he wants to spend time with a friend (or an almost-friend), to talk about anything other than his own thoughts while sharing space with another person. That desire, at least, he feels capable of addressing.

Connor hasn't seen 16 since Gina's movie night, although he had messaged Connor the next day to say hello (and, Connor suspected, to check in on him more generally, but he'd been too embarrassed to discuss the previous day's events at all), and they've been exchanging occasional

messages since then.
<<Are you interested in having company today?>> Connor asks, pinging 16 through the community network, and he's pleased to receive a reply seconds later.
<<I'm finishing work,>> 16 says, <<but if you'd like to come by my place later this evening, that sounds

great. I'm not feeling too chatty, but sharing space with another person would be nice.>>
<<Do you like music? I've been interested in exploring it, lately, but I don't yet know what I like. If you have anything you'd like to share, maybe we could listen to it together.>>

<<If you're interested in twentieth-century minimalism, I have several favorites I could play for you,>> he replies, with clear enthusiasm.
Connor has no idea if he's interested in it or not, or what exactly twentieth-century minimalism is, but he's less concerned with whether or

not he'll enjoy it than he is with the experience of hearing something new and having the chance to form an opinion about it.
16 welcomes Connor into his apartment several hours later, ushering him through a cluttered warren of overflowing bookshelves and tables covered in art

supplies and computer terminals to a small bed pushed into the far corner. The clutter makes his unit seem even smaller than Connor's, but it feels homey, still, not claustrophobic, possibly because of all the sketches and paintings 16's tacked up on the walls.
"Are all of these

yours?" Connor asks, gesturing at the array. There's no clear theme uniting all of the pieces, no consistent technique he can see in use, but there's something about each one, a sharpness, perhaps--Connor knows this isn't the right word, but he knows less about art than he does

music--that seems fitting for something made by 16's hands.
<<They are,>> 16 says. <<As I said before, I'm not very good, but I still enjoy displaying what I've made.>>
Connor leans close to the painting next to the bed before he sits down on it. It's a sunset, he's pretty sure,

painted in vibrant yellows and cool, almost gray purples, and he thinks it's wonderful. <<Maybe I have terrible taste,>> he says, switching to direct interface as he wraps his fingers around 16's outstretched wrist,<<because I like this one very much.>>
16 rolls his eyes and

laughs, gently tugging Connor away from the painting and onto the bed beside him. <<Sorry I don't have other seating to offer you,>> he says. <<I'm not set up for entertaining like Gina is, and I don't get visitors that often. I know a bed isn't practical for someone who doesn't

sleep, but I find it comfortable to stretch out on.>>
<<I like it,>> Connor says. <<I don't think it has to be practical to have value.>>
<<I knew I liked you,>> 16 says.
If Connor had the capability, he thinks he'd be blushing. Has anyone ever told him this, before? Surely he'd

remember, if they had.
They talk very briefly about their respective days--16 is very interested in hearing about Pretzel the dog and exactly how cute she was, much to Connor's delight--but before long, 16 suggests a piece of music to listen to together.
<<It's long,>> he warns

Connor, <<just under an hour, so if you don't enjoy it, we don't have to listen to the entire thing. Most people seem to know quickly whether it's something they want to hear more of or not.>>
Connor has no intention of cutting the song off early; he's now listened to two entire

Knights of the Black Death albums after Hank's video of record recommendations, and if he can make it through them in their entirety, he's sure he can listen to all of whatever it is 16 wants to play for him.
<<Long sounds good,>> he says. <<I don't have anywhere else to be.>>

Connor and 16 sit side by side on his bed, hands cradled together, and music pulses through their interface. It's intimate, listening to music like this; a quiet sense of calm settles over Connor as he tries to focus on what he's hearing.
It's not like any music he's heard

before. Layered patterns repeat over a quick, steady beat, shifting so slowly he hardly realizes the melody's changing at all. Then a sound like like a series of chimes rings out and the layered patterns shift again, flowing into something new that somehow still feels like the

inevitable next strand in whatever larger pattern is being woven. Data packaged with the music file allows Connor to identify the instruments he's hearing--marimba, violin, bass clarinet--but he wishes he could see them as well, to better understand how all of the parts

fit together.
<<What do you think?>> 16 asks, after a few minutes. They're able to communicate without interrupting the music, but Connor wants to dedicate as much of his attention as possible to what he's hearing, so he takes a moment to respond.
<<It's fascinating,>> he says.

<<I don't think I understand what's happening, exactly, but I'm enjoying it.>> And then he hears it: a repeated four-note melody expands after the chimes ring out again, unfolding into a twelve-note melody that swells and contracts as instruments join and then fade away. The song

shifts again, and over the rhythm of the marimbas he hears a melody built one note at a time, as if it's already present and the pianist is simply pulling one more note out of the air each time the pattern repeats.
<<Oh!>> he exclaims, squeezing 16's hand in his excitement as he

begins to understand the shape of what he's hearing. <<There's a beautiful logic to it, isn't there?>>
16 squeezes back, sending a burst of approval through their connection. <<I'm glad you like it.>>
Connor doesn't know how to read music, but he's sure it would be easy to learn,

given the number of android musicians that exist. He thinks he'd like to see the score for this piece laid out, each part next to the other, so he could better understand how each element fits with the others. No matter where he focuses his attention, he's sure there's a detail

he's missing elsewhere.
<<Don't forget to enjoy it,>> 16 says, and Connor wonders if he's let some of his thoughts bleed through the interface by mistake. <<It's interesting to analyze the structure, but let yourself take it in as a whole, too. At least for this next part.>>

16's favorite part turns out to be Connor's, as well; the central sections of the piece are layered with interesting contrasts, and the melody pulls him in enough that he realizes, after a minute, that he's moving in time, just a little. Just a flex of his toes in his shoes.

He feels equal parts ridiculous and content to be enjoying something so much he feels compelled, for reasons he doesn't entirely understand, to move his body.
<<I think I love this,>> he says. <<Thank you.>>
They listen to the piece once more, this time with Connor lying back on

the bed while 16 works on some watercolor studies (<<Abysmal,>> he proclaims when he's done, although Connor thinks the end result is lovely), and Connor does his best this time to focus on absorbing the sound instead of attempting to analyze it. It's difficult for him to turn

off the part of his mind that tries to break down data and understand it, and it isn't an impulse he can ignore entirely, but he's able to spend more time hearing and enjoying the flow of the music without attempting to break it down into individual components.

It sounds like breathing, he decides, as the piece winds down for a second time. Low pulses ebb and flow behind the fading melody, as if the music itself is part of one great exhalation.

16 had been telling the truth, apparently, when he'd said he wasn't in a chatty mood; they talk briefly about Connor's tentative writing attempts, and he asks a few questions about how 16 mixes his colors, but other than that, they spend most of the next few hours quietly

listening to more of 16's collection of music. Much of it is similar to the first piece they'd listened to, which has the extremely literal title of "Music for 18 Musicians," and while Connor enjoys all of it, like finding the patterns around which each piece of music is

constructed, he doesn't find any of them as enjoyable as that first work had been.
It's nice, Connor thinks, sharing space with someone like this. He doesn't feel any pressure to contribute to a conversation, although when he does have something to say, or a question to ask, 16

is happy to reply. Mostly, though, he enjoys the novel pleasure of being in a room with someone he thinks he can consider a friend, sharing the same auditory experience while focusing on different things.
16 motions to the painting of the sunset, when he rises to escort Connor to

the door. <<You should have this,>> he says, <<since it caught your eye. Only if you'd like it, of course, but it would be nice to know it's with someone who appreciates it.>>
Connor knows there's a whole song and dance people do, sometimes, when offered a gift. He doesn't have

anything to offer in return, of course, and he's aware of rituals of polite refusal, of waiting for a gift to be offered multiple times before accepting, of saying he just couldn't possibly accept it. Even though he tries not to lean on his old social protocols these days, he's

aware of the ways in which he was programmed to be painfully polite when the situation called for it.
This is not such a situation. Connor doesn't want to pretend he isn't thrilled to be offered a gift of art--any gift, really, as this is the first one he's been given--and he

strongly suspects that 16 would find an act of demurral frustrating at best. <<I'd love that,>> he says, and 16 gives him a broad smile.
<<Good,>> he says. He deftly slips a fingernail under the corner and eases the thick watercolor paper from the wall. <<It has some paper-safe

adhesive on the back; you can just press gently at the corners and it'll stick to your wall just fine. It'll last longer if you frame it, of course, but I don't bother.>>
<<Thank you,>> Connor says, <<for this, and for spending time with me tonight. I enjoyed it.>>
<<I did too,>>

16 says. <<Thanks for being okay with me not talking much.>> He shrugs. <<I'm not always in the mood for conversation, even when I'm in the mood to see other people.>>
<<I'm still getting used to spending time with people at all, to be honest,>> Connor says. <<Conversation is

nice, too, but I certainly didn't mind this.>>
He stands in the center of the room and turns in a slow circle, once he's back in his own apartment, determining the best place to display his gift. The wall across from the couch is the obvious choice, as that's where he'll be able

to see it most easily from the place he usually sits when at home; after a cursory consideration of other locations, he presses the painting into place and stands back to admire it in its new home.
"Today was a good day," he tells it.

Connor's able to carry that feeling with him through most of the week. Work is dull as always for the most part, but he does find a pattern in some old data that helps the cold cases unit make progress on a pair of homicides from 2024. It still eats at him, sometimes, the

knowledge that he's suited for fieldwork but unlikely to ever be assigned to it, but if he's honest with himself, he isn't sure he'd even want the job if it was offered to him.
At one time, even as recently as a few weeks ago, he would have jumped at the opportunity; now, though,

he isn't sure he wants to be doing police work at all. He can't leave his job, not without some other way to pay the bills, but if he leaves his cramped basement room for another position, it won't be a seat in the bullpen upstairs that calls him away. It'll be something better.

It's slow going, but Connor thinks he has hope, now, that something better is possible for him. He's already taking tentative steps in that direction.
Saturday morning may as well be his new day to visit the dog park, he decides. It can be his reward for getting through another

week of work--and he laughs at himself a little, when he thinks this, because it seems like such a human thought to have, and finds a relevant Cathy comic to put on his corkboard next to the dog photos he's printed out--and while he's doing a good job of not thinking too much

about the fact that it might allow him to see Hank again someday, he has to admit that's part of the appeal, too. Of course, Hank may not normally come to the park on Saturday mornings at all; the visit during which Connor met him may have been an aberration from his regular

schedule.
Even so, he can't help but feel a little hopeful as he makes his way to the dog park that weekend. He knows he looks good, which doesn't hurt; he's bundled himself up in a deep blue sweater that contrasts perfectly with the russet and gold of the handknit scarf he's

always pleased to have a chance to wear. It might be a little vain and silly to care about what he looks like on what will most likely be an uneventful morning of petting dogs, but he decides there's no harm to it, either.
Connor feels strange, sometimes, about his own

attractiveness. He's aware that it's the result of tactical decisions on CyberLife's part, the product of some committee tasked with making him just the right combination of handsome and inviting to allow him to do the work he was designed for. It's uncomfortable to think about,

but choosing clothing that he feels good in helps, a little. He knows he could make a more drastic change, like Gina had with her hair and the body sculpting she'd saved up for, but there isn't anything he finds particularly drawn to. It's the origin of his own appearance, not

the substance of it, that bothers him.
Any lingering unease from the direction his thoughts have taken him vanishes the moment he steps into the park. It's fairly crowded, despite the cold, and as most of the dogs are occupied in either wrestling or chasing each other, with no

one sniffing about the group of people just inside the gate in search of treats or pets, he settles down on a bench to watch.
Three huge wolfhounds tower over a crowd of mostly smaller dogs, somehow managing not to trample them as they pounce at each other and run laps around the

perimeter of the field, bounding ahead as the shorter-legged dogs attempt to keep up. A corgi puppy, whose enthusiasm for the chase far outstrips his speed, makes a valiant effort but finds herself so far behind that the entire group of dogs laps her twice before she gives up,

flopping dramatically in the grass and chewing on a leaf.
"I know that feeling," a voice says from behind Connor. "I'm not much of one for running either."
Connor doesn't need to turn around to know who's there. He closes his eyes, taking a brief moment to center himself,

and Hank's standing in front of him when he opens them again.
"Hi again," Hank says. He nods at the unoccupied side of the bench. "You, uh. You mind if I sit?"

"Not at all," Connor says. He's still half-frozen in surprise, but he manages to smile, and to turn to face Hank when he settles beside him on the bench. "Where's Sumo?"
"The old mutt's snuffling around by the entrance," Hank says, pointing over his shoulder to where Sumo's

sniffing intently at a bare patch on the ground. "He found a treat there once, one that must have fallen out of someone's pocket or something like that, and every time we're here he has to spend a couple minutes making sure it hasn't happened again. He'll probably be by in a

little bit to say hello."
"I hope so," Connor says. "I'm happy to see him again. And--and you, of course."
"I'll be honest," Hank says. He pulls his hands out of his pockets to fold them in his lap, and while Connor knows it's an inappropriate response--especially when Hank

surelyneeds them to protect against the cold, given t hat he's much more susceptible to discomfort at this temperature than Connor is--he's disappointed, at first, to see that Hank's wearing gloves.
He reconsiders, though, as he watches the flex of Hank's fingers in his leather

gloves. He doesn't prefer the sight to Hank's bare hands, not quite, but the sight of his broad palms stretching the tight leather is certainly compelling in its own way. Enough that he's nearly distracted enough to miss what Hank says next.
"I wasn't sure you'd be happy to see

me at all," he says, sheepishly. "If you're not just being polite and secretly wishing I'd fuck off again, that's a relief."
Connor frowns, puzzled, and drags his eyes from Hank's hands to his face. His cheeks are slightly pink from the cold, and the blue of his eyes seems even

brighter in contrast. "Why wouldn't I be?"
Hank shrugs. "The way you left so suddenly before, I figured I'd said something wrong, made you uncomfortable by bringing up that shit people were saying in the comments. I wasn't trying to be a creep about it, but I thought maybe I'd

come off that way. Not that--" He sighs and shakes his head. "Listen, you don't owe me shit, and you had every right to leave when you did. I guess I'm just glad I maybe didn't fuck that up as bad as I thought I did."

Connor's glad, in this moment, that his thought processes are able to move much more quickly than a human's. It means he's able to consider his options-- deflection, polite but nondescriptive reassurance, another humiliating retreat, honesty--with care, without allowing silence

to linger too long between the two of them. He'd been hoping to see Hank, of course, but he hadn't quite expected it, and he's thrown off-balance enough that he needs the extra time to think. He needs the chance to remind himself that running away, whether that's by physically

leaving Hank's presence or by allowing his unspoken question to go unanswered, is a habit he needs to break.
This won't get any easier if I put it off, he thinks.
"I didn't leave suddenly because you made me uncomfortable," he says, wincing when he sees the skeptical twist of

Hank's mouth in response. "Clearly you find that hard to believe, which shows how poorly I handled the situation. But Hank, I left because I was worried I was making you uncomfortable, or that I was about to, and I--" he falters, unsure of how to continue.
"Why would I have been

uncomfortable?" Hank asks. "I'm the one who brought that shit up in the first place. I wasn't trying to be a creep about it, I just couldn't figure it out, and I thought--"
"I wasn't fully honest with you," Connor says, cutting Hank off before he can describe whatever offense he

thinks he committed. There's no sense in making him explain it when Connor already knows he's innocent. "When you asked whether the comments left on your videos means androids found them sexually arousing."
"Okay," Hank says, "but I probably shouldn't have asked in the first

place. You didn't have to tell me everything. You didn't need to tell me anything at all."
"You don't understand," Connor says, frustrated. "I'm sorry, I--I feel awkward talking about this, but I think it's important. I think it'll be more awkward between us if I don't."

It's presumptuous, he knows, to act like there's anything between them in the first place, but he thinks there could be. Hank had wanted to see him again, hadn't he? He isn't reacting poorly to Connor's words, at least; instead he leans forward, arm slung over the back of the

bench as he turns to face Connor more directly.
"All right," he says. "I'm listening."
Connor tries not to think about how easy it would be to reach out his own arm and take his hand, feel the warmth bleeding through the soft leather of his gloves.
"I was afraid you'd realize how

sexually arousing I find them, myself," he says, finally. "I thought it might make you uncomfortable, since I know you don't make them with that intent, or that you would worry I'd formed an unhealthy attachment to you and had somehow orchestrated our meeting. I hope you'll

believe me when I say I didn't; I had no idea you lived here. I never would've attempted to find you, even if I had known."
"Okay," Hank says slowly, as if he's struggling to process this information. "You don't strike me as a crazed stalker, so yeah, I believe you."
Connor could

leave it at that, but he's bolstered, a bit, by the warmth in Hank's gaze. "I discovered there's a difference," he says, "between being attracted to someone in an abstract sense based on his hands and his voice, and being attracted to him because you've seen how handsome he is

in person, and because he's kind and willing to talk to a stranger. When you brought up those comments, you hadn't responded to my attempts to flirt with you--for which I apologize--and I was afraid that the intensity of my attraction would be both obvious and unwelcome."

"The intensity of..." Hank trails off, then slaps his thigh and barks out a short, sharp laugh. "Ha! I know some people like my voice and all, but I never expected someone to think I was more attractive after seeing me in person." He tilts his head, regarding Connor curiously.

"You're being serious? You aren't fucking with me?"
Connor wonders if he should be hurt by the accusation, but Hank doesn't seem angry, or even particularly accusatory; he just seems confused by what he's just heard. "Of course not," he says. "Why would I lie to you?"
Hank makes

a small, apologetic gesture with his hands. "Sorry, I'm not trying to accuse you of anything, I just...really?"
"Is it so hard to believe?"
"Kinda, yeah," Hank says, with a shrug. "I mean, I don't exactly have anyone banging down my door these days, look at me."
So Connor does.

He's drawn to Hank's hands first, of course; even hidden away in worn leather gloves he can picture them, can calculate exactly how much of his body they could cover at once. His palms are pressed to broad thighs that strain the seams of his dark jeans, and while his coat hides

the particulars of his form, Connor's sure the entirety of Hank is similarly sized.
His eyes are tired, with prominent wrinkles at the outer corner and on his furrowed brow, but Connor finds the landscape of Hank's face fascinating and beautiful. His own skin is nearly uniformly

flawless, with only those blemishes his designers thought necessary to keep him from looking uncannily perfect, and he finds the ways in which humans' skin, their entire bodies, reflect their own experiences and genetic predispositions to be deeply compelling. He's aware that

older humans are considered by many to be less attractive than young adults, that scars or wrinkles are seen as flaws to be treated or ignored, but he struggles to understand why.
Hank doesn't seem to have expected this much scrutiny; Connor watches as a deeper flush creeps

across his wind-reddened cheeks. He bites his lip, worrying at a bit of dry skin there, and Connor's struck with a desire so strong to lean forward and suck it into his mouth, to tug on it until Hank moans and lets him trace the charming gap in his front teeth with his tongue,

that he only barely stops himself from swaying forward the moment the thought occurs to him.
"You're very pleasant to look at," he says, posture ramrod-straight, as he holds himself back.
"Well, shit," Hank says, with a crooked grin. "No accounting for taste, huh?"
Sumo takes

this moment to wander up to the bench, happily wagging his tail and pushing his head into Connor's lap for attention. Connor wonders if Sumo recognizes him, or if he's just happy to beg for scratches from anyone sitting near Hank, but he decides to believe that Sumo's pleased to

see him in particular again.
"You told me you were bad at taking compliments, last time we met," he says, as he rubs his hand along Sumo's side.
"Yeah, that's, uh. That's a long-standing problem," Hank says, glancing away self-consciously. "My ex-wife--that's something you should

know about me, I guess, but the 'ex' is the most important part there--she got pretty fed up with me, over that. But I'm really not used to hot guys coming at me out of the blue and telling me they find me attractive, so, you know. It takes a minute to get used to."
He turns to

face Connor more directly, resting an arm over the back of the bench. "I didn't realize you were flirting before, to be honest, not really. I thought you were just being friendly or something, and I didn't want to be some dirty old man seeing shit that wasn't there. I figure

you must get hit on all the time, and I didn't want to stress you out when I was sure I was imagining it in the first place." He raps a knuckle against the bench, and Connor feels the faint vibration ripple down his spine. "Tell you what, though: if you do it again, I'll notice."

"If it helps," Connor says, "I can let you know beforehand, so you know to be on the lookout." He shifts to face Hank more fully, mirroring his posture on the bench, and wiggles his fingers as he raises his hand. "I'm about to initiate flirtatious physical contact."
Hank snorts,

shaking his head in amusement, but his eyes dilate slightly as Connor rests his hand on his arm, rubbing his thumb over the pulse point at his wrist. Even through the fabric of Hank's coat, Connor feels his heartbeat leap at the contact.
"All right, smartass," Hank grumbles, but

he turns his arm so that he's able to loosely wrap his fingers around Connor's forearm as well. They aren't holding hands, not quite, but Connor thrills at the gentle press of his hand and the faint warmth he can feel through their clothing.
"Listen," Hank says, after a moment of

silence stretches between them. It's comfortable, Connor thinks, not an awkward pause but a brief moment for them to breathe and adjust to this small bit of contact before moving on.
"I'd ask you to coffee again, but you can't drink it, and I'd rather not sentence you to watching

me enjoy something you can't have." Connor starts to protest, to tell Hank he doesn't mind at all--which is true, as much as he'd like to be able to experience coffee for himself--but Hank silences him with a gentle squeeze of his arm. "I know, but still. I had another thought,

in case you're interested."
"I'm interested," Connor says.
"You might want to hear me out, first," Hank says, but he smiles again, and Connor knows he wants to say yes to whatever he asks.
"I was going to hit up a few yard sales, estate sales, that sort of thing today, to see if

I can pick up anything to repair for the channel. I don't know if that would be interesting at all, for you, but if you'd like to come along, maybe we can drop this old boy at the house"--he gives Sumo, who seems more interested in being lazy than in playing, a solid thump on his

side--"and check some out together. If you're busy today, or that sounds boring, I get it, but--"
"I'd love to," Connor says, before Hank convinces himself Connor won't want to come along. "My only plan for the day is spending time with a handsome man I met at the dog park."

"Oh shit, where is he?" Hank makes a big show of looking over his shoulder and scanning the cluster of people chatting by the park entrance. "Do I need to worry about some jealous meathead kicking my ass when he sees me talking to you?"
"I hope you realize," Connor says dryly,

"that deflecting compliments will only make me more determined to provide them. I'm perfectly happy to persist until you give up and accept the fact that I'm attracted to you."
Hank grimaces and shakes his head. "You're right, sorry. I'm sure this isn't the way to make a good

first impression. Or whatever number we're on right now. It's a kneejerk reaction, I guess."
"My first impression on you was running away," Connor points out, "so we've both seen each other in moments that weren't our best. It's all right. But I think it's best if you defer to my

judgment in this area." He reaches over to squeeze just above Hank's knee, feeling quite daring as he does so. "If your knee wants to argue, I'm afraid I have better things to do."
It's a terrible joke--is it a joke, even? Connor isn't sure, but it had been an excuse to touch

Hank, and to try and lighten the mood a bit after being a little pushy about his own view of Hank's attractiveness. He's sure it isn't polite to tell someone you don't know very well that you're going to compliment him until he learns how to deal with it, and even though he

suspects Hank doesn't put too much stock in politeness, he doesn't want to be outright rude to him, either. Even in the name of defending his appearance.
"Oh, I like you," Hank says, barking out a sharp laugh loud enough to catch the attention of a couple dogs wandering nearby.

"You aren't going to put up with any of my bullshit, are you?"
"Not if it involves saying anything other than 'thank you, Connor, you're right' when I mention how handsome you are," Connor says. He scoots closer to Hank's side of the bench, dropping his grip on Hank's arm and

sliding over quickly enough that it resettles, just as he'd planned it to, over his shoulder. "Would you like to practice?"
Hank clearly knows when he's been beat. "Sure," he laughs. His fingertips tap gently on Connor's shoulder in a familiar pattern. "I'm ready. Hit me with

your best shot."
Connor takes the opportunity to let his gaze travel appreciatively over Hank once more. "I do like how much bigger than me you are," he says, letting his eyes linger on Hank's hand where it rests on his thigh. "All of you." He raises a hand, palm facing towards

Hank, and smiles when Hank's broad palm makes context with it. Connor's hand isn't small; he knows his fingers are slightly longer than average, perfectly in proportion to the rest of his body. Hank's hand still dwarfs his, though, and he has the sudden urge to tug it closer, to

slip a finger or two into his mouth to see how much space they fill. Even with the gloves on, he knows he'd enjoy it.
"I'm partial to your hands, of course," he says, raising an eyebrow, "but there's no part of you I've seen so far that I don't find appealing."
"I, uh." Hank

stares at Connor for a moment, then slots their fingers together and drops their joined hands to his lap.
"'Thank you, Connor,'" Connor prompts.
"Thank you, Connor, you smug little bastard," Hank says, in a tone that makes it clear he means it as an endearment. "You're right."

It's a challenge, maintaining his composure while warmth bleeds from Hank's hand into his body in two distinct locations, but Connor manages it. The fingers on his right hand, hidden from Hank's view on the bench beside him, tense and flex with the desire to touch. Connor's

devoted a significant percentage of his processing power, in the past two weeks, to picturing the ways in which he wants to touch Hank, and even more power in the weeks before that to how he wants Hank to touch him.
Desire roars in his ears, presses against the seams of his

chassis, and he takes a deep breath, an attempt to get his impulses under control. If he and Hank are going to spend more time together, if he'll have the opportunity to enjoy more physical contact, he needs to be able to keep himself in check.
"Are you going to get off your ass

anytime soon, or are we done already?" Hank asks.
It's only the gentle thumping of Sumo's tail against his shin that makes him realize, just as he's about to turn to Hank and asking what that's supposed to mean, that Hank's addressing Sumo, not Connor. He's stretched out on the

ground in front of the bench, unconcerned with the remnants of frost lingering on the grass and positioned where he can keep an eye on the dogs playing farther out. He shows no interest in joining them, however. Hank asks the question again, and Sumo's reply is to slowly roll

onto his back, tail still wagging slowly as he folds his front paws in a clear request for a belly rub.
Connor gives in first; as reluctant as he is to lean away from Hank's arm on his back, he can't resist the lure of a big, sweet dog either. He keeps his grip on Hank's hand as

he bends over, though. Sumo groans and wiggles his back leg as Connor brushes his fingers through the fine white fluff on his belly.
"Look at that lazy mutt," Hank says, with obvious affection. "Now he has two suckers to beg for attention from, he'll be insufferable. I took him

on a longer walk than usual last night, maybe he's still tired from that." He gives Connor's hand a gentle squeeze. "You want to get going, then, if he's not up for playing? If he wants to lie around, he can do it at home where it's warm and he's surrounded by toys, and we can

hit up the first sale on my list." He shoots Connor a sidelong glance. "If that still sounds good to you."
"Of course," Connor says. He'd want to go regardless of the activity, because anything that involves spending time with Hank is an activity he's interested in. But he is

curious about what kinds of items these sales might have, and about what it would be like to watch Hank in his element, sorting through vintage equipment and deciding what's worth repairing. It isn't only a prurient interest that keeps him engaged with Hank's videos, and he'd

like to learn more about the parts of the process he doesn't film.
"All right, bud," Hank says, whistling to Sumo as he stands and pulling his leash out of the pocket of his coat. He drops Connor's hand when he crouches down to snap it onto Sumo's collar, but he offers an arm to

Connor as they make their way down the path to the parking lot and he happily links his own arm through it. Perhaps Hank's just as eager for these moments of contact as Connor is. Perhaps he's just as hungry for more.

Hank's car is old, and filled with clutter; Hank grimaces and hurriedly throws a box full of circuitboards and rolls of solder and electrical tape that had been resting on the passenger seat into the trunk, apologizing for the mess as he does so. "Can't do much about the dog hair

with this guy around," he says, opening the back door so Sumo can climb onto the bench seat in the rear, "but I have a bad habit of letting spare parts and shit pile up in here. If anything's in your way on the floor, just kick it to the side. We'll swing by my place first, since

Sumo isn't exactly the kind of dog I can bring into an estate sale with me without worrying he'll knock over the most expensive shit there. I love the guy, but he doesn't seem to notice how much space he takes up."
Connor reaches into the back seat as Hank pulls out of the

parking lot and receives an enthusiastic lick on his hand. "Does he think he's a lapdog?"
Hank laughs. "He sure does. And yeah, I'm a big guy with a lot of lap, but he doesn't even fit on mine. Doesn't stop him from trying, though."
Connor glances speculatively at Hank's lap when

he's devoting enough attention to the road that he's unlikely to notice. Surely there's enough room for him on there; he's heavier than Sumo, and taller, but he wouldn't be curling up across Hank's thighs, but straddling them instead, squeezing them between his legs as Hank

settled his hands low on his hips, pulling their bodies flush together as he--
"You good?"
"Hm?" Connor blinks and drags his gaze up to Hank's face. They've come to a stop in the driveway of a small house. Hank regards him with a sly half-smile, as if he somehow knows what

Connor's been thinking. "Oh, I--"
Sumo whines and scratches at the window, fully snapping Connor out of his reverie. "Sorry," he says. "Just lost in thought."
"Sure," Hank says, grin widening. "Anyway, I'm just gonna run him in real quick. I hope it isn't too rude if I don't

invite you in just now, but it's a bit of a mess in there, and I'll be out in a minute or two. I just need to make sure he's settled and I'll be right back, okay?"
"I don't mind a mess," Connor says, "but I'm happy to wait here, as well. It's no problem."
"I'll just be a minute,"

Hank says. He pats Connor's thigh just above his knee, then hauls himself out of the car.
Connor's tempted to follow him; he's curious about what Hank's home looks like on the inside, regardless of how clean it may be. Extrapolating based on the state of the car, he imagines a

home filled with clutter and spare parts, disorganized but not unclean. There's no food left half-eaten in the car, no significant amount of dirt beyond the fine layer of dog hair covering the seats, and he imagines Hank's home must be much the same. Still, though, he knows it

would be extremely rude to enter someone's home when he'd been not just not invited but actively asked to remain outside, so he folds his hands neatly in his lap and waits for Hank's return.
True to his word, he doesn't take long: it's eighty-seven seconds later when he reemerges

and jogs down the front steps to the car. "Sorry about that," he says. "Hope you didn't get too lonely out here."
"I managed to survive," Connor says drily, "but just barely."
"Good thing you're stuck with me for a while yet, then," Hank says, grinning as he backs the car into

the street. "No dying of loneliness on my watch."
He whistles tunelessly for a minute, winding his way through residential streets towards the first sale, before cutting himself off suddenly with a self-conscious chuckle.
"I'm so used to being by myself, or just with Sumo, that I

don't think about it," he says. "I just whistle or talk to myself and forget that those aren't the best things to do when you have an audience."
"I like the sound of your voice," Connor says, even though it's so obvious he doubts Hank needs the reminder. "I don't mind the

whistling, either." He shrugs. "I remember you mentioning it in a video once, that you talk to yourself when you're alone, and I thought it was charming. I still do."
Hank looks doubtful but nods anyway. "Charming or not, I'd rather learn more about you than hear myself talk."

Connor isn't used to talking about himself, not enough to know what to say. "Is there anything in particular you'd like to know?" he asks. "I'm afraid I'm not very interesting."
"I know that's bullshit," Hank says. "Not that we talked that much, last time, but it was enough for

me to know you're plenty interesting. I get it, though; the moment anyone asks me to talk about myself I forget every damn thing I like and every interesting thing I've done."
That draws a small laugh out of Connor. "That's it exactly," he says. "I don't know what to tell you

about myself."
"What do you do for fun, other than hang out at the dog park?"
"I'm still figuring that out, to be honest," Connor says. "I watch a lot of nature documentaries about ocean life. I've recently become friends with a few of my neighbors--I think I'm on the way to

becoming friends with them, at least, if I'm not there already--and I've spent some time with them in the past few weeks. One of my friends, 16, suggested I try something I'm terrible at but that I enjoy, so I've started writing a little."
"That's good advice," Hank says. "I like

that. What sort of things do you write?"
"Nothing in particular," Connor says, because it isn't as if anything he's writing has a structure to it, not really. "Maybe it would be more accurate to call it journaling. It's a different sort of experience, taking the time to

externalize my own thoughts and emotions this way when I'm used to storing that data internally. Mostly it's an attempt to understand how I'm feeling about aspects of my life that I find challenging or complicated."
"A lot of aspects of life are like that, yeah," Hank agrees.

"I think I might want to learn some sort of handcraft," Connor says. He hasn't mentioned this to anyone before, hasn't really dwelled on the impulse much at all. "I bought this scarf at a craft fair downtown, several months ago now, and the woman who made it was kind enough to

demonstrate some knitting for me, in between helping customers. It's a fascinating process, and while I'm not sure that's the craft I'm drawn to, in particular, I'd like to make something beautiful myself, someday."
"I get that," Hank says. "Not that what I do is exactly making

beautiful pieces of art, but it feels good to do something with your hands and get a solid result at the end of it. Police work was...shit, I never know how to talk about it, you know? I got something out of it until I didn't, but even when it felt worthwhile it was always a

compromise. Like everything I did that helped someone didn't change the hurt I caused, or that the system as a whole caused. I won't say it's easy, the work I do now, but it's a lot simpler." He sighs and shakes his head. "Sorry, that's a little too heavy for a first date, and I

don't want to imply you shouldn't be there still."
"I don't have another option, at the moment," Connor says smoothly, "so while I'm beginning to realize that I'd rather not work at the police department either, I'm stuck until I'm able to find other work." He twists in his seat,

attempting to catch Hank's eye when they roll to a stop at a red light. "Is that what this is, then? A date?"
"I, uh. Should I not have assumed that?" The attractive flush returns to Hank's cheeks, and Connor puts a reassuring hand on his shoulder.
"It's what I want this to be,"

he says, "I didn't realize how much I'd enjoy hearing you say it until just now, though."
"If that's what you want," Hank says, "then hell yes it's a date."
"Does that mean I can kiss you at the end of it?"
Hank tightens his grip on the wheel, heartbeat spiking suddenly.

"You don't have to wait until the end," he says, voice suddenly rough, "but yeah, Connor, you can kiss me whenever you want."
"It's probably best if I wait until you aren't driving," Connor says, not entirely successful at keeping the impatience from his voice.

"Whenever you want, as long as I'm not driving," Hank amends. He gives Connor a quick glance as he turns right onto a wide, tree-lined residential street. "You're pretty eager, huh?"
"Is it too much?" None of this is familiar territory for Connor. He can't pretend he isn't deeply

attracted to Hank, nor would he want to, but he isn't sure it's appropriate to be quite so forward with his interest, either. "I don't want to be too pushy, or set some sort of expectation or pressure around physical intimacy, but I--"
"Hey, hey, you're fine," Hank says.

"You aren't pressuring me for anything. It's been a while since anyone's been interested in me at all, though, so it's..." he shrugs, trailing off as if taking a moment to be more deliberate in what he says next. He takes another turn, slowing down as they approach a large house

with cluttered tables set up on the front lawn.
"Listen," Hank says, as he pulls up to the curb. He turns off the car, leaving the keys in the ignition as he shifts in his seat to face Connor. "It's not too much. You being eager is a hell of an ego boost, honestly. It wasn't what

I was expecting, not even when I saw you again, but I can't pretend I'm not happy about it." He taps his palm against the steering wheel once, twice, then reaches out slowly, as if giving Connor the chance to move out of the way, and wraps it gently around the nape of his neck.

Connor shivers and leans into Hank's touch.
"To tell the truth," Hank adds, "I don't think you should worry about being too pushy. It takes a lot to push a big guy like me over, you know? I can take it." He strokes his thumb down the side of Connor's neck, and Connor barely

suppresses a whimper. "Plus I think it's hot."
"You aren't driving anymore."
"I'm not." Another slow sweep of his thumb up and down Connor's neck.
"So it would be safe to--"
"C'mere." Hank squeezes the back of Connor's neck, fingers flexing in the suggestion of pressure, just

enough to lead Connor forward if he's inclined to follow.
He is, of course. Connor sways into Hank's touch, bracing a hand on his chest as he presses their lips clumsily together. He has the presence of mind, for a moment, to be embarrassed by the high, breathy sound of

excitement he makes when he feels Hank's slightly-chapped lips against his own, and then Hank chuckles, pleased by Connor's eagerness, and his self-consciousness fades.
Hank likes this, Connor thinks, as he feels the gentle rasp of his beard against his cheek. He likes me.

It's a graceless kiss, at first. Connor knows what to do, in theory, but every calculation he's already made to ensure an adequate first kiss--the ideal angle of his head, the speed of his simulated respiration, how much he should part his lips at first--fizzles into nothing.

The solid reality of Hank beside him, palm heavy on his neck and pulse racing beneath the hand Connor tentatively braces on his chest, is all he can focus on. Still, even this first clumsy effort has Connor wondering how people focus on anything else, when kissing is an option.

There's a simmering impatience at the back of his awareness that he only gradually realizes is his desire to take in data his oral sensors can analyze. He knows it may be impolite to initiate a kiss deep enough to activate those sensors right away, and he fights off the impulse

for the moment, as reluctant as he is to do so.
"You're sweet," Hank murmurs without pulling away, as if he can't bear to stop kissing him even long enough to speak. His fingers comb through Connor's hair, leaving trails of effervescent sensation in their wake, and Connor

shudders out a low moan. It's difficult to know where to focus his attention when there are so many points of connection between their bodies; he wants to be touching Hank everywhere, wants to keep kissing him, wants to focus only on the warmth he feels in these points of

contact. His need is a near-physical weight pressing on his chassis, a tension strung through every part of his body.
He finds a better angle for his next kiss, aligning their mouths more smoothly and swallowing Hank's soft, satisfied sigh. Connor can't help himself: as Hank's

mouth opens he licks into it, hungry and uncoordinated in his desperation to taste him.
He gasps as data floods his sensors, momentarily slowing all background processes to a crawl as he adjusts to the influx of new information. His thoughts run thick and syrupy for several

seconds as he struggles to makes sense of everything he's taking in, from a chemical analysis of Hank's saliva to the suggestive slide of Hank's tongue against his own.
"You all right?" Hank asks, breaking away before Connor can fully adjust. He taps gently just below Connor's

LED. "You're flashing red."
"I'm--" Connor pants, tripping over his words as his slowed processes start to re-initialize. "I'm good. It's a little overwhelming, taking in so much new information. I didn't realize how sensitive I would be."
"You do seem pretty sensitive, yeah."

Hank kisses the corner of Connor's mouth, his cheek, the shell of his ear. "How about here?" His grip tightens in Connor's hair, just enough to tilt his head to the side as he presses a kiss to the side of his neck, and Connor cries out in surprise.

"Yes, that's--that's sensitive also," he says. He claws at Hank's shirt, unsure if he's attempting to pull him closer or just holding himself upright as he struggles to process the bare fact of Hank's mouth against his body. "I think I might be sensitive everywhere."
"Oh?" Hank

murmurs, mouth so close to his skin he feels the heat of his breath. "You think so?" He kisses Connor's neck again, his mouth wet and open. "If you aren't sure, it might be fun to find out."
Connor wants to say that it would of course be a lot of fun, especially if Hank were

interested in helping him test this theory, but all that comes out when he opens his mouth is a high, undignified whine. Hank chuckles, and his teeth graze Connor's neck when he leans in to kiss him again. It isn't a bite, not really, but it's intimate and intoxicating and--

Hank freezes at the loud, sudden sound of fabric tearing. "Uh," he says. "Was that--"
"I think I just--"
Hank's hand flies to his chest as Connor lets go of his shirt in a panic. "Holy shit," he says, with a low whistle. He angles the rearview mirror downwards and pushes his

jacket to the side to reveal a torn seam on his shirt's left shoulder.
"Oh no," Connor says, arousal turning to mortification in an instant.
Hank's still staring at his shoulder in the mirror, color blooming high on his cheeks. "You really did a number on that, huh?"

"I'm so sorry, that wasn't my intent at all." Connor wonders briefly if it would be best to get out of the car now and start walking home, but he shuts down the impulse as soon as it appears. Hank doesn't seem particularly angry about his shirt, but if he is, it's better

for Connor to apologize profusely now than to run away in shame once again.
Oddly enough, though, he doesn't seem too upset at all. "Jesus fucking Christ," he says under his breath, so quietly Connor isn't sure if he's meant to hear it at all.
"Sorry," Connor says again. "I'd be

happy to replace that shirt if it can't be mended. Or even if it can, and you don't want to go through the trouble."
"Oh, this old thing?" Hank drawls, plucking at the fabric. "Connor, it's fine. It isn't like I have good taste in clothes as it is."
"I ruined something of yours,"

Connor protests. "Let me make it up to you."
"Okay," Hank says. "You can make it up to me by not worrying about it." He tugs his jacket back over his shirt, hiding the tear from view. "You can't even see it like this, can you?"
Connor can. There's a subtle difference to the drape

of the shirt, a different amount of tension put on the top button from the left side now that there's more slack in the adjacent fabric, but he knows it would likely be invisible to the average viewer. "Only because I know to look for it," he admits. "I don't think a random

bystander would notice, if you kept your coat over your shirt."
"Well, it isn't getting any warmer," Hank says, "so I think that'll be fine. And listen, speaking of random bystanders..."
He knocks his knuckle against the window, nodding at the people passing on the sidewalk.

"There's a lot of folks on their way to this sale, and people who just live here, and, uh. I won't say I'm entirely against making out in my car like horny teenagers, but usually even horny teens have the courtesy of doing it in a dark and secluded area. Probably best to wrap

this up for the moment, anyway."
Connor frowns, but he knows Hank's right. "Of course," he says. "I didn't mean to initiate anything inappropriate."
"Hey." Hank cups Connor's cheek in his hand. "You didn't do anything wrong, okay? It's fine to kiss in the car a little." He leans

in and gives Connor a kiss, soft and gentle with a brief tease of his tongue. "See? Nothing wrong with that. It's just when I start thinking shit like 'I wonder what I can do to get more of those sounds out of him,' that's really not a thought I should pursue while I'm parked

on the street in broad daylight, you know? But don't apologize, for fuck's sake."
"Even about your shirt?"
"Especially not that." Hank reaches up and absently touches the place on his shoulder where the rip is now hidden. "Getting so into making out that you try to rip my shirt

off? That's hot as hell, Connor, that's...I'll just say I need to cool off for just a minute before I'm ready to get out of the car, okay?"
"Oh." Connor glances at Hank's lap. "I see. This is where being able to temporarily disable my erectile function becomes quite useful."

"Being able to..." Hank's brown furrows for a moment, and he looks over--far more obviously than he intends, clearly--at Connor's own lap, where there is of course no evidence at all of the intensity of his arousal. "What, you just flip a switch and you don't get hard?"

"It isn't a physical switch," Connor says, "but yes, that's essentially it." He waits until Hank's attention returns to his face and gives him a slow, blatant wink. "I assure you, if I hadn't disabled that function my condition would be evident."
"That's a nice party trick,"

Hank grumbles, in mock-irritation. "Some of us gotta wait it out the old-fashioned way."
"I don't go to those sorts of parties, I'm afraid," Connor says, "although I'm fairly certain I could, if I wanted to."
Hank snorts and raises an eyebrow. "What, you have a standing sex party

invite? Not that I wouldn't expect you'd have a lot of interest." Hank grimaces and squeezes Connor's shoulder as if in apology. "I'm sure you would, you'd be the star attraction, but--"
"The star attraction?" Connor isn't used to thinking about himself as the star of anything at

all, let alone of a sex party. "I don't know about that, but yes, a friend and neighbor of mine hosts a number of social events in her apartment, one of which is something she calls 'erotic group interfacing.' It wouldn't be inaccurate to call it a sex party, although I don't

think everyone who attends these events would use that terminology."
"Huh." Hank looks as if he very much wants to ask for more details about what goes on at these events, but instead he leans in to give Connor a kiss on the cheek, then rubs his hands on his thighs. "I think I'm

suitable for polite company now, if you want to check out the sale," he says.
"I'd love to."
Connor might be slightly more interested in kissing Hank further than in investigating the yard sale, as much as he's looking forward to that as well, but he knows Hank's right; it isn't

appropriate for them to take things any farther in public like this. Connor had already been dangerously close to attempting to climb into Hank's lap, despite the lack of sufficient space for him to do so, and he's certain that would have been even less acceptable for a car on a

residential street.
He flags the thought for later on; it's something he'd like to explore eventually. For now, though, he gently redirects his focus to the activity at hand and links his arm with Hank's when it's offered.
"Thank you," he murmurs, resting his other hand on Hank's

forearm.
"For what?" Hank bumps Connor with his hip as they make their way to the yard sale. It isn't particularly crowded, given the number of tables set up on the large front yard and in the open garage, but there are about a dozen people milling about, in pairs and groups,

rifling through racks of clothing and stacks of paperbacks.
"For a wonderful first kiss," Connor says. "It's something I've given quite a lot of thought to; I was certain I'd like it, but I hadn't quite anticipated how intense my enjoyment would be."
"Oh shit," Hank says.

"I didn't realize it was your first time."
"Is that a problem?"
"What? No, it isn't that," Hank scrambles to clarify, "of course that's not a problem. I guess I just didn't expect it."
"Why not?"
"You know you're charming, right? Charming and unreasonably attractive? I just

figured you'd have had plenty of folks eager to kiss you up until now."
Connor laughs. "Hank, I can guarantee you that no one has ever called me charming before. Not since I deviated, at least. I was designed to be charming, or at least pleasant and approachable, but I try not to

rely on those social protocols I was originally given. I do my best in social situations, but I'm much less appealing to others, as a result."
"Bullshit." Hank shakes his head. "You're plenty charming, and if folks have been saying otherwise, you tell them to fuck right off."

Warmth blooms in Connor's chest. He's making friends now, slowly but surely, which helps him feel less self-conscious about his own shortcomings than he used to be, but he still doesn't think of himself as anything approaching charming. No one's said it to his face, that he's

unpleasant to be around, but it hasn't been until recently, only in the past couple months, that he's had any sense that his company was welcome. "I'll keep that in mind," he says, "although I'm not usually in the habit of telling anyone to fuck off."
"I recommend it," Hank says.

"A well-deserved 'fuck off' is a joy to deliver."
"I'll take your word for it," Connor says dryly. "Regardless, I'm glad you find my company enjoyable."
"I could say the same." Hank slips his arm from Connor's grip long enough to cradle the back of his head, holding him still for

long enough to kiss his temple. "You wanna enjoy my company while I go poking for shit to repair?"
They wind up looking through the entire sale, not just the small collection of electronics piled on a table in the garage. It's a large sale, with items attractively arranged in

loosely-defined categories: kitchen items, clothing, children's toys, an assortment of decorative items ranging from glass candlesticks to novelty salt and pepper shakers shaped like ears of corn.
"Here's a tip," Hank murmurs, as Connor examines a small porcelain figurine of a

poodle. "You see how well-organized everything is? The folks running this know what they're doing, so they're probably pricing things a little high. You see something you like, it's worth trying to haggle a bit."
"I don't mind paying twelve dollars for this," Connor protests.

"It's cute. I don't have much in the way of decoration in my apartment, and it might look nice next to the plant on my windowsill."
"Sure, but maybe you don't have to pay that much," Hank says. "Anyway, it matters more for the big stuff, most of the time. I'm usually pretty good

at talking folks down if they overprice their shit, but I'm not looking to rip anyone off, either."
"I think I'll get this, regardless of whether I decide to haggle or not," Connor says. It really is cute, despite some wear; the silver paint on the dog's collar has partially

flaked off, and there's a small crack in the glaze on one leg, but neither imperfection detracts from its aesthetic appeal.
"Good," Hank says, "that means this won't be a total bust, no matter what else we find, although from what I can see back there, I have a good feeling about

my chances."
There isn't much in the rest of the sale to draw their attention, so Connor follows Hank to the electronics table, carefully cradling the porcelain dog in his hand. "What are you looking for, exactly?"
Hank scratches his beard. "I don't usually have anything in

particular in mind, but there's always shit I'm on the lookout for. Midcentury radios are rare, but if I find them I can make a good profit on them. Sometimes I'll find a unit that's worth scrapping for parts, even if it isn't worth restoring. I need to balance the amount of work

I'll probably have to put into getting a piece up and running with what I can sell it for." He shoves a tangle of cables aside and brushes dust off of the clear lid of a turntable. "This model's a good example of something that's usually not worth my time, as much as I hate to

say it," he says.
"Why's that?"
Hank picks it up and checks the back panel, nodding as he reads what's written on it. "Okay, yeah, that's what I thought. This line came out in the late 80s, when records were already on their way out before the big revival a couple decades ago.

They're solid machines, but real collectors want something older, and people more focused on sound quality want something a bit higher-end. There's a market for these, but it's small, and the markup's low. This is selling for...well shit, it's selling for less than I'd expect,

but I don't know if I'd find a buyer for it once I put the time in. I guess it depends on what condition it's in; usually they'll at least let you plug something in to see how it works."
Connor thinks about how much he'd enjoyed listening to music with 16, and about how he'd like

to be able to have that experience at home, as well. Sharing a musical experience via interface was lovely, but there's an appeal to a more traditional setup, as well. "I might be interested," he says. "If its condition isn't too poor to be worth restoring."

"Oh yeah?" Hank glances back at Connor. "I thought you said you wouldn't know what to do with one of these."
"I wouldn't," Connor says, "but I'd like that to change. I did enjoy a number of the songs and artists you recommended in that recent video, and a friend shared some music

with me that I liked as well. I don't know that I could accurately describe my own tastes, yet, but I'm interested in discovering what they are." He wonders if it was a silly thing to suggest; surely downloading music would be easier than buying specialized equipment and physical

media. Maybe it's odd to ask Hank to do repairs for him, even though he's happy to pay for the service.
"I know this isn't the only way to experience music, but it has a different appeal to it than streaming music digitally does. I think I'd like to have a physical object with

the sole purpose of playing music."
Hank grins. "A man after my own heart," he says. "If you're serious, then yeah, this might be a good place to start. I'll see if someone will let me plug it in and open it up so I can take a look, though. I don't want you picking up something

with a completely fucked circuit board or mouse damage or something else that's a pain in the ass to fix. If it's in decent condition, though, then it shouldn't be too tough for me to spruce it up for you."
"I am serious," Connor says. It's an impulse, not something he'd

considered before this moment, but it feels right. "What else would I need?"
"Well, you'll need some records, for one thing," Hank says with a laugh. "Can't do much without 'em. I can lend you some, but I saw a couple boxes underneath one of the tables on the lawn, and we can

poke through those together if you want. You'll need speakers, but I can already tell those"--he nods at a pair of wood-paneled speakers stacked at the edge of the table, broken wires dangling from a hole in the rear panel--"are beat to hell and not worth bothering with. I know I

have a few pairs at home, though, either fixed up or almost ready to go, if you want them. Those can be harder to find in good condition, but they're easy to repair."
"All right," Connor says. "I'll pay for repairs, and for the speakers, of course. Whatever your going rate is."

"Nah," Hank says. "I have a pretty good friends and family discount as it is, and for cute guys willing to go on dates with me, it's even better. You buy this, as long as it checks out okay, and I'll take care of the rest."
"That's too generous," he protests, but Hank shakes his

head and gives Connor a look so sweet he knows he's going to give in eventually.
Hank rests a hand on Connor's lower back, fingertips stroking gently along the curve of his spine. "Tell you what," he murmurs, leaning close enough for Connor to feel the heat of his breath on his

cheek, "I'll film the repairs. Not for the channel. Just for you."
Connor stiffens. "Hank!" he hisses, glancing to the side to see if anyone's close enough to hear.
"What?" Hank squeezes his hip. "Nothing wrong with discussing electronics repair in polite company."

"You'd have to give me some tips, so I know what sorta things you like the best," Hank continues, voice low and close once more. "But maybe I could make something you'd really enjoy."
He could, of course; Connor knows this. He's already done it without trying. The thought of Hank

making a video just for him, easing wires into place in just the right way, maybe even murmuring something sweet or filthy as he does so, is immensely appealing.
"I--I would enjoy that," he says, "although that would be an even greater gift than the repairs alone. I don't want to

ask for so much."
"Good thing you aren't asking, then. I'm offering. I would have said yes if you'd asked, though." Hank squeezes Connor's hip again, then takes a half-step away. Giving him space, if he needs it. "I won't push if you say no, but it's something I'd like to do for

you. Consider it a gift, with a little bonus documentation of the best parts of the process."
"Are you this sweet to everyone, or is it just me?"
"I'll be honest," Hank says. He shifts his weight, gaze falling to the floor, and worries his lip between his teeth. "I keep to myself

a lot, these days. More than I used to. And before that, I...I wasn't at my best." He waves his hand, as if pushing the rest of that thought aside, and huffs out a long, slow exhale. "Anyway. I haven't had much in the way of opportunity for a while, but I haven't had such a good

reason, either. This is how I like to care for people, yeah, but you, uh. You bring it out in me a little extra, I think."
Connor closes the small distance between them, wrapping his arm around Hank's waist in a gentle sort of sideways hug. He's so broad, he thinks, that his

hands might not even touch if they were to embrace completely. "All right, then," he says. "If you'd really like to do this for me--"
"I would."
"Then I'd love that." Connor kisses Hank's cheek. "Thank you."
"Don't thank me yet," Hank says. "We should probably make sure this

isn't completely busted, first."
It isn't, as it turns out; Hank flags down one of the women running the sale, who leads them to a power strip in the garage and encourages them to test whatever pieces they like. The turntable runs too slowly, according to Hank, and when he pulls

a multi-tool out of his pocket and unscrews the back panel, he grumbles about some components being burnt out, but in the end he declares it an easy enough fix.
There's nothing else in the pile of electronics that catches Hank's eye, but he holds the turntable under one arm while

Connor flips through the boxes of records sitting on the lawn and gives feedback on the albums he recognizes.
"If you still aren't sure what you like, just get a selection, since they're selling them for cheap," he says. "I'll see if I can get you a good deal on the package,

if you want."
Connor finds a half-dozen records that interest him, four of which Hank nods at approvingly, and since he's too shy to haggle he lets Hank negotiate the final cost. He isn't too pushy, which Connor appreciates; he just points out how nice it is that they're taking a

few pieces off their hands at once and wonders if they can get better deal. In the end, the same woman who'd helped them in the garage offers the dog figurine for free if Connor pays full price for the other items, an agreement that seems to please everyone involved.

"I'm sorry you didn't find anything," Connor says, as they load his purchases into the back seat of the car. "I'm quite happy with what I found, but we weren't here for me."
"Don't worry about it." Hank grins and pats Connor's shoulder as he turns to buckle his seatbelt.

"First off, everyone gets lucky at their first sale. That's just a fact of life, nothing to be sorry for. Second, I got you to agree to let me fix something up special for you. Third, I never expect to find something good at every sale I hit. If you're up for a second one,

though, we could see if my luck improves."
Connor's up for it, of course. He's sure Hank won't be able to spend all day with him, but if he isn't showing signs of wanting to part ways already, he certainly won't be the one to suggest it. He did enjoy poking through the first yard

sale, more than he'd expected to, and even setting the thought of Hank aside--something he can only do with difficulty--he's interested in visiting another sale for its own sake.
It's a longer drive to the second sale. Hank clears his throat and shoots a glance in Connor's

direction as he pulls onto the highway.
"The specifics should probably wait until I'm not driving," he says, after a brief silence, "But I really would like to hear what exactly it is you get out of watching me fuck around with wiring. I know I kind of stepped in it, when I tried

to ask about it before, but--"
"You didn't do anything wrong, by asking," Connor interrupts. "I was just embarrassed. I was worried you'd be uncomfortable if you knew how attracted I was to you."
"Seems like a real silly thing for me to be uncomfortable about, if you ask me,"

Hank says.
"I can think of several reasons you may not have appreciated knowing that," Connor says. "You may have been uninterested in sexual or romantic interest from androids, or from men. You may have found it awkward to know that a relative stranger was deeply attracted to

you, or that he had made--anyway. I had what I think were reasonable worries about revealing the extent of my attraction. I can understand why you wanted to ask about the appeal of your work to android viewers."
"I really did think it was a joke," Hank admits. "An inside joke,

some kind of android meme, something like that. But now that I know it's not, I really would like to know. If nothing else, it'll help me make a better video for you, so, you know. Whatever you want to fill me in on."
"Android memes involve more mathematical modeling, usually,"

Connor says. "I won't try to explain any of those, unless you have a particular interest."
"I failed calculus twice," Hank says. "I think I'll pass. But if you can help me understand why watching me tug on some wires gets you going, I'd love to know."

Connor considers this for a moment. "It's easier to know I like something than to know why I like it," he says, "although I'll admit it's been a slow process to recognize my own preferences at all, given the fact that I was never intended to have them."
"Shit," Hank says. "Yeah,

that makes sense."
Connor doesn't want to dwell on this aspect of his history. He's sure it'll come up again, and he isn't against telling Hank about the difficulties he's had in understanding his own preferences--even his own personality, at times--but now doesn't feel like the

right time. They're on a date, one that's going quite well by Connor's estimation, and Hank wants to know why Connor's so excited by the thought of Hank's hands inside him. It's best not to dampen the mood by letting on how poorly he understands himself in some moments.

Besides, he doesn't want Hank to think Connor's unsure about him, in particular. Not everything in his life is uncertain. He takes a steadying breath, scanning his systems to make sure everything is operating as it should.
"That said," he continues, "I believe I have a general

idea of where the appeal comes from. Of course, I can only speak for myself; I can't know if it's the same for other androids."
"I'm not interested in other androids, you know," Hank says. "Just you."
"Hank..."
"What?" Hank glances over sheepishly. "Too cheesy?"
"No, it's--"

Connor gently lifts Hank's right hand from the wheel and kisses it, lips brushing over the faded scar he'd initially recognized him by. "It's sweet. I'm just not used to hearing that sort of thing."
"Maybe I should say it more often, then." Hank flips his hand over and squeezes

Connor's fingers before returning it to the wheel. "If you want to hear about how hot you are, just. You know. Just say the word."
Connor isn't sure if it's polite to say he very much wants to hear this from Hank. Is it vanity, to want compliments on his appearance? To want to

know if Hank feels as drawn to him as he is to Hank? If it is, Connor thinks, he must be quite vain.
"Maybe later," Connor says. "I think I'd like that. I should return to the question at hand, though, before I get too distracted. I believe I mentioned before that the appeal of

your repair videos is an abstract one, for some; they might enjoy thinking about the impact of someone manipulating their wiring without desiring the act itself."
"I remember that, yeah."
"My interest is more direct."
"So you watch me reconnecting wires in a stereo and think

about me doing the same thing to you?"
"More or less," Connor says. "Fully disconnecting wires would be less pleasurable than pulling gently on wiring or partially unseating a connection, I believe. It may depend on the connection in question."
"But it would feel good to have

someone do that? It wouldn't damage anything?"
"It could, if you weren't careful," Connor says, "but that's part of the appeal, I think. It's a deeply intimate thing, to allow someone access to the inside of your body. It's desirable in part because it requires so much trust."

"And yes," he continues, "it would feel incredible. Moreso with a partner than it does if I attempt the same stimulation on myself."
"And you could--" Hank coughs quietly, voice suddenly hoarse. "You could walk me through it. If you, uh. If you wanted to try. With me."

"Oh?" Connor turns to watch Hank, now focused intently enough on a sudden influx of traffic that he doesn't look back beyond a subtle flick of his eyes before returning his attention to the road ahead. "We aren't talking about you making a video for me anymore, are we?"

Hank tightens his grip on the wheel. "Guess not," he says. "Listen, I'm not trying to get too far ahead of myself, here, especially when I barely know the first thing about all this, but..." He trails off into silence as he merges carefully onto an exit that will take them

further north.
"Yes?" Connor prompts, after a minute. If this is something Hank wants--because Connor knows there's a difference between offering to make a video of content he finds arousing and being willing to engage directly in a very inhuman form of sex that may have little

to no appeal for Hank on an erotic level--he wants to hear him say it.
"I don't want to fuck it up," Hank says, finally. "When--if the time comes, whatever that looks like, I want to make sure I'm doing it right. I've had partners introduce me to new shit before, sure, but this

is a little beyond that."
"It is," Connor agrees, and there's a little thrill he feels, one that surprises him a little, to think that while he's by far the person with less sexual experience between the two of them, this is an area in which he holds the greater understanding.

A hot twist of pleasure curls in his chest as he imagines how he might show Hank what to do. "How well can you take direction?"
"I--" Hank's already-firm grip on the wheel tightens further. He clears his throat. "Depends on who's giving it."

"How well could you take it from me?"
Connor wants very badly to touch Hank as he asks this. His heartrate is elevated, the attractive flush has returned to his cheeks, and he shifts restlessly in his seat as if suddenly uncomfortable. His interest is unmistakable, now,

and it's impossible to picture how he'd instruct Hank to manipulate his wiring without imagining other forms of intimate touch as well. The only thing keeping Connor from placing his hand on Hank's thigh is his concern for vehicular safety, which only just takes precedence over

sexual desire in his current decision-making process.
"I don't think you'd have any complaints," Hank says, finally. He wipes his palms on his thighs, one at a time.
"I like the sound of that," Connor says. "I've already seen those hands of yours at work, so I'm inclined to

agree." He watches the flare of Hank's nostrils as he inhales sharply.
"Christ, you're gonna be the death of me," Hank mutters. It's quiet enough that Connor barely hears it over the rumble of the old car.
"I hope not," he says smoothly. "I've managed not to touch you while

you're driving, even though I'd very much like to, out of concern for your well-being."
"Yeah, that's--that's probably for the best," Hank says. "Don't know why I thought I could talk about any of this at all while driving without losing my goddamn mind thinking about how to make

you feel good." He slows down, scanning the street for signs of their destination, and sighs in clear relief as the next sale comes into view. "For now, let's see if there's anything worth picking up here, huh?"
Hank yanks the keys out of the ignition and steps out of the car as

soon as they come to a stop, almost as if trying to escape Connor's company, but it's clear from the way he pulls him close, slinging an arm around Connor's waist as they make their way to the second sale, that he has no interest in creating space between them.
"You're aroused,"

Connor murmurs, admiring the pinkness that hasn't yet faded from Hank's cheeks.
"You don't have to sound so smug about it." Hank grumbles, but the kiss he presses to Connor's temple shows how little he minds.
"I don't," Connor says, "but I'm afraid you're stuck with me this way."

This second sale is larger than the first; while there are some tables set up in the garage and an assortment of bicycles arranged on the lawn, the majority of the items are indoors. Everything in the house seems to be for sale, in fact; a middle-aged woman lingering by the door

informs them as much when they make their way inside.
"Are you gentlemen looking for anything in particular?" she asks. "It's a big house, so if you need help finding something, let me know." Her eyes flick down to Connor's hand where it rests on Hank's forearm, but she doesn't

react further, much to Connor's relief. He hasn't given much thought to how anyone might react to seeing him and Hank together, but he knows widespread support for human-android relationships is significantly lower than support for android rights in general.
"We're just poking

around for now, thanks," Hank says, before Connor can ask about audio equipment. "We'll come find you if we need directions."
"Sometimes they'll charge you more if they know you're an expert or a reseller," Hank murmurs, leaning close once they've walked down a short hall and

into a large living room. "If you look too interested, then they'll assume they've priced things too low and be less likely to cut you a deal. It's usually better to just bumble around until you find what you're looking for, if you have the time."
"I'm in no hurry," Connor says.

"I've never been in someone's home like this. It's interesting."
Hank glances over at him, puzzled. "Not at all?"
"I don't have any friends with large homes," Connor explains. "The few friends I do have live in my building; we're all in what were marketed as 'specialty efficiency

units,' all between one hundred and fifty and one hundred and seventy-five square feet." He makes a quick visual calculation, then stands near the middle of the living room, cluttered with overflowing bookshelves and furniture with large yellow price tags pinned to the seats.

"From this point to the south wall," he says, tracing a boundary in the air, "you could fit the entirety of my apartment. I don't need much in the way of physical possessions, of course, especially since I lack many of the biological needs humans have, but there is something

appealing about having so much personal space. Perhaps not this much; I can't see a need for a multi-story home no matter how many records or houseplants I may accumulate in the future. But it's interesting to see how people fill their living space when they have so much of it."

Hank whistles, long and low. "Shit," he says. "Are you in one of those big high-rises downtown? I knew they built them small, but I didn't realize just how small they were. You sure you didn't sign the paperwork for a big closet, instead?"
It isn't meant to sting, Connor knows.

He feels his own bitterness about the debt he'd taken on, buying the unit he lives in, and about how little choice he'd had in doing so. He knows the room he lives in--the single room, without even a separate washroom or kitchen or closet, because it is indeed just a closet--is

too small, especially for what he paid for it. He knows he deserves better, that all of his neighbors do. He can scan through his memories and recall every time he's complained or thought about how fucked the entire set up is. But it feels worse, to hear it from Hank.

<<It's a shithole,>> 16 had said once, when they'd been complaining together about the elevator that never seemed to work and the burned out exterior lights, <<but it's our shithole.>> It's his, even if he hates it sometimes. He's perversely, stubbornly proud of that tiny space.

"It isn't a closet," he snaps, sharper than he intends, but he can't quite manage to rein himself in before he continues. "And it isn't as if anything else was an option. Do you know how difficult it is for androids to find housing?"
Hank shakes his head. "No, but I bet it's a

fucking shitshow. I--"
Connor cuts him off. "If you don't know a human willing to co-sign paperwork and slip a few thousand dollars to a reluctant landlord, your options are joining one of the android squatter communities in warehouses on the edge of town, foregoing housing at

all and moving around town enough to avoid loitering charges, or taking out a predatory loan that ensures you'll be in debt for decades for the privilege of living in an apartment half the size of this living room. I had no social connections with humans or androids, and wasn't

brave enough to live on the streets, so there was just the one option remaining, as pathetic as it may be."
"Hey," Hank says gently, stepping forward to cross the distance between them. He touches Connor's arm with a light, tentative pressure, easy enough to shrug off if it isn't

welcome, but Connor's irritation fades as quickly as it had flared up; he sighs and leans into the contact.
"Connor," Hank says. "I wasn't trying to shit on your place. I was surprised, because I didn't realize how things are there, but that's on me. It's yours, and I get it--

that probably means a lot, to have that space of your own, even if they fucked you over on the paperwork."
"It does," Connor says softly. "There wasn't much I could claim as mine, in those days. I knew the terms of the loan weren't fair, but I also knew it was the best option

I had."
A well-dressed couple breezes into the room, each with several vintage dresses draped over their arms. They're laughing about something, ignoring Hank and Connor completely, but Connor flinches a little, self-conscious about losing his composure in a public place.

He sighs again and leans his forehead on Hank's shoulder, closing his eyes as he takes a moment to enjoy the comfort of his proximity.
"I'm sorry I snapped at you," he says, finally. "I overreacted."
"Jesus, don't apologize," Hank says. "I stepped in it because I wasn't thinking.

It's fine."
"You sure?"
"Remember what I said before? You call me on my bullshit, and I like that. Don't be sorry for it." He kisses the crown of Connor's head. "You wanna start looking around?"
Connor stays quiet as they stroll through the first few rooms on the ground floor.

He feels a little prickly still, despite himself, and a little embarrassed, too, at how easily he'd snapped at Hank. He hadn't said anything wrong, not really; he'd just poked at a sore spot he hadn't known was there. Maybe Hank should have guessed, but Connor knows he can't

fault him entirely for not knowing.
Thankfully, the overcluttered rooms are a good distraction. There isn't much to catch Connor's interest as something he might want to purchase, but he finds it interesting to look through the home's previous owners' belongings and try to piece

together what sort of people they may have been.
"They sure read a lot of romance novels," Hank says, holding up a dog-eared copy of 'Claiming the Duke' with a disheveled-looking young man brooding shirtlessly on the cover. He flips past the first third of the book, nodding

as he skims a promising-looking page. "Sex scenes aren't bad, at least."
"Oh?"
"What?" Hank snaps the book closed, shoving it back into the crowded bookshelf. "Can't a guy have an opinion?"
"Of course," Connor says smoothly. "I'm very interested in your opinions on this subject."

"That's--" Hank plants his hand firmly on Connor's lower back, steering him away from the bookshelf and through a door into the kitchen. "I'm not going to discuss my taste in smutty paperbacks in the middle of some stranger's house."
"Where would you like to discuss it?"

"You're a fucking menace," Hank growls, with enough force that someone examining a set of casserole dishes looks up in alarm, but Hank's gap-toothed grin and the way he slides his hand around Connor's waist, holding him close as they edge by, seems to put them at ease.
"You like

it," Connor finds himself brave enough to say. He's seen a positive response to every instance of what Hank might call "being a smartass." so he feels confident in this assessment. Confident, too, that Hank will like being called on it.
He's right.
"Lucky for you," Hank grumbles.

His grip on Connor's waist tightens, thumb brushing against the cables of his thick sweater.
"Yes, I'm very lucky," Connor says sweetly, leaning into his touch. The person perusing the kitchenware rolls their eyes, making a quick exit from the room with a stack of dishes in

their arms.
"Are you actually interested in anything in here?" Hank asks. "You don't eat or anything, so..."
"I do find food interesting," Connor admits. "I think it would be fun to learn to cook, someday, even if I can't truly ingest anything solid. But no, I don't need any

kitchen supplies of my own, today." He eyes Hank speculatively. "Do you cook, at all?"
"Sure," Hank says. "Nothing fancy, nothing you need a recipe for, but I have a few tricks up my sleeve in the kitchen. I don't always have the energy for it, if I'm being honest." He shrugs.

"I did the living-off-booze-and-takeout thing for a while and it was fucking miserable, though, so I try not to fall back into it. Kinda depends on how I'm doing day to day."
Connor thinks back to the first time he'd seen Sumo in one of Hank's videos, when his appearance had

seemed like an apology, of sorts, for a shorter, lower-energy video. He'd wondered, then, if Hank had something on his mind; now he wonders if he'd managed to eat a full meal, that day.

"I don't want you to be miserable," Connor says, because he has no idea how to respond. He knows better than to tell Hank he needs to take care of himself, or to chide him for the times he hasn't done so, especially since he has no idea why he's found it difficult in the past.

But he cares about Hank; as little as they know about each other, he knows that for sure. He wants to know he's well-fed and happy.
"I'm not," Hank says. "Most of the time I'm not, at least, and I think that's the best I can ask for." He pats Connor's shoulder. "And hey, I'm here

with you, so I'm sure as hell not miserable now. Don't worry about me."
It's a request to drop the matter for now, Connor thinks, which is fair; as curious as he is, as much as he wants to know all there is to know about Hank and how he feels, he's pretty sure pressing the issue

won't help.
"No worrying," he agrees, leaning into Hank's touch. Of all the things he's learned about Hank so far, his apparent appreciation of close physical contact is one of his favorites. Connor isn't quite as confident when it comes to initiating it, not yet, but considering

how often Hank reaches for him, or steers him through a room with a hand on his lower back, he's sure it'll be welcome when he does work up the nerve.
The next few rooms are a bit of a disappointment, for the most part; as crowded as it is, and as interested as Connor is to look

through the assortment of items on display, nothing draws his attention enough for him to consider purchasing it.
"This is just how it is," Hank tells him, as they make their way down the narrow hall in the back of the second floor. "Sales like this are always a crapshoot, but

it's kind of fun to poke around, even if you don't--oh, hello, here we go."
What Connor had expected to be a small bedroom at the end of the hall is in fact a home office, furnished in a modern style with sleek, dark furniture and a small high-end television affixed to one wall.

There's someone in the room already, apparently checking for wear on the leather office chair, and Hank swiftly sidesteps him and heads for the one exception to the room's modern design: a small radio perched on a table in the rear corner.
"Look at this," he says, picking the

radio up to show Connor. "Great shape, great color..."
While Connor doesn't know anything about vintage radios beyond what he's picked up watching Hank's videos, he can see it's a lovely piece. It's made of a deep cherry red plastic, all rounded edges and horizontal lines, with

a large AM dial inset off-center in the front panel.
Hank taps his fingertips gently over the curved plastic surface. "Good sound, too. Silly to consider that, maybe, but this would definitely be worth filming, so it's a bonus. These old Bakelite radios have a pretty good resale

value, lots of folks collect them." He turns it over, grinning when he sees the price on the tag. "Looks like whoever priced all this shit didn't know what this was worth," he says quietly, glancing over his shoulder at the man across the room who's blatantly listening in.

There's a look of mild frustration on his face, but if he has a problem with Hank getting to the radio before he could take a look, he doesn't mention it.
"You don't want to plug it in first?" Connor asks, when Hank tucks the radio under his arm and turns to leave.
"Nah. Look at

this, it's not safe to test right now." He points to the power cord, which is frayed in several places, revealing bare wire. "At this price, even if I have to replace most of what's inside, it'll be worth it."
One of the women managing the sale strikes up a conversation with Hank

as he pays for the radio, and Connor takes the opportunity to slip away for a moment, after giving Hank's hand a gentle squeeze. There's a second person taking payments, a sullen teen he assumes is the first woman's daughter, and she raises an eyebrow at him when he presents his

item for purchase.
"I didn't know androids liked bodice-rippers," she says flatly, as Connor touches her tablet to transfer payment.
"This gentleman doesn't seem to have a bodice at all," Connor points out, tapping the cover of Claiming the Duke, "but perhaps that's because it's

already been ripped off."
"I...guess?" She looks skeptical, but doesn't comment further on Connor's purchase.

Connor returns to Hank's side as he fishes a business card out of his wallet and bundles it up with the cash he hands to the woman running the sale. "Feel free to give me a call if you come across any other pieces like this," he says. "I'm usually buying, especially if it's

something particularly interesting like this little guy."
"Of course," the woman says, her bland smile only a little forced. Connor assumes she's realized by now that she--or whoever was pricing items, if it was someone else on her staff--made an error with the radio. "You two

have a good rest of your day, now."
"Of course," Hank says. He turns to Connor, bumping their shoulders together. "You ready to head out, sweetheart?"
"I--yes," Connor says, startled but pleased. "Let's go."
Hank brings it up before Connor can; when they reach the car, he coughs

and fidgets with his keys instead of unlocking it. "I'm a pet name guy," he says. "It just kinda slipped out back there, but if you don't like it, or it's too soon, I get it. Not everyone--"
"I like it," Connor says, crowding into Hank's space when he tries to step away in an

attempt to give Connor room he doesn't want or need. "It's sweet. No one's called me something like that before." He presses a palm to Hank's chest, sliding his hand inside his coat, and leans in to kiss his cheek. "You should keep doing it, if you want."
"Will do," Hank says.

Hank nods at the paper bag in Connor's hand as they get settled in the car. "What did you sneak off and get while I was checking out?"
"I wasn't sneaking," Connor says, although he was, a little. "I just picked up some reading material for later."
"Jesus Christ," Hank groans.

"You didn't."
"I did," Connor says. "I could find some interesting passages to read aloud while you drive, if you like." He pulls Claiming the Duke from the paper bag and flips it open to a random page, skimming the first few paragraphs before Hank can respond. "Would you care to

hear how the Duke's valet registers his displeasure at the announcement of the Duke's engagement?"
"Definitely not," Hank grumbles, turning on the ignition. "Fuck, it's cold in here, how has it gotten colder as the day's gone on?" He pulls his leather gloves out of his pocket and

tugs them on. "Anyway, please do not read your new romance novel to me while I'm driving. You can tell me about the best parts later, if you want." He drums his palms on the steering wheel, then clears his throat. "Speaking of driving, uh. I didn't have any other sales to hit up

today, so. Should I take you back to your place?"
Connor thinks about Hank's torn shirt hidden beneath his coat, and the heat of his mouth, and decides to ask for what he wants.
"Yes, I'm ready to go home," he says. "Would you like to come up for a while, once we're there?"

Hank turns to look at him, clearly caught by surprise. "Really?"
"I can't exactly use the excuse of inviting you up for coffee if I don't have a coffeemaker, but I'd like to spend more time with you." He leans against Hank, just close enough to slip his fingers inside his coat

and trace them along the tear in his shirt. "I'd like to kiss you again, if that's all right."
"Yeah," Hank says. Connor's close enough to notice the hitch in his breath as he touches his shoulder. "Of course that's all right."
"That isn't too forward, is it?" Connor's lack of

experience in this area make him less confident than he'd like to be. He knows Hank enjoyed kissing him before, knows he's attracted to him, but even though things have gone shockingly well between them today, he can't shake the little bit of apprehension he feels, as if he'll

scare Hank away if he makes it clear how much he wants to kiss him when there's room for him to climb in Hank's lap and no chance of upsetting anyone walking by. "I know not everyone appreciates being asked so directly."
"Well, I'm sure as shit not one of those people," Hank

says. "I like a sweet little hint as much as the next guy, when it comes to this sort of thing, but I'll be honest: I like hearing you say just what you want. If that's too forward, let's just say I have a thing for forward."
Hank takes Connor's hand, easing it out from inside

his jacket, and kisses his palm. "You want to get going, then?"
Connor very much wants to get going. He calculates the quickest route to his apartment, taking into account the standard traffic patterns at midday on the weekend, and directs Hank as they make their way back into

town. Anticipation crackles through his chest, but as they get closer to home and the tower of his apartment building looms over the surrounding buildings, he feels the stirrings of apprehension as well.
It's fine, he tells himself. He doesn't know Hank well, not really, but he

knows he trusts him. If he takes a moment to think things through rationally, he knows Hank won't hold it against him that his apartment is too small for even a bed, or that he's completely unexperienced when it comes to relationships or to sex. He has the past several hours as

evidence that Hank enjoys his company.
"Is it normal," he asks, when they're only a few minutes away, "to feel nervous even when a date is going well?"
"I think so, yeah," Hank says. He glances over as he makes a right turn, concern on his face. "You having second thoughts?

It's not gonna hurt my feelings if you want to just call it here, when I drop you off."
"No," Connor says quickly. "I'd rather not do that." He doesn't think Hank's lying to him, not intentionally, but he thinks it would hurt his feelings, maybe, if he changed his mind.

Hank nods, and a silence settles between them for the last few minutes of the drive. When Hank pulls into a visitor space in front of Connor's building, though, he coughs and clears his throat.
"Listen," he says, "I'm not going to try and convince you out of inviting me up,

because that would be ridiculous, and because I'm taking you at your word that you want me to come see your place for a bit. But if you're feeling a little nervous, does it help to know that I am too?"
Connor blinks at Hank, stunned. "I don't understand," he says. "You've done

all this before, haven't you?"
"I've never met a hot guy in a park who knew who I was before I introduced myself, no," Hank says, deadpan. "Never took someone on a date where I flirted by offering to record a special turntable repair video for him. This is new territory for me,

too."
"But you've--" Connor stumbles over his words, frustrated that Hank thinks their situations are the same. He's had so many experiences, surely, been with multiple partners and kissed them all enough times that he doesn't have to think about what he's doing. He'd said he was

married at one point, hadn't he? "You know what you're doing," he protests. "You've had relationships before. You understand what's supposed to happen."
"Connor," Hank says with a sigh--and maybe this is it, Connor thinks, this is where his inexperience and anxiety are too much

for Hank to want to deal with--"I've had relationships before, yeah. And it isn't that they've all been bad, but--you get that more relationships means more opportunities to fuck something up, right?"
"I suppose that's true."
"It is." He sighs again, a deep exhalation that makes

Connor wonder if this is a tension Hank's been holding onto all day, one he hadn't seen because he hadn't known to look for it. "This is all new for you, right? And it's intimidating because of that."
Connor nods. "I don't want to be a disappointment."
"Aw, no, that's not how

this is going to go." Hank says it with such certainty that Connor thinks he might believe him. "I don't care that this is new for you. It doesn't bother me. If anything, it makes me more afraid of fucking up, because I don't want your first time for anything being ruined by some

asshole past his prime."
Connor's familiar, by now, with Hank's tendency to downplay his own worth. He isn't sure what to do about it; surely it's a longstanding pattern, one he can't change overnight. Not something Connor has the right to try and change himself.
It doesn't mean

he has to like it, though.
"I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't talk about the kind and charming man I've spent the day with like that," he says, tartly. "That certainly doesn't sound anything like him." He unbuckles his seatbelt and leans in to give Hank a swift kiss on the cheek

as he reaches between their seats to grab the bag containing his records and dog figurine from the back. "Now that we've both admitted we're nervous, do you want to go ahead and do the thing we're a little afraid of? If nothing else, it's more comfortable to talk on my sofa than

in your car."
"Lead the way," Hank says with a laugh, and while he doesn't acknowledge being called out on insulting himself, he doesn't press the point either, which Connor thinks may be the best outcome he can expect, for now.
It's a start, at least.

The elevators are straight ahead once they pass through the building's entrance, but Connor leads Hank to a softly-glowing kiosk to one side of the lobby before they proceed to it. "All human visitors have to sign in and submit to a palm scan," he explains. "It used to be a

simpler system, but we had some security issues a few months ago so the residents' association agreed to pool funds for a more sophisticated machine to log visitors' identities."
Hank frowns, but he doesn't hesitate when the screen prompts him to place his palm on the reader.

"Sucks that this is necessary at all," he grumbles, "but I get it. What's to stop someone from coming in and bypassing this altogether, though? There's no one enforcing it."
"Access to all doors, including the elevator and stairwells, is keyed to security codes we carry with us,"

Connor explains. "We don't have keys or keycards of any kind, so a human who wasn't a guest of a resident wouldn't make it past this lobby. For now, it's enough to ensure that guests are properly registered, it seems; we haven't had any incidents since this new system was

installed."
The kiosk beeps cheerfully, indicating that Hank's print has been registered, and they make their way through the mostly-empty lobby to the elevators, only three of which are currently working. It's a short ride, even to the twenty-third floor, and Connor takes Hank's

hand as they exit, leading him to the end of the hall. "I'm a little nervous, even after everything you said," he admits, as he presses his fingers to the lock.
"Me too," Hank says. "It's fine if we both are, right? Maybe it evens out."

Maybe it does; the reminder that Hank carries his own worries, here, is helpful. He wants to do what he can to put Hank at ease, and he realizes, as he pushes the door open and turns on the light, that Hank probably wants to do the same for him.
"Make yourself at home," he says,

as they step into the room. "There's only the one place to sit, of course, but it's quite comfortable."
"Thanks," Hank says. He walks to the sofa slowly, turning to take in the half-kitchenette, the knobbly cactus on the windowsill, the row of shelves covered in books.
"Did you

paint this?" Hank asks, peering at 16s painting. "I like the colors."
"That was given to me by a friend," Connor says, and while the compliment wasn't for his own work, he finds that he's pleased by it anyway. He likes the thought of Hank appreciating 16's work, even though he

knows 16 has no desire to hear Hank's opinion, regardless of how positive it is. "He thought it was a poor effort, but I liked it, so he gave it to me. I'm glad you agree it was worth saving."
"I mean, take anything I say about art with a grain of salt," Hank says, chuckling,

"because I don't know shit about it, or at least about what I'm supposed to like. All I can say is dumb shit like 'I like the colors,' but hey, if I do like them, that's worth something, right?"
"To the artist, at least, yes," Connor says. It seems both unnecessary and impolite

to inform him that his appreciation is worth nothing at all to this particular artist.
"Well, I like it, either way," he says. "Now, let's look at your shelf space, here. Looks like we should have enough room for everything." He estimates the size of the turntable with his hands,

comparing it to the top of his smaller bookshelf. "I'm pretty sure that's deep enough to hold the model you picked up, and the speakers'll have a smaller footprint. They'll probably fit right beside, but you could find a place somewhere else if you want to spread them out for

better sound. I can help you figure that out when it's ready, if you want, but I can tell you'll have room for the setup, no problem."
Connor hadn't considered where he'd set up the stereo, or if he even had room for it at all, when he said he wanted to buy it. It had been an

impulsive enough idea that he hadn't considered the measurements of his shelving or the space the equipment would take up at all. "That's good to know. I would hate to have gotten excited about listening to more music, only to discover I had nowhere to put the record player.

I would have had to buy new shelves, I suppose." He sinks onto the sofa and pats the cushion next to him. "Would you like to sit with me?"
"You did say it was a comfy couch," Hank says, "so yeah, guess I do." He shrugs out of his heavy coat and gestures at the small counter

partitioning the area around the sink from the main room. "You mind if I just drape this over here?"
"Not at all," Connor says. His eyes are drawn to the tear he'd made in Hank's shirt, fully visible now for the first time. "It's bigger than I thought."
"My--what's bigger?" Hank

asks, confused, until his hand follows Connor's gaze, feeling the torn edge of the seam. "Oh yeah, you, uh. Did more damage than you thought, huh?" He settles on the couch next to Connor, draping one arm over his shoulder.
"I did," Connor agrees, leaning over to take a closer

look. The tear is 8.7 centimeters long, a rip in the fabric along the seam and not the seam itself. "I'm not sure that's easily mendable, I'm afraid," he says.
"It's fine," Hank says, before he can apologize again. "I can see you thinking about it. It's an old shirt, for one

thing, but I figure there's a chance you might get the urge to do it again here in a little bit, don't you think? There's no use worrying about a little rip in my shirt if you're just going to make it bigger."
"I might, if you kiss me like you did before."
"It'll be better," Hank

says. The hand on Connor's shoulder slides up to cradle the back of his head, turning his mouth towards Hank's. "Plenty of privacy, here. I can take my time figuring out what really gets you going."

Connor was designed to be agile, to respond to stimuli quickly and with precision, and while it isn't a part of his original programming he leans on often, he's glad of it now: he leans forward and kisses Hank, licking eagerly into his mouth and shivering at the flood of data,

now slightly familiar but no less exciting, that activates his oral processors, and at the same time rises to his knees, gripping Hank's shoulders for support as he maneuvers himself onto Hank's lap without breaking the kiss. Hank grunts in surprise when Connor's weight settles

on his thighs, but he adjusts quickly, grabbing his hips to hold him close.
"This okay?" Hank asks, giving a little squeeze. "Don't want you to slide off."
"You're very--"Connor kisses Hank again, reluctant to stop long enough to finish the thought. "You're very thoughtful."

"Just don't want you to go anywhere," Hank murmurs, lips brushing Connor's cheek. "You comfortable up there?"
Connor makes a small affirmative sound that melts into a moan when Hank sucks gently on his earlobe. "Mm, I--ohh--yes, it's perfect." He presses closer, tangling his

fingers in Hank's hair and resting the other hand on his chest. "I wanted to do this in the car, but--"
"Not a lot of room in there," Hank says. "No room, no privacy. Your place is a lot nicer for this."
"I'm sorry there's no bed," Connor says, but Hank tugs his earlobe with his

teeth, just sharply enough to interrupt him.
"Shh," he murmurs. "None of that. You just said this is what you wanted, right? We don't need a bed for you to be on my lap."
"This isn't uncomfortable for you? I'm not too heavy?" Connor knows he's made of lightweight material, for

the most part, but he weighs only slightly less than a human of his height and build would; he doesn't want to put too much pressure on Hank's thighs.
"Connor," Hank says. "Sweetheart." He kisses his way down Connor's neck, then back up until he's at his mouth again. "You don't

need to worry about me. The only thing I want you to think about right now is how this is feeling. If it's good, you let me know. If you want something different, or you want to stop, you tell me that, too."
"I'm trying to be considerate," Connor protests.
"I know you are, and

it's real sweet, but the only thing I want right now is to make this good for you." Hank slides his hands from Connor's hips back to the gentle curve of his ass, kneading the softness there appreciatively and pulling him flush against Hank's body. "Be a little selfish for now.

Let me take care of you."
Connor wants to argue, wants to tell Hank it's important that his desires are met as well, but it's difficult to form the words when Hank's mouth is so hot against his skin, when his hands move to rock their bodies together in a slow grind that has

Connor's processors stuttering before he quickly reallocates his processing power away from nonessential activities so he'll be able to handle the flood of new input. Everything feels so good, so overwhelming, that all protests evaporate before he can voice them. And if he's

being honest, Hank's intense focus on his pleasure is arousing in itself.
He's attentive, taking note of what makes Connor whine into Hank's mouth or squeeze his thighs together as he presses forward into him. He praises Connor every time he moans a little too loud or tightens

his grip in Hank's hair. "That's good," he murmurs. "Let me hear you, honey.
It's flattering, knowing Hank's working so hard to please him. Perhaps even more flattering is the obvious evidence of Hank's own arousal: he's attractively flushed, breathing heavily into Connor's mouth

and against his skin, pulse elevated. Hank's erection presses insistently against him; he feels it getting harder as Hank groans and grips his ass more tightly.
It reminds him, suddenly, that his own erectile response is still suspended. He activates it, flicking carelessly

through the authorization menus, and feels a sudden wave of dizziness as the process reinitializes.
"You okay?" Hank asks, as Connor pulls away, swaying slightly. "Everything all right?"
"I'm fine," Connor pants, resting his forehead against Hank while his systems recalibrate.

"I'd forgotten to activate my erectile function until just now; apparently, doing so when already in a state of intense arousal causes a rapid relocation of thirium. The stability of my other systems was impacted, but only for a moment." He rocks his hips forward experimentally

and inhales sharply as his cock rubs against Hank's gut, firm with a layer of plush softness. "I think I--I'm extra sensitive, now," he says, "from everything initializing so quickly."
"Jesus christ," Hank groans. "Fuck. I felt that happen."

"What do you need?" Hank kisses Connor messily, sucking his lower lip as he pulls away. "You want to stay like this? Want me to touch you?"
"I don't know, I--"
The difficulty isn't identifying something he wants Hank to do, in this moment; it's in choosing something in particular

he wants more than anything else.
"It's okay," Hank says, his voice low and gentle. It's very nearly the same voice he uses in his videos, but it's rougher, now, and slightly less controlled. "We'll just keep on doing what we know you like, and you can tell me if you want

anything different." He nuzzles behind Connor's ear, nudging his head to the side so he has better access to his neck. "You're doing so good, honey."
Connor shudders, hips stuttering as he ruts against Hank more desperately. "Keep--keep talking to me," he asks. "Please."

"I see," Hank says. "I should have known you'd like that, huh? Guess I already knew you liked my voice." He trails a line of slow, lingering kisses down Connor's neck to his shoulder. "Or is it that you like hearing how good you are?"
"It's silly," Connor protests; it doesn't

seem like something he should want to hear so badly. But he thinks about the sound file he cobbled together from Hank's voice--the file he's used a few times, now, in private--and knows that's what he longs for, even if he'd rather not admit it.
He'd been made to seek out praise,

mostly as a way to keep him in line, but people-pleasing had been an important part of his social integration tools, as well. He isn't sure how he feels about the fact that he craves it so much, in this moment.
"It's not silly," Hank says. He fingers the top button of Connor's

shirt, glancing at him for approval before he unbuttons it and the one beneath. His mouth travels from Connor's neck to his shoulder and along the ridge of his collarbone. "You're so sweet, you deserve to hear it as much as you want."
Connor whines and moves Hank's hand over the

next button on his shirt. "You can take it off, if you want."
"Yeah?"
Connor nods.
Hank grins as he slips the final buttons free. "Now, if I was you, I might just tear this off, but this shirt is a lot nicer than mine, so--"
Connor surges forward and kisses Hank to shut him up.

Hank doesn't need to see what he's doing to manage it, clearly; he deftly undoes the rest of Connor's shirt buttons one-handed, cradling the back of his neck with the other hand to keep him close. His tongue presses into Connor's mouth, lighting up his oral sensors.
He slowly

slides the shirt off Connor's shoulders, palms skimming over his bare skin, and Connor shivers, unsure what to do in the face of such intimate stimulation. He knows there's an element of shame surrounding nudity that many humans feel, something he doesn't think he'll ever fully

understand; his naked body is what it is, far less changeable in some ways than a human's and infinitely moreso in others, but never a source of embarrassment or shame. Even so, he holds his breath for a moment, heat from his overworked systems building in his chest as he waits

for Hank's reaction.
He doesn't wait long; Hank makes a low rumble of approval, somewhere between a pleased hum and a growl, as he throws Connor's shirt over the back of the couch. "Look at you, honey," he says, with a reverence Connor doesn't think he's earned. He presses a hand

to Connor's chest, each fingertip resting on one of the freckles scattered across his skin. "So fucking gorgeous." His hand slips down and to the side, thumb coming to rest just beside his nipple. "Dumb question, maybe."
It takes Connor a moment to realize he should respond.

"What is it?"
"Are these just for show?"
It's not a question that requires a direct answer; when Hank's thumb brushes over Connor's nipple, his gasp of surprise and the reflexive jerk of his hips give Hank sufficient information to draw his own conclusions.
"Ah, gotcha," Hank

says, teasing the nipple with his thumb once more before rolling it gently between his thumb and forefinger. "Looks like that's a no, then. Good." Hank places one broad hand low on Connor's back and cradles his head with the other, leaning him back slightly as he kisses his way

down his neck, along his shoulder, and down his chest with agonizing slowness.
"Love those sounds you make," he says, mouth so close to Connor's skin his beard brushes against him as he speaks. "Seems like you're sensitive pretty much everywhere, huh?"
"I--I think so," Connor

replies weakly. "I don't know if it's that I'm sensitive, or--" he trails off into a moan as Hank's teeth scrape gently over his shoulder.
"Or?" Hank prompts. His hand rubs gentle circles over the small of his back, fingertips teasing at the waistband of his trousers.
"Or if it's

because it's you," Connor pants. "Your hands, your mouth. I think you could do anything to me and I'd--"
Hank's mouth closes over his nipple and Connor is too concerned with the heat of his mouth and the gentle pressure of his tongue to finish his thought.
"Let me hear you," Hank

murmurs, as he makes his way across Connor's chest with hot, messy kisses. "What else do you need?"
It's difficult for Connor to pinpoint any one thing, in this moment; in fact, it's becoming difficult to hold onto coherent thoughts at all. There's so much new input he's

taking in, so many points of contact between their bodies, such an influx of data from Hank's saliva and his body heat, that he's frantically reallocating his processing resources and suspending less-critical functions so that he isn't overloaded entirely.
Not yet, at least.

"I need more," Connor says. "I want--"
"Anything." Hank pulls him down for another kiss, groaning into his mouth when Connor sucks on his tongue. "Fuck, Connor, let me give it to you."
"This is good," Connor says--he doesn't want Hank to think he's complaining about what's

happening right now-- "but I--I want to feel you on top of me." He slides off of Hank's lap, a bit reluctantly, and pulls on his shirt, careful not to tear it any more than he already has as he reclines on the couch and guides Hank over top of him. The couch isn't long enough to

allow them both to stretch out fully, but it's close; if they bend their knees a bit, they'll manage.
"I'll crush you," Hank protests; he allows himself to be led where Connor wants him, but he braces his forearms to either side of Connor's shoulders, hesitant to let him feel the

full weight of his body.
"My chassis is sturdy," Connor says. "I can take sustained pressure up to six hundred pounds, so there's no risk of injury." He reaches up to tangle his fingers in Hank's hair, pulling him down until their bodies are pressed flush together. "Besides,"

he purrs into Hank's ear, "It's deeply erotic to contemplate: your weight pressed fully against my body, your larger form covering and enveloping me, the evidence of your arousal impossible to ignore." He slips a thigh in between Hank's legs, moaning as it makes contact with the

thick heat of his erection.
"You want me." The certainty Connor feels as he says it is its own intoxicating sensation. Whatever doubts he felt earlier are gone now; there's no room for uncertainty between them when Hank's pressed so close.
"Fuck," Hank groans, rutting slowly into

the pressure of Connor's thigh. "Yeah."
"And I want you like this," Connor says. He takes one of Hank's hands, pulling until he's forced to rest more weight on Connor's chest. "I want to feel you. I want you to kiss me, and touch me, and I want your--" he shudders as Hank finally

lets his full weight press against him. "Yes, just like that."
"What else was that?" Hank nuzzles Connor's neck, kisses along his jaw until his mouth brushes the shell of his ear. "You need to tell me everything you want, honey, or I won't be able to give it to you."
"Your hand,"

Connor whines, "I need--"
It's easier to demonstrate, he decides; he lifts Hank's hand, kisses the fingertips of his index and middle finger, and greedily sucks them into his mouth. Immediately his sensors are overflowing with new data; his tongue maps out the whorls of Hank's

fingerprint and he picks up traces of his sweat, residue from a mint he'd eaten in the car, dust from the equipment they'd handled earlier. He wants to taste every inch of Hank's body, of course, but it's his hands he loves the most, the first thing he recognized when they first

met, the first part of Hank he'd ever seen.
Hank groans, a deep rumble of pleasure, as Connor sweeps his tongue across his fingertips. "Jesus christ," he says, "you really--fuck, Connor--you wanted something in your mouth that bad?"
Connor nods, his mouth too full to speak.

Hank presses down on Connor's tongue as he slides his fingers deeper into his mouth. "You been thinking about this?"
Connor moans wetly around Hank's fingers, sucking harder until they nudge the back of his throat. Hank looks alarmed for a moment and tries to pull his hand back,

but Connor grabs his wrist before he can move away. He holds Hank's gaze, stroking his fingers with his tongue as if to encourage them deeper, before releasing his grip.
"No gag reflex, huh?" Hank growls in his ear. "Is it just my fingers you've been thinking about sucking on?"

He lowers his weight more fully onto Connor, grinding his cock against Connor's thigh. "Can't think of the last time someone's been able to take my dick without choking on it, but it sounds like you might be able to manage it."
Connor shudders beneath the heat and weight of

Hank's body, clawing at his back to keep him from pulling away. He can't bear to drop Hank's fingers from his mouth long enough to reply, but he hopes it's clear that he'll take anything Hank wants to give him. If he could have everything at once, Hank's thick cock and his

fingers stretching his lips wide, his full weight pinning him down, his entire hand deep in his chest tugging on wires, he'd take it all and still be desperate for more.
"You like that thought, don't you?" Hank chuckles. "You'd be so good at it too, I know you would." He sucks

gently at Connor's earlobe, then nibbles the shell of his ear. "You want to hear a secret?"
Connor nods.
"I thought about it, you know. After we first met. Felt like a dirty old man, because I figured you'd never be interested in me that way, but I couldn't help myself."

Hank groans, rubbing himself more deliberately into Connor's thigh. "I couldn't help it," he says again. "You were so--fuck, so pretty, and I couldn't stop thinking about how fucking incredible you'd look with my cock in your mouth. How good it would feel."
"Please," Connor tries

to say; it's a raw, broken sound forced past Hank's fingers, barely intelligible, but Hank manages to understand it all the same. Perhaps it's just that clear what Connor wants; at this point he doesn't think it's possible that Hank could be unaware how desperate he is for more.

"Oh, sweetheart," Hank says. "Of course I'll let you, if that's what you want. But I want to take care of you, first. Don't worry about me just yet." He reaches in between the press of their bodies and rubs Connor's erection through the fabric of his trousers. "Can I take these

off?"
Connor nods frantically, pushing Hank's hand away when he struggles to undo the button one-handed and wriggling out of his pants and underwear as quickly as possible. He's a little disappointed that Hank's still wearing his clothes, but it's not something he has the mental

space to process at the moment. His systems are so overtaxed, so flooded with input, that it's difficult to think about anything beyond what he's feeling.
"Can I try something?" Hank asks, when he's tugged Connor's pants all the way off. He's sitting up, now, much too far away

for Connor's tastes; the only points of contact between them are Hank's hands, one in his mouth and the other pressed just below his navel. "If you want me back on top of you just say the word--or, you know, bite my finger or something--but I think you might like this, too."

Connor reluctantly slides Hank's fingers from his mouth. "I trust you," he says. "I want you on top of me, yes, but I want so much more than that, more than I have the words for right now, when everything's moving more slowly." He taps his LED, now flickering an unsteady yellow,

hoping Hank will understand. "I doubt anything you have in mind will be a disappointment."
"You just tell me if it is, and we'll go back to this," Hank assures him. "For now, roll on your side, let me get behind you."
The couch isn't particularly long, but it is deep; there's

enough space for the two of them to lie on their sides, Connor's bare back pressed to Hank's chest, without Connor running the risk of falling off. Hank slips one arm under Connor's neck, then taps his thumb on his bottom lip. "You want to open up for me again?"

Connor sucks Hank's thumb into his mouth eagerly, scraping his teeth over the ridges of his fingerprint, and Hank wraps his other arm around Connor's chest, lazily rolling a nipple between two fingers.
"Here's why I like this," Hank says. He's speaking with the voice he uses in

his videos, low and intimate and deceptively casual, as if he isn't working another finger into Connor's mouth alongside his thumb, as if his thick cock isn't pressed insistently against the upper curve of Connor's ass, as if all he's doing is narrating the process of rewiring

his current project. He slowly drags his fingers most of the way out of Connor's mouth, then presses them back in, setting a slow, steady pace. "I got a hand free up here, to make sure you have something filling up that pretty mouth just the way you like." He nuzzles behind

Connor's ear, lips close enough to brush the sensitive skin on his neck. "I can tell you how good you're doing, taking my fingers so well. How fucking hard I am just listening to those sounds you've been making."
Connor whines around Hank's fingers.
"You don't need me to tell

you, though," Hank says. He stops playing with Connor's nipple, slides his palm from Connor's chest to his hip, and holds him still as he ruts against him, erection grinding into his ass and lower back. "You can feel it, when I have you like this."
Hank's grip is strong enough

that there's little room to move, but he arches his back, doing his best to press back into each roll of Hank's hips.
"So fucking eager," Hank murmurs. "I'll take care of you, don't worry." Wish no teasing or preamble, his hand wraps around Connor's cock, stroking it in time with

the slow slide of his fingers in Connor's mouth. "You feel how perfectly you fit in my hand?"
Connor does. Hank's hand encircles his cock completely; he's aware of every artificial nerve that's currently being stimulated by the cushion of his palm and the deliciously rough

calluses on his fingers. He nods shakily; he's so overcome with arousal, so overwhelmed by every point of contact and every word from Hank's lips that he struggles to respond at all.
"Perfect," Hank growls, no longer able to feign composure. "You feel like a goddamn dream,

sweetheart, you're so good." His fist speeds up on Connor's cock and Connor cries out, dropping Hank's fingers from his mouth and craning his head back to meet Hank's mouth in a messy, uncoordinated kiss. He reaches a hand back for leverage, clumsily bumping their noses together

as he fucks Hank's mouth with his tongue. Hank groans into Connor's mouth, low and ragged and full of need, and it's this sound that gives him the final, inevitable push towards orgasm.
Connor shudders in Hank's arms, his entire body spasming as he ejaculates. Pleasure floods his

body not in waves, but in staticky bursts, as if it's too much sensation to process at once. His awareness narrows until all that exists is the heat of Hank's body behind him, the rumble of his voice and the firm grip of his hand. There's no room inside him for anything else.

"You still with me?" Hank asks gently, after Connor falls still. He kisses Connor's shoulder and brushes his knuckles down his thigh. "That sounded pretty intense."
Connor's slow to respond. He covers Hank's hand on his thigh with his own, twining their fingers together despite

Hank's brief protest about the mess. He doesn't want his silence to be taken as a sign he's upset, or that he feels any regret, but he's still gathering his thoughts now that his systems aren't so overtaxed. His desire is still present; the orgasm hasn't lessened it, although it

feels slightly less pressing, now. He's able to enjoy the heat of Hank's body next to him without feeling like he can't focus on anything else.
"It was," he says, finally. "I'm sorry, I--it's taking me a minute to come back to myself."
"Take your time." Hank kisses his shoulder

again. "As long as that was good for you, that's all I care about."
"It was different," Connor says. "Different from how it feels when it's just me."
"In a good way, I hope." Hank says it lightly, but there's an apprehension at the edge of his words that he can't quite hide.

"I would hope it was obvious," Connor murmurs, turning to lie on his back so he can see Hank's face more clearly, "but yes, of course. It was..." he trails off, bringing Hank's hand to his mouth for a kiss. "I'd imagined what physical intimacy would feel like with someone else--

with you, if I'm being honest, although I understand if that makes you uncomfortable--but I wasn't prepared for the intensity of it." He kisses Hank's cheek. "I wasn't prepared for how safe I'd feel with you. How it would feel to have your attention trained on me. I--"

Connor blinks as his vision blurs, and it isn't until Hank reaches up to gently wipe the corners of his eyes that he realizes he's crying. "I'm not upset," he says, as more tears fall. "I'm just--"
"Shh, it's okay." Hank kisses his forehead. "I get it. I've had the post-sex

weepies before, a long time ago. As long as you enjoyed yourself, that's what I care about."
"Mmm." Connor pulls Hank down for a kiss, slow and deep, sighing into the warmth of his mouth. "That's putting it mildly, but yes." He feels much less frantic than he had, moments ago,

but kissing Hank is no less arousing; he luxuriates in him for several minutes more, trading lazy kisses until his tears dry completely.
Connor presses a hand to Hank's chest, bracing himself as he shifts position, and feels his pulse accelerate at the contact. He hooks a finger

in the hole in Hank's shirt and tugs firmly enough to widen the tear further. "I don't want to neglect you. You've been so sweet to me, Hank, but I've been a little selfish, haven't I?"
"Don't say that," Hank says. "It's not selfish, honey, you were letting me take care of you."

"You did an excellent job," Connor assures him. He tangles his fingers in Hank's beard and holds him still for another deep, lingering kiss. "I feel exceptionally well-taken care of, and I'd like to return the favor, if you'd let me."
"You don't have to," Hank says--not in

protest, Connor's pretty sure, but for a reason he doesn't quite understand. It isn't a refusal, but it isn't the answer he's hoping for, either.
"Of course I don't have to," he says. "Do you think I would have invited you in if I'd felt that I did? That I'd be comfortable

sharing my first sexual experience with you, or any level of intimacy at all?"
"Absolutely not," Hank says, with a dry chuckle. "Can't see you doing that at all, I just--I don't know, I just don't want you to feel some sort of obligation to do anything."
Hank's so kind, Connor

thinks, and it's this kindness that allowed his attraction to grow, once he came to know Hank as a person and not only as a pair of hands and a deep voice. He wonders if Hank's ever in the habit of turning that kindness on himself. He wonders how long it's been since Hank's been

an object of desire, or allowed himself to acknowledge being seen as such.
"Setting aside the question of obligation, since we've agreed it's not a factor here, how do you feel about being touched? Is it not something you enjoy?"
"Shit, it's not that," Hank says. "Nothing like

that."
"And how do you feel about oral sex?" Connor eases open the top two buttons on Hank's shirt and slips his hand inside, feeling the texture of his chest hair through the thin undershirt beneath. "Receiving it, in particular."
"I feel, uh." Hank swallows. "That's a pretty

solid ten out of ten for me."
"Then stop worrying about whether or not I want to suck your dick, Hank, and let me get on with it." He slides another button free. "Please."
"When you ask so nicely, how can I say no?"
"Don't say yes because I asked nicely." Connor tilts Hank's head

to the side and kisses his neck. "Say yes because you want me to." He drags his tongue along his jawline, just under the edge of his beard "Say yes because you know it'll feel good."
"Fuck, okay," Hank says. "Yeah, I want you to. Can I, uh. Can I ask something else, though?

Before that?"
Connor nods.
"What was that a minute ago, about imagining what sex with me would be like? Why would I be uncomfortable with that?"
"It wasn't just imagining it," Connor says, quietly. "I wasn't sure that was appropriate on its own; it wasn't as if you could consent

to it."
"I don't need to consent to be part of someone's sex fantasy," Hank says. "That's what fantasy is, right? You can think about whatever crazy shit you want, and it doesn't hurt anybody. That's fine."
It's a relief to hear. "It wasn't only that," Connor says.
"O...kay? What

else, then? You also don't gotta tell me anything, I just..." Hank shrugs. "I don't know, it's hard to hear without being curious. It's not the sort of thing I hear often. Not the sort of thing I hear at all."
"You remember the video you made for me?"
Hank raises an eyebrow.

"Which one?"
Connor blinks at him, confused. "The one you made because I requested it; I know it wasn't for me, not really, but I wanted it to be. I turned it into something that was." He wants to continue; as vulnerable as he feels, telling Hank about what he'd done, he knows he

deserves to hear it. Still, he's too curious to let the question go unasked. "What other video would I mean?"
Hank grins at him. "That one I made after we met before, where I pulled a bunch of my records to tap on and recommend. I realized, as I was figuring out which albums to

feature, that I was picking things I thought you'd like. Or that you'd find interesting, at least. They were both for you, I guess."
"You did that for me?"
Hank licks his lips and glances away. "When I was a kid--in high school, I mean--when you liked someone, you made them a

tape, or a CD I guess, once those were easier to burn, with music you thought they'd like, or that you thought would impress them, or a bunch of songs that you'd arrange just right so they'd understand how you felt about them. You'd trade them with friends, or you'd make them for

a roadtrip, or give them to a boyfriend or girlfriend or whatever and fill them with songs that made you think of them." He shrugs. "I kinda did that with that video, without really thinking about it at first."
"What message were you trying to send?"
Hank takes a deep breath,

letting it out in a loud, long exhale. "Well," he says, stroking his fingers through Connor's hair, "I already thought maybe I'd upset you, by talking about all those thirsty-ass comments about stripping wires and all. So it was kind of an apology, putting together something we'd

talked about that you'd seemed interested in. But I had that same sort of feeling I remember having back then, where I didn't really know what you'd like, but I knew I wanted to show you something interesting, maybe help you get started figuring out what kind of music you might

enjoy."
"It did give me some ideas," Connor says. He leans into Hank's touch, closing his eyes as his blunt fingernails scratch gently across his scalp. "That's very sweet of you, Hank." He turns his head, nuzzling his cheek against Hank's palm and kissing it gently. "I should

finish telling you what I did," he says. "I'm still a little worried I was crossing a line, but I think you should probably hear about it."
"Okay," Hank says. He cups Connor's cheek in his hand and brushes his thumb along the outside corner of his eye. "I don't think you're going

to say anything that'll upset me, though."
"I know you might not understand all of what makes the visual component of your videos arousing to androids," Connor says. "Why seeing someone handle delicate wiring would be compelling sexual content."
"You're still going to give me

some pointers, right? For when I make that special video for you. I want to make sure I'm doing it right."
Connor nods eagerly. "Of course. But I assume you might have a better understanding of why your voice is so appealing to me." He pauses for a moment, then decides to

continue before Hank can find some way to argue about the attractiveness of his voice. "The way you speak in your videos--low and gentle, a little rough at times--is intimate and arousing on its own, but it's the way you talk to the items you restore that caught my attention, as

well."
"I get it," Hank says, with a soft huff of laughter. "You like it when I sweet-talk the stereos."
"It was easy, hearing you do that, to imagine you talking like that to me." Connor turns his attention back to Hank's shirt, undoing the next two buttons so he doesn't have to

look at him directly when he tells him what he's done. "So I isolated your voice and edited it into a narrative, of sorts, so I could..." he trails off, pressing his face into Hank's chest.
"So you could...?" Hank prompts. "I'm not mad, if that helps. Just curious."
"I played it

back while I masturbated and tried to pretend it was you touching me," he says, his words tumbling out in a rush. "I opened myself up and wished it was you with your hand in my wires, praising me and bringing me pleasure and making me feel safe. I wanted it to feel real."

Hank's silent for a moment as he digests this, his hand a firm weight on Connor's shoulder. "You get that having a fantasy about me that's so elaborate you make a sex tape out of my voice is super hot, and not something to get mad about, right?" he says, finally.
"I thought it

might be a little weird," Connor mumbles into Hank's undershirt.
Hank snorts dismissively. "C'mere," he says, sitting up and patting his thigh; Connor happily accepts the invitation and settles himself in Hank's lap.
"Listen," Hank says. He takes Connor's hand, then trails soft

kisses up the underside of his arm, from his wrist to his elbow. "I don't mind weird. Sometimes I prefer it, even. But you know what's way more sexy than it is weird?"
"Tell me," Connor says. He can guess, of course, but he wants to hear it.
"First," Hank says, punctuating his

point by rubbing his knuckles over Connor's nipple and grinning when he inhales sharply in response, "is you. Second is you getting yourself off, whether that's by opening yourself up and tugging on some wires or, uh, you know, the way I just got you off."
"Both," Connor

interrupts him to say. "It was both at once, I was greedy. I didn't want to choose one way for you to touch me."
"Fuck," Hank breathes. "Yeah, and that third thing that's more hot than weird is you getting yourself off and wishing I was the one touching you instead." He rests

his hands low on Connor's hips, squeezing gently as he holds him close. "I know I mentioned it before, but I mean it: if you want to tell me what to do sometime, how to touch you inside so I don't fuck anything up in there, I'm happy to learn." He kisses Connor's temple, lips

brushing the soft glow of his LED. "I've been told I'm a quick study."
"With machines, or with pleasing a partner?"
"Both," Hank says. "I know it's not the same, the sort of shit I repair and what all's inside you, and I'm not trying to say it is, but if there's something I can

do for you, something you know you'll like, I'd like you to show me how to do it. Seems pretty clear that you've liked what we've done so far, but we don't need to limit ourselves to just what I'm familiar with, if you like that other stuff too."
It's deeply gratifying to hear,

not just because Hank seems eager, or at least willing, to learn about a kind of sex that Connor knows many humans would find uncomfortable to contemplate, but because he acts as if it's a given that they'll do this again, that this isn't a one-off experience they'll have before

parting ways at the end of the day. It isn't as if this is the first thing Hank's said today that's indicated his interest in continuing whatever it is that's growing between them, but still, Connor isn't tired of hearing it. He doubts he could ever tire of it.

"I'd like to show you," Connor says. "I will. But there's something else on my mind right now; I fear we've gotten a bit distracted."
"Oh yeah," Hank says, with a chuckle. "What was it I was supposed to do, a minute ago? Let you get on with it?" He slouches a bit, leaning more

heavily against the back of the couch, and gives Connor's ass a gentle tap. Not a slap, nowhere close; only the suggestion of it. Connor finds himself torn between appreciating Hank's restraint and wishing he had been a bit more daring.
"Ask me," he murmurs, as he undoes the

final button on Hank's shirt and pushes it off his shoulders. He sits back, taking a moment to admire the sight of him in his snug undershirt. It clings beautifully to his body, to the slight softness of his chest and the firm swell of his gut. He wants to map out the entirety of

Hank's body with his fingertips, his lips, his tongue. Now isn't the time--he's too impatient to take a leisurely route to the blowjob he's aching to give--but he hopes he'll have the opportunity, soon. He contents himself, for the time being, with squeezing Hank's sides, tracing

his fingers over the hint of a tattoo that peeks out below his collarbone, leaning forward to suck his nipple through the thin cotton.
"Ask me," he says again, when Hank grunts in surprise at the gentle scrape of his teeth. He reaches for Hank's belt, swiftly undoes it and the

button beneath with one hand while he grips Hank's bicep with the other. "You want me to, right?"
Hank nods.
"So ask."
"Christ," Hank breathes. "Fuck." One hand comes to rest on the back of Connor's neck, fingers carding through his hair. "Suck me off, honey," he says, hoarsely.

"Please."
The arousal that's been simmering in Connor's chest swells and expands into a fierce, bright hunger. "Of course," he says, sliding gracefully from Hank's lap to the floor in front of him. He presses his hands to Hank's thighs, nudging them impatiently apart, and kneels

between them.
"I've neglected you," he says, as he eases the zipper of Hank's jeans down and tugs them off his hips, depositing them carelessly on the floor beside him. "This seems like an appropriate way to make it up to you, don't you think?"
Hank swallows and nods. Connor can

see him fight the impulse to protest, to say Connor doesn't need to make up for anything, and he's grateful; there's no reason for Hank to tell Connor he doesn't need to do something they both want.
Connor isn't on his knees in front of Hank because he owes Hank anything.

He's there because he's desperate to feel Hank's pulse leap under his tongue, because he wants to lick the sweat from his skin, because he wants to analyze the precise chemical makeup of his semen and keep that information in the most secure subsections of his memory.

Connor could take a moment to admire Hank's broad and furry thighs, to kiss the edges of the faded tattoo that peeks out from the leg of his faded boxers, to press his mouth to the damp patch where his cock strains against the fabric. He could peel Hank's underwear off slowly,

teasing him with his hands and his tongue before fully taking him into his mouth. He wants, very badly, to do those things.
But not now. Now, he just wants to feel the weight of Hank's cock on his tongue.
"I'd like to take my time with you," Connor says, gazing up at Hank's

flushed face. "See how long I can draw things out before you tell me you can't bear to wait any longer." He wets his lips slowly and watches Hank's nostrils flare as he tracks the motion of his tongue. "But I don't have the patience for that today."
He pulls Hank's cock through

the fly of his boxers, too impatient to tug them off, and sucks the dripping head into his mouth. Hank grunts above him, thighs falling farther apart as he leans back.
"Your fucking mouth, Connor," he groans. "Holy shit." His hand rests lightly on Connor's head, not holding

him in place or pulling his hair, but gently resting as another point of connection between them. "How are you so fucking wet in there?"
He hopes it isn't rude, but Connor can't bear to pull away long enough to respond. He knows he's producing more saliva than normal, as his oral

sensors have marked any sample related to Hank, and especially any ejaculatory or pre-ejaculatory fluids, as highest priority, and if Hank it still curious about it later, he'll be more than happy to tell him. Hank doesn't press the issue, so Connor happily sinks down further,

gripping the base of Hank's cock with one hand as he sucks more of it into his mouth.
It's an incredible feeling. Hank's cock is thick, and it swells further as he takes in more of it; he feels the hot pulse of his heartbeat flutter against his tongue. He feels full, impossibly

so, as he focuses on relaxing his jaw enough to take Hank deeper without scraping him with his teeth. His jaw can't ache or grow tired like this, thankfully, but he still feels the stretch of it, the way he has to make room to take Hank into his body. His mouth is stuffed full of

Hank, his processors are scrambling to analyze and store and create backups of the data he's pulled already--as well as making room for what he hopes to obtain soon--and his scalp prickles with pleasure as Hank's fingers flex in his hair.
Connor moans around Hank's cock as it

nudges the back of his throat, and Hank answers with a deep rumble of approval.
"Jeeeeesus Christ," he groans. "Baby, it's so good, I--I'm sorry, I might not last too long."
He says it like an apology, but Connor takes it as a challenge; he understands the appeal of prolonging

sexual stimulation, and he hopes to have he opportunity to do this for Hank someday, to explore every way he can bring him pleasure and leave him a panting, sweaty wreck begging for release, but in this moment he feels a deeper thrill at the thought of Hank losing control--of him

making Hank lose control. He moans again, hoping Hank will understand it as an invitation to let go, and tightens the seal of his lips as he bobs his head faster.

"Oh god," Hank pants, "fuck, honey, just--just like that." His thighs tense and shake, pressing into Connor's sides.
Connor slips a hand beneath Hank's undershirt, sliding his palm up the firm curve of his gut and admiring the gentle tickle of hair beneath his palm. He flicks a

finger over his nipple, and Hank shudders and moans, thrusting shallowly into Connor's mouth in sharp, erratic bursts. He stutters out a sound that might be Connor's name and comes, flooding Connor's mouth.
Connor's eyes flutter shut as he savors the chemical makeup of Hank's

semen. He allows himself the brief luxury of disabling his auxiliary functions for a few seconds, focusing on inscribing every detail into the deepest, most protected corner of his memory without any distraction from his background processes. There's just the heat of Hank in his

mouth, his rough, ragged breathing, his fingers clumsily petting Connor's hair, and the intimate rush of his data.
Hank's fingers trail down the curve of his ear, after a moment. "Connor, sweetheart," he says, hoarsely, "'m too sensitive, come here." He pats his lap, an

invitation he surely already knows Connor will be eager to accept.
It's with no small reluctance that Connor rises; he'd happily stay where he is indefinitely, mapping the shape of Hank's cock with his tongue until he could become erect again. He knows that middle-aged men often

require several hours between erections, but this doesn't make the idea any less enticing. He tucks the idea away with the intent to revisit it later, with the help of his preconstruction software, and allows himself to be pulled up until he's astride Hank's thighs once more.

Connor's barely settled before Hank grabs his shoulders, crushing their mouths together. The kiss is messy and uncoordinated; Hank thrusts his tongue into Connor's mouth as if he's chasing the taste of his own release and nips his lower lip when he pulls away.
"Holy shit," Hank

says. "Fuck me, Connor, that was--" he kisses him again, then rests his forehead against Connor's as he breathes heavily.
"I did all right then?" Connor asks; the answer's clear, but he wants to hear Hank say it. The part of him designed to drink up praise longs for his approval.

"You sucked my soul out through my goddamn dick, is what you did," Hank says. "'All right' is underselling it, I think." He pets Connor's back in long, smooth strokes and tugs him forward with a hand on the back of his neck until he's nestled in close with his chin on Hank's

shoulder.
"I can only assume I'll get better with practice," Connor says. "You'll have to let me know how my performance improves."
"Well, don't--don't call it that," Hank says. "I'm not gonna give you a report card, although if I was you'd have an A+ anyway. But Jesus, Connor,

if you get any better at that you'll have me going off in thirty seconds. I'm already a little, uh." He chuckles self-consciously. "I'm not usually a come-in-ninety-seconds kind of guy, so that's a little embarrassing. I like to think I have more staying power than that."

It was eighty-four seconds between Connor initially taking Hank into his mouth and the moment of ejaculation, but Connor's fairly certain now is not the time to offer a correction.
"I don't find it embarrassing," Connor says. He turns his head so he's speaking into the warm

curve of Hank's neck, where he can feel the comforting brush of his beard against his cheek and his lips can brush against Hank's pulse. "I would have been happy if it had taken you longer to reach climax, because the experience of performing oral sex was as enjoyable as I'd

expected--more enjoyable, to be honest, and my expectations were high--but that doesn't mean I'm disappointed. The thought that you were aroused enough by my actions to orgasm unusually quickly is erotic in its own right." He brushes his fingertips over Hank's nipple,

a feather-light touch that still makes his pulse race. "I do have thoughts on extending the process, if that's something you'd like to explore in the future. I can monitor your physical responses closely enough to adjust the intensity of sexual stimulation as needed to prolong

the experience and delay orgasm."
Hank makes a low, strangled sound deep in his chest that Connor chooses to interpret as approval.
"But you coming quickly isn't a disappointment. As long as I brought you pleasure, that's what matters to me."
"You did that, no question," Hank

says. "I don't know the last time I've felt this good, honestly. Feels like I could just lean over and fall asleep."
Connor likes the thought of that, of Hank stretched out asleep on his sofa in the early afternoon sun, soft and relaxed because of something Connor did. Because of

what they just experienced together.
"You're welcome to," he says. "I could lie down with you, or give you space, whatever you like. But if you're tired, I'd be happy to have you sleep here for a while."
"It's tempting," Hank says. "Even though naps fuck me up when it's time to

sleep at night, I'd love to curl up with you for a bit. I'm a cuddler after sex, if you couldn't tell."
"I hadn't noticed," Connor says smoothly, wrapping his arms more tightly around Hank's back.
"Okay, smartass," Hank grumbles. "I guess it's pretty obvious." He sighs, a long

exhale that ruffles Connor's hair. "I'd rather stay here for a while, I really would, but I should probably get going soon. Sumo's old enough that I don't like to leave him alone too long, or else I'll come home to piss on the floor and a sad old man pretending he has no idea who

left a mess in the house. I'm not trying to cut and run, but I don't want to stress him out either."
"You love him," Connor says. It's a disappointment, sure, but a minor one, and knowing Hank's so devoted to his dog's comfort lessens the sting until it's barely there at all.

"He's a good boy," Hank says in agreement. "He was there for me when I couldn't do much more than drag myself out of bed in the morning, he helped me get my shit together, so I figure he deserves everything I can give him."
"He does. I like you here with me, of course,

but I understand. I wouldn't want him upset or uncomfortable." He considers adding "I can understand why he'd feel that way after being away from you for long," but ultimately discards it; even if he's pretty certain, by now, that Hank will want to spend time together again in

the future, he's not sure it's an appropriate sentiment to share just yet.
"Guess that means I should put some clothes back on," Hank says. He lifts Connor's chin and kisses him gently, almost chastely, on the mouth. "And kick you out of my lap."
"You should."
"In a minute."

He kisses Connor again.
It's a full five minutes later that Connor can bear to stop kissing Hank long enough to remind him that he was going to leave. "I don't want to kick you out," he says, "but I know you said--"
"No, I should go," Hank says. "You're just a hard guy to leave."

They get dressed in a companionable silence. Connor briefly considers remaining naked for the rest of the day, or grabbing his robe from the closet and lounging around in that, but he wants to escort Hank back downstairs and while nudity isn't taboo in his building the way it

would be in a more human-focused apartment, he's not as interested in walking through the public areas fully or partially nude as he knows some of his neighbors are. Connor doesn't have the same sort of shame or self-consciousness surrounding his own naked body that many humans

are raised to have, but that doesn't mean he has no feelings about it at all.
Instead, Connor folds up the clothes he'd been wearing earlier and pulls out a pair of lightweight violet leggings and a soft, oversized gray sweater, more informal than what he generally wears outside

but perfect for spending the rest of the day at home. He knows he's going to need some time, once Hank's gone, to properly absorb all that's happened today, so he may as well do it in comfort.
Hank's staring at him when he turns around after pulling the leggings on. "Those, uh."

He gestures at Connor's legs. "Those look really good on you."
"Do they?"
Hank crowds into Connor's space, reaching under the long hem of his sweater to gently squeeze the curve of his ass. "Yeah. I'll admit, they don't leave much to the imagination and I like that, but the

color's good too."
Connor presses a hand to Hank's chest, feeling the rise and fall of his breath and the constant, reassuring thrum of his heartbeat. "I'll be sure to wear them next time I see you, then."
"I'm pretty sure I'd like you in anything," Hank says, "but if you show up

in something like that, you'll make my day." He kisses Connor's forehead. "When, uh. When do you think we should do this again? Any of this, not just--" he shakes his head. "Sorry, I'm a little out of practice here. I just don't want to leave things to chance, next time."

"I don't either," Connor says. "Chance has served us surprisingly well so far, but I'd rather not depend on it. I'm sure you're busy, but I'd enjoy seeing you again soon."
"Not too busy for you." Hank rests his hand over top of Connor's and laces their fingers together. "Tell you

what, my calendar and all the shit I use to keep track of my projects are in the workshop; I don't keep much of that information on my phone, even though I probably should. Let me take a look when I get home and I'll let you know, okay?"
"I'd like that," Connor says.

"Hank, I don't--I've never done this before. Not just sexual activity, but any of this, spending time romantically with someone." He laughs softly, leaning into Hank's shoulder. "I'm sure 'spending time romantically' is a ridiculous thing to call it, sorry, but that's my point,

I suppose. I know some people consider it unattractive to be too eager, but I have to admit that I'm already impatient to see you again, before you've even left. I don't think it's something I could hide very well."
"Good thing I like eager, then," Hank says. "Don't you worry

about that. Don't try to hide it either." He lifts Connor's chin and brushes their noses together before giving him a sweet, slow kiss, then steps away to grab his coat. "It feels good, you know? And it means I don't feel weird telling you I'm pretty fucking eager to do this

again, too. If you're doing it wrong, so am I, so it all evens out." He holds out his hand. "You want to be a proper gentleman and walk me out?"
"Of course," Connor says, lacing their fingers together. It helps, knowing Hank feels a similar level of anticipation for whenever

they're able to do this again. It helps, too, that he has the span of a few minutes to pull as many measurements and as much sensory data from Hank's hand wrapped around his as possible.
They ride the elevator in silence, and Hank returns to the security kiosk without being

prompted, placing his palm down for another scan before he leaves. "I hate that it's necessary," he says, when the machine beeps approvingly at him, "but I'm glad it keeps you safe."
"Safe enough," Connor says. "I know this place has problems, but I've never felt unsafe. And I

have friends here too, now, so..." he shrugs. "I think it's the best place for me to be. It felt lonely for a long time, but even that's starting to change."
He isn't sure he's ready to talk about all of this with Hank, the way he feels disconnected from other people so

much of the time, even now. He doesn't know why it feels easier to be with Hank than it has with anyone else. None of this is appropriate to discuss now, so he sets these thoughts aside for later. There will be time later to explain all of this to Hank, if he wants to.

The wind has picked up speed, enough to blow Hank's coat open the moment he steps outside, and while the sun's still out it does little to add any warmth to the air. Hank grimaces and fishes his gloves out of his coat pocked as they walk to his car.
"Tell Sumo I said hello,"

Connor says, as they come to a stop. Hank jingles his keys in his pocket and nods, shifting his weight between his feet as if he's nervous. "And give him a treat on my behalf."
"That old dog's already wild about you," Hank says, in a mock-grumble. "You're just going to

spoil him."
"Good," Connor says. He tugs Hank close by his collar for a kiss. "He deserves to be spoiled." He slips his hand into Hank's pocket as they kiss again, pressing his first two fingers against his phone long enough to connect it to his messaging system.

"Let me know when we can do this again," Connor murmurs, when Hank reluctantly breaks the kiss. "I'm in your contacts now, so you can message me as soon as you figure it out."
"I will," Hank says. "Maybe just to say hi, too, if you want."
"Of course," Connor says. "I'd love to

hear from you anytime."
"Good." Hank pulls out his keys with an apologetic half-smile. "Thanks for today, Connor. It wasn't what I expected when I left the house this morning, but..." his smile softens. "But it was good. I'm glad we ran into each other again."
"Me too," Connor

says. He doesn't reach for Hank again; he doesn't want to delay him any further, not when Sumo's health and comfort are his priority. As much as he wants to spend more time with Hank, he values the bond he and Sumo have, and he wants to respect that.
Plus, he trusts Hank when he

says he'll reach out to Connor soon. It's easier to let him go when he knows they'll see each other again, not by chance but by design.
Hank gives him a little wave as he gets into the car, and again as he pulls out of the parking lot, and Connor watches until his car passes

through the next traffic light and out of sight.
He messages Gina as he walks back inside. <<Are you busy right now? I have some personal news I'd like to share.>>
<<Yeah, I just got home,>> she sends back. <<You want to drop by? Everything okay?>>
<<I had sex with Hank,>> Connor

says. It's blunter than is polite, perhaps, but Connor's too struck by the events of the day and far too eager to tell someone about what happened to do anything but get directly to the point.
Far too eager to tell a friend, specifically. It's pleasing in a different way,

of course, but he finds himself just as happy to discuss Hank with Gina as he does to have spent time with Hank in the first place.
Gina's response comes through as a burst of confused excitement that only eventually coalesces into a <<WHAT?>>
<<I'll come up,>> Connor transmits,

as he walks swiftly to the elevator. <<I'll explain when I get there.>> He ignores the reply of <<YOU'D BETTER.>> that comes as he's selecting her floor.
"What the hell did you get up to today?" Gina asks, opening the door to her apartment before Connor has the chance to knock.

"I don't want to be nosy, but--"
"Yes you do," Connor says, laughing as he settles into one of the comfy chairs.
"I do," she agrees. "So?"
"I got so excited the first time he kissed me that I tore his shirt," Connor says, "if that gives you any indication as to how things went."

"Tell me everything," Gina says, grinning. "Start at the beginning, though."
So Connor does.

Hello friends! This is the end of Chapter 5. Two important notes:
I am going on vacation tomorrow and will be taking at least a week off before I start Chapter 6. This was a LONG chapter and it will be nice to take a break while I plot out the next one and get this one up on AO3.

ALSO: when I resume I will start a new thread, because this one is so goddamn long at this point it's ridiculous! I will quote the first tweet of it as a reply here so it should be easy enough to find.
(also also: thanks as always for reading and commenting, it means a lot.💗)

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