[The hours move by, steady as they often do. Connor does not feel the same mode of awkwardness as Hank does, finding little issue with him simply sitting on the floor while the other man eventually falls asleep. He has Sumo, after all, to keep him company; he pets him for a while, looking forward at an utterly nondescript part of the wall. Turns his gaze towards the mundane furnishings of the room, the plain, old clock ticking away. The bag, full of items that Hank had purchased for him, the itemized promises of a future beyond tonight within it.
Eventually Connor does get up. Moves about, quietly, reads what's on Hank's phone regarding coding (basic, really), fiddles with the USB and adapter, going through all that's there, too. Thinking. Extrapolating. Judging via percentages chances of successful application.
Sometimes he looks at the door, wondering just how long before someone finally finds them. And then he wonders if that's just wayward emotion, scrounging up something as unwanted as paranoia in his mind. Maybe. Hard to say; deviancy makes emotion and logic all tangled up and difficult to peel one away from the other. Nothing is quite as straightforward as it used to be.
Morning comes. Early. Hank's blinking awake, and Connor is standing at his bedside, leaning a little over him, and speaks a greeting that's maybe a little more enthusiastic than the man is ready for.]
Good morning, Hank. Did you sleep well?
[The day might as well be reset; Connor's hair is perfect again.]
no subject
Eventually Connor does get up. Moves about, quietly, reads what's on Hank's phone regarding coding (basic, really), fiddles with the USB and adapter, going through all that's there, too. Thinking. Extrapolating. Judging via percentages chances of successful application.
Sometimes he looks at the door, wondering just how long before someone finally finds them. And then he wonders if that's just wayward emotion, scrounging up something as unwanted as paranoia in his mind. Maybe. Hard to say; deviancy makes emotion and logic all tangled up and difficult to peel one away from the other. Nothing is quite as straightforward as it used to be.
Morning comes. Early. Hank's blinking awake, and Connor is standing at his bedside, leaning a little over him, and speaks a greeting that's maybe a little more enthusiastic than the man is ready for.]
Good morning, Hank. Did you sleep well?
[The day might as well be reset; Connor's hair is perfect again.]