PSL; [It's bigger than us, it's bigger than everything]

[bleps]

((ooc; cont. from here))

[Anything happening within the walls of Hank's house is now being shattered by the blaring of the doorbell. Once, twice, a third time for a bit longer. Less an actual doorbell and more of a buzzer, a harsh thing that is sure to grab the attention of anyone possessing a heartbeat within. The very obvious sign of someone (a certain RK800 unit) at the door, hoping to find the Lieutenant at his home if he cannot be located at his usual haunts. The sort that serves alcohol, mainly.]

Lieutenant?

[The voice should ring familiar, if not slightly muffled by the obstruction before him. Connor stands waiting, straight-backed, staring at the closed door like the obstacle it is to his entry. The usual curl of hair that falls across his forehead sways in the breeze as he waits, only half-patiently.]

Lieutenant! [The downwards cant of his head, just slightly, eyes averted to the side; the look of someone listening for noise within.] Are you home?

Comments

[bleps]

[Actually using the front door is a nice change. Seeing Sumo in his periphery, past the edge of the sleek console screen blocking his view, is also something that sparks a strange eagerness in him. (I like dogs, he once stated simply to Hank, and that was far from an over-exaggeration.)

But Connor manages to slip through and place everything on the table, with an enviable lack of real effort, shifting a few of Hank's things aside.]

Not very long. A few minutes at the most.

[But first thing's first: Connor's hands now free, he crouches down, and opens his arms towards Sumo in the universal gesture for "come here!"] Hello, Sumo.

[Priorities. He didn't get to see him the last time.]

[fuck1ngusernam3]

[Hank lets go of Sumo and watches him go over, tail wagging, to snuffle against his shoulder. Greeting Sumo that way may or may not have been a mistake; Hank knows from experience how much drool Connor is going to have all over him.]

He likes you. It's weird - I'd of thought he'd be freaked out by someone who doesn't have a smell.

[bleps]

I'm almost certain he can scent where I've been-

[Oh, it's Sumo against his shoulder. Words leave him, his focus on the overlarge dog instead; responding to Hank has been shuffled down in the priority list.

Connor smiles, scratching at Sumo's head. What a good dog. If he gets slobber on his jacket, it is of absolutely zero consequence to this particular android.]

[fuck1ngusernam3]

[Hank huffs, watching them, and realizes he's grinning. If he wondered whether he made the right choice these past couple days, this would probably be enough to reassure them. He leaves the two of them to it, going over to the table to dump all his leftovers in the trash. Take your time, Connor. Hank will just be over here looking for something kind of similar to real food to eat.]

[bleps]

[At some point, Connor will remember that he has a job to do, and it's with a little bit of hesitance that he detaches himself from Sumo, muttering something along the lines of he’ll pet him again later, and shifts his focus to actually setting up everything he’s bought over. It’s true, he has slobber on his jacket and on one side of his face, now— but Connor cares about that as much as he cares about getting rained on. Not at all.

He’ll not say anything at first, just the rustling of movement as everything is pieced together. And it ends up being the case that he’s glad he brought a few extra cables, a few extra adaptors, because Hank was hardly joking when he said he had only the basic of technological amenities.

While connecting something to the back of the console itself, he says-]

Lieutenant, is there a reason why you shun technological advancement in your home?

[Minus the RK800 working in his living room, that is.]

[fuck1ngusernam3]

[Hank takes a bite of what he found - a sandwich of unknown pedigree and age - and wanders over to drop a fast food napkin next to Connor. If Connor seems to wonder why it's there Hank will gesture at the place on his own face where Connor's is covered in dog spit.]

Why shouldn't I? Old fashioned shit works just fine, no matter what companies these days want you to think. It's crazy that people think they gotta play into that shit just to keep up with the Joneses, or whatever.

[bleps]

[The napkin does inspire a quizzical look, and when Hank gestures to his own face he understands. He wipes the excess slobber off of his cheek, taking a short reprieve to look at the other man questioningly.

There's a contradiction in that reasoning. Hank might be able to see the way Connor pins it down in his head, gaze uncertain.]

What year were you born in?

[He knows, of course. Has Hank's file absolutely memorized. It sounds like a question that's fishing for a wider point.]

[fuck1ngusernam3]

[Hank tilts his head and makes a face at Connor. Rude. He sees where this is going and it is rude, Connor, and also unappreciated.]

The year dinosaurs started roaming the earth. What do you think? You've accessed my file.

[If you want to make this point, Hank's not going to do any of the work for you.]

[bleps]

[Well the other option is just to barrel through to said point, which Connor does a thousand times better than subtlety anyway.]

Your age aligns with a time period in which technological advancement was not only constantly changing, but increasingly widespread. Your use of the phrase "old fashioned" is very ironic.

[T minus ten seconds until Connor officially labels you as an old hipster, Hank.]

[fuck1ngusernam3]

[No. No. He's done nothing. There's no reason to call him out this way.]

Yeah? Maybe it just means I saw firsthand how stupid people can get over this shit. Just because I grew up with it doesn't mean I have to love it.

[bleps]

[It's inevitable. It's happening.]

So you lean into technology that was prevalent from before you born, as a consequence?

[He doesn't necessarily mean the network set-up this time. More like the record collection, and the man's impractical car.]

[fuck1ngusernam3]

[No. Refuse.]

Well, people have been using - [Using what? Hank hesitates for a second.] - uh, bread, right, since before recorded history, and no one's decided that's useless and's got to go. Except those assholes who wrap their pitas in lettuce but fuck them, they don't count. Is all my stuff time locked or something, I gotta worship at the altar of wi-fi and throw away all my records?

[bleps]

[Too late.

Hank... he could poke so many holes in that argument it'd look like swiss cheese when he was done with it. Connor looks at him for a long moment, then returns to working at unwrapping a long cord from its circular, wound-up form.]

People still eat bread, Hank. Your example would've been better employed if you used... laserdiscs as an example; but I suppose that would also be incorrect, because they are an old, dated mode of video formatting, and no one uses them except those who want to...

[Pause.] Make a point about something. Or simply enjoy the aesthetic of items that are no longer used.

[h i p s t e r]

[fuck1ngusernam3]

[Hank hears the word that was not said. He hears it.]

Oh my god. Are you calling me a hipster, you little shit?

[Hank flicks his hand toward the back of Connor's head, wanting to give him a little tap and hopefully mess up his hair.]

You shut your damn dirty mouth. And there's nothing wrong with liking the way something feels, okay? My records sound different from downloaded music, you listen to them and tell me they don't.

[bleps]

[It's felt, that little annoyed tap on the back of his head, and Hank's successful in rustling a few strands of otherwise perfect hair out of place. Connor looks at him, frowning faintly, running a hand over his head to smooth it down.]

So you're able to identify the difference between analog and digital music?

[It's not impossible, but that's a talent dedicated to true audiophiles, and he wonders, briefly, if Hank qualifies. But if he can't, this completely negates the man's whole point.]

[fuck1ngusernam3]

Yeah. [He says it defiantly, and not a little smugly.] I can.

[Pretty much only at his house, where his speakers are good enough. Nowhere else. But Connor doesn't need to know that.]

And I never claimed to like it 'before it was cool' and I've never worn a manbun and it's been a long time since I always wore plaid. So. Not a hipster, alright?

[Maybe Hank's a little stuck on this.]

[bleps]

[The way Hank answers so confidently is an answer on its own. He doesn't think he's bluffing. All right, point in his favor.

Still unwrapping that cord, slowly, Connor finally gets around to plugging it into the adaptor.]

I'm sorry. I didn't realize you were so sensitive about this topic, Lieutenant. Forget I said anything.

[Connor is so frustratingly plain-spoken, so very clear in his politeness and geniality that it's difficult to tell if he's being judgmental, sincere, or vaguely amused. It's almost as if he does it on purpose.]

[fuck1ngusernam3]

[Since they're already going at each other, Hank decides to go ahead and assume the latter and that this is a pointed comment, too. It'd feel weird for Connor to give up that easily.]

And now you're calling me sensitive! Tell me something, Connor, be straight with me. Do you ever stop?

[Despite his outraged tone, he's smiling a little. Hank tries to figure out a way to get away with messing Connor's hair up again - it might be the only kind-of-sure way to get to him.]

[bleps]

Stop what?

[Feign obliviousness, that works, right?

The hair would be one way to go about it. It's too perfect all the time to assume that Connor doesn't put some mode of effort into keeping it that way.]

[fuck1ngusernam3]

That! That. Right the fuck there.

[Hank puts a hand on the table and leans in to watch what Connor's doing, relaxed enough by the conversation to leave Connor almost no personal space at all.]

What do you think I mean, stop what.

[bleps]

[Connor leans back a little, fingers stilling around the cord. He blinks at Hank, putting all effort of processing into the most android-y poker face known to man.]

I don't know. That's why I asked for clarification.

[fuck1ngusernam3]

[Hank doesn't lean back when Connor does, just keeps looking at him. He tries not to smile, and partly fails.]

Don't make me doubt myself, come on. Smart guy like you, I think you can figure out exactly what I mean.

[bleps]

[He tilts his head, ever so slightly. The smile is not missed, and Connor -- surprisingly to even himself -- has to fend off the threat of his own lips quirking up. He fails, only by the tiniest, tiniest of degrees.]

I'm sorry, I really don't know what you mean, Hank. Do you want me to stop conversing about your purposefully outdated tastes in technology? You only have to say so.

a hank situation I never expected: i actually need more smile icons

[fuck1ngusernam3]

'Purposefully outdated,' come on. No, you come at me all you want, you just admit that that's what it is you're doing.

:D sometimes he can be happy

[bleps]

You’re reading into intent that doesn’t exist. What would be the point of me doing that?