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

[fuck1ngusernam3]

Yeah.

[Hank eyes him for another couple seconds, trying to decide whether to count that as a real answer. Finally he straightens up, giving Connor back the personal space he stole, and raises his hand as he does it, using an attempt at an affectionate headrub to try and run Connor's hair, from the back of his head to the top, in the wrong direction.]

Yeah.

[His voice softens.]

You're not half bad at it, you know. This partner thing.

[bleps]

[The acceptance is enough to spark a smile — to spark something feeling like contentedness in friendship. If he were so brave to label it as such, one might even call it emotion.

But then Hank runs his hand through his hair completely the wrong way, and Connor is thoroughly derailed by the gesture.]

Lieutenant-!

[A hand flies up to his own head, pressed against his scalp, as if that would somehow help undo the damage; too late. Strands of hair across his forehead, locks sticking out at wrong angles.]

That’s highly unnecessary!

[He doesn’t sound even close to actually upset, though.]

[fuck1ngusernam3]

[Hank laughs. It's weird. It's not like he doesn't laugh, like he can't joke around with people, but it feels like it's been a while since he's laughed so many times in such a short period. Usually he's chatting with people at lunch, or at a bar, friendly and brief and then everyone gets back to their business.

So. It's weird. But appropriate. Connor looks amazing.]

Oh my god, that was even more worth it than I thought it'd be. And educational. I thought it would feel more like doll hair.

[bleps]

[If by “amazing” you mean utterly terrible!!

Connor attempts to smooth his hair down, only half-successful in taming it. There’s still bits that stick out across his forehead, instead of the usual solitary piece. It never even looks this mussed after rough fight.

He glances up at Hank through it all. Hears his laughter, and wonders just when was the last time he sounded like that; Connor can’t remember, not in the time that they’ve worked together. It’s strange, but nice in its own way. Good to see, instead of the usual gruff frowns and sarcastic quips.]

Now that you’ve been “educated”, I would request that you refrain from doing that from now on. This isn’t very presentable.

[fuck1ngusernam3]

Come on, look at me. [He gestures at himself, his hair.] That's plenty presentable. You look... I don't know what the kids are doing with their hair now, you look... stylish, or something.

[bleps]

I wasn’t designed to be stylish. I was designed to be approachable and—

[He moves a hand up to fix his hair. It just falls back into place.]

—professional-looking.

[fuck1ngusernam3]

Well, maybe some variety's good for you every once in a while.

[He watches Connor try to fix his hair.]

That really bother you that much?

[bleps]

It’s like having a part out of alignment.

[Not surprising, maybe. Connor always looks so clean-cut and neat. Tie always straight, the lines of his jacket contoured against his form.]

But “bother” might be too strong of a word.

[fuck1ngusernam3]

You're not gonna get much sympathy here, Connor. I'm in my fifties; most of my parts are out of alignment. But I could probably dig out some hair gel if you really want. It might smell kind of funky, but it probably still works.

[bleps]

[“Smells kinda funky” is not the most shining endorsement for your hair gel, Hank.]

...it’s fine. It’s something that can be fixed later; for now, I think it’d be prudent for me to get this console running.

[fuck1ngusernam3]

[That's what happens when it sits in a closet for years, although some people at the station probably wouldn't be surprised if they heard gossip that Hank went around the supermarket deliberately picking up things that smelled weird.]

Yeah.

[Back to business.]

It's not gonna be like a real, uh- a real android brain, is it? This thing you're going to run the program through? Just a simulation?

[bleps]

[Back to business, indeed. Fiddling with the equipment in a more expedient manner now, never mind the state of his hair.]

Just a simulation. As I said, the results may not be as accurate compared to if we were using an actual android, but... well. This is the best option for now.

[Meaning the only option they have left, really.]

[fuck1ngusernam3]

[Hank nods and decides to shut up for a little bit, letting Connor work.]

[bleps]

[And work he does, until everything is set up and ready to be initiated. It’s as straightforward as Connor said it would be, and the simulation runs its course easily enough — and when that’s through, Dave’s code is applied as it would be in practice.

Lines and lines of code unravel on the screen, again and again. Too fast for human eyes to comprehend, but Connor latches onto each and every one, looking for inconsistencies, errors, anything.

And there’s nothing.

He runs it more than once. The result is the same each time — the successful application of a personality modification, with no hiccups, and certainly no compounding errors as worrisome as deviancy.

He shakes his head, at some point having sunken into the sofa, leaning back.]

Maybe I missed something.

[The first five times through.]

[fuck1ngusernam3]

[Hank stopped watching after the first couple times but once Connor seems like he's accepted what was already obvious, Hank wanders back over.]

Connor, if you didn't see it, it's not there. I think you were right the first time you looked at it - the code's good.

[bleps]

Then we’re back to the beginning, Hank. No leads, no clues. Just-

[He gestures at the monitor, still flickering with lines of code that is showing them absolutely nothing of value.]

-another waste of time.

[Any sense of good humor garnered earlier in the day has petered out completely. Connor is left with frustration, setting his jaw and glancing over at Hank.]

We’re running out of options.

[fuck1ngusernam3]

[Hank taps the back of the couch behind Connor's head, sucks at his teeth. Not yet, he can't say. We're not totally out of options.]

Sumo. Come on. Up.

[Hank pats his thigh, then pats the back of the couch next to where Connor sits. Sumo hops up, moving to investigate the android in his spot and to, Hank is pretty sure, lay his whole heavy body over that spot anyway, no matter what might be in his way. Hank takes a bracing breath. He doesn't really feel any more braced after he's done it.]

You've got a perfect memory, right? You go over everything we've learned so far, everything. Every little detail. If there's something there we missed, you'll find it. In the meantime, I- I'll go back to Dave's, see if he can't confirm for us that there was nothing weird on that drive. Maybe he'll tell me something new he didn't wanna say that night. I'll be back in, uh. In a little while, okay? Then we'll talk over our options.

We have a day, okay? We still have time before we have to have everything figured out. You're not done yet.

[bleps]

[He watches idly as Sumo draws near, investigating, only for the large dog to lay himself directly across Connor, as if he wasn’t even there at all. He sinks even deeper into the couch, the weight not so bothersome so much as the surprise of it, though he can’t say he really minds it. Not after a night like tonight.

He places a hand on Sumo’s head, scratching behind his ears. Hank has a point, of course, and there’s nothing to do but go over all the smallest details of what they know. If he can pluck out anything at all from his experiences that might tell them where to go from here. Maybe something stashed away in the evidence room—

Connor turns his head when Hank mentions leaving to go see Dave. While not unwise to follow up on this not-lead, he wonders at the suddenness of it.]

I can go with you. [His brow cinches. He can think and recall on the way over, surely.]

[fuck1ngusernam3]

Yeah, I know.

[His hand moves closer to Connor, then hesitates. If this goes badly - or if it goes well, but Connor hates him afterward - this could be the last time they really talk. It could be the last time they do anything. His hand moves, tries to settle itself on the back of Connor's neck.]

But it's been a longer day for you than me. You should take a load off, make sure your circuits don't pop from stress, or something.

[If he's been allowed to cup the back of Connor's neck he'll squeeze a little, gently. If he hasn't he'll pat the back of the couch next to Connor's head.]

If you trust me, just... trust me when I say we'll figure this out. And trust that I know what I'm doing.

[bleps]

[The touch isn’t expected, not completely, but it is allowed. And it’s a grounding thing; coupled with Hank’s request to trust him, all he can do is nod.

Of course he trusts him.]

...all right. I’ll be here if you need me, but return as soon as you can. We can talk through what we know.

[fuck1ngusernam3]

[He takes another unsuccessful, bracing breath. It's time to go, before his nerves get bad enough that all those advanced detecting functions break through Connor's funk to detect them.]

Yeah. We'll talk.

[So. He goes. He goes to get dogfood first, which feels fucking bizarre, but he needs time to call Dave's burner phone anyway. So he shops for dogfood, and he shops for soup. It's hard deciding whether to bring Sumo - he knows he shouldn't, that his presence will make them more recognizable, but calling someone to take care of him will let people know Hank's planning on going away, which will cost him precious time in which Hank is hoping Fowler will assume he just decided not to come in for a while. It happens sometimes. Hank kind of has the sense that some time soon even the dregs of Fowler's pity for him will drain away and that'll be it for Hank's job, but as long as that doesn't happen tomorrow it won't actually matter.

Dave has at least some of what he needs. After an angry lecture about getting impatient and practically getting beaten around the head with the fact that not everything he wanted is done, Hank gets the parts he needs and the lessons on how to use them. He even practices a little. Then he pulls the elbow length gloves off, and he drives home. Groceries go in the trunk. Most of the rest goes on the passenger seat. Some of it goes in his pocket.]

Hey, Connor. [It's easier to be steady now. That doesn't exactly surprise him. It always gets a little easier once shit kicks off.] How are you holding up?

[bleps]

[By the time Hank’s returned home, Connor’s gotten up from the couch (somehow freeing himself from Sumo in a way a man can only guess), and has made his rounds of the living room several times. Going over cases in his mind, details, dialogue, something, anything to go on.

At some point he had stopped walking and the quarter came out — it chimes neatly in the air as Connor flips it and catches it, flips it and catches it, again and again until he hears and sees Hank, then pauses, clutching it in a palm.]

Welcome back, Lieutenant. I’m fine; I’ve just been going over cases in my head, as you suggested. Did you learn anything?

[fuck1ngusernam3]

Maybe, a little. Not sure yet.

[He takes a couple steps closer, very aware of how close he has to be but not wanting to overdo it. He wants to ask Connor what he wants first, anyway, or come as close to it as he can. It's a risk, stupid to not just do this and go, but not even giving Connor a chance to do this willingly feels wrong.]

I'd like to hear what you came up with first, though. Anything?

[bleps]

[“A little” is better than what he has — nothing. “A little” is promising, and it makes Connor’s eyebrows slope upwards slightly as Hank draws near. There’s something serious about his expression, something that looks like consideration, and Connor wonders what it might be. What Dave might have told him.]

...No. Nothing that we haven’t gone over ourselves, a hundred times over. But why don’t you tell me what you’ve learned? Maybe something will connect.

[He tucks the quarter away in his pocket, ready to listen.]

[fuck1ngusernam3]

[Hank takes a couple more steps.]

I gotta ask you something first, Connor.

[His heart's starting to beat a little harder. If it gets any worse he'll have to assume Connor can sense it somehow, the incoming adrenaline, and just move, just do what he has to do, but- not yet. Not just yet.]

Every time you start thinking we're not gonna crack this case, you freak out. Why is that?

[He knows, of course. But he wants Connor to say it.]