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

[Hank opens his mouth to reply, and then doesn't. He sits back. He waits. Whatever Connor wants to do is what they do.

Once Connor's chosen a place to stay Hank takes some money and heads to the nearest couple stores. He doesn't realize he might not have thought this all the way through until he comes back and doesn't know what room Connor's in. Asking the desk clerk where he went might draw attention, and besides, he doesn't really want to. He just searches out the car, leaning against its hood and pulling a bottle of whiskey out of his bag of goodies. Connor will probably come looking for him eventually; until then he'll just be here leaning back, every now and then taking swigs and making faces at the taste.]

[Some people would describe this particular out-of-the-way motel as quaint. Others would care to call it run-down, instead. What matters the most, however, is that it’s discreet, has vacancies, and is detached enough from the goings-on of the city that Connor, as an android, garners only the fewest amount of suspicious glances. It’s only two floors tall, with a too-large parking lot at its center. Their room is on the second floor, and Connor waits for Hank to come back. He hasn’t yet.

He watches the slow-ticking clock on the wall, gauging the time. He hadn’t tried to stop the man when he departed, knowing that Hank could take care of himself, though concern is not something so easily beaten back — most especially given the situation that they’re in, the constant feeling of shadows at their heels, that quiet dread of simply running away from something far from where they are now. A city miles and miles and miles departed.

The hand of the clock crosses a threshold, a point where Connor no longer wishes to simply stand and stare at it. He exits the room, and on the railing that encompasses the whole outer part of the motel’s upper floor, he leans against the rickety metal to look down.

He sees Hank, and a minute later, he’s approaching him. Connor’s removed his jacket, left only with his white dress shirt; the tie’s still missing, too, still lying uselessly across Hank’s backseat.]

Lieutenant. What are doing?

[like, hello??? come inside??]

Waiting for you. Didn't know what room you were in.

[Hank says it distractedly, focusing more on looking Connor over and trying to decide about sizes. He looks thoughtful for a second before he decides to try out the simplest item first, reaching back into his bag and pulling out a pair of large, reflective aviator sunglasses. He starts to move to put them on Connor himself but stops, sunglasses out, his hand about a foot from Connor's face.

The last time, after all, that he touched Connor, it didn't go so well for the guy. Maybe he's lost the right to. Hank's lips twitch into a tight, split second smile before he takes another drink, still holding the glasses up.]

[Connor blinks as the glasses approach his face, and the gesture washes away anything he was going to say regarding finding his room. He doesn't lean away, and he likely wouldn't have done much more than stand there if Hank did put the sunglasses on him, but-

His eyes cast over to the bottle, and he frowns. But a hand, almost automatically, does reach up to take the sunglasses. He turns it over to the reflective side, and sees his own face staring back.]

Am I expected to wear these?

[The qualifies as a strange purchase.]

Well. Unless you want to make some weird modern art with em, but they kinda lose something as a disguise that way.

[Hank decides to wait on the rest. Better hold off until Connor figures out how to wrap his mind around the concept of sunglasses.]

[Slowly, experimentally, he puts them on. He looks at Hank, temporarily transforming into one of Those People who wear their sunglasses at night.]

I'm not certain how well this qualifies as a disguise.

[Hank can't help but smile, huff a little noise that might want to become laughter someday, when it grows up, so he folds his arms over his chest and looks down at them, instead.]

I don't know, I'd look at you and think 'pretentious FBI asshole' before I thought 'android'.

[He tilts his head, hearing the joke in that statement, yet taking it semi-seriously all the same.]

First impressions lose their relevancy the moment my LED is noticed, if it's the appearance of android that we're trying to avoid. It would have to be covered with some kind of [B E A N I E] headwear.

What, think I forgot about your headlight?

[Hank tries to set the bottle down on the car hood, moves quick to intercept when the bottle starts sliding, and digs in his bag one handed, instead. When he brings the fedora out he frowns at the way it's kind of squashed in the bag, but shrugs and offers that too, brim up.]

Might have to tilt it a little, but it should work. I thought it'd go with your whole uh, business casual thing you got going there.

[Connor eyes the fedora with about the same amount of scrutiny that he gave the sunglasses. But he takes the item, putting it neatly on his head, and skews it just enough to hide his LED. A stray stand of brown hair curls out from beneath the brim, though.

Look at him, Hank. Look at this android. Is this really less conspicuous.]

Admittedly this isn’t what I would’ve chose to blend in.

[Hank's lips twitch again.]

No, you look like a totally different person. If anyone recognizes you it's definitely not going to be for what we don't want em to.

[He points at Connor's chest for emphasis, again stopping about a foot short of actually touching him.]

Come on, I'll show you the rest inside.

[He takes another drink, walking over to wait by the steps for Connor to head up, ready to follow him a few steps behind.]

Edited 2018-08-10 22:41 (UTC)

[Connor follows, until it’s his turn to lead, and it isn’t until they’re partway up the steps does he think that he should remove the sunglasses — the lack of light is bothersome in the nighttime.

(Hank is acting strange, but this is a particular difficult baseline to judge him by. It’s a stressful situation that they’re both in, and the man is tired and likely emotionally exhausted; but his gut feeling tells him that it’s something else, the way he looks at him, almost ashamed.)

He’ll wait until they’re inside before he says anything on the matter, though. To their room they go, and Connor opens the door, shutting it once they’re in.

It’s about as nice of a room as one might expect for this place. Which isn’t really all that great, but livable.]

Our room isn’t anything luxurious, but I figure that’s the least of our concerns at the moment.

Yeah. Whatever you want's fine.

[Hank goes around to the other side of the bed, dropping the bag by a pillow and petting Sumo's head. It helps, like it always does, and Sumo gives out a quiet hoof noise once Hank's done. Hank looks for a spot at the head of the bed that's not taken up by dog, finds none, and settles on the floor, setting the bottle between his knees and wrapping his hands around it.]

's more in there.

[The thing on top's a short sleeved button up, bright floral print, probably even louder unfolded than it is in the bag. He's still not sure about this messing with Connor through clothes thing, but the whiskey's been helping him go through with it anyway. It's nice to at least pretend the two of them are cool, for a minute. And he honestly is looking forward to a future where he's convinced Connor to regularly wear even half of that shit.]

[Connor moves over to the bag, giving both Sumo and Hank a glance on the way over. He grabs the first item on top, something very brightly colored, and lifts it up. Gravity unfolds the rest of it, while he holds it up by its sleeves.

A moment passes where Connor is trying to analyze this... shirt. As if there’s a contradiction in there that he’s slowly pulling out, finally forming with words.]

...This is like something you would wear.

[He walks over to where he can see Hank at a better angle.]

And I don’t think this is very ‘business casual’ either.

[He shrugs.]

Gotta change it up. That way no one'll describe you the same way twice. You dress like me, I dress like you, we're invisible. Or uh, the opposite of that, but in the same kinda way. Whatever.

[If Connor cares to look in the bag again a pair of swimming trunks are underneath. They have cartoon robots drawn all over them.]

You’re going to dress like me? You’ll have to cut your hair for that.

[Uh huh.

Connor raises a brow visibly. But then he tosses the shirt neatly onto the bed, and rummages through the bag again.

And here come the robot swim trunks.]

So now going swimming is part of my attempt to blend in?

[~~ok the robots are cute but~~ He’s pretty sure Hank is messing with him now.]

Edited 2018-08-10 23:47 (UTC)

[Hank's already grimacing a little at the suggestion - tease? suggestion - that he cut his hair, because cleancut Hank was a Hank who was going places, who had his whole life ahead of him, and he doesn't really want to look in the mirror and see that. So the grimace at that topic kind of melts naturally into his grimace at the next one, this time born out of something like - okay, exactly like - embarrassment.]

I just... I don't know. You're-

[Free now, he wants to say, and spends a second being glad that shame stopped him. He's not free, not really. He might never be.]

You should get to do things. Fun things. Or just- things, new experiences, whatever. If androids even swim, I mean, if they don't you can just throw that one away, it doesn't matter.

[Connor's suspicions aren't wrong, Hank is in fact messing with him. He is totally messing with him. Except for how he's not.

The robot pattern was a detail he couldn't resist, though.]

[He had been vaguely teasing, the purpose to elicit a somewhat positive reaction — not the expression he continually sees crossing Hank’s face right now.

(New experiences. Connor tries to envision himself at a beach, wearing these swim trunks with robot patterns printed across it, sunglasses perched on his nose, his toes in the damp sand on the shoreline.)]

...I can swim, if I have to.

[He folds the swim trunks, but lets them hang across his arm, while his other hand comes up to pluck the fedora off of his head.]

But you’re planning for a future that isn’t—

[That isn’t his yet. That could be swept away if Cyberlife decided to steal it away from him. But Connor stills his words, deciding to avoid going down that path for now.]

Can I ask you something, Lieutenant?

[Fuck. Whatever follows that last question is going to be serious. He can only put it off a few seconds, but-]

Not that far in the future. There's beaches everywhere. Or uh, pools. Like, less than a day's drive.

[And there goes his procrastination. Hank's lips twist, but it's not like he's going to tell Connor no.]

But uh, yeah, sure. Shoot. Whatever you want.

[He pauses briefly for a second as well, lips pursing. But Connor presses forward past that silence, as he always does.]

Do you regret doing all of this? For me, I mean.

[Not a question made to guilt, or born of irritation. Merely observation based on Hank’s demeanor, and how he proceeds from here is determinant upon it.]

What? No!

[Hank's response is incredulous and instant. Surprised, too; he'd been expecting a harder question.]

Fuck no. If I- If we can pull this off it'll be the best thing I've ever done. One of the best things. What made you wanna ask something like that?

[He blinks, a little startled at the suddenness of the reply.]

I— You’ve been acting strange. And I know that this might be an unfair assessment, given the nature of what we’re doing. That you’re likely stressed and exhausted, but...

[He sensed some form of regret, seen in the microchanges in expression that Connor is so attuned to observe. But maybe he was wrong.]

If something is bothering you, you need to tell me. Communication is key when we’re so reliant on each other like this.

Bothering me?

[Hank leans back from Connor, at least as much as he can, straightens against the wall and watches his hands rub at the bottle between them. He opens his mouth, looking disturbed, and thinks of what exactly to say.]

You know you don't have to be my, like, my therapist anymore, right? You don't have to ask about my feelings, or give a shit about what I eat, or, or make sure everything's okay with me. I might be the only person you've got right now but that doesn't mean you've gotta be- that you've gotta make sure you're my best friend before you know I'm gonna help you. I'm going to help you no matter what. So you can make other friends - I don't know, we'll be moving around a lot, you can meet people so I won't be the only friendly face and then- You can start treating me like the guy who fucked you up, you know that? You do know that you can just- You don't have to pretend that everything's okay with me, it won't hurt your chances at getting away. I wouldn't do that to you. I just- I need to make sure you know that, Connor.

[For the first time in that little speech Hank looks up at him, his hands still rubbing at the bottle, his eyebrows drawn together, waiting for Connor to understand that he doesn't need to ask after Hank, anymore.]

[He listens, brows knitting together deeper and deeper the more Hank explains. He feels a distinct and complete streak of confusion snaking through him; he understands the point that the man is making, but it’s the strange path that led him there that Connor can’t parse. That he simply does not understand.]

I don’t understand. Do you think I’m only pretending that everything is “okay” between you and I?

[He barely gives Hank the time to answer.]

Yes, I was upset about what you had done. What you had planned to do, without giving myself any say in the matter. Without letting me have a choice, merely debilitating me and removing my tracker. Assuming deviancy is what I wanted.

[He shakes his head, glancing down. His eyes focus on the ridiculous pattern of robots on the swim trunks.]

But I’m not angry, not really, any longer. You were doing what you thought was right, not what you thought I wanted, but what you knew I needed. What I was too afraid to pursue. And in doing so, you’ve risked everything for me. This is just as dangerous for you, Hank, as it is for myself.

[He looks at Hank again.]

Do you want... me to stop asking after your feelings? My concern isn’t insincere, but if it’s unwanted, I won’t press it. It’s the least I can do after all you’ve done to help me.

It's not...

[He can't look straight at Connor as he says this. Not the whole time. Not even most of the time, not in more than little glances.]

It's not that I- You should just be angry, you know? I mean, you have a right to be. At me, at Cyberlife, at every human who made your decisions for you instead of letting you just be. You're really just... saying it's okay? Just like that? I don't get it. I guess I never did get it, that whole uh, forgiveness thing. Hey, they say it'll set you free though, so I guess you're on the right track, huh?

Sorry. That was uh, that was uncalled for. I just, I mean- Maybe you can let it go that easy, I don't get how, but maybe you can. But I, that's not how I work. And you - You just got better things to do than worry about me. So every time you ask, uh, how I'm feeling, and all that stuff. It just feels-

It-

[He sags, sounding defeated.]

I don't know.

[Hank pulls a face at his knees, wanting to tell Connor what it feels like to realize someone really, seriously gives a shit, wanting to tell him Hank's going to feel like someone poured something gross all over his insides every time he asks, wanting to make sure Connor knows that Hank doesn't want him to stop. But it's just- He doesn't. It's too much. He doesn't.]

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