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

[Connor doesn’t yet stand, instead remaining seated as the bag is handed to him. He takes it, then rummages at the bottom, to unearth... hair gel and a comb!

His eyes widen in pleasant surprise, though what Hank says makes him look up at the man, unsure what to think.]

How I get about my hair? [That seems to trigger a memory, flickering across his expression.] That’s right. You called me vain.

[Hank's expression is blank for a second as he tries to decide if he really believes that they're solid enough that he can tease. Then his eyebrows rise and his face takes on a look that might be called challenging, if his gaze wasn't quite so unfocused.]

Yeah. I did.

[He gives up looking for the top to the bottle and just sets it on a side table, perching on the pillow and nudging Sumo with his foot in hopes that'll make the dog move over. All it does is make Sumo look at him with those big eyes and Hank sighs, stilling his foot and settling back against the headboard.]

Gonna tell me I'm wrong about that?

Yes. You are.

[He is obviously not at all offended, his tone revealing nothing of the sort. But what’s wrong with wanting to look presentable? To appear neat, clean, and pleasant to interact with?

Maybe it’s Cyberlife’s inherent programming that dictates this part of his personality. Or maybe it’s his own personal preference, developed from nowhere in particular.]

Sumo. Come down here. [Seeing Hank’s failed attempts at coaxing Sumo to move, Connor gives it a try.]

[Hank watches as Sumo lifts his head, thinks about it, and then slowly begins to clamber down on the floor with Connor.]

Huh. Shit, he already likes you better than he likes me.

[While Sumo makes his slow way toward trying to use Connor as a pillow Hank thinks about how awkward he didn't expect to feel right now, going to bed in the room with someone who isn't. Hank shoves his shoes off and lets them fall over the edge of the bed, grimacing a little. What's Connor going to do, just sit there? Is he going to just sit there in the dark? Hank decides not to turn off the light and just hope the whiskey hits him soon enough that it'll be easy to fall asleep anyway.]

My uh, phone should be somewhere if you want to do something other than, uh... sit there. While I sleep.

[He pats at the empty space next to him, to encourage Sumo to lie down there instead of completely across his body. But he supposes if the dog chooses the latter, Connor won't complain too terribly about it.]

Noted.

[Come heeeeere, Sumo. His focus seems to be on the dog as he speaks.]

I'll find something to keep me entertained throughout the night. Don't worry, Lieutenant.

[Though maybe he might be inclined to sit and watch the hours go by, thinking of the code they might have to tweak to make work with him; and maybe he will get up, later, to go fix his hair.]

Sure.

[He settles against the headboard. He takes off his coat. Then he settles again. He stares at the ceiling. It's weird, weirder than it would have been if they'd had to share a bed. You share beds in hotels. But Connor sitting just right there on the floor while he's trying to sleep reminds him of sleepovers as a kid, one kid on a sleeping bag or air mattress or whatever while the other one took the bed.

He sits there slumped against the headboard and thinks about saying thank you, even though he already has. Then he stares at the ceiling. Then he thinks about drinking a little more, but it's around that time the whiskey hits him, so he doesn't have to think about it too hard.

It does what it does best; he falls asleep, stays asleep, and doesn't remember his dreams. And then he wakes up with a sick stomach and a headache, but what else is new. It's remembering where he is and why that really does him in. It's the knowledge that they might get people searching for them today, along with the usual BS involved in waking up, that makes him press the heels of his hands into his eyes and let out a moan.

Hello, world. Hank Anderson is not at all ready to greet you.]

[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.]

[That voice is right here, and it's chipper as ever. Motherfucker. Hank groans again, this noise more frustrated than the last one, and one of the hands over his eyes flips Connor off. After a moment of thought the other one does, too. Then he slides his hands down his face and blinks at Connor, not even awake enough yet to resent how perfect and composed the guy looks at this hour. Whatever this hour is.]

'S too early to be alive. Go 'way.

[Okay, there it is. Instant guilt. They're stuck in a little hotel room together; where is Connor supposed to go? Hank accelerates his usual morning schedule past 'lie there cursing the world' and makes himself roll onto his side, propping himself up on an elbow and wrapping his other arm around his middle, grimacing while he waits for his body to shut the fuck up. He tries to think of something not-shitty to say and his tone comes out more careful, apologetic.]

You okay? Cyberfuck didn', uh, hasn't tried to say hi or anything?

[It’s hard to be offended at the less-than-pleasant gestures coming from Hank; this might be the first early morning he’s shared with the man, but he has estimated that this would likely be the response he’d get. (One should note how he decides to say good morning in this manner, anyway.)

He straightens, all politeness as usual, all amicability and calm — the day is definitely reset, indeed — and Connor attends to the last question.]

No. Not yet. We won’t have much longer until they expect a report, however. I may be able to procrastinate a little while, but it’s as I said: they haven’t given me as much leeway recently.

[Nearby, Sumo is asleep on his side, on the floor. The bag full of items purchased for Connor has been neatly organized and set on the one elongated nightstand in the room.]

How do you feel?

[Hank gives a breathy half-laugh and takes a couple deep breaths.]

I'm alive. I'm awake. You want anything else you're gonna have to ask me later. Uh-

[He doesn't want to ask. He really never wants to find out. Which probably means he should ask now, before he wakes up enough to convince himself to put it off.]

What kinda thing should we expect once they do? I mean are they going to, uh- try to do something to you?

I’m not certain. There will undoubtedly be a repeated attempt to contact me through the Zen Garden — the graphical interface — that I had told you about.

[How far that rabbit hole went, how deep Cyberlife’s claws were hooked into him as a result, Connor could only remain oblivious to. He knows this, to a certain degree; but unpredictability is hard to account for, that constant unknown lingering over them.]

Beyond that, I don’t know how many resources they’ll wish to expend in order to find me. At least... immediately. We’re so far from the city, and I’m likely not the most problematic android for them at the moment.

[A certain RK200 has that dubious honor.]

[He leans against the headboard, groaning as he inches his way up it to a slow and careful sitting position. Probably he should move his usual morning schedule as far up as it'll go - for some mysterious reason there's more pressure to do that today than there was yesterday, although he did try to keep Connor from stopping somewhere for the night, didn't he? Hank doesn't really feel like saying it out loud, but the internal 'I told you so' kind of soothes him. So does the idea of Connor, the Problematic Android. He snorts, amused, but it's probably not worth trying to explain decades-old slang to Connor well enough that Connor gets the joke.]

Probably shouldn't drive today then, right? I mean, you shouldn't. I know I made that stupid deal with you but uh, I'll take you up on it tomorrow.

[If Connor gets a tomorrow. Which, fuck, he will. That's stupid. Of course he will.]

Cause you get all, uh... They pull you into that garden and you zone out, right? You're sure you can't lie? Or at least, fudge it a little?

[If there is an internal "I told you so" creeping its way along Connor's circuitry, originating from Hank, he doesn't say anything about it. It's hard to regret completely the decision to rest for the night. Hank is human, and there only so much that Connor is willing to run him into the ground even for the sake of his own freedom. Maybe even especially for the sake of his own freedom, though even he knows better than to say that much.

He sets his jaw, watching the other man intently.] You don't look like you're in any shape to drive.

[Here's an "I told you so" in the form of "I told you not to drink so much last night". Can you hear it, Hank?]

I can try. There's only so much 'fudging' I can do when the situation is so... blatantly extreme.

[Hard to fudge the fact that he's been swept away and on the run from the company that made him. Could probably spin it as a kidnapping that he's decided to play along with, but even then that sounds hard to sell.]

[Hank does hear the ‘I told you so’ and he’s sure Connor hears his response. If not Hank can just turn this middle finger up a little louder.]

I’ll get there. Besides, if you’re behind the wheel when you zone out I’ll be too busy screaming to snap you out of it. If I’m driving I can at least... I don’t know, slap you or something. Is that something we could try, d’you think? Interrupt the connection somehow?

[Look at this eyebrow lift. This is his deflection against any middle finger gestured in his direction; that annoying android-like way of just seeming unaffected by everything.]

You're going to interrupt the connection by trying to slap me? [There's some strange, hilarious role reversal in that mental image, even if the current discourse is too serious to laugh at.]

To be honest with you, Lieutenant, I don't know what would work. You could attempt to shake me out of it, but I have no experience with trying to forcefully leave this interfacing against Amanda's will. It might work, it might not. My mind is not at all attuned to the physical world during these sessions.

[He thinks about this, having gotten far enough to swing his legs over the edge of the bed and lean forward, carefully.]

It’s too bad Cyberlife scooped up all the eggheads worth asking about this. I keep feeling like being able to just plug the right numbers into your code without worrying if your head was about to explode would save us a lot of trouble.

[Okay. They’re getting out of this hotel room fast today. Fast means he’s going to stand up right about... now. And then he’s going to grab the headboard for a minute. He’s okay. When it comes to getting up in the morning he’s the Flash, he’s a superhero, he’s... not actually going to throw up because he didn’t drink enough last night for that. He is fine.

But not the kind of fine where he can deal with this much dread and doom this early in the morning. A corner of his mouth twitches in the closest he’s going to get right now to a smile.]

You know what I think, Connor, I think you just don’t want me to slap you. I think you like dishing it out more than you wanna take it.

[Hank doesn't look anything like a man solid on his feet. He almost reaches out to steady him, before the other manages to grab hold of the headboard and not topple over. Connor is starting to doubt the fact that he can get out of here and drive right now.]

Lieutenant... no offense, but it currently appears as if something as harmless as a gentle breeze might knock you over. I'm not at all worried about sustaining any sort of injury if you hit me. I'm more concerned about your current state.

Sit down for a few minutes more. Do you want me to bring you some water?

[Hank’s reaction isn’t quite a sneer; that’d be too straightforward. It’s too halfhearted for that. He thought he’d get more time before he had to sort through that oily feeling and the gratitude that ooze up whenever Connor does this.

Fuck it. If Connor wouldn’t even let him joke around for a second before pointing out how pathetic Hank is, Hank doesn’t have to worry about reacting the right way.]

Let me shower really quick and I’ll perk right up. You just keep thinking about where you wanna go today, okay? Let me do what I’m gonna do, I’ll get us there.

[His brow cinches with the flicker of a threat to argue the point... but it recedes with a slow sort of resignation.]

...All right. If you say so, Lieutenant.

["If you say so", Connor's go-to phrase of probably-not-a-great-idea-but-sure-go-for-it-if-you-want.]

[Hank gives him a tight smile - he does say so, so nice of Connor to agree - and makes it to the bathroom. All by himself. He even remembers to bring a change of clothes.

He comes out in about fifteen minutes, shivering and toweling off his hair. He tosses the towel toward the bed, then holds out his arms and makes a point of walking with one foot directly in front of the other, raising his eyebrows. Then he shivers again, cold water dripping out from his hair and down his neck, and digs in the duffel bag while he talks, looking for something warm to slip on under his coat. His arms are still covered in goosebumps; weird how you forget how deeply shitty a cold shower is until you decide to take one. He's sure as shit awake now, though. ]

See? All better. You gonna make me recite the alphabet backward now, or you going to trust me to drive?

[Hank might be trying to prove a point, but all Connor sees are things to correct; coming out still shivering (you'll compromise your immune system, Hank), hair still needing drying (...you'll compromise your immune system, Hank), and the argument that he's more awake now does not necessarily nullify Connor's issue with him probably still not feeling great after last night.

Maybe Connor should've been a caretaker android. If this is the wry thought that flits through his mind, he says nothing of it -- instead, he only grabs the towel on the bed and offers it mildly back to Hank.]

I trust you to drive. But you should dry off more.

[take care. of. yourself!!!!]

[Hank could have told him - if he knew what Connor was thinking, anyway, and lucky thing he doesn't - that a caretaker android would have gone over much, much worse. At least Connor cares about him because he wants to, but even now that Hank knows that it's hard enough to take. Something pretending to care about him, trying to get under his skin like that just because it's been told to-

It's probably a good thing, that's all, that Hank doesn't know Connor is thinking about that. A better thing that Connor doesn't show any indication of that concern right now, so that after a brief suspicious look Hank can accept it as just an observation, and his hackles don't rise any further than they already have. Hank ducks his head, rubbing the towel on the underside of his hair and making it all stick up in weird directions.]

You sure you don't have to do anything? Any maintenance or whatever?

[He ruffles his hair with the towel one last time, throws it on the bed again, and pulls the sweatshirt he found on over his head, thinking about what he knows.]

You said you uh, straighten up any errors when you go back to Cyberlife. But you also said you don't get many, because of what a fancy new model you are. So we won't have to worry about that for a while, right?

[Connor’s eyes track the trajectory of the towel as it lands back on the bed. Better, he thinks, than nothing. Hank is slipping on something warmer, so maybe he can let this concern fall by the wayside for now.

(The worry is simply something that won’t go away, Hank. It’s how Connor is, and the man’s a good friend. Of course he’s going to worry.)]

That’s correct. I can self-test, and I ran one simply out of curiosity last night, though I can often tell if there’s some part of me that needs adjusting, or realignment due to excessive exertion, otherwise.

[AKA when they find themselves in a tussle, or a lengthy chase scene.]

Only the... expected errors were indicated at the time. Nothing to be concerned about.

[Hank eyes him. He doesn't know enough about Connor to read that hesitation, that pause there. It's probably just a 'how do I explain this shit to this stupid human' kind of pause, stopping to figure out the simplest word to use. But as he walks around making sure everything's packed up, tying a plastic bag over the top of the still-capless whiskey bottle, he decides to ask anyway.]

Yeah? What kind of 'expected' errors, just you getting jittery or something?

[His lips pulls downwards.]

Code 4 errors. What’s to be expected after my ongoing decision to not return to Detroit.

[Putting a name to deviancy still feels strange, as applied to him. Like some label that he never really tore off and stuck to chest, but it’s there, and finding it odd on the tongue is merely an issue of unfamiliarity. Discomfort, because it heralds uncertainty regardless of whether or not he’s accepted it.]

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