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]

[Connor takes the bottle, immediately turning it over in his free hand to inspect the back of it. His reply to Hank is almost distracted, because he is apparently deigning whether or not this particular container of shampoo meets whatever specifications he’s drawn up in his head.]

I don’t think you should sacrifice someone else for the sake of your own survival.

[Hey, it’s that hint of deviancy made manifest in basic morality.]

I hope you’re not speaking from experience, Lieutenant. There’s nothing in your file about bear-wrestling.

[fuck1ngusernam3]

[That last part surprises Hank into a huff of near-laughter.]

What, you think I'd let them put that in my file? They don't need to know my hobbies.

[He imagines it for a second - Hank Anderson, amateur bear wrestler. It does not have even a little bit of a ring to it, but that doesn't mean the image doesn't bring a little smirk to his face.]

Fowler'd flip his shit.

[bleps]

[And for a brief moment, Connor lowers the bottle just so Hank can clearly see the subtle upturn of a single brow.]

I’m not sure which one is more unlikely — you wrestling bears as a hobby, or you caring what Captain Fowler thinks about it.

[fuck1ngusernam3]

[Connor's got him on that last one. Seeing the look on Fowler's face would actually be more reason to tell him something like that, not less. Still, Hank isn't going to give up just yet.]

What, you think I couldn't do it? Thought I needed more hobbies.

[He picks up a bottle himself, something with a label trying to look all green and naturey, and glances at the back like Connor's doing. The ingredients use the word 'organic' a lot. He tries to remember if that's something he's supposed to be worried about when it comes to dogs.]

What're you looking for here? A certain brand, or...?

[bleps]

Not necessarily. I'm cross referencing brands and various types of canine shampoo with multiple reviews listed on the internet.

[The bottle in his hand is put back on the shelf, either apparently not making the cut, or Connor is inclined to do a bit more searching before he makes a decision. He walks forward, then holds out a slightly expectant hand, hoping that Hank will let him look at the bottle that he currently has.]

As for your hobbies, you could find something potentially less harmful.

[He’s talking about bear wrestling, but he might also be talking about hobbies that aren’t exactly bear wrestling.]

What do you like to do, Hank? Other than listen to music.

[fuck1ngusernam3]

Uh-

[Hank recovers after a second. That is not a gotcha question. It's a normal question, and Hank can answer it normally. He hands over the bottle so Connor can do his deep web research on dog shampoo, and hopes the movement gives him an extra second to think of something without taking too long.]

Well, I was thinking of trying drunk bear wrestling next, what do you think?

[He shrugs, his voice going more genuine.]

I don't know, Connor, the last time I got out of the house to do something you'd approve of Fowler was still spending his free time hanging out with me. We'd go to a game, have a few drinks, that kinda thing. Most people don't have a lot of time for hobbies, you know that, right? I mean, between work and... and life, that was pretty much all there was time for. Guys in narcotics had this bar we all liked but uh, even that was kind of a 'smush it between work and sleep' kind of thing.

[bleps]

[It’s a normal response, yes. Relatively normal activities, nothing out of the ordinary or concerning, but Connor would’ve liked to have gotten a response that had a few less bars in the equation. The sarcastic remark about drunk bear wrestling is neatly discarded, in a very Connor-like way.]

Then maybe you can find something new.

[It isn’t as if they won’t have extra time on their hands now, as unfortunate as the circumstances might be. Almost idly, Connor scans the new bottle, his LED flickering — now thankfully obscured under the fedora.]

[fuck1ngusernam3]

Hey, don't you watch movies? Only young guys go out on cross country trips to find themselves.

[He walks a couple steps off, reaching to give Connor a friendly pat on the shoulder as he goes past so it doesn't seem like the topic's making him sort of antsy. He can't go far, though; they just have to wait until Connor's written up a full history of every single shampoo brand on the shelf.]

Me, I'll just start playing bridge, or going to bingo halls. Don't disown me if I go full little old lady and perm my hair blue.

[bleps]

[If Hank thinks that Connor won’t legitimately plant himself on this aisle and spend an hour scanning the back of shampoo bottles, he’s very mistaken. The man might have to gently (or not gently) remind this android that he can settle for something good-but-not-the-Best, given their supposed time crunch.

Bottle put away, he goes for another.]

If you actually enjoy bridge or bingo, I wouldn’t be opposed to it.

[A correlation pings in his background processing not focused on the information plastered on the label.]

Maybe we could integrate “game night” into our routines.

[fuck1ngusernam3]

[Hank makes a surprised noise, looking over at Connor for a second. Some part of him wants to make a snarky comment about playing happy little families and Hank tells that part of himself to fuck off, that he probably got himself thinking that way by saying Connor could disown him as if they really are the family their cover needs them to pretend to be, and besides-]

That's uh, not a bad idea. As long as you don't get it in your head to play Monopoly or something like that, you'd kill at Monopoly. I bet you count cards, too.

[bleps]

I’ve never played cards before.

[(He would definitely count cards. It’s all a matter of probability, and fairly irrational that it’s considered cheating.)]

What game would you suggest, then?

[Connor wonders if the Lieutenant is good at chess — but discards the idea. Not very fair. Also not what one associates with game night, he’s sure.

To him, this is the most straightforward line of reasoning. He doesn’t pretend to assume that Hank will be taken with “family” activities; it’s not even crossed his mind. Only that it might be something amusing for them both to do.]

[fuck1ngusernam3]

[Hank meets Connor's not-actually-a-denial with an unimpressed look. Uh-huh. He's on to you.]

I don't know, let's start with the game of 'pick out a fuckin dog shampoo' and go from there, okay?

[His voice is more dry than annoyed. Connor hasn't been at this long enough to really get to Hank, just long enough that Hank wants to let him know to hurry it up.]

We can go by the toys and shit after this, see if any of the games catch your eye.

[bleps]

[He is innocent. He has admitted to nothing. You can’t suspect him of a thing.

But the comment is enough for him to end his current scan (apparently still not living up to Connor’s high standards), put the bottle back, and pluck up the one next to it. He turns it over.]

Sorry. Give me just a few more minutes.

[fuck1ngusernam3]

Uh huh.

[Hank watches him, amused and unconvinced.]

Look, I'll just go pick up some food and we'll meet up back at the toys, okay? If you're not there in twenty I have em call your name on the speakers.

[That's a threat.]

I'll have em call you, uh... [What's the most embarrassing name he can think of?]

...Gavin. Okay? Listen up for that.

[bleps]

[um that’s fuckin rude Hank

Connor actually cinches his nose at that, mouth going lopsided at the very idea of the overhead speakers calling him… Gavin.]

I’d prefer for you to choose a different name, but there’ll be no need. I’ll meet you by the toys in twenty.

[fuck1ngusernam3]

That's kind of the point, Connor.

[Hank says it over his shoulder as he heads off - yeah, he's one of those people. It's not a shopping trip it's a mission, go go go, no time to look at what you're picking up just pick it up and leave. And Connor is clearly... not.

That's okay. Hank can spare a few minutes for Connor to find just the right thing for Sumo.

It takes Hank more time to find where the food is than to pick it out and he'll be wandering up the board game aisle in about ten minutes, his jacket clutched in one hand in a rough, jury-rigged bag to hold his shit. He sets the jacket down as he gets there, expecting to wait a while, and it opens up to show off the riches inside. Hair dye, soup, a box of protein bars. He's set. He stands on his toes to look at something on the top shelf, not really interested, just passing the time.]

[bleps]

[Connor’s left to fend for himself, given twenty minutes or otherwise met with being called “Gavin” for all to hear. And a time limit is as good as a mission (a start point, an end point, and parameters for both failure and success), which garners some mode of efficiency he otherwise didn’t possess before. This supermarket has likely never seen an individual take dog shampoo shopping so seriously, but at least he won’t be standing there for a lengthy amount of time, instead running through scans and processes in a more expedient fashion.

Exactly nineteen minutes later, and Connor will meet with Hank. He had given himself enough time to spare, just enough to fetch a small cart (with a squeaky front right wheel) for the both of them. It was becoming clear, after all, that they would need more than two pairs of hands to carry what they needed.

The chosen shampoo rolls about in the cart, having triumphed over all the rest.]

I found something suitable. Did you get the food you needed?

[fuck1ngusernam3]

Yeah.

[Hank tosses his makeshift bag in the cart, all the stuff in it spilling out and rolling around.]

What'd you decide on? The king of all dog shampoo?

[He reaches for the shampoo to look at its label, curious about what kind of thing it takes to meet Connor's apparently very high standards.]

[bleps]

The one with the best reviews, scaled against the needs of a dog with a coat similar to Sumo's. I think it'll work well.

[But the tail end of his sentence seems to peter out as he watches the items that Hank's picked out sprawl across the bottom of the cart.]

Is this all you've gotten for yourself?

[fuck1ngusernam3]

[He grimaces, reaching for the box of protein bars and holding them up for a second.]

Hey, I thought of you, got these. There's probably some kale chips or something back there too if you really want me to satisfy your inner health nut.

[bleps]

[He gives Hank such a plain stare that it might as well be vaguely judgmental.]

Protein bars don't qualify as much of a meal, Hank. You can't live on that and soup for as long as we're... traveling together.

[fuck1ngusernam3]

[Here they go. He tosses the box back and spreads his arms in a shrug.]

We don't even have a microwave, Connor. Besides, if malnutrition hasn't killed me yet, I'm pretty sure it's not gonna.

[bleps]

[Here they go indeed.]

You don't think we'll have access to a microwave in a moderately-rated hotel? I find that very unlikely.

[Eat better. Love yourself. Hank why.]

Besides, while we're here, you should take advantage of the options you have.

[fuck1ngusernam3]

Are you telling me you wouldn’t be whining about this right now if I’d thrown a box of some nasty frozen shit in there too? Come on. Or is this like the shampoo, you wanted me to stare at each thing for ten minutes before grabbing the perfect meal of, I don’t know, a head of lettuce and some berries?

[bleps]

Why does this have to be a point of contention?

[-is his immediate volley back this time, a quick retort that makes his brow grow tight.]

It would take a negligible amount of effort to go back and pick out something a little more substantial; minutes at the most. Instead you're going to opt to argue the point with me.