increaseinstability

[Hank gives Connor a weird look, his nose scrunching up further as he crosses his arms over his chest.]

Within reason. [He is kind of unemployed now.] Why, you got something in mind?

[His tone is testing, just a little curious. What Connor would do with his newfound humanity, what he would "want." He was willing to ignore even the fact that he hadn't meant 'or anything' literally, just because he wanted to know what Connor did want.]

[ Connor doesn't think he has anything in mind. Rather, he does have something in mind, but he doesn't think he can ask for it.

...Or can he, now. Is that what being a deviant is about? It seems odd, to be given something for nothing. Connor's accomplished nothing since becoming deviant, he hasn't earned anything. Do humans feel they need to earn the things they receive? Like attention, respect...autonomy? ]

...Not yet. [ He can't ask yet. ] I'll let you know later. [ Which is pretty damn assuming of someone who doesn't have much ground to ask for anything at all, but Connor doesn't want to lie - he just also doesn't want to show all his cards right away. ]

But Hank. [ It feels nice to call him by his first name, intentionally and in his house. Connor barely registers what the receptors firing means, but one corner of his mouth twitches up in a vague smile, just for a moment. There's something in Connor's voice that seems to weigh it down when he speaks: ] Thank you.

[Connor's thank you hits him crossways, right between the eyes, but somehow he manages to get off with just a little hitch in his breath.

He grunts, looks away. Scratches a hand through his beard.]

Whatever. You're so determined to keep my ass alive, probably time I returned the favor.

[He thinks of Connor, riddled with bullets, staring sightlessly up at the ceiling. Thinks of twin gunshots in an interrogation room, and Connor's body slumped against the wall with a hole in his forehead.

The sickening crunch of twisted metal and broken plastic, and a dark blue smear along wet pavement. That one makes his breath hitch, and he twists around to his fridge to pull out a beer (not whiskey, but it'll do) so that Connor can't see the pained expression on his face.

He braces the edge of the bottlecap against the counter and forces it off with a twist of his wrist, and then downs half the bottle, muscles tensed like he's half expecting Connor to slap it out of his hand.]

Couch is yours. I'm going the fuck to sleep. C'mon, Sumo.

[Sumo, who also seems to know how close he came to losing his owner tonight, whines happily and raises himself from his dog bed.]

[ Hank wants to go to bed. That seems both entirely reasonable - in fact, it's a healthy decision - and something that makes Connor's processors all whir too-fast. Connor doesn't actually need to rest yet. He'll take Hank's offered couch, but he'll be awake all night. Has to be. He needs to figure out what to do next.

How does he figure that out?

Connor watches Hank stiffly start drinking his beer. ]

Alright. [ Connor's never laid down before, not since activation. He eyes the couch but then looks back at Hank. ] Goodnight, Hank.

[ And turning to the dog: ] Goodnight, Sumo.

[ And then, padding after Hank as if he wasn't just told to take the couch, he adds, ] Studies suggest that drinking directly prior to bed may decrease quality of sleep, even if it tends to make humans self-report more feelings of relaxation in the moment.

[ Connor is concerned, he thinks. But he's mostly just not sure how to showcase concern in a way that Hank will respond positively to. ]

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