Despite Connor's cries, Hank heard nothing. The silence of his ice prison enhanced by the alcohol was much like falling into a body of water. He knows he should be swimming, but the cold is quickly numbing every sensation he has, and he finds himself not caring. His breathing is getting slower to match the heartbeats, and the ice prison leaks out from the bed, spreading to the ground. Why would he care anyway? He was just Hank Anderson...not someone really important. He was old and grumpy and just a general mess of a man. His actions might have caused more harm than good. What if he had told Connor to let the android go instead of chasing it? What if they hadn't gone on the roof? What if Cole as alive in another world? If not, how did that change the revolution? Did his son need to die for this to all work?
He let the water take him, carry him downward into the cold, endless abyss. It was better that way...
Then something echoed in his ears, like a knock in slow motion. The million of thoughts about the feebility of his life became a single one in his mind;
Connor continued to scratch and pull at the few uneven ice formations where it seemed he'd get the most leverage, but he wasn't making nearly as much progress as he'd prefer. At the same time, he couldn't risk using anything else to help him break through, lest another emotional effect occur and offset his calculations. He refused to risk any further injury to Hank, even if it meant he was struggling.
Shards of plastic broke off of his fake fingernails as he continued, and blue dripped onto the ice, the Thirium only serving to make his grip even less effective. After a few more attempts of breaking through more of the prison, some successful and some less so, he slipped and nearly fell backwards thanks to the ice that had locked one of his feet onto the floor.
"Shit. Hank!"
He sent as strong of a telepathic ping through the amulets as he possibly could. If his words couldn't get through, maybe that would.
He tried to listen to the noise closer but it was a blur, making his head hurt. It felt like someone attempting to reach out for him above the waves of the abyssal water. Even if it was just a dream-like state, he Hank struck out his hand upwards, despite the pain screaming from his entire mind.
Connor?
It was hard to think...not just because of the alcohol damping everything, but also because of the thick wall of ice on him. Progress seemed to be coming, thankfully, as it began to crack, perhaps from the lieutenant's awakening. He tried to breath, but no one should wake up realizing they were buried in ice. His body was not made for it. There was panic as it continued to get worse, turning the bed into an icy tomb. Despite the light, why were some parts of it blue?
Fuck....
He was still thankfully alive. A lot worse for wear, but alive. Now he just needed to be able to breath properly, as the ice finally began to crack, echoing his desire to get out and forming into pieces that made it easier for him to kick with his legs. Using the last of his pent-up energy to finally breaking it in two, falling on both sides of the bed, leaving Hank looking like an even worst mess than when Connor had last seen him from over-drinking. He's freezing, tries to mouth a few words, but can't speak as hypothermia has started to set in, and his lips are blue.
The android quickly steps out of the way as the ice shatters loudly on the floor, but he wastes no time returning to the bed to wrestle the covers off of it from under Hank to wrap around him and remedy the situation.
"You're okay."
He keeps the mental connection open but elects to use his own voice, hoping it will help keep the man grounded... and keep his own feelings from being displayed any further than the yellow of his LED. It's still cold in the room, but not cold enough to seep through an adequate pile of blankets. It will be fine. It will be fine.
"Just keep talking to me. I'll be right back!"
Connor has to thank CyberLife for making him so precise and with a memory that never dulls. Even if he wants to be faster, he knows exactly where all the sheets and blankets are in the apartment and exactly how to retrieve them in the quickest way possible. It's hardly half a minute before he hurries back into the room, practically dumping the hoard on top of Hank before he arranges it all to make sure he's evenly covered.
He almost wishes he was back into that ice cocoon and in the world of utter silence and darkness. That way, he wouldn't have to bother with realizing how pathetic he currently felt right now. He had failed. He had tried to keep it up, put a more positive facade to his life, but he had failed. In a world like this one, it had literally caused him to manifest ice around himself. How many others could be harm by his carelessness?
Talk about what?....d'you really want to know what I'm thinking right now?...you should get out of here... He sounds angry, but he's more annoyed with himself than Connor. Why would anyone want to bother with him? Shit my head...
When the blankets land on him, it was like something slamming into his body, but he's too cold to move, his only reaction a weak "urgh" before he mentally connects with Connor again.
"I'm not leaving, Lieutenant," Connor insists. While he could certainly make a few comments that actually talking about what he was thinking might have been the healthier option, the simmering frustration born out of the android's initial panic remains unspoken, only resulting in tiny pieces flaking off of the floorboards.
"Your emotions must have caused ice to form around you while you were sleeping," he replies, opting not to comment on what his working theory is on what happened prior, even if he's ninety-seven percent certain of it. There's still ethanol residue on Hank's beard.
He'll have a few stern words to share with the lieutenant later.
With the blankets arranged to insulate the man evenly, Connor sits down on the bed next to him, a hand over where Hank's shoulder is under half a dozen layers.
"I've covered you with all the blankets in the apartment to help your body temperature return to normal. I want you to let me know when you feel well enough to move and sit up, alright?"
He'll be monitoring the man just in case things get worse, somehow. He's not optimistic enough to think they won't.
Just leave me alone...this ain't your problem, Connor.
However even from the 'sound' of his voice, he might be just trying to get the android to leave so he can feel sorry for himself in peace. The overbearingly painful headache and coldness is clouding his thoughts. The alcohol served as a catalyst for both of those, making him want to shut down again and be alone. It's a hard habit to shake of.
He does feel something moving on the bed when Connor sits on it, but his entire body is numb. It feels like the dentist froze every part of his body; he knows it's all there, but everything feels off. He just wishes he could do this alone. He doesn't want to worry the android for this. Even when the shaking starts, his body trying to get warm as the alcohol begins to wear off and he coughs, the smell of alcohol penetrating the entire room.
Fine. Whatever.
He eventually relents after a tense minute. He just absolutely loathes when people see him at his weakest, and this may be a new low for him. However the fact that drinking here can cause ice to encase him is terrifying and he realizes that for all his desire to die from before, he only had drunk to forget this time, not to kill himself. The thought causes him to briefly panic as he tries to keep himself calm, but it's pretty obvious to an observing eye that his heart rate is increasing as he gets a little bit warmer.
The wall nearby cracks with a snap. Connor ignores it, and there's maybe a bit more heat in his voice than he initially intends.
"My presence isn't negotiable, whether you like it or not."
He feels the unpleasant buzzing of whatever passes as his feelings in his head and his chest, where they shouldn't be. His programming is accepting the irrational instructions without his input, increasing his own pulse for no reason, and he's nearly shaking with it.
"I don't think you're qualified to say what I should or shouldn't be doing, right now," Connor remarks at first, but then he pauses and reminds himself of what's actually happening. The lieutenant's health is the priority right now—he's sick, and not just because of the hypothermia and the alcohol, and he needs help first and scolding later.
After a brief pause where he hangs his head, he adds a little more soothingly, "My power levels are fine for the rest of the day. You don't need to worry. I'm going to take care of you."
I'll be fine! Why the fuck are you even bothering?
The heat is met with a similar reaction, Hank being used to going into a seething rage of his own when forced into a corner he can't back out. It makes it easier than feeling sorry for himself, and for a few seconds, an impressive amount of steam rises above the bed as he visibly flinches, hands into fists as his eyes opening briefly before they close again. Arguably, it is better than having his covers be wet from the ice and water, but it doesn't seem to do him much good, and leaves him drained, both physically and mentally.
Why the fuck are you even bothering? ...
The color gets drained from the covers as he repeats the question more weakly, although it sounds more like he's asking himself than Connor.
Even though the steam scalds his hand, warnings flashing in his periphery despite no actual damage being done, he doesn't move. If anything, his hand tenses slightly, fingers curling into the blanket.
"We're partners," he offers quietly. Would it even mean anything to Hank in this state? Would he even remember it later? As much as he though he'd become accustomed to the man's habits, he hadn't gotten like this since they were back in Detroit... at least to his knowledge. And now that he can no longer only worry about his investigation... he's not sure how to handle it.
Whatever the case may be, he's not giving up on Hank, even if he feels like giving up on himself. He's seen what the man can be, when he's not sunk into this kind of mindset. He's a good person, and he deserves better.
"I'm not leaving, Hank. You can't convince me otherwise."
The silence that follows Connor's words is not just due to Hank trying to keep his body from going into a state of shock, his rapid and raspy breathing echoing in the room. The state he's in oddly enough gives him more time to think about the android's words since he can't think about much else. Well, apart from how he really is going to be seriously sick as this continues, regretting even looking at the bottle in the first place, cursing himself for going through with it, hating how it had felt so much better when--ahh hell there he went again. He hated when the alcohol just kept throwing him in a loop.
Eventually a thought connects with Connor's mind, weak but laced with all of the lieutenant's usual bite;
...Must have been some damn fucking good pie if you're willing to stay.
Briefly there's a smile to his face, but it's quickly replaced by pain as his body continues to struggle with his life choices, stuck between being overly too warm on one side and too cold and freezing on the other.
Connor's expression tightens, distress and worry clear in the furrow of his brow.
"You know it's more than that."
His answer is maybe more sincere than Hank wants, but he can't just brush this off like a joke. It's serious, and Connor can only treat it as such. Before, humor was an occasional option to lighten the mood and endear himself to the man, but... this means too much. He hadn't cared if the lieutenant was drunk during the investigation of the Eden Club, as long as he was coherent enough to accompany him there. He cares now.
"I'm going to get this ice out of here. It shouldn't take more than a few minutes, but just stay still for a while. Okay?"
Hank doesn't answer him with banter this time, as he attempts to move his body to adjust to some of the pain, but the effort is ultimately useless as he slumps back to the position he was in when the android put the blankets on top of him.
He wants to argue that the ice really isn't his problem, but both knows Connor would just disagree and also that truthfully, maybe if he starts to admit this to himself, it really is both their problem.
Yeah....it's fine....not like I can fucking move anyway...
And as Connor walks out, he'll get another small message;
Thanks.
Edited (I feel like the thanks sounded more sarcastic when it wasn't isolated) 2018-10-28 06:48 (UTC)
Connor pauses only a brief moment in the doorway, and although he doesn't turn to look back at Hank, his response is still sincere.
"You're welcome."
The android continues picking up the shattered ice, starting with the larger chunks first. In the middle of this process, there's a greater pause where Connor doesn't return to the room, although his pace was regular to that point. After a few minutes, though, he does come back to the bedroom, picking up the rest of the unmelted ice piece by piece until all that's left are a few small puddles and damp spots.
With the task done, Connor returns to the room and sits on the bed, facing away from Hank entirely. His posture is slumped forward slightly, a significant contrast to his usual upright default. His voice is quiet when he speaks.
Hank wouldn't have seen much of it, opting to keep his eyes closed to stop the pulsating headache that was starting to build up now that he was getting a lot less cold and a lot more into alcoholic shock.
He did notice that Connor took a longer pause before returning at one point, but assumed it was just due to having to take care of larger chunks of ice outside. At some point he briefly stood up, but his spinning head won and he slammed right back into the forest of blankets.
What a fucking mess...
He only realizes that Connor is finally back when part of the bed moves downward as he sits down. He doesn't look at him directly either, slumped on the other side.
Connor turns to look over his shoulder, running a quick scan now that the new programs have properly installed. It doesn't really provide much more than he already knew, but having that reaffirmation is... something.
"Take your time."
Connor isn't a patient android by design, but he knows this is something he can't rush. He'll wait for as long as it takes for Hank to improve—and in more than just this situation.
The groaning noise that escapes his lips sharply cuts against the brief silence between them. Connor would recognize it. The same noise had been uttered in his own car on their way to the Eden club.
"Think I've done enough drinking."
Is it a statement about today, a general promise or just the usual biting dark Hankish comedy banter? Maybe it's all three. Whatever it is, he puts a hand to his forehead massaging his temple.
As much as Connor appreciates the sentiment, relief still doesn't reach him. There's still something weighing him down, and he can't brush it off and force himself to take on the sort of countenance that might better suit the lieutenant's personality and improve his mood.
Instead, he reaches over and puts a hand on Hank's shoulder, in the hopes of offsetting what might be too serious of a response.
He's not sure what to think of the hand on his shoulder. Mostly due to the fact that it briefly moves the bed, sending his head spinning again. He sounds absolutely defeated when he speaks like he's settled into his fate...at least for now. Maybe it's just the shame of what happened or the fear inside of him. He just wants this night to be over with, a terrible nightmare they will never speak of again.
"Sure uh...sure that might work."
He tries to get up again, but only gets halfway up, leaning on one side of the bed.
Connor is quick to lean over to support him and make sure he doesn't collapse; the last thing they need is for Hank to hit his head on the side table or the bed frame. Slowly, the android tries to help Hank into a sitting position against the headboard, significantly more gentle than he'd been months ago in the lieutenant's home.
"I was thinking about warming up some of the apple cider."
It's hard to read his expression, if the man even has his eyes open to look at Connor. He doesn't keep his gaze on Hank for very long at a time, and the slight lowering of his eyelids could be worry, exhaustion, or nothing but a neutral expression not meant to display anything.
He would have appreciated the help if he didn't feel like he didn't deserve it after what had just happened. He mutters a quick thanks before placing a hand on his head like it would magically be able to stop the pounding headache. It hurt too much for him to argue.
"Yeah...that'll be fine."
He briefly looks at Connor, but turns away again before the android looks back at him. He has to wonder if he's being nothing more than a crutch for him at this point.
Need. As if anything he's done for Hank has really been out of need. As much as the android tried to delude himself into saying he functioned purely on logic, he can recognize that all he's done for his partner these past few months has been... because he wanted to. Even if he feels the need to occupy his time with tasks, he could have found any number of other things to dedicate his time to aside from monitoring the lieutenant's health and mood.
"I know."
Connor is silent for several moments, brow furrowing as he struggles briefly with himself, the smell of decaying leaves in the air. Even if it's better to leave more sensitive issues for when Hank is feeling better, a question claws itself out of him, tinged with hurt.
"Why didn't you talk to me?"
Edited (meh i didn't like that comma) 2018-11-05 07:56 (UTC)
He's not sure if it's the booze or the headache causing this, but at that moment, he could almost blink and swear Connor is acting as emotional as any human would be. His nose is too clogged to smell anything, but more intricate snowflake-like ice structures appear on the bed, his breath visible as he breathes out.
Why didn't you talk to me?
He's not sure why that question hurts him so much. Maybe it's the failure he feels from it, or that he's frighteningly unsure how he can even begin to answer that.
"I...don't know," he admits. "Didn't think something like this would happen...felt like it was better to keep it to myself."
If it were a concrete answer, perhaps Connor could have come up with some kind of counterargument, a way to directly prove that whatever reason Hank had was false or inadequate. He could at least have tried to eliminate one of the sources of this problem, as much as he knows many of them are far out of his reach.
With I don't know all he can do is question it.
"You know you can, right?"
It almost sounds like he's pleading, and the way he's leaning towards Hank probably doesn't do anything to disprove that impression.
"About anything. I mean it. I know I've been difficult in the past about some things—but it won't happen again. Okay?"
"I..." He keeps opening his mouth and closing it like he wants to say something, but the knot in his stomach and the spinning sensation making it feel like he'll be constantly falling makes it hard to have cohesive thoughts worth the explanation to the android. He clutches the clothing on his chest and looks downward, unable to even look at the android in the eyes anymore.
"Connor...I don't...deserve this kindness." His voice is weak. He sounds tired, exasperated by both his own state of mind and the fact the android is willing to open up to him. He has so little self-worth that he doesn't feel like its worth Connor's effort to do anything for him. "It's hard to open up after...."
After Cole. After being unable to do anything. After being blamed in the heat of a shouting match for his son's death by his enraged ex-wife unable to deal with the loss of her son. After no one really took the time to see how he was doing, first because it felt more polite to let him grieve and deal with his separation, and then because who the fuck would ask Hank Anderson how he felt?
Connor was probably the first one in years to see Hank peel away enough of his gruff facade to leave a shell of a man who couldn't even quite believe in himself anymore.
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He let the water take him, carry him downward into the cold, endless abyss. It was better that way...
Then something echoed in his ears, like a knock in slow motion. The million of thoughts about the feebility of his life became a single one in his mind;
What the fuck was that noise?
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Connor continued to scratch and pull at the few uneven ice formations where it seemed he'd get the most leverage, but he wasn't making nearly as much progress as he'd prefer. At the same time, he couldn't risk using anything else to help him break through, lest another emotional effect occur and offset his calculations. He refused to risk any further injury to Hank, even if it meant he was struggling.
Shards of plastic broke off of his fake fingernails as he continued, and blue dripped onto the ice, the Thirium only serving to make his grip even less effective. After a few more attempts of breaking through more of the prison, some successful and some less so, he slipped and nearly fell backwards thanks to the ice that had locked one of his feet onto the floor.
"Shit. Hank!"
He sent as strong of a telepathic ping through the amulets as he possibly could. If his words couldn't get through, maybe that would.
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Connor?
It was hard to think...not just because of the alcohol damping everything, but also because of the thick wall of ice on him. Progress seemed to be coming, thankfully, as it began to crack, perhaps from the lieutenant's awakening. He tried to breath, but no one should wake up realizing they were buried in ice. His body was not made for it. There was panic as it continued to get worse, turning the bed into an icy tomb. Despite the light, why were some parts of it blue?
Fuck....
He was still thankfully alive. A lot worse for wear, but alive. Now he just needed to be able to breath properly, as the ice finally began to crack, echoing his desire to get out and forming into pieces that made it easier for him to kick with his legs. Using the last of his pent-up energy to finally breaking it in two, falling on both sides of the bed, leaving Hank looking like an even worst mess than when Connor had last seen him from over-drinking. He's freezing, tries to mouth a few words, but can't speak as hypothermia has started to set in, and his lips are blue.
I really.....really messed up....didn't I...
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"You're okay."
He keeps the mental connection open but elects to use his own voice, hoping it will help keep the man grounded... and keep his own feelings from being displayed any further than the yellow of his LED. It's still cold in the room, but not cold enough to seep through an adequate pile of blankets. It will be fine. It will be fine.
"Just keep talking to me. I'll be right back!"
Connor has to thank CyberLife for making him so precise and with a memory that never dulls. Even if he wants to be faster, he knows exactly where all the sheets and blankets are in the apartment and exactly how to retrieve them in the quickest way possible. It's hardly half a minute before he hurries back into the room, practically dumping the hoard on top of Hank before he arranges it all to make sure he's evenly covered.
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Talk about what?....d'you really want to know what I'm thinking right now?...you should get out of here... He sounds angry, but he's more annoyed with himself than Connor. Why would anyone want to bother with him? Shit my head...
When the blankets land on him, it was like something slamming into his body, but he's too cold to move, his only reaction a weak "urgh" before he mentally connects with Connor again.
The fuck just happened?
At least he's not completely gone.
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"Your emotions must have caused ice to form around you while you were sleeping," he replies, opting not to comment on what his working theory is on what happened prior, even if he's ninety-seven percent certain of it. There's still ethanol residue on Hank's beard.
He'll have a few stern words to share with the lieutenant later.
With the blankets arranged to insulate the man evenly, Connor sits down on the bed next to him, a hand over where Hank's shoulder is under half a dozen layers.
"I've covered you with all the blankets in the apartment to help your body temperature return to normal. I want you to let me know when you feel well enough to move and sit up, alright?"
He'll be monitoring the man just in case things get worse, somehow. He's not optimistic enough to think they won't.
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However even from the 'sound' of his voice, he might be just trying to get the android to leave so he can feel sorry for himself in peace. The overbearingly painful headache and coldness is clouding his thoughts. The alcohol served as a catalyst for both of those, making him want to shut down again and be alone. It's a hard habit to shake of.
He does feel something moving on the bed when Connor sits on it, but his entire body is numb. It feels like the dentist froze every part of his body; he knows it's all there, but everything feels off. He just wishes he could do this alone. He doesn't want to worry the android for this. Even when the shaking starts, his body trying to get warm as the alcohol begins to wear off and he coughs, the smell of alcohol penetrating the entire room.
Fine. Whatever.
He eventually relents after a tense minute. He just absolutely loathes when people see him at his weakest, and this may be a new low for him. However the fact that drinking here can cause ice to encase him is terrifying and he realizes that for all his desire to die from before, he only had drunk to forget this time, not to kill himself. The thought causes him to briefly panic as he tries to keep himself calm, but it's pretty obvious to an observing eye that his heart rate is increasing as he gets a little bit warmer.
You should be sleeping at this hour, Connor.
Just trying to distract himself.
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"My presence isn't negotiable, whether you like it or not."
He feels the unpleasant buzzing of whatever passes as his feelings in his head and his chest, where they shouldn't be. His programming is accepting the irrational instructions without his input, increasing his own pulse for no reason, and he's nearly shaking with it.
"I don't think you're qualified to say what I should or shouldn't be doing, right now," Connor remarks at first, but then he pauses and reminds himself of what's actually happening. The lieutenant's health is the priority right now—he's sick, and not just because of the hypothermia and the alcohol, and he needs help first and scolding later.
After a brief pause where he hangs his head, he adds a little more soothingly, "My power levels are fine for the rest of the day. You don't need to worry. I'm going to take care of you."
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The heat is met with a similar reaction, Hank being used to going into a seething rage of his own when forced into a corner he can't back out. It makes it easier than feeling sorry for himself, and for a few seconds, an impressive amount of steam rises above the bed as he visibly flinches, hands into fists as his eyes opening briefly before they close again. Arguably, it is better than having his covers be wet from the ice and water, but it doesn't seem to do him much good, and leaves him drained, both physically and mentally.
Why the fuck are you even bothering? ...
The color gets drained from the covers as he repeats the question more weakly, although it sounds more like he's asking himself than Connor.
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Even though the steam scalds his hand, warnings flashing in his periphery despite no actual damage being done, he doesn't move. If anything, his hand tenses slightly, fingers curling into the blanket.
"We're partners," he offers quietly. Would it even mean anything to Hank in this state? Would he even remember it later? As much as he though he'd become accustomed to the man's habits, he hadn't gotten like this since they were back in Detroit... at least to his knowledge. And now that he can no longer only worry about his investigation... he's not sure how to handle it.
Whatever the case may be, he's not giving up on Hank, even if he feels like giving up on himself. He's seen what the man can be, when he's not sunk into this kind of mindset. He's a good person, and he deserves better.
"I'm not leaving, Hank. You can't convince me otherwise."
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Eventually a thought connects with Connor's mind, weak but laced with all of the lieutenant's usual bite;
...Must have been some damn fucking good pie if you're willing to stay.
Briefly there's a smile to his face, but it's quickly replaced by pain as his body continues to struggle with his life choices, stuck between being overly too warm on one side and too cold and freezing on the other.
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"You know it's more than that."
His answer is maybe more sincere than Hank wants, but he can't just brush this off like a joke. It's serious, and Connor can only treat it as such. Before, humor was an occasional option to lighten the mood and endear himself to the man, but... this means too much. He hadn't cared if the lieutenant was drunk during the investigation of the Eden Club, as long as he was coherent enough to accompany him there. He cares now.
"I'm going to get this ice out of here. It shouldn't take more than a few minutes, but just stay still for a while. Okay?"
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Hank doesn't answer him with banter this time, as he attempts to move his body to adjust to some of the pain, but the effort is ultimately useless as he slumps back to the position he was in when the android put the blankets on top of him.
He wants to argue that the ice really isn't his problem, but both knows Connor would just disagree and also that truthfully, maybe if he starts to admit this to himself, it really is both their problem.
Yeah....it's fine....not like I can fucking move anyway...
And as Connor walks out, he'll get another small message;
Thanks.
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"You're welcome."
The android continues picking up the shattered ice, starting with the larger chunks first. In the middle of this process, there's a greater pause where Connor doesn't return to the room, although his pace was regular to that point. After a few minutes, though, he does come back to the bedroom, picking up the rest of the unmelted ice piece by piece until all that's left are a few small puddles and damp spots.
With the task done, Connor returns to the room and sits on the bed, facing away from Hank entirely. His posture is slumped forward slightly, a significant contrast to his usual upright default. His voice is quiet when he speaks.
"Do you feel like you can sit up yet?"
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He did notice that Connor took a longer pause before returning at one point, but assumed it was just due to having to take care of larger chunks of ice outside. At some point he briefly stood up, but his spinning head won and he slammed right back into the forest of blankets.
What a fucking mess...
He only realizes that Connor is finally back when part of the bed moves downward as he sits down. He doesn't look at him directly either, slumped on the other side.
"Tried already...gimme a minute or two."
At least he's got his voice back. That's a start.
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"Take your time."
Connor isn't a patient android by design, but he knows this is something he can't rush. He'll wait for as long as it takes for Hank to improve—and in more than just this situation.
"I'll make you something to drink when you do."
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"Think I've done enough drinking."
Is it a statement about today, a general promise or just the usual biting dark Hankish comedy banter? Maybe it's all three. Whatever it is, he puts a hand to his forehead massaging his temple.
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Instead, he reaches over and puts a hand on Hank's shoulder, in the hopes of offsetting what might be too serious of a response.
"It will help if you can drink something warm."
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"Sure uh...sure that might work."
He tries to get up again, but only gets halfway up, leaning on one side of the bed.
"Like...maybe some warm water."
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"I was thinking about warming up some of the apple cider."
It's hard to read his expression, if the man even has his eyes open to look at Connor. He doesn't keep his gaze on Hank for very long at a time, and the slight lowering of his eyelids could be worry, exhaustion, or nothing but a neutral expression not meant to display anything.
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"Yeah...that'll be fine."
He briefly looks at Connor, but turns away again before the android looks back at him. He has to wonder if he's being nothing more than a crutch for him at this point.
"You don't...need to do it either...you know."
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"I know."
Connor is silent for several moments, brow furrowing as he struggles briefly with himself, the smell of decaying leaves in the air. Even if it's better to leave more sensitive issues for when Hank is feeling better, a question claws itself out of him, tinged with hurt.
"Why didn't you talk to me?"
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Why didn't you talk to me?
He's not sure why that question hurts him so much. Maybe it's the failure he feels from it, or that he's frighteningly unsure how he can even begin to answer that.
"I...don't know," he admits. "Didn't think something like this would happen...felt like it was better to keep it to myself."
It's just excuses and he knows it.
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With I don't know all he can do is question it.
"You know you can, right?"
It almost sounds like he's pleading, and the way he's leaning towards Hank probably doesn't do anything to disprove that impression.
"About anything. I mean it. I know I've been difficult in the past about some things—but it won't happen again. Okay?"
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"Connor...I don't...deserve this kindness." His voice is weak. He sounds tired, exasperated by both his own state of mind and the fact the android is willing to open up to him. He has so little self-worth that he doesn't feel like its worth Connor's effort to do anything for him. "It's hard to open up after...."
After Cole. After being unable to do anything. After being blamed in the heat of a shouting match for his son's death by his enraged ex-wife unable to deal with the loss of her son. After no one really took the time to see how he was doing, first because it felt more polite to let him grieve and deal with his separation, and then because who the fuck would ask Hank Anderson how he felt?
Connor was probably the first one in years to see Hank peel away enough of his gruff facade to leave a shell of a man who couldn't even quite believe in himself anymore.
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