bootyshortsforoldmen | Etraya: Inbox

[Connor grabs the pan by the bottom to bring it over to the table. Unfortunately, the bottom is not nearly as cool as its contents. Connor's fingers go white in an effort to protect the false skin from being damaged, before he sets the pan down at his seat.]

It's saltier than I imagined.

Saltier, huh.

[Hank looks down at the pan.

Then at Connor’s hands.]

Why’d they go all white like that?

[Connor shimmies his hands out from under the pan and it takes a moment for the false skin to crawl back over them.]

Most androids' skin is designed to pull back when exposed to extreme temperatures.

[Which is just a fancy way of saying he burned himself.]

Oh, Jesus Christ, Connor.

[Hank is standing up to grab an ice pack he keeps in the freezer for headaches. Wrapping it in a washcloth from the cupboard.]

We really need some goddamn hot pads. And you need to take better care of yourself. Gonna give me a heartattack one of these days, I swear to god.

[He hands the ice pack to Connor. Eyes thinned.]

I will add hot pads to the list.

[Connor accepts the ice pad, pulling his skin back from his fingers to help balance the temperature.]

I apologize. I'm not used to needing to care for my bodily autonomy.

[In Solmara, he lost pieces of himself regularly, especially after his fall.]

Please eat, Hank.

It’s okay, Connor. I mean — I get it. I’m sure it’s weird to have an old man whining at you. Watch it get real cold, and I’ll be here yelling at you to layer up or else you’ll get sick.

[Which Hank figures probably isn’t a thing, not in that sense, but what does he know? Nothing!!]

Yeah, yeah. I’ll eat. [He pats Connor’s head before sitting down.] I just... worry. And you’re the only one I really have to worry about — you and Sumo — so you probably, y’know. Get an unfair slice of that.

Androids cannot get sick. Not in the traditional sense.

[Connor takes another sample from the pan, intrigued by the results it brings up. The salt content is far higher than he expects and a man with Hank's fast food habits should not have so much sodium.]

Can I ask why you worry about me? I am replaceable in every sense of the word.

[Hank gawks at Connor as if he’s sprouted a second head.]

Why do I worry about you? The hell kind of question is that, Connor?

[Muttering:] “Replaceable” my fucking ass.

[That is always a sure sign that Connor has said something wrong.]

Should I phrase it differently?

Yeah, Connor. Go ahead. Phrase it differently.

[So Hank can get annoyed all over again. But with different phrasing!!]

[Alright. Phrasing things differently.]

I am made up of entirely interchangeable parts. If I were to become damaged, I can have an arm, a leg, or part of my face removed and have it replaced later.

[A pause, just enough to evaluate his words.]

Because I can only be killed in very specific circumstances... [A shot to the head, a loss of thirium, a loss of an essential biocomponent.]

There is less need to worry, because of those factors. With that information, why expend valuable energy worrying about someone replaceable?

‘Cause you’re family. Obviously, Connor.

[Hank pauses to take another bite of his meal. How many times does he need to tell Connor that he cares about him?]

Why “expend valuable energy” worrying about someone like me? If I die here, I’ll just come back.

Because I like you and I enjoy your company. I wouldn't want anything to diminish your happiness.

[And then comes the mental gong, the duh moment. They've had this conversation before but it still hasn't ingrained itself in Connor. Maybe because he's deviant now it will finally click.]

Likewise, Connor. See what I’m getting at here?

[Hank chews slowly as he looks at Connor.

He’ll say it again. And again. And he might get progressively more pissed off, but Hank will keep on saying it.]

[It seems to at least click for now.]

I see.

[He pauses before nodding.] I will try not to make you worry in the future.

[Hank gives Connor another long, appraising look. Sighing as he stands up, chair legs scratching against the floor.

He pats Connor’s shoulder before saying:] Wait here.

[It’s a stupid idea. Beyond stupid. But Hank still heads back to his room, kneeling beside the bed to grab that goddamned bottle of whiskey. A quarter full, now.

Heading back to the kitchen, Hank finds a small glass. Pours a smidgen of whiskey inside before setting it on the table.]

Here’s your sip, Connor. Because — [hand on Connor's shoulder again] — I care. Which probably sounds like bullshit, considering I just got you some booze when we don’t even know how it’ll affect you, but you said you wanted to try it. And like I said, I’d rather you not be alone for this. If you still want it.

[Connor isn't sure what he's waiting for, but he waits very obediently. For once, he doesn't follow Hank. Then, Hank is back with a bottle of whiskey and Connor's head tilts in the silent question of where did that come from. However, he waits for an explanation to come.

When he has a glass with a smidgen of whiskey in front of him instead.

Well, might as well. He lifts the glass and empties it.

Connor squints at the burning in his mouth, but then alcohol works through systems not designed to process it. He sticks out his tongue and shakes his head. Then he shakes his head again and he reaches up for his neck.] I think you were right. I'm not designed to drink any...

[And then up comes the whiskey, purged with cup's worth of thirium. Blue paints the cooking pan as Connor wipes his mouth.]

[It’s kind of nice, being with Connor the first time he tries alcohol — and there it comes right back up.]

Jesus Christ.

[Hank hurries to get a pack of thirium from the cupboard. Unsure if Connor really needs it, but they have it regardless.

He sets it down on the table as he rubs Connor’s back.]

You okay? Looks like a lotta blood.

[Connor coughs and blinks as he reorients himself. He's never thrown up before, but he supposes it was more of his body purging a foreign substance.]

It's a purge. I'm not bleeding.

[Like with the snake venom and how his body had needed purge that as well, albeit not through the mouth.]

Oh. Well, shit.

[Hank stops rubbing Connor’s back for a second before resuming.]

Anything I can do to help? Or — fuck. I’ve done enough. I know. You’re okay though, right? I mean, you’ve got it out of your system, yeah?

I should be alright with some rest.

[Connor wipes his mouth, pauses to see if any more will come up before he sits up straighter.

Thank you for indulging my curiosity, Hank.

[His voice is a little rough from the purge, but these are all things that can be repaired internally with time.]

Don’t gotta thank me, Connor. Could’ve done it on your own time — thank you for, y’know. Not.

[One last pat on Connor’s back before he starts working on putting away the leftovers on his plate. Appetite more than a bit spoiled.

The pan can go in the sink... once it’s sufficiently cooled. Hank doesn’t have fancy android skin like Connor.]

Should be swearing at me for letting you do it, maybe. Calling me a stupid old fuck. Wouldn’t even argue with you there.

I didn't know where the whiskey was.

[Connor internally winces as Hank's food leaves the table. He should have waited to ingest the whiskey so as to not spoil Hank's appetite. In the mean time, Connor gets up and heads into the living room to rest on the couch. He needs to remain sitting up in case there's anything left to purge, so he settles in, waiting for the inevitable guest appearance of Sumo.]

You're not that, Hank. I indulged with the experiment as well.

Luckily for me, Etraya’s got a whole ass liquor store.

[A liquor store that isn’t too inconveniently far, unlike some other places. But Connor doesn’t need to know this.

Hank looks down at Sumo, sitting by his bowl. Probably both confused as to what just happened as well as why his bowl is empty.]

Go watch over him — yeah, Sumo? [Predictably the dog does not listen, despite knowing some of those words. Stubborn, Hank thinks as he washes his plate in the sink. Just like him.]

Would’ve known where the whiskey was if you hadn’t poured the rest out, so — good thing you did, I guess.

[Sumo does eventually head toward the couch, sitting on the floor as he rests his head in Connor’s lap.]

A liquor store?

[Connor remarks before personally leaving a mental reminder to search for alcohol in the apartment. In the mean time, he lets his body do the necessary repairs as he sits.

Sumo eventually comes to sit with him and Connor gently rubs Sumo's face, finding it very calming.]

I promise I won't try anything else like that again.

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How has it been five days (GASPS) time is unreal

we've been having too much fun in zombieland