bootyshortsforoldmen | Etraya: Inbox

Smells good, Connor. [It still feels weird to have someone cook for him — plating the food up, even.

But it’s Connor, so it’s okay. Because Hank knows he’s exploring his interests.

Still...]

You spoil me, y’know. Thought you were gonna make a steak, and here’s this whole ass meal.

[He remembers Connor wanting to try some whiskey. But maybe he forgot — does Connor forget anything?? — so Hank doesn’t mention it.]

[Connor enjoys it at least and there's no need for him to eat as well, so it makes portions easy.]

I thought a steak alone would not be enough to eat.

[And there's no whiskey, so,] Did you get whiskey for me to try?

[It's a double-edged sword: having whiskey in the apartment. Yes, Connor could try it, but then there would be the rest of the bottle for Hank to sample at his leisure.]

I didn’t.

[Hank shoves a forkful of steak in his mouth so he doesn’t say anything stupid.

He could cave. Hank could so easily cave — but should he? Yes, it’s what Connor wants. But what if it hurts him? What is Hank supposed to do then?

Like he told Connor earlier, though: better to try it with someone else rather than alone.

Hank doesn’t want to come home and see Connor... well, in the sort of state that Connor’s seen him in.]

He finishes chewing. Sighs.]

What would we do if you got hurt, Connor? What would I do?

I can taste substances in the field. I shouldn't be hurt.

[All that blood he's been sampling is probably not the best example to use.]

How is your meal?

[Glossing right over the question of what they would do if Connor got hurt.]

[Hank squints at him. Bits of asparagus stuck to the corner of his mouth.]

So you’re... what? Gonna have a single sip? Not gonna chug the whole bottle?

[Like how Hank does. And he looks down at his plate guiltily: all the food. The arrangement of it. Hank would just pile everything onto a plate and call it a day.]

It’s good, Connor. Real good. Thank you.

I have no need to drink more than a sip.

[He's not sure how he would even have that much whiskey.]

Good. I'm glad you like it. I especially liked the bright green of the asparagus.

Hmm. You like green, huh? Bright green?

[He wishes Connor could taste it the way he does, especially with all the effort he puts into cooking.]

You wanna do your little test thing? Figure out its... I dunno, makeup? Salt content?

[As for the whiskey — surely a sip wouldn’t hurt? Just one sip? The guy licks all manner of weird shit from the floor, for fuck’s sake.]

If you promise me it’ll just be a sip, we can figure out the booze thing, Con.

It's a very energetic color.

[But what Hank says gives Connor an idea. Sure, he can't eat the food he's cooking, but perhaps he can sample it like he might blood. He climbs up to his feet and returns to the stove, where the hot pan is still waiting.

He dips his fingers into the remains of the meal, still quite warm, and brings them to his lips.]

That's not what I expected.

Oh, yeah?

[Hank chews on another bit of steak as Sumo loudly licks at his bowl.]

What were you expecting?

[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.

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Flashbacks to Connor sticking his hands in the oven tbh

cn: grabbing hot objects

Re: cn: grabbing hot objects

cn: grabbing hot objects

cn: grabbing hot objects

cn: grabbing hot objects

cn: grabbing hot objects

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