bootyshortsforoldmen | Etraya: Inbox

TEXT • VOICE • VIDEO • ACTION
USERNAME: HANK

Hank here. I probably don’t give a rat’s ass what you have to say. Leave me alone. How the hell do I get this damn thing to stop rec — [BEEP]

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From:

bootyshortsforoldmen

[Hank could never match Connor’s smile, really, but something inside him insists on trying.]

Don’t worry about it. If the store doesn’t have something you want, I’ll figure it out. I’m all resourceful like that.

[He’s not. But for Connor, he’ll make it work. Pull some strings. Beg for favors. That sort of thing.]

From:

instabilitatem

I like it when you smile like that, Hank.

[Connor likes it best when they both smile, when they both seem to be enjoying themselves.]

It doesn't need to be a pull on resources. I wouldn't want Etraya to become another Solmara.

From:

bootyshortsforoldmen

Yeah? [Hank looks away. Covers his smile with his hand for a second before dropping it. It’s embarrassing.]

Not a burden, or anything like that. We just need to find where stuff is. And if you want, I dunno... watercolors, and the store doesn’t have it, I’m sure someone might know how to make them. Can’t be that hard, yeah? Mixing pigments, and all that.

[He knows nothing about watercolors other than “water” and “colors.”]

From:

instabilitatem

[Connor's smile widens as he watches Hank.]

I think paper and pencil would be a better place to start. Maybe some basic paint.

From:

bootyshortsforoldmen

Simple enough. [Paper? Pencil?? Hank can do that.

Probably.

But paint might require some manner of specialized paper. Canvas?? Cole used to do his little fingerprinting on printer paper.]

We’ll get you whatever you need, Connor. I could pop out while you’re working on dinner. How's that sound?

From:

instabilitatem

Be careful. [ Connor is distinctly aware of how disliked both of them are. He stands from the couch to start searching the fridge for the steak.]

From:

bootyshortsforoldmen

I will. [Hank still has Catdog’s gun, too. Not that he’s taking it with him, nor does he have any intention of using it, but... he has it.

He’s never been a very well liked guy here, anyway. Now everyone's got an actual reason to hate him beyond “there’s that drunk asshole.”

The trip to the store isn’t actually quick, and the selection isn’t great. Not that Hank knows what he’s looking for, really, but not this: a couple of notebooks with obnoxiously shiny covers. Gel pens in a bunch of different colors!! Okay, that takes Hank back.

...And that’s it. Along with some oddly scented pencils and a set of erasers shaped as an assortment of animals, that’s about all Hank finds. Which is disappointing, but he figured as much.

His ride back on the trolley seems shorter, somehow. Probably because he feels like a disappointment. But regardless! He got Connor gel pens!

When Hank gets back to the apartment, he sets the bag on the coffee table.

Sumo is patiently awaiting by his bowl for his very much deserved steak!!]

From:

instabilitatem

[Connor takes the time to not only to cook, but to think through his situation. He's now enemy number one for quite a few people and, while not extraordinarily well liked in Detroit, it's not the scrappy friendships that are built when one is trying to survive.

Ithaqua would likely kill him on sight.

Robert hates him.

And Catdog is probably the most regrettable of the losses. They were sort of partners in crime, with Connor providing him with rations whenever possible.

Now it's all gone.

Hank may be his only friend left in the city.

And for a brand new person with feelings and thoughts of his own, it's akin to scrambling around for someone to grab while drowning. He doesn't want Hank to drown with him.

As Hank returns, Connor is cutting a piece of the steak for Sumo, depositing it in the bowl, before plating Hank's dinner. It's a simple set up: ribeye with buttered asparagus, mashed potatoes, and something new he's learned: chimchurri. The whole plate is bright, the colors balanced, and hopefully tasty.]

Food's ready. [And then Connor settles in the seat across from Hank's.]

From:

bootyshortsforoldmen

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.]

From:

instabilitatem

[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.]

From:

bootyshortsforoldmen

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?

From:

instabilitatem

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.]

From:

bootyshortsforoldmen

[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.

From:

instabilitatem

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.

From:

bootyshortsforoldmen

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.

From:

instabilitatem

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.

From:

bootyshortsforoldmen

Oh, yeah?

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

What were you expecting?

From:

instabilitatem

[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.

From:

bootyshortsforoldmen

Saltier, huh.

[Hank looks down at the pan.

Then at Connor’s hands.]

Why’d they go all white like that?

From:

instabilitatem

[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.]

From:

bootyshortsforoldmen

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.]

From:

instabilitatem

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.

From:

bootyshortsforoldmen

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.

From:

instabilitatem

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.