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Connor stops, thinks. Hank's palm is hot and resting somewhere between his jaw and the start of his neck. The temperature of it seeps in further than his synthetic skin, warming the chassis beneath, making a small warning [abnormal heat distribution detected] pop up at the corner of his vision. After a few moments of deliberation, he reaches up and drapes his hand over Hank's forearm, slides it up to his wrist. He doesn't restrain or push away, doesn't analyze, only touches, feels. Feels. Feels Hank's pulse jumping under his fingers, feels the heat of him, the grain of his skin, the broad jut of bone where the head of the radius meets the scaphoid, the brush of small hairs against his palm.
Had Connor been a less developed model, it would have been an overwhelming amount of information. Fortunately, he was designed to adapt.
When the silence between them stretches long and uncomfortable, Connor looks up to gauge Hank's reaction. What he finds is Hank looking down at Connor's hand on his arm, lips slightly parted, a very light crease between his eyebrows, dilated pupils, faster-than-average breathing. It doesn't catch Connor off guard. It doesn't. He has no need for breathing, technically, but shudders an inhale regardless. He notices that his chest and throat feels tight and it all suddenly becomes too much to process, overwhelming-- he closes his eyes, LED flashing yellow-blue-yellow.
[Software Instability ⮝]
“Connor?” Hank says, his voice low, rumbling through Connor's chest.
When he opens his eyes, he's looking straight at Hank's face, angled down, closer than a moment ago, looking at him with a disarming mix of concern and affection. Raw emotion, crushingly human. It reaches into his chest, squeezes, aching. He reminds himself to run diagnostics later, knowing fully well that they won't yield conclusive results.
He tells himself he should presumably map out a list of appropriate actions for this kind of situation and carry out the one with the best outcome.
But Connor doesn't stop this time, doesn't think-- he hooks a hand behind Hank's neck instead and pulls him in, pressing the man's forehead into the crook of his shoulder, swiping his thumb across the nape of his neck. He feels Hank tense up, momentarily, before an arm tentatively reaches up to cradle Connor's back. The hand already on his neck mimics Connor's own movement, a soothing stroke, back and forth. Hank breathes a long sigh into Connor's shirt, hot.
[abnormal heat distribution detected]
Connor disables the warning and turns his face to nuzzle Hank's temple, long hair tickling his nose and mouth. His hand is still on Hank's forearm. He squeezes, a gesture he hopes Hank will find soothing. The pressure on his chest lessens.
“I've got you, lieutenant.”
“Hank,” Hank mumbles, voice muffled. Habits.
Connor smiles, eyes closed, conceding, “I've got you, Hank.”
They stay like this for 6.45 minutes.