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For the last ten minutes or so, Hank hasn’t been able to concentrate. Fuck knows, to what plot is happening in this episode of whatever on Hank's tv. He’s too busy going out of his goddamn mind.
Hank is debating whether Connor has placed is hand in the middle of the sofa incidentally, or whether he’s just put it there to fuck with him more than he already has. Maybe even to launch flashbacks back to his wildly cringey pre-teen years. Why not fuck with Hank than he already had? He’d cut back on the whiskey, sure; Connor had already replaced his beer at some point with alcohol free on the sly, meaning he can’t even curb the feeling with actual damn alcohol. He hadn’t even noticed till three beers in, Christ.
Still, Connor’s hands are smattered with beauty spots – even on the palm of his hand, the inside of one finger, freckles, even the light dusting of hair; strong, elegant, enticing. His nails were clean, neatly trimmed. No callouses, no scars; no dry, flaky skin. Connor had kind of hands that would look good wherever they were. Neatening his tie. Adjusting his shirt sleeves. Near Hank. On the rare occasion, on Hank. Maybe not putting blood, thirium, whatever disgusting thing he found next in his mouth.
Compared to Hank’s hands, well – compared to Hank’s everything, he thought, he felt clumsy in comparison.
And yet, here Hank is, putting his own hand centimetres from Connor’s own, not even trying to be subtle about it.
Christ, he’s in deep.
Part of him wants to die of second-hand and first-hand embarrassment, for Connor, and for himself for giving in. Even if Hank isn’t this conjuring this all up in his chemically imbalanced, largely gone to fuck brain anyway.
He sees Connor glance towards his hand; his face impassive.
Hank’s throat catches.
Connor’s eyes turn back, his shoulder’s shifting up slightly, as if steeling himself for something.
Hank’s buzzing with nerves, on edge, and his mind goes blank as Connor, fumblingly, links a few fingers with Hank’s own.
Hank can see, out of the corner of his eye, Connor’s shoulders tighten further, as Hank pulls his hand from Connor’s – only to hold all of Connor’s hand. It’s a little brash and uncoordinated, trying to get all their fingers to link up right. But he can feel all of Connor’s tension unfurl and dissipate as he gives his hand a quick squeeze.
Hank doesn’t know what he’d expected. With Connor, he didn’t know what to expect at all. He hadn’t given much thought to what an android might feel like, though he was surprised to feel a texture to Connor’s nonetheless artificial skin; a push and pull when he rubs his thumb over Connor’s hand. A warmth was there too, it felt stronger than Hank's own hands.
Right now, Hank doesn’t really want to pretend he’s watching anything else but Connor. He presses his other hand to Connor’s wrist, in trying to reassure Connor that he’s not about to let go, as he untwines his right to brush Connor's cheek, slowly, with his thumb - tracing the freckles there; to tangle in Connor's hair; pull Connor into a kiss.
Connor is still. Unresponsive.
Huh.
Had he broken Connor?
Hank pulls back.
His LED was red, red, red.
“You’re shaking.”
Fuck.
“Wait,” Hank pauses, “do you not want this?”
Connor still hadn’t blinked.
“Shit, oh shit.”
*
Connor thought he knew he was alive.
Then, Hank had touched him. And it was like he hadn't been aware he had hands. Like he hadn’t had skin, it was near newly made; stitched together under Hank’s fingers, it was practically radiating off him. His thirium pump felt like it was about to beat out of his chest. He could still feel Hank's lips on his, as if he'd left a light impression reverently burning there. Connor was practically putty under Hank’s hands.
He didn’t know how to react.
Now Hank’s head is in his hands, groaning into them with only what Connor could either call embarrassment or abject despair.
“Hank-”
“A fuck up. I’m a real fuck-up, a fuckin’ piece of shit.”
“Hank,” Connor consoles, “it’s okay.”
“Connor, it’s not. Don’t let anyone else tell you that,” groans Hank, “fuck, I should have asked, first. I thought, I thought- I still, I should have asked.”
“Hank, you read the mood fine. It’s just-”
Connor breathes harshly out of his nose.
“You overwhelm me,” Connor says, blithely, “in a good way. A great way, really.”
Hank pulls his head out from his hands, looking doubtful.
“Bullshit,” Hank breathes.
Connor inches closer, Hank turning towards him.
“I’m trying to record all the moments we have together,” Connor clarifies, “even for an advanced prototype, trying to account every detail is- difficult.”
Hank doesn’t exactly know how to respond to that.
“Androids-” Hank asks gruffly, “can they even do that, forget?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know if deviants do. I’m afraid that I might be able to. I know how it sounds,” Connor lets out a half-laugh, “ridiculous.”
“Being alive is,” Hank sighs.
A pause.
“-can I still kiss you?”
“By all means,” Hank says, trying to be blasé this time, “knock yourself out.”
“I don’t think that would be very productive to kissing you, Hank,” Connor says, smirking.
Hank snorts.
“Dumbass.”
Connor brings his hands in near offering, reverence; brushing his hands over Hank's beard, threading his fingers through Hank's hair, slowly combing them through the strands. Hank's expression is open, soft, his eyes still a little bit guarded, and Connor feels his chest tighten.
“It’s softer than I thought,” Connor murmurs.
“What is?”
Connor kisses Hank again in response.