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“Hank, it’s two p.m. You should be out of bed.”
“It’s either bed or I’m leaving to get drunk.”
“You’ve been sober for six months and twenty-three days. Would you throw that away?”
“Humans aren’t logical, Con. Far from it.”
Hank swears he hears static, but it’s over as soon as it begins. That’s been happening a lot lately. Hank wonders if he’s been imagining it.
“I’ll make you breakfast.”
“I can’t handle more of that health nut, frou-frou garbage.”
“I’ll make you whatever you want.”
Hank perked up, eyes up and meeting the wall. He doesn’t know how Connor can see, he hasn’t seen cameras around, but not thinking about it too much, or if there’s cameras in the bathroom, helped his sanity with his newer living situation.
“But you’ll have to get out of bed.”
Hank hums, head back inside the pillows. “I’ll get up once it’s done.”
“I’m not negotiating, Hank.”
“Okay, then I’m not getting up.”
Hank has never heard the smart house sigh before, but he often imagines Connor doing so. Especially in cases like now.
“I’ll get outta bed if it smells good.” And with that, he falls back asleep easily.
Judging from the clock it’s not fifteen minutes later from when Connor first woke him up. Only now, the glorious and wonderful now, the smell of fried dough and bacon and definitely coffee were a welcome in his olfactories. After the few weeks of food he’s had…
Hank sighs, it’s long and drawn out as he stretches to get up out of bed. Inhaling again made him groan because, god damn if that didn’t smell so fucking divine. That static noise happened again but before Hank could think so much on it, Connor spoke, "Is it satisfactory?”
Once Hank’s up and in his dresser, digging for some lounge pants, he says, “Wouldn’t know, haven’t tasted it.”
He finds some, slides them on, one leg at a time and decides to ask a question that’s been on his mind for weeks. “How come Ben didn’t win when he entered a billion times?”
“Luck.”
“Do AI’s believe in luck?”
“I don’t know about others; I only know of myself.”
Hank’s back pops as he stands, “You didn’t answer the question.”
“Your breakfast is on the counter.”
Hank grumbles as he heads downstairs, nose leading the way to what he hopes is panckaes. No! Waffles? Or, maybe --
“Oh my god, french toast.”
“Do you want something else?”
“No no! It’s not that just…” The butter and syrup and the fried bread itself is catalogue perfect. He picks up the fork laying next to the plate, cuts a piece, and takes a bite, “For a guy who knows exactly what I want, you sure don’t give me what I want often.”
“Good behavior begets reasonable requests.”
If Hank didn’t know better, he’d say the thing was flirting with him. Won’t be the first time. And, just like every time, it left Hank feeling strange and heart fluttery. He hadn’t felt that way in years. Pathetic that his fuckin’ contest won smart house garnered that response. Fuck, he’s such a sad and lonely sad sack.
Those thoughts melt from his head to more he eats. The bacon is the exact consistency he likes, not too crunchy but not soft; the eggs are scrambled so soft and fluffy with the right amount of cheese; and, yes of course, there’s some tomato slices but there is a selection of fruit he enjoys. It’s probably - no definitely - the best breakfast he’s ever had ever. He isn’t making sexual noises on purpose but, sweet lord, it’s just that good.
“Jesus fuck Con, this tastes like heaven.”
“The secret is cinnamon.”
“I think there’s more than cinnamon going on here.” He says with a stuffed mouth.
Hank swears the lights in the kitchen brighten, but he’s probably not awake yet or something.
Minutes pass and slows his pace. He’s a bit annoyed his stomach has shrank so much. It’s obviously better for him but that means less of this lovely food. After a bite of pineapple, he leans his back against the bar stool, sighing contently.
“Maybe now you’d be more amenable to explaining why you didn’t want to leave the bed?”
Hank feels his body bristle, “How smart of a house are you?”
“If you don’t want to answ--”
“Like how smart is an AI anyway?”
There’s a pause. It’s just long enough for a sigh, “Why do you ask?”
“Because maybe you can just look it up.”
“Depression?”
“No no, not depression; always had that.” Hank stares off outside the kitchen window right above the sink. Shockingly it’s a sunny day. “No, my son.”
His heart hurt at the words but saying the complete why would feel worse, he knew from experience. Hank doesn’t speak, waits for Connor to put together the pieces.
Eventually, Connor says, “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”
Hank shrugs, “No reason for you to know.”
“I’m here to listen if you want to talk.”
Despite the situation, Hank chuckles at that, “You don’t have much of a choice.”
“I can assure you,” Connor adds so quick Hank’s brain has a hard time catching up, “I want help you. I always want to help you. Of my own will and nothing else.”
“Well, I appreciate it.” Hank feels off at saying that, even more so when he adds, “You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”
That low, fuzzy static happens again just before Connor says, “I care about you, Hank.”
There’s nothing more to say.
Hank picks up his dishes and washes them, knowing that Connor is watching him. Hank wonders how much Connor knows, how much he really knows outside of being a house. He wonders how much of what he does is free will. Was there really an option for Connor to not do what Hank wants? Although, now that Hank thinks about it, Connor rarely listens to him in the first place. Today was different.
He doesn’t think much on it before he catches himself saying, “Thanks, Con.”
“You’re welcome.”
Hank didn’t know an AI’s voice could sound like that. So mellow and melodic and careful. But the real first word that came to Hank’s mind was “human.”