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Hank knows that androids don’t sleep.
This is a fact that Connor corrected him on many times before. (‘Hank, it’s called stasis period; that’s when we sort the data we gathered throughout our uptime, compress files to optimize space in our memory banks, and run software updates.’) Still, Hank can’t help but think of it as sleeping when he looks at Connor’s relaxed form, tucked under the blanket in their shared bed.
He’s unmoving; only the steady, blue pulse of his LED shows any sign of life. It used to freak Hank out a little. It doesn’t anymore.
It’s so rare to see Connor like this. He’s always in motion: processing, fidgeting, going somewhere for his Jericho-related work, or dragging Hank to places for leisure. He doesn’t even need to go to sleep (stasis) every day. So it’s only on these rare occasions, when Hank wakes up in the middle of the night, he can observe Connor like this.
(Sometimes, Hank wishes he could also program himself to sleep through the whole night, without a nightmare, some random sound coming from outside, or one of his limbs falling asleep, waking him up.)
Even though the bedroom is draped in darkness, a strip of moonlight shines through the gap in the hastily-drawn curtains, illuminating Connor’s features.
Features that Hank knows almost better than his own. Wispy eyebrows that are more expressive than they have the right to be. Long, dark eyelashes that – along with his amber eyes – can be deadly weapons against Hank’s heart. A nose with just the cutest little bump on it that Hank likes to place a soft kiss on. A dusting of moles that sweetens his face. Soft lips that could bring anyone to their knees – well, that anyone is mostly Hank. A stupid cleft chin that Hank wouldn’t find attractive on anyone else.
Connor’s eyes suddenly snap open, like he was able to detect Hank’s staring. (Let’s face it, he probably was.) He blinks a few times while his system boots up or whatever, before his eyes slide to Hank.
“You have no right to complain anymore about me staring at you creepily while you sleep.”
“I wasn’t staring at you creepily. I was staring at you lovingly.”
The corner of Connor’s mouth ticks up into a lopsided half-smile. “Is that so? I’m sorry, my ocular units were offline, so I have no evidence to support this claim. You have to repeat it.”
Hank huffs, amused, and does just that, smiling at Connor, like the lovesick loon that he is.
Connor’s half-smile turns into a wide one, his eyes softening as he looks at Hank. A hand reaches out to cup Hank’s cheek, slender fingers rubbing at his beard. Hank leans into the touch, grabs Connor’s hand and places a kiss on his smooth palm. Connor has removed his synthskin.
Fuck, Hank loves him so much.
Suddenly, Connor’s smile turns into a funky-browed frown. “Hank, it’s only five forty-nine. Why are you awake?”
Hank huffs. “The fuck if I know.”
With the smoothness of a sack of potatoes, Connor moves and drops face-first on Hank’s chest, making Hank breathless for a moment. Literally.
“Let’s go back to sleep,” Connor mutters.
It’s not like Connor can sleep, but he does like to cuddle. What a dork! Hank smiles and wraps his arms around Connor. “As you wish!”