That's a fair point as well-- we can still address getting the registry corrected
[ Connor meets Hank's gaze and his expression shifts to one of bitter-sweet resignation, a smile that's just a little bit a wince, too. Because Hank is right, uncertainty is part of being alive, not knowing what to do with yourself is part of being alive. They're just not aspects Connor is great with-- and he really appreciates Hank's empathy on that matter. There are reasons Connor was so attached to his identity as a machine, and now that he doesn't have that security... he knows he's alive, but he's not always sure what else he is. ]
'Weird Shit' is an apt description, yes
[ He agrees, idly straightening his spine and smoothing imaginary imperfections from the knot of his tie. He's got much the aura of a flustered feline, working too hard at seeming unbothered, but whatever impulses those are go out the window when Hank starts to speak.
Connor twists in his seat and hangs a softer, subtler rendition of his classic 'moon and stars' stare on Hank's face, steeping in all that genuine honesty -the love, the insecurity, the urge for protection- Hank is meeting him with. ]
I realize it is easy for you to feel negatively about yourself Hank, but please, let me be a voice to the contrary. I don't feel failed. I feel you were supportive and reasonable [ Connor reaches out a hand and places it over Hank's on the steering-wheel. It must be troublesome, Connor observes, being trapped with such a negative internal soundtrack. He hopes he can keep being a contrarian opinion to it. ] You are of course entitled to your own, incorrect opinion [ He's overly prim in saying so, clearly suggesting a note of affectionate humor.
Hank's apology earns a look of perplexed concern and Connor starts to think, perhaps Hank is more shaken than the android is assuming. His comforting hand shifts from the steering wheel to just above Hank's knee. ]
No apologies necessary. I wasn't offended. The owner had specified I was "legally unqualified" to handle the document, so I was avoiding touching it out of spite. That... wasn't exactly logical of me
[ Nothing about this entire situation feels logical, maybe that's why Connor is having such a hard time feeling grounded. Hank's genuine concern sends him into a spell of self reflection, and Connor goes digging into the weird little fragmented scraps of data that are making him feel so scattered. ]
I'm... in an adequate mood to continue with our plans for the day. I am... irritated, that a company with access to technology as advanced as myself would feign ignorance with these issues, and employ paper applications when the postal service is more or less stalled. It's. They're. [ His eloquence is failing his irrigation here. ] What was your word? Motherfuckers?
[ Hank could stay parked, start driving, or make the car take off like a rocket-ship and Connor probably wouldn't notice, too tangled in emotions too vast for his processing power. He's agitated, like when his and Hank's case got yanked out from under them, like there's another problem not quite within his grasp to bust apart. ]
And beyond all of that, I'm... confused. I already mentioned my inclination for polyamory. So, following reasonably, I shouldn't find anything remotely enjoyable about the concept of ownership. Of owning... or being owned. And yet... [ Restlessness washes over him, his own words failing once again. He'll have to borrow Hank's, yet again: ] Like I said already, 'Weird Shit' is an apt description
no subject
[ Connor meets Hank's gaze and his expression shifts to one of bitter-sweet resignation, a smile that's just a little bit a wince, too. Because Hank is right, uncertainty is part of being alive, not knowing what to do with yourself is part of being alive. They're just not aspects Connor is great with-- and he really appreciates Hank's empathy on that matter. There are reasons Connor was so attached to his identity as a machine, and now that he doesn't have that security... he knows he's alive, but he's not always sure what else he is. ]
'Weird Shit' is an apt description, yes
[ He agrees, idly straightening his spine and smoothing imaginary imperfections from the knot of his tie. He's got much the aura of a flustered feline, working too hard at seeming unbothered, but whatever impulses those are go out the window when Hank starts to speak.
Connor twists in his seat and hangs a softer, subtler rendition of his classic 'moon and stars' stare on Hank's face, steeping in all that genuine honesty -the love, the insecurity, the urge for protection- Hank is meeting him with. ]
I realize it is easy for you to feel negatively about yourself Hank, but please, let me be a voice to the contrary. I don't feel failed. I feel you were supportive and reasonable [ Connor reaches out a hand and places it over Hank's on the steering-wheel. It must be troublesome, Connor observes, being trapped with such a negative internal soundtrack. He hopes he can keep being a contrarian opinion to it. ] You are of course entitled to your own, incorrect opinion [ He's overly prim in saying so, clearly suggesting a note of affectionate humor.
Hank's apology earns a look of perplexed concern and Connor starts to think, perhaps Hank is more shaken than the android is assuming. His comforting hand shifts from the steering wheel to just above Hank's knee. ]
No apologies necessary. I wasn't offended. The owner had specified I was "legally unqualified" to handle the document, so I was avoiding touching it out of spite. That... wasn't exactly logical of me
[ Nothing about this entire situation feels logical, maybe that's why Connor is having such a hard time feeling grounded. Hank's genuine concern sends him into a spell of self reflection, and Connor goes digging into the weird little fragmented scraps of data that are making him feel so scattered. ]
I'm... in an adequate mood to continue with our plans for the day. I am... irritated, that a company with access to technology as advanced as myself would feign ignorance with these issues, and employ paper applications when the postal service is more or less stalled. It's. They're. [ His eloquence is failing his irrigation here. ] What was your word? Motherfuckers?
[ Hank could stay parked, start driving, or make the car take off like a rocket-ship and Connor probably wouldn't notice, too tangled in emotions too vast for his processing power. He's agitated, like when his and Hank's case got yanked out from under them, like there's another problem not quite within his grasp to bust apart. ]
And beyond all of that, I'm... confused. I already mentioned my inclination for polyamory. So, following reasonably, I shouldn't find anything remotely enjoyable about the concept of ownership. Of owning... or being owned. And yet... [ Restlessness washes over him, his own words failing once again. He'll have to borrow Hank's, yet again: ] Like I said already, 'Weird Shit' is an apt description