[If Connor can look at him like this — again, all moon-and-stars — then Hank thinks he must be doing something right. For the first time in a long while, maybe. And it’s greedy too, but if Hank could somehow magically inspire that sort of look on the regular, well...
His life already is special, like he said. Because of Connor. It feels selfish to ask for more: to see that look of adoration every day, to kiss him every day.
But it’s nice to know what he himself wants, too, because for the longest time, it’s been — was — something akin to nothing.
As they walk toward the shop, Hank’s intrusive thoughts start gnawing at him again. Maybe it’ll be like the club all over again. Maybe they’ll be rude, hurt Connor in some way — but seeing the guy behind the front desk helps ease the worry in Hank’s chest. Not because he’s an android, although that helps too, but because he’s plastering stickers in a little scrapbook. Just something normal people do, not like the owner at the club who was acting like he had a stick up his ass. Hank imagines that guy finds very little joy in his life.
And good: no having Hank sign anything, no asking if he consents to what-the-fuck-ever. Because this is Connor’s big day, and it should feel like it. Hank’s just here for moral support.]
Maybe it’d be a little naughty of you. But I can still hold your hand, remember? Was gonna do it outside, anyway, but you had your box. [He reaches for Connor’s hand, giving it a soft squeeze. Then, speaking more gently, devoid of teasing:] Really, though, Connor. Honey. ‘Course you can hold my hand. Won’t hold it against ya. You really are doing great.
[Hank isn’t sure what to make of the machine-contraption thing. It worries him, sure, but Connor probably knows a lot more about it than him — that it’s safe, anyway. And Hank trusts Connor.]
I’m here. Won’t leave unless you tell me to. Might need to sit down after a bit, but I’m not leaving. [Bringing Connor’s hand up to his lips now, brushing a kiss across his knuckles.] Haven’t been too kind to my old man joints as of late, Connor.
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Not trying to tease me, huh? Sounds like a first.
[If Connor can look at him like this — again, all moon-and-stars — then Hank thinks he must be doing something right. For the first time in a long while, maybe. And it’s greedy too, but if Hank could somehow magically inspire that sort of look on the regular, well...
His life already is special, like he said. Because of Connor. It feels selfish to ask for more: to see that look of adoration every day, to kiss him every day.
But it’s nice to know what he himself wants, too, because for the longest time, it’s been — was — something akin to nothing.
As they walk toward the shop, Hank’s intrusive thoughts start gnawing at him again. Maybe it’ll be like the club all over again. Maybe they’ll be rude, hurt Connor in some way — but seeing the guy behind the front desk helps ease the worry in Hank’s chest. Not because he’s an android, although that helps too, but because he’s plastering stickers in a little scrapbook. Just something normal people do, not like the owner at the club who was acting like he had a stick up his ass. Hank imagines that guy finds very little joy in his life.
And good: no having Hank sign anything, no asking if he consents to what-the-fuck-ever. Because this is Connor’s big day, and it should feel like it. Hank’s just here for moral support.]
Maybe it’d be a little naughty of you. But I can still hold your hand, remember? Was gonna do it outside, anyway, but you had your box. [He reaches for Connor’s hand, giving it a soft squeeze. Then, speaking more gently, devoid of teasing:] Really, though, Connor. Honey. ‘Course you can hold my hand. Won’t hold it against ya. You really are doing great.
[Hank isn’t sure what to make of the machine-contraption thing. It worries him, sure, but Connor probably knows a lot more about it than him — that it’s safe, anyway. And Hank trusts Connor.]
I’m here. Won’t leave unless you tell me to. Might need to sit down after a bit, but I’m not leaving. [Bringing Connor’s hand up to his lips now, brushing a kiss across his knuckles.] Haven’t been too kind to my old man joints as of late, Connor.