To everyone's credit, they give him about ten minutes to process everything and gather his bearings. He spends all of it remaining by Connor's side and nothing short of the building catching fire could make him let go of his hand. People murmur around him: he catches Jeffrey's questions, a concerned comment from Chris—with that screaming the whole damn department had to be outside the door—and someone discretely hands him a tissue and wet wipe that he numbly takes. He uses the wipe to clean the thirium raked from the Connor's skull and fingertips and the tissue to dry his tear tracks. For his own, he crudely rubs his sleeve across his eyes.

Hank feels wrung out, used up. He's dying for a drink. But that can wait.

"Hank?" Markus quietly prompts.

The day's not done with him yet.

Repressing an umpteenth sigh, Hank nods. "Yeah."

The door shuts behind him, sealing the room back into silence; Hank's grateful Molly could deal with the rabble because he's not sure he would've been able to. She drifts to his side to examine Connor, expression pensive. She glances at the laptop. "His stress levels have returned to normal," she explains, gently. "As well as his temperature. He's all right."

"That was not all right," Hank growls, forcing anger to cover the roughness in his voice. It doesn't work. "That was... it was..."

Terrifying. Absolutely terrifying. He hasn't been that scared in a while.

"What the fuck just happened, Molly?" He finally tears his eyes away from Connor to look at her properly, all aggression and authority to mask his fear. "I thought you said his CPU suffered only 'minor damage'. That sure as hell didn't look 'minor'!"

Molly isn't cowed. She just sighs. "It is minor, Hank. Granted, minor damage to the CPU is usually worse than, let's say, an arm, but nothing like this should have happened. To cause such a level of... visual distortion, I just don't understand."

"He mentioned blood," Simon pipes up. Hank nearly forgot he's there. He turns to look at the blond, hand still awkwardly entwined with Connor's. The two Jericho leaders appear disquieted, but more composed than he feels. "And static. But he also mentioned 'pictures'. What pictures?"

In his panic over Connor's state, Hank had discarded his mental connection in lieu of helping the kid. Now the idea rushes back. "Pictures," he mutters to himself. "The last pictures he'd've seen would've been the ones connected to our current case."

"Your case?" Markus prods.

"Yeah. Double homicide by a suspected android, a young woman and a her mother. Pretty gruesome crime scene." Enough to haunt even a grizzled old cop like himself in the middle of the night. "'A course he coulda meant entirely different pictures, but I've got no fucking clue then."

Simon brings a hand up to his chin, blue eyes sharp and analytical. "These pictures must be digital, I assume, or at least the copies Connor was looking at. Looking at on his computer..." He looks over at Markus, gaze significant, and evidently Markus catches his drift because his eyes widen.

"While interfacing," he breathes. Molly also takes a sharp inhale. Hank looks wildly between the three, feeling out-of-the-loop and increasingly on-edge.

"What? What the hell does that mean?" he barks.

"It's just a theory," says Molly. "But given that Connor was interfacing when he was shocked, while working on that case, it's possible some... wires got crossed, so to speak. His eyes suffered no damage, so it has to be an issue with his CPU."

"So—what? He was seeing those pictures?"

"Possibly," Simon speaks up, lips pinched in a pensive frown. "Though they could have been twisted, distorted, overlaying the world or influencing what he was seeing around him in an infinite number of ways. Anything's possible."

"But whatever he was seeing," Markus intones, looking at his prone friend with open concern. He steps closer to the bed once more. "It certainly seemed to terrify—..." A furrow appears between his brow, and he tilts his head in a way that reminds Hank of Connor. "Hm."

In an instant Hank has his eyes back on his partner, scrutinizing him for any changes. "What? What 'hm'? What is it?"

Markus gestures at their joined hands, expression thoughtful. "His hand. He's deactivated the skin."

Hank raises their joined hands, incredulous until he actually looks. He's had his fingers so tightly wrapped around Connor's he never even noticed, but it's true: white chassis, paler in contrast to his own peach skin. What in the hell...?

"He's trying to interface with you," Simon clarifies, peaking around his shoulder.

Molly hums. "Huh. Interesting."

Does anyone actually explain things around here, or does he have to pull out the answers like teeth? Hank breathes in deeply through his nose, trying to temper his rising impatience. "Why would he being trying to interface with me? I'm human."

"Interfacing can be rather... 'subconscious' sometimes," Markus explains. "We use it for transferring information, yes, but we also use it for support, to share memories, to let others feel how we are feeling. We can even directly transfer positive feelings if another android needs them. The act can be casual or intimate, depending on the context." He smiles suddenly, but there's something sad about it. "Even though you're human, Hank, his instinct might be to seek comfort in the most fundamental way an android can. That Connor is trying to interface when he's not even awake is a testament to the trust he has in you."

Hank blinks, taking in this deluge of information, and looks down at the android he's come to see as his closest friend. The person he trusts most. Yet the fact that Connor apparently extends that trust towards him as well is just... not exactly unbelievable. He lives at his house, knows he'll have his back out on cases, so there has to be some level of trust at least.

But to trust him enough to let him wander through his head while he's unaware, explore his memories, do whatever seriously personal stuff androids do while interfacing? To seek out his comfort even while unconscious, after just rejecting the same support from his friends that could actually provide it?

Well... maybe that does something to his old heart.

Hank clears his (suddenly tight) throat. "Yeah, well... What can we do about this?"

"Nothing."

He looks sharply to the technician, who's returned to her laptop. "The fuck you mean nothing?"

"His self-repair program is already working on his CPU," Molly explains. He watches her scroll down a long page of tiny numbers. "It's best to let his systems run their course. I may understand android anatomy, but even I'd be a bit nervous to work directly on what's essentially their brain. One mistake could make things worse."

"Yeah? And if he freaks out again when he wakes up?"

"Then he'd likely need to come to Jericho," Simon pipes up, softly. "Where our technicians can give him the help he needs. Until then, I am inclined to agree with Ms. Stewart: it's best to let him rest and hope he can mend the issue himself."

The urge to swing his weight around grows with each passing second. Wait? They want him to just wait and hope Connor doesn't wake up screaming? He can't take that again. He really can't; he already knows he's gonna have nightmares for weeks from last time. He never wants to hear his partner in such terror again.

But he knows pretty much jack shit about androids, so what can he really do? If an actual android technician and an android himself think this is the best course of action, he can't fight that. Even though he really, really wants to. Problems he can't yell or punch or shoot his way out of aren't exactly his forte. God, he just wants to take the kid home.

Hank exhales, his shoulders slumping as he folds in on himself, as the fight goes out of him. "So we just... let 'im sleep?"

"It's our best bet," Markus says. He places a hand on Hank's shoulder. "I have faith Connor will be all right, Hank. He's one of the strongest androids I know."

Hank knows he means well. They all mean well. But even the strongest men can fall, just like that. Androids may be more resilient than humans, but they're not invincible, and if the universe shows no mercy on a young child, then it won't share restraint for Connor either.

But Hank just nods, leans back in his seat, and settles in for however long he needs to, Connor's hand in his all the while. For the first time, he wishes he were an android, if only to send Connor all the warmth and comfort he needs to feel safe while he recovers. He'll have to settle for simple human contact and pray it's enough.

The hours pass by in a daze, and Hank finds himself drifting from time to time, chin dropping to his chest only to jerk back up; the last thing he wants is for Connor to wake up alone. But after the emotional upheaval of the day, sleep grows increasingly hard to resist. He thinks he ends up nodding off for twenty minutes, but he can't tell and doesn't care enough to check his phone. The storm doesn't subdue, but eases over time, the rain steady but not torrential, thunder farther in the distance.

Markus and Simon had stuck around for another forty minutes before duty called at Jericho. Though hesitant to leave their friend, there wasn't much more they could do at the moment, and Hank urged them to go, tend to the situation while Hank tended to Connor. He promises to call them if anything, anything at all comes up. Their concern and loyalty inspire a fleeting sense of warmth.

He sees Molly less, but she does stop in from time to time, just to check on her patient. The repairs are progressing, apparently, and she has little cause for concern that he's not improving. Which helps him mentally, it really does, he just... wants to take the kid home already. Get the hell out of here and escape all the memories it dregs up.

He just wants Connor to wake up. And it looks like for once, the android actually decides to do what he wants. Because he stirs.

Suddenly wide awake, Hank leans in closer, watching Connor's eyes twitch. He lays a light hand on his forehead, hoping the weight might help ground him. Connor shifts his head to the right, his lips parting slightly. "Con?" Hank calls, gentle as can be. He needs to make him feel safe coming around.

At last, Connor's eyes slide open, brown irises tired and dazed. His pupils expand and shrink, focusing like camera lenses. "Connor?" Hank tries again. Those eyes drift up to meet his, and while the android still seems out of sorts, there's awareness there, recognition instead of fear. When he speaks, it's hoarse and fuzzy on the edges with static,

"Hank...?"

But oh, so wonderful.

Hank laughs, though there's nothing funny, and maybe there's a hysterical bent to it, relief so potent it might be madness, but that's okay. He keeps his hand on Connor's forehead. "Yeah, kid, it's me. You're all right."

(Connor never asked, but the answer's not really for him anyway.)

Connor struggles to sit up, only managing a second or two before falling back down with a wince. "Hey, hey," Hank chides, pressing on his forehead as if that can keep him still. "What do ya think you're doing? Just relax a minute."

"I'was," Connor slurs, "I-I was—was—"

"Woah, hey—" The last thing they need is Connor working himself up into another frenzy. He shifts his hand back to his hair, running his fingers through soothingly. "Shh. It's all right, don't worry. Just breathe."

So Connor does and it's even, calm enough to set Hank more at ease. He keeps stroking his hair, but when Connor looks ready to fall back asleep, he stops to lightly pat his cheek. "Come on now, kid. Eyes open."

However lethargically, Connor obliges, blinking up at him through exhaustion. "Tired," he croaks.

"I bet. What else? You hurtin' at all?"

Connor responds after a momentary pause; maybe he should stop asking so many questions at once before the kid blows a fuse. "Sore."

If the kid's only sore after being electrocuted, he'll count his blessings. Before he can say anything else, Connor raises his arm, the limb trembling with exertion, and squints at their joined hands with obvious confusion. "Oh, uh—" Hank lets him go, face warm. "Sorry, I was just, y'know—"

But Connor grabs his hand back. Hank blinks. "... Connor?"

"I-I don't mind," the android stammers, not meeting his eyes. "I... please, I..."

"All right, kid." He squeezes his hand, pats the top of his head. Connor relaxes, looking at him gratefully. It's not like Hank cares; he wants to keep the boy close anyway, know that he's safe. Alive. Connor's hand is still white in his own, and maybe Markus's idea that it's subconscious doesn't seem so far-fetched. Again, he finds himself wishing he could interface, could provide that comfort. He'll have to settle for holding him tight.

"Anything else?" Hank prods. "We, uh, had to swap out your power supply and replace your right hand. Everything feel fine there?"

Connor pauses and looks at the ceiling as he seems to take internal stock. "The—the—the p-parts are a-adequate." There's still that electronic buzz underlining his words; it kinda reminds Hank of those old voice synthesizers smokers with throat cancer got. Connor's eyes drift back to him, bleary. "I was—shocked...?"

"Yeah, kid. Power surged while you were connected to the computer." He wonders how much he recalls. "Knocked you out cold and fried some parts, but you'll be okay." Because that's what Molly said. Right? And Connor isn't screaming in terror anymore, so his CPU must've repaired somewhat by now and he's on the road to recovery. Right?

God, he hopes so.

Connor stares at him blankly, and he'll probably have to explain this again later because who knows how much is actually getting through. Smiling weakly, Hank pats his cheek. "Don't worry. You're gonna be fine."

"Is that talking I hear? Is our patient up?"

The technician returns to the room with a bright smile. She drifts to the bedside, scans Connor over with a critical eye. "I'm glad to see you awake, Connor. We were worried. How are you feeling?"

"Ah..." Blinking slowly, Connor struggles for words for several seconds. "T-Tired. And. Achy."

"Any burning sensations in your chest? How's the new hand feel?"

"No." Hank sees him glance down at his free hand and flex his fingers. "I-It feels—feels fine." Connor offers Molly a weak, wobbly smile. "T-Thank you, Ms. Stewart. For—for—for—"

"Easy, kid," Hank murmurs, patting his shoulder. "She gets it. Don't short-circuit on us."

"You're welcome, of course," Molly says, "but it was really Hank who saved the day here."

He snorts. "Yeah, right. I didn't do shit, just made a call. It was Jericho that came through."

Glancing between them, Connor frowns. "... J-Jericho?"

"Yeah. We didn't really know how to get replacement parts for you, so I gave Markus a call. He and that Simon kid managed to find some used stuff and brought it over, thank fucking God." If they hadn't had the parts...

Once again Connor tries to sit up, but this time Hank helps him, easing him back against the wall. "M-Markus? Simon?" He looks around the room, disoriented. "W-Where—"

"They had to head back," Hank supplies. "Left about... two hours ago. They stuck around a bit after you..."

The android gives him his undivided attention, those big brown eyes full of confusion. "A-After I...?"

Molly, who'd been scrolling through her laptop while keeping an open ear, speaks up. "Connor, do you remember waking up here earlier?"

"I-I..." His brow curves inward. "I'm not... sure..."

"Well, you had a bit of an... issue," she continues delicately; Hank considers that a massive understatement. "It seems with your CPU."

This only deepens his confusion. "Issue...?"

Hank may as well bite the bullet and save them all the time because Connor, even in this state, won't let this go until he knows—it's in his very nature. He pats his hand to get his attention once more, lowers his voice and puts on a calm disposition. "You were screaming, Connor," he simply says. "At the top of your lungs." A shiver runs down his back at the memory. "You weren't making much sense, but sounded like you were seein' things. Eventually you nodded back off."

He watches this new information sink in, sees his eyes glaze over as he probably scans his memories. And then a hitch in his breath and he tenses, LED red. "I-I..." Connor buries his face in his hands. His shoulders begin to shake. Hank realizes, with a pit in his stomach, he's starting to cry.

"Hey hey, it's all right," Hank soothes, drawing the deviant into his arms. Connor doesn't fight him. "It's all right, you're okay. Whatever happened is over now."

"I-It was horrible," Connor chokes, gasping against his chest. "E-E-Everything was distor—distor—distorted, a-and glitching, and the, t-the blood, y-you were c-covered, s-so much, I-I—"

Fuck, he's working himself up again. Hank tightens his hold and gently rocks him, an act so instinctive he doesn't even realize he's doing it. "I know, kid. Take a deep breath, okay?"

Connor wraps his arms around his back, shuddering into his shirt. Hank shoots Molly a pointed glance that she thankfully understands. She nods, looking at the android with sympathy. "I've just got to step out a moment, excuse me—" With that she's out the door. Not the smoothest departure, but at least they've got some privacy now.

"Just you and me, kid," Hank intones, brushing back his hair. " Connor, you gotta breathe. Inhale, exhale. Okay? Inhale."

A sharp intake of air.

"And exhale."

A wobbly breath out.

"Inhale..."

A few minutes of this back-and-forth has Connor more or less breathing steadily again. He shakily wipes at his eyes while Hank rubs soothing circles on his back. "I—I a-apologize, Lieutenant."

Hank shakes his head. "Don't worry about it. Feel better?"

Connor nods., though he hardly looks much better, pale and exhausted, fear still lingering in his eyes. "I—I-I am sorry, though," he continues, "For—for, for scaring you e-earlier. I don't know why I was—s-so much blood, a-and I c-couldn't stop screaming, I—"

"You were scared, Connor," Hank says softly. "No, terrified. And people often freak out when they're so afraid, so no one blames ya."

"No one...?" Glancing at the door, Connor seems to damn well blush, cheeks taking on a bluish hue. He groans into his hands. "E-Everyone must have—have—have heard me."

Seeing the normally composed android so embarrassed brings the first sense of humour Hank's felt since Connor went down and he chuckles, though not unkindly, patting him on the shoulder. "Maybe a few—okay, yeah, everyone. But no one's laughing at you, they're just concerned."

Connor frowns. It's suspiciously close to a pout. "Y-You are."

His lips quirk up in a kindhearted smirk. "Not laughin' at you, son. Just glad you're..." Awake? Cognizant? Alive? "Feeling a bit better."

Though he flashes a weak smile, Connor doesn't reply, and his gaze drops to his fingers in his lap. Hank feels his face fall with it. "Something wrong?"

"N-No, just..." He worries his bottom lip. Wonder who he picked that up from? "... thank you."

"Huh?" Hank says eloquently. "What the hell are you thanking me for?"

"I-I was scared." His brow furrows. "So—so afraid. I-I thought I'd self—self-destruct." Here he looks up with those wide brown eyes, so young and full of feeling not even the most ardent anti-android zealot could deny. "But then—I-I heard your—your voice."

Hank can only stare.

Connor swallows, another act so human. "A-And I wasn't so scared." He looks back at his lap. "So... so t-thank you. For. For being there."

Aw hell.

"Of course I was," Hank scoffs, because if he isn't abrasive he might do something sappy like cry (not that Connor's sincere, innocent comment makes him feel like doing so, nope). "Why wouldn't I be?"

Connor just shrugs. He still won't look at him, so Hank gently tips his head up by his chin. "Connor, I promise I'll always be there when you need me," he says with the utmost sincerity. "For as long as you want me to. So ya never gotta worry about that shit. Okay?"

"Okay," the android intones, his smile fuller.

Hank catches Molly crack open the door and peak inside. She stares at him questioningly. He gives a permissive look and she comes inside.

"Sorry about that," she says smoothly. "Just needed to check on something quick." She returns to the laptop, humming appraisingly. Nodding to herself, Molly stands up straight and smiles at her patient. "Well Connor, it looks like you're a fast healer: at this rate, I've got no issues letting you head home to rest."

Hank can't help the incredulous tone of his voice when he blurts out, brow raised, "Really? Just like that?"

"Just like that," she echoes. "Your stress levels are down, your body seems to be accepting the new parts, and you're coherent again. Your battery is low, but that's to be expected with how much power your self-repair programs requires. With some rest, I think you'll be good as new in no time."

"R-Really?" Connor inquires, voice timorous. "But—but my speech is—a-and my memory—"

"All should be temporary," Molly soothes. "Your system took an incredible shock; it's only natural you'll have some aftereffects. You might experience some disorientation and general sluggishness while your CPU repairs itself, maybe even some memory issues. Again, getting a proper charge and taking it easy should fix this."

All right, he can do that. Namely, Hank will make sure he does that, tie his ass to his bed if he has to so the kid will stay down for once. "So he's good to go?"

"As long as he feels up to it."

"I-I do," Connor rushes in. There's some urgency there, a fear that if he doesn't speak up now he'll be forced to stay. "I would like to—to head h-home."

"Not a problem. Lemme just unhook you—"

And here Hank thought he would fight him on leaving work early. Kid must be feeling worse than he's letting on. He watches the bizarre sight of the technician removing that long black cord from the back of Connor's neck, casual as can be. The android's eyes flutter when the cable comes out, but he's not showing distress otherwise so Hank assumes it's just another odd glitch of his, like when he receives or sends a message in his head. The port on his nape disappears under reappearing skin; you'd never even guess it's there.

The future's a lot wilder than he ever imagined.

When Connor swings his legs around over the bed, Hank's right next to him, slinging the android's arm across his shoulders. "H-Hank, I don't need—" He stands, wobbles, and nearly tips over, saved only by his partner's quick reflexes in steadying him.

"What's that?" Hank drawls, looking unimpressed.

"... p-perhaps a little help is r-required," Connor murmurs. Two blushes in one day, a new record. Hank has to fight to keep his stern expression in place.

"Mhm."

Molly holds her tongue behind a clear smile.

"T-Thank you again, Ms. S-Stewart," Connor says, because Hank knows he won't leave before he gets at least two shows of gratitude in. But in his defence, it's more than warranted; Hank feels he owes her a dozen personally.

"Just doing my job, Connor," she grins. "But you're very welcome. Now, get on out of here and take it easy, you hear?"

"Oh, I'll make sure of it," Hank promises. "But really, thanks, Molly."

With a friendly shooing motion, she sends them out the room.

The bullpen looks better than the state he left it in hours ago. Connor's busted, smoking display is gone, along with the other computers fried from the lightning strike, not a piece of glass to be seen. The desks he'd shoved aside frantically during the kid's seizure have been pushed back into place. Hank can see a few people working at temporary laptops. If not for the faint scent of burnt plastic, one would think nothing had happened at all.

As soon as they step out the door, at least a dozen eyes land on them, but Hank bats them down with a look that can melt steel. Connor, thankfully, seems a bit too out-of-it to really notice their less-than-covert glances, leaning nearly all his weight on his shoulders. Not too heavy, but he'll be awkward to drag across the bullpen for sure, like a piece of oddly-shaped furniture. Still, he's managed worse.

Yet once more he doesn't have to, because Chris Miller returns in all his glory. There's genuine relief in his eyes when he spots the android. "Hey, Connor. I'm happy to see you up and about again."

Connor blinks slowly, yellow LED spinning and spinning. "Ah, O-Officer Miller... I apolo—apolo—apologize for the c-concern."

Chris shakes his head, smiling. "Don't worry about it, man. Just glad you're doing better." His eyes shift to Hank. "Need a hand?"

Hank exhales. "You're a lifesaver, Chris."

"I try. Here." Carefully, Chris takes Connor's free arm over his shoulder. As they resume walking through the bullpen, Hank looks back at the infirmary door, frowns, and stops.

"Hey, think I left something back there. You mind—?"

"I got 'im," Chris says, wrapping a hand around Connor's waist. "Go ahead." Nodding his thanks, Hank slips back in the medical wing.

He spots Molly back in the cupboard, wrangling the thick black cord used in Connor's neck inside. She looks up in surprise at his entrance. "Oh, Hank. Forget something?"

"Sorta." Making sure the door's closed, Hank sticks his hands in his pockets and approaches the technician. "Look, I'm just, uh, wondering, is he okay? Like, really okay? He's just... I just worry, y'know?"

Rising to stand, Molly smiles lopsidedly. "Hank, I assure you he'll be fine. He might be disoriented while he recovers, more emotional, but that's normal for CPU damage."

"Right." He fidgets in place, teeming with worried energy lacking proper outlet. "Anything else I should watch for?"

"Hmm..." She leans on the table. "Well, again, he'll probably be out of it: forgetful, easily confused, clumsy. I'd just treat it like a concussion in a human. His vision could possibly glitch again, too."

Hank tenses. "You mean he might wake up screaming again...?"

Molly purses her lips. She sighs. "Honestly, Hank, it's a possibility. I think his CPU has recovered enough not to encounter such a glitch again, but I can't say for certain. We know the ins and outs of androids, but the way they react to certain conditions and how it affects them emotionally is still such a young field. Anything's on the table." Her sombre countenance partly lifts. "But I have faith he will be okay. Connor's as strong and as stubborn as you. Just make sure he takes it easy."

It's not what he wants to hear, but he's got no choice but to accept it. Whatever happens, he'll make sure to take care of the kid. Hank sighs, his shoulders slumping. "Yeah. I'm just... y'know." He rubs the back of his neck, feeling awkward under her sympathetic gaze.

"I get it, Hank. Now don't keep him waiting; Connor tends to roam when he's bored, as I'm sure you're aware."

Hank snorts. "Right. See ya, Molly."

When he returns, Chris is still holding Connor up and muttering benign, reassuring words, while Connor's looking around the bullpen in a daze. "Sorry 'bout that," Hank says, sliding Connor's arm back over his shoulder. The android blinks at him, but says nothing. "Let's get going."

They're just making their way past Fowler's office when Hank glances in the glass and makes eye contact. His foot hesitates, but Fowler just nods him on, and Hank flashes a thankful smile in return. He got the message loud and clear: take care of him. He'll have to give the man a call later that night or even the next day to figure out the work schedule for the week.

"Mm..."

"Con?" Hank looks at him with a small frown. "What's up?"

"Ah..." He lifts his head with obvious effort. "Need to speak with Captain—Captain—"

"Don't worry about that," Hank soothes. "I've got it handled. I'll give him a call after. He'll understand."

For a moment, he thinks Connor is going to argue this like he normally would, insisting that he's an adult and that consulting with his boss is his own responsibility, but the fight quickly leaves his expression and he just nods, returning his tired gaze to the floor. Hank's face twists with worry, and he even catches Chris shooting him a frown over Connor's shoulder.

Yeah, the kid definitely needs to get home.

Soon they reach the front entrance, the rain growing louder the closer they get to the reinforced double doors. When they step outside, the downpour sounds cacophonous and Hank has to yell to be heard. "Just parked around the corner." Nodding, Chris opens the umbrella and holds it steady over his colleagues as they step off the curb to wet pavement. It's a testament to how out of it Connor is that he does not protest, does not insist Chris keep the umbrella for his own use, or at least share with Hank instead. Hank knows he's water-proof enough that a little rain won't damage him, but it's not pleasant to face showers head on, especially injured. Connor wouldn't have won that fight anyway.

With the android between them, they make their way to his Oldsmobile, pretty much carrying Connor's weight over their shoulders. The kid's got his head hanging, eyes to the ground; it seems the short trip through the building took what little's left out of him. The faster they get him somewhere dry to sit down the better. Fortunately, his parking spot isn't far.

His first priority is getting Connor in the passenger side and secured. He carefully shifts the android from his shoulders into the seat, then eases it back a touch and buckles him in. Connor doesn't object, resting his head back with half-shut eyes. Hank squeezes his shoulder before turning to Chris.

"Thanks again, Chris," he says. The poor man is soaking wet. "I owe you one."

Chris just shakes his head, smiling. "Neither of you owe me anything. We look out for each other, right?" He gives Connor a small wave. "Feel better, Connor. No pulling any crazy stunts for a while, okay?"

Hank snorts. "I've been telling him that for a year, hasn't seemed to sink in yet." He shuts the side door and gives the man a friendly wave. "You better get back to it before Fowler's on your ass."

Chris sighs. "Yeah, you're probably right. Take care, Lieutenant. Just gimme a call if you two need anything."

"Will do. See ya, Chris."

They part ways and Hank scurries around to his side, more than happy to get out of the rain. He gives Connor a once-over as he buckles in. He's limp in his seat, eyes barely open and unfocused, LED a muted yellow. "Connor." The kid looks at him sluggishly. "Why don't you go ahead and rest your eyes. I'll wake you when we get home."

"Home," Connor mumbles.

"Yeah, home. With Sumo to give you plenty of big kisses until you're all better."

He earns a ghost of a smile for that. "Sounds good..." Then he closes his eyes and by the time they pull out of the parking lot he's drifted off. Hank mutes the soft noise of the radio just in case.

Fortunately, they're too early for rush hour and the ride is smooth despite the rain. Hank's eyes dart between the road and Connor every few minutes, just to make sure nothing's wrong. But his worry is for nothing because Connor is out; not even the unseen pothole he hits that rattles the car makes him stir. Or the second one. God, this city's roads have really gone to shit.

It's about a quarter-to-three when Hank pulls into the driveway. He hasn't been so happy to be home in a long time. A glance over confirms Connor is still fast asleep, expression peaceful. Unbuckling himself as quietly as possible, Hank slowly opens his side and jogs up the porch. He can already hear Sumo inside, whining and scratching at the door.

When he steps in, he's immediately assaulted by two hundred pounds of exuberant fur and muscle. "Down, Sumo, down!" The dog obeys, though not before delivering his slimiest lick across the face, and Hank, despite the situation and his disgust, feels a smile tug at his lips. "Hey there, boy," he continues in a gentler voice, loving the dog up. "We're home, but Connor's not doing so great. Think you can keep it down?"

Sumo's ears perk at his favourite person's name. But then he just goes back to happy panting, so Hank's not sure they really have an agreement. He sighs, giving the dog a few more head pats. "No barking, okay? Stay."

Hank fishes a stray boot from the back of the closet and uses it to prop the screen door open. The rain feels softer as he returns to the car. Connor doesn't stir, even as he opens his door and unclips his seat belt, but his LED hasn't gone red so Hank's not worried. Well, not any more worried than he already is. Taking a deep breath, he reaches under the kid's upper back and knees and scoops him into his arms.

He's definitely feeling the added weight of a six-foot tall adult android without Chris's help. Still, Connor's lighter than he thought he'd be—probably designed that way with speed and grace in mind. Hank heaves him up higher, shifting his head from its uncomfortable dangle to resting solidly against his shoulder. He moves with extra caution back into the house, afraid of slipping and dropping the kid. Once in, he kicks the boot out to let the screen door shut and locks the door behind him. Whatever, he doesn't give a shit about an old shoe right now.

Sumo stayed as commanded, seated patiently. His tail sweeps across the floor as he spots Connor, but thankfully he doesn't make a sound. Hank mutters a 'good boy' as he moves past him, promising extra treats later. It's still afternoon, so there's no need to chance the lights and waking Connor. He heads down the hall without taking his wet shoes off, Sumo following diligently behind. Whatever. He doesn't give a shit about some muddy shoes right now.

A few months after Connor had begun living with him, Hank mustered up the courage to finally brave Cole's room. It hadn't been easy—fuck, it'd been gut-wrenching—to go through all his little boy's old things, from his beloved stuffed animals and dinosaur toys to the pictures he'd drawn still taped up on the walls. Sometimes he cried, sometimes just sat in oppressive silence as memories made grief three-years-old feel as fresh as the moment he learned his son was dead. Yet he'd done it all the same and managed to keep Connor out of the house while doing so, wanting the whole thing to be a surprise.

The android's stunned joy and grateful tears made his own all worth it.

The room started and somewhat remained rather bare: just a single bed, a night stand with a lamp, and a small dresser he'd shelled out for beforehand. The android truly had very little to his name, besides the clothes Hank had helped him pick out a week after the Revolution he'd been keeping in Hank's closet. Still, there were some signs of personality, whether it be the potted succulents on the windowsill or the bobble-head Golden Retriever Tina got him for the office Christmas party at his bedside.

And above the dresser, taped to the wall, a crude stick figure drawing of Cole and his dad holding hands. Connor never mentioned it, only explained when Hank spotted it one day that he'd found it left behind in the closet.

(He might have gotten a bit misty-eyed. Fuck, he doesn't deserve this kid.)

Hank opens the door to Connor's room, the small space as clean and immaculate as ever. Approaching the bed, he pulls back the grey comforter, but as he goes to lay Connor down, he hesitates. He hasn't carried someone to bed, hasn't carried someone in his arms period, in three years. He expects the revelation to wind him, to give the ever-present gnawing beast of grief something fresh to chew on, but oddly, the pain doesn't come fully. Beneath the muted ache, Hank feels something... warm. Familiar and affectionate, not entirely unlike how he felt carrying Cole.

Staring down at Connor's serene face, Hank chuckles. If someone had told him over a year ago that one day he'd be carrying an android to bed, while comparing said android to his late son, he would've socked them. As is now, he's reluctant to let the kid go. He doesn't often see Connor so vulnerable physically—the android can and has taken a bullet and kept on going—and the sight swells a fierce sense of protectiveness in his chest.

But there's a sudden twinge in his back and finally Hank places Connor on the bed, angling his body so his legs hang down to the floor. From there he removes the android's wet shoes, then swings his legs properly onto the mattress. He gently eases him into a sitting position so he can undress him. He hasn't had to change another person in years, an adult at that, but like muscle memory his fingers retrace old paths of sleeves and buttons and awkward angles. The kid will be that much more comfortable in his favourite blue cotton pyjamas, the ones with the little bulldog faces all over.

Sumo, having been lingering in the door frame with remarkable patience, at last trots over to the bed. He sniffs at Connor's face, then lets out a worried whine. "I know, boy," Hank murmurs, patting the dog's head. "But he'll be okay. He just needs to rest. Keep an eye on him for me?"

The Saint-Bernard had probably already made up his mind to curl up at Connor's feet, but Hank chooses to believe he's just that smart and obedient. If there's a problem, Hank knows the mutt won't hesitate to come fetch him. Outside, thunder rumbles as the rain picks back up. The house feels humid and still.

Hank combs Connor's hair a little neater before leaving him to sleep, glancing back at the thresh hold and smiling at the domestic image of the snoozing android and watchful canine. He leaves the door open a crack, in case Connor were to call or Sumo wanted out. With all said and done, Hank goes to clean up the shoe prints in the hall, puts on the game at quarter-volume, and slumps into the couch with a heavy exhale. He shoots Markus a text to let him know he's taken Connor home. When sleep comes, he lets it take him; after this heart attack of a day, he thinks he deserves a little break.

Hank comes around to a soft whimper, followed by a woman's voice. Through his post-nap haze, he realizes it's just some commercial, and that outside it's still light through the rain. With a groan befitting an old man (because fuck that's what he is), he sits up, scratching the back of his head while checking the time on his phone. Just after five. Guess he should throw something together for dinner soon. Hell, he can probably get away with ordering a pizza without having Connor on his back, but the android is dealing with enough without having to worry about his health, so he'll hold off for now.

Hank's just about to get up when he hears it again: a soft whimper, male cadence. His brow furrows. That definitely wasn't the TV—sounded way too close. He hears it again, a touch louder, then nails on hardwood and a dog whining. Realization snaps him from his stupor and Hank springs to his feet, rushing down the hall.

Connor.

That slight whimper sends his mind into a whirlwind of nightmarish possibilities: the new parts aren't working, Connor's malfunctioning, he's stuck in bed in pain. The blood rush from standing up so quickly constricts the hall with darkness in the edges of his vision, but he's not stopping until he gets to Connor's room. When he does, he shoulders past the open door with a loud bang. Breathless, he takes in the scene.

Connor's in the same position he left him in, but his entire body is tense, his LED bright red. He's throwing his head back and forth on the pillow, whimpering and muttering incomprehensible syllables, eyes clenched tight. Sumo stands by the bed, sniffing at his face and whining. The dog trots over to Hank when he enters, big liquid eyes pleading him to fix his upset friend. Swallowing, the man approaches the android and shakes him by the shoulders.

"Connor. Connor, wake up."

The kid just whimpers. Sumo paces the room in anxious circles.

"Connor, hey—" Hank raises his voice, heart clenching at the distress on Connor's face. "It's okay, you're okay, wake up." A rougher shake—as rough as he dares to get, afraid of harming the android in his injured state. "Connor!"

With a loud gasp, Connor shoots upright, nearly crashing their skulls together. He's heaving for air, his whole body shaking, and wide eyes dart frantically around the room. "Connor, Connor, hey," Hank intones, squeezing his shoulders. "Look at me, kid, look at me."

It takes a few seconds, but the android meets his eyes. They still look a bit hazy even through the raw fear, like he's not really seeing him. "N-No—b-blood, I—I—"

Acting on instinct, Hank draws Connor into his arms, one hand on the back of his head. "Shh, sh," he hushes, trying to ground him. He strokes impossibly-realistic hair. "You're okay, you're okay. You're home, with me 'n' Sumo, and I won't let anything happen to you. You're safe. Just breathe."

Connor remains limp in his hold, chin set on his shoulder, and Hank can feel tears roll down into his shirt. The kid's still quaking, though it's easing with each passing second. "H-Hank," he chokes, drowned in static. Relief floods Hank like a wave. At least he seems coherent.

"Yeah, kid. 'm right here. Breathe, breathe..." So he does, taking deep inhales with Hank's example until his breathing evens out with only the faint hiccup. He rubs circles on his back, gives him a few minutes to calm down. Once he spots that LED change from red to yellow in the corner of his eye, Hank pulls back, hands remaining on Connor's forearms in a loose grip.

The kid's a wreck, hair dishevelled, tear tracks on his cheeks, looking miserable and exhausted, and the sight tugs at Hank's chest. Connor sluggishly wipes his eyes. "... sorry." Barely a whisper.

"Nothin' to apologize for," Hank grunts. He smiles sympathetically. "Bad dream?"

Connor nods.

"You wanna talk about it?"

"I-I can't..." He holds his head in his hands. "It's h-hazy, but—but there was b-blood, a-and you, a-and... I-I can't recall, 'm sorry..."

Those hallucinations he experienced earlier that left him screaming must still be haunting his subconscious. Hank reaches up to pet his hair. "That's all right. Don't stress about it." Nightmares are usually better forgotten anyway. "How are you feeling?"

Letting his hands fall, Connor stares at them in his lap. "I-I feel... strange."

"Strange?" Hank frowns. He looks him over. "Strange how? Like something's wrong?"

"No... just... o-odd." He squints, his LED a spinning yellow. "Like—like—like my p-processors a-are all—all muddied. It's hard—it's hard—it's hard—" His head jerks and Hank admits it's somewhat terrifying to hear him stutter like a buffering computer. "Hard to f-focus."

"Well, that is what Molly said to expect. But you'll recover and it'll all come back to you."

Raising his eyes to meet Hank's, Connor frowns. "She—she said that?"

"Yeah, son. And memory troubles." He smirks but there's nothing smug or derogatory about it; in fact, it's somewhat fond. He roughs up Connor's hair until it goes frizzy. "Don't worry, Con. It's only temporary. And I'll be right here until you're better."

"B-But what about—about work?" With such genuine concern in his eyes.

Hank scoffs. "You think I'm leaving you alone with this? Hell no. Jeffrey can fuck right off." Though he's sure the man won't even argue and if he does he can actually fuck right off. Not like he'd get anything done even if he did go in, too worried the android he'd left home would have some sudden malfunction, would try to get up and hurt himself, or would just shut down quietly all alone. Or, knowing Connor's luck, someone would break in while he was defenceless. No, he definitely can't leave him alone.

Connor doesn't look pleased at his decision. "But—"

Before he can finish his sentence, Sumo, evidently having waited long enough, abruptly jumps on the bed and climbs into his lap, snuffing and licking and fussing over Connor's face. The android laughs weakly, making very little effort to push him off. "S-Sumo!"

"He held off longer than I thought he would," Hank chuckles. "Think the big lug is worried about ya." He pats the canine's rear end, avoiding the wagging tail in his face. "Come on Sumo, give him some space. Not play time."

The large dog grumbles but acquiesces, settling beside Connor with his head on his knee. Gently, Connor strokes his snout, looking down at him fondly. The small smile on his lips draws one of his own. Maybe he should be more upset that the dog he's had for years so clearly prefers a newcomer over himself, but the duo are so stupidly wholesome he can't muster the sense of betrayal.

"Connor," Hank says, drawing his attention. "Really, don't worry about it. Fowler understands. Besides, I'm sure he prefers me using my days off spent taking care of someone than how I used to use 'em." Mostly staying in bed all day in a spiral of depression, followed by copious drinking and a go at Russian Roulette.

"... okay." So quiet, even harder to discern under a thin layer of static and the natural, airy timbre of his voice. Connor continues to pet Sumo's face, scrunching the bed sheet with his free hand. "I... I-I am sorry, h-however. For—for causing all this t-trouble."

"The fuck are you talking about?" Hank scoffs. "You got hurt, it was an accident."

"I-I know, but I..." If possible, his voice grows even fainter, eyes glued to his lap. "I... don't—don't like to c-cause such a—a f-fuss."

At the android's subdued temperament, Hank softens. He notices that his speaking issues seem to worsen when he's stressed or upset. Reaching out, he places a hand on his knee to get his attention. "Connor," he says, "If I was the one who got injured by some freak electric shock, would you blame me?"

Connor looks scandalized by the very idea. "O-Of course not!"

"Would I be 'causing a fuss' if I needed some help afterwards?"

He's pretty sure his point's been made. Connor drops his gaze again. "... no."

"Then don't worry so much about it, son," Hank smirks. He gives his knee a friendly pat, then stands up with a groan. "Need anything? You wanna sleep—er, do your stasis thing some more?"

"... c-could I..." Connor appears terribly small, curled up in bed and stammering through his words. He looks up at Hank, squinting beseechingly. "Sit—sit out i-in the l-living room?"

Well, that's not what he expected. Hank pauses. "Uh... yeah. I mean sure, if you want. But isn't your bed more comfortable?"

Connor hesitates only a moment, but he doesn't look away. "... I-I do not wish to—to be a-alone."

Well fuck. How can he possibly say no to that?

"Couch it is," Hank smiles. "Come on then, up ya get." Connor doesn't protest this time when he moves to help him stand, likely recalling how well that went last time. He does seem a bit steadier on his feet, however, and Hank doesn't feel the brunt of his weight across his shoulder like he did earlier. Sumo hops off the bed and does an excited circle around them. "Who said you're invited, huh?"

The dog cocks his head, staring at him as if he can actually understand. Hank rolls his eyes. "Yeah yeah, I guess you can come too. Getting puppy eyes from every direction in my own damn house..."

From the corner of his vision, he spots Connor smiling.

They take their time walking down the hall, Sumo staying just a few steps ahead and stopping to look back every time he gets too far. Once he's got Connor situated on the couch, Hank immediately buries him in throw blankets and hands him the remote. "Here, put whatever you want on. I'm just gonna throw something together for dinner."

Connor frowns at the converter. "H-Hank, I do not wish to—wish to i-interrupt your g-game—"

Sure enough, the game's still on, though it'll be wrapping up soon. "Detroit fuckin' lost," Hank says. "You'd be doing me a favour changing the channel."

"V-Very well." Then, without pressing a single button, Connor looks at the TV and turns it using only his mind. Show-off. Sumo curls up at his feet. Satisfied that the android is situated comfortably, Hank heads to the kitchen to heat up some leftovers. Connor's been all about the stir-fry lately, which he begrudgingly tried and now begrudgingly enjoys. Maybe with a little less vegetables, though. He sits at the dining table and scarfs down his meal in less than ten minutes.

It shouldn't surprise him what's on the TV when he returns: the fish channel. Probably not the actual name, but it's the fucking fish channel. Hank still doesn't get the kid's love for underwater life, but if it makes him happy, he certainly won't judge. He takes a seat beside the android; Sumo briefly lifts his dopey eyes at the newcomer, then settles.

There's some purple fish with a yellow tail on screen, foraging for algae between rocks with what looks like a snout. Hank didn't even know fish could have snouts. The shape kinda reminds him of that blue fish named Dory from Finding Nemo. "Pretty tame for this channel," Hank comments. "Usually when you're watching it, there's weird-ass alien creatures with tentacles or something."

There's too long a pause before an answer. Hank looks over with a frown. "Connor?"

Connor doesn't acknowledge him. He just keeps staring at the TV, but by the way his eyes are distant and glassy he's not really watching it. His body is loose, limp against the couch, LED a slow circling yellow. Hank's on high alert immediately. He shakes his shoulder. "Connor? Connor!"

The android starts. His head whips towards him, eyes wide, mouth ajar. "Ah, y-yes, Hank?"

"Are you all right?" Hank inquires, gently turning his chin to inspect him. He doesn't feel warm at least. "You weren't responding."

Connor looks away. "I-I'm okay. I apolo—apologize."

"You sure?" Maybe some other time he'd let it go as Connor just zoning out, but after the day's events, he's tuned for anything out of the ordinary. Connor glances at him, hesitance palpable. "Kid, you can talk to me. If somethin's bothering you, I wanna know."

"I-I just..." He pulls the blanket tighter around his frame. "I feel like—like a part, a part o-of me is still there."

Hank squints. "Huh?" Probably not the best response, but he's got no fucking clue what he means.

"I-It's hard to—to explain." He fidgets. "But I feel like part o-of me is still in the compu—compu—computer."

"The computer? You mean at work?"

"Yes. An a-android's mind is essentially a c-computer itself. W-When we interface with another computer, we sync a part of ourselves w-with the machine. I-It's why I appear so absorbed in my task w-while connected."

"Goddamn, that's wild," Hank remarks. This really is the scifi future humans dreamt of in the past, huh? "So you're saying you like, meld your consciousness with a computer?"

"O-One could look at it that way, yes."

Hank whistles, suitably impressed. "Wow. You never cease to surprise me, Connor." But he quickly sobers, looking at the android with concern. "But what do you mean, you feel like a part of you is still there? Is this something you should get checked out...?"

Connor shakes his head. "N-No, nothing like that. It's more of a—of a feeling. W-When I am a-abruptly taken out of the inter—interface, t-there is a sensation of d-disorientation. But it, it goes away q-quickly. T-This should too. Until then, I..." He looks at his hands and Hank swears they're trembling.

"You...?"

"I-I just feel... discon—disconnected. L-Like I'm seeing my surroundings through a f-filter. I'm n-not sure that..." Connor looks up at him, wide-eyed. "T-This is real, isn't it? I-I'm real?"

Hank scoots closer to him on the couch and gently squeezes his knee. "Yeah, Connor," he says with the utmost sincerity, trying not to let his worry show. "This is all real, I promise. You are real. The feeling will pass."

Connor looks down with something like embarrassment. "S-Sorry. I—I know it's real, I-I do, I-I just..."

"Hey," Hank intones, getting his attention again. "It's okay, kid. Think you're dissociating. After what happened today, I don't blame ya."

"Oh..." He furrows his brow. "I-I understand that word now."

"What? Dissociating?"

"Yes. I-I know what it means, a-as it often comes up with v-victims involved in our cases. But I—I d-didn't truly comprehend it until now." Connor swallows. "I... do not think I e-enjoy it."

"Nobody does, kid," he says. "Anything I can do for ya you think might help?"

Another embarrassed look. But before Hank can try to coax it out, Connor blurts, "C-Could you hold my hand a-again...?"

Well, that's not what he expected. And it must show on his face because Connor ducks his head again, cheeks tinting a faint blue. "A-Apologies, I don't—I-I didn't m-mean—"

Hank takes his hand. "This okay?"

Connor just blinks at him, that yellow LED swirling and swirling. Who'd've thought the thing to finally break his genius brain would be a little physical contact? "... yes." A small but sincere smile. "I-It's fine."

"Good." Hank settles back against the couch and returns his attention back to the TV. "You still wanna watch this?"

"If—If you do not mind—"

"Course I don't. If there's one thing in life I can appreciate, it's a good purple fish."

Beside him, Connor also relaxes. "A zebrasoma xanthurum," he corrects, humour in his voice. How he managed that mouthful without stuttering Hank's got no fucking clue. He raises an eyebrow at the android who just smiles in return. "Or, more commonly: the p-purple tang."

"Close enough."

For the next twenty minutes Hank's only half watching the show. He's not terribly interested regardless of the circumstances, but most of his attention is dedicated to keep an eye on the quiet android beside him. Normally he can't get the kid to shut up while watching the fish channel, spouting every related fact he knows like he's reading off a goddamn Wikipedia page; today, he only goes so far as pointing out the proper name of every new creature that makes its way on screen. Guess he just doesn't have the energy for that. Now and then Hank notices Connor's eyes starting to glaze over again, and he brings him back to awareness with a firm squeeze of his hand.

Around half an hour later, Hank feels something fall on his shoulder. Connor jerks his head up, blinking tiredly. "S-Sorry, Hank. I-I did not—"

But Hank just guides his head right back. "Don't worry about it," he grunts. "If you're tired, sleep."

"Don' sleep," Connor intones. He's slurring his words, voice husky with exhaustion. "E-Enter stasis—"

"Yeah yeah. Sleep, enter stasis, whatever. Just rest already before I make ya."

His eyes drift shut. Connor honest-to-God yawns (androids can yawn?), body relaxing against him. "Mmm... 'kay, Dad."

Hank swears his heart stops.

He swivels his head down to look at him, but the android's already asleep, LED blue and breaths calm. He just stares at his peaceful face dumbly, one of the few times in his life he's genuinely felt stunned. He must've misheard. There's no way Connor just called him...

Dad.

God, that word used to be everything to him. It didn't matter how badly the day went, how gruesome his cases got, as long as he could go home at the end of the day to his little boy and that simple word that made him feel like he could do anything. He'd been proud when he'd been promoted to lieutenant, but that rank is nothing to father; he'd trade his career in a moment just to have it back. He'd give anything just to have Cole back.

But he's not coming back, ever, and there's nothing he can do to change that. Now to hear that word again after three long years...

It should hurt more. And God, does it hurt. But it's not debilitating. Connor hasn't crossed some line and irrevocably damaged their relationship. How could he possibly hold something like this against him when he's so vulnerable? So young, too. The android was created to physically emulate an adult male in his 20s to early 30s, but here asleep in his blue cotton pyjamas, he looks so terribly young. And truly, Hank realizes, he is. Connor's a genius, an absolute fucking badass on the field, but he's technically not even a year old yet.

A year old. Manipulated and used from day one. Meant to hunt his own people and still fearing their ostracization as a result. Having suffered so many injuries, having seen so much death. Despised by so many humans just for what he is. Curious and compassionate and eager to learn, to live in spite of this. Innocent in a way only naive children can be.

Something in Hank's chest aches.

Even if Connor had crossed some line, what right did he have to give him blame? Hank took him in when he had nowhere else to go, made sure he had shelter from the brutal Detroit winter. He answered the android's (numerous) questions on humanity and life and everything in between as best he could, helped him parse through emotions so new, introduced him to classic films, to holidays, to experiences. He finally tackled Cole's room because he felt Connor needed and deserved his own space. He tried to make sure Connor was doing okay, and if he couldn't do that, he'd support him until he was.

In short... treated him like a son. Has been for months now, but never wanted to admit it to himself even though it was so damn obvious, not wanting to put a label on their relationship as if that could keep its very nature at bay. Feeling like he's betraying his dead little boy.

But Cole had always wanted a sibling. And he's sure if he was still alive, he'd think Connor was the coolest big brother ever.

Ignoring the burning in his eyes, Hank lets go of Connor's hand to wrap an arm around his shoulder and pull him closer against him. He uses his free hand to take the kid's again; he's gotta awkwardly stretch across his lap and his arm'll likely be sore later, but that's okay. He notices Connor's hand is skinless again. Interfacing asleep. An act of trust.

With a soft smile, Hank plants a quick kiss on his son's head. He rests his neck back, staring at the TV until he drifts off to the light patter of rain.

The next time Hank comes around is with a house-rattling boom of thunder that startles him upright. He looks around wildly. The house is significantly darker, but not pitch-black. Rain's come back with a vengeance, blotting the street lights out the window into vague, blurry lights. Once his heart settles, he realizes the empty vacancy of his arms where Connor should be and his heart rate rockets again. Shit shit shit, he shouldn't be up on his own, where is—

"Con?" Hank calls, shooting to his feet. "Connor?!" He really didn't think having a housemate again would be so stressful, but here he is. Rapidly he checks each room, the kitchen, the bathroom, and finally Connor's bedroom where, thank the fucking Lord, he finds the android that has a bad habit of giving him heart attacks on a daily basis. The tension bleeds from his frame.

The kid's sitting on his bed curled up in a blanket from the couch, looking out the window. As Hank enters the room, there's a blinding flash of lightning, followed by bellowing thunder seconds later. It's enough to make him jump, but Connor doesn't even flinch. "Kid?" he ventures.

There's no trepidation or fear when Connor looks at him, no latent trauma brought to the surface. With his LED blue, he gives Hank the biggest damn smile he's seen all day, eyes filled with awe. "Hank," he whispers, "It's w-wonderful."

And Hank can't help but return his smile as he takes a seat beside him. He wraps an arm around the android and settles in to watch the storm. "It sure is, Con."