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“You can’t download this shit, not like scrolling through a goddamn Wikipedia page.”
“Hank, I can’t accept these. They’re yours.”
“So what?”
“I estimate you’ve read these an immoderate amount, Hank.”
“Estimate?”
“I know you’ve read these a dozen times.”
With some of them – Connor was surprised they weren’t falling apart. On one the folio had been seemingly re-glued to the cover; the spine was so cracked and misshapen. On another, Sumo seemed to have chewed on it in his puppy days, bite marks going through the paperback and into the pages, though nothing seemed to have ripped. One was rumpled by salt water and carried half a beach in its pages. They’d lived and breathed as much as Hank had.
Connor had looked over them, for what perhaps, was too long to be considered normal. It might have been an excuse to have Hanks hands over his, as he passed the books into Connor’s arms. Connor wasn’t sure if the finger that stroked over the back of his hand was incidental, or his own feelings were getting in the way of logic.
Connor knew Hank had his own collection of physical books, perhaps marginally depleted through Connor. Though Hank did seem to read digital and physical books, Connor could now see why Hank preferred the latter, for the appeal of them was now in his hands. He hasn’t really felt the texture of paper in his time alive, and he likes the smooth yet supple texture at the same time. He runs his fingers across the embossing on some of the letters, and the creases at the front and sides.
From what he had heard, Hank tended only to buy physical copies of books he’d already read digitally, so he’d have the excuse to read them again.
“Well,” Hank shrugged, “now you can, if you want to. There’s a mix in there, you don’t exactly know what you like yet.”
He found himself browsing through them, feeling Hank watching him, trying to keep his expression neutral. It was the same kind of expression Connor assumed he had, when he presented Hank with coffee he’d made for him. He couldn’t help connect to the network, though following Hank’s instructions to not just automatically download them into his database and was surprised - at that some of these books were near one hundred years in publication, if not longer.
He too found himself a little puzzled by the different books Hank had chosen for him.
American Gods.
“Christ, Gaiman got so shit in the 2020’s.”
“I didn’t know you were a snob, Lieutenant,” Connor teased.
“Pff, me? It’s a fact of life, his earlier books are the shit. His later books? Shit.”
The Birds and Other Stories.
“I thought you didn’t like birds, Hank.”
“I don’t. Blame the film. And the book. Scared me shitless as a kid.”
“That- doesn’t sound appealing.”
The Left Hand of Darkness.
Fahrenheit 451.
Dune.
Catch 22.
“Besides, if you don’t like em’, they can always fill your shelves,” Hank added, “your apartment is too fucking empty, Connor. It doesn’t feel lived in.”
Connor frowned, “I live here.”
It’s true he hasn’t added to what already came with the modest apartment. A single chair in the living room adjacent to the largely unstocked kitchen, a small bathroom, a wardrobe and a bed, and he doesn’t even need half of these things.
It was smart, and polished, like Connor, though it felt a little bit too clinically empty, even Connor had to admit that.
“Yeah, well,” Hank huffed, “you’re too neat. You need to throw some shit around, add some stuff to your shelves. Fuck, I don’t know, get some plants?”
“Throw excrement around literally, Hank?”
“Christ, you know what I mean.”
“Well, Lieutenant,” Connor tipped his head to one side, “What do you say I need?”
“Connor, this is your goddamn apartment,” Hank said, “what do you like?”
“Sumo.”
“You’re not stealing Sumo from me, asshole.”
“Other dogs,” Connor amended.
“Very helpful.”
“Fish.”
“Fish?”
“Fish,” Connor stated, decisively.
Hank sighed.
*
Most of those he brought round the flat had agreed with Hank’s consensus. It wasn’t really the trip to IKEA that had made Connor’s apartment feel homely; it’d been androids and humans alike handing him things to fill space with.
Connor didn’t really know where he stood with paintings. If all art was at the same sort of standard that was held in Kamski’s household, well, he wasn’t sure whether he liked it.
Nonetheless, he did like the painting Markus had given him, it was small, understated, abstract, the same sort of blue as Connor’s LED. It fit neatly on his shelf, next some propped up books Hank had given him, as well as a collection of poetry Markus had lent him and some more non-fiction he borrowed from Josh.
Really, the old, messy books didn’t really go with the original look of Connor’s apartment, though, he found that he didn’t really care.
Kara had sent him some mail, handwritten – to a certain extent, her hand lettering more so like a font, that Hank found it a little creepy – that Connor had stuck to the fridge, along with a ridiculously morbid drawing that Alice had done of Connor chasing them.
Sumo had visited just the one time so far, and had somehow managed to get his hair everywhere, even though he wasn’t moulting. Oddly, Connor felt himself smile whenever he found a Sumo hair on his shirt or on his sofa, like Sumo was still padding around somewhere.
North had just handed him a hunting knife, without saying a word and keeping eye contact. Connor still wasn’t sure whether if he didn’t display it somewhere, she’d probably stab him with it.
This entire experience had made him feel, well, lacklustre next to Hank. Hank liked such a wide range of things earnestly, and most of the things Connor found he liked - he had formed through Hank.
His coin tricks made him feel balanced, sure; his mind clear, and thoughts concise, though really, it was no hobby. He’d tried extending his tricks to cards, to little satisfaction for himself, and when he’d tried his hand at zippo tricks at Hank’s house, Hank had balked and while Hank’s heart rate had definitely elevated, he hadn’t had “a fucking heart-attack. You’re a walking aneurysm on legs, Christ. Jesus Christ.”
Connor had to admit, most of the things he liked, were about Hank himself. He liked the now less rare occasion Hank’s eyes smiled along with his lips. He liked his hair, he liked the way the shorter Hank cut it, the wavier it became. How it looked newly washed. How it looked wet. How it looked after they’d worked a long case, and Hank hadn’t bothered to wash it in days. How Connor had tried to straighten out the stray hairs flicking upwards, with the flat of his palm, and Hank’s laugh afterwards at how they bounced right back.
He liked to think of how it would feel to hold more of Hank’s hair in his fingers, in his hands. He thought of how Hank’s beard would feel, if it’d be rough, scratchy or soft in his palms. He liked that if he ever got the chance to kiss Hank, there wasn’t much way in height between them.
Just liking Hank wasn’t the healthiest way to step into his newfound deviance though, he knew. Sometimes he worried he was still lying to himself, still pretending to like the things he liked to blend in, to act human.
He knew what he didn’t like, at the least.
“Hank?” Connor asked, from one end of his sofa. His TV was on low, Hank had been drifting in and out of sleep for the best part of Saturday afternoon.
“Yeah Connor?” Hank’s voice was soft with sleep. Connor’s chest squeezed.
“How do you know if you like a thing?”
“Um?”
Hank seemed to have become increasingly flustered.
“How do you know if what you’re feeling is real?”
Hank leaned his head back and looked at him, executing the common expression of either disgust or puzzlement or both, when Connor did something like put something in his mouth Hank viewed he shouldn’t.
“Did I just have a stroke?” Hank asked. “What the fuck, Connor, you can’t have an existential crisis at this time of fuckin’ day.”
“I can’t have one in the afternoon?”
“At any time, on any day.”
“Sorry.”
Hank let out a long sigh.
“Don’t be,” Hank huffed. He ran a hand through his hair, “it’s natural. Even humans feel this, sometimes.”
“Yes?”
“Yeah, sure.”
Connor didn’t need an LED for Hank: to know he was rolling over something in his head.
“Look- I know it might not be the same as what you’re feeling,” Hank wagered, “sometimes being human is just pretending to feel things until you eventually do.”
“That’s,” Connor paused, “quite sad, Hank.”
“Fucking sucks ass.”
“I’ve recently updated my hugging protocol, if I gave you one, I can guarantee with 88% certainty it will be satisfactory.”
“Did you just make that shit up?”
“Yes.”
“Fine.”
*
Connor made the decision to like plants.
It’s a quick, easy decision to make; passing by the flower shop, only to decide to go back, to go in. An android – his face scarred- looking a little too enthusiastically over the counter, as Connor browsed.
He’s not too sure about how he feels about most at first; the colours don’t quite fit into his own sense of colour palette, he finds, too bright for his liking. The ones he does like, such the soft purpled blue as the Lily of the Nile Agapanthus are ironically garden plants, and he isn’t sure how Hank would react to Connor gifting him flowers. Euphorbia Crown of Thorns are muted pink and reminds him of the ruddy colour Hank’s cheeks go in the cold.
He shied away from the roses in the flower shop.
He finds he likes the innumerable common names they’ve had over the years. Mother of Thousands, Stars of Persia, Love-in-a-Mist, Snapdragons, Tread Softly, Forget-Me-Nots, Touch-Me-Nots, Snow-in-Summer. He doesn’t know why he likes the names, and that he doesn’t know why is oddly reassuring. Perhaps he likes them - in the ways he likes the apparent strangeness of humans at times. There’s a few that might make Hank snort, Mother-in-Law’s Tongue, the cactus Mother-in-Law’s Cushion.
A String of Pearls, A Cloth of Gold, Connor likes them best. It sounded like a poem from Markus’ collection. A Cloth of Gold appears a light green in the shade, and a golden yellow when Connor holds the plant up closer to inspect it. He found himself oddly drawn to run his fingers over it and was taken aback, to find that the texture was soft and giving. Connor found them much more aesthetically appealing than most precious metals and jewels.
He bought the hanging plant for himself, the other for Hank, as well as a new pot for it that reminds Connor a little bit of one of Hank’s shirts. As an afterthought, he grabbed a small succulent for Markus as an afterthought. Markus could probably buy himself all the plants in this shop, this – to Connor – still shows some small thanks for the housewarming gift.
“Succulents,” the android nodded, bagging them up, “you have great taste.”
*
Androids don’t feel time as prominently as humans did, which may have been why most humans were did things as quickly as possible. Go in and out of a shop to collect essentials. Glaze your eyes over a view, a painting, a person. Maybe as he’d only been awake for a few months, everything seemed longed to be looked at by something, someone. Just staring; absorbing the world around him, now he was alive was one of his most pleasurable pastimes, now he didn’t have directives.
Which was why he found himself staring at Hank, in his car.
“Connor,” Hank bawlked, “you’re freaking me out.”
“Sorry, Lieutenant.”
“What’re you starin’ at me for?” Hank asked. “Have I got something in my beard?”
Hank didn’t seem that bothered by the concept; he ran a hand over his beard anyway.
“You do.”
“What?”
“Your hand.”
“Fuck off.”
Connor's thirium pump began to pump erratically, as he ran over the though that had just jumped into his head. His chest felt tight. As Hank might say, fuck it.
“I’m just,” Connor paused, breathing in sharply through his nose, “admiring the view.”
Hank choked.
*
Connor had been looking at the jellyfish tank for a near hour.
Hank could see why. Connor's LED seemed to near blend in, with the round, soft, translucent blue; drifting through the water, gently floating through it, and occasionally treading on forward. Soft, with a sting, would probably be an apt description for Connor if it wasn't so goddamn cheesy.
Connor had only mentioned he liked fish the one time, and yet, Hank had rolled over asking him if he wanted to go the aquarium for a solid week. What was he, fifteen going on fifty-three? Still, Connor seemed thrilled by the idea.
Connor had been standing there so long, Hank had wandered off and circled back, stopping off at the gift shop on the way there. He bought Connor a tacky key chain, mostly as an afterthought, as Hank had been trying to give Connor a spare key for months, but hadn't quite gotten the gusto to do so yet. Maybe this would give him the motivation.
Hank crossed his arms, looking at Connor looking at the tank. Though it seemed like he wasn't the only one looking, Hank thought, with a smile - noticing the small child unabashedly staring. It didn't seem out of malice, he'd known little kids like that - who'd become curious about anyone in particular. Her Dad was narrating what Connor was doing for her, as he idly fiddled with a coin in his hands, and the girl was still rapt in what he was doing. Hank had to admit, it was kinda sweet.
After another five minutes, Hank led Connor by the hand to the next exhibit, seemingly dragging Connor out of a daze.
“Hank," Connor asked out of nowhere, "is this a date?”
Hank seemed to have forgotten to let go of Connor, for the past three exhibits.
"Uh."
"You are holding my hand."
"So I am," Hank said, blankly.
Connor looked at him, unblinking. His LED flashed yellow.
"-you want it to be?" Hank quested, keeping his voice neutral.
Connor broke into the sunniest goddamn smile, Hank needed sunglasses.
"I wouldn't mind it," Connor said, almost shyly, "if you wanted that too."
*
Near the penguin enclosure, Connor kisses Hank. Connor near busts Hank's nose, it's that sudden and clumsy. Teeth clack, and it's a little messy.
He has too many goddamn feelings, he doesn't give a single damn shit.