It happens on a Wednesday morning.
Hank lets his eyes roam over Connor, who's standing in the kitchen in nothing but boxer shorts and an old police academy shirt Hank's had for over twenty-five years. He's seen this image many times before, quite enjoys it, and his mind supplies that it would like to keep seeing it for years to come.
He realizes that he can – he can totally have this forever in his life. There's literally nothing stopping Connor from wearing Hank's clothing casually. There's no one telling Hank to stop appreciating the view. There's no one that keeps them from having their morning routine; Connor at the stove to try scrambling eggs for the umpteenth time, and Hank sitting at the table with his morning joe to try and wake up for the day. This is his literal life, the rest of his life.
It seems picture perfect. The scene is set, the people accounted for, but Hank does notice that one thing's missing.
There's no ring on his or Connor's fingers.
Hank refocuses on Connor, eyes narrowing on his left hand that holds the spatula with burnt eggs sticking to it. He remembers when Jennifer had picked out the wedding band for him, remembers the subtle heft and shine to the gold ring that he only barely noticed back then. His thumb brushes over his third finger on his own left hand, no longer indented or smooth from the constant wear of said band. He had taken it off, once, while on an undercover case, and remembers feeling naked without it.
It's been a good few years without the weight any sort of ring. He thinks, maybe, he'd like to have it back.
“Hey, Con,” Hank says. He resists smiling when Connor turns to address Hank, hiding the pan on the stove from view.
“Yes, Hank?” No more lieutenant outside of work.
“Do you want to go down to the court house later?”
Connor blinks, LED spinning yellow. “Is there something we need to do for work?”
“I just want to get married to you,” Hank says, casual and aloof. He takes a sip of his coffee, looks down at the newspaper in his hands. The funnies are still running. Oh, those Mutts.
The silence in the room is heavy. Hank glances back up at Connor, who hasn't moved for the last few moments. He takes in the shock, eyes on Connor's face. The android stares back. To anyone else, he just looks like a normal, stoic android, but Hank knows Connor.
“Unless you don't want to,” The older man then adds. He shrugs and takes another sip. “Just thought it'd be nice.”
He reads another panel of the funnies. It's another minute before Hank hears, “It...would be nice.”
He peaks up again. Connor is turned back to the stove, looking down at the mess of breakfast that can't be salvaged. He's smiling, soft and sweet, and Hank hums. His thumb rubs over his third finger again, and he can already see the indention there again.