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I'll blossom for you

Chapter Text

Connor has the sudden thought, as Hank's hands hover uncertainly over the open panel on his inner thigh, that he may not have thought this through correctly. He'd considered it far too many times, preconstructing various outcomes, without taking his own feelings into account.

Connor is used to considering the potential feelings of others. His own feelings, though, are more uncertain and confusing; he hadn't truly wondered what it might feel like to have Hank's hands inside him until the moment before it happens, when it's too late to reconsider. It's this, more than any worry or admonishments from Hank, that makes Connor wish he'd been more careful earlier, to prevent putting him in this situation in the first place.

***

A suspect had run as he and Hank were questioning him, and Connor had caught up first. When Hank arrived, cursing and breathing heavily, he'd found Connor holding down the already-cuffed suspect with one hand and pressing the other into a deep gash in his inner thigh.

"Fuck, what happened?" Hank asked, when he saw the blue stain spreading beneath Connor's hand.

Connor angled his head to indicate a knife that had been knocked a few feet away. "I didn't see it in time. He got lucky and had the right angle to get the knife through my chassis."

The process of calling and waiting for a car to pick up the suspect was a bit of a blur; Connor spent that time trying to convince Hank that he'd much rather go home than check into an android repair center. "I know this looks bad," he'd said, "but we have thirium at home. The smaller arteries that were severed will self-repair, and I have supplies to repair or replace the larger one myself. It's important to do soon, but I'm not in critical danger."

Hank had gone a bit green by this point, and seemed to want to argue further, but he just nodded.

Connor put his hand on Hank's shoulder. "I am going to shut down some functions to conserve thirium until then. I won't hear you, but if you touch me I'll know to come out of stasis." He dragged himself to a low brick wall at the edge of the lot and sat down, closing his eyes.

It was a selfish act, Connor thought, as he shut down most of his external sensors and retreated into his mind, to ask Hank to touch him. But couldn't he allow himself this indulgence, when he was in pain? The discomfort in his leg was intense, even with limited sensory access. He rerouted thirium flow away from his left leg entirely; he wouldn't be able to walk until it was repaired, but at least he wouldn't lose so much that he couldn't function. He floated in darkness and waited to feel Hank's hand on him. He thought about Hank kissing him awake.

Connor had found himself returning to the idea of kissing Hank, or Hank kissing him, for a few weeks now. He understood that it is generally reserved for romantic or sexual partners, or possibly family members; at the moment he was none of these things, to Hank. Maybe some day.

Hank was tentatively offering physical contact, at times, which Connor drank in like a wilting plant sucks up water. A hand on his arm as Hank passed by, a broad shoulder to lean on when they were up late watching a movie. Connor still felt the echo of that first, tight hug. Connor wanted more; he hadn't experienced anyone touching him in a way that offered comfort, or friendship, or any kind of affection until Hank pulled him into that embrace.

He imagined what it would be like to kiss Hank, to coat his tongue with his essence and sink into his data. His sensitive fingers could grip the thick mass of Hank's hair, threading through it and finally learning the specific texture of the fine hairs hidden at the back of his neck, of his beard. Of. Well. Connor knew he had hair elsewhere. He wanted to explore that as well.

Even with his reduced processing power, Connor was tempted enough to return to a favorite preconstruction, one in which Hank invited Connor to bed and wrapped his arms around him, cuddling up close and warm while he fell asleep and Connor listened to the rhythm of his breath. He had been so focused on the idea of Hank touching him that when the touch came for real, it was a surprise. He felt Hank tap and then gently shake his arm, and as he re-initialized his exterior senses his hearing cut in to Hank saying "-nor?? Connor, are you awake in there?"

Connor gave himself a moment to focus entirely on the warmth of Hank's hand before he opened his eyes. He saw Hank standing over him, his brow furrowed with concern. Behind him, the suspect was being loaded into a patrol car by one officer while another stood by. "I'm gonna run back and get my car, ok? Then we can get you home and fixed up." He glanced back at the other officers. "They're going to stick around till I get back, just to keep an eye on things. I'll be back soon." He waited for Connor's nod and jogged off.

Connor knew he'd need help getting into the car and, later, the house. His injured leg would support weight, but without thirium flow, he couldn't make complicated movements with it. He trusted Hank, but still the vulnerability of his injury made him uncomfortable. Hank hadn't seen him hurt, not like this, since he became deviant.

When Hank returned, he seemed upset, but not overly so, and volunteered to help Connor get to the car without having to be asked. "Uh, just lean on me and you'll be fine," Hank mumbled, as he helped lift Connor from where he sat.

Connor tried not to focus too much on Hank's steadying hand around his waist, or the feeling of his broad shoulders as he draped his arm over them. Hank's sturdiness was a welcome comfort.

"You're sure you have what you need to fix yourself up back at the house?" Hank asked, as he pulled into traffic. "You don't need me to pick anything else up?" His hands gripped the wheel tighter than usual, Connor noticed.

"Everything I require to make repairs should be in the first aid kit I have under the bathroom sink," Connor replied. "The difficulty may lie in accessing the damaged area." He glanced over at Hank again abd took a breath he had no use for to give himself an extra moment. "Hank," he said softly.

"Hm?"

"Are you willing to help me, if I'm not able to reach the damaged components myself?"

Hank's hands tightened further on the wheel, and Connor noted a quick elevation of his heart rate.

"Shit, Connor, you think I know how to do any of that?"

"I can instruct you. I know how the repairs need to be made; I just don't think the location of the damage and of the opening in my chassis will allow me to have a proper angle to take care of this myself."

Hank was quiet for a moment. They were nearly home. "You're absolutely sure," Hank said, as they waited at the last traffic light before home, "that this is something a bozo like me can handle, and I won't fuck you up somehow? Otherwise, I'd feel a lot better taking you in somewhere to get fixed up. I don't want to hurt you."

Connor touched Hank's forearm lightly, comfortingly. (Greedily.) "I trust you to be careful, and I'll be able to tell you what's all right to touch and what isn't. I know this is a lot to ask, but I'd rather have you help me with this than a technician I don't know."

"Okay," Hank said. "I'll try. I just don't want to fuck your leg up worse than it already is."

"You won't."

"Connor, I'm good at fucking things up, if you haven't noticed. I don't want you to be one of them."

Connor wasn't sure what to say to that. He allowed himself five additional seconds of contact before removing his hand from Hank's arm, and rode the last few blocks in silence.

Once they arrived at the house, Connor had Hank help him hobble into the kitchen; the lighting there was decent and the linoleum would be easy to clean up. Hank avoided looking directly at Connor's leg and seemed anxious, so Connor put him to work immediately as a distraction. "I'll need the first aid kit from the bathroom and a package of thirium from that lower cabinet," he said, pointing, "and you should change shirts so your sleeves don't get messy."

Hank blanched at that. "Jesus, am I going to be covered in your blood after this?"

"Not covered, no, but there's going to be some amount of it involved. I'm sorry."

"Should I, I don't know, wear latex gloves or something? Am I going to get electrocuted from sticking my hand in--inside you?"

"Unless things are more damaged than I suspect, no. I don't think gloves will be necessary." HANK WILL BE INSIDE ME flashed in his field of vision, but he dismissed it. No time to pick that idea apart, when he was trying to keep Hank on task so he didn't panic. The thought that Connor might panic at this entire situation wasn't something he considered. Not yet.

While Hank collected everything, Connor focused on taking his pants off. It was difficult to do with his left leg acting as dead weight, but he'd managed it by the time Hank returned.

"What the -- Connor, why are you naked?" Hank sputtered, nearly dropping his armful of supplies. Sometimes Connor forgot how uncomfortable humans could be around nudity. He'd been programmed to understand social conventions, but it didn't mean he shared the same views; it wasn't upsetting for him to be exposed around Hank. Vulnerable and intense: yes. But not uncomfortable.

"How could you access my internal components if I left my pants on, Hank?" Connor let some of his frustration bleed into his voice, as much as he hated to get snippy at Hank. "I don't have the same sense of modesty humans do; I'm perfectly comfortable like this."

He felt no need to add that he'd been anxious about what Hank's response would be. Discomfort wasn't too surprising, he supposed, but not particularly welcome.

"Okay, sorry," Hank mumbled. "I was just surprised, is all."

Hank kneeled down to look more closely at the wound and Connor saw his eyes flick to the side. A faint blush bloomed on his cheeks. "Uh, Connor. They didn't...they didn't give you anything? In the whole." He waved his hand awkwardly. "...Downstairs area?"

This was not a conversation Connor wanted to have at the moment, but being direct had the highest probability of making it as short as possible. "Because I was a prototype, some functions that were considered nonessential weren't completed for my model. I assume future, upgraded models would have some sort of genital component, but it wasn't considered a priority for me, apparently."

"Huh, ok. So can you--" Hank cut himself off, shaking his head. "Jesus, sorry. It's none of my business, and I need to fix you up, not get nosy."

"It's fine," Connor said, although Hank's curiosity was...he wasn't sure how he felt about it, but at least it wasn't disgust. Wasn't disappointment.

"I'm going to deactivate the skin on my leg and remove the access panel, then we can look at the damage, all right?"

Hank nodded, although he still seemed distressed. Breaking things down into smaller tasks helped Connor focus when he was worried about something; he hoped it would work for Hank as well. "Hank, do you have a flashlight? It may help me see the damage more clearly, in addition to the information from my internal sensors."

Hank mumbled something about a flashlight in the junk drawer and rummaged around fruitlessly for a bit before remembering the light on his phone. "Is this good enough?" he asked, waving it in Connor's direction. "'s all I have right now."

"That'll be fine," Connor said. "Are you ready?"

"Ready as I'll ever be," Hank said, but his heart rate was still elevated, and his hands were perspiring slightly.

"It'll be fine," Connor said.

"Shouldn't I be the one comforting you? I'm not the one who got stabbed. You worry about you, Connor, I'll do what you need me to."

"I know you will, Hank," Connor said quietly. He gently pried off the small access panel on his thigh and set it on the kitchen table. "I'm going to reactivate my sensors, and then I'll direct you; I think you'll need to move some wires aside to get at the worst of the damage."

"This is fucking weird," Hank said, staring at Connor's insides. Connor could see a small tangle of wires that had been fully or nearly severed; behind them was the major artery that needed repair, and he suspected other components had been damaged as well.

"It is," he agreed. He took the phone from Hank and aimed it at the worst of the damage. "Can you move those small silver wires to the side so I can get a look at what's behind them?"

Hank closed his eyes, took a breath, and reached inside.

Chapter Text

It is strange, Connor thinks, to have someone else's fingers inside him. He's never been aware of any other repairs or modifications as they happened; at Cyberlife he was always brought to the garden, unable to leave (never even thinking to try) while his body was opened up. It doesn't feel like much of anything, at first; his thirium flow is still cut off at his left hip and his internal sensors are at their minimum. There's something though. It's not unpleasant.

"Shit," Hank says. "He fucked you up good, huh?"

Behind the tangle of small wires is the severed artery and a thick cable that's sheared nearly in half. Embedded in it is a thin, pale gray shard.

"The fuck is that thing?" Hank asks, tentatively prodding at it.

Connor shifts the light for a better look, but the angle's wrong. "I suspect the attacker used a ceramic knife; they're sharper than steel but more brittle and prone to breakage. You'll need to take it out, but first: does anything else look damaged?"

"Besides those little wires and that bigger one behind them, I think that's it, but it's not like I know what you normally look like in here."

Connor had initially lowered his sensors in his leg to conserve power, but with a supply of thirium on the table next to him he has no need for that precaution. He restores them to full sensitivity, hoping to make more sense of the damage, and has to fight to stay still. He can feel Hank's fingers inside him, gently manipulating the cables and wires within his leg to get a better view of the damaged areas.

Hank is stamping his fingerprints on the interior of his body, where they can stay indefinitely without being washed or wiped away. Connor makes a tiny noise when he thinks of the array of prints layered over his components, somewhere between a sigh and a moan, and Hank looks up sharply. "Am I hurting you?"

"No, it's. It's fine. I've never been conscious for this, so it feels strange, that's all."

"All right." Hank seems unsure, but is considerate enough not to dwell on it. "What do you need me to do?"

Connor braces himself. "First, can you remove that broken piece? There should be tweezers in the kit if you need them."

"Nah," Hank mumbles, "I got it."

The piece is just large enough for Hank to grab between two fingers, but his fingers are big; in reaching for the knife tip, they push and brush against half a dozen smaller wires and cables in the immediate area. Connor doesn't understand what he's feeling, but he wants more. When Hank pulls the shard free, Connor's overwhelmed by a rush of confused, broken data from the component and the pressure of Hank's other hand bracing against the exterior of his leg as he carefully extracts the offending piece before dropping it on the floor. He closes his eyes so he can focus on the scattered information flowing from his injury.

"Okay," Hank says. Some of his initial nervousness seems to have quieted down; it's clear he's still worried about Connor, but he's more focused on taking care of the situation than on worrying now that he's wrist-deep inside him. "What do I need to do now?"

(Why, Connor thinks to himself, did he think the phrase "wrist-deep" in relation to Hank and his own body. There's a warm, aching feeling he gets when he thinks about it, and he tries to set it aside for now. It's not the time to try and untangle what that means.)

Connor directs Hank to a length of replacement tubing for the ruined artery and a tube of oxygen-activated nanobot gel in the first-aid box. "The first step will be to cut the artery just above and below the severed section and to trim a length that fits in between them. The gel will activate with a combination of air exposure and body heat; if you rub it along the cut edges and hold it in place, it will regrow the connection."

"Are you fucking kidding me?" Hank asks, staring at the unassuming, generically-labeled tube in his hand. "That's some Star Trek level shit. I'd ask you how it works, but honestly I know I wouldn't understand it."

There's a pair of tiny scissors and an even tinier scalpel in the first-aid kit, and Hank tries to be as delicate as possible as he removes the damaged section. "Sorry my fucking hands are so big," he mumbles, as Connor tries his best not to squirm at the feel of his thick fingers brushing through his insides. "I'm not made for this sort of shit, but I think I got it okay. How do you feel?"

Surprisingly, the incisions Hank make to remove the damaged areas don't particularly hurt; it was all part of the flood of sensation Connor found himself caught up in. "I'm all right, Hank," Connor says, and if he sounds a bit out of breath, well. No one can blame him.

Hank frowns in concentration as he cracks open the gel and squeezes a small amount on the cut surfaces of the new tubing. "I just stick it in there and hold it in place?" he asks.

Connor feels odd asking Hank to massage the area as well, but it's necessary to activate the gel. It's different from a human massage, but he knows those are meant to be pleasurable, intimate. He allows himself to briefly consider what it might be like to give Hank a massage, to be able to freely touch his broad shoulders. How Hank's hands would feel working across his back.

As the nanobots restore the connection between the new arterial segment and the existing tubing, the feeling of Hank gently rubbing his fingers along the tubing becomes clearer and warmer. He feels the faint roughness of his calloused hands and sighs contentedly. "Am I doing it right?" Hank asks. He doesn't withdraw his fingers entirely, but his hand stills for a moment. "Does it hurt?"

"No, it's fine. It's nice, actually."

"Better than the alternative, I suppose," Hank says. "If my leg got this fucked up I'd be miserable."

"I think the worst of the discomfort has passed at this point," Connor says. "I should replenish my thirium and attempt to reroute flow back into this leg, to test the connection, before we move on to the rest of the damage."

"All right," Hank says, and gently pulls his hand out of Connor's leg. He doesn't get up, but adjusts his position, sitting on the floor instead of kneeling to give his knees a rest and poking absently at his phone when Connor switches off the light and hands it back.

"Enjoy your capri sun," he says dryly, as Connor opens the pouch of thirium. Connor rolls his eyes; Hank has said this every time he's had to top up his thirium supply and apparently thinks it's hilarious.

Connor had been so distracted by his leg that he hadn't noticed the other effects that moderate thirium loss had caused; as he finishes the pouch, he can feel background processes re-initializing and is more keenly aware of Hank's hand resting just above his knee. It's so warm.

When he re-opens the flow of thirium to his injured leg, his internal systems show that the repaired artery is working well, without noticeable leaks. He'll need to take it easy for a day, as the nanobot gel doesn't fully set up for 24 hours, but the initial seal is 95.2% secure. Connor takes a moment to assess the data his sensors are able to return now that they're more fully powered. "That gel should be enough to repair the larger cable; if it works properly, it'll be much easier than removing it and installing a replacement."

Hank grimaces. "Does that mean there's a chance it won't work? Should we risk that?"

"Because it wasn't severed completely, the odds are in our favor for this technique to work. If it doesn't, I can get to a repair center tomorrow; it won't cause permanent damage."

"All right, as long as I'm not going to fuck something up if I try this and it isn't enough." Hank turns his phone light on again and peers at the bundle of thin wires that lay closest to the surface. "What about these little guys? Some of them are cut through entirely."

"They're so thin that the gel will be enough to re-connect them," Connor says. "What might be difficult is that they can't be attached randomly; each wire is unique. There should be component numbers visible on the wires; can you see them?"

Hank leans in and carefully, delicately, pinches one wire and turns it back and forth, trying to find the number stamped on it. The broken connection means Connor doesn't feel it as fully as he could, but still. Still. He feels like a harp being delicately plucked.

"Christ, these numbers are tiny," Hank grumbles, and stands up before he can notice Connor's failed attempt at keeping a calm, neutral expression while his most delicate wiring is being touched and inspected. He grunts, rolls his shoulders, and pats Connor on the shoulder. "As much as I hate to admit defeat, I think I need my glasses to make any sense of that," Hank says, "plus I need a drink, we've been at this for a little while already."

"Just - just water or something," he adds quickly. "I'll be careful not to spill any inside you."
Connor has never seen Hank in glasses; in fact, he hadn't even known he owned a pair. He waits patiently, not even indulging in a few quick preconstructions to envision what he might look like in them, while Hank rummages around in the bedroom for a few minutes. "Oh," he says quietly, when he emerges. He can't help himself.

Hank's changed into an undershirt that clings tightly to his torso and exposes his thick arms. He has a pair of simple wire-rimmed glasses on.

And he's tied his hair back.

Connor has been attracted to Hank for a long time. He understands now that he'd started to feel some amount of attraction before he fully deviated, although the feeling didn't make sense at the time. He just knew he wanted to be near Hank. Feeling drawn to Hank, wanting Hank to touch him, wanting greater intimacy; this is familiar. Still, the desire that lances through him at the sight of Hank in this moment surprises him.

He's so glad Hank is going to touch him again, even if it's not for the reason Connor wants. Connor doesn't think to stop staring until Hank stands in front of him, glass of water in hand, and waves a hand in front of his face.

"Connor, you still ok?" he asks. "Do you need to rest before we do anything else?"

"I'm all right, Hank, sorry. I just got distracted."

"If you're good to go, I guess we should get started, huh? I figured I'd get my hair out of my face too, while I'm reading those goddamn tiny numbers." Hank rubs self-consciously as his now-exposed neck. Connor hasn't thought much about Hank's neck until this moment, but now...

He can evaluate Hank's vitals in other, less-intimate ways, but what would it be like to taste the salt on his skin, to feel his pulse with the delicate sensors in his tongue?

As Hank settles back between Connor's legs (don't think about it that way, Connor admonishes himself), he forces himself to focus on the task at hand: Hank's going to help fix the damage inside his leg, because he's a good man and a good friend. Connor will instruct him, and thank him, and when he's alone later tonight after Hank goes to bed, he can run as many preconstructions about licking Hank's neck as he wants. For now, he needs to focus.

It makes sense, Connor decides, to have Hank work on the damaged cable first, since it's deeper inside his leg, and finish up with the more delicate work of connecting the smaller surface wires. Before Hank opens up the gel and gets to work, Connor gives his shoulder a squeeze. "Hank, thank you for helping me. I'm much more comfortable having you take care of my injury than I would be at a repair center, but I know it was a lot to ask of you."

Hank looks up at him with an expression so fond Connor isn't sure, at first, he's interpreting it correctly. "Hey, don't thank me just yet, I haven't finished getting you all patched up so there's still room for me to fuck something up, right?" Hank rests a hand on Connor's knee and squeezes gently, mirroring Connor's hand on his shoulder. "I'm not sure why it feels better to have me work on you than someone who, you know, actually knows what the hell they're doing, but if that's what you want, I don't mind. Really."

"All right," Connor says. "Still. Thank you."

"Yeah, yeah, ok," Hank grumbles. "Let's just get this done and you can tell me how much you appreciate it afterwards, all right? I'll feel better when you can move your leg again." He squeezes a small blob of the gel on his finger and examines it. "Looks like toothpaste."

Hank very gently pushes the surface wires out of the way with his thumb as he reaches back to the cable. "You can feel more now, right? Do I need to be more careful?"

Connor's already having to steady himself as he feels the heat of Hank's hand in him and the first tentative presses of his fingers into the damaged area of the cable. "I'm more sensitive now, yes, but it's not uncomfortable. I appreciate how careful you've been so far."

"It would be better for you if I had smaller hands, I bet," Hank says, but Connor disagrees.

"I like your hands."

He especially likes them now; one is resting on his thigh, just outside of the opening, and the other is gently rubbing the repair gel into his cabling. "Not uncomfortable" wasn't a lie, of course, but it was far from the entire truth. If he'd been awake for earlier repairs, been able to feel the Cyberlife technicians' hands inside him, would he have felt like this? Is this pleasurable because he's out of stasis? Because he's deviant? Because Hank is the one inside him? He doesn't know.

What Connor does know is that having Hank slowly, methodically massaging his cable is the most physically pleasurable experience he's ever had. His hand flexes in his lap, itching to reach out and touch Hank. He moans softly as Hank brushes the area where the knife cut deepest. Hank's fingers pause, for a moment, then resume their gentle massage over the cable.

Hank knows, because Connor told him, that it's important to apply pressure and body heat for several minutes to activate the nanobots and allow the repair to complete its initial cure. His touch feels more deliberate now than it did a moment ago. He can barely fit his thumb and first two fingers in to wrap around the cable and he's being careful in the cramped space, smoothing the gel along the damaged area with light pressure.

Hank's face is slightly downturned as he peers in to keep track of his work, so Connor takes a moment to admire his profile. A strand of hair has escaped its low ponytail and is waving in front of his face; Hank shakes his head, trying to shift it, and Connor can't resist: he reaches out and tucks the hair behind Hank's ear. Hank startles at the unexpected touch, and his thumbnail scrapes against the cable, just barely. But it's enough.

"Ah~!" Connor makes an incredibly undignified sound. He's sure if he had the ability to blush he'd be beet red. "Connor," Hank says very carefully, not turning to look at him, "when you said this felt nice, having me rub this gel into you."

"Yes?"

Hank smooths the pad of his thumb over the place where his nail scratched the cable and Connor whimpers. "How much of an understatement was that?"

He's still massaging, and Connor ignores the notification that pops up to inform him the gel was sufficiently applied two minutes ago. It won't hurt to continue. "I--I didn't want to make you uncomfortable."

"All right," Hank says. He's started to trace slow circles on his thigh with the thumb of his other hand, the one that's not inside him. Connor wants to isolate each of these feelings, the warm touch outside and the careful pressure within, and pore over them, study the contrast. "I'm plenty comfortable now, though, besides the fact that your leg's still busted and I'm trying to not mess it up while trying to fix it." Hank carefully removes his hand and peers in at the cable. "I think that one's set, yeah? Or do I need to go over it a few more times?"

Connor meets Hank's eyes and sees that while he can't blush, Hank certainly can - and he is. His heart rate's elevated too, eyes slightly dilated: is he also aroused?

"Oh! Yes, that's fine, thank you. Do you want to move on to those smaller wires?"

"Sure," Hank responds. He adjusts his glasses and squints in at them. "Should I just start matching them up as I find the right ends, or is there an order to go in?"

"You should be able to proceed in any order, just please be careful; crossing those wires could be unpleasant."

"Got it," Hank says. "It may take a moment to match these little fuckers up, even with my glasses they're hard to see." He looks up at Connor and gently pats his thigh. "Tell me if anything hurts, all right? And, uh, you can tell me when it feels good too, if you want."

Something's changed in the space between them; there's a tension hanging in the air that wasn't before. Not uncomfortable, though, just like his leg is no longer in pain, but there's a charge in the air. Connor thinks about dark skies before a much-needed rain.

Hank begins the slow work of untwisting and sorting through the half-dozen wires that were severed in the attack. He mumbles and curses a bit, trying to match up each one to its counterpart, but settles into the task before long. The feeling of Hank's thick fingers combing through his delicate wiring is almost too much to bear. The light tug or twist of each wire as Hank looks for the component number creates a small burst of pleasure in his chest, hot and sharp. He sighs happily. He wants more.

Hank says nothing at Connor's small pleased sounds, but he focuses on the motions that draw out the happiest noises. These more delicate wires do seem to be more sensitive than the cable or main artery were; if that's the case, Connor realizes, he's in trouble. "Here we go," Hank says after a minute of searching. "Found the first one. You ready?"

Connor nods. He gets the sudden impulse to record this moment; he knows he has video recording capabilities, included in his design for surveillance purposes. Surveillance. Not to make private recordings of Hank touching his wiring.

But.

He could watch Hank's hand inside him, in a small window in the edges of his vision. Every day. He could study the column of Hank's neck without his hair in the way, stare at his bare, thick arms.

He decides, in the moment before Hank pushes his hand back inside to rub the nanobot gel on the first of the tiny wires, that it's probably inappropriate to make a recording of someone else without their permission. He doesn't have the chance to ask Hank for permission, though. Because the moment after, Hank makes contact.

The wiring's so fine that Hank reaches in with his thumb and forefinger only, pinching the two wires together and pulling a strangled moan out of Connor. He's given up trying to hide it. "That feel good?" Hank asks. He strokes Connor's leg soothingly with the hand on the outside, while the fingers inside gently start to roll the connected wire between them. The thin wires need very little time to create an initial bond, but Connor doesn't want to tell Hank that. "Connor?"

Connor realizes Hank's waiting for a response. "Yes, Hank," he says. "It's--it's all felt amazing, but these components are much more--oh!--more sensitive."

"More sensitive, huh? You've been holding back this entire time because it felt too good, right?"

"Yes."

Hank brushes against the loose wires with his free fingers, startling another moan out of Connor. "And now it's even better?"

"Yes." Connor isn't sure what else he can say. He doesn't think there's anything he wants to say to Hank right now but yes, yes, yes.

"Then it's a good thing," Hank rumbles, low and sweet, "you don't need to hold back anymore. Let me take care of you."

"Ohh," Connor moans, at the sound of that. "Yes, Hank, please."

"What do you need right now?" Hank asks. He wipes his forehead with his free hand and Connor can see a trace of sweat left behind. He wants to kiss it away.

"Please keep going," he says. "Another wire. Please."

"You sure this one has set up enough already?" Hank asks. He squeezes it tightly, and Connor wails. He tries to grab Hank's shoulder but manages to half-grab, half-punch it instead in his enthusiasm.

"All right, I get it, it's done," Hank laughs. As Hank sorts through the wires, he manages to pair off the damaged ends a bit faster every time. Connor suspects he's purposefully being a more clumsy than before, though, letting his thumb trail along the repaired artery or nudge into a cluster of cables beneath it. Each time, Connor lets out the sounds of pleasure he's been holding back up to this point. He keeps his hand on Hank's shoulder and gives it a squeeze here or there, ventures to brush his fingers against Hank's neck once when he feels daring. Hank lets out a soft, gentle sound. Connor isn't quite sure what's happening, doesn't know if Hank understands just how amazing it's felt to have his hands inside him, or that it's his hands in particular that Connor thinks about constantly. He's too lost in pleasure to think too much on it.

"How are you feeling?" Hank asks, as he's connecting the second-to-last wire. More hair has escaped his ponytail, and his glasses have slipped a bit down his nose; Connor's never found him more attractive than he does in this moment. Sweaty and aroused with his hand inside him.

"Mmm," Connor replies, because he's not sure what else to say.

"It's still good, though?"

Connor has no idea how Hank could read his reactions as anything else, but. Sometimes he needs a little help, as intelligent as he may be. "Hank, you feel amazing inside me."

Hank coughs and nearly fumbles the connection he's massaging together. "Jesus, Connor, you can't--" he shifts awkwardly. "Warn a guy before you say something like that, ok?"

"Hank," Connor says.

"Yeah?"

"I'm going to say things you may interpret as sexual. Please be forewarned."

"Oh fuck off," Hank mutters, but there's no heat to it. His cheeks are flushed and his heart rate's increased again.

Connor trails his fingers along Hank's collarbone. "Is this all right?" he asks. He doesn't want Hank to let him touch him just because he was injured, or because Hank feels sorry for him. He wants Hank to want it. He's not sure how to ask.

"Of course it's all right," Hank says, "but I shouldn't get distracted."

"I'm on the last one and then, uh. You can tell me what you want." Hank bites his bottom lip. He seems anxious, unsure of things. "If there's anything else. Or if you need more shit fixed, you know."

Connor's hand stays draped over Hank's shoulder, fingers brushing his chest. It still feels amazing to have Hank smoothing gel over the final connection, delicately sliding his fingers along the wiring, but Connor's tense, too. It's almost over. He can patch the hole in his chassis himself. He doesn't want Hank to stop. Finally, Hank pries his fingers apart and peers at the wires. Connor's been able to keep the light from Hank's phone more or less pointed in the right spot while he's been distracted, and it's easy to see that everything looks to be in order.

"Stay inside me," Connor blurts out.

"Anything you want," Hank says. "Fuck." He lets his fingers drift over the bundle of wires, smoothing them back into place. "What do you need?"

"Just keep touching me. Anywhere. If you're gentle like that you won't hurt me."

Hank nods. "Like this?" He combs two fingers through the thin wires, and reaches with his thumb to press against the cable deeper in. "How's that?"

"Yes," Connor whines, "Yes."

"Just tell me what else you want, ok?" Hank glances at the hand still resting on Connor's thigh. "Do you." He hesitates for a long moment.
Connor closes his eyes and focuses on the overwhelming sensation surging up from his leg. His newly-restored components are flooding him with data. He whimpers again.

"Do you want me to touch you here too? Outside?"

(Connor doesn't want to waste any of his processing power on being frustrated that Hank would still be unclear about how desperately Connor wants Hank to touch him, so he doesn't. He sets a reminder to be frustrated at a later date.)

"Anywhere, Hank. Everywhere." He squirms a bit, not enough to jolt Hank's fingers into anyplace they shouldn't be, but it's becoming increasingly difficult to stay still. He touches the side of Hank's face, slides a finger down his neck. "Please keep touching me."

Hank reaches up to his neck and takes Connor's hand in his own, while the other hand continues its careful caresses inside him. He feels the warmth of Hank's hand much more clearly through the delicate sensors in his fingertips than he does through the wiring. He stares at Hank, eyes wide, lips parted, as Hank lifts his hand to his mouth and presses his lips gently to Connor's knuckles. Connor makes a tiny, deeply undignified squeak, but Hank just huffs a small laugh and kisses his hand again.

Connor cradles Hank's cheek, brushes against the coarse hair of his beard, and drinks in the flood of data his fingertips are sending him. Hank licks his lips and grins; Connor can just barely see the shadow of the gap between his front teeth. Then Hank turns his head and guides Connor's thumb into his mouth.

He cries out as Hank sucks gently and rubs his tongue against it; he'd imagined this, of course, or something like it, but he had no idea it would feel like this, hot and wet and intimate. Hank makes a pleased sound low in his throat, and eases Connor's thumb out of his mouth, giving it a little kiss on the way out. "You're easy to please, huh?" He places his hand on Connor's other thigh, close to his hip, and rubs small circles there. He shifts slightly on his knees so he's able to look up and face Connor directly. "There's something I wanna try, if you're ok with it."

"I said anywhere, didn't I?" Connor replies; he realizes this may be rude, but hopes Hank'll correctly interpret his bluntness as enthusiasm.

"Sure, but." Hank's tracing larger circles on his thigh now, inching closer to his groin, and Connor realizes he's mirroring the motion inside his other thigh too, swirling his fingers carefully through the web of wires within him. "I know they didn't give you any, uh, parts or nothing, but can I still touch you here?" his hand strays closer to Connor's blank pubic mound. "Will it feel good?"

"It's you, Hank," Connor says. "Of course it'll feel good." He shudders at the thought of it, of Hank's fingers exploring him. "I want you to." He lets his hand come to rest against the side of Hank's neck, where he can feel his pulse racing.

"Fuck, you're beautiful," Hank breathes reverently, as he slides his hand over to explore the smooth space between Connor's legs.

Connor doesn't know, of course, what it feels like to be touched if one has genitalia. Everything he's seen suggests it can be intensely pleasurable. He's unsure, as Hank tentatively rubs against him, mapping the shape of him with his thick fingers and calloused palm, if something could be more pleasurable than this. He feels like he's drowning in the feel of it, of Hank's hand finally pressed against him, exploring him. Hank's hand is hot against his skin; Connor can feel that his palm is lightly perspiring. He wants to taste his sweat.

He's been staring at Hank's hand, but he shifts focus to his face; more hair is coming loose from its ponytail. He's breathing heavily. Connor reaches out and brushes his thumb against Hank's forehead, picking up a bead of the sweat that's collecting there.

Hank looks up, slightly confused, and his jaw drops as Connor pops his thumb into his mouth and moans. "Did you just--" he can't quite complete his question, but Connor nods anyway. He's reeling from the rush of data; he now has a sample of Hank's sweat, and traces of his saliva, to analyze and tuck away in the most precious parts of his memory, thousands of files all marked HANK.

"I couldn't wait," Connor says. He wonders how much longer he'll be able to string words together coherently, how long these overwhelming sensations can last. How long has Hank been inside him? He knows he can access that information instantly, but he waits. He'll look after.

"Oh yeah?" Hank growls. Connor wants to hear that again. Maybe he doesn't ever want to hear anything else. Hank's voice is low, hoarse, desperate. "Maybe I shouldn't wait either." He licks his lips again, and rocks the heel of his hand once more against the smooth expanse of Connor's groin. Connor sighs and closes his eyes briefly, eliminating visual stimuli in favor of concentrating solely on heat and pressure.

This means he doesn't see Hank lean in.

The open-mouthed kiss below Connor's navel takes him by surprise. He gasps and Hank peers up to look at him. Connor wants to say something, anything, but can only nod, shakily, in response to Hank's questioning look.

"I've been thinking about this," Hank says. "Fuck." He slides his left hand under Connor's thigh. "You want to pop that on up here?" Hank asks, indicating his shoulder, and Connor manages to prop his leg over his shoulder without falling off of the less-than-sturdy kitchen chair. Hank's other hand hasn't stilled entirely inside his thigh, but it's moving more slowly now. Connor finds that he doesn't mind; there are a lot of new sensations to take in at the moment, and with the feedback from his leg at a less overwhelming level, he thinks it'll be easier to focus on...whatever Hank's up to.

There's nothing to expose, really, but still, Connor feels exposed in this new position, like he's on display for Hank. He likes that thought, wants Hank to want to look at him like this more often, like he's precious. Desirable. "What were you thinking about?" he asks.

Hank moans, trailing his kisses lower until he's pressing his mouth to the same area his hand explored just a moment ago. "Getting my mouth on you, whatever you had going on down here, just..." he sucks gently against Connor's skin. "Fuck, Connor. Please tell me this feels good."

"So good, Hank," Connor moans. He rests a hand on his head. Not guiding, not pulling, just...there. A gentle weight to anchor Hank to him.

And because he's anchored, Connor lets go; he closes his eyes and loses himself in the feeling of Hank in him, on him, kneeling before him. There's just so much happening, Connor can barely keep track of it all. Hank's fingers are gently stroking deep inside him, but they're also gripping tightly underneath his thigh, keeping his crotch pressed up into Hank's face. Hank's covering the entire space between his thighs with licks and messy kisses, and the contrast between his soft, wet mouth and the slight coarseness of his beard is flooding his sensors with so much input that it's hard to parse any of it.

Connor can feel more than hear the deep, raw sounds Hank's making; the vibrations travel through him and he feels like his entire body is some resonating instrument Hank's bringing to life with his hands, his mouth. He tightens his fingers in the wreck of Hank's ponytail and tugs him closer, and Hank pauses just long enough to mumble, "Yeah, baby, come on," before pressing in more insistently, scraping his teeth gently against Connor's pubic mound, letting his thumbnail dig into a thick cable.

The warnings Connor's been ignoring start to flash more urgently, and he knows there's a risk of shutting down if he doesn't tell Hank to stop, but as always when it comes to Hank, to touching him, to being close: he's selfish. He wants more.

There are just too many stimuli for Connor's system to handle after moderate thirium loss and trauma to internal components; despite his best efforts to delay it, higher processes begin the rebooting process. Connor opens his mouth to tell Hank a hard reset's coming, that he shouldn't be worried, that he'll be fine a few minutes afterwards, but all that comes out is a wail barely distinguishable as Hank's name.

Just before he blacks out, Connor opens his eyes and sees Hank staring up at him, wild-eyed and wrecked and utterly gorgeous. Even if this never happens again, Connor thinks, I had him for this perfect moment. I had this.

Chapter Text

For the second time in one day, Connor surfaces back into awareness with Hank talking to him. This time, though, he's in Hank's bedroom.

On Hank's bed.

One of Hank's large, warm hands is clasped around his own, and the other is gently tapping the side of his face. "--Connor, if you shut down because I---" Hank stops talking when he sees Connor's eyes open. "Thank fucking christ, are you ok?" He doesn't let go of Connor's hand, but he leans back, as if he's ready to spring up off the bed at a moment's notice.

Connor runs a quick diagnostic: all clear, save for a warning about the still-missing panel from his thigh. "I'm all right, Hank. I'm sorry to have worried you; I tried to warn you before the reset happened, but everything was so overwhelming. I missed my chance."

Hank nods and stands up, giving Connor's hand a final squeeze as he does so. He seems embarrassed, and won't look Connor in the eye. "Sorry for carting you in here," he mumbles, "but you just. You went dark, you didn't respond, so I thought maybe I did something wrong, or--"

"Hank," Connor says, knowing he needs to tread carefully, "nothing was wrong. You were perfect." Hank snorts at that, and because he won't look at Connor's face he misses the scowl Connor aims at him for it.

"Hank."

"What."

"You helped me despite your own discomfort and lack of expertise, and I appreciate that. I realize I may have taken advantage of your willingness to assist me, and I apologize for that, but--"

"Hold up, Connor, what? You think you took advantage of me just now?"

"I asked you to help repair me knowing you were uneasy at the idea. I allowed you to believe the gel needed more time to set, so that I could feel your hand inside me for longer. I used your willingness to assist me as a way to experience more intimate physical contact with you."

Hank does look at him then, guilt and confusion on his face. "Connor, you--surely I took advantage of you, here. You were hurt, and asked me for help, and I turned it into something else. I shouldn't have done that."

Connor's reminder to be frustrated at Hank isn't scheduled for another six and a half hours, but he decides he may as well take care of it now.

"Hank, you're talking like you made that decision for me, like you used my injury to push for sexual contact. You know you didn't."

"I didn't know you'd get all...like that when I was repairing you. For all I know maybe you just got carried away with, I don't know, robo-adrenaline or something, and wanted shit you wouldn't otherwise think twice about."

The decision to go ahead and experience Hank Frustration now has turned out to be a good one, Connor tells himself.

"I should probably be offended that you think I'd initiate sexual intimacy because of something called 'robo-adrenaline,' you realize."

Hank winces. "Fuck. Sorry."

Connor pats the bed next to him. "Can you come here so we can talk about this for real, now, without either of us assuming we've done something horrible to the other?"

Hank sighs. He still looks guilty, but he nods. "Yeah, all right." He props himself up against the headboard. Connor isn't sure if he should reach out to touch Hank, but he wants to. He always wants to.

He stretches a hand out so it rests next to Hank's leg, palm up, close but not quite touching him. An invitation.

As uncomfortable as Hank seems to be, he doesn't hesitate to take it. Hank squeezes Connor's hand, lifts it just off the bed, reconsiders.

Sets it back down.

Picks it up again.

Hank brushes his lips over the back of his hand, an echo of the kisses from before. "You really don't feel like I pushed you into anything?" he asks cautiously.

"I didn't know I'd have such a strong reaction to you touching my internal components, it's true, but you seem to think I asked you for something I wouldn't have wanted if I hadn't already felt so much pleasure from your hand inside me. I didn't--I wouldn't do that. Everything that happened...I've thought about all of it for a long time. I wanted to be physically intimate with you, but I thought talking about it might make you uncomfortable, so I didn't."

"Oh." Hank strokes his thumb over the back of Connor's hand. "You too, huh?"

Connor has no idea how to respond. He worries, for a moment, that something went wrong when he rebooted and now his hearing's malfunctioning. But no, Hank's still holding his hand, still giving him a small, nervous smile, still showing signs of arousal. His heart rate's up again.

"I thought," Hank says, "that might be my only chance to be with you like that. I didn't want to waste it, and I wanted to make things feel as good for you as I could." He squeezes Connor's hand again. "I got a little greedy, having you half-naked right there in front of me."

"I don't want that to be your only chance, Hank." Connor shudders a bit, thinking about experiencing all that again: the taste of Hank's sweat on his tongue, Hank's beard brushing gently against his thighs, Hank feeling greedy for more. He wants Hank to be hungry for him.

"I'd hoped, but. It's good to hear you say it. I know we have more to talk about, but uh. You're still recovering, so don't push yourself. What do you want right now?"

Connor knows this is partially a deflection from further emotionally-weighted conversation, but he doesn't mind. Connor knows what he wants; he tugs gently at Hank's hand, pulling him closer. "Kiss me."

"I can do that," Hank murmurs, and closes the distance between them. He cups Connor's cheek with his free hand, angling him just so, and does as he's been told.

Connor distantly thinks they may have done things out of order; his understanding of human intimacy is that a kiss on the mouth usually happens before oral sex, not after, but he isn't particularly concerned with following an established rulebook for sex, if such a thing exists. He's felt Hank's mouth already, can remember the feel of his tongue against his skin, but experiencing it with his own mouth, and the array of sensors there, is even better than he'd hoped. Connor isn't entirely sure how kissing works, beyond the general concept, but the essence of it is enough to go on for now; surely they'll do this again, and he'll learn. Already the thought of more makes him feel dizzy.

He's drowning in data, in warmth, in the small low sounds Hank makes when Connor opens his mouth to let him in. Connor could lose himself completely in kissing Hank, desperately wants to do exactly that; he could spend hours just exploring the shape of his mouth and committing every sigh, every press of Hank's tongue, every gentle bite to his lower lip to memory. Maybe Hank will let him. But as moments pass by, the notifications about his missing leg panel become more and more urgent, until he feels he can no longer ignore them.

"Hank," he says, pulling back, "I still need to repair and replace the panel I was stabbed through."

"Oh shit," Hank says, and he leans his forehead against Connor's, laughing weakly. "Fuck, I half forgot why all this happened in the first place. You want me to go grab that piece for you?"

Connor can walk at this point, most likely; he can flex his leg and feel it respond. "I can do it," he says, but Hank's already off the bed, heading for the door. "You don't need to--"

Hank leans over him and presses a hand to his chest, and the message is clear: stay here. Connor closes his eyes, his protest dying as he focuses on the warmth of Hank's touch. "Please," Hank says. "You got stabbed, I had my hand all tangled up in your insides, and, uh, I know how that turned out but then you still shut down for a moment...my heart's still recovering from all of that, so. Let me do this for you." He presses a kiss to Connor's forehead.

It's sweet, Connor decides. Usually he bristles at the idea of someone thinking he can't take care of something himself, but this is different. He settles back against the pillow and takes a moment to fully appreciate that he's in Hank's bed. He'd never expected to be here.

Hank returns with his panel carefully cradled in one arm and a packet in the other. "Is this what you need to patch yourself up? It was in the first-aid kit and says it's for 'repairing small exterior injuries' so I thought maybe that was it?"

Connor smiles as he takes the panel from Hank and slots it into place. "That is what I need, yes." He eyes the wound on his thigh; the cut was deep but clean, so the damage to his chassis was minimal.

Hank's hovering awkwardly by the bed, so Connor pats the sheets next to him. "I am able to do this final repair on my own," he says slowly, "but you've done such a good job so far. Would you like to help with this as well?"

"If you want me to, yeah," Hank says. He kneels on the bed and tentatively places his hand just below the injury. "What do I do?"

Keep touching me, Connor thinks. Aloud, he says, "The patch works on a similar principle to the gel; trim it to fit the damaged area and affix it on top. After 48 hours I can peel off the outer layer of the patch and the nanobots will have taken care of the damage beneath."

"And does it need to be massaged in to work, like the gel?" Hank asks.

Connor winks. He's noticed that Hank tends to get flustered when he does it, and this time he's rewarded with a blush. "Of course it does," he says. "That's why I was hoping you could help me with it."

Hank licks his lips and stares down at Connor. "I wouldn't want to disappoint you." He presses the patch over the gash in Connor's thigh and smooths it over carefully, checking to make sure it's fully covering the damaged area before applying pressure in firm strokes. "You just tell me when to stop, all right?" he says, as he rubs more warmth into the patch and the surrounding skin. Connor knows he isn't just talking about the patch, and in answer he grabs Hank's shirt and pulls him close. He can feel Hank's chest hair beneath the undershirt. Now may not be the time to complicate things further by asking Hank to remove his clothing, Connor decides, but he hopes that time will come soon. There's so much more of Hank he wants to see and touch and kiss...

He whines quietly at the thought of it, and Hank chuckles. "I've barely touched you yet," Hank says. "Are you still sensitive from earlier or something, or does it just feel that good to have an old man grope your thigh?"

"When you touch me like this, I just want more," Connor breathes. "Any time you touch me, that's all I think about."

Hank stops touching Connor then, and he almost panics for a moment - was that too much? Is there only so far Hank's willing to indulge him? But no, Hank's just rearranging himself on the bed, propping himself up against the headboard and spreading his legs invitingly. "Let's try something," Hank says. "Come here, let's see if I can't take care of you like this."

Connor shifts over and sits between Hank's legs, leaning back against his broad chest. It's perfect. Hank reaches down and resumes his careful massage against Connor's thigh; his arms are long enough that he's able to reach without too much trouble. He rests his other hand on Connor's chest, not touching anything in particular but holding him close.

"How's that?" he rumbles, low and quiet. Connor is pressed so tightly against Hank that he can feel the vibrations in his chest. The familiar overstimulation is building again, perhaps even faster now that he knows what to expect, knows he isn't upsetting Hank by wanting it.

"You're so close," he says, which he knows isn't a proper answer, but Hank doesn't seem to mind.

"Feels right to be like this," Hank says, so quiet Connor almost thinks he's imagined it. He reaches up and holds his hand over Hank's where it's tracing circles over his chest. Hank's beard is a soft prickle against his neck and Connor sighs softly, tilting his head so he can get closer.

"I think," he says cautiously, "my neck is a sensitive area, so if you could--" he trails off into an incoherent wail as Hank kisses the back of his neck.

"Like that?" Hank asks, as he continues to press hot, open-mouthed kisses along his neck.

"Y-yes."

"I want to learn every way there is to make you make that sound again," he growls. He slides his free hand to Connor's pubic mound and rubs against it, prompting another wail. Connor pushes his hips up, chasing more of Hank's touch. It's as good as it was before, even better, really: now he's in Hank's bed, with his thighs pressed against him and his lips brushing his ear as he says how gorgeous he looks and sounds as Hank finds every sensitive spot.

Connor disables as many background functions as possible so he can focus on Hank's hands against his skin. Even though he's replenished his thirium levels, he knows it won't take much to overload his systems and force another restart, and he doesn't want to worry Hank again. The world narrows down to the feel of Hank's hands and mouth against his skin, and the ragged sound of his breathing in his ear.

"You want my mouth here again, next time?" Hank asks, rubbing the heel of his hand against Connor's smooth crotch. Connor sighs out a yes and Hank nips the back of his neck. "Where else?"

He can't think of what to say, but thankfully Hank knows the answer. "Give me your hand, sweetheart, I know you're sensitive there."

Connor sobs as Hank takes two of his fingers into his mouth and sucks. Hank's mouth is hot and wet, and he moans as he slides his tongue over his fingers. Connor has a wild thought that's nearly enough to overheat every nerve in his body just thinking about it.

"Hank, if I--if I installed a phallic component, would you..."

Hank pulls his fingers out with a pop and kisses his palm. "Would I suck your cock, is that what you want to know?"

Connor shudders and whines; he can tell he's close to his limit again. "Would you? If I did?"

"Every fucking day, if you wanted."

It's too much. This time, Connor has the presence of mind to warn Hank before it happens. "I can't--I'm going to shut down again soon, but it's fine."

Hank starts to pull back, but Connor grabs his arm and holds him in place. "I may be out for a bit, but. Touch me until then."

So Hank does.

When Connor snaps back into awareness, he takes a moment to assess the situation before opening his eyes. It's been just over two hours since his system restart initiated. He gently flexes his leg and no more errors pop up; the repairs all seem to be integrating smoothly.

A sleepy voice speaks up once Connor moves. "You back with me?" Hank has stripped down to just his undershirt and boxers, and the pillow crease imprinted on his cheek makes it look like he'd dozed off while waiting for Connor to reboot. His smile is soft.

Hank leans over - slowly, as if giving Connor time to pull away - and kisses him. It's soft and delicious, and he tangles a hand in Hank's unruly hair to hold him close while he deepens the kiss. Hank moans when he tightens his grip: it's a piece of data he files away for later.

"Is that going to happen every time we...uh." Hank gestures vaguely between them. "...fool around? You shutting down?"

"Orgasm will probably not cause a reset of my systems in most cases. After a significant injury, it was enough to do so, but I should be fine moving forward. Because everything I felt was so new and overwhelming, I wasn't prepared for it; it was hard to know what processes to prioritize and what to put to sleep temporarily. In the future I'll be able to adapt and make sure I'm functional during and after sexual activity."

"In the future, huh?" Hank huffs out a laugh, but Connor doesn't think he looks amused. "You really want this?"

Connor's reminder to be frustrated with Hank pings to life in the corner of his vision. He doesn't dismiss it. "Didn't we just have this conversation?"

"Yeah, but--"

Connor can see infinite versions of this discussion stretching into the future. He imagines the many ways Hank can try to deny Connor's attraction to him, his suitability as a romantic partner, the very idea that he deserves lo-affection at all.

He's immediately exhausted by it.

He rolls on top of Hank, grabbing his forearms and pressing them against the bed. He feels Hank's pulse spike and he tries to ignore the stirring of his cock against his thigh. (It's hard to ignore, but he has to for now.)

He leans in close and speaks quietly in Hank's ear. "You're always telling me I'm allowed to want things for myself, that it's good to want them. You've given me space to figure out what I like and what it even means to like something. You can't say these things and then decide my choice doesn't matter when I choose you, Hank. If you don't want me, or don't want to be with me, then please, say the word. I know how to deal with being hurt. But don't tell me my desire doesn't mean anything after everything else you've said to me."

"Holy shit," Hank wheezes beneath him. "Sometimes I forget how terrifying you can be."

Connor can feel how hard Hank's become, and rocks his thigh against his cock. "You like it though, don't you?"

"Fuck, I...yeah." Hank flexes but doesn't move to escape Connor's grip, so Connor doesn't let go.

"Sorry," Hank mumbles. "The last thing I want to do is tell you no. I know I should be happy that we want the same thing from each other--and I am, Connor--but I'm old and fucked up and it's hard to accept that you really feel this way." He sighs heavily. "But that's my problem, not yours. I can't promise I'll never get in my own head about this shit, but I'll try. And you can call me out when you need to."

Connor kisses Hank again; he tries to pour all of his longing, his frustration, his affection into it. "Hank, I just don't want to have this same conversation every time I tell you I want you. If you doubt my feelings, give me a chance to show you just how much I want you."

Hank winces. "I don't--I'm doubting myself, here, not you."

"So," Connor says, "let me show you. Please."

Hank is quiet for a moment; he closes his eyes and takes a few deep breaths. Connor watches him patiently. He worries this might be a point of contention in the future, still, but he hopes Hank won't let his doubts get in the way of something he's already said he wants.

Eventually he tilts his head up, angling for another kiss, and Connor's happy to give it to him. He lets go of Hank's arms to plant one hand on his broad chest and grip his hair with the other, angling his head to the side. If it feels amazing to have his own neck kissed, maybe--

Ah. Yes, it works on Hank as well; as he makes contact with Hank's neck he lets out a deep groan and bucks up against Connor's thigh.

"Oh fuck," he gasps, when Connor's teeth graze his earlobe. "Yeah, show me. What do you want?"

Connor drinks in the sight of Hank beneath him. "I want to admire you," he says. He sits back on his knees and trails his fingers down Hank's chest, over the soft swell of his belly to come to rest on his thigh. He can see Hank's erection through the thin fabric of his underwear and his mouth drops open just a bit. Hank's undershirt and boxers are straining to contain him, stretched tight over his body, and while that's extremely appealing in Connor's eyes, he wants to see what's underneath them even more. He slides his hands under the hem of Hank's shirt and raises an eyebrow. "Can I?"

Hank nods, and Connor peels the shirt off; he means to do it slowly, reverently, but by the time he sees Hank's navel he can't help himself. Hank laughs as it gets caught up around his shoulders and wriggles it over his head himself. "Calm down, you don't need to tear it off me."

"Oh," Connor says quietly, after tossing the shirt aside. He dimly remembers this was what he said when Hank appeared in it hours ago.

There's just so much to look at on a human body. He knows androids are meant to be "perfect," free of blemishes or faults, but in comparison to what he sees when he looks at Hank, his own body feels almost sterile, devoid of character.

He runs his fingers through Hank's chest hair and notices how his breathing hitches when he brushes against a nipple. "Is that good?" he asks, even though the answer's obvious. Connor's spent a lot of time today telling Hank how good it feels to be touched; he realizes he wants to hear the same from him. Wants to tease out more of the sounds Hank made when his hands and mouth were all over Connor. Wants to precisely measure how loud Hank can get.

"Anything you do to me's gonna be good," Hank murmurs, and Connor knows it's a deflection but he preens anyway. It's good to know Hank has faith that Connor can bring him pleasure.

He leans in and nuzzles his face in the soft valley of Hank's chest where the hair's thickest. It's a different texture from his hair or beard and he loses himself there for a moment, kissing the soft skin beneath the silvery curls. When he kisses and then gently bites a nipple, though, that's when Hank really reacts, rutting up against Connor with a whine.

Connor records that whine, and the soft grunt that follows when he bites a deep red mark into Hank's chest, and files them away for future examination; he's already thinking about playing them in the background while washing the dishes. No one has to know he's doing it.

He kisses his way down Hank's chest, but just as his mouth touches the delicious softness of his gut, he feels his abdominal muscles tense up as he sucks in a bit. "Hank," he says gently, rubbing his hands over his soft sides, "please don't hide from me."

Hank grimaces a bit but doesn't relax. "I just. It's a shame you're seeing me now, and not in my hotshot academy days, back when people actually thought I was attractive. You deserve that."

Connor has access to photos of those years, of course. He's seen them. He even has a few tucked away in his memory for easy access; he finds it interesting to look at Hank from decades ago and see how years of experience have changed his face. Still. They aren't pictures of his Hank.

"Hotshot Hank was attractive, I'll admit," Connor says. "But. I love how big you are. I love how much space you take up in a room and in this bed. If you're worried about what I deserve, don't I deserve to keep kissing you?"

Hank's red in the face, but he nods.

"Relax."

He does, eventually. As Hank unwinds and becomes more comfortable with Connor's curious hands and mouth exploring his body, he gets a little more vocal; his moans and small gasps of "yes" and "fuck" (and, once, "why are you licking my navel so much") are extremely gratifying to hear. Pulling these sounds out of Hank, seeing him flush and pant and swear at him, is intoxicating.

Connor can't imagine he'll ever want to stop touching Hank. Every press of his hands against his skin brings in more data to analyze and cherish later. Touching Hank is about feeling the coarseness of his body hair and the texture of the moles and scars his body's picked up over the years, but it's also about watching for his reactions, seeing how a kiss can make his eyes roll back and his hips press up against him.

Connor sits back to take in the view: Hank's flushed red across his face and chest, and there's a scattering of bite marks across his chest and belly that he is extremely proud of. Hank lets out a low, impatient sound when Connor stops touching him.

"Connor, sweetheart, you don't have to--no pressure, really, but after watching you get off earlier and hearing those sounds you made, and now this, I'm..." his hand creeps towards his boxers, but Connor gently redirects it to the bed. "Please, either touch me or let me do it."

Something sings through Connor, crackling along his wiring as if Hank's hand was back inside him, to see how badly Hank wants to be touched. He knows that desperation for more contact, for Hank to keep his hand inside him, touch him anywhere he wanted. He loves knowing he's making Hank feel the same way. And he feels desperate to touch Hank too, of course, but he doesn't want to rush anything.

Hank wolfed down his meals when they were on the clock, but at home he was more likely to slow down and enjoy good food, especially lately. "It tastes better to take your time with it," he'd told Connor once, as he sucked cream from a slice of tiramisu off of his fork. Connor had nodded like he understood, and he'd certainly enjoyed watching Hank licking his fork, but it hadn't fully made sense until now.

"I'm enjoying taking my time," Connor says, and watches Hank shift beneath him. He's thrusting up against the air, so subtly it's possible he doesn't even know he's doing it, but Connor can feel his thighs tense as he does. He presses his hands to Hank's hips, holding him still. There's a damp spot at the front of Hank's boxers where his cock's pressed, leaking, against the thin fabric; Connor dips his head down and licks it. He can feel the heat of Hank's cock through the cloth, and excitement thrums through him as he acquires a new sample to analyze.

"Jeeeeesus christ, you're killing me," Hank groans above him. "Fuck."

"What do you want, Hank?" Connor asks, but even as he does so he's working his underwear carefully over his erection and down his thighs. Hank seems to have registered the question but doesn't have an answer.

Connor's formed opinions about plenty of things by now, but while he'd looked up images of penises - just out of general curiosity, of course - he hadn't come to any conclusions about what his preferences, in a hypothetical situation in which he might interact with one, might be. He's very sure, in this moment, that his preferences are now clear. Hank's cock is uncircumcised, about average in length but well over average thickness; Connor's sure he could fit his mouth around it, but he's glad his jaw can't get sore the way a human's might. It's perfect.

He waits a few more seconds, to see if Hank will respond. He knows, of course, that Hank likely wants some sort of genital stimulation that will lead to orgasm, and he's testing his own patience in holding back for the moment; but just this part of it, the asking and sharing of desire, is as pleasurable as the touch itself is. He's had so much want bottled up inside, for months now, and it's all rushing out of him in a flood. He wants them both to get caught up in it.

"Hank."

"Hm?"

"What do you want?"

"Fuck, Connor, I want you to do this at your own pace, without any pressure from me, but..."

"But?"

"For the love of god, please touch me. I'm--" his voice cuts off into a rough moan as Connor wraps his hand gently around Hank's cock and gives it a tentative stroke. Hank feels good in his hand. Solid. Alive. One of his hands is behind his head, tangled in his hair, and the other is clutching the sheets next to his hip; Connor grips it with his free hand and tangles their fingers together.

"This is all new to me," Connor says. "So your feedback would be appreciated." He slides Hank's foreskin back and licks a bead of pre-ejaculate from the head of his cock. It's certainly his favorite sample from Hank so far.

"You--nnghh--you're perfect," Hank says, as he licks him again. "Five stars."

Hank does indeed provide plenty of feedback; it may not be as articulate as Connor would prefer, but it's loud and enthusiastic, and that's what matters most. He just wants to know Hank's feeling as much pleasure as he is, that he wants Connor the same way Connor's wanted him.

He's careful not to overload his systems, this time; the feeling of Hank's cock in his mouth is intense, and he could easily lose himself to it and the press of Hank's hand against his own, but he doesn't want to risk another restart just yet. He wants to be here for all of this.

"I'm close," Hank gasps, and his large hand comes to rest on Connor's head. An anchor, he thinks, remembering Hank kneeling before him. He presses his tongue more insistently against Hank's cock, moaning now with the desire to make him lose his composure completely. Hank's hand tightens in Connor's hair as he rocks his hips, rutting into his mouth twice before flooding it with his release.

Connor quickly revises his list of favorite Hank samples, and floats happily in the sea of new data until Hank squeezes his hand to get his attention.

"Connor? You still with me??"

He blinks lazily up at Hank and nods.

"Want to come up here?" Hank pats his chest and holds an arm open in invitation.

Connor presses a kiss to Hank's thigh, then scoots up the bed and cuddles up to Hank in the space he's made for him. It's nice, of course. Hank's radiating comforting heat, and with his head pillowed on his broad chest Connor can keep track of his breathing and heartbeat.

"How do you feel?" he asks Hank. It's a big question, he knows, but he has to ask. A lot's happened since this morning.

"Fishing for compliments?" Hank presses a kiss to his forehead. "It was wonderful. Not sure how a guy gives a blowjob that good his first time."

"Not just the sex, Hank," Connor protests, but he does like to hear that part as well. Compliments always spark something inside him.

"I want to know you feel about--" he gestures with his hand, trying to indicate the two of them, the bed, the house. Their entire life together. "--everything that happened today. What you want to happen next."

"Yeah, ok." Hank picks up Connor's hand where he's draped it across his chest, and kisses it. He doesn't let go once he sets it down. "I wanna be honest with you, I haven't talked much about how I feel about anything in a long time. I'm rusty."

"That's all right."

"It might not be all right sometimes, and you can tell me when it's not. I want you to. But I'll try, is what I'm trying to say. Anyway." He takes a deep breath and squeezes Connor's hand. Connor listens to his heartbeat, letting it comfort him while he waits. "First off, you scared the shit outta me getting stabbed like that, and then shutting down that first time. I know those aren't your fault, but I feel like I'm still running on adrenaline from all that. I want you to be safe."

"Being that scared also made me think, you know, I figured I'd never tell you how I felt. I didn't want to upset you, or make you feel like you had to move out if you didn't feel the same way. It felt easier to not say anything and shove it all to the back of my mind. Hide it. But you know what feels easy right now, Connor?"

Connor shakes his head, which in his position just presses his face further into Hank's chest.

"Having you in bed with me. Holding you just like this. Hearing you say you want me to feel good, and letting you get me there. We already fit together real nice, don't we? Maybe this is just like putting another puzzle piece in place. What do you think?"

He kisses Connor's hand again. Connor wonders if maybe Hank's just now realizing what he's already come to understand: that he doesn't have to bite back every impulse he has to touch Hank. He can just...touch him when he wants to. To prove the point to himself, he slings a leg over Hank's thigh and leans up to kiss him.

"I have no idea what I'm doing," he says into Hank's beard. "I have no experience with sexual or romantic relationships. I don't even know what all of my preferences are, at this point. But I have no doubt in my mind when it comes to you."

"I don't think I deserve that," Hank says quietly, "but thank you."

"I want to try," Connor continues. "Selfishly, I think it would be hard to know what it feels like to touch you, but not be able to experience it again."

"Any time you want," Hank says, "you can touch me. Well. Maybe not always at work, I guess, but when we're here? Go nuts."

Hank yawns, suddenly, so widely that Connor can hear his jaw click. He turns to glance at the bedside clock and winces when he sees how late it is. "Jesus, it's well past midnight, I need to get my ass to sleep here in a sec. You've worn me out today, in more ways than one."

He rolls over to face Connor and presses their foreheads together. "I'm not running away from a big conversation, I know we have more to talk about, but I want to do it right. We're on the late shift tomorrow, so can we keep this going over breakfast? Once I've had coffee?"

"Of course. You need your sleep, and it won't hurt for me to do some extra diagnostics during stasis." Connor starts to sit up, but Hank stops him with a hand on his forearm.

"Do you want to stay here with me tonight?"

He somehow hadn't expected this. He's surprised by a warning notification for loss of fluid at the same moment that Hank cups his cheek in his big hand and pulls him back down next to him.

"Hey, hey, are you crying? If you need some space, it's all right if you'd rather do your thing on the couch like you have been."

"No, I'm--" he wipes the synthetic tears from his eyes. He'd been aware he could produce them, but hadn't experienced it yet, and he isn't sure how he feels about it. "I'm happy, Hank. Just overwhelmed, I think. I want to be here with you."

"Let me just hit the lights, then," Hank mumbles, and after another gentle forehead kiss he lumbers out of the room to shut off lights around the house and let Sumo outside for a moment. Soon, Hank comes back smelling like toothpaste and night air and crawls into the bed. "Big or little spoon?" Hank asks, once he's pulled back the covers for both of them. Connor takes a second to run preconstructions of both configurations and finds both appealing to him, but...

"Big, I think," he replies. "I want both, but tonight I want to hold you."

"You big fuckin' sap," Hank grumbles, but there's no heat behind it and he kisses him as soon as he says it, so Connor knows he's pleased. He presses back into Connor's chest and sighs as Connor drapes an arm over him. His hand rests over Hank's heart.

"Never thought I'd have you in bed like this," Hank says very quietly. "Outside of the sort of shit I used to make myself stop thinking about, so it'd hurt less when I never had it. I tried to keep it out of my mind."

"I had trouble thinking about anything else," Connor replies. Hank makes a soft sound in acknowledgement, but Connor's pretty sure he's mostly asleep already. He waits until he feels the tension slowly drain from Hank's body before initializing stasis, and he sets it to end half an hour before Hank's alarm goes off.

He tells himself he'll get up early and make breakfast so Hank can have food right when we wakes up. Maybe something a little fancy, like waffles.

But he doesn't.

Connor lies still, in the soft morning light, and watches the rise and fall of Hank's chest beneath his hand. He thinks about the rest of what they need to talk about, how they'll have to learn to navigate a relationship together as two men with difficult or nonexistent relationship histories. But the wanting's there, and while Connor knows desire isn't enough, he knows it's something. It's a lot, really. And it's something they share, something that's been growing between them for a long time.

Connor rests his hand on Hank's chest and thinks about daybreak, and green and growing things, and love.