You ever think about the first time Connor sees Hank lounging around the house in old soft sweatpants with nothing underneath, realizes he can see the shape of his dick in great detail, and diverts all his processing power to a detailed scan for future study
I like the idea that Connor very quickly knows he likes Hank, that he wants to be around him and know him better, and that he *definitely* wants Hank to hug him again. As much as possible. He can't help but want to touch Hank, to be as close to him as possible. To be held by him.
But understanding the sexual component of his feelings takes a longer time. He understands the concept on a basic level, of course; his social protocols gave him enough context to flirt with Hank a little, when they first worked together, and he has a general understanding of
human sexuality. But his own sexuality is harder to understand, or even to think about at all, beyond the most abstract conception of it.
He knows, at least, that he pays much closer attention to Hank's physical presence than he does anyone else. Perhaps it's simply because they
share the same living space, and so Connor has more opportunities to see Hank. To notice things about him. It seems reasonable enough, when Connor reflects on it. He finds Hank interesting, so of course he's going to look at him more often. It makes sense to stare at his hands.
Hank's hands are larger than Connor's; he knows this intimately, of course, because he's done his best to record every moment of contact they've had with his body. Fewer than he'd like, but not at all uncommon; he's learned that when Hank's in a good mood, he enjoys casual touch.
Each instance gives Connor another impression of the size and weight of Hank's hands, thick fingers squeezing his shoulder reassuringly or patting him on the back to signal a job well done at work. He thinks sometimes that if he could take Hank's hand in his own he could study
them better, but. He's aware that this is reserved for people with a certain type of relationship with each other, and he and Hank don't have such a relationship. Still, it's something he enjoys contemplating.
All of Hank is worth contemplating, when it comes down to it.
Connor's fascinated with the wide range of human body types, especially in comparison with the limited range and similar build of android models, but Hank's so broad and solid and big that he can't help but find him particularly interesting.
Surely it's just this, Connor thinks.
That's all it is: Hank is kind to him, and touches him sometimes, and he's bigger than Connor in a way that gives him an odd jolt of anxious excitement when Hank leans into his personal space to speak quietly in his ear. He's unique, and he's Connor's first & closest friend, so.
It's reasonable, then, to think about when he wrapped his broad palm around the back of Connor's neck to pull him close for a hug that first cold, bright morning, after everything changed. Reasonable, too, to calculate how much space that hand would cover if he settled it low
on Connor's back. If he pressed his palm over the subtle seam of his thirium pump regulator. How much smaller Connor's hand would look in comparison if he placed it over the center of Hank's chest.
It's important, Connor knows, because emotions are confusing and complicated, to
remind himself that it's fine, to think about these things.
It's fine.
"Christ, I need to do laundry," Hank grumbles, late on a Friday after they get home from work. "I'm running out of shit to wear around the house." He's talking to himself, mostly, while he digs through the
disorganized dresser in his bedroom, but of course Connor hears him.
He knows, too, that if he wasn't around Hank would probably wear the same sweatpants at home for a week or two at a time without a second thought, but that he's making an effort to be a little less careless,
at least, with Connor there. Connor isn't sure how to tell him that he wouldn't mind at all. "Don't put on clean clothes on my account" is something he could say, of course, but he's sure Hank wouldn't take him seriously.

[that's all for tonight, I'll wrap this up tomorrow]
Hank emerges from the bedroom, overstuffed laundry hamper in tow, and as he rounds the corner and opens the door to the garage, where the washer's tucked into a corner, Connor gets a glimpse of unfamiliar clothing beneath his warm flannel robe. Not enough to see what he's wearing
exactly, but he knows it isn't something he's seen before. He isn't sure why it matters so much to him, to take note of all of Hank's clothing, but he's still developing his own tastes when it comes to what he wears, so it stands to reason he'd be particularly observant in this
"Don't let me forget to throw that shit in the dryer, will you?" Hank asks, once the washer's set. "It'll be worse if I wake up tomorrow to a pile of wet shit because I forgot about it."
"Of course," Connor says, setting a timer for the average wash cycle time of the
aging washing machine. "I'll make sure to--"
His sentence trails off, the thought fizzling to nothing in his mind, because once Hank grabs the bag of takeout he'd picked up on the way home and settles himself on the couch, his robe falls open and Connor sees what he's wearing
beneath it.
"You all right, Connor?" Hank asks curiously, and Connor blinks and smiles and forces himself to nod. "Sit down, then, you'll make me anxious looming over me like that." He pats the couch cushion beside him, and Connor sits. He still needs an invitation, sometimes.
It's a comfortable silence that falls between them, after that, while Hank slurps down his pad kee mao and turns on the tv, more for background noise than anything else. What's important, Connor decides, is that Hank's focused just closely enough on the television that he can
safely focus on Hank.
Connor's noticed that much of Hank's wardrobe is too large for him; whether that's a preference for baggier clothes, a lack of knowledge or concern about proper fit, or a sign that he's lost weight since he purchased most of his clothing is unclear, although
Connor suspects there's truth to all of it. Hank may not eat "well," for some definitions of the word, but he often doesn't eat enough, either; only in recent months, as his mood's slowly improved and his drinking has decreased, has he been better about taking regular meals.
Connor predicts, with no small amount of pleasure, that his shirts will fit better in the near future.
Tonight, though, Hank's wearing something that must have been purchased long ago. In contrast to the loose t-shirts and flannel pants Hank's worn at home as long as Connor's
been staying with him, the gray undershirt and sweatpants Hank had unearthed from some long-untouched corner of his dresser are surprisingly...clingy, Connor decides. That's the best word to describe the effect, although his mind supplies alternatives: intriguing.
The undershirt is stretched tightly across Hank's torso; he's able to see the faint outline of his nipples through the fabric, and after a minute's observation has to remind himself to look elsewhere. He's doing this out of curiosity, not...not some strange interest in Hank's
nipples, specifically. He knows that nipples can be sensitive, during sexual intimacy, although he isn't sure why this would be the case for men who couldn't become pregnant or give birth. He idly wonders if Hank is one of the people who has that particular sensitivity.
Does one
have to be aroused, first, for a sexual touch to bring pleasure? Or does the act of touching create pleasure and arousal that follows?
How does one even recognize the feeling of arousal at all? How does desire differ from his idle thoughts of touching Hank, of wanting Hank to
want to touch him?
Connor's had more thoughts like this, lately, but he suspects these questions do not fit into the category of personal questions Hank will, despite his protests, be happy to answer.
It's just curiosity. He understands so much more about emotional thoughts and
responses now than he did just a few months ago, but this area, one in which he has no experience or personal reference to draw from, remains confusing. It's more abstract than the more concrete emotional experiences in the rest of his life.
Hank yawns and stretches his arms
above his head, giving a satisfied grunt when there's a series of slightly alarming cracks from his neck and shoulders. Connor admires the stretch and flex of his arms, but his attention is quickly diverted to the bare skin that's revealed when the movement of Hank's arms pulls
the shirt up several inches.
It's only a second, of course, before Hank self-consciously pulls his shirt back down (and Connor is glad, then, that he's able to watch Hank without it being obvious, because he'd hate to make him uncomfortable), but it's long enough--although Connor
wants to look for much longer, of course--for Connor to capture an image he can return to whenever he wishes.
The hair below Hank's navel is thick, and mostly gray, although there are darker hairs scattered throughout. He imagines the contrasts he'd feel under his hand: the
slight coarseness of the hair, the plush softness of the layer of fat on Hank's abdomen and the firm muscle beneath. His manual sensors were calibrated to take in data from crime scenes, from evidence that was too dangerous or too menial or too complicated for humans to bother
with; they weren't meant to derive pleasure from touching another living person. But now, he's allowed to decide what he wants to do with his own hands. His fingers twitch with the desire to touch.
The motion of Hank pulling his shirt back into place drags his eyes farther down.
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