Thinking today about the magazine in DBH talking about the nano-androids that can make people live longer. Assuming those aren't sentient and they're only called androids because they use the thirium/biocomponent tech, think of what that could mean for Hank and Connor.

I see a lot of stuff about how Hank is going to die way before Connor, but there's stuff in canon that says this might not have to be the case! I don't know if the original short film is considered canon, but if we say it is and Connor's battery will last about 173 years...

Then it's really not super over the top to say technology could help Hank get close to that. There are already people who live into their 120s. Honestly, the biggest worry in the DBH universe is that the *world* won't last, given the issues with climate and wildlife?

Granted, Hank already has 53 years on Connor, but still. I think they could feasibly have a good long life together. And hell, we could say the androids can help repair the Earth, too, and just make it a big fluffy headcanon all around!

[Adding to this for funsies. CW for mention of past canon-typical SI]

The nano-android treatments are still expensive, the kind of thing only rich men like Carl Manfred can afford. If you'd asked Hank a few years ago, he would have said he didn't want to live longer anyway.

He was trying to die, not extend his life. There was nothing here for him anymore except Sumo; everything that mattered to him was waiting on the other side.

That's changed.

It's actually Carl Manfred himself who talks him into it.

Carl was one of the first humans to figure out Hank and Connor were together. They were visiting to talk business with Markus. They hadn't paid much attention to Carl watching them until he pulled them aside and simply asked, with a knowing smirk, "How long?"

They paid more attention to him after that.

It's not normal for Hank to feel young and naive, but that's exactly how he feels next to Carl Manfred.

"I was like you were," Carl tells him the next time, "not so long ago."

"What do you mean"

"Ready to die."

Hank isn't sure how he knows about that.

"I can see it on you," he continues. "It clings like a fog, gets its claws deep into you, and it doesn't let go so easily. It's still hanging on, isn't it?"

Hank nods, dumbstruck.

"I don't know your story, Hank, but I can tell you're

trying to shake it loose. Because of Connor."

Hank looks across the room at his partner. He catches Connor's eye and gets the quirk of a smile in return. "I wish it was easier. I try not to let him see it, but I still feel halfway into the grave. Sometimes wonder if I am."

"I was ready to let go, before all of this. I'm a sick old man. I thought it was pointless to cling too hard to life. I convinced myself I was being practical by waiting to die with open arms."

Hank knows about the nano-androids. He knows that Carl is taking them. He

knows that Carl's life expectancy has been extended by at least ten years. "What changed?"

"Markus and Leo. The revolution. Wanting to see this new world my sons are creating together, now that they're finally starting to get along. Wanting to be a better father to them."

His sons. A better father. The thought makes Hank's heart sieze up and his stomach clench. Carl doesn't know that. Hank doesn't tell him. "I want to be here for Connor. I wanna see things change, too. Hell, I wanna help however I can. I just...."

"Ah," Carl says.

Hank knows what survivor's guilt is, and he knows he has a textbook case. He knows he wants to see if there's a life after death, and make sure Cole's okay. He knows he worries, every day, that Cole is waiting for him, his father robbed from him by the crash as well.

"People talk often about reasons to live," Carl muses, "but few people ever talk about all the compelling reasons there are to die."

Hank doesn't know Carl's story, either, but he knows suddenly that Carl understands. "Yeah. Guess you're right."

"It might never go away, you

know," he adds, looking directly into Hank's eyes. "But if you ever decide your reasons to live are bigger, I can pay for you to get the procedure."

There are things Hank wants to say to that. He can't find the words.

"I know that's a big thing to drop on you. You don't

have to answer now. Just consider it."

"Why me? You barely know me."

"You're right. I don't. But I know there's something invigorating about taking the leap, and I wonder if it might help. Call it a reverse suicide. A surrender to living."

Hank considers it. He thinks about how Connor desrrves the world. He thinks aboit how Connor told him he was the world to him.

He remembers how Cole used to be his world, and how he'd give anything for more time with him.

He could do this, for Connor. If not for himself,

for Connor. He could choose to live, so it's not so inevitable that Connor will have to feel this kind of unbearable grief down the line.

A single shot costs Carl Manfred nearly a million dollars.

It costs Hank his excuses.

They both pay willingly.

It's an outpatient procedure. Hank goes in, squeezes Connor's hand while they inject the nano-androids into him, and then goes home. He reads the digital pamphlet they gave him in the car. Connor drives, even if the doctors assured Hank he wouldn't be compromised in any way.

He's not sure what to expect, even after he finishes reading.

He's definitely not expecting to feel like he's just gotten the best sleep of his life, for most of the aches he's been ignoring to fade into nothing, or for his next piss to be bright thirium blue.

He's not expecting, though he should, to go in for the post-op checkup to find that all the damage he's done to his liver has been healed, that the oxidation of his cells has been reversed, that his MRI is as clean as it can possibly be. Hank looks at his hands, and realizes the

skin there already looks a little livelier. He looks in the mirror and sees a healthy flush to his face that hasn't been there in ages.

His hair is still grey and his face still wrinkled--the nano-androids stop aging, not reverse it--but he looks...alive.

He's alive.

This first shot should tide him over until he's about 95, they said. He was in good enough health already that, unlike Carl, he's not going to need a follow-up until long after the technology becomes more affordable. One shot, and his projected lifespan is 150% of what it used

to be.

Well, what it would have been if he hadn't been barreling himself towards an early end. Really, the number is a lot greater than that.

He knows this shot can't prevent accidents. Nothing can. He could still die tomorrow. So could Connor. This is no guarantee. But

it's something. It's something big.

Connor kisses him against the wall when they get home from the follow-up, muttering thanks in between.

The relief hits Hank on a delay, when he's laying in bed with Connor after some of the best sex of his life. He's not tired, and that's

such a small thing, but it's also huge. He can't remember the last time he wasn't tired, much less after a fuck. He doesn't feel like an old man; he feels like a horny teen.

What the fuck.

He was afraid, he realizes by realizing he isn't anymore. The thought of growing old

while Connor stayed young and beautiful forever had terrified him, more than he'd ever wanted to admit. And he would have, he realizes. Even with the stench of death still clinging to him, he wouldn't have been able to bring himself to drink himself into stupors, or pick up the

gun. He wouldn't have been able to keep hurtling himself towards oblivion, not with Connor there. He would have been stuck, trapped in the tug of war between the two great loves of his life, neither dead nor ever quite alive. He would have lived until he shriveled up like a

raisin, while Connor remained unchanged.

But he's alive now. He's alive, because he chose to be, and he has to stay that way not just for Connor, but for Carl now, too. The crazy fuck did pay for it after all; the least Hank can do is make the most of it.

When Hank was a younger, more optimistic man, he dreamt of finding someone he could grow old with. He never imagined he could find someone to stay young with.

Well, relatively speaking.

He notices he's laughing because Connor asks him about it. Hank kisses him between his

fits, smiling his head off, and just says, "I'm alive. Baby, I'm alive."

Someone else might ask for clarification, or for Hank to explain why that's the aspect he's chosen to focus on. Not Connor. Connor's expression softens, and he cups Hank's face in his. "You're alive,"

he repeats, and his eyes are shining. "You'd better stay that way for a good long while, too."

"Yeah," Hank grins, and wipes the tears off his cheeks.

The nano-androids don't erase the effects of withdrawal, not quite. In some ways, it's a bigger shift, to go from his mind

being weighed down in a constant fog, to coming back fully into waking consciousness. It's a lot, and it hurts in a lot of ways, and it's a new kind of ache, to leave the alcohol behind. But it's easier in some ways, too. Connor's there, and Hank feels so good in so many other

ways. It's easier, he thinks, to commit whole hog to life, all at once, than to try and drag it out.

Connor calls the addiction counselor for him and sets up his first appointment, and he comes with him the first few times, until Hank can manage on his own. He calls the

grief counselor next.

Hank goes to that one alone, ashamed to need her when it's been so long. When she tells him that time never really heals, that healing is a choice you make and a process you engage in, Hank finally breaks down.

He cried a lot, just after Cole died. For months, he cried. It was the booze that let him stop crying so he could get back to work. He doesn't have to be strong anymore. He doesn't have to set an end date for his grief.

He has all the time in the world, now.

He mourns Cole, he mourns the four years he lost, he mourns the shitty hand people like him and Connor seem to always be dealt. He mourns things he has no name for.

He mourns the part of him he's killing by choosing not to die.

He mourns the booze he pours down the sink. He mourns his nights at Jimmy's, and his afternoons at Chicken Feed.

It's Connor who has to slow him down. "You can't do everything at once, Hank. Come on, let's get you a burger. One thing at a time."

He cries into the fucking

burger.

He has all the time in the world, he reminds himself.

He doesn't remember how to take his time.

[Will continue later]

[Little delayed at this point, but CW for some of the messier parts of trauma and addiction recovery. I'm leading towards something happier, but the process isn't linear, or easy.]

The hardest part is the guilt. It takes Hank a solid month or two to realize he never really

wanted to die. If he had, he would have done it a long time ago. Sure, it hurt to live without Cole. It was impossible, even now, to imagine moving on fully and living on with the hole in his heart, but he didn't want to die. He wanted Cole back, and knew that was something

he could never have. More than that, he wanted Cole to have the chance to live, to grow, to have all the potential Hank had seen in him realized.

It hurts, so much, to think that he gets to live when his son doesn't. It hurts, to accept the opportunities that Cole will never

have. It feels wrong.

He feels like he's doing something wrong.

Why should he be allowed to be happy here on Earth, when Cole can't?

He relapses. On a day when Connor is off with the other androids, Hank goes to Jimmy's. He stares at the glass through swimming eyes, and

then he throws it, and four more after it, into his throat. He drinks until it drowns the scream trying to bubble out of his chest, until he's silent and numb.

"I'm sorry," he slurs. He waves Jimmy's concern off. It's not for him. Who *is* it for? Cole? Connor? Himself?

What the fuck does it matter? He's just sorry. He's just a sorry sack of shit.

He wakes up in bed with a killer hangover and Connor rubbing his back.

"The fuck happened?"

"You passed out at the bar. Jimmy called me to pick you up."

Hank groans and shoves his face into the

pillow. He doesn't want to see Connor's face. He's not sure he can face whatever's on it. Anger? Pity?

"Do you need me to call one of the counselors?" Connor asks softly. He just sounds sad. That's worse.

He grunts.

"Okay. Do you want me to stay here, or go?"

Hank thinks about that. Thinking hurts. He stops thinking and ends up feeling instead. That hurts in a different way. He chokes back a broken keen.

Connor lies down with him and holds him close.

Hank turns and curls into him.

"I've got you, Hank." Connor's too good for

[CW brief emeto]

him. Always too good.

He drifts in and out of restless sleep. At some point he wakes gagging, and flushes with shame when Connor holds his hair and the trash can both without a word.

He sleeps some more.

He doesn't manage to talk until hours later. He

wonders if he drowned his words, too, the way they seem to bob and float uselessly inside him, drifting out of reach.

Connor doesn't push him, even though it must be eating him up inside. His LED is yellow, sometimes spinning into red.

Hank did this to him. "I'm sorry," he

finally croaks again.

Connor chews his lip, and then asks, "What do you need?"

He stares at his toes. "Guess I should talk to the addiction counselor, huh?"

"Maybe. What triggered this?"

The words float away again. "I...."

Connor takes his hand. "Hank, I'm not upset with

you."

He bites back a spike of irritation. "Yes, you are."

"No, I'm upset for you. There's a difference."

Yeah, he supposes there is.

"We both knew this was possible. It was one of the first things Dr. Basra cautioned us about, remember?"

He nods.

"Do you know why you needed to drink?"

The wording plucks a string somewhere deep in Hank's core. "I needed--" He sucks in a shuddering breath. "I couldn't stand the thought that I get to have this and he doesn't. I needed it to go away."

Connor nods and brushes Hank's hair

out of his face. "I don't know if I can help you through this," he says, "but I can go with you to talk to Shonice."

Shonice is the grief counselor, not the addiction specialist. Of course.

Hank looks into Connor's eyes and cups his cheek. "You're helping. Call her."

Hank doesn't usually let Connor come with him to talk to Shonice. Connor is wonderful, and he has said time and time again that he doesn't feel burdened by Hank's emotions when it comes to Cole, but strong emotions do make him uncomfortable. It makes sense, of course. Emotions

are still very new to Connor, and even if they weren't this kind of thing is hard for anyone. He doesn't usually feel free to express himself fully when Connor is there, by no fault of Connor's. That's why Hank has a grief counselor in the first place.

He's glad Connor's

coming with him this time. He hadn't realized how much he needed him--how much he had been refusing his support--until Connor was out of reach.

He needs, more than anything, to know that he's allowed to have Connor.

"I think Cole would have loved you, too," Hank tells him in

the car outside Shonice's office.

"I know I would have loved him," Connor says with the smallest little smile, and leans across to kiss Hank's cheek.

It means so much, to hear him say it. It hurts so much, and means so much.

It's not an easy day. Shonice is a counselor, not a magician. She can't take the pain away. All she can do is gently ease Hank out of his spirals until the ache subsides a little bit. It helps. It doesn't fix it, but it helps.

Hank isn't responsible for Cole anymore, she

tells him.

A month ago, he would have screamed at her. Of *course* Hank's responsible for Cole. He's his *dad*.

It hits differently than he expects now. It hits like a knife through his lungs, puncturing so he can't breathe, but it also cuts something away. It feels, just a

little bit, like relief.

It's out of his hands now. It shouldn't be. It's unfair that it is, to Hank and Cole alike, but that doesn't change the fact that it is.

And for all Hank knows, Cole is fine.

It hits him, suddenly, that he's never considered that possibility before.

Hank is allowed to live--no, he has a responsibility to live, for the ones who are still here. For Connor, for Sumo. For Carl, and all the androids fighting for their rights. For the friends he left behind.

Most of all, for himself.

So he picks himself up and tries again.

That night Connor holds him close, and makes love to him, and tells him he's proud.

Hank's proud, too, he realizes. "We should celebrate."

Connor leans up on his elbow and traces the lines of Hank's tattoo, "Oh, yeah?"

"Yeah. Go somewhere or do something, just for the fun of

being alive."

"Huh." Connor's lips pull into one of those little impish smiles of his. "Like what?"

"I don't know. Something crazy. Something selfish. Just for us."

Connor's never gotten the chance to really live, either. He went straight from his mission to campaigning

for androidkind. This could be good for him, too. "How crazy?" he asks, wary.

"I mean crazy like impulsive, not risky. Is there anything you've been wanting to experience?"

"A lot of things. You're going to have to narrow it down."

"Like a roadtrip or something." Hank

thinks back to his college and academy days. He'd been kind of a stuffy prick back then, straight-laced to a fault and with a single-minded focus on his ambitions. He'd always envied the ones who knew how to let go, even if he never would have admitted it. Some of his fondest

memories from those days are from the few times he broke his own mold. The time he pulled an all-nighter so he could catch the Knights of the Black Death concert. The one spring break where he drove to New York City, just to say he had. He wants to give that feeling to Connor.

"I want to go on a boat," Connor says. "On the ocean. Far away from everything."

Hank grins. "Then we're gonna find you a fucking boat."

[tbc]

They find a place renting affordable cabin cruisers out of New Haven, and set up accommodations for a week's vacation. There's more swimming weather than there was in Hank's younger years--one of the only positives about global warming--so they pick up swim trunks for the trip.

Sumo's getting a bit old for something like this, so Jeff agrees to watch him on the condition that Hank and him catch up properly when they get back. The prospect makes Hank more anxious than he wants to admit. He and Jeff never completely fell out, but things were strained

between them for years. He's not sure if they'll fit together the way they used to in the Academy and their early days on the force.

Connor reminds him that they don't have to; they just need to learn how they fit together now.

It strikes Hank, sometimes, how he's virtually

a different person from who he used to be. He's still Henry James Anderson, same as he always was, but in a lot of ways the old version of him....well, he really has died, hasn't he? A thousand times over, he's died and been reborn, just a little or a lot different.

And that's

okay. Because this version of him is still here, and he might even be starting to like the guy a little bit.

That makes Connor smile, and he's smiling the whole drive to Conneticut.

The smile falters when they arrive.

The coasts have changed, the past decade. New Haven is

half the city it used to be, in the most literal way. It's harrowing, to see the tops of old buildings and light poles sticking out over the water where people used to live. The boat shop is in one of those buildings you can just pick up and move, the docks floating so they can

shift back whenever the water level rises. A guide has to drive them out to open ocean, over where the streets used to lay, so they don't crash on someone's old house like some morbid reef.

The guide hops into the speedboat he towed behind them, and tells them to call when

they're ready to come back inland. Then he leaves them with ruins one direction and nothing but water in the other.

They're quiet for a long time after that.

Connor drives them out far, far away from what they just experienced. Far enough to forget. He downloaded a boating

protocol, along with a fishing one, a cooking one, and a guide on seafaring activities. He looks so much less eager to access them, now. "I had read the articles about how the wildlife's changed, but I didn't think to--"

Hank didn't think to, either, and he just holds Connor

from behind and nuzzles into his hair.

"I wish there was something I could do."

That's been Hank's mantra for most of his life. It's never stopped feeling like a gaping maw in his chest. "Yeah, me too, baby, but this isn't the time to think about that shit. We're supposed to

be out here to enjoy ourselves."

"Yeah." He sets his hands on Hank's. "Yeah, you're right."

They stand like that, just breathing (a calming action, even for Connor), until they both start to settle down, and then they finally check out their temporary home away from home.

They've always been each others' solace, ever since the day they met. This is no exception. It's easy in a way it isn't on land, to sink into each other and let the waves carry the rhythm. It's almost hypnotic, and Hank doesn't realize Connor's guiding him to sync his breath

to the water and their rocking bodies until he's almost drunk on it.

God, but Hank loves him. The world could crumble and fall apart--it might, at the rate it's going--but loving Connor will remain his singular, beautiful constant.

And for now, that's what matters most.

[tbc]

They brought plenty of food for Hank, so Connor skips the fishing for tonight and they just curl up together on the deck to look at the stars. Hank's always been a city boy, so the experience is probably almost just as novel to him as it is to Connor. He's always found the most

comfort when he can hear or see evidence that there are people around. For all his bitching about humanity, it usually makes him uncomfortable to be away from it. Too quiet. Too lonely.

He's not lonely now. He doesn't need a whole city of strangers surrounding him, when he

has his favorite living person in the whole damn world.

He used to think it was a little ironic that his favorite person is an android. Maybe it still is. Or maybe it's perfectly natural, when humans have disappointed him so many times, that he prefers someone who's alive in a

new, less human way.

Maybe Kamski had one thing right: Maybe androids really are superior. Or maybe Hank's just jaded. Either way, it doesn't really matter, because Connor is Connor.

His love. His lifeline. His calm in the storm.

There's an actual storm rolling in, by the

looks of things, so they aren't going to get much more stargazing done, but for the moment Hank is content to let his life float wherever the water will take them.

"It's really beautiful out here," Connor says, barely more than a whisper.

"Yeah, it is." And it isn't empty, the

way it might have been not so long ago. Even though he's never cared much about the stars (What use is it to think about balls of fire millions of light years away, when he has so much shit to worry about that's closer?), he finds it's nice to be able to see them, right now.

It's nice, to be able to give a fuck about something pointless. It's nice, just to enjoy because they're pretty.

"What's it like for you?"

"Hm?"

"Looking at the stars. Trying to comprehend how far away they are, or how many of them there are, or how small we are in

comparison, even though they look so tiny from our vantage point. I have all the data, but that's different from actually trying to process what it all really means."

"Uh," Hank says, as eloquently as he can manage. "I don't really think about all that stuff, quite honestly."

"Oh," Connor says, just as profound.

"Yeah, sorry. That kinda shit hurts my head. I can barely comprehend what the stuff here on Earth means." He shrugs, sheepish. "Sorry. There are humans who are into that kinda philosophical stuff, but it's never really been my scene."

He ponders that, turning it over in that robot brain of his in a way that's almost visible. "That's okay," he finally says with the quirk of a smile. "I still want to know what you *are* thinking about."

"You, mostly."

Connor stutters at that, eyes fluttering as his LED goes

yellow. Processing something Hank isn't privy to.

"Did I break you?"

Connor elbows him. "You'll have to try harder than that. No, I'm just updating my mental map of you in my head. You caught me off-guard, even though, in hindsight, I should have been more prepared for that

response." He tilts his head. "I have plenty of evidence to suggest that things like that aren't a priority to you. I suppose I'm still learning to comprehend that I am."

"Of course you are," is the first thing Hank is inclined to say, although he doesn't actually. It's not

quite right, and he's been trying to be more mindful of his words lately.

Connor lets him take his time finding a response.

"Being around you reminds me how to prioritize myself," he says. "Even if that means looking at the stars and letting them be pretty dots in the sky, and

nothing more."

His brows furrow. "I could never just see dots. Even if I wanted to. I have multiple automatic processes that trigger when I look at them. I know our exact coordinates, for example, based on their current position and visibility."

"Does it bother you, that we see it so differently? That I'm never gonna be able to share that with you?"

"I don't know."

It's honest. Hank appreciates that. "I guess this is the kind of mind-bending shit I do like. Thinkin' about how different the world is, through your

eyes. You know, when we first met, that was one of the things I thought I hated about androids."

Connor tilts his head, curious.

"I thought, if androids are just machines, then you could never really have your own unique experiences. If it was all just a program, then for all

your gigabytes of data--"

"Gigaflops, actually."

"--your *gigaflops* of data, none of it mattered if it could all be mapped out and understood in numbers and code. If I could read a manual and figure out who you are--theoretically, I mean. I know that tech stuff is way over

my head--but if there was nothing unpredictable there, then it could never be a relationship. Relationships mean getting surprised sometimes. They mean looking at someone and knowing that you'll never really be able to comprehend what life looks like through their eyes. I

guess it's not so different from your star thing. This might be kinda cheesy, but you're like a little universe I guess? I could explore forever, and never find everything."

Connor's spinning yellow again. "It doesn't bother you, that we're so different?"

"Nah. We're the

same in all the important ways."

He smiles at that. "Yes, I suppose we are."

They end up kissing, which seems to be kind of a trend lately, the stars forgotten above them. This also means the encroaching storm clouds are forgotten, too, until they're on top of them.

It comes on quickly, barely enough time from the moment the waves pick up and the sound of the incoming downpour hits the water to run inside and avoid being drenched. They're laughing, holding hands as they drag each other to shelter, until they can slam the cabin door and get

back to the important things.

The storm lasts through the night and most of the next day. Hank is lucky to find he doesn't get seasick. They spend the day bouncing between fucking like rabbits and watching the storm through the portholes, until Connor's curiosity finally gets

the better of him.

"I'm going out there," he says.

Hank, because he's decided to be impulsive, goes out with him.

They're soaked in seconds. The water is warm enough to be refreshing, and it stirs up memories of playing in the rain with Cole.

It doesn't hurt the way it

could, if Hank let it. He doesn't let it. He closes his eyes, turns his face up to the sky, and lets it all wash away.

And for the first time in years, he knows for sure that he's gonna make it through this.

[tbc]

There are things that being on a boat means you don't have access to, many of them things Hank has come to rely on:
His dog, other people besides Connor, fast food, alcohol, TV. He had worried about spending a week without. He'd asked Connor if this was part of going too fast.

It had been terrifying, talking to Connor about it, when they were doing this for him. He didn't want to ruin Connor's vacation before it even started, when he was the one who had suggested it.

"Do you want to do something else? Or go on a public boat instead of a private one?"

"Like a cruise ship?"

"Right."

"No, no. God no. You would hate that."

"I might not."

"And I might not hate the private one. We're doing the boat for you. You shouldn't have to be the one to compromise on it." He tried to wave Connor off. "Nevermind. I should just get

over it."

"Hank." Connor shot him a pointed look.

He sighed. "I'm doing the thing again, aren't I?"

Connor smirked. Answer enough.

"Look, I want to do this. I really do. I just don't wanna get out there and have a panic attack in the middle of the fucking Atlantic."

As it turns out, Hank is fine.

The trip is actually kind of idyllic, despite a few stormy spells, thanks to Connor's preparations. They brought emergency beers, hamburger supplies to make their own, and Connor himself has stable network connectivity, even here. He's learned a

lot from his own forays into therapy and android support groups. He's not always stable, but he's doing a lot better than Hank, most days. It helps that he's brilliant, and adaptive, and patient. "You're staring," he teases.

"I'm allowed," Hank quips back, and keeps admiring.

He gets pushed into the water at one point, buck-ass naked, for joking that Connor's burgers aren't as good as Gary's, but it's all good.

He's good.

And Connor? Connor's thriving.

"You look happy, baby."

"I am." It's rare for Connor to grin, but he does now, unrestrained.

"I'm glad we did this." Hank kisses the corner of his mouth, because he can.

"So am I. I was a little bit worried, too, mostly about getting bored. There's so much out here, though. So many new things to take in."

Hank doesn't quite see his point, when all that's visible in

every direction is water, but he guesses he gets it. Connor probably sees a lot more than he does, anyway.

"You look happy, too." Connor nudges him.

"Yeah, I am. Couldn't live out here, but it's a nice change of pace."

It ends eventually. They have to face the world again

when the week is through. This time they're more prepared to face New Haven and what it means for the Earth. Instead of the somber helplessness of last time, though, the feeling is new.

Determination. Hank feels determined, the way he was when he first stepped into the Police

Academy, vowing that he would change the world for the better. He looks at Connor, and knows he feels it too.

They visit Markus again, nearly as soon as they're unpacked and showered. Carl joins them this time, as do Leo and the Jericho crew. Hank even calls Jeff, who manages

to take an early lunch break so he can sit in.

They discuss the future. Not just the future for androids, but for the entire dying planet.

And they decide to do something about it.

A sick world is like a sick man, but at a much, much greater scale. Change will be hard. They

won't be able to do it alone, and they might not be able to do much even in Hank's extended lifespan, but it feels good to have goals again.

He can't make a better world for his son, but he can do something to ensure that they and future generations have somewhere to live.

It's a unanimous decision amongst their group to name the organization they create the Cole Anderson Foundation for the Future.

As Hank cuts the ribbon, hand in hand with his beloved and surrounded by new friends and old, he lets the past die and a new life begin.

[end]