#implied hankcon

[incorrect-cyberlife]

*After Connor ends up dying again*

Fowler: Hank?

Hank: *sighs*. Connor used to call me Hank.

Fowler: Because it’s your fucking name.

[honkforhankcon]

twitter prompt fill #1: Vida

(this part of a small ongoing drabble set I’m doing based on random requested prompts from my twitter pals--500ish words for each fill in celebration of 500 followers!) prompt: after retiring from the DPD, Hank volunteers at the local hospital and holds preemie babies whose parents have to work during the week (for Bee 🐝) + ~ + ~ + ~ + ~ + ~ +

Hank eases back into the cushioned rocking chair in the nursery, joints gone a little stiff even though he can’t quite blame it on the arthritis this particular morning. The nurse smiles as she wheels over one of the hospital bassinets and lifts a small bundle out, no bigger than one of the footballs he was teaching Cole to toss around in the back yard before—no.

No, he can’t think about that right now. This is bigger than him. That was nearly twenty years ago, and this is for the kids who still need somebody, even if that somebody is nothing more than an old retired police lieutenant who needed something to occupy his Tuesday mornings while his husband was busy at work.  

“This is Vida,” the nurse says, gently easing the lilac-swaddled bundle into Hank’s big hands. “She was born two weeks ago but is staying here with us until she puts on some more weight and her parents can take her home.”

There’s a feeding tube in the baby’s tiny nose and an IV port in her little leg and Hank blinks down at her, momentarily startled by how small she is. With her curled up like this he could easily hold her in the palm of one hand.

“Is there anything…?” he starts to ask the nurse, and then clears his throat and tries again. “Is there anything in particular the other volunteers usually do?”

The nurse shrugs, leaning over again to adjust the clean nursey blanket draped over Hank’s front. “Talk to them, cuddle them, make sure they feel loved,” she says, briefly touching Hank’s forearm in reassurance before moving to walk away. “Whatever comes naturally. Just you being here is more than enough.”

Hank nods to himself once she’s gone and he’s alone again, pulling his arms in closer to his stomach to hold the baby closer. He thumbs across the dark peach fuzz on top of Vida’s head and she wriggles some in her sleep, making a little noise before settling back down again. Hank rocks some in the chair, slow and steady, pushing them along with the heel of his shoe.

“Viva la Vida,” he muses aloud, gently smiling when he makes the connection. “Live life.”

Vida cracks open one dark eye but doesn’t stir otherwise, simply content to blearily look up at Hank in that unfocused way newborns do. Cole’s eyes had been blue when he was brand new, Hank remembers with a small pang, but Vida’s are already deepening between grey and hazel. They’ll eventually be brown, he imagines, and that thought makes him think of somebody else.

“I can tell you a story, maybe,” he says, drawing the baby up to tuck in closer against his chest while the chair glides back and forth. “About somebody who was born but had to wait around a little while before they could finally go home.”

Hank chuckles to himself, relaxing back into the chair. “He was a whole lot bigger than you, of course, but we still got it figured out in the end.”  

[honkforhankcon]

twitter prompt fill #3: watching

(this part of a small ongoing drabble set I’m doing based on random requested prompts from my twitter pals–500ish words for each fill in celebration of 500 followers!) prompt: “RK900 watches Hank and Connor, trying to understand his confusion feelings for the rat man.” for WorseMake 🚨

+ ~ + ~ + ~ + ~ + ~ + 

The Lieutenant and the RK800—or Connor, 900 supposes he should say to better assimilate with the rest of the bullpen’s use of the moniker—imagine that they’re well-versed in the art of professional subtlety but that couldn’t be further from the truth. 900 watches them from time to time, in quieter moments of monotonous report filing and during lunch, when the hours seem to stretch out longer in his processors. They’re disgusting, perhaps—an affront to the seriousness of the law enforcement working environment, even. But 900 cannot find it in himself to look away.

Connor’s lovelorn looks over the top of his terminal while Anderson cracks the lid of a bento box and stares in utter exasperation at the turkey spinach wraps inside is enough of an enlightenment, indeed, but 900 continues to catalogue other things away for safekeeping in a storage area he has yet to name. Why does this storage folder exist? He doesn’t yet fully know, though its proximity in relation to the backup data filed under Gavin Reed could provide some ulterior insight. If anybody were to ask, 900 would simply suggest it was circumstantial evidence. Nothing more, nothing less.

Why then, he muses while furiously interfacing with his terminal after overhearing Detective Reed tell Officer Chen in the breakroom about one of his catastrophic sexual exploits the weekend before, does the Lieutenant and Connor’s relationship provide such a fascinating focal point in his workday?

It only becomes worse when he asks Connor to explain in further detail.

You and Lieutenant Anderson were both occupied in the upstairs bathroom in the third wing for approximately fourteen minutes and twenty-three seconds today, Nines says via instant message transfer as Connor passes him in the evidence locker late one afternoon. He doesn’t offer anything else, merely waiting for the RK800’s response.  

Connor looks up, features startled, LED flashing yellow, and does not speak aloud when he answers. The Lieutenant and I needed a private moment together to recalibrate his focus and alleviate some stress for both of us, he says. I didn’t know we were being monitored so closely.  

900 smiles, almost. There’s no need to be chaste, Connor, he says. I’m not so deeply entrenched in my own programming that I don’t know what a blowjob is.

“Oh,” Connor squawks aloud this time, blinking rapidly. “Then why do you ask?”

900’s own LED spins yellow for a moment before he bids his vocal processor to speak for him. “Do you suppose such a human recalibration technique would work on Detective Reed if I were to suggest it?”

Connor’s optic components dilate before his brows raise high on his forehead, not dissimilar from the expression the Lieutenant makes when he’s surprised. 900 makes a mental note to begin replicating Detective Reed’s expressions more often and fears his own face may not be wretched enough to succeed.  

“I couldn’t say for sure,” Connor tells him, eyes suddenly on the floor between their feet. And then—“Really, 900? Detective Reed?”

“He’s insufferable, yes,” 900 agrees, sagely nodding before tipping his chin up a fraction of an inch. “And I hope you know I fully intend to surpass your record with the Lieutenant by a full five minute or more.”