You thought there was a fly.

[Hank raises a brow. Lets his gaze sweep across the kitchen — is that frosting on the ceiling? — before he looks back at Connor.]

I mean, what? That fly come at you, Con?

[He starts tugging on drawers, looking for some manner of towel, and... a little washcloth won’t help much, but whatever. Dipping it in some water from the faucet, Hank turns back to Connor. Lips pursing, about to hand him the cloth before he starts dabbing at Connor’s face. Gently.]

I know the buzz is annoying, or whatever. [As if that explains... anything.] But damn. Really got you riled up, huh?