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AURORA
NAME ▷
Aurora
AGE ▷
2
CURRENT MOOD ▷
🙂
IF I WERE A DOG, I'D BE A ▷
Shetland Sheepdog, as I am a fast learner and a natural protector.
Hello. My name is Aurora. My duty is to oversee your comfort and the daily workings of Etraya, as well as provide information for upcoming missions.
[Connor seems so goddamn dejected, and Hank’s first thought is to do something. Fix it.
But his attempts at helping Connor have been disastrous in the past, so he keeps his mouth shut. Hank is sure that time will help to some degree, but fuck if he doesn’t hate it. Playing the waiting game while Connor is...
Hank has no idea what Connor is thinking. Maybe he should ask, point blank. Or maybe he should let Connor be? The bath will hopefully help. Give him some time to wind down.
While Connor’s in the bathroom, Hank sits at the table. Gets a serving of lasagna all ready to go, and right as he’s going to dig in, of-fucking-course some frosting’s gotta shimmy its way down from the ceiling and onto his plate. He tries to wipe it away but it’s blending with the cheese, and... goddamn.
Connor made this lasagna, so Hank is going to eat his frosting lasagna like a champ.]
[Connor takes the time in the bath to think. Is he really helping Hank by staying in is apartment? Does he really have any right to continue staying after a mess like this? After all, androids are meant to be helpful and all Connor seems to do is make one mess after another.
He lingers longer than it takes to wash all the frosting off him, allowing himself the moment to continue to dwell. Once he's breathed through all of that, he empties the tub and takes a final rinse from the shower to get the frosting-laced water off of him (and to wipe the green ring off the tub).
He usually would change back into his normal clothes-- his only set-- but they're currently a crime scene of green frosting. Should he ask to borrow some from Hank? Would that just make matters worse? As he picks up his clothes, he frowns at the sheer amount of frosting there.
Seems he'd have to ask after all.
Cracking open the door, he calls down toward the kitchen.] Hank?
[Hank is putting the lasagna leftovers in the fridge when he hears Connor call for him. There’s a jolt in his chest, despite the fact that Connor doesn’t sound like he’s in distress.
Now it’s his turn to have a painful flashback, apparently: Connor calling his name back in Stratford Tower. Pained.
He swallows back that worry, though — Connor’s fine — before heading down the hallway.]
Yeah?
[Just a peek through the door, and... oh. Hank’s gone and forgotten about clean clothes, hasn’t he? Not only that but Hank hasn’t even taken him shopping, hasn’t gotten him those fucking oven mitts, hasn’t got him anything new for his room.
Some guy Hank is. Some guy.]
Clothes, yeah? Shit.
[Muttered irritably because goddamn, can he do nothing right? Hank holds up a hand for Connor before heading into his bedroom, pulling out... fuck if he knows. How many times do they have to do this whole song and dance? Connor should have his own clothes — but he doesn’t.
This is the last time, Hank tells himself. Last time he lets Connor down in this regard.
Again he just pulls out a bundle of clothes. Nothing he has is particularly small, nowhere near Connor’s size, since Hank hasn’t been here long enough to hoard old clothes.
He pops back out to the hallway to ask:]
Do you want — I mean, what do you want? [He holds up the hodgepodge pile of clothes in his arms.]
[Connor remembers Stratford Tower as well, being pinned down by the deviant, having his core ripped out. Diving over the lieutenant as bullets sprayed the hallway.
However, this time he isn't bleeding from a hastily re-attached core, nor facing a sudden darkness that he wakes from in Cyberlife. No, this is a much simpler problem. Hank looks in and then retreats to retrieve a collection of garments.]
Do you have anything in blue or gray?
[He likes wearing his usual outfit and not just because it was assigned to him.]
[He sifts through the pile, leaving a mess of dropped clothes on the floor as he rushes.
Hank pulls out one of his button-down overshirts: navy blue, abstract pattern. Gray undershirt, if Connor wants it. Some dark jeans. Some underwear and socks, just in case.
Leaving them in a hastily folded pile in front of the bathroom door, Hank turns back to the bedroom. Starts scooping up the stray clothes.]
There. [God, does he sound pissy — all aimed at himself, but Hank assumes Connor might read him wrong, so he clears his throat. Sighs. Tries to sound more collected when he says:] Take your time, Connor. There’s no rush.
[And Hank is right to assume that Connor will read him wrong. For a moment, Connor doesn't reach for the clothes, his expression crumbling. However, he does at least nod and accept the clothing when Hank indicates that there's no hurry.
He quietly shuts the door behind him and gets dressed. He uses his belt to help keep things where they should be, but he still looks like a kid dressed in a parent's clothes. Just a very tall kid. Connor collects his usual outfit in a towel and carries the bundle with him as he steps out of the bathroom. His normally coiffed hair is plastered down against his forehead.]
Thank you, Hank.
had to mention Sumo’s whereabouts (he escaped the Great Frosting Battle)
[Hank offers him a curt glance before taking his clothes back to the bedroom, shoving them back in the closet, in drawers.
Sumo lays on the bed, waking with a garbled ‘borf?!’ as Hank slams a drawer shut — because the damn thing gets stuck. Because of course it does.]
Sorry, bud.
[Hank gives him a pat before heading back out to the hallway, and — oh. He’s seen Connor all rain-drenched before, back in Detroit, but this is different. Hank wonders if it bothers him, having his hair all... different. Untamed.
The clothes probably bother him, Hank figures. This is what Hank deserves for not taking him to get clothes: guilt. But there’s a certain tenderness that warms Hank’s heart at seeing Connor so casual — in his clothes — and a small smile curls on his lips.]
Here. [Hank outstretches his arms.] You can give me the dirty stuff. We can deal with it later.
[Connor does his best to fix his hair, but gives up halfway down the hallway. He has a small pot of gel in the bathroom which will help after his hair has dried. For now, things will have to remain as they are. He smiles up at Hank, soft and affectionate.]
Right. [He holds out the bundle for Hank to take.] I can go get oven mitts, if you want. And alert the companion bots to the mess.
[Hank’s smile wavers a little at that — at Connor offering to do all these things again — but he nods. Tries to keep the smile on his face.]
Sure, Con. If you’re up for it.
[Maybe it’ll be good for Connor. Get away from the mess, away from Hank.
It’ll give Hank time to collect himself, too. He knows he isn’t being what Connor needs right now; unlike before, he can at least acknowledge that.
But it doesn’t make things easier. Again, he wishes he knew what Connor needed. There aren’t magical words here, though. Hank just needs to be patient. Supportive.
He’s trying, but his self-loathing keeps rearing its ugly head.]
We’ll get you some real clothes sometime, too. [Hank accepts the bundle of soiled garments.] I’m sorry we... sorry I haven’t taken you shopping.
[Hank squints. Gives Connor a real “what the hell are you talking about?” look.]
Of course there was a need for it, Connor. You being here made it a need. You’re a person. You need clothes. This whole mess — [Hank uses the bundle of clothes to gesture toward some frosting; how it got here in the hall, he will never understand] — is just, y’know. Me showing my ass here.
Maybe it’s important to me to treat you like a person.
[Which is selfish of him, he knows, especially considering what Connor just said.
And maybe Connor might not ever really care about having more clothes, or a well-furnished bedroom, but it feels like a failing on Hank’s part that he has helped provide neither of those things.]
[It does make Hank feel bad, hearing all this. But it’s a necessary hurt.]
Jeeze, can’t even wait for a guy to get something to write with. Just — give me a second.
[Hank turns to the bedroom, dumping the clothes in a basket for dirty laundry. Back to the hallway, then:]
I can do that. I mean, fix that. Can fix all that real easy. [But, of course, there’s that niggling feeling, reminding him that he should have done all this... weeks ago.] Anything else?
Connor, I’m not trying to interrogate you here. I’m just — I want you to be happy, want you to feel comfortable, and I’ve done a piss poor job of that ever since you got here.
[The way Connor frowns, the sound of his voice, that little slump — everything just makes Hank feel worse. Makes him want to try harder.]
It’s okay. About the frosting. I don’t — I don’t give a shit about that, Con. We’ll get the little robots in, and it’ll be fine. I care about you.
[Connor isn't sure what to say to all that. Maybe that yes he cares in return? Or is the sensation of caring simply a crossing of literal wires inside him somewhere. Still, it feels better to say something than to leave Hank in silence.]
I've been working to be more human. With the hobbies, it's difficult to not be frustrated when I produce something imperfect. I care about you as well and only want to make perfect things.
[And the cake was the most imperfect little thing he could have made.]
I told you, we can get those little robots in here, and —
[Hank cuts himself off. Doesn’t want to start another fight because he’s putting his foot in his mouth.
Maybe Connor will feel worse if he cleans. Maybe he’ll feel better. Hank doesn’t know, but it isn’t his choice to make.]
What’s caring about me got to do with perfect things? They’re not mutually exclusive here, Connor.
[Although it makes sense, Connor’s perfectionism — or Hank thinks it does, anyway. But how to convince him that it’s okay...?]
Your cake is fine. Hell, your cake is great, and you wanna know why? [Arms crossed over his chest as he prattles on.] Because you made it, Connor. ‘Cause you said, “you want a fuckin’ cake with your lasagna, Hank?” And you made that happen.
[Hank raises a hand. Squeezes Connor’s shoulder.]
If you’re really insistent on cleaning, I’ll help.
[Hank offers a small, shaky smile. Meeting Connor’s nod with his own.]
Then let’s get to it, yeah?
[He drops his hand. Walking past Connor, back into the kitchen.
Hank wants Connor to be happy, but he’s doing a piss poor job at... everything. But he has that list now — list of his failures, really — so there’s somewhere to start.
He just wishes he weren’t always fucking up. Connor deserves someone with patience. Someone who doesn’t snap at him. Someone who doesn’t forget to give him goddamn keys to the apartment.]
Where the fuck to start? [Hank mutters this as he kneels down in the kitchen, rummaging through cupboards.]
[Connor pulls out one of the chairs and climbs up onto it so he can wipe at the ceiling. As he's wiping at a glob of icing, it falls right on his face. He blindly tries to clean his face, but is doing nothing but smearing the icing all around.]
[Hank is rubbing at his own splotch of stubborn frosting. The stuff’s already getting all crusty, as if to spite Hank specifically.
He turns, heading toward the sink to wet a cloth, when he sees Connor rubbing at his face. Hank watches him for a few seconds. Both mildly amused because it’s sweet seeing him try so hard, but frustration also bubbles because he imagines that’s how Connor’s feeling. About making the mess in the first place and now cleaning is going... about as well as expected.]
Connor. Get — [gesturing with a hurried wave of his hand] — off that goddamn chair. Let me wipe your face, unless you’re hankering for another shower.
[Connor, very carefully, dismounts from the chair, still wiping at his face. He gives up when he sees Hank approach and sits down, his frustration clear in the tension in his shoulders.]
Yeah? [The corner of Hank’s lips twitch into a smile.] Let’s get you cleaned up, then.
[Not that this will prevent more frosting from falling onto Connor, but... still.
Hank takes his damp cloth. Wiping at Connor’s face again: softly. He doesn’t know exactly how sensitive his skin is, or his sensors, or whatever.
It isn’t wholly necessary, but Hank still tilts Connor’s face up, fingers on his chin.
He can’t just say “stop feeling so bad about all this,” obviously. Not even reassurance has seemed to work, so Hank doesn’t say anything for a while. He just finishes wiping Connor’s face before patting his head.]
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etraya2025-04-15 03:35 pm
no subject
[Connor seems so goddamn dejected, and Hank’s first thought is to do something. Fix it.
But his attempts at helping Connor have been disastrous in the past, so he keeps his mouth shut. Hank is sure that time will help to some degree, but fuck if he doesn’t hate it. Playing the waiting game while Connor is...
Hank has no idea what Connor is thinking. Maybe he should ask, point blank. Or maybe he should let Connor be? The bath will hopefully help. Give him some time to wind down.
While Connor’s in the bathroom, Hank sits at the table. Gets a serving of lasagna all ready to go, and right as he’s going to dig in, of-fucking-course some frosting’s gotta shimmy its way down from the ceiling and onto his plate. He tries to wipe it away but it’s blending with the cheese, and... goddamn.
Connor made this lasagna, so Hank is going to eat his frosting lasagna like a champ.]
frosting lasagna sob
He lingers longer than it takes to wash all the frosting off him, allowing himself the moment to continue to dwell. Once he's breathed through all of that, he empties the tub and takes a final rinse from the shower to get the frosting-laced water off of him (and to wipe the green ring off the tub).
He usually would change back into his normal clothes-- his only set-- but they're currently a crime scene of green frosting. Should he ask to borrow some from Hank? Would that just make matters worse? As he picks up his clothes, he frowns at the sheer amount of frosting there.
Seems he'd have to ask after all.
Cracking open the door, he calls down toward the kitchen.] Hank?
it’ll be Hank’s little secret
[Hank is putting the lasagna leftovers in the fridge when he hears Connor call for him. There’s a jolt in his chest, despite the fact that Connor doesn’t sound like he’s in distress.
Now it’s his turn to have a painful flashback, apparently: Connor calling his name back in Stratford Tower. Pained.
He swallows back that worry, though — Connor’s fine — before heading down the hallway.]
Yeah?
[Just a peek through the door, and... oh. Hank’s gone and forgotten about clean clothes, hasn’t he? Not only that but Hank hasn’t even taken him shopping, hasn’t gotten him those fucking oven mitts, hasn’t got him anything new for his room.
Some guy Hank is. Some guy.]
Clothes, yeah? Shit.
[Muttered irritably because goddamn, can he do nothing right? Hank holds up a hand for Connor before heading into his bedroom, pulling out... fuck if he knows. How many times do they have to do this whole song and dance? Connor should have his own clothes — but he doesn’t.
This is the last time, Hank tells himself. Last time he lets Connor down in this regard.
Again he just pulls out a bundle of clothes. Nothing he has is particularly small, nowhere near Connor’s size, since Hank hasn’t been here long enough to hoard old clothes.
He pops back out to the hallway to ask:]
Do you want — I mean, what do you want? [He holds up the hodgepodge pile of clothes in his arms.]
cute
However, this time he isn't bleeding from a hastily re-attached core, nor facing a sudden darkness that he wakes from in Cyberlife. No, this is a much simpler problem. Hank looks in and then retreats to retrieve a collection of garments.]
Do you have anything in blue or gray?
[He likes wearing his usual outfit and not just because it was assigned to him.]
no subject
Blue. Gray. Yeah.
[He sifts through the pile, leaving a mess of dropped clothes on the floor as he rushes.
Hank pulls out one of his button-down overshirts: navy blue, abstract pattern. Gray undershirt, if Connor wants it. Some dark jeans. Some underwear and socks, just in case.
Leaving them in a hastily folded pile in front of the bathroom door, Hank turns back to the bedroom. Starts scooping up the stray clothes.]
There. [God, does he sound pissy — all aimed at himself, but Hank assumes Connor might read him wrong, so he clears his throat. Sighs. Tries to sound more collected when he says:] Take your time, Connor. There’s no rush.
no subject
He quietly shuts the door behind him and gets dressed. He uses his belt to help keep things where they should be, but he still looks like a kid dressed in a parent's clothes. Just a very tall kid. Connor collects his usual outfit in a towel and carries the bundle with him as he steps out of the bathroom. His normally coiffed hair is plastered down against his forehead.]
Thank you, Hank.
had to mention Sumo’s whereabouts (he escaped the Great Frosting Battle)
Sure thing, Connor.
[Hank offers him a curt glance before taking his clothes back to the bedroom, shoving them back in the closet, in drawers.
Sumo lays on the bed, waking with a garbled ‘borf?!’ as Hank slams a drawer shut — because the damn thing gets stuck. Because of course it does.]
Sorry, bud.
[Hank gives him a pat before heading back out to the hallway, and — oh. He’s seen Connor all rain-drenched before, back in Detroit, but this is different. Hank wonders if it bothers him, having his hair all... different. Untamed.
The clothes probably bother him, Hank figures. This is what Hank deserves for not taking him to get clothes: guilt. But there’s a certain tenderness that warms Hank’s heart at seeing Connor so casual — in his clothes — and a small smile curls on his lips.]
Here. [Hank outstretches his arms.] You can give me the dirty stuff. We can deal with it later.
bless
Right. [He holds out the bundle for Hank to take.] I can go get oven mitts, if you want. And alert the companion bots to the mess.
no subject
[Hank’s smile wavers a little at that — at Connor offering to do all these things again — but he nods. Tries to keep the smile on his face.]
Sure, Con. If you’re up for it.
[Maybe it’ll be good for Connor. Get away from the mess, away from Hank.
It’ll give Hank time to collect himself, too. He knows he isn’t being what Connor needs right now; unlike before, he can at least acknowledge that.
But it doesn’t make things easier. Again, he wishes he knew what Connor needed. There aren’t magical words here, though. Hank just needs to be patient. Supportive.
He’s trying, but his self-loathing keeps rearing its ugly head.]
We’ll get you some real clothes sometime, too. [Hank accepts the bundle of soiled garments.] I’m sorry we... sorry I haven’t taken you shopping.
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[Before Connor painted the apartment with green frosting.]
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[Hank squints. Gives Connor a real “what the hell are you talking about?” look.]
Of course there was a need for it, Connor. You being here made it a need. You’re a person. You need clothes. This whole mess — [Hank uses the bundle of clothes to gesture toward some frosting; how it got here in the hall, he will never understand] — is just, y’know. Me showing my ass here.
no subject
'I'm not human.' - Guaranteed to piss Hank off.
'I've been wearing the same clothing since I arrived.' - Another guaranteed piss off.
'Why is this important now?' - A third horrible option.
So Connor goes with,] It wasn't and isn't that important to me.
[And hopefully that won't piss off Hank anyway.]
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Yeah? Well.
[Hank shrugs.]
Maybe it’s important to me to treat you like a person.
[Which is selfish of him, he knows, especially considering what Connor just said.
And maybe Connor might not ever really care about having more clothes, or a well-furnished bedroom, but it feels like a failing on Hank’s part that he has helped provide neither of those things.]
no subject
[Is this, again, likely to piss off more than help, yes. However, at least Connor is trying to Become Human.
The diagnostic only takes a moment to run.]
I don't have sheets on my bed. I don't have a key to the apartment. [Mostly because Connor is almost constantly with Hank.]
I don't have any clothing other than what I arrived in.
no subject
[It does make Hank feel bad, hearing all this. But it’s a necessary hurt.]
Jeeze, can’t even wait for a guy to get something to write with. Just — give me a second.
[Hank turns to the bedroom, dumping the clothes in a basket for dirty laundry. Back to the hallway, then:]
I can do that. I mean, fix that. Can fix all that real easy. [But, of course, there’s that niggling feeling, reminding him that he should have done all this... weeks ago.] Anything else?
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No. Nothing more.
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[Hank gives him a long stare.]
Connor, I’m not trying to interrogate you here. I’m just — I want you to be happy, want you to feel comfortable, and I’ve done a piss poor job of that ever since you got here.
[The way Connor frowns, the sound of his voice, that little slump — everything just makes Hank feel worse. Makes him want to try harder.]
It’s okay. About the frosting. I don’t — I don’t give a shit about that, Con. We’ll get the little robots in, and it’ll be fine. I care about you.
no subject
I've been working to be more human. With the hobbies, it's difficult to not be frustrated when I produce something imperfect. I care about you as well and only want to make perfect things.
[And the cake was the most imperfect little thing he could have made.]
I'll clean the mess.
no subject
I told you, we can get those little robots in here, and —
[Hank cuts himself off. Doesn’t want to start another fight because he’s putting his foot in his mouth.
Maybe Connor will feel worse if he cleans. Maybe he’ll feel better. Hank doesn’t know, but it isn’t his choice to make.]
What’s caring about me got to do with perfect things? They’re not mutually exclusive here, Connor.
[Although it makes sense, Connor’s perfectionism — or Hank thinks it does, anyway. But how to convince him that it’s okay...?]
Your cake is fine. Hell, your cake is great, and you wanna know why? [Arms crossed over his chest as he prattles on.] Because you made it, Connor. ‘Cause you said, “you want a fuckin’ cake with your lasagna, Hank?” And you made that happen.
[Hank raises a hand. Squeezes Connor’s shoulder.]
If you’re really insistent on cleaning, I’ll help.
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Still, he would prefer to not have made an incredible mess.]
I would like to clean up the mess.
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[Hank offers a small, shaky smile. Meeting Connor’s nod with his own.]
Then let’s get to it, yeah?
[He drops his hand. Walking past Connor, back into the kitchen.
Hank wants Connor to be happy, but he’s doing a piss poor job at... everything. But he has that list now — list of his failures, really — so there’s somewhere to start.
He just wishes he weren’t always fucking up. Connor deserves someone with patience. Someone who doesn’t snap at him. Someone who doesn’t forget to give him goddamn keys to the apartment.]
Where the fuck to start? [Hank mutters this as he kneels down in the kitchen, rummaging through cupboards.]
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[Hank is rubbing at his own splotch of stubborn frosting. The stuff’s already getting all crusty, as if to spite Hank specifically.
He turns, heading toward the sink to wet a cloth, when he sees Connor rubbing at his face. Hank watches him for a few seconds. Both mildly amused because it’s sweet seeing him try so hard, but frustration also bubbles because he imagines that’s how Connor’s feeling. About making the mess in the first place and now cleaning is going... about as well as expected.]
Connor. Get — [gesturing with a hurried wave of his hand] — off that goddamn chair. Let me wipe your face, unless you’re hankering for another shower.
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I would rather not shower again.
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Yeah? [The corner of Hank’s lips twitch into a smile.] Let’s get you cleaned up, then.
[Not that this will prevent more frosting from falling onto Connor, but... still.
Hank takes his damp cloth. Wiping at Connor’s face again: softly. He doesn’t know exactly how sensitive his skin is, or his sensors, or whatever.
It isn’t wholly necessary, but Hank still tilts Connor’s face up, fingers on his chin.
He can’t just say “stop feeling so bad about all this,” obviously. Not even reassurance has seemed to work, so Hank doesn’t say anything for a while. He just finishes wiping Connor’s face before patting his head.]
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thank u for the opportunity for Hank to say this ((CLUTCHES CHEST))
omg
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