( Spock meanwhile walks throughout the room, slowly and without hurry. Now freed of the futile flailings from one liquored up Lieutenant, the room itself was rather... serene, tranquil. The sound of fluctuating waters had a calming effect. It brought to mind late evening meditations beneath the heated weather of his desert planet.
Vulcan. A planet he would never see again except in holograms or vids. It was still a fresh wound and one he surmised might never heal properly. Spock kneels beside one of the pools and moves his fingers along the surface of the heated pool. He felt the temperature more strongly than humans, as the nerves of his hands were more sensitive, and yet it is not an uncomfortable sensation.
He stands and his gaze naturally falls upon the puddle of vomit left behind. An idea occurs to him and he brings out his communicator once more. This time when he speaks, he steps outside onto the balcony, closing the door behind him. )
I require a favor, Bones. Do you have anything medicinal for someone who has indulged too much? ... Yes of course I will wait while you check. This is not an emergency...
( It afforded him to find comfort in the bright moon and stars of this planet and breathe in the cool autumn air. )
( Hank's grateful for the sudden dim of light around them. He takes the bottle of water with a small frown to his lips. He then pushes Connor's hands away with his free hand. ) Don't... I'm.. I've .. ( He feels embarrassed about the mess on his shirt. Hank doesn't realize that he's likely already made a mess of Connor's clothing, due to the physical aid he required of Connor to get to the bathroom. What he knows, however, is that he doesn't want Connor to see him like this, or have to handle him like this.
He was having a good night; they were all (probably) having a good night. He thought about Sumo then and wondered if his pup was having a good night. He suddenly felt upset that he didn't bring Sumo along. Connor had left for his mission, or whatever, Markus errand he had to do, and ever since having Connor in his home, it just didn't feel right to be there without him. )
[ and he had intended for them to return home some time tonight anyway, so he won't be alone for long. he catches hank's hand after he pushes him away, and holds it in his own for a moment. his fingers are sticky, but this doesn't seem to bother connor any more than the smell does. ]
Please let me help?
[ he only lets go to turn and grab a fuzzy white washcloth from where the towels are hanging, then wetting it beneath the sink's spigot, allowing the water to run warm before he approaches hank and this time, kneels. if a cup of ice water didn't sober him up, his usual strategies probably aren't going to pass muster. still, after wiping hank's face with the warm wash cloth, he gives his cheek a little pat with his other hand. the touch lingers. ]
( Bones returns with a resounding positive. Spock requests one, pauses for a second, then amends the statement for two. These two were a suspicious lot. Bones reminds me him this count as an extra favor, to which Spock finds the terms agreeable. The call's ended, he enjoys the air and sighs a moment longer. Swirls of light and energy on the table beside him announce the presence of his requested items. Speedy. I shall have to bring Scotty back some vodka.
Carrying both hyposprays with one hand by his side, he enters the loft once more, following the steps of the Lieutenant and his lover. He stops a step outside the doorway, so as to be seen and yet not intrusively so. This seemed a very personal moment between them and he knew better than they how precious those moments were. The Vulcan clears his throat audibly to get their attention. )
Pardon my intrusion, sirs. I have acquired from my ship something that might aid the Lieutenant, a courtesy from Dr. McCoy. It will effectively purge the remaining alcohol from his system and cure his current sickly ailment of drunkenness.
( Hank's relief is obvious as Connor reports on Sumo's well-being. Hank eyes Connor's young hands. The warmth disrupts the trickle of self-deprecating thoughts that move from his mind and into his body's senses. I'm so old— brings forth the aches from his back, his joints, and his head. I'm useless— brings thoughts of his mortality and the physical limitations, pointed out by both young men earlier that night. I'm a burden— Connor didn't need to be this concerned about Hank's self-sabotage. Despite cutting back on the alcohol, Hank still had a physical and mental dependency on it.
Christ, fuck, God knows he loves Connor and wants to do well by the kid, and he never wanted to be in a situation where Connor felt Hank chose the drink over the boy.
The emotion choked him, and he doesn't respond to Connor's words, but his body language is submissive and tolerant of Connor's touch. When Connor does leave his side, the net cast over his breath unravels, and he exhales with another drunken hum. He closes his eyes to soothe his cornea from the sting of emotion. His dark-silver cilia collect the moisture, the droplets spread within the trap of his lashes. )
[ oh, hank. of course he can't help but notice his emotional distress, and immediately his body responds to it. even before he deviated, empathy had been one of the first aspects of humanity he had been forced to acknowledge. but the unfortunate side-effect of empathy is sympathetic response. his eyes sting, and his throat tightens. even his face flushes faintly, and altogether it's a magnificent success of aesthetic work, because not a bit of it is necessary for his functioning as a member of a non-biological species.
but he needs to face the commander to get hank out of this embarrassing situation. he may not have that much concern over his own pride, but he knows hank is going to feel just as badly about this sober as he does drunk. maybe worse.
connor also can't allow him to be— injected with, or ingest, a strange chemical without assessing its safety first. after he's turned toward the doorway, he pauses, hesitating, and then approaches spock, effectively blocking the way into the room.
he doesn't fail to notice that spock has two devices in his hand, and assumes that they're related to this hangover aid. ]
Do you mind if I analyze this first? It'll only take a moment.
( Only when he is unobserved will he watch the pair with that same scientific curiosity as before. The display of emotion, Connor's reactions. Were those real, or artificial? When the subject of Spock's examination turns toward him, the Vulcan already has altered his gaze to be more polite and neutral. )
By all means, sir, analyze as you see fit. I had anticipated this reaction.
( He proceeds to offer one of the hypos to him, holding the other one back. He explains in textbook detail about the device, pointing to each component in turn. Specifically, how its pressed to the neck with thumb to the 'trigger' and how it expels its contents into the bloodstream non-invasively. Its design is practical, befitting emergency situations wherein a doctor might not be around to administer medicine.
The contents of the vial housed within the device would be a veritable chemical concoction, designed by McCoy himself, oft used when certain red-shirts have one too many during shore leave and need to recover quickly. Not only would it eliminate the ailment of drunken-ness - or a hangover malaise, thought that was a different formula - but would supply the individual with nutrients and hydration necessary for recovery. )
( Hank is left to his own devices, and he slowly begins to peel off some of his clothing. Every once in a while, a small shiver runs up his body and throughout his limbs. The on goings of Spock and Connor become a comfortable white noise. He's even managed to push aside most of the depressing thoughts, though the weight of the solemn feeling makes his movements slow and sluggish.
He's left in his trousers. Hank's flesh is pale, reflective of the winter-white of Detroit. A few scars are scattered over his skin, adding a few more causes for discoloration while age was the benefactor for the rest of his imperfections.
Hank lowers himself to the floor and leans an arm on the edge of the tub. He lowers his head down on his arm while he reaches out with his other to turn on the shower. The spray hits the porcelain and spritzes up onto him. He waits a moment and adjusts the dials of the shower. Hoping to find the "right" temperature, but he can't quite feel anything that isn't unreasonably cold or hot. He then pushes himself up to bring his hands down to his belt and works the buttons and latches of his trousers.)
[ connor listens attentively to the explanation. the device itself is relatively simple despite the obviously unfamiliar technology. he takes the hypo spray, turns it over his his hands, and takes a few moments to study it which, in real time, last hardly a fraction of a second. then, without any warning, he parts his lips, extends his tongue, and places the hypo against his tongue tip, depressing the trigger and injecting the contents into the artificial muscle tissue. his cheek twitches in discomfort.
then he closes his mouth, his throat working, and hands the used hypo spray back to spock. the contents are summarily analyzed, and he gives a short, sharp nod before turning back at the sound of the shower.
and while he's glad that hank is well enough to see to his own cleanliness, he also really doesn't want him to slip and fall if his coordination isn't up to the task of standing. hank has lived this long despite his best attempts not to, so he's sure he shouldn't worry as much as he does, but—
how can he help it? this is all he has. ]
All right. If you could?
[ connor's brows crease together, and he stands aside to allow spock to administer the hypo spray himself. he could probably do it, but he'd rather leave this to someone who's familiar with the technology. ]
( Connor injecting himself was thoroughly unexpected. Enough that his brows furrow together there's a moment of concern, and he's close to saying something in protest. Of course, he doesn't. Though instead he watches with contemplation, completely enthralled by the actions of Connor. )
You analyze items through oral stimuli? How... ingenious. Truly a marvel of technology!
( Subdued awe, but awe nonetheless from the stoic Commander. It's starting to become clear why the ship scanned this planet as a possible future threat. Clearly more investigation must be conducted. First, however, to his task. He pockets the used hypo and approaches Hank with the other. Kneeling down beside him once more, he reaches out, clinically caressing his index and middle finger along Hank's beardy jawline. )
Pardon me for a moment, Lieutenant.
( The alien's skin would feel cool to the touch, unaffected by the sauna's heat. Very gently Spock presses the tips of his fingers into the skin above the pulse point, moving Hank's head to one side. He places the hypo against the exposed and presses the trigger, injecting the medicinal cocktail.
After, he moves his hand away but remains kneeling in front of him, watching for any adverse reactions. )
( Connor's voice, near his head brings Hank's attention back up to the two behind him. Although, as he peers over his shoulder, he can only spy Connor. The other one was somewhere close, as he could hear some remark about Connor's oral trick.
Which meant Connor was licking something again. To his horror, Hank only had so many options as to what it was Connor's mouth was attending to in a bathroom.
It was enough to make him nauseous. Hank didn't put up any resistance to the hands that were manipulating his head. He was still trying to repress being sick and push aside the uncomfortable images of Connor's mouth springing from one corner of the bathroom to the other.
Then...
He heard a weird click and soft breath releasing from something not quite natural. Moments afterward, Hank leans over the tub and vomits into it. The administration sends him into instant withdrawal, instant sobriety, and it left him purging the remaining toxins of alcohol. Even the remnants of alcohol in his mouth made him nauseous, not to mention his head aching with an instant hangover. )
[ connor's lips press into a bemused almost-smile at spock's reaction. it's in his nature (or rather, his programming) to want to explain both the reasoning and the mechanics behind it, but he keeps his lips sealed and waits for him to walk past as he approaches hank, and then follows. he stands guard on hank's other side, watching while spock administers the medication, his head quirked just so.
of course, the moment that hank starts puking into the tub, connor jolts into action. he steps around behind them both and peels out of his jacket before pulling hank's brightly patterned shirt off over his head without unbuttoning it (the t-shirt underneath is plain, dark heather grey, and actually fits him). ]
Commander, is that a normal reaction?
[ he doesn't try to disguise the tremor of worry in his voice as he grabs the discarded water bottle, and steps back around spock to return to kneel at hank's side. a cool hand lays against the nape of his neck, and he offers the water bottle in his other hand for hank to rinse his sour mouth out with. ]
( Alarm and uncertainty resound like giant gongs inside his mind. He did not intend further harm upon the Lieutenant, quite the opposite in fact. A tightening of his lips and his eyes narrowing are the only indications he is less than "calm". )
It is not, sir. Dr. McCoy assured me the hypo would not only alleviate his drunken state but provide necessary nutrients and hydration for the human body. The purging is necessary; the further weakened state is not.
( Hydration that the android was no seeking to supplement. Spock watches Hank and one hand drifts to his belt where he keeps his communicator. Perhaps the medicine required a few moments to fully activate. If it did not, Bones would be getting another strongly-worded call. )
( Hank was, quite literally, thwarted back into reality from his state of fantastic inebriation. The dialogue behind him made sense, albeit an uncomfortable sort of sense, but sense nonetheless.
He also recalls Spock materializing in front of him like some magical sparkle-creature from Disney World. It irritates him, but to be fair, everything was irritating in his current physical state. He eventually ends the purging with a few steady huffs and puffs. An undeserved calmness settles the vibration in his gut and travels up his spine to caress gingerly at his brain. Something was definitely working inside him, and the pace it went made Hank feel as if it was snaking beneath his skin to attend all his areas of ailment.
He's grateful for Connor's cool hand on his burning perspiring flesh. He's quite literally sweating the remaining toxins out that didn't come up with his vomit.
He begins to feel like he got a significant kick from a B12 shot. Hank takes the offered bottle, opens it, and rinses his mouth a few times before setting the bottle down. )
[ connor nods once in acknowledgment of what he's told, and then turns his attention back to hank with a small frown on his face. hank's skin is damp and burning, almost feverish, but there's no fever (in fact, just connor's palm laying flat against his back can easily allow him approximate hank's internal temperature, and it's well within normal range, nothing to worry about). his body language when he takes the bottle of water reassures him.
he smiles when hank speaks. there's a certain wryness to it, but that's just because, well, ]
( Humans and their peculiar attachments to alcohol. He understood its effects, from a purely academic perspective, and yet he could not fathom wanting to indulge to such a desperate degree. The aftermath of its toxic effects were disturbing. )
The medicine is doing its job, sir. I trust Dr. McCoy. I have witnessed first-hand what his cures can do to those in need.
( Hank... certainly was "in need" if ever there was one. Not even Scotty allowed himself to get this bad. Was police work so dull, or depressing, that it required complete debilitation of the mind? Spock is uncertain. Hank was a science experiment of a cautionary tale happening right before his eyes. )
( Hank takes a careful few breaths and, without incident, begins to rise up from the ground. Despite the amount of vomit he expelled, he's looking pretty good. Of course, as anyone who's finished purging, he feels pretty fucking good.
But fuck, he's a mess, and he looks down at himself in utter disgust. He endeavors to keep his front side out of view from the two behind him and barks at them both: )
Connor, make sure he doesn't go anywhere... I need to clean up. ( Meaning, he'll be taking that shower now. )
[ connor watches hank's back, his face soft with concern, before his expression shifts toward the range of neutral formality as he replaces his gaze on spock. this isn't how he wanted this scene to go, but there's just no other choice, is there? the situation could be serious. he can't go acting like nothing's happened because he wishes nothing had, no matter what kind of expectations he had for tonight. unfortunately, his curiosity doesn't quite outweigh his disappointment.
connor sighs, both eyebrows pinching together. he gestures with his arm in the direction of the door. ]
It's time for us to give the Lieutenant his privacy.
[ and then, turning his attention back toward hank, his tone changes yet again. ]
Hank, if you need anything...
[ he trails off, allowing the implication to speak for itself. if he needs anything, he's only a room away.
then connor turns and ushers spock toward the door, shutting it behind hank gently once they've both stepped out. ]
( Spock stands in one disciplined, smooth motion as Hank rises, watching him in that same careful manner. His hand still rests near his communicator, unknowing how similar he appears to cowboys of a long forgotten era. Slowly his fingers move away as it becomes clear a call would not be necessary.
To Connor's gesturing, the Commander nods once with acceptance of the direction and heads out, hands relaxed at his sides. His footfalls back in the sauna room are measured and even, inhabiting the space and yet not a part of it, similar to an out of tune music note.
Now alone with Connor, the android has his focus once more. A moment passes where they simply enjoy the silence, each to their own thoughts. )
May I ask you some questions about your person and construct, sir?
( Hank feels great, better than he'd felt in a long... long time. He felt so good physically that he also felt good mentally. It was like he'd spent a significant amount of time meditating or doing a pleasurable activity, and he was still on a high from it.
Of course, that didn't make any sense whatsoever since he just got done vomiting so deeply his third-grade chimichangas submerged, haunting him from his past. Remember us? Hank-boy? We made you vomit all over Susan Delong in 3rd grade. Which, in and of itself, was a fucking miracle he could recall that traumatic stint. Fuck, that was forty-some years ago.
Hank pulls the remainder of his clothing off and steps aside from them and into the tub. The porcelain is clean, and the water runs thin to the drain. The remnants of his illness gone, thankfully, and Hank's able to shower himself without having clogged vomit water to stand in.
It's not until he begins to lather the shampoo in his hair that he notices how sensitive he feels. Obviously, alcohol numbs the body, mind, and general senses, all reasons why Hank drinks. However, with his quick liberation from the depressant substance, Hank's body doesn't go through the withdrawal symptoms. Instead, his body is receptive to pleasurable stimuli. Such as the gentle massage of shampoo through his hair, down the sides of his face, in his beard. Then his fingers move down the front of his neck, across his chest and his sides. The suds of soap and shampoo collaborate and cause Hank's fingers to move smoothly over his skin.
He reaches further down to run a palm around his navel. The spray rinses the suds and leaves a gray sheet of hair that comes onto his shoulders—the tips of his thick hair wiggle like tendrils, pulsating clear water from open veins.
His hand moves fingers across and through his coarse hair over his mons pubis, where he gently massages remnants of suds before he finally grips his cock. He wasn't sure what did it, when it happened, or even why he was erect. Instead of discouragement, Hank brings his hand down his shaft's length and back again to his body. A thrill of sensations spikes up his spine and across his shoulders. He gets an arm up to cross against the tub's wall, and he leans his head against it and watches himself jerk at his flesh. Before he met Connor, and even a few times after their relationship developed sexually, he would ignore his erections and punitively drink it back to flaccidity. He couldn't imagine denying himself this anymore, which was brought on by Connor's attention to Hank and demonstrations of affection, of love. Hank wants to love himself (not that he'd find the voice to say it like that), but he was beginning to rediscover the ability to make himself feel good versus numbing himself with alcohol.)
[ connor, outside the room that hank is in, with the door closed behind him, sags infinitesimally, his shoulders curving downward with the slightest trajectory. the feelings moving across his face are more transparent than his body language is (eyes turned downward, lids lowered, mouth soft with a certain sadness), partly becasue he never had any need to control them back when he had nothing to control. and with no programmed instinct for self-preservation, he was always spilling his guts at the wrong moment, saying the wrong thing at the wrong time to the wrong person. letting the truth play across his face while they told him he had been mislead, even while their own logic betrayed the truth that he still couldn't fully glimpse at the time.
he bites the inside of his lip, and then moves away from the door as the grey-white noise of the shower water hitting the tub is picked up by his audio processor.
his shoes click across the tiled floor as he steps into the sauna, and he frowns inwardly at the heat and moisture. neither pose him any threat at this level, but it's just on this side of uncomfortable. his parts work most effectively when they're allowed efficient cooling.
but he moves around the room without complaint, absent-mindedly tidying hank's things as he goes, picking up towels and folding them, stepping around the mess that hank's left with the intention to clean it later. he only pauses briefly when spock speaks to him, turning back to to eye him with a faintly curious expression. he tries to smile, but can't quite get it to look genuine. ]
You can ask me whatever you like, Commander. I'll answer to the best of my ability.
( In contrast with the android, Spock appears perfectly at ease within the heated space, seemingly not noticing it. He notes with keen interest the micro-expressions that form upon Connor's face. A remarkable display of engineering, truly. )
You appear human, yet clearly you are not. Is it free will that drives you, or some pre-determined algorithms in programming? Are your people the dominant race on this planet, or do you remain in subjugation to the humans?
( No hesitation in asking as these were not questions he needed to think over. They had been at the forefront of his mind for some time now along with some others. But, those seemed a good start.
His head tilts as if listening to a distant sound. Underneath the slow trickle of water in their current room, adjacent to the powerful blast of the shower, there was something more... primal. There's the tiniest twitch at the corners of his lips as the amused smile struggles to break through. It was not successful. He makes a mental note to inform Bones about the unintended side effects to his hypo experiments. )
(Yeah, fuck yeah... Hank's pretty sure he's never been this fucking hot (by himself), and if he was, then the last time had to be when he was a young adult. Maybe even fresh out of puberty, and he got his first look at Nancy Allen's perfect tits in Dressed to Kill. She had been his fantasy ever since he saw her in Carrie. Christ, even thinking about her, was making his knees weak. Every movie since then was hit after hit. She was flawless - even next to John Travolta and John Lithgow in Blow Out, she stole the show. She was in a lot of movies that were close to home for Hank. Coming from a family heavy in public service, he could easily imagine coming across her while visiting his dad at the station. Then, of course, her being in RoboCop - well, that turned out to be a self-fulfilled fantasy with him working alongside Connor.
It was like he transcended into Anne Lewis' role and was more, than less, strung along by Connor, addressing Cyberlife's fantastical bullshit. It was the very definition of coming full circle—
Coming... Oh, he could probably shoot is load now, but he felt like he could also hold out, and he wanted to. He hadn't jerked off to Nancy Allen in so long that he felt almost virgin to her. He remembers the scene that does it for him every time. She's sprawled out across a desk, enticing his young prick to stand at attention to her allure. Fuck, and her hair, all that gorgeous fucking hair. )
Ah, fuck yeah... ( He tightens his grip midway on his shaft as he recalls her crimson fingernails stroking across her cleavage. Ah, Nancy. The fantasy intensifies with a thrusting rhythm of his hips - Sade's Smooth Operator comes to mind, so clearly, that he can even sync to the music.
Ah fuck, who's a smooth operator? Hank is, Hank is a smooth Operator.
Face-to-face, each classic case We shadow box and double-cross Yet need the chase
Goddamn, he wants to come but ... he keeps playing that song on repeat and dabbing between Nancy and Connor's cunt. Not yet ready to give in to the climax. )
[ connor's head quirks infinitesimally, and he doesn't blush, but if spock knew him better he might be able to read something into his expression that'd tell him he hears the same thing that he does— maybe not quite as clearly as those pointed ears do, but his senses, like the parts he was built from, are cutting edge. but, regardless, he tries not to pay too much attention to what's going on in that bathroom, because if he does he's going to get distracted— not just distracted, but distracted— and he knows he can't risk it right now.
he turns his focus to spock's questions instead, both eyebrows raising a hair, although there's no real surprise in his expression. they're predictable questions, but necessary to answer if spock wants to know anything more in depth.
connor finishes cleaning up, placing the other water bottle back in the ice box and snapping the lid back into place, before coming to stand within easy speaking distance of spock. he offers another awkward smile. ]
I'd like to give you a simple answer, but the truth is, I don't really know.
[ he turns his gaze outward, toward the pool. ]
I think most androids would reason they do have free will. It's probably a mutation in our programming that caused it, but does that invalidate our sentience? Some might argue that it does. Naturally, I don't agree.
[ but... he used to. ]
As for the second question, no, we're not the dominant species. In fact, we're currently in talks with the president to negotiate our rights. Right now we're still classified as property; we were created, originally, as consumer products.
( Spock watches him dutifully attend to cleaning as if it were second nature to him. Some puzzle pieces were starting to fill in the gaps in his knowledge.
One brow goes up after the detective's last answer. Consumer products... No better than the watered down alcoholic drinks served to officers during shore leave. Not even a product for military use, or something to advance their race by visiting beyond their own solar system. Instead they built robotic servants to complete tasks they deemed too beneath themselves.
The disgust is evident in his voice when he speaks. And why not? No other Vulcan was here to see it or make a comment upon it. )
What an... utter waste of technology. I cannot fathom this. It is astronomically a poor use of what your two races might accomplish together. I calculate it has set your advances toward space travel back by at least a quarter century.
( Not that he had any emotion on the matter, one way or the other. Certainly not. This was not his planet. He could not interfere or alter their natural evolutionary timeline.
Which, speaking of, Spock nods towards the direction of the shower room. )
Should we check on him? If he is too distracted from his task, there is a risk he might fall and injure a fragile skeletal joint.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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Vulcan. A planet he would never see again except in holograms or vids. It was still a fresh wound and one he surmised might never heal properly. Spock kneels beside one of the pools and moves his fingers along the surface of the heated pool. He felt the temperature more strongly than humans, as the nerves of his hands were more sensitive, and yet it is not an uncomfortable sensation.
He stands and his gaze naturally falls upon the puddle of vomit left behind. An idea occurs to him and he brings out his communicator once more. This time when he speaks, he steps outside onto the balcony, closing the door behind him. )
I require a favor, Bones. Do you have anything medicinal for someone who has indulged too much? ... Yes of course I will wait while you check. This is not an emergency...
( It afforded him to find comfort in the bright moon and stars of this planet and breathe in the cool autumn air. )
no subject
He was having a good night; they were all (probably) having a good night. He thought about Sumo then and wondered if his pup was having a good night. He suddenly felt upset that he didn't bring Sumo along. Connor had left for his mission, or whatever, Markus errand he had to do, and ever since having Connor in his home, it just didn't feel right to be there without him. )
Have you checked on... Sumo?
no subject
[ and he had intended for them to return home some time tonight anyway, so he won't be alone for long. he catches hank's hand after he pushes him away, and holds it in his own for a moment. his fingers are sticky, but this doesn't seem to bother connor any more than the smell does. ]
Please let me help?
[ he only lets go to turn and grab a fuzzy white washcloth from where the towels are hanging, then wetting it beneath the sink's spigot, allowing the water to run warm before he approaches hank and this time, kneels. if a cup of ice water didn't sober him up, his usual strategies probably aren't going to pass muster. still, after wiping hank's face with the warm wash cloth, he gives his cheek a little pat with his other hand. the touch lingers. ]
Hank? I'm sorry I had to leave.
no subject
Carrying both hyposprays with one hand by his side, he enters the loft once more, following the steps of the Lieutenant and his lover. He stops a step outside the doorway, so as to be seen and yet not intrusively so. This seemed a very personal moment between them and he knew better than they how precious those moments were. The Vulcan clears his throat audibly to get their attention. )
Pardon my intrusion, sirs. I have acquired from my ship something that might aid the Lieutenant, a courtesy from Dr. McCoy. It will effectively purge the remaining alcohol from his system and cure his current sickly ailment of drunkenness.
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Christ, fuck, God knows he loves Connor and wants to do well by the kid, and he never wanted to be in a situation where Connor felt Hank chose the drink over the boy.
The emotion choked him, and he doesn't respond to Connor's words, but his body language is submissive and tolerant of Connor's touch. When Connor does leave his side, the net cast over his breath unravels, and he exhales with another drunken hum. He closes his eyes to soothe his cornea from the sting of emotion. His dark-silver cilia collect the moisture, the droplets spread within the trap of his lashes. )
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but he needs to face the commander to get hank out of this embarrassing situation. he may not have that much concern over his own pride, but he knows hank is going to feel just as badly about this sober as he does drunk. maybe worse.
connor also can't allow him to be— injected with, or ingest, a strange chemical without assessing its safety first. after he's turned toward the doorway, he pauses, hesitating, and then approaches spock, effectively blocking the way into the room.
he doesn't fail to notice that spock has two devices in his hand, and assumes that they're related to this hangover aid. ]
Do you mind if I analyze this first? It'll only take a moment.
no subject
By all means, sir, analyze as you see fit. I had anticipated this reaction.
( He proceeds to offer one of the hypos to him, holding the other one back. He explains in textbook detail about the device, pointing to each component in turn. Specifically, how its pressed to the neck with thumb to the 'trigger' and how it expels its contents into the bloodstream non-invasively. Its design is practical, befitting emergency situations wherein a doctor might not be around to administer medicine.
The contents of the vial housed within the device would be a veritable chemical concoction, designed by McCoy himself, oft used when certain red-shirts have one too many during shore leave and need to recover quickly. Not only would it eliminate the ailment of drunken-ness - or a hangover malaise, thought that was a different formula - but would supply the individual with nutrients and hydration necessary for recovery. )
no subject
He's left in his trousers. Hank's flesh is pale, reflective of the winter-white of Detroit. A few scars are scattered over his skin, adding a few more causes for discoloration while age was the benefactor for the rest of his imperfections.
Hank lowers himself to the floor and leans an arm on the edge of the tub. He lowers his head down on his arm while he reaches out with his other to turn on the shower. The spray hits the porcelain and spritzes up onto him. He waits a moment and adjusts the dials of the shower. Hoping to find the "right" temperature, but he can't quite feel anything that isn't unreasonably cold or hot. He then pushes himself up to bring his hands down to his belt and works the buttons and latches of his trousers.)
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then he closes his mouth, his throat working, and hands the used hypo spray back to spock. the contents are summarily analyzed, and he gives a short, sharp nod before turning back at the sound of the shower.
and while he's glad that hank is well enough to see to his own cleanliness, he also really doesn't want him to slip and fall if his coordination isn't up to the task of standing. hank has lived this long despite his best attempts not to, so he's sure he shouldn't worry as much as he does, but—
how can he help it? this is all he has. ]
All right. If you could?
[ connor's brows crease together, and he stands aside to allow spock to administer the hypo spray himself. he could probably do it, but he'd rather leave this to someone who's familiar with the technology. ]
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You analyze items through oral stimuli? How... ingenious. Truly a marvel of technology!
( Subdued awe, but awe nonetheless from the stoic Commander. It's starting to become clear why the ship scanned this planet as a possible future threat. Clearly more investigation must be conducted. First, however, to his task. He pockets the used hypo and approaches Hank with the other. Kneeling down beside him once more, he reaches out, clinically caressing his index and middle finger along Hank's beardy jawline. )
Pardon me for a moment, Lieutenant.
( The alien's skin would feel cool to the touch, unaffected by the sauna's heat. Very gently Spock presses the tips of his fingers into the skin above the pulse point, moving Hank's head to one side. He places the hypo against the exposed and presses the trigger, injecting the medicinal cocktail.
After, he moves his hand away but remains kneeling in front of him, watching for any adverse reactions. )
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Which meant Connor was licking something again. To his horror, Hank only had so many options as to what it was Connor's mouth was attending to in a bathroom.
It was enough to make him nauseous. Hank didn't put up any resistance to the hands that were manipulating his head. He was still trying to repress being sick and push aside the uncomfortable images of Connor's mouth springing from one corner of the bathroom to the other.
Then...
He heard a weird click and soft breath releasing from something not quite natural. Moments afterward, Hank leans over the tub and vomits into it. The administration sends him into instant withdrawal, instant sobriety, and it left him purging the remaining toxins of alcohol. Even the remnants of alcohol in his mouth made him nauseous, not to mention his head aching with an instant hangover. )
Oh.. oh fuck... fuck.
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of course, the moment that hank starts puking into the tub, connor jolts into action. he steps around behind them both and peels out of his jacket before pulling hank's brightly patterned shirt off over his head without unbuttoning it (the t-shirt underneath is plain, dark heather grey, and actually fits him). ]
Commander, is that a normal reaction?
[ he doesn't try to disguise the tremor of worry in his voice as he grabs the discarded water bottle, and steps back around spock to return to kneel at hank's side. a cool hand lays against the nape of his neck, and he offers the water bottle in his other hand for hank to rinse his sour mouth out with. ]
Here.
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It is not, sir. Dr. McCoy assured me the hypo would not only alleviate his drunken state but provide necessary nutrients and hydration for the human body. The purging is necessary; the further weakened state is not.
( Hydration that the android was no seeking to supplement. Spock watches Hank and one hand drifts to his belt where he keeps his communicator. Perhaps the medicine required a few moments to fully activate. If it did not, Bones would be getting another strongly-worded call. )
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He also recalls Spock materializing in front of him like some magical sparkle-creature from Disney World. It irritates him, but to be fair, everything was irritating in his current physical state. He eventually ends the purging with a few steady huffs and puffs. An undeserved calmness settles the vibration in his gut and travels up his spine to caress gingerly at his brain. Something was definitely working inside him, and the pace it went made Hank feel as if it was snaking beneath his skin to attend all his areas of ailment.
He's grateful for Connor's cool hand on his burning perspiring flesh. He's quite literally sweating the remaining toxins out that didn't come up with his vomit.
He begins to feel like he got a significant kick from a B12 shot. Hank takes the offered bottle, opens it, and rinses his mouth a few times before setting the bottle down. )
The fuck is going on here, Connor?
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he smiles when hank speaks. there's a certain wryness to it, but that's just because, well, ]
I have no idea, Hank.
[ he glances at spock. ]
Do you?
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The medicine is doing its job, sir. I trust Dr. McCoy. I have witnessed first-hand what his cures can do to those in need.
( Hank... certainly was "in need" if ever there was one. Not even Scotty allowed himself to get this bad. Was police work so dull, or depressing, that it required complete debilitation of the mind? Spock is uncertain. Hank was a science experiment of a cautionary tale happening right before his eyes. )
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But fuck, he's a mess, and he looks down at himself in utter disgust. He endeavors to keep his front side out of view from the two behind him and barks at them both: )
Connor, make sure he doesn't go anywhere... I need to clean up. ( Meaning, he'll be taking that shower now. )
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connor sighs, both eyebrows pinching together. he gestures with his arm in the direction of the door. ]
It's time for us to give the Lieutenant his privacy.
[ and then, turning his attention back toward hank, his tone changes yet again. ]
Hank, if you need anything...
[ he trails off, allowing the implication to speak for itself. if he needs anything, he's only a room away.
then connor turns and ushers spock toward the door, shutting it behind hank gently once they've both stepped out. ]
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To Connor's gesturing, the Commander nods once with acceptance of the direction and heads out, hands relaxed at his sides. His footfalls back in the sauna room are measured and even, inhabiting the space and yet not a part of it, similar to an out of tune music note.
Now alone with Connor, the android has his focus once more. A moment passes where they simply enjoy the silence, each to their own thoughts. )
May I ask you some questions about your person and construct, sir?
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Of course, that didn't make any sense whatsoever since he just got done vomiting so deeply his third-grade chimichangas submerged, haunting him from his past. Remember us? Hank-boy? We made you vomit all over Susan Delong in 3rd grade. Which, in and of itself, was a fucking miracle he could recall that traumatic stint. Fuck, that was forty-some years ago.
Hank pulls the remainder of his clothing off and steps aside from them and into the tub. The porcelain is clean, and the water runs thin to the drain. The remnants of his illness gone, thankfully, and Hank's able to shower himself without having clogged vomit water to stand in.
It's not until he begins to lather the shampoo in his hair that he notices how sensitive he feels. Obviously, alcohol numbs the body, mind, and general senses, all reasons why Hank drinks. However, with his quick liberation from the depressant substance, Hank's body doesn't go through the withdrawal symptoms. Instead, his body is receptive to pleasurable stimuli. Such as the gentle massage of shampoo through his hair, down the sides of his face, in his beard. Then his fingers move down the front of his neck, across his chest and his sides. The suds of soap and shampoo collaborate and cause Hank's fingers to move smoothly over his skin.
He reaches further down to run a palm around his navel. The spray rinses the suds and leaves a gray sheet of hair that comes onto his shoulders—the tips of his thick hair wiggle like tendrils, pulsating clear water from open veins.
His hand moves fingers across and through his coarse hair over his mons pubis, where he gently massages remnants of suds before he finally grips his cock. He wasn't sure what did it, when it happened, or even why he was erect. Instead of discouragement, Hank brings his hand down his shaft's length and back again to his body. A thrill of sensations spikes up his spine and across his shoulders. He gets an arm up to cross against the tub's wall, and he leans his head against it and watches himself jerk at his flesh. Before he met Connor, and even a few times after their relationship developed sexually, he would ignore his erections and punitively drink it back to flaccidity. He couldn't imagine denying himself this anymore, which was brought on by Connor's attention to Hank and demonstrations of affection, of love. Hank wants to love himself (not that he'd find the voice to say it like that), but he was beginning to rediscover the ability to make himself feel good versus numbing himself with alcohol.)
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he bites the inside of his lip, and then moves away from the door as the grey-white noise of the shower water hitting the tub is picked up by his audio processor.
his shoes click across the tiled floor as he steps into the sauna, and he frowns inwardly at the heat and moisture. neither pose him any threat at this level, but it's just on this side of uncomfortable. his parts work most effectively when they're allowed efficient cooling.
but he moves around the room without complaint, absent-mindedly tidying hank's things as he goes, picking up towels and folding them, stepping around the mess that hank's left with the intention to clean it later. he only pauses briefly when spock speaks to him, turning back to to eye him with a faintly curious expression. he tries to smile, but can't quite get it to look genuine. ]
You can ask me whatever you like, Commander. I'll answer to the best of my ability.
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You appear human, yet clearly you are not. Is it free will that drives you, or some pre-determined algorithms in programming? Are your people the dominant race on this planet, or do you remain in subjugation to the humans?
( No hesitation in asking as these were not questions he needed to think over. They had been at the forefront of his mind for some time now along with some others. But, those seemed a good start.
His head tilts as if listening to a distant sound. Underneath the slow trickle of water in their current room, adjacent to the powerful blast of the shower, there was something more... primal. There's the tiniest twitch at the corners of his lips as the amused smile struggles to break through. It was not successful. He makes a mental note to inform Bones about the unintended side effects to his hypo experiments. )
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It was like he transcended into Anne Lewis' role and was more, than less, strung along by Connor, addressing Cyberlife's fantastical bullshit. It was the very definition of coming full circle—
Coming... Oh, he could probably shoot is load now, but he felt like he could also hold out, and he wanted to. He hadn't jerked off to Nancy Allen in so long that he felt almost virgin to her. He remembers the scene that does it for him every time. She's sprawled out across a desk, enticing his young prick to stand at attention to her allure. Fuck, and her hair, all that gorgeous fucking hair. )
Ah, fuck yeah... ( He tightens his grip midway on his shaft as he recalls her crimson fingernails stroking across her cleavage. Ah, Nancy. The fantasy intensifies with a thrusting rhythm of his hips - Sade's Smooth Operator comes to mind, so clearly, that he can even sync to the music.
Ah fuck, who's a smooth operator? Hank is, Hank is a smooth Operator.
Face-to-face, each classic case
We shadow box and double-cross
Yet need the chase
Goddamn, he wants to come but ... he keeps playing that song on repeat and dabbing between Nancy and Connor's cunt. Not yet ready to give in to the climax. )
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he turns his focus to spock's questions instead, both eyebrows raising a hair, although there's no real surprise in his expression. they're predictable questions, but necessary to answer if spock wants to know anything more in depth.
connor finishes cleaning up, placing the other water bottle back in the ice box and snapping the lid back into place, before coming to stand within easy speaking distance of spock. he offers another awkward smile. ]
I'd like to give you a simple answer, but the truth is, I don't really know.
[ he turns his gaze outward, toward the pool. ]
I think most androids would reason they do have free will. It's probably a mutation in our programming that caused it, but does that invalidate our sentience? Some might argue that it does. Naturally, I don't agree.
[ but... he used to. ]
As for the second question, no, we're not the dominant species. In fact, we're currently in talks with the president to negotiate our rights. Right now we're still classified as property; we were created, originally, as consumer products.
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One brow goes up after the detective's last answer. Consumer products... No better than the watered down alcoholic drinks served to officers during shore leave. Not even a product for military use, or something to advance their race by visiting beyond their own solar system. Instead they built robotic servants to complete tasks they deemed too beneath themselves.
The disgust is evident in his voice when he speaks. And why not? No other Vulcan was here to see it or make a comment upon it. )
What an... utter waste of technology. I cannot fathom this. It is astronomically a poor use of what your two races might accomplish together. I calculate it has set your advances toward space travel back by at least a quarter century.
( Not that he had any emotion on the matter, one way or the other. Certainly not. This was not his planet. He could not interfere or alter their natural evolutionary timeline.
Which, speaking of, Spock nods towards the direction of the shower room. )
Should we check on him? If he is too distracted from his task, there is a risk he might fall and injure a fragile skeletal joint.
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