Archive of Our Own ^beta

Hank remembers when he was a kid, one of the coolest things to have was a mood ring. He had one himself, a thick metal band that curved over his left middle finger. Then kids were sporting mood bracelets and mood necklaces, everyone covered in dully shifting colors, trying to discern if the green swimming in yellow with specks of red meant happy or excited with a healthy dash of fear or what. He also remembers when he found out the rings changed with temperature, not the wearer's actual mood; growing up in Detroit with its harsh, unforgiving winters, it had made such perfect sense to be in a constantly black-colored mood that he hadn't really thought anything about it.

Watching Connor's LED cycling from blue to yellow as he stares intently at the files on his computer screen, Hank wonders if it was some 50-something, millennial generation engineer that had said, You know what would be a great addition to these androids? A fuckin' mood ring. It seems pretty possible. Mood rings, along with the fabled Red Ring of Death from his youth, makes it obvious that his generation liked easy visual indicators of emotional wellbeing. He sorta misses that stupid little ring. It had a hypnotic charm to it. He wonders if they exist anymore, or if they've been replaced by more technologically sound rings that actually can read the wearer's mood.

Connor's LED shifts to red as his expression scrunches, eyebrows drawing down. His types viciously fast and clicks around violently. Hank smiles to himself. Witnessing Connor’s personality surface from underneath all the coding, buoyed by the rA9 virus, has been an interesting privilege—especially since Connor is turning out to be hilariously impatient.

The light looks like it's going to slide back into yellow as Connor sits back and considers his computer, cycling both red and yellow for a moment. Then the colors meld together and settle on a dullish orange.

"Whoa," Hank says, startled.

Connor looks up, meeting Hank's eyes. "What's wrong?" he asks. The LED clears from its watery orange to a strong yellow.

"Your thingy," says Hank, gesturing loosely at Connor's head with a finger, "turned orange for a sec there. Never seen that before."

"Oh?" Connor lightly touches a hand to his temple. "I'm not reading any glitches in my systems. Maybe your eyes were playing tricks on you." Hank actually considers that as true for a moment, until Connor glances at him again and smirks to show he's teasing.

"Oh, right, sure," Hank scoffs, "blame my old man eyes."

Connor's smirk widens into a bemused grin. He goes back to his computer and his emphatic typing. "How about using those old man eyes for getting some work done, Lieutenant?"

"Yeah yeah yeah," Hank replies with a dismissive wave. He pulls over a file that had been resting untouched on his desk while he'd zoned out, thinking of mood rings. He tries to focus, but occasionally his gaze will wander up to the LED, hoping to catch it glowing a soft orange. But it just keeps flipping from one primary color to the next: red yellow blue, red yellow blue, red yellow blue, blue, blue...

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Hank was once considered one of the top detectives in the city, maybe even the state. He knows he's let things slide in the past couple of years, but he'd like to think he's on his way to getting all his eggs back in the basket, as it were. He's working on reclaiming that title, shrugging back into the reputation like a well-worn, if moth-bitten, coat. And a big part of being a good detective, let alone a great one, is having keen observational skills—contrary to Connor's snide remark.

He has, admittedly, been having some fun with that comment. Oh, is this a beer and not pop? he'd said one day, affecting innocence in the face of Connor's chiding. You can't be mad at an old man like me for making that mistake; I'm practically blind, remember? Snarking at Connor was always worth it, even when he hit Hank over the head with an empty paper towel tube with a thwap!

Petty jabs aside, Hank does still have fairly sharp eyes that he's come to rely on heavily in his line of work, which is why he's certain he didn't imagine the color shift of the LED. It's also why he's officially on the lookout for any other off-brand colors, taking on the task like he has to comb through details in a top-priority case.

Truthfully, he should be using that energy and dedication for his actual cases, but this is way more fun. Ever since he started getting past his misguided hatred of androids, he's gained a healthy curiosity about them, especially in context of the rA9 virus. He may be no tech genius, but his interest is motivated twofold: firstly, he appreciates being able to understand the how's and why’s of something, professional logician that he is; and secondly, if he's going to have an android for a partner, it just seems proper to make the effort. It also means he has more reason to look at Connor, which is never any skin off his back.

Connor has noticed Hank's sudden fixation on his LED, obviously. Hank may be a good detective through years of hard-earned experience, but even that couldn't top the scientific precision instilled in Connor. That one could find the correct needle in a stack of needles without fail. Hank was sure Connor could catch a fly with his eyelashes, Aeon Flux-style, if he wanted. And anyway, it wasn't like he was trying to be particularly secretive about it. He openly stared to the point of making even an android twitchy under the scrutiny—or maybe it was preening. Connor sure did like to fluff up his feathers.  

Still, despite all his unabashed ogling, he hadn't been able to catch any more instances of non-regulation color shifts, except for maybe once. Hank was sure he'd seen it swim orange when Reed was being an absolute fucking pill one afternoon, taking his bad mood out on Hank. He didn't really give a shit about it, but it always bothered Connor when Reed was, as he put it, "out of line." Hank knows he's the same way when it comes to Connor, so he just lets it happen. It's sorta sweet, anyway.

So his LED was flickering yellow and red, like he was gearing up to say something, and Hank wasn't positive because he'd been humoring Reed's goading—it'd been a slow and boring day before then, what can he say—but he thought he caught the colors blend into that washy orange again, though stronger this time, brighter, more definitively orange. But then Hank called Reed a rat bastard and dismissed him with a handwave, having had his fill of amusement, and the LED blinked back to an even blue, so he hadn't gotten an opportunity to comment on it.

Other than that mostly unsure case, there hasn't been anything else for days. It was getting to where Hank was starting to begrudgingly wonder if Connor had, in fact, been right. But like hell he was going to say that, so he continued his silent observation, hoping for a break.

On a Thursday evening after dinner, Hank says, "So I was thinkin'…"

"Were you?" Connor cuts in from where he’s loading the dishwasher. "What a noteworthy event."

"Y'know," grouses Hank, narrowing his eyes, "I've appreciated that virus helping you develop a sense of humor so you can understand just how funny I am. Not so appreciative when it's directed at me."

Connor shoots a glance over his shoulder. "So you're saying you have a monopoly on sarcastic remarks."

"Duh."

Connor laughs. “I’ll be sure to keep that in mind,” he says. Hank shakes his head, muttering insults about technology run rampant. Connor starts the dishwasher and wipes his hands off on a towel before walking over to the table. "What were you thinking, Hank?"

Hank waits until Connor sits down to say, "We should do something this weekend.” Connor quirks a questioning eyebrow; they usually go on little weekend dates when they have the time and energy. Hank elaborates, “Not just go see a movie or whatever. Somethin' different, like a museum, or, or… Hell, I dunno. Take a day trip somewhere, get outta Detroit for once."

Sumo has wandered over to sit under the table, putting his big head on Connor's lap. Connor looks up from scratching behind Sumo's ears, his eyes brightening in interest. "Why?" he asks curiously.

Hank shrugs. "Case load's pretty light right now, so I doubt we'll be called in for anything pressing. May as well take advantage of it. Gift horse an' all that."

"Really? You’d go to a museum?”

"Yeah, why not? I like to ‘learn’ or whatever." He does air-quotes around learn just to make Connor snort. Hank smiles. “So, whaddya think?”

"Hmm..." Connor spends a moment just petting Sumo, staring into his big brown eyes. Hank tries to covertly dig his phone out of his back pocket. Connor looks up, starting, "Actually—" right as Hank manages to get his camera app open, leaning over the side of the table to get a good angle. The phone makes a loud, tinny shutter noise. Connor blinks. "Did you just take a picture of me?"

"Yeah," Hank replies blithely, unashamed. He pulls it up for them to both look at. Connor is looking up past the camera lens at Hank, his mouth open mid-word and slightly tilted up at the corners, Sumo's huge head resting on his legs. It is, like all pictures of Connor, heart-wrenchingly, tooth-achingly adorable. Hank would make it his phone background in a blink if it weren't already a photo of the two of them, faces mushed together, because Connor had wanted to try taking a selfie for the first time. It was maybe embarrassing, but Hank was, beneath it all, a huge fuckin' sap.

"Wait a sec..." Something about the picture catches his eye. Hank brings the phone closer to his face. It looks like… He turns the screen toward Connor. "Your thingy's green in this!"

Connor peers at the phone. His face is mostly calm and controlled, but there are little tells in the way his eyes are moving, and how his mouth dips. Hank has gotten really good at reading Connor's microexpressions. This one says: I know Hank is right and I don't want him to be right because it means I was wrong and I'm ALWAYS supposed to be right. It's one of Hank's favorites. So he isn't surprised when Connor finally says, "Yes, it is."

“Ha!" Hank exclaims. He has no sense of propriety or modesty whatsoever, especially when it comes to one-upping Connor. "Told you I wasn’t hallucinating.” Hank settles back in his chair, crossing his arms with a self-satisfied grin. “I caught somethin’ even your state-of-the-art techno witchcraft didn’t. Humans ain’t obsolete after all.”

“Congratulations,” Connor deadpans, face falling comically flat. “Do you want a prize to commemorate this historic moment?”

“Shit, I’ll take a pat on the back.”

Connor rolls his eyes. “I’ll do you one better,” he says, and leans forward to kiss Hank.

“Goodness gracious, how kind,” says Hank, smiling.

"That's me: ever charitable." Hank snorts. Connor asks, "So what's your working hypothesis about all this?"

Hank loves that Connor asked that, and he loves even more that that's how he phrased it. He was automatically approaching it like it was an official investigation, just like Hank had been treating it. They were a couple of assholes that couldn't leave their work at work; at least they were in it together. "Well, your little thing there shows your, like, state of being or whatever, right? Blue for stable, yellow for processing, red for 'things are fucked and I don't know what to do about it!'" Connor, who had been nodding along agreeably, suddenly scowls, making Hank laugh loudly. God forbid it ever be implied Connor doesn't know what to do about something. "What I'm thinkin' is that this is just another effect of the virus. You're starting to appreciate things in a new way, and that's being interpreted into new emotions, new thoughts that don't fit neatly into those three categories. Right? So maybe it's just another way your system is compensating for new, uh, stimuli and experiences and all that."

Connor hums, seeming to think about it. "That makes sense to me. So you believe that as I begin to deviate further, exposing myself to a wider range of emotion, my LED's spectrum will widen to match that?" Hank shrugs. They only had two instances of it so far—maybe three, counting the incident with Reed—which wasn't really much evidence to base a theory on. It was interesting to consider though. "Didn't you say it displayed orange before? What emotion could that have been?"

"I'd hazard that's good ol' fashioned frustration." There weren't many emotions someone could feel toward work and Gavin Reed.

"If that's the case, I imagine you'll be seeing that a lot more since it's a feeling I experience with alarming frequency around you."

"Ouch!" Hank laughs.

"And green?"

"Well, what would you say you were feeling when I took that pic?"

"Um…" Connor's brow draws down. "Positive… anticipation?"

"Are you trying to say 'excited,' you goofy android?"

"How am I supposed to know what I'm trying to describe when I've never had to describe it before, you 'goofy' human?" Connor frowns. Hank laughs softly, saying alright, alright, placating.

“Well, anyhoo, your forehead's funky discoshow aside—" Connor glares at him.  "—let's go back to thinking about this weekend. We can talk about that stuff later.”

Connor looks down at Sumo, stroking his ears. Hank resists the urge to take another picture. "I've actually been wanting to go to a forest preserve," he says after a minute. "Detroit may be famous for its tech advancements, but Michigan has so much nature, and I haven't had much chance to see any of it. I'd really like to take a good long walk." He closes his eyes, maybe imagining a dirt trail through miles of woods. His LED goes from serene blue to lime green when he opens his eyes again. "Also, we could take Sumo. I'm sure he'd enjoy new trees to investigate."

Hank would've taken him absolutely anywhere at all, and he chooses a forest preserve. And not only that, he thought to include the dog. Hank feels drunk on happy.

"Sounds good to me," he says. God knows he could stand to breathe some fresh air for once. Hank gives Sumo a vigorous headrub. "Whaddya think, buddy? Wanna expand your territory some?"

Sumo barks happily, slobbering all over Connor's knee.

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"You doin' alright, sweetheart?" Hank asks, voice caught just above a whisper. "You like that?"

Connor nods once, tense. His face is tipped down toward Hank, eyes squeezed shut, mouth hanging open. He moves in tight circles in Hank's lap, arms wrapped around his shoulders, grasping at his skin. Hank holds him close with one arm. His other hand is buried in the open panel on the back of Connor's neck. Hank drags hot fingers down the length of one wire, slippery with thirium, and Connor jolts. Hank does it again, and Connor's moan comes out frayed, spiking like crackling electricity.

"Alright, babe..." mumbles Hank. His heart is pounding a tattoo against his ribs from seeing Connor so wrecked. "C'mon, c'mon..."

The LED flutters between yellow and orange before quickly cycling to the bold red that means he's close. Connor's back curves under Hank's palm, head tipping back. Hank presses a kiss to a freckle on the arcing column of his throat and runs the very edge of his nail against the thickest wire. Connor gasps a fizzling note and gives a full-body convulsion, five fingers scratching rough at Hank's scalp, the other five pushing deep bruises into his shoulder.

"Shit," Connor grits out, a shudder running up his spine. Then, gradually, his body starts relax, untensing beneath Hank's fingers. Hank quickly—gentle and careful as hell, but as fast as possible—pulls his hand from the tangle of wires in Connor's neck to take a second to change positions, lowering Connor, who has gone ridiculously pliant, to the mattress. He readjusts and presses in close, gripping the sheets in one hand and cradling Connor's head with the other. Connor says oh, Hank, so quietly, and hitches his legs up around Hank's back. Hank dips his head, sweaty hair spilling over Connor's face, and finishes. He thinks he says Connor's name. His breath comes in wet, heaving waves.

For something that pushes his body to maximum overdrive everytime, Hank muses blearily, this shit really is keeping him young.

Connor sinks into the pillows, sated to the point of practically purring, while Hank ties up the condom and drops it in the bedside trash. As he settles back on the bed, Hank catches the LED flickering. He pauses to watch, leaning on one arm on his side. Usually, it blinks right back to blue when Connor's done and comfortable. This time, though, it doesn't. Instead, the red briefly wavers before beginning to cycle, gradually lightening with each turn it takes around the circle. He focuses on it, deeply fascinated, until it finally stops on a color and stays.

"Hank," Connor sighs reverently, his eyes half-closed. He reaches up to tuck strands of grey hair behind Hank's ear. The sheets are painted in soft pink light, haloing Connor's head.

"Jesus," Hank mutters, and means it, cupping a hand around Connor's face to thumb at the LED. It presses a rose blush to his skin. He's never been particularly religious but he might be having a moment. This has to be what heaven looks like: his lover— his partner— his best friend, laying against a cloud of pink and gazing up at him with a mouth shimmering wet and dark, dark eyes. Has to be, has to be, has to be, he thinks in time with his thrumming heart. Hank may fucking convert.

Connor smiles dreamily and says, "Will you come here?" and again Hank thinks Jesus as he lays down and takes Connor in his arms. He smells faintly of Hank's coconut body wash; androids don't need to shower, but Connor likes the sensation, he says. He likes the routine of getting up and washing himself clean to get ready for the day. Combing his hair, ironing his shirt. Things people do because they have to, he does because it’s fun. Strange guy. Hank can’t get enough of him.

"You're so beautiful," whispers Hank. He kisses the crown of Connor's head. "You're gorgeous."

"So are you," Connor says softly, tilting his face up to nose at Hank's cheek. Hank grumbles in dissent and Connor murmurs yes, you are against his skin. He pecks kisses at Hank’s frowning mouth until it turns into a smile. "Goodnight, beautiful, gorgeous Hank. Sleep well."

Hank breathes a laugh. "Night, honey." He kisses Connor's forehead, then slips into sleep, pillowed in dreamy pink.

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The pink starts to make a frequent appearance after that—a lot more than any of the other secondary colors that have developed. Hank is, admittedly, letting it inflate his ego. It's deeply gratifying to know when you're doing something your partner likes without a shadow of a doubt, and he doesn't think he can be blamed for letting it go to his head given how often the thing turns pink now.

Though sometimes Hank will catch it glowing rosily at work, which is obviously super distracting. Once he had looked up from his computer to give his eyes a break. Connor was tip-tapping away at break-neck speed, as always—but then he noticed the LED.  

what are u thinking abt? Hank had texted Connor. It wasn't really something he wanted to call the office's attention to. ur things pink

Just you, was the reply. Connor glanced at Hank for the glimmer of a second with a small smile on his face before turning back to work, and the pink blipped to blue like nothing had happened. Damn androids and their unshakable efficiency, even when their minds wander. Hank hadn't been able to focus properly for the rest of that afternoon.

But the broadening spectrum of colors that are matching up with Connor's more nuanced emotions has Hank wondering about how this may affect the way Connor navigates the world, so one day he asks, "Have you ever thought about popping that thing off?"

Connor tilts his head, eyebrows quirking up slightly. "No. Why would I?"

"I dunno. Makes you a little easy to read."

"Is that a bad thing?"

"Well, no," Hank replies. "But most people like a little... privacy for their feelings and shit, y'know? Don't want everyone to know what they're feeling right when they're feeling it."

"I have nothing to hide," Connor says easily. "People can think what they want about what they see; it doesn't affect me. And it isn't like humans are exactly subtle with their emotions. I can usually tell what you're feeling based on facial expression and body language. I see it as something similar."

"That's true..." Hank nods a little, stroking his beard. But he can't help press curiously, "So you really never thought about removing it? Going full human-passing?"

Connor gives him a level look. "I'm not ashamed or embarrassed about being an android, nor do I feel awkward about being easily identified as one. Some androids choose to remove their LED, and that's their decision as autonomous beings. But personally, to borrow a phrase you often like to use: I couldn't care less."

Hank raises his eyebrows, impressed as he always is with Connor's strong sense of self. He supports androids that want to blend in, whether for safety or for aesthetics, but he's always been inspired by Connor's steadfast security in who he is and where he came from.

"Damn straight," Hank finally says. "Hell, you know I like ya just the way you are."

Connor's expression softens, mouth curving up just a tiny bit. "In case it's unclear from whatever color the LED is currently showing, the feeling is mutual."

Hank rolls his eyes at Connor's cheekiness, but smiles back all the same.

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Hank idly runs his thumb over the knuckles of Connor's hand, listening to him describe in great detail his analysis of the movie they had just watched. It had been some horror film from Hank's younger days, one of the rare ones that had a good plot, solid characters—something actually worth analyzing. Connor is going to town on it, picking apart the subtle metaphors, the overall allegory of the film, the role each character played, and Hank is paying attention. He's paying attention. But he's also looking at the way Hank's hoodie is sliding off of Connor's shoulder just a little, and how his hair is mussed and out of place. He's listening to the sound of Connor's voice, the rises and falls in his tone. He's watching the LED strobe through green and blue and yellow as Connor remembers something else.

Nights like this make him glad the chamber decided to spin empty again and again. Thank god for a broken window, he often thinks. Thank god for a face full of showerwater. Thank god for a man that doesn't know how to quit.

Mid-sentence, Connor's eyes start to do that freaky rapid-blink that mean a connection is being made on his internal systems. He looks away, knowing it makes Hank a little uncomfortable. "Sorry, Markus is messaging me..." Hank keeps rubbing Connor's hand, waiting.

Then Connor turns toward the TV and, with a pointed blink, changes the channel to the news. The headline on the bottom of the screen reads, Not over yet: protests end in casualties on anniversary of android revolution. Hank’s stomach drops, all the quiet coziness of the evening dissolving in an instant as he takes in what’s on the screen. Connor gently pulls his hand away from Hank's, pressing his own together in his lap. Hank looks over at him.

"Even after all this time," Connor mutters. His gaze is fixed on the TV screen. Hank doesn't know if he should say something or stay quiet. He doesn't know what would help.

"It..." Hank starts, unsure. When Connor finally turns toward him, he continues, "It was always going to be a long and hard journey, Connor. Things that matter always are. People are bad at dealing with change.” It's a pitiful thing to say, nowhere near enough. He knows it.

"But why?" Connor asks sharply. His LED abruptly brightens to a blazing red. "Why? "

It’s a good question. Hank doesn't know why. Years of trauma sit under his nailbeds and line the curves of his face and rest in a locked drawer in the kitchen, and he still doesn’t know why. He wishes—desperately, painfully, viciously—that he had an answer that would clear Connor’s expression. But he doesn’t. "I don't know," he says, quiet and honest. "I don't know." He itches to hold Connor's hand again.

Connor stares at Hank for a long moment. Then he looks back at the TV, still playing the news, and his expression folds in on itself. He looks down at his hands. The crimson light of the LED darkens to maroon, then the color of dried blood, then black.

"I think I need to be alone,” Connor says. His voice is very even. Hank frowns, hating that he can’t think of a single fucking thing to say. “Or go see Markus,” Connor adds after a minute. He looks up at Hank. His face is an unreadable mask, like when they had first met. “I’m going to go see Markus.”

Hank feels a overwhelming swell of gratitude toward Markus. He infinitely prefers the thought of Connor with a friend than Connor by himself. He doesn’t tell him that. “'Course,” Hank says. “Let me know when you get there, would'ja?" Be safe, he thinks.

Connor presses his palm to Hank's cheek. His LED is a grim circle against his temple. Hank covers his hand briefly before Connor retracts it, standing up. Hank doesn’t turn around to watch Connor leave. He hears Connor go into the bedroom, probably to change his clothes. After a couple minutes, the front door closes with a soft click, and then Hank is alone with the measured, emotionless voices of newscasters.

Hank sighs deeply and rubs a hand down his face. He thinks about mood rings turning stark black in the winter cold, and a bone-deep chill that can’t be warded off. He thinks about the careful blankness of Connor’s face. He thinks about the word grief fitting into the drawer lock like a key.

Hank turns off the TV and sits quietly in the dark.

* * *

When Connor had returned home later that night and slipped into bed beside Hank, his LED was still flat black. Hank had only registered that because he had, for one delirious moment as he was jostled awake, thought Connor was human. The jolt of anxiety that shot through him had him awake in a flash.

"Connor?" he asked, voice sleep-thick and rough. He reached out blindly in the dark, searching for connection. Connor caught his hand and held it, then shuffled close, laying his head on Hank's chest. Hank brought his other arm up to cradle him closer.

"Go back to sleep," was all Connor said. But at that point Hank had remembered why Connor was coming back so late, recalling the newscast and Markus contacting him, and his mind was suddenly filled with questions he wanted to ask: How was Markus? What did he have to say? Were your other friends there? Are they okay? Are they planning something? Do you feel any better? The lack of light emanating from the LED probably answered his last question.

He felt heavy with powerlessness, but he was still comforted to know that Connor has people in his life he can go to. Hank considered himself Connor's touchstone: when he feels adrift and unsure, he can always turn to Hank for reassurance, guidance, whatever he needs. He was a cement pillar of support. But he doesn't have all the answers. He wouldn't pretend to be able to fill a role he had no point of reference for.

He rubbed circles on Connor's back, wanting to communicate calm and safety. I'm here, I'm here. Maybe he wouldn't be able to understand the depth of his grief, but he would always be Connor's constant, the way Connor had become his constant. He would make sure of that.

It was only when Connor's LED blinked from black to orange to vibrant yellow, and seemed like that's where it would stay for the night, that Hank tried to quiet his racing thoughts and let himself fall back asleep. He dreamed of walking into the Manfred mansion to find Connor and his friends there, all of them smiling, all of their LEDs glimmering a bright, brilliant blue.

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"I got you something," Hank says one evening when he walks into the living room to join Connor, who is sitting on the couch reading a book. Sumo is sprawled out at Connor's feet, dozing.

"Really?" He makes room for Hank on the cushions, putting his book on the coffee table. When Hank gets comfortable, Connor scoots in to lean against him. "Is there a special occasion that I forgot?"

"Like you'd ever forget anything," Hank scoffs. He takes a little bag made of soft, translucent blue material out of his hoodie pocket and hands it to Connor. Connor glances at Hank in question before pulling the tiny drawstrings loose to open it, overturning the bag so whatever lays inside falls onto his palm.

"A ring?"  It’s a simple little thing, entirely black save for a hazy line of blue running around the middle. Connor stares at it silently for a long moment, his LED cycling yellow, turning and turning. When he looks up, his brown eyes are bright. He asks in a careful, soft voice, "Hank, are you proposing?"

Hank had anticipated Connor drawing that conclusion, to the point that he had considered just going through with it. But he'd ultimately decided against it; he had other ideas for how and when to propose. And, quirky and cute as it may be, he didn't want to propose with a damn mood ring, of all things.

So he says gently, "Not yet, honey." Connor's eyes widen fractionally, and the LED darkens to orange before leaping to green. Hank smiles a little, knowing Connor picked up on the insinuation. "Consider it the engagement ring before the engagement ring, if you want. Pre-engagement. The Christmas Eve Eve of rings." He rubs the back of his head, feeling somewhat bashful about it.

The green gives way to contented blue—but then it brightens and brightens and brightens, lightening with each turn it takes around the cycle. When it finally settles, the LED glows a shade so pale it almost looks white, opalescent and radiant. “Okay,” says Connor, again in that careful and soft voice. “I’ll consider it exactly like that.”

Hank lowers his hand from his neck and rests it on Connor's knee. “Okay,” Hank echoes. This suddenly feels like a monumental moment that he had not properly prepared for. Since the very beginning, every tiny step he's taken with Connor has felt like walking over the edge of a cliff; loving Connor is a constant vertigo of falling without end. It's both terrifying and somehow peaceful, finding a home within the freefall. There's a weird sense of security in expecting the unexpected and receiving exactly that, everytime. Hank clears his throat. "Anyway, this is just a random gift. Do you know what it is?"

Connor takes it between forefinger and thumb and brings it close to his face to examine. "A ring containing a thermochromic element that allows it to change colors based upon the temperature of the finger of the wearer. The idea is that each color represents the wearer's current mood." Connor shoots Hank an expression just this side of wry. "You got me a mood ring?"

"It was a bitch to find, I'll tell ya that. Luckily, we millennials sure like to live in the past, whether we were born then or not." It took weeks to track down, and even more time to fight with a seller into letting it go for a somewhat reasonable price, but goddammit if Hank's middle name wasn't 'Stubborn.' "They've been kinda on my mind recently because of..." He gestures to Connor's temple.

"Do you think it'll change for me?"

"Put it on and we'll find out."

Connor slides it onto his left ring finger. Seeing it there makes Hank's throat tighten a little. Soon, he thinks. The ring stays placid blue for a long, uneventful minute. Then, at a snail's pace, it gradually darkens to deep blue.

"What does this color mean?"

Hank digs the color guide out from his pocket. "Looks indigo, huh?" Connor nods, so Hank reads, "Indigo: deeply relaxed, happy, lovestruck."

"Sounds right to me," Connor says. His LED has turned bright pink. "Thank you, Hank. I'll cherish it." Both of them admire the look of it for a few moments, an eye-catching contrast of dark color against Connor's pale skin. Hank rubs circles into Connor's knee with his thumb. Sumo snuffles at their feet. Then Connor looks up and says, "For the record, when you do finally ask, you already know what my answer will be."

Hank's heart stumbles over itself. "A very strong maybe?" he jokes, trying to cover the change in his heartrate. But no doubt Connor had already caught it.

"A maybe, a perhaps. A possibly, if you're lucky." Connor takes Hank's face between both his hands and tries to kiss him, but it doesn't really work because they're both smiling sort of stupidly. The ring bumps cold and foreign against Hank's cheek, and he relishes in the sensation of it. Connor moves back just slightly, their noses touching. His eyes are so beautiful. "But you better hurry up, or I might beat you to it."

"I'd like to see you try,” he says with a grin, and pulls Connor in for another kiss. Hank feels filled to the brim with bright color, positive he must be glowing with it, too: pink and green and indigo blue, blue, blue…