For a minute Hank just frowns, trying to figure out how the conversation got to where it just went. He'd asked if Connor was okay, then Connor told'd him he wasn't actively dying, which - well, not what Hank fucking asked, exactly, but he's grateful enough just to hear from Connor at all that he'll take it. He's tired enough, too, that he doesn't really feel like pushing, and he thinks about that for about half a second. Nothing'll tire a guy out like sitting on his fat ass doing fuck all, he figures, and then leans over on the armrest, trying to settle in and focus on rolling with whatever it is Connor's trying to do here.
u kno most shops r closed now tho rite? even if they werent its a work phone theres no way n hell fowler wld let me even fart in the stations general direction atm let alone push thu paperwork 4 me 2 get new shit
Hank pulls a face as he reads back over his message. Well. There it is. The first time he's said it out loud, sort of, the first time outside yelling at Jeffrey about it that he's admitted he's not allowed back in there. It's- It feels-
Well, that's the good thing about texting, the thing that's always made him kind of uncomfortable. What it feels like doesn't matter, whatever his face does when he thinks about it doesn't matter, because what he's typing out there is all Connor gets, and that's fine. It's the communication of the future, texting - or the past, depending on if the one thing some theoretical person's figured out how to do on this fancy high tech interface is to turn autocorrect off.
Years out and he might of finally managed to get kicked off the force and, for the few minutes Connor can probably manage to pull himself away from safeguarding the entire android world to talk to him, Hank's not going to think about it.
Shit, it's probably been a minute since he said that. He should of followed it up with something, kind of change the subject.
ys my phone so important nyway who u thinks goin 2 surveil me
no subject
gettin a new phone i guessFor a minute Hank just frowns, trying to figure out how the conversation got to where it just went. He'd asked if Connor was okay, then Connor told'd him he wasn't actively dying, which - well, not what Hank fucking asked, exactly, but he's grateful enough just to hear from Connor at all that he'll take it. He's tired enough, too, that he doesn't really feel like pushing, and he thinks about that for about half a second. Nothing'll tire a guy out like sitting on his fat ass doing fuck all, he figures, and then leans over on the armrest, trying to settle in and focus on rolling with whatever it is Connor's trying to do here.
u kno most shops r closed now tho rite? even if they werent its a work phone theres no way n hell fowler wld let me even fart in the stations general direction atm let alone push thu paperwork 4 me 2 get new shitHank pulls a face as he reads back over his message. Well. There it is. The first time he's said it out loud, sort of, the first time outside yelling at Jeffrey about it that he's admitted he's not allowed back in there. It's- It feels-
Well, that's the good thing about texting, the thing that's always made him kind of uncomfortable. What it feels like doesn't matter, whatever his face does when he thinks about it doesn't matter, because what he's typing out there is all Connor gets, and that's fine. It's the communication of the future, texting - or the past, depending on if the one thing some theoretical person's figured out how to do on this fancy high tech interface is to turn autocorrect off.
Years out and he might of finally managed to get kicked off the force and, for the few minutes Connor can probably manage to pull himself away from safeguarding the entire android world to talk to him, Hank's not going to think about it.
Shit, it's probably been a minute since he said that. He should of followed it up with something, kind of change the subject.
ys my phone so important nyway who u thinks goin 2 surveil me