“He had my eyes, you know.” Hank chuckled and raised his flask to his lips. Connor had his head resting on Hank's shoulder, hand absently tracing up and down the dip of Hank's spine.
They were sitting on the hood of Hank's crappy sedan, not worried about denting it. Hank smelled like whiskey and Sumo and that familiar smoky scent that was all Hank. It made Connor think of warm nights wrapped in the man's arms and long car rides and stolen kisses in the hallways at work. Connor turned to bury his face in the comforting scent. He smiled and changed his mental image of Hank's son to have his father's icy blue irises. The ones that change color like a gift shop mood ring; getting darker and greyer or lighter and bluer as often as the sky changes.
“I'm glad he didn't have his mom's eyes.” Hank reminisced, “She had ugly fuckin’ eyes.”
Connor had seen pictures of Hank's ex wife and knew that this was an exaggeration caused by emotional projection. The woman had gentle light brown eyes that most people would find attractive and enticing, and Connor had originally rationalized that Cole had inherited them, as they were dominant to Hank's baby blues.
“I'm glad I didn't have to see her eyes every time I kissed my son goodnight.” Hank pulled Connor in tighter with the arm around the brunet's waist. As if on cue, Connor hugged him closer too and nuzzled into his shoulder for emotional support. “I would have loved them anyway.” Hank whispered.
Connor imagined the day that Cole died. He imagined Hank sitting beside his bed, holding his small hand in his own large, rough ones that Connor had come to love so much. He imagined Hank watching his own eyes fall closed, knowing they would never open again. Then Connor was reminded of something he had always known in the deepest, darkest sections of his mind palace: A part of Hank himself died that day when Cole did. Cole was made partly of Hank, after all, and he took that part with him.
Connor frowned at the thought that the Hank he was holding wasn't his full self. That there was a piece of him that Connor would never get to have and touch and love. A part of Hank that would never know Connor, never know how much Connor loved him. There was a part of Hank that Connor would never see go to kindergarten and middle School and high school. Two hands that Connor would never hold. Two ocean eyes Connor would never look into when he kissed them goodnight.
Connor kissed Hank's shoulder, silently hoping that somehow, Cole could feel it too. He knew it was an irrational hope, but Hank had already made sure to let Connor know, many times over, how irrational the android's love for him was. He didn't give it much thought anymore.
“Con, you're crying.” Hank lifted Connor's face by his chin and fixed him with a concerned frown. Connor brought his hand up and wiped at the saline tears, surprised he hadn't felt them. Hank wiped them gently with his sleeve and kissed his cheeks where they had been, whispering the words of comfort that Connor should be whispering to him. But Connor let him, dozing off against Hank's chest as he ran his fingers through his lover's soft synthetic hair.