"You look good too, by the way. Very uh... what's the word I'm looking for. Dapper?" Not that he'd expect less. Connor would never let himself look bad. Even in Hank's slobby clothes, he somehow manages to wear them with some sort of fashionable flare that either comes from perfect android physique, a sense of easy poise, or some other attribute Hank reads into Connor constantly.

The thing he's noticing most, though, is Connor didn't fully restrain his hair. He has it in the most casual formal style he's ever seen.

Hank's smile becomes a little tighter, though, in mild agreement to the thought. Yeah. It feels like they're being mocked. Both a promise for what's to come and really marrying that idea of the old plague. Either to get new people to buy the idea or to keep a state of fear of the past going.

But he tries not to think about it, because they just have a few minutes before Connor will have to make a hasty retreat. So he closes his eyes and leans in enough to press the side of his head against Connor's, tilting so the mask isn't too uncomfortable, letting them be close for a quick breath before the nightmare begins anew.