[The loss of Connor’s grasp is strangely dissatisfying, but to be expected given how grounding it had been just moments before. Markus wonders if he’ll get used to the sensation of this specific sense, of touch; easily the most prevalent, yet one that he’s growing not to mind terribly as the days run their course. But they’re still close, and when Connor speaks of the future — of everything he had wondered, but was never told of, the passage of a handful of days — Markus places his hands back in his lap. Fingers gently curl around his knees, but he doesn’t straighten his posture; would prefer to remain leaning close, as if they were trading lazy secrets between them.

He goes quiet for a moment, formulating a reply. Eager to learn, but it’s the kind of willingness that’s riddled with anxiety, filling it with holes. He can’t guess at what Connor would tell him, but Markus knows that he could easily define what he hears into successes or failures. Doubt does live in him, sleeping acrimoniously, not for the reasons that the other android might refer to. Having nothing to do with the lies colliding into him during their fight -- all having to do with he weight of responsibility, and the question of whether he could carry it with strength and grace, or simply break under its pressure instead, watching lives and efforts collapse all around him.

He inhales deeply, panging discomfort around his ribs. And with the exhale come his words, coupled with a nod.]

Of course you have my permission. And I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want to know. But…

[He looks at him, searching. He finds he can garner so little, whereas their empathy bond had revealed so much.]

You don’t have to tell me out of guilt over what happened. There’s no obligation hanging over your head like a sword, Connor.