[Hank's expression is one with three different emotions sharing space in it; he's unhappy, he's guilty, he's maybe a little bit bitter. Most of that doesn't make it into his voice; only hints of that last one, easier to hear if it's being looked for.]

Yeah. You can go right back to your normal processing whatever, if you're feeling better. There're no errors in your software. Just me. And now that we've got the problem figured out, you don't have to worry about that.

[Hank tilts his head back, staring at the ceiling and trying to catalogue all the things he should be feeling. Temperature, probably - of the floor, the air. All the cuts and bruises. The bottle in his hands. Probably other shit. The longer this goes on, maybe the more there'll be that he starts forgetting. He swallows. His voice is careful, still; kind, if you overlook those hints of whatever else might be floating around there in it.]

You're okay, Connor. You're gonna be just fine.