He lets R take it, reflecting that with those clumsy stiff fingers it feels more like feeding an apple slice to a horse than it does holding something out to another person.

He tries to imagine R alive, that pale skin flushed with pink, those creepy irises settled into a living color in eyeballs that focus correctly when he looks at someone. It's difficult, and Howard gives up on the idea - if he thinks of R's chest pushing with breath, he forgets to fix the smell. If he imagines R grinning, it's not a living R but a corpse R with a dash of life sprinkled over it.

He can't use the pieces of R he knows and conjure up a decent prediction. You can make it move, you can make it talk, but you can't make it look alive. Part of Howard's excited to see what becomes of this. Part of him's scared.

Maybe R, with a fast mouth and a taste for cheese and filet mignon, with lush brown hair and sparkling green eyes, wouldn't have much time for a scrawny rat kid who collects stuff from dumpsters. Maybe he'd be too busy wooing girls like Julie - hell, maybe without needing to rely on Julie's endless patience for a shot at girlfriendhood, he'd think she was below his standards. How much of R is who R actually is and how much of it is an adaptation to a shitty situation?

For that matter, couldn't Howard wonder the same about himself?

"Right. Hold on, I don't want you spilling it all down your chin..." Howard reaches over and unstraps R's muzzle, the same way he did back in that closet, only this time with the aid of daylight. His fingers brush R's cheekbones as he pulls the muzzle away. He holds the coffee out.

"Careful, it's hot. You know not to get your hopes up, right?"

Probably too late.