By 5:00 in the evening, the Phelps house was almost always filled with the same types of odors. Some nights it was meatballs, other nights it was pizza—but either way, an aroma of takeout food would stain whatever room it had been placed in and would likely not be fading out until the next day. Even then, Connor could've still sworn that the kitchen table still smelled like the burritos and nachos they'd eaten for dinner the previous week, and maybe even a tint of the waffles from this morning were there as well.
But tonight, those smells would more than likely be replaced by the Chinese food that was currently scattered about the table. Though, scattered could be a slight misconception—nah, every single box of food and plastic bag had been ripped open and apart, some tipped over, few standing. It nearly resembled a crime scene now.
And even though Heather had told him to set the table, Connor could see that many of his foster siblings didn't seem to care at all for using a plate or cutlery. Most of them had grabbed the food up with their hands and were shoving it into their mouths, noodles and sauce dripping out from their fingers onto the table. Most of the food was gone, and the only thing that looked to be left was one lone wonton that had managed to survive the onslaught of grabby and grubby hands.
Connor's own plate looked like it had barely been touched, other than some pieces of food that appeared to have been nibbled on. He was out of tune with his surroundings, head resting against his propped-up hand as he just continued to poke at a dumpling with one of his chopsticks. He couldn't will himself to pick it up, nor take a bite...his stomach was recoiling at the very thought of having to do so.
He just wasn't sure how Joe and Heather could consider this, or any of the other takeout they'd had a good meal; he could only figure they thought it was an easy way to give the kids a meal, and get them out their hair for an hour while they ate their own meals in the living room, watching whatever game show was on the television. Well, at least, Heather was doing that—Joe had left a few minutes ago, talking on his cellphone.
Him having to spend so many evenings like this, and so many evenings having had to consume one greasy meal after another, was beginning to put a damper on Connor's appetite. He was sure he would vomit if he had to take one more bite of this crap, and he had once—which had landed him in hot water with both his foster parents. In fact, he was pretty sure they still hadn't managed to get that stain out of the carpet and had resorted to instead covering it up with a rug.
Because heaven forbid they spend any of their money on actually putting in effort to make this place look decent. Clearly that money was for spending on copious amounts of takeout food and whatever other shit they felt like buying for themselves. Maybe they'd buy the kids a few things, if they knew the social worker was coming to pay a visit, but that was only to save their own asses.
They just wanted to look good, so they could keep getting the checks every month. That's all they cared about, despite never having said it out loud; and this wasn't even the first time Connor had been in a home where his guardians cared more about the money they got than the children. He supposed he had to give Joe and Heather some credit, at least they didn't make him sleep on the couch.
But even then, the couch sounded more comfortable than having to fight for a bed every night. Maybe they didn't deserve that much credit.
"Connor?" He startled, nearly stabbing into the dumpling he'd been playing with. He turned his head up, seeing Heather standing next to him, gathering dirty plates up from the table. She jutted out her chin, gesturing at his full plate of food.
"What's with the full plate? You know how we feel about leftovers in this house."
Connor stared at her, blinking, before turning his head back to his food. He pressed his lips together, tapping the plate with his chopstick, and looked back up.
"I... guess I'm not hungry..."
Lie.
No, it wasn't.
That was a lie, Connor. You aren't supposed to lie. That's not what you were taught to do.
No, it wasn't. He wasn't lying—he really didn't feel all that hungry. At least, not for this food.
"Oh, that's it? You guess?" Heather's face scrunched, as her voice took on a mocking tone. When Connor's only response was to look at her blankly, she sighed and finished scooping up a lot of the trash from the table and pushed the stack of plates his way.
"Okay, you know what? Fine." She stuffed the trash into a plastic bag, tying it shut. "At least help me clean up, if you're going to be that way. The rest of you, go play."
As she stomped away with the bag of trash in hand and the rest of the kids dispersed from the table, Connor observed the plates she'd shoved his way. From what he could see, most of these weren't even dirty...given that most of his foster siblings had elected to using the table as their plate instead. He saw more sauce stains on the wood than the actual plates, but regardless, knew that he was still doomed to wash these dishes anyways—not that he didn't mind having to do so, it was just the fact that the only dishes that even looked remotely dirty were his, Heather's, and Joe's.
Maybe he could just shove them in the dishwasher, Heather wouldn't even care if he did.
But as he was about to do this, suddenly remember the dishwasher had been broken for nigh onto two weeks now, so he instead moved to instead setting the stack of dishes down on the kitchen counter. He scraped the bits of food from his own plate into the trashcan, which thankfully looked like Heather had bothered to empty it (as it'd accumulated a nice heap of trash over the past day), and picked the stack back up, heading over to the sink that was dismayingly full of dishes from breakfast and lunch.
Well...it looked he was going to be here awhile.
There was a temptation to go back to the boys' room and retrieve his mp3 player from the dresser—but he had to remind himself that it technically wasn't his mp3 player, and that Heather had banned him from listening to it for the rest of the day after she'd caught him listening to it that morning. He supposed he'd just have to deal with the background noise for the night and pray that the television would hopefully drown out anything annoying.
Taking a moment to first scratch at a small itch on his eye, Connor sighed, then turned on the water faucets. Rolling up the sleeves of his shirt, he poured some dish soap on a sponge (that wasn't quite clean itself, but was the only thing to clean with), and picked up a plate to scrub at. The back door opened as he did so, and Heather walked back in from presumably having taken the trash out.
She only briefly eyed what Connor was up to, and once she'd seemed satisfied, walked away and started to peruse the cabinets for something. Taking out a small bag of cat food, she went to filling up the small food bowl by the door, which in-turn summoned the cat whose tail had been so cruelly stomped upon by Connor earlier.
It started to nibble at is food, as Joe walked into the kitchen, uttering some words into his cellphone before hanging up and shoving the small device into his back pants pocket. He exhaled, running a hand through his greasy, unkempt hair, and took a seat at the kitchen table, which Heather had just begun to wipe down with a wet paper towel.
"God, what a day..." He muttered, releasing a fistful of his hair, then covered his eyes with a hand, rubbing circles into his temples. "I think I've got a migraine comin' on..."
The loud smack his hand gave off as he let it drop onto the table nearly startled Connor into dropping the glass he was rinsing off, but he stiffened and continued, but attempted a more careful grab of the next plate in the sink. Joe always complained about the noises the dishes made when they were picked up—like anyone could control that, they were all so stacked up on one another it was nearly impossible to pick one up without causing the others to crash.
"Hey...hey! Heather!" He could hear Joe giving off a whistle, turning his head back only to realize that the man was talking to Heather, and quickly went back to the dishes, swallowing hard. "I need a beer, grab me one, will ya?"
"Grab it yourself. I'm busy." Heather dryly snapped, dropping the dirty paper towel she'd been using into the trash can. Joe's brows snapped together at her abrupt reply—clearly that hadn't been the response he was expecting, given that his wife was usually so compliant to his requests. Or, more like, he expected people to be compliant to his requests, so when someone wasn't, it could catch him off guard, and very visibly too. This was one of the first things Connor had learned about him when he first came to live here.
And he also knew, that when Heather wasn't compliant with Joe's request, that he was destined to be the next person asked. He could already feel Joe's eyes on him, without looking behind him, but tried his best not to let his body language give that away, merely continuing to scrub off the fork he'd picked up.
"Hey Connor—" Whoop, there it was. That hadn't taken long. "Since your mom's being a bitch, can you grab me a beer instead?"
Resisting the urge to give a sarcastic reply, Connor heaved a small sigh out.
"Yes, Joe."
Setting the fork down with the others that he'd left drying on a dish towel, he padded over to the fridge pulling out one lone beer can out from the shelf. He hadn't quite noticed the heavy dent on the can until he was already handing it to Joe, who in-turn made a face of bemusement at the sight.
"What the fuck is this?" He turned the can over his hand, scoffing, and smacked Connor in the back of his head, nearly causing him to stumble. "What the hell are you bringin' me a dented can for, kid?"
"It—it was the only one left." He brought his hands together, tugging at his thumb as he mumbled out his words. "I'm sorry, I didn't notice."
"Whatever. Just get away from me." Another smack on the back of his head, and Connor was nearly stumbling again as he turned to go back to the sink. A "watch it, you shit" from Heather as she passed him with the broom nearly made him step on the poor cat's tail again, and he had to grab onto the kitchen counter to keep from falling over.
Closing his eyes, he forced down the lump in his throat, shaking his head, then went back to picking up another plate to wash.
He'd been at fault. He had no reason to be upset. Joe had had every right to be upset with him, it was his own fault.
Was grabbing a dented can really your fault though, Connor?
Yes, yes it had been. He should've looked first and told Joe the only can left was dented. At least then, he wouldn't have been hit for it. There wasn't any reason for him to lament on this, and besides, lamenting on this wasn't even his current priority—he had to get these dishes finished, and then maybe, he could convince Heather to let him have the mp3 player back, and he could go back to his room and try his coin trick again before he had to ready himself for the bed battle.
"—yeah it's going to be taken care of, I fuckin' told you it would be." His ears perked up as they caught on to the apparent conversation Joe had started with Heather whilst he'd been mentally berating himself. "We won't have anything to worry about, I've got it all handled."
Got what handled?
"Yeah, but—after this morning? Word is already spreading, Joe, I'm not—"
"And? Word can continue to spread, there's no way the police are going to track that shit back to me."
Police?
Track...what back to him?
No, he shouldn't be listening. This wasn't any of his business, nothing they were saying were things he should be paying attention to. He'd been taught, routinely, back at the group house, that eavesdropping was a bad thing, and anyone who did it deserved to have their ears boxed.
But then again, it wasn't exactly easy to not eavesdrop in cases like this, especially when, despite their hushed voices, both people were within earshot of him.
Though, to be fair, they probably thought he wasn't paying attention. And he didn't want to, he tried to ignore them as he rinsed off the last few plates. However, a small seed of thought insisted on pushing itself into his brain the more Joe and Heather's conversation continued—prompting him to remember both the adults' odd behavior towards him earlier, after they'd found him with the bag full of red stuff in the laundry room.
He'd tried not to think about it for the rest of the day, but it was coming back now. It was possible, that what they were talking about now, was related to that earlier incident...no, he had to stop. He couldn't think anymore on this, it wasn't right. It wasn't his business.
"—if this deal goes wrong, the police are going to start suspectin' something. You can't go back out there, again."
"I wasn't planning on it, but thanks. I'm glad you have so much faith in me." His fingers scratched at the cup he was holding at the way Joe was nearly hissing his words out. Why did they have to be talking now, did they really think he wasn't paying attention? They had to be, they weren't bright people, but they never talked about serious topics around any of the kids, let alone Connor.
"Then how—"
Shushing. He was shushing Heather now, causing Connor's blood to go cool. He was starting to get that feeling again, like when Joe had looked at him before asking him to get his beer. Somehow, he always knew when people were looking at him, even when his back was turned. He could just sense it, like he could sense their eyes on him now.
This had to be related to what had happened earlier. Why else would they be looking at him?
He sat the cup next to the others, quickly snatching an oval platter up as the sounds of chairs scratching back on the kitchen tile sounded off, implying that both Joe and Heather had gotten up from their seats. Only one pair of footsteps neared him, however, and the hot breath wafting his way suggested that it was not Heather who was standing next to him.
"Hey uh, Connor?" Connor kept his eyes trained on the platter as he scrubbed at it, not even bothering to look Joe's way. "Care to do your old man a favor?"
He didn't stop scrubbing, still not caring to look the man's way. He didn't respond either, feeling a sense of dread creep up his spine. There was something...ugly in Joe's voice, the voice that he always used when he wanted something from someone. Another thing that he'd learned was a staple of the Phelps house, during his first day there. He was all accustomed to it, by this point.
"Kid...hey, I'm talking to you!" The platter slipped out of Connor's hands as Joe roughly grabbed him by the shoulders to spin him around, shattering into a thousand pieces the minute it hit the floor. A loud gasp sounded from Heather, who jolted from her spot at the table upon witnessing this.
"You shit! That platter was a gift from my mother!" she shrieked, a clenched fist raised in the air as she stormed over but was stopped by Joe who held his arm out in front of her. She begrudgingly stepped back, clenching her jaw shut as her arm fell to her side, not before raising it back up to jab a finger Connor's way.
"I'm takin' that out of the check this month..." she hissed at him, through gritted teeth. Her finger was swatted back by Joe, who gave her a sour look. When she'd quieted, he turned back to Connor, who was stooping down to gather the broken pieces off the ground. He hadn't been asked to yet, but he figured he might as well—Heather had been ready to smack him for dropping it, and he still had no idea what it was Joe wanted to talk to him about.
He might leave, if he saw Connor doing this. He might decide Connor was already too busy to be bothered and just go out to the living room to wait for him then. He wouldn't mind that—he didn't particularly care to hear whatever he had to say. If it really had anything to do with it the laundry room incident earlier...it couldn't be good. It couldn't be anything good.
But, because luck and favor alike seemed to hate him, Joe didn't leave, and he didn't look like he was going to wait. He'd grabbed Connor by the back of his shirt, and yanked him back up on his feet, pushing him back against the kitchen counter.
"Hey, no, you worry about that later—I've got somethin' more important for you to do." He stepped back, shoving a hand into his pocket, rummaging around for a minute. Connor allowed himself a momentary glance but couldn't exactly tell what it was that Joe was trying to retrieve...though, he had a pretty good idea of what it might be.
"Now Joe, wait a minute—" Heather started, grabbing her husband by the arm, only to have him shrug her off him. He went back to rummaging in his pocket, pulling out the very same bag that Connor had discovered in the laundry pile.
"Recognize this? You found itin my laundry this morning..." He dangled the bag in front of Connor's face, a lackluster, tight smile on his lips. Like he was almost daring him to respond...to which he was about to, when Joe tossed the bag onto the counter next to him, grabbing him by the arm when he dared to look back at it.
"I had it hidden for a reason, you know." He seethed, pulling the boy close to him. "So nosey little bitches like you wouldn't find them."
"Joe, I—" Connor attempted to slip his arm free from Joe's hold, but unfortunately it was about as tight as vice. This only earned him another shove, back into the counter again.
"But, of course. I forget—you're Mr. Goody Two shoes, you have to do everything right, don't you?" Joe sneered as he stepped back, brandishing his fists. Connor noticed, and could feel his heart beginning to gallop; even if he had been through this type of scenario before, even if he said he was used to it, he still couldn't prevent himself from becoming nervous at the sight of a fist. Especially if that fist belonged to Joe Phelps, whose hands he could've sworn were made of solid iron.
He was able to calm somewhat, though, when he saw that Joe's fists had unfurled.
"Then again, I was planning on having that shit out of the house before you found it..." he muttered, scratching at the back of his head, once more forking his fingers through his hair as he spoke. "Fuck...before any of you kids found it, really..."
An uncomfortable silence filled the kitchen as Joe stopped talking. Connor swallowed hard, clasping his hands behind him, fingers intertwining.
"...because it's illegal? Isn't it?"
Why did you say that?
Why did you ask that?
He didn't know why. He didn't know why he had asked that, but it seemed like the only logical question. With how sketchy he'd seemed when he'd retrieved the bag from Connor, and how shady he'd been acting the entire day—constantly disappearing to talk on the phone and having hushed conversations with Heather, it was quite easy for Connor to put two and two together.
He'd seen this kind of behavior before, back at the group house, when one of the older girls had been caught with a stash of speed underneath her mattress. She'd tried to say it wasn't hers, pinning the blame on some other girl for putting them there—but ended up being caught in the act of using them and was subsequently punished.
Only, he wasn't so sure in this case, what it was that Joe had, or if he cared about the fact that it was illegal or not. The red stuff in the bag was nothing he recognized, but then, he also hadn't seen many drugs. It was something he'd always been taught was bad, and he'd made it a goal to stay from them as much as he could.
"Yeah, no shit its illegal! Why the fuck do you think I was hidin' it?" Joe harshly chortled, as Heather continued to stand next to him with her arms tightly folded against her chest. Her mouth was pressed together, like she was trying her hardest to keep from talking again.
"And, you know—" He reached his hand out past Connor, grabbing the bag back from where he'd tossed it on the counter. "You know that Ms. Stern is comin' for a visit tomorrow, and I don't plan on re-hiding this stuff just for her to find it again. Or for you to just up and tell her about it, you get what I'm trying to say?"
Yeah, he got what he was trying to say. He was wanting him to lie straight to his caseworker's face, say that he never found any drugs, and spend another month in this house—whereas if he told the truth, he'd be taken back to the group home and spend another six months there before another family decided they wanted him.
Not much of a choice there, really.
He yearned to say all this out loud but knew that it was against his better judgement. He'd been taught to never talk back, to respect his elders no matter what.
But he'd also been told not to lie.
Not ever.
Biting back the words that he wanted to say, Connor nodded instead.
"I understand, Joe. But..." He unclasped his hands halfway, wrapping one thumb around the other. "What does this have to do with doing you a favor?"
This was what he'd asked him when this whole conversation, and nothing he'd said seemed to be alluding to anything regarding a favor. This stirred a reaction out of Heather, who's face had morphed into a rather...bothered one, one that was so unlike her. She uncrossed her arms, eyes darting between her husband and foster son, her temptation to speak still incredibly obvious just by her mannerisms.
"Are you serious?" Joe's smile was back, albeit more troublesome this time. "I can't believe you haven't figured it out—god, and did you really think I was going to let you off that easy? No, see—"
He paused, letting out an uneasy chuckle.
"See, I'm supposed to be meeting these guys downtown, tonight. But because of...erm, circumstances, I'm not able to do so."
"...circumstances?"
"Yeah, circumstances. Shit that isn't any of your business."
"Joe, come on, enough." Heather seemed to have given in to her temptation to speak and was placing her hand on her husband's shoulder. "He said he wasn't going to say anything, isn't that good enough?"
But Joe shrugged her off, turning to look at her with an annoyed expression.
"Christ, I'm sorry, did you miss the part where I said I can't go out tonight? Fuck, these drugs aren't gonna sell themselves, Heather—"
One of the kids ran by on their hobby horse, causing Joe to lower his voice. He turned away from Heather, and back to Connor.
"And since...since, they can't sell themselves..." He sniffed, rubbing at his nose, which honestly when Connor bother to look at it closely, appeared to be red and irritated. "That's the favor I'm askin' for, kid. You're going to go downtown, and meet those guys for me—tell 'em I sent you—"
"What?" Connor's eyes went round, his thumbs unhooking from each other.
"—give 'em the drugs—"
"No—"
"—and take the money, make sure they give you the right price—"
"No, stop!"
Just as he'd looked taken aback at Heather's refusal, he was the same way upon receiving Connor's blunt interruption. Only, there was a little more anger in his eyes...which, wasn't comforting. Not comforting at all.
"Did you just..." He let out a surprised huff, stepping back. Glancing at Heather, who was looking bothered again, he let out another huff and glanced back at Connor. "I'm sorry, what was that? Was that a 'no'? Did you just say no to me?"
"Yes! Because you're asking me to do something illegal!" Connor's voice cracked as he spoke, his brain screaming at him to stop. He needed to stop, he'd already said no, he'd already messed up. They were going to punish him, probably even worse if he kept going.
"Now Connor—"
"No! I-I already said I wasn't going to tell Ms. Stern, I promised you I wouldn't!" Shut your mouth, shut your mouth, oh god, shut your mouth. "Please, Joe, I'm sorry—I'm sorry I found them, I just—please, I could get in trouble—"
Stop talking. Stop talking. Stop talking.
"—I don't want...to get into trouble. What if Ms. Stern..."
"She won't. If you're smart and do what I say, then we can just forget about this." Joe stepped closer to Connor, leaning down to be face to face with the boy. His voice was overtaken by a much more threatening and darker tone as he continued speaking. "But, if you're a dumb piece of shit and disobey me, then I might just tell her what a brat you've been instead."
Connor could feel his face paling, despite trying his hardest to maintain as straight-faced as possible—his stomach simultaneously lurching at Joe's threat.
"You can't do that...that's lying..."
"Is it? Because you aren't acting very compliant right now. That's something I thought all you kids at the group house were supposed to be." Joe cocked his head, narrowing his eyes. "Or maybe you'd like to go back there? Is that it?"
"No. But I'd bet you'd hate it if I went back, wouldn't you?" Oh, god. No. Connor. No, stop. Don't talk to him like this. Don't. "It'd mean one less check a month for you and Heather to spend on yourselves."
Oh, you've done it—you've gone and done it now.
You knew better. You knew so much better.
He hadn't meant to let those words slip, they'd been lingering in his head and he hadn't been able to stop himself once they'd started coming. It hadn't felt good to say, not when could he feel his brain still yelling at him. Not when he could see the shock and anger on both his foster parents' faces and see the fist that was about to coincide with his face.
Things went blurry for a second, and when Connor was finally able to make sense of things again, he was greeted with a painful sensation on the left side of his face, and could feel a tiny, warm trickle of blood dripping out from his nose. He blinked several times, his eye stinging, and looked up to see that Joe had him by the shirt, fist raised and no doubt ready to strike a second time.
"I'll show you what happens when you get smart with me, boy."
Connor winced, bracing himself for the pain he knew he was about to feel surging through his jaw, but it never came. Instead, he saw Heather had grabbed her husband's arm, restraining it from going any further towards Connor, who was rightfully stunned at the sight.
"Now Joe, I think you're being a little harsh..."
This was a first. In other cases, Heather would've stood aside and allowed that fist to hit him...but no, she didn't actually care about him. He knew why she'd stopped Joe, and it wasn't because she'd suddenly grown a heart. That was probably impossible.
"But—Heather, he—"
"No, you said it yourself, Ms. Stern is coming tomorrow..." There was a coolness in her voice, and she'd taken Joe's hand in hers, soothingly rubbing it, causing him to shut up. "We could easily explain a black eye, but what is she going to think if she comes in here and sees him with a nose cast and a million bruises?"
She nodded at Connor. Joe sighed, releasing the folds of Connor's shirt. His fist unfurled, and he picked up the bag of red ice from where he'd probably dropped it during his fit of rage. As Connor was trying to pick himself back up, he was pushed back down by Joe's foot, and the bag was thrown at him, smacking him in the chest.
"I told the guys you'd be waitin' for 'em at the back of Jimmy's Bar...just...sell this shit for me, okay?"
He pulled his foot away from him and grabbed his unfinished beer from the table, taking a quick sip from it—then stomped off, rubbing at his nose a second time as he went into the living room. Heather followed soon after, not before stopping to retrieve the dust pan from near the cat's food bowl.
"And clean up that platter before you leave." She added, tossing it Connor's way. It landed at his feet, but he didn't look at it, or Heather as she left. Too much shame filled him now, shame for what he'd said, how he'd acted.
But he should be feeling ashamed, not us. He asked us to do something illegal, something bad, Connor. We didn't have to obey him.
Yes, yes, he did. He had to. It was what Amanda had always told him to do, alongside so many other things.
He had to obey. He had to tell the had to comply. He had to be respectful.
And he'd done none of those things.
He should have.
Then maybe he wouldn't be staining his shirt sleeve with the blood still spilling from his nostril.
The ambience of the bar only buzzed in Hank's ears, a mingled mix of words being exchanged, a basketball game on the television, and music playing on the old jukebox. None of it seemed audible despite being very, very loud, but he'd tuned out about thirty minutes after downing his first glass. He was on his third one now, and it sat on the bar next to him, halfway unfinished, next to the bottle of whiskey that the bartender had left out for him.
Ordinarily, he wouldn't find himself here at the bar on Monday evenings. Monday evenings were beer-at-home-and-watch-bad-movies types of days, after all, it was barely the start of the week. He would normally work his way towards the bar, gradually, as the week went on, but after the events of this day, he couldn't stand to be in his office any longer and going home wasn't any better.
Then again, neither was being here in the bar. This was only temptation to wake up with another hangover in the morning—and his head already hurt. It hurt from what he couldn't stop thinking about, it hurt from his trying to stop thinking about it, but not even the alcohol had helped. He doubted having another few glasses would help dull anything, it would probably put the words in his mind in a bold font...metaphorically, yes, but that just wasn't going to help, and it wasn't going to help him forget anything, either.
He'd tried to forget. He'd tried.
He'd been trying, all day, since getting back from the coroner's office and telling everyone about what was going on...trying to process it himself, trying to will the fact that there was a high likely of red ice being a real problem again. Everyone had reacted as about as well as he thought they would, too; Gavin getting pissed and asking questions, thankfully being interrupted to go respond to a call with Lee—Ben had really only reacted with silence, given that he'd already his suspicions in the first place, so this was more than likely not a shock to him at all.
And then there was Chris. Poor Chris, he'd hadn't even been at this job that long, and he was about as lost as Sumo had been that time Hank had accidentally left the back door of the house open. He didn't quite seem to understand, evidently not having been well-learned in the town's history upon moving here. Otherwise, he would've seemed just as grieved as the others had at the mention of those two damned words.
That had been the last time he'd really talked to anyone at the station today. After that conversation, he'd stayed in his office for another several hours, trying to focus on going through the files Amelia had left stacked on his desk. By the time the clock hit 5:14, however, he hadn't been able to stand it anymore. It had become too stifling to stay still anymore, to try and ignore the thoughts plaguing him-and so, he'd left. Driven straight down to the bar, and he wasn't even sure anyone knew he was even here. Mostly everyone had been off tending to a call or heating some microwave meal up in the kitchen.
Should he be drinking right now? Probably not. But he wasn't getting anywhere with those case files, and he'd been going stir crazy in there, anyways. He could say he just needed the fresh air, but if that were the case, he would've just stepped outside—and not gone to his car and driven to Jimmy's Bar instead.
His hand was resting on his glass, thumb caressing the rim of it as beads of sweat rolled down between his fingers. Sighing, he lifted the beverage to his lips, about to take a sip, when a loud buzzing alerted him into looking up at the game on the television. Hm, well, there went his hopes of being cheered up by watching this thing, not when the opposing team had just scored yet another winning point.
The universe couldn't even give him that much, could it?
He watched the television, as the game cut to a commercial break, which was immediately interrupted by a preview of an upcoming news report...a report entailing events that had happened that morning, sure. Why not, it wasn't like he didn't care to see footage of himself driving away from a crime scene.
Nope, apparently the universe could not give him that much.
Someone out there must really have it out for him if this is how his life had ended up. Five years ago, he would've been at that crime scene longer, he would've stayed and bothered talking to those pesky reporters. He wouldn't be at the bar, drinking, when he was supposed to be on duty.
The thought made him bitterly chuckle into his glass, as he finished off the large mouthful inside. God, what a pathetic sight he must make—he was quite literally the living, breathing version of that old, drunk sheriff stereotype you'd find in movies and tv shows. This was probably what he got for making fun of that stereotype in the past, wasn't it?
As he considered pouring himself another glass, the broken bell attached to the bar door jingled weakly as it was swung open, noises from the outside momentarily filling the building until the door fell shut. A pair of footsteps approached the bar as Hank picked the whiskey bottle back up, having made the decision to pour himself the fourth glass he'd been considering.
"Sheriff?"
The whiskey stopped pouring from the bottle, Hank tipping it back up at the sound of Chris Miller's voice. He looked back at the younger officer, sighing, and turned his focus back to filling his glass up, shaking his head.
"Miller...I thought you were still out at the Williams place."
"I was." Chris slid onto the empty seat next to Hank, as the whiskey bottle was placed back onto the bar top. "But Amelia ended up calling while I was on my way back, said something about you leaving abruptly. She seemed a bit worried so I—"
"You figured you'd come check up on me?" Hank stiffly cackled, lifting his glass. "Shit, Chris, I'm not a kid, I don't need babysitting. Can't I leave for a few minutes without one of you fuckers worrying about me?"
"A few minutes? Sheriff, you've been gone for two hours, I think that'd be a little reason for worry."
"I've been gone longer before. So, what?" He took a long sip from his glass before placing it back down. "None of you have cared to come lookin' for me before, either. What makes tonight any different?"
As if to answer his question, that previewed news report appeared on the television screen, alerting both officers into looking at it. The same reporter who'd tried, and failed, to interview Hank that morning was on screen, looking far too calm and pleasant to be talking about the issues she was.
"This morning, the body of Lonnie Francis was discovered in the back alleys near the Sunset Laundry and Mayer's Grocery. He was reported to have been killed via gunshot, but police have not yet released an official statement on the incident as of today."
She went on to make some statement about how the sheriff hadn't been able to be reached for comment, causing Hank to divert his attention back to swirling around the whiskey in his glass. Chris noticed his unease and looked around for the bartender, and upon spotting him, motioned for him to change the channel.
"Hey, Jimmy? Change the channel, will you, the game's over."
The news report disappeared from the screen, an old sitcom replacing it, but even that did nothing to stir Hank from staring into his drink. Chris seemed hesitant to even try speaking to him; given that his superior officer often spent of his time cooped up in his office, he'd never really seen him in this kind of state before.
"Sheriff, I uh..." Still, Hank didn't look up, and was now absentmindedly scratching at a chipped spot on the bar counter. "I know that we're all...erm, pretty startled by what's...possibly going on, but..."
Chris paused, a laugh track sounding from the television.
"I don't know, I mean, if it's as serious as you made it out to be...I just think you should be back at the station, with the rest of us."
His statement irked Hank, causing him to lift his head back up, his finger ceasing in the scratching of the chipped spot. He knew Chris had only meant well by what he said, he did, and he was right; the station is exactly where he needed to be, to do his job, instead of wandering off to get drunk just because he wasn't able to deal with imminent threats, properly.
That didn't change how much those words had irked him, though. Yes, he did need to go back to the station, and yes, he needed to be just as alert as the other officers else were, but that was something he wasn't entirely willing to do at the moment. Getting drunk seemed like the more preferable option, instead of waiting around to hear that someone else had been either killed in a botched drug deal or caught with the shit stuffed underneath their couch cushions.
His gaze dipped back down into his glass, staring at the beverage inside, before decidedly taking another long drink out of it. When he'd finished, he set the glass down hard enough for it clank against the bar, very much being tempted to get another glass. He decided against it, knowing all too well that things usually got pretty blurry for him following the fifth drink, and instead, moved his hand away from the bottle, placing it flat against the bar.
"Yeah, you're right. I should. It'd make sense, wouldn't it?" He tapped his fingers on the wood, then closed his eyes, tilting his head back. Mumbling under his breath, he pinched the bridge of his nose, and turned to look at Chris.
"But the fact is, Miller, I don't want to go back. Not when I know what's waitin' for me..."
"I don't think anyone else has called—"
"No, Chris. That's not—that's...not what I meant." Hank leaned forward, noting the surprise on the other officer's face at the sheriff's sudden usage of his first name. "I... fuck, you weren't here the first time. You wouldn't understand..."
There was the temptation to grab the bottle again. He almost did, but stopped, curling his hand back into a fist, inhaling sharply.
"Things...were so bad the first time, Chris. I had to arrest so many people...that I thought were good citizens, you know? And all because..."
He exhaled, reaching back to rub the nape of his neck.
"All because...there was no other way to make money. Hell, nearly everyone was tryin' to get in on the whole business, I thought I was gonna have to arrest the whole town at one point."
The laugh he let out after recalling the memory was a thin one, which quickly faded into a low sigh.
"No...I know I'm probably overreactin' or some shit, but I just...don't want to go through that again. It cost me too much the first time."
Aside from the ambiance of the bar, it had gone silent between the two men. It was probably in Chris's best interest to not try and say otherwise; even in his short time working at the station, he'd learned right away that his boss was a hardened, and secretive man who rarely, if ever opened up about anything. And when he did, there was nothing you could do to offer any comfort.
So instead, he pushed back his stool, and stood up.
"In that case, maybe here isn't the best place for you to be right now..."
"I ain't going back to the station, Chris."
"No, I wasn't suggesting that." By now, Jimmy had come back over to retrieve the whiskey bottle upon noticing that Hank seemed to be finished with it. "I know, it's been a long day for all of us...you especially. Why don't you just take a load off, let us handle things for the rest of the night?"
"You guys? Handle things?" Hank nearly laughed but restrained himself. "I don't know, anytime I leave you clowns alone it turns into a three-ring circus...you sure you can manage?"
"I wouldn't be offering if I didn't think I could." Chris smiled, in a way that nearly reminded Hank of a time when he'd been this warm and enthusiastic about his job.
He nearly missed times like that.
Looking the younger man up and down, Hank pressed his lips together, then nodded.
"Okay. If you say so."
With a grunt, he pushed himself off the bar stool, amazed to find that his feet hadn't fallen asleep on him during his whole two hours of not moving them. However, he was feeling a bit woozy from the three drinks he'd managed to consume and had to grab onto the bar to steady himself.
Chris took notice and took ahold of Hank's other arm, concern falling onto his face.
"You sure you're in any shape to drive yourself, Sheriff?"
"Yeah, sure." Hank slipped out of Chris's hold, grunting. "I could walk a straight line if you needed me to."
"Hah, I don't think it'll come to that." The bar door swung open and two other patrons walked in, both taking seats near Chris and Hank. "Maybe you should just let me drive you, I don't have any calls I need to tend to right now, anyways."
It was a nice offer, even if he wasn't entirely intoxicated, his mood wasn't the most appropriate for driving through the town at night time, and with slick, wet roads on top of that. If there was one thing he could remember clearly from his driving classes back in high school, it was that driving and bad moods were often just as bad a combination as alcohol and driving was.
"Sure. Why not?" He held his hands out, clapping them back to his sides, then picked his coat up from where he'd hung it on an adjacent stool. "C'mon, the car's parked out back."
"Out back?" Chris followed after Hank as the two walked towards the back exit of the bar. "Is that—oh, so that's why I didn't see it when I got here..."
"Exactly. I thought it might throw you off." Hank chuckled, stopping to grab the door handle. "But I guess that didn't work, huh?"
"Obviously not."
"Clearly. Or I'd be on my eighth whiskey by now."
He pushed the door open, sounds of rain echoing into the building, not even noticing the alert it caused from the two men at the bar, as they walked outside.
The raindrops cascaded down the gutter next to Connor, as he stood underneath what little shelter was available to him. Both his coat and hoodie were thoroughly soaked, and he shivered, hands shoved together in his front pocket, fidgeting anxiously with his coin. The bag of red ice Joe had given him was nearly burning a hole in his back pants pocket, had been for the hour he'd been standing out here.
He felt so cold. And so miserable. It had gotten dark much quicker than he'd thought it would, and he didn't like it out here. He didn't think he'd ever been out in town this long on his own before, let alone at night. It certainly wasn't any more comfortable back at the Phelps house, but at least it was warmer there. At least, there'd be light, at least, he might feel safer.
Safer, Connor? Really? You got hit in the fucking face, tonight, how does that qualify as safer?
It didn't...it didn't qualify as safer, no. He hadn't seen what his eye looked like now, but the last time he'd touched it, he'd winced. It wasn't hard to tell that it was swollen, and he couldn't help but what wonder how bad it looked.
But it didn't matter how bad it looked. He'd deserved it. That was what he got for being disobedient, every time. He really did deserve it, Amanda would say so.
Amanda...
His mouth went dry at remembering Joe's words, how he'd threatened to tell his caseworker all those false stories about him. Would he still do that now, because of how he'd disobeyed him? If he could just manage to get rid of these drugs for Joe, then maybe he had a better chance of having only good things said about him.
Even though, selling these drugs is wrong, and you know that—
Yes, it was wrong. It was wrong to do this, but he had no other choice. It was what he'd been told to do, so it was what he had to do.
He continued playing with the coin, the piece of metal feeling slicker and slicker with each time it crossed paths with his sweaty fingers. He lay his head back against the wall of the building, exhaling and inhaling quick, uneasy breaths, which were visible in the cold night air. The rain seemed to be calming down, but there was still no sign of the guys he was supposed to be meeting.
Where were they?
No one had come out here, not since Connor had shown up. He couldn't possibly be late, could he? No, because if he'd shown up late, there was a good chance that those guys would be waiting out here for him-impatient, and angry, but they were neither of things, because they weren't here.
His head was swimming at the thought of what to do if they didn't show soon. He didn't want to be out here anymore, but he knew that he was doomed to get a bad report given to Amanda if he didn't do this tonight. Joe probably wouldn't even let him back in the house unless he had the cash to prove he'd sold the drugs, and not just tossed them into the dumpster, like he'd thought of doing several times over the past hour.
He closed his eyes, clutching his coin tight in one hand. But then, the coin slipped out of his hand, and his eyes flew back open, at the sound of the door next to him opening up. He lifted his head from the wall and looked to see two men exiting from the bar, engaged in conversation. Connor, now alert, watched them curiously as they walked past him, and towards a car that'd he'd found parked nearby upon showing up.
Huh.
Could these be the guys?
Joe hadn't given him any explicit details on what those men had looked like, even though he had asked him before he'd left. He'd only said something about one being older and taller than the other...and it was a little hard to tell in the dark, but one of the men did appear to be a bit older than the one walking next to him.
Maybe this really could be them.
Maybe.
Or maybe not, maybe he was about to get in a shit ton of trouble instead.
The voice in his head told him the latter, but he found himself walking after them anyways. It started out as a slow pace, but picked up, into nearly a whole run. It was so cold out here, so cold, and so dark. He just wanted to get this over with, these had to be the guys. Who else would be walking back out here, unless they didn't want to be seen?
"Hey!" He shouted twice, this, and his approaching footsteps being enough to gain the attention of the men. "Hey, wait a minute!"
The men stopped walking and turned to look back at him. They both looked confused, something Connor didn't notice as he came up to them, as he was much too consumed in his eagerness to finally be done with this task.
"I'm so glad you guys finally showed up, I've been waiting out here for nearly an hour!" He huffed, attempting to catch his breath. "I was starting to think I was going to be out here all night!"
"Uh, I'm sorry?" The older man was the first speak, furrowing his brow at the teenager. But Connor hadn't heard him and was reaching into his back pocket, trying to pull out the plastic bag best he could without ripping it.
"I've um, I've got what you asked for." The bag caught on a button momentarily, but he managed to yank it free, holding the bag out for one of the men to take. But neither of them took it, and only remained to look confused. They exchanged these confused looks, and the younger one looked back to Connor, offering an equally-as-puzzled smile his way.
"Asked for? Uh, I'm sorry, kid, but I don't think—"
"No no, I swear it's all there! Don't worry!" Connor insisted and stepped closer, into the light of a nearby lamp pole, which revealed the sharp red color inside. This caused the confused expressions on the men's faces to transform into those of shock, one letting out an "oh no" and a "what the fuck" coming from the other.
Connor's face faltered, and he lowered the bag.
Those...couldn't be good reactions, could they?
Oh no.
He was in trouble, wasn't he?