Yo! Long chapter today, so have fun! Thanks for the comments and reviews, I really appreciate them!
Song title comes from the Buggles song, Adventures in Modern Recording. The song has no connection with the story, I just had the song in my head when I was thinking up chapter titles. :-)
Connor had no idea what he had felt inside when he saw Hank come into the room, eyes damp from tears. It had not at all been what he expected to see when he had woken up, mildly disoriented from his change in scenery. He usually woke from sleep well rested, instantly awake thanks to another of Amanda's experiments. But this time he had still felt tired; groggy, he supposed. He had only been awake a minute before the door had opened, Hank's tear-filled face in the doorway.
They had stared at one another for a few seconds, before Connor had hesitantly said the man's title. He had no idea what he would have said after that, but Hank had just scowled and glared, before storming into the bathroom, leaving Connor to stare at the door in confusion.
He was still staring at it several minutes later but found that he could not figure out the man's motives. Shaking his head, he pushed the incident out of mind. Hank wouldn't appreciate talking about it and trying to do so would just make the man angrier. That would go against the plan of making nice with the man. It wasn't an official objective (yet), but it was still, potentially, a good idea.
Eyes moving away from the door, Connor looked to the bedside table to check the time, and saw a lidded plate atop it, presumably with food inside it. That just confused him even more. Who...? He had thought Markus had said that people could go to the dining room whenever? Why would someone put food in his room, then? Had Markus done it? It would have made sense, but for some reason Connor didn't think so. Volunteers weren't allowed in rooms unless invited by the patients. Only nurses, doctors, and orderlies could enter at will, but even then, they had to have good reason for doing so. Or so he had been told during his intake meetings. So who…
He heard the shower start, and felt his eyes dart to the door, understanding coming to mind, before confusion filled it yet again.
The only logical person to bring him food without needing permission to enter was Hank, who also lived in the room. But why…? He thought the man hated him? Why would he bring him dinner?
Well, whatever the reason, Connor felt his stomach growl, and was glad that he hadn't had to walk to the kitchen to get fed. Opening the plastic cover, he took the fork and began eating the cold spaghetti, which was less appetizing that he'd hope. Half an hour passed as Connor picked at the food, his bread more crumbs than anything else by the time Hank had exited the bathroom.
Eyes attracted to the movement, Connor looked up, but felt his eyes go wide at the sight before him. For some reason, he felt the breath rush out of his body, mouth suddenly dry as he saw the wet, glistening skin before him. He'd never seen a man without his shirt on before. Well, not so intimately. It was… something. While the body wasn't like the ones he saw on ads or on TV, when he'd been allowed to watch TV, it was still… Connor couldn't find the right words. Beautiful? Enchanting? Baffling?
He couldn't understand what he was feeling, his stomach in knots as he looked the older man up and down. He distantly noticed the man crossing his arms defensively over his chest, skin turning pink, with Connor's gaze lingering longer than was considered acceptable, but he didn't care. He couldn't look away.
He could tell the man was embarrassed, but he didn't understand why. Was it because he felt he looked poorly? Well, that was wrong, Connor thought as the man turned and he could see strong back muscles. The man may have a bit more fat than was considered socially acceptable, but he wore it well. And it was obvious he had musculature beneath the fat, his arms thick and strong. Connor bit his lip, trying not to squirm. Perhaps Connor was being quote unquote "creepy" by staring. Perhaps Hank just didn't like people staring at him. Regardless, Connor could do nothing but stare as Hank stormed back into the bathroom to dress. He felt a stab of disappointment. He pushed the feeling away.
It wasn't that Connor didn't know what attraction was. Nor had he not known he felt an attraction towards men, rather than women. It was just that it was often pointless. Why worry about it, when he had more important things to worry about? Attraction and relationships were just distractions. While Connor would try and make friends with his roommate, to make life easier over the next few months, he wouldn't do anything more than that. At least, that is what he told himself.
So, he pushed the feelings away, compartmentalizing them. His desire for friendship didn't seem as hopeless as it had at first, if the dinner was anything to go by. Lying down in bed, Connor resolved to thank the man for the food, trying to reinforce that such behavior was appreciated. His first night here hadn't been the best night ever, but he hoped that things would get better. Maybe if he made friends with Hank, things would improve. Connor quickly made that an official objective, now that it didn't seem so pointless, or likely to fail. Befriend Lieutenant Hank Anderson. With a smile, he waited for Hank to leave the bathroom, so he could thank him.
When the door opened again, Hank shuffling out and into bed, Connor turned his head to stare at the older man, the light from the street lamp outside illuminating his wet, grey hair, making it glisten beautifully. He told himself to stop staring, that Hank would find it creepy, but he couldn't. He couldn't look away from the man, though he tried. Finally, right before he felt Hank would fall asleep (and thus be most receptive to positive reinforcement), Connor quietly breathed his thanks, watching as Hank turned to face him, his murky blue eyes staring deep into his.
Finally, after a long moment, Hank grumbled, "don't mention it," before his eyes shifted back up the ceiling, closing as he tried to fall asleep. Connor tried not to feel keen disappointment at the loss of those baby blues. He kept staring until he saw the man's face relax with sleep, the hard lines and wrinkles erasing, giving him a younger look.
He looks good like that, Connor thought absently to himself, moving his eyes to stare at the ceiling.
He stayed like that for the next half hour, listening to Hank's soft snores as they filled the air.
It was around 11:00 that he finally drifted into sleep, dreams full of hairy, bare chests, and soulful blue eyes.
_—_
When Connor awoke the next morning, it was still dark out. He checked the time and saw that it was 5:00 am, an hour before curfew lifted and he could leave his room. Fully rested, he didn't need to sleep anymore, which gave him the quest of finding something to do with his time. He hated sitting quietly and doing nothing. He wasn't programmed for it.
Sitting up quietly so as to not disturbed the still snoring man to his left, he carefully looked around the room, frowning at the mess that was scattered about. He had had some time to look around the previous night while Hank was in the shower, but he still felt dissatisfied with the surroundings.
The room itself was a decent size, a bit small for two grown men, but was not terrible. The walls were stained grey with grime and the carpet was scratchy brown with holes and deep stains on it. Hank had a few posters up on his side of the room, of Jazz bands and basketball stars. He also had a couple photos, both framed and loose, of people dressed in uniform, who Connor assumed were old friends of Hank. The ceiling had a large watermark on it that concerned Connor, and the doors had scratches and dents on them. He didn't know how the bathroom looked, but he felt it would be similarly rundown. There was an old, cluttered desk under the mid-sized window, with an old landline phone atop it, and a couple shelves and drawers along the walls, one for each of them.
The worst part, though, was the clutter. Because there were no cleaning crews for the rooms here, the patients having to clean up themselves (unless they couldn't or requested help), the room had slowly accumulated junk and clutter. There were clothes scattered about, likely dirty, Connor thought with a wrinkle of his nose. There were old newspapers all around the floor, some stained books, a handful of old, halfhearted art projects here and there, and what could only be called trash littering the floors, amongst some personal items. Connor, who kept his room at home immaculate, instantly hated the area. Well, maybe not hated. It did have its charm, and certainly looked… lived in, unlike his room, but he definitely didn't like the clutter. So, with fifty-five minutes left before curfew lifted, Connor quietly got out of bed and set about decluttering the space. He didn't bother wondering if Hank would mind or not. Who would mind having their living space freshened up? He set a new objective. Clean the room.
It took him roughly half an hour to get all the junk off the ground. He had put the books, art projects, and newspapers in piles, just in case Hank wanted to keep them. But the candy wrappers, empty chip containers (where had the man even gotten chips? A friend?), old plastic wrap, and other various trash items went into the can by the door, while the old laundry went into the hamper he saw beside the man's bed. That done, Connor entered the bathroom to see about getting cleaning supplies to start scrubbing the walls and carpet a little.
The bathroom was, in fact, pretty bad. Not quite as bad as the room, since it seemed Hank cleaned the trash at least, but he could see grime on the walls and spittle on the mirror. There were also numerous yellow sticky notes on the mirror with writing on them that he couldn't read from his angle. He set a sub-objective to the main objective of cleaning the room. Clean the bathroom.
He couldn't find many cleaning supplies in the bathroom, which he supposed made sense. Instead, he took a bucket he found and filled it with soapy water, then took a small sponge he had found in the cabinet under the sink and moved to the main room. It would likely take him a while to fully clean the walls, but he had nothing but time, waiting for his time to be up here. Maybe he'd ask if he could get some proper cleaning supplies today. It would be worth it he felt.
For the next several hours Connor scrubbed the walls as best he could, taking the posters and the pictures and putting them by the desk. His goal was to get as much of the grime and dirt off the grey walls as he could. He couldn't make the walls perfectly white like before, but he was pleased when he saw that they were now a bit whiter, with no dark spots of mold or grime. There were still some stains, as was expected until he could possibly get some bleach, but it was a start. He felt accomplished at what he had done, and then set into the bathroom to start cleaning the grime in there. He noted that the time was 8:13, meaning he had a little under two hours until breakfast was no longer served warm. That was plenty of time to start cleaning the walls of the bathroom. The shower itself was a whole other story, but as he had said, he had plenty of time.
It was about an hour into his cleaning of the bathroom that he heard the first signs of stirring of his new roommate. Connor paused while scrubbing the walls, listening in for the telltale sounds of a person waking up. He could picture Hank stretching as he sat up, hair loose and tangled, a groan escaping from his lips. Connor swallowed heavily at the sound.
Then, there was a brief silence. Connor wondered what Hank thought of the room. He was proud of how much he had done in the short few hours. He waited, breath bated, as Hank took a deep breath.
"What in the ever-loving fuck...?"
Hank muttered tiredly, probably rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. Connor's heart started to pound. The man didn't sound particularly happy...
"What? Fucking, shit. Who the fuck…?" Hank was starting to sound more and more pissed off. Uh oh. Connor frowned slightly, before standing up, figuring it was time to make his presence known. He was still wearing the clothes he had arrived in, a wrinkled, white collared shirt with dress pants. The shirt's sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, so they wouldn't get dirty while he cleaned. He fiddled with the sleeves, distantly wishing he had his quarter to fiddle with.
Moving towards the door, Connor exited the bathroom and stood beside Hank's bed, which was closest to the bathroom on the right side of the room, and watched the man's confused, mildly furious expression as he glanced around the room. He had been correct about the man's hair being a mess, the shoulder length grey hair a mess of tangles. Connor thought it suited the man.
It took only a second before Hank noticed Connor's presence in the room, but as soon as he did, his expression darkened as he jumped out of bed, stalking toward Connor. Connor fought the desire to back up, and just let Hank push him against the wall, snarl on his lips. Connor kept his face purposely blank, not showing the jolt of fear he felt at being slammed against the wall. (Or the hint of arousal, but that went without saying. He pushed the feeling aside, as pointless as it was).
"What the fuck did you do to my room, you asshole?!" Hank seethed, face right next to Connor's. As the older man had a couple inches on him, Connor had to look slightly up to gaze into those bright blue eyes, filled with fury. Connor put a sardonic expression on his face, a tight, emotionless smile on his lips.
"Our room, Lieutenant. And I cleaned it. It was full of trash and clutter, so I decided to tidy up. I hadn't thought it would be a problem."
He truly hadn't. Perhaps he had misjudged Hank. Perhaps the man liked the familiar and hated change. He made a note of that in his memory.
He watched, suddenly detached from the moment, as Hank bared his teeth, apparently not pleased with the answer. Connor didn't show the stab of displeasure that expression created inside him. To think, he had thought they were getting closer. He could practically see a red arrow in the corner of his vision, marking their relationship status from tense to hostile. He tried not to frown. Showing emotion would just get him into more trouble. That's what happened when Amanda grew angry at him. It was best to just ignore it and hope Hank got over his fit of rage.
"Yeah? And you didn't think to fucking ask me, you prick?! It's my fucking room! Yeah, you're staying here, but I had things how I liked 'em! And where the fuck are my posters? Don't tell me you fucking threw them out or I swear to God…" Hank trailed off murderously, eyes spitting fire. Connor blinked, before looking at the walls. Oh. He had forgotten to put back up the posters and pictures on the walls after cleaning. Perhaps that was what angered Hank…?
"I apologize for not asking first, Lieutenant. You had been asleep, and I had needed something to do. As for your posters and your pictures, I put them on the chair over there, to keep them safe while I scrubbed the walls. I must have forgotten to put them back up. I assure you I wouldn't have thrown them out. All I threw out was the trash. Everything else went into piles, for you to determine what to do with later."
His voice was utterly detached, eyes glazed as he stared into the middle ground, not looking at anyone or anything in particular. He distantly felt Hank let go of him and wander to the areas he had indicated, a soft grunt being released when Hank saw he had told the truth. Connor didn't move as Hank picked up one of the photos, a soft hum being released. However, he couldn't help how he tensed when Hank turned back to him, eyes shrewd.
For some reason Connor noticed he was shaking. Why was he shaking? He had no reason to be shaking. He forced himself to stop, and moved his eyes back to Hank, who was frozen as he watched Connor. Connor tilted his head to the side, hands behind his back, picture of detachment, like Amanda had trained him to be. Perfect, emotionless. He couldn't let any emotion through. That would just make things worse. He felt himself start to shake again as he remembered what would happen if he showed any emotion. He stopped shaking.
"Kid… shit, I didn't mean to scare you. I just… fuck," Hank muttered under his breath, running a hand through his hair. Connor watched emotionlessly as Hank struggled for words. Finally, Connor took pity on the man and spoke up.
"It is alright, Lieutenant. I understand that it can be… distressing, having your personal space messed with. I should have asked first. I apologize."
"What? No, kid, come on. You have nothing to apologize for. I do. I shouldn't have yelled like that. I was just… I don't know. Fucking stupid. Sorry." Hank sounded awkward while apologizing, ears flushing as a scowl rose unbidden on his face. It was… charming. Connor attempted to smile, eyes still emotionless.
"I forgive you, Lieutenant. Do not worry."
Hank gave him an odd look at that, shaking his head.
"Alright. Alright. Anyway, I have a question for you. Why the fuck do you keep calling me Lieutenant? In case you hadn't noticed, I'm not exactly a cop anymore. Rank don't mean shit now."
Connor tilted his head to the side, contemplating that. Why, indeed, did he call the man Lieutenant? He pondered for a second, before landing on an explanation.
"Amanda always told me that soldiers must show deference and respect to their superiors by calling them by their titles," Connor stated, with a small nod. Yes, that made sense. He had been programmed to be respectful to his superiors. That made sense.
"Who the fuck is Amanda? And Connor, you're not a fucking soldier. Neither am I. I'm an ex-cop and you're… well, actually, I don't know what the Hell you did, before. Were you a soldier? You don't look like one…" Hank questioned, eyebrows furrowed as he stared at Connor.
Connor frowned slightly, thinking through the question. How could he explain what he did before, without betraying Amanda and the Company?
"Amanda is my adoptive mother, and no, I don't suppose I was a soldier. Though I did fight. I… don't know how to explain my job," Connor confessed honestly, frown deepening. He put his arms down to his side, relaxing now that Hank wasn't yelling at him. Hank frowned back.
"Well, that's not ominous as fuck. All I know about your life outside was that you tried to kill Markus. So, what? You a spy or some shit?"
A spy. Perhaps that was a good description of what he did? Connor nodded slowly, trying to ignore what Hank said about Markus. He didn't want to think about that.
"A spy… yes, I suppose? That is close to what I did."
Hank continued to look at Connor oddly, before a rumbling stomach echoed through the room, startling both men. Hank chuckled a second later, shaking his head.
"You know what? Whatever. You can call me Hank, if you want. Or Lieutenant. I don't really care. Just don't call me Mr. Anderson, as that makes me feel like a fucking high school teacher. Now, come on. Let's head to breakfast, before they shut down for the day." Hank shook his head again, before heading out the room, still in his pajamas, consisting of an old, stained, grey t-shirt (that might have once been white) and black boxer shorts.
Connor briefly entertained the thought of showering before heading out to breakfast, but ultimately decided to follow Hank. After all, Hank was the only person Connor knew here outside of Markus and he wasn't sure if Markus was here that day. Plus, he did still have tentative plans to kill the other man, which would probably make things awkward between them. So, mind made up, Connor hurried out of the room, quickly catching up to Hank as he strode towards the dining hall. Hank didn't acknowledge him except for a brief look when Connor started to walk beside him.
The two went down the halls in amicable silence. Much different to the hostile beginning of the day. He supposed he could upgrade their relationship from 'hostile' back to 'tense.' Maybe even to 'neutral,' if he was being generous.
The second the two entered the dining hall, every eye in the room landed on them, whispers instantly breaking out among the patients. Connor frowned, while Hank just glared at everyone, sneering at anyone who dared to look. After a couple moments people turned back to their food, though the whispers kept up. Connor stopped frowning, but he still felt unease as he followed Hank to get breakfast. It was pancakes with scrambled eggs, which Connor liked well enough. He followed Hank to a table in the corner, sitting down in front of Hank. Hank, however, just scowled at him across the table.
"Hey, did I fucking say you could sit with me?" Hank scowled, stabbing his pancake with his fork. He didn't bother to put anything on it, like butter or syrup, just took a bite from the side of the whole pancake. He hadn't even cut it into smaller pieces with his fork, like Connor was doing. Connor frowned at the man, fork lifted halfway to his mouth.
"I… I'm sorry. I assumed…" Connor fought against the flush that was rising in his face, staring at Hank with wide eyes. "I can leave if you'd like, I'm sorry." Perhaps he had misjudged their relationship? Maybe they were still 'hostile…'
Hank just grunted, rolling his eyes. "Whatever, kid. Just don't make a habit of it." Hank went back to his pancake, shoulders hunched as he tried to ignore the returning stares. Connor fought another frown, then did the same as Hank, slowly bringing the bite of pancake to his mouth, a small smattering of syrup on it. It tasted alright. Not the best in the world, but not horrible. He took another bite.
The breakfast dragged on. He was acutely aware of the stares on him, and while he didn't usually mind people staring, it felt awkward to him, more so since he and Hank were not speaking. He did his best to push the thoughts away, but they would creep back whenever someone looked at him and started to whisper. It was like he'd heard high school to be like. Not that he knew, since Amanda had home schooled him with his pseudo-siblings.
Finally breakfast ended, and Hank was out the door as soon as he'd eaten his last bite of egg. Connor tried not to feel relief, but he did. Sitting with the man after that morning had been… awkward.
Connor picked his food up carefully, throwing the trash away. He had been about to exit the room when a young, African American man wearing blue scrubs came over, a fake smile on his face. Connor didn't know how he knew the smile was fake, as he never understood human emotion, but even he could see the tense lines around the young man's eyes.
"Are you Connor Stern?" Upon Connor nodding sharply, the man nodded back, continuing what he wanted to say. "My name is Adam Chapman and I'm here to bring you to your first meeting with Dr. Rose. You met with one of the other doctors for your intake last week, but I assure you that Dr. Rose knows what you went over and is more than capable to help you. Would you mind following me?"
The man then started to walk out of the room, not waiting for a response. Connor felt a hint of annoyance fill him, which he pushed down. He had wanted to shower and get into fresh clothes, but he supposed he had no real choice. While the hospital gave the illusion of freedom, he knew that he was not allowed to refuse treatment. Or, at least, refuse to see the doctor.
They went into the common room, then into the nurses' station. Adam brought Connor through the halls, which were much cleaner than the halls in the rest of the facility. This was the hospital aspect of the place, he assumed. Eventually the two men stopped before a plain, pine door, with the name "Dr. Rose Chapman" printed on a little plaque outside. (Same last name, he noted.) Connor watched as Adam knocked on the door, a few seconds passing before a kindly, older, African American woman opened the door, a smile on her face. Connor noted that she and Adam had a few similar facial features. That, mixed with the same last name, indicated they probably weren't married. Related, perhaps?
"Oh, you must be Connor! Come in, come in! It's so good to meet you, dear. Please, take a seat. I hope Adam didn't disturb you?"
She seemed pleasant, Connor mused as he walked inside the room and took a seat across from her, a desk between them. He looked at the desk with curious eyes, noting the pictures that littered the desk beside a more modern computer. There was a picture of Rose and a somewhat younger Adam, dressed in a graduation uniform. Mother and son, then? Or a close aunt? Noticing his curious look, Rose smiled.
"Don't worry about the desk, dear. After this meeting we'll be sitting over in those chairs over there-" a hand pointed to a couple cozy looking chairs a few feet away from the desk- "but for today I'd like to get to know you a little better. I looked at your intake with Dr. Allen, but there are a couple things I'd like to clarify, if that would be alright with you?"
Dr. Rose looked at him with a kind smile, making Connor feel at ease. More than Dr. Allen had, anyway. He nodded his head, looking her in the eye. Adam, or Nurse Chapman he supposed, left at that, leaving Connor and the doctor alone together.
"Of course, Doctor. I don't mind at all."
Her smile widened, nodding encouragingly.
"Wonderful. One thing that confused me when looking at your intake was that you mentioned being 'programmed' to do or feel things. Would you like to expand on that?" Dr. Rose questioned gently, making him feel like he didn't have to answer if he hadn't wanted to. He froze, though, cursing his past self.
He hadn't meant to bring up his programming with the serious Doctor Allen. It had just come out, when the man asked why he had tried to kill Markus. He had felt flustered, such a useless emotion. The doctor had tried to follow that thread of conversation, but something about the man had made Connor ill at ease, and he hadn't wanted to bring it up. But… Dr. Rose seemed nice enough. As long as he was careful, maybe he could tell her…?
It seemed he hesitated too long (what seemed to be becoming common with him, he thought viciously), because Dr. Rose began speaking again.
"Please know that anything you tell me in here will not be repeated to anyone, even to the nurses or other doctors, if you don't wish me to. I will not tell the cops, unless you tell me something that might harm another person, or yourself. Talking about passed crimes will not be repeated, though. You have my word."
Connor bit his lip at that. So, he couldn't talk about the Company. Or some of his older crimes, since they could still be hurting others, theoretically. But… he could talk about his programming. He didn't see any reason not to. As long as he was careful about what he said. The doctor couldn't tell the police, right?
"Well…" Connor began, hesitating. He wasn't sure where to start. "I suppose. Growing up, I was programmed- that is to say raised- to act and feel a certain way. I call it programming, because it was, in a way."
Dr. Rose frowned at that, typing a note on her computer, before looking back at Connor.
"Interesting, Connor. Would you like to talk about that in more depth?"
Connor thought about it, before nodding slowly. He wasn't sure what else he could say, though.
"Alright. What would you like to know?"
"Well, I was wondering what this programming entails? How were you 'programmed,' if you will?"
Connor hummed, looking sightlessly at the wall. How could he explain?
"I am not allowed to feel anything. It… takes away from logic, Amanda always said. Any emotion was programmed out, while logic was programmed in. Sometimes I will glitch and feel things, but I quickly rectify it."
Dr. Rose frowned deeply at that, typing some more, taking half a minute to write it out. Connor fought the anxiety that rose in him. Had he said something wrong? Had he said too much? Before he could analyze it too much more, Dr. Rose looked back up and smiled kindly at him, though her eyes were still troubled.
"Thank you for telling me, honey. Now, what do you do when you feel emotion? Do you push the feeling away?"
Connor nodded. "Yes, I push any useless emotion away, like frustration, anger, annoyance. Or happiness, love, attraction. It is pointless and takes away from the mission."
Connor can't help the flinch he let out at that, not having meant to mention his mission. Stupid, he chided himself, clenching his hands together. He fixed his expression quickly, though, looking at Dr. Rose with expressionless eyes. He made sure his face didn't betray him anymore. Dr. Rose was frowning again, typing another note while still looking at him.
"The mission?" She prompted, but Connor said nothing in return. After a second, the doctor moved on, realizing Connor wouldn't speak anymore on the subject.
"Alright, Connor. When you feel emotion, can you tell me how it makes you feel? Or, I suppose, what makes the emotions so negative to you?"
Connor considered ignoring the question but decided to carefully answer. It would be best to keep her as unsuspicious as possible, so answering the harmless questions should keep her appeased. Voice and face guarded, Connor looked emotionlessly at the doctor and did his best to explain.
"They are useless. They don't matter. Amanda says they are a distraction, nothing more." His voice was flat and lifeless. Exactly as it should always be, he thought viciously to himself. He had to be more careful while he was here. He ignored the part of himself that wanted to tell Rose everything, to figure out why he was so conflicted inside. To explain how much it hurt sometimes, to push his emotions down. But doing so would betray everything he was raised to believe. Would betray Amanda. And he refused to do that.
"A distraction from the mission," Dr. Rose remarked, eyebrows raised in question. Connor stared at the wall, not saying a word.
After that, the session moved on slowly, the doctor asking questions about his emotions that he tried to answer, but sometimes refused to. She wanted to know what it was like to feel emotion, what he would do if he felt emotions too large to push down, how emotion felt to him. After forty-five minutes, Connor felt completely exhausted, and Dr. Rose took notice.
"Oh, honey, I'm sorry for the bombardment of questions. I just want to make sure you get the best care you can, while here. I just have one more question for you, but you don't have to answer if you don't want to, alright?"
After Connor nodded, Dr. Rose continued, eyes serious, but still kind. "What did you feel when you decided to spare Markus?"
Connor instantly tensed, eyes shooting to the doctor's, so tense that it almost hurt. His hands dig into his leg, likely leaving bruises if he didn't stop. He tried not to bare his teeth but failed.
"Why do you want to know?" Connor almost barked, defensive. He tried to push the emotion down but couldn't. He didn't want to talk about Markus.
Dr. Rose frowned at that, making another note on her computer. Connor hated it. Hated that he didn't know what she was thinking. Was she going to make him stay longer? He didn't want that. He wanted to go home. He missed Amanda. He missed his immaculate room. He even missed his pseudo siblings. He wanted to go home.
"I'm here to help you, Connor. And I think that what happened with Markus bothers you deeply, my dear. But you don't have to answer if you don't want, okay honey?"
Connor nodded tightly. He said nothing else, which made the doctor nod back.
"Alright. You're free to go, Connor. Let me page Adam, okay? In the future, we'll be meeting Tuesdays and Thursdays at 11:00 am. Then on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays you'll meet with your group at noon for group session. If there are any issues with those times, let me know, and we can move things around, alright?"
Connor nodded again, feeling some of the tension leaving now that he didn't have to talk about Markus. After a moment Nurse Chapman returned, his too wide, too fake smile back. Connor stood and followed after the man but stopped at the door when Dr. Rose called out to him.
"Oh, before I forget! If you have any need to talk to me on days that we don't have session, or any time after hours, feel free to call me immediately, okay honey? You should have a phone in your room and my number is programmed in it. Just press number 5." With that, Dr. Rose waved goodbye, kind smile in place on her lips. Connor nodded his understanding, then followed Nurse Chapman out and through the hospital.
Once in the common room, Nurse Chapman left him alone, going back into the nurse station without a single word of farewell. Connor didn't mind. He just turned back to the room, body tense yet again when he realized he had no idea what to do then, and that everyone was staring at him. He was about to head back to his room to shower and maybe finish cleaning when a shadow came over him, making him look up (when had he looked down to the ground? He didn't know), into the frowning face of Hank. Connor tried not to let the relief that flooded him show. The man had obviously changed, wearing a slightly cleaner t-shirt and some long, well-worn jeans. He looked good, Connor noted absently.
"Hey kid. How did your first session go?"
Hank sounded gruff, like he hadn't really wanted to ask, but felt like it was his duty. Connor shrugged carefully, his eyes distant as he thought on the question. How had it gone?
"It went… alright," he decided, looking back into Hank's blue eyes. Hank nodded slowly, before gesturing to the hall that led them to their room.
"I suppose that's good. You should probably head back to the room and take a shower. No offense, but you look kind of like Hell warmed over. Can't promise the water will be warm, but it usually helps with stress," Hank muttered, shoving his hands in his pockets, clearly uncomfortable. Connor attempted a smile, a small feeling of pleasure rising in his chest at Hank's concern.
"Yes, that would be enjoyable. Thank you, Lieutenant."
Hank just grumbled something about it being no big deal, before stalking off, out the door that led to the dining hall.
Soft smile unbidden on his face, Connor left through the door that would lead him to the staircase, leading up to his room, feeling relief at the thought of getting all the grime off his body. He never sweated much, but he had been in the same clothes for the past day and a half. He felt glad that they were allowed to wear what they wanted, here. He'd feel much better in his usual immaculate dress shirt, tie, and pants. He wouldn't be allowed to wear his suit jacket, but that was alright. The shirt and pants would be enough to make him feel like himself again.
Once in the room, Connor was surprised to find that the piles he had made had been picked up. The piles of things were no longer on the ground but put away neatly on the shelves on Hank's side of the room. He could see a few of the art projects that Hank had obviously made in the trash, but Connor impulsively fished them out, feeling a sentimental feeling towards them that he tried not to examine. He took them over to the shelves on his side of the room and placed them there.
They weren't well made, he knew that. There was a messily crafted origami crane, a popsicle stick person with a crudely drawn paper face, and a paper snowflake that was crumpled, but something in Connor liked them. They had obviously been made by Hank, and for some reason Connor enjoyed that thought. Hank's hands had created these things. That made them precious. Connor didn't let himself wonder why that was.
The posters and photos were back up, which made Connor smile. The room felt more like home, now. It wasn't as clean as he kept his room at home, but it was… lived in. Homely. A place he could see himself living in, unlike his room, where he simply existed. He didn't let himself think about why this pleased him, not wanting to push the emotion away.
That thought made him freeze, though. Emotions were pointless. Hadn't he just told Dr. Rose that? Yes. So, despite the slight pain he felt inside, he pushed the emotion aside and ignored how it disappointed him. He left the art pieces up, but he didn't think on them anymore. He entered the bathroom and took a shower, not thinking on how filthy the shower was. The walls were covered with soap scum and black substances he didn't want to know about. He resolved himself to clean out the rest of the bathroom and the shower once he finished his shower.
It took him ten minutes to finish washing, longer than usual only because it had taken him a minute to decide if he should use Hank's supplies or not, since he had forgotten his own in his bag that an orderly had brought him the previous day. He ultimately decided to use the shampoo and body wash that Hank used, ignoring the spark of pleasure he felt at the scent that reminded him of Hank. He left the bathroom quickly after that, towel low on his hips as he entered the main room.
He dressed quickly, feeling much better in his new outfit, and poked his head out, trying to see if an orderly was outside. Upon seeing no one, he walked to the end of the hall, where a young woman was standing, organizing supplies. With a pleasant smile forced on his face, he asked her if he could get some cleaning supplies for his room. The lady, in her mid-forties he presumed, informed him that they were only allowed mild, diluted cleansers, and he nodded quickly in understanding. She gave him an unmarked spray bottle, a couple sponges, and some gloves, which he took to his and Hank's room.
It took most of the day to finish cleaning the rooms. The cleanser didn't do all that much more than the soap in the main room, though he was able to clean some of the deeper stains into something not quite as dark. He was able to do much more work in the bathroom, though, attacking the black and brown spots with vicious, methodical focus. At one point, over the hours, Hank had come in and watched him work. The man had offered half-heartedly to help, looking like he would rather to do anything else, but Connor kindly declined. He enjoyed the work, he told the man. Hank had snorted at that and shook his head, but let it be. They chatted for a little, Hank telling Connor pointless facts about the facility he had learned over the past year. Connor enjoyed it.
When the man had left, Connor went back to work, ignoring the disappointment yet again. It was around six in the evening that Connor heard a knock on the door, informing him that dinner was being served. It was then that he figured he had done enough for the day and took the gloves off, washing his hand just in case anything had gotten beneath the things.
He walked slowly to the dining room, part of him not wanting a repeat of that morning. But his stomach was grumbling, since he had missed lunch in favor of cleaning the room more. So, squaring his shoulders, Connor entered the room, ignoring the looks sent his way. He stood on line for his food, which looked to be chicken and vegetable tacos with rice and beans. While Connor didn't love Mexican food, it would be acceptable.
His food in hand, Connor felt himself pause when facing the room, realizing he had no idea where to sit. He only knew one person here, but Hank had told him not to make a habit of sitting with him at meals. He looked through the room and noticed all the tables had at least one person sitting at them.
He felt panic rise in him as he wondered what he would do. He saw Hank and tried to catch the man's eye, but the man refused to look back, eyes resolutely on his plate. Connor was about to try and take his plate back to his room, not knowing what else to do (and not wanting to make friends with other patients. Hank was one thing, but other patients would just be pointless), when he heard a loud sigh from where Hank was seated. Connor turned in that direction, hope in his expression, watching as Hank turned annoyed eyes on him, before gesturing for him to come over. Connor didn't need to be asked twice, turning hurriedly toward the older man, the relief inside him overwhelming. He smiled when he sat across from the man, for once not having to force it. Hank looked at him weirdly for it, but smiled back, shaking his head as he turned back to his food.
The two shared an amicable silence, both eating their decent food, before Connor broke it, suddenly filled with curiosity regarding the other man. He realized that he knew nothing about Hank, other than he was a former homicide detective, used to laugh a lot but now only frowned, and enjoyed spending time with his old friends, which wasn't a lot to go on. Connor wished to rectify that.
"Lieutenant," Connor started, forgetting that Hank had requested he call him by his first name, "would you mind if I asked you a personal question?"
He watched as Hank froze, turning his eyes hesitantly to Connor.
"Depends. What do you wanna know?"
Connor thought on that, before settling. "I was wondering what you did to be sent here. Unless I'm mistaken, I don't think you admitted yourself. Am I right?"
He hadn't thought it sounded like that bad a question, but he watched as Hank froze, his shoulders tensing. The man put his taco down, eyes guarded as he looked at Connor.
"Fuck, Connor, you can't just ask someone that shit. What the fuck?" Hank stated, snorting. He carefully picked his taco back up, eyes still guarded as he watched Connor. Connor tilted his head, confused.
"Why not? You know why I'm in here," Connor pointed out. He truly didn't understand people, sometimes. They made such little sense. Hank just scowled, before nodding grudgingly in acknowledgment.
"You got a point there. Fine. No, I didn't admit myself. My boss, Fowler, court ordered me to go after I tried to blow my fucking brains out. Happy?"
Hank sounded angry, but Connor didn't think it was directed at him. Maybe at this Fowler? Or at himself, for trying to kill himself? Connor nodded slowly, making a note to think about the information later.
"Yes. Thank you, Lieutenant. That must not have been easy to share. I appreciate it," Connor said, knowing that it was the typical response people had after someone shared something personal. He didn't know why, but it seemed to placate Hank, who nodded carefully, the guarded look fading from his eyes as he ate his taco. Silence filled the air, before Connor decided to try and ask another question.
"May I ask another personal question, Lieutenant?"
Hank sighed loudly, annoyance in his eyes as they darted back to Connor.
"Do you always ask so many personal questions, or is it just with me?"
"I apologize, Lieutenant. I just wanted to get to know you better. Are there any questions you had for me?"
"No. Wait," Hank said, holding up a hand, looking Connor in the eyes. "Has anyone ever told you how goofy your face and voice are?"
Connor blinked, head tilted as he considered the question.
"No, but I have been told by people that my face and voice puts them at ease."
"Yeah? Well, they lied."
Hm. Perhaps he had offended the man with all his questions? Trying not to let the frown show, Connor nodded quickly, eyes going back to his taco as he lifted it to take a bite. He heard Hank sigh again (did the man have breathing problems? He sighed a lot. Perhaps he should look into it, to know if his roommate was likely to die soon or not), and turned to look at Connor, annoyance once again in his eyes.
"Alright, fine. What was your question?"
Connor did frown at that, wondering what had made the man change his mind. Deciding it didn't matter, Connor put the rest of his taco down and turned to face the man once more.
"Well, I had simply wondered why you had decided to, quote, 'blow your fucking brains out?'"
If the first question had made Hank freeze up, this one made the man emblazed, eyes furious as he slammed his taco down, half standing, a vicious snarl on his lips. Connor felt a jolt a fear pass through him. He distantly noticed the rest of the room turning to watch them, a few volunteers hesitatingly standing, wondering if they'd need to intervene.
"What the fuck, Connor?! Where the fuck did you get the idea that that was a question you can just fucking ask a person?!" Hank seethed, eyes boring into Connor, who blinked rapidly at the ferocity in the tone.
"I-I'm sorry, Lieutenant! I, I hadn't meant to offend!" Connor assured, raising his hands placatingly. He really hadn't. Though, in retrospect, it hadn't been the most tactful question. Human nature was confusing.
Connor watched as Hank took a few deep breaths, the fire leaving his eyes as he took in Connor's fearful face. With a groan, Hank took a seat, waving it off with an absent hand. Connor could tell that the man was still pissed off, though, and felt a stab of displeasure at the thought. He hadn't wanted to anger the man. He had just wanted to know more about him. Oh dear.
"Yeah. Whatever. Just, don't fucking ask things like that, kid. Jesus fucking Christ," Hank mumbled, trying to salvage his ruined taco. A tense silence rose between the two, the rest of the room slowly turning back to their own conversations, though a few curious looks were shot their way. Connor just kept his hands in his lap, staring at the plate in front of him. For some reason, he had the desire to cry, which was nonsense. He hadn't cried since he was a young child, and whenever he would, Amanda would beat him until he hadn't been able to cry anymore. It was pointless. Yet, still, the sensation lingered. Connor didn't bother trying to eat the rest of his food, his stomach too twisted to eat anymore.
Long minutes passed before the silence between them was broken, once again by Hank, who had let out a groan, putting his fork down, now moved on to eating the beans.
"Jesus kid, you look like I fucking kicked your puppy. Look, I'm sorry I yelled at you, but you can't fucking ask people shit like that. I know some people who'd deck you for even thinking it. But whatever, I don't fucking care. Just, eat your fucking dinner, alright?" The man said through clenched teeth, annoyance again in his eyes.
Connor turned his wide eyes onto the man, nodding quickly, hastily following the order despite how little he wanted to. His movement was jolting, his hands shaking despite his best efforts to get them to stop. After a few seconds of attempting to eat his taco, he heard Hank sigh yet again (seriously, should he be concerned?) and he felt a hand gently touch his. His eyes widened even farther as he stared at the calloused hand on his, memorizing how it looked, how it felt. Before he could truly get used to it, however, it was gone, Hank coughing awkwardly. He turned his eyes to look at the man, who looked back, expression awkward.
"Look, kid, don't… it's fine, okay? I'm not mad. Well, anymore. I just… don't ask me about that. I don't… I can't talk about it. Alright?"
Hank looked sincere, eyes softening when Connor looked into them, his own eyes wide, likely showing the upset he felt (stupid, you shouldn't show emotions, what would Amanda do if she saw you-), Hank's lips split into a gentle smile. Encouraging. Connor couldn't help but smile back, put at ease by how gentle the usually gruff man was being. It was strange, Connor felt, but nice. He wondered if Hank had gotten experience comforting people while on the force? Maybe he'd ask, one day.
"Thank you, Lieutenant. I promise I will not ask again. I'm sorry I had in the first place. I hadn't meant to offend."
"Yeah, yeah, whatever. Now, eat your food, alright? You look like a fucking twig."
Connor knew that his weight was actually well within the normal weight for men his size, but he nodded anyway, eating his taco with a much calmer mind, his stomach settled.
The rest of dinner passed in another amicable silence, the two men eating companionably. When Hank finished before Connor, instead of leaving, the man took out a newspaper and began reading, the only movement he made being the occasional turn of a page. Connor finished not long after but decided he didn't want to leave. Instead, he spent his time examining the room and its inhabitants, though he spent most of the time looking at and thinking about Hank. While he couldn't see much of the man behind the paper, he could see those large, deft fingers, and remember how they had felt, hesitatingly touching his own. He'd had to swallow drily as he remembered, head tilted as he tried to understand the man.
Hank was quite easily the most confusing person he had ever met. One minute he was blindingly angry at Connor, the next he was awkwardly trying to comfort him. He was built on such extremes that Connor didn't know how to navigate the man without setting something off accidentally.
But… but part of him liked that, he decided, staring at those grizzled hands. He liked the challenge, liked the unpredictability. Hank wasn't like anything he'd ever seen before, so much better and more exciting than anyone else.
And, as he fell asleep that night, head turned to watch Hank's face, softened with sleep, he wondered where their relationship would take them over the next six months.