The bright sun through his shades woke me up; Hank was on his stomach, limbs in every direction and I was buried in his back. I withdrew slightly to look down the bed. How the hell do you go to sleep with two socks but only wake up with one? Like some fucking domestic magic trick. I thought socks only disappeared in the washer. The robe had disappeared as well but I couldn't remember if that was before or after he grew the balls to share his bed with me.

I rolled off the bed into a careless heap, groaning in exhaustion on my way to the bathroom. Hanging my head between my knees on the toilet, I stared at the shower head.

"Fancy shit." It was wider than mine. Probably felt great.

Ten minutes into standing under the hot water, having not touched any of his products and pleasantly spaced out in an effort to wake up, I heard the door thrump open.

I didn't even have the energy to respond. Not even hungover, just so fucking tired.

Clank of the toilet lid.

Hank peeing.

Flush.

"Fuck are you doing," he grumbled. "Get out of there."

Flatly, I said, "You're welcome to join."

Clank of the toilet lid again.

Thump.

I shut off the water.

"You mind getting me a fucking towel, Hank. I have no more shame but you might get pissed off again. Don't want that, do we."

Footfalls on tile.

Creak of his cabinet.

He jabbed a towel at me through the crack between the curtain and the wall which I used to dry off my hair and wrap around tightly.

"What are you still doing here?" I asked as I stepped out.

"Want to use it. Had to wait for you. Freaking using up all my water."

"Tough shit, Hank. Join me next time," I said. I grabbed my pile of clothes from the floor to dress in the living room and tossed the towel back on his bed.

While Hank was still in the shower, I took Sumo out.

Returning, Hank was bent over a cup of coffee and had set one out for me as well.

"Thanks," I said, pulling out a chair. I tucked my legs up with me and stared off around the room. Should clean again soon.

"Hey. You didn't touch me last night did you?"

"If you're asking if we had sex, Hank, yes, it was fucking hot and you came five times in my ass. Sumo even watched. Would do again."

He reared back in the slow motions of a man not sure if he had to sneeze or vomit violently.

"The fuck is wrong with you, Alex."

I shrugged and laughed into my coffee. "A. Lot."

"Sumo? How dare you."

I started to snort then at the imagery. Sumo would be quite the cockblocker.

I looked back over at Hank. His face softened back up but he was still staring at me over the rim of his mug.

On a serious note, I had to remind him: "Hey, your concert's tonight. Do you wanna drive?"

"Sick of hauling my ass around?"

"Would be a nice change for once."

"You don't have work?"

"Going in early to clean and do inventory and shit. Managed to swap shifts. You're more than welcome to come by and have one before we leave."

"Wednesday happy hour at Harry's. I'll get you after."

"You sure? Don't forget."

"You know it's been a while since I saw anyone play. All these fuckin' virtual reality gigs now. You don't go deaf like that. People are missing out."

"Yeah. I don't get it."

I downed the rest of my coffee and then stood giving myself a full-body stretch before I went to the front door to grab my coat.

"Fowler got you on anything today?"

"Too much paperwork. I'll see when I get there.

With my hand on the door knob, he added, "Thanks."

"For what? Not letting you drown naked in the shower?"

He scoffed into this own coffee and nodded. "Yeah. I guess so. See you later, Alex."

I nodded a goodbye and headed off to take care of things at home and then to my own work.

"Woah woah woah, you're going on a date with Anderson?"

I rolled my eyes at my manager. "Not a date! Just going to hang out and have fun. I think he just needs to get out."

"Uh huh," she said. "I think he needs to get off. He's always here alone, we never see him with a woman. Never tries to pick anyone up. Same over at uh, what's his other one, Jimmy's? I ran into him there once a while ago. Bunch of old single guys. So either his dick doesn't work anymore or he's got a bone for you. What's that old phrase our folks would use? Netflix and Chill? What is this, Death Metal and Fuck? Pretty much go together anyway. Alex, you've been driving this man home for how long now whenever he comes here? Hey, whatever gets you off, hun. Lord knows I've thought about it."

I met him outside shortly after eight. I heard him before I saw him, pacing across the street. He was on the phone with someone from the department, evident by his brash tone and several grammatical varieties of 'fuck'.

I crossed over and let myself into his car. His dash was decorated with various stickers and a large mounted tablet, which I could safely assume was for maps and work. Small police lights were mounted against the glass, as well.

He yanked the door open and slammed it shut, slightly rattling the car as he turned on the ignition. The radio must have been on previously as well because it spun a….. jazz CD.

Heavy metal and jazz, so far. Very polar opposite. I would not have guessed.

He pushed it off and switched to the radio as he started driving.

"Hi to you, too, Hank. The hell was that about?"

"Eh, got another write up. Where are we going again?"

"The docks, I'll look it up when we're a little closer."

He was occupied with his thoughts and I let him be as I found the address to this place and found the tickets in my email. Apparently they had converted a ton of old shipping containers into a sort of amphitheatre.

We spotted some cars and pulled into a wide side lot. I stepped out first then turned back to realize he hadn't immediately followed. I tapped on the glass which he rolled down.

"Gimmie a minute. Fuckin' headache just came on."

I leaned in over the window with crossed arms. "Grab my bag, there's a few painkillers in there."

He did so and stole my bottled water as well in a deep chug before getting out of the car so we could make our way over to the mock venue.

His sourness fizzled out as we meandered through the crowd grabbing a couple beers and a platter of nachos to split on the concrete against the metal grating. He got up at one point without saying anything to talk to a couple guys he must have recognized, giving each of them a slap on the back when they were done. Personal or business, I wondered.

I didn't ask upon his return but he seemed pleased with whatever arrangements he just made.

"So uh, do you have to play cop tonight?"

"Off-duty means I don't give a shit. As long as no one's getting hurt, I'm not stepping in."

Over the course of the night, there must have been four pairs of boobs flashing overhead, two fights (quickly sedated by security, to Hank's satisfaction), three beers a piece, and a quick rain shower that only intensified the crowd.

We stood together for most of the show before he saw another couple guys he recognized, ditching me mid-song before returning a couple tracks later with a head nod. That had given me time to buy two more beers and I handed one over.

"Thanks."

I must have looked at him a moment too long because he furrowed his brow at me while taking a deep chug from his current bottle.

I returned with my own false-innocent expression of Nothing!

We enjoyed the remainder of the night without speaking, Hank's head nods less reserved with each track. It was nice to see him loosen up, just for a little while.

Whatever lift in his attitude he just experienced from the night faded back into the clouds overhead, bringing a sudden downpour to the streets and Hank's mood.

Had he forgotten I was in the car as he jolted up into his driveway or was this going to be like nights before, somehow shocked with wide eyes that *gasp* there was a female in his house!

Without words or further questions, I chased after him inside, discarding my wet outerwear and shoes against the front door. Hank clicked on the air and immediately went to the kitchen to pour a glass.

"You want anything?" His first words to me after the concert.

"Not tonight, Hank. I think I'll just let my things dry for a bit and head home."

With a slight shrug and tip of his drink, he said, "Suit yourself."

I cut him off on the way to the sofa with a firm hand to his chest and a tight grip to the wrist that held the tumbler.

"Fuck, this again?"

I tossed my hands up and he brushed past me to take his chair, again leaving me with a few choices. And again, I took the stupid daring one and immediately planted myself in a loose straddle with hands tightly gripping the back of his head, hair still slightly damp from the rain. I didn't even allow him to argue, any utterances cut off by a deep kiss. The sudden pressure pushed the wind out of him, arms startled to either side. When I finally released, trailing my hands around his face and down to stop at his chest, he was quiet. I treated myself to his mouth again, slower and steadier than the first. He was holding back, reserved and hesitant to respond but he wasn't pushing away either, his lips ever slowly twitching in reply. I released again and brushed the hair behind his ears.

He interrupted to take a sip of his drink before asking me to leave.

I sighed and crawled off but stood before him firmly. He wouldn't look at me, his fingers picking at the upholstery.

"I don't get you. Hank."

"Feeling's mutual."

I grabbed my things, well aware they had barely started to dry and left without a second look. I was halfway down the block when I heard his sloshing behind me, a light jog to catch up.

"Hey hey hey, hold up."

I slowed my pace in the rain but didn't stop completely. He caught up and grabbed my arm in a rough grip, urging me to turn around.

"What is it, Hank?" I was tired, exasperated and tugged my arm away for him to let me go.

"I, uh - let me drive you home, getting soaked out here."

"I'll be fine," I said, starting to walk again.

"Woah, okay, stop for a second."

I let out an exaggerated sigh with my face up to the rain as I turned back.

"What do you want?" he asked.

"You're fucking kidding me. What I want is for you to stop changing your mind every time you get a little riled up with me. I want to finish what I start. We had a good night, but you're pissing me off, Hank."

I could tell he wanted to say something but nothing fell other than, "I'm going home."

As he turned away, words I didn't even know I was holding spilled like Hank's puke at 2 am.

"God, Hank, you know what, stop. Listen to me, you need to either stop kicking me out or stop allowing me to come inside in the first place. Cause I can't do both anymore with you. I just can't. And I wish I could, trust me. So pick one. I will see you when I see you, all right? Get some sleep."

I turned away without waiting for a reply. He didn't follow.

The next week or so after that night was quiet. I don't know if he was occupying the other bars around town or was late to stay at work, early drinking at home. I didn't ask anyone else and no one offered the information. I had already reluctantly admitted to myself I was attracted to the man, however unhealthy it was. It wasn't a desire to help or assist or heal his grief; it wasn't my place to do so, but he could fuck himself if I wasn't allowed to care and spend time with him. Try to help with the easy things so he wasn't drowning in three-week-old garbage and glass. My actions over the past year came from platonic concern and for some reason I felt uniquely equipped to do so, perhaps our first hand experiences with death, I didn't know.

But I was more angry now than flustered as I had been before; I had no idea why he kept asking me to leave after the last visits to his house, his bed, that night in the playground. He obviously didn't have too much of an issue with the physicality of it, it just seemed that he had a limited threshold before becoming annoyed. With himself? With me? What exactly was stopping him? Something was rattling around in Hank Anderson's brain and I needed to figure out what it was.

It was about a half hour until close when he finally did appear, another very late Friday night and took a booth along the side. I poured his usual, set it before him, and turned back to the counter to finish cleaning up. I had planned to head out first anyway; I wasn't needed to linger and frankly, I also needed a break from Hank.

He got up at some point during this, maybe in a motion to say something but instead examined the pile of stickers we were selling and slipped one into his pocket in exchange for a dollar before taking his seat again.

If You're Not A Bartender Then Go Away.

I had to hide back a small smile at the gesture.

I was halfway to my car before he caught up to me. "You ignoring me now?"

I halted in the middle of the street; there was no traffic but even if someone came by and swiped us away, so be it.

"I'm not ignoring you. I just needed time to think."

"Ah. You gonna share or what."

I scoffed and started to turn back to my car. "I don't think you want to hear what I have to say."

I unlocked and he invited himself in.

"What're you doing?" I sighed.

"Let's go. You got something to say just spit it out."

"Oh, now you're ready to listen to me?"

"Just fuckin drive, Al."

I shook my head but obeyed the one part of his request to drive him home. I parked on the curb and then turned to look at him squarely.

"Okay, I want to know what the hell your problem is. And don't fuckin' get snarky with me. Cause I - for some godforsaken reason - I really like you, Hank. If I just wanted to have someone to make out with, I think I could find a fuck buddy pretty easily these days, as you've pointed out to me before. I like this routine I've got with you and yeah, I'm looking to get a bit more outta it now. All right? Every fucking time I look at you, it takes everything in my power to not fuck your brains out. Thing is…" I was swallowing my words, slowly devolving into this puddle of the young girl that Hank claimed me to be. And I hated it. "It's more than that. I don't - I don't know what exactly. I don't know. And it's such bullshit cause I can't get a read on you."

I turned back to the steering wheel, running my hands along the lower rubber in distraction. There was nothing I hated more than talking about relationships and shit but Hank was one who needed to hear these things, trapped as he was in his head.

He sat in silence for a solid couple minutes, musing on my confession with crossed arms, staring out at nothing in particular through the windshield.

"Fine," he finally said. He didn't look at me with the next few words. "You scare me, okay? You do this shit and I - I don't know - I don't - you'll just disappoint yourself."

Was he trying to force a confession or about to have a stroke?

"Oh go fuck yourself, Hank. I scare you? That is the stupidest bullshit that's come out of your muzzle since we met. Look, I think I've gotten to know you pretty well. The crap you do at work, what you see out on the streets, your disgust with the world around us right now, fuckin' machines doing everyone's jobs… It's overwhelming and it's exhausting but I never get tired of talking to you about that stuff when you're at the bar. So can you at least do me the fucking courtesy of admitting to yourself that spending time with me isn't complete hell for you? I'm not disappointed. So don't fuckin try to push me away and stop making excuses. Either invite me in and let me stay or get the hell out of my car so I can go home."

He hadn't looked at me during my speech, again tightening the arms across his chest and shaking his head to himself. I sighed and leaned against my window, attention drawn to the clutter at the end of the block that must have been swept away in that rain.

"I'm sorry, I just -"

"Get out," he said.

"What?"

"Not gonna fuckin' repeat myself," he said. He got out of the car and slammed the door a little too hard, walking a couple feet before halting and turning to bend down to look at me through the window. A thrown-back thumbs up gesture indicated I needed to move.

I did so, slowly and suspiciously following him into the house, removing my shoes within the entrance. He tossed his things aside and beelined to his scotch out on the counter, not bothering to even pour properly. I followed to lean against the counter at his side and he offered up a drink, but again I refused like the other night, watching his motions and wondering what the fuck he had in store for me.

He was thinking again. For several long moments, thinking or cursing away whatever the hell motivated him to turn and grumble my name.

"What?" I asked, which snapped him from these distracted thoughts.

"Nothing." He went over to the sofa then, clicking on the television to mindless late-night programming. A quiet distraction.

"It's not nothing," I sighed.

I followed and he reached out an arm across the top of the cushions to indicate I should sit. I did so and curled up against him; this time he actually embraced me instead of using me as a placerest.

"Not going to kick you out. Just wanna sit, okay?"

I nodded into his shoulder. "Okay."

Sumo joined us after a while, this gigantic dog who thought he was the size of a poodle came to interrupt and sprawled himself to pin me firmly into the sofa and Hank's side.

We stayed in this quiet and just when I thought I could fall asleep in this numb and awkward position, Hank asked me a question.

"Al. Tell me the truth. One of those scars was fresh."

I closed my eyes and shook my head. I couldn't lie to him. "Yeah."

"Hm. Wish you wouldn't do that shit to yourself."

"You saying you care about me or what."

Another grunt.

Sumo decided to retreat back to his bed allowing me to stretch and sprawl out on the couch with my head on Hank's thigh. I grabbed his arm from above me to hold under my chin. He patted me instead. "Come on."

I pushed away to look at him in confusion.

He nudged at a mug on his side table with a finger as he thought, and then finally spoke, looking everywhere else in his living room except towards me. "Let me make this clear so you're not asking me any more goddamned questions, Alex. I'm not having sex with you. Okay? I mean, not uh - well not like, you know. But I, uh...fuck...nothing." He pulled away from me and stood, making to head down the hallway.

'Not like, you know', what, Hank, what?

I drew my hands firmly down my face, surely leaving it red, still having no fucking clue what was going on.

I followed, noting that he had veered into the bathroom and I went to sit at the edge of his bed in the darkness. He emerged, stripped down to his boxers and robe.

Doesn't want to have sex and yet -

"Didn't I fucking tell you, Hank?"

"You've said a lot of shit I've already forgotten," he said. I grabbed his wrist as he passed the bed. He paused and eyed me again like some stranger who had intruded into his home before pulling away to sit in that chair again. I felt him looking at me.

Fine. Whatever fucking game this is, Hank, I guess we're both making up the rules.

I climbed into his bed, clumsily removing my pants to toss out from under. Next to remove the bra out from under my shirt, still fully aware that he was watching. There was nothing crude or lecherous, he was observing as he would at a scene, putting the pieces together one by one. I pushed myself down completely and curled up in a fetal position away from him, shutting my eyes against my bent arm.

When he finally did position himself as well, first on his back, then his side to pull me against him with a heavy arm across my torso, I grabbed to hold him tight against me. He was firm, warm, secure. But each motion was charged with hesitations, a display of Hank's internal struggle which I still couldn't exactly pinpoint, leaving me to wonder again why his behavior was marked with such doubt. Had he not done this since his ex-wife? No brief flings or angry rebounds? The grief and depression so overtaking his clouded mind he probably didn't even want to think of these things. Possibly not being able to deem himself even worthy of them after losing his family. What he had said prior in the car, he was scared of me. Scared of whatever goddamned emotions that might have started to bubble up again through that clogged and broken heart of his.

It was so easy to get used to who you become with depression and these suicidal tendencies; it's simply who you are that any other version seems like a fantasy, not real and tangible or even possible. You don't know who you are, or could be, without it. You forget your prior identity, for those who had an identity to begin with, others could barely remember a different version of the self. This was all he knew now; I did hope that maybe, one day, he could find his way out of the pain and neither of us would have to visit that park again.

I didn't want to burden Hank with anything else; he didn't need to know my history past my brother's death, and I had no desire to share. It wasn't important. But at the very least, we could share our collective pains, however unspoken.

A/N: I've been listening to a lot of Low Roar recently. (Blame Death Stranding for that). "Don't Be So Serious" is the title of one of their songs. Strongly suggest. ~AM