There's Something Wrong With Me - Chapter 3

Portrait of a Man on a Tightrope

XXX

The elevator whirred smoothly up to the penthouse suite. These people weren't hurtin' for money, that much was for sure. Hank could detect Connor fidgeting with something out of the corner of his eye, on his other side. As the elevator slowed, he could hear a plastic-y clicking noise, and realized that Connor was twirling his pen around in his fingers.

"Hey Connor—cool it with the pen, would ya?" The noise instantly stopped. "Relax."

"My apologies, Lieutenant. I'm not nervous, it actually helps me focus." Connor was looking straight ahead, and his voice sounded even. He didn't seem nervous, but futzing around with that pen was what Hank would call a "tell". "I'll refrain from doing it if it annoys you."

Hank sighed quietly. "If it helps you focus, don't let me stop ya—just don't make a lot of noise, all right?" He thought he could see a small smile from the corner of his eye.

"Got it, Lieutenant." He noticed that Connor had fully switched back to 'Lieutenant' now that they were out in the field—even in the car. While they were stuffed in Hank's Oldsmobile on the drive over, Hank thought he caught a whiff of a subtle cologne—something clean-smelling and not overpowering. Hank had cursed himself internally for not cleaning out his car, not that he had any reason to suspect he'd be driving anyone else around besides Cole—but Hank would be damned if he let Connor drive him around. No… he should have cleaned out his car anyway, since Cole was riding around in it. What Andrea said had stung Hank like a needle to his bone marrow—but she was right. He needed to get his shit together for Cole, if nothing else. He deserved to ride in a car that didn't have fast food wrappers and whatever other shit tossed on the floor.

Hank found himself tapping two fingers heavily on his leg. Guess he wasn't immune to annoying little habits, either. If anyone, Hank was feeling a little off his game—he wasn't feeling nervous or apprehensive, exactly—but he didn't like how carefree he felt riding around with Connor. Hank couldn't afford to be distracted when they were out working a case—and being such a grumpy old fuck, Hank just surprised himself with how easy it was to talk to the kid—he even knew his middle name. But Connor didn't know his, so he wasn't lettin' the guy in too much.

Hank rolled out his shoulders as the elevator doors slid open. But none of that shit mattered right now—it was showtime.

They walked smoothly off the elevator into the cold foyer, lined by sleek black walls and a large tank of exotic fish. "Anyone home?" The husband had buzzed them in, so Hank was a bit annoyed no one bothered to greet them off the elevator.

"Yes, Detectives—please, have a seat." A man's voice called from what looked like an open kitchen. The apartment had that ritzy office feel, with no sense of warmth or life—at least to Hank. The guy was chopping a carrot, and had a big pot on the stovetop. "Apologies, my wife doesn't get holidays off. Would you like something to drink?"

"We're good." Hank pulled out a barstool. The low living room couches didn't look much more comfortable, so they might as well sit here. The place looked less like a home, and more like a therapist's office. "So, Daniel's been missing for five days now?"

"Ah—yes, I believe so. We last saw him…" His eyes went up to the side. "Thursday. He wasn't home when we got back, and when we called his cell phone he didn't answer. Every time we've tried to call him it goes straight to voicemail." So his phone was either dead, or he blocked their number. He'd have to confirm with Connor if that's how it worked. Hank's only personal drama was his own, so he'd never had to block anyone's number—yet.

Connor glanced in Hank's direction, and he gave him a subtle nod. Time to see what the kid was made of.

"Besides Professor Abelman, have you been contacted by any other friends of Daniel's?" Connor's voice was even, not accusatory, neutral—but assured. Daniel's college professor was the only acquaintance the parents knew of by name, when Ben and Gavin first spoke to 'em.

"Ah, no…" The husband—John Phillips, from the report—made sporadic eye contact with them, while continuing to carefully chop his carrot. "If I was, I would have called you."

"Do you recall any names of acquaintances in passing?"

"... no, not really."

"So Daniel never spoke about his friends with you?"

"Uh…" Phillips laughed uncomfortably. "I guess not. Daniel was a serious student—and he was an adult, as long as he was free to watch Emma on certain nights, we didn't pry too much into his personal life."

"I see." Hank could tell by the subtle flat infection in Connor's voice that he thought that was bullshit, too. "Is that why you didn't report Daniel missing yourselves?" The knife stopped in the carrot.

"Well… yeah, we figured he was just with some friends, or something." Mr. Phillips' eyebrows furrowed, and he almost laughed uncomfortably again. "Am I being accused of something, here?"

"We're just trying to explore all available avenues, Mr. Phillips. We want Daniel to be found safe as much as you do." The guy regarded Connor like he asked for his wife's measurements.

There were a few things they knew about Daniel Lambert: He was French and in the country on a student visa, he was in his sophomore year of college for early childhood education, and he was close to an arts professor at his school, Mathis Abelman. His host family's daughter, Emma, seemed to think of him like a big brother, and he spent a lot of time watching her while the parents worked. The main evidence they had that Daniel had left and wasn't abducted, was a cash withdrawal from his US bank account Thursday night, which was caught on the ATM recording—but nothing after that. He didn't have a credit card, according to his bank records. They couldn't rule out the possibility that someone was forcing him to withdraw the money under duress off-camera, but it seemed less likely. The only person to call Daniel in missing was his professor, after he didn't show up to his Saturday painting lab. He had called Daniel's host family, who also hadn't seen him, and that's when the professor reported him missing. That left almost two full days that Daniel was gone, and his host family hadn't bothered to report him. Ben and Gavin actually responded to the call initially—but then all that shit went down at the Eden Club. And now that it was outside the first 48-hour window, they were widening their search and putting more personnel on it. He'd have a hard time checking into a hotel with just cash and no passport—even the shitty motels needed a bit more than that. No bodies had turned up in the rivers, lakes, or anywhere else so far—well, one had turned up, but it wasn't Daniel Lambert. Since he took that cash out, Hank was just hoping he had a plan and somewhere to go, and he and Connor could turn up someone he'd been staying with. Connor was more internet-savvy than Hank was, and he'd been poking around for Daniel's social media back at the precinct. Daniel's photo went up on the local news on Sunday, but no useful tips had come in so far.

"Is Daniel on any medication, does he have any known medical conditions?"

"Oh—when the other detectives asked, I said 'no', but look—" Phillips rounded the kitchen island and past them. "I'll bring it to you." Once he had left, Hank and Connor shared a knowing look. Looks like they were on the same page—this guy was pretending to know less than he did, and he wasn't a particularly good liar. It wasn't uncommon for folks to be nervous when talking to the police, but this was different. "—Here." He showed Connor a little orange prescription bottle. "I found it in his room—I didn't know he was taking anything. I—I tried to look it up, it's for like bipolar and schizophrenia, stuff like that." He set the bottle on the kitchen counter, covering his mouth with his hand. "I had no idea. Daniel never seemed like he was…" He trailed off.

"Aripiprazole." Connor read the label out loud, tugging on gloves he pulled from somewhere. "The rest of the label looks like it's been cut and peeled off. May we take this with us?"

Phillips spoke after a second. "Go ahead—if he comes back you'll just give it back to us, right?"

"Of course." Connor tucked the bottle into a clear plastic bag he produced from his pocket, and secreted it away. "If Daniel wasn't exhibiting symptoms of bipolar or schizophrenia, it's likely because the medication was working for him."

Phillips was rubbing his neck. "Well—I still think I had the right to know, as his host, you know? We had him watching our daughter all the time—I have a right to know if the guy who's watching my kid has a problem like this, right?" Hank felt slightly conflicted at that statement. On the one hand, yeah—if he picked Cole up from Kara and Luther's one day and one of them said to him, 'Oh yeah Hank, by the way—I suffer from schizophrenia, but I'm okay, I'm on meds. See you and Cole next week'—he might feel like that would've been something nice to know. But if someone's seeking treatment for their condition, whatever it might be, and you trusted them around your kid in the first place—well, what business was it of yours? Hank wasn't a mountain-man Libertarian, but he could have a little bit of a "gov'ment stay out my business" streak—which he supposed was a bit hypocritical for a police Lieutenant. He considered himself the Richard Belzer of their precinct—Lord knows he wasn't pulling like Chris Meloni anymore, if he ever was.

Connor turned to Hank. "Unless he was able to refill his prescription, it's likely now Daniel's been off his medication for five days."

"Hmm. Sounds rough." Mr. Phillips gave them a pompous look, since they basically ignored him. "Well, we don't know exactly what he was taking it for." It could have also been prescribed off-label—or there could be something else stored in there entirely.

Phillips crossed his arms. "I didn't know you could get a prescription here if you weren't a citizen." To be honest, Hank wasn't too sure about that, either. He'd have to ask Jerry down at the lab, he's the "food and drug" guy with a brain like an Encyclopedia.

"So, Daniel left without his medication—does he not keep his passport on his person, either?"

Phillips was silent, biting the inside of his lips. "Umm…" He leaned a hand on the counter. "I wouldn't know. He left it here, that's all I know."

"I see." Connor placed his gloved hands on the table, and stood up smoothly from the barstool. "We're doing everything in our power to find him, Mr. Phillips. At this point, unfortunately, we have to consider all possibilities. It's possible that Daniel was abducted, or we may not find him alive." Phillips stiffened. "Can you tell us again what he was doing, or how he was acting the last time you saw him?"

Phillips was rubbing the back of his neck again, his face scrunching in recollection. "Nothing really stood out—he was working on his painting when my wife and I took Emma to a movie—and when we got back, he was gone. We figured he just stepped out or got something to eat, but then we couldn't get a hold of him."

"Were his painting supplies put away?"

"What?"

Connor clasped his gloved hands behind his back. "Did it look like Daniel was still working on his painting, and stepped out, or had he put all his supplies away?"

"—I don't remember." Phillips dropped his arm. "You can look in his room, if you want." He gestured past them deeper into the apartment.

"Thank you." Connor smiled. "We'd also like to speak to Emma, before we leave."

Phillips nodded a few times. "Okay. I'll let her know. She's just in her room." Thankfully it was a school holiday—unfortunately that didn't mean much to Hank, as Cole would have just been stuck at home alone if he had stayed with him today, too. Kara and Luther were out of town, enjoying the holiday weekend with Alice. The pot on the stove started to bubble. "Oh—detectives, help yourself. Daniel's room is on the far-right, past Emma's room."

"We'll do that, thanks." Hank led the way to the door. Emma's door had a cute hand-made star sign with her name on it, but Daniel's was plain.

"Do you want some gloves, Lieutenant?" Hank looked over his shoulder. His hand was already on the knob.

"Ah, I'll put some on if I start touching stuff. I just want to look first." Connor maintained eye contact. Hank rolled his eyes. "Look, if they find my prints on the door, they're not gonna think I kidnapped the guy."

"You can never be too careful." Connor had his gloved hands at his side. Hank pushed open the door.

"There's such a thing as being too paranoid, Connor." They stepped into the small room, which only had a bed, a desk, and an easel with a large painting on it. Hank wasn't an art guy, and the painting didn't look like anything in particular to him—just big abstract blotches of red and blue, with some gold and black peppered in.

"You know Lieutenant, one of the senior officers at the academy told us a story of an officer who contaminated a crime scene by spitting into a trash can. The only link they had that someone had been there was a tissue in the trash, and they completely ruined any chance of getting DNA off of it."

"Okay, Connor—save the interesting anecdotes for the car." He thought he heard Connor laugh softly behind him. Hank had gently tugged the drawers to the desk open, looking for photos, a journal, anything to prove that this guy was ever even here. He didn't even have a laptop, which seemed unusual for a college student these days. He might have taken it with him, but the family never mentioned him having one. "I got nothin' in the drawers—just a movie ticket."

"To which movie?"

"Uh… Portrait of a Lady on Fire?" He turned the ticket over. "Never heard of it. Looks like it's from that theater that does special events—you know, the arty one."

"Hmm."

Hank turned over his shoulder, and Connor was studying the painting. "What you got, Connor?"

"Hm? Oh—I was just trying to imagine what Daniel wanted to get across with this painting." He hovered his gloved fingers over the painting, without actually touching it. "I'm not much of an artist myself. But the paint is layered thickly on the canvas, as if he was blocking in the same color over, and over." He took a step back. "What do you think, Hank?" He had switched back to 'Hank'. "I'm getting a sense of 'duality', or maybe conflicting emotions, from the blue and red." He turned to look at Hank fully.

Hank scratched the back of his hair. "I dunno, Connor. You sure you aren't an art guy?"

Connor laughed lightly. "I did go to a casual painting class with my friend, once." He turned back towards the painting. "Mine wasn't very good." Goddamnit, Connor—he needed to stop doing that soft little laugh, because Hank kept finding himself thinking it was cute—and he didn't need that thought when he was out looking for some poor guy who was off his meds and could be dead in a ditch somewhere. "… I think Daniel was conflicted about something." Connor ghosted his hand above the bottom of the painting. "He hadn't signed his painting yet. He wasn't finished with it. Look." He lightly touched the lip of a dirty-looking glass. "These brushes are still dirty. The water's been dumped out, but the brushes haven't been cleaned." He peered around the easel. "His palette also has dried paint on it. I don't know how long it takes paint to dry before it's unusable..." Connor gently touched a glob of paint on the thingy with the tip of his finger. "But it's dry now. I don't think an artist who put this much care into his painting would neglect his tools like this." Connor laughed quietly to himself. "Then again, I'm not an expert. But it appears to me that Daniel left while he was still in the middle of painting, perhaps suddenly. The water was probably dumped out by the family later—but they wouldn't have thought to rinse out his brushes." Hank found himself watching Connor's profile as he spoke. "He had all day Friday to finish this piece before his painting lab on Saturday. He could have been the type to finish things at the last minute, or the perfectionist type who thinks their work is never truly done." Connor's eyes fell. "I wish we knew more about him." He turned to face Hank, which caught him a little off guard. "I have a feeling we'll learn more about him than his host family knows—or pretends not to know." Connor's eyes shot to the open door behind them. The husband was still futzing with his pot on the stove. Considering he was rummaging through Daniel's room to find his probably well-hidden medication, if there was any other indicative or incriminating evidence, it was probably long gone. "There's probably not much left for us to find," Connor finished softly.

Hank let out a cynical grunt. "My thoughts exactly." He poured over the desk a bit more, then walked over to give Connor's arm a light clap. "Pretty good observations there, Connor." Connor gave what Hank perceived as a shy smile, looking away.

"I'm just doing my job."

Damn—"Hey, how good are you with kids?"

"Me? Well…" Connor was peeling off his gloves, depositing them into yet another plastic baggie he produced from somewhere. "I don't feel like I'm particularly good with kids—but they sometimes like me, for some reason."

"All right. You just let the Dad handle this one." Connor gave another almost inaudible laugh. Got dangit—"Actually—you sit in on this one too, Connor. It'll probably be helpful for you to learn how to talk to kids."

"Oh… all right." Connor folded one arm across his body, holding his elbow. It was a more casual, unsure posture than Hank had seen him take so far. "To be honest, I talk to them much the same way I'd speak to an adult, just with simpler vocabulary." His eyes looked somewhere else while he talked. "I remember what it was like when I was a kid, and I could tell when adults were talking down to me, and I didn't appreciate it."

"Well, Cole would probably like you, then." He gave Connor a reassuring pat. "He can always tell when the adults are treating him like a brat, or giving it to him straight." He quietly closed Daniel's bedroom door behind them.

"How old is your son?"

"He just turned nine." Hank leaned into Emma's door slightly, and it sounded like she was listening to music. "Precocious little—he can have a wily sense of humor just like his old man. But at least he knows better than to cuss around me." Connor laughed lightly behind him. Hank went back over to Phillips in the kitchen. "How old is little Emma?"

"Emma? She's eight, in second grade." Phillips peeked under his pot lid. "She can be a little quiet, but she's such a smart girl." He coiled a kitchen towel around the handle of the lid. "She's been so sad since Daniel left."

"Have you tried explaining it to her at all?"

Phillips made an exaggerated shrug, like he was offended Hank even asked him that. "What's there to explain? I don't even know what the hell happened." He fiddled with the stove knobs. "You open up your home to a promising young student, and one day he just disappears without a word."

Hank couldn't stop his eyebrows from raising. "Right. Well, we'd like to talk to Emma. I know Detective Collins and Detective Reed already spoke to her with you, but we'd like to speak to her alone."

Phillips leaned both hands on the counter, arms wide. "Alone? Why?"

"Sometimes kids are worried about saying the wrong thing in front of their parents. Talking with us one-on-one will help her to speak in her own words." Hank gave the guy a reassuring smile. "We'll keep the door open, though."

Phillips drummed his fingers on the counter. "All right." He tossed a kitchen towel over his shoulder. "I don't suppose I have a right to refuse, anyway."

Hank smiled. "Thank you, Mr. Phillips." He gestured behind him at the door. "Sounds like she's listening to music, you mind getting her for us? Don't want to startle her."

"Sure." Phillips made a beeline around the counter, refusing eye contact with either of them. He knocked on Emma's door, softly. "Emma, sweetie? Can I talk to you?" After a few seconds the music turned down, then a small face peeked through the doorframe. "Emma, I told you some detectives were here to help find Daniel, right? They just want to talk to you, sweetheart." His tone was softer with his daughter, but… you know when those weird dog people start talking to you as if they're speaking for their dog, like, 'I just love chewing Daddy's slippers!' It sounded kind of like that.

Emma's dark, round eyes peered up at both of them. Hank smiled widely. "Hi Emma. I'm Lieutenant Hank, and this is Detective Connor. We're doing our best to find your pal Daniel, so we just want to talk to you about him a little." He tilted his head a bit. "That okay?"

She peered between them, then nodded her head. "... okay." Her voice was small.

"All right, sweetheart. The detectives are going to talk to you in your room, but I'll be right here in the kitchen, okay?" Phillips pushed open the door, and Emma took a few steps back.

"'Scuuuse us." Hank made an exaggerated stepping motion to enter her room, and he thought he saw a small smile flash on her face. "All right honey—you mind if I just sit myself down on the floor?"

She sat back on her bed. "That's okay." She pulled her pillow to her chest and rested her chin on top, her arms clutching it loosely.

Hank nodded his chin towards her desk, which was covered with little animal figurines. "Can Connor sit in your chair?" She peered up at Connor for a second, then nodded, watching him while he sat down. She probably thought he was cute—I mean, who wouldn't? Hank crushed that thought beneath his palm as he leaned back on his hands. "Hey, kiddo—what grade are you in? Third? Fourth?"

"... second." She smiled shyly.

"Second, really? Wow, you seem so mature! My kid's in third, so that's why." She looked at the floor, half her face behind her pillow, but Hank could tell she was smiling.

"Thank you..."

Hank made another exaggerated attempt to peer around the cracked door, even though neither them nor the dad could see each other at the angle it was closed. "All right, sweetheart—so tell me about Daniel. It's okay—your Dad can't hear, so you can tell us whatever you want." She giggled softly, her face scrunching into her pillow.

"... I like Daniel." She tapped her toes together, her legs jutting out straight. "He's really nice... he takes me to the zoo a lot, and he took me to the art museum once." She suddenly scrunched in her legs to sit cross-legged. "He knows a lot about paintings, I really liked going there."

"I'm sure. I saw his painting in his room." Hank nodded through the wall. "He's pretty good." Emma nodded. "But you know—I heard that Daniel actually wants to be a teacher, right?" Emma nodded again. "Do you think he'd make a good teacher?" She nodded, again, more enthusiastically.

"Yeah." She looked away briefly. "Well... I never saw him at school, he would only go out with me..." She was knocking her little slippers together again.

Hank leaned in closer. "Hey, Emma... do you want to marry Daniel when you got older?"

"What? No!" She hid her face in her pillow. "No, Daniel's my friend!" By how embarrassed she got, Hank could guess she did have a little kid crush on Daniel. That's harmless... what mattered is that Daniel didn't have any creepy ideas back. Emma's eyes peeked out over her pillow, looking away. "And..." And?

Hank and Connor's eyes met. That was the opening they wanted. Connor clasped his hands loosely, leaning more towards Emma's eye level. "Emma, do you know if Daniel was dating someone?" She peered up at Connor, her face hidden from the nose down. The girl must have a type. "Even if he didn't tell you directly?"

She was swinging her legs slightly, touching the floor with the bottom of her slippers. "Well..." Her small voice was muffled. "He would look at his phone and smile, like this." She pantomimed giggling at something in her hand. "... that's what people do when they're texting someone they like, right?" Good Lord—Hank had hoped kids these days would have been more naive. How does she know that?! "I asked him if he had a girlfriend, but he said no." She hugged her pillow again. "... but I think he does."

"I see. Do your mom and dad think so, too?"

Her eyes circled around the room, then she shook her head. "I don't know. They never said it."

Hank noticed that Connor was tapping the back of his thumb. "Do you think your mom and dad would be mad if they found out Daniel was dating someone?" Her eyes widened a bit. "Or if he was keeping something a secret from them?"

She looked down. "I dunno... maybe." Her eyes darted in the direction of the door.

"It's all right, sweetie—" Hank shifted to bend his legs, scooting in a bit closer. "You have the legal right to tell us anything you want, you know—and your Dad's not allowed to get mad. It's the law." She laughed a bit, before hiding her mouth behind her pillow. Hank wished to God that were true, but it's at least true that her parents have no legal way of preventing them from talking to her privately, if they believed it would further the investigation.

Emma looked down, then wordlessly scooted to the edge of her bed. Hank and Connor both leaned in slightly. If the dad turned down his pot all the way and strained, he could probably hear Hank's loud voice, but not hers. And definitely not make out what she was saying. Her big eyes flicked up to them, her voice soft behind her pillow. "One time... Daniel got home after I got home from school, and I heard him and Dad arguing." Her eyes were dilated now, you couldn't see her irises at all. "He said, 'How could you keep this from me?!'" Her eyes got dewy at the hushed impression of her father's harsh words. "I was kinda scared, since I never heard my Dad talk like that... but when I came out to tell them to stop arguing, he stopped." She sniffled. "I asked Daniel—later I asked him why him and Daddy were fighting, but he just said, 'We weren't fighting mon chou, just talking.'" She wiped her little eye with her sleeve, at a tear that hadn't quite formed yet. "I don't know what they were saying. But Dad must have gotten mad because Daniel was keeping something a secret from him... but it probably wasn't bad!" She sniffed louder. "Daniel's not a bad person... he's my best friend..." She let out a choked sob. "Is that why Daniel ran away?"

"—It's all right, sweetheart." Hank caught her back as she doubled over, wiping her nose and eyes with her little hands. "I don't know why Daniel ran away... sometimes adults do argue about things, and Daniel might have needed some time to cool off." He rubbed her back in wide circles. "Maybe your dad told him to leave. We won't know until we find Daniel and ask him ourselves." She peered up at Hank with red eyes, and it broke his heart.

"Is Daniel going to come back?"

"I hope so, sweetheart." Hank gently smoothed down the back of her shirt. "We just have to find him and talk to him, first." He glanced up at Connor, who had crouched down in front of his chair, but looked like he wasn't sure what to do when he got there. Connor met his eyes, then licked his lips before he spoke. He probably wasn't even aware he did it so much.

"Thank you for telling us that, Emma. That was very brave." Connor gently touched her shoulder, even more gently than when he had touched Tracy Liu's—barely ghosting it, like the painting. "Hey—you're our star witness now, you know?" Connor smiled, lowering his head to her level. "What you just told us is very important in helping us find out where Daniel went."

"That's right." Hank glanced up at the closed door. The dad probably heard her sob, but if he was standing right outside the door listening, he was one stealthy fucker. "It'll be all right. We'll find Daniel—hey, I may be old, but I'm not the Lieutenant for nothing." Hank thought he heard a small laugh muffled by a pillow.

She finally sat up, wiping her eye again. "Thank you..." She sniffed again. "Please tell him I miss him... and he should come home."

"Of course, darlin'. That'll probably be the first thing we say to him." Hank scooted back, sitting cross-legged—which he could barely do, he was so un-flexible with his long legs in his old age. "Hey—I'm sorry we made you upset—how about you tell us about something you really like before we go?" He pointed up at her desk of animals. "Which one of those guys is your favorite?"

"Hm?" She peered up at her desk, wiping her nose with the front of her hand. "Oh—" She sucked in her snot. Hank thought he saw Connor twitch, just slightly. "I dunno... I like all of them." She stood by her desk, and scooted out two figurines in particular. "My aunt got me this one for my birthday..." It looked like a pink poodle. "She said it's a French poodle. Daniel tells me a lot of stuff about France..." She bit her lips. "And this one..." She gently picked it up, cradling it in her palm. "Daniel got it from the museum... there's a big restaurant at the museum, and they had it there."

"Oh, I know where that is—" Connor smiled, hugging his knee which was still bent. "The Detroit Collective of the Arts." She nodded her head. "I've been there before."

She smiled, tracing the edges of what looked like a ceramic pastry, to Hank. "He said, 'Look, mon chou!' It was meant to be!'" She held out her arm, displaying her treasure for them both to see. "You see—'mon chou' is like what they call their kids in France, that's what Daniel told me... but it also means a cream puff like this." She sniffed softly. "He said it's like when we say 'honey'."

"Hey, that's very sweet." Hank smiled, willing his joints to stop shouting at him. "What a perfect find." She nodded her head, cupping the pastry in both hands.

"Thank you for finding Daniel..."

"Hey, we're on the job—you can count on us, kiddo." Hank grunted noisily, trying to push himself up in the narrow space between the chair, the bed, and the door. "Hoo boy—Connor, could you scoot that chair a little? Thanks." Hank rose to a crouch, supporting one hand on his leg. "I'm too big for this cute little room." Emma giggled, sitting back on her bed. It looked like she was still clutching her, uh, 'mon chou'. "Thanks Emma, you were a big help."

"... you're welcome." Well, at least she wasn't crying anymore. Hank would need to call Cole the second he got home—maybe even at lunch. This whole thing was hurting his heart.

Hank pushed open the door, and the dad was looking at them from behind the kitchen island. "We're done talking to Emma. We just have a couple more questions, then we'll be out of your hair."

"Psst." Hank saw Connor crouch down out of the corner of his eye. Emma must have wanted to tell him one last thing. He'd ask him later.

"Sure thing." Hank could see something else cooking on the burner—smelled like shrimp and rice.

"Hey, smells good—we won't cut into your dinner time." Connor joined Hank at the spot where the carpet met the tile. "I just want to know—when's the last time Daniel's family in France contacted him?"

The dad shrugged. "I wouldn't know, honestly. It was my understanding that he had a strained relationship with his parents, since he wanted to become a teacher. I think they wanted him to join the family practice."

"I see." Ben's attempt to contact the parents in France hadn't been successful. "I know you don't know much about his friends, but do you happen to know if Daniel was seeing anyone?"

Mr. Phillips' face was a mask—but a telling one. "Not that I'm aware of." That was all they needed to see.

"All right, that's all I got for now. Thank you for your time, Mr. Phillips—if you need anything else from us, or remember anything at all you think might be relevant—just give us a call." Hank really hoped the Dad wasn't gonna storm into her room all, "What did you tell them?" But he was probably going to do that regardless... hang in there, kid. Hank and Connor are gonna figure this mess out for ya.

"I'll do that, thanks. Good luck."

They headed back to the elevator, Connor turning to watch the fish as they walked. Hank pushed the Lobby button, and the doors slid closed. Hank waited until the elevator had moved down at least a floor.

"—Did you catch that huge balcony with the pool? Goddamn." Connor made a small, seemingly uncomfortable laugh. "Wish I made that kind of money."

"Really makes you wonder." He was quiet, looking ahead at nothing. Then he whipped out his phone, typing on it pretty fast. He scrolled a bit, then put it away.

"What did she say to you?" Hank slid a hand in his jeans pocket. "I mean, if it's not a secret."

Connor's hands were hidden in his coat pockets. "She thought she heard Daniel say a name on the phone. He was speaking in both English and French—" He bit the inside of his lips. "—but she thought she heard him say 'Jason'."

"A-ha." Hank rolled up onto the balls of his feet. "So we have a name."

"Maybe." Connor was rubbing his chin. "... I don't know how much it will help, but she also gave me this." Connor pulled a small strip out of his pocket—ah, one of those photo booth prints.

"They still make those?"

"Apparently." There were a few shots of Emma and Daniel together—smiling, and making goofy faces. "Either way, I definitely want to talk to the professor before we draw any conclusions."

"Right." Hank was touching his keys in his pocket. "I don't believe a fuckin' word that guy said, but I believe her." Connor laughed.

"I do, too. At least, I believe in her perception of Daniel." Hank caught Connor flicking his pen again, but this time it wasn't making that annoying clicking sound. "I honestly don't think she had anything to do with his disappearance." He bit his lips. "If anything, Daniel might be out there regretting that he upset her so much, with not knowing why he left."

"Maybe." Hank was smoothing his beard down. "We could stand around speculating all day, though. Let's get over to that college."

"Right." It was obvious to Hank that Connor was preoccupied by something. He had no reason to withhold something Emma may have said, so it must be something else.

They wordlessly left the lobby of the luxury apartment, striding back out onto the street. "Damn—" Hank shielded his eyes. "It's bright out here after bein' in that fuckin' dungeon."

Connor laughed quietly. "It was rather dark inside, wasn't it." He shielded his eyes with one hand, too. It wasn't gonna snow yet, so it was a surprisingly cloudless day. "If I had that much money, I'd want floor-length windows and a million plants."

"Ha! You're thinkin' too small, Connor." Hank dug out his keys. That damn downtown parking for less than an hour probably cost more than his lunch will. "You don't even want to know what I'd get with all that money—actually, you'd probably never see my ass again." He expected Connor to laugh, but he didn't. He glanced sideways, and Connor appeared to not even be paying attention. "Hey, you there? Don't hit a pole."

"What? Oh, sorry, Hank." Connor rounded the passenger side of the car. "I was just thinking about what the father and Emma both said. They seemed to have vastly different impressions of Daniel."

"Well, yeah." Hank collapsed his heavy ass into the driver's seat. He should just upgrade to one of those big trucks, it was harder on his knees getting in and out of this compact car all the time. "Kids are innocent. They don't know about adult's problems, of course they look at us with stars in their eyes."

"That's not always true." Hank rolled his eyes.

"I know that, Connor. Kids are pretty sensitive to bad vibes, too." Hank turned the ignition, and the engine purred to life. "I'm just sayin', just because she adores Daniel like a big brother, doesn't mean he wasn't struggling with his own stuff. Stuff that the dad was aware of, but not her."

Connor didn't say anything to that, just adjusted his seatbelt. Hank twisted over his shoulder to see when the lane was clear to pull out. "... honestly, I feel bad for her, thinking about how Gavin must have approached her during that first interview."

Hank laughed. "Yeah, poor kid. She's already goin' through it."

"... Maybe Detective Reed has a secret soft spot, and is nice to kids."

"Not a fuckin' chance." How long was this damn green light? Come on... "He was probably like, 'So you didn't see anything? You're fuckin' useless, then.'" Connor laughed despite himself.

"So terrible... She really seemed to warm up to you though, Lieutenant." Hank could hear the smile in his tone.

"Yeah, well... I try." Hank rubbed his beard. "She didn't whisper a little secret to me though, so fuck me."

Connor laughed lightly. "That was probably just because I was closer." Yeah... Hank didn't know about that. Poor Daniel—if he ever goes back home, little Emma will just be gushing about "Detective Connor" now. Hank found himself smirking at the thought. Kids really are innocent. "... I'm sure you caught the indignation when the father said, 'I don't even know what the hell happened. You let a promising young student into your home, then one day he just disappears without a word.'"

"I'd be a pretty crappy investigator if I didn't pick up on that." Hank flipped on his turn signal, which he remembered to do about half the time. "Definitely not what I'd be saying if a kid living under my roof disappeared—unless I fought with 'em and they stormed out."

"Or they could have fought before, and he really was gone the next time they got back." Connor raked back his hair, which was starting to loosen up from whatever he styled it with. Those pieces were flopping over his forehead again. "Honestly, if this was a crime show, I'd think the host father was a red herring with how obvious he's being."

Hank laughed. "Well, in real life people aren't that smart. You'll rarely find criminal masterminds on this circuit, Connor." Hank let down his window just a bit, hearing the steady downtown traffic whip by. The heat could get a little musty in this old car. "People make a lot of impulsive decisions in the moment, emotional decisions before they can think things through. I'm sure you've seen that plenty. Makes 'em easy to catch, so I don't complain." Connor almost snorted. "Anyway, just because this guy's bein' shifty as fuck, doesn't mean he actually did anything to the kid." Hank saw a gap and peeled out into the lane. He straightened his steering wheel and sped up. "—Right now, it looks like they just argued about something and Daniel took off. It's where he's at now that's our problem." Hank twisted over his shoulder before merging into the next lane. This car had such crappy visibility 'cause of the thick dividers between the front and back windows, he should just treat himself to a big truck. Lord knows he wasn't spendin' the money on Andrea anymore. Well—by that logic, all the spending money should just go to Cole now.

"I have a feeling the professor knows someone Daniel might be with." Connor's raspy voice was harder to hear with the window down. "I think they just might not have had the right questions to ask the first time."

"You're probably right. Hey—you don't mind if I have the window down? Sometimes the heat is a little much."

"That's fine." Connor was staring contemplatively out the windshield, fingers splayed loosely over his mouth.

Hank tapped the steering wheel. "Something else on your mind, Connor?"

"I was wondering if Daniel would be able to refill his prescription with just his student visa." He licked his lips. "Assuming he has it." Connor raked a hand through his hair. "He must not be having a good time right now if he suddenly lost access to his bipolar medication. Well—I suppose we don't know exactly what it was being used to treat. I looked up that medication, and it's a generic that can also be prescribed for depression, as well as help regulate autism." That seemed like a bit of a shotgun spread of prescriptions for one medication, but what did Hank know? Connor rubbed the spot between his lower lip and chin. "I'm not super versed on FDA regulations when it comes to foreign travelers—they might have to have their prescriptions from their home country sent in. We'll have to check that out—either way, we should get a warrant for Daniel's pharmaceutical records."

"On it. Once we stop at the school, I'm calling it in to Ben." He can deal with requesting the warrant from the judge—it was originally his case. Ben wasn't a bad detective, but maybe if his shitty partner had half the empathy or general people-sense that Connor had, they would have found something before those 48 hours had passed. Well—to be fair, they didn't have the pill bottle until today. Connor took out his phone, and snapped a picture of the photo booth strip. "Whatcha doin' with that?"

"A little reverse-engineering." Connor's finger slid wildly across his phone screen. Damn—Hank still had to hunt and peck on that tiny-ass keyboard, just like his regular computer. "I'm only going to look a little, I can do the rest once we get there. Would you mind driving a little slower?"

Hank felt his eyes narrow. "What's wrong with my driving?"

"I can sometimes get motion sickness when I'm reading in the car." Connor kept typing at lightning-speed.

"Well damn, Connor—can't you wait 'til we get there, then?" Hank did take his foot off the gas, letting the car coast. "Hey, if you're gonna get sick, roll down the window and tell me!"

"... Nevermind, I'll just look it up when we get there." He leaned his knee against the door. "I'm just feeling restless, is all." Hank drummed his thumb against the steering wheel.

"Well, go ahead then—just don't make yourself sick, all right?"

Connor nodded. "I won't. Thanks."

XXX

Hank ended the call and went to join Connor over by the tree planter. "I don't blame Ben, 'cause he's an old man like me—but I'm surprised that Gavin didn't find the guy's socials." Hank had to stop himself from saying "that fucker Gavin".

Connor was sitting in the shade of the tree, glued to his phone. "To be fair to them, I wouldn't have found anything without this photo. He doesn't have a Personbook, just a photo-sharing app, which doesn't have his name anywhere." Connor kept typing away. "I had to reverse image-search this photo. Daniel must have asked her, or told her he posted it."

"'Reverse image-search'?" Hank shuddered in exaggeration. "Big Brother is here."

Connor rolled his eyes. "Reverse image searching has been around almost as long as search engines have, Hank. That's why you shouldn't carelessly go posting things on social media."

"Hey, no worries there—I don't even have one!"

Connor held down a button on his phone. "Neither do I. Well, I don't share photos of myself on it, anyway." Hank couldn't help but wonder what kind of moody landscape photos Connor was posting on his Photo-thingy. Well, maybe he posted cute stuff—like his cat. "I'm just saving a few pictures, I'll be done in a second."

"From his Photo-thing?"

"Yes." Connor closed his eyes. "I really hope we find Daniel. And I hope he can forgive us for invading his privacy."

Hank snorted. "Well if we find him half-dead somewhere and rescue him, I doubt he'll give a shit how we found him." Connor shot him something very near a glare. "Sorry, sorry—I know that's not funny, I'm just trying to lighten the mood. I hope we find the kid, too."

It sounded like Connor sighed before he stood up. "I suppose his account is still public..." He trailed off to himself. He stopped next to Hank. "Lieutenant, depending on what the professor says, this conversation might get slightly awkward."

"Awkward? Pft." Hank strode off towards the art buildings. "Connor, I've heard it all." Connor didn't follow that up with anything.

XXX

Thankfully, this was one of those less important holidays where the administrative offices on campus were closed, but classes were still in session. Hank didn't quite understand the point of that—but whatever. At least they could talk to the guy without having to go to the trouble of tracking him down at home or his studio, like Ben had to do. And they knew which room he taught in, and what time his classes were thanks to one of the few personal items in Daniel's room—a thick class guidebook for the semester, and a printed syllabus for this Intermediate Painting class. According to the schedule, there was a big gap between Professor Abelman's classes—so it should be time for his office hours. Everything was comin' up Hank—or, maybe that should be "coming up Daniel".

Hank and Connor waited off on the side of the building for the kids to start streaming out of the room. They couldn't look more like narcs if they tried, so hopefully the stragglers would clear out quick so they could talk to the professor in private. His photo had gone up on the news, and the school might have circulated their own fliers—so there was a good chance the students already knew he was missing. Hank blew on his hands. The sky was starting to get overcast, and it was gettin' pretty cold now that they were out of the car—Hank would even take that musty warm air right about now. "Hey—you wanna pop into the cafeteria or something for a bit?"

"It might be closed, if the administrative offices are."

"Ah, Jesus—what the hell's the point of that, the kids have to come to class, but you make 'em starve? Shit." Hank pressed his arms into his body. He thought he heard Connor laugh. Shit—at least somebody's laughing. For-fucking-ever ago when Ben was Hank's partner, he almost never made that guy laugh. "Ah—I think I hear 'em." Hank could hear voices all at once, and what sounded like stuff being scraped across the floor. Probably easels and... other art stuff. Maybe the big things they have the naked models sit on, hoo-wee.

One of the double doors opened, and a few girls came out, then some other kids. Most of them didn't notice Hank and Connor standing at the opposite wall. Since this was a detached building, there wasn't a central interior hallway connecting all the rooms, just this door leading directly outside. Hence why they had to stand out here in the fuckin' cold.

"Let's go. I'm tired of standing out here." Hank took long strides towards the building, and Connor followed suit. Hank caught the door and held it open for Connor, but a few brats took the opportunity instead.

One girl looked up with a nervous expression. "... thank you." Connor hung back a few feet, smiling and nodding at everyone who streamed out the door.

"Good afternoon." Shit—it was after noon, and they hadn't even had lunch yet. No wonder Hank was getting so irritable.

Hank rolled his eyes before he could stop himself. "Just get in, Connor—I'm not standing here all day."

Connor gave him a flat look. "I'm not going to push my way past the students, Lieutenant." A few kids stopped at that.

Hank had enough, and slid his hand along the door while he went through himself. "'Scuse us, kids. Gotta talk to your professor there." The older man he assumed was Professor Abelman was still talking to a student, standing next to what must be one of those elaborate "still life" displays—you know, with the fruit and the candles and the draping cloth and all that crap—but also an armless mannequin with actual molded nipples, how risque! A few kids were still putting away these benches that were sitting in front of their easels, all circled around the display.

Professor Abelman was looking up at them now. Hank waved a hand. "Afternoon, Professor. When you got a moment, we just want to talk to you for a bit." The professor wrung his hands together. He finished talking to the student he was with, smiling and bowing a bit. Then he addressed the class at large.

"Thank you, everyone—thank you for today. I will put your horses away, please take your work with you. See you Wednesday." He waved broadly at the class. He had a deep voice for a little guy. Hank couldn't quite place his accent—since his last name was "Abelman" it was safe to assume he was Jewish. He might've been from somewhere in Europe, or even Israel.

Connor had made his way over to the professor. "I apologize for rushing in like this, Professor—we weren't sure whether you were headed into office hours or straight into another class." Hmph. Connor in clutch with the white lie. Well, whatever—better than saying Hank was freezing his ass off out there and Connor was too busy being a doormat to just walk through the damn door.

"No, no..." The Professor waved his hands dismissively. "It is fine. I know what you want to talk about. I have plenty of time." The last of the students left the room and the door closed heavily, the only other sound the low hum of a heater plugged into the wall. The professor walked over to a desk in the corner and pulled up a small chair. "I'm sorry, my friends—I only have this one chair, but please take a bench if you want to sit." He pulled a longer "horse" towards his desk. Well—gettin' cozy now.

Hank sank into the bench, trying to leave enough room for Connor—but Connor stayed standing. Well, miss priss—Hank didn't want to sit next to you, anyway. God—Hank really needed to get something to eat straight after this.

"Thank you for meeting with us, I apologize that we couldn't give you prior notice." Connor extended his hand. "I'm Detective Connor Sullivan, it's nice to meet you." Oh—

"Lieutenant Hank Anderson." Hank shook his hand after Connor. "Likewise." Hank had decided to take a backseat on this one, as Connor had all the info in his head and on his phone, and he was curious where he was going with this. Hank would step in if it was going nowhere, or if he thought more questions needed to be asked—but for now, he'd trust the kid. Ah shit—he should apologize for being snippy at the door before they go get lunch—what do the kids call it, 'hangry'?

Professor Abelman turned his chair backwards, resting his arms on the backrest. "It is no trouble. Can I assume you're here to ask me about Daniel Lambert?" He pronounced it like "Lamb-bear"—was that right? Ah shit, it probably was—Hank should have figured that, like Christopher Lambert from The Highlander. "Have you heard anything else about his whereabouts?"

"Well..." Connor circled the bench, sitting down with less than a foot between him and Hank. Ah—he was probably just waiting to shake his hand to sit down. Connor could get hung up about weird little social etiquettes like that, Hank had definitely noticed. "We may have. That's why we wanted to speak to you again." The Professor nodded.

"That's good news. I hope it is, anyway."

Connor pressed his fingers together. "I sincerely hope so, too." He licked his lips. "Professor, I understand that Daniel was a very private person. He might have left his host family's home over a disagreement, due to something private about Daniel which came to light." It was hard to tell, but it looked like the professor's eyes got dewy behind his glasses. "I understand Daniel trusted you and may have told you some things in confidence, but I hope you'll consider answering our questions. We only want to find Daniel safe. Whether he goes back to his host family is his choice, as a legal adult." The professor nodded after a second.

"I see." His eyes closed briefly. "Please, ask your questions."

"Yes." Connor was leaning over his legs, his hands clasped. "Did Daniel ever open up to you about his mental health struggles?"

The professor took off his glasses, rubbing his forehead. "... Yes. Since you're asking me, you probably know he was diagnosed with... em, what is it—bipolar disorder?" Wow, that was lucky. "He told me what it felt like, before he started taking medication, and what it felt like when he was on it, and em..." He sighed loudly. "I don't think his family was aware of his condition. Em, the family he was living with, the Phillips." He replaced his glasses, closing his eyes again. "I tried to encourage him to talk to them, that, em... regulating yourself with medication is nothing to be ashamed of..." He rested his chin in his hand, looking at neither of them. "But it seemed he was hesitant to tell the Phillips many things about himself. He was worried they wouldn't see him the same." He sighed loudly. "I think he was afraid they would kick him out. Now look what happened."

Connor was tapping the pads of his fingers together. "That may very well be what happened. Professor, is Daniel not in regular contact with his family in France?"

His chin was still resting in his hand, covering half his mouth. "No." He looked a lot like Alan Arkin, just with a deeper complexion and swept-back salt and pepper hair. "They cut him out of their lives. Is what he told me." He closed his eyes, looking tired. "He said that if he was deported, he would have nowhere to go. Daniel was from a small village close to the border of Switzerland, his father was a doctor there." He breathed out noisily through his nose. "He did not have it easy until he was able to find a host family here."

"I see. It sounds like Daniel didn't find himself in an easy position with his host family here, either." The professor nodded, slowly. Connor seemed to be choosing his next words carefully. "The Phillips thought that Daniel's family cut him off because he wanted to be a teacher. But it seems like there was more to it." The professor nodded, wordlessly. Connor slipped his phone out of his pocket, pulling up a photo. It was a close shot of Daniel, smiling next to a young guy with dark hair. "We found this photo of Daniel with a young man. His name may be Jason?" He turned the phone so the professor could see. "Do you recognize him?"

"Yes." His voice was so quiet.

Connor held the phone patiently. "Was this something Daniel was afraid of his host family finding out?"

"... yes." The professor honestly looked like he was on the verge of tearing up. "So, if you know that, his host family knows, too."

"Perhaps. They didn't tell us as much." Connor slipped his phone away. "I actually put the pieces together myself, when we were looking into who Daniel might be staying with." The professor looked at Connor a bit surprised. Connor clasped his hands again. "I'm sorry to Daniel for digging into his personal life. Right now, we just want to find out where this 'Jason' lives, and if Daniel is staying with him. Or if he knows where else he might have gone."

The professor rubbed his forehead. "I'm sorry. I have never actually met that young man, but I have seen him walking Daniel to class sometimes." He closed his eyes again. "Daniel confided many things in me, so that must be..." He didn't finish his sentence.

"I see." Connor sat up straight." What you've told us has already been helpful, so thank you, professor."

The professor looked up through the wall. "The main offices are closed now. You'll have to come back tomorrow if you want to know where this student lives. I'm sorry, I don't have access in the computers." He closed his eyes. "I hope that's where Daniel is. I hope he's all right. I just worry because he hasn't even contacted me."

"I can only imagine how you must feel." Connor's voice was even. "This is the most promising lead we've had so far, Professor Abelman. I'm optimistic that Jason must know something, at the very least." Hank noticed that Connor liked to push it a little, by telling their witnesses and suspects things they didn't necessarily need to know—shit, for all they knew this guy could've kidnapped Daniel because he was in love with him or something—but that seemed pretty unlikely, after talking to him. "Oh—I didn't bring a card with me. Lieutenant?"

"I got one." Hank pulled out his wallet, thumbing out one of his contact cards. "Please let us know if you hear or remember anything at all, Professor—no matter how small."

"Surely, yes. Thank you."

Connor was looking up at Hank, somewhat meekly. "Lieutenant, do you mind if I write down my number, as well?" Ah. Hank could pick up what Connor was putting down.

"No, knock yourself out." He handed the card to Connor.

"Pardon me, Professor..." Connor bent down, scribbling two numbers on the back of the card. "Here." He slid the card across the desk.

"Yes, thank you." The professor took the card, tucking it into his pocket. "Please..." He stopped himself mid-sentence. "—Thank you. What was your name, Detective, I apologize?"

Connor smiled and shook his hand. "Connor. Connor Sullivan." He looked over his shoulder. "And Lieutenant Hank Anderson, my partner." Hank wasn't expecting to be reintroduced, too—he held up his hand in a wave.

"Thank you." The professor made that half-bow motion again. "Please—don't let me keep you, gentleman. Thank you..."

"We'll be in touch, Professor." There he goes, with those promises again. Well—Hank couldn't exactly talk, he made some pretty promises to that crying little girl. But only a heartless prick like Gavin wouldn't. Hank opened the door, and Connor stepped through. "Thank you, Lieutenant."

"You're welcome." Hank gave a broad wave behind him. "Take care of yourself, Professor."

The stalked off across the grass, back towards where Hank was pretty sure he parked the car. Connor was the first to speak. "I need to ask Captain Fowler for some updated cards when we get back."

"Yeah." Hank shoved his hands in his jacket pockets. "Which part of that was supposed to be the awkward part? That the kid had a boyfriend?" He almost felt Connor stiffen walking next to him. "Who cares about that? Hey, we might even find him when we figure out where the guy lives."

"... Yes, we might." Connor appeared to be pressed into himself, his hands hidden in his long coat pockets.

Hank took a deep breath, willing to not make any sound. Here goes nothing. "Hey, Connor..." He raked his hand back through his hair. "I know I'm a crusty old fuck, but what kind of corn-fed bumpkin do you think I am?" Connor actually shot out a small laugh. "I don't give a shit what other people do—long as they're not hurting anyone, and it doesn't affect me." Hank's arm moved before he could consider if it was appropriate in the moment, or the deeper implications—he clapped Connor warmly on the shoulder. "Okay?"

Connor seemed to visibly relax. "I'll keep that in mind, Lieutenant." Aw, come on—after that heartfelt speech, by Hank's standards—couldn't he at least call a guy "Hank"?

Hank grumbled internally while they made their way back to the car. "All right—let's go get some lunch. I'm fuckin' starvin'." He turned his key, and unlocked Connor's door with the switch on the inside. Hank should at least upgrade to a car with a keyfob, instead of having to do this shit every time. He sank heavily into his seat, turning the ignition to feel that sweet heat. Once Connor had his seatbelt on, Hank shifted into reverse. "Hey… sorry for gettin' pissy there." He twisted around to watch out his back windshield. "Guess bein' hungry's no excuse. What do they say in those commercials, you're 'hangry'?" He met Connor's eyes when he flipped back around, and Connor looked like he went 'hmph.'

"I'll accept your apology. If you're treating."

"Hey, I was planning on it anyway." Hank peeled out of the paid visitor parking and back onto the street. No staff means no campus police, so Hank just parked for free, suckers. Hey—how come campus police got the day off and he didn't?!

Hank scanned around for signs for the southbound freeway. He knew a couple greasy spots on this part of town, it was just a matter of finding 'em from the direction of the college.

"Whatcha want, Connor? I could go for a burger." Connor didn't answer. "Connor?"

"Hm? Oh—actually, now that I think about it, I'm not really that hungry." He pulled out his seatbelt, shifting it over his chest. "I packed a lunch back at the station."

"Come on, just get a little somethin'. We'll probably be stuck in traffic for a while." Hank pulled onto the on-ramp. "Fries? A milkshake?" Hank's pride was on the line here—he needed to treat Connor to something. And if there's one thing he learned about having a wife and a kid, it's that "I'm not hungry" really means "I'm going to steal most of your fries."

Connor rubbed his chin. "Actually, a Samba Juice does sound good." Hank rolled his eyes.

"So you want that fancy stuff, huh? All right." He gunned it to beat out the guy cruising obliviously in the merging lane. "Fuckin' tourists… Hey Connor, do me a favor and look up your juice place. I need a burger in me yesterday, then afterwards we'll hit up your spot. That sound good?"

"That's fine, Lieutenant." Connor started wordlessly swiping his finger across his screen. "There is one back toward the precinct, about twenty minutes from where we are now."

"Perfect."

"Do you need directions for your burger place?"

"Nah." Hank said it with swagger. "I know this city like the back of my hand."

XXX

Connor was eyeing Hank's burger like it had crawled straight out of hell. "You're really going to eat that, Lieutenant?"

"Yeah I am, what's it to ya?" He took a huge bite to demonstrate. The bun was soft with a crispy bottom, the patty was juicy, and the sauce flowed like milk and honey in Paradise. "This is one of my favorite spots."

"I don't know if you noticed, Lieutenant—but the Chicken Feed didn't have a health inspection rating at all."

Hank shrugged. "So?"

Connor spoke slowly, like he was talking to a toddler. "It's illegal to not publicly post your health inspection rating. Or to not be visited and rated in the first place."

"Ah, so what?" Hank took another juicy bite. "The inside of my body's probably dirtier than the inside of that place—" He just his chin back towards the food cart under the bridge. "—and it hasn't killed me yet." He swiped some sauce off the corner of his mouth. Connor was stunned into silence. "We all gotta die of somethin'—I'd rather die early eatin' good food, than live forever eatin' that healthy crap that doesn't taste like anything." He sucked his thick pineapple shake through the straw. "No offense."

Connor was staring at his shake. "You ordered that even though we're heading for a place with better blended drinks?"

"Hey, 'better' is subjective." Hank turned his burger in his hands, trying to decide which was the best spot to take his next bite. "Have some fries." He pushed the paper basket towards Connor. "It won't kill ya."

Connor looked like he was considering it. "I'm fine, thank you." He peered up at the bridge they were standing under. "I'd just prefer my partner stay healthy, that's all." Hank rolled his eyes. "What if you have a heart attack when we're chasing someone down?"

"That's not gonna happen. I've never had a heart attack, my old man's never had a heart attack, uncles, no one." He chewed his bite of burger quickly. "—we're made of sterner stuff."

Connor's eyes were following along the length of the bridge. "I hope so."

XXX

Connor was staring wordlessly out the window, his knee leaned against the door, his fancy juice in his hand, having barely drank any of it. "What's on your mind, Connor?"

He didn't answer right away. "I'm trying to piece together the chain of events. What happened before Daniel left the house, and when was it, exactly."

Hank was stuck in the frustrating rhythm of pressing the gas, lurching a bit, then having to brake. He fucking hated traffic. "Hard to say. I don't think the dad was being honest about the chain of events in the first place." Hank tapped his steering wheel rapidly with his thumb. "If we find him at his boyfriend's place, that doesn't really matter. We can ask Daniel for his side of the story then, if you really want to know."

Connor's voice was low. "I wish we could get those warrants by tomorrow."

"Yeah, well, the law is slow. Nothing we can do about it." Hank knew that was useless to say. Connor seemed to be taking this case too personally—he was getting too much inside Daniel's head, and he had never even met the guy. "We'll probably need a second warrant once we do get his address from the school, just in case. He might just refuse to let us in."

Connor lightly touched the window with the back of his fingers. "I'm just worried because the professor said he couldn't get a hold of him, either. Why wouldn't he at least tell Professor Abelman he was safe?" He wiped a bit of fog that had formed on the inside of the glass. "What if we go to the school tomorrow without a warrant, and appeal to the administrator there? I think I can convince them it's important."

"Connor, don't get yourself in trouble doing that. You know that shit will be inadmissible if we obtain it without a warrant. We got away with threatening that Eden Club owner because there was no way he was gonna fight us on it."

"What if we just find him, and there's nothing that needs to go to trial?"

"Connor..." Hank sighed heavily. "I know how you're feeling about it, but just listen to me—it's frustrating, but we have to do things in the proper order. You know that, you're not some rookie." Hank stared at the bumper of the car in front of him. Connor wasn't going to like hearing this. "I think at this point, we need to start operating under the assumption of foul play." Connor turned to face him. "You're right, it's a big indicator that Daniel hasn't contacted the professor, at least. I mean, he told the guy he was gay, why wouldn't he tell him he was staying at his boyfriend's place after his family kicked him out?" He watched Connor's reaction out of the corner of his eye. His expression didn't change, but he did slide his knee slightly farther up against the door. "I hate to say it, but if Fowler thinks it's necessary, we might have to start dragging the water and combing the woods." A few plips of rain hit the windshield, and Hank turned his wipers on low. "Now that we know the kid's out there off his meds, that changes things." He might have never even made it to his boyfriend's place—the kid might have thought his life was over and jumped off a bridge. Hank wasn't going to say that out loud to Connor—although Connor was having to consider it, too. "I'm sorry Connor—I know this one's getting to you a bit." Shit—Hank shouldn't have said that. It just came out.

Connor held his cup loosely with both hands. Hank noticed it looked like he was pressing his thumbnails into the styrofoam. "I just wish there was more I could do." Hank nodded solemnly, unsure of what to say.

"Yeah."

A few more raindrops dotted the windshield, and the wipers squeaked noisily, streaking it worse than when the droplets were just sitting there.

XXX

Hank poured himself some cold coffee for the road. He would've put cream and sugar in it, but that pineapple shake wasn't agreeing with him too well. He was starting to get fuckin' tired again, too—maybe he was just burnt out. He had done nothing but reports and tedious Lieutenant stuff since they got back to the precinct. Hank's eyes always felt strained after he spent all day staring at a computer screen. Maybe he just needed to bite the bullet and get those cheater reader glasses like all the other old folks.

They were practically the only ones left in the office, save Ben and Jeffrey up in his fish tank. "Hey." Connor looked up from his desk. "Ben's got the night shift covered. You should go home."

Connor soundlessly twirled his pen in his hands. "I just want to finish this report. Then I can leave everything here, and stop thinking about it."

"Can you?" The words came out of Hank's mouth automatically.

Connor stared at his pen. "I'm going to try. Like you said, there's nothing we can do until we're granted those warrants. That may be tomorrow. But maybe the next day." Connor's eyes closed.

Hank sat on the edge of his desk, across from Connor. He was about to go into one of those "we're not superheroes, all we can do is our best" speeches, but it was making Hank exhausted just thinking about it. Connor didn't need to hear it anyway—he was well aware of the legal confines they had to operate in. Connor said he didn't like to be talked down to when he was a kid, so Hank sure as shit wasn't going to talk down to him as an adult. He didn't need a repeat of the Eden Club.

"Hey, Connor." Hank smoothed down his beard out of habit. "We found out a lot of new information thanks of you. You did good."

Connor looked at something on his desk. "We just got lucky that Daniel posted that picture of him and Emma, and that she gave it to me in the first place."

"That's because she trusted you." Hank chuckled. "Well, maybe just 'cause she thought you were cute."

Connor laughed. "Maybe. Maybe she just clocked me." He was twirling his pen around, and it suddenly stopped. His whole body stiffened, and his eyes stared at his desk. "—shit." He pressed his hands over his eyes. "—you didn't hear me say that." What? Oh, was "clocked" a young person expression for what they used to call "gaydar"? "Damnit—I must be tired, I'm gonna go home—" His chair scraped the floor—

"Whoa, hey, Connor—relax!" Hank held his hands up in what he hoped was a peaceful gesture. Connor wasn't looking at him, just standing awkwardly between his chair and his desk. "What's the big deal? You don't have to run off. Take it easy." Hank held his hands up higher in a surrender gesture. "All right, I didn't hear anything. If that makes you feel better."

Connor closed his eyes, then pressed his hands over his face. "... I can't believe I said that..." he mumbled to himself, sitting back down in his chair.

"Ah, nobody heard you. Ben's way the fuck over there, and Fowler's up in his little glass palace." Hank hoped that by downplaying it so casually, it would help Connor calm down—and actually believe him when Hank said that it wasn't a big deal. But he could imagine Connor was probably flipping out on the inside. He could see it in his body language. Hank shrugged. "Like I said, what's the big deal?"

Connor leaned heavily into his desk, his forehead in his hands. He let out a loud exhale. "You know what I said, right?" His eyes strained up sideways at Hank. "You really don't care?"

"Not particularly, no." It truly hadn't been shocking to Hank, as he'd already "clocked" Connor a while ago—he was too much of a cute twink to be straight, and seeing how this case affected him just made it more obvious. But he probably didn't want to hear that now. And don't ask Hank how he knew the word "twink". "Hey, do I look like a guy who gives a shit what other people get up to in their private time? No." Connor almost laughed, perhaps at himself. "And I'm not some Bible-thumping redneck who tries to tell other people what to do, just so we're clear."

Connor's eyes closed. "I didn't think you were."

It felt like the initial burst of tension had melted away, thankfully—at least on Hank's end. He could only imagine all the thoughts racing through Connor's head right now—Hank had been stuffing down those terrifying thoughts for over thirty years now, he'd probably just keel over if he had blurted it out in the middle of the station like Connor had, even if Ben and Jeffrey were way the fuck over there. "Hey... don't worry about it, Connor." He tried his best to make his gruff voice what would pass for soothing. "You only told me, and I don't care. I'm not gonna go around telling everyone."

Connor drummed his fingers on his forehead, his mussed-up hair flopping over. "Does it surprise you at all?"

"Uhh... well, since you asked, no—it's not exactly an earth-shattering revelation." Connor 'hmphed' to himself. "No offense there, Connor."

"… That's good to know." His eyes closed again. "Huugghhh..." Hank almost laughed. That big sigh sounded like he just accepted it. He really hoped Connor wasn't gonna go flip out about it some more at home.

"Hey, be right back." Hank decided Connor probably wanted a minute alone to decompress. He dug out his wallet, stalking off to the vending machines. Hm, what would picky healthy eater Connor want—can't go wrong with orange juice. Hank smoothed out his two dollars and fed them into the machine, the drink clanged noisily, and he grabbed it out. Connor was still in the exact same spot, leaning his elbow on his desk, cradling his forehead. "Here." Hank set the bottle in front of him. "It's nice and cold."

"Thank you." Connor turned the bottle to read the label.

"Look, don't get all hung up on how much sugar or whatever is in there—it's juice. Just drink it."

Connor actually laughed. "Sorry, it's a habit." He took the bottle and cracked open the top. "Thank you... Hank." And then Hank realized that his crusty old heart fluttered a bit. Uh oh. Maybe Hank was the one who should be thinking this whole thing was a big deal.

XXX

Hank snapped back to the TV, realizing he hadn't been paying attention at all. He didn't even know who they were cross-examining on the witness stand. Some expert in something.

He took another swig of beer. He liked to zone out to Law and Order when he got home sometimes, since it was cathartic how quickly things would move on that show—bam they got their warrant, bam the lab results are ready, bam the trial's starting—truly this work was entirely fictional.

Hank felt like his own life was fast-forwarding for once—now that he was home he couldn't remember exactly how that conversation with Connor ended—Connor had skedaddled out of there pretty quick after, but he did remember him saying, "I'm going to go home and scream into my pillow now" because Hank thought that was pretty funny. He wasn't sure what to say to that, so he just said, "Hey, do what you need to do—but when you come back tomorrow I'm not gonna treat you any different, okay?" He hoped that was the right thing to say. But the whole drive home had been a blur—Hank's mind had just been racing. Racing with what, well… Hank wasn't ready to tackle all that on a Monday night.

Hank swirled around his half-empty bottle. Sumo was snoozing in his corner. Something Connor said had stood out to him—"You really don't care?" Hank couldn't help but sadly wonder if Connor had faced his own difficulties in that area… though hopefully not as extreme as Daniel Lambert's. No wonder he wanted to find the kid so bad. No… Connor probably would have given it his all finding him anyway. He just seemed like that kinda guy, who actually gave a shit about people.

Hank took a long swig of beer. As much as he wanted to quiet his brain with TV and booze, Hank just couldn't help but think about it. Compared to him, Connor was pretty brave, even though he literally tried to run away—since he wasn't too chicken-shit to acknowledged it in the first place. That was a secret Hank had intended to take to his grave. It never even came up with Andrea, because well—they were married, so whether Hank was attracted to guys or other women or whoever wouldn't have factored into the equation, anyway. But there was a little part of him that had haunted him since he was in high school—he remembered it clearly, it almost felt like his brain had been struck by lightning, in a bad way. It was a warm spring day after school, and their coach Mr. Johnson had jury duty, so they had a substitute coach from another school to get them through drills, and he told them to call him "Coach Michael"—and Coach Michael looked like he wasn't much older than them, he had probably just finished college—and he was tall, and his cut arms were really tan, and he had big hair like Stallone in First Blood, and thick eyebrows, and rich brown eyes—and his legs. This was the '80s, so everyone was wearing those tiny little shorts, even the guys—but Coach Michael's legs were banging, his thighs were so thick he looked like he could crush watermelons between 'em—and he had hard calf muscles peeking out from long white athletic socks, and those yellow shorts were so goddamn short, and Coach Michael's thighs had no leg hair at all, they were so tan and big and his ass was so round and when he smiled his eyes squinted in this really cute way, and a thought bubbled up to the surface in 17-year-old Hank's mind before he could stuff it back down—"Damn, Coach Michael is insanely hot."

Hank knew what the world was like. He knew that this was a thought he wasn't supposed to have. He had heard his own father rant about "the perverts" and "those queers in Hollywood" and people "living in sin" of various kinds before—and don't even talk about when the AIDS crisis was in full swing. Even his mother, who he always thought was more kind-hearted than most, had clutched her face in discomfort telling her sister that her friend from junior high "thought she was a lesbian and stopped going to church." So Hank knew it would not end well if his new little secret interest ever came to light. Which it wouldn't, since it was just a one-time thing—but it wasn't just a one-time thing, every once in a while Hank would catch his eyes lingering on an actor, or a guy jogging on the sidewalk—hell he even thought Chris Meloni was hot on SVU. The worst was that time his heart fluttered when a handsome senior at the police academy pat his back and rubbed his shoulder and told him, "Hey, you're doing great." Hank knew he wasn't gay—he loved Andrea, and he loved making love to her—and he'd always dated and been attracted to women even before they met, so he didn't know what the fuck was going on with him. All of these thoughts he stuffed down, like the napkins he stuffed in that trash can outside Burger Dive, after driving 40 minutes out of town after his 18th birthday to a 24-hour convenience store in the beat up old pickup his uncle gave him as a graduation gift, after nervously buying his first porn rag with sunglasses and a hat on, and that frumpy old woman giving him a look before ringing him up and telling him to "Have a nice night", after driving to a secluded closed-down campground out in the middle of fuckin' nowhere with his heart pounding in his chest, jerking off on the side of the road with the classic rock radio blasting while his eyes devoured the thighs and chest and abs and rock-hard dick of this guy railing this chick doggy-style in this magazine, who kind of looked like Coach Michael. He's been stuffing it all down for over thirty years.

Hank was pressing his palm over his eyes. "Haah..." His head fell back against the top of the couch. And now he knew too much. He already knew too much—Hank definitely didn't pick up the term "twink" from bingeing a fuck-ton of porn after his divorce was finalized, when he felt so shitty he had to lock his gun away—he just wanted a self-confidence boost by watching some crusty old fucks like himself gettin' some, and not being internet-savvy he just typed in "mature older guy sex videos", and got hit with a fuckload of "bears" and "daddies" who just so happen to be railing the shit out of "twinks". And Hank definitely didn't spiral down a rabbit hole and see things he never thought possible with the human ass, and watched a lot of guys who looked distressingly like Connor in hindsight just get absolutely wrecked—but held gently too, sometimes. Ah shit—he had already seen too much. He had already dipped his toe into it, and there was no point pretending like he hadn't.

Hank stared straight up at the ceiling, the TV droning on and casting shadows above him. No, no... this was fine. It was nothing—Hank already said that he wasn't going to treat Connor any different tomorrow, so that's what he intended to do. So what if they were going to be spending practically every day together, and eating lunch together, and driving around in the car together, and every time Connor made that little laugh or smiled in that way that crinkled his eyes Hank's heart made a little flip—and now Hank knew he was gay. So what? Hank had a job to do, and so did Connor. Just because Connor was into dudes, didn't mean Hank suddenly had cart blanche—Hank's old ass probably wasn't even his type. At least, he hoped not. It's cool, it's cool... nothing he couldn't stuff down with a little booze and determination. He's done it before.

Hank craned his neck just enough to swig his beer. It's cool, it's all good... Connor was just some kid, he was too young for Hank to even be thinking about, anyway. And he was a junior detective—totally inappropriate, there was no room for googly eyes at the precinct. Hank was a divorced dad who drank too much and ate crap from the Chicken Feed, and Connor was a handsome young guy with a promising career ahead of him, who was thoughtful and intelligent, and funny, and liked weird music, and probably had guys laying themselves at his feet left and right. Guys who had more going for them than Hank. No—it would be no different if Hank had thought one of the women was attractive—he would just keep it to himself, not act on it, and everything would be groovy and everyone could just do their jobs. It didn't matter that Connor was gay, Hank just wasn't going to acknowledge it or act on it, anyway. And—

A loud knock at the door startled Hank on the couch. Sumo made a low 'boof'. Who the fuck?

"Hank, are you home?" A deep voice called from outside. Oh shit—it was just Luther.

Hank licked his lips. "Yeah, just a sec!" he yelled. His heart had started beating faster, but he took a few deep breaths to calm himself down. He pushed himself up off the sunken couch and made his way to the door. He stuffed back down all the thoughts that had been swirling in his head—it was showtime. Hank opened the door wide and clasped Luther's hand, giving his back the ol' pat. "Hey, buddy—what's up?" He noticed he was holding something wrapped in foil in his other hand.

"Hi, Hank. Got something from my guy at work. Can I come in?"

"Sure, sure." Hank led him to the kitchen. It was probably some killer home-cooked Jamaican food. "How was your trip?"

"It was wonderful. Alice really seemed to enjoy the waterfalls."

"That's great! Good for her. I'm sure Kara liked havin' a break, too."

"She did." Luther set the foil wrap on the table. It looked like it was just loose, and not in a dish. "Hey, Sumo." He reached down, scratching the dog's head as he approached.

"So what you got for me, brother?"

Luther almost sighed, continuing to palm Sumo's head with his huge hand. "Well, one of my guys got his hands on some nice butter, but I don't partake." He unwrapped the foil with one hand, revealing a moist-looking brownie. "I thought you might be interested. If not, I can give it away to someone else."

"I see, so that's a special brownie." Hank broke a small chunk off the top. "… tastes pretty chocolatey. You didn't have any?"

"No."

Hank shrugged. "Sure man, I'll take it. Thanks." That wouldn't be bad to have around on a mellow night. Maybe Hank could even eat some tonight, and watch a stupid movie and giggle like a teenager and get out of his own head, far out.

"If you do, just don't eat the whole thing at once."

"Hey, no promises there, big guy." He clapped Luther's arm. Sometimes it felt like Luther was a foot taller than Hank, but it was probably just a few inches. "Thanks for thinkin' of me—hey, can I get you a beer or something?"

"Oh no, I'm heading back home. Thank you, though." Luther gave Sumo's back a pat. "Honestly I forgot that was in my fridge before we left. I just don't want it at home."

"Yeah, that's understandable." Hank clapped Luther's arm again. "Well hey buddy, thanks for stoppin' by! Say hi to the girls for me."

"I will. Thanks, Hank." Luther made his way back to the front door, and Hank followed.

"You have a good night, bud." Hank waved while Luther stepped off the porch and out of the halo of light.

"Thanks, Hank. You, too." Hank waited until Luther had crossed into his own yard, then closed the door. Hank felt like he was about to break into a cold sweat. At least it was just Luther—Hank liked that guy, their conversations were always short and sweet, with no BS.

Hank flipped off the porch light and went back to the couch. Luther wasn't that much older than Connor, huh—what was he, thirty-five, thirty-six? There was a world of difference between 'em, though.

Hank sat down with a groan, picking up his remote that had fallen off the couch. He just couldn't escape it. His brain just kept wandering off the trail, getting snatched up by a bear like those kids in that episode of South Park. Maybe Hank should have some of that brownie. Yeah, it would help him just chill out—that was perfect, he would watch some stupid comedy, or maybe something long like Lord of the Rings, veg out on the couch, then fall asleep. Sounded like a good night, if he did say so himself. He would have to bring Luther and Kara a little extra something the next time he dropped off Cole, maybe he could order some pizzas.

Hank sat himself down at his kitchen table. This thing looked pretty fuckin' good… mmm, it tasted good too, just like a regular brownie. It didn't have that terrible weed butter taste that overpowered everything—it probably wasn't that strong. Well, he could have half now and save half for later.

XXX

'Mr. Frodo!'

Hank peered around the bottle as he took a swig. It had been half an hour already, and that edible still hadn't hit. Hank's tolerance must be too high from his wild years. He scooted himself down the couch footrest and went to the kitchen. Might as well eat the whole thing then. Good thing Luther got this for free, 'cause he woulda got ripped off otherwise.

Hank savored the gooey-ness of the brownie. It was pretty damn good, though. The tips of his fingers sank into the spongy cake. He floated back to his couch, like Galadriel in that scene comin' up when she wigged out. Yeah. This was a pretty good movie. Hank didn't know about all that extended cut, multi-disc stuff, and he didn't care—it was original theatrical all the way, baby. That's the version he saw with Andrea and her brother-in-law in the theaters, her sister didn't feel like coming. She just didn't get it.

XXX

'I will take the ring to Mordor.'

Hank was sinking more into the couch, his arm was barely touching the armrest, his toes were numb and his feet could just float away. Why's everything so fuckin' orange—it looked like they were on the fuckin' sun. The falling leaves clipped through the actors' hair and floated out the screen—was that a mistake? No—the elves live in a magic forest, right? Yeah, that must be it... Hank's face felt really warm. His ears felt hot. His heart was beating faster. His stomach grumbled—that fucking shake and all that beer and cold nasty coffee was swirling around, mixing angrily in his guts, punching each other like those boxing nun puppets… "Hoo, is it hot in here?" Hank tried taking off his sweatshirt, his elbows got all jammed up into it, it was stuck around his head. "Luther?" Hank peered out of the narrow neckhole of his sweatshirt—oh shit, Luther wasn't here, he was alone. "Hello? Ah, shit. Hoo, hooo…" Hank was breathing through his mouth, his hot breath trapped in his sweatshirt, making his nose wet. Calm down—it's just weed, you've had it a million times before… well, not a million, that's waaaayy too big a number, maybe a couple hundred, a thousand… "Hoo, hoooo…" He needed to get this fuckin' sweatshirt off his head—Hank thrashed around, yanking the cloth and feeling like he was hyperventilating. Goddamn that Connor—Hank should have listened to his fuckin' little wispy voice and thrown that greasy hellburger and that hellshake on the ground, back to hell where it belonged—look, I threw it away, I won't eat that stuff anymore, I'll only eat healthy shit from now on does that mean you'll kiss me? NO, NO—that's not what Hank was thinking at all! Ah, shit—why'd he eat the whole thing?! Hank had to go to work tomorrow—his heart was beating wildly, his hands felt like they weren't there, his ears were filling with blood—this was a bad idea, this was a bad idea. This was a fuckin' bad idea—

Hank was laying on his side. The TV was shrinking and expanding. "Oh shit, my TV…" Hank reached out, his arm didn't feel real. He flopped his arm around until he saw his hand hit the remote, he hit a few buttons and it changed channels and fucked it all up until the TV turned off. He needed to calm down—calm down and close his eyes so the walls would stop moving, and listen to some music. He floated up out of his body and glided to the record player. He watched somebody else's hands pinch out a record. Permanent Waves, yeah, yeah, that's fine—hey, don't scratch my record, buddy. The two hands delicately placed the record on the turner, and gently, so gently, placed the needle on top. "Hoo…" He dreamed that he collapsed back onto the couch. He reached for his phone on the table, a thousand miles away. This wasn't right. Being high didn't feel like this. This was wrong. Hank felt like he had a fever, his hands were just like two balloons—but he wasn't chilling listening to Pink Floyd, it was real and this was his life and it was happening to him. He couldn't feel his finger touching the glass. Were phones made of glass? Don't drop it… Andrea, call Andrea—no no, he couldn't call Andrea—Andrea wasn't his girl anymore, she was a thousand miles away… Fuck, he just needed to talk to someone, he just needed to feel real, he just needed to calm down… oh shit he was going to throw up… Hank was on his back, peering up at his phone while it shrunk and warped. His brain kept getting pierced, a white-hot needle piercing his brain—a gentle hand, a gentle hand touching his shoulder—so gentle, you couldn't even feel it, a gentle hand... Hank would float away and die if that gentle hand wasn't gently pushing him down... his fingers couldn't even feel the phone...

XXX

XXX

XXX

Don't down more edibles if the first one hasn't hit yet, kids. Take it from someone who apologized for a 45-minute long argument they had, only to be told that they had been laying there catatonic and not speaking for 45 minutes.

Poor Connor, poor Hank, poor Daniel! Everybody's really going through it huh X'D From here I'm going to be deviating more from DBH, which is why I took so many liberties reinterpreting Daniel. I decided to make him French after his actor's name, Ben Lambert.

Thanks for reading!