There's Something Wrong With Me - Chapter 4
What If
Connor pressed the edge of his phone to his forehead. He had wanted to call Markus, but decided against it. He tried to imagine how the conversation would go—"I accidentally outed myself to my superior."—"Oh damn really, what happened?"—"He said he didn't care."—"Oh. Hey, that's good, right?" In the end, he didn't really have much to "report", as it were. He was just feeling really restless, and felt like he had to talk to someone about it.
Connor sighed loudly, setting his phone on the arm of the couch. He had been so careful at Novi. He had dodged all the questions if he was dating someone, and when he was going to get married—even if anyone suspected he was gay, they never said it to his face. He had been careful around his parents, family members… and he just blurted it out so casually talking to someone who was technically his boss. As soon as he said it, he felt like he wanted to jump out a window—but Hank seemed like he seriously did not care. It was shocking. He had expected some kind of look—that look like they were trying not to react, like Mr. Phillips when Connor asked him about Daniel. But Hank just… didn't. If anything, Connor thought he caught a look of concern, maybe worry—Connor had reacted out of panic, it must have seemed out of character to Hank.
Connor pressed his hands over his face at the memory. He couldn't believe it—how could he say "She probably clocked me" like he was with his friends, to an old man like Hank? No… that was probably it. Connor just found the Lieutenant easy to talk to. He just wasn't even thinking, just talking like he would with a friend. Hank just had that effect on him. He even knew his middle name—York and Jayden probably didn't even know that. Well, York might—they may have discussed names since York goes by his middle name, and Jayden prefers his last, but Connor couldn't remember.
Connor pressed his fingers to his lips in an almost prayer-like motion. He really hoped Hank meant what he said. In Connor's experience, "I don't care what people do in their private time" is usually followed up by "—just don't shove it in my face." But Hank didn't say that, or even anything similar to it. He just said he didn't care—and not only that, but when Connor had sardonically said that he was going home to scream into his pillow, Hank said, "Hey, do what you need to do—but when you come back tomorrow I'm not gonna treat you any different, okay?" He really hoped he meant that, at least. No... Connor had to be the one to not act any different. He wasn't going to allow Hank or anyone else to treat him as lesser. That's how it's always been.
Connor leaned his head in his hand. He had let too much of himself show—he got too wrapped up in Daniel's disappearance and let his emotions get the better of him. He couldn't help it—it made his heart hurt just thinking about it. Daniel seemed like he was "caught between the devil and the deep blue sea", as his grandma would say—he was living Connor's ultimate fear, being rejected by his parents, being mentally ill and spiraling out of control, feeling like you were trapped and the only people you could talk to about it couldn't really help you. Connor just wished he could talk to him—he wished he would have met Daniel before all this happened.
Connor snapped out of his thoughts at his phone buzzing on the armrest. He saw the green and red circles, then a name—'Lt. Hank Anderson'. Oh no—something must have developed with Daniel. Connor felt his blood run cold a bit.
He quickly swiped Accept before slapping the phone to his ear. "Connor speaking." He could hear an unintelligible noise through the phone—it almost sounded like music. "Lieutenant Anderson?" Where was he? Was he out somewhere and called him by mistake, the proverbial butt-dial? "Hank? Are—"
"… that you, Connor?" The raspy voice surprised him. "Christ almighty… uhhhhnnnn..." Hank's voice was so low, and gravelly… was he drunk? "... did I call you?"
"Yes, you did." Connor sat up straight, still apprehensive. "Did you mean to call me, Lieutenant?"
"Ah, shit…" Another long groan, but it sounded breathier. Connor felt his heartbeat pick up a bit. Did Hank seriously call him piss-drunk, after all that? What, did he need a ride home? Something wasn't right... "I can't tell if I actually called you…" He was drawling each word like it was more laborious than the last. "The numbers kept fuckin' movin' around, I couldn't even feel the glass." He didn't sound drunk, exactly—but something was very off.
"Lieutenant, are you all right?" Connor waited, trying to pick something up in the background noise. He was definitely listening to music—classic rock if he had to guess. It sounded Led Zeppelin-adjacent. Was he at a bar somewhere? "Where are you?"
Another grunt. "—Fuck, I'm just gonna say it. I'm havin' a bad trip, Connor—the walls keep moving and I don't know what to do. I'm freakin' out, and I need someone to talk to so I don't have a fuckin' heart attack." Connor zeroed in on that last bit. "Fuck, the shake from hell…"
"Do you need to go to the hospital? I can drive you—" Connor put the call on speaker and brought up his map app. He didn't know Hank's address, but when they were chatting this morning he mentioned he lived near "the big fuck-off doughnut." That was probably the Jimmy Hoser's, and there was only one in the suburbs—"I can probably be there in twenty minutes."
"No—" Hank cut him off. "No hospital—" He grunted in frustration. "Ah, shit—I don't know why I called you. I'm sorry Connor—I'm just freakin' out. I just—wanted to talk to ya." He almost sounded like he was getting emotional. "I don't feel real. Did I really call you? Shit—fuck, I feel like I'm floatin' away, but it's not fun. At all, it's horrible..." Connor was listening intently. Hank sounded like he was genuinely distressed, he'd never heard that pleading tone in his voice before.
"Do you literally feel like you're having a heart attack?" Connor heard a shuffling sound on the other end.
"No… no I'm not 'literally' having a heart attack… fuck… I've never had one." Connor remembered him saying that at the godforsaken Chicken Feed. Maybe that's what he meant by "the shake from hell." But even some nasty corn syrup shake wasn't enough to get Hank this fucked up—was he seriously dropping acid or something on a work night, when they're in the middle of an open missing person's case? He couldn't be… "Feels like my heart's gonna vibrate out of my chest..."
Connor could feel his ears getting warm. "Lieutenant, what exactly did you have?" He didn't answer right away. Connor strained his ears—it sounded like Hank was humming to himself, completely out of tune with the music. "Hank, talk to me, please. What did you take?"
"—I'm here, I'm here." Connor heard an odd sound—it almost sounded like Hank slapped himself. "Fuck… I've taken edibles before, but this one's really bad." Edibles? He was flipping out this much on just weed? "Musta been somethin'—fuckin' else in it." He let out a loud sigh, more like a grunt. "Maybe I'm gettin' fuckin' old. It's never been like this, ever."
"You'll be all right, Lieutenant. I'm on my way right now." Connor had put on slacks while the phone was still on speaker, and grabbed a heavy trenchcoat. His t-shirt was fine for now, he just needed slip-free boots in case he needed to help Hank into the car. Maybe he'd be more agreeable to being dropped off at the hospital once Connor got there.
"Fucking Peart… why the drums gotta be so loud?"
"Hank, I'm on my way. You should turn your music off if it's bothering you." Diana's slitted eyes followed Connor from her cat tower. She looked annoyed at being woken up. "Sorry kitty—I'll be back." He reached out and pet her head between the ears, and her eyes closed. Connor realized he should probably keep Hank talking—"When's the last time you partook? Smoking or ingesting?"
"Uhh… oh man, I don't remember. I've taken acid before, mushrooms too, only once though…" He made a burping noise that hit Connor's ear badly. That didn't answer his question. "But this is fuckin' different. I feel bad all over, feel like I'm gonna puke—"
"Please, lay on your side." Connor's heart was starting to race. The last time he talked North down from a bad trip was in college, and she was crying and not talking much. He was anxious then, too. Connor had been glad he was there—but he kept feeling like he wasn't doing enough, and wasn't actually helping. She had thanked him profusely the next day, but… Maybe he should call her and ask for advice?—no, that wouldn't be appropriate, even if they were probably still awake. He'd assess the situation once he saw Hank in person. He didn't have extensive deescalation training for nothing. "Do you have a trash can nearby, anything?"
"Nooo…" Hank was full on groaning now, sounding more distant from the phone. Connor had started the car, and was just letting it warm up a little. He pulsed his windshield wipers to clear the blanket of rain that had accumulated. "I don't have anything, I'm afraid to get up off the damn couch… I feel like I'm gonna trip and fall into the ceiling…" He trailed off while Connor mounted the phone in the holder and put it back on speaker, bringing up his GPS again. "Ah, fuck. Sumo needs one of those… one of those—shit, you know." Sumo was the name of Hank's dog, right.
"A rescue cask?"
"YEAH! That shit." He sounded like he had placed the phone down next to him, but not on speaker. His voice kept going in and out. Connor had already started driving, struggling to hear him over the sound of the engine. "You are a Saint Bernard, right? Sumo! C'mere!"
"Lieutenant, I'm going to need your exact address." Connor glanced at the smaller GPS window—sixteen minutes away.
"Good boy, Sumo, good boy…" Hank sounded almost childlike, his voice higher than normal. "Whosagoodboy?" Connor had stopped at a light, and he heard an odd sound, like Sumo was shaking his head and flopping his ears.
"Hank, what is your address?"
"What? Oh… it's 115 East Washington…"
"I'll be there in sixteen minutes. Stay on the line with me until I arrive."
OOO
Connor gently let his driver door fall closed. This must be the place—there was a light on inside, but the porch was still dark, so Connor couldn't survey the house that well. He half-expected Hank to be the kind of guy to keep junker cars he was "working on" littered around the yard—but from what he could tell, the front lawn was neatly mowed, with only the Lieutenant's Oldsmobile in the driveway.
Connor quietly approached the house. "I'm here, Hank." He could hear the music coming from inside disorientingly through his phone like a feedback loop. He knocked lightly on the door. "Hank? I'm at the door." The knock was probably redundant, but it felt like normal social etiquette. "Hank?" He spoke just below what one would consider an indoor voice. He didn't want to disturb the neighbors any more than they probably already had been, he'd have to turn the music down when he got inside. Somewhere in the neighborhood, a dog started barking. Connor tried the knob—it was actually unlocked. "Hank? I'm coming in." The music hit him as he opened the door, and Connor internally chastised himself for failing to notice that Hank had stopped talking while he was parking, and making sure he had the right house. The only light on was in the kitchen, and Connor could make out a couch in the living room, with a mess of silver hair spilling up over the arm. "Hank?" Connor called a little louder.
Suddenly he heard a deep 'boof' from the living room. "Huh?" The hair moved. "Oh shit—Connor, are you here?" He saw an arm hang limply off the edge of the couch. "Hey Sumo—it's okay boy, it's just Connor..."
Connor gingerly stepped in through the front entrance, hanging up his phone and tucking it away. He spied a big white dog laying in front of the couch, under the coffee table—but he made no attempt to move. "Hank, how are you feeling?"
"Ah, shit—" Hank made a grunting sigh. "I dunno… the room's poppin' out at me." He crossed his arms over his face. Connor noted what looked like a bedroom on one side, bathroom on the other at the front of the house, then made his way around the couch. Sumo hadn't barked since he entered, but he thought it'd be a good idea to let him know Connor was a friend.
"Hey there, Sumo." Connor held his hand out loosely, palm down. "Hey, buddy." Sumo sat up on his stocky front legs, sniffing lazily at Connor's hand, but dropped back down to the floor again, disinterested. His big red eyes looked up almost sadly at his dad, who was struggling to lie still on the couch, his face hidden behind his arms. Connor took a brief inventory of Hank's physical condition—he looked like he had sweat up a storm, he was only wearing a grey tank top with sweat stains under the arms, and down the front of his sternum. Hank had a large traditional style eagle tattooed across his chest, to Connor's surprise. Oh—Hank was just in his boxers, and what looked like another tattoo on his upper thigh was peeking out. It felt like something Connor wasn't meant to see. [Author's note: According to his concept art, Hank does have a rather large chest tattoo and a slutty thigh tat, I just took some liberty with a design I thought suited him better.] What looked like grey sweatpants and a sweatshirt were discarded in a crumple next to the couch, as well as socks. That seemed odd for an edible to make him sweat so profusely. "Hank, you had a weed edible, am I understanding that right?" There was no room for Connor to sit, so he crouched down next to the couch. Hank's arm raised, and piercing blue eyes peered out through the gap. He nodded, barely.
"I think so… that's all he said it was…" Great, so he didn't even get it from a dispensary.
"You said the room was 'popping out' at you?"
Hank exhaled noisily through his nose. He stared straight up at the ceiling, calloused fingers pulling the bags of his eyes down like that scene in A Clockwork Orange. Strands of silver hair were stuck to his shiny forehead. "It was just a brownie. It was fuckin' delicious… ah, shit." He scrunched his eyes closed, fingers still glued to his face. "I ate the whole fuckin' thing like an idiot. Guess I deserve it… I feel like shit…"
It was Connor's turn to sigh. "It's all right Hank, don't be too mad at yourself. Edibles can be unpredictable, it's even difficult for dispensaries to measure how potent they are."
Hank peered wide-eyed through his fingers. "Listen Connor—this ain't my first rodeo. I smoked a lotta pot in my day, and I've dropped acid and taken mushrooms a couple times—" He stared straight up at nothing. "But right now… it's like—" He held his arms straight out above him, his hands framing a canvas only he could see. "The whole room, every square foot, is like a giant checkerboard…" His hands pushed and fell arrhythmically in the air. "…and every bit is popping out at me and retracting, like this…" That sounded truly horrible, but something about what Hank was doing struck Connor as oddly funny—he almost looked like a cat upside down, making biscuits on nothing.
"I see." Connor pushed himself up to stand. "Can I get you some water?" Hank didn't answer. "I'll be right back, okay?"
"Hn. Okay..." Honestly, it sounded more like he was dosed—Connor would have to ask Hank where he got this dubious edible later.
Before going to the kitchen, he went to the record player, carefully lifting the needle off. Rush had been wailing the whole time, but Connor was so focused on Hank he somehow tuned it out. Connor wasn't surprised Hank had a real record player—these were probably all originals. Oh shoot—he forgot to even take his boots off.
Connor set his wet boots by the front door, for lack of a proper shoe rack. He wanted to chastise Hank for leaving his door unlocked, even in the suburbs—but there was no point getting into it now. For all he knew, Hank might have gotten up and unlocked the door, without tripping and falling into the ceiling. Hank didn't seem to be in any mortal danger, at least—just sweating up a storm and hallucinating spatial distortions. As long as God or the devil or his dog wasn't telling him to kill, he'd be fine. Maybe if he ate something, it would help him metabolize faster—if he even had an appetite, he did say he felt like throwing up. Maybe it would help if he actually threw it all up. "Do you still feel sick, Hank? You should lay on your side, just in case." He heard a non-committal groan from the living room.
Connor checked the fridge first, hoping to find a water filter. There was practically nothing inside but sliced bread, hot dogs, ketchup, and beer. Oh, and a giant block of bright orange cheese, and a bag of tortillas that wasn't even zipped closed all the way. Disgusting—it was a divorced dad's fridge if he ever saw one. Connor closed the fridge and went to the sink, trying cabinets until he found one with a clean glass. He filled the glass with Detroit's horrid tap water, and snaked his way back around to the couch. He spied an open square of tinfoil with chocolate crumbs lying abandoned on the kitchen table.
"Here, Hank." He was relieved to see that Hank had actually rolled onto his side, his arm pinned against his chest like a tiny T-Rex arm. Connor looked around again for a small trash can, but only had the giant kitchen trash at his disposal, so he placed that next to the couch. It smelled like wet coffee grounds and hot sauce, to Connor's mild dismay.
Hank had managed to sit up, mostly, and gulped down the water like he just emerged from a sandstorm at Burning Man. "Hah—" He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Shit, it's even worse when I close my eyes." He bugged his eyes a few times—it reminded Connor of the face North would pull when she was putting on her mascara. "Jesus." Hank crushed his eyes closed again, wiping his whole palm down his face a few times. Hank's hands were quite large, now that Connor got a good look—he remembered vaguely thinking so every time Hank clapped him on the shoulder. Connor always perceived his own hands to be quite waifish, like a piano player's. Except he didn't play piano.
"You'll be all right, Hank—it sounds like you just accidentally got way too high." Perhaps 'accidentally' was being charitable, but lecturing him wouldn't do him much good in this state. Connor sat down on the couch, sinking into the old cushion. "I'll be here to watch you for a while—and please let me know if you need to throw up or want to go to the hospital—ah!" Connor went stiff instantly—Hank had suddenly laid back down, his head resting on Connor's thigh. Connor's hands shot up instinctively—he was too stunned to even think.
"Shit—where's my pillow?" Hank's arm flopped off the edge of the couch, touching Sumo's ear. "Sumo?"
Connor's brain finally caught up, but he was still unsure what to do—he could feel the blood rushing to his ears. He licked his lips out of habit. "I think your pillow's over there, Lieutenant." He pointed at the other end of the couch, where a lumpy throw pillow lay squashed.
Hank tilted his head up just slightly. "—shit, that's too fuckin' far." He collapsed back against Connor's leg, his sweaty hair splaying out. "Hmm." He rested his hands on his chest and stomach, closing his eyes. The casualness of it just made Connor more anxious. What… what is this? What is going on here?
The room was silent, save for a fan somewhere that Connor was just now registering. There were too many thoughts at once, and Connor was starting to get overwhelmed, and Hank reeked of sweat.
"Ho boy…" Hank covered his eyes with both hands. "… that helps a little. Still feels like my whole body's twitchin'." Connor didn't know how to respond. "—it's like my body's tensin' up 'cause shit is popping out at me, even though I know it isn't." The fan hummed in the cool living room, although the spot on Connor's leg where a sweaty neck was touching felt uncomfortably warm. "You know what I mean?"
Connor swallowed, his lips and throat suddenly dry. "I don't, personally, but I've watched over a few friends who were having bad trips. In college." Connor realized that he needed to keep himself talking, just say anything. "I've held my best friend's hair back a few times." Why did he say that? Even Connor didn't know.
"Ha! I knew it." Chapped lips grinned beneath a wiry mustache. "You're the mother hen type, huh?" 'Mother hen'? "I saw it..." Saw it? What, when?
Connor licked his lips, which were feeling drier by the second. "Hank… why did you call me? Did you try to call anyone else, your friends, neighbors?" Connor felt bad asking—but he had to know. It just didn't compute.
Hank's grin fell, and he covered his face with his hands. "No, I can't call 'em…" His voice was muffled by his hands. "Don't want Luther to feel bad… it's not his fault, he didn't make it." Connor couldn't tell who Luther was by that limited context.
"Is Luther a friend?"
"Yeah—" Hank's head flopped to the side, and Connor could feel his leg muscles twitch. Hank's hair was still matted to his forehead. "They live over there—him, Kara, and their little girl. She watches Cole when I have to run out for work. Cute couple, I like 'em…"
"I see." That's a bit surprising—with how badly he's reacting, Connor expected Hank to say he just scored it for free from someone off the street. Although it seemed like he had calmed down since Connor arrived. Maybe that was just coincidental.
"... oh, shit..." Hank was pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes. "...did I really ask you to come over, Connor?" He sounded distraught again, like he had on the phone.
"Well, actually, you didn't—I decided to come because it sounded like you were having a really bad time." Connor just had to keep talking. "You said it felt like you were going to have a heart attack, so I came over."
"... that's why I called you?"
"... I don't know, Hank." Connor licked his lips. "You said you were freaking out and just needed someone to talk to." Connor still didn't know what to do with his hands, he just had them clasped against his lips like a silent prayer.
"Oh." Hank's hands slid down his face, just enough to reveal his eyes. "Ah, fuck." He scrunched his eyes so hard a vein popped in his forehead. "I'm sorry, Connor—I didn't mean to call you over. You were prob'ly at home dealing with your own shit—" Oh. Honestly, Connor had forgotten about that.
"Don't worry about that, Hank." He tried to relax his voice, to sound reassuring. Connor's heart was still beating fast. "I was concerned, so I came over. That's all."
Hank didn't sound convinced, still practically poking his fingers into his own eyes. "I'm so fucking selfish... no wonder Andrea left me..." That must be his ex-wife, or a girlfriend—no, Connor didn't want to know. He didn't want Hank to start spilling his guts and telling him about his marriage and his life, Connor never wanted to see his thigh tattoo—he didn't want to know. He wanted Hank to just treat him the same as this morning tomorrow—but it was too late for that. There was no chance of that, now. Hank had broken the barrier, and now tomorrow's casual promise was broken. Fuck—Connor should have just called an ambulance and hung up. No... no, there's no way he could have done that, his conscience wouldn't let him. "... like the painting." What? Hank had whispered something, his head lolled to the side, his eyes closed. "You barely touched it, like the painting..."
"What?" Connor found himself asking before he could stop himself.
"Your hand..." Hank's own hand limply collapsed onto his opposite shoulder. "You touched her shoulder... like you were barely touching it." His words were almost running together. He must be crashing out, hard.
Connor licked his lips. Who was he talking about—Emma? Connor touched her shoulder because he was feeling self-conscious about not being as charismatic and good with kids as Hank. It didn't come naturally to him, so he didn't know whether he should try to comfort her—that's probably why he ended up barely touching her shoulder. "Christ, feels like my body's floatin' away… Hey, you're really there, aren't you?"
Right now, Connor was at a complete loss. Not even an hour ago he was pacing around his own apartment, freaking out because he just casually came out to his superior. Now that same guy was a sweaty mess because he scarfed down the strongest edible in the world, and he called Connor of all people over, because... why? He saw how gently he handled a distraught little girl? What the fuck was Connor supposed to take away from that?
Connor closed his eyes. He thought back to that time he sat with North while she was coming out of the 'K-hole', and she had laid her head in his lap. It was too late now—nothing would be the same tomorrow, no matter what Connor did now. Whether Hank meant to or not, he had already crossed that line, and couldn't keep his word anymore. There was only one thing he could think to do, just like back then.
Connor reached down, and gently brushed the matted hair back from Hank's forehead. "I'm not here. It's just another hallucination."
He watched as Hank's entire body relaxed, every muscle unclenching. He chuckled low in his throat like a cat's purr. "... damn. That's too bad." His voice was so low, and gravelly, and... Oh, no...
Connor swallowed heavily, his nails raking gently through Hank's sweat-slicked hair. His fingers felt like they were shaking, but it was hard to tell—he was barely ghosting him, barely touching him... just like Daniel's painting. The fan hummed. The fridge buzzed. Connor's heart was beating heavily. He delicately traced the hair around Hank's ear, smoothing it back.
"… your fingers are so cold." Hank's voice surprised him.
"... I'm sorry." Connor's own voice was so quiet, he could barely hear it. His heartbeat was louder.
Hank chuckled again, a low, dangerous sound. "Hey, I'm sweatin' like a pig. It feels nice..." His voice trailed off, his whole body stilling. Connor watched Hank's hand rise and fall with his chest as he breathed. Connor kept smoothing thick strands of hair back with his fingers. Sumo was snoring a bit on the floor. He heard Hank's breath squeak through his nose. The fan whirred. The fridge behind him hummed. A thought snaked its way into Connor's mind, unbidden, like a serpent coiling around a branch—what if Hank wasn't his Lieutenant? What if he was just some guy he met, who Connor was comfortable talking to? What if he wasn't going to walk into Awkward Vibes Police Department tomorrow, and he was just doing a kind and intimate thing for someone he—
The thought rotted on the vine, turning black. "What if" a lot of things. What if Connor's life was just completely different? What if he had a different family, and he wasn't stuck out in the Midwest, and he never let Elijah Kamski touch him, and his friends didn't all secretly feel sorry for him, and there was nothing wrong with his brain? What a useful and productive chain of thought—nice one, Connor!
Connor shook Hank's shoulder. He couldn't sit here and play house all night. He had to get the Lieutenant to bed, make sure he had a glass of water and a trash can within reach, and get the fuck out of here. "Hank?" He shook his shoulder more firmly. "Hank." The Lieutenant's breath shot out through his parted lips. He was asleep.
Connor's head collapsed against the top of the couch, his eyes shooting to the ceiling, begging to a higher power that he didn't believe in—why would you do this to me? If there was a God out there, they were probably angry that Connor had abandoned his Catholic upbringing, and let his logic dictate that there couldn't possibly be an all-knowing, all-loving, all-powerful God with the world being in the state it was in. And now he was being smote, and cursed, and all the other things he was afraid of growing up. That was the only explanation. Why else would this be happening, now? The mildewy coffee grounds stench in the trash can was cloying. The couch reeked like corn chips and sweat. The uneven rhythm of the fan was unbearable. Connor felt a chill go up his entire body.
Connor pressed his hands over his eyes, a humorless laugh escaping his throat. What the fuck... why was this happening to him? It wasn't fair... Connor was the one who was having an existential crisis, Connor was the one who felt like he was going to be sick and have a heart attack, why wasn't Hank comforting him and running his hands through his hair? Wait—no, Connor didn't just think that. Shit—no, no, no.
"Hank." Connor continuously tapped his cheek, a little hard. "Lieutenant. You need to get up. You need to go to bed—"
A large, calloused hand gripped his. "—hey baby, relax." Hank rolled over with a grunt, dragging Connor's hand with him. Connor's brain exploded.
OOO
OOO
OOO
Bit of a short one this time, but I had to stop and do extensive rewrites. This was actually the first chapter I started for fun, just to get a sense for the character dynamics—but after going back to the beginning and fleshing the boys out some more, it ended up going in a different direction. I just love the scene in DBH where Connor slaps Hank's drunk ass awake, and I had the idea of Hank being off his tits and Connor gently stroking his hair :3 But by the time I got around to this point again, the tone wasn't quite as light-hearted lol
Once again, thanks for reading!
