There's Something Wrong With Me – Chapter 9

Sorry Kid—This'll Hurt

XXX

Connor's eyes were so dilated his irises were all black. He looked a little like a rabbit that had been cornered by a fox—Hank was about to ask him if he was feeling okay, when suddenly—

He reached out with his free arm, his hand snaked around Hank's back. He buried his face in Hank's shoulder—he wasn't expecting that.

"Hank… thanks. I liked hanging out with you." Oh—ohhhh.

A goofy smile spread on Hank's face, and he pushed all his chips forward on the table. Hank could pick up what Connor was putting down—well if he was wrong, he was pretty fucked—but that's why they call it a risky bet. And Hank never turned down a bet just because he might lose—what fun was that?

He wrapped both arms around Connor, rubbing the heel of his palm between his shoulders. "Hey, me too." He pulled Connor into a big bear hug, and he could feel the kid's heart was beating like crazy. Geez—now Hank was feelin' a little like a teenager, he hadn't felt that way since he was like thirty. "Come over anytime." That fucking pizza box was in the way—Hank wanted to just grab it and throw it in the snow outside. Hank could feel Connor's hand push across his shoulders, somewhat hesitantly—he was obviously pretty nervous, Hank almost wanted to laugh and say, "Hey, don't worry about it!"—but that would probably just ruin the mood. Damn—Hank just realized that a shy guy like Connor had just laid it all out there, so Hank better not blow it. He pulled back, and noticed Connor's face was definitely a little flushed. Ah, shit—it was even harder to resist pulling him in for a kiss now that they weren't surrounded by the SWAT team. He didn't want to push it too much—it was probably better to go at Connor's pace. "Hey, drive safe, okay?" He pat Connor's arm.

"I will. Good night." Part of him wanted to walk Connor out to the car… but Connor was a guy too, so maybe that would be a bit too… condescending? Hank was pretty new at this "gay" thing, he didn't know if there were different rules. Ah, shit—he didn't even have anyone he could ask about it. He wasn't buddies with Andrea's friend from college or anything, he just met him for one second at their wedding—he was the only gay guy around his age he could even think of.

Hank waved, even though Connor had already turned around. "See ya tomorrow. I'll be on time, promise." Connor looked like he was almost hurrying away—that one-handed hug was probably pretty bold, by his standards. He did say he hadn't dated anyone in a while… Hank couldn't help but wonder what the story was there. He thought he heard Connor say, "Bye" but he was already practically to his car. Hank waved from the doorway, and Connor returned a shy wave back, grabbing his pizza box and ducking into his car. Hank closed the door. Well… damn. That changed everything, huh… Fuck, how was Hank supposed to scurry off to bed and actually get some sleep now?!

XXX

Hank thew up his arms dramatically. "Well I'm here on time, any joker not in his seat is on my shit list!" Every head snapped to the front of the station.

Chris popped out from the break room. "Hey, I'm here!" He practically shouted from the kitchen, cup of coffee in hand.

"I see ya." Hank waved his hand dismissively. That fucker Gavin wasn't here, shocker—Connor was at his desk, of course, with two to-go coffee cups. Hank checked his watch—7:59am, yes.

Connor smiled, which was really healing for Hank, who still felt tired as fuck and hadn't slept well at all. "Good morning, Lieutenant."

"Aw, 'Lieutenant'?!" Hank blurted out. Connor bit the inside of his lips, and his eyes darted to the side. Shit—Hank didn't mean to say that so loud.

"Um… good morning, Hank." For some reason he looked really shy as he said it, leaning his chin in his hand, practically hiding the bottom half of his face. Ah shit—was everything going to be all awkward now? No no no—Connor was probably just feeling shy, is all. Well—it was up to Hank to be normal, then.

"Hey—thanks for the coffee." He sat at his desk, reaching across. "Oh—which one's mine?"

"Here—" Connor picked up one cup, hesitating a moment, then handed it directly to Hank. Their fingers brushed each other ever-so-slightly—scandalous! "… a caramel macchiato with an espresso shot, right?"

"Hey, sounds good to me." Hank wasn't into those foofy coffee drinks, so when Connor text him this morning to ask what kind of coffee he wanted—and to make sure his ass was actually up—Hank just said, 'Something with caramel, with an extra kick.' Waking up bleary-eyed to a text that said, 'Good morning Hank, what kind of coffee do you want?' made his crusty old heart flutter just a bit—which is why it was annoying that Connor inexplicably switched back to "Lieutenant".

Chris came sauntering over, his coffee to his lips. "You guys see the news this morning?"

Connor looked a bit wide-eyed. "No, why?"

He nodded to Connor. "You guys are on it." Ah, shit. Hank had shouted, "No fucking comment!" so they couldn't use the footage, but the weasels probably just muted it and added voiceover. Hank could see Connor whip out his phone, then put it away again just as fast. "It's just for a second—but you're on there with a bloody shirt, Connor—I wouldn't be surprised if you had some family call you asking if you're okay." Chris chuckled. Connor didn't look very amused at that prospect. Obviously Chris wouldn't know why, but he seemed to catch the somber atmosphere and sauntered away. "Hey—good job stopping that kid from doin' something stupid." Hank wasn't sure what to say to that—he didn't particularly want to say "thanks".

Connor stared at a spot on his desk, then looked up with a sad smile. "I have some follow-up work I want to do today. The hospital said Daniel's surgery wasn't too complicated, so we should be able to talk to him."

"I see." Hank shifted back in his chair. "Anything change with the husband?"

Connor looked away. "It doesn't look good, to be honest." His eyes scrunched closed. Hank nodded in understanding. If he died, that would bump Daniel's two counts of assault with a deadly weapon to one count, and manslaughter. As well as whatever else the judge wanted to throw at him, depending on who they got. Hank hoped it wouldn't be that old battleaxe Amanda Stern prosecuting, she could be pretty nasty. The kid had no money, from the sounds of it, so he'd just get stuck with a public defender. Unless his case garnered national attention, and some defense attorney wanting to make a name for himself volunteered to represent him pro bono. But who would? They couldn't exactly plea insanity—and depending on what he told them during questioning, the whole thing might have been premeditated.

Hank stirred his straw around in the dome of whipped cream. "So when you wanna head down there?"

"I'd like to wait until closer to noon." Connor was looking unfocused at nothing. "There's a few things I want to have squared away before that."

"I gotcha." Hank pulled out his straw covered in cream and licked it off in one go, like reverse spaghetti. Connor just stared at him for a split second, then averted his eyes hard. Whoops—Hank hadn't meant for that to be suggestive, or anything. Well if he said anything now, that'd just make it even more weird—sorry there, Connor. "Well, we can split up if you want to cover more ground. I can go to the other hospital and check up on the husband, if he wakes up."

Connor nodded, that contemplative, staring-into-the-middle-distance look he had in the car when it rained the other night. Well… Hank was glad he could serve as a distraction while it lasted. Now they were both back to reality. This thing wasn't going to just go away—they had to interrogate Daniel, and interview that shrew of a mother—probably Emma too. And it was almost a guarantee that one or both of them would be called to the witness stand if it went to trial—probably Ben too, since he was first on the scene. Just what the hell had happened in that apartment?

XXX

Connor was looking around the printer for something, checking the giant bound reams of paper stacked up next to it. Hank was curious what all these "loose ends" he wanted to square away were, so he stood up and went over. "Whatcha lookin' for?"

"I don't suppose we have any photo-quality paper?"

"Photo-quality?" Hank shifted his weight. "Uhh… I kinda doubt it. Oh—maybe in Records they do."

"Oh, good idea." Connor almost bumped into him after turning on a dime. "—oh, sorry." He laughed a bit awkwardly.

"Whoa there—" Hank almost caught his shoulders, but stopped himself. "What are you tryna do, anyway?"

Connor took half a step back, then pulled out his wallet after a second. He slid out that photo strip Emma gave him partway. "I wanted to make a photo copy of this." He slid it back in place. "I know what you're going to say."

Hank sighed through his nose. "Just don't do anything that the prosecution could drag out as an obvious bias if you're put on the stand."

"I won't." Connor looked to the side. "I'm well aware of Ms. Stern's tactics. I've met her a few times."

Hank's eyebrows went up. "You have? When?"

Connor folded one arm defensively. "I guess I didn't mention it. My dad and one of my aunts are lawyers—defense attorneys." He bit his lips. Hank was kind of surprised that Connor called his old man "my dad" and not something more distant like "my father". "At one point I was interested in becoming a DA. Obviously I didn't—but I went to hearings at the Detroit courthouse often. My dad knows Amanda—Ms. Stern from law school, so I've met her several times." His eyes closed, and he laughed somewhat bitterly. "She was quite disappointed that I didn't pursue law. I haven't seen or spoken to her since then." Ah. Hank was starting to get the picture a little more. Connor gave a dry smile. "I'm sure she'd revel in the chance to pick me apart on the stand, to punish me for rejecting her as a mentor, of sorts."

"Damn. Well, why don't you tell the judge that?" Well, Hank knew why. They both did. It's not like he could prove it—and it was the prosecutor's job to pick apart any testimony anyway—even if it was "their own side".

An uncomfortable quiet hung in the air for a second. "Well, I don't believe that returning this photo to whom it belongs is worthy of scrutiny. As you can see, there are two people in this photo. I must have misplaced the second person's copy."

Hank nodded. "Well, definitely be careful with that one. Let's go see if Wanda has any photo paper." Connor gave a small smile.

XXX

Hank wiped his damp hands on his jeans. He hated that hands-free dryer—he should just buy one of those things you stick on the counter for paper towels. He didn't even care if it came out of his own pocket. Anything was better than—huh, Connor's over there talking to Ben. Was he waiting until Hank went to the bathroom?

Hank liked to stay out of other people's business in general, but he was nosy. Just because he didn't care didn't mean he didn't want to know, you know? He hung back behind the wall… but then that felt pretty shitty, so he just walked right up to the two of them.

"What time do you need it by?"

"Preferably before noon." Connor's eyes flicked up as Hank approached. "But it's fine if it's later."

"Well, I'll do my best—but don't be surprised if they threw everything out." Ben sounded tired, as usual, but not annoyed with the request, whatever it was. Hank had the feeling Ben was "taking a shine to the kid", as he would say.

"I won't. I at least want to try."

Hank leaned a hand on Ben's desk. "Whatcha gonna go get? Can I ask?"

Connor gave Hank a somewhat sad look. "I wanted to get everything of Daniel's that we could out of the apartment. Specifically his painting…" He licked his lips. "Also…"

Ben kind of shrugged, an "it is what it is" expression on his face. "I'll do my best, kid, but the mom's probably not gonna let anyone talk to her alone this time. If she didn't see anything, I can't exactly demand to speak to her." He must be talking about Emma.

"Maybe you could just let it fall out of your pocket in her room…" Connor's brows were furrowed. "I'm sorry to ask you all this—" He laughed somewhat bitterly. "I'd go myself if I could…" He glanced at Hank. "But I don't think she'd react well to seeing either of us. Especially not me." He said that last part with a hollow flatness.

Hank jut his chin at Ben. "Hey, that painting's evidence, right? It helps shed light on the perp's mental state… or some horseshit like that." Ben almost laughed, it was more like a snort.

"You got it, chief."

Connor laughed softly. "That's what I suggested, more or less."

Ben scooted back in his chair, tugging up his waistband. "Hey—long as we're on the same page. Whether I find it or not, I'm still gonna need those doughnuts." Connor laughed.

"Of course." Connor met Hank's eyes, then they both walked back to their desk.

Hank couldn't help but grumble a bit. "Hey, what about me? Where's my doughnuts?"

"I can get you some." Connor smiled. "What kind do you like?"

Hank rubbed his beard. "Ahh… well, maybe that can wait 'til I actually do something."

"You've done plenty." Connor said it quietly, looking up with this cute shy smile, before sitting at his desk. Ah, damn—maybe they should have some kind of rule: no cutesy stuff at the station. Hank was too old for this shit—and what happened to "I keep my professional and personal life separate"?! Haah—Hank was just being a grumpy old fuck and passing the buck to Connor because he was embarrassed to have this puppy love feeling at his age. You know, figuratively speaking—ah, shit.

Hank understood why Connor did that move where he hid half his face all the time.

XXX

Connor was staring at the office entrance—Ben was lugging what was obviously Daniel's painting, but he could tell from the back of it that it was stained through with something. Probably not paint. Connor stood up and went around his desk to meet Ben halfway.

"Sorry, kid—I had to pull it out of the damn dumpster." He turned the canvas around, and there was a muddy brown stain that looked like it used to be red, judging by the seepage out the back. "—I'm too old for this. Oh hey—that's not blood, it's fuckin' spaghetti sauce, something like that." The canvas couldn't weight that much, but Ben sounded totally out of breath. The thing was probably awkward to carry.

Hank noticed Ben had a black mark all across his stomach. "Hey buddy—you wanna go home and change your shirt?" Ben looked down.

"Shit." His whole body looked like it rolled its eyes. "Now I got fuckin' garbage juice on me."

Connor laughed awkwardly. "I'm sorry…"

"Eh, it's not your fault. I coulda made it easier on myself." He leaned heavily with one hand on Connor's desk. "I saw it sticking out so I leaned in."

"Thank you for doing that… Oh, the doughnuts are already here, but if there's anything else, I owe you one." Connor smiled, though he still looked like he felt guilty.

Ben rubbed is chin. "I'll let you know if I think of somethin'." Ben probably wouldn't—he was starving for opportunities to prove he was still useful around here. That shit at the Park Avenue apartments was the most action he'd seen in a while. "Oh, yeah." He gave a weak thumbs-up. "She got it."

"Thank you so much." Connor smiled, genuinely.

Ben almost smiled. "Listen—I got the mom's statement of events while I was there. Curious to see how it stacks up against the kid's." He wiped his hand down his face. "Can I sit down?"

OOO

OOO

Connor checked the crystal clock on his desk. It was already eleven. He wasn't feeling that hungry since he ate a whole maple bar… he might as well just go now.

Connor checked his wallet, making sure the photocopy was tucked safely next to his credit card. Daniel wouldn't be able to take it with him to jail… but he at least wanted him to see it. That way there would be another copy floating around in case Emma's parents found hers and destroyed it… He could probably get the photo to Jason for safekeeping. He had given them his contact information, although somewhat hesitantly. Well... that was hard to say. Connor imagined that no matter how much someone loved their partner, knowing that they committed such an act of violence, potentially premeditated—it would make him reexamine everything he thought he knew about them, at least. Maybe it was better off with Professor Abelman...

Connor stood from his desk, smoothing down his shirt. He had worn a dark indigo dress shirt… for no particular reason, he just liked the color. He had two, after all—he had already worn the other one earlier this week, this one was more of a royal blue-purple. Earlier this week... he couldn't decide whether it was going by disorientingly fast, or painfully slow…

"I'm going to head down to the hospital." Hank glanced up from his desk. "I think it would be best if I talked to Daniel alone…" Connor bit his lips before he could stop himself. "Do you want to come with me?"

Hank sat and considered for a second. "I trust you with it. Just remember, he has to give his statement when he's back in custody." He gave Connor a knowing look. "Would you prefer if I came with you?"

Connor wasn't sure how to answer, even though he was the one who brought it up. In his heart of hearts, yes, he would prefer if Hank came with him. But at the same time, he felt like he was relying on Hank too much—for moral support, among other things. Daniel probably couldn't tell who shot him—but Connor thought it best that Hank stay out of the room regardless. He'd have to be released back into custody as soon as the hospital deemed him fit, and they'd have to question him in an official capacity. This was more of a personal errand, for Connor to see how he was doing. He didn't even know if Daniel had legal representation yet. He had no desire to needle someone who was recovering in the hospital after trying to commit suicide.

He realized he hadn't given Hank an answer. "I don't know." He couldn't help but break eye contact. "I think I should just go by myself." Connor was the one who allowed himself to become too emotionally-involved—this was his mess to clean up.

"All right." Hank lightly spun his chair back and forth. "Well, call me if you need me for anything."

"Thank you. I will."

OOO

Connor nodded to the SWAT officer posted outside the closed door. Since he had been the one to actually make the arrest, he was chiefly in charge of Daniel until he was discharged from the hospital—although he had taken off most of his gear. Connor showed his badge. "I have some questions about this piece of evidence, I'll be taking it back with me." He bent back the flap of the paper so the officer could see what was inside.

The guy nodded. "Go ahead."

"Thank you." Connor knocked on the door and stepped inside after a second. Daniel had been given a private room, for obvious reasons. Connor gently set the painting down, leaning it against the wall.

Daniel was staring out the window, which was barred on the outside. He barely turned his head when Connor closed the door. His left arm was in a sling, with beige medical gauze wrapped from his shoulder and bicep down around his underarm. He had dark, puffy bags under his eyes.

"Hi, Daniel. I'm Connor, I don't know if you remember me." It was a stupid thing to say, but he couldn't think of a better way to say it. Daniel didn't react at all, he didn't even seem like he was there. He had probably "popped the bubble" in his own way, given how puffy and bloodshot his eyes were. "May I sit with you?" Daniel didn't answer. Connor gingerly stepped into the room. "Don't worry—I'm not here to question you, or anything like that. I just wanted to see how you're doing."

Daniel's head rolled to the side in his giant propped-up pillow. He looked tiredly, unfocused up at Connor, and looked like he wanted to say something, but didn't. His eyes followed Connor as he walked over to the bedside, pulling a rolling stool up at a respectable distance. Connor suddenly found himself at a loss for words. He had rehearsed what he would say in his head on the drive over—but just seeing Daniel lying there with a thousand-yard stare, he couldn't imagine what he could possible say to him. If Connor had attempted suicide and was still alive, with possible nerve damage in one arm, and was headed straight to jail, and probably prison—what could someone even say to him?

Connor licked his lips before he could help it. "I'm sorry that everything happened this way." He thought he heard a dry scoff. He closed his eyes, suddenly unable to look directly at Daniel. "But I'm glad you're alive."

He was honestly prepared for Daniel to say something gut-wrenching like, "That makes one of us"—but the fact that he didn't say anything at all was almost worse.

Connor pulled out his wallet, and his fingers were a little shaky. "I have a few things that belong to you. I can pass them on to Jason, or whoever you want me to." Daniel's eyes winced at Jason's name. Connor very carefully pulled out the photo strip. "I made a copy of this for you. Emma has the original." Daniel stared at it, his eyes becoming red at the corners. His brows screwed together. "—I can leave it here with you, but it will be confiscated again…"

Daniel covered his eyes with his good hand, his chin pilling as his mouth twisted into a broken frown. "Ngh—" Connor had heard that anguished, stifled cry before. Daniel turned his face towards the wall, Connor could see his shoulders shaking while he tried and failed to stifle his sobs. Connor couldn't think of anything to say, so he said nothing.

Eventually, Daniel turned back, bloodshot eyes staring at the strip, the bottom half of his face hidden by his hand. "May I see that?" His voice was soft.

"Of course." Connor gently held it out for him to take. Daniel touched the sides, lightly pressing it between his thumb and forefinger. His fingers were shaking, and he brought up both his legs, gently placing the photo on top of his knees.

After what was probably only a few seconds, but seemed like longer, he said, "She'll probably never see me again." His face twisted. "Unless it's on the news." He covered his face again, his legs drawing up towards his chest—the photo fell down to his lap, but he didn't pick it back up.

Connor chose his next words very, very carefully. He waited until Daniel's quiet sobs had subsided, then spoke evenly. "You didn't hear this from me." Daniel stilled. "I don't know how the legal system in France differs from ours. But, if you plea 'not guilty' and the trial is decided by a jury, they may sympathize with you, and you could receive a lighter sentence." His heartbeat picked up a bit. He was really, really pushing it, and he knew it. "Just be honest." It was already too late—he might as well go all the way. "I want to be honest with you—I'll probably be called to the stand to testify. Even if I'm called by the prosecution, I'm on your side." He wasn't sure if Daniel knew the English words for these legal terms, though he seemed to speak English fairly well. Connor pressed his fingertips together to stop them from shaking. "Just don't tell anybody I said that, okay? Not even your lawyer." Daniel actually laughed—a dry, humorless laugh.

"I don't have one." He settled back down against his propped-up pillow. The image reminded Connor, morbidly, of one of those paintings of sickly Victorian women. "What's the point? I am guilty."

Connor licked his lips. "You have the right to be assigned a public defender. I highly recommend that you don't plea 'guilty'."

Daniel was staring out the window. "There's no point," he repeated quietly. His words hung in the air. Connor had to accept something—he couldn't convince Daniel to want to live, or to care what happened to him from here. The reality of it crushed his chest. He desperately tried to think of something—anything, some magic genuine sentence that came from the heart that would convince him otherwise. He felt a crumbling pressure, and realized he was bouncing his leg.

Connor willed himself to sit still on the hard backless stool. "I... wouldn't decide how you want to plea until you're cleared to take your medication again." From what the doctor told him, they didn't want anything reacting badly with the anesthesia. Connor pressed his palms together. "I also... we can get a court-ordered psych evaluation, and you might be able to get a more accurate diagnosis." He knew he was being presumptuous, but he partly wanted to see how Daniel would react. He did notice his brows furrow, though he stayed turned towards the window. "How long ago were you diagnosed with bipolar?"

He closed his eyes. "It was before I came here." He scoffed. "Your healthcare is 'orrible." Connor almost laughed.

"It is... it's very profit-driven in the west, unfortunately." At least he had Daniel's attention now. "We can present grounds for a psych evaluation, and you can see someone who can give you a fresh diagnosis. It wouldn't hurt."

Daniel finally turned to him. His expression was hard to read—it was almost a soft glare, resigned, tired. "It doesn't matter." Connor was becoming concerned—it sounded like he didn't want to bother with a trial, and not by pleading "guilty".

This was really getting to Connor. He started feeling desperate—like he was looking at an alternate younger version of himself. He could just as easily have felt totally trapped, and been rejected by his only family, if things had been slightly different. He felt the corners of his eyes get watery—shit. "Um... I know it will be difficult—really difficult, but—" He was getting flustered—he felt like he was going to burst into tears any second, and he was willing himself not to. "—um... shit—" He had to wipe his eye. "Sorry—I know I can't convince you to want to go through this trial, b-but I hope you do... please." He was rambling, he couldn't stop. "I hope you'll—change your mind..." Connor felt like he was begging.

Daniel pressed his hand over his eyes, saying nothing. Connor was looking to the side, at the floor. It probably wouldn't go over well to ask about the other thing, but Daniel would have to go back into custody soon...

Connor stood up from his stool. "That's all I wanted to say. I have one more thing for you... then I'll let you rest." He went back towards the door, lifting up Daniel's wrapped-up painting. Connor tried his best to tape together plain brown packing paper that he found, to protect the canvas. Daniel's face scrunched when he saw it. "... May I turn this in to Professor Abelman on your behalf?"

He turned away, his arm pressed over his eyes. "... do whatever you want." His voice sounded strained. "I don't even want to see it."

"Very well." He held the canvas off the ground with both hands, hoping to convey that it was a precious thing if Daniel turned back this way. "I'll do that." Daniel didn't look over. "Thank you for taking the time to talk to me, Daniel. I hope you can get some rest." He made his way out of the room with the painting. The photo would be confiscated when he was placed back into custody... hopefully Connor wouldn't get too much flak if they narrowed it down to him. As long as he had his third copy, they could take it if they wanted.

He nodded to the officer outside the door and walked down the bright hallway, almost too quickly. He rounded the corner and stopped at a bench down the next hallway, laying the painting across it, and bent over, cradling his face in his hands. He breathed a few times deeply, in and out, the humiliating sting of hot tears welling over and getting trapped behind his fingers. He started berating himself mentally for not doing enough, for not saying the right thing—but then he eased up and acknowledged that there was really nothing he could say. If he was in Daniel's position—he probably would have been even more cynical, even combative. He couldn't condone what Daniel had done—not as a person or a member of the justice system. But his heart ached when he thought about the circumstances that led up to him going out on that balcony. The Phillips had also been through a harrowing experience, and Mr. Phillips may very well die in the hospital—what was justice? What was punishing Daniel further supposed to accomplish? He already wanted to die...

Connor breathed a few more times, wiping his eyes with the side of his hand. It stung a bit from the hand sanitizer he slathered on in the waiting room. A part of him that he was ashamed to acknowledge wished that he had asked Hank to come with him. Damn it... since when did he become so co-dependent, when did he need someone to comfort him? No... it was always something Connor wanted, he just convinced himself he was above, or didn't need, because it was something that wasn't in his realm of possibility for such a long time. It was like eating bland, unseasoned white people food your whole life, then one day your friend's parents order Thai takeout, and you realize, "Oh... food can actually taste like something? And other people have been eating food like this the whole time? Oh..."

He allowed himself to breathe, bending until his face was practically touching his knees. At least this wasn't an unusual sight in a hospital. He hadn't done any yoga or anything like that lately—he hadn't even been out for a walk besides that day he got that coffee, let alone a hike. His levels were probably just all out of whack... yeah, that was it.

Connor sat up, his hands cupped over his nose and mouth. He should take a little walk on his lunch break. Or walk around the mall once he was off, something—he didn't particularly want to walk around Detroit at night, even as a man. Maybe he could go for a nice long night drive to... fucking CostMo, anywhere that he could walk around in. He hated winter—he hated that the sun set so early, and there was nothing to do, and it would snow again soon.

He made a long exhale through his nose. He still had one more stop. One more stop, then he could go on lunch and dissociate for an hour.

OOO

Connor lightly knocked on the open door. "Professor Abelman?"

He looked up from his desk in the small office. "Yes, please, come in, Detective Sullivan."

Connor smiled. "Just 'Connor' is fine." He picked up the painting, balancing it on the chair near the door. "He hasn't signed it, but..." He carefully broke the tape at the back of the canvas, lifting off the brown paper. "... this is Daniel's piece."

The Professor stared at the painting, his chin in his hand. His eyes scrunched, and he took his glasses off the top of his head, pressing the heel of his palm into his eye. His shoulders shook slightly.

Connor gently approached the side of the desk, motioning to a nearby chair. "May I sit with you?" The Professor nodded a few times, his eyes pressed closed.

OOO

Connor found himself staring at a shiny BWM in the row across from him. The parking garage was cool, but it was still a little warm in his car, and there was a distant roar of traffic above ground, almost like the inside of a seashell. He had turned off his engine and cut the music, since he was edging a bit into "feel-bad" territory.

He reclined his driver's seat just a bit more, laying back and closing his eyes. He was even more grateful that he made a better decision last night... he could only imagine what a wreck he'd be now if he purposefully let himself spiral. He might have even said something insane to Daniel like, "I understand how you feel. I won't tell you what to do."

Connor reached out and used his thumbnail to draw a lopsided circle in the fuzzy car interior. It might have sounded callous to the average person, but oddly enough Hank had probably said the best thing to Daniel—"Sorry kid, this'll hurt—but better than blowing your own head off." Connor had to believe that even struggling and suffering was better than being dead, otherwise...

He pressed his hands over his eyes. He had been in this cycle for the last ten minutes, at least. He wasn't actually sure how long. He couldn't go back inside, because his eyes were still puffy. It was just obvious he'd been crying. He really didn't want anyone to see him. His hair had fallen out of place, and he didn't have any more product to smooth it back. He just looked like a mess.

He took his phone out of his pocket. He was already a mess, and he already chastised himself for having such co-dependent thoughts—so if he was going to feel guilty about it, he might as well just do it. [Author's note: I've gone back and reformatted how text messages are stylized, but phone calls are the same. Hopefully this is less confusing/more visually appealing.]

'Hank, would you mind meeting me in the garage?'

He set his phone on the seat next to him. Not too long after that, it started buzzing. Connor waited a second, then answered it.

"Hey."

"Hey I'm comin' out right now—" He heard the sound of the heavy door opening on the other end. "Which section are you in?"

"Um... " Connor leaned across his passenger seat to peer out the window. "C. I'm not that far away from the door." He could see Hank looking around. "I see you. I'll come out." He waited in case Hank said something else, opening his driver door and rising out, stretching his back a bit.

"I see ya." Hank hung up first. His long strides got him to Connor's car pretty quickly. "What's up, you doin' all right?"

Sometimes Connor couldn't help but make this facetious smile, when he knew the other person knew it was facetious. "Not really. I'm having a pretty hard time with all of this, actually." Hank's eyebrows instantly fell. Just do it—you've already done it once before.

Connor leaned into Hank, his forehead connecting with the dip in his collarbone. Hank instantly wrapped him up in a big bear hug. "Hey—it'll be all right. You've done all you can, Connor—more than enough." Connor's arms practically clutched onto Hank's back from below. "Just leave it to the lawyers and the courts, now." His voice was reassuring. It wasn't the same as last night, there was no excitement... it felt just like when North hugged him after he told her how Elijah Kamski treated him, it was just something he needed...

Connor sniffed before he could stop himself. "—shit."

"Hey, go ahead. Don't worry about my shirt, I don't give a shit." Connor actually laughed, and he could hear the stuffiness in his voice, the bubble in his throat.

"Ugh—I'm sorry, I'm so embarrassed—"

"Don't be." Hank squeezed his shoulder, and unexpectedly his other hand was smoothing down the back of his hair. "It's not good to keep stuff bottled up, you know?" Hank actually scoffed. "Trust me." Hank settled his palm at the top of Connor's back, lightly stroking the back of his neck with his thumb. Some part of Connor's brain filed that statement away for later, but the rest just... melted to goo. He was glad he swallowed his pride and called Hank over... no, what did pride have to do with it? Hank was right, it's not good to keep stuff bottled up... Jesus, how did Connor survive this long without a therapist and only like two friends?

He let himself cling desperately to Hank because, well—it was something he desperately needed. The annoying logical part of his brain tried to remind him that they'd land right into an awkward explanation at best and a scandal at worst if anyone saw them... but he didn't care, he just didn't care.

He sniffed into Hank's shirt, still feeling gross and a bit guilty. He really hoped that Daniel wanted to keep living, even with the trial looming over him... Daniel had inspired Connor to be braver about living his own life, even if he didn't know it—Connor desperately hoped that Daniel would decide not to keep punishing himself—even if the family, or the law, or the public never forgave him. Perhaps that was just selfish... but if wanting to live was selfish, everyone deserved a pass for that, at least.

OOO

OOO

OOO

Sorry for the tone whiplash. I started tearing up writing the hospital scene :'(

Be kind to yourselves y'all, you are loved 3

I have another fluffy scene coming up, it just seemed inappropriate to tack it onto the end of this chapter. Also, Bryan Dechart talks about doing yoga to warm himself up before roles, so Connor does too lol

See you next time!