Copperverse: Interlude - Getting Home Part 1

[chlorhexidine]

Hank pushed open the door and led the way inside. Connor followed. He'd been quiet for the entire car journey and Hank had given him the time to be inside his own head.

“Lounge is that way,” he said, pointing to the door on the left. “Bathroom's there,” he continued, pointing to another door, “and that one's your room.”

“My room?” Connor repeated. It was the first thing he'd said since thanking Hank on the way out of the hospital.

Hank turned to look at Connor and caught himself faltering. “Well, my son's room, but,” the words he hasn't slept there in years died on his tongue and were replaced with, “he's not using it right now.”

He walked into Cole's room and set Connor's bag next to the bed. Traces of Cole lingered in the football trophies on the shelf, and the picture of Hank, Cole, and Cole's mother next to them, but the drawers and wardrobe were empty. The desk was unused, and the windowsill bare.

Connor followed after him and looked around. Hank didn't doubt for a second that he was taking in the absence of signs that the room was actually used by anyone. “I appreciate this, Hank,” he said, softly.

Hank wanted to pull him into a hug. His fingers twitched with the urge. “It's not much, but it beats hospital, right?”

If Connor had been going home to a family, or friends that could check on him regularly, it would have been different. The doctor wanted him to be around people, just in case. The unspoken case was his lung collapsing again. No strenuous activity, sleep sitting up, take the painkillers, keep up with the breathing exercises. Originally the physio had said Connor should be able to go back to work in a couple of weeks, but when she'd been told that Connor was a cop, which was how he'd got stabbed in the first place, she'd quickly changed her mind. Connor should make a full recovery, she'd said, but he shouldn't try and rush it either. His body had been through a lot.

Connor nodded at him. “Thank you,” he repeated.

The seconds after dragged on in awkward silence. Hank broke it first. “Well, I'll,” he began, the words coming out stilted and awkward, “let you get settled.”

He excused himself from the room and pulled the door closed behind him. Connor was quiet, and had been ever since he'd woken up in the hospital. Hank just wanted to hold him close and tell him everything would be okay, and at the same time reassure himself that they weren't still on the cold tarmac of that car park while he did his best to hold a sucking chest wound closed as Connor grew weaker and paler in his arms.

Hank dragged his hands through his hair and made his way to the lounge. He needed a drink.

Connor emerged nearly an hour later. Hank rocketed off the sofa at the sight of him. “Hey,” he greeted him. “Everything okay?”

Connor's eyes scanned the room before settling on Hank's face, and he offered a small, lopsided smile. “Yeah,” he answered, but seemed to be thinking about something. “If it's not too much trouble would it be possible for you to take me to my flat tomorrow?” he ventured. “There are some things I want to pick up, and,” he glanced away before admitting, “I want to check on my fish.”

Hank had looked after Connor's fish for him while he was in hospital, although 'looked after' made it sound like it involved more than sprinkling a pinch of food into the water and making sure none of them were dead. “Of course,” he answered.

“Thank you,” Connor replied, seeming relieved.

“Can I get you anything else in the meantime?” Hank asked. “A drink? Something to eat?”

Connor treated Hank to an awkward, lopsided smile as he admitted, “Hospital food wasn't the best.”

Hank's face broke into a grin. Hunger he could work with. “What do you fancy?” he asked. “Pizza, chinese?”

Connor's mouth twisted as if some comment was being held back. Whatever he was thinking, what came out was, “I could cook?” as if it was an offer.

“I gotta be honest, I haven't exactly been grocery shopping in a while,” Hank admitted, with a wince. Since Connor ended up in hospital, in fact. Hank had spent most of the following days snatching cafeteria food at the hospital, or takeaways when he made it as far as getting back to walk Sumo.

Connor's shoulders dropped, but Hank couldn't tell if it was disappointment or an inward sigh at Hank's terrible dietary choices. Where Connor was concerned it could easily be both. “Maybe after I've been to my flat we could go shopping and I could cook for you tomorrow night?”

“You don't have to cook for me, Connor,” Hank tried to reassure him.

“I also don't want to be an invalid mooching off you,” Connor replied, before Hank had finished.

Of course that was how Connor would see it, he realised. The only reason he'd been discharged already was because he was coming home with Hank. Hank wanted Connor with him anyway, but Connor was only staying with Hank because it was advised by the doctors, and it was only for a few days.

Hank shook his head. “You're not,” he said, “but after the last few days I just need a pizza and a beer on my own sofa, and if,” the word 'you' stuck in his throat, “the only other copper I can stand to be around all day can join me,” he shrugged, “even better.”

Connor's face was unreadable at first. After a moment he looked down, and a tiny smile flickered to life at the corner of his mouth. “All right,” he conceded, “but I am cooking for you tomorrow.”

Hank's nose wrinkled at the idea. “Just so long as it's not one of those recipes in those books you have at your flat.”

They split a large peperoni pizza. Hank didn't want to risk getting into the discussion about whether pineapple belonged on pizza or not just yet because if he and Connor disagreed that would really cause a problem. To Hank's surprise Connor demolished an entire half, and he even managed to slowly drink a bottle of beer in the process.

He handed Connor the remote to his TV with the instruction to find a film for them to watch while he walked Sumo. It was good to see Connor getting more animated again, and even better to see him relax a little. Taking Sumo out on a walk and leaving Connor on his own for half an hour was important too. It was important for both of them. Connor needed not to feel like he was being smothered, or coddled like a sick child, and Hank needed to make himself give Connor some space even though his every instinct was to drag him into his arms, hold on, and never let go.

He walked Sumo twice around the block before he let himself return home. Sumo ran into the house ahead of him and straight up to Connor. Connor first looked at Hank, and then at Sumo and, slowly, as if he didn't want to startle the dog, held a hand out to him. Sumo panted big, doggy breaths at Connor's face and sat on his haunches, waiting to be petted.

Connor settled his hand on Sumo's head, and then wound his fingers through Sumo's fur, scratching gently.

“He likes it if you get him right behind the ear,” Hank supplied, unable to help his smile. It was the first time Sumo had gone up to him, and Connor hadn't made any moves towards Sumo before now either.

Connor's eyes sparkled like his smile as he petted Sumo. He moved his hand until it was to the back of Sumo's right ear and then began to scratch him there. Sumo tilted his head into it. Hank could picture the face the dog was making. Give him a straight minute of that sort of treatment and his tongue started to loll out of the side of his muzzle, and then you got sat on because when a Saint Bernard wants you to keep petting him, he has ways and means of ensuring it happens.

“He likes that,” Hank observed, as Connor moved in to dual wield the ear scritches and send Sumo to doggy heaven.

“He does,” Connor agreed, looking more alert and alive than he had all day, maintaining the steady massage of both Sumo's ears so he didn't know which way to tilt his head. Sumo endured it for a whole minute before making the great leap for more and hauling his oversized hairy ass up onto the sofa, and halfway on top of Connor.

“Sumo! Down!” Hank commanded. Almost as quickly as Sumo had jumped up he jumped down again, and Connor righted himself once more. “Sorry,” Hank apologised, “he gets a bit demanding sometimes.”

“It's fine,” Connor replied, his voice bubbling with a laugh. The smile he wore was warm, and genuine. Apparently Connor didn't just like dogs, he loved dogs. “You have him well trained.”

Hank shrugged. “He knows the commands,” he said, “whether he actually does what he's told is another matter.” He loved his pain in the ass dog. There had been some nights that he and Sumo had slept on the sofa together because the alternative had been Hank lying awake in the dark on his own, watching memories of some of the things people did to other people play through his mind.

He settled himself down onto the sofa where Sumo had just been. Connor had taken the liberty of opening another beer for Hank, which made Hank smile. He adapted quickly, and took on some of Hank's less harmful bad influences without too much fight. He was closer, too, Hank realised. Their legs weren't touching, but they'd both migrated towards the centre of the sofa.

Hank wasn't about to move if Connor didn't. “So what are we watching?” he asked, picking up his beer and leaning back. The sofa cradled him.

Connor bit his lip and took hold of the remote. “I thought we could watch Bird,” he ventured, like he was offering up something he wasn't sure would meet with approval.

Hank narrowed an eye at him. “You like Jazz?”

Connor didn't look at him. Hank took that as a 'no'. “I don't really listen to any music,” he answered, “except for what I hear in your car.”

Which was mostly punk and metal, Hank knew, so for Connor to pick a Jazz biopic he'd been snooping while Hank was gone, like a good little copper. Hank grinned even though Connor wasn't risking looking at his face. “Good choice,” he praised. “Put it on.”

Connor did, and then settled back on the sofa himself as the film started playing. Hank could feel the shift in the cushions as Connor's weight moved and settled, moved and settled.

He wasn't sure when exactly he and Connor ended up pressed shoulder to shoulder, their heads close as Hank divulged tidbits of information about the other key players in the story. Sumo settled to the floor at their feet, and the clock was ticking close to midnight before the credits began to roll.

Hank turned to Connor to ask him what he thought, of the music as well as the filmmaking, and found Connor had drifted off sometime in the last half hour. His eyes were closed, his breathing shallow and even. He looked peaceful in a way he hadn't at the hospital. His head was tilted back against the sofa cushions, his face resting towards Hank.

Hank could see the faint freckles on his skin, and his lashes resting against his cheek. Connor had always looked young, but the last few days had aged him. He'd been anaesthetised and drugged up more than he'd been asleep, and a heavy, tense weariness had taken hold of him as a result. It lifted now. He looked like Connor again; far too damn innocent for the job he did, and attractive in a weird sort of way. His eyes were a little bit too far apart, and his cheeks were that bit too wide, his lips strangely soft, and pink against his peachy skin.

Hank brought his hand up. He wanted to brush that damn stray lock of hair back into place. He stopped himself, his hand hesitating in midair. He couldn't make this weird for Connor. Connor had no choice but to stay here for a few days. Hank could resist fussing over him, for his sake.

He settled his hand on Connor's shoulder and shook him gently. “Wakey wakey, sleeping beauty,” he teased. “The film that bad?”

Connor breathed first, and then moved to straighten up before opening his eyes. “Is it finished?”

“Few minutes ago,” Hank confirmed, straightening up himself and stretching. “I think my ass has gone to sleep,” he complained.

Connor suppressed a yawn. “I'm sorry,” he managed to say, through it, “I guess I'm more exhausted than I realised.”

“You're allowed to be,” Hank answered. No one slept in hospital after all. Between beeping machines and nurses coming in at all hours to take readings, and the fact the ward never got truly dark or quiet it was a miracle anyone got better in hospital. “Go to bed,” he said, waving his hand towards the door, “I'll move this stuff.”

Connor nodded, and shuffled himself off the sofa. He paused at the door like he was waiting for something, or plucking up the courage to say something. Hank looked at him and was treated to a soft and genuine smile. “Night, Hank.”

“Night,” Hank replied, and hoped it didn't sound as softly fond to Connor as it did to his own ears.

*

Something woke Hank. He wasn't sure what it was, exactly. He just had an old copper's sense that something wasn't right and his brain had fired him awake before he had any idea of what was wrong. He lay in the dark, listening to the sounds of the house. There was nothing.

A glance at his phone's display told him he'd only actually been asleep for an hour and a half. It wasn't even two o'clock yet, but Hank felt as if he'd slept all night.

Maybe it was because he wasn't listening to the hum of machines that measured Connor's heartbeat, and breathing, and oxygen levels, and blood pressure. They didn't beep with each beat like films always showed, but they pinged and trilled with alarms when something was going wrong, or hummed as they inflated a cuff to take his blood pressure again. Still, it seemed quiet without them there, and without the gentle hiss of oxygen going into a mask over Connor's face, and the soft footsteps of a nurse walking past the room.

Hank frowned into the night. He didn't need to go and check on Connor, but now he was awake he wanted to look at him and make sure he was still sound asleep. He shouldn't disturb Connor; he needed his rest, but Hank also couldn't settle.

He got up, resolving to get himself a drink. Maybe, maybe, he'd allow himself to put an ear near Connor's door and just make sure nothing sounded off.

Hank opened his own bedroom door as quietly as he could. Connor's door was open. Dim light from the streetlamps beyond the closed curtains spilled into the hall. There was no sign of Connor.

Hank peered carefully into the lounge. Connor was sat on the sofa, his head bowed, elbows resting on his knees, right hand resting on the dressing over his ribs where the knife had gone in.

“Everything okay?” Hank asked.

Connor snatched his hand away from his side as if he'd been caught doing something wrong. He jerked upright in his seat, looking at Hank in obvious surprise. “Yes,” he said, in a hurry, “I'm fine.” Hank stepped into the room and waited for Connor to give him a better answer. Connor looked up at him again, and then frowned and looked down at the rug. “I couldn't sleep,” he said, quietly, “I didn't mean to disturb you.”

“You didn't,” Hank said, making light of the fact that his every nerve had jangled that something was wrong and had probably been set off by the faint sound of Connor leaving his room. “I couldn't sleep either.” He walked into the lounge and took a seat on the sofa, next to Connor.

“It feels as though all I've done these last few days is sleep,” Connor admitted. His voice was hushed, and his mouth downturned. Hank wanted to reach out and drag Connor into a hug. He wasn't wearing a shirt, and the pale skin of his back glowed faintly in the gloom.

“Is it bothering you?” Hank asked, gesturing towards Connor's side where the white dressing covered two stitched up wounds. One was twisted and uneven, and the other was neat, and surgically precise. One knife wound, one scalpel incision.

Connor didn't move, but he took a second too long to answer. “It doesn't hurt.”

Hank knew that wasn't an answer, but it was an opening. Connor was inviting him to probe further, if he wanted to continue the conversation. “That wasn't what I asked.”

Connor turned to look at Hank. He blinked too many times, and his mouth parted around words he couldn't get to come out, or hadn't chosen yet. He looked back down at the floor before he spoke. Hank realised Sumo had left his bed to lie down by Connor's feet. Maybe Connor had been sitting here longer than he'd realised.

“Every time I close my eyes,” Connor said, finally, “I'm back on the floor in that car park.”

Hank's throat tied itself into a knot. He wanted to tell Connor it was all right, that he was safe now, and recovering, but his breath wouldn't come to give him the words.

“It felt like I was drowning,” Connor continued. There was pain in his words, but Hank couldn't tell if it was the memory, or something fresh and raw. “I couldn't breathe. The pain kept getting worse. I could feel myself dying.” Connor's voice cracked. “I've never been that scared.”

Hank was paralysed. He didn't know what to say. There weren't any platitudes that could take that memory away for Connor, and there wasn't anything he could do to make it better. He wanted to pull Connor against himself and promise that he'd never let him go through that again, but he didn't even know if that was what Connor wanted.

“I'm sorry, Hank,” Connor said, into his silence. “I know I should speak to a professional about this.”

It was like a dam breaking. Hearing Connor apologise for being upset and traumatised over nearly dying made something snap inside Hank's brain. He wrapped his arms around Connor and pulled him tightly against his chest, sinking his fingers into the hair at the back of Connor's head.

Connor resisted for a split second, the action catching him off guard, and then he went with it and allowed Hank to drag him in.

“You weren't the only one that was scared,” Hank told him, his voice firm and urgent. “I thought you were going to die right there in my arms and there was nothing I could do to stop it.”

Connor folded his arms around Hank's back and buried his face into Hank's neck. Hank held him back as tightly as he dared.

“I didn't want to lose you,” Hank added, letting Connor cling to him. It was a cling. It was the desperate grip of someone that had just found out he wasn't alone after all. Even Connor's mother hadn't hugged him the one time she'd visited him in hospital.

Hank held on while Connor's chest jumped with suppressed sobs. If Connor didn't want Hank to see or hear him cry then Hank was going to respect that, and if Connor just wanted to be held while he got that shit out of his system then Hank could do that for him.

After a few minutes Connor went still again. Hank gave him one last squeeze before loosening his grip and drawing back to look at him. Connor took the cue, letting his arms slip down, his hands unlocked themselves from the back of Hank's shirt. He swallowed as Hank pulled back to look at him properly. Hank brought his hand out from Connor's hair to rest along his jaw.

“Better?” Hank asked.

Connor nodded, and swallowed one more time. He closed his eyes as he said, “I probably should speak to a professional.”

Hank gave that thought a begrudging grunt. They worked hard in the police to make it clear that needing help after some of the shit you saw wasn't weakness, and that admitting it was hard. You could only bust so many child sex trafficking rings before the general shittiness of human beings got on top of you. None of that made actually getting therapy any easier, or meant that it was always helpful.

“Maybe,” Hank conceded, “but don't ever think you've gotta carry that shit alone, Connor. You weren't the only one there. I know exactly what you're going through.”

Connor's eyes lifted and locked with Hank's. The deep, puppy dog brown was black in the dim light, but Hank still felt lost in that gaze. All Connor would ever need to do was look at him with those eyes and Hank could never refuse him.

He stayed transfixed for a moment that lasted a lifetime. The faint light that filtered through the blinds cast Connor's face in a pale, otherworldly glow. He could make out Connor's slightly parted lips. Hank ran his thumb across the crest of Connor's cheek. “You should get some rest, even if you don't sleep,” Hank told him.

“I know,” Connor agreed. He sounded quiet and defeated about it.

“You can,” Hank began, and then caught the words he was about to say. Would it be weird? Would it make Connor uncomfortable? He looked at Connor's expectant face, and forced himself to plough ahead, “stay in my room if you don't want to be alone right now?”

Hank didn't want to be alone. He wanted to be able to hear Connor breathe as he slept, and look over at him to make sure he was comfortable. That didn't mean Connor felt the same way.

“Would that be all right?” Connor asked, like he was asking if he could take the last biscuit.

Hank's heart and stomach jumped at the prospect. “I might sleep better too,” he admitted, “if you did.”

Connor nodded. His soft smile was enough to break whatever resistance Hank had left to this dumb fuck of an idea he'd come up with. “It might help,” he whispered.

“Grab some pillows.” Hank surrendered. He let his hands fall away from Connor as Connor stood, and watched him go. Once Connor was clear of the lounge Hank dragged his hands over his hair and down his face. This had bad idea written all over it.

*

Hank woke the next morning to find the bed empty. His brain caught up with that fact after a second and he sat up, and then listened. The shower was running. His phone gave the time as half past eight in the morning. Connor had probably jumped in the shower shortly after waking. Everything was fine.

He breathed again and relaxed back into the bed, listening to the hiss of running water. Having Connor around made him jumpy. He wanted to make sure Connor was safe, and happy, but he had to balance that with the powerful urge to wrap him in cotton wool and keep him away from anything that might hurt him ever again.

That kind of thinking wasn't good for either of them, and Connor was pretty clear in his actions that he wanted to get back to normal sooner rather than later.

The water shut off. A few minutes later the door to Cole's bedroom clicked shut. Hank lay in his bed for another minute before he surrendered to the inevitable and got up. He didn't bother to get dressed, in fact he probably needed a shower more than Connor before he put on fresh clothes, and he made his way into his kitchen in his boxers and t-shirt. Hank liked to start the day with a coffee, and he wasn't going in to work today so he had the luxury of a slow start.

Hank was topping up Sumo's bowl with his breakfast when Connor emerged. His hair was damp and unstyled, tousled as if he'd rubbed at it with a towel and stopped there. Hank's breath caught in his throat. It was a good look on Connor.

“Good morning,” Connor said. He'd pulled on dark jeans and a grey shirt with the top button undone. That was a good look on him, too.

“Morning,” Hank replied, stopping to pat Sumo on the head before he stood. “Coffee?”

“Please,” Connor answered. Hank had a table in the kitchen which he didn't often use. Connor rounded it to lean against the kitchen counter, out of Hank's way. “How did you sleep?” he asked.

Hank breathed in and considered his answer. By some miracle he hadn't woken up wrapped around Connor like a limpet with abandonment issues, which was what he'd been worried about. He had woken up a couple of times in the night, but it hadn't been with the unconscious urge to check on Connor. Instead he'd woken up because Connor had moved in the bed. “Pretty well, in the end,” he admitted. “You?”

Connor only nodded. “Thank you,” he said, “for being so understanding last night and letting me stay with you.”

Hank shook his head. “I spent nearly a week sleeping in a chair beside you in the hospital,” he pointed out. He kept his eyes on the coffee cups as he prepared them. “It was too quiet trying to sleep in my own bed again.”

Connor folded his arms around himself. “You didn't have to stay all that time,” he said, his voice quiet, “but,” he tailed off. Hank wasn't sure if he was ever going to hear the rest of the thought. The kettle clicked and Hank made their coffees, milk with no sugar for Connor, more milk with two for himself.

“Didn't have to,” he agreed, turning to hand Connor his mug of scalding coffee, “but I did it anyway.”

The corner of Connor's mouth twitched as he took the mug in his hands. It didn't look like the beginnings of a smile, or at least not a happy one. “Thank you for being there when I woke up,” he murmured.

Hank felt his throat tighten up. He'd stayed beside Connor out of his own fear. No matter how stupid it sounded he couldn't shake the notion that letting Connor out of his sight would mean never seeing him again. It was almost superstitious. The fact Connor's own mother had only visited him once in the whole week had barely registered.

If Hank hadn't stayed with him Connor would have woken up alone, in pain, without knowing anyone cared enough to make sure he was still alive.

“Any time,” he said, and then sharply steered the conversation away from the shared trauma of the past week. “I'm gonna take a shower and then walk Sumo,” he said. “You can come with me if you like? Get you out and moving, put some fresh London air in your lungs.” He offered Connor a wry smile.

Connor's face lit up at the offer. “I'd like that,” he replied.

Hank raised his coffee in salute and headed to the bathroom. One beard trim and shower later he was attaching a sturdy rope leash to Sumo's collar and pushing the end into Connor's hand.

“He likes to wander off sniffing,” Hank advised.

Connor looked down at the leash in his hand as if he'd just been handed the key to Fort Knox. “You're letting me hold him?”

Hank's brow furrowed. “You never walked a dog before?”

“No.”

“What?” Hank's brain screeched to a halt. Connor liked dogs, he knew Connor liked dogs because Connor had spotted dog hairs on Hank's clothes the first time they'd met and he'd brought it up. Hank, who at the time had seen Connor as some uptight little weirdo from cyber crime, had found himself won over. No one that liked dogs could be that bad.

He also knew Connor didn't have a dog. Connor rented, and most rental places didn't allow them because Landlords were bigger bastards than most cops. He'd figured that was why Connor didn't have a dog.

“I've never walked a dog before,” Connor intoned, as if somehow Hank may have missed the meaning of his answer the first time.

Hank scratched at his beard. “Well,” he said, after fighting to kickstart his brain into saying something, “you hold onto that end, and try not to let him walk into the road. That's pretty much it.”

Connor and Sumo followed him outside, and Hank paused to lock up. Sumo paused to take a gigantic piss on the wall. “I'll show you our usual route,” Hank said, pointing to his left. “I've got a dog walker that looks after him when I'm busy. She's probably got different routes, but this is mine.”

Connor fell into step beside Hank. Sumo, credit to him, walked to Connor's heel as if he'd been doing it all his life. He paused at lamp posts to sniff, and then piss, and Connor paused with him.

“So,” Hank began, addressing the elephant even though they weren't in the room with it, “you've never owned a dog?”

Connor shook his head, putting one hand in his pocket. “No,” he answered. “Amanda never let me.”

Amanda. Hank had met her. People talked about others having a stick up their ass, but that one was all stick. “Your mother?” he asked, to clarify.

Connor's face screwed up like he was tasting something unpleasant. “She's never had me call her that,” he said, after a moment's awkward weighing up of whatever approaches he'd considered taking to the conversation. “I'm adopted,” he began.

“Really?” Hank asked, in over the top mock surprise. He couldn't help himself. Amanda was a stern older black lady that looked like she'd never met a problem she couldn't scowl into submission. Hank would have fallen over with shock if Connor had claimed they were biologically related.

The look it earned him from Connor was worth it. Eyes swung towards him, and his mouth pulled into a tight little frown. Connor didn't like being made fun of. He'd probably endured a lot of it through his life, but if you did it in good faith you just got this look like he was tossing a dagger your way with the power of his mind. Hank grinned back at him. The look dissolved into a smile and Connor's eyes returned to the pavement. “A shock, I know,” he said. “She and Elijah are both programmers. She lectures at universities, and he works in AI development. He helped build a chat bot that can pass the Turing test with some of the human testers recently. Not all, though.”

Hank nodded, listening to Connor talk. “The Turing test is for intelligence, right?”

Connor shook his head. “For something to pass the Turing test, a human being interacting with the program has to be unable to tell it from a real person.”

“And that's not intelligence?” Hank asked. He didn't keep up with this kind of shit, but Connor had been raised around it. It was no wonder he'd ended up sliding straight into cyber crime with two programmers as parents. For a given value of parents.

“Not even slightly,” Connor answered, flashing Hank a smile, “we arrest a lot of people less intelligent than your phone.” Hank cracked a laugh. “It hinges a lot more on the biases of the evaluator than the intelligence of the program,” Connor elaborated. “It always annoyed Elijah,” he added, a little more faintly. “We can create evolutionary algorithms that learn from their mistakes, and rewrite themselves to account for patterns the human programmers weren't aware of existing in order to provide better results than we can write them to produce on our own, but if it can't trick someone into thinking it thinks like us, it doesn't meet our standards for intelligence.”

Hank screwed up his nose. The moment Connor talked about algorithms he got lost. “I'm just hearing technobabble,” he admitted.

Connor smiled, his head bowed. “Think of it like this,” he said, casting a look and that smile at Hank, “an octopus can formulate and execute plans. A lot of people are coming round to the idea that octopuses are intelligent, and maybe even self aware, even though we'd never mistake one for human. Maybe basing our idea of what intelligence is on ourselves is missing a much bigger picture.”

Hank tried to wrap his mind around that. He knew octopuses were smart. He remembered reading about one that kept escaping its tank in some aquarium and screwing with the lights because they were pissing it off. These days everyone knew about dolphins. Whales too, really, or at least some of them. Some people thought they might be as smart as people, and like Connor said, they were definitely smarter than the average criminal. “All right,” he admitted, “I think I see what you're getting at.”

Connor beamed. He lit up with a smile that knocked years off his already young face, and certainly erased the last few days from memory.

“And that's your parents, huh?” Hank pressed, keeping the conversation going.

Connor nodded, and his smile softened slowly. “Sometimes I think I was an experiment for them,” he said, quietly. “They did everything they were supposed to. They never raised their voices, never struck me, always explained what I'd done wrong when I was punished, always kept their promises. I knew what was expected of me my whole life, and I did my best to make them proud.” He fell quiet for a moment and Hank looked at him. Connor was looking at the floor, but it looked more like he was watching whatever train of thought was happening inside his own head. “But I don't think they ever loved me,” he finished.

Hank felt his anger rise, burning in his chest and tightening the fist in his pocket. He'd never wanted to punch a woman before, but he had a face to put to Amanda and he could definitely punch her for making those words come out of Connor's mouth.

What was worse was that Connor was probably right. He'd seen it with his own eyes in the hospital. There had been no hugs, no kisses, no affection for the child she'd adopted and that had nearly died. She'd checked he was still breathing, spoken to him briefly about what had happened to land him there, asked how he was doing now and whether he was reconsidering his current career, and then she'd left. No 'I love you', no 'get well soon', not even a bunch of grapes. Elijah hadn't even shown up.

Hank swallowed his anger. It wouldn't help Connor. “I got the impression Amanda doesn't approve of you being in the police,” he said, darkly.

Connor shook his head. “She hoped I'd do something else with my education.”

Hank growled. “Yeah, well,” he grumbled, “I think you made the right call. I couldn't imagine my team without you.”

Connor's smile returned, spreading across his face as he looked up at Hank again.

They took Sumo home and Hank had another coffee while Connor drafted up a shopping list made up both of things he wanted to get from his flat, and things he wanted to buy. Hank reserved the right to veto any purchases being made with the intent of them being served to him. Connor insisted he was going to make good on his promise to cook.

They were both in good spirits when Hank drew up outside Connor's flat. “You want me to stay in the car?” he asked, before shutting off the engine, and the raucous noise of RATM.

Connor shook his head. “No,” he answered, “you've been in before anyway, so it's not as if I have something to hide.”

Hank accepted that answer with a shrug and shut off his car's engine. “Why don't you have a car, anyway?” he asked, as he followed Connor to the front door of his block.

Connor fobbed them both in through the front door before he answered. “Between traffic and parking it doesn't seem economical, especially with London's public transit system.” He cast a glance over his shoulder at Hank as he rounded the corner at the top of the first flight of stairs. Hank was never going to forget dragging him up here, stumbling over his feet and his words while Hank did his best to get him home in one very drunken piece. “A designated parking space in this area costs almost as much per month as my rent.”

Hank blew air through his teeth and grimaced. “You lived here long?”

“Only a year,” Connor answered. “It's small,” he admitted, “but at least I don't have to share it.” He unlocked his front door and stepped inside, and then aside, inviting Hank into his home.

It looked no different to the last time Hank had seen it. Connor had still been in hospital and the first thing Connor had been concerned about when he'd come round had been his fish. Hank didn't know anything about fish, but he'd agreed to come and sprinkle a very precise pinch of food into the water, if only to keep Connor happy.

The flat was small, and still bare, although with Connor in it, and awake, it seemed a lot cosier. He went straight to his fish tank and crouched down to check on the little coloured fish inside. Hank was relieved to see that none had died in his absence.

“What are they, anyway?” Hank asked, gesturing to the tank.

Connor didn't turn around. Hank watched as he pressed his finger gently against the glass and dragged it along in a slow swooping pattern. The fish inside flocked to his moving finger like puppies. “Dwarf gourami,” he answered. He swooped his finger back again and the fish swam after it like they were expecting food. Connor straightened up and looked at Hank with open sincerity, “Thank you for looking after them.”

Hank shrugged. “It wasn't a big deal,” he said. “They got names?”

Connor fixed Hank with an amused look. “They're fish,” he pointed out, dryly.

“People name fish,” Hank defended. He had no idea what someone like Connor might name a pet of any description and he wanted to know.

Connor continued to smile, “Well, I haven't. There's no point when they don't answer to it.”

Hank almost had to give him that one. It wasn't as if Connor would ever be on his front step calling his fish's names. “I suppose they all call each other 'bob' anyway,” he conceded.

Connor's shoulder's jerked, and Hank caught the way his lips pressed tight as he held back a laugh. “That was terrible.”

Hank pointed at him, accusing. “You laughed,” he countered, “don't try and pretend you didn't.”

“That was pain, not laughter,” Connor retorted, but the brightness in his voice and face gave him away. This wasn't an interview room, and Connor's hadn't engaged his poker face. “I need to do a water change if that's all right?”

Hank shrugged, a grin pulling at the corner's of his mouth to see Connor acting so alive. “Do whatever you gotta do,” he answered. “I'm not in a rush.”

In total they spent a solid couple of hours at Connor's flat. He changed out some of the tank water, adding water softener and some other chemicals that Hank didn't understand first, and then excused himself to his bedroom to pack.

They left Connor's flat with a bag carefully packed with spare toiletries, clothes, his iPad, and a couple of books. There had been some pondering out loud as to whether Connor should take his blender, because apparently he liked to liquidise more fruit and vegetables than Hank ate in a week for his breakfast every morning, before he decided that he could get through a few days without it.

After that came the weirdly domestic task of buying food. Hank let Connor lead, but he reserved the right to veto any of Connor's purchases that might be intended for his plate. Connor was insisting on cooking, partly to show his gratitude, and partly to show he could, and Hank was willing to let him, partly because the odds of Connor being a better cook than Hank were definitely stacked in Connor's favour, and partly because it had been a while since he'd had a homecooked meal, not least one made by somebody else.

The bag they left with was suspiciously full of greenery and fruit, but there was actually some meat involved so Hank let that slide. Connor definitely seemed to have a plan, but Hank had also made sure that his wretched recipe books hadn't been secreted into his bag before leaving his flat, so it couldn't be that diabolical.

When they got home again they were greeted by Sumo. Hank couldn't help but notice that Connor was greeted first. The big furry traitor went straight up to Connor and was given a, “Hello Sumo, we're back,” and a quick scratch behind the ear for his efforts.

All Hank got from Sumo was a concerted effort to sniff at the bags he was carrying. “Picked your favourite have you?” he asked in an undertone when, after finding nothing for himself, Sumo turned around to trot after Connor. Of course, that was what Saint Bernards had been bred to do; take care of the sick and injured while help arrived.

And Connor was injured. His movements were slower, and he was more careful about his left side than his right. Once the groceries were put away to Connor's satisfaction he stood where he was and breathed in and out slowly, his eyes closed. Hank counted five deep, slow breaths in and back out before Connor moved again; his prescribed exercises, to be completed every hour he was awake. “You okay?” he asked.

Connor gave a nod, and then made a small noise in his throat before he answered, “It just aches. I'll be fine.”

“You take your painkillers this morning?” Hank asked, not letting Connor off the hook just yet. Aching was fine, or even expected when it was the first time he'd been up and about like normal since he'd been stabbed, but pain was different.

“Yes,” Connor answered, simply. Hank saw his hand twitch as if it wanted to go to his wounds, but Connor restrained himself.

Hank tilted his head. “You took 'em since?” he pressed.

Brown eyes locked with Hank's, and then lowered as Connor admitted, “No,” softly.

“Maybe you should,” Hank said, “and take a rest. You were in bed for a week straight. You've done a lot today.”

Defiance flickered across Connor's face. His jaw tightened and his lips went thinner before it melted away. “You're right,” Connor agreed, quietly, and boy did it piss him off. Hank could see his frustration with himself in the quick flash of teeth in his grimace.

“Hey,” Hank said, when he saw it, “if you were a hundred percent you'd be at your flat instead of staying here. You don't have to hide it from me.”

Connor's frown at himself softened. Hank moved forward to put a hand on his shoulder, even though what he really wanted to do was pull Connor into a hug. Deep brown eyes lifted again and slid off Hank's face as Connor admitted, “I don't like feeling so weak.”

Hank's internal switch flicked and he pulled Connor into his arms and wrapped him in a hug. Connor didn't resist, and folded his arms around Hank's back and rested his chin on Hank's shoulder. Hank sighed as he slid his fingers into the hair at the back of Connor's head. “Don't push yourself so damned hard,” Hank scolded, gently. A week ago Connor had been inches from death, and it probably hadn't been many inches. Hank hadn't wanted much detail from the doctors, or surgeons; it had all sounded too scary.

Hank released Connor after a long moment, loosening his hold and leaning back so he could look at Connor's face again. He was a comforting weight in Hank's arms. Holding someone, and being held, was something Hank hadn't done for years before the past couple of days. He could all too easily get used to it. “Get some rest,” he instructed. “You can walk Sumo with me again when you're ready.”

The tight line of Connor's mouth dissolved into a soft smile and he nodded. Hank let him go reluctantly. He'd be happy for Connor to doze off against him on the sofa, but that alluring image of blissful domesticity wasn't something Hank had the power to make real.

“I'll see you later,” Connor said, his hand sliding across Hank's arm as he pulled back. Goosebumps erupted in the wake of his touch. “Please don't let me sleep too long?” he asked.

Hank's fingers caught Connor's, and the touch lasted just a fraction of a second longer than was natural. “I won't,” Hank promised. His fingers burned, and his heart pounded against his ribs as he watched Connor go. He curled his fingers into his palm and tried not to think about it.

An hour and a half later Hank knocked gently on Connor's bedroom door. He'd promised not to let Connor sleep too long, but one hour hadn't felt long enough, and Connor must have been far more exhausted than he'd want to admit.

“I'm awake.” The reply came from inside.

Hank wasn't sure if it was okay to push the door open or not. He wanted to, but it also felt like an invasion of privacy despite the fact that he'd shared a bed with Connor the previous night. “Did you sleep?” he asked.

“A little,” Connor answered. The quiet regret in his voice made Hank suspect that it was rather less than Connor had needed. “I'll be out in a few minutes.”

“No rush,” Hank advised, and then asked, “you want a coffee?” Connor didn't drink coffee late in the day unless they were in for a long night.

The reply took a long, considered moment to arrive. “Yes please.”

Connor definitely hadn't got as much sleep as he needed, then. Hank left his door to go and put the kettle on. In the hospital the painkillers they'd had Connor on had knocked him out for an hour or so every time he'd been given them. Now he was out he was supposed to take paracetamol regularly, and codeine when he needed it. Maybe he needed something stronger, still.

Hank had sat on the sofa with his own coffee, and set Connor's on the coffee table by the empty space, when Connor emerged. He looked as if he'd taken the time to comb his hair and straighten out his clothes, although the top button on his shirt was still unfastened, allowing a flash of Connor's pale collarbone to show when he moved. “Thank you,” he said, as he rounded the table to sit down. His movements were heavy and weary.

“You take the codeine?” Hank asked, out of curiosity. Connor shook his head quickly but said nothing. “Maybe you should.”

“I don't like the way it makes me feel,” Connor replied, quietly.

Hank grunted his reluctant acceptance of Connor's answer. Codeine was one of those things that affected people differently. It barely touched Hank, but codeine was a lightweight going up against years of built up tolerances in Hank's body. Apparently it hit Connor differently. “Floaty?” he asked.

Connor nodded, and added, “And fuzzy, like,” he hesitated, opening his fingers as if he could grasp the concept in front of himself, “that point just before you're too drunk to walk.”

Hank snorted. A month ago he wouldn't have believed that Connor had any personal experience of that point, but he'd helped a very inebriated Connor navigate the stairs up to his flat since then so Connor knew exactly what he was describing. “Maybe take some tonight?” he suggested. “Might help you sleep.”

Connor's nose twitched as he screwed it up in distaste. “I will if I need it.”

Hank knew a stubborn 'no way in hell' when he heard one. That was one of the things he liked about Connor. He was stubborn, relentless even. He was always friendly, and cheerful with people, and he picked and picked at the evidence and suspects and lines of enquiry like he was teasing apart a Gordian knot. The first time Hank had met him he'd dismissed him as some other DCI's annoying little bootlick, sent to annoy Hank and give Connor's normal commanding officer a break from his perky Connor-ness. Yet despite Hank's lack of patience, and dismissiveness, and occasional rudeness, Connor had remained upbeat and friendly towards him until Hank couldn't help but like him. He just didn't give up, and if you let him do things his way he got results, and then if you praised him he lit up and came back with even more.

Hank had found the best way to manage Connor was to give him gentle direction and then lots of praise, a bit like training a puppy. In turn, Connor had become indispensable. He paid attention, too, not just to the cases but to his coworkers. Hank was pretty sure Connor had figured out how to manage him much faster than Hank had figured out how to manage Connor.

Eventually he'd realised he didn't just like Connor as a copper, although he'd realised he hadn't wanted to send him back to cyber crime in any hurry because the job was a lot easier with Connor around, but as a person. He was a good kid that genuinely cared about his job, and other people, and could even muster sympathy for some of their suspects.

The more time Hank had spent with Connor the more he'd seen the anxious dork behind the perky behaviour. He wanted people to like him, and he had these little tics like tilting his head when he was thinking or listening, and fiddling with that damn coin he kept on him at all times. Connor had never talked about his own life easily, but he'd always been good at finding out about other people's, and that was what people liked; to talk about themselves.

Now Hank was figuring out just how lonely and isolated Connor's life was outside of work, and his eagerness to be in work and around people there made so much more sense in a really sad sort of way. The job was everything to Connor. It was the closest he had to a social life, the closest he had to a family if what he said about his parents was true, and Hank didn't doubt for a second that it was. It was no wonder Connor just wanted to get better and get back to work. The card and gift basket from a bunch of coppers he'd known for a week had been more genuinely caring than the way his adoptive mother had acted.

The least Hank could do right now was show Connor the care and concern he deserved.

They bundled Sumo into the back of the car for his early evening walk, and Hank drove them out to Fryent Park, which was made up of big open patches of grass. They let Sumo off his lead, not that he went very far, and Connor and Hank walked beside each other, hands in their pockets against the chill. Winter was setting in, and everything was damp, and the nights were getting darker faster.

“You sure about cooking tonight?” Hank asked.

Connor had shot him an amused, sidelong glance. The coffee had helped perk him back up, and getting outside again had helped even more. “You're not getting out of it now,” he teased.

“I'm not trying to get out of it,” Hank insisted, without looking at Connor. “But if you weren't feeling like it,” he began.

“I'm fine,” Connor replied. “A vegetable won't kill you.”

Hank frowned at the path ahead. “Just so long as you don't blend them together and try to get me to drink it.”

He heard Connor's quiet, muffled laugh. It was more of a catch in his throat, and a judder in his breathing. Hank was getting to like that sound. Connor didn't laugh enough. “I left my blender at home, so you can relax,” he pointed out.

They turned back when they reached an area of the park that was unlit. Hank hadn't realised just how dark the night had gotten. Sumo trotted happily beside Connor's leg as if he'd been walking to Connor's heel his entire life. When they got back home Sumo bounded in first, followed by Connor.

“I'll wash up and make a start,” Connor said, as he removed his coat and woollen beanie, hanging them up by Hank's door. The hat left his hair untidy, and Connor swept it back with his fingers.

“Need any help?” Hank offered. His curiosity at what exactly Connor had planned for them was as intense as his nervousness of it. He'd seen the sorts of recipes Connor bookmarked.

Connor's lips pursed in an amused smirk. “I'll let you know,” he said, tilting his head as he flashed a much too bright smile at Hank.

The next half hour of Hank's life was spent listening to the various noises coming from the kitchen. When he caught a whiff of something good he gave in to his curiosity and got up to investigate. Connor was standing at the oven, his shirt sleeves rolled up, busily tending something that hissed in the pan. He looked to be enjoying himself.

“Need any help?” Hank asked, trying to peer into the pan without getting too close.

Connor flashed him a knowing smile. He didn't look fooled by the ruse. “No.”

Hank lingered a few seconds longer. “It smells good,” he ventured. Despite his original misgivings about letting Connor cook for him, the scent of it made him hungry.

Connor's smile could have lit a stadium. “Fifteen more minutes,” he said.

Hank trudged back to the living room and sat down on the edge of the sofa. What ensued were the second longest fifteen minutes of his life up to that point. When Connor finally called that the food was, “Ready,” Hank all but sprang up and went back into the kitchen.

Connor had even set the table. There was a small glass of wine for himself, and a bottle of beer for Hank, sitting beside a plate of what looked like fried chicken, mashed potato, and roasted vegetables. “Chicken piccata,” Connor said, gesturing to the seat he'd laid out for Hank with his hand. “I hope it's to your liking.”

“Looks great,” Hank had to admit, as he sat himself down. It looked like Connor had put effort in. The chicken was coated in a sauce that drizzled just a little across the mashed potato. Hank sat down and picked up his fork. He hadn't eaten at his table in years. Mostly he sat with his food on his lap on the sofa and tossed bits to Sumo while he watched TV. “You really pushed the boat out.”

Connor's smile suggested a nervousness beneath the surface. He had the antsy patience of someone waiting for a verdict. “I don't know when was the last time you had a home cooked meal,” Connor answered, “so I thought it best to try and make it a good one.”

Hank huffed with wry amusement. “Years,” he answered. Especially if you were counting 'home cooked' to mean 'from fresh ingredients' rather than just something that came in a box with heating instructions on the packaging.

He picked up his knife and tried the chicken first. His knife went through it easily, and when Hank put the piece in his mouth he was hit with the flavours of butter, with a hint of lemon, and expertly fried chicken. “Holy shit,” he said, with his mouth still full.

Connor's face dissolved into a relieved grin and he started to eat himself, as if Hank reacting had given him permission.

Hank chewed, and tried to swallow as fast as he could so he could react properly. “Holy shit, Connor, this is amazing.”

If Hank wasn't mistaken, a happy flush began to spread across Connor's cheeks. “I'm glad you like it,” he responded, demurely.

“Why the fuck are you a copper if you can cook like this?” Hank asked.

Connor didn't answer until he'd swallowed his own mouthful and washed it down with a sip of wine. There was wine in the sauce too, Hank realised. He could just about taste it, giving it a more complex edge than the lemon alone. “I enjoy cooking,” Connor answered, “but I wouldn't wish to do it for a living.”

Hank scooped a forkful of mashed potato next and tried that. Connor had made that buttery too, and fluffy, and creamy. He complained about Hank eating an entire day's worth of calories in one sitting over an old fashioned english breakfast, but apparently had no objection to giving him a heart attack with the amount of butter he must have used to make this meal. Not that Hank was about to complain. “Not even if I paid you to cook for me?” he asked.

Connor treated Hank to a coquettish smile. “You couldn't afford me, even on your wages.”

Hank pointed his fork at Connor accusingly, but he grinned as he replied, “So you do know how good you are at this.”

Connor knew he couldn't weasel his way out of that one, and he tilted his head in defeat. “Like I said,” he repeated, “I enjoy cooking.”

Hank nodded slowly and shoved a few more mouthfuls into his face before he spoke again. The roasted vegetables tasted good, too, which wasn't something he thought he'd concede any time soon. They tasted as if they'd been tossed in salt, pepper, and a hint of garlic before they'd been roasted. “There's no way you cook like this for yourself,” he pointed out. “You'd be the size of a house.”

There was that laugh again. The soft stuttered chuckle in the back of Connor's throat, as if he was nervous of letting it come all the way out. “I admit I tend to focus on healthier meals,” he said, “but things like this are fine in moderation.”

So was wine, Hank noted. Connor had only given himself half a glass. He'd taken his time getting through a bottle of beer last night, as well, and while he'd eaten well, it had also been the only thing he'd eaten since a sad hospital breakfast that morning.

Had it really only been yesterday he'd brought Connor home? It already felt as if he belonged here. The years he'd spent rattling around this place alone with just Sumo, a bottle, and a lifetime's regrets for company felt a world away with Connor sat across the table from him with laughter in his eyes.

“Is something wrong?” Connor asked, his head dipping as he tried to meet Hank's gaze.

Hank looked at him and shook his head. “Just thinking that I could get used to having you here,” he answered, truthfully. “Especially if you cook like this.”

The smile returned to Connor's face.

When they'd finished eating Hank shooed Connor back out of the kitchen. Washing up, he insisted, was not the job of the person that had cooked. Despite that, it was obvious that Connor had been washing up as he went. Hank washed their plates and cutlery, and the cooled pan Connor must have done the chicken in. The pan he'd made the sauce in had already been placed in the sink to soak, so that came clean quickly.

Hank found Connor settled on the sofa once he'd finished, nursing the last of his wine and reading something on his iPad. He looked up when Hank entered the room and smiled at him. “Thank you,” he said, softly, “you didn't have to do that.”

Hank's breath caught at the familiar domesticity of it. Connor, sat on the sofa, reading with a glass of wine while Sumo lay by his feet. He shook it off, and shook his head. “Yeah I did,” he replied, but didn't bother to argue the point further. He rounded the table and sat down beside Connor, grabbing the television remote. “You mind if I?” he asked, holding the remote up to demonstrate.

The look Connor gave him was politely baffled. “It's your house,” he reminded Hank.

Hank pointed to Connor's iPad, “Yeah, but if you're reading.”

“I'm just catching up on emails,” Connor replied.

“You're on sick leave,” Hank reminded him, unable to keep the disapproval out of his voice.

“They're not all work related,” Connor defended. “Markus is just asking how I am.”

Hank had taken time to warm to Markus originally. He, Simon, and Josh were the rest of Hank's team, but even though they were all the same rank, Markus acted as the ringleader. When Connor had come along Hank had expected friction, but Connor's cheery co-operativeness had won over more than just Hank. Connor and Markus worked well together, well enough that if Hank didn't want to keep Connor by his side he'd partner them up more often. Connor had a knack for ameliorating Markus's impulsive fervour, and Markus was able to get Connor to be more flexible when it came to the rules.

“Couldn't he have done that with a phone call?” Hank asked, with a scowl.

“Not with the poor signal I had in the hospital,” Connor replied, but he did it in a tone that suggested what Hank had said had made him sound old and not down with the kids and their technology these days.

Hank growled quietly, sounding to himself like an old dog that was sick of young ones. “Well, tell him I said that if he sends you anything work related while you're off, I'll break his skull in two.”

Connor's smile was bright. “Duly noted,” he replied, “I'll warn him that you threatened bodily harm.”

Hank caught the teasing tone of Connor's delivery and allowed himself to laugh. Connor's smile somehow brightened further at the reaction. Hank leaned back into the sofa and flicked the television on, at last.

He turned on to a twenty four hour news channel for long enough to catch up with what had been happening in the world for the past week, which was obviously the same shit as the week before, and then once that started to repeat itself turned it off again. Connor finished with his emails, and whatever else he was doing, and then set his iPad aside on Hank's coffee table.

“Please don't feel as if you have to entertain me,” Connor told him. “You can do whatever you normally do in the evening.”

Hank shrugged the idea off. He wasn't going out of his way to entertain Connor, which was lucky because he was probably doing a really bad job of that. “Most evenings I drink, watch sports, and listen to music,” he explained, giving Connor a wry, lopsided smile. Connor probably had an inkling about the drinking, or he would if he'd checked the recycling bin. “What about you?”

Connor's eyebrows rose, creating wrinkles in his forehead. “I read and I twiddle a coin,” he answered, dryly, casting Hank's words back at him. “I also exercise, and cook,” he offered Hank a soft smile before he added, “which seems to give me one up on you.”

Hank had to concede that one. Connor seemed the type to get up extra early every morning to go for a run, and then to go again after he got home from work. “I guess,” he admitted. “You talk to your parents much?”

“I talk to Amanda every week,” Connor answered, without any of the hesitation required to be constructing a convincing lie. “Less so Elijah,” he added, “after they divorced he stepped back somewhat.”

Hank frowned. That sounded unfortunately familiar. It wasn't intentional on Hank's part, it was just how divorce affected everything.

“Can I ask a personal question?” Connor asked, delicately.

Hank looked at him, and the quiet concern on his face. “I've asked you plenty today,” he replied. He didn't see why Connor shouldn't get to ask one or two of his own.

“When was the last time you saw Cole?”

A knot formed in Hank's throat. Of all the questions he'd thought Connor would ask, that one hadn't been on the list. Hank squirmed internally, and looked away from Connor just in case he saw the discomfort his personal question had caused. “Too long ago,” he answered, dully. “Last year, maybe?” The fact he couldn't really remember for himself hit him with a painful pang of guilt. “I went down to see him for his birthday this year, like I do every year, but,” Hank laughed bitterly before he continued, “he wasn't home.”

Connor closed his eyes. Hank didn't know if he regretted the question he'd asked, or just the answer. “I'm sorry,” he said.

Hank shook his head and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “It's not your fault,” he said, dismissively. “It's not his, either. I wasn't there for him. It's no wonder he doesn't want to see me any more.”

Connor shifted in his seat, sitting up and turning so that his body was towards Hank. His hand came to rest on Hank's forearm. “I'm sure that's not true,” he said, and Hank knew he meant it.

He sniffed, fighting back the tightness in his throat. He needed another damn drink, but Connor was also easy to talk to. “Yeah it is,” he said. He risked turning to look directly at Connor and found nothing but brown-eyed sympathy being aimed at him. He wasn't judging, or bitter, despite his own father doing the same kind of shit. “We divorced when he was six,” Hank explained, “and at first he stayed every weekend here. Then it was every other. Then once a month.” Hank sighed, and Connor's fingers tightened on his arm just enough to offer comfort.

Hank looked away from Connor again and sniffed once more. “You know what the job's like,” he said, giving the excuses he'd given over the years. “You do weekends, you do nights, you rearrange plans.” Hank sighed shakily. “When he was ten she decided to move to Cornwall. Cole went with her. I was going to see him during the school holidays, and I failed to keep my promises then, too.” Even Connor's parents had kept their promises, but Hank loved Cole more than life itself and he'd still been a shittier dad than Connor's parents were. He swallowed over the dryness in his throat. “Pretty soon I was only seeing him at Christmas and birthdays,” he added, “and then just birthdays.” Meanwhile his ex wife had remarried, rebuilt her life, had a half-sister for Cole, and probably told everyone she met that her new husband was Cole's father.

The idea of it stung like needles directly to the heart. His eyes stung too. He sniffed again, and then rubbed at both of his eyes with one hand. Connor's hand continued to rest on Hank's other arm. “He hasn't stayed in that room you're in since he was fifteen,” he continued, bitterly, giving Connor a brief glance. There was still no judgement in his expression. Connor held nothing but empathy, even though Hank knew he didn't deserve it. “He started university this year,” he added, for context.

Connor gave him a few moments to pull himself together. Hank felt Connor's hand slide down, towards his wrist and then stay there, just short of holding his hand. “Have you tried calling him?” he asked.

Hank shook his head. He'd been too scared to. At least if he showed up in person he had half a chance of getting to say something, but if Cole saw his number coming up he probably wouldn't even answer it. “He doesn't want to talk to me,” he said. “Why would he? I was a shitty dad that was never around.”

Connor's other hand settled on Hank's shoulder. “That might not be how he sees it.”

Hank huffed. He hated being on the edge of crying. It made his nose feel bunged up and his throat sore, but it never came with the catharsis of actually getting it out of your system, but he didn't want to break down in front of Connor. Not over this. Not when Connor was the victim of shitty parents, too. “He wouldn't even answer.”

Connor leaned in to his field of vision again, his head tilted. “You don't know that,” he said. “The worst that can happen is you find out that you're right, and he doesn't answer, and he doesn't want to talk to you. But you could also be wrong, Hank.” Hank's eyes fell to Connor's face at the sound of his name and became locked in that warm brown gaze. “He might be waiting for you to make the move to reconcile, especially now he's at university. If he's living in halls it might be easier for him because he doesn't have to consider his mother's feelings.”

Hank forced himself to give Connor a huff that was almost a laugh. Perhaps it was the ghost of one. “Psychology student bullshit?” he asked.

Connor smiled with only one side of his mouth. “Child of divorced parents bullshit,” he supplied. “For the longest time talking to Elijah felt like I was betraying Amanda. She always wanted to know what he'd said, what we'd done when I was with him,” Connor explained, his nose screwing up at the memory.

“Why'd they divorce?” Hank asked, although he could definitely picture his ex wife giving Cole the same grilling.

Connor winced before he answered. “He,” he began, and faltered, and then continued, “found himself a much, much younger girlfriend.”

Hank winced in mirror of Connor. “Sounds like he's a fucking peach.”

“I'm not defending him,” Connor said, with a shrug, “but Amanda wasn't easy to live with, either.” Hank could only agree with that one. He'd met the woman only once, but his dislike of her had been instant, and cemented by the things Connor had said today. “Why did you and your wife divorce?”

Hank gave a bitter, short laugh. “I wasn't easy to live with,” he said, as if it didn't need elaboration. Then he reconsidered, and frowned. “It was the job, mostly. She was a nurse but,” he shrugged, “I was so busy with work that I neglected her, as well as Cole. She fell into the arms of a doctor she worked with instead.” The betrayal hadn't even stung by the time she'd admitted it to him. The marriage had become just a series of habits and routines. They'd gone from being a married couple with a kid to two people that shared a house, with an innocent kid stuck in the middle of it. “I was a failure as a husband, just like I'm a failure as a father.”

Connor's hand migrated across Hank's shoulder, reaching towards his spine, and Connor shifted his position slightly again so he had one leg crooked up on the sofa, allowing him to turn his entire upper body towards Hank and stay close more comfortably. “Cole sounds like a good kid. You can't have failed him that badly, and certainly not in any way you can't pull back.”

Hank shook his head. If Connor thought that getting in touch with Cole now would mean all was forgiven he was naïve. “I don't deserve him,” he said. His voice trembled. “If I can't even get my shit together to see my own son more than once a year then I deserve to die drunk and alone.”

Connor's hand abandoned Hank's wrist to lean across him. Hank sat up a little as Connor leaned in to be a few inches from his face. His brows were knitted together, and his mouth was a frown of concern. “I don't believe that,” he said, softly. “You care too much to deserve that.” Hank let his eyes wander over Connor's face, taking in the shape of his mouth, the slight bump on his nose, the faint freckles on his cheek. “About Cole,” Connor added, his eyes matched Hank's dance, and Hank was close enough to see the nervous, uncertain twitch in Connor's lips before he said, “about me.”

Hank swallowed. Maybe Marius was right about Connor, or maybe Connor just looked at Hank and his team like the surrogate family he never had as a kid. It was hard to tell, and Hank wasn't sure which one he wanted it to be.

He put his arms around Connor's back and pulled him in. Connor came easily, circling his arms around Hank. Hank buried his face in Connor's shoulder and breathed. He could smell the faint traces of laundry detergent and shampoo, overlaid with a pleasant warmth that came from Connor's skin.

“Yeah,” he said, eventually, his face still tucked into Connor's shoulder, and his arms tight around Connor's back, “I care about you.”

Connor's chest rose and fell in his arms. “You should say that to Cole,” he said, after a moment that lasted a little too long.

Hank groaned. Deep down he had a voice telling him that Connor was right. Reaching out to Cole and hearing what Cole wanted from his own mouth, in his own words was the only way Hank would know how badly he'd fucked it all up. But that was exactly why it was so scary, because if he'd fucked it up even half as badly as he told himself he had then Cole hated him and Hank didn't think he could stand to hear that in Cole's own words.

He squeezed Connor tighter in his arms for a moment, and then leaned back. Connor moved back too, but stayed close, his face full of sad, soft sympathy. “Maybe,” Hank conceded, letting his eyes fall to his own lap. He shook his head, “But I don't know what to say.”

“Tell him the truth,” Connor replied, softly. “Don't make excuses. Just tell him how you feel about the way things have been, and that you want them to change.”

Hank gave a wry laugh. “You make it sound easy,” he pointed out.

Connor's smile was soft, and understanding, and a little ironic. “It sounds easy,” he said, “but it isn't.” His hand was still on the back of Hank's shoulder. Hank watched as Connor's other hand twitched towards his own, and then settled over the back of his wrist instead. “You don't deserve to be alone, Hank, not when you care about others. You deserve to have someone care about you.”

You care about me, don't you? The question stuck in Hank's throat. Connor cared, that much was obvious, but the how, and the why were dangerous questions that Hank didn't want the answer to right now. What if it wasn't in the way that he wanted?

What if it was?

Hank sighed and deflected instead. It was safer, and easier. “Hostage negotiator, huh?” he asked, dredging up the memory from conversations past. “You'd have been a good one.”

Connor's flattered smile was sweet. “I'm serious,” he said, but his smile remained, as did the soft look in his eyes.

“So am I,” Hank replied. He leaned back against the sofa, and Connor pulled back too, folding his hands into his lap. Hank took a deep breath. His eyes didn't sting with unshed tears any more, but his throat still ached. “Thanks.”

“Any time,” Connor replied.

“Guess your parents didn't fuck up too badly,” Hank added, flashing Connor a wry smile.

Connor shook his head, slowly. “Don't misunderstand,” he began, “as strange as it sounds, I was happy. They did everything they were supposed to.”

“Except love you,” Hank cut in.

Connor froze. His mouth closed and his head dropped. “Except that,” he conceded, quietly.

It pissed Hank off to think about. He could picture Connor at five, or six, just being a happy, inquisitive kid that wants to play in mud and make friends with the world, and behind him he had two people in a loveless marriage using parenting methods on him to see which one fucks him up the least.

Did Elijah feel differently, and that was why he stayed in touch? Or was he just seeing the experiment through to the end, even though he'd found something, or someone more interesting to do with his time?

“Your parents sucked,” Hank told him, with feeling.

Connor frowned, but nodded. “I suppose they did,” he agreed, reluctantly.

Hank looked at the frown on Connor's face, and the way his eyebrows drew up over the bridge of his nose. “You love them anyway, don't you?” he asked. It showed in the way Connor tried to defend them, and that pissed him off too because no one that didn't love Connor deserved to be loved by him. He was too friendly, too helpful, too eager. He loved with the same unconditional enthusiasm as a dog, and like a dog Connor would keep going back for more even when all he got was admonishment and rejection.

Connor closed his eyes. His lips grew thin as he pressed them together and turned his face away from Hank. “Yes.”

Maybe Connor was right about Cole. If Connor could love two heartless assholes, maybe Cole might still be able to love him, despite all of his fuck ups. “They don't deserve you,” Hank said. Connor only lifted his eyes to look at him, and then he looked away again. I don't deserve you either he wanted to say, but didn't. Hank wasn't sure if anyone could be good enough to deserve the sort of unbridled support and care that Connor brought to the table.

Hank sighed again. “I might get an early night,” he said. It had been a long day, and after spilling his guts to Connor he felt strangely light, but also exhausted, and his mind reeled with thoughts and feelings he was too tired to make any sense of. “Would you--”

“Could I--”

They both spoke, and stopped at the same time. They shared a look, and then a laugh. Hank's laugh was nervous, and Connor's was embarrassed. He put his hand up to his neck and scratched, leaving faint red lines on his pale skin when his hand dropped again. “Please,” he said. It was all he needed to say.

Hank sighed. It had been a bad idea last night. It was a worse idea tonight, but at least tonight if he woke up wrapped around Connor he had the excuse of having spilled his guts to him. That was what Hank was going to tell himself, anyway. “Thanks,” he said. He just wanted Connor near.

*

Hank was woken by the sensation of Connor moving in the bed. Daylight drifted through the closed blinds when he opened his eyes, and he heard Connor breathe deeply and then sigh. Hank rolled over.

Connor was lay on his good side, propped up with way more pillows than could possibly be comfortable. His face was half buried in the pillow under his head, and his dark hair sprayed across the side Hank could see. Faint patches of shadow along Connor's cheeks and jaw indicated he was overdue a shave.

“I can't look that strange when I sleep,” Connor murmured. He cracked one eye half open to regard Hank, and the corner of his mouth lifted in a smile.

A thought Hank wasn't ready to acknowledge streamed across his mind. He pushed it down, deep where it wouldn't emerge aloud in his head, and said, “I thought you were asleep.”

“I was.” Connor closed his eye again. He looked peaceful, and comfortable in his drowsy state, lying beside Hank. It was a huge improvement on the drugged up semi-coma he'd drifted in and out of in hospital.

“Sorry.” Hank hadn't meant to wake Connor up as he'd moved, but that was the problem with sharing a bed with someone. Every movement rocked the whole thing and risked shaking the other person awake.

“It's fine,” Connor murmured. He sounded like he didn't want to leave the clutches of his comfortable doze. “What time is it?”

Hank rolled over again to check the time on his phone. “Quarter to eight,” he said, rounding down the time as much as he dared.

Connor breathed in deeply through his nose, and then sighed. “I should get up.” He lifted his face from the pillow and rolled onto his back.

“It's Sunday,” Hank pointed out. “Sleeping in is what Sundays are for.”

Connor's chest rose, slowly, and then fell as he breathed out just as slowly. “Maybe,” he answered. Hank watched as his chest rose again in the same slow, controlled way. Refreshing the air in the bottom of his lungs, Hank thought, and making sure to fully expand them regularly, just like the physio had told him. “But I need a shower,” he added, between slow breaths.

Hank smiled. “And to shave,” he pointed out.

Connor's eye slid towards Hank without him moving his head. “You're one to talk.”

Hank laughed. He skipped the whole shaving part and just went at his beard with scissors from time to time to stop it getting too long, or wispy. “Hey,” he replied, defensively, “you're not usually stubbly.”

“It happens to boys that are old enough to have been through puberty,” Connor answered. His smile indicated the hint of snark was affectionate. People treated Connor as if he was much younger and more naïve than he actually was, and Hank knew he was included in that. He'd been learning, especially over the last few weeks, that Connor really wasn't as innocent and naïve as he appeared, and getting taken in by it was how he got you.

“Yeah, yeah,” Hank replied, brushing the snark off. Connor had actually seemed as offended as he'd been embarrassed when Hank had implied he was a virgin, and Hank had to admit that he'd been surprised to find out that Connor had been in at least one relationship in the past. He must have been with a right idiot for them to have let Connor slip through their fingers.

He never had said whether it was a boyfriend or a girlfriend.

Connor pressed his head back into his pillows and gave one last deep breath, followed by a roll of his shoulders before he sat up. Hank tucked an arm under his own head as he watched Connor's bare back. His spine sat in a valley of muscle above his waistband, and a couple of freckles dotted his ribs. Connor wasn't muscular, Hank noted, but he was toned. He could see the movement of Connor's muscles under his skin as he lifted his arms and stretched. He turned to look at Hank over his shoulder, and Hank felt as if he'd been caught. “Do you need the bathroom?”

Hank shook his head. “I can wait,” he answered. “Might grab another hour.”

Connor nodded, turning back to face the door, and then stood. His pyjama pants hung low on his hips. Hank made himself look away before he ended up accidentally checking out Connor's ass. Connnor turned back once more to throw Hank a soft smile. “I'll make breakfast when you're ready to get up,” he said.

Hank didn't have the time to respond. Instead he watched Connor leave, his bare feet padding across the carpet. Hank tilted his head back to stare up at the ceiling and wondered what the fuck he was doing.

He gave himself an hour before he forced himself to get up. His mind reeled with thoughts about Connor. He said his parents had done everything right, but Hank disagreed. It sounded to Hank more like Connor's parents had worked so hard to avoid the old fashioned ways of accidentally fucking your kid up that they'd managed to invent an entirely new one. Connor seemed kind, and good natured, and enthusiastic, but he was also desperate to be liked, and to have somewhere to belong. He'd never been shouted at in a flash of instantly regretted anger, but he'd also never been loved enough to rile those emotions.

Maybe that was the real reason he'd declined to return to cyber crime. He'd found family, of a sorts, with Hank, and Markus, and the others. They weren't perfect, and they were dysfunctional in their own unique and fascinating ways, but they cared about each other, and they cared about Connor, and that was something Connor had never had anywhere else.

Hank didn't want to risk fucking that up for him with whatever dumbfuck notion was going around in his own head.

He wandered into the kitchen in his shirt and boxers to find Connor, freshly shaved and fully dressed in a thin v-necked sweater with the sleeves rolled up, busily frying eggs. The air smelled of bacon. Sumo sat patiently beside him, his big hairy tail sweeping back and forth across the floor as he watched Connor work.

“Have you given him bacon?” Hank asked, pointing to the back of Sumo's head.

Connor turned to look at Hank. There was a moment as he froze that his head began to tilt, and Hank could almost see the microchips that made up Connor's brain firing hurried messages to one another. “No?” he offered. It sounded like a question, and was followed with the sort of smile you got from a bad liar that knew they were a bad liar.

Hank shook his head and sank into a seat at the table. Connor had already set a mug of coffee there. “You're worse than me.”

Connor grinned and turned back to the eggs. He gave them a brief flip before he served them onto two plates, and then followed that with bacon from under the grill. Hank watched Connor keep one piece aside as he finished putting their breakfast out, and then he turned to Sumo and held it up.

“Sumo,” he said, as if he needed to get the dog's attention. A whole team of champion huskies couldn't have dragged Sumo's eyes away from the piece of bacon in Connor's fingers.

He held his empty hand out to Sumo, palm up, and Sumo immediately planted his own gigantic paw in it. Connor shook his paw, and then gave Sumo the bacon, dissolving into an excitable babble of “Good boy!” and fussing Sumo behind both ears at once.

Connor straightened, washed his hands briefly in the sink, and then took up their plates and brought them to the kitchen table. Hank shook his head at him. “You got him giving paw,” he said, slightly impressed.

“You said he knows all the commands,” Connor replied, taking a seat opposite Hank. His own plate was nowhere near as full as Hank's own, and Hank wondered if that was a side effect of living off liquidised fruit and vegetables for breakfast, or whether he'd been giving Sumo treats from his own plate before he'd even sat down with it.

“He knows them,” Hank repeated, “that doesn't mean he'll perform them.”

Sumo took big noisy gulps from his water bowl, and then padded up to Hank, dripping from his muzzle before he sat and treated him to the eyes. Hank looked at him, and speared a piece of bacon with his fork. “This is mine,” he told the dog, “you've had Connor's.”

Connor laughed as he began to eat. “I hoped to take him for a walk,” he said, then added, “alone, if that's all right?”

Hank squashed the objections that threatened to rise in his chest. “You sure you don't want the company?” he asked. His heart fluttered and his stomach felt strange as he thought about it.

“It's not the company,” Connor said, softly. Hank looked at him to find a soft, warm look coming his way. It shifted to one with more backbone as Connor explained, “I just need to be able to do something without having my hand held.”

“Sorry,” Hank began. He hadn't intended to smother Connor. That was exactly the opposite of what he'd wanted to do, even though it had also been his every instinct.

“Hank.” Connor's voice cut through his thoughts and Hank shut up. “You don't need to apologise,” he said. Connor blinked and looked down at his own plate as if he might find the words he needed among the bacon and eggs. “It's just that when you're here I don't want to do things on my own, even though I should.”

Hank swallowed, but the unpleasant weight in his stomach lifted. He gave a shrug. “I,” he began, awkwardly, and then pushed himself to continue, “was thinking of going back to work tomorrow,” he admitted. It wasn't the entire truth. He'd thought that he could, in theory, but he'd also thought that staying in bed with Connor by his side and spending a slow day finding out more about him would be a much more fun way to spend his time.

Connor's shoulder dropped slowly, as if a weight was being lifted from them. His smile cut Hank to the quick. “You should.”

Hank frowned, but nodded. He didn't want to go back to work. He didn't want to leave Connor behind either, but Connor was right, he needed to be given the space to do things independently, even if it was something as simple as walking the dog. “I'll let Fowler know,” he said, “think you'll be okay dogsitting all day?”

Connor looked at Sumo. “I think we'll be fine,” he said, with a genuine smile.

After breakfast Hank waved Connor off with the warning, “If you try and steal him I know where you live.” Connor's answering laugh had been short, and sweet to Hank's ears.

He sent a message to his superintendent that he'd be returning to work on Monday, and then jumped in the shower to stop himself from clock watching while he waited for Connor to return with Sumo. He was just getting out when he heard the front door opening, and the clumsy clatter of four oversized paws heading hurriedly for the food bowl in the kitchen.

Hank wrapped a towel around his waist and left the bathroom. Connor was brushing his fingers through his hair and removing his coat. “Good walk?” Hank asked.

Connor took a split second to assess the sight of Hank in just a towel and then said, “He's perfect.”

Something about seeing Connor go soft around the edges about Sumo set off the same response in Hank. “Yeah, he's pretty great,” he admitted. He nodded towards Connor. “He's taken to you.”

“I think he's just well trained,” Connor replied, and ran his fingers through his hair one more time. He wore a big dopey smile like a schoolboy in love. Hank couldn't help but mirror it. Connor was so genuinely awed, and growing more open with his affection for Sumo.

Connor glanced towards Hank again, and continued to bear that awed schoolboy smile. “Coffee?” he suggested.

Hank shrugged. “Sure,” he answered. “There's a game on soon,” he added. “Brazil versus USA. Wanna watch the Americans get battered?” he offered.

“They might get lucky if Brazil bring their E team,” Connor pointed out, brightly.

Hank laughed. Connor had a point. There was always the possibility that the Americans could get lucky and the Brazilian manager had kept all his good guys on the sidelines because there was no point risking them get injured against a shower like America. “I'll be a few minutes.”

He returned having pulled on a clean shirt and trousers, and having resisted the urge to spray a touch of cologne on himself. Connor might notice, and Hank wasn't ready for the awkward conversation that might ensue if he had to explain why he'd decided to wear cologne to watch a football match.

Connor, it turned out, understood the rules of football, but had never really watched it. “It was mandatory at school,” he explained, when Hank had asked how the fuck he'd managed to understand it without watching a game with his own eyes. That made things slot into place, because if there was one thing Hank could see Connor's mother refusing to deal with, it was muddy, grass stained clothes from her adoptive experiment having a standard kickabout in the park with his friends, or sacrificing an afternoon at any point to let him watch a game being played.

The Americans were, as predicted, battered. Annihilated might have been a better word. Connor was right in that the Brazilian manager hadn't brought his A team to the pitch, but he had brought his B team out to stretch their legs, and they made short work of the American defences. Brazil won 7-1, and the only reason America had scored that one had been a penalty.

Connor seemed most interested in the breakdown at the end, where the commentators gave statistics about possession and attempts on the goal. Hank watched him watching the screen intently as the figures came up, and were explained by the pundits.

“So, now you've finally seen a game,” he said, when it was over.

Connor gave him a sly look out of the corner of his eye. “I wouldn't call that a game,” he said, “it was a massacre.”

Hank laughed, and Connor's face brightened at the laughter. “You enjoyed it, though?”

Connor nodded. “It was,” he paused, choosing his word carefully, “entertaining.”

Hank grinned at him. “I'll take you to a live game sometime,” he said, picturing Connor in his little woollen cap and a football scarf. He'd fit right in with the crowd there. “When you can feel the crowd around you, it's,” Hank tailed off, trying to find a way to describe how being one in a sea of thousands felt when you all shared in the excitement and the commiseration, “amazing,” he decided. He didn't have any other words.

Connor dipped his head, and a small, soft, shy smile flickered to life on his lips. “I'd like that,” he said, quietly.

“You'll love it,” Hank corrected.

They watched the match highlights of a couple of other games together, and then Connor left for the kitchen to go and start cooking again. Hank offered help despite knowing it would be turned down, and then stayed on the sofa listening to the sounds of Connor busy in the kitchen.

The delicious smell of roasting meat wafted into the lounge, and Sumo got up from his bed and headed into the kitchen to beg for scraps. “Don't get my dog fat!” Hank called, after a couple of minutes.

Connor's head stuck around the doorway a moment later. “I'll make sure he walks it off,” he answered, before disappearing back into the kitchen.

Hank couldn't help but laugh. Connor seemed comfortable, and happy. He let Connor keep himself entertained with cooking, and turned the television off. Once the sports were over there wasn't anything worth spending his time on any more, especially on a Sunday evening. Hank got up and went over to his old LP player, setting up a Thelonious Monk record and dropping the needle in the groove.

Connor emerged from the kitchen near the end of the second side. “It's ready,” he said, with a smile.

Hank left the music playing as he went to see what delights Connor had cooked up this time. It turned out to be a traditional roast dinner, with beautifully done lamb steaks, and roasted potatoes made from scratch. “If you keep feeding me like this it won't just be Sumo getting fat,” Hank warned.

After they'd eaten Hank took to the washing up. Connor put up token resistance to the idea again, but Hank waved him away once more, and Connor retreated to the lounge where the music had long since finished. When Hank had done he took Sumo for his evening walk, leaving Connor to settle in with his iPad for the evening.

The night had grown pitch black outside, and Sumo trotted beside Hank obediently. Connor would be looking to go back to his flat soon, he knew, and Hank didn't want him to. It wasn't just the fact that he was worried about him; he was getting used to Connor's presence. Hank's home felt livelier and happier with Connor in it, and Hank didn't want to lose that.

He got home after walking Sumo twice around the block, and watched the big bastard bound up to Connor as if he hadn't seen him for years. Connor responded by fussing Sumo behind both ears until Sumo jumped up on the sofa again and started to squash him. Hank laughed as Connor groaned and tried to remove seventy two kilos of dog from his lap while laughing joyously at a dog that was more like a small bear trying to be a lapdog.

Sumo would miss him too when he left.

Hank swallowed that thought and ordered Sumo to get down. The dog obeyed more reluctantly than usual. “I might get an early night,” he said, smiling at Connor's infectious happiness, despite his own thoughts. “Should probably try and get to work on time tomorrow.”

“All right,” Connor said. “I'll be through in a few minutes.”

Hank's chest tightened, and he felt something inside him go soft. He'd been preparing himself for Connor suggesting he try and sleep in Cole's room tonight since he probably didn't want to get woken up in the morning, and there was the whole issue of needing to regain his independence, which included sleeping alone again. Instead Connor wanted to spend another night in his bed.

Hank knew he shouldn't be as happy about that as he was, but he ignored the thoughts about his feelings, and just nodded to Connor. “Okay.”

Hank brushed his teeth and got changed in the bathroom, dropping his clothes in the laundry basket. He was setting his alarm for the next morning when Connor arrived, wearing fresh pyjama bottoms and no shirt as usual. He'd changed the dressings on his wounds, Hank noticed. The single large one had been swapped for two much smaller ones. If Hank didn't know what injuries lay beneath them he could almost convince himself they hadn't been that severe.

Hank waited until Connor was settled in the bed before he switched the light off. “Connor?” he asked, into the darkness. The bed moved as Connor shifted his position, trying to get comfortable when he had four pillows under his shoulders for the sake of keeping the pressure off his lungs.

“Yes?” Connor asked.

Words tumbled over each other at the tip of Hank's tongue. There were so many things he wanted to say, and so many things he felt that were too complicated for him to think about right now. What came out was, “I had a good day today.”

“So did I.” Connor's voice was soft in the darkness, and warm in Hank's chest.

“Good night,” Hank said.

“Good night, Hank.”

*

The shrill beep of his alarm dragged Hank from the comfortable black depths of a dreamless sleep and he growled as he fumbled for his phone. The thought that he didn't want it to wake Connor up was sharp and urgent in his mind and he gripped his phone in one hand and furiously stabbed at the screen with his thumb.

It fell silent at last, and Hank dropped back into the bed, burying his face in his pillow. A warm hand stroked along his shoulder and rested there. “Time to get up, Hank.”

Connor sounded like he'd been awake since before the alarm went off. Hank just growled into his pillow. Connor's hand didn't move. After a long few seconds Connor said, “Hank?”

“I'm awake,” Hank grumbled. It was still dark outside, and staying in his warm bed with Connor beside him was an intensely attractive prospect.

“I'll make you a coffee,” Connor said. His hand retreated from Hank's back, and the mattress shifted as Connor sat up and then stood. Hank gave Connor a few seconds to clear the room before he rolled over and dropped onto his back against the pillows, quietly willing his morning erection away. There were some things Connor didn't need to be confronted with, especially not when it was so early in the day that it was still basically night.

He made his way to the bathroom once the coast was clear, and washed and dressed in one of his favourite patterned shirts. When he left the bathroom the smell of coffee permeated the house. He followed it to Connor, who handed him a steaming mug with a smile.

“I wish I could come with you,” he said, ruefully.

Hank looked him over. Connor was wearing nothing but his pyjama bottoms and a smile, with his hair mussed and falling in his face. He didn't look like someone that was itching to get back to work. “You're just trying to make me feel better,” Hank accused, and took a sip from the scalding coffee. Connor had made it perfectly. Usually he slightly underdid the sugar, but this morning it was spot on. Hank wrapped both of his hands around the cup and gave a satisfied groan. “Best coffee you've ever made me.”

Connor's smile could have powered all of London. “I'll walk Sumo shortly,” he said.

Hank nodded. That would let him leave a bit earlier. A thought occurred to him. “Shit,” he hissed, “you'll need a key.” He set the perfect coffee down and retrieved his house keys from his jacket pocket. He started working his front door key off the ring, and then pressed it into Connor's hand. “There's a DIY place just off Queensbury road at the far end,” he said. “You should be able to get another cut there.”

“I don't need my own key,” Connor began.

Hank cut him off, pushing Connor's hand with the key in it closer to him. “I'd rather you had one,” he said, “then you can come and go as you please.” He wouldn't have to worry about waiting in when there was a chance Hank might be getting home, and, some dark part of Hank's mind whispered, it meant he could always come back if he changed his mind after he'd gone back to his flat.

Connor's fingers closed around the key and he nodded. “All right,” he conceded. “I'll get one cut today.”

Hank retrieved his coffee again and started to drink it. “Good,” he said, “and don't let Sumo run you ragged,” he said.

Connor peered over Hank's shoulder to where Sumo was still fast asleep in his oversized dog bed, his chin resting on his paws. He turned his attention back to Hank. “I don't think that's going to be a risk,” he said.

Hank grunted. Connor was probably right about that. He sighed, and drank more of his coffee. He didn't want to leave, not just because he didn't particularly want to go to work, but he also didn't want to leave Connor to rattle around on his own. It would be nicer to spend the day with him again, walk the dog, maybe catch a film, or get lunch out somewhere. “I should go in a minute,” Hank said, acknowledging what he should do without making any move to actually do it. “Monday morning traffic is a bitch.”

Connor nodded. The corners of his mouth were turned down into a frown. “Will you let Simon and Josh know that I'm okay?” he asked. “Markus said they'd all been worried.”

Hank allowed himself a small smile. They'd sent Connor a card, the only other card he'd received. Hank suspected that was Josh's idea, and Hank wondered how much of that was because he knew they'd all get it with both barrels from Hank when he came back if they hadn't at least messaged Connor to make sure he was okay. “I'll tell them,” he promised. “I'll tell them phones still work, too,” he added.

Connor laughed through his nose. His shoulders shook with it. Hank grinned. Seeing Connor laugh first thing in the morning wasn't the worst way to start his day.

He drained the last of his coffee and set the mug on the kitchen counter. “I'll let you know when I'm on my way back,” he said. At least that way if Connor was out he could get back before Hank did.

Connor nodded in response. “All right,” he agreed, and followed it up with, “I'll be fine,” as if he heard the unvoiced worries that might be running through Hank's head.

Hank looked at him. The idea of leaving him for the day sucked, but at the same time filled Hank with a bizarre sense of domesticity, like kissing Connor goodbye wouldn't be out of place. He shook that idea off. “I know you will,” he said, “and I'm only on the end of the phone if you need anything.”

“I'll see you tonight.”

*

Hank's workday usually started in the same way every day. He'd walk through the doors, get to his office, and not even have chance to sit down before Connor would come bounding up like an excitable dog, bearing a mug of never quite sweet enough coffee and a rundown of where they were up to on any and all ongoing investigations.

In Connor's absence it was up to Markus to bring Hank into the loop, and he didn't even bother to bring a coffee.

“You're back,” he said, sounding genuinely surprised.

Hank looked up at Markus as he approached, with a distressingly thick wad of papers in one hand. Markus was a good looking guy of the sort of indeterminately mixed heritage that made it hard to decide what numbers he'd pulled in the genetic lottery, who also had heterochromia. Hank didn't like to admit that it made him uncomfortable, but it did, and he always had to remember not to stare.

“I'm back,” he confirmed. He didn't want to be, but he was.

“How's Connor?”

The question was asked with such genuinely heartfelt concern that Hank couldn't help but smile. People did care about Connor. People other than just him. “Climbing the walls,” Hank answered, “he wants to get back to work.”

“That sounds like Connor,” Markus agreed. “What about you?”

Hank threw Markus a confused look. “Me?”

“You were with him, weren't you?” Markus pressed, as gently as if he was checking a bandage. “Are you doing okay?”

Hank scowled. He had a hard enough time talking to Connor about the nightmares, and the sleeplessness, and the constant background level of anxiety that had set in ever since he'd tried his best to stop Connor from dying on him, and Connor at least shared exactly the same issues and experience with it. He wasn't about to talk it through with Markus. “I didn't get stabbed,” he spat.

Markus' silence suggested he'd taken Hank's answer as a 'no'. After a moment too long he handed the files he was carrying to Hank. “The raid managed to secure the lorry driver, and we followed up on Connor's lead with the cryptowallet. Forensics have the computers.”

Hank nodded to himself. The blockchain showed indisputable proof of money changing hands. The way Connor had explained it, it was like a receipt attached to the money, and every set of hands it passed through required a signature on the receipt. All you had to do then was prove that the person you think did the crime was the one that owned the wallet the receipt said.

Hank didn't understand why everyone had to sign the receipt if they touched the money, and he didn't understand how that worked with computers either, but he understood the idea well enough to know it wasn't basically magic.

“We got anything to link Stabby McFuckwit to the dead guy?” Hank asked. It was a long shot.

Markus frowned. When he spoke, it was with the careful intonation and cadence of somebody delivering bad news about a delicate topic. “No. Forensics don't think it was the same knife. Fowler said it doesn't matter,” he added, as if that was a more positive note, “given the circumstances.”

The circumstances. Hank rephrased that for Markus, “You mean because he tried to kill a police officer.”

Markus winced, however briefly. “He said a Superintendent Kier is handling that case?” Markus offered, obviously unfamiliar with the name. “Everyone else is too close.”

Hank grinned. “Kier's the superintendent at the station we were at,” he explained, for Markus' benefit. “He knows who Connor is, but he's not close enough for it to cause a conflict of interest.” With the added bonus, from Hank's perspective, of being a thug in a flash car. Hank might have to give him a call later and see if he could make some arrangements, for old time's sake.

Hank's phone trilled once in his pocket with a message. He pulled it out, but didn't unlock the screen yet.

“Do we know when Connor is going to be back?” Markus asked, delicately.

Hank shook his head. “He's gotta be reviewed by physio next week, and then see how his doctor feels about him coming back. When he does he might be stuck on desk duty for a while. Why?”

Markus shook his head. “It's just an idea Simon had,” he explained. “He thought we could pool together and get him a welcome back gift.”

Hank leaned back in his chair and regarded Markus. He had a good team with these four idiots. This was what Connor hadn't wanted to leave, and people like Florent and Cacciatore could think whatever the hell they liked. Hank knew Connor better than that. “What you thinking of getting him?”

Markus hesitated, but only for a moment. “I know how you feel about the coin,” he began. Hank's eyes narrowed, and Markus continued, “but we thought he might appreciate a silver dollar, if we got one and had it professionally cleaned.”

Hank tried very hard not to smile. He could hug Markus right now. He nodded, ruefully, because Connor's fiddling with the wretched thing got on Hank's nerves, but, “He'd love it. How much is it costing?”

Markus' smile spread. “Simon's got a few bids on,” he answered. “We'll let you know.”

“All right,” Hank agreed, waving Markus away. “I got a lot to catch up on. Let me know if anything pertinent comes in.”

“Will do, sir,” Markus replied, before taking his dismissal and leaving Hank alone.

Hank unlocked his phone and opened the message from Connor.

Sumo has been walked. I'm going to head out to get a new key cut this afternoon. Hope everything is okay at work.

Hank smiled at the message. Connor didn't want him to worry, and even though nothing in all the world was going to stop him from wondering what Connor was up to, and if he was okay, the message helped.

Everyone misses you. Markus didn't even make me a coffee.

He sent the message off, and hoped in some dim way that Connor would understand that 'everyone' included Hank.

A moment later he picked up his office handset and dialled an external number. It rang twice before being picked up.

“Superintendent Kier's office, Miss Savage speaking.”

Hank raised an eyebrow. “I thought it was Mistress?”

“Only if you can afford it, Anderson, and I promise you, I am way out of your price range.”

Hank's nose screwed up at the very idea. “You're not my type anyway,” he replied. “Is Marius free?”

“He's just on the other line, but he won't be long if you want to hold?”

Hank grumbled, but he didn't want to ring back later and find Marius was too busy to talk. “I'll hold,” he decided.

“Good,” Larxene replied. “So what is your type? Brunette? Brown eyes?”

“Very funny.”

“How is he, anyway?” Larxene's voice took a turn for the genuine.

“Still alive,” Hank answered, because he wasn't naïve enough to fall for Larxene's fishing lures.

“Well obviously,” she pointed out. “His case is marked attempted murder, not actual murder.”

“So why did you ask?”

“I think they call it genuine concern?”

“From you it's called fishing for information,” Hank retorted.

“At least my reputation precedes me. Really though,” her tone shifted again, “Connor's a good kid. A little naïve, in the same way water is a little wet, but good. We were worried about him.”

“He's up and about,” Hank answered. “He can't come back to work until a doctor is happy with him, though.”

“Well tell him to stop by if he's feeling up to it. We'd like to see him again.”

Hank smiled into the phone despite himself. “I'll tell him.”

“Marius is off the phone now,” Larxene said, “but he's just been talking to Aizen so he might not be in a good mood. I'll put you through.”

Hold music took over the line. Hank watched the seconds tick by in which he knew some back and forth was going on between Larxene and Marius. When the hold music stopped it was Marius' voice on the line.

“Back at work, then.” It wasn't a question.

“Not where I'd like to be,” Hank answered. “Aizen's a cocksucker. What did he want?”

“To know when I'm going to be meeting with crown prosecution to confirm the evidence we've sent is complete. You gonna ask me the same thing?”

“No,” Hank answered, “I got a different request.”

“Go on.”

“Five minutes.”

“No.” The response was quick, and clipped, and brooked absolutely no argument.

“The bastard tried to kill him, Marius,” Hank pointed out.

“Still no.”

Hank growled, leaning forward towards the phone. “We used to do it all the time.”

“You think five minutes of you kicking the shit out of him is going to make Roberts any better?” Marius asked, cutting directly to the point. Hank scowled down the phone. He knew it wouldn't. He also knew that Connor would object to the very idea of anyone giving the guy the kicking he deserved. “You think five minutes is going to be enough?” Marius continued.

“Marius,” Hank began.

“No, Hank. We've got different ways now. I'm a fucking superintendent. I can do a lot better than giving him five minutes of a beating.”

Hank's brow furrowed. “Such as?”

Marius heaved a sigh down the other end of the line. “I am about to owe Eira Cacciatore the biggest favour of my life, and you had better appreciate that, because that bitch comes with a price tag that makes Larxene look cheap.”

“Cacciatore?” Hank repeated. He'd met Lumi, and that prissy, stuck up prick was one of the bastards that had been placing bets that Hank wasn't supposed to know about.

“Yeah,” Marius answered, “Lumi's sister. She's a crown prosecutor. I've asked her to personally see to this one.”

“You screwing her?” Hank asked.

He could hear Marius' shiver of horror even down the phone. “Do you know what a praying mantis does to the male afterwards? Fuck no, I'm not screwing her. But she'll make sure our guy goes down for the full life sentence, and then, well, we know a few guys willing to dish out a thorough kicking for a pack of cigarettes or a bottle of contraband beer, don't we?”

Hank found himself mollified by the idea. Marius was, at the very least, genuinely trying to see that justice was seen to be done, and revenge got adequately taken. “You thought this through.”

“Of course I fucking did,” Marius answered. “What do you take me for?”

Hank couldn't help but smirk. “A desk jockey, these days.”

“Ha ha. I'm holding Aizen off while I try and get Eira onboard. Give me a week and I'll have an update for you.”

Hank relaxed back in his chair. “Thanks,” he said, “I mean it.”

“I know,” Marius answered. There was a very brief pause before he asked, “Did you really take the kid home with you?”

Hank frowned. “I got a spare room,” he answered, skipping over the fact that Connor had yet to spend the night in it, “and the doc didn't want to discharge him unless he had someone to keep an eye on him for a couple of days.”

“So he's at his own place now?” Marius asked, because he could see through Hank's shit even when he couldn't see Hank.

“Not yet,” Hank admitted. “I'm not rushing him.”

“Not rushing him, or not rushing you?”

Hank frowned. Connor hadn't given any indication that he wanted to leave, and Hank didn't want him to go, so it was both of them. So long as Connor didn't bring it up, Hank was happy for him to stay. “I'm going to hang up now, Marius,” he said. “Some of us have got real work to do.”

“Yeah, you should probably go and find one of those people so it looks like you've done something.”

“I've got constables for that.” Hank sighed. For all the taunting, Marius really was putting his neck on the line. “And thanks,” he said, one more time.

“I'd say any time, but if any of your other coppers get shanked you can be the one to sweet talk Eira.”

“Sounds like she's out of my league,” Hank replied.

“Definitely,” Marius answered. “Talk to you later.”

“Yeah, later.”

Hank hung up the phone to Marius and then checked his mobile again. Connor hadn't replied to his message yet. He hoped he would, at some point, but he could be in the shower or anything at the moment. Hank had to learn to give him time.

He opened the first one of the files Markus had given him and tried to settle down for work.

*

It was already dark when Hank arrived home. The street lights lent the world a sickly glow and washed out the colour. A few weeks ago, Hank would have stopped by a bar, and then a takeaway, and then had a few more beers when he got in. Today he was actually happy to be getting home, and even the traffic that stood in the way wasn't enough to rile him.

When he opened the front door something looked different. Hank couldn't put his finger on what until he'd hung up his coat and entered the lounge.

It was spotless. The stack of books Hank had never got around to putting away were gone, back in their space on the shelves. The units were dusted. The cushions on the sofa were fluffed and clean. Even Sumo's bed was stain free, and the pervasive odour of dog that made up one of the foundational smells of Hank's home was gone.

“Welcome home.” Connor appeared, bearing a fresh mug of coffee.

Hank looked around his home one more time. “Did you clean?” he asked, even though he already knew the answer. The place hadn't looked this good since Hank had first moved in.

“I had to do something to fill my time,” Connor answered, a little sheepishly.

Sumo trotted up to greet Hank. Even he looked tidy. “And you brushed the dog.” Saint Bernards were not naturally neat dogs, and Sumo in particular was not in the habit of looking kempt. “How long did that take?”

Connor flashed a smile at Hank. “Two hours, in total, not including breaks.”

Hank could believe it. Sumo's white fur was actually white, and the brown patches seemed lighter than usual. The dark areas around his eyes were cleaned up as well. Sumo wouldn't have enjoyed standing still while every bit of him was brushed, and especially places like his armpits where the fur tended to knot. Hank's dogwalker usually brushed him after walks, for an extra fee, and then Sumo went to the groomer to have any stubborn parts trimmed on a regular basis. “You didn't have to do all this,” Hank said, looking at Connor.

“I wanted to,” Connor answered. He wore a soft smile, and a grey sweater that made him look years younger than he really was.

Hank wanted to hug him. He didn't, but only because he'd need to put his coffee down to do it properly. “Everyone was asking about you,” he said. He'd messaged Connor as much in their back and forth over the course of the day, but Hank still felt like he should say it. “Even Larxene.”

Connor's head tilted with sudden interest. “You spoke to her?”

Hank took a sip of his coffee. It had exactly the right amount of sugar again. Maybe it was the spoons? Connor seemed to be able to make his coffee absolutely perfectly here. Maybe the spoons in the office were just that little bit smaller. “Yeah,” he answered, “she said you should stop by and see her, when you're feeling up to it.”

A smile grew across Connor's face. “I'd like that,” he replied.

Hank matched Connor's smile. It was impossible not to. His warmth and enthusiasm were infectious. “I told Markus and the other two you were doing okay as well,” Hank offered. Connor had specifically asked that he let Josh and Simon know he was on the mend.

Connor fixed Hank with an amused smirk. “I got the impression those weren't your exact words.”

Hank's face fell as he tried to remember exactly what he had said. “Why, what did they say?”

Connor smiled, folding his arms. “Markus has been sending me links to buy indoor climbing equipment,” he answered, as he leaned against the door frame, “so I can hazard a guess what it was you said.”

Hank tried not to let it amuse him. Markus was a little shit, and occasionally he showed a dry as fuck sense of humour. “Yeah, I might have mentioned something about you and walls,” Hank recalled, scratching at his beard with a grin. “Means the same thing, right?” Hank offered. “You want to get back.”

Connor's amusement softened into a fond smile. “I do,” he admitted, glancing down at his own feet for a moment. “I miss them.”

Hank sighed. “We all missed you today.” Simon, Josh, and Markus missed him enough that they were putting together a welcome back package that now didn't just consist of a shiny silver dollar, but a handful of quarters, a presentation box and a fully illustrated book of coin sleights. Hank had been forced to put the brakes on there before they got carried away, not least because teaching Connor all new ways to piss Hank off with coins was not going to be as much fun for him as it was for them.

Connor met Hank's eyes for a moment, and then he lowered them, blinking. His head dipped too as he tried to bury his smile. “If you're hungry I've got dinner planned.”

Hank grinned at him. “Another Connor special?” he asked, already looking forward to it. “You should be careful. A man could get used to this.”

Dinner turned out to be steak and potatoes, with baby corn. The steak had been marinaded in something Connor had whipped up himself, and was good enough that Hank could have proposed. Connor explained he'd got the ingredients when he'd gone out to get the key cut.

After they'd eaten Hank had washed up again, then taken Sumo on his final walk. When he returned they both settled onto the sofa for the night so Hank could watch the news, and Connor could catch up on the news and his emails once more. Not that Hank could concentrate on the television. Marius' words on the phone kept coming back to him.

Not rushing him, or not rushing you?

Hank hadn't been this happy in years. The simple act of coming home from work had brightened his day immensely, and waking up to Connor, with his smile and a coffee hadn't been a bad start either. He looked across at Connor, who was buried in the sofa, curled around his iPad, eyes gently lowered as he read from the screen. Hank could see his eyelashes twitching with the movement.

“You're staring,” he said, after a long moment. Connor's eyes lifted, capturing Hank's gaze without moving his head.

Hank looked away. “Sorry,” he said, “I was just thinking.”

“What about?” Connor asked, letting his eyes drift down to his iPad again. Hank watched his hands as he carefully powered it down.

Hank sighed. He'd cornered himself now. “Don't get offended,” he began, carefully, “I just can't figure out why you're single.”

Connor blinked multiple times, and then slowly turned to look at Hank. “You know why,” he pointed out.

Hank shook his head. Connor had given him the old line about the job, and the hours, and it being hard to meet people, but that couldn't be the whole of it. Connor was too damn good a catch for his dedication to the job to be a bug and not a feature. “You cook,” Hank began, and felt the need to add, “really well,” as a qualifier, “you clean, you're thoughtful, you're well groomed, you're attractive,” he listed things off, “and no one has even tried to snap you up?”

Connor frowned, and then sighed. “It's hard to explain,” he said, softly. “I'm,” he began, his words coming out stilted and hesitant as he tried to pick the right ones, “not inclined to jump in bed with people before I know them.”

Hank frowned. It didn't sound like a bad thing, but so many people hopped into bed together when they barely knew each other. People these days got funny about waiting. “But you've had relationships, right?” Connor had said as much. He'd certainly been adamant he wasn't a virgin. So had that been university based experimentation, and wilder days?

“Yes,” Connor answered, simply.

Hank bit the bullet. “With a girl,” he began, “or--” He didn't think anybody had asked Connor. A few people, a lot of people if the idiots at the other station were anything to go by, assumed he was gay, but nobody seemed to be certain.

“Both,” Connor answered. He sounded somewhat relieved, and a little amused, to be getting to the point.

Something flipped in Hank's chest. It was a happy flip. “Oh.”

Connor took a deep breath and then sighed. “I'm not bisexual,” he said, correcting that misjudgement before it had chance to take root, “I just don't really care what gender someone is.” He looked down, and Hank watched him go to pick at his nails and then stop himself. “I'm attracted to the person, to a connection,” he corrected, “rather than their looks.”

Hank settled back in the sofa, but kept his upper body turned towards Connor. “So you have to like someone before you,” he gestured with his hand, “like someone?”

“I suppose,” Connor confirmed. “My first girlfriend was Chloe,” he explained. He sounded wistful as he spoke. “We were on the same course, and sat next to each other. I'd let her borrow my notes, and she'd let me borrow hers.” He cast a smile at Hank. “We were friends first, before we took it further.” His smile dropped, and he looked back down at his hands. “Then she transferred to study in California. That was when I met Daniel.”

Connor lifted his eyes to Hank again, but there was a sadness to his expression this time. “Daniel doted on his little sister,” Connor supplied, “and was studying to be a teacher. We didn't have a lot in common, but being around him felt right. Like I didn't want the moment to end.” Connor exhaled slowly, and his eyes dropped again. “We broke up just before graduation. He didn't want to explain to his family who I was to him.”

Hank hissed with sympathy and reached out to Connor, placing his hand on Connor's arm. “Well, he was an idiot.”

Connor wore a bitter smile and shook his head. “He was scared that his parents would disown him if they knew he was gay. They had some,” he paused for a moment, “interesting views about the preferences of gay men.”

Hank snorted with derision. He didn't know where people got those ideas. “I know the type.”

Connor gave a small shrug. “After that I started with the police.”

And he hadn't been with anyone since. Hank frowned. Connor had spent the last eight years alone. “Don't you miss it?”

Connor raised an eyebrow and lifted his eyes to look at Hank. “Sex,” he asked, “or being in a relationship?”

Hearing Connor talk so frankly about the subject made Hank's hair stand on end. He could be surprisingly forthright when he wanted, but, Hank supposed, if he'd already come out to him then talking about sex wasn't that big of a deal. Realising that Connor had, in fact, just come out to him made Hank want to drag him into a hug. “Both?”

Connor smiled at him. He seemed to be more at ease talking about sex than his exes. “I enjoy sex when I'm with someone I care about,” he answered, “but finding out if the person I care about also cares about me is a little more difficult.”

Hank swallowed over his suddenly dry throat. Connor cared about someone. The question of who placed itself on Hank's tongue and then fled just as quickly. What if it wasn't him?

What if it was?

“Guess you're more at risk of getting your heart broken, huh?” Hank asked, deflecting.

Connor bowed his head again. “Something like that,” he murmured.

“So,” Hank knew he might regret asking the question the moment the words were out of his mouth, “what is it you look for? How do you know if you've got that,” he used Connor's word for it, “connection?”

Connor inhaled and settled back in the sofa. Hank watched his lips part as if he was about to speak, and then changed his mind, and then changed his mind one more time. “If someone can make me laugh without trying, and being around them feels,” he paused before deciding, “right,” he reconsidered that word and adjusted it to, “like I belong,” he sighed softly, “I find myself going out of my way to try and make them smile.” He paused for a moment, smiling to himself before he admitted, “And if I'd do anything to hear them laugh,” he gave Hank a flash of a helpless, fond smile and shrugged, “I'm in trouble.”

Hank swallowed reflexively. He thought he knew the feeling Connor was describing. “Like you can't get them out of your mind, and knowing you're going to see them makes a shitty day easier,” he intoned, “and when they do things for you it makes you want to kiss them, even if you never have before.”

“Exactly,” answered Connor, his voice as soft as his eyes as he looked at Hank. “Just being in a room with them makes everything more enjoyable.”

Hank nodded slowly. Yeah, he knew that feeling. God he really was on dangerous ground. “I think I get it,” he said. He couldn't risk leaving the conversation there. The empty air begged further questions that Hank wasn't sure either of them should be asking, or answering. He knew where his own mind was going, but he could be projecting onto Connor, or just hoping, and it was a selfish, dangerous hope.

“So,” Hank began, searching for something else to ask, and the question was there before he'd accepted that he was going to ask it. Connor looked at him, patiently waiting for Hank to speak. The empty air sucked the question from him. “With Daniel,” he began, “were you--?” he cut off, gesturing instead with his hand, pointing up, and then down. He was doing his best not to imagine it, or to examine how thinking about it made him feel. “You know?”

The look on Connor's face suggested he not only knew, but thought the fact Hank was asking was funny, or perhaps it was the way he was asking. “Both,” he answered, pointedly. A smirk began to pull the corner of his mouth upwards.

“So you don't have a preference,” Hank continued, the words coming out stilted, “for, you know, one or the other?”

Connor's smile was that of someone that knows the person he's talking to is more awkward about the conversation than he was. “No,” he answered, leaning in towards Hank a little. “Both involve taking care of the other person. That's,” he fell quiet for a moment, and then continued, softly, “what I enjoy the most. It feels good, great, even,” he amended, his eyebrows rising as he tilted his head with the words, “but the intimacy, and knowing you're making them feel the same way is so much more important.”

Hank regarded Connor with a small huff and a soft smile. “Never knew you were such a romantic,” he told him. It was sweet, and sad at the same time because Connor would make a perfect, affectionate, caring partner, and he deserved someone that would be exactly that back to him.

“I have my secrets,” Connor replied, echoing Hank's smile back at him. It changed to a slightly awkward frown as he asked, “Does,” he paused, and then made himself continue, “everyone think I'm gay?”

Hank scratched at the back of his neck awkwardly. He didn't want to tell Connor that yes, indeed, everyone kind of suspected he might be gay, or at the very least nobody assumed he was straight. Not even Hank had assumed he was straight, although a part of Hank had seen Connor as some sexless being that was above all of the sweaty, noisy, smelly business of sex right up until Connor had firmly told him otherwise. Now he was having to deal with the fact that Connor had not only put his dick in someone else before, he'd had one put in him and liked it. “It's more like no one was really sure,” he said, carefully.

The look Connor gave him was hilariously reminiscent of the moment he'd told Hank he was not some naïve virgin, and at that point Connor had been hungover and a bit cranky. “That means they think I'm gay but they don't want to get in trouble for it,” he pointed out.

Hank dragged his hand down his neck and scratched under his collar as he winced. “Yeah,” he admitted. “Bisexual was always an option,” he pointed out.

Connor did not look as if this fact made much difference to how he felt about people theorising on the subject of his sexuality. Being the subject of office gossip was always a minefield, and finding out that the genital configuration of your preferred partner was one of the staff room topics wasn't especially flattering.

Thank god Connor didn't know about Florent and Cacciatore's bet.

Hank glanced at the time on his phone and groaned. “It's getting late,” he pointed out. It wouldn't have been if he didn't have to be back in work again the following day, but he did, and it would draw the wrong sort of attention from Fowler if he was late on his second day back.

Connor checked the time as well, and said, “It is. You should go to bed.”

Hank felt something unpleasant wrench in his guts. Connor hadn't said we. “You're not--?” He caught himself as the words tumbled out of his mouth, and he stopped, and frowned.

Connor smiled at him. “I have something I want to do first,” he answered, smoothly. “Goodnight, Hank.”

Hank felt oddly bereft as he made his way to his bedroom and got changed. The idea that Connor might not join him made the night feel incomplete, and when he got into the bed it felt too big and cold.

He didn't know how long it was before he heard the lights in the hallway flicking off. Hank listened to the careful silence for some clue as to what Connor was doing. After an interminably long moment he heard the soft brush of the bottom of the door over the carpet, followed by more silence.

The bed shifted. A tension Hank hadn't been aware of carrying lifted from his shoulders. He wanted to roll over and pull Connor into a hug but he didn't. He didn't want Connor to know he hadn't been able to sleep. He also didn't want Connor to think he'd woken him.

The movement of the bed stopped, but Hank could feel the pressure in the mattress, as if Connor was still sat up in the dark. He wondered what he was doing. There was no sound as if he was rearranging pillows, or putting the covers straight.

He heard Connor sigh heavily, and then his weight moved again, easing off as if he'd lay down at last.

Hank sighed as well, and finally relaxed to get some sleep.

*

Consciousness drifted in. Hank tried to fight it. He was warm, and comfortable, and his alarm had yet to go off. He opened his eyes and then closed them again. Maybe Connor had just moved in his sleep. The slow, steady sounds of Connor's breathing filled Hank's ear. Every so often his breath caught in his throat as he inhaled. It was the most inoffensive snore Hank had ever heard.

Hank's back was to Connor, but as he drifted awake he became more aware of the thigh pressing into the back of his own, and the arm draped across his ribs.

He should move, he knew. He should pull away, or nudge Connor to roll back over. To be this far over in the bed he must have come off his mountain of pillows, although at least he was still lying on his good side.

There were a lot of things Hank knew he should do. Instead he closed his eyes and tried to go back to sleep.

He wasn't sure how much later his alarm went off. Connor's arm retreated suddenly a split second after the sound began, and the bed shifted as he pulled away. Hank gave a groan and stabbed at his phone with his thumb. “Fucking thing,” he growled. He remained on his side. Connor's heat around him seemed to be seared against his skin like a brand.

“You're really not a morning person,” Connor observed. He sounded convincingly awake, even though Hank knew for an absolute fact he'd been dead asleep sixty seconds ago.

Hank rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling with a scowl. “When you get to my age you start to hope you never have to wake up again,” he grumbled.

Connor's voice was quiet. “I hope that's not true.”

Hank looked at him from his supine position. Connor wore a small, concerned little frown, and his head was tilted as he looked down at Hank. Hank frowned, guilt stabbing at him. “It was,” he said, honestly. He forced himself to sit up in the bed and felt a dozen aches begin to wave at his brain for attention. His knees, his back, and his head were the frontrunners. “I need a shower,” he groaned.

“I'll get us a coffee,” Connor replied, slipping out of the bed deftly. Hank watched him leave. He really, really should say something, but it was early and his brain wasn't firing on all cylinders yet.

Hank gave up trying to think and headed to the bathroom.

One shower, beard trim, brush of the teeth and fuck it spritz of cologne later, Hank was heading into his kitchen. The enticing smell of coffee greeted him, as did the sight of a shirtless Connor gripping his own mug in two hands. His hair was still untidily sprayed across his forehead.

“Better?” Connor asked, keeping his arms close to his body. There was a chill in the air that the central heating hadn't taken care of just yet, and Hank could see the goosebumps on Connor's forearms.

“I still have to go to work,” Hank grumbled, instead of a 'no'. He'd never wished his alarm had failed to go off quite so much as he wished it now, and he wasn't sure he should be allowed to feel that way. Connor was his DI, and injured, and vulnerable. With the things he'd said last night about how he became attracted to connections would it be fair of Hank to even consider some of the things he was, nonetheless, considering?

Connor offered him a shy smile with his coffee, and then admitted, “I made you lunch, if that helps.”

I find myself going out of my way to try and make them smile.

Prickling heat trailed up Hank's spine like fingers. “You didn't have to do that,” he said, even as the heat coiled up in his chest and filled him with a powerful urge to drag Connor into a hug. Connor was telling him, he realised. In his own way, in a way that Hank could completely ignore if he wanted. He was laying out the pieces for Hank to realise.

“I wanted to,” Connor answered, with a light shift of his shoulders that hinted towards a shrug without being anywhere near as dramatic a movement.

He was putting the ball in Hank's court. Hank curled both of his hands tightly around his own coffee. “Thanks,” he replied.

“There's a flask of coffee as well,” Connor added, “since Markus didn't make you any.”

Hank's stomach did a somersault, and he couldn't help but grin. Connor was too good for him. Connor was too good for anyone, except possibly a clone of himself, and he wasn't narcissistic enough to go for that, either. “You definitely didn't have to do that,” he said.

Connor's smile was sweet and happy. It was the sort of smile that took years off the wearer. Hank took far too long to realise he was staring. The air became tense, and the fleeting thought that he should kiss Connor bubbled up in his mind and was quickly drowned again.

He cleared his throat. “Any idea what you're going to do today?” Hank asked, breaking the tension. He couldn't be sure if Connor's face fell or if he imagined it, but his smile definitely became less bright.

“Not yet,” he answered. “I'll think of something.”

Hank drank his coffee. It was hot, and had the perfect balance of strength and sweetness. Connor really had become a master at making it just the way Hank liked it. “No begging Josh to send you work,” he warned, flashing Connor a smile.

Connor smiled back, demurely. “I won't,” he answered.

Hank drained the last of his coffee, and picked up the lunch bag Connor had made up for him. He didn't know what was in it, but if Connor had made it, it was bound to be delicious. Hank hesitated for a moment, fighting the urge to pull Connor close in a tight hug. He wanted to, but he also knew a dozen reasons that he shouldn't. “Thanks for this,” he said, holding up the bag, and then added, “I'll see you tonight.”

Hank was just outside of the kitchen when he heard Connor say, quietly, “Goodbye, Hank.”

The journey to work was a forgotten blur. Hank's mind whirled with thoughts about Connor, and last night, and this morning.

If someone can make me laugh without trying.

Connor's laugh was a quiet, shy sound. It was something he kept close to his chest, but you could spot it in the way his shoulders moved, in the way his chin tucked closer to his chest, and the delighted smile that came with it. Getting that out of him felt like a victory. Hank loved watching Connor try and suppress the grin that meant he was holding in a laugh.

If being around them feels right, like I belong.

Was there any other way to describe the way Hank's home felt right now? Without Connor it had been his house, with himself and Sumo rattling around inside it with nothing but regrets and bad memories for company. Hank had brought Connor home out of necessity, out of nothing more than requirement; Connor needed to get out of the hospital, and Hank had a place he could stay.

Now he was here, Hank didn't want him to leave. The house felt like a real home. Coming back to it after work felt good. Hank looked forward to getting back to Connor, looked forward to getting back to his home with Connor in it. He wanted to hear how Sumo had behaved, how Connor had spent his time. He wanted to sit on the sofa and watch films, or listen to music, or watch a game, or hell, even read a book next to him.

Hank couldn't sleep without Connor. That was how bad it had gotten. To begin with it had been about fear, and superstition. Hank couldn't shake the nagging fear in the back of his head that if he let Connor out of his sight then he'd never see him again. The hours Connor had been in surgery had been an agony of pacing, waiting to be told if he'd pulled through, if they'd fixed the hole in his lung before his heart had given out.

Now he couldn't sleep without Connor because the room was too quiet, and the bed was too big. The sound of Connor's delicate little snore as he slept was comforting white noise. The feeling of the mattress shifting as Connor rolled over pulled Hank from his dreams, but also soothed him back to sleep. It was too still without him.

Which was a problem, because Hank didn't know how much longer they could go on like this. Two grown men platonically sharing a bed was kind of weird.

The way Connor's arm had been around him this morning was a demonstration of that. Hank had not wanted his alarm to go off this morning, not because he didn't want to come to work, but because he hadn't wanted Connor to wake up and move. That was unfair to both of them. Connor had been asleep, and bodies did all sorts of things while you were asleep that didn't mean anything. God forbid Connor had spotted Hank's morning wood yesterday, for example.

Except that it wasn't just the sleeping, or the bed sharing, or even the staying in the house together. Hank liked having Connor around. He liked Connor, and at this point he was pretty sure that Connor liked him, which told him two things about Connor that he hadn't realised before: one, he had awful taste, and two, he made bad decisions.

Because liking Hank was a bad decision. It wasn't just that Hank was a sour old bastard almost twice Connor's age, that was the awful taste part, but Hank was Connor's commanding officer. He was Connor's boss. They were bending rules and regulations just by entertaining the idea.

Others had bent them, or even broken them. Florent and Cacciatore were an example. Cacciatore had been a DCI, and Florent a DI, the same as himself and Connor. They'd kept it quiet, and denied like crazy that anything had happened before regulations allowed. Then once Florent had got his promotion they'd let everyone know what they already knew anyway.

But Hank didn't know if they could get away with that. Could he keep professional around Connor if he let feelings get involved? Could Connor keep professional around him?

Actually, yeah, Connor probably could, Hank realised. Connor would be an absolute bastard of a poker player if anyone took the time to teach him the rules. He'd seen him in interviews, sympathetically teasing confessions from some of the worst career criminals England had to offer. These people viewed human beings as a commodity to be bought and sold. Connor could go in the room with them, be patient and understanding, and gently pick at threads until the whole person unravelled before him, and then come out and shiver, visibly disgusted at the things they'd confessed to.

So why would he not be able to keep his feelings about Hank hidden from everyone else? The problem then was going to be Hank. Could he keep his feelings from getting in the way of the job? Could he keep sending Connor in to those situations?

Except you already care, a nagging, guilty voice hissed at him from the back of his own head. It wasn't a matter of avoiding getting in too deep with Connor causing a problem, he was already in deeper than he should be.

The flask of coffee Connor had made him was very slightly under-sweetened, but still good and hot, and better than the cup of nothing Markus brought to the office again after he got in. “Any news?” Hank asked, holding his hand out for the files.

“Forensics came back after you left yesterday,” Markus answered, a satisfied smile on his handsome face. “The cryptowallet owned by Kerry Payton received two bitcoin from a cryptowallet that was paid half a bitcoin by Arif Najjar.”

So the money had been shipped from illegal migrant, to a handler, and then a part siphoned off to the driver. “They found the intermediary?” Hank asked, with a scowl. It was, as Connor had said, indisputable proof of money changing hands, but it wasn't enough to wrap the case up.

Markus' smile turned into a frown, “No,” he answered, “but everyone that got arrested in that raid had either paid into or been paid out of one of two wallets.”

“Two?” Two middlemen, just what Hank fucking wanted.

“The other one paid Glenn Bradbury,” Markus answered, “so we still have that chain.”

Glenn Bradbury, the dead guy whose throat had been sawed open while the poor bastard suffocated on his own blood. Hitting an artery is harder than you think, and death that way still isn't instant. Hank nodded. “The problem now is that they're going to know we're onto them, so they'll launder that money.”

Markus nodded. He knew that too. “We could question Payton?” he suggested.

Hank grumbled wordlessly as he poured a little more coffee from the flask. “I'd bet my dog he doesn't know who's paying him.”

“But he will know how they get in touch with him,” Markus pointed out, his eyebrows rising. Hank caught himself thinking that it worked better when Connor did it.

He grunted, and then nodded. “Bring him in. We'll see where that rabbit hole takes us. Shame Connor isn't here,” he caught himself saying, just after the words had left his mouth. He pressed on to complete the thought anyway. “Could use his interview skills.”

“I could interview him?” Markus offered. Hank regarded him critically. Markus didn't get much of a look in with the interviewing, partly because he had a tendency to get emotionally invested. Connor could compartmentalise his disgust. Markus couldn't, even though he tried. It still got to him, and sometimes he started to crack before the suspect did.

“You think you can keep it together?”

“Yes,” Markus replied, confidently. “It's not as if he's Norwood.”

The name made muscles flex in Hank's back. He wasn't allowed near Daryl Norwood. None of them were. Norwood was Kier's problem. Hank smiled bitterly. “My request for five minutes alone with him was denied.”

Markus looked grimly amused. “Careful, sir, you sound like North.”

North East – her parents thought they were funny, they were wrong – ran the refuge a lot of their victims ended up staying in while they had asylum applications put through, or families were found. She had the sort of views about men that you only came to hold after reading too much radical feminist literature, or working way too many years picking up the pieces after the dregs of humanity had done their worst. Even Hank had to admit that the dregs of humanity were almost exclusively male.

Hank had met her a few times, when they were checking up on the fitness of victims to stand as witnesses in trials. North was a force to be reckoned with, and Hank wouldn't like to be alone with her and a pair of a scissors.

Hank huffed with amusement. “Maybe we should see if she's able to get five minutes alone with the bastard. She'd do a better job of it than I would.” She liked Connor, too, because he was polite and tactful. Hank suspected she liked Markus as well, but she liked him because he had a pretty face and creepy eyes, and Markus seemed to like her because he apparently liked terrifying women. Hank didn't know if there was anything going on outside of the professional relationship, and he didn't want to spend too long thinking about it, either. North absolutely loathed Hank, but with two coppers on hand that she did like, he didn't have to deal with her much, and for that he was grateful.

“I'll request Payton be prepared for questioning,” Markus said, a hint of amusement in his expression.

Hank nodded, and waved him away. He wanted to find those middlemen before they scrubbed their money clean and disappeared. Maybe he should ask Connor what would be the best way to launder money out of a cryptowallet, but that veered too close to bothering him with work which Hank was absolutely determined not to do.

He peeked at the lunch Connor had made him. Toasted tortillas looked back at him. When he lifted one he saw meat and melted cheese, and because it was Connor that had made it, some sliced peppers and jalapenos.

A slip of paper peeked at Hank from inside the bag. Hank pulled it out and unfolded it. Written across it, in a familiarly neat hand, were the words:

Please don't go to the burger van down the street, they're still under a hygiene improvement notice.

Hank pulled out his phone. Got your note. Lunch looks good, he typed, and thank you for the coffee. You really didn't have to.

His phone buzzed with the reply a few moments later: It was less bother than taking care of you if you develop food poisoning would be.

“Cheeky shit,” Hank murmured at his phone, a grin spreading across his face. Might go for a burger now anyway.

Sixty seconds for a reply. Hank was impressed. Don't expect me to hold back your hair. He pictured Connor, maybe sat on the sofa, with Sumo beside him because if Connor didn't think Hank knew he was letting Sumo up on the sofa he was underestimating him, typing into his phone, and then eagerly awaiting the reply.

Don't pretend you wouldn't. You'd probably tuck me up in bed with a bucket and a lucozade, too.

Hank waited forty seconds.

You'd be emptying your own bucket.

Connor was definitely curled up somewhere with his phone, with nothing better to do than answer Hank's messages.

The bucket is where you draw the line? Hank replied, unable to keep the grin off his face.

Twenty seconds. I'm sure you have work to do.

Hank chuckled and finished his coffee. It was not quite sweet enough, which was exactly how Connor had always made it before. Now Hank wondered if he undersweetened it deliberately because he was concerned for Hank's sugar intake, or something. It sounded like a Connor thing to do. Coffee break. Someone sent me in with an entire flask this morning. Gonna be a long break.

Forty one seconds. Please don't try and pin the blame for your lack of productivity on me.

Hank couldn't help but laugh. When Hank was slacking off and Connor was in the office, Connor became a constant nagging presence that gently irritated him into doing work. Now that he wasn't here, he was a distraction. He wanted to tell Connor that he keeps replying, so of course Hank's low productivity was Connor's fault, but he also didn't want to prompt Connor to stop replying, so he changed the topic instead. Decided what you're going to do with your day yet?

One minute and twenty two seconds. I'm taking Sumo to the park, and then I'm buying the ingredients for dinner. After that I might read.

Connor was bored. Hank could tell because he didn't have a huge list of tasks he'd set himself for the day. Just so long as you don't ask anyone for work.

Hank had enough time to put the phone down and think the conversation was over before the reply came through. I'm more than capable of working in a tech based capacity.

Hank sighed. He might have upset Connor with that last message. I know, but you're on sick. The bastards will count every day, and get bitchy if you do other work between. So don't work. I've got to have Markus interviewing a suspect that I'd rather you were tackling instead because I know you'll get the results, and it sucks. I miss having you here, but I'd rather you were letting your body heal even if it's pissing you off than have you come back feeling less than 100%.

Maybe it was a bit much, Hank thought, as he pressed send. The problem was that in his current condition Connor was going to be on desk duty for a while, and if Occupational Health got really arsey with him he'd have to pass a fitness test before he could come out from behind the desk. What Hank didn't want was for Connor to have to go through the exhaustion of physically coming into work to sit behind a desk. He'd heal better at home, no matter how much Hank missed having him here.

Connor didn't reply again. Hank hoped he'd taken the advice, and taken Sumo on a good long walk through the park that would mean Sumo needed brushing for two hours again afterwards. The thought of Connor enjoying dog time got Hank through the morning.

Hank's heart was a strange mix of the desire to make Connor happy, and the desire to let him be happy. He wanted Connor to be safe, and cared for, and to have the things he deserved because as far as Hank could make out, never in Connor's life had he ever been loved the way he deserved. Not by Amanda, or Elijah, or by his girlfriend, or his boyfriend. Hank didn't want to be another name on the list of people that hadn't deserved to have Connor care about them so much.

Was it conceited to think he might already be on that list anyway? Or was that just the words of the dim, flickering hope that somebody like Connor saw something in him worth caring about? People like Connor were why Hank used to want to be a copper. When Cole had been born it had changed the way he'd thought about the job. The world was a rotten, stinking hellhole, run by people worse than you could ever imagine, but maybe if he worked hard enough he could make it a little less shitty, and a little more worthy of handing over to Cole one day.

Connor deserved the same; a less shitty, corrupt world, filled with shitty, corrupt, selfish people in which he could go around being a good, honest person, and he might actually be able to find someone worth giving his heart to. Maybe if the world was better Connor might be able to find someone that would recognise how rare and precious a gift his affections were, and they'd treasure it accordingly.

Realisation hit Hank like a train. Connor needed other people's approval, Hank's approval, so desperately because he'd never been accepted for what he was, only for what he could do for them. He'd stayed with them in trafficking because it was the closest he'd ever had to that acceptance. He was a good copper, a damn good copper, and they accepted that, but they also accepted his hundred and one weird and annoying little habits, like the head tilting, and the coin tricks, and always having some little fact at the ready about the calorie or salt content of your food, and the long term health effects. None of them cared because that was just Connor, and they liked Connor.

If Hank pursued a relationship with Connor it could jeopardise that for him. Hank's job might be on the line, but more importantly, Connor's entire world would be. He could get moved to another department, dragged away from the little family he'd been building up of people that accepted him, and trash any hopes he ever had of making it higher up the chain of command – and they really, really needed people like Connor moving higher up the chain of command.

But if Connor already had feelings for him, could Hank bear to turn him away? Would that rejection sour Connor's happiness with the rest of them? Hank could never be worth everything Connor would be putting at risk, but at least he had an idea of what Connor was worth and he could try to live up to that.

They could try to hide it. Keep things professional in work, not get caught doing something stupid in unlocked rooms. Maybe Hank could send Connor out with Markus more instead of himself all the time, no matter how selfishly Hank wanted to keep Connor and his analytical skills at his own beck and call. Maybe he should do that anyway.

It had to be Connor's decision. Hank drummed his fingers on the steering wheel as he waited at a red light on his way home. Connor was the one that would be putting everything on the line, so Connor had to be the one that decided it was what he wanted.

Either way, Hank needed to be fairer to him, and let Connor know that he belonged with his weird little found family no matter what he felt, or didn't, and did about it, or didn't. He had to support Connor's decisions. He had to support Connor to do whatever he wanted, in all areas of his life.

The lights were on when Hank got home. Sumo came trotting up to the door as Hank entered, carrying something in his mouth. “What've you got, boy?” Hank asked, crouching down and holding his hand out for it.

Sumo was clearly of the opinion that whatever he was carrying was for Hank to look at, but not touch. He turned around promptly and ambled back into the lounge with it.

“It's a pig's ear,” came Connor's voice. Hank pushed himself back to a standing position and took off his coat before he went to the lounge. Connor was sat on the sofa with a book, but he looked up at Hank when he entered. “I passed a pet shop as I was picking up dinner,” he explained.

Sumo plonked himself down by Connor's feet. It was quickly becoming Sumo's preferred spot, Hank noted. “Are you buying my dog's affections?” he accused.

Connor's mouth twitched in a smile. He had on another of his pristine white shirts, the sort he usually wore with a tie, with the buttons unfastened at the top, with dark jeans belted around his narrow hips. “Not intentionally.”

Hank nodded in reverse, tilting his head backwards instead of forwards. “Sounds like bullshit,” he replied. “You have a good day?” he asked.

Connor's eyes fell back to his book. “It was quiet,” he answered, without elaborating. “Would you like a coffee?” He made a move to close his book and stand from the sofa.

Hank waved him back down. “I can get it. Do you want a drink?”

Connor settled back onto the sofa. “Just water, please,” he answered. “I put some bottles in the fridge.”

Hank's nose twitched. London water tasted like shit even though Hank had lived here all his life, so he couldn't blame Connor for preferring bottled, but still. He could have chosen a beer, a wine, shit, a whiskey, he'd look real good in that shirt leaning back on Hank's sofa and sipping a whisky with the lights turned down, those dark eyes on Hank.

Hank shook his head to release it from that thought. “Bottled water,” he answered, “got it.” He excused himself to the kitchen, and let the idea of Connor savouring a glass of Laphroaig 25 wash over him again for a moment. He really should get him to try some decent spirits sometime. American whiskeys were fine for getting drunk, but if you wanted something to really enjoy you had to go Scottish.

When Hank opened the fridge the aroma of tomatoes, herbs, and spices hit Hank's nose. He picked up a mixing bowl he hadn't known he owned that was covered with cling film, and filled with meat in a sauce. “Something smells good,” he called, giving it a sniff. The bowl was definitely the source of the smell.

“I'm marinating chicken thighs,” Connor answered.

Hank poked at the bundle of asparagus spears and brown bag of what turned out to be some mixture of mushrooms, both of which he was reasonably sure hadn't been in his fridge yesterday. He selected one of the bottles of water from the door, and then closed his fridge again. The smell lingered, and made Hank's mouth water.

He flicked the kettle on for a coffee before he ventured back into the lounge, twisting the cap off the bottle of water before he handed both to Connor. “You know, I'm getting as spoiled as Sumo.”

Sumo's head twisted at the sound of his name, but it wasn't enough to distract him from his luxurious chewing of his pig's ear. Connor took the water, and Hank watched him swallow a mouthful before he spoke. “I enjoy cooking,” he reminded Hank, without looking at him.

Hank looked at Connor as he set the water down on the coffee table and then leaned back into the sofa again. The sight of Connor relaxed, treating the place like his own home, with Sumo by his feet and a book in his lap set off a warmth in his chest. “I'm not just talking about the cooking,” he said, and immediately turned and retreated back into the kitchen.

The water in the kettle bubbled, and Hank made himself a mug of coffee, with exactly the amount of sugar he liked. He returned to the lounge with it a few moments later, and settled himself down beside Connor. “So that was your day?” Hank asked. “Spoiling me and my dog?”

Connor kept his eyes on his book as he answered, carefully, “I also went back to my flat.”

Hank swallowed. His whole body went tense. “Seeing to the fish?” His eyes fell to Connor's book. Maybe he'd picked that up as well.

Connor nodded, and Hank felt his body relax, muscle by muscle. “Is my coin still in evidence?” he asked.

Hank inhaled through his nose. Connor always carried the coin on him, but his torn and bloodstained clothing had been bagged as evidence when the paramedics had taken it off him to get their needle in. Hank's bloodied shirt had gone in an evidence bag as well, but he didn't particularly want that back. “I think so,” he answered. “Want me to see if we can get it back?”

“I'd like it back,” Connor answered.

Hank nodded, and grunted thoughtfully. “Marius is handling the case,” he said. “I'll give him a call and see what he can do.”

Connor's dark brown eyes were fixed on Hank as he tilted his head. “Superintendent Kier is personally handling my case?”

Hank did his best to restrain his wince. “The rest of us are too close, it'd look like bias to the court,” he explained.

“I know,” Connor replied, his eyes dropping, “I'm just surprised that the Superintendent is handling it himself.”

Hank swallowed again and waited until Connor looked back up at him before he said, “People care about you, Connor. More people than you realise.”

*

Connor's latest concoction turned out to be chicken thighs, still on the bone, marinaded in garlic and herbs, and then cooked in a sun-dried tomato sauce, with a little cheese and cream mixed in, served with fresh grilled asparagus and sautéed mushrooms. Hank could have happily died knowing that was his last meal.

After they'd eaten Hank took Sumo on his evening walk. Sumo seemed reluctant to go, or at least to go with Hank. He tried to turn back towards Connor as Hank clipped his leash to him. “This is what happens when you buy him pig's ears,” Hank accused. It drew a smile from Connor at least, and Sumo stopped trying to turn back once Hank got him out of the front door.

When Hank returned, and Sumo had done his customary bound up to Connor for an ear massage and to be called a good boy, Hank settled onto the sofa and flipped the TV on. It took him much longer than he'd like to admit to notice that Connor wasn't absorbed in his iPad, or his book, but was leaning against the arm of the sofa, staring into space.

Hank frowned and observed Connor's unsettling stillness for as long as he could stand. Eventually he couldn't bear it any longer. “What's eating you?”

Connor looked towards him as if snapped from an unhappy daydream, and then frowned and looked away as if he was ashamed. “I need to talk to you,” he said, quietly, “but I don't know how to approach it.”

Hank felt his heart lurch in his chest. He turned the TV off and turned to look at Connor. “Just say it,” he said. “Whatever it is, we can figure it out.”

Connor's Adam's apple jumped sharply in his throat, and he closed his eyes. When he began to speak it was slowly, carefully, as if he was tiptoeing through a minefield with just his words. “I don't want you to think that I don't appreciate all you've done these last few days,” he began, “but I've been thinking on what you said earlier about getting back to one hundred percent, and you're right.” Hank held his breath, waiting for the other shoe to drop and kick him in the ass. “But in order for me to get there I need to start sleeping in my own bed again,” his eyes flicked towards Hank as he added the final punch to his words, “in my own home.”

Hank felt as if the world was being pulled out from under him. He'd grown so used to having this comfortable little life with Connor to come home to, with good food, and better company. He'd grown used to the idea that he had all the time he might need to decide on how he felt, and make his peace with whatever Connor might want to do with that.

It was already over. It had been nothing more than a daydream to think he could come back to a waiting Connor for more than a handful of days.

Connor's hand settled on the back of Hank's. The warmth of his palm seared Hank's skin and he looked down at it. “I've enjoyed being here, and spending time with you, and Sumo,” he said, “but I need you to understand that this isn't my normal, and I won't ever be fully recovered until I can go about my life the way I used to. Being here is too easy.”

Hank dared to breathe. His heart and lungs felt like they were filled with lead, but he nodded. “I get it,” he made himself say. “Want me to take you back,” he couldn't bring himself to say the word home, “tomorrow?”

Connor's mouth opened. Hank watched his tongue move as if to form a word, and then surrender. His mouth closed again. Connor nodded before he finally managed to say, “That might be for the best.”

Going to bed that night was done to the internal hammer of a funeral bell in Hank's head. He left Connor in the lounge early, their night having been spent in an awkward silence after Connor's revelation, and went to his room. Connor's extra pillows were removed from the bed and placed outside the door for Connor to pick up at his leisure.

Hank buried himself in the sheets and the darkness. The bed still smelled of Connor. Hank grabbed one of the pillows he hadn't used and buried his face in it, not sure if he just wanted to stop smelling Connor, or if he wanted to suffocate in his sleep.

He tossed and turned for what felt like hours, dimly aware of the faint sound of Connor switching off lights and heading to bed himself. Hank hoped, stupidly, for the faint sound of the door opening to let him know that Connor had changed his mind, but it didn't come.

The bed was too big. The room was too quiet. Hank rolled this way and that, catching the lingering trace of Connor in the air before he checked his phone.

1am. So much for getting to sleep. He gave up and climbed out of the bed. Maybe sleeping on the sofa would be easier. He'd had plenty of nights like that in the past, where Sumo had lain close, and a bottle had sat open on the coffee table until Hank didn't remember when he'd stopped being drunk and started being unconscious any more.

He sat down and buried his face in his hands. He'd decided to let Connor make the decision, and this was Connor's decision, so he was going to support it, but it still sucked. He'd hoped....

He'd hoped.

“Hank?”

Hank's head snapped up at the soft query. Connor was in the doorway, wearing his pyjama trousers and nothing more. His hair looked ruffled, as if he'd tossed and turned for two hours too. His face was a mask of genuine concern.

“Can't sleep,” he said, gruffly, and inhaled sharply through his nose. “I'll be fine.”

Instead of leaving Connor entered the room, rounding the table to sit beside Hank on the sofa, close to him. “What is it?”

Hank looked into worried brown eyes and cursed inwardly. “I don't want you to go.” There. He'd said it. He shouldn't have, but it encapsulated everything that had been circling in his head. He didn't want to come back to a home where Connor wasn't waiting for him.

Connor sighed, but the sound was sympathetic rather than weary. “I'll be fine,” he murmured, “I promise.”

Hank growled at himself. “You will,” he agreed, defeated. Connor was strong, and stubborn, and probably physically recovered enough that he'd be fine. His life would be just fine without Hank in it. “But I might not.”

Connor's arm slid over his back in a move that was both concerned and comforting. Hank watched him draw close out of the corner of his eye. After a moment Connor said, “I know exactly what you're going through.” It was an echo of Hank's words to him that first night, on this very sofa, when Connor had been in pieces with the memories of the worst night of his life. The worst night of both their lives.

Up until now.

Hank dropped his gaze to his own knees. “I don't know if you do,” he answered. He looked back to Connor.

Connor tilted his head, but stayed close. His eyes searched Hank's expression. Hank wanted to tell him, tell him how he made the days brighter, and the nights warmer, how just the possibility that he saw something of value in Hank made years of self loathing melt away. Hank reached out, brushing his fingers along Connor's cheek and into the hair at the nape of his neck. Connor blinked, slowly, but he didn't seem surprised, and he didn't pull away.

Hank leaned in and closed his eyes. Connor didn't move. He was frozen like a deer in headlights. Hank stopped himself and opened his eyes again. Connor was a couple of inches away. Connor. Twenty years his junior. Promising officer. Good future ahead of him. A good future that wasn't Hank's to risk. He couldn't do this to him.

He let go of Connor. “I'm sorry,” he began.

The words were barely at his lips when Connor pressed a kiss to them. It was chaste, and a little too hard, a little too desperate, as if he was grasping at an opportunity he didn't think he'd ever get again.

Hank blinked. All he saw was Connor, closer than he'd ever seen him before. Then Connor's hand slid up to his shoulder and his neck and Hank realised he was serious. He closed his own eyes and kissed Connor back.

Connor's tongue was soft as it slipped into his mouth. Hank met it with his own. It was sweet, and fervent, and sent pleasant sparks down Hank's spine. He hadn't made out with anyone since before Cole was born. Fuck, he'd forgotten how good it could feel.

Hank let Connor work on his mouth and set his hands to caressing Connor's body. His skin was warm and smooth under Hank's fingers. His spine nestled in a shallow valley and Hank let his fingers follow the trail down. Connor's body was firm and soft at the same time, just like his tongue in Hank's mouth. He leaned back against the sofa, pulling Connor closer as he went. The soft sound of their lips and murmurs of pleasure filled Hank's ears. Connor's hands found their way under his shirt and up, over the skin of his chest.

Hank pulled back, dragging his mouth away from Connor's eager kisses. “Wait,” he said. He wasn't sure how he found it in himself to say it. “Slow down.”

He looked up at Connor to find him straddling his lap. His lips were flushed, and his eyes dark. Somewhere along the way his hair had got swept back off his face. Hank wasn't sure if that had been the work of his own hands.

Connor wore a smirk of amusement and he leaned in towards Hank's ear. “You're the one with your hand in my underwear,” he pointed out.

Hank took stock of where his limbs were. Feet on the floor. Connor in his lap. One hand resting on a pale hip. The other getting a good and direct grope of a firm buttock. The bare skin was cool under his fingers.

Hank had the decency to be embarrassed and pulled his hand back. Connor caught his arm at the elbow and stopped Hank from pulling it away further. “Have you ever done this before?” he asked, slowly setting Hank's hand back on his ass, albeit over his clothes. “With a man, I mean?”

Hank felt as if he'd had some script flipped on him. “Not this,” he admitted. He hadn't even thought about the possibility before Connor had come into his life. There had been a couple of times, long ago, when he'd been drunk and he'd done... things, but he'd never sat and made out with a guy he liked before, let alone whatever else Connor had in mind.

Hank thought he knew what Connor had in mind. The prospect sent a thrill of anticipatory pleasure down his spine.

Connor nodded, his eyes closing in a slow blink as he accepted that answer. “Go slow,” he said, “and only stop if I tell you to.”

Hank swallowed. Connor was being serious. “We don't have to,” he said, running his hand up the bare skin of Connor's back once more.

Connor's smile was almost shy, despite the fact he was perched on Hank's lap and could almost definitely feel the erection poking against his thigh. “I want to.”

“I don't have any condoms,” Hank added. He didn't need them. He never met people to get that close to them, and even entertaining the thought he might need them seemed such a sad, awful fantasy that Hank hadn't dared acknowledge it.

Connor shook his head. “It doesn't matter,” he answered.

Hank's stomach somersaulted. Connor was really up for that?

Connor leaned in again and pressed his lips to Hank's one more time. It became a lingering kiss, with Connor's tongue dipping into his mouth and brushing against Hank's softly and slowly. When he pulled away again Hank could still feel the press of Connor's lips. “Let's move this to the bedroom,” he said.

Hank nodded, mutely. Connor slipped from his lap, coming to stand in front of Hank and offered his hand. “You're sure you'll be okay?” Hank asked, taking Connor's hand as he stood. “No strenuous activity, remember?”

Connor gave him a smile that was little short of cocky. “That just means you'll have to do more of the work,” he replied, flashing Hank a wink as he tugged him towards the door. “I need to get something,” he said, the moment he was through the door and before Hank had even processed what he'd said a moment ago. He let go of Hank's hand and disappeared into his own room, Cole's room, leaving Hank to stand there, dumbfounded and unsure of how he'd been tricked into this situation.

Connor re-emerged with a bottle in his hand. “What's that?” Hank asked, looking at it but unable to spot the label.

“Moisturiser,” Connor answered, simply. “It'll do in a pinch.”

Hank stared at him. The reality of what they were setting out to do hit him. “You're serious,” he said. “We're really about to do this?”

Connor looked suddenly unsure of himself. “If you've changed your mind,” he began.

Hank grabbed Connor's wrist and dragged him closer. He shook his head. Connor was only a couple of inches shorter than him, and slighter by some margin. He sank his hand into Connor's hair and kissed him, letting him feel what it was like to have your own mouth sweetly invaded by a probing tongue.

When Hank pulled back again he saw, with some satisfaction, that Connor still had his eyes closed and his mouth parted. He licked his lips before he opened his eyes. “Just tell me what you want me to do,” Hank said.

He let Connor lead him to the bed. Hank's shirt came off before they did anything else, leaving him in just his boxers when Connor urged him to sit back. He straddled Hank's lap, and resumed their make out session from the couch but now with more patience and tenderness than desperate eagerness. They really were doing this, and they had all night to go about it.

Hank's kisses began to explore more territory than Connor's mouth as he rolled him over and pressed him into the bed. Hank tasted the soft flesh of Connor's chest and stomach, spreading his legs with one hand and settling himself between Connor's thighs. It was a position he could get used to, and when he looked down and saw Connor spread out beneath him it looked and felt better than he could have imagined in shameful, private moments.

Connor's hands roved over Hank's back, and arms. He groaned and sighed with pleasure and encouragement as Hank got to know his body. He also jumped sharply when Hank went to press a kiss to his uninjured ribs.

Hank looked up at him curiously. Connor was staring at him with widened eyes. “Your beard tickles,” he said, as explanation.

“Oh,” Hank replied, and then leaned in again to press a much too light kiss to the same spot. Connor jumped again and tried to flex so that he dug his side into the mattress where Hank couldn't reach. “Better get used to that.”

“Hank!” Connor's voice was desperation on the edge of laughter. It was the sound of anyone currently being tortured with tickling, and under the threat of further tickling.

Hank laughed. Connor being ticklish was something he hadn't expected. “All right,” he conceded, moving to an area higher up near Connor's shoulder and pressing another firm kiss to the curve of his bicep. “Don't want you to hurt yourself.”

“Stop teasing,” Connor told him. It sounded petulant, almost sulky.

Hank grinned against Connor's skin, and kissed his way back to Connor's throat. They were both way too old for things like love bites, but the way Connor squirmed and held his breath when Hank kissed him just below the ear was worth taking the time to discover. Hank would have to remember that one.

“Please Hank?” Connor's voice was almost a sigh.

Hank groaned and rested his forehead against Connor's shoulder. “You shouldn't be able to sound like that,” he grumbled. The quiet, pleading desperation had gone straight to Hank's groin.

He looked up again at Connor's heavy lidded eyes and flushed lips, and pressed another slow kiss to them. His tongue pressed in to Connor's mouth as his hands worked to push Connor's trousers down. Connor's hands came in to help, pushing at his own and at Hank's until the cloth became a tangle around their legs and they both wriggled and kicked to be free of them without having to pull apart.

“Use the moisturiser,” Connor said, quietly. “It'll take more than you think.”

A wash of nervousness ran up Hank's spine. Connor wasn't an impressive physical specimen, but he was fit and toned. He clearly worked out, not to build muscle but to stay healthy, and in good condition to go haring after escaping suspects. Hank wasn't in the worst shape for his age, but he knew he could be better.

He reached for the bottle Connor had dropped on the nightstand, and forced a few squirts out of the pump, then gave it an extra two just for good measure. It looked like a lot, but that was what Connor had said, so Hank wasn't going to argue.

Connor spread his legs around Hank and bent his knees, keeping his eyes locked on Hank's face. Hank saw his own nervousness echoed back at him in Connor's eyes. He kept his eyes on Connor's face as he reached between his legs and back, until he touched bare skin. Hank drew his fingers over the outside first, getting used to the softness and the warmth, and the pleats and folds that led to Connor's rim.

Connor closed his eyes as Hank brushed his fingers over his entrance. Entrance, Jesus, Hank found himself thinking, it was an exit if anything, and yet here he was, slowly starting to slide his finger inside, slicked up with hand cream so that it wouldn't hurt.

Connor exhaled slowly as Hank pushed his finger in as far as it would go. Inside, Connor was warm and indescribably soft. Hank rolled his finger around, feeling the soft folds of intimate muscle relaxing around him. It was intoxicating.

“You okay?” he asked Connor.

Connor inhaled again, slowly, before he answered. “Yes. I can take more, you don't have to stop there.”

“Jesus Christ,” Hank muttered. Nothing Connor had ever said had ever sounded so filthy to his ears. He leaned down and pressed another kiss to Connor's mouth, trailing down to his neck and shoulder once more as he withdrew his hand, and then went back in with more fingers.

Connor inhaled sharply through his nose, and Hank's fingers were squeezed briefly before they were released. He worked them in and out of Connor, fucking him shallowly with his fingers and taking care to spread as much of the makeshift lubricant around as he could. Connor's arms wrapped over him as he worked.

“Oh, Hank.”

Fuck he shouldn't sound that good. The sigh, the quiet, restrained pleasure, the relief, as if Connor had longed for this in his filthiest and unlikeliest fantasies just as much as Hank had. “You're too much,” Hank hissed against his ear.

“You're not even inside me yet,” Connor reminded him, with a hint of teasing in his voice.

Hank pulled back to look Connor in the eyes. His breathing was slow, and steady, but there was an edge of breathless wanting to it that Hank could enjoy far too much given the chance. “Are you ready?” he asked. It didn't seem as if he'd done much. A few fingers, a lot of moisturiser, some thrusting. Was that enough?

Connor nodded. “Yes,” he answered. It was such a simple reply.

Hank withdrew his hand and took a few more pumps of hand cream. Connor shifted under him, placing his hands on Hank's shoulders. Hank slathered the moisturiser over his cock and then held himself as he found his position against Connor's body. “You're sure?” he asked, one final time.

Connor smiled at him. “Don't stop unless I tell you to,” he reiterated, “even if you think you should.”

Hank's brow furrowed. “What does that mean?” he asked.

Connor kept the same, lust-filled smile. “That it isn't pure pleasure,” he said, gently but a little matter-of-factly for Hank's tastes, “but I'll tell you if I need you to stop, or wait.”

Hank hesitated. “I don't want to hurt you,” he said.

Connor slid his hands up Hank's shoulders and locked them around the back of his neck. He wrapped his legs around Hank's thighs for good measure, too. “You won't,” he promised, “I just might need you to slow down if it gets uncomfortable.”

Hank wasn't keen on the sound of that either, but it was at least better than pain. He felt Connor's legs and arms drawing him closer, urging him to slip inside at last. Hank surrendered to the moment and pressed down to take Connor's mouth in a deep and penetrating kiss, which he maintained as he began to slide himself in.

The feeling of Connor opening up around him, soft, and hot, and welcoming took Hank's breath away. Nothing had ever felt this good. Connor gave a soft grunt into Hank's mouth as the head of Hank's cock slipped inside him, and then he readjusted his legs, locking his ankles behind Hank's back.

Hank slid in further by slow degrees. Connor's body yielded to him, enveloping him in slippery heat. He felt more than heard Connor take a sharp breath through his nose, and then let it out slowly. The steady meeting of their tongues was disturbed as Connor froze.

Hank stopped. He wasn't more than a couple of inches in.

“Don't stop,” Connor hissed, his head arching back and his mouth pulling away from Hank's.

Hank hesitated for a split second, and then braced himself and pushed in a little further. Connor relaxed and gasped. “Keep going,” he urged, “please.”

Hank buried himself inside Connor slowly. Connor's insides flexed and squeezed and relaxed as he did, and Connor gave quiet, erotic little gasps as Hank continued to push his way inside him. “You feel so good,” he groaned against Connor's ear. If he'd had any inkling that Connor could feel this good he'd have kissed him that first night on the sofa.

“So do you,” Connor answered, his fingers digging briefly into Hank's back. “Is that all of you?”

Hank couldn't help but grin. It was good to hear Connor enjoying himself too. “Almost,” he answered. He pressed his hips forward that final inch, until he was flush with Connor's body. Connor's thighs rested at Hank's hips.

“Shit, you're bigger than I'd realised,” Connor hissed, but it was a pleasured hiss. He opened his eyes at last to meet and hold Hank's gaze. “Give me a moment.”

Hank wrapped his arms under Connor's shoulders, bracing his weight in the bed. “You like that, don't you?” he asked. It was always good to hear that someone you were deep inside thought you felt big.

Something in Connor's eyes and voice was soft when he answered, “Mostly because it's you.”

That softness invaded Hank's own chest. He looked down at Connor and felt a wash of affection flood through him. Three words sprang to Hank's tongue but he bit them back and swallowed them down. Instead he busied his tongue with taking Connor's mouth once more, pressing unspoken words into it in the dim, optimistic hope that he might hear them said one day.

They kissed for what felt like an age, with Hank pressed deep inside Connor. Connor's legs squeezed around his back, urging him to start moving, and Hank took the instruction, drawing back almost as slowly as he'd pressed in.

Connor's fingers dug into his shoulder, and he gasped into Hank's mouth. It was a pleasured gasp, one that was all satisfied sigh. Hank pushed back in again to another sound from Connor, a soft grunt that came from low in his throat. His legs tightened around Hank's back, and guided his rhythm as he began to fuck Connor in slow, gentle movements.

Connor broke away from kissing him first, pressing his head back into the bed as he groaned in a way that was entirely too good to Hank's ears. One of his hands left Hank's back and slid between their bodies.

Of course. Connor probably couldn't get off from being fucked alone no matter how good it felt. “Sorry,” Hank breathed, lost in his own shivering pleasure and the softness of Connor's body wrapped around him. He reached his hand between them to grasp Connor's cock.

“No,” Connor protested. Hank let him go. “I'll finish too quickly if you do it,” Connor explained, in a breathless rush.

Hank smiled and buried his face against Connor's throat again, kissing at the spot below his ear. He didn't have words any more, there were just the gasped breaths and slick noises of his and Connor's movements filling the room.

He held on as long as he could, letting the feeling of Connor consume him slowly. When he came it was with a shiver and a jerk. His hips locked, pressing him deep inside Connor as the best orgasm of his life washed through him. He gave a few last, slow thrusts as he rode out the final waves and then he stilled.

Connor arched under him, his legs unlocking as he gave a small cry. Then he collapsed back into the bed, breathless and flushed, his skin glittering with sweat.

Hank looked down at him. He'd just fucked his DI, his injured DI, and jeopardised both their careers, and he knew the moment Connor's brown eyes looked back up at him that he'd do it all again tomorrow, given the chance.

He leaned down and pressed a breathless kiss to Connor's lips. With a roll of his hips he pulled himself out of Connor, and then settled himself down on top of him. They were sticky and sweaty, and probably smelly, but Hank didn't care. Connor looked amazing in his well fucked state. His hair was sticking to his forehead, his cheeks were bright pink, and he had the dazed, wide eyed look of someone that couldn't string a sentence together in their head.

Hank wrapped him up in his arms. “That was incredible,” he sighed.

Connor breathed deeply but evenly, as if he was recovering from an endurance run. Eventually he agreed, “It was.”

“When I can walk again I'll go and wash up,” Hank added. He wasn't going to make Connor sleep in the gross bit, either, so a change of sheets was in order.

Connor just nodded and rested back in the bed. He looped his arms around Hank's back and admitted, “I might need a few minutes.”

Hank chuckled and tucked his head in against Connor's shoulder. His heart started to slow, and his breath returned by degrees. It would be all too easy to just close his eyes and fall asleep on top of Connor like this, especially when Connor began idly curling his fingers through the ends of Hank's hair. It felt nice to be held, and soothed.

“Don't fall asleep on me,” Connor murmured, close to Hank's ear.

Hank gave a slight huff. “I won't,” he assured him, and then lifted his head. Connor looked soft and happy; his lips curved into a gentle, subtle smile. Hank pressed down to kiss him one more time, intending to make it a sweet and chaste peck on the lips. Instead he found himself giving in to the temptation to sweep his tongue into Connor's mouth, kissing him with lazy luxury.

Connor shifted beneath him, raising one knee and dragging his leg along the outside of Hank's thigh. Hank drew back at last and pushed himself up, off Connor and into a sitting position. “I'm gonna go to the bathroom,” he said, and then, because he couldn't silence the doubts that circled in the back of his mind, he asked, “you're sleeping in this bed, right?”

Connor sat himself up, slowly. He no longer had the dressings on his side, Hank realised. One pink, puckered wound marred his flesh. The other was bigger, and still bore black stitches criss-crossing the skin. “Yes,” he answered. Hank caught the look of uncertainty before Connor added, “Unless you don't want me to?”

Hank brought his hand up to Connor's cheek, curling around into the hair at the back of his head again. “I want you to,” he confirmed.

He left Connor on the bed and headed, naked, to his bathroom. The reality of what they'd just done gnawed at Hank's mind, but he squashed it down. He didn't want to ruin the moment for either of them. Connor wanted him, and he wanted Connor. They could work the rest out from there. Maybe Connor could go back to cyber crime and become a DCI there. Maybe he'd prefer to stay with Hank, and Markus and the others. Connor was the one with the most to lose, so he was the one that got to make the decisions.

Maybe he'd transfer to Cacciatore's team. That'd upset a few people, and entertain a few others. He had friends there too, so maybe Connor wouldn't hate that idea.

Hank returned to his bedroom to find Connor was already starting to change the bedding. “I'll do that,” Hank told him, a little annoyed that Connor had pre-empted him so now it would look like he hadn't thought of it himself. Shooing Connor out to the bathroom gave Hank chance to finish remaking the bed.

He was wincing at the time when Connor returned. It was nearly two in the morning already, which meant Hank had about four and a half hours to sleep before he had to drag himself in to work again. That was going to suck.

“Something wrong?” Connor asked, turning off the light and slipping into the freshly made bed.

Hank settled in as well, pulling the sheets over himself. “Just not looking forward to my alarm.”

The mattress shifted as they both got comfortable. When things went still and quiet once more, Connor asked, in the darkness, “But you're not having any regrets?”

It was uncomfortable to hear that uncertainty from Connor, as if Hank shouldn't be offering up prayers of thanks to any and every god that might be listening just for the fact Connor wanted to be around him. “I just screwed the brains out of a hot twenty-something,” he pointed out, “what do I have to regret?”

“You're very confident in your performance,” Connor noted.

Hank grinned into the darkness. The dazed and breathless look on Connor's face was going to stay with him for years. “You couldn't talk,” he pointed out, turning towards Connor even though he could just make out his grey outline in the darkness, “because I screwed your brains out.” Then he sighed, happily, “And I'll do it all again tomorrow, if you let me.”

Connor didn't answer, but the mattress shifted and creaked as he moved. Hank wondered if he was getting up again, then he felt a hand creeping across his chest, stroking over the skin gingerly. Hank captured Connor's hand with his own, and laced their fingers together. Connor came to rest, curled up along Hank's side. “Is that a promise?”

Hank slid his arm under Connor, wrapping it over his back and tugging him close. He brought Connor's hand up to his mouth and kissed the back of his hand. “Yeah,” he answered.

*

Hank's alarm was not the sort of sound that gently lulled someone back to wakefulness. It wasn't a gentle cacophony of bells rising in volume, or a series of short buzzes designed to intrude dreams and lure the sleeper back to the waking world. Those kinds of alarms got snoozed, or turned off, or slept through, especially when the person they were meant to wake had only gotten to sleep due to copious quantities of alcohol.

Hank's alarm was a shrill, urgent, shrieking screech of a noise, somewhere between a fire alarm and a siren in its effect. It wrenched people from their slumber by screaming so suddenly down their ear that their heart stopped and their brain needed a moment to process what the everliving fuck that sound was, thus forcing them into a state of wakefulness so absolute there was no going back.

You didn't snooze this alarm. Not unless you were a masochist.

Hank stabbed the snooze button. Connor's entire body flinched as the sound started, and then stopped. He was wrapped around Hank's back, his face in the nape of Hank's neck, one arm nestled around him, one crooked leg resting between Hank's own. Hank was being hugged like an oversized teddy bear.

Awful alarm aside, it was probably the cutest thing he'd ever woken up to.

He tangled his fingers with Connor's and closed his eyes again. Maybe he could call in sick and spend the day in bed gently fucking Connor's brains out again, assuming they were back in place by now. Hell, if he told Fowler he was taking the day off to screw a cute brunet it would have the bonus of being the truth, except no one would believe it.

“You should get up,” Connor murmured from behind him, his voice thick with sleep. He paid lip service to the idea without, Hank couldn't help but notice, making any move to untangle himself from around Hank's body.

“Don't wanna,” Hank growled, in reply.

Kisses pressed to the back of Hank's neck and migrated along his shoulder. The sensation sent a shiver down Hank's spine that woke up his body even when his brain was determined to go back to sleep. “I don't want you to either,” Connor sighed, “but you still should.”

Hank sighed unhappily. It earned him another soft kiss between his shoulder blades, and then Connor rolled over, away from him. He tried to keep his hold on Connor's hand for a little longer, but surrendered to the inevitable.

The alarm went off again. Hank turned it off with a wince and sat up. Connor lay on his back between the pillows, his eyes closed. His hair was wild about his face and he looked exhausted, but at least he didn't have to get up.

His eyes opened as Hank bent down towards him, and pressed a soft, morning-breathy kiss to his lips. Connor's breath wasn't the sweetest either, but when you had the chance to kiss good morning to someone twenty years younger than you that wanted to be your big spoon, that kind of shit didn't matter. “Stay in bed,” Hank ordered, as he pulled away again. “I can make my own coffee.”

Connor sighed and rubbed at his face with one hand. It did nothing to help the situation with his hair. “Your lunch is in the fridge,” he said, quietly.

Something inside Hank's chest went soft. Connor had made it clear last night that he wanted to go back to his own home, and it had sucked and left the air tense and awkward, and he'd still gone out of his way to make Hank's lunch.

He leaned down again and pressed a kiss to Connor's forehead. Connor cracked open one eye to look at him, bleary, and drowsy, and he was definitely getting another hour in before he got up, or so Hank hoped. “I don't deserve you,” he said, softly.

Connor closed his eye again and turned onto his side to go back to sleep. “Yes you do,” he answered.

Hank left him and headed to the bathroom. Brushing his teeth and his hair was as much as the world was going to get out of him this morning, so he could at least not look and smell like he'd just crawled out of bed. When he'd dressed he ventured into the kitchen. Sumo trotted after him, looking confused at the absence of Connor, and Hank topped up his bowl while the kettle boiled.

Double strength coffee, with double the sugar. It tasted vile, but it might get Hank through the drive to work. If he had to, he could sleep at his desk. He remembered to grab the carefully packed lunch from the fridge before he left, and paused by the bedroom to give Connor one last glance before he went. He looked to be asleep on his good side, one pale, naked shoulder sticking above the sheets. He'd migrated onto Hank's side of the bed.

Hank let that knowledge keep him warm as he ventured out into the dark, Winter morning.

Hank actually felt awake once he got to work, although his eyes stung. He sat at his desk with his head in his hands, desperately wishing he could be back at home in his own bed. Another hour wouldn't be enough. Two might be a start. If he got another four he might be fully functional.

He realised Markus was in his office when a mug of coffee clicked as it was placed on his desk. Hank looked up to find himself being examined critically. Markus wordlessly offered out a box of paracetamol. “Connor said you needed them,” he said, curiosity stirred with a dash of concern overlaid his words. “If you're sick maybe you should go home?”

Hank took the packet of paracetamol and popped two slim white caplets from their plastic packaging before he spoke. “I'll be fine,” he answered, washing down the tablets with a mouthful of coffee. Markus hadn't made Hank a coffee in months, since Connor had joined them, and it was strange how different his cup of coffee tasted to one that Connor had made, despite it being exactly the same recipe. “It's just a headache.”

“Okay,” Markus replied, carefully. Hank realised, dimly, that he was being mistaken for hungover. “Payton will be in this afternoon,” Markus pressed. “Are you going to be up to it?”

Shit. Payton. The suspect they needed to re-question. Hank had forgotten all about that. He groaned and rubbed at his face with both of his hands. “I'll be fine,” he repeated. “I'm going to trust you to take the lead, but I'll be there to fall back on if you run into problems.”

Markus continued to look unsure. Hank couldn't blame him; to his eyes his commanding officer had rolled in badly hungover, and if Hank tried to explain that he was just badly sleep deprived, it wouldn't be believed. “All right,” he said, quietly. “I'll let you know when Payton is ready to be questioned.”

Hank nodded. He had a headache directly behind his right eye, and he rubbed at his temple and squeezed his eyes shut, willing the painkillers to kick in faster.

When Markus had left the office he pulled his phone out and typed in a quick message to Connor: You're supposed to be sleeping.

After a few minutes a message came back. I did, and when I woke up I told Markus you were coming down with something but were too stubborn to stay home.

That would be why Markus had appeared with painkillers and mentioned going back home, then. He brought me coffee and painkillers.

Hank could picture Connor reading the message. He was probably showered and dressed by now, too.

He mentioned you were scheduled to interview a suspect. I suggested he keep you hydrated and that you might benefit from paracetamol.

Hank frowned at the words on his screen. The throbbing pain behind his eye was dulling to be bearable, but it was definitely still present. Markus telling Connor about the interview today sounded dangerously close to letting Connor get involved with work matters when he was on sick leave.

So you're trying to nurse me by proxy?

It was cute, flattering even, that Connor worried so much when he was the one off sick.

I am at least 50% responsible for your current condition.

Hank smiled at the message. He typed his reply, hit send, and then put his phone down.

And 1000% worth it.




Part Two