Copperverse: Interlude - Getting Home Part 2

[chlorhexidine]

Part One

By lunch time Hank had consumed a medically inadvisable amount of caffeine, as well as another dose of painkillers, and eaten the leftover chicken Connor had carefully packed for him last night, so he was feeling something approaching his usual self. Admittedly his usual self fell somewhere around a five out of ten on the wellness scale, but it was still an improvement. The throbbing pain behind his eye hadn't gone anywhere, but Hank had worked through worse.

“Kerry Payton is ready, sir.” Simon's head peeked through his office door. Hank looked up into blue eyes and blond hair, and then nodded.

“I'll be down in a minute,” he answered. “Is Markus there?”

Simon gave a nod. “Yes, sir.”

“Payton bring a lawyer?”

Simon winced before he answered, “I'm afraid so.”

Hank sighed. Getting information out of people that had lawyered up was like pulling teeth. Everyone had the right to representation and all that jazz, but lawyers made case progression a pain in the ass. “Great. Let's get this shit over with.” He just had to hope Markus could hold it together. At least Payton had only been a driver, and not one of the scumbags contacting criminals that needed to skip the country.

He followed Simon to the interview suite, and found Markus waiting in the video room. “What's your plan?” he asked, walking in and closing the door behind him. The screens showed Payton, discussing with his lawyer. The microphones were turned off, or at least the speakers were at the moment.

Markus looked momentarily hesitant, and then determination crossed his face. “We know they were paid in bitcoin,” he said, “but we don't know how they were contacted by that person for work.”

Hank nodded. Investigate their lines of communication and try to uncover another lead. “Okay,” he said, thoughtfully, and then turned his attention to Simon. “Connor drew up a list a couple of weeks back,” he told him, “of rest stations experiencing camera problems. Print that off, and I want you in here with that and the list of names we haven't TIE'd. Anything he says,” he added, pointing to Payton on the camera, “that matches anything on either list, I wanna know.”

Simon gave a sharp nod, a “Yes, sir,” and then span around to exit the room and grab the information Hank wanted.

Hank looked at Markus. “Get him to walk you through his job,” he told him, “what kind of truck he drives, where he stops, where he crosses the border, where he stops in France, what he does once he's there. We still don't know what happens once they're across the border, but people like this hate having empty vehicles moving around.”

“Well, it's not empty,” Markus began.

“It's empty of their cargo,” Hank maintained. “Taking criminals out is just a side hustle. Could be drugs, could be asylum seekers, could be counterfeit nikes for all we know, but they're bringing something in on the way back.”

Markus tilted his head. It was so much like Connor that Hank wondered if he'd learned it from him. “You think we should go for the main business? He might not know what he's transporting if he's paid enough not to care.”

Hank grinned at Markus, despite the pain behind his eye. “But he'll know he gets paid.”

They waited until Simon returned before moving into the interview room. The whole business of stating names for the tape took a few minutes, which gave Hank chance to eye up Payton, and his lawyer. The lawyer was court appointed counsel, which was good because it meant they were overworked and would rather go for a plea deal than have to mount a full defence of an obviously guilty client. Payton had been caught in a raid, along with a bunch of people preparing to skip the country, and he'd been paid the bitcoin equivalent of eight grand by some unknown middleman.

Hank thought he was getting stiffed if eight grand was his full payment when each of the people they'd arrested had paid nearly five to travel. Payton was a caucasian man, overweight in the way that a lot of long distance drivers approaching middle age often were, not that Hank had much room to criticise in that department, with an ex-wife and two teenage kids. He also had the morose air of somebody that knew they were going down, which was good, both because he was, and because if he thought giving people up would mean he could bargain his way to a lighter sentence then he would. Connor hated offering plea deals. Hank didn't give a shit if it got the case closed.

“Would you like to make a statement before we begin?” Markus offered. They often did, and the statements could be summed up as 'I don't know nuffink guvna', and it didn't stop the police questioning anyway, but Hank still hated when they did statements because every answer after that invariably consisted of 'no comment'.

“Not at this time,” said the lawyer. Hank did his level best to keep his relief off his face.

“Okay, Mr Payton,” Markus began, “walk me through a job for you. How do you get assigned work?”

Payton shrugged. “Fleet manager,” he answered, dully. “Tells you where you're going, gives you your itinerary. Delivery routes, drop offs, that shit.”

“Who gave you your itinerary for your last job?” Markus asked.

“Chris Lane,” came the answer.

“Is that who told you to be at the welcome break truck stop on the thirtieth of October?” Markus pushed.

Payton's mouth went small, as if he'd bitten into something sour. “No.”

“Who did?”

“No comment.”

Hank did his best not to roll his eyes. The lawyer looked equally unhappy with the 'no comment' shit starting, but she also didn't push her client to say anything more helpful to their enquiries.

Markus moved on, as if he'd heard 'no comment' a hundred times and barely noticed it any more. It was entirely possible that Payton didn't know who'd told him to be there, at least not in any way that he could give a name.

“Was the welcome break on your itinerary for that journey?” Markus asked.

“No comment.”

No, then, Hank thought, keeping his head down. He scribbled himself a small note. Off route? It would be a tedious line of enquiry, but it would help narrow down some of the ones they already had going.

“So what's a normal job for you?” Markus asked, still not reacting. “Tell me where you start, where you break, where you hit the border.”

Payton glanced at his lawyer. She seemed singularly uninterested in rescuing his ass from the questioning, so he turned to Markus and answered. “Start at the depot,” he said, “pick up your truck, already loaded, take the M20 through Kent, get to Dover, get on the Ferry.”

“No stops along the way?” Markus asked. “It's not a long journey.”

Payton shook his head. “We stop when we've been running back and forth. Shifts are in days. First break is usually over the border.”

“So if you'd done your last shift and you'd stopped back here, where would you have stopped?”

Payton shrugged. “Swanley, maybe, or Thurrock.”

Markus glanced towards Hank. Hank gestured that Markus should continue, and then began to thoughtfully tug at the hairs on his chin. Swanley and Thurrock weren't small, and places like that kept going because they were a safe place for truck drivers to stop for a while.

“Where would your cargo be coming to in England?” Markus asked.

Payton's upper lip curled. “Anywhere. Depends what it is.”

“Have you ever used less well known stops for your breaks?” Markus enquired, leaning forward slightly.

Payton shrugged, but it was an uncomfortable shrug, and he glanced at his lawyer again before he spoke. “Tachy says you gotta break, you stop at the nearest place.”

Hank nodded. They already had Payton's tachograph records somewhere, someone will have dug those out. Maybe they could find out why he was off his prescribed route that way, too.

“Is it the same in France, too?” Markus pushed.

Payton shrugged, and remained silent.

“For the benefit of the recording, Mr Payton just shrugged,” Hank muttered.

Markus fixed Payton with a steely stare that he must have been practising. Hank could only imagine how unsettling it was having two odd eyes boring into your skull. “Have you ever been paid to transport illegal cargo across the border?” Payton hesitated, glancing at his lawyer again, and Markus added, “I'd like to remind you, before you answer, that we already know about the bitcoin transactions.”

Payton's lawyer looked at him and made a small gesture with her hand. It looked, to Hank, a lot like a mother urging a naughty five year old to tell the truth.

Payton huffed. “Yeah.”

“How many times?”

“I don't know.”

Hank's eyebrows raised despite himself. 'I don't know' sounded like many, many times. Enough for someone to lose count.

“We can track transactions through bitcoin,” Markus warned him. “In fact, we can identify eleven separate times that you've received cryptocurrency this year. That's one job per month. Did you lose count?”

Payton huffed and looked away, back to his lawyer again. She looked to him and raised her eyebrows.

“How did they get in touch with you?” Markus pressed. “They must have had some way of telling you where to be, aside from hoping your tachograph said it was break time.”

Payton looked at his lawyer again. She frowned, and then turned to both of them. “Can I have some time with my client?”

Hank nodded, reluctantly. “Sure,” he said, turning to the tape and stopping it, with an, “interview suspended at thirteen hundred and seven hours.” He looked back at the lawyer, “When you come up with your statement, we wanna know how he was contacted, any names he knows whether it's handlers or other drivers, and whether he's transported anything into the country as well as out, and what he was moving.”

The lawyer looked Hank dead in the eyes. “Is there a deal to be made?”

Hank shrugged. “Maybe. Give us the information that gets us to the people running this shitshow and we'll push for minimum sentencing, less with good behaviour and you could be out in a couple of years.”

The lawyer nodded. “Thank you.”

Hank grinned at her, although he wasn't feeling especially cheerful so it didn't reach his eyes. “No problem.”

He and Markus left the room and checked in with Simon. “Anything?” Hank asked.

Simon shook his head. “Christopher Lane works for the haulage company, no previous convictions. Thurrock services is on Connor's list of suspect locations though. Their maintenance reports half their cameras have been down for six months, but it's low priority to fix.”

Hank wanted to pat Connor on the shoulder. “Okay,” he said, nodding. “I want a manned watch there, see if we can catch anything suspicious going on.”

“Sir,” Simon replied, with a nod.

Hank clapped Markus on the shoulder. “You did good,” he told him. “Now let's see what the lawyer brings us.”

It took an hour, and another cup of coffee before the lawyer and Payton issued their statement. Hank read over it with one eye closed. The throbbing pain in his head was getting worse as the painkillers wore off again. It was a good statement as far as Hank was concerned; Payton's lawyer was obviously keen on securing a deal for him.

“We haven't found a burner phone,” Markus commented, reading it over after Hank.

Hank fought against a yawn. “Ask him where he keeps it,” he said. “Not that it'll be much use except for corroborating his statement. It's not like the people contacting him will be doing it off their iPhone Xs, or whatever it is now.”

“The fourteen,” Markus replied, quietly. Hank just shrugged. His phone was a Samsung he'd had for the past six years, and he'd only got that because he'd dropped his previous one and it had smashed. “I can push for forensics to look for the chat client,” Markus said, continuing down the statement, “but they're already inundated.”

Hank murmured his agreement. Forensics would take time, and wouldn't be able to do much more than pull old logs. Using the information once they had it would be harder. “We'd still need a cyber nerd to make use of it,” he muttered. “I might have to make a few calls. Get the message to forensics to tell them what we're looking for.”

Markus nodded, “I'll give Simon and Josh the names and locations, too. They can do the implication and elimination legwork.”

Hank grumbled, but didn't object. So long as the work got done he didn't really care who did it, and he didn't get the impression Markus was trying to dodge jobs. “I got a phone call to make,” he said, “and then I'm gonna head off early. Call me if you need anything.”

“You okay?” Markus asked, giving him a concerned look complete with headtilt that was so thoroughly Connor Hank could have laughed. Those two really had been spending more time together than he'd realised.

“I just need a hot shower and an early night,” he answered.

Markus left him, and Hank picked up his phone to dial Marius' number. When the phone was picked up on the fourth ring he didn't wait for Larxene to do her usual greeting. “Is Marius free?”

Larxene made a disappointed whine. “Don't you want to talk to me, Hank?”

“Not really,” Hank answered, “I've already got a headache.”

To Larxene's credit, she huffed with laughter and then said, “I'll transfer you, but if it's about the case he doesn't have anything new to tell you.”

Hank shook his head at the phone, and waited for Marius to pick up.

“What do you want now?”

Hank raised an eyebrow. Marius didn't sound harassed, just mildly annoyed, which was his baseline. “It's just a quick one,” he said. “Connor had a coin in his jacket pocket, he wants it back if you don't need it.”

“Surely a detective inspector isn't that hard up that he needs two quid back urgently?”

Hank wrinkled his nose. Explaining the weird quirks of Connor to someone was tricky, sometimes. Explaining why Hank was entertaining it was even trickier. “He uses it for magic tricks,” he said, wearily. “You can't fob him off with any old two pound coin either, he knows.” As Hank had discovered in the past, after confiscating the wretched thing and accidentally handing Connor back the wrong one at the end of the day. Connor had spotted the mix up instantly.

“And it's just a normal coin?” Marius asked, sceptically.

Hank shrugged. “As far as I know.” Connor could do his tricks with any two pound coin you gave him, so Hank was reasonably sure it wasn't a trick coin. “He just really likes that particular one.”

This statement was met with an elongated silence from the other end of the phone, which Marius finally broke by saying, “That is some of the saddest bullshit I've ever heard.”

“I know,” Hank agreed. At least once the silver dollar and quarters arrived Connor would have a reason to be protective over his coins. “But he asked, so I said I'd ask.”

“He still staying with you?”

“For now,” Hank confirmed.

“How much longer?” Marius asked.

Hank fought the urge to tell Marius that it was forever, or that it was none of his business, but he bit the words back. “Don't know,” he answered. Connor might not want to live with him on a permanent basis when they'd screwed all of once. That kind of thing was crazy in a new relationship, but they'd also known each other for months, so maybe it wasn't that weird. Hank no longer knew. It felt at one and the same time as if Connor had just arrived in his life, drawing back the curtains and revealing a whole world of feelings and possibilities, and also that he'd known him forever. “I haven't really had the time to take him back to his flat.”

Marius sighed down the phone at him. “I'll see about the coin,” he conceded.

“Thanks,” Hank replied. “Let me know if you can get it.”

“Let me know when you stop being his helicopter parent.”

“Bye Marius,” Hank replied, pointedly, and barely waited for Marius to respond before he put the phone down.

Hank squeezed his eyes shut and rested his forehead in his hands. His headache was coming back with a vengeance again. It had only been three hours since his last dose of paracetamol, and in the back of his mind he could hear Connor warning him against taking doses too closely together.

He pulled out his phone and fired off a message to Connor. On my way home, head's killing me.

*

When Hank arrived home Connor wasn't there. Neither was Sumo. It was strange and unsettling to return to a completely empty house, but it was also comforting to see signs of Connor's presence. A book lay, bookmarked roughly a quarter of the way through on the coffee table. Hank eyed the title, and then grinned to himself. A History of Jazz, third edition. Trust Connor to decide to research something he knew somebody else was into.

There was also a half eaten marrowbone by Sumo's bed that Hank was pretty confident hadn't been there yesterday. A quick glance in the fridge told Hank that Connor had already made plans for dinner, too. A bowl of chipped potatoes, and another bowl of some sauce or other sat, chilling next to some fresh fish.

Hank grabbed a towel and headed for the shower. Maybe by the time he was done Connor would be back from walking Sumo, and the hot water might relieve some of the stiffness and aches that were setting in around Hank's shoulders and back.

He spent a long time under the water stream, letting it beat against his skin. When he turned the water off he could hear sounds in the house, suggesting Connor had got home. He hadn't heard him come in, not that it mattered.

Hank wrapped himself in a towel and poked his head into the lounge. Connor was wearing a slouch necked jumper with dark jeans, and his cheeks were nipped pink by the cold outside, giving Sumo a thorough ear massage. He couldn't have been in for long.

“I got your message,” Connor said, rising to his feet. “How are you feeling?”

“Like I've been backed over a couple of times by a truck,” Hank answered, honestly. It seemed to have paid particular attention to his head, too. “You?”

Connor's lopsided smile dug straight into Hank's chest and curled its fingers around his heart. It was such a warm, soft look on him that Hank wanted to save it, and keep it there forever. “I'll live,” he answered.

Hank nodded, and swallowed. He just wanted to drag Connor into his arms, but they had all day for that, and all night, and all week. “I might catch an hour,” he said, keeping a grip on his towel. Connor's eyes seemed to flick over his chest and arms, and Hank wasn't sure if it was a good thing or not, although the soft smile didn't move.

“After twenty minutes your body falls into a deep sleep and waking up in the middle of that can make you feel worse,” Connor replied, as if the fact was bursting to the tip of his tongue and he couldn't help himself. “The optimum time for a nap is twenty minutes, or ninety to complete a full REM cycle.”

Apparently, the human sleep cycle was another one of those things that Connor had random facts memorised for, to regurgitate at people when they hadn't asked. Like with the effects of alcohol, cigarettes, sugar, fatty diets, and most other things that were fun in life. Hank rolled his eyes, but couldn't restrain his fond smile. “You're such a fucking nerd,” he told Connor. And Marius thought Hank was the one being a helicopter parent. Helicopter lover? Was that a thing? Connor seemed to be making it one. “An hour and a half, then.”

Connor's smile became a pout at the ribbing despite the fondness of it. “I'll wake you,” he said.

Hank nodded at him. “Thanks.”

He changed into fresh boxers to sleep. The pain behind his eyes faded away in a darkened, quiet room with his eyes closed, and he wasn't sure how long he remained awake. It didn't feel like any time at all before a gentle hand was shaking his shoulder.

“Hank?”

“Mngh.”

The hand moved from his shoulder to brush at his hair, pushing it away from his face. “You really shouldn't sleep any longer.”

Hank groaned, and kept his eyes closed as he huffed. “I'm awake,” he grumbled, turning his face into his pillow. He became aware of a disgusting sogginess in said pillow. He must have made for a really attractive sight when Connor came in to wake him up.

“Good,” Connor replied. “I'm going to start dinner. If you're not up in five minutes I'll send Sumo in.”

Hank lifted his head from the pillow just enough to crack one eye open and look at Connor. “Do your worst.” Sumo was a useless lump for things like that. The most he'd do if the house got broken into would be to pant at an intruder and lie in their way.

“Don't challenge me,” Connor warned, his lilting amusement lifting the words.

Hank grabbed his pillow and lifted his head to flip it over so he could bury his face into the dry side. The headache wasn't completely gone, but it was now a dull throb that stayed on the edge of his awareness, rather than a pain that felt like Norman Bates was re-enacting the shower scene directly behind his eye. If Connor was cooking he probably had half an hour or so before his presence was actually required.

He'd almost started to drift off again when he became dimly aware of something light landing on the bed near his feet. It was swiftly followed by a tremendous clatter and heavy scrabble of paws on the floor, followed by a sound that Hank could only envision as seventy two kilos of fur and muzzle getting airborne.

Sumo landed on the bed and trampled over Hank's legs as he sought to retrieve whatever Connor had thrown for him. Hank yelped, and fought to extricate himself from under Sumo's enormous bulk when Sumo was far more interested in what turned out to be another damned pig's ear. “I told you to stop spoiling my dog,” he accused, as he squeezed out from under Sumo and sat up on the edge of the bed.

“I told you five minutes,” replied Connor, a lopsided smile on his face.

“Little shit,” Hank hissed, as Connor winked at him and then left the doorway, presumably to go and start cooking. Despite himself, Hank couldn't help but like that about Connor. He should be annoyed by it, should be pissed that Connor just had his massive hairball of a mutt leap onto him to make sure he was up, but the playfulness of it was endearing.

He patted Sumo on the head, and reminded him he was a, “Traitor,” before shooing him off the bed and pulling some clothes on. It was just sweatpants and a hooded top; the things he dragged on to walk Sumo on a Saturday morning, but it was better than presenting himself to the kitchen in just his boxers. It'd be a shame to put Connor off his food like that.

He paused by the bathroom to wash any remaining dried drool off his face, and then made his way to the lounge. There was a coffee waiting for him. Hank picked it up, took a drink – just barely not enough sugar again – and then put it back down and made his way into the kitchen. Connor was busily heating up oil, with his back to Hank.

Hank crept up behind him and slowly slid his hands around Connor's waist. Connor didn't flinch, or try to pull away, so Hank moved in closer and folded his arms across Connor's stomach. His heart skipped when Connor leaned back into him, ever so slightly.

“So what's today's masterpiece?” Hank asked, his mouth close to Connor's ear.

“Beer battered fish, with chips,” Connor answered, without taking his eyes off the pan of oil.

Hank tugged Connor a little tighter against himself and leaned his head forward so that his cheek was pressed against Connor's. “I could have gone out for that,” he pointed out, “and then you wouldn't have had to cook again.”

“I know,” Connor answered. Hank could feel Connor's jaw moving against his cheek as he spoke, “But this way I can control the fat and salt content.” He tilted his head away from Hank, and regarded him out of the corner of one eye, “And mine will be better.”

Hank chuckled softly at Connor's confidence. A few days ago he would have doubted that. After half a week of eating Connor's food, he knew Connor was right. “I bet it will,” he agreed. “You need me to do anything?”

“No,” Connor answered, as he always did.

Hank squeezed his arms around Connor. Knowing he could do that sent a shiver up his spine. Just yesterday he'd have restrained himself. He'd have thought about how much he wanted to hold Connor like this, but wouldn't have dared try. Now he could, and he could kiss him on the cheek before letting him go, too.

Connor dipped his head, looking away from Hank as a shy little smile crossed his lips at the kiss.

“Let me know if you change your mind,” Hank said, slipping away to head back to the lounge.

“I will,” Connor replied, his gaze and smile lingering as Hank pulled out of his sight.

Hank settled onto the sofa and nursed his cooling coffee. He felt better for having napped, Connor's obstinate way of forcing him to get up aside, but he could still feel a bone deep tiredness suffusing his joints, and his eyes. He was looking forward to going to bed tonight, preferably with Connor in his arms. He closed his eyes and leaned back on the sofa, listening to the sounds coming from the kitchen.

His knee was nudged, and Hank opened his eyes to find Connor looking down at him, bearing a plate. “You were falling asleep again.”

Hank sat himself up, and automatically took the plate from Connor. Apparently they were eating on the sofa together instead of at the kitchen table. Hank wasn't sure if that was a concession to his own exhaustion, or because Connor wanted to be nearer. He hoped it was the latter. “Well excuse me for not having my youthful vigour these days,” he muttered.

Connor sat down so close to him that their legs touched. Hank buried his smile. “You must have been a terror when you were younger, judging by the company you kept,” Connor commented.

Hank chuckled. He had a million memories and a thousand stories of those days, most of which would probably horrify Connor. “Yeah, we were,” he agreed. “Marius and I used to piss the bosses off whenever we were together, and then Braig joined so it got worse.” He cut the end off his battered fish. The batter was light and crispy, and the fish was flaky inside. “I was just a sergeant back then.”

“You were still young when you made DCI,” Connor pointed out. “Did you really never want to go further?”

Hank stuck the fish in his mouth and closed his eyes. He was really, really going to miss having Connor cook for him once he went back to work. He shook his head to answer the question. “Things changed,” he said, and swallowed before he continued, “over the years. More paperwork, more rules. Some of it's for the better, some of it's bullshit.” He shrugged before cutting off another bite of fish. “The higher up you go, the more bullshit you have to deal with, and the more hours you have to put in.”

Connor allowed the silence to settle for a moment, broken by the sound of their cutlery as they ate. Connor had deep fried the chips, too. Hank hadn't had deep fried chips made at home since the nineties when oven chips came into fashion. He'd forgotten how good they were. “It's a pity,” Connor said, eventually. “You'd have been good at it.”

Hank dismissed that notion with a grunt. “I didn't have the patience or the discipline for it, I'd have been terrible,” he argued, “but you?” He looked at Connor, and found Connor looking at him with wide, brown eyes. “You could go that far and further, Connor, and we need people like you in charge.”

“People with no life outside of the job?” Connor asked, his eyebrow raised and his tone teasing.

Hank scowled at him. He didn't appreciate having his past assumptions thrown back at him. “No,” he replied, firmly, “good coppers, that are also good people, and give a shit about the job and what the job means.”

Connor didn't meet Hank's eyes. “What if I'm happy where I am right now?”

Hank stared at him. “I've got seven years until I retire,” he said, “if you're still working under me when I do then something went very fucking wrong.” He could see Connor's pout in the little jut of his bottom lip. Hank sighed at him. He remembered what Marius had said; Connor had turned down a promotion opportunity to stay in trafficking. “If you don't make DCI young enough to burst Cacciatore's fucking ego bubble, I'm going to be pissed off with you.”

That, at least, aroused a smile from Connor. “I just like the way things are right now. I like our team.”

Hank shrugged. “So go for DCI in trafficking. You think I wouldn't recommend you? Or Fowler wouldn't?”

“I don't want to be given an opportunity I haven't earned on my own merits,” Connor began.

“You've got the ability,” Hank retorted, cutting Connor's objections off sharply, “a couple more years experience and you're a shoo-in. Maybe less if you get some good cases under your belt. You could make DCI before you hit thirty one and really upset Cacciatore.”

Connor sighed, but Hank could see the flattered smile at the corner of his mouth. “There is,” he began, “another factor to consider, now.”

Connor's eyes searched for Hank's without him having to turn his head too much. Hank suspected he knew exactly what Connor was about to bring up, but he waited for him to say it anyway.

“Last night,” he said, quietly, his eyes lowering briefly, then flicking back up to Hank's face as he said, “us, if there is an us.” His frown seemed to take over his entire body. Hank barely resisted reaching out to drag him into a hug.

“Do you want there to be an us?” Hank asked. Connor seemed nervous about addressing it; Was this just sex, or was this an actual relationship? Even Hank wasn't sure yet, so he could understand why Connor was wary.

“Yes,” Connor replied. Hank felt the word land in his chest. No hesitance, no questioning, no uncertain tiptoeing around the possibilities. Connor wanted a relationship with him.

“So do I,” Hank admitted, quietly. He liked Connor, he'd liked him for a while. He wasn't sure when that fondness for Connor as the slightly naïve but sharp as a tack transfer had become a fondness for Connor his direct subordinate officer and partner, and when that, in turn, had become this crushing affection for Connor the slightly awkward little shit with a desperate need for other's approval, but here he was.

“It's fraternisation,” Connor pointed out. “We could both lose our jobs, or at the least I'd be transferred back to cyber crime.”

Which Connor didn't want, obviously. Hank sighed. He didn't want Connor to have to choose between a relationship and his career, especially because Hank couldn't be sure he'd come out on top and while he'd resigned himself to that, briefly, it had sucked. “I've got seven years before I have to retire,” he pointed out, “but I could go in two, if I wanted.” He hadn't wanted early retirement. It wasn't that he didn't like the idea of never having to go to work again, it was just that he was set in his ways and being a copper was all he had left. Shit, that made him sound worse than Connor.

“I don't want you to do that,” Connor said, quietly. “I like working with you. I don't want to have to stop just because it's become something more.”

Hank smiled at the confession. Connor wanted to keep working with him, and he wanted to keep working with Connor. “Then I guess you're going to have to get used to breaking the rules,” he said, with a shrug.

“I suppose I will,” Connor murmured.

They finished eating. Hank, who was confident that this had been the best meal Connor had made for him yet, insisted that he leave the washing up. Connor in his own turn insisted that he be the one to walk Sumo. Hank tried to resist; Connor had done practically everything today, but Connor took up Sumo's leash, which was enough to prompt Sumo to go running to him expectantly.

“I swear he loves you more than he loves me,” Hank grumbled, but he let them go and kept himself busy with washing up instead. When he'd done he pulled one of Connor's bottles of water from the fridge and left it on the coffee table for him. Hank had consumed enough caffeine to give a lesser man a heart attack already, and Connor didn't do caffeine in the evenings, so coffee was off the menu.

Hank was watching the news when Connor returned. Sumo trotted up to Hank as if to check he was where he'd left him, and then retreated to his bed. Connor followed, a couple of minutes behind, brushing his hair back into place with his fingers after removing his hat. Hank watched his straight-backed walk, and the way he folded himself onto the sofa as he sat down, and then picked up the bottle of water with a, ”Thank you.”

“No worries,” Hank replied, draping his arm around Connor.

Connor settled back, resting in the crook made by Hank's body and Hank's arm. Hank felt his weight settling by degrees as he got comfortable. He'd missed this. Hank hadn't been able to just sit with someone, and hold them since his divorce which was, shit, twelve whole years ago now. Connor had still been a kid the last time Hank had done this with anyone.

“So, 'us', huh?” He said, tucking Connor tighter against himself. “I like the sound of it.”

Connor was quiet. Hank felt the shift in his shoulder as he moved to nestle in against Hank's side. “I do too,” he said, eventually, “but we're going to have to be careful. We can't afford to let this spill over into the workplace.”

Hank brought his other hand up and brushed it over Connor's hair, disrupting his neat little combed back style. His hair was soft under Hank's fingers. “No nailing you against the desk, got it.”

“I'm serious, Hank.” Connor looked up at him, with those deep brown eyes that seemed to grip Hank's soul and demand his full and undivided attention. “I want to continue working with you, so we have to tread carefully.”

Hank sighed. “Fine,” he replied, “no nailing you in the records room, either.” It earned him a flash of an irritated scowl from Connor, which Hank responded to with a bright smile of his own. “I'm joking,” he said. “No special favour, no special treatment, yadda, yadda,” he intoned.

“We also have to be able to keep our personal lives out of work.” Connor looked away from him, his eyes dancing around the room in that way that they did when he was searching through his own thoughts rather than looking at his surroundings. “And I still need to go home.”

Hank inhaled deeply, and then sighed, coiling his arm a little tighter around Connor. “I knew you were gonna say that,” he grumbled. It was something he'd hoped for a neverending stay of execution on. Coming home to Connor was the best part of his day.

“It's not just because of work,” Connor explained, softly. Hank watched the creases form in his brow as he spoke. “I want to treat this like a real relationship,” he added, “which means not moving in with you the moment we have sex.” He turned his head, capturing Hank in that beautiful brown gaze again, and Hank knew that no matter how much he wanted to keep Connor right here he was going to agree with whatever he asked because of those damned eyes. “I need to have the space to miss you so that I can look forward to seeing you. I want to go on dates, and not even make it to the bed together afterwards.” Connor blinked, and Hank felt his heart stutter as he was temporarily released. The idea of whisking Connor out to some restaurant in one of his fancy suits, and then leaving it all over his floor at the end of the night was certainly an attractive one. “I want to get to know you, properly, and over time.”

Hank pressed his lips tightly together. Trust Connor to come out with some ridiculous semi-romantic notion that sounded stupidly idealised and yet like it'd be so much fun. Take him on dates, sure. Take him to a concert, maybe. Or on a dirty weekend to some expensive hotel. “All right,” he conceded. “I'll take you home this weekend.” He didn't want to; he wanted to know Connor was going to be right here, spooning him in his sleep when he woke up in the morning, but this mattered to Connor, and a dim part of Hank that he didn't like knew he was getting in too deep and too fast anyway. It was just so easy to fall for the blissful domesticity of having someone to kiss when you woke up in the morning.

Connor sighed. Hank felt his body relax. “Sunday,” he said, looking up at Hank. “I'll go home on Sunday.”

Hank gave Connor a crooked smile. So he wasn't as eager to go home as he sounded. He'd reasoned his way into it, but his heart still wanted to put it off for as long as he could. Leave on Sunday. That would give them all of Saturday to spend in bed, or go out together and try the date thing. Hank could live with that. “Sunday,” he agreed, “but you're keeping the key. You can come in and take Sumo out any time you like, or,” he paused, and shrugged, offering up a suggestion, “surprise me, if you wanted.” He'd quite like to come home to Connor with a cup of coffee. He'd be ecstatic to come home to Connor with no clothes on.

Connor smiled. Hank was beginning to recognise it as his flattered smile. It was shy, but it seemed to be shy because Connor didn't hear how attractive he was often enough to be used to it, which also made it cute. “All right,” he said, “I think I can do that.” He inhaled, and held it. Hank wondered if he was doing his breathing exercises again for a moment, and then Connor said, “There is something I want you to do for me before I leave.”

“What is it?” Hank asked, already positive he'd do it. He'd fight snake-haired women, and wrestle lions for Connor right now.

“Call Cole.”

Hank's brain screeched to a halt. He wasn't so sure he could do that. “I—” he began, already shaking his head.

“Please,” Connor said, shifting his weight to sit up a little so he was on equal eye level to Hank. “I want you to do it while I'm here for you.”

Hank looked away from Connor with a deep frown. He was scared, and he didn't want to admit that. Cole more than anyone had the ability to break Hank's heart into tiny, irretrievable pieces. Not even Connor would be able to do that to him. A blunt 'I don't want to talk to you ever again' would be bad enough, a 'You're not my dad' would be a devastating thermonuclear strike to Hank's already fragile spirit.

Connor's hand came to rest against Hank's cheek. Hank dared to look at him as Connor moved, still tucked into the crook of his arm, but now facing towards him. “I know you're scared,” he said, hitting the nail on the head, “but the longer you leave it the more it will eat away at you.”

Hank closed his eyes, luxuriating in the feel of a warm palm against his cheek. “Maybe tomorrow,” he conceded. Tomorrow never really came, after all. “I'm not ready for that tonight.”

The sofa creaked as Connor's weight shifted, and soft lips brushed gingerly against Hank's. It was comfort, but also affection, and Hank craved both right now. “That's okay,” Connor said. “I'll be with you when you are.”

Hank opened his eyes and found Connor looking at him with undisguised love and concern. Was it love, at this point? Or would it just grow into love with care and nurturing? Did it matter so long as Connor looked at him that way?

Hank wrapped both of his arms around Connor and tugged him in tight for another kiss, a more lingering one that sent shivers of anticipation down Hank's spine and through his limbs. It stole his breath. Connor melted into him with each sweep of his tongue into Connor's mouth. “I made you a promise last night,” he murmured, his lips brushing against Connor's as he spoke, his voice low.

Connor's mouth yielded to him again, his tongue reaching out for Hank's. Hank's hands tugged Connor onto his lap again, but he didn't have to tug very hard. “You did,” Connor agreed, pulling away to catch his breath and press his forehead against Hank's. When Hank opened his eyes his world consisted of irresistible deep brown warmth. “But I think you should let me do the work this time.”

*

The blasted alarm dragged him from sweet memories of Connor arching in his lap, eyes closed and mouth hanging open in gentle ecstasy. He stabbed at his phone's screen with extreme prejudice and tried to sink back into the dream he'd been cruelly torn out of. Soft open mouthed kisses planted slowly against the back of his neck, sending pleasant shivers through his spine instead.

“Don't start something we don't have time to finish,” Hank grumbled, even though the prospect of just being late today was becoming more appealing with every second, and every carefully applied kiss.

Connor's arm coiled tightly around Hank's waist in response. “Just making sure you don't go back to sleep,” he murmured, following it up with another soft kiss that made Hank's entire body quiver beyond his control. Hank could feel Connor's tongue pressing against his skin, tasting him with each movement.

“Yeah, well it's fucking working,” Hank replied, trying not to squirm, “but if you keep it up I'm gonna be late.”

Connor's lips pulled away from his neck, and the mattress shifted under Hank as Connor lifted himself up. Hank rolled onto his back to find Connor leaning over him, a smug, lopsided smile on his face. “We can't have that,” he said.

Little shit, Hank thought, as he grabbed Connor in his arms and dragged him back down onto the bed. “You were gonna get me all fired up and then leave me hanging,” he accused.

Connor's legs tangled with Hank's, and he gave Hank another flash of that cocky, lopsided smile. “Maybe you should set your alarm a little earlier in future?”

Hank would have laughed if he wasn't giving the notion some serious thought right now. He restrained his mouth, which was in collusion with other parts of his body to do things his brain would regret, and tugged Connor in for a single, chaste kiss. “You owe me a coffee for being a prick.”

Connor looked far too amused, but notably didn't try and mount an argument in his own defence. He returned Hank's chaste kiss with one of his own. “If you insist,” he replied, while looking deep into Hank's eyes, and then untangled himself from Hank and slipped from the bed in one smooth movement.

Hank missed his warmth the moment he was gone, but he allowed himself to watch Connor pause to pull on a pair of tight boxers before he left the room. Screwing a younger guy was going to be the death of him, he reflected, and it was turning into a great way to go.

He dragged himself from the bed and into the bathroom to start his morning. When he'd done he made his way into the lounge, and then the kitchen, where he froze. It was chilly, and in deference to the temperature Connor had pulled on Hank's hoodie that they'd left on the sofa last night. The bottom edge skimmed the tops of Connor's thighs, and the material swamped his slender frame.

“Fuck, you're trying to test me,” he murmured, awed at the sight. Connor turned his head towards Hank as he approached and gave in to the temptation to draw a hand up Connor's pale thigh and under the hoodie. Hank found the bottom of Connor's tight boxers with his fingertips and slipped his fingers under the material. His hand came to rest at the curve where the back of Connor's thigh became his tight, firm ass.

Connor allowed himself to be backed up against the kitchen sink, sliding one hand up onto Hank's shoulder. “Perhaps,” he admitted.

This was it, Hank thought, slipping his other hand under the hoodie and drawing it up to settle his hand against the naked warmth of Connor's back, this was how he died. Rest in peace Hank Anderson, his heart gave out while banging his younger boyfriend non-stop. He pressed a gentle kiss to Connor's mouth, tasting mint as his tongue teased in. Connor yielded to him, letting Hank drag him close and push him back, and delve into the sweet softness of his mouth. Hank could feel him inhale deeply through his nose, and hear the pleasured little sigh catching in the back of his throat.

They kissed for an age. Empires rose and fell. Revolutions were mounted, fought, lost. The kitchen melted away. There was only Connor's lips, and Connor's tongue, and the firm warmth of Connor's body under his hands. Connor's fingers gripped the collar of his shirt, and the hair at the back of his head, tugging him deeper.

When Hank finally pulled back, his heart pounding against the inside of his ribs, he could still feel Connor's lips against his own. Connor took a moment to come down from his blissful reverie, and he blinked a few times before licking his lips. “Your coffee's going to go cold,” he murmured, distantly. He sounded like it was the only coherent thought he could produce. Apparently Hank could more than just fuck his brains out.

He drew in a breath and folded both of his arms around Connor's back. “I got something way better than coffee,” he answered, tugging Connor tight into him. Connor's groin pressed into Hank's hip, and he realised with no small satisfaction that he wasn't the only one that was getting all fired up.

Connor tugged at his collar, drawing him back in. Hank allowed it, leaning in to brush his lips over Connor's once again. The tip of Connor's tongue touched his, exploring his mouth with implicit permission. The yielding softness of Connor's mouth was the same softly enticing heat that Hank had been drawn into last night. The realisation made Hank's toes curl in his shoes. God, he wanted to bury himself in the pillowy warmth that lay inside Connor again.

But reality beckoned, and the knowledge that he was already going to have to deal with traffic itched at the back of his mind. He dragged himself reluctantly from Connor's mouth once more, and groaned. “I could stay and fuck your pretty little brains out,” he grumbled, “but I kinda have to go to work.” He heard the words as they were leaving his mouth. “Fuck, I'm getting old.”

Connor treated him to a dazed, crooked smile. “I think that's called responsible,” he answered, letting Hank pull away by regretful degrees.

“That's just another way of saying old,” Hank countered, and then sighed. So much for not letting himself get all fired up and then be left hanging, although at least like this it went both ways.

“Don't forget your lunch,” Connor said, as his hands slid from Hank. He buried them in the pocket of Hank's hoodie, but remained leaning against the sink.

Of course Connor had made his lunch. He wasn't sure when Connor had made his lunch, but he never missed an opportunity. “You're too good to me,” he said, wagging his finger at Connor as he opened the fridge and grabbed the bag that had been packed for him. Shit, he was gonna miss this next week.

“One of us has to be,” Connor replied, watching Hank prepare to go.

Hank hesitated. They'd kissed plenty this morning already, and the pleasant ache in his groin was testament to that. Still, he moved towards Connor, slipping one hand around the back of his neck and giving him a brief, chaste kiss before pulling away again. “I'll see you tonight,” he promised.

The smile on Connor's face was worth it. “Have a good day,” he replied, as Hank headed for the door and grabbed his coat on his way out.

*

“You're looking better,” Markus said.

Hank looked up at him. He'd managed to squeeze in to work only a few minutes late, which was common enough to be unremarkable, so no one had remarked.

Hank shrugged at Markus. “Told you, a hot shower and some sleep was all I needed.”

Markus made a thoughtful little noise in the back of his throat. Hank could hear the judgement. Markus was definitely assuming he'd been hungover. Well, whatever, he could think what he liked. “I heard back from forensics,” he said, looking unhappy about it. “They found a dark web chat client on Payton's computer, but if we want to investigate further we need someone on our end to go over it.”

Hank groaned. He'd been afraid of that. When Connor was here that shit landed straight on his desk; what was the point in having stolen cyber crime's rising star for his own ranks if he wasn't going to use him? Without Connor he was stuck. Markus, Josh, and Simon were capable, but they wouldn't get it done with Connor's efficiency, and time wasn't a resource Hank wanted to burn unnecessarily. “Figures,” he muttered. “I'll make some calls, see if I can pull in a favour. Any other bad news to ruin my morning?”

Markus didn't hesitate. “Superintendent Fowler was looking for you yesterday. I told him you were out investigating a lead.”

“Ah christ,” Hank groaned. Fowler being on the hunt for him was only ever bad news. “What did he want?”

“He didn't say,” Markus replied, tilting his head as he looked at Hank, “but he wasn't happy that you weren't here.”

Hank rolled his eyes. That meant it could be about anything, from Hank's attendance to the slow progress on the case. They might even have another case lined up, and Hank was never in favour of a doubled workload, but he wasn't about to drop the case they had, either. “Great.”

He dismissed Markus for the morning, and spent five minutes drumming his fingers on his desk before he resigned himself to the inevitable.

Connor picked up on the third ring. “If you're calling me from your office landline I'm guessing this isn't a personal call,” he said, when he answered.

Hank frowned into the phone and scratched at his forehead. “No,” he said, regretfully, “I wish.” If it was a personal call he'd have started by asking Connor if he was still wearing the hoodie.

“What's wrong?” Connor sounded calmly concerned.

“I need your advice,” Hank admitted.

“Fire away.”

Hank allowed himself a smile at the carefree way Connor responded. He could have still been stuck in the hospital bed and he wouldn't have turned Hank down. He wouldn't have turned any of them down if he could help. Hank sighed and leaned back in his chair, cradling the handset against his ear with his shoulder. “I've got a smuggler with a dodgy chat program on his computer, a crypto trail to the case, and no you.”

Hank could almost hear Connor's microchips beeping at each other, or whatever it was microchips did. “You need someone to follow the web trail,” he concluded.

Hank grunted his confirmation. “If we can find something, anything, telling us where to focus our investigation, it'll help. We already have one cross-reference from your list of CCTV blackspots to an itinerary from the driver, but it's not good enough. We think they were using the chat to tell the driver where to be, we just need to find it.” It was frustrating. Connor would have been able to do this shit, and instead he was stuck at home. “I just need to know who in cyber crime I can throw this at to get it seen to quickly.”

“No one,” Connor answered, bluntly.

“What?” Hank held the phone in his hand again and sat up straighter in his chair. He hadn't expected Connor's answer to be no one.

“They have their own caseload,” Connor answered, plainly, “and taking the time to bring someone else up to speed with the specifics of this case to enable them to search effectively would take time you don't have.”

Hank scowled. He hated that Connor was right, but that only left him with one person, who was absolutely definitely not doing it. “That only leaves you, which ain't happening because you're still on sick.”

“I wasn't going to suggest myself,” Connor replied, softly.

“Liar.” Hank called him out. Connor would be an amazing poker player, but he was a terrible liar.

He heard Connor huff through his nose. Hank could picture the frown on his face that accompanied that noise. “Ordinarily I'd insist,” he confessed, “but for this you have an alternative. DCI Cacciatore's tech is already familiar with the case, and I believe he's more than capable.”

Hank frowned, trying to recall the person in question. A kid of mixed heritage much like Markus, and minus several inches in height came to mind. He'd been at the bar that night that Florent had got his claws in Connor. “Him? Really?”

“If I may be frank,” Connor said, “I'd ask Itahyr to help me before I turned to anyone in cyber crime.”

Hank bit back his reply. They'd been assholes to Connor in cyber crime. Connor didn't speak about any of them, hadn't stayed in touch with any of them, and his DCI had been pissed when Connor hadn't wanted to come back. Connor was the sort of guy that had once spent his entire lunch showing Simon how to toss a coin from one hand to the other as if it was flying there of its own accord. If he wasn't talking to them it was because they'd been dicks. “You really think he's that good?”

“I do,” Connor confirmed. “Unfortunately you'll not only have to ask DCI Cacciatore, but you'll have to convince Itahyr to help, too.”

Hank frowned thoughtfully. Going to beg Lumi Cacciatore for permission to borrow one of his officers wasn't going to be a good time, and that was before you got to dealing with the little shit Hank needed to borrow. “You think this kid will refuse?”

“No,” Connor answered, although Hank could hear the thoughts going on behind the word, “but Itahyr likes to feel he's getting the better end of a deal.”

Who doesn't? Hank thought. Anyone that would jump to doing extra work for no obvious extra benefit and that wasn't called Connor Roberts had an agenda. “I can handle that,” he answered.

“I should warn you,” Connor added, “he and Miss Savage are competing with each other to try and find me online, so he might ask some probing questions.”

Hank frowned and rubbed at his forehead with one hand. “About you?”

“It's a possibility. You needn't worry,” Connor said, “anything I really want to keep private isn't there to be found, but Itahyr's competitive, and you know me better than almost anyone. Given,” Connor hesitated for just a second, “recent developments, it might be worth staying on your guard.”

Hank's upper lip curled. He didn't want to tell Connor that Larxene already thought he had a thing for hot young brunets, and the rest of the station were pretty convinced that the hot young brunet had a thing for overweight, grey haired men. “If he's so good why would he need me to tell him anything anyway?”

“It's not down to his ability that he hasn't found what he's looking for, he's just looking in the wrong places.” Connor's voice was lilting and amused. He was enjoying the challenge, Hank realised. Connor liked having someone pit themselves against him, especially when he knew they wouldn't win.

“Fine,” Hank conceded, “I'll try not to give those gossiping bitches information about you.” They'd done enough talking about him and Connor at that station already, and Hank didn't want to throw more fuel on the fire.

“All right,” Connor conceded. “Let me know how it goes.”

“Yeah,” Hank said, knowing there was no way he was going to tell Connor if he couldn't get Itahyr onside because Connor would definitely try and step in to help himself. “I'll see you tonight,” he added. There were other words that felt like they belonged there, but Hank didn't let them fall off his tongue.

“You will,” Connor replied, his voice growing soft. The line buzzed with a pregnant pause as if Connor was also looking for the right way to end the conversation. After a moment he settled on a gentle, “Goodbye.”

“Goodbye,” Hank replied, and hesitated for a second longer before he put the phone down. Hanging up on Connor like that felt strange, and wrong, but he wasn't sure he wanted to spend too much time examining that right now.

*

Hank pulled in next to Braig's beaten up old Sunny. Glue residue, blackened with grime and age lined the edges of the windows and door handles. Hank shook his head, wondering when Braig had last washed his damn car. Two spaces away lay Cacciatore's jag. Florent's merc was nowhere to be seen, which was good because it hopefully meant that Hank wouldn't have to deal with that asshole as well. The last time he'd laid eyes on DCI Florent he'd pinned him against a wall and got up in his face.

Which Florent had earned for getting Connor drunk against his will. They'd been trying to see if Connor would make a move on Hank, because they had bets on it. The idea had pissed Hank off then, and it pissed him off more now because it meant this bunch of pricks had realised within a couple of days what Connor had nearly had to die for Hank to catch onto.

He rode the lift up to the floor that Cacciatore's department occupied, and crossed the banks of computers and coppers towards Cacciatore's office. There were windows, with blinds obscuring the view. It was easier to see out than it was to see in, but Hank could spot the dark suit and pale blond hair inside.

He gave the door a cursory knock before entering. Lumi Cacciatore's eyebrows jumped upwards very, very slightly as Hank entered. “DCI Anderson,” he commented. Hank wondered if it passed for a greeting. “To what do I owe the visit?” Somehow Cacciatore made those polite few words carry the exact same meaning as, 'why the fuck are you darkening my doorway?'

“It's not a social call,” Hank reassured him. You couldn't pay him enough to socialise with someone like Cacciatore.

Lumi's expression was mild in the same way that Connor's was when he was waiting out a suspect finally caving. “I should hope not.” A fuck you would have been quicker to say, and less insidiously venomous.

Hank gritted his teeth. He had to force his next words out of his mouth. “I need your help.”

Cacciatore shifted ever so slightly in his seat. He became straighter, stiffer, and Hank found himself being examined by ice blue eyes in a look that would make suspects squirm and confess to everything they'd ever done, right the way back to stealing crayons from school.

“I've got a dark web communication channel I need probing and Connor's out of commission. It'll take too long to bring cyber crime up to speed, but Connor says your tech's the best he's ever worked with,” Hank elaborated, fudging the facts a little. Connor hadn't said those exact words, but he'd said something close enough.

Lumi barely moved. You had to watch carefully to be sure he was actually breathing. “How is DI Roberts?” he asked, eventually, releasing Hank from his gaze.

Hank felt like he'd been pulled off a meat hook. Lumi had the social skills of a wasp at a picnic. “Alive,” Hank answered.

“I understand you remained at his bedside in hospital,” Lumi said, moving something on his desk to one side before he looked up at Hank again, “for the whole week.”

It was a classic interview tactic. Tell someone what you thought you knew, give them an opportunity to take umbrage, or correct you. Watch them like a hawk long enough to make them uncomfortable, then give them a second to breathe, and then watch them again. It came worryingly naturally to Cacciatore. Well, two could play at this shit. “Who told you that?” Hank countered.

“I have my sources,” Lumi answered, mildly.

Larxene, Hank thought. Marius knew, so Larxene would know, and she'd have made sure to spread the gossip around because she was a siphon for it, but you needed to lure gossip in by giving a bit out. Hank nodded. “Yeah, I did,” Hank gave him.

Lumi's mouth twitched, and he released Hank from that icy stare once more. “You should speak to DI Wolfe before you leave,” he said, “and next time make sure your officers are wearing stab vests.”

Anger rose with the hairs on the back of Hank's neck. “He wasn't supposed to be chasing after anyone,” Hank spat. Connor was supposed to be tucked away, safely by Hank's side, drinking coffee and waiting for the all clear to go in and start combing through names, and phones, and what have you. Hank would have taken him for breakfast afterwards, and then they'd have returned to the station and put their heads together and got to work.

Lumi's eyebrows lifted, but it wasn't enough to put a crease in his forehead. “So it was his own fault.”

Hank had never wanted to punch somebody clear across the room quite so much as in that instant. “Norwood ran, Connor chased,” Hank growled, tightening his hand into a fist, “like any copper would.”

Lumi's eyes flicked over Hank. He forced himself to release the fist he'd made. “Running is what constables are for,” Cacciatore said, his voice soft, like a velvet sheath for the dagger in his words, “protecting them from the things they chase is what you're for.”

Hank reminded himself to breathe. Anger burned in his chest, but it was laced with shame. Lumi had put into words that horrible, heavy guilt that had kept Hank by Connor's bedside. He was Connor's commanding officer, he was supposed to make sure he didn't put Connor into situations where he might get hurt, and he'd failed at that and almost cost Connor his life.

Hank looked away. Cacciatore's office was larger than his own, but it was also shared with Florent, who had his own desk. Florent's desk was marked by the flowering orchid winding its way around a curved stick. Lumi's was marked by a small but anachronistic sweet bowl, filled with small black rhombuses of what looked to be licorice.

“You can ask Constable Muraidh,” Cacciatore said, addressing Hank's initial request. “He may be willing to do you a favour, since he and DI Roberts got along well together.”

Hank was still boiling with anger and guilt, and having Cacciatore agree to let him ask the tech didn't mollify it. He leaned forward and stole a sweet from Lumi's bowl. Lumi's eyebrows lifted again, as if he was taken aback by Hank's gall. “Thanks,” Hank said, sourly, and then tossed the licorice into his mouth.

A vile salty warmth flooded Hank's mouth and he grimaced. “Augh,” he exclaimed, spitting the sweet back out quickly. “What the fuck is that?”

The corner of Lumi's mouth was curved very, very slightly upwards when he answered. “Salmiakki. Do you not like it?”

Hank gave the offending and now wet sweet in his hand a horrified look. “It's fucking disgusting.”

“There's a bin,” Lumi said, helpfully pointing beside his desk.

Hank got up and tossed the pellet of crushed spider souls, dusted in the devil's own salty taint sweat into Lumi's bin. It left his hand sticky, and he didn't want to wipe it on his jeans, or his jacket, which left him holding one hand out awkwardly in the air. “You eat that shit?” he demanded of Cacciatore. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“I've spent a lot of time in Finland,” Cacciatore answered, as if it was an explanation. He observed Hank for a moment and then said, almost charitably, “There are bathrooms on the way to Itahyr's office, if you want to wash your hands.”

It was the closest to a polite dismissal Hank was going to get, and also a neat excuse to get himself the fuck out of Cacciatore's office before he had to hear anything else about how he'd failed in his duty to Connor. Hank did his best to push that thought out of his mind as he made his way to the bathroom and washed the sticky salty licorice slime off his palm.

Itahyr had himself a tech cave of an office near the back of the station, well out of everyone else's way. His door was open when Hank got there, and Larxene was perched on the desk.

“Hank!” she exclaimed, brightly, fixing him with a smile that was every inch a cat spying a defenceless baby bird out of the nest. Hank wondered if that was the look she gave Connor. “What are you doing here?”

Itahyr was leaning on one elbow, giving Hank a look like he'd just crashed his party. Two opened cans in poison green and black branding sat by his keyboard. “Lemme guess,” he said, pointing at Hank, “you need a tech, and the android sent by cyber crime is still in the shop?”

Hank did his best to get his brain into 'speaking to young people' gear. He wasn't sure how old Itahyr was, except for him being younger than Connor, and he spoke with the affected accent a lot of young men did these days that they picked up from rap music. Connor had got on with him, Hank reminded himself. Itahyr had to have some redeeming features and be able to communicate like a normal person, even if he was playing up with Hank right now. “Connor's fine,” he answered, extrapolating from the reference to cyber crime and the fact Itahyr had been the one to make Connor laugh for the first time after waking up in hospital because he'd called him the T1000 in his card. “He's just not been signed off to come back to work yet, so yeah,” he added, “I need a tech.”

“Isn't he staying at your house?” Larxene asked, sweetly.

Hank was going to have to have words with Marius about what shit he let his vicious little PA know. “He's going back this weekend.” And she could give that message to her fucking boss, too.

Larxene slid herself down from the desk. She was tiny, Hank realised. Even with the heels on she couldn't have been more than a handful of inches over five feet. “Screwed him yet?” she asked.

Hank scowled at her. The blatant way she said it was almost designed to trap you. Say no, and you were admitting you wanted to, because of that 'yet'. It was as if, in her mind, him screwing Connor was a foregone conclusion that only needed time to happen. What was worse was that she was right. “You're disgusting.”

Larxene gave a shrug and made a little noise in her throat. “Well, when you do,” she said, looking up at Hank with big blue eyes from under mascara painted lashes, “that one has a praise kink a mile wide.” She wiggled her fingers in goodbye to Itahyr and sauntered past Hank, giving him a wink as she went.

“Yo, there ain't enough alcohol in the world to get rid of that mental image!” Itahyr called after her, and then shuddered, dramatically.

Hank wasn't sure whether he should be offended by Larxene's assumptions or Itahyr's disgust, or whether he should ask her what the fuck a 'praise kink' was.

Itahyr looked Hank over, and then shuddered again, making a pointed noise of disgust. “Robocop has the worst taste.” He shook his head and changed the subject, which was lucky because Hank was starting to edge towards feeling personally insulted by the overdramatic disgust at the idea of him and Connor together. He might not be a hot twenty-something, but he wasn't that bad, right? “So what do you want me to do?”

Hank shook his head, trying to dislodge the last sixty seconds of his life from his mind and burn it to ashes. “I've got a driver who was getting his instructions via a dark web chat client. I need someone that can comb the logs, find out where he was being told to pick up and deliver, and what he was delivering.”

Itahyr's upper lip pulled dramatically upwards and he sucked air through his teeth so it squealed. “That shit's kinda time intensive.”

Hank fixed the kid with a flat look. Time to roll out the flattery and the ego massages. “Connor said if it was up to him he'd ask you before anyone in cyber crime,” Hank tilted his head, raising his eyebrows as he treated Itahyr to an apologetic frown. “If you don't think you're up to it, I'll let him know.”

“Hey, hey, hey,” Itahyr responded, the words blending into each other, “I didn't say I couldn't, just that it takes time. Man don't do unpaid overtime, yeah?”

Hank scowled. “You'll be paid,” he promised.

“Can I work from here,” Itahyr pushed, “or do I need to drag myself across London?”

Hank sighed. “I'll get what you need brought here,” he said. He wasn't sure he wanted to put Itahyr in a room with Markus, Josh, and Simon, either. “Log your hours, I'll make sure you get paid.”

Itahyr looked up at Hank from his chair. “Anything else?”

Hank narrowed his eyes. “Don't push me, kid. I'm only asking you 'cause Connor thinks you're up to it. If it'd be easier for me to go and ask the nerds in cyber crime, I'll do that instead.”

Itahyr held both hands up. “I know where I stand,” he answered. “So how is Robocop? Aside from staying on your sofa.”

“I have a spare room,” Hank replied, cutting off that line of enquiry. Then he shrugged. “He's doing okay.” Hank thought he was, anyway. He seemed to be doing better now than he had done the first couple of days.

“But he's not ready to come back to work yet?” Itahyr pressed, raising one eyebrow at Hank.

Was this kid actually genuinely concerned that Connor might not be doing as well as Hank claimed? The idea made Hank soften towards him. He was a little dipshit, but he might not be that bad. “He's not allowed back until a doctor signs him off, and he still gets breathless quick,” Hank added, remembering how they'd had to take it slow last night, not that he was complaining, “but he's fine otherwise.”

Itahyr nodded at Hank's answer. “Surprised you took him home,” he said, after a moment, “and not his mom and dad.”

Hank nodded at the question. Itahyr wasn't as effective at fishing as Larxene was. “You'd have to ask Connor about that,” he said, “I just offered.”

He left Itahyr with that thought, and assurances that he'd have the things he needed brought over to him as soon as he could. On his way out of the offices he ran into Marius.

“I got the kid's coin,” he said, by way of greeting, and tossed it into the air for Hank to catch.

Hank grabbed for it automatically, and then opened his palm to look. It looked, to him, exactly like any other two pound coin in circulation. “I hope it's the real one,” he said.

Marius gave him a look as if Hank had just insulted his mother, which was rather more effective than a look suggesting he'd just insulted Marius' integrity. “Of course it's the real one.” He nodded, in the way that friends do to each other. “You moving him out this weekend?”

Larxene worked quickly. Hank inhaled through his nose and nodded. “Yeah, he's more than ready.”

“Good,” Marius answered. “Are you?”

No. The word presented itself in Hank's mind, and he stamped it down. He didn't want Connor to go, but Connor was right. Asking him to give up his home and his life and move in to be Hank's live in boyfriend twenty four seven when they hadn't even been screwing for more than a week was insane, no matter how much Hank knew he was going to miss him. “I'll miss having a live-in maid,” he answered, dryly.

Marius grunted. Hank couldn't tell if he considered the answer acceptable, or whether he saw through Hank's cover. “He seen about a therapist yet?”

Hank shook his head. “No.” At least he didn't think so, but he didn't really know what Connor got up to in all the hours he had to fill while Hank was at work. Maybe he had.

“DI Wolfe can recommend a good one,” Marius said. “Occy health will insist he see one before he returns to the field, might be best to get ahead of them.”

Hank frowned. That was the second time that guy's name had come up today. “Cacciatore mentioned asking him,” he said, leaving the actual question unspoken.

Marius answered it anyway. “He got kidnapped by a psycho bitch serial killer a couple of years back, left him with,” Marius pointed to his face and drew a cross in the air with his finger between his eyes, and then waved his hand, “scars.”

Hank straightened up. Here was Cacciatore, giving Hank a hard time over failing to protect his DI, when he'd failed to protect his own once, too. “That's the guy?” he asked. He'd heard about the drama. Nobody gossips like coppers, and everyone had heard about the one that had been kidnapped by a murderer. He hadn't realised it had been one of Cacciatore's coppers. “He's still here?”

Marius nodded. “You should have Roberts speak to him,” he said. “They've got more than one thing in common.”

“Oh yeah?”

Marius gave a huff of amusement as he turned away from Hank, supporting his bad knee with his stick. “They also share a worrying fetish for nasty old men.”

*

The rest of Hank's day consisted of making calls to get Payton's computer innards sent over to Muraidh, and dutifully avoiding the fuck out of Fowler. Fowler eventually found him anyway, and read Hank the riot act about how much the investigation was costing and how long it was taking. Hank did his best not to raise his voice too much when he was answering, but Josh was waiting outside Fowler's office with a coffee for him when he walked out, so he figured he hadn't been successful.

Budgets and closure rates. That shit was the reason Hank could have never been a Superintendent. He didn't give a shit about the departmental budget if it meant taking down every single one of the bastards that had contributed to getting Connor hurt with their criminal bullshit.

Connor was waiting for him when he got home. Hank smiled to see him on the sofa, a book in his lap that he moved to set down. “Don't get up,” Hank told him. Sumo was lay by his feet, giant head on his paws, and Connor, in his form-fitting turtleneck and dark jeans looked comfortable and at home.

Connor settled back, reluctantly. “Did you have a good day?” he asked.

“I did,” Hank answered, pleasantly surprised with that result himself, “but I also had a good start to the day,” he added, flashing a grin at Connor.

Connor raised his eyebrows at him. “I seem to recall you doing a lot of complaining.”

Hank settled himself down on the sofa, pressed in close enough to Connor that he could feel the warmth of his thigh through both their clothes. “Yeah, well, it was worth being late.” He coiled his arm around Connor and held him close, leaning into him to press a kiss to Connor's lips. “I've been thinking about that mouth of yours all day.”

Connor's eyes fell closed as Hank kissed him, and his fingers curled into the front of Hank's shirt, gripping at the material. “Looking to pick up where we left off?”

They could. The fact that they could sent a pleasant shiver down Hank's spine. He could make it three for three on the banging Connor's brains out every day tally before they even had dinner. He pressed forward, easing Connor back onto the sofa and explored the enticing softness of Connor's mouth with his tongue.

Connor tugged him down on top of himself, spreading his legs to let Hank in. The sofa creaked with their movement. “Sounds good,” Hank murmured.

Connor's book slipped to the floor, forgotten.

*

Soft, open-mouthed kisses wound their way along his shoulder and down his arm. Warm hands brushed over his thighs, urging him onto his back. Hank groaned, fighting to stay asleep. The fuzzy warmth of slumber merged with the insistent press of lips and fingers, suffusing his entire body and brain with dopey satisfaction.

“Connor,” he sighed, as he was rolled onto his back. He kept his eyes closed. Hank didn't know what time it was, but his alarm hadn't gone off yet and he wanted to stay asleep. He also wanted Connor to keep doing whatever he was doing.

Something soft, warm, and deliciously wet stroked up the length of his cock. His brain finally caught up with the sensations subsuming his body. Hank opened his eyes in time to catch sight of Connor's mouth descending onto his cock with luxurious slowness.

“Oh fuck.”

Connor's mouth was every inch as soft around his cock as it was in his kisses. His tongue stroked along with his lips, and the wet sounds of his slow movements filled the room. Hank sank his fingers into short brown hair and closed his eyes, letting Connor do whatever he liked.

Connor kept one hand around Hank's cock, holding him steady and stroking in time with his mouth. His other found its way to Hank's free hand, tangling their fingers together. Hank laced their fingers tight and squeezed. “Fuck, you're too good for me,” he sighed.

He wanted to chase the aching build up in his groin, to let the concept of mornings, and work melt away with the room and every thing else in the world that wasn't Connor's magical fucking mouth around his cock. He didn't. Hank made himself stay in the moment, letting Connor's hand clasped in his keep him grounded as his hips wanted to twitch and surge forward. He could fuck Connor's mouth, he could drag his head down and push his cock down Connor's throat, but that wouldn't be anywhere near as amazing as letting Connor enjoy sucking him off.

“Your mouth feels so fucking good,” he groaned, stroking the back of Connor's head with his hand. He let his fingers rest at the nape of Connor's neck, feeling his steady, lazy rhythm. “Don't stop.”

Hank's groin tightened, his orgasm building by steady degrees as Connor sucked and bobbed. “That's it,” Hank hissed, closing his eyes to let himself really feel Connor's body. The soft hair under his fingers, the hand clasped in his own, and the skilled muscle of Connor's tongue working along the length of his cock created a wondrous symphony of sensations. “A little more,” he growled, or pleaded, “you're almost,” his words broke off, replaced with a simple, “fuck.”

His hips jerked as he came, flooding Connor's mouth. Orgasm scythed through his groin and his hips, unwinding like a broken spring, driving his hips forward. He shivered, held for a beautiful, blissful few seconds, suspended in ecstasy, and then he was done.

Hank panted, lying boneless on the bed. Connor's hand squeezed his one final time before shaking loose of his grip. Hank wrapped his arms around Connor as he moved up, draping himself across Hank's chest. Hank breathed heavily, and held Connor in his arms, and waited for his brain to produce a coherent thought before he tried to speak.

“Jesus fuck, I'd forgotten how good that felt.”

Connor's body shook with a quiet laugh in his arms. Hank didn't care. He pressed a clumsy kiss to the top of Connor's head.

His alarm blared, ripping through his blowjob fuelled good mood. “Oh fuck off,” Hank swore at it, turning it off in annoyance and then tossed his phone to the end of the bed.

Connor laughed again, less quietly. “It's time you got up.”

Hank shook his head, and didn't let Connor go. “I'm gonna need a few minutes,” he answered. He looked down at Connor, whose ear was pressed against Hank's chest, listening to his still racing heart beat frantic tattoos for him. “You're perfect,” he told him.

Connor smiled, and closed his eyes, tucking his arms up along Hank's side and resting under his shoulders. “You complained about being left hanging yesterday,” he pointed out.

“Fucking perfect,” Hank repeated, fondly. Shit, he hadn't warned Connor he was ready to blow, either, and Connor had fucking swallowed into the bargain.

Connor adjusted his weight, pressing a kiss to Hank's chest before he pushed himself up. Hank was reluctant to let him leave. “I need to brush my teeth,” Connor said, as explanation.

Hank gripped Connor's jaw in gentle fingers, looking into those deep brown eyes that were even deeper in the early morning gloom. He urged him down, and leaned up to press a chaste kiss to Connor's wonderful lips.

Connor blinked at him, frozen motionless for a long moment. Finally Hank saw him smile that shy, subtle smile that came from Connor being truly and unexpectedly happy.

“Go on then,” Hank said, finally letting him go.

Connor slipped away, leaving Hank splayed out across his bed, boneless and satisfied. He barely remembered the last time he'd received a blowjob. His ex-wife had never been a fan of giving them, and Hank hadn't been the type to insist. He was fifty three years old and getting his dick sucked had just re-entered his life after a long absence. People that won the lottery didn't have his luck.

He really needed to figure out what got Connor's motor going. Connor was making short work of figuring out how to press Hank's buttons, but Hank was a pretty uncomplicated guy. Most guys were pretty uncomplicated when you got right down to it. Even the ones that liked freaky shit would happily settle for a blowjob and a cuddle most days, but he didn't want Connor to just settle for doing things that made Hank happy.

He put that particular conversation on his to-do list. Before that came dragging himself out of bed and into the bathroom to get washed and dressed for a long, boring day of not lying in bed making out with Connor, which was what he wanted to do. That sounded way better than going to work.

When he made his way to the kitchen Connor was standing there in pyjama trousers and no shirt as usual, cradling a cup of coffee for himself. His skin was pale and pricked with goosebumps from the morning chill. Hank moved in behind him and dragged Connor's hips back against himself before folding his arms around Connor's bare chest.

“You're cold,” he observed. “You should go back to bed while the house heats up.”

“I'm fine,” Connor answered, although he let himself be held with his back against Hank's chest.

Hank grumbled wordlessly and tucked his chin down onto Connor's shoulder. His fingers found the gnarled twist in the flesh over Connor's ribs where his scars lay. Connor squirmed a little, trying to pull his body away from Hank's fingers, and Hank pressed the flat of his palm over the scars instead. “Sorry,” he murmured, “forgot you're ticklish.”

Connor settled his hand over Hank's wrist, and then slid it to rest, flat over the top of Hank's hand. His palm was hot from his coffee cup. Hank sighed contentedly into Connor's silence and closed his eyes. He wanted to capture this moment, frame the way it felt to hold Connor close, and breath in the scent of his skin and hair, and feel the movement of his ribs under his hands as he breathed, and keep it all with him forever. Just this one perfect moment that he could take to the grave.

“You're not cooking tonight,” he said, his voice low. “We're gonna order in, watch a film. Your choice of restaurant, your choice of film. Don't be picking shit you think I'll like. I want to see what you're into. Okay?”

Connor's chest expanded under Hank's arms. “Okay,” he agreed. “I think I can do that.”

Hank pressed a kiss to Connor's cheek, and then another to his neck, and the top of his shoulder before he finally convinced himself to let go. “I'll see you tonight,” he promised, grabbing his cup of coffee from the counter and downing it in a few mouthfuls. His lunch sat waiting for him too, and Hank picked it up, holding it up to show Connor he'd remembered it as he backed out of the room.

Connor smiled at him as he went, keeping his hand in the spot that Hank's had been as if he might still be holding it there. “I'll see you then,” he agreed.

*

“So your unsubs are pros, but your drivers are amateurs.”

Hank squeezed the skin over the bridge of his nose. Talking to Itahyr face to face had been challenging enough. Dealing with him on the phone was worse. Initially Itahyr had suggested Hank do a screen share with him so he could show him what he was talking about, but Hank's baffled tone when asking how to set one of those up had caused Itahyr to back out quickly on the grounds that he wasn't spending his day teaching his grandad how to use the internet. Those had been his actual words. Hank would have been more offended if the rapid fire ease with which Itahyr talked about chat clients, ISPs, data encryption and blockchains hadn't made him feel just like a grandad. This shit was Connor's field, and Connor was welcome to it.

“Unsub?” he asked, trying to keep up and feeling like he was failing.

“Yeah,” Itahyr's voice answered, “unknown subject, like in Criminal Minds.”

“Please don't call them that.” Hank squeezed his eyes shut and buried his forehead in his palm.

“Whatevs,” came the response, “the point is, the drivers are about as tech savvy as you, so they're leaving trails everywhere.”

Trails everywhere sounded promising. “That's good, right?” Hank asked, without lifting his head from his hand. He was going to have a headache after this; he could feel it.

“Yeah but no, you get me?”

Hank shook his head. “No, I don't.” Google should get to work on a normal person to Constable Muraidh translation app.

Itahyr made a sound that was somewhere between disgust and annoyance on the end of the phone at having to explain something he obviously found simple to Hank, again. “So like, imagine you've got five different leads on one case, all going completely different places.”

Hank's upper lip curled. “I hate that shit, it takes ages.” Each one had to be carefully tracked, followed to its conclusion, and eliminated. If you didn't then the defence lawyers tore you apart in court, assuming you got that far, because most of the time the crown prosecutors wouldn't touch your case with a barge pole until you'd investigated every possibility. People got off on reasonable doubt, and not investigating everything left room open for reasonable doubt.

“Exactly.”

Hank nodded. Now he understood the problem. Too many leads, not enough people to follow them. “Okay, so you've got a lot of stuff, but we don't know what's relevant.”

“For now,” Itahyr replied. “I did a quick scan for the names of truck stops from the T1000's list, and there's three different matches there, but I haven't searched for like, abbreviations or anything yet, so it could be more.”

Hank dared to lift his head from his hand. “For now, send me what you've got. I'll fire it up the chain of command.” Fowler would shout at him, again, for wanting to spend even more money watching potential sites without having any idea of what they were looking for, but it was a start. “Any idea what they're transporting yet?”

“Trucks,” came the smartassed reply. If Hank had been in the room with Itahyr he'd have smacked him upside the head. “Criminals out, although they call them 'passengers' a few times.”

“And in?” Hank pressed. They knew about the out. The out was a side hustle, he was sure of it; it was capitalistic opportunism at its finest. Never move an empty wagon if you could fill it with something. Whatever they were bringing in was the real money spinner.

“Not found that yet,” Itahyr answered, “but they're real fussy about delivery times. They're always at night, like, dead of night. All of them seem to be after one, but before three.”

Hank murmured to himself. “The kind of times that people are either driving or sleeping.” Whatever they were delivering, they wanted to take it off the wagons under the cover of darkness, in the isolation of those small hours when the world belongs to night shift workers. That crossed counterfeit goods off the list; you could be way less careful about that. “Okay,” he said, “good work so far. Catch me up again Monday.”

“Sure thing, boss man.”

“Don't fucking call me that,” Hank growled at him.

*

Hank had spent part of his lunch on Google. Twenty minutes on the internet and a couple of phone calls resulted in reservations for two at a fancy French place for Saturday night. After this morning Connor deserved more than a quiet night in with a takeaway and a film. The menu prices suggested Hank's lurid shirts wouldn't be welcome, so he might have to break out a suit, but it was the least he could do after the efforts Connor was putting in.

It proved to be a long day. Fowler had, after a lot of pushing and promises Hank didn't know if he'd be able to keep, agreed to arrange manned watches over the weekend at the three sites Muraidh and Connor had highlighted.

Hank had also found himself twenty quid lighter after Simon had told him how much Connor's new coins were going to cost. Hank had tried to give Simon more; he earned more than any of them, after all, but Simon had refused insisting it was from all of them. Hank had given in on the condition that they let him cover any additional expenses, since they weren't sure exactly how much the cleaning would cost yet.

By the time Hank got home the sky was pitch black, and he found another annoyance waiting for him. Some prick in a dark coloured Porsche Taycan hybrid was parked up in Hank's spot, forcing him to find another further down the road. He buried his hands in his coat as he marched back up his own street towards his house.

Sumo greeted him as soon as he opened his door, whining with distress. Hank heard the sound of a voice he didn't recognise.

“-meant for greater things than this.”

“Connor?”

“Hank,” came Connor's voice, cutting off a conversation Hank got the impression he didn't want to be having. Hank took off his coat and hung it before he peered into the living room, forcing himself to take a relaxed approach. Connor was standing, his arms wrapped around his waist, and a man with dark hair and pale skin was stood near him.

The man turned to look at him, and smiled with his mouth, but not with his eyes. “The famous Hank Anderson,” he said.

Connor frowned, his face working overtime to convey his awkwardness, and apologies, and a thousand other things in the split second before he gestured to the stranger in Hank's living room. “Hank,” he said, “this is Elijah.”

Hank straightened up. Elijah had cold blue eyes, and the sort of undershaved hairdo pulled back in a ponytail that was ubiquitous amongst assholes the world over. His skin was paler than Connor's, and he had the creepy lack of natural lines to his face that suggested he'd had a lot of surgery, performed by a very expensive surgeon. If this was Connor's adoptive father, Hank reminded himself, he must be nearly Hank's age at least, but he could pass for no more than ten years older than Connor. The only hint as to his true age was the darkening of the skin under his eyes.

“Connor has told me so much about you,” Elijah said, his mouth curling into a dangerous smile.

Hank deadeyed the fucker. “He's told me enough about you as well,” he replied. Enough that the only reason Hank wasn't hauling off to punch him in the face was because Connor looked like a rabbit frozen in front of an oncoming train, and he didn't think putting Elijah's nasty, smug bastard smile on the other side of his head would help Connor's emotional state right now. “Nice of you to show up.”

Elijah tipped his head in a nod, and had the audacity to grin. “I flew out as soon as I could,” he replied, and turned so he could regard Connor. “Imagine my surprise on learning Connor was staying here.”

The look Connor gave Elijah was hard and unflinching. “DCI Anderson was gracious enough to take me in so I could be discharged sooner.”

“Of course,” Elijah replied, looking first at Connor, and then turning to Hank. “Thank you so much for looking after him,” he said. It sounded like an accusation.

Hank didn't break Elijah's stare. “Somebody had to,” he growled. “His parents didn't seem to give a shit.”

Elijah's low chuckle in the back of his throat riled Hank's temper further. “Like I said,” he answered, “I flew out as soon as I could.” His eyes moved away from Hank's face and back to Connor. “Think about what I've said, Connor, that's all I ask.”

Connor looked down at the ground, his arms tightening around his waist again. “I will,” he replied, quietly.

Elijah turned back to Hank one final time. “Goodbye, DCI Anderson,” he said, and began to walk towards the front door.

Hank darted for the front door ahead of him. “Let me show you out,” he said, doing his best not to spit venom, “Mr Roberts.”

Elijah stopped, and looked over his shoulder towards Connor one last time, and then back to Hank. “It's Kamski,” he said. “Connor chooses to go by his birth name.”

Hank glanced towards Connor reflexively. Connor's eyes searched the room, as if he was looking for a hole to throw himself into. Hank had never seen him look so uncomfortable. He'd never seen anyone get under Connor's skin before, and Hank's instincts were torn between hugging Connor tight, and punching Kamski into the middle of next week.

“Right,” Hank said, turning his attention back to Kamski, and flashing him a humourless grin, “my mistake.”

He held the front door open for him, and watched as Elijah all but trotted outside, heading directly for the fucking Porsche because of course that was his damn car. It took all of Hank's self control not to slam the door shut behind him.

When he moved back to the living room Sumo was whining at Connor's feet. Hank moved around the dog to grab Connor in both arms and pull him into a tight hug. “You okay?”

Connor let go of a breath he sounded like he'd been holding since Elijah had showed up. He pressed his cheek against Hank's shoulder and nodded. “He always manages to get inside my head,” he muttered.

Hank could tell. Connor's shoulders were stiff, but they loosened by slow degrees as Hank held him. They stayed standing in the middle of Hank's living room, with Connor wrapped up tight in his arms. Hank waited until Connor sighed and began to pull back before he asked, “What the fuck did he want, anyway?”

Connor rubbed at his eye with his fingers. “He wants me to quit the service,” he admitted, although the bored way he spoke made it sound as if he'd had that particular conversation with one or both of his parents multiple times. “Go back to Oxford, get my Masters, and then join him in California,” Connor added, flashing Hank a wan smile. “The usual.”

Hank frowned, and brushed Connor's hair back from his face with his fingers. “You said no, right?”

Connor looked up at him as if Hank had just asked something particularly silly. “Of course I did,” he answered.

Hank nodded. “Just checking,” he replied, flashing Connor an awkward smile that he hoped would cheer him up.

It seemed to work. Connor returned Hank's smile with a soft one of his own, the last of his tension melting away with its warmth. “Thank you,” he said.

Hank shrugged one shoulder. “If he'd stuck around any longer I'd have probably hit him,” he admitted.

Connor pulled free of Hank's arms to bend down and give Sumo a pat on the head. Sumo was still parked by their feet, doing the whole 'my humans are upset and I don't know why but I'm going to join in' thing as only a dog could. “Well, I'm glad you didn't,” he said. “It's okay, Sumo,” he cooed, massaging the dog's ear.

“I don't know if I am,” Hank muttered, glancing towards the living room window. The blinds were drawn, so the world couldn't see in. “You uh,” he hesitated, wondering if it was too soon after Elijah had upset the apple cart by showing his horrible plastic face for this conversation, “went back to your birth name?”

Connor remained crouched to massage Sumo's ear for a second longer, and then he stood up, slowly. “I found it easier to be taken seriously on my own merits if I didn't use the Kamski name,” he said, quietly. “I formally changed it once I graduated.”

He's just looking in the wrong places. Hank huffed. “So that's why Muraidh and Savage can't find you?”

“Correct,” Connor answered, flashing Hank a smile as if he was sharing a private joke with him. “I made sure to have just enough online presence as Connor Roberts to keep people on that trail, but the things they're trying to dig up belong to Connor Kamski, who was always exceptionally careful about what he put online anyway.”

Hank grinned at Connor. Elijah was some hot shot California tech tycoon. No one would ever assume that a people pleasing DI in trafficking was that guy's adopted kid. Shit, his car alone made it look like Connor wouldn't need to work if he didn't want to, but sitting pretty living off daddy's money wasn't the Connor that Hank knew. “Your secret's safe with me.”

Connor's smile remained as he settled himself onto the sofa. He still looked as if he needed a hug. Hank put his hand in his pocket and retrieved Connor's coin. “Got something for you,” he said, waiting to make sure he had Connor's attention before he tossed it to him.

Connor caught it easily, and then checked it. He seemed satisfied with what he saw, because he looked back up at Hank. “Thank you.”

“I meant to give it to you yesterday,” he admitted, “but got distracted.” Coming home to screw Connor on the sofa had been much more pressing than handing him his coin back. “I don't know how you even know that's yours,” Hank added, settling onto the sofa next to him.

Connor tilted his head as he looked at Hank. “Really?”

Hank shrugged and put his arm around Connor's shoulders. “Nope,” he admitted. It looked like any other two pound coin to Hank, dulled with the constant handling, silver bit in the middle, gold around the edge.

Connor's eyebrows drew together, and then he offered the coin to Hank for him to examine. “You really don't see it?” he asked.

Hank took the coin and looked at it. He flipped it back and forth in his hand. Britannia on one side, 2015 minting year, Queen's head on the other.

“The Queen's head is upside down,” Connor said, as if he was explaining to someone that just wasn't looking properly.

Hank flipped the coin over again. Queen Elizabeth's head was almost completely upside down when Britannia was the right way up. “I didn't know there was a right way up for it to be,” he admitted, flipping the coin over again, and then handing it back to Connor.

Connor smiled, and walked the coin over the backs of his fingers. “It's an incredibly rare franking error,” he said. “They don't actually know how many entered circulation before they realised. One of the dies had worked loose and rotated.”

It was one of those weird little facts Connor was able to spout at the slightest provocation. Hank pulled him against his side fondly. “So did you buy it specifically?” Connor didn't seem like a coin collector, or at least if he was, he'd been unusually quiet on the subject for Connor. If he was, though, Simon and the others might have to rethink.

Connor shook his head. “I actually came by it naturally,” he answered, his lips curved in a soft smile. “I thought it was strange when I saw it, so I looked it up. I've kept it ever since.”

“Like a lucky charm,” Hank murmured. Connor had been carrying it when he'd been stabbed, and he survived. He'd been carrying it when he'd shown up in Hank's department for the first time and found somewhere he was welcome. “Maybe it is.” He wondered how Connor was going to react to specially purchased shiny American coins from his friends. He'd probably love them just as much as this damn thing, Hank reflected, if not more because of who they'd come from and why.

Connor flicked the coin up high in the air and caught it neatly. Hank set a hand over Connor's and pushed it down to his lap. “All right, don't push it,” he warned. He might have got it back for him, but Hank wasn't averse to confiscating the damned thing again if he had to. Connor laughed, and tucked it into his trouser pocket. “Did you decide on a place to order from?” he asked.

“I did,” Connor answered, looking at Hank out of the corner of his eye. “How do you feel about Korean food?”

Hank shrugged. “Just don't ask me to pronounce it and we're good,” he answered.

Connor settled in against Hank's side, nestling under the cover of his arm. “I took the liberty of buying you some more beer,” he said.

Hank grinned at him. “You think of everything,” he praised. “I,” he began, hesitating with nerves, “might have also taken some liberties,” he admitted. Connor's eyebrows rose, wrinkling his forehead as he waited patiently for Hank to elaborate. “I booked us a table tomorrow night. Gonna need you to dress up.”

Connor's face was unreadable for several, heartstopping moments, and then his mouth began to twitch as if he was struggling to find something to say, but knew Hank was waiting for a response.

“You said you wanted to do the dating thing,” Hank explained, the words tumbling out of his mouth to fill the awkward silence. “I thought-- I mean-- It seemed like--”

Connor's finger pressed against Hank's lips, silencing his justifications for his thought process. Hank blinked, entranced by soft brown eyes and a softer smile. “I look forward to it.”

A weight moved in Hank's chest, and he breathed gratefully. Connor's finger fell away from his lips, but Hank could still feel it there. “I don't want you to go on Sunday,” he admitted, quietly, “but if you want to go on dates, I can do that.”

“I don't want to go either,” Connor replied, closing his eyes and turning his face away from Hank as he spoke, like he was trying to hide from his own words, “but I want this to be more than a brief infatuation borne from a shared trauma.”

The words dug into Hank's gut and twisted like a knife. He frowned, and brought his palm up along Connor's cheek, turning his chin to make him look at him again. “Hey,” he told him, eyebrows furrowed, “that's not what this is.”

“That's what it will be,” Connor answered, softly, “if we both upend our lives to stay in this fantasy we've built.”

Hank sighed. Trust Connor to hit the nail squarely on the head. This was a fantasy. Having Connor to come home to was a pleasant little getaway from the drudgery of daily life. He stroked his thumb along the crest of Connor's cheek. “It's a nice fantasy though,” he pointed out. “Coming home to you every night, kissing you goodbye every morning. They're the highlights of my day right now.”

“You always seemed to find me annoying at work,” Connor pointed out, with a small smile that challenged Hank to refute something he'd actually said with his own words out of his own face at more than one point.

Hank pressed his mouth tightly closed and screwed up his nose. “I'm pretty sure you like annoying me at work,” he countered, “and it's not like you're annoying and I can't stand you, it's more like,” he paused, and decided to just be honest, “you're annoying in a cute kind of way. The place is boring without you flicking that coin, or finding me with work I was trying to avoid, or following me like a goddamn poodle.” He shrugged. “You never seem to put enough sugar in my coffee, and you're always captain fucking perky as soon as I enter the office. I miss it.”

Connor rested his head against Hank's shoulder. “Would you like to know a secret?” Hank looked down at him, and Connor looked up from under his eyebrows. “I've been slowly reducing the amount of sugar you have in your coffee for nearly three months.”

Hank sat up, dislodging Connor from his comfortable perch and turned to glare at him. “I fucking knew it!”

Connor broke into a warm, genuine laugh at Hank's reaction. It was strange to see his face so animated, his teeth showing and his eyes creasing up. Hank grabbed him with both arms and dragged Connor across his lap, pinning him there. Connor gripped Hank's shirt sleeve but didn't try to get free, instead angling himself so his legs were just barely dangling off the sofa.

“See what I mean?” Hank told him. “You're such a little prick. I wondered why it seemed too fucking sweet when I made it myself.” He adjusted his hold on Connor, and tugged him so that his back was against his chest.

Connor sank into him, as if Hank's embrace was the most comfortable thing he'd ever known. “I'll be back at work before long,” he said.

Hank sighed, and tucked his cheek against the side of Connor's head so that his lips brushed the outer shell of Connor's ear. “I hope so,” he answered, quietly. He missed having Connor there, and not just because of the case and the fact he needed him and didn't have him. “If you wanted to,” he began, stopped, frowned at himself, and then pushed on regardless, “leave some things here when you go; toothbrush, some clothes, you know? So you don't have to take them back and forth all the time, that'd be,” he didn't finish the thought. 'That would be nice' sounded too weird. 'That would reassure me that you will be coming back' was too honest.

“I will,” Connor replied, “thank you.” His hand stroked over Hank's arm, coming to a halt at his wrist and then sliding to cover his hand. “There is something else you need to do.”

“What's that?” Hank asked, allowing Connor to lace their fingers together, twisting his wrist so they were palm to palm. Connor's fingers were deceptively soft and smooth.

“Call Cole,” Connor answered, softly. “Don't leave it until tomorrow. It'll only play on your mind.”

Hank's guts turned to ice at the thought. He squeezed Connor's hand with his own. “I don't know what to say,” he began. “It's a Friday night, he probably won't even answer,” he added, letting the excuses begin to pile up in his head. Cole was probably busy. Hank didn't want to spoil their night in with his emotional baggage. After dealing with Elijah did Connor really want to have to navigate another dysfunctional father-son situation?

Connor lifted himself from Hank's arms and turned around to straddle Hank's lap. Under any other circumstances it would have been sexy. Instead it didn't allow Hank to escape from that firm brown gaze. “It doesn't have to be a lot,” he said, “it just has to be honest.” Hank frowned and tried to look away from Connor, over his shoulder, or at the floor beside their feet. Connor's hands settled on Hank's shoulders and he moved into Hank's line of sight again. “Tell him you miss him, you love him, tell him you're sorry, and that you're here if he needs you. That's all he needs to hear.”

“I don't even know if I've still got the right number for him,” Hank replied, meeting Connor's eyes briefly and then looking away again.

Connor's hand came to rest against Hank's neck, his thumb lying against the far edge of Hank's jaw. “You can still try,” Connor replied. When Hank didn't move he added, “I'll be right here.”

Sitting in his lap? Hank wanted to ask. He didn't think Connor would let him get away with the deflection. Was he really going to do this? Just call Cole? It sounded so easy, but after years of never being the dad Cole deserved making one phone call seemed as difficult as running a marathon, across Everest, in his pants.

He swallowed. His mouth was dry at the thought, but Connor was still looking at him with mingled sympathy and that firm take-no-bullshit look he'd used to set Elijah straight. Hank heaved a sigh and reached for his phone. Connor's hand drifted down from his shoulder to settle over his heart. Hank wondered if it was deliberate, or if Connor was unconsciously trying to shield him from the incoming break.

He pulled up Cole's number, and his thumb hovered over the dial button. Hank couldn't make himself press it. His hand was frozen, looking at the name on the display.

“It's all right,” Connor said, after an eternity. “You can do it. It's just a phone call.”

Hank squeezed his eyes shut and settled his other hand around the back of Connor's hips. The weight on his knees was reassuring, even if Connor was a lot heavier than Hank had realised. He steeled himself and tried to press the call button on the phone. He faltered one more time, and then took a sharp breath and pressed it.

After a painful second the call connected and rang. Hank almost bottled it and went to hang up but Connor's hand caught his wrist. He looked up into Connor's eyes as he held onto him and mouthed, “It's okay.”

The phone rang again. And again. And again. Hank started to count the rings. Six. Seven. Eight. Click.

“This is the automated voicemail messaging service for telephone number oh seven--”

Hank looked at Connor. Cole hadn't answered. He'd probably seen Hank's number and decided he wanted nothing to do with his waste of space dad.

“Look at me,” Connor said, softly, “and tell me what you want to say to him.”

Hank swallowed again. His throat knotted up, his chest was tight, and his stomach rolled. Connor pushed his phone towards his ear, but didn't break eye contact with him.

“To re-record your message press hash.”

Connor gave Hank a small, encouraging nod.

Hank's mouth was dry, and stiff. He looked into Connor's dark eyes. “H-hey, Cole,” he began. “It's your dad.” He froze again, and Connor gave him an encouraging smile. Tell him you miss him, tell him you love him. “I just,” he pushed on, despite his heart trying to pound its way out of his ribcage, “wanted you to know that I miss you,” he looked into Connor's patiently supportive expression, “and I love you,” he said, “and,” he closed his eyes, “I'm so proud of you for getting into University, and I know you'll do great. You always were a smart kid. And I'm sorry I wasn't there for you.”

Connor's hand moved from over his heart to rest against his cheek. Hank swallowed over the sharp pain in his throat. His voice threatened to crack. “You don't have to call me back, but if you ever need anything, or you're ever willing to give me another chance, I promise I won't let you down again.” Connor's thumb stroked over his cheek, disturbing the hairs of his beard. Hank forced himself to take a breath and bring his voice under control. “You'll always be my son. I'm sorry I haven't been the dad you deserved. I love you.”

He hung up the phone and let the handset drop. His fingers trembled. Connor wrapped himself around Hank's chest, folding his arms around his back and whispering soothing nonsense into Hank's ear. Hank heard Connor's tone more than his words, and clung onto Connor, burying his face in his shoulder.

Shit, he'd actually just called Cole. He'd painted a huge target on his heart, with the words 'press here to break' etched into it, and presented it to someone that had every reason to be angry with him. At least if he was just a deadbeat and a failure he'd never have to hear it from Cole himself.

What if Cole never called him back now? Would this horrible queasy feeling in his stomach subside in a few days, or would the depression settle into its place?

God he needed a drink.

Connor's hands stroked over Hank's hair. He was warm, and calm, coiled around Hank like he could protect him from the emotional turmoil he was experiencing. Connor was right; if Hank had any chance of salvaging a relationship with his son then he needed to do it right now, instead of leaving it for all the tomorrows that never came. That didn't make it suck any less.

Hank squeezed his arms around Connor. He didn't want to bare more of his raw nerves and soft underbelly of justified self loathing to Connor. He just wanted Connor to continue to be here. “Tell me I just did the right thing?”

Connor's lips pressed against his temple. Hank felt his hair ruffle with Connor's breath. “He might be angry with you,” Connor murmured, “but that doesn't mean he doesn't love you.”

“I deserve angry,” Hank muttered. When he thought back over all his broken promises, all the times he'd rearranged on Cole at short notice because work came up instead, all the times he didn't go and see him when he'd been lay on his sofa in a drunken stupor, he deserved worse than angry. “I deserve for him to hate me.”

Connor leaned back and looked Hank in the eyes. “No you don't.”

Hank frowned, an argument building in his head. He'd let Cole down, rearranged him like he was a dentist's appointment, failed to make the extra effort to go and see him until finally Cole had given up on him and got on with his life without his useless father holding him down. “I was never there,” he said.

“But you love him,” Connor said, cutting Hank off. His eyes searched for Hank's gaze, and held it. “As a child the only thing you really want is for your parents to love you.” Connor's mouth twitched in a frown. Hank felt the words slide between his ribs and twist. “Cole might be angry with you. He might lash out and vent a decade of frustration with the fact you weren't there,” Connor's hand settled against Hank's cheek, “but you have to let him feel all of that and at the end still tell him you love him. Don't give up on him.”

Hank slid one arm from around Connor's back and brought it up to his jaw. Connor let his eyes fall closed as Hank stroked along his cheek and curled his fingers around the back of Connor's head. Not giving up on Cole was easy; it wasn't Cole that Hank had given up on. “If I ever do,” he replied, “you should give up on me.”

Connor smiled with his eyes closed, and leaned his head forward until his forehead was resting against Hank's. “I'm not prepared to do that.”

Hank closed his eyes and let the tip of his nose brush against Connor's. “I don't deserve you,” he muttered, struck yet again by how relentless Connor could be. He was reasonable, compassionate, and firm as a brick wall in his belief that Hank was somehow more than an old drunk with an entire wagon full of issues.

“My feelings for you aren't predicated on what you deserve,” Connor replied. His voice was quiet. When Hank opened his eyes he found luscious chocolate brown looking back at him.

Hank allowed the corner of his mouth to pull upwards. It wasn't a smile yet, but Connor being a stubborn ass was a nice reminder that the world hadn't stopped spinning just because Hank had called his son. “Yeah?” he challenged. “Then what is it predicated on?”

Connor tilted his head slowly, letting his eyes drift closed again. His fingers curled around Hank's hair, and Hank felt the faintest flutter against his mouth that could have been Connor's lips, or Connor's breath. “What I want,” Connor answered.

Hank closed his eyes as Connor pressed a kiss to his lips. His tongue was sweet and gentle against the tip of Hank's, luring him deeper into a kiss that had him drawing Connor's entire body into himself. Hank poured words he could only say if they were to someone else into Connor's mouth with his tongue, and pressed them against his skin with his fingers.

*

Sunlight glowed through the bedroom curtains. The room was cast in muted amber hues. Hank opened his eyes and slowly closed them again. He was warm, comfortable, and Connor was sprawled halfway across his chest breathing slowly.

They hadn't screwed last night, which had broken their streak, but Hank hadn't been in the mood no matter how tenderly Connor had kissed him. It hadn't mattered. They'd walked Sumo, ordered Korean, and fired up a film. Turned out, kimchi was spicy as fuck and Connor could put that shit away without so much as a blink. He also liked science fiction films, especially ones that played with the idea of death and time travel.

Hank had been pleased to find out a little bit more about the kind of things Connor was into. He'd spent the evening lay with Connor on the sofa, watching Edge of Tomorrow and Looper until they'd both started to fall asleep, at which point they'd moved to the bed and resumed their cuddling.

It had been the happiest Hank had felt in years. It wasn't a celebratory surge of happiness, like when his team won a game, or when Connor had kissed him for the first time. It went deeper, was more subtle; a happiness that suffused his entire body and made him look at Connor asleep on his chest and want every morning to be like this.

Contentment. That was the word he was looking for.

Hank had no idea what time it was, but he was pretty sure Connor hadn't woken up this late in the day since he was a student. He had to have done it when he was a student. It was basically a law that university kids stayed up until five and woke up at three. Although picturing Connor doing that caused a weird disconnect in Hank's brain.

Connor moved, grumbling in his sleep and sprawling further across Hank's chest. Hank followed Connor's arm down to his hand and laced his fingers with Connor's. Connor's fingers squeezed around his.

“Good morning,” Hank murmured.

Connor buried his face against Hank's chest. His stubble dragged across Hank's skin. “Good morning,” he replied, drowsily.

Hank grinned. Connor was pretty cute when he was still half asleep. “I'm not normally awake before you,” he pointed out.

Connor squirmed until he was nestled in the crook of Hank's arm, with his head on Hank's shoulder and their fingers interlaced across Hank's chest. Once he was happy with his position he sighed. “You weren't,” he said, without opening his eyes, “but I decided to stay in bed.”

Hank looked at Connor with a crooked smile. The idea that he'd woken up and decided to use Hank as a pillow to go back to sleep on was adorable as shit. He pressed a kiss to Connor's forehead. “Good,” he said. “You're cute when you sleep.”

Connor cracked one eye open and then squirmed in closer to Hank's side, crossing his leg over Hank's. Hank stroked the back of Connor's hand with his thumb. His skin was soft and cool, and Connor's fingers flexed and squeezed. “It was nice not to have your alarm going off, for a change,” he said. “Although we should probably get up soon anyway.”

Hank was dimly aware of the pressure in his bladder, and the distant fact that Sumo needed to be walked, and also he was kinda hungry. None of it was more urgent than enjoying every last second of waking up with Connor in his arms. “Later,” he replied. “Let me enjoy this.”

Connor lifted his head and pressed a soft kiss to Hank's chest, just once, before he settled down again. Hank closed his eyes, letting the warmth of Connor's body seep into his side. He drew idle circles along Connor's hip with his other hand, and lifted Connor's hand to his mouth to press a kiss to the back of it. “You're the best thing to happen to me in years,” Hank murmured.

Connor exhaled slowly through his nose. “So are you,” he replied, with such unguarded honesty that Hank felt the words like a punch to the gut. It was so close to words he couldn't say because it would be insane to say them right now, but in moments like this they presented themselves in his brain anyway, daring his coward of a tongue to spill them.

Hank dragged Connor tightly against himself for a moment, and let his fingers drift higher up Connor's side until his fingertips brushed at the bottom of Connor's ribs. Connor squirmed closer to Hank, trying to pull that sensitive area out of Hank's reach. Hank went for it again, and Connor's whole body arched against Hank's. “You're tickling!” he protested.

“Am I?” Hank replied, grinning at Connor and reaching to dance his fingers along the bottom of Connor's ribs again.

This time he squirmed away, pulling out of Hank's grip and rolling back to his own side of the bed. Hank followed him, rolling on top of him and pushing Connor's hand into the pillow beside his head, their fingers still laced, trapping him.

Connor's eyes were wide as he looked into Hank's. His lips were parted, and Hank watched them close as Connor swallowed.

Oh, Hank realised as he watched Connor's lips part again, reddened and wanting, he's into this.

Hank leaned down and pressed a kiss to Connor's mouth. Connor's chest rose under Hank as he breathed in, and tilted his head back to let Hank kiss him more deeply. His tongue was as soft as ever, shyly welcoming Hank into his mouth, and Connor slowly tangled their legs together. His one free hand slid up Hank's back, under his arm so Connor's fingers could curl into the back of his shoulder.

Hank lost himself in Connor's mouth, kissing him deeply and drawing him tight against his own body with the hand trapped under Connor's back. He rolled his hips down as he slid between Connor's legs, letting Connor feel the effect he was having on him.

A dull, heavy scratching noise at the bedroom door was followed by a whine. Hank ignored it, pressing Connor's hand harder into the bed. It earned him a soft noise from the back of Connor's throat.

The bedroom door was pushed inwards with the sound of claws against wood. Hank pulled away from Connor's mouth to turn his attention to Connor's throat, and that spot at the side of his neck that made his toes curl. Connor groaned again, softly, and Hank dragged his arm out from behind Connor's back to find his other hand and pin that down too.

This time the whine was in the room. “I think Sumo wants to go out,” Connor observed. His voice had the distant, dreamy quality it gained when he was lost in a fog of desire. Hank could feel where Connor's interests really lay pressing against his stomach.

“He can wait,” Hank grumbled, planting open mouthed kisses along Connor's collarbone and licking at his skin. Connor whimpered; an honest to god 'fuck me now' noise coming from the back of his throat. Hank didn't think he'd heard him do that before. He pinned Connor's hands harder into the bed and did it again to see if he could get the same reaction.

He got the same reaction. It was a soft, high pitched groan coming from Connor's throat, made up of need and want, and Hank was going to remember that noise in his fondest filthy fantasies.

A giant paw planted itself on the bed. The whine built up into a low bark. “Fuck off, Sumo,” Hank told him, turning his attention to the other side of Connor's neck.

Weight heaved itself onto the bed and landed on the back of his and Connor's legs. Connor broke down into a laugh, and Hank gave a frustrated growl as he lay his weight across Connor. “Maybe we should take him out?” Connor suggested, the moment gone although Hank could still feel his erection against his hip.

Hank groaned. He'd been so close to getting lazy morning sex. So close. “I can't believe I'm getting cockblocked by my own dog,” he grumbled.

It made Connor laugh again, which was almost worth it.

Sumo tromped his enormous bulk around the bed and whined directly into Hank's ear, snuffling at his shoulder and hair. “Bad dog, Sumo,” Hank grumbled.

A huge paw landed against his back, and Sumo nudged at Hank's head with his muzzle. “He must really need to go,” Connor said, his amusement clear in his voice.

Hank groaned again and lifted his head to look down at Connor. His hair was sprawled against the pillow, and his mouth looked infinitely more inviting than the prospect of walking the dog on a chilly November morning. “You're not going to keep this warm for me, are you?” Hank asked, giving his hips a gentle roll to let Connor know what he meant by this.

Connor smiled at him, and raised his eyebrows as he tilted his head. “I think the moment is gone,” he admitted. Hank grumbled unhappily. “You can make it up to me tonight,” he added.

Hank growled. Sumo, oblivious to the consequences of his actions, nudged at Hank's head with his muzzle again. “All right,” Hank whined. He pressed one last kiss to Connor's cheek, feeling his morning stubble under his lips, and heaved himself up to his hands and knees.

Sumo gave a low woof, walked in a circle on the bed, and then jumped down to lead Hank out of the room, stopping by the door to watch and make sure he was following. Hank left the bed reluctantly and dragged a pair of sweatpants from a drawer to pull on. When he looked back to Connor he found he was being watched; Connor had propped himself up on one arm and was smiling, his eyes on Hank.

Hank was used to watching Connor move around the room in varying states of undress. It was a good view, but Connor was a fit and healthy twenty nine year old, with a jogger's pert ass. It was strange realising said fit and healthy twenty nine year old was getting the same enjoyment out of watching Hank pull on trousers with no underwear so he could let the dog out for a piss without upsetting the neighbours too much.

“How about,” he offered, feeling weirdly self conscious about being ogled, “we take Sumo out, and find somewhere to get breakfast?”

Connor smiled at him, and Hank got the distinct impression he'd said exactly the right thing to make up for not being in the middle of banging Connor's brains out right now, to Connor at least. “That sounds nice,” Connor said.

A gigantic piss for Sumo and Hank, one shave for Connor, and a change of clothes later, Hank removed Sumo's leash and sent him off to run himself out in the park. Sumo bounded ahead, all fur and paws, streaking through the wet grass. Connor had his beanie cap on again, and a thin turtleneck that gathered around his throat in lieu of a scarf. Hank had his own coat done up all the way. Their breath hung in the air as they walked, side by side.

“Looking forward to tonight?” Hank asked, conversationally. He kept his hands jammed into his pockets, as did Connor. The sun was bright, but low in the sky even now and provided little warmth. It was going to freeze later.

Connor's head dipped as he smiled into the collar of his coat. “Yes,” he answered. “Where is it you're taking me?”

Hank grinned. “A French place called Otto's.” He shrugged, keeping his hands in his pockets. “It's small, but it's got good reviews. Figured you deserved a real date,” he added, a little awkwardly, “instead of a takeaway on my sofa.”

Connor turned his head to cast Hank a sidelong, soft smile. “You didn't have to go to that effort,” he said, “but thank you.”

Hank kicked at the gravel path as they walked. Sumo came bounding back up to check they were still following, and then raced ahead again to find something interesting to sniff. “Yeah I did,” Hank said. “I want you to be happy, Connor.”

Connor's eyes remained on him. When he spoke, it was with feeling; “I am.”

Hank shrugged. He remembered the new relationship high, the honeymoon period where it didn't matter what you were doing so long as you were doing it with the other person. “For now,” he said, “but I want you to still be this happy in six months, or a year, or--” he cut himself off. Saying that he wanted Connor to be happy for the rest of his life was a bit much right now, even if the sentiment was there. Even if Connor being happy didn't mean him being happy with Hank, he wanted him to be happy. “So I wanna know what makes you happy,” he said, “and not that I'm happy so long as you're happy shit you do. You bend over backwards for everyone. I don't want you to bend over backwards for me.” He screwed up his nose and added, “Unless you're into that.”

Connor moved in closer. Hank lifted his elbow while keeping his hand in his pocket as Connor slid his arm around Hank's and planted it back in his own pocket so they were walking shoulder to shoulder. “I am happy,” he said, again. “I want this,” he explained, looking up at Hank. “I want to walk the dog together, and have lazy morning lie-ins,” Connor paused and sighed, “and nights like last night where I can just be, with you.”

The words were warm in Hank's chest. Just being with Connor, sharing space with him, holding him while they watched some confusing film about time travel and assassins had been pretty nice. “The sex is pretty good too, right?” Hank asked, because he couldn't help himself.

Connor broke into a bright smile and looked away from Hank, hiding a hint of embarrassment. “It's certainly one of the highlights,” he conceded.

Hank pictured Connor's face this morning when he'd pinned him to the mattress by his hand. “Anything I should know that gets your motor going?” he asked, eyeing Connor with a grin.

Connor inhaled slowly. Sumo returned to them again and began to amble sedately beside Connor, his big doggy breaths fogging in the air. “Are you sure you want to know?” Connor asked, meeting Hank's sidelong gaze.

Hank shrugged both of his shoulders. He realised there was every chance Connor could admit to being some weirdo that liked to get his rocks off by dressing in some horrifying anime girl skinsuit, but Hank was prepared to take that risk. “I think I figured out the pinning,” he said, casually, “and there might be a licking thing you've got going on.”

Connor laughed awkwardly, and kept his head down. “I'm sorry,” he said, quietly, “about the licking.”

Hank grunted, unconcerned. Score one for his observations about Connor's weird little Things so far, then. “Don't apologise,” he told him, “it's kinda hot.”

Connor fell quiet for a moment. Hank waited him out. Connor seemed to be either steeling himself, or lining up an explanation, and Hank wanted to see which he'd get. “I like to feel things with my mouth,” he confessed, quietly. “Kissing and licking are good,” he continued, his voice growing quieter. Hank had to concentrate to hear him. “Putting fingers in my mouth is even better.”

Hank pursed his lips and memorised that little tidbit for later usage. “What about,” he began, and then mentally cursed Larxene for being an interfering bitch, “praise kink?”

Connor looked at Hank in surprise. “You're familiar with that?”

Hank swallowed and wanted to kick himself. He wanted to kick Larxene more. “I've heard about it,” he said. Not like he'd been googling that shit on his lunch break or anything. “All that 'good girl' kind of stuff. It do anything for you?”

Connor bowed his head again, but this time when he answered it was with a little less uncertainty. “It's very effective,” he said. Hank looked at him and squeezed his arm with his own. Connor met his gaze briefly and smiled. Hank wasn't sure if the pink shade of his cheeks was down to the cold or the conversation. “I like to have my boundaries pushed,” he explained. “If you took me until I didn't think I could bear any more, to the point where I'd be begging, and then you told me I was taking it so well, or how good it felt for you, and you asked me to hold on for you, well,” he looked up to Hank again, “I'd hold on, but it would be extremely difficult for all the right reasons.”

Hank nodded slowly. God damn Larxene. It was worse because the idea was pretty hot. Having Connor squirming under him, desperate to get off, and then asking him to hold on a little longer sounded like a great way to spend a night. Pushing his boundaries. Fucking him sweet and slow until it almost hurt. “So that's what you're into?” Hank asked. “That BDSM stuff?”

Connor kept his head bowed, watching the gravel path beneath their feet. “I enjoy the more psychological aspect,” he said. “Blindfolds are okay. I prefer having my hands pinned than tied. I don't enjoy gags or impact play.” Sumo bounded off a few steps ahead of them to cock his leg against a popular tree. “Mostly I like to be teased, even if I complain about it,” Connor explained, “and I like it slow.”

Connor sounded way, way more experienced in the matter than Hank had expected. He was way more experienced than Hank himself, too. Hank's marriage hadn't exactly been a smouldering fire in the bedroom department, even before Cole had been born. “You uh,” he asked, because his curiosity was a curse, “done that stuff before?”

Connor took a moment to answer. “Daniel and I dabbled,” he said, finally, “but Chloe was the one who introduced me to it, although she preferred me to be dominant.”

Hank's brain screeched to a halt. The mental image of Connor in a leather harness and thigh high boots presented itself. Hank choked on his own spit. “You?” he asked, coughing. Sweet, giving Connor, who got off on being told he was a good boy, who had people pleaser written through him like a stick of blackpool rock, dominating somebody else in bed. Hank coughed again and righted himself.

Connor looked less amused. “Do you not think I'm capable?”

Hank cleared his throat one final time. Connor had unlinked their arms. He should probably apologise, but he also didn't want to lie. “You're cute as a button and fall over yourself to make others happy. I don't see you cracking a whip, somehow.”

Connor settled his hand against Hank's chest and stepped in close, thoroughly invading his personal space. Hank's world narrowed down to two brown eyes that looked into his, unflinching. “I don't need a whip,” he said, his voice firm, and low. It sounded like a threat, or a promise. “All it takes is the confidence to know you want me,” he said, tilting his chin so he was looking down his nose at Hank despite their height difference. Connor's eyes flicked to Hank's lips and back again. Hank mirrored their movement, watching Connor's lips which seemed suddenly, invitingly close. “I know you're thinking about kissing me right now,” Connor said, his eyes heavy lidded. He parted his lips as if he might kiss Hank, but didn't move in.

Hank's heart pounded against the inside of his ribs. He leaned in towards Connor's mouth.

Connor drew back exactly as much as Hank leaned forward. Connor's eyebrows lifted and he trapped Hank in a melted chocolate gaze. “You haven't earned that.”

Hank swallowed. He felt trapped like an insect in amber, suspended in time by Connor's gaze and the press of his hand against his chest.

He looked away to snap himself out of it and took a step back. It was like being released from a whirlpool. “Okay, you made your point,” he conceded. New kink unlocked, Hank reflected. Bossy Connor was certainly a thing they'd have to explore. Preferably with Connor half out of an expensive designer suit and sprawled across a sofa.

Connor's hard confidence melted away in an instant, replaced by a victorious grin and a soft laugh. He returned to his position by Hank's side. “I admit,” he said, “I enjoy the submissive role more, but I also enjoy giving my partner what they want.”

Hank still felt off balance, as if a rug had been jerked several inches in one direction while he was standing on it, although not entirely out. “That figures,” he said, eventually. He'd read, in one of his afternoons with Mr Google, that domination was about tending to the other person, and 'subbing' was about trusting and letting go. Connor did both. Hank, well, Hank was all for tending to Connor's every whim, but having him demand what he wanted was fun too.

He draped his arm across Connor's shoulder, and walked beside him in thoughtful silence for a few paces. When Connor was quiet Hank always fancied that he could hear how hard he was thinking. It made him wish he could read minds, or at least just Connor's mind.

“What about you?” Connor asked, finally. “Is there anything you want to try?”

Hank pressed his lips tightly together to stop the words 'you pulling that dom shit on me again at home' from pouring out of his mouth. He pulled Connor closer into his side. “I'm a pretty simple guy,” he said. “Right now I've got a hot twenty something brunet that wants in my pants, which is probably the unlikeliest sex fantasy a guy can have, at my age.” He flashed a wry grin at Connor, and saw Connor's flattered, bashful smile in return. “Slow is good,” he added, with a slight shrug, “kissing is better than I remember.” He remembered kissing when he'd been young, and enthusiastic, and stupid, and he also remembered kissing his wife when it had become routine instead of passionate. Kissing Connor was miles apart from either of those. “I like it when you're clear about what you want,” he finished, looking directly at Connor.

“I think I can do that,” Connor replied. Hank's hand was starting to freeze, so he let his arm drop from Connor's shoulder and replaced it into his own pocket. “Can I ask a personal question?” Connor ventured, looking uncertainly at Hank.

Hank furrowed his eyebrows at him. “We're talking about what gets each other off and you have a question more personal?”

Connor frowned and looked down at the path ahead of them. Sumo had taken up position by Connor's heels, ambling after him. “You don't have to answer,” he said, “I just wondered if I'm the first man you've ever been attracted to?”

Hank opened his mouth and found the answer wouldn't present itself. He squirmed inside his jacket, and settled his hands more firmly into his pockets. “Not exactly,” he said, eventually. It was the most accurate answer he could give. Hank sighed. He might as well be honest. “You've gotta remember this was a long time ago,” he began, giving Connor a look that was self conscious and uncomfortable, “but I had more than one blowjob off some nameless guy I never saw again when I was young. It was just that back then you only had relationships with women, unless you wanted to lose everything, or get AIDS.” He shrugged. “So I never really,” he tried to find the word he needed, “went for guys,” it would have to do, “even if I liked them.”

“What was different this time?” Connor asked, thoughtfully. From anyone else it would sound like they were fishing for compliments, but Connor sounded like he really wanted to understand what had been going through Hank's head last week.

“You,” Hank answered, simply. He looked sideways at Connor, and then turned away again, shaking his head. “You're incredible, Connor, and I've liked you more than I should for a lot longer than I want to admit. I just,” he frowned at himself, “figured you'd have better taste than to go for an old bastard like me.”

Connor moved in close, and slid his hand inside Hank's pocket to tangle their fingers together. Hank let him, and then curled his hand tight around Connor's. “I'll admit it took me a little time to see beneath the gruff exterior,” he said, “but once I saw the genuinely good man beneath, that cares so much it hurts him,” he looked up, and Hank found that warm chocolate gaze cradling him with open affection, “I started to fall for him.”

Connor's words curled up warm around Hank's heart. Hank fixed him with a hopeless smile. “You could still do better,” he said.

Connor returned Hank's hopeless smile with one of his own and shook his head. “I really couldn't.”

*

Otto's was a fancy boutique establishment, which was the only reason Hank allowed Connor to drag him out to buy a suit to wear. They'd taken Sumo back home before heading out again, and Connor had given directions with almost distressing confidence to a tailor's not far from his flat.

“I don't think there's time for tailoring,” Hank had protested, half-heartedly, as he got out of the car.

Connor looked much too happy to be dragging Hank out to buy clothes. “They sell off the rack too,” he replied, leading Hank into the small shop. The door chimed when he opened it. Hank groaned unhappily, and followed him in.

“Connor! It has been too long! I have a beautiful new Tom Ford in that you have to see.” The speaker was a short man with shaved hair and a carefully cropped beard, olive skin and green eyes. He greeted Connor with the enthusiasm of Sumo, all but bounding up to him when he entered.

“I'm not here for myself, I'm afraid,” Connor replied, and turned to gesture to Hank. “Alexander, this is DCI Anderson.”

Alexander straightened up and looked Hank up and down. Hank gave him an awkward wave. “Hi.” He hated shop assistants that rushed up to you to try and sell you shit, and everything about this guy so far indicated that was what was about to happen.

Alexander looked from Hank to Connor. “So this is him?” Connor had the good grace to look slightly uncomfortable as Alexander approached Hank and gripped his hand in both of his own. “Connor has spoken of you frequently,” he said, “it's a pleasure to finally meet you.”

“Oh he has, has he?” Hank asked. He wondered what context, exactly, involved Connor talking about him 'frequently' to his tailor.

Connor didn't meet his eyes, and instead kept his attention fixed firmly on Alexander. “He needs a suit for tonight,” he said, “and a shirt.”

Alexander released Hank's hand to gesture to the racks of suits in all manner of colours that lined the walls, and stood on small stands. “Well you came to the right place. What are you thinking?” he asked. Hank noticed that he wasn't the one being asked; Connor was.

Connor made a thoughtful noise, “Something classic, but not too high a price point,” he said. “Maybe Armani?”

Alexander looked delighted, and turned to Hank patting him on the arm. “Connor always knows what he wants,” he told him, with a smile, before abandoning Hank to move towards the racks. “This way, please.”

“I feel like I'm shopping with my ex wife,” Hank grumbled.

Connor winced. “I'm sorry,” he said, and Hank knew he meant it. “You don't have to follow my suggestions.”

Hank groaned in his throat. “What've you told this guy about me?” he asked, in an undertone. Alexander was busily pulling at suits on hangers, disregarding one, and then plucking another off the rack.

Connor's cheeks were pink, but it might have been the cold air outside. “That you're my boss,” he answered, “and how much I enjoy working for you.”

Alexander moved to another section of the shop. Hank watched him all but dance among the rows of suits, picking one out from here, another from there.

“You sure that's all?” Hank asked.

He became dimly aware of a vibration in his pocket and pulled out his phone to check the screen.

Cole

His heart leapt into his throat as he stared at the name. Cole was calling him. He must have listened to the message last night.

Connor's hand settled on his forearm. “Answer it,” he said.

Hank swallowed. The tailor's shop around him disappeared from his awareness as he slid his thumb along the screen to answer the call. “Hello?”

There was an aching, awkward moment before someone spoke on the other end of the line. “Hey dad.”

Hearing those words flooded Hank's body with relief, like finally taking a gasp of air after nearly drowning. “Hey,” he said, wishing he could reach through the phone and drag his son into his arms, “you got my message?”

“Yeah.” There was another, awkward pause. “Yeah I did.”

“I mean every word,” Hank said. Just the opportunity to tell Cole he loved him had been worth the stress.

“You didn't sound drunk, so,” Cole replied, quietly.

Hank closed his eyes. That one stung. “No,” he confirmed, “I wasn't.”

“So why did you call?”

Hank swallowed and glanced towards Connor, who had moved away to talk in hushed tones with Alexander at the other end of the shop, giving Hank space. Hank felt like he needed Connor on his lap again right now, ready to hold him tight if this all blew up in his face. “Someone talked some sense into me,” Hank said, meeting Connor's eyes across the shop. “Made me realise that the only way to stop being a shitty dad is to, you know, stop being a shitty dad.”

Cole huffed a little on the other end of the phone. “You have been kinda shitty,” he said.

Hank swallowed. The knife in his heart gave a twist. “I know,” he said. “I'm sorry. I want to do better.”

Silence blossomed again. Hank felt the urge to fill it, but also didn't want to put his foot in it. Cole broke first. “I'm sorry I wasn't there at my birthday this year,” he said, in a rush. “Mum told me you'd come to see me.”

Hank felt his heart breaking, fragment by fragment. “No,” he said, “I'm sorry. Should have figured you had better things to do for your eighteenth than hang around waiting for your old man to get his shit together.”

Cole's answer was non-committal. “I guess.”

Hank frowned. He could feel the conversation stalling. After too long it got hard to talk to people. “So,” he went for a safe option, “how is uni going?”

Cole sniffed. “Okay,” he answered, still guarded. Cole didn't seem to want to give too much away. “Met some people.”

Meeting people was half of what university was for. Hank decided to push, just a little. “Got a girlfriend yet?” he asked, and then caught himself and added, “Or a boyfriend, that'd be cool too.”

“I'm not gay, dad.” Hank swore he could hear Cole's flat expression, and it brought a smile to Hank's face. He remembered a six year old giving him that tone, and the look that went with it, when he said something dumb to get a reaction out of him.

“You don't have to be gay,” Hank insisted, “you could be bi, or,” he hesitated, trying to remember what they called what Connor was, “pan? Is that the word?”

“I'm straight, dad.” The answer came in that same, flat tone.

“Okay,” Hank replied, wondering how the news would go down that his dad wasn't – shit, one day he'd meet Connor. The idea made Hank's chest tighten with both fear and excitement. Connor would love him, and there was no way Cole wouldn't love Connor, but boy was that going to be an interesting conversation in the future. “But if you weren't, I wouldn't get weird about it.”

There was a pause before Cole spoke again. “I didn't figure you for being open minded about that kind of thing,” he said, quietly.

Hank couldn't help but smile, looking back over towards the hot brunet he'd spent the past week fucking. Connor was trying to refuse something, and Alexander was pushing. Hank looked away again. Connor had got himself into that one by bringing Hank here; he could get himself back out, too. “You'd be surprised,” he said, honestly.

“Seems so,” Cole conceded.

The conversation faltered again. Hank picked up another safe topic. “What are you studying?”

Cole answered with more enthusiasm than the conversation had begun. “Biomedical engineering,” he said. “I'm thinking of going into prostheses design.”

Hank grinned. “Whoa,” he murmured, genuinely impressed, and hearing Cole's bubbling excitement about it lit up Hank's smile. “Sounds cool.”

“It's kinda cool, yeah,” Cole replied, turning back into a teenager who wasn't allowed to admit that things were really freaking cool out loud in case he somehow became uncool himself.

Hank really wished this wasn't just a phone call. He desperately wanted to hug Cole and tell him how impressed he was. “I'm really proud of you, son.”

“Thanks,” Cole answered, quietly. Hank could feel the change in Cole's tone, as if Hank's words had struck deep. Hank hoped it was in a good way.

“You back home for Christmas this year?” he asked. He could see him, take the trip down, maybe stay in a hotel overnight. This time he'd keep his promise. Shit, if he told Connor about it he wouldn't be given a choice but to keep his promise.

“Yeah,” Cole answered, “but,” he added, warily. Hank felt the word like a slap. Maybe Cole wouldn't want to see him. Maybe that was too much, too fast? “I'm only in Reading now, so,” Cole continued, and Hank felt the weight lifting again, “you don't have to wait if you wanted to... you know.”

If Hank wanted to go and see him he was only an hour and a half away. The knowledge dug its fingers into Hank's throat and squeezed. “Really?” He willed his voice not to break.

Cole seemed to be having a similar issue. “I mean,” he stammered, “if you wanted to?”

“No,” Hank answered in a hurry. He didn't want Cole to think he didn't want to. “No, I want to.” Shit, he could see him tomorrow if he wanted. Except he was taking Connor home. “How about next week?” he offered. “I could treat you to dinner? I know you students are always broke.” Take him out for pizza, maybe? That was something safe that they'd both like.

“Yeah,” Cole answered. Hank squeezed his eyes shut at the relief in his son's voice. “Yeah, sounds good.”

“All right,” Hank said, his heart leaping in his chest. “Next Saturday then.”

“Yeah,” Cole replied, again. Then he hesitated. “Look, I gotta go, I got a football match about to start.”

Hank remembered ten year old Cole, covered in mud, carrying a rain-soaked football under his arm and preparing to muddy up the inside of Hank's car. He'd give anything to have those moments back. “You still play?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Cole answered. “Nothing serious, just a campus team.”

Hank smiled. Cole still played football. He hadn't even known that fact, but he was being given the chance to catch up on years he'd wasted. “Well, you go play,” he said. “I love you, son.”

It took Cole a long moment to reply. Hank expected to just get a goodbye; it was the most he deserved. Instead Cole said, “Love you too dad.”

Hank stared at his phone's screen as the line went dead. His chest heaved with uncertain breaths. Connor moved into his line of sight, stepping in front of Hank like he was preparing to put himself between Hank and a charging bull. “Are you okay?”

Connor. It wouldn't have happened without Connor. Fuck Hank owed him everything.

He flung his arms around Connor's back and held him tight. He didn't want to speak because he didn't trust his voice. Connor froze for a moment, and then softened, folding his arms around Hank's back, cradling the back of his head as Hank buried his face in Connor's shoulder.

Hank let Connor's warmth suffuse through his body, feeling him pressed against his chest, and under his arms. Connor stayed still, not trying to pull away, waiting for Hank to loosen his hold. “He doesn't hate me,” he said, quietly, leaning back to look Connor in the eyes. “I'm taking him for pizza next week.”

Connor's smile would have warmed Hank if he'd been naked in the arctic. He brushed Hank's hair back from his face with delicate fingers, and settled his palm against his cheek. “I told you,” he said, without having the audacity to make it into a full 'told you so'.

Hank pulled him back into a hug again. Somehow, a fancy dinner at a French restaurant was not going to be enough to repay Connor for the difference he was making in Hank's damned life.

Hank sniffed and pulled himself together, rubbing at his eyes with the heel of his hand as he finally let Connor go properly. Alexander stood on the periphery, patiently waiting out the emotional moment. Hank wondered what he thought about Connor's boss crying onto his shoulder out of nowhere.

“If you're ready to try on a suit,” he said, holding one out, “our fitting room is in the back.”

Hank looked at the black suit jacket and trousers, and the pink shirt that had been matched with them. He looked at Connor and just got a crooked smile and a shrug in response. Hank sniffed again, resisting the urge to wipe his nose with the back of his hand, and then rolled his eyes and took the hangers from Alexander, following his directions to the fitting room.

Hank shrugged out of his comfortable jeans and shirt, leaving them hanging in the changing room as he pulled on the suit. He couldn't see a price tag on it anywhere, which inevitably meant it was far too expensive. He wasn't sure about the pink, either, although it didn't look too bad once it was on. Hank wasn't sure his own opinion could be trusted on that front.

At least they all fit properly. He'd have died of embarrassment if he couldn't fasten the trousers up, but it looked like Alexander had a good eye for sizing.

He pulled the curtain back and was confronted with Alexander, who held his finger to his mouth thoughtfully, and then passed Hank a black silk tie. “And if you want my advice,” he said, “you should do something with the hair.”

“I didn't ask for your advice,” Hank growled. He didn't deliberately keep his hair long, he could just never be bothered to keep going and getting it cut. Hairdressers were worse than tailors for invading your privacy.

Alexander pointed a finger at Hank, accusingly. “Connor deserves for you to look your best for him,” he answered, sharply, but kept his voice low so it wouldn't carry to Connor. “You have strong shoulders, and good cheekbones. You should make the most of them.”

Hank grumbled, but wasn't sure how to respond to that. Apparently Connor had already mentioned their going on a date, or it had become abundantly obvious that he wasn't bringing someone that was just his boss here. He turned to the mirror and put the tie on, even though he hadn't worn a tie outside of court appearances since his wedding.

His attempts to fasten it seemed to be inadequate because Alexander stepped in and smartly tied it for Hank, sliding the knot into place below his throat. Alexander gave Hank's shirt collar a straighten, and tugged at Hank's sleeves and checked the length of the trousers before he let Hank walk back out into the shop to see what Connor thought.

Hank walked into the open. Connor froze, his eyes fixed on Hank, his lips parting although he didn't speak. Hank grinned. He recognised that look. It was the same look Connor had worn when Hank had pinned him into the bed this morning. It was Connor's 'I want this' face.

Hank spread his arms. “How do I look?”

Connor closed his mouth, and Hank saw his bottom lip move as if he was biting at the inside. “Good,” he said, after a moment, “but,” he moved forwards, and unfastened the tie, keeping his eyes and fingers busy on the knot while Hank watched him. Hank felt the tie drag against his collar as Connor pulled it free, and then unfastened the top button of the shirt. “This looks more natural.” His hand rested against Hank's collarbone, over his shirt but under the jacket.

Hank wanted to pull him into a kiss. Connor looked thoroughly swept off his feet. It was a good look on him.

Alexander appeared to spoil the moment. “There's no accounting for taste,” he said, and promptly pushed a set of hangers at Connor. “Now you.”

Connor shook his head. “I told you, I already have--”

Alexander wagged a finger as if he was telling off a naughty child. “He's seen you in a good suit, now he should see you in an excellent suit, and when you see his face you'll have to buy it.” Alexander turned to Hank for support. “He drags you out here to be forced into a suit, it's only fair he try one himself.”

Hank tilted his head to one side, and gave Connor a crooked smile. When you put it like that, it might be fun to see Connor get bossed around the way Hank had been. “Sure, why not,” he said. “What harm can it do?”

Hank was ushered back to the fitting room to change back into his normal clothes. He still couldn't find a price tag on anything, which was starting to become a concern. Although the way Connor had stared when Hank had appeared made Hank fairly confident that the price wasn't going to matter anyway.

Alexander folded Hank's suit into one of those bags that assholes used for their dry cleaning while Connor changed. “So,” Hank asked, “what has Connor been saying about me?”

Alexander grinned at him. “You made quite the impression on him,” he said, brightly. “He's been happier in the last six months than I've ever seen him.” Alexander smiled up at Hank. “I'm sure even more happiness awaits him.” His smile dropped. “Of course if you hurt him, I'll have you flayed and turned into an ill-fitting leather jacket.”

Hank frowned, unsure if his ears were telling him the truth. “Did you just give me the shovel talk?”

Alexander's smile returned. “Somebody should,” he answered.

Hank eyed Alexander. “How do you know Connor?” He seemed to know him too well for a tailor, unless Connor had spent an inordinate amount of time shopping for fancy suits over the past few years.

Alexander rested his elbows on the counter and laced his fingers together, resting his chin on the backs of them. He regarded Hank with a smirk. “We were flatmates,” he said, eventually. “Until he moved out last year.”

The sound of the curtain to the fitting room drawing back silenced the conversation. Connor emerged wearing a well-fitted black pinstripe over a white shirt, with a black tie and gold tie clip. He fidgeted with the cuff of his shirt under the suit sleeve before he looked up at Hank.

Hank's heart stopped in his chest. His breath froze. Connor looked incredible. The suit jacket accentuated his shoulders, and his flat stomach. The pinstripe made his legs look long, and lean. The depth of the black made the brown of Connor's eyes shine like honey. The suit looked like it had been made for Connor.

Connor met Hank's eyes, and then glanced away, shyly. “Alexander, I can't,” he said.

Alexander straightened up from his lounging on the counter and gestured to Hank's face with his hand. “He's seen what he's unwrapping tonight, and now you say no?”

Hank remembered how thinking worked. His brain had fallen into utter silence at the sight of Connor. “You should get it,” he tripped over his tongue in more than the metaphorical sense; his words came out stilted, “if you want it, I mean.”

Put a glass of Laphroaig in his hand. Loosen the tie but not take it off. Fuck.

Connor shook his head. “It's too much,” he said, turning to the tailor. “Alexander, I can't afford this.”

“You think I'm going to make you pay full price?” Alexander replied. “I should pay you to stand around the shop wearing that.”

Money? That was what Connor was worried about? Hank looked him over one more time. “I'll pay,” he offered, before his brain had caught up with his mouth.

Connor looked at him sharply. “Hank, no,” he said, firmly, “it's a very expensive suit.”

Alexander huffed. “Not if I put it through as damaged,” he countered.

“You can't do that,” Connor protested.

Alexander held a hand up to silence him. “If I say it's damaged, then it is. No one else could ever look as good in that suit as you do right now, so in my professional opinion, it's ruined. Now are you going to take it?”

“How much?” Hank asked.

“As damaged?” Alexander asked. “Nine hundred and fifty.”

“Jesus Christ,” Hank hissed. He'd expected a couple of hundred. “And not damaged?”

“As a complete set?” Alexander clarified. “Five thousand five.”

Hank heard the soft hiss of a curse from Connor at around the same time as he gave his own, low, “Fuck.”

“I appreciate the gesture, but--” Connor began.

Hank cut him off. “Ring it up.” This was going to be a very fucking expensive shopping trip, but Connor looked too damn good in that suit, and Hank wanted him to have it. He wanted to see him in it again. He wanted to take it off him and leave it all over his bedroom floor.

“Hank!” Connor protested.

Hank looked at him. Every time Hank set eyes on Connor in that pinstripe his heart skipped. How good would he look with that jacket pushed down his shoulders and his shirt hanging open? “Don't argue,” he said.

“Wonderful,” said Alexander, “so with the staff discount on yours, plus a damage discount on Connor's,” he began ringing the two suits up, inputting prices and codes from memory, “that will be one thousand, four hundred and twenty,” he said.

Hank felt the blow to his wallet like a physical punch to his gut. He weathered it. He'd spent enough years on a DCI's wage spending his money on nothing but drink, Sumo, and child support. He could afford to do something like this for Connor.

Connor's hand settled on Hank's arm as he pulled his wallet out. “Hank,” he said, looking at him with big brown eyes that Hank would do anything for, “please don't feel you have to buy me anything.”

Hank actually laughed, flashing a warm smile at Connor. Connor was worried about Hank trying to buy him? If it was possible to buy Connor's affection Hank was pretty sure he'd already be in California. “I want to see you in that again,” he said, and leaned close to add, in a low voice, “I wanna get you out of it, too.” He straightened up and gave Connor a crooked smile. “That's all.”

Connor's eyes closed, and he wore a small, flattered smile. “Then thank you,” he said, quietly.

*

They took a taxi to Otto's. Hank had spent what felt like an inordinate amount of time getting ready. Shower, beard trim, nail trim, aftershave; he spent too long debating doing something like tying his hair back, but couldn't find any way to do it where he didn't look like an old man trying not to look like an old man before he gave up and left it as it was.

He emerged from his bedroom in his new suit, with dress shoes he kept for court appearances, shortly before Connor exited the bathroom wearing most of his. The top button of his shirt was still undone, and the tie was draped around his neck. Hank stared at him. How the hell had he managed to convince someone this damn beautiful to look at him twice?

Connor kept giving Hank sideways looks in the taxi, too. Hank pretended not to notice, letting Connor look as much as he liked. Being looked at appreciatively, regarded like he was an object of desire, made his stomach flutter.

Otto's turned out to be a very small but very interesting little place on an otherwise nondescript street. They had a basement, and a ground floor, with tables arranged around the outer walls. It was cosy, and intimate.

They had salmon to start, which was brought to the table and carved while they watched. Connor engaged the waiter about the food, who was fortunately not actually French so he had better manners than Hank expected, and Hank was tricked into spending a ridiculous amount on a bottle of wine that he had to reluctantly admit was pretty good.

Second courses were a T-bone steak for Hank, and Lamb Wellington for Connor, which was, according to Connor, tricky to achieve because it was easy to overcook. That necessitated a different bottle of wine, red this time, to go with the meat. Hank could feel his bank account screaming.

Connor was nearly at the end of his first glass of red wine, second glass of wine in total for the evening, when he reached across the table and let his fingers brush over the back of Hank's hand. “Thank you,” he said, his voice low enough that Hank had to concentrate to hear him over the background music and other diners, “for everything today.”

Hank wondered if it was the wine talking, at least a little. Connor was more than kind of a light weight, and Hank hadn't seen him put away more than half a glass of much less potent wine all week. Despite that, Connor's eyes were bright, and focused, and his fingers were warm against the back of Hank's hand.

Hank turned his hand over and slid his palm under Connor's. “I just wanted to treat you,” he answered.

Connor smiled softly at him, and flexed his wrist so he could hold Hank's hand. “You don't have to spend money on me for that,” he said.

“No,” Hank agreed, “but I wanted to, and you look so damn good in that suit.”

Connor looked down at the table, and his mostly empty plate. He'd left one bite, which Hank dimly recalled was some old fashioned good manners shit. “You nearly didn't make it here in yours,” Connor said, flashing Hank a dark look from under his eyebrows that travelled down Hank's spine and curled in his groin.

“Couldn't think of anything to do with my hair,” Hank admitted, snared by that look from Connor, “but I tried with the rest of me.”

Connor shook his head, releasing Hank briefly from his gaze, and squeezed Hank's hand. “I like your hair,” he said, glancing down, “I like the rest of you, too. Even without the very good suit.”

“But you like the suit,” Hank countered, with a grin. There was no denying the slack jawed stare he'd got from Connor when he'd first seen it, and the stolen glances in the taxi.

Connor gave a nod, and fixed dark brown eyes on Hank. “I'm looking forward to getting you out of it.”

Hank's breath caught. God, hearing Connor wanted him did things to him. “I'm about ready to make you dessert,” he murmured. He wanted to pin Connor to the far wall of this restaurant and kiss him senseless. “Wanna get out of here?”

Connor nodded. Hank took Connor's hand in his fingers and brought it up to his lips to press a kiss to Connor's knuckles, holding eye contact with him as he did.

Hank paid, and left a generous tip while wincing. Days like this couldn't become a regular thing or he'd be broke within a month, but the look on Connor's face when they slid into the back of the taxi together was worth it all. Hank set his hand on Connor's knee, and then trailed it up the inside of his thigh, burying his fingers in the heat he found there.

Connor did his best to remain stoic, their taxi driver might not appreciate two grown men initiating foreplay in the back of his car after all, but Hank could see where Connor's mind had gone in the movement of his Adam's apple in his throat, and the deep, slow movements of his chest. His hand settled over Hank's wrist, and held him in place so Hank could stroke his fingers ever so slowly over Connor's inner thigh and explore the faint contour of his cock.

Connor withdrew his hand slowly once they pulled up near Hank's house. This time Connor paid, waving to the driver to keep the change in favour of making a quicker exit. His hands slid beneath Hank's jacket when he joined Hank at the front door, eagerly drawing in close to him while Hank fumbled with the keys.

Hank got the door open and gripped Connor's hips to manoeuvre him inside, kicking the door shut with one foot as he pressed Connor against the wall. He finally kissed him then, the relief of it flooding his body. Connor's lips were warm, and his mouth hot under Hank's tongue. Connor's hands wound around his back and neck and pulled, urging Hank even closer.

Hank brought his hands up and worked Connor's tie loose from around his neck. Connor's fingers busied themselves with the buttons of Hank's shirt, rapidly and fastidiously undoing each of them in turn to bare his chest. Hank grabbed Connor's wrists and pushed his hands back into the wall by his thighs and held them there, breaking off from devouring Connor's mouth to look at him.

Connor looked dazed. His pupils were blown and his lips flushed and parted. “Do you trust me?” Hank asked.

Connor's eyes locked with Hank's. He didn't waver, or hesitate. “Yes.”

Jesus Christ, he didn't deserve Connor. Hank moved in again, burying his mouth against Connor's throat and kissing a line to that spot below his ear that made him squirm. He released Connor's hands and dragged the tie from around Connor's neck in one sharp movement. Connor breathed heavily, not yet panting, but there was time for Hank to get him there. He worked the last of Hank's buttons open before Hank brought his tie up for him to see. “Say the word and I'll take it off,” he promised.

Connor's eyes fell to the tie in Hank's hands, and then flicked back to Hank's face. He nodded, mutely, his mouth hanging open with breathless anticipation. Hank kissed him one more time, deep and hard, letting Connor feel the deliberate slowness of Hank's tongue invading his mouth.

When Hank broke the kiss Connor's eyes were closed. His hair was already falling out of its neat combed style, and his soft lips were swollen and flushed. He looked half fucked already and Hank hadn't even begun with him.

He raised the tie to Connor's eyes and wrapped it around his head, tying it at the back in a knot. The dark material contrasted with his pale skin and pink mouth. Hank took the opportunity to steal another deep and penetrating kiss, exploring Connor's tongue. He unfastened the buttons of Connor's shirt while he kissed him, and slid his hands under Connor's expensive jacket to feel the body beneath. Connor was firm but yielding under his palms, and Hank could pick out the muscle in Connor's back with his fingers.

Hank moved his mouth down to Connor's throat again, licking and kissing at pale flesh. He moved lower still, to Connor's collarbone. Connor swallowed and arched his head back against the wall, baring himself for Hank to do with as he willed. “You're too fucking perfect,” Hank groaned.

He gripped the lapels of Connor's jacket and folded it back, pushing it down to Connor's elbows, trapping his arms. Connor's chest heaved, and his mouth hung open, as if he was desperate to be kissed again. Hank watched his face as he half stripped Connor from his clothing. Once he was happy with the position of Connor's jacket Hank turned his attention to his belt, opening it and dragging it free from his trousers. He tossed the belt behind him, and worked open Connor's trousers.

One cool hand slid into Connor's underwear, telling Hank all he suspected about how into this Connor was. “Want me to do something about this?” Hank asked, mouthing at Connor's throat again while his hand gripped and stroked slowly at Connor's erection.

“Please.” Connor's voice was so faint and breathless Hank almost missed it. That sound was going to play over again in Hank's head later.

“You got it,” Hank replied, taking Connor's mouth in another, final kiss. It caught Connor by surprise, and he tried to reciprocate, chasing Hank's mouth as he pulled away. Hank migrated south, running his lips and tongue down the line of exposed skin at Connor's chest and stomach.

He sank to his knees in front of Connor. They creaked. He didn't want to spare a thought for getting back up. Instead he looked upwards to appreciate the view, Connor, flushed and begging for it, half out of his clothes, blindfolded before Hank. He was going to be sure to remember this image too.

Hank dragged Connor's trousers open and down, exposing his cock. He opened his mouth, letting his tongue stroke over the tip and heard Connor gasp. He slid Connor's cock as far into his mouth as he could bear and closed his lips around the shaft.

The noise Connor made was obscene: A stuttered, breathless, needy groan that contained half of Hank's name in awed pleasure before cutting off. Fuck he sounded good.

Hank began to suck him off slowly, feeling the weight of Connor on his tongue, and tasting the saltiness of his skin. His fingers dug into Connor's hips as he worked, keeping him absolutely still. A hand settled into Hank's hair as he sucked Connor's cock slowly, luxuriating in the sounds Connor was making, and his quiet desperation for more. Hank's name was uttered like a curse, and a prayer.

“Hank, I,” Connor stammered, “can't--” He slipped down the wall an inch, then two, as his knees began to buckle.

Hank pulled Connor from his mouth and gave his cock one last, long lick from base to tip. Connor whimpered with disappointment, left hanging when he'd been taken the precipice. Hank grinned, and pushed off his knee to fight his way back to his feet. His joints weren't pleased with his shenanigans.

Hank pushed Connor's wrists back against the wall and leaned against him to press his mouth to Connor's ear. “I'm not done with you yet,” he told him, keeping his voice low and promising, “think you can hold on for me?”

Connor let go of a trembling breath, and nodded. Hank released one of his wrists to stroke his cheek. “Good boy,” he murmured.

He pushed Connor's jacket the rest of the way off and left it on the floor. Hank shed his own jacket on the way to the bedroom, and guided Connor by his hips. He turned him around once they were in the room and pushed him back until his calves hit the bed, urging Connor to sit down. Hank pushed his shirt off his arms once he did and ran his hands over the soft contours of Connor's biceps. “Take your shoes off,” Hank instructed, “and the trousers.”

Connor did as he was told, untying his laces blindly and then toeing his shoes off his feet. He slid his trousers and underwear down to his thighs, and then pushed those the rest of the way off, too. Hank watched Connor bare himself at his command while he shed his own shirt and shoes. He kept his trousers on for now.

“Now get on the bed and lie on your front.”

Connor's head tilted. Hank could imagine his brown eyes searching for an explanation in the darkness behind the blindfold. He smiled and brushed at Connor's cheek with his fingers again, pressing his thumb to Connor's lips and stroking them tenderly. “I'm going to take care of you,” Hank promised him, “now do as I say.”

Connor's lips pressed a kiss to the pad of Hank's thumb, and Hank pushed it forward, just a little. Connor opened his mouth, allowing Hank to slide his thumb inside and let it sit on Connor's smooth, soft tongue. Connor's teeth rested against Hank's skin, giving no more than gentle pressure. Hank pushed Connor back with that hand, slowly, to lie back on the bed, and then pulled his thumb from Connor's mouth again, drawing it across his lips and cheek as he did.

Connor pushed himself higher up the bed, and then rolled until he was flat on his front, one arm folded under his head. “What are you going to do?” Connor asked.

Hank grabbed a pillow. “You'll find out,” he said. “Lift your hips for me?”

Connor did, arching his back off the bed, and Hank took a moment to appreciate the ease he did it with, as well as the line of his body before he pushed the pillow under Connor's hips. “There,” he said, letting Connor settle back down. That should make a more comfortable position for him.

Hank moved until he was over Connor's back and pressed a kiss to the back of his neck. Connor bowed his head deeper into the bed, giving Hank easier access. He moved in a slow line, kissing and licking at each of Connor's vertebrae in turn and drawing his hands across the firm muscles of Connor's back.

When he reached Connor's hips he gripped him with both hands, and then slowly drew his tongue down into the cleft of Connor's ass. Connor twitched. Hank held him in place, and continued lower to drag the tip of his tongue over Connor's rim.

Connor's hands tightened in the sheets. “Hank,” he gasped, and then groaned when Hank drew his tongue over the same spot again.

Hank took his time. He licked and teased with his tongue until Connor began to squirm, his hips lifting towards Hank's mouth. Hank didn't know if this was Connor's first time, but he was determined it was going to be his best.

“Hank please,” Connor hissed, through pleasured groans. Hank looked up to see his face pressed hard into the bed, the sheets knotted in his fist.

“You want more?” Hank asked, releasing Connor's hip to stroke a hand possessively over his ass.

Connor's hand relaxed, and he gave a gasp. “Yes,” he answered, desperately.

Hank smirked. He was enjoying pushing Connor's boundaries for him. It seemed to be a lot of fun for both of them.

“Okay,” Hank replied, and got up from the bed. He unfastened his trousers and grabbed the lubricant Connor had thoughtfully purchased immediately after Tuesday night, because while hand cream had done in a pinch it didn't work as nicely as the stuff intended for this. Hank took a moment to appreciate the view before he returned to Connor. He looked stunning; a pale splash of breathless desire, spread face down across Hank's bed, just waiting for him. “God you're beautiful,” Hank told him, and ran a hand down Connor's back as he moved in towards him again.

Hank squirted a generous amount of the lubricant on his fingers, and slowly teased Connor's rim again, this time with his fingertip. Connor's breath was ragged and needy, and it caught in his throat when Hank finally pushed one finger into him. Hank watched Connor's face as he let one finger become two, working them in and out of Connor.

Connor gave a soft cry when Hank pushed forward inside him with his fingers, finding his prostate. “Good?” Hank asked, doing it again.

Connor gave another small cry and squeezed the sheets in his fists again. He didn't give an answer. Hank added another finger and then rubbed his fingertips over that spot, keeping up the pressure so that Connor made a positively lewd noise that ended with a gasped, “Fuck.”

Hank couldn't think of any other time he'd ever heard Connor use that word. He was going to be taking that one to bed with him over the cold winter, too.

Hank tormented Connor with his fingers for as long as he could stand. Connor groaned or gasped with each press. Hank watched him push his hips into the bed, and lift them back again to meet Hank's fingers as he was slowly undone with them.

Hank kept his fingers working inside Connor as he leaned down towards his ear, and pressed his wrist into the bed with his remaining hand. “I want to feel you come while I'm inside you,” Hank murmured against his ear. “Think you can do that for me?”

Connor swallowed and gasped again as Hank pressed his fingers into him once more. He didn't want to give him a break from the slow rhythm. “Yes,” Connor whispered, “please, yes.”

Hank felt the wanton need in Connor's voice run its hot tongue down his spine. He pressed a kiss to Connor's shoulder and then withdrew his fingers from inside him. Connor gave a desperate little whine, but Hank shushed him.

Hank pulled himself free of his trousers and brushed the remaining lubricant over his own cock. He set his hand over the back of Connor's, and positioned himself with his other before he rolled his hips down and slid inside.

Connor was hot and slick and soft around him. Hank squeezed his hand around Connor's wrist as he pushed himself all the way in, until his hips were flush with Connor's ass. Connor buried his face down into the sheets as Hank entered him, and Hank felt his own breath being dragged from him.

“Fuck, you feel so damn good,” Hank groaned. He wanted to stay buried in the heat of Connor's body for as long as he lived; to spend the rest of his life slowly and sweetly fucking Connor into oblivion.

Hank mouthed clumsy kisses all along the back of Connor's neck and jaw. “Tell me when you're ready?” he asked, showering Connor with affection, as if he could tell Connor even half of how amazing he felt with the press of his lips.

“I'm good,” Connor whispered. “Please,” he added, his voice strained, “I don't think I can last long.”

Hank pressed soft kisses to the back of Connor's shoulder, and laced his fingers with Connor's over the back of his hand. Connor squeezed his hand tight, gripping Hank like a lifeline. “You can last,” Hank promised him, “I know you can. I wanna be right there with you, so hold on for me, okay?”

Connor gave a shaky breath and squeezed Hank's fingers again. Hank drew his hips back. Connor gave a soft, desperate cry and then muffled himself in the bed. Hank rolled his hips down again. This time Connor's cry was a shaky groan of pleasure as Hank had drawn his cock over exactly the right spot.

Thank you Google for the positioning advice, Hank thought. He fucked Connor in a slow, lazy rhythm, luxuriating in the soft heat of Connor's body around and under him. Connor's quiet, breathless gasps mingled with more urgent cries and wordless pleas. Hank didn't give in to the temptation to speed up, even when he could feel his own groin growing tight. If he chased that feeling he'd only last another minute.

Connor squirmed under him, helpless against each wave of ecstasy that Hank poured into him with his hips. “Hank,” he pleaded, his voice cracking, “I can't.”

“Just a little longer,” Hank promised him, driving his hips slowly into him over again, “I'm almost there. You're doing so good. Hold on for me.”

The world narrowed, until there was just Connor, and the soft, delicious heat of his body around Hank's cock as he pushed himself forward into it. Hank felt his orgasm tightening in his hips, and he pushed through it, making himself hang in there a little bit longer.

He worked his other hand under Connor's hips, grasping at his hot, aching cock with his fingers. “You can come now,” he told him, as he began to stroke, matching the movement of his hand with the push of his hips into Connor. “I want to feel you.”

Connor shivered and bucked into Hank's hand. It only took Hank a few firm strokes for Connor to finish, his whole body flexing and tightening around and under Hank. His hips pushed into the bed, and Hank pushed himself deeper inside Connor as he came with a desperate cry.

He fucked Connor through it, thrusting into him with each wave of Connor's orgasm. The muscles in his body tightened around Hank with each thrust, and Connor's hand trembled under Hank's as he spread his fingers and then curled them into a fist again.

Hank came, his hips driving forward so he spilled himself deep inside Connor. He shivered as all that tightness unwound and flooded into Connor's body.

When it was over Hank breathed, and kissed at Connor's shoulder again. “Are you okay?” he asked, adjusting his hold on Connor's hand and interlocking their fingers once more.

“Yes,” Connor answered. He was breathless under Hank, each inhale working through his whole chest, and each exhale gasping. Hank could feel the effort of his breathing moving both of them. “I think so.”

Hank frowned and pressed another soft kiss to Connor's shoulder. “Not sure?”

“I'll let you know when I've put my brain back in place,” Connor answered, quietly.

Hank laughed. It was the first time Connor had admitted to having just had his brains banged out. He squeezed Connor's hand again. “I'm gonna pull out, okay?” he warned, and waited for Connor to nod before he did, drawing his hips back and sliding his softening cock from Connor's body.

Hank rolled onto his side so Connor had more room to breathe properly, and then untied the makeshift blindfold from around Connor's head. Connor rolled onto his side, and then his back, and blinked in the light. Hank wrapped him up in his arms and tugged him close. “You were incredible,” he praised.

“So were you,” Connor replied, settling in against Hank's chest. They were both sticky, and sweaty, and covered in lubricant and other things, but Hank didn't think he could walk yet, and he'd be offended if Connor could. “I do have one request,” Connor said, after a long moment where Hank just held him.

“Yeah?” Hank asked, his eyebrows raising.

Connor locked eyes with him, his expression still dazed. “Next time you decide to go down on me, let me watch?”

Hank looked into those deep brown eyes and grinned. “Deal,” he agreed, “but next time you need a glass of whiskey in your hand.”

*

Hank woke up the next morning with his head on Connor's chest. He could hear the slow, steady thrum of his heart, and feel the rise and fall of his ribs under his cheek. Fingers idly brushed over his hair in a way that sent shivers through Hank's scalp.

Hank opened his eyes to see Connor's phone occupied his other hand. “What are you doing?” Hank asked. He hoped he hadn't drooled on Connor's chest, although he'd done worse last night so maybe Connor wouldn't mind.

“I didn't want to wake you,” Connor answered, continuing his gentle toying with Hank's hair. It was weirdly soothing. “So I thought I'd leave a review for Otto's.”

Hank draped his arm across Connor's stomach and nuzzled into him like a particularly firm pillow. Leaving a review for the restaurant sounded like one of those Connor things to do. Staying in bed cuddling his amazing younger boyfriend sounded more up Hank's street right now.

“I hope you're including that dessert was the best part,” Hank joked. Connor's ribs jumped with a suppressed huff of amusement.

“I think dessert would have been the same if you'd taken me to McDonalds,” Connor countered.

Hank chuckled at that, and listened to the steady thumping of Connor's heart in his chest. “Yeah, but it wouldn't have looked as good,” he replied. Hank was dimly aware of the fact that they had approximately six and a half grand's worth of clothing strewn from the bed to the front door, but he couldn't muster enough of a shit to go and retrieve it.

“No,” Connor agreed, quietly, “it wouldn't.” He finished whatever he was doing with his phone and set it down beside himself on the bed. Hank moved, pulling his head off Connor's chest to shuffle up beside him and coil his arms around him. Connor closed his eyes and let himself be held, settling in to Hank's side.

Hank wasn't sure how long he and Connor stayed like that, just enjoying the warmth and quiet of having the other pressed close. They only broke apart when Sumo pushed his way into the room again.

“I guess it's walk time,” Hank conceded, as Sumo draped his huge head on the edge of the bed and fixed doleful eyes on Hank and Connor.

Connor smiled softly. “I need a shower first,” he said. “So do you.”

Hank grumbled his agreement. He probably smelled like something unholy, but it would be one of those smells he didn't notice until he left the bedroom. He pressed his mouth in close to Connor's ear and offered, “We could shower together?”

Connor's eyebrows shot towards his hairline. “We both know where that will lead,” he pointed out. “Are you sure?”

“I'm not that old!” Hank answered, halfway offended at the implication that he might not be able to go again yet after last night. That was the only possible reason for him to back out of getting his hands on a wet and naked Connor.

Connor's eyebrows stayed up, but the expression beneath them changed to one of amusement. “I didn't say you were,” he replied, “but Sumo might not be able to hold on.”

Hank grumbled and dragged Connor tighter into his arms, pressing a kiss to his temple. “I'll let him outside,” he said, “you get the shower running.”

Hank left the bed, quietly cursing at how much colder the air was than he'd anticipated, and dragged on his sweatpants to let Sumo out for a piss. Sumo ran out eagerly, and immediately cocked his leg against his usual spot on the wall. Hank took the opportunity to pick up their clothes from the hallway.

They'd left a trail of lust and urgency from the front door to the bedroom. Connor's suit jacket lay in a crumpled heap near the front door. Hank's was two feet away from it. He found Connor's gold tie clip where it had pinged off disregarded and landed by the far wall in Hank's eagerness. Connor's shirt hadn't quite made it past the bedroom door.

Hank dropped them on the floor in the bedroom. Connor's trousers lay in a heap next to the bed with one of his shoes. Hank's shirt lay halfway between the bed and the door, next to both of his shoes and the other of Connor's. Hank left them where they were, for now.

He joined Connor in the shower, smothering his neck and shoulders in kisses. They swapped places to wash, Connor's hands gliding over Hank's arms and back as he helped. His fingers tracked down Hank's side, tracing along old scars as if he was seeing them for the first time. “What happened?” he asked.

Hank grunted. They were barely visible now, just discoloured patches near the back of his hip where the skin was paler than the rest. “Car accident,” he answered, “years ago. Truck hit black ice, I tried to steer away from it, ended up flipping myself into a ditch. Only time I've ever been glad I let Cole down.” Hank had pulled his usual stunt of letting him down at the last minute and telling his wife she needed to pick him up from football. The idea of what could have happened if Cole had been in the car still made his stomach lurch.

Connor's hand rested over the mark where shattered glass had ripped Hank's skin open. It had been a few stitches, nothing more, although the car had been done for. “I didn't know,” he said, quietly.

Hank set his hand over Connor's and turned to face him. He placed his own hand over the fresh, pink knots in Connor's skin where someone had tried to kill him, and someone else had saved his life. “They're just scars,” Hank answered. “We all have them.”

Connor's mouth twitched in a small smile. Hank drew him closer, and Connor slid his arms around Hank's back as he moved in, tilting his head to let Hank take a kiss. Hank kissed him slowly, tasting fading mint. Connor was firm, and warm, and soft under his hands. His tongue was gentle and sweet in Hank's mouth.

They kissed for a long time, hand's drifting and exploring each other under the running water. It was slower and sweeter than last night, with Hank letting himself linger on the softness of Connor's lips. Connor's fingers dug into his shoulders as Hank got him off with his hands. He gasped Hank's name by his ear and clung on as his knees buckled and he shivered. Hank buried his face in Connor's shoulder as Connor worked at him with smooth fingers, adjusting his grip and his speed at Hank's instructions.

They took Sumo for a long walk together after their extended shower. They walked with their hands clasped in Hank's pocket, letting Sumo bound ahead and return to them as he wished. He always returned to Connor's side.

“I think he's going to miss you more than I will,” Hank commented, watching his old dog amble sedately by Connor's heel.

Connor smiled down at Sumo. “I'm not so sure about that,” he replied, before turning to flash Hank a smile. “I think he'll miss the pig's ears.”

Hank shrugged and tightened his hand around Connor's. “I'll miss the cooking,” he pointed out, and then added, morosely, “back to pizza and takeaway van burgers for me.”

Connor made a pained noise that put a grin on Hank's face. “Please take better care of yourself. I'll even send you the recipes,” he pleaded.

Hank shook his head. “I don't know,” he continued, frowning sadly at the gravel path. “I'm not as good at it as you.”

“It's literally following instructions, Hank,” Connor replied, “even you can manage that.”

Hank made a noise of disagreement. “It won't be the same,” he answered, pushing his point, “yours was made with love.” His throat locked up. That was probably the wrong thing to say.

Connor's hand squeezed his. Hank glanced sideways at him. Connor's bottom lip was drawn between his teeth. “Yes,” he said, softly.

Hank's heart hammered in his chest. He should say it. Shit, he'd thought it enough times and stopped himself from doing something dumb like saying it. So why couldn't he say it now? Why had his brain frozen up at hearing that simple little admission from Connor?

“But I'm your partner,” Connor continued, more firmly, “not your mother. You need to take care of yourself too.”

Hank swallowed down a tight lump of lead. “How about,” he offered, forcing the words out past the defences of his screaming brain, “I look after myself like I'd look after you?” The words made him feel exposed. Why the fuck was it so difficult to say out loud what he felt?

Connor smiled softly, and looked over to meet Hank's eyes. His gaze was soft and warm. He knew, Hank realised. He understood what Hank, in his perpetually emotionally constipated state, was failing to say. “It's a start,” he said.

Hank managed a smile. He really, really didn't deserve someone as good as Connor to give two shits about him, and yet here Connor was, asking Hank to care about himself even a fraction as much as he cared about Connor. He bumped his shoulder against Connor's in lieu of a hug, and directed them both to the cafe where they'd had breakfast yesterday. He wanted to make every moment that he could last before he was forced to drop Connor back off at his own home.

*

“I don't want you to go.”

The words fell from Hank's mouth. Connor turned and looked into his eyes. Hank saw the uncertainty in Connor's, the way he tried to reply and couldn't, the way his eyes moved away from Hank's quickly.

“I know,” he answered, softly.

It had been an inexorably long, silent car ride back to Connor's flat. He'd left behind his toothbrush, some underwear, a couple of changes of clothes, and the suit which he'd carefully hung back in its cover in Hank's wardrobe. Hank had taken Sumo for a long walk to distract himself from the sight.

When he'd returned Connor had been making their last meal together, his bag of belongings carefully packed and waiting by the door. They'd eaten lamb steaks with grilled vegetables and sautéed potatoes, and Hank had dragged the time out as much as he dared with the washing up.

Connor had said a thorough goodbye to Sumo before leaving. Hank had watched him scratching Sumo behind both ears and talk to him as if he understood, promising that he'd be back soon. Sumo followed them to the door. As far as the dog knew, after dinner was his walk time, so he looked utterly confused and betrayed when Hank told him to stay and picked up Connor's bag.

Connor's hand settled on Hank's chest. “I don't want to go either.”

Hank sighed. It felt shitty and wrong to be bringing Connor here, knowing he wouldn't be bringing him back after he saw to his fish, but Connor was also right that it was something that had to be done. If Hank wanted to keep Connor, and every fibre of his heart did, then he needed to slow down and not start thinking that moving a twenty nine year old in with him on a permanent basis after a week of screwing him wasn't weird. “When will I see you again?”

It wouldn't be so unbearable if Connor was at work at the moment. Hank was used to seeing him five days in a row, sometimes more, even before all of this. Now he might not see him for most of the week. The idea wrenched at his gut.

Connor tilted his head, examining the collar of Hank's shirt with his eyes. “I thought I might plan a date for Friday,” he suggested, his eyes lifting to Hank's and being matched with a crooked, uncertain smile, “my treat, this time.”

Something warm coiled in Hank's chest. He smiled at Connor. “You okay for money?” he asked. He remembered Connor's flat refusal on financial grounds at Alexander's shop with a twist in his gut.

Connor's head dropped as he suppressed a smile. “I'm fine,” he replied, before looking up again to meet Hank's eyes. “I just didn't think it was wise to spend that much on an unnecessary indulgence when I'm on sick leave.”

The corner of Hank's mouth quirked upwards. Connor was a sensible, straight thinking person, except, apparently, when it came to the matter of his taste in men. “But you'll spend money taking me out?” he asked.

“Not all indulgences are unnecessary,” Connor replied, his brown eyes locked on Hank's.

Connor had such beautiful, dark brown eyes. Hank became lost in them, watching the way his pupils expanded and contracted by barely perceptible degrees, and examining the little ridges that made up the colour. Connor's eyes lowered, his lids dropping so Hank could see his short, dark lashes framed against his pale cheeks, and he moved in.

Hank closed his eyes as Connor's lips met his. They were soft, and smooth, and his kiss was gentle and chaste. Hank's lips burned where Connor's touched them. He brought his hand up to the back of Connor's neck and kissed him back softly. The hand on Hank's chest moved up to his shoulder. Connor's lips moved gently over his again, and then Hank felt the tip of Connor's tongue against his mouth.

Hank parted his lips and let Connor in, sighing through his nose as Connor's tongue touched and tasted his own. He wanted to drop the bag he was holding and fold both of his arms around Connor, to pull him in and melt into the gentle softness of his mouth.

Hank felt Connor's breath gust against his skin as he sighed and pulled back, letting his lips brush against Hank's one final time before he drew out of reach. Hank opened his eyes and blinked, repeatedly. He felt like he was waking from a dream. He could still feel Connor's lips against his own, and his tongue in his mouth.

Connor licked his bottom lip delicately and then bowed his head. “I should go,” he murmured, his voice low. “I'll talk to you tomorrow.”

Hank only nodded, dumbstruck. Connor unlocked his front door and took his bag from Hank's unresisting hand. He stepped through his front door with a neat turn, putting himself on the other side of it. Hank watched as Connor paused on the other side, giving him one final, longing look.

“Until tomorrow,” Hank said, quietly.

Connor nodded, and looked down as he slowly closed the door.

Hank remained there for a moment. He wasn't sure how long it was. Part of him hoped for Connor to wrench his door back open and declare he'd made a mistake, that he wanted to spend just one more night with Hank.

He didn't. Hank brushed his fingers over the door as if touching that might get through to Connor himself somehow, and he'd feel that goodbye. Then he turned, and left for his car.

*

The alarm shrieked. Hank rolled over and stabbed it with an angry finger. The bed was too big and too empty, and Hank had spent half the night tossing and turning. Connor's pillow still smelled of him, but that hadn't made it any easier to get to sleep without him.

The phone screen lit up. Hank glowered at it, wondering who the fuck was messaging him at this hour of the day.

Good morning. Hank saw the words under Connor's name on his notification screen. The inside of his chest went soft and warm. He opened the message.

I hope you slept. Your lunch is in the fridge.

Hank fought against a smile. Connor was still looking after him, even when he'd gone back home.

Why are you awake? he messaged back, and made himself get up. The air was cold and unwelcoming.

The reply came through as he was on his way to the bathroom. I know what time you have your alarm set for.

Hank narrowed an eye at his phone screen. “Doesn't explain why you're awake,” he told the phone, as if Connor might hear him. He finished in the bathroom and brushed his teeth before he typed in his reply. Making sure I actually get up?

He'd finished dressing by the time he saw the reply. You are a reluctant riser.

Hank let Sumo out of the door to do his toilet pit stop. The dog walker would be round for him at the usual time, but it wasn't fair to make Sumo wait until then. I had a reason to stay in bed. he typed back, as Sumo cocked his leg against the wall.

Connor's response arrived as Hank was drinking his coffee. So did I. He looked at those words and felt the honesty behind them. Connor was up and messaging Hank because, like Hank, he'd slept like shit without him.

I'll call you tonight. Hank replied. He needed to hear Connor's voice, to reassure himself that Connor was fine, and last week hadn't been a dream.

He grabbed his lunch from the fridge and jumped in his car to head to work. He might be late. He didn't care. Fowler could suck his dick if he wanted to start anything about it.

*

Hank's phone rang. He eyed it sourly. They'd run expensive manned watches over the weekend, and the most they'd turned up had been some busted cameras and a low level dealer selling methamphetamines. He was having a shitty day, and phone calls weren't welcome.

The station number identified on the call was familiar, but Hank didn't recognise the extension off the top of his head. When the ringing didn't stop he picked up the handset. “DCI Anderson,” he answered, gruffly.

“Do you like, ever check your email?”

Hank narrowed his eyes. The voice was familiar too, but it was the cadence and accent that let the identity of the caller click into place. “The fuck do you want, Muraidh?”

“Muraidh,” Answered Constable Itahyr Muraidh, pronouncing his surname with a D that Cacciatore hadn't, and so Hank hadn't either.

Hank shrugged. He didn't care. “Whatever. You got something for me?”

“Yeah. Check your fucking email.”

Hank frowned into his phone. “You shouldn't swear at superior officers,” he pointed out, to be a prick.

“You started it.”

Hank cradled the phone handset against his shoulder as he opened his emails and looked through the ones sent today. There was one from Fowler, two from Markus, one from Simon. Hank paused. “Is that how you spell your name?”

“Just open it and do the thing, Grandad.”

“Little shit,” Hank hissed. The email contained a link, that some little gobshite had written “click this” around multiple times. Hank clicked it. “Now what?” he asked.

“See where it says download? Click that.”

Hank did, and was then prompted to enter his login details to authorise the program. “What the fuck are you making me download?”

“Porn,” answered Itahyr, without missing a beat, then corrected himself, “nah, it's a screen share thing so I can show you what I've got. It'll be faster than trying to talk you through it.” He paused, and then added, “Especially than trying to talk you through it.”

Hank growled at the implied insult, but let the download run. “You got something, then,” he commented, waiting for it to finish.

“Yeah,” Itahyr confirmed, “but you're gonna have to explain it, so you're going to need to see it.”

“They didn't get anything this weekend,” Hank told him. “Fowler's already pissed, so this is gonna have to be good.”

The download completed. A popup announcing that someone wanted to share their screen with him flashed into the middle of Hank's display. He clicked 'accept'.

“Sweet, you managed that one all by yourself,” said Itahyr. Hank was growing sorrier every moment that humanity had still not invented punching people through the internet. The screen went black, and then came up with a selection of open windows over a background of a space ship. “All right,” Itahyr began, launching into his explanation, “so call me Alice, 'cause that bitch has nothing on me for going down rabbit holes, but,” he paused. One of the windows was dragged to the front and maximised. It showed extensive text conversations, logged by numbers. “This is your driver Payton, talking to one of the handlers.”

“One of them,” Hank repeated, grimly.

“I'll get to that,” Itahyr said, as if he'd expected the response. “So see this?” The arrow of Itahyr's mouse circled around a number twice. “This is an ID. Now the same ID comes up a couple of times, and different IDs come up talking about the same things to different people; dead guy, Payton, the guy that got his stab on with DI Robot, and Najjar. Different ID, same topics, same codewords.”

Hank inhaled slowly through his nose. He let 'DI Robot' slide, for now. “Okay, so the same person, or people that are connected.”

“Yeah,” agreed Itahyr. The screen was minimised, and another was dragged to the front. “Now this is one of those other IDs, from an older log, telling Payton where to be when we busted him.”

Hank read the text. It was a quick and dirty check to make sure payment had been received. “This guy owns the cryptowallet,” Hank concluded.

“Congratulations, Shaggy, you just earned a scooby snack,” replied Itahyr. Hank suppressed the urge to flip off his phone, mostly because it wouldn't get him anywhere. “So we've solved their codes for locations because they're talking to shitty amateurs so they just use initials.” Hank watched as the arrow circled one set of initials, then the screen was minimised and another brought up, and the same, and again. “We're pretty sure this one means Thurrock Services on the M25,” Itahyr said, as the arrow circled a reference to 'TS', “and they've been talking about it more this past couple of days.”

The window minimised again, and yet another was brought to the front. Hank did his best to keep track of what he was being told. “Our cryptowallet owner has been talking to someone on the channel, someone that has had half their pay now, and will get their other half on delivery.”

Hank's stomach knotted the way it did before the other shoe dropped. “When are they expecting this delivery?” If they could intercept it they could snare the bastards. Get their hands on Mr Cryptowallet, and find out what they were bringing in.

“Wednesday morning,” Itahyr answered, smugly, “between one and three, at Thurrock services.”

Hank nodded, slowly. “You're sure it's Thurrock?” he asked.

“Half the place is closed to the public and it backs onto a lake. If you wanted to do a shady deal out of sight of anyone that would care, Thurrock is a good call.”

Hank grumbled. He was only vaguely familiar with Thurrock services, but they were out of the way, a bitch to find your way around, and dismal in a way only terrible 1980's architecture could be. “Let me guess,” he said, “their CCTV is down, too.”

Itahyr laughed. “Even better, half the site isn't covered.”

Hank nodded to himself. So they had a shipment coming in early hours Wednesday. That was going to be a shitty night tomorrow, then. “You got any idea what they're bringing in?”

“Just goods,” Itahyr replied, “but something they're selling in an illegal auction. Well,” he conceded, “probably illegal, since they're not selling it on ebay.”

Drugs, Hank thought. Weapons, maybe. Ship them in, offload them. If it was weapons it might be worth giving counter-terrorism a heads up. That sort of thing was their wheelhouse. Drugs, too, a lot of that crap was fuelled by drug money. “And you found all this by yourself?”

“What, you think I needed help?” Itahyr challenged.

Hank raised an eyebrow at his phone. “I think you might have had help,” he agreed. Lots of major leads to explore, and yet he'd come back with a conclusion late Monday afternoon. Hank recognised the work ethic behind that level of productivity and it sure as shit wasn't Itahyr's own.

“Is it 'cause I is black?” asked Itahyr.

“Fuck off, Ali G,” replied Hank. He wasn't so old that he didn't understand that reference, although a part of him was surprised Itahyr wasn't too young to know it. “I heard those 'we's earlier.”

The silence on the end of the call grew lengthy. Hank pictured Itahyr squirming. “The T800 might have offered some advice,” he conceded.

Hank scowled. He was going to have words with Connor later about that. He wasn't supposed to be working, even in a tech capacity, even if Hank really, really needed him. “I thought he was the T1000?” Hank asked.

“Yeah, but that's one of the bad guys, innit?” Itahyr replied, amused.

*

Hank spent nearly an hour with Fowler going through everything Muraidh had dug up. It was easier thanks to the nicely laid out email Hank received, from Muraidh's address, but Hank was pretty sure he hadn't written, that explained each part in simple ways that Hank could understand. Hank had been forced to go out to his team afterwards and tell Markus, Simon, and Josh that they were pulling a long one tomorrow so to go home and rest up.

Fowler didn't want to spend too much money on this. Hank had already burned more of the budget than Fowler was happy with, so the task force was going to be small. Hank just hoped it was going to be big enough.

It had been a long day. Hank stopped by Tesco Extra on his way home and picked up a ready meal and a four pack of beers. The idea that he was going home to a house devoid of Connor felt alien and unpleasant. A part of him that Hank didn't want to lean into too much hoped, quietly, desperately, that Connor would have decided to surprise him and be waiting for him when he got in.

His house was dark when he pulled up. The dim hope flickered out. Hank sat in his car, staring at his steering wheel for what felt like a long time. He could continue to drive. Go to Connor at his poky little flat and hold him until Hank felt warm again.

He got out of the car, grabbed his bag, and made his way into the house. Sumo greeted him at the door, his tail wagging excitably. He sniffed at the bag, and Hank gave the dog a small smile. “Hey, Sumo,” he greeted, patting the dog's big furry head as he walked past him.

Sumo looked through the open door as if he was expecting something, someone else. Hank knew how he felt. “Sorry, boy, he's gone home.” He closed the door, forcing Sumo to back up out of the way, and walked to the kitchen.

His heart expected Connor to be there, waiting for the kettle to boil and greeting Hank with that warm smile that wrapped around Hank as surely as a hug. He turned the light on. Everything was exactly as Hank had left it this morning.

Hank sighed, dropped his bag on the counter, ripped a bottle of beer from the pack, set the lip of the cap against his table edge, smacked it with his hand so it flew off, and then took a long drink. He turned back to his lounge and dropped onto his sofa, still wearing his jacket. Sumo trotted up beside him, planting his head on the sofa cushion where Connor sat, and whined.

Hank frowned at him. That sound was exactly what Hank would be doing if he was a dog. He looked at his beer. Connor wouldn't be happy to know he was drinking alone on his sofa. He'd be even less happy to know Hank had picked up a frozen microwave meal instead of ingredients. These facts burned in his chest like guilt. Please take better care of yourself.

Hank put the beer on the table and pulled out his phone. Connor's number was at the top of his contacts. He hit call, and waited.

“Hey, Hank.” Connor answered like he'd been watching his phone, waiting for Hank to call him. Hank wanted to imagine he had. His voice was soft, and warm, and full of the relief of hearing from someone you loved.

“Hey,” Hank replied. Just hearing Connor's voice made things better. He closed his eyes to bask in it.

“How was your day?” Connor asked, still in that same, soft, tender tone. Hank imagined him curling up on his little sofa with the handset, tucking his long legs beneath himself and cradling the phone as if he could give it a hug.

“Long,” Hank replied. “What time did you start working with Muraidh?” Might as well get that one out of the way, Hank thought.

“Why do you think--?” Connor began to protest.

Hank cut him off. “Connor, the only person on this fucking planet that can explain that tech shit in a way I understand is you. You think I couldn't tell you'd written most of that email?” There was silence on the other end of the line. Hank wondered what Connor was doing. Wincing, perhaps. Cringing. He was unable to give Hank that innocent big brown puppy dog look and lopsided smile that Hank knew always won him over, always had, even before he'd fallen for the little shit, but maybe he was doing it anyway. “Was the screen share thing your idea, too?”

“Yes,” Connor admitted, softly. “I'm sorry, Hank. I just couldn't bear sitting at home doing nothing.”

Hank sighed. Of course Connor couldn't sit at home doing nothing. This was Connor. “So much for trying to pretend you have hobbies,” he pointed out, with a grin. “At least tell me you didn't go to his station.”

“No,” Connor answered quickly, ignoring the dig at his hobbies, or lack thereof. “I can access HOLMES 2 from my laptop, so I asked him to send me what he could.”

The words 'why the fuck would you want to access that from home' died on Hank's tongue, because again, this was Connor, who had no hobbies regardless of what he tried to claim. He sighed instead. “Did you do anything else today?” he asked.

“I had a doctor's appointment,” Connor answered. Hank felt a pang in his chest.

“I didn't know you had any appointments today,” Hank replied, weakly. He knew Connor had a physio appointment later this week, but he hadn't known about any others. “Is everything all right?”

“I'm fine,” Connor told him, a hint of frustration in his tone. “I made it this morning; I wanted to try and fast-track returning to work.”

Hank frowned. He wanted Connor to return to work too, but from Connor's tone the doctor was less happy with Connor's progress than Connor was. “No go, huh?”

Connor huffed. It was a bratty, irritated sound. “No,” he confirmed. “He said that unless I'm willing to stay behind a desk he's not prepared to override the physio and let me return to work yet.” He sighed again. “He also won't let me drive, so I can't even try and argue for low risk field duties.”

Hank drew in a long breath through his nose. He liked Connor's doctor; the guy sounded like he had a good head on his shoulders and was looking out for Connor, despite Connor's insistence he do otherwise. “There's nothing wrong with being a desk jockey for a few weeks,” Hank told him.

Connor was quiet for a moment. Hank wondered what was going through his mind, and what of that was playing out on his face. “I wanted to be there tomorrow night,” he admitted, quietly. “I know you're going in short handed.”

Hank gave an unhappy grunt. “Even if the doctor had signed you off for that you wouldn't be coming tomorrow night.”

“Hank--”

“No Connor,” Hank didn't let him try and mount an argument. Hank couldn't do it. What if someone ran? What if someone got hold of Connor again? Connor never did as he was told; he hadn't come back that night when Hank had called for him. He'd outright ignored Hank's insistence he didn't work while he was off. He couldn't take Connor, who wasn't at his absolute peak, back into a situation where he might do something that was dangerous, because Connor put others before himself every single time and if it came down to that split second where Connor had to choose between saving himself or basically any other option Hank knew which one Connor would make. “If I let you get hurt again I'd never forgive myself.”

“Hank, it wasn't your fault,” Connor said, quietly. “I should have listened to you,” he admitted, “or been faster, or moved right instead of left when he moved to stab me, or just let him go. I've played that night over in my head so many times, there were so many things I could have done differently, but I didn't. I failed, and I almost died for it.”

The words hit Hank like a truck. Connor's voice was strained, annoyed and upset at the same time. Hank wanted to drag him through the phone and wrap his arms around him. “You didn't fail,” Hank told him. “I did. I should have known you better, should have protected you better. I know we weren't meant to be going in, but I should have made you wear a proper fucking stab vest.”

“I don't blame you.”

Hank closed his eyes. Connor could speak with such brazen, vulnerable honesty that it stung. “And I don't blame you,” he pointed out, “but only one of us can be right.”

“Maybe not,” Connor replied. His voice was quiet, and thoughtful, but sad. Hank hadn't realised that Connor blamed himself for being injured. Maybe Connor was coming to the same realisation that Hank had felt guilty about it too. “How did you sleep?” Connor asked, gently.

Hank swallowed. “Like shit,” he admitted. “You?”

Connor took a moment to respond. “I didn't have any nightmares when I was in your bed,” he confessed.

Hank closed his eyes and thought of Connor, hunched over on his sofa, racked with pain and trauma just like he had been that first night on this sofa. Except this time Hank wasn't there to wake up and be his shoulder to cry on. It hurt to picture. “Apparently DI Wolfe in Cacciatore's squad knows a good therapist,” Hank muttered.

“I know,” Connor answered, “I already have her number.”

Hank nodded into his phone. He wondered who'd given it to him. Larxene, perhaps? Marius might have had her get in touch just in case Hank failed. “Got an appointment?”

“Not yet.”

“Get one,” Hank told him. “Please?” No one else would ever believe it. Hank Anderson asking, not even suggesting but asking someone he cared about to go to therapy. The hypocrisy of it should have seen him struck with a lightning bolt. “I don't want to think of you going through that shit alone.”

“I'm not alone,” Connor replied. Hank could hear the soft smile in his words. His chest felt warmer.

“No,” Hank agreed, “you're not, but we both know I'm more of a model for how not to handle shit.” He eyed the bottle of beer on his table with a scowl, and then looked away from it, over to Sumo. He placed a hand on top of Sumo's head and ruffled his fur, slowly. “Sumo's missing you,” he said.

“I thought I might stop by tomorrow and take him for a walk,” Connor said, softly.

Hank nodded. “I think he'd like that,” he said. “I'd like that,” he amended. “I hated coming home and realising everything was where I'd left it because you hadn't been.”

Connor's answer was quiet, and strained. “We've only just been apart twenty four hours,” he said.

“I know,” Hank defended, “I know, I just,” he hesitated. The house had been dark, and cold. Sumo had looked for him. Hank had hoped, even if he didn't want to admit it. He couldn't even be away from Connor for a day without wanting to drink to soften the loneliness. He was moving too fast and he didn't want to scare Connor off with the desperate intensity of how badly he wanted him. “I know you want space,” he began.

“I miss you too.”

Hank racing train of thought crashed into those words and derailed. His heart sank back down from his throat, settling into his chest and the warmth of Connor's affection for him. “Yeah,” he said, “and it sucks.”

Connor murmured quietly into the phone. Hank could only take it as agreement. “I was thinking about booking an Italian place for us on Friday?” he offered. “You could pick me up after work.”

That warmth in Hank's chest grew. “I'll have a few hours in lieu after tomorrow night,” he said, “I can take a half day. Pick you up in the afternoon?”

“I'd like that,” Connor replied.

Hank swallowed. He felt like an idiot for getting so fucking giddy over the idea of a date, but he couldn't help it. “Would you be staying?” Having Connor here again, back in his bed, back by his side where Hank ached for him to be was all he wanted.

“Of course,” Connor replied, “but don't forget you're seeing Cole on Saturday.”

Hank positively beamed into his phone. God, Connor really was going to make sure Hank didn't dip on his responsibilities ever again, wasn't he? “I've not forgotten,” he said. His voice felt a little more vulnerable as he asked, “Would you be here when I come back?” He didn't feel like he needed to add the words 'just in case'. Connor seemed to be able to pick up on them anyway.

“I wouldn't be anywhere else.”

Hank closed his eyes and smiled into his phone. “I really don't deserve you.”

*

Thurrock services were even more of a dump than Hank had realised. The buildings were clad in that horrible plastic looking metal panelling that looked great for about five minutes, but as soon as you stuck it on a building near a high pollution zone such as, for example, a motorway, and let the British weather do its thing, it became covered in a layer of streaky black grime that made the entire place look like it came straight from some post-apocalyptic dystopia. Except it wasn't a high-end enough place for something like a Mad Max film or 28 Days Later, it was some grotty channel's teen drama show about punky looking kids surviving in a world without adults but that still made blue and red hair dye.

One of the buildings was almost completely disused. The lights had an unsettling mismatched quality to them and large swathes of unlit and creepy car park stretched out ahead of Hank's car. HGV's weren't allowed in the forecourt, where people might have to see them, so they were all forced to somewhere darker, more out of the way, and better for dodgy deals. Hank was willing to bet that if they got enough guys in here they could tie themselves up in prostitution and drug dealing cases for a year solid, all in a single night.

It was also raining heavily, and Hank's phone insisted the temperature outside was five degrees, even though it felt like zero. He zipped his coat up further and turned up the heating in his car. He tugged the horrible, uncomfortable stab vest down under his coat a moment later. The damn thing wasn't designed to be sat in and kept riding up.

The radio crackled. “Incoming,” came Markus' voice, “HGV, registration Lima, Kilo, Fiver, Six, Echo, Romeo, Sierra.”

Hank checked the time. Twenty one minutes past two. It was the only truck to have pulled in over the past half hour. The one before that had pulled in, left his cab for the building, and returned carrying a plastic bag of junk food. Josh and DI Collins had kept an eye on him until they were pretty sure he'd gone to sleep in his cab.

“We've got eyes,” the radio spat a minute later. Simon was situated with Constable Miller, way at the back in the darkest part of the lot. Hank didn't like it, but he needed to keep himself in a more central position so he could gun it and get to wherever any action was happening as quickly as he could.

Hank picked up his radio handset. “Hold position,” he told them, and set it back in its cradle.

The silence ached. Hank closed his eyes and tried not to think about how his night with Connor had started out like this. Quiet, tense, boring, waiting for the call that shit was hitting the fan. It had all happened so quickly. Lights. Noise. The guy dropping out of the hotel window and taking off. Connor gone before Hank could stop him, giving chase on foot.

The painful wait before Hank could take off after him. If he'd been faster, if he'd got there sooner--

No. It wasn't happening again. He wasn't going to spend tonight cradling someone he was supposed to protect while they bled out into their own chest cavity.

“We might have something.” That was Ben.

Hank blew air slowly out between his lips. He picked up the radio handset again. “Hold position until you're sure.”

“He's in a camera deadspot,” Markus warned them.

Hank huffed to himself. A camera deadspot in this dump wasn't saying much. It was almost all camera deadspots. It would have been harder for him to park in a camera livespot. “I said hold.” Markus was the one he'd have to watch, he thought. He was just as impulsive, just as nobly and stupidly self sacrificing as Connor, except that Connor thought things through without factoring his own needs into the situation, and Markus just went with his emotions.

Silence stretched out. Hank felt as tight as a twisted rope, wound up until its had doubled in on itself. He checked the time again.

Two thirty six.

A crackle from the radio made Hank's stomach lurch. “We got another incoming. Registration November, Foxtrot, Zero, Niner, Charlie, X-Ray, Juliet.”

Hank frowned. “Vehicle type?”

“It's a transit van,” Markus answered, “but it's heading for the HGV section.”

A handover vehicle, Hank thought. Bring the goods over the border, swap them into something smaller here, cart them to wherever in the country they're going. They'd have to check if the licence plate was real or fake later. If it was real then they'd sourced their van up near Newcastle, which was interesting. “All right, keep eyes on them.”

Hank kept his eyes on the time. Three minutes later the radio crackled again. This time it was Josh. “They've parked next to our suspect vehicle.”

“Looks like we've got a handover happening, boys. Give them chance to get comfortable. If we get both sets of prints on whatever they're moving we've got an easy case.” Hank put his radio back in his cradle and sighed. He hated this bit, the bit where you had to wait for the criminals to do enough illegal things that you could say they'd definitely done illegal things, instead of maybe intending on doing them.

“Two caucasian males in the transit,” Markus said. The radio lent his voice a broken, static quality. “Average height, one approximately six feet tall, average build, one five feet nine or ten and stocky build.” There was a pause. “They've gone to the back of the van. They're out of sight.”

“Wait for my signal,” Hank told them. He closed his eyes and pictured the scene. Two men, moving to the back of the HGV, lifting up the back roller, one climbs inside. Might take him a moment. Inspects the legit goods that are covering their contraband. Slides past the legit cargo, gets to a box, pries it open.

Yeah, that should be enough time. “Now.”

It was the vehicular equivalent of many big guys in stampy sounding boots running into a building shouting. Lights and sirens flashed as cars moved in from all sides. Hank was the second to last to pull to a halt. Markus had already got out of his car. Simon was hot on his heels, dashing out of his and Chris' unmarked vehicle, hand already on his baton in case he needed it.

Josh and Ben pulled up beside Hank, but stayed in the car in case they needed to tear off after any runners. Hank left his car's engine running, but climbed out into the pouring rain and jogged in after his officers.

A body slammed into Hank. He grabbed onto them and swung them both around until they crashed to the floor. “Stay fucking down!” he yelled, reaching for his cuffs. Whoever he'd grabbed wasn't keen on the idea and lashed out, twisting to catch Hank with a vicious backhand across his jaw that didn't quite succeed in knocking him off the guy.

Hank yelled anyway with the unexpected pain and grabbed the flailing arm, dragging it up behind the man's back until it wouldn't go any further. The man tried to pull free. Hank cracked him across the back of the shoulder with his free hand and then got a cuff on the offending wrist. He grabbed the other wrist and dragged that in to secure, too. Then he stood.

Markus was back on his feet, holding his nose tightly with one hand. Blood dripped down his chin, over his mouth and onto his clothes. “Fuck.”

Hank dragged a tissue from his pocket. Your learned, after pinning down enough drunk guys on friday nights in London, to carry something to wipe the blood off yourself with. He shook it out and held it towards Markus. “It broken?” he asked.

Markus took the tissue and leaned his head forward, spitting blood onto the floor. “Don't think so,” he answered, before putting the tissue up under his nose to catch the stream.

“All right,” Hank told him. “Go sit in the car while we sort these bozos out.”

“I'm fine,” Markus began.

Hank pointed to his car. “Sit in the car while you're fucking bleeding or I'll call it in for a paramedic to look at.”

Markus looked at him with wide eyes. Hank suspected no one had ever shouted at him like he was a stubborn kid before. “All right, fine,” he answered, moving between the trucks towards Hank's car.

It gave Hank a chance to look down at their captured quarry. Simon was rubbing at his own jaw, but no one had managed to catch him in the nose. “They put up a fight,” he said, looking down.

Hank nodded. Their three men were between the ages of thirty and fifty. The oldest one was the stocky one, the youngest was the taller one. He was more athletic. Hank suspected he'd been the one that had given Markus a bloodied nose. “Sorry fellas,” he said, conversationally, “you're all under arrest. Wanna tell me what you're doing out here at asshole o'clock in the morning, before I find out for myself?”

“Go fuck yourself,” the younger one replied.

Hank fixed him with a humourless grin. “I'll be sure to put that in your official statement,” he replied. Court was boring, and tedious, but hearing toffee-nosed crown prosecutors recite in their deadpan reading-words-from-a-page way all the offensive shit people said to coppers when they were getting arrested helped to make it slightly less of a chore.

Hank nodded to Simon, “Let's get 'em in the cars and then check the vehicles.”

Simon picked up the stocky one, hauling on his cuffs until he scrabbled to his feet. Hank picked up the younger one, and then pushed his face against the side of the HGV while he made his own attacker get to his feet. He had a lorry driver's build, Hank realised, thick around the middle and broad but not muscular in the arms and legs. “Up you get,” he said, hauling him off the ground.

Miller met him. The rain continued to sheet down, dulling the sound. “Manfred okay?” he asked, raising his voice over the cacophony of the rain.

“He got cracked in the nose,” Hank answered, and pushed the young idiot towards Chris. “This one gets to have assaulting a police officer on his list of charges.”

“I didn't know he was a fucking copper,” interjected the young one.

He would be a good one to interview first, Hank thought. He was notably chattier than the other two, who had the good sense to keep their mouths shut around police. Do him first, and then the other two would be more likely to give things up themselves in case the gobby one had dropped them in it.

“That's the thing with illegal activities,” Hank told him, with synthetic affability, “coppers might show up and interrupt you in the middle of them.”

They marched them through the rain towards the cars, and then Hank made sure they all got thoroughly fucking searched before anyone got shoved into the back of one. Hank let Ben and Josh do the business of getting names and addresses while he went to go and check on Markus.

Markus was sat with his head tipped forward, his forearms resting on his knees, with his feet on the ground outside of Hank's driver's side door. “The bleeding stopped?”

Markus pulled the tissue away and looked at it, but kept his other hand clamped around his nose, holding it to restrict the blood flow. Hank had never been sure if that actually worked, but it was what they told you to do. “Almost,” he answered, and turned the tissue around to find a clean spot and press that to his nose again.

Hank opened the back door and sat down, out of the rain. Not that it mattered when he was already soaked. “I want to split them up, so we'll put one in your car. Okay?”

“Yeah,” Markus answered. He pulled the tissue away again and seemed satisfied with the result. He sat up straighter, and slowly let go of his nose, wrinkling it, and then exhaling sharply. “I hope it's not broken,” he said, quietly. “I've got my interview for Sergeant next week and I don't want two black eyes.”

“Let's have a look?” Hank told him. Markus looked at him. Hank moved his head from side to side so he could see properly around the car's head rest. “It still looks straight,” he reassured him.

Markus sighed and settled forwards again. “We going to see what they were hauling?”

Hank reached around the car seat and patted Markus on the shoulder. “You'll do fine in that interview,” he told him. He leaned forward and pushed himself back to standing off his knees. Markus stood up as well, and they made their way back to the vehicles. They'd need to be impounded and carted back for evidence, which meant somebody hanging around giving the uniform a shower while that happened. Guarding crime scenes in the rain was the worst job, and Hank was glad he'd left all that crap behind years ago.

Simon joined them as they reached the back of the vehicles. Hank pulled open the door on the transit first. The floor was covered in grubby mattresses. There was nothing else of note, but the sight made Hank's stomach lurch anyway.

“Sir!” Simon's voice was urgent from the back of the HGV. Hank dashed towards it. He knew what they'd found. Fuck he wasn't prepared for this.

Simon's face was ashen when Hank reached the back of the vehicle. Don't let them be too young, he thought, don't let them be--, “Fuck.”

A dozen pairs of wide, terrified eyes in grimy faces stared back at Hank from behind a stack of strapped in boxes. Markus looked frozen, like he'd shut down internally. None of them looked older than twelve. The smallest one could have passed for five.

“We need back up,” Simon said, his eyes moving around Hank's face as if he didn't know where to look.

Markus moved suddenly, one neat step letting him drop out of the back of the HGV. Hank saw it, the cold, quiet fury in his eyes. His face was an expressionless mask. He grabbed him. “Call back up,” he told him, his voice quiet, “call North, call the social workers. Get everyone we can down here.”

“They're kids,” Markus said, his voice sounding off and detached, “they're just kids.”

“I know,” Hank replied. Not too long ago he'd have hauled off to give the bastards that did it a good kicking before they got processed. If you said it happened while they struggled you could get away with it. You could probably still get away with it. “So we get them out of here, get them somewhere safe, and warm, and sheltered, and you don't lash out, you hear me? Don't go for revenge because nothing you can do to those bastards will make it better for these kids, but these won't be the last kids.” Hank's chest lurched at the words coming out of his own mouth. He hated it, hated knowing it, hated that Markus and Josh and Simon and Connor had know it too. “If you go for revenge for these kids you won't be able to help the next ones.”

Hank saw Markus' Adam's apple rise and fall in his throat. He closed his eyes and gave a nod, seeming to come back to himself. Hank clapped him on the shoulder. “It fucking sucks,” he said, “and I'm sorry, but that's the job that's in front of us.”

Markus frowned, his head bowed, but he gave another nod and then moved off between the trucks. Hank trusted him to keep a cool head, at least for now. Maybe once they'd got the kids safe somewhere – North would move heaven and earth to give them a bed for the night while the social workers sorted out foster families – he could take Markus, Josh, and Simon out to get drunk enough to forget what they'd seen today long enough for them to fall asleep. It wouldn't make it go away; it'd all be waiting for them when they woke up, but at least it would get them through that first night.

Hank turned back to Simon, who had crouched down and was approaching the scared children with his hands up. “What's your name?” he asked the oldest looking one.

She, it could have been a she, under the truck dirt and limp hair, looked at Simon with wide, terrified eyes. She didn't answer.

Simon tapped his own chest. “Simon,” he said, and then pointed to her with an open hand. He stayed a careful few feet away, not wanting to scare them further. By slow degrees their body language seemed to be relaxing.

“Oksana,” she said, quietly, pointing to her own chest.

Hank sighed and rubbed at his face with his hand. It was a start.

*

Hank knocked on Connor's door a little after lunch on Friday. “The door's open,” called Connor from inside. Hank tried the handle and found it gave way under his hand.

Connor was standing in his kitchen, ironing. Hank looked him over in his dark blue trousers, no shoes, and no shirt. “Are you running late?” he teased. It wasn't like Connor. The idea was as amusing as it was cute to walk in and find him in the middle of domestic tasks like ironing his shirt collar.

“You're early,” Connor countered. He set the iron upright on the board and whipped his shirt around to draw it up his arms. “I'll only be a moment.”

Hank shrugged, grinning at Connor's excitable hurry. Connor had planned their date tonight, but Hank still had a bunch of flowers waiting for him in the car. There was no point giving them to him now when he wouldn't be home all weekend.

Connor disappeared into the bathroom. Hank took the front door deadbolt off its latch and then turned to examine the fish. The little gourami swam towards Hank as if they expected something. Their tank was immaculate, and Hank was pretty sure a couple of the plants in it were new.

Connor's laptop was closed on the coffee table. Hank didn't know anything about computer brands, but it looked sleek and expensive. He'd expected Connor to have Apple branded products everywhere; he knew his phone was, and he had an iPad, but Hank didn't see the distinctive logo on the laptop so maybe he was wrong. Most people that had one thing Apple had everything Apple. Hank didn't get it, but he wasn't the target audience and preferred to stick to Androids.

There was a book next to the laptop, that it looked as if Connor had nearly finished reading. Punk Rock: An Oral History. Hank raised an eyebrow. Was Connor just delving into music history, or trying to find something that fit himself, he wondered?

The bathroom door opened. Hank looked up. Connor came out of it in one of his designer work suits with tie, and that little silver tie clip he always wore. He looked like himself in a way he hadn't since the day he'd been stabbed.

Hank stood there, mute, as Connor approached. “Are you ready?” he asked.

Hank looked him over again. He reached out to Connor's shoulder and pulled him into his arms. Connor staggered at the tug, but then went with the movement, looping his arms around Hank's waist while Hank cradled the back of his head and breathed him in.

“Is something wrong?” Connor asked, his hands settling on Hank's back.

Hank shook his head. “I just missed you,” he answered. He'd missed Connor, all of Connor, the man who cooked vegetables and shared his bed, and the man who came to work in tidy designer suits and annoyed the shit out of him with his coin fiddling.

Connor pulled back a little, remaining in Hank's arms but looking up at him from the small height difference between them. “I missed you too,” he said.

Hank combed his fingers through Connor's hair and canted his head, closing his eyes as he pressed a kiss to Connor's lips. They were soft, and warm. Hank felt a sigh move through Connor's chest and flutter against his beard as Connor breathed out and parted his lips under Hank's mouth.

His tongue was gentle. Hank tasted it in slow, repeated presses, losing himself in the tenderness of Connor's movements. Connor's fingers slowly tightened in his jacket, and Hank pulled Connor into himself. It felt like he was finally coming home. After a shitty week and long sleepless nights, he was returning to the gentle embrace of Connor's tongue, and lips, and hands, to the warmth of a body against his, and the heartfelt affection of someone he cared about.

Connor broke the kiss first, pulling back and opening his eyes slowly. Hank watched the smile settling onto his face, and felt the deep breath he took before he spoke. “We should go,” he said.

Hank nodded, and combed his fingers through Connor's hair one more time before he released him. “Yeah,” he agreed.

He led Connor out of his flat, picking up his small overnight bag of things he felt it necessary to bring to Hank's house on his way to the door. Hank wondered how much of it was going to stay afterwards. Was Connor going to spend the next year moving back in by slow degrees; one lost sock at a time?

Sumo waited in the back seat of the car. Connor lit up when he saw him. The dog rose on his front paws when he saw Connor, and Hank saw his massive tail waft hard in the air. A deep woof followed. “Hey, Sumo,” Connor greeted him, smiling like an idiot as he waved at the dog through the window.

Hank unlocked the car and slid into the driver's seat. He reached behind it while Connor fussed about the dog and dragged out the bouquet of flowers. The plastic wrapping around them, carefully tied so they wouldn't drip, crinkled as Hank grabbed them.

Connor froze when Hank presented them to him. He took them in slow, careful movements. “You got me flowers?” he asked. His wide eyes and stunned question made Hank smile.

He shrugged, as if it was no big deal to buy his boyfriend flowers. “You wanted romance,” he pointed out.

Connor settled into his seat, cradling the bouquet as if he was scared he might crush it. “I've never been bought flowers before,” he said. “I don't own a vase.”

“I do,” Hank answered. He'd made sure he did, because he remembered the Valentine's Day with his ex-wife where he'd bought her flowers without checking they owned a vase first, and the things had ended up living in the sink for a day while one was obtained. It's the thought that counts, but a complete thought, followed all the way to its conclusion, counted for a lot more.

“Thank you,” Connor said. Hank smiled and fastened his seatbelt, watching out of the corner of his eye while Connor leaned in to give the blooms a sniff. It was a smattering of camellias and peonies in red, white, and pink, which was less trite and obvious than roses. Hank didn't know much about flowers, but the florist had been nice enough to help him pick a bouquet to give to his date tonight when he'd wandered into her shop looking lost.

Connor fastened his own seatbelt, his tiny, happy smile staying on his face as he examined the blossoms and Hank drove him to their station. The others had been excited about the possibility of seeing him, and after the week they'd all had, bringing Connor to them would lift everyone's spirits.

Connor set his flowers safely into the back of the car as Hank let Sumo out. Sumo took up his spot beside Connor, but Hank put the leash on him anyway because gigantic dogs tended to be intimidating, even though they were almost always wimps. Hank led the way, not that Connor needed leading around his own station.

“Connor!”

Markus, Simon, and Josh all dashed up from their desks at the sight of him. Simon and Josh were the first ones to speak, but Markus was the first to step forward and drag Connor into a one-armed hug, patting him twice on the back before letting him go again. Connor's face was alive with a flattered, happy smile.

“How are you doing?” Josh asked.

“When are you coming back?” Simon added.

“I'm well,” Connor answered, settling himself on the corner of Markus' desk as if he was fitting right back in at his own home, “and I don't know yet,” he added. “The physio went well, but she still won't let me return to work.”

Hank grinned, and sat himself on the edge of Connor's desk. It was exactly the way he'd left it, his pens neatly tidied, papers neatly stacked, and his inbox empty. Hank caught Simon's eye and nodded to him, giving him his cue.

Josh sighed. “We're missing you,” he told Connor. “We needed you this week.”

Connor tilted his head and flashed Josh a cocksure grin that Hank recognised. “You need me every week,” he countered.

Markus laughed. “At least you won't be the only one that knows how to wrangle Hank when you come back,” he said.

“Hey!” Hank protested. Markus talked about wrangling him as if he was some rowdy bar patron on a Saturday night.

Simon stepped forward, with a carefully gift-wrapped package. “We were going to give you this when you returned,” he said, holding it out to Connor, “but if it's going to be a while, we thought it was best to give it to you now.”

“Also they couldn't control themselves,” Hank added, flatly.

Connor met Hank's eyes. A thousand questions lay within them. Hank only smiled back. Connor took the present from Simon and blinked, obviously lost for what to say. “You didn't have to get me anything,” he said, softly.

“It was Simon's idea,” supplied Josh.

Connor undid the wrapping paper carefully. Somehow, Hank had known he wouldn't be the type to tear into a gift like a five year old on Christmas morning. He undid the tape bit by bit, taking the best care he could not to destroy the paper, and slid the box and book out from inside. Hank watched Connor read the title of the book, and draw his thumb along the pages before he settled his attention on the box.

Connor lifted the latch and opened the lid. Inside sat three shiny quarters around a very shiny silver dollar. Connor stretched his fingers out as if to touch them but stopped short, entranced.

“We thought,” Simon ventured, “you might like to expand your repertoire.”

“And,” Markus agreed, with a grin, “when you get them confiscated you don't have to worry about them getting mixed with Hank's change.”

Connor blinked. Hank wondered if he was fighting back tears. He looked around at all of them. “I don't know what to say,” he said, and then decided on, simply, “thank you.”

The reaction seemed to ease the tension. Hank wondered if the others had been nervous about the gift, and the possibility Connor would think it weird of them to go this far over something he fidgeted with when his mind was working overtime. Connor plucked one of the quarters from the box and set it across the back of his knuckles, walking it slowly over his fingers, gradually getting faster.

The coin disappeared into Connor's palm, and Hank watched as he flicked it into his other hand, and then back again, twice, three times, before he set up to catch it by the edge between his fingers.

The metallic clink of a coin hitting a table broke the silence and Connor winced. Hank couldn't help but laugh. Josh ducked down to catch the errant quarter and retrieve it.

“It looks like I'll have to practice,” Connor said, smiling through his embarrassment at fumbling the coin.

Markus clapped him on the shoulder, leaning against his own desk beside Connor. “I don't think it'll take you long.”

Josh handed Connor the quarter back, and Connor gave it a wipe with his thumb to ensure it wasn't dirtied. Sumo nudged himself against Connor's leg, wanting a share of the attention, and Simon dropped to his knees to give Sumo a good scritch.

Hank met Connor's eyes and shared a smile with him. He was home.