Secondment (1)

[chlorhexidine]

A sparkling silver dollar walked across the backs of Connor's fingers as he checked his wording. Even with his eyes fixed on his screen he could see what the others were doing; Simon was bent over his own keyboard, writing up records of a follow up interview. Markus and Josh were sharing a desk, talking in low tones.

“Connor?” Hank's voice broke through Connor's concentration as effectively as a dog whistle. He looked up. Hank gestured with two fingers for Connor to follow him, and disappeared back into his office.

Connor slid his coin into his jacket pocket and straightened his tie before he rose. Markus' eyes followed him as he entered Hank's office and carefully closed the door.

“Sit down,” Hank said.

Connor tilted his head. Hank wasn't meeting his eyes. “Is something wrong?” he asked.

Now Hank's eyes flicked up to him, but it was brief, nervous and ashamed. His mouth twitched in a tight frown. Connor's stomach gave an unpleasant roll in response. “Sit down,” Hank repeated, although it was a plea, rather than an instruction.

“Hank?” Connor didn't move. His feet protested against the idea of moving away from the only exit. “What is it?” His thoughts went to Sumo, Amanda, Elijah, to bad news.

Hank licked his lips and stared down at his desk. “You're being sent on secondment,” Hank said, eventually. “I know it's not what you want, but you ain't getting a choice.”

Connor's chest became uncomfortably hollow. His heart rang inside him like the clapper in a bell, each resounding thud reverberating through his entire body. Secondment meant moving to another team, perhaps another department. “Who decided this?” he asked, quietly. Fowler might have agreed to send him out to someone, to loan him like office furniture to a team he didn't know, taking him away from Hank, and Markus, and Simon, and Josh.

Hank's blue eyes locked on Connor's face. Connor had always liked Hank's eyes; all his emotions lay in them. His pain and his joy, his regret and his compassion, and right now, his guilt. “I did.”

The admission hit like a balled fist into his solar plexus. Connor stared. His mind whirled with a thousand questions, so many that they jumbled into a nonsensical scream in his head that boiled down to one single word.

“Why?”

Hank closed his eyes and bowed his head. Connor watched his fingers curl into a fist against his desk. “Because it's good experience for you,” he answered.

The scream inside Connor's head began to turn into a roar. He moved forward, closer to Hank. “I don't want the experience.” They'd talked about this. They'd talked about this multiple times over the last few weeks, and now Connor realised that Hank had been testing the water, trying to gauge his likely reaction.

“We both know that isn't an objective decision,” Hank muttered, still not lifting his eyes to Connor.

“And I suppose you deciding to send me away like this is?” Connor challenged. Out of the two of them Hank was the one having the hardest time remaining professional in work. He looked too much, smiled more, but Connor had also had to warn him against sidelining him, or deliberately avoiding asking him to do unpleasant jobs like take the graveyard shift watch, or be on call when they had a date planned. The latest issue had been trying to rearrange shifts so that they could take a long weekend together. Hank had found a dog friendly cottage in the Lake District, but trying to schedule more than a night together was impossible.

Hank's eyes snapped to Connor, with a glint of steel in the gaze. “It's Cacciatore's squad,” he said, “six months. You need the experience if you're going to make DCI, and he's one of the best there is, even if he's a prick.” Hank's mouth twisted in a grimace. “I know you're not keen on promotion, but you're better than this. You'll be wasted if you stay my DI.”

Connor leaned forward, pressing his hands flat against Hank's desk. His anger spiked, and he reined it in, turning chilly instead. “So I don't get the choice because I'm meant for greater things?”

He wasn't sure if Hank remembered, if Hank had even heard enough to catch that part of Connor's last face to face conversation with Elijah. He hated it. He'd always hated it. Amanda and Elijah used to make decisions for him about his schools and his classes and his hobbies that were always based on what they thought Connor could do, or achieve, or be, but they never factored in what Connor actually wanted.

Hank's eyes widened. Connor saw the curse flash behind them, but then the steel returned and Hank swallowed his fleeting realisation to double down. “As your DCI,” he said, “I have to push you to be the best copper you can be, especially when you're holding back.”

Connor forced himself to breathe out carefully through his nose. It was better than raising his voice. “You should have talked to me.”

Hank's gaze drifted, flickering from Connor's eyes to his mouth to his hands and then back. “It's too late now. You start next week.”

Connor's throat felt tight. A sense of betrayal was creeping in beneath the anger, morphing it into pain. He grit his teeth and straightened up, slowly. “Will that be all, sir?”

He knew he shouldn't take pleasure in the way Hank winced, but he did. Conversations about feelings, and what Hank pulling this particular stunt meant for their relationship were for later, outside of the work environment. Here and now all Connor could do was lash out, whip quick, with that single word sir.

“Connor,” Hank's voice was pleading, pained. Connor wished it didn't get under his skin as much as it did. Hearing Hank say his name like that raked fingernails down the chalkboard of his soul.

Connor turned and left the office, carefully closing the door behind himself. He returned to his desk and sat down.

Cacciatore's squad. That meant sending him to work murder investigations with the best performing DCI in London, although Cacciatore's closure rate was lagging a couple of points behind that of one DCI Scientia so far this year. Those two were always close competition. Connor didn't doubt Cacciatore would regain the lost ground, and in any case, Arts and Antiques cases were hardly as difficult as Murders.

At least he'd got along with Itahyr and Larxene, but DCI Florent was trickier than a magic shop, and then there was DCI Johnson. Cacciatore himself was stiff and unyielding, and Connor had got the impression that Lumi hadn't liked him very much. There was none of the trust or camaraderie that he'd had with Hank.

Emphasis on the past tense, right now.

“Are you okay?” Markus' voice broke into Connor's thoughts, and his worried frown came next.

Connor met Markus' eyes and opened his mouth to reply, then closed it again. He wanted to say he was fine, but he was always told he wasn't a very good liar. “I'm being sent on secondment,” he answered. The words tasted bitter in his mouth.

Markus blinked. His brows furrowed. Connor waited for the inevitable follow up question. “Did you ask for that?”

“No.”

Markus' gaze pressed against Connor's cheek, as if he was expecting more. Connor waited him out; he was good at waiting beyond the point where other people felt uncomfortable and they either spoke, or left.

Markus chose to speak. “Let's get out of here,” he said, “go for lunch.”

Connor blinked. He'd been staring at his computer terminal, unseeing, and felt Markus' words like fingers snapping in front of his face. He looked over to where Markus stood to find Markus had already moved, holding Hank's office door open to stick his head inside. “Connor and I are going for lunch break, we'll be back in an hour,” he was saying to Hank. He wasn't putting up the pretence of asking for permission.

Hank's door was closed as Connor remained sat there, dumbfounded. Markus flashed him a smile and waved his hand, urging Connor on. “Follow me,” he instructed, grabbing his coat and drawing it up his shoulders.

Connor's feet obeyed Markus, even though his brain was still roiling too much for him to be choosing to do it. Getting out of the office was a good idea. He needed to think, and to think he needed space.

Markus drove. Connor didn't ask where they were going. The car was a second hand silver BMW that Markus made an effort to keep clean both inside and out. It was comfortable, and the further away they got from the station the more Connor felt himself begin to relax.

They drove to Camden Markets. When Markus pulled the car to a halt he finally spoke. “You wanna tell me what's going on?”

Connor frowned and stepped out of the car. “I told you,” he said, “I'm being sent on secondment.”

“Which you don't want,” Markus added, closing his door and locking the car with a click of his keyfob.

“No,” Connor confirmed.

“And you're pissed,” Markus continued. He set off towards the market, and Connor followed after him, unsure of where they were going but content, for now at least, to follow.

“Yes,” he agreed. He was pissed. He was more than pissed, he was furious. Hank had done the one thing Connor had asked him not to do; what he thought was best for Connor without taking into account what Connor wanted. They discussed things like this, and sometimes those discussions were heated, but Hank had never just ignored what he knew Connor wanted before.

It hurt. Beneath the anger he could feel that sting of betrayed trust.

“And that's what's weird,” Markus declared, turning to Connor as he led him into the market and through throngs of people. Camden Markets were only quiet when they were closed. Every other minute of the year they were at varying levels of busy. “I've never seen you pissed. Pissy,” Markus explained, “but not pissed. Why now?”

Connor blinked, his footsteps faltering. He'd... truly never been angry at Hank before. He didn't usually get angry at work related things at all; annoyed, certainly, but mostly he dealt with it by being resigned, doing what he was told, and compartmentalising his emotional responses. He didn't get angry, he just went quiet and got on with it.

“Because I wasn't consulted,” he answered.

Markus waited for Connor to catch up. He led them to a falafel stall and joined the queue which was surprisingly short, although the fact it wasn't even twelve yet probably had something to do with that. Connor stood beside him. “You weren't consulted about joining us,” Markus pointed out.

Connor inhaled, slowly. Being sent on secondment from cyber crime had almost been a relief. He'd spent five years there, and five years was more time than anyone should have to spend working under or alongside DI Reed, for whom Connor still nursed fond revenge fantasies of pouring his stupid scalding hot coffee over his aggravating head. “I like working with you,” he pointed out.

Markus shrugged one shoulder. “Maybe you'll like whoever you're working with this time, too,” he countered.

Connor blinked, and frowned. “It's DCI Cacciatore's squad,” he said, quietly.

“I thought you got along with them?” Markus asked, his brows knitting together as he gave Connor an incredibly critical look.

Connor sighed. He had got along with them. He liked Itahyr because it was nice not to have to dumb his tech talk down with someone, and to have someone else to talk about the latest science fiction with. He liked Larxene, who reminded him of North in a terrifying take no prisoners kind of way, except Larxene did it with daggers in her smile. He admired Lumi Cacciatore, who was cold, and calculated, and hard to impress which made his fleeting and infrequent praise all the more powerful. “I did,” he answered, “but,” he trailed off. It wasn't the point. Liking where he was being sent wasn't the point, he was still being sent, like an object to be passed around.

Markus was silent for a long time. Connor let himself get lost in the hurt and sadness. Sending him to Cacciatore was probably Hank's idea of softening the blow. At least it would be people Connor knew, at least he already had friends there. If Connor wanted the experience it would have been perfect; a chance to work in one of the best performing departments, with people that already knew him, under one of the best DCI's in London. Hank probably owed a lot of people big favours to make this happen, and all because he wanted Connor to achieve what Hank thought he could.

Markus ordered two lots of falafel wraps, and handed one to Connor. They drifted towards the Lock as they walked, navigating the crowds and eating on their feet. The March air was brisk, and the wind whipped at Connor's hair, ruffling it.

“I'm gonna ask you something,” Markus warned, as he finished his wrap and balled up the paper it had come in, “and I want you to be honest with me.” Connor glanced at him out of the corner of his eyes, wary and waiting. Markus met his gaze, and Connor saw the question at his lips before he heard the words.

“Is there something going on between you and Hank?”

Connor swallowed the last remains of his falafel and inhaled slowly. “What makes you think that?”

The way Markus' mouth twitched suggested the fact that Connor had not just outright denied it was telling enough. “Ever since you got hurt he's been,” he picked his next word carefully, “different. So have you, you're just less obvious about it.”

Connor continued to breathe. Breathing helped control panic. Focus on the here and now, on the ground beneath his feet, the wind against his skin, the paper in his fingers. Don't think about the way the food he'd just eaten had turned to concrete in his gut.

“I know you stayed with him for a while,” Markus provided, fixing a sidelong, odd-eyed gaze on Connor. “So it makes sense you'd be close, but I don't think that's all there is to it.” Connor swallowed dryly and continued to breathe. He turned his eyes away from Markus' face and down to the ground passing beneath his feet.

“I'm not asking as your colleague,” Markus insisted. “I'm asking as your friend. He's been happy these last few months. So have you.”

Connor frowned and kept pace with Markus. Perhaps they hadn't been as subtle as they'd intended, but it was hard when Hank found reasons to rest a hand on his back, or smile at him, and Connor found excuses to snatch five extra minutes with Hank in his office every morning when he briefed him on their upcoming day.

“We've been seeing each other,” he admitted, his voice quiet, “for a while now.”

The only other person Connor had spoken to about being in a relationship with Hank was Alexander. Saying the words now to Markus felt terrifying, but also liberating. He worked so hard to keep his affections for Hank to himself that it sometimes felt like a burden to love him, rather than a pleasure.

“Maybe this secondment is a good thing?” Markus offered, tilting his head and throwing Connor a sidelong glance.

Connor allowed himself a frustrated growl. “That's not the point,” he replied, sharply. “We talked about it. He knows that I want to stay where I am, but he finds it hard to remain objective where I'm concerned. Sending me away means he's ignored what I want so he can do what he thinks is best for me, and what's easier for him.”

“So are you pissed with him because he's your boyfriend, or are you pissed with him because he's your boss?”

Connor stopped in his tracks and looked at Markus. Markus stopped a moment later, turning to face Connor. “Because from where I'm standing,” Markus continued, “you're letting your feelings cloud your judgement.”

The words hit Connor like a slap. He gawked at Markus, knowing his mouth was hanging open as he tried to drag together a response from the tangled mess of his thoughts. “How,” he began, offence creeping into his voice even as he tried to keep it level, “am I not within my rights to be angry?”

“Would you be this upset if he wasn't your boyfriend?” Markus asked, his tone and expression even, and infuriatingly reasonable. “If Hank was just your boss sending you away for more work experience even if you'd turned it down, would you still be reacting like this?”

“Of course I would!” Connor snapped, and then caught himself. He wouldn't though, would he? He hadn't been when it had been from cyber crime to trafficking, and he'd been fine when it was as a liaison with murder.

So what was different? It wasn't for a case, true, but was that reason enough for this anger? For this hurt?

It was because Hank had done it against his wishes. It was because Hank had done it against his wishes. It wouldn't have stung if it had been Fowler's decision. He'd have been flattered if he'd been requested. But instead it had been Hank, someone he loved, deciding what was best for him just like everybody else in Connor's life that wanted him to be more, be better, go further, do more, achieve, achieve, achieve.

“Would you?” Markus asked. He began to walk again, following the path of the canal. Connor followed him. His throat was beginning to ache, and his eyes stung. He screwed up the paper in his hand with the last scrap of falafel as tightly as he could.

“Maybe not,” he confessed, quietly enough that he wasn't sure Markus would be able to hear him. “I'm just tired of all the expectation,” he admitted, casting a frown to Markus before bowing his head and watching the grey murky water ripple and wave beside their path. “Everyone pushes me to be more than I am right now, and all I want is to be able to enjoy it while I can.”

Markus flashed him a sympathetic smile. Connor hoped he understood, even if it was just a little. “I think that's a conversation you need to have with your boyfriend,” he said.

They got back to the station only a few minutes over their hour. Hank didn't say anything, although Connor would have bet money that he'd noticed. He pulled his phone out and sent him a message before he returned to updating HOLMES2.

I'm sorry for losing my temper. Would you be able to give me a ride home tonight?

They needed to talk, actually talk, like grown ups, about the line Hank had crossed, but also the line Connor had crossed when he'd reacted. It niggled at Connor to think that Markus might have a point, and this secondment might be a good thing, however much Connor might not want it.

His phone buzzed with an incoming reply. Connor glanced towards Hank's office before he opened the message. Hank was studiously staring at his computer screen, but Connor doubted any work was happening.

Your place or mine?

Connor frowned. He hadn't stayed at Hank's since last week. On the other hand he and Hank were slowly working their way around the horizontal surfaces in Connor's miniscule flat, much to the aggravation of Connor's downstairs neighbour.

Mine, he responded, for tonight. Yours tomorrow? I'll cook.

He watched Hank through the window of his office after he sent the message. He saw him open it, smile, and glance through the window to meet Connor's eyes. Hank looked down again to type. Connor's insides went soft.

Deal. His message said.

Another one came through a moment later. I love you.

Connor sighed and risked another glance towards Hank in his office. Hank was still smiling at him through the glass, hopeless and adoring. Connor wished they weren't at work so he could be folded into a hug and tell Hank how much his actions had hurt so that he could begin to kiss it better. Even when he was angry with Hank, he still wanted it to be Hank that comforted him.

I love you too.

***

Connor stood outside the station doors scrolling through his phone while he waited for Hank. He was sheltered from the wind that dragged at his coat and hair, but also from the watching gaze of Markus.

“Sorry,” Hank's voice came ahead of him, “needed to add some tasks to fucking HOLMES.” He emerged, drawing his coat closed around himself and burying his hands in his pockets.

“It's fine,” Connor replied, tucking his phone away.

“Are you still mad at me?” Hank asked, warily.

Connor raised his eyebrows and flashed Hank a pointed look. “Yes I am,” he answered, dispassionately.

Hank winced, his upper lip curling and one eye squeezing almost closed, as if he was anticipating pain. “I'm sorry,” he began.

Connor held his hand up in the universal sign for stop. Hank did. “We'll talk about it when we get to mine,” he told him.

That prompted a groan from Hank. “You're gonna make me play the why game, aren't you?” he grumbled.

“Yes,” Connor repeated, “I am.”

The why game wasn't a game, as such. It was a therapeutic technique to help quickly get down to the root crux of an issue. Most people made decisions and then reasoned themselves into it after the fact, and often the reasons they gave for why they'd taken a particular course of action were fabricated following whatever narrative the individual tried to hold about the kind of person they were.

Connor used the why technique to probe his own emotions often. He knew he had issues, most people did, but knowing that he had issues meant he was better equipped to recognise when those issues were affecting his actions. Knowing it was happening made it easier to course correct his train of thought before it went too far.

The game, such as Hank called it, was a simple series of successive why based questions that you persistently asked until you got to the real reason. They required honesty, sometimes a painful degree of it, and a stubborn determination to dig. Connor had sat down with Hank shortly after Christmas and gone through it with him about his drinking.

Why did Hank drink? Because it makes him feel better. Why does it make him feel better? Because it helps him sleep. Why can't he sleep? Because his mind won't shut up. Why won't his mind shut up? Because he's plagued with thoughts about work, and Cole, and his failed marriage. Why is he plagued with those thoughts? Because he feels guilty. Why does he feel guilty? Because he's a failure and weak. Why does he think that? Because he knows he could have done better and he hates himself.

Why does Hank drink? Because he hates himself.

It wasn't a cure. Knowing why you did something didn't mean you suddenly had the ability to stop it, but with support and a lot of TLC Hank had agreed, and managed to stick to, completing Dry January. It hadn't been easy for him, or for Connor at times. During Hank's lowest moment two weeks in he'd roared at Connor about trying to control him, and treating him like he was something to fix. Connor had borne it as calmly as he could while Hank had spat venom at himself for being worthless, while accusing Connor of being no different from his own parents.

Hank had stormed out of the house and gone for a long walk, and when he'd returned he'd avoided Connor as much as he could. Connor had sat with him the following day and poured a glass of whiskey in front of him. Staying sober had to be Hank's decision each and every day.

The decision not to have it has to be yours, Hank. Only yours.

Hank had picked up the glass, and then poured it down the sink. He hadn't had a drink all through February, either, and now they were most of the way through March. Connor didn't know that Hank would never drink again, but he was reasonably confident that, for now at least, Hank didn't want to.

They pulled up near Connor's flat, and Connor let them both into the building, leading the way. He unlocked the door and ripped the A4 note taped to the wood off without pausing to read it. Hank's hands tugged the note from his unresisting fingers as he entered behind Connor.

“The fuck's this?” he asked, scanning it.

“New neighbour downstairs,” Connor answered as he shrugged off his coat and hung it on the hook. “He's been leaving them for a couple of weeks.” Connor wasn't concerned. The sort of person that left passive aggressive notes that they thought were anonymous on people's doors wasn't a tangible threat.

Hank's eyebrows lifted as he read. “He thinks you're noisy?”

“Specifically,” Connor answered, “he thinks we're noisy.”

Hank huffed and dropped the note on Connor's coffee table. “That why you had me screw you on the floor last time?”

Connor couldn't have helped the wicked smirk that crossed his face if he'd wanted to. It made Hank break out into a bright, thundering laugh. “You can be such an asshole,” he said, with admiration.

“He started it,” Connor pointed out. “Would you like a drink?”

Hank dropped onto Connor's small sofa and heaved a sigh. “If we're doing the why game is a beer out of the question?” he asked. Connor only had to give him a sideways look for Hank to back down. “Kidding,” he said. “Water's fine.”

Connor gave a nod and retrieved two bottles of water from his fridge. He held one out to Hank and waited for him to take it before he settled himself onto the narrow sofa beside him.

Hank heaved another sigh. “Okay,” he said, “hit me.”

Connor opened his own bottle. “Why did you arrange a secondment for me?” he asked, without looking at Hank.

Hank huffed. When he spoke it was flat and rehearsed. “Because you need the experience to make DCI.”

That was obvious to both of them. Connor wouldn't be eligible for the promotion for another eighteen months, and if he got it within the next five years he'd still be doing phenomenally well. “Why do you want me to make DCI?”

Hank held out a hand to Connor, as if he didn't think he should be having to say his next words out loud. “Because you'll be good at it.”

“Why do you think I'll be good at it?” Connor continued, tilting his head to look at Hank.

Hank rolled his eyes. “You looking for an ego stroke?”

“Answer the question.”

Hank groaned and sat himself up straighter on the sofa. “Because you're smart and you give a shit. Fuck, you already do as much of my job as I do.”

Connor closed his eyes. They were starting to get somewhere if Hank's body language and tone were any indication. “Why does that matter to you?” he asked, evenly.

Hank twisted the cap off his water bottle and took a drink before he answered. He shifted himself in the seat, too so he could rest his elbows on his knees. “Because you deserve some fucking recognition, Connor, and not just from me.”

Connor swallowed. Hank's words knotted in his chest, neither pleasant or unpleasant, just there. “Why does it matter to you if others recognise my talents?”

Hank inhaled deeply through his nose. Connor heard the sharp intake of his breath, and the way it held before Hank finally sighed. “Because I want everyone else to know how amazing you are.”

“Why?” Connor asked, his voice growing quieter.

“Because I love you,” Hank answered, softly.

Connor looked at him. His head was bowed and his eyes weren't on Connor. His jaw was tense. They were almost there. “Why,” Connor began, picking delicately at the thread of Hank's thoughts, “does that affect how you want others to see me?”

“Because I want them to know why I love you,” Hank murmured, stiffly.

Ah, Connor thought, fixing Hank with brown eyes that he knew were going soft. “Why do you want them to know why you love me?”

Hank swallowed. His eyes flickered over Connor's face, drifting from his eyes to his mouth and back. “Because I want them to know that I do,” he said, finally.

Connor closed his eyes. “So why did you arrange a secondment for me?”

“Because I want people to know that I love you,” Hank answered, quietly. “I'm sick of hiding it.”

Connor opened his eyes again and lifted his gaze slowly to Hank. It wasn't the conclusion he'd expected, but that was why they did this. It was self examination, but it was also communication. Hearing Hank admit that he didn't want to keep hiding their relationship caused a knot in Connor's throat. Telling Markus had lifted a weight from Connor's shoulders he'd barely been aware of carrying. He could only imagine how difficult Hank found it.

The secrecy, the furtive glances, the excuses, they were exhausting. They hadn't spent Christmas together because Hank had spent the time with Cole, at Connor's insistence, and so Connor had taken the on call duty. They'd celebrated New Year at Hank's house, with a single glass of whiskey each and Connor dressed up in Hank's favourite pinstripe suit, but then they'd spent Valentines' together under the shadow of Hank being on call because everyone knew he was miserably divorced and wouldn't have a date. He hadn't been able to correct anyone because then the on call would have fallen to Connor instead and explaining that he had a date too would have raised too many eyebrows.

“You still mad at me?”

Connor found crystal blue eyes pleading for forgiveness, boring directly into his heart. He shook his head, “No,” he said, and then frowned, “a little,” he corrected.

“Want me to start asking you why?” Hank offered, with a lopsided grin.

It drew a similar grin from Connor and he shook his head again. “I already know why,” he replied. “I was angry because I was hurt, and I was hurt because you did something my parents would have done,” he explained. His parents had raised him like a project. Connor did not want to be a project. “Markus made me realise I wasn't being objective in the way I reacted,” he added. “I'm sorry.”

Hank shrugged, although Connor could spot the tightness in his mouth at the mention of his parents, and reached out to wrap Connor in his arms. Connor shuffled closer on the sofa and let himself be drawn in. Being folded into Hank's thick arms and held against his broad chest made tension melt out of Connor's body. “If you didn't get mad about shit like that I'd start to think the others were right when they call you a robot.”

“Is that an apology?” Connor asked, leaning his head against Hank's shoulder. Sometimes the best parts of being with Hank were these moments, where he was allowed to just feel whatever he felt. He could be happy, or sad, or excitable, or angry, and Hank never tried to get him to control it.

Hank's murmur rumbled through his chest. Connor felt it in his own. “It's not a very good one, is it?” Hank admitted. “I just want you to make DCI and work in trafficking with your own team. That way we can work together without being so fucking careful.”

Connor pictured himself and Hank sharing an office, not having to hide fond looks. Maybe Markus would make DI himself by then, too? “Markus knows about us,” Connor admitted. They'd been as careful as they possibly could be, and still Markus had suspected. Therein lay the danger of hiding a relationship when surrounded by astute detectives.

Hank froze. The difference was just perceptible with Connor held this close. His breath held and his arms locked. “Did you tell him,” Hank asked, “or did he figure it out?”

“He asked,” Connor answered, “but he's had suspicions for a while. He said we've both been,” Connor paused to frown, because the implication was that Markus had seen through Connor's careful facade in the past, “happy.”

Hank's arms curled more tightly around Connor. His chin came to rest on the top of Connor's head. Connor could feel Hank's breath fluttering his hair. “He gonna rat us out?”

Connor would have shook his head, but with Hank's chin resting atop it he refrained. “I don't believe so,” he said. Markus had been concerned for a friend. Connor wondered how long he'd been watching them, how many furtive smiles he'd seen, and lingering touches. Had he noticed that Hank was on time for work more, had stopped drinking, had lost weight? Had he seen the way Connor stole glances at Hank, and smiled down at his phone when messages came through? “But he does think a secondment is a good idea.”

Hank huffed. His breath blew through Connor's hair and tickled his scalp. “It's gonna suck not having you in work,” he rumbled. “Again.”

Connor bit his bottom lip. He liked working with Hank, but there was also the fact that more than two thirds of the time he spent with Hank right now was within work. He spent two nights a week at Hank's house, one of which was set aside for a date, but the rest of their relationship time together were things like this; snatched hours here and there to talk, or hug, or screw like bunnies.

It had been very much like bunnies, lately. Stopping drinking had improved Hank's health and libido, and the weight loss that came with it had improved his confidence, and the end result of that was that Connor had carpet burns on his knees and a growing collection of passive aggressive notes from his downstairs neighbour.

“Maybe,” Connor began, drawing back from Hank's embrace to regard him carefully. He knew that if he suggested they move in together Hank would pack his car with Connor's things this second. Connor wasn't ready for them to go that far yet, but he had to admit that knowing he wouldn't see Hank at work any more did make it much more appealing. “I could spend more time at yours?”

Hank's Adam's apple moved in his throat. The blue of his eyes was bright, and clear, and Connor could tell he was trying not to let himself get too excited. “If you wanted?” he offered. “You know you're always welcome.”

Connor smiled and looked away. He'd always had a weakness for blue eyes, and Hank's in particular were able to reach into the depths of his chest and curl fingers around his heart. “We could reverse the ratio?” he suggested. Two nights at Hank's and five nights in his flat could be switched around.

Hank nodded and reached for Connor's hand. “Cacciatore's station is further away,” he provided. “If you stayed at mine I could make you dinner?” His fingers slid between Connor's and curled around his hand. “I might not be a gourmet chef like you, but it'd give you some time back out of your day.”

Connor lifted his hand, with Hank's still entwined. “That,” he admitted, quietly, daring to look back at those beautiful sky blue eyes, “would be appreciated.” He brought the inside of Hank's wrist up and pressed his lips against the soft skin there, keeping his eyes locked with Hank's.

The corner of Hank's mouth pulled up and he moved forwards, sinking his other hand into the hair at the back of Connor's head. Connor closed his eyes and let Hank's wrist drop from his lips. Hank's beard brushed against his jaw, and his moustache tickled at the corner of Connor's mouth, but his lips were soft and gentle. Connor felt his mind go finally, blissfully quiet for the first time all day and opened up to Hank's sweetly probing tongue.

Kissing Hank was Connor's favourite thing in all the world. His mouth was always gentle. Even when he was buried deep inside Connor, on the edge of losing himself, his mouth was gentle. His tongue ventured in, only ever far enough to find Connor's tongue and write a thousand wordless sentiments against it with every touch. Connor had once been told that a kiss was a declaration of intentions that lay further South, but Hank's kisses declared their intentions on Connor's heart rather than his groin.

Although the messages still reached his groin. Connor allowed Hank to press him back against the sofa, laying him down, feeling the way Hank moved himself between Connor's thighs. The hand at the back of his head slid down, circling his throat, the thumb brushing along the rise of Connor's Adam's apple fondly. Connor didn't like being choked, and Hank didn't like choking, but Hank's large hand circling his throat and holding him down presented the tantalising possibility and that was far more enticing.

“Don't make promises you don't intend to keep,” Connor murmured, his lips brushing over Hank's as he spoke.

Hank's voice was a low rumble. “When have I ever?” His lips pressed sweetly against Connor's again, parting more quickly this time as Hank licked his way into Connor's mouth, and heart, and soul. Their hands parted, fingers shaking loose and Hank's thumb left the soft hollow of Connor's throat to work on his tie. Connor set his own hands to blindly unfastening Hank's shirt buttons.

Their tongues danced together in their kisses, moving to the rhythm of quickening breath and grunts and gasps of desire and pleasure. Hank's fingers combed Connor's flesh, finding that wretched knot of scar tissue at his ribs that stood so pink and stark against his pale skin. Connor set his hand against Hank's wrist, pushing his hand down towards his trousers, guiding Hank to fix his attentions on undoing Connor's belt instead.

Hank obliged, unbuckling Connor with deft hurry. His mouth left Connor's, drifting lower, beard scratching at Connor's collarbone as his lips found that spot below Connor's ear that made his eyes roll. Connor arched softly under Hank, tilting his head back. Kisses to his neck had always had this effect on him, but Hank had weaponised it from their first night together. His hot breath, the wet pressure of his tongue, the softness of his lips, the coarse rub of his facial hair were a declaration of war on Connor's self possession.

“Hank,” he made himself say, while he still had enough thought in his head to do it.

Hank hummed wordlessly, drawing his tongue over Connor's skin in a way that made Connor's breath shudder. Connor had to force himself to take another breath and steady his thoughts. His fingers raked into the bare skin of Hank's back under his shirt, desperate to drag him closer.

“Lubricant,” he hissed.

Lips pressed against his sternum. Hank's beard tickled, dangerously close to that sensitive area that made Connor squirm away instead of towards the sensation. “On it,” he said, before heaving himself up in an excitable hurry.

It was like being released from a spell. Connor sighed as Hank's heat left him lonely and bereft, stretched out on a sofa much too small for these sorts of shenanigans but which was, nevertheless, about to be rechristened. A thought occurred. “And a towel!” Connor called, as Hank retreated to retrieve the lubricant from Connor's bedside table.

He took the opportunity to kick his shoes off, and then flung his socks across the room for good measure. Hank reappeared a few moments later, one of Connor's soft white towels draped over his shoulder and a lopsided grin on his face. “You're so romantic,” he said, with amusement.

Connor shot Hank a defiant look. His shirt hung open, revealing a wide stripe of broad chest, and the line of wiry hair that ran up Hank's stomach. His gut was smaller, these days, than it had been, but it still made for a delightfully soft line even if it was deceptively hard to the touch. Layers of fat covered sufficient muscle to lift Connor off his feet and deposit him on the bed, which was another thrill all of its own.

“The stains were a bitch to get out last time,” he answered.

Hank laughed and tossed the towel at Connor, his eyes sparkling with fondness in his mirth. “Yeah,” he agreed, “can't have anything look less than perfect in here.”

Connor caught the towel and raised an eyebrow as he sat up. He liked to have things in their places, whereas Hank lived as if he played host to a small, personalised tornado, as well as Sumo. Connor didn't mind; Hank's house felt lived in and warm, but he also enjoyed the calming sense of order in his own home.

“Feel free to cause some disarray with that excess clothing you appear to be wearing,” Connor told him, as he set the towel down where it would stand guard against the worst of the mess they were about to make.

“I'm not the only one wearing too many clothes,” Hank replied, even as he let his shirt fall down his shoulders and puddle to the floor unheeded. Connor's heart stuttered at the sight of him; broad shoulders and chest, and thick arms on display like something directly out of a fantasy. Hank grinned at him, blue eyes sparkling with affection, and Connor wondered if Hank would ever know just how stunning he was to Connor's eyes.

Connor murmured agreement and flashed an inviting upwards quirk of a brow at Hank in response. “Maybe you should come here and do something about that?”

Hank didn't need telling twice. He cleared the distance between them in less than two strides, his hands coming up on either side of Connor's face as he leaned in and kissed the breath from him. Connor's eyes fell closed once more. His brain gave up its rallying cries and surrendered to the overwhelming power of Hank's lips, and tongue, and fingers.

Warm, rough hands stroked over his shoulders, pushing his shirt down his arms and to the floor. Connor reached forward, finding Hank's trousers blindly and unfastening the button, drawing down the zip. Hank's knee knocked against the inside of Connor's thigh, and one large, broad palm settled against the centre of his chest.

“How you wanna do this?” Hank's voice was low, rumbling through Connor's entire body.

The corner of Connor's mouth pulled up. Hank always asked, always left it up to Connor to decide what he was in the mood for. Lay on his front left Connor helpless and writhing, feeling Hank's entire body over and in him. On his knees made Connor loud, unable to muffle himself in the pillow, or his arms as Hank drove spikes of pleasure into him with his hands and thighs. On their sides was best for slow, lazy lovemaking, with Connor being cradled as Hank poured his affections into his body, his words matching the tenderness of his movements.

But Connor's very favourite was so much simpler. “On my back,” he answered, looking up at Hank from under his brows. “I want to see you.”

Hank's smile was soft and fond. With Connor on his back they could kiss, and touch, and cling, but Hank could also grip, and pin, and press. Connor enjoyed the tenderness, and the romance, and the thigh trembling pleasure, but he also enjoyed Hank's size and strength. He was six feet tall, and slender but by no means small. Hank could make him feel small. Hank could make him feel vulnerable, and god but Connor enjoyed the intimacy that came with being vulnerable.

That hand pressed against Connor's chest, guiding him back against the sofa. “You got it,” Hank told him, and then moved in to silence Connor's mind all over again with his lips. This time Connor slid his tongue forward, slipping it into Hank's mouth and taking liberties. They lay back together, with Hank's body pressing into Connor's, while Connor pushed insistently at Hank's trousers.

Fingers drifted up to the side of Connor's throat as Hank settled himself between Connor's legs once more. He moved and shifted to let Connor push his trousers down, baring his cock and thick thighs to the cool air of the room.

When Hank sat up Connor made an embarrassing noise of protest. He silenced it sharply, but caught the smirk on Hank's face as he reached for the lubricant on the coffee table. “Might want to get your pants off too,” he advised, with a far too smug look in his eyes. He enjoyed how much Connor wanted him. Connor enjoyed how much Hank enjoyed it.

He squirmed and fought with his trousers, pushing them down as far as he could, and then twisted under Hank so he could free one leg and then the other. It left Connor naked beneath Hank, his erection standing proud and begging for Hank's attention. Hank's eyes drifted down over Connor taking him in inch by inch, from his face to his throat, to his chest and stomach and lingering on his cock.

The bottle of lubricant made a noise as Hank squeezed some onto his fingers, and then dumped it, uncapped, back on the coffee table. Their eyes locked as he hooked one hand under Connor's left thigh and brought it up, pushing Connor's leg back until his knee was at his shoulder. His blue eyes were dark with lust, and Connor felt his breath leave him at the patent desire in Hank's expression.

“Don't try and be quiet,” Hank told him.

Connor reached up, looping his hands around the back of Hank's neck. “I wasn't planning on it,” he replied.

A finger brushed over Connor's ass, chilly with lubricant. Hank's eyes remained fixed on Connor's as his finger pushed inside, and Connor bore down to let him in. Hank's finger slid back and forth inside him, a pleasant intrusion but not sufficient to do anything more than let Connor feel he was there. Hank's cock stood flushed and hard, waiting for him.

“You good?” Hank asked, as he slid his one finger in and out until the movement was frictionless. Connor concentrated on not letting his body clamp down on it the way it wanted to. He wanted to feel more, and deeper. He wanted Hank touching him in places only Hank ever could.

“I'd tell you if I wasn't,” Connor replied.

One finger withdrew completely, became two. Connor let his eyes fall closed at the pull, that hint of sharpness that came from something larger stretching his muscle and skin. It only lasted a second, until Hank's fingers were buried to the knuckle inside him. His hands were larger than Connor's, fingers thicker, and longer, and reaching places inside Connor that Connor couldn't hit with his own hand.

“You look good like this,” Hank murmured. The praise travelled down Connor's spine and curled in his groin. He wanted to look good for Hank. He wanted to feel good for Hank, and sound good for him, too. “Maybe I should just get you off like this?” he continued. “Leave you wrecked and then make use of that clever mouth you've got.”

“Don't you dare,” Connor replied. His breath shuddered despite the vehemence of his tone. Hank's fingers were searching inside him, he knew, looking for the reaction that told him Connor was ready to become a shivering mess in his arms.

Hank laughed, low and dangerous. It made Connor's throat go dry in all the right ways. “You want more, huh?”

Connor made the effort to lock his gaze with Hank's. The fingers inside him thrust in and out steadily, in simulation of something slow, and sweet. The pressure from them grew firmer with every movement in, sending little shocks of pleasure racing along Connor's cock. “Yes,” he answered, hissing on the s as Hank's fingers drove harder into him. He let his head drop back onto the sofa cushions.

“You're gonna have to ask real nice,” Hank said.

Connor brought his other leg up and draped his calf over Hank's shoulder. Hank pressed the thigh he held more firmly back, almost folding Connor in half. The next thrust of his fingers made Connor gasp, his eyes fluttering closed. Sparks of pleasure shot along his spine and through his groin, snatching at his breath. His fingers curled in Hank's hair. “You want it as much as I do,” he said, or tried to say. Hank tried to sabotage his answer with another sharp thrust of his fingers, making Connor's voice twist on the word much, so it came out strained and needy.

Hank gave a shaky huff. “You're probably right,” he conceded.

His fingers left Connor, pulling out and leaving him wanting more just as he was being tempted by the offer of a thorough finger fucking. He let one of his hands drop from Hank's neck as Hank moved closer, stroking his lubricant covered fingers over himself and lining himself up to finally enter Connor.

The first press stung. It always did. Hank wasn't small and the blunt head of his cock pressed insistently against Connor's ass. Connor bit his lip, bearing down to ease Hank's slide in. He tilted his head back, sinking one hand into his own hair as Hank entered him carefully. He was always careful. Even when they played rough Hank was careful. The threat of pain was one thing, but actually causing pain was another entirely.

Connor was dimly aware of Hank wiping his lubricant covered fingers on the towel before he settled that hand around Connor's throat again, covering it with his massive palm, and holding him exposed. Connor gasped, and then groaned as the head of Hank's cock slipped inside him. “Keep going,” Connor pleaded, tightening his fingers in his hair and against the back of Hank's neck as he urged him to keep pushing in.

Hank felt so much bigger when he was inside than he ever looked. He filled up Connor's entire being, his world invaded by the delicious firmness of Hank. Hank's cock pressed hard against that spot his fingers had teased at, and Connor gave a soft, long cry of pleasure and relief as the sparks became a current running along the wirework of his nerves.

“Fuck, I love the way you sound,” Hank rumbled, fighting not to lose himself in his own pleasure. His movement stilled as he buried himself to the hilt, his hips coming to rest against Connor's skin. Connor flexed his toes, taking deep, steady breaths as he controlled his body's natural urge to tighten up around the intrusion.

The feeling passed after a few seconds. Connor felt beautifully filled and pinned, crushed under Hank. He lifted his head to look Hank in the eyes again, and brought his hand down from Hank's neck to brush over one bearded cheek. “I love you,” he told him. His heart and body sang it. He wanted to carve the words into Hank's heart, like a lovesick teenager into a tree.

Hank's gaze flickered from Connor's eyes to his mouth. His smile went soft, and he leaned forward, crushing Connor even more surely into the sofa as he stretched to plant a kiss against Connor's lips. His tongue delved in. Connor met him with his own, sinking into a sacred space in his head where Hank was everywhere at once; in his body and his arms and his heart and his soul, breathing affection into everything Connor had and was, opening him up like sunlight did a flower.

Connor looped both of his arms around Hank's back in an effort to keep him there. Hank stayed as close as he could, and began to move, fucking Connor shallowly and slowly. The current of ecstasy running through Connor's nerves amped up, making his limbs and cock sing in tune to Hank's movements. The pressure of him inside, the steady movement of his hips washed through Connor.

Connor gasped against Hank's mouth, trying to maintain their kiss. He felt Hank grin against him as he failed, and Connor's soft gasps became slowly noisier. “That's it, sweetheart,” Hank huffed against his cheek, “let me hear how good I'm making you feel.”

Connor dug his fingers into Hank's shoulder and tugged at his greyed hair. The leg that he had up on Hank's other shoulder slipped, and Hank caught it with his elbow, framing Connor's body in his arms as he began to move in earnest. Connor groaned and yelped. One particularly firm thrust made him see stars and he cried out, his back arching to press him further into Hank's body.

He cried Hank's name in pleasure, and plea, and prayer. Hank's movements became relentless, the rhythm of his hips shuddering and snapping, increasing in urgency as Hank joined Connor on the precipice. Connor didn't dare reach for his own cock. If he touched himself right now he'd last microseconds and he wanted Hank to finish inside him first.

Connor became dimly aware of a thumping noise only because it didn't match the rhythm of Hank's thrusts inside him. He ignored it as quickly as he became aware of it, and cried out all the louder as Hank drove into him fiercely.

“Fuck, Connor,” Hank snarled. His hips stuttered.

“Please, Hank,” Connor gasped, and cried, losing control of his voice as his whole body seemed to come alight, burning with the need to finish. He felt tight, and tense all over, his entire body throbbing with the promise of an orgasm. He reached with one hand, sinking it between his body and Hank's to grasp himself. The sensation of his own fingers was almost enough to bring him to an end. “I want you to finish first.”

Hank growled and bowed his head. He gave another few, sharp, determined thrusts and then stilled, crying out as he came inside Connor. Connor stroked himself urgently, still reeling from the heated pleasure that burned along his nerves.

He felt himself break, his body jerking out of his control as orgasm tore him apart in the safety of Hank's arms. He cried out, arching under Hank, and shivered as aftershocks coursed through him, washing over him like the waves of an outgoing tide.

Hank's hand brushed at his cheek, fondly. “Fuck, you look good when you come for me,” he praised.

Connor couldn't make his mind come up with anything sensible to say. The sentiments were all there, as they always were; love, and want, and affection, and safety and love, but not a single useful word came to the tip of his tongue. Connor collapsed back into the sofa, winced as Hank pulled out of him, and then slowly unfolded his legs back down to a more comfortable position.

“Oops,” Hank muttered as he settled against Connor, “looks like I fucked your brains out again.”

Connor found it in himself to give Hank's shoulder a smack of admonishment. Hank's answering laugh vibrated through Connor's entire body.

The door hammered as if somebody was pounding at it with their fist. Connor groaned. Hank growled. “If that's your fucking neighbour,” he began.

“Leave it,” Connor managed to say. His breath felt short, and saying even that much was a tremendous effort. He was not in a fit state to be getting up and answering the door. He doubted he could have walked to it if the room was on fire.

The hammering happened again. “I know you're in there!”

Hank looked down at Connor, his blue eyes aflame with something that Connor couldn't place. He pressed a kiss to the tip of Connor's nose and then hauled himself up with great effort. He groaned and wobbled as he got to his feet, pulling his trousers up over his hips and tucking himself away, but not fastening them. He tossed Connor's shirt to him.

Connor failed to catch it, but it landed across his stomach, right in the mess, and stayed there. “What are you doing?” he asked.

Hank staggered to Connor's door and pulled it open as another round of vicious hammering began. “Yeah?” he demanded, his voice gruff with recent strain. He placed his expansive chest in the gap between the door and frame, blocking Connor from view.

Connor listened as a much smaller voice on the other side of the door faltered. “You,” it began, and then seemed to think better of it.

“Out with it,” Hank demanded, folding his arms across his chest and showing off his shoulders. Connor couldn't help but admire the shape of them from behind.

“Could you keep it down?” the voice on the other side of the door asked, meekly.

“You want me to do a shitty job of fucking my boyfriend?” Hank demanded. Connor pressed one hand over his eyes. His cheeks burned. He didn't want to know if his downstairs neighbour was trying to peer past Hank.

Connor vaguely caught the words, “Use a pillow or something?” being muttered in a flash of defiance.

“I like to see him,” Hank replied, sharply. “You should buy some fucking earplugs, and if you leave any more notes taped to this door it'll be me knocking on your fucking head.”

Hank shut the door firmly after that parting shot, and then slumped onto the arm of the sofa. Connor let his hand drift down from his eyes to his mouth. Hank turned to give Connor a proud, victorious grin. Connor realised the look in Hank's eyes was best categorised as devilment. “I can't believe you just did that.”

Hank shrugged one shoulder and let himself slide down onto the end of the sofa, picking up Connor's legs to drape them across his lap as he did. He slumped back, still grinning. “Bet that's the last note you get taped to your door though.”

*** April ***

Connor's alarm tinkled softly behind him, disrupting the comfortable depths of his sleep. He rolled and reached for his phone, swiping at the screen to turn the sound off, and then rolled back. Hank's heat welcomed him. The crook of his knee allowed Connor to slot in perfectly against him, coiling one arm back around Hank's side. The smell of his hair, no longer fresh with shampoo, invaded Connor's nose.

Hank snored. Connor's alarm was much too subtle a noise to drag Hank from his slumber. Connor gave himself ten seconds to enjoy Hank's presence, the heat against his skin, the warm, musky scent, the sound of breath catching in Hank's throat. Everything Hank was meant comfort and safety to Connor; he was worn-in clothing, and soft beds, companionable silence, and strong arms. He was luxury, the spirit of indulgence in small things, and Connor loved him.

But in order to love him, Connor had to balance him. Hank had once complained about Connor's rigid adherence to rules, but Hank had always done what was easy because he didn't have the energy, or the confidence in himself to do the hard things. Hank had introduced Connor to the lazy delight of spending all morning in bed, and Connor had shown Hank how much better doing that became when you got up on time the other days. Hank had brought takeaway food on the sofa into Connor's life, and Connor had brought cooking together in the kitchen into Hank's.

Connor pressed a kiss to the back of Hank's shoulder and pulled away. Hank continued to snore, but getting up early to go for a run before work was one thing Connor didn't think he'd ever be able to convince Hank to do.

Sumo was another matter. The Saint Bernard waited by the front door expectantly; he knew what the sound of Connor's alarm meant, and immediately rose to his feet, tail whooshing through the air when Connor approached. Sumo was another luxury that had been brought into Connor's life by Hank, and probably his favourite. Long mornings making love, or late evenings curled against each other on the sofa were treats to be savoured, but chilly afternoons walking with arms linked and Sumo at their heels were a balm to the soul.

Connor let Sumo out of the door ahead of him, took a moment to ensure his shoes were properly tied, and then went out into the pre-dawn light.

There were lights on when Connor returned half an hour later. Sumo trundled into the house ahead of Connor, and the smell of coffee wafted through the air. “Good morning,” Connor said, as he entered the kitchen.

Hank eyed him suspiciously, but the corner of his mouth tugged upwards. “Figured you'd be calling it afternoon by now.”

Sumo noisily lapped at the water in his bowl. “This is still earlier than you normally get up,” Connor replied, with a smile.

Hank moved aside as Connor pulled out his liquidiser and opened the fridge. “Yeah, well, the bed got cold,” he answered. A bag of spinach, two avocados, and some apple juice went in while Hank watched, cradling his cup of coffee as if to protect it from the sight.

“I'm sorry,” Connor said, as he sliced a couple of limes in half and squeezed their juice in to the machine's jug. “I didn't mean to wake you.”

Hank just shrugged at him, eyes roving over Connor's form and taking in his unkempt hair and faint sheen of post-workout sweat. “What time you leaving?”

“Around seven,” Connor answered. He flicked the liquidiser on and the conversation stalled as the mechanical whirr filled the air.

Hank set his coffee down on the side and shifted around to stand behind Connor, slowly folding his arms around Connor's waist. He waited until the machine flicked back off before he spoke, his voice low in Connor's ear, “Bet I can get you off without making you late.”

Connor took a deep, slow breath. The sound of Hank's voice rippled down his spine, and Connor could feel Hank's beard tickling at his neck. Hank liked him dishevelled. Whether it was pushed into the sofa and halfway out of his clothes, or flushed and sticky from a run, Hank enjoyed it when Connor was less than completely put together. “I still need to shower,” Connor pointed out, busying himself by grabbing a glass and pouring his freshly made smoothie into it. The action didn't help to distract him from the insistent press of lips to his skin, or the way Hank's hands stroked his stomach. One hand travelled dangerously South.

“That's five minutes,” Hank answered. His arms pulled Connor tightly against him. “You could still give me ten.”

It was tempting. Hank's hand slipped under Connor's t-shirt, rucking it up and exposing his skin to explorative fingers. Ten minutes was more than enough time for Hank to pin Connor back against the kitchen counter and blow him, and starting his day with Hank's mouth around him before he had to go and present himself to Lumi Cacciatore might make up for the fact he was still a little annoyed about that whole situation.

Connor was going through with it because Hank didn't want to keep hiding their relationship. If he was honest neither did Connor, but he hadn't forgiven Hank for making decisions that affected both of them without properly discussing it first.

Connor settled his hand over Hank's, peeling it away from his skin. Hank didn't resist, although Connor could feel his disappointment in the way his other arm tightened and his chin settled onto Connor's shoulder. “Cook for me tonight,” he replied, “and you can have me as long as you want.” Connor turned his head so that he could catch a glimpse of Hank's beautiful blue eyes out of the corner of his own. “Or I can have you, if you'd prefer?”

Hank's breath caught, and Connor could hear how long he held it before he exhaled slowly through his nose. Their last date night had ended with Connor riding Hank's lap while a small but incredibly well designed piece of silicone buzzed away inside Hank. The air had been blue with Hank's exclamations, and Connor's thighs had been bruised from his fingers, but it had only been all the more enjoyable for that.

“See how your day goes,” Hank replied, his measured response at odds with the way his arm dragged Connor into himself more tightly, “it's your call.”

Connor murmured wordlessly. Hank had been the less experienced of the two when they'd begun this relationship, but his openness to trying new things was fun to indulge. Connor was beginning to think there was no fantasy he might be able to conjure that Hank wouldn't at least try with him, and that was both enticing and comforting. Hank wanted to know what it felt like to be the one being taken, and they were working their way to it through fingers and toys, and in return they had times where Connor was completely vulnerable to Hank's whims, protected only by an immense amount of trust that one word would be enough.

Maybe tonight he'd want to be in control, or maybe he'd rather surrender it. Hank would indulge him no matter which he chose. Connor sighed as the contentment that came with that knowledge seeped beneath his skin. “I'll let you know,” he agreed, lifting his smoothie to his lips and taking several long gulps. Despite the key ingredients being spinach and avocado, it tasted mostly of apple, with a hint of lime. The avocado gave it a flash of that distinctive freshness in the back of the palate. “But first I'm having a shower.”

*

Connor's lips still tingled with the sensation of Hank's against them as he stepped out of the taxi at the station. A lingering kiss, tongue touching softly into his mouth had been their farewell for the day. “If that prick offers you a black sweet, whatever you do, don't take it,” Hank had warned, cryptically, waving Connor off.

Cacciatore's station was a larger building than Connor's own, and taller. It declared itself as a police station in letters over the public entrance, but the coppers usually entered through the back, where the car park lay. Connor made his way through it, observing that there were more empty spaces than cars at this hour. Still, this was London and even here parking was at a premium.

A gleaming black Jaguar F-type pulled past Connor into the car park. Screaming guitars cut off as the engine died, and a few moments later the tall, slim figure of DCI Lumi Cacciatore emerged. “Good morning,” Connor said, as he passed nearby.

Lumi's eyes seemed to flicker over Connor, taking in his shoes, suit, tie, and hair in one swift motion. “That remains to be seen,” he replied, closing the door of his car with a soft but solid click.

Connor slowed near the entrance, waiting for Lumi. He'd been instructed to present himself to DCI Cacciatore on his first day, so there was no point in getting ahead of him only to wait outside his office. “It was a wish, not a statement,” Connor replied, plainly.

Lumi's eyes landed on Connor's and held. Connor didn't look away. Lumi's eyes were an unsettling ice blue, as frosty as his personality. After a moment that seemed to take a while Connor heard a soft noise come from Lumi's throat, and he got the distinct impression he'd just passed a test. “I haven't seen you since you visited us after you were released from hospital,” he commented, his voice deceptively soft, “I presume you're fully recovered?”

Connor walked as Lumi approached, moving alongside him towards the small lift that travelled up the building. “I returned to full duties in January,” he answered, and halted by the lift to press the button.

Lumi stopped beside him, standing ramrod straight and with a stillness that was eerie. His long, white-blond hair was looped up in a loose ponytail that kept it out of the way. Police officers weren't supposed to wear hair touching their collar, but nobody seemed to enforce that with the DCIs. “And now you're my problem for six months,” Lumi said, drily.

The lift pinged as it reached them and the doors opened. Connor turned his attention to Lumi and fixed him with a lopsided smile. “So it would seem,” he replied. “In any case, I'm very happy to be working with you.”

Connor watched Lumi's reaction carefully. His mouth didn't twitch, but his eyes did, as if he might roll them and then caught himself. He clearly put effort in to remaining cold and flat under provocation. When Connor had used the same approach with Hank, way back last year when they'd first met, he'd been roundly told to fuck off in a very world weary way. From the subtle movement of Lumi's eyes, he was at least thinking something similar.

“You'll be paired with DI Wolfe,” Lumi said, blandly, as he stepped into the lift, “direct any questions you have to him.”

Connor followed him, and gave a nod. He'd never actually spoken to DI Wolfe, but the therapist he'd been seeing had been recommended by him, via Larxene. Wolfe had his own reasons for visiting a therapist, but Connor didn't know the details. He also wasn't about to grill Wolfe for them the first time they truly met. “Yes sir,” Connor replied.

The lift opened out to a familiar floor. Here they were located one level above DCI Johnson and his team. Johnson, like Kier, was another old friend of Hank's. Johnson and his officers usually kept strictly to narcotics, which Hank had once worked before moving to the less specialised trafficking. Murder and narcotics often became entangled, so it made sense for them to share a building.

Lumi strode through the space, bypassing the department's break room and kitchen and crossing through the neatly arrayed banks of desks like a shark swimming through a school of fish that were far too small for it to bother about. Connor trailed after him, noting the faces that were already present, and followed him into the DCI's office. Lumi's hand gestured to a chair on one side of the desk and removed his coat to hang it on a hook.

“Why are you here?” Lumi asked, as Connor sank into the chair.

Connor's eyebrows rose. He knew Lumi wasn't asking him why he was here right now; he was as familiar with the terms of Connor's secondment to his department as Connor was. Still, Connor canted his head to the side and replied, “I was instructed to come.”

Lumi's expressions were subtle, but they were there. Connor watched as frosty blue eyes turned to fix on him, as if Connor was a butterfly and Lumi's gaze was a pin. Wide-eyed naivete was a useful approach to take because most people, most police officers in particular, liked to be made to feel as if they were smarter than you. Lumi, however, wasn't buying it.

“I was under the impression that a crowbar wouldn't get you out from under Anderson's wing,” Lumi replied, coolly.

And yet here Connor was. He did his best not to grit his teeth, or let his mouth twitch the way he knew it did when he was uncomfortable. Lumi's penetrating gaze didn't let up, and Connor wasn't sure he'd succeeded. “This is only a secondment, sir,” Connor answered. “I return to trafficking in September.”

Lumi settled himself into his chair. The presence of a desk between them didn't make Connor feel any safer. If anything, it only increased the sense that he was being interrogated. Those icy blue eyes moved away from Connor's face as Lumi turned his computer on, and then returned to pin him to his seat once more. “You've turned down progression to DCI before,” he said, bluntly. “What changed your mind?”

Connor allowed himself a smile. Everybody that knew he'd turned down a development plan had assumed he'd done so because he wanted to stay in trafficking, and everybody in this case included Hank. They were correct; Connor did want to remain in trafficking, he wanted to continue working with Hank, and Markus, and Simon, and Josh, he wanted to stay where he knew he was useful, where he enjoyed the work, and where he was good at what he did to the point of being indispensable. It gave him a sense of pride and accomplishment to go into work every day, and do his job well in the company of people he actually liked. He was happy.

It was also only one side of the coin. People made decisions due to both push and pull factors, and while enjoying his work in trafficking was a pull factor, there had been several push factors coming from cyber crime.

“My objection wasn't to progression,” Connor answered, keeping his smile on his face.

Lumi's eyebrow shifted approximately two millimetres upwards. It wasn't enough to wrinkle the skin of his forehead. It wasn't enough that Connor would have been sure it had happened if he hadn't observed the actual movement. “So you intend to remain in trafficking?” He leaned forward and tilted a bowl of hard, black rhombuses towards Connor in offer.

Whatever you do, don't take it. Hank's words echoed in his head.

Connor met Lumi's eyes. He reached out and plucked one of the sweets from the bowl. “Thank you,” he said, “and I do,” he answered, “at least for the time being.”

Lumi's lips twitched, tightening for just a split second. He took a sweet from his own bowl and put it into his mouth at the same time as Connor.

The first flavour that hit Connor was salt, but a warm salt unlike common table salt. The second note was black licorice, strong and earthy, flavoured with the root rather than the aniseed based alternatives. Connor blinked a few times as his mouth flooded with the bittersweet, salty mixture, and swallowed. Another wave of warming salt filled his mouth.

He put the back of his hand up to his mouth as he spoke displaying a childhood habit he'd never been able to shake. Manners, Connor. “Where did you get these?”

Lumi's gaze was unwavering, but at Connor's question his chin lifted by a minute degree. “Helsinki,” he answered, his voice clear despite his own sweet still being in his own mouth. “Although you can find it online. It's called Salmiakki.” His eyes narrowed. “You like it?”

“I like black licorice,” Connor supplied, forcing himself to lower his hand as he tucked the hard sweet into his cheek. The salt seemed to burn into his flesh. “But the waxy variety is always a disappointment.”

Lumi's chin dropped by the same fraction of a degree as it had lifted and his blink lasted a quarter of a second longer than normal. Everything about him was in the degree to which he did things, Connor decided. You had to watch closely to see the multiple infinitesimally tiny ways he deviated from completely unresponsive stoicism. “Feel free to help yourself,” he said, his voice soft as always, “it's why they're there.”

Connor let the corner of his mouth twitch upwards at Lumi. “Not just to horrify the unsuspecting?” He wondered how Hank had reacted. Badly, that much had been obvious from his warning this morning, but Connor was curious as to how dramatic Hank might have been. He wasn't a man given over to subtlety.

And DCI Lumi Cacciatore was apparently the sort of person that put sweets that were very definitely an acquired taste out where just anybody could be tempted and encouraged to help themselves.

Ice blue eyes met Connor's and held. For a moment, for a tiny fraction of a split second, Connor thought he might be about to witness the two decimal points of a degree of movement that would be Lumi's mirth. A knock at the door broke the strange tension.

“Enter.”

Someone did. Connor recognised DI Isa Wolfe from a distance rather than actual acquaintance. He had swept back dark blond hair that might have been described as light brown by a witness, sea blue eyes, and an unmistakeable cross shaped scar between them that extended up his forehead and over his cheeks. It looked deliberate.

It had been deliberate, which was why DI Wolfe had been able to recommend a therapist for Connor to see.

Wolfe set a takeaway coffee on Lumi's desk without preamble. Lumi took it without a word, but the action seemed routine rather than rude. It seemed that bringing Lumi coffee in the morning was as much a part of Wolfe's routine as taking one to Hank was Connor's, although Hank usually said thank you.

“You've met DI Roberts,” Lumi said, bluntly.

Wolfe looked at Connor. There was recognition, but it was the same recognition as Connor held for Wolfe. They'd seen each other the last time Connor had been here, but never worked together. “Not exactly, sir,” Wolfe answered, his eyes still on Connor.

Lumi murmured, low in his throat. He seemed to be discarding that information as irrelevant. “He's your problem now.”

Connor treated Wolfe to an incredibly awkward smile. Lumi was handing him off as if he was a punishment, even though if Wolfe was the one that came to Lumi every morning he was in the same position of trust with him as Connor was with Hank.

Almost, anyway.

Wolfe turned to Lumi. “My problem?” he repeated, flatly. His voice was low, and smooth, but like Lumi he was surprisingly softspoken. It was probably a good quality to have when you dealt with the families of victims, or traumatised witnesses.

Lumi picked up his coffee and regarded Wolfe with that blank impassiveness he affected so well. “He's on six months secondment to us. He'll be working with you to start.”

Connor saw Wolfe's chest rise and then fall more slowly before he gave a simple nod. “I understand.”

“Good,” Lumi replied, and took a sip from his coffee cup. It was only a sip. The coffee must be scalding and Lumi still held hard licorice in his mouth, but Lumi didn't flinch. “I need you to go and pick up an autopsy report,” he said. “Marluxia was called out at three this morning.” A trace of an accent slipped into Lumi's voice as he said Marluxia's name, and Connor thought it was interesting that he called DCI Florent by his first name when he wasn't present. “Take Roberts.”

Connor's chest tightened. He'd been to the pathologist's office before, and had an off-putting encounter with Dr Granz while he was there. Being sent to the pathologist in person was somewhere between a punishment and hazing, judging by that limited experience.

Wolfe didn't seem fazed. He nodded again. “Yes, sir.”

Lumi waved them both away, one pale hand flicking at Connor as if batting away an irritating fly. Connor stood, and unstuck the salmiakki from his cheek to transfer it to the other side of his mouth. Wolfe's eyes lingered on him for a moment before he opened the door to the office and filed out. Connor followed him.

“You can spit that out, you know,” Wolfe said, once the door behind them had fallen closed.

Connor swallowed a mouthful of salty licorice juices. It seemed to give off waves of salt, rather than being a consistent presence. “I actually like it,” he replied. Presumably Wolfe did not, although it was no surprise that he'd tried them too.

Wolfe's eyes landed on Connor and stayed there. Connor smiled at him again, although it felt less awkward this time and hopefully looked it, too. The corners of Wolfe's mouth turned down and froze as he made his way to his desk and retrieved a paper cup of coffee and a set of keys. “Have you visited our forensic scientists before?” he asked, changing the subject.

Connor made sure his expression remained neutral as he spoke. “DCI Florent encouraged me to go in person the last time I was here,” he answered, and tilted his head as he added, “So I've met Dr Granz.”

Wolfe's smile was subtle, but in comparison to Lumi's it was a beam. His lips pursed and the corners of his mouth curled upwards as he tried to restrain his amusement. “Fortunately for us, he wasn't on call last night.”

Connor rolled the dying remains of the licorice to the other side of his mouth. The anticipatory tightness in his chest relaxed at the news. Granz had been an experience Connor hadn't looked forward to repeating, especially not at half past eight in the morning. “Who was?” he asked.

Wolfe's lips twitched in a brief smirk. “Winters,” he answered. “He's not the soft option, but it's best not to make that comment in front of Granz.” He raised his coffee to his mouth and took a drink before gesturing for Connor to follow him.

Connor set his licorice between his teeth and crunched before he did. One final wave of warm salt swept through his mouth.

*

Wolfe's car was a very old, very carefully maintained MG TF convertible in vivid trophy blue. Despite being twenty years old, and manufactured by a company that no longer existed, it purred like a kitten. Connor wondered how much time and money went into its maintenance and decided it was less than it would have been if Wolfe wasn't one of the most carefully reserved drivers Connor had ever seen.

They pulled into the morgue's car park alongside the green Volvo estate Connor had seen here the last time he'd visited. The Barbie pink Volkswagen beetle was parked a few spaces further down. It had eyelashes on its headlights.

He followed Wolfe inside as he gave a cursory wave to the receptionist who was still setting up at her station, unpacking a bottle of water from a small bag. She waved back to him, but didn't speak. It looked as if Wolfe was a regular visitor here, although Connor couldn't imagine what he'd done to deserve that punishment.

Or perhaps it wasn't a punishment. Wolfe pushed open a door as if he knew exactly where he was going and said, “Morning, Even,” to the room.

“I wondered when you'd show up,” came the reply. When Connor entered the room he saw the speaker was a tall, thin man with long, ash-blond hair tied up at the back of his head. He had the greenest eyes Connor had ever seen. “And you brought an audience,” he commented, with a hint of a sneer. “Is Cacciatore hazing another one?”

Wolfe gestured to Connor, making the introductions brief and to the point; “DI Roberts, Dr Winters.” Wolfe turned his attention back to the scientist, as if Connor wasn't there. “He's on secondment, but he's already met Szayel.”

Connor stepped forward, clasping his hands behind his back. “Good morning, Doctor.”

Winters looked him over, critically. His gaze was neither as penetrating nor as intimidating as Lumi's. Winters was surprisingly broad-shouldered and he looked to be somewhere in his mid to late forties. He might have been taller than Hank, too; it was difficult to tell without having them both in the room together. There was an inch between them, perhaps.

“Are you the one that was stabbed?”

Connor frowned. People he'd never met before knew him as the policeman that was stabbed. It was unpleasant that one mistake defined you in the eyes of others for the rest of your life. “Yes,” he answered.

Winters seemed oblivious to any discomfort he may have caused. Forensic Scientists never did have to practice their bedside manner. His eyes flickered from Connor to Wolfe. “Cacciatore's department remains as dramatic as ever,” he muttered.

“Don't you have a body for us?” Wolfe asked, his voice low and strangely level, as if he was holding himself back from reacting to the comment.

Winters huffed. “Yes,” he replied, sounding harried and irritated, “yes, of course.”

Connor narrowed his eyes. Winters sounded as if he was on the losing end of an argument, even though no argument had taken place, at least not to Connor's ears. It felt like he was missing some part of the interaction, some clue that would make the exchange make sense.

Winters looked to Connor and asked, “Have you ever seen a body before?”

Connor met Winters' acid green eyes levelly. He hadn't seen any bodies when he'd worked with cyber crime, and he hadn't seen any while working with trafficking either, but he had, as all police officers did, served two years as a beat bobby when he'd been fresh to the service. Those two years had involved awful hours and worse tasks, like standing guard at crime scenes in the rain. Connor had been variously bled on, spat at, and swung for by the general public, and yes, he'd seen a body.

“I'm a Detective Inspector, Doctor Winters.”

Winters' nostrils flared, and his voice took on a snap of tension that vibrated like a violin string tuned too high. “Well then,” he declared, gesturing for Connor and Wolfe to follow him towards a plastic sheet over an autopsy table, “you can take a look for yourselves.”

He peeled the sheet back with none of a magician's flourish. Beneath lay a woman in her mid to late twenties, in the silent repose of the dead. “Aimee Cooper,” Winters said, “time of death between ten and midnight.”

Connor moved closer. Aimee had mid-length brown hair, and her face was mottled with bruising that must have occurred shortly before she died. A deep and extensive Y had been stitched across her chest and abdomen after the Doctor's hard work. Her eyes stared, glazed and unblinking into the void, one eyelid more closed than the other. It was unsettling. “She was beaten,” Connor said, quietly, his eyes shifting down her body to count the bruises. Multiple contusions to the face, especially around the left eyesocket, more encircling her throat, and more still down both of her forearms. She had vivid fingermarks at her wrists. “And strangled,” Connor added.

“And raped,” Winters said, his eyes on Connor. “I found tissue under her fingernails, which I've sent for analysis, and live semen in her vaginal canal.”

Connor frowned, looking at the battered remains of what had once been a living, breathing woman. Someone had taken out their rage on her, raped her to show their power, and killed her, but either they hadn't planned to do it, or they knew they had no connection to her. Most women were killed by people, by men, that knew them.

Most women were killed by men that claimed to love them.

“You're sure it was rape?” Wolfe asked, softly.

“She fought too hard,” Connor answered, before Winters could. “Both her wrists are bruised from being held and it took two hands to strangle her. She was fighting for her life for as long as she had it.”

Winters grunted, as if irritated at being pre-empted. “Bruising on the wrists and insides of the thighs is consistent with pre-mortem sexual assault,” he confirmed. “There's evidence of skull fractures, especially around the sphenoid bone, but few self inflicted wounds to her neck. The head injury may be what slowed her down enough for her assailant to asphyxiate her.”

Connor pictured Aimee's final moments struggling with her attacker, clawing at them, blocking their blows with her arms, until a fist connected with the side of her head hard enough to send her reeling. Then the blows kept coming, until the man that had raped her, a man that had probably known her, had wrapped his hands around her throat and held with all his strength long past the point where she would have appeared dead.

That was the problem with strangulation; it took a lot longer to do than people thought. A person could bleed out in two minutes from the right artery, but you had to hold on to someone's throat with around thirty three pounds of pressure for at least double that to cut off someone's airway for long enough to kill them. Four minutes was a long time to apply that sort of force. Four minutes was a long time to hold on to someone's throat. Aimee Cooper would have been unconscious long before she died, but the person that had attacked her had wanted to make very sure she never woke up.

Connor forced his eyes away, and up towards Winters. “Is that everything?”

Winters' shoulder twitched. “You're waiting on DNA from the samples I took, and there were multiple fibres and hairs on her body which I've also sent to forensics. I've ordered a cranial x-ray, but I doubt it will tell us anything we can't surmise from looking with our eyes.”

Connor nodded. Wolfe came to stand beside him, looking down at Aimee's corpse. “We'll take her personal effects,” he said, looking up briefly at Winters as he spoke. “We might find something to lead us to her attacker in there.”

Winters drew the plastic sheet back over Aimee, hiding her uneven, unblinking gaze from sight once more. “They're bagged in the evidence room. I'm sure you don't need an escort,” he replied. “My preliminary report is on my desk.”

They left Doctor Winters as he drew the plastic sheeting back over Aimee's body. Wolfe waited until the door had closed behind them before he spoke; “How long has it been since you saw a corpse?”

Connor gave him a sidelong glance. Wolfe was shorter than him by a couple of inches, but he was broader in the shoulders. Seafoam eyes flicked to Connor's face and back again as he led the way around the morgue, towards Winters office. “A few years,” Connor admitted.

Wolfe hummed down his nose. Connor couldn't determine if Wolfe was surprised at the information. “Does it bother you?”

Connor's mouth tightened in a frown. Had it bothered him to see a young woman brutalised and murdered, and then laid out on a metal table under a plastic sheet? “If it didn't there'd be something wrong with me.”

The corner of Wolfe's mouth lifted briefly. “You'll get used to it,” he said, smoothly. He adjusted his trajectory and steered towards a single door, pushing it open without knocking. “What are you doing?”

Connor looked over Wolfe's shoulder to see Dr Granz perched on the corner of a desk. He raised a pink dyed eyebrow behind white framed spectacles and looked towards Wolfe and Connor. His mouth curled in a smirk. “I work here,” he answered.

“Get out,” Wolfe said, with a sort of weary authority that suggested he'd given the order before, and knew he'd have to give it again.

Granz held up a slim sheaf of papers bound in a thin cardboard wallet like it was a permission slip. “Untwist your knickers, Isa, I'm finishing off one of his cases from yesterday for him.”

Wolfe walked into the room, apparently content to collect what he'd come for at the same time as order Granz around as if he had the authority. Even if Wolfe hadn't been on first name terms with both the scientists, the ease with which he moved around the building suggested he was a regular here. “You're loitering,” Wolfe countered.

Granz stood from the desk. “I can multitask,” he replied. His gaze, and his smile, slid to Connor like a snake moving through grass. It crept up Connor's legs and took its time wending its way across his torso before finally settling on his face. “You're back.”

Connor regarded Granz as dispassionately as he could when everything about the man made Connor's skin crawl. “Hello again Doctor Granz.”

Granz approached, making a show of running one long-fingered hand through a fall of baby pink hair. “Please call me Szayel Apollo?” he asked. “If not now then later,” he added, flashing Connor a suggestive smirk.

“Put him down, Szayel,” Wolfe ordered.

Connor tilted his head at Granz and kept his expression neutral. “I'd rather not,” he answered.

Granz settled one hand on Connor's chest, directly over his pectoral and stepped into Connor's personal space. “If you need a physical follow-up after your injury I'd be happy to oblige.”

Connor let his eyes lower to where Granz's hand was pressed against his chest. He didn't remove it, and this close the one inch Granz had over him in height was much too apparent. “That won't be necessary,” Connor replied, mildly. He wasn't going to give Granz the satisfaction of a reaction because that was precisely what Granz was looking for. Between the pink hair, the flamboyant behaviour, and the deliberate disregard for boundaries, it was painfully obvious that Granz was trying to get a rise out of people.

A gay man that has weaponised his sexuality in order to protect himself, Connor thought. Acting like a sexual predator was probably the only defence he had against a world that treated him like one no matter what he did. At least this way he was in control of the reason he was being rejected.

Granz's hand slid from Connor's chest in a movement that could be mistaken for a caress. Connor remained unmoving as Granz passed by him with a smirk, except to follow Granz's progress out of the room. “It was nice to see you again, Doctor Granz,” he said, once Granz was behind him. Connor managed to make it sound genuine.

Granz paused, or froze, and threw Connor a critical, confused look as if he wasn't sure what to make of the statement. Connor smiled and turned away, moving further into the office, and leaving Granz.

“You shouldn't encourage him,” Wolfe said, his voice low.

Connor looked back towards the door to make sure Granz was gone before he spoke. “He's looking for a reaction,” he explained, “I just gave him a different one to the one he expected.”

Wolfe's eyes lifted from Winters' outbox and flicked up and down Connor as if he was reassessing him. He pulled a file from a small selection and held it out to Connor. “That's the report,” he said, deciding not to address the issue of Granz again. “Let's pick up her personal effects and get back to the office.”

He led the way back out of Winters' office and down another corridor. Wolfe navigated the place as well as he did his own station. “You're sent here more than anyone else,” Connor observed, as he followed a half step behind.

Wolfe grunted. “That's what being immune to Szayel gets you.” He sounded irritated by that fact.

Connor allowed himself a crooked smirk. “Is that because you're in a relationship with Doctor Winters?”

Wolfe eyed him carefully, and Connor knew he was right. The way Wolfe navigated the building, the familiar way he addressed the scientists, and that strange way that the near argument between him and Winters had brewed and immediately fizzled, as if it was a deeply personal and often rehashed bone of contention between them, all pointed to Wolfe being more than just a frequent visitor. Apparently, even Granz wouldn't creep on his colleague's partner.

“Very perceptive,” Wolfe commented.

Aimee Cooper's personal items consisted of an assortment of carefully bagged and tagged, sealed plastic envelopes containing a handbag, house and car keys, a mobile phone, a purse with all her bank cards and a small amount of cash still in situ, and an assorted detritus of receipts, makeup, old shopping lists and crushed low calorie snack bars. It was sad to see somebody's life reduced to this; to the items they carried with them every day. Her clothes had been held separately, forwarded to forensics in case there were fibres or DNA or something else to connect Aimee's attacker to her body, but it was all formality.

When they got back to the station the car park was almost full with only one space remaining conveniently open. Most of the cars were in the same locations as the last time Connor had been here, four long months ago. Florent's Mercedes was here too, parked alongside the F-type.

Wolfe huffed at the sight. “Marluxia's here,” he said, and then looked at Connor as he stepped out of his car and closed the door. “You can take him Even's report. See if he has anything he wants us to action aside from tracing the victim's movements and checking missing persons.”

Connor wasn't about to pretend that he was looking forward to seeing Florent again. Hank didn't like him, thinking him a 'ladder climbing little cocksucker'. Connor tried not to let Hank's opinions influence his own too much because Hank didn't like anyone that cared about getting promoted, and suffered from an infuriating double standard in that regard where Connor was concerned. Still, Florent had personally targeted Connor to get him drunk and then dump him on Hank, which had been thoroughly mortifying for Connor and his fledgling crush on his superior officer.

“All right,” Connor agreed, despite a resonant internal reluctance. He followed Wolfe into the building, and parted ways with him as Wolfe went to check Aimee's belongings into their evidence holding, leaving Connor to approach the DCI's office alone.

He knocked on the door. DCI Cacciatore's voice called, “Enter,” a moment later.

Connor opened the door and gave Lumi a polite nod and a, “Sir,” before he turned his attention to Florent.

Dark blue eyes regarded him, deeper in colour than Hank's, but without his warmth. Hank's eyes were the colour of sunlit skies. Florent's were more of a cornflower blue. He held his hand out across his desk. “Is that the pathology report?”

Connor stepped closer and handed the brown file over. “For Aimee Cooper, yes,” he confirmed. “DI Wolfe is checking in some of her personal possessions that were taken with her now.”

“Good,” Florent replied. He picked up a large cardboard coffeshop cup.

“Do you want us to track her last movements?” Connor asked, his head tilting. Florent looked like he was running on too little sleep and not enough caffeine.

“Muraidh is doing that,” Florent answered. He took a sip from his coffee cup and then looked back at Connor. “Go through her contacts. See if anyone she knew had priors.”

Connor nodded at the instruction. “Yes sir,” he responded. A boyfriend would be the first thing they should look for, or recent exes. Then they could expand the search to colleagues.

Connor turned to leave the office when Florent's voice called for his attention again. “Roberts?” Connor halted and turned to look questioningly at Florent once more. “Welcome back.”

Connor nodded to Florent, and turned. When he settled himself at a computer terminal Wolfe rejoined him. “Did he say anything?” Wolfe asked, as Connor's computer booted up and he logged in to HOLMES2.

“Itahyr is tracing her movements,” he answered. “He wants us to check her contacts and TIE them.”

Wolfe's sigh was soft, and weary. Trace Interview Eliminate was a time consuming procedure, and the groundwork for any investigation. That didn't make it any less soul grindingly tedious. “I'll put a request through for her phone records.”

Connor nodded. Aimee's phone might have more contacts in there than her family were aware of. He thought of her family with a pang. Someone would have had to contact them in the early hours of the morning and deliver the worst news it was possible to give. Somewhere out there was a family whose lives had just been devastated.

If it had happened to Connor, that officer would have found themselves on Amanda's door, not Hank's. The thought made his stomach roll uncomfortably.

He dragged his thoughts away from that dull, aching realisation. “In the meantime I'm going to check if she's reported any issues with harassment.” Wolfe fixed Connor with a considering look but didn't speak. His expression was enough to invite elaboration. “The violence we saw was personal,” Connor commented. “I'd be surprised if it hadn't escalated to that point over time,” Connor shrugged his shoulders gently as he conceded, “and while it may not necessarily have been with her, it's worth a look.”

“You sound like Dr Black,” Wolfe murmured, turning his attention to his own desk. Connor tilted his head and blinked at Wolfe, waiting for an explanation he was sure Wolfe knew would be needed. “The psychologist we consult with for,” Wolfe continued, halting briefly before he finished, “the more unique cases.” Connor allowed the corner of his mouth to lift in an approximation of a smile. His degree had been experimental psychology, but he wasn't about to bring that up. “What makes you think we're only looking for one person?” Wolfe asked.

“I don't believe that level of violence would have been necessary to incapacitate her if there had been more than one pair of hands,” Connor answered, quietly. “Add that to the personal and patient nature of strangulation as a cause of death, and I believe we're looking for one determined individual, rather than an opportunistic group.” He managed to flash Wolfe a smile that he didn't really feel. Aimee's final moments had been torture, and that knowledge clawed at the inside of his chest. She must have been so scared.

“Of course I could be wrong,” Connor added, “but that's why we investigate.”

Seafoam blue eyes lingered on Connor as Wolfe looked at him, and then he nodded and looked away again.

*

The taxi pulled up outside Hank's house, and Connor thanked the driver as he stepped out. Hank's car was parked a little haphazardly at the side of the road, and the lights inside burned warm and welcoming.

Connor smiled as he retrieved his key and let himself in. The stress and despair of the day slid from his shoulders as he entered to the sound of Children of Bodom screeching tunelessly over impressive guitar work. He closed the front door behind him. Claws scrabbled against wood as Sumo left the lounge at top speed and tried to take the corner without losing his footing. He skidded gracelessly, regained his balance, and flew at Connor who crouched down to greet him.

“Hey Sumo!”

Connor fell back against the floor as Sumo barrelled into him, panting excitedly and trying his best to lick Connor's face. Connor defended himself from the onslaught of tongue and dog breath by keeping his face turned away and holding his hands up so they were licked instead. “Okay,” Connor laughed, as he turned his face in the other direction and leaned back, “yes, you're a good boy,” he added, despite every rational bone in his body telling him to stop talking to the dog as if he understood, “back up, let me up.” The rational bones in Connor's body were overriden by Sumo's presence.

He pushed himself to his feet and wiped his slobber coated fingers on his trousers before he entered the lounge. The music was significantly louder in here, and Connor paused to turn the volume down a little before he moved into the kitchen.

Hank was stood at the counter, blinking furiously as tears streamed down into his beard, his face screwed up. “Fucking onions,” he groused. On the chopping board in front of him sat the culprit; a large onion, half diced.

Connor grinned and grabbed a piece of kitchen towel from the roll, moving in to wipe Hank's tears away. The way Hank held his hands suggested he didn't want to transfer onion juices to other items in the kitchen, and definitely didn't want to put them near his face.

“Thanks,” he said, stepping back from the counter and blinking again.

“Why didn't you wait for me?” Connor couldn't help but ask. He could hear the grin of amusement colouring his own voice. “I could have done that.”

“No, I wanted to make it for you,” answered Hank, defensively. He gestured with the hand that wasn't holding the knife towards his phone, and the online recipe for bucatini all'Amatriciana he had opened on the web browser.

Connor felt a wash of affection and warmth flood through him at how utterly ridiculous Hank looked right now, knowing it was all for his own benefit. “You didn't have to do that,” Connor told him, knowing that Hank would hear the sentiment beneath it, that it was appreciated and was having its intended effect.

“I wanted to,” Hank replied, plainly, looking down at Connor. There was affection, and apology, and a hundred other emotions in his eyes that Connor could feel echoing in his own chest but couldn't name. “How was it?”

Connor's mind lurched back to the case, to Aimee Cooper's brutalised body, to the sad crumbs of a life in the bottom of a black handbag, and to the information that she'd filed a restraining order against her ex-boyfriend three months ago. It could have been prevented. It should have been prevented. But Cacciatore's squad was there to pick up the pieces after the fact, and were unable to do anything to stop the next Aimee from happening themselves.

“Not as bad as I'd feared,” Connor answered, and a part of him wished that wasn't true. Picking up the pieces of shattered lives afterwards shouldn't be something he made his peace with so easily, but he had. He'd investigated for Aimee, and he'd reported to Florent, and spent ten minutes talking over coffee with Larxene, and met Gladio, and Nel, and heard about old office gossip, and it had been okay.

Hank smiled at him, relief at hearing that making tension drop from his shoulders. “Yeah?” he asked, as if he'd been worried, despite everything, that he'd been sending Connor off for six months to a place he might hate.

Connor nodded, silently and slowly, and smiled up at Hank. “Yes,” he confirmed.

The last of Hank's tension melted from him. “I missed you,” he said, softly.

Connor reached for Hank's cheek with one hand, letting his fingers sink into the coarse curls of Hank's beard. “I'm here now,” he replied, and rolled his weight up onto the balls of his feet to capture Hank's lips in a kiss. Hank sighed against him, opening up under Connor's mouth and inviting him in with a flick of his tongue against the tip of Connor's own. Connor slid into him, letting his tongue glide into Hank's mouth, tasting recently drunk coffee. Hank's forearms settled around his back, holding him steady against Hank's chest.

When Connor pulled back from the kiss his lips tingled with the ghost of Hank's pressed against them. He opened his eyes slowly, and fought against the urge to chase the sensation on his lips with his tongue. Hank was looking down at him with such unchecked softness in his eyes that it hurt. “Maybe I'll let you take care of me, for tonight,” he murmured.

Hank's cheeks bunched as he grinned. Connor could see the small gap between his front teeth. “That'll make a change.”

*** May ***

Nel was in her mid to late thirties – Connor hadn't dared ask – and was unmistakably pretty with flowing dark blonde hair and brown eyes. Despite this, the first thing most people noticed about her, and in this case most people had, despite his own best efforts, included Connor, was that her bosom entered a room several seconds before the rest of her. It was difficult not to look. They were enormous.

Currently she was perched on the edge of Connor's desk, wearing a severe shirt that did the exact opposite of hiding her assets, and a black pencil skirt that made it worse. Connor recognised the outfit as indicating that Nel had a suspect interview scheduled today.

“Do you think this would be too much?” she asked, pleasantly, undoing an extra button on her shirt.

“Yes,” Connor answered, without hesitating. Nel did this sometimes, trying to rouse a reaction. She found it amusing when men did their best to be polite and not stare. “Are you targeting the lawyer or the suspect?”

Nel didn't refasten her shirt, but settled her palm on Connor's desk instead and grinned at him as she leaned. Connor ignored it, which was easier for him than most. “Both,” she answered. “Florent's leading, I'm playing distraction.”

Connor glanced towards the DCI's office and the figure of Florent sat at his desk behind the blinds. “Does it not bother you?” he asked, turning back towards Nel.

Nel raised an eyebrow at him, and then her face settled into something like sympathy. “You're sweet,” she said, with feeling.

Connor frowned. Nel, full name 'Neliel Oderschwank but please god just call me Nel', was a Detective Inspector like himself, and an extremely capable officer, but due to what Connor would hesitate to call the blessings of biology she'd been given enough cleavage to kill a man in what would punnily be called a motorboating accident. It was certainly enough to bury her talents in. “You don't have to resort to,” he hesitated, struggling to find words that wouldn't be offensive and instead settled for gesturing to Nel's outfit and saying, “dressing up like this to get results.”

“No,” Nel answered, with a smile, “I don't, but even if I don't get dressed up,” she repeated his words, pointedly, “people are still going to stare, so I might as well make use of that.”

Connor frowned. The idea still made him uncomfortable. Nel was a nice person, and a good officer. She deserved better than to be paraded in front of men in order to weaponise their libidos. “The extra button is still too much,” he advised.

Nel looked down at her own cleavage thoughtfully, and then sat up and refastened her shirt. She gave it a moment of consideration afterwards and then shrugged. “We'd do the same to you, you know,” she told him, throwing him a smirk. Connor looked up at her and tilted his head. “If we got someone into brown eyed twinks, we'd put you in front of him in a heartbeat.”

Connor held her gaze for a second longer than was strictly comfortable. “I doubt that's a compliment.”

Nel grinned at him again, and there was genuine humour in there. “It's not, it's just a fact,” she answered. “Sometimes we put what people want in front of them because it makes them more cooperative.”

Connor thought of Isa, and his scar. “Sometimes doing that goes badly wrong,” he pointed out, quietly.

Nel's mouth twitched into a frown. “If we miscalculate,” she agreed, “but it's no different to what we do with the media. Give them some appropriately ranked officer that looks good in front of the camera and inspire trust,” she shrugged again and clasped her hands in her lap. “Unfortunately the general public trust a pretty face more, whether it's in person or on a screen.”

Connor could only murmur quietly at her assertion. She was, sadly, correct. Pretty faces, being old enough to hold authority, and wearing a uniform were the fast routes to getting any given member of the general public to follow an instruction. Human beings automatically assume that someone attractive is better, by some metric, than someone unattractive. Hank would say it was because people sucked. Connor agreed with his emotional response to the evidence, if not his conclusion.

“I'd still find it degrading,” he confessed, quietly. He'd worked to get where he was, and he could only assume Nel had too. Thinking that the best quality others thought you brought to the interview room was attractiveness made his pride itch.

Nel's hand came to rest on his shoulder and she squeezed. Her smile was both amused and pitying. “You really are sweet,” she repeated, and then relinquished his shoulder. Nel pressed both of her hands to the desk as she pushed herself back to her feet and smoothed her skirt down. “I suppose I should see if Marluxia wants me to soften the lawyer up first.”

She threw Connor a wink, and then sauntered towards the DCI's office. Connor blinked, and then shook his head gently.

He missed Markus, Simon, and Josh. There was an easy camaraderie between the four of them, and they'd slotted into each other's ways of working so neatly that none of them had to think about it. Connor barely had to delegate; each of them knew which tasks they were likely to be set and were already prepared during each investigation. Cacciatore's team weren't as close knit, and Connor longed to have that dynamic back.

And then there was Hank. Connor was clear on what was expected of him by Cacciatore. He was with Hank, too, but Cacciatore didn't need his DI's to organise him the way Hank sometimes did, and he missed it. He missed the informal briefing over coffee, and the soft way Hank was impressed when Connor did more than necessary for him. He missed Hank's cantankerous annoyance when they weren't getting anywhere fast enough. Cacciatore was merely icy in those circumstances, which was such a small change from the usual that Connor had to work to notice it.

He pulled his phone out and checked his messages. He had one from Hank that he hadn't replied to yet.

Reckon you can swing two weeks off mid August?

Connor sighed and glanced towards the DCI's office again. Nel was leaning through the doorway, presumably speaking to Florent. If he wanted to request leave it needed to go through Cacciatore, but he'd come in with his hair in a basic ponytail today. Connor had learned, after roughly a week, that Cacciatore's hair was a good indicator of the kind of day he was having. Plaited and out of the way was a normal day, where frostbite was a real possibility. An unplaited tail usually meant he'd had a disturbed night, whether due to being called out or Florent having been called out, and the ambient temperature in his office dropped by ten degrees and hypothermia threatened to set in if you disturbed him unnecessarily.

Legends told of a day, sometime in the past, that Lumi Cacciatore had presented to work with his hair loose. Loose hair indicated the onset of a new glacial age localised entirely within the DCI's office. Running theories as to what might bring this on included an argument with Florent, or with family. Connor had been in more than one meeting with Eira Cacciatore over the past six months, so he could extrapolate how something like that might go. Both the Cacciatores he knew were intense individuals.

It's school holidays, but I'll ask.

Connor had worked all but one of his birthdays since joining the police because of that. It had never seemed fair to push for the time off himself when other officers, ones with children, had more limited options.

The idea of taking two weeks off over his birthday to spend the time with Hank, however, was desperately inviting.

“Earth to Connor.”

Connor looked up. Larxene looked back at him. Her blonde hair was swept back off her face, and her lips were pursed in amusement.

“I'm sorry,” he said, honestly. “I didn't realise you were there.”

“Clearly,” she replied, her eyes widening with the word before her face broke into a grin. “They must be much more interesting than work,” she added, tilting her head to try and sneak a look at Connor's phone screen.

He resisted the urge to tilt the screen away from her prying eyes; that would only tip her off that there was something of interest on it, and that sort of thing was like blood to a shark. “It's just about annual leave arrangements,” he said, with as much honesty as he dared.

“Doing anything fun?” Larxene asked, her blue eyes bright and inquisitive.

Connor blinked and turned his phone's screen off, putting it away. He thought of Hank, and hotel beds. “I hope so,” he replied.

Larxene folded her arms, leaning back on one hip as she regarded him. “Well, in the meantime, his highness wants to see you.”

Connor looked up towards Superintendent Kier's office. Aside from a nod of greeting and the occasional 'good morning', Kier hadn't spoken to him since he'd started in the department. Connor had assumed that was because he wanted to maintain a professional distance while the case against Norwood churned through the slow moving cogs of the legal system. There was finally a date for the court proceedings, the letter on his coffee table last week had informed him, but it was eighteen months into the future.

“Now?” he asked, looking back at Larxene.

Larxene made a point of looking at Connor's hands, where he'd been holding his phone up until five seconds ago. “You don't look busy to me.”

Connor suppressed a frown and stood, straightening his tie and cuffs before he followed after Larxene towards the office. Larxene's desk was secluded from the rest, standing guard beside Kier's office door like a sentry. Or a guard dog, Connor thought. Larxene was affectionately referred to as Kier's bitch, but it was in the canine sense of the word. She was his sentinel, his messenger, and his aid. Kier's knee had been destroyed by a suspect years ago, and Larxene was part of his reasonable accommodations to allow him to work despite the ongoing disability. She did his running and could be in the office in his stead if he was taking a day to work from home, but she was very much a civilian.

Despite that, she put the fear of god into some of the Superintendents, and Chief Superintendents. Larxene had, before becoming Kier's PA, been a very well paid dominatrix. There were endless rumours as to who, exactly, she'd once been paid to spank, but the general consensus was that somewhere in the region of half of Kier's direct superiors were accustomed to calling her Mistress Savage.

Connor paused by Kier's door and knocked.

“Come in,” came the response. Connor entered, his eyes falling on Daisy, the beautiful, slender doberman that was always curled up by Kier's side. “I hope Larxene didn't try and frighten you,” Kier said, amiably. “I just wanted to check in with how you're doing.”

Connor suspected that if he believed the words coming out of Kier's mouth, Kier also had a bridge to sell him. Still, he smiled pleasantly and shook his head. “She didn't, sir.” He gestured towards Daisy. “May I?”

Kier shrugged, and Connor approached the doberman with his hand outstretched for her to sniff. She did, her breath brushing against the backs of Connor's fingers, and then she turned her head and presented herself for petting. Connor stroked the curve of her head first, following the line down to the back of her ear, which he massaged. “Good girl,” he cooed.

“She gets more attention than I do,” Kier grumbled, although it was affectionate.

“I'm not sure you'd appreciate a scratch behind the ear quite as much, sir,” Connor replied, flashing Kier a brief smirk.

Kier's eyes narrowed, but his lips drew tight with amusement. “Wouldn't know,” he pointed out, “no one tries.”

Connor nodded his head, just the once, and then stood. Daisy watched him rise, and then settled back down with her head resting on her crossed paws. She was an immaculately trained dog and it wasn't hard to imagine her clamping her slim jaws around someone's throat at Kier's command. Connor preferred Sumo, but Daisy was a very close second.

“So how are you finding it?” Kier asked, as Connor turned to take one of the seats across from his desk.

Connor settled into the chair, back straight and hands together in his lap before he answered. “I believe I'm doing well enough,” he answered, with reservation. “The cases can be challenging in different ways to those I'm used to, but I think I've risen to them.”

Kier eyed him carefully for a moment and then nodded slowly, mostly to himself. “You've managed to make arrests in all but one case so far,” he said. “Your closure rate is Lumi's, and Lumi's closure rate is mine, so I've sure as shit got no complaints.”

Connor felt that strange compliment sink into his chest and curl in on itself once it reached the bottom. The one case he hadn't closed had already had the trail go cold long before it had ever come to their attention; he'd put a name to a nameless body, but that was all. There were no leads, no witnesses, just a gaping hole in a skull, and a dump site that had been traipsed through by so many unaware members of the public while the body had lain hidden from view that forensics had declared it hopeless. A dog walker had found him, or at least his dog had.

Connor still tried to pick at what threads there were, when he didn't have any other cases to work on, but he knew his chances of getting anywhere were vanishingly small, and growing smaller by the day.

“Thank you, sir,” Connor said, quietly.

Kier murmured wordlessly. Connor felt those dark eyes on him, studying him, and he did his best to remain impassive. “And how are you finding the department?” Kier probed.

Connor allowed the corner of his mouth to pull upwards. “They're an eclectic mixture of personalities,” he said. It was enough to make Kier snort. “I think I get along with most of them.”

Kier nodded, slowly. “No one being a dick?” he asked, fixing Connor with a steady look that made him feel as if he was being examined, or perhaps interviewed. It was a little like talking to Hank had been, back when Hank had been trying to figure Connor out, and Connor had been trying to figure him in turn.

Connor gave Kier a smile that he made sure reached his eyes. “I think that's in Florent and Cacciatore's job description,” he replied. Hank had liked it when Connor allowed a little bit of snark to come through when they spoke, and he wanted to see if Kier was similar.

Kier gave a short huff of amusement, but didn't say anything about Connor calling two of his DCI's, two of Connor's superior officers, dicks. “Bad enough to have you running screaming back to trafficking in five months?”

Connor considered the question, tilting his head. “Not screaming, sir,” he answered, with absolute honesty. He flashed Kier a lopsided smile.

Kier nodded again and settled back in his chair, relaxing. He probably thought he had the measure of Connor now. Kier was a little more complicated than Hank, in Connor's view, but perhaps not by much.

“And how are things at home?” he asked, tilting his head back so he could regard Connor critically.

Connor allowed himself a small smile. He didn't know how much Hank might have told Kier, if he'd told him anything. Kier was a superintendent, after all. “The extra travel is unfortunate,” he replied, keeping his tone neutral and his dim smile in place, “but I manage.”

Kier's gaze went directly through Connor, locking onto the backs of his eyes. “And Hank?”

Connor squashed the instinct to play blank. Blank was a giveaway in this situation. Instead he blinked, tilted his head, and drew his brows together. “Sir?”

Kier rolled his eyes and shook his head. “Don't give me that bullshit, kid,” he grumbled, wearily, “I've been friends with Hank longer than you've been alive.” His eyes flickered over Connor, travelling from his eyes, to his hair, to his jaw, and down. He shook his head. “I knew he was in trouble the minute I clapped eyes on you.”

Connor blinked again, although his chest had drawn tight. He had to resist the urge to swallow over his rapidly drying throat. “I don't know what you mean,” he said. It didn't sound as if Hank had outright told Kier about their relationship, but Kier had deduced it anyway.

Kier smiled, but it wasn't a comforting smile. It was the sharp, toothy grin of something that lived deep beneath the ocean, and lured unwary prey towards its vicious jaws. “He's always had a thing for brown eyes,” he said, looking Connor back in his, “and pretty faces.” The grin faded, and Kier's lips pressed tightly together in something like unhappiness. “I visited you in hospital, you know.”

Connor wondered where this reminder was going, but he nodded. “I'm sorry. I know you brought the gift basket,” he said, softly, “but I still don't remember it.” Hank had told him who had been responsible for dropping it off. It had contained fruit, a card, some chocolates, a cake, and a small bouquet of flowers that had been past saving before Connor had even been discharged. The cake and chocolates had gone to the nurses working on his ward. Hank had eaten most of the grapes.

Kier murmured wordlessly. His mouth went tight again before he spoke once more. “Yeah,” he conceded, “you were out of it.” His eyes bored into Connor's own. “Hank slept in that chair next to you for a week straight,” he added, as if he was laying down some indisputable evidence on the table in front of Connor.

Connor frowned. He and Hank hadn't been together then; Hank had merely been the subject of an intoxicating crush for Connor. Connor had grown fond of Hank, of his gruff act, and his secretly bleeding heart, of the way his blue eyes lit up when he smiled, but he would have been content to keep it that way, for Hank to just be a person whose presence made Connor's world less unbearably cold. It wasn't until he'd realised Hank was taking an interest in him, getting angry for him, getting protective of him, for Connor and not Detective Inspector Roberts that he'd entertained the idea that they might be able to be something more.

He never should have agreed to share Hank's bed that first night, but Hank had been the first person to hug Connor in years. He'd let him cry out his fear and pain and sense of failure without reprimanding him for losing control, and he'd just held him through it all. Connor couldn't have let him go that night any more than he could have ceased to breathe.

Connor did his best to keep his voice level. “He took my being injured hard,” he responded. He hadn't realised how hard, hadn't realised how much guilt Hank had carried over the whole thing until later, and by then it was too late. Connor had drowned in his affections for Hank, and dragged Hank into the depths after him. “I think he still considers himself responsible.”

Kier looked thoroughly unmoved. “Uh huh,” he answered. It was the single most disbelieving noise he could have made. Even saying the word 'bullshit' wouldn't have conveyed just how much he thought what Connor had said was bullshit like that wordless grunt. “Look,” he said, adjusting tactics, “I'm not Hank's boss, and he's not yours while you're here, so I don't give a shit that you're knocking boots.”

Connor frowned. He regarded Kier coolly. “Then why are we having this conversation?” he asked. If Kier knew, why did he need to hear about it from Connor? Hank clearly hadn't told him about it, so why did he think Connor would?

Kier sighed and tapped his finger impatiently on the arm of his chair. “Because Hank's always jumped in with both feet and gotten in over his head,” he said, finally. He looked unhappy, but it was a concerned sort of unhappiness as he tore his eyes away from Connor's face. “He begged me to take you here,” he admitted, his mouth moving into a pout that showed the distinctive wrinkles of a smoker around his lips. “Is everything okay between you?”

Kier was concerned for Hank, Connor realised. It bubbled up inside him, breaking the surface of his thoughts with a faint pop and sent ripples across the waters of his mind.

Hank jumped in with both feet. Connor frowned and glanced down at his own lap. He couldn't try to deny that one; Hank would have had Connor give up his flat and move in with him after a week if Connor had wanted to. He'd have him do it now, only six months later, if Connor wasn't resisting the idea with every ounce of his own willpower.

Connor still had his reservations, not about Hank but about relationships in general. He'd loved Chloe, and she'd been lured away to California. He'd loved Daniel, but Daniel hadn't loved him enough to make Connor everything he had. Hank did love him that much, and probably would give up everything if Connor asked; he talked about retiring, he'd given up drinking, at least for now, but Connor had realised long ago that he didn't want to be anyone's everything. He didn't want to be all Hank had. Love of that intensity burned its bearer out, left them too exhausted to continue, and then it began to fall apart.

Kier didn't want him to be that either, and he was worried about Hank. Connor let his gaze drift until it landed on Daisy, curled up by her master's side. “Yes,” he said, softly, conceding to being honest with Kier. “I didn't want it,” he added, “but I understand why he did it.” Connor had been firm with Hank that he was not to retire out of some misguided notion that it would benefit their relationship. This had been the only path Connor had left for Hank to have the honesty he needed in front of others about his feelings. “Maybe he was right to,” he added, his gaze dropping further, to his lap. “I was worried that I'd be unhappy working elsewhere,” he frowned at himself, and lifted his eyes to Kier again. “I miss my team, and I miss working with Hank, but I'm not unhappy.”

Kier regarded him for a long time. Connor was immune to the trick of staying quiet until the other person cracked or it would have got to him and forced him to confess how scared he was that Hank would be torn from him like everyone else Connor had given his heart to. Kier tapped his finger on the arm of his chair again, as if he was drumming his thoughts in some idiosyncratic code with his fingers. “Can I ask something?”

Connor offered him a lopsided smile that he knew was more awkward than warm. “You haven't requested permission so far,” he pointed out.

It got a laugh from Kier, and that finger that tapped on his chair pointed at Connor briefly as he did, as if there was some unspoken comment about Connor's smartassery waiting to be said. He nodded in his amusement, and asked, “Who made the first move, and when?”

Connor raised his eyebrows. He'd been expecting some question as to the integrity of his feelings for Hank, or perhaps what he envisioned to be his future with a man that might not live to see Connor himself retire. They probably wouldn't grow old together, short of some immense kindness on the part of fate and genetics. Connor had accepted that, even though the thought still dug frozen fingers into his heart.

“Why do you want to know?”

Kier grinned at him, and while it was warmer than one that lay in the cold blackened deep of the ocean, it was still a smile to be found in salted waters, just before someone spotted the fin. “Because Hank doesn't want me to know,” he answered, “so I figured it was him, and I wouldn't put it past that steamroller in human form to have done it while you were still in hospital.”

That made Connor laugh. With the gift of hindsight he'd been able to look back and see all the little tells that Hank had liked him more than he should since long before that hospital stay. Hank had kept him close, shared smiles with him, stood up for him, but Connor had assumed it to be in the way that someone might for a colleague they enjoyed working with. He'd teased, too, confiscating coins, and needling affectionately at Connor's more irritating personality traits and fussy habits. He'd made Connor feel accepted.

Then Connor had woken up in that hospital bed, his body and brain aching as if he'd been hit by a bus, his mouth dry and throat sore, and his eyes itching, and Hank's hands had been wrapped around his. The breathless relief on his face had filled Connor's fuzzy world. Hank's hands had gone into his hair and his arms had wrapped around Connor's head, as if Hank needed to press every inch of his skin that he could against every inch of Connor's.

Maybe now he knew that it had been an awful combination of affection, guilt, and Hank's own unacknowledged crush on him that had caused it, but in that moment Connor had simply known that he wouldn't have wanted anyone else to be by his bedside when he awoke.

“I think we both made moves,” he answered, honestly. He wasn't even sure that Hank's delicately phrased curiosity had been intended as a move, but it had certainly given birth to the tiny, glimmering, dangerous flame of hope in Connor. “I tried to let him know it would be welcome,” he explained, without giving Kier any unnecessary details; he didn't need to know that Hank had been a little too curious about Connor's sexual history, and that Connor had decided to tell him about it, boldly and brazenly, to see what Hank would do with that information. “He eventually acted on that,” and had then second guessed himself. Connor had been so frozen by the fact that it was happening so soon after he'd given up on the foolish notion, and was trying to withdraw to spare both their dignity, that Hank had taken his reaction as fear, or confusion.

Connor knew the second the word 'sorry' landed in his ears that if he didn't follow through that moment and complete what Hank had started it would all be lost. His and Hank's relationship would be awkward and stilted, Hank would think that Connor didn't want him that way, and Connor would never again be able to convince Hank that he did. He'd all but dived on Hank, grasping for that split second that it could all work out with everything he had, refusing to let it go.

“And I returned it,” Connor confessed, flashing Kier a lopsided, but slightly amused smile. “It was a few days after I was discharged, while I was still staying with him.”

Kier grinned at him, a look of incredulity sweeping across his face and exiting his mouth in a single chuckle. “So they were both wrong.”

Connor didn't bother to mask his confusion. He looked at Kier, his eyebrows drawn together. Who they were, or what they were wrong about, was a complete unknown.

Kier chuckled again at the look on his face. “You've seen Lumi's new Jag, right?” he asked. Connor only nodded. Of course he'd seen it; the beautiful and brand new F-type drew the eye even more effectively than Kier's own Bentley. “That's what he won for betting Hank would put the moves on you first. Florent and Johnson both figured you'd be the one to crack.”

Words failed Connor. He became aware of his mouth hanging open and closed it. Florent, Johnson, and Cacciatore had made bets about him and Hank, and....

A puzzle piece clicked into place. He'd woken up, badly hungover, in his own bed in his flat with Hank waiting for him. Connor had thought, at the time, that he'd simply fallen prey to the juvenile and cruel hazing rituals of another station, and that getting him drunk had been the entire aim of the operation. The side effect of leaving Connor with no functioning memory of anything he might have said or done to embarrass himself in front of Hank, knowing that he may well have done one or both of those in an uninhibited state, had been something Connor had considered his own, private concern.

Apparently, it had not been so private after all. “So when they got me drunk,” he said, looking Kier directly in the eyes, “they were trying to get me to make a pass at Hank?”

Kier nodded at him, trying and failing to disguise his own amusement. “Do you remember if you did?” he asked.

Connor opened his mouth again to reply, but words were slow to arrive at his tongue. He shook his head. “I-- No. Why?” Why did Kier think he might have? It certainly hadn't contributed to their relationship, as far as he knew. Hank had insisted that if Connor didn't remember it didn't matter.

That finned smile was back on Kier's face. “Hank came barrelling in here the next morning and nearly turned Florent into a greasy smear on my wall,” he answered.

Connor blinked. Something squeezed in his chest and he forced himself to breathe. Perhaps he had said something. Perhaps he'd tried something, and Hank had spared him the embarrassment of talking about it because he'd put it down to Connor just being stupid and drunk, which he had been, but he'd also had a crush on his commanding officer that he'd been nurturing deep in his heart for weeks, perhaps even months. “I see,” he said, quietly. He frowned and regarded Kier again. “How did they decide Cacciatore won their bet?”

Kier folded his arms, settling in his chair as he looked at Connor with amusement. “When Hank brought you here after you were discharged he always had either his hands or his eyes on you.” Kier shrugged one shoulder. “I don't employ stupid detectives, and they agreed that taking you home with him was a pretty clear move on his part.”

So they didn't know, Connor thought, they'd just assumed, and incorrectly at that. Yes, he and Hank had been taking those first uncertain steps to determining what their relationship would look like outside of work, but they'd got there together instead of with either one of them taking the lead.

“I suppose I should be careful not to correct them,” he murmured, feeling his cheek twitch and draw the corner of his mouth upwards, briefly, in a humourless smirk. “Cacciatore might be upset to learn he obtained his car under false pretences.”

Kier laughed again. The sound was low and dangerous. “Five more months with them, kid,” he said, his grin twisted and his eyes sharp. “Think you can do it?”

Connor sat up straighter in his seat and fixed Kier with a level, self assured look. “I believe so.”

*

Hank's shirt slid from Connor's fingers, crumpling to a heap on the floor. His mouth was soft under Connor's tongue as Connor kissed his breath away. Hands groped and squeezed at Connor's ass and the backs of his thighs, urging him closer.

Connor became painfully aware of how cold his hands were against Hank's bare skin. Hank flinched but didn't pull away. Connor warmed his palms against Hank's chest, stroking upwards through the short, wiry hairs to set his hands on Hank's shoulders.

Hank pulled back from Connor's mouth, panted once, and then returned to find Connor's tongue again, his head tilted to the other side. Connor murmured his satisfaction into Hank's mouth. Their tongues danced together, repeating swift and practised steps that they both knew by heart; a press of a tongue-tip, a slide into Hank's welcoming mouth, a declaration of love and desire and intent made with every movement. Connor rolled his hips down under Hank's guidance and found him already hard.

His hands slid down Hank's arms, feeling the soft contours of muscle at his biceps, the hard joints of his elbows, the hair at his forearms. Connor gripped Hank's wrists firmly, squeezing his fingers over the bones. He dragged Hank's hands away from his ass and pushed him back, hard, down onto the bed in one fluid motion.

The mattress groaned in protest. Hank's eyes went wide as he landed and Connor used his own weight to pin Hank down by his hands. “Fuck me,” he murmured, as a statement of awe. Hank always did enjoy when Connor caught him off guard.

“I intend to,” Connor replied. He kept Hank's wrists pinned beneath his hands and lowered himself down slowly, teasing Hank by staying out of kissing range for long enough to make Hank try and reach up for him. Connor regarded Hank with heavy lidded eyes when he tried to arch up, and felt the heated waters of his love for him swirl through his chest.

“Sometime this year'd be nice,” Hank grumbled. He always grumbled about being kept waiting, and making him wait was part of the fun. Connor enjoyed timing it just right so that Hank was mid-complaint when he sank onto him with his mouth, or into him with his fingers. The choked way Hank's whining cut off into a groan was one of Connor's favourite sounds.

“Patience is a virtue,” Connor replied, and if his voice was a little breathless what did that matter? He closed the distance, capturing Hank's mouth with his own, sinking his tongue past Hank's lips and stole whatever reply he'd intended before he could make it. Hank's hips rolled up between Connor's spread thighs, dragging the firmness of his neglected cock against Connor's leg.

Connor adjusted his grip on Hank's wrists. He took Hank's mouth with the same slow and steady unyieldingness he intended to take the rest of Hank with, only breaking away when his own heart beat so hard in his chest that he could feel his pulse wrack his entire torso. Hank panted beneath him, mouth hanging open, eyes wide and flickering over the features of Connor's face. They moved from kiss flushed lips to dark eyes and mussed hair.

“I love you,” Hank murmured. He sounded as if the thought had just struck him, as if two distant neurons had connected in his brain and brought him to this conclusion for the first time. Hank had this revelation often. He'd realise it in the morning when Connor handed him a coffee, or during a mundane shopping trip to buy their meals for the coming week, and he whispered it with awe every time Connor collapsed, sweating and spent into Hank's arms after they'd made love, when Hank's mind was absolutely clear and his heart still frantic.

Connor had the same revelation every time he looked at Hank. The thought arced across his brain and twitched down his every nerve, tingling in his hands, and toes, and stomach. He had the thought too often to keep saying it. There wasn't enough oxygen in the air for him to say it as many times as he'd have to.

“Can I tie you up?” Connor asked, instead of surrendering to his heart's desperate need to beat Hank's name through every vessel in his body.

Hank's eyes widened. “Fuck yes,” he answered, excitement and anticipation burning in his tone.

“Don't move,” Connor instructed, and then finally released Hank's wrists. He sat up, straddling Hank, and took a moment to appreciate the view of him clad in nothing but his boxers and stretched out waiting for Connor. Beautiful blue eyes watched Connor's face, and Hank's chest rose and fell with breathless arousal.

“Yes sir,” Hank replied, and settled back into the bed, keeping his hands exactly where Connor had left them.

Connor watched him for a moment longer, marvelling at how he'd managed to convince someone as stubborn, and powerful, and loving as Hank to gamble his heart on him, and then rose. He reached for the bedside table, opening the drawer, and pulled out his black silk tie. It lived in the bedside with the lubricant, away from his other ties, for the same reason that the beautiful and expensive pinstripe suit had seen the inside of a dry cleaner's more times than it had been worn on dates.

Handcuffs lost their appeal when you were a cop, but a silk tie was delightfully versatile.

Hank's eyes locked onto the tie as Connor drew it closer and began to loop it around his wrist. “One day,” Connor said, watching Hank's hand in his as he pulled the silk tight around it and drew the other wrist over to join it, “we should get a headboard that lets me tie you to it.” He ensured the tie was snug before he tied the ends of it together. If Hank really wanted he'd be able to untwist himself from it.

“You see one you like, you let me know,” Hank replied.

Connor drew his fingers down the pale expanse of the inside of Hank's arm. His skin was soft, delicate, and warm here. Connor let himself linger over the sensation before he met Hank's gaze. His sky blue eyes were fixed on Connor's face, and Connor sighed softly. The sight of him stretched out and waiting for whatever Connor intended to do ran fingers of anticipation down Connor's spine.

He watched his own fingers as he dragged them across Hank's chest, trailing through the hair in idle swoops and swirls. Connor traced his fingertips around one of Hank's nipples and then journeyed down, over his stomach. Losing weight had made Hank's stomach softer to the touch, but beneath that softness was a new solidity. Connor could feel Hank's muscles now, even if he couldn't see them. Connor didn't want to see them; it would be too fundamental a change to who Hank was to have him display abs when he removed his shirt, but Connor enjoyed feeling that secret power under Hank's skin. Hank had strength enough to drag Connor's feet from the floor and toss him onto the bed, strength enough to hold him fast to the mattress when he wanted and Connor allowed, and yet right now he was tied up at Connor's mercy.

“I can hear your brain beeping,” Hank told him.

Connor looked up to his face and treated him to a smirk. He coiled both of his hands into Hank's boxers. “I'm just considering my approach,” Connor answered, keeping his voice lilting and teasing. He gave a tug, and Hank lifted his hips to help, allowing Connor to drag his underwear down and off. It left Hank's stiff cock jutting into the air, tempting and begging for Connor to touch it.

“Your approach,” Hank repeated, flatly.

Connor murmured quietly, and set one finger at the base of Hank's cock, tracing the vein with the tip of his finger. “Would you rather I ride you or take you?”

Hank's chest stilled and his breath held while Connor settled the pad of his finger against Hank's frenulum and drew tiny, gentle circles against it. “Dealer's choice,” Hank eventually answered, “but choose quick or I'm gonna snap this tie.”

Connor smirked again, and let his finger drift to circle around the head of Hank's cock as if he was drawing his finger over the rim of a wine glass. Hank groaned. “Fucking tease,” he hissed.

“There are three thousand nerve endings in a fingertip,” Connor murmured, quietly, dragging the pad of his fingers across Hank's cock to settle over the very tip, “four thousand in the glans,” he continued, flicking his eyes up to Hank's for a moment, for long enough to make Hank swallow, “and a million in the lips.” He bent down, removing his fingers to settle his lips against the same spot, kissing the head of Hank's cock with a soft, sucking pressure and letting himself feel the heat of the skin and its velvety softness.

Hank groaned in mingled relief and frustration. “Connor, you're fucking killing me here.”

Connor inhaled through his nose, adding the masculine scent of Hank's arousal to his senses. He let the tip of his tongue slip out to press against Hank's cock, and then opened his mouth to drag the broad length of his tongue over the head of Hank's cock in one slow, luxurious lick.

Hank groaned again as Connor stood back up and pulled away. “Killing me,” he repeated. Connor watched Hank's toes flex and stretch, as if he needed to displace his frustration in some physical activity.

“Only a little, in time,” Connor replied, flashing a smirk at Hank. He retrieved the lubricant from the bedside table and tossed it onto the bed beside Hank, near his hips. Connor preferred silicone lubricant to water based, although it was more annoying to try and clean up, but they had both because the silicone didn't play well with toys. Connor wasn't intending on using any tonight, so he could use his favourite. Hank had quickly learned what the difference between the types was too, so when he saw that Connor had pulled out the silicone, he knew what he was in for.

“You're such a dork,” he said, eyeing Connor appreciatively. Hank was a visual person, especially where his libido was concerned. Connor had learned a few shortcuts to getting him interested, like stolen hoodies with no trousers, partially unfastened shirts, a particularly intent way of spreading his legs on the sofa, or, more simply, skin tight boxer briefs that actually made it look like Connor had an ass.

Connor paused to settle his hand against Hank's cheek, dragging the pad of his thumb against Hank's bottom lip. “That's one of the things you love about me,” he pointed out.

“Sweetheart,” Hank replied, and Connor felt his heart shiver at the endearment, “there's nothing I don't love about you.”

Words like that shouldn't still affect Connor the way they did. Hank expressed his love for Connor a thousand times a day, in looks and deeds if not in words. Connor knew Hank loved him. He trusted that Hank loved him, which made Connor feel so much more vulnerable than knowing alone ever could, and still hearing Hank say things like that so easily squeezed his heart until it hurt.

Hank loved him as easily as breathing, and Connor still didn't know how to accept that something this good could last.

He leaned down and settled his lips against Hank's, letting his tongue into Hank's mouth and teasing against Hank's tongue in echo of the way he'd kissed his cock. Hank felt it, made the connection, and groaned as he matched Connor's movements. His tongue dragged over Connor's, delving deep into his mouth, filling him with Hank's own taste and the slippery, intoxicating movement that was prelude to more.

There are a million nerve endings in the lips, but the nerve endings in the tongue are so complicated and varied in their function that trying to quantify them was pointless. Connor let the touch, and taste, and warmth, and softness of Hank's mouth devour his brain.

When he finally came up for air the sensations remained, ghosting along his overstimulated nerves. The flavour of Hank stayed on his tongue. His lips tingled as if Hank was still there. He let his tongue slip out, chasing the sensation as if he could drag Hank back in for more that way, and took a breath.

Hank swallowed again, and panted, catching his own breath. Connor straightened up and removed his underwear at last. His own cock was hard but easily ignored compared to the temptation that was Hank spread out before him for Connor to enjoy.

Connor pushed Hank's knees apart as he climbed between his legs onto the bed. Hank lowered his arms down, using his elbows to lever himself up, his hands clasped in lurid prayer, wrapped in black silk. He watched as Connor retrieved the lubricant, squirting some onto his fingers, and then instructed, “Knees up, please.”

Hank obeyed, bending his knees and setting his feet flat on the bed, his thighs spread so Connor could see him. He raised his hands back above his head too, out of his way so he could see what Connor was about to do.

Connor smiled at him before he dragged one dry palm up the base of Hank's cock, curving his hand around it at the head and pressing his thumb to the slit. Hank inhaled sharply and adjusted the position of his legs, spreading them further. Connor settled a single slick finger to his ass.

“Ready?” he asked, regarding Hank through the frame of his thighs.

“Fuck yes,” Hank answered.

Connor's finger slid in easily. He felt the way Hank's body clenched, and the way Hank brought it under control, exhaling slowly and pushing against Connor's finger. It had taken weeks for him to get this good. When Hank had first asked if Connor might ever want to swap positions he hadn't seemed to realise what he'd been letting himself in for.

Connor hadn't pushed him. He enjoyed having Hank inside him, pouring pleasure into him with every thrust of his hips. But Hank had wanted to know what it felt like, and Connor wasn't about to pretend that being the only person to have ever been inside Hank was not a turn on. It still was. Connor was the only one whose fingers had ever been here, the only one for whom Hank had ever bent over, and the only one to have ever finished inside him.

Connor slid a second finger in once he was sure the lubricant was doing its job, and he waited for that sensation of tightness to leave before he began to thrust shallowly. He stroked Hank's cock in tandem with his other hand, not firm and rapid, the way Hank liked, but slow and sumptuous, enjoying the drag of his palm and fingers over Hank's soft skin. “Doing okay?” he asked, searching with his fingers for the change in sensation that told him he was against the wall of Hank's prostate.

“Yeah,” Hank sighed, indescribably turned on and enjoying the heady feeling of Connor working him inside and out.

“Good,” Connor replied. Then he bowed between Hank's legs and began to lick and kiss at his balls, moving slowly up the shaft of his cock. Hank groaned wordlessly, the sound lewd and loud, and he rocked his hips up into Connor's hand, and down onto his fingers.

Connor took the tip of Hank's cock into his mouth, rubbing his tongue over the head, and then sank down. Hank's cock was heavy and thick in his mouth, stretching his lips and weighing against his tongue as it dragged against his flesh. Connor could feel the contours of Hank's veins in the skin and dragged his tongue over them as he pushed Hank into his throat. He pressed his fingers against Hank's prostate as he moved, and was rewarded with his name being cursed in awe.

Connor let his fingers match pace with his mouth, swallowing Hank down and drawing him back again in an agonisingly slow rhythm. Hank's legs moved either side of his shoulders, spreading wide to allow Connor in, and threatening to fold over his back and pull him in with the next slow drag of Hank's cock into the depths of Connor's mouth.

The skin of Hank's cock felt cool against Connor's tongue at first, but heated to match the warmth of Connor's mouth quickly. The distinctive saltiness faded with each swallow, until Connor tasted a slightly different telltale flavour arriving at the tip of Hank's cock. Connor took Hank from his mouth to drag the broad of his tongue over the head of Hank's cock again, swallowing and taking the moment to regain his breath before he sank down once more.

“Connor fuck--” Hank cursed, cutting himself off in another groan. “Sweetheart, you're so fucking good at this,” he sighed instead.

Connor allowed a third finger to slide in with his other two. He wanted to take Hank to the edge, and then pull away, to leave him cursing before giving him what he wanted.

A sound broke into Connor's awareness, and he pulled Hank from his mouth and sat up.

“Don't fuckin' answer that,” Hank warned.

Connor looked to where his trousers were in an untidy heap on the floor. The distinctive persistent ring of his phone came from the back pocket. “I'm on call,” he pointed out.

“If it's important they'll phone back,” Hank growled, “later.”

Connor was still buried three fingers deep inside Hank, and he treated him to another firm press in, stroking deliberately over his tormented prostate before he pulled out, unfolded himself from the bed, and retrieved his phone with his clean hand.

“Fuck,” Hank spat, clearly annoyed.

“Hush,” Connor instructed, and swiped to answer the call. He brought it up to his ear and made his way back to the bed, and Hank. “Roberts,” he said.

“It's Sergeant Amicitia, sir,” came a distinctive and familiar rumbling voice on the line. Connor settled himself back between Hank's legs and raised an eyebrow as Hank silently mouthed what the fuck are you doing? “We've got a body.”

“Where?” Connor asked, and shot Hank an intent look. He needed him to stay quiet, and patient.

“Ballymore multi-story,” Gladio answered. “At first they figured it was a jumper but,” his low, rumbling voice tailed off.

“Now they're not so sure,” Connor filled in. He sighed. “Is Granz on scene?”

“No, but he's been called.”

Connor cringed internally. He had strong suspicions that he'd been assigned the on call duty tonight precisely because Granz was also on call, not that he was in a position to complain about that. “Do what's necessary for now,” he advised, “I'll be there as soon as I can.”

“Yes sir,” Gladio replied.

Connor hung up the phone and tossed it back to the heap of his trousers. Hank looked at once disappointed and infuriated. His mouth was downturned and a scowl creased the skin between his brows. “Duty calls, huh?” he asked, and Connor couldn't help but hear the frustrated bitterness in his voice.

Connor held his petulant gaze for a long moment before he leaned over Hank, bracing his weight against the mattress by Hank's head with one hand. He eased down, lowering himself to press a slow and deliberate kiss to Hank's mouth. His tongue slid against Hank's, firm and demanding, and Connor felt Hank yield, opening up to him as the tension of irritation left his body.

With his other hand Connor reached between Hank's legs, sinking his fingers back inside him slowly and purposefully. Hank groaned into Connor's mouth, his back arching softly.

Connor broke the kiss, pulling back only far enough for Hank's beard to tickle at his chin, and his heated breath to gust over Connor's lips. “I said as soon as I can,” he said, quietly. Hank's eyes opened, dazed and transfixed on Connor's face only an inch away from his own. “That didn't include a timeframe.”

Hank's laugh was more of a breath, and it stuttered as Connor pressed his fingers deep inside him with a gentle thrust. “Shit,” he murmured, flexing his hips. His erection had wilted while Connor had been on the phone, but the kiss and Connor's fingers had flooded it with renewed interest. “I've been a bad influence.”

Connor hummed thoughtfully. “Yes you have,” he agreed. “Now where was I, before we were so rudely interrupted?”

Hank's eyes closed as he tilted his head back. “Pretty sure you had your mouth round my cock,” he answered.

*

“Member of the public called it in,” Sergeant Amicitia said. He was six feet and six inches of sculpted muscle, with an unfortunate mullet, designer stubble, and honey brown eyes. Connor walked beside him, flicking through his notebook. “They spotted the leg and called 999. Motorbike patrol got here first and took it for a successful suicide, then the funeral director's boys clocked the ligature marks.”

Connor frowned, casting his eyes over statements from the initial witness, and the funeral directors. “That was lucky,” he commented. “If they'd been less observant we'd have a more contaminated crime scene.” As it was it was already contaminated, but at least they could trace it. The body hadn't been picked up, rolled over, and transported before somebody realised his wrists and ankles had been tied before he died. “Do we have an ID?”

Gladio shook his head. “Not on him,” he answered. “The patrol checked him.”

The patrol that had failed to see bruising around the victim's wrist. Connor did his best not to openly scowl. “Let's check again, just to be sure.”

A white tent had been erected, as if keeping the miserable drizzle off would help matters at this point. Connor mentally steeled himself before he pushed open the flap and stepped inside.

Dr Granz didn't bother to look up at him. Connor had never actually seen the man work before; he'd always run into Szayel Granz when he had nothing better to do than make a nuisance of himself and sexually harass the living. Seeing him bent over a body, wearing one of the white paper noddy suits, was unsettling.

“Hello, Doctor Granz,” Connor said. Sergeant Amicitia ducked and entered the tent behind him.

The doctor looked up at the sound of Connor's voice, and then further up at the looming figure of the Sergeant. “Well well, if this doesn't make getting undressed worth it.”

Connor chose to ignore the comment. “Have you found his ID?” He could feel more than hear Gladio folding his enormously muscled arms.

“His pockets are completely empty,” Szayel answered, unfurling himself from his crouch beside the body.

Connor murmured thoughtfully. Empty pockets didn't mean the man had been robbed, unfortunately, it just meant that they had to eliminate the possibility that he had been, and then if they couldn't, to eliminate the possibility that it had happened after he'd hit the floor rather than before it. “Any indication that this wasn't a suicide?” Connor pressed.

Szayel fixed him with a smug smirk. “You mean aside from the bruising to his wrists and ankles indicating they'd been tied at some point?”

Connor allowed himself a sigh. “Which only means he'd been tied up at some point,” he replied. “That may have been consensual. Unless we cut the ligatures off ourselves we can't make assumptions.”

The doctor's face lit up, a wide and horrifying grin spreading slowly across his features, showing far too many teeth. “Do you get bruised wrists often?”

Connor kept his expression neutral. “I know what I'm doing,” he answered. Bruises were the result of too much force or the wrong kind of restraint, at least in domination play, but the popularity of fuzzy handcuffs was evidence that plenty of amateurs engaged regardless. You really needed wide leather cuffs to spread the force out over more area, although Connor personally preferred Hank's hands around his wrists.

Behind him Sergeant Amicitia coughed and cleared his throat. Connor's eyebrows rose. He hadn't anticipated the Sergeant being the shy and retiring type.

Szayel, by contrast, looked like his day had been made. His eyes shifted from Connor's face to Gladio behind him. “Someone should tell Ignis to watch out,” he said. Then he shrugged, and answered Connor's question: “He was dead before he hit the ground,” he said, folding one arm under the elbow of the other, “I can't say how long before, but right now I estimate he's been dead for at least three hours.”

Connor glanced over the body Szayel was working on. The victim wore a dark, long sleeved jacket that successfully hid the bruising at his wrists, and track pants of the sort that had somehow never gone out of fashion with a certain demographic. He only wore one shoe, although that could have come off during the fall, or subsequent impact.

The victim was face down, but his body twisted unnaturally. Dark liquid oozed from the obviously broken skull. “Are you able to narrow down a cause of death?” Connor asked.

Szayel shrugged in his white noddy suit. “Blunt force trauma,” he answered. “At least for now.” He treated Connor to a knowing smirk. “If you drop by my office tomorrow I can go more,” he paused for effect before saying, “in depth,” as if it was an invitation. His gaze shifted from Connor to Gladio. “Bring the Sergeant,” he added, “we can make it a ménage a trois.”

Connor met Szayel's eyes behind the stylised thick white frames he wore. “I prefer tête-à-tête,” he replied.

Szayel inhaled, his chest rising noticeably before he sighed with anticipatory pleasure. “You can have me however you'd like, DI Roberts.”

Connor allowed the corner of his mouth at one side to lift, but kept the rest of his face blank. He nodded, just once. “We'll take a look at the rest of the scene,” he said, “let us know if you find anything pertinent.”

Gladio exited the tent first, and waited dutifully outside for Connor to emerge. “You sure that's a good idea, sir?” he asked, as they moved away from the tent. Connor raised his eyebrows in question and looked at him, prompting him to elaborate. “Flirting with Szayel?”

Connor smiled. “Doctor Granz uses the expression of his sexuality as a tool to maintain control of a conversation,” he said, bluntly. “He doesn't expect people to respond in kind.” Trying to ignore it didn't work, and telling him to stop it definitely didn't, but acknowledging it and moving on had slightly better results, and firing back with vague innuendo worked best of all. Granz had no idea what to do if the person he was speaking to was immune to being sexually harrassed by him.

“So that's all you were doing?” Gladio asked as they walked slowly along the edge of the building. The car park's perimeter was walled in with display boards that advertised a community project to the outside world.

Connor turned his head and looked up at Gladio. At six feet tall Connor wasn't short, and he was accustomed to looking upwards at Hank, but Sergeant Amicitia had four more inches than Hank did. He made Connor feel very small. “He's not my type,” he replied.

“What is?” Gladio asked, grinning down at Connor.

Hank immediately burst into Connor's mind. If you broke him down into component parts, used descriptors like older, or taller, you wouldn't come close to the source of Connor's attraction to him. Hank was a person that had spent so long setting himself on fire to keep others warm that he worried he had nothing left to give Connor, and still Hank had infinitely more patience for Connor's own brand of bullshit than anyone else ever had.

Hank was a good man whose broken and jagged edges fit with the shattered parts of Connor, making Connor feel whole for the first time in years. He'd brought smiles and laughter into a life that had been endurably lonely. Connor hadn't been looking for someone to rescue him from it, but Hank had arrived, taken Connor into his arms and done it anyway. He didn't think he deserved Connor, but he had accepted that Connor wanted to be with him. Connor had always known that loving people was never about deserving, but it still stung to think that Hank had been so burned up by his past that he didn't think he deserved happiness. Hank did deserve happiness, and maybe, for the first time in a long time, Connor might have something good and bright in his life that wouldn't be easily torn away by the machinations of others.

Connor looked away from Gladio's honey brown eyes, although they were dark in the low light of night time. “Diamonds in the rough,” he answered. He paused and looked up at the nine storeys of the car park. It loomed menacingly above them. The bright and cheerful mural did absolutely nothing to quell the roll that Connor's stomach gave at the prospect of going up there. “Has anyone searched the car park yet?”

“No,” Gladio answered. “I didn't have many hands, so I figured it was best to start from the body and work up.”

Connor nodded slowly. It was logical, but he really wished that Gladio hadn't said that. “Some people that intend to commit suicide by jumping leave things that might fly out of their pockets on the ledge they jump from,” he said, distantly.

“You really think our guy might have jumped?” Gladio asked, following Connor's gaze up the building.

Connor closed his eyes and lowered his face. His throat was uncomfortably dry. “No,” he answered. “I think someone might have been trying to make it look like he did, and he's missing a wallet, which means we have to check.”

They entered the car park through the front, following the path that cars might take. If the victim had been transported here then inside a car or van was the most logical method of doing that, although you didn't have to spend long in the police to learn that people, and criminals in particular, weren't especially logical. Sometimes crimes were weird. Often those crimes weren't weird out of a deliberate attempt to obfuscate but simply because the person comitting the crime had panicked.

Even at this hour there were still cars, sitting dark and abandoned in their bays. They'd have to make a note of every car and registration here just in case one of them belonged to their victim, or a witness, or possibly even their killer.

Bound, killed, unbound, and dumped. Why here? Did the location mean something, or was it just the best place the killer had access to that might conceal the cause of death? If it was the latter it was either local to the killer, and possibly the victim, or it might be somewhere on the killer's route. There was a supermarket directly across the road. Their killer could be a regular patron. Or even an employee.

The wind pulled at Connor's coat as they reached the rooftop parking. From up here the Brentwood skyline was picked out in lights but the sky was dark, as if Connor was looking at the horizon upside down and all the stars had been transposed. Only the moon was in its correct place, shining dimly from gaps in the cloud cover.

Nobody had left their car up here overnight. It was too exposed to the elements, and too long a journey back to ground level. Connor approached the far wall, searching the ground for any signs of windstrewn belongings. The railing beckoned.

Open air yawned before Connor, dragging at his head and his stomach. His heart thundered in his throat and the air snatched from his lungs. He closed his eyes and took two sharp, quick steps back, colliding with Sergeant Amicitia.

Hands gripped his shoulders, holding him steady. “Whoa, you okay?”

Connor forced himself to take a breath, fighting against his locked up lungs to drag air into them. There was a railing. There were walls. He was not going to fall. The yawning chasm of nothingness, so much nothingness between himself and the ground, wasn't going to reach for him and drag him over. His feet were still on solid concrete.

“I'm okay,” he answered, although he wasn't sure if he believed it. It would be a miracle if Gladio couldn't feel the pounding of Connor's heart betraying him as it thumped through his entire body.

The hands stayed on his shoulders. Connor wished they were Hank's. Hank had taken him to the Eden Project on one of their dates, which had been delightful except for the treetop rainforest walk which Connor had been unable to set foot on. “You're scared of heights?” Hank had asked, when Connor had explained why. Sergeant Amicitia asked the same thing now.

Connor could only nod. His voice felt weak and he didn't trust it not to crack.

“Huh,” Gladio said, as if he was filing this information away in his 'unexpected' folder. “Well, you stay back here, I'll go check the edge.”

Fingers tightened on Connor's shoulders before the hands moved away, and Connor made himself open his eyes. The railing still beckoned, but Connor took one extra step back until the screams of the void beyond it were silenced in his head. “The railing will need dusting for prints,” he said. His voice was distant in his own ears.

Sergeant Amicitia nodded as he approached, being careful of where he put his feet. He pulled his phone from a zippered pocket in his leather jacket and turned the torch on, scanning the ground. “No sign of a wallet,” he said, walking slowly along the edge of the car park. “Some scuff marks here,” he added after a moment, eyeing a spot on the railing. He straightened up and looked over the edge, giving the railing itself enough space that he wouldn't touch it. “Looks about right for where the body was dumped over.”

“Okay, mark it,” Connor instructed, not that he needed to. He felt useless standing back and watching a Sergeant do the work. Connor turned on the spot, putting his back to the railing and scanned the car park. There were CCTV cameras, but from here they were far enough back that they might not be much help. “The cameras should have caught something, we can go over that tomorrow and narrow down the time the body was dumped.”

“Sure,” came the reply. Gladio came to a stop beside Connor. “We'll do another sweep, make sure we got everything.”

Connor nodded his agreement. There wasn't much more that they could do until Szayel could determine their cause of death with a little more precision than 'blunt force trauma'. The ground hurtling towards you from nine floors up was blunt force trauma. It would be helpful to know if there was a weapon, or if their victim had been beaten. Szayel also had the sort of mind that might be able to narrow down what their victim had likely been bound with.

“Want me to drop you off after?” Gladio asked, conversationally. Connor looked up at him again to find an attractive smile being aimed his way. “You didn't drive, right?” he continued, his grin growing wider.

Connor considered it. It would certainly be cheaper than getting a taxi back, and inevitably faster than waiting. Still, between Szayel's comments, that smile, and the hands at his shoulders Connor felt something squirm unpleasantly in his gut. “I'm staying with my boyfriend,” he said, watching Gladio's expression carefully.

Gladio's grin didn't falter. Instead he laughed. “Lucky,” he said, “Iggy doesn't let me stay with him when I'm on call.” He shrugged both of his gigantic shoulders. “So you want that ride or not?”

Connor smiled and let his head drop. He'd miscalculated, or perhaps he hadn't and Gladio was just naturally flirtatious. He certainly touched people easily enough. He also hadn't actually denied or taken offence at the insinuation that he'd been flirting. “It would be appreciated,” he replied. “Thank you.”

*

A cardboard coffee cup came into Connor's field of vision beside his keyboard and he turned, following the hand that held it up the arm, to the shoulder, and finally the smiling face of Sergeant Amicitia. “Morning,” he said.

“Good morning,” Connor replied, taking the coffee cup from Gladio's hand. “Thank you.”

Gladio shrugged and dragged a chair up so he could sit beside Connor. He sat on it backwards resting one muscled forearm over the back of the chair and leaning against it, his legs spread wide around the seat. “No problem,” he replied. “How long you been in?”

“Since nine,” Connor answered.

“We didn't get back until one,” Gladio said, sharply.

Connor turned to glance sidelong at Gladio. You were entitled, after being on call, to take eleven hours from the time you left the crime scene to when you came in for your next shift. Connor hadn't seen the point. He'd woken up at half six even without his alarm, and as delightful as making Hank late for work had been, Connor wasn't inclined to sit around in Hank's house until mid-afternoon just because he could. “I wanted to make a start,” he answered. “There's still no luck on the ID, but the CCTV footage has finally come in.”

Gladio huffed and shook his head. “You're worse than a DCI,” he told him. “Iggy never takes his time either.”

A puzzle piece clicked into place in Connor's memory. His eyebrows rose. “You're in a relationship with DCI Scientia?”

Gladio's face broke into a grin, like he was pleased Connor had figured it out. “Yeah,” he confirmed, “the only guy in London that makes Cacciatore sweat.” His voice brimmed with pride, and Connor couldn't help but find Gladio's obvious enjoyment of his boyfriend and his boss's rivalry to be endearing.

The smile was infectious. Connor turned his attention back to his screen. “Would you apologise to him on my behalf?” he asked. “Scientia had the better closure rate this year until I joined, and I don't intend on letting him regain the lead.”

Gladio's laughter pealed through the room, deep and raucous. “I'll tell him,” he agreed. “I'll tell him Lumi had to steal a mini-Iggy to do it, too.”

Connor frowned deeply and glanced back at the Sergeant. “A what?”

Gladio gestured to him with one hand. “A pretty, hyper-intelligent Oxford grad,” he answered. He cocked his head to one side, observing the confusion that Connor didn't doubt was written across his face. “You still have the uni twang,” he added.

Connor's frown settled into a soft smile and he turned back towards his computer. Most people didn't pick up on the quirks of his accent beyond an inability to place exactly where he was from. Gladio probably deserved more credit than Connor had originally given him.

His brain repeated the words 'pretty' and 'hyper-intelligent' back to him. Connor hoped the warmth spreading up his neck and into his face wasn't making his skin as pink as he feared.

“So how come you ended up in the police?” Gladio asked, his attention still firmly on Connor. Connor wondered if it was flirting, or if it was just a natural curiosity about other people. He used the curiosity tactic himself plenty; people liked to talk about themselves, and the more you got someone to talk about themselves the more they liked you, and the less questions they asked about you. He wasn't used to having it turned on himself, and even less accustomed to it being a genuine interest.

“I always wanted to,” Connor answered. “I'd intended on training as a negotiator, but I have an affinity for computers that put me on cyber crime's radar.” He picked up his coffee and let the aroma of a strong americano with a hint of hazelnut invade his senses. “What about you?”

Gladio grunted, watching Connor try his coffee before he answered. “Was going to join the army, family tradition, you know,” he answered, and then sighed, “but I didn't really want to go to Iraq and Afghanistan, so I joined the police instead.”

Connor frowned. The army had never been an option for Connor, so he'd never had to consider the global political stage when it came to deciding his own future. “I'm sorry,” he said.

“I'm not,” Gladio answered. “I had friends that did join the army. Some of them I'm not friends with any more, and another takes his legs off to go to bed.”

Connor's chest tightened at Gladio's words. He wanted to apologise again, although whether he would be apoligising for the loss of friendships, his friend's loss of limbs, or bringing the topic up in the first place Connor couldn't be sure. Gladio seemed to sense it, because he changed the topic. “How's your coffee?”

“Good,” Connor answered, grateful for the distraction. “What made you ask for hazelnut?”

Gladio grinned brightly at him. “I know you don't take sugar, but that place does coffee kind of on the bitter side. Hazelnut takes the edge off without making it sweet.”

Connor smiled. Gladio sounded like he'd spent too much time listening to people's opinions about coffee, but Connor was a little impressed that Gladio had paid attention to how he took his coffee normally even before they'd worked together. “Thank you,” he said, “for this and the ride last night.”

He hadn't realised that Gladio had arrived to the scene on a motorbike, and riding pillion behind him back to Hank's house had been almost as terrifying as Connor imagined falling to be. Except on a motorbike you were falling horizontally, and around obstacles. Closing his eyes hadn't helped, and feeling the way the bike had leaned under his body as Gladio had taken them into a curve had made every muscle he'd known he had and a few he hadn't clench, but they hadn't come off. He'd been delivered in one faintly trembling piece safely back to Hank's bed, and his gentle snores.

Gladio grinned at him brightly. “I didn't get the impression you're up for repeating that experience.”

“No,” Connor agreed. As much as the offer was appreciated, he knew to turn it down in future. “It was very cold.” He'd also had to give Gladio the contents of his pockets, lest he risk losing them on the journey. “And I prefer having a seatbelt,” he added.

That made Gladio laugh again. “Next time just borrow your boyfriend's car.”

*

Two large cans in black and acid green branding settled onto the desk with a click. Connor kept his hands over the tops of them for a moment as Itahyr turned to regard them and then look up at him.

He tugged the bluetooth headphones down from his ears, and Connor heard something very loud and repetitive pounding through them at a volume that would cause hearing damage. “Your offerings are acceptable,” Itahyr said, finally, reaching out to pick up the nearest one.

Connor closed his fingers around the cans and didn't let Itahyr take them. “Any progress on my CCTV footage?”

Itahyr cast his eyes over Connor, starting from his face and running down his torso, and then shifting back up again. “Body was dumped from the top of Ballymore at twenty two hundred and twelve.”

Connor removed his hands from the cans and straightened up.

“And you pussed it about going near the edge,” Itahyr added, snatching one of the cans quickly and dragging the tab open.

Connor inhaled slowly through his nose, feeling his chest expand and his lungs fill until the sharp pull of the scarring inside raked along his nerves like a stitch he could never quite shake. “Anything pertinent to the case?” He exhaled just as slowly, and the catch in his lung eased. The doctor said it was probably nerve damage. Connor had been sliced open, stitched up, torn open again, and then re-stitched; any one of those things could have caught a nerve, or got it caught up badly in the scar tissue that had formed. It was only a bother when Connor breathed in as deeply as he could. The doctor's advice had been not to do that if it hurt.

Itahyr took a long drink from the can before he answered. Connor could smell the sickly sweet sugary contents. When he lowered the can again Itahyr finally answered, “I couldn't get the reg for the car from the rooftop camera, but I did get it from the entrance.”

Connor pulled up the chair that he was sure Itahyr only kept in his office so he had somewhere to put his feet and sat down. “Who's it registered to?”

“George Love,” Itahyr answered. “I haven't followed its journey yet,” he added, but gestured to his screen. “Pulled the dude up on the DVLA though.”

“You're not usually this slow,” Connor teased, giving Itahyr a sidelong glance and an upward curl of his mouth.

Itahyr responded as expected, which was by sticking his middle finger up in Connor's face and replying, “Fuck you.” He kept his finger there as he explained, or defended, “You're not the only prick on my back about their case, y'know, and the Ice Queen's cases always take priority.”

Connor tilted his head and regarded Itahyr's screen. The middle finger finally dropped from six inches away from Connor's nose. Itahyr had been running through footage, although Connor didn't recognise the area on sight. “What does he have you working on?” he asked.

Itahyr shrugged. His earphones continued to hiss, although a transition suggested the song had changed. “Y'seen the news? That sixteen year old that got stabbed?”

Connor frowned, but nodded. He'd seen the news, and he tried not to pay too much attention to it. The cases that made it to the headlines were cherry picked and spun by journalists to appeal to the general public's interest in the sad and macabre. Crimes could be used to push agendas, or distract from other news. For the victims it was always the misfortune of the draw as to whether their case would be one that was deemed of interest. If it was then their lives would be splashed across screens and newspapers, dissected and judged by an unforgiving accumulation of strangers.

If it wasn't then they were subject to the usual limitations of the law. A woman killed at home by a man that had stalked her, a man killed by someone known to mental health services, a teenager attacked and murdered for their phone; any one or all of those cases could be headline news this week, forgotten next, but while they were headline news a dozen cases just the same went unreported on.

The homeless man with schizophrenia beaten to death in an alleyway, the drug addict murdered by another addict looking to steal his fix, the woman beaten to death by the husband she was too scared to leave; those cases never made the headlines. The sad truth of society and the innumerable ways it failed people wasn't entertaining. Nobody wanted to report on crimes committed against the mentally ill, or the homeless, or the disadvantaged and marginalised because there were too many of them, and the question of how it could be allowed to happen over and over had no comfortable answers.

“I saw,” Connor replied.

“Elsa gets all the media cases,” Itahyr supplied. “Which fucks with his clearance rate,” he added, with a grimace, “which makes him a huge bitch, and I ain't here for it.”

Connor smiled even though he didn't feel it. “Would you like some help?”

Itahyr tilted his head, regarding Connor thoughtfully. “With your case or Elsa's?”

“Give me what you have for mine,” Connor decided, “and when I'm done, if I can, I'll help you with Cacciatore's.”

Itahyr straightened up in his chair. “Sure,” he answered, “knock yourself out.” He gestured to the spare terminal, which was as decorated with squat little Pop figures and curios as the one Itahyr worked on. Connor recognised the cartoonish figure of Deadpool staring at him from the top of the monitor. It stood next to a rubber duck, which brought a smile to Connor's face.

The computer booted up more quickly than any of the others in the building. Connor settled himself in the chair and drew the silver dollar from his pocket, letting it dance over the backs of his fingers as he drew up Itahyr's files for his own case.

He flipped the coin up in the air, caught it, and thought of Hank. He wasn't supposed to be going home to him tonight, but he wanted to. Two nights at his own home, five nights at Hank's. That was the arrangement, and Connor had stuck to it rigidly. Hank's home felt like Connor's too, now, enough so that he had got into the habit of referring to them as 'home' and 'my flat' when he spoke to Hank.

He thought guiltily of his poor gourami. Bob, Bob, Bob, Bob and Bob, as Hank insisted on calling them, needed Connor to go back and change their water and feed them. If he didn't do it tonight then he had to do it tomorrow, and tomorrow he was supposed to be staying at Hank's again because the day after was their day off together.

The fish were the last thing tying Connor to returning to his flat. He was stubbornly resisting asking Hank if he could move their tank in because he knew that once that happened he was done; he would be moving in with Hank permanently. He wanted it, but it scared him too. The idea of giving up the security that was a place of his own, a place he could return to at a moment's notice, was terrifying.

He rolled the silver dollar across the backs of his fingers, palmed it, and returned it to his fingers with a flick. On the screen he watched George Love's car pull into Ballymore. It drove unhurriedly all the way to the roof, pulled up beside the railing, and then two figures emerged from the car and dragged a third from the back seat.

Two figures, one shorter than the other. With the distance from the camera it was impossible to tell in any detail. It could have been a woman, or it could have been an adolescent, or it could, even, have been a short man. They struggled between them to get the body up to the top of the railing, and pushed him out over the edge.

The short one ran after something that fell from the body. They retrieved it, and then threw it hard over the railing in a sweeping, sideways, overarm motion. Both figures got back into the car, and the car turned and left the way it had come.

Connor switched the camera. He didn't need to skip two hours ahead to see himself backing away from the edge the way Itahyr obviously had. Instead he watched the car pull sedately out of the car park entrance and turn right.

He followed it, cross-referencing cameras and locations. Sometimes he only caught a glimpse of the car as it turned in an unexpected direction, but he picked it back up on its journey. It turned around, made its way back towards Ballymore but this time it turned into the Morrison's car park opposite. The two suspects got out, walked towards the supermarket, and then disappeared.

Connor sat back in his chair and stared at his screen, rolling his coin over his knuckles reflexively. He cut back to the footage of the car coming in to the car park to dump the body. Backtracking its route to there was going to be more time intensive, and require more searching on the cameras. He didn't know if he'd be able to track it back to its initial starting point, and some uncomfortable little flutter in his gut told him it was going to be just as odd.

He tried anyway. He'd lost the car as he searched through the various angles on a particular junction when a notification came up in the bottom right of his screen. An email had come through from Sergeant Amicitia.

Granz called. His report's ready to pick up. Want me to grab it on my way in tomorrow?

Connor looked at the time. The day had gotten away from him and it was already half past five.

That would be appreciated. Thank you for your work today and I'll see you tomorrow.

He sent the email, checked the time again, and then returned to pulling CCTV footage to try and relocate the car.

Don't stay too late ;)

Connor blinked at the text in the popup notification and then dismissed it. Gladio was personable, friendly, and he almost crossed the line into flirtatious but seemed to know that was what he was doing. He was an attractive man that used the fact people found him attractive to disarm them by showing interest. It was the male equivalent of Nel unbuttoning her shirt a little further.

Connor glanced over at Itahyr and found him digging his fingers in and out of a brightly coloured stuffed toy that vaguely resembled an old game boy, except with a face. “Any progress?” he asked.

Itahyr screwed up his nose. “I got some good shots for the information appeal,” he answered. “Not much that's actually useful, though. You?”

Connor sighed, rolling his coin over his fingers one last time in a flash of polished silver before he palmed it and held it. “I found where the car was dumped.”

Itahyr sat up in his chair and squeezed the stuffed toy hard. “Cool,” he said, “where?”

“Across the road,” Connor answered. He shook his head ever so slightly. “I'll get forensics to pick it up.”

“Across the road?” Itahyr repeated, with confused disdain in his voice. “That's fucking weird.”

Connor nodded as a bright, female voice entered the room. “Look at you two, hard at work.”

Larxene strode into the room, turned, and hoisted herself up onto Itahyr's desk. She crossed one leg over the other, letting her expensive designer shoe point out into the room, and leaned back on her palms. “Ready to call it a night?”

“Fuck yes,” Itahyr replied, his shoulders sagging with relief.

“Are you coming, Connor?” Larxene asked, wrenching Connor from his thoughts.

He blinked at his screen, and the unfinished work, and then turned to look at Larxene. She had blue eyes and blonde hair which she wore brushed back off her face. She'd be pretty if she wasn't also terrifying. “Coming where?” he asked.

Itahyr grinned at him from behind Larxene. “For drinks,” he said, pointedly. His grin widened. “Swear on my life, no one's gonna slip you a triple vodka this time.”

Larxene pursed her lips and wiggled her foot. “Or make you drink a wine, or a neat double whiskey, or another double vodka,” she intoned, counting off all the drinks Connor had been variously pressured or tricked into consuming the last time he'd gone out with anyone from this station.

Connor looked from Larxene to Itahyr and back again. “I trust no one's betting a car on it,” he said, his voice low.

Larxene's eyes lit up as if she'd seen a hundred presents in tiny little velvet boxes underneath her Christmas tree. “You know!” She sounded utterly delighted with that information.

Itahyr picked up his can of awful energy drink and tipped the last of it into his mouth. He set it back down on the desk before he spoke. “No point now,” he said, and grimaced.

Connor considered it. He could go home, tend to his fish, call Hank and spend his evening logged into HOLMES2 doing what work he could, or he could go out for a couple of non-alcoholic drinks with people he thought were almost friends and call Hank when he got in.

“I'd rather buy my own drinks this time,” he said.