Secondment (2)

[chlorhexidine]

The tabletop in the pub was tacky to the touch. Connor cradled his soda water in one hand and tried not to think about it too much. At a different table Connor could see Isa with a red-haired man Connor didn't recognise. Gladio and Nel were hovering by the bar, having an animated conversation. This pub was a regular haunt for coppers from this station.

“Have you ever even tried it?” Itahyr asked him.

Connor looked down at the glass in Itahyr's hand. It contained yet another overly sweet caffeinated drink, and the remaining half of the can sat on the sticky table in front of him. “I don't need to,” he replied, “I can smell it.”

“It tastes better than it smells,” Itahyr told him, with a bright grin.

Connor let his eyes drift to the fizzy yellow substance in Itahyr's glass again. “You really shouldn't consume that much caffeine in a twenty four hour period,” he began. It wasn't the first time he'd warned Itahyr about his excessive caffeine consumption.

“Shut the fuck up,” Itahyr replied, cutting Connor off. “I have to remove the toolbars and viruses from Johnson's fucking porn collection machine when I get home, I'm taking whatever I need to get myself through it.”

Connor felt his nose wrinkle involuntarily. DCI Johnson was one of Hank's old friends who specialised in narcotics, although with DCI Johnson people often felt the need to point out that this meant catching drug dealers, not being one. Hank had, long ago, been Johnson's commanding officer, but then Hank had moved to trafficking more generally and Johnson had stayed behind. He and Hank shared their taste in awful shirts, but Connor thought Hank looked much better in them.

“Why are you doing that?” Connor asked. He hadn't even realised there were still people around that were so phenomenally bad with internet safety that they managed to install toolbars on their browsers. Connor wasn't even sure where you'd find websites that carried that sort of nuisance malware these days.

“Because he lives to upset me,” Itahyr answered. “I put a fucking block on every dodgy website he'd visited last time, and now he's back and I swear to god if he's unblocked those sites I'm going to make him eat his computer.”

“Maybe he just has very niche tastes and can only get it in certain places?” Larxene suggested, with a bright grin and a girlish giggle.

Itahyr held both of his hands up and shrugged his shoulders up to his ears, as if it would help to prevent Larxene's words sinking into his head. “I don't want to fucking know.”

“You should,” Larxene told him. “That's blackmail material.”

Connor allowed himself a smile at their banter and took a sip from his drink. He was thankful, in many ways, that Hank wasn't inclined to frequent questionable websites or he might have found himself in Itahyr's position in the past.

“Not all of us want to think about what other people spank it to,” Itahyr replied, giving Larxene an animated frown.

Larxene rolled her eyes at him. “Well you're boring,” she insisted. “People are much easier to handle if you know their filthy secrets.” She flashed a smirk and a raised eyebrow at him, before turning that same knowing smirk on Connor.

Itahyr curled his lip at her. “You don't actually know, though,” he accused, “you just guess.”

Larxene sat upright and raised both of her eyebrows at him in challenge. “It's not guessing.”

Connor looked between the two of them. Both Itahyr and Larxene enjoyed raking over other people's history; he'd been the subject of that game of theirs himself, and liked to think he'd beat them, but he'd never given much thought to Larxene applying her knowledge of people's sexual proclivities to her management of them. “How do you know,” he asked, “without communicating with them?”

Larxene turned her full attention on him and smiled. It was sweet, and a little bit dangerous. “Some people are obvious,” she said. “Like,” she paused, thinking of an example to use, “let's say Lumi.”

Itahyr responded with an immediate grimace. “Do we have to?”

Larxene ignored him, keeping her attention fixed on Connor. “Start with what you know about him. He's a DCI, so he's in a position of power. He's as gay as the day is long,” she held a hand towards Connor, inviting him to add his own observations.

Connor looked at the tabletop as he thought of things he could say about Lumi. “He rigidly controls the way he's perceived,” he began, thinking of the subtlety of Lumi's expressions, and the expensive suits, “is a show off without being overt about it,” he added, thinking of the car, and the pride in his clearance rate, “and he comes from a highly successful family.” Eira Cacciatore was cut from a similar cloth to her brother. Connor liked her, but that was because she was prosecuting his case, so he didn't have to answer to her.

Larxene looked Connor up and down as if she was re-evaluating him. “Not a bad start,” she granted him. “So what is someone like that looking for?”

That one was easy. Connor smiled. “To relinquish control,” he answered. Powerful people in demanding positions enjoyed release from that. “If they're not too into the power, at least,” Connor added. “People that get off on power or have trouble trusting others tend to go the other way.” But they made for dangerous people to submit to. Trust was the most important thing, and if you couldn't trust each other then it couldn't work. That was true in BDSM as much as it was in vanilla relationships.

Larxene tilted her head back and regarded Connor down her nose. Her eyes narrowed. “You've dommed before, haven't you?” she asked.

Connor broke his eye contact with her and tilted his head. “I'm hardly a professional,” he answered.

“No,” Larxene said faintly, still studying him. “No, you prefer to sub, don't you?” she added, thoughtfully. It didn't sound as if she was actually asking a question. “But that big throbbing praise kink you have means you like to give your partner what they need.”

Connor blinked, feeling the back of his neck heat at her words. Larxene was distressingly good at working her way under people's skin. It shouldn't be that much of a surprise; she had been paid to do exactly that, in the past, but it was discomfiting to find himself examined like that. “I--,” he began, and faltered. “Yes,” he admitted.

Larxene's eyes widened and her mouth opened slowly in delighted surprise. “Oh my god,” she said, “have you dommed Anderson?”

Next to Larxene the dramatic sound of Itahyr gagging into his drink tore through the air. Connor swallowed sharply and did his best to remain neutral. There was no good answer to the question. If he said no then Larxene knew too much about his sex life with Hank. If he said yes then she knew far too much about his sex life with Hank.

She shouldn't really know he had any sex life with Hank, but Kier's station were convinced that he did even without having any confirmation. Kier knew for definite, but he and Gladio were the only ones Connor had admitted it to. He didn't know if confirming it to Larxene and Itahyr as well was the wisest course of action.

“Oh don't be such a baby, Itty,” Larxene scolded, smacking Itahyr in the shoulder. She looked at Connor again and exclaimed, “Oh my god you have!”

Itahyr gagged again. It wasn't real nausea, but a dramatisation of it done to draw attention and summarise Itahyr's feelings in one wordless noise. Connor glared at him coldly.

He turned to Larxene and confessed, “Occasionally.” It was a confession both to the fact that he was in a relationship with Hank, and to the fact he sometimes tied him up and made him curse. Hank liked to be ordered to his knees when Connor spread his legs on the sofa in front of him, and he liked to be pinned down, tied up, and ridden, or taken. He enjoyed Connor demanding from him, expressing his attraction to him, and taking pleasure in him. Knowing that, as Hank insisted on saying, a hot twenty something wanted him to bang his brains out was a turn on for Hank.

Being adored like that was a turn on for Connor.

Larxene grinned brightly and all but bounced in her seat. “I'm so proud,” she said, like a mother duck discussing her duckling. “I'm going to tell Marius we should keep you.”

Connor bowed his head, burying his self conscious smile.

“Can we please,” Itahyr whined, leaning across the sticky table, “stop talking about fucking gross old men?”

Connor's smile dropped from his face and was replaced with a sharp, irritated look. “Hank isn't gross,” he said. Connor had seen judgemental looks aimed at himself and Hank when they were on dates together. He'd always fought to ignore them, and hoped that Hank didn't let it bother him. Hank said it didn't, that they were just jealous, or that it was because they were both men, but Connor knew people made assumptions about their ages and the legitimacy of their relationship as a result. He must be rich. Or, worse, He's just a gold digger.

“He's old,” Itahyr countered, pointedly.

“He's older,” Connor corrected.

“How old is he?” Itahyr challenged.

“Fifty three.” Connor did his best not to frown. In less than two years Hank was eligible for early retirement. It felt like a ticking clock, counting down the days that Connor had to make DCI. If he didn't make it then Hank might retire instead. Connor had told him that option wasn't on the table, but Hank was stubborn and he didn't want to keep hiding.

“And how old are you?” Itahyr wasn't done. His eyebrows were raised, and his expression was sharp.

Connor frowned. “Twenty nine,” he answered. He turned thirty this year and Hank wanted to whisk him away to some cottage in the countryside for it. The email granting his leave request for August sat pinned to the top of his inbox.

Itahyr stuck his tongue out and dramatically heaved yet again.

“What?” Connor asked, his voice taking on an edge he hadn't intended.

Itahyr's upper lip was curled and his nose wrinkled as he stared at Connor in disbelief. “He was getting in trouble with Kier and Johnson before you were even born.”

Connor sighed. When people thought age mattered it was hard to get through to them. He cared about Hank, and Hank cared about him. They were different generations, true, but they'd connected with mutual understanding, respect, and affection. Connor had seen how Hank protected others before himself, how caring about others was used by him as self flagellation, and how brightly he smiled when one of his officers excelled under him.

Hank celebrated Connor's successes for his sake, rather than showing him off as if he was something Hank had produced. He coached Connor through frustration and failure, and held him through his doubts and fears. Hank made Connor feel safe, and warm. Every time Hank smiled at him Connor felt as if he was home.

“I don't expect you to understand,” Connor said, softly. “His age doesn't make a difference to how I feel.”

Itahyr's grimace didn't fade. “But he's like,” he gestured aimlessly with his hands, “old,” he said, wrinkling his nose, “and fat. And you're into that?”

Connor knew his expression had fallen into a hard scowl even before Larxene piped up. “He is,” she declared, cheerfully, “look at that face.”

Connor sighed, and forced himself to look less annoyed. Hank wasn't fat. Overweight, perhaps, but he was barely heavier than the average man once you factored in his height, and, yes, his age. Thinking he was fat and unattractive was one of Hank's problems, one that Connor had been carefully coaxing him into changing his opinion on. Losing weight since stopping drinking had helped, but Connor's attraction to him had helped more.

And Connor liked Hank's size. He had a deceptive amount of muscle under the padding which gave him a dizzyingly erotic amount of strength, and Connor very much enjoyed that Hank could pin him to the bed with both wrists in one hand.

“You clearly haven't seen him in an Armani suit,” Connor replied. All that strength and size wrapped up in a well cut suit that made the most of Hank's broad shoulders was a sight that brought Connor to his knees.

Itahyr gagged dramatically again. Larxene smacked him in the shoulder with an open palm. “Oh stop,” she told him, “it's actually kinda sweet.” She threw Connor a knowing smirk. “I bet you had crushes on all the cute teachers at school, too.”

Connor paused. He'd never had crushes on boys or girls his own age at school, although he hadn't had very many friends there either. There had been his maths teacher, who, if Connor looked back, his fourteen year old self had been a little overly enamoured of. He'd had blue eyes and muscled arms, and Connor still remembered the smile when he'd got full marks on his homework.

“One or two,” he admitted, quietly.

Larxene sat up, proudly, and fixed Itahyr with a smirk. “Told you I don't guess.”

“You totally fucking guess,” Itahyr countered, gesturing at Connor, “that was a fucking guess.”

Connor fixed his attention on Larxene. He wanted to pull the topic away from Hank and their relationship. “Why did you stop being a dominatrix?” he asked, tilting his head slightly. “If you don't mind my asking?”

Larxene shrugged her shoulders and took a sip from her wine. “Marius pays better,” she answered, without looking at Connor or Itahyr.

Connor's eyebrows furrowed. He wasn't entirely familiar with the going rate for an experienced dominatrix in London, but he had been under the impression they made a good living. The work was a legal grey area, of course, and most people considered it to be a moral one too, but he doubted that would bother Larxene, and she'd obviously stayed on the right side of the law to be able to work for Marius now. “Really?”

Larxene looked at Connor with sharp blue eyes and pouted before she admitted, “No, but he pays regularly and I don't have to pretend that he doesn't disgust me.”

Connor found his head tilting again, in the other direction, and he tried to sit more upright. Simon had pointed out that he did it any time he got an answer he didn't expect, like a puppy hearing an interesting noise, and he definitely hadn't expected to hear that Larxene's clients disgusted her.

Itahyr made a noise of revulsion, although it wasn't as performative as his hacking and retching when they'd been discussing Hank. “You must have slept with more gross old men than Connor.”

Larxene's expression sharpened dangerously as she looked at Itahyr. “I was a dominatrix, not a prostitute,” she told him, her words hard and cold. “But I have seen way too many floppy old dicks with testicles down to their knees, and saggy man boobs for one lifetime.”

“Grim,” Itahyr commented.

Connor regarded Larxene critically. The comment sounded like a deflection. He didn't doubt that she had seen many unattractive men in varying states of undress during her previous line of work, and it was possible that more than one of them had expected additional services for their money, but it was also the easy answer to give. If you told people that you saw unattractive people naked they would understand why you stopped. Except that industries that involved seeing people, however attractive or not they may be, in states of undress became desensitised to it rather than disgusted by it. If they didn't then the country would have no nurses or beauticians.

“Is that really why you stopped?” he asked, finding Larxene's blue eyes with his and holding her gaze.

Larxene met his eyes and then looked away. “I guess?” she replied, although she didn't sound sure. She picked up her wine glass as if to take another drink but instead rolled the stem between her fingers. “I used to enjoy it,” she said. “I like getting inside people's heads, and I loved confronting them with the depraved things they wanted me to do to them. They were always embarrassing, and I loved making them beg for it.” She sighed, and shrugged her shoulders, examining the scratches on her glass as if they might yield answers. “But when I had my fifth client in a row that wanted me to spank him because his mother hadn't loved him enough I started to look for another job.” She took a drink from her wine.

“I can see how that would get repetitive,” Connor told her, sympathetically.

“Boring,” Larxene corrected, firmly. “It was boring. And making grown men cry shouldn't be boring. So I applied to work for Marius,” she said, and a smile flickered back across her face, “and now I get to scare his bosses when they call because even the ones that don't know me,” she said, glancing at Connor, “know me.”

“Wait,” said Itahyr, looking at Larxene as if he was confused, his upper lip curled and flashing his teeth, “people used to pay you to make them cry?”

Connor raised both of his eyebrows as he responded on Larxene's behalf, “It can be quite cathartic to be pushed to the brink of what you can take.” He'd never cried with Hank, and Connor doubted Hank would view it as emotional relief rather than a sign that he'd done something unwanted or gone too far. Therein lay the appeal of people like Larxene for those that needed it. They could go exactly as far as they needed to, with a willing and skilled person at the reins, without burdening their partners.

Larxene reached her hand out towards Connor's face and gripped his cheek between her finger and thumb, pinching it and giving it a wiggle like some elderly aunt before he pulled away. “Someone is such a good sub,” she cooed.

Itahyr folded his arms and regarded Connor coolly. “You never put that you were into any of this shit online, Connor Kamski,” he challenged.

Connor smirked triumphantly. His minimal online presence as Connor Roberts had been a source of irritation for both Larxene and Itahyr. His even smaller online presence as Connor Kamski had been a blow for both of them. They'd thought that by looking online they could find his deep, dark secrets. They had, if they'd looked him up under Kamski, found out about Chloe, and doubtless they'd dug up plenty of dirt on Elijah, but Connor himself had always been something of a ghost. “Of course I didn't.”

“I can't believe you changed your name,” Itahyr added, gruffly, picking up his drink and taking a mouthful. “That's cheating.”

Connor allowed his smirk to widen. “I can't believe it took my secondment paperwork going through before you found out,” he replied. He'd honestly thought they might pick up on something before that, if only because they knew where and what he'd studied, but clearly the fact he was Elijah Kamski's only adopted son had seemed too unlikely.

“You're such an asshole,” Itahyr told him, with feeling.

“I told you that you wouldn't find me,” Connor replied.

“And a cocky prick,” Itahyr added.

*

Connor fobbed himself into his apartment building with his attention elsewhere. That was how he almost ran chest first into his downstairs neighbour. He was around Connor's age, a little shorter than Connor himself, with light brown hair and eyes that went wide in a flash of recognition.

He backed off, mumbling apologies, and averted his gaze to the floor in a hurry before he dashed around Connor and out. Connor turned on the spot, watching him go. Since Hank had answered the door to him there had been no notes taped to Connor's door, but Connor had also not been the noisy nuisance he'd been up to then because Hank's visit the week after had been to help Connor move some of the things he couldn't live without.

He'd debated leaving an apology taped to his neighbour's door, but what could he say? I'm sorry my boyfriend is a big intimidating bear? I'm sorry I'm noisy? You don't have to worry about it much longer because I'm seriously considering taking my current position on permanently even though I was a total brat about it to begin with and moving in with my big intimidating bear of a boyfriend for real?

Ghostly fingers constricted around Connor's heart. He opened the door to his flat and stepped inside. The curtains were closed, even though it was still light outside, and the room was illuminated in the soft glow of the fish tank. Connor set his small bag of shopping on his sofa and crouched to look at Bob, Bob, Bob, Bob, and Bob.

“Hey babies,” he murmured. He'd never, ever, in a million years, allow anyone to hear him talking to his fish, but he did because the evenings at home got lonely and his own voice used to be the only thing he had to break the silence. Talking to his fish was only marginally less sad than talking to himself, but it still made Connor feel better about it.

The little gourami swam up towards him. The loach ignored him, but Connor watched it creep its way along the surface of the glass, rasping at the faint scraps of algae that grew there. He opened the cabinet on their display stand and retrieved their food, taking out a measured pinch and sprinkling it into their water. The gourami flocked to it, and Connor took the time to look at each one, making sure they were happy and healthy.

He'd got the fish when he first moved into his flat because his tenancy agreement didn't allow a dog, but did specify that fish tanks were acceptable. They were the first pets Connor had ever had. He'd wanted everything as a child: dogs, cats, rabbits, guinea pigs, birds, fish, rats, hamsters, lizards, even spiders. Every time he'd been told no, that pets were a responsibility and that Connor needed to focus on his schooling, and his after school clubs, and the reading that Amanda and Elijah wanted him to do. He didn't meet organically with friends to go and explore the local area; he had extracurricular activities like karate, chess club, book club, and piano lessons that he was shipped to and abandoned at before being transported to the next until it was time to go home and go to bed.

He'd rebelled at university to begin with, or maybe it hadn't so much been a rebellion as a hurried endeavour to pack an adolescence into as short a time as possible. He'd drunk until he was sick a few times, gone to bed when the sun was well up, eaten pizza and burgers and smoked and everything else that he either hadn't been allowed to do, or which would have made Amanda talk to him in that firm, painful admonishment, letting him know how he'd disappointed her with his choices and how he could, and should, do better.

He hadn't liked any of it. He hadn't enjoyed it. Pizza and burgers left him feeling greasy inside and out, smoking made him cough and his clothes stink, going to bed late only left him tired, and drinking made him feel rotten the day after. Chloe had helped snap him out of it. She'd told him that he didn't have to do things he didn't enjoy just because he could in that terrifyingly insightful, fiercely intelligent way she had of seeing right through Connor's bullshit and making him think about what he actually wanted for himself.

He'd promised himself that as soon as he could, he'd get a pet. The fish were all he was allowed so that was what he'd got. He loved them because they were his and because he'd chosen them.

He put his small bag of groceries on the counter in his kitchen and returned to his sofa to make a call. Hank picked up on the fifth ring.

“Hey, honey,” Hank answered. “Long day?”

Honey. Hank slipped into endearments sometimes, and sweetheart and honey were the ones he used the most. He'd called Connor 'dear' a few times, mostly when he was putting on a display of being henpecked, and he'd called him 'darling' once ever when he was apologising for raising his voice at Connor, with real pain and remorse and more than a hint of self loathing in his face as he'd begged Connor to forgive him.

Connor liked sweetheart. He liked honey. He'd never been either of those things to anyone else.

“Yes and no,” he answered, curling up on the sofa and tucking his knees up onto it. “I've got a weird case, but I stopped for a drink with Itahyr and Larxene after work.”

“We really need to work on your taste in friends,” Hank replied, and Connor could hear the grimace in his voice.

Connor laughed. “Like Kier and Johnson are so much better,” he pointed out.

“Kier and Johnson are assholes,” Hank answered.

“So are Larxene and Itahyr,” Connor replied, before Hank could say what Connor knew he was going to, which was that Hank was also an asshole. Connor didn't think Hank was.

“Yeah, but you're not,” Hank told him. Connor couldn't help but smile into his phone.

“Nor are you.”

Hank grumbled into the line. “I can be when I want.”

And I can be a brat, Connor wanted to say, but didn't. “Everyone can be sometimes.” He included himself in that, of course, but the phrasing made it difficult for Hank to argue and turn this into a dispute over which of them had the capacity to be the bigger asshole. Connor knew Hank could be an asshole, sometimes, when he needed to be, or when he was scared and vulnerable and trying not to be, but Connor was worse because he could be an asshole with intent. He didn't lash out; he knew exactly what he was doing when he inflicted emotional damage.

Hank grumbled again, but changed the subject, accepting defeat. “So you're hanging out with them after work now?”

Connor smiled into his phone. Hank needed these reassurances sometimes. He needed to hear all the little ways that he hadn't condemned Connor to six months of purgatory. “I did today,” he said, “I might again.”

“Good,” Hank said, and Connor could hear that he meant it. “You should.”

“I might see if Markus, Simon, or Josh are up for it sometime, too. I miss them.” He messaged them regularly, talked to them less, but he'd seen them even less than that and their absence was a hole that Larxene and Itahyr wouldn't fill.

“Yeah, you should do that, too,” Hank agreed. “You know we all miss you. Markus' coffee is still shit compared to yours.”

“He puts too much sugar in,” Connor replied, cheerfully, and delighted in the hiss from Hank.

“Little shit.”

Connor laughed. The mention of coffee brought the memory of hazelnut to Connor's mind. “I think Sergeant Amicitia is flirting with me,” he said, ponderously.

Hank fell quiet for a split second. Then he asked, “Which one's he?”

“The big one,” Connor answered. Normally that sort of description wouldn't be very enlightening, but in the case of Gladio it was an apt descriptor. “He's dating DCI Scientia,” Connor added, as if Hank might need the reassurance that Connor wouldn't consider it in a million years and was only bringing it up in the interests of candour, “so I don't think he means anything by it, but he's,” strangely attentive, “more than just friendly.”

Connor heard Hank draw breath in through his nose. “You telling me because you want me to be jealous?” he asked.

Connor shook his head, even though Hank wouldn't be able to see it. “I'm telling you because I don't want you to be jealous. I'm working with him on this case. I don't want you to hear third hand gossip and worry.”

Hank actually laughed. It was only a shudder of air down his nose, but the microphone of the call amplified it directly into Connor's ear. “Sweetheart, it never would have crossed my fucking mind. I know that's not you.”

Connor bit his lip and smiled. It was nice hearing that. Hank had faith in him. Hank had faith in Connor's affection for and attraction to him, enough so that he'd dismiss any theorising that Connor had eyes for the big broad Sergeant with the dazzling smile and honey brown eyes. Gladio was nice to look at, but Hank was that and so much more. “I love you,” Connor told him, a little amazed by all the ways he found he fell in love with Hank all over again each day.

“I love you too.”

*

Connor drove the squad car with Gladio hunched up in the passenger seat beside him. Most cars weren't designed for somebody Gladio's height, and he had every right to grumble. Instead the ride was silent. Heading to a family to break the news someone they loved had been murdered would lay a smothering blanket over any mood.

The family hadn't filed a missing persons report until that morning. Connor desperately hoped that it wasn't out of some misguided notion than you had to wait twenty four hours to do that. The media had a lot to answer for in that regard. People died in much less time, but everyone knew you had to wait twenty four hours because they saw it in a film once. Twenty four hours was enough time for evidence to be destroyed, for secondary crime scenes to happen, for bodies to be dumped in distant, out of the way locations. Twenty four hours was enough time for suspects to get away.

The car had been retrieved from where it still sat in Morrisons' car park. George Love's wallet had been there, in the footwell of the passenger side back seat. The damage to his face had made IDing the body more difficult, but the driver's licence photograph was enough for now. Szayel was working on dental records, but those took a little more time.

They pulled up outside George Love's listed address. He lived here with a wife, Rita, thirty six, who had made the missing person's report, and a teenage son, Shane, aged fifteen. George worked at a Safestore, and Rita worked at the Premier Inn, not far from the multi-storey George had been thrown off.

Those facts made the inside of Connor's skull itch, but he tried to suppress it. He needed to get all the information he could before he started chasing after bereaved family members over strange coincidences.

The address was a little flat in a block of apartments that probably cost as much as Connor's own, although they weren't as nice. The lift shuddered on the way up, and the corridor smelled of ammonia and rotting alcohol. Gladio didn't comment, and neither did Connor, but he glanced at Gladio more than once, sharing his own wordless observations. This was a low income neighbourhood, with all the factors that threw in to the possibility that George Love had upset the wrong people.

Connor knocked on the door. A rotund black and white cat stared at him accusingly from a window.

When the door opened Connor found himself looking directly into a pair of brown eyes, in an acne spattered face. “Hello,” he said, keeping his voice level and soft. Behind the teenager was a corridor with a worn carpet that looked clean and reasonably maintained. “I'm Detective Inspector Roberts, this is Sergeant Amicitia,” he said, gesturing to Gladio. “Is your mother in?”

The eyes widened. Connor took in the untidy hairstyle, and faint spray of poorly shaved stubble on the underside of the boy's jaw. “Mum!” Shane shouted, keeping his hand on the door and calling backwards over his own shoulder. “It's the police!”

Rita emerged, then. She was average height for a woman, around five feet four, maybe five inches, and a little overweight like people without access to reasonably priced fresh fruits and vegetables often were. Her hair was brown, and slightly curled, and she squeezed her hands tight around each other when she looked at Connor. “Is this about my husband?”

“Are you Mrs Rita Love?” Connor asked, because he had to make sure. Rita nodded, and Shane moved out of the doorway, standing aside. “May we come in?” She nodded again. “Is there somewhere we could sit?”

She gestured with one arm to a door off the small corridor. Connor stepped inside with a, “Thank you,” and caught the glance that passed between Rita and her son. They seemed nervous. Gladio's footsteps thudded behind Connor, and the door clicked closed behind them.

“You can shift the cat,” Rita said, gesturing to an old and scratched sofa in a small lounge. The fireplace was one of the old panel ones from the 1970s that Connor honestly hadn't thought was still in use these days since people became more aware of the dangers of carbon monoxide.

Connor paused to pet the second cat, ginger and white, and thinner than its windowsill occupying brethren, and perched himself on the edge of the seat so as not to disturb it. “Please take a seat, Mrs Love.” The teenager followed Gladio into the room, and moved to be by his mother's side as she sank into an armchair.

“What've you found?” the boy asked.

Connor looked at him, and then back at Rita before he spoke. “I'm sorry to have to tell you this, but we believe your husband was found murdered,” he said, as gently as he could, watching both of their reactions, “two nights ago.” Rita swallowed. Shane went pale and stiff.

“How do you know it was murder?” Shane asked.

Connor kept himself carefully neutral. Shane didn't seem surprised that his father had been murdered, only that the police knew about it. There had been two figures disposing of the body over the railing on the security footage. There were two people in front of Connor now. “I'm sorry,” he said, “I'm not able to discuss that with you at the moment. I need to ask you some questions first.”

He reached into his pocket for his notebook, and the pen he kept clipped to it, but Mrs Love spoke before he'd fully withdrawn his hand. “I did it,” she said, firmly.

“Mum!”

“Did what, Mrs Love?” Connor asked, flipping to a fresh page in his notebook. He'd expected it, although he hadn't expected it to come out before he'd asked anything. He also wasn't sure if it was the truth or not, yet.

“I hit him,” she said, “in the head with a bottle.”

“Mum!” Shane grabbed his mother's shoulders, and she set her hand over his and looked up at him. Silence passed between them.

Connor took a deep breath and glanced at Gladio. “Can you take him out of the room, please, Sergeant?”

Gladio shepherded the boy out with one giant arm. Connor waited until the door was closed gently behind them both before he turned back to Mrs Love. “Start from the beginning.”

The story was a clumsy one. Rita had fading bruises on her arms and legs showing a history of abuse, and she allowed Connor to look at the lump on the back of her head from where her husband had grabbed her by the face and slammed her head into the wall. She said she snapped, got up, and grabbed the nearest item, which happened to be a full beer bottle, and hit him with it.

George had collapsed, but he was still alive and she'd been scared of what he might do when he woke up, so she'd tied his hands and feet with string from the kitchen while she thought about what to do next. She'd thought she might go to her mum's, or her brother's. But George hadn't woken up. She'd panicked, and cut the string off him and tried to rouse him but he was gone. She knew she couldn't call it in without getting arrested, so she bundled the body into the lift and down into his car, and then driven him to the multi-storey car park near where she worked to throw him off the top. She'd thought if it looked like he'd jumped that no one would question a head injury.

She hadn't thought about the cameras, or the bruising that tying him up would cause, or what to do afterwards. She'd driven his car around, realised that she wouldn't be able to get home if she left it, but that they wouldn't believe he'd jumped if his car wasn't nearby, gone to the supermarket near the car park, bought a few items to look like a legitimate shopper, and then called for a taxi to take her home.

Connor noted down her story, and had her show him the place where George had smashed her head into the wall. The bottle had been disposed of in the glass recycling which had yet to be collected. Connor made a note to have forensics check both.

Then he asked Rita and Shane to accompany him to the station for further questioning. They agreed, and Connor made the call to get a family liaison officer, and a social worker at the ready for Shane.

He left the two of them in the care of a couple of constables while he and Gladio headed back to their department and Connor ran a hand through his hair and sighed.

“She's protecting her son,” he said, finally.

Gladio nodded. “Reckon the vic was beating her when it happened?”

Connor could only nod at that. He did think Rita was being genuine about her husband being abusive, he just wasn't sure he believed she'd been the one to hit him with a bottle, and they knew she hadn't dumped his body alone. “I really hate this case,” he muttered, dropping into his chair at his desk. It had been weird, at first, and now it was just sad and he'd honestly prefer if it went back to weird.

Gladio's hand slid onto Connor's shoulder and squeezed. “Want me to grab you a coffee?” he offered.

Connor nodded. They had time to kill until the lawyer arrived for Rita, and an advocate was found for Shane. Connor wanted to tackle Shane first. He had a horrible suspicion that the moment they asked him what had happened he'd try and claim to have done everything his mother was claiming she'd done, and thus make his own life more complicated at the same time as Connor's. “Thanks,” he said.

Gladio's fingers squeezed his shoulder again, and then left. Connor pushed his hand through his hair one more time and then logged in to his computer.

The security video from Ballymore showed two people dragging George Love's body from the back seat of his car. Connor watched, going through it frame by frame, watching as the two fuzzy, distant figures co-ordinated with each other. The taller one did the bulk of the lifting, dragging George from the car, and holding on to the upper half of George's body as they manoeuvred him to the railing. The shorter one drove, carried the legs, retrieved the lost shoe and tossed it hard, and got back in the car first.

The railing had been quite tall. There was no way Rita, or the shorter figure on the video, could have manhandled a corpse over it on her own. There was even less of a chance that she'd have been able to transport her husband's body out of the flat, to a communal lift, and then into the back seat of his car on her own.

Or without being seen. That was a question he'd have to ask them both. Tying him up with string was suspicious too, but not necessarily unreasonable if Rita was as scared of him as she claimed. She could have run, but she didn't have many places to go, or much means to do it with especially not with a teenager in tow. Those were probably all thoughts that had occurred to her in the immediate aftermath.

Szayel's autopsy report wasn't much help, either. The suspected cause of death was listed as blunt force trauma leading to subarachnoid haemorrhage, and Szayel had been able to make out two distinct wounds, one pre-mortem and one post. George hadn't died immediately. He'd been hit, and then slowly bled into his skull until he'd died. It could have taken an hour, or it could have been over in minutes. Every precious second where Rita had dithered over what to do had increased the charge from manslaughter to murder.

Connor fired off requests to pull any CCTV that covered the block of flats, internally or otherwise, and a further request for all of Rita, Shane, and George's telephone records for that day. He put in another request for Rita's medical records; if she was being abused she may have a history of poorly explained injuries or hospital visits. He added Shane's records to the request, too, because men that hit their wives don't always stick to hitting their wives. Fifteen years old and almost six feet tall meant Shane was getting to the point of being too big and strong to target easily, but that didn't mean he hadn't been in the past.

A cardboard cup of coffee slid into Connor's peripheral vision. The sound of Gladio dragging a chair up to straddle next to Connor came next. “Lawyer's with the wife,” he said. “They're preparing a statement.”

Connor sighed and continued typing his entry for the case records. “Of course they are,” he said, quietly. He spared a glance for the coffee, and then for Gladio, adding, “Thank you.”

Gladio shrugged and fixed Connor with a sympathetic smile. “No worries.” His smile dropped as he continued, “Advocate for the kid should be here within the hour.”

Connor nodded at that information. “Good,” he said. “I want to interview him before we go back to Rita.”

“You don't think it might be better to let his mum protect him?” Gladio asked, his voice low.

Connor felt words come to his mouth. He held them back. He wanted to tell Gladio that he intended to protect them both, as much as he could. He could probably see to it that the kid got manslaughter and the mother accessory, but they'd have no choice but to charge the mother with murder if they let her do what she was trying, and the kid would still get an accessory charge for helping her dispose of the body. A victim of domestic abuse defending themselves stood a good chance in court, but the moment they'd decided to tie George up and throw him off a nine-storey building to hide it they crossed a line.

And it was unfair. It was horrible and unfair. It was unfair that they'd lived in fear, and unfair that they'd had to escape it like that, and it was unfair that Connor had to do this to them now. But he did, because the law couldn't be applied subjectively based on anyone's feelings. That was a terrible road all of its own.

“I think it would be an injustice to force him to let his mother protect him when I don't doubt he wants to do the same for her,” Connor replied.

He drank his coffee, typed up the rest of his notes from the mother's initial confession, and then went down to where Shane was being attended by a child advocate to interview him.

Shane looked smaller seated across the small table in the very blank interview room than he had in his own home. He looked younger, too. His left leg waggled nervously under the table, and he kept his hands clasped tightly in his lap.

“She didn't do it,” he said, as soon as Connor had done the initial opening for the recording and before Connor had the chance to ask any questions. “She didn't kill him, I did.”

Connor just nodded. It was less intimidating for a juvenile witness if there was only one officer in the room, and Gladio cut an imposing figure, so he was outside watching the video feed. “Why don't you tell me what happened?”

“I hit him,” Shane said, his eyes fixed on the table. “He was going to kill her, so I grabbed one of his beers from the kitchen and I hit him with it.”

Connor kept his voice gentle and soothing. “You thought he was going to kill your mum?”

Shane nodded. When he spoke again his voice trembled. “He kept saying it. He was drunk and he found out I'd been wagging school. He was gonna start on me, but she got in the way and told him not to touch me. He grabbed her by her face and smacked her head into the wall. He said he was gonna to kill her. I shouted at him to stop.”

But George Love hadn't stopped. Shane painted a convincing picture, and Connor nodded and clarified details as he needed. Rita's head had been smacked into the wall twice before George had let her go. She was cowering on the floor when Shane had darted for the kitchen and grabbed the first thing to hand: a bottle of grolsch out of the cardboard box on the counter. He hadn't gone for a knife because he hadn't meant to kill him. Shane had hit George once over the back right side of his head and he'd collapsed, but he was still breathing. He'd needed to help his mother stand. She'd told him to grab the ball of string out of the kitchen drawer and tie George up, terrified that he'd get back up any minute to kill them both. Rita ordered Shane to pack a bag, saying that they needed to run. She tried to corral the cats into their carriers. Shane estimated it was half an hour before they realised his father wasn't breathing any more.

He and his mother argued for a further ten minutes about what to do then. He knew they should phone the police, or an ambulance, Shane had said. His mother, knowing that Shane risked being charged with murder, had let her fear of losing her son take over. She'd decided they had to make it look like a suicide. If they threw the body off a tall building it would explain the head injury when he was found.

“How did you get him out of the flat?” Connor asked, softly.

Shane shrugged. “Everyone knows dad drinks,” he said, quietly. “We cut the string off him and dragged him out between us. It just looked like he was drunk and we were going to take him to the hospital. It wouldn't be the first time, if anyone saw us.”

George Love's medical records would corroborate that. Connor gave the reply an acknowledging nod. “He must have been heavy,” he commented, keeping his eyes on Shane. His leg had stopped bouncing beneath the table the more he talked.

“He was.” Shane's voice was low, quiet, weighed down with the reality of what he and his mother had done.

“Why did you choose Ballymore?” Connor pressed.

Shane shrugged. “We drove around for a bit looking for somewhere. Mum reckoned that place would be easy enough to get into to do it. She works near there.”

They'd struggled to get him over the railing due to how high it was. Shane had done most of the lifting, easing him up onto it and then tipping George's weight over the top until he fell. George's shoe had been pulled off in the process so Rita had retrieved it and thrown it after him. Then they'd got back in the car and driven around a while, thinking that they needed to ditch it. They took so long because they knew they needed to ditch it somewhere near to the body so it did look like a suicide.

Rita had decided that the supermarket car park worked just fine. She hadn't thought about the security cameras in Ballymore until after they'd got back home. Shane had helped her scrub the bloodstains from the hall with bleach, and they'd decided to file a missing persons report after a day because it would look less suspicious.

“You realise,” Connor said, as he was closing out the interview, “that this will lead to criminal charges for both of you?”

Shane swallowed. The signs of exhaustion were obvious in him, and Connor didn't want to push things much further. He picked at his nails and looked up from the table directly into Connor's eyes. “I know,” he said, “but I'm a minor, right? I'll get less than her.”

Connor left Shane with his advocate after wrapping up the interview. He met Gladio in the recording room and shared a look with him before leaning back against the wall, letting the tension slip from his shoulders as they sagged and Connor released a sigh he'd been holding for much too long.

“Think the kid's telling the whole truth?” Gladio asked.

Connor slipped his hand into his pocket and closed his fingers around the quarter he was carrying. He'd swapped them out last night at home; he liked to give them all a turn, but the silver dollar stayed with him at all times. “No,” he said, “but I think he's telling us more truth than his mother.”

They might never get the whole truth about what had happened that day. Who had made which decisions, and who had encouraged the other to do what might never be clear. Both Rita and Shane agreed that the idea to tie George Love up had been Rita's, and so had the idea to throw him off the car park roof. Rita's injuries tallied with what they'd both said, too.

It was enough. It was enough to charge them both and then sort out the mess later, and let the defence lawyers do their part and try to give this a marginally less shitty outcome than it was heading for.

“At least I knew who the bad guys were in trafficking,” Connor muttered, before he pushed himself back off the wall. He hated giving plea deals, always had, but that was when the people being offered the deals didn't deserve them. Guilty pleas to lesser charges, to smooth the way, might be the better road to take here, but it still gnawed at him to have to charge a victim of one crime with a more serious one against her abuser.

When he and Gladio went in to Rita they were given her statement. She looked devastated when Connor told her what Shane had said, but insisted that she didn't want to change any of her own statement in light of it. Her version of events insisted she'd been the one to hit her husband, and to tie him up, but did admit that she'd asked Shane to help her dispose of his body.

“Where was Shane when your husband was attacking you?” Connor asked, talking to her as gently as he had to Shane.

“In the kitchen,” she answered.

“He saw you grab the bottle?” Connor pushed. Gladio remained impassive beside him. Asking for small details was how you tripped people up in a fabricated story. Unless they'd planned the whole story down to the minutiae they had to make details up as they went. The lies they told could let you see the shape of the truth.

Rita nodded, and then remembered the recording. “Yeah,” she said.

Connor tilted his head slightly. “Did Shane pick the bottle up afterwards?”

Rita froze, her eyes wide. It took her a second too long to answer, “Yeah. Yeah, he picked it up.”

Which meant his fingerprints were on the bottle, and fingerprints were another factor Rita, in her panic, hadn't considered until just now. Connor nodded and smiled at her. “So we can expect to find his prints on there?”

Rita nodded again, a little too fast. “Yeah.”

“Nice touch asking about the prints,” Gladio commented, as they left the interview room. The day was already running late but they couldn't afford to go until they'd untangled at least a little of the mess.

Connor just shrugged, pulling out his phone to send a message to Hank and let him know he'd be late. “It means they didn't wipe it. Forensics will do the rest.” The grip and placement would show everything, if they were lucky. Maybe the kid had just picked up the bottle to dispose of it, or maybe Rita had. Once they knew who'd struck the victim it was all down to lawyers.

“So what are we gonna hold them on until then?” Gladio asked, folding his gigantic arms.

Connor looked up at him, and afforded him a small, dry smile. “Unlawful disposal of a body,” he answered. “At least that's something they both admit.” They would have to add the other charges later, when they knew what they were.

*

Sumo's gigantic fluffy paws skidded on the floor as he rounded the corner to greet Connor. Connor braced himself for impact as he crouched, and readied himself to receive seventy kilos of high speed canine full in the chest.

“Missed you too, Sumo,” Connor wheezed, wrapping his arms around the dog.

Hank wasn't far behind, wearing Connor's favourite grey hoodie and a smile. “Shit,” he said, “you look done in.”

Connor sighed. “You have no idea,” he replied, pushing himself back to his feet and removing his coat. Hank let him hang it up by the door before dragging him into a firm embrace. Connor closed his eyes and buried his face in Hank's neck. He'd worn aftershave, and his shampoo smelled fresh. Connor curled his fingers in the back of Hank's hoodie and lost himself to the scent.

“You wanna talk about it?” Hank asked.

Connor swallowed and shook his head. He didn't want to talk about it. He was charging a kid and his mother for killing the man that had been abusing them both. He'd spent the entire journey home with that fact going around in his head and now that Hank had him in his arms he just wanted to put it aside.

“Let me run you a bath,” Hank said, responding to Connor's shaken head and silence. “Then we can order from that Korean place you like.”

Connor let himself lean back while staying in Hank's arms. “Will you join me?”

A smirk crept across Hank's face. “In the bath? Sure.”

Connor endeavoured to roll his eyes, but the flattered smile he felt pulling at his lips no doubt ruined the effect. “You're getting to be insatiable.” It was nice, Connor thought. It was nice that Hank had the confidence for it, and it was nice to be desired that much.

Sometimes Connor wondered just how insatiable Hank might be if Connor gave him a whole day to do anything and everything he might like.

Hank grunted, letting his hand drift down Connor's back. “You ain't complained so far,” he pointed out. He leaned in towards Connor, and Connor closed his eyes as Hank's beard brushed against his nose, and his lips pressed to his forehead. It was followed with a firm smack to his backside before Hank's arms retreated. “Go on, I'll get the bath going.”

The swat made Connor jump, and he caught a flash of Hank's grin before Hank turned away towards the bathroom. Connor paused to give Sumo an extra minute of fuss before retreating to the bedroom to change out of his suit. The sound of water running did its best to pull a smile onto Connor's face.

When Connor made his way to the bathroom Hank wasn't there. He dipped his fingers into the still filling bath, adjusting the temperature with a little more cool water, and then adding a splash of radox. Connor's shoulders ached, and he knew he had a tension headache building, which would be his defense if Hank commented on the addition of bubble bath, but the truth was that Connor just wanted whatever little luxuries he could get right now.

Connor had already sunk himself into the bath when Hank returned. “Sorry,” he said, closing the bathroom door behind him. “Figured I should take Sumo for a quick walk now so I don't have to do it later.”

“It's fine,” Connor said, softly. He was glad Hank had thought of it, if he was honest. For all he loved Sumo, Connor would rather spend the rest of his evening curled up with Hank in his pyjamas.

“That bad, huh?” Hank asked, after a moment, although the question was rhetorical. His face matched the adrift emptiness Connor felt right now, his mouth pressed into an empathetic frown and his brows heavy. “Still want me to join you?”

“Yes,” Connor answered.

Hank didn't ask again, and Connor watched as Hank reached for his collar and dragged his t-shirt off over his head. It revealed the soft curve of Hank's stomach, and the meat of his chest. Connor let his eyes roam over the swell of Hank's arms and the breadth of his shoulders. His jeans went next, showing off thick thighs, toned calves, and pale skin.

Hank's weight loss had stalled at just over a stone. Connor was glad. He wanted Hank to be healthier, not thinner, and Hank did look healthier these days. Connor sat up in the bath, folding his arms over the edge and resting his chin on his forearms as he watched Hank drop his clothes in the laundry basket and then finally shed his underwear.

Hank turned around, met Connor's eyes, and cleared his throat self consciously. He strode to the bath without looking at Connor again, but did gesture to his body with one hand. “I don't know what it is here you like looking at so much,” he muttered.

“All of it,” Connor answered. He shuffled forward, making room for Hank to step into the bath behind him. “You look at me,” he pointed out.

Hank hissed as his foot entered the water. They had different opinions of how hot was hot enough, and Connor always edged slightly towards the too hot end of Hank's scale. Hank took a moment before he brought his other leg in too. “Yeah but you're young and fit,” Hank pointed out. “I'm not exactly eye candy.”

Hank sank down, slowly, giving another hiss as he took a seat in the water behind Connor. The water level rose, threatening to spill over the edge, and Connor lifted his calves up, resting them on the rim of the bath while the overflow sucked the excess away. “I have non-traditional taste in eye candy,” Connor replied.

Hanks hands settled at his hips below the surface, and his legs slipped down either side of Connor's waist before Hank pulled him back towards him. Connor let himself be moved until he was perched on Hank's lap and leaning back against Hank's chest. “No kidding,” Hank said, folding his arms around Connor to hold him in place.

Connor sighed and closed his eyes, turning his forehead in towards Hank's cheek. Hank's beard scratched at his skin. “I like your shoulders,” he told him, softly, “and your back, and your arms.”

“Oh,” Hank replied, with a teasing lilt to his voice, “so it's a size queen thing.”

Connor twisted his head away from Hank so he could direct a pointed glare to the ceiling. “Yes, but please don't call me that.”

Hank chuckled under him, and Connor sighed but felt the strains of his day melting in the warmth of Hank's embrace. His mood lifted in turn. Calling Connor a size queen was a good natured jab from Hank. Hank found it flattering that Connor enjoyed his thick arms and broad chest as much as he did.

Hank's arms tightened around Connor's chest for a moment, and a kiss was pressed to his shoulder in silent apology. “Looking forward to tomorrow?” he asked.

Connor smiled and closed his eyes. They took turns arranging dates, and Connor liked to keep them to one per week although he also happily counted a night in on the sofa with some film they might not see to the end as a date. This week had been Hank's arrangement, and Hank had decided that Connor should experience the Sea Life aquarium. “Very much,” he answered. “They have an octopus.”

“I can't believe you've never been before,” Hank told him. His hands drifted across Connor's stomach and along his spread thighs.

Connor allowed his own hands to settle on Hank's legs where they bracketed him in the water. “It would be weird for an adult to go on their own,” Connor pointed out. He didn't need to remind Hank that Amanda and Elijah had never been fans of animals. He'd been taken to the zoo as a child, but never by them; it had been pre-arranged school trips.

“Maybe,” Hank grunted, reluctantly. “But you won't be alone tomorrow.”

Connor smiled and tucked his forehead back against Hank's cheek. “I think I'll enjoy that more.” Hank's cheek shifted under Connor's forehead as he smiled, and Hank's fingers began to drag in slow circles over the skin on the inside of Connor's thighs. “I still have to come up with something for next week,” Connor admitted.

Hank's hands fell still. “About that,” he said, quietly.

Connor leaned to the side so he could look at Hank properly. Hank's arms returned to Connor's waist and folded around him, as if Hank was worried he might bolt. “You know I'm seeing Cole next Saturday,” Hank began. His eyes didn't meet Connor's, but his mouth pulled into a frown as he paused to line his thoughts up. “I wondered if,” he ventured, haltingly, “you might like to come too?”

Connor's heart lurched in his chest. “And meet Cole?”

“Yeah,” Hank breathed. Connor watched as he pressed his lips tightly together and bit the inside of them. “Unless you're not ready for that yet,” he added, in a burst of second guessing. “It's fine if you're not.”

Connor eased himself up so he could twist and look at Hank more clearly. He knew what Hank was asking of him. Meeting Cole was a big step in their relationship. They didn't live together, yet, but introducing a child, even one that was technically an adult, to a partner was a good indication of the seriousness of the relationship.

“I am,” Connor told him. “I'd like to.”

The tension slipped from Hank's face and his blue eyes lit up as surely as if Connor had just proposed. Which was why Connor felt a little guilty about asking, “Hank? Does he know about me?”

Hank blinked, but a trace of that frown returned to the corner of his mouth. “He knows I'm seeing someone,” he answered.

It was an evasive answer. They both knew it. Connor fixed Hank with a stern look. “Does he know that the person you're seeing is a man?” he asked. Then, because Itahyr's needling yesterday jumped back to his mind, “Let alone one only eleven years older than himself?”

Hank's jaw moved as if he was preparing a reply, and then thought better of whatever he'd been about to say. His eyes dropped from Connor's gaze. “I wanted to see how you felt about it first,” he confessed.

Connor felt his heart sink back into its proper place in his chest. He folded his arms over Hank's and settled back into him. “Cole's the most important person in the world to you,” Connor said, softly. “I'd be honoured to meet him, but it's not fair to either of us if you spring me on him without warning.”

Hank's chest rose under Connor's back, and he coiled his arms tightly around Connor. “You're the two most important people in the world to me,” he corrected, quietly. “Would it be okay if I called him to tell him?”

Connor recognised the unspoken request in Hank's question. He wanted Connor to be there to support him while he came out to his son. Connor bit his lip, and then twisted himself to roll over so he was sprawled on his stomach across Hank. The water splashed and sloshed with his movement. “I think doing it over the phone might be best,” he told Hank, quietly. It would give both of them an easy escape route if the conversation got uncomfortable, and allowed Hank to be in familiar territory, too.

Hank's hand rose to Connor's hair. His wet skin caught and snagged at the dry strands, and he smoothed his fingers over it instead of combing through it. “I'll call him after we've ordered,” he decided.

Connor smiled at him as softly as he dared and then pushed himself up to find Hank's lips with his own. Sometimes words weren't enough, and there were better ways that Connor could convey his feelings to Hank with his mouth, ones less likely to be misunderstood. His lips pressed to Hank's, and his tongue slipped forward as he coaxed Hank to open up for him.

Hank's breath fluttered against Connor's skin as he exhaled and parted his lips, meeting Connor's probing tongue with his own. Connor kept his movements sweet, brushing his tongue over Hank's in small presses and gentle movements. Hank's hand drifted down Connor's back, settling over his buttock and cupping it, holding him in place.

When Connor pulled away his lips tingled with the memory of Hank's, and his heart shivered erratically beneath his ribs. Hank's blue eyed gaze was soft as Connor looked up into it, and thick, rough fingers brushed tenderly over the crest of Connor's cheek. “I'll be right here,” Connor promised.

They finished bathing with Hank's thumbs digging knots out of Connor's shoulders and neck. His grip was firm, and the heat of the bath had loosened Connor up enough that the pain and subsequent relief was blissful. “You keep making noises like that and we'll be skipping dinner,” Hank warned when Connor let his head fall back and a gasp escaped his throat.

They dressed, with Hank pulling on shorts and a t-shirt, and Connor pulling on his pyjama trousers and one of Hank's old band shirts. He was tempted to steal Hank's hoodie and slip on boxer briefs beneath it, but that would be a surefire way of not getting to eat kimchi tonight.

He curled up tightly against Hank's side when he drew his phone out to call Cole. Hank draped an arm over Connor's shoulders and stared at his phone for a long moment before he finally hit the call button. Cole answered on the third ring.

“Hey dad.” The greeting came easily. Hank and Cole talked as often as Connor and Amanda did these days, although they saw each other much more frequently.

Hank's arm tightened around Connor before he replied. “Hey kiddo,” he said. “You had your exams yet?”

Cole's voice groaned from the other end of the line. He sounded similar to his father, with the same depth and rumble to his tone. “Not all of them.”

Hank beamed. His pride in his son was obvious, and Connor couldn't help but watch the light in his eyes and the way he smiled as they talked. It was intoxicating, and filled Connor with his own affectionate warmth. “You'll be fine,” he reassured him.

Cole gave a non-committal grunt as if he wasn't so sure himself. “That what you called for?”

Hank took a deep breath. Connor could feel him steeling himself, although Cole would only be able to hear it. “Actually it's about your match next week,” Hank said, and his nerves were obvious in his voice, too.

“You're still coming, right?”

Connor swallowed. Cole's sounded uncertain, and hurt. It wasn't hard to guess why. Clearly a few months of keeping promises hadn't completely healed some old wounds.

“Yeah!” Hank reacted as if Cole's reaction was a punch to his gut. He closed his eyes and hissed a barely audible 'fuck' before he continued, “I'm coming. I wouldn't miss it.” Connor settled his hand on Hank's arm, and Hank looked down at him gratefully. “I wanted to ask,” he began, turning away from Connor again the way that Hank always did when he was about to bare something that made him feel vulnerable, “if it'd be okay if I brought someone with me?”

“Who?” Cole asked.

Connor bit his lip. Hank remained quiet for a long moment, and Connor saw him lick his lips before he replied, “You remember me telling you I was seeing someone?” he asked. There was silence on the other end of the line as Cole waited for his dad to finish. After a couple of seconds Hank added, “His name's Connor.”

The silence dragged on. Connor settled his hand in Hank's and squeezed. Hank waited as long as he could, but the silence was uncomfortable to begin with, and quickly became painful. “You still there, kiddo?” Hank asked.

“Connor.” The name was repeated with dull surprise.

“Yeah,” Hank confirmed. He squeezed Connor's hand tightly.

“You're gay?”

“No,” Hank replied, quickly. Cole cut him off again before he could explain further.

“But you're dating a man.”

Hank heaved a sigh. “I go both ways, Cole,” he said, his voice soft and weary. “Have done since long before I met your mom.”

The silence stretched out a little bit longer. Connor wondered if Cole was alone and what he was doing on the other end of the line. Would he be sitting down with the shock, or pacing the nervous energy of the conversation out in his dorm room? “Is that why you two divorced?”

The question caught Hank off guard because his immediate reaction was to ask, “What?” It was followed up with a, “Jesus Christ. No.”

“But you're into men,” Cole began.

“Fucking hell,” Hank groaned. Connor squeezed his hand so that Hank looked down at him. Their eyes met, and Connor did his best to remind Hank to stay calm with nothing more than the earnest lift of his brows. Hank sighed, and nodded. Message received and understood. “I loved your mom,” he said into the phone, and he gave Connor an apologetic frown before he added, “I always will because she gave me you. It wasn't anything to do with me being bi. I just wasn't the person she needed,” Hank explained. When he swallowed he licked his lips. “You deserved better. Both of you.”

The words twisted unpleasantly in Connor's chest. He hated hearing Hank put himself down, especially where his relationship with Cole was concerned. He wondered how long Cole had wondered why his father had fallen out of his life. Connor could see the shape of a familiar insecurity in Cole's questions, mirrored in Hank's words.

“I'm trying to be the dad you deserve now,” Hank continued, “and Connor's the one that gave me the kick in the ass I needed for that. So I'd like you to meet him.”

The silence seemed to stretch on for a painful length of time. Eventually Cole said, “You can bring him,” so quietly that Connor could barely hear it.

“Only if you're sure,” Hank said, putting the control in Cole's court. Then he added, “I really think you'll like him.”

“It sounds like you do,” Cole answered, his voice still quiet and thoughtful.

Hank nodded. A small smile crept onto his face and Connor felt warmth flood through his chest when Hank replied, “I do.”

Silence blossomed again. Cole was the one to break it. “What's he like?”

Hank gave a huff and turned to look pointedly at Connor. “Smarter than me,” he said, flashing Connor a smile as he looked into his eyes, “better dressed than me.”

“There's seventy million people in this country that fit that description, dad.”

Connor couldn't help the snort of laughter that escaped him. He clamped his hand over his mouth to suppress the rest of it, which became harder when he saw the look Hank was giving him. It was at once offended and amused.

“Was that him?” Cole asked, down the phone.

“Yeah,” Hank answered, still doing his best to give Connor a stern glare and failing miserably. Connor's amusement at Cole's needling dragged a smile onto Hank's face even as he fought it. “He thinks you're fuckin' hilarious.”

Connor kept his hand clamped over his mouth as he fought to control his laughter. He dared to let it slip enough for him to say a soft, “I'm sorry,” to Hank.

Hank shook his head and looked away, but the corner of his mouth remained curled upwards in a grin. “I've changed my mind,” he said, “You two are just gonna gang up on me together.”

That dragged a small laugh from Cole. “I wanna meet him,” he decided, hesitantly.

Hank softened at the words. “Yeah?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Cole answered.

Hank smiled and looked down at Connor once more. Connor smiled back at Hank. “Then I'll bring him next week.”

*

Shane Love's palm print was found wrapped around the neck of a broken bottle of grolsch in the glass recycling. By the time forensics had unearthed it he already had a proper lawyer and had agreed to plead guilty to a charge of manslaughter. Rita, once confronted with the facts, was charged with accessory manslaughter.

It would be weeks before they went before a judge. Guilty pleas meant they didn't have to endure the time wasting procedure that was a full trial, but that didn't make Connor feel any better. It was another case swiftly cleared, but that fact left a bitter taste in Connor's mouth. He was being lauded for doing what felt like the wrong thing. He'd spent some of the rest of his week helping Itahyr sift through the backlog he'd developed while working on Lumi's case; burying his head in analysing computer histories kept Connor's mind off the rest of it.

Hank was quiet, too. Whatever case he and Markus were working on was weighing on his mind as heavily as the Love case had Connor's. Neither of them wanted to talk about it, but they found solace in each other's company each evening.

Hank was brighter by Saturday, vibrating with nervous excitement as they drove to Reading. The football pitch wasn't much more than a big field with a couple of goalposts. Hank found them a spot by the pitch near midfield.

When the players made their way onto the pitch Cole was instantly recognisable. He had his father's height, placing his cropped dirty blond hair several inches above most of the other boys. He took up a centre-half position, marking him as a defensive member of the team.

Hank's arm dropped over Connor's shoulders. “There he is,” he said, pointing towards Cole, with pride brimming in his voice.

“Obviously,” Connor replied, glancing at Hank out of the corner of his eyes. “He looks just like you.”

When the whistle blew to kick off Connor kept his eyes on Cole. Hank's arm hung on Connor's shoulder, and Connor knew he was watching his son as much as the ball in play, too. Cole stuck to his mark like glue, but also kept a firm eye on what the ball was doing.

The pitch was outlined with a few dozen spectators. It was hardly the thousands Hank had promised when he'd said he'd take Connor to a game, but that didn't matter. The crowd had an energy that built as the game went on, and attempts on the goals were made by both sides. Hank bellowed enthusiastic support when Cole tackled the ball away from another player and passed it quickly to one of his teammates. Even Connor found himself getting wrapped up in the crowd's feelings as shouts and cries erupted in response to movements on the pitch.

Hank got particularly invested when one of Cole's team were fouled, granting them a free kick near their opponent's goal. Cole moved up the pitch to support his side as it was taken, and his team managed to whip the ball around the defensive line. Anticipation gripped Connor's chest as they made their move, and managed to slip the ball past the keeper with an impressively forceful kick.

Hank cried out in joy, and then dragged Connor in under his arm again. Connor caught Cole's eye as he headed back to his defensive position. The smile on his face was identical to his father's too.

It turned out to be the only goal of the game. When it was over Cole trotted over towards them both, his face still plastered in a smile. Hank abandoned Connor to wrap his son in a hug, ruffling his hair. “Good game, kid.”

Cole hugged his father back, and then straightened up. His eyes fell on Connor, and Connor did his best to smile despite the nervous somersaults his stomach performed. “Thanks,” he said. “You must be Connor.”

“It's a pleasure to meet you,” Connor said. Up close Cole looked even more like Hank. He was an inch taller, but they had the same blue eyes, and Cole's untidy blond hair framed a face with similar cheekbones and nose. Connor hadn't seen many pictures of Hank when he was younger, although he'd found one or two, but it would be easy to think you might be able to forge some using Cole. “I've heard a lot about you.”

He held his hand out towards Cole, and then wondered if that was the socially appropriate thing when meeting your boyfriend's teenage son or not. Cole seemed equally unsure because he glanced down at Connor's hand before he took it. “Yeah,” he said, shaking Connor's hand with a firm grip that he quickly dropped, “I guess I have too, kinda.” His voice, without the filter of a phone's microphone, was still very similar to Hank's, although you'd never be able to mistake the two. Cole's accent was different, and his timbre was smoother.

Hank sank his hand into his own hair and grimaced awkwardly. “You gonna get changed?” he asked, his attention fixed on Cole. “Then we can take you for pizza.”

Cole nodded and grinned, apparently immune to any of his father's uneasiness. “Yeah, I'll be ten minutes.”

He turned to head back across the pitch, jumping at one of his teammates and ensnaring him in a friendly headlock as he rejoined them. Connor watched with a soft smile. “He looks so much like you.” He'd seen pictures of Cole, but they were older pictures from when Cole was still in the depths of puberty. He'd been gangling limbs and missing teeth, and still babyfaced in most of the images Connor had seen.

Hank scoffed. “He's way better looking than I ever was,” he replied, his voice still overflowing with pride.

Connor smiled and turned towards Hank, gripping the lapels of his coat in both hands and tugging them straight. It would be a bad idea to reach up and kiss Hank right now, in front of Cole's friends, and their families, and who knew who else might be here, but the temptation was there anyway. “I doubt that,” he answered, and then conceded, “although I may be biased.”

“Definitely,” Hank agreed. His thumb brushed over Connor's cheek as if he was considering throwing caution to the wind and moving in to steal a kiss, too. Like Connor, he held himself back, settling for slinging his arm around Connor's shoulders in a familiar and possessive gesture instead. “He must be beating them off with a stick.”

Connor murmured wordlessly. “Having heard stories of your younger days,” he pointed out, “I think that's an apt description.”

Hank chuckled. “Yeah,” he agreed, fondly, “until Ricky Martin came along and everyone caught Latin fever,” he added, taking the time to flash Connor a devilish grin. “Then Marius started getting a look in.”

“I'll tell him you said that,” Connor threatened, without malice.

Hank continued to laugh. “He'd fucking agree with me.”

Cole returned a few minutes later wearing jogging bottoms and a hoodie. Connor could detect the faint odour of teenage boy coming from him; a distinctive mixture of sweat and too much deodorant making a vain attempt cover the stink. He expected, and certainly hoped, Cole would be jumping in the shower once they got him back to his dormitory.

Hank didn't seem to notice, or perhaps he didn't mind. He clapped his arm around Cole in much the same way as he had Connor and led both of them back towards the car, breaking down the events of the football match with Cole as they went.

Connor settled himself into the back seat, citing that, “I'm the shortest, and it's not often I can say that.” Hank and Cole needed the legroom more.

Hank drove them to a pizza restaurant called Thirsty Bear with an ease that suggested it was a regular spot for himself and Cole on their bi-weekly visits. From the outside it looked like a traditional pub, the sort you found on television populated by middle aged men who spent too long on the fruit machines, nursing a pint. Inside didn't look much different, except that the place clearly made most of its money from restaurant sales rather than drinks.

They sat, and ordered. Hank got himself a root beer float, while Cole got a bottle of brewdog. Connor stuck to his preferred soda water.

He sat and listened as Hank regaled them both with stories about when Cole was a child. “I've never moved as fast as I did to hide that damn bike,” Hank said, with a bright grin on his face, recounting a time that a six year old Cole had almost discovered his parents wrapping his Christmas presents.

Cole was flushed with a touch of embarrassment, but his grin matched his father's. “I loved that bike,” he confessed.

“I know you did,” Hank confirmed. “You came off it enough times to give me a damned coronary though.”

Cole groaned, his eyes going wide as he looked at Hank. “Do you remember when I broke my arm? I thought mum was never going to calm down.”

Hank huffed a long exhalation as he sat back in his chair. “Fuck yeah, she was so pissed at me.”

Connor tilted his head, addressing Cole when he asked, “What happened?”

Cole grinned at the memory. “I was,” he hesitated, and looked at Hank as if to check his facts, “eight?” Hank nodded, his lips tightly pursed. “And staying at dad's for the weekend. He took me to this mountain biking track,” he said, his grin dissolving into the fond smile of recollection. “I had the full gear on, helmet, elbow pads, everything. Took a ramp, landed wrong, broke my arm. It didn't even hurt at first but when I was in the hospital,” he shook his head, leaving Connor to fill in the blanks. The pain had hit then, and an eight year old boy had let everyone know about it.

“Sarah nearly killed me,” Hank said, referring to his ex-wife. “Especially because it meant he was in a cast for picture day.”

Cole laughed, and took a drink from his bottle. “I forgot about that! Oh my god, everyone thought I was the shit because I'd broken my arm doing something cool.”

“I've still got your school picture from back then,” Hank said, with a bright smile.

“Oh, fuck,” Cole responded, his eyes going wide and sinking into his seat as embarrassment began to take over.

A noise broke into Connor's awareness. Hank was saying, “I should dig it out,” before it caught his attention too and he frowned down at his own pocket. When he retrieved his phone he frowned. “Sorry,” he told them both, before he answered it. “Anderson.”

Connor couldn't hear what conversation was taking place on the other end of the line, but he saw Hank scowl, and glance at him and Cole, waving a hand at them before he got up and left the table.

Cole frowned, and the joviality seemed to sap from him slowly. “It's work,” he said to Connor, dully.

Connor frowned at him. He remembered Hank breaking his heart over how he'd prioritised work over Cole too much in the past, and obviously Cole still felt the scars from those wounds. “He's not supposed to be on call today,” Connor said, trying to be as reassuring as he could.

Cole frowned at his bottle, and then looked up into Connor's eyes. His eyes were so much like Hank's. “So are you a copper too?”

Connor nodded, offering Cole a small smile. “Yeah,” he said. “I work murder investigations.”

Cole huffed, sounding genuinely impressed. “Huh. Cool.”

“Not really,” Connor replied, his smile fading a little. If it sounded cool it was only because somebody didn't know how much paperwork was involved, and how taxing picking up the pieces of shattered lives to find out what happened to them could be.

Cole frowned and danced his fingers over the neck of his bottle of beer. “You don't like it?”

Connor blinked and considered how to phrase his answer. “I do,” he said, honestly, because the work was rewarding, most of the time, “but there's a lot more boring security footage involved than people think.”

Cole grunted again. His eyes went to Hank, who was making his way out of the restaurant, presumably so he could talk in more privacy. Connor watched him too and wondered if there had been some major incident or breakthrough in his own recent case that required dragging him away.

“I know your father and I might be a lot to take in,” Connor said, softly, “but feel free to ask if there's anything you want to know.”

Cole frowned down at the table and shrugged. Like this he looked more like the vulnerable boy he might once have been. “He's told me about you,” he said, “he just didn't say you were, you know, a he.”

Connor smiled, and wondered what exactly Hank had been saying about him. That he was seeing someone, certainly, and possibly how long for. He didn't seem to have mentioned that Connor was a police officer, but subjects such as the fact Hank was getting romantically entangled with one of his subordinates might have been too delicate to bring up with his son.

“He said that you were why he stopped drinking,” Cole admitted, quietly.

Connor swallowed awkwardly and shook his head. “He's why he stopped drinking,” he said. “I just took away his excuses.” His eyes followed Hank's path out of the door and lingered there. He hoped Hank wouldn't take too long. “Your father has a tendency to run from other people's emotions by wallowing in his own. I reminded him that his feelings aren't always the important ones.” He turned his attention back to Cole and flashed him a brief smile.

Something warm flickered on Cole's face. “He did say you don't put up with his bullshit,” he said, “which I guess means the same thing.” His eyes met Connor's again, and then dropped. “He seems better.”

Connor knew his smile was lopsided. Cole was tentatively reaching out and trying to thank him, and that made Connor feel a little awkward. “I hope so,” he said, softly. “He's certainly happier with you back in his life.”

A weak smile passed across Cole's face. “When I got that message from him back in November I almost deleted it,” Cole confessed, “but he sounded genuine, y'know? And I kept hoping that this time he might be different. I thought I hated him, and that,” he faltered. His voice wobbled. “I didn't need him, but,” he tailed off again, and his mouth pressed into a small, tight frown. “Thanks,” he said, finally, “for making him call me.”

Connor's chest tightened as he looked at Cole. He thought about his own feelings about Elijah. Connor still felt this way sometimes; that he didn't need Elijah, and he wanted him out of his life, but it feeling that also hurt. He loved Elijah, even when he wished he didn't. There was no chance of Elijah apologising and telling Connor it was okay to be angry with him, and that didn't make a difference to how much Connor wished he would. “You don't need to thank me,” he told Cole, quietly. “My own father drops in and out of my life when it suits him, so I know what it's like.”

Cole's eyes met Connor's one more time, and Connor watched as he took in a breath and steadied himself. He sat up straighter when Hank returned to their table. “Sorry,” he said, looking at Cole, and then turning to Connor to explain, “they've had an unexpected breakthrough. Markus is dealing with it.”

Connor recognised the tone of apology well enough. He smiled softly at Hank. “Will you have to go in later?” They'd planned on a quiet night in once they got back; Connor had steaks marinading, and idle fantasies of hoisting his thighs over Hank's shoulders that he wanted to be significantly less idle by tonight.

“Probably,” Hank admitted, and shrugged, “but it can wait.” He looked at Cole one more time and gave him another apologetic look. “You okay, kiddo?”

Cole blinked, pushing his vulnerability down and into some internal bottle. Connor saw the transformation that came over him as he plastered a smile on his face and nodded. “Yeah,” he answered. The cork went in, sealing the emotions away. “Just asking Connor when you two are getting married,” he said, with a troublemaking grin.

Connor's mouth fell open as he tried to scrabble for a response. He'd thought in only the briefest and vaguest of senses about marriage. He'd thought in much more detail about the permanence of his and Hank's relationship and what that might look like, and marriage hadn't been one of the factors he'd considered.

“Not yet,” Hank answered smoothly, without a moment's hesitation. He retook his seat beside Connor.

Cole's grin widened, as if he knew he'd set a proverbial cat amongst the pigeons. “But you're introducing him to me, right?” he pointed out. “Isn't that the next step?”

Connor scrabbled to piece together his fragmented thoughts and come up with a reply. Hank seemed significantly less stunned by the suggestion, and Connor wasn't sure what he should make of that right now, either. “I don't--” he began.

Hank just shrugged. “Maybe I'm thinking about it?” he countered.

Connor turned to stare at Hank. They didn't live together permanently yet, and that in itself was an idea that Connor was still doing his best to resist. He wanted to, and the fact that he wanted to scared him, and then here was Hank being utterly casual about the idea of marriage.

Hank turned to look at Connor, catching sight of his open hanging mouth and widened eyes. He grinned at him, showing the gap between his teeth. He knew Connor had been caught off guard and seemed to be enjoying it.

Cole laughed at the turmoil he'd wrought. Hank's hand settled on Connor's knee beneath the table. His fingers squeezed, reassuring and affectionate, and Connor felt his heart begin to slow down as he realised that Hank might be joking. He had to be joking. His thumb rubbed back and forth over Connor's knee as if to soothe him. Connor turned his gaze back to the table once more.

“How old are you, anyway?” Cole asked, clearly not content with the emotional distress he'd just put Connor through. Connor found himself wondering if the target had actually been his father, and he'd merely been collateral damage.

He blinked, gathering himself once more. “I turn thirty this year,” he admitted.

This time it was Cole's turn to stare with wide eyes at Connor. He took a moment, long enough to do the maths in his head, before he turned to Hank and accused, “You're a cradlesnatcher.”

Hank held one hand out in innocent offence. “What?” he asked. “How old did you think he was?”

Cole shook his head and leaned back in his chair. “I don't know,” he replied, defensively. “Forty?”

Despite himself Connor frowned. “I don't know if I should be offended,” he murmured, quietly. He hadn't been under the impression he passed for much older than he was. Most people treated him as if they thought he was in his mid-twenties, or younger.

Hank hissed, softly. “Shit,” he muttered, “If you look forty I must look like the fucking crypt keeper.”

Cole's grin returned. “Yeah,” he agreed with Hank, “kinda.”

Hank put on a deep and dramatic scowl, playing up his grumpiness with the suggestion. “Oh yeah?” he challenged, looking directly at Cole. “Well sucks to be you, kid, because this?” He gestured to his own face with a finger, circling it around to take in all of it, “Runs in your genes.”

*** June ***

Larxene didn't run. Larxene never ran; her expensive Louboutin heels weren't designed for running in. Still, she did manage to hurry and that in itself was enough to pull Connor's attention away from his screen. She disappeared into the DCI's office and closed the door behind her. Connor watched what little was visible going on behind the blinds.

A minute after Larxene entered the office Marluxia stood, approached the blinds, and closed them.

“Not good,” DI Paine commented. She had short cropped grey hair, despite being young, and vibrantly chestnut eyes. Connor had found she was not a person to waste words. It was rare she offered the first comment.

“No,” he agreed, softly, watching the door to see who would emerge first, and at what kind of speed.

After three minutes and thirty seven seconds Lumi strode calmly out of his office and made his way towards Kier's. The usual susurration of work going on had fallen quiet. Everyone watched Lumi's willowy form cut through the space like a shark through water. He'd scented blood.

Larxene emerged from the DCI's office a moment later. “Oderschwank, Wolfe, Roberts,” she called, “Kier's office.”

Lumi Cacciatore's DI's, Connor thought. Paine glanced at him briefly. “Rest in peace,” she intoned. She escaped the call because she was under Florent. It was the first time Connor had ever envied her.

Connor rose from his desk and made his way across the room to Kier's office. Larxene pulled up right behind him, but Connor didn't have the time to ask her what was going on. Nel and Isa followed close on Larxene's heels, and Connor paused to knock on Kier's door before he entered.

Lumi stood across the desk from Marius, his arms folded and an icily severe expression on his face. “Close the door behind you,” he instructed.

Wolfe did, and then remained closest to the door. Connor clasped his hands behind his back and waited for the first shoe to drop.

Marius Kier looked, for a moment, every second of his age. “You all familiar with the Thomas case?” he asked.

Connor gave a nod. Abigail Thomas, nine years old, had been missing for over a week. She'd disappeared in broad daylight on her way home from school and hadn't been seen or heard from again. It had been thought, for a while, that she might have run away, but the longer things dragged on, the less likely a favourable outcome looked. The last images of her had shown her walking off hand in hand with some unknown adult of indeterminate gender. Those images had been plastered all over the television and newspapers nationwide for the past week.

Nel and Isa nodded too. “Yes sir,” Nel said, her voice quiet.

Kier murmured at the confirmation. “The body of a girl was found twenty minutes ago. They haven't confirmed it's her yet but we need to stay ahead of this.”

Connor's throat ran dry. He didn't have an active investigation of his own at the moment; he'd sent the most recent barfight gone wrong case to crown prosecutors two days ago and had been helping with other cases since. His stomach turned.

“Lumi will be taking the lead on this case,” Kier added. “You all need to hand off whatever you're working on for the time being.”

“I may be taking the lead,” Lumi said, his voice soft but oddly dangerous, as if he and Kier had had a heated discussion about this, “but this case will require appearances in front of the media, which I will not be doing. That pleasure will fall to one of you,” he finished, looking from Connor, to Nel, and then to Isa.

“With all due respect, sir,” Nel said, gently, “I'd rather not.”

“Roberts should,” Isa said, his voice low and his words quick. Connor whipped to look at him, his hands dropping to his sides for a moment.

“Me?”

Isa looked at him in challenge, and Connor found himself staring into sea coloured eyes across the room. “You've only got three more months with us,” he said, levelly. “This is invaluable experience.”

Lumi seemed to consider that. His gaze hung on Isa for a long moment before it swung to Connor. Connor was sure he saw that tiny flicker of nasty amusement, mingled with pride that Lumi covered so well. “Roberts it is,” he agreed.

Connor tried to muster an argument. He looked to Marius and found no help there as Marius simply raised both eyebrows at him. Nel was impassive. So was Isa; if he was relieved at having been allowed off the hook himself he didn't show it. Connor straightened up and clasped his hands behind his back again. “May I speak?”

Kier's chin rose. Lumi's eyebrows rose so slightly that it would have been easy to miss if you didn't know to look for it. Connor took the yawning silence as invitation. “I've only been in this department for three months. A more experienced DI in this field may provide better optics for the family, and the media.”

Silence hung for just long enough to choke. “You have the best closure rate of any DI in this building right now,” Kier said, so softly that it sounded like the hiss of a knife being drawn in an alleyway in the dead of night. His eyes found Connor's, and drew him in. It wasn't a hard look, or a steely one, or a cold one. Instead it held promise; the promise of hell to pay if he was challenged. “Which proves experience means jack shit. You're being told to do a job.”

Unseen fingers constricted around Connor's heart and throat. He remembered Hank once describing Marius as a thug in a flash car, and for the most part he seemed affable. But not now. This was the dangerous side to him; the one Hank knew and Connor had yet to see. It wasn't difficult to imagine this version of Marius Kier hissing threats into a suspect's ear while their face was pinned to a desk.

Connor bowed his head in assent. “I understand.”

The oppressive atmosphere in the room shifted, but didn't lift. Lumi transferred his weight from one leg to the other. “Nel, you and Amicitia are going to re-interview everybody connected to the disappearance,” he said, “Wolfe, I want you to go to the pathologists and get everything from them, make sure they leave no stone unturned.”

“Yes sir,” Isa replied, in his gentle, soothing voice.

“Roberts,” Lumi said, his eyes flickering over Connor as he spoke. “You need to familiarise yourself with every detail of this case. If you find any discrepancies, I want to know.”

Connor nodded his head, just once, returning his eyes to Lumi. “As you wish.”

Lumi glanced across the three of them. “Muraidh will be going over the CCTV footage of the girl's disappearance to see if he can pick up the trail where lesser departments lost it. If they confirm that this is definitely the body of Abigail Thomas we need to be prepared to address the media within the hour.” He looked directly at Nel for a moment, “They should already have a family liaison officer assigned, try and keep them.”

“What should I do with Demyx, sir?” Nel asked, with a slight lilt to her tone.

Lumi's upper lip curled in the faintest of sneers. “Put him in a cupboard.” He turned to Isa and Nel as he said, “You're dismissed,” and then fixed Connor with a stern look. “Not you.”

Every muscle in Connor's back tensed at the instruction. He remained rooted to the spot as Nel and Isa left. Nel lingered just long enough to flash Connor a smile before she pulled the door closed behind her. Connor waited for the other shoe to drop, or in this case, come swinging up from the rear.

Lumi and Kier shared a brief look after the door closed, and Kier gestured with his hand for Lumi to do whatever he intended. Lumi gave a short nod, his long white-blond plait swinging as he moved. “Have you worked any child cases before?” Lumi asked.

It wasn't a question Connor had been expecting. He blinked, thrown by the direction the conversation had taken, and then shook his head. “Not directly,” he answered.

Lumi's murmur was quiet. Kier sat back in his chair and folded his arms. “I don't expect we will close this one any time soon,” he said, “if at all, which is going to place us under significant scrutiny. I need your composure to be beyond reproach at all times. You cannot afford to be caught off guard by a question some tin pot paparazzi throws at you. This is going to be their headline news for the next few days and when we don't find the killer tomorrow they will be out for blood.”

A cold shiver dripped down Connor's spine and made his hair stand on end. When they couldn't find the perpetrator then the media circus, in lieu of an evil individual to splash across their front pages, might come for the police service instead. Any failures in their investigation, any missed clues, or ruined evidence, any single sign of incompetence would result in a tabloid feeding frenzy. Kier and Cacciatore wanted to avoid that. “I understand,” he said, again. “I won't let you down.”

Lumi regarded him coolly for a long moment. Eventually he said, “You're here to see if you're fit to be a DCI by next year.” His icy blue eyes flickered over Connor's face, “This is your chance to prove it.”

Connor inhaled slowly. Kier's voice broke the silence. “It's going to be a long day,” he said. “Take Larxene and drive her to the coffee shop. She knows everyone's order.”

Connor glanced towards Larxene outside the office, and then back at Kier. “I don't have a car,” he pointed out, gingerly.

Kier grunted and looked towards Lumi. Lumi returned the look and replied, brusquely, “Absolutely not.”

Kier responded by rolling his eyes and fishing in his jacket pocket. He tossed something overarm to Connor, who caught it in one hand and then looked. The keys to Kier's Bentley stared back at him. “Don't let Larxene drive,” he warned.

“Of course not, sir,” Connor replied, closing his fingers slowly around the keys.

Lumi stood to one side as Connor exited, and shut the door behind him. Connor paused as he glanced backwards, an unpleasant clawing sensation in his gut telling him that they were going to continue talking about him. Perhaps he shouldn't have brought up his own reservations about being placed front and centre of this sort of investigation. Lumi avoided the cameras as much as possible, and would still be the lead on this case, but it would be Connor that people saw.

Larxene grinned at him from her desk. “Getting thrown to the wolves then?” she asked, seeming far too amused with this information.

Connor took a deep breath. “So it would seem,” he confirmed, before he flashed Kier's keys at Larxene, “but first he wants us to fetch everybody coffee.”

Larxene ooh'd excitedly and rose from her chair, picking up a small handbag and slotting her phone into it. She held her hand out, then, expectantly and looked at the keys in Connor's hand. Connor closed his fingers around them again and held them close. “He said I was to drive.”

Larxene's eyes swung across Connor's face and down, taking in his tie, shirt, and the clasped hand he held near his chest. She pouted unhappily. “Fine,” she said, “but you follow my directions.”

Connor tilted his head. There was a coffee shop nearby, although coffees for everybody would be much more than might reasonably be carried between two of them, hence, he had assumed, the car. Larxene did not seem to have any intention of going to that one. “Where to?”

She rounded her desk and patted Connor companionably on the arm before she set off, beckoning him to follow. Connor did, striding after her and catching up quickly. Larxene's heels clicked on the floor as she walked. “There's a much better place than that miserable little chain,” she said, firmly. “I'll show you.”

Outside the evening light was still bright as midday, and the air was warm without being close. The scent of London, its traffic and its people, hung over them. Connor paused by the Bentley and pulled out his phone. He took a photograph of the keys in his hands and the car to which they belonged, making sure that the Bentley logo was clearly visible in the image, and then sent it on to Markus.

Larxene regarded him with a smirk. Connor caught the look in her eye and then unlocked the car, sliding into the driving seat. “Never took you to be one for bragging,” she said, slipping into the passenger seat beside Connor.

Connor ran his hands reverentially over the leather of the steering wheel and then adjusted his seat position. “I'm not,” he said, and then felt the need to append, “usually.” He was bragging, but it was excusable when he was about to set off driving this car. “But my Sergeant would never believe that I was sent off to collect coffee in the Superintendent's car if I didn't show him proof.”

As if to back him up Connor's phone trilled with a notification. He dragged it from his pocket and read the message from Markus.

WTF

Another one came through a moment later.

tell me that's not an unmarked car

Connor typed out a reply quickly and sent it before he turned the engine over. The car purred to life, rumbling like some giant contented cat but without any of the vibration.

It's the superintendent's

Larxene's directions took them to a coffee shop not far from Abney Park. Connor did his best to find somewhere to park nearby, and then let Larxene take the lead. Connor checked his phone while they stood to one side for the immense order Larxene placed, and he was sure the baristas were less than pleased to have coffee for twenty dropped on them, not to mention that Larxene also had them clear out the cakes and pastries on display.

Markus had replied, with a quick, he gets paid too much.

Connor didn't bother to respond again, but instead opened up his message chain with Hank. Their last exchange had been I love you's two days ago. Connor had spent the last couple of nights at Hank's house and he'd been expecting to go back again tonight.

He bit his lip as he thought. Hank had got home late the last couple of nights because of the case trafficking had been working on. They'd been picking at a drug trafficking ring like playing whack-a-mole, and then when Connor and Hank had visited Cole there had been a breakthrough. Hank hadn't told Connor what, exactly, the breakthrough had been, but rather than relieving pressure it had seemed to pile more on. Connor hadn't wanted to pry. Hank had come home and buried himself in Connor's arms, but it was always to sleep of late. Hank needed the rest, and Connor didn't want to push.

He probably didn't need Connor returning home late, exhausted, and drained, putting the burden on Hank to take care of him.

Just had a major case drop, he typed, and I don't know what time I'll get out tonight so I'll head back to my flat instead of coming home. I'm sorry. I'll call you if I get chance. I love you.

Connor sent it before he had time to second guess the decision. He'd rather go home to Hank, and curl up with him on the sofa until they both fell asleep, but if he went home then Hank would feel obliged to cook for him and make sure he was all right and Connor didn't want him to worry about him like that.

“You okay?” Larxene's voice cut into Connor's thoughts and he looked up from his phone.

“Yes,” he responded, a little too quickly to convince even himself. “Yes,” he said again, sounding more sure of it this time. “Just letting Hank know I won't be home tonight.”

Larxene's raised eyebrow was matched by the upward curl of one corner of her mouth. “That's why you should stay in murder, you know,” she teased.

Connor sighed, slipping his phone back into his pocket and straightening up. He'd thought about it. He'd be lying if he said he hadn't. There were downsides to working under Cacciatore, just as there were downsides to returning to Hank in trafficking. Every downside to each was also an upside to the other. Push and pull factors. Did Connor want to work with Hank, or did he want to live with him? He couldn't do both. If he returned to trafficking he couldn't live with Hank because he'd have to file a change of address once he surrendered his flat. He couldn't live with Hank and keep paying for the flat anyway because the terms of his lease stipulated he had to notify the landlord if he was going to be absent from the premises for more than fourteen consecutive days.

Still, Connor could sense that cold chill running down his spine when he thought of giving up his flat. If things went wrong with Hank Connor would have nowhere to go. He was a twenty nine year old with an abandonment complex in a relationship with a fifty three year old alcoholic that spent years pushing the people that care about him away rather than let them in to his problems. Connor would be stupid not to be wary, and yet...

And yet he didn't like going home to his small and empty flat. It felt like an obligation rather than a relief, the habitation equivalent of eating your peas. Hank's house was warm, and filled with the sounds and scents of being lived in. The only room that didn't have a happy memory tied to it was Cole's. Walking through Hank's home was an interactive tour of things that made Connor smile; here the sofa where he and Hank cuddled and dozed; there the spot beside the fridge where they parted ways with a kiss each morning; in the hall was the wall Connor had been pushed against to receive the enthusiastic attentions of Hank's mouth; the bathroom bore the cold tilework that Connor's palms knew so intimately; and finally the bedroom, where the two of them slept coiled against each other, letting the tension of life slip away in the safety of each other's embrace.

Moving in with Hank meant giving up his position in trafficking, his sanctuary if things went wrong, and the independence Connor had clawed for over the years. That frightened him. It did not stop the tug in his heart drawing him towards doing it anyway.

“Three more months with Cacciatore and Kier might have me running screaming back to Hank,” he replied, flashing Larxene a smile he didn't feel. He hoped she wasn't paying enough attention to notice the way it didn't quite reach his eyes, or force the wrinkles into his cheeks that he knew his real smiles did.

Larxene hummed as she shrugged her shoulders. “They subscribe to a tough love method,” she replied, before fixing Connor with a knowing smirk. “I'd have thought you'd be into that.”

Connor's fixed smile gained a little extra warmth. “Someone should impress on them the importance of aftercare.”

They returned to the station with sufficient quantities of caffeine to fell more than one elephant, and enough sweet, sugary treats to give the surviving herd diabetes. Connor parked the Bentley with care and took a final moment to enjoy the feel of the steering wheel in his hands before he stepped out. He was not likely to ever get this opportunity again.

Larxene made a quick call on her mobile before she joined Connor in setting out the trays of drinks into an arrangement that would make them easier to carry. Reinforcements arrived in the form of a constable with an unfortunate blond Jedward cut who was so thoroughly intimidated by Larxene that he all but squeaked as she ordered him around.

With Kier's car keys returned to him and the coffees making their way around the floor, Connor settled himself at his desk and pulled up the entries on HOLMES2 for Abigail Thomas's case. It made for grim reading. The nine year old had been on her way home from school along her regular route, had encountered an adult figure on her way, and by all appearances had willingly gone with them. Her mother worked shifts in a supermarket, her father was a taxi driver. Abigail was supposed to check in with a neighbour when she got home but her arrival time often varied, so the neighbour hadn't raised the alarm until an hour after she'd last been seen. They thought she might have gone to a park somewhere.

Abigail's mother came out of work. She and the neighbour looked for her, and then, with panic starting to set in, called the police.

No one had any reason to believe something sinister might have happened until they found Abigail on CCTV, walking in the opposite direction to home, with some unidentified adult. The fact she was going willingly in the footage suggested she knew the person.

She'd been missing for three days when the media picked up on it. Appeals for information had flooded the logs with unconfirmed sightings all across London, muddying the waters further. There were calls claiming to have kidnapped the girl, and one claiming to have killed her, all of which were now flagged as requiring urgent investigation.

Connor didn't expect they'd get anything from those. They'd come in as the media campaign was ramping up. If they'd come in earlier, when it had first made it onto the television perhaps, then he might put more store by them. Instead it looked like the sad, desperate attention seeking of the sociopath contingent that always crawled out of the woodwork when something became a big enough news story.

The body had been found at lunchtime along the banks of the Thames. The initial report indicated she may have been in the water for some time, and her body was partially buried in the muck and detritus by the river's shore. In all likelihood Abigail had been killed the first day that she disappeared. She may have already been dead when her mother was leaving work to look for her. The unenviable task of determining that fell to Doctor Winters.

“Hey.” Connor glanced up as Nel perched herself on the edge of his desk. “You okay?”

Connor inhaled slowly. “I'm just going through the case reports,” he said, after a slightly too long moment.

Nel squinted at him, her lip tugging upwards although not enough to sneer. “That's not what I was asking about,” she said.

Connor's shoulders dropped. “I'm fine,” he said. After a moment he conceded, “Not looking forward to going in front of the cameras. I hate public speaking.”

Nel's smile was warm and sympathetic. “Don't we all?” she asked. “You'll do fine, and,” she hesitated for a moment, long enough for Connor to look at her and see the awkward smile she was directing at him. It was a smile that said she was sorry he was in this position, and glad that she wasn't. “It took balls to stand up in front of Kier and tell him why it shouldn't be you. You'll be a scarier DCI than Lumi one day.”

Connor felt the corner of his mouth twitch as if to smile, entirely outside of his own control. He huffed, and mentally shook himself. “I'll take more successful over scarier, if it's all the same to you.”

Nel burst out laughing and covered her mouth with her hand. She regained control of herself quickly, but continued to grin brightly at Connor in a way that tugged a conspiratorial smile from him in reply. “I can't wait.”

Connor turned back to the Thomas files, and Nel left him to work. Itahyr was going to be up to his pop figures in CCTV footage to sift through trying to track Abigail's route, and trying to find where the mysterious adult had come from. Nel and Gladio had already marked some tasks for themselves, too; reinterviewing teachers, friends, family, the neighbour.

Connor added a couple of tasks of his own. They needed to make sure all of Abigail's personal possessions were accounted for, and take a rundown of every adult in Abigail's life that she might trust well enough to go with. That meant every single employee at her school, any neighbours or parents of friends, and any older siblings of friends.

It was evening when Wolfe called the station to inform Lumi that they'd confirmed the body was that of Abigail. By Winters' estimation she'd been dead for eight days, meaning that she likely hadn't been alive by that first night. There was no evidence of sexual assault, but that came with the caveat that the degradation of the body due to exposure and submersion may have disguised this. The cause of death, as far as Winters could make out, was drowning. She hadn't been strangled. There was evidence of physical assault, including contusions to her face and upper body, and a spiral fracture of her right humerus.

A statement to be issued to the media appeared on the system shortly after the news came through. Connor suspected Kier had likely written it, or rather that Larxene had under his guidance. He made sure to read it, memorising the main points of it for himself since a press conference or appeal for information looked extremely likely.

It was eight thirty when Lumi emerged, stopping by Connor's desk. Connor had gone over everything he could, and made a few notes. There weren't discrepancies, but there had been missed opportunities to make progress, and delays that could have allowed a killer to slip away. Could she swim? lay in Connor's notebook, in his own neat hand. It was a question someone would need to ask her parents.

“Go home,” Lumi said, his voice soft. “There's a press conference scheduled for nine tomorrow. Make sure you're ready.”

Connor looked up at Lumi. His blue eyes never looked soft, and his face never looked kindly, but the faint downturn of his mouth didn't have the same severity as usual. That was probably the best Connor was going to get. “Would you prefer me to be in uniform?” he asked. He had his uniform, at home, tucked in the back of his wardrobe. Detectives didn't have to wear them, and Connor had certainly never seen Hank's, but they were an option if something required that extra stamp of authority.

“No,” Lumi answered, without hesitation. He almost seemed to have been expecting the question, as if the fact Connor had his uniform ready to go should the need arise was not a surprise. “Just look presentable.”

Connor bowed his head at the instruction. He and Lumi shared a taste in suit designers, so Connor wasn't concerned that his appearance wouldn't be up to scratch in the morning. “Of course,” he said.

Lumi didn't move on immediately. He seemed to be considering something, or perhaps steeling himself for it. Connor was just about to ask if there was anything else Lumi wished him to do, or know when Lumi finally asked, “Would you like a lift?”

Connor was caught off guard, and he blinked up at Lumi, dumbstruck. “I,” he tried, and failed.

The roll of Lumi's eyes was so subtle that Connor could have missed it. “I won't offer again.”

Connor usually got taxis home. He considered himself an able driver, and he drove Hank's car as often as not. During his shift hours he always used one of the station cars, either marked or unmarked, but outside of work he used the tube, or simply walked.

It was not, as far as Connor was aware, typical for DCI Cacciatore to offer people rides home. That meant there was an angle. Connor was intensely curious as to what it was.

“I'd appreciate that,” he said, softly, “thank you.”

There was a moment's pause. The air hung with thoughts unvoiced, and then Lumi said, “If you keep me waiting I'll leave without you.” Then he turned and swept away from Connor's desk and towards the exit.

Connor hurried to log off his computer and close his notebook. He could, at least, pick up where he'd left off at home if need be, although all he was doing now was picking at every detail in the case, worrying at it like he was searching for a loose thread in an old sweater. He retrieved his jacket and darted after Lumi, reaching the lift just as the door was starting to close. He slid his fingers into the gap, and the doors opened once more.

Lumi stared at him with an almost unreadable expression. Connor offered him a smile.

They rode down together in silence. The lift spat them out on the ground floor, and Lumi strode ahead, with Connor tailing after him like a stray puppy. “This wasn't the same car you had in November,” he said, conversationally, watching Lumi make his way to the driver's side of the pristine jag. “When did you change?”

Lumi settled into the driver's seat, and waited until Connor had put himself in the passenger seat beside him before he answered. There was a trace of smug satisfaction in his voice, just barely evident, when he said, “I picked it up in January.” He glanced across to Connor and added, “Though we purchased it just before Christmas.”

Connor knew. Connor knew why, too, although he wasn't about to declare that to Lumi right now. The car was Lumi's baby, or as close as Lumi got to having one. Hank had Sumo, Connor had his fish, Isa had his MG, and Lumi had his Jag. “It's beautiful,” Connor said, admiring the interior. Lumi couldn't have been on much more money than Hank; he may even have been on a little less, but he clearly enjoyed his luxuries. Everything was upholstered in plush, soft leather, and the Jaguar branding adorned each seat.

A tiny ghost of a smirk twitched across Lumi's face. “I know.” He turned the engine over, and the car roared to life. The engine snarled, and a moment later the sound system screamed as whatever Lumi had been listening to last reconnected and fired back up.

Connor's brows furrowed in recognition. The centre console display gave the song title as 'Northern Comfort', but the sound was unmistakeable. “You listen to Children of Bodom?”

Lumi's gaze flickered briefly to the centre console and his lips tightened when the band name refused to roll across it. “You're a dark horse, Roberts.” He glanced back over his shoulder before pulling them smoothly out of the parking space.

“I enjoy their music, although the vocals are,” Connor hesitated, trying to find a diplomatic way of saying that the singer could not, in point of fact, sing, “typical of the genre.”

Lumi remained quiet for a long moment before he finally agreed, “He was a better guitarist than a vocalist.” After another long moment Lumi said, “I can't picture you in a mosh pit.”

Connor smiled to himself. Hank's Christmas gift to him had been a bluetooth speaker and a subscription to spotify, as if, in the absence of knowing what Connor liked, Hank had wanted to gift him all music so he could find out for himself. There had been plenty of songs Connor knew from Hank's CD collection that he held a fondness for outside of the sound itself, and Connor had found that there were some songs he liked despite enjoying nothing else by that artist. Some of those Hank had outright banned him from playing in his presence. Albums by In Flames and Machinae Supremacy were fine, in Hank's view, but Connor was on his own if he let that one Taylor Swift song start.

“In all fairness, sir,” Connor pointed out, with a sidelong glance at Lumi, “I can't picture you in one either.”

Lumi glanced at him and gave a huff in his throat, as if he was conceding Connor's point, or perhaps re-evaluating his previous estimations of Connor. Connor gave Lumi his address as they cleared the immediate vicinity of the station and they cut through London's streets, making their way to Connor's flat.

“You're more central to the city than I expected,” Lumi commented, as they approached Connor's neighbourhood. Connor watched Alexander's shop pass them by, the windows dark and shutters closed at this hour.

“I like the amenities,” Connor replied, softly. Lumi's car was by far the nicest one on the streets, although that wasn't a hard bar for it to pass. “It makes getting around without a car easier.”

“You could have a car if you lived further out,” Lumi answered, somewhat pointedly.

“The commute would take longer,” Connor answered, with a dim smile, “and I'd still have to find parking near work.” Connor pointed towards the block that his flat lay in. “It's just here.”

There was nowhere to pull the jag in safely. During the day was often easier, but post-rush hour the roads became lined with an endless chain of vehicles. “Arrangements can be made,” Lumi said, as he checked the immediate area and tucked the jag in as far to the side as he could. “DCI's get an assigned parking space,” he added, before looking pointedly at Connor, “because we can't have them relying on uber.”

Connor felt the words dig into his chest in a sharp jab. Lumi's gaze was hard and steady, fixed on Connor's face. Connor wanted to escape it, but he also didn't want to show that he wanted to escape it. Lumi tested people, with his sweets, with his looks, with his tone, and Connor didn't want to fail this one.

Besides, as much as Connor did not want to add the fact that he would need a car sooner rather than later to his list of considerations for the immediate future, he knew Lumi was right. Access to transport was a requirement, and in order to do that Connor would have to leave his flat and find somewhere that he could afford the parking as well.

Or move in with Hank.

He shook that thought off. “Thank you for the lift,” he said. “I'll see you tomorrow.”

“Don't be late,” Lumi replied, flatly.

Connor closed the door to the jag. It clicked shut with an expensive sounding thunk, and Lumi drove off without waiting to observe Connor getting into his building.

The hall was empty as Connor made his way up the stairs, and the light from the fish tank greeted Connor when he opened his door. He removed his jacket and draped it over the arm of the sofa to make his way into the kitchen. It was late, and the gnawing in Connor's stomach was as much down to his only having consumed a coffee and a croissant since lunch as it was the nerves brought on by the case and an upcoming press conference.

He pulled out his phone and called Hank, setting it on speaker on his kitchen counter while he looked into his fridge. The problem with not having planned on being here tonight was that he didn't have much in, and with his blender at Hank's he couldn't just make a smoothie and get it over with.

The phone continued to ring. Then it stopped. “This is Hank, leave a message if that's what turns you on,” Hank's voicemail message intoned, his voice dull. Connor turned, frowning, and hung up the phone. He tried Hank again.

After six rings it went back to voicemail. Connor picked up his phone, thoughts of eating something forgotten, and hung up once more. Then he went into his messages. Hank had seen the message Connor had sent to him, explaining that he wasn't coming home tonight, but he'd never replied.

Everything okay?

He sent the message to Hank, and tried to keep the rising panic down. Hank was, currently, embroiled in some awkward and draining case. He could still be at work, in the middle of interviewing some suspect and sorely wishing he was home. He could even have gone to bed already.

On a whim Connor messaged Markus. You still at the station?

Markus' reply came through quickly, which did nothing to settle Connor's rising worry.

No. Got home three hours ago. Is something wrong?

Connor's throat went tight. He forced himself to take a slow, deep breath.

Hank isn't answering his phone.

Hank not answering his phone only meant that Hank wasn't answering his phone, he reminded himself. He needed not to jump to conclusions about that. Hank might be walking Sumo, or taking a shower. There were a thousand perfectly reasonable things that could explain why Hank was not picking up.

He left at the same time I did.

Connor closed his eyes. The floor beneath his feet was solid and stable. The faint sounds of the water pump rippling the surface in the fish tank filled the room. He breathed in slowly, deeply, stretching his lungs until he felt that sharp catch in his left side, and held it there. Then he let it go, just as slowly, so that the pain faded by degrees.

He called Hank again.

Thirty seconds can take whole hours to pass when you're waiting through it. Counting the rings didn't make it any easier. After six the voicemail picked up again. Connor disconnected the call, took his phone, and retrieved his jacket.

*

Hank's house was in darkness when Connor arrived, and he didn't pause to knock before he let himself in. Sumo barrelled towards the door in a familiar clatter of claws on wood, and Connor caught him, giving him a quick pat before he made his way to the lounge.

Snoring greeted Connor's ears, and he felt his heart settle back into his chest, sinking at last out of his throat. It dropped further when he flicked the light on and saw the almost empty whiskey bottle on its side on the coffee table, flanked by empty bottles of beer. Hank was sprawled against the sofa, graceless and clumsy, snoring heavily.

Connor approached him on careful feet. Hank hadn't changed out of his work clothes; he still wore a lurid shirt that he'd halfway unbuttoned, and he'd unfastened his trousers too. His breathing was deep and even, giving the appearance of being asleep, although Connor had never heard him snore this badly before. He picked up Hank's wrist, finding his pulse with his fingers and feeling the steady, strong beats.

Connor sighed through his nose, casting his eyes around the room. A glance into the kitchen suggested Hank hadn't eaten before he'd begun drinking. He had to have picked up the beer on his way home from work, although the whiskey had been here since Christmas. Some remained in the bottle. Connor picked it up and sealed it, returning it to the kitchen.

Hank had been quiet. He hadn't had the energy to do much more than cuddle in the past couple of weeks and Connor had been fine with that. Hank was tired, work was draining, the case had been taking it out of him.

Hank had been struggling and Connor had let him. Connor's stomach flipped at the thought. He should have said something. He should have made sure he was here.

Connor picked up the empty beer bottles and dropped them in the recycling with a clatter. The noise didn't rouse Hank, but that wasn't a surprise. Hank may well have told himself he'd have only one beer, or maybe two, just something to take the edge off. That had become three, and then what was the point in leaving one behind, and by then he was far enough in his misery that the whiskey looked tempting.

Connor should have known Hank was having a hard time. He should have pressed him to open up more and unload.

He made his way back to the sofa. Sumo had settled himself down beside Hank on the floor, his gigantic tail sweeping back and forth slowly as Connor approached. At least Sumo had been doing his job of looking after Hank, unlike Connor.

He crouched beside Hank's head and patted his cheek. “Hank?” Hank's breathing stuttered, but that was all. Connor gripped Hank's shoulder and nudged him instead. “Hank,” he said, more firmly.

Hank swallowed noisily, and then returned to snoring. Under any other circumstances Connor would be tempted to flick water at him, or coax Sumo into jumping on him, or any one of a thousand mischievous and flirty ways he knew to get Hank's attention when he was asleep. But right now Hank wasn't just asleep.

Connor pressed his lips to Hank's forehead, feeling the warmth of his brow, and curled his fingers into that too long but also too short grey hair. Hank had gone grey young, he'd told Connor once. He'd started going grey very young, but no one had noticed due to his being blond.

“Hank,” Connor said, keeping his voice gentle, but hopefully loud enough to pierce through the alcohol induced slumber, “I need you to get up. You can't sleep here.” He scratched his fingers down the back of Hank's neck, combing against his skin a little too firmly to tickle.

Hank shifted and groaned. Connor didn't stop, and after a long moment Hank opened bleary eyes to look up at Connor. “You're here,” he mumbled, only semi-coherently. Connor kept his hand around the back of Hank's neck as he pushed himself to sit up. His movements were as uncoordinated as his words, and he looked at Connor with one eye squinted closed.

“I am,” Connor confirmed, softly. “Let's get you to bed.”

“Fuck,” Hank groaned, covering his face with one hand. “Didn't want you to see me like this,” he slurred.

That much was obvious, but Connor bit down on the words, exchanging them for a much softer, “I know.” He hooked his arm under Hank's armpit. “Up we go.”

Hank staggered. Connor had to hold more of his weight than he'd realised, and an unstable Hank was a heavy Hank. He tucked himself under Hank's arm, keeping an arm tight around his back and guided him on wavering feet towards the bedroom. As they crossed the threshold Hank gave a sob. “M'sorry,” he gasped.

Connor took a slow breath and continued to guide Hank to the bed. He collapsed onto it unsteadily and Hank grasped Connor's wrist tightly, his grip hard enough to burn. “I let you down.” Tears welled in his eyes and he looked Connor over unsteadily.

“Hank,” Connor said, keeping his voice even and his expression neutral as he pried tight fingers off his wrist, “I know you're drunk, but there's one thing it's very important that you remember in the morning.” Hank looked up at him, his hand falling away from Connor's wrist and bracing against the bed instead as he gave a wobble. His face was the image of misery. “Sobriety is a decision you have to make every single day, and I will not be angry or disappointed that you made a different decision today to the one you made yesterday.” He braced Hank's head in both of his hands, settling his palms against Hank's bearded cheeks and Connor leaned down to press his forehead to Hank's. “The rest we can talk about tomorrow,” he said, closing his eyes and taking in the warmth of Hank's skin, and the choked, uneven gasps of his breath as he cried. “I still love you.”

He settled Hank down onto his side, tucking his legs up and drawing the covers over him. It meant Hank sleeping on what was normally Connor's side of the bed, but it was also the most direct route to the door, and by extension, the bathroom. Hank murmured a heartbroken, “I love you,” and a softer, “I don't deserve you,” as Connor tucked him in.

“Tomorrow, Hank,” Connor replied, brushing Hank's hair behind his ear and pressing a kiss to his forehead before he turned and left the room.

Sumo greeted Connor in the hall, his tail wagging in a rather pointed way. Connor sighed and checked the time. “You want to go out, huh?” he asked the dog, even though every fibre of his logical mind screamed obscenities at him for talking to Sumo like he might answer.

Sumo's tail increased in wagging speed and Connor shook his head. “You're both lucky I love you,” he muttered, moving to retrieve Sumo's leash.

*

Hank got up twice in the night to vomit. Both times Connor followed him, keeping his hair out of the way and then helping him back to bed. After the second time, he'd fallen asleep with Hank draped over him like a particularly aggressive and large limpet fixing itself to the hull of a ship.

He'd had to work to extricate himself when his alarm went off, and Connor had eschewed his morning run in favour of a longer shower and an extra cup of coffee. He made one for Hank too, and placed it on the bedside with painkillers, a bottle of water, and a note in Connor's neat, printed hand.

I love you.
It will take more than this to scare me away.
I'll see you tonight.
x

The media had been arriving and setting up their equipment for the past hour when Connor got to the station. Their press room looked much smaller in real life than it ever did on the television, and Connor found Larxene lurking, observing the journalists and camerapeople and sound people doing their various tests and checks.

The news that Abigail's body had been found was already the headline in every London paper, and it was referred to on the front page of most of the nationals, directing the reader to look much deeper within the pages to read the rest of the story. Connor approached Larxene, keeping to the walls and out of the way as he went.

“Are you ready for this?” she asked, keeping her eyes on the journalists.

Connor frowned. He wasn't, but he also didn't expect that anyone ever was for something like this. “As I'll ever be,” he replied. “Were there any developments overnight?”

“Some new leads,” she answered, folding her arms across her chest. Her eyes flicked up towards Connor. “Nothing casebreaking. It's all on the system.”

Connor nodded to himself. Gladio and Nel had been hard at work when he'd left, going over witness statements, and they'd run up quite the list for themselves of people to reinterview. After the press conference Connor intended to help them. The more hands they had the better. “Are the family here?” he asked.

Larxene didn't move, but her eyes returned to the room. “They pulled Sergeant Holland over from MisPers,” Larxene said. “She was working with them before, so they've kept her with them.”

A flutter in Connor's chest that he hadn't been aware of settled. At least the family had a familiar face they could turn to. “I should go and introduce myself,” he said, quietly. He'd be sitting beside them once things got going. It would be nice for them to have an idea of who he was, and what role he was playing in trying to find their daughter's killer.

“They're in the family room,” Larxene supplied, glancing at him again. She gave his suit an appreciative once over. “Lumi will be pleased.”

Connor flashed her a lopsided smile. He hadn't made any particular effort with his clothes this morning, except that he'd picked out one of his more authoritative looking suits. He adjusted the knot of his tie, smoothing it down against his shirt. If Lumi was pleased Connor didn't expect to hear as much from him. The best he'd get would be a lack of comment after he was given a highly critical once over.

Sergeant Holland was seated in the family room, doing an expert level Macmillan Tilt with a crying woman who didn't look much older than Connor. The father was seated beside his wife, with his arm around her and that stony, distant expression people wore when they'd shut themselves off because the pain was just too much.

“Mr and Mrs Thomas?” Connor kept his voice gentle and quiet. The man looked up. Connor knew his name was Michael, and his wife's was Francine, but it wouldn't be polite to wade in talking as if he knew them. “I'm Detective Inspector Roberts,” he said. He offered Michael a sympathetic smile. “You can call me Connor.”

Francine sniffed and wiped at her nose with the already sodden and bunched up tissue in her hand. “You're the one,” she began, sniffing between her words, “looking for--” Her words cut off in a strangled sob. She couldn't say them.

Connor flashed Sergeant Holland a look, and their eyes met. She had light brown hair, and very blue eyes. Her hand clamped over the back of Francine's. “One of them,” Connor answered the unfinished question. “There's a team.”

“You don't have to go out there,” Holland said, her voice as soft as Connor's. She sounded like she was trying to talk somebody down from a ledge, and perhaps she was, but it was an emotional one, not physical. “Mike can--”

“No!” Francine answered, and grasped tightly at Holland's hand with both of her own. “I have to. I--” she broke into sobs again.

Connor glanced across the room and retrieved the box of tissues from a nearby table. He held it out for Francine and she looked up at him, showing red, puffy, exhausted eyes as she let the Sergeant's hand go to take a fresh tissue. “Thank you,” she murmured, quietly.

“I understand,” Connor said, as gently as if he was approaching a wounded animal. “Did you bring a picture of her?”

Francine nodded, but it was Michael that moved, producing a photograph that had been printed out on plain old A4 paper with a standard printer. It didn't matter. The fact that these two bereaved parents had obviously spent last night sobbing as they chose a picture of their lost daughter to hold up in front of the cameras said much more than the quality of the printing ever could. “May I?” Connor asked, reaching out for it.

Michael nodded and offered it forward. Connor took it, and examined it. Abigail grinned back, with a charming gap from a missing premolar just visible, and dark brown eyes shining out from under a nest of tight curls that pointed in all directions. “She has a beautiful smile,” Connor told them, handing the picture back to Michael. He took it reverentially and nodded. When he spoke, his voice cracked.

“Yeah,” he wheezed, “she does.”

Connor settled himself down on one of the sofas and rested his elbows on his knees. “Mr and Mrs Thomas,” he said, “we're going to do everything we can to find the person that did this. I appreciate how hard it is for you to be here today,” he continued, looking from Michael to Francine. They were both looking at him, and Connor gave them his best sympathetic smile. “I wanted to thank you. We couldn't do this without you.”

It wasn't entirely true. They could, if it came to it, hold a press conference without the parents there, but those images of sobbing, heartbroken parents holding up a picture of their murdered child would spread so much further than some boring official statement. That was what the journalists were here to capture; heartbreak, despair, raw emotions better than any Hollywood drama. It turned Connor's stomach, but you did what you had to do. Somewhere out there was someone that knew what had happened to Abigail Thomas. It could take months to pick at the evidence, and years before they had enough to press charges, but there was always that outside chance that old fashioned emotional manipulation might get them to feel just guilty enough to make a mistake.

“Thank you,” Francine said, her sobs subsiding again, “Connor, right?” she asked, double checking that she'd remembered his name.

Connor smiled at her. “Yeah,” he confirmed.

When the conference began Connor led them out to the dais that elevated them above the waiting press. Cameras flashed and clicked as they walked, but the room stayed respectfully quiet. They sat, with Connor flanked by the Thomases on one side, and Larxene on the other. Sergeant Holland sat on the other side of Michael, letting Francine share centre stage with Connor.

Francine clutched the printed photograph of her daughter as Connor began to address the press. “Yesterday at three forty five the body of a young girl was found on the banks of the River Thames.” Lights flashed, and Connor blinked. He paused just long enough for notes to be taken and then continued, “After careful examination we can confirm that this body is that of nine year old Abigail Thomas.” More flashes blinded Connor, but his attention was on Francine beside him who gave an audible gasp as she did her best to hold her composure. Out of the corner of his eye Connor saw Michael reach across to squeeze his wife's hand. “This is now being treated as a murder investigation,” Connor pressed on, “and the Metropolitan Police are urging anyone who has information that they believe may be relevant to contact the dedicated case hotline number.”

The number had already been given to journalists. For the handful of twenty four hour news channels broadcasting live it was supposed to begin scrolling across the screen on their ticker banners. Connor didn't need to read it out, fortunately.

He glanced towards Francine, and she looked to him and nodded. Connor gave her an encouraging smile before he directed the press to her. “Abigail's parents would like to speak before we proceed to questions,” he said.

Francine took a shuddering breath, and when she spoke it was with that perfect twist of restrained grief that would be sure to be broadcast across the national news. “Abigail,” she said, her voice breaking but not failing, “was my little girl.” She turned the picture of Abigail towards the press and the room became an epileptic's nightmare of flash photography. “She was only nine years old,” she creaked, “and she's been taken from me.” Michael's hand reached across the table again, in full view of the press this time, and touched his wife's hand once more. She let go of one side of the picture to hold it, her dark knuckles contrasting with his pale ones as she squeezed. More cameras flashed and popped. “Someone out there,” she said, reciting the line Connor and Sergeant Holland had fed her, “knows what happened to my baby. Please,” she begged, “we just want to know why.”

She fell quiet again, except for the choked sob that exploded out of her. Connor gave the press a moment to lap up the scene.

“I am ready to answer questions on behalf of the Metropolitan Police,” Connor said, drawing the attention back away from the family, “but there is some information that, for the sake of the investigation, we are not able to disclose at this time.”

The questioning turned out to be briefer than Connor expected. A couple were directed towards Francine and Michael, asking how they would describe Abigail. Connor allowed those questions because anything that helped people see Abigail as a real person, and not just a name and a picture on the screen, would work in their favour. She loved sports, they said, she had lots of friends. Connor could see the words 'bright and bubbly' being appended to descriptions of Abigail in tomorrow's newspapers. It was things that had been said during the search, when Abigail had only been missing, but now they knew she'd been murdered it needed reinforcing.

The rest of the questions were directed at Connor. No, he couldn't tell them if they had any suspects yet, he was not able to disclose that at this time. No, he wasn't prepared to disclose the means of Abigail's death. Yes, he could confirm which area of the Thames she had been found. Yes, he could confirm that she had been dead for approximately eight days when she was found. No, there was not currently any indication that the crime was sexual in nature.

He had to force himself to be polite and professional for that one. The press were vultures, and it had clearly been too much to hope that they'd leave that line of enquiry for a question and answer session that did not have Abigail's distraught parents sat by Connor's side.

“Are there any other missing children in the area?” a blonde woman Connor didn't know asked.

“There are no other open investigations linked to the murder of Abigail at this time,” Connor replied. Beside him Larxene tapped the desk with her index finger twice. Connor looked out across the throng. He hoped they had all the emotional manipulation fodder they needed. “If there are further questions they can be directed to the case liaison,” he said, drawing the press conference to a close, “thank you for your time.”

Connor followed the Thomases off the dais and back to the family room. Larxene followed Connor.

“Was that okay?” Francine asked, her voice still wobbling.

Connor smiled at her. “You did Abigail proud,” he told her. “Thank you.”

“Thank you,” Michael said. His voice sounded hollow and broken.

“Sergeant Holland will keep you up to date,” Connor told them both, glancing at the Sergeant briefly. “We'll be in touch.”

Larxene was waiting for him at the door as he left the Thomases to Holland's capable care. She smirked at him knowingly. “You're a natural,” she told him, clasping a clipboard to her stomach as she fell into step beside Connor and they made their way back up to the safety of the offices.

“I didn't sound too stiff?” he asked, looking to her with a frown. He'd felt stiff. It was hard to be resolutely professional without feeling stiff, and he'd had to be resolutely professional because staring at that one journalist, tilting his head, and asking 'Really now?' would have looked terrible no matter how justified it might have been.

Larxene shrugged both of her shoulders. “It was the good sort of stiff,” she said.

When they reached the offices Connor made his way directly to Lumi's. He knocked and waited for the, “Enter,” before he opened the door and stepped inside.

Lumi looked him up and down with a mild, critical scowl on his face that was only half a degree more of a scowl than Lumi's relaxed expression. “I watched,” he said, without preamble.

Connor felt icy fingers claw up his back. “I hope I haven't embarrassed the department.”

Lumi's eyes roved over him again, this time taking in each aspect of his outfit. “Do you know what the reward is for competence, Roberts?” he asked, when his eyes reached Connor's face once more.

Connor attempted to give Lumi a hesitant smile. “No sir,” he said, although he expected the answer was that there wasn't one. Competence was a basic requirement of his job, and he couldn't expect to be thanked, or congratulated for it. At least not by Lumi Cacciatore.

“More work,” Lumi answered, bluntly. “Nel and Amicitia need some help,” he added, as Connor heard the answer and bowed his head to suppress his amusement.

“Yes sir,” Connor replied. He turned to leave, and paused when Lumi's voice came again.

“Roberts.”

Connor turned without moving his feet. There was a command in the tone, and he looked towards Lumi over his shoulder. Lumi wore his resting scowl that suggested he disapproved of the world in general, and not necessarily the individual in front of him.

“The next time I have a public interest case, you won't be asked.”

Connor blinked, and heard the words that were implied by the tone. Connor was, for as long as he remained assigned under Lumi, being voluntold for any and all media appearances. He inhaled, unsure of how to define his feelings on that, and nodded his acknowledgement. “Yes sir.” He wouldn't be given the task if he hadn't done it well enough, but it still felt like a punishment.

Connor spent his afternoon working through names and contact information for recorded witnesses, arranging further interviews. The hotline yielded more tips, most of which were likely to be useless, but one or two of which were interesting and notes about them were added to the ever expanding case file.

He received two messages from Markus and a few more from Josh and Simon about his appearance on the television, all letting him know they'd seen it. He did not have a message from Hank. The one he'd sent last night asking simply 'Everything okay?' remained stubbornly read this morning and unacknowledged.

It turned into another long day. Connor left the station at six and spent his uber ride home, to Hank's house, trying to quell the churning anxiety in his stomach. After a day like today, after days like the last few days, all Connor wanted was to curl up by Hank's side on the sofa and try not to die of embarrassment when his own goofy face and weird voice came on the news.

The lights were on when Connor got home. For the first time Connor found stepping out of the taxi difficult. He forced himself to do it anyway, approaching the front door and letting himself in.

Sumo was already waiting in the hall when Connor opened the door, and immediately bounded up to him. Connor fussed him behind one ear and moved around him to take his coat off and hang it up. There was no music, no sound of the television or smells of anyone cooking, just an oppressive silence and an atmosphere that Connor waded through like treacle.

Hank was seated on the sofa when Connor entered the lounge, his elbows on his knees and his head hanging forward. He looked broken, stricken with grief, and regret, and self loathing. Connor's heart broke in sympathy.

He crossed the room silently in swift, confident strides, bending to settle one arm around Hank's waist and the other around his shoulder, tucking his face against Hank's neck as he pushed himself into Hank's arms, pressing him back in the chair. It meant putting his knee up awkwardly beside Hank on the sofa, and leaving his other leg draping uselessly between Hank's knees, but it didn't matter.

Hank's fingers curled into the back of Connor's shirt, gripping the material. Connor could smell yesterday's alcohol still leaching from Hank's skin and his hair, overlaid with heroic amounts of coffee. “I'm sorry,” he said, against Hank's neck, holding him tightly.

“The fuck are you sorry for?” Hank's voice rumbled, flat, and low, but also confused.

Connor tucked his face down until his forehead pressed into Hank's shoulder. “I should have been here when you needed me and I wasn't,” he said, softly.

Hank sighed, but his fists uncurled from Connor's shirt and his arms circled more tightly around Connor's chest. “Shit, Connor, you're my partner, not my fucking therapist,” he growled. “I'm the one that let you down.”

Connor sighed, letting himself be held for a moment longer before he drew back. His position was uncomfortable, and he'd have to move soon, but he bore it for long enough to look into Hank's sad blue eyes. “Do you remember what I said last night?”

Hank only met his eyes for a moment and then looked away, shaking his head. “I don't remember much past starting on the whiskey last night,” he admitted. “I didn't even know you'd been here until I found your note.”

Connor didn't smile, but a tiny part of him felt lighter to know that there would have been a time when that much alcohol would have left Hank still functioning. Now four beers and most of a bottle of whiskey were enough to leave him blacked out. It wasn't a victory when he'd had those four beers and bottle of whiskey anyway, but it was an improvement.

“You have to decide not to drink every single day,” Connor said, echoing his own words from back in January when they'd first had this discussion. “Drinking on one day after six months is not failure,” he insisted, keeping his eyes on Hank's face, “it just means that day was too hard.”

Hank's eyes met his for a moment, and then flicked away, ashamed. He turned his face away, too, fixing his attention on anything he could find on the opposite side of the room so that he didn't have to look at Connor. “I really don't fucking deserve you,” he muttered.

“Hank,” Connor started, readying a reminder of their past discussions regarding Hank and deserving things.

Instead Hank cut him off. “I know,” he said, hurriedly, “I know.” The corner of his mouth pulled down but he didn't turn to look at Connor again. Instead he spoke addressing the blank television. “But that's why I stopped, and then yesterday--” he tailed off.

Connor couldn't stay in his awkward kneeling crouch any longer, and he settled himself onto the sofa beside Hank, pressed close against his side. He found Hank's hand with his own. “What do you mean it's why you stopped?”

Hank turned to glance at Connor briefly as he settled onto the sofa, and then looked down at the floor in front of his feet. “When we fought about it,” he said, dully, “I was so angry, and I was pointing that at you, and,” he paused, and swallowed. “I saw the look in your eyes,” he said, after a moment. “You were scared of me.”

Connor's lungs filled with ice. He remembered that argument painfully well. It was the worst one they'd ever had. For a moment he hadn't been sure if they were going to make it through without one of them saying something they couldn't take back, but then Hank had stormed out of the room, out of the house, and then shut himself away for the rest of the night, leaving Connor to approach him in the morning. Hank wanted a drink, and he felt like Connor was manipulating him against it. Connor didn't want Hank to stop drinking for his sake, not if it was going to do that to them. He'd rather have Hank, alcohol and all, than not have him.

“I've never been afraid of you,” Connor said, slowly. “I've only been afraid of losing you.”

Hank turned, fixing Connor with the sharp look of a policeman catching a suspect out in a lie. “Your hands were shaking,” he said, “and you had that look that suspects get a second before they either bolt or smack you.” He shook his head and looked back down at the floor. “I never, ever wanted you to look at me like that again.” He sighed, his voice quivering faintly, so subtly that Connor doubted anyone else would have noticed it. “I didn't want you to think I loved the drink more than you.”

Connor closed his eyes. His heart crumbled to pieces like broken glasswork in his chest. “I don't think that.”

“Then yesterday,” Hank continued, ignoring Connor's protest, “you said you weren't coming home and I,” he faltered, “I thought maybe I could get away with it, 'cause you wouldn't be there for me to hurt.”

Connor inhaled slowly until he felt the first twinge of the twisted up nerve in his chest, and then released it. “What's been happening?” he asked.

Hank flashed a look at him again and frowned, but he didn't turn away this time. “This drug ring we're going for,” he said, “we found one of their mules.” He sighed, flexing his fingers and squeezing Connor's hand. “Too late. The package ruptured inside him. He OD'd.” He shook his head. “He was fourteen. This asshole was using his own kid to ferry heroin, and he's not even high up the ranks.”

Realisation crashed over Connor and he moved in to wrap his arms around Hank again. Hank took cases involving children badly. No one found it easy to see children getting hurt, but it had always been a particularly tender spot for Hank. He pressed his cheek to Hank's, the wiry hair of Hank's beard scraping along Connor's skin, and murmured into his ear, “I'm sorry,” he said, “I didn't know.” Hank hadn't told him. Instead he'd been bottling it up, keeping it inside until it had spilled over.

“Yeah well,” Hank muttered, “you've been kinda distant this past couple of weeks and I didn't want to put more on you.” He coiled his arms around Connor and held him firmly.

Connor frowned into Hank's shoulder. Hank had been the one who'd been distant. Even when they'd been together in the evenings he'd been quiet. Connor had presumed he had a lot on his mind, so he'd tried to just be there for him instead of insistently prying. Maybe that had been a mistake. Maybe it had made it worse. “What makes you feel I've been distant?” he asked, quietly. Connor wasn't sure he wanted to hear the answer.

He felt Hank take in a deep breath. “Well you haven't jumped my bones once in the last two weeks,” he answered, with a wry humour that Connor knew was a deflection.

Connor bit the inside of his lip and leaned back so he could look at Hank, his head tilting to the side. Hank let him move, but didn't let him go. “I've been tired,” he said, softly. “So have you.” Being with Hank wasn't about fucking like bunnies at every opportunity, no matter how much fun it was. It was true that they hadn't had sex, or kissed much beyond their hellos and goodbyes, but Hank hadn't seemed much in the mood. Understandably, given what he'd been handling.

“Yeah,” Hank said, as if he'd expected the answer but didn't believe it.

Connor's brow furrowed. Hank wasn't meeting his eyes again. There was something vulnerable and tender, some wound he was trying to hide. “Hank?” he asked, using his tone to try and urge Hank into giving him more.

Hank's eyes flicked to Connor's, but he couldn't keep them there. Eventually, haltingly, he ventured, “You sure there's not more to it?”

“Such as?” Connor pressed, as firmly as he dared. Whatever doubts had been whirling around in Hank's head they were clearly still very raw.

Hank frowned. It painted his entire face in shades of doubt. “The marriage thing,” he said, eventually.

Connor blinked, his heart leaping up into his throat. They hadn't talked about it since Cole had brought it up, and Connor had convinced himself that it had been nothing more than a mischievous teenager needling at his dad. Hank hadn't mentioned it. Connor hadn't mentioned it. Life had returned to almost normal, as far as Connor had been able to make out, mutual exhaustion aside, and yet all the while something about it had been circling around Hank's mind like a vulture waiting for something to die.

Connor realised he'd been silent for too long when Hank spoke again. “Look,” he said, “I get that you're young, and I'm not, but being old I don't,” he faltered just long enough to swallow, and Connor found himself mirroring the action. His throat felt suddenly painful. “I'm not going to change my mind about you,” he said, switching to a different track in his thoughts, “so marriage is one of the things I've thought about.”

“Hank, I--” Connor attempted, but his mind reeled and he couldn't scrape together a coherent thought to give in reply. He needed time. He had no intention of changing his mind about Hank either, but that didn't mean they had to get into marriage and everything that implied, and certainly not in any hurry. If they were in it for life then what did marriage even matter?

The thought of someone knocking on Amanda's door instead of Hank's clawed up Connor's throat and strangled him.

“Connor,” his name in Hank's voice was strained, pained, as if Connor's own panic was hurting Hank too.

Connor squeezed his eyes shut. He needed time. He needed to examine his thoughts and his feelings. He wished he could just open his head and show Hank everything that was going on inside it.

“Ask me why.”

The silence that descended was deafening. Connor opened his eyes, still concentrating on his breathing, and found Hank staring at him with his lips parted, but silent. After another painfully long moment he asked, “Are you sure?”

Connor nodded, keeping his lips pressed tightly together. His thoughts were a mess, and he'd usually pick them through them himself, in the privacy of his own flat, turning over each stone on the riverbank of his consciousness until he found the squirming worms beneath and knew their names. “I'm sure,” he said, eventually.

Hank nodded and took a sharp breath. He didn't seem to know where to begin and cast around the room looking for clues. Then he asked, “Why don't you want to think about marrying me?”

Connor closed his eyes and let his breath fill his lungs and breeze out of his nose. Hank's hand had fallen to Connor's thigh and remained there, hot and heavy through his trousers. “It's too much,” he said, picking through all the available words that came to him, all the excuses that leapt to his mind. He was young, they didn't even live together yet, they'd only been together for a few months, there was the whole situation with Connor's job and Hank's and what they were going to do about that hadn't been entirely resolved. “I'm not ready.”

Connor opened his eyes and saw Hank frowning hard. “Why aren't you ready?”

Connor had his flat. He had his job. He had people he liked at work. He enjoyed working under Hank, and he enjoyed working with Markus, Josh, and Simon. “I'm scared of the change that needs to happen.”

Hank blinked as if the answer surprised him. His lips moved as he thought, thinking about his next question, or the implications of it. “Why are you scared?”

Connor blinked and looked down at Hank's hand on his thigh. He slid his own hand over it and Hank twisted his wrist so Connor's could slot into his palm. “It means giving up things that matter to me,” he answered. “Things I want. I can't have all of them, but I want to.” He felt the words click into place in his head as the fog cleared. “So I'm putting off giving them up for as long as I can.”

Hank's hand squeezed around his. “What things?” he asked.

Connor looked at him, one corner of his mouth ticking upwards. “My job in trafficking,” he answered, quietly, “the safety net that is knowing I have somewhere to go if I'm left on my own again,” he closed his eyes and let go of the last of his breath, “my independence.”

Hank's fingers squeezed his again and Connor opened his eyes. Hank wore such a soft, affectionate warmth in his expression that Connor felt it cradle him. “That enough?” he asked. Connor could only nod. “So you don't want to think about marrying me because you're not ready to give up your independence?”

Connor nodded again and offered Hank a weak smile. “The thought of moving in with you scares the shit out of me,” he answered, “and that doesn't mean I don't want to. I'm just too scared to take that step right now.”

Hank shrugged and flashed Connor a self conscious smile. “Hey,” he said, “it'll take more than being nervous of commitment to scare me off.”

Connor recognised his own words from the note he'd left Hank this morning, twisted as they were. He shook his head, but smiled. “It's not the commitment,” he explained. “It's the sacrifice. To have you I have to give up other things, and while I want you more than those things, I'm,” he faltered, hesitating as he picked his words, “not prepared to let them go just yet.” He found Hank's eyes with his own and asked, softly, “Give me time?”

Hank's hand left Connor's and came up to his cheek instead, brushing over the crest of his cheekbone and cupping around his ear. Connor tilted his head into the touch. “You can have all the time you need, sweetheart.”

*** July ***

The Thomas case still cropped up in the news from time to time, but after a week with no more updates the intensity of the media interest had cooled. Politicians had been up to their usual, the Royal Family had another scandal to deal with, the cost of living crisis was making everyone's lives that bit harder. People didn't have the thoughts to spare for a grieving family and a little girl who was taken from her parents by persons unknown.

Maybe less unknown than they had been. Connor typed up the results of his most recent interview with a witness, flagging a name that had cropped up, because it had cropped up before.

Dillon Barnes, a twenty year old neighbour. He'd always been friendly with the neighbourhood children. He was a bit weird. Even when he was a teenager he hung around with younger kids. But that was just Dillon. He was harmless. Wasn't he?

Gladio and Nel had interviewed Dillon shortly after Abigail's body had been found. He'd been upset, but everyone was. Still, something had seemed off enough to warrant a note on the system. He couldn't give an account of his whereabouts at the time Abigail had disappeared, and when someone had knocked on the door for him during the parent's initial search, before they'd reported it, he hadn't been home. He lived with his mum. His mum was disabled. His dad wasn't in the picture. Dillon usually looked after his mum during the day and worked as a night shift cleaner at some local offices to make ends meet.

His life revolved around his mother, and yet he hadn't been home, and Dillon hadn't been able to account for his whereabouts aside from suggesting maybe he'd gone to a local park.

His name kept coming up, but they had nothing to link him to Abigail's disappearance, let alone her murder. So for now they were stuck picking through witness statements trying to find a lead they could actually follow instead of multiple people's reporting their vague feeling that something was weird about a grown man who was friends with every child under the age of fourteen in their block.

Larxene perched herself on the edge of Connor's desk as he worked, crossing one leg over the other. She waited for him to acknowledge her, clasping her fingers in her lap and bouncing her leg impatiently. Connor made a point of finishing his typing before he looked at her. “Hello, Larxene.”

She smiled at him. “Are you coming to the charity gig at the end of the month?” she asked.

Connor frowned. July was a popular time for the various police charities to hold little fundraisers, so calling it a 'gig' wasn't particularly descriptive. “Which charity?” He already gave fairly regularly to the retired police dogs fund.

“Met and City Orphans,” Larxene answered. “They're doing a fundraising dinner.”

Connor shook his head. He tried to avoid ticketed events if he could help it. Anything that meant he had to spend time with police officers he didn't know or didn't like was a bad way to spend an evening. “No thank you.”

Larxene pressed her hands flat against Connor's desk behind herself and leaned back, swinging her leg. “Everyone else is going,” she told him, “even Itahyr.”

Connor blinked. He hadn't paid the email inviting them to make donations and purchase tickets much heed, but he was reasonably sure that the dress code was 'formal wear'. Formal wear and Itahyr Muraidh went together like Greggs and Primark; it was a forced relationship that made no sense, and yet apparently someone was determined to try it anyway.

“I'll think about it,” he said, which he knew was an age old variation of 'no', and that Larxene would be aware of that. He didn't want to say he would attend and then have to deal with the aftermath.

Larxene grinned at him. “I'm just warning you now,” she said, conversationally, “Lumi lost the coin flip, so he's going,” she swayed back on her hands, enjoying herself with a viciously childlike glee.

Connor frowned. “What coin flip?” Cacciatore seemed to have a habit of making bets.

Larxene rolled her eyes at him, as if he'd asked something stupid. “Marius told him and Marluxia to fight it out between themselves. They flipped for the on call roster.”

Connor's eyebrows furrowed as he looked up at Larxene. “Charity events are supposed to be optional.”

The look Larxene fixed on him was pitying. “Politics isn't optional for superintendents, and Marius doesn't like to suffer alone.”

Connor's frown edged into a scowl as he looked down at his desk. Larxene made Lumi and Marius sound like bratty children having a tantrum because they had unwanted social obligations. That sort of obligation was part of the reason Connor wasn't in a hurry to get promoted. He'd like to keep flying under the radar of the politics that plagued the upper ranks for as long as he could.

The back of Larxene's hand tapped him in the shoulder. “You should bring Anderson, for moral support.”

Hank would hate it. Connor didn't have to ask him to know that. Marius might spread his misery, but Fowler knew better than to try it with Hank, who would prefer to donate to the fund and stay at home with a pizza and Sumo. Connor would much prefer to stay at home with Hank, pizza, and Sumo.

Still, it might be an excuse to push Hank into wearing his Armani suit again. There was some deeply buried part of Connor that wanted, very much, to get Hank looking thoroughly delicious and then show him off. Too many people thought Connor being attracted to Hank was down to a lapse in judgement or taste. Itahyr had once asked if Hank possessed a solid gold cock to make Connor this enamoured of him despite the fact he looked like, well, Hank.

It would be nice to see jaws drop at just how well he scrubbed up, and Connor would definitely take pleasure in knowing his partner was having that effect on people.

“I'll think about it,” he said, more genuinely this time.

Larxene gave him an utterly delighted smile. “I'll tell Marius you're coming,” she declared, jumping from Connor's desk and moving away at speed.

Connor tried to grab for her, “That's not--”

Larxene turned and waved at him, out of his reach.

“--what I said,” he finished weakly, and then sighed.

When he recounted the story to Hank, later that night, he found himself greeted with a distinct lack of sympathy. “And I suppose you want me to go with you?” he asked, keeping his arms folded across his chest as Connor sidled up to him on the sofa.

“I know you hate these things,” Connor admitted, as he pressed in against Hank's side. Hank kept his arms resolutely crossed, and did his best not to look Connor in the face, either. “But I'd really appreciate your support.”

Hank grunted but didn't say anything else. Connor caught Hank's eyes flicking briefly in his direction and then away again, and he leaned his full weight against Hank's side and clasped his hands together over Hank's shoulder. “I'd make it worth your while,” he offered, keeping his voice low.

Hank's eyes moved, and stayed on Connor longer this time. Connor felt Hank's shoulder rise as he took a deep breath in and then let it back out very slowly. “Oh yeah?”

Connor raised both of his eyebrows and fixed Hank with his best pleading look. At any other time, in any other place, and any other circumstances, acting like this would be mortifying, but sacrifices had to be made in the name of emotional manipulation. “I'd be wearing a very expensive suit,” he pointed out, softly.

Hank turned his head. Connor met his blue eyes and saw Hank's mouth work as he did his level best to stay grumpy and taciturn. Connor blinked at him, just once, and dared to venture the smallest of smiles.

Hank moved suddenly, planting his very large palm over Connor's face as he shuffled further away and complained, “I wish I knew who your real mother was so I could arrest her for giving you those eyes.” His hand fell away from Connor's face as quickly as it had pressed there and Hank huffed unhappily.

Connor smiled brightly and shuffled closer to Hank, this time setting his arm across Hank's stomach and his chin on Hank's shoulder. “Does that mean you'll come?”

Hank flashed him a frown that was grouchy entirely because Hank was giving in, against his better judgement. “Yeah, I'll fucking come,” he answered, looking away again. “You wearing the pinstripe or something new?”

Connor inhaled slowly, manoeuvring himself on the sofa until he was eye level with Hank, and teasing under the edge of Hank's untucked shirt with his fingers. “I thought I'd get something new,” he answered, “and surprise you.”

*

Alexander was busy advising a customer when Connor entered the shop. He caught Alex's eye, giving him a nod of acknowledgement, and then moved on to browse the racks. If he wanted something to really catch Hank's eye it might be worth going a little outside his usual budget. Alex kept his stock ordered by designer, and then by colour and cut, and Connor's feet took him towards some old favourites. His fingers brushed over pure wool and rich cashmere.

“Looking for something for another television appearance?” Alex asked, from behind Connor.

Connor turned, and smiled at Alex. The routine of greeting him came naturally; Connor took Alex's arms and leaned in, bumping their cheeks together in imitation of a kiss. “I'm sorry I haven't stopped by as often as I used to,” he said.

Alex shook his head and waved his hand. “You've been busy,” he answered, and then made a point of examining Connor's left hand and then flashing a disapproving look at him. “But not busy enough.”

Connor fixed Alex with a frown. “It's been eight months,” he replied. Alex had proposed to his own girlfriend after six, he knew, but their engagement had thus far lasted three years. Connor didn't see the point in that. If you got engaged you were supposed to get married.

“If he likes it he should put a ring on it,” Alex replied, raising an eyebrow at Connor in challenge.

Connor lifted both of his own eyebrows in turn. He tried, he really did, to restrain the flippant reply, but it spilled from him anyway, “He does, sometimes, but not on my hand.”

Alex pursed his lips and shook his head. “You should lock this one down, Connor. He's good for you.”

Warmth swirled in Connor's chest. He'd met Alex through Daniel, and they'd stayed friends even after Daniel had cut all ties with Connor, and most of the people that could tie him to Connor. Alex had seen Connor through one of the loneliest times of his life, so hearing him merrily advocate for Hank was comforting. “I don't think I need to,” he answered, softly.

Alex's pout softened and he settled a hand on Connor's shoulder. “So is this a social call, or are you here to abuse the managerial discount?”

“The latter,” Connor answered, casting Alex an apologetic smile. “I'm attending a charity dinner.”

Alex's hand fell from Connor's shoulder, and he looked around the shop. “And you want something that will make DCI Big and Blue Eyed forget how to breathe, I assume?”

Connor's toes curled in his shoes. He'd described Hank that way to Alex exactly once, and Alex had used it ever since. Connor was only glad he'd restrained himself when he'd actually met Hank, although it had been a close run thing.

At the time he'd only been with trafficking for a few days, still finding his feet and learning the people and the ways they worked together. Hank had been resolutely against having some jumped up little nerd from cyber crime butting into his case, but Connor had persisted anyway. It was his job, of course, but he could see the glimmer of reluctant appreciation in Hank every time Connor did something that helped.

Connor had liked Hank, despite Hank's best efforts. It had only taken him a couple of days to realise that Hank wasn't as gruff and curmudgeonly as he tried to appear. A few days after that Hank's hand had landed on his shoulder and squeezed with approval, and Connor had felt the touch run through him like an electric shock. It had been the first time anyone had touched him outside of a handshake in months.

Maybe that was where his crush on Hank had really started. With reluctantly satisfied smiles and casual familiar touches; a hand clapping his shoulder, or an affectionate, congratulatory squeeze at the back of his neck while he worked at his desk. Hank smiled, and made tasteless jokes, and he liked to show pictures of his dog, and he communicated through touch. Connor had liked him, and he'd wanted, very much, to have Hank like him back.

Marius had said he knew Hank was in trouble the moment he'd laid eyes on Connor. Alex had known Connor was in trouble the first time he'd heard about Hank.

“Obviously,” Connor answered.

Alex tucked his fingers under his chin and frowned in thought. “I think,” he said, “I have just the thing.”

Just the thing turned out to be a classic Dolce and Gabbana in navy jacquard. Connor fingered the material delicately. Alexander also produced a tie in a matching shade of navy, and a gold silk waistcoat to go over the white silk shirt. “Now,” he said, shooing Connor towards the changing room with both hands, “show me how right I am.”

Connor shook his head, but took the outfit into the changing room and began to strip. When he drew the shirt on it brushed softly up his arms. He didn't own many silk things, it was too much maintenance for something he could never wear at work, but on this occasion maybe he could make allowances. The trousers fit comfortably over his ass, not that Connor had much curve there to worry about anyway. Hank liked to grab, and look, but Connor had always been of the opinion that he looked as if his legs attached directly to his hips.

He pulled the waistcoat on after fastening the tie into a windsor knot and paused a moment to admire the silhouette it gave him in the small mirror. Connor had always been slender, and the waistcoat accentuated his trim stomach and narrow hips, but also gave the impression he had a broader chest and arms. He pulled the jacket on last, and then stepped out to gain Alex's verdict.

Alex halted in his careful checking of the suits on his racks to look Connor down, and then up. It wasn't the lascivious gaze of someone like Dr Granz; Alex looked with the critical eye of a skilled tailor. “Shiny black oxfords,” he advised. “Your DCI is going to fall to his knee and propose when he sees you looking like that.”

Connor frowned deeply and fastened the first button on the jacket, turning to examine himself in the much larger mirror in the better light of the shop. “He won't,” he answered, “we've already discussed it.”

Alex approached and tapped Connor beneath his arms, instructing him wordlessly to spread them both. Connor did, allowing Alex to check the length of the sleeves and the fit of the shoulders. “And you've told him not to?” he asked, pushing Connor's arms back by his sides again, apparently satisfied.

“I'm not ready,” Connor answered, looking Alex in the eyes.

Alex unbuttoned the jacket and slipped his hands inside, checking the fit of the waistcoat. He pressed in close and adjusted the band at the back, tightening it up by a degree. “If you've met his son he's not about to do a Daniel on you,” he said, dispassionately.

Connor frowned and looked away. Alex did not always spare Connor's feeling, and sometimes he was grateful for it, and at other times he wished Alex was a little more reserved when he went for tender spots. “I didn't believe he would,” he replied, his voice low. Hank had a desperate need to be able to relax and not hide his feelings for or about Connor. Connor didn't think he was able to pretend to anyone for very long, let alone his family.

“And from what you said,” Alex added, withdrawing his hands from behind Connor's back and tugging the jacket straight with both hands, “he's more likely to be arrested for punching Elijah than he is to let himself be used as a bargaining chip.”

Connor took a step back, putting space between himself and Alexander. Alex straightened up, realising he'd crossed some line. “Chloe did what was right for her,” Connor told him, firmly. Alex hadn't known Chloe, he'd only heard the story after the fact.

“Which played right into Elijah's hands,” Alex replied.

Connor frowned and looked away. He allowed silence to bloom for a moment while he collected himself, remaining calm. Elijah had come along at the end of Connor's first year, dropping into his life as he sometimes did to wreak his own brand of aimed chaos, and had offered Connor the chance to finish his education and work with him out in California. Connor had turned it down, and then discovered the offer had been made to Chloe as well who had accepted it.

When Connor had found he didn't know who he was without Amanda's rules Chloe had been there, guiding him to do things for himself rather than out of some misplaced rebellion. She was the first person he'd ever loved that hadn't been out to control him, and Elijah had viewed her as a pawn in his games.

“It would have,” he agreed, “except that it didn't work.” Chloe had told him that he could only make his own decision. If California wasn't what he wanted he shouldn't take it.

Alex rolled his eyes. Connor's persistent refusal to be angry with Chloe for leaving him had always irritated him. Connor was too nice with those that broke his heart, in Alex's view. “The point is,” he said, dragging the conversation onto a less combative track, “that Big and Blue Eyed isn't going anywhere without you, so all you're doing right now is wasting time.” He stepped forward again, and Connor let him. Alex set his hands on Connor's shoulders. “Which is time that you could be happy, Connor.”

“I'm already happy,” Connor pointed out, and ignored that gnawing presence in his gut that pointed out that he was also scared. “Besides,” he said, “it's not that simple.”

Alex brushed the tops of Connor's shoulders, removing imaginary dust from them. “It is from where I'm standing,” he answered.

Connor's lips pressed into a tight line. He fixed Alex with the sternest look he could muster. “The next step for us isn't marriage, Alex, it's cohabitation.” Five nights per week wasn't every night, and it still meant that Connor maintained that safety net. He had somewhere to go, just in case.... just in case of what he was no longer sure. “But if I give up my flat I have to file the change of address with HR, which will mean Hank and I can't work together.” He'd be forced to stay with Cacciatore, in murder, or to transfer back to cyber crime and endure another year at least of Gavin.

Alex settled his hand at Connor's collar, fussing with his tie and ensuring it was completely straight. “So,” he said, “what do you want more; to live with him, or to work with him?”

Connor tilted his head and looked into Alex's green eyes. “I want both,” he answered, with certainty.

Alex met his gaze and didn't waver. “Which do you want more?” he repeated. Connor blinked, but found an answer wouldn't come. He wanted both because the job wasn't the same without Hank. He didn't enjoy it as much, didn't feel as proud of completing his work. He wanted Hank, but he also wasn't sure he'd continue to want the job for another ten years without Hank.

“Okay,” Alex huffed at Connor's silence, “which do you love more, him or your job?”

“Him.” The word was out of Connor's mouth before his brain had really registered the question.

“That was fast,” Alex replied, his eyebrows shooting upwards and wrinkling his forehead.

Connor blinked quickly and looked away. It had been fast, but it was also true. “I love him more than I've ever loved anyone, or anything, Alex,” he explained, softly, “I've no doubts about that.”

Alex smiled sympathetically and draped his arm across Connor's shoulders as he turned him to look in the mirror. “Then why is the rest so hard?” he asked.

Connor looked at his reflection. He looked expensive in the exact sort of way that he knew got Hank's interests up. His interests, and other things. Although, some treacherous part of his mind offered, if he got some thick black framed glasses he could also reasonably pull off the Clark Kent look like this. “Change is frightening,” he answered, “when you can't take it back.”

“Connor,” Alex said, letting his arm drop from Connor's shoulder as Connor checked the mother of pearl cufflinks on the shirt, “stability is one thing, stagnation is another.”

Connor sighed and straightened the jacket sleeves one final time. He gave a turn and checked out his profile in the mirror. The jacket did not do much to give the illusion he had an ass. “How much for the full set?”

Alex raised a sharply judgemental eyebrow at Connor. “That depends,” he said. “Is this one going to get left on the floor as well?”