Work Text:
"We're not doing this."
"Hank."
"We're not, Connor. I'm a 53 year old man who lives alone in a house with my dog. Who am I trying to impress, huh? Santa?"
"Well, my calculations have concluded that if you work hard for the next week, you'll be able to nudge yourself out of the naughty list and into the nice." Connor nods, all matter of fact. Hank’s jaw drops.
"What? I helped your sorry ass gain freedom for your people.” Hank is flabbergasted. “You tellin' me I'm still on Santa's hit list?“
"You're always late to your job, lieutenant. You've been late 234 days of the year to date-"
"How the fuck- are you snooping on my records, you asshole?!“
"May I remind you that you called Richard Perkins a cocksucker."
"I did that to distract him. To help you !" Hank yells in disbelief, and then pauses when he hears the buzz around him stop. He remembers they are sitting at their desks in the precinct, during work hours, and the conversation has escalated to the point that Hank is leaning past his monitor in the fervor of discussing the hypothetical situation of whether a magical man in a red jumpsuit would squeeze into his chimney and leave a bag of coal or candy by the fireplace. What had started as a quiet, whispered conversation of the practicalities of decorating a house soon started climbing in intensity, as they often did with Connor. Connor can get under his skin so easily at times- his lack of social filter means his teasing and honesty can be relentless. Connor has that tiny, smug grin on his face that Hank could have sworn wasn't so obvious when he first met him.
Hank makes it his personal mission to knock Connor down a level.
"You tellin' me you're the cocksucker-" Hank enunciates every consonant of the final word with utmost care. Connor frowns at that to Hank's chagrin, a little nose-wrinkle tells him that Connor is not a fan of the particular turn-of-phrase. "-who landed me in the fucking naughty list. I got there trying to help you."
"I didn't ask you to punch him."
"Har de fuckin har, Connor. Don't pretend you weren't all for it. Even if Santa did exist he'd crumble under the totalitarian Jesus-approved moral compass you have stuck up your ass."
"I don't have anything stuck up my ass." It’s said completely earnestly, defensively. “It’s in perfect working condition.”
Hank is too tired and too old to want to think of what it means that Connor’s stupid voice echoes through his skull. A psychoanalysis of why Hank thinks so much about Connor at all is a can of worms he honestly doesn't need to open, and placing Connor’s ass anywhere near those thoughts makes him want to hurl that tin ass into the next state over. Luckily- or unluckily- a pained, defeated voice breaks him out of his thoughts.
"Hank." Connor says, tone suddenly serious. There's a pause, the crease of an eyebrow. Hank cocks his own eyebrows, signaling that he’s ready for whatever Connor was going to offer him. "Are you trying to tell me Santa isn't real?"
Even his cynicism couldn't stop him from sputtering.
"Wha- oh, yeah. Yeah, Connor. Santa is real. He works at every mall in the country. Maybe cos you've been such a good boy you can sit on his lap and he'll give you a candy cane."
Connor goes silent, the LED on his head suddenly flickering into yellow. A sudden fear spikes through him that the android will take it literally, so he decides that he may need to roll back the sarcasm before he needs to watch the scene of a confused mall santa watching the overeager body of a 30 year old man approaching him. He's not as sure as he'd like to be that 165 pounds of overearnest android wouldn't take him at his word- if only to spite him. Hank has learnt over the past month that without Cyberlife at the reins, Connor was always looking for new tasks to complete, to fill the need baked into his programming to accomplish tasks. Somehow [spite Hank for the sole reward of watching him splutter] had become a staple. The awkwardness of Connor rolling over another man’s thighs is near the bottom of Hank’s list of “Things I want to see before I die". He also has a duty-of-care towards innocent civilians that includes protecting them from lap-dancing androids, probably.
He needs to kill this fantasy before it starts.
"Connor, you're not six. Don't you fucking dare."
"I'm technically only-"
"D-don’t!” Hank is stabbing a stubby finger in Connor’s direction, and Connor is too amused. The little shit. “Don’t you go there."
A grin breaks out on Connor's smooth lips. One of these days, Connor's smartass mouth was going to end him. Or Hank would finally snap and end Connor himself.
Hank slumps back on his chair, massaging his temples. He peers out from under his hand at Connor whose attention seems to have turned towards the window, wistful expression watching the gentle snowfall outside. It’s not often that Connor gets distracted during work, with his work-ethic the single remaining most inhuman thing about him, but there’s something in that supercomputer brain of his that’s making the rounds. Hank wonders what it is.
Is it really over Christmas ?
A realisation dawns on him.
This would be Connor’s first Christmas.
Something about that fact makes Hank's gut churn. What would it matter to an android when a day in the calendar is the same as any other day in the calendar, scientifically.
Just, Hank knows, Connor isn’t just an android. He’s a person like any other. At the turn of December, most people had already begun to prepare for Christmas: stringing tinsel along their couches, and throwing fairy lights atop the roof. They would be cleaning their fireplaces, and dusting off the nutcracker statues; they’d take out their Christmas trees and throw on papermache ornaments their six-year old sons and daughters made from school.
And tonight, Connor would follow Hank to his house to watch the tele with him in a gray room for three hours before taking the bus 20 minutes the other way to his apartment.
It occurs to Hank that he’s never seen Connor’s house, but Hank has half a brain cell left even after all the alcohol and he can make an educated guess at what it looked like. He imagines the white desk, the black sofa- wonders if there’d be anything more than that. They wouldn’t need a fridge, would they? Was there a bed? Did androids even sleep? Did they need charging ports? What did Connor do all night? Hank can see Connor in his head sitting on the sofa in his barren room staring blankly at the wall until the clock ticks 7am. Then, of course, Connor would go early to the Station. Hank wonders if Connor collects items throughout the day, knick knacks he likes to put on his window sill. He wonders if Connor’s figured out what he likes yet.
The thought depresses him. Whatever the case, he knows Connor deserves more.
“So… first Christmas, huh.” Hank clears his throat, his ring finger draws circles in the plastic of the desk. “How ya findin’ it? I mean, I know it hasn’t happened yet, but people ‘round here really like to start preppin’ early.”
The voice breaks Connor out of his conversation with the window. “I don’t completely understand what makes the day so special, but from all the preparations being made… it must be important.” Connor looks at Hank like he’s just seen light break through the clouds. “I like it, though.” Hank can’t get that look out of his head. Doesn’t want to.
He wants to see it more.
Hank closes his eyes, purses his lips and sighs. He hopes it gives off an exasperated demeanor- at least hopes that’s how it comes across to Connor- who is still looking at him like that, yeah- but he knows he’s lost.
"Jesus, Connor, fine. We can decorate the house. But we're not going overboard, alright?"
The beam that Connor shoots him. Yeah. Yeah. It wasn't a good sign at all, the way he can't think of anything else for the rest of the day.
…
It’s been a while since Hank has had a reason to go outside.
Sure, he goes to the station daily for work, and sure, occasionally you could probably find him slumped over the countertop of Jimmy’s bar but in both cases he’s probably numb out of his mind- not entirely different from how he is at home, drink in hand.
No, it’s been a good while since Hank has been able to lift his ass off the couch and plant himself somewhere which didn’t have an intended purpose of numbing one’s skull.
But here he is now officially outside, and it's a bigger deal than he’s proud to admit. If he wasn't going to be here for himself, he’d be here for Connor.
They finish work, and the sun is starting to set by the time they find parking at the side alley of a busy city road. A couple of meters away, Connor's waiting with his hands behind his back.
“C’mon. Let’s go.” Hank catches Connor’s gaze and jerks his head the other direction. Connor trots up alongside him, and they make their way towards Downtown Detroit. It’s mid-December, which means the winter markets are set up, a perfect place to pick up an ornament or two.
The streets are bursting with vividness this time of year. Storefronts are decorated with their life-sized felt Santa statues, and festive wreaths hang from their doors. The trees are draped over with nets of white fairy lights that capture the breath. He’s seen reindeers, snowmen and Christmas trees galore on the funky knitted sweaters worn by adults and children alike, as if the entire population was participating in a city-wide “Ugliest Christmas Sweater” event as an attempt to distract from the rubble that was still visible on the city road-sides.
“Have any idea what you’re looking for?” Hank says, as they reach the market, where people are flittering in and out of neat rows of cozy stalls. It only then occurs to him that there are humans and androids alike intermingling in the crowd. There are androids wearing orange, pink, red, yellows, greens and blues. How far things have come even in such a short time. Though many of the laws are still changing, it strikes something within Hank to know that androids were feeling empowered enough to wear what they wanted to rather than what they’re branded in.
Connor sticks out like a sore thumb, dressed in his uptight gray blazer which is all reminiscent of CyberLife, but there’s something so Connor about that being his choice. It’s a contrast to the goofy way he’s crouched down looking at a nutcracker in the doorway to the large charity stall. Hank wonders if he should let Connor know that what he is staring at is the display, but it’s unnecessary as Connor’s fancy is stolen by a chihuahua in a Santa hat, and he soon disappears into the store.
Ever the man on a mission.
The stall has everything from plaid cushions to large novelty plushes and small knick knacks, and Hank has to push past waves of colorful people weaving through each other like a snake of fairy lights. When he finally finds Connor, he’s staring at an assortment of wreaths and Christmas plants. Connor’s pupils are so large and brown as he takes in every detail around him. One plant in particular seems to have caught his attention, bunched together with red ribbon, branching outwards with white berries…
Hank busies himself in a basket of plaid scarves packed on the table. He sifts through the packages with clumsy hands. He picks up a navy scarf, examining it very closely. It looks like Connor, in it’s fresh deep blue. Wow, is that a Merino Wool and Cashmere blend on the tag? Absolutely incredible.
“Phoradendron tomentosum.” Connor's husky voice mutters, and Hank swallows. He must only be imagining the way Connor’s eyes flicker over to him so subtly. Hank is so busy looking through the scarves. “It’s a parasitic species… it’s a toxic plant, but it seems to have developed a cultural significance.”
“Yep. Mistletoe…” Hank nods, lips tight, heat on his neck. “Nothing like mistletoe to stir up a party. Not that we’d need any around… and it’s not great with Sumo, the way he helps himself to anything that gets on the floor.” The sudden nauseous need to over explain is suffocating. “It’s fuckin’ freezing in here. Gonna go out and get some fresh air.” Hank mutters, and all Connor replies with is a small nod, eyes half-lidded, staring at the mistletoe with a strange quiet.
By the time he reaches the exit, the plastic-wrapped scarf is still in his hand. He chances a glance back at Connor in his black blazer, who has moved on now and is examining a branch of holly. Hank pauses, before fishing out his wallet. He tosses notes and spare coins to the cashier, and mumbles his thanks before ducking out.
Hank's nerves are still firing when he decides to try out the mocha at the pop-up cafe a few stalls down. The line is long, and when he finally gets the mocha, Connor emerges from the stall carrying a statue of a St Bernard with both arms.
“Oh look, you found Sumo.” Hank chuckles. Ace fucking choice. He watches Connor prop it up on the table in front of him affectionately.
“It’s Santa Bernard.” Connor leans in, brown-eyes wide and Hank swats at him.
“Oh, shut up.” Hank almost chokes. “That was fuckin’ awful, Connor.”
“It’s a treat for Sumo because he’s been such a good boy.” Connor gazes at the statue with such a look that Hank can’t help but look away from how it twists in his chest something warm. For Sumo.
“Hmm.” Is all Hank can say; lost for words, lost for breath. “He’s a good one, ain’t he.” He rolls the cardboard cup in his grip.
On the way back to the car, it’s still snowing, and Hank is puffing up breaths of fog in the air. It’s only halfway through that Hank notices Connor’s eyes trained on his lips, following the smoke. His own mouth is moving, and he’s also trying to puff into the air, but his breath is invisible in the weather. Hank notices that Connor’s arms are curled in on himself in the blazer, snow dusting his hair.
“You cold, Connor?” Hank lifts an eyebrow.
There’s a pause before Connor responds. “I’m okay, lieutenant.” He says, but he’s still gripping at his forearms. “My systems are detecting that this is the normal human response, but I’m not in any danger. The freezing point of thirium is lower than that of blood.” Does Connor think that tipping his head forward makes him look more convincing?
“Look, watchin’ you is makin’ me cold. Here.” Hank stops on the pavement and unravels the scarf, folding it in half. “Wear it to work or… somethin’. I dunno. Just so you look less like an intern on your first day.”
Wide eyes are watching every movement of Hank’s arms as he loops the fabric around Connor’s neck. When Hank pulls one end of the scarf through the loop, and does a finishing pat over the collarbone, the scarf is snug and Connor’s frozen. His mouth is slightly agape, pink tongue darting out to his lips. Hank’s voice feels like gravel when he talks. “Warmer now?”
The way Connor looks at him, and nods. Hank feels warmer.
“Uh-huh.” Is the intelligent response from the supercomputer brain. Connor's eyes buffer for a few seconds. "Yes... Thank you." Connor replies slowly, and the color of the scarf seems to reflect off Connor’s skin because his cheeks are flushing a light, warm blue.
Hank can’t stop thinking of the color as they get into the car, and he drives Connor to his apartment complex. Hank can’t stop thinking about the color after Connor waves his goodbye, and he drives home. He runs a hand over his face, tries to calm the flushing of his face against the cold winter air.
Can’t stop thinking about Connor’s color.
…
The world has passed by in monochrome for so long that Hank can’t really remember a time before everything froze over; a single night in a sheet of ice and snow. But this year, the colors feel brighter.
Hank hadn’t been sure what it was exactly.
It’d been a month since the android revolution reached a climax, and a ceasefire was finally reached. Even so, while the world for androids had very much changed, it didn't explain why Hank's world should have changed much at all.
Hank still works at the Detroit Police Department after a brief suspension for breaking Perkins nose, and for the most part it’s still pretty shitty. Fowler still gives him the stink-eye for his chosen methods, even after he finds out why Hank had to do it. He still has to stare at a monitor in the office for way too long. Hank still has to deal with suspects who think they’re smarter than they are giving bullshit alibis just because the blue blood on their shirt is dry (Connor can see it). Coffee at the precinct still sucks (in fact, it sucks more than usual because Connor’s hidden the fucking sugar). Gavin Reed still sucks, too (although it doesn’t suck to watch Gavin shrink away every time the douchebag approaches and Connor so much as shifts in his seat).
Gavin still complains about headaches in the precinct to this day.
Hank wants to know what happened in that evidence room.
Hank still watches shitty reruns after work every night. Connor always asks why he watches the same shows even if he doesn’t like them. Nostalgia, probably. Sentimentality, maybe. Hank likes the question because it makes Connor look at him in awe like he’s a curious specimen beyond logical understanding, rather than a bored middle-aged man with nothing better to do.
Ah. Connor.
Hank still wasn't sure what it was, exactly, that had changed, but he was starting to have an idea.
So when the week goes by and it’s the same as any normal week, except Connor’s busy and doesn’t sit himself in the passenger seat of Hank’s oldsmobile on most days, it’s weird. Hank doesn’t know where he goes, can’t bring himself to ask. The Wednesday that Connor does stops by, he does so to say hi to Sumo or to stare at random spots of wall or furniture. Hank gets caught staring a few times in return, only because Connor looks absolutely absurd doing it.
Also, Connor’s wearing the blue scarf.
“Planning a robot rebellion with my fridge?” He chuckles, leaning on the kitchen counter to observe Connor who has his head tilted at an angle. He looks like a proper artist é .
Hank jumps when the TV behind him turns on, an assortment of channels piecing together garbled sounds on hell on Earth.
“Jesus… give me a heart attack, why don’t you…” He mutters.
Connor smiles.
Then, he’s gone.
He still sees Connor in the precinct, and he looks… the same. He’s still ever-focused on his work, but he still glances over with those smiles. Connor’s starting to roll his eyes when Gavin walks around, which Hank is sure is a bad habit Connor picked up from him. There’s the guilt within him, as they talk about the typical suspects and work and fuckin’ Gavin and Fowler and Hank wants to throw in a “how are you anyway, where you been, wanna come over” but he can’t when it’s been less than a week and we wouldn’t be able to live with himself, and Connor has a life and- so does Hank, it’s just that
the house is a little different without Connor around.
It’s darker, grayer, bigger. Hank had gotten used to it, he supposed. It had become a routine more than an event that Connor would slip into the front passenger seat of his vehicle. Hank was used to hearing the diligent click of the seatbelt and the subtle whipping of the coin as it travels across deft fingers for the entirety of the ride. Hank always notices how the coin glides in the corner of his eye, smooth over expert fingers, practiced and ever so good at everything they do. Programmed to perfection, unlike his own fingers- big, calloused and clumsy.
As Hank flips through the channels, he starts to wonder if he took it for granted. What was this feeling? Freedom, a Hank one-month younger would say. Freedom it is, living alone as he should. Hank pulls open the cabinet and digs out a bottle of whiskey. He grabs a cup, unscrews the bottle lid, stares into the undulating clear liquid which looks like bitterness and tastes like burning. Freedom feels like lethargy, noticing his belly more, the unkempt nature of his hair and the largeness of the house when Connor isn't here.
Hank screws the lid of the bottle on once again, shoving it far into the deep corner of the cabinet, before making his way to his room.
. . .
"The fuck part of not going overboard do you not understand?”
"You didn't give a solid unit of measurement for overboard, so I took my liberties with the statement."
"To hell with your ‘liberties’. God, Connor, why do you even ask if you're just gonna go ahead and do it?“
"Well, this is your house. It doesn't feel appropriate for me to make large changes without the permission of the owner."
Hank can hardly see the insides of his car behind everything that’s been haphazardly stuffed into it. Hank would be impressed at how much the bad boy could hold if he wasn’t so horrified.
"My house, huh? Could'a fooled me." Connor frowns that frown again, edges of his lips pulling down ever so slightly. Hank has to fight to keep the smugness off his face. Hank thinks about how Connor had done that frown far before he had even deviated. Even back then, the telltale signs that the man would unintentionally let his real feelings slip had been there. A firm warmth grips at Hank's chest. A pride. A warm, tender thing that makes him want to pull the man in, show Connor to the entire world.
Look at him. Look at everything he is, and everything he's overcome.
It's silly, because while the actions of a few androids used to cause waves in the population- now that there were free androids all over the country, no man would stop for the sight of one android.
And yet.
Hank was proud. To Hank, watching Connor was like watching evidence of the importance of the revolution in the first place. The way slowly, Connor's smiles begin to loosen. The way he's started to laugh, these small little things that crinkle his entire face when he thinks Hank isn't looking as Sumo licks at his face. The moments where an experience successfully breaks down the prison of data he had been born into.
Hank hadn't wanted to admit it, but it was getting to the point that he couldn't deny it. It was becoming personal. Broken through the walls that he had fought so hard to build up over the past three years. Everything about Connor, an android- one android- in the revolution that affected thousands- hundreds of thousands. It was becoming personal.
Hank was so proud. Hank was so proud of the man who was currently...
"Connor, where the fuck did you even get a sleigh." By this point, Connor had already deposited the sleigh onto the snowy ground, and was returning to Hank's oldsmobile to untie the two metal framed deer from the car roof. They're studded with glitter and lights. They're beautiful. "And why."
Nothing seems to deter Connor, who gets to work unloading the present boxes. Then the boxes and boxes and boxes of fairy lights. At Hank's exasperation, a smile tugs on Connor's lips and Hank feels a tight tension in his chest.
Probably a fucking heart attack, honestly.
Hank's starting to realise that Connor was probably worse for his health than a burger ever was. Sometimes Hank found himself staring and forgetting to breathe. Sometimes Hank found himself feeling more nervous than usual, strange tinge of nausea when Connor leaned in too close at the station or the times he would come up behind him on the sofa and whisper something completely normal in his ear. It makes Hank's heart stop and his mind race for a second. Makes Hank wonder if Connor is doing it on purpose. Makes Hank think, what did it matter if it was on purpose or not, if the end result was that Hank felt like gelatin. Yeah. Connor couldn't be good for a man in his 50s with high blood pressure.
"How much did this cost?" Hank asks, amidst the turmoil in his mind.
"Don't worry, I took it out of my own paycheck." The way Connor dodges the question makes Hank grimace.
"What- Connor, this is for my house. You shouldn't spend money on-" me . If Hank were honest, it's what he'd say, to ease the uncomfortable gnaw in his chest. "- stupid things like this. You're gonna need that shit one day, you hear me? Blue blood doesn't come cheap these days."
"Hank." Connor says, tone short and reprimanding, and Hank stills. "I want to.” Connor mutters, and Hank feels his blood freeze when Connor meets his eyes.
“I want to spend it on something important to me."
It's as if the world around him stops for a moment. It breaks something in Hank that he didn't even know he had anymore. All he can do is watch as Connor continues his trips back and forth from the car to the house.
"Oh!" Connor pipes as his LED blinks and he remembers something- receives something?- and scuttles off into Hank's car. Hank makes a halfhearted attempt to ask if Connor wants him to come, but Connor insists that he doesn’t want to "waste the lieutenant's time" (it's always lieutenant when its useful, huh) and that "he could handle it on his own" (of course he could, he's fucking incredible) and the thought that Connor- made of metal, and plastic, and able to compute hundreds if not thousands of calculations and processes in a split second that would take the most incredible humans year- has developed an affinity for shopping. Right in front of him.
Connor was one of the last models made, and he was made to be perfected. This one-of-a-kind could-be death-machine. Except he's not. He's just fucking Connor. And he likes shopping, and stealing Hank's car apparently, and buying things for Hank with his first probably underwhelming paycheck.
Fuck.
Hank watches as Connor checks the rearview mirror and drives off, leaving an empty driveway and empty street. As if all the colors melt away, it leaves a sheet of empty white snow and black houses to the dimming gray night.
Hank slowly moves back to the house, fingers ghosting along the doorknob. He doesn't really feel it open, or close, but then he's in the house and Connor has made a mess.
The room is dampened by the closed blinds. The water droplets echo off the empty metal sink. The dull, white plastic of the christmas lights are strewn over the floor. The deer sits in the corner. The present boxes a dusty color. They are wrapped neatly in foil but hollow inside. Stockings are thrown over the couch haphazardly. A felt statue of an antique Santa sits on his coffee table, glassy eyes gazed lifelessly ahead. Packaging is everywhere.
It's so empty.
It's so quiet.
Sumo had chosen this time of the day to sleep.
The clock marches forward. It always does. It ticks and tocks without a care for anyone else in the world.
The fragile plastic lights look tiny in his large, rough hands. Briefly, he remembers them in much smaller ones.
The presents look taunting in front of his drawn face. The sound of mystery and laugher being shaken by smaller hands was what gave the boxes their luster anyway.
The stockings are thrown around haphazardly. It's just like when Cole was here.
Cole would have hid from the santa standing threateningly at the door. What a menace. What was Connor thinking?
Outside the window, the sky is ivory. The gray skies make way only for falling snow. It sits upon the bare black bark of the tree branches. It's the mark of the winter months, White Wonderland December. He'd thrown it all out, at this point, three years ago. The stuffed toys. The decorations. The lights. The clothes. The gifts they had bought on black friday, that were waiting to be given to him. What was once full, and cluttered, made way for and empty shell of a mess. He's standing there again, in a house built for life, but instead there's only him in it. It was alive, once, until there was only him in it.
In the locked kitchen drawer 20 meters away, there lay the gun.
In the cabinet above the refrigerator, to the left, pushed to the very corner, lay the spirits. They've been dormant, untouched, a little too long. The whites of the gin and whiskey.
Hank had found the key a few weeks back, it hadn't been hidden too carefully.
It could be quick. It could be easy. He may hardly know- or feel- what happens when the wooze is in his system, when the discomfort of thinking is drowned out by the fuzzy heat in his skin and the heavy pressure in his hand.
It could be done, and gone, in the blink of an eye.
Instead, Hank chooses.
He chooses to close his eyes.
. . .
When he wakes up, he's staring at two pools of bourbon, and god the light behind him was too bright. Hank stirs to the sight of blinking eyes, familiar curls, smooth pink skin, delicate lips a couple of centimeters away from his face at most. Hank groans. To be awake was painful. A softness ghosts along Connor's face.
"Tha fuck?" Hank slurs.
"It's me, Hank." Connor is leaning on the edge of the couch, next to Hank’s elbow. Hank cradles his head. The light is so blinding. A large silhouette looms behind Connor who was currently knelt on the carpet in front of him. Hank swallows.
"No kidding." Hank registers, dumbly. "You bought a tree. I threw mine out three years ago."
"I know." Connor says, hushed. He gazes at Hank. "I'm sorry if I upset you." It lingers in the air for longer as it should as Hank processes the words.
"What?” Hank clambers up so he’s leaning over at Connor. “Don't be." Hank says. "You didn't… upset me."
The way Connor worries his lip, bites it. "I cleaned up a bit."
Hank chuckles. "Yeah, you made a mess. I like it, though." His voice is low, soft. Calm.
Connor smiles again. When he speaks, it's hushed, quiet. Oh, so tender.
They stay like that a bit, bathing in the silence. Hank looks at the tree. It’s a nice size, not too big or too small. Underneath the lights and positioned under the tree, the presents sit nicely- assortments of metallic colors glinting, starry patterns hiding in the sheen. There’s a snow globe now that wasn’t here before, sitting in the middle of the coffee table. Within it sits a tiny figure of santa on his sleigh with his reindeer. Santa Bernard is sitting in the corner of the room next to Sumo’s bed. And then there’s Connor, leaning over the couch next to where Hank lay, close. Close. So fucking close. He has those eyes, the ones which are so big and bright, like they’re trying to take in everything and he’s in awe at what he sees.
What on earth Connor sees is beyond Hank, when he’s looking right at him.
"Hank, look."
"M'looking." An amused scoff escapes from Hank, because of course he's looking at Connor. What else can he do? He's right in front of him, in his personal space, stealing his air with every inhale. He can feel Connor's breath on his lips, the warm tingle. Fuck. What had he done? Why him? Why were those eyes there looking at him?
Then, Connor draws away, and Hank feels disappointment that he doesn't deserve run through him. Against everything he thinks he deserves to do, he slowly lifts his aching body up from his lying position on the couch. Sits for a couple of seconds to ground himself. He feels like a shitty heater, radiating pitiful amounts of heat into the air around him.
The lights go off, and Hank’s staring into pitch black but for the hundreds and hundreds of glimmering lights. It’s the reds, the greens, the yellows and brilliant blues. They’re winking like stars in the galaxy along the rims of the tree, coming forth and bursting like thousands of little supernovas; running along the ground like rivers reflecting the sky.
“I’m not finished yet.” Connor’s voice says, from somewhere in the dark, and Hank lifts himself off the couch and stumbles towards it. He bumps into Connor, illuminated only by the string of lights between his slender fingers, and the LED on his temple. Hank feels himself stumble over one of the many boxes on the floor, and he can’t stop himself from swearing and reaching out at anything to find his footing. He grips Connor’s shoulders, stabilising, and when he looks up he sees the way the colors dance in Connor’s eyes. They're twinkling.
“You really don’t know how to control yourself, huh.” Hank scolds, unable to hide the breathlessness in his voice. “That's so... overdone, you didn't need to…” And then he sees it, hanging above their heads, in the dark. Hank squints. He squints really hard. "Fuck. Connor, mistletoe? I-is it… wrapped in plastic?"
"Ziploc bag, just in case it falls and Sumo finds it.” Connor says, as if it’s obvious. There’s a slight note of pride in his voice that strikes Hank incredulous.
“You think a ziploc bag can get in the way of my dog and anything he wants?”
Connor’s voice tilts, a wincing whisper. “I needed an excuse, lieutenant. Success parameters stated that I had only a 60% of getting what I wanted without it."
It's so cliche, the way his heart hammers is embarrassing. Connor's quiet smile was something secretive. God damn him, he was too old to feel like this again. Butterflies should have been left at the early turn of the century.
Hank quirks an eyebrow. "And with it?"
"80%."
In the honey brown eyes, Hank can see the multicolored lights from the Christmas tree. They glint, and change color, a myriad, continuously, in wonder.
"Again, you didn't have to." Hank pulls Connor closer until he's fitted against him.
"I wanted to."
The look in Connor's eyes. Maybe it was Connor who would kill him after all. The unwavering earnesty in it is really too much, aimed at someone like him? Too much. Too fuckin’ much. It was impossible to imagine the person in front of him was anything but human. Hank can feel the soft bounce of the waist under the crinkle of the coat; he can feel the tickle of breath on his neck. Most of all, the wonder in the eyes in front of him, red blues yellows twinkling- a soul Hank hadn't seen for a long time. Like he's finding something new with each second. Like he's happy to be here, in the present. Hank finds himself unable to breathe.
"What else did you want?" The hushed tones are getting quieter and quieter, if they kept going the next few words would be barely above a whisper.
"I already told you." Connor's eyes flicker upwards. "Are your senses getting dull, Lieutenant?"
"Yeah. I think some plastic asshole is taking up my headspace."
Hank presses his forehead against Connor’s, arm encircled around his waist. Connor tilts his head, eyelids low as his husky tones, and Hank leans forward to close the distance.