Chapter Text
August 16, 2032, 5:49PM
He tells himself that he's keeping an eye on Connor the same way he keeps an eye on all the rookie cops. It's not just because he's Hank Anderson's boy, and Hank Anderson is one of Ben's oldest friends, since all the way back when they were both rookie cops themselves.
How the hell Hank could lose one of his sons to a car crash and then allow the other to enlist in a job as dangerous as that of a beat cop in Detroit is absolutely beyond Detective Collins' ability to fathom, but then, he's not a father. And so far Connor certainly seems like he can handle himself.
If he were to be anything like a father to anyone, or even just a favourite uncle, Connor Anderson is probably the most likely candidate. Unlike any of the other rookie cops, Ben has known Connor since before he was even born, as far back as when he was still kicking his twin brother in the womb. This had belonged to the hooker that his dad had met on the beat, unwisely knocked up, and hopelessly attempted to domesticate. Ben remembers the day that Krystelle had made an AMA break from the hospital and skipped town, almost immediately after squirting a pair of premature twin boys into the NICU, and left their father holding the proverbial bag. When they were finally discharged, Ben had given them all a lift home from the hospital, so Hank could sit in the back between his boys in their two carseats. If that doesn't qualify Ben for at least honorary uncle status, he doesn't know what else possibly would.
Maybe the tough, stubborn streak that had allowed Hank to somehow raise two sons all on his own is the same tough, stubborn streak that makes it seem like Connor really doesn't need much looking after.
Still, maybe it only seems that way.
On the day Ben saves the kid's life, the trouble starts during what was supposed to be a fairly uneventful interrogation. Connor had only been in the room as a precaution, almost more of a prop than anything else. Just to add some visual pressure, the unambiguous presence of a uniformed cop. Detective Collins doesn't exactly cut an intimidating figure, and had scheduled an interview with someone who wasn't even technically a suspect, just a suspicious witness to a robbery that was beginning to seem like more than just an opportunistic smash and grab at a Cyberlife store; ice addicts just trying to score as much Thirium as they could carry. Ben had noticed the guy getting nervous, fidgety, as the questions had begun to probe closer and closer to the possibility of his involvement. When he'd asked for a bathroom break, Collins had told Connor to take him across the hall to the bathroom, and planned to use the opportunity to quickly review some surveillance footage in support of a developing theory.
What had possessed the idiot to make a run for the exit through a building full of cops, Ben couldn't even begin to guess, but if criminals were smart, they'd never catch any. In any case, Connor hadn't let him get far. The kid played hockey for nearly fifteen years, mostly right forward, from elementary school all the way up into college, and so exploding into pursuit on a breakaway play is second nature to him, like throwing a ball for a spaniel. He'd had the witness-turned-suspect tackled to the ground by the time Ben poked his head out of the interrogation room. The subsequent tussle to get him subdued and into cuffs was a rough one, with slamming and swearing and thrown weight and thrown elbows, but nothing Connor couldn't handle, especially with other cops swarming in to assist.
Ben had made a mental note to drop Hank a line about the fact that his kid sure has got some fuckin' chops on him, taking down a guy twice his size, and had ambled down the hallway in time to help Connor back to his feet and dust off his uniform. Two other officers had wrestled and wrangled the suspect away into detainment, as he yelled and hollered about wanting a lawyer.
"Didn't think he was actually gonna make a break for it, kid, sorry 'bout that. Nice collar, though. You okay?"
"Fine," Connor told him, but it had been through lightly gritted teeth and with a hand against his rib cage as he leaned against the wall to catch his breath. "Just gonna hurt tomorrow."
Ben had frowned at him and put a hand on his shoulder. "Looks like it hurts now. Hey, clock out and hit the showers, interviewing that douchebag was the last thing I had to do today and you were already running up into overtime when I borrowed you. You sure you're okay? Might not be a bad idea to go get checked out, looked like you took him down pretty hard. He definitely had a knee on your chest for a second there. Did you hit your head?"
This had gotten an eyeroll and a dismissive, "No, Mom." And Connor had pushed away from the wall and straightened up, like nothing was wrong.
Baby cops sometimes have an air of tough guy machismo to them that Ben remembers from his own days as a rookie, basically forever ago. He'd been short, chubby, and still so deep in the closet he might as well have been in Narnia, having limp-wristed tea and gossiping with the fawns and satyrs about how hard it is to be a gay cop, never mind having to pretend to be a tough guy on top of that. Ben's need to prove himself back then had felt a lot more pressing than it should for Connor, now. The kid is fourth generation law enforcement, tall and young and fit and handsome, and of the type that would be just exactly Ben's idea of a midlife crisis fling, if it weren't wildly inappropriate, and Ben weren't already happily spoken for.
Twenty years on the job, and he's happily and securely partnered with a man whose photo sits on the corner of his desk, the pair of them pictured together at the lake, on the dock with their own pair of twins, only their twins are two matching shih tzus in their own matching sun hats. He's still short and chubby, but now he wears two gold earrings in one ear and gets pedicures on the weekends with his husband, and doesn't care who knows it. And none of that is worth throwing away on a skinny young thing he's known since infancy, who wouldn't even be interested anyway.
And who also calls him Mom, and has done so more than once before.
Maybe Ben babies the rookie officers more than he realized, and he had realized this while still fussing about Connor, even as he tried and failed to dial it back, same as he's ever failed at the tough guy machismo. "Well. Take it easy, anyway. If you need to call in tomorrow, do that. Or don't. Whatever. I'm not your mom."
"A simple 'thanks for nabbing my suspect for me, Connor' would also work, Detective Collins."
This kid is so much like his father was at the same age, doing the same job, that Ben had found himself tempted to warn Connor not to knock up any hookers, and curse Detroit with another generation of Anderson-brand sass. Instead he'd said, "Thanks, Connor. Now hit the showers and go home, damn brat."
"You got it, Mom."
And that's the last Ben expected to see of him before Monday.
Overtime is budgeted and tracked and bitched about for the uniform cops, but it's an expected fact of life for the detectives, and so Ben is at his desk for another hour after telling Connor to go home. He tidies up a few loose ends and plans to reattempt the interrogation after his suspect has had a night to stew in lockup, and then gathers up his things to head home himself.
The parking garage attached to the downtown precinct doesn't see a ton of use for personal vehicles, and is mostly populated by extra squad cars. There's a few spots reserved for folks who drive to work, though most of the staff prefer transit or cabs, rather than trying to deal with limited downtown parking. Ben only drove himself today because his husband wants him to pick up a flat of perennials from the garden center. According to John, the delivery drivers aren't careful enough and his last order arrived all disheveled. Obviously unacceptable.
So it's just luck that Ben is even there, to notice Connor's car still parked in the back corner nearest the wall. Connor drives a hulking black Challenger Hellcat, vintage, which Ben considers is objective proof of the fact that young men shouldn't be given access to meaningful sums of money until their prefrontal cortexes have finished developing, otherwise they spend fifty grand on vintage muscle cars that they baby the same way Ben babies rookie cops and Ben's husband babies perennials.
Connor backs his car into his spot and parks in the corner specifically so it's only at risk of being dinged by another car on one side. When Ben goes to investigate why Connor's stupid car is still here after he was supposed to go home, the space between the driver's side and the concrete wall of the parkade is where he finds the kid, half-collapsed on the ground and slumped against the driver's side door. He stirs and sluggishly picks his head up when Ben shouts in alarm at the sight of him, and even in the low light of the parkade, his face is ghost pale and his lips have the dusky blue tint of cyanosis. Ben can hear him struggling to breathe, shallow, rapid wheezing that sounds both excruciatingly painful and pathetically ineffective.
"Shit, kid!" Ben exclaims, and though it's a tight fit between the wall and the car, he's still down on his knees beside Connor, who's back in his civvies, jeans and a t-shirt. The uniform must be what makes him look older, because in the moment, Ben finds himself struck by how young he seems. "What the hell happened?"
"Dunno. Hurts." Connor has to draw another deliberate, stuttering breath, and even then his voice is faint, gasping on the exhale, as he tries to explain, "I c-can't… really...breathe..."
That much is obvious, and with a hand on Connor's shoulder, Ben can feel his body wracked and tense with pain, and the agony of each wheezing, effortful breath. "Right. Oh boy. Okay, gonna get you outta here, Connor. Straight to the ER. Think you can stand, walk a bit? Just to my car?"
This is answered with a pained, poorly stifled groan and then a valiant attempt to struggle upright, which Ben immediately supplements by hoisting his own self off the ground, and then reaching down to get ahold of Connor. He helps him to his knees, braces his shoulder beneath the kid's arm, then hauls him bodily to his feet. Connor keeps his balance for barely a moment before his knees buckle, with a strangled sound of pain, and he collapses against Ben, suddenly and completely dead weight.
"Connor? …hey, Connor? ...ah, shoot...Connor! C'mon!"
Nothing he says or does in the next few frantic seconds seems to wake him, and Connor's breathing manages to worsen further now that he's no longer actively trying.
Fuck.
Being a detective is mostly a desk job, and Ben is acutely aware that his days of being in good enough shape for the field are well and truly behind him. This is especially apparent when trying to support a buck-forty odd pounds of limply unconscious rookie cop, only about a year out of the Academy and still fit as the day he was last fitness tested. Ben's car is on the other side of the parkade, and there's no way he's getting Connor that far.
But Ben can feel Connor's keys in the pocket of his jeans where they press against his hip, and the passenger side door of Connor's stupid muscle car is a much more reachable destination.
"Okay," he huffs, already winded from the effort so far. He's frisked enough suspects that the thought of reaching into a pair of pockets that don't belong to him has long since lost its awkwardness, and he fishes out Connor's keys. He presses his thumb against a button on the fob to unlock the vehicle with a cheerful little honk, and then presses the remote ignition. For a moment nothing happens, and then the engine turns over, and a deep, guttural growl rumbles through the whole parkade and nearly spooks Ben into dropping the car's owner.
Ben drives a little electric Italian thing that his husband bought him as an anniversary present. It's a silly import, it's a pain in the ass to repair and maintain, but it's also the same type of car they'd rented on the Italian vacation where John had proposed. Ben's named it Daisy, and it has a sticker of its namesake on the center of the steering wheel.
Sometimes, Ben is aware, he is just unbearably gay.
Connor's car is not even a little bit gay, and Ben already hates it.
"Jesus Christ, what is this fucking thing," he mutters irritably, and half-carries, half-drags Connor to the passenger side, propping him awkwardly against the car and holding him there with one hand. Ben typically isn't one for much cursing, but the situation has him stressed to the point of profanity. He pulls the door open, nervously grousing the entire time, in part to cover for his deepening anxiety. "The hell is your problem, kid? I've seen you come outta the showers after a shift, and not that I was looking, but your dick ain't that small. I blame your dad for this, he was always a fucking car guy. Fucking Detroit and it's fucking car guys."
He immediately feels bad for talking shit, as he gets a better look at Connor. Ben shifts him bodily into the passenger's seat, pulling a lever to tilt the seat backwards slightly, then gently adjusts his head to loll back against the headrest instead of drooping forward onto his chest and inhibiting his airway any worse. He's still breathing, but each breath is shallow and rapid, and his eyelids flicker lightly, like he's trying to fight his way back to consciousness and failing in the attempt. Ben presses his fingertips against the pulse point at the side of Connor's throat, where the jugular vein bulges and throbs, and feels his heart pounding away at an alarming speed. He curses to himself and reaches for the seatbelt, pulling it snug across Connor's narrow, labouring chest, and clipping it securely into place. It feels a little futile, but he pats the kid gently on the shoulder and insistently promises, "Connor? Hang in there, kid. You're gonna be okay, you hear me?"
By all appearances, Connor does not, but Ben feels a little better for having said it, anyway, because he's going to make sure it's true.
This accomplished, he circles hastily around to the driver's side, and negotiates the bulk of his frame into the driver's seat. He has to reach and pull and tug on levers and switches to move the seat far enough forward for him to comfortably reach the pedals, and then he has to remind himself how to drive a manual. It's been over three decades since his own first car, and Ben's watched and participated happily in the shift from gas to electric vehicles, but he still remembers how to drive the kind of fossil-fueled monstrosity Connor's chosen. He pulls carefully out of the parking spot and then roars through the parkade, grim and determined and slightly comical behind the wheel.
It still takes almost more attention than he can spare to drive the thing, and keep an eye on Connor, and pull out his phone and call 911, as he swings the vehicle around the last corner towards the ramp up to street level, and connects to the dispatcher.
"911, what's your emergency?"
Ben's voice is clipped, concentrating, as he rattles off the details of the situation and what he needs. "Yeah, this is Detective Ben Collins with the DPD, badge number 263-9648. I'm just leaving Central with an off-duty officer in acute medical distress, requesting any available squad to escort a black Dodge Challenger from the downtown precinct to the nearest ER. Gonna be the University. Tell 'em we're on the way, the guy is barely breathing."
The dispatcher's tone is the even, unruffled calm of an android. "Copy that, Detective. Can you give me any more details?"
The car is suddenly flooded with late afternoon light in the transition from the darkness of the parking lot into the bright summer day outside. Ben slows down over the slight jolt of a speed bump on the way off the ramp, trying to take it gently, and winces as this nevertheless prompts a cry of pain from his semi-conscious passenger, and then a gasping, stuttering breath. "Uh. Twenty-three year old male, found him collapsed in the parking garage. Think he's cracked some ribs, maybe popped a lung. About an hour ago? He got into it with a suspect, big guy, knocked the kid around pretty good. I told him he should go get looked at. Connor, buddy? You with me, kid, can you hear me? You just keep hanging in there, okay?"
He isn't sure if it'll help, but he searches through the buttons on the driver's side door for the one that lowers the passenger side window, and floods the car's interior with a rush of cool, fresh air and another growling roar from the engine, as Ben puts the car into gear and gets on the road. Both of these things in combination seem to do enough to rouse him slightly, and Connor tips his head heavily towards the driver's side of the car and struggles to sit forward in his seat, teary-eyed from pain and fear and visibly confused, clearly trying to figure out where he is and what's going on.
"Heading to the hospital, Connor, you're gonna be all right," Ben informs him briskly, cutting a glance away from the road to offer the kid a reassuring smile, tight and stressed though it is. Through the open window there's a greeting chirp of sirens, and in the rear view mirror, Ben watches a squad car cross traffic and then weave around and into the lane before him, getting out in front and lighting up, sirens and all, clearing the road ahead. The way opens up. The engine thrums again as Ben accelerates after it, and closes the distance with sufficient ease that he could probably overtake the squad if he wanted. It's a hell of a car to drive, he has to give it that. He glances at Connor again and takes a hand off the wheel to reach over and give his shoulder another nudge. "You just work on breathing for me, bud. I've got you."
Whether it's because Connor trusts him enough to realize he's in safe hands, or because he just can't quite hold on enough to stay conscious, Ben isn't sure, but he relaxes against the leather seat back again, and tries to draw another few shuddering, ineffective breaths. A minute or so passes, filled with the wind and the sirens and the dull roar of the Hellcat's v8, and then, halting and so faint that Ben barely hears it—
"…can you…call my dad?"
That should be no problem. But it's funny how it's the kind of news Ben is well-experienced in delivering, the kind of phone call he definitely knows how to make, and has made much worse, because he makes these sorts of calls often and professionally…and yet he balks internally at the idea of having to call an old friend, in the middle of some random Tuesday afternoon, and tell him that his son has just been delivered to the hospital in rapidly worsening condition, and that Hank had better get his ass downtown in a hurry. Ben doesn't want to do that.
He will, though.
"Yup," he says, not taking his eyes off the road or the squad car leading the way through traffic. They're over halfway there, almost all the way down Woodward, and then it's another right and a left up to the emergency entrance of the university hospital, where Ben thankfully hasn't ever spent much time. "No, yup, don't you worry about it, Connor. I'll give Hank a call just as soon as we get you all squared away at the hospital. Try not to talk too much, kid, okay?"
"I need my dad."
"I know, buddy."
"Please."
There's a desperate insistence in his voice and Ben clenches his jaw and swallows tightly, ignoring the rising pressure of emotion at the back of his throat, at the thought of Hank losing the other one of his boys. That's not going to happen. Ben's knuckles whiten around the steering wheel, and he doesn't dare look at Connor again, fixing all his attention on following the squad car as it makes the next turn, and then leads them swiftly and smoothly down the last stretch, and into the ambulance bay in front of the emergency department of the university hospital.
Connor's slumped forward against the seat belt by the time they come to a stop, and Ben spares a glance towards him again, even as a trauma team descends on the vehicle like a pack of well-organized wild dogs. Before Ben even has the engine off, blue-gloved hands have pulled open the passenger side door, gone in and across to undo the seat belt, and reached inside with a babble of coordinating orders and instructions. Connor gets plucked from the vehicle like the pit from a peach, and transferred swiftly onto a waiting gurney, which rattles away through sliding automatic doors in the company of the hospital trauma team, almost before Ben even realizes what's happened. He starts the car again and hastens to get it out of the way before any ambulances arrive.
He's numb and a little dazed, buzzing with adrenaline as he parks Connor's car, and absently notes that his hands are shaking as he goes to gather up his phone. Connor's is nowhere to be found, he must have dropped it, or forgotten it back at the precinct, or he might have been able to call for help from the parkade. What would have happened if no one had found him doesn't bear thinking about. Doesn't matter now. They got here. Ben hustles across the emergency room parking lot, towards the ambulance bay and the same entrance that the medics had used.
A bright red stop sign spanning both doors declares that this entrance is accessible only to law enforcement and emergency personnel, and Ben has the presence of mind to flash his badge at the uniformed android manning a security kiosk just inside the entrance, and the doors open obligingly. Granted access, Ben hurries along into the relative chaos of the trauma bay where they've taken Connor, and finds that the level of drama has escalated sharply, and the kid is at the center of a flurry of attention, semi-conscious again and actively resisting the intervention of multiple nurses and a doctor in dark blue scrubs.
One of the nurses has a hand on his shoulder and another restraining him by the wrist, trying to calm him down as he twists away and struggles weakly against the people touching and evaluating him. Beneath the harsh white lights of the trauma room, he looks awful, ghastly pale except for the shadowed hollows beneath his dark eyes and the alarmingly bluish tint of his lips. The hand the nurse has caught hold of is tinged grey from the nail beds to his first knuckles, and Ben begins to realize things are much more serious than he thought.
"You're all right, sweetheart, but you've gotta work with us, okay? I'm Nurse Bryant, this is Dr. Levine, and we've got you, honey, I promise. Try and stay calm, baby. I know you're scared, but try. What's your name?"
"It's Connor," Ben volunteers from the hallway where he's stopped, lingering at the edge of the action, hoping he's far enough back to be out of the way, but still near enough that Connor knows he's not alone. To that end, he calls over, trying to be helpful, reassuring, "Listen to the lady, Connor, c'mon. Settle."
This does work, or at least distracts him from struggling, and the brief diversion allows one of the nurses to place an IV and another to press a handheld imaging device against Connor's chest—but it also snaps Connor's attention directly to Ben. There's a three-way tie between pain, fear, and accusation in his dark eyes, as he allows his shoulders to be pressed back against the gurney, and summons enough breath for one more gasping demand, "Ben, my dad. Please."
Wires and tubes and an oxygen mask switch between the hands of various clinicians and the doctor has to put one hand on Connor's chest, preventing him trying to sit up and forward. Someone has already cut his t-shirt off and the nurse still has some sort of device pressed against his rib cage. There's a visible seam below the joint of his left shoulder, and Ben suddenly remembers about Connor's prosthetics. Apparently the doctors have just discovered these as well, and the one in charge starts to bark out orders.
"Stick to the right side for IV access, push thirty milligrams of ketamine. Make sure we've got O2 at 100%. I'm seeing moderate JVD and sats are dropping, I need chest decompression as soon as he's out. We've got no lung sliding or breath sounds on the left, looking like a closed traumatic pneumo, possible hemo, devolving to tension pneumo with increasing pressure on the heart. Page Cutter, get him in here for the thoracostomy, stat."
"Already here, Dr. Levine. Excuse me, please." An android in heavenly blue scrubs passes by on Ben's left, already gloved and gowned, and stations itself near to the gurney, pulling over a rolling tray and beginning to neatly array the instruments he needs. A bright silver scalpel winks in the glare of the light overhead, as it's placed on the tray and primly straightened. "Ready when you are."
"Pushing thirty milligrams of ketamine."
"I've got sats of 86 and falling, heart rate one-thirty. Need him on that O2 asap, please, he's starting to decompensate. Bryant, prepare the site for finger thoracostomy."
"Surgical tray prepped, waiting on your order, Dr. Levine."
"Cutter, stand by."
"Standing by."
"Are you with him?" Another nurse has materialized at Ben's elbow with a tablet, her fingers skittering rapidly across the surface as she makes notes and orders tests, as the doctor calls for them.
Ben doesn't manage to look at her as he answers. "Yeah. Uh, yeah, yes."
"Is he a suspect in custody?"
"No, uh. Colleague." That doesn't seem right. Surely it's more than just that, when Ben can't seem to break eye contact with Connor, can't seem to let him lose the last point of familiar contact he has, when he looks so alone and so desperately frightened, even surrounded by people trying to help him.
"Relevant history? My notes say he was in a fight, did you see if there was any particular injury, was he hurt anywhere else?"
He hears the question but can't seem to answer. Ben hasn't broken eye contact with his "colleague", and doesn't until it's broken for him. Whatever thirty milligrams of ketamine does, it does it to Connor in less than a minute, and Ben watches his eyes slide out of focus, rolling back into his skull, as his whole body goes limp, and he becomes suddenly, effortlessly compliant with attempts to finally get an oxygen mask over his face, and array his limbs more tidily on the gurney. One of the nurses removes his left arm entirely with a surprisingly practiced ease, detaching the prosthetic from the port installed in Connor's upper arm, allowing easy access to the left side of his chest, already painted with iodine from armpit to clavicle.
There's a brief pause in the flurry of action as the doctor in charge takes a swift inventory of everything that's been done, and then gives a satisfied nod.
"Go ahead, Cutter."
The android moves closer, scalpel in hand. Ben doesn't want to watch, but can't seem to look away, as the tip of the blade pierces Connor's chest. The incision slides deep between his ribs, drawing out a bead of dark, oozing blood and another protesting cry of pain that sounds oddly disconnected and distant from the reality of what's happening. Someone else hands over a weird pair of scissors with a bend in the blunted tip, and these are used to lever open the freshly cut slit, into which the android surgeon then deftly presses its index finger, all the way to the second knuckle. With a rushing hiss of air out of the chest cavity, Connor's breathing suddenly improves, and the greedy, gasping breaths that follow seem to actually inflate his lungs. His chest heaves with the vigour of being able to breathe again, and shortly after a few gulping swallows of pure oxygen, the grey pallour starts to leave him, and he fades back into relaxed, sedated compliance as the trauma team resumes working on him.
Ben spares a distant thought for how spooked he must look, watching all this happen. The nurse seems to notice, and gently takes his arm to turn him away from the action. "That's him mostly sorted out in the short term," she informs Ben kindly, and gives his elbow a tug. "He'll be okay once they place a chest tube, and he can start to get his O2 levels back up. They're just going to look him over for any other significant damage. Come help me get his details and get him admitted, and we'll wait for him to stabilize so they can put him in a room for observation."
"I need to call his dad," Ben says out loud, dreading this as he allows himself to be led away. The adrenaline is starting to wear off and he can feel it leaving him jittery and drained at the same time, even as he babbles anxiously in the aftermath, repeating himself, "Gotta call his dad. And, uh, my husband. I'm gonna be late getting home for dinner, John hates that, but I'm not leaving Connor here all alone. Jeez, the poor guy, that looked awful for him. Is he okay? He's a tough kid, but god damn—I didn't know they were gonna just cut right into him like that. Did he feel that? It looked like he felt that. Holy shit."
"He won't remember." The nurse seems tolerantly amused by his obvious anxiety, but Ben doesn't hold it against her. He's sure she's seen far tougher people than him go a little bit all to pieces in an emergency medical setting. "They hit him with enough ketamine to put him on the moon. He might have a rough time coming out of it, but we can manage that, and he'll have forgotten everything about the procedure."
For some reason this is what sets Ben to fretting and fussing. "He can't have ketamine, he's a cop. He gets drug tested."
"We'll write him a note," the nurse promises with a faint smile. "But he won't be out of here before it's all out of his system, they're going to want to keep him overnight, at least."
"I've gotta call his dad," Ben repeats, as the nurse delivers him to a small family room, and then he's left there abruptly with the promise that someone will come get him once Connor is stable, and Ben should make himself comfortable in the meantime.
The chairs are hard and squeaky and the lights overhead are too bright and none of the digital magazines laid out about the room have active subscriptions. But despite all this, it's most uncomfortable to have to call a very old friend, and explain that you're the reason why his son is laid up in the hospital, with busted ribs and a punctured lung at a minimum, and that's just the worst of what they've found so far. Ben doesn't want to. But he will.
The line rings once, twice, and by the fifth time, Ben almost starts to relax with the possibility that Hank might not answer, but then there's a click midway through the sixth ring, and Hank sounds the same as he ever does, unconcerned and cheerful, "Evenin', Ben. Sorry to keep you waiting, but apparently I'm not allowed to have my phone at the dinner table. What can I do for you?"
"Hi," Ben starts, and then has to take a deep breath and get right to the point, because he knows from experience it does no good to drag this process out. "I…I'm calling because… ah…hell, Hank. It's… it's about Connor."