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Connor’s eyes were wide, his teeth grit, his nails digging into his scalp until small threads of blue streaked down his forehead as he hunched over in the waiting room. He thought back to all of the moments he had chastised Hank for making unhealthy food choices, or for seeking relief at the bottom of a fifth, or for disregarding his own safety in lieu of the occasional game of Russian Roulette.
“Your health is important, Lieutenant. You shouldn’t drink so much, Lieutenant. Why do you do this to yourself, Lieutenant?” It had been easy to make those judgements back when he lacked any personal source of grief to draw from. Now that he understood his partner’s pain, Connor only wished his body was capable of absorbing ethanol – anything to numb him from his current mental anguish.
I am a hypocrite.