Chapter Text
Jeffrey Fowler walked into the precinct from his meeting at City Hall to find that he was now running a fucking daycare center.
At least, that was what it felt like. Glancing between the bullpen, he spotted, in no particular order: nearly fifteen teenagers either being booked, sitting at an officer’s desk, or being escorted into a holding cell, probably from a schoolyard brawl, if he were to hazard a guess from the busted lips and torn out clumps of hair that they all seemed to sport; two brightly-dressed prostitutes sauntering out as they—or, more than likely, their pimp—posted bail; a fucking clown sitting at Person’s desk, giving a statement for God only knew what reason; and two of his best detectives having a verbal pissing contest at Anderson’s desk, with the owner of that desk mysteriously absent.
Three years ago, the sight of it would’ve made Jeffrey’s blood pressure skyrocket and his chest tighten. Now? If his body got any more tense, he’d start shitting diamonds, so he’d been advised to just, as the resident quack said, ‘Go with the flow.’
Go with the fucking flow, she says. Sure. He could swing that.
He declined to intervene between Detectives Connor and Gavin Reed, because he’d been back in the building for all of fifteen seconds and hadn’t even had a chance to take his fucking Class As off yet. Gavin Reed was a temperamental asshole at the best of times; now that Connor was here to, apparently, challenge that title, it only incited Reed to be even more of a caustic prick than he was before—especially to Connor. To the kid’s credit, Connor gave as good as he got—which was exactly how these dick-waving contests ended up happening in the middle of the precinct on a Tuesday. At first, it had been annoying. Shit, it was still annoying. But, like anything else that made him want to put his fist—or someone else’s head—through a wall, he eventually built up a tolerance to it, like a well-worn callous over vital parts of his higher-functioning brain.
He heard their words, but didn’t really pay them any mind, as he tried to find their designated chaperone. Jeffrey knew from Hank’s updates that their latest case was proving to be a real head-scratcher, and at some point, Hank had decided that getting Gavin’s input would be helpful. An extra pair of eyes on something never hurt. From what it looked like at his desk, Hank spent exactly two minutes not regretting that idea before Connor and Gavin couldn’t help but be Connor and Gavin. In a twisted way, it was hilarious to watch. They would’ve made a great stand-up duo. Schadenfreude: the Musical. They could make the marketing work.
Within seconds, he found where Hank had run off to, standing in the breakroom, a still-steaming cup of coffee resting untouched in front of his propped-up elbows, while he set about massaging the bridge of his nose with both hands. Anyone else would’ve looked at Anderson and thought that he was just tired, and not currently stressed out of his fucking mind—if there was one thing Hank excelled at, it was the ability to look casually disinterested in everything he did. The only times he really got serious were on crime-scenes, or when there was a gun in his face; that version of Hank was like staring down a pissed off bengal tiger, all muscles and intense eyes. Inwardly, Jeffrey knew that was why Hank made such a point of looking bored, slouching his shoulders and dragging his feet—because Hank was a good guy that didn’t want to scare people off just because of what he looked like. Jeffrey keenly felt that. Life being what it was—people being what they were—he always would.
He strolled into the breakroom, mercifully unbothered by anyone on the way over—guess the clowns, prostitutes, and Connor-Gavin duo sideshow was enough of a distraction, thank Christ—and stopped at Hank’s side, leaning on the table with his forearms. He spared Hank a sideways glance, giving him a chance to say something, before he glanced back to the shitshow going on at Anderson’s desk. “So. How’s the assignment?”
As if God himself decided to brighten Jeffrey’s day, Gavin’s voice floated over the din of the precinct, “Fuck you, tin can!”
“Not if you paid me,” came Connor’s retort.
Hank groaned, a pained sound low in his throat, and dipped his head further into his hands.
Fowler hummed to himself, head listing to the side in commiseration. “That bad, huh?”
Hank lifted his head slightly, just enough that he stared sightlessly through everything, index fingers still jammed tightly between his eyes. He looked too dazed to outright murder anyone; that was a good sign. “Jesus fucking Christ,” he breathed. “It’s like herding cats. Lobotomized cats.”
Jeffrey made a non-committal noise, nodding blithely, before he reached over and grabbed the untouched cup of coffee that sat steaming in front of Hank’s elbows. “Sounds like fun.” He took a sip, lips twisting a little once the disgusting sludge hit his tongue. “Jesus, Hank, do you really need that much sugar?”
Hank’s eyes tracked the movement, then narrowed beneath his brows. “How do you know I didn’t spit in that?”
“You wouldn’t waste the spit.” He took another sip, this time, keeping his expression even. “How’s the case going?”
Hank exhaled through his nose, once again rubbing his fingertips against his closed eyes. “Believe it or not, we’ve actually made good progress.” He stopped shortly thereafter, fingers sliding to each temple, hands framing his face. “We’d be making better progress if I didn’t have to act like a fucking babysitter half the time.”
Jeffrey found himself smirking, knowing that feeling all too fucking well. Part of him wanted to say that was how he felt damn near anytime Hank had one of his bullshit tantrums in his office, or saw him pull off those batshit insane ploys of his on the field. Hank was one giant kid, losing his goddamn mind when he didn’t get what he wanted. Luckily enough for him, and the rest of the world, what Hank usually wanted was seeing the right thing get done, so even when he needed a boot up his ass for his behavior, there was usually a good intention in there, somewhere. “Welcome to management.”
Hank grunted. “And here I thought I was a cop.”
Jefferey shrugged. “You take the lead, you deal with the shit that comes with it. Same thing.”
Hank’s gaze went distant again, what Jeffrey could see of his expression contemplative, before those bright blue eyes flicked in his direction. “How the hell do you put up with this, Jeffrey?”
At that, Jeffrey smiled, drawing himself to his full height. He was still two inches shorter than Hank. “Simple.” He stepped back and clapped Hank on the shoulder. “I pawn it off on you, Lieutenant.”
Hank’s forearms dropped to the table with a meaty thud, glaring flatly at him as he took another draw of the coffee; now that he’d gotten used to it, the sugar actually wasn’t so bad. Might have to try it for himself, next time. He spun on the ball of his polished dress-shoe, and called over his shoulder, “Let me know if anything develops on the case.”
He got halfway across the bullpen before he heard Hank bellow from the breakroom, “Next time, I’m spitting in it!”