Archive of Our Own

“No,” Hank says before Jeffrey is even done talking. “No way, I’m not doin’ it.”

“I’m not forcing you,” Jeffrey says. “Though I really fucking want to, don’t get me wrong. But, for the sake of old times at least, could you hear me out?”

“The answer’s still gonna be no,” Hank says stubbornly, but he leans back in his chair anyway, arms crossed over his chest. This had better be good, he’s got shit to do.

Jeffrey leans tiredly on his desk with a sigh, hands locking in front of him. “He’s got nowhere to go.”

“Come on, social services-”

“Social services are swamped. They’re still picking up the pieces after the mass abuse case at the orphanage.”

Hank winces. That one was bad. Dozens of kids traumatized for life.

He casts a glance down at the bull pen where Connor is keeping an eye on the pink mop of hair that is supposedly a boy named Ollie. Though, in Hank’s opinion, he looks more like a pile of thrift store crap gained sentience, what with all the clashing colors and styles he’s covered in.

“He’s not from there?”

“No. But that doesn’t make his case file any more delightful to read. He’s been through the wringer.”

That’s more than enough reason to not send the poor kid home with Hank, who can barely keep himself out of the bottle most days.

“Then someone else. Literally any other cop than me.”

“Sure, let’s send a damaged kid home with Gavin who kills even his fucking houseplants. Tina was in the emergency room last week after doing some goddamn internet challenge like it’s the 10s again, and don’t get me started on Janice. I’m telling you, Hank. You’re the only one who fulfills the most basic fucking criteria.” Jeffrey lists them on his fingers as he continues: “You can be nice when you put your mind to it, you don’t lose your shit over petty crime, you have experience with childcare-”

Hank swallows.

“- and, frankly, you’re the only one who’s not currently undercover, overworked, or dealing with health problems.”

Maybe this is the time to mention that his liver probably isn’t doing too well. But then Jeffrey will just put him on forced leave, and, God, Hank needs to work right now. They literally just had a revolution, for fuck’s sake, nobody knows what to do with themselves.

“Petty crime, huh? He’s got a record?”

“Typical for anyone living rough,” Jeffrey says, and doesn’t elaborate. But Hank can venture a decent guess. “I’ll be honest with you, Hank. It’s either you or juvie.”

Hank jerks upright. “You gotta be fucking kidding me! He’s, what, twelve? He’ll be pummeled by bedtime!”

“He’s fifteen. Well within the law. And we’re out of options.”

Despair makes a rapid appearance, and Hank can already feel how he’s giving in, god damn his stupid protective streak. “Seriously, Jeffrey. You can not honestly believe I’d be any good for this kid?”

Jeffrey gives him a long look, and a for a moment Hank allows himself to hope that he might be off the hook.

“Maybe you won’t be. But you’re what we got right now. You’ve got time-”

“Hey!”

“-I’m giving you time off. So you’ve got time, you’ve got room, and, frankly? You need a better reason to get up in the morning than to let your dog out for a crap.”

Hank can feel his blood starting to boil already. “Is this your fucked up idea of therapy?!”

Jeffrey jumps up from his seat, and Hank is abruptly reminded that Jeffrey Fowler can and will fire any poor fools who think they can bully him. He puts up with a lot from Hank, a lot more than he deserves, truth be told. But now Hank can’t help but wonder if he’s finally pushed Jeffrey over the edge.

“Get your head outta your ass for just one second, Hank! That kid out there has lived through who the hell knows what, probably been on the street for months, and he’s still going. He’s not drowning himself in a bottle and longing for something bad enough to happen to justify putting a bullet in his head! Believe me when I say that I would love to be able to send that kid literally anywhere else than to you and your planet-sized mental issues, but at least let me have a shred of hope that this could be good for someone, and that I’m not dooming that poor kid to a fate worse than what he’s already in!”

Decently chastised, Hank nods. “Alright. For old times sake. I’ll… give it a try.” Upon Jeffrey’s narrowed glare, Hank amends: “A college try, Jesus.”

That seems good enough, and Jeffrey finally sits back down, deflating like a tired bull after chasing the red rag.

“Ben’s been poking me about lighter workload after his cancer scare, and he’s up for taking on some of your paperwork for the next week or so,” Jeffrey says, an unreadable expression on his face. “So I’m letting Connor have some time off, too. The rest of the week to start with. Just in case you need to move his stuff outta your guest room or whatever,” he mutters, and waves Hank out of the office.

Hank takes the out, and flees like his ass is on fire.

It’s not a secret as such that Connor lives with Hank these days. He had nowhere to go after his break with Cyberlife. Most of Jericho has nightmares about the deviant hunter, and Markus is still busy negotiating for android rights which will enable them to have things like jobs and leases. So while they wait for new laws to be written and for options to open up, it had just seemed simpler for Connor to keep tagging along with Hank. Including going home with him.

The thing is, though… the guest room is basically untouched. The reasons why are many and probably more complicated than they could be if Hank wasn’t still confused and slightly conflicted on where he stands with Connor these days.

They’re friends, definitely. Partners. Cop partners for sure, because while Jeffrey can’t offer Connor a salary yet, he did offer him a steady position in a consultant capacity on all android related cases the minute the revolution was over, and Connor gladly accepted.

At home, however…

It’s complicated.

And it sure as hell won’t get less complicated when adding this kid into the mix.

“So. You’re Ollie,” Hank says, sitting on the corner of his desk. Ollie does a few swivels back and forth in Hank’s desk chair, and Connor’s eyes follow the movement, same as they have been for the past twenty minutes.

“So they tell me,” Ollie says dryly, and Hank can’t help but respect that level of sass.

“Well, smartass. You’re coming home with me.”

This makes him stop the swiveling. “But you’re just some random cop?”

“That’s right. Social services are backed up. So random old fart is what you get.”

For a second Hank thinks he might see the kid’s mouth twitch, but then the blank, unimpressed face solidifies. “Whatever,” he says, and goes back to swiveling the chair and staring at the floor.

“I suppose I’ll keep working on our cases,” Connor says quietly, but Hank shakes his head.

“Nope. You’re off the hook, too. Seems like Ben’s dying for some paperwork, and I guess Jeffrey doesn’t trust me to take care of mr. whatever over here without supervision. We both get the rest of the week off.”

Ollie’s eyes leave the floor in favor of darting between them. “You guys married or something?”

God, Hank is too sober for this.

“The Lieutenant and I are partners on the force, and he was kind enough to offer me a place to stay when I found myself homeless in the course of… recent events,” Connor says delicately, and Hank sends a grateful thought to the unnamed Cyberlife employee who designed whatever program that makes Connor so diplomatic. No matter how little he seems to make use of it, now that he has a choice.

“Whatever,” Ollie says again, and Hank can’t decide if he sounds more sad or angry or empty. A bit of everything, probably. It can’t have been a great few months for him, living day to day on the street, no relatives to be found, and then getting picked up by cops for shoplifting.

Ollie’s file says the search for his relatives is ongoing, but that’s usually shorthand for not a chance in hell. Especially with how much chaos there is right now in all departments. But hopefully by the end of the week they’ll know where else in the system he can go.

And speaking of going…

“Connor, could you take our new house guest to the restroom before we leave, please?”

Ollie snorts. “What am I, five?”

“Hey,” Hank says, pointing a finger at him. “You just be grateful I’m not sending you there with a cup to piss in, too.”

At Connor’s questioning look, Hank shrugs. “Just don’t want any… unexpected pit stops on the way home.” Where escape attempts or petty theft might happen, is what he leaves unsaid.

It takes a second or two before Connor gets the idea, and then he nods and leads a grudging Ollie through the bullpen.

Hank allows himself a full minute of scrubbing his face with his hands and hating his lot in life, before calling Ben and getting him up to date on their latest cases.

- - -

Ollie doesn’t own anything except a backpack and the clothes he’s wearing. They look new, though. Or at least not dumpster chic. Very eclectic, but not torn or filthy. However he’s been getting by he seems to have been doing fairly well. Makes something hollow in Hank’s gut, because there are usually only two avenues of income for street kids that make enough money for them to stay clean, fed and neat: prostitution or drugs.

Nothing about Ollie points to either, but he’s also not been on the street for more than maybe six months. More than any kid should, ever, of course, but hopefully also not enough to destroy his body and soul forever. He can still bounce back.

What he probably can’t bounce back from anytime soon is the bruised ass he gets from Sumo bowling him over the minute they come through the door.

“What the fuck, is that a horse?!” Ollie shrieks, and Hank yanks Sumo off by the collar before he can smother the tiny kid.

“Sumo, get your fat ass over here. Sit,” he commands with his most done-with-your-shit voice, which he only tends to use when Sumo’s been extraordinarily bad. He’s well aware he’s spoiling his dog, and frankly, he’s beyond giving a shit what other people think about it. But hurting guests is just not cool, no matter how much it was done with love, and Sumo droops his ears, chastised, and sits down with a heavy thump.

Hank can see Connor’s already itching to go pet Sumo and make it all better, but restrains himself, which Hank appreciates. Sumo hasn’t been around a kid since… well since he was a baby himself, and he needs to re-learn that smaller humans require some care. It probably doesn’t help that Connor lets him be a lapdog far too much, since it doesn’t hurt him specifically.

Connor focuses on Ollie instead, and offers him a hand getting up. “Are you alright?”

Ollie ignores the hand and scrambles back up against the door and away from Sumo. “What the fuck is that thing?!”

“A dog,” Connor says, and Hank can’t help but smile briefly to himself. He kinda loves it when Connor makes a little fun of himself and how he used to be very literal about things, simply because his programming dictated it. He still is, sometimes, but he’s also become aware of it to the point where he’ll use it for comedy purposes, like he is now, making a valiant attempt at lightening the mood.

Doesn’t seem like Ollie appreciates it, though.

“Whatever, it’s trying to fucking kill me, keep it away from me.”

“I’ll try, but he’s real dog, not a mechanical one,” Hank grumbles, mood dropping. He’d hoped having a dog would buy him a little goodwill, but that’s clearly out the window. “If he tries to jump on you again, just say no, firmly. And if he doesn’t stop, get me or Connor.”

“If I don’t fucking die first,” Ollie mutters, subtly rubbing his buttock and glaring at Sumo. Dramatic little shit.

Connor finally gives into the urge to go and pet Sumo, and soon all is well in doggy world.

“I’ll take Sumo for a quick walk,” Connor says, and is gone before Hank can even reply. Which is perfectly understandable, Hank would like to escape from his life right now, too.

Instead he goes to the kitchen to see what he’s got in the way of food. He’s gotten better about having actual food items in the house after Connor started being around so much. Not because he can eat, or has any concept of grocery shopping or cooking, but because he still can’t help but analyze literally everything, and oftentimes also loses his internal battle against commenting on Hank’s nutrition. Which means that unless Hank eats a vegetable once in a blue moon, he’ll get shamed for eating pizza in his own house, even though that’s not Connor’s intention. He just worries.

He says he doesn’t. But he does.

“You up for lunch?” he asks, but doesn’t expect an answer. The kid’s bound to be hungry. He’s been stuck in a police station for hours, waiting for someone to figure out what to do with him, and he’s a growing boy.

Speaking of which, Hank probably needs to starting thinking in school lunch terms again. Like… fucking apple slices or carrot sticks. Unless Ollie will consider it a mortal offense to have his food cut up for him. Hank has no idea what to expect with a teenager.

“Whatever,” Ollie says again, and Hank really should’ve figured.

“Soup it is.”

Ollie doesn’t move from where he’s gingerly sitting on the couch while Hank heats some canned soup, and he immediately puts his backpack in front of himself like a shield when Connor returns with Sumo.

“Hey, boy,” Hank greets the furry lump when he comes to the kitchen to sniff at the food. “Sorry I had to be hard on ya, but you gotta chill,” he mutters, patting the big, chunky head when Sumo leans on him, clearly ready to forgive everything if Hank will just accidentally drop some food on the floor. He won’t, but his doofus dog is a dreamer.

“Sumo, come,” Connor says when he’s done hanging up the leash, and goes to the treat box in the highest cabinet. “Sit.”

Hank is forgotten by Sumo in an instant, in favor of lumbering over to Connor and pretending to be well trained for just long enough to get the treat.

“Good boy,” Connor praises, and Hank can’t help to smile to himself.

“You’re really still trying to train him?”

“I figure it’s worth a try. I hear it’s a myth that you can’t teach old dogs new tricks, and Sumo is middle-aged at worst.”

“Is that a dig?” Hank asks, turning down the burner. “I feel like that’s a dig.”

“Are you an old dog?”

When Hank turns to face him, Connor looks completely straight-faced, but Hank knows him. He’s bullshitting like his life depends on it, and needs banter like humans need air.

Or maybe he just needs to mock Hank specifically, who knows.

Hank is about to retort, but is cut off by a snort from the couch. “You guys really are married.”

“I feel like I’d get laid more if we were,” Hank says, just to rile up the kid, and it works.

Ollie makes a disgusted face, and flinches deeper into the couch when Sumo wanders by on his way to his dog bed.

Serves him right, Hank can’t help but think smugly to himself, until he looks over at Connor to see him looking... well, kind of flustered, if that’s what you can call what’s going on with Connor’s face. He can’t really blush, but his skin can change texture slightly, and tends to do so when he’s embarrassed or very angry, and it makes his face look almost ruddy from how the light moves differently across it. Couple that with how he avoids Hank’s eyes, and it’s a full picture.

This is why things are complicated.

Hank will say something that hints at couple stuff, and Connor will look uncomfortable and clam up. Then Connor will say something in a similar vein, and Hank’s running away like his ass is on fire, because somewhere in the years of pickling himself in alcohol he lost his ability to face his feelings without wanting to crawl under a rock.

They’re a goddamn pair, honestly.

“Come on, kid. Lunch time,” Hank says, plopping down two bowls of soup and a packet of toast slices onto the dining table. He’ll do better once he’s been to the store, but for now it’ll do. Connor even thinks to get the kid a soda, and brings a beer for Hank as well, almost as a peace offering, and Hank takes it with a quiet thanks.

Ollie takes his sweet time, but he does eventually come to the table. He looks between Hank – already eating his soup – and Connor who’s just sitting there, hands folded in front of him and following his own rules about polite table behavior, which means not doing anything other than make conversation or just sit there calmly. Hank’s tried to convince him to just read a book or something, but he refuses every time, so it is what it is.

There’s no telling what Ollie makes of them, so Hank just nods at the bowl of soup in encouragement. After another minute Ollie stops looking like it’ll bite him, and eats it with gusto. It makes something finally settle in Hank’s gut, and he sighs pleasantly when his bowl’s empty.

“We gotta head to the store later to stock up. Anything you can’t or won’t eat?” Hank asks, and Ollie looks at him he’s grown another head.

“Why the fuck do you care?”

“Cause I don’t tend to carry epi-pens around, for one thing, and I hate wasting money on stuff that’ll get left on the plate.”

Ollie keeps staring at him, and Hank’s aware he might be offering something rather huge to someone like Ollie, who’s likely not had much choice about anything in his life.

So he waits, giving Ollie time to consider how to respond, and eventually he comes through. “I hate broccoli. And cauliflower.”

“Aw hell yeah,” Hank says, and barely resists the urge to fistbump the kid. Baby steps, baby steps. “Brussels sprouts can get fucked, too.”

Connor gives him a mildly scandalized look, but Hank knows what he’s doing, for the first time since he met Ollie. Knowing how to emotionally nurture a damaged teen? No clue. Bonding over the shittiest greens known to man? He’s a fucking pro.

He decides he’s gonna bring Ollie to Chicken Feed at some point when Connor’s busy elsewhere and can’t judge. Gary’s upped the health rating now, after being exposed to Connor’s concerned stare a few dozen times. Those eyes are lethal weapons to everyone, it seems. Not just Hank.

Ollie, for his part, just stares at Hank some more, but at least with Connor around Hank has gotten somewhat used to unrestrained staring.

They all head to the store, like a weird little gang. Hank buys things, Ollie wanders along looking sour, and Connor brings up the rear, keeping his laser eyes firmly on Ollie at all times so he doesn’t try anything. Even ice cream choosing doesn’t get Ollie out of his funk, so Hank gets two different kinds, and kindly tells Connor to shut his trap about the sugar contents.

When they return home, there’s no putting it off any longer. They’re gonna have to think about sleeping arrangements. Connor takes it upon himself to show Ollie to the guest room, and Hank stays the fuck clear, while also shamelessly listening in, because this he’s gotta hear.

“You may sleep in here. I keep a few things in the dresser over there, but I can remove them if you need the space,” Connor says, and Hank doesn’t even need to see them to know that Ollie is likely staring at Connor like he’s an idiot, which Hank thinks is warranted this time. The kid owns nothing.

Connor continues unperturbed, though. “The bed is freshly made, but do let us know if you need another pillow or anything else.”

“So what do you do during the night?” Ollie asks, and oh boy, this is the part that makes Hank go a little sweaty. Because if Connor gives an honest answer, they might need to talk about how the nights are going lately. A topic they’ve both been ignoring for reasons Hank’s been too afraid to poke at, in case it all falls apart.

“I don’t need to sleep. I sometimes stay in the living room, reading or working. And sometimes I’ll shut down for updates or to cool down my components.”

There’s a moment of quiet, the kind of quiet that tells you something’s still hovering in the air. And, sure enough, Ollie delivers. “And… sometimes you… come in here?”

“Sometimes, yes.”

“What if you need the room again?”

“I… likely won’t. I haven’t needed it in a while.”

“Why not?”

God, Hank’s getting a tension headache from how hard he’s straining to hear every word from the around the corner.

“Because the few times I need to lie down I have either made use of the couch, or. Well, the lieutenant has been kind enough to allow me to share his bed.”

There it is. God, what the fuck is the kid gonna make of that? Hell, Hank doesn’t even know what to make of it. All he knows is that sometimes Connor will climb into bed with him without any real explanation, and Hank never asks. And sometimes some cuddling happens in the night, and nothing is ever acknowledged.

“You know, I was joking about the married thing, but, like. Maybe you should consider it.”

Hank’s getting a little dizzy.

“Sadly, the law doesn’t yet allow androids to marry.”

“Like anyone waited throughout history for that to happen,” Ollie says with a snort, and, god, he’s such a little shit that Hank’s frankly impressed. “Just keep it down when you fuck, please.”

“That will not be an issue,” Connor says, and Hank can’t decide if it’s wishful thinking, or if Connor actually sounds disappointed about it.

Shortly after that, Ollie kicks Connor out, and Hank figures the kid deserves some privacy. That said, he does keep an ear out for any opening of windows. He doesn’t get the impression that Ollie is eager to do a runner in the freezing weather, but you never know.

Without being asked, Connor immediately updates Hank when he comes back into the kitchen where Hank’s been pretending to put away groceries for half an hour now.

“He’s charging his phone and likely texting someone.”

“As long as it’s friends and not dealers, he’s totally allowed,” Hank says quietly, and lets pasta be pasta for a minute. He needs a stiffer drink than the weak beer from earlier.

Connor eyeballs him as he pours the whiskey, and at any other time Hank would have just ignored him. But they have a kid in the house now, and he’s not a complete asshole.

“Just the one, don’t worry. And I’m savoring it.”

“I didn’t say anything,” Connor says, but has the good grace to look a little bashful. He also looks incredibly handsome with his lowered gaze and casual lean, and Hank lets his first sip be a gulp instead.

Hank spends the rest of the day catching up on emails and texts he would usually never answer. Ollie makes the most of having a room to himself and doesn’t move a muscle from the bed until Hank gets him for dinner, and Connor putters around nervously while claiming he isn’t.

It’s awkward as hell.

Ollie fucks off back into his room as soon as he’s inhaled an impressive amount of food, and Hank doesn’t pressure him into manners or anything. It feels hypocritical in the bigger scheme of things.

He does insist on Ollie taking a shower sometime the next morning, because teenage hormones show no mercy, and the stank accumulates fast in the small guest room. Ollie rolls his eyes but doesn’t argue, and only after the exchange does Hank consider that Ollie might well not have a change of clothes.

Connor can – with a little creative cinching – fit into some of Hank’s older clothes, but Ollie is ninety pounds soaking wet, there’s simply no way. So they’re going shopping for some essentials tomorrow.

Checking in on him around midnight reveals that he’s under the covers but still awake, and warily eyes Hank over the top of his phone.

“Try and sleep, okay?” is all Hank can think to say, and isn’t surprised when all he gets in the return is:

“Whatever.”

Hank lets him be and goes to bed, leaving Connor to keep an ear out for him during the night. He could probably do that from anywhere in the house, but he stays in the living room, and Hank tries very hard to not envy his dog for the hours of petting he gets for no good reason. Except that he’s adorable and that neither Hank nor Connor know how to talk about their sleeping arrangements.

Thursday dawns frigid and dark, and Hank isn’t at all surprised to find Connor awake when he gets up, and Sumo and Ollie still asleep.

“Morning,” Hank rasps, and Connor grants him one of those soft smiles he doesn’t know what to do with. The kind of smile that feels like it should be on the face of someone who missed Hank and is genuinely glad to see him again after what feels like too long.

“Good morning, Hank.”

The first name usage is also something relatively new. Connor stuck to mostly calling him lieutenant for what Hank feels is far too long, considering they’ve been effectively roommates for several months now, but, considering the tone of voice he tends to use when he says Hank’s name, sometimes Hank wonders if the reason Connor took a long time to use it regularly was maybe more complicated than just defying his programming.

Just like with the smiles, Connor saying Hank’s name sounds like something tender. Something that belongs in bedrooms or hidden gardens, out of earshot of strangers. Something private that Hank only really dares to think about when he’s half asleep.

He waves the early morning thoughts away and washes away his strangely clogged throat with too hot coffee, which wakes him up enough to shower and get dressed.

As is to be expected of any kid his age, Ollie is dead to the world for several hours more. Hank spends the morning catching up on a few things like laundry and cleaning his car, while Connor walks Sumo, and works on a few projects of his own. After realizing that Hank used to fish, Connor became determined to learn how to make fly lures. Hank just bought them back in the day, but it makes something curl all warm in his gut to see Connor so focused with his pliers and his tutorial in front of him. Learning the human way, not just downloading something to his brain, which he probably could if he wanted.

“Downloading won’t teach my hands how to do it,” Connor argued the one time Hank pointed it out, and while he can’t be sure it isn’t only a half truth, he’ll still take it. Anything that makes Connor feel less like a serial number makes Hank feel better about the whole thing.

The whole thing being… well, he’s not sure.

But it makes him feel better, damn it.

He finally pokes Ollie out of bed mid morning, and wonders why he’s even surprised to see the kid eat a full breakfast and then a decent sized lunch a couple of hours later, having done nothing other than shower in between.

Puberty.

“What clothes and stuff do you have?” Hank asks over lunch, and Ollie immediately looks wary.

“Why?”

“Cause we’re going for essentials after lunch. What do you need? Some kind of nightclothes would make me feel better, it’s almost fucking wintertime again.”

Ollie stares at him. “Essentials?”

“Yeah. Toothbrush, underwear, socks, I dunno. Deodorant,” he adds pointedly, and Ollie rolls his eyes.

“I don’t need anything.”

“Sure you do. What did you even sleep in?”

“This?”

Hank had been pleasantly surprised to realize in the morning that Ollie’s lumpy clothes was partly due to wearing a lot of layers, and he’d apparently stripped down to eye-searing neon leggings and a camo print tank top for the night, and he’d put it back on after his shower.

“Sure, but having spares is nice. And maybe some boots too. Snow should be coming in a few weeks.”

He’s busy polishing off his sandwich, and only notices Ollie staring at him just before he yanks his eyes away.

“Whatever,” he mutters, and Hank shares a look with Connor who just shrugs minutely.

Hank had only skimmed quickly over Ollie’s rap sheet before taking him home, just to check if he should be worried about weapons or drugs. But other than shoplifting there’s only been suspicions, nothing they’ve been able to prove, and none of it had been violent. So Hank’s feeling fairly confident that Ollie at worst might try and run, and not, for example, take drugs in his bathroom or stab him in a fit of rage.

But housing a juvenile delinquent makes it somewhat inevitable that something should pop up, and Hank really should have anticipated this.

“We’re going in there?” Ollie asks outside of the clothing store, the first words he’s uttered since Hank hustled him into the car after lunch.

“That’s the plan,” Hank says with a sigh, steeling himself for facing the kid’s section of the nearest budget clothing store. He’s not made of money, but he wants Ollie to have something new that might last him a while, wherever he ends up when social services take over.

He takes a few steps inside, but Ollie hangs back, Connor hovering behind him, clearly ready to grab him if he should make a run for it. But, in the end, all Ollie does is shuffle his feet and clutch at his backpack straps.

“Could… could we go somewhere else?”

Hank goes back to him, already having a decent gut feeling of what’s going on just from looking at him.

“You used to lift from here?”

Ollie stares at his shoes and plucks at the hoodie he’s wearing, sporting a hard-to-miss color and pattern combo that Hank can spot across various other items on display further into the store.

“Alright, don’t worry about it,” Hank says, patting his shoulder awkwardly in his best attempt at comfort, because this has got to be embarrassing. “Gimme a heads up if there’s anywhere else we should avoid.”

“Not here. I tried to only steal from one shop in every area. Didn’t wanna... you know.”

“Become a too familiar face. Good thinking,” Hank says, and Connor sends him a vaguely outraged look for praising the kid for his crimes. But kids need praise, and so far crimes is all they got, so Hank’s rolling with it.

They go to a different store, and Ollie meekly tries on whatever Hank hands him, offering no firm opinions on anything, to the point where Hank just buys whatever fits in size and price, because he’s got no clue what Ollie prefers. His own mishmash of style choices sure offer no clue what so ever.

He seems content enough when they leave – or as content as he gets with his chronic disinterested youth face anyway – and Hank rewards them both for good behavior with a milkshake on the way out. Outside the mall there’s a little stand where a sweet-faced android girl sells thirium lollipops, and Hank delightedly offers to buy one for Connor, who links briefly with the girl before taking it, just to get the full ingredients list and make sure they’re safe for him to ingest.

Apparently they are, and Hank gets Connor two more, just because he can.

They’re in the parked car with the heater on, Ollie multitasking in the back seat like a pro, drinking his milkshake while texting, and Connor curiously tasting his lollipop, when Hank gets an unfamiliar bubbly sensation in his chest. The radio is on low, Hank’s own half finished shake is in the cup holder, and he realizes with a start that he’s enjoying himself.

He’s feeling happy.

It’s such an unfamiliar sensation to him at this point that he can’t do anything except try and distract himself away from it until he can freak out somewhere privately.

“How’s it taste?” he asks Connor, genuinely curious about the lollipop.

“Hmm.” Connor ponders for a long time, licking cautiously at it again before answering. “Like… well, thirium.”

“Go figure,” Hank says flatly. “I dunno what I expected.”

“It’s an interesting experience, however. I’m used to drinking it. This is… I enjoy this method more. Thank you, Hank.”

Connor’s smile is sweet and makes the bubbling go into overdrive in Hank’s chest, and he has to hide his own smile with another sip of his milkshake.

“Glad we got extras then,” he says, and sets off towards home before he loses it completely.

The rest of the day passes in a weird mood. Hank spends most of it on the couch having a silent crisis about his sudden bout of happiness. Connor takes absolutely forever to eat his lollipop, barely even letting it sit in his mouth before popping it out again to look at it and sometimes lick at it from a different angle, and Hank is actually really happy that Ollie is his usual unimpressed self nearby, so his brain don’t get any bright ideas about the movements of Connor’s mouth.

Following the chastising of the day before, Sumo has been giving Ollie a wide berth, but still wags his tail hopefully every time the kid is nearby. He wants to play so very badly, and while Connor plays a mean game of fetch, it’s like Sumo can sense that he has no real concept of how to do something just for the heck of it. Something every child in the world is a natural talent at. So, naturally, Sumo is immediately in love.

Ollie starts by hiding in his room again, but eventually emerges, hovering for a while before choosing to curl up in Hank’s ratty arm chair, rather than squeeze in between Hank and Connor on the couch, which Hank can’t blame him for. But this puts him right next to Sumo’s dog bed, and as soon as he sits down, the tail starts thumping. Ollie glances down at Sumo, and the tail goes faster immediately.

“What?” Ollie asks in a snarky voice, but all Sumo knows is that the child is talking to him and takes it as an invitation.

“Oh my god,” Ollie gasps, pulling his skinny knees all the way up to his chin as Sumo gets up.

“Sumo,” Hank warns. “Careful.”

It’s not a command as such, but Sumo gets the tone well enough, and stays where he is, drool dripping in his excitement.

“Does he bite?”

“Never. He’s just really heavy and easily excited,” Hank says, keeping a close eye on the proceedings while pretending very hard that he’s focused on the TV.

It’s like watching a high-wire act, and Hank knows Connor is also acting casually while being deeply interested. They both not-watch Ollie slowly and cautiously reach out a hand towards Sumo who, aware now that he’s supposed to be careful, only moves when the hand is close enough to lick. And that’s what he does.

“Eww,” Ollie says, but there’s the hint of a smile on his face as he wipes his hand on his thigh, and a second later he tries his luck again, reaching out to pat Sumo’s forehead.

Sumo immediately moves in to plop his entire chunky head down on the armrest, sitting his ass down hard enough to shake the floorboards, clearly more than ready for a petting session.

“Oh, uh. Okay,” Ollie says, recovering after a second or two, and starts gently scratching Sumo’s ears.

It’s like the whole room exhales with delight right along with Sumo as he finally gets the attention he’s craved from Ollie for over a day now, and Hank gets that bubbly feeling again. He really wants to smother it with a drink, but getting one would mean breaking the moment, and Hank can’t make himself do it. He just can’t.

But barely a minute later Connor gets up and comes back with drinks for everyone. Soda for Ollie, beer for Hank and a small cup of thirium for himself, which he then proceeds to dip the rest of his lollipop in for reasons Hank doesn’t feel the need to ask about just then. He does, however, send Connor a grateful smile and takes a deep drink of the beer, finally feeling the bubbling in his chest settle down enough that he can bear to exist in it for a minute.

During dinner Connor continues his glacially slow devouring of his lollipop, only the thinnest layer left on the stick now, and Hank finally can’t help but ask. “Okay, what’s with the dipping?”

“My saliva is a made up of several different compounds, some of which seem to bond slightly with the setting agent that makes the lollipop harden. So my mouth gets dry.”

“Huh. Makes sense.”

“What does thirium taste like?” Ollie asks, and Hank forces himself to stay fucking calm, even though it’s the first time he’s heard Ollie ask anything out of pure curiosity.

Connor’s mouth opens and then closes again as he thinks. “Like thirium, I suppose, but I have no human food reference to compare it to, so I doubt I could explain it.”

“Can I try it?”

“Fuck no,” Hank says, but Connor actually seems to consider it.

“Thirium is toxic to humans, but no more so than many other substances present in the environment. One small taste should be fine,” he says, and then hands his cup over to this actual child without so much as a by your leave.

“Now hold on-” Hank starts, but before he gets another word out, Ollie has dipped a pinky in the blue liquid and popped it into his mouth.

Gratifyingly, he immediately gags and spits, and scrabbles for a paper towel to spit into. “Oh my god, it tastes like turpentine! With rotten fish on top! Eww!”

“It does?” Connor asks, grinning and revealing blue-tinged teeth, apparently overjoyed to have a taste-reference now, and Hank can’t help the laugh that bursts out of him. He tries to choke it back down, hiding behind his hand, but it’s too late, and then Ollie also spots Connor’s teeth and snorts out a laugh of his own.

“What?” Connor asks, and both Hank and Ollie crack up again for a minute.

“Your… your teeth, Connor,” Hank eventually manages. “They’re blue.”

“Really?” Connor gets up to check himself in the hallway mirror, and seems only more happy to have it confirmed. “They are! Interesting! The thirium in the lollipop must have bonded with my saliva as well!”

“Should we tell him about Slushies?” Hank asks Ollie in an undertone. He doesn’t get an answer, but Ollie hides his grin under the neck of his hoodie, and this time Hank lets the bubbling in his chest stay where it is. Hearing a kid laugh is goddamn permission to feel happy if anything in this sad fucking world ever is.

Now that Ollie has realized that Sumo isn’t lying around waiting to eat him, he spends a bit more time out of his room, and the evening is nice and lazy for everyone. Sumo goes from one petting hand to the next, delirious with happiness, and collapses in a heap of love and fur after his evening walk, splaying out under the coffee table where he can nose at Ollie’s foot while also wagging his tail between Connor and Hank’s calves respectively. They’ve ended up sitting a little closer than usual on the couch, mostly to avoid Sumo getting any bright ideas about trying to mash himself in between them like he sometimes does when he gets brazen enough. It means that Hank’s casual arm laying along the top of the couch puts his hand right behind Connor’s neck, and he has to really struggle to not accidentally play with the short hair there.

Occasional nightly snuggling session aside, he’s not sure that would be welcome.

Speaking of said snuggling sessions, when Hank goes to bed after once again checking on Ollie, Connor turns off the lights and follows.

They don’t talk about it tonight either.

In the morning, while Ollie catches up his sleep, Hank calls Jeffrey for an update on social services.

It’s not good news. Not for Ollie, anyway, Hank’s big enough to admit he’s enjoying the whole thing a lot more than he expected, but he’s still pretty convinced Ollie needs better role models than a drunk and an android, neither of whom are very practiced at doing the whole functional adult thing.

“You’re shit outta luck, Hank. Turns out the orphanage was part of a porn smuggling ring. There are so many more kids, I can’t even-” he cuts off, and Hank can feel his own throat constrict. “We’ll figure something out. I’ll get some paperwork sent to you for temporary guardianship and so on. I’ll need you back at work on Monday, at least part time, so if need be you and Connor can take turns watching the kid.”

“Sure thing, Jeffrey, we’ll make it work. He’ll need to get back in school anyway at some point.”

“If you think he’s ready for that. Make sure to talk to someone in social services before you do anything, alright? Shit, I gotta go. You got this?”

“I got this, don’t worry. Go get those bastards.” It’s something they used to say to each other as rookies, and whatever else bullshit has gone down between them in recent years they have a long history behind them, and they’re… well, friends.

At least they were, before Hank became a walking advertisement for the virtues of grief counseling. If nothing else, taking care of this whole thing with Ollie without putting up more of a stink about it is one more small step towards rebuilding what they once had.

Since the revolution, Hank’s been trying his best to just keep his nose clean and not get into any more fucking fights with his colleagues. After punching Perkins squarely in the face, Jeffrey had had no choice but to put Hank on disciplinary leave, and he was only allowed to keep his job at all if he swore up and down that he’d make a fucking effort from now on. Gavin hasn’t been making things easy on that front, that’s for damn sure, but so far Hank’s been staying in his lane.

Ironically, after spending a few years trying to ruin himself, when Hank is finally looking the pink slip in the eye he doesn’t want it anymore.

The drinking is better too. Not perfect, but he’s not going on benders anymore. Just… still needs it to stay level. He’s gonna have to get better at that too, however, if he’s gonna be looking after a child for a prolonged period of time.

But first things first.

“Looks like we’ll be stuck with each other for a while,” Hank tells Ollie, after getting him out of his room.

He looks small, sitting there at the dining table, his backpack notably absent. His hands are tucked deep into his hoodie pocket, and he’s still wearing the face of someone who’s so far never seen anything interesting in his entire life. But he’s there and he’s listening. Hank will take it.

“Turns out social services are still swamped, and it’s gonna stay that way for a while. So, if it’s okay with you, I’ll be made your temporary guardian.”

“If it’s okay with me,” Ollie mutters. “Like I have a choice.”

“You do. Not a great one, I totally agree. But you can always go to juvie. I wouldn’t recommend it. But… you can. If you want to.” He has to force out the words, because he’s seen what happens to small kids in juvie. Unless you’re big, mean, or have friends in high places with access to drugs or other fun things, you don’t last long on the inside.

Ollie just shrugs, and Hank decides to take it as acknowledgment that this is as good as it gets right now.

“Anyway. That means we’re gonna have to figure out what to do about school.”

This makes Ollie look up at him, for once looking genuinely surprised. “School?”

“Yeah. Kids your age have to go to school. It’s the law.”

“It is?”

“Yeah. I mean, some people home school, but you gotta learn stuff.” Ollie’s reaction makes something very ugly swirl in Hank’s gut. How is this news to the kid? “What schooling have you had?”

Ollie shrugs again, shrinking in on himself in obvious shame, and Hank scrabbles for anything to say that makes things better.

“Hey, whatever you’re about to say is not your fault. It’s your parents’ fault. Or your guardians’. Whoever were responsible for you dropped the fucking ball. It’s not on you.”

“You don’t know?” Ollie asks quietly, casting Hank a glance.

“Nope. I only got your rap sheet. Because I’m a cop, and because it was only gonna be for the weekend or something. But I’ll probably get your whole file now if I’m gonna be your guardian.” A thought hits him then, and he decides to gamble a little. If it works, he can maybe buy himself some more trust.

“But… if you want to? I won’t read it. If it makes you feel better at all, I’ll let you tell me yourself. When you feel like it. And if you never do? That’s fine.” He’s pretty sure he’s legally required to prepare himself for whatever issues Ollie might have, but he’s fifteen, he’s on the cusp of adulthood, and smack in the middle of a time of your life where you feel embarrassment and shame like it’s physical pain. Hank remembers all too well. So fuck the law in this case.

Ollie chews his lip for a while. “You can read it,” he says finally. “Just. Please don’t ask me about it.”

“I can do that. But I do need to know about school.”

“I dunno what grade I am,” Ollie whispers, clearly upset about it. “I haven’t been to school in… I dunno. A few years.”

“Okay. Okay, don’t worry about it, we’ll figure it out.”

Ollie nods, and keeps chewing his lip, clearly still in deep thought. “How long am I staying here?”

“Wish I knew, kid. I dunno if you’ve noticed, but I’m not really foster parent material,” Hank says, unable to keep the self-loathing to himself for a minute. He needs to work on that too.

“Then what about that kid?” Ollie says, pointing a skinny finger to the knick-knack shelf where the one picture of Cole is standing, dusty now from being ignored as hard as Hank possibly can.

Of course this clever-ass teenager would ask.

Connor’s been occupying himself in the living room, and Hank hears him sit down on the couch, clearly done pretending he’s not listening in now.

“I suppose you deserve to know.” Hank clenches his hands in front of him. This is gonna suck. “He died. Car accident.”

There’s a pause as Hank struggles to find words, and Ollie takes over.

“Auto-car, right? That why you drive the old manual out there?”

Fuck, the kid’s hitting home run after home run.

“Yeah.”

“Where’s his mom?”

“No clue. Some girl must have gotten my name out of a hat or something, I dunno. All I know is that I got a call one day that someone had dropped off a newborn at the hospital. Birth certificate listed me as the father. Mother was long gone.” He rubs his face, hard. His eyes are burning and his throat hurts. “Fuck I’d never even heard of her. But, goddamn. I’d always wanted kids. And here was a kid practically gift wrapped for me. So I bullshitted them a story about a one night stand, and then he was mine.”

He sniffs hard, swallowing again and again, trying to get his throat to stop locking up, but it’s no use. But then there’s a steady hand on his shoulder, and a glass of whiskey is put in front of him. He casts a glance up at Connor, and gets a supportive nod.

Hank can barely fathom how he got so lucky to have someone like Connor around. Someone who tries so very hard to make Hank do better, but also understands what he needs when he needs it. Fuck, he should marry Connor. If only Hank could find it in him to believe he’d have anything decent to offer Connor in return. Provided, of course, that would be something Connor would want in the first place. God, they need to learn how to communicate better.

But, for now, Hank gulps down half the whiskey, and feels it burn away the sticky lump keeping his voice locked down.

“He was mine. For six years. He was mine. He was a gift I never deserved, and when I lost him-” One more gulp. “When I lost him, I lost myself too, in a way. Hence, the uh-” he holds up the almost empty glass. “Coping mechanisms. Just one more reason why I probably shouldn’t be anyone’s guardian if we had any other choice.”

Connor is still there behind him, like a wall of support, hand warming on Hank’s shoulder.

“That sucks,” Ollie says succinctly, and Hank barks out a shocked laugh.

“Yeah. Yeah, it does.”

There’s a longer pause, and it’s not awkward, exactly, but it’s also not pleasant, and Hank slowly pours the last of his drink down his raw throat.

Ollie eventually makes a small cough-like noise, and seems to try and stuff his hands even further into his pocket. “I know about coping mechanisms,” he says, and Hank feels sad hearing it.

“You shouldn’t have to, at your age.”

“Probably not. But…” he takes a deep, shaky breath, and lets it out slowly. “I think it might be nice to stay with someone who gets it.”

“Gets what?” Hank can’t help but ask, even though he’s genuinely afraid of the answer.

“How sometimes it’s all you’ve got. When there’s nowhere to go and nothing you can do, and everything hurts, so why not just make it hurt more. At least then you can decide for yourself when and how it hurts.” His eyes are shiny too as he finally looks up at Hank. “You’d be a fucking hypocrite if you told me to just pull myself together and get over it.”

Despite the drink, Hank feels abruptly sober, anger burning in his gut on behalf of this poor kid. “Anyone who says that is a goddamn idiot.”

Ollie nods, and quiet falls again. Sumo eventually wakes up from his nap, and realizes that there’s something going on, lumbering over with a whine to lick at Hank’s elbow.

“It’s okay, boy,” he says, patting the big head, and, as if understanding, Sumo then goes to Ollie instead, squirming his head in between the tabletop and Ollie’s lap.

“Can I… can I take him to my room?” Ollie asks, and Hank nods.

“Sure. But if you invite him into bed, he’ll never leave, and I can’t lift him. Just so you know.”

“Okay. Come on,” Ollie says, patting his thigh, and Sumo stays glued to him all the way to the guest room. To Ollie’s room.

Fuck, Hank really is a foster parent now, isn’t he. “Crap, I need another drink,” he says, as soon as the door is closed behind Ollie, but he doesn’t get up to get one.

So Connor pushes the drink glass away instead, and leans back against the table, letting Hank fall forwards into his embrace. Hank winds his arms around Connor’s sturdy waist and lets his emotions do what they want for once in a blue moon.

Connor gently pets his hair, and doesn’t comment on the occasional jump of his shoulders, or the wetness gathering on his chest where Hank’s hidden his face.

- - -

Usually on weekends Hank tries to do as little as humanly possible.

Not counting the past few years were all his free time was spent drinking himself into a stupor, being in homicide – or any of the major crime divisions – means that you never know when your weekend will get eaten up by the next big case. So when you’ve got nothing to do, you damn well do nothing.

That won’t fly with a kid around, however.

Not that Ollie is at an age where he needs activities as such, but a little exercise or time away from his phone would probably do wonders.

After the emotional exchange the day before, Ollie is back to his usual whatever Saturday morning, and Hank doesn’t pressure him. Instead he asks Connor if there’s anything he wants to do, and, for some weird-ass reason, he apparently has a sudden desire to see an aquarium. So off they all go to the goddamn aquarium.

Turns out to be an amazing idea, if nothing else because Connor is genuinely excited about all the fish, and Ollie loses the battle against showing interest in anything after barely ten minutes. Hank is even coaxed into telling a few stories about how he used to go fishing back in the day, initially with his grandpa, and later with a few friends, including Jeffrey – who sucked at it, incidentally.

And, truth be told, Hank does enjoy talking about these things, and getting to dust off some knowledge he’s mostly forgotten, pointing out various fish he’s caught or wanted to catch but never could.

“Did you eat them?” Ollie asks at one point, and looks torn between disgusted and impressed when Hank confirms it.

“I’m not a great cook, but throwing a fish on a grill isn’t rocket science.”

“I dunno if I could eat a fish,” Ollie says. “Not, like… freshly caught. All alive and looking at me.”

Hank shrugs. “Well, I eat cows too, and they’re cute.”

“Oh my god,” Ollie groans and walks off, already texting, so Hank assumes he’s complaining to his friends.

What a wonderfully teenage thing to do, Hank thinks to himself. And it’s not even sarcastic.

Ollie is out of sight for about ten minutes, which is enough for Connor to start fidgeting, but Hank pats his back and tells him to give it a minute. They gotta start building trust somehow, especially if Ollie’s gonna be in school at some point soon anyway.

And, sure enough, soon he comes back around a corner, walking quite a bit faster than usual, and it sets off some alarm bells in Hank’s mind.

“You okay?”

“Yeah. Can we leave, now? Please?” Ollie says hurriedly, and Hank wants to ask, he wants to ask, so badly, but he knows he probably shouldn’t. And, in the end, Connor swoops in.

“Of course. Hank, come on, the exit’s this way.”

He doesn’t ask as they’re leaving. He doesn’t even ask in the car, and honestly he feels like he deserves some kind of award for that. But once the door is closed behind them at home and Sumo is done slobbering them all, Hank opens up a beer and gives Ollie a serious look. To the kid’s credit, he knows what’s up.

“You’re… you’re gonna know soon anyway,” Ollie says after a while, curling up in the ratty armchair again, while Hank and Connor take the couch. It feels very much like a still image from some teen show where the concerned parents sit their child down for a talk, and Hank would really wish the topic was something a lot more wholesome than whatever Ollie might be about to bring up.

“My mom died when I was little. I barely remember her. My dad… wasn’t great. He was always high or just not around most of the time. On my 13^th birthday I decided I’d had enough. A friend’s mom let me live with them for a while, but then they had to move. Then I moved in with my boyfriend. Lived with him for about a year.”

Ollie’s fingers pick nervously at a thread in his pants, and Hank clenches his hand around the beer bottle.

“He’s. Older.”

Hank doesn’t ask how old. He’s sure he won’t like the answer.

“And he’s, like. Into a lot of stuff. Illegal stuff. Asked me to bring people packages sometimes, or pick up stuff. I didn’t mind. He was nice most of the time. Definitely nicer than my dad. At least until. Well.” He swallows, and Hank reaches for Connor without even realizing it, searching for anything to support him through this, and Connor immediately takes Hank’s hand in both of his own.

“It all went kinda bad, and I just. Grabbed what I could and left. Been on my own since then. I was doing sorta okay, I guess. Until that cop caught me stealing.”

Kinda bad. Jesus, whatever is hidden under those innocuous words make Hank want to punch something.

“Where did you sleep?” Connor asks, and Hank could kiss him for it, because any words Hank might want to say are caught under the red hot lava rising in his chest on behalf of this poor kid, left to figure out life on his own.

Ollie shrugs. “Libraries. Gyms. Anywhere I could find a corner or stall or chair. Tried to stay inside as much as I could, because. Well, because my boyfriend does a lot of business on the street. Didn’t want anyone to see me.”

“So what happened today?”

“I’ve… I’ve been texting with him. I never blocked him or anything. I guess I should have. But he bought me this phone and everything, and he did take good care of me for a while.”

Hank wants to argue that with all the fire and fury welling up in him right now, but Connor has taken the lead, so all Hank does instead is take full advantage of how well Connor is built, squeezing his hand as hard as possible.

“I think maybe he’s been waiting for me to come back to him. He offered to come and get me when you guys took me home. I said no. He was okay, at first, but… today he’s been kinda pissed at me, I guess. Kept saying that he’d forgive me for everything if I’d just come back. But then I told him you wanna put me in school and he got really angry and said he’d find me, and.” Ollie stops to take a breath. “And then at the aquarium, I saw one of his friends. And a minute later he said he was coming for me. I dunno if he knows who you are or where I am, now.”

That’s all Hank needs to hear. He puts down the half-empty beer, and goes to the bedroom to get his gun. He’s been diligent about putting it in his dusty gun safe ever since Ollie arrived, but now he puts on the holster and makes sure the gun is loaded and clean and ready. Until he has a better idea of what they’re facing, he’d rather be too prepared than risk being taken by surprise.

He’s met with Ollie’s wide and shocked eyes as he comes back into the living room. “Are you gonna shoot him?!”

“Only if he forces me to. Until I know more, this is how it’s gonna be.”

“But he’s not… he’s not like that!”

“Then what is he like?” Hank asks firmly. He doesn’t want to pressure Ollie, but if they’re facing a threat, Hank needs all the information he can get.

Ollie just stares some more, and then his eyes drop to the carpet with a sigh. So either he’s given up on trying to defend that dirtbag, or said dirtbag doesn’t have enough to recommend him in the first place that Ollie can even come up with something in his defense.

“Connor, make sure the doors are locked. I’ll check the windows.”

Sumo follows Connor to the door, and sniffs at it when he simply checks it and goes to the back instead. At his whining, Connor lets Sumo out into the back yard briefly, but he seems to understand something’s up, and comes back almost immediately, so Connor can lock it.

All the windows seem secure enough, and, through it all, Ollie just stays in the chair, eyes downcast. And now that there’s nothing more Hank can check or improve, it’s time to take care of his guardianship responsibilities.

With a heavy sigh, he grabs one of the chairs from the kitchen, and sits down on it right in front of Ollie.

“Look, I’m not trying to be some kinda gung-ho overprotective parent here or anything. But I used to deal with red ice cases. That was my actual job, every day. And I saw this stuff all the time. Some drug dealer making his friends and family pick up and deliver, oftentimes without them knowing what they’re carrying. Always spreading cash around. Giving gifts and treating their loved ones to nice things and good meals. But underneath? Underneath they’re always rotten. And all it takes is missing out on one good deal, and they reveal exactly what kind of monster they are.”

Hank sighs. “And, more often than not? Their significant others usually know the truth long before anyone else.”

Ollie doesn’t meet his worried gaze, but the way he curls in on himself even further is telling. And when there’s a tiny hitch of breath, Hank finally loses his inner battle to give Ollie space, and just scoops him into his arms, hoping he’s not making a mistake.

Clearly he’s not, because Ollie seems to try and burrow into him, sobs tumbling out of him as he claws at Hank’s shirt. He’s so damn skinny and small, picking him up to sit on Hank’s lap feels like nothing, and with his heart aching both for Ollie’s sake and for his own grief, Hank gently rocks the kid as he cries and cries.

Connor has been watching from the kitchen with Sumo leaning nervously against him, but when the tears start Sumo is right there next to Hank, whining and poking his nose against Ollie’s skinny thigh, and soon Connor approaches as well.

Clearly unsure what to do, he hovers behind Hank at first, but then makes a decision, and sits down in the vacated armchair, close enough that he can place a comforting hand on Ollie’s shuddering back.

When Jeffrey first got him into this mess, Hank wasn’t sure he still even possessed the capability to care for someone like this anymore. But obviously it’s all still there, just waiting under the surface for a new reason to emerge, at this point he’s ready to commit actual murder to keep this child in his arms safe.

And Hank’s already got a target in mind.

- - -

After dinner that night, Hank gently asks Ollie about the boyfriend. He’s cooperative enough, and gives up names and addresses and anything else Hank wants without argument. Soon they have a profile, and Connor wastes no time getting online and tracking the fucker down.

Still afraid of pushing too hard, Hank doesn’t go too deeply into any of it, but Ollie seems aware that the only way it can end is by the boyfriend going to prison, and that’s good enough for Hank.

“It’s not like I can start school if I’m always worried he’ll come and get me,” Ollie says sadly, clutching his phone. It’s been buzzing at steady intervals since they left the aquarium, but Ollie doesn’t even look.

“Would you be alright with me checking your messages?” Connor asks, and Ollie just hands over the phone, pats his leg for Sumo to follow, and shuts the door to his room behind them both.

It’s not a pretty picture. Dirtbag is clearly emotionally abusive at the very least. Not as old as Hank had feared, but plenty old to know better and not start relationships with fucking fourteen year-olds. It doesn’t seem like he knows exactly where Ollie is, but until he’s locked up Hank is going to make sure the kid is never left alone.

It’s after midnight when Hank finally decides that enough is enough. Ollie still has Sumo in his room, Connor’s LED has been yellow since this whole thing started, clearly making all his sensors work overtime, and they have all the information they need to pick up the guy in the morning, as long as Ollie is willing to sign a statement.

So Hank tiredly goes to the bedroom, leaves his gun in the bedside drawer and gets ready for bed. Connor doesn’t even pretend to hesitate, and joins Hank right away. No wonder if he’s rattled too, he’s been dealing with a lot of human crying in the past couple of days.

The first few times he’d ended up in Hank’s bed, he’d just laid down, stiff as a board, fully clothed like a damn vampire, and the only words they’ve ever exchanged on the subject was the one time Hank crankily asked him to “get some damn pajamas or something, for fuck’s sake.”

So now he puts on nightclothes, just borrowing stuff from the bottom of Hank’s drawers, where the stuff that’s a bit too tight often ends up. He stopped wearing the Cyberlife suit a long time ago, but he’s clearly always going to feel better when looking business casual at least, so he tends to wear button-ups and slacks that are so boring it’s damn near criminal. At night, however, he looks softer and more human in Hank’s oversized things.

And when Hank climbs into bed and turns off the bedside lamp, Connor also no longer tries to pretend he doesn’t know exactly what he’s doing, and cuddles right up to Hank.

Any other night Hank would have just gone to sleep, because that usually seems safer than risking the house of cards being blown down just from questioning it. But he’s still on edge, and wants to cross his I’s and dot his T’s.

“You okay?” he asks, and Connor shifts a little against him.

“Are you?”

“Hey, I’m not the one who’s been comforting two different crying humans in as many days.”

“But you’re the one forced to anticipate a possible home invasion,” Connor points out, and that’s valid enough.

“It’s your home too.”

Connor gets up on an elbow, fixing his eyes on Hank in the near-total darkness. “Is it?”

Come to think of it, they haven’t discussed this either, but Hank assumed that until anything better came up, then of course this was Connor’s home too. But perhaps having someone else in the guest room brought those things into question.

“I mean. Yeah? I want it to be your house too, anyway,” Hank says, glad he can’t make out Connor’s facial expressions.

It takes way, way too long for Hank’s peace of mind before Connor says anything else. “Even if the law was instated right now that would allow me to get my own place?”

“Yeah,” Hank says without hesitation. Because whatever else is going on with them, Hank realized a long ago that he appreciates Connor being around, and would likely run a far greater risk of spiraling back into self-despair without him.

That’s probably selfish.

But at times like these, when Connor could stay on the couch far out of reach, but chooses instead to be here with Hank, up against him and seeking closeness, Hank can’t help but think that maybe they’re both a little selfish sometimes. And that’s fine with him.

“Thank you,” Connor says eventually, voice small and soft, and Hank’s chest goes all bubbly again.

“You’re welcome.”

Connor looks at him in the dark for another minute, then lies back down, arm across Hank’s stomach and their legs tangled. Hank’s just happy they managed to clear something up between them without ruining something else, and falls into a fitful sleep soon after.

Sunday morning Hank wakes up at the crack of dawn, and it takes him a minute to realize what woke him. Connor clearly shut down right after their talk the night before, because he’s completely still in the same position, only his lazy spinning LED showing the slow life of him. He probably won’t reactivate until something startles one of his sensors, or until whatever time he chose to wake.

There’s a tiny sound, and Hank realizes that it’s Sumo, whining quietly.

Oh, Ollie took Sumo to his room the night before and probably forgot to let him out again. And while Sumo is a big, excitable doofus, he’s also sometimes weirdly cautious, and only barely makes a noise if he needs something. So Hank’s learned over the years to keep an ear out for those barely-there noises.

He climbs out of bed carefully, and goes to get Sumo out. He immediately goes to the back door, so clearly he wants to go out out, but Hank quickly ducks into the bedroom for his gun before letting Sumo out the back. Just in case.

He has a family to protect now. And thinking that feels like it should make something explode, but it doesn’t. It doesn’t at all.

His back yard is quiet and frosty, and he shivers in his sweats as Sumo quickly does his business, also eager to get back inside. Nothing moves anywhere, not even a damn squirrel, and before long Sumo bounds back to him, accepts an ear rub with happy, lolling tongue before heading for his water dish and then his bed. He’s clearly not ready to get up.

Hank usually wouldn’t be either, this early in the morning. But after last night he’s still on high alert, and keeps the gun next to him on the counter as he starts some coffee.

The first cup is only just poured when he hears Connor get up, and Hank is sipping the scalding bean juice as he comes around the corner.

“Good morning, Hank.”

“Mornin.”

This could be every other morning for how familiar it is, but a few things are off. Mainly that Connor is up and still wearing Hank’s clothes. He usually doesn’t leave the bedroom until he’s fully dressed. Hank had assumed it was a modesty thing, but maybe it was more that Connor had doubts about whether he was allowed to live here. It makes Hank feel a little bit ashamed of himself and his lack of communication skills.

Connor’s hair is also still standing up a little on the side he slept on, which means he didn’t even stop to look in a mirror before getting up. It’s charming as hell, and Hank’s insides do all kinds of weird things looking at it.

He sips his coffee, and Connor just watches him, arms crossed over a band shirt that Hank wore last sometime in the mid-20s. He’s gorgeous, and Hank is both a little envious and a little annoyed with himself for thinking it. But, in the end, Hank doesn’t care that much what’s going on between them. All he knows is that Connor is giving every indication that he’s going to stick around, and that’s all Hank needs.

“May I move my things from the guest room to the bedroom?”

“Sure.”

“Any particular drawer you’d prefer I use?”

Hank shrugs. “This is your house too. Put your stuff wherever you like.”

There’s a moment of tension where Connor stares at him, and then seems to steel himself. Hank is about to ask, but doesn’t get a chance to, because Connor plucks the hot mug of coffee out of his hand, puts it to the side, and then cradles Hank’s face with both hands.

That part about Hank not caring that much about what’s going on between them? Yeah, fuck that part, he cares a whole damn lot at this particular moment.

Connor leans in slowly and cautiously, pressing his lips to Hank’s in the most chaste and gentle way Hank’s ever been touched, and his knees go all wobbly, forcing him to clutch at the kitchen counter behind him with both hands to not fall down.

“Okay?” Connor whispers as they part, as if he’s also feeling like the whole thing could rip apart like tissue paper if you speak too harshly.

“Yeah,” is all Hank can say, genuinely kissed stupid for the first time in his life. God, he’s an emotional wreck just from that tiny kiss. What the fuck would Connor be capable of doing to him if he put his mind to it?

As if reading his thoughts, Connor traces Hank’s lower lip with a thumb, regarding it like a puzzle to be solved, and then mutters: “I can do better.”

And then he goes in for another kiss, not at all chaste this time, and Hank makes a terrible, shameful noise over it too.

He loses track of time, standing there in his kitchen, making out with Connor as the sun rises. By the time he surfaces for air, the coffee is cold, and he’s somehow gotten them turned around so Connor is up against the counter, and more or less hanging from Hank’s neck by his arms. Not that Hank minds this one bit, hell no, he could do this all fucking day.

Holding Connor like this is even better than the cautious nightly cuddling, though if Hank’s honest he loves that too. Hell, he might as well just confess all his sins on this Sunday morning before god and his dog.

He’s in love with his android partner, he’s basically a father again to a scared teenager, and he’d throw his entire career away for either of them in a second if it would keep them safe.

Plus, he’s only had half a beer in the last twenty four hours and didn’t even realize it.

Who is this person, and where did he bury Hank Anderson’s pathetic body?

“That was wonderful, Hank. I enjoyed that very much,” Connor says with a smile rivaling the sun outside, and the old Hank would mock him for being a sap, but new Hank is a sap himself and doesn’t give a shit.

“Me too. Fuck yeah, me too.”

Connor gazes shamelessly into Hank’s eyes, and it gets too intense in about a second. But instead of turning away for a drink to kill the bubbling inside, now Hank can just close his eyes and dive into another kiss, and Connor’s eyes will flutter closed too completely on automatic. Problem gloriously solved.

A few more kisses later, Connor seems to almost melt into Hank, so sated he looks ready to fall asleep, while Hank is… well, since he’s already silently confessing sins, he might as well admit to himself and the universe in general that all this kissing is getting him quite worked up. Something Connor eventually can’t help but notice.

“I’m-” he starts and then stops, looking unsure for the first time that morning. “I’m not equipped for… well, anything,” he says, and Hank immediately shakes his head and gives Connor another little kiss for good measure.

“You’ll never have to do anything about… that whole deal,” he says, gesturing vaguely downwards. “That doesn’t matter.”

“Of course it matters.”

“I mean, yeah, it does, but never, ever think it’s your responsibility. I’ve taken care of that on my own for most of my life, there’s no reason that has to change.”

Connor frowns, and searches Hank’s face in way that makes him feel a little naked, if he’s honest. “But I want to. I can’t offer you the same experience in return, but... I would very much like to make love to you, Hank.”

“Jesus, Mary and Joseph,” Hank murmurs to himself, looking heavenward for a moment to brace himself before going back in for another kiss, making it just a little bit filthy. Not too much, they still have a teenager right on the other side of the wall. “I’d like that too, at some point. But no rush, okay?”

“Okay,” Connor answers with a sincere nod, and then proceeds to wreck Hank a little bit more, to the point where he’s forced to take himself and his increasing downstairs issue to the shower to get resolved.

And on the subject of things getting resolved, that seems to be the theme of that entire Sunday.

Directing things from home, Hank personally ensures that dirtbag boyfriend is picked up as soon as possible. It goes down without much fuss, as he’s caught with more than enough drugs on and around him to make a rock solid case, and doesn’t even put up much of a fight. Chris keeps them all updated every step of the way, and while Ollie accepts every new step with stoic calm, he also keeps Sumo within arm’s reach at all times, sometimes clenching his fingers in the thick fur. And when it’s all over and Dirtbag is processed and in a holding cell, Ollie blocks his number, and then hides in his room for the rest of the day.

The blissful glow of the early morning makeout session is pushed to the background in the face of dealing with what is now an actual case, but there’s still a tiny ember of new understanding, visible in how Connor’s hand now lingers on Hank’s arm or back, or how Hank will reach for Connor’s hand, just to hold it for a bit, just because he can.

Around lunch time Connor checks on Ollie, and although Hank isn’t intentionally listening in, he has to stop and hold his breath when he catches a few words floating through the door.

“-on’t mind, I’ll just clear out my things.”

“You’re leaving?!” Ollie says, voice clearly shocked, and Connor rushes to calm him.

“Oh, no, not at all. Hank and I merely… came to an agreement. I’m moving my things to our bedroom.”

Our bedroom. Hank’s heart can’t handle this fucking pace this early in the day.

“Oh,” Ollie says, and then follows up with: “Oh, ew.”

“Nothing at all happened to warrant that kind of reaction,” Connor says, sounding damn near snooty, and, god, Hank adores him. “However, if it did, I can assure you we would honor your request to, what was it again? Oh yes, keep it down when we fuck.”

Hank has to bite down on his lip hard enough for it to hurt, in order to not explode with suppressed laughter.

“Oh my god,” Ollie groans. “I’m happy for you and everything, but oh my god.”

There’s a pause where Hank can see Connor’s face so clearly in his mind. His smug little grin when he’s delivered a joke that landed exactly how it was supposed to.

“Are you alright?” Connor asks eventually. “I can imagine it’s been a rough few days for you.”

“… yeah. I mean. Yeah. I’m okay, though. Better than I’ve been in a long time, I think. Crazy how having food and a roof over your head makes life seem easier, huh.”

Hank’s heart hurts again. Fuck, he wants to just roll this kid in bubble wrap and keep him safe from everything.

“Yeah,” Connor says softly, and Hank can add guilt to the emotions happening to him right now. Because how long did Connor go without knowing whether he actually had a home here? They’re really gonna have to talk more.

“Would you like some lunch?”

“Whatever,” Ollie says, but then amends. “I mean, I dunno. Maybe.”

“I’ll bring you something,” Connor decides, and then leaves the room, his arms full of his various things. He doesn’t own much. Only a small pile of clothes and what amounts to about a shoe box worth of personal possessions. Hank can’t wait to see what weird shit Connor might decorate the house with, now that Hank’s finally made it clear enough that he’s allowed.

As if reading his mind, Connor picks out a small item from his bundle of stuff, easily balanced on one arm, and then reaches out to place it delicately on a nearby shelf, which mostly holds a few decades old fishing trophies. When he leaves to put his clothes away, Hank obeys his curiosity, and goes to see what it is.

It’s one of Connor’s first attempts at a homemade fly lure. Hank finds it perfectly good, and told him as much at the time, possibly in terms slightly too glowy for the occasion, but it was clear that Connor wasn’t satisfied with his own efforts.

And yet, he kept it. Kept it, and now displays it, proudly, openly showing evidence that he isn’t always perfect. God, Hank wants to kiss his goofy android face, and whaddya know, now he’s allowed. So he goes and does that.

- - -

Epilogue.

“Could one of you give me a hand with this, please?” Ollie asks, making it perfectly clear he hates asking, but that’s what he gets for being a goofball teen and getting his arm sprained playing beach hockey with his friends. Beach hockey. Hank gave up on trying to visualize it after Ollie’s third attempt at explaining.

His current situation needs no explanation, however. His arm is in a sling, and his pale, ginger roots are showing under the pink mop, and he’s holding a brand new bottle of Screech Pink – a hair dye that really understands branding, in Hank’s opinion.

“Sure,” Hank says, putting down his controller, and leaving Connor to decide whether he wants to wait for Hank to return to the game.

Ollie frowns at him. “Do you even know how?”

“Hell yeah. I had a goth phase.” At Ollie’s continued doubt, Hank rolls his eyes. “I also had cherubic blond curls as a kid, and I hated it, and I was Autumn Chestnut for about five years. So don’t you gimme that look,” he grumbles, grabbing the bottle and leading the way to the bathroom.

It’s been a couple of decades since he last dyed his hair, but a quick look at the bottle reveals it’s the same sort of deal, and he confidently gets down to business, sitting Ollie down on the lid of the toilet as he works.

“Did you really have a goth phase?”

“Yeah. Well, sort of. I was actually a metal-head, but I dabbled in goth styles. Kept it up for almost ten years, too.”

“Why’d you stop?”

“Well,” Hank sighs, pulling on the single use gloves. “Turns out when you have to get traumatized witnesses to talk to you or comfort bereaved next of kin? The whole metal scene doesn’t facilitate trust a lot. Still got my tattoos, though.”

He lays an old towel over Ollie’s shoulders, and gets to work with the bottle and brush.

“Maybe I’ll get a tattoo.”

“Not until you’re eighteen, you won’t,” Hank mutters, focused on his task.

“Only a year and a half to go, though.”

“Then a year and a half is what you’re gonna wait.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Ollie says. He sounds annoyed, but there’s a smile on his face, hidden behind his now quite long bangs.

It’s hard to fathom that they’ve gotten this far in such a short time. It feels like Ollie’s been with them forever.

“Hank?”

“Hm?”

“Would you… would you be okay with me changing my name?”

Hank pauses, mostly because it’s unexpected. But if he’s learned one thing from having Ollie practically dumped in his lap, it is to roll with the unexpected. “I mean, I guess? What would you change it to?”

“I’m not sure yet. I just. I wanna let Ollie go. Kinda… say goodbye to him, in a way.”

“Yeah. Alright, I can see that.”

Makes sense for Ollie to want to distance himself from the life he had before, Hank can understand that. Though he’s still not convinced that he’s doing right by his accidental foster child, it doesn’t seem like Ollie is leaving anytime soon. Not even for college, even though his grades are good enough for it. Hank is stupidly proud of how fast Ollie caught up when he finally did start school again, and if what he wants as a reward for his hard work is a new name, then Hank’s gonna get that for him.

“Maybe,” Ollie says slowly, his voice so low Hank can barely hear it. “Maybe some day… I’ll have a new last name too.”

It takes Hank an embarrassingly long time to get the idea, and he has to stop what he’s doing and step back to catch Ollie’s gaze. “Just to be sure we’re on the same page here,” he says slowly, the memory of the misunderstandings between himself and Connor still fresh in his memory. “You’re talking about… me adopting you? Cause I’m sure as hell hoping you’re not planning on marrying anyone.”

Ollie bursts out a brief laugh. “No, no I meant that first one.” His eyes finally leave the tiled flor, and he meets Hank’s gaze nervously. “I mean if… if you’d want that.”

Not giving a shit if his bathroom is gonna be streaked pink forever, Hank dumps everything in his hands into the sink, and gathers Ollie up into his arms for a tight hug. “Of course I’d want that. Anyone would be lucky to have you for a kid.”

“Really?” Ollie asks wetly, and Hank just hugs him tighter.

“Hell yeah. I mean, if you can deal with waiting forever, because I don’t exactly have the best track record. We might not talk social services into it before you’re eighteen.”

“Then we’ll do it after.”

“Okay,” Hank croaks, and doesn’t try to hide his wet sniff.

After a while of hugging, where Hank definitely gets pink hair dye on his cheek, Ollie delivers another quiet punch to the gut, like it’s second nature to him to wreck Hank. God, he really is his kid.

“Maybe you should consider giving Connor your last name too. You know, seeing as he still doesn’t have one.”

“Jesus, one thing at a time, kid,” Hank says, pushing Ollie back to sit on the toilet, and takes a moment at the sink, pretending to check the dye damage while really getting his breathing back under control. He could, though. He could give Connor his name. Wouldn’t be that big of a deal, he’s already given Connor everything else, including his damn heart and soul.

But that’s for later. Hair first, emotions later.

Once the dye is setting and Hank is washing his hands, Ollie comes over next to the sink, picking at a hole in the threadbare towel with his good hand, and Hank can damn near see the countdown as the seconds tick closer to Ollie delivering a third punch. Hank should be prepared for it by now, because this is just what Ollie does. He stews over things for weeks or months, and then vomits out everything at once, just throwing all of his worries at the wall, and waits for the house to fall down.

But it hasn’t yet. The house – as well as their family dynamic – is still standing. And Hank’s not about to let it fall now.

“What?” he asks, just as Ollie opens his mouth, and gets a cranky face for it. But seeing Hank smile in encouragement – likely with a little pink in his beard now for who knows how long, clearly makes Ollie feel calmer, and he stops looking like he’s expecting punishment.

“What if the new name I settle on isn’t… like… a boy’s name?”

Hank shrugs. “If you like it and the law allows it, then it’s literally none of my business.”

“Yeah, but I mean. What if… what if I wasn’t a boy?”

He clearly expects it to be more surprising, but Hank does know how social media works, and he’s seen some status updates here and there. Completely above board too, no snooping. Just Ollie being himself and being open and honest and heartbreakingly genuine about who he is. And also being a dumb teen who doesn’t always remember that public posts are public, and sometimes makes it to Hank’s social media circles.

“Then you’re not a boy, and I’ll just have to get used to new pronouns.” Hank says, deliberately casual. He’s not a relic, he was there for the online gender revolution in the early 20s, and while it’s still not quite caught on in the real world, it’s definitely more common. Especially with androids now picking their genders as well as their names and livelihoods freely, it seems all bets are off for them in particular. Only a matter of time before humans catch up, in Hank’s opinion.

“I’ll… let you know when I figure out which ones I like best,” Ollie says after a while. “He is fine for now.”

“Cool. Five more minutes, and then we rinse.”

And that’s it. It’s a non-issue. That’s how it’s supposed to be, and Hank has some big, angry opinions on parents who can’t wrap their heads around innocent self-expression.

Something that’s not a non-issue however, is how he suddenly realizes that he’s a father again.

“Oh, shit, I’m gonna be your dad!” he gasps in a mild panic when the thought finally catches up to him, and Ollie bursts out laughing as Connor comes dashing into the bathroom, worried about what’s going on. Cue Hank having a small but happy freakout, in which he also accidentally blabs to Connor about Ollie’s name changing suggestions for everyone in the room.

By the time pink water is circling the drain in the tub, a lot of hugs have been exchanged, Sumo has licked the dye water – and regretted it – and Connor has basically threatened Hank with murder if he goes back on the accidental proposal.

Hank has to sit down with a beer to try and fit into his brain how he’s gone from suicidal has-been to future dad and current human fiancé to an android in less than a year.

“What the fuck just happened?” he asks the empty air, and Connor is the one who answers, his arms snaking around Hank’s neck from behind the couch.

“Something wonderful, I think.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I think so too,” Hank says, and forgets his beer in favor of kissing Connor and then watching Ollie play tug of war with Sumo over the ratty towel.

“Yeah. Wonderful.”

End.