Chapter Text
When Hank was thirteen his mom’s boyfriend took him fishing.
It was summer, and she was sick of him moping about the house. She insisted Carlos take him ‘literally anywhere but here!’ just to give her a break; both of them had protested, but his mother’s word was law. So off they went. Carlos had been gruff as he showed Hank how to gently bait a hook and feel for the tremors in the line, and they spent most of the day in silence. But Hank was transfixed all the same. He craved the quiet, the tangible winnings of a job well-done.
“Does this come in a smaller size? I don’t need this much.”
He startles awake, smacking his lips against his dry mouth and scrubbing a hand through his beard. The guy who spoke is a mousey looking brunette who holds himself like a bulldog, his short stature gives him the overall appearance of a chihuahua who wasn’t taught how to bite properly.
The customer is holding a 500m spool of fishing line away from his body as if personally offended, Hank just wants to go back to sleep. He shakes his head, “No.”
The customer sighs in that way customers usually do before saying something insane in a reasonable voice, “Well, what if you just cut me off the feet I need?”
“Absolutely not” He snorts, incredulous.
Chihuahua man starts, prominent brow drawing together. “But I only need enough for today!”
“Not my problem.” Hank had opened the tackle shop when Jeffrey and Cole finally teamed up to convince him to retire.
His second heart attack while chasing a perp has been a real kick to his ego, and when they’d offered desk duty Hank had been so insulted he’d adopted a dog. Fishing was the only thing he had to fall back on, so he'd bought an empty shop front on the greener edge of Detroit and now here he is. Et voila.
“I have a boat load back home and don’t really need another taking up space.” The guy approaches the counter with small, aggressive steps, making Hank stand to his full height in caution.
He repeats himself carefully, “Not. My. Problem.”
The kid slams the spool down hard in response, and Sumo raises his head from where he tucked in behind the desk.
Hank’s voice stays firm. “It comes as is.”
Baiting this guy is probably one of the stupider things Hank has done, but he's itching for something. Too long behind a counter, behind a desk, and not enough action. Another stupid thing Hank has done is show up to work the day after Laura left with Cole strapped to his chest. He'd been very obviously hungover, and feeling uncharacteristically delicate.
Hank had always struggled with kids. The ones he spoke to back when he was a beat cop were all squirrelly, and it took real effort to remember not to swear at them when they got underfoot. Cole came out the womb frowning, just like his mom, and Hank didn’t know what to do.
Turns out people are right when they say babies don’t fix marriages, his wife had scarpered soon after Cole was born when she realised that her desire to be as far away from Hank as possible trumped all others. When Hank got home from work the day before, it was to a note and their baby with the neighbour. He’d lost it a bit, he admits. Spending the night drinking beer and cussing out her voicemail while Cole slept fitfully in his bassinet. He’d awoken groggily, shoved his jeans on and just did what he always did – drove to work. Jeffrey had given him one stern look and shoved him back out onto the street, shouting something about homicide not being the ideal place to chill with your newborn. Can you even chill with a newborn? What do people do with kids.
Lacking any better ideas Hank had taken Cole fishing. He was surprisingly chipper as they spent the day in silence along the bank of the lake. Giggling and flashing gums when Hank showed him a 2lb bluegill: smoothing his little, chubby baby hand across its slimy fins. Seeing Cole smile and slap his roly-poly arms against his large chest when they caught something sent a spark of sun into the newly formed clouds on Hank’s head. From then on, they spent every weekend slumming it in silence together on the edge of Lake St Clair, graduating from mid-size bluegills to largemouth bass pretty quickly.
“The place downtown lets you cut enough for a single line! They understand that people don’t need a whole spool.” The place downtown absolutely does not let people do that.
“Well, last I checked you weren’t in the place downtown. You were here with me.” Hank says lightly, before turning on a glare. “It comes as is.”
Chihuahua guy grits his teeth, “But-”
“It’s 5 dollars, kid – just buy it. Jesus.”
The man glares back for a half second, before cursing and flying out the shop with a slam. The bell chiming as the shelves shake with the force, the camping chairs rattling dangerously. Sumo grunts as Hank slumps back into his chair, petting him lightly on the ears. They both sigh, before settling back in to sleep a bit more.
The tackle shop never gets busy, necessarily, and anything compared to the hustle of the bullpen is peace on earth. Its definitely been an adjustment, going from a decorated career surrounded by beloved peers, to...this. A quiet, dusty shop on the edge of an equally quiet, dusty town just outside Detroit. Sometimes, Hank will find himself talking to imaginary customers, using Sumo as a prop - he hopes its more stir crazy than actual crazy.
The door chimes again. Hank sighs, “Listen, asshole, either you buy the whole reel, or you fuck off alright?”
“Wow, loving the warm welcome” Hank knows that voice. “Who knew retirement would make you more crabby.”
He peeks an eye open, spying his son as he leans up against a shelf overstocked with camping chairs. His hairs grown longer, in desperate need of a cut, and disturbingly, he seems to be trying to grow a beard.
Hank raises an eyebrow, “Don’t lean on that.”
“Why not?” Cole laughs, leaning harder in defiance, and Hank watches in resignation as it wobbles and three chairs tumble to the ground with a loud clatter. Cole scrambles, “Shit!”
“That’s why.” Hank snorts as Sumo shakes himself awake again, before clambering out from behind the counter. He begins pawing at Cole in a not-so-subtle hello, who forgets about cleaning up the chairs pretty much immediately in favour of petting the lumbering dog.
Hank decides to join them, staggering out from behind the counter before sweeping the dropped gear into one arm and Cole into the other, hugging him tight across the chest before ruffling his sandy blond hair.
“Hey kiddo, what’re you doing home? I thought spring break wasn’t for another few weeks.”
Cole’s college is in the ass-end of Minnesota, which is a good few hours’ drive away; so while him popping up at the shop is more than welcome – it’s definitely cause for mild concern. Cole coughs and blushes, suddenly avoiding Hank’s eyes as he snatches the chairs and starts balancing them back on the shelf. Scratch that, major concern.
Cole keeps fiddling with the merchandise, and Hank uses the pause to take in his son properly for the first time in months. He’d had a growth spurt in his late teens, leaving him just as tall as Hank, but without any of the solidity.
He’s gangly, with coltish limbs, and large headed – so different to the burrito shaped baby he remembers, but the cheeky smile and freckles are all the same. College seems to have only made him thinner, which worries Hank, but every time he asks, Cole just blames the stress. He’s going to train to be a veterinary surgeon, specializing in multiple big words that Hank only remembers when Cole says them again.
He turns to face Hank, smiling nervously. “Um…well the thing is–” He cuts himself off with a deep breath.
Hanks used to waiting out Cole’s moods, but the tense fiddling he’s doing with the camping chairs – stacking and restacking nonsensically – is really starting to make him nervous.
“Cole, you’re freaking me out. You dying?” Hank holds his breath.
“What? No!” Oh, thank God.
“Well, what is it then! Just spit it out, I won’t be mad.” He says as calmly as he can.
Instead of being calmed, Cole just huffs and begins ushering him into the back of the shop, which is nothing more than a sink, a stove, and the ancient mac Hank uses to do his taxes.
Cole forces him into the worn office chair before fiddling with the cupboards. “I just need to talk to you about something important, okay?”
Hank watches as his son frantically shoves a pot of water on to boil and fills rusted camping mugs with instant coffee. He squints, “Important, huh?”
Cole doesn’t respond. Finishing both coffees with cream and sugar before skittishly shoving one into his father’s hand; Hank watches as Cole chugs half his drink in one go, college having seemingly removed his ability to feel the pain of scalding water.
“God, that tastes like shit.” Cole grimaces.
Hank rolls his eyes, “It’s instant. Of course it tastes like shit.”
Cole shoots him a withering look over the rim of his coffee, “No, it tastes like shit because you buy it for cheap in bulk off the internet instead of just going to the store like a normal person.”
Hank hates buying stuff online, but he hates being a person in the world even more. So instead of going to the grocery store a short drive from his house, he purchases crates of dried food from this dodgy, digital army surplus store. The coffee arrives in huge 3kg cans, labelled in a language Hank thinks might be Japanese. Cole hates it but has long since learnt to pick his battles.
They eye each other shrewdly, Hank pursing his lips. “Something you couldn’t just tell me over the phone?”
“Too important for the phone, dad!” He exclaims, hands fiddling with his mug handle.
“Well then, what is it?” He huffs.
Cole shudders, gulps, swings his too large head from side to side like a wind-up toy. Hank’s never known him to be nervous, even as a kid he’d made friends with anything and everything that moved. When he was six, Hank had walked in on him trying to make friends with a rock. He still has that rock – it lived on the dashboard of his Oldsmobile.
“Am I dying?” Hank says with wide eyes.
“No.” Another deep breath, one last head tilt,
“Cole, I have work to do-“
“I’m getting married!”
What. “What?”
Cole sits on the desk opposite, energy flagging from his body as he slumps with his head in his hands. He peeps his eyes up at Hank with a small, satisfied smile. “Yeah, dad. I’m getting married. I, uhm- well I proposed last night, and we couldn’t wait to tell you, so…here we are!”
They sit in silence for a moment too long, Hank’s jaw against his chest. His son cannot be old enough to get married, he doesn’t even have a girlfriend! Wait.
“You don’t even have a girlfriend, how the fuck are you getting married?” He says proudly, his trump card to end this whole nightmare. His son? Getting Married? No thank you.
“What do you mean? Me and Traci have been together for, like, months.” Hank shudders, this is not reassuring.
“Months? Don’t you think that’s a little soon Cole, besides I thought you were moving back in with me when college ended! I don’t think the house can take a third, Guppy.” He sighs, his son scoffing at the childhood nickname but not admonishing him for it. Hank hates having Cole far away, he’s the only person he really enjoys spending time with.
When he’d turned eighteen and shot off all the way to Minnesota, Hank had mourned the loss of the only fishing buddy he could ever stand, wallowing in too much beer and not enough sunlight. He’d tried to throw himself into his job, and it had worked for a little while – until the stress, and the beer, and the fast food gave him a heart attack in his forties.
Hank had promised to lay off the depression, and in return, Cole promised to return after college. ‘There’s loads of good vets near you, dad! I’ll find something.’ His kid cannot get married. He’s too young, and too nice, and has too much living left to do. He and Laura had married young, and Hank would call it a mistake if it hadn’t given him his son.
Cole crosses his arms, body clenched like a fist, and Sumo shoves his head into his lap with a low whine. “You always do this! Why can’t you just be happy for me!?”
Hank spies the unshed tears welling up in his eyes and heaves out of his chair to wrap Cole in a proper hug, who sniffles and wraps his long limbs around Hank’s shoulders as the dog gets trapped in between them.
“I am happy for you, bud.” He starts rubbing circles into Cole’s back soothingly, “I promise. You just caught me by surprise that’s all.”
He grabs Coles gargantuan head in both his hands and smacks loud kiss to the top of hair. “I’m just worried about you, you know that.” He says softly.
Cole huffs, “I’m adult man, dad” as if that isn’t exactly what Hank is worried about.
They both breathe slowly, the dust of his rink-y-dink back room feeling stagnant and choking. A stone settles low in Hank’s gut; his son is getting married. How about that.
“And don’t worry about a thing dad, I’m still moving back here when I graduate. Its why we’re both here actually – scoping out the best neighbourhood to rent.” Cole smiles. That sounds nice.
Hank imagines him and Cole fishing along Lake Erie and bringing back a large trout for them to eat together, just like back in the old days. Hank smiles back, smacking another kiss against his forehead as Cole playfully shoves him away.
Sumo wags his tail, confused by all the excitement, and they both crouch to begin palming at the dogs hulking fur. Hank pauses, Sumo taking the opportunity to lick a stripe up his face.
“Wait, did you say we’re here?” Hank asks.
“Oh, yeah!” Cole perks up, “Traci’s waiting outside.” He says matter-of-factly
Hank nods sagely, “Right.” He really hates meeting new people.
“Wanna meet her? She’s really cool, like, really cool.” Cole blushes.
No person who describes his future wife as ‘like, really cool’ should be old enough to get married in Hank’s opinion.
“Sure kiddo, how about I close the shop early and we get some lunch?” He offers absentmindedly.
“Oh, awesome! Thanks dad.” Cole races out of the back room, calling for his fiancée at the top of his lungs, Sumo hot of heels. Hank hears the bell chime as the door slams shut, followed by the haphazard clatter of the camping chairs sliding off their shelf again. He sighs, collecting his things and writing a quick sign for the door.
Hank would be the first to admit that he’s an ornery old bastard, and he’s perfectly comfortable never needing anybody – except his son. He’s sustained himself for the last however many years with the safety that Cole was just in Minnesota, and that when he came back everything would go back to normal.
If Cole gets married, what happens to Hank? He keeps drinking at Jimmy’s, walking Sumo round the block, fishing when he can for the rest of his life alone? The only person who has ever put up with Hank for an extended period of time has been Cole, and maybe Jeffrey – they emailed sometimes.
Hank scruffs a hand through his hair – longer than ever now that he’s off the force, and he can’t just get it cut at the same time as Cole. It used to be one of their things, signing him out of school a little early so they could beat the rush at the barbers.
This Traci person is really putting a dampener on Hanks whole mojo situation; he eyes the bottle of whiskey he keeps behind the cash register, for the really slow days. He can hear Cole talking loudly outside the shop, a female voice laughing alongside him.
Hank grabs it with a resigned hand, shaking his head before taking a swig, wincing as the drink burns his throat. Blood rushes to his head as he splutters and takes another drink, bracing himself to be sociable with the probably very normal girl outside his shop.
Fumbling a packet of mints out of his pocket, Hank joins the kids outside, leaving the camping chairs strewn over the floor.
***
Traci turns out to be a bit weird. She flits around like a hummingbird; her laugh high and obnoxious even when no one says anything funny. But she has a kind face, Hank supposes – almond shaped eyes and straight, black hair cropped neatly in a no-nonsense-bob. She also kept calling him Lieutenant Anderson, no matter how many times he insisted Hank was fine and has since settled on an equally infuriating Mr Anderson. As if the reference to his former glory was his only problem with the formality.
“But you probably know all about that, right Mr Anderson?” Hank has no idea what she’s talking about, but nods anyway.
Hank doesn’t know if he likes her – he wants to like her, don’t get him wrong. Cole has obviously been trying very hard all afternoon to get him to talk, but they just can’t seem to find a conversational topic that won’t fizzle out moments later. Sumo shifts restlessly under the table, as if trying to fill the silence with his bulk alone.
After locking up the tackle shop, Hank had driven them out to the diner behind his house. Traci had gone to hug him before he got in the car, but he’d managed to side step her in favour of shoving Sumo into the backseat of the Oldsmobile. Ducking his eyes so he didn’t have to see her reaction, or worse, Coles.
The menus had given them something to do at least, all three fiddling and chatting asininely about what they’re getting. Hank isn’t used to feeling awkward, never really giving enough of a shit about what people think, but this is his son’s fiancée.
Traci is just very different from what he was expecting out of Cole’s future partner. He’d always imagined someone bookish like him, talkative with the right people but tough where it counts. Traci hasn’t stopped talking in between bites and is laughing nervously again. Her nails are perfect blue points, occasionally scratching behind Sumo’s ears, and she’d fussed with the waitress about the cheese in her salad.
Hank doesn’t like her, but Cole obviously does. He keeps drifting looks over to Her all throughout dinner, and insisted she drove shotgun in the car despite her being significantly shorter than him and there being no legroom in the back of Hank’s car. Cole’s 70% legs on a bad day, and his sacrifice rubs Hank the wrong way.
Its simply so adult. His boy who he raised to be a perfect gentleman, is actually a gentleman, but instead of being proud Hank just feels uncomfortable. Somehow, he’s managed to go years without becoming privy to the full force of Cole’s maturity.
He keeps catching glimpses of Cole in front of him, arm around Traci’s shoulders as they keep talking about their studies. Hank takes in the neat beard, the confident green eyes; swallowing down a choked noise when he realises for the first time that his kid is all grown up.
They finish eating quickly, Sumo whining when Hank doesn’t let him eat the scraps on his plate, but hey, he’s trying to make a good impression here. Traci fills the silence by explaining how her and Cole met: something about a yoga app for dogs she was developing (weird) and needed Cole’s opinion on. She keeps eyeing the petulantly snuffling dog and suggesting it works on training all breads, even big ones. Hank resists rolling his eyes, Sumo’s fine...just nosey.
God, Hank imagines the three of them eating Thanksgiving dinner together, probably surrounded by wide-eyed grandkids. He takes a deep breath, deciding that ultimately, he better start trying now if he wants to be invited to Thanksgiving in his old age. Hank starts saying congratulations for the engagement for the tenth time, it’s the safest topic of conversation they have.
He smiles awkwardly at the happy couple, “Lemme know if there’s anything I can do to help, alright?”
Its mostly an empty offer, Cole knows he hates helping and Hank knows Cole hates help, but Traci gushes, “Shoot, really? That’d be so nice of you Mr Anderson!”
She’d been half swearing all afternoon, and it was driving Hank crazy. “Just Hank is fine, I promise.”
Traci just grins brightly in response as she keeps her eyes wide. He finds himself automatically leaning back against the booth when she slams her hands on the table and pushes herself towards him, smile getting impossibly wider. She seems to start searching his face for something, eyes darting back and forth nervously.
He presumes Traci finds it, as she finally blinks and starts talking again. She’s very…intense, this girl. Anytime Hank shows interest in the conversation she jumps at the chance to get to get to know him, nodding along and asking questions Hank doesn’t know how to answer. It’d be sweet if Hank didn’t find it so disconcerting. He’s spent his entire career mixing with all sorts of criminals, from low-rung drug dealers to violent psychopaths but somehow Cole’s fiancée is the person finally capable of intimidating him.
He takes a chance to sneak a look at his son as Traci keeps nodding and begins debating with herself on what Hank should help with. Admittedly, her strong personality meshes well with Cole’s more subdued one. He’s a lot like Hank in that way – surly around strangers, only really joking around with friends. It’s odd to think that this woman is close enough to Cole to see a side of him Hank used to think was reserved for him.
Cole said they’d only known each other a few months, and while as a father he has many, many reservations about them getting married so young and so soon. He has to admit they seem pretty perfectly matched.
He’s smiling softly, and Hank spies them holding hands under the table where they think he can’t see. As long as he’s happy. Hank takes another sip from his beer, debates if it would be rude to grab the cheque while Traci’s still talking to herself excitedly. He drinks in Cole’s adult face and realises he can’t remember what age he lost his eternally adorable baby fat.
Cole had always been adorably round cheeked, making his big head seem just that much bigger. Its as Hank starts losing himself in the memories of watching his son toddle around by the lake that Cole’s eyes suddenly snap to his. Hank jolts as Cole traps him with a shrewd look and he vaguely registers Traci trailing off as Cole opens his mouth.
The table seems very tense for a few beats, but Cole’s voice breaks through it, still just as cheeky as it’s always been. Hank grimaces as he swallows the last sip of his beer, he knows that look, knows that voice.
“Actually dad, I really do need a favour from you.” There it is.
It’s rare Cole needs a so-called favour; he’s always been fiercely independent. A state issued shrink once told Hank it’s a natural reaction to growing up in a single parent household when he’d brough it up.
“Sure Guppy, what is it?” He says warily.
Cole flushes at the nickname as Traci coos at him under her breath, but Hank hopes it does a good job of reminding him that he’s his father and while he’ll do this favour no questions asked, it better be reasonable. They’re eye contact somehow intensifies, and Traci snaps her eyes between them like she’s watching a ping pong match.
Cole fidgets as Traci snaps her eyes sharply between them as if she’s observing a ping pong match. Hank really hopes its reasonable, he has a sudden vision of being asked to make the cake – remembering the disaster of Cole’s twelfth birthday. When he’d forgotten the sugar and thought cornflour was the same as plain.
“You know that place you used to take me for my birthday? The hotel with the lake out by the border?” He asks carefully, and Hank swallows.
Every year since Cole was two, he’d taken a long weekend off work in order to celebrate properly at this nature reserve turned budget hotel in northern Michigan. The Friday evening would be spent fielding Coles’ friends to the movies and in the early the next morning they’d drive up to The Northern Peeper Hotel. While the name is hilariously unfortunate, the space is beautiful enough to make up for it. They’d fish on the lake below where the carefully maintained white building is carved into the hillside. It was significantly smaller than Lake St Clair and always seemed to be drenched in the kind of eerie, clean tranquillity that comes with privately owned water.
It had always been the highlight of Hank’s year, and he’d thought it was Cole’s too until he’d sat him down the spring, he turned seventeen and asked if he could go on road trip with his friends instead. Neither of them had suggested restarting the tradition as the years passed, Hank had thought Cole had washed himself of it entirely.
“Yeah, of course. What about it?” Hank says warily, carefully optimistic on where this is going.
“Well, we were thinking of doing it there, in the garden with the fountain out back.” Cole smiles, and Hanks himself smiling back – awash with happy memories once more.
Traci chimes in, picking up her high, nervous laughter again, “I’ve seen the pictures, and it really would be perfect! Plus Cole loves it there, Mr Anderson, and it’s his wedding too, so I’d really like him to do it somewhere he actually likes!”
“Yeah, it was always so pretty in the spring, you know? With the trees.” Cole says, and it really was.
With its trimmed lawns and curated flower beds. Hank imagines spending the weekend with Cole on that tiny lake, the happy couple moving in down the street once they graduate, the three of them going up to visit for Cole’s birthday again. Maybe this wedding won’t be such a bad idea after all.
“It’s just I can’t really remember the name, and I was hoping you could maybe call them for us? And book it for some time in April next year?” Cole grits his teeth in a smile that seems more like a grimace.
Hank frowns, that’s it? He doesn’t know what he’d been expecting, but a phone call feels like too small of an ask for the tension sitting at the table. But he also can’t sense that they’re hiding anything beneath they’re eager smiles and wide eyes. He feels himself relax, Sumo plonking his head on his lap, giving out one last whine for food before huffing and falling quiet.
“And maybe you could also convince them to allow dogs at the hotel?” Hank tenses back up, there it is.
He sighs, “Really? I don’t think Sumo really needs to be tagging along to your fancy party, kiddo.”
“But dad! We have it all planned out, Peter’s going to be the flower girl, and Sumo the ring bearer, its perfect.” They both shine moon eyes at each other, Hank takes a sip of his water as he takes a second to absorb...that.
“Who the fuck is Peter?” Hank asks, confused. He shudders, imaging a middle-aged man wearing too many bows and holding a tiny basket filled with rose petals.
Traci jumps brightly, eyes crinkling with the force of her smile, “Oh! My cat.” She fumbles with her phone like she wants to show Hank a picture, before stopping again to ask “Right, so you should probably convince them to let cats in too.”
Cole gives him a pleading look, green eyes widening in his big head, as Traci fumbles in her bag. Hank purses his lips, considering them softly. A fucking cat in a wedding.
The dog he understands. Despite Traci’s…suggestions with her stupid app, Sumo is generally well trained, but a cat? God, Hank hopes he survives this fucking wedding.
“Sure, fine. I’ll call them tomorrow, April you said?” He grunts, as the tension dissipates from the couple all at once. Relieved that their inane request has finally been pawned off to someone else.
“That’d be super cool, thank you Mr Anderson.” Traci grins, grabbing Cole’s hand again, phone forgotten.
“Yeah, thanks dad. You’re a lifesaver.”
Hank gives them what he hopes is a convincing smile, before suggesting dessert, his treat. They both do a terrible job of refusing to let him pay, while eagerly eyeing the cakes at the counter. Hank snorts internally - kids.
They finish quickly, Hank driving them both to the bus station so they can get home before work in the morning. He hugs Cole tightly, feeling the thinness in his shoulders and the unfamiliarity of his head being the same height as his. Hank even lets Traci hug him, throwing a loose arm around her shoulders, and she vibrates slightly when he pulls away.
“It was nice to meet you Mr Anderson,” Her almond eyes soften as she waves at Sumo who’s poking his head out the back of the car window. “You’re no where near as scary as Cole told me you were.”
Cole taps her on arm indignantly, before shooting Hank another grin.
“You been talking about me, Guppy?” Hank smiles as he watches Cole flush again, Traci claps her hands happily.
“You guys are so adorable,” Cole’s whole head goes an alarming shade of red, and Hank feels his own cheeks heat in solidarity. He drags his son into one last hug, before shoo-ing them both off.
He folds himself back into his beat-up car, gently patting the rock still glued to the dash. He doesn’t think he and Laura had ever looked that happy, but maybe that’s just time and wishful thinking that Cole isn’t doomed to the same mistakes as him.
Its four o’clock on a week day, but the thought of returning to the reality of his retirement plan leaves a sour taste in his mouth. He swings out of the bus station, Sumo grumbling in the back, and drives straight home. His beer at lunch, and the swigs he’d taken in the shop have long since dissipated, leaving in its wake a terrible anticipatory feeling.
The edge of the cliff rushing up to meet him ever since Jeffrey had looked at him, wan in his hospital bed for the second time in two months, and told him it was time. He drives home to the phantom taste of whiskey on his tongue, filling the silence by ruminating on the best spot to take Cole fishing when he finally moves back home.
***
Hank is going insane.
“I’m sorry Mr Anderson but we really can’t rescind on our pet policy at this time.” Repeats the overly chipper receptionist, refusing to let his charmed demeaner slip for even a second despite Hank’s grumbling. They've been at it for what feels like hours.
“I really don’t think you’re listening to me, uh – sorry what was your name again?” Hank attempts, politely.
“Jerry.” He says, evidently unimpressed.
“Jerry. Of course…sorry.” Hank coughs, “But my son and his fiancée were very clear about wanting the animals in the wedding.”
He feels himself frown, rubbing his eyes as he sits wedged between the arm of the sofa and Sumo, who’s snoring loud enough to make him concerned about doggy sleep apnea. Condensation drips down his hand where he’s fiddling with the label of his beer, its more something to fiddle with as he argues with the hotel receptionist than something he's invested in drinking. Hank hates being that customer, especially now that he’s experienced them himself.
“And I think, I’ve been very clear on our policy Mr Anderson.” Fuck.
“The dog will be leashed the whole time, and the bride-to-be promises to keep the cat caged until the ceremony.” Jerry sighs heavily, clicking his tongue as if thinking. He begins typing distantly and Hank crosses his fingers, jaw clenched.
“If I’m being frank with you Mr Anderson, the cat I could probably let slip...and if the dog is small enough, I could talk to the owner and see. What breed is the dog, sorry?” He questions.
Hank eyes Sumo, his adult sized, possibly over-weight and in denial about it Saint Bernard. Trying to decide if shaving off some of his fur would make him cat sized or just bald. He could say Sumo’s a puppy mix of some vague description, then when they show up next year it won’t be his fault said puppy gained over a hundred pounds. Like Clifford. Maybe Hank just loved him too much, Jerry.
“Urm. Normal.” He hesitates, “Just…Normal sized.”
Jerry doesn’t sound convinced, “And how big is normal, Mr Anderson?”
“Look forget the dog,” Cole is not gonna let Hank forget the dog, “You said you can let the cat slip? I think that’d be enough, more than generous on the hotel’s part too…Thank you.” He finishes weakly.
“Alrighty! I'm glad we got that settled.” Jerry’s voice slips back into frustratingly cheerful, “The weekend of April 12th, was it?”
“Yeah, the Saturday for the rehearsal, then the ceremony on Sunday.” He sucks his teeth.
Hank really doesn’t want to tell Cole Sumo can’t come. And he definitely doesn’t want to tell Sumo he has to stay home, they’ve done everything together since he adopted him – he whines when Hank showers longer than usual.
The avid typing starts back up again, as Hank drains his beer in one long glug, tapping his now free hand against his thigh awkwardly.
“Okay, I’m booking that in for you now, Mr Anderson. Its just taking a moment to load, sorry about that.”
“Oh no, no worries.” He rushes to accommodate, grimacing. “Take as long as you need.”
Jerry laughs mildly, “It’s just these darn new digital systems, still getting used to them, I guess!”
Hank lets out a stilted chuckle in solidarity, “Tough breaks, huh.”
Jerry hums politely, “We were a paper business until last week, some our…more senior team members are still struggling with it.”
They sit in silence to the sound of more typing, customary small talk achieved, before Jerry finally chimes brightly: “And if we could just take your credit card details, please, sir.”
Hank rambles them off, deciding to never tell Cole how much it cost – considering it a wedding present.
“Perfect! Thank you so much for your patience, Mr Anderson.” Jerry’s unnatural civility is painfully underscored by his repeated sighing. “If there anything else we can help you with today?”
“No. No, that’s everything.” He winces, “Seriously, thank you for the…Cat thing. Sorry.”
“Of course.” Hank really hopes this guy can tell he’s trying, but the brush off is a little too rehearsed to sound genuine. “Well, I hope you have a lovely rest of your day, Mr Anderson. Bye-bye now.”
Before Hank can even think of saying goodbye in return, he hears the receiver click and the line go dead. He briefly puts his head in his hands, barely resisting just throwing his phone against the wall as the tension drips out of him. Sumo sleeps on.
Fuck. Sumo.
Hank opens the brand-new group chat between him and the happy couple that Traci had set up the night before. And sees Cole’s last message: ‘pls tell me they waived the pet policy! if sumo and peter rn’t there neither am i! haha’
Call him old, but Hank hates the way kids text. Cole once told him he’d turned of auto-capitalisation on purpose – freaks, the lot of them. Wanting cats in weddings, and setting up apps, and using too many exclamation points all the time.
Traci had responded with a laughing face, but Hank wasn’t finding this very funny at all. He begins typing out an apology…then stops. He eyes Sumo once more. Hank's been to that hotel many, many times; he’s seen the layout with its multiple big glass doors and little-to-no staff hiding behind them.
He could sneak Sumo in. The dog in question shifts, squashing him even tighter against the arm of the sofa. He can definitely sneak Sumo in. Hank scoffs, squeezing out of his sofa prison to grab another beer from the kitchen. He was a police lieutenant for nearly twenty years, he has won awards for breaking up drug rings, and uncovering trafficking networks…sneaking a dog into a hotel for a single night?
Sumo whines in his sleep, then snorts so hard he scares himself awake and begins barking. He purses his lips, tonguing at the fillings on his back molars. Hank is confident that he can probably, at least try to sneak Sumo in.
He fumbles his phone, typing out a brusque message:‘Wedding is a go, pets included. Set for April 12th. Congratulations again.’
The perfect text: to the point and grammatically correct. He turns his phone off as Traci begins spamming the chat with gifs of dancing cats. Hank rolls his eyes, God, he hopes they can survive this fucking wedding.