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He remembered being told, once, that if you kept one foot flat on the floor when you lay down, it stopped the sensation that the room was spinning. It wasn't really working. His mouth was so dry it was numb. His cheeks and tongue chafed against the parched surface of his gums until he could finally work some moisture into them. That was when the sour taste of his own morning breath flooded his mouth.
How much had he drunk last night? There had been a couple of beers in the beginning--
--And then the cocktails. He remembered downing a few Christmas themed concoctions that had a candy cane in them, and--
--had there been shots, too?
A lot. He'd drunk a lot. His memory of the evening was a broken patchwork with no sense of how much time lay in each stitch. He'd, yeah, he'd done a twelve rack of shots, racing Gavin. Tina had won. And he'd--
--got in a cab, with--
He turned, slowly. The broad, naked back of another person lay beside him.
For a brief, very brief moment he was glad that it at least wasn't his boss. If he'd gone home with Fowler his life would have been over.
Gray hair tangled on the pillow.
Hank.
Connor wished the swirling void would open up beneath him. Let him sink into the mattress. Let him disappear.
He'd gone home with Hank.
Shit.
A wave of nausea rolled in his gut. The inside of his mouth filled with saliva and washed along the inside of his cheeks.
Connor dived off the bed, hoping urgency would keep his legs under him, and dashed for the door. Hank had a bathroom. Everyone had a bathroom. He just--
He swallowed urgently. The door directly across from the hall looked promising. He darted into it; a bucket, a sink, a fucking trash can would do at this point. All of last night's bad ideas were coming up to get him.
He just made it, heaving violently. His body squeezed, forcing everything left in his stomach up, and out. The sound was horrific.
Fuck, he really hoped that Hank was still dead to the world asleep. Maybe he could finish vomiting, find his clothes, and get out before Hank noticed.
His clothes.
Shit. Shit. He was completely and utterly naked. And he'd been in bed with Hank. And Hank was--
Sloppy kisses against the doorframe. A beard scratching at his cheek. They'd been clumsy. Urgent. He'd shoved both of his hands under Hank's dark sweater while Hank had tried to unlock his door.
His stomach rolled again, but there was nothing left to come out. He felt hollow. Like a wet cloth that had been wrung so hard it creaked.
He'd slept with Hank. He must have.
Fuck.
He didn't remember any of it.
The injustices of being him pressed down around his shoulders. He'd had a crush on Hank for months. Longer! And somehow last night he'd coaxed the guy into bed and his stupid useless drunken brain had kept none of it. And now he could never look the man in the face again. He'd have to get a new job. In a new city. With a new name. Because his stupid ass had gone and acted on his stupid crush while he was too drunk for the anxiety to get in his way, and he couldn't remember what he'd said, what he'd done, if it had even been good.
He could have made a complete ass of himself in front of the man he'd been fantasizing about all year. He'd never even learned if Hank's dick was as big as he’d theorized.
Fuck his entire god damned life.
A sound dragged at his attention; unhappy, blundering footsteps, falling heavily. A door squealing on its hinges.
The bathroom door opened. Connor, ass out, face blotchy and flushed, eyes welling with tears from the strain of puking up the whole of last week, caught a glimpse of Hank Anderson's muzzy, blue eyed stare.
They were frozen in an interminable second that lasted for the rest of Connor's entire life. One single sober thought cropped up in Connor's beleaguered mind.
He was going to move to France.
Hank darted out of the doorway with a speed that Connor had only ever seen him use when smacking Gavin's hand away from the last donut in the box. His huge hands sank down, to protect his nakedness.
Connor dived away from the toilet. The bowl was splattered with dark vomit. He looked around desperately for something to cover up with.
“Jesus fucking Christ. Connor.” Hank's voice was strained with surprise, and probably his own headache. “What are you doing?”
Connor tasted acid and foulness in his mouth. He grabbed at a towel that was far too fucking small and awkwardly held it around his hips. The ends didn't quite meet, and he gripped the edges like his life depended on it. “Throwing up,” he answered, honestly.
He staggered awkwardly to his feet, doing his best to prevent himself from flashing his ass, balls, or dick. Not like Hank hadn't already seen them. Maybe he'd even had them in his mouth. But that wasn't the point. Connor was sober, now. Or sober enough.
Silence lingered beyond the doorframe. Connor swallowed, steeling himself, and approached the door. He stopped without stepping through, drawing up every scrap of his injured dignity. “Do you remember where my clothes went?”
Hank stumbled over wordless syllables for a moment, and then groaned. “I'll get them,” he answered, his voice low and resigned. “You, uh,” he hesitated, “help yourself to the shower if you need it. There's a spare toothbrush in the cabinet.”
Somehow the offers of a shower and toothbrush left Connor deflated, and exhausted. Hank seemed as embarrassed by all of this as Connor felt, but he was doing his best to be a gracious host.
“Thanks,” Connor said, softly, and meant it. Hank hadn't asked to be in this situation either. He'd probably drunk as much as Connor had, too.
“I'll leave your clothes outside,” Hank added. “And some towels.”
Connor nodded. If he spoke his voice might break. It wasn't fair. It wasn't fair that this was how he got to be in Hank's house, with Hank showing him that quiet courtesy that made Connor's head spin. Cups of coffee delivered to his desk when Hank was passing by, or first notice that there were fresh donuts, offers to join him and Ben for lunch, or to grab him something while they were out.
Connor wasn't special. Hank was just like that. He took the new guys under his wing and looked out for them, and Connor had never really had someone look out for him before.
He could pinpoint the exact moment his hazy admiration and subtle attraction had hit a rolling boil.
Hank had come in, dressed up in his full uniform, ready for a court appearance. His hair was tied back, his beard freshly trimmed. Connor hadn't even seen him; he was at the tail end of a night shift, exhausted, watching the coffee pot drip through so he could grab a cup before he attempted to drive home.
One broad hand had settled on the counter beside his arm. Another had come around his other side, enclosing him for a heartstopping second, grabbing an empty cup. “Long night, huh?” The question had been low, the voice rough, and so close to Connor's ear that it had raced down his spine in a tingling shiver.
Connor had jumped out of his skin. Hank had grinned at him, all bright blue eyes and charming gap in his teeth. “Sorry,” he'd said. “Didn't mean to frighten you.”
Connor had been an exhausted wreck, with his hair mussed from dragging his hand through it, and dark circles under his eyes, while Hank had been big, and close, and pristinely turned out, and for a fleeting second, Connor had thought he was dreaming and Hank was about to give him the railing of his life right there in the break room.
Instead Hank's hand had settled against Connor's back, and his grin had turned sympathetic. “Go sit down, I'll bring your coffee over.”
He pressed his palms against the cold tile of Hank's shower and bowed his head beneath the water stream. They'd bumped into Hank's sofa while feverishly making out. The hot brush of Hank's hands going under his sweater and the damn thing erupting into a chorus of Jingle Bells burned in his mind.
He didn't remember anything else. He didn't remember making it to Hank's bedroom. He'd got all the way to being naked in Hank's damned bed, and he couldn't even remember it.
Although--
Tentatively he reached back.
He didn't feel as if he'd had sex. There was none of the familiar ache, or stickiness. There was no leftover, drying lubricant, or, well, anything. Sure, condoms made things cleaner, but there was no way he'd have been coherent enough to make it into the bathroom to clean up afterwards, so there should be some evidence, right?
Unless--
Had he topped?
He looked towards the door, trying to picture Hank beyond it, gathering up Connor's clothes from around his home. Connor bottomed. He was good at it. But he wasn't incapable of topping. Occasionally he'd been faced with a dick that required more preparation than enthusiasm alone could see him through, and topping had been a good alternative then.
Or frot, or blowjobs, but he hadn't been sticky with dried semen anywhere, and if he'd got all the way into Hank's bed while naked and only given the man a blowjob he was going to have to kick his own ass.
Did Hank bottom? Did Hank like bottoming? It seemed like a waste of a damn good bear physique, but there were power bottoms out there that could teach Connor a thing or two. Maybe the big guy wanted to be held down and taken sometimes too?
The shower made him feel fractionally more human. The toothbrush helped erase the sour tang of vomit and morning breath, too. When he stuck his head out of the bathroom and found his clothes neatly folded beside the door he'd have almost been happy to run directly into Hank.
He didn't. There was no sign of Hank.
He pulled his clothes into the bathroom and dried off before pulling them on. The batteries in the stupid sweater were still working, so when he pulled it over his head it erupted into a chorus of goddamn Jingle Bells again. The tree on the front opened creepy eyes, and a mouth flapped in time with the words. The lights that decorated it, and ran all around the sweater, blinked to the rhythm.
Connor really, really wished he'd worn a shirt beneath the damn thing, but it would have been too hot to wear in the bar like that. If he'd known he'd be going home with Hank he'd have suffered it anyway; anything to avoid this right now.
He emerged from the bathroom warily. The scent of coffee wafted over, luring him out to the main body of the house, and the kitchen.
Hank leaned against the kitchen counter with both hands, his head bowed. He'd pulled on shorts, and a dark gray t-shirt. Connor's eyes found his calves, and pale toes. Hank's hair was mussed, flattened on one side. Dried flakes shone on his cheek from where he must have drooled in his sleep.
Connor tried to imagine him with his face pressed into the pillow. Or perhaps his knees squeezed up to his chest. The idea of it seemed completely absurd and yet--
“The bathroom's free,” he said, quietly, forcing his brain to jump off that train of thought. Hank looked up at him, blinking as if he was in a daze of his own. “I'll,” he gestured, his hands moving as if they could pull the words from the air, “call a cab.”
“Have a coffee first,” Hank said, with a gentle plea in his voice that didn't quite turn it into a question. “And something to eat.” He shrugged. “It'll help the nausea.”
Connor had been hungover before. Maybe not this bad, but bad enough to know that eating really wouldn't help the nausea.
But Hank wanted him to stay, and that seemed much more important right now. It filled Connor's chest with something warm, and a little like hope. “Thanks,” he murmured.
Hank's smile brightened his face. Connor settled himself into one of the chairs at the dining table. Hank set a mug of coffee in front of him. It was scalding hot against Connor's palms.
But the mug was nowhere near as uncomfortable as the thick, heavy silence. What were you supposed to say in a situation like this? I'm sure I had a great night but I don't remember any of it? I was drunk as a skunk but was it at least good?
What if it hadn't been? He'd been drunk; drunker than he ever remembered having been in his life. Had he taken care to be gentle? Had he made sure Hank got off? Had he been sober enough to even think about making sure he used enough lube?
He was pretty sure he'd used a condom at least. Things had been clean. The idea of a soiled, used condom lurking somewhere in Hank's sheets made his stomach roll unpleasantly. He didn't want to leave it for Hank to clean up.
“Did you mean any of what you said last night?” Hank's voice slapped the thoughts straight out of Connor's head. He blinked, staring at Hank.
What had he said?
His mouth opened to answer, but words betrayed him. All that left him was an awkward, low, syllable that fled in shame as heat rose in Connor's cheeks.
Hank snorted. His shoulders jumped. “I guess not.”
Jesus Christ, what had he said? Sweet nothings? Professions of love? What drunken bullshit had fallen out of his mouth? Could he go back in time and cram it back in there before it was too late?
Hank's face darkened. His smile withered. Connor wanted, more than anything right now, to see that little gap between Hank's teeth again.
“Which bit?” he asked. Maybe, if Hank told him what he'd said, he'd remember saying it. Maybe then he'd also remember more.
Hank's eyes were a bright, daytime sky blue. They held Connor, examining him. The corner of Hank's mouth pulled upwards, wryly. “About having a crush on me?”
Connor's insides curled in on themselves. He wanted to slink under the table, but Hank's gaze held him firm. His stupid, drunken, overly honest ass must have told Hank about watching him at work and feeling his heart thud against his ribs, and the way Hank's voice turned his insides to mush.
He stared at his coffee, glad for the distraction so that he didn't have to look Hank in the eyes as he admitted, “Yeah.”
Hank shifted. Connor saw the movement in the periphery of his view. He seemed to get bigger, and more relaxed. “Oh.”
That was all Hank said. Connor wanted to curl into a ball and drop through the floor. He cast around for something to latch onto, something to fill the silence and stop his brain doing cartwheels. His eyes landed on Sumo; Hank's giant of a dog.
Sumo's tail swished against the floor slowly at the pressure of Connor's attention. Then the dog gave a lurch, and heaved himself up onto his feet, ambling over like a tired old man to plant his ass beside Connor's chair. Huge brown eyes peered up at him, hopefully.
“He hasn't got anything for you, you old bum,” Hank scolded, but there was humor in his voice.
Connor remembered-- not much, but he remembered meeting Sumo last night, bumping into his legs and almost knocking him down when he parted from Hank to let him close the door. He'd laughed. So had Hank.
He sank his fingers into Sumo's fur and rubbed at the back of his ear. The dog tilted his head into it, giving a satisfied groan. “He just wants attention,” Connor murmured.
“He knows you're a soft touch,” Hank countered, but his mouth was tugged into a smile that colored the words and made them sound fond. Connor's heart fluttered in his chest.
Hank straightened up, pulling away from the counter with a sigh. “Bacon and eggs okay?” he asked.
Connor would have been happy with nothing. He'd have been happy with just a slice of toast. “I--” he began, halting with uncertainty, “don't think I can eat much,” he admitted. He didn't want to be sick again. Hank had already seen and heard enough of that.
Hank flashed him a sympathetic look. “You need something to soak it up,” he said.
Connor's toes curled in his worn socks. It was embarrassing, but also--
Why was Hank so nice?
Connor sank in on himself, and curled his hands around the steaming mug of coffee. It was strong, with a dash of cream, and Connor already knew there'd be two spoons of sugar in it because Hank knew how he took his coffee. Hank liked his own black and unsweetened because he liked coffee best paired with a glazed donut and he liked the bitterness to complement the sweet.
Hank had told him that when Connor had first learned how he took his coffee. Something about his expression had prompted the explanation. It had come with a firm, try it, and a bright smile that had sent a shiver down to the tips of Connor’s toes.
He brought the coffee to his lips, and let himself savor the smell before taking a tentative sip. It swept over his tongue, almost too hot to taste, and left a gentle bitterness behind.
Hank always took care of him, in stupid small ways. Coffee when he needed it, and making sure he got to the donuts before his favorite strawberry jelly was gone; helping him get case files to his car, or picking up a bar of chocolate and a sandwich for him when he'd skipped lunch.
He deserved better. Hank deserved someone that treated him with respect, and not someone that lied to him to try and conserve the tattered scraps of their own dignity.
Connor set his coffee down, lining up words in his head. He needed to admit to Hank that he didn't actually remember last night, and he was really sorry, but also that, well, if it hadn't put Hank off him, he'd like another chance. A sober one this time.
He sat up straight, bumping his chest against the table.
”Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle all the way” erupted into the air. The sweater flashed obnoxiously in time with the music. Hank turned away from the fridge, looking at Connor over his shoulder in confused, early morning horror.
Connor died. His insides withered into cold, black slugs. He turned into a mound of dust on Hank's dining chair. There was no off button for the damn sweater. He just had to sit there and let it sing. Once it was done with the chorus it would go silent. Until then he was swamped in a haze of flashing, cheery shame.
Hank snorted. “You uh,” he offered, failing to contain his laughter, “want a different sweater to wear home?”
Connor's stomach lurched. Was Hank offering him something of his to wear?
“I--” he stammered, over the dying strains of the sweater's mechanical voice exclaiming oh what fun it is to ride. His traitorous brain latched onto the phrase and echoed the tune, even as the singing died away.
Hank disappeared, swooping out of the kitchen and back into the bedroom. Connor sighed. Hank had left a carton of eggs and a pack of bacon on the counter, and Sumo trotted carefully up to the spot where Hank had been stood, as if he was waiting for some porky miracle to knock the bacon to the floor.
Hank returned a moment later and tossed a pile of grey to Connor. Connor caught it. The material was so well washed it had gone thin, and soft. Comfort had been worn in to the material with time and use.
He opened it out. The DPD logo stared back at him, cracked and peeling in places. “You don't have to,” he said, even as his skin prickled pleasantly at the thought of wearing something that had been so close to Hank's skin. He had to resist the impulse to bring the hoodie to his nose and smell it. Would he smell washing powder? Or would he smell Hank?
Hank shrugged one shoulder and stepped around Sumo to grab a skillet. “I don't wanna have fucking Jingle Bells in my head all day,” he answered, gruffly.
Connor bit his lip and reconsidered the hoodie. It was a good excuse. And he could easily rewash and return it at work tomorrow.
He draped Hank's hoodie across the table and began to work his sweater up, and off his head. He was careful, much slower and more graceless than he'd usually be, not just because his entire body felt as if it had been pulled apart and put back together with some of the screws missing, but also because he didn't want to set the wretched thing off again.
He folded the singing Christmas sweater carefully and set it on the table. Hank glanced back at him over his shoulder, and looked away again just as quickly, his head down and focused on laying bacon in the pan. Sumo was transfixed by the sight of pink and white strips of glistening temptation.
Hank's hoodie slipped over Connor's head much more quickly. The inside smelled of laundry detergent. The hood came far enough over Connor's head that it fell over his eyes, and he tugged the sleeves up to free his hands and then pushed the hood back.
Hank didn't need an extra, extra large hoodie. He was tall, and he was broad, sure, but not this tall and broad. Apparently he liked a loose fit.
“Better,” Hank muttered, only daring to flash a glance back at Connor.
“Thanks,” Connor murmured, retrieving his coffee with both hands. The fact he was in Hank's home, being cooked breakfast, wearing Hank's clothes, sent a frisson up his spine and flooded his limbs with energy. “I'll give it you back tomorrow,” he insisted.
Hank shook his head. “Don't worry about it.”
Connor gripped his cup, hard. Hank was doing everything to be gracious, and kind, and sitting here accepting it was starting to get uncomfortable. They needed to talk. Connor needed to admit he didn't remember what they'd done last night. He needed to move.
“Do you want any help?” he asked, rising from his seat and taking another sip of his coffee before he set the mug down.
“Nah,” Hank answered. “I got this.”
“I know,” Connor admitted, moving closer. Hank seemed to be deliberately avoiding looking at him and that gnawed at Connor's insides. “But I want to help.”
He stood beside Hank, on the opposite side to Sumo. Hank glanced at him, his eyes flickered down, and then back up, and away. His great chest heaved with a sigh. “You any good at eggs?”
Connor smiled. It wasn't much, but it was something. “Sure.”
“There's another pan in there,” Hank said, nodding towards one of the cabinets near Connor's knees.
Connor bent down and found it. There was a selection of pans, trays, and cookie sheets stacked haphazardly, as if they hadn't been used in a long time. The pan he pulled out was clean, however, and hadn't been left long enough to accumulate a fine layer of dust. “How do you like your eggs?”
“Sunny side,” Hank answered, confidently.
“Okay,” Connor replied. His arm bumped against Hank's as he set the pan on a burner and added a splash of oil. The smell and sizzle of bacon filled the air. Connor caught Hank stealing a glance at him again.
He hadn't been this coy about looking before Connor had put on his hoodie.
“So,” Connor ventured, squeezing his lip between his teeth as he waited for the oil to heat up, “last night,” he began.
His message tone erupted from Hank's sofa, dragging his attention away from Hank's presence. It must have fallen out of his pocket at some point. He almost ignored it, but then the message tone tinkled again, and he pulled himself away from Hank's side with a quiet, “Sorry.” Someone was trying to get hold of him. It could be urgent.
Two message notifications lingered on his screen. Both from Tina. He opened them up.
How's your head?
How's your ass?
His cheeks burned. Tina knew he'd gone home with Hank. She'd probably been watching the two of them stumble out to the cab together.
He remembered her buying him another drink and pushing him towards Hank in the bar last night. “Stop being such a pussy.”. The words echoed in his head now.
“Tina,” he explained, because Hank deserved that much. “Asking how my hangover is.”
Hank snorted. His shoulders heaved with the sound. “And how is it?”
Connor glanced at the damning second message from Tina, and then let the screen go back to sleep before he slid the phone into his pocket. “Probably the worst I've ever had in my life,” he admitted.
“You did party pretty hard,” Hank conceded, flipping bacon over with a pair of tongs.
Connor returned to Hank's side, moving around Sumo's patiently swishing tail. The dog had eyes only for bacon. Connor wondered, for a moment, what it would be like to have someone look at him with that much intense longing.
“I'm not the only one,” he pointed out. The first egg hissed and spat as it hit the oil. He dared to look up at Hank, throwing him a challenging look. “You brought someone home.”
Hank looked back at him. Their eyes connected. A thrill ran up Connor's spine. “You threw yourself at me,” Hank defended. “What was I supposed to do?”
Put me in a cab and send me home, Connor thought. Hand me to Tina and make sure she got me home. But you didn't do that, did you, Hank? Because you like me too, and you were drunk enough to do something really stupid.
“I've had a crush on you for months,” Connor confessed, softly.
Hank grunted, but he looked away, back to the bacon that was curling and sizzling in the pan. His cheeks were shielded by the coarse grey of his beard, but Connor was sure they were a hint darker than they had been.
“I guess I just needed a push,” Connor admitted. “I'm just sorry it was--”
Hank shook his head, cutting him off. “Don't apologize.” He pulled two plates down from a cabinet. “I mean, I'm sorry too,” he mumbled, his low, deep voice growing lower, “but not for--” Hank cut himself off with a frustrated sigh.
“I'm not sorry it happened, just that it happened like that,” Connor filled in.
Hank's shoulder drooped. A small, awkward smile crept onto his face. “Yeah.”
Warmth spread through Connor's chest. His vision grew misty with emotion. Hank liked him, and maybe they hadn't screwed it up, and maybe he didn't need to move to France.
“Maybe we can try again next weekend?” he offered. “No drinks.”
Hank's glance was gone in a flash, like an awkward teenager that had just been asked out by their playground crush. “I'm working,” he answered. And then added, “You're gonna burn that egg.”
Connor had forgotten about the egg. The edges had crisped and browned, and he worked the spatula beneath and flipped it. He preferred his own eggs over easy, but this one was going to be a little past that. Not that it mattered. “So am I,” he replied, cracking the second egg in beside his own. He watched it turn creamy white. “We could go for lunch?”
The corner of Hank's mouth tugged upwards. “Okay,” he agreed.
The word spiraled up Connor's insides and wrapped around his heart. It bolstered him.
“I'm choosing where, though,” Hank added, as he separated the curly strips of bacon out onto the plates. Connor slid the sunny side up egg onto one, and the crispy egg onto the other. Sumo's eyes followed the plates as Hank moved them both to the table, and then turned away to retrieve cutlery.
“All right,” Connor agreed. He settled himself at the table. Despite his fluttering, delicate stomach, the smell of the bacon made his mouth water. He took another mouthful of his coffee, which had now cooled enough that it didn't leave his tongue feeling rough.
Silence settled between them again, but this time it was warm, and fuzzy. They had a date now. The idea hung in the air. Connor felt like he could reach out and touch it, pluck it from the silence like fruit from a tree, and bite into it.
The bacon was very good. Salty and crispy, it crunched between his teeth and filled his stomach. The nausea shrank back.
Hank dipped a piece in the yolk of his egg. Connor watched the shiny yellow drip back onto the plate. “You were right,” he said, softly. Hank's head tilted in silent question. Connor shrugged and speared more bacon onto his fork. “It's helping.”
Hank smiled, chewed and swallowed. Sumo licked his chops and sat, alert and attentive at Connor's side.
“Quit begging, you overgrown rug,” Hank scolded, fondly.
It felt so weirdly domestic that, for a moment, Connor was able to push aside thoughts about how they'd got here. His absent memory of the night before didn't seem important. He needed to let Tina know he was okay, and he needed to call a cab and go home, but those things didn't seem important right now. It was nice just to linger in Hank's company. “He's alright,” he countered, defending Sumo.
Hank's eyes flickered over him. The corner of his mouth tugged upwards in a smile that he was failing to suppress. “He definitely had you figured out quick.”
“I like dogs,” Connor pointed out. It wasn't a surprise. He'd originally wanted to work in the K9 unit until he'd realized he was too soft-hearted to give the dog up when it needed to retire. If Connor had the money, and space, he'd have a dozen dogs. Instead he had none, because between the demands of the job and being alone, it wouldn't have been fair to the dog.
Hank finished eating first, although Connor couldn't help but notice the entire piece of bacon and white of the egg that remained on Hank's plate. He stood up from the table and turned, and Connor took the opportunity to slip Sumo a piece of bacon while Hank wasn't looking.
Sumo snapped the piece from his fingers. It was gone in two bites; the only evidence was in Sumo's tail sweeping the floor, and the eager way he licked his chops. Then the dog stood, and followed Hank to his bowl, where more bacon and the remains of Hank's egg were scraped on top of the dried kibble.
“Don't think I didn't see that,” Hank added, as he straightened. His blue eyes bored into Connor's face, but the faint smile persisted.
“See what?” Connor feigned innocence.
“He's already spoiled,” Hank said. “Don't let him tell you otherwise.”
A grin pulled at Connor's face. He bowed his head to try and hide it. “Sorry.”
Hank grunted. “If you were the kinda person that could ignore his big stupid face giving you those eyes while you ate, I wouldn't have brought you home last night,” he grumbled. Then he cleared his throat. “I uh,” he began, changing the subject, “I'm gonna shower. If you wanted to wait, I can give you a ride home?”
Connor bit his lip. He didn't think he was safe to drive anywhere himself, but how many had Hank had last night? Connor hadn't been tracking his own drinks, let alone anybody else's. “Do you think you're okay to drive?” he asked, hesitantly.
Hank's shoulders sagged. The movement was subtle enough that Connor would have only needed to blink to miss it. “Yeah,” he answered, and added quickly, “but you don't have to take me up on it.”
Connor opened his mouth to reply, to tell Hank that he didn't want Hank to risk it, and then stopped himself. What was behind the offer? Hank knew Connor was badly hungover and was looking out for him. But also--
“I don't want to put you out,” Connor explained, gently, “but I also don't wanna throw up in your car. Is it okay if I stay a little longer?”
Hank's chest dropped with a silent sigh. He nodded quickly. “Course,” he answered.
Connor's toes curled again. Every moment he spent in Hank's presence his heart tripped over itself a little harder. Hank just wanted to spend a little more time with him before he left. The thought made Connor's insides turn cartwheels.
Oh, he already had it so fucking bad.
“Make yourself comfortable,” Hank instructed, gesturing to the rest of his house with a lazy hand, and then turning it to the plates and pans on the kitchen counter. “I'll deal with this later.”
Hank turned, then, heading back towards the bathroom. His movements were hesitant, as if he didn't want to turn away from Connor, but once he'd made the decision his mind was set, and he stalked into the bathroom with purpose. Connor watched his back retreat, allowing himself a lingering look at Hank's ass before he disappeared from view.
Connor left the table and settled himself on Hank's sofa. Dim memories of stumbling against it, with Hank's shirt clutched in his fingers played in his mind.
The cushions were soft and welcoming as he settled into them. He still felt off, as if his insides had been removed and then put back in the wrong order, and the wrong places. Eating had helped, but it had replaced the pervasive nausea with a bone deep exhaustion.
How long had he slept? He couldn't have got home with Hank much before two, and it was now half nine. Maybe six hours? Probably less.
The TV remote was falling down the side of the sofa cushions. Connor fished it out and flicked the television on. Hank had it set to a sports channel, and at this time of day it was mostly talking heads giving a rundown on the recent games.
Connor scrolled through a few of them. None of them interested him. He could get excited for sports when it was big games, but he didn't really care for most of it. Hank did, though. The man had a Detroit Gears cap hanging by his desk at work, even though Connor had never seen him wear it.
Sumo jumped up onto the couch and set his giant paws and huge head across Connor's lap as if this was a thing that happened regularly. The thought of Hank sitting here, watching basketball with Sumo dozing on his lap squeezed at Connor's heart. There was a whole side of Hank that Connor didn't know, and he wanted to see it so badly.
“Are you supposed to be up here?” he asked, working his fingers into the fur around Sumo's ear. The dog's giant tail began to brush across the cushions.
Connor sighed through his nose and closed his eyes. Clips of sports games played with running commentary. Information about bad passes and incredible moves washed over him, becoming a mindless, soothing lull. Sumo was heavy, and warm, and his fur was coarse beneath Connor's fingers.
The bathroom door creaked open. Connor forced himself to open his eyes again. When he got home he was going to take a nap. A long one.
And maybe throw up again. Maybe that way he could jostle his insides hard enough to shake them back into their proper places.
The sense of a presence burned behind him. Connor turned to look back over his shoulder and caught Hank with wet hair and a lopsided smile, gazing back at him. Hank cleared his throat quickly. “He's not supposed to be on the couch,” he said, gruffly.
Connor raised an eyebrow and looked down at Sumo. His tail wagged again. “Sorry,” he apologized, “I thought--”
Hank swerved around the sofa and scooped Sumo's ass forwards a few inches, giving himself room to squeeze in. “Oh he does it all the time,” Hank explained, brightly, “he's just not supposed to.” He gave Sumo's flank a solid pat. Sumo's tail wagged harder, and he lifted his head, looking back at his owner. Hank shook his head in response and reached forward to tweak the dog's muzzle. “You're too big to be a lapdog,” he scolded, playfully.
Sumo threw his head back down into Connor's lap. His tail whapped hard against Hank, and the couch.
“How you feeling?” Hank asked, his voice softening.
Connor flashed him a warm smile. “Tired,” he admitted.
“I can take you home now, if you want?” Hank offered, concern clouding his face.
Connor shook his head. He didn't want to rush home. Part of him didn't want to step away from this odd, cozy little bubble with Hank and Sumo. “Would it be alright if I had a glass of water first?”
Hank scrambled to get up. “Yeah! Sorry! I should have asked,” he declared, squeezing himself back out of the space between Sumo and the couch's arm. He darted back into the kitchen before Connor could stop him and grabbed a glass from the cupboard.
“It's okay,” he called, not wanting Hank to think he was judging his hosting manners. “I just know I'm gonna regret it later if I don't start drinking water now.”
Hank returned to the couch with two glasses, both filled with water. He offered the first one out to Connor with an abashed shrug. “You're right,” he admitted. “I just drown myself in coffee.”
“You shouldn't do that,” Connor pointed out, unnecessarily. He was sure Hank knew it already, but the words had spilled across his tongue before he could catch them. “Caffeine can make you more dehydrated.”
Hank rolled his eyes. “Alright, mom,” he replied, although a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
Connor sank into the couch a little further. It felt like affectionate banter, and it wrapped around him like a blanket.
Hank moved Sumo's ass to the side again, pushing him further this time and, Connor noticed, giving himself room to sit closer to Connor. “Move, you old furbag,” he grumbled, as Sumo resisted. Then the dog gave up, and slid down from the couch. Hank sighed, and settled back against the cushions.
“I should reply to Tina,” Connor murmured, to keep the conversation going, just a little longer. “Let her know I'm not dead.”
Hank grunted. “Probably,” he agreed. He leaned forward and took his own phone from the coffee table. A couple of notifications hung on the screen. Connor did his best not to spy on them.
Head is killing me he typed in to the conversation thread with Tina. He pointedly ignored the query about the state of his ass. For now, at least.
“That asshole,” Hank growled.
Connor looked at him, and Hank caught his eye. “Gavin,” he explained, without Connor needing to ask.
A hundred possibilities jumped to Connor's mind. Gavin was an asshole. The man existed just to be an asshole. He lived for it. “What has he done?”
Hank shook his head and then turned his phone towards Connor. A video played, although there was no sound. It showed Connor, dangling from Hank with one arm and leaning up into some very enthusiastic kisses. Hank's hands were at Connor's back and ass, squeezing hard and pulling him close.
“Oh god, has he put that in the group chat?” Connor pulled out of his message chain with Tina to find the DPD group chat he'd muted months ago and look for himself.
“He better fucking not,” Hank growled.
Connor's heart, racing from the moment of panic, slowed. It wasn't as if people hadn't seen. And there was no doubt going to be a lot of gossip and joking by tomorrow when he was back at work. But something about having the video evidence of his drunken attempt to climb Hank like a tree put in a public chat was mortifying. “He's such a dick.”
Hank grumbled his agreement. “He asked if I found the stick up your ass,” he added, as if presenting further evidence of Gavin's dickery.
“Tell him no, I put one up yours,” Connor retorted, and then blushed. He didn't actually want Hank to tell Gavin a single goddamn thing about anything they'd done last night, but it was still a little galling that Gavin assumed Connor would have been the one catching when he hadn't.
Even though that fact had come as a surprise to him, too.
Hank snorted, gracelessly. “That'd blow his mind.”
“It blows mine a little,” Connor murmured, turning his attention back to his phone.
Hank's gaze burned into the side of his cheek. “You'd be into that?”
Connor bit his lip and risked peering at Hank from the periphery of his vision. “It wasn't how I expected last night to go,” he confessed.
Hank's brows furrowed. His mouth tightened. Unease crept across Connor's insides. “How much do you remember of last night?”
Connor frowned and shrank down. Had it been bad? Had Hank got off at all? Please. Please let Hank have at least got off. “I--” he began, and faltered. “I was really drunk,” he admitted.
Hank nodded, slowly. “Me too,” he confessed, “but--”
Hank’s voice trailed off. Connor stared at him. Pieces of the night before came together, disjointed and jumbled. He remembered kissing on Hank’s porch. He remembered bumping into the sofa. He’d taken Hank’s shirt off, and his sweater had started singing when Hank had pulled it up, but.... “Wait. Did we even--?”
Hank's face told a tale. One that did not involve anyone sticking their dick in anyone else. “I remember making out,” he said, “a lot. And getting your clothes off. But after that...” He trailed off, and fell silent.
Connor remembered pieces. He remembered Hank's hands on his waist, and the wet brush of a mouth at his throat. The world had spun as they'd tumbled into the bed. He'd wanted to touch Hank everywhere, but he'd been so entranced with his mouth that he couldn't bring himself to pull away. Every time he'd tried the draw had been too strong and he'd gone back for more.
And then....
“Did I fall asleep on you?”
Hank's cheeks were shaded pink. “I thought I'd fell asleep on you,” he admitted.
Embarrassment crushed Connor's insides into a tight, leaden ball. All of this, all of the alcohol, and the making out, and the horrible dread that he might have been disappointing in bed, and it turned out he had been. Because they hadn't even done anything.
He buried his face in his hands. “Oh my god.”
Hank started laughing. Connor laughed too, his misery turning to hysteria. He peered at Hank through his fingers. “I was so worried I'd been bad!”
Hank laughed harder and shook his head. “So was I,” he answered, “for a different reason. I thought you'd be pissed I'd fallen asleep on you.”
It was Connor's turn to shake his head. He dragged his hands down to his cheeks. “No,” he replied. “No! I-- Oh my god. All of that and we didn't even fuck.”
Hank's grin was contagious. It wasn't doing much to fend off the monstrous embarrassment that crawled along Connor's veins, but it at least helped that the feeling was mutual. “Sorry.”
Connor let his shoulders drop. He felt like an idiot. He was an idiot. He'd been naked in Hank's bed and not even fucked him. What kind of asshole missed that opportunity?
“Me too,” he admitted. Then added, “Kinda,” because thoughts crowded up behind the dawn of realization, and among them was relief. His first time with Hank wouldn't be a drunken sloppy mess. He had a second chance. They had a date. “You're sure about that date?”
Hank rumbled, thoughtfully. “Maybe we should change it to dinner after work?”
A smile tugged hard at the corner of Connor's mouth. “Sounds good.” It sounded better than good.
Another thought crept into his head. Connor bit his lip. “Let's not tell Gavin,” he said. Or Tina, for that matter. “Let's tell him we had the wildest night of the kinkiest sex we can imagine and see how long it takes him to block us.”
Hank laughed again, long, and low. The sound rumbled through Connor's chest and filled him with delight. “I like how you think.” He settled back against the couch and began to type. After a minute he turned his phone screen to Connor for his approval.
No stick. Not even sure he's got a spine. Didn't know someone could bend like that. Gonna have to get my couch steam cleaned and repaint the wall.
It was flattering. Connor nodded. “Tell him you didn't know you could use a shoelace that way.”
Hank's eyebrow lifted. “A shoelace?”
Connor smiled broadly, and winked. “If you get lucky I'll show you next weekend.”
Hank coughed and cleared his throat. “Okay,” he answered, typing some more words in the message, and then hitting send.
Connor's grin remained as he thought of Gavin receiving that message and immediately being confused and horrified. With any luck, Gavin was also hungover and would regret asking.
Hank sighed. “You ready to go home?” he asked, with resigned trepidation.
Connor wasn't. Not really. He wanted to stay, and laugh some more about how he and Hank hadn't actually had sex last night, and maybe if they perked up they could make out some more on the couch. But he still felt crappy beneath the humor, and Hank probably wanted to spend the rest of his day napping on the couch with Sumo.
And frankly, Connor wanted to go home and think a little more about the kisses he remembered in privacy.
“I guess,” he answered, “but I'd rather call a cab, if that's okay?” He didn't want to be worrying about Hank getting home, and he didn't want to keep Hank from resting and recovering on his account, either.
Hank frowned. “I'm not gonna stop you,” he answered.
Connor shrugged one shoulder, flashing Hank a coy look. “If I order a cab,” he said, “I can spend a few minutes doing this.”
He leaned across the sofa, planting one hand on the other side of Hank and moved in for a kiss. He halted for a split second, with Hank's breath gusting against his lips, and his beard tickling at his chin.
Hank didn't pull away. Connor closed the gap, letting his lips press to Hank's, softly. Hank opened up immediately, the tip of his tongue slipping out to tease at Connor's lips. Connor let him in, and closed his eyes. Hank's hand cupped the back of his head. His tongue flickered gently inside his mouth, teasing against Connor's own. There was none of the urgency Connor remembered from last night, just steady, focused intent.
Hank breathed through his nose, and then exhaled in a sigh. Their movements were slow, and lingering. It drove a hot spike of want down Connor's spine that curled in his groin. Hank was achingly gentle, as if this was their first tentative kiss and last night didn’t count. The world fell away, becoming nothing but the sensation of Hank's lips, and tongue, and beard, the soft sound of his breath and the quiet smack of their mouths.
Connor pulled away reluctantly and licked his lips. Hank lingered on them, his nerves dancing with Hank's touch. Hank's fingers stroked down the nape of Connor's neck, and made his groin fantasize about how that hand would feel covering the back of his neck, pushing his face into the sheets and squeezing just a little.
“Order that fucking cab,” Hank said, his voice low and rough, “or you're not getting home today.”
A smirk tugged at the corner of Connor's mouth. He leaned in closer again, until his lips were almost against Hank's. “Is that a threat or a promise?”
Hank growled. The fingers at the back of Connor's neck squeezed. Hank pulled him back in.