Chapter Text
The sun shines bright up in the middle of the sky, covering mostly everything with light, and summoning very few, difficult to spot hard shadows.
The walk home from the bus stop is comforting in its routine. Connor thrives under this kind of life, predictable in its consistency. Every day he arrives from work at precisely 3pm, always an hour and a half shy of Cole’s own arrival, and today is no different. Work is good, and the sun shines brightly down on him. He could consider himself happy.
He walks into the Anderson household and laughs as Sumo practically topples him, licking his face with stripes of saliva and enthusiasm. Connor rubs his belly and presses his eyes shut, giving into the affection, and remains like this until Sumo lays his entire weight on top of Connor. He huffs, suddenly breathless, and tries to shove Sumo off of him to little avail.
He flops to the ground, limbs spread out like a star with Sumo on top of him. This peace lasts a few minutes until Connor decides he has too much to do, and shoves Sumo off of him. He fills Sumo’s food tray and pats him on the head before moving onto the kitchen, starting to clean the remnants of breakfast from a rushed morning. He winces when he sees the milk that was left on the counter, and leans closer to smell it. It was already on the edge of expiring…
He washes the dishes, wipes the counter with a cloth and after checking the time decides to pull out the things for a snack.
In the meantime, he takes a shower and looks at himself in the mirror. Puts on a white shirt with a polyester sweater on top and some pants and slips into his favorite shoes, the colorful type that might look strange while working. He looks in the mirror and smiles at himself.
It’s 4:17pm. The main door is pushed open and in walks Cole Anderson, hair short from a haircut a few days ago and carrying his schoolbag like it’s the greatest weight known to mankind. To him, it is.
“How was school?” Connor asks, walking towards the entrance but intercepted by Sumo, who enthusiastically runs from his place on the couch to topple Cole as well. The boy shrieks as he’s practically thrown to the floor, and Connor laughs, and the day is good.
“So? School?” Connor says after Cole’s had his toast with scrambled eggs.
Cole shrugs. “It was fine,” He says with a mouthful of bread, then seems to think for a moment. “Can you help me with my math homework?”
“Sure thing Cole,” Connor says like he wasn’t already planning on it.
“It’s due for tomorrow,” He says with a sheepish look. Connor shakes his head and huffs.
Before they start, Cole searches for the things in his room by the end of the hall. He always closes the door behind him, as if a ten year old boy had much of anything to hide, but he supposes it must certainly feel that way to Cole. He doesn’t push the matter. Cole comes out with his notebook and colored pencils and Connor helps him for the rest of the evening on the ground with Sumo sniffling after them.
When Connor starts noticing Cole getting distracted and looking out the windows, he closes the notebook and stands up to search for their coats. Cole doesn’t ask, immediately lighting up when an excuse to stop doing homework presents itself, and the two of them walk out of the house with Sumo minutes later. It’s just as well, he was getting antsy.
The sky is a comfortable shade of orange, dark around the edges like burnt paper, but bright enough that the lamps haven’t been turned on yet. Cole rattles off about his day and the fights he got into with his friends, the latest episode of a show he enjoys, and goes quiet when Connor asks about the girl Cole invited home once to do homework with.
“So? You haven’t talked to her again?”
“I dunno what to say to her,” Cole huffs. “She’s so… smart.”
“She did seem smart. Is she good at math?”
Cole looks up at Connor with wide eyes. “She’s good at everything!” He exclaims. Connor finds it very endearing. “She always knows the answers to the teacher’s questions,” He says, going quieter.
“Maybe you should ask her for help with math,” Connor suggests.
“No way! She’ll probably think I’m stupid,” Cole sighs.
Connor senses a dead end, so he changes the subject.
“I saw a poodle today at work,” He comments.
Cole groans. “Poodles are stupid!”
“That so?” Connor says, and like a flip being switched Cole starts listing off all the reasons why poodles are the worst kind of dog. Connor’s never seen someone with so many opinions about dogs, but then again, there’s only one Cole.
The pair stop when Sumo picks a spot to relieve himself, and they wait while Cole finishes backing his argument.
“They’re so small, why would anyone want a small dog? Dogs are big and fluffy, that’s the whole point of having a dog!”
“Noah has a poodle,” Connor points out.
“Noah’s a liar, Speckle is the opposite of a poodle,” Cole pouts. “She’s huge and fluffy like normal dogs.”
“Normal dogs? Poodles aren’t normal?”
“No, they’re not.”
Connor huffs a laugh and wonders what Hank would have to say if he were listening to them.
The sky is turning a darker shade of orange, and Connor and Cole are now walking back home. Conversation has trailed off, but he can see Cole is deep in thought and Connor decides not to interrupt. He just enjoys the breeze.
“You know, I can think of someone who’s huge and fluffy. Like a dog,” Connor says at one point.
Cole looks up at Connor with wide eyes. Connor gives him a pointed look, with a lopsided smile, and Cole gasps.
“You mean dad!?” He giggles.
“Sure,” Connor says conspiratorially with a nod. “Think he and Sumo might be brothers.”
Cole giggles, and Connor gives him a raised eyebrow, but is unable to stop himself from grinning like a fool. When Cole starts to quiet down, Connor adds, “So, I guess you got all of Sumo’s genes.”
They have a fight. Blood, sweat and tears. Mostly sweat and tears. For the most part they run around while Sumo follows. Connor chases Cole to the house after winning a tickle fight, with Cole yelling and hollering as children do, and he bangs the door and yells “Dad! Dad! Connor’s gonna kill me!”
Sumo barks, running after them, and Connor laughs when the door opens and Cole rushes past a disgruntled Hank.
Connor slows down, and Sumo passes him, running after Cole. He walks the last stretch to the doorway, and Hank’s still standing there.
“How was work?” He says conversationally when stepping into the house.
Hank shrugs, casting a side glance at Cole who hides behind the couch. “Oh, you know. The usual. Caught a suspect today, so that's something,” He huffs, then, lower. “Been chasing after the bastard for a week and a half. We caught him at a burger stand if you’d believe it.”
“I do,” Connor says dryly, and they share a look of amusement before stepping further into the house.
Connor helps make dinner with Cole while Hank showers. More like, Connor cooks while he explains the process to a mildly unenthusiastic ten year old who scrolls in his phone and nods once in a while. He seems to have become tired from all the running and mayhem.
“Dinner’s ready,” Connor announces, and the other two eventually make their way to the table as Connor sets it. Cole rattles off to Hank about his day, repeating many of the same things he told Connor during their walk, and Hank gasps and smiles and comments on each and every one of them.
“What about you, Connor? How was work at the vet?” He asks, and two pairs of blue eyes look at him.
Connor shrugs, spinning the noodles with his fork. “Today was alright. A bit demanding, but nothing I couldn’t handle.”
Hank hums, unconvinced.
“How’s walking to school been the past few weeks?” Connor asks, and Cole groans.
“Can’t you just drive me to school? I’m tired of having to walk,” Cole complains.
“It’s a twenty minute walk,” Hank says with amusement.
“Yeah! In the morning!” Cole says, high pitched.
“Unfortunately, that’s what being a grown-up is like,” Connor says with a heavy sigh. “Twenty minute walks.”
“I’m serious! Dad, tell Connor to stop being a jerk! He compared me to Sumo earlier,” He throws Connor a pointed look.
Hank snorts. “This should be fun.”
-
It’s the weekend, and with it comes Cole needling them and whining about a visit to the park by the river. First thing in the morning, when Connor’s making breakfast and Hank’s scrolling on his phone by the counter. After lunch, when they’re all sitting down to watch one of those poor quality detective movies Hank enjoys. In the evening, when Hank’s about to retire to his room for a nap and Connor’s about to sit and read a good book.
“You won’t wanna go outside after your nap!” Cole exclaims, grabbing Hank by the edge of his hoodie.
Connor snorts, then meets eyes with Hank. “I think he might be right for once.”
“Hey!”
Hank groans. “There’s no way I’m walking all the way out there.”
“You’re not in your golden years yet. I think you will manage,” Connor pokes, and Cole giggles, and Hank rolls his eyes.
“Yeah, yeah, you laugh about it. Cole, go get a hoodie or you’ll freeze,” He says, turning around and going back to his room.
“But I’m not cold!”
“Wasn’t a question, son.”
Fifteen minutes later, they park the car and walk out. Connor and Hank go sit by one of the benches overlooking the river while Cole runs off to play and commute with the other children his age.
It’s cold. Hank was right. Connor rubs his arms, pulling his legs up on the chair and looking out into sky. Riverside Park’s always been Cole’s favorite place, and Connor enjoys their visits even if they’ve stopped visiting as often with the years. He looks back at Hank, who sits with his arms crossed and a red nose from the cold.
“We could have picked a better time to come here,” He complains.
“Maybe,” Connor says, letting the thought lie between them. “Tell me about the suspect from the burger stand.”
“Not much to say. He refuses to say a word,” Hank says with a heavy sigh. “Been staying up later to try and find more contacts, make a few calls. We’re trying to see if we can get his ex to come here, but she lives all the way out in California. Chances are low.”
“No family or friends?”
Hank shakes his head. “None we could find. He’s broken ties with almost everyone,” He scoffs. “Like he knew he was gonna get caught eventually. Or he was just one unlucky bastard.”
Connor leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “The other day you said he consumed red ice.”
“I did.”
“What about the places he frequented most? They could give you an idea of where to find his dealer. Cross reference him with other similar cases,” Connor says. “There can’t be that many red ice dealers in the area.”
Hank looks at him with a raised eyebrow. “You’re more invested in this case than I am.”
Connor shrugs and looks to the side. “I find them an interesting thought experiment, is all.”
Silence lingers. Hank looks back out to the river in contemplation, though Connor senses the subject isn’t entirely dropped.
“And you’re sure you don’t wanna get into the force?” He asks, looking back at Connor with the subtle tilt of his head that indicates he sees entirely through him.
It’s a simple question with a simple answer. As a young boy, Connor sported the childlike fascination in animals that most young boys with dogs do. He learnt to love and accept the simple affection offered, and as he grew it developed with him. A wish to help others. The sort of thing Hank always praised him for, even if he knows, deep inside, that Hank wished he’d gone in a different direction.
Little comments, the weight of expectation. Hank wishes Connor would have joined him in the force; it doesn’t take a detective to figure it out. Connor’s occasional interest has never helped matters.
“I’m sure, Hank,” Connor says with a tiny smile he doesn’t feel. He’s grown tired of the little variations in his response each time his father asks the same question. He thinks Hank’s grown tired of them too, but he keeps asking, so Connor keeps answering.
Hank hums, unconvinced, and they don’t say anything. Long enough takes place that he figures Hank’s moved onto something else, and he decides to breach something that’s been on his mind for a few days.
“What do you think of Cole walking to and back from his school?” Connor says, testing the waters. Hank looks over at him with raised eyebrows.
“What’s there to think? He’s old enough. It’s close by, area’s pretty safe,” He drawls, and crosses his arms. “But I’m guessing you’ve got opinions. So shoot.”
“I don’t think it would be a good idea for him to keep it up now that the weather’s turning cold,” He says. “It might be a better idea to drive him to school the next few months.”
Hank shrugs. “Don’t know how my schedule would feel about that.”
“You drove him to school every day last year despite your work,” Connor points out.
“Yeah, well. Sue a man for wanting to wake up a little later,” He gruffs, and in that moment he looks particularly like Cole whenever he doesn’t get his way. He supposes it’s Cole that looks like Hank, rather than the other way around.
“Where’s his school at, anyway?” Connor says thoughtlessly, and after a few seconds pass and Hank hasn’t answered, he glances back at the man. “What? We could find a way around it. I could wake up earlier and drive him to school, then bring the car back around for you to go to work. Schedule might be a little tight, but we can make it work.”
“Look at you, planning everything out,” Hank huffs.
“Can’t do that without the address,” Connor says, giving Hank a pointed look. The man shrugs.
“I’ll send it to you later,” He waves him off, and Connor decides not to push the topic.
Moments later, Cole runs up to them and asks to go back home, rubbing his arms and trying to hide his clattering teeth. Hank practically jumps out of his seat with enthusiasm, and Connor follows after them, giving Riverside Park one last look.
-
The week starts, then passes with nothing of notice. Connor tries not to be too insistent, but by the end of the week has grown irritated from Hank’s avoidance. Every time he asks for the school’s address Hank swiftly changes the subject, rolling his eyes or telling him not to get too stressed about it. He’s not so distressed over Cole’s conundrum, but doesn’t understand why Hank’s so cagey about it.
On Friday Connor wakes from a nightmare. In the dream, he laid on the snow as blood trickled from the sky and rolled down his face, staining his clothes. The sky was orange, clouds shifting quickly as if there were some large explosion covering the stars.
He figures he won’t be going back to sleep, so he dresses himself and makes breakfast, though by the time he’s sat before his plate the idea of food makes him nauseous. He waits for some time before growing antsy and deciding to go to work early, stumbling into Hank on his way out and saying his goodbyes.
Connor likes being a vet. It’s challenging, and he tends to walk out with too many dog hairs and smelling of antiseptic, but he figures it’s at least not as routinely as other jobs might be. His mornings tend to be filled with routine check-ups from appointments, occasional emergency walk-ins and phone calls for follow ups or test results.
Today, it’s nearing 12pm, the time for his lunch break, and Connor walks out of his office. He greets the receptionist and asks her what the last appointment for the morning period will be. He’s not sure if he’ll have time to pick up another coffee.
“Sure, Con. It’s, ah,” She says while clicking her mouse and switching through different sites in the office terminal. She looks back at him, looking apologetic. “An euthanasia appointment with Mrs. Brown.”
“Oh,” He mouths. Nods to himself. “Thank you.”
Mrs. Brown walks in approximately six minutes after Connor went back into his office with a cup of coffee. She walks in with her old dog Brownie, a saint Bernard of 8 years and with a history of medical issues over the past couple of months. Connor knows this because he’s become deeply acquainted with Brownie and his owner, and he greets Mrs. Brown with a kind smile and rehearsed patience. Then kneels before Brownie and scratches behind his ears, greeting him softly.
“Would you like anything? A cup of coffee, some tea?” He offers, still kneeling before the saint Bernard, and she shakes her head. She’s somewhere in her late 40s, face marked from age and life. She looks exhausted.
“I just want to get it over with,” Mrs. Brown whispers, and Connor nods and tries to shake the rumbling discomfort in his gut for the following hour. He thinks about Sumo this morning, licking his face and drooling all over Connor’s lap before he had to leave, and decides he needs to stop thinking.
When it’s over, Connor tells Mrs. Brown to take her time and walks out of the room. As soon as the door clicks shut behind him, he takes a shaky breath and practically slumps onto the closest chair. He stares up at the ceiling, compartmentalizing, trying not to draw comparisons. It will do nothing good. Why does this bother him so much? It’s not the first time he’s done this, and it won’t be the last.
He gets another idea, instead. He takes his phone and calls Hank.
“Connor?”
“Hi,” He says, voice a little thick.
“Shit, what’s wrong, son?”
“Nothing. Everything’s fine,” He says, trying to project certainty. His voice wavers a little. “Where are you right now?”
“I’m, uh,” Hank huffs. “I’m at the station. Will probably stay here the rest of the day, might be back at eight. Why? Should I go find you?”
“Can I borrow your car?” Connor asks. He hopes he gets pity points for sounding teary.
“Jesus, Con. Sure,” Hank says. “You’re at the vet, right? I can make a moment, go and pick you up.”
“It’s fine. I’ll leave the car at the station by eight,” Connor says, and hangs up.
He walks back into the room with Mrs. Brown and asks her the mandatory questions. She wipes the tears from her eyes and responds dutifully, says she would like a private cremation and writes her address on a piece of paper together with her schedule.
“So you know when to come by,” She says, and Connor nods, smiling at her kindly.
“Of course.” He says.
When Connor steps out of the room again with Mrs. Brown long since gone, he walks up to the receptionist's desk and announces he won’t be returning in the evening. She gives him a look with raised eyebrows. He never calls out of work.
“What do you– you’re calling out in the evening?” She splutters, suddenly out of her depth.
“Yes,” Connor says. “That’s precisely what I’m doing.”
The receptionist’s eyes widen, and she starts opening tabs, picking up her phone and dialing numbers to find a replacement. Connor turns and walks away.
-
He takes two buses until he’s a few streets away from the DPD central station. He doesn’t immediately walk in, instead beelining for the parking lot right next to the building, and quickly spots Hank’s aging, rust-bitten Chevy. Having confirmed that he’s in the right place, Connor walks into the building, making to talk to the nearest receptionist.
“Hi, how can I help you?” The android smiles at Connor, LED spinning a comfortable blue in its right temple.
Something keeps him in place. Without thinking, his hand shoots to the right side of his head. Smooth skin. He can’t imagine having one of those plastered to his temple.
Get your shit together, Connor. Can’t have you losing it before I do, Hank would say, voice dripping with irony.
He shakes his head. “I’m here to see Hank Anderson,” He clarifies, handing the android his ID. It stares at the card for a few moments before handing it back to him and nodding its head.
“Hank Anderson has left for his lunch break. He should be back in fifteen minutes,” The android says. “You can wait in the chairs over there,” it says, pointing at the chairs in the reception. Connor shakes his head with a laugh.
“That won’t be necessary. I’m here to pick something up and leave,” He says, and doesn’t wait to be acknowledged before walking in.
The building is sleek and modern by design, but human use and time have made it lose its initial shine. Connor thinks at the very least it feels lived in. He walks into the bullpen and is greeted with rows of cluttered desks, each personalized per designated officer or detective. It’s not as filled as Connor remembers it being during other visits, which he attributes to being in the middle of the lunch break, but some people have started trickling in and sitting by their desks. There’s the low buzz of chatter, phone calls and the hum of monitors. He gets some sort of deja vu looking for Hank’s desk, and wonders what’s so wrong with him today.
Connor steps through the maze, looking for Hank’s desk, and finds it diagonally from the entrance. He comes to stand before Hank’s chair, scouting the desk in search of the car keys. There’s an unidentifiable plant that looks to be holding on for dear life; pictures of the three of them pinned up to one of the edges of the desk. Cole and Connor sitting around a birthday cake with the number six. Connor and Cole at a zoo, with Cole’s hand pointing to what looks to be a giraffe in the distance. Connor and Cole in the back of the car, with Cole’s head resting on Connor’s lap. Connor is smiling at the camera.
Connor cracks a smile. He continues to inspect the pictures with a fuzzy, warm feeling in his chest, but something slowly makes him start to do a double take. There’s just something about the pictures that makes them look off; Cole sits before a cake at the ripe age of six, yet he looks exactly the same as he did yesterday. There’s no pictures of a younger Connor, and he also happens to look the same in all these pictures despite them being years apart, which is strange considering he’s turning…
He’s turning…
…how many years old?
“Connor!” His head shoots up, and he spots Hank taking long strides towards him at a quick pace. He suddenly remembers his purpose here and gives the desk another quick look before finding the keys near a stack of files. He grabs them and pockets them before turning to look at Hank, who has come to stand before him and rests a hand on his shoulder. “Connor, you okay? Jesus, you had me worried sick– don’t just hang up on me like that!”
“Sorry, Hank,” He says thoughtlessly, giving him a smile that he hopes looks reassuring. Hank breathes a heavy sigh, rubbing his face with his two hands. “Had an intense day. Everything’s fine.”
Hank peeks at him from between his hands and after a few moments lets them fall to the sides, dangling. “You’re giving me that smile. The one that smells like bullshit.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” He says with a tilt of his head, then takes another step to walk past Hank. “I really need to get going.”
“Hey!” Hank huffs. “Did you have lunch?”
Connor blanks. “What?”
“Lunch, son. Food. The thing we both need to survive,” Hank raises an eyebrow. “I know you like pretending you don’t need any of that, but you get cranky after missing meals,” he gestures vaguely with his hands. Connor frowns. His fingers twitch, and he feels something pulsing inside him, like a persistent need for something but he doesn’t know what.
Hank’s lips are moving, words tumbling out in a heartfelt attempt to help Connor, but it’s not happening. He walks past Hank, maintaining a steady pace even when he hears the voice calling after him and the rapid steps that follow.
The doors to the building open wide and Connor steps past them, starting up a jog towards Hank’s car. When he arrives, he fiddles with the keys until he picks the right one and slides it in. There’s a click, he opens the door open wide and slumps into the driver’s seat before slamming the door shut. He takes a shuddering breath, turning the key and hearing the old Chevy growl to life.
Connor drives out of the parking lot, and he pointedly doesn’t look back.
-
He stops by a burger stand. He huffs to himself when he remembers the suspect Hank caught the other day, readjusts his shirt and steps out of the car. There’s some sort of comparison to be made here, but he’s no criminal. He gets himself a burger and sits by a bench nearby while he eats, making time until he has to pick Cole up. He forces mouthfuls down despite the discomfort. Hank is right, as much as he’d like him not to be.
Connor picks up his phone and searches for schools that are a twenty minute walk away from their house. He finds three, all in different directions, and figures that he might as well check them out. It feels like something he should know, but no matter how much he scours within his mind, he comes up blank. Why doesn’t he know what school Cole goes to? Is this something he should know?
He takes another bite of the burger. It’s uninventive and tastes bland, but it’s better than nothing. He wonders if he should have stayed with Hank and had lunch with him, but he doesn’t think another minute spent near another person would have done much good for him.
‘I’m going to personally find which school Cole goes to because you refuse to send me an address and I can’t find any official information anywhere’ might not fly by unnoticed, and Connor doesn’t want to start up a fight.
It’s rounding on 2:30pm by the time Connor decides to start looking. Cole tends to start walking home at 4pm, so he has an hour and a half to find the right school.
He puts Knights of the Black Death in the background, because it’s the only CD Connor can find. Implementing bluetooth onto Hank’s beloved 90s Chevrolet is like beating a dead horse: Hank claims that it would ‘affect the integrity of the car’. Connor thinks Hank’s being purposefully obtuse, but it’s not like he uses the car all that often, so he leaves the topic be.
He rolls forward, pausing to wait for the stoplights, and gradually stops running into other cars or walking people. Twenty minutes later he rounds the next block, with rows of aging houses slipping past the window in what is clearly a residential area. Connor tries not to overthink it, keeping his eyes on the road and following the directions given by the GPS.
Connor turns down another block, and the GPS insists that there’s a school up ahead. He passes by houses with drawn curtains, some empty lots choked with weeds, eerily similar but never the same. There’s faded school zone signs, but when Connor dares to look out the street there’s no school to speak of, and no children walking the streets.
Just the same narrow residential roads. All too still, all too artificial. He rolls to a stop and stares out the window, listening to the hum of the engine under his feet. There’s something uneasy coiling in his gut. He looks back at the navigation display and it opportunistically blinks, recalculates and offers a new route. He doesn’t remember making a wrong turn.
Another corner. Another set of cracked sidewalks and empty windows. No people. No movement. Just the distant murmur of the engine and the faint buzz of streetlights that flicker in the daylight.
The minutes tick by, and Connor starts checking the time as it slowly inches closer to 4pm and he comes no closer to finding the school. Each time he thinks he’s close the GPS blinks, recalculates and offers a new route, minutes away from where he’s at. At one point he wonders if he’s seen the same building twice, but it’s difficult to say, given how similar yet vaguely distinct each house seems to be.
It’s like they shift subtly as he passes, never quite matching the map, never quite staying the same. He should stop, but there’s something fueling him, pushing him forward. The need to prove a point. What is there to prove? That he’s incapable of interpreting a map correctly? That his sense of direction is horrific and he’s somehow managed to stumble his way into an abandoned neighborhood?
He abruptly stops the car right in front of an empty lot. Connor steps out of the car, slamming the door shut behind him and staring at the overgrown lot with weeds and half dying flowers. There’s a dandelion. Its scientific name is taraxacum, and it belongs to the family asteraceae. The scientific and hobby study of the genus is known as taraxacology. Why does he know this?
There’s an empty trash can before the empty lot. Connor inhales sharply and kicks it, and it falls to the ground in one clean move, rolling through the pavement in a half circle.
“Fuck!” He yells, giving it another kick.
It hurts, and he loses his balance. Connor falls to the ground, scraping his knees, and raises a fist and slams it onto the ground with another curse. His knuckles hurt, a sharp feeling courses through his hand, and when he looks at the back of it he sees red.
He stays like that for some time, on the ground of the empty neighbourhood with blood in one hand and an ache in his foot. The sun moves through the sky, and the clouds pass by, and it’s all so laughably mundane. Maybe he should just have had lunch with Hank. Explained his concerns to him, then allowed Hank to calm him down and explain to him that Cole is perfectly capable of walking to and from school on his own. He doesn’t need to be coddled or looked after, and everything’s fine, and Connor should just stop trying.
He should give in to his achievements: a good job and stable income, a family that loves and supports him. Stop thinking about it. That’s all there is to it. Good things and nothing more.
He doesn’t deserve them. They don’t feel his. How could he explain this to Hank? What would he think, his eldest son incapable of managing himself?
Eventually, Connor gathers the strength to stand up and walk back to Hank’s car. He slumps into the driver’s seat, looking down at the phone only to find it turned off. He presses the power button and sees the time: 6:43pm. Connor looks out the window and sees that the sun is nearly gone and the cold has picked up. He wonders how he didn’t notice.
He breathes a heavy sigh and opens the GPS again. It’s giving him directions to another school five minutes away, but Connor’s done with that, and he puts the directions for the DPD central station instead. He increases the volume and tosses the phone back onto the dashboard, revving the old sedan and hearing it cough awake.
It takes Connor five minutes to drive out of the neighborhood. He turns a few streets and suddenly he’s back in the city, with cars passing him by and stoplights every few minutes. As soon as he notices this, he releases a breath he didn’t know he was holding, and some of the tension that was coiling within him starts to dissipate.
It takes him another twenty minutes to reach the station. By then it’s 7:16pm and Connor has another forty four minutes ahead of him, so he sends Hank a message and sits in the car, dreading the conversation to follow.
What would Hank say, if he explained it to him? ‘Bullshit’, he thinks. ‘Connor, you know I’m not into that paranormal bullshit. Try again.’
He passes a hand through his face, releasing all his pent up frustration in a sigh. Nothing to be done about it. So he rests his chin in the palm of his hand and waits, looking out the window and staring into the night sky.
-
There’s banging on the door. Connor sucks in a breath and opens his eyes, jolting upright. His eyes go to the noise and he spots Hank outside, scowling, with one arm leaning on the door. Connor blinks, still groggy, and leans over to flip the lock up with two fingers.
The door gives a heavy clunk– Hank yanks it open a second later and wastes no time dropping on his seat, clicking the door shut.
There's a heavy breath, then silence. A beat. He’s not sure he wants Hank to start speaking, so he turns the key to start up the engine, and it roars to a start before suddenly pausing. He turns the key again and it fails. Connor feels a bead of sweat roll down his face, and hears Hank's muffled curse under his breath as he leans over and bats Connor's hand away. He turns the key and the engine spurts once, twice before roaring to life.
Hank leans back into his seat, and Connor tries not to feel like this day has just been one failure after another. He's not very successful.
“How was work?” He tries, gripping the wheel with two hands.
“For fuck’s sake, Connor, don't even start,” Hank barks. He turns to look at Connor. “I'm not beating around the bush, kid. What the fuck was all that about?”
Connor presses a foot on the gas pedal and Hank jolts. He puts one hand on Connor's chest and he stops, glancing over at Hank with uncertainty. He's not sure what Hank's expecting from him.
“We're not having this conversation on the road. Come on, talk,” Hank states, crossing his arms and staring out into the night, the smallest leniency he dares to give Connor.
He takes in a shuddering breath and taps on the steering wheel, with the low hum of the engine serving as background noise.
He eventually settles for the more digestible truth. “There was an appointment today,” Connor starts, staring out through the window. Hank waits with bated breath. “I had to put down an old dog.”
Even without looking back at Hank, the way he shifts in his place tells him he's halfway regretting pushing the matter.
“It was a saint Bernard," Connor adds before he can stop himself. “I–” He shudders.
“Hey, hey. It's fine,” He feels a warm hand on his shoulder and dares to look at Hank. His hands still grip the steering wheel tightly, but the stern look Hank gives him helps somewhat. Like he'll fix everything. “Listen, I'm sorry. Shouldn't have pushed.”
“It's fine.” Connor says quietly.
“Are you fine? You drove off and I didn't hear from you for hours,” Hank adds. He leans back in his seat, and his eyes widen when he notices the red in Connor’s knuckles. “Jesus, son, what happened?”
“No. No, I just– I needed a breather,” He fumbles. “Went to Riverside Park. It helps calm my nerves.”
Hank hums, clearly dissatisfied with the answer. The pause extends until it turns into silence.
Connor starts up the car again, and this time Hank doesn't stop him. They leave the parking lot, and knowing the road by memory, Connor starts driving them to their house. He guesses it'll be another half an hour till they get there.
When they reach the first stoplight, Connor feels like he's drowning in all the things he wants to say. There's too much distance, but Hank’s right beside him.
“I just. It doesn't feel mine,” Connor says suddenly. He can feel Hank staring at him from the corner of his eye. “This. All of this.” He supplies like it's helpful.
“What do you mean?” Hank asks quietly.
Connor can’t say anything else. Hank stares at him. The light turns green and the car rolls forward, and even though he sees Hank's lips part to speak, he says nothing for the duration of the trip. There's nothing to be said.
When they get home, Connor turns the engine off and waits a beat before stepping out of the car. He rounds through the side and steps below the porch, fumbling with the keys to open the door, only– it opens, and Cole stares at him from inside with wide eyes and an artificial wonder that almost feels antagonistic when he notices it. It quickly shifts to something more neutral.
“You're late,” Is all he says before walking back inside. Connor stares at him, hears a door in the car open and slam closed, and keeps staring.
Connor doesn't have proof, but it's like he knows. The boy knows.
-
Hank tells him to take it slow. He says Connor had an intense day, and that he's reasonably very upset and should think before acting. He pats him on the shoulder and whispers that he could always arrange for Connor to start seeing his therapist again, and lord, isn’t that a thought? He might be going crazy.
The next day happens, and Connor follows his weekend routine. It’s supposed to be comforting, making breakfast and small talk and then reading a book, but he realizes halfway through it that he’s read the same page at least ten times by now without processing a single word. Cole goes to his room and locks the door behind him, and it’s not like he’s not entitled to his privacy, but. Connor wonders.
He goes to the garage from the front, rolling the door up and staring at Hank’s car. There’s not a lot of space but enough for a vehicle, a lamp or two, some old things in the other end of the garage. He thinks… somewhere in here there should be a room. The spaces don’t quite line up.
He feels a hand curl around his larger one and he jolts, staring down at Cole who innocently meets his gaze.
“Wanna go for a walk?” He asks, and Connor looks back at the garage before accepting. When they return, the roll-up door is laid back down, and there is a figure standing near the door.
“Who’s that?” Cole asks. “I’m tired. I don’t wanna talk to anyone else.”
“I can talk to her,” Connor suggests, and his blood nearly freezes at the look Cole sends him. His brows are scrunched up, his eyes dead-set on Connor, before he switches back to childlike tiredness. He says nothing, but when they get closer he grips Connor’s hand tighter.
“I don’t like strangers,” Cole says again, looking up at Connor meaningfully, but he doesn’t understand why he’s so insistent on his discomfort. The woman who stands next to the door wears modern clothes, with one of her sleeves hanging longer than the other. She wears monochromes, and a necklace of geometric design.
She stares at Connor with intensity. She is here for a reason, though he does not know her. They share polite greetings as Connor opens the door for Cole to pass through, then closes the door behind himself and looks back at her.
Her demeanor shifts. “I will not spend time on useless pleasantries,” She simply says, her voice low and commanding, then summons a key that she holds up for him to see. “You will need this to proceed.”
Connor notes, offhandedly, that she wears a bracelet of similar design to the necklace. After staring for a few moments, he starts wondering if it’s even a bracelet: it seems to melt into her darker skin, contrasting and in turn bringing attention to itself.
“Listen to me, Connor,” She captures his attention once more. “There’s something in his room you need to see.”
“How do you know my name?” He asks.
“Do not ask foolish questions. Take it,” She says, taking his hand and closing it around the key. “Go back inside.”
He stares at her, then, without a word, walks back inside. He closes the door behind him and stands there, regarding the empty room, and figures that Cole must be back in his room. He pockets the key and moments later hears the familiar engine of Hank’s car arriving.
-
So one full day and a half later Connor goes back to work. It’s frightening how easily he falls into compliance, doing what’s expected, and how easily things shift back into normality. He follows his routine, returns home from work and makes Cole his snack before the boy gets back from school. They watch a movie before taking Sumo out on a walk, and when they return Hank has taken it upon himself already to make dinner. Cole talks on and on about his day, about his friends and his fights, and Connor tries not to stare. He thinks, he’s lying. The boy’s lying.
It’s too easy not to say anything, but the unease in his gut doesn’t lessen, it only becomes more poignant as time passes. The key burns a hole into his soul. It feels like cheating, like crossing a line. But still. The following morning Connor does as usual: he wakes up, makes breakfast for him and Cole, and waits for the boy to walk out with his schoolbag and a childish look of annoyance.
As soon as the boy has closed the door behind him, Connor stands and walks over to the nearest window, and it’s still dark, so very little light cuts through the slats in the blinds. He reaches for the tilt wand and turns it slowly, just enough to catch a glimpse of Cole stepping off the porch. The blinds barely shift, but Connor leans in, watching to see which direction Cole will walk off in.
Cole pauses, regarding the morning sky like it personally offended him, and walks to the right. Connor huffs. It’s just Cole. He’s doing this for him, he reminds himself, for Cole’s safety and his reassurance.
Connor grabs his coat from the hanger by the door and hastily puts it on, and after thinking about it for a few moments decides to add a scarf around his neck and a beanie so that Cole won’t recognize him as easily. He reaches for the knob and turns. He steps outside, glancing to the right, where at the end of the street he sees Cole walking none the wiser.
He follows. Connor walks slowly enough that he matches Cole’s pace, aware that if he closes the distance he might be unlikely to pass by unnoticed. They turn one street and continue for a few blocks until Cole turns to the left. A few times Connor loses sight of him, but a few extra steps and he’s caught up to the boy. It’s uncomfortably easy.
He spares a glance at his phone: 6:54am. He looks at their surroundings. They appear to be leaving the residential area, with cars rolling by and stoplights and tall buildings surrounding them. He didn’t notice the change.
Cole waits by a stoplight, and Connor stops half a block away, pretending to look in his phone. When he looks back up Cole has crossed the street, and the light has turned red. Connor mouths a curse under his breath and jogs up to the stoplight, anxiously following Cole on the parallel street with his gaze.
Cole turns his head. Their eyes meet.
There’s something uneasy about meeting a stranger's eyes. It’s like doing something forbidden, breaking an unwritten law: it humanizes the stranger, makes them an individual distinctive from the noise of the bustling city. Most people don’t want to humanize strangers.
There’s something forbidden about this, too, something uncomfortable. But Cole’s not a stranger. His eyes are blank and unreadable. Dread makes gravity waver, and Cole turns and walks up the stairs into an all too clean facade behind him. No signs, no noise, no people walking in and out: only tinted glass and a world of possibilities behind.
Connor crosses the street. The blare of a honk cuts through the air– Connor jolts, mouths ‘shit’ under his breath and bolts across the rest of the street. He didn’t notice the car.
He rushes up the stairs into the building– empty, impersonal. Not a school. Is Cole in danger? Connor pushes the front door open and steps in.
The overhead fluorescents buzz. Connor takes one step in, two, and bumps against a desk. He looks down and sees that he’s standing before his office desk, one hand resting on the euthanasia form he’d signed two days ago. Mrs. Brown, it reads. Saint Bernard. Eight years and a half.
Connor looks back up. He’s in a small room, just a window on the other end with the blinds shut. There’s posters on the walls, framed certificates and degrees with his name plastered on them, cabinets with labeled drawers. A picture of him and Hank. Hank and Cole. The three of them. The lights flicker.
It’s unmistakably his office. That doesn’t make any sense.
Connor stumbles back and his back meets the door. He fumbles for the handle and turns it, pushing the door open and stepping into the reception. There’s two rows of plastic waiting chairs, the bulletin board– Connor remembers pinning something there, yesterday, but he can’t remember what. There’s a desk a few feet away where the receptionist speaks to someone else who carries a poodle in their arms.
The background is idle chatter and distant phone calls. He hears dogs whining from the kennels. He glances up at the clock: 3:28pm.
When he looks back down, the receptionist is pointing at him, and the patient and their poodle turn to him with a smile.
A goddamn poodle.
He rushes back into his office and slams the door shut, turning the lock and finding slight comfort in the imperceptible click that follows. Connor slides to the ground, holding his head in his hands, and tries to breathe. He can’t breathe. Does he need to breathe to survive? This doesn’t make sense, none of this makes sense. How many hours did he lose? What happened to him? To Cole?
He can’t feel his limbs. There’s something electric in their place, a phantom sensation where his arms should be, and he thinks he might be dying.
The thought elicits another sharp inhale. He doesn’t want to die. It feels like he’s going against something primal in himself, since when does he fear death?, but he doesn’t want to die. It terrifies him to his core, the thought of going dark forever, and he shakes his head.
With trembling hands he grabs his phone from his pocket and searches in his contacts. He presses the call button and holds the phone up to his ear in between pants.
“Yeah, what’s up Con?” Hank’s easy-going voice says in between static.
“Hank, I–” Connor tries, but he can’t get a word in. He’s dying. Cole. “I need– Cole isn’t at school, he’s– I don’t know,”
He can almost sense Hank stiffening from the other side of the line. A few seconds pass. “Where are you right now?”
One breath, another. “Work,” Connor manages, staring up at the ceiling. Recently painted white, no cracks, no nothing. It doesn’t feel lived in.
“Okay. Okay,” Hank says. “Everything’s gonna be alright, son. I’m getting there. Just hold out.”
“I can’t,” Connor shudders, shaking his head. His face feels wet. “Cole’s gone, Hank. He’s gone.”
“Just hang on,” Hank states like a fact, and Connor almost believes him. “I’ll call the principal, make sure Cole’s where he needs to be. Remember what we used to do? Four to hold, six to exhale.”
Connor doesn’t remember what they used to do. He doesn’t remember anything before the previous week, but he figures that’s not something he can drop on Hank right now, so he does as he’s told. He tries to hold his breath for four seconds and exhale in six, and even though he’s largely failing, it gives him something to focus on.
Hank stays in the call, whispering soothing words of reassurance and comfort, and Connor thinks he might believe them even if he thinks they’re unfounded. Even if he doesn’t think he’s the man Hank calls his son, it’s nice to be in his place for now.
Some time passes. Eventually Connor breathes a little easier, though he still tries to follow Hank’s suggestions.
“I’m here. I’m coming up,” Hank says through the phone. “I’m gonna hang up, okay? I’ll be there in five.”
“Okay,” Connor whispers. The line goes dead.
It’s just him and his breathing for a few minutes. He stares at the office and its cold atmosphere, its fake pictures, and decides that he hates it.
There's knocking on the door. Then, quietly: “It's me, son.”
Connor leans on the door to stand and turns the lock. There's a click, and then the handle's turning and the door's being opened. Hank peeks in, looking Connor up and down as if to assess his state.
Whatever conclusion he comes to, he still meets Connor's eyes after reaching it. “C'mon, son. We're going home.”
He shields Connor from other people's looks. It's only somewhat effective, because he can still feel the prickling thing in the back of his head, but he's not certain whether that has anything to do with Hank's performance. Hank glances back and shares a look with someone– the receptionist, maybe, and they keep marching forth.
They take the elevator. The ride is quiet.
“You have work today,” Connor says suddenly. “You were with the… suspect.”
Hank shakes his head. “It's fine. We weren't getting anywhere.”
There's a ding and the doors part open. Hank swings a hand by Connor's shoulder and pulls him in a half embrace while they walk. He's too tired to do anything to save his image so he leans into it, allowing himself to be led out of the building and towards Hank's car.
While still in the city, as soon as Connor steps foot outside he sees that this is a different place than the one he was led to this morning. His head hurts. How did he get there? He doesn’t remember taking the elevator up, greeting the receptionist, or taking any appointments. It doesn’t make any sense.
Hank holds the passenger door open and Connor slides in, rubbing his temples. Moments later, Hank gruffily sits in his own place in the driver’s seat and turns on the engine.
“You need to–”
“I know,” Hank huffs. He presses a few buttons to his phone and holds it to his ear. He leans one arm on the open window. “Hi. It’s Hank Anderson,” He starts. “I’m Cole’s dad. Just wanted to ask if the kid’s still where he should be.”
There’s a few seconds of silence. “Sure. I can wait,” He says, and about a minute passes before anyone says anything. Connor waits with bated breath.
There’s indistinct voices coming from the phone. Hank’s eyes slide to Connor, staring at him with… something. He looks back at the dashboard and nods. “Sure. Thanks for checking. Have a good evening Ma’am.”
“Cole’s fine. He’s in his last period of class. You eat anything?” Hank glances over at him. Connor thinks for a moment before shaking his head. The last thing he remembers having is breakfast with Cole. “Okay. I’ll drive us home and make you something for lunch. Then we’re talking.”
“Okay,” Connor says, curling up on himself and looking out the window. Hank releases a heavy sigh and the car rolls forward.
A few minutes into their drive, Hank takes advantage of a stoplight to slide in a CD, tossing the cover onto the dashboard. With a quick glance, Connor learns that it’s one of Black Sabbath’s oldest albums. He thinks about bringing this up to Hank, because it’s been a while since he heard anything other than Knights of the Black Death in his car, but speaking feels like a chore so he doesn’t.
He stares out the window at the passing lights, and drops of water start hitting the window. It’s raining, but Connor doesn’t recall it being cloudy in the morning. He chalks it up to his missed five hours.
Hank parks the car in the garage and the two of them enter the house without much fanfare. Connor immediately leaves to take a quick shower, putting on some comfortable sweatpants and hoodie afterwards and walking out to the smell of garlic and beef. Lunch is a quiet matter, with only the clinking of spoons making much noise. Connor struggles to finish his plate, nausea churning in his stomach.
When it’s over, Connor retreats to wash the two bowls. When he’s done he doesn’t move and continues to stand in front of the sink until…
Until what? What is he waiting for? Hank is quiet, but he hasn’t stood yet, and hasn’t shifted to grab his phone either. Not that he usually grabs it when they’re having a meal.
“There’s something… wrong,” Connor says. He doesn’t dare turn around because he doesn’t want to see the look Hank will give him. “With me. With Cole. With– everything.”
Silence. Connor swallows dryly. “I’m… I don’t,” He runs a hand through his hair. “Something… bad, happened today. And– the other day, when I took your car,” He starts. “I went to look for Cole,” He says, looking back at Hank. “I couldn’t find him, the world just, shifted around me– Like it was conscious, it knew and it wouldn’t let me find him.”
“My body– there’s something wrong with me. Every time I eat I get– nauseous, like I’m doing something wrong. I keep getting flashes, like I’m…” He trails off. He looks over at Hank, trying to discern his opinion, but he’s still sitting in the chair with his hands resting on his lap like nothing’s changed. “I don’t know what to do.”
Hank gives him a look with sad eyes before he seems to steel himself back up. “Well. We could start by giving you a week off, yeah?”
Connor stares at him. He doesn’t think a week off will change much of anything.
“You don’t understand,” Connor tries.
“I don’t,” Hank agrees. “But I can try to help. You’ve been in some tough spots before…”
Connor’s suddenly filled with something venomous. “There’s something wrong with Cole. I think he knows. He’s hiding something,” he says.
It sounds stupid after it comes out of his mouth. But he doesn’t know how else to explain that he feels like the world is trying its best for him to stop thinking. Like Cole doesn’t want him to keep thinking.
Hank gives him a weary look. “Connor, I don’t think–”
“No,” Connor hisses. “I know he’s involved somehow, and there’s something he’s not saying. He would never do that, though, would he?” He glares at Hank. “Your sweet innocent boy.”
“Jesus, Connor,” Hank says with a grimace. Connor stares at him impassively. “Do you hear yourself?”
“I’m not crazy,” Connor snarls. “You told me to schedule a therapist the other day.”
“I didn’t pull that word,” Hank tries, raising a hand in an attempt at appeasement. He huffs. “What else am I supposed to do, Connor? You’re saying nonsense. You think a ten year old would–?”
There’s something in Connor that makes Hank stop talking abruptly. They stare at one another and Connor realizes that there is no way he can explain this to Hank without sounding clinically insane: like one of those murder suspects Hank pulls out of the street every week. There’s no reasonable way to explain all the strange feelings and things happening to him without being misinterpreted.
There’s footsteps outside. Connor’s head turns to look at the door, and Hank follows suit. The clinking of keys and a lock being turned, then the handle turning and the door being pushed open. Cole walks in and rests his bag on the ground next to the doorway before looking up at the two of them.
Hank glances back at Connor, as if to prove a point, but all he can do is stare at the vacant look in Cole’s eyes and know him to be a farce.
Connor takes an abrupt step forward and Cole must sense something’s off. He runs off, almost intercepted by Connor, but he runs to his room and slams the door shut behind him. Connor hears the turning of a key as the door is locked off. Still, Connor tries for the handle and turns it a few times before he’s pulled by the shoulder and pushed to the nearest wall.
“Connor! Connor, what the fuck are you doing!?” Hank says with disbelief, breathless from the sudden flurry of movement. “Hey! Look at me.”
He realizes he’s still staring at the closed door of Cole’s room and tries to rectify it, but he’s incapable of meeting Hank’s eyes.
“What the fuck was that about? Jesus, Connor, three days ago you were pulling tickle fights and now you’re– you–” He pauses. “What’s going through your head?”
Connor shakes his head. “I wasn’t– I wasn’t going to hurt him, I just,” He tries. “I want to understand why he’s doing this. He must be, otherwise I don’t–” He presses his eyes shut and takes in a deep breath. “I don’t understand.” He says thinly.
He feels a hand on his shoulder and then is pulled into an embrace. Hank rubs circles into his back and Connor grabs his clothes with fists and stares into the closed door of Cole’s room like he could open it with his mind. He wonders where he left the key.
-
That night, Connor realizes he doesn’t have a bed.
The hall down from the living room has three doors: to the left, Hank’s room. To the right, the shared bathroom. In the end, Cole’s room, door always closed. That night Hank pats Connor on the shoulder and asks: “You gonna be fine tonight?”
And Connor nods, because what else can he say? And then Hank walks out, and Connor realizes that he doesn’t have a room to sleep in. It’s absurd. He wonders distantly how come he always wakes up rested and dressed. It’s fine, for the most part. He’s not tired, and his mind is running fast enough that he doesn’t think he’d fall asleep if he tried to.
Connor walks to the kitchen and makes himself a cup of coffee before sitting down on the couch and pulling Hank’s laptop to his lap. He turns it on, sipping from the steaming cup and logging into Hank’s account, uncertain what exactly he’s looking for but deciding that he needs to reassure himself. That some of this is salvageable. That something makes sense.
He looks through Hank’s social media, skimming through pages and posts and stumbling into images that date as far as ten years back. He takes another sip from the cup, scrolling down and down and frowning as he finds that in most of the pictures, both he and Cole look exactly the same. He’s not exactly an expert, but he thinks five year olds probably don’t look the same as ten year olds, and he that people most likely change over time.
And he doesn’t. It’s frustrating. Though at the very least it’s confirmation that he wasn’t seeing things back at the station. Something’s off. Many things are off.
Connor remembers, then, the ID he handed the android back at the station. He fumbles with his pockets before remembering he changed his clothes after the shower, and shoots up, moving through the house in his best attempt to remain quiet and searching for his old clothes.
They’re in the bathroom. That’s not surprising. However, when sensing the pockets for his pants he feels a card, as well as something that’s shaped uniquely. He pulls the card out and pats until his fingers have curled around a key. He frowns to himself and gives the card a look over.
Connor Anderson, it reads. Activation date 08/15/2038.
He blinks.
Connor Anderson. Born: 09/03/2005.
The uneasy thing catches hold of him. He drops the ID and it clatters to the ground. Connor stumbles back. He takes a heavy breath before returning to his place on the couch and setting the laptop back on his lap. He takes another sip of the coffee, by now a little lukewarm, and continues searching for public records and anything that might keep his head sane. It doesn’t make sense. None of it makes sense.
He dreams of a blizzard. He’s high up somewhere, reaching out with frozen fingers towards someone, or perhaps simply pushing–?
His back aches when he wakes up, and that’s when he understands why people don’t tend to sleep on couches. It does wonders for back problems: that is to say, it’s severely unhelpful. He shoves a blanket he found at one point during the night off of him and leans on his legs, rubbing his eyes.
The clinking of metal against a cup makes his head shoot up. He spots Cole, sitting on the chair next to the table and drinking out of a steaming mug.
Nesquik cocoa powder fused with warm milk, his mind supplies. Connor did not particularly care to know that.
“Are you going to work today?” Cole asks him quietly, and Connor notices that he’s dressed and prepared for school, backpack resting near his feet at the foot of the table. He’s quiet when he wants to. “You were angry with me yesterday. Did I do something wrong?” Cole adds after a beat. He doesn’t seem particularly perturbed.
Connor stares at him.
When Cole doesn’t move to continue going about his day, he releases a sigh. “No, Cole. I’ll stay at home the rest of the week.”
“Oh,” Is all Cole says. He finishes drinking before dumping the mug onto the sink and running to the front door with his backpack resting over his shoulders. He looks back at Connor, “See you later.” he says before shutting the door behind him.
Connor stares. After a few moments, he decides he’s also hungry for breakfast, and walks over to the kitchen.
He remembers doing this a few days ago, setting the things up for a snack with Cole, instinctively looking for the things in the drawers and finding all the right things in record time, like they were scratched into the back of his hand. He fumbles, now, but eventually finds everything he needs to make himself a toast with jam.
He rests the plate on the table and sits down in front of it. He stares at it. He’s not hungry. The idea of eating anything gives him a headache.
A few minutes pass, and Connor hears a door in the hall open. Heavy footsteps stumble out of the room, and for a few moments there’s no motion, before they resume their course towards the kitchen.
“You’re staying here the rest of the week?” Hank asks.
“Yes,” Connor says. “Take my breakfast. I’m not hungry.”
There’s a beat. “I don’t care if you’re hungry or not, Connor, you should probably eat something.”
He wants to insist, but he figures Hank won’t budge no matter what he says, so he stays quiet. A few minutes later Hank sits next to him and starts eating his own toast with jam– he resists the urge to roll his eyes, used by now to the other’s contrarian antics.
“How’re you feeling?” Hank asks in between mouthfuls.
“I’m fine. Sorry about yesterday’s outburst. I was being unreasonable,” Connor says. Hank stares at him, pausing with a frown before continuing to munch on his food. He wonders what part of his sentence set him off.
The rest of the morning continues in silence. After Hank finishes his breakfast he leaves to get dressed, comes out with one of his signature shirts and a look of exhaustion plastered across his face. Connor’s still sitting in his chair, staring down the bread with jam.
Hank huffs, staring at him from the end of the hall. “Connor?”
“How old am I, Hank?” Connor abruptly asks, still staring at the piece of bread.
A beat.
“What?”
“It’s a question. No wrong answers,” He thinks about it. “Well. I guess there are probably a few wrong answers.”
Hank stares. And stares. And stares. “You’re… thirty five. Turned earlier this year,” He pauses. When Connor looks back at him, he notes the troubled expression in his face. Their gazes meet. “Why?”
“Ah. I see,” He simply responds. Pauses. “I should have moved out by now, shouldn’t I?”
Something about the topic makes Hank’s expression drop.
“Connor, we’re not going over this again,” He says in a no-nonsense manner. “Listen, if you–”
“Don’t worry about it, Hank. Just double checking something,” He says. Hank stares.
“Okay,” He says with a light shake of his head. “Listen. You need anything, you call, yeah? Don’t care how stupid you think it is.”
“Sure, Hank.”
The man in question stares hard at him before turning and picking up his things. He walks out of the house and the door clicks shut for the second time in the morning.
Connor keeps staring at the bread with jam before he suddenly jolts to a stand, taking the bread and dropping it in the nearest trashcan. He washes the plate and stares at his hands in front of the sink, still bruised from the other day. Just red.
He paces through the house, then, trying to make sense of everything. He keeps having… phantom sensations, misinterpreting things, thinking about being… inhuman. He can’t be, not when he bleeds red and eats food every day, but he can’t push the notion away now that its settled into his mind.
Cole’s not going to school. Worse than that, reality seems to bend around him to make sure he doesn’t know where Cole’s going to. He’s a ten year old boy that looks like he’s six.
He shares Hank’s surname and the man somehow doesn’t know his age. Connor didn’t really know his age until a few hours ago.
He paces around the house, and there’s something about it that haunts him. He checks Hank’s room and finds an unmade bed and clothes on the ground, nothing in particular that surprises him. The bathroom with Connor’s clothes from the previous day in a pile on the ground, his ID still laid on the ground. Three toothbrushes on a cup by the sink, three towels by the hangers. When he glances at himself in the mirror, his hand brushes by his right temple. He presses it into a fist. Just smooth skin.
Connor doesn’t know where he sleeps. He scouts the house again and again, but there’s no hidden door, nothing that points to what Connor was doing before he realized this fact the night before. Whatever wardrobe he used to have is gone, too, and he’s confined to the warm socks, sweatpants and hoodie that he conjured up the previous day from lord knows where.
He doesn’t know how anyone’s supposed to live under these conditions. Things shift as he thinks about them, trying to make space for him to make sense of them, but there’s no fixing something that by definition doesn’t make sense. It’s like someone picked him up, deprived him of something primal and put him in this place to try and play the part. It’s too bad he’s incapable of remaining compliant.
No matter how many times he walks these rooms, a closed door at the end of the hall continues to haunt him.
He can’t say whether it’s genuine discomfort or a vague sense of righteousness that has kept him from opening the door wide, but either way it’s quickly eroding. Connor wants answers. Cole knows something, and there must be a sign– there’s something hidden in that room that will spell it out for him.
It’s something alright: instinctive, primal, but not like the desperate need for survival. It’s like he’s been asleep his whole life and is only now waking up
Before he can stop himself, Connor’s marching down the hall with a determined gait. He pulls out the key, reflecting the morning light and slotting it in the keyhole. Turn and push, walking into the room.
The room is empty. The walls look like they’ve had the wallpaper ripped out of them with violence, leaving nothing but remains behind. There’s no posters, no toys littering the ground. A bed missing its mattress and an open window with a thin curtain that moves with the wind. Morning light enters from the window. All at once it dawns on him.
In the middle stands Cole.
Connor stands in the doorway. The room is still like a paused video, as though waiting for him to speak first. Cole is wearing the same clothes he put on to go to class earlier in the morning, the same clothes Connor watched him walk out of the house with.
“You walked out the front door,” He says, though he meant to ask something else. The words just tumble out.
“Sure,” Cole responds simply. “You went to work the other day.”
He stares at Cole, trying to muster something that wouldn’t make him look like a fool. “I don’t– I don’t understand, what was the point of all this? Did you always come here? Is that why…”
“What about your friends, Cole? Noah? The girl you liked?” He tries, latching onto the next thing he can think of.
“They’re just names,” Cole says with the tiniest smile on his lips.
A beat. “I don’t– I don’t understand,” He says. He’s grasping for straws. “Is any of this real? Am I…” He drifts off. “I didn’t want this to happen. I wanted us to be a family–”
“I don’t think you wanted me at all,” He says coldly. “I think you just wanted him to be happy. I think you're just really selfish.”
Connor stares with his lips parted. And stares. Like this will make any more sense if he keeps doing it. “I don’t– what are you talking about?” He says again, and he thinks he sounds like an idiot. Like a broken record. Like Hank on a bad day. “You’re my–.”
“Nothing,” He cuts Connor off. “I’m nothing.”
“Ten year olds don’t say those things,” Connor grits with a sudden surge of emotion he’s directing at Cole even if he most likely doesn’t deserve it. He can’t think clearly, everything’s too much.
“What would you know about ten year olds?” The boy snaps, meeting his eyes. “You’ve never been one.”
It’s like he swallowed a block of ice. He feels lightheaded for a moment, and wonders if the ground will suddenly rise to meet him, but it doesn’t.
Connor shakes his head. “I don’t understand,” He repeats.
“Don’t count me for breakfast tomorrow,” Cole suddenly says, and Connor stares.
“What?”
Then, gentler than he’s been since Connor walked in: “Go back inside, Connor.”
He feels dazed, all of a sudden. He keeps staring, but Cole doesn’t move or hint that he will do anything else, so he stumbles back a step. Two steps. Before he knows it he’s standing in the doorway, his hand on the handle and pulling the door closed. It clicks shut and Connor stays there, staring hard at the ground underneath. It swallows him whole.