Chapter Text
Hank Anderson had plenty of regrets in his life. He regrets wasting his time playing football in high school for the bad back it gave him today. He regrets taking so long to propose to his now ex-wife, even if their relationship was strained at best. He regrets letting her walk out the door when she finally decided she was sick of him putting all of his time into work and not giving him so much of a chance to fix what she was so mad about.
Somehow, it had worked out in the end. Somehow, he was awarded majority custody of Cole, even after the horror stories he had read on internet forums of fathers never being granted any time with their children. The one thing about working “too much” meant that you could afford a good lawyer.
If you were to ask him now, however, as he stood stiff and bloodied outside of Trauma Bay 2 within the Children’s Hospital of Michigan, he would tell you that even the thought of leaving the house today was the worst mistake he’s ever made.
Hank had driven in the snow more times than he could count. When you lived in Detroit, it was something you had to get used to, and in his opinion, he was damn good at it. He didn’t trust any self-driving car to navigate in heavy snowfall, so he was one of the few people in Detroit who still owned an automatic. He had taken Cole to one of the first hockey games of the season, and the boy was still alight with excitement in the backseat, yammering on and on about the game and how happy he was that his dad had taken him. It melted Hank’s heart, knowing that he had done something his son had genuinely enjoyed. He worried about that sometimes.
Hank needed to focus on the road ahead, but he didn’t dare tell Cole to quiet down. He would listen to the child prattle on for as long as he wanted to, until he inevitably rambled himself exhausted and passed out in the back of Hank’s car. He would take short pauses to shovel some leftover popcorn into his mouth, just to continue talking again.
After a while, Cole finally went silent. Hank thought he had finally wore himself out, but when he glanced back in the rearview mirror, Cole was staring out the window, a wide smile on his face.
“What’re you thinkin’ about, kiddo?” Hank spoke up, smiling a little more as he saw Cole’s head perk up. He glanced back to the road just in time to miss the boy’s small shrug.
“I love you, daddy.” Cole hummed simply, and it was almost enough to make Hank tear up. He never tired of hearing those words from his son. He had his doubts, his worries, his fears, yet when he heard those words of reassurance, it all seemed to be okay.
A few feet ahead, a stoplight turned green. He kept his foot on the accelerator.
He wanted to tell his son just how much he meant to him, that he was forever thankful that he got to spend the rest of his adolescent years with him raising him and loving him and watching him grow into the young man he hoped he would turn out to be; the man that wasn’t Hank, the man that didn’t wait for his son to go to sleep to get wasted with a gun in his hand and wish with all the guilt in his heart that he didn’t have a little boy to take care of so he could grow the balls to pull the trigger. But he couldn’t tell him that, he couldn’t rest his misery on his boy. A simple “I love you, too” would do.
The front bumper of the car had just crossed the threshold of the intersection when Hank opened his mouth to speak. The “I love you, too” would never come.
Hank needed a cigarette, or the warm burn of scotch in the back of his throat. He hadn’t smoked in months, not since he had obtained full custody of Cole, but a drink was far too familiar to him after the boy had been put to bed and Hank was left alone with his thoughts. It wasn’t fair and he knew it. How he even got custody, he still had no idea. On the worst days, he feels like he doesn’t even deserve it.
Nurses and medical assistants bustle through the hallways around him. A couple of the younger ones give him sympathetic looks, and one opens her mouth to speak, but seems to think better of it and moves on, carrying packs of some kind of solution into the trauma room Hank is sort of lingering by. He should be in there; he should be holding his boy’s hand and petting his hair and telling him everything is going to be okay. He should be a crying mess begging the nurses and doctors to do everything they can do to save his son. He tries to justify himself by telling himself he would just be in the way, he has no business forcing his way in. Guilt rises with the bile in his throat, and he feels like he’s going to be sick on the polished white tile.
His unfocused gaze tracks across the emergency room, taking in the organized chaos as people mill about. His gaze eventually falls on the nurse’s station, where a uniformed man is speaking in a low voice with one of the nurses. Hank can’t comprehend what he says, but he can hear enough to tell that his tone is flat and monotonous, eerily clinical as he rattles off information to the woman who doesn’t even bother to write anything down. She’s good; she’s got it committed to memory.
It almost startles him when the man looks up and makes direct eye contact with him. He doesn’t skip a beat; he’s flipping to a new page in the small booklet in his hand, relaying new information that Hank can only assume is about him. He’s finally piecing together that this familiar face was the one hovering over his son in the back of the ambulance, that he was the paramedic that had greeted him with the kindest, most calming smile one could offer when your car was upside down on the side of the road and you couldn’t get your son out of the back seat. It was nothing like the cold, clinical expression on his face now as he spoke to the nurse, like he was on some sort of mission.
Hank almost misses that smile. He needed any reassurance he could get right now; he needed those gentle brown eyes boring into his, promising him that he was going to do everything in his power to take care of Cole. He needed those firm hands guiding him to sit on the back bumper of the rig, turning his back and shielding his view from the scene behind him. He could feel the overwhelming panic again, the anger and the fear building up in his chest and working its way up his throat. He had wanted nothing more than to turn and find the driver of the truck that had slammed into the side of his car, to grab him by the neck and not let go until he was blue in the face and he wasn’t waking up. Realistically, that wouldn’t solve anything, but Hank was pissed that he was likely getting out of this with nothing more than a few scratches and maybe a bump on the head.
He hadn’t realized he had started crying until he felt wet warmth on his cheeks, and the man that was at the nurse’s station what felt like seconds ago was suddenly at his side. That cold expression was gone once again in favor of a furrowed brow and a soft frown, and Hank felt a warm hand on his shoulder through his jacket.
“Mr. Anderson, I’m going to insist we get you into a room. Just until we can have you medically cleared.” A firm, no-nonsense voice insisted. “Adrenaline can mask any underlying injury and I would feel much better if you were to be evaluated. Your son is in safe hands; it will do him no good for you to stand around and not get the help you need.”
Hank wanted to argue. He wanted to insist that he wasn’t going anywhere, that he wasn’t leaving his son until he was sure he was going to be okay. Before he could get a word out, though, those firm hands were once again leading him to an empty room, the same nurse he was speaking to before following not far behind. Hank was putty in the medic’s hands, allowing himself to be moved and guided wherever he so pleased. As he was pushed to sit back on the hospital bed, he got a good eyeful of the badge hanging from the reel on his shirt, his photo flashing him that same reassuring smile with the name “Connor” plastered in large black letters underneath.
Hank hadn’t realized he had spoken until the man in question looked up, trying to guide Hank to lean back against the bed while the nurses grabbed his legs to pull them onto the bed. He guesses he had read his name out loud, but he’s at a loss for words when they make eye contact. He had that same concerned look in those brown eyes of his, the same slight furrow in his brow that he had when he was focused on looking Hank over on scene.
“You’re going to be okay, Mr. Anderson. You focus on getting better for your son.” Connor spoke in that same firm tone, helping Hank to sit up and get his jacket off for the nurse. He had insisted on putting it back on in the back of the ambulance; it was absolutely freezing back there. Hank never once looked away from Connor, even as the man stepped back, offering a halfhearted thumbs up to the nurse.
“Do you require anything else from me? Turnover report for trauma two was given to Hailey, she’s in there with them now.” Connor asked the nurse, who just shook her head in dismissal. It made Hank sick how they referred to his son as nothing more than a “trauma”, a stupid medical term passed between professionals. That was his son in there, his Cole. He deserved respect. He wanted to open his mouth and argue, but he was distracted by the pain of a needle being pressed into his arm. He hadn’t even felt the nurse preparing the IV.
Before he could argue, before he could get another word out, Connor was gone. All of his gentle touches and soft looks and polite words were out the door to give his healing hand to the next person who needed it. Rationally, Hank knew it was a ruse, that he was like that to every patient he came across. Hank wasn’t special. But he had made him feel special, in the face of uncertainty and pain he had made him feel safe and special and like everything was going to be okay.
Fuck.
Hank had better things to worry about than the pretty paramedic that had saved his son’s life. He needed to be focused on his son in question, who was currently fighting to keep his head above water in the room next to him. But as Hank’s mind wandered, as he was pulled from X-rays to CTs and mostly just left in bed to think, he found his thoughts returning to Connor. He was so gentle with his boy, and even though he wasn’t awake to understand what was going on, he explained every little detail that he and his partner were doing to him. He had used gentle words and gentle hands when he had maneuvered the tube down his throat, had cooed to him when he drilled into his shin. That part in particular made Hank sick.
Deep down, he knew this was probably his brand new concussion talking. It was normal to idealize someone that had saved him at his lowest, that had taken his sweet time caring for his boy. It didn’t need to go any further than a quiet prayer of thanks and maybe using his face burned into the back of his mind next time he jerked off. But Hank was determined. He knew he would be back; there were only so many hospitals in Detroit and only so many paramedics that serviced the area.
So he waited. From his spot in bed, he had a perfect view of the nurse’s station. He took inventory of every EMT and every paramedic that came through for the rest of the day, but just his luck, not one of them was the tall, freckled medic he had grown inexplicably obsessed with. It finally got to the point around one in the morning, when the nightshift nurse had fussed at him to try and get some sleep, that he finally decided to hunker down and try and close his eyes.
He was a man on a mission now. He was determined that this wasn’t going to be a quick crossing of paths, that he was going to find this man again and least give a proper thanks for what he had done. That’s how he justified himself as he fell asleep, stretched out in an uncomfortable hospital bed and an IV in his arm, that he would thank the man that had saved his son’s life.