Archive of Our Own ^beta

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. 

Chapter Text

“Henry Anderson, if you don’t wake the fuck up.” 

The words are spat like venom, and they startle Hank awake. It takes a couple blinks to clear his vision, but when he does, he’s greeted by the sight of his ex-wife, face red and in an absolute fury. 

“You didn’t think to call me? To tell me what was going on? I have to find out from a stranger that my son is in the hospital on life support and this is your fault?!” Her voice is raising as she speaks until she’s yelling, and even the closed door of his room can’t contain it. Hank was still struggling to wake up, blinking a few more times as he tried to sit up. For a second, he wondered why she’s even here, before he remembered that she’s still both Cole’s and his emergency contact. Of course, that’s just what he needed at a time like this, was his ex-wife stirring up a fury. 

“I was a little fuckin’ busy.” He grumbled, and apparently that was the wrong thing to say, because she cuffs him over the back of the head, and that definitely doesn’t help with his aching head. He let out a pained groan, leaning forward as she continued. 

“Do you still think it was a good idea for you to take him from me?! You and your crazy fucking driving?!” She continued to yell, and it takes everything in Hank to not press the nurse’s button to have her escorted out. “What the hell were you thinking, taking him out last night?! You knew it was going to storm, and you didn’t care!”

Hank knows she’s just mad. He knows she’s worked up and upset, and he’s the closest thing for her to take it out on, but damn, do her words cut deep. All he can really do is sit there and take it, though. There was no arguing with her. Even when they were married, she always had to get the last word in. Unfortunately, so did Hank - arguments in the Anderson household usually lasted a couple days at the minimum. Hank doesn’t miss it. 

“He’s not on fuckin’ life support. You’re being dramatic.” Hank finally mustered up the energy to speak, rubbing a hand over his face. What a hell of a way to be woken up. He needs a fucking cigarette. 

The woman feels the same. She turns to pace the room, rubbing her hands anxiously over her jeans. Hank honestly does feel bad for her, but he’s too irritated to try and console her right now. He pushes himself to sit up, groaning quietly at the pain in his head. 

“Look, Cathy. They’re doing what they can to take care of him. Yeah? All we can do is wait.” Hank tried, and he’s not even sure he believes his own words. They’re short and dry, and hardly filled with any sympathy. “We’re gonna figure this shit out. We’re gonna be fine. You need to fucking calm down.” 

That’s about the time he realizes Cathy is crying. She was letting out quiet sobs, muffled by a hand held over her mouth. She tried to speak at first before she shook her head, taking another moment to try and compose herself instead. “It’s just hard, Hank,” She cried, and honestly, it pulls at Hank’s heartstrings just a bit. “Seeing him in there, and there’s nothing I can do. I’m sorry. I know this isn’t your fault.”

She’s turned away from Hank at that point, hunched over as she sobbed. Hank’s not a monster; he knows she needs consolation, and honestly, if it calms her down and gets her out of his room faster, he’s willing to do it. After a moment’s hesitation, Hank pushed himself to stand, slowly making his way over to her, and in an unprecedented move, slowly wrapped his arms around her. He half expects her to shove him off, to cuss him out and start shouting, but it never comes. She doesn’t move much, even when Hank slowly tucks his face against her shoulder, letting his eyes fall closed. 

“We’re gonna be fine.” He repeated much softer, finding himself slowly swaying back and forth with the woman in his arms. “Cole’s gonna get better, and we’re gonna take him home, and we’re gonna be fine.” Hank’s not sure how much of his words he believes. He hasn’t even seen his son since yesterday, hasn’t even spoken to the doctors yet. He’s not even sure he knows what Cathy does. But all he knows is that now, he can give all the reassurance he can muster. 

Hank is set up for his own discharge a few hours later. He’s perched on the edge of his bed, letting the nurse remove his IV when a man in khakis and a button down knocks on the glass door, and Hank’s heart drops. He doesn’t speak as the man enters, keeping his eyes trained on the man and arm outstretched to the nurse as she worked. 

“Mr. Anderson. Have a second?” The doctor asks, and at least he doesn’t put on the fake enthusiasm Hank half expected from him. Hank wants to snap back at him that he really can’t go anywhere, but he doesn’t answer at all. He watches as the man takes up a spot in the corner of the room, out of the nurse’s way. 

“Your son, Cole.” He starts, and immediately, Hank is hit with a wave of nausea. He can tell just from the tone of his voice it isn’t good news. He stays silent. “I’m sure you’re aware, but he sustained pretty severe injuries in the accident. What we’re most concerned with right now is a head injury that he’s sustained. The injury caused a collection of blood over the surface of the brain which we were able to drain, and we are going to monitor for further bleeding, but Mr. Anderson, I can’t promise the initial bleeding didn’t cause severe complications.” 

Hank’s gaze shot down to the man’s hands as they came together to rub together nervously. If this were an interrogation, he would immediately be asking deeper, more probing questions. The man was nervous, and Hank should be too. 

Hank wants to ask for one of those alcohol pads he knows are stored in the room somewhere. He feels like he’s going to be sick, and he knows getting a good whiff of one of those will kill his nausea enough to at least get through the conversation. He wants his son. He wants to hold his boy; he wishes this was all a bad dream. 

“That’s fine. That’s- enough.” Hank eventually spoke up, looking down and away from the doctor. The nurse had long finished at that point, tossing her trash and quickly leaving the room before things got too tense. Hank knew the doctor had more to say, he knew he needed to man up and hear it all, but he was frankly fucking terrified. Just the idea of losing his son scared the shit out of him. He wasn’t ready to hear it. 

The man fiddled with his hands for a moment more. “I understand.” He finally muttered, dropping his head for a moment before looking up again. “You can see him when you leave. Unless you want your paperwork, you’re good to go. I won’t force you to stay.” 

Thank God. If Hank had to spend another minute in that room, he was going to go insane. He at least had the courtesy to wait until the doctor had left the room before gathering his jacket into his arms, relacing his shoes and finally opening the frosted glass door of his room.

His legs couldn’t quite carry him fast enough down the hall to the room Cole was in. Even then, he caught himself looking around the emergency room, even if he knew somewhere in his heart that it was long past the pretty medic’s shift, that there was no way possible that he would be here, and he had better things to focus on anyway. He hesitated for just a moment outside of Cole’s room before he finally braced himself to enter, finding Cathy already at his bedside with a hand over the boy’s. 

For a moment, Hank could only stare. He wanted nothing more to get a good look at the boy’s face, but between ventilators and various bandaging, he couldn’t even get that. Clutching his jacket a bit tighter to himself, he took a few cautious steps forward, slowly pulling up a chair beside Cathy. 

“Any news?” Was all he could manage, and he hated how choked his words sounded. He noticed how the woman pulled her hand away from Cole’s, and after a moment’s hesitation, he replaced it with his own. 

“Nothing new. He’s just been - here.” Cathy replied a little quieter than Hank spoke. Neither looked at each other, their attention trained solely on the boy laid out in front of them. No reminder of the events that morning, of the closeness they had shared. 

For a while, the room is silent. Hank slowly brushed his thumb over the boy’s hand, to later tuck a couple fingers under the boy’s palm to pray to some God above that he would feel some gentle squeeze or some kind of response. 

Hank must have sat there for hours, staring down at Cole and muttering the occasional quiet comment to him. He didn’t know what to say, he wasn’t sure if he could hear him. He prayed he could so he could hear all of the apologies he gave him, all of the quiet “I’m sorry”s that were muttered for his and Cathy’s divorce, for not getting him that damn dog that he begged for, for even taking him out yesterday and putting him at such a risk. It was his fault and he knew it. He just didn’t want to face it. 

Nurses came and went, adjusting and checking things Hank didn’t understand even when he asked. The fifth time, a new nurse Hank didn’t recognize advised him and Cathy that they had thirty minutes until visiting hours were over, and that they were welcome to come back tomorrow. She would be the first to let them know if anything changed, and to keep their phones close. 

Hank isn’t sure what to do with himself once he finds himself outside of the ICU doors, once Cathy’s gone and he’s finally left alone. He’s itching for a drink. He could go down to the bar and try to forget, but how fair is that to Cole? He knows he needs to keep a clear head in case something were to happen, he needs to stay sober and ready to get back here at the drop of a hat. 

An hour later, he finds himself at Jimmy’s with two whiskeys already down his throat. 

Jimmy tried to make conversation. Most days he knows better, but today he just will not let up, and it’s starting to piss Hank off. Maybe it’s because he can tell something is wrong, but Hank is not in the mood for conversation, thank you very much; he’s in the mood to get hammered and forget any of this is even happening. 

When Jimmy still doesn’t stop after the third drink, Hank pays and he leaves.

Hank wouldn’t even call himself drunk at this point. He would finish the job when he got home, like he usually did. He usually drank just enough at Jimmy’s to loosen him up, to unwind a bit and calm him down before he drove home to get shitfaced drunk at his kitchen table or watching a movie he’s seen a million times before - all on the days he didn’t have Cole, mind you. Where others would call him an alcoholic, Hank would call it something different - self-medication, or whatever. 

He got home safe, with a couple close calls, just as he had done a million times before, so fuck you to Jimmy who tried to take his keys before he left. It took him a couple tries to get his keys into his door, but once he finally got it open, he’s greeted with an empty, silent home. No little boy to run up and greet him after a long day of work, no movie or tv show or video game playing on the TV. It’s eerily silent and dark, and Hank can’t bring himself to turn on the lights. 

He stood in the doorway for a few moments before he finally dragged his way over to the liquor cabinet, the bottles tucked up on the highest shelf, far out of Cole’s reach. He took his time preparing himself a drink, pouring himself a double and sitting heavily at the kitchen table. He hesitated for just a moment before he finally goes for it - he loses track of how many drinks he had, pouring himself doubles after doubles until he can’t see straight and he can hardly hold the glass. It’s a bit too late when he finally decided he’s had enough, leaving the glass and bottle on the kitchen table. He goes to push himself up, but his knees immediately give way, and he’s collapsing to the floor. 

He doesn’t even care. The floor is actually kind of comfortable. He heard a low noise, and it took him a moment to realize that it’s him letting out a low groan. He turned onto his back, laying a hand over his eyes - he could very well fall asleep like this. 

And he does. Briefly forgetting about all of his cares, he managed to fall asleep on the tile of his kitchen floor, his head aching as if it had been split open. For a few hours, he’s found a bit a bit of peace, until he’s roused again. 

Hank woke the next morning to his phone buzzing and to possibly the worst headache he’s ever felt. Turns out, hangovers and concussions don’t exactly mix. He doesn’t really think when he decides that his phone can wait a moment while he stands to make his way to the bathroom and empty the contents of his stomach into the toilet. 

By the time he’s righted himself and splashed some water on his face, he finally pulled his phone out of his pocket and takes in two things. One, the time is currently twelve-thirty in the afternoon, and two, Cathy had been trying to get a hold of him all morning. When Hank saw missed calls and unanswered texts from her, his heart immediately dropped out of his ass. Taking a second to read the texts, however, calms him a bit.

Cole is fine. No updates. She’s with him, if he was wondering. Wish he were here. But she understands why he wouldn’t be. Drunk old bastard. 

Hank would almost be offended if she didn’t have him pinned down so correctly. 

Hank took his time getting ready, brushing his teeth and showering, but the headache and nausea persisted. He debated downing a couple more drinks to ward off the hangover; for what he planned to do, he would definitely need it. 

The image of the brown-eyed medic haunted his dreams the entire night. The way he had taken care of Cole, the gentle hands and words he had used haunted him. And crazy as he was, he was going to hunt him down.

He remembered the big number eight adorning the side of the ambulance that had responded to the scene, and a quick internet search gave him an address for medic eight in downtown Detroit. The brief idea that he was being fucking batshit crossed his mind, but once he got a double of whiskey down his throat, those thoughts ceased. 

It wasn’t too long of a drive to get to the station. Almost as soon as he entered, he was greeted by a gruff looking firefighter, who didn’t look pleased the man was there. 

“Can I help you?” He spoke in an almost confrontational tone, and for once, Hank didn’t take the bait. 

“I’m looking for Connor. Gotta talk to him about something, I’m pretty sure he’s here.” Hank said simply. No more, no less. 

The firefighter let out a gruff noise before leading Hank through a hallway, up a flight of stairs to a fairly large dayroom. A kitchenette stood in the corner where another person was cooking, and another hallway to the left led to what Hank presumed to be dorms. Two more people sat on a ratty couch in front of a small TV, both of their feet propped up on the coffee table with their backs to Hank. The best the man could see was scuffed boots, one pair unlaced and unzipped. 

“Connor,” the firefighter called out as Hank was led up to the couch. “You have a visitor.” 

The person to Connor’s left didn’t even bother to look up from where his eyes were glued to the television playing some old reality show. But as Connor turned to face him, leaning forward a little to look around the other man, his gaze was warm, inviting even. When the pair locked eyes, Connor seemed to immediately recognize the man. Hank couldn’t say he looked pleased to see him, but he didn’t look angry either, and he would take that. 

For a moment, he didn’t know what to say. All words he had planned left his mind as soon as he made eye contact with the man. Before he could really process what was happening, the brown-eyed medic was standing from the couch, muttering something to the other man before he stepped away from the couch, waving for Hank.  “Follow me. Let’s talk.” 

Hank’s heart dropped as he was led down the hallway he was pondering earlier. He followed Connor into a room that held nothing but a couple of empty bunk beds and a desk, the younger man closing the door behind Hank. Immediately, Hank felt eyes on him, and his mouth went dry. 

Hank wasn’t an anxious man by any means. He was headstrong, he knew how to handle himself and get what he wanted when he wanted it. He had enough experience in life to teach him that closed mouths didn’t get fed. But when he felt curious eyes boring into the back of his skull and turned to meet a blank expression and a furrowed brow, it was enough to make anyone a little nervous. 

For a moment or two, the two men stood toe to toe in the small dorm, staring each other down and sizing each other up. When Hank was sure he was just making himself look worse, he was finally the one who broke the silence. 

“We didn’t get a chance to really, uh… talk. You know. After everything.” The words fell from his mouth before he could really plan them out, and he immediately wanted to kick himself. He sounded fucking stupid, and if the slight twitch in Connor’s brow said anything, it was that he thought his words sounded idiotic, too.

“Usually I don’t get the opportunity to talk to anyone after they leave my ambulance.” Connor replied, and he smiled a little as if he’s told a good joke. Out of courtesy, Hank offered a shaky one in return. “Your son. How is he?”

Hank didn’t know how to respond. He wasn’t doing great, but to Hank, not all hope had been lost. 

“He’s, uh-“ Hank motioned to his own head, and he realized his liquid courage hadn’t quite helped him like he had hoped. “Something about blood in his head, and they had to drain it- He’s on a bunch of machines right now, I guess they’re waiting to see if he’s gonna wake up.”

Connor doesn’t look away when Hank speaks. His eyebrow was furrowed slightly, nodding along as Hank spoke. Fuck, it makes him want to break down right then and there in his arms. What is wrong with him? 

“And you?” Connor asked, and the question catches Hank off guard. He almost thought he misheard him, blinking a couple times at the shorter medic. “You were pretty shaken up. There’s things that I can’t see that might show up later.”

“Oh. I have a concussion.” Hank said a bit lamely, shaking his head a little. This was not going how he wanted it too, he had to turn this around quickly. “Look- Connor-“

“I never told you my name.”

Was he trying to be difficult? Hank was starting to get a bit frustrated, shifting where he stood and running a hand through his hair. “I know. In the ER, I read your name tag and I remembered it. Connor, don’t take this the wrong way. You did a lot for me and my boy, and I appreciate that. I wanna make that up to you somehow. Let me take you out to dinner. No strings attached. Doesn’t have to go anywhere. You- Fuck.” Hank was losing the air in his sails. “You can say no. This is weird.”

It was Connor’s turn to fumble over his words. It was obvious he was taken aback, like he wasn’t sure what to say. He opened his mouth a couple of times to speak before furrowing his brow again, letting out a tiny huff. “Mr. Anderson, I’m flattered.” Came his (albeit frustrated) reply, and Hank knew he was done for from the honorific alone. “But I worry that you have more important things to worry about. You should be with your son. I don’t want to interfere with time you should be spending with your boy.”

Hank knew this was coming. He could have taken it on the chin, but in a last ditch effort, the man turned to grab an envelope and a pen from a nearby desk, scrawling down his phone number and handing it to the medic. “Think about it.” He said quickly, staring Connor in the eye almost challengingly, and for a moment, Connor didn’t take it. Not until Hank furrowed his brow. 

“I want you to properly meet him. When this is all over with, I want you to meet my boy for who he really is. Can you at least give me that?” It was a low blow and Hank knew it, but it was the low blow needed for Connor to grit his teeth and slowly take the envelope. He never broke eye contact, folding it up and slipping it into the leg pocket of his pants. 

“You should go see him.” Connor spoke quieter, finally motioning to the door. “Focus on your boy for me. You’ll regret it if you don’t.”

Connor escorted the man back to the door, waving a little before closing it behind him as Hank started down the street down to his car. He was halfway to the hospital when his phone finally buzzed with a text from an unknown number, and when Hank reached to pick up his phone while in standstill Detroit traffic, his heart nearly dropped. 

“This is Connor from the station. I’m free tomorrow.”