the twink in black tights - hank x connor

32

SUMMARY: Hank finds out more things about Connor, Connor finds out more things about Hank. Just a usual day, other than the resurfacing of unpleasant memories that Hank almost wishes he could bury with his son.

As the days passed, Hank found himself getting more and more upset when Connor was flirted with by the patrons. He never said anything, just gave them a fucking death glare and a half, although he couldn't stop the twinge of disgust with himself. He had no place to feel jealous. At best, Connor considered him a friend.

About another week had passed since their conversation about dogs, and age came into the conversation. Hank immediately wanted to swerve the fuck away from that topic, but Connor still told Hank his age anyway.

"Oh, and I'm 32." Connor had said, smiling sheepishly. Hank almost choked on his coffee.

"32?!" He sputtered. He thought Connor was a lot younger, like in his mid-20s or something. Not fucking 32.

"Correct" Connor chimed, still smiling with a slight blush on his face. Hank was fucking 53 years old. At least that made him feel slightly better about...

"I'm, uh, 53." He admitted, unable to hold back a grimace. He felt like he looked older. Years of a bad diet and alcoholism wore him down from what he used to be. For some fucking reason, Hank had no idea why, but Connor flushed a deeper shade of red when Hank said this. He broke the silence. "Yeah. I look older, don't I?"

"N-no, that's not it..." Connor squeaked, face gradually fading back to its natural color. Hank didn't ask what it was, not sure if he quite wanted to know the answer.

"I mean, that's just fuckin' alcohol pretty much. I didn't look too bad 10, 20 years ago." Hank admitted. For a second, he worried that Connor would judge him for his alcoholism. But Connor's expression softened, and Hank felt a slight wave of relief.

"Hank, you don't look bad now," Connor reassured, his hand twitching. He moved his hand up for a second, and then looked away and almost slammed it into the table as though he was controlling an impulse. Hank raised his eyebrows at this and eventually sighed. He probably shouldn't voice how much he disliked himself. He didn't want Connor to dislike him too.

"Like a week ago we talked about dogs. If you could have a dog, what breed would you get?" Hank asked, desperate for a subject change.

"Border collie," Connor said it without hesitance, as though he was preparing for this question. Hank smiled fondly at the brunette. Of course. Connor absolutely would prepare for a question like that.

"I'll remember that," Hank said, still smiling. Connor looked slightly confused. Hank was determined that one day, he would get Connor a small border collie. Then he recalled what the male had said about why he didn't already have a dog. Hank thought about it for a bit. "Any reason?" He thought to ask so the awkward silence didn't strike.

"My father used to have one. Her name was Belle, she was beautiful. Not only that, but she was always there for me. She died about 10 years back, but I still miss her." Connor ended his sentence sounding quite wistful, despite starting it sounding cheerful as usual. Hank felt bad for asking now.

"Fuck, that's rough." Hank tried to sympathize.

He had a dead son. It felt like a fresh, gaping wound when he remembered desperately slamming the brakes on the icy road. His car flipping over, a cut-off high pitched shriek. Screaming that Cole couldn't be dead, he couldn't be, he couldn't be. Falling into a dark state of grief and his wife leaving him after he took his pain out on her, yelling and crying almost every day and trying to numb himself with alcohol and his gun.

But there was no normal way to add that into the conversation.

So he stayed quiet until he finished his coffee, trying to force back the memories that presented themself at the forefront of his brain. He looked up at Connor and found it easier to drive those memories away when he counted the freckles on his face. Connor looked at him questioningly.

"Sorry for bringing that up. I need to get to work. Bye, Connor." He smiled and messed up the male's carefully combed hair. He could swear that Connor had leaned into his touch and he watched the younger man wave as he walked out of the coffee shop.