Chapter Text
The house located at 14 Caroline Lane is easily the biggest fucking mansion Lieutenant Hank Anderson has ever seen. It towers over its smaller neighbors with a four-car garage, nine bedrooms, three personal offices, two dining rooms, eight bathrooms, and four porches that adds up to a whopping 6600 square feet.
And his officers are responsible for searching every single inch of it.
It’s certainly an interesting change of pace. Hank is used to trudging through rotten drug dens smothered in mold and animal feces in search of murder weapons and intent to distribute— he’s not used to being met with massive iron gates and manicured lawns that stretch past the horizon. He’s not complaining— He’s been waiting to raid this house for months. Securing this manor and the contents within it would be one of the first major steps to dismantling Detroit’s most notorious crime family.
The Sterns had had a tight grip on the underground workings of Detroit since the late 70’s after a sudden coup d’état overthrew the two other main mob families. As a result the Sterns had a strict monopoly on most underground crime, including but not limited to: prostitution, smuggling, drug trade, gambling, money laundering, dog fighting, loan sharking, extortion, labor racketeering, and now, most importantly, murder.
Seven murders, exactly, four of them low level police officers. That’s why Hank is here, partnered up with organized crime. He honestly hadn’t wanted to investigate the deaths of four other brothers in blue, but despite himself, the further along the investigation went, the deeper he found himself untangling it.
It’s hard work that is several levels above his normal— and the involvement of other police officers meant that the pressure was raining down heavily from the brass, but they were making progress, slow as it was, it was still steady, and getting the warrant to get inside this house was going to be the tide that turned everything up on its head.
It’s because of this case that Hank’s hands are shaking— he’d pledged to himself when he opened this investigation that if he was going to be investigating fellow officers, he’d lay off the drinking at work. It’s a stark change— he’d grown used to feeling mildly buzzed at all times, work or not, but now his blood is dry and his back sweaty despite the December chill. He could drink himself unconscious when he got home, but so long as he worked on solving the deaths of two rookie beat cops and a sergeant and his right hand, he was going to stay sober at work.
It’s miserable, but almost rewarding in its own way.
Almost.
The inside of the house might be even more impressive than the outside with its vaulted ceilings and sculpted stained glass. The carpets are impossibly plush beneath outlandishly ornate furniture. Everything is wrapped in rich maple wood and smells crisply of fresh cleaning solution.
There’s not a single pair of shoes lining the entryway or any coats in the closet, but Hank wasn’t expecting there to be. They have good intel that this house is used for personal matters, but he isn’t so foolish as to believe he got a warrant for the Sterns permanent address.
Nonetheless, he knows for a fact that business is conducted here, and that means there will be evidence of it. It doesn’t matter how professional this family is— there are things in this house that will point them in the right direction, and Hank finds himself itching to find it.
It had been a long time since he’d felt the urge to dig through a case like this— to really dive into his work. He supposes it’s progress. Maybe investing in that therapist had been a good idea after all.
He reaches for his phone absently to place in a call for any idle hands. He knew better than to load this search with too many people, but a house this size was going to take a large crew to shift through if they wanted to be done before nightfall. He’d just have to keep a tighter leash than normal on the chain of evidence.
They get a good gang of officers carefully rummaging through the house, searching through each drawer and cabinet, under tabletops and linens, behind TVs and appliances. They log and pack anything that could be of significance to the case and take careful photos of each place they go. It’s tedious but they’ve already found traces of bleach and blood, and two cabinets full of bank statements.
No one in the Stern family is answering their phones today, but Hank wasn’t expecting them to anyway. They’d been as lowkey about this raid as possible, but there’s a good chance they were tipped off about it anyway. Making themselves scarce only means avoidance of interrogation, which was like the plague to these people. Hank doesn’t mind. If they can find something to nail on one of their members he’d probably have a better chance at catching one of them off guard, and he could use all the information he could get.
He eventually leaves Ben’s crew to their search of the second story and snags Chris to tackle the basement. Their blueprints say that it’s smaller than the rest of the house and only has one bedroom and storage. Between the two of them they ought to get the most important things out of the way so they could leave the rest to the skeleton crew.
The basement door is locked, but so had the offices, and if they were using the basement for storage then Hank hopes there’s good reason to keep people out of the downstairs. They break the lock and venture downstairs, but it’s much like the rest of the house— impersonal but pretty.
The first thing he notices upon stepping into the basement is that it’s fucking cold. Despite the size of the house and the wicked winter chill outside, the rest of the house was an even seventy degrees, but the basement is terribly chilly and drafty— so much so that Hank begins absently looking for an open window. It made no sense for it to be so cool— a family like this wasn’t closing their vents to save money.
Sure enough, he spots three windows thrown wide open on the west side of the living room.
It’s odd, because there’s three of them, and each window overlooks a steep drop. His first instinct had been that someone had fled out the window and left it open, but no one could have made a drop like that and managed to run off before one of the officers standing guard noticed them.
No, these windows weren’t open for escape. They were open for some other reason.
He makes a note to himself to call down the photographer to take note of the windows before turning and pulling his coat a little tighter around himself, deciding to leave them open for now. He goes to dig through the entertainment cabinet, not really expecting to find much but too stubborn not to check everything.
“Lieutenant? You might want to come and take a look at this.” Chris’s voice reaches him from the short hallway around the corner where the bedroom was located.
Hank rounds the corner and pauses in front of the door Chris is standing next to. There’s nothing inconspicuous about it— it’s broad and clean just like every other door in the house. The only thing that makes Hank’s stomach tighten is the large padlock fixed to the doorframe. It’s fastened with a steel plate and required a key to open. It looks extremely of place against the rich maroon walls and dark woods— the carpet is too thick to tell if there are any lights on the other side of the door, but if Hank had to guess he would bet that the lock is meant to keep people out, not to keep something in.
It’s a development, if nothing else. People only locked up things they didn’t want other people getting to. If there was any damning evidence in this house, Hank would bet his house that it’s on the other side of this door.
“Go grab the bolt cutters,” he tells Chris, already pulling out his phone to give Ben an update.
By the time Chris is back Hank is seriously beginning to consider closing the damn windows. Even with the furnace running the basement couldn’t be any warmer than fifty degrees, and the sudden drafts that sweep through the room don’t help. He’s already feeling feverish from the alcohol withdrawal, and the fucking chill doesn’t help the sudden chills. He’d made the mistake of bringing his flask to work anyway, and his fingers were seriously itching to take a swig from it, just to take the edge off.
But then Chris is back, and reality sets back in. He lets Chris have the honors of cutting the lock off and keeps one hand on his service weapon just in case— if there was anyone in there, then they were locked inside, and Hank wasn’t taking any chances with this damn family, not when they were already responsible for the deaths of four officers.
The door swings open to reveal a large bedroom painted a crisp white with matching carpets, complete with bed, bookcase, desk, and dresser. The room is awkward— far too large for such sparse furnishings— almost as though at one point it contained far more inside of it. Gone are the rich woods and extravagant chandeliers— The twin bed has been stripped of all its linens, baring only the scratching mattress pad below.
Seated on the bed with his legs crossed beneath him is a boy no older than six. His hair is slicked back and he’s dressed in an oversized t-shirt and corduroys. He stares back at both of them with massive brown eyes that frankly look far too puppy-like to be real.
Hank’s brain stutters over itself for a few moments while he processes exactly what he’s looking at—
A little boy tucked away in a freezing bedroom behind lock and key?
Hank’s been a detective for long enough to recognize something wicked when he sees it, and he knows immediately that whatever life this kid was living had to be twisted in all of the worst kinds of ways. The Stern family wasn’t known for their healthy nourishment of humanity, and every piece of evidence that they’d dug up so far pointed to this family’s involvement in the most vicious parts of society— Hank has no doubts that that kind of depravity dripped down onto this little boy.
He drops his hand from his holster and steps into the room fully, his mind finally catching up with the situation. Against all odds, he doesn’t even get in the first word.
“Hello,” says the boy, voice soft but confident, “My name is Connor.” He shifts on the bed, squirming a little before settling, staring both of his intruders down. He doesn’t seem frightened despite the fact that two armed strangers just broke into his locked bedroom.
Hank can’t pin it down at first, but there’s something wrong with this kid—
“Right,” Hank says, clearing his throat. “I’m Hank.” He shortens his introduction, taking in mind that he’s speaking to a child. Kids didn’t understand ranks or titles. They knew first names. “And this is Chris—” He motions behind himself. “We’re with the Detroit Police.” He tries to keep the edge out of his voice. Sometimes being confronted by a police officer alone was enough to make even the most cultured kids skittish.
But Connor just watches them, large eyes sweeping them up and down. He looks curious, but there’s something very muted about him— like he’s already accepted that something bad is going to happen and doesn’t have the energy to be upset about it. It’s concerning to see the look on someone so young.
It’s then that Hank realizes what’s wrong— Connor is absolutely tiny. Not late bloomer, “failure to thrive” tiny, but terribly, horribly skinny. The baggy t-shirt he’s wearing hides his physique enough that at first glance Hank hadn’t immediately noticed, but now that he’s looking it’s impossible not to see the striking signs of malnutrition. There is no baby fat in the kid’s cheeks and his collarbones stick out of his shirt like knives— the hollow of his throat is far too deep for a boy his age, and his wrists look as though they’re made of brittle bird bones. Even his hair is dull and his eyes glazed, and his body seems to sink into itself as though it has no ability to hold itself up.
The vague concern that had washed over him upon immediately seeing the kid tightens into a much more concrete knot in Hank’s chest.
This is why he works homicide— dead bodies are far easier to bear than the sight of abused kids and vile parents. He hadn’t had to deal with a living victim in over a year, exactly how he preferred it if it meant avoiding meeting little boys who are too weak to hold their heads up all the way.
He forces himself to step further into the room, looking away from Connor to examine his bedroom. The bookcase is rather bare and there are no blankets or pillows anywhere. The desk has a schoolbook on it with some loose-leaf paper, and there’s an attached bathroom next to it. Compared to the rest of the house, this room is very desolate and empty. Hank suspects that it no accident.
“Are you here alone, Connor?” He steps closer to the bed and lets Chris duck out of the room to report their finding to the others.
“I’m not sure,” Connor tells him, his hands clasping in his lap. “I believe so though. I heard the others leave this morning.”
Heard them leave. Not oh, yeah they came and said goodbye, or anything similar. No one came to check on him. Exactly how long had Connor been locked in this room alone?
Hank frowns. Connor’s speech pattern is strangely formal for a child. He speaks like a little adult, not a kid. Hank considers the situation for a moment before gently sitting on the edge of the bed so he can get a better look at the kid. Once he’s closer he can see how his little body shivers and shakes, papery skin covered in potent goosebumps and ears and nose tinted red. His lips are a little too dark, a little too purple to be healthy.
The windows were left open on purpose.
Hank’s stomach longs for a drink instantly— something strong enough to wipe his mind blank of Connor’s big eyes.
And he hates himself all the more for it. This was his fucking job— the job he used to love. It was his responsibility to see that Connor was cared for now, even if it broke his fucking heart. He didn’t get to reach for his flask when Connor needed someone to make sure he didn’t waste away under the care he obviously wasn’t receiving. Hank doesn’t get to be that useless— he won’t let himself join the list of people who have failed this kid.
With that on his mind, he begins to slip out of his coat, cursing silently as the cold air bit at his skin through his long sleeves. If he was this fucking cold in a sweater then he doesn’t want to imagine how fucking freezing Connor must be in a t-shirt and no goddamn fucking fat on his body. “You heard the others leave this morning?”
Connor eyes him closely while Hank moves, and when Hank offers him the coat he doesn’t seem to comprehend what’s happening. When Connor continues to fail to reach for it Hank sighs and does the work himself, draping the thick fabric around Connor’s thin shoulders and tugging it closed in the front. It completely swallows his entire body, but it’s warm.
Connor is busy examining the coat wrapped around him when he speaks, and Hank can see him manipulate the arms into the sleeves and then pull his knees to his chest so they were tucked away as well. “Yes. Everyone is very busy.”
“And they left you here by yourself?” Hank asks carefully, purposefully not mentioning the padlock. Connor’s apathy at the situation is concerning— whereas any kid would be terrified at the thought of being locked away in their bedroom alone for the day, Connor seemed to perceive it as normal.
“Yes. This is my room.”
Hank nods like that’s the most obvious answer in the world, because he suspects that for Connor it is. “Are you normally left alone during the day?”
Now something in Connor’s expression changes. He eyes Hank warily, lips pressing against each other. He didn’t seem to like that question. He doesn’t answer and chooses instead to tap his fingertips together silently.
Hank frowns slightly. Connor seemed far too young to understand concepts such as when to withhold information from others— especially a police officer, the most classic example of an authority figure. Kids Connor’s age tended to babble at every chance they got and share every secret they’d ever heard if it got them a scrap of attention. Hell, even Cole had babbled to his daycare leaders and school teachers, and he had been one shy fucker.
Fuck.
Fuck. He’d gone weeks without thinking of Cole, and already this case had broken his streak. He was going to be in trouble.
He lets Connor squirm for moment while he considers the situation.
Connor needs to be admitted into a hospital. He’s skinny enough that Hank is legitimately concerned about his heart, and even if he wasn’t in immediate danger, the abundant signs of abuse need to be recorded and logged into evidence by a trained medical professional. He obviously couldn’t stay in this house with these people— Hank had every constitute to remove children from neglectful guardians and place them into the hands of Detroit’s social care system— and Connor had already met several cues of mistreatment that were grounds for removal. Now it was a matter of doing so in the least scarring way possible.
Connor is watching him again with those big fuckin’ eyes, but he doesn’t ask any of the questions that are obviously on his tongue. Instead he just waits patiently, fingers tapping together beneath the fabric of Hank’s coat. If Hank listens closely he can hear the faint footsteps of the officers searching the house above them— and then it dawns on him— “Did you hear us come in?”
Connor hesitates for a moment before nodding. “Yes. I was waiting for you.”
“How did you know who it was?” Hank asks, tone mildly disbelieving. Connor couldn’t be older than 6— there was no way a kid that young was that observant—
“There were too many people for it to be Kara and Luther,” Connor tells him first, eyes lighting up just a bit. Hank isn’t sure if it’s from the mention of these people or from a chance to show off his intelligence. “And too much movement to be... the others.” Connor pauses there, like he had to decide just what to call these ‘others’. “I heard a walkie talkie too. And no one was running, so I guessed it was the police.” Connor rocks forward as he speaks, hands rubbing together. He’s still shivering despite the coat, but his eyes don’t look so glazed.
Hank’s... impressed, damnnit. Impressed and mildly creeped out, because what fucking kid could deduce who was in his house by sound alone? Had he been raised on Sherlock Holmes knockoffs or something? What kid heard strangers in his house and sat calmly on his bed while he waited for someone to discover him? He hadn’t screamed, hadn’t cried, hadn’t tried to alert anyone to his location— that he was locked in his bedroom and slowly freezing to death.
Hank can’t possibly imagine how twisted Connor’s inner monologue must be to find normalcy in a situation like this.
The urge to get Connor out of this place and into a warm hospital is only growing, and Hank decides that any other questions can wait for later. He hears a few people coming down the stairs and rubs a hand across his face quickly before standing. “Stay here for a second, I’ll be right back.”
Ben is waiting for him in the hallway, peering into the bedroom to look at where Connor sits on his bare mattress, his eyebrows furrowed. “What the hell?”
“He was locked in there,” Hank informs him, some of his anger seeping into his tone finally.
“There’s no records of any kids in the Stern family.” Ben reminds him.
“I know,” Hank mutters, folding his arms across his chest to retain some heat. “But he obviously lives here, and he’s being abused to all fuck. He looks like a fucking gust of wind will blow him away.”
Ben nods in agreement, grimacing as he speaks. “If he’s been living here then he might be able to give us good intel.”
It was true, but it hadn’t even been close to what Hank had been thinking of. He’d been thinking of looking for some shoes so he could take Connor to the hospital and get him logged in with DCFS, not of what information they could coax out of the kid. Ben has a good point, but for some reason it only makes Hank’s anger burn brighter. Was no one going to do the right fucking thing for this kid?
“We’ll worry about that later,” he snaps, rubbing at his temple where he could feel a headache coming on. Maybe he’d have a shot from his flask after all... “Right now I’m taking him to the hospital for processing and we can go from there. He needs fucking medical attention.”
Ben shrugs, wrapping his own coat tighter around himself. “Sure, but are you sure that’s a good idea? I mean, Chris or Tina could take him...”
Of fucking course. Of fucking course someone else could take Connor, as if Hank doesn’t fucking know that. There were other things that needed to be done, and other excuses Hank could use to avoid interacting with Connor at all. It would probably be better that way, even. Connor wouldn’t have to deal with an asshole and someone else gets to suffer whatever heartbreak Connor’s story will end with. He doesn’t have to look at this tiny six-year-old with brown eyes that are just so fucking like Cole’s, doesn’t have to watch this kid suffer through whatever horrible truths will be shoved upon him. He wouldn’t have to see his dead baby’s face in Connor’s hollow cheeks or think of the piles of children’s clothes stacked up in his storage closet at home when he looks at the clothes Connor obviously doesn’t fit in.
He doesn’t have to ensure that Connor is treated well— that he’s taken care of and looked after. He doesn’t even have to walk back into that room— someone could give him his coat back later.
Except he knows that he’s going to anyway.
He’s going to anyway because he’s never done the best thing for himself— he’s never known how to say no, he’s never managed to abandon something this important. All he had left in this stupid fucking word was his work and his liquor, and while he still plans to get blackout wasted tonight, that doesn’t change the fact that right now Connor is his responsibility until Hank decides to assign him to some other poor motherfucker. It’s his job to make sure Connor is cared for, and he isn’t going to just fucking pretend it isn’t so he doesn’t have to think about the baby shoes still sitting in the bottom of his bedroom closet. Until he finally manages to kill himself or get fired, he’s going to do his fucking job, and right now that meant walking back into that room and taking Connor to get help.
“No,” Hank says with a lot more conviction than he really feels. “I’m going to do it. This family is fucking dangerous. I’m not going to risk anything.” It’s a partial truth— Connor would need a certain level of protection until he was deemed to be safe and no longer under possible threat from his family. With a higher-ranking officer calling the direct shots, Connor’s protection would be more preventive and dynamic. Protocols wouldn’t be lost in translation and middle men. Hank had the authority needed to accomplish the tasks that would be tied to Connor’s case— it would be more efficient this way.
Ben frowns at him but shrugs. “Alright. If you’re sure.”
Bless the agreeable bastard.
Chris and Tina chose that moment to join them, both donned in their DPD issued jackets. Hank turns to them, “Go introduce yourselves to Connor in there. We’re all probably going to be working with him closely,” He grumbles. Hank watches them enter the bedroom again before fishing out his phone to update Fowler. This case was already messy, and apparently it was only going to get worse.
——
“I can’t leave,” Connor tells him immediately. He hasn’t moved from his spot on the bed, but he’s hunched further into the jacket. Hank thinks absently that he looks a little bit like a turtle desperate to disappear from the world.
That’s not the feeling he wants to bestow on the kid. He’s spent enough years working with abuse victims to understand the mentality, and he knows that leaving an abuser or a place of dwelling tends to be extremely distressing— especially for children who were unaware of the abuse they were suffering. The process of earning Connor’s trust would be hard, but more than anything Hank didn’t want to fuck the kid up worse. Kids like Connor tended to walk on fragile lines between normalcy and instability, and Hank didn’t want to be the one to push him over the wall.
“Why?” Hank asks, trying not to sound too demanding.
“I’m supposed to stay in my room.” Connor’s tapping has only increased, and now Hank can see one of his legs has begun jiggling despite the fact that it’s currently trapped under his body.
Hank’s stomach rolls uncomfortably— Connor believed he was supposed to stay in his room so strongly that not even the word of an authority figure was enough to convince him to leave. He’d visited enough schools and run enough domestic calls to know the weight a police officer’s words had on kids— even kids who didn’t listen to their parents listened to the police.
What made it worse was that Connor was clearly uncomfortable with defying Hank and his request that they leave. He seemed genuinely upset that he couldn’t simply agree with the officers around him and do as he was told— whatever consequences came with leaving the room where more concerning to Connor than the consequences the police could bestow on him, and it’s that realization that makes Hank’s skin crawl.
“What happens if you leave the room?” Hank asks, hoping for some insight. It’s the wrong thing to ask apparently, because Connor’s mouth snaps shut and he looks away almost immediately. Hank suppresses a sigh. It can be expected— Connor didn’t want to talk about what happened when he got in trouble— no kid did, only Connor’s was far more extreme. Connor probably saw his abuse as simple discipline.
Hank’s beginning to suspect that Connor’s psyche is twisted in too many ways to understand in a first meeting.
He tries a different tactic. He knows it will be pointless to explain to Connor that he’s being abused. He was too young, and if Hank understood correctly, his entire existence was woven with similar themes of wickedness. Trying to make Connor understand that his normal was in fact society’s abnormal would only cause more harm than good.
He’d like to have more information, so he knows exactly how to handle Connor’s care, but in the moment getting Connor to a doctor took top priority, so Hank pushes that to a backburner to be dealt with later.
“Our boss says that we can’t leave until we take you to the hospital,” Hank lies, stomach clenching with each word. He is manipulating Connor, but in the end it would be to help him. It just makes Hank feel scummy in the moment.
He can see Connor processing this. No doubt Connor had been taught not to trust the police— he was living in one of the most affluent crime families in Detroit after all. The police were the enemy and they were invading his home, and a boy as smart as Connor had probably figured out that they were looking for ways to end his family’s reign. If Connor had been raised to shy away from the DPD, then complying with Hank to get the rest of the police out of the house should be a temptation worth considering.
Sure enough, Connor’s jiggling increases. He is anxious at the prospect of disobeying an obvious order to remain in his room. Hank can see him rubbing his hands together as his eyes darted around the room.
“I’ll be in trouble,” Connor tells him, voice small. Hank hates that he’s frightening him, but everything about this process was going to be frightening.
“We’ll talk to your parents.” Hank leans forward a little on the bed, carefully staying out of Connor’s space. The room was beginning to warm up some— they’d closed the windows and heat was slowly building in the basement— but it’s still too cold to be comfortable, and Connor’s swaying is more pronounced now as he struggles to continue holding himself up. It seemed like despite his anxious energy, all the activity of the search was weakening him.
Connor chews on his lip, anxiety rolling off of him. Hell, he was making Hank nervous just looking at him.
“You can’t.” Connor looks like he very much wants to shed Hank’s coat and maybe start pacing— or sprinting— with the way he almost vibrates. He’s chalked full of fearful energy despite the dwindling state of his body. Hank suspects he will crash very hard, very soon.
“Why not?” Hank asks, only prodding a little. Connor’s eyes only meet his for a flash second before returning to their frantic scanning of his room.
“She won’t talk to you.”
“I’m very good at getting people to talk to me.” Hank tells him, adding just a dose of teasing into his voice, a reminder to Connor of his profession— “I’m sure if I explain everything she won’t be upset with you.” That’s a lie, Hank thinks bitterly. Anyone who starved their child and locked them in a freezing basement without blankets was a monster in Hank’s book, and he wasn’t planning on every letting someone like that get close to this kid again— but that would be far more distressing than a lie, so Hank grits his teeth through it.
Connor looks up at him again, and for a moment Hank thinks the kid might just chew his own lip off. He frees his hands from the jacket entirely to vigorously tap his middle fingers to his thumbs, hands moving so quickly that they blur. The urge to reach out and comfort him is so strong that Hank nearly cracks, but Connor speaks before he does.
“I can’t make her angry.”
“I’ll talk to her,” Hank promises again. It’s repetitive but living with his own son had taught him that kids tended to need absolute confirmation. “Is she your mother?”
Connor doesn’t answer, but Hank can’t tell if it’s purposeful or if his anxiety has finally overridden his auditory processing.
“Connor?”
“I’m not—” His voice is tighter than before, and Hank’s concern is only growing. They’re about to come to a crest, but what that will entail Hank doesn’t know, though he has suspicions. Either way he can’t just sit and watch the kid slip into a panic attack any longer in the hopes of getting results.
“Connor, it’s going to be okay.” His hands itch to reach out and gently take the kid’s shoulder, but Hank doesn’t know what kind of abuse Connor has withstood, and just what feelings touch may be associated with. He’s really only got his words to work with unless Connor initiates contact first.
“It won’t.”
“It will,” Hank promises, because if nothing else Hank’s going to make it okay, through whatever means necessary.
Connor shakes his head no, his entire body slowly coiling smaller with fear, his muscles tightening. When he speaks again his voice cracks, and Hank has to actually lean closer to hear his whisper. “What happens if I say no?”
Smart fucking kid, Hank thinks bitterly. Connor didn’t want to agree— but he knew that chances were in the end his refusal wouldn’t actually make a difference. He was a child, and they were cops, and while it seemed like the decision it was in his hands, he had seen through the facade and understood that they were just trying to avoid forcing him. There wasn’t actually any choice being presented to him— they were just waiting for his cooperation.
Hank refuses to lie this time. Any kid smart enough to understand that deserved to know the truth. “You’ll have to come with us anyway. We can’t leave you here. We’ll take you to the hospital and sort things out from there.”
Connor’s fidgeting stops abruptly, and he’s horribly still for a few moments before his arms disappear back into the jacket and snake around himself. His eyes are dropped to the mattress, and he’s stopped biting at his lip. Hank decides instantly that he preferred the restless anxiety to this horrible resignation— children weren’t supposed to be so meek, so subdued. It was wrong.
Hank waits several moments in which the silence stretches, already thinking of ways he may be able to get Connor up and moving without causing him any more distress, when Connor relents.
“Okay,” He whispers, tone flat. Hank watches him for a moment, his heart aching something fierce.
It wasn’t fucking fair that in order to be rescued, Connor had to defy everything he was comfortable with— had to face the wide unknown against his will. It makes fire burn in the back of Hank’s throat, because kids didn’t fucking deserve that.
He lets out a heavy sigh— he could mourn the bitterness of the situation later tonight with a bottle of scotch. For now, he had a goal, and that was getting Connor the fuck out of here.
“Alright,” Hank says. Connor won’t look up at him like he had been before, and despite knowing that this was going to be the path that ended with the happier ending, guilt winds deeper in his gut and twists. He makes himself stand anyway. “Alright,” He repeats. “Let’s pack you a bag.” This gets Connor’s attention, and he looks up, a question in his eyes that he doesn’t ask. “We don’t know how long this all will take— it would be good for you to have some of your things with you.”
Connor only sits for a second longer before slowly straightening and crawling off the bed. His movements are jerky and stilted, like he’s moving on muscle memory instead of consciousness. He leaves the coat on the bed while he goes to the dresser and pulls out a drawer. Inside Hank can see only two shirts and bare wood. Connor picks both up before stopping and clutching them both to his chest. He turns to Hank, dread in his eyes. “I don’t—” He lets out a little gasp, “I don’t have a bag.”
The panic in Connor’s eyes has Hank speaking to comfort him before he even realizes. “Uh— it’s okay. I’ll uh— I’ll find you one. Put the things you want to bring on the bed—” Hank ducks out of the room and calls over Chris.
Chris peaks into the bedroom as he speaks, “Yes, Lieutenant?”
“Help Connor here pack some of his things, I’m going to go find him a bag.” He knows he sounds cross, because he is, because this is fucked up and he doesn't really want to be around any kids that remind him so much of his own dead little boy, but he’s already gone down this path, and he’s going to see it through. With enough whiskey tonight it won’t matter anyway, so he watches Chris slip into the room and awkwardly try to help Connor collect a few things before turning back towards the stairs.
He’s not sure if his therapist would be proud or concerned that he’s decided to shoulder Connor’s wellbeing personally. He’s not even sure why he’s doing it himself.
Too late now anyway.
———
Hank’s prediction that Connor was on the brink of crashing is wildly accurate. He gathers up two pairs of pants and some shirts, underwear, socks, a toothbrush, and two books before sitting down on the floor in a barely controlled fashion, legs crumpled beneath him as he frowns, as though he’s not entirely sure how he got there. Hank walks in to find Chris squatting down with him and speaking in low tones, looking a little desperate for direction. He looks relieved to see the Lieutenant.
Hank passes him the bag he’d snatched from the back of Ben’s van and Chris begins filling it with Connor’s belongings without being asked. Hank takes a second to grab his coat from the bed before kneeling in front of Connor, grimacing as both his knees pop on the way down. Connor watches him, blinking slowly. He looks on the verge of falling asleep while sitting up. Now that he’s closer Hank can see that his lips are tinted blue, and he shivers violently. It’s startling at first— had he looked so miserable earlier?
“How are you feeling?” Hank asks, trying to gauge Connor’s condition without getting in his space.
Connor looks at him and blinks, his arms slowly wrapping around himself. “I’m okay,” He says, voice unsteady.
Hank frowns. Connor was obviously not okay, and most any kid would take up any opportunity to announce to the world at large that they were feeling unwell. While uncomfortable, illness equaled attention, and attention was one of the most important things to kids Connor’s age. Hank remembers Cole’s friends babbling strange impossible stories in attempts to be noticed, and even Cole had yearned for attention where he could find it.
But not Connor. Connor was lying to avoid Hank’s attention. It’s not too surprising, as Hank could be dubbed the enemy by Connor’s family, but Connor seemed far too young to have fallen into that mindset yet.
Hank tries something else, “Are you sure? You won’t be in trouble. I just need to know so we can do this efficiently.” Logic— Connor seemed like the type of kid to be persuaded by logic.
Connor squirms for a second before speaking— despite being so exhausted that his lips don’t quite line up right, he doesn't mumble, and his words are clear. “I—” He swallows thickly and speaks again, “My belly hurts.”
Yeah, Hank thinks bitterly, it would. Starvation tends to do that to people. The anger pulsing in his chest only increases at Connor’s obvious suffering— starvation was used as a torture technique— it was often underestimated as a form of control, but the actual pain that came from not eating and instinctual need to re-energize was one of the most popular forms of manipulation and control. The fact that this family had enough money to feed all of Detroit’s homeless for at least a week and yet this boy in their basement was starving makes Hank want to stand up and punch a wall.
But he could do that later. Later when Connor wasn’t staring at him with those big fucking eyes, almost pleading him to just make this better.
“Okay. Anything else?”
Connor watches Hank carefully, and he hopes absently that the anger churning around inside of him isn’t obvious on his face. That’s not what he wanted Connor to see now.
“And my head,” Connor admits, folding in a little tighter on himself, like the admission is a sin.
“Do you think you’re going to throw up?” Hank asks, softening his tone purposefully.
Connor seems to consider this before shaking his head no. The motion seems to be just a little too much for his body however, and he nearly headbutts the wall. He’s saved only by Hank’s quick reflexes that catch him and tug him a little further away. Connor tenses under the touch but doesn't pull away— whether that’s because he actually doesn't mind or because he’s too weak, Hank can’t tell. Either way, Hank’s had enough. It was time to get a move on.
Reassured that Connor wasn’t going to immediately barf all over him, Hank drapes the coat around him again. “There’s some blankets in the car too,” he tells him. Connor doesn’t react much, and that’s enough to convince Hank that they’ve all wasted enough time. He moves to squat so he can reach for Connor and pick him up, but Connor surprises him by forcibly getting his feet under him and standing. It’s obvious he’s only running on fumes, but he’s up nonetheless, so Hank doesn’t push him. If Connor wanted to walk, Hank wasn’t going to take that little bit of control out of his hands.
When he heads out of the bedroom, Connor follows on unsteady feet, one hand snaking out of the coat to support himself with the wall. Hank walks slow enough that even when Connor lags he doesn’t have to fight too hard to catch up.
There’s a handful of officers rummaging around downstairs now, opening boxes and upturning storage closets. Hank catches a look of alarm on Connor’s face. “They won’t break anything,” Hank tells him as they reach the stairs. They’d decided to take Connor in Ben’s new SUV, a car far cleaner than Hank’s and far more comforting than one of the cruisers.
Connor still looks upset, but he nods nonetheless. It’s odd— like the need to respond when spoken to is unconscious to him. Hank grimaces and files that away in the back of his mind for later.
“Where are your shoes?” He asks, but Connor struggles to turn his head to look at him.
“I...” Connor seems to struggle to swallow, like the words are caught in his throat. “I don’t know. I don’t know where they keep them.”
He doesn’t sigh, because Connor could interpret it as disappointment, but the air builds up in his lungs nonetheless. Kids Connor’s age knew where their shoes are— he was at the age where parents began to encourage independence in morning routines so they could prepare for school on their own— and yet Connor had maybe two entire outfits in his bedroom and now had no idea where his shoes were kept.
Hank turns and sits down heavily on the step so that he’s eye to eye with Connor, rather than a tall figure towering over him. “How often did you need your shoes?” It’s a nice way of asking just how often Connor is allowed outside.
Connor sways where he stands, even as he holds onto the wall. “Not very much.”
“Do you get to leave very much?”
“No,” Connor admits, and Hank frowns. He hadn’t really been expecting an answer considering how withholding of information Connor had been previously. He blames it on the exhaustion.
“Connor, would it be okay if I carry you to the car? We’ll have someone bring you shoes later.”
Connor is eyeing him up and down, but his eyes are glazed and glassy, and Hank suspects that he’s not fully there. It’s upsetting to see a kid in such a state, but there’s not much more Hank can do to rectify the situation.
Finally, Connor nods. Hank puffs out air in relief— he really hadn’t wanted to just scoop the kid up against his will, but they were very quickly running out of options. He holds out his arms but purposefully doesn’t reach, letting Connor come to him instead. It takes a moment, but he does eventually, and Hank stands from the stairs with Connor perched on his hip.
Hank knows he’s old, and sure enough the added weight of Connor makes his back twinge instantly, but Connor is far lighter than Cole had been at this age. It’s startling at first, just how little Connor weighs, even though Hank supposed he should have been expecting it. The comparison to Connor and Cole aches fiercely, but he’s managed to muddle his emotions and memories thoroughly enough through years of alcohol that he knows he won’t drown in grief until later.
Connor squirms almost immediately, his arms butting against Hank’s shoulders as though he had no idea how to be held, and the second Hank thinks about it, it’s probably true. Who knew when the last time Connor had been picked up was?
Hank lets him wiggle while he carefully climbs the stairs and heads out the front foyer. He knows he’ll be back to this damn house, and he finds himself already dreading it. No amount of flashy rugs and expensive antiques could hide the atrocities in that basement.
He tugs his coat a little tighter around Connor’s tiny shoulders before stepping outside against Detroit’s wicked winter. Connor’s finally stopped worming, and after a moment his skinny arms snake around Hank’s neck. He sluggishly melts into the hold and slowly grows limp, but one quick look proves that his big brown eyes are still curiously looking around.
Hank hates himself for it, but he missed this— missed holding a tiny body so securely, missed that innocent slice of life, missed fighting for something better than himself. Holding Connor is too familiar— too warming, too trusting. He misses carrying a baby, misses getting to be the protector.
He misses holding Cole.
Fuck— fuck—
Connor’s seemed to have enough of looking around, and he drops his head heavily onto Hank’s shoulder, his grip tightening. It makes the ache in Hank’s heart dig its claws in deeper, pry him open and leave him gaping and raw. Maybe this was a mistake— maybe choosing to look after Connor was a mistake—
He opens the backdoor to the SUV and clambers in gracelessly, using one hand to climb in and the other to keep Connor secure. They don’t have a car seat, but Connor doesn’t really seem interested in letting go anytime soon anyway. His hold has only increased, and Hank can feel his tiny fist gripping the back of his shirt tightly. None of the commotion has convinced him to raise his head again either, so Hank decides trying to pry him loose for the car ride won’t really be worth it.
“Let’s go.” Chris is driving, and he pulls the car out towards the main road away from the mansion.
Hank takes a moment to reach into the back and pull out one of the heavy blankets Ben had stashed there and wraps it around Connor securely. He goes as far as to tug it up over his head, but Connor refuses to let go, so he doesn’t get to encase him entirely. “There. That’s better, huh?” He pulls the seatbelt across them both and leans back, eyes following the highway that stretched out in front of them. His hand absently rubs soothing circles on Connor’s back, hoping to keep him calm, but Hank can feel each of Connor’s vertebra poking out through the blanket.
It’s miserable, the state of this boy.
But this was his job, and they were already on the path of making things better. Maybe if they got lucky, the ending wouldn't be a tragedy.