Chapter Text
Hank grumbled to himself as he parked his old car in front of the holographic police tape. 9 a.m. on a Monday, and he was being shipped off to a crime scene with Gavin Reed of all people. But, the dispatcher had mentioned the caller was a minor, most likely no older than seven or eight, and as much as Hank hated to work with Reed, he hated letting a poor, traumatized kid be stuck by themself with Reed even more.
Hank released himself from the seatbelt with a crisp click, and pushed open the car door he kept forgetting to buy WD40 for. As soon as the icy wind pushed through his coat and cut to the bone, Hank had half a mind to get right back into his car and let Reed deal with it. He forced himself to trudge up the driveway dusted with snow anyway, mentally repeating a string of expletives like a mantra as he did.
Whatever Hank was expecting when he walked in the door, the reality of it was much worse. The front room of the small house was splattered in blood—both red and blue—and a human body partially obscured by the few officers surrounding it. Hank had seen some gnarly crime scenes, but in that moment, Hank was grateful for not having to take in the entirety of this one all at the same time.
Reed was not among the officers in the front room, and Hank only had to wonder for half a second where he was before his familiar obnoxious voice carried down the stairs.
“Ow, you little brat! I’m trying to help you!”
Hank hustled his old bones up the stairs after hearing that. Of course Reed had found the kid first, and of course Gavin was shouting at them. Hank followed the sounds of Reed’s tirade down the upstairs hall, shoving into the bedroom at the very end of the hall.
The dispatcher had been right. The little boy cowering in the corner of what Hank assumed to be the master bedroom, tucked in the sliver of space between far side of the bed and the wall, couldn’t be any older than eight at the very most, although the kid’s lanky proportions suggested he might get mistaken as older than he was a lot. Large brown eyes steeped in fear peered out from tousled brown curls, and the sight made Hank want to punch Reed in the face more than usual for shouting at him. Reed was on the side of the room closest to the door, his expression pinched and fists clenched.
Reed suddenly pointed a finger across the room, the swift movement making the kid jump. “You’re damned lucky someone else is here to deal with you.” The kid didn’t reply verbally, but pressed his back impossibly further against the wall, as if he wanted to blend in with the beige paint.
”Dammit, Reed, that’s enough,” Hank belatedly intervened. “Go downstairs. I’ll finish up here.”
Gavin didn’t need to be asked twice. He shoved past Hank, his stomps echoing down the hall and through the staircase.
The boy stared owlishly at Hank now that they were the only two in the room. Hank kept his hands in the kid’s line of sight, gingerly pulling out the chair tucked under the desk in the corner and sitting, resting his hands on his knees when he was done.
“Hey there,” Hank forced his voice to be quiet and gentle, a tone he hadn’t used in almost three years. “I’m sorry about the other officer. He’s a jerk, huh?”
The kid just continued to stare, trembling in every limb as he continued to press against the far wall. Hank resisted the urge to fidget under the boy’s wide-eyed gaze.
After a moment or two, he continued. “My name is Hank. Could you tell me yours?”
The boy shifted ever so slightly, several moments passing before mumbling a single word. “Connor.”
Hank gave the kid a small smile, hoping it would come off encouraging rather than terrifying. “Hi, Connor. I know Detective Reed didn’t do a good job convincing you of it, but we are here to help you. You were the one to call 911, right?”
A jerky nod. “Well, good job, kid. That must have been scary, huh?”
Connor nodded again, his wiry frame relaxing a fraction of a degree. Hank felt a small sense of triumph until those decidedly fawn-like eyes filled with tears as the poor kid’s chin trembled. Hank had to hand it to the kid—it was impressive it took him this long to cry.
He waited for Connor’s silent tears and soft sniffles to subside. It was almost eerie; Hank had never heard—or rather, not heard—a kid cry so quietly. Connor also glanced up at him every so often, apprehension apparent in his expression, like he expected Hank to yell at him for being upset after a traumatic event.
When Connor’s tears had slowed, he tilted his blotchy, damp face to Hank and spoke at barely a whisper. “I couldn’t get my dad to wake up.”
Hank’s heart—stony since that cold winter day stole his own boy—shattered like brittle glass with the admission. He stuffed down any sort of strong emotion. He needed to keep it together. He was an experienced detective with years of awful, tear-jerking, bloody scenes, but usually there was a social worker or someone—anyone but him—to deal with any children caught up in the mess. And this kid, Connor, with his sad inquisitive eyes and knobby knees and elbows he had yet to grow into, well, it was as if Cole had survived that wreck and was standing right in front of him. And Hank didn’t have it in him to take his anger at his own life’s circumstances out on a little boy that was having an infinitely shittier day than he was.
In Hank’s retrospective silence, Connor edged away from the wall, bit by bit. His eyes never leaving Hank, he crawled up onto the bed, settling in the farthest corner from him. It wasn’t exactly trusting, Connor looked at him as if he would yell at him any second like Reed had—Hank was going to cuss Reed out for that later—but it was progress.
“You did the right thing, kid,” Hank said finally.
Connor shook his head. “My dad is dead, isn’t he? He’s not coming back.”
Goodbye, any air that might have been in Hank’s lungs. Connor had phrased it like a question, but his tone was so heavy and so awfully pragmatic for a child that Hank knew that he knew the answer already. “Yeah.” He swallowed. “Yeah, Connor, I’m sorry.”
Connor just nodded like the confirmation hadn’t really been necessary. Hank expected the kid to burst into tears again. To sob, to scream, to throw himself to the ground and wail until Hank would inevitably have to drag him from the house kicking and screaming to the precinct so they could sort out where to send him. He had wondered where Connor’s mom was in all this, but the last thing he was going to do at that moment was ask Connor. Regardless, the kid just sat there, knees pulled to his chest, his staring finally directed at the quilt on the bed rather than at Hank. His tiny index finger traced some of the stitching by his bare feet, no doubt some sort of self-soothing measure. Hank could hear the voices and bustling downstairs grow louder, and he knew his time to coax Connor downstairs was limited.
Connor too, seemed to realize he would have to leave his home soon. He stilled as the commotion below them continued, then returned his piercing gaze to Hank. “I have to go with you, don’t I?” Another question that Hank knew Connor knew the answer to.
“Yeah. We can’t just leave you here by yourself.”
Connor shrugged. “I know.” The kid was too damn perceptive for his own good.
“Is there anything you want to take with you? You should go ahead and grab it if there is.”
”Can I bring Dewey?”
Hank’s brows knit together. Of all the replies in the world, Connor had gone with that one. “Who’s that?”
Connor scrambled off the bed and out of the bedroom, leaving Hank to rush to follow him. He was going to need a creative way to get the kid out of the house without traumatizing him further, preferably as fast as possible so the forensics team can clean up the scene.
Hank followed Connor down the hall to a smaller bedroom. It was obviously the kid’s—painted a light shade of blue, the walls covered in superhero posters and crayon drawings. Connor was digging in the bundle of blankets on the small bed in the corner until he finally pulled free a colorful stuffed fish, which Hank guessed was the enigmatic “Dewey.” Satisfied, Connor only stopped to pull a hoodie from where it hung on a hook on the closet door before returning to Hank where he stood in the doorway.
”That’s all you want?”
Connor had been mid-nod when Reed’s shouting from downstairs made him jump, small hands pressing against his ears. “Anderson! Get the kid and get your ass down here!”
Hank rolled his eyes, opting not to shout back, as much as he wanted to. Something told him that Connor had had enough loud noises to last a lifetime.
He turned to Connor, who slowly pulled his hands away. “You ready, kid?”
Connor pulled his beloved stuffed toy from the crook of his arm and gave a rare verbal reply. “Yeah.”
Hank sighed, kneeling so he was on Connor’s level. “Listen, okay? The scene downstairs, well, I won’t mince words, kiddo. It’s not a nice sight. I’m not sure how much of it you’ve already seen, but I don’t want you to have to see it again. I want you to put on your jacket and put on the hood, and don’t look, no matter what. You keep your eyes on your feet. Am I clear?”
Connor, eyes wide, bobbed his head. He handed the stuffed toy to Hank, albeit reluctantly, and pulled the sweatshirt over his head, further ruffling his curls. Hank handed Dewey back, then pulled the hood securely over Connor’s head, making sure it would block as much of his peripheral vision as possible. Hank half expected Connor to flinch or freeze after all he had been through, but the kid was patient and seemingly calm as Hank fussed over him.
Once Hank was sure that it was as good as it was going to get, he stood, grunting and knees cracking as he did. He was about to move towards the stairs when a small hand clenching his coat sleeve stopped him in his tracks.
Connor looked up at him, suddenly somewhat bashful. “Mister Hank? Could you…could you carry me? If I’m not allowed to look, I’m afraid I’ll run into something.”
Shit. Why hadn’t he thought of that? “Smart thinking, kid. ‘Course I’ll carry you.”
Hank hefted the kid up, where Connor immediately buried his face into his shoulder. Hank swallowed hard, building up the mental stamina to face what lay below them again as he began to dismount the stairs. He tried not to look too much himself as he rounded the corner next to the staircase on the bottom floor, pushing past the few straggling officers in his pursuit of the front door.
This time, the freezing wind was a welcome reprieve.