Chapter Text
Hank was bloody and sore, craving sleep in the form of a shot to down. His aching muscles cry for a bed, a mattress, a run-down sofa— anything to rest his aching bones on. He was tired down to his very soul, emotionally drained from the turmoil of holding this rabid dog of a man currently walking beside him on a leash for the better part of three days. Keeping them alive as plantation monstrosities decide to grow out from the damp forest soil to beat and maw at them.
Their clothes were filthy, tattered, and torn so severely no thread and needle, nor seamstress, could repair them. Dried blood and tree sap cake their sleeves (on Hank more than Connor), pants, and bags. Their hair was in an even worse state, with mud and dirty water dripping from their bangs and locks, sticking to their heads from sweat and more blood. Even Sumo , the bumbling, big-boned dog was grungy and grimy. Swampy shoe prints stain the cracked apart concrete of the abandoned road they walk down. The three of them the spitting image of a mess, and Hank was tired .
Seeing Connor in his peripheral, face flat, lips thin, and looking far too agitated for someone who took less damage than Hank, was pissing the man off. Enough that there was a brief thought of abandoning the guy and dropping his weight so the older man could focus on finding his kid without feeling like he was babysitting another. A deadlier, more feral kid.
All Connor has done thus far was put them in even larger bouts of danger and risk of getting merced. He sought to fight and execute anything that so much as breathed , killing, albeit expertly, every vegetal beast they came across, some of which had been stronger than they seemed at first glance. Connor claims he kills to ensure their survival, but Hank's certain Connor means his own . He doesn't have the time to deal with that. He doesn't have time to be scrambling to save his own ass because, unlike Connor, he had someone to live for . He has someone waiting for him, he has his son needing him. And this guy, grumbling under his breath something incoherent but obviously irked, was demolishing his goal to reach Cole.
Hank's irritated, tired, and in pain.
He's dropping Connor the moment he's given the chance.
It takes another two hours before they find a place to sleep, just before nightfall—a run down motel, with half of the ground-level rooms inhabitable with vines and roots filling them and covering the doors and windows. Connor was shivering even as his steps grew heavier, almost stomping, Sumo was huffy and sluggish, and Hank could hardly keep his eyes open. The dirt and grime have dried with the exception of some wet patches here and there. Their wounds stung like they'd been assaulted by wasps, it was getting colder and their hair was nearly frozen stiff, and Hank hoped to whatever God was above that they'd pity him and give him a nearby lake or something to bathe in.
Connor hadn't said a word since the fight with the Thorned Stalker, or at least none to him. Every once in a while he'd mumble or curse about something, but Hank was too on edge and irate to ask him to speak up. Part of him didn't even want to, knowing they'd get into a fist fight that'd more than likely end in Hank bleeding out in the middle of nowhere if he found out Connor was talking shit about him.
Seeing the motel now, ignoring the growing weight in his bones the closer they got, he had a thought. A plan to pack up and leave in the morning before Connor, and lock him in the motel room for just a split few minutes of distance between them. An intention to strand the man here and be rid of him. A thought he kept in the back of his mind, too exhausted to flesh it out now.
Hank, seeing the steps to the second floor of motel rooms, beelined it for the closest door up there. Connor and Sumo followed close behind, the latter bolting up the stairs and the former, still as silent as the wind most days, went without typical complaint. The wooden steps creaked with each step the men took, Sumo's not so much because of his speed, as old roots climbed the railing and slipped between the cracks. It was cleaner on this side of the motel than the other in terms of lack of greenery and ruin. Thankfully, that meant that the room Hank had picked should be clear.
The faint shadow of long-gone numbers, 2 and 1, followed by a still-intact golden 0, were clear as crystal on the dark door. Hank went to grab the handle, the cold metal biting into the skin of his palm, turned it, and thanked the Lord above that it was unlocked, hinges wailing as Hank swung it open.
Connor seemed alarmed, for the briefest moment, at Hank's apparent carelessness, but eased a fraction when they were met with silence and a, mostly clean, room with two beds. It smelled partly musty and damp, a stray and lone thick root buried into the in-the-wall closet beside one of the beds. The walls had few cracks, the ceiling browned by water leaks and carpet tough and dirtied. And Hank could've sworn he'd seen a spider crawl into the loveseat cushions in the corner of the room. All-in-all, one of the best rooms he's been in for a long time.
Of course, he still needed to do a safety check and sweep the bathroom and room next door, but he could just get Connor to do the latter.
With a heavy sigh, he shrugged off his bag and tossed it onto one of the beds, wordlessly claiming it for the night. Sumo didn't wait a second before he leapt onto the lower corner of that same bed and curled up.
"Check the other room," Hank grunted, sliding his gun out of its holster as he, very languidly, made his way to the bathroom. Connor stared at him for a second, then left with his knife without a word. Once again, uncharacteristic, but Hank wouldn't be shocked if it was the fatigue just finally making him compliant.
Slowly pushing the door to the bathroom open, Hank only had to look in the mirror to shut the door again. No monster, but a corpse growing fungi was sat slumped against the nonfunctional heater and it reeked. He didn't do much more than grimace before returning to his bed and finally, finally , slumping down on it. The mattress was stiff, but the blankets were cleaner than what would normally warrant the old man tossing them aside, so he kept them.
Unfortunately, because of how stupid his body worked sometimes, Hank couldn't sleep now that he was lying down. Maybe it was the pain keeping him awake, or maybe it was because Connor hadn't been back yet, but regardless, his body wouldn't relax enough to allow him to pass out.
Minutes go by, stuck like this. Staring at the slightly molded, water damaged ceiling, trying to sleep but being unable to.
It takes him about five to realize Connor hasn't come back.
Despite his indignation towards him… he gets worried. Fast. Connor, aside from his recklessness, isn't anything but vocal and aggressive, and hearing nothing but silence from the next room was a distressing sign.
Getting up, double checking his ammo and pocketing a second gun just in case, Hank prepares for yet another fight, one that might require more mobility than he's capable of in this state. After all, there was no sound for a whole seven minutes; if there was a mutant, it's most definitely a silent one. Or, shit, it's possible there was a person here, too, and maybe they got Connor.
"Connor?" He calls out when he steps out and shuts the door behind him, trying not to be so loud in the off chance a mutant was nearby or in the other motel room, 211. There was no response, unsettlingly. Hank steps carefully towards the door, places a cautious hand on the doorknob.
"Connor? Are you dead in there?"
Once again, no response. But, pressing close to the door, he can hear breathing—shaky, erratic. Panicked. Someone's in there and blocking the door if Hank can hear them through it.
Now thoroughly on edge, Hank steps away and moves towards the window instead. It's difficult to see into the dark room, and even more so with the curtains mostly closed, but he manages. Through the sliver he can see all the way towards the side, where the window frame and curtains don't connect, he can see a figure sat on the ground, clutching something tight. The tuft of messy hair tells him who.
"Damnit," he curses, unholstering his handgun and making sure the safety is on, he holds it by the barrel. He couldn't leave this man alone for ten minutes, could he? "Connor! I'm going through the window, alright?"
Not waiting to hear a response, Hank slams the grip against the glass and shatters it. It's ear-piercing, but nothing he hasn't heard before. He takes a bit of time to rip off any shards still in the window frame and toss them aside, hands being cut up in the process, but when he manages to get most of them out, he vaults over the ledge with a grunt of pain. Glass crunches beneath his boots, and Connor, from where he sits, stares at him with wide eyes like a deer that's been shot at. He looks ready to run, but stays where he is like he physically can't.
"Fucking hell– what the fuck are you sitting in here for?" He hisses, attention on him immediately broken as he scans the room. It's much like the room they're staying in, except mirrored and more in disarray; bed frames and mattresses broken and torn, a broken vase on the ground inches away from a TV with a crowbar in the screen. A mess trails all the way to the closet, where it's been haphazardly shut and broken into. The bugs loitering around the broken door are enough to tell him what was in there. The bathroom was wide open, roots, vines, and leaves filling it like a greenhouse, most likely stemming from the pipes in it. But, aside from it all, no mutants.
Looking back down at Connor, who never once looked away from him, was hyperventilating like all hell.
"Jesus, kid." Hank steps closer to him and kneels, only for Connor to look away finally and stare in the opposite direction. Hank tilts his head to get a better look at his face, but Connor doesn't let him. It doesn't take much else to tell him what's going on.
Panic Attack.
"Back off," Connor hisses through a hitched breath, and Hank has to refrain from deadpanning.
"You're freaking out, kid," he says blatantly, earning a glare at the title. The older man looks down just to brush some stray glass away, then returns his gaze to the younger. "I can't let you sit here and give yourself a damn heart attack."
"I'll be fine, Anderson ," Connor all but bites, but it's weak, broken at the end with a forced-steady breath and his fists clenching at his bag. "I've survived 12 years without you. I can handle a few nerves."
Hank can only squint at him. "Nerves? The fuck has you so on edge?" He spares a glance at the closet across the room. "I know you've seen corpses before. The lab was full of them."
" It's not the fucking corpse ." Finally, Connor looks at him, if only to glare daggers.
"Then what the hell is it?" He asks, irate. "I can't do shit if you don't don't tell me anything."
"Maybe I don't want you to!" The brunette snaps, tossing his bag so violently to the side it slams against the wall. Hank nearly jumps back at how loud the bang was. And Connor's shaking, so obviously out of panic and distress than it is anger. Even as he brings a hand up to comb through his gross and filthy hair, his arm trembles. "God– you've done nothing but put me in fucking danger! Everywhere I look, there's another monstrosity that could kill me! I–" he hitches on a breath, sharp as it's sucked in through his teeth, "–I was almost fucking decapitated because of you! Why the hell did I ask you to take me out of that lab? It was safer there than here!"
Everything Connor says makes Hank angrier and angrier, the hypocrisy palpable. How the hell was he the one putting them in danger when Connor had been the one leaping into every mutant he saw? How the hell was it his fault Connor nearly got his head sliced off when he'd been the one to draw its attention?
"How in the goddamn fuck was it my fault you charged at it?" He snaps back. "I fucking told you to stay the fuck away from it but you ran at it anyway! You keep fucking fighting everything you see!"
"I don't know how to do anything besides that, Anderson!" Connor shouts, his breathing much more frantic now, face flushed with anxiety and anger. "All I can remember is fucking fighting! And fighting! And you got in my goddamn way and distracted me and we almost fucking died!"
That's the closest to dying he's ever gotten , Hank realizes. So suddenly, he almost chokes on the words he was about to argue back with.
Connor's lived in that damned lab, in the middle of Nowhere, Detroit, for 12 years, never knowing about 99% of the mutants that live in this world now. And Connor had only mentioned it briefly, but he'd told Hank how few memories he had. If fighting is all he remembers, then God knows he must've been one hell of a killer to know the shit he does currently. He's accustomed to fighting, alone, to protect himself, and he was pretty damn good at it.
It, as much as it irks Hank, makes sense why he's so apprehensive and resentful towards him. He's Connor's deadweight, just as much as Connor was his.
The older man takes a deep breath, slowly, and is grateful when Connor just sits silently, heaving for breath. First, Hank decides: he needs to calm Connor down. Then second, ground rules.
"Connor," he says, low and as calm as he can manage. The brunette squints at him again. "Take some deep breaths. Relax."
Connor bristles. "How am I supposed to–"
"Just fucking do it, kid," Hank huffs. Connor just glares at him a little more before doing as he's told. Hank, meanwhile, reaches over Connor to grab his bag and place it back in the younger lap, who immediately takes it back into his arms and squeezes. With two fingers, Hank presses against Connor's wrist, feeling his racing heart through his pulse, and at first the brunette flinches, but the older man eases him with a gentle circling of his fingers.
Minutes go by, the sun only a minute away from fully setting, when Connor finally calms, eyes closed and slumped against the door. Hank feels his heart beating steadily, and at last moves his hand away.
"Good?" He asks, voice a little gruff from the minutes of silence. Connor opens one eye to meet his blues and nods minutely. "Good. Now, we talk."
"Talk about what?" Connor grumbles, more out of his sleepiness than annoyance.
"The shit you said about me almost getting you killed," he replies.
"You did."
Hank's immediate reaction was to deny it, but he knows he can't. Like or not, he almost had. "I know."
Connor's eyes widen, surprised Hank agreed.
"But," he continues, "you almost got me killed, too. Two-way street."
Silent, Connor just pouts. Hank sighs, almost in disbelief that Connor was 35 and pouting at him.
"Look. We both have been fucking each other over these last few days. If we want to stay alive , we need to sort this shit out before we leave tomorrow."
"And… how do you suppose we do that?" Connor asks, eyebrow raised suspiciously. "I can't teach you proper hand-to-hand combat overnight."
Hank grunts. "I'm not asking you to. I'm saying we need to set some fucking rules down, and we need to fucking follow them. We can't afford to have you running face-first into every mutant you see."
"And we can't afford to have you stepping in when I do."
Taking a deep breath, the elder goes on: "If we see a mutant, you don't attack it unless I tell you to or one of us is being attacked first."
Connor purses his lips, stares at the ground in thought, contemplative. His bag now sits limply in his lap, probably keeping his pants damp.
"Okay…" he says finally. Then, he turns to Hank. "If I do end up fighting one, you don't engage unless I ask you to or one of us is getting attacked, regardless of the weapon you use."
Hank, quite honestly, hates that idea. Because, knowing Connor, he won't ask for assistance until the last possible second. However, he knows Connor won't follow his rule if he doesn't listen to his, so with reluctance, and breathes out a "Fine."
" And ," Connor goes on, prompting Hank to star at him hard, "If you use a gun, you need to wait until I tell you where to shoot."
"Out of the question," Hank says immediately. "One, I know these things better than you, and two, do you know how dangerous that is? What if it has you in a chokehold and you can't say shit? What if it's too out of range or too close to shoot, and you end up with a broken arm because you wouldn't let me take a shot anywhere else?"
"I know guns better than you do," the brunette says firmly. "If I'm in any of those scenarios, then do what you need to. But if I'm still at an advantage, you listen to me . Understood?"
Irritated by his tone, Hank scoffs. But he supposes it's not the worst thing. At least he can step in when he has to.
"... Fine."
"Thank you," Connor says out of courtesy, his tone and arrogant expression enough to tell Hank so. But even then, it's better than a "good" or mirrored "fine".
Finally, tension eased off his shoulders as both men calm down, Hank, too, slumps back against the wall. The two of them, for the longest time, just sit there in silence, listening to the distant sound of crickets from the broken window. The sun gone and the moon rising, there's little light in the room now, to the point Hank could hardly see Connor's face. Fatigue was finally seeping back into his body and he knows it's about time they get back to the room, but neither of them move to do so. Not until, minutes later, they can hear the sound of Sumo scratching at the next room over.
Hank barely has time to snort and make a quip before Connor gets up, grunting quietly and slinging his bag over his shoulder.
"You should get some rest," he mumbles, turning and waiting until Hank, too, stands before opening the door. "I'm going to look for a water source or something and get cleaned up. I don't want to wake up and hang around you with whatever odor you'd have produced sweating in that mess." His eyes rake over Hank's dirtied form. And the older man, both amused and not, huffs through his nose.
"While you're at it, find another room to sleep in, then," he scoffs.
The two step back out into the open, the sky a mix of navy blue and greenish-blue. The floorboards creak as Connor makes his way to the stairs again and Hank walks to room 210.
"Rather not sleep alone," he says, then looks at Hank over his shoulder. "You just might end up dead while I'm gone."
Hank flips Connor off when he turns his back, parting ways as the older man returns to the mostly clean room, Sumo turning around and padding over to the bed after apparently scratching at the door to summon his owner back. Flopping down onto the mattress with a heavy exhale, he thinks about how much of a hassle Connor is.
Then, drifting away slowly to sleep, he forgets about his plans to leave in the morning.