Chapter Text
The sound is what comes roaring back to him first. A steady ringing in his ears that rounds out, fading until it’s just a faint underpinning that slices like a needle through the noise. Through a cacophony of sirens. Through voices and boots crunching shards into the pavement. Through rain pelting against the metal belly of his truck, wrong side up like a tortoise on his back.
Tink...tink, tink.
Glittering glass is scattered across the asphalt, shimmering blue and red in the pools of water that fill potholes and worn tire depressions. Spinning light caught prismatic in their edges.
“—nderson’s boys—”
“—spun the wheel too hard. I didn’t—fuck—”
“—me the scissors! We need to cut him out—”
All of it though, every last sound and ache and thought, tunnels down to that gasping from the backseat. The wet pull of air through blood. A sick, viscous, terrified sound that can’t be replicated by violent television or horror films. No matter how hard they try. Nothing can quite fabricate the primal urgency that forms in the pit of Hank’s stomach. It’s a noise that fucking haunts him.
“Hank...” Cole calls out, all sticky and distressed.
Don’t turn around. Don’t look.
Tink, tink...tink.
“‘M scared...”
His voice is weaker now, still all broken up around tears. The sound of the rain pelting against the concrete changes and twists in Hank’s perception until all he can hear is static. Just static. Dead noise....
Don’t turn around. Don’t—
.
August 17th, 2028
Hank wakes with a familiar, gnawing anxiety in the pit of his stomach. His phone is letting out a repetitive beeping as it vibrates across his nightstand. God, that sound is never so grating as first thing in the morning.
“Shuddup,” he grumbles as he stabs at the glass screen of his cell like it has any sort of consciousness of how it’s setting Hank’s teeth on edge. The nightmare settles in the back of his mind, curling up like some great cat. Satiated for the moment but ready to toy with him at the slightest inclination.
His head feels made of lead; his mouth tastes like shit.
It’s the first day of school and over a year since Cole’s death. Hank doesn’t want to get up. Would rather just close his stinging eyes and sink down into the mattress until he’s a part of the springs and the fabric and the cloth. He’d make a good mattress, he thinks. Might miss drinking, though. Burgers, too. Also weed. And, yeah, okay, sex is pretty cool.
He’s still talking himself out of fusing with the pillowtop when there are three loud raps on the door punctuated by his sister’s voice shouting through the wood. A long pause. His second alarm lights up his phone, and he has the distinct urge to throw the damn thing against the wall.
“You aren’t jerking off in here, are you?” Sally asks, her head poking into his room in defiance of his lack of response. She’s still in her pajamas with thick rimmed glasses covering a good fourth of her face and blonde hair all tied up away from her neck.
Hank gives her a withering look from where he’s lying on his stomach. “It’d be a little fucking late if I was, don’t ya think?”
“Don’t let Dad hear you talk like that.” She moves to stand at the side of his bed, reaching out to poke Hank right in the temple. Not hard but enough for Hank to feign her pressing his head down into the pillow. “Shouldn’t have gone drinking with your buddies last night.”
“Like I’m ever a bucket of sunshine.”
“Not lately,” Sally replies, her tone carrying a note of scolding—and, god, pity—tossed like a wet blanket over Hank’s already soggy morning.
“Don’t,” he says sharply. Maybe meaner than he needs to be. “I need to get ready.”
The dismissal is clear enough, and she doesn’t argue. Just sighs and rolls her eyes like she does when he’s being a pain in the ass. “Whatever. Here’s some Excedrin for your head, asshole.”
She slaps the two, white tablets down onto his nightstand. Hank lets the pills rest while he changes, pounding them back with a day old glass of water only after he’s scrubbed his teeth and washed his face clean of left over sleepiness. He heads downstairs, looking every bit the nineties, grunge skater that his mother has teased him for on more than one occasion. He’s not entirely sure she means it as a compliment. It’s not like he has much of a personal reference. The most he knows of the 1990’s is what he’s seen in older movies. They seemed rather enamored with those bricks they called cell phones as far as he can tell. It’s like a totally different world.
There’s already a plate of food waiting at his place setting when he comes down the landing. Sally hasn't changed out of her pajamas, and her feet are up in her chair with a slice of turkey bacon in one hand as she reads something on her phone with the other.
He hesitates at the bottom of the steps, his eyes glancing over the table suspiciously.
Hank’s home is run by a nurse (his mom) and a cop (his dad), both high demand positions. His sister has chosen to take a break after graduating high school and doesn’t have work until the afternoon. All things considered, a fresh breakfast is an unusual sight for a Thursday morning. A preemptively conciliatory act and decidedly not a good sign for him, despite the way it makes his stomach gurgle.
After a moment, Hank yields. He pulls out his chair and flops down, desperately ignoring the seat to his immediate left. Tucked in. Unneeded. Always a reminder as if he didn’t fucking have enough of those already.
“Morning, kiddo!” his mother’s voice announces loudly, heightening Hank’s awareness of his throbbing hangover. He keeps his reaction subdued as Liv Anderson appears from the laundry room beyond the kitchen. She’s putting her chestnut hair up in a ponytail, and there’s a pastel sweater slung over her shoulder. She has the Sanrio scrubs top on today like maybe she still thinks it’s 2010 or something.
Liv gravitates towards Hank and leans down for a gentle kiss on his temple. A customary gesture in the past but now the embrace causes Hank to tense. He knows his mother notices. Neither of them mention it.
“How did you sleep?”
“I got there eventually,” he answers. Hank takes a moment to glance down at his breakfast while Liv returns to her morning routine. She’s already down the hall, folding a sweater into her work bag before returning to the kitchen. In situations like these, some might call her the ‘Livia River’. Always moving. Always cutting a flowing path through whatever space she’s in. If there’s one thing that can get her to slow her course, though, it’s the coffee she’s currently making a beeline toward. Freshly brewed and poured into her favorite mug.
“Two eggs?” Hank cocks an eyebrow and pokes the yolks with his fork, still unsure whether to fall for such a manipulative yet delicious tactic. “Must be talking about something serious.”
“And that’s my cue,” Sally speaks up, breaking her silence. Her feet fly off the chair like it’s on fire, only doubling back to grab her plate in a flurry. She’s never been one for subtlety. Or confrontation.
“Thanks, Sally.” Liv sounds more exasperated than grateful, but like everything in life it doesn’t deter her from the subject at hand. She focuses back on her youngest.
(You didn’t used to be her youngest, a voice in the back of Hank’s head reminds him. That’s new. That’s on you.)
“Isn't it a bit early to have your guard up?”
“Come on, Mom,” Hank reasons. “You’d’ve had to wake up extra early just to make this. Something’s up.”
He takes a bite of his bacon, trying not to look his mother in the eye for too long. Liv works long hours, but she still stays sharp enough to detect signs of his late night activities. Years of hospital experience peppered with a solid intuition have helped her catch him and his sisters on more than one occasion. Sometimes Hank’s sure she has some sort of heat vision. Luckily, he seems to have gone under the radar for now.
“First day back to school,” she starts. Liv takes her usual spot opposite Hank, hands cupped around the warmth of her mug. “Figured the extra fuel might help.”
She sips her coffee as Hank’s father—a towering boy scout by the name of Wade—comes lumbering down the stairs. His work calloused hands adjust the tie to his uniform.
“I loved the first day of school after the summer break. Morning, Hank!” he greets, sweet as can be. Wade’s smile is warm and tired through his gold and silver beard. Ask him about it and he’d rub his chin with a proud grin, calling it preparation for the winter.
Liv is already on her feet, both hands working on the horrendous knot at Wade’s throat. Her coffee rests on the table.
“Of course you did,” she says with a grin and leans up to steal a quick kiss. She’s made peace with the beard, but she’s always the first to enjoy the shave come spring.
“I thought you weren’t going in till tonight.” It’s not that Hank isn’t used to seeing both parents during the morning shift at the Anderson house, but he knows what certain seasons can be like to their work hours. Wade—sap that he is—often joked about him and Liv being star crossed lovers. He hasn’t for a while, mind.
“I swapped shifts,” Wade tells him as he pours coffee into his own mug. Liv settles back into her seat. “Your mom and I just wanted to talk to you together. As a team.”
“Oh boy…” Suddenly Hank’s stomach feels too tight to continue eating. He’s been dreading this with each bite of that delicious, crunchy bacon.
“Now hear us out,” Liv interjects before Hank has a chance to hide entirely within himself. “It’s the start of a new year. A time for change. There has to be a change, Hank. Principal Sibylle won’t give you any more chances.”
Liv’s words sting as she lets them linger in the air. Hank spent a good portion of the last year in a destructive spiral that ended much of the eleventh grade on a sour note. It’s amazing how much he could get away with when he had a splash of traumatic grief on his side.
“She helped us a lot last year,” Liv continues. “All she asks is that you stop by her office when you get there, okay? We gotta make this work if you’re going to have any options next year.”
“She’s just going to make me feel bad for throwing away my ‘academic potential’. Or is it achievements? It changes with every pep talk,” Hank grumbles. It drives him crazy how their principal never yells. Never raises her voice. She hands out punishments as calmly as she listens. Hank knows he’s being unfair, but he isn’t looking forward to disappointing her all over again when he knows how deeply she cares.
“I’m sure something can be worked out but, Hank,” Wade interjects. He’s spent most of the conversations listening with a familiar, furrowed brow. His mug is mostly empty, but he still looks tired. “There has to be a dialogue.”
“Please don’t pull that negotiator shit—”
“Language,” Wade corrects.
“Sorry—stuff on me, dad.”
“I thought you said I wasn't a negotiator.”
Wade takes pride in solving most of his cases through diplomacy. The running joke down at the precinct is that Officer Anderson could talk a perp into cuffing themselves. Hank never understood why he didn’t aim for a higher position. His dad’s too brilliant to be a beat cop.
“You know what I mean,” he replies. A bit glum.
“I do,” Wade concedes. He reaches for Hank’s hand where it’s resting on the table. Pats it twice before telling him, “You’ll do alright.”
He’s never been one to want to push a conversation too far. Always prefers to cut an exchange short rather than overextend it.
Liv looks vaguely exasperated as he takes his mug to the sink and pulls down a plate of his own. In grand opposition, she prefers to poke and scrape and prod until everyone’s nerves are shot. The sex-talk she’d given Hank had been an excruciating three hours long and included diagrams.
Granted, he’d learned a metric shit-ton more than most kids his age.
“Just,” Liv starts, quieter. “We’re all in this together. If you’re struggling again, you can talk to someone.”
Hank opens his mouth.
“Someone who isn’t Pedro Aabdar or Gary Kayes,” she cuts him off. Pedro and Gary are nice guys when it comes down to it, but they are literally the worst influences. Pedro spends all his money on gambling and weed; Gary barely scraped his way out of a drug charge over the summer and is well known to be a good source of alcohol for anyone underage who’s looking to party.
It would have been a smartass retort and exactly what Hank had been gearing up to say. He has the decency to look at least a little rebuffed.
I’m sorry, he wants to say. I’m sorry you lost a kid. I’m sorry that it’s my fault for not being a good enough driver. I’m sorry that I’m such a fuck up over it. I’m sorry that I’ve made it all about me and my bullshit problems. I’ll do better. I swear I can do better. I know you can’t lose both of us.
Hank clears his throat.
“So can I finish eating now or what?” he grumbles instead. Liv sighs, makes a comment about him wearing his helmet on that death machine that he calls a bike, and goes to collect some granola bars from the pantry for her work bag.
Hank cuts open the bubble of yolk at center of his eggs and lets the yellow spill out over the white. He’s not really hungry anymore if he’s being honest. Feels sick to his stomach with a measure of shame and what seems dangerously similar to nerves. Just the smell of his eggs is beginning to make him feel nauseous.
He eats every last bite.
.
The school bought an android for the office over the summer. It’s a Rachel model, a visual variant of the original Chloe that passed the Turing Test. Where Chloe is blonde and blue eyed, Rachel has a brunette ponytail and hazel gaze. Where Chloe is given an even complexion and elegant, smokey shadow on her lids, Rachel is clean faced with a generous sprinkling of freckles across the nose and cheeks.
Chloes have proven better at places with a hefty price tag and high thread count in their sheets.
Rachels are more well received in schools and movie theaters and pediatricians’ offices.
They are the only two androids in circulation. There was brief push for household models that Hank vaguely remembers happening a couple years back, but Cyberlife strayed too far from Elijah Kamski’s original design. The faces were too symmetrical, too clean, too perfect. They hit uncanny valley like a double decker bus going ninety miles an hour into a brick wall.
And so Cyberlife went quiet in that particular branch of development.
Other than that, Hank knows jack shit about ‘droids. They’re receptionists for the most part. This one peers up at him with a slightly glassy look in her eyes for a solid four seconds before something seems to click in her processor.
“Can I help you?” she asks, pleasantly. Hank’s not sure she has the capability to be anything but pleasant.
“Uh, yeah,” he replies awkwardly, hiking his bag up higher on his shoulder. “I’m...here to see Principal Sibylle.”
Behind him, the door of to the main office swings opens with a shushing noise as the rubber bottom scrapes against the carpet. Hank assumes it’s another student or a parent. Maybe a teacher. He doesn’t turn around to look.
“Right this way, Mr. Anderson,” Rachel says with a sweeping motion of her hand toward the entryway a little past her desk and to the right. It’s marked with an engraved, gold plaque that reads: ‘Principal Lucy Sibylle’.
The room is one that he’s familiar with, at least nowadays. A year ago would have been a completely different story.
Lucy Sybille is sitting behind her mahogany desk when he enters. She looks up from scattered paperwork with a serene smile, her brown skin contrasting starkly with the cream colored hijab that she’s wearing today. The fabric of it flows down across the shoulders of a blouse made in the same material and shade.
“Sit down,” she tells him, deceptively soft around the authority in her voice. Her onyx eyes watch him in a manner that bars no room for disobedience. Satin over steel.
There’s a calculated pause as Hank takes a seat, subconsciously picking the same chair as he usually does on his frequent visits. The one to the left. The threading is open on the armrest.
“It’s good to see you again, Hank,” she continues pleasantly as Hank settles his backpack between his feet. “I trust you had a good summer?”
“Can’t complain.” He shrugs and meets her eye, ignoring the familiar sensation of being three inches tall beneath her gaze. Not that she’s a frightening woman by any means, but she suffers no fools in her school. God knows Hank Anderson had acted very much a fool this last year. “Doesn’t really feel like I left.”
“I’ve been told you made excellent progress making up credits over the summer,” Lucy leads in. She leans forward on her elbows, and so it officially begins. The conversation that he’s had about a thousand times before and during the break. The razor’s edge that is Hank’s education.
“Yeah, my mom made sure to guilt trip me into that one,” Hank deflects. The comment is met with a smile that doesn’t reach Lucy’s knowing eyes. Probably because they’re too busy seeing through his bullshit. Liv had indeed talked to him about improving on some of his grades during the summer, but it was his own sense of guilt and not any pressing by his mother that got him out of bed every morning.
“Whatever the reason, it will only help your case when it comes to applying for colleges.”
“I just wanna graduate, Mrs S. What college is gonna want my record?” College. With every indiscretion, every outburst, every absence, the idea became less a goal and more of a dangling sword. Getting sharper and higher the more he sabotaged himself.
“Extensive as they may be, you aren’t your disciplinary reports, Hank. There’s no reason to limit yourself.”
“I’m not—” Hank cuts himself off with a sigh. He rubs his palms down the thighs of his jeans in a familiar, nervous gesture. “I just don’t get the point.”
He doesn’t want to be here anymore. The discomfort causes his body to tense up. He crosses his arms and does his best to keep a cool head. A pause lingers between them for a beat.
“I am considering,” Lucy begins slowly, “possibly revisiting those records.”
“What?” Hank does his best to hide the surprise in his voice to no avail. “Really?”
“You absolutely need to stick with your studies, not to mention the ACT and SAT exams,” she continues with a weight that hasn't wavered. “And I need a doctor’s note before I can make any promises. I’m sure you know what that means.”
Hank sinks back into the creaking leather of his chair, his head swarmed with memories of every adult within a fifty mile radius urging him to ‘just talk to someone’. It had about the effect one might expect on the stubbornness of an angry teenager.
He skipped all but one session.
“Don’t you think it’s a bit late for me to go to counselling?” he queries, the set of shoulders imparting that this is, in fact, the worst thing she could ask of him.
Lucy is unfazed, likely far too used to dramatic teens in her office.
“I think the only perfect time is when you are willing.”
“That all happened last year,” Hank tries instead. “Aren’t you guys always trying to get me to move on?”
“Have you?” Her eyes meet his pointedly, and the question hangs unanswered for a deliberate moment before she diverts her attention to her computer screen. It's nice enough but, with a plastic backing like that, more than likely several years old. “I’ve also taken a look at your schedule this year. That’s a decent workload you’ve put on yourself.”
“We’ll see if it pays off in a few months,” he tells her, sounding as doubtful as he feels.
“That, Hank, is entirely up to you.”
The words settle heavy enough for him to look back down towards his bag on the floor. He feigns a smile when Lucy rounds her desk to hand him a finalized copy of his timetable. It’s not how he imagined it would look, but then again that can be said about a lot of things.
Hank’s train of thought is interrupted by the small buzzer on the principal’s desk. Lucy presses her manicured finger to the flashing, red button, and Rachel’s voice suddenly fills the room.
“Principal Sybille, Mr. Stern is back from the archives. Should I tell him to wait?”
“As a matter of fact,” Lucy replies. She's watching Hank with a thoughtfulness that he isn't sure he likes, “could you send him in?” Her attention remains pinpointed on Hank who has begun an uncomfortable shift off his chair. He holds the handle at the top of his backpack impatiently.
“Can I go?”
“Please stay a moment, Hank. I have a small request to ask of you.” He doesn’t have the time to puzzle over the words before there’s a quick, firm knock on the door behind him. “Come in.”
Hank can’t recall ever seeing anyone his age who’s so clean cut that they look ready for a job interview. Not ‘part time at a fast food joint or movie theater’ job interview, either. A sit down for a nice nine-to-five. In an office. With benefits and a couple Chloes holding down the front desk. The boy’s chocolate-colored hair is neatly styled save for an errant strand curling over his forehead. For a brief moment, Hank is reminded of Clark Kent although this mild mannered, doe-eyed individual is no country beefcake.
“Good to see you again, Connor,” Lucy greets with a softness that reminds Hank of his first couple years at the school. “I trust you got your ID card okay?”
“I’m afraid it took a couple of tries,” ‘Connor’ tells her. “Mr. Falone said I kept looking like a deer in the headlights.” It’s then that the boy’s attention focuses on Hank while Mrs. Sybille tries her best to tamp down a smile. “Hello, my name is Connor Stern. I’m new to Donovan-Powell High.”
Unexpected. The voice coming out of Connor’s mouth is unexpected. Breathy and with a more inquisitive tone than Hank imagined. The big, brown eyes only heighten the whole ‘Boy Detective’ look he seems to be rocking.
He also sounds a bit like he’s reading out of a manual.
“Uh...Hank Anderson. I’m...old to Donovan-Powell High.” He catches himself noting the freckles flecked across Connor’s face.
He’s...cute.
He’s your fucking type is what he is, a voice in the back of his head that sounds suspiciously like his second eldest sister taunts. And okay, maybe Hank’s attraction when it comes to men leans heavily in the direction of taller than average twinks, but honestly that’s none of Sally’s fucking business. It’s an inane thought when he considers the fact that it isn’t actually Sally that’s bringing up any of this in the first place.
“Connor needs a bit of a tour before class starts,” Lucy informs him, interrupting his straying thoughts. Hank looks at her stupidly for a full beat and a half before what she’s saying clicks into place.
“Wait, me?” He doesn’t bother to hide his incredulity even as he can feel Connor’s gaze on him from the corner of his eye. “You want me to show him around?”
“Very intuitive, Hank,” Lucy replies, dry as a bone. Hank glowers back at her in a familiar sort of way that he wouldn’t have dared in his freshman or sophomore year.
“Why?” he clarifies.
“He’s new.” She settles back into her swiveling chair behind the desk. “He’s never been in an institution like this one.”
“I’ve been homeschooled my entire life,” Connor speaks up from where he’s still standing. Spine straight and shoulders back. His voice retains that factual tone like he’s reciting from a cue card. Hank glances over at him, eyes trailing down the kid’s trim form and back up again. He’s wearing a pair of grey chinos with a high quality, leather belt peeking from beneath a blue sweater. There’s a button up shirt under his first layer, all tucked in by the looks of it, and a tie tight at his throat. The sleeves aren’t even rolled up or ruffled. They’re pulled down neatly around fine wrists. Even his tan, suede shoes are barely toeing the line of casual.
It isn’t a bad look. The fit is good, actually. Flattering. He just...comes off a bit like a square. Or a thirty year old dentist.
“Shocking,” Hank says finally, a sharpness to his tone that he didn't intend to come out as mean as it does. Connor looks at him, and instead of the meekness that Hank had expected to see there, there’s what he hesitates to call ‘sass’. Challenging.
Hank fights the twitching of his own lips.
Lucy tells him, “Be nice, Hank,” and he concedes with roll of his eyes.
“Yeah, alright.” Hank hefts himself up onto his feet and hauls his bag back over his shoulder, moving toward the door. Now that he’s standing he can tell that he’s a bit taller than Connor but not by much. A few inches maybe. Quite a bit broader though. To be fair, he’s broader than a lot of people. They’re shoulder to shoulder, facing opposite directions as Connor peers up at him. “You coming?”
There’s a second, a blink of an eye really, where Connor seems to not know what to do. Like Hank’s phrasing has made it difficult for him. Connor looks toward Mrs. Sybille with his mouth slightly open as if there’s an aborted thought on his tongue, but Lucy has already turned her attention back to whatever she’d been working on when Hank first entered. She’s used to Hank’s innate ability to know when he’s dismissed without much verbal indication.
“Of course,” Connor replies finally, not sounding entirely sure of himself.
Hank holds the door open for him as they leave, arm pressed against the wood. “Where’s your backpack?”
“I left it out here.” Connor slides past. He takes wide, determined strides toward the row of seats that face the reception desk. A bag is indeed waiting there. It’s very obviously new and much nicer than Hank’s with a flap instead of a zipper. It’s leather too, the same tan as Connor’s shoes. Hank off-handedly wonders if the match was intentional.
“Wouldn’t do that shit if I were you,” Hank suggests helpfully. “Leaving your bag unattended like that? You’re just askin’ for trouble.”
“It wasn’t unattended.” Connor pulls one strap over his shoulder. He goes for the other at first, but his eyes seem to observe Hank and think the better of it. Instead, he mimics Hank’s own way of holding his bag on one side. An interesting quirk. “The ST200 was here.”
“The what now?”
Connor gestures toward the reception desk. “The ST200. The android.”
“You mean the Rachel?”
“That is the usual designation for that skin, yes.” He hoists the bag higher up with a little bounce. “Wearing your backpack this way reinforces muscle imbalance and poor posture.”
Hank runs a hand through his sandy curls as he replies with a dry, “Is that a fact.”
“You’re making fun of me,” but Connor doesn’t sound nearly as offended as Hank might have expected.
“Well aren’t you fuckin’ quick,” he tells him, not unkindly. “Come on. We only have a little while before the bell.”
“So far, you’re an excellent tour guide,” Connor notes and Hank is starting to enjoy when he shows a glimmer of acerbic wit. Not that he’d admit it outloud.
“No one likes a smart ass,” he lies and motions to the android sitting a few feet away from them with a glassy, empty look in her eyes. “Her name is Rachel, by the way. This is the office. The carpets are fucking ten years old and a bird died above that tile with the water stain last year. It smelled like shit for a month.”
Connor cocks his head ever so slightly to the right. “How do you know?”
“How do I know what? That a bird died?”
“How do you know that her name’s Rachel?” he explains.
And Hank...well he supposes he hadn’t even thought to ask. Choes are ‘Chloe’ and Rachels are ‘Rachel’. Owners can name them. It’s just considered optimal to keep the more simplified designations when the typical position for a bot is in a field of customer service. After all, knowing the name that goes with a particular face is easier than having to read a name tag. Customers love not having to read.
Hank grunts after a pause. The closest to a concession that he’s willing to give.
“Hey, you.” The ‘droid turns her head from where she had been staring into the middle distance and smiles amiably. “What’s your name?”
“My name is Rachel,” she responds automatically.
Hank looks back to Connor with a shrug and an expression that says, ‘What’d I tell you,’ as though the question hadn’t made him wonder. Connor does not seem terribly impressed.
“Alright, let’s go.” Hank reaches out for the handle to the door, pulling it open. “Or would you rather stay with Reception Bot 3000?”
“No. I’m coming,” Connor huffs and hurries along past Hank.
Oh. Hank thinks. He’s cute when he pouts.
He immediately rattles the thought away. Now is really not the time, dumbass.
“So, uh, basic shit first,” he starts, brushing away the cobwebs that have formed in his memory in order to map out a mental path. He leads Connor down a sandy colored hallway. It gives the illusion that the sun shining through the high windows is brighter and warmer than it actually is. “The building’s old as balls, so it’s weird to get around. There’s two floors. Most of the senior classes are here, but if you have any classes that freshmen or sophomores usually take, you’ll have to trek over to the mid-high building. I think we’ve got like...sixteen hundred kids total or something—”
“Fifteen hundred and sixty-seven, to be exact.” It takes a moment for Hank to register the precision of Connor’s comment. Before he has a chance to react with more than a surprised glance, however, Connor clarifies, “I got that from the brochure.”
“Huh. Didn’t know our school had those.” Of course someone like Connor would read the brochure. Probably found it on a section of the receptionist counter that Hank’s eyes always skitter across.
“Whatever,” he continues without much pause at all, “make sure you keep up. We’re gonna take a shortcut, so I can show the nurse’s office.”
“Got it.”
Overall, tours are generally pretty boring. He tells Connor about the school nurse as they pass his office—"He’s a holy-roller and a half. Gets pissy over any birth control that isn’t a chastity belt and thinks two dudes fucking is a sign of end times. Avoid at all costs.” This makes Connor frown—and adds charming if not entirely untrue anecdotes as he explains how Connor might find his classrooms based off room number—“Just be careful of 224. Kids say things knock around if you’re in there by yourself.” That one gets a twitching sort of smile even if Connor hides it behind a withering glance.
By the time they reach a section of the school with lockers lining the walls, excited chatter and the slamming of locker doors have begun to echo down the halls as they weave through clusters of reunited classmates. Hank keeps track of the new kid. Well, as best as he can keep track seeing as Connor is looking in every direction except ahead of him.
“Down to the right, you’ll find the music rooms bu—”
“What kind of music?” Connor asks. The interruption is eager and sudden enough to cause Hank pause. He thinks briefly of earnest puppy eyes before responding.
He shrugs and tells him, “Depends who's using it. Why? You play?”
“No. I don’t know much about music. Yet,” and as cryptic an answer as that is, Hank opts not to question. He tugs Connor along, passing numbered classrooms that are slowly beginning to fill with students.
“Next stop: Sports Hall. Don’t go behind the bleachers. A kid got crushed there once and now they always check for anyone hiding.” Connor says nothing to this, and Hank wonders if he heard him at all. He glances back to see the kid giving him the Look. Again. Hank is becoming familiar with the way ‘the Look’ sits on Connor’s face. “You think I’m joking.”
“Obviously,” he intones, and Hank is honestly surprised that he doesn’t roll his eyes.
“What you should really be wondering is whether you’re gonna get quizzed on this later or not.” Hank smirks at the furrowing of Connor’s brow and continues on, leaving Connor to question the level of truth in any of his bullshit.
The hallways are long and winding, but Hank guides Connor with an assurity that he hadn’t really thought about until now. Muscle memory. Like driving.
It gets easier to navigate once they’re deeper in, wandering around areas that most students won’t bother venturing toward until the warning bell rings.
Not a ton to talk about between points of interest, though.
“And here,” Hank starts because he’s liked Connor’s reactions so far. To be absolutely clear, he taps the simple, metal drinking-fountain that’s attached to the wall on its plastic siding, “we have the Cursed Fountain.”
“I assume you’re going to tell me why it’s cursed.” Connor walks up along the opposite side of it with eyes dancing, ready to play along.
“Once the water pressure got so built up, the whole thing burst and shot down the hallway.”
“Physically impossible.”
“And during a bitter, cold winter a kid got her tongue stuck to it. Had to call the fire department.”
“Highly unlikely.”
“Yeah I know,” Hank concedes, “but are you gonna be the guy who tells them? Come on. The PAC’s this way.”
“PAC?” Connor wonders as they continue past sign-up announcements and ten year old aspirational cutouts pinned up on a corkboard covered by locked glass.
Hank doesn’t answer. Instead, he opens one of the double doors to the room in question. They have a darker, more ominous tone compared to the rest of the school’s palette. Hank waves for Connor to follow. Beyond the heavy entrance is an auditorium that spreads out wide before them with a dimly lit stage rising above plush, purple seats. Hank smells the lingering scent of paint and lets out a startled breath.
“Oh. Performing Arts Center,” Connor works out. His eyes dart around, taking it all in.
Hank shoves his hands into the pockets of his jeans—torn, color faded from the wash, not nearly as well taken care of as Connor’s pants—and tries not to stare at the captivated way that Connor seems to look at most things. Did his parents keep the poor kid locked in the fucking basement?
“If there’s an assembly, it’ll usually be in here,” he tells Connor. “Pep rallies are in the gym, though.”
“Assemblies in the PAC. Pep rallies in the gym,” Connor repeats. “Got it.”
“Let’s go. We haven’t got long.”
The first bell hasn’t sounded yet, but a quick look at his phone tells Hank that it won’t be terribly long now.
“Down that hall past the labs is the library.” Hank points at a door down a forked hall but then turns in the opposite direction with Connor on his heels.
“Is that also haunted?” Connor asks without missing a beat.
“Only by the stressed out and the introverts. What number is your first period? I’ll show you where your room is.”
“176,” Connor replies and then, “Which one are you?”
“Hm?” Hank makes a sharp turn in the proper direction, weaving through the crowd.
“Which one are you? Stressed or introverted?”
“Oh, I go hard both ways, my friend.” He had figured this might get a smirk or eyeroll out of the snarky new kid, but Connor gives him a focused frown across his brows as if he's trying to work something out before his face softens into a smile. It’s so small and very nearly gentle that something thickens in Hank’s throat. The moment doesn’t last long. The first bell rings shrill and loud above them.
“Ah shit,” Hank mutters. He’s suddenly flooded with the knowledge of where he is in the building, where he needs to be, and the little time he has to do it. In a rush, he hitches his bag. “Gotta run. Your room is just down the hall and to the left. Can’t miss it.”
“Oh.” Connor’s voice is barely a whisper of a thing and when Hank takes a good look at him, he realizes that he’s...nervous. He hadn’t been before, when they were talking. Now, though, he’s fiddling with the strap of his bag and chewing the inside of his cheek. He’s been homeschooled all his life, Hank remembers. It isn’t just a new school. It’s a whole new planet.
“Come here,” he orders, hands out in instruction. Fuck, he’s going to be late isn’t he? Connor moves without hesitation. No suspicion or snark. Hank hasn’t known him long or anything, but he has to wonder at that. He grabs at Connor’s tie without mentioning it. “You look like you’re on your way to fuckin’ Sunday School.”
“That’s bad, I take it,” Connor jokes in turn as Hank slides the silk neck piece from his collar. Hank rolls his eyes. Good naturedly, of course.
He gives the kid a quick once over. Not quite satisfied, he reaches out for Connor’s arm and pushes the sleeves up to the elbow so that they look deliberately ruffled. Repeats the action on the other side.
“There,” he decides. “Much better. Can’t look too stuffy. Now you just...seem like you have fashion sense.”
“Unlike you?” Connor’s lips twitch with an underlying humor. There’s no meanness there. Just a gentle tease. Almost like they’re friends.
“Oh, ha-ha, laugh it up. I call it retro,” Hank shoots right back. Connor’s raised brow seems more than a little dubious. “I gotta run for real, though. I’m gonna be so fucking late. I’ll see you around, alright?”
“I look forward to more of your grim anecdotes,” Connor replies, and that smile is still there. Small but honest enough for Hank to huff out a chuckle before hauling ass down the emptying hallway.
His heart races in shit spewing fear. Fear of fucking up on the first day. Of already disappointing...someone. His mom, the principal, whoever. Hank can’t seem to berate himself too much for the situation, though.
He isn’t late in the end. He makes it mere moments before the second bell—something that surprises Hank as much as everyone else in the class—and sits down in an open chair with his breath still heaving. Good start, he thinks. Sure, it was by the skin of his teeth, but for him it’s a good start indeed.
When he brings his hands up to rest on the desk, he realizes he’s still clutching Connor’s tie between his fingers.