[ One of the conditions during the hellish, mutually assured path to destruction several months known as getting an annulment in the eyes of the Catholic church was - you guessed it - Cole would be enrolled in parochial school. Technically the church didn't say so, even though they had a lot to say otherwise, his ex-wife did. They were both self-described as lapsed, but Rebbeca had this niggling self-conscious idea planted in her head if Cole was raised to be the most Catholic whoever choked down shitty church wine then she had failed somehow as a parent.
("After he's confirmed then he can make his own decisions about religion." Had been her reasoning.) All things considered, it was a sight better than the dogmatic threatened-with-disownment approaching his folks had lovingly taken. At least the days of nuns wrapping knuckles with rulers for poor penmanship were over.
Not to mention private school came with the fringe benefit of never having to argue with a seven-year-old over outfits. Uniforms from here until graduation, baby. And it was a good school, Hank had to admit. Cole was already excited about the friends he was making and sports clubs he wanted to eventual join. For something to come out of bitter divorce, he couldn't really complain. Actually, yes he could.
The one caveat to Hank's revived participation in organized religion was whom more than one female parishioner of the churched dubbed Father What-a-Waste. The title wasn't entirely inaccurate, in fact, it was had such blinding accuracy that it was - frankly - pretty funny. At first.
When Cole had started school that autumn the excuses not to attend Sunday mass had dried up. When Father Connor came up to the pulpit for the first time, Hank about lost it. Hiding a chuckle in the crook of his arm to play off like a sneeze. Of course, it wasn't Con- Father Connor's fault when we all had to start somewhere. Still, it was hard to take the homily seriously from a priest so baby faced he could moonlight as an altar boy.
Then Hank had his first confession in...shit, he didn't even want to know how long. Father Connor was attentive, kind, and even appreciated Hank's Hankish sense of humor. It was the first time in a long time he didn't feel judged or like a fuck up. And in a church, no less.
Connor might not be worldly, maybe he even had a few screws loose, but he was good at what he did. Hank had realized after a few casual conversations, some shared jokes, moments of Hank's hand clapping over Connor's shoulder that...Connor was just good. For the school, the church, Cole, and for him.
The last one was a thought that left him lying awake on more that one occasion. The church biddies weren't wrong.
It really was a waste that a few sidelong glances and after-hours chats were always going to be partitioned by that black and white collar.
Why Hank was here had been innocent. He swears. His shift was shit; pulling double after making a break in a case that he had been doggedly pursuing for months. He only stopped by before going home to pay the babysitter was because he had meant to speak to Father Connor about volunteering for an upcoming church event.
Then he just finds himself standing there, flat-footed with his hands stuffed in his pants pockets. Tongue swelling to the size of a watermelon, choking the words out. To compensate for the awkward silence, Hank looks around the office before trying to casually play off a coy comment by saying: ]
Huh, guess God isn't big on personalized interior decorating.
[of course the nickname hasn't escaped his notice. but it's not an unusual phenomenon--he knows he's younger, objectively decent looking enough to attract attention, and that sometimes soft-hearted intentions and kindness to those who are vulnerable can inspire feelings of hope in other avenues. the kind that connor has taken vows never to engage in for the greater good and dedication to god. he's never once regret that choice in any way. at least, that's what he thought, until hank came along and shattered his 99% resolve entirely. there's no denying now that it's...something of a fixation, a small crush--a problem when it comes to hank anderson.
he's experienced more sleepless nights now than he ever did his first nights at the seminary, and it's ridiculous how boyish he feels now than when he was an actual altar boy, wide-eyed and green behind the ears. at first it had been easy to write off as lingering fondness for cole, who connor can't call a favourite out of fairness to the rest of his class, but--is a very welcome and inquisitive addition. then it becomes an affection and admiration for the care a father has for his son, followed by the whole not-so-sordid tale of his divorce and the way hank is handling the aftermath with utmost dedication for preserving cole's childhood. connor isn't completely lost on the notion that cole (and hank) are likely not here by choice initially--religion, and catholicism in particular, is often a journey with plenty of slopes rather than an easy terrain.
but how can he not be grateful they're here all the same? connor had started to think he would be living out a lull of positivity and hope to inspire his parishioners into making the meaningful moments of their lives count moreso than the ones he wasn't experiencing himself. there was a certain solitude he'd come to accept when donning his collar, especially considering how sparse employment was at their small church and in his own rectory.
is it selfish to want to grow that connection to another human being? to feel a sense of belonging among another person?
(he knows the things that plague him when his close during the devil's hours of the morning--those are selfish--sinful temptations he wakes red-faced and shamed for even daring to dream of, subconscious or not).
and then hank asks to meet among the height of his conflict, and he can't deny it for any sane reason. he won't tell any white lies or fake an illness, or ask him to send an impersonal email or text. besides, seeing him in person will prove his strength of resolve. opening the door and having to tilt his gaze upward slightly just chips away at it, as does the casual tone and easy saunter to his step when he comes inside. if hank is experiencing any stage fright or awkwardness, connor can't see it--he feels like he's the deer frozen in the headlights, looking after this man with too-hopeful eyes and lips parted on platitudes that will never be honest enough.]
Oh--I, ah, I didn't have much to bring. And I didn't know if it was right to...take down all of Father Thompson's relics. And it felt...materialistic, in a way, to go shopping for it so immediately. i wouldn't want to give anyone the wrong impression for why I'm here.
[god, he's rambling. hank shouldn't care about any of this. he clears his throat, waiting with a hand absently tracing along the top of his desk.]
Is there anything I can get you before we get down to business, Lieutenant? [poor choice of words.] Water? Um--iced tea? [he looks a little sheepish for his small selection as he gestures for hank to take a seat opposite his desk.]
[ If there was one thing Hank Anderson excelled at, it was stamping everything down at a surface level. Would have made for a shit detective with a short career if he couldn't keep a straight face. Unfortunately, it had strip-mined his capacity for small talk. Hank sometimes wondered if that made these frequent chats off-putting at all. Given how he showed up, said little and then little with little fanfare or regard for pleasantries.
Or it just made him look weird. ]
Eh, guess this really wouldn't be a career choice for burgeoning hoarders.
[ Hank shrugged to play off the shudder at knowing every word he just said was the most dumbass thing to say in this situation. ]
Water'd be great. [ He said, taking a seat before he could express his astonishment priests even drank tea. Meaning maybe he could salvage this meeting. He thought, while awkwardly patting his hands on his knees. ]
Y'know, call me a neonate but anytime I come in here I feel I outta confess or something.
[the things hank thinks come out awkward--those are the things connor likes. to him they seem candid, honest, suggesting a comfort and security in his own skin and personality. it's--so refreshing to connor. he always tries to believe the best in people, and thanks to children like cole he does. but children and adults have a completely different spectrum when it comes to telling the truth and living their lives freely--he learned that very quickly after taking on a lot of half-truths during his confessions, or watching parent behave one way to his face versus to the school staff.
but hank...he doesn't do any of that. what he sees is what he gets. or...more accurately, can't get and recently has come to realize he wants, when he himself is being honest to his shameful desires.
he's grateful for a chance to turn around and compose himself a bit, retrieving a cold water bottle and setting it on the table so he doesn't take to heart any slight brushes of fingers, seeing as he's not sure he can handle any more little details to fixate on and replay during his free time. he sits back down behind his desk, pressing his palms together and leaning in attentively.
but as soon as hank speaks, his face drops completely.]
Ha--Lieutenant Anderson--I'm so sorry. I...
[does hank think he views him as someone sinful? does he think connor is expecting the worst from him, has he given the wrong impression? he has to stop himself from reaching out for him.]
I would never want you to think I'm judging you, or that I only want to see you in that context. [before he can stop himself, he awkwardly blurts out:] You're one of the only people whose company I prefer here.
[there's a startled lift of his brows in surprise at himself.]
[ There were a few moments during these meetings where Hank couldn't turn his brain off; observing father Connor with a fine-toothed comb. Without meaning to, it was a pure reflex, but he had noticed a couple...quirks. The contradictions that went either unnoticed or unremarked upon.
More than once, Connor reminded Hank of a cat who had its tail stepped on one too many times. Reticent and more than a little hesitant to relax around him. Only it was at odds with an almost painfully obvious Father Connor wanted to be friendlier. The problem was anytime the priest took a step in the right direction, he recoiled. As though he were gearing up for a hit.
Hank wouldn't claim to be an expert on what seminary school is like, but he was pretty sure they didn't train priests to be painfully shy and cut off. Alienating yourself seemed counterproductive to guiding ones flock, or whatever they called it. ]
Hank is fine, it's not like I just gave you the Miranda warning.
[ He smiled with an easy expression when he reached for the water bottle. Maybe hoping it would rub off on him. ]
Playing favorites is pretty mortal, ain't it? Can't blame you for wanting to hang out with someone who isn't either from the diocese or some irate parent.
No accounting for taste. [ Because Hank couldn't ignore the opportunity for self-depreciation. He tried to play it off by leaning casually against the bookshelf.
Only that immediately proved to be a disastrous move. On the top of the tall bookcase that spanned the wall was an old vase. Painted with the virgin Mary it looked like it was two things - expensive and about to topple off the shelf. Right onto Connor with how it was angled. ]
Shit! [ Hank wasn't exactly up to date with his physicals, but he was fast when he needed to be. In an instant, Hank was around the desk and hauling Connor out of the way of the falling vase.
The exact moment Hank had pulled Connor up and close to him - the vase shattered over the desk chair. ]
Jesus! [ Hank swore a second time. His hands still around Connor's arms. ]
[connor is about to protest that hank is maybe the best option that isn't in fact a disgruntled parent or fellow member of the church, but he doesn't quite get the chance in all the commotion. he sees it happen like a car stuck on the tracks as the bells sound and the guard rails are coming down--the train coming and nothing to stop it. the vase wobbles ominously (not his own, but it is definitely expensive) enough that he hears it before actually glancing up to see it. that's also partly because he's too busy looking at the way hank's jacket has shifted to the side, exposing the softness hanging over his waistline and belt, then up at his self-deprecating but still...distractingly handsome profile.]
Oh--oh no--
[his own voice sounds faraway like the haze of imagination rather than actually articulating much of anything right now. and moving--well, forget that, this spot is where he's currently frozen in place with wide eyes watching his fate grow more and more solidified. he'll either get a concussion or die of embarrassment, and that's just god's plan, apparently. at least until something else very firm slams into him, pulling close and reminding connor it has been...a very long time since he shared any semblance of human contact on this level. when's the last time he even had a hug for heaven's sake? he's certainly never felt the amount of warmth curling in his gut, or the bubbling of excitement and uncertainty in his chest floating around like champagne bubbles.
it's the smash of glass that has him jumping out of his daze, and by the time he's done that he realizes his hands are pressed against hank anderson's very firm (and yet somehow equally soft) chest and he's close enough to identify the precise shade of ocean blue in his eyes. not sapphire, not steel grey like his brother. he's close enough to see the slight uneven trim of his beard, to really take in the gap between his teeth--
to flush deeply, pink spots high on his cheekbones even as he doesn't do the right thing by pulling away. if anything he leans in closer, breathless as he looks up at the man he's so shamefully taking advantage of even if he doesn't know it within the confines of his own confused mind.]
You saved me, Lieutenant.
--Hank.
[he blinks languidly, and from this angle it must look stupidly coquettish with the flutter of his lashes and the way he bites his lip. they're so close now, his hands are still touching hank's chest--why is his body dead weight?]
I don't mind at all. [whether he means their current situation or his language is unclear.]
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("After he's confirmed then he can make his own decisions about religion." Had been her reasoning.) All things considered, it was a sight better than the dogmatic threatened-with-disownment approaching his folks had lovingly taken. At least the days of nuns wrapping knuckles with rulers for poor penmanship were over.
Not to mention private school came with the fringe benefit of never having to argue with a seven-year-old over outfits. Uniforms from here until graduation, baby. And it was a good school, Hank had to admit. Cole was already excited about the friends he was making and sports clubs he wanted to eventual join. For something to come out of bitter divorce, he couldn't really complain. Actually, yes he could.
The one caveat to Hank's revived participation in organized religion was whom more than one female parishioner of the churched dubbed Father What-a-Waste. The title wasn't entirely inaccurate, in fact, it was had such blinding accuracy that it was - frankly - pretty funny. At first.
When Cole had started school that autumn the excuses not to attend Sunday mass had dried up. When Father Connor came up to the pulpit for the first time, Hank about lost it. Hiding a chuckle in the crook of his arm to play off like a sneeze. Of course, it wasn't Con- Father Connor's fault when we all had to start somewhere. Still, it was hard to take the homily seriously from a priest so baby faced he could moonlight as an altar boy.
Then Hank had his first confession in...shit, he didn't even want to know how long. Father Connor was attentive, kind, and even appreciated Hank's Hankish sense of humor. It was the first time in a long time he didn't feel judged or like a fuck up. And in a church, no less.
Connor might not be worldly, maybe he even had a few screws loose, but he was good at what he did. Hank had realized after a few casual conversations, some shared jokes, moments of Hank's hand clapping over Connor's shoulder that...Connor was just good. For the school, the church, Cole, and for him.
The last one was a thought that left him lying awake on more that one occasion. The church biddies weren't wrong.
It really was a waste that a few sidelong glances and after-hours chats were always going to be partitioned by that black and white collar.
Why Hank was here had been innocent. He swears. His shift was shit; pulling double after making a break in a case that he had been doggedly pursuing for months. He only stopped by before going home to pay the babysitter was because he had meant to speak to Father Connor about volunteering for an upcoming church event.
Then he just finds himself standing there, flat-footed with his hands stuffed in his pants pockets. Tongue swelling to the size of a watermelon, choking the words out. To compensate for the awkward silence, Hank looks around the office before trying to casually play off a coy comment by saying: ]
Huh, guess God isn't big on personalized interior decorating.
no subject
he's experienced more sleepless nights now than he ever did his first nights at the seminary, and it's ridiculous how boyish he feels now than when he was an actual altar boy, wide-eyed and green behind the ears. at first it had been easy to write off as lingering fondness for cole, who connor can't call a favourite out of fairness to the rest of his class, but--is a very welcome and inquisitive addition. then it becomes an affection and admiration for the care a father has for his son, followed by the whole not-so-sordid tale of his divorce and the way hank is handling the aftermath with utmost dedication for preserving cole's childhood. connor isn't completely lost on the notion that cole (and hank) are likely not here by choice initially--religion, and catholicism in particular, is often a journey with plenty of slopes rather than an easy terrain.
but how can he not be grateful they're here all the same? connor had started to think he would be living out a lull of positivity and hope to inspire his parishioners into making the meaningful moments of their lives count moreso than the ones he wasn't experiencing himself. there was a certain solitude he'd come to accept when donning his collar, especially considering how sparse employment was at their small church and in his own rectory.
is it selfish to want to grow that connection to another human being? to feel a sense of belonging among another person?
(he knows the things that plague him when his close during the devil's hours of the morning--those are selfish--sinful temptations he wakes red-faced and shamed for even daring to dream of, subconscious or not).
and then hank asks to meet among the height of his conflict, and he can't deny it for any sane reason. he won't tell any white lies or fake an illness, or ask him to send an impersonal email or text. besides, seeing him in person will prove his strength of resolve. opening the door and having to tilt his gaze upward slightly just chips away at it, as does the casual tone and easy saunter to his step when he comes inside. if hank is experiencing any stage fright or awkwardness, connor can't see it--he feels like he's the deer frozen in the headlights, looking after this man with too-hopeful eyes and lips parted on platitudes that will never be honest enough.]
Oh--I, ah, I didn't have much to bring. And I didn't know if it was right to...take down all of Father Thompson's relics. And it felt...materialistic, in a way, to go shopping for it so immediately. i wouldn't want to give anyone the wrong impression for why I'm here.
[god, he's rambling. hank shouldn't care about any of this. he clears his throat, waiting with a hand absently tracing along the top of his desk.]
Is there anything I can get you before we get down to business, Lieutenant? [poor choice of words.] Water? Um--iced tea? [he looks a little sheepish for his small selection as he gestures for hank to take a seat opposite his desk.]
no subject
Or it just made him look weird. ]
Eh, guess this really wouldn't be a career choice for burgeoning hoarders.
[ Hank shrugged to play off the shudder at knowing every word he just said was the most dumbass thing to say in this situation. ]
Water'd be great. [ He said, taking a seat before he could express his astonishment priests even drank tea. Meaning maybe he could salvage this meeting. He thought, while awkwardly patting his hands on his knees. ]
Y'know, call me a neonate but anytime I come in here I feel I outta confess or something.
[ Or not. Fuck. ]
no subject
but hank...he doesn't do any of that. what he sees is what he gets. or...more accurately, can't get and recently has come to realize he wants, when he himself is being honest to his shameful desires.
he's grateful for a chance to turn around and compose himself a bit, retrieving a cold water bottle and setting it on the table so he doesn't take to heart any slight brushes of fingers, seeing as he's not sure he can handle any more little details to fixate on and replay during his free time. he sits back down behind his desk, pressing his palms together and leaning in attentively.
but as soon as hank speaks, his face drops completely.]
Ha--Lieutenant Anderson--I'm so sorry. I...
[does hank think he views him as someone sinful? does he think connor is expecting the worst from him, has he given the wrong impression? he has to stop himself from reaching out for him.]
I would never want you to think I'm judging you, or that I only want to see you in that context. [before he can stop himself, he awkwardly blurts out:] You're one of the only people whose company I prefer here.
[there's a startled lift of his brows in surprise at himself.]
I shouldn't have said that.
no subject
More than once, Connor reminded Hank of a cat who had its tail stepped on one too many times. Reticent and more than a little hesitant to relax around him. Only it was at odds with an almost painfully obvious Father Connor wanted to be friendlier. The problem was anytime the priest took a step in the right direction, he recoiled. As though he were gearing up for a hit.
Hank wouldn't claim to be an expert on what seminary school is like, but he was pretty sure they didn't train priests to be painfully shy and cut off. Alienating yourself seemed counterproductive to guiding ones flock, or whatever they called it. ]
Hank is fine, it's not like I just gave you the Miranda warning.
[ He smiled with an easy expression when he reached for the water bottle. Maybe hoping it would rub off on him. ]
Playing favorites is pretty mortal, ain't it? Can't blame you for wanting to hang out with someone who isn't either from the diocese or some irate parent.
No accounting for taste. [ Because Hank couldn't ignore the opportunity for self-depreciation. He tried to play it off by leaning casually against the bookshelf.
Only that immediately proved to be a disastrous move. On the top of the tall bookcase that spanned the wall was an old vase. Painted with the virgin Mary it looked like it was two things - expensive and about to topple off the shelf. Right onto Connor with how it was angled. ]
Shit! [ Hank wasn't exactly up to date with his physicals, but he was fast when he needed to be. In an instant, Hank was around the desk and hauling Connor out of the way of the falling vase.
The exact moment Hank had pulled Connor up and close to him - the vase shattered over the desk chair. ]
Jesus! [ Hank swore a second time. His hands still around Connor's arms. ]
Are you alright? Christ, that was on me.
[ The tips of Hank's ear flushed red. ]
Uh...pardon my language, father.
no subject
Oh--oh no--
[his own voice sounds faraway like the haze of imagination rather than actually articulating much of anything right now. and moving--well, forget that, this spot is where he's currently frozen in place with wide eyes watching his fate grow more and more solidified. he'll either get a concussion or die of embarrassment, and that's just god's plan, apparently. at least until something else very firm slams into him, pulling close and reminding connor it has been...a very long time since he shared any semblance of human contact on this level. when's the last time he even had a hug for heaven's sake? he's certainly never felt the amount of warmth curling in his gut, or the bubbling of excitement and uncertainty in his chest floating around like champagne bubbles.
it's the smash of glass that has him jumping out of his daze, and by the time he's done that he realizes his hands are pressed against hank anderson's very firm (and yet somehow equally soft) chest and he's close enough to identify the precise shade of ocean blue in his eyes. not sapphire, not steel grey like his brother. he's close enough to see the slight uneven trim of his beard, to really take in the gap between his teeth--
to flush deeply, pink spots high on his cheekbones even as he doesn't do the right thing by pulling away. if anything he leans in closer, breathless as he looks up at the man he's so shamefully taking advantage of even if he doesn't know it within the confines of his own confused mind.]
You saved me, Lieutenant.
--Hank.
[he blinks languidly, and from this angle it must look stupidly coquettish with the flutter of his lashes and the way he bites his lip. they're so close now, his hands are still touching hank's chest--why is his body dead weight?]
I don't mind at all. [whether he means their current situation or his language is unclear.]