Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Hollywood is the crowning jewel of the entertainment industry, a world where people seek fame and riches. 

Glitz, glamor, and beauty disguise the ugly truth of a fucked up industry that preys on the weak and desperate. 

The ones sitting pretty at the top know that success is temporary and fleeting. And just how damaging it can be when you’re usurped after clawing your way out of the trenches. 

Corruption and abuse permeate the business in every sector, and the longer you’re in the spotlight, the tougher it gets to escape, like a beast with its tendrils around you.

Hank knows this well.

In the 80s, Hank came to California with a dream and barely a dime to his name. He was hellbent on spending all his karma in a decade, living fast and dying even quicker. 

Now, 36 years later, he’s got a reputation and a sad summary.

Hank Anderson, 53, divorced single father employed by a private hiring agent.

Reflecting, he’s had a good run.

In his youth, Hank was a heartthrob with the first pick on all the roles he could dream of and a chance with all the pretty actresses of his time. Romance, adventure, comedy, and drama—he’d done it all and, in the process, made an unmatched name for himself. International recognition has his name at the top, which is forever etched into the Hollywood Walk of Fame. 

It was a whirlwind, going from set to set, with interviews galore. Now, his life sometimes plays in front of him like an old film. Snippets of time, visions in the background, and things that seemed so vital back then feel like nothing in the light of day. It’s all ghosts in the night vanishing in the rising sun. 

The contrast between his past and present is stark, a constant reminder of his decline.

These days, Hank has let himself go over the years, no longer the young heartthrob who gets to play the handsome hero. Grayed, worn out, and better suited for a parent, detective, or wise old man. 

Watching your glory fade to nothing but a flickering flame does things to a guy. And his mental health had been a fucked up mess for years now.

At least he’s off the drugs, but… 

Whiskey is the only vice left after years of screaming crowds worldwide. That and his dog Sumo, who seems just as annoyed with Hank as he is with himself. His grumbles and huffs are pretty telling.

Life has been steady, though. He plays a recurring role in a crime drama, earns his paycheck, and goes home to rot away—nothing new or exciting about a television series that’s been on for eons. 

Secrets of the Syndicate is running on fumes; it’s a dying story being murdered because it lacks anything new or exciting. It’s merely being carried by the loyal fanbase who watch the show more out of habit than genuine interest. Seventeen seasons later, Hank is simply biding his time and waiting for it to be taken off the air.

Then, his career will be just as dead.

Until the universe decides he’s been complacent for too long.

It’s two months before filming begins for the 18th—and likely last— season.

The director sells ownership of the series, and it’s taken up by a new hotshot trying to get his name out there. 

Hank is immediately pissed off, then less so when he meets the guy—he’s friendly and genuinely kind. Even if he’s as headstrong as a child who’s never fucked up.

Markus Manfred.

He’s mostly been on the other side of the camera lens, acting in various Broadway shows and movies. As a child, he was adopted by the world-famous painter Carl Manfred, which gave him a leg up and connections to make anything happen.

It’s easy to see how he’s made a name for himself. 

Markus is the sort of person anyone can acknowledge is attractive. He’s excellent at pitches, and Hank thinks his ideas sound great at first glance. 

That is, until things start changing, and his grumpy personality rears its ugly head. 

The first is mostly an etiquette thing.

Markus replaces everyone backstage. 

He had his own crew for hair and makeup, costumes, cameras, and lighting, and Hank had just started to accept the people he’d known for years. Coming in and gutting the whole staff is a way to make enemies, in his opinion, but he’s supposed to go in, act and let the director handle that shit. Granted, after so many decades in the industry, it started being his business long ago.

Hank still keeps his cool, even if he gives Markus some friendly “advice,” until massive waves of changes come to the script and his role. 

Including introducing a partner as a new main character.

He doesn’t want or need a shake-up; his character is doing well without a partner. He’s good, even if he isn’t quite what he used to be. Hank knows most actors can’t hold a candle to him. 

And the thing is, Hank is the type of classic actor no one wants to truly piss off; he can ruin careers in a phone call—which he’s undoubtedly done, though rarely. 

Most of the staff avoid him, only bothering him if they need to get him ready for a scene or tell him something urgent. He’s grumpy, demanding, and stubborn, with a gruff exterior. Hank is fine with that; he wants to be left alone. 

However, Markus is new to the scene, and Hank reasons that he needs to teach him a lesson about who he’s dealing with. 

Hank does this by threatening to quit. 

He shows up and tells Markus to his face, with an entitled chip on his shoulder, that he’ll leave if his character isn’t left mainly untouched. 

Most people would back down and beg him to stay. After all, he’s the longest, most consistent actor in the series to date and has the highest paycheck, too. 

But Markus is different from most people. 

He gets a severe frown, his mismatched eyes meet Hank's, and he tells him they aren’t changing the script. 

The tension in the room is palpable as Markus issues a blatant ultimatum—quit or deal with it. The silence that follows is deafening, each second stretching into eternity as Hank grapples with the decision before him. 

Hank has never been backed into a corner like this before. He's had a clear advantage in almost every other scenario throughout his career. Has his glory really faded to the point that a 20-something isn’t afraid of him anymore? Does he really have the courage to ruin Markus’ career over something like a script change? 

The truth is, he doesn’t.

Hank likes to be perceived as a hard man, the type who doesn’t take shit from anyone, but under it all, he has a bleeding heart.

In the weeks following, he kicks around the idea of quitting, but his agent—Jeffery Fowler—and long-time friend, threatens to beat his ass personally if he even tries. 

Mainly because both know if Hank quits this, it will be the final nail in the coffin for his career. 

He doesn’t have offers busting down his door to drag him on set, and he hasn’t auditioned for anything in at least four years. Hank comforts himself by lying, saying that’s what he wants, to be left alone in his mansion outside the city, where he can drink himself to death and be another face lost in a sea. Nobody who knows him personally will care anyway, right?

Yet, he’s been trying for the last five years to gather enough bravery to do that and fails every day. 

This is why he shows up on their first day of filming anyway.

The building is a bustle of activity. Laughter and chatter emanate a burning fire of energy Hank hasn’t witnessed in years. Markus is welcoming, cheerful, and enthusiastic. He introduces himself to everyone like a charismatic leader, not a director. But Hank is feeling grouchy today. 

All the noise of people enjoying themselves makes his brow twitch in irritation, and being touched for hair and makeup has him grunting in annoyance.

This will either be the last season, or it’ll be renewed with vigor, and Hank is always a glass-half-empty kind of guy.

He avoids the new kid as long as possible. 

The only thing Hank knows is his name—Connor Stern. He doesn’t even bother googling the name; it wouldn’t benefit him to know anything ahead of time anyway. An online presence can be curated nowadays like a finely tuned instrument.

They get Hank in costume, a simple button-up, slacks, shiny shoes, and a harness that serves no function but to look cool. They style his hair parted to the side, messy to perfection, and he stares at his new look. 

It’s sensationalized, making him more attractive to the masses, unlike anything else he’s worn recently. He begrudgingly admits he looks…well, good.  

They left his shirt undone enough to expose some of the chest hair, and he’s pretty sure people online will call him a DILF.

For the first time in years, he can see the man who used to make ladies swoon. 

Fuck, he doesn’t want to feel good about this.

Hank goes to set, reading over the scene one last time as he sits behind the cameras, blue eyes piercing as they scan the words he’s already memorized. Before he can get up to take his place, he’s ripped from his concentration by someone stepping into his space. 

Apparently , nobody warned the new guy. Hank hates being bothered when he’s doing anything . His shiny shoes appear in Hank’s vision, then a slightly raspy but boyish and friendly voice accompanies them. “Hello, I’m Connor. It’s nice to meet you finally.” 

Hank freezes, then slowly follows the shiny shoes up the length of Connor’s legs to his face.

His costume has him dressed nicely in slacks, a button-up shirt, a tie, and a blazer that hugs his slim figure perfectly.

Connor has a pretty face, too—no, a beautiful face. He has pale skin, freckles, defined cheekbones, hair cropped short and slicked back, and supple-looking lips.

Jesus, Hank has been lonely for too long; there’s no good reason to be looking at this stranger's lips.

Furthermore, Connor is the cause of his recent struggles; his attractiveness isn’t even relevant . 

Fuck North for dressing him in such a flattering suit, and fuck god for making his face goddamn beautiful. It only makes Hank harsher, so he doesn’t indicate his thoughts. Bury it all in rage, and no one can possibly know, right?

“Fuck off, leave me alone,” he says dismissively, returning to the script. The problem is that he’s distracted now, and the words might as well be a foreign language. He’s pissed about that, too, now. 

Connor drops the hand Hank didn’t even see he had extended, fixes his tie, and sighs so softly it’s almost imperceptible. “I want to talk to you before we get on set.”

Hank clenches his jaw, gritting his teeth as Connor’s voice grates on his nerves. It’d be a lot easier to focus if he didn’t have Connor yapping in his face. 

Hank shoves some hair behind his ear when it blocks his vision significantly. “Fucking Christ, Kid, what don’t ya understand about leaving me alone? Fuck off.”

Connor bends over until his hair nearly brushes against Hank's. His voice is scathing and careful like he’s scolding a child, and he needs to be extra articulate. “I don’t intend to allow you to ruin this show because you’re too immature to have a simple conversation with me.”

Hank sees red, hot rage skyrockets through his veins so quickly it blinds him. Before he knows it, he’s standing, and Connor whips up to avoid their heads colliding, his perfect hair falling over his forehead from the motion. 

Hank jabs him in the chest forcefully enough to hurt. Connor isn’t short by any means, but Hank has a few inches on him and likely some weight based on his slenderness. His voice raises enough to gain the attention of their colleagues. “Listen here, prick, I don’t need some fuckin nobody telling me how to act. So get the fuck on out of here.” He waves his hand in a random direction.

Hank sits with far more audacity than he should and fixes his script that got crumpled in his fist. 

As if Hank needs any more assholes who don’t fear him, Connor doesn’t run with his tail between his legs.

This surprises…well, the vast majority of the crew. 

Instead, he straightens the cuffs of his blazer and tilts his chin up as Hank squints at him in indignation. 

“I see,” Connor clicks his tongue and clasps his hands behind his back. “Then don’t give me something to say.” Satisfied, he turns on his heel with the confidence of a man who just got away with murder. His shoes click in the otherwise silent room all the way to the opposite side.

Hank was hoping to get a scared little kid.

But Connor? He’s going to be a problem. A big problem.

Chapter Text

Establishing himself past his childhood had been a challenge.

Before they were old enough to understand, the triplets were repeatedly pushed into the spotlight—anything that gave them more exposure on the screen and more connections with people in the business.

They did commercials, games, movies, and television shows while taking a backseat to people who were more established in the business—until they got a big break playing triplets in a Christmas movie. 

It was a making for the times, triplets who were cute, nearly identical, and talented. They could act their way out of a paper bag at the tender age of seven. But the movie thrust them into the deep end immediately. It became an international sensation, and over the years; a classic, too. 

Growing up with all eyes on him did a lot of things to him, some good and most awful , and Connor spent many, many years trying to please the public. 

Back then, he wasn’t a he, and the industry really just saw him as an object. 

He had to be thin, have a waist, but also have tits and an ass. He had to talk and walk a certain way, and if it weren’t for Amanda pushing him, he wouldn’t have stayed persistent. 

It was the only thing he was grateful she pushed him to do despite spending many nights reading sick commentaries about his body, wanting to be ordinary and forgettable. 

He fell into fucked up vices at a young age, and it was only worsened when he and Niles were signed with Disney. 

At the time, it seemed like the smart thing to do, after all, getting to act for a big name…

Wasn’t it any aspiring talent’s dream? It seemed that way for the first few months, but it turned upside down quickly.

Connor was unhappy with his life and knew a change was necessary to preserve his integrity.

At nineteen, he decided to make drastic changes for himself , not for anybody else. 

He came out and started officially transitioning, getting on hormone replacement therapy, dressing how he wanted, and changing his name. It was the blueprint for his brothers to follow, too.

They still wanted to pursue careers in the spotlight, but their mother was furious. He remembers her scolding stare as she told him he wouldn’t make it as a man and had destroyed his career overnight. 

It had led to a complicated and difficult relationship between them, and it had been challenging to remain close. Niles had hardly spoken to her in the last ten years, and Sylas had completely lost contact. 

Connor still wishes her a Happy Birthday or Merry Christmas, but it never goes beyond formalities. 

After moving to California from their childhood home in Michigan, they bought a penthouse together and went in different directions that fulfilled each of them individually. 

Twelve years later, Niles dabbles in music, where he met his now-husband. Gavin Reed owns a music label that signs some rather famous names. Connor has acted on Broadway and obscure films, while Sylas streams games inclusively. His boyfriend is an event coordinator for a large convention held in San Diego.

It works for them, but Connor never wanted to stay low-key and only appear in films shown at exclusive theaters; he wanted to make it big in movies, television, and anything else.

He’s still met a few great people on the way. 

Close to ten years ago, he met and grew close to Markus Manfred on the set of a Broadway show. Connor is naturally awkward and sometimes quiet, but he snagged a role in Rainbow Revolution as Markus’ love interest. 

At first, their relationship was strained and awkward, mainly thanks to Connor, but Markus has a way of bringing out the best in people, and this was no exception. They clicked in a way Connor had never experienced outside his brothers. Their chemistry on stage outshined every other actor, and Connor was charmed.

It only took them a few weeks to start talking outside of their performances, and it became abundantly clear in a short amount of time they had an unmatched sexual chemistry. 

It all exploded backstage after their first show, and they had desperate sex in Markus’ dressing room. It was memorable enough that ten years later, Connor still recalls how they’d barely stripped their costumes before he rode Markus on the couch like his life depended on it.

After several failed attempts at dating, they settled on friends with benefits. It works for them, even if it’s unconventional. 

At least until one or both of them get into a relationship. If only Markus would do something about his crush on Simon…

Nonetheless, Markus has been consumed with his new pet project, Secrets of The Syndicate, and crushes are the least of his worries.

It’s a crime drama Connor has only heard of because his grandparents watched it, and Hank was a lead in it. He’d seen some of it merely out of curiosity—and because he wanted to see Hank dressed in a uniform—but beyond that, he knew nothing about it. Markus got it when the producer sold the rights for bigger and better things. 

There was something about it running on fumes, and he didn’t want to stay for the network's inevitable cancellation. 

A month after Markus adopted the stray show, Connor casually came over to drink, read his books, and listen to him rambling or vent. While Connor drank wine and Markus droned on, Connor looked up when Markus voiced frustration over Hank's obstinacy. “Sounds like he needs to get laid,” Connor joked dryly. 

The next day, he got a suspicious text asking him if he’d want to audition for a part in, Secrets of the Syndicate.

Markus frantically apologized and explained it wasn’t so Connor could actually sleep with Hank. That was just a bonus perk if it happened.

Connor rolled his eyes but tried out anyway, even though he was doubtful an old series like this could be his big break. It’s also far from the range his fans expect of him.

Markus gave him the part and warned him more thoroughly about Hank’s shitty attitude.

Truth was, Connor had known of Hank Anderson since he was in middle school. He'd seen a movie where Hank played a lonesome cowboy and developed the worst, cringiest obsession with him. Even after he came out as a man, he couldn’t fight his own tastes—Hank had been his gay awakening, and that was only half of it. 

Starting to film side by side with someone he’d studied for hours to model his own acting over in his formative years, sounds about as good as stubbing his toe purposely.

Despite Markus’s warnings, Connor wasn’t expecting Hank to be a colossal dick, far worse than Markus had portrayed. 

Connor, who has endured years of being pushed around in the industry by people in all positions, is not about to bow down to some arrogant individual who believes his talent makes him superior. He is determined to stand his ground, even if it means confronting someone he once admired.

Hank is a fantastic actor with a reputation taller than the Eiffel Tower, but that doesn’t excuse his being a complete jerk.

Connor meant every word he said; he will criticize if Hank given a reason.

As they stand on the set for their first scenes, a place designed to look like a restaurant and bar, the atmosphere is charged with tension. The warm and accurate lighting adds to the dramatic energy, setting the stage for the unfolding conflict.

Once Connor is caught up on his script, his racing heart calms to a crawl, by the time they take their places, marked with x’s on the ground. 

In this scene, Connor’s character is trying to convince Hank to go to a scene of a homicide with him, and accurately, Hank wants nothing to do with it. At least they won’t need to pretend they’re best friends. Connor isn’t sure either of them are that great at acting.

Action! 

Hank proceeds through his interactions with just enough enthusiasm to avoid direct criticism from Markus for the first few takes, but Connor quickly loses his patience. Hank runs through his lines with the energy of a broomstick. Connor looks him in the eyes every time he pointedly says, “ Lieutenant,” until Hank starts to point blue eyes at Connor, sharp as knives.

Markus asks for a redo, but before he can offer advice, Connor eyes Hank with his chin pointed upwards, summoning the audacity. 

Hank is sitting at a table, and Connor is standing. Hank is scowling deeply, making the lines on his face more prominent; it makes him look older than 53. Actually, for a man in Hollywood, Hank hasn’t aged gracefully—bad habits affecting the quality of his appearance. Connor still thinks he’s rather handsome, but that withering crush inside him is being stomped out. It’s stirring an emotional tsunami inside him.

Hank swirls the glass of whiskey in his hand like he’s itching to down it, and Connor has an inkling that he will after the scene is finished.

“I intend to make good on my previous statement,” Connor says, planting a leather-clad foot on the seat next to Hank, leaning forward so he’s in Hank's space like last time. His voice is scathing, not unlike he’s speaking to a misbehaving animal. “I didn’t come here to wait until you feel like working, Lieutenant.” 

Hank’s lip curls up in a sneer, his posture stiffening as he revs up for another round of them going at each other’s throats, but before he can even snarl out a rebuttal, Markus shouts. It cuts into their bubble of building tension.

“Let’s go to break!”

Connor’s brown eyes linger on Hank's hunched-over form with frustration and confusion before he strides off without another word or glance backward. Markus follows him, catching up quickly and leaning close to whisper with the speed of someone panicking. “What are you doing? ”

“He’s acting like an entitled child, Markus,” Connor snaps as he adjusts his cuffs and grabs his phone to check for notifications. He has plenty, but nothing urgent. 

Markus looks him up and down as if he’s gauging Connor’s seriousness; whatever he finds, he sighs. “I’m proud of you, just don’t get punched.” 

Connor can’t resist a slight upturn of his lips. “I’ll do my best.”

The break serves them well. Connor gathers his composure, the shaking in his hands diminishing, and his pulse slowing to a normal rhythm. This is partly due to the fact that he steps into the restroom to take his anxiety medication and run his hands under cold water.

They reconvene after fifteen minutes. Hank looks less riled if his expression is anything to go by, and Connor feels a sense of controlled confidence.

Action!

Something about this time is different.

They connect like two live wires.

Once they start, they don’t stop, and their outside tension comes out in the exchanges as they meet each other’s demands. Connor sees it like a bar, pushing higher and higher, waiting for the other to crash and burn. Instead, it’s blow-for-blow and flawless retorts. The script flies out the window, but Markus doesn’t stop them. 

Connor isn’t used to this—improv isn’t his strong suit—but it’s easy to forget there’s a camera rolling as they keep going. It’s been a decade at least since Connor felt such a dramatic energy in his veins. The connection is pushing him just the way he likes, he hasn’t had this level of success with anyone since…

…since he met Markus.

The aftermath in the studio is a deafening silence. An entire room of people is stunned by what they watched and filmed. Connor is in the same process because he expected their acting to be strained after their first few interactions.

As the adrenaline rush and sense of achievement from the intense scene course through his veins, Connor is reminded why he loves acting. The emotional high he experiences is addictive, and if he could replicate it in every scene, he believes acting would be even more compelling.

Markus grins like a madman, and Connor swells with pride—if Markus is happy, it must be great. His friend has high standards for himself and his projects, so they’ve done more than enough if they satisfy him. 

What Connor has gotten from this, is that if Hank actually tries, he’s got what launched him into fame all those years ago—charisma, skill, and talent, so why is he putting in so little effort? Connor doesn’t understand. 

Has Hank lost his spark for acting? 

The idea is simple yet heartbreaking. A man of Hank’s reputation no longer wanting what he’s spent years cultivating sounds disheartening.

The big issue is that Connor has his own feelings boiling over about this encounter, and none of them are conducive to being empathetic. Even if that is the case, Hank shouldn’t be taking it out on everyone else. 

Connor looked up to Hank for most of his life, only to be—

—be sorely disappointed and treated poorly by the person he admired. 

Hank doesn’t care about acting as much as he does about getting what he wants. And Connor is hurt. 

He pushes that aside as Hank downs the whiskey with a blank expression. He doesn’t seem to care or celebrate how well the scene went. Even when Markus directly praises him, Hank presses his lips into a tight line and nods before walking away.

The rest of the day isn’t much better, at least between scenes. They get through a lot more together, but Hank still lacks emotion. He snaps and scolds Connor, and Connor retorts every statement.

By the end of their first day of filming, Connor is as annoyed by Hank as he was at the start of his day but worn down and upset, too. He ignored the ache in his chest all day, and as he gets out of his costume into his casual clothes, he finds it difficult to piece together his thoughts and feelings.

The button-up, turtleneck, and jeans provide some comfort in their familiarity, but that’s the only peace he finds.

Connor spies Hank standing in simple jeans and layered shirts, looking effortlessly attractive. Connor’s thoughts complicate matters further.

It’s hard to marry the two men in his head—Hank, the actor he watched all his life, who is an abstract concept, and the real person, who is a sad, broken man that takes his shit out on anyone who happens to be in his warpath. He’s attractive, but so much of a dick it doesn’t matter. 

Hank is reading through the script when Connor joins him. This time, he looks over Connor immediately and grunts the second their gazes meet. “What the hell do you want, Kid?”

Connor bristles at the nickname and straightens up, clenching his jaw. His fingers twitch, itching to fidget. “First of all, I’m not a kid ; second of all; I want to know why you’re being an asshole—are you awful to everyone you meet?”

Hank has the audacity to laugh, throwing his head back as the sound echoes slightly with the sheer volume. “Are you a nosy prick to everyone you meet? I don’t think we’re that different, Kid.”

Connor’s shoulders tighten as he considers this earnestly. 

He had contributed to the tension between them, there was no way around it. Connor knew he was on the defense because of his past, but did he really start it? No, but he’d kept it going. He averts his eyes. “Your first words to me were “ fuck off,” he points out, voice sharp despite being unable to meet Hank’s gaze.

Hank looks too self-satisfied if his smirk is anything to go by. “So it was, huh? Have your goddamn crisis somewhere else, Kid. If this is your idea of an apology, it’s shitty, and frankly, I’m not sorry.”

Connor’s eyes dart up to lock onto Hank, and he feels his reality bend. Hank has turned the room upside down.

All the years he’d spent watching Hank on screen, his compassion, joy, love, and sweetness under a gruff exterior wasn’t Hank. In fact, it was precisely what it should have been, even in interviews. 

It was acting . 

Connor feels so stupid that he fell for it like everyone else. That false charm and carefully crafted personality. 

It’s like someone looked at critical parts of Connor’s entire persona and took a sledgehammer to it, shattering everything into millions of pieces. 

He isn’t sure if he wants to scream or cry, or something else entirely, but he knows whatever reaction he’s going to have…he doesn’t want Hank—this faux hero—to see it.

“I hate you,” Connor proclaims between gritted teeth, no different than a teenager wronged by their parents. He feels kind of like that right now. 

He is betrayed and tricked.

Hank looks suddenly worn. That smirk falls from his face, and he sighs long and suffering, the lines carving his face deep and his circles so much darker, “Me too, Kid.”

Connor storms off like he’s being chased by the physical manifestation of his demons, grabbing his keys and bag to rush to his car. He ignores Markus calling to him and the paparazzi bombarding him outside with camera flashes and shouts and getting into his personal space. He shoves his way through the crowd and drives out of the lot. His mind is full of static and focused only on escaping the microscope pointed at him.

As he races down the highway to home, he drowns himself in loud music and wants to scream.

A sense of anger courses through him, white and blinding.

Fuck Hank, fuck him.

He won’t be torn apart by a man who wants to drag everyone down with him. Connor's resolve is unwavering, a testament to his resilience in the face of adversity.

Connor has dealt with worse—so much worse. His past struggles have only made him stronger, a fact evident in his every action and word.

This won’t stop him in his pursuit of fame.

Chapter Text

When Connor gets home after his first day of filming, his brothers are gone hanging out with their boyfriends, and he’s alone. 

Connor changes into something comfortable, trying to cope in a way that feels good and healthy . It only works a few minutes before he resorts to drinking. 

Ultimately, after several shots and a cup of wine, his intense urge to be petty overwhelms the logical side of his brain and finds himself in their backyard with a box of shit. It’s a manifestation of his pent-up emotions. 

Inside are posters, DVDs, pictures and even a bottle of cologne—all things he collected throughout the years related to Hank.

A signed poster, a symbol of his admiration, fills him with intense betrayal. He burns it first, followed closely by other magazine clippings and photos of Hank. He used to be a Hank connoisseur if he’s being honest; Connor owned everything he could get his hands on because he liked Hank so much. 

Now, the once cherished items are fuel for his anger and disappointment.

Connor can’t believe how stupid he was. 

Of course, he knows Hank’s intention was to fool his audience, so to feel bad for falling for it isn’t so dumb after all, but it doesn’t matter. Even if Hank is the one in the wrong here, it doesn’t help Connor feel any better.

Connor, in a state of inebriation, shatters the DVDs and empties the cologne down the sink. Seeking solace, he attempts to watch movies featuring actors he genuinely admires that haven’t disappointed him, but his efforts are in vain as he drinks and eventually succumbs to sleep, only to be awakened by the sounds of his brothers' return. 

He’s cuddled up, warm under a blanket, glasses shoved uncomfortably on his face by his arm that’s acting as a pillow. The urge to go back to sleep is overwhelming, he almost just rolls over to bury his face in the couch cushions, but refrains. 

It sounds like Nines and Gavin.

He sits up, hair a frizzy mess, eyes barely open to see the movie must have ended a while ago and is on a screen asking him about ratings. He shuts off the television instead, waiting for the noise of footsteps and chatter to reach him. 

Suddenly, he’s blinded by the main light being turned on and groans, shielding his eyes from the onslaught that makes his head pound. “Jesus Christ,” Gavin blurts out, looking at Connor lying on the couch looking like a gremlin, surrounded by a bottle of vodka and Pinot Noir with an empty shot and wine glass. 

Nines sees him next, but simply rolls his eyes and goes into the bedroom. “Looks like you had a fun day.”

Connor grunts, both from how intoxicated he is and how flashbacks play through his mind like a broken record. He clumsily drags himself up, blanket thrown haphazardly around his body. “I’m going to bed.”

“That bad, eh?” Gavin doesn’t seem to have any real interest in how his day went, but Connor is used to this behavior from both of them. 

Gavin is a well established example of how you can be an asshole and have a successful career and Nines has always been the best of the triplets—taller, more talented and most versatile. His voice is powerful and impressive. When they were competing for roles, he got all the attention.

Their relationship, once strong in childhood and tolerable in adolescence, has now soured into a bitter rivalry. Connor makes efforts to support Nines, but constant rejection dampens his spirits and makes it hard to care.

When Connor passes the bedroom Nines is in, his brother leans into the doorway. “Don’t forget about taking your boyfriend.” He points to the wine rack and Connor shoves him before going into his room and flipping onto his bed. 

They know he had a bad day, right? Or maybe they don’t, considering drinking is his go to for everything. 

He falls asleep with too many thoughts in his head, not even caring enough to do his nightly routine. 

It isn’t the first and it won’t be the last time he skips it. Even if he’s internally scolding himself—if nothing else he should be maintaining his appearance. It’s his everything and the older he gets, the harder it’ll be to keep himself in tiptop shape. 

But tonight, he’s wallowing, his usual discipline slipping in the face of his emotional turmoil. 

The next day at work, Connor is quieter. He keeps to himself because he doesn’t feel like talking a lot since he’s hungover, which he’s not proud of. Simon does his makeup without saying much, mostly because he tried to ask Connor how he was going and he said, “ terrible, next question.”

The set is bustling, but Connor's ibuprofen isn’t kicking in fast enough, exacerbating his anxiety. As he wriggles, he retrieves his best fidget toy—a quarter. What started as a fun hobby has now become an almost soothing activity. He focuses on rolling the quarter between his knuckles, unable to muster the reflexes for much else today. 

The cool metal and motions helps his heart rate slow down and his anxiety levels lower. 

They dress him up and he reads through the script, internally preparing for lines he’s already ran through a few times himself. 

Confronting Hank after their altercation feels like torture to Connor. As the hours and minutes have ticked away Hank has grown 10 ft tall in his mind. He dreads it until they’re on set together, Hank sitting behind the same desk as before. Seeing that he’s unchanged from yesterday eases Connor’s mind.

Hank isn’t anymore menacing than other difficult actors Connor has worked with in the past. 

That doesn’t mean Connor doesn’t notice that, despite his attitude, he’s still unfairly attractive. It only serves to annoy Connor though. 

They don’t speak to each other before the camera is rolling, then they’re awkward and tense on the first take. 

This one isn’t just on Hank.

Even Connor is stiff and curt, which isn’t exactly what they’re going for, even if it is understandable.

He takes a few minutes to roll his neck and do some warmups, then they reconvene and he focuses on how Hank frowns at the desk like it’s his worst enemy. 

Connor wonders what’s running through his head. Probably something about, “ I can’t believe I have to work with this asshole.”  

Feeling is mutual.

It’s a simple scene where Connor’s character is trying to motivate Hank's to accept him as a partner. The writers’ at least wrote in the struggle they’re going through outside their acting, specifically, dealing with someone they don’t want to. It makes the whole situation a little more tolerable even if they’re projecting.

Action!

It goes well, Connor storms into the office and starts telling him about a case, then explains why they both should be going to the scene. Hank tells him pointedly he doesn’t want help and Connor might as well agree to a transfer to another police station.

He knows his line is supposed to be “I don’t have any interest in going to another station.” But instead, something else entirely slips out, with full emotion. 

“Nice try, Lieutenant,” he says defiantly, his shoulders squaring as he addresses both Hank and his role as Lieutenant. “But you’re not getting rid of me that easily.” 

This defiance stems from the tension between them, a mix of professional rivalry and personal differences.

Hank has to be confused why he changed his line, but he doesn’t miss a beat. It's that raw talent and perfectly honed skill he doesn’t use often, his ability to read people and situations with precision and act accordingly. 

He pauses in gathering the papers strewn on the desk and makes eye contact. “I can’t tell if you’re dumb or stupid, Son. Either way, I don’t want your help.”

Connor’s eyebrow twitches against his will and he steps forward to hold Hank’s gaze as he grabs a missed paper to add to the stack he’s fixing. “Whether you want my help or not, others around you see otherwise, Lieutenant. So we might as well make the best of our circumstances, don’t you think?” Connor tilts his head slightly with a sarcastic smile. 

“Fucking christ,” Hank grunts, his eyes are incredibly blue in this lighting and Connor feels his heart rate speeding up for a different reason than anger. “You’re gonna piss me off, you know that?”

Connor smiles and leans back on his heels. “The feeling is mutual, Lieutenant. I’ll see you at the crime scene in 15 minutes.” With that, he strides out of the doorway and the scene ends. 

Connor lets out a loud sigh and glances at Markus for approval. When he sees the huge grin on Markus's face, he’s relieved. Approval, especially from someone he respects, holds a significant place in Connor's life.

Connor gets a sip of water and Hank grumbles about despite the way Markus is handling the bickering. He won’t intervene unless it goes too far; he knows things like this are better for them to work out on their own. It’s also way too many personal issues for him to successfully navigate and he knows it. 

The ongoing conflict with Hank, a result of their clashing personalities and professional differences, is emotionally draining for Connor. The rest of the day is a repetition of the same, with Hank maintaining his silence and Connor not making any effort to bridge the gap. It’s a situation that's taking a toll on both of them, affecting their work and personal lives already.

Connor finds himself going to his next best thing to alcohol and he pops a couple Xanax before going inside his home and eating dinner. By the time he’s halfway through his meal, he doesn’t care much about anything. 

The troublesome relationship with his brother and Hank seem so far away they’re on mars. 

He likes this light, careless feeling, do most people live feeling this calm and unbothered all the time?

No wonder the world is run by neurotypicals.

There’s a level of monotony for the next few days, which is better than being full of drama like the first day he started, but Connor doesn’t like it. It feels like something is on the edge of happening that he isn’t fully aware of. He’s unable to fully relax as they go about scenes and pretend everything is fine. 

Thankfully, the rest of the crew is truly awesome, even the other actors are amazing and welcoming. Chris Miller, Ben Collins... Even if Connor is a quiet person by nature, they’re easy to get along with. 

Both have worked with Hank for awhile and don’t seem as surprised as one would hope by his behavior. But their camaraderie and acceptance is comforting to Connor.

At one point, he joins them for lunch and as they’re eating, Ben says, “You really put Hank in his place. Not gonna lie, it was about time someone did.”

They’re sitting in Ben’s trailer. It's not big, but it has a space for a kitchenette, some arcade games, a television and a couch. Chris and Ben are on the couch eating and Connor is perched on the countertop. 

He can’t say it’s shocking to hear about Hank’s reign of terror, but it doesn’t thrill him to find out his former hero has always been an asshole. 

“I didn’t come here to whip him into shape or anything. Are you telling me Hank has always been this way?” They exchange a meaningful look and Connor can tell they’re debating whether to give him more information. He’s just starting to build relationships with them, so he’s a little surprised when they do.

“No,” Chris says, shaking his head. “It’s not really my place to say, but…”

“He’s depressed, don’t lie to him,” Ben cuts in. 

Connor tenses up—he’s been so wrapped up in his own narrative he hadn’t considered Hank might be dealing with his own mental health. It seems obvious now that they’ve given him the information. He thinks about the looks he’s seen on Hank's face and depressed is definitely a word for it.

He also flashes back to that first night almost a week ago now. 

“I hate you.”

“Me too, Kid.”

Connor cringes. 

He comes back to the present where Chris and Ben are bickering about whether they should have told Connor that or not. He sighs, staring at the fruit and salad left on his plate. It’s suddenly less appetizing now. 

He hops off the counter and tosses the rest of his food. “Thanks for inviting me to lunch,” he says, silencing them both. With that, he leaves and goes back to set. 

People are starting to trickle back into the space.

Connor leans against the wall and observes people. Mostly, he laments on Hank’s trailer. 

In the time he’s been working, no one has ever gone inside, except Hank himself. In fact, they walk around it, giving the impression it’s forbidden to even touch the exterior. They give it a wide berth. Even Markus hadn’t gone near it. 

As their lunch break approaches an end, Hank doesn’t come out right away; in fact, Connor is starting to think he won’t when they only have five minutes remaining.

Then Hank finally emerges, he looks the same as before, if not worse. His eyes are glassy and he moves like everything is a chip on his shoulder. There’s no confidence in his gait, only anger. 

He glances around the room and lands on Connor, who immediately averts his eyes, realizing he got caught staring. With any luck, Hank will assume he’s targeting him and not that Connor is concerning himself with Hank's humanity. 

Or checking him out. The latter is actually better than the former in this case.

He tries to pretend he didn’t hear any of it, but ultimately, Connor sees Hank as less of a demon, and more a sad, angry man. His empathy for Hank's struggles begins to overshadow his initial disdain.

Connor knows this industry is a bloodbath, people are taken advantage of, chewed up and spit out. That line of thinking leads him to a night of self-reflection and flashbacks to the poorest years of his life. 

Maybe he’s depressed too, Connor doesn’t know what’s wrong with him anymore. All he knows is that when he’s thinking too hard about himself, he’s got such a mixture of emotions that it leads to a night of drinking or getting high.

When he’s drunk or high, sometimes both , he doesn’t have to feel anything or think about how his life has shaped up.

He wonders if that’s how Hank feels, too.

Chapter Text

The days bleed into each other. It’s an endless drumbeat of time that Hank is used to. Years of depression ended the excitement of his fame with a swift kick to the head within only a few years under his belt. Being torn in so many directions as he was then left him disconnected from himself and the world.

This time isn’t much different, but Hank finds it routine to focus on what’s most important: his acting. 

Acting is the only thing he’s had any motivation for the last few years; the only crowning jewel on the pile of shit his life has become. Most days are the same old, same old; even though Markus has rewritten things and Hank has to put in more effort, it’s still a situation he’s been in many times before. 

What is new is that he’s enjoying acting again.

For the first week, it’s easy to pretend everything is exactly the same. And the next…and the one after that. Then, in the fourth week, he wakes up, eats breakfast, gets dressed, grooms himself, and takes Sumo for a stroll around his property.

It’s a breath of fresh air, or as fresh as it gets in California.

Hank owns around 20 acres in a secluded neighborhood outside Hollywood that affords him a level of privacy and security he cherishes. He has a small lake, trees surrounding his home, and a dock with a boat. He’d never been a fan of yachts, but a small boat he can fish in? That’s perfect. Flashy never was his thing.

He does own a private jet, too, but that’s only because, early on, that was a necessity given how often he had to fly on short notice. Not to mention, someone of his caliber wasn’t safe boarding with the general public.

Yet, leaving his house isn’t what gives Hank pause. 

It’s as he’s throwing a ball for Sumo that it hits him. 

This seems mundane, but he hasn’t been out in months for something that wasn’t work-related. Much longer if he doesn’t count going out drunk…

Hank could claim the changes to his character, and the series have given him hope that the show will stay on the air. He toys with that being the biggest reason, but even as he tries to fool himself, he knows that’s not the primary one.

No.

He’s enjoying acting because he’s acting with Connor. 

Sure, his manager has tried to motivate him for years and Jeff is a great guy—hell, Hank considers him his best friend—but Jeff doesn’t push him. He’s complacent in Hank being a depressed piece of shit and accepts that as fact. Yeah, it’s great to know their friendship won’t dissolve over Hank’s mental illness, but…

Connor pushes him. 

He’s the first person in years to even attempt to get Hank’s head out of his ass. And while it is annoying and unasked for, it’s obviously working despite his own denial and reluctance. They’ve only been working together for nearly a month, and Connor has already affected him this much?

This isn’t the first time someone has tried to help Hank, so why is this so different?

Truth is, Hank thinks Connor sees in him what he used to be—a man with skill and talent who knew how to apply it. And when Hank falls short, mainly out of effort? Connor is quick to criticize him and push him even harder. It’s like being slapped in the face and asked, “Do you want to lose everything you’ve fought tooth and nail for?”

Most people gave up when Hank was resentful or resistant. And even though he’s not in the best headspace, Hank can firmly say no; he doesn’t want to lose everything. 

He might not be able to regain his son’s love or his ex-wife’s attention, but acting is something he’s always had going for him.

Because Connor hasn’t just given up, suddenly, trying some days doesn’t sound so bad. 

Today, they have to film a few emotionally charged scenes. Hank usually doesn’t give a fuck and does whatever the script says, to a point. 

For once, he stays and watches the scenes he’s not in. Mainly because he wants to see what Connor is made of. 

Hank has watched a lot of good actors choke up during challenging scenes because pulling off incredible roles is so much harder than rookies think. 

It’s about every little detail of your body; the expression is only a small fraction of what brings the energy. He also has to make it look good and sound compelling with posture, movements, and subtle gestures.

He’s seen Chris, Ben, and their regulars act, and they’re good enough to earn a base level of respect and money, but Hank fiddles with his phone while they’re filming. It seems like ages before Connor is up on the chopping block. 

He’s wearing an immaculately done outfit: a sweater, trench coat, and slacks. They cinch at just the right places and emphasize his waist and long legs. His face is a concentrated furrow of his eyebrows and a determination in his dark eyes. Even this, he shakes off, rolling his neck, and then a series of inhales and exhales while staring at his shoes.

Connor’s character is experiencing his first loss of someone he knows and loves: a parent. In this scene, he’s informed, so his reaction is everything; in fact, it’s the scene's focus. 

Action!

He’s standing and sorting through some reports on a set meant to be an interrogation room. This would have been a tough day of grilling a suspect, and he plays the worn-out card skillfully by the exhausted lines on his face.

As Chris comes in and breaks the news, Connor expresses everything without saying a word. The tension as he waits for the news to be broken is palpable, and when he weeps, it’s heartfelt and painful. He falls apart so well that Hank’s fatherly instincts go haywire, telling him to comfort Connor. 

Of course, he doesn’t because it’s just acting, but it invokes an intense feeling in his body that’s hard to resist.

There are very few dry eyes by the time they’re done, and Connor exhales loudly, cleaning himself up. 

Hank watches the clip from different camera angles, but there’s nothing he can critique. With a trembling lip and hands balled in fists at his sides, Connor cries with such convincing emotion that it makes the viewer’s heart ache. 

Needless to say, Hank is actually impressed. 

It’s been a long time since someone impressed him with their acting. It’s rare enough that he sits digesting this, glancing over the screens to where Connor is sitting, talking to Chris and Ben while sipping water. 

At least he knows Connor isn’t talking out of his ass; he actually has the skill to be giving people advice on their own performance. 

Hank gets up to prepare since he’s up next. 

The concept is that they both experience hardship simultaneously and bond over their shared grief.

After this, most of their filming will be on-site in Texas for a while. Hank wonders what it will be like with Connor but decides not to think too hard about it before the scene.

Hank’s character denies needing a partner or help and continues to be stubbornly independent.

For a change, Hank runs through his lines and gestures, a practiced technique he’s learned over so many years. It’s like running through a checklist at this point. 

Connor is standing before him, receiving the emotions in his rehearsal.

By the time he’s finished, Hank is out of breath, waiting for Connor to respond with his expected line. 

Or whatever else he spits out when he surprises Hank yet again. 

“That’s it?”

Hank sees red and, in a flash, grabs Connor by the collar of his shirt and lifts him off the ground. Connor’s eyes widen and fill with a hint of fear, but a challenging squint quickly replaces it. “What the fuck do you mean, “ that’s it,” you goddamn prick?”

The set is eerily silent for a room full of at least twenty people. Tense as a guitar string. 

All eyes are on them.

Markus stands and strides onto the set, but Connor holds out a hand to stop his approach. The look of surprise on his face gets a glance from Hank. This kid really is stupid. 

Hank pins Connor to the wall. “You’ve got some balls fucking around with me.”

“I’m not afraid of you.” Connor doesn’t even fight to get out of his grasp. Instead, he leans close enough. Hank gets a strong whiff of his minty breath and musky cologne. “I told you, if you don’t want me to criticize your work, don’t give me a reason to .” The words leave his mouth with a sharp knife of conviction.

Hank drops him and backs up, pinching the bridge of his nose as Connor fixes his clothes. 

Markus looks between them, and Hank waves him off. “I’m not gonna break him, Christ almighty.” With a sigh, Hank returns to his seat, and Markus warily leaves the set, giving both of them warning glares.

Connor resumes nagging Hank. “It’s like you’re reading off a script in your head,” he says. “I know you can do better than that. Your character feels isolated and lonely but stubbornly keeps hurting himself. Think about those things.”

Hank stares at his shiny shoes, and his mind runs through the words.

Lonely, stubborn, isolated, and unwilling to break self-destructive habits. 

That sounds too close for comfort. But if Connor wants emotion, it’s emotion he’ll get.

Hank motions Connor to step out of the room so they can start the scene again. 

Action!

It plays out as it should; Connor enters, and his character demands to know why Hank’s didn’t ask for help on the case that nearly killed him. Hank stays silent like he’s supposed to, but it’s more than just a matter of script.

His mind is running through his history like he’s rewinding a tape. 

His divorce, his fall from grace, his drinking habits, his lonely nights at home with Sumo. Hank sees himself holding that revolver and how he’s not ballsy enough to pull the trigger but too stubborn to connect with the people who love him. 

He sees the last time Cole agreed to visit him and told Hank he didn’t want a cowardly hypocrite for a father and wouldn’t be back until he showed real change.

Connor is delivering his line when Hank snaps. “Shut up,” he says. 

Connor opens his mouth, and Hank screams so loud he trembles. “Shut up!”

A silence echoes through the room, deadly and telling. They all look shocked. Connor’s eyes are wide, eyebrows up and tilted in concern, but Hank just sees his broken life before him like fractured glass.

He steps until they’re toe to toe. “Don’t you think I know I’m a stubborn jackass no one wants to deal with? Goddamn, I don’t need you to remind me that nobody here wants to deal with me.” He motions around dramatically with both his arms, thinking of everyone who passes him off to avoid him.

Connor falters, finally, that confidence of his waivers in the face of genuine emotion pouring out of Hank. “Even you can’t handle me, so quit acting like you want to. You don’t fucking know me. And you never will if I don’t let you, but don’t you think I know that?” He’s spitting the words now, walking Connor closer and closer to the wall. “I’m aware of how shitty I am, believe it or not. Pretty damn unbelievable!” Connor is crowded against the wood; Hank can see the emotions playing through his eyes: shock, fear, and what? That looks like worry.  

He should be worried.

Hank’s voice falls and cracks. “I can’t—change this, 'cause I hate myself, so just leave like everyone else, Son.” With that, Hank strides out the door.

Markus yells cut, but no one moves.

Except Hank. 

He glances at Connor, feeling hopeless and every bit the asshole he knows he is. “I hope you’re happy,” he says, voice thick with sorrow. Then he’s gone, making a beeline to his trailer.

It’s so quiet; the clank of his trailer door shutting is like a finality.

Chapter Text

The first thing said after Hank’s dramatic departure is Markus ordering everyone to take a thirty-minute break. 

Connor has to admit that they all need it after that, but especially Hank. 

He replays the scene on the screens, and it’s fantastic. The emotions it evokes are exactly what Markus was going for. The viewer can feel all of Hank’s emotions in their raw form: sadness, isolation, self-hatred, and anger. It jumps out of the screen, and Connor’s genuine reactions aren’t off-kilter with how someone would expect his character to behave. Thank god, it would have been very bad if they didn’t because it would require redoing the scene. Which is obviously out of the question. 

But there's one glaringly huge problem:

Connor pushed Hank too far.

In Connor’s attempt to get that spark back in their scenes, he pushed Hank to the breaking point .  

At least the suspicion that Hank is depressed has definitely been confirmed, but it’s clear this is so much worse than Chris or Ben suspected.

That anger and self-hatred is real. Hank genuinely believes no one cares about him, and it’s all his fault. 

Connor doesn’t know everything there is to know about Hank—especially on a personal level—but the longer they work together, the harder it is for Connor to see him as a one-dimensional douchebag. It’s obvious there’s a serious self-loathing and anger problem from the heavy cloud of depression hovering over him.

Hank has a lot of issues, and Connor can relate to them, unfortunately. 

Maybe if they were only working with each other for a movie, Connor wouldn’t care, but they’re filming twelve-hour days three times a week for the rest of the year. As it is, their working relationship is in shambles, and any neutrality they have for them is gone. And truthfully, Connor can’t blame Hank entirely, and Hank can’t blame Connor entirely. They’ve made a combined effort to make each other miserable the last month.

They can’t stay this hostile; eventually, they’ll need to get along on camera, and there’s no way they’ll be able to capture a genuine connection if they remain at each other’s throats.

Connor debates his course of action, chewing on his lip and bouncing his leg. 

Over the last month, he’s never seen someone disturb Hank in his trailer, especially after an outburst. It’s probably a really stupid idea to bother him while he’s in there. But they need to talk without all their colleagues involved—just a one-on-one conversation. It’s been 15 minutes anyway; Hank has probably cooled down by now, right? 

Hopefully.

If what Hank said is true, he hates himself too much to try and change things, so Connor has to be the bigger man and extend an olive branch. He’s probably going to end up regretting this, but he has to at least try.

With the confidence of a man who is willing to walk straight into hell, Connor makes a pathway over wires and through people to Hank’s trailer. The crew is watching him in concern and disbelief. 

He’s glad he left the blazer off to the side because he’s warm and anxious as he clears his throat and knocks squarely on the metal door.

Everyone nearby quickly evacuates the blast zone—they don’t want to get caught in the crossfire. Markus sends him a cautious frown but doesn’t stop him. 

Connor appreciates being left alone.

Only Hank doesn’t answer. 

Connor feels himself starting to sweat. Does he really have the audacity to knock again?

A swift glance around the set at the waiting eyes of their coworkers gives him the courage to knock again. 

He can’t back down now, there are too many witnesses.

He’s not even finished with his fifth knock when the door is shoved open. “Who the fuck—“ Hank cuts off, an angry scowl on his face. The way his face is scrunched up shows his still lingering rage and annoyance.

They make eye contact, blue to brown. Connor opens his mouth to speak and—

Hank tries to shut the door.

“Wait—“ Connor scrambles up the couple of steps separating them to shove his arm and leg in the way. Which causes Hank to nearly break his bones trying to slam the door on him. His limbs explode in pain. “Ow, ow, ow!” Connor winces and nearly stumbles to the ground.

At least Hank doesn’t shut the door. 

“Jesus Christ, that was stupid. Are you kidding me…” he grumbles but looks Connor over like a parent checking if their kid is seriously injured. When he deems Connor isn’t going to keel over immediately, Hank sighs in exasperation. “Just come in, and don’t give me that look.” He points accusingly, but Connor has no idea what he’s talking about. Puppy dog eyes, maybe?

But Hank allows Connor into the trailer and shuts the door behind him, and that’s his focus.

It’s a lot nicer than any of the ones Connor has ever been in before; in fact, he’s never seen anything like it. 

Yeah, the trailer looks huge from the outside, but the inside is…luxurious; that’s the best word he can think of. It’s all browns and beiges, warm oranges and reds; it’s cozy, like walking up to a warm fireplace. There’s a television dominating an entire wall , a large leather couch, a kitchenette, booths, and a table. A curtain covers the back area, but Connor assumes it leads to a bedroom. The whole space is homey and comfortable. It even has wood floors and a large bookcase.

Connor wasn’t sure what he was expecting, but this wasn’t it. 

There’s even a liquor cabinet. 

Hank was clearly set up on the couch before he was interrupted because there is a drink and an ashtray on the coffee table. Hank is carrying around a cigar, and it has the pungent odor of something sweet and smoky with a hint of coffee ? Connor knows nothing about cigars to know if that’s normal.

In his time, he’s only tried vapes and traditional cigarettes. Vapes are really the only thing he can tolerate. 

Somehow, the hazy and warm smell fits Hank’s overall personality. 

A small part of him he can’t seem to kill is violently memorizing any tidbits he can gather about Hank Anderson, one of the biggest actors of his time. He’s a household name. Connor remembers his grandparents and, cringy enough, even his own mother used to be enraptured by Hank’s charm. 

For a moment, he’s pinned by all these new sights, smells, and feelings, then he gathers himself. “Sorry, this place is really impressive.”

So many people would kill to be in his shoes right now. 

“Oh, this?” Hank makes an off-handed motion as he looks around the trailer. “Had it custom made, it’s pretty comfortable, for a reason.” Connor had envisioned something more…cold? Modern maybe? 

He shakes himself from his thoughts, watching Hank sit on his coffee table, blowing puffs of cigar smoke between drags. “Anyway, what the hell do you want?”

Connor winces, and he wants to say, “ Isn’t that obvious?” But if it was, Hank wouldn’t be asking. 

With how badly their relationship is broken, Hank probably thinks Connor was happy to watch him finally break. That’s far from the truth, but Connor’s actions haven’t helped the situation. He’s realized that his behavior has painted a rather cruel picture of him as a person, and that’s not the image he wants to represent himself.

Connor is tense and stiff as he shoves his hands into his pant pockets. He doesn’t dare to make eye contact, so he stares at Hank’s forehead as a compromise. “I didn’t mean to hurt you by pushing you into a breakdown on set. I’m sorry; I went too far.”

It’s dead silent for a long moment, and then Hank laughs bitterly into his shot glass, holding the cigar in the other hand as he drains his drink. “Oh yeah? That’s where you draw the line? Why the fuck do you care all of a sudden, huh?” His voice shows every bit of disbelief and anger, and Connor knows he’s earned it. 

He’s been nothing but an asshole to Hank since they met. Yes, part of it was returning fire for Hank's own garbage remarks, but the rest of it was him being upset that Hank didn’t live up to his expectations. 

Connor frowns deeply, trying to think of a reasonable way to defend himself. 

There’s…nothing. 

Nothing that isn’t the truth; that he was disappointed by Hank’s personality and couldn’t control himself. More than likely, Hank wouldn’t appreciate hearing that. 

Connor eyes Hank before deciding on a half-truth. “I’m only hard on you because I see your potential, and it pisses me off that you refuse to utilize it.” 

Hank bursts out laughing, standing up to jab him in the chest accusingly. 

“You don’t get to decide what my potential is, asshole. What makes you the best judge of what I’m capable of?”

Connor snaps his jaw shut and doesn’t even know what to say to get his point across. That he’s seen Hank act from the audience? He’s seen that fire in Hank, but has he also seen how he hides it or doesn’t use it? None of it matters in the face of Hank standing here, telling him he’s wrong.

He came to apologize, and he meant it, but Hank doesn’t believe him. Connor isn’t sure he’d believe himself, either. 

There’s not much more to say. 

Hank must sense he’s left Connor speechless because he grunts and drains his glass, then goes to his liquor cabinet and gets out a bottle of whiskey. Connor braces himself to be kicked out, but Hank keeps talking. “I don’t get you. I’ve been a total jackass to you, and every damn scene is a toss-up on whether we’re going to act our hearts out or rip each other to fuckin’ shreds. Why the hell haven’t you quit?”

Connor is the one taken aback by that remark. 

Quit? 

What?

“Why would I quit?” He tilts his head curiously at Hank, his brown eyes shining with bewilderment. 

Hank pauses, setting his glass down to pour himself more whiskey, but he stops there.

For a moment, the silence dominates the room, and they stare at each other with confusion and curiosity, like they’re genuinely making an attempt at reading each other.

Connor can’t decipher the thoughtful frown on Hank's face, and he has no idea if his neutral expression gives any insight into his own feelings. All he knows is this is the closest they’ve come to being civil.

“I just said it, didn’t I? I’ve been an utter dickhead to you.” Connor’s hair falls into his eyes from how far he tilts his head. 

There it is again—the bitter taste of Hank’s low self-esteem. He seems to detest himself a lot for a guy of his social status and wealth. 

Connor takes a moment to really think about the surface-level things he knows about Hank from media outlets: he’s divorced, he used to be married to a famous model, and he has a son. However, based on sources, Cole doesn’t have much to do with his father.

Are those the things giving Hank a negative view of himself?

In the end, it doesn’t matter what the root cause is, really, but maybe if Connor could glean something, it could help them bridge the gap they’ve carved between them.

Regardless, Connor knows why he hasn’t quit, despite how much he dreads coming to work daily. 

He’s never quit something because it was too hard, even if it might have improved his life. It’s something he’s gotten a lot of heat for from family and friends, but something that’s gained him respect within the acting community. He doesn’t shy away from a challenge and will put his whole self into his work. Sometimes to the detriment of his health.

It’s also gotten him into more than one horrible situation. Hank being an ass to him is only a small blip in the history of Connor tolerating bad behavior.

He meets Hank’s gaze, an intensity in the reds of Connor’s eyes that’s an inferno. 

Fully, he’s a man who has walked through hell and come out the other side to tell the tale.

He isn’t sure if he’d call it confidence, but something drives him in what he says next. 

“I don’t quit anything, Hank.” Connor straightens up, giving a false confidence he plays like a fine instrument. “You don’t scare me, so I wouldn’t count on me being gone by my own volition.”

With that, he opens the door to the trailer to leave. He spares a glance back to Hank, standing there, frozen with his drink in hand. There’s sad, lonely energy around him, but when their eyes meet, Hank’s blue ones are different. It’s full of kinetic energy like a strike of lightning. 

He only says one thing, but it holds far more meaning than all of his angry ramblings. 

“Good, I hope you don’t.”

Connor retreats back to set, and everyone is watching like they’re waiting for a tornado to form and suck them all up. 

Markus is waiting.

He doesn’t ask, but seeing Connor as untouched as the moment he walked in there is telling enough. Connor can sense the hope in the crew.

He’s praying Hank doesn’t snip his olive branch.

Chapter Text

“I don’t quit anything, Hank. You don’t scare me, so I wouldn’t count on me being gone by my own volition.”

As much as Hank hates to admit it, the words stick to him harder than a goddamn burr. 

Over the next couple of weeks, Hank's perception of Connor begins to shift. It becomes increasingly difficult to imagine Connor quitting, and Hank has come to realize that he’s more than capable. He isn't spewing bullshit; he’s really planning to stay. 

He’s a cat making a bed, digging its claws in and getting Hank uncomfortable as hell in the process. 

Hank has started, reluctantly, to expect and anticipate Connor’s presence. 

They’re still barely connecting outside of their respective roles, but they haven’t gotten into as many angry confrontations over petty shit. Connor seems to be heeding Hank’s advice to let him decide his boundaries. At least, enough that they haven’t had any more trouble, and frankly, that’s all Hank cares about at the moment.

Well, he thought that's all he cared about, at least.

All these years, he’s wallowed and isolated as much as possible—almost 20 years of self-inflicted, solitary confinement. 

Now, he finds his retorts a little less angry and more teasing. 

Before they can make it to Texas for filming, Connor approaches Hank after a set as Hank is getting his makeup touched up by Simon. “Stop calling me kid,” he snaps, expression unreadable aside from how he narrows his eyes on Hank. In the lighting, they're a stunning red.

Hank remembers Connor expressing dislike over the nickname when they first met, but he hasn’t brought it up again until now. Truthfully, Hank forgot. “You’re younger than me, Son. I don’t see the issue.”

Connor glares at him harder, and Hank realizes that this hostility is similar to what he gave Connor when they first met. It takes him back to a couple of months ago when Connor strode into the studio and Hank took issue with his existence. “I’m not a child, Hank.”

He scans Connor’s face as his own skin is covered in more powder makeup. He waves Simon off to give Connor his full attention. 

Hank is still trying to decipher Connor’s age, but these days, he could look 18 and really be 40. Hollywood is great at erasing age, at least aesthetically. Hank had foregone those opportunities and neglected himself, which was how he ended up in his current state.

You know, grayed, worn, and wrinkled. 

Turns out drinking till you drop doesn’t help you age with grace. Captain-fucking-obvious. 

Amusement sparkles in Connor’s eyes when the realization dawns on him. “You can’t tell how old I am.”

Hank throws his hands up in surrender. “Ah, hell.” He squints, scrutinizing his features for a sign; something to give him a clue. 

Connor has dimples, a cleft chin, and freckled skin, but none of that gives a good sense of his age. He doesn’t really have wrinkles, so Hank has to guess he’s either getting Botox or he’s too young for it. “22,” he says with a frown.

Connor, who is about to take a drink, pauses to laugh. The sound is a bit raspy and quiet, but it’s very Connor . Hank is surprised it doesn’t give him a visceral reaction. “No.”

“This is why I don’t guess ages,” Hank grumbles, gulping his own water. 

Connor eyes him curiously before smiling more deviously, a spark of mischief lighting up his face.“I’m 31.” 

Hank nearly spit-takes. That's almost 10 years more than what he guessed. Jesus Christ. 

He swallows his pride and looks at Connor earnestly. He’s pretty, handsome, and young-looking, but the cheekbones, sharp jaw, and distinguished eyes do give off the air of someone more experienced than a 22-year-old. It would also explain Connor’s acting ability—if he’s been acting for long enough to be this seasoned, it makes sense.

“Fucking hell, you’re baby-faced.”

Connor tilts his head to the side, giving Hank the look he always knows preludes a question. It reminds him of Sumo, a curious dork with more questions than he knows what to do with. 

“What do you mean?”

Hank gives a cursory glance from head to toe before shaking his head and starting to walk off. “I wouldn’t worry about it if I were you,” he says over his shoulder.

But it stays with Hank.

Connor isn’t a kid.

Filming off-site isn’t terribly difficult, but it does create more obstacles. It’s time-sensitive, with fewer places to escape the prying eyes of the locals, and they’re privy to the weather. This environment adds an extra layer of tension to their already-strained relationship. 

Hank flies back home a few times in his jet, but it quickly becomes impractical the further he is from home so he has his trailer, which is also a fancy ass RV to be honest, driven to each location. 

Meanwhile, most of the crew seems to be staying at hotels or rented homes. Hank hasn’t asked where Connor is at, considering they’re in fucking Texas of all places; but it doesn’t matter.

They’ll only be here for around four months anyway.

The first week isn’t eventful. 

Hank discovers that the dry ass weather is making his nose less stuffy but his eyes are like a desert. The next couple weeks after that, Hank realizes, unintentionally, he’s picking up on shit Connor is doing. He blames it all on the fact he’s got nothing to do, but…

Connor is way too hard on himself. 

If they have to reshoot a scene more than a handful of times and it’s related to any part of his performance, Connor looks on the verge of a breakdown. His self-doubt is palpable, and it's a struggle he's fighting every day. 

In one particular moment, it’s between him and another actor; Connor just can’t seem to get the blocking exactly as they need it. Nothing big, it happens.

Hank watches the whole thing unfold.

Ten takes is nothing, and it’s more than one issue, like the camera falling out of focus, or Connor moving too fast. His co-star for the scene fumbles a couple of times, but by the end of it, Connor is trembling. 

He excuses himself to the bathroom, and Hank can tell he’s losing his composure. 

Frankly, Hank is shocked—most skilled actors are accustomed to this shit. Fuck, Hank has done 30 takes for a scene, maybe more . That’s just the name of the game sometimes—you deal with it and do your best. With everything else, Connor seems well-acquainted with the process, but every time it happens, Hank catches his hands starting to shake.

Today is just one of those days. 

As soon as they’re sitting down to do their table reading in a tent, Markus grabs both of their scripts, goes to a page, and crosses it off. Every. Line. He writes in all caps and hands them back: improv, discussing the Lieutenant’s feelings. 

Hank frowns at Markus’ smile. 

“Most of the time, both of you go off script anyway, so I want to try a fully improvised approach to some scenes. We’ll start with this one. What do you think?”

Hank shrugs, it’s nothing he hasn’t done before, and as much as he hates to admit it, Markus is right. They go off the rails in most instances anyway. Doing this for a more emotionally charged scene may be difficult, but he can manage. 

Connor stares at the script with dread, a scowl of concentration, lips in a tight line. His shoulders are scrunched up to his jaw. Hank can immediately see he’s uncomfortable with the idea, maybe even scared, but he doesn’t protest. “Okay,” is all he says in response.

Markus can see his discomfort just as plainly. “If you’re not okay with—“

“It’s fine, I’m okay with improv.” Connor doesn’t seem to be okay with it, but nobody challenges him further.

Once they’re on set, 45 minutes later, Connor is taut like a bowstring. He looks focused, but not at ease; his body is stiff, and his expression is hard.

They’re at a fake murder scene in the middle of the Chihuahuan desert. It’s dry as shit and hot as fuck, desert stretching around them with few catci and other plants. Hank is grateful for his cowboy-style hat, which helps protect his eyes from the brutal sun and gives some shade for his face. 

Connor is in suspenders, slacks, and a button-up with the sleeves rolled to his elbows. Hank absolutely does not admire the slender shape of his body. Or how the wristwatch emphasizes Connor’s thin wrist.

Definitely not.

Hank spots some vultures not too far away, circling what is likely some roadkill. 

Anything interesting about the Texas desert started to lose its appeal within a day. Hank is used to seeing the sun, sand, dirt, and arid conditions. The mountains in the distance paint a picture most will only see on a screen or postcard, though. 

Do people even send postcards anymore?

Fuck if he knows, he’s old.

They take their places, Connor does his usual to get tension out—shaking out—and Hank adjusts his body before looking to him.

“Ready?”

“Mhm.”

Action!

The cameras start rolling, and Hank walks around the “crime scene,” appearing to be lost in his own world. Maybe he’s taking a cheap route considering this was the original idea for the scene, but they’ve got to start somewhere, right? 

He waits for Connor, who is supposed to begin their dialogue, but when he stays silent for long enough, Hank starts to feel awkward. He looks up to find Connor watching him, and it’s clear by the silence that he’s frozen. Instead of simply waiting for him to crack, Hank decides to try something different. 

This is improv, yeah? 

“What?” He asks. “You look like you’ve got some kind of problem.”

Connor frowns, well, more than he already was, squinting into the bright light. It makes Hank notice wrinkles in his face he’d missed on Connor, the many times they’ve interacted in the last few months. Has it really been that long?

“I’m trying to figure you out, Lieutenant,” he states simply, as if anyone could see how confusing Hank is. Or…his character. Right. Sometimes he forgets these scenes aren’t just them talking to each other candidly. 

Hank puts his hands on his belt and squints sharply at Connor. They’re both sweaty now, not grossly, but Connor’s forehead is a little shiny.

He looks effortlessly attractive, and Hank has to force himself to focus on his reply. “What’s there to figure out? I’m pretty straightforward.”

Connor tips his chin down, scrutinizing Hank from head to toe. “You attempt to come off direct, but you’re not. What’s really going on inside you is locked up tight.”

Hank huffs, shaking his head as he steps closer. Connor doesn’t show any signs of weakness; he waits with the confidence he seems to wield like it’s a sharpened blade, until they’re toe to toe, giving the camera operators a hefty job. “And why do you need to know any of that, huh? Isn’t it enough I let you follow me around like a goddamn poodle? Isn't that what you wanted?”

Connor doesn’t back off; in fact, he leans close enough that Hank can sense his body heat and smell his musky cologne; it activates something inside Hank. There’s a buzzing through his body, a pounding in his chest, and his mouth gets drier. “Did you ever consider I could help you feel less lonely, Lieutenant?”

He thinks the words are supposed to be platonic, but the way Connor’s voice drops and how his eyes flicker over Hank’s face make him misinterpret it. 

Suddenly, Hank isn’t so sure he knows what Connor is saying. He’s also unconvinced they’re actually acting right now at all.

Yet, Hank finds he doesn’t care so much about either of those things.

Connor thinks he’s being slick, that he’s got the upper hand, and Hank thinks it’s laughable. Even though he is a good actor, Hank has decades more experience.

He flexes the muscle he hasn’t used in probably about five years.

Hank pushes the dial, smirks crookedly, and leans closer, crowding Connor’s personal space. The only indication Connor gives when he realizes what’s happening is how his eyes widen just the tiniest amount. 

Hank chuckles deep in his chest, making it sound dark. “You can’t handle me like that, but thanks for the offer.”

Connor’s breath catches, then—he stumbles backwards. 

Hank catches him by grabbing his elbow, ignoring the electrifying sensation through his body. 

The air around them is charged, like lightning is about to strike.

Connor is watching him intensely, his eyes dark and dangerously curious.

“We should let the boys clean up the scene,” Hank says nonchalantly, like it’s over morning breakfast. He tips his hat. “See ya’ back in the car.”

Hank strides until he’s out of frame, until he’s certain he’s out of frame, because he hears the cut!

Then he stares at his boots, which are covered in sand and dirt.

He showed Connor that he’s in charge and to quit playing with fire. But he feels…energized, confident, things he hasn’t felt in years. Only, it’s different. 

Hank glances back and sees Connor standing there, looking after him, his face flushed like he’s overheating. 

Even though it was acting—it had to be—Hank has never made any sexual advances on a man. At least, not in front of a camera.

He kicks a stone and watches it skip several feet away so that he has something else to look at. 

Hank hasn’t had directors knocking on his door for a few years, so it feels…less scary than it used to when he was Hollywood’s crowning star.

Can he be himself?

Hank shakes the thought away for now; the bigger issue is the conversation Connor is having with Markus. He’s pointing to Hank, then points to the scene. He has a feeling he’s about to have a seriously annoying day.

Somewhere between take two and five, Hank starts to hate his decision to get so close to Connor, because now they have to repeat the conversation and the touch five times before Markus is satisfied. For how Hank was baffled by Connor hating to do extra takes, he dreads every redo on this one, as if he wasn’t the one to cause this entirely unnecessary mess himself.

He cringes at the thought of how this might look on film to his longtime fans. Granted, his newer ones might be thrilled with the insinuation. 

Hank might be old by the standards of kids today, but he’s not totally blind to cultural changes and sexuality.

A lot of the generations that are Connor’s and below are much more open to change and embrace representation—there’s bound to be a huge shift in popularity among young people if they even catch a whiff of gay content.

That means invasive questions, weird autograph signings and all kinds of social media bullshit.

Hank already has a headache.

By the time they’re done, he feels frazzled and like all his nerves are frayed. That buzzing in his veins hasn’t stopped since the last take, and it’s been almost an hour.

Connor hasn’t talked since they finished either. 

Hank goes to the sidelines where Connor is sitting under a canopy, digging through his backpack. 

There are a few things he expects Connor to get out of, but a nip of alcohol is not one of them. He watches as Connor checks the label, then tips his head back and takes the shot like a pro. Hank must be out of his fucking mind today, because he watches Connor’s Adam’s Apple bob like some massive creep.

He needs to get his shit together and fast.

They’ve barely even started to become acquaintances.

Christ.

His brain sure hates him, doesn’t it?

Chapter Text

This is a very bad idea.

A no good, bad, terrible idea.

But Hank can’t help that he’s curious. 

He’s contained himself for a good few days since their awkward encounter in their improv scene, and he’s restrained himself since in the corresponding episodes. The urge to finally cave and admit he wants to know more about Connor has been repressed for too long. He knows he’ll suffer the consequences this time.

With his nightly routine completed, Hank settles down at his dining booth with his laptop so he can actually navigate. His phone is too small and inconvenient for a search of this scale. Pouring himself some amber whiskey, he navigates to Google and searches ‘Connor Stern.’

There are red-carpet pictures of him, smiling at the camera, both with and without his glasses. It gives Hank pause right away, cause he’s never seen Connor with glasses. Obviously because he wears contacts, but damn. His glasses are round and nerdy, but they suit him well—it’s a lot easier in the privacy of his own space to admit Connor is attractive. 

He’s hot , honestly.

Okay, cool it. It’s just glasses.

Hank goes to his Wikipedia page, which is the safest place for him at the moment, and he immediately does a double-take. 

Connor Stern (formerly Constance Stern, born August 15th,1993).

Hank blinks, goes back and clicks on images, and curses, putting on his reading glasses. It confirms what he thought—Connor is transgender. There are photos of him wearing dresses, his hair styled to his jawline, all effortlessly curled in waves or whatever they wanted. The face is almost the same, but definitely softer, and it appears he may have had lip injections back then as well. He looks pretty, but Hank is bisexual. In his pictures, where he appears more masculine, he seems much happier.

Coming out hasn’t stopped him from dressing however he wants either. Hank dives back to his Wikipedia page to avoid looking too closely when he sees him wearing something lacy. Nope.

Connor boasts an impressive collection of roles and achievements, primarily on Broadway, with some notable appearances in movies as well. He's from Detroit, Michigan, just like Hank. Fucking weird. Small world.

His biggest movie role was an appearance in a Christmas movie alongside his siblings. Three’s a Crowd: A Christmas Story. Now that he sees it, Hank realizes he’s watched Connor in that movie; it’s a classic. His parents watched it right alongside National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation, Elf, and Home Alone.

Apparently, he’s also done modeling, albeit briefly.

Drinking while researching, Connor is his first big misstep of the night.

Once the alcoholic buzz kicks in, Hank reads about Connor’s personal journey. Like his own, it’s sparse for the most part, but he’s got a few things on Hank—he’s had multiple boyfriends, and he’s open about being gay. There are links to posts, videos, and everything.

This activates a part of Hank's brain that’s…well, jealous. 

Envious. 

He hadn’t told many people about being bisexual, just Cole, his ex-wife Jenny, and Jeff. Even his own parents don’t know. He’s always said that’s for the best, they’re older, tired and dealing with their own shit. But god is he envious.

There’s a photo of him on a stage, dressed in a suit, with Markus, who looks just as sharp, and they’re kissing openly. Hank pauses, just taking in the image and trying to shake his jealousy that’s raising his blood pressure, flushing his face.

Connor and Markus used to be an item, but it didn’t last long before they split and said they were just friends. 

Hank is sufficiently buzzed now, because he gets too curious and looks at Connor’s Instagram. 

Some are normal pictures, such as him in suits or casual clothing, posing for selfies, but there are others . Artful of course, but boudoir, risqué shots. Some are masculine of nature, some are more feminine or neutral, Hank nearly slams his goddamn laptop shut. 

It’s absolutely what he should do.

But he doesn’t. 

He grunts and presses his lips together tightly as he clicks on one, like it makes him brave to push the envelope. It’s really just stupid.

I need to stop right now, Jesus Christ.

Connor is wearing…something. It’s all lace though and black, he’s very lean and you can basically see through the bra and panties, thankfully you can’t see much except his ass in this pose. He’s covered by tulle, and his back is arched as he reaches gracefully upwards. It’s extremely tasteful, artistic even, and Connor looks gorgeous.

But of course that’s the fucking problem. 

Hank isn’t sure how long he studies Connor’s smooth, freckled skin in the shot, but it’s way too long, because his dick stirs in interest. “Oh hell.”

Reluctantly, he goes to a different picture.

This one is more masculine, he’s wearing a white, tight shirt and briefs, just a sliver of skin above his underwear. He’s on a coach, head tipped back and arms up, hands in his hair. That’s all nice, Connor has such a goddamn small waist, but what does Hank in, is the dorky grin on his face. He looks happy and confident.

The following image looks innocent, it’s captioned good morning ☀️ and he’s wearing a loose button up, all white, but it’s thin enough to see that fucking lace bra through it as he smiles and sips his tea. Dark eyes, bright and red.

Hank slams a fist down on the table and chucks his glasses onto the surface. “I’m way too lonely, what the fuck am I doing?”

He rubs his calloused palms over his face with a tight groan. 

So far, until that steamy improv scene, Hank had buried this attraction under his anger. It was six feet under. And it worked until he suddenly cracked. Now, his self-restraint is cracked like spiderwebs on a glass windshield. It only took a single pebble to break him. How pathetic.

God, he’s a creepy old man.

Hank shoves his laptop closed, gets a glass of water, and goes to bed like he should have an hour ago. He does make a valiant effort to ignore the blinding green light going off in his head, at least for the first couple of hours. Then he’s too frustrated to care anymore. 

After tossing and turning, with persistent tension in his body and images playing through his mind, Hank gives in.

He isn’t enough of a creep to go jerking off to Connor’s pictures, but he does pull up some porn that is probably not going to help. The two men on screen are vastly different—one is larger, and hairier, the other guy is smaller and hairless. He has dark hair like Connor, and how he moans when his hair is pulled or fucked in his ass, is giving Hank’s perverted brain too much ammunition.

He kicks his boxers off and grips his fully hard cock, moaning at the slightest touch. It’s been boiling under the surface for so many damn hours, he’s not going to last very long. That’s okay. That’s better.

It feels like there’s fire in his veins, and as he strokes himself, Hank focuses on the images of the men on his screen. That works for maybe a couple of minutes, but as he feels that familiar building of pleasure and pressure in his balls, Hank can’t quite get over the edge. It’s been a tough night, and god can he just jerk off in peace?

An intrusive thought sticks to him like a burr.

It’s not like anyone will know .

Yeah. 

He’s alone, and it’s not like anybody will know he was even on Instagram looking at Connor’s profile. It’s just going to finish himself off, then he can get it out of his system and return to work. That’s the smart thing to do. If he keeps letting it buildup and his dumb dick talks for him, it’ll be much worse.

He’s just being smart. Yeah.

He pulls up Connor’s profile and finds a picture of him that’s sexy enough but not that racy. He’s wearing a white button-up rolled to his elbows, shirt stays tight around his thighs and knee-high socks with stays tight around his calves.

He’s standing in a wide stance, looking over his shoulder and holding a goddamn riding crop under the curve of his ass.

It’s really not much. Hank has seen gorgeous people completely naked, but there’s something about it that makes him feel electrified, like lightning has struck his spine.

Given his age, appearance, and gruffness, Hank automatically dominates his sexual encounters, besides some rare exceptions. So it catches him even more off guard when he imagines himself on the ground, Connor over him like that. 

He drags the leathery tip of the riding crop up Hank’s hairy chest, then the lines of his throat to trace along his bearded jawline. 

Hank has been looked at how he imagines Connor doing it—a dominating and dangerous smirk, his eyes black as coal.

He leans forward until his face is more in focus. “You know I’m in control, don’t you, Hank?” This Connor presses his socked foot between Hank's thighs and grinds it, giving him friction and watching as Hank falls apart underneath him.

“Good boy,” he murmurs, voice raspy and low.

Hank is way too ashamed at the fact he cums instantly .

He throws his skull into his damn headboard and his vision goes white from how hard he cums, spilling all over his hand and stomach.

It takes him an absurd amount of time to return to his body; his mind is on cloud nine. He still feels light as a feather, even as he’s coming down, his head hurts, but his limbs and dick are tingling.

The minutes tick by on his clock in the dark; he watches the seconds slipping away one by one in the silence. 

He’s starting to process what the fuck just happened. It’s not the worst thing he’s ever done, but it’s far from great. Jerking off to the thought of a co-star dominating the shit out of you isn’t exactly…professional even if it does help him get it out of his system.

And even that is…unlikely. It had been shaky logic to begin with, but in the aftermath, Hank has to admit, it’s not going away just because he surrendered once. What the fuck does he do now?

He doesn’t know if he’s being honest. 

And not knowing is going to fuck him up.

Great.

Filming on very little sleep is always rough, but today it’s burning hot and windy as all hell outside to top it off. Their canopies and tents aren’t ready for the day, and a couple nearly blow over. Hank wants to suggest they try a different day for multiple reasons, one major one being that he doesn’t want to see Connor. It’s selfish, yeah, but after last night, Hank's pride is about as thick as a goddamn crepe. 

Alas, they don’t listen to his bitching or moaning and he ends up in hair and makeup, and then they fit him into his costume. Hank smokes a cigar as he waits to film, doing his usual and keeping to himself. They’re in town, sort of. It’s a small area not far from where they were in the desert. The locals are sanctioned off, but still observing their work from afar. Ben and Chris went over to them earlier and signed some autographs.

Hank decides to do that to distract himself. He’s in a shitty mood so he doesn’t make small talk, he just gives a greeting, gives a couple of autographs, then he looks over—and Connor is doing the same. Only he’s even taking selfies with the crowd, who all seem eager to engage with him. They shout and cheer, which is cool and all, but Hank doesn’t do that kind of thing anymore because of—

There it is.

Connor must be new to this level of fame, because as he’s close, people start to grab him, desperate for attention and bragging rights. He tries being polite, but Hank knows that doesn’t work on fans. There’s only a split second, his eyes widen, then someone grabs his shirt, his arms already in their grasp, and they yank him to the metal barricade. “ Shit-“ he curses and it’s clear the second he realizes he can’t escape on his own. The glossy, wide-eyed look on his face reveals his absolute terror.

Hank reacts immediately, faster than security, grabbing onto Connor’s waist and pulling him back. Security races over and pries the hands off him only moments after. The only thing that lasts maybe 10 or 20 seconds, but Hank can feel Connor’s heart pounding and his ragged breath as he’s finally pulled to safety.

It’s in slow motion. Hank is tugging so hard that they both stumble backwards; Connor goes nearly limp against him. Hank’s own heart is racing, and his adrenaline is pumping. “What the fuck!” he shouts at the crowd, his cigar fallen and forgotten in the street. He turns his attention to Connor, who is standing on shaky knees. Hank grabs his shoulders to hold him up, his instincts taking over. “Hey, hey, you’re alright, Son.”

Connor nods, eyes huge with visceral panic, and Hank can see how shaken up he is. Has he ever seen Connor so shaken up? “You scared the shit out of me.”

Connor leans his weight on Hank. “I’m okay.” His voice is trembling something fierce, though. “I’m okay,” he repeats quietly, more for himself than anyone at this point. 

“Let’s get back to the set, Connor.” Maybe Hank is eager to get away from the crowd, but he thinks that’s pretty normal after something like that.

He nods robotically, and Hank places a hand on the small of his back to help direct and ground him, pushing him towards the canopy with their belongings.

The second they’re able to see their chairs, Connor sits down, retrieves his backpack, and digs for a pill container. He takes something . Hank doesn’t ask; he knows there are lots of things he could need medicine for, not to mention, in Hollywood, illegal drugs are pretty common. He would know, as a previous user. So Hank stays out of it. He gives Connor a cold water and puts it in his hands before walking off. 

The whole incident isn’t that serious, not in the grand scheme of things Hank has dealt with, but fuck—seeing Connor’s expression when he realized he couldn’t walk away is going to be burned into Hank’s brain for a long while. 

His stomach is still rolling as he comes down, and no matter what he does to distract himself, it stains the rest of the day. Reading the script, checking his phone, or even trying to chat with Ben.

They film, they all get their work done, but Hank can’t shake it for the remainder of the day. It’s under a dark cloud. Connor is quieter than usual, and Markus talks with him, but Hank spends his lunch alone in his trailer. 

These are the parts of the job Hank thinks he hates the most. 

The disrespect, the lack of boundaries, and the inability to escape your fame. For a short time as a teenager and young man, Hank could visit anywhere he wanted of his own volition with no security team or crowd of strangers wanting to see even a glimpse of him. That freedom was ripped away from him so long ago, it doesn’t feel like it was ever there. 

Now everywhere he goes he has to bring bodyguards, he can’t shop without people up his ass and most times, it’s more trouble than it’s worth for him to leave his house. Hell, he has to have a fence around his property and a gate for security. Even then, if someone was determined enough, he doesn’t doubt they’d find a way. He’s had way too many terrible experiences to leave anything up to chance.

It sucks Connor is dealing with that too now.

Hank jolts in surprise when there’s a knock on his trailer door. Nobody bothers him; he hasn’t had a single visitor since Connor poked in here months ago. Hank opens it, this time, without bitching. He’s unsurprised by the devil himself standing there. 

Connor is there, but the uncertain frown on his face isn’t quite as confident as last time. Hank sighs. There's no sense in fighting it after what happened last time. “Come in.”

He climbs the remaining steps and his brown eyes scan the trailer in awe, again. They’ve been here and done this once already. Is it really that impressive? Hank watches with wonder like a child seeing snow for the first time on Connor’s face.

He suddenly snaps out of it when his gaze lands on Hank, like he’s the line between harsh reality and fantasy. Honestly, that might be pretty accurate. Hank keeps his eyes to himself after last night. He feels awkward, like he suddenly doesn’t know how to talk or act around Connor. Almost like he needs to be extra insensitive to makeup for his bullshit, he doesn’t, but it’s tempting. 

Hank finishes his cup of whisky and waits.

Finally, Connor seems to find his voice again. “Thank you for saving me earlier.”

“I didn’t save you,” Hank rolls his eyes and goes to pour himself another drink, watching the liquid fill the crystal cup. “The security guards wouldn’t have let anything happen to you.”

Connor frowns, his shoulders squaring. Hank wonders what’s going on in his head that’s making him look like a kid who just tried lemon juice. Hank guesses he won’t need to wonder for very long, considering Connor doesn’t usually give him a chance to.

“You were the first one on me,” he says, shoving hands into his pockets. “Can’t you just take a token of appreciation from me for once? I’m just saying thank you, I didn’t come to bow at your feet and call you Zeus.”

Hank snorts a laugh, then gulps his whiskey. He doesn’t look at Connor even as he says the next thing. “That doesn’t sound too bad.”

He can feel daggers in the side of his head. “You’re such a prick.” Hank digests Connor’s words, the exasperated tone to his voice, and the incident as a whole. Typically, Hank wouldn’t have stepped in unless it directly involved him, and it’s true, security would have gotten Connor safe in 30-50 seconds flat. But his body moved before he could comprehend any of it. Instinct. Pure instinct and adrenaline.

That’s the only reason he even did it.

Hank turns to fully face Connor, his eyes serious, the lines in his face dramatic and dark. “Don’t be so stupid next time, if any of them had a knife or gun, you would have been killed. We can’t be too careful with our lives as celebrities, Connor. I’m serious.” There have been closer calls than Hank is proud of, but if he can prevent even one more person from experiencing that feeling of fear and uncertainty, he’d like to try.

Connor’s eyes get darker, his frown deepening. “I know.”

Hank watches as he averts his gaze to the ground. Absorbing Connor’s lithe form under his button-up and slacks, the trouble in his expression, Hank decides to be a little nosey for once. With a dramatic twist of fate, Hank steps closer and puts a large hand on Connor’s shoulder. “Do you have security guards?”

He glances at Hank only momentarily, like he’s too ashamed to meet his eyes. “Only one.”

Hank steps past Connor into his kitchen, grabs a sticky note, and writes down some contact information. “Hire a few more, K—“ Hank catches himself. “—Connor.”

A slight smile upturns Connor’s lips, and Hank is relieved to see it. Even if he is a little shit, that’s better than whatever the hell this is.

“I will, Hank.”

Hopefully, that will keep him safe if nothing else, and this weirdness will pass soon.

Maybe. Unlikely, but he can hope, right?

Chapter Text

On his days off, Connor finds himself consumed with the daunting task of securing his safety. As a public figure in the entertainment industry, his growing popularity has made him a potential target. The process is not just unsettling, but also a stark reminder of his vulnerability, a feeling he's all too familiar with. 

Back when he was a teenager, Amanda had given him the freedom to help select his security. He remembered picking one guy in particular, and Amanda told him no, and explained the man seemed too eager to get to know Connor. He didn’t need a friend; he needed someone ready to fight off perverts and creeps physically. It was eye-opening that someone would try to take advantage of him by pretending to keep him safe.

He’d had a few encounters that creeped him out over his time. Most were isolated, then there was his stalker back when he had just come out. A girl named Lisa, who constantly made new social media accounts to follow and message him. She called him a fem-boy since he’d just started transitioning. On top of being generally creepy, it scared him. She used to walk up and down their street at night, trying to get into his house, and followed him everywhere.

So yeah, he knows with his popularity growing, he needs to keep himself safe.

It’s tough, though; trusting his judgment, he doesn’t have any help and can’t decide whether he’s just picking up base-level kindness or true loyalty.

Until he meets this one particular man.

He’s tall, built like a brick shit house, and has short, curly hair. But the instant he smiles at him, Connor can sense it’s genuine. He has a firm handshake and doesn’t overly worry about selling himself. His name is Luther, and the only reason Connor doesn’t hire him on the spot is that Luther tells him to think about it for a bit. 

Connor's relief is palpable when he finally finds someone he can trust. Luther's genuine concern for his safety and well-being is enough to convince him. With Luther and a few others by his side, he finally feels a sense of security, a rare comfort in his line of work.

Connor decides to tell Markus about it after a long day of filming and a night of getting his brain railed out of him. Partially because it feels important, and also because he hasn’t been able to talk to Markus in months. Not privately, at least.

They’re currently at Markus’ rental property. It’s a luxurious home built with rustic elements, such as hardwood floors, furs, and old, rusted signs. There’s a floating fireplace, which is almost a must out here. The temperature drops considerably at night in the desert. 

Connor is in a silk robe, while Markus sports a soft one, as they sit by the fire on a plush rug. It’s cozy, the warmth of the fire, a soft spot to lie, and the exhaustion of a long workday, combined with the familiar aching of a night of good sex. It’s all lulling him to sleep. He barely has his eyes cracked open as he watches Markus’ dark skin in the light of the fire. He’s still in fantastic shape and is simply a breathtaking man. 

Connor will always regret that he and Markus didn’t have a connection beyond the physical. But that's just the way it is. At least he has Markus as a close friend, and they still occasionally share intimate moments. Well, until one of them finds a long-term partner, someone they can build a life with, share their successes and failures, and grow old together.

He inhales to speak, but Markus beats him to it. “Carl isn’t going to last much longer.” Connor’s eyes fly open, and he sits up so fast his head spins with dizziness. He doesn’t know Carl Manfred well; they’ve only met a few times, but he’s always been kind and courteous. Cynical, yeah, but he’s a man with a bleeding heart. His two sons are so drastically different that it’s a burden to manage both of them.

Leo Manfred, Markus’ brother and Carl’s biological son, is…struggling. He’s addicted to drugs and treats anyone who gets in the way of his addiction cruelly, even his own father. 

Connor, unfortunately, understands.

He hasn’t done much to break the cycle surrounding Markus.

He often feels the weight of this guilt, a heavy burden that he can't seem to shake. It's a one that weighs on his heart, a constant reminder of his shortcomings and the pain he has caused.

He touches Markus’s bare arm, feeling his warmth. “I’m so sorry, Markus,” he whispers, trying to soothe the obvious turmoil in his friend, who is downright found family. Markus sniffles and wipes at his eyes. Connor realizes he’s crying and koalas him from behind, a chin on his shoulder. He squeezes him tightly with his legs and arms, and Markus laughs sadly.

“I just always thought I’d have more time. But I’ve been saying that for years, haven’t I?” Connor has no idea what to say about this pain—he’s lucky enough to have only experienced the loss of his grandparents, and he’d been only eight. Grief is so different for adults. He barely understood the concept back then; all he really knew was that his grandparents weren’t coming back again and that death was a complete separation from life as he knew it. 

An ending.

Now, the intricacies aren’t lost on him. And he knows grieving is a process that never ends. Yes, it might change, but it's something that's forever and taboo to discuss, despite being a universal experience.

Connor stays with him while he cries, until he looks beyond exhausted. He doesn’t count the minutes or wish it was over—he’s the lucky one here, even if it’s hard to watch Markus hurt.

His chest aches by the time they go to sleep. Markus apologizes and scoops Connor up to carry him to his bed. As they’re walking through the house, Connor watches the somber vision of Markus above him. 

Once he’s in the sea of blankets, Markus calls a bed, with only the light of the fake fireplace to illuminate the room, Markus settles behind him, spooning. Connor watches the simulated fire as he listens to Markus’ hot breath on the nape of his neck, evening out, pulling him into sleep quickly. The fake flames are made up of yellows, oranges, and reds; they appear to be real, despite emitting no heat or smoke. 

It’s strangely symbolic of their relationship.

It seems passionate and fiery, and to those on the outside, they appear one misstep away from being lovers. 

But Connor knows better.

They’re great friends, but this is all about satisfying an urge with someone who won’t need to sign an NDA; it’s scratching an itch.

It’s why Connor always feels lonelier than he did before they slept together. “You should go see Carl soon. We can postpone filming.”

Markus mutters an agreement before falling asleep, loosely wrapped around him.

Once he’s certain Markus won’t wake, Connor slinks out of bed, the cold floor on his bare feet, and finds his bag. He wonders if anyone has ever really seen him as their number one before. And as he thinks, probably not, he swallows two pills.

At least soon, he won’t care about anything anymore. 

Blissful numbness.

As it turns out, Markus doesn’t leave. Connor nags him, but when he snaps, Connor minds his own business. He’s aware, now, after years of knowing Markus, that he’s stubborn and won’t do anything he doesn’t want to, no matter how many people encourage him. 

Today they’re filming in the desert again, but they’re at least close enough to the nearest town that their array of trailers is parked nearby. Close enough to be useful. 

Connor has been considering the possibility of getting one. It’s a considerable time and money investment, but it’s also worth it in the long run for his mental health. A safe space to get some semblance of privacy would, frankly, be amazing. But for now, he’ll just have to spend whole days with the crew, which isn’t bad either.

Ben and Chris have become fast friends, and he already knew North, Simon, and Josh. North is currently helping him get into costume. Which is simply jeans, boots, a button-up shirt, and a flowy scarf…well, it’s more about protection from the elements; it’s not as practical as Hank’s cowboy hat, but it works. 

She drapes it perfectly. “I’d go with skinny jeans, but I know you hate the way they emphasize your hips.” Connor grimaces at the mention of his insecurities. Or, one of many. Overall, with HRT, he passes exceptionally well, but he can’t help it. Some things stick with him. “You look good,” she says. “I bet Hank will agree.”

Connor chokes, sputtering as he whips around to where North is digging through the rack of clothes. He squints. “Why would Hank care?”

“Oh, nothing, call it intuition,” she says with a wink. 

Connor thinks she’s out of her mind and needs to stop giving him ideas. Now he’s going to be watching Hank like a hawk to make sure he’s not checking him out.

They reconvene on set, Hank in his cowboy detective get-up and Connor in his flowy scarf that billows in the breeze. It’s windy today too, which isn’t ideal, but acting talent is about making a less-than-ideal situation appear perfect. They have more improv scenes today, which makes Connor anxious. He knows why Markus keeps doing it, and, logically? It makes sense. Yet, Connor dreads each one.

What if he makes a fool of himself in front of Hank?  

And he doesn’t want to let Markus down either. 

Sure, Hank is an insufferable prick, but he’s still one of the biggest names in Hollywood, and Connor persistently gets the urge to impress him. It’s annoying.

They’re starting out taking some promo images, since most of the show takes place out in the desert. They’re set up on the road for those. 

Chris, Ben, and their other recurring roles in the show join them. They stand at a point, with Hank and him back to back at the front, their props and poses in place. It takes a while for them to get into position, and even longer afterward, as they continue to make tweaks or adjust their poses. 

They also do one with them facing each other, and Connor feels himself struggling not to crack up at the serious look on Hank's face. “You’re such a giggly bitch,” Hank teases, his voice not holding the usual heat so Connor flicks his nose. “Aye!”

“Lighten up, Hank.”

They do get what they need, including some shots of both of them. Connor sends a concerned frown at Markus when he has them take a suggestive photo. It’s nothing extreme, really, but they’re instructed to look less angry and more curious. They’re close enough that when the wind kicks up and nearly sweeps them away in dust, Connor falls against Hank in an attempt to protect his eyes, and Hank leans on him slightly the second time.

“What’s that?” Chris inquires, pointing to the area behind Connor, who turns along with the whole crew. 

There are gasps and shouts of horror. Connor’s eyes widen as he takes in the massive, rapidly approaching…cloud of…sand? It’s enormous, from the ground to the highest point Connor can see, and is colored the brown oranges of the landscape. 

“Ah, shit, it’s a dust storm,” Hank grumbles. 

What’s that?

“Okay, everyone, stay calm, we have plenty of—“ before Markus can even attempt to take charge, everyone is screaming and sprinting around to find shelter.

It’s utter madness . 

Connor’s heart rate jumps sharply, and his adrenaline rushes, making him kick into overdrive. Before he can join the scramble, Hank drops two large hands on his shoulders. “Pull your scarf over your mouth and close your eyes.” He listens, mainly because he doesn’t know what else to do. They don’t have long, and that huge cloud is going to be on them. He pulls his scarf tightly over his mouth and nose and squeezes his eyes shut. Hank guides him through the chaos, and after what feels like centuries, the wind hits them, and he can feel the pain of debris impacting him, whipping all around.

It hurts everywhere he has exposed skin; it smells earthy and, well, dusty too. The storm is so strong it’s nearly pulling them over, and he can still hear madness, though it’s fading into the distance. Connor can barely hear anything over the whistling and rumbling of the dust, but he can hear the jangling of keys. Hank says, “In, now!” urgently. Connor opens his eyes to see they’re in front of Hank's trailer. 

He doesn’t need to be told twice. 

Before he can think about it, they’re in the trailer and secure.

Connor breathes a sigh of relief and turns to Hank, “Are you okay?” he asks.

Hank doesn’t have his hat anymore, and though he’s dirty, he doesn’t seem to be hurt. Actually, the way sand is smeared on his face is oddly attractive; it adds to his rugged look.

“Yeah, it’s just a goddamn dust storm. People need to quit freaking the fuck out.” Connor glances out the windows of the trailer, and it’s like night; the sun is completely blocked out, and all that’s left is a cloud of orange and brown so muddled it’s indecipherable. 

“I’ve never seen one before,” Connor admits, and with a nod of permission from Hank to go further into the trailer, he decides to sit at the booth in the kitchen. “The wind hurt.”

“Yup, that’s just the sand.” Hank goes over to his liquor cabinet, pours himself a cup of whiskey, then seems to remember he has a guest and pauses. “Want anything?” 

“Do you have any vodka?” Hank pours Connor a cup of an expensive-looking vodka in a crystal glass, grabs some damp towels, and hands one to him as he joins him at the table. Connor starts wiping off his face as Hank talks. 

“If you breathe that shit in, it’ll give you valley fever. That’s why I had you cover your mouth. That’s really the only thing you gotta worry about. Valley fever fuckin’ sucks.” Connor has heard of valley fever, but he's never learned much about it, if he’s being honest. He cleans off what he can. 

The whistling and rumbling outside are the only sounds audible. Connor can even distinctly hear Hank swallow a mouthful of whiskey. A different feeling comes over the space between them. It’s awkward, incredibly so. 

It’s weird; Hank has been acting strangely lately, and Connor had assumed it was due to his limited communication skills and forced isolation, but maybe not. Hank is difficult to read. “Is that good?” Hank only glances over him and refuses to make eye contact, although he didn’t have issues with it earlier.

“Uh, yeah, mostly.” Gaze averted, Hank takes a big gulp of his whiskey. 

Connor doesn’t stress himself out over sand. He sips his vodka and watches out the window at the swirling storm. It’s kind of cool, which he wasn’t expecting after the initial fear when he first saw the giant cloud approaching them. Witnessing Mother Nature at her strongest is truly enchanting—so much power.

And he would be enjoying it more if it weren’t for Hank. He doesn’t understand what is going on with him; every time he thinks Connor isn’t looking, he eyes him curiously, but the moment it seems like it might become mutual, Hank avoids him like the plague. Or, Connor thinks it seems curious, but who knows. 

He doesn’t look angry, and Connor can’t imagine what he could have done. A lightbulb goes off. 

Does Hank feel awkward because of the sexual tension in their improv scene? It had started around that time, so he should clear the air, right? “I’m assuming you’re uncomfortable because of the improv scene,” Connor states without really asking, finishing off his drink.

If he’s being honest, which he doesn’t think he should, he liked it. 

Hank wouldn’t appreciate hearing how enjoyable it was for him, nor is it appropriate, so Connor keeps that to himself. In his defense, he’s only human, so of course, having a hot guy in his face acting so confident and borderline suggestive would affect him. But there's no way he's confessing that.

When Hank doesn’t respond, Connor keeps talking. Might as well dig this hole deeper. “It’s fine, it was just acting, I know it wasn’t anything more. Although, I will warn you, Markus doesn’t like queerbaiting, so…”

Hank scowls deeply, then briefly meets his eyes, before staring into his cup of whiskey. “What the hell is queerbaiting?”

It’s easy to forget that Hank is a popular actor when he asks the same questions anyone else his age would. He is in his 50s, but Connor doesn’t see how that makes a difference; he’s known people older than Hank who were really in touch with culture and trends. “When a piece of media leads an audience to believe there will be queer representation in the form of a sexual or romantic relationship, but it’s just leading them on. Most of the baiting is done to draw in viewers.”

Connor sees the spark of understanding in his eyes and can’t help smiling. “So,” Hank starts tapping his fingers on the tabletop in a steady rhythm. “Like Sherlock? You know, the one series.” 

Connor is a little surprised to hear Hank bring up a specific example, let alone one that’s correct, but Hank constantly surprises him every time they interact. “Actually, yes. That’s exactly right.”

Hank nods in understanding like a wise older man. “So you’re warning me, Markus will want to write about an actual relationship.”

“If we drop too many hints, yes.” Connor isn’t entirely convinced they haven’t already set themselves up for a spontaneous television relationship. Honestly, with the way they’ve been shoved together repeatedly, Markus may have been hoping for this from the start and is thrilled it developed naturally; that wouldn’t be a huge shocker. Something on his face must reveal how anxious this prospect makes him, because Hank chuckles at it. 

“Don’t sweat it, do you know how many goddamn romantic scenes I’ve starred in?” 

Yes, I know all of them, but that’s creepy, so Connor doesn’t say that. What he actually says is worse.

“I’ve only starred in one on Broadway. I’m less confident in my acting abilities when it comes to romantic or sexual relationships.” Connor frowns thoughtfully. 

“Aye now, didn’t you lecture me about my acting skills? If you suck, I’ll have something to say about it.” It’s such a stupid comment, and he can tell Hank is saying it to get under his skin to make a point, but it’s…teasing? Like it’s an inside joke. A fondness blooms in his chest like warmth, and Connor smiles slightly, setting his cup down. 

Do they have an inside joke now? This familiarity feels a lot like camaraderie.

“Do you have any constructive criticism? Anything you recommend avoiding?” 

Hank genuinely considers this. He sips his liquor and stares into the cup thoughtfully. He takes so long to answer, Connor starts to wonder if he ever will. His attention turns to the storm outside that’s beginning to clear away. He can now see the other buses, the road, and some of the horizon. It’s still dark, though. Now, stormy clouds are rolling in, and he can see rain racing towards them.

The likelihood they’ll get to filming today is slim, and Connor thinks he should be happy. It's like a kid getting a snow day, but that means…he won’t get to talk to Hank at all today once the barrage of dust clears.

When did he start wanting to spend time with Hank? He’d been a thorn in Connor’s side for months now; he’s made his work-life balance nonexistent. Sure, things have been improving gradually, but it’s still not great.

Then again, the thing is, Connor loves acting, and as much as he hates to admit it, acting with Hank is fun .

They have a connection that feels like lightning in his veins when they’re in front of a camera lens. 

Outside of filming, they can’t agree on anything.

“It’s just like any other scene,” Hank says suddenly, his voice strikingly loud in the silence. Their eyes bounce off each other, neither willing to commit. “Don’t overthink it.”

They both jolt when Hank’s phone starts ringing. He picks up. “Hey, Markus.”

Connor listens in on the brief conversation, and Hank gets up, slapping his hands down on his knees. “Welp, looks like we’re done for the day. See ya tomorrow, Connor.” 

That was abrupt.

Hesitating, he gets up, puts his cup in the sink, and glances over Hank, hunched over in the booth. Less is more. “Thanks, bye, Hank.” He almost regrets the slight fondness slipping into his voice. Almost.

When he leaves the safety of the trailer, it’s raining hard, and it soaks him moments after stepping outside. Everyone drops off their costumes and changes in Markus’ trailer. Hank doesn’t come over to do the same until Connor is already getting in his car. He watches through the droplets on his glasses as Hank makes his way to the RV in casual clothes.

His thoughts feel scattered, like leaves in the wind.

Today has been so weird, and he’s ready for everything to go back to normal.

Chapter Text

Some days are better than others and today is a bad day.

Overall, working with Markus has been a healing experience for Connor. His past is littered with all kinds of abuse and violence, both from co-stars, directors and producers. He remembers being praised and treated like he was talented, just so those same people could profit off him by taking advantage of him. Then there were those who would punish him for failing to meet their expectations. 

A core memory for Connor is being screamed at for messing up a scene too many times and threatened he’d be fired.

Of course, it wasn’t just him, but he remembers so many times he was exploited sexually for something he shouldn’t have needed more than an audition for. 

Markus doesn’t yell at him when he can’t get a line right, and honestly, neither does Hank. It’s been years since any of that bullshit happened, so why…?

Why do his hands shake every time? Connor hates this. Internally, his mind and body are anticipating consequences for making simple mistakes.

Some days, he just feels on edge, like he’s waiting for the other shoe to drop and someone to rip his ass and force—

He outwardly flinches when fingers are snapped in front of his face. “Earth to Connor, everything okay?” Markus asks.

“Yes, sorry. What were you saying?”

“Since we were interrupted by weather the other day, we have quite a few improv scenes to get through today, did you have any questions?”

Connor stares at his fairly empty script and shakes his head, a pit in his stomach. He mentally hypes himself up as they finish their set up and blocking for at least the big parts. 

He doesn’t know what triggers a day like this, whether it’s anticipating the improv scenes or what. It had started out with him waking up from a nightmare and had gone downhill from there. Even as they get ready to film their first scene of the day, Connor can’t get into his character. It's difficult focusing on much of anything except unwelcome images flashing through his head. It feels like he’s fumbling through each take, and they’re getting progressively worse.

He frowns at his shoes, taking deep breaths to calm himself. Even his pills hadn’t done much for him. It might be because he’s been taking them too often—resistance and all that.

Or who he bought them from gave him sugar pills or something. Unfortunately, that has happened before.

Connor is surprised when other shoes join his and his nose is filled with a deep woodsy smell. He looks up and Hank is standing at his side.

They’re in an old building that was once a saloon. Old wood floors, open floor plan, a beat up bar and wallpaper that’s seen better days. The room is lined with different heads from various species of game. It’s not the kind of place Connor would ever go on his own, but he has to admit, it looks straight out of a movie.

Hank fits right in with his rough exterior and gruff style, but Connor normally is too modern and cleaned up to pick out a location like this. “Hey, get outta your damn head, Connor.” 

Connor scoffs. “Wow, I’m cured.” Hank snorts a laugh, and the crooked smile that spreads over his face, makes Connor’s heart leap into his throat. 

God, Hank is incredibly good looking for someone who bitches entirely too much.

“You’ve got a smart mouth, you know that?” Hank asks, but before Connor can complain, Markus shouts at them to get on their marks. 

Time passes slowly. It's apparent by the amount of takes they do, that Markus is mostly happy with what’s happening on screen, but there are a few scenes where they completely fumble. Connor knows he’s lacking in luster. His usually feisty demeanor has been reduced to a simmer, it results in him having to fake it a bit—or a lot—to make sure he’s doing his character justice.

They’re not even halfway through the schedule when Hank asks for a short break, a squint directed at Connor. He knows Hank noticed, everyone else has too, but no one has called him on it yet.

Yet.

He’s getting a drink, his hands shaking enough to make the task difficult, when Markus steps into his bubble. “Hey, Connor, what’s going on? Are you sick?”

Suddenly, a heavy hand lands on his shoulder, startling him, and Hank’s voice rumbles, “Meet me in my trailer.”

Then, he’s gone, and Connor feels icy dread in his veins, his chest tightening as he watches him retreat. The conversation with Markus forgotten, he mumbles as he follows Hank. His heart is thundering in his ears and his stomach twists, more excited by the prospect of puking than eating anything. 

He hasn’t eaten anything today.

Connor climbs the steps in the heat feeling faint with terror at imagining Hank screaming at him and treating him like a child. Maybe he’d shove Connor down and make him cry as he put his mouth to work—the thought makes him want to run the other way.

Hank is attractive, but Connor doesn’t want to be punished against his will.

He doesn’t get time to linger on it, because the door flies open to Hank standing there in his costume. “Christ, you look like you’re about to keel over. Get in here.”

Hank shuts the door behind him, but quickly grabs his arm. “You look like you’re gonna pass out, holy fuck. Lie down.” He helps Connor get to the back, shoving the silky curtains away to reveal a homey bedroom and bathroom combo with plush blankets and pillows. The warm colors are welcoming, though Connor doesn’t get much time to think about it before being shoved to lie down. 

It’s soft and cozy, it also smells of the woodsy scent always coming off Hank and a dash of vanilla that is primarily on the pillows. “Hank I—“

“Have you eaten today? Drank anything?”

Connor frowns, wiping some errant sweat threatening to get in his eyes. “No.”

“What the fuck!” Hank exclaims only to leap up and hurry into the main room again. “You can’t do this, what are you, a teenager? You’re going to make yourself goddamn sick.”

Connor wants to complain, but focuses on getting his shoes off so they don’t get the bed filthy. 

Hank continues his tirade but it’s nothing truly heated. Really, it reminds Connor of their exchanges recently that sound angry, but feel oddly affectionate. He can’t pinpoint the exact moment things changed, but the fact he’s able to sense a positive turn of events is encouraging.

It helps calm his nerves.

Hank returns with a sandwich and a cold water, placing them on the side table. Connor feels anxious still, though not so bad he’s about to pass out. Hank doesn’t press him, they sit in relative peace until Connor is able to sit up and begin on the meal and drink. Then, Hank switches back to his gruff voice. “What the hell is up with you?”

Connor carefully hides a wince at the tone behind a cough into his elbow. “I know I keep messing up today, I’ll get back on track, I promise I—“

“Not that.” Hank’s voice takes on a soothing tone, kinder than Connor has ever heard in person. “I mean why are you so hard on yourself?”

The question completely throws Connor off and he stares at Hank dumbly. He probably looks like a child sitting in Hank’s bed with a sandwich and water, eyes wide with surprise. In their months of being colleagues, Hank has never asked Connor about his well being. 

On one hand, he’s flattered and shocked Hank observes him closely enough to confront him. On the other hand, Connor isn’t even sure how to answer.

They’re not close enough for Connor to just spill all his trauma. How do you even explain to anyone you were screamed at, scolded, threatened, raped and hurt for being human?

This uncertain, and irrational fear, is why he’s never told anyone. 

Connor doesn’t even know why he’s considering telling Hank; it’s madness.

He averts his eyes to the plate and tries to form coherent thoughts and sentences. “I’ve had…some unsavory experiences with colleagues on set, it makes me nervous to make mistakes.” That’s the vaguest, least traumatic response Connor can think of.

“You’re not a machine,” Hank states, as if it’s the most important part of their conversations thus far. 

Connor digests this, his mind turning the reassurance over like a crystal ball in his hands. Logically, he knows this, but emotionally, he feels like if he doesn’t do everything right, he deserves whatever is coming to him. Hank is the first person to ever tell him that, outside of Sixty.

When their eyes meet, Hank is scowling deeply and his demeanor is tense, showing just how serious he takes this. “What kind of punishment did you have to deal with?”

Once more, Connor’s stomach is in knots, and his throat constricts, like it’s trying to stop any words from coming out. 

Verbalizing the horrors makes them seem too real. 

The pained expression contorting his face must be enough to set Hank off. He leans back with a suddenly angry frown and a darkness settling over him like a cloud. “Hank…?”

“I’m sorry,” he rasps, shame weighing him down, he looks away. “I won’t ever hurt you, or make you do something you don’t want, Connor. I know I’ve been a jackass, but—I’m sorry for perpetuating a cycle.”

He realizes Hank is trying to sincerely apologize. 

He truly understands Connor’s past and comprehends the weight of his behavior. 

It’s frankly, too much to comprehend, Connor simply can’t. The full weight of his words don’t impact immediately.

Not only does Hank feel guilty, but he’s now the only soul in the world that knows Connor has been taken advantage of multiple times. All without him saying anything explicit. He feels…elated, in a strange sense. Relieved, just knowing someone understands. He laughs dryly, but tugs Hank into a hug. “You’re nothing like any of those jackasses, Hank.”

For a brief moment, Connor is afraid he’s gone too fair, then Hank pats his back and draws him into a warm hug. It’s definitely a bear hug and it’s soul healing. Connor realizes he hasn’t been hugged like this in years.

He melts into the embrace and notices Hank breathing shallowly but quickly. His heart is hammering too, and Connor curiously tries to understand why. Is he just as embarrassed by this as Connor? Maybe embarrassed isn’t the right word—maybe, he means flustered?

Yeah, that.

Connor knows why he is.

Suddenly the words from days ago flashes into his mind again .

I think you look great and I think Hank will agree.

To guess they’d go from hating each other to some strange mutual attraction is ridiculous, and Connor can’t even imagine how it would happen. North is crazy. Hank is probably just surprised by the affection.

But Hank is warm and secure, even as he exhales heavily, making a good effort to relax. Connor releases him and smiles up at him, it doesn’t make his anxiety go away, but knowing Hank understands helps. His mind wanders in the silence, and Connor starts finishing his food. “You know, sometimes I wish I had my old therapy dog.”

“You had a therapy dog?”

Hank is watching him, his face red like he’s been sweating this whole time, it is burning up.

“Yeah,” Connor unlocks his phone and takes a minute to find what he’s thinking of, and proudly displays a photo of a golden retriever in a working red vest. “Her name was Luna. My mom got her for me when I was around ten years old. I miss her so much.” Connor can’t tear his eyes away from the image for a long moment, then he forces himself to swipe away.

When he looks up, Hank has his own phone. “I uh, have a dog, his name is Sumo.” It’s surprising when Hank willingly shares a photo of Sumo with him. The big Saint Bernard is laying in a huge bed with a massive bone. Connor can’t help his smile.

“Oh, he’s so cute. I love dogs.”

“Yeah,” Hank chuckles. “Asshole knows it, too. He always looks at me with these big puppy dog eyes when he wants something.”

Connor knew Hank had a dog before this conversation, but it still makes him glad to see Hank affectionately referring to his pet. It’s not much, but even an inch of common ground is more than they had before. 

Their love for dogs.

Suddenly, the alarm on Connor’s phone goes off, telling him it’s time to get back on set. He tries to swing his legs over the edge of the bed for Hank to stick his arm out and stop him. “EHET!” It’s the same noise they used on Luna when she was getting into something. “Finish your damn food, Lightning McQueen. I’ll let them know we need some more time.”

Before he can protest, Hank is gone, exiting his trailer, and Connor is left sitting in Hank's bed.

Alone.

He finishes his sandwich in a couple of bites and then he’s left looking around the space. 

Alright, it’s hitting him now that he’s calmed down.

Holy shit, this is Hank Anderson’s bedroom. There are so many people who would have paid good money to have even a glimpse of this space. Here he is, sitting in it, being told to settle down while he’s here. There’s a massive—even gigantic— part of him that’s far from appropriately excited about this. So much for his anxiety…

Hank will be back soon, so Connor knows he can’t get too comfortable, but he’s a nosy bastard, so he opens Hank's side table drawer.

Inside are pretty typical stuff. A book, a few useless charging cords and a nail kit. Connor reads the book title. Secret of the Pale Visitor. Nothing he’s heard of, but it’s apparently some mystery novel, based on the details of the cover.

That one is nothing super special, so he stretches over and opens the other drawer on the opposite side of the bed.

This is less…typical, or maybe it is? It’s something he’s certainly not supposed to see.

There’s lube, a fleshlight and condoms. Connor’s body instantly heats up like he’s going to burst into flames and his heart beats so fast he feels dizzy again. He’d love to think his face isn’t red, but it absolutely is. He might as well be the same color as a fire truck now. 

Hank had used all of this when he was getting intimate with people, having sex with them. It’s so obvious but so private, that it definitely makes Connor imagine…

Well, okay, this wasn’t the first time he’d thought about Hank sexually, but it’s definitely the first time since meeting him in person. 

The condoms are extra large , oh god .  

How the fuck is Connor supposed to be a completely normal person knowing Hank has a dick as big as his shitty attitude? This is all his fault for even finding out.

Connor jolts when he hears the door open and slams the drawer shut. He can’t scramble to a sitting position before Hank is in the trailer. “Twenty minutes sound like enou—are you gonna fall asleep?” Well, that conclusion is better than what was actually happening, by a mile or….a million miles. 

Connor doesn’t look up, he pretends to be tired. “No, I’m just resting my eyes.”

“Don’t let me stop you.” Hank sounds thrilled, he lies back on the bed only a few inches away, puts his hat over his face and gets comfortable with hands supporting his head. Connor sits up enough to peak at Hank, but it doesn’t matter anyway, because he starts snoring almost immediately. It’s almost comical how loud and abrupt it is.

With a soft laugh, he lies back down and forces his eyes shut. Connor focuses on calming his heart rate and his racing thoughts. There’s a million things running through his skull, but he can’t stop the image of those items from being summoned to the forefront. 

Oh god, this is going to be a big problem.

Connor covers his face with his hands and exhales loudly, like this will physically stop the flow of blood from redirecting inappropriately to his groin. 

It doesn’t, but he tries.

The twenty minute Power Nap Hank easily takes, is pure torture for him. Connor can smell Hank, see him and his mind runs rampant. His imagination is going wild now. 

He groans in frustration and displeasure when he curls up and finds his underwear wet enough to be uncomfortable.

He’s going to need to take care of this. Just not here. Not now. 

But later.

Hank’s snore cuts off when his alarm blares, then he snorts loudly and grunts, turning it off and reaching over. He touches Connor’s shoulder. “Hey, we should get back on set.”

His voice is rough with sleep and low as he tries not to jostle Connor awake too violently. If only that was the issue. 

Connor nods, not trusting himself to speak normally at this point. Slowly they sit up and Connor is internally cursing at the mess he’s made of himself. 

Today is weird. “Can I use your restroom?”

“Oh, yeah.” Hank gets up and leads him to a door right next to the bedroom in the hall. Connor steps in and sighs in relief. Inside is a toilet, sink, mirror and a shower.

He takes some time to clean himself up the best he can before following Hank back to set. Markus looks at them both curiously but doesn’t ask.

Connor is relieved, but boy is today going to be long.