Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It smelled like snow. The tops of the trees rustled in the wind as it stripped the last golden leaves from their branches. The full moon hung, bright in the clouded sky. Connor wrapped his coat tighter around himself. Winter was on the way, and its icy fingers tried to creep beneath his layers.

“Hey, James,” he called, as he approached.

The man was in his usual spot, huddled up in blankets, settling in for a long and cold night. At the sound of Connor's voice, a small grey snout with a black nose poked out of the opening.

“Evening, Connor,” James answered.

Connor dropped into a crouch beside James. The terrier poked her whole face out of the blankets. Connor could see the wiggling lump where her tail wagged frantically beneath. “Hey, Lady,” he greeted her. He held his fingers out for her to sniff before petting her.

“You brought me something?” James asked, his eyes on the bag that Connor placed beside him. He didn't bother to wait for the answer before he unfurled his blankets and started to comb through the bag's contents.

“There's coffee in the silver one, soup in the black one,” Connor answered, still petting the top of Lady's head. Her tail whirred, shaking her entire back end. James pulled out the flasks, as well as the pre-packed sandwiches and the candy bars. There were also several disposable hand warmers, some new gloves, and three cans of Lady's favorite.

“I wish there were more like you,” James lamented, immediately ripping one of the hand warmers open and cracking the gel so it could heat.

Connor didn't have much of an answer to that. The shelters wouldn't let James take Lady, so James stayed on the street. He'd been living in his car up until some assholes had torched it. Since then he'd taken up at Riverside Park for the evenings.

He shook his head. “I'll bring you some fresh blankets next time,” he promised.

“There's still no word on him,” James added.

Connor's heart didn't sink at that news any more. He only smiled, sadly. “It's okay,” he assured James.

“I'm still listening though!” James promised.

Connor forced himself to smile wider. Listening for word on Connor's brother was the deal they had. Connor brought food, and made sure Lady got her shots, and her nails clipped, and James listened to the word on the street and promised to let Connor know if there was any sight or sound of Sixty.

He'd disappeared a year ago. Four months later Connor had spotted him sleeping rough outside a downtown mall. They'd argued; Connor had tried to bring him home, and Sixty hadn't wanted to come. Sixty had left, and Connor hadn't seen him since.

At first no one had trusted Connor enough to tell him where Sixty might be. But as he'd searched, and learned people's stories, and they'd learned about him, there had been bits and pieces. Sixty had taken up in an abandoned building. Then he'd moved on to Beacon Park.

In the last few months, there'd been nothing. It used to make his heart sink. Now his heart was giving up on ever finding Sixty again, but his stubborn brain wouldn't.

“I know you are,” Connor answered. He gave Lady one last pet. “I appreciate it.”

He gave James his farewells and stood. The wind gripped at his hair and ruffled it. Connor jammed his hands into his pockets and bent his head against the chill. It was only a short walk to his car, but it was already midnight dark.

His footsteps were quick. The keys jangled as he pulled them from his pocket. Something careened into the back of him, tossing him against the car. The keys skittered from his hand and landed on the asphalt. Something cold jammed into the back of his head, and a weight pinned him against the vehicle, stopping him from turning around.

“Keys,” a voice snarled.

Connor pushed against his car, trying to force his attacker back. Something hit him in the back of the knee, making his leg buckle. A yelp ripped from his throat.

“Give me your keys!”

A subsonic sound entered Connor via his spine, and crawled up it in a shiver. The pressure holding him against the car eased. It took a moment for Connor to realize what he was actually hearing.

It was a growl. A low, steady, dangerous growl, unlike any dog. It was pure predator. It hijacked his central nervous system and told it not to bother with fight or flight. There was no point. It was the growl of death itself.

The growl rose in volume. It hotwired Connor's spine and turned his organs to jelly.

“What the fu--”

The pressure fell away from Connor as his attacker turned towards the noise. For a heartbeat Connor was suspended in time, floating on the sound of teeth that came from all sides. Then his body realized movement was an option.

He whirled around and threw himself at his attacker, pushing them back. The metal flash of a gun barely registered as it caught the moonlight.

Everything happened quickly. Movement. A snarl. A glimpse of teeth sinking into flesh. A shot. A yelp. Bodies colliding. The gun skidding across the asphalt.

The growl continued. The attacker scrambled to his feet and ran.

Connor looked. His rescuer was a mongrel. Large, and grey, with an unkempt coat. It had to weigh at least two hundred pounds. The hackles on its back were raised into spikes of anger.

The growl stopped. The world fell eerily silent, as if nothing wanted to dare speak after it. The dog turned and looked at Connor.

Connor's heart thumped against the inside of his chest. Those eyes were intelligent. Like it understood who Connor was. He'd never felt so seen by anything. It was as if it had read his entire life and heart in just that glance.

It turned away again, and then moved, and yelped. The dog lifted its right forepaw, holding it still for a moment, and then put it down more carefully.

“Wait!” Connor approached the dog. Another growl crept up his spine. He crouched, holding his hands up in surrender. “You're hurt.”

It couldn't understand him. It was stupid to think that it could. It was a dog. Connor always talked to dogs like this, but it felt...

It felt like this one could understand.

It looked at him again. “Please?” he pleaded, moving his hands slowly towards the dog. “Let me see?”

The growl died away. The dog didn't move. Connor took it as permission, or as close as he was going to get.

He reached out and took the dog's paw, and felt his way slowly upwards, checking tendons and flesh alike. When he reached the shoulder his fingers encountered wet, sticky heat. The dog whined. He pulled his hand back. In the darkness the blood was black.

“I can't leave you here.”

The dog regarded him for a moment, and then turned. It took a slow, limping step away, back towards the park.

“Please?” he begged again. “You saved my life. At least let me do this?”

The dog halted. Connor had never, never met a dog like this before. It was like talking to a person.

It stared at him for a long moment, while the world held its breath. Connor gave it the best softly desperate look he could muster.

The dog gave a groan. Connor swore it rolled its eyes. Then it turned, and limped back towards his car. Connor scrambled to his feet and retrieved his keys. The gun lay a short distance away, glinting in the moonlight. In the morning children would come here, with their parents. He couldn't leave a gun lying around.

His hand hovered over the weapon. He should report what had happened. Get the police here. This gun was evidence. He shouldn't touch it. But what would he tell them? That someone had attacked him and this giant mutt had saved his ass? He hadn't got a look at his attacker. And he had a sneaking suspicion that the dog wouldn't wait for the police to show up and finish.

Connor picked the gun up and unlocked his car. The dog heaved itself into the back seat and settled down, favoring its uninjured side. In the weak glow of the internal light its fur was a deep, dark grey. Its enormous bulk filled the whole of the back, and it rested its chin on its crossed paws.

Connor closed the door. The gun went into the glove box. The engine rumbled to life with a turn of the key, and Connor turned the heating up to take the chill out of the air.

He gave the dog one last glance in the rear mirror before he set off. Its eerily blue eyes looked directly back at him in the reflection.

The clinic was dark. It was always a little upsetting to come back here in the middle of the night. Connor turned the lights on, trying to chase away the ghosts of emergencies past. The dog followed him close behind, limping more easily, and Connor led it all the way into the back.

“I need an x-ray,” he explained, because talking made the place feel less creepy, and in any case this dog seemed to understand everything he said. “So I can see where that bullet is.”

Getting a dog that must be two hundred pounds of pure muscle onto the x-ray table wasn't going to be fun. Normally that would be a four man lift, after they'd got the animal sedated. In the light of the clinic Connor's best guess was that one of this one's parents had been a mastiff. And the other four had probably been other types of mastiff, and maybe one of them had been a wolf. Its head was broad, as was its muzzle, and its paws were as large as Connor's own hands, but its snout was longer than a mastiff's snout, and it was big, even for a mastiff breed.

The dog looked at the x-ray table, which was up almost at the level of Connor's hip. It raised its front paws up, onto the table, standing on its back ones, and for a moment Connor thought it might just jump the rest of the way. Then it looked at Connor again and lifted one of its back legs.

“Not much of a jumper, huh?” Connor asked, unable to help his smile. He wondered how old this dog was. All of its fur was grey, but it had the white speckling of a beard at the tip of its muzzle.

The dog gave him a look that Connor could only describe as unamused. Connor actually felt bad about teasing it. “Give me two minutes,” he said, and ran to get the step stool the shorter staff used to reach into the upper cupboards.

He tucked it under the dog's back leg. It settled its foot on it, and then lifted its other one up to the table. It wasn't a graceful clamber, and there was some scrabbling of claws as it hefted its enormous bulk upwards, but it got there, and then lay down on its side, as if it knew what Connor needed.

“You are the weirdest dog I've ever met,” he murmured.

The dog lifted its head to look at him. Connor felt the answering sentiment hit him. He was probably the weirdest human this dog had ever met, too.

Ten minutes later the x-rays had come through on the system. The dog sat quietly on its haunches beside Connor while he looked at them.

Relief crept through his system. “The bullet's still there,” he said, pointing to the glow of metal against the stark white of the dog's bones, “but it looks like it hit the bone and hasn't gone any further.” He bit his lip. He could probably pull it out without doing any damage to anything important, but if it wasn't doing any harm then it was an unnecessary risk.

But this was a streetdog. Connor couldn't adopt it. He had a feeling the dog wouldn't let him anyway. Which meant that the bullet wound was a portal of entry for infection, and the dog would be unlikely to get treatment if that happened.

“I need to give you some antibiotics,” he concluded, and met the dog's eyes, “and I wanna get that bullet out. If you'll let me.”

The swish of a tail against the floor was brief, but it was obvious Connor was making a call the dog approved of. It followed him obediently into the treatment room, and sat patiently on its haunches. Connor felt its intelligent eyes boring into his back as he pulled together anesthetic, povidone, sutures, forceps, and sterile gloves.

“I'm going to have to shave you,” he warned, as he approached the dog again. It looked at him as if it had been expecting that. The more time Connor spent with this animal, the more it felt like talking to a person.

The dog didn't flinch at the sound of the clippers. And it stood there with its eyes closed as Connor wiped the area with povidone. “Anesthetic coming up,” he warned, because he felt like he should, and carefully injected around the wound site, and then deeper.

The wound had long since stopped bleeding. Connor felt around the edges. The bullet was a hard lump under the skin, the tissues around it were swollen and traumatized. He used a scalpel to open the wound a little wider.

The dog remained perfectly still as Connor eased the forceps inside the wound. The fresh opening dripped blood down into the dog's fur, staining the silver-grey – blue, on animals it was called blue – red.

His forceps found metal. Tissues had adhered to the metal, as if the wound was already trying to heal. “What are you?” Connor murmured. He returned to his scalpel and worked carefully, freeing the flesh from around the bullet. The dog didn't so much as twitch.

The dog wasn't sedated. The local anesthetic would numb the area to pain, but the dog would still be able to feel Connor poking around beneath its skin. And still it sat, placid and obedient as Connor carefully cut the bullet free from its flesh, and then took a grip on it with his forceps.

He pulled. The bullet resisted, lodged in the bone. It was almost as if it had been in the dog for days, or weeks, not an hour. “Sorry,” he murmured, “this might hurt.”

The dog growled as Connor wiggled the bullet carefully back and forth, slowly freeing it. The sound was a low rumble, but it didn't enter Connor's nervous system via his spine like the threatening rumble of earlier. This was discomfort, not throat-ripping anger.

The bullet came away suddenly, and the dog yelped. Connor pulled it free and the dog danced away, claws tapping on the floor as it stamped unhappily. Then, without prompting, it heaved a sigh and sat in front of Connor once more.

There was no possible way this was just a streetdog. With its temperament, and coloring, and size, this had to be somebody's prized and well trained pet. Maybe even a service animal. “Good boy,” Connor soothed. The tail swept across the floor in a wag that quickly stopped. “It's out,” he reassured. “Just stitches now.”

The dog was just as well behaved for the stitches. Connor put three neat little sutures in, tying them off, and then gave the site another clean with some more povidone. “There,” he said, patting the dog's enormous flank. The tail wagged again, twice, and then stopped. “Just an antibiotic shot, and we'll get you home.” He should put a collar on it, to stop the dog licking at the stitches, and yet... somehow... he knew that wouldn't be necessary.

The dog bore the antibiotic shot with the same grace and patience as it had borne the stitching. Connor got a tiny whine from it as he injected into the animal's scruff, and almost laughed. “You've just let me dig a bullet out of your shoulder, but you're whining about the shot?” The statement earned him a low rumble of discontent.

Connor would have to explain where the supplies had gone. He cleaned up, and wrote a note, listing what he'd used with the words pro bono case overnight. They might dock it from his pay, but it didn't matter.

He paused to check on the overnight residents. The animals were all oddly quiet. The cats sat, alert, watching Connor through their lampshades. The dogs...

The dogs weren't watching Connor. Every one of them sat, tucked into the back of the cage, attention firmly fixed on the door, as if they sensed the dog on the other side of it.

The clinic was quiet. It was never quiet. There was always meowing, or scratching, or barking, there should be the skitter of claws, or the sound of lapping at water. Instead there was silence, as if every animal in the building was on its best possible behavior. It was unsettling.

The dog couldn't stay here, that was for sure.

“Looks like you're coming home with me,” he told it, after making sure everyone had water and was okay for the night. The smell of abscess drains lingered in his nose, but nobody had made a mess that needed to be cleaned up, and everyone was alive and doing as well as they could be. They'd be okay until the morning.

The dog tilted its head to one side. It was the most canine thing the animal had done since Connor met it.

“I can't take you back to the park!” he defended. “What if you tear the stitches? Or it gets infected?” The dog's look was challenging. Connor felt the counterargument that he was crazy if he thought he could just take this dog home and take care of it there. It was too big, and he wasn't supposed to have pets in his rented apartment, and this was definitely not an apartment sized dog. “Besides,” he pointed out, to the voice in his own head, “it's one in the morning and freezing. I'm not driving back to that park now.”

The dog rolled its eyes again. Dogs shouldn't be able to do that. Connor bit his lip. “At least you can spend the night in a warm bed with free food,” he told it.

The dog seemed to think about that. Actually think about it, its eyes passing over Connor, and then around at the clinic. Then its tail wagged again. Connor smiled with relief.

He closed up the clinic, locking the door. The dog followed him back to his car and climbed in without complaint. This time, instead of lying on the back seat with its head on its paws, it watched out of the window at the dark streets of Detroit passing by. Connor couldn't help but think it was memorizing the route from the clinic to Connor's home.

It continued to follow him into his apartment, sticking close by his side. Connor held his apartment door open for it with a, “Make yourself at home.”

The dog sniffed the air before walking in, taking the first wary steps Connor had seen. He swore it scanned the room, and then pressed its nose to the ground and sniffed its way inwards.

Connor followed, letting the door latch shut behind them both. The dog did a short lap of his kitchen, sniffing at each cupboard before it wandered to the bathroom, and then the bedroom. The short, deliberate inhales were punctuated by heavy, ponderous footsteps. Connor listened to them as he pulled out a mixing bowl and filled it with water.

He didn't have any dog food in stock, but he did have some chicken sitting in his fridge. With an eye on the time he tossed two chicken breasts into the skillet. He had no idea when the dog had last eaten, but with its size and bulk, it certainly wasn't starving.

The dog came and sat by Connor's heels while the chicken cooked. The dragging sound of its tail sweeping slowly back and forth was almost as loud as the sizzle of the meat. Connor flipped the chicken over and risked a glance at the dog. A thin string of saliva trailed from its jowls. It licked its chops self consciously.

When the chicken was white all the way through, Connor tore it apart with a fork, and put it on a plate. Claws tapped against the tiled floor as the dog backed up, letting him set it down. Then it dove in, wolfing the pieces of chicken down in eager gulps.

“Hey, slow down!” Connor warned. “It's still hot!”

The dog lifted its head, jaw working frantically, as if acknowledging that fact too late to avoid burning the roof of its mouth, and then stuck its muzzle in the water, taking huge lapping bites at it that splashed outside of the bowl and across the floor.

“You were hungry, huh?” Connor asked.

The dog didn't answer, only returned to the chicken and took another eager gulp.

Connor shook his head. He left the dog to eat and headed into his bedroom. He pulled out some of his summer blankets and took them to the living room. The sound of the dog noisily drinking more water and splashing it everywhere filled the apartment.

He folded the blankets into a large square and set them on the floor near the radiator. The dog ambled over, looking at him quizzically, and then sniffed at the makeshift bed.

“I'd rather you didn't sleep on the couch,” he explained, long past the point of finding it strange that this dog was so receptive to being spoken to, “but I know I can't stop you.”

The dog looked back at the bed, and then at the couch. Then it carefully stepped onto the folded blankets and walked in a circle three times before flopping down.

Connor smiled. It was stupid. It was so stupid, but in his exhausted state, and with all the strangeness of today, it really did feel as if the dog understood. “Thank you,” he said, and then added, “I'll see you in the morning.”

The dog licked his chops one final time, and then rested his chin on his folded paws. His tail thumped idly against the blankets.

Connor turned and headed to bed. Maybe he'd wake up in the morning and this would all have been some bizarre, half remembered dream.

Chapter Text

Connor didn't remember falling asleep. Time just seemed to go from him crashing out against the pillows to struggling with dry mouth and the sunlight streaming through his blinds. He spent a few minutes trying to fight it, rolling over and burying his face in the sheets, but his brain, the asshole that it was, knew he was awake now.

He surrendered when his bladder woke up and demanded his attention. It was an aching journey to the bathroom, his limbs like jelly and his ribs tender. The sound of snoring filtered through from the living room, rasping and rhythmic.

He'd heard dogs snore before, but this was on another level.

After a piss and brushing his teeth Connor made his way back into his living room. The snoring had stopped. The blanket bed he'd carefully made was in disarray, and empty.

He leaned over the back of the couch and peered down at the cushions.

A very large, very naked man met his eyes.

They leapt away from each other at the same time.

“What the fuck?”

“Ah, fuck!” The man rolled onto the floor in a tangle of limbs and blanket. He hissed as he crashed off the sofa, and then tried to disentangle himself to stand.

Connor pressed himself back against the wall and tried to remember where he'd left his phone. “Who are you?”

“Okay,” the man rumbled, and his voice was a rumble, low and throaty in a way that was ridiculously attractive, “don't freak out.”

“How did you get here?” Connor demanded. His phone was back in his bedroom. If he eased back down the corridor he could probably make it in and slam the door shut, but then he wouldn't be able to keep this man out and reach it if he gave chase.

“You brought me here,” the man answered, struggling to his feet. He was buck naked, a thick thatch of gray hair spread across his chest and converged in a line down his stomach that gathered at his groin. Connor's eyes followed it down.

He forced them back up, to the man's face. “I did not.” He'd have remembered bringing that home. Its owner wouldn't have been snoring on his couch, that was for sure.

“You did,” the man insisted, and then he turned, showing Connor a twisted wound on the back of his shoulder. Three neat stitches held it together.

“I--” Words died on Connor's tongue. The sutures were the distinctive blue he'd used last night but-- “That was a dog,” he protested, weakly.

The man's shoulders drooped. A sympathetic frown crossed the man's face. His beard and hair was overgrown and unkempt, but those blue eyes were sharp, and piercing. “I thought you'd figured it out,” he said, softly. It didn't sound like an apology, it sounded more like he was encouraging Connor to put the pieces together.

A dog that was large, and unreasonably intelligent. That had saved his life, and understood that he was trying to help. That had been, in short, far too human in the way it had responded.

But that wasn't possible. That was a fairytale. “Werewolves aren't real.”

The man held his arms out and looked down at his own body. “I've got some compelling evidence to the contrary.”

Connor's eyes dropped again, taking in the thick, furred thighs. The man was broad shouldered, and barrel chested. His stomach suggested the swell of fat over muscle; not the toned, cut abs of a gym rat, but the real, functioning strength of a man that could pick someone like Connor up and rail him against every vertical surface.

He wrenched his eyes away, making himself look into a far corner of the room. “Can you cover up?” he asked, holding his hand out as if to block his own view. “It's very distracting.”

The man laughed. There was the faint flomp of a cushion landing on the floor, and movement out of the corner of Connor's eye. He kept his gaze firmly fixed on the ceiling.

“Okay princess, you can look now.”

The man had wrapped one of the blankets around his waist, tying it like a towel. It did nothing to stop Connor's eyes roving over that broad, hairy chest, and the soft contour of muscle in the man's shoulders, but it at least stopped his mind coming back to that dick. “Thank you,” he said, “but don't call me princess.”

The man shrugged. “Well you act like you've never seen a dick before.”

“I've seen plenty of--!” Connor began, and then caught the words as they were about to exit his mouth. He bit them off, and scowled. The man's smile wrinkled his bright eyes and flashed his white teeth. He had a small gap between the front two. Heat crept up into Connor's face. This was not how he'd expected his morning to go.

The man seemed to sense it. His grin softened into a warm smile. “My name's Hank,” he said. “And yeah, I'm a werewolf.”

Connor felt himself deflating. In the grand scheme of things, werewolves being real was an order of magnitude harder to wrap his mind around than a strange, naked man in his apartment. “Connor,” he replied, offering his own name in return.

“I know who you are,” Hank answered, gently. “You bring food to some of the street people. Look after their animals, too.”

Connor's throat went tight. The gentle way Hank said it, as if it was something he admired, plucked at something vulnerable in Connor's chest. He tried to turn the conversation away from himself: “Do you live on the street?” He rounded the couch, and carefully settled himself onto it.

Hank took the cue and sat down at the other end of the couch. His voice ached with the pain of something terrible when he answered, “Yeah.” He didn't meet Connor's eyes.

There was a conversation there, one that Connor wasn't ready to have, and he doubted Hank was either. It tickled at his curiosity, and made a part of his brain itch. He clamped down on it. “Are there,” he hesitated, “many werewolves in Detroit?” It still sounded insane.

“A handful of packs,” Hank answered, “a few more loners.” He gazed sidelong at Connor, as if he was reading Connor's mind. “Most of them don't live on the street,” he explained. “Most of them you'd never know about.” He shrugged. “But we know each other.”

“By smell?” Connor guessed.

Hank laughed. It was an attractive, low chuckle. He nodded. “Yeah, by smell.”

Connor smiled. “So,” he began, “what about all the stuff like, silver, and the full moon?”

Hank laughed again, his body angling towards Connor. “Silver doesn't do shit,” he answered, confidently. “Garlic, though, that could kill me.”

A pang of sympathy coursed through Connor. “That sucks,” he said, with feeling. It made sense, because garlic was toxic to dogs and wolves, but it still sucked to try and imagine never being able to eat spaghetti aglio e olio, or breadsticks from olive garden.

“Yeah it does,” Hank agreed, vehemently. “That shit smells amazing.” He gave another shrug with one enormous shoulder. “As for the full moon stuff, it's sorta true.” Connor tilted his head and listened, as Hank explained, “We have to change on the full moon. We can still change whenever we want the rest of the time, it's just that we only get our true form under the full moon. The rest of the time it's a man-wolf hybrid.”

“Like in Van Helsing?” The words left Connor's mouth before he could catch them.

Hank looked at him. For a long moment he just looked. Connor felt a thousand layers being stripped away under those eyes. His toes curled.

“Yeah,” Hank said, eventually, judgement dripping from every syllable, “like in Van Helsing.”

“Cool,” Connor answered, trying to play it off as casually as he could and immediately regretting it. Cool. What sort of response was that?

Hank's gaze didn't falter, or leave Connor's face. Connor's cheeks heated beneath it, and he tried not to squirm. “So, uh,” he forced the words past his stumbling tongue and made himself stand up, “I should,” he gestured towards his bedroom in lieu of finding the words, and then stopped that because that wasn't better, “see if I have any clothes you can wear.”

He retreated at a hurry. Hank's amused gaze burned holes into his back. Connor shut it out with his bedroom door and buried his face in his hands. His cheeks were unbearably warm.

It was so much to take in. Werewolves were real. He had one in his house. Was it worse that like this he looked like the sort of guy Connor had spent his college years desperately thirsting over in bars, hanging on their every word while they went over the finer points of power tool use?

And that dick. Shit. If any of the guys Connor had gone home with back then had been hung like that he'd have given thankful prayers to whichever god of gay men he remembered existed and volunteered his ass as tribute.

It wasn't fair. He was supposed to be responsible now. He had a job. An apartment. Bills. He'd been going through a six month dry spell since his last breakup because he wasn't young enough and skinny enough to be the cute brainless twink that wanted to fuck middle aged men any more. He was in the early stages of twink death; he wasn't a forgettable one night stand and that made meeting people so much harder.

And now Apollo, or Chin, or Hermes, or whoever had dropped a wet dream almost literally into his lap.

A wet dream that was completely and unapologetically naked.

Connor heaved a sigh. He could probably sacrifice a t-shirt, and it might fit Hank, but there was no way Hank was getting any of Connor's pants on without strangling something vital.

A search of his closet turned up an old shirt that was still loose on him now. A deeper search took him into the forgotten corners, where things that fell from hangers went to die. There was an old pair of gray sweatpants, crumpled in the back. Connor had borrowed them off a boyfriend whose name was ten years in the past because he couldn't make it home to change before class, and he wasn't attending class in the gold lame hotpants he'd been wearing. They'd never made it back to their owner. All Connor remembered now was that he'd been a football player.

They were paint stained now, but the detailed examination of holding them up against his own hips suggested they were still a couple of sizes too big. Which meant Hank might stand a chance.

Connor braced himself before he left the bedroom. Hank was standing again, his broad back turned and the blanket hanging low on his hips so that Connor had a good view of the shape of him. He was looking at the photographs on Connor's shelf.

“My brother,” Connor explained, softly. Hank hadn't asked, but he knew the question would be there.

“Twins?” Hank asked. He held the blanket fast around his waist with one hand as he turned.

Connor nodded. “Fraternal,” he added, with a bitter smile. “Not that you'd know.” They'd always been mistaken for identical. When they were little it had been fun; they'd swapped clothes at school to confuse their mom and teachers and the other kids, and played pranks on anyone that didn't know there were two of them by popping up in different places but not letting themselves be caught together. It had been less fun when they'd got older and both of them had wanted to establish their own personalities instead of always being seen as a unit.

“What's his name?”

Connor set the clothes on the back of the couch. “Christopher,” he answered, moving in beside Hank to look at the photo that had caught his attention the most. It was a candid shot of the two of them at graduation, in their matching caps and gowns, broad smiles on both of their faces. “But everyone called him Sixty.”

“Interesting nickname.”

Connor's mouth twitched in a smile. The memory was warm. “It was his Lacrosse number. I was Fifty One.”

Hank's head moved in a nod that wanted to be a headtilt. “I'm more of a basketball guy myself,” he replied.

Connor allowed himself the privilege of raking his eyes up Hank. He was taller than Connor by enough inches that it made Connor feel small. At six feet tall, there weren't many guys that could do that to Connor. “That figures.”

Hank flashed him a lopsided smile in response. “So what happened to him?” he asked, glancing back at Sixty's victorious grin in their graduation picture. When Connor didn't answer immediately, he pressed; “He's the guy you're looking for, right?”

Connor blinked and tore his eyes away from the picture. Talking about Sixty wasn't easy. Parts of it still stung. He folded his arms tightly around himself to stop himself from fidgeting with his pajamas. “We grew apart,” Connor admitted. He folded himself into the couch and stared at nothing; it was easier than looking at Hank as he admitted, “He fell in with a cult. Quit his job. The guy got arrested but only after he'd spent everyone's money.” It made his throat ache to recount. “I found Sixty on the street a while back, but I couldn't convince him to come home. I haven't seen him since.”

“I'm sorry.” Hank's voice brimmed with genuine regret. Connor shook his head. He didn't need the apology.

“I don't know if he's still alive,” he admitted. His throat hurt. His voice felt strained. “I've not heard anything about him in the last six months. It's like he's just gone.”

Hank moved into Connor's line of vision. His toenails were overgrown. Connor stared at them as Hank settled onto the couch beside him. “I know it's not much,” he said, his voice deep and soothing, “but I can see if anyone on my side of the city knows anything?”

A warm, rough hand settled carefully near the back of his neck. Connor held his breath. Every cell in his body yearned to lean into the touch, lean into Hank, and take the comfort. He resisted, dragging a hand across his eye and making himself look at Hank beside him.

Hank's mouth was downturned, but it was his eyes that struck Connor. Their sunny blue looked sad, hidden behind the droop of his eyelids and framed by the wrinkles at the corners.

“I'd appreciate that,” Connor admitted, although the idea terrified him. What if even the werewolves hadn't caught a sniff of him? What would that mean?

Hank's hand rubbed, briefly, against Connor's back, and then fell away. Hank stood, and picked up the clothes Connor had brought in with one hand, keeping a firm grip on the blanket around his hips with the other. “I'll,” he held the clothes up as he hesitated, “go and put these on.”

Connor was busy in the kitchen when Hank returned. The smell of fresh coffee permeated the air as it dripped through the filter. Hank sniffed the air and tugged at the t-shirt, which was tight across his stomach and around his arms.

“I hope you're okay with coffee,” Connor commented, flipping the bacon over in the pan. Too much caffeine was toxic to dogs, but too much caffeine was also toxic to humans.

“You know, feeding strays is how you get them moving in.”

Connor froze. Hank did too, as if his brain caught the words at the same time as Connor's. His hand went up, sinking into his hair. Connor smiled at the pan. “It'd be rude to eat and not offer you anything,” he countered.

Hank shrugged. He didn't try to argue.

“Where do you normally stay?” Connor asked, without looking up at Hank. He cracked an egg into the pan and let the albumen turn white before he cracked a second in.

Chair legs scraped against the floor before Hank answered. “I move around a lot.”

Connor risked a glance back over his shoulder. “You just wander around naked during the day?”

Hank's face dissolved into an amused grin. “I got clothes stashed in every werewolf bar in the city,” he answered.

“There are werewolf bars?” Connor turned. Hank lounged back in the chair, his legs spread wide. He looked thoroughly comfortable, despite the way the sweatpants clung to his thighs, and the shirt stretched across his stomach. His grin showed his predator's teeth. His eyes sparkled with amusement.

“More than you'd think,” he answered. “They're neutral territory.”

Connor turned back to the pan and flipped the eggs over. “So you're territorial?” He dished the bacon and eggs out onto two plates, giving Hank the larger egg, and the extra slice of bacon.

“Yeah, but not like wolves are,” Hank answered. His eyes fell to the plate as Connor set it down in front of him. He looked, for a moment, as if he was having to work hard to keep himself from just grabbing it directly with his teeth. Hank was big, certainly not starving, but it did make Connor wonder when his last cooked meal had been. “This is a city, not Yellowstone. We're practically living on top of each other here.”

Connor moved away from the table, and returned with cutlery. Hank picked up his fork and immediately used the edge of it to slice the egg in half. Runny yolk spilled across the plate. “Have you ever lived anywhere else?” he asked, settling himself down opposite Hank.

Hank waited until Connor took the first bite. Then he speared an entire strip of bacon onto his fork and shoveled it into his mouth. His eyes closed with pleasure as he chewed. “Born and raised in Detroit,” he answered, his words muffled by the bacon.

Connor split his own bacon into smaller pieces with the knife, and dipped it in the yolk of his egg before taking a much more conservative bite. “How did you become a werewolf?”

Hank swallowed his piece of bacon before he spoke again. “I was born one.” He waved his other hand as he spoke when Connor tilted his head at the answer. “Bites can turn people,” he explained, “but it's a pretty shitty thing to do.” His expression darkened. “It fuckin' hurts, for one.”

A smile pulled at Connor's cheeks. He looked down and took another bite of bacon. Hank shoveled half the egg into his mouth, and then wiped dripping yolk from his chin. “So you have a pack?”

Hank went still. Connor did too. The air went quiet. Hank wiped at his beard with his hand again. “Yeah,” he answered, in a sigh. “I used to.” He pressed his fork against the remaining egg, cutting off a much smaller piece this time and spearing it on the tines.

“I'm sorry,” Connor said, and meant it. “You don't have to tell me.”

Hank's shoulders dropped by degrees. “I lost my son,” he said, so quietly that a ghost might have whispered it. “He was just a pup.” Hank's eyes lingered on the bacon and eggs on his plate. “I've got a house,” he admitted, “but his smell's all over it, and I can't--”

Hank's voice cracked. Connor reached across the table and covered Hank's hand with his own. It was warm, and rough beneath his palm. “I'm sorry,” he repeated.

Hank's mouth pressed in a tight line. He didn't try and shake Connor's hand away. “I'll help you look for your brother,” he said, his voice low, and strained. “Family is important.”

Connor trailed his thumb across the back of Hank's hand. It all made an awful, painful sort of sense, now, the pieces slotting into place as if he'd finally found the corner of a jigsaw puzzle. Hank's pain and empathy when Connor had talked about Sixty, and that sense that he understood, was because he'd lost his own family too.

“I'm sorry,” he repeated, when Hank looked up at him. He didn't know what else there was that he could say, so he didn't try to say anything. He couldn't tell Hank that it wasn't his fault, or that he knew how it felt, only that he knew that Hank was hurting.

Hank forced a weak smile. “I can go and leave a few messages,” he said. Connor watched him push the pain down, deep into his chest, although it never left his eyes. “Pick up some clothes that actually fit me,” he joked, although there wasn't much humor in it.

“Will you come back here?”

“Do you want me to?”

Connor paused. He wasn't sure why he'd asked the question. He could have easily given Hank his number and never heard from him again. Except that the idea of that, of never hearing from Hank again, made his insides knot.

He looked into Hank's sad blue eyes. “Yeah.”

Hank's mouth moved as if he wasn't sure how to respond. His eyes flicked down to Connor's lips, and then back up. After a moment he ripped his gaze away, looking to one side before he turned his attention back to his breakfast. “Then I'll come back.”

Relief swirled around Connor's chest. He let his hand linger on the back of Hank's for a few moments longer, while Hank returned to eating, and then slowly retreated to finish his own.

Chapter Text

Despite the assurances, Connor felt his doubt about Hank returning deep in his gut. It slithered and squirmed uncomfortably, crawling over his spine and nagging at the base of his skull every hour that Hank was gone.

What did it matter if he didn't come back? Hank was his own person, not a pet. Connor had stitched him up, and fed him, and clothed him, but Hank didn't owe him anything for that. Connor had no claim to him.

He rattled around his apartment. The blankets were laundered. The dishes were washed and dried and put away. He kept an ear out for the emergency work phone, but his heart ran cold at the possibility of it ringing. Connor wanted a distraction. He didn't want anyone to be faced with a crisis with their beloved pet just so that he could avoid watching the ticking hand of the clock make its slow progress.

The night set in early at this time of year. Connor tried to distract himself with a book, and when that didn't work the TV. His gaze kept drifting to the picture of Sixty and himself. They'd fought the last few times Connor had seen him. Sixty insisted that the cult members were like family to him, and that Connor would understand if he gave them a chance, but Sixty had given up his job – the career he'd worked so hard for all through college – and handed over all his money, and was working for them for free.

Of the two of them, Sixty was the one that had struggled to establish his own identity the most. He was always compared to Connor, and when they were teenagers that had felt good to Connor. He'd never thought, then, how shitty it must have felt for Sixty. He was the unexpected twin, an imperfect carbon copy. Connor was the one they'd planned for, and wanted, and their parents had got a back up into the bargain.

That was how Sixty had described it. He'd lived in Connor's shadow. It was ridiculous really, because their parents had known from the first scan that there were two of them, and Connor had only been first because of their positions, not because he was the most wanted.

But feelings weren't always based in reality, and it was Sixty's feelings that the cult leader had preyed on. He was his own person with them, not just Connor's twin. They offered him a family that put him first, and Sixty had fallen for it.

He'd walked away from his last argument with Sixty, just before the cult had dissolved when the leader had been arrested, with this same feeling. It was a creeping foreboding, a sixth sense that he wasn't going to see Sixty again. Now it crawled along the inside of his skull and whispered that he wasn't going to see Hank again.

The doorbell chimed. Connor threw himself off the couch to answer it.

Hank stood on the other side of the door, a paper bag clasped under one arm. He was still wearing Connor's shirt and sweatpants.

Relief flushed through Connor. “You came back.”

Hank's expression was nonplussed. His eyes tracked over Connor and around the room behind him. “I said I would,” he answered.

Connor stepped out of the way, inviting Hank to come back inside. “You were gone for hours,” he defended, “I thought--”

Hank stepped inside and let Connor close the door behind him. “I was negotiating with one of the big packs,” he said, his voice rumbling and low. Connor could smell whiskey on him. “You got anything with your brother's scent?”

“I--” Connor began, and then faltered. “I don't know.” He had plenty of pictures, but he'd never asked a werewolf to help search before. “I can look?”

Hank nodded. “You do that,” he advised. “I'm gonna take a shower, if that's okay?” The corner of his mouth curled up in a grin. “Then it's my turn to make you something to eat.”

Connor's mouth hung open. He struggled for something to say. The best his brain could offer was a stumbling, high-pitched, “O-okay.” The flash of Hank's teeth in his grin raked pleasant fingers down his spine.

Having a crush on Hank was one thing, but the man was able to short circuit Connor's entire brain with one toothy, lopsided smirk. Connor knew he needed to pull himself together. The problem was that all the parts of him that Hank was appealing to were quite happy to continue on this ride. Or in the hopes of getting a ride.

He did his best not to think about the water coursing through Hank's thick body hair, combing through it like wet fingers and running off the end of his dick as he listened to the shower. Connor tried to focus, and pay attention as he pulled an ancient dusty box out from the bottom of his closet and opened it.

He'd never got around to reselling his textbooks. Some part of Connor's brain had insisted that there'd be a use for them; he might need them as he started to work, and then they'd been replaced by revised versions, so no new students were buying the older versions any more, and here was where they'd come to reside; in a box, in the bottom of Connor's closet. Too old to be of use, not sentimental enough to be on display, and benefiting from Connor's visceral objection to throwing books away.

There were other things in here, too. College jerseys, and memorabilia. Connor's ancient lacrosse stick was shoved in a corner.

The shower shut off. Connor pulled a stack of screwed up clothes out of the box. The shirt bore a 51, emblazoned in white across the back. His old gloves were here, too.

As was a second pair.

He took the left hands of both and returned to the living room. Hank stood at the couch in a pair of boxers, holding a shirt to his nose. He dropped it quickly when he saw Connor.

He'd trimmed his beard. His wet hair curled, darkened and neater. The trail down the center of his stomach disappeared into the boxers that hung loose at his hips. Connor's eyes raked over him.

“Find something?” Hank asked. His eyes landed on the gloves in Connor's hands.

Connor swallowed and remembered himself. “I think one of these might be Sixty's,” he explained, offering out the gloves, “but I'm not sure which.” They were also at least a decade old. “And I don't know if they'll still smell enough for you to--” He trailed off as Hank reached out and took the gloves from him.

And then Hank changed. The sound was awfully organic; popping joints and stretching muscle, sinews twisting. It was also quick. Every movie Connor had ever watched showed the transformation to be painful, and take minutes; long enough to draw out the tension.

Hank went from a furred human standing before him to a furred, large creature, towering over him on two legs in the blink of an eye. The boxers strained at his thighs. Hank turned the gloves over in his clawed hands. His palms and fingertips were covered in thick, dark flesh.

He sniffed at the gloves. First one, then the other. Connor stared at the muscled contour of Hank's shoulders and arms. The area where he'd shaved Hank in his more canine – lupine? - form was visible when he turned, the hair still short, and the stitching straining at the skin.

Hank advanced on him suddenly. Connor took a half step back, and then froze. A cold, wet nose brushed delicately over his skin. Quick, short breaths huffed warm against his neck as Hank sniffed him. Connor's heart thundered in his chest. Hank dwarfed him like this. Heat radiated from his breath and his body. One clawed hand curled carefully around his upper arm as Hank's snout drifted across his chest and buried itself against the other side of his neck.

Connor bit his lip and squeezed his eyes shut. Hank was being gentle, but the size and strength of him was intoxicating. Connor tried not to think about how hard those boxers were working to keep him covered.

Hank's snout drifted downwards, to Connor's armpit. Connor tilted his head back and willed the dull ache in his groin to go away. Thoughts of how easily Hank could fold him over the back of his couch like this and have his way with him tormented his imagination.

Hank went still for a moment, drawing in deep, long breaths through his nose and huffing them out sharply against Connor's chest. The clawed hand at his arm moved away, and then drifted back, to the small of his back. Connor raised his hand and settled it against Hank's shoulder, his fingers sinking into the coarse, warm fur.

Hank's snout drifted further down, until it pressed against his crotch. Connor's cock ached. The gentle pressure and radiating heat was torture. A pathetic whine crawled up his throat. His fingers curled.

Hank pulled away, suddenly, out from under Connor's hand. He moved back, halfway across the room. Connor breathed. His heart tried to leap out of his ribs as he did his best to swallow his disappointment.

The sickening, organic noise happened again. Hank cleared his throat. “It's got a lot of your scent on it,” he said, as if he was trying to stay on topic and ignore the obvious bulging in Connor's pants, “but there's definitely another one there.” He held both gloves in one hand, and raked his hair back with the other. “If I take both, they should be able to tell them apart.”

“Okay.” No other words came to Connor's mind. There was just fuzz and static. The aching of his dick was the only thing that was trying to push through.

Hank looked at him, his eyes drifting down, and then flicking back up to Connor's face. “I should,” he began, lowering his hand to gesture, blindly, in lieu of words.

“I should go,” Connor cut in, as the need to escape the awkward situation his libido had just caused erupted through the fuzz in his head, “tidy up the mess I made. Let me know when dinner's ready.”

He turned, more abruptly than he intended, and marched back into his bedroom, shutting the door behind himself. He pressed a grateful hand down against his crotch. His dick ached, straining against his pants. His balls felt heavy.

If he touched himself he'd finish in record time, but the idea of doing that, when Hank was just on the other side of a door, felt wrong. What if Hank heard? He'd almost certainly smelled it, and he'd backed off as if it was a line he wasn't prepared to cross. It wouldn't be appropriate to rub one out over the thought of Hank peeling his clothes away with those careful, dangerous hands and then--

Connor stopped that thought in its tracks. He counted to ten. Then to a hundred. Then he took himself into the closet and started packing away the things he'd pulled out.

Connor buried his face in his pillows and tried to ignore the heavy, dull ache in his groin. If he ignored it, it would go away. He needed to sleep. He had work in the morning.

The bedroom door creaked as it swung open. Connor bit his lip and kept his eyes squeezed shut. He knew it was Hank. There was nobody else it could have been.

His footsteps were slow, and heavy. The sheets peeled back, exposing Connor's bare skin to the cool air. A rough skinned hand stroked up the back of his calf and smoothed across his thigh. “I can smell how much you want it,” Hank growled, his voice low and thrilling. It wasn't a wolf's growl, not yet, but it held the promise that it could be. “I want it too.”

The bed dipped with Hank's weight as he eased his knee between Connor's legs. His other hand stroked up Connor's back and squeezed at the back of his neck. “Let me take care of you,” he breathed, against Connor's ear.

Connor shivered. “Okay,” he whimpered.

Tendons and joints popped as Hank transformed. The rough hands against his leg and back grew claws that trailed delicately against his skin. Hot breath gusted against the back of Connor's neck as Hank's paw slid down and the claws crept beneath his pants.

“You just stay nice and still,” Hank growled, his voice rougher and raspier like this. Connor nodded into his pillow and held his breath.

The claws eased his pants down, exposing his backside. Connor's cock ached with how close he already was. He wanted to rut forward, into the sheets. A little friction would be all it took.

He resisted, frozen and obedient under Hank's deliberately slow movements. “Good boy,” Hank growled. A broad, wet, warm tongue curled around his ear and trailed in slow licks across the back of his neck. The bed shifted. Fur and heat pressed between his thighs.

The penetration was slow. A thick, hard cock eased between his cheeks and slipped inside him, already slick. It filled him, stretched him. Connor groaned as the pressure invaded, moving up his insides, reaching all the way up into his ribs.

Hank was huge. Thick. Connor was impaled on him, helpless to do anything but feel it and let himself be used.

“So good,” Hank growled down his ear. His hands braced either side of Connor. The bed creaked as he rocked in slow, shallow thrusts. Every inch of Hank's enormous cock dragged against Connor's insides, so that the ache in his dick filled the rest of him too.

He whined into the pillow. It felt so damn good. He hadn't been fucked this tenderly, this thoroughly in years. He could let Hank do this to him all night. The pleasure and the pressure were dizzying, taking his breath away. He whined Hank's name, needy and on the cusp of coming already.

“That's it,” Hank replied, his voice rumbling directly against Connor's ear. Teeth dragged at Connor's throat, intermingled with soft, warm licks; the closest Hank could give to kisses. “Come for me, Connor.”

Connor did. The pressure exploded, becoming too much. It wasn't just his dick, and balls. It started deep inside and pulsed squeezing around Hank's thick cock. Each slow push of Hank's hips drove another aching tide up through Connor's gut and out through his dick. He came, in slow, steady waves, driven by the controlled rhythm of Hank's hips, spilling against his sheets until he sobbed.

He felt it when Hank came. The hot splash inside him reached all the way up to his lungs. Hank trembled over him, snarling in ecstasy. His cock swelled, sending one final wash of unbearable pleasure through Connor's body as it wrung one more trembling orgasm from his bruised insides. Hank's weight settled down over his back, squashing him into the bed.

Hank's wet snout trailed across the shell of his ear. “Such a good boy,” he murred.

The ache inside faded. The sticky, cold wetness against his skin did not. Connor opened his eyes.

The room was empty. The sheets were tangled around his legs, and his pants had hiked up, digging into his crotch and ass.

He untangled himself. The evidence of a wet dream spattered against the inside of his pants. His phone said it was 03:46.

Connor kicked his pants off, and tried to go back to sleep. The bedroom door stayed resolutely closed.

“How's your pro bono case?”

Connor turned at Markus' question, his hand still moving the spoon through his coffee. Markus was one of the senior partners in the practice, and as soft hearted as Connor. He ran a Saturday clinic once a month offering vaccinations for any family on food stamps. Connor both admired and was slightly intimidated by him. The man was preternaturally charming.

“Healing,” Connor answered, flashing Markus a crooked smile. Hank had, in fact, had scrambled eggs and coffee ready for him for breakfast that morning. The fact that Connor flushed pink every time he met Hank's eyes had gone without comment. “A dog was shot,” he explained. The trick to lying, he'd found, was to base the lie heavily on the truth.

Markus' face screwed up in concern. “Shit, what happened?”

Connor shook his head. “The story was a bit garbled,” he said. “It sounds like it had frightened off a mugger.”

Markus hissed through his teeth and moved in beside Connor to grab himself a coffee. “The owner okay?”

Connor nodded. “The dog too. It was a small caliber bullet. Maybe a 22?” He shrugged, for effect. “Hit the scapula. Antibiotics, some stitches, and a cone, and the dog'll be fine.” His mind presented him with the mental image of Hank wearing a cone, and he bit his lip to suppress the grin. He hadn't bothered to put one on because, well, Hank had been a strange dog. Now he wondered if Hank would have woken up with it still around his neck. “Really well behaved animal,” he added.

Markus poured himself a coffee. The rising tone of liquid filling a cup provided punctuation to the conversation. “Where did it happen?”

Connor shook his head, and watched as Markus took a sip. The man drank his coffee black and unsweetened. Connor resisted the urge to stir an extra spoon of sweetener into his own out of sympathy for Markus' tongue. “I didn't ask.”

Markus nodded, and took another sip. “That dog deserves a medal,” he commented, and lifted his cup towards Connor in salute. “Good work.”

Connor's last patient of the day was a rowdy Great Dane with a vile ruptured abscess on its neck. The owners didn't admit to having tried to treat it themselves to spare themselves a vet bill, but Connor had his suspicions. The opening in the abscess looked too clean, as if it had been cut open, rather than bursting. The miasma of necrosis and pus hung around the dog, and clung in Connor's sinuses.

He gave the dog a shot of antibiotics and painkillers, and admitted it overnight so it could be scheduled for surgery first thing. Even after washing his hands and removing his coat the scent of dying flesh lingered. He was sure it was in his hair.

Normally, after a day at work he made the rounds of the local parks, catching up with the word on the street about any signs of Sixty. Instead he went straight home.

Hank was still there, dressed in a lurid purple shirt and clean jeans that clung to his thighs and dragged at Connor's attention. He swallowed a lump in his throat. Hank smoothed his attractively atrocious shirt down his chest, and Connor's feral imagination insisted it would look better on the floor.

Hank gave him a toothy, lopsided smirk in greeting. Then his nose wrinkled.

“Sorry,” Connor explained, immediately, holding his hands up. “I stink.”

“The dog doesn't smell okay,” Hank responded, and Connor wondered how strong his sense of smell was in this form. He'd had to transform to smell the differences between him and Sixty, but he'd been able to detect that on ancient gym equipment they'd never washed.

What had he smelled like to Hank in his werewolf form? Hank's nose had drifted from his neck, moving downwards.

Could he smell what Connor's dream had done to him last night even without transforming?

Heat crept up Connor's face, burning along his neck and crawling across his cheeks. “It's not,” he answered, quickly. “I'm--” his eyes caught Hank's, and the way Hank's head tilted, like a curious dog's as he spoke. “I'm gonna shower,” he declared, and fled.

The hot water drowned out the sound of Hank existing in his space, but didn't silence Connor's racing thoughts. He ducked his head beneath the stream, letting the water pound against his scalp, and forehead, and eyelids. It coursed across his shoulders and down his chest.

His balls ached, heavy and uncomfortable. Connor wrapped a hand around himself but remained still.

He couldn't go on like this. Hank was a wet dream – literally – just hanging out on his couch. Connor was going to lose his mind. And he couldn't even jack off about it, because he didn't know if Hank could hear it. Or smell it.

How long was Hank going to be staying, anyway? He healed quickly, so it wasn't until the wound was done. Or was it?

The possibility that Hank could leave soon roiled in his gut. They needed to talk.

When Connor emerged from the shower the apartment smelled of fresh cooking. Warm, and tantalizing, and a little bit spicy. They melded into a delicious amalgam that made Connor's mouth water. Hank was in the kitchen again, sautéing vegetables while butterflied chicken sizzled in a different pan.

Connor let himself admire the sight. Hank's thick frame leaned in towards the stove, his shirt sleeves rolled up so they were tight around his biceps. The jeans clung to his ass.

“You smell better,” Hank commented, without looking up.

Connor swallowed. Heat returned to his cheeks. He did his best to ignore it. “You know you don't have to cook for me.”

Hank glanced at him. Bright blue eyes roved over Connor, taking in the neat, fresh pants and tight shirt he'd put on. His hair was messy, falling in damp curls everywhere.

“I want to,” he answered, simply.

Connor's eyes fluttered with a blink. He wasn't sure how to respond to that. It was flattering. There hadn't been many people that had cared enough to make Connor dinner after a long day. Most of the time, after a day like today, he'd jump in the shower and stick leftovers in the microwave, then eat them alone, on his couch, while he let nonsense play on the TV for the illusion of company.

The silence dragged on for a fraction of a moment too long. Hank filled it; “I took your brother's glove with me today.” He flipped the chicken over. “Used your spare key to get back in. I hope you don't mind?”

Connor shook his head. The mention of Sixty quieted all the other thoughts in his head. He stepped closer. “No,” he answered, “no of course not.” Hank looked at him again. The corner of his mouth quirked up in a smile. Connor's heart leapt against his ribs. “Did you find anything?”

Hank's nose wrinkled. “I know where he's not,” he answered.

Connor's heart and shoulders sank again. “Oh.”

“I'm gonna head out again tomorrow. Might stay out all night, if that's okay?”

Connor felt the way his eyes widened. His heart twisted in his chest. “Of course!” he answered, too quickly. “You're not a prisoner,” the words tumbled out of his mouth, falling to the rhythm of the beat of his heart which repeated, over and over against his lungs, Hank wants to leave. “You don't owe me anything for helping you,” he continued, past his increasingly dry throat. “You can go whenever you want.”

Hank set the tongs down and turned the heat low on the stove. Then he turned to Connor. “I'll be back in the morning,” he said, his voice low and promising. A temporary burst of relief rushed through Connor. “Unless you don't want me to?”

“No. No!” Connor's ears caught up with his mouth. “No, I want you to!” He wrestled his anxiety for control of his tongue. “I just--” He forced himself to look away. His eyes coasted over the chicken and vegetables Hank was cooking. The meat was dark with spices. It looked delicious. “I don't want you to feel like you owe me something for helping you,” he admitted. “You saved my life, or at least my car. We're even.”

Fingers caught beneath his chin, turning his face back towards Hank. Connor swallowed against the gentle grip. A frisson ran across his skin. Hank's fingers were rough, and callused like the pads of a dog's paw, but warm and gentle. They fell away in a soft caress that made Connor's heart lurch and his stomach fill with butterflies.

“I'm doing it 'cause I want to,” Hank insisted, his voice low. “I'll be back in the morning. It's just that I got some allies who only come out at night.”

Connor's mouth opened around a small, and pathetic, “Oh.” His whole body felt taut, strung tight, aching for Hank to play a melody across his skin with those warm, gentle fingers.

“Unless--” Hank began, and trailed off. His shoulders curled in, making him seem smaller, somehow, despite his bulk. “Look,” he said, and Connor did, “I don't wanna impose. You live on your own, and now you've got a fat old man leaving dog hair on your couch. If you want your privacy back I--”

Connor didn't tell his body to move forward, or his hands to press themselves to Hank's chest. They just did it, without any intervention from his brain. “No,” he said, cutting Hank off and looking directly into his blue eyes. “I want you to stay,” he insisted. He did. The thought of Hank leaving made his insides twist and hurt. “I just don't want to make it awkward for you.”

The corner of Hank's mouth flickered in a smile again. “Why would it be awkward for me?”

Heat crept back into Connor's face. He wondered if his cheeks were the same color as the chicken. “Well,” he stammered, “I--” Hank was warm beneath his hands. His chest swelled as he brought his shoulders back again. Muscle and sinew flexed beneath Connor's palms, stealing his words and making his brain buzz with silence.

He snatched his hands away, and then realized that too was a giveaway, and forced himself to lower them, slowly. “It's just-- privacy,” he repeated, and realized he was staring at Hank's chest too, and forced himself to look away. “For you as well.” There were some things he was sure Hank didn't want to hear. Or smell.

Hank laughed. It was a low, throaty chuckle, rumbling through Connor's ears and trembling through Hank's chest and shoulders. “You mean 'cause you think I'm attractive?”

Connor was sure his ears had never felt his hot. Hank may as well have pushed his face into the pan. He shrank, trying to escape the accusation. But it wasn't as if it was untrue.

Oh god, what if Hank had heard something last night, too? What if Connor had been whining his name?

“A pretty young thing like you thinking I'm hot isn't gonna make me run away,” Hank answered.

The word pretty caught in Connor's ears and bounced off the inside of his skull like a mid-90's screensaver.

“But I won't take advantage,” Hank promised. “I got too many human hang ups for that.”

Disappointment swirled in Connor's gut at the same time as his heart lifted. The effect was confusing, just like Hank. “What does that mean?”

Hank grinned. His canine tooth was visible in the movement. Connor found himself staring at it. “When werewolves wanna fuck, they just fuck,” he explained. The crassness of his language sent a shiver down Connor's spine. He wanted to hear that word growled against his ear while his body was pinned to the nearest flat surface by Hank's bulk. “But these days,” he shook his head, and the canine tooth disappeared as his smile fell away, “I'm a one person dog.”

“Maybe I'm a one dog person?” Connor countered. His brain caught the words as they exited his mouth and entered his ears, and rewarded him with another flush in his cheeks.

Hank's answering smile was gentle, and a little sorrowful. “I like you, Connor,” he answered. “You've got a good heart, and you're cute, but it's not easy being with a werewolf, let alone one like me. You don't know enough about me.”

“I know you're kind,” Connor answered. “You're loyal. You care about people that need help. And I know--” he hesitated, looking up into Hank's blue eyes. “I know that losing your son still hurts you,” he said, softly, “like a wound deep inside that'll never heal.” Hank talked about the importance of family despite being alone, living on the streets because he couldn't go back to his home and breathe in the scent of the son he'd lost. Losing his child had torn him up so badly inside that living like this was easier. “I want to know the rest.”

Hank's head bowed. He turned away, back to the chicken, and gave it another cursory turn. “We'll see,” he murmured. “We both need to be real sure it's what we want.”

Connor settled his hand tentatively on Hank's upper arm. Hank didn't turn his head, but he felt Hank's gaze shift to look at him. “Okay,” he said.

He looked at the chicken. “I'll get the plates.”

Chapter Text

Without Hank, the apartment was too quiet and still. Which was ridiculous. Hank had only been here a few days. Still, he'd left his mark on Connor's home. Hank had his own spot on the couch, and his own mug in the kitchen.

Connor had got home from work, and there was no coffee waiting for him, no easy, gap-toothed smile to welcome him. Hank had run laundry, folded blankets, even vacuumed the couch. His mug was washed and put away, back in the cupboard. It was as if he'd never been here at all. Except that his absence made the place echo with unfamiliarity.

It made Connor's stomach do an awful flip. It was just Hank trying to be gracious, to clean up after himself and impose as little as possible, but it felt--

It felt as if he'd been trying to remove any mark of his presence in Connor's home. Or life.

Connor showered, and made himself head back into the living room in his pajama pants. He always wore a shirt with Hank around, not because he thought Hank might look but because he hoped he might and didn't want to face the disappointment if Hank didn't. The television offered nothing to hold his attention, nor did the endless catalogs of his various subscription services. He scrolled through a dozen recommendations that didn't catch his mood, his mind repeatedly turning to the empty space on the couch that Hank had made his own in the last few days.

Jesus Christ Connor was so far gone. He was sat on his damn couch missing the low rumble of Hank's voice, and the easy way Hank rested a hand on his shoulder or his back when they were close to each other. He missed those sharp blue eyes that saw right through him to the horny young idiot underneath the professional exterior.

Connor gave up on the television and threw himself to his feet, his skin bursting with an energy he needed to expel. He should make dinner, at least, and then go to bed early and jack off until he slept.

He dragged the door to the fridge open and fell still. Inside was a tupperware, with a folded paper note stood on the top. His name stared back at him, in a careful, blocky hand.

Connor plucked the note from the fridge. There was more writing inside, in that same neat style.

I know you don't need me to cook for you, but I didn't like the idea of you getting in from work late and tired and having to cook for yourself.
- Hank

Connor set the note down reverently on the counter. Inside the tupperware was cheesy potato casserole with chunks of ham, and an extra sprinkling of cheese on top.

His heart ached. Maybe they were both pretty far gone. Hank was resisting, just like Connor was, but neither of them were resisting because they didn't want it. They both just wanted to be sure the other one did.

The casserole smelled delicious fresh from the microwave, and Connor curled up in Hank's claimed spot on the couch to resume his Netflix browsing between bites. Underworld: Blood Wars showed up in his suggestions. Even Netflix was getting at him.

He let the movie play, though he watched it without really paying attention. The werewolves in it didn't look like Hank, and they didn't transform the same way. Hank did it like he was stepping forward, out of one shape and into another. He didn't twitch, or falter. The sound of stretching skin and bones and joints was there, organic and horrifying, but it wasn’t unnatural. The werewolves in the movie were clumsy, awkward in their skin. And they were the enemy, or an enemy, anyway.

Where had people got those ideas? How long had humans lived alongside werewolves, telling each other stories about how dangerous they were, and how they weren't to be trusted? Yet Hank was gracious, careful, and loyal. He had a strong sense of right and wrong, and he moved in a world that Connor didn't understand. Connor knew so little about real werewolves, their culture, their behaviors.

Where was Hank right now? In some werewolf bar across the city, asking after Sixty? All to help Connor. Hank didn't have to do that, just like he didn't have to cook for him, or clean the apartment before he'd left.

Hank did a lot of things he didn't need to do. He could have left the day after Connor had patched him up and never seen Connor again. He could have walked on by and let Connor get robbed. But that wasn't the kind of person Hank was.

Connor took the leftover casserole to work the next day. Thoughts still circulated in his head between patients. There were so many things he still had to learn, about Hank and about werewolves. He found himself looking at the people bringing their pets in and wondering was this one a werewolf? Was it the owner of the rabbit with a scratched eye, who was polite and courteous and cuddled his bunny against his chest after Connor had finished examining her? Was it the woman who brought her impeccably trained poodle for his shots, or the harassed mother bringing her teenager's bearded dragon in for a health check while the real owner was at school?

He couldn't tell. He wouldn't have been able to tell with Hank. But that was the point, wasn't it? Werewolves looked and lived like normal humans, up until they didn't.

The apartment felt right again when he got home that evening. A shirt was draped over the back of the couch. Sneakers that had been toed off with the laces still tied lingered at the door. The rhythmic beat of the shower filled the air.

Connor put the empty tupperware in the sink. The coffeepot had already been turned on, as if Hank had expected him home soon.

The shower shut off. Connor hovered in the kitchen, resisting the impulse to try and catch a glimpse of Hank in his towel.

The man emerged a few minutes later. His damp hair dripped onto the rolled towel draped over his bare, broad shoulders. The pelt of body hair that covered his chest and drew a line down his stomach glittered with moisture. Connor's eyes followed its path, down across the curve of Hank's gut and into the open waistband of his jeans, where only hope and a zip kept Connor from seeing more.

He forced his eyes up, and met Hank's lopsided, gentle smile, and his piercing blue gaze.

The air was electrified. Connor's body stilled, as if moving would break the spell. He watched as Hank dragged one thick arm across his chest and reached to his opposite shoulder to scratch at the back of it. The movement of muscle and skin and hair was compelling.

“Hey.”

Words refused to come to Connor's mind. He stared. Hank's head tilted, slightly, and he lowered his hand.

Connor needed to say something, or risk looking like a smitten, mute weirdo. He kicked his brain, hard. “Thanks for dinner yesterday,” he blurted. “It was really good.”

Hank's smile broadened. His teeth showed, white and square, and not at all dangerous. “Glad you liked it,” he replied. His shoulders relaxed. “It's one of my favorites.”

I missed you. The words queued up on Connor's tongue. He bit them back, and looked away. It felt weird here without you wasn't much better. “Do you want a coffee?”

“Sure.” Hank grabbed at the towel around his neck and gave his hair a rough rub. The magic that forced everything into slow motion dissipated, replaced by normality. Connor pulled their mugs from the cupboard and filled them with coffee. Hank took his black, and unsweetened, like Markus, so Connor moved Hank's mug across, offering it to Hank handle first.

Hank’s fingers brushed at the back of Connor's hand, rough, and warm when he took the cup. Their eyes caught again. Connor felt like a stupid teenager with a damn crush. He was giddy. It was pathetic. But his stomach filled with butterflies when he caught the way Hank's gaze dragged up his body before finding his eyes again. “Thanks.”

Connor smiled, self consciously. “You made the pot,” he pointed out. He stirred cream and sugar into his own coffee. The cream swirled, coloring the coffee a rich, deep brown. Connor watched it; it was something to stare at that wasn’t Hank.

Hank gave an irritated grunt and scratched at the back of his shoulder again. “You think you can check these stitches?” he asked. “They've been driving me crazy all day.”

Connor set his coffee down without tasting it. Hank turned, twisting his shoulder down to Connor's view. The wound beneath the stitches had healed without a mark, but the skin around the entry points for the thread was puckered and reddened. “Oh.” The small noise of surprise escaped him. He moved closer and placed his hand against Hank's bare shoulder, guiding him so that Connor could get a good angle. His skin was warm beneath Connor's fingers. “You heal fast.”

Hank grunted in agreement. Connor drifted back into his line of view, but left his hand against Hank's shoulder. “I'll need to take them out,” he explained, as Hank straightened again, slowly, as if he didn't want Connor to take his hand away.

“Okay.”

“Let me grab a couple of things from my car.” His hand felt freshly cold when he let it fall from Hank's skin. He lingered for a moment, feeling the pull of that closeness, and how his heart threw itself against the cage of his ribs to try and launch itself into Hank's hands, and then ripped himself away to head to his car.

His travel bag for work was there. They didn't get called out to rural settings often, being based in central Detroit, but Markus believed strongly that animal care worked best when it suited the humans as well as the animals. Sometimes that meant going out to check up on an old lady's cat at home because she couldn't get to the clinic, and sometimes that meant Connor doing rounds on the pets of the local homeless population to make sure they got followed up after the free clinic days.

He took gloves, sterile gauze, tweezers, and a blade from his bag. Inside, Hank had moved Connor's reading lamp to the kitchen and pulled out a chair for him. He extended an arm towards the chair, and the makeshift set up as if he was looking for approval. Connor's insides turned to mush.

Connor set his kit down and adjusted the light. Hank moved the other chair, and Connor sat down, expecting Hank to sit in the other chair.

Hank sat on the floor instead, scooting himself between Connor's knees. His back brushed against Connor's leg, sending a wash of heat through it. Connor swallowed. “This okay?” Hank asked.

Connor swallowed again. His throat was achingly dry. “Yeah,” he confirmed. The light bathed Hank's skin, revealing the redness and irritation from the stitches' entry points. He stroked his fingers over the surrounding skin slowly, feeling for differences in the temperature. “Does it hurt?”

“Nah,” Hank answered, relaxing under Connor's hand. His weight shifted, pressing more firmly against Connor's leg. “Just itches.”

They didn't seem to be infected. The skin around them wasn't hot, or swollen. It was just irritated, especially where Hank had been scratching.

Connor opened his equipment and pulled his gloves on. Hank remained still, seated between his legs. “It's a good job we didn't leave these any longer,” he murmured, bringing the blade down to the first stitch and sliding the tip beneath the thread. It pressed tight to Hank's skin, but hadn't begun to dig in. “This might sting,” he warned.

He cut the thread with a small jerk. It didn't cut all the way through the first time, and Connor had to slide the blade back under to repeat the motion. With his other hand he pinched the knot in the tweezers and tugged.

Hank hissed. The stitch resisted. Connor felt the way it pulled and dragged beneath Hank's skin, and then finally came free. “Sorry.”

Hank shook his head and shifted his weight. He looped one arm over his knee and turned his head. Connor caught his gaze out of the corner of his eye, over his shoulder. “The bullet was worse.”

Connor chewed at the inside of his lip and soothed his hand across Hank's shoulder. Hank relaxed under his touch, and Connor moved on to the next stitch. “You don't even have a scar,” he murmured, teasing the next thread out from beneath Hank's skin. The flesh was marked by the small pinholes where the sutures had entered, but the wound they'd been holding closed had completely disappeared.

Hank's shoulder moved against his leg as Hank shrugged. “It takes a lot to scar a werewolf,” he answered.

Connor frowned, discarding the second thread onto the table. “But you can be scarred?”

Hank's head turned again, his hair dragging across his shoulder. Connor kept his attention on the stitches he was removing. “Sure we can,” he answered. “Just not easily.”

“I'm guessing it takes more than a silver bullet,” Connor murmured.

Hank's shoulder jumped beneath the tweezers as he broke into a laugh. “A silver bullet could do it,” he answered, through a throaty, rumbling chuckle, “but not 'cause it's made of silver.”

Connor bit the inside of his lip. He faltered, his hands going still, spreading the skin of Hank's shoulder apart with his thumb and forefinger. “So you could have died trying to protect me?”

Hank's laughter melted away. He twisted under Connor's hand, turning to look up at him. “I didn't,” he pointed out.

But he could have. It was a sobering thought. “Why did you?” Connor asked, the words tumbling across his tongue. “Save me, I mean.”

Hank's eyes flickered across his face. Then Hank turned away, leaning a little more heavily against Connor's leg. “It was the right thing to do,” he answered.

“But it could have killed you,” Connor pointed out. He didn't know many werewolves, or at least he didn't think he did, but he did know plenty of people. Lots of people would have pretended not to see and walked away. Lots of others genuinely wouldn't have seen. Hank had seen, and got involved, and Connor didn't know if that was because he'd decided Connor was worth intervening for, or if he'd have done that for anyone.

“So?” Hank challenged.

Connor shook his head. Did it matter why Hank had chosen to intervene, really? The last stitch came free with a firm tug. Hank hissed, quietly. “So thank you,” Connor answered.

Hank turned again, gazing up at Connor from between Connor's spread knees. “You're welcome,” he replied.

“I'm going to check on Lady tonight,” Connor said, a mug of coffee shielding his mouth. His heart thumped in his ears. The kitchen counter dug into the top of his ass as he leaned against it, as close as he could get to Hank without crawling up his thigh.

The sound of a knife scraping across a slice of toast, spreading a thin layer of butter, pierced the air. A thin layer for Connor, and a much thicker layer for Hank, who would do his best to pretend he wasn't licking some of it off before he started to eat the toast. Their morning routine was becoming comfortable, and predictable. It made Connor's heart leap.

“Want some company?”

Connor's heart twirled with joy in his chest. “If you'd like?” he offered, trying to pretend that he wasn't desperately hoping that Hank would indeed like, and that he hadn't been preparing to ask Hank to come along with him anyway. “I can buy you dinner after?” he added, sweetening the deal, and then, in case that was too much and sounded too much like the date Connor burned for it to be, he justified it with, “You've cooked for me every night you've been here. You can at least let me treat us both to dinner out for one night.”

Hank slid Connor's single slice of toasted malted bread, with extra seeds and fiber, and a thin smear of butter across the counter. Connor picked it up and took a bite. Maybe if there was something in his mouth he'd be able to stop talking.

“Sure,” Hank answered, easily. If the implications of Connor asking him out to dinner had hit, he didn't give any sign of it. His bright blue eyes landed on Connor and lingered, but they always did. “But I'm picking where.”

Nervous energy swept up Connor's legs and danced along his vertebra. He fought against the urge to move that came with it. It was as if Hank held him trapped in that blue eyed gaze. “Okay,” he replied, and hoped that Hank couldn't smell his excitement.

“Want me to meet you at the clinic?” The knife scraped again, depositing a much thicker smear of melting butter across the surface.

Connor nodded, working out the logistics in his head. Hank could meet him at the clinic, but that would mean he'd need to take a fresh shirt to work. Maybe even fresh pants, just in case Scooby the Great Dane was still gooey when he had his dressing changed. “Yeah,” he agreed, “that's probably easiest.”

Hank finished smearing a thick layer of butter on his toast. It glistened as it melted. A drip landed on Hank's palm. He brought it up towards his mouth and then hesitated.

Connor stuffed an unnecessarily large bite of his own toast into his mouth, and then mumbled wordlessly as he chewed, as fast as he could. He gestured to Hank with one hand, and forced the half-chewed toast down his throat where it scraped uncomfortably and he was forced to wash it down with some gulps of too hot coffee. “I need to grab some things,” he declared, moving away, “thanks for reminding me.”

He pretended that he didn't see Hank watching him turn his back, and that he didn't catch a fleeting glimpse of Hank dragging his broad tongue across the melted butter in a long, deliberate swipe. Instead he shoved the last of his own toast into his mouth, folding it so that it fit more easily, and darted to his bedroom.

Connor brushed the crumbs on his fingers off on the seat of his pants and took another gulp of coffee to wash it down. He dragged his gym bag out of the closet and dumped the assorted detritus onto the floor. Old sachets of pre-workout, a grimy bottle of hand sanitizer, and a long forgotten condom fell to the floor.

Connor gave the bag a tentative sniff. It didn't smell like old gym clothes, at least not to him. He was pretty good about removing his stuff when he wasn't using it. But Hank's sense of smell was stronger, wasn't it?

He grabbed his bottle of cologne from the side and gave the inside of the bag a quick spritz. One shirt and one pair of pants folded into it without too much trouble, and hopefully without too much creasing.

Connor paused. His eyes fell on the condom. His mind was resolutely and unhelpfully silent.

To hell with it.

He tucked the condom into the side pocket of the bag and zipped it closed before leaving his room, coffee back in hand, and draining the last dregs. Hank was chewing happily on his toast. “I'll see you tonight?” he asked.

Hank nodded. The corner of his mouth tugged upwards in a smile. Connor swallowed his rising nerves, put his cup on the kitchen counter, and left for work.

Chapter Text

It was an interminably long day.

Scooby's abscess was doing well, although still draining. The debridement had been successful, and Connor took great pleasure in calling the owner to let them know Scooby could come home so long as they were able to take care of his drain and keep up with his follow ups.

There was an awkward talk with one family in which Connor had to explain that their Cat Distribution System kitty George was in fact Georgina, and the nipple changes, increased appetite, and abdominal swelling was due to a good looking litter of four that they could expect sometime in the next three weeks. He caught the frowning mother looking down at her own two kids, whose eyes had gone very wide and delighted at the word 'kittens'. The words I'm sorry almost formed on his lips as they left the room, with Georgina locked in her carrier.

The last patients of the day were a whole litter of puppies that had been brought in for their shots before going to new homes. There were five of them in total, and Markus came to help Connor wrangle them, despite the fact Connor didn't need any help. The puppies bounded around their feet, and tried to lick at faces, fat little bodies wiggling eagerly in the attempt to wag their tails harder as they were picked up, examined, and then, one by one, injected.

Connor left the clinic in his fresh shirt and pants, still smiling. Hank leaned against his car, arms folded. He was in a streaky blue shirt, with jeans. It was nothing Connor hadn't seen him wear before, and yet somehow he looked different. Or maybe it was just that Connor's heart leapt in his chest when he saw him. The daylight shone in Hank's silver hair. Hank moved, standing up straighter as Connor approached. His nostrils flared and his head tilted back. It was subtle, but Connor caught it anyway.

“Everything okay?”

Hank nodded, and held out his hand for Connor's gym bag. Connor handed it over without thinking. “Good day?”

“Better than most,” Connor admitted, unlocking his car. “There were puppies.”

Hank's face dissolved into a grin. “Yeah, I saw them leaving.” His eyes raked over Connor; the pressure of his gaze drew fingers up Connor's spine. “You look good,” he commented. His nostrils flared again. “Smell good, too.”

A frisson brushed its way through the hairs on Connor's skin and tingled across his shoulders. “Thanks. You do too,” he added, “look good. I mean. Not that you don't smell good as well but I can't smell like you so--” Connor forced his own mouth shut. His cheeks burned.

Hank grinned at him, and then shrugged one shoulder. “Thanks,” he answered.

Connor cleared his throat. Heat crawled across his face. He did his best to ignore it and move on. “So where are we going for dinner?” he asked, rounding the car and opening the door to throw himself in the driving seat.

Hank's grin was lopsided and toothy. He pulled open his own door and lingered, looking at Connor across the roof. “You'll see.”

Connor dropped his gym bag with his worn clothes into the back behind his seat. The car shifted as Hank slid in beside Connor. The door closed with a thunk. Connor adjusted his mirror out of the need to fidget, and caught the way Hank's nostrils flared again as he breathed in. “Like that, is it?” he challenged, casting a sidelong grin and trying not to look too obviously thrilled.

Hank shrugged one shoulder. “I know the best burger place in the city,” he replied. “You'll like it. I hope.”

Connor wondered what sort of place it would be. Some bijou little restaurant? Probably fairly casual. Fancy and expensive didn't seem like Hank's style. It wasn't really Connor's either, if he was honest. As much as he liked the aesthetics of twelve different pieces of cutlery, four glasses, and crisp white linens, the pressure to keep his elbows off the table and not make a spectacle of himself weighed heavily on his shoulders. It was hard to enjoy a place like that. Even if it did look gorgeous.

“Can't wait.” He flashed Hank another smile and turned the engine over. The car rumbled to life.

It was a short ride to James, and Lady. James usually inhabited a spot by Riverside Park, but he tended to get moved on by police, or his own desire to be unobtrusive during the day. Nothing put people off letting their kids play like the specter of poverty, and James didn't want unnecessary trouble.

Hank was a looming presence over his shoulder. It was comforting after the last time Connor had been here. The sun was low in the sky, casting everything in long shadows, and it glittered on the surface of the river.

James' stuff was stashed under a bush, his soiled clothes tucked into a sleeping bag. The flask Connor had given him was nowhere in sight, and nor was Lady's dish. Connor didn't fish through the rolled mound of material to check if they were tucked inside.

Fingers touched his shoulder, tapping gently. Connor looked up. Hank jerked his head to the side, and then beckoned silently for Connor to follow.

Connor rose from his crouch and trailed after Hank, who moved with the confidence of an animal stalking its prey. Connor allowed himself to get lost, just for a moment, in the way Hank's powerful thighs looked in his jeans as he walked. The play of muscle and fat beneath denim was hypnotic.

They moved upriver. Connor let Hank lead them around the boat launch without question. “Are you sniffing him out?” he asked.

Hank glanced at him. Amusement pulled at the corner of his mouth and wrinkled the skin around his eyes. “No,” he answered. “I just know where he goes during the day.”

“Oh.”

Hank's amusement was real, and dragged a soft chuckle up his throat. Connor tried not to feel too embarrassed, but--

He'd forgotten that Hank lived on the streets too. They were home to him, just like they were to James. Of course Hank knew where James went to avoid being moved on by the police. Hank had probably spent a lot of time doing the same.

“Hey, Jimmy!” Hank called, his voice loud and clear as they approached the Henderson historical marker.

A lone figure at a bench turned. Half a bottle of whiskey sat on the table. Lady perked up in his lap. “Hank!” Jimmy cried, “hey, pull up a seat! Damn, you're all dressed up.”

Hank made a gruff, dismissive noise. “Connor was looking for you,” he pointed out.

James' eyes fell to the bottle of whiskey and he grabbed at it, and then hesitated, unsure of where he could put it that would be out of Connor's sight. Connor's heart lurched in his chest. “You don't have to--” he began, and stopped himself. James had very little, but he did have his pride.

Connor changed his approach. “Nothing wrong with having a drink on a day like today, right?” he offered. “It's a great view for sitting back with a whiskey.”

James looked from Hank to Connor, and then nodded, and put the bottle down on the bench beside him. “Yeah,” he agreed, taking the line Connor was offering him. “You a whiskey man?”

Connor shook his head. “I'm a vodka drinker,” he answered, honestly. If he was indulging in more than a cold beer he enjoyed a vodka and cranberry, over ice.

“No shit?” James replied, looking at Connor with a renewed respect. Connor felt as if he'd just passed some kind of test.

He smiled at James, and moved closer with his mobile kit. “So how's Lady doing?”

The answer was good. Real good, in fact, since Connor had done her claws a couple of weeks back. James handed her over to Connor so he could check her joints. Connor, and James, had been worried that she'd been struggling with arthritis, and she did have early signs of it in her hips and one knee, but she seemed pretty comfortable all things considered.

“I think she'll be okay without any medication for now,” Connor concluded, scritching at the top of Lady's head with his fingertips.

James heaved a sigh of relief.

“She sleeps with you, right?” He knew she did. Lady was James' main source of warmth, and that worried him for both of them some nights. He hoped that, come the Winter, James might be okay with letting Lady stay at the clinic overnight while he stayed in a shelter, but he knew that was a dim, distant hope. None of the shelters would tolerate James drinking, and only a very small number allowed pets. It would be cruel to separate them, but it felt equally cruel not to try and help. “Make sure you've got lots of blankets,” he advised. “Lady needs a soft bed.”

James nodded eagerly. “I've been doing that,” he answered, hurriedly. “I always make sure she's got the blankets under her.”

Connor smiled, even though it broke his heart. “I've got more for you in my car,” he added. “Is it okay if I put them with your stuff?”

James' eyes flickered to Hank, who had been stood back, arms folded across his huge chest as he watched Connor work. “I'll make sure they're not stolen,” he rumbled.

James nodded.

“He knows,” Connor said, as they left James to his view, and his whiskey, and his beloved pet, “doesn't he?”

Hank huffed with a trace of amusement. “Jimmy and I go back a few years,” he answered. “Used to be drinking buddies.”

Realization dripped down Connor's spine, cold and uncomfortable. Did he ask, or did he avoid it? It was a huge revelation, but it was being done so carefully, like Hank wanted to give him a way to avoid the topic if he wanted.

He wanted to know Hank. That meant knowing about his grief, and his pain, and the uglier side of him too. He liked Hank.

The possibility that this was a bigger roadblock for Hank than the fact he was a werewolf, when it came to starting a new relationship lingered on the periphery of Connor's awareness, glowing hot and sharp, like a blade about to be quenched.

“And now?”

Hank frowned. He didn't look across at Connor; his eyes remained fixed on the ground. His brows drew down. His mouth tightened. Eventually he answered, “I have good days and bad days.”

Connor nodded. It looked painful. And it wasn't something he needed to press Hank on further right now. It would only spoil the mood of the evening. Hank had told him. That was already a lot.

“So is James also a--” his sentence trailed off. It still sounded ridiculous to try and ask it aloud in the light of day, side by side with a well dressed older man in Riverside Park. He circled his hand in the air instead, like he was trying to draw the word out of his own throat.

Hank burst into a peal of deep laughter. “Nah.” His laugh soothed the anxiety that had been crawling along Connor's spine. “Lady's not either,” he added, with a bright, teasing grin. “Before you ask.”

Connor bit his lower lip and then replied, as haughtily as he could muster, “Of course she's not. It's not a full moon.”

Another raucous laugh tore from Hank's throat. It set a grin across Connor's face. Hank laughed with his head tipped back and his eyes squeezed shut. His chest and stomach rose and fell with the sound. Connor wanted to grab him and kiss him.

They set the blankets from Connor's trunk with James' sleeping bag. Hank took one of the blankets and rubbed it at the back of his neck and sides of his beard while Connor watched, his head tilted. Hank paused halfway through rubbing the blanket against his left cheek, as if he'd been caught scratching his balls in public. “What?” he challenged. “You’d rather I piss on it?”

Connor shook his head frantically. “No, no!” He held his hands up, palms forward. “I'm just interested to see where your scent glands are.”

“You've been reading too much trashy werewolf romance,” Hank replied, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Connor opened his own mouth to reply, and then shut it quickly. The question have you been going through my kindle? wasn't going to exonerate him. Instead he kept his mouth firmly closed, lips pressed tight.

Hank laughed that deep, attractive, rumbling laugh again and re-folded the blanket before he placed it with James' other things. When he stood he slid one broad, hot, rough skinned hand across Connor's shoulder, gliding across the back of his neck to the other side, allowing Hank's thick, heavy arm to drape over him. A thrill coursed down Connor's spine at the touch, and the heat. “Guess it's time for you to treat me to dinner.”

The inadvisable urge to offer himself as dinner bubbled up in Connor's chest. He shoved it down, and forced himself to nod. “So where am I taking you?”

Hank's arm lay heavily on his shoulder as he guided Connor back towards the car. “You know Woodbridge?” he asked. “Trumbull street?”

“Yeah.” Connor had never been, but he'd looked at the options back when he'd been coming up with first date ideas that would be nice and casual, and hopefully not too expensive back when he was a broke student.

“Good,” Hank declared. “We're not going there, but if you get us there, I'll give you directions the rest of the way.”

The directions took them into a part of town Connor had never been before. He turned left, and right, weaving off the main paths and into side streets at Hank's confident direction.

“You can pull up here.”

Connor eyed the building. It was a bland box of a building, completely unmarked, with boarded windows. He pulled up outside and put the car in park. “Here?” His voice wavered with uncertainty.

Hank's smile was bright and confident. “You'll see.”

Had anyone else asked Connor to get out of his car in an unfamiliar part of town and go for dinner in a place that looked more like a squat than a business, every alarm bell in his body would have rung all the way back into his car and home. But this was Hank, and he trusted Hank. Even if doing that felt incredibly dumb at this exact moment.

Hank led him around the side of the building, and then knocked on a door. Connor was almost disappointed at the lack of clandestine hatch that could be opened to allow someone to peer out at the knocker judgmentally. Instead the door opened for them, and Hank ushered Connor inside.

Inside was illuminated in soft lighting. Polished tables and blue upholstered chairs filled the space. Soft jazz played from unseen speakers. A dozen eyes turned towards Connor. He felt them examine him, then turn to Hank, and then politely move on from them both.

Some of the people at the tables were large, furred and shirtless. Their tails hung from the back of their seats, swaying gently as they ate.

“You brought a human?” The voice was a low growl. Connor turned towards it to see the doorman, a man with a thick beard and thicker brows, addressing Hank.

Hank's hand landed on Connor's shoulder. His fingers curled in a gentle, supportive squeeze. “This is Connor,” he answered.

The other man's eyes were dark, almost black as he looked Connor over. Connor forced himself to meet them, and then let his gaze drop away. The man grunted. “Make sure you introduce him to Gary.”

“That's the plan,” Hank confirmed, cheerfully. His fingers squeezed at Connor's shoulder again. “Is my table free?”

The doorman jerked his head gently towards the seating space. “Nice to meet you, Connor.”

Connor was hyperaware of the thickness of his own tongue in his mouth when he replied, “You too.” Hank urged him forwards with a gentle push towards an empty table. His hand drifted from Connor's shoulder and down his spine. “This is a werewolf place,” he hissed, and immediately felt stupid because there were at least three werewolves in the room who weren't pretending to be anything else.

“Is that a problem?” Hank asked, dragging a chair out for Connor to sit.

“No!” Connor's heart provided the answer before his brain had even caught up with the question. If anything he felt flattered that Hank trusted him enough to bring him here. “But,” his brain cut in as he glanced around at the eyes that were trying very hard not to stare too obviously. “Is it okay?”

Hank's smile was warm, and bright. The soft lighting lent a hint of gold to his silver hair. “You're with me,” Hank answered.

Connor sank into the chair, and Hank settled in across from him. Connor felt eyes on the back of his neck and fought the instinct to turn and look for the source. People were watching him with Hank, and it sounded like that was what Hank wanted. “So it's not okay,” he challenged.

Hank sighed. “It wouldn't be okay if you were here alone,” he replied, and then he shrugged his enormous shoulders. “Now, Pete'll let you in if you ever knock on the door, and everyone in here is gonna know who you are, and who you're with.”

Connor blinked as he took that information in. It percolated through his brain, dripping through the layers and gaining new depths. Hank had brought him here for dinner, but Hank had also brought him here to introduce him to Hank's own part of the world that humans didn't get to see, and it was a way of introducing Connor to the people in that world, and... maybe it was also Hank's way of offering a little more protection to the dumb human he'd rescued one night.

A waitress approached the table, notebook in hand. She had a thick jaw, and long blonde hair tied up in a messy bun. Her shoulders were broad, and the contours of muscle peeked from under her t-shirt sleeves. “Back again, Hank?”

Hank grinned at her. “You know it,” he answered. He gestured to her, and then to Connor, “Connor, this is Delilah, the best waitress this side of Ann Arbor.”

Delilah offered a hand to Connor. Connor took it politely. Delilah's grip was firm, and confident. “Pleasure to meet you,” she declared. “We don't get many humans in here,” she added, with a wink, “but everyone knows how to behave.”

But they did get some humans. Not many was more than none. He wondered if Hank had introduced them too, or if there were other werewolves that had romances with humans. There had to be, right? Otherwise they'd enter a genetic bottleneck and die out.

How many werewolves were there in America?

“It's nice to meet you,” Connor answered, feeling suddenly much more at ease. Delilah's smile was like Hank's; bright, and white, and warm. Her uniform was loose on her, and her feet were bare and he wondered, suddenly, if she'd de-transformed in order to come and talk to him.

“You having your usual, Hank?” she asked, with her notepad at the ready.

“Yeah,” Hank answered. “Make it two. I promised Connor the best burger in Detroit.” Then he paused and asked, as if he was suddenly concerned he'd overstepped a boundary, “Or do you wanna look at a menu?”

Connor shook his head. He did want to look at a menu, but it was out of curiosity rather than a desire to eat anything else. If this place catered exclusively to werewolves, then all the things they couldn't eat would be absent, including garlic, avocado, onions, and chocolate. “A burger sounds great,” he answered.

“Okay,” Delilah replied. “And drinks?”

“I'll take a pineapple crush,” Hank answered, quickly.

“And you?” Delilah's attention flitted to Connor like a spotlight. He blinked in the brightness of it. “We've got apple, pineapple, or orange soda, banana, vanilla, or strawberry milkshakes, or tea or coffee if you want something hot.” She grinned. “Or if you're not driving,” she continued, “we've got beers, wines, and spirits.”

Connor's mouth hung open in indecision. He considered, for a wild moment, just ordering the same as Hank again, but then his brain hitched on one of the options and wouldn't let go. “I'll take a strawberry milkshake,” he answered.

“Great choice,” Delilah replied, jotting that down on her little notebook. “That's Hank's other favorite,” she added, with a conspiratorial wink. “I'll be right out with those drinks.”

Delilah turned away, leaving Connor to reel in the sudden quiet of her absence. “She seems nice,” he said, finally.

Hank rumbled his agreement. “She's a great girl,” he agreed.

“So you come here often?” Connor let himself look around again. There were windows, but they were boarded. From the outside it made the place look abandoned and empty, but from the inside it offered privacy to werewolves that wanted to walk around with their fur out. It really was an underworld, separated from the one that Connor knew.

Hank shrugged one shoulder. “I guess,” he conceded. “I've been less than I used to,” he admitted, his smile faltering, “but Gary's a friend.”

Connor read the undertone in the words. Less than he used to. Less often since Cole died. Hank had withdrawn from all areas of his life since losing his son, but some of the social ties had been strong enough to persist.

The urge to reach across the table and take Hank's hand was an itch beneath his skin. Connor fought it, lacing his own fingers together on the table. He didn't know if Hank would want to talk about Cole, or if talking about him might contaminate the night with grief instead of letting them get comfortable with each other. “Are there many werewolf places like this?” he asked, instead, offering Hank a more comfortable line of questioning.

Hank nodded, settling in his seat. His legs spread beneath the table so that his knee knocked against Connor's. Connor tried not to think about it too much; it made his throat dry. “Yeah,” he confirmed, “most of them are like this,” he added, gesturing around to the inside of the restaurant. “You gotta know about them already.”

Unmarked, then. In the shadows and out of the way of normal people. “But this is your favorite?”

Delilah returned, planting a tall milkshake in front of Connor that glittered with condensation. Two thick paper straws stuck out, and Connor wondered if Hank would be up for sharing. Hank's glass brimmed with ice chips, and two more straws. “Gary's gonna bring your burgers out himself,” she declared.

“Cool,” Hank answered. “Thanks Delilah.”

She placed a carafe of iced water and some spare glasses down on their table, too, before flashing Connor another indulgent smile. “Enjoy,” she chirped.

Hank inhaled through his nose, long and slow, like he was taking in all of the smells of the place at once. Connor hoped he still liked the cologne. “Some places you gotta be careful,” he admitted. “But Gary's cool with humans.” A grin crossed Hank's face. “He's a softie with them really. He let Mrs Frostrup eat here for free for years.”

Connor tilted his head, curiosity bubbling below the surface. “Who's Mrs Frostrup?”

Nostalgia tinted Hank's smile. “She was an old lady that used to come here every week for a vanilla milkshake. Not a werewolf,” he added, “I don't think she even knew we existed. I heard she'd took a wrong turn somewhere meeting her girlfriends and ended up on Gary's doorstep. For an hour every Friday afternoon, everyone had to be dressed while Mrs Frostrup had her milkshake and fries. She used to say it reminded her of when she was young.” Hank sighed, softly. “Everyone turned out for her funeral. Her family probably wondered where we all came from.”

Connor tried to imagine it. A bunch of werewolves letting a slightly confused, lost old lady into their space once a week because being there made her feel like a girl again. And then showing up in their dozens to her funeral when she passed because she was just a nice old lady that had wandered into their lives.

He bet she never had a problem with scammers trying to get money out of her, or people messing up her flowers, or whatever other concerns she might have had. She'd have always been safe wandering through the streets of her quiet little life, and always found a helping hand to get her across the road, or carry her groceries. And she probably never knew why, either.

That was the sort of person Hank was, wasn't it? “Sounds like taking strays under your wing is a hobby here,” Connor teased.

Hank laughed. The sound punctured the quiet air and filled it. “You're the one who took me in,” he pointed out.

“And now you're feeding me every day,” Connor countered.

Hank grinned. His eyes sparkled. Humor looked good on him. So did the way his shirt stretched across his chest when he rolled his shoulders back. “I gotta thank you for putting up with me somehow,” he answered.

“You really don't.” The words leapt out of Connor's mouth before his brain caught them. They brimmed with too much sincerity. Connor blinked, and wished he could take them back, not because the sentiment was wrong, but because he didn't know if it was too much. Hank wanted them to go slow, and get to know each other, and here Connor was struggling to stop his heart from flopping up out of his throat and splatting on the table directly in front of Hank.

He grabbed his milkshake and placed both straws in his mouth, taking a sip. It was thick, and the flavor of strawberry syrup coated his tongue. It was also freezing cold.

Hank mirrored him, taking a long sip of his own drink. The ice rattled. “Good?” he asked.

Connor swallowed, and nodded. It wasn't easy to get up the straw, almost like a partially melted ice cream. He offered the glass, and straw to Hank. “Have you tried it?”

Hank's hand closed over the top of Connor's. He pulled the straws into his mouth and kept his blue eyes locked on Connor's own as he sucked. His cheeks hollowed. Connor's dick dragged at his attention, heavy and persistent. He didn't dare pull his eyes from Hank's, no matter how much his cheeks burned.

Hank released the straws, giving Connor a fleeting glimpse of pink tongue as he licked his lips. “As good as I remember,” he confirmed.

Connor did his best to be as subtle as possible as he squirmed in his chair. If Hank wanted to play games, Connor could play them right back.

He brought the straws back across the table. Hank's hand slipped away, and Connor guided the straws back into his own mouth, letting his tongue glide out to find them first before he took them in. He kept his eyes fixed on Hank and gave another, small suck. A flash of strawberry flavor crossed his tongue again, and he let his eyes fall closed and gave an appreciative murmur before he pulled away.

When he opened his eyes, Hank was looking at him, his eyes dark and intense, like a wolf that had spotted a rabbit.

“Best I've ever had,” Connor told him.

Hank's chest rose and fell with a single deep breath.

“You're starting to stink up the place,” a gruff voice cut in. Connor looked over to the source and found a man in a stained apron carrying two plates of food towards them.

Hank sat up straighter in his chair. “Like you care,” he argued, amiably. “This is Gary,” he added, for Connor's benefit.

Gary wore a dark t-shirt, and had short cropped facial hair. He seemed younger than Hank; probably not much older than Connor himself. He set two plates down in front of them, each containing an enormous burger with salad and trimmings, and a plate of crispy fries that steamed gently. They smelled good to Connor, salted and hot. He could only imagine how good it smelled to Hank.

“I've heard about you,” Gary commented. He wiped one hand on his apron and then offered it to Connor in greeting.

Connor took it. His grip was as firm as Delilah's. The shake was brief, and Connor felt as if he'd passed a test. “Good things, I hope?” He didn't know if Hank had spoken to Gary about him before, or if front of house gossip had reached the kitchens. Hank's come in with a human, and it smells like the human wants Hank to rail him senseless on the table.

Gary's mouth twitched in a smirk, but he didn't actually answer. “Take care of Hank, and he'll take care of you.”

“Gary,” Hank rumbled, wearily.

Gary ignored that, too. “That thing you asked me about,” he said, his expression serious. Hank's face became serious too. “I've got a lead.” He glanced at Connor, and his chin tilted. His nostrils flared. “We can talk tomorrow,” he added, looking back at Hank. A lopsided, lubric smirk crawled across his face. “Since you're busy.”

Connor's toes curled in his shoes. He dragged his gaze away from Gary. Hank making his cheeks flush was fine, but it was uncomfortable when other people needled at him, no matter how subtly they did it.

“Thanks,” Hank answered, oblivious to Connor's embarrassment. Or politely ignoring it.

“Enjoy your meal.”

Somehow, Gary made the parting wish that was standard in most restaurants sound like a double entendre. Hank’s response of, “I sure will!” didn't make it any better.

He picked up a fry and bit into it. Salt exploded across his tongue. The outside was crispy, and the inside fluffy. Connor's eyes fell on his milkshake. The salt and sweetness would pair perfectly together.

He picked the glass up, and took a sip. It was heavenly. The contrasting heat and cold were another layer.

Connor looked up. Hank was smiling at him across the table, his burger suspended in both hands. “Try the burger,” he advised, his tone thrilling with second hand enjoyment.

Connor picked up his burger. It took two hands to hold properly. He watched Hank close his eyes and take a large bite out of his own, and then copied it, biting down, through seeded bun and crisp chilled lettuce. There was American cheese melting across the surface, and the meat melted in his mouth. Salt, and pepper, and dressings, and herbs danced across his tongue.

He groaned with satisfaction.

“Good, huh?”

Connor opened his eyes to find himself being watched. Hank let go of his burger with one hand to draw his own drink to his mouth, his eyes fixed on Connor. It was all Connor could do to nod, and chew and swallow as fast as he could. “You weren't kidding about this being the best burger in Detroit,” he mumbled, still swallowing the last scraps. He took another sip of his milkshake to wash it down.

Hank's grin was wide, and bright.

The conversation stalled as they ate. Hank liked to eat his burger first, where Connor liked to swap between the burger and fries, and sips of milkshake. He itched to dip a fry in the shake and see how that tasted, but some things weren't first date behavior so he made do with regular sips instead. Delilah came over to check how they were doing just as Connor had taken a fresh mouthful of the burger, and the best he could do to answer while being polite was give a wordless moan, and a nod, and a thumbs up.

It seemed to amuse Hank immensely.

Connor started slowing down as he got halfway through the burger. Hank had almost finished his, but had barely touched his fries.

“So,” Connor asked, setting his burger down to take another drink from his milkshake. It was three quarters empty, and he was starting to feel stuffed in a good, satisfied way. “What's it like, being a werewolf?”

Hank finished the last bite of his own burger, and then finished his drink. His straw made a wet, bubbling noise as he sucked at the dregs. “Which bit?”

Connor picked up a fry and ate that. They were cooler now, but still good. “Does it hurt when you transform?”

Hank shook his head and picked up one of his own fries. “Nah,” he answered. “It's more like,” he hesitated as he tried to come up with an analogy, and ate his fry as he thought. “Taking your pants off at the end of the day.”

“So a relief?”

Delilah appeared as if she'd been summoned, and placed a fresh pineapple soda and a milkshake on their table. Hank gave her a, “Thanks, honey,” and then turned his attention back to Connor. “I guess.” He shrugged. “It's just another shape. They're both me.”

Connor leaned his elbow on the table and rested his chin on his hand. He was done eating, but the fries begged to be snacked on despite his full stomach. “What about when it's the full moon?”

Hank rumbled, thoughtfully. “It's more like a swinging pendulum,” he explained, demonstrating by swinging his hand in mimicry. “Some days I'm here, some days I'm there, most days I'm somewhere in between. Looking human or looking wolf are just the two halves of the bob.”

As explanations went, it probably made as much sense as anything could without Connor having first hand experience. He popped another fry in his mouth. “And you were born a werewolf?”

Hank nodded and took a sip from his new drink. “Detroit werewolf, born and raised,” he confirmed. “I tried moving to Chicago a few years back to join their PD,” he confessed, “but nothing smelled right and the pizzas suck.”

“I guess you can take the dog out of Detroit but you can't take the Detroit out of the dog,” Connor teased. Hank laughed, which was what Connor had been hoping for. Hank had described himself as a dog after all. “So you were a cop?”

Hank nodded. “Yeah, there's a few werewolves in the DPD.”

Connor took another fry. “Why'd you leave?”

Hank sighed. His cheeks puffed out, and he slunk down in his seat. “Saw too much shit and wasn't helping people the way I thought I would.”

It sounded like there was a story there, but it was maybe one that Connor should skirt around, at least for the moment. Instead it gave Hank a turn at interrogating Connor. “So what about you?” he asked. “You always wanna be a vet?”

Connor chuckled, and nodded. He had. All his life. “There were two things I’d wanted to be ever since I was a kid,” he admitted. “Be a cop, or be a vet.”

Hank smiled, warmly. “I think you made the right choice,” he murmured. The low purr of his voice traveled down Connor's spine.

Without thinking he reached across and dipped the end of his fry into his new milkshake. He'd put it in his mouth before he realized, and then paused, his eyes wide. Hank was staring at him with one eyebrow raised, daring him to continue.

Connor pressed on, and set the salty sweet mix of fried potato and thick strawberry milkshake on his tongue. “Don't knock it 'til you've tried it,” he said, defiantly. It tasted every bit as good as he'd known it would.

Hank's grin was broad. “Is that an invitation?” he asked, his voice rippling with amusement.

Connor's cheeks felt hot. The wild urge to suggest Hank come over here and try some directly from his mouth coursed through his chest. Thankfully, his brain was still switched on, and prevailed over the nonsense from his libido. “Sure.”

Hank picked up a fry from his own plate and smeared it through Connor's milkshake. Connor watched, rapt, as Hank's hand twisted, drawing a thick layer of strawberry flavored dairy across the fry. He hesitated as he drew it to his mouth, and then shoved it in on his tongue before he chickened out.

Connor stared and waited. Hank's face went through a variety of emotions; confusion; uncertainty; pleasure; more confusion.

“Well?”

Hank swallowed the fry and thought for a moment. His mouth worked as he licked at the inside of his teeth and cheeks and swallowed any lingering remnants. Then he shook his head. “No.”

Connor laughed. He couldn't help it. “It's not for everyone,” he agreed. But Hank had been willing to try, and something about that was so ridiculously charming. The idea was obviously strange to him, but he'd tried it anyway because Connor liked it.

“Maybe if it wasn't strawberry flavor,” Hank murmured, and took a long drink of his pineapple soda instead.

Delilah returned when they were nearly done with their fresh drinks, and Connor asked for the check. Her brows furrowed and she glanced at Hank, who held a hand up subtly at her.

“Okay,” she said, seeming to roll with whatever was happening. “I'll be right out with that.”

Connor narrowed his eyes at Hank. “Do you normally pay here?”

Hank ruffled the hair at the back of his neck, awkwardly. “I did Gary a few favors when I was a cop,” he muttered. “He uh,” he paused, and swallowed, “pays me back.”

Connor frowned. He'd wanted to treat Hank to a meal out, and instead Hank had brought him out for free food. Or food that was normally free.

“Tip Delilah well,” Hank said, gently. “She's putting herself through college with what she earns here.”

Connor frowned, and then sighed. Somehow it all felt so perfectly like the Hank he was coming to know. Bringing a date to a restaurant for free food, but then wanting to make sure the waitress was looked after, going to the funeral of a dotty old lady that existed in his orbit because he cared enough to do that. It all painted the picture of a man that had his demons, dark and awful ones that gnawed on his soul at night, but they’d never managed to hit his ability to care about others, even if they made him do it from a distance.

“What favors did you do?”

Hank's mouth pressed tight, and he gazed at his glass of melting ice chips. “Gary wasn't born a werewolf,” he murmured, quietly. “He had a rough start to being one. I kept him from getting into too much trouble.”

Connor's heart ached. He didn't need to know more.

His fingers curled around Hank's wrist across the table, and squeezed. Hank looked up at him. The corner of his mouth flickered in a smile. Then he turned his wrist in Connor's grip and drew his hand back, until Connor’s palm rested against his fingers. Hank's thumb brushed slowly back and forth across Connor’s knuckles. Connor’s skin sparked at the careful touch.

Delilah brought the check. There had obviously been some discussion in the back about how to charge, and in the end the only thing that had gone on the tab was the drinks. Connor was sorry he had to pull his hand away from Hank's to retrieve his wallet.

He paid the meager bill, and included a fifty five dollar tip for Delilah. Hank looked approving as Connor folded the notes, placing them on the silver dish below the receipt. When they left, his hand drifted up Connor's back again to settle around his shoulders. The weight of it made Connor's whole body throb.

The drive home was mostly quiet, but the air was heavy, not tense. Every time Connor glanced at Hank he caught Hank's eyes on him. His expression was soft, and every time he realized Connor had caught him looking he smiled, awkwardly.

The electric, dense feeling didn't dissipate as they made it home. Connor opened the door and let Hank in first, but when he closed the door Hank remained close, hemming him in against the wood.

Connor's heart thundered in his chest. Hank's eyes flickered over him, from his face downwards, and then back up. “I had a good time tonight,” Hank murmured. The vibration of Hank's voice reverberated through Connor’s bones.

“Me too,” Connor admitted, quietly. His mind raced with a dozen possibilities and instructions that left him paralyzed. “I'd like to do it again.”

Hank nodded. His eyes lingered on Connor's lips, and for a wild moment Connor thought Hank was going to lean in and kiss him.

Then he stepped back.

Disappointment slid from Connor's brain down into his spine. Cold crept into the gap between them. His shoulders dropped. Hank inhaled deeply and ran a hand through his hair, his eyes closing as he took in the scents around him and tried to find something else to say.

It was getting late. They should go to bed. Connor had work in the morning.

Fuck it.

Connor moved forward, crossing the gulf Hank had opened up and putting himself back in Hank's space. He rose up onto his toes to press his lips against Hank's mouth. It was brief, and stupid. Hank wanted to take things slowly and Connor...

Connor did too. But he still wanted Hank to know how he was feeling. That he wanted him. Not just physically; he wanted Hank. All of him.

Hank blinked as Connor pulled away, stunned and off his guard. He looked into Connor's eyes, and Connor saw the exact moment that Hank decided to give in too. His eyes fell closed as he moved in and closed the tiny distance Connor had allowed to re-form.

His lips were soft and gentle against Connor's own. His beard was coarse, scratching at Connor's chin and tickling his nose. Connor let himself relax into it, his hand resting against Hank's enormous chest. One huge hand curled around the back of his waist and dragged him close.

Connor let his tongue sneak out past his own lips to touch Hank's, requesting entry. Hank's tongue answered, touching tentatively against the tip of Connor's in shy, gentle movements. It was dizzying. They parted only long enough to breathe and reposition against each other. Their bodies slotted together perfectly. Hank's other hand curled around the back of Connor's neck, holding him steady as Connor tried to coax Hank deeper into his mouth so he could suck gently on his tongue.

Hank groaned, quietly. His body shifted against Connor's. The wet sound of their lips and tongues meeting filled Connor's ears. Hank's tongue slid against his own, rhythmic and gentle, probing and testing to see how he could drag each little sigh and whimper of want from Connor's chest.

Connor's whole body pounded to the beat of Hank's movements. Each touch and press of lips plucked at him like he was an instrument, making him sing pathetically. His dick was heavy, and squeezed tight in his pants. When he rocked gently into Hank, the bulge of Hank's stiffening cock pressed against the inside of his hip.

They should stop. But Connor didn't want to stop. It felt too good to have Hank in his mouth, and holding him. He combed his fingers through Hank's beard, his breath growing short as his heart raced.

Hank obviously didn't want to stop either. His thigh shifted between Connor's legs, granting him a delicious pressure against his aching dick. He rolled against it, and realised a moment later that Hank's hand was pressed flat against his naked back, beneath his shirt. He curled his own fingers into Hank's collar and pressed sweet, fleeting touches against the tip of Hank's tongue.

Then he pulled his mouth away. Hank's forehead pressed to his. His breath gusted hot against Connor's mouth.

“I should go,” Connor whispered. The admission burned in the air. He knew he should, before they both got lost in the moment and did something Hank might regret.

Connor wouldn't regret it. Connor had never wanted anything so much in his life. But Hank wanted to take things slowly, and Connor wanted to respect that.

He licked his own lips. He could still feel Hank's mouth pressing against his. It took every scrap of willpower he had not to lean in and press for another kiss.

Hank inhaled deeply through his nose. “Yeah,” he sighed. His thumb stroked across the nape of Connor's neck.

They pulled apart reluctantly. Hank's hands lingered the longest, sliding across Connor's waist as air filled the aching chasm between them.

It felt awful. Every part of Connor's body railed against him not doing everything in his power to continue this and get railed. His balls were tight. Everywhere Hank had touched him burned. If they fell onto the couch together and made out for a little longer he could probably come in his damn pants.

Instead Connor forced himself to do the sensible thing.

“Goodnight,” he murmured.

Hank's eyes flickered over him one final time before landing on his eyes. There was such aching adoration in them that it almost broke Connor's resolve. “Goodnight,” he answered.

Connor's feet didn't want to move, or at least they didn't want to move away from Hank, but he fought with them, and they lost. Each step was heavy, and he wondered what would happen if he declared he'd changed his mind and wanted Hank to take him now instead.

He closed his bedroom door and leaned against it. Fuck, he was gonna have to jack off before he went to sleep or who knew what Hank was going to hear.