[Hank reaches down toward Connor's arm with an actual gasp, it's stupid but that's what he does, the contact after so much nothing hitting him like a shock. It'd be better if it was, if he'd just grabbed a live wire and his hand was just spasming, just his fingers twitching while the current finished shorting out his heart.
But, nah. The universe wouldn't be that nice. This is just good old fashioned pathetic need, this is just grasping out of some vast and echoing emptiness and onto something and pulling, pulling hard even though he knows it won't lift him up out of the water. But some dumbshit part of him still says there's a light up there on the surface, there's got to be one up there, and it'll drag in anything it needs to if that'll get that light a little closer.
The last time anyone's really touched him he was sick as hell, coughing his lungs up and Cayde had sat a hand on Hank's back and let it stay there. That was a long time ago; not that long, technically, but technically doesn't account for waking up in this unreal nothing-place in his unreal nothing-bed and just staying there, nowhere to be and nothing to reach for, not even the rotten old lifeboat that is the station he doesn't really look at, the investigations he avoids, the other officers who don't really look at him, anymore.
A hand just reaching out to keep him from falling over like an asshole isn't going to pull him up and out and into solid ground and open air but that dumbshit hopeful part of Hank's going to take it anyway, even if it pulls Connor into the dark and empty muck down here with him. Because Connor wants to help. There's a hand on Hank's arm like a spotlight, a current stirring up the muck, and the dumbshit mouth that hand belongs to says it wants to help.
What Hank feels about Connor is pretty front and center in his mind right now, and he knows it. Feeling so grateful shouldn't feel so shitty but it does, the dumbshit part of Hank that reaches for that rope Connor wants to hold out to him all crusted over with disgust, sinking into a dark, hateful tide, a sense of reaching back into the memory of a light that went out years ago and smearing the muck all over it, too, that bitter, resentful acid that eats away everything it touches, inside and out.
There's a hand on Hank's arm and he wants to pull it closer and send something warm and light along through it, he wants to move closer and he wants a fucking hug and he wants to see that stupid, goofy face smile at him again. He wants to pull the hand closer and shove that stupid face into the muck until it's all eaten away to show the smooth and empty nothing under it, its real face that's built beneath, and he'll pull himself in with it, and he'll take what was a shelter and make it a one hundred and sixty proof weight and pull it over him until that dark and hateful acid burns into his eyes and rushes down his throat and puts things right, and eats him away, inch by inch, and eats away that other thing, too, that empty shell that started all this in the first place, that pukes out empty promises without even knowing what they mean, and Hank doesn't want to let go, he'll hold them both down and put things right and hold everything under until it's all burned away, until they're both all burned away, inside and out.
What Hank feels about Connor is pretty front and center in his mind, right now. And he knows it. And he loosens his grip, can't really bring himself to pull back but fights through all the...
He fights through all of it just enough to loosen his hand, all the edges inside of him going cold and brittle with horror, still touching Connor but loosely enough that Connor could easily pull away, and Hank leans back, eyes wide, mouth open to- to what? He can't think. All he can think about is his horror and worry and his shaking breath.]
cw for suicidal thoughts. also melodrama alert?
But, nah. The universe wouldn't be that nice. This is just good old fashioned pathetic need, this is just grasping out of some vast and echoing emptiness and onto something and pulling, pulling hard even though he knows it won't lift him up out of the water. But some dumbshit part of him still says there's a light up there on the surface, there's got to be one up there, and it'll drag in anything it needs to if that'll get that light a little closer.
The last time anyone's really touched him he was sick as hell, coughing his lungs up and Cayde had sat a hand on Hank's back and let it stay there. That was a long time ago; not that long, technically, but technically doesn't account for waking up in this unreal nothing-place in his unreal nothing-bed and just staying there, nowhere to be and nothing to reach for, not even the rotten old lifeboat that is the station he doesn't really look at, the investigations he avoids, the other officers who don't really look at him, anymore.
A hand just reaching out to keep him from falling over like an asshole isn't going to pull him up and out and into solid ground and open air but that dumbshit hopeful part of Hank's going to take it anyway, even if it pulls Connor into the dark and empty muck down here with him. Because Connor wants to help. There's a hand on Hank's arm like a spotlight, a current stirring up the muck, and the dumbshit mouth that hand belongs to says it wants to help.
What Hank feels about Connor is pretty front and center in his mind right now, and he knows it. Feeling so grateful shouldn't feel so shitty but it does, the dumbshit part of Hank that reaches for that rope Connor wants to hold out to him all crusted over with disgust, sinking into a dark, hateful tide, a sense of reaching back into the memory of a light that went out years ago and smearing the muck all over it, too, that bitter, resentful acid that eats away everything it touches, inside and out.
There's a hand on Hank's arm and he wants to pull it closer and send something warm and light along through it, he wants to move closer and he wants a fucking hug and he wants to see that stupid, goofy face smile at him again. He wants to pull the hand closer and shove that stupid face into the muck until it's all eaten away to show the smooth and empty nothing under it, its real face that's built beneath, and he'll pull himself in with it, and he'll take what was a shelter and make it a one hundred and sixty proof weight and pull it over him until that dark and hateful acid burns into his eyes and rushes down his throat and puts things right, and eats him away, inch by inch, and eats away that other thing, too, that empty shell that started all this in the first place, that pukes out empty promises without even knowing what they mean, and Hank doesn't want to let go, he'll hold them both down and put things right and hold everything under until it's all burned away, until they're both all burned away, inside and out.
What Hank feels about Connor is pretty front and center in his mind, right now. And he knows it. And he loosens his grip, can't really bring himself to pull back but fights through all the...
He fights through all of it just enough to loosen his hand, all the edges inside of him going cold and brittle with horror, still touching Connor but loosely enough that Connor could easily pull away, and Hank leans back, eyes wide, mouth open to- to what? He can't think. All he can think about is his horror and worry and his shaking breath.]