Chapter Text
“It’s broken,” Hank says quietly. His breath curls out in a foggy, crystalline mist in the scant space between them.
Connor scowls, clutching his right wrist in agony, “No shit.” His finger is bent backward, sticking straight up to the sky while the rest lay flat, tense, and trembling.
Hank’s eyes flick up to Connor’s pained face, but he lets the comment slide. He knows how bad this injury feels, especially given the frigid temperature. The damage won’t be permanent if they act quickly, but it’s going to hurt like hell given his limited medical equipment.
“We need to place it,” Hank tries to speak gently, but Connor flinches away from him as if Hank reached out to touch the mangled digit. “Easy, easy.” Hank’s fingers grip higher up on Connor’s forearm, holding him in place without risking further damaging his broken finger.
“Don’t touch it!” Connor’s voice comes out high and panicked. There’s no way he’s going to be able to place it correctly with Connor tense and on the alert. He looks poised to flee into the snowy woods if he has to. Hank doesn’t blame him. He did the same thing to his pinky the winter before.
Hank shushes him, examining the unnatural bend. Despite the frozen air, swelling is already setting in around the joint. He’s running out of time.
Forcing himself to be casual, Hank peels off his own gloves, probing at Connor’s wrist, working higher up his arm, “Making sure nothing else is broken.” Connor nods in answer, the motion tight with pain. He relaxes in fractions the further Hank goes up his arm, putting distance between Hank’s hand and Connor’s throbbing finger.
A part of Connor knows Hank is right. If they don’t act now, his finger will never bend properly again. Hell, it may still be too far gone to heal completely, but waiting could mean the difference between partial functionality and none at all. He grimaces and Hank can all but see Connor work through his options.
“What were you thinking?” Hank admonishes lightly, keeping his frown on the wounded hand.
Connor bristles, “I was thinking that we’re going to freeze to death on this stupid fucking mountain if we didn’t haul in enough god damn wood, you patronizing a—aHHH!”
Connor’s angry vitriol transforms into a tortured scream as his world reduces to the brutalized knuckle on his middle finger. Hank releases his finger, no longer bent, and pulls him hard to his chest. They still need to splint it and bandage it, but it can wait a little longer now that they had dealt with the largest hurdle.
Hank had been hesitant taking Connor on at first. He was green bordering on reckless. It was his first real winter up on the mountains, but what he lacked in experience, he made up for with enthusiasm. His passion for the work was infectious and Hank had found his own interest in the job rekindling over those first few weeks.
It didn’t hurt that the kid was pretty to look at. He seemed to do an awful lot of looking himself. At first, Hank assumed he was imagining it. Sure, he had been something to ogle once upon a time, but those days were long behind him. He still swung an ax with ease and his muscles had yet to fail him, but age had packed on some padding. He didn’t exactly have a lot of young, pretty things beating down his door.
Until Connor.
He’d almost turned him down.
“I don’t want help and you don’t have any practical experience. Go home, kid.” He grimaces at the memory of his abrupt treatment of Connor. Still, Connor was persistent.
“People die trying to climb this mountain every year, all year round. You’re just one man. You can’t possibly do it all alone.” Hank had rankled hard at the implication that he was failing in some way. Connor had smirked at him and he realized he’d played straight into the kid’s hands.
Hank ran his palm over his face, “Fine, but you get the shitty cot.” Connor had beamed at him as if the prospect of sleeping three inches off the ground with crap back support was his dream come true. Hank gave him a week at most before he turned tail back for the creature comforts of the city.
Connor had surprised him in more ways than one. For starters, he rarely complained about the weather conditions. The cabin didn’t have central air and summers, even this high up, could become unbearably hot. Instead of whining about it, Connor had disappeared for the better part of a day, returning badly scratched and grinning.
“I found a lake. It’s shaded.” Hank hadn’t needed telling twice. They spent most of their free time there in August. It had been the first time Hank couldn’t deny the heated way Connor looked at him. He’d cleared his throat and looked away, chalking it up to cabin fever. Other than the people that hired them to help them ascend to the peak of the mountain, Connor only saw Hank regularly. It would pass, Hank had assured himself.
Except it hadn’t. Connor didn’t push. He wasn’t a stupid man; he could read Hank’s body language well enough. It didn’t stop him from looking, though. Hank had stolen a few peeks himself when Connor’s back was turned.
When not guiding people up questionable mountain slopes, they spent their time preparing for winter and maintaining the trails. Connor made most of the trips into town. Hank had grown used to solitude and didn’t care much for the rich, hoity-toity people who lived at the base of his mountain.
Just a few days prior, Connor’s mud-splattered Jeep had made its final journey for the season. The clouds loomed heavy and pregnant, ready to dump their first snowfall of the season.
He hopped down, unloading supplies, “We should be set, now. We have enough food in the iceboxes and hopefully we get lucky with some of the traps.”
“Do you even know how to prepare a rabbit, city boy?” Hank had queried, poking fun. Connor had answered with a rude gesture of his hand and a small smile on his lips.
It hadn’t been all idyllic scenery and friendly banter to this point, though. There had been brutal shouting matches, both men toe-to-toe and red in the face. Hank was honestly a little surprised Connor had tried to buck up to him. He could swat the kid flat in seconds if he’d been of a mind to. The argument had been a stupid one, but with a tendril of something important.
“You think you know everything,” Connor had bellowed into his face. Hank had risen to his full height, but it did nothing to cow Connor.
“That’s rich coming from you. You charge ahead without thinking. You’re going to get yourself killed if you don’t start using your brain. You get in a fight with this mountain? You lose. Every time.”
“This mountain,” Connor had hissed, “isn’t the stubborn slab of rock I’m fighting with.”
It took Hank three blinks to realize Connor was talking about him. He’d dropped his mouth open to growl something mean and angry, but Connor beat him to the punch.
“You always decide. You never give me a chance. You don’t listen.” Connor’s fists were clenched in frustration as he tried to put words to the real problem, “If I’m such a nuisance, then say so. I’ll leave and you’ll never have to see me again.”
Hank’s lungs had froze and his mind had whispered a horrified No. For the first time, he’d allowed himself to acknowledge he enjoys Connor’s company rather than just tolerating it. The fight drained out of him and he’d collapsed back into his chair, rubbing at his nose, “You’re not a nuisance. I don’t want you to go.”
“Then stop treating me like a child,” Connor’s voice was firm and unyielding. On some level, Hank knew he was right. He was handling Connor with kid gloves even after he’d proven he was more than capable.
He sighed, “I don’t want you to get hurt.”
Connor had looked a little taken aback by that admission and some of the ice had melted from his stance. He made an aborted gesture with his hand as if he wanted to grip Hank’s shoulder.
He settled on reaching for the poker and prodding the fire, “I’ll be careful. Just give me a chance.”
The first time Connor took a group up the mountain alone, Hank hadn’t been able to sleep. He dreamed of avalanches despite the limited snow on the high peaks. Every whistle on the wind jerked at his attention, forcing him to a halt as he strained to listen for a distress call. Connor had returned two days later, unharmed and buoyant with his successful first run.
The tight knot of concern eased a little more with each trip Connor took alone. Hank couldn’t deny he was skilled at traversing the mountain paths. He’d seen Connor rock climb in his free time. He told himself he was watching because it was impressive. It had nothing to do with Connor’s contracting muscles or the way he was able to ascend mountain slopes like a graceful gazelle. He’d seen Connor brace his spiked feet against the sheer face of mountain rock and leap vertically to grab a ledge. Hank’s heart had stopped as Connor hung midair and didn’t start beating again until Connor’s feet were planted on solid ground.
In the end, though, everybody has an injury with their name on it. Connor’s had come in the form of a collapsing stack of firewood. He hadn’t been rushing or taking unnecessary risks. It had just been pure bad luck.
Hank squeezes him without thinking and Connor presses his face into the shoulder of Hank’s thick winter coat. He’s not crying, the pain is beyond that, but he’s still convulsing as random stabs of agony lance through his hand. High-pitched howls of suffering reverberate up Connor’s spine and bleed out through his clenched teeth.
Hank holds him until the worst of it subsides. His hand rubs at Connor’s back, trying to offer comfort any way he can. Connor’s stiffness relaxes a few small but significant degrees.
“I’m ok,” he huffs our shakily and Hank isn’t sure which of them Connor’s trying to fool more.
“The hell you are,” Hank’s tone is kinder than his words and Connor doesn’t hackle at them. “Let’s get you inside. It’s gonna be a while before I can get you down the mountain to a doctor.”
Connor’s eyes scan the single path up to their quiet cabin. It’s covered in a thick layer of fresh powder and the cold snap isn’t likely to pass just to make his life easier.
He nods and starts back toward the small dwelling while cradling his hand to his chest like it’s a defenseless baby bird. It’s a longer walk than Hank would care for with Connor in this condition, but he plows on ahead without complaining. Hank drags the sled Connor had brought, heavy with wood. At least the trip wasn’t a total loss.
By the time they reach the cabin, bright red hectic spots have bloomed across Connor’s cheeks. He’s sweating despite the cold and Hank knows it’s from the pain. The second Hank gets the door open for him, Connor beelines for the shelf above the microwave, yanking a cork from a bottle of amber liquid with his teeth before swallowing two thick mouthfuls.
Connor comes away spluttering, but Hank holds his tongue. He’s not done putting the kid through pain yet and who is Hank to begrudge him some whiskey? Connor knows it, too, judging by his sullen demeanor. He stomps over to the fire, prodding it higher with his good but clumsy left hand.
Hank fishes an ice pack out of the freezer and tosses it to him, “I know you’re trying to warm up, but keep ice on it. We don’t want it to swell any worse.” Hank hunts down his medical kit, which, under normal circumstances, was more robust than most. Even so, there was only so much Hank could do about broken bones.
He’s as gentle as he can be when Connor holds out his hand in silence, not watching as Hank splints it. Connor gasps sharp sounds that slice at Hank’s throat a few times and a tremor rips through him when Hank applies the splint. He swallows down the anti-inflammatories and the strongest pain medication a person can buy without a prescription that Hank hands him in silent gratitude.
Hank stirs at some stew simmering over the fire. Connor had laughed and accused him of being a wicked witch when he’d first seen the near-medieval setup. He’s not laughing anymore and eats in silence. By the end, he’s holding the bowl with one hand and sipping at it. He’d spilled more than one mouthful on himself with his uncoordinated left hand and he’s had enough.
Shirt splattered with grey-brown stew, Connor pushes away from the table exhausted, “I’m done with today. I’m going to bed.”
Hank nods and watches Connor disappear into the Jack-and-Jill bathroom that separated the main room from Hank’s bedroom. The cabin was small and not really meant for more than one person. Hank and Connor had made do by tacking up blankets and sectioning off a portion of the main room for Connor to sleep in relative privacy.
He nods at Hank before slipping through the makeshift walls. Killing the lights, Hank’s halfway through brushing his teeth when a loud, heavy thud echoes from the front room only to be muffled by Connor bellowing, “SON OF A BITCH!”
Hank fumbles for the light switch and has to try his absolute hardest not to laugh at the scene before him. He’d forgotten Connor folded up his cot every morning. Rather than ask for help, he’d attempted to bend the metal legs into place one-handed. He had somehow managed to tear down his blanket walls and send the cot flying. Hank’s best guess was Connor had been using his legs to attempt to force the cot into place.
His small smile droops into a frown when he sees Connor doubled over his hand.
“Boy, what in the hell do you think you’re doing?” Connor jerks at the admonition and Hank has to reel in his temper. “Let me have a look.”
Connor extends his arm and Hank handles it with as much care as his big hands can manage. Connor’s fingers look impossibly fragile bracketed against his own.
“Just knocked it a bit,” Hank mumbles and Connor’s shoulders sag in relief until his eyes land on the mangled cot.
He groans and drops his face into his good hand as if covering his eyes will make it all go away. Hank’s gaze tracks to where Connor had been looking and he sighs. Reaching under Connor’s armpits, he hauls him to his feet.
“Let’s go,” he mutters, nudging Connor toward his bedroom. Connor’s legs move with confused, locked knees and Hank huffs, “Bed’s big enough for the both of us. Move it before I change my mind.”
Not relishing the thought of sleeping on the ground, Connor hurries into the dark room with his throbbing hand pressed tight to his chest. Hank shoos Connor into the bed before easing his weight onto the mattress. The springs groan under the unexpected additional weight. He’s about to pull the blankets up to his nose when a telltale groan rattles and splutters through the house.
“You have got to be fucking kidding me,” Hank growls into the night air, already feeling heat leech out of the room.
“The genny’s out of juice,” Connor says quietly.
He falls into a distressed silence when Hank snaps, “I know.” It had been one of many smaller tasks that hadn’t gotten done in time. He hadn’t needed the generator in the decade since he’d moved to the mountain.
Hank throws back the covers and stomps out to poke and prod at the furnace before giving it up as a lost cause. Striking a flint at the small fireplace in his bedroom, Hank grumbles, “This is some fuck ass murphy’s law bullshit.”
Connor huffs out a quiet chuckle and it soothes Hank’s frazzled nerves a bit. It’s good to hear him laugh despite the pain he’s in. It doesn’t take him long to get a fire going and he collapses wearily back into bed. Connor bounces slightly from the power behind it and Hank is forcibly reminded of how much smaller Connor is than him. He blushes for absolutely no reason and rolls with ill grace so his back is facing Connor.
The fire crackles warmth over his face and he’s nearly asleep with a vicious shiver startles him awake. His eyes blink open, confused. It hadn’t been him.
Connor’s voice quivers as another tremble ripples through him, “Sorry. Cold.”
Hank breathes in audibly before exhaling his frustration. It’s been a long day; neither of them needs the night to stretch out into an eternity.
Once more, Hank heaves himself out of his bed, “Move. Out.” Connor complies slowly, warily, as if afraid Hank’s going to make him sleep on the floor after all.
Hank rummages around in his dresser drawers until he finds a thick, fleece-lined sweater. He hands it to Connor who tries his best to shimmy into it without disturbing his injury. It’s huge on him and the sleeves threaten to swallow his hands to his fingertips. It slumps at one shoulder and the moonlight further illuminates a pale slice of Connor’s exposed clavicle.
Grunting a sound that has no real meaning, he turns back to his bed. Hank eases himself back into it before motioning at Connor to join him once more, “You’ll be closer to the fire this way. I’ve got at least fifty pounds on you. I’ll be fine.”
Connor snorts and mutters, “Oh, you do not,” but he darts under the covers as if Jack Frost is biting at his heels. Even with the fire, Hank has to admit the room’s temperature is hardly above bearable. Connor doesn’t complain but his gentle shivering gives him away.
“Are you going to be ok?” Hank mumbles into the dark, not sure what else he can offer the kid.
He senses Connor’s shrug, “Just cold.”
Body heat, Hank’s mind whispers at him, equal parts nurturing and traitorous.
He’d long stopped pretending he didn’t find Connor attractive. Now is just really not the time for his brain to remind him. Hoping Connor can’t see his flush in the dark, Hank lifts one arm in a welcoming gesture. Connor turns his head to peer at him in confusion before he sees the empty pocket Hank’s created for him to cocoon into.
“Are you sure?” Connor isn’t a stupid man. He knows Hank watches him. He also knows Hank isn’t ready to deal with his feelings. Yet.
“Wouldn’t offer if I wasn’t,” Hank grumbles. His eyes go a bit wide when Connor rolls to face him rather than scooting back.
He lifts his injured hand in explanation, “I can’t lie on it.”
Hank grunts and Connor lets his arm rest on Hank’s chest, keeping it elevated. It’s the explanation Hank gives himself anyway for why Connor’s touching him like this. It’s easier to fall asleep than he expected. It’s been years since he’s had anyone in his bed. Connor’s body radiates warmth like his own personal heater and waves of it lull him to sleep.
When he wakes up, the sun isn’t fully in the sky yet. Dim morning light filters through his curtained windows. Connor’s hand is still on his chest, but his head is tucked further up Hank’s chest, pressing under his chin. Hank’s fingers twitch and his face turns a violent shade of red when he realizes he’s wrapped Connor in an embrace.
When his heart stops trying to jackhammer out of his chest, he allows himself to admit: This is nice.
He lies still, listening to the non-migratory birds chirping, soaking in Connor’s warmth before facing the cold outside of his bed. It’s likely going to be a painfully protracted day of working their way down the mountain. Connor needs a doctor whether the mountain pass wants to cooperate or not.
He needs to put chains on his tires, load the truck up with equipment to clear snow, ice, and possibly downed trees, as well as pack an emergency kit in the event they have the worst luck in the world and get stuck on their way into town.
A list of numerous, unpleasant tasks generates in his mind, but he pushes it aside for now. He lets himself enjoy this quiet, peaceful moment, shoring up his resolve to finally tell Connor all the things he’s been locking away. It had been too easy to hold Connor in his arms, too good, to let go of now.
His heart constricts when Connor rolls a shoulder in presage of waking. Sleep-heavy brown eyes blink open tiredly before Connor rises on his good arm. He looks down at Hank with a soft expression on his face. He is the single most beautiful man Hank has ever seen. He’s in Hank’s bed. He’s looking at Hank like he’s a gift beyond measure and his aching hand still rests on Hank’s chest.
He wants to touch him. He wants to crack open his chest to reveal the throbbing truth of his heart. Emotions roll like a stormy sea in his throat and all Hank can muster is, “Good morning.”
Connor’s lips curve at either end and Hank knows Connor’s sussed him out. He doesn’t push. He’s been patient this far. He can stand to wait a little longer and let Hank come to him.