Lt. Hank Anderson - My Ugly
4000- ish words.
After another night of drinking leaves Hank unconscious on his kitchen floor, she stays by his side despite every reason to walk away.
She held Hank in her arms, his head lolling heavily against her shoulder. Drool pooled in the corner of his mouth, mingling with traces of vomit and remnants of whatever else the night had dragged out of him, streaked along his chin. His breathing was shallow, a faint wheeze escaping with each exhale.
She cradled Hank against her, her fingers threading through his damp, tangled hair in a motion that seemed tender at a glance. But her jaw was tight, her teeth grinding with every stroke. "You selfish bastard," she hissed under her breath, her voice trembling with restrained fury. Her hand didnât stop moving, smoothing back his hair almost more to comfort herself, a bitter contradiction to the venom in her words. âI should leave you to choke on your own stupidity, Hank."
Her fingers tightened in his hair for just a second, enough to make her own anger sting, before she let out a shaky sigh and loosened her grip. She kept stroking, kept holding onto him, as if her body couldnât quite follow through on the threats her mouth was making.
Hank's breath hitched suddenly, a sharp rasp. His chest stuttered, his body convulsing as if choking on something invisible. A faint, wet gag escaped his throat, and panic flared in her chest like a match struck in darkness.
âJesus, Hank!â she gasped, shaking his shoulder and tilting his head back. Her heart hammered in her chest. For a few seconds that felt like eternity, she watched his throat spasm and his chest strain.
Then, with a rough, shallow wheeze, he drew in air again, his body settling back into her arms. âI didnât fucking mean it,â she said softly." Her fingers brushing against his clammy forehead.
Every breath Hank took was still labored, his lungs moving with a desperation she could feel in the pit of her own stomach.
If only you could see yourself like this, she thought, the words cutting through her chest.. He was broken in front of her, lost in a haze of his own making and it scared her more than anything. The man she knew was slipping through her fingers, replaced by this shell. Every drink, every pull of the bottle was like another piece of him that she couldnât reach.
Each new shudder of his body made her stomach tighten. This isnât you, she thought. This isnât who youâre meant to be. But the thought felt hollow, like she was trying to convince herself as much as him.
She had once believed that maybe he could turn it around, that maybe there was a way to get him to fight, to see himself as someone worth saving. But the pull of the bottle was stronger every day, stronger than her, stronger than her fear, stronger than anything she could offer him.
Her heart twisted with something sharp and bitter, but she stayed silent, pressing her forehead to his now, trying to feel the faintest trace of the man he used to be. Because as much as it killed her to watch him like this, she couldnât walk away. Than carefully she kissed his forehead, his hot skin salty to her lips.
~ ~
Hank woke to the sharp, sour smell of vomit lingering in the kitchen air, the scent clinging to the cracked tiles beneath him like a cruel reminder of the night before. His head pounded, a dull throb pulsing with each beat of his heart, and his body felt heavy, too sluggish to move. The sharp ache in his stomach was a constant companion, but that wasnât what made his breath hitch in his chest. For a moment, he didnât know what it was. But then the scent hit him. Sweet, almost sickly sweet, the smell of her shampoo mixed with the faintest trace of her perfume. It didnât fit with the grimy kitchen floor, the acrid air, the mess of it all. But it was there, and it was so familiar. And it that moment it made him feel so much worse.
His eyes snapped open further, and he was met with the sight of her, curled up under the table, on the kitchen floor next to him. A blanket half draped over her. Her breath was slow and steady. He didnât dare move, didn't want to wake her.
His heart thudded in his chest, the panic rising like bile in his throat. He didnât know how long sheâd been beside him. He didnât know if sheâd stayed through the whole mess or if she had just crawled in to watch over him in the middle of the night. Either way, it hit him like a punch to the gut. He had made his bed, and somehow, she had chosen to lie beside him. Evem when every part of her should have run the hell away.
Taking in the mess once more, the remnants of his own self-destruction scattered across the kitchen. There was no dignity in any of it and he hated that she had to see him like this. And yet, there she was. Still beside him, still breathing softly next to him in the middle of the kitchen floorâstill caring. Somehow.
Why does she do this still? The question had been rattling around in his mind for as long as he could remember. There was only one explanation. One truth he refused to acknowledge... And he couldnât make himself worthy of it.It was all too complicated. Too hard for an old bastard like him.
But the thought of it: of saying it, of admitting it, scared him more than anything. He couldnât let himself need it. He couldnât let himself need her. He didnât have the strength to risk it, not when every time he thought he was ready to stand up, and fight, to perhaps one day stand beside her, love her like the man she needs and deserves, he crumbled again and reached for his familair crutch.
And so he buried it again, the feeling, the truth that was gnawing at him whenever he looked at her.
But he couldnt quite look away either. Even like this, with smudged makeup and the faint blue hue of exhaustion settled into her skin, she was still beautiful. Her clothes, the same she had worn to work today, wrinkled and askew. Her lips were slightly parted, soft breaths escaping her, disturbed only by the dry air in the room. It was more than he deserved to witness.
He shifted his weight, pushing himself into a sitting position, his muscles aching, protesting with every movement as he moved closer to her, but he ignored it. His hands hovered for a moment, just shy of her skin, as if he wasnât sure he had the right to touch her, even in this small way. But then, as if pulled by some invisible thread, his fingers finally brushed a few stray strands of hair from her face.
Her face shifted slightly, the muscles twitching under her skin, and Hank froze, instinctively holding his breath as if the slightest sound could disturb her. But then her eyelids fluttered, and for a brief moment, she seemed disoriented, blinking up at him.
He leaned back quickly, like heâd been caught doing something he wasnât supposed to.
Suddenly, he was acutely aware of his own breath, the heaviness of it in his chest, the way it felt too loud in the stillness between them. The last thing he wanted was for her to see him this wayâbreathing his smell into her face, staring at her like some kind of⌠goddamn idiot.
âHank?â Her voice was hoarse, cracked from sleep.
She blinked a few times, focusing on him slowly, her eyes clearing as she processed the scene. She looked up at him, her expression unreadable at first, before she gave a small, almost imperceptible sigh. "Hey," she murmured, her voice hoarse from sleep. "Youâre awake."
''I'm awake.'' He wanted to say something else, something more meaningful, something that mattered to her. Yet all that came out was another awkward rasp that made his insides twist. She shifted, propping herself upright further, the stiff crack of her back harsh in the silence. The blanket slipped off her shoulder, but she didnât make an effort to fix it. Instead, she let the grogginess take over for a moment, her body leaning into the stillness as she took a slow breath.
Hank sat there, frozen, still silent, his thoughts tangled.
Her voice cut through the air.
"You fucking reek." Her voice was rough, but there was no malice behind it. Just blunt, tired honesty. He found himself chuckling weakly. It was a dry sound, strained, but it was something.
"Yeah," Hank muttered, glancing at her but quickly looking away again. His lips twitched, but the amusement didnât reach his eyes. "Iâm aware."
She didnât smile, just gave him a look.
"What was it this time?" eyes flicking over the room, taking in the mess once more. The sunlight coming through the window only made everything worse, more obvious. "Whiskey, bourbon, beer?" she asked, with an edge ,something that wasnât quite anger, but close.
"Yes," he said simply, not even bothering to defend it. There was no point. The silence that followed felt heavy, like the weight of his own shame was too much to bear, but he deserved to stew in this feeling.
Than she moved to stand up, her muscles groaning in protest as she stretched. With a sigh, she glanced at him, her voice tired but clear. l clean up the mess if you take a shower,â she said, her voice laced with that practicality heâd come to expect from her, that he'd seen at work too.
"Come on, Hank," she added, her voice softening just enough to make the words feel like something more than just a demand. "You need it. You know it." Her hand extended toward him, the gesture familiar.He stared at it for a moment, his mind momentarily clear. For that brief second, it was the one thing that felt real, solid.
With a grunt, he reached for her hand, his fingers slightly unsteady as he took it. She pulled him up with surprising strength, despite the exhaustion in her own posture. It was enough to make him rise, even though every part of him felt like it was buried beneath the weight of his own failures. She steadied him as he stumbled to his feet.
He lingered there for a moment, still holding onto her hand, feeling the warmth and the steadiness she offered, before he mumbled something close to a thank you, his voice barely above a whisper.
Hank moved toward the bathroom, his steps sluggish, like each one took more effort than the last. His head felt heavy, like it was made of lead, dragging him down with every movement. He pressed one hand to the wall for support, fingers brushing against the peeling paint.
With his other hand, he clutched at his forehead, as if he could somehow push away the weight of the throbbing pain. The pounding ache in his skull didnât let up.
The hallway stretched out in front of him.
Behind him, the sound of cabinets creaking open and closed reached his ears, the familiar shuffle of movement in his kitchen, followed by the scraping of a bucket on the floor.
He kept moving, the bathroom door in his sights, one step at a time. The light above flickered as he passed beneath it, stinging his eyes, and for a moment, the world felt like it was spinning. It didnât matter. He just needed to get to that shower.
In the bathroom, he finally felt like he could breathe again since waking up. No foul odors lingered aside from his own, just the crisp chill of a mid-autumn breeze drifting in through the small window above the shower.
He began undressing, peeling off his crumpled shirt first, followed by the t-shirt clinging to his skin.
A weary grunt escaped him as he kicked the clothes aside with a graceless stomp, his movements heavy and uncoordinated. Bare-chested now, he caught sight of himself in the mirror.
It was unforgiving.
The harsh overhead light illuminated every detail, the sagging skin at his chest and arms, the soft swell of his stomach where muscles once clung. His skin had a pallor to it, a dullness that spoke of too many nights like this one, too many drinks, too little sleep
He leaned closer, hamds gripping the sink, narrowing his bloodshot eyes as if scrutinizing a stranger. But the truth was unavoidable: this was him, stripped bare in every sense. He let out a low, bitter laugh, the sound rasping in his throat. âLook at you,â he muttered, shaking his head at the man staring back at him. âYou ugly old bastard.â
Turning to the tub, he stepped in without hesitation, allowing the water to rise around him as he sank down into the empty tub. The water rose slowly, lapping against his skin, but it did little to wash away the shame clinging to him like a second layer. He leaned back against the cool curve of the tub, the chill seeping into his bones, grounding him just enough to remind him how drunk he still was. H
He dragged a hand over his face, feeling his eneven beard and the heat of his flushed skin, but the filth wouldnât come off so easily. Not the kind on the outside, and certainly not the kind inside.
The thought made his stomach twist and he turned his head toward the window, sucking in the crisp air like it might sober him. It didnât.
~x~
The faint scent of soap and lemons replacing the lingering heaviness from the night before. All that was left was Hank's dog, who needed to be taken care of. She scooped the last of the kibble into the bowl, adding a generous helping of scraps from the fridge. Sumo didnt stir. The old dog lay curled up on the couch, blissfully unaware of the mess, or the madness, that had played out just hours ago. Or maybe it did know. Maybe it was just used to it by now.
âLucky you,â she muttered softly as she made her way from the kitchen to the livingroom, her voice barely above a whisper. The dog stirred slightly at her presence but didnât open its eyes. She crouched down and gave its ear a gentle scratch, then rose with a sigh. The couch was a disaster, too, but she didnât have it in her to clean any more just now.
Her gaze drifted toward the bathroom door at the end of the hall. Heâd gone in there a while ago, and sheâd been so preoccupied she hadnât noticed how long it had been. It had been awfully quiet in the bathroom.
At first, she tried to brush the thought aside. He was probably just soaking, letting the heat work its way through the hangover that was no doubt wrecking him. But the longer she stood there, the more she worried. He'd been fine all these times before. What if today he wasn't. Maybe heâd passed out. Slipped. Maybe worse.
She found herself standing at the bathroom door, hesitant for a moment before she knocked softly. "You good in there, Hank?"
There was no reply. She waited, her hand lingering on the doorframe, and knocked again, this time louder. "Hank?"
Still, no answer. A sigh slipped from her lips, and with a quick glance over her shoulder at the quiet living room, she pushed the door open.
Inside, Hank was standing in front of the mirror, a towel barely clinging to his waist, its edges just hanging on by the thinnest of threads. He was swaying slightly, his body unsteady, clearly fighting to stay upright. The clippers in his hand hummed softly as he tried to trim his beard, but he wasnât in any position to be doing it. His focus was fixed on the mirror, but the effort was clearly too much.
She paused, taking in the sight of him His belly rounded gently, the lines of age etched into his skin. The hair on his chest was thick and dark, the edges of it graying, but he looked strong still.
She stood there for a moment, watching him, before stepping closer. "Hank," she said, her voice cutting through the thick silence, firmer now. "What the hell are you doing?"
It took a while for him to notice she was there, lost in his reflection, the buzzing clippers still working their way through his beard. But as he turned to face her, still holding the clippers, he nearly yanked a chunk of hair with it.
"Shit," he muttered under his breath, wincing as he quickly dropped the clippers into the sink, then fumbled with the towel around his waist, tugging at it as if trying to hide something embarrassing. "What doe sit look like i'm doing,." he says his voice louder now, embarresment sepeing through harslu
She took a step closer. "Didn't look like it was going well," she teased, leaning in next to him. The warmth of the bath still clung to his skin, and she could smell the lingering "It's a little wonky."
Without asking, she reached for the clippers in the sink Her left hand gently cupped his chin, tilting his face up. He didnât stop her. She had expected a protest, maybe a sigh, a grumble, or something under his breath. But as her fingers brushed through his beard, she only felt him relax against her touch.
"How about you have a seat, yeah?"
Hank nodded and took a seat on the closed toiler, adjusting the towel as he sat down. Trying to hide his gut as he crossed his arms over himelf, but it didnt make him feel any more secure.
She leaned close, positioning herself at the right angle, one hand holding his chin steady, the other working with the clippers. She shifted slightly, her chest brushing against his arm as she adjusted her position, and for a split second, he couldnât help it. His eyes flickered to the curve of her body, the way she moved, the softness of her skin, and then he quickly looked away, cursing himself inwardly. He was being an idiot. A dirty old pervert, too. Or maybe not. Maybe he was just a man, put into a precarious position. Perhaps this was normal. But it was fucking hard to not let his mind stray, nonetheless
"Stay still," she murmured, her voice low, as she worked. Her fingers lingered on his jaw for a moment longer than necessary, and Hank thought he might lose his mind. He just nodded, trying to keep it together. He clenched his jaw, willing himself to remain calm, but it was impossible when she was this close. Every little movement of hers was like a wave crashing against him, and he had no choice but to let it happen. She leaned down, as she studied her work. Low enough for her breath to brush agains this skin. It was a small thing, but it felt like a storm inside him. He couldnât decide whether to feel grateful for the touch or frustrated at his own reaction. Either way, his mind was spinning, and with the alchohol it became too much.
The seconds stretched on, each one heavier than the last. Hank made a decision to close his eyes, hoping the white noise of the clippers would distract his brain. He needed the quiet, the space. Anything to keep himself grounded.
''All done,'' she said, and hank opened his eyes again. Her fingers quickly brushed throgh his beard, shaking out the loose hairs as they fell onto the towel and his still damp chest.
"How do I look?" he asked, his voice careful, wary of what might come next. "Like shit," she said without missing a beat, a small, teasing smirk on her lips. He shifted uncomfortably on the toilet seat. The damn towel was barely hanging on, and he was half naked in front of her, still in this ridiculous position, trying to act like everything was normal when really, nothing about this was. The stupidest thing was that despite the awkwardness of it all, he could still feel his pulse quicken.
Hank let out a low chuckle. "Fuck. I'll take it," he said with a wry smile as he stood up with a grunt. She watched him for a moment, unsure if she should leave now or help. So she lingered there, still close, as Hank reached out to her, steadying himself. "Easy," she said, automatically slipping an arm around his waist.
His hand settled on her shoulder. "I'm fine." "You are still drunk." A breath of laughter escaped him.
"You're enjoying this."
"A little." She laughed. "Sadist."
"Thats why Im so good at dealing with you.
Hank shook his head, smiling despite himself. The movement sent a loose strand of hair falling across his forehead.
Without thinking, she reached up and brushed it back.The smile faded from his face. He drew in a quick breath. Not completely. Just enough.
Her hand lingered for a second longer than it should have. Neither of them moved.The bathroom suddenly felt very small. And even hotter than when the shower was still running.
Hank's gaze dropped briefly to her mouth before returning to her eyes. She felt her pulse stumble. He took in another breath, but it didnt seem to full up his lungs.
"I do think I missed a spot by the way," she said softly.
"Did you?"
"Mhm."
Her fingers brushed along his jaw, tracing the edge of his beard.He didn't pull away.
The warmth of his skin seeped into her fingertips.
For a moment, all she could hear was the steady hum of the bathroom fan and the sound of his breathing out.
"Hank..."
His hand tightened slightly on her shoulder.
"Yeah?"The word came out rough. Neither of them seemed interested in pretending anymore.
Slowly, carefully, he leaned in. She met him halfway..
Her lips were soft, and for the first time since he could remember, Hank let himself forget about everything else; the alcohol, the guilt, the mistakes... everything faded into the backgroun and all that was left was the warmth of her, the softness of her skin against his, and the feeling of something real and undeniable. Something painful and beautiful at the same time.When they finally pulled apart, neither of them said anything at first. The absurdity of the moment didnât escape Hank, but it didnât matter. Not truly at least.
âShit,â he muttered, running a hand through his hair. âThat was... In front of the damn toilet.â
She laughed, the sound low and amused, her fingers still lingering at his chest. âYeah. But I think I can live with that.â
