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Hank groaned as he pulled the bag from the trash can. Beer bottles clinked together and Styrofoam takeout containers squeaked. The terrible, generic bag didn’t have any drawstrings, so his fingers slipped against the cheap fabric. In the living room, Connor was tossing out the sheets to prepare his couch-bed.
“Remember to take your quetiapine tonight,” Connor called, eliciting an eyeroll. He tucked the sheet into the couch cushion and continued, “I noticed you forgot yesterday. Adherence is important to—”
“Jesus, give it a break.” Hank set the bag down with a loud clank and straightened up, hand on his back. “You sound like my ex-wife.”
Connor’s LED flickered. “Given that your ex-wife was a pharmacist, that only proves my point. You need to take your medication as prescribed.”
“You are so fucking lucky.” Hank left the bag on the ground and trudged to the living room entrance. Connor turned, eyebrow raised, as the lieutenant pointed at him. “If I was half as mouthy with my dad, I’d be getting the belt right this second.”
Though his instinct was to deny the comparison—Hank was not his father, and if anything, Connor took care of him—instead, Connor asked, “What belt?”
Hank paused, then squinted, as though Connor was playing a trick on him. “You know—the belt your dad—or, shit, a kid’s parents’ beat them with.” Connor raised his brows and Hank felt some insecurity bubble up. “It’s a normal thing—expression. Trust me. It was common in the 90s.”
Connor’s LED spun yellow once as he filed away the information. “So, corporal punishment for… caring about your health?”
“For being a nagging little shit. God,” he huffed, turning towards the hall. “Everything’s so fucking literal with you.” He took a step, then paused. “I’ll take them.”
“Goodnight, Hank.”
Hank responded with a dismissive wave and shuffled to the bedroom.