Chapter Text
He’s been doing okay—not particularly great, just okay—with the loneliness, with the emptiness in his apartment and his heart ever since Laura left him, he’s been doing okay even without the occasional hookup to distract him and make him feel like he could still be a catch if he really wanted to.
He’s been doing okay until there’s another case that needs consulting with the SVU and he sees the way Hank looks at Detective Benson and his chest burns with how compatible they clearly are, how great they could be if she decided to heed the admiration and trust Hank does nothing to hide when she’s around, how he even trusts her with the most important thing in his life; Erin’s wellbeing, that is.
He can’t say when exactly it happened but he’s come a long, long way and done a complete one eighty in the years he’s known the Sergeant; going from hating his guts and thinking he was one of the worst, dirtiest cops he’d ever met to—well, to looking at him the same way he looks at Benson.
He doesn’t have an emotional breakdown over the realization. The ache that he can’t help but feel constantly now doesn’t let him so he just nurses a beer alone in the darkness of his kitchen, allows himself to wallow in his misery where no one can see him and resolves to keep going.
He might not have someone to share his life with anymore and his heart, the treacherous little bastard, will probably hold this torch for a long time but he likes his life.
He’s got a job he loves, he’s got the Police Youth Boxing League. He’s not going to consider himself unlucky.
***
“You need a date,” Gaby insists when they bump into each other at Molly’s one night.
Antonio almost regrets sticking around to catch up with her but knows that whenever he’s not busy, the throbbing between his lungs is plain to see for those who know him.
He swirls the shot he was absently staring at inside his mouth, lets it burn his tongue and the back of his throat. He nods, inhaling roughly through both that and the instinct of just confiding in Gaby like he always does.
She sure as hell wouldn’t like it, would probably go berserk on Voight after chewing him out for being so stupid.
He’s not really in the mood for that.
“Yeah,” he says instead.
His sister seems taken aback by his easy admission, raises both eyebrows at him while pursing her mouth in thought. Her eyes scan the bar quickly, no doubt looking for a prospective match for him.
He doesn’t need to follow her gaze to know she stops on a group of attractive women that have been eyeing him ever since he arrived, gossiping and giggling between each other in a very not subtle way.
“If you looked less gloomy, you could go home with one of them,” she remarks.
“Or two, if you wanted,” Casey adds because of course he’s been listening and Gaby smirks at his comment, giving him a look that he can translate to ‘don’t be an idiot and go for it’ and that says a lot about how fucking pathetic he must look.
She’s not exactly in favor of using women like this, after all.
Antonio entertains the idea for a brief moment, his mind quick in ruining it for him by picturing Hank and Detective Benson hanging out at some other bar with less cops and firemen around, a more private place where they sit close and share work related problems and probably more than that too.
His breath catches for just the slightest bit.
“It was nice seeing you, I’m gonna go now,” he announces gruffly, stepping out of the stool to pay his tab and pointedly ignoring both the worried looks he gets and the way his whole body feels like it’s made of lead.
He runs a hand through his hair, lets the cold air of Chicago numb both his mind and body and takes a cab to his place.
***
The SVU packs and goes back to New York.
They get a new case and breathing gets easier. He rides with Hank, forgets all about the nights he’s been spending with this awful yearning howling inside of him, and does what he’s best at.
Which apparently includes getting shot at.
It happens quickly. One second, Hank is touching his shoulder, holding him back from storming in to ambush the band of drug dealers they’ve been chasing and the next he’s pushing his boss to the ground after catching a telltale glimpse of steel from behind them.
It hits the vest but it hurts like a motherfucker, so much for a moment he’s certain it went right through it and he’s got this gaping hole in the middle of his chest but it turns out that’s just how the barely controlled, slightly panicked look Hank regards him with makes him feel.
That and the broken ribs he’s just acquired, of course.
“You’re fine, Antonio, you’re gonna be okay,” the Sergeant says, hovering over him while his hands prod the abused place.
He wonders why he sounds like he’s trying to convince himself, why his fingers linger on the vest that just saved his life like it’s taking everything in him not to open it and check with his own hands that there’s bruising and cracked bones and little else.
“Hey,” he grunts, wincing when moving and speaking isn’t exactly the best way of dealing with the pain but that doesn’t stop him from gripping Hank’s forearm and look at him in the eye, reassuring, “I’m okay.”
“Mm,” the older man huffs, clearly unconvinced, his palm curling on Antonio’s cheek, his thumb brushing the pulse on his neck apparently doing a far better job at calming him down than anything he could say.
His hand is warm and not exactly soft but he still leans into the touch, eyes fluttering shut in a way that he will very much likely regret later.
The rest of the team thankfully manages to catch the band without them and by the time an ambulance rolls around to take Antonio to get some x-rays and much needed painkillers to Chicago Med, Alvin is there to pat their boss’ back and close the ambo’s doors behind them and the EMT.
Hank’s hand goes back on him, this time to card through his recently cropped hair after taking off his beanie.
Touch has always been so natural between them, even back when they were getting to know each other, and it’s a comfort far better that whatever drug they could give him.
He talks on the phone the whole way there but he doesn’t mind. He’s there and he’s worried and he might not feel the same way Antonio does for him but he cares about him and it’s enough.
It’ll have to be.
***
He gets three broken ribs and two days to sleep the worst of it off.
He takes the doctor’s advice a little bit too literal and barely wakes a couple of times in over a day, curled alone in bed with his head too muzzy to do much else.
The meds they gave him make him too nauseous to keep anything that isn’t water down. When Jay stops by to check on him with his brother in tow he seems mad about it for some reason, complains about people that shouldn’t be prescribing strong pain medication if they don’t know how to do it properly.
Antonio just squints at him but thankfully accepts the extra drops he gives him, munching some cheese sticks while Jay stocks his fridge like he’s a man on a mission.
“Voight’s been awful today, man,” his buddy tells him when he’s done, inviting himself to drink Antonio’s beer since he can’t have any, “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say he misses you.”
He snorts, putting a hand over his ribs when that sends a jolt of pain through him. Jay steps closer to him but he waves him off, leaning on the kitchen counter for a couple of seconds to get back his bearings.
“If he’s been awful to you, buddy, that’d be him remembering you’re screwing his daughter.”
His friend shakes his head, frowning a bit, “No, I mean—I mean he obviously doesn’t like it, but he didn’t only yell at me, you know.”
“Huh,” he replies, not very intelligently because the room is spinning, and he rubs the corner of his right eye while Jay leads him by the elbow back to his room.
He has to bite his tongue not to admit it’s him the one who misses Voight and not the other way around.
***
His wounds heal—the ones caused by the bullet, that is.
The raw spot in his chest only gets worse but he gets better at ignoring it so it’s nothing to worry about.
Hank doesn’t bench him on their next assignment, thank fuck, and their easy synchronization is all they need to make it through unscathed this time.
It’s taken him months and months to notice it but the way they move around each other, filling all the voids the other leaves and knowing exactly when to push forward or to withdraw is nothing short of amazing.
He wonders if Hank can tell too, how great of a partner Antonio is for him, if that’s why he picked him for his unit despite of the not small detail of him putting him in cuffs first.
It feels like a lifetime ago.
***
He’s pinching the bridge of his nose after reading his post-mission report for the third time before submitting it when he feels a familiar hand on his shoulder and looks up to find Hank behind him, looking indulgent.
“Leave that for tomorrow, Antonio. Let’s get outta here,” he suggests, squeezing before letting go, and Antonio doesn’t need to be told twice.
He thinks they’re going out for drinks, doesn’t really ask where they’re going as he rides shotgun in Hank’s car and blinks, quirking an eyebrow when they park outside his boss’ home.
The older man doesn’t invite him in with words or offers any kind of explanation, expecting him to follow him inside almost as if it was some kind of test.
Antonio stops just by the door, pondering what it is they need to discuss that can’t be breached anywhere else.
Hank grabs him by the back of his neck, pinning him against the wall, and crowds close, eyes boring into his.
He knows, just like that, that he’s been found out.
And for all that he prides in knowing his boss well, he can’t for the life of him figure out what the expression in his face means, whether it’s good or bad or something in between.
“Hank, I—“ he croaks, his mind fishing for words that are eluding him.
Hank’s breath against his lips, his nose gently nuzzling his, is all the warning he gets before they’re kissing but it’s enough because by then he’s already clutching the older man’s shoulders, determined on keeping him close and closer, practically melting into him when Hank weaves an arm around his waist and nudges his lips open with a skilled brush of his mouth.
He closes his eyes, focusing on the flick of their tongues together and the way their mouths fit and seal on top of one another, breathing raggedly whenever they part briefly to take breaths while nuzzling each other’s cheeks.
He still has no idea what Hank could want but he lets him pull him onto his couch when making out flushed together against the wall stops being enough, their jackets and shoes scattered on their way in as they scramble not to let go of the other.
They rut against each other, their hips slotting together so easily they don’t even notice the frenzy with which they’re moving and biting into lips until they’re coming with low curses and grunts in their pants like they’re fifteen and don’t know any better.
Antonio blinks up at him, stunned by a number of things but mostly just that this is happening at all.
Hank smiles, sated and soft like he’s never seen him.
“Guess you’re gonna have to stay over now,” he says like it’s no big deal, “Lend you some clothes for tonight, what do you say?”
He has the impression there’s more the older man is asking even if he doesn’t know exactly what it is yet.
He’ll be damned if he says no just because of that.
“Yeah,” he smiles back, happy, “I’d like that.”
This time, he leans in first.