Hank's smiling too, a crooked, helpless smile down at his screen, but something's swirling around in his gut as he does it. The beer, probably. He keeps staring down at the texts while he ambles around the couch, then he falls into the cushions and leans his head back, frowning at the ceiling. It's the compliment, too, he sucks at fooling himself about that right now. Being told he did something worthwhile, that he had a part in all this shit when all he's done is get shut out of the station and sit on this fucking couch all day, with the biggest decision of the day when to switch from beer to whiskey - the two things don't mix well, leave him feeling a little nauseous.

Maybe it is the beer, a little bit. He probably needs to eat something. But he just sat back down.

Hank stares at the ceiling for a minute. He doesn't want to start a fight about fucking compliments right now. He only just heard from Connor again and the guy's probably riding high on victory, handing out praise every which way because that's what you do after a big win like this. It's fine. He can just let Connor be happy right now, kid's earned it. He rolls his head forward and cradles the phone in his lap again.

is this a deathbed confession thing or r u ok news guys dont kno wat 2 do w themselves n coverage is all over the place atm