Title: give me one sin (I can live without the rest)
Fandom: How to Get Away with Murder
Rating: PG-13
Pairings: Connor/Oliver, Connor/other
Length: 1,150 words
Contents: Spoilers for all aired episodes, references to past violence, references to cheating, self-loathing, depictions of really unhealthy intimate relationships, references to major character death

Author's note: The HtGAwM mid-season finale gave me a lot of bunnies, apparently.


Summary: Connor may not be a good person, but he knows how to love someone.

Connor stares dully at the snack machine in the hallway. The air is cold and sterile and too dry for someone who's been crying as much as he has. The lights are too bright, worse than daylight, glaring back from the glass and hurting his eyes. Nothing in the machine looks like real food anyway, but Connor isn't ready to go back to the others yet.

It's two am, and he's still at the fucking hospital. Laurel woke up briefly a few hours ago, then was taken back to surgery, and the doctors won't tell them anything else. Wes's ex was crying so hard she got sent home, so there's no one on the inside willing to sneak the information out.

The television in the waiting room kept looping back and forth between the fire and Wes's death, over and over again. Connor and the rest of them ended up camped out in one of the chapels near the ICU, slowly sobering up surrounded by blue carpeting and fucking funeral flowers, but unwilling to go home. Like kids in a horror movie, Connor thinks, unwilling to split up. Or maybe a herd of antelope when there's a lion around. No one wants to be eaten.

Then again, Annalise has been arrested and someone firebombed her house. God knows that's enough of a boogeyman for anyone, much less people with something to hide. No wonder they don't want to split up.

Connor is still staring at the vending machine, his tired mind trying to decide between stale pop-tarts and off-brand corn chips when footsteps come up behind him and stop. Connor doesn't bother turning around; he doesn't give a shit who it is right now.

"You'd think they could put some real food in these things," he complains, intending to step aside and let someone else stare into the abyss.

But there's a very familiar snort behind him, and Connor can't move.

"I think they're forbidden by law." Oliver's voice is more uncertain than the words, and still scratchy from all the crying.

Connor hates the sound of it. He'd thought he'd be happy, earlier, when all he wanted to do was hurt Oliver. He'd thought he wanted to see Oliver cry.

Turns out, he was wrong about that, too. Too late to fix it, but that's the story of Connor's life.

"Could be. But I think you're better off with the coffee machine down the hall." Connor still doesn't turn around, but he can see the shadow of Oliver's reflection, hovering nervously behind him.

Oliver had taken his shoes off at some point, his white socks gleaming bright against the dark carpet. His hair is sticking up on one side, from where he'd napped against the chapel wall earlier. It would be adorable, if Connor had any room for feeling that.

Oliver had hugged him there in the hospital waiting room as if he'd thought Connor might've been the one who died instead of Wes. Maybe if he'd gone to the house and seen the fire himself instead of banging Oliver's new boyfriend, he'd have deserved someone worrying about him. But he doesn't.

Connor thinks he'd hate himself right now, if he had the energy. It's probably a good thing he doesn't.

But Oliver doesn't take the hint and leave him alone. "I have to tell you something."

"No." Connor closes his eyes and rests his forehead against the machine. It's cool against his skin. Restful, like a freezer in the morgue. He is too fucking tired for this. "We've said everything there is to say, haven't we?"

But Oliver steps closer and drops his voice, almost to a whisper. "I know, Connor. I know what happened the night of the bonfire."

"No, you don't," Connor snaps, speaking without thinking. He's turned around, too, and shoved Oliver against the far wall of the hallway, and it doesn't even feel like he's the one doing it.

That's what it felt like that night, too. Like it was someone else doing it.

"You don't know anything," he hisses, too angry to be scared for a minute. "Because there's nothing to know."

Oliver doesn't look scared, either. Just determined. "That's the night Sam Keating was killed."

Connor takes a deep breath and a step back, glancing around automatically. They're still in the fucking hallway of a hospital; anyone could walk by. "I think I kinda noticed, what with the murder investigation and everything. Maybe when the police talked to me about it? Maybe that's when I noticed it."

Oliver glances around, too, like they're sharing a secret. "I put it together. You said you were traumatized, and then there were time stamps on your photos --"

"Time stamps." The anger drains out of him all at once. All of that work and worry, and it's Oliver who bothered to put the time stamps together. "This is bullshit --"

Oliver grabs Connor's arm before he can walk away. Static sparks as their skin meets, and both of them jump.

"Annalise asked me to wipe her phone," Oliver says desperately. Now he looks scared. His hand is cold on Connor's arm, and shaking.

And it is just like that night. Connor can feel the walls closing in again. But this time, Oliver's in there with him, and Wes is dead. There was never any fucking way out, not for any of them.

"Did you?"

"Yes. Bonnie had me drop it where Annalise was arrested."

Connor feels his gut twist. Guilt, anger, helplessness -- he's not sure. "That was stupid. You should've gone straight to the police."

Oliver looks like he's been punched. "But she said --"

"You can't trust her!" It's too loud, his voice is too loud, and Connor can't help laughing a little at how stupid all of this is. How stupid he is. "I tried to tell you, you can't trust her. Not for anything."

Oliver shakes his head stubbornly, denying the truth. "But she protected you."

"She protected herself. She's always protecting herself."

Oliver's still shaking. "What should I do?"

It's plaintive, and scared, and Connor knows it sounds just like the voice in his head that he tries to drown out with jokes and sarcasm.

"Go to the police," Connor tells him again. "Tell them what she said, what you did. Tell them she got your head so twisted around that you didn't realize what you were doing. They'll be so thrilled to have something against her, they won't charge you."

Oliver is silent for a minute. "And if I won't go to the police?"

Connor feels the helpless anger stirring in his gut again. "Then God help you. Because this is your last chance to get out."

Connor shakes off Oliver's hold on his arm and walks away. He doesn't look back. He doesn't slow down. It's for Oliver's own good. Connor may not be a good person, but he knows how to love someone.

Connor pretends he can't hear the last thing Oliver said, echoing over and over again:

"What if I don't want out?"