Work Text:
What a fucking mess is all Connor can think as he looks down at himself. His shirt is fucking ruined. There's no way the stains will ever come out.
Not that it matters much. With the amount of blood Connor can see soaking through the white cotton, he won't be around to care. Still, it was one of his favorites, and it’s a shame he’s going to die looking exactly like the mess he really is.
Connor takes moment to wonder if this is all just karma for what a complete shit he's been his entire life. Fucking his way to the top, and then murdering his way back to the bottom.
And God, he had wanted to fix things. Not with Annalise. Or the Keating Five, for fuck’s sake. But Oliver-
Oliver.
His hands grope at his pockets, shaky and covered in blood from when he tried stopping it from pouring out of the gaping wound in his stomach, thinking he might actually have a chance. Now he just laughs and hopes he doesn’t starting choking up blood while he’s at it.
After several moments of uncoordinated grasping, he finally pulls his damn phone out, almost dropping it in the process. Fumbling with the password, Connor messes up twice before finally unlocking the phone and going to recent calls.
Oliver is third, under Annalise and some business contact of the client Connor had called for the case. Oliver is third, and Connor knows he’s much more important than that.
Connor hits dial, smearing blood all over the screen, and presses the phone to his ear, trying to control his breathing. He can't let Oliver know what’s happening.
He's already dying. No need to waste his last breathes fucking talking about it too.
The phone rings, once, twice, forever, before Oliver finally picks up. Connor barely resists sighing in relief. At this point, the only thing worse than dying would be dying alone, with not even his boyfriend picking up the phone to hear his final words.
"Connor? What’s up? I thought you had some important case work to do today," Oliver sounds unsure and God, Connor just wishes he was there. Wishes his goodbye wasn't some phone call with shitty reception and even shittier timing. Because he hadn’t thought to say goodbye sooner, and now he has minutes at most. Because maybe he has this coming, but Oliver deserves better. Oliver always deserves better than what Connor ends up giving him.
"Yeah, I do. But there's a lull in the case. We're waiting for some information on a business partner of our client, and I thought I'd call," Connor says, desperately trying to keep his voice from wavering.
Because it hurts, it’s fucking agonizing. And Connor never would have imagined a hole in his stomach feeling so much like being on fire.
Still, Connor can practically hear Oliver smile. Things had been going so well between them recently, which makes it particular awful that Connor had to go and get himself shot.
"Oh, okay. How's your day been?"
"Boring as hell. Being a lawyer is nothing like on TV," Connor teases, and he hears Oliver chuckle. It's something like a joke between them, the way Oliver loves to watch Law and Order and Connor loves to point out everything they get wrong. Still, Connor can't help it and he’s coughing by the end of it, barely stopping a moan of pain from choking its way out his throat.
It's excruciating, but he's not fucking this up. He has minutes left, and he's hurt Oliver so much before. There's no way he's screwing up their last phone call too.
"Connor? Are you okay?" Oliver sounds concerned in a way that suggests he'd drop everything and come if Connor said no. Like whatever Oliver is doing isn’t anywhere near as important as the idea that Connor might be hurt.
And he wants nothing more than for Oliver to be there with him, but Connor doesn't have that much time. He just has this phone call.
"Yeah, yeah. I think I might be coming down with something, though. I'm a total bitch when it comes to colds," Connor says, coughing again.
His vision starts going black around the edges, and his hand feels numb in its grip around the phone. He considers passing out, vision swimming, but Oliver’s talking again, and there's no way Connor's missing this.
"-maybe I could make you some soup?"
Connor only hears the tail end of the question, and he's about the reply when his vision lurches and he's almost gone again, desperately grasping to stay conscious, desperate for just a few more minutes.
And it hits Connor, he’s actually dying. It's over. No more late nights working on cases. No more crawling into bed in the early morning hours, curling into Oliver like he's never done with anyone before. No more amazing morning sex followed by round two in the shower. Just no more. It’s over.
Connor's panicking, and maybe Oliver can sense it because he's asking again, "Are you sure you're alright? If you're feeling sick, maybe you should just take the rest of the day off. You know, if your boss will even let you."
And Connor cracks a grin at that. Because Oliver's nice to everyone, yet he hates Annalise without ever having met her. All because of how he thinks she treats Connor. All because Connor being tired, and overworked, and stressed about his job matters to Oliver.
And suddenly it's so important that Oliver knows how much he means to Connor. He breathes and thinks, this is it.
"Yeah, it's just this case, it just has me thinking," Connor says, finally replying, voice and vision wavering in tandem. He has to tell him, he has to. "You know, right? How much you mean to me. You have to, Oliver. You have to.
"I didn't get it before. Relationships. I didn't understand. But you, you made me get it. You made me realize why I'd want to wake up to the same person every day. Why boring shit like taxes and picking out furniture doesn't have to suck. And you're so important to me. So much more than my fucking job or law degree, okay? I just need you to know, Oliver. I-I love you."
Connor's breathing is labored by the end of it, and there's no way Oliver hasn't picked up on it. Still, his voice is soft when he replies, gentle, "Connor, of course I love you too. So much, okay?"
And it is. Everything hurts, Connor’s dying, but right now.
"Okay."
Connor breathes in. Breathes out. Can't see. Can't move his legs. Can't feel anything but a pressure behind his eyes. And Jesus fuck, he's not going to cry, he's not.
Connor knows he has seconds. And he's not just going to fucking die while on the phone with Oliver. "Hey, we just got the information on that client. I gotta go, but I'll see you at home, okay? I love you."
"I love you too." Oliver sounds giddy, happy. And if that’s the last Connor will ever have of him, then he can’t say he regrets what he got.
Connor hangs up.
I love you.
Connor’s vision goes black. Then nothing.
***
Two hours after Connor is supposed to be home, Wes Gibbins shows up at his door. Or at least, Oliver thinks it’s him.
He’s tall, dark, puppy dog eyes exactly how Connor describes them. His face is a mask of sorrow and whatever it is, Oliver doesn’t want to hear it.
Apparently it’s written all over his face because the first thing out of Wes’ mouth is: “I’m so sorry.”
But Oliver can’t hear him. His mind’s replying their last conversation, with Connor’s coughing and laboring breathing and he should have known. Should’ve kept him on the phone, gone to him, anything.
He’s backing up, and Wes is still talking but Oliver can’t make any sense of it. Case. Client. Gun. Dead. Nothing.
It means nothing.
Eventually, the back of Oliver’s knees hit his couch and he’s sinking to floor, arms wrapping around his legs and hands going to scrub at his face.
“I almost didn’t pick up.” The words are out before Oliver can process them. “He called me while… while he was—injured. While he was dying, and I almost didn’t pick up.”
Mercifully, Wes shuts up.
“I was busy at work, and I figured, just, whatever it was, we could talk when he got home tonight. I didn’t think it was important. I thought we had time, and I almost didn’t pick up,” Oliver babbles.
Oliver’s shaking; tear marks on his cheeks and hands, and his knee is scraped from where he must have hit it on the end table. What a fucking mess is all Oliver can think as he looks down at himself.