"but finding new ways to hurt you is always so pretty to me, little prince. "
WHAT WENT WRONG
► adopted ► joined military ► had sex with sister ► rejected proposal ► met an old sorcerer ► became president ► rejected proposal x2 ► dead wife ► does not own any cows
RED FLAGS
► incest ► trained dom daddy ► safewords not required ► only eats unseasoned chicken ► gray bedsheets
GREEN FLAGS
► democrat but better ► old romantic ► likes books ► oral sex ► literally king arthur
"your honor, i stand before you accused of being sweet."
WHAT WENT WRONG
► homophobic father ► caught giving his tennis bf a blowie by above ► got tennis bf killed by following him into the army ► unofficially adopted/mentored by senator smith ► senator smith killed himself after son lenny was outed
RED FLAGS
► republican ► deeply closeted homosexual ► high functioning alcoholic ► smoker ► emotionally unavailable ► untrained one-off dom daddy extraordinaire ► can pass a lie detector test with flying colors ► knows where all the bodies are buried bc he buried them ► broke tim laughlin's heart
GREEN FLAGS
► war hero ► speaks 3 languages ► solid political network + plenty of favors to call in ► wickedly charming + stunningly good-looking ► good taste in scotch, cars, clothes + pretty brunette boys ► excellent gift-giver ► knows where all the bodies are buried bc he buried them
► strict, conservative catholic upbringing ► cruel father, distant mother, sheltered sister ► haggled his way through community college ► took internship with lecherous senator ► doubt doubt doubt ► met and fell for hawkins fuller ► abandoned by God and hawk ► quit job, joined the army ran away ► charmed a president ► stopped believing he could be somebody
RED FLAGS
► devout catholic (in spite of himself) ► sheltered upbringing ► idealistic to a fault ► loves deeply, wholly, without hesitation ► lacks personal boundaries ► believed that hawkins fuller could love him ► prefers hot milk to coffee
GREEN FLAGS
► an avid reader ► a collector of old books ► hopeless romantic ► curator of comfy clothes ► secretly ripped under said comfy clothes ► friend to all, enemy to none ► a well of all things politics & knowledge ► a bad liar ► unapologetically genuine ► prefers hot milk to coffee
”you shouldn’t love me. you shouldn’t. you shouldn’t.”
WHAT WENT WRONG
► joined the military and met ash colchester ► fell in love with ash colchester ► rejected marriage proposal from ash colchester ► can’t stop fucking ash colchester ► elected vice president and now back in the closet
RED FLAGS
► accomplished liar ► masochist ► has a death wish ► copes by drinking and fucking ► trained submissive who doesn’t know how to submit ► emotionally fucked up and self-aware about it ► 85% chance of starting an international war at all times ► loyal to the point that he’ll sacrifice any part of himself for you
GREEN FLAGS
► loves reading and lit crit ► looks like the paperback cover of a regency romance novel ► snowdrop winter blue eyes ► sculpted like a greek statue ► can waltz and will teach you ► sex-positive switch ► eats cunt and cock with equal enthusiasm ► loyal to the point that he’ll sacrifice any part of himself for you
This is your daily reminder to get your head out of all that work and take a walk.
The nurses are saying it's beautiful outside.
[ hawk has left for lunch and some meeting, he's sure, and it leaves tim alone to his own devices again. the kidnapping is over and done with - he's home, he's mostly safe, he's being cared for. but tim still feels it living in his bones, and closing his eyes to nap (which he should be doing right now) feels like it could choke him to death at the thought alone. ]
I checked your calendar, and no, you're not too busy for a walk. And seeing as I'm a fall risk, unable to walk around on my own? I could even guilt you and tell you to do it for my sake. But I won't. Not yet.
( checking the calendar counts as working, ash guesses — and while he should be working, he instead puts everything aside and casts his focus entirely on tim. )
And I think that counts as coercion. For future you. How are you feeling?
"Hi, you've reached the cell phone for Tim Laughlin, Assistant to the President. Please leave a detailed message, a phone number with which I can reach you, and I'll return your call as soon as possible. Have a wonderful day."
( ash ends up making good time on his arrival into dca, somewhere early enough in the morning on sunday that the sunrise is a splotchy shade of purple at his private terminal, making a watercolored imprint of the sky overhead. he feels like a klimt painting. messy shapes in the form of a person, vibrant colors outlining the pattern of him through the sunrise. he hasn't slept in a few days, though no one would know it by looking at him — he dons the same all american look that he always does, his suit pressed, his tie crisp, an american flag pin stabbed in the lapel of his jacket, like a painting of saint sebastian with an arrow through his breast. funnily enough, he always reminded ash of embry — the image of a black haired martyr tied to a tree, a soldier pinned by the weight of his own beliefs.
mornings make ash morose, is all. he doesn't sleep in the white house for the three or so hours that he's there, spending enough time to shower the plane smell off him, and change from his suit into a knit sweater, all the while thinking of tim with his glass of steamed milk. like a fifties ad for growing your bones — milk mustaches, kellogg's cereal, feet dangling under the table. mid calf socks and knee length shorts, and two inches of bare skin between the endings and beginnings of them — dumb daydreams. he's never once seen tim with a milk mustache, or he's positive he would've remembered.
in any case, he arrives early for sunday mass, not wholly surprised to see tim already posted at the bench outside of saint thomas becket church, his collar turned up against the breeze. ash is flanked by a few bodyguards when he approaches — the others are scouting out the area, falling into advantageous positions. with a little wave of his hand, they fall back a few steps, and he nods at them appreciatively, before coming toe to toe with tim. )
This seat taken? ( he asks, before sitting down beside him, eyes going to the adjacent architecture — an american's best attempt at gothic buildings. not as nice to look at as tim. ash fixes his gaze. ) I want to thank you for agreeing to attend with me, again. ( with an almost childlike sound of whimsy in his voice, but with laughter too, as if he knows he's being slightly ridiculous, ) I love church. I always have, even when it seems ... counter, to who I am. I never doubt my faith. I'm happy to share it. Especially happy to share it with you, Mr. Laughlin.
[ true to form, tim laughlin wakes up early enough to track ash's flight. should it experience any difficulties or delays, he'd much rather have a solution waiting and ready to go. especially with such a tight turn around. but the flight lands safely, the president is whisked away to the white house, and tim closes his eyes to rest a few more hours.
except he can't. his mind won't let him rest and just the very realization that he will be sitting a church pew beside the president of the united states simply for the sake of enjoying church? blows his mind. it's why he's fussing over what to wear, his hair, what time to leave, if he should bring anything beyond just the coffee. (he deliberately doesn't eat breakfast or even dare drink more than sip of water - he wants to be sure he can finish the drink ash brings him, or the brunch if they do go (and god knows ash will insist).
all this nervous energy is what has him settled on a bench outside of saint thomas becket far too early. early enough that the cool morning air seeps its way through the thin, russet colored cardigan he's wearing over a simple white button up - a few of the top buttons are even let loose, a departure from his work-wear.
it's embarrassing that he's lost in thoughts, hands curled around the warmth of the to-go cup (americano, piping hot), admiring some statue in the courtyard across the street when he hears the request. ]
Oh - wait, it's actually -
[ ... ash. it's ash, and not some stranger. he lights up, making room on the bench for the man beside him. ]
Please, sit. Here. [ there's no explaining why he feels nervous about church and coffee and the president, when he wouldn't feel nervous about these things ever before, and yet he reaches for ash's hand in that moment to press the coffee cup into his palm.
instead of handing it to him like a normal, sane assistant. jesus. ]
You don't have to thank me at all. I appreciate the invite. I'm not entirely sure that anyone's faith can be counter to who they are. It's a part of you - I can see it in your work every day. I mean that. But I may doubt your faith if you decide to call me Mr. Laughlin even before God. But even if you do, I suppose I will still be happy to share the moment with you.
[ he huffs a little, almost sheepish as he glances around - the bodyguards keep careful watch, of course. this isn't just a normal day at church. ]
It's a beautiful building. I don't think St. Joseph's can compare.
[ tim lets that text sit there for a little while - he's busy, but also the my boy makes him hot under the collar in a few ways. ]
Lyonesse thankfully has its own discretionary clauses.
If both parties agree, then there's no reason for an NDA, nor is there a reason for lock and key. I suppose that might be difficult for some to understand.
Mr. Fuller has stepped away for the afternoon, but I suspect I’ll need to have a formal apology sent on his behalf to the hospital staff. The nurses seem afraid, even if he’s been nothing but insistently polite. I’d guess you get my meaning.
I’ll write it if you wouldn’t mind looking it over and signing it for the sake of authenticity.
Thank you so mu Why did you You could have been hurt or Ash would never forgive I don’t deserve that sort of I close my eyes and I’m still trapped in that room.
( cw: claustrophobia, violence, sexual harassment, mentions of torture )
[ there are few things in tim's life he can say he was truly prepared for, and becoming the aide to president colchester hadn't been one of them. the title came with a myriad of odd jobs, strange hours, wild requests and insufferably long days. it's all of the silly things he thinks of later, after he's dragged out of his hotel room in the middle of the night, blindfolded and gagged and shoved into the trunk of a car.
he assumes it's a car. it's cramped and dark, reeking of old oil and exhaust. the sort someone's grandmother would have, that putters along the road, inconspicuous and completely mundane.
mundane like ash's dry cleaning, embry's sardonic eye roll when tim argues about austen's legitimacy in regency era fiction, or hawkins fuller somehow secretly swapping out the tea he's forced himself to drink with a coffee cup of similar make filled with frothy, warm milk.
being the aide to the president of the united states should have meant paperwork, social engagements, political negotiations, booking flights, laughing over senate hearings gone awry or the speaker of the house's horrific blouse. it should be all of these things, and not a dark, cramped carpathian room; not rope burn on his wrists from being tied too tightly behind his back; not steel-toed boots shoved into his side or his head yanked back by his hair; not you have a pretty face i see why he likes you - will he come for his little pet?; not a towel pressed over his face and water dumped over and over until he begs for the thousandth time he knows
nothing.
but he knows what ash likes. knows that quiet garden walks around the church and sneaking away when the oval office door is locked brings light back into his eyes. he knows that all it takes is a little word play and a jest - but your humble knight demands you take a break lest you wither away in your armor, goodly king - to pry ash from his brooding and back into the fresh light of day. he knows that he might well die on the floor of the little, humid room if he doesn't open his mouth and tell all, but to die for a king is more noble a cause than any he can think of.
tim laughlin dreams about these moments over and over: a sickening crack of his head on the floor (it's concrete? wood? he can't remember), the looming figure he can't make out in the dark without his glasses, the meaty hand in his hair or yanking him up by embry's loaner expensive tie he'd forgotten to take off before crashing into bed (something about needing to look the part for a party like this), or the sickening drop in his gut when he hears the creak of old hinges coupled with the shuffle of boots and:
are you ready to talk yet, mr. laughlin...?
reality and the dreams stitch themselves together as he wakes with a harrowing start, body drenched in sweat, heart monitor racing to the rhythm of the panicked breaths he tries to take. they come in wheezes and despite all the caution given by the nurses when he was still hazy and out of it, he sits up far, far too fast. it makes the room lurch, his stomach swoop sickly in his gut and it takes absolutely everything in tim to grip the sheets on the bed to stay upright.
a bed. beeping machines. sterile, white light. a hospital.
he'd been dreaming.
it doesn't stop the way he heaves for air, the way his hair sticks to his forehead and splays out at odd angles, or the dazed and distant look in his eyes as he comes back down into his body, into himself. he's not aware at first that someone else is in the room. he can barely keep his eyes focused on his feet under the sheets, but there's definitely movement in the corner of his vision.
a nurse? surely. ]
Sorry, I'm -
[ a hand raised to press at what he's sure is an attending's arm, but his fingers find soft shirt fabric, a strong forearm. the hazy brown of his eyes slowly follows the line of the shoulder, to a neck, to a jawline he knows better than he knows his own name, no less.
god.
he's being punished, isn't he? truly, deeply punished. ]
Hawk, what - [ a thick swallow - his mouth is so dry ] Mr. Fuller? When did you...?
[ in his dreams, even the bad ones, there's always the lingering feeling of arms under his knees and back, warm breath in his hair, and the promise of safety, however brief. ]
[ the ballroom feels so packed, so loud, so crowded that even though tim is being sent to retrieve drinks, hors d'oeuvres, and a sundry of other tasks, it feels like tim is passing incredibly slowly. every move through the room takes time and careful shuffling, mindful not to rub elbows with the wrong party, with someone important, or worse, a rival. while the venue certainly accommodates all the affluent and important people they intended to garner with this fundraising gala, tim feels grossly out of place.
he always will with people like this - he's known it his whole life. everywhere he goes, people can practically smell the humble upbringing on him. a staten island boy with dirt under his nails, freckles on his cheeks, calluses on his palms - and here? it's the rental suit. he's not made for politics with his soft, slight build and dark, thick glasses. he is, however, built to run errands and perform mindless, menial tasks.
yes, in fact, lonigan does like his coffee better after morning meetings. he prefers the schedule of the day to be given to him both in an iphone note and in various post-it notes throughout the day - reminders of where he should be, and when. he prefers a light lunch but a heavy dinner, and god forbid tim mix up the slightest hand signal that could mean anything from whisky, vodka soda, or wine.
this time? it's whisky. two fingers, neat, the most expensive and top shelf they have. lonigan right now is set to be one of the biggest donors at the event and thus he's a busy man, shaking hands and smiling and faking his way through things. tim can see through it, really - how the smile doesn't reach his eyes, how his mouth stays poised in the smile even when people aren't looking.
he's good. he's very good.
and so the night comes and goes like this - tim weaving in and out of crowds, hanging back just within ear and eye shot of the man. occasionally he talks to other aides or assistants, but they don't hover long. we'll see how long he keeps you is the message he receives, loud and clear. but he's determined to make something of it regardless, even if it's short-lived. he'd either been handed the step up or handed a key to a door that would lead to his demise.
he's read these books before, after all.
it's halfway through the gala that he's given a break, lonigan bored of being fussed over suddenly, clapping him hard on the back and sending him on his way with a - go get a drink, kid. he really shouldn't drink anything considering he has most of the evening still to keep up with. even from afar he gauges lonigan's location, his expression, his demeanor.
it's this that distracts him enough that when he gets to the bar, he requests milk. the bartender stares, but being the kind of fancy affair this is? procures him a tumblr of the stuff. tim can't shake the edgy, nervous feeling that rattles under his skin. it's only been three weeks under longan's purview and even moving now to get fresh air on the balcony seems like a bad plan.
and it is, because in turning to glance back one more time at lonigan, smiling and laughing closely with some young, blue-eyed, blond swedish politician, he misses the fact that indeed, someone else had been exiting the balcony. he bumps right into them, but thankfully? the milk only spills a little - splattering on the floor, and on the toes of his own dress shoes. ]
Oh my God, I'm sorry, I wasn't paying attention and - [ ... he knows that face. ]
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backstories 👔 💼
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maxen ashley colchester.
text; the night after tim's kidnapping
So - I apologize for my outburst.
The overall sentiment still stands.
[tell ash you're not sorry without saying you're not sorry.]
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( it’s not anything ash isn’t already yelling at himself over, anyway. he’s happy to have hawk’s hate. )
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text; a few days into his hospital stay
The nurses are saying it's beautiful outside.
[ hawk has left for lunch and some meeting, he's sure, and it leaves tim alone to his own devices again. the kidnapping is over and done with - he's home, he's mostly safe, he's being cared for. but tim still feels it living in his bones, and closing his eyes to nap (which he should be doing right now) feels like it could choke him to death at the thought alone. ]
I checked your calendar, and no, you're not too busy for a walk.
And seeing as I'm a fall risk, unable to walk around on my own? I could even guilt you and tell you to do it for my sake. But I won't.
Not yet.
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( checking the calendar counts as working, ash guesses — and while he should be working, he instead puts everything aside and casts his focus entirely on tim. )
And I think that counts as coercion. For future you.
How are you feeling?
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tim laughlin.
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mornings make ash morose, is all. he doesn't sleep in the white house for the three or so hours that he's there, spending enough time to shower the plane smell off him, and change from his suit into a knit sweater, all the while thinking of tim with his glass of steamed milk. like a fifties ad for growing your bones — milk mustaches, kellogg's cereal, feet dangling under the table. mid calf socks and knee length shorts, and two inches of bare skin between the endings and beginnings of them — dumb daydreams. he's never once seen tim with a milk mustache, or he's positive he would've remembered.
in any case, he arrives early for sunday mass, not wholly surprised to see tim already posted at the bench outside of saint thomas becket church, his collar turned up against the breeze. ash is flanked by a few bodyguards when he approaches — the others are scouting out the area, falling into advantageous positions. with a little wave of his hand, they fall back a few steps, and he nods at them appreciatively, before coming toe to toe with tim. )
This seat taken? ( he asks, before sitting down beside him, eyes going to the adjacent architecture — an american's best attempt at gothic buildings. not as nice to look at as tim. ash fixes his gaze. ) I want to thank you for agreeing to attend with me, again. ( with an almost childlike sound of whimsy in his voice, but with laughter too, as if he knows he's being slightly ridiculous, ) I love church. I always have, even when it seems ... counter, to who I am. I never doubt my faith. I'm happy to share it. Especially happy to share it with you, Mr. Laughlin.
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except he can't. his mind won't let him rest and just the very realization that he will be sitting a church pew beside the president of the united states simply for the sake of enjoying church? blows his mind. it's why he's fussing over what to wear, his hair, what time to leave, if he should bring anything beyond just the coffee. (he deliberately doesn't eat breakfast or even dare drink more than sip of water - he wants to be sure he can finish the drink ash brings him, or the brunch if they do go (and god knows ash will insist).
all this nervous energy is what has him settled on a bench outside of saint thomas becket far too early. early enough that the cool morning air seeps its way through the thin, russet colored cardigan he's wearing over a simple white button up - a few of the top buttons are even let loose, a departure from his work-wear.
it's embarrassing that he's lost in thoughts, hands curled around the warmth of the to-go cup (americano, piping hot), admiring some statue in the courtyard across the street when he hears the request. ]
Oh - wait, it's actually -
[ ... ash. it's ash, and not some stranger. he lights up, making room on the bench for the man beside him. ]
Please, sit. Here. [ there's no explaining why he feels nervous about church and coffee and the president, when he wouldn't feel nervous about these things ever before, and yet he reaches for ash's hand in that moment to press the coffee cup into his palm.
instead of handing it to him like a normal, sane assistant. jesus. ]
You don't have to thank me at all. I appreciate the invite. I'm not entirely sure that anyone's faith can be counter to who they are. It's a part of you - I can see it in your work every day. I mean that. But I may doubt your faith if you decide to call me Mr. Laughlin even before God. But even if you do, I suppose I will still be happy to share the moment with you.
[ he huffs a little, almost sheepish as he glances around - the bodyguards keep careful watch, of course. this isn't just a normal day at church. ]
It's a beautiful building. I don't think St. Joseph's can compare.
text;
Thought I taught my boy a little more discretion than the likes of Lyonesse.
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Lyonesse thankfully has its own discretionary clauses.
If both parties agree, then there's no reason for an NDA, nor is there a reason for lock and key. I suppose that might be difficult for some to understand.
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text; 6pm
Got the peanut butter. Crunchy is back - Skippy of course.
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embry moore.
text.
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text; from his hospital bed
I’ll write it if you wouldn’t mind looking it over and signing it for the sake of authenticity.
Thank you so muWhy did you
You could have been hurt or
Ash would never forgive
I don’t deserve that sort of
I close my eyes and I’m still trapped in that room.
How are you feeling?
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the lion the witch and the audacity of this bitch
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text > action, a few days after tim's kidnapping
I dropped by your room and you weren't there, obviously.
Embry - we need to talk.
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hawkins fuller.
➤ i'm shattered porcelain, glued back together again
[ there are few things in tim's life he can say he was truly prepared for, and becoming the aide to president colchester hadn't been one of them. the title came with a myriad of odd jobs, strange hours, wild requests and insufferably long days. it's all of the silly things he thinks of later, after he's dragged out of his hotel room in the middle of the night, blindfolded and gagged and shoved into the trunk of a car.
he assumes it's a car. it's cramped and dark, reeking of old oil and exhaust. the sort someone's grandmother would have, that putters along the road, inconspicuous and completely mundane.
mundane like ash's dry cleaning, embry's sardonic eye roll when tim argues about austen's legitimacy in regency era fiction, or hawkins fuller somehow secretly swapping out the tea he's forced himself to drink with a coffee cup of similar make filled with frothy, warm milk.
being the aide to the president of the united states should have meant paperwork, social engagements, political negotiations, booking flights, laughing over senate hearings gone awry or the speaker of the house's horrific blouse. it should be all of these things, and not a dark, cramped carpathian room; not rope burn on his wrists from being tied too tightly behind his back; not steel-toed boots shoved into his side or his head yanked back by his hair; not you have a pretty face i see why he likes you - will he come for his little pet?; not a towel pressed over his face and water dumped over and over until he begs for the thousandth time he knows
nothing.
but he knows what ash likes. knows that quiet garden walks around the church and sneaking away when the oval office door is locked brings light back into his eyes. he knows that all it takes is a little word play and a jest - but your humble knight demands you take a break lest you wither away in your armor, goodly king - to pry ash from his brooding and back into the fresh light of day. he knows that he might well die on the floor of the little, humid room if he doesn't open his mouth and tell all, but to die for a king is more noble a cause than any he can think of.
tim laughlin dreams about these moments over and over: a sickening crack of his head on the floor (it's concrete? wood? he can't remember), the looming figure he can't make out in the dark without his glasses, the meaty hand in his hair or yanking him up by embry's loaner expensive tie he'd forgotten to take off before crashing into bed (something about needing to look the part for a party like this), or the sickening drop in his gut when he hears the creak of old hinges coupled with the shuffle of boots and:
are you ready to talk yet, mr. laughlin...?
reality and the dreams stitch themselves together as he wakes with a harrowing start, body drenched in sweat, heart monitor racing to the rhythm of the panicked breaths he tries to take. they come in wheezes and despite all the caution given by the nurses when he was still hazy and out of it, he sits up far, far too fast. it makes the room lurch, his stomach swoop sickly in his gut and it takes absolutely everything in tim to grip the sheets on the bed to stay upright.
a bed. beeping machines. sterile, white light. a hospital.
he'd been dreaming.
it doesn't stop the way he heaves for air, the way his hair sticks to his forehead and splays out at odd angles, or the dazed and distant look in his eyes as he comes back down into his body, into himself. he's not aware at first that someone else is in the room. he can barely keep his eyes focused on his feet under the sheets, but there's definitely movement in the corner of his vision.
a nurse? surely. ]
Sorry, I'm -
[ a hand raised to press at what he's sure is an attending's arm, but his fingers find soft shirt fabric, a strong forearm. the hazy brown of his eyes slowly follows the line of the shoulder, to a neck, to a jawline he knows better than he knows his own name, no less.
god.
he's being punished, isn't he? truly, deeply punished. ]
Hawk, what - [ a thick swallow - his mouth is so dry ] Mr. Fuller? When did you...?
[ in his dreams, even the bad ones, there's always the lingering feeling of arms under his knees and back, warm breath in his hair, and the promise of safety, however brief. ]
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text > action; a few weeks later
Are you awake?
sorr y
i think your calendar says you're out
Didn't look at the time.
5 mins later
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the beginning;
he always will with people like this - he's known it his whole life. everywhere he goes, people can practically smell the humble upbringing on him. a staten island boy with dirt under his nails, freckles on his cheeks, calluses on his palms - and here? it's the rental suit. he's not made for politics with his soft, slight build and dark, thick glasses. he is, however, built to run errands and perform mindless, menial tasks.
yes, in fact, lonigan does like his coffee better after morning meetings. he prefers the schedule of the day to be given to him both in an iphone note and in various post-it notes throughout the day - reminders of where he should be, and when. he prefers a light lunch but a heavy dinner, and god forbid tim mix up the slightest hand signal that could mean anything from whisky, vodka soda, or wine.
this time? it's whisky. two fingers, neat, the most expensive and top shelf they have. lonigan right now is set to be one of the biggest donors at the event and thus he's a busy man, shaking hands and smiling and faking his way through things. tim can see through it, really - how the smile doesn't reach his eyes, how his mouth stays poised in the smile even when people aren't looking.
he's good. he's very good.
and so the night comes and goes like this - tim weaving in and out of crowds, hanging back just within ear and eye shot of the man. occasionally he talks to other aides or assistants, but they don't hover long. we'll see how long he keeps you is the message he receives, loud and clear. but he's determined to make something of it regardless, even if it's short-lived. he'd either been handed the step up or handed a key to a door that would lead to his demise.
he's read these books before, after all.
it's halfway through the gala that he's given a break, lonigan bored of being fussed over suddenly, clapping him hard on the back and sending him on his way with a - go get a drink, kid. he really shouldn't drink anything considering he has most of the evening still to keep up with. even from afar he gauges lonigan's location, his expression, his demeanor.
it's this that distracts him enough that when he gets to the bar, he requests milk. the bartender stares, but being the kind of fancy affair this is? procures him a tumblr of the stuff. tim can't shake the edgy, nervous feeling that rattles under his skin. it's only been three weeks under longan's purview and even moving now to get fresh air on the balcony seems like a bad plan.
and it is, because in turning to glance back one more time at lonigan, smiling and laughing closely with some young, blue-eyed, blond swedish politician, he misses the fact that indeed, someone else had been exiting the balcony. he bumps right into them, but thankfully? the milk only spills a little - splattering on the floor, and on the toes of his own dress shoes. ]
Oh my God, I'm sorry, I wasn't paying attention and - [ ... he knows that face. ]
Oh. It's you.
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