( 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. ]
[there's not much he remembers about that moment in the oval office when those five little words crashed onto his shoulders and shattered his world: tim laughlin has been taken. the ringing in his ears, the bile in his stomach, the way his vision went red and his jaw tightened so hard with a grind of his teeth that he wouldn't be surprised if he'd chipped a molar. it had taken every ounce of restraint not to launch himself across the oak timbers of the president's resolute desk, to knock the perfectly chiseled and sympathetic face of maxen ashley colchester onto his ass and beat that same expression inward. to demand to know why tim wasn't with him - as his aide, as his fucking date - jesus, they've been screwing for months now. if the situation had been reversed, hawk...
no. that's not true either. he wouldn't be at hawk's side. he'd be across the room, drink in hand and giving him doe-eyed yearning that made his chest ache while hawk pretended they were just colleagues thrown together in the crazy vacuum that made up the white house's most intimate, inner workings.
he gave that up, whether he wants to admit it or not - because tim had given him that choice, and hawk had chosen this instead. the life where tim deserves a man like ash because despite the way hawk despises him, he's good and honest with ideals and morals and goes to church like some boyscout and it's just no wonder tim looks at him like he hung the moon and all the goddamn stars to boot. why he'd get a thrill being on his knees in front of the world of the elite for him - submitting to warm words and rough hands. christ, that's one moment hawk wishes he could scrub out of his brain and not lie awake simultaneously miserable and aroused at the idea of him in ash's place instead, if he could go back and change it all - would he?
a mere twenty-four hours ago, he'd say no to that.
but now, as he's sitting straight-backed and got a chair pulled as close as possible to tim's bedside in the private hospital wing of the white house's medical unit?
now hawkins fuller is very much having second thoughts.
it's hard not to stop replaying what he'd seen there in that carpathian safe-house: tim looking so small and frail, every bit the deceptive way his clothes hide a body he knows is perfectly carved muscle and solidity. curled in on himself with blood at his temples, dried under his nose - lips bitten raw and so many slashes and bruises. angry red weals from rope cutting into his wrists - who do you belong to? his hair had been damp with sweat and water, glasses crushed under the fall of heavy boots and long since abandoned in the corner. and tim - his boy was on the hard concrete like a broken bird, wings clipped and feathers cruelly torn piece by piece. and yet somehow even with his brows arched up in pain and his chest wheezing struggling breaths, even now hawk had a pit in his stomach for how beautiful he still looked - wondering and praying to all the entities he didn't believe in that no one decided to capitalize on that and take him for a ride.
the men he'd razed through to get here were faceless bags of blood and weak, fleshy spots hawk knew to target with a brutality he hadn't realized was still buried in there, enough to make the scar on his shoulder-blade twinge with the memory of this kind of violence. and embry knows it too - the way they practically mirror each other in their merciless efficiency, taking a few scrapes of their own and keeping it moving. there's a moment where he hears a sickening crunch, turning back to see embry disposing of another soldier and suspiciously not looking his way. getting to tim was all that mattered - and he'd practically thrown himself down next to his former lover and stroked at his cheek and run a hand through his hair, lifting him carefully into his arms and murmuring that it was him, that he was safe - that this would never, ever happen to him again so long as he lived.
(it's whispered against his forehead where embry and the rest of the small crew can't see it, hawk insisting he'll take it from here as they load up on the helicopter and the two-person medic crew whisks tim into the back for fluids and ivs and an assessment of the damages.
severe concussion. cracked ribs. cuts and bruises. hypothermia. lungs inflamed. rope burn.
not to mention the lasting psychological trauma from severe torture, possible ptsd -
it's not ash's fault, not really. but he is the easiest one to blame, and in a very rare, uncharacteristic moment of blind rage he lets it all out on him, demanding he and embry get the fuck out while he cleans up the mess, as if that might hide the multitude of sin he's committed against the boy tucked under layers of clean white linens. might hide the way his heart is still pumping, adrenaline coursing through him at the reality that timothy laughlin, the man he loved could have died.
the nightmares are to be expected, and hawk reaches for his hand, squeezing and speaking softly. it's the first time he's been awake and not heavily sedated from the initial run of treatments and the downright exhaustion - and he can't help the way he lurches forward to press as close to tim as possible. the door's locked - ash and embry are probably tucked into their own beds by now anyway. tim's voice sounds so small, pained - but not as much as it cuts to hear him still revert back to the polite civility of a stranger just like he fucking ordered.]
Skippy.
[his voice, on the other hand, is thick and full of emotion, breathed out like he's been holding it in this whole time as many times as he's been forced to ignore the habit of calling him by the endearment these past months. he can see the way tim's throat struggles, adam's apple bobbing slow like it's stuck and remembers the nurse mentioning dryness and dehydration too. his fingers wrap around a glass of room temperature water, bringing it to tim's lips and slowly tipping it back with a soft here, drink.]
[ everything about the last twenty-four hours and change has been nothing short of a blur. he tries to piece his memory back together, but with the way every thought makes his temples ache and the way his chest aches with every wheezing breath, there's no shot. instead he tries to focus on quelling the furious shock of pain radiating through one bandaged side and the sickening swim of his vision.
there's no time for that with hawkin's fuller at his side, pressed close. he's not been this close to this man since before he joined the army and even now, with his senses maligned at the hand of the carpathian shitbag, he remembers the scent of hawk's aftershave better than he can remember anything between 5 PM yesterday and the moment they exist in now.
luckily, if his eyes begin to burn and tear up, he can blame it on the injuries. he can blame it on the kidnapping. he doesn't have to acknowledge that there's something else broken and bleeding and damaged tucked deep under those broken ribs.
but there he is, voice thick and rich and warm, wrapped all around the syllables forming skippy and tim comes undone. hawkins fuller was not the beacon in the storm he'd expected when the door opened and strong, warm arms wrapped around him. he didn't expect the reassurances against his forehead, his hair, everything to be colored in the voice of hawkins fuller.
at first, he was sure he'd imagined it.
but here he is, pressed at his side and making him drink water and tim can't make sense of any of it. the ground feels even less solid beneath his feet with hawk there. it shouldn't be hawk. it shouldn't be anyone he cares about because every one of them faces danger by proxy of being near tim.
you'll have to sleep your way through congress, pretty boy - you're useless. - that old, awful horrific senator he'd worked for in the beginning had said to him before he met hawk. before the beginning of any and all of this. and maybe he was right - he wasn't meant for these things. he wasn't made of stone and steel and indomitable will like ash, hawk, embry.
what the hell was he even thinking, taking this job?
the water is cool down his throat and he sighs, grateful, but his hazy eyes turn themselves to hawk - his profile close, body closer - and tim knows exactly what to look for. the subtle hint of puffiness around his eyes, the line that forms at one corner - he's tired. of course he is.
he fought his way through - ]
You - you can't be here.
[ he doesn't mean to panic, to give hawk a little push even though everything in him wants to fall into his chest and beg, beg, beg to be held and protected. promised that he will never be stolen away, that he will never be shut away again and told just how fucking useless he is.
(it's obvious now, though. they kidnapped him, and even then he'd been no good. unable to defend himself, left to die like scraps on the side of the proverbial road). ]
They'll - no one knows we - I promised -
[ he's getting too upset, unable to string thoughts together and he can feel it now how everything fishtails, sidewinding back and forth between emotions and scenarios. ]
Mr. Fuller, you have to - [ he reaches for hawk's arms, gripping and holding to him as another wave of nausea rushes through him. ]
It's not safe - not with me - and the Vice President - you need to leave. Before they find you too.
[ before i have to say goodbye to you - i won't be able to rescue you ]
[it's not meant to be condescending, the way he reaches for tim past his weak attempts to shove him away out of misguided fear or confusion at where he is - if that's what's going on. it's a jumble of them, and hawk's chest pangs at the idea that he's still trying to maintain the cover hawk had demanded of him before they'd parted ways, enough that it blurs together now with the kidnapping and has tim thinking he's still there and somehow he's responsible for everyone else being in danger, as if he wasn't the one who'd been kidnapped, tortured, and been left half-dead before the next round. as if anything they'd been through in this twenty-four hour and then some hell was even remotely comparable.
(but he would think like that, his boy - always so sweet and selfless - willing to be the sacrificial lamb for the rest of them sinners.)
his hand gently wraps around tim's forearm, the other at his shoulder and slowly trying to lie him back down from where he'd been restlessly struggling and pushed himself up somewhat. tim reaches for him in turn, and everything about it makes hawk remember all the times they'd held each other in his queen bed on a quiet street just outside of capitol hill - when they were so much younger and things looked a hell of a lot easier than they do now. before hawk had crushed his heart and turned on his heel, dumped him unceremoniously and watched from afar as he joined the army and then came back while he wasn't looking and of course ended up as aide to the president of the usa. a big rise and a long way from the kid with floppy hair avoiding lecherous hands and vile comments that hawk had helped pull him out of.
looking at him like this, hawk wonders how the fuck he could have ever let him go. distance was supposed to keep him safe from the shitshow of his preferences, from all the terrible things that happen to the people he loves - his father once upon a time, kenny, lenny, senator smith...but tim got hurt anyway, so what was even the point?
hawk's fingers flex around him again, the hand at his shoulder lifting to brush the hair from his forehead and cup lightly at the side of his face that isn't quite so lurid with bruising, a small cut instead grazing the highpoint of his cheekbone. he can't help the way he needs to duck his head for a moment, forehead pressing down against the closest part of tim's body because his own eyes burn and he doesn't even have the excuse of injury or pain or anything but his own regrets. his own foolish mistakes - cowardice, tim had called it once in the cozy corner.
he was right. he'd always been right.
maybe he can blame the tiredness when he steels his gaze again, still reddened around the rims of his eyes even as his lips try and form the shape of a reassuring smile.]
You're safe, Tim. All of us are. We're in the medical wing of the White House.
Ash and Embry are with each other and an army of security.
[the part where they're meeting specifically to review the carpathian treaty for breech clauses is specifically left out, since he knows tim would try and leap to his feet this second and try and convince them not to do anything on account of him.]
I meant what I said. I'm not leaving your side. Not when I almost -
[ - lost you, he can't quite choke out as his eyes slip shut.]
[ every rational part of tim's addled brain knows that he's safe. it's clear in the way that hawk is at his side, the door between them and whatever lies outside this medical room locked. there are the shadows of secret service outside (they always have a look, with their broad shoulders and dark suits), pale walls with expensive, modern art carefully hung upon them.
it's not the dingy, shut down little room he'd been in. that place hadn't had windows, but this one does - impossibly thick, impossible to open, but a window to the outside world. it must be early in the morning, tim realizes, when he can peek the way the sky has all but gone burnt and dusky. god, his head hurts. the dreams feel real, still - hanging at the edge of his consciousness and prying, insisting he notice and see and pay attention.
yeah, his head really hurts. his side hurts. his throat still feels dry despite the water and even hawk's grip on his forearm reminds him that his skin is raw beneath the gauze covering the ligature marks. he doesn't know where his glasses are, but even now he has an instinct to reach for them, to see the world clearer after hours of being blindfolded.
ah. right. they'd been smashed, hadn't they? he shivers when he remembers the crunch, the laugh, and the hand pressed hard over his mouth that followed as tim got mouthy with the men, insisting they let him go. ]
Okay. Right. Safe, right. You're sure?
[ he allows hawk to guide lie back down into the bed, allows hawk to touch his hair and lean his forehead in against his shoulder and tim can't help the way his free hand rises to touch the back of his neck, the soft hair at his nape. at least until hawk pulls back.
there had been hazy mornings spent with their bodies close like this, tim's fingers working out the waves in hawk's hair, mouth tracing his ear and whispering silly little love songs from the 50s and 60s just to make him smile into waking. he'd grown up in a simple world - a tiny, cramped staten island apartment in the slums. a preacher father, a demure, silenced mother, a sister who feared god and her father equally the same. they'd work in the community church garden, a plot of land turned into a sort of pseudo-farm. a place where a gentle, soft boy like tim laughlin learned the world could hurt more than it could help.
it's no different now. he keeps learning that lesson - first the senator, then hawk, and now this. his hand falls back to hawk's arm, gripping tightly as he blinks up at him. he's not sure when he started crying or if he woke crying, but his whole body feels exhausted, beaten, worn down. ]
I'm in the medical wing. In the White House. Everyone is safe. [ a mantra he'll repeat over the next several days. ] How - twelve hours? It felt like...
[ forever. but hawk's hand on his cheek makes his eyes flutter shut, the touch gentle and soothing something in him that has been unsettled since the day hawk left. twelve hours felt like a lifetime, and although tim himself has seen some people die on a battlefield or the ill take a turn for the worse in pop-up medical facilities, nothing will compare to waiting on the knife's edge of someone else's plan.
tim laughlin has faced a lot of miserable, awful men in his time. he can stand his ground to those in a battle of wills, where politics and propriety rule, where laws and justice have weight. but in the back room of some old, worn down building? melwas showed just how effective a veil of finery and pretty words can fool even the sharpest. ]
I'm sorry. I was just going to my room. I was feeling - you know I can't hold my - [ he closes his eyes, free hand raising to press over them for a moment. the lights are bright and it sends a shock through the back of his skull. ]
I tried to get out. I really did. Was it... it was you who found me? And Embry?
[ i didn't think you'd ever look for me again. the hand on hawk's arm drops, and he reaches for hawk's even if the man tries to pull away. he's here now, isn't he? he's here and god, he called him skippy - or did he dream that, too?
his bottom lip quivers, his eyes burn, and this time he's not sure if he's wheezing a little from the burn in his lungs and side or if it's the way his heart still feels like it's hemorrhaging in his chest. ]
I didn't imagine it, right?
Edited (typos and typos and typos ) 2024-01-30 19:27 (UTC)
[thank god the glasses had been the only real casualty, considering hawk doesn't count the broken and battered bodies of carpathians he'd left behind on the way to tim. but he aborts the movement from tim with a small shake of his head and hand tightening around his forearm again, not wanting him to waste the effort of expending energy on it when he'll just be disappointed and dizzy. the shudder that runs through tim probably isn't from actual cold, but hawk can't resist a soft here as his hand lifts to gently tug up the covers a little higher and protective - tim still looking so goddamn frail it makes his chest ache with the reality of what he must look like underneath the medical gown. if they hadn't gotten there in less than 8 hours -
no. that didn't happen, and hawk's never been much for wandering down the what-ifs. tim is here, he's safe - it's as much a mantra for hawk as it is tim right now, even if he doesn't know it. hawk won't let him either, because the last thing tim needs is to worry over his well-being or anyone else's for that matter. especially not fucking ash, who hadn't even left the comfort of the oval office. even if he knows that isn't fair to blame him for, the fight is still burning beneath his skin, adrenaline never having fully worked its way out of his system just yet.]
I'm sure. They'd have to get through the lingering special ops guys, a goddamn army of secret service and me if they wanted to even get close right now.
[weak attempt at a joke - it lacks the dryness of his usual cavalier tone that would really drive it home.
but he supposes while tim is up and finally aware enough, he should know what happened. what they managed to piece together too goddamn late to begin with. if only he'd been keeping a closer eye on him, if only he hadn't abandoned him - none of this would have ever happened. they'd all be tucked in their respective beds (or would tim be in ash's?) tipsy, exhausted, and worn out from a night of typical schmoozing and maybe one drink too many.]
You left a few hours in. That piece of shit - he put something in your drink.
[melwas kocur - hawk's free hand flexes briefly into a fist before smoothing out, the tick in his jaw less difficult to hide. the event planning staff and catering must have thought tim was just some drunk intern, being escorted out by his kindly boss with enough excuses that no one thought twice in a crowd that sizable. hawk hopes ash or the secret service or anyone is nailing their asses to a cross as they speak for this grave an oversight.]
Yeah, it was us. Would have come sooner but...diplomacy.
[he'd railed against that too, trying to justify it like he used to argue with mcleod in security back when he was working under senator smith. sometimes sending a stronger message is the better choice, sir, he'd said a long time ago. it hadn't been quite so eloquent this time around, not with tim hanging in the balance.]
It's not your fault - you got that?
[he leans in again, eyes bright and determined even as tim's look glassy from pain and his whole face seems one wrong word away from crumbling.]
Tell me you understand it. Tell me it's not your fault.
[his own throat swells, voice lowering into a rough murmur as he reaches to lace tim's fingers between his own.]
Not your imagination at all. Tell me - you know I'm here for you now, Skippy.
[ hawk starts laying out what happened and while his own memory is hazy, the picture all makes sense. tim with some fruity drink at the bar - he doesn't even usually drink at events like that, and yet he'd been urged by some carpathian official to enjoy the night, embibe in what carpathia has to offer. and the drink had been good - sweet and sharp, enough to make his cheeks burn red too fast.
and overwhelmed by all the people in the room and leaving the more confident of their little american team to do the schmoozing, tim decided to find a corner for himself. ash, with embry begrudgingly at his side for some talk with melwas - ah. an alibi. and hawk - hawk somewhere the crowd, smiling falsely into the face of some carpathian secretary.
still - it's better that it was him. tim, who, in the grand scheme of things? means very little to the cause - who can be one more tick on the list of wrongs now to absolutely begin beating down the carpathian defenses.
ah, diplomacy. ]
A gentleman's war.
[ a little huff of a laugh follows the weak joke. so much of everything hurts, and even the little huff makes pain bloom ugly and angry in his side.
hawk leans up close against him and a tiny part of him wants to beg for him to come closer, to let his eyes focus and remember what it looks like to be so near to him. he's angry, of course, somewhere deep inside of himself, for craving the way the man leans into him now, when it had been hawk who turned all of this away. the way hawk turned heel and ran at the first sign that tim might be a problem for him in some capacity. the irony, that he's such a problem now.
hawk's fingers lace between his own and it's reflexive the way he grips them back, the way his body leans just slightly as hawk speaks, determined. his eyes flicker up to meet hawk's and he hums in acknowledgement. ]
Of course.
[ of course he knows it's his fault, but he won't say that. instead he just nods a little dumbly, trying to slow the way his heart races in his chest. the fingers around his own aren't enough - tim wishes every part of him didn't hurt. if he didn't, he'd lean in and beg to be held and crushed into someone's chest, protected and safe and untouchable, however brief. ]
I understand it.
[ you know i'm here for you now, skippy.
he sucks in a slow, shaking breath, eyes burning all over again and up close he can see the determination in hawk's eyes, hear the way his voice goes rough and low. what is he supposed to tell him? it wasn't his fault? he had no hand in what happened? he couldn't have known to be careful? that of course he expected hawkins fuller to be at his bedside, no one else? no. ]
I know you're here for me now.
[ tim's voice has gone small, eyes feeling trapped in an ocean of blue with torrential storms, but there's the faintest tip of his head - the flex of a muscle in his jaw, defiant, even as his lip quivers.
he knows what hawk told him to say - and he won't. he can't lie. it's his fault, all of this. but even timothy laughlin, the best of the good boys, can disobey sometimes. he wipes at his tears with his free hand.
[hearing it like that followed by the weakness in tim's voice, the way he doesn't hide the wince in his face particularly well considering how much pain he's probably in - god, it makes hawk hate the idea of being a gentleman in this moment. his level-headedness was supposed to be the thing that carried him this far, that and the instincts of a trained war hero. knowing when to concede, when to defend versus charging in for a massacre. the moment the words were uttered - tim's been taken - all of it went out the window save the thudding of his heart and the rush of blood in his ears pounding as if he were back in the trenches of it. nothing else mattered but getting him back. and hell, he probably would have gone out like a one man rebel if it had come down to it, none of that non-negotiation with terrorists, which carpathia is in his book now despite regaling one of the prime ministers earlier with an avid defense in its favor against their own constituents.
that will haunt him too - what if he'd gotten there sooner? how much damage could he have avoided on his poor, broken boy's body that's littered with physical evidence of his failure?
it hadn't even once crossed his mind to dial it down a notch, dropping everything to get him back. he's one of ours, he remembers saying with a detachment that wasn't nearly as convincing when faced with the idea that he was going to lose the only man he'd ever loved. we have to go and we have to go now. thank god embry hadn't asked any questions, and ash had the sense not to try pushing him when he'd already nearly come to blows at the thought of wasting any more time sitting around while tim was getting tortured, killed, or...jesus, thank god it hadn't come to the latter.
but the part that wounds him the most, cutting deeper than the nick of a knife's edge on his arm or the bloodied, bruised knuckles of the fists that fought their way through kevlar and bone is watching tears bleary over warm chocolate. seeing tim's face trembling with the effort of trying to obey, to repeat what hawk tells him and believe it and being unable to do so. to not know which part is the lie - that blames himself, or that he doesn't think hawk would be here for him in this moment. maybe it's both, and that stings, but not nearly enough as the damage he's wrought on tim laughlin's heart in the first place. that's a raw, blistering emotion that can't be healed by morphine or scotch or any bandage in this medical wing. that's the part he has to live with by his own choice.]
Hey, hey, hey - Skippy.
[hawk knows it's not best to shift him, but he can't help the way his arm slides as carefully as possible under tim's shoulders, trying not to jostle him any more and make him feel any of the physical hurt that's been wrought upon his prone figure. but he leans in, desperate for the closeness and pulling tim into his chest as his other arm wraps around his front, cupping his cheek and thumbing away the tears still wet in the corner of tim's dark lashes. his hand is caught between them and he can't care - all he knows is he needs to hold his boy and convince him of the truth.]
It is not your fault. It could have been anyone, but I am sorry it was you.
I -
[hawk swallows hard, wondering if tim will be able to feel the way his adam's apple bobs and his voice grows thick with emotion he'd normally rather die than show to the world.]
I had to be there to get you back. I couldn't let it be anyone else. And I couldn't have stayed away.
[his own eyes close, chin dragging against the fluff of his mussed hair and making it worse, lips brushing against the top of his skull with a gentle flutter of affection. his hold tightens, still trying to be conscientious of tim's delicate state but unable to pull back or do more than affirm that his boy is safe in his arms and this nightmare is behind them now.]
Thought I was gonna lose you. That would have been my fault, no one else's.
[ the last thing he ever wanted to do again was to cry in front of hawkins fuller - to show him his soft underbelly, the holes in his armor, the squishy parts ripe for the damaging. it was futile the moment he tried to convince himself he could do it. nothing about him can be fabricated - nothing about him can be woven from lies or falsities. tim laughlin will always be honest, genuine and earnest in everything. it's a tragic trademark.
enough so that when hawk pulls him into his chest and wipes his tears away he finds himself almost ready to cry all over again. maybe it's the pain - the shift at his back aggravating the cracked rib or two, the pressure atop his head making something throb behind his eyes. but no - the pain is nothing compared to what it was. compared to the fear of everything but twelve hours ago.
a tiny, aching part of tim wants to ask why his savior had to be hawk. why did it have to be you - he wants to shout into the chest that feels so warm and broad, his fingers curling against the fabric of his collar where it's trapped. it's so different from the shitty floor of that shitty room, or the rough hands that led him there. it's different even from the way ash holds him - hawk all raw and fiery, uncontained here after the pressure has finally burst. ]
This wasn't your fault.
[ it takes a moment for tim to say it. he keeps his face dipped, his chin tucked low, and he tries very hard to carefully contain his emotions. it doesn't change the panic, the fear, the pain - something tells him those things won't leave him for a while. ]
Your job is to protect and assist the Vice President. No one else. We...
[ he huffs softly, letting his eyes close when hawk's arms tighten around him. it hurts a little - his whole body battered and bruised - but he instinctively sinks further in against him, into his chest. it would be easier if hawk was in the bed, it would be easier if these weren't the circumstances they've met again. ]
We don't even know each other at the office. Here. [ he laughs, a little watery, a little incredulous. here he is, in the arms of his ex... whatever they were, having been rescued from a kidnapping when the better part of the last year, he's been absolutely nothing to him.
but even tim knows that's not fair. even tim knows that's a lie. ]
So how can any of this be your fault? I was... I wasn't paying attention. I trusted that it was just - it was a political dinner. A social function. I should have been paying more attention, but Ash was busy, and the officers had to watch him. I'm expendable.
[ there's no pity in his voice, no sorrow - there's a sort of honesty there, and it should be evident now just what tim believes. truly believes. but there's the bob of hawk's adam's apple, the way he breathes, the way he holds a little tighter still and tim sighs.
however many times he's practiced this reunion in his head, it never goes quite right. he wants to push him away, yell at him, tell him he doesn't need him, tell him that two years ago, hawk slammed that door and shattered his heart with it. it's not fair that its hawk here, and yet as he sinks further to the side, nestling against the man he finds himself unable to lean back.
his free arm, bandaged and connected to the beeping, whirring machines around them, moves so that he is at least trying to hold onto him, to ground himself one way or another. ]
It's not your fault. I'm here. I'm...
[ he's so, so exhausted. mentally, physically, but it doesn't change how he both wants to burrow into hawk and rail against him. ]
You should go. Before anyone else gets here. I'll be fine. I'm fine.
[ another mantra, like he's trying to prove to himself it will be alright. he doesn't believe it. ]
[it would be much easier if he was on the bed cradling tim in a way that didn't put pressure on his surely aching body. sometimes it feels like all he's able to do is hurt him when it's the only thing he ever wanted to avoid - breaking his heart, not keeping a close enough eye on him when he was snatched away, seeing him wince and wheeze with the exertion of just staying awake and in his arms right now. but he doesn't feel as if he's come nearly close enough to have earned that yet, too soon to ask and ruin the chance at least making one small thing right by being here for his boy. it would be more than understandable for tim to push him away, to tell him he has no right to be sorry for all of it now when this is well and truly hawk's fault in so many ways beyond just this moment. it doesn't matter if tim tries to appease him, and while he doubts very much given the tears at the corner of his eyes when he'd tried to lie for hawk's sake moments ago - he genuinely doesn't believe it to be his fault.
small mercies.
not so small: the trauma he'll be dealing with for awhile. it's why hawk had been sitting here, knowing the likelihood of nightmares, night terrors - the uncertainty of waking up in a familiar bed and wondering if he'd succumbed to his injuries or been so brutalized that this was all just a hallucination or a dream of mentally concocted safety to escape the cruel reality that awaited open eyes. hawk remembers it - used to twinge with it every time tim's fingertips gently grazed against the raised fissure of scar tissue on his shoulderblade, even if he'd long since learned to cope with the horrors of war that are far enough behind and were eased by senator smith's good conscience and generous cabin in rugged country.
could he offer that to tim? take him out of the hustle and bustle of the pentagon, grab an airbnb without a word, tell embry he needed some time off? what would he think? would he know? in the heat of the moment, there was no time for subtlety or explaining how he knew tim and why this seemingly meant more to him than just losing a member of their cabinet. he'd tried, but the closer they got the more hawk's stoic mask chipped away, revealing a vulnerability he'd shut off as tightly as possible, buried at the expense of tim's heart. none of them realized there was still an invisible string binding them together forever - not even tim, the one thing hawk would never be able to fully cut off like another limb.
of course he thinks playing the game of pretend is the most important thing in the moment. it's all hawk ever prioritized, and it has him closing his eyes and pressing another tender kiss to tim's temple.]
Embry's fine. Like I told you - he's with Ash, or maybe they're in bed by now, I don't know.
[doesn't really care, either. there's an entire army of secret service and then some to watch over them, but only hawk knows every sensitivity, every expanse of tim's body and what's been broken. he needs to be here. to make it better however he can.]
Skippy - this back and forth...I should have never pretended in the first place.
[the late night calls, the drunken whisper of sweet nothings - only to culminate in hawk striding past in the mornings with little more than a nod of acknowledgment.]
I know you. You're here, and I've got you.
[he sucks in a breath, hating that he doesn't know how tim will react. that he could tell him to go and hawk would really have no defense other than to obey.]
I'll go if you want me to. But I'm not going because of whatever game of pretend I've been making us play.
You're not fine. You've been through the ringer tonight, and if you'll let me - I want to be here for you.
[he sucks in a breath, swallowing hard.]
I want to hold you through the night. I want to know my boy is safe with me at his side.
[ embry and ash will be the safest, most protected men in all of america tonight. that's as it should be, of course, not that anyone would know any different. that's exactly as it should be. no one will know what carpathia did to a faceless presidential aide, and he has no doubt business will go on as usual. it has to.
it doesn't make tim feel any less alone. they found him, they saved him, and he's here safely tucked into the white house where no one can reach him now. he even has hawk with his arms wrapped around him, saying soft things and kissing his hair like he's wanted for the last three or so years and yet it does nothing to soothe the way fear runs cold under his skin.
it's better that he not worry everyone even more. it's better than he accepts and pretends it will go away, even if he knows it won't. none of this will. tim laughlin is doomed to always live a life clouded in some secrecy, isn't he? ]
I don't think you know how to stop pretending.
[ it isn't meant to be mean, but he's sure with how tired he is the words lack the warmth and care that tim on any other day may have. ]
I never know whose turn it is, or what the game is. I don't want you to leave. I never wanted you to leave, but then I think you've always wanted to leave when things were inconvenient. I'm inconvenient now, aren't I?
[ he laughs weakly, leaning a little more heavily into hawk's chest, arm shifting to better accommodate his sore ribs, fingers splaying into the middle of hawk's back. he doesn't skirt the scar beneath the fabric, even though he's acutely aware of it being there, knows the rise and fall of every ridge of skin. ]
I'm not your boy, Hawk. [ this time? he truly does sound tired, sad. because he is. ] Not anymore. I don't know who I am to you anymore, but I am... I am trying to play by the rules because if I can do that at least it doesn't hurt as much. If I play by the rules, no one knows we're... and then they won't come after -
[ damn it. there are the tears again, burning at his eyes and he's glad that his face is dipped and hidden so that maybe hawk won't catch sight of them right off. it'll be in his voice, though - tim was never very good at masking much of anything. ]
You'll be here tonight, and you'll hold me, but when I wake up what will happen? When doctors and nurses come in, when other people show up to question me, because I know - I know they'll want to know and I can't do it alone.
[ he chokes a little at the thought, and god the whole night rushes back to him in a way that makes him feel like he might be sick all over again. he'll have to talk through every detail, swear on a bible he's telling the truth, and re-tell it again and again to every official who needs to know. ]
I can't say no to you. I answer your calls and I can't pull away because I need you, even if you pretend I'm not there. Pretend you don't know me. How long do you pretend until it becomes real? [ it feels so wrong to say it. to admit that all this time he has always needed hawk in some way, even when they weren't truly together. he has always had the man on his heart, in the back of his mind, driving him to become better, different, stronger. but what has hawk needed tim for?
probably nothing.
tim's hand loosens, falling from his back and to the bed. it hurts too much to try and hold him, the way his head aches and sides burn, the way the bruises pinch the way he is bending toward the man in the chair beside the bed. ]
What do I do when you don't need me? When no one does?
[it's not something tim has to bear alone - if nothing else, that's what hawk wants to impart to him tonight. there's a part of him that knows none of this is fair beyond the obvious act of terrorism that was committed right under their noses. it's not fair that tim is stuck alone in the hospital with the one man who abandoned him when things were good and they had talked about a future together. it's not fair that tim's name won't be in the papers - there won't be a crusade of armed men and woman gallantly shipping off to defend his honor like knights of the esteemed round table. and it's not fair that he's meant to just accept these things, that he will because he feels like he has no choice. that's the part hawk has to take to his grave - that this too is his fault, that his very presence is salt to the many wounds he's sustained, only this one is infinitely worse because it's internal. scarred over, maybe never even healed, and here is showing up to rip it wide open again.
christ, he can't even help but physically hurt him either, realizing when he pulls back slightly the way tim is at an odd angle now and it must be twinging every ache. hawk utters out a soft curse, mostly at himself before loosening his grip and pulling his chair in as close as it can possibly be, settling on lacing his ruined hand together with tim's for now and letting all the worry, the care, and the impossible reality of his feelings seep into the clear blue of his eyes.]
Maybe I didn't, before now. Pretending was the only thing that got me through things - things I've never even told you, Skip.
[that's not an admission meant to hurt him further, even if that's what it seems like he can't stop doing whether he means it or not. hawk shakes his head, as if trying to wade through his own guilt and find the right words that can somehow express so much in what will surely be too little. tim doesn't have it in him to be cruel, but he did - still does, and it's fair of him to be wary. jesus, it'd be understandable if he wanted to be mean too - god knows hawk would deserve it.]
Inconvenience was the nicest way to put it at the time. I didn't have the heart to tell you it was survival for me. And it wasn't meant to be a game either, but I see now why it felt that way.
[something breaks in his chest at those words. i'm not your boy, hawk. a pain worse than bloodied knuckles and the edge of a knife scraping against his arm, or even getting socked in the jaw by a trained mercenary. his heart feels torn in two, eyes widening briefly and jaw clenched before he tries to smooth it out on the recollection that this is what he asked for. he needs to hear this. but of course tim - good, sweet worrying tim thinks the cover they've been afforded will somehow shift. put hawk at risk like he probably isn't on some target list already for the stunt he pulled tonight. it's not that he means to - but there's a soft huff of laughter and he squeezes tim's hand gently with a shake of his head.]
Let 'em try and come for me. Think I put a few of their men in the hospital and I'll take my chances at round two.
[it's a terrible attempt at lightening the mood, but he sombers at the rest of tim's admission, the tears and the tremble of his shoulders and that gut-wrenching forlorn note in his voice. god. not his boy - not like this. he reaches up again to cup his jaw gently, to tip his face so he can look at hawk while he runs his thumb along the back of his palm in soothing circles.]
I'll hold you tonight. I'll be here holding you tomorrow morning. And when they come to get all the details you don't wanna remember, I'll be right by your side holding your hand when it's too hard to recall.
[what about after that? tim will want to know. maybe pretending is what he wanted before, even if he tried not to reach out and stay away even as he ached with loneliness for the boy he didn't plan on seeing every day and reminding him of the good times. maybe he wanted them to be strangers - but that was before the last 24 hours changed everything. put into perspective what he almost lost.
fuck it.]
I can't live without you in my life anymore. I don't want to.
[there's a ragged breath, an exhale like he's letting it all out now, putting it on the line in a way that's real and vulnerable and overwhelming to him too.]
Ash needs you. The Cabinet needs you. Senator Johnson needs you.
But more than that - I need you. Never stopped, by the way. I've just got more practice at hiding it.
[there's a pause, searching tim's face for any reaction because he knows it's probably not what he was expecting to hear. and hell - maybe it's too late for this. maybe he deserves to rail at hawk and send him away. he'd just be guaranteeing a night with him spent in a chair on the other side of the door, is all.]
I'm sorry. For all of it. For waiting until now to tell you when you almost -
[his throat tightens, emotion swelling in it as he shakes his head more furiously than before.]
Look, you don't have to think about any of this now. But at least answer me - tell me if I can get into bed and hold you tonight.
Please, Tim. Be my boy again, even if it's just for a little while.
[ hawk curses and moves, twining their hands together instead of letting tim stay bent and gathered at his chest. he misses the familiar warmth of him almost immediately, and he blinks up at the man, a little dazed, a little hurt. this is what they will be, isn't it? two men divided by the line of a hospital bed, playing pretend in a desperate attempt to save one another.
but there's the admission from hawk - so many things left unsaid, and there the hurt truly shows in tim's face. inconvenient and untrustworthy. he's learning so much about himself today. ]
Why didn't you tell me? That's all you needed to do, Hawk. I just wanted to understand. I couldn't read your mind and if it was survival for you then that's fine too. Why don't you understand that - I just - ... I just wanted to be with you. Whatever that looked like. I would hide, I would run away, I would pretend we were on the battlefield if that's what it took.
[ his voice chokes up, goes thick and he shakes his head, pulling his hand away from hawk's then and scrubbing furiously at his burning eyes. when he speaks again, his voice goes small. ]
Why didn't you tell me? Why didn't you trust me?
[ the hand on his cheek guides him to look up and tim wants everything in the world to be furiously angry with hawk. he is, in a way, but he's more crushed and hurt than anything. nothing will soothe the aching, open wound that never stitched itself up. it just left itself be, bleeding out slowly, festering at the edges of every dream or memory. it's no different now, really, but it feels tighter. harder to breathe.
he put so much faith into this man, put so much trust and hope and thought into this man, and for what? he had let himself dream of a future behind closed doors and had cherished the thought of hidden kisses and stolen touches. of dinners had with the curtains pulled and snuggling on a couch with a movie somewhere where no one could see. it hadn't been what he thought he'd have, but having hawk was the only thing he truly needed.
the rest would come out in the wash eventually.
hawk promises he will be at his side and tim isn't sure he can make out the words for the ringing in his ears, the tears that pour down his face, or the way his hands shake. even with hawk reaching for one of his again, his whole body feels numb, and if he closes his eyes tightly, he can zoom far, far out and watch them. tim looks bad, feels worse. hawk, with wide and desperate eyes, pleads with tim and rips himself open at the chest to try and convey something.
if he could run away right now, tim would. he would climb out of the bed, out the door, and into the cool, night air because everything in this room feels suddenly, desperately loud. it feels close and smothering, and when tim opens his eyes again and sees hawk searching his face for something, anything, the knows that he has to answer.
why now? why me? why should i trust you? why should i believe you? why should i let myself get hurt again because that's the only thing that will ever come of all this? tell me tell me tell me. ]
I'm afraid, Hawk. Of you.
[ he feels so, so small when he says it, feels as though his bones have turned to glass and even the soft hand at his cheek could break him. ]
I... I want to be your boy. I want you here in bed, holding me. I want you here tomorrow, and the days after that. But I'm so scared. I can't... I can't do that again. Believe you when you tell me I'm inconvenient. When you lay all my faults out like your to-do list. Check off every single one to make sure I put one foot in front of the other. I'm... I'm so afraid.
[ he's shaking, he realizes, and he grips hawk's hand tighter, sniffles wetly and turns his face into hawk's hand. ]
I've been here. All this time. I talked you to sleep while you were drunk. I brought you coffee the morning after. I tried writing you, when I was overseas. I... I've been here. You just refused to see me.
[ he sniffles again, hiccupping softly as he tries desperately to catch his breath. the injuries from the kidnapping hurt, but this? this feels like something has cleaved his chest into two. ]
I need you here, right now. I need you to stay, because I can't do any of this by myself, and I'm... I'm so tired. I'll... I'll be your boy again. For a little while. Just - stay. Hold me. Pretend for just tonight that you still care about me like you used to.
[there he goes again - unintentionally hurting tim again in every action, everything he says and all the things he'd left unsaid too for this very reason. the position was straining him - he let go out not out of the desire to be apart, but to ease the ache. his own fears (because that's what they were - fears) lead him to take the most drastic measures possible, to cut out all vulnerability and treat his own heart like a liability. it was never about tim's trustworthiness or lack thereof - it was about his own inability to open himself up to anyone in an emotional capacity outside the briefest glimpses of shared intimacy. tim's eyes prick with tears again, the warmth of his hand snatched away and leaving hawk's bruised and sore in a way he knows he deserves likely tenfold for what he's inflicted beneath the surface of his boy's heart.
so he cups his cheek again anyway. reaches for his other hand, squeezing it gently and tipping his head so he can lean in again for as much closeness as he's allowed. there is something pained in his expression, eyes glassy and jaw tight as he swallows hard around a lump that just keeps growing in his throat. that vulnerability he tried so damn hard to bury - scars he never revealed in himself.]
It wasn't about trusting you, Skippy. I did what I thought I had to do to live my life the way everyone expected me to. The way I expected myself to. But it's not really living that way, is it?
[he offers a self-deprecating twist of his lips, thumb brushing at the tear tracks down his cheeks to try and wipe them away, keeping the ones threatening to accumulate in the corners of his eyes and against his own dark lashes at bay. tim should be afraid of him, after everything he's been put through. two years of walking on eggshells, opening himself up at every turn when hawk couldn't stay away, only to be beat down and have the door closed in his face time and time again. to be greeted by a perfect stranger, not the man who warmed his bed and held him against his chest instead of leaving in the middle of the night. not the one who gifted him a pair of cufflinks with his initials for christmas, or wears the tie tim gave him the same night whenever tim isn't in the office to see it because it feels like keeping him close.
fuck. of course he's missed him. of course he's wanted - some way to balance that with what their reality needed to be. except it had never really been about closed doors and stolen moments, had it? it was hawk, running from the emotions he'd have to face in staying with tim. accepting them at face value and giving them a name, an outlet. one he wasn't capable of - christ, maybe he still isn't in plenty of ways. but tonight has taught him nothing other than he has to try. cliché as it sounds - tomorrow isn't guaranteed, and carpathia is filled with scumbags he'd like to see under army-issue steel-toed boots under the banner of war.]
I know. You've got every right to be.
[it kills him to feel tim tremble, to see him so wracked and devastated with his physical suffering and the heartache he's pent up.]
I hurt you deeply. It's not enough just to offer you an "I'm sorry".
[hawk sucks in a breath, worried this is the part tim is going to ask him to leave. but of course - his boy is too good, too sweet to give up on him, even if he knows he doesn't fucking deserve it.]
I want this. Saying it isn't enough, I know - so I'm just gonna have to show you.
[and here he releases his grip in both spots, pressing up from his chair and not even caring about the fact that normally he'd strip down to his boxers alone - he slides a hand under tim's pillow at first, lifting him upright for a brief moment so he can shift the grip underneath his shoulders. his legs swing up, knees knocking gently against tim's as his other arm wraps around to cradle him there, lips finding his temple and pressing a tender, lingering kiss there. there we go, easy does it is murmured softly against his skin.]
I'm staying. All night, all day - as long as you need. As long as you want me to be here with you.
[his voice drops to a whisper, not least of all because the thought of keeping his voice steady right now seems too difficult to manage.]
None of it was pretend. That's the part you're missing - the absence was pretending it didn't kill me every goddamn day thinking about what could have been. Drinking myself to sleep, coming home to an empty apartment and a cold bed.
[the fingers against his shoulder lift, brushing a few strands of hair from his forehead and swiping again at the damp corners of his eyes.]
You're still my boy. You'll always be my boy, Tim.
You're right. An apology isn't enough this time. Saying that isn't enough. I don't know what will be.
[ tim laughlin will never be able to shed his honestly, his earnestness. the very fabric of him is made up of something so genuine and dedicated that anything outside of that feels like such an aberration. it feels impossible. and even now, when he wants to lie and try to protect himself, he can't.
it would be easy to lie to himself and say there is no danger in running back into the arms of hawkins fuller. that he could be wrapped up in this man and no harm would come from him. but tim knows better. he's lived in the ebbs and flows of hawk's cruelty and kindness, wavered back and forth between the man who loved him deeply, and the man who could not be rid of him faster.
but when hawk stands suddenly, tim leans back, concerned and confused and suddenly feeling the unmistakable desperation to reach for him and hold on, even if he knows he should let hawk leave. if the man wants to walk out, then that will be the real answer, won't it?
he doesn't. tim feels the arm under his shoulders, watches hawk slide into the bed beside him and he's sure he's having an out of body experience, floating high above the hospital bed and watching as hawk all but wraps himself around him. he'd expected the spooked, caged animal - not... whatever this is. tim finds himself tensing in hawk's hold at first, unsure even as he's gathered up against his side and chest.
everything hurts, but it's his heart that aches so furiously he might be sick over it.
as long as you need. as long as you want me to be here.
what will hawk say if tim says forever? if he says he wants him here and beside him for the rest of their days? what if he says he will always need hawkins fuller, even if he knows he should never admit to anything like that. it will only hurt him later.
but he blinks up at him, body relaxing into the hold and he lets out another shaky breath. he's cried so much now, its a wonder he has anything left. there is no blindfold to catch his tears this time, and he hiccups against hawk's shoulder. his arms move, one wrapping its way around hawk's middle, the other tucked against his side so his fingers can fist in the fabric of his expensive shirt.
he doesn't mean to cry like this - for the hurt and grief to come out in choking little sobs but it does.
none of it was pretend - and something in tim snaps. shatters and his defenses fall because there is nothing left in him to arm those walls anymore. he has nothing he can give, because he has done nothing but give to this man for years, even when they were apart. hawkins fuller has always rested in his mind, in his heart. he never left.
it's a few minutes of crying, really - tim's concept of time in this place is completely lost now, and by the time he finally comes back to himself, he's made a wet spot in the shoulder and chest of hawk's shirt. he keeps his face tucked there, pressing close to him and breathing him in. hawk is warm, solid, real, and god he wants to believe him, just like he'd believed everything else. ]
I'm so tired, Hawk. [ his voice is quiet, and it's clear he doesn't mean just physically tired. ]
I just want things to go right, for once. To work out like I'd hoped they would. I love you still, and I know I shouldn't. I know I should have walked away that day and cursed your name and dragged it into the mud, but I couldn't.
But I can't trust you. I can't be what you want me to be. I deserve better than that, I do. I just... I'm willing to try. Maybe not right now. I don't know when, but. I just need time, and... god, I'm just tired.
[and he does - feels the weight of the knowledge that there might be a part of timothy david laughlin's heart that can't fully be repaired, that he's permanently damaged and scarred - never to be the same. once upon a time there were warnings hawk used to try and issue, sometimes buried in between those tender post-coital moments but no less sharp: you can't always be this soft. honesty isn't the best policy in washington. and selfishly, it was meant to absolve him of any responsibility at times: skippy had to know what kind of man hawkins fuller was to have risen the ranks the way he did? the capital of ulterior motives, he'd declared it - and it was his stomping ground of half a decade. that didn't mean he thought tim was so naive he couldn't manage his way at all, or that he'd be easily deceived when bold-faced wrong was looking him in the eye. but maybe there was a part of him that was always going to bruise and he should have known anything with his handprint on it would be the deepest.
it doesn't escape his notice when tim tenses at first, the spooked animal he'd assumed hawk would be playing the part of - and yeah, he deserves that when the last thing he'd done was wound him near irreparably. when the first thing he'd expected was for hawk to run again and plaster on the role of concerned aide and distant caregiver to a mere acquaintance. for god's sake, he wouldn't be shocked if the doctors needed to add whiplash to tim's laundry list of injuries at this rate.
but eventually he settles into hawk's grip, and something in him feels as if it's released all the tension he's been holding in his shoulders ever since he walked away - the thing tim always soothes in him whether it's by voice or smile or all the little ways he's still showed his patience and open door over these past years. and if tim said forever? one look at him - brown eyes wide and glassy and his impossibly sweet face even in its current battered state - hawk would be hopeless to say anything but yes. he leans down for another soft kiss to his forehead, feeling the way his body trembles before the new onslaught of tears overtakes him and has hawk feeling another twinge of heartache himself.
he's careful not to squeeze him too hard, not wanting to exacerbate any of his physical injuries. there's another soft murmur against his skin as he feels wetness accumulating, the flex of tim's fingers against his by now wrinkled, maybe even bloodied shirt. it's alright, let it all out. i'm here, honey. it does carry on, but it's the least he's owed - hawk holding him through every second of it, hand shifting to rub soothingly at his back and tuck his chin against the top of tim's head without any pressure. eventually he can feel it subside, tim's breathing evening out and his body's trembling slowing. his hand moves to cup his chin, turn it up ever so slightly so he can meet tim's gaze once more. there's more wetness in the corners of his eyes, lips pulled tightly like he's keeping it at bay.]
I know, Skippy.
[anyone would be exhausted with what he's been through - before and after tonight's ordeal.]
None of that is who you are - even if it's what I deserved.
[i love you still, tim says, like it's the easiest thing in the world. the words catch in his own throat, the closest he's ever come to feeling them to be true - but it's not the right time.]
But you - you deserve the world. Someone you can trust. Not to have to pretend or hide like me.
Right now I just want you to get better. We can figure the rest out later - however long it takes.
[he sucks in a breath, voice going soft as he gently strokes an errant piece of tim's hair back from his forehead. sometimes hawk doesn't need to say a goddamn word to express how ardent he is - at least, if this boy knows where to look for it.]
I'll be here, Skippy. You got me locked in for the whole ride.
[he blinks away his own tears, chuckling and trying to lighten the mood by teasing - to get tim to crack even a slight smile. something he used to be good at.]
[ he'll question how weak he is later for letting hawkins fuller climb into his bed and wrap himself around him. how he cried against his shoulder, the way he fell apart in the arms of a familiar embrace. he hadn't crumbled when he'd been taken from the party - he hadn't crumbled much beyond the scared tremble of his voice or the burn of tears after a sharp kick to his gut by melwas' men.
but now, he's nothing but soft and damaged and bruised.
hawk's arms around him, the chin atop his head, feels like homecoming still, even if he doesn't want it to. it's the comfort and safety he's needed, and finally he lets his body lean into hawk's, one arm reaching to drape around hawk's side and hold, so his own body can pull closer. he's warm, he's familiar, and he remembers the way hawk's arms had felt around him, the whispering in his ear as he was carried out of the hellhole he'd been in.
i've got you. i'm here ]
I know, Hawk.
[ because even if the man pretended, acted like they were no less than strangers? well. hawk is still here at his side, pulled him out of all of it, and seems willing to stay.
maybe it's just temporary. tim knows it likely is. so he doesn't hang his hope on those hooks - not yet. (well, maybe a little. a tiny thread). he huffs a little at hawk's joke, lips pulling into something tired and worn. his fingers flex against hawk's side, eyes fluttering shut when he feels the soft hand at his forehead.
it's unfair that he knows hawkins fuller well enough even now to know what even the smallest gestures mean. he sees the glisten in the man's eyes from this angle and he sighs softly, cheek against the strong curve of hawk's bicep. ]
Mm. I couldn't run away right now if I tried. Lucky for you.
[ the hand leaves his side and his fingers brush against one corner of hawk's eye, thumb gentle in the way it collects the little droplet, the way it traces his cheek bone, cheek, then falls back to his side. ]
Can you pull the blankets up? [ he doesn't acknowledge the tear out loud - he knows better. he doesn't even acknowledge that hawk is promising to stay through everything, but his voice has a familiar little whine to it. the blanket - a peace offering, acceptance in the form of comfort. ]
[that he got there in time, for starters. it's bad enough it wasn't sooner, and even if he'd like to blame ash and railed at him enough to nearly tear him a new asshole - he knows they all moved as fast as they possibly could with as little red tape as possible. he can't let himself spiral out, and he's absolutely not going to leave tim playing the game of what if when his psyche will plague him with that later. there's an absent thought he files away: to find out who the best resident therapist is here in the med wing with some discretion during downtime tomorrow. tim's going to need it, and if anyone is well adjusted enough to actually respond well and believe in the merits of therapy, tim would be the only one out of the remaining three of their collectively sorry asses.
but now? now there's nothing that could get him to move from the heaven that is tim laughlin in his arms - even bruised and battered as he is. it's selfish to wish this won't be the last of it, to think about all the ways he can ensure they get to keep doing this in the future when there isn't the beep of machines and tim wearing a heart monitor and and bandaged up and tender all over from abuse suffered at the hands of brutes.
the relief that floods through him is a raw rush that's enough to finally make him realize the adrenaline that's been keeping the edge off this whole time has absolutely worn down and he's finally feeling the toll of physical exhaustion, even if his mind is too wired to think about sleep. he'll surely be awake for hours monitoring tim's condition, ensuring he gets enough sleep and there's no lingering physical effects, most especially from the concussion. he's distracted enough that tim's thumb brushing against his eye makes his lashes flutter shut briefly, depositing the rest against his soft fingertip with a gentle pull of his lips. leave it to his boy - always so goddamn sweet for his own good.
hawk can't help himself - he grabs it before tim can set it back down at his side, kissing over his knuckles lightly before letting it go again. just in time to hear that tone - music to his ears, really. it reminds him of so many nights spent together, tim eventually comfortable enough to take some of the power he didn't even realize he wielded over hawk's smitten heart. bratty tim - now that was really a sight to behold. fuck, he's missed this. missed him, and he complies near instantly, careful not to jostle where tim is nestled in his arms too much. instead he reaches down with the hand closest, drawing the cover up and over tim's shoulders first before situating it for himself too.]
'Course.
There - that better?
[his hand drops to tim's back, rubbing absent circles the way he used to without even realizing he's fallen into an old, familiar habit himself.]
[ the small brush of lips to his hand makes the corner of his mouth pull up in a smile. it's not much, but the gesture makes him believe for just a minute that things could go back to how they were. that they could somehow mend whatever it is that has broken between them.
maybe.
but hawk pulls the covers up and even with how careful he is, it doesn't change the fact that his head aches, his body hurts at every turn. nothing has felt worse than this in all his life, not even boot camp, and yet here he is, in the arms of his former lover, trying desperately to feel comfort and peace knowing that he is safe now.
he's not sure he'll feel safe again, truly, for a very, very long time.
the blanket comes up over his shoulder and he finds himself gravitating to the warmth of hawk, pressing closer to his chest and sighing, his voice coming out in a low grumble the very moment that hawk checks in. it'd be almost sultry if he felt better, but the crying, the fear, the injuries - all of it makes it hard to feel anything other than complete exhaustion. ]
Much better.
[ another little wiggle and tim's face has all but pushed in against hawk's shoulder, the crook of his neck. he curls and tucks himself close, unashamed for his need to feel coddled and held, warm and protected. if hawk pays any attention, he can feel the way he jumps a little when a sound echoes loud from outside - something dropped in the hallway, maybe. the hand on his back does wonders to soothe him back into calm, though, and finally, tim's shoulders sag and relax, his eyes flutter closed. ]
Stay. Until I wake up at least.
[ it's a question, even if it sounds as much a statement. there's hesitancy in the way he whispers it, sleepy and wary, afraid and sad. what would their life have looked like if hawk hadn't told him to leave two years ago?
[they can - god, hawk hopes they will after this. if there's one thing he'd grasped more than anything after picking up tim's broken figure from that hellhole and carrying him to safety it was that he never wanted to let him go again. frankly, he'd deserve it if tim said no - but he's prepared to spend a lifetime trying anyway to get back what he'd stupidly tossed away almost three years ago.
tim doesn't know how many nights he spent alone, staring at the ceiling and reminiscing on the times when his boy was nuzzled into his side just like this. remembering the warmth of his soft breath against the juncture of his neck and shoulder, the way tim's fingers would flex in his sleep cat-like on hawk's bare shoulders. sleepy morning mumbles before hawk brought him his morning tea or coffee, eyes still closed even as he nosed in for expectant kisses. god, it makes his chest ache just thinking about it now - wondering if he'll ever have the exquisite privilege of those things again. but even if he doesn't, the way tim clings to him is more than enough for now - dire circumstances aside. his body has always fit like it belonged there, curled up smaller somehow even if the rational part of his brain knows that tim is the same height as he is.
if it weren't for the adrenaline crash maybe he'd be able to stay up and just watch him for a bit - categorize all the wounds, pester the nurses tomorrow about the ones most likely to scar. but instead he knows it won't be long after tim finally dozes off that he'll be following, and that stings too because it means he doesn't get to savor the opportunity with his eyes closed and mind drifting into dreams instead of basking in every minute they're pressed together like lovers.
but the skittishness, the nerves - the way tim gets startled at the echo of someone dropping a clipboard louder than any of the mechanical beeping and background noise must sound closer to a gunshot than mere clumsiness. his hold tightens instinctively, though he manages to bite back his own tongue from doing something stupid like murmuring out a soft shhh in case he takes it dismissively when it's anything but. thank god it doesn't seem to stick, and when tim nestles in and his body sags once more, hawk finally lets his own eyes slip closed as he presses another soft kiss against his temple.]
I'm not going anywhere, Skippy. Don't you worry.
[another kiss, because he can't get enough of it, and it ends with hawk nuzzling them against his forehead and up into his hair with a soft inhale. his own voice is a hazy rumble, trying to keep his own lightness so it lifts and assures all at once. frankly, because he can't bear hearing tim even remotely close to the way it had been heartbroken so long ago.]
I'll be here in the morning. All day tomorrow. When you get out of the hospital. Back at your place - if you don't kick me out, anyway.
[there's a pause, hawk swallowing against something thick in his throat and realizing his eyes are wet again even as they're squeezed shut tighter.]
[ it's a weak argument, really, and the way he lacks any real conviction in his tone alone proves that tim laughlin is making some sad attempt at a joke. but they both have work to do, don't they? on so many, many levels. so tim nestles in, soaking up the warmth of hawk, even though every squeeze, every breath, every moment, sends pain in waves rippling through him. he'd rather be here and in pain than anywhere else, even if the thought makes him question his own sanity.
after everything hawk could do to him...
but here they are. tim wrapped up in the man, the whirring of machines, the sounds outside - the whole world feels different to him now with hawk in his bed than it had moments before, when he'd woken up disoriented and sick. hawk says he'll be there when he wakes, tomorrow, and all the times after. it sounds like a fairy tale, a promise made by someone who can't keep it. he knows hawk far, far too well for that.
life will call, they'll get busy, and they will easily re-enter the world of cold shoulders and distance. it's only a matter of time.
tim closes his eyes when he hears the watery tone of the other man's voice, deciding this time to allow him the moment in private. tim's arm loops around hawk's middle though as he settles in, palm pressing flat against the low of his back like he always used to when they slept. they fit together like this, perfectly imperfect, with their jagged edges and old wounds. ]
Hawkins Fuller, you do nothing in half measures.
[ he sounds sleepy, words starting to slur a little as he nuzzles in, nose tipping faintly against his jaw. ]
And again - I couldn't kick you out if I tried. [ it's an admission - not just about this bed, this hospital. his apartment. ] I've tried over and over again. I haven't figured it out yet, so you're in luck.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
➤ 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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no. that's not true either. he wouldn't be at hawk's side. he'd be across the room, drink in hand and giving him doe-eyed yearning that made his chest ache while hawk pretended they were just colleagues thrown together in the crazy vacuum that made up the white house's most intimate, inner workings.
he gave that up, whether he wants to admit it or not - because tim had given him that choice, and hawk had chosen this instead. the life where tim deserves a man like ash because despite the way hawk despises him, he's good and honest with ideals and morals and goes to church like some boyscout and it's just no wonder tim looks at him like he hung the moon and all the goddamn stars to boot. why he'd get a thrill being on his knees in front of the world of the elite for him - submitting to warm words and rough hands. christ, that's one moment hawk wishes he could scrub out of his brain and not lie awake simultaneously miserable and aroused at the idea of him in ash's place instead, if he could go back and change it all - would he?
a mere twenty-four hours ago, he'd say no to that.
but now, as he's sitting straight-backed and got a chair pulled as close as possible to tim's bedside in the private hospital wing of the white house's medical unit?
now hawkins fuller is very much having second thoughts.
it's hard not to stop replaying what he'd seen there in that carpathian safe-house: tim looking so small and frail, every bit the deceptive way his clothes hide a body he knows is perfectly carved muscle and solidity. curled in on himself with blood at his temples, dried under his nose - lips bitten raw and so many slashes and bruises. angry red weals from rope cutting into his wrists - who do you belong to? his hair had been damp with sweat and water, glasses crushed under the fall of heavy boots and long since abandoned in the corner. and tim - his boy was on the hard concrete like a broken bird, wings clipped and feathers cruelly torn piece by piece. and yet somehow even with his brows arched up in pain and his chest wheezing struggling breaths, even now hawk had a pit in his stomach for how beautiful he still looked - wondering and praying to all the entities he didn't believe in that no one decided to capitalize on that and take him for a ride.
the men he'd razed through to get here were faceless bags of blood and weak, fleshy spots hawk knew to target with a brutality he hadn't realized was still buried in there, enough to make the scar on his shoulder-blade twinge with the memory of this kind of violence. and embry knows it too - the way they practically mirror each other in their merciless efficiency, taking a few scrapes of their own and keeping it moving. there's a moment where he hears a sickening crunch, turning back to see embry disposing of another soldier and suspiciously not looking his way. getting to tim was all that mattered - and he'd practically thrown himself down next to his former lover and stroked at his cheek and run a hand through his hair, lifting him carefully into his arms and murmuring that it was him, that he was safe - that this would never, ever happen to him again so long as he lived.
(it's whispered against his forehead where embry and the rest of the small crew can't see it, hawk insisting he'll take it from here as they load up on the helicopter and the two-person medic crew whisks tim into the back for fluids and ivs and an assessment of the damages.
severe concussion. cracked ribs. cuts and bruises. hypothermia. lungs inflamed. rope burn.
not to mention the lasting psychological trauma from severe torture, possible ptsd -
it's not ash's fault, not really. but he is the easiest one to blame, and in a very rare, uncharacteristic moment of blind rage he lets it all out on him, demanding he and embry get the fuck out while he cleans up the mess, as if that might hide the multitude of sin he's committed against the boy tucked under layers of clean white linens. might hide the way his heart is still pumping, adrenaline coursing through him at the reality that timothy laughlin, the man he loved could have died.
the nightmares are to be expected, and hawk reaches for his hand, squeezing and speaking softly. it's the first time he's been awake and not heavily sedated from the initial run of treatments and the downright exhaustion - and he can't help the way he lurches forward to press as close to tim as possible. the door's locked - ash and embry are probably tucked into their own beds by now anyway. tim's voice sounds so small, pained - but not as much as it cuts to hear him still revert back to the polite civility of a stranger just like he fucking ordered.]
Skippy.
[his voice, on the other hand, is thick and full of emotion, breathed out like he's been holding it in this whole time as many times as he's been forced to ignore the habit of calling him by the endearment these past months. he can see the way tim's throat struggles, adam's apple bobbing slow like it's stuck and remembers the nurse mentioning dryness and dehydration too. his fingers wrap around a glass of room temperature water, bringing it to tim's lips and slowly tipping it back with a soft here, drink.]
It's been almost twelve hours since the party.
[and hawk hasn't slept a wink.]
But I'm here. I'm not going anywhere.
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there's no time for that with hawkin's fuller at his side, pressed close. he's not been this close to this man since before he joined the army and even now, with his senses maligned at the hand of the carpathian shitbag, he remembers the scent of hawk's aftershave better than he can remember anything between 5 PM yesterday and the moment they exist in now.
luckily, if his eyes begin to burn and tear up, he can blame it on the injuries. he can blame it on the kidnapping. he doesn't have to acknowledge that there's something else broken and bleeding and damaged tucked deep under those broken ribs.
but there he is, voice thick and rich and warm, wrapped all around the syllables forming skippy and tim comes undone. hawkins fuller was not the beacon in the storm he'd expected when the door opened and strong, warm arms wrapped around him. he didn't expect the reassurances against his forehead, his hair, everything to be colored in the voice of hawkins fuller.
at first, he was sure he'd imagined it.
but here he is, pressed at his side and making him drink water and tim can't make sense of any of it. the ground feels even less solid beneath his feet with hawk there. it shouldn't be hawk. it shouldn't be anyone he cares about because every one of them faces danger by proxy of being near tim.
you'll have to sleep your way through congress, pretty boy - you're useless. - that old, awful horrific senator he'd worked for in the beginning had said to him before he met hawk. before the beginning of any and all of this. and maybe he was right - he wasn't meant for these things. he wasn't made of stone and steel and indomitable will like ash, hawk, embry.
what the hell was he even thinking, taking this job?
the water is cool down his throat and he sighs, grateful, but his hazy eyes turn themselves to hawk - his profile close, body closer - and tim knows exactly what to look for. the subtle hint of puffiness around his eyes, the line that forms at one corner - he's tired. of course he is.
he fought his way through - ]
You - you can't be here.
[ he doesn't mean to panic, to give hawk a little push even though everything in him wants to fall into his chest and beg, beg, beg to be held and protected. promised that he will never be stolen away, that he will never be shut away again and told just how fucking useless he is.
(it's obvious now, though. they kidnapped him, and even then he'd been no good. unable to defend himself, left to die like scraps on the side of the proverbial road). ]
They'll - no one knows we - I promised -
[ he's getting too upset, unable to string thoughts together and he can feel it now how everything fishtails, sidewinding back and forth between emotions and scenarios. ]
Mr. Fuller, you have to - [ he reaches for hawk's arms, gripping and holding to him as another wave of nausea rushes through him. ]
It's not safe - not with me - and the Vice President - you need to leave. Before they find you too.
[ before i have to say goodbye to you - i won't be able to rescue you ]
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[it's not meant to be condescending, the way he reaches for tim past his weak attempts to shove him away out of misguided fear or confusion at where he is - if that's what's going on. it's a jumble of them, and hawk's chest pangs at the idea that he's still trying to maintain the cover hawk had demanded of him before they'd parted ways, enough that it blurs together now with the kidnapping and has tim thinking he's still there and somehow he's responsible for everyone else being in danger, as if he wasn't the one who'd been kidnapped, tortured, and been left half-dead before the next round. as if anything they'd been through in this twenty-four hour and then some hell was even remotely comparable.
(but he would think like that, his boy - always so sweet and selfless - willing to be the sacrificial lamb for the rest of them sinners.)
his hand gently wraps around tim's forearm, the other at his shoulder and slowly trying to lie him back down from where he'd been restlessly struggling and pushed himself up somewhat. tim reaches for him in turn, and everything about it makes hawk remember all the times they'd held each other in his queen bed on a quiet street just outside of capitol hill - when they were so much younger and things looked a hell of a lot easier than they do now. before hawk had crushed his heart and turned on his heel, dumped him unceremoniously and watched from afar as he joined the army and then came back while he wasn't looking and of course ended up as aide to the president of the usa. a big rise and a long way from the kid with floppy hair avoiding lecherous hands and vile comments that hawk had helped pull him out of.
looking at him like this, hawk wonders how the fuck he could have ever let him go. distance was supposed to keep him safe from the shitshow of his preferences, from all the terrible things that happen to the people he loves - his father once upon a time, kenny, lenny, senator smith...but tim got hurt anyway, so what was even the point?
hawk's fingers flex around him again, the hand at his shoulder lifting to brush the hair from his forehead and cup lightly at the side of his face that isn't quite so lurid with bruising, a small cut instead grazing the highpoint of his cheekbone. he can't help the way he needs to duck his head for a moment, forehead pressing down against the closest part of tim's body because his own eyes burn and he doesn't even have the excuse of injury or pain or anything but his own regrets. his own foolish mistakes - cowardice, tim had called it once in the cozy corner.
he was right. he'd always been right.
maybe he can blame the tiredness when he steels his gaze again, still reddened around the rims of his eyes even as his lips try and form the shape of a reassuring smile.]
You're safe, Tim. All of us are. We're in the medical wing of the White House.
Ash and Embry are with each other and an army of security.
[the part where they're meeting specifically to review the carpathian treaty for breech clauses is specifically left out, since he knows tim would try and leap to his feet this second and try and convince them not to do anything on account of him.]
I meant what I said. I'm not leaving your side. Not when I almost -
[ - lost you, he can't quite choke out as his eyes slip shut.]
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it's not the dingy, shut down little room he'd been in. that place hadn't had windows, but this one does - impossibly thick, impossible to open, but a window to the outside world. it must be early in the morning, tim realizes, when he can peek the way the sky has all but gone burnt and dusky. god, his head hurts. the dreams feel real, still - hanging at the edge of his consciousness and prying, insisting he notice and see and pay attention.
yeah, his head really hurts. his side hurts. his throat still feels dry despite the water and even hawk's grip on his forearm reminds him that his skin is raw beneath the gauze covering the ligature marks. he doesn't know where his glasses are, but even now he has an instinct to reach for them, to see the world clearer after hours of being blindfolded.
ah. right. they'd been smashed, hadn't they? he shivers when he remembers the crunch, the laugh, and the hand pressed hard over his mouth that followed as tim got mouthy with the men, insisting they let him go. ]
Okay. Right. Safe, right. You're sure?
[ he allows hawk to guide lie back down into the bed, allows hawk to touch his hair and lean his forehead in against his shoulder and tim can't help the way his free hand rises to touch the back of his neck, the soft hair at his nape. at least until hawk pulls back.
there had been hazy mornings spent with their bodies close like this, tim's fingers working out the waves in hawk's hair, mouth tracing his ear and whispering silly little love songs from the 50s and 60s just to make him smile into waking. he'd grown up in a simple world - a tiny, cramped staten island apartment in the slums. a preacher father, a demure, silenced mother, a sister who feared god and her father equally the same. they'd work in the community church garden, a plot of land turned into a sort of pseudo-farm. a place where a gentle, soft boy like tim laughlin learned the world could hurt more than it could help.
it's no different now. he keeps learning that lesson - first the senator, then hawk, and now this. his hand falls back to hawk's arm, gripping tightly as he blinks up at him. he's not sure when he started crying or if he woke crying, but his whole body feels exhausted, beaten, worn down. ]
I'm in the medical wing. In the White House. Everyone is safe. [ a mantra he'll repeat over the next several days. ] How - twelve hours? It felt like...
[ forever. but hawk's hand on his cheek makes his eyes flutter shut, the touch gentle and soothing something in him that has been unsettled since the day hawk left. twelve hours felt like a lifetime, and although tim himself has seen some people die on a battlefield or the ill take a turn for the worse in pop-up medical facilities, nothing will compare to waiting on the knife's edge of someone else's plan.
tim laughlin has faced a lot of miserable, awful men in his time. he can stand his ground to those in a battle of wills, where politics and propriety rule, where laws and justice have weight. but in the back room of some old, worn down building? melwas showed just how effective a veil of finery and pretty words can fool even the sharpest. ]
I'm sorry. I was just going to my room. I was feeling - you know I can't hold my - [ he closes his eyes, free hand raising to press over them for a moment. the lights are bright and it sends a shock through the back of his skull. ]
I tried to get out. I really did. Was it... it was you who found me? And Embry?
[ i didn't think you'd ever look for me again. the hand on hawk's arm drops, and he reaches for hawk's even if the man tries to pull away. he's here now, isn't he? he's here and god, he called him skippy - or did he dream that, too?
his bottom lip quivers, his eyes burn, and this time he's not sure if he's wheezing a little from the burn in his lungs and side or if it's the way his heart still feels like it's hemorrhaging in his chest. ]
I didn't imagine it, right?
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no. that didn't happen, and hawk's never been much for wandering down the what-ifs. tim is here, he's safe - it's as much a mantra for hawk as it is tim right now, even if he doesn't know it. hawk won't let him either, because the last thing tim needs is to worry over his well-being or anyone else's for that matter. especially not fucking ash, who hadn't even left the comfort of the oval office. even if he knows that isn't fair to blame him for, the fight is still burning beneath his skin, adrenaline never having fully worked its way out of his system just yet.]
I'm sure. They'd have to get through the lingering special ops guys, a goddamn army of secret service and me if they wanted to even get close right now.
[weak attempt at a joke - it lacks the dryness of his usual cavalier tone that would really drive it home.
but he supposes while tim is up and finally aware enough, he should know what happened. what they managed to piece together too goddamn late to begin with. if only he'd been keeping a closer eye on him, if only he hadn't abandoned him - none of this would have ever happened. they'd all be tucked in their respective beds (or would tim be in ash's?) tipsy, exhausted, and worn out from a night of typical schmoozing and maybe one drink too many.]
You left a few hours in. That piece of shit - he put something in your drink.
[melwas kocur - hawk's free hand flexes briefly into a fist before smoothing out, the tick in his jaw less difficult to hide. the event planning staff and catering must have thought tim was just some drunk intern, being escorted out by his kindly boss with enough excuses that no one thought twice in a crowd that sizable. hawk hopes ash or the secret service or anyone is nailing their asses to a cross as they speak for this grave an oversight.]
Yeah, it was us. Would have come sooner but...diplomacy.
[he'd railed against that too, trying to justify it like he used to argue with mcleod in security back when he was working under senator smith. sometimes sending a stronger message is the better choice, sir, he'd said a long time ago. it hadn't been quite so eloquent this time around, not with tim hanging in the balance.]
It's not your fault - you got that?
[he leans in again, eyes bright and determined even as tim's look glassy from pain and his whole face seems one wrong word away from crumbling.]
Tell me you understand it. Tell me it's not your fault.
[his own throat swells, voice lowering into a rough murmur as he reaches to lace tim's fingers between his own.]
Not your imagination at all. Tell me - you know I'm here for you now, Skippy.
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and overwhelmed by all the people in the room and leaving the more confident of their little american team to do the schmoozing, tim decided to find a corner for himself. ash, with embry begrudgingly at his side for some talk with melwas - ah. an alibi. and hawk - hawk somewhere the crowd, smiling falsely into the face of some carpathian secretary.
still - it's better that it was him. tim, who, in the grand scheme of things? means very little to the cause - who can be one more tick on the list of wrongs now to absolutely begin beating down the carpathian defenses.
ah, diplomacy. ]
A gentleman's war.
[ a little huff of a laugh follows the weak joke. so much of everything hurts, and even the little huff makes pain bloom ugly and angry in his side.
hawk leans up close against him and a tiny part of him wants to beg for him to come closer, to let his eyes focus and remember what it looks like to be so near to him. he's angry, of course, somewhere deep inside of himself, for craving the way the man leans into him now, when it had been hawk who turned all of this away. the way hawk turned heel and ran at the first sign that tim might be a problem for him in some capacity. the irony, that he's such a problem now.
hawk's fingers lace between his own and it's reflexive the way he grips them back, the way his body leans just slightly as hawk speaks, determined. his eyes flicker up to meet hawk's and he hums in acknowledgement. ]
Of course.
[ of course he knows it's his fault, but he won't say that. instead he just nods a little dumbly, trying to slow the way his heart races in his chest. the fingers around his own aren't enough - tim wishes every part of him didn't hurt. if he didn't, he'd lean in and beg to be held and crushed into someone's chest, protected and safe and untouchable, however brief. ]
I understand it.
[ you know i'm here for you now, skippy.
he sucks in a slow, shaking breath, eyes burning all over again and up close he can see the determination in hawk's eyes, hear the way his voice goes rough and low. what is he supposed to tell him? it wasn't his fault? he had no hand in what happened? he couldn't have known to be careful? that of course he expected hawkins fuller to be at his bedside, no one else? no. ]
I know you're here for me now.
[ tim's voice has gone small, eyes feeling trapped in an ocean of blue with torrential storms, but there's the faintest tip of his head - the flex of a muscle in his jaw, defiant, even as his lip quivers.
he knows what hawk told him to say - and he won't. he can't lie. it's his fault, all of this. but even timothy laughlin, the best of the good boys, can disobey sometimes. he wipes at his tears with his free hand.
he's a terrible liar. ]
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that will haunt him too - what if he'd gotten there sooner? how much damage could he have avoided on his poor, broken boy's body that's littered with physical evidence of his failure?
it hadn't even once crossed his mind to dial it down a notch, dropping everything to get him back. he's one of ours, he remembers saying with a detachment that wasn't nearly as convincing when faced with the idea that he was going to lose the only man he'd ever loved. we have to go and we have to go now. thank god embry hadn't asked any questions, and ash had the sense not to try pushing him when he'd already nearly come to blows at the thought of wasting any more time sitting around while tim was getting tortured, killed, or...jesus, thank god it hadn't come to the latter.
but the part that wounds him the most, cutting deeper than the nick of a knife's edge on his arm or the bloodied, bruised knuckles of the fists that fought their way through kevlar and bone is watching tears bleary over warm chocolate. seeing tim's face trembling with the effort of trying to obey, to repeat what hawk tells him and believe it and being unable to do so. to not know which part is the lie - that blames himself, or that he doesn't think hawk would be here for him in this moment. maybe it's both, and that stings, but not nearly enough as the damage he's wrought on tim laughlin's heart in the first place. that's a raw, blistering emotion that can't be healed by morphine or scotch or any bandage in this medical wing. that's the part he has to live with by his own choice.]
Hey, hey, hey - Skippy.
[hawk knows it's not best to shift him, but he can't help the way his arm slides as carefully as possible under tim's shoulders, trying not to jostle him any more and make him feel any of the physical hurt that's been wrought upon his prone figure. but he leans in, desperate for the closeness and pulling tim into his chest as his other arm wraps around his front, cupping his cheek and thumbing away the tears still wet in the corner of tim's dark lashes. his hand is caught between them and he can't care - all he knows is he needs to hold his boy and convince him of the truth.]
It is not your fault. It could have been anyone, but I am sorry it was you.
I -
[hawk swallows hard, wondering if tim will be able to feel the way his adam's apple bobs and his voice grows thick with emotion he'd normally rather die than show to the world.]
I had to be there to get you back. I couldn't let it be anyone else. And I couldn't have stayed away.
[his own eyes close, chin dragging against the fluff of his mussed hair and making it worse, lips brushing against the top of his skull with a gentle flutter of affection. his hold tightens, still trying to be conscientious of tim's delicate state but unable to pull back or do more than affirm that his boy is safe in his arms and this nightmare is behind them now.]
Thought I was gonna lose you. That would have been my fault, no one else's.
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[ the last thing he ever wanted to do again was to cry in front of hawkins fuller - to show him his soft underbelly, the holes in his armor, the squishy parts ripe for the damaging. it was futile the moment he tried to convince himself he could do it. nothing about him can be fabricated - nothing about him can be woven from lies or falsities. tim laughlin will always be honest, genuine and earnest in everything. it's a tragic trademark.
enough so that when hawk pulls him into his chest and wipes his tears away he finds himself almost ready to cry all over again. maybe it's the pain - the shift at his back aggravating the cracked rib or two, the pressure atop his head making something throb behind his eyes. but no - the pain is nothing compared to what it was. compared to the fear of everything but twelve hours ago.
a tiny, aching part of tim wants to ask why his savior had to be hawk. why did it have to be you - he wants to shout into the chest that feels so warm and broad, his fingers curling against the fabric of his collar where it's trapped. it's so different from the shitty floor of that shitty room, or the rough hands that led him there. it's different even from the way ash holds him - hawk all raw and fiery, uncontained here after the pressure has finally burst. ]
This wasn't your fault.
[ it takes a moment for tim to say it. he keeps his face dipped, his chin tucked low, and he tries very hard to carefully contain his emotions. it doesn't change the panic, the fear, the pain - something tells him those things won't leave him for a while. ]
Your job is to protect and assist the Vice President. No one else. We...
[ he huffs softly, letting his eyes close when hawk's arms tighten around him. it hurts a little - his whole body battered and bruised - but he instinctively sinks further in against him, into his chest. it would be easier if hawk was in the bed, it would be easier if these weren't the circumstances they've met again. ]
We don't even know each other at the office. Here. [ he laughs, a little watery, a little incredulous. here he is, in the arms of his ex... whatever they were, having been rescued from a kidnapping when the better part of the last year, he's been absolutely nothing to him.
but even tim knows that's not fair. even tim knows that's a lie. ]
So how can any of this be your fault? I was... I wasn't paying attention. I trusted that it was just - it was a political dinner. A social function. I should have been paying more attention, but Ash was busy, and the officers had to watch him. I'm expendable.
[ there's no pity in his voice, no sorrow - there's a sort of honesty there, and it should be evident now just what tim believes. truly believes. but there's the bob of hawk's adam's apple, the way he breathes, the way he holds a little tighter still and tim sighs.
however many times he's practiced this reunion in his head, it never goes quite right. he wants to push him away, yell at him, tell him he doesn't need him, tell him that two years ago, hawk slammed that door and shattered his heart with it. it's not fair that its hawk here, and yet as he sinks further to the side, nestling against the man he finds himself unable to lean back.
his free arm, bandaged and connected to the beeping, whirring machines around them, moves so that he is at least trying to hold onto him, to ground himself one way or another. ]
It's not your fault. I'm here. I'm...
[ he's so, so exhausted. mentally, physically, but it doesn't change how he both wants to burrow into hawk and rail against him. ]
You should go. Before anyone else gets here. I'll be fine. I'm fine.
[ another mantra, like he's trying to prove to himself it will be alright. he doesn't believe it. ]
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small mercies.
not so small: the trauma he'll be dealing with for awhile. it's why hawk had been sitting here, knowing the likelihood of nightmares, night terrors - the uncertainty of waking up in a familiar bed and wondering if he'd succumbed to his injuries or been so brutalized that this was all just a hallucination or a dream of mentally concocted safety to escape the cruel reality that awaited open eyes. hawk remembers it - used to twinge with it every time tim's fingertips gently grazed against the raised fissure of scar tissue on his shoulderblade, even if he'd long since learned to cope with the horrors of war that are far enough behind and were eased by senator smith's good conscience and generous cabin in rugged country.
could he offer that to tim? take him out of the hustle and bustle of the pentagon, grab an airbnb without a word, tell embry he needed some time off? what would he think? would he know? in the heat of the moment, there was no time for subtlety or explaining how he knew tim and why this seemingly meant more to him than just losing a member of their cabinet. he'd tried, but the closer they got the more hawk's stoic mask chipped away, revealing a vulnerability he'd shut off as tightly as possible, buried at the expense of tim's heart. none of them realized there was still an invisible string binding them together forever - not even tim, the one thing hawk would never be able to fully cut off like another limb.
of course he thinks playing the game of pretend is the most important thing in the moment. it's all hawk ever prioritized, and it has him closing his eyes and pressing another tender kiss to tim's temple.]
Embry's fine. Like I told you - he's with Ash, or maybe they're in bed by now, I don't know.
[doesn't really care, either. there's an entire army of secret service and then some to watch over them, but only hawk knows every sensitivity, every expanse of tim's body and what's been broken. he needs to be here. to make it better however he can.]
Skippy - this back and forth...I should have never pretended in the first place.
[the late night calls, the drunken whisper of sweet nothings - only to culminate in hawk striding past in the mornings with little more than a nod of acknowledgment.]
I know you. You're here, and I've got you.
[he sucks in a breath, hating that he doesn't know how tim will react. that he could tell him to go and hawk would really have no defense other than to obey.]
I'll go if you want me to. But I'm not going because of whatever game of pretend I've been making us play.
You're not fine. You've been through the ringer tonight, and if you'll let me - I want to be here for you.
[he sucks in a breath, swallowing hard.]
I want to hold you through the night. I want to know my boy is safe with me at his side.
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it doesn't make tim feel any less alone. they found him, they saved him, and he's here safely tucked into the white house where no one can reach him now. he even has hawk with his arms wrapped around him, saying soft things and kissing his hair like he's wanted for the last three or so years and yet it does nothing to soothe the way fear runs cold under his skin.
it's better that he not worry everyone even more. it's better than he accepts and pretends it will go away, even if he knows it won't. none of this will. tim laughlin is doomed to always live a life clouded in some secrecy, isn't he? ]
I don't think you know how to stop pretending.
[ it isn't meant to be mean, but he's sure with how tired he is the words lack the warmth and care that tim on any other day may have. ]
I never know whose turn it is, or what the game is. I don't want you to leave. I never wanted you to leave, but then I think you've always wanted to leave when things were inconvenient. I'm inconvenient now, aren't I?
[ he laughs weakly, leaning a little more heavily into hawk's chest, arm shifting to better accommodate his sore ribs, fingers splaying into the middle of hawk's back. he doesn't skirt the scar beneath the fabric, even though he's acutely aware of it being there, knows the rise and fall of every ridge of skin. ]
I'm not your boy, Hawk. [ this time? he truly does sound tired, sad. because he is. ] Not anymore. I don't know who I am to you anymore, but I am... I am trying to play by the rules because if I can do that at least it doesn't hurt as much. If I play by the rules, no one knows we're... and then they won't come after -
[ damn it. there are the tears again, burning at his eyes and he's glad that his face is dipped and hidden so that maybe hawk won't catch sight of them right off. it'll be in his voice, though - tim was never very good at masking much of anything. ]
You'll be here tonight, and you'll hold me, but when I wake up what will happen? When doctors and nurses come in, when other people show up to question me, because I know - I know they'll want to know and I can't do it alone.
[ he chokes a little at the thought, and god the whole night rushes back to him in a way that makes him feel like he might be sick all over again. he'll have to talk through every detail, swear on a bible he's telling the truth, and re-tell it again and again to every official who needs to know. ]
I can't say no to you. I answer your calls and I can't pull away because I need you, even if you pretend I'm not there. Pretend you don't know me. How long do you pretend until it becomes real? [ it feels so wrong to say it. to admit that all this time he has always needed hawk in some way, even when they weren't truly together. he has always had the man on his heart, in the back of his mind, driving him to become better, different, stronger. but what has hawk needed tim for?
probably nothing.
tim's hand loosens, falling from his back and to the bed. it hurts too much to try and hold him, the way his head aches and sides burn, the way the bruises pinch the way he is bending toward the man in the chair beside the bed. ]
What do I do when you don't need me? When no one does?
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christ, he can't even help but physically hurt him either, realizing when he pulls back slightly the way tim is at an odd angle now and it must be twinging every ache. hawk utters out a soft curse, mostly at himself before loosening his grip and pulling his chair in as close as it can possibly be, settling on lacing his ruined hand together with tim's for now and letting all the worry, the care, and the impossible reality of his feelings seep into the clear blue of his eyes.]
Maybe I didn't, before now. Pretending was the only thing that got me through things - things I've never even told you, Skip.
[that's not an admission meant to hurt him further, even if that's what it seems like he can't stop doing whether he means it or not. hawk shakes his head, as if trying to wade through his own guilt and find the right words that can somehow express so much in what will surely be too little. tim doesn't have it in him to be cruel, but he did - still does, and it's fair of him to be wary. jesus, it'd be understandable if he wanted to be mean too - god knows hawk would deserve it.]
Inconvenience was the nicest way to put it at the time. I didn't have the heart to tell you it was survival for me. And it wasn't meant to be a game either, but I see now why it felt that way.
[something breaks in his chest at those words. i'm not your boy, hawk. a pain worse than bloodied knuckles and the edge of a knife scraping against his arm, or even getting socked in the jaw by a trained mercenary. his heart feels torn in two, eyes widening briefly and jaw clenched before he tries to smooth it out on the recollection that this is what he asked for. he needs to hear this. but of course tim - good, sweet worrying tim thinks the cover they've been afforded will somehow shift. put hawk at risk like he probably isn't on some target list already for the stunt he pulled tonight. it's not that he means to - but there's a soft huff of laughter and he squeezes tim's hand gently with a shake of his head.]
Let 'em try and come for me. Think I put a few of their men in the hospital and I'll take my chances at round two.
[it's a terrible attempt at lightening the mood, but he sombers at the rest of tim's admission, the tears and the tremble of his shoulders and that gut-wrenching forlorn note in his voice. god. not his boy - not like this. he reaches up again to cup his jaw gently, to tip his face so he can look at hawk while he runs his thumb along the back of his palm in soothing circles.]
I'll hold you tonight. I'll be here holding you tomorrow morning. And when they come to get all the details you don't wanna remember, I'll be right by your side holding your hand when it's too hard to recall.
[what about after that? tim will want to know. maybe pretending is what he wanted before, even if he tried not to reach out and stay away even as he ached with loneliness for the boy he didn't plan on seeing every day and reminding him of the good times. maybe he wanted them to be strangers - but that was before the last 24 hours changed everything. put into perspective what he almost lost.
fuck it.]
I can't live without you in my life anymore. I don't want to.
[there's a ragged breath, an exhale like he's letting it all out now, putting it on the line in a way that's real and vulnerable and overwhelming to him too.]
Ash needs you. The Cabinet needs you. Senator Johnson needs you.
But more than that - I need you. Never stopped, by the way. I've just got more practice at hiding it.
[there's a pause, searching tim's face for any reaction because he knows it's probably not what he was expecting to hear. and hell - maybe it's too late for this. maybe he deserves to rail at hawk and send him away. he'd just be guaranteeing a night with him spent in a chair on the other side of the door, is all.]
I'm sorry. For all of it. For waiting until now to tell you when you almost -
[his throat tightens, emotion swelling in it as he shakes his head more furiously than before.]
Look, you don't have to think about any of this now. But at least answer me - tell me if I can get into bed and hold you tonight.
Please, Tim. Be my boy again, even if it's just for a little while.
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but there's the admission from hawk - so many things left unsaid, and there the hurt truly shows in tim's face. inconvenient and untrustworthy. he's learning so much about himself today. ]
Why didn't you tell me? That's all you needed to do, Hawk. I just wanted to understand. I couldn't read your mind and if it was survival for you then that's fine too. Why don't you understand that - I just - ... I just wanted to be with you. Whatever that looked like. I would hide, I would run away, I would pretend we were on the battlefield if that's what it took.
[ his voice chokes up, goes thick and he shakes his head, pulling his hand away from hawk's then and scrubbing furiously at his burning eyes. when he speaks again, his voice goes small. ]
Why didn't you tell me? Why didn't you trust me?
[ the hand on his cheek guides him to look up and tim wants everything in the world to be furiously angry with hawk. he is, in a way, but he's more crushed and hurt than anything. nothing will soothe the aching, open wound that never stitched itself up. it just left itself be, bleeding out slowly, festering at the edges of every dream or memory. it's no different now, really, but it feels tighter. harder to breathe.
he put so much faith into this man, put so much trust and hope and thought into this man, and for what? he had let himself dream of a future behind closed doors and had cherished the thought of hidden kisses and stolen touches. of dinners had with the curtains pulled and snuggling on a couch with a movie somewhere where no one could see. it hadn't been what he thought he'd have, but having hawk was the only thing he truly needed.
the rest would come out in the wash eventually.
hawk promises he will be at his side and tim isn't sure he can make out the words for the ringing in his ears, the tears that pour down his face, or the way his hands shake. even with hawk reaching for one of his again, his whole body feels numb, and if he closes his eyes tightly, he can zoom far, far out and watch them. tim looks bad, feels worse. hawk, with wide and desperate eyes, pleads with tim and rips himself open at the chest to try and convey something.
if he could run away right now, tim would. he would climb out of the bed, out the door, and into the cool, night air because everything in this room feels suddenly, desperately loud. it feels close and smothering, and when tim opens his eyes again and sees hawk searching his face for something, anything, the knows that he has to answer.
why now? why me? why should i trust you? why should i believe you? why should i let myself get hurt again because that's the only thing that will ever come of all this? tell me tell me tell me. ]
I'm afraid, Hawk. Of you.
[ he feels so, so small when he says it, feels as though his bones have turned to glass and even the soft hand at his cheek could break him. ]
I... I want to be your boy. I want you here in bed, holding me. I want you here tomorrow, and the days after that. But I'm so scared. I can't... I can't do that again. Believe you when you tell me I'm inconvenient. When you lay all my faults out like your to-do list. Check off every single one to make sure I put one foot in front of the other. I'm... I'm so afraid.
[ he's shaking, he realizes, and he grips hawk's hand tighter, sniffles wetly and turns his face into hawk's hand. ]
I've been here. All this time. I talked you to sleep while you were drunk. I brought you coffee the morning after. I tried writing you, when I was overseas. I... I've been here. You just refused to see me.
[ he sniffles again, hiccupping softly as he tries desperately to catch his breath. the injuries from the kidnapping hurt, but this? this feels like something has cleaved his chest into two. ]
I need you here, right now. I need you to stay, because I can't do any of this by myself, and I'm... I'm so tired. I'll... I'll be your boy again. For a little while. Just - stay. Hold me. Pretend for just tonight that you still care about me like you used to.
I don't care if it was all pretend.
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so he cups his cheek again anyway. reaches for his other hand, squeezing it gently and tipping his head so he can lean in again for as much closeness as he's allowed. there is something pained in his expression, eyes glassy and jaw tight as he swallows hard around a lump that just keeps growing in his throat. that vulnerability he tried so damn hard to bury - scars he never revealed in himself.]
It wasn't about trusting you, Skippy. I did what I thought I had to do to live my life the way everyone expected me to. The way I expected myself to. But it's not really living that way, is it?
[he offers a self-deprecating twist of his lips, thumb brushing at the tear tracks down his cheeks to try and wipe them away, keeping the ones threatening to accumulate in the corners of his eyes and against his own dark lashes at bay. tim should be afraid of him, after everything he's been put through. two years of walking on eggshells, opening himself up at every turn when hawk couldn't stay away, only to be beat down and have the door closed in his face time and time again. to be greeted by a perfect stranger, not the man who warmed his bed and held him against his chest instead of leaving in the middle of the night. not the one who gifted him a pair of cufflinks with his initials for christmas, or wears the tie tim gave him the same night whenever tim isn't in the office to see it because it feels like keeping him close.
fuck. of course he's missed him. of course he's wanted - some way to balance that with what their reality needed to be. except it had never really been about closed doors and stolen moments, had it? it was hawk, running from the emotions he'd have to face in staying with tim. accepting them at face value and giving them a name, an outlet. one he wasn't capable of - christ, maybe he still isn't in plenty of ways. but tonight has taught him nothing other than he has to try. cliché as it sounds - tomorrow isn't guaranteed, and carpathia is filled with scumbags he'd like to see under army-issue steel-toed boots under the banner of war.]
I know. You've got every right to be.
[it kills him to feel tim tremble, to see him so wracked and devastated with his physical suffering and the heartache he's pent up.]
I hurt you deeply. It's not enough just to offer you an "I'm sorry".
[hawk sucks in a breath, worried this is the part tim is going to ask him to leave. but of course - his boy is too good, too sweet to give up on him, even if he knows he doesn't fucking deserve it.]
I want this. Saying it isn't enough, I know - so I'm just gonna have to show you.
[and here he releases his grip in both spots, pressing up from his chair and not even caring about the fact that normally he'd strip down to his boxers alone - he slides a hand under tim's pillow at first, lifting him upright for a brief moment so he can shift the grip underneath his shoulders. his legs swing up, knees knocking gently against tim's as his other arm wraps around to cradle him there, lips finding his temple and pressing a tender, lingering kiss there. there we go, easy does it is murmured softly against his skin.]
I'm staying. All night, all day - as long as you need. As long as you want me to be here with you.
[his voice drops to a whisper, not least of all because the thought of keeping his voice steady right now seems too difficult to manage.]
None of it was pretend. That's the part you're missing - the absence was pretending it didn't kill me every goddamn day thinking about what could have been. Drinking myself to sleep, coming home to an empty apartment and a cold bed.
[the fingers against his shoulder lift, brushing a few strands of hair from his forehead and swiping again at the damp corners of his eyes.]
You're still my boy. You'll always be my boy, Tim.
I'm here and I gotcha.
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[ tim laughlin will never be able to shed his honestly, his earnestness. the very fabric of him is made up of something so genuine and dedicated that anything outside of that feels like such an aberration. it feels impossible. and even now, when he wants to lie and try to protect himself, he can't.
it would be easy to lie to himself and say there is no danger in running back into the arms of hawkins fuller. that he could be wrapped up in this man and no harm would come from him. but tim knows better. he's lived in the ebbs and flows of hawk's cruelty and kindness, wavered back and forth between the man who loved him deeply, and the man who could not be rid of him faster.
but when hawk stands suddenly, tim leans back, concerned and confused and suddenly feeling the unmistakable desperation to reach for him and hold on, even if he knows he should let hawk leave. if the man wants to walk out, then that will be the real answer, won't it?
he doesn't. tim feels the arm under his shoulders, watches hawk slide into the bed beside him and he's sure he's having an out of body experience, floating high above the hospital bed and watching as hawk all but wraps himself around him. he'd expected the spooked, caged animal - not... whatever this is. tim finds himself tensing in hawk's hold at first, unsure even as he's gathered up against his side and chest.
everything hurts, but it's his heart that aches so furiously he might be sick over it.
as long as you need. as long as you want me to be here.
what will hawk say if tim says forever? if he says he wants him here and beside him for the rest of their days? what if he says he will always need hawkins fuller, even if he knows he should never admit to anything like that. it will only hurt him later.
but he blinks up at him, body relaxing into the hold and he lets out another shaky breath. he's cried so much now, its a wonder he has anything left. there is no blindfold to catch his tears this time, and he hiccups against hawk's shoulder. his arms move, one wrapping its way around hawk's middle, the other tucked against his side so his fingers can fist in the fabric of his expensive shirt.
he doesn't mean to cry like this - for the hurt and grief to come out in choking little sobs but it does.
none of it was pretend - and something in tim snaps. shatters and his defenses fall because there is nothing left in him to arm those walls anymore. he has nothing he can give, because he has done nothing but give to this man for years, even when they were apart. hawkins fuller has always rested in his mind, in his heart. he never left.
it's a few minutes of crying, really - tim's concept of time in this place is completely lost now, and by the time he finally comes back to himself, he's made a wet spot in the shoulder and chest of hawk's shirt. he keeps his face tucked there, pressing close to him and breathing him in. hawk is warm, solid, real, and god he wants to believe him, just like he'd believed everything else. ]
I'm so tired, Hawk. [ his voice is quiet, and it's clear he doesn't mean just physically tired. ]
I just want things to go right, for once. To work out like I'd hoped they would. I love you still, and I know I shouldn't. I know I should have walked away that day and cursed your name and dragged it into the mud, but I couldn't.
But I can't trust you. I can't be what you want me to be. I deserve better than that, I do. I just... I'm willing to try. Maybe not right now. I don't know when, but. I just need time, and... god, I'm just tired.
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[and he does - feels the weight of the knowledge that there might be a part of timothy david laughlin's heart that can't fully be repaired, that he's permanently damaged and scarred - never to be the same. once upon a time there were warnings hawk used to try and issue, sometimes buried in between those tender post-coital moments but no less sharp: you can't always be this soft. honesty isn't the best policy in washington. and selfishly, it was meant to absolve him of any responsibility at times: skippy had to know what kind of man hawkins fuller was to have risen the ranks the way he did? the capital of ulterior motives, he'd declared it - and it was his stomping ground of half a decade. that didn't mean he thought tim was so naive he couldn't manage his way at all, or that he'd be easily deceived when bold-faced wrong was looking him in the eye. but maybe there was a part of him that was always going to bruise and he should have known anything with his handprint on it would be the deepest.
it doesn't escape his notice when tim tenses at first, the spooked animal he'd assumed hawk would be playing the part of - and yeah, he deserves that when the last thing he'd done was wound him near irreparably. when the first thing he'd expected was for hawk to run again and plaster on the role of concerned aide and distant caregiver to a mere acquaintance. for god's sake, he wouldn't be shocked if the doctors needed to add whiplash to tim's laundry list of injuries at this rate.
but eventually he settles into hawk's grip, and something in him feels as if it's released all the tension he's been holding in his shoulders ever since he walked away - the thing tim always soothes in him whether it's by voice or smile or all the little ways he's still showed his patience and open door over these past years. and if tim said forever? one look at him - brown eyes wide and glassy and his impossibly sweet face even in its current battered state - hawk would be hopeless to say anything but yes. he leans down for another soft kiss to his forehead, feeling the way his body trembles before the new onslaught of tears overtakes him and has hawk feeling another twinge of heartache himself.
he's careful not to squeeze him too hard, not wanting to exacerbate any of his physical injuries. there's another soft murmur against his skin as he feels wetness accumulating, the flex of tim's fingers against his by now wrinkled, maybe even bloodied shirt. it's alright, let it all out. i'm here, honey. it does carry on, but it's the least he's owed - hawk holding him through every second of it, hand shifting to rub soothingly at his back and tuck his chin against the top of tim's head without any pressure. eventually he can feel it subside, tim's breathing evening out and his body's trembling slowing. his hand moves to cup his chin, turn it up ever so slightly so he can meet tim's gaze once more. there's more wetness in the corners of his eyes, lips pulled tightly like he's keeping it at bay.]
I know, Skippy.
[anyone would be exhausted with what he's been through - before and after tonight's ordeal.]
None of that is who you are - even if it's what I deserved.
[i love you still, tim says, like it's the easiest thing in the world. the words catch in his own throat, the closest he's ever come to feeling them to be true - but it's not the right time.]
But you - you deserve the world. Someone you can trust. Not to have to pretend or hide like me.
Right now I just want you to get better. We can figure the rest out later - however long it takes.
[he sucks in a breath, voice going soft as he gently strokes an errant piece of tim's hair back from his forehead. sometimes hawk doesn't need to say a goddamn word to express how ardent he is - at least, if this boy knows where to look for it.]
I'll be here, Skippy. You got me locked in for the whole ride.
[he blinks away his own tears, chuckling and trying to lighten the mood by teasing - to get tim to crack even a slight smile. something he used to be good at.]
Last chance to get out while you can.
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but now, he's nothing but soft and damaged and bruised.
hawk's arms around him, the chin atop his head, feels like homecoming still, even if he doesn't want it to. it's the comfort and safety he's needed, and finally he lets his body lean into hawk's, one arm reaching to drape around hawk's side and hold, so his own body can pull closer. he's warm, he's familiar, and he remembers the way hawk's arms had felt around him, the whispering in his ear as he was carried out of the hellhole he'd been in.
i've got you. i'm here ]
I know, Hawk.
[ because even if the man pretended, acted like they were no less than strangers? well. hawk is still here at his side, pulled him out of all of it, and seems willing to stay.
maybe it's just temporary. tim knows it likely is. so he doesn't hang his hope on those hooks - not yet. (well, maybe a little. a tiny thread). he huffs a little at hawk's joke, lips pulling into something tired and worn. his fingers flex against hawk's side, eyes fluttering shut when he feels the soft hand at his forehead.
it's unfair that he knows hawkins fuller well enough even now to know what even the smallest gestures mean. he sees the glisten in the man's eyes from this angle and he sighs softly, cheek against the strong curve of hawk's bicep. ]
Mm. I couldn't run away right now if I tried. Lucky for you.
[ the hand leaves his side and his fingers brush against one corner of hawk's eye, thumb gentle in the way it collects the little droplet, the way it traces his cheek bone, cheek, then falls back to his side. ]
Can you pull the blankets up? [ he doesn't acknowledge the tear out loud - he knows better. he doesn't even acknowledge that hawk is promising to stay through everything, but his voice has a familiar little whine to it. the blanket - a peace offering, acceptance in the form of comfort. ]
Around both of us.
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[that he got there in time, for starters. it's bad enough it wasn't sooner, and even if he'd like to blame ash and railed at him enough to nearly tear him a new asshole - he knows they all moved as fast as they possibly could with as little red tape as possible. he can't let himself spiral out, and he's absolutely not going to leave tim playing the game of what if when his psyche will plague him with that later. there's an absent thought he files away: to find out who the best resident therapist is here in the med wing with some discretion during downtime tomorrow. tim's going to need it, and if anyone is well adjusted enough to actually respond well and believe in the merits of therapy, tim would be the only one out of the remaining three of their collectively sorry asses.
but now? now there's nothing that could get him to move from the heaven that is tim laughlin in his arms - even bruised and battered as he is. it's selfish to wish this won't be the last of it, to think about all the ways he can ensure they get to keep doing this in the future when there isn't the beep of machines and tim wearing a heart monitor and and bandaged up and tender all over from abuse suffered at the hands of brutes.
the relief that floods through him is a raw rush that's enough to finally make him realize the adrenaline that's been keeping the edge off this whole time has absolutely worn down and he's finally feeling the toll of physical exhaustion, even if his mind is too wired to think about sleep. he'll surely be awake for hours monitoring tim's condition, ensuring he gets enough sleep and there's no lingering physical effects, most especially from the concussion. he's distracted enough that tim's thumb brushing against his eye makes his lashes flutter shut briefly, depositing the rest against his soft fingertip with a gentle pull of his lips. leave it to his boy - always so goddamn sweet for his own good.
hawk can't help himself - he grabs it before tim can set it back down at his side, kissing over his knuckles lightly before letting it go again. just in time to hear that tone - music to his ears, really. it reminds him of so many nights spent together, tim eventually comfortable enough to take some of the power he didn't even realize he wielded over hawk's smitten heart. bratty tim - now that was really a sight to behold. fuck, he's missed this. missed him, and he complies near instantly, careful not to jostle where tim is nestled in his arms too much. instead he reaches down with the hand closest, drawing the cover up and over tim's shoulders first before situating it for himself too.]
'Course.
There - that better?
[his hand drops to tim's back, rubbing absent circles the way he used to without even realizing he's fallen into an old, familiar habit himself.]
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maybe.
but hawk pulls the covers up and even with how careful he is, it doesn't change the fact that his head aches, his body hurts at every turn. nothing has felt worse than this in all his life, not even boot camp, and yet here he is, in the arms of his former lover, trying desperately to feel comfort and peace knowing that he is safe now.
he's not sure he'll feel safe again, truly, for a very, very long time.
the blanket comes up over his shoulder and he finds himself gravitating to the warmth of hawk, pressing closer to his chest and sighing, his voice coming out in a low grumble the very moment that hawk checks in. it'd be almost sultry if he felt better, but the crying, the fear, the injuries - all of it makes it hard to feel anything other than complete exhaustion. ]
Much better.
[ another little wiggle and tim's face has all but pushed in against hawk's shoulder, the crook of his neck. he curls and tucks himself close, unashamed for his need to feel coddled and held, warm and protected. if hawk pays any attention, he can feel the way he jumps a little when a sound echoes loud from outside - something dropped in the hallway, maybe. the hand on his back does wonders to soothe him back into calm, though, and finally, tim's shoulders sag and relax, his eyes flutter closed. ]
Stay. Until I wake up at least.
[ it's a question, even if it sounds as much a statement. there's hesitancy in the way he whispers it, sleepy and wary, afraid and sad. what would their life have looked like if hawk hadn't told him to leave two years ago?
would it still be this? ]
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tim doesn't know how many nights he spent alone, staring at the ceiling and reminiscing on the times when his boy was nuzzled into his side just like this. remembering the warmth of his soft breath against the juncture of his neck and shoulder, the way tim's fingers would flex in his sleep cat-like on hawk's bare shoulders. sleepy morning mumbles before hawk brought him his morning tea or coffee, eyes still closed even as he nosed in for expectant kisses. god, it makes his chest ache just thinking about it now - wondering if he'll ever have the exquisite privilege of those things again. but even if he doesn't, the way tim clings to him is more than enough for now - dire circumstances aside. his body has always fit like it belonged there, curled up smaller somehow even if the rational part of his brain knows that tim is the same height as he is.
if it weren't for the adrenaline crash maybe he'd be able to stay up and just watch him for a bit - categorize all the wounds, pester the nurses tomorrow about the ones most likely to scar. but instead he knows it won't be long after tim finally dozes off that he'll be following, and that stings too because it means he doesn't get to savor the opportunity with his eyes closed and mind drifting into dreams instead of basking in every minute they're pressed together like lovers.
but the skittishness, the nerves - the way tim gets startled at the echo of someone dropping a clipboard louder than any of the mechanical beeping and background noise must sound closer to a gunshot than mere clumsiness. his hold tightens instinctively, though he manages to bite back his own tongue from doing something stupid like murmuring out a soft shhh in case he takes it dismissively when it's anything but. thank god it doesn't seem to stick, and when tim nestles in and his body sags once more, hawk finally lets his own eyes slip closed as he presses another soft kiss against his temple.]
I'm not going anywhere, Skippy. Don't you worry.
[another kiss, because he can't get enough of it, and it ends with hawk nuzzling them against his forehead and up into his hair with a soft inhale. his own voice is a hazy rumble, trying to keep his own lightness so it lifts and assures all at once. frankly, because he can't bear hearing tim even remotely close to the way it had been heartbroken so long ago.]
I'll be here in the morning. All day tomorrow. When you get out of the hospital. Back at your place - if you don't kick me out, anyway.
[there's a pause, hawk swallowing against something thick in his throat and realizing his eyes are wet again even as they're squeezed shut tighter.]
I told you. I'm in this for the long haul.
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[ it's a weak argument, really, and the way he lacks any real conviction in his tone alone proves that tim laughlin is making some sad attempt at a joke. but they both have work to do, don't they? on so many, many levels. so tim nestles in, soaking up the warmth of hawk, even though every squeeze, every breath, every moment, sends pain in waves rippling through him. he'd rather be here and in pain than anywhere else, even if the thought makes him question his own sanity.
after everything hawk could do to him...
but here they are. tim wrapped up in the man, the whirring of machines, the sounds outside - the whole world feels different to him now with hawk in his bed than it had moments before, when he'd woken up disoriented and sick. hawk says he'll be there when he wakes, tomorrow, and all the times after. it sounds like a fairy tale, a promise made by someone who can't keep it. he knows hawk far, far too well for that.
life will call, they'll get busy, and they will easily re-enter the world of cold shoulders and distance. it's only a matter of time.
tim closes his eyes when he hears the watery tone of the other man's voice, deciding this time to allow him the moment in private. tim's arm loops around hawk's middle though as he settles in, palm pressing flat against the low of his back like he always used to when they slept. they fit together like this, perfectly imperfect, with their jagged edges and old wounds. ]
Hawkins Fuller, you do nothing in half measures.
[ he sounds sleepy, words starting to slur a little as he nuzzles in, nose tipping faintly against his jaw. ]
And again - I couldn't kick you out if I tried. [ it's an admission - not just about this bed, this hospital. his apartment. ] I've tried over and over again. I haven't figured it out yet, so you're in luck.