[ and it is, really. it really, really is. but as he sits in his bed, wrapped up in his blankets, he can't help but feel like his skin itches, like the doors don't have enough locks, like the walls are closing in on him. ]
[ god the celebration had been massive. tim can remember one drink too many and that's all it took for them to stumble to hawk's for a weekend of playful lovemaking. ]
don't do that on my part. I didn't mean to interrupt your night.
[ he knows hawk, though. and the thought that he's on his way? helps calm him a little. ]
You didn't. I was wrapping up anyway. Too many dicks in one spot and someone is bound to start a pissing contest.
[he pulls on his coat, paying for another round for his company before stepping outside to hail a cab and take it to tim's address that he's had memorized for years. gotta take a call if it's alright with you, boss - he says to the driver who waves him off and turns down the music.
when tim picks up, the smile is audible in hawk's voice.]
'Course I want to hear your voice. Talk to me - I'm on my way.
[ hawk has a way of both overcoming an obstacle and calming the raging fire of an argument just as well as anyone. he's at his best in the midst of a fight, isn't he? all prowess and confidence.
when tim picks up, he cannot help the way the sound of hawk's voice makes some of the tension run out of his body. but tim sounds exhausted: his voice hoarse (he's been crying), his words a little slurred from sleep, his breath hitching and catching a little between words. ]
I don't know what to say.
[ the sounds of sheets rustling, and tim rubbing at the bridge of his nose. ]
[it's soft the way he says it, reverent in a way. tim used to like the endearments, and he's been keeping them light while they figure out whatever it is they're in the middle of, but tonight he thinks it won't be unwelcome.]
Don't have to say anything, if you don't want to. I can talk - tell you about the latest gossip on my side of the podium.
Or if you do - you tell me about the latest book you're reading. I know you've got one.
[it kills him the way tim sounds, even over the distant and crackling line. must have been another nightmare.]
[ the little endearments do help, actually. tim doesn't know what they're playing at together, but the familiarity helps ground him. just hearing hawk's voice is enough. that, coupled with the sound of the car and knowing he's headed here? well. ]
What am I reading? [ tim feels so shaken he can hardly think straight, and there's noise on the other line as he rustles about to find the stack of books on his nightstand. ]
A book on J. Edgar Hoover, um. And the pulitzer winner. Hernan Diaz. It's dark, but. I'm tired of reading about politics. Um.
That's all right. Some days I'm tired of living them.
[politics, he means. a light tease - enough to try and distract tim a little further. the more he can take his mind off this, the better. and maybe, just maybe - he'll fall asleep a little easier when hawk is there to lull him into it in his arms. it's not that he's trying to sneak his way into tim's bed, but he recalls him sleeping better the nights he was in it compared to the ones he was in the chair off to the side in the hospital.]
Sappho - she's Greek, right? Kindred spirits at our fine club like Mary?
[ as much as tim loves his job and the political beat, right now he’d rather be an absolutely nobody. ]
Greek. There’s debate about whether she’s in Mary’s club or not. I don’t know.
Her words are beautiful. Ugh, god. Hawk. The book is - fine.
[ he mishears “tell me about” for “tell me your”. or maybe tim is just only half listening and half trying desperately to keep calm.
there’s the sound of tim moving, stumbling in the dim light, his breath hitching before he’s back. he sounds winded - but it’s just panic. the rustle of pages and then he reads, stumbling over a couple words: ]
It's no use Mother dear, I can't finish my weaving You may blame Aphrodite
[hawk tries not to read into it too much. it's just a poem - it doesn't necessarily mean tim resonates with it or feels it to be true. he's much more worried about the elevated rate his breaths are coming out audibly, the way he can't even read clearly - and then the clear admission about his hands.]
Well, if the weaving can't get done...must be serious.
[there's a hint of amusement in his voice, obvious fondness as he watches the streetlights pass into blurs of red and yellow light. he's on his way to the boy that almost killed him with love too.]
Don't be sorry. Do me a favour - shake your hands out for a sec and then find another one you like and read it to me.
They sound good when you're the one saying 'em.
[he won't linger on why his hands are shaking, instead trying to distract him long enough that he's on tim's doorstep and can soothe away the rest of the physical trauma with touch.]
[ there's a shaky little admonition - of course he's going to gripe at him for making light of beautiful poetry or words. he always does. even when he feels like he might well fall apart at the seams sitting here.
but he does what he's told. shakes his hands out a little, the phone on speaker now and laying on the duvet. there's the sound of pages again, of slow, shaking breaths and the trembling still of fingertips as he tries to find a poem. he can't focus. ]
Most of the poems are fragments. Not much of... her work was destroyed? I think. Got lost? I don't - I don't remember.
You: an Achilles’ apple Blushing sweet on a high branch At the tip of the tallest tree. You escaped those who would pluck your fruit. Not that they didn’t try. No, they could not forget you Poised beyond their reach.
I know, I'm an uncivilized boor when it comes to poetry and classical music. I'm just thankful you put up with me.
[hawk listens to the rustling, trying to piece together what tim is doing, what he looks like while he's still a few miles away. his hair is probably mussed like it gets from bedhead, glasses a little askew if he even put them back on yet. course if he's on speaker he probably had to, but there's still too much shakiness in his breathing for hawk's liking.]
You'd know better than me. Seems a shame either way.
[the next poem - that one has a meaning not lost on hawk at all. but instead of comparing it to the obvious - the carpathians and their grubby hands, there's a soft chuckle right into the receiver he hopes tim can still hear when it isn't up against his ear.]
That one's gotta be all you. You're the apple, baby - you remember when we got stuck at that Christmas party in '20? The foreign exchange?
Thought the German ambassador was going to eat you alive the way he kept staring and eating those stupid schnitzels. Was this close to starting an international incident when he tried to pluck at you.
[ tim looks down at the poem, and while he doesn't mean to choose ones that have a heavy meaning to both of their hearts, theyre the one's he's earmarked for later perusal. the copy is embry's - wavy and water stained. he listens to hawk and laughs. ]
Honey, baby? How many drinks have you had?
[ tim should have considered that before he called hawk. the endearments make him feel better, at least. ]
I think you were busy with that Smith lady. He got ideas, but then again we weren't together in the public eye. Not sure he'd know the difference between apples.
[ god, he feels miserable. he should have just tried to sleep again. he lets out a low breath, shaking his head. ]
[ even shaking and left in the panic of a nightmare and the very real fear that something could kick in his door at any minute, he wonders why he decided to give hawk a second chance. maybe it's the sleep deprivation making his mind churn, or the nightmares, or the medicine that they gave him to help sleep but doesn't help. ]
The rosy-cheeked interns and the aide from Denmark were more interested in you.
[ and it's true. hawk has a way to garnering attention when he enters a room.
he won't think about lucy smith right now. ]
You didn't have to come. I should just go back to sleep.
[ the doubt sinks in, heavy and cold and real in his gut. he closes the sappho. tosses it aside. it misses his nightstand and lands on the floor. ]
Hard to remember anyone else from that night when a sweet Catholic boy from Staten Island was there wearing a rented tux and still looking like a million bucks.
[that's the truth. but somehow, it sounds like he's managed to put doubt into his boy's mind, to make him second guess hawk even coming here in the first place. where the hell else would he be? not still at the bar. and he'd much rather be holding tim tight than sitting alone with another scotch and a cigarette alone at home.]
Hey, what did I say about apologizing? I'm turning down your street. I see the cars out front.
[he doesn't hang up, keeping tim on the line while handing over a wad of cash to the driver and waving to the secret service who take a minute and clear him with the list of allowed visitors and department employees. and then he's lightly knocking his knuckles against the front door, listening to his own echo on the other side of the line.]
[ maybe it's the fact that he's coming down off the adrenaline and fear, but tim can't help the judgement. he's spent the better part of the last three weeks in his own apartment, alone. the visitors are limited, he's watched at every turn. sure, ash has been by, even embry, but the nights get under his skin.
he hears the car doors outside, and even though he's sitting up in his bed, shirtless and sweaty, he listens to hawk on the phone. he's exhausted on all levels, and he stares at the screen of his phone counting down the minutes of their call.
the knock at the door makes him jump. ]
I'm not a child. I don't need tucking in, or a story. I'm not... I'm not fragile. I just - God. It's been a bad month.
[ he needs to gather the courage to get up and undo the two locks on his bedroom and the chain on it. ]
[why does it feel like everything he says is the wrong thing right now? there's a part of him that has the barest hint of frustration, shoving it down because god knows tim has been through an ordeal and if anyone deserves to lash out or express his frustrations, it's him. and sure, there's a part of him that knows he's more than earned some snippiness from tim to boot.]
I know you aren't.
[hawk sighs, pressing his hand flat against the door.]
Listen - if you'd rather I go, I'll go. I just want to make sure you're alright. I want to help, and I want to be here for you - whatever that looks like.
But if you want company to try and forget about how shitty the month has been, I'm right outside.
[there's a pause, hawk recalling something tim had said offhand to him when he'd first gone back home.]
And I'll wait as long as you need to get up and open that door. One lock after the other.
[ there's fear of those who will enter when he sleeps and harm him. there's fear of the man waiting outside his door, patiently. and then there's the fear of himself - that his heart has cracked and has allowed a sliver of hawkins fuller back in. ]
Don't.
[ too urgent, too desperate. but it's out before he can react. ]
Go, I mean. I just -
[ unlocking the doors. opening it. welcoming hawkins fuller into his home this late at night? to see him weak and vulnerable and frightened? to see him fragile and afraid? god. he takes in a deep, deep breath and reaches to hang up the call, saying nothing else.
he stares at it a few seconds, but he moves. he should dress - instead he stays in only his briefs, fumbles his glasses on and stumbles to his bedroom door. his hands are still shaking, but he manages the lock and the chain, then to the front. ]
... Hawk?
[ shaken. afraid that it had just been a technology trick. but he undoes the doorknob lock, then the deadbolt. the chain stays on to catch the door when he opens it. but there he is - hawkins fuller. he takes the chain off next. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
5 mins later
Sorry, it's pretty loud in here - almost missed the notifications. Stepped outside though.
You okay? What's going on?
no subject
it's okay
I forgot youre out
I'm fine enjoy your night
no subject
Nothing happening here is as important as you.
no subject
[ and it is, really. it really, really is. but as he sits in his bed, wrapped up in his blankets, he can't help but feel like his skin itches, like the doors don't have enough locks, like the walls are closing in on him. ]
I can't sleep.
[ understatement of the year. ]
no subject
[ah. fairly easy to infer what's going on from there.]
It's hard at first. Everything you used to take comfort in feels vulnerable somehow.
[speaking from experience.]
I could come by. If you'll let me.
no subject
You're out
[ and a part of him wonders where he is - lyonesse? with embry, or with someone else? ]
It's just a lot
I didn't know who to text. sorry.
1/2
no subject
I'm glad you texted.
[glad you trusted me, he almost says.]
I'm closing out my tab and grabbing a car. Be there in fifteen.
It is a lot. Especially to handle alone. You want me to call?
no subject
[ god the celebration had been massive. tim can remember one drink too many and that's all it took for them to stumble to hawk's for a weekend of playful lovemaking. ]
don't do that on my part. I didn't mean to interrupt your night.
[ he knows hawk, though. and the thought that he's on his way? helps calm him a little. ]
If you want to call.
no subject
[he pulls on his coat, paying for another round for his company before stepping outside to hail a cab and take it to tim's address that he's had memorized for years. gotta take a call if it's alright with you, boss - he says to the driver who waves him off and turns down the music.
when tim picks up, the smile is audible in hawk's voice.]
'Course I want to hear your voice. Talk to me - I'm on my way.
no subject
[ hawk has a way of both overcoming an obstacle and calming the raging fire of an argument just as well as anyone. he's at his best in the midst of a fight, isn't he? all prowess and confidence.
when tim picks up, he cannot help the way the sound of hawk's voice makes some of the tension run out of his body. but tim sounds exhausted: his voice hoarse (he's been crying), his words a little slurred from sleep, his breath hitching and catching a little between words. ]
I don't know what to say.
[ the sounds of sheets rustling, and tim rubbing at the bridge of his nose. ]
no subject
[it's soft the way he says it, reverent in a way. tim used to like the endearments, and he's been keeping them light while they figure out whatever it is they're in the middle of, but tonight he thinks it won't be unwelcome.]
Don't have to say anything, if you don't want to. I can talk - tell you about the latest gossip on my side of the podium.
Or if you do - you tell me about the latest book you're reading. I know you've got one.
[it kills him the way tim sounds, even over the distant and crackling line. must have been another nightmare.]
no subject
[ the little endearments do help, actually. tim doesn't know what they're playing at together, but the familiarity helps ground him. just hearing hawk's voice is enough. that, coupled with the sound of the car and knowing he's headed here? well. ]
What am I reading? [ tim feels so shaken he can hardly think straight, and there's noise on the other line as he rustles about to find the stack of books on his nightstand. ]
A book on J. Edgar Hoover, um. And the pulitzer winner. Hernan Diaz. It's dark, but. I'm tired of reading about politics. Um.
[ a deep, shaky breath. ]
Sappho poems.
no subject
[politics, he means. a light tease - enough to try and distract tim a little further. the more he can take his mind off this, the better. and maybe, just maybe - he'll fall asleep a little easier when hawk is there to lull him into it in his arms. it's not that he's trying to sneak his way into tim's bed, but he recalls him sleeping better the nights he was in it compared to the ones he was in the chair off to the side in the hospital.]
Sappho - she's Greek, right? Kindred spirits at our fine club like Mary?
Tell me something about your favorite one.
no subject
[ as much as tim loves his job and the political beat, right now he’d rather be an absolutely nobody. ]
Greek. There’s debate about whether she’s in Mary’s club or not. I don’t know.
Her words are beautiful. Ugh, god. Hawk. The book is - fine.
[ he mishears “tell me about” for “tell me your”. or maybe tim is just only half listening and half trying desperately to keep calm.
there’s the sound of tim moving, stumbling in the dim light, his breath hitching before he’s back. he sounds winded - but it’s just panic. the rustle of pages and then he reads, stumbling over a couple words: ]
It's no use
Mother dear, I
can't finish my
weaving
You may
blame Aphrodite
soft as she is
she has almost
killed me with
love for that boy.
Sorry, my hands are shaking.
no subject
Well, if the weaving can't get done...must be serious.
[there's a hint of amusement in his voice, obvious fondness as he watches the streetlights pass into blurs of red and yellow light. he's on his way to the boy that almost killed him with love too.]
Don't be sorry. Do me a favour - shake your hands out for a sec and then find another one you like and read it to me.
They sound good when you're the one saying 'em.
[he won't linger on why his hands are shaking, instead trying to distract him long enough that he's on tim's doorstep and can soothe away the rest of the physical trauma with touch.]
no subject
[ there's a shaky little admonition - of course he's going to gripe at him for making light of beautiful poetry or words. he always does. even when he feels like he might well fall apart at the seams sitting here.
but he does what he's told. shakes his hands out a little, the phone on speaker now and laying on the duvet. there's the sound of pages again, of slow, shaking breaths and the trembling still of fingertips as he tries to find a poem. he can't focus. ]
Most of the poems are fragments. Not much of... her work was destroyed? I think. Got lost? I don't - I don't remember.
You: an Achilles’ apple
Blushing sweet on a high branch
At the tip of the tallest tree.
You escaped those who would pluck your fruit.
Not that they didn’t try. No,
they could not forget you
Poised beyond their reach.
no subject
[hawk listens to the rustling, trying to piece together what tim is doing, what he looks like while he's still a few miles away. his hair is probably mussed like it gets from bedhead, glasses a little askew if he even put them back on yet. course if he's on speaker he probably had to, but there's still too much shakiness in his breathing for hawk's liking.]
You'd know better than me. Seems a shame either way.
[the next poem - that one has a meaning not lost on hawk at all. but instead of comparing it to the obvious - the carpathians and their grubby hands, there's a soft chuckle right into the receiver he hopes tim can still hear when it isn't up against his ear.]
That one's gotta be all you. You're the apple, baby - you remember when we got stuck at that Christmas party in '20? The foreign exchange?
Thought the German ambassador was going to eat you alive the way he kept staring and eating those stupid schnitzels. Was this close to starting an international incident when he tried to pluck at you.
no subject
Honey, baby? How many drinks have you had?
[ tim should have considered that before he called hawk. the endearments make him feel better, at least. ]
I think you were busy with that Smith lady. He got ideas, but then again we weren't together in the public eye. Not sure he'd know the difference between apples.
[ god, he feels miserable. he should have just tried to sleep again. he lets out a low breath, shaking his head. ]
Sorry. I'm not... just not thinking very clearly.
no subject
[nowhere near drunk. pleasantly warm - but this is still all intentional, and he's glad he managed to get something good out of him.]
Made you laugh though, so it's worth it.
[ah. lucy smith - not his finest hour. especially considering the transition to practically dating her right after he and tim...
nevermind. water under the bridge, he hopes.]
He knew. Didn't catch him eyeing any of the rosy-cheeked interns or even the aide from Denmark.
[shit.]
Hey, stay with me, okay? You're at home, and I'm almost there. Just around the corner.
no subject
The rosy-cheeked interns and the aide from Denmark were more interested in you.
[ and it's true. hawk has a way to garnering attention when he enters a room.
he won't think about lucy smith right now. ]
You didn't have to come. I should just go back to sleep.
[ the doubt sinks in, heavy and cold and real in his gut. he closes the sappho. tosses it aside. it misses his nightstand and lands on the floor. ]
Sorry I interrupted you.
no subject
[that's the truth. but somehow, it sounds like he's managed to put doubt into his boy's mind, to make him second guess hawk even coming here in the first place. where the hell else would he be? not still at the bar. and he'd much rather be holding tim tight than sitting alone with another scotch and a cigarette alone at home.]
Hey, what did I say about apologizing? I'm turning down your street. I see the cars out front.
[he doesn't hang up, keeping tim on the line while handing over a wad of cash to the driver and waving to the secret service who take a minute and clear him with the list of allowed visitors and department employees. and then he's lightly knocking his knuckles against the front door, listening to his own echo on the other side of the line.]
I'm here. I'll tuck you in and everything.
no subject
[ maybe it's the fact that he's coming down off the adrenaline and fear, but tim can't help the judgement. he's spent the better part of the last three weeks in his own apartment, alone. the visitors are limited, he's watched at every turn. sure, ash has been by, even embry, but the nights get under his skin.
he hears the car doors outside, and even though he's sitting up in his bed, shirtless and sweaty, he listens to hawk on the phone. he's exhausted on all levels, and he stares at the screen of his phone counting down the minutes of their call.
the knock at the door makes him jump. ]
I'm not a child. I don't need tucking in, or a story. I'm not... I'm not fragile. I just - God. It's been a bad month.
[ he needs to gather the courage to get up and undo the two locks on his bedroom and the chain on it. ]
no subject
[why does it feel like everything he says is the wrong thing right now? there's a part of him that has the barest hint of frustration, shoving it down because god knows tim has been through an ordeal and if anyone deserves to lash out or express his frustrations, it's him. and sure, there's a part of him that knows he's more than earned some snippiness from tim to boot.]
I know you aren't.
[hawk sighs, pressing his hand flat against the door.]
Listen - if you'd rather I go, I'll go. I just want to make sure you're alright. I want to help, and I want to be here for you - whatever that looks like.
But if you want company to try and forget about how shitty the month has been, I'm right outside.
[there's a pause, hawk recalling something tim had said offhand to him when he'd first gone back home.]
And I'll wait as long as you need to get up and open that door. One lock after the other.
no subject
[ there's fear of those who will enter when he sleeps and harm him. there's fear of the man waiting outside his door, patiently. and then there's the fear of himself - that his heart has cracked and has allowed a sliver of hawkins fuller back in. ]
Don't.
[ too urgent, too desperate. but it's out before he can react. ]
Go, I mean. I just -
[ unlocking the doors. opening it. welcoming hawkins fuller into his home this late at night? to see him weak and vulnerable and frightened? to see him fragile and afraid? god. he takes in a deep, deep breath and reaches to hang up the call, saying nothing else.
he stares at it a few seconds, but he moves. he should dress - instead he stays in only his briefs, fumbles his glasses on and stumbles to his bedroom door. his hands are still shaking, but he manages the lock and the chain, then to the front. ]
... Hawk?
[ shaken. afraid that it had just been a technology trick. but he undoes the doorknob lock, then the deadbolt. the chain stays on to catch the door when he opens it. but there he is - hawkins fuller. he takes the chain off next. ]
Don't go.
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)