[ 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. ]
[it's not just the nightmares, the trauma, the carpathian terrorists that did this to tim that have him frightened. it sinks in very suddenly in a practical blow to the chest that there is a part of tim that's frightened by hawk and what he's capable of, how he's wounded him in the past. not just that, but he's skittish and gun-shy to let him in again and make himself willingly susceptible to all the vulnerabilities that come with hawk in his space. however much he's been trying - it's not enough. that, or tim has been so blindsided and shaken up by this that it's triggered old, unresolved issues.
or - is it just impossible for him to fucking do anything anymore without somehow hurting him? christ, it feels like dodging landmines in italy all over again, only this time they're of his own planting.
don't, tim says, and for a minute hawk's breath catches in his throat at the idea that he'll be turned away with the knowledge that his skippy is inside all alone and hurting terribly. that he needs someone with him more than he maybe realizes, even if it is hawk. but again, there's no one to blame but himself, at least until tim starts stumbling up and he can hear the heavy turn of newly fitted locks and deadbolts from his side of the phone. a few more, and then there he is through the peek he gets at the door still chained in place. hawk tilts his head, lips pulling into a soft smile despite himself and realizing he started breathing again after all.]
It's me. I'm not going anywhere, okay?
[his eyes are soft, and he doesn't hesitate before stepping forward to pat one of his cheeks affectionately.]
[ there are many reasons why tim opens the door to hawk, despite the very real fear of being hurt again. he knows what hawk is capable of, and how quickly things can change without him knowing. after all, the day that hawk told him to leave, tore him down to his foundation and sent him packing, had been just any other day for them.
tim knows now there were outside stressors, sure. but how it all came down to tim's heart shattered on the pavement, he still doesn't fully know. but the man touches his cheek and his eyes flutter closed. he knows what he looks like - basically naked, sweaty, hair stuck to his forehead and dark circles under his eyes. he hasn't slept well in weeks.
hawk smells like cigarettes, the bar, and his aftershave and he doesn't resist leaning into him the moment he's inside and the door is shut behind them.
he buries his face against hawk's shoulder, his fingers trembling, his breaths coming in short, wavering streams. ]
I'm glad you're here.
[ even if all signs point to danger, he ignores them. ]
[maybe tim looks like all of those things, but it doesn't prompt disgust or turn hawk off in the slightest. not that that's what he's here for - instead, just makes his brows knit together ever so slightly as he brushes back some of the damp hair pressed against his heated skin with a small frown. skippy looks tired as all get out, and that concerns him. whether it's nightmares or anxiety - he needs the rest, and it's all going to culminate to make him feel worse. christ, he's lucky it didn't blow up during the day at the most inopportune moment. but hawk can tell him all about his own experience with that as a recovering vet senator smith took pity on another time. for now, he just wants to get tim back inside.]
I'm glad you wanted me to.
[and he means it, relishing the moment tim practically melts against him the moment the door is closed. hawk only takes a brief second to reach around him and turn both locks and rechain the door for security before pressing a kiss to the top of his temple. he remembers seeing tim wince when he had to bend down for something the other day, a testament to his still tender ribs, so hawk opens his arms wide and wraps them around tim's shoulders, marveling at how tim still manages to look so small sometimes despite the carved muscle of his torso and those delectable goddamn arms. jesus.]
You wanna try and lay down again? Or do you want to sit? I can make you a drink...put on some music...you just say the word.
[sweetheart - it lingers on his tongue, but he doesn't utter it in the fear that tim will think he's trying to lay it on thick or doubt it's authenticity.]
[ the moment hawk's arms wrap around him, tim settles in against his chest on a little sigh. his own arms come round the man's waist, hugging him close. he knows hawk is trying his best here, that he's offering only what he knows to, but tim can't discern what he wants best in the moment anyway.
instead he lets his eyes close, lets the warmth of the man soak into the front of him, lets the scent of him overwhelm his senses. he almost doesn't hear the list of things he's being offered.
he wants to sleep but knows he won't be able to. he doesn't want to sit, really, idle and anxious and uncertain. he doesn't pull away - instead talks into the man's shoulder. ]
I don't think I have anything to drink here. I'm sorry.
[ count on tim to keep his fridge full of milk, but little else to drink. ]
Can we just... stay like this for a second?
[ tim in only his underwear, skin glistening with a cold, chilled sweat. hawk in the office finest, the hint of scotch on his breath and cigarettes at his collar. he shakes his head a little and out of an embarrassed reflex, he starts to pull away. ]
[hawk wouldn't expect him to - certainly not scotch, maybe a few beers, but definitely milk. which does give him an idea, but not the one tim needs right now. instead he lets his arms tighten slightly, one hand coming to slide up the top of his spine with abject tenderness, palm splaying flat until rests against the nape of his neck and his fingertips skim against the short hairs at the bottom of his skull. and while he has the opportunity - he tilts his own head ever so slightly, feeling the warmth of his cheek pressing somewhere against tim's temple and letting his eyes slip closed at the sensation he's craved for longer than he'd like to admit. missed desperately, even where it was his own damn fault for letting it go in the first place. there's a soft inhale as he breathes in the scent of sweat and soap and lets it wash over him, as much of a balm as his own is, unknowingly, to tim.]
Hey, hey, hey - don't go yet. Nothing weird about it. We'll worry about the music later.
[hawk's arms tighten, not hard enough to keep tim from going altogether, but hopefully so he'll think twice about pulling away and letting the doubt seep in. hawk nuzzles against his cheek, palm patting against his back.]
Just stay here for a little bit.
[there's a pause, hawk toeing the line and wondering if too much affection seems insincere. his voice lowers anyway, inflecting as much genuine care as he can because all of it is real.]
[ how easy it is to sink into everything they used to be. to let hawk bundle him up and press close, whisper low and soft against his ear. he should rail against it, should resist and push and pry and make the man truly work for this kind of intimacy again, but he doesn't.
he doesn't want to fight, even if everyone around him says he should. even if everyone tells him that men like hawkins fuller never change. even if he knows that when he gets hurt from all this? it's self-inflicted.
hawk's arms tighten and tim doesn't try very hard to get free. it's easy to land back against hawk's chest, close his eyes, and soak up the sincerity and affection in his voice. god, he misses him. he's missed him for years.
tim leans into the man again, letting his arms snug back up around hawk's waist, arms beneath his jacket and against the soft fabric of his expensive shirt. ]
Yeah. Okay. You can hold me.
[ not that he needed to give permission, considering. his eyes drift shut and he turns his head, just enough that the bridge of his nose slots against hawk's jaw, like they were meant to fit like this - and he listens to the rhythm of hawk's heart. when he speaks, there's something tired and almost dazed about it, as if being held is already lulling him to a calm, lowering his walls. it hasn't stopped the way his hands shake, yet. ]
You're so warm. How do you do it? [ tim's palms press flat against hawk's back, still above the shirt of course, soaking up the warmth in his chilled fingers. ]
[it's not that he wants to take advantage in a malicious sense - to make tim feel like he's somehow obligated to give this to him, all the old familiarities and secret places they know on one another's body maybe better than they know themselves. it's true, there's no amount of time that will absolve him of all the hurt he caused and earn back the right to be here holding tim this easily or intimately, but fuck if hawk can't help but sink into it all the same. he'll take what he can get, knowing full well tim is keeping his distance on a few levels and it's exactly what he'd tell him to do if it was any other asshole that had played with his heart and left him wrecked for it.
his face burrows against tim's neck, tipping to feel where that soft nose nudges along the underside of his jaw and fits them against one another like they were made for it. sometimes it felt that way - but the truth is the idea never went away. no matter how many other men hawk fucked, how many bodies he had pressed up or around him - none of them could ever compare to the pure bliss that comes from this sweet boy, his skippy.
he's just as gone as he always has been. maybe worse this time, and tim doesn't even know it.]
Good.
[lightly he lets his footing rock slightly from one to the other - just a soft shift of balance without much rhyme or reason. it's not enough to be a sway, but he hopes tim will find it soothing all the same as he hears his breathing even out slightly, even if the tremors in his hands are still there. it makes hawk want to reach for them, to press a kiss to the backs and palms of them.]
Mm, well - I'm an all American, hot-blooded man for starters.
[not untrue, and there's a hint of a tease against tim's cheek as he nuzzles lightly, trying not to shiver at the feeling of his cold fingers against the thin fabric of his dress shirt.]
But it runs hotter when you're around, I'll tell you that much.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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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?
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[ 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.
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[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. ]
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[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.
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[ 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.
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or - is it just impossible for him to fucking do anything anymore without somehow hurting him? christ, it feels like dodging landmines in italy all over again, only this time they're of his own planting.
don't, tim says, and for a minute hawk's breath catches in his throat at the idea that he'll be turned away with the knowledge that his skippy is inside all alone and hurting terribly. that he needs someone with him more than he maybe realizes, even if it is hawk. but again, there's no one to blame but himself, at least until tim starts stumbling up and he can hear the heavy turn of newly fitted locks and deadbolts from his side of the phone. a few more, and then there he is through the peek he gets at the door still chained in place. hawk tilts his head, lips pulling into a soft smile despite himself and realizing he started breathing again after all.]
It's me. I'm not going anywhere, okay?
[his eyes are soft, and he doesn't hesitate before stepping forward to pat one of his cheeks affectionately.]
C'mon. Let's get you back inside.
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tim knows now there were outside stressors, sure. but how it all came down to tim's heart shattered on the pavement, he still doesn't fully know. but the man touches his cheek and his eyes flutter closed. he knows what he looks like - basically naked, sweaty, hair stuck to his forehead and dark circles under his eyes. he hasn't slept well in weeks.
hawk smells like cigarettes, the bar, and his aftershave and he doesn't resist leaning into him the moment he's inside and the door is shut behind them.
he buries his face against hawk's shoulder, his fingers trembling, his breaths coming in short, wavering streams. ]
I'm glad you're here.
[ even if all signs point to danger, he ignores them. ]
Thank you.
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I'm glad you wanted me to.
[and he means it, relishing the moment tim practically melts against him the moment the door is closed. hawk only takes a brief second to reach around him and turn both locks and rechain the door for security before pressing a kiss to the top of his temple. he remembers seeing tim wince when he had to bend down for something the other day, a testament to his still tender ribs, so hawk opens his arms wide and wraps them around tim's shoulders, marveling at how tim still manages to look so small sometimes despite the carved muscle of his torso and those delectable goddamn arms. jesus.]
You wanna try and lay down again? Or do you want to sit? I can make you a drink...put on some music...you just say the word.
[sweetheart - it lingers on his tongue, but he doesn't utter it in the fear that tim will think he's trying to lay it on thick or doubt it's authenticity.]
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instead he lets his eyes close, lets the warmth of the man soak into the front of him, lets the scent of him overwhelm his senses. he almost doesn't hear the list of things he's being offered.
he wants to sleep but knows he won't be able to. he doesn't want to sit, really, idle and anxious and uncertain. he doesn't pull away - instead talks into the man's shoulder. ]
I don't think I have anything to drink here. I'm sorry.
[ count on tim to keep his fridge full of milk, but little else to drink. ]
Can we just... stay like this for a second?
[ tim in only his underwear, skin glistening with a cold, chilled sweat. hawk in the office finest, the hint of scotch on his breath and cigarettes at his collar. he shakes his head a little and out of an embarrassed reflex, he starts to pull away. ]
I know that's weird. Sorry. Music, then?
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Hey, hey, hey - don't go yet. Nothing weird about it. We'll worry about the music later.
[hawk's arms tighten, not hard enough to keep tim from going altogether, but hopefully so he'll think twice about pulling away and letting the doubt seep in. hawk nuzzles against his cheek, palm patting against his back.]
Just stay here for a little bit.
[there's a pause, hawk toeing the line and wondering if too much affection seems insincere. his voice lowers anyway, inflecting as much genuine care as he can because all of it is real.]
I wanna hold you for a second.
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he doesn't want to fight, even if everyone around him says he should. even if everyone tells him that men like hawkins fuller never change. even if he knows that when he gets hurt from all this? it's self-inflicted.
hawk's arms tighten and tim doesn't try very hard to get free. it's easy to land back against hawk's chest, close his eyes, and soak up the sincerity and affection in his voice. god, he misses him. he's missed him for years.
tim leans into the man again, letting his arms snug back up around hawk's waist, arms beneath his jacket and against the soft fabric of his expensive shirt. ]
Yeah. Okay. You can hold me.
[ not that he needed to give permission, considering. his eyes drift shut and he turns his head, just enough that the bridge of his nose slots against hawk's jaw, like they were meant to fit like this - and he listens to the rhythm of hawk's heart. when he speaks, there's something tired and almost dazed about it, as if being held is already lulling him to a calm, lowering his walls. it hasn't stopped the way his hands shake, yet. ]
You're so warm. How do you do it? [ tim's palms press flat against hawk's back, still above the shirt of course, soaking up the warmth in his chilled fingers. ]
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his face burrows against tim's neck, tipping to feel where that soft nose nudges along the underside of his jaw and fits them against one another like they were made for it. sometimes it felt that way - but the truth is the idea never went away. no matter how many other men hawk fucked, how many bodies he had pressed up or around him - none of them could ever compare to the pure bliss that comes from this sweet boy, his skippy.
he's just as gone as he always has been. maybe worse this time, and tim doesn't even know it.]
Good.
[lightly he lets his footing rock slightly from one to the other - just a soft shift of balance without much rhyme or reason. it's not enough to be a sway, but he hopes tim will find it soothing all the same as he hears his breathing even out slightly, even if the tremors in his hands are still there. it makes hawk want to reach for them, to press a kiss to the backs and palms of them.]
Mm, well - I'm an all American, hot-blooded man for starters.
[not untrue, and there's a hint of a tease against tim's cheek as he nuzzles lightly, trying not to shiver at the feeling of his cold fingers against the thin fabric of his dress shirt.]
But it runs hotter when you're around, I'll tell you that much.
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