[ 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.
[ they will always fit together, imperceptibly and perfectly. one would look at the pair of them, from the threads of their suits to the foundation of their ideals and think they were the most poorly matched humans in all of washington. maybe they'd be right - but here, wrapped up in hawk's arms and feeling the faintest of sways begin, tim forgets all of the naysayers.
this? this is why he called hawkins fuller after a nightmare. no one else would be able to care for him like this without asking questions. ash would, maybe, and find some other form of distraction. embry would be drunk, undoubtedly, and wouldn't ask questions but wouldn't exactly get at the root of the problem, either.
damn hawkins fuller for being... well. himself.
tim huffs a little laugh finally against hawk's neck. ]
All-American, hot-blooded man? Washington must love you.
[ it runs hotter when you're around hawk says and for the first time in years, tim can feel the faintest creep of something pink in his cheeks. damn him. ]
Does it? My hands are freezing.
[ he sounds exhausted when he says it and he hesitates for a moment - in a different life, he'd tug at hawk's shirt and get his fingers beneath. in a different life they would laugh and it would end up with clothes on the floor and a night spend wild in bed.
in this life, tim still tugs the shirt, enough to slide two trembling, cold fingers beneath, just above the belt and waistline of his trousers. there's no kiss or teasing nuzzle to accompany it. just the curve of a smile on tim's lips, that might be felt in that soft nuzzle. already he's feeling a little more like himself than he has in weeks. only a little. ]
[it's a waste of time to ask questions to the things he already knows the answer to. and everything else - well, he knows how to ask right so he doesn't spook tim, doesn't drag up the things he's trying to deal with and can avoid upsetting him any more than he already has by crashing back into his life after years apart. it's not that his former (current?) lover can't confront these things head on - christ no - but ptsd and trauma are a hell of a thing for anyone to deal with, let alone someone headstrong and scrappy enough to put up the kind of fight carpathian terrorists would be thrilled to find ways to break.
sometimes hawk wonders how the hell he got so misguided - letting those same things that set them apart and drive him wild in the best way be the same things he desperately tried to hide. the clothes, the politics, their general day-to-day modus operandi. the way tim is a ray of fucking sunshine and a sunflower growing up out of cement and the swampy muck of dc, the only honest thing that might exist within the white house.
it makes him hold tim a little tighter, breathe him in deeper, sway a little more from side to side as long as he can refresh all the sensory memories he's been missing since he gave them up.]
I think it's the four languages and loyal, bureaucratic service they're a little more appreciative of.
[hawk can't see it from where he's pressed against tim's neck, but there's a tiredness in his voice that even the teasing can't hide - bone-deep and difficult to evade. there'd be much easier methods of distraction and wearing him out from a physical sense if things weren't in the precarious, brand new step-by-step they're rebuilding this relationship with. hawk would have him swept up in his arms, on his back and wearing less than he is now within minutes of coming through that door.
but that privilege hasn't been earned back, and even if it were - it's not the right method in the face of real fears and a tenderness tim needs that transcends the physical. that little brush of tim's lips - not a kiss, just the secretive press of a hidden smile makes hawk mimic it almost immediately, sucking in a breath at tim's wandering fingers like ice against his lower belly.]
You weren't kidding. Give me your other hand.
[if tim complies, he'll hold it for a moment while he tugs out the rest of his shirt and slides it up his back, encouraging tim to splay his whole palm there against the warmth emanating from firm muscle and what feels practically feels like a pulsepoint from where each of his fingers have marked a spot against him.
carefully, hawk works the heel of one shoe off with the toe of the other, kicking them behind him and nudging his socked feet against tim's.]
[ tim's eyes drift shut as they sway together a little longer, the very warmth and scent of him enough to act as a balm to the jittery, panicked energy from before. it's not perfect, and it won't take the root of the fear away, but it soothes one of the little, splintered cracks in his heart. ]
Mm. Yes, please continue to brag, Mr. Hawkins Fuller, great American soldier, patriot and servant. I must have forgotten after all this time.
[ in the meantime, tim allows hawk to take up his other hand - does he really have a choice? - and place it against the familiar warmth of his back. how many nights had his hands crept up hawk's shirt, found the little divot of scar tissue and pressed the flat of his palm over it?
he doesn't do that now - he keeps his hand where hawk has placed it. the other simply slides round to join it, stacking just above it to seek out the same warmth. it's hawk pressing his socked feet against his own that make him gasp a little, both in surprise and at the familiarity of it. he tips his head back away from hawk's shoulder then, blinking up at him, brows pinched in suspicion.
he's too tired to pull away, too weak to resist the sweetness of the gesture. his hands still shake, a little clammy, and the sweat shows on his brow from mere moments before, but his eyes have calmed, warmed, his shoulders slumped. ]
You're being sweet. Why? [ it's not meant to be mean or accusatory, though with his fatigue, it might sound that way. he hopes the little lopsided grin on his face might counteract that effect. ] You're never like this. I'm going to owe you something, aren't I?
Edited (i forgot he put his glasses back on whoops) 2024-02-19 23:14 (UTC)
[hawk chuckles, unable to hold it back for how glad he is to be here and to hear some of that bite coming back into tim's teasing. his own tone, muffled as it is against tim's neck takes a turn for almost playful, a little more irreverent.]
Is it still bragging if it's just factual? I can't help the war hero bit. Unless you've discovered a time machine I don't know about in the last two years from one of those books you got your nose in.
[it feels right to have both of his hands pressed against his spine, so close to the one place no one else has ever touched besides the surgeons and doctor's who examined it after the initial injury. he'd known long before nimble fingers mapped out the edges and ridges of its lingering presence and reminder on his skin of all the pain and suffering he'd been through for the greater good that he was fucked for tim laughlin, but letting him do that? tim really has no idea how much that had meant at the time, only a few brief years after he got his shit back together professionally and publicly all the while running away from any meaningful connection outside of it.
until tim came along, until he was head over heels - struck by a bolt to the heart - love at first sight. weeks ago he'd admit to having a soft spot for the kid, but the rest? not a chance in hell. christ, now he's practically bursting with the need to tell him, for the right time...if he ever earns it back.
it's why he doesn't balk at the insinuation, the suspicion in tim's voice that might be authentic and might just be exhaustion even as his face scrunches up into something full of consideration, like he's working out a particularly complicated scenario of public policy agenda. hawk stays where he is, leveling him with a soft pull of his lips that's understanding, sympathetic, and meant to be reassuring all in one.]
I am.
[the hurt is where his eyes are a little more distant, cloudy even - just for a brief moment as he tips his head closer to tim's and lowers his voice like he's trying not to startle a wild rabbit in a garden.]
I told you - I want to be here for you, Skippy. Show up. Not just tonight - however long you'll let me.
And it shouldn't be a secret I'm sweet on you, so maybe I can't help it.
[he pauses, mouth pressing back into a soft line.]
Consider me a changed man, as long as you like it. You don't owe me anything. That's what you do for the people you care about.
I guess you have a lot to learn about from those missing two years.
[ something about hawk's irreverent, playful tone warm against his neck makes little sparks shoot down his spine. it's all the wrong moment for those feelings, and really it's more a knee-jerk reaction, the very ghost of muscle memory that brings it back. it's paired with a pang in his chest, an ache in his heart, even if it does something to sooth the shaking and jitteriness he felt moments ago.
damn him.
he keeps his palms pressed to hawk's back, doesn't create the space that something in the back of his mind is squealing for. his face remains scrunched, brows pinched as he considers the softness in hawk's expression.
he's seen so much of this version of hawk over the last few weeks that it feels too good to be true. the better part of two years together shattered on the stoop of his condo makes it difficult to see, like it's a shattered mirror, reflecting the sun into his eyes. with hawk's softness comes frustration, comes a temper, comes a sudden about-face when things get too real or too stark.
damn hawkins fuller, too, for the guilt that tim feels at even thinking about doubting him. but doubt he does. he's too shaken and tired for all this thinking. ]
But it is a secret.
[ there's no accusation, just a quiet sort of admission, almost a little sad in the way his voice lowered between them, quivering. he's started shivering a little, the sheen of sweat having dried with the heat of hawk close, leaving him to realize just how underclothed he really is. ]
And it's nice of you to say that. I'm not discounting you being sweet - it's nice. All of this is very nice. It just... it just doesn't seem like you.
[ this was a hawk he had in bursts - in brief moments lost in a bedroom, on a balcony, on the roof, in a faraway hotel room or little getaway. never consistent, never often enough, always stolen, always kept. ]
I'm... I'm tired, sorry. I haven't really slept since I got out of the hospital. Didn't sleep much there, either.
[ his hands slip - a few inches down his back, his cold fingers lacing atop his own, taking up less space, creating some little distance, his fingers fidgeting in the way they always do, even if it's against hawk's skin. ]
I'm sure I do. But I'd like to learn them - whenever you're ready.
[of course tim isn't the same boy he was, still green behind the years when they met years ago at the library of congress by chance one balmy spring afternoon. it's difficult not to feel responsible for whatever changes have happened since then - any hardening of his heart, the cracks and splinters of wounds he inflicted that haven't fully healed in the same way his own never did either. but what did he miss? he'd tried his best to keep tabs as subtly as possible - tracking his shift from lonigan's aide into another cabinet, his work with senator johnson...and then to ash himself, the day it all came screeching to a halt for hawk. but the tim laughlin behind closed doors? he didn't have a clue. no idea if he'd been single, if he'd picked up a better taste in drinks besides milk, if he still kept house plants, if he used a single edged blade to keep his skin baby smooth every morning, or if he still preferred curling up in his underwear and socks under layers of blankets and struggled to stumble into the mornings with bedhead and bleary eyes even his glasses couldn't save. so many intimate, precious things he knows about timothy laughlin, cradled in his arms - and for the last two years nothing to do with this torturous wealth of information.
there's an awful ache like a fist closing in around his heart of self-doubt at the thought of tim never fully trusting him again, much as he'd deserve it. the inclusion of sudden space from where they'd practically been cheek to cheek hurts just as much, even if he understands it and needs to face what his own actions have wrought. he deserves the slight appraisal in tim's gaze, the squinting confusion and the doubt and the reminder that hawk is the one who walked out and made it this way.
fuck.
rather than get irritated and walk out - which is what the hawk from two years ago would have done after some snide comments that tim wouldn't back down from, easily standing up for himself and driving whatever point hawk was avoiding home - hawk just keeps his face placid, blinking at tim and trying to silently communicate that it's alright, whatever he's feeling. he's not doing that again, and he's absolutely not leaving no matter how frosty the response is.
speaking of frosty, his hands are like ice, and he must be feeling it for the way he suddenly shivers. hawk immediately rubs his hands up and down the tops of tim's arms and shoulders, trying to generate heat from the friction and pausing to take off his jacket, absently setting it over the edge of the couch.]
That's not the most important thing right now - secrets, being sweet. You're freezing, and you're tired, yeah.
Let's get you warmed up. You want pajamas? A shower? Warm milk? I can get you under a pile of blankets in the blink of an eye if you like.
[hawk's hands shift back along tim's shoulders, thumbs rubbing at the soft skin and kneading against a perfect indent of muscle.]
[ tim isn't being fair and he knows it. he hates the angry, confused, injured thing he feels like he becomes when hawk tries to press in with softness, with sweetness. while he can tell by looking in the man's eyes that it's all very real, he can't help but being snake bitten in a way - waiting for the next sharp sting of fangs. but hawk stays open to him regardless of his armor, regardless of the way he dives in, jabs, and leaps out every time.
whenever you're ready, hawk says, and tim isn't sure when he will be. if he will be. but also? he doesn't know if hawk will want to see the hardened, wounded, embittered person he's truly become. ]
I probably have a lot to learn, too.
[ it's a peace offering, either way, because regardless of what he feels? tim never stopped loving the man in front of him, even when he'd all but written him out of his life with a bow to finish it. tim knows at any turn he'll turn, rush out, break down or snap, surely. maybe.
he doesn't. hawk's hands shift instead to rub at his arms, and already he's cursing the distance he made. even if he wants to be furious and angry and try to respect the line he's drawn for himself? the comfort of hawk's body against his, the arms around him, the soft, low rasp of his voice? it's all too impossible to deny. hawk says honey and sweetheart even as his fingers press into a tense muscle in one shoulder and he sighs contentedly, eyes fluttering shut, hands flexing and reaching against hawk's back again, palms spreading to find the warmth and lean back into him, encouraging the arms around his shoulders all over again. a tiny, sad part of him tells him to take what if this he can get now. soak it up. remember what it feels like to be cared for and loved and wanted by this man before it goes away again.
the palms slide, tim's chest sinks in against hawks and his arms wrap around hawk's waist, fingers still very much beneath the fabric of his shirt. one palm skirts up against hawk's ribs one one side, the other tucks under the crook of his own elbow at his waist. he sighs, contented at the warmth the man puts off. ]
I probably need to go to bed.
[ i need you. ]
Or try to. No pajamas - I had to stop wearing them. I... I kept waking up drenched. It's why I'm -
[ a little shrug of one shoulder, even with his face tucked against hawk's neck again. ]
A blink of an eye. [ to be taken to the bedroom, wrapped up, cared for? it's all he wants right now. and it's hawk's earnest sweetness that finally pays off - tim huffs a little against his neck, nuzzling in a little before he speaks, the hint of a smile on his voice: ]
[it's in that moment he knows - there is a lot for him to learn about tim. but he'll endure it because he wants this more than he's wanted anything in his whole goddamn life. two years of staying away, never fully being able to rid himself of thoughts of tim and that future they'd tentatively discussed together. of hurting himself too, maybe not more than he hurt the man he cares so deeply for, but it was all still a self-inflicted wound of secrecy and fear. never shame though - at least, not for himself or what happened between them. shame maybe for a society that would still put a microscope over them, that would hurt them for soft dreams and a safe haven against the norm. and what about kenny and lenny and senator smith? living proof that love couldn't be enough - love still brought death no matter how well meaning.
and then he almost lost tim to it anyway, keeping his distance. not able to have spared him this fucking nightmare - because christ, if they'd been together...he would have had his eyes glued to his lover from across that ballroom if he wasn't already at his hip all night.
but that's the guilt he'll have to live with, that no amount of forgiveness, still unearned, will be able to offer. but he's grateful all the same for tim softening a bit, letting his guard down because he's still that sweet boy who never fully let him go - who he wants to hope still has enough love in him to remember what the good times were like together and embrace them once more. maybe he himself isn't deserving of that love, but fuck if he doesn't want to at least try. his lips stretch into a closed-lipped smile, eyes bright with a little tease and acknowledgment for the mercy tim doles out in admitting it.]
Maybe not. You were always the one who managed to change with the times - sometimes it feels like I just stood still.
[waiting for something - waiting for a time when i could have you, he thinks to himself, playfulness turning wistful in the blink of an eye. but maybe tim misses it when he curls against his chest once more, making hawk marvel at how someone built so sturdy can simultaneously look and feel so small and so strong all at once. he'll never forget the first time he saw tim without a shirt on, blown away by the body ill-fitting suits and button-down hid from every ogling eye in washington. probably a small mercy, all things considered. his arms squeeze tight again, a soft hum of consideration and agreement that he should try and go to bed, now that he's got company and the safe assurance that he's not alone.]
That's okay. No pajamas.
[hawk already knows he'll be up at all hours, checking tim's forehead for heat and sweat generated from the horror of memories haunting him in nightmares so he can get him a wet rag and dab at his skin to keep it cooled down.
but this time he pulls back after tim's had a moment to rub against him and hide his soft amusement at hawk's very serious offer. i'm timing you mr. fuller. hawk grins, letting his hands shift as he bends down and swings an arm under both of tim's knees, knocking them together lightly as he swoops him up into an easy bridal carry.]
Hold on, Mr. Laughlin. I'm at your service.
[all of tim's cozy apartment looks nearly the same, save a couple new plants tucked against shelves and windows that look a little worse for wear. he'll take stock later, instead striding confidently into the bedroom and carefully setting him down among the distressed covers. it occurs to him he should have tried to straighten out his sheets a little bit first, but he makes an effort to at least fix the duvet and the blankets that are crumped up at the foot of the bed, tugging a corner of his pillow and fussing.]
How'd I do?
[he glances around, looking for a chair and pulling it from a small reading desk nestled in the corner that he can easily picture tim spending sleepless nights poring over ash's speeches and engrossed in policy literature.]
Can I get you anything? Some water - take your glasses off?
[he hesitates with his hand against the back of the wooden piece, well-loved and probably thrifted if he knows tim. but the indication is clear - he won't be leaving his bedside.]
[ there's little time for any rebuttal when hawk scoops him up, cradles him against his chest and carries him. it reminds him of warmer, happier times - when hawk would laugh against his neck and tim would be bright-eyed and pink-cheeked as he laughed and laughed and laughed at being picked up so delicately.
it's no different here, except that tim is tired and strung out, and wants to dive back into the conversation from a moment before - it feels like i just stood still. he wants to tell hawk that he's learning even now about a differing side of him. this soft, kind, sweet man, who still has some of the bite and sass he remembers, but who seems to hold back his anger, frustration. it's turned into patience that carried with it a hint of sorrow.
but lifted into the man's arms, tim laugh all the same, quiet and surprised even as he wraps his arms around the man's neck, forwhead resting against his jaw like he might have once upon a time. he's almost sad to be placed in bed and tim sits up, carefully gathering and smoothing the blankets himself. ]
I'm afraid I don't have any money for a tip. Next time.
[ he smiles a little, though even his expression grows a little heavy and tired now that he's back against the soft, plush mattress. there's no denying the soft pinch at his brows when hawk goes for a chair to pull up. of course he would - they're not together, there are no expectations, and yet it feels irrevocably sad that he would be in this bed after calling this man so late, and hawk would be there, across from him.
he considers the chair - it is thrifted, from a queer furniture consignment shop just in the heart of downtown. hawk would never have gone with him then to get it. he sighs a little - hawk keeping vigil at his bedside feels too much like the hospital all over again and its with a blink of big, brown eyes that he reaches out his hand and rests it over hawk's atop the chair. he means to only squeeze it and yet the longer he touches him, the more he realizes he's already yearning for his nearness again.
again, damn him.
he presses, slides his fingers between the man's and gives a soft tug. ]
I'm cold. [ and maybe that will be the first lie he tells, his lips pulling to one side a little bit, a one-shouldered shrug rising up and making him look almost smaller than the hard lines of his muscle like to discount. ]
Stay? I mean. With me here. In bed. [ he shrugs a little. he should send him away. shuld turn his back and tell him to go, all over and over and over again. he can't. ]
If you want. I - [ he sighs a little, hand pulling at hawk's hand to hold it a little better. ] I want you close. Please.
Nah, don't you worry your pretty head. This one's on me.
[the soft tickle of tim's laugh pressed against his neck is more than enough of a reward anyway, something he can feel lingering on his skin like the faintest whisper of progress between them instead of the haunting of memories past. tim called him tonight. not a therapist, not secret service, and not ash. hawkins fuller - still allowed past the threshold and now into the sanctuary of his cozy bedroom.
but he refuses to assume anything as he watches tim nestle into the pillows, pulling up the covers as his eyelids start to look a little droopy and no doubt the exhaustion settles in. there are dark circles hawk hadn't noticed before, too distracted by his beauty for starters, but definitely the anxiety that seemed to be roiling off his shoulders. absently it makes him reach out, brushing a hand against tim's forehead and through the still slightly damp hair to get it off his skin and curving against the rest of the chestnut locks. hawk's expression is fond, and it takes everything in him not to bend down and press a soft kiss to his temple, or lift his hand and brush his lips against the back of it the way he's desperate to in the moment.
it's funny how the absence of these little treasures were put out of his mind, but have only served to make him crave them all the more.
it's why he immediately stiffens at the way tim's brows quirk with seeming disappointment, the sigh that sounds equal measures exhausted and unhappy with the situation. hawk's mouth opens to suggest he can go, if tim has decided he'd like to be alone, even as the thought makes his heart squeeze and plummet seemingly to the bottom of his chest. until those doe eyes fix on him like a needy puppy wanting its way, hand softly sliding against his own and forcing hawk to look down with mild surprise. it makes him flood with warmth, only to tim's advantage as a soft smile spreads across his lips in clear fondness and gratitude. his fingers squeeze against tim's briefly before he drops the grip, clearly not needing to be told twice.]
I didn't want to assume. But you should know - I'll always want to be close to you like this.
[hawk pauses, toeing out of his shoes and slipping out of his jacket and draping it where his hand lingered moments before to let the chair find its usefulness in the end anyway. he slips off the covers from the other side of tim's bed, closing the space between them and pressing up against tim's back gently. he can't help the way muscle memory makes him nestle in close, chin slotting against the juncture of tim's neck and shoulder with a satisfied hum against his ear.]
Never did sleep right after everything.
[and just so there's no confusion, he tacks on softly:]
Without you.
[he wiggles in, making sure there's no space between them and wraps an arm around skippy's waist.]
[ the fear that wells up into his chest at the thought that hawk might reject his plea feels surreal, strange. he doesn't know how one person can be both simultaneously infuriating and charming all at once and yet here he is, hawkins fuller, in the flesh. he wants to be mad at him, wants to chase away the warmth blooming anew in his heart, but he can't. he knows he can't.
so their fingers link, hawk smiles, and all the fear washes away. he'd called this man in the thirteenth hour just to beg him to be at his side, despite the hurt and fear all intermingled together. there's so much to mend, but the one thing that never quite cracked was the deep rooted love for the man molding himself against his back now, nuzzling in like he was always meant to be there (wasn't he?), and the heavy weight of the arm around his waist feels so much like home tim could weep.
he's done enough of that tonight.
he pulls his glasses off, tosses them on the bedside table haphazardly, and even reaches to turn out the light. ]
I didn't want to assume either.
[ but he'd demanded, really, hadn't he? all softly quiet and bratty in a way he never means to be. hawk's warm against his back and he leans his head back, turning his head slightly into each nuzzle, humming contentedly as he settles, letting one arm drop, fingers falling against hawk's forearm.
it's not like facing him, where he can tangle up around him, breathe him in, soaking up the warmth of him, but something about all of this is so perfect. he feels safe, protected, held. they fit together now as they had over two years ago and tim's eyes drift shut. ]
I couldn't sleep without you.
[ a quiet admission, sad, and his fingers find hawk's, lacing them together to squeeze them softly. ]
I wish things hadn't changed.
[ whatever changed, whatever turned sour between them. tim still doesn't know. he can just remember the stoic, sure way hawk had told him it had to be that way. that he would be happier, that he would understand.
he isn't happier. he doesn't understand. he's left in limbo even now.
but with a soft sigh, he allows his body to relax, his fingers to hold hawk's arm there like he would. his eyes shut fully now and he hums in agreement. ] But they did. This is... better than that, at least. You're warm.
[ he's so, so tired. and for a few moments, it might even seem like he's fallen asleep, until he whispers, in the dark: ]
Thank you for coming, Hawk. I'm... I'm glad you're here.
[as if hawk was ever anything other than bewitched by the moments his skippy would take their power dynamic and flip it on its head, relinquish it gladly for his good boy with the bratty bite that made his lips quirk and his dick twitch at the demands. he's too tired and too precariously in this place for the latter to happen right now, but the smirk it brings to his lips is fleeting and all too fond against his shoulder with another agreeable hum.
and god, the moment tim settles in properly makes it feel like the world has finally shifted on its axis, off-kilter since the day he walked out and now inched it back in place like a badly dislocated shoulder in stark relief. hawk's grip tightens unconsciously, nose inhaling and drinking this moment up as much as he's allowed tonight - just like he did back at the hospital all those weeks ago. maybe he should be ashamed for taking what is essentially advantage of one of tim's most needy moments and selfishly holding him close for his own satisfaction and his own guilt too.
except - that's just it. this isn't meant to be a temporary salve or a bandaid to all his bad behavior in the past. it's not a fleeting apology and the offer for a friendship ahead and something civil where hawk doesn't look past tim and ignore him like he's just some intern with little more importance than the statues in the white house hallways. this is supposed to be the start of something new, something better. something hawk desperately wants to make work. even if the cracks that have been scarred over and ripped open seeing tim among carpathian filth twinge at tim's soft admissions - it means there's truth between them. progress. the best thing he can do is share his own, something he'd denied his former lover all those years ago when he closed the door on their future together.]
I dream about you, you know. And on the nights when it was bad - that's why I'd call.
[he knows how cruel it must have been - playing his heartstrings like a yo-yo, getting his hopes up that maybe he'd be let in again, that some bridge had been crossed - and then have hawk dash it to pieces with one quick stride or a curt nod of unfamiliarity. it makes his own heart tighten, knowing his reasons and the secrets he buried down deep - the way they want to burst out now, to explain and maybe even beg for forgiveness he knows he doesn't deserve. hawk's not happier either.]
I wish that too. But -
[there's a hesitation, that fear still thick in his throat and his lungs, burning like the time he fell off a canoe in the middle of summer in his early teens and the rushing current kept him under longer than he was used to. the sensation of drowning in all of the emotions he's never let anyone but tim even get a hint of. fuck. his voice drops to a whisper, murmured soft by the shell of tim's ear like a confession.]
But they can change again. This time...they can change for the better, for both of us. I can be warm in all the ways you wanted - your own personal furnace, for starters.
[but he means it deeper than the physical, letting his fingers lace easily with tim's and thumb slide across the back of his hand in a soft stroke.]
I wouldn't be anywhere else right now, Skippy. I promise.
[ tim's eyes remain closed, his fingers flexing against hawk's arm. he's glad that hawk has chosen a place at his back, pressed tight and close, wrapping him up in the safety of him. it's better that he doesn't have to try to face him right now. ]
It's why I stayed on the phone with you even if you were cruel to me the next day. It's why I kept answering when I shouldn't have.
[ he knew better than to egg hawk on - to encourage the bad behavior when their break and split had been orchestrated by the man himself. even now, wrapped up in hawkins fuller, he doesn't understand why things changed the way they had. and so swiftly. tim had envisioned a world in which their lives were permanently bound - but not like this. not this broken, ugly mess.
he still wants answers.
he knows he'll never get them. ]
You should get some sleep, too.
[ he mumbles the words, wiggling a little and pressing back closer against hawk, molding their bodies together into the perfect fit. ]
God knows you haven't slept much the last month, by the way you kept me up.
[ his hand moves slightly, petting hawk's forearm like he might have years ago, like they are closer and more intertwined than two former lovers on the precipice of something. sleep pulls at him, exhaustion a familiar friend these days, but it's warded off by the warmth at his back and the whisper at his ear.
things could change of course. things can be different. tim knows there's truth in it, but he also knows the truth of the man behind him. he knows the reality of their shared sickness. ]
Get some sleep, Hawk. You're losing me.
[ the words are a rumbled, sleepy hum, head tilting a little to better accommodate hawk, to nose faintly at him before his body stills into the heavy lull of sleep.
he stays that way for some time, really - a couple of hours where tim rests soft and easy in the arms of hawkins fuller like he used to all those years ago. but somewhere in the dark of his dreams, he finds himself in that tiny room again, surrounded by carpathian henchmen demanding information. the kicks to his sides are real, the shouts in his face, the way water pours over him and it feels as though he cannot catch his breath -
in the real world, tim stirs in hawk's arms. it's subtle at first, until the arms around his waist suddenly feel like a snare and the dreamy, lost boy scrambles with fear both in his mind and in the real world, peeling hawk's arms from him desperately and trying to free himself from the warm, sticky hold of another.
he cries out, too - loud and sharp and desperate. he's a mass of thrashing limbs and panic, pushing at hawk violently until he's tumbled out of bed, breathing heavy and wheezing, scrambling across the carpet in a way that's sure to give him rug burn on his knees. ]
Let... Let me go, please. Please, let me go. I don't know anything.
[there's no reason tim wouldn't think hawk was just whispering sweet nothings - trying to appease him in a moment of weakness, or doing another push and pull that he'll wake up and immediately dash away. hawk hasn't been a boy for a long time, even when his age still slotted him in that category solidly - but he imagines it must feel a lot like the boy who cried wolf. only this time hawk is both the boy and the wolf, and his teeth cut a hell of a lot deeper around the soft, pulpy bits of timothy laughlin's heart. what he doesn't know is that hawk was the one who got bitten back this time, seeing tim looking so painfully small and wounded in that room no matter how much time has passed. his heart has torn itself to ribbons and mended back to do it all over again thinking about all the what ifs - what if he'd been there, what if they hadn't realized soon enough, what if they hadn't been able to follow where he was, what if he lost tim for good, what if what if what if.
it makes him squeeze a little tighter, the arm around his middle and the fingers laced between the long, nimble ones that he's remembered tracing against his back and the scar at his shoulderblade as sure as he knows his own name and crooked sense of right and wrong. he feels the line of tim's nose against his jawline, aching with the want to lean forward and steal his lips like would have once upon a time, and instead settles for a soft kiss to his temple before murmuring his own goodnight, wondering if tim will even hear it. maybe all of it will land better in the daytime - the more sobering hours when fears recede with the wash of light through his cozy windows against a smorgasbord of greenery and the realities of the world that are right out in the open of their hallowed halls in the white house instead of lurking in safehouses and terrorist black ops sites.
maybe he'll be given the grace to prove he means it this time - to earn back his affection. to once again possess the privilege to hold him like this every night, even if he hadn't regarded it as one back then - yet another tally on the long list of fuck-ups.
hawk knows he won't drift off right away, even if he's feeling tiredness start to pull at him from old habits. not when he's got open access to drink in every moment with the boy in his arms, to inhale deeply against his neck once more, to nose in and feel the weight of him and the way his chiseled figure has always fit like it was made to be pressed against his own in perfect combination. christ, he's missed this. no matter how many nights of random hookups and warm bodies had been there to distract him, none could ever come close to this feeling of completion. his free hand strokes lightly against tim's bicep, knowing by the way his breathing eventually evens out that he's finally fallen into a deep sleep. considering the dark circles and the exhaustion clear on his face - he suspects this hasn't been happening lately for him. there's a mental note to reach out to his doctor, knowing he'll be shooed away or told they can't discuss confidential medical records, even if hawk thinks sleeping aids might do him some good.
but eventually it overtakes him too, and at some point in the night tim does what he always used to by rolling onto his other side and nuzzling in, face buried against his neck and limbs twined together under the covers. hawk's dead to the world, even if his body responds absently by keeping the strong arm around his waist to pull him in.
and then it all goes to shit, first the jolting cry that sounds near pained, and then the scramble of limbs that were an endearment of lovers instead darkened with a feeling of suffocation, entanglement and a lack of freedom. a reminder of where he was not so long ago - pushing at hawk who has bolted upright and never abandoned years of being combat-ready, at unpleasant times despite his best efforts. at first he thinks someone is in the room with them, and he yanks on the light while tearing off the rest of the covers and sliding across the bed to stand between tim and the door. but of course, there's no one - not with secret service still posted outside, and the only obvious answer is a nightmare.
hawk sinks down to his knees, hands up in a non-threatening motion as he slowly moves to scoot closer to tim on the floor.]
Whoa, hey, hey - Tim, Tim.
[his voice is soft but firm, trying to be as grounding as possible and knock him out of any lingering tricks his brain has done to convince him he's on the cold hard ground in carpathian land.]
It's just me, it's Hawk - I'm here. I gotcha, remember?
[one hand lowers to his knee, stroking in soothing circles.]
You're at home and you're safe. It was just a dream - it isn't real.
[ there's no rhyme or reason to these spells, these visions that visit him when night falls. there's no answer to why, even wrapped up in the warm and strong arms of his former lover, the ghosts of that night on carpathian soil utterly haunt him.
his therapist would tell him it's normal, that it's fine, that these things happen because he still has so much to process. well, frankly, he's tired of processing. he can't quite make sense of the world as he skids across the carpet, his bare knees burning and sweat carving rivulets into the dips of his collar bone, down the nape of his neck, prying at his temples and the careful curve over his pecs.
tim can see nothing but the dark room, the men hovering over him, the sounds of their lilting accents, and god - the fear. to the point that when hawk's hand falls to his knee he jumps, yelps and presses harder back against the wall, heels digging into the floor. but the carpathian's hadn't called him tim. they'd taunted him, timothy, mr. laughlin, the president's bitch, the american wind-up toy, expendable.
he breathes heavily, air coming in tight wheezes at first, his hands trembling furiously as he holds them out like a fence between them. do not pass, do not enter; danger: man at war with himself. his body seems to remember the warm, easy sound of hawk's voice though, remember that he is the one that wrapped him up and saved him before, and when he looks up with eyes widened in fear, he sees that same face. tears pour down his cheeks, but they have been since he woke - he doesn't entirely notice them now. ]
Sorry.
[ his voice is a hoarse whisper and at first he stays curled up against the wall, making himself small as though that might save him, even here exposed in the light of the room. he feels foolish, childish suddenly, but when his heart rate ticks down a tiny bit, he rolls forward, launching into hawk's harms and burying his face against his shoulder, breathing him in and clinging to him in a way that's likely a bit, bit too rough. ]
I was - I thought we were -
[ he swallows hard, breathing deeply and trying to center himself a little, but he just finds himself nuzzling into hawk's jaw instead, fingers fisting in the fabric of his shirt. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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[ 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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this? this is why he called hawkins fuller after a nightmare. no one else would be able to care for him like this without asking questions. ash would, maybe, and find some other form of distraction. embry would be drunk, undoubtedly, and wouldn't ask questions but wouldn't exactly get at the root of the problem, either.
damn hawkins fuller for being... well. himself.
tim huffs a little laugh finally against hawk's neck. ]
All-American, hot-blooded man? Washington must love you.
[ it runs hotter when you're around hawk says and for the first time in years, tim can feel the faintest creep of something pink in his cheeks. damn him. ]
Does it? My hands are freezing.
[ he sounds exhausted when he says it and he hesitates for a moment - in a different life, he'd tug at hawk's shirt and get his fingers beneath. in a different life they would laugh and it would end up with clothes on the floor and a night spend wild in bed.
in this life, tim still tugs the shirt, enough to slide two trembling, cold fingers beneath, just above the belt and waistline of his trousers. there's no kiss or teasing nuzzle to accompany it. just the curve of a smile on tim's lips, that might be felt in that soft nuzzle. already he's feeling a little more like himself than he has in weeks. only a little. ]
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sometimes hawk wonders how the hell he got so misguided - letting those same things that set them apart and drive him wild in the best way be the same things he desperately tried to hide. the clothes, the politics, their general day-to-day modus operandi. the way tim is a ray of fucking sunshine and a sunflower growing up out of cement and the swampy muck of dc, the only honest thing that might exist within the white house.
it makes him hold tim a little tighter, breathe him in deeper, sway a little more from side to side as long as he can refresh all the sensory memories he's been missing since he gave them up.]
I think it's the four languages and loyal, bureaucratic service they're a little more appreciative of.
[hawk can't see it from where he's pressed against tim's neck, but there's a tiredness in his voice that even the teasing can't hide - bone-deep and difficult to evade. there'd be much easier methods of distraction and wearing him out from a physical sense if things weren't in the precarious, brand new step-by-step they're rebuilding this relationship with. hawk would have him swept up in his arms, on his back and wearing less than he is now within minutes of coming through that door.
but that privilege hasn't been earned back, and even if it were - it's not the right method in the face of real fears and a tenderness tim needs that transcends the physical. that little brush of tim's lips - not a kiss, just the secretive press of a hidden smile makes hawk mimic it almost immediately, sucking in a breath at tim's wandering fingers like ice against his lower belly.]
You weren't kidding. Give me your other hand.
[if tim complies, he'll hold it for a moment while he tugs out the rest of his shirt and slides it up his back, encouraging tim to splay his whole palm there against the warmth emanating from firm muscle and what feels practically feels like a pulsepoint from where each of his fingers have marked a spot against him.
carefully, hawk works the heel of one shoe off with the toe of the other, kicking them behind him and nudging his socked feet against tim's.]
How about these? Cold too?
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Mm. Yes, please continue to brag, Mr. Hawkins Fuller, great American soldier, patriot and servant. I must have forgotten after all this time.
[ in the meantime, tim allows hawk to take up his other hand - does he really have a choice? - and place it against the familiar warmth of his back. how many nights had his hands crept up hawk's shirt, found the little divot of scar tissue and pressed the flat of his palm over it?
he doesn't do that now - he keeps his hand where hawk has placed it. the other simply slides round to join it, stacking just above it to seek out the same warmth. it's hawk pressing his socked feet against his own that make him gasp a little, both in surprise and at the familiarity of it. he tips his head back away from hawk's shoulder then, blinking up at him, brows pinched in suspicion.
he's too tired to pull away, too weak to resist the sweetness of the gesture. his hands still shake, a little clammy, and the sweat shows on his brow from mere moments before, but his eyes have calmed, warmed, his shoulders slumped. ]
You're being sweet. Why? [ it's not meant to be mean or accusatory, though with his fatigue, it might sound that way. he hopes the little lopsided grin on his face might counteract that effect. ] You're never like this. I'm going to owe you something, aren't I?
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Is it still bragging if it's just factual? I can't help the war hero bit. Unless you've discovered a time machine I don't know about in the last two years from one of those books you got your nose in.
[it feels right to have both of his hands pressed against his spine, so close to the one place no one else has ever touched besides the surgeons and doctor's who examined it after the initial injury. he'd known long before nimble fingers mapped out the edges and ridges of its lingering presence and reminder on his skin of all the pain and suffering he'd been through for the greater good that he was fucked for tim laughlin, but letting him do that? tim really has no idea how much that had meant at the time, only a few brief years after he got his shit back together professionally and publicly all the while running away from any meaningful connection outside of it.
until tim came along, until he was head over heels - struck by a bolt to the heart - love at first sight. weeks ago he'd admit to having a soft spot for the kid, but the rest? not a chance in hell. christ, now he's practically bursting with the need to tell him, for the right time...if he ever earns it back.
it's why he doesn't balk at the insinuation, the suspicion in tim's voice that might be authentic and might just be exhaustion even as his face scrunches up into something full of consideration, like he's working out a particularly complicated scenario of public policy agenda. hawk stays where he is, leveling him with a soft pull of his lips that's understanding, sympathetic, and meant to be reassuring all in one.]
I am.
[the hurt is where his eyes are a little more distant, cloudy even - just for a brief moment as he tips his head closer to tim's and lowers his voice like he's trying not to startle a wild rabbit in a garden.]
I told you - I want to be here for you, Skippy. Show up. Not just tonight - however long you'll let me.
And it shouldn't be a secret I'm sweet on you, so maybe I can't help it.
[he pauses, mouth pressing back into a soft line.]
Consider me a changed man, as long as you like it. You don't owe me anything. That's what you do for the people you care about.
No more quid pro quo.
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[ something about hawk's irreverent, playful tone warm against his neck makes little sparks shoot down his spine. it's all the wrong moment for those feelings, and really it's more a knee-jerk reaction, the very ghost of muscle memory that brings it back. it's paired with a pang in his chest, an ache in his heart, even if it does something to sooth the shaking and jitteriness he felt moments ago.
damn him.
he keeps his palms pressed to hawk's back, doesn't create the space that something in the back of his mind is squealing for. his face remains scrunched, brows pinched as he considers the softness in hawk's expression.
he's seen so much of this version of hawk over the last few weeks that it feels too good to be true. the better part of two years together shattered on the stoop of his condo makes it difficult to see, like it's a shattered mirror, reflecting the sun into his eyes. with hawk's softness comes frustration, comes a temper, comes a sudden about-face when things get too real or too stark.
damn hawkins fuller, too, for the guilt that tim feels at even thinking about doubting him. but doubt he does. he's too shaken and tired for all this thinking. ]
But it is a secret.
[ there's no accusation, just a quiet sort of admission, almost a little sad in the way his voice lowered between them, quivering. he's started shivering a little, the sheen of sweat having dried with the heat of hawk close, leaving him to realize just how underclothed he really is. ]
And it's nice of you to say that. I'm not discounting you being sweet - it's nice. All of this is very nice. It just... it just doesn't seem like you.
[ this was a hawk he had in bursts - in brief moments lost in a bedroom, on a balcony, on the roof, in a faraway hotel room or little getaway. never consistent, never often enough, always stolen, always kept. ]
I'm... I'm tired, sorry. I haven't really slept since I got out of the hospital. Didn't sleep much there, either.
[ his hands slip - a few inches down his back, his cold fingers lacing atop his own, taking up less space, creating some little distance, his fingers fidgeting in the way they always do, even if it's against hawk's skin. ]
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[of course tim isn't the same boy he was, still green behind the years when they met years ago at the library of congress by chance one balmy spring afternoon. it's difficult not to feel responsible for whatever changes have happened since then - any hardening of his heart, the cracks and splinters of wounds he inflicted that haven't fully healed in the same way his own never did either. but what did he miss? he'd tried his best to keep tabs as subtly as possible - tracking his shift from lonigan's aide into another cabinet, his work with senator johnson...and then to ash himself, the day it all came screeching to a halt for hawk. but the tim laughlin behind closed doors? he didn't have a clue. no idea if he'd been single, if he'd picked up a better taste in drinks besides milk, if he still kept house plants, if he used a single edged blade to keep his skin baby smooth every morning, or if he still preferred curling up in his underwear and socks under layers of blankets and struggled to stumble into the mornings with bedhead and bleary eyes even his glasses couldn't save. so many intimate, precious things he knows about timothy laughlin, cradled in his arms - and for the last two years nothing to do with this torturous wealth of information.
there's an awful ache like a fist closing in around his heart of self-doubt at the thought of tim never fully trusting him again, much as he'd deserve it. the inclusion of sudden space from where they'd practically been cheek to cheek hurts just as much, even if he understands it and needs to face what his own actions have wrought. he deserves the slight appraisal in tim's gaze, the squinting confusion and the doubt and the reminder that hawk is the one who walked out and made it this way.
fuck.
rather than get irritated and walk out - which is what the hawk from two years ago would have done after some snide comments that tim wouldn't back down from, easily standing up for himself and driving whatever point hawk was avoiding home - hawk just keeps his face placid, blinking at tim and trying to silently communicate that it's alright, whatever he's feeling. he's not doing that again, and he's absolutely not leaving no matter how frosty the response is.
speaking of frosty, his hands are like ice, and he must be feeling it for the way he suddenly shivers. hawk immediately rubs his hands up and down the tops of tim's arms and shoulders, trying to generate heat from the friction and pausing to take off his jacket, absently setting it over the edge of the couch.]
That's not the most important thing right now - secrets, being sweet. You're freezing, and you're tired, yeah.
Let's get you warmed up. You want pajamas? A shower? Warm milk? I can get you under a pile of blankets in the blink of an eye if you like.
[hawk's hands shift back along tim's shoulders, thumbs rubbing at the soft skin and kneading against a perfect indent of muscle.]
Tell me what you need, honey. I got you.
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whenever you're ready, hawk says, and tim isn't sure when he will be. if he will be. but also? he doesn't know if hawk will want to see the hardened, wounded, embittered person he's truly become. ]
I probably have a lot to learn, too.
[ it's a peace offering, either way, because regardless of what he feels? tim never stopped loving the man in front of him, even when he'd all but written him out of his life with a bow to finish it. tim knows at any turn he'll turn, rush out, break down or snap, surely. maybe.
he doesn't. hawk's hands shift instead to rub at his arms, and already he's cursing the distance he made. even if he wants to be furious and angry and try to respect the line he's drawn for himself? the comfort of hawk's body against his, the arms around him, the soft, low rasp of his voice? it's all too impossible to deny. hawk says honey and sweetheart even as his fingers press into a tense muscle in one shoulder and he sighs contentedly, eyes fluttering shut, hands flexing and reaching against hawk's back again, palms spreading to find the warmth and lean back into him, encouraging the arms around his shoulders all over again. a tiny, sad part of him tells him to take what if this he can get now. soak it up. remember what it feels like to be cared for and loved and wanted by this man before it goes away again.
the palms slide, tim's chest sinks in against hawks and his arms wrap around hawk's waist, fingers still very much beneath the fabric of his shirt. one palm skirts up against hawk's ribs one one side, the other tucks under the crook of his own elbow at his waist. he sighs, contented at the warmth the man puts off. ]
I probably need to go to bed.
[ i need you. ]
Or try to. No pajamas - I had to stop wearing them. I... I kept waking up drenched. It's why I'm -
[ a little shrug of one shoulder, even with his face tucked against hawk's neck again. ]
A blink of an eye. [ to be taken to the bedroom, wrapped up, cared for? it's all he wants right now. and it's hawk's earnest sweetness that finally pays off - tim huffs a little against his neck, nuzzling in a little before he speaks, the hint of a smile on his voice: ]
I'm timing you, Fuller.
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and then he almost lost tim to it anyway, keeping his distance. not able to have spared him this fucking nightmare - because christ, if they'd been together...he would have had his eyes glued to his lover from across that ballroom if he wasn't already at his hip all night.
but that's the guilt he'll have to live with, that no amount of forgiveness, still unearned, will be able to offer. but he's grateful all the same for tim softening a bit, letting his guard down because he's still that sweet boy who never fully let him go - who he wants to hope still has enough love in him to remember what the good times were like together and embrace them once more. maybe he himself isn't deserving of that love, but fuck if he doesn't want to at least try. his lips stretch into a closed-lipped smile, eyes bright with a little tease and acknowledgment for the mercy tim doles out in admitting it.]
Maybe not. You were always the one who managed to change with the times - sometimes it feels like I just stood still.
[waiting for something - waiting for a time when i could have you, he thinks to himself, playfulness turning wistful in the blink of an eye. but maybe tim misses it when he curls against his chest once more, making hawk marvel at how someone built so sturdy can simultaneously look and feel so small and so strong all at once. he'll never forget the first time he saw tim without a shirt on, blown away by the body ill-fitting suits and button-down hid from every ogling eye in washington. probably a small mercy, all things considered. his arms squeeze tight again, a soft hum of consideration and agreement that he should try and go to bed, now that he's got company and the safe assurance that he's not alone.]
That's okay. No pajamas.
[hawk already knows he'll be up at all hours, checking tim's forehead for heat and sweat generated from the horror of memories haunting him in nightmares so he can get him a wet rag and dab at his skin to keep it cooled down.
but this time he pulls back after tim's had a moment to rub against him and hide his soft amusement at hawk's very serious offer. i'm timing you mr. fuller. hawk grins, letting his hands shift as he bends down and swings an arm under both of tim's knees, knocking them together lightly as he swoops him up into an easy bridal carry.]
Hold on, Mr. Laughlin. I'm at your service.
[all of tim's cozy apartment looks nearly the same, save a couple new plants tucked against shelves and windows that look a little worse for wear. he'll take stock later, instead striding confidently into the bedroom and carefully setting him down among the distressed covers. it occurs to him he should have tried to straighten out his sheets a little bit first, but he makes an effort to at least fix the duvet and the blankets that are crumped up at the foot of the bed, tugging a corner of his pillow and fussing.]
How'd I do?
[he glances around, looking for a chair and pulling it from a small reading desk nestled in the corner that he can easily picture tim spending sleepless nights poring over ash's speeches and engrossed in policy literature.]
Can I get you anything? Some water - take your glasses off?
[he hesitates with his hand against the back of the wooden piece, well-loved and probably thrifted if he knows tim. but the indication is clear - he won't be leaving his bedside.]
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it's no different here, except that tim is tired and strung out, and wants to dive back into the conversation from a moment before - it feels like i just stood still. he wants to tell hawk that he's learning even now about a differing side of him. this soft, kind, sweet man, who still has some of the bite and sass he remembers, but who seems to hold back his anger, frustration. it's turned into patience that carried with it a hint of sorrow.
but lifted into the man's arms, tim laugh all the same, quiet and surprised even as he wraps his arms around the man's neck, forwhead resting against his jaw like he might have once upon a time. he's almost sad to be placed in bed and tim sits up, carefully gathering and smoothing the blankets himself. ]
I'm afraid I don't have any money for a tip. Next time.
[ he smiles a little, though even his expression grows a little heavy and tired now that he's back against the soft, plush mattress. there's no denying the soft pinch at his brows when hawk goes for a chair to pull up. of course he would - they're not together, there are no expectations, and yet it feels irrevocably sad that he would be in this bed after calling this man so late, and hawk would be there, across from him.
he considers the chair - it is thrifted, from a queer furniture consignment shop just in the heart of downtown. hawk would never have gone with him then to get it. he sighs a little - hawk keeping vigil at his bedside feels too much like the hospital all over again and its with a blink of big, brown eyes that he reaches out his hand and rests it over hawk's atop the chair. he means to only squeeze it and yet the longer he touches him, the more he realizes he's already yearning for his nearness again.
again, damn him.
he presses, slides his fingers between the man's and gives a soft tug. ]
I'm cold. [ and maybe that will be the first lie he tells, his lips pulling to one side a little bit, a one-shouldered shrug rising up and making him look almost smaller than the hard lines of his muscle like to discount. ]
Stay? I mean. With me here. In bed. [ he shrugs a little. he should send him away. shuld turn his back and tell him to go, all over and over and over again. he can't. ]
If you want. I - [ he sighs a little, hand pulling at hawk's hand to hold it a little better. ] I want you close. Please.
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[the soft tickle of tim's laugh pressed against his neck is more than enough of a reward anyway, something he can feel lingering on his skin like the faintest whisper of progress between them instead of the haunting of memories past. tim called him tonight. not a therapist, not secret service, and not ash. hawkins fuller - still allowed past the threshold and now into the sanctuary of his cozy bedroom.
but he refuses to assume anything as he watches tim nestle into the pillows, pulling up the covers as his eyelids start to look a little droopy and no doubt the exhaustion settles in. there are dark circles hawk hadn't noticed before, too distracted by his beauty for starters, but definitely the anxiety that seemed to be roiling off his shoulders. absently it makes him reach out, brushing a hand against tim's forehead and through the still slightly damp hair to get it off his skin and curving against the rest of the chestnut locks. hawk's expression is fond, and it takes everything in him not to bend down and press a soft kiss to his temple, or lift his hand and brush his lips against the back of it the way he's desperate to in the moment.
it's funny how the absence of these little treasures were put out of his mind, but have only served to make him crave them all the more.
it's why he immediately stiffens at the way tim's brows quirk with seeming disappointment, the sigh that sounds equal measures exhausted and unhappy with the situation. hawk's mouth opens to suggest he can go, if tim has decided he'd like to be alone, even as the thought makes his heart squeeze and plummet seemingly to the bottom of his chest. until those doe eyes fix on him like a needy puppy wanting its way, hand softly sliding against his own and forcing hawk to look down with mild surprise. it makes him flood with warmth, only to tim's advantage as a soft smile spreads across his lips in clear fondness and gratitude. his fingers squeeze against tim's briefly before he drops the grip, clearly not needing to be told twice.]
I didn't want to assume. But you should know - I'll always want to be close to you like this.
[hawk pauses, toeing out of his shoes and slipping out of his jacket and draping it where his hand lingered moments before to let the chair find its usefulness in the end anyway. he slips off the covers from the other side of tim's bed, closing the space between them and pressing up against tim's back gently. he can't help the way muscle memory makes him nestle in close, chin slotting against the juncture of tim's neck and shoulder with a satisfied hum against his ear.]
Never did sleep right after everything.
[and just so there's no confusion, he tacks on softly:]
Without you.
[he wiggles in, making sure there's no space between them and wraps an arm around skippy's waist.]
That better?
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so their fingers link, hawk smiles, and all the fear washes away. he'd called this man in the thirteenth hour just to beg him to be at his side, despite the hurt and fear all intermingled together. there's so much to mend, but the one thing that never quite cracked was the deep rooted love for the man molding himself against his back now, nuzzling in like he was always meant to be there (wasn't he?), and the heavy weight of the arm around his waist feels so much like home tim could weep.
he's done enough of that tonight.
he pulls his glasses off, tosses them on the bedside table haphazardly, and even reaches to turn out the light. ]
I didn't want to assume either.
[ but he'd demanded, really, hadn't he? all softly quiet and bratty in a way he never means to be. hawk's warm against his back and he leans his head back, turning his head slightly into each nuzzle, humming contentedly as he settles, letting one arm drop, fingers falling against hawk's forearm.
it's not like facing him, where he can tangle up around him, breathe him in, soaking up the warmth of him, but something about all of this is so perfect. he feels safe, protected, held. they fit together now as they had over two years ago and tim's eyes drift shut. ]
I couldn't sleep without you.
[ a quiet admission, sad, and his fingers find hawk's, lacing them together to squeeze them softly. ]
I wish things hadn't changed.
[ whatever changed, whatever turned sour between them. tim still doesn't know. he can just remember the stoic, sure way hawk had told him it had to be that way. that he would be happier, that he would understand.
he isn't happier. he doesn't understand. he's left in limbo even now.
but with a soft sigh, he allows his body to relax, his fingers to hold hawk's arm there like he would. his eyes shut fully now and he hums in agreement. ] But they did. This is... better than that, at least. You're warm.
[ he's so, so tired. and for a few moments, it might even seem like he's fallen asleep, until he whispers, in the dark: ]
Thank you for coming, Hawk. I'm... I'm glad you're here.
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and god, the moment tim settles in properly makes it feel like the world has finally shifted on its axis, off-kilter since the day he walked out and now inched it back in place like a badly dislocated shoulder in stark relief. hawk's grip tightens unconsciously, nose inhaling and drinking this moment up as much as he's allowed tonight - just like he did back at the hospital all those weeks ago. maybe he should be ashamed for taking what is essentially advantage of one of tim's most needy moments and selfishly holding him close for his own satisfaction and his own guilt too.
except - that's just it. this isn't meant to be a temporary salve or a bandaid to all his bad behavior in the past. it's not a fleeting apology and the offer for a friendship ahead and something civil where hawk doesn't look past tim and ignore him like he's just some intern with little more importance than the statues in the white house hallways. this is supposed to be the start of something new, something better. something hawk desperately wants to make work. even if the cracks that have been scarred over and ripped open seeing tim among carpathian filth twinge at tim's soft admissions - it means there's truth between them. progress. the best thing he can do is share his own, something he'd denied his former lover all those years ago when he closed the door on their future together.]
I dream about you, you know. And on the nights when it was bad - that's why I'd call.
[he knows how cruel it must have been - playing his heartstrings like a yo-yo, getting his hopes up that maybe he'd be let in again, that some bridge had been crossed - and then have hawk dash it to pieces with one quick stride or a curt nod of unfamiliarity. it makes his own heart tighten, knowing his reasons and the secrets he buried down deep - the way they want to burst out now, to explain and maybe even beg for forgiveness he knows he doesn't deserve. hawk's not happier either.]
I wish that too. But -
[there's a hesitation, that fear still thick in his throat and his lungs, burning like the time he fell off a canoe in the middle of summer in his early teens and the rushing current kept him under longer than he was used to. the sensation of drowning in all of the emotions he's never let anyone but tim even get a hint of. fuck. his voice drops to a whisper, murmured soft by the shell of tim's ear like a confession.]
But they can change again. This time...they can change for the better, for both of us. I can be warm in all the ways you wanted - your own personal furnace, for starters.
[but he means it deeper than the physical, letting his fingers lace easily with tim's and thumb slide across the back of his hand in a soft stroke.]
I wouldn't be anywhere else right now, Skippy. I promise.
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[ tim's eyes remain closed, his fingers flexing against hawk's arm. he's glad that hawk has chosen a place at his back, pressed tight and close, wrapping him up in the safety of him. it's better that he doesn't have to try to face him right now. ]
It's why I stayed on the phone with you even if you were cruel to me the next day. It's why I kept answering when I shouldn't have.
[ he knew better than to egg hawk on - to encourage the bad behavior when their break and split had been orchestrated by the man himself. even now, wrapped up in hawkins fuller, he doesn't understand why things changed the way they had. and so swiftly. tim had envisioned a world in which their lives were permanently bound - but not like this. not this broken, ugly mess.
he still wants answers.
he knows he'll never get them. ]
You should get some sleep, too.
[ he mumbles the words, wiggling a little and pressing back closer against hawk, molding their bodies together into the perfect fit. ]
God knows you haven't slept much the last month, by the way you kept me up.
[ his hand moves slightly, petting hawk's forearm like he might have years ago, like they are closer and more intertwined than two former lovers on the precipice of something. sleep pulls at him, exhaustion a familiar friend these days, but it's warded off by the warmth at his back and the whisper at his ear.
things could change of course. things can be different. tim knows there's truth in it, but he also knows the truth of the man behind him. he knows the reality of their shared sickness. ]
Get some sleep, Hawk. You're losing me.
[ the words are a rumbled, sleepy hum, head tilting a little to better accommodate hawk, to nose faintly at him before his body stills into the heavy lull of sleep.
he stays that way for some time, really - a couple of hours where tim rests soft and easy in the arms of hawkins fuller like he used to all those years ago. but somewhere in the dark of his dreams, he finds himself in that tiny room again, surrounded by carpathian henchmen demanding information. the kicks to his sides are real, the shouts in his face, the way water pours over him and it feels as though he cannot catch his breath -
in the real world, tim stirs in hawk's arms. it's subtle at first, until the arms around his waist suddenly feel like a snare and the dreamy, lost boy scrambles with fear both in his mind and in the real world, peeling hawk's arms from him desperately and trying to free himself from the warm, sticky hold of another.
he cries out, too - loud and sharp and desperate. he's a mass of thrashing limbs and panic, pushing at hawk violently until he's tumbled out of bed, breathing heavy and wheezing, scrambling across the carpet in a way that's sure to give him rug burn on his knees. ]
Let... Let me go, please. Please, let me go. I don't know anything.
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it makes him squeeze a little tighter, the arm around his middle and the fingers laced between the long, nimble ones that he's remembered tracing against his back and the scar at his shoulderblade as sure as he knows his own name and crooked sense of right and wrong. he feels the line of tim's nose against his jawline, aching with the want to lean forward and steal his lips like would have once upon a time, and instead settles for a soft kiss to his temple before murmuring his own goodnight, wondering if tim will even hear it. maybe all of it will land better in the daytime - the more sobering hours when fears recede with the wash of light through his cozy windows against a smorgasbord of greenery and the realities of the world that are right out in the open of their hallowed halls in the white house instead of lurking in safehouses and terrorist black ops sites.
maybe he'll be given the grace to prove he means it this time - to earn back his affection. to once again possess the privilege to hold him like this every night, even if he hadn't regarded it as one back then - yet another tally on the long list of fuck-ups.
hawk knows he won't drift off right away, even if he's feeling tiredness start to pull at him from old habits. not when he's got open access to drink in every moment with the boy in his arms, to inhale deeply against his neck once more, to nose in and feel the weight of him and the way his chiseled figure has always fit like it was made to be pressed against his own in perfect combination. christ, he's missed this. no matter how many nights of random hookups and warm bodies had been there to distract him, none could ever come close to this feeling of completion. his free hand strokes lightly against tim's bicep, knowing by the way his breathing eventually evens out that he's finally fallen into a deep sleep. considering the dark circles and the exhaustion clear on his face - he suspects this hasn't been happening lately for him. there's a mental note to reach out to his doctor, knowing he'll be shooed away or told they can't discuss confidential medical records, even if hawk thinks sleeping aids might do him some good.
but eventually it overtakes him too, and at some point in the night tim does what he always used to by rolling onto his other side and nuzzling in, face buried against his neck and limbs twined together under the covers. hawk's dead to the world, even if his body responds absently by keeping the strong arm around his waist to pull him in.
and then it all goes to shit, first the jolting cry that sounds near pained, and then the scramble of limbs that were an endearment of lovers instead darkened with a feeling of suffocation, entanglement and a lack of freedom. a reminder of where he was not so long ago - pushing at hawk who has bolted upright and never abandoned years of being combat-ready, at unpleasant times despite his best efforts. at first he thinks someone is in the room with them, and he yanks on the light while tearing off the rest of the covers and sliding across the bed to stand between tim and the door. but of course, there's no one - not with secret service still posted outside, and the only obvious answer is a nightmare.
hawk sinks down to his knees, hands up in a non-threatening motion as he slowly moves to scoot closer to tim on the floor.]
Whoa, hey, hey - Tim, Tim.
[his voice is soft but firm, trying to be as grounding as possible and knock him out of any lingering tricks his brain has done to convince him he's on the cold hard ground in carpathian land.]
It's just me, it's Hawk - I'm here. I gotcha, remember?
[one hand lowers to his knee, stroking in soothing circles.]
You're at home and you're safe. It was just a dream - it isn't real.
Come back to me.
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his therapist would tell him it's normal, that it's fine, that these things happen because he still has so much to process. well, frankly, he's tired of processing. he can't quite make sense of the world as he skids across the carpet, his bare knees burning and sweat carving rivulets into the dips of his collar bone, down the nape of his neck, prying at his temples and the careful curve over his pecs.
tim can see nothing but the dark room, the men hovering over him, the sounds of their lilting accents, and god - the fear. to the point that when hawk's hand falls to his knee he jumps, yelps and presses harder back against the wall, heels digging into the floor. but the carpathian's hadn't called him tim. they'd taunted him, timothy, mr. laughlin, the president's bitch, the american wind-up toy, expendable.
he breathes heavily, air coming in tight wheezes at first, his hands trembling furiously as he holds them out like a fence between them. do not pass, do not enter; danger: man at war with himself. his body seems to remember the warm, easy sound of hawk's voice though, remember that he is the one that wrapped him up and saved him before, and when he looks up with eyes widened in fear, he sees that same face. tears pour down his cheeks, but they have been since he woke - he doesn't entirely notice them now. ]
Sorry.
[ his voice is a hoarse whisper and at first he stays curled up against the wall, making himself small as though that might save him, even here exposed in the light of the room. he feels foolish, childish suddenly, but when his heart rate ticks down a tiny bit, he rolls forward, launching into hawk's harms and burying his face against his shoulder, breathing him in and clinging to him in a way that's likely a bit, bit too rough. ]
I was - I thought we were -
[ he swallows hard, breathing deeply and trying to center himself a little, but he just finds himself nuzzling into hawk's jaw instead, fingers fisting in the fabric of his shirt. ]
Fuck.
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