[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. ]
[christ, tim's been holding it together in front of them - back to work and everything, but is this what's been plaguing him when he's all alone locked safely behind the fortress of his front door? sure that seems stable, but it doesn't beat the confines of one's mind and the irrational trickle of memories flooding back like the slow, maddening drip of water or the worse torrent like a damp cloth slapped against his face and rushing against his nose and mouth while he struggled to breathe. hawk had never asked him about his military experience, but he's read over his record enough to know there was nothing even close to what he faced in those few hours with carpathian scum. not much actual time on the frontlines, no real injuries sustained, mostly desk work. definitely not the torture almost guaranteed as a prisoner of war, except this time there wasn't even a goddamn battlefield for him to navigate.
the thought of tim losing sleep, waking not just in a drenched and disoriented terror but seemingly reliving those moments in vivid detail has his chest aching to watch the clear trauma he's been through. he hadn't even thought to ask earlier, though tim's clammed up enough about most of this that he almost thinks he wouldn't have gotten a straight answer anyway. but right now he looks like a cornered animal, trapped in a cage and this close to gnawing off its own leg to get out. arms up in the defensive, body covered in a glistening sheen of feverish sweat and feet scrambling at the floor to push himself back, back, back into some semblance of comfort or safety, small enough that specters haunting him can no longer grab with grubby hands and reach him.
this isn't hawk's first rodeo. and maybe his manifested differently when he'd recovered from his own brush with carpathian separatists, but he's seen other men go through it. it's usually best to give them their own space, find the best rhythm for recovery and either come out on the other end as clear as they can manage or watch the rest of their life unceremoniously fucked for a few years of service, never to be the same.
he won't let tim go through this alone. he can't see that light snuffed out.]
Shhh, you're alright. You're at home, you're safe in your room in Washington. See?
[hawk holds his hands up too, gesturing around - enough emptiness around them and no clear threat so that tim can see the hopeful coaxing in his face, in his body language. what hawk sees are the tears streaming down his face that tim hasn't registered yet - and then it's a blur of motion as his body catapults forward and into his waiting arms. they wrap tight around his shoulders on instinct, one hand cupping the back of his neck tenderly and the other squeezing around his bicep in reassurance. the tickle of breath against his jaw is rushed, panicked and heaving, and there's wetness from the tears he can feel too. god, his poor boy.]
C'mere, you're okay.
[it's a desperate murmur buried into tim's shoulder, head turning so he can press an insistent kiss against his temple.]
I'm not gonna let anything happen to you again. You hear me?
[he sighs out an exhale, realizing his own heart is a rabbiting thump against his chest, but it's nothing compared to what he imagines tim pulse must be.]
[ realistically, tim laughlin has been holding himself together in the presence of hawkins fuller long enough now that he doesn't even realize how tired he is of pressing his fingers in all the cracks, keeping every shattered piece carefully pieced together. the moment he stepped into ash's office on the first day and came face to face with hawkins fuller, he'd had to dig deep and find somewhere to put all the hurt and confusion.
it became easier as time went on, a callus forming to protect him against the initial sting of seeing the blue of his eyes, the faint scrunch of his nose when he was pretending to like something, the color of his laugh when he was faking it at some joke, or the gentle smile he'd see, genuine, pressed in embry moore's direction.
it's hard not to think about it now, even with carpathian ghosts at his back, the barrels of invisible guns pressed to the soft place at his nape. laying on the floor of that dark, small room had been no different, really, from standing, dumbfounded in the kitchen doorway of hawk's home, listening to the only directive he can remember - leave.
so he'd packed up the ghosts and fears and anxieties of the carpathian torture into neat little cardboard boxes just like he had the pieces of his heart that day, hidden between shirts, books, sweaters and one photograph that hawk insisted he keep.
tim can't cry anymore, even with hawk's gentle urgings, and so he just breathes heavy against his shoulder, fingers digging into the hard line of his back and clinging. it's everything he'd wanted to do that day when hawk told him to leave. how he wanted to cling to him, pressure him into his arms until they became nothing but diamonds, unable to be touched by whatever it was that struck him, that brought them to all of this.
he'll never understand it.
tim can't come to terms with that. ]
I'm safe in my room in Washington.
[ tim repeats it because all words have left him, replaced instead with a cold emptiness swaddled in abject fear. those men will find him, he can feel it. they will find him, hunt him, use him as pretty bait all over again. next time, tim knows it won't just be hawk and embry there, rushing to his aid, even if ash is told not to.
he nuzzles into his chest and shifts a little, curling closer, swinging his legs so that he is all but straddling his lap, legs on either side of his hips, arms around his middle, like he used to once upon a time. ]
Maybe they won't come for me again, but they got what they wanted. They got to me.
[ his voice comes out nothing but a tired, sleepy whisper, voice cracking. he's exhausted, exhausted, exhausted. two years apart. two years of trying to tell himself that hawkins fuller was just Another Guy, that he would find a way around the ache in his heart, the potholes made by a man he'd foolishly considered forever. another full year of service now and he's sitting in hawk's lap, tears dried up, fingers trembling, and there are no more resources for the shattered muscle in his chest. ]
I can't... I can't sleep. I can't think. I walk out of every room and check both ways like I'm crossing the highway or something. It's...
[ tim's body slumps a little, chest going heavy against hawk's chest, and he takes in a slow, shaking breath. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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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?
no subject
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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the thought of tim losing sleep, waking not just in a drenched and disoriented terror but seemingly reliving those moments in vivid detail has his chest aching to watch the clear trauma he's been through. he hadn't even thought to ask earlier, though tim's clammed up enough about most of this that he almost thinks he wouldn't have gotten a straight answer anyway. but right now he looks like a cornered animal, trapped in a cage and this close to gnawing off its own leg to get out. arms up in the defensive, body covered in a glistening sheen of feverish sweat and feet scrambling at the floor to push himself back, back, back into some semblance of comfort or safety, small enough that specters haunting him can no longer grab with grubby hands and reach him.
this isn't hawk's first rodeo. and maybe his manifested differently when he'd recovered from his own brush with carpathian separatists, but he's seen other men go through it. it's usually best to give them their own space, find the best rhythm for recovery and either come out on the other end as clear as they can manage or watch the rest of their life unceremoniously fucked for a few years of service, never to be the same.
he won't let tim go through this alone. he can't see that light snuffed out.]
Shhh, you're alright. You're at home, you're safe in your room in Washington. See?
[hawk holds his hands up too, gesturing around - enough emptiness around them and no clear threat so that tim can see the hopeful coaxing in his face, in his body language. what hawk sees are the tears streaming down his face that tim hasn't registered yet - and then it's a blur of motion as his body catapults forward and into his waiting arms. they wrap tight around his shoulders on instinct, one hand cupping the back of his neck tenderly and the other squeezing around his bicep in reassurance. the tickle of breath against his jaw is rushed, panicked and heaving, and there's wetness from the tears he can feel too. god, his poor boy.]
C'mere, you're okay.
[it's a desperate murmur buried into tim's shoulder, head turning so he can press an insistent kiss against his temple.]
I'm not gonna let anything happen to you again. You hear me?
[he sighs out an exhale, realizing his own heart is a rabbiting thump against his chest, but it's nothing compared to what he imagines tim pulse must be.]
Just go on and let it all out, honey.
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it became easier as time went on, a callus forming to protect him against the initial sting of seeing the blue of his eyes, the faint scrunch of his nose when he was pretending to like something, the color of his laugh when he was faking it at some joke, or the gentle smile he'd see, genuine, pressed in embry moore's direction.
it's hard not to think about it now, even with carpathian ghosts at his back, the barrels of invisible guns pressed to the soft place at his nape. laying on the floor of that dark, small room had been no different, really, from standing, dumbfounded in the kitchen doorway of hawk's home, listening to the only directive he can remember - leave.
so he'd packed up the ghosts and fears and anxieties of the carpathian torture into neat little cardboard boxes just like he had the pieces of his heart that day, hidden between shirts, books, sweaters and one photograph that hawk insisted he keep.
tim can't cry anymore, even with hawk's gentle urgings, and so he just breathes heavy against his shoulder, fingers digging into the hard line of his back and clinging. it's everything he'd wanted to do that day when hawk told him to leave. how he wanted to cling to him, pressure him into his arms until they became nothing but diamonds, unable to be touched by whatever it was that struck him, that brought them to all of this.
he'll never understand it.
tim can't come to terms with that. ]
I'm safe in my room in Washington.
[ tim repeats it because all words have left him, replaced instead with a cold emptiness swaddled in abject fear. those men will find him, he can feel it. they will find him, hunt him, use him as pretty bait all over again. next time, tim knows it won't just be hawk and embry there, rushing to his aid, even if ash is told not to.
he nuzzles into his chest and shifts a little, curling closer, swinging his legs so that he is all but straddling his lap, legs on either side of his hips, arms around his middle, like he used to once upon a time. ]
Maybe they won't come for me again, but they got what they wanted. They got to me.
[ his voice comes out nothing but a tired, sleepy whisper, voice cracking. he's exhausted, exhausted, exhausted. two years apart. two years of trying to tell himself that hawkins fuller was just Another Guy, that he would find a way around the ache in his heart, the potholes made by a man he'd foolishly considered forever. another full year of service now and he's sitting in hawk's lap, tears dried up, fingers trembling, and there are no more resources for the shattered muscle in his chest. ]
I can't... I can't sleep. I can't think. I walk out of every room and check both ways like I'm crossing the highway or something. It's...
[ tim's body slumps a little, chest going heavy against hawk's chest, and he takes in a slow, shaking breath. ]
It's not fair.