[ 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. ]
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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.