( cw: claustrophobia, violence, sexual harassment, mentions of torture )
[ there are few things in tim's life he can say he was truly prepared for, and becoming the aide to president colchester hadn't been one of them. the title came with a myriad of odd jobs, strange hours, wild requests and insufferably long days. it's all of the silly things he thinks of later, after he's dragged out of his hotel room in the middle of the night, blindfolded and gagged and shoved into the trunk of a car.
he assumes it's a car. it's cramped and dark, reeking of old oil and exhaust. the sort someone's grandmother would have, that putters along the road, inconspicuous and completely mundane.
mundane like ash's dry cleaning, embry's sardonic eye roll when tim argues about austen's legitimacy in regency era fiction, or hawkins fuller somehow secretly swapping out the tea he's forced himself to drink with a coffee cup of similar make filled with frothy, warm milk.
being the aide to the president of the united states should have meant paperwork, social engagements, political negotiations, booking flights, laughing over senate hearings gone awry or the speaker of the house's horrific blouse. it should be all of these things, and not a dark, cramped carpathian room; not rope burn on his wrists from being tied too tightly behind his back; not steel-toed boots shoved into his side or his head yanked back by his hair; not you have a pretty face i see why he likes you - will he come for his little pet?; not a towel pressed over his face and water dumped over and over until he begs for the thousandth time he knows
nothing.
but he knows what ash likes. knows that quiet garden walks around the church and sneaking away when the oval office door is locked brings light back into his eyes. he knows that all it takes is a little word play and a jest - but your humble knight demands you take a break lest you wither away in your armor, goodly king - to pry ash from his brooding and back into the fresh light of day. he knows that he might well die on the floor of the little, humid room if he doesn't open his mouth and tell all, but to die for a king is more noble a cause than any he can think of.
tim laughlin dreams about these moments over and over: a sickening crack of his head on the floor (it's concrete? wood? he can't remember), the looming figure he can't make out in the dark without his glasses, the meaty hand in his hair or yanking him up by embry's loaner expensive tie he'd forgotten to take off before crashing into bed (something about needing to look the part for a party like this), or the sickening drop in his gut when he hears the creak of old hinges coupled with the shuffle of boots and:
are you ready to talk yet, mr. laughlin...?
reality and the dreams stitch themselves together as he wakes with a harrowing start, body drenched in sweat, heart monitor racing to the rhythm of the panicked breaths he tries to take. they come in wheezes and despite all the caution given by the nurses when he was still hazy and out of it, he sits up far, far too fast. it makes the room lurch, his stomach swoop sickly in his gut and it takes absolutely everything in tim to grip the sheets on the bed to stay upright.
a bed. beeping machines. sterile, white light. a hospital.
he'd been dreaming.
it doesn't stop the way he heaves for air, the way his hair sticks to his forehead and splays out at odd angles, or the dazed and distant look in his eyes as he comes back down into his body, into himself. he's not aware at first that someone else is in the room. he can barely keep his eyes focused on his feet under the sheets, but there's definitely movement in the corner of his vision.
a nurse? surely. ]
Sorry, I'm -
[ a hand raised to press at what he's sure is an attending's arm, but his fingers find soft shirt fabric, a strong forearm. the hazy brown of his eyes slowly follows the line of the shoulder, to a neck, to a jawline he knows better than he knows his own name, no less.
god.
he's being punished, isn't he? truly, deeply punished. ]
Hawk, what - [ a thick swallow - his mouth is so dry ] Mr. Fuller? When did you...?
[ in his dreams, even the bad ones, there's always the lingering feeling of arms under his knees and back, warm breath in his hair, and the promise of safety, however brief. ]
[there's not much he remembers about that moment in the oval office when those five little words crashed onto his shoulders and shattered his world: tim laughlin has been taken. the ringing in his ears, the bile in his stomach, the way his vision went red and his jaw tightened so hard with a grind of his teeth that he wouldn't be surprised if he'd chipped a molar. it had taken every ounce of restraint not to launch himself across the oak timbers of the president's resolute desk, to knock the perfectly chiseled and sympathetic face of maxen ashley colchester onto his ass and beat that same expression inward. to demand to know why tim wasn't with him - as his aide, as his fucking date - jesus, they've been screwing for months now. if the situation had been reversed, hawk...
no. that's not true either. he wouldn't be at hawk's side. he'd be across the room, drink in hand and giving him doe-eyed yearning that made his chest ache while hawk pretended they were just colleagues thrown together in the crazy vacuum that made up the white house's most intimate, inner workings.
he gave that up, whether he wants to admit it or not - because tim had given him that choice, and hawk had chosen this instead. the life where tim deserves a man like ash because despite the way hawk despises him, he's good and honest with ideals and morals and goes to church like some boyscout and it's just no wonder tim looks at him like he hung the moon and all the goddamn stars to boot. why he'd get a thrill being on his knees in front of the world of the elite for him - submitting to warm words and rough hands. christ, that's one moment hawk wishes he could scrub out of his brain and not lie awake simultaneously miserable and aroused at the idea of him in ash's place instead, if he could go back and change it all - would he?
a mere twenty-four hours ago, he'd say no to that.
but now, as he's sitting straight-backed and got a chair pulled as close as possible to tim's bedside in the private hospital wing of the white house's medical unit?
now hawkins fuller is very much having second thoughts.
it's hard not to stop replaying what he'd seen there in that carpathian safe-house: tim looking so small and frail, every bit the deceptive way his clothes hide a body he knows is perfectly carved muscle and solidity. curled in on himself with blood at his temples, dried under his nose - lips bitten raw and so many slashes and bruises. angry red weals from rope cutting into his wrists - who do you belong to? his hair had been damp with sweat and water, glasses crushed under the fall of heavy boots and long since abandoned in the corner. and tim - his boy was on the hard concrete like a broken bird, wings clipped and feathers cruelly torn piece by piece. and yet somehow even with his brows arched up in pain and his chest wheezing struggling breaths, even now hawk had a pit in his stomach for how beautiful he still looked - wondering and praying to all the entities he didn't believe in that no one decided to capitalize on that and take him for a ride.
the men he'd razed through to get here were faceless bags of blood and weak, fleshy spots hawk knew to target with a brutality he hadn't realized was still buried in there, enough to make the scar on his shoulder-blade twinge with the memory of this kind of violence. and embry knows it too - the way they practically mirror each other in their merciless efficiency, taking a few scrapes of their own and keeping it moving. there's a moment where he hears a sickening crunch, turning back to see embry disposing of another soldier and suspiciously not looking his way. getting to tim was all that mattered - and he'd practically thrown himself down next to his former lover and stroked at his cheek and run a hand through his hair, lifting him carefully into his arms and murmuring that it was him, that he was safe - that this would never, ever happen to him again so long as he lived.
(it's whispered against his forehead where embry and the rest of the small crew can't see it, hawk insisting he'll take it from here as they load up on the helicopter and the two-person medic crew whisks tim into the back for fluids and ivs and an assessment of the damages.
severe concussion. cracked ribs. cuts and bruises. hypothermia. lungs inflamed. rope burn.
not to mention the lasting psychological trauma from severe torture, possible ptsd -
it's not ash's fault, not really. but he is the easiest one to blame, and in a very rare, uncharacteristic moment of blind rage he lets it all out on him, demanding he and embry get the fuck out while he cleans up the mess, as if that might hide the multitude of sin he's committed against the boy tucked under layers of clean white linens. might hide the way his heart is still pumping, adrenaline coursing through him at the reality that timothy laughlin, the man he loved could have died.
the nightmares are to be expected, and hawk reaches for his hand, squeezing and speaking softly. it's the first time he's been awake and not heavily sedated from the initial run of treatments and the downright exhaustion - and he can't help the way he lurches forward to press as close to tim as possible. the door's locked - ash and embry are probably tucked into their own beds by now anyway. tim's voice sounds so small, pained - but not as much as it cuts to hear him still revert back to the polite civility of a stranger just like he fucking ordered.]
Skippy.
[his voice, on the other hand, is thick and full of emotion, breathed out like he's been holding it in this whole time as many times as he's been forced to ignore the habit of calling him by the endearment these past months. he can see the way tim's throat struggles, adam's apple bobbing slow like it's stuck and remembers the nurse mentioning dryness and dehydration too. his fingers wrap around a glass of room temperature water, bringing it to tim's lips and slowly tipping it back with a soft here, drink.]
[ everything about the last twenty-four hours and change has been nothing short of a blur. he tries to piece his memory back together, but with the way every thought makes his temples ache and the way his chest aches with every wheezing breath, there's no shot. instead he tries to focus on quelling the furious shock of pain radiating through one bandaged side and the sickening swim of his vision.
there's no time for that with hawkin's fuller at his side, pressed close. he's not been this close to this man since before he joined the army and even now, with his senses maligned at the hand of the carpathian shitbag, he remembers the scent of hawk's aftershave better than he can remember anything between 5 PM yesterday and the moment they exist in now.
luckily, if his eyes begin to burn and tear up, he can blame it on the injuries. he can blame it on the kidnapping. he doesn't have to acknowledge that there's something else broken and bleeding and damaged tucked deep under those broken ribs.
but there he is, voice thick and rich and warm, wrapped all around the syllables forming skippy and tim comes undone. hawkins fuller was not the beacon in the storm he'd expected when the door opened and strong, warm arms wrapped around him. he didn't expect the reassurances against his forehead, his hair, everything to be colored in the voice of hawkins fuller.
at first, he was sure he'd imagined it.
but here he is, pressed at his side and making him drink water and tim can't make sense of any of it. the ground feels even less solid beneath his feet with hawk there. it shouldn't be hawk. it shouldn't be anyone he cares about because every one of them faces danger by proxy of being near tim.
you'll have to sleep your way through congress, pretty boy - you're useless. - that old, awful horrific senator he'd worked for in the beginning had said to him before he met hawk. before the beginning of any and all of this. and maybe he was right - he wasn't meant for these things. he wasn't made of stone and steel and indomitable will like ash, hawk, embry.
what the hell was he even thinking, taking this job?
the water is cool down his throat and he sighs, grateful, but his hazy eyes turn themselves to hawk - his profile close, body closer - and tim knows exactly what to look for. the subtle hint of puffiness around his eyes, the line that forms at one corner - he's tired. of course he is.
he fought his way through - ]
You - you can't be here.
[ he doesn't mean to panic, to give hawk a little push even though everything in him wants to fall into his chest and beg, beg, beg to be held and protected. promised that he will never be stolen away, that he will never be shut away again and told just how fucking useless he is.
(it's obvious now, though. they kidnapped him, and even then he'd been no good. unable to defend himself, left to die like scraps on the side of the proverbial road). ]
They'll - no one knows we - I promised -
[ he's getting too upset, unable to string thoughts together and he can feel it now how everything fishtails, sidewinding back and forth between emotions and scenarios. ]
Mr. Fuller, you have to - [ he reaches for hawk's arms, gripping and holding to him as another wave of nausea rushes through him. ]
It's not safe - not with me - and the Vice President - you need to leave. Before they find you too.
[ before i have to say goodbye to you - i won't be able to rescue you ]
[it's not meant to be condescending, the way he reaches for tim past his weak attempts to shove him away out of misguided fear or confusion at where he is - if that's what's going on. it's a jumble of them, and hawk's chest pangs at the idea that he's still trying to maintain the cover hawk had demanded of him before they'd parted ways, enough that it blurs together now with the kidnapping and has tim thinking he's still there and somehow he's responsible for everyone else being in danger, as if he wasn't the one who'd been kidnapped, tortured, and been left half-dead before the next round. as if anything they'd been through in this twenty-four hour and then some hell was even remotely comparable.
(but he would think like that, his boy - always so sweet and selfless - willing to be the sacrificial lamb for the rest of them sinners.)
his hand gently wraps around tim's forearm, the other at his shoulder and slowly trying to lie him back down from where he'd been restlessly struggling and pushed himself up somewhat. tim reaches for him in turn, and everything about it makes hawk remember all the times they'd held each other in his queen bed on a quiet street just outside of capitol hill - when they were so much younger and things looked a hell of a lot easier than they do now. before hawk had crushed his heart and turned on his heel, dumped him unceremoniously and watched from afar as he joined the army and then came back while he wasn't looking and of course ended up as aide to the president of the usa. a big rise and a long way from the kid with floppy hair avoiding lecherous hands and vile comments that hawk had helped pull him out of.
looking at him like this, hawk wonders how the fuck he could have ever let him go. distance was supposed to keep him safe from the shitshow of his preferences, from all the terrible things that happen to the people he loves - his father once upon a time, kenny, lenny, senator smith...but tim got hurt anyway, so what was even the point?
hawk's fingers flex around him again, the hand at his shoulder lifting to brush the hair from his forehead and cup lightly at the side of his face that isn't quite so lurid with bruising, a small cut instead grazing the highpoint of his cheekbone. he can't help the way he needs to duck his head for a moment, forehead pressing down against the closest part of tim's body because his own eyes burn and he doesn't even have the excuse of injury or pain or anything but his own regrets. his own foolish mistakes - cowardice, tim had called it once in the cozy corner.
he was right. he'd always been right.
maybe he can blame the tiredness when he steels his gaze again, still reddened around the rims of his eyes even as his lips try and form the shape of a reassuring smile.]
You're safe, Tim. All of us are. We're in the medical wing of the White House.
Ash and Embry are with each other and an army of security.
[the part where they're meeting specifically to review the carpathian treaty for breech clauses is specifically left out, since he knows tim would try and leap to his feet this second and try and convince them not to do anything on account of him.]
I meant what I said. I'm not leaving your side. Not when I almost -
[ - lost you, he can't quite choke out as his eyes slip shut.]
[ every rational part of tim's addled brain knows that he's safe. it's clear in the way that hawk is at his side, the door between them and whatever lies outside this medical room locked. there are the shadows of secret service outside (they always have a look, with their broad shoulders and dark suits), pale walls with expensive, modern art carefully hung upon them.
it's not the dingy, shut down little room he'd been in. that place hadn't had windows, but this one does - impossibly thick, impossible to open, but a window to the outside world. it must be early in the morning, tim realizes, when he can peek the way the sky has all but gone burnt and dusky. god, his head hurts. the dreams feel real, still - hanging at the edge of his consciousness and prying, insisting he notice and see and pay attention.
yeah, his head really hurts. his side hurts. his throat still feels dry despite the water and even hawk's grip on his forearm reminds him that his skin is raw beneath the gauze covering the ligature marks. he doesn't know where his glasses are, but even now he has an instinct to reach for them, to see the world clearer after hours of being blindfolded.
ah. right. they'd been smashed, hadn't they? he shivers when he remembers the crunch, the laugh, and the hand pressed hard over his mouth that followed as tim got mouthy with the men, insisting they let him go. ]
Okay. Right. Safe, right. You're sure?
[ he allows hawk to guide lie back down into the bed, allows hawk to touch his hair and lean his forehead in against his shoulder and tim can't help the way his free hand rises to touch the back of his neck, the soft hair at his nape. at least until hawk pulls back.
there had been hazy mornings spent with their bodies close like this, tim's fingers working out the waves in hawk's hair, mouth tracing his ear and whispering silly little love songs from the 50s and 60s just to make him smile into waking. he'd grown up in a simple world - a tiny, cramped staten island apartment in the slums. a preacher father, a demure, silenced mother, a sister who feared god and her father equally the same. they'd work in the community church garden, a plot of land turned into a sort of pseudo-farm. a place where a gentle, soft boy like tim laughlin learned the world could hurt more than it could help.
it's no different now. he keeps learning that lesson - first the senator, then hawk, and now this. his hand falls back to hawk's arm, gripping tightly as he blinks up at him. he's not sure when he started crying or if he woke crying, but his whole body feels exhausted, beaten, worn down. ]
I'm in the medical wing. In the White House. Everyone is safe. [ a mantra he'll repeat over the next several days. ] How - twelve hours? It felt like...
[ forever. but hawk's hand on his cheek makes his eyes flutter shut, the touch gentle and soothing something in him that has been unsettled since the day hawk left. twelve hours felt like a lifetime, and although tim himself has seen some people die on a battlefield or the ill take a turn for the worse in pop-up medical facilities, nothing will compare to waiting on the knife's edge of someone else's plan.
tim laughlin has faced a lot of miserable, awful men in his time. he can stand his ground to those in a battle of wills, where politics and propriety rule, where laws and justice have weight. but in the back room of some old, worn down building? melwas showed just how effective a veil of finery and pretty words can fool even the sharpest. ]
I'm sorry. I was just going to my room. I was feeling - you know I can't hold my - [ he closes his eyes, free hand raising to press over them for a moment. the lights are bright and it sends a shock through the back of his skull. ]
I tried to get out. I really did. Was it... it was you who found me? And Embry?
[ i didn't think you'd ever look for me again. the hand on hawk's arm drops, and he reaches for hawk's even if the man tries to pull away. he's here now, isn't he? he's here and god, he called him skippy - or did he dream that, too?
his bottom lip quivers, his eyes burn, and this time he's not sure if he's wheezing a little from the burn in his lungs and side or if it's the way his heart still feels like it's hemorrhaging in his chest. ]
I didn't imagine it, right?
Edited (typos and typos and typos ) 2024-01-30 19:27 (UTC)
[thank god the glasses had been the only real casualty, considering hawk doesn't count the broken and battered bodies of carpathians he'd left behind on the way to tim. but he aborts the movement from tim with a small shake of his head and hand tightening around his forearm again, not wanting him to waste the effort of expending energy on it when he'll just be disappointed and dizzy. the shudder that runs through tim probably isn't from actual cold, but hawk can't resist a soft here as his hand lifts to gently tug up the covers a little higher and protective - tim still looking so goddamn frail it makes his chest ache with the reality of what he must look like underneath the medical gown. if they hadn't gotten there in less than 8 hours -
no. that didn't happen, and hawk's never been much for wandering down the what-ifs. tim is here, he's safe - it's as much a mantra for hawk as it is tim right now, even if he doesn't know it. hawk won't let him either, because the last thing tim needs is to worry over his well-being or anyone else's for that matter. especially not fucking ash, who hadn't even left the comfort of the oval office. even if he knows that isn't fair to blame him for, the fight is still burning beneath his skin, adrenaline never having fully worked its way out of his system just yet.]
I'm sure. They'd have to get through the lingering special ops guys, a goddamn army of secret service and me if they wanted to even get close right now.
[weak attempt at a joke - it lacks the dryness of his usual cavalier tone that would really drive it home.
but he supposes while tim is up and finally aware enough, he should know what happened. what they managed to piece together too goddamn late to begin with. if only he'd been keeping a closer eye on him, if only he hadn't abandoned him - none of this would have ever happened. they'd all be tucked in their respective beds (or would tim be in ash's?) tipsy, exhausted, and worn out from a night of typical schmoozing and maybe one drink too many.]
You left a few hours in. That piece of shit - he put something in your drink.
[melwas kocur - hawk's free hand flexes briefly into a fist before smoothing out, the tick in his jaw less difficult to hide. the event planning staff and catering must have thought tim was just some drunk intern, being escorted out by his kindly boss with enough excuses that no one thought twice in a crowd that sizable. hawk hopes ash or the secret service or anyone is nailing their asses to a cross as they speak for this grave an oversight.]
Yeah, it was us. Would have come sooner but...diplomacy.
[he'd railed against that too, trying to justify it like he used to argue with mcleod in security back when he was working under senator smith. sometimes sending a stronger message is the better choice, sir, he'd said a long time ago. it hadn't been quite so eloquent this time around, not with tim hanging in the balance.]
It's not your fault - you got that?
[he leans in again, eyes bright and determined even as tim's look glassy from pain and his whole face seems one wrong word away from crumbling.]
Tell me you understand it. Tell me it's not your fault.
[his own throat swells, voice lowering into a rough murmur as he reaches to lace tim's fingers between his own.]
Not your imagination at all. Tell me - you know I'm here for you now, Skippy.
[ hawk starts laying out what happened and while his own memory is hazy, the picture all makes sense. tim with some fruity drink at the bar - he doesn't even usually drink at events like that, and yet he'd been urged by some carpathian official to enjoy the night, embibe in what carpathia has to offer. and the drink had been good - sweet and sharp, enough to make his cheeks burn red too fast.
and overwhelmed by all the people in the room and leaving the more confident of their little american team to do the schmoozing, tim decided to find a corner for himself. ash, with embry begrudgingly at his side for some talk with melwas - ah. an alibi. and hawk - hawk somewhere the crowd, smiling falsely into the face of some carpathian secretary.
still - it's better that it was him. tim, who, in the grand scheme of things? means very little to the cause - who can be one more tick on the list of wrongs now to absolutely begin beating down the carpathian defenses.
ah, diplomacy. ]
A gentleman's war.
[ a little huff of a laugh follows the weak joke. so much of everything hurts, and even the little huff makes pain bloom ugly and angry in his side.
hawk leans up close against him and a tiny part of him wants to beg for him to come closer, to let his eyes focus and remember what it looks like to be so near to him. he's angry, of course, somewhere deep inside of himself, for craving the way the man leans into him now, when it had been hawk who turned all of this away. the way hawk turned heel and ran at the first sign that tim might be a problem for him in some capacity. the irony, that he's such a problem now.
hawk's fingers lace between his own and it's reflexive the way he grips them back, the way his body leans just slightly as hawk speaks, determined. his eyes flicker up to meet hawk's and he hums in acknowledgement. ]
Of course.
[ of course he knows it's his fault, but he won't say that. instead he just nods a little dumbly, trying to slow the way his heart races in his chest. the fingers around his own aren't enough - tim wishes every part of him didn't hurt. if he didn't, he'd lean in and beg to be held and crushed into someone's chest, protected and safe and untouchable, however brief. ]
I understand it.
[ you know i'm here for you now, skippy.
he sucks in a slow, shaking breath, eyes burning all over again and up close he can see the determination in hawk's eyes, hear the way his voice goes rough and low. what is he supposed to tell him? it wasn't his fault? he had no hand in what happened? he couldn't have known to be careful? that of course he expected hawkins fuller to be at his bedside, no one else? no. ]
I know you're here for me now.
[ tim's voice has gone small, eyes feeling trapped in an ocean of blue with torrential storms, but there's the faintest tip of his head - the flex of a muscle in his jaw, defiant, even as his lip quivers.
he knows what hawk told him to say - and he won't. he can't lie. it's his fault, all of this. but even timothy laughlin, the best of the good boys, can disobey sometimes. he wipes at his tears with his free hand.
[hearing it like that followed by the weakness in tim's voice, the way he doesn't hide the wince in his face particularly well considering how much pain he's probably in - god, it makes hawk hate the idea of being a gentleman in this moment. his level-headedness was supposed to be the thing that carried him this far, that and the instincts of a trained war hero. knowing when to concede, when to defend versus charging in for a massacre. the moment the words were uttered - tim's been taken - all of it went out the window save the thudding of his heart and the rush of blood in his ears pounding as if he were back in the trenches of it. nothing else mattered but getting him back. and hell, he probably would have gone out like a one man rebel if it had come down to it, none of that non-negotiation with terrorists, which carpathia is in his book now despite regaling one of the prime ministers earlier with an avid defense in its favor against their own constituents.
that will haunt him too - what if he'd gotten there sooner? how much damage could he have avoided on his poor, broken boy's body that's littered with physical evidence of his failure?
it hadn't even once crossed his mind to dial it down a notch, dropping everything to get him back. he's one of ours, he remembers saying with a detachment that wasn't nearly as convincing when faced with the idea that he was going to lose the only man he'd ever loved. we have to go and we have to go now. thank god embry hadn't asked any questions, and ash had the sense not to try pushing him when he'd already nearly come to blows at the thought of wasting any more time sitting around while tim was getting tortured, killed, or...jesus, thank god it hadn't come to the latter.
but the part that wounds him the most, cutting deeper than the nick of a knife's edge on his arm or the bloodied, bruised knuckles of the fists that fought their way through kevlar and bone is watching tears bleary over warm chocolate. seeing tim's face trembling with the effort of trying to obey, to repeat what hawk tells him and believe it and being unable to do so. to not know which part is the lie - that blames himself, or that he doesn't think hawk would be here for him in this moment. maybe it's both, and that stings, but not nearly enough as the damage he's wrought on tim laughlin's heart in the first place. that's a raw, blistering emotion that can't be healed by morphine or scotch or any bandage in this medical wing. that's the part he has to live with by his own choice.]
Hey, hey, hey - Skippy.
[hawk knows it's not best to shift him, but he can't help the way his arm slides as carefully as possible under tim's shoulders, trying not to jostle him any more and make him feel any of the physical hurt that's been wrought upon his prone figure. but he leans in, desperate for the closeness and pulling tim into his chest as his other arm wraps around his front, cupping his cheek and thumbing away the tears still wet in the corner of tim's dark lashes. his hand is caught between them and he can't care - all he knows is he needs to hold his boy and convince him of the truth.]
It is not your fault. It could have been anyone, but I am sorry it was you.
I -
[hawk swallows hard, wondering if tim will be able to feel the way his adam's apple bobs and his voice grows thick with emotion he'd normally rather die than show to the world.]
I had to be there to get you back. I couldn't let it be anyone else. And I couldn't have stayed away.
[his own eyes close, chin dragging against the fluff of his mussed hair and making it worse, lips brushing against the top of his skull with a gentle flutter of affection. his hold tightens, still trying to be conscientious of tim's delicate state but unable to pull back or do more than affirm that his boy is safe in his arms and this nightmare is behind them now.]
Thought I was gonna lose you. That would have been my fault, no one else's.
[ and it is, really. it really, really is. but as he sits in his bed, wrapped up in his blankets, he can't help but feel like his skin itches, like the doors don't have enough locks, like the walls are closing in on him. ]
[ the ballroom feels so packed, so loud, so crowded that even though tim is being sent to retrieve drinks, hors d'oeuvres, and a sundry of other tasks, it feels like tim is passing incredibly slowly. every move through the room takes time and careful shuffling, mindful not to rub elbows with the wrong party, with someone important, or worse, a rival. while the venue certainly accommodates all the affluent and important people they intended to garner with this fundraising gala, tim feels grossly out of place.
he always will with people like this - he's known it his whole life. everywhere he goes, people can practically smell the humble upbringing on him. a staten island boy with dirt under his nails, freckles on his cheeks, calluses on his palms - and here? it's the rental suit. he's not made for politics with his soft, slight build and dark, thick glasses. he is, however, built to run errands and perform mindless, menial tasks.
yes, in fact, lonigan does like his coffee better after morning meetings. he prefers the schedule of the day to be given to him both in an iphone note and in various post-it notes throughout the day - reminders of where he should be, and when. he prefers a light lunch but a heavy dinner, and god forbid tim mix up the slightest hand signal that could mean anything from whisky, vodka soda, or wine.
this time? it's whisky. two fingers, neat, the most expensive and top shelf they have. lonigan right now is set to be one of the biggest donors at the event and thus he's a busy man, shaking hands and smiling and faking his way through things. tim can see through it, really - how the smile doesn't reach his eyes, how his mouth stays poised in the smile even when people aren't looking.
he's good. he's very good.
and so the night comes and goes like this - tim weaving in and out of crowds, hanging back just within ear and eye shot of the man. occasionally he talks to other aides or assistants, but they don't hover long. we'll see how long he keeps you is the message he receives, loud and clear. but he's determined to make something of it regardless, even if it's short-lived. he'd either been handed the step up or handed a key to a door that would lead to his demise.
he's read these books before, after all.
it's halfway through the gala that he's given a break, lonigan bored of being fussed over suddenly, clapping him hard on the back and sending him on his way with a - go get a drink, kid. he really shouldn't drink anything considering he has most of the evening still to keep up with. even from afar he gauges lonigan's location, his expression, his demeanor.
it's this that distracts him enough that when he gets to the bar, he requests milk. the bartender stares, but being the kind of fancy affair this is? procures him a tumblr of the stuff. tim can't shake the edgy, nervous feeling that rattles under his skin. it's only been three weeks under longan's purview and even moving now to get fresh air on the balcony seems like a bad plan.
and it is, because in turning to glance back one more time at lonigan, smiling and laughing closely with some young, blue-eyed, blond swedish politician, he misses the fact that indeed, someone else had been exiting the balcony. he bumps right into them, but thankfully? the milk only spills a little - splattering on the floor, and on the toes of his own dress shoes. ]
Oh my God, I'm sorry, I wasn't paying attention and - [ ... he knows that face. ]
[timothy david laughlin isn't like the other interns dave lonigan has had through his revolving door of misery over the last few years. he's competent, for starters. opinionated, well-read, and he's not just the son or daughter or cousin of some donor his team needs a handout from, or good old nepotism standing strong in all the avenues where constituents don't get a say. so really it's no surprise when hawk hears through the grapevine that the boy's been promoted, even if dave doesn't really deserve his service and hawk suspects he'd be far better placed within the staff of someone like senator johnson with actual morals and seeming good intentions to make her stay in washington impactful. unlike dave, who is trying to plow through as many blondes with tits the size of cantaloupes and make himself as rich as possible while working for an asshole like representative hawthorn.
at least tim won't have to worry about any wandering hands.
by the time tim's promotion manifests, hawk has mostly put aside any lingering thoughts of the eagerness in big brown doe eyes, teeth worrying the tip of a pencil eraser and a soft pink tongue darting out to lick slender fingers and turn pages. the thought of what that little beauty mark on the underside of his neck might taste like, or how badly his glasses would fog up while in the midst of toe-curling pleasure has been a little harder to chase away, especially when he's in bed alone before a busy week of congress in session and of course: the donor gala.
he may be good at the small talk and accumulating facts like little trinkets to be bought and sold at auction when it's time to collect, but that doesn't mean he has to really enjoy them. lucy smith - who isn't in attendance tonight - put it best when she called it a room full of insufferable prigs, and christ, she doesn't even know the half of it. maybe the only one who isn't is senator smith himself, who hawk spends most of the beginning of the evening standing alongside - shaking hands, watching him hold court in a way that's far more noble than the lonigans and the hawthorns of the world. and hawk is just there to play the loyal serf, picking up the things senator smith is too good to piece together on his own and read between the lines.
but eventually he's shooed off, and hawk holds up his hands in mock surrender to find a stiffer drink and get some fresh air. there's a tumbler of a double whiskey in his hand and the smell of smoke clinging to his lapels on the way back from the balcony, only to be replaced by -
that doesn't look like rum chata. doesn't smell like it either.]
Is that - milk?
[there's an incredulous note in his voice, because what is he, five? but the twinkle in his eye and the slight crinkle at the corners leaves no doubt there's a sense of fond amusement there too.]
You certainly are a man who walks to the beat of his own drum, Mr. Laughlin.
[the soft smirk cements that hawk seems to find this complimentary, at the very least, even if his shoes look a little worse for wear. frankly - so does the suit, which he doesn't need to be sherlock holmes to guess is rented. maybe the milk isn't a bad thing to bulk him up a bit.]
Did Lonigan finally let you off the leash?
[he tips his head towards the man who has managed to get an arm around the swedish ambassador who somehow doesn't look repulsed and is clearly keeping him busy for now. busy enough that if he knows dave, will mean departure is imminent and then tim will really have time on his hands. but this is the kind of secret that's earned, so he doesn't share it yet. even if he suspects tim is smart enough to have garnered that on his own.]
[ of all the people he'd expect to meet at a gala like this, he hadn't expected this man. the dark haired, blue-eyed gentleman who had kept his company a month ago at the library. who had snuck up on him, snooped at his notes, made amusing commentary that was both witty and sharp, and had whisked away before tim could get a name.
hawkins fuller, though. that's who this is. he'd asked the library about the man and that was all it had taken - the utterance of a name - and instead of reading up on the dying influence of mccarthyism in american politics? he'd googled hawkins fuller. maybe it was silly, shameless, foolish. he'd never expected to see the man in any real way again anyway, but he'd taken his advice. he'd remembered coffee orders and paid attention to the delivery of them, the man's needs, and quickly lonigan had demanded he be hired.
and so here he is - spilling milk on the doorway between the ballroom and the balcony, and staring up stupidly at the man he's supposed to know so very little about. he shrugs a little, careful and sheepish as he cradles the glass closer to his chest. ]
It could be a White Russian, you know.
[ a blond white russian? maybe. is that even a thing? he doesn't know. but he puffs up a little, both embarrassed and a tiny bit defensive in a huffy sort of way. but he'd rather have the milk anyway - a comfort drink if nothing else, and something that will keep him sober all night. his eyes snap up again at the mention of lonigan.
there's a brief glance backward to where lonigan is indeed feeling up some pretty, blond thing. tim knows that it means his night here at the gala won't be mandatory much longer. his boss has been liquored up, has a pretty thing at his side, and before long, he'll guide her back to his big, fancy car and disappear. all the better, really - tim is already too grateful for the fresh air of the balcony, and to go back in and smile and listen and be nothing more than a shadow sounds like hell. no less with the undoubtedly drunk girl he will have to help write off in the morning.
so tim steps outside a little, making sure not to bump the man further. ]
But yes, it's - well, milk. I think my parents thought it would help me grow taller, but as you can see -
[ there's a little shrug, a gesture to himself. he's not tall, he's not short. he's average, unnoticeable, boring in all ways, really. it helps with this kind of job. his fingers drum against the glass in the jazzy rhythm playing on the other side of the multi-paned glass door leading inside. it's been jazz and blues all night - the music of the rich now, when it had been that of the poor before. it's strange, how history changes so much. ]
And I'm not on a leash. But yes, he's being entertained. I think he'll make his goodbyes soon - we've been here a couple hours now. But - you're here. Who are you here with?
[ he knows the answer, but bites it back himself - senator smith, of course. he's done his research, his digging. but he cna't seem too eager, too excited, and so he lets out a little huff of air. he's handsome, enigmatic, charming. a man like this belongs in high politics, but something about even the closeness of the way they have to stand thanks to the spilled milk and the smaller balcony area - it's intoxicating. ]
I mean, politically. Sorry, that could have been rude. Or was. I didn't mean for it to be, of course.
[there are several things hawk takes in all at once: most importantly, timothy laughlin knows his name, which means he was interested enough to find out what it was in the first place. second: he's a terrible liar, not even because hawk knows what a white russian is meant to look like and by the way those pretty brown eyes widen like a deer in the headlights even as he protectively reaches around his glass like it's precious cargo. three: he's...defensive? or maybe just as fed up with lonigan as everyone else. frankly, it's the first two he's most interested in prodding at. hawk steps in even closer, as if the notion of personal space doesn't quite occur to him even if there's just enough of a sliver to deem it appropriate if anyone chose to look too closely. they're practically the same height more or less, but something about the way tim hunches in on himself and seems committed to the wallflower bit seems to shrink him.
hawk tilts his head, an amused noise that's a cross between an incredulous scoff and a short, brusque laugh. but his lips are open for a moment, pulled up at the corners as he squints slightly.]
Did you...google me, Mr. Laughlin?
[and then it smooths out into an easy, closed-lipped grin, eyes warm with a slight twinkle as he gives tim a very blatant once over and a subtle nod of appreciation.]
I'm flattered, really. But just so you know - White Russians aren't actually white.
[there's a beat, and he follows tim further back onto the balcony and glances over his shoulder to make sure the coast is clear from lonigan, senator smith, and any other prying eyes. his voice drops a little, and he shifts to move past him back outside he murmurs within earshot.]
Unless you count the ones your boss likes to feel up at these parties.
[there's a hint of sardonicism through the playfulness, though they both know it's the truth. brushing past tim and into the fresh air gives him a moment where the boy hasn't fully turned around to glance at his backside - which isn't getting any favors from the way the suit is slightly too baggy. then again, he remembers having to climb that ladder once upon a time. he was just fortunate to have pressed and tailored suits from his days still living at home, an immense gratitude for the care his mother had in preserving them even after he'd been unceremoniously thrown out by his father. but nevermind that, hawk pulls out another cigarette, leaning against the balcony and waving tim over with a beckoning arm before fishing around for his lighter again.]
A longer leash, maybe. Congratulations on the promotion, by the way.
[that's common knowledge from lonigan, the gossip of the other aides he's overheard - certainly not the work of google. he puts the filter against his mouth, striking the lighter while cupping around the flame and keeping it between his lips as he offers an amused hum.]
You don't strike me as a particularly rude boy. I'm here with Senator Smith. Politically.
[one elbow rests against the thick stone enclosure of the balcony, and hawk leans casually on it while his body follows in an easy drape, like they're just two old friends chatting here.]
But I get the feeling you might have already known that. So I'll be rude enough for the both of us and ask if you're here with anyone else - not politically.
[his brows bounce suggestively, fingers pulling the cigarette out as he blows the smoke off to the side and away from tim's face.]
[ he tilts his head a little bit, but he knows he's been caught. no one would drink vodka with straight cream - what a nightmare. already this interaction has gone so downhill, and his face flushes at the mere accusation that he has looked the man up. he shouldn't sound so defensive when he speaks again on a little huff, but when he turns and catches the faintest hint of eyes on him? the flush creeps further up his neck. ]
The National Registry, actually. At least first, considering I was at the library. You - everyone does it sometimes. Googling, I mean.
[ he follows after him, intrigued and feeling strangely like he's fallen into the orbit of a sun, unable to pull away. hawkins fuller is enigmatic, handsome, alluring. even the little quips draw him in. and while fuller hasn't googled him, the promotion bit? well that makes the flush rise hot into his cheeks. he's heard - enough to remember him. enough to congratulate him. ]
Senator Lonigan's past-times aren't my concern. I just see to whatever he requests here and then make sure he gets in the right car when he leaves. Whatever his proclivities are I'd rather not speak to them.
[ again he turns the glass in between his palms, glancing out over the balcony, but then to hawk when he lights up - the broad cup of his hands, the purse of his lips around the cigarette, and the way the lighter's flame lights up in blue eyes. his nose scrunches up a little, mouth pulling and thinning. he leans against the railing himself, crossing his legs in front of him but his shoe ends up tapping against hawk's, absently. ]
I'm not a boy, thank you. And yes, I could assume you were here with Senator Smith, considering your political leanings. I hadn't seen you, though.
[ but good god, hawk chooses to be rude himself and tim blinks, ducking his head and looking up at him incredulously. ]
Me? No. I couldn't - Lonigan keeps me busy and it would be rude to invite someone to a party and abandon them. I'm too busy for that. But - what about you? If you think I'm incapable of being a rude boy, then I'll just ask outright - did you come with anyone tonight or have you stayed with Senator Smith and his donors?
This isn't your way of telling me you aren't old enough to drink, is it?
[which is a terribly polite, roundabout way of confirming that timothy laughlin is in fact of age and hawk's not robbing some kind of cradle, even if the milk and the baby face and the way he's partly swimming in his rental aren't doing him any favors. if anything it's wildly endearing, not the downhill thing tim seems embarrassed about - or whatever is driving that pretty flush on the high points of his cheeks and down his neck. hawk wonders what it looks like below the collar, how far it might extend - and whether or not this young man is quite so jittery when it comes to matters outside the high pressure of an asshole breathing down his neck for majority of the night looking to get as drunk as possible before getting his dick out.
maybe he didn't google tim, but he listens. remembered the name - narrowed it down to one of two candidates he'd be working for. news travels fast, especially when it's not a nepotism hire getting promoted these days. lots more to prove, higher stakes - and a much longer fall if it doesn't go well. something tells hawk there's more than meets they eye with this one, though, and he can't deny the way he's instantly drawn to the boy too.]
Do they? I guess I'm old school.
[he tips his head with a teasing incline, voice emphasizing the first bit in mild disbelief. if he's this easy to rile up, hawk might as well have some fun while he's got downtime and doesn't have to keep greasing palms and kissing asses while accumulating the dirt that'll undermine future troublemakers. hawk sucks in breath of smoke, watching it dissipate over the railing and out into the midnight sky and waft as if it might reach the washington monument before it turns into a whisper of nothing. his gaze drops to where tim has nudged his oxford, intentional or not, before flicking back up and tapping his ash off the railing with a smirk.]
Spoken like a real veteran of DC. Out of sight, out of mind.
[in case tim thinks he's mocking him, which - maybe he is, a little bit, he clarifies:]
Don't worry. We've all worked for our fair share of pricks around here.
[not senator smith, though. one of the few good men still left in washington, as if there were many to choose from before. but he's not about to let that cat out of the bag, instead letting his lips curl again with a twinkle of mischief in his eyes.]
I think you're a very capable boy, as a matter of fact. Be as rude as you like.
[there's a note of something else in his voice - a challenge, maybe, and his gaze doesn't shift from where it's fixed on tim. hawk leans against his elbow a little more, body inclining towards the company in a casual sprawl.]
If they like you enough they'll wait. For future reference. But me, I'm flying solo tonight.
[he sucks in another breath, eyes squinting slightly at the mild chill in the air making it a little harsher before letting the smoke stream out both nostrils.]
Did my time putting in all the right words, shaking a few hands, and now it's happy hunting.
[ there's almost something indignant in the way he says it, huffy and taken aback. his nose scrunches slightly and he rolls his eyes. he knows he's young, sure, but that young? hardly! he shakes his head. ]
I just choose not to drink while I'm working. I'd rather keep my head clear, thank you, considering I'm looking out for the wellbeing of my boss.
[ but lonigan is clearly capable of looking after his own wellbeing, considering he's settled in with the busty, pretty blond from earlier. a booth seat, which is telling for tim - he'll be making his way out soon, if the hand on her ass says anything. instead, his eyes blink back up to hawk, his head tilting slightly.
oh.
there's a challenge behind hawkins fuller's eyes and the way he leans into the sapce between them, sprawling with ease in a way that claims the open air, his fingers flex around the glass of milk, his brow pinches just slightly. ]
You were here with Senator Smith who, by all measures, I imagine you respect very much. If I hadn't seen you this evening, then you were with him, seeing as I was with Lonigan on the other half of the party. Something tells me you don't waste time on people. So. Smith - he must be important.
[ he shrugs one shoulder a little sheepishly, but there's a defiant sort of confidence in tim's expression, what with the way his jaw sets, his eyes meet hawk's. he doesn't lean into the space or change where he's leaning. but it's shaken instead as hawk continues, and the cigarette smoke clouds the air between them. ]
Happy hunting? [ his brow furrows, his nose wrinkles. ] What do you mean?
[ what would it be like to be the smoke, wispy and warm, slipping from between hawk's lips?
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
hawkins fuller.
➤ i'm shattered porcelain, glued back together again
[ there are few things in tim's life he can say he was truly prepared for, and becoming the aide to president colchester hadn't been one of them. the title came with a myriad of odd jobs, strange hours, wild requests and insufferably long days. it's all of the silly things he thinks of later, after he's dragged out of his hotel room in the middle of the night, blindfolded and gagged and shoved into the trunk of a car.
he assumes it's a car. it's cramped and dark, reeking of old oil and exhaust. the sort someone's grandmother would have, that putters along the road, inconspicuous and completely mundane.
mundane like ash's dry cleaning, embry's sardonic eye roll when tim argues about austen's legitimacy in regency era fiction, or hawkins fuller somehow secretly swapping out the tea he's forced himself to drink with a coffee cup of similar make filled with frothy, warm milk.
being the aide to the president of the united states should have meant paperwork, social engagements, political negotiations, booking flights, laughing over senate hearings gone awry or the speaker of the house's horrific blouse. it should be all of these things, and not a dark, cramped carpathian room; not rope burn on his wrists from being tied too tightly behind his back; not steel-toed boots shoved into his side or his head yanked back by his hair; not you have a pretty face i see why he likes you - will he come for his little pet?; not a towel pressed over his face and water dumped over and over until he begs for the thousandth time he knows
nothing.
but he knows what ash likes. knows that quiet garden walks around the church and sneaking away when the oval office door is locked brings light back into his eyes. he knows that all it takes is a little word play and a jest - but your humble knight demands you take a break lest you wither away in your armor, goodly king - to pry ash from his brooding and back into the fresh light of day. he knows that he might well die on the floor of the little, humid room if he doesn't open his mouth and tell all, but to die for a king is more noble a cause than any he can think of.
tim laughlin dreams about these moments over and over: a sickening crack of his head on the floor (it's concrete? wood? he can't remember), the looming figure he can't make out in the dark without his glasses, the meaty hand in his hair or yanking him up by embry's loaner expensive tie he'd forgotten to take off before crashing into bed (something about needing to look the part for a party like this), or the sickening drop in his gut when he hears the creak of old hinges coupled with the shuffle of boots and:
are you ready to talk yet, mr. laughlin...?
reality and the dreams stitch themselves together as he wakes with a harrowing start, body drenched in sweat, heart monitor racing to the rhythm of the panicked breaths he tries to take. they come in wheezes and despite all the caution given by the nurses when he was still hazy and out of it, he sits up far, far too fast. it makes the room lurch, his stomach swoop sickly in his gut and it takes absolutely everything in tim to grip the sheets on the bed to stay upright.
a bed. beeping machines. sterile, white light. a hospital.
he'd been dreaming.
it doesn't stop the way he heaves for air, the way his hair sticks to his forehead and splays out at odd angles, or the dazed and distant look in his eyes as he comes back down into his body, into himself. he's not aware at first that someone else is in the room. he can barely keep his eyes focused on his feet under the sheets, but there's definitely movement in the corner of his vision.
a nurse? surely. ]
Sorry, I'm -
[ a hand raised to press at what he's sure is an attending's arm, but his fingers find soft shirt fabric, a strong forearm. the hazy brown of his eyes slowly follows the line of the shoulder, to a neck, to a jawline he knows better than he knows his own name, no less.
god.
he's being punished, isn't he? truly, deeply punished. ]
Hawk, what - [ a thick swallow - his mouth is so dry ] Mr. Fuller? When did you...?
[ in his dreams, even the bad ones, there's always the lingering feeling of arms under his knees and back, warm breath in his hair, and the promise of safety, however brief. ]
no subject
no. that's not true either. he wouldn't be at hawk's side. he'd be across the room, drink in hand and giving him doe-eyed yearning that made his chest ache while hawk pretended they were just colleagues thrown together in the crazy vacuum that made up the white house's most intimate, inner workings.
he gave that up, whether he wants to admit it or not - because tim had given him that choice, and hawk had chosen this instead. the life where tim deserves a man like ash because despite the way hawk despises him, he's good and honest with ideals and morals and goes to church like some boyscout and it's just no wonder tim looks at him like he hung the moon and all the goddamn stars to boot. why he'd get a thrill being on his knees in front of the world of the elite for him - submitting to warm words and rough hands. christ, that's one moment hawk wishes he could scrub out of his brain and not lie awake simultaneously miserable and aroused at the idea of him in ash's place instead, if he could go back and change it all - would he?
a mere twenty-four hours ago, he'd say no to that.
but now, as he's sitting straight-backed and got a chair pulled as close as possible to tim's bedside in the private hospital wing of the white house's medical unit?
now hawkins fuller is very much having second thoughts.
it's hard not to stop replaying what he'd seen there in that carpathian safe-house: tim looking so small and frail, every bit the deceptive way his clothes hide a body he knows is perfectly carved muscle and solidity. curled in on himself with blood at his temples, dried under his nose - lips bitten raw and so many slashes and bruises. angry red weals from rope cutting into his wrists - who do you belong to? his hair had been damp with sweat and water, glasses crushed under the fall of heavy boots and long since abandoned in the corner. and tim - his boy was on the hard concrete like a broken bird, wings clipped and feathers cruelly torn piece by piece. and yet somehow even with his brows arched up in pain and his chest wheezing struggling breaths, even now hawk had a pit in his stomach for how beautiful he still looked - wondering and praying to all the entities he didn't believe in that no one decided to capitalize on that and take him for a ride.
the men he'd razed through to get here were faceless bags of blood and weak, fleshy spots hawk knew to target with a brutality he hadn't realized was still buried in there, enough to make the scar on his shoulder-blade twinge with the memory of this kind of violence. and embry knows it too - the way they practically mirror each other in their merciless efficiency, taking a few scrapes of their own and keeping it moving. there's a moment where he hears a sickening crunch, turning back to see embry disposing of another soldier and suspiciously not looking his way. getting to tim was all that mattered - and he'd practically thrown himself down next to his former lover and stroked at his cheek and run a hand through his hair, lifting him carefully into his arms and murmuring that it was him, that he was safe - that this would never, ever happen to him again so long as he lived.
(it's whispered against his forehead where embry and the rest of the small crew can't see it, hawk insisting he'll take it from here as they load up on the helicopter and the two-person medic crew whisks tim into the back for fluids and ivs and an assessment of the damages.
severe concussion. cracked ribs. cuts and bruises. hypothermia. lungs inflamed. rope burn.
not to mention the lasting psychological trauma from severe torture, possible ptsd -
it's not ash's fault, not really. but he is the easiest one to blame, and in a very rare, uncharacteristic moment of blind rage he lets it all out on him, demanding he and embry get the fuck out while he cleans up the mess, as if that might hide the multitude of sin he's committed against the boy tucked under layers of clean white linens. might hide the way his heart is still pumping, adrenaline coursing through him at the reality that timothy laughlin, the man he loved could have died.
the nightmares are to be expected, and hawk reaches for his hand, squeezing and speaking softly. it's the first time he's been awake and not heavily sedated from the initial run of treatments and the downright exhaustion - and he can't help the way he lurches forward to press as close to tim as possible. the door's locked - ash and embry are probably tucked into their own beds by now anyway. tim's voice sounds so small, pained - but not as much as it cuts to hear him still revert back to the polite civility of a stranger just like he fucking ordered.]
Skippy.
[his voice, on the other hand, is thick and full of emotion, breathed out like he's been holding it in this whole time as many times as he's been forced to ignore the habit of calling him by the endearment these past months. he can see the way tim's throat struggles, adam's apple bobbing slow like it's stuck and remembers the nurse mentioning dryness and dehydration too. his fingers wrap around a glass of room temperature water, bringing it to tim's lips and slowly tipping it back with a soft here, drink.]
It's been almost twelve hours since the party.
[and hawk hasn't slept a wink.]
But I'm here. I'm not going anywhere.
no subject
there's no time for that with hawkin's fuller at his side, pressed close. he's not been this close to this man since before he joined the army and even now, with his senses maligned at the hand of the carpathian shitbag, he remembers the scent of hawk's aftershave better than he can remember anything between 5 PM yesterday and the moment they exist in now.
luckily, if his eyes begin to burn and tear up, he can blame it on the injuries. he can blame it on the kidnapping. he doesn't have to acknowledge that there's something else broken and bleeding and damaged tucked deep under those broken ribs.
but there he is, voice thick and rich and warm, wrapped all around the syllables forming skippy and tim comes undone. hawkins fuller was not the beacon in the storm he'd expected when the door opened and strong, warm arms wrapped around him. he didn't expect the reassurances against his forehead, his hair, everything to be colored in the voice of hawkins fuller.
at first, he was sure he'd imagined it.
but here he is, pressed at his side and making him drink water and tim can't make sense of any of it. the ground feels even less solid beneath his feet with hawk there. it shouldn't be hawk. it shouldn't be anyone he cares about because every one of them faces danger by proxy of being near tim.
you'll have to sleep your way through congress, pretty boy - you're useless. - that old, awful horrific senator he'd worked for in the beginning had said to him before he met hawk. before the beginning of any and all of this. and maybe he was right - he wasn't meant for these things. he wasn't made of stone and steel and indomitable will like ash, hawk, embry.
what the hell was he even thinking, taking this job?
the water is cool down his throat and he sighs, grateful, but his hazy eyes turn themselves to hawk - his profile close, body closer - and tim knows exactly what to look for. the subtle hint of puffiness around his eyes, the line that forms at one corner - he's tired. of course he is.
he fought his way through - ]
You - you can't be here.
[ he doesn't mean to panic, to give hawk a little push even though everything in him wants to fall into his chest and beg, beg, beg to be held and protected. promised that he will never be stolen away, that he will never be shut away again and told just how fucking useless he is.
(it's obvious now, though. they kidnapped him, and even then he'd been no good. unable to defend himself, left to die like scraps on the side of the proverbial road). ]
They'll - no one knows we - I promised -
[ he's getting too upset, unable to string thoughts together and he can feel it now how everything fishtails, sidewinding back and forth between emotions and scenarios. ]
Mr. Fuller, you have to - [ he reaches for hawk's arms, gripping and holding to him as another wave of nausea rushes through him. ]
It's not safe - not with me - and the Vice President - you need to leave. Before they find you too.
[ before i have to say goodbye to you - i won't be able to rescue you ]
no subject
[it's not meant to be condescending, the way he reaches for tim past his weak attempts to shove him away out of misguided fear or confusion at where he is - if that's what's going on. it's a jumble of them, and hawk's chest pangs at the idea that he's still trying to maintain the cover hawk had demanded of him before they'd parted ways, enough that it blurs together now with the kidnapping and has tim thinking he's still there and somehow he's responsible for everyone else being in danger, as if he wasn't the one who'd been kidnapped, tortured, and been left half-dead before the next round. as if anything they'd been through in this twenty-four hour and then some hell was even remotely comparable.
(but he would think like that, his boy - always so sweet and selfless - willing to be the sacrificial lamb for the rest of them sinners.)
his hand gently wraps around tim's forearm, the other at his shoulder and slowly trying to lie him back down from where he'd been restlessly struggling and pushed himself up somewhat. tim reaches for him in turn, and everything about it makes hawk remember all the times they'd held each other in his queen bed on a quiet street just outside of capitol hill - when they were so much younger and things looked a hell of a lot easier than they do now. before hawk had crushed his heart and turned on his heel, dumped him unceremoniously and watched from afar as he joined the army and then came back while he wasn't looking and of course ended up as aide to the president of the usa. a big rise and a long way from the kid with floppy hair avoiding lecherous hands and vile comments that hawk had helped pull him out of.
looking at him like this, hawk wonders how the fuck he could have ever let him go. distance was supposed to keep him safe from the shitshow of his preferences, from all the terrible things that happen to the people he loves - his father once upon a time, kenny, lenny, senator smith...but tim got hurt anyway, so what was even the point?
hawk's fingers flex around him again, the hand at his shoulder lifting to brush the hair from his forehead and cup lightly at the side of his face that isn't quite so lurid with bruising, a small cut instead grazing the highpoint of his cheekbone. he can't help the way he needs to duck his head for a moment, forehead pressing down against the closest part of tim's body because his own eyes burn and he doesn't even have the excuse of injury or pain or anything but his own regrets. his own foolish mistakes - cowardice, tim had called it once in the cozy corner.
he was right. he'd always been right.
maybe he can blame the tiredness when he steels his gaze again, still reddened around the rims of his eyes even as his lips try and form the shape of a reassuring smile.]
You're safe, Tim. All of us are. We're in the medical wing of the White House.
Ash and Embry are with each other and an army of security.
[the part where they're meeting specifically to review the carpathian treaty for breech clauses is specifically left out, since he knows tim would try and leap to his feet this second and try and convince them not to do anything on account of him.]
I meant what I said. I'm not leaving your side. Not when I almost -
[ - lost you, he can't quite choke out as his eyes slip shut.]
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it's not the dingy, shut down little room he'd been in. that place hadn't had windows, but this one does - impossibly thick, impossible to open, but a window to the outside world. it must be early in the morning, tim realizes, when he can peek the way the sky has all but gone burnt and dusky. god, his head hurts. the dreams feel real, still - hanging at the edge of his consciousness and prying, insisting he notice and see and pay attention.
yeah, his head really hurts. his side hurts. his throat still feels dry despite the water and even hawk's grip on his forearm reminds him that his skin is raw beneath the gauze covering the ligature marks. he doesn't know where his glasses are, but even now he has an instinct to reach for them, to see the world clearer after hours of being blindfolded.
ah. right. they'd been smashed, hadn't they? he shivers when he remembers the crunch, the laugh, and the hand pressed hard over his mouth that followed as tim got mouthy with the men, insisting they let him go. ]
Okay. Right. Safe, right. You're sure?
[ he allows hawk to guide lie back down into the bed, allows hawk to touch his hair and lean his forehead in against his shoulder and tim can't help the way his free hand rises to touch the back of his neck, the soft hair at his nape. at least until hawk pulls back.
there had been hazy mornings spent with their bodies close like this, tim's fingers working out the waves in hawk's hair, mouth tracing his ear and whispering silly little love songs from the 50s and 60s just to make him smile into waking. he'd grown up in a simple world - a tiny, cramped staten island apartment in the slums. a preacher father, a demure, silenced mother, a sister who feared god and her father equally the same. they'd work in the community church garden, a plot of land turned into a sort of pseudo-farm. a place where a gentle, soft boy like tim laughlin learned the world could hurt more than it could help.
it's no different now. he keeps learning that lesson - first the senator, then hawk, and now this. his hand falls back to hawk's arm, gripping tightly as he blinks up at him. he's not sure when he started crying or if he woke crying, but his whole body feels exhausted, beaten, worn down. ]
I'm in the medical wing. In the White House. Everyone is safe. [ a mantra he'll repeat over the next several days. ] How - twelve hours? It felt like...
[ forever. but hawk's hand on his cheek makes his eyes flutter shut, the touch gentle and soothing something in him that has been unsettled since the day hawk left. twelve hours felt like a lifetime, and although tim himself has seen some people die on a battlefield or the ill take a turn for the worse in pop-up medical facilities, nothing will compare to waiting on the knife's edge of someone else's plan.
tim laughlin has faced a lot of miserable, awful men in his time. he can stand his ground to those in a battle of wills, where politics and propriety rule, where laws and justice have weight. but in the back room of some old, worn down building? melwas showed just how effective a veil of finery and pretty words can fool even the sharpest. ]
I'm sorry. I was just going to my room. I was feeling - you know I can't hold my - [ he closes his eyes, free hand raising to press over them for a moment. the lights are bright and it sends a shock through the back of his skull. ]
I tried to get out. I really did. Was it... it was you who found me? And Embry?
[ i didn't think you'd ever look for me again. the hand on hawk's arm drops, and he reaches for hawk's even if the man tries to pull away. he's here now, isn't he? he's here and god, he called him skippy - or did he dream that, too?
his bottom lip quivers, his eyes burn, and this time he's not sure if he's wheezing a little from the burn in his lungs and side or if it's the way his heart still feels like it's hemorrhaging in his chest. ]
I didn't imagine it, right?
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no. that didn't happen, and hawk's never been much for wandering down the what-ifs. tim is here, he's safe - it's as much a mantra for hawk as it is tim right now, even if he doesn't know it. hawk won't let him either, because the last thing tim needs is to worry over his well-being or anyone else's for that matter. especially not fucking ash, who hadn't even left the comfort of the oval office. even if he knows that isn't fair to blame him for, the fight is still burning beneath his skin, adrenaline never having fully worked its way out of his system just yet.]
I'm sure. They'd have to get through the lingering special ops guys, a goddamn army of secret service and me if they wanted to even get close right now.
[weak attempt at a joke - it lacks the dryness of his usual cavalier tone that would really drive it home.
but he supposes while tim is up and finally aware enough, he should know what happened. what they managed to piece together too goddamn late to begin with. if only he'd been keeping a closer eye on him, if only he hadn't abandoned him - none of this would have ever happened. they'd all be tucked in their respective beds (or would tim be in ash's?) tipsy, exhausted, and worn out from a night of typical schmoozing and maybe one drink too many.]
You left a few hours in. That piece of shit - he put something in your drink.
[melwas kocur - hawk's free hand flexes briefly into a fist before smoothing out, the tick in his jaw less difficult to hide. the event planning staff and catering must have thought tim was just some drunk intern, being escorted out by his kindly boss with enough excuses that no one thought twice in a crowd that sizable. hawk hopes ash or the secret service or anyone is nailing their asses to a cross as they speak for this grave an oversight.]
Yeah, it was us. Would have come sooner but...diplomacy.
[he'd railed against that too, trying to justify it like he used to argue with mcleod in security back when he was working under senator smith. sometimes sending a stronger message is the better choice, sir, he'd said a long time ago. it hadn't been quite so eloquent this time around, not with tim hanging in the balance.]
It's not your fault - you got that?
[he leans in again, eyes bright and determined even as tim's look glassy from pain and his whole face seems one wrong word away from crumbling.]
Tell me you understand it. Tell me it's not your fault.
[his own throat swells, voice lowering into a rough murmur as he reaches to lace tim's fingers between his own.]
Not your imagination at all. Tell me - you know I'm here for you now, Skippy.
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and overwhelmed by all the people in the room and leaving the more confident of their little american team to do the schmoozing, tim decided to find a corner for himself. ash, with embry begrudgingly at his side for some talk with melwas - ah. an alibi. and hawk - hawk somewhere the crowd, smiling falsely into the face of some carpathian secretary.
still - it's better that it was him. tim, who, in the grand scheme of things? means very little to the cause - who can be one more tick on the list of wrongs now to absolutely begin beating down the carpathian defenses.
ah, diplomacy. ]
A gentleman's war.
[ a little huff of a laugh follows the weak joke. so much of everything hurts, and even the little huff makes pain bloom ugly and angry in his side.
hawk leans up close against him and a tiny part of him wants to beg for him to come closer, to let his eyes focus and remember what it looks like to be so near to him. he's angry, of course, somewhere deep inside of himself, for craving the way the man leans into him now, when it had been hawk who turned all of this away. the way hawk turned heel and ran at the first sign that tim might be a problem for him in some capacity. the irony, that he's such a problem now.
hawk's fingers lace between his own and it's reflexive the way he grips them back, the way his body leans just slightly as hawk speaks, determined. his eyes flicker up to meet hawk's and he hums in acknowledgement. ]
Of course.
[ of course he knows it's his fault, but he won't say that. instead he just nods a little dumbly, trying to slow the way his heart races in his chest. the fingers around his own aren't enough - tim wishes every part of him didn't hurt. if he didn't, he'd lean in and beg to be held and crushed into someone's chest, protected and safe and untouchable, however brief. ]
I understand it.
[ you know i'm here for you now, skippy.
he sucks in a slow, shaking breath, eyes burning all over again and up close he can see the determination in hawk's eyes, hear the way his voice goes rough and low. what is he supposed to tell him? it wasn't his fault? he had no hand in what happened? he couldn't have known to be careful? that of course he expected hawkins fuller to be at his bedside, no one else? no. ]
I know you're here for me now.
[ tim's voice has gone small, eyes feeling trapped in an ocean of blue with torrential storms, but there's the faintest tip of his head - the flex of a muscle in his jaw, defiant, even as his lip quivers.
he knows what hawk told him to say - and he won't. he can't lie. it's his fault, all of this. but even timothy laughlin, the best of the good boys, can disobey sometimes. he wipes at his tears with his free hand.
he's a terrible liar. ]
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that will haunt him too - what if he'd gotten there sooner? how much damage could he have avoided on his poor, broken boy's body that's littered with physical evidence of his failure?
it hadn't even once crossed his mind to dial it down a notch, dropping everything to get him back. he's one of ours, he remembers saying with a detachment that wasn't nearly as convincing when faced with the idea that he was going to lose the only man he'd ever loved. we have to go and we have to go now. thank god embry hadn't asked any questions, and ash had the sense not to try pushing him when he'd already nearly come to blows at the thought of wasting any more time sitting around while tim was getting tortured, killed, or...jesus, thank god it hadn't come to the latter.
but the part that wounds him the most, cutting deeper than the nick of a knife's edge on his arm or the bloodied, bruised knuckles of the fists that fought their way through kevlar and bone is watching tears bleary over warm chocolate. seeing tim's face trembling with the effort of trying to obey, to repeat what hawk tells him and believe it and being unable to do so. to not know which part is the lie - that blames himself, or that he doesn't think hawk would be here for him in this moment. maybe it's both, and that stings, but not nearly enough as the damage he's wrought on tim laughlin's heart in the first place. that's a raw, blistering emotion that can't be healed by morphine or scotch or any bandage in this medical wing. that's the part he has to live with by his own choice.]
Hey, hey, hey - Skippy.
[hawk knows it's not best to shift him, but he can't help the way his arm slides as carefully as possible under tim's shoulders, trying not to jostle him any more and make him feel any of the physical hurt that's been wrought upon his prone figure. but he leans in, desperate for the closeness and pulling tim into his chest as his other arm wraps around his front, cupping his cheek and thumbing away the tears still wet in the corner of tim's dark lashes. his hand is caught between them and he can't care - all he knows is he needs to hold his boy and convince him of the truth.]
It is not your fault. It could have been anyone, but I am sorry it was you.
I -
[hawk swallows hard, wondering if tim will be able to feel the way his adam's apple bobs and his voice grows thick with emotion he'd normally rather die than show to the world.]
I had to be there to get you back. I couldn't let it be anyone else. And I couldn't have stayed away.
[his own eyes close, chin dragging against the fluff of his mussed hair and making it worse, lips brushing against the top of his skull with a gentle flutter of affection. his hold tightens, still trying to be conscientious of tim's delicate state but unable to pull back or do more than affirm that his boy is safe in his arms and this nightmare is behind them now.]
Thought I was gonna lose you. That would have been my fault, no one else's.
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text > action; a few weeks later
Are you awake?
sorr y
i think your calendar says you're out
Didn't look at the time.
5 mins later
Sorry, it's pretty loud in here - almost missed the notifications. Stepped outside though.
You okay? What's going on?
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it's okay
I forgot youre out
I'm fine enjoy your night
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Nothing happening here is as important as you.
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[ and it is, really. it really, really is. but as he sits in his bed, wrapped up in his blankets, he can't help but feel like his skin itches, like the doors don't have enough locks, like the walls are closing in on him. ]
I can't sleep.
[ understatement of the year. ]
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[ah. fairly easy to infer what's going on from there.]
It's hard at first. Everything you used to take comfort in feels vulnerable somehow.
[speaking from experience.]
I could come by. If you'll let me.
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You're out
[ and a part of him wonders where he is - lyonesse? with embry, or with someone else? ]
It's just a lot
I didn't know who to text. sorry.
1/2
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I'm glad you texted.
[glad you trusted me, he almost says.]
I'm closing out my tab and grabbing a car. Be there in fifteen.
It is a lot. Especially to handle alone. You want me to call?
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the beginning;
he always will with people like this - he's known it his whole life. everywhere he goes, people can practically smell the humble upbringing on him. a staten island boy with dirt under his nails, freckles on his cheeks, calluses on his palms - and here? it's the rental suit. he's not made for politics with his soft, slight build and dark, thick glasses. he is, however, built to run errands and perform mindless, menial tasks.
yes, in fact, lonigan does like his coffee better after morning meetings. he prefers the schedule of the day to be given to him both in an iphone note and in various post-it notes throughout the day - reminders of where he should be, and when. he prefers a light lunch but a heavy dinner, and god forbid tim mix up the slightest hand signal that could mean anything from whisky, vodka soda, or wine.
this time? it's whisky. two fingers, neat, the most expensive and top shelf they have. lonigan right now is set to be one of the biggest donors at the event and thus he's a busy man, shaking hands and smiling and faking his way through things. tim can see through it, really - how the smile doesn't reach his eyes, how his mouth stays poised in the smile even when people aren't looking.
he's good. he's very good.
and so the night comes and goes like this - tim weaving in and out of crowds, hanging back just within ear and eye shot of the man. occasionally he talks to other aides or assistants, but they don't hover long. we'll see how long he keeps you is the message he receives, loud and clear. but he's determined to make something of it regardless, even if it's short-lived. he'd either been handed the step up or handed a key to a door that would lead to his demise.
he's read these books before, after all.
it's halfway through the gala that he's given a break, lonigan bored of being fussed over suddenly, clapping him hard on the back and sending him on his way with a - go get a drink, kid. he really shouldn't drink anything considering he has most of the evening still to keep up with. even from afar he gauges lonigan's location, his expression, his demeanor.
it's this that distracts him enough that when he gets to the bar, he requests milk. the bartender stares, but being the kind of fancy affair this is? procures him a tumblr of the stuff. tim can't shake the edgy, nervous feeling that rattles under his skin. it's only been three weeks under longan's purview and even moving now to get fresh air on the balcony seems like a bad plan.
and it is, because in turning to glance back one more time at lonigan, smiling and laughing closely with some young, blue-eyed, blond swedish politician, he misses the fact that indeed, someone else had been exiting the balcony. he bumps right into them, but thankfully? the milk only spills a little - splattering on the floor, and on the toes of his own dress shoes. ]
Oh my God, I'm sorry, I wasn't paying attention and - [ ... he knows that face. ]
Oh. It's you.
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at least tim won't have to worry about any wandering hands.
by the time tim's promotion manifests, hawk has mostly put aside any lingering thoughts of the eagerness in big brown doe eyes, teeth worrying the tip of a pencil eraser and a soft pink tongue darting out to lick slender fingers and turn pages. the thought of what that little beauty mark on the underside of his neck might taste like, or how badly his glasses would fog up while in the midst of toe-curling pleasure has been a little harder to chase away, especially when he's in bed alone before a busy week of congress in session and of course: the donor gala.
he may be good at the small talk and accumulating facts like little trinkets to be bought and sold at auction when it's time to collect, but that doesn't mean he has to really enjoy them. lucy smith - who isn't in attendance tonight - put it best when she called it a room full of insufferable prigs, and christ, she doesn't even know the half of it. maybe the only one who isn't is senator smith himself, who hawk spends most of the beginning of the evening standing alongside - shaking hands, watching him hold court in a way that's far more noble than the lonigans and the hawthorns of the world. and hawk is just there to play the loyal serf, picking up the things senator smith is too good to piece together on his own and read between the lines.
but eventually he's shooed off, and hawk holds up his hands in mock surrender to find a stiffer drink and get some fresh air. there's a tumbler of a double whiskey in his hand and the smell of smoke clinging to his lapels on the way back from the balcony, only to be replaced by -
that doesn't look like rum chata. doesn't smell like it either.]
Is that - milk?
[there's an incredulous note in his voice, because what is he, five? but the twinkle in his eye and the slight crinkle at the corners leaves no doubt there's a sense of fond amusement there too.]
You certainly are a man who walks to the beat of his own drum, Mr. Laughlin.
[the soft smirk cements that hawk seems to find this complimentary, at the very least, even if his shoes look a little worse for wear. frankly - so does the suit, which he doesn't need to be sherlock holmes to guess is rented. maybe the milk isn't a bad thing to bulk him up a bit.]
Did Lonigan finally let you off the leash?
[he tips his head towards the man who has managed to get an arm around the swedish ambassador who somehow doesn't look repulsed and is clearly keeping him busy for now. busy enough that if he knows dave, will mean departure is imminent and then tim will really have time on his hands. but this is the kind of secret that's earned, so he doesn't share it yet. even if he suspects tim is smart enough to have garnered that on his own.]
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[ of all the people he'd expect to meet at a gala like this, he hadn't expected this man. the dark haired, blue-eyed gentleman who had kept his company a month ago at the library. who had snuck up on him, snooped at his notes, made amusing commentary that was both witty and sharp, and had whisked away before tim could get a name.
hawkins fuller, though. that's who this is. he'd asked the library about the man and that was all it had taken - the utterance of a name - and instead of reading up on the dying influence of mccarthyism in american politics? he'd googled hawkins fuller. maybe it was silly, shameless, foolish. he'd never expected to see the man in any real way again anyway, but he'd taken his advice. he'd remembered coffee orders and paid attention to the delivery of them, the man's needs, and quickly lonigan had demanded he be hired.
and so here he is - spilling milk on the doorway between the ballroom and the balcony, and staring up stupidly at the man he's supposed to know so very little about. he shrugs a little, careful and sheepish as he cradles the glass closer to his chest. ]
It could be a White Russian, you know.
[ a blond white russian? maybe. is that even a thing? he doesn't know. but he puffs up a little, both embarrassed and a tiny bit defensive in a huffy sort of way. but he'd rather have the milk anyway - a comfort drink if nothing else, and something that will keep him sober all night. his eyes snap up again at the mention of lonigan.
there's a brief glance backward to where lonigan is indeed feeling up some pretty, blond thing. tim knows that it means his night here at the gala won't be mandatory much longer. his boss has been liquored up, has a pretty thing at his side, and before long, he'll guide her back to his big, fancy car and disappear. all the better, really - tim is already too grateful for the fresh air of the balcony, and to go back in and smile and listen and be nothing more than a shadow sounds like hell. no less with the undoubtedly drunk girl he will have to help write off in the morning.
so tim steps outside a little, making sure not to bump the man further. ]
But yes, it's - well, milk. I think my parents thought it would help me grow taller, but as you can see -
[ there's a little shrug, a gesture to himself. he's not tall, he's not short. he's average, unnoticeable, boring in all ways, really. it helps with this kind of job. his fingers drum against the glass in the jazzy rhythm playing on the other side of the multi-paned glass door leading inside. it's been jazz and blues all night - the music of the rich now, when it had been that of the poor before. it's strange, how history changes so much. ]
And I'm not on a leash. But yes, he's being entertained. I think he'll make his goodbyes soon - we've been here a couple hours now. But - you're here. Who are you here with?
[ he knows the answer, but bites it back himself - senator smith, of course. he's done his research, his digging. but he cna't seem too eager, too excited, and so he lets out a little huff of air. he's handsome, enigmatic, charming. a man like this belongs in high politics, but something about even the closeness of the way they have to stand thanks to the spilled milk and the smaller balcony area - it's intoxicating. ]
I mean, politically. Sorry, that could have been rude. Or was. I didn't mean for it to be, of course.
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hawk tilts his head, an amused noise that's a cross between an incredulous scoff and a short, brusque laugh. but his lips are open for a moment, pulled up at the corners as he squints slightly.]
Did you...google me, Mr. Laughlin?
[and then it smooths out into an easy, closed-lipped grin, eyes warm with a slight twinkle as he gives tim a very blatant once over and a subtle nod of appreciation.]
I'm flattered, really. But just so you know - White Russians aren't actually white.
[there's a beat, and he follows tim further back onto the balcony and glances over his shoulder to make sure the coast is clear from lonigan, senator smith, and any other prying eyes. his voice drops a little, and he shifts to move past him back outside he murmurs within earshot.]
Unless you count the ones your boss likes to feel up at these parties.
[there's a hint of sardonicism through the playfulness, though they both know it's the truth. brushing past tim and into the fresh air gives him a moment where the boy hasn't fully turned around to glance at his backside - which isn't getting any favors from the way the suit is slightly too baggy. then again, he remembers having to climb that ladder once upon a time. he was just fortunate to have pressed and tailored suits from his days still living at home, an immense gratitude for the care his mother had in preserving them even after he'd been unceremoniously thrown out by his father. but nevermind that, hawk pulls out another cigarette, leaning against the balcony and waving tim over with a beckoning arm before fishing around for his lighter again.]
A longer leash, maybe. Congratulations on the promotion, by the way.
[that's common knowledge from lonigan, the gossip of the other aides he's overheard - certainly not the work of google. he puts the filter against his mouth, striking the lighter while cupping around the flame and keeping it between his lips as he offers an amused hum.]
You don't strike me as a particularly rude boy. I'm here with Senator Smith. Politically.
[one elbow rests against the thick stone enclosure of the balcony, and hawk leans casually on it while his body follows in an easy drape, like they're just two old friends chatting here.]
But I get the feeling you might have already known that. So I'll be rude enough for the both of us and ask if you're here with anyone else - not politically.
[his brows bounce suggestively, fingers pulling the cigarette out as he blows the smoke off to the side and away from tim's face.]
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[ he tilts his head a little bit, but he knows he's been caught. no one would drink vodka with straight cream - what a nightmare. already this interaction has gone so downhill, and his face flushes at the mere accusation that he has looked the man up. he shouldn't sound so defensive when he speaks again on a little huff, but when he turns and catches the faintest hint of eyes on him? the flush creeps further up his neck. ]
The National Registry, actually. At least first, considering I was at the library. You - everyone does it sometimes. Googling, I mean.
[ he follows after him, intrigued and feeling strangely like he's fallen into the orbit of a sun, unable to pull away. hawkins fuller is enigmatic, handsome, alluring. even the little quips draw him in. and while fuller hasn't googled him, the promotion bit? well that makes the flush rise hot into his cheeks. he's heard - enough to remember him. enough to congratulate him. ]
Senator Lonigan's past-times aren't my concern. I just see to whatever he requests here and then make sure he gets in the right car when he leaves. Whatever his proclivities are I'd rather not speak to them.
[ again he turns the glass in between his palms, glancing out over the balcony, but then to hawk when he lights up - the broad cup of his hands, the purse of his lips around the cigarette, and the way the lighter's flame lights up in blue eyes. his nose scrunches up a little, mouth pulling and thinning. he leans against the railing himself, crossing his legs in front of him but his shoe ends up tapping against hawk's, absently. ]
I'm not a boy, thank you. And yes, I could assume you were here with Senator Smith, considering your political leanings. I hadn't seen you, though.
[ but good god, hawk chooses to be rude himself and tim blinks, ducking his head and looking up at him incredulously. ]
Me? No. I couldn't - Lonigan keeps me busy and it would be rude to invite someone to a party and abandon them. I'm too busy for that. But - what about you? If you think I'm incapable of being a rude boy, then I'll just ask outright - did you come with anyone tonight or have you stayed with Senator Smith and his donors?
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[which is a terribly polite, roundabout way of confirming that timothy laughlin is in fact of age and hawk's not robbing some kind of cradle, even if the milk and the baby face and the way he's partly swimming in his rental aren't doing him any favors. if anything it's wildly endearing, not the downhill thing tim seems embarrassed about - or whatever is driving that pretty flush on the high points of his cheeks and down his neck. hawk wonders what it looks like below the collar, how far it might extend - and whether or not this young man is quite so jittery when it comes to matters outside the high pressure of an asshole breathing down his neck for majority of the night looking to get as drunk as possible before getting his dick out.
maybe he didn't google tim, but he listens. remembered the name - narrowed it down to one of two candidates he'd be working for. news travels fast, especially when it's not a nepotism hire getting promoted these days. lots more to prove, higher stakes - and a much longer fall if it doesn't go well. something tells hawk there's more than meets they eye with this one, though, and he can't deny the way he's instantly drawn to the boy too.]
Do they? I guess I'm old school.
[he tips his head with a teasing incline, voice emphasizing the first bit in mild disbelief. if he's this easy to rile up, hawk might as well have some fun while he's got downtime and doesn't have to keep greasing palms and kissing asses while accumulating the dirt that'll undermine future troublemakers. hawk sucks in breath of smoke, watching it dissipate over the railing and out into the midnight sky and waft as if it might reach the washington monument before it turns into a whisper of nothing. his gaze drops to where tim has nudged his oxford, intentional or not, before flicking back up and tapping his ash off the railing with a smirk.]
Spoken like a real veteran of DC. Out of sight, out of mind.
[in case tim thinks he's mocking him, which - maybe he is, a little bit, he clarifies:]
Don't worry. We've all worked for our fair share of pricks around here.
[not senator smith, though. one of the few good men still left in washington, as if there were many to choose from before. but he's not about to let that cat out of the bag, instead letting his lips curl again with a twinkle of mischief in his eyes.]
I think you're a very capable boy, as a matter of fact. Be as rude as you like.
[there's a note of something else in his voice - a challenge, maybe, and his gaze doesn't shift from where it's fixed on tim. hawk leans against his elbow a little more, body inclining towards the company in a casual sprawl.]
If they like you enough they'll wait. For future reference. But me, I'm flying solo tonight.
[he sucks in another breath, eyes squinting slightly at the mild chill in the air making it a little harsher before letting the smoke stream out both nostrils.]
Did my time putting in all the right words, shaking a few hands, and now it's happy hunting.
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[ there's almost something indignant in the way he says it, huffy and taken aback. his nose scrunches slightly and he rolls his eyes. he knows he's young, sure, but that young? hardly! he shakes his head. ]
I just choose not to drink while I'm working. I'd rather keep my head clear, thank you, considering I'm looking out for the wellbeing of my boss.
[ but lonigan is clearly capable of looking after his own wellbeing, considering he's settled in with the busty, pretty blond from earlier. a booth seat, which is telling for tim - he'll be making his way out soon, if the hand on her ass says anything. instead, his eyes blink back up to hawk, his head tilting slightly.
oh.
there's a challenge behind hawkins fuller's eyes and the way he leans into the sapce between them, sprawling with ease in a way that claims the open air, his fingers flex around the glass of milk, his brow pinches just slightly. ]
You were here with Senator Smith who, by all measures, I imagine you respect very much. If I hadn't seen you this evening, then you were with him, seeing as I was with Lonigan on the other half of the party. Something tells me you don't waste time on people. So. Smith - he must be important.
[ he shrugs one shoulder a little sheepishly, but there's a defiant sort of confidence in tim's expression, what with the way his jaw sets, his eyes meet hawk's. he doesn't lean into the space or change where he's leaning. but it's shaken instead as hawk continues, and the cigarette smoke clouds the air between them. ]
Happy hunting? [ his brow furrows, his nose wrinkles. ] What do you mean?
[ what would it be like to be the smoke, wispy and warm, slipping from between hawk's lips?
he reflexively takes a drink from his milk. ]
Leads? What are you hunting leads for?
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