[this would be a hell of a lot easier if he could read minds, or if embry would stop being so goddamn nihilistic about himself and what his own presence means in the context of this - thing they've yet to define. safe to say it's long since passed a simple one-off or even just meaningless sex to stave off the stress of the job. no it isn't love, and it's sure as shit not a relationship in any sense of the word...but it's some purgatory between having caught real feelings and actually giving a shit what happens to embry when he's not around. thinking about him behind closed doors, and when he's sharing a bed with the guy past just fucking. it's funny he's maybe met the one person more emotionally constipated than hawk's been told he is by marcus - wouldn't he have a field day writing about this one.
so maybe the way he sets down his glass is a little louder than it needs to be. maybe his motion to grab a second one is faster, more agitated in the way he does it. it might be petty or telling on himself, but he thinks he has every right to be a little pissed off at the way embry's picking and choosing when to let ash be the light of his goddamned life. maybe the part he's most bitter about is that he has a sneaking, sinking suspicion that's something that will never go away, and it's not like he wants to replace it, but it'd be nice to know that the first person he's opened himself up to in any capacity since tim laughlin actually gave a shit about what that means. at least, before he screws his head back on straight and realizes how stupid it is anyway. embry could have his pick of anyone, the way hawk sees it. ash, probably greer, the woman at the conference - majority of the attendees too, while they're at it.
fuck, he feels a headache coming on. this is why he hates entanglements, why he should have just fucked him once and maybe let lyonesse slide and never let himself get in this deep.
(he'd started reading the book, knowing it wasn't left behind on accident. the highlighted pieces don't seem like coincidence, and it might have been foreplay tonight if - )
hawk turns smoothly, even though there's something sharp in his eyes as he slides the second tumbler of scotch across the surface of the bar with the indication that embry can come get it himself.]
I'm the one that warned you, if I recall.
[not a told you so - not by a long shot, because he doesn't like the thought of embry getting cornered or whatever the fuck happened that secret service apparently didn't have the sense to keep her at arm's length. unless embry let it happen on purpose, which is a very real possibility. even so, it doesn't really rankle hawk the same way thinking about him spending his entire goddamn privileged life pining after a man that may very well want him back if those lingering looks in the hallway are anything to go by.
but then his excuse sinks in, and - huh, he hadn't expected it to sting that bad. hawk plasters on his very best smarmy smile, the kind that doesn't reach his eyes, in which the sharpness has died out, and is reserved for homophobes, general annoyances, and the old windbags without a sense of reality who make life miserable for the rest of their constituents.]
All's well that ends well, then. Not a big deal.
Don't suppose you remember her name. Just to dot all the i's and cross our t's.
[strictly business, and whenever embry comes up to retrieve his glass, hawk will shove his own in a brusque clink against it without pretense to drain his own.]
[ it's becoming increasingly clear that he shouldn't have come. that maybe hawk had been hoping for that specific outcome. there's still time for embry to pick up his coat and walk out in a mockery of pretense that he ever had the upper hand here, and instead he claims his drink as if he isn't annoyed and a little spurned that hawk hadn't walked it over to him like he normally does. but — he deserves that, doesn't he? and a part of him sinks into the familiar comfort of his own self-loathing guilt, that he's the one that fucked this up, and didn't try very hard not to. hawk should've known it was coming, but then again, hawk doesn't really know embry. not the way that ash or morgan or any of the other people who know to leave him alone because he's not worth the time. ]
I don't remember her name. [ the lie comes easily, small and paper-white. his past entanglements are no business of hawk's, and irrelevant to boot. ] I just remember how it felt to fuck her. Good, but no need for an encore this many years later.
[ he takes a generous swallow, turning his eyes sharply to hawk as warmth spreads down through his chest. he's mad. fine. anger isn't new, though this string of desire and contentment has dulled his senses into thinking — what? that he and hawk actually have something? he should have tried harder to push hawk onto someone else at lyonesse. if there's anything embry should have learned by now, it's that he isn't made for anything real.
not that this is real. it's just... really fucking good sex, is all. good enough that ash's name has spilled from his lips, knocked out of him like a desolate curse. hawk has a way of prying him open that he should be far more alarmed about. ]
Something on your mind, Hawk? [ embry tips his glass again, his throat bobbing as he drains it in another few gulps like it's cheap beer instead of top shelf scotch. carelessly, he sets the glass down and pushes into hawk's space, defiance written into every line of his body. ] Something you want to say?
[ his mouth is like a dare, hovering close, liquor sweet, only the faintest stain of red smudging the edge of his lips. by their sides, his hand brushes hawk's fingers, gentle, before grasping his wrist in a punishing grip, holding him there like he expects hawk to disappear. ]
[no, maybe hawk doesn't know embry the way ash or morgan or greer or any of the bevy of others like red lipstick woman knew embry. but he'd thought he was getting at least an honest piece of it all the same - whoever embry was deciding to be without all of them breathing down his neck, or without having to look up at maxen fucking colchester from his feet in worship like modern idolatry. he's had the decency to keep tim out of this (even when embry won't), and yet the man still keeps a grip on him that has done more than intrude. one wrong text, the right move in bed - and there he is again, reflected in those baby blues like he's in the goddamn room orchestrating the whole thing. maybe he's a little fed up. he'd been willing to let it slide when he was too bruised over the loss of senator smith to protest, grateful to have company in a moment of unbearable weakness as one of the pillars of his entire world was torn down - but now?
now it's back to the real world, and he's not willing to play so nice anymore.
not when embry's going to disregard the instincts hawk has honed to protect his ass - warranted or not, and not when he's going to play coy like whatever the fuck this is hasn't drastically changed from the day they set foot in lyonesse. christ, it's not like he's looking for something high school like a relationship or a label. but sometimes embry acts like they're in one anyway, or at least has the nerve to throw shit in his face and then get hurt when hawk dishes it right back.
he's about to refill both their glasses out of habit, because despite his original plan to try and do something nice for embry like he'd hinted at - the kind of thing that probably sends that same mixed message he's pissed off about receiving - he's not about to kick the guy out. not because he signs his checks, and not because he doesn't deserve it for waltzing in here acting every shade of childish, but because maybe this is just foreplay and he'll fuck the truth out of him later, when he's pushing him onto the bed and making him rethink every snide comment and hissy fit he's constantly throwing. maybe he just likes the fight.
maybe his own considerations need to feel earned.
or maybe he's just constantly throwing shit at a wall to figure out embry, hoping it'll stick and failing miserably.]
Is that how you put it to her? I'm sure it went over real well. Or did you come to this revelation after she tried to stick her tongue in your mouth?
[suddenly that familiar waft of cologne is under his nose, the precise flavor this scotch gets when it's sucked off embry's lips tempting him unreasonably to just give in and lean down to taste it. but the fingertips trailing his wrist wrap around hard, and hawk sets down the bottle so it isn't another casualty of today.]
Did I say anything about wanting you to go?
[his wrist twists, fingers jerking around at the right angle to reverse their positions and wrap snug against embry's instead in one fluid motion. he pulls embry flush against him, wondering if there will be a struggle, another fuck you cast out casually.]
You seem to be reading into a lot these days. Seems more like there's something on your mind.
[a beat, and his voice lowers into the rough, graveled timbre when he's demanded embry pull him out or hold off his bliss a little longer.]
[ his nerve endings come to life with a pulse of heat, dancing to the rough stone of hawk's voice. their fling — and embry doesn't want to call it anything else now, doesn't want to admit that it could be anything else out of sheer fucking spite — means the press of hawk's body is familiar now, the corded lines of lean muscle, the sleek fabric of his suit, the woodsy spice soaking the pulse of his throat. the way hawk is looking at him, the way he's speaking to him sends a skitter of danger down his spine. he thought maybe he'd gotten away with it, his little slip during hawk's haze of grief, but no. the accusation is as pointed as a blade, and embry has nowhere to run.
ash's presence is suffocating as always — worse when he's already agitated, already guilty over more than just the ghosts lingering in his room. he never should have fallen into hawk's bed that night in the first place, not in the state hawk was in. embry knows well enough what it's like to bury your misery in a warm body, and all the shit that comes with it. ]
Jealousy's an interesting look on you.
[ since hawk has pulled him so close in his domineering, intimidating way, embry closes the minimal space between them and clashes their mouths together, giving him a deep, biting kiss, just narrowly stopping his hand from skimming up his perfect jawline and into the dark waves of his hair. he breaks the kiss with purpose, ignoring the skittish rhythm of his heart. ]
That's how it went over. That's how it felt. [ he licks his lips, steering hawk's attention back to the woman, the reason he should be mad, in a desperate attempt to bury any mentions of ash. ] You want me to rewind a couple years and show you how I fucked her, too?
[there's plenty of pettiness and spite for him to be mad about both. this would probably get him cancelled or whatever the hell their little social media intern is always parroting to their tired, fearless and compassionate millennial leader that has managed embry's accounts for months now - but it's ash that pisses him off more than some one-off woman. there's no real feelings there, most especially not when it was her embry was trying to escape to begin with. he's not jealous she ambushed him, more concerned that it happened than anything and what pandora's box this might have accidentally opened because this isn't his first rodeo and he's got that annoying, niggling instinct that this wasn't just some lonely past fuck looking to rekindle where there was no hope. that's not real competition.
it's another man in his bed that irks him, it's embry arched in ecstasy that hawk is doling out in ways he hasn't shared in almost three years with another human being only for it to be attributed to ash. it's not something as juvenile as jealousy because he knows that if ash were an available option embry might drop all of this in less time than it took for a heart to fucking beat to have it again - or at least, that's his increasingly sneaking suspicion. and no matter how perfect him and greer look holding hands, waving from balconies and gliding across a ballroom - sometimes tells him ash would do the same damn thing if the shoe were on the other foot. he doesn't know their whole sordid history, but he knows enough and it seems self-inflicted more than anything else. but he supposes if embry knew everything there was to the way him and tim ended - he'd have the right to laugh him out of his goddamn office talking about self-inflicted. it's like one of those irrational phobias - the knowledge that it can't hurt, that it's just a fucked up brain triggering all the wrong responses - but even knowing it doesn't make it go away. doesn't make someone choose the logical reactions. doesn't let things fall back into place easy.
christ.]
That's cute. If you're hoping for a catfight in the Olmstead Fountains over your honor, it's not happening.
[because it's not jealousy. and the last thing he's going to do is alert ash to this pining. maybe if he was a better man he would - but hawk can be just as selfish as embry thinks he is. and right now, he wants to chase after that delectable mouth and crush an arm around his waist so he can't go skittering off. wants to lick into velvety warmth and have him gasping for breath -
not separating from it and having hawk's eyes fly open before narrowing in annoyance at the charade.]
I get the picture. What I'm not getting is how the hell she came so close.
[the idea of more scotch is abandoned immediately, hand instead whipping out to grip embry's chin none too gently and drag him in for another searing kiss - almost too much - too fierce in the way he practically seeks to devour him from the inside out and too loud as he hums low against it. it should be dangerous how once he's started with this he can't quite seem to stop, ever since that hazy night of grief swathed in purple silk. it eats at him in a way he can't quite place, and that makes him angrier to have something that's been knocked loose from the otherwise well-oiled machine of his emotions.
angry enough to shift embry up against the bar, back hitting the countertop as one leg starts nudging between his thigh and his free hand reaches to yank at his tie and clack their teeth together as he breathes open-mouthed and disapproving against him.]
Had a nice evening planned, you know.
Nicer than whatever someone wearing that shade of red at 1:00 in the afternoon had going on.
[a pause, hawk knowing there's no going back once it's out of his mouth.]
And nicer than a man that's willing to watch you walk away without a fight probably has in him too.
[ he could let it go. he could fall into the kiss and start something new, slip a hook into hawk's want and angle it just the way he likes, the way they both like, because the desire between them is electric despite all the needling and vexation. embry has thrown enough petty tantrums that he knows how to get what he wants, most of the time, or at least some of the time, even if he is still figuring all of this out. both of them are. luckily, what he wants usually aligns with antagonizing whoever he's with, which makes things that much simpler.
but this is different. the words out of hawk's mouth stop him dead where he was previously distracted by the possibility of whatever nice thing hawk might have planned. the words hurt like a gunshot, and just like when he'd felt that first bite of fire sinking into his flesh back in carpathia, he reacts like a cornered animal, his fists digging into hawk's lapels, driving him across the room with a hard shove, just narrowly missing the coffee table. ]
He did fight for me!
[ he snarls it in hawk's perfect face, the hot prick of tears needling at his eyes. but the voice in the hollow part of his chest speaks up almost instantly: did he? didn't ash end it all the second embry couldn't give him everything? did he even try to understand that he had given him everything, every last drop of sweat and blood, wrung out at his feet? he'd thrown away every chance at happiness, given up the pursuit of ever having anyone else, all for ash. he'd stood by his side and watched him recite his wedding vows to jenny like it was nothing, like it hadn't destroyed something inside of him, and now — greer. ash gets second and third chances at happiness and embry can't even get one.
it takes several long seconds for the room to come back into focus. he has hawk pinned against the couch, his knee digging into his ribs. shards of crystal and smudged ash streak the floor from the ashtray that must have fallen and shattered when he'd shoved hawk across the room. embry's breath is ragged, his fingers shaking where he still holds fistfuls of hawk's collar. he feels flayed open, like he's just confessed to the very thing he vowed to suffer the burden of alone. it would be fitting if merlin materialized behind him and put him out of his misery.
he draws back, leaving hawk on the couch as he sidesteps the mess of broken glass, snatching his coat. he's seriously reached his quota of fuck-ups today, and he feels like hawk's broken ashtray, filthy and in pieces, and he just wants to be anywhere but here, where hawk's pity would be far, far worse than his punishment. ]
[for a minute he thinks maybe he's driven the point home well enough - or maybe it's just been the right amount of time passed to let it go. plenty of the shit wrapped up in ash has gone unquestioned - even when his name spilled out of embry's goddamn mouth in the middle of one of the more tender moments he's had a body in his bed and actually managed to connect with someone. not just anyone, but embry, who should know by now what that means on some level. so yeah - it seems like maybe he'll get his one mean quip in and they can move on like fucking adults. maybe embry will take a hint and finally try and move on instead of suspending himself in this limbo where he keeps hoping for the thing he's already denied and pushing good things away all the same.
(he knows he's not exactly a good thing though, but - good enough?)
but the second it lands something in embry's face twists and he knows it's torn him up as easily as if he'd just knifed him in the ribs. christ. and just as quickly hawk knows it's gonna be a fight - but a screaming match that ends with them vicious and horizontal would be preferable to the way he looks utterly broken by it, wounded immeasurably and covering it with a layer anger instead of lashing out with the vitriol itself. this wasn't supposed to actually hurt him, wasn't supposed to draw tears to the corner of his hauntingly pretty blue eyes and make them narrow at him with the iciness of real pain. so sure, the next logical step is for him to lash out - perfectly raw in the near childish insistence of one simple sentence - enough that it stops hawk from the way he'd been about to laugh in disbelief when the opposite seems truer.
it doesn't wholly catch him by surprise to feel fists at his chest, to be uprighted and shoved across the room before tumbling against the couch and letting embry's blind rage and the fever burning him from the inside out work its way into a visceral, physical manifestation of it all. he doesn't fight back in the slightest, letting him dig that knee against his ribs, knowing the ash tray he'd been given for his five-years of service at the white house is cracked to pieces and there's filth he'll have to clean up later. but none of that matters as he watches embry come back to himself with realization, stumbling up onto his feet and making for the exit.
that's exactly what he was expecting, and hawk mimics his movements by sidestepping the mess for now with his face hardened into a firm but imploring expression as he reaches for embry's arm. not hard enough to stop him if he were to insist - but enough to bring his attention back.]
He didn't.
[so what if he doesn't know the details. all he knows is - ]
Timothy Laughlin. The boy with the charity pitch.
[hawk sucks in a breath, shaking his head slightly, because it feels like it was punched out of him - a story he never meant to share, but that's tumbled out anyway because empathy seems like the best option. his voice is rough with a tinge of bitterness, unable to bite it back even now, even if he's told himself a hundred times and more that what's done is done.]
It's the same thing. I wanted him. Wanted to be with him. But I guess I didn't want it bad enough, because if I had - that's where I'd be right now.
[his jaw tightens, lips twitching for a moment as he draws in closer to look embry in the eye.]
Ash is the President of the goddamn United States. He's got more power in a his pinky than you and I combined. And you're saying - you're here with me because he fought for you?
[his expression isn't cruel, and it's not that he's trying to rub it in. but he's tired of seeing embry blame himself and pick at the same scab over and over again, deepening the wound.]
[ timothy laughlin. so embry had been close to the cracks in hawk's seemingly unbreakable shell, though the consolation prize of the admission doesn't fill him with any sense of satisfaction. he hurts suddenly for tim, who maybe wanted hawk as badly as embry wanted ash, viciously and hopelessly, and lost in the end. because hawk didn't want him badly enough.
he doesn't know which is true: that ash didn't want him badly enough to just give a goddamn inch and keep sneaking around until their presidential years were over, or embry didn't want him enough to sacrifice all the good that ash could do in office, all the good he could do for everyone else. all he knows is that he played ash like a fucking fiddle and the cruelty of his lies hold up to this day.
his knee-jerk reaction to hawk's grasp is to punch him, but he finds he can't move, his limbs brittle and aching as badly as his heart. the truth of this threatens to open its serrated mouth and swallow him whole. ]
Everything worked out — [ a low, quiet rasp, like an animal wounded. ] Exactly the way I wanted it to.
[ he'll never marry. never fall in love. never bring anyone home for christmas, just like he hasn't for the last thirty-odd years, and he'll die with a bottle of gin in his hand overlooking the lake house, because eventually ash will go off and raise horses in fucking montana with someone else and embry won't have anymore excuses to follow. he's mature enough to lie in the grave of his own making, at least, even if it makes him sick with grief.
he recovers his equilibrium and snatches his arm away from hawk, but he puts down his coat and goes to the closet instead, fumbling around until he returns with a broom. glass tinkles as he begins sweeping up the ashtray, his chest hollow and his skull buzzing. ]
People love Ash. They won't if they know he fucked me for years. [ loved him, wanted to marry him, would have given up his entire fucking future if embry had only said yes. his voice hardens, bitter to be raked over these old, familiar coals again. ] Everything I've done is to keep him in office. You're here as an extension of that. Don't forget it.
[in a way, the violence is what he'd expect. that or embry lashing out with words that somehow cut deeper and make him wish for blood spotting his pristine white collar and leaking down his nose. part of him expected the spectacle around tim, the gotcha moment embry had been egging him towards weeks ago and he wouldn't indulge him with. he might now - or at the very least, he'd understand where it was coming from. if he was a better man there would be an apology so they could just move the fuck on, the polite pretending that ash isn't still tangled up somehow in embry's very dna and likely to crop back up at the most inopportune times of whatever this tenuous thing they've established is. or maybe that's his problem - this isn't a thing at all, and he's gone and let himself get fucking soft for the guy he's just supposed to work for. christ, he could have let tim keep his job and his dignity at that rate if he'd figured that out a few years sooner.
they have it in common though - being see-through when it comes to the lies. embry's more skilled than tim ever was in the delivery, but hawk's bullshit detector is too refined to believe a goddamn word out of his mouth right now. especially not one implying embry's where he wants to be. that he's somehow happy and it all worked it right. or maybe that's not quite it - it worked out the way he's convinced himself he wants it to, even if it's not what he really wants.]
Yeah. You seem fucking thrilled about how the chips have all fallen. Is that why you look at him like that when you think no one's watching? Pretend not to notice when he does the same, even with Greer in the same room?
[it's a wonder no one else has called them on it, for god's sake.
he lets embry pull away, thinking he'll start shrugging on his coat and get ready to bail now that things have gotten too real and too hard. now that someone has caught him, or more specifically hawk - who grates on his nerves and seems to piss him off as much as he pleases him when they aren't busy shooting barbed innuendos. he'd like to think he's done a fine job at his actual job, difficult as its been - and embry has always been his priority, even if that's starting to feel a bit like being taken for granted. his lips pull down into a frown, watching him clean and realizing the idea of embry doing manual labor is as foreign as the scotch sitting on his counter.
he grabs the dustpan, hidden behind a pile of boxes in the closet and comes back to kneel down in front of the mess, letting the broom find a destination in a team effort as he stares up the tortured look that's still unfairly gorgeous, the perfect picture of pain and bitterness and edges sharper than the shattered glass on the floor cutting him up from the inside.]
Maybe some of them won't. But the bigots in this country aren't exactly a secret. Not necessarily enough to ruin a re-election campaign either.
[that last bit - well, that stings more than he thought it might, even if he's always known that's the case. hawk pushes back onto his feet, taking the broom abruptly and finishing up on his own, partly so he can turn his back to embry as he carries it back to the closet and dumps out the tinker of crystal into the trash.]
Sure. All in a day's work.
[hawk turns, plastering on one of his practiced, pompous smiles that doesn't reach his eyes.]
Is that all I can help you with tonight, Mr. Moore?
[ he wants to lash out. wants to tell hawk to mind his goddamn business, that ash doesn't look at him the way he used to and hawk wouldn't know because he wasn't there when he did. but embry knows the acute difference in ash's eyes, how his adoration is reserved for the looks he gives greer now, and she actually deserves it on account of not being a piece of shit who dragged his heart through the mud for years like embry did. ]
Greer is sweet and loyal and giving. And Ash loves her. [ all the things embry is not. ] Ash only looks at me because he's waiting for the next bomb to drop.
[ he doesn't want to hear about ash's chances as an openly queer president. embry's already given up too much to keep this boat steady; the risk is too high to throw it all away now. ash is too good, and besides, merlin would probably slit his throat in his sleep.
hawk's sudden dismissal might as well be a slap in the face. embry teeters for a moment, almost disbelieving that he's actually getting kicked out, but — doesn't he deserve it? he showed up here with lipstick on his mouth and ash's ghost trailing after him. there's no better place for him to be than sitting alone in his condo with a bottle of gin. it seems like even a smarmy shit like hawkins fuller who doesn't even like to fuck the same man twice has standards, and embry can't even meet them.
he shrugs his coat on, feeling for his phone and his keys and only finding his phone. fuck. whatever, sven will let him into his own goddamn house. ]
Mr. Moore? Enjoy fucking yourself, Hawk. [ he pulls the door open. ] Sorry about your goddamn ashtray.
[ it's past noon when he's lucid enough to take in the flurry of missed calls and texts, his head throbbing with the most overwhelming hangover he's had since the day he had to watch ash say his marriage vows to someone else. there's a bottle of macallan 12 on the nightstand, two mismatched glasses from his bar. his sheets are soaked with sweat. he feels, literally, about three breaths away from giving up the fucking ghost.
he tries to sit up, but abandons the endeavor when pain spikes through his skull. no go. he's clearly not making it into the office today, which hawk has probably noticed by now. hawk also has a key to his place — which embry needs to fucking take back — but there's no evidence he's been by, and that... hurts, in a left field kind of way. he should, professionally, care if embry lives or dies, even if he personally does not.
[when embry has the time, he'll see at least two of those calls are from hawk from this morning. because he does care - both professionally and, damn it all to hell, personally too - if embry lives or dies. but he's been removed enough these past few weeks after embry walked out, through his own rat bastard stubbornness and a misplaced comment of intentional assholery not to notice anything too amiss.
he'll kick himself for that later, and it'll be his guilt to swallow like bile in his throat - but for now he just assumes embry's on some stupid bender, out late partying or drinking or snorting something he shouldn't. maybe he went and fucked that girl after all, and he wouldn't be the only one - not when hawk drove himself just outside dc lines on the maryland side and picked up someone with pretty blue eyes and dark jet hair. too bad the features weren't even passable, not even in the dim light of the hotel room - but all of them look the same more or less when they're shoved face first into a mattress.
the key to embry's place is burning a hole in his pocket, itching to be used, but hawk is trying his best to slog through this meeting on an upcoming fundraiser embry is supposed to be hosting to ash, biting his cheek through it and cursing the timing of it when his phone pings.
what the fuck?]
I called earlier. Take it you're not coming in today. I'll get the event planner started on the essentials.
[he could leave it at that. professional, disengaged. but he's had this nagging feeling something is off all along, stupidly chalking it up to embry in one of his moods.]
Why do you want to know that right now?
[another pause. his gut is telling him there's more to this.]
You'd get a better answer in person. I can be there in twenty.
[ oh. ash's fundraiser. well, hawk's on it, so all embry has to do is show up and convince everyone to throw money at their feet, which has always been the easy part. vivienne moore taught him well, after all.
good thing it's not today. today, he looks and feels like the shit on the bottom of someone's shoe. it can't have just been the scotch — he's too much of a seasoned drinker for that — but he doesn't remember crushing or snorting anything. he doesn't remember anything, actually, but clearly he'd shared a drink here. two glasses. he swallows in sudden discomfort, glancing around his bedroom. nothing else seems out of place, and secret service would have come in if anything had seemed amiss. he's been mad enough at hawk to start flirting with other people, and sure, it's conceivable he'd taken someone home. clearly, hawk isn't missing him, with all the mr. moore-ing he's been doing. ]
maybe i just wanted some conversation with my morning coffee.
[ his morning coffee at noon. he drags himself out of bed, grimacing at the stickiness between his legs. something shifts uncomfortably in his chest, and he buries it. ]
this isn't an invitation to come over. i'm busy. so? what about mr. laughlin wasn't good enough for you? he's smart. he's cute. i'd fuck him.
[morning coffee at noon. radio silence for anything other than work until suddenly tim gets brought up with something like sentiment. something is going on - a post quarter life crisis? hookup gone wrong? his mins is racing with the possibilities that are all reasonable, but then there are the ones that are not that unreasonable. what if he’d done something stupid like drink too much, mix the wrong sort of thing…?
he’s not waiting for an invitation to ask to move the meeting along and wrap up a little sooner - noting a hard stop in fifteen minutes that doesn’t exist.]
Tell you what - you like games. Let’s play one. An answer for an answer.
What are you busy with?
It had nothing to do with him not being good enough. You’re right. He is smart. Cute. Sweet.
[ somehow he thinks picking up the pieces of my goddamn life isn't the answer he should give hawk. he tilts the bottle, squinting at the label. nothing out of the ordinary. it's his own bottle from his own bar. one of the glasses has red lipstick on it.
red lipstick. jesus fuck.
so maybe he got blackout drunk and had sex with erin last night. not a big deal. he's fucked her before. just because he doesn't remember doesn't mean it wasn't good. sex is always good. ]
i want to get some reading done in the shower. your presence would be a distraction.
[ he's already turning on the water to wash the sweat and semen off his skin, avoiding looking at his bloodshot eyes in the mirror. the light hurts. ]
what? he wanted to marry you?
[ he means it as a joke. marriage, the thorn in his side, the knife in his heart, the thing everyone thinks he doesn't want. ]
[he knows embry's schedule. there's a dozen other questions - like why the fuck he reads in the shower, or if he'd be a good distraction or a bad distraction right now - but that one seems less pointed.
that gives him pause though, because no - it wasn't even marriage. it makes things seem so much smaller in comparison. makes him sound like even worse of a bastard, even if he'd done it with at least one measure of good intent getting him out of a dangerous situation before someone else did far worse.]
He got too close - to a hard truth about the job and me. You know what they say about birds and stones. And even you can't complain about my efficiency.
[ he reads hawk's message after he's wrapped up in his turquoise tom ford bathrobe, courtesy of morgan from two christmases ago, water dripping from the dark waves of his hair. he feels only marginally more alive after his shower. ]
i overslept. drank too much last night.
[ it feels wrong to send that message, like maybe he should be saying more, like i don't remember anything that happened last night, and because he feels like puking his guts up, he starts brewing coffee in the kitchen.
he's starting to put the pieces together about tim, and it looks as bad as he can safely assume all of hawk's relationships look. he got too close. what the fuck does that mean? except embry knows exactly what that means, because ash had been too close from the start, and if only embry had listened to his gut the day ash had pinned him to the wall for being an insubordinate little shit the day they'd met, maybe he wouldn't be miserable right now. ]
you work for me now. you can date anyone you want. do you still want him?
[that much was inferred. still - embry's not one even at his worst to not be able to handle feeling a little rough in the morning. this feels different.]
Where'd you go drinking?
[it's too goddamn early for this interrogation though. he's regretting playing along - but if it's supposed to be a peace offering for this stupid stand off they've been in since last time they were in close quarters, he'll take it. if only to make sure he's alright and satisfy this niggling alarm blaring in his head that something is off.
it's been long enough anyway that he can at least talk about it. kind of.]
Not the right question to ask.
That door is shut; it'll only open on one side. And it isn't mine.
i'm sure your place hasn't been empty, either. never the same guy twice though, right? that doesn't count as my question. give me a minute.
[ he pours his coffee and foregoes cream and sugar, sipping at it black while he slumps down at his table and tries to will away the ache in his head. he needs to schedule his housekeeper to make an early visit. he needs to stop drinking entirely.
he considers it a great feat of self-control that he doesn't text hawk what he wants to, which is big surprise tim doesn't fucking want you anymore. he instead thinks about how he understands hawk on a disgustingly cellular level, the urge to hide, the urge to fight against your most basic wants. ]
[it doesn't count as his question, and it would take more than one person to answer it anyway - which there hasn't been. but he'll throw him a bone.]
My place is always empty. You should know that.
[except when embry was there. except when tim was there, too.
but that's even worse to consider - how much alcohol happened at home for embry to be this bad off? and why does his brain immediately jump to the conclusion that it's either spite or something far more insidious - because coincidences don't happen according to hawkins fuller.]
Let me guess. Red lipstick girl?
[there's a long delay before he answers that, mostly because he's actually giving it some thought. things he's buried for a long fucking time, coped with the best way how by flat out ignoring it. a year ago? yeah. he'd probably have gone for it. now?]
I don't think so.
[maybe the most honest thing he'll ever admit to:]
[ he does know that, sort of. hawk doesn't bring any of his random fucks home, and it isn't lost on embry that he'd briefly spent a whirlwind of evenings in hawk's apartment, as if those rules hadn't applied to him. apparently, they actually hadn't. he always left before he could fall asleep for real in hawk's bed, because that felt like a real, honest step toward something, and embry doesn't have a real or honest bone in his body, or at least not any he's practiced in using. ]
you let me in. would you have let me stay the night?
[ if he'd pushed for it. if he'd just decided one night not to leave. if tim deserves better then what does that say about embry that he can't even hold this shit together?
his nausea comes back at the question, an itch clawing beneath his skin. he makes it to the couch just as a wave of dizziness sends spots dancing across his vision, sinking into the soft cushions and reaching for a half empty bottle of water from days ago, guzzling it down his parched throat. ]
so what if it is her? maybe i like her. maybe i like that she doesn't fucking act like you. that she's there for me and you're not. i want my goddamn keys back. you didn't even get my dry cleaning.
That was the plan, among other things. Got you that stupid wine you pretend not to like and everything.
[it doesn't say anything about embry - and it hadn't been the intent to make him feel that way. it should say more about hawk and the fact that he's come a little further, or at least - that he's found someone worth trying for. but maybe not, seeing as he can't and won't make the effort to articulate it any more than that statement might.]
Picked it up this morning. I'll drop it off and bring your key, if that's what you want.
[not what he wants, but fine. this is just a job, or so embry told him last time they were together.]
Did you call her, or did she find you?
Seems awful convenient for her to keep turning up. But if you're happy - far be it for me to intrude.
[ he remembers, vaguely, that hawk had something planned for that night everything had gone wrong. something that sounded nice, something that wasn't supposed to end the way their night had actually ended. he doesn't think he'll ever find out what it was, and he's too stubborn to ask now. ]
you're not getting an invitation over. i'll get it from you at the office.
[ mostly because he doesn't want hawk to see the state he's in. he looks bad even for his own tarnished reputation, like he might need more than just a day to get this out of his system.
did he call her? furiously, he scrolls through his calls and texts, and finds nothing he doesn't recognize. no numbers not in his contacts. no trace of what could have transpired the night before. his stomach sinks as he keeps looking, his efforts futile. ]
of course i called her. we have history. stop trying to twist this to fit your own stupid narrative. who did you fuck last?
What else is new. I don't remember having one to begin with.
[doesn't mean he's not making his own. there's enough cause for alarm now, and hawk is wrapping up this meeting only half-listening to the few lukewarm pitches on theme that have been tossed around. notably there's been little contribution on his end, but getting out of here is more important right now than what's going to appeal to the changing whims of all the chucklefucks with deep pockets and a hankering for progressive politics in washington.]
Did you get her name, this time? You couldn't remember that night. Might have been awkward.
[there's no narrative he's trying to create. it's writing itself. if embry didn't even remember her name, then how the fuck did he have her number? and if he didn't have her number, where did she bump into him? maybe he can catch sven before he heads over for some clarity.]
As for me, I haven't got a fucking clue. Doesn't really matter anyway, some nobody in Maryland from halfway across the country and he spent the whole time face down.
and yet that never stopped you from barging in. don't get any fucking ideas. i'm taking a nap.
[ he forces himself to get up to give his place a cursory once-over. nothing wrong with the locks on the door, no signs of forced entry. none of the decor that morgan's interior designer chose has been disturbed. everything looks completely fucking normal, as if nobody was here at all and embry simply decided to poison himself on top shelf scotch. that, or he really did bring red lipstick girl home of his own volition, and they'd binged on his liquor and then fucked in his bed. and then she'd left.
sven would have stopped it if anything seemed off. he would have come barging in with no care if embry was naked as the day he was born. and fuck hawk for thinking he doesn't remember erin's name — his standards might be low, but they're not in the goddamn dirt. ]
i know her name. and it's better for optics for me to be attached to a woman. luckily, i actually like them. who i decide to wine and dine is none of your goddamn business.
[ because that sounds better than whatever happened last night, which clearly was more carnal than wining and dining. his anger deflates a little, guilt seeping in at the low blow he's just dealt hawk. he feels on the very edge of panic and can't put his finger on why, and he realizes he doesn't want to be in his house anymore. ]
how romantic. i'm coming into the office. should be less than an hour. i want the fundraiser details ready for me to go over.
[hawk doesn't text again. what he does instead is wait another thirty minutes to type up a fucking summary for the inane meeting and the themes embry is going to veto anyway with impunity. and he is going to very distinctly note the suggestion - that did not actually originate with him - that everyone be allowed a plus one. besides, the more money the merrier, or something like that. it'd be a win/win, except of course embry decides to be a prick and keep this routine going with whoever this woman is just to spite him. or maybe he really has found something in her, god knows it's not like hawk isn't exactly winning any awards for - whatever the fuck he's been to embry outside of their professional relationship. not a boyfriend, definitely not a partner - just a fuck, at the end of the day, he supposes.
except it hadn't felt like just another fuck - not when embry came the night of senator smith's passing. not when they'd snuck kisses between meetings at the fucking office like a pair of horny teenagers who couldn't pass a broom closet without giving it more use than it'd probably seen in decades. and not when hawk had been about to get on his knees and give him something he's only ever given the two people in his life that made him want to be a better man.
that doesn't mean he's still not pissed off beyond belief, figuring after a solid fourty-five that embry is sulking at home or he's stuck in bad traffic, but google confirms it can't be the latter.
fine. hawk emails the staff that he's taking a long lunch to run some errands for embry - grabbing his dry cleaning and getting into his black jag and slamming the door. there's a moment to suck in a breath, realizing he's probably gonna have to be the bigger person and hate every minute of it if he wants to get to the bottom of whatever the hell is going on with this woman. it's not jealousy - not in the same way it had gnawed at him with ash and embry mooning over a man that would probably take him back in a second anyway. he's still not sure whether that makes embry the world's most dedicated masochist or if there's just more to the story he'll have to uncover at the worst possible time. and that's only if they can both stop being immature fuck-ups for a minute and needling one another.
he pulls out a cigarette and starts the engine, making it over to the condo in just about the time it takes him to smoke it. good old sven is outside on a smoke break himself when he pulls up just past the secret service in another car, and tempting as it is to ask him if anything was amiss last night or with embry in general, he's not going to cause worry if there isn't any to be had. besides - they should know by now when he's in real distress.
shouldn't they?
hawk nods in greeting and heads inside, up the elevator to the place that's become a near home away from home by the way he could turn up blindfolded and find his way inside. the key is given more force than usual, alerting embry to his presence if he's in the expansive living room wallowing or near the formal dining room. but when hawk steps inside, he's not there. just two empty glasses on his coffee table, exactly like embry said. and a half empty bottle of gin. his eyes narrow at the ghastly shade of too orange red lipstick thats left its mark one too many times for his liking. but there's nothing really amiss otherwise - and it prompts him to set the key down on embry's kitchen island either temporarily or permanently depending on how this goes and drape the dry cleaning bags over one shoulder.
maybe he did fall asleep. but he'd better check, and he needs to get to the closet anyway, so...
so he's not expecting to hear gagging when he gets closer to the bedroom and adjacent master bathroom, and he unceremoniously dumps the clothes onto his bed and rushes past to see embry on his knees in a particularly devastating shade of teal that definitely doesn't belong in the same context as vomit. christ - he looks terrible.]
Hey, hey - you're alright.
[hawk reaches for one of his stupidly expensive hand towels, running it under cool water and placing it at the nape of his neck. his fingers push back the damp strands of his hair, out of the way even if they're too short to be a casualty before he drops it and squeezes one of embry's shoulders.
none of this is normal. not if all they drank was half that goddamn bottle.]
Just get it all out.
[embry can't see the way his brows are knitted together in worry, finger itching to call a doctor to come take a blood sample or just - test him for whatever the fuck is in his stomach. it's hard not to feel responsible, even if embry wouldn't have let him close anyway. probably. maybe.]
[ he's been stupid before, snorted too much, swallowed down too many pills, chased it all with gin, the works. he's seasoned when it comes to numbing himself. he stopped, mostly, when he was with ash, and dabbled again each time he became untethered from his side. but it's been a long time since he's felt this.
no, he doesn't ever think he's felt this particular side of shitty, not to this level, where his heartbeat alternates between too fast and too slow, his skin clammy, shivers dancing along his nerve endings. in the thirty minutes he stops looking at his phone, he plummets from bad to wondering if he should call the secret service bad. everything in him fights against the word roofied. it's comical, and impossible that it could happen to him at fucking thirty-six years old while being the goddamn vice president of the united states.
jesus fuck, how his mother would look at him right now, puking his guts out in the toilet at one in the afternoon on a workday. he's so focused on the task at hand that he doesn't hear hawk come in, doesn't hear the water running, and doesn't hear anything he says. but he does feel the cool brush of his fingers, and embry nearly brains himself on the crown molding with how hard he jerks back against the wall, his eyes wide and glassy. ]
Fuck. [ he snatches the damp towel from his neck and drags it across his mouth, his eyes falling shut as his shoulders droop in sudden relief. ] It's you.
[ the relief doesn't last long. he's aware hawk will want answers that embry can't provide on account of him not remembering fucking anything. but he can cobble together a story, the most likely one, which involves embry being both careless and a fuck-up. and a whore.
there can't be any foul play. sven would have intervened if embry looked like he needed help. he drank too much, snorted too much, and fucked someone while he was drunk and high and probably thinking about hawk. honestly, he's glad he doesn't remember that part. he should probably text erin and ask if she's all right, if she made it home safely, if she's also having as sexy a day as he is. ]
Don't start with me. [ through sheer spite alone, he manages to stand, shaky as he belts his robe and drops the towel on the edge of the sink. ] It's just a hangover.
[ he ambles past hawk as if to prove he can walk straight, wanting nothing more than to tumble back into bed and fall asleep, but when he sees the rumpled, sex-stained sheets, a chill creaks through him as if he's made of broken windows and splintered door frames, barely holding himself together. he swallows, pushing down against the panic that threatens to crack him open. ]
Did you send me the brief?
[ escaping out to the living room seems like the next best move, his coffee still sitting on the breakfast table. he opens up his laptop, looking queasily at the security login staring him in the face and abruptly blanking on every detail of his entire life. ]
[yeah, embry's seasoned at this. which is why it's so goddamn alarming to see him in this state. the fact that he didn't even hear hawk come in and offer some smarmy greeting or immediately try and send him away after this standoff they've been in is a red flag in and of itself - the rest of it, well, they all stack up like they're ready for a goddamn matador in the middle of bullfighting season. he's never seen embry look this unwell, and he's never seen him nearly jump out of his fucking skin like hawk was some intruder standing over him in a moment of vulnerability. of course he's gonna want fucking answers. but the main thing is getting him tucked back into bed to at least rest, seeing if he can discreetly call in a doctor or convince him to get this looked into. maybe he will step outside and talk to sven after this, if only because he knows this will be an uphill battle.
hawk stays where he is, ready to help steady embry as he pushes himself to his feet even as his body language screams that he's trying to look self-sufficient, brush it off and assure him that he's doing fine, when he's so clearly not.]
Yeah, it's me. And it's too late for that - because I fucking know what hungover you looks like, and it isn't this.
[hawk stalks after him, following close because he's not unconvinced that embry won't topple over from one wrong step or even a harsh exhale from hawk in his direction. frankly he should be in bed, resting - sleeping this off, if that's possible, and waking only for a few tests that he can be hazy through until they've got answers. like who the fuck the woman here was last night, even if embry knew her. what was her agenda, where did she come from? does he even remember? he's about to try and grab his wrist and dragging him over back to the bedroom - but one glance over there answers his question why that part was bypassed. jesus, catching sight of his charge and the man looks white as a ghost. that's not the reaction from someone satisfied with their late night activities, acquaintance or otherwise.
god fucking damnit.]
Yeah, I sent it to you. Didn't waste any paper on it.
[he doesn't try to sit down next to him or even across from him, instead looming over him and bending over to unceremoniously shut his laptop with a hand and cut off this line of conversation.]
I know you don't want to hear this. [he sucks in a breath, preparing for the inevitable bitchfest that will follow.]
But you need to get some fucking rest and let me call someone. Whatever this...bug is you've got, you look terrible. You're damn sure not in any shape to be reading briefs and signing off on anything.
[bug sounds better than what everything in him is screaming it really is.]
Your room is a mess. Why don't you take the guest bed and I'll get it ready for cleaning tomorrow?
[tomorrow, when his housekeeper will come by. tomorrow, after hawk has had a chance to collect any evidence on this bitch and try to piece together what the hell hit him. god, he's furious. but he doesn't let it show, remaining calm and collected like he's good at, compartmentalizing and hiding it all - extending a hand and nodding at him like it might convince him to do the right thing for himself for a change.]
[ jesus christ. he should have kicked hawk out the second he came in. or at least the second he realized he was here, which was clearly several minutes after he'd come in. he's making assumptions that ring loud and clear, and embry has to kill this story before it gets out of hand. there's no way. there's just no fucking way.
embry lurches to his feet again. puking helped, because he feels a little more alive as he returns to the bedroom, aware of hawk following him around like he's his goddamn lover who's started keeping secrets from him. the bottle is still sitting on the nightstand, and he picks it up now as if it's a mystical item that will somehow return his memories of the night to him. no such luck. ]
I missed you. That's why I called her.
[ there's no evidence that he actually called anyone, but he had to have invited her over. sven would have stopped her if he hadn't let her in. embry takes the bottle to the sink and dumps it out, watching the clear liquid go swishing down the drain. ]
That's why I fucked her. [ he tosses the bottle into the trash, then goes back for the glasses, dumping them into the dishwasher, then strips his bed, flinging sheets and blankets and pillows to the floor until the mattress is bare. ] That's why I started drinking at four in the afternoon and didn't stop until midnight after we were done. Because I missed you, and I hate feeling like that. I hate thinking about you.
[ he sits heavily on the bed, pulling open the drawer of his nightstand to pluck out an orange bottle stuffed with pills of all shapes and colors, and a razor to cut them with. he presses it into hawk's hand. the truth is he hasn't been irresponsibly high in a long time, but it's a convincing, believable lie. of course embry has a stash, and of course he'd be stupid enough to use it. and he had to at least have taken something last night, even though a cursory glance tells him nothing's missing. ]
If you want to take care of anything, then get rid of that. [ he swallows, finally looking up at hawk as he fights to keep the regret from bleeding into his gaze. ] I fucked up, okay? That's what I do. I did it with Ash, and now I'm doing it with you. If you have any questions about what it feels like to be rejected by me, you can ask him. Now leave the goddamn key and get the fuck out of my house.
[christ, that'd be the fucking day. hawk would wholly resent the implication that he's a) anyone's lover and b) following embry around like some kicked puppy. wouldn't that be ironic after everything he put tim through? but his focus is drawn sharply to the bottle on the nightstand - another one opened, and still nowhere near enough to put embry in such terrible shape this morning or afternoon. it takes everything in him not to lunge forward and tear it from his hands, to whisk it away as evidence for what he knows his gut is telling him this might be. even more restraint not to nudge him away, to take over every action that destroys his case so he can get embry's ass into a clean bed that much sooner and preserve whatever is left of this shitshow.
hawk lets him talk, not saying a fucking word and just watching him for any signs of physical weakness - shaky hands, unsteady legs, trembling shoulders. he wishes he'd take a second to sit his ass down and stop trying to convince him nothing is wrong, only proving further that it actually is. and frankly, he's looking for the other points of weakness too - the speed of his verbiage, the explanations he's good at weaving together.
it's funny: he knows what his eyes see - he hear the words coming out of embry's mouth, and he feels the press of plastic into his hand with a vibrant array of substances shoved inside - but he doesn't believe a minute of any of it. it sounds right on the surface, sure, and god knows he's heard enough about embry's past to get an idea of what the result of every single one of these ticking time bombs might bring out in him - but there's a funny feeling in the pit of his stomach that this all just for show. which is exactly what he puts on when he lifts the bottle in a salute, heading to the bathroom and dumping them unceremoniously in the toilet to flush. he tosses the razor, ripping off the inaccurate label on the bottle and pocketing it to shred later, knowing his paranoia is at an all time high, but also considering the fact that there's probably someone out there willing to dig through trash for a story about embry moore and whatever psychosis they can assign him.
on the way back to the bedroom, there's a pointed brush past him as he pulls out the drawer where he knows all the sheets are neatly folded. it should be embarrassing on some level that it's a fact that even exists in his mind, but here he is, playing maid anyway. he heard everything that was said - including the i missed you and the get the fuck out of my house. hawk doesn't let it cut deep that the former is more likely to be the lie. his back is kept to embry as he starts maneuvering the fitted sheet, diehard military habits making him pull it perfectly taut before smoothing it out.]
Fine, you fucked her. You fucked up. You're not the only one who got your rocks off - and neither of us are fucking obligated to do anything otherwise, let's make that clear.
[because they're not in a fucking relationship, and that's perfectly fine with hawk. it's the way it should be. he yanks off the pillow cases with more force than really needed, tugging up the new ones and throwing them unceremoniously onto the bed.]
Two weeks from now you're going to be up my ass about forgetting the right tie, or needing some project you've pulled out of a hat dropped off.
[there go the regular sheets, tight enough to bounce a quarter from. hawk finally turns around, slowly pushing himself further into embry's space than he probably should.]
I'm not giving you back your goddamn key. You want to get rid of me? You hate thinking about me?
[of course he's bluffing. of fucking course he missed embry too. and up this close, even green around the gills he still has the audacity to look achingly gorgeous in the way that makes hawk want to scoop him up and carry him out of this place altogether from whatever did this to him.]
There's an easy way to fix it. I told you months ago. So go on.
[he tips his jaw with an arrogance that's usually never reserved for the man who signs his checks, glancing down the narrow bridge of his nose before leaning in and murmuring it near his ear.]
Make me.
[fire him.]
Otherwise - you get in that bed and you take the day to sleep this shit off.
[ his first thought is that hawk isn't listening to a goddamn thing he's saying. his second is that he shouldn't look that unfairly hot while he's making his bed with cutting precision. embry feels like an oaf as he watches hawk's nimble fingers tuck the sheets and smooth out the wrinkles, making his linens look artful, a perfect canvas for another round of sex if embry was sure it wouldn't kill him. his mind is desperate for a distraction — screaming for it, really, in the way that he used to get when he needed ash to hold him down and shut him up.
it doesn't help when hawk crowds his space, embry maintaining both his balance and composure by summoning some hidden reservoir of his waning fortitude. the wash of hawk's smoky breath against his skin sends a shudder rattling through him, his fingers curling weakly around the fabric of hawk's blazer, right by his hip, while he struggles momentarily to breathe. thick, liquid desire pools at his core while static fills his chest, anxious fear warring with his want.
he's not going to fire hawk, though in this moment he really fucking desperately wants to. he wants to not need him, because he wants to not need anybody. needing ash has ruined him, left him wandering out in the cold like a kicked dog on a short chain, and he realizes that he's fallen into the same trap here, that he's allowed hawk to somehow seep into the brittle cracks of his heart.
it would be a relief to submit to a command, and still everything in him struggles against it even knowing that he's going to lose. he's already lost, because he can't let go of hawk. not like this. ]
Bring me some aspirin.
[ even an order sounds like a defeat, and for a moment he's pressed too close — they're pressed too close, heat and breath mingling, and the rush of it all has him unsteady, his palms pressing to hawk's ribs through the fabric of his clothes. eyes shuttering, his damp temple tips against hawk's cheek, and he lingers, wanting to go limp against him and simply forget. forget this night, and all the things he already can't remember. forget all the tumult that lies between them. forget all the reasons that he shouldn't just let their lips touch, despite barely being able to stand.
his senses, or what little is left of them, return to him, and he slowly pulls away, unbelting his robe and shrugging it off as he turns his back, exposing his lean muscles and the scar tissue where a carpathian bullet slammed into his shoulder. there's a matching one in his leg, along with the unseen three months of rehab it had taken to gain his mobility back. he burrows into the fresh sheets and tries not to think about what might have happened the last time he was here, his cheek pressed miserably to a pillow while his dark hair sweeps into his eyes.
shifting horizontally drains all the blood from his brain, apparently, because he's dizzy in seconds, his eyes squeezed shut and his fingers gripping the clean sheets until the room stops swaying. he can't tell if it's hours or seconds before he can manage to make his mouth form words again. ]
Hawk. [ a pathetic rasp. he half hopes he's already gone. ] Don't go yet.
[for a moment, hawk thinks maybe this is it. he's finally pushed too far and it's the day he's worn out his welcome here, even if there wasn't really one to begin with. the strange thing is he actually wants it now, even if he hadn't ever needed it before. there's also the funny thought that getting fired would give him carte blanche to be even more of a pain in embry's ass - pick him up and throw him into bed if he has to. sex is the last thing on his mind though, not out of anger that he'd fucked someone else, but because he's worried it wasn't what embry signed up for. he hasn't trusted red-lipstick since the get-go, and he can't shake the feeling something is seriously wrong here, even if embry will never admit it and make his job three times as hard.
he'll tell himself later that he wasn't holding his breath on the decision, but it won't be true.]
Yeah, I got you. Go on and lie down.
[he's seen embry act like a goddamn princess in this bed, commanding from it like some while getting simultaneously pampered and chewing out foreign dignitaries on the side. so it's strange to see him look so small as he slips out of the rug, letting hawk's eyes catch on the scar that eerily mirrors his own underneath his shoulder blade. he remembers telling embry about it, regretting that he hadn't been more clear-headed to exchange stories instead of spilling his guts in a moment of real vulnerability. even stranger to see him curled up in the bed looking like he'd rather be swallowed by it in this moment instead of fixing himself into the embodiment of enticement.
hawk drags his gaze away and quickly heads to the bathroom, grabbing two aspirin and a clean glass of water. and while he's got the opportunity - he fishes out the glass without the appalling shade of red on its rim with his handkerchief, putting it into a small plastic bag and setting it on the counter to swipe later, hoping enough has been preserved to get someone to discreetly run a few tests or save it for evidence. he makes it happen fast, back at embry's bedside and hesitating before holding his hand flat out with the pills and curled around the glass for him to take before he sets it back down on the dresser.
he's expecting to be dismissed, or for embry to doze off right away. instead - he gets surrender, immediately softening and wondering when he got so goddamn pliable. fuck.
but of course he sits gingerly on the edge of the bed, reaching out to push embry's damp hair back and stroke soothingly over his forehead the way a mother might a sick child. somehow he can't picture vivienne moore doing anything other than commanding them to get better so he can make it to a dinner party on time.]
I'm right here. Not a chance I'm going anywhere else.
[not unless embry pushes him to - and even then, he's already stood his ground once.]
Keep your eyes closed and roll back onto your side - might help.
[his hand slides down to gently nudge at embry's upper arm, to help him do it if he's too weak or nauseous to do it on his own. it gives him a much better view of his face - somehow still perfectly enticing despite dark circles and the washed out coloring of his skin. it makes hawk want to dip down and press his lips to his temple, or kick off his oxfords and crawl up behind him until he dozes off again. all things he never fucking does for anyone - or at least, hasn't since tim, and never thought he'd want to do again.]
[ it happens as he’s putting on his shoes with an overpriced croissant hanging precariously from his mouth, trying to make sure the crumbs hit the floor and not his blazer. his phone starts buzzing, which isn’t new, but then it doesn’t stop, which is sort of new and definitely fucking annoying.
it’s hawk. embry is actually going to pick up and tell him that he’s not late to the meeting, everyone else is just early, and yes, he’s walking out the door now, but then his phone buzzes again. it’s the white house publicist, and then it’s an aide, and then it’s his goddamn mother. embry crunches into the rest of the croissant, trying to decide which fire to face first, and then morgan sends a text that only says what the fuck is this? with a link to a video.
morgan doesn’t text him for small talk or casual pleasantries. something begins gnawing in the pit of his stomach as he dodges another one of hawk’s calls to tap on the link, a grainy video popping up on the screen. his bedroom. a girl with dark lipstick, most of her face obscured by the angle. him.
he watches in eerie silence, barely breathing, hearing his easy laughter on the video, watching himself kiss and bite and fuck a girl from his past to a bruising orgasm. she tumbles him to the bed after, using his tie to bind his wrists together as she rides his cock, her hair a veil shadowing her face. he only realizes that time is still passing when he registers hawk’s name continually popping up at the top of the screen, missed call after missed call that turn into demanding texts. call me. where are you? pick up the goddamn phone.
he has to remember how to breathe before he walks out the door. his lungs feel too tight, like he’s being held underwater, like his head is about to fucking explode. his night of poisonously bad decisions had been weeks ago, and he hasn’t thought of it since, more than happy to forget all the things he can’t seem to remember — but this is a punch in the gut, a shock to the system, and he realizes abruptly that the reason his phone won’t stop going off is because it’s all over the internet.
the world found out the same time that he did.
********
a combination of washington traffic and needing to hide out in the car before making his way inside means it takes him an hour to get to the office. an hour in which he doesn’t answer any of hawk’s calls. an hour for embry to spiral into his worst self, so when he does walk in, he doesn’t go to the person who would bury a body to solve this for him. he ignores hawk entirely save for a scorching look and a rude brush by, stalking with purpose to ash’s door instead, striding in without knocking, trying to look as poised as possible while his heart threatens to hammer straight out of his chest.
ash will know what to do. ash will always know what to do. embry is on the very brink of panicking, his eyes wide and skittish, and he just needs — something solid and familiar, something that hasn’t been ruined by his touch. he wants ash to put his hands on his shoulders and wrestle him down to his knees so that embry doesn’t have to think and doesn’t have to feel anything except for ash’s overwhelming presence, and everything will be okay after that, because ash will take care if it. ash will take care of him.
the look ash gives him drives something sharper than a blade through the softest part of his heart. before embry can even open his mouth, ash levels a question at him.
this is what you wanted instead of what we had? that sort of life — that’s good enough for you?
it eviscerates him. embry feels every argument evaporate, every reason he walked in here fly out the window. he feels footsteps at his back — hawk, lurking in the goddamn doorway. embry looks at ash and fights the prickle of tears in his eyes, keeps his composure like he always does. ash’s disappointment is crushing, like his bones are being physically squeezed to breaking. ash doesn’t know. embry realizes then that nobody knows, and that’s the only power he has left here — that he can pretend that he wanted this, that he remembers any of this, that at least it was a good night, and he was just being his usual careless, rankly promiscuous self. ]
Yeah. It’s good enough for me. [ embry straightens his shoulders but has the grace to look slightly ashamed. ] I didn’t know she was gonna leak the recording, okay? It was just supposed to be fun. I’m sorry. It was stupid, and I’m sorry. That’s all I came to say. I’ll do whatever needs to be done for damage control.
[ then he turns and walks out, needing to escape ash’s presence as quickly as possible, though it doesn’t help feeling hawk’s eyes raking over him, as intimate as a lover — or an executioner. they make it to embry’s office, and embry grabs the first thing off his desk — a box of pens — and hurls it at the wall with a curse. the pens go streaming across the floor as embry scrubs a hand down his face, heaving out a breath. he reminds himself to breathe, that no one knows, that he’s lied with fucking excellence before, and he can sell this one, too. planting himself on the corner of his desk, he grips the edges of the wood to keep his hands from shaking. ]
So, did you watch it? Did you rub one out to me? [ casually, he crosses his ankles. ] Where’s my coffee?
[embry must have learned his lesson about what happens when hawk has to wait over an hour and a half for the latest must-have monstrosity that's migrated over from new york - cronuts, crookie - can't people just leave a goddamn croissant alone instead of bastardizing it? he knows the morning order as well as the back of his own hand, but sometimes he's not obligated to pick it up. usually when embry is trying to genuinely avoid something which lately seems to squarely fall onto his shoulders as the main attraction. or rather the entire blunder from the night of smith's funeral to the bitch with the lipstick to waking up looking like death and pretending it was all fine - to now playing this game of pretend professionalism in between. it's gotten mostly to a level of tolerable: the banter, the flirtation, the aggravation hawk knows he only does to get a rise out of embry and vice versa. he can pretend to avoid the mess that's been neatly swept under the carpet if that's how he wants to play it.
but hawk learned a long time ago: someone is usually going to trip, kick it up, and bring it to light when you least want it dragged out.
that day happens to be today - and he's sitting at embry's desk with his feet kicked up, flicking through the paper and the latest polling numbers when the social equivalent of nuclear apocalypse strikes. embry's phone isn't the only one blowing up - not when hawk has an automated list of google alerts, pings, and enough tracking on his name to make the night stalker look like a fucking nun. there's a sinking feeling in his gut before he even opens the first one as they keep pouring in - politico to twitter, bbc to al jazeera, fox new - christ, it's like armageddon. there's a moment where the knot in his chest tightens, afraid something fucking awful has happened like embry in an accident, somewhere out on dc pavement or crumpled into his black escalade without hawk there to help - but in some ways it's worse than that.
he knew this wasn't a coincidence. he fucking knew this girl was bad news, looking for some kind of come-up - but what's the point here? what was the goal out of this? his head tells him to immediately call in the troops: send in the glass he'd nicked from embry's condo weeks ago that's still in a ziplock bag, ready to be tested for ghb, rohypnol, and everything in between. reach out to one of his pd's to dig up everything on this girl from her alma mater to where she's most likely to take a piss on a tuesday at supper hour. but it's his heart - or maybe his dick - that has him jamming down the speed dial on his contacts for embry, over and over even if he already knows it won't get answered. he punches out a few texts: get here now. pick up. goddamn it embry. and then - definitely not at the direction of his dick: it's going to be okay.
because that's the thing, his fury isn't directed at all towards the man that's still technically his boss. he's not looking at this like it's some other bender-induced fuck-up that'll ruin his reputation or bring heat to ash's chanced at re-election, even if that should be one of the main priorities. it's certainly embry's, according to his very pointed declaration that he has in stark white and blue in the form of a text. no, instead it's pointed squarely at the woman who orchestrated this for some ulterior motive that he's going to get to the bottom of. but it manages to take a detour - not at embry, strolling in looking like he's got one wrong gust of wind that might topple him over, not embry who ignores him like he's no more interesting than a piece of furniture in this room, but at ash, the fucking asshole who somehow thinks that any of this was embry's fault. that anyone in their right mind would want this shit to have happened, that he'd ever think to put ash at risk when it's the one person that seems to have consumed him from the inside out.
bet he didn't think about that.
in his head, hawk does something idiotic like vault over the desk and punch him in that perfect jaw to wipe away the disappointment that veers so closely to the disgust he remembers from his own father - he pushes him down against the desk and holds him by the neck like a golden retriever that's stolen steak off the counter and imparts upon him just how wrong he is about this, and most importantly about embry. instead, he does the responsible thing and lets embry have the grace to get into his own office and sit on his own for a few moments, uncrossing his arms from where he'd been perched against the door frame and fluidly pushing off to come right up to the solid oak timbers and knock at it lightly with a fist, as if testing the sturdiness before speaking with an irreverence he'd only lob at the most intolerable of bastards.
i've got this under control. but you know - it's really a shame you can't be bothered to see past your own ego and understand him.
hawk turns on his heel and doesn't bother waiting for a response before stepping into the office and expecting his former seat occupied, which it is, but not the crunch of a pen under his oxford that clattered against the door moments before shutting it behind them both. he's not taking the bait on this, not even going to bother dignifying it with a response because a few grainy screenshots were enough for him to know he didn't need to see any more, didn't need to violate embry's privacy any further.]
I drank it an hour ago. I'll get you another one as soon as you sit the fuck down and talk to me.
[hawk strides into the room with an easy prowess, the kind of calm and collected he's excelled at, even if a part of him worries embry won't ever see him that way since the mess he'd come across in the nights after smith's death. but he doesn't stand over him and lord that, instead dropping down onto his haunches and looking up to try and catch embry's gaze.]
Look at me.
[he'll repeat himself if he has to, until he can see ocean blue in his vicinity, even if looks as unsteady as the tides against crashing waves right now.]
[ so, no coffee. no stimulants to get him through this moment. he knows hawk always carries cigarettes, but it would be uncouth to start smoking in the west wing. pouring himself a glass of scotch from the bottle sitting by the philodendron seems a little too much like telling on himself, so he stays put, watching hawk treat him like a skittish mare about to bolt. it's a little too on the nose. ]
It's not? [ it comes out as a derisive scoff, clearly disbelieving. ] I knew what could happen when I made the video. I did it anyway.
[ it's almost believable. embry would make a tape; he's the type of guy that has no limits, irreverent and dissolute and born into enough wealth that for the majority of his life, normal problems didn't exist for him. but wealth hadn't protected him from falling in love. it hadn't shielded his heart from ash. no amount of money or privilege has been able to patch whatever inherently broken thing exists within him that makes it impossible for him to love and be loved in a normal way. so he would make that video and he would fuck anyone with a pulse, but the problem is that he would rather swallow glass for the rest of his life than tarnish ash's chances at reelection with a monumental fuck-up like this.
and hawk knows that. because hawk knows him. the realization that he's been flaying his heart and fooling ash for years but might not be able to convince hawk of a lie for two minutes hits him like a rush of cold water.
being stripped naked, leashed by the cock, and led around the room like a dog would be less humiliating than meeting hawk's eyes in this moment. his pulse quickens the second he does, shame and fear and a sick sense of nausea prickling down his rigid spine. he tries to channel morgan's reptilian sense of efficiency, her form of ruthless bloodletting when it comes to delivering the truth. his phone buzzes next to his hand, which it's been doing nonstop so it's become background noise, but he happens to look down and see a text from his stepsister herself, his chest locking up at the unexpected sincerity. embry, are you okay? ]
I didn't tell you because — [ his eyes feel too warm, his cheeks flaming with sudden heat. hold it together. ] Because we weren't — [ his blunt nails dig into the lip of the table, his knuckles white. every word feels intensely far away, like he's grasping at clouds. he blinks and something wet spills down his cheek, his eyes wide and glassy as he chokes out — ] I didn't know. Hawk — I don't remember. I don't remember anything from that night.
[this might be the one time he'd let a drink or a smoke both this early and in the west wing slide. at its core, soley based on optics: this is bad. really fucking bad - it makes any good will embry's drummed up with voters as ash's loyal second-in-command wash right down the drain, tenuous as it already was given the current liberal disdain for nepotism and hedonism that seem to go hand in hand these days. the only saving grace is that they're smack dab in the middle of four years, only halfway through with plenty of time for this to blow over even if he's waiting for the aftershocks to keep coming for the next few weeks. until whatever other scandal can top a sex tape leaking of the vice president of the fucking united states of america.
and the worst part of it is?
hawk knows what he's looking at. no one else is going to see that footage and think it's anything other than reckless horniness and a rampant night of romping around. they're going to think it's consensual, because they don't recognize the way embry's smile is lopsided and his movements are sluggish compared to the way he bites back in bed, the way he's too pliant and being lead around with a docility like he's taken a wrong turn down an alley at the beckon of a passingly attractive face and lips that are too bright and gotten a face full of scopalamine. the average voter doesn't own the luxury of knowing what embry looks like when he's really falling apart, arched in ecstasy instead of lying back and just letting it all happen. there's a part of hawk that wants nothing more than to walk out this office, track this bitch down, and find a convincing way to get rid of her for good. to play judge, jury, and yeah - executioner.
but there's already the rumblings of an escape route murmuring in he back of his head, not that embry is any state to hear it right now. the immediate thing is coaxing him into acceptance first, and imparting upon him that no matter what the fucked up state of them is, embry is still his first priority always. it's his job to know, to see past the facade he puts up for ash that apparently the man is too thick-skulled to see through. that, or it's more convenient to pretend now that greer is in the picture. not hawk, even if that means compromising his own feelings in the meantime. he can take it on; he suspects he's far better at this game of bifurcation than embry ever has been.
he lets him tell the lie, because he's long since accepted that it has to tumble out before he realizes it won't work on hawk the same way it works on ash. maybe someday they can cut to the chase, but it's not this day. hawk reaches out to press the power button on embry's phone, turning it off completely before flipping it face down to avoid any further distractions and maybe help the world feel less urgent right now. his own pocket has been a steady stream of vibration all fucking morning since news broke, but only the few texts he's fired off to his people are the ones that count right now. embry's still the top of that list.
the one thing he's not sure of is whether or not he'll recoil from touch right now, so he starts with something tentative: a hand at his wrist, the same thing that's always managed to draw him in. thumb light against his pulsepoint, meant to reassure more than measure.]
I know. Don't worry about that right now.
[don't worry about us, he almost says. but he lets embry either come to his own realization or get out what he's suspected all along, making sure to keep pity out of his gaze because he suspects it's the last thing someone this skittish would want.]
That's what I was afraid of when I came by.
[he reaches up, unable to stop from brushing away the tear that rolls down his cheek and keeping it there for a brief moment of tenderness he's not sure he's earned.]
Look, I'll get to the bottom of this and take care of it. It's bad right now, but the press and the shitstorm - and him and especially her, I don't want you to think about that.
[he pauses, voice lowering as he leans in a little closer.]
[ jesus fuck, he's about to lose it. hawk comes closer and all embry wants to do is bury his face in the shoulder of his suit, to envelop himself in his familiar vetiver scent, to block out the world until nothing exists but the press of his body to hawk's. he should've never stopped chasing whatever the thing was that existed between them, leaving himself open to his old, ruinous habits that always, always lead to a sticky, intoxicated, devastating end. it's the story of his goddamn life, that he blows every chance he gets and then deserves it every time the blade drops right onto his neck.
of course hawk suspected. hawk knows him better than he knows himself, and the thought is just as frightening as how he's drifting away from ash as the months go by. ]
Yes — I don't know. [ if he trusts him. if he trusts anyone right now, if he even wants anyone to help. he would lie in this goddamn bed and let the press eat him alive if it didn't mean risking ash's entire career. ] I fucked up. God, I fucked up.
[ his breath hitches as he leans into the fleeting brush of hawk's fingers, squeezing his eyes shut for a brief moment to expel the tears that keep threatening to fall, his lashes spiked when he opens them again. he can't cry here, even if he wants to sob like a goddamn baby, something like shock settling over him like a gossamer web. his hair falls into his eyes as he tips forward to rest his forehead against hawk's chest, guilt poisoning his tongue. he's not good enough for hawk's sympathy, for his comfort. not after this. ]
You have to watch it. [ he slides his hand into hawk's pocket, his fingers closing around his phone, shoving it against him once he pulls it out. he ignores the tremor in his fingers, misery and anger squeezing his heart. ] It's your goddamn job to watch it.
[yeah, as far as fuck ups go - it's a pretty bad one. or it would be if it was intentional, the way embry's trying to play it off for ash as an irresponsible night of drinking and flirting and tumbling into bed with an old flame. but it's not that, because nobody would fucking ask to be drugged through their already tortured thoughts and taken advantage of like that. that's not embry's brand of self-loathing or punishment. it's...well, hawk knows exactly what it is, but if he says the four letter word that sums it up succinctly he's afraid he'll watch embry shake apart in real time and utterly fall to pieces. what he needs right now is to know someone's in his corner, and that while this is the last thing ash or anyone else wants to deal with, hawk is going to clean up the mess. he's going to do his goddamn job, which actually does not require him to watch it, even if embry seems determined to get him to do it.]
Hey. Listen to me right now, Embry.
You didn't fuck this up, do you understand me?
[christ, why does the sudden thought of how he'd have treated tim in similar circumstances lance through him right now? he knows he's a ruthless son-of-a-bitch at best, and half the west wing would laugh till tears were in their eyes thinking about the smooth, polite aide that's risen in ranks with his sharp suits, even sharper favors and facts hidden away up his sleeve and in his pockets. a shark in the water - that the kind of man hawkins fuller is. maybe he has gone soft. maybe he's weak to let his own feelings cloud this - but at its core, this is a clear case of right and wrong. embry didn't choose this. nobody would. so while there's probably a lecture and an "i told you so" about the woman that raised his hackles in the first place, that's not the priority here.
he waits for acknowledgment before he stands up, keeping his presence less than imposing until embry slumps forward against him. his arms lift, slow and gentle - still worried he might startle at the touch - before settling around his shoulders and lightly rubbing along his back.]
This isn't on you.
[there are so many words he might say that all sound wrong, hollow and pitying which is the last thing embry would want - you were a victim. she took advantage. you're going to be okay.
he feels light pressure against his breastbone, glancing down to see embry fishing out his phone and blinking in surprise when he pulls back. his brows furrow briefly before smoothing out, the plan that had been rotating like the gears of his daily tuned watch finally clicking into succinct place. his voice is neutral, calm even as he fixes embry with a look.]
I don't have to watch it. [not because it's the right thing, or even because he doesn't want to see him hurt, but - ] It was my video. I did this. Too much scotch, a late night after putting in the time for you at the office - needed to blow off steam.
[he'll take the fall. all the heat that would come his way - it's nothing compared to embry having to admit what really happened.]
[ hawk's voice sounds faraway. embry feels distant from his own body, his own thoughts, like he's losing the battle to keep his head above water, to not succumb to the demons living in his chest that spout vicious truths about him. he did fuck this up. this is on him. and ash is never going to look at him the same way again, not that he was looking at him at all anyway, and it's been over for so fucking long that embry is so fucking pathetically stupid for not being able to get the fuck over it.
there is something so monumentally wrong with him. cosmically wrong. the taste of regret is rancid on his tongue. the urge to sink to his knees, to crawl across the carpet and beg for forgiveness is so strong, so compelling, that he nearly blacks out from how hard he's fighting against himself. he sees himself doing it, only in his mind's eye when he looks up, he's not kneeling at ash's feet. it's hawk he's gazing up at, every muscle pliant and willing and ready to be broken by him.
he shakes out of his stupor like someone's just thrown a rock at his head, still sitting at the edge of his desk, still leaning slightly into hawk's solid frame, still caught in whatever magnetism exists between them when they get close. he hears hawk's words on a delayed loop, his mouth already still but his voice unspooling like a child pulling the tape out of a cassette. ]
What the fuck did you just say?
[ his heart thuds an irregular beat, wishing hawk would shut the fuck up, wishing he hadn't just said exactly what he did, because it's out now, and embry can't stop him from repeating it outside of this room short of stuffing his corpse in the closet. ash and hawk. two people that no matter how much he begs and pleads of them, he will never get what he wants. ]
Hawk. [ he's fully present in the moment now, his shock making his ice-blue eyes glitter with something close to panic. ] You can't. You can't take the fall for this. It's not — I'm not —
[ worth it. he lunges to his feet, staggering straight into hawk as he grasps his collar, giving him a hard shake as if he can reorganize his brain and change his mind. ]
Don't. [ he sounds wretched, heartbroken. tears prick the corners of his eyes for a completely different reason as his lungs swell painfully. ] Please. Don't do this for me. I'm a bad person. Everyone should just know.
[it's firm but gentle in its insistence, trying to break through the haze he knows must be washing over him from the way he's slumped against hawk, surrendering inch by inch and opening himself up for what he must expect to be punishment. and maybe another time hawk will take him up on that - bend his body and watch him arch in the inescapable grip of white hot overstimulation until his mind is filled with nothing but pleasure and the sensation of being owned by someone who doesn't give a fuck about his dirty deeds and his fuckups. someone without the same haughty disappointment as ash - someone who, fuck, he sounds like he's in a romcom thinking like this. but embry is someone who deserves to be absolved of these notions, that he should suffer and consume himself with the need that he even needs forgiveness.
hawk told him already - what he needs is someone to kiss him and do it often. and by extension, someone who doesn't have a goddamn expectation in the world or a pedestal he's got to struggle to stay off of.
months ago he would have been furious, would have come up with a way to say the footage was doctored or find a solution that might partially stick but wouldn't convince majority of americans already looking for a reason to raise their pitchforks against a pretty politician with just enough of a reputation to go pissing off a few key segments of voters. and maybe hawk won't admit what it is deep down that makes him want to protect embry like this, but that's what he's going to do all the same and sweep it under the easy rug of duty: he's doing his job. this is what he's here for, the one who can get his hands dirty like he used to for senator smith. because embry might not see himself as good and worthy, but hawk does. and even if he's a fucking asshole in the way he communicates it - ash does too.
his hands slide along the nape of embry's neck, lifting to cup his face when the man pushes up erratically onto his feet like he's still sluggishly feeling the after-effects of the drugs that dragged him into this situation in the first place. it would be so easy to push down his hands and sidestep his frantic clutching, but hawk lets it happen and takes the force of it with a placid smile. there's nothing mocking in it like there might have been under different circumstances - watching embry splinter apart under the weight of his judgment with an easy i told you so mixed into the appraisal under icy eyes and an even cooler head. there's something warm in hawk's gaze now, something he wishes he could impart even if affection and words surrounding them have never been his forte. one thumb swipes up, sliding to catch one of the errant tears before it can slide down his cheeks. it's unfair how embry wears his woe as well as one of the many finely fitted suits in his closet back home - but hawk doesn't want to see it. certainly not on his behalf.]
I can and I will.
You might torture yourself day in and day out for whatever it is that you think is better for him, but you're not a bad person. Maybe you do bad things sometimes, but christ, don't we all?
[he's trying to keep it light, conversational - as if he's merely talking about embry's occasional sticky fingers when it comes to fishing cigarettes out of his suit pockets.]
A bad person wouldn't do what you just did in there. A bad person wouldn't be trying to talk me out of it.
[a bad person wouldn't have been able to be taken advantage of - but he thinks that might break him if he says it out loud. so instead, before he can think better, hawk pushes forward and presses a soft kiss to the top of embry's forehead, patting his cheek and pulling back.]
I'm gonna take care of it, and then you and I are gonna get the fuck out of here and let this blow over.
[ he feels so fucking small in this moment, like a match that's already fizzled out. the pad of hawk's finger sends a shiver ghosting across his skin when he brushes his tears away, and he realizes he's lost. he doesn't even want to win, because this is the best thing for ash and his presidency, the best way to take the heat off embry which in turn protects ash's term. the price is simply hawk poised as collateral damage.
his anger tears him up from the inside. that this is the best way. that this is the only way, because no one in their right mind is gonna let him near anyone with a press badge right now. he's surprised no one's taken his phone, but ash has always allowed him concessions. the gentle warmth, the kindness in hawk's eyes feels like a knife sinking between his ribs, and when he kisses his forehead, he feels his eyes grow sticky again. ]
I can't change your mind. [ stubbornly, he looks away, swiping the heel of his palm over his eyes. ] I'm not okay with this. Not you. Ash isn't the only one that I —
[ he's glad he doesn't have to elaborate on what the fuck he even means by that, because there's a knock on the door and then everything happens in a whirlwind. it's impossible for him to argue against hawk's plan, though he does it anyway, but ash of all people shoots him down. the pieces get pushed into motion quickly — tweets are fired off, a press release is drafted, and embry's itinerary is meticulously planned out as if he can't be trusted to be let out of sight. which — he can't. he bitches to anyone who'll listen that he wants to hole up at the lake house like usual to lick his wounds and drink his mother's gin, but apparently everyone in the white house wants him on the other side of the goddamn world, because they book him on a private jet to lake como instead.
he isn't allowed back in his condo, so his secret service detail packs his bags for him, with embry sending a thorough list of reading material to include. hawk is pulled away to discuss his stupid plan without him, and for the first time, embry resents the hours he spends sitting in meetings with ash, prepping for the two weeks he'll be gone.
it's the dead of night when they're cleared to fly, his eyes gritty from lack of sleep, his phone turned off, and there's a moment of panic when he thinks they're shipping him off alone before hawk joins him in the back of the car. embry looks at him for a total of three seconds before turning his head to the window and pretending to attempt sleep — which turns out to be the worst plan he could have ever had, because sitting in silence with his thoughts is pure agony. his shattered pride won't let him rouse himself to engage in conversation.
the jet is no better. embry's flown it before, so he knows what to expect — the lounge armchairs, the television he's taken meetings at, the small table with fresh flowers, and the bed, already folded out and made up with crisp linens and fresh pillows since they'll be flying all night. it's a double to fit two, but with no space in between to create one large bed. efficiency is a goddamn headache.
speaking of headaches. his temples have been throbbing for an hour now, and the first thing he asks for is whiskey. ]
It would've taken us no time at all to get to the lake house, you know. [ he sinks into a plush chair, undoing the knot of his tie. ] You're missing a great opportunity for my mother to pick your brain about making a successful sex tape.
[ his whiskey comes, and he picks up the glass and nearly takes a sip, but stops halfway to his mouth, a prickle of unease seizing him. his throat feels tight, and he thinks of reaching for one of the bottles of water instead, but all the drinks in his condo were bottled too, and still —
he sets the glass down and tries not to look as squirrelly as he feels, sneaking glances at the amber liquid while his long fingers trace the rim of the glass. ]
[thank god hawk has never once registered for a social media account attached to his own name. his phone is blowing up enough as it is without dms and tweets and think pieces from barely qualified journalists surmising who is hawkins fuller, the vice president's aide going viral for that tape? if he'd thought it was bad before when embry was under fire, he can't even go a minute without something vibrating in his pocket. a not so small chunk of them are calls from his mother, who has yet to leave him a voicemail and instead has followed up with a very succinct text: Hawkins. Please call me. Are you alright? Have you gotten that poor girl pregnant? jesus, if only she knew. it's ironic to think that if his bastard father wasn't six feet under and rotting away where he belonged, he'd probably be proud for all the publicity that his son appeared to be a straight, hot-blooded american.
the only good thing to come of this is that erin, as he now knows her, is on his fucking radar. because it's good press, hawk will be required to escort her to a few functions and give credence to this faux-pas, framed as an unfortunate incident from two consenting adults and the hazards of cyberterrorists worldwide, prompting a growing need for regulation and stronger security measures among not just the washington elite, but the common constituents. there seem to be a very small minority holding steady that it's not hawk in the blurry video, but embry still - getting someone to take the fall who happens to share the same ocean blue eyes and jawline that could be made out of carved marble.
there's never a moment that hawk thinks this was the wrong choice. and when he gets the opportunity to nail this bitch to a cross of her own making, he'll be satisfied and think it's a job complete and as well done as it could be. his own reputation means nothing in the interim. his sudden rise to meteoric and infamous status on the tip of everyone's tongue isn't ideal, but he doesn't regret a goddamn thing if it means protecting embry from what really happened here. not even ash knows, and hawk has quietly done some digging of his own to confirm what he already suspected in the short time he had before takeoff that yes, it was a potent cocktail of alcohol, ketamine, and ghb in embry's system the night it all went down. christ, hawk's never been so ready for a takedown. he's grateful embry wasn't allowed in half the meetings leading up to their departure - because it was his idea to wade this out by making it look more authentic. no one suspected a thing why he was really interested in this mystery woman.
someone writes him a generic statement - an apology for disrupting the important work the white house is doing by a private affair, and hawk doesn't even really get a say before it's distributed to the press and into the ether of the bowels of the internet somewhere to be picked apart mercilessly.
lake como though - two whole weeks with embry. if it weren't for this shitshow, he'd be thrilled right about now, even if embry is grumpily pretending to sleep against the uncomfortable tinted window instead of hawk's open, firm, and available shoulder. but he won't push, and he doesn't try to strike up any conversation throughout the ride to the tarmac and the jet that probably costs twice his yearly salary and then some. of course he's used to it by now, the few times he's had to travel - including to seattle, which he snorts at the idea of returning to once they're comfortable seated and preparing to ascend skyward for the next nine hours at the very least. hawk is poring casually over a copy of yesterday's paper, even if he's not really absorbing much when he lets out a dry laugh.]
Right. I'm sure Vivienne Moore is dying to have that conversation over beluga caviar and Barolo. No offense, but where we're going makes that look like a halfway house.
[yeah, he's still done his homework even if this is supposed to be some sort of vacation. speaking of which - he turns off his cell once and for all and pockets it.]
Villa Sola-Busca - also known as Villa La Quiete - the pearl of Lake Como.
[hawk should be exhausted, but he still feels like he's running on adrenaline in comparison - if anything, he sounds downright chipper. until he sees the aborted movement from embry and pretends he's still reading the paper even as his true line of eyesight goes to where embry is wordlessly playing with the glass instead of sipping it uncharacteristically. it makes sense for him to be skittish, and even moreso for hawk to read through it easily. he doesn't say a word, reaching for it himself and taking a swallow as if he's a medieval poison tester for the prince of washington - which he practically is anyway.]
I'm not tired. You should think about getting some sleep, though.
[he folds the paper finally, tossing it on the empty seat across the aisle before rising to go rummage around for some ice and cups of water. he shoots the attendant a glance not to interfere with a subtle shake of his head as he brings back two of them, setting one next to the whiskey.]
Bed's all yours. I dunno about you, but I'm fucking parched.
[ he wants to snap at hawk for what's clearly a pity move, glaring at his now presumably safe whiskey and the iced water that joins it. hawk being right grates at his nerves, and he pushes his mother and the lake house from his mind, because spending any amount of time with his mother right now would be like swallowing glass, and morgan would be there with her own commentary, and lyr, his now-teenaged nephew that he actually loves would probably look at him with disgust even though embry has spent his entire life chasing his diapered butt around the halls of vivienne's mansion and being his favorite uncle.
jesus christ. erin needs a pregnancy test. his mouth grows dry at the sudden realization, his stomach dropping like the jet has done a nosedive. the whiskey goes down easily now when he picks up the glass, finishing it off in two swallows. how fucking ironic would it be if both of vivienne's children had babies under the worst circumstances?
he lurches to his feet, wrapping his fingers around the neck of the bottle to take a swig directly from the source. the drink soothes him, but he really wishes he had a goddamn ambien. ]
What, you got your beauty sleep during all those meetings they had you sit through today?
[ he gives hawk a sour look. he's already guessed what the details of this piss-poor plan might be, and he doesn't have the energy to pursue the thought right now. later, when they're in italy, after he's had proper tagliatelle and a bottle of red, he'll press for details and puncture holes in the plan. right now, all he does is pull off his belt and tie, leaving his shoes in the corner. ]
It's meant for two. [ he doesn't look at hawk as he hangs his blazer in the narrow closet space, the implications of his statement hanging like fruit ready to drop. that hawk could join him. that he and ash have done this before. that embry doesn't even know what the fuck he's saying. ] I don't care if you're in it.
[ it's the worst possible way to relay that he wants hawk to join him, but he shuts his mouth, leaving the rest of his clothes on because undressing right now feels more awkward than continuing to speak. he takes another swallow of whiskey, migrating the bottle to his bedside before throwing himself down onto the mattress with a groan. very intentionally, he only takes up one side.
in the dim lights, he watches hawk through his lashed gaze, somehow still functionally alert after the day they've had. his mind wanders to the times he used to be able to skim his hands over naked skin, keeping hawk's body firmly at the forefront of his thoughts lest the memories of the grainy video take over. ]
Have you been back to Italy? [ his voice is quiet, heavy with whiskey and exhaustion. ] Since you were shot?
You say that, but I've nearly mastered doing it with my eyes open.
[his own expression is perfectly - probably quite annoyingly - placid about this whole thing. but of course he's not, not really. he's fucking furious, though he's smart enough to know embry is going to want to lick his own wounds before he opens up if ever about what he's been through. there's a part of him that wonders if he's even accepted what it is that happened to him or if he's playing the game of denial just like he does every time ash glances his way. it's still a strange thing to feel like he wants to let him open up and spill his guts about everything, regardless of how or if it cuts hawk himself. months ago when he'd first walked in and realized this was a past fling, he would have headed straight for the door and insisted this kind of shit was above his paygrade.
and now?
now he smoothly pushes himself up and out of the chair after downing his own whiskey and casually takes his time loosening his tie on the way to the distinctive sleeping area that embry is sulking on one side of. it's easy reading between the lines now - come here, get in with me, even if it sounds more like a generic statement of fact. the strip of silk is tossed casually on one of the bolted down nightstands, hawk slipping off his own blazer and hanging it in the very same space across the bed on what is clearly now his side. then comes his belt too, shoes, and his shirt and undershirt, leaving his chest bare without the intention of letting his scar come into view again. it's funny how unthinking it is at times when it once was the center of his entire goddamn life - answering prying questions, trying to move past the trauma that had put it there.
it's a testament to his state of mostly recovered that he steps up to the bed, fingers running light against the top of the mattress as he gazes down at embry. even in his obvious exhaustion he manages to look achingly good - enough that hawk wishes whatever this unspoken schism between them might mend itself back together and let him have the privilege of barreling back towards whatever it was they were about to be. christ, he sounds like a fucking high schooler.
hawk sits at the edge first before kicking up his feet, crossing them at the ankles and resting a bent arm underneath his head like an extra pillow. his chin turns, enough that he can face embry halfway - letting him decide if he wants to meet him halfway or turn away all together.]
No.
[if he was feeling petty he might ask about prague. but he's not.]
But there's no hard feelings - I told you I wanted to retire there, didn't I? Besides, Velletri's a long way south. Practically a whole new world, or whatever the hell they sing about.
[it's your turn to recuperate, he almost says, knowing better. but his own voice dips into a quiet rumble, unable to keep the affection from seeping into it.]
Would you visit? If I park myself up in a nice villa, waterside, and pick up sailing in my old age?
[ he wants hawk in his bed. there's no other place he wants him to be, really, but once he's here, embry doesn't move, aware of the bare lines of his chest, how warm his skin would be if he touched him, how he's close enough to kiss. it would be so easy — and yet hawk has never felt so faraway, the space between them stretching like the jet itself has broken in two, one half barreling toward italy while embry stays behind, stuck in a sticky-sweet cage, suffocating. he feels like he's watching ash all over again, with his earnest plans to move out to the country and raise chickens and cows and horses with the right person who shares the same dream. someone with a pure, good, noble heart. someone who isn't him.
now there's hawk, retiring by the italian coast, escaping the misery of politics for sunny sailing and fucking on the beach. embry can't imagine leaving the city, can't imagine leaving politics, can't imagine a happy ending because everything he wants is nothing he can ever keep. eventually he won't be in office anymore, and hawk will move on, and ash already has, and embry will have no excuses to be around either of them. ]
Yeah, I'd visit. [ he has his face turned away, staring at some unidentifiable blank space on the far wall, his brow creased. ] Catch you up on everything you missed in DC. Morgan and I are lifers in this. I'm always gonna be better at sailing than you are though, so I'd probably have to fly over just to teach you anyway.
[ he turns his back to hawk, swiping his eyes against the sleek pillowcase as he yanks the sheets up to his chin. guilt churns in his belly alongside his anger — and everything else that's eating him up alive. ]
I want a brief when I wake up. [ his words feel like lead. ] I want an update on the public perception of the tape, whoever's they think it is. We're not going to ignore what's happening just because we're fleeing the country. Goodnight.
[ it doesn't take long for sleep to take him, considering how much whiskey he knocked back in such a short amount of time, but he dreams about carpathia for the time in years. he dreams about bullets, and dag dying slowly in his arms, how he'd begged for embry to tell his sister and how many times embry kept calling and calling even though he knew there was no signal that could reach her. he dreams about being carried on ash's back while flickering in and out of consciousness, certain of his death, every sense alight with pain.
he hears ash calling his name — no, not ash, the tone isn't quite right. he feels hands on him, and suddenly he's back in his bed, his limbs heavy with too much liquor or drugs or both, and he can't make his mouth say no. he should have just said no. how could he have missed a camera? how could he have missed an entire night of sex? he's frantic as he tries to get away, tangled up in a mess of sweaty sheets until he abruptly shudders awake, lurching upright, his eyes wide and his dark hair clinging to his temples. panic closes his throat, a muffled sound coming from somewhere in his chest as he shuts his eyes, trying to draw in a breath. ]
[it's not the first time hawk plans on disobeying a direct order, and it absolutely won't be the last. embry wants a brief, fine. he'll get one. at some point - but not the moment he wakes up. maybe lunch. maybe dinner. maybe six days from now when they've settled into the fineries lake como has to offer and have mended whatever fence is between them so it doesn't feel like he's sleeping next to a stranger with the knowledge that he wants to offer him comfort - to touch, to hold him in a way that's been wholly uncharacteristic for anyone besides tim laughlin in his life. maybe it'll be enough time for some other scandal to settle in and consume every headline and think piece across the globe. for the first time in a long time, he doesn't give a shit what anyone thinks about him anyway. he's more concerned for embry - protecting the shell that he knows is more brittle than the man's letting on.]
Sure thing. Goodnight, Embry.
[sleep doesn't come to him right away, because there's a sneaking concern that embry might not be able to fall asleep. even as his own eyelids sink down and try to pull shut in protestation, hawk waits sharp-eared for the soft lull of breathing evening out and the hum of the jet before he lets himself give in to his own mostly-earned slumber. and that should be it - a few hours, a couple time zone jumps, and they wake up to mimosas and a message from their pilot that italy awaits.
except of fucking course it's not.
embry's been through a trauma worse than any other, by someone he knew no less. hawk's upright within seconds of feeling rustling next to him, too light a sleeper and too unused to having a body occupy the space next to him for anything else. that and old habits die hard from his days in velletri - the need for quick response times between catching shut-eye at inopportune moments with varying degrees of discomfort. he's still exhausted, knowing it can't have been more than a few hours since they'd both slept before this sank in. he can hear embry's shaky breathing, the sounds of struggle between the sheets and and against the bed, and another wounded noise like he's trying to cry out and just can't.
hawk is up in an instant, fingers closing firm around his shoulders with one hand and feeling the damp seeping through his expensive dress shirt from where he was too tired to remove it. he rucks the sheets down, tugging them away from embry so he can feel less trapped before lifting his other hand back up to brush the hair away from his face and get him to open his eyes into awareness.]
Embry - Embry. It's Hawk - wake up.
Listen to me, you're safe.
[he's fully prepared for whatever happens - embry trying to wrench away, or coming to the startled realization that this was a nightmare. his voice is soft, gentle in its insistence to get him to open his eyes.]
[ it's not exactly common that he has nightmares. sure, after the war — they all did. but he had ash, in the sort of way he's always had, and the best therapists at his disposal if he ever went more than twice, and gin. he's always been the sort of man to laugh to keep the darkness at bay, because being serious about his problems would honestly fucking kill him, so he'd told himself that misery is nothing that can't be fucked away. and for all these years, it's worked.
but, ironically, he can't fuck this away. there are several hazy moments that he thinks it's ash in his bed, holding firm to his shoulder, and embry shakes his head, almost breaking into laughter at the thought that after all these years, he's never, ever chosen a safe word. ]
No. I'm not doing this with you. I'm not fucking playing this game with you.
[ but his voice hasn't been right from the start. all of a sudden hawk's familiar scent comes to him, warm leather and smoke, and his eyes snap open at the brush of his fingers against the sweat at his temples. his gaze tilts and sharpens with realization, hawk's shadowed silhouette coming into focus, his perfectly coiffed hair undone in dark waves, the lines of his muscled torso etched like a painting in the darkness. embry, on the other hand, feels like he's woken up on the floor of a bar, and his mouth tastes like he's been licking it.
he runs a hand quickly over his face, his breath heavy in the quiet, the sound of the jet's engine grounding him. in truth, it's hawk's presence that does that — hawk's presence that he's missed since he lost it. since he'd driven ash like a wedge between them for no reason at all, since ash isn't the one he lies awake thinking about at night. he misses ash like an old, painful thorn in his side — hard to explain when there aren't words for how badly embry needed what ash gave him. but it's been fifteen years since he first looked into ash's eyes, and embry isn't the same hot-headed soldier chasing death that he was at twenty-one when they met. the destructive little prince still lives inside of him, but it'd taken all of one look at hawk to realize this was a man who would relish putting him in his place.
and for the first time in years, embry wanted to know more. he'd been well on his way — he'd danced with hawk, kissed and fucked him, listened to him grieve, waited on his goddamn doorstep willingly because hawk is an asshole who never gave him a key. and then he fucked it up. he'd watched hawk's eyes shutter, every open part of him slam shut in the face of embry's selfishness. and embry hasn't fixed it, because — why bother when he knows he's just going to ruin it all over again? ]
I'm fine.
[ his eyes have been pathetically glued to hawk this entire time, and he finally looks away, blinking hard as if he can shake away the impression of his figure. it would be so much easier if he could just lean over and kiss him, if he could fall back into old bad habits of forgetting, but he can't. everything's too fucked up between them — and everything's too fucked up inside of him, besides. ]
Go back to sleep.
[ embry eases back down, slouching against the padded wall as he pulls his pillow up behind him, knowing he won't get any more sleep tonight. he reaches for his phone, finally turning it back on, only for the screen to light up with dozens of notifications scrolling down endlessly that he's missed in the hours he's been offline. he scrubs a hand through his hair, his face lit a hazy blue as he stares at the newsflashes, emails, twitter alerts, texts messages, and goddamn smoke signals reflecting back at him. ]
I'm sorry I woke you. Can't remember what I was dreaming about. [ it's such an egregious lie that embry looks at hawk for a moment, his brow tense. ] Just don't, okay? We land in less than two hours. You can spend that time sleeping or jerking off or reading the goddamn Constitution for all I care, just don't point out the fucking obvious.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
— VISUALS.
➤ 𝑐ℎ𝑒𝑒𝑟𝑠 𝑡𝑜 𝑢𝑠 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑤ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑤𝑒 ℎ𝑎𝑑
so maybe the way he sets down his glass is a little louder than it needs to be. maybe his motion to grab a second one is faster, more agitated in the way he does it. it might be petty or telling on himself, but he thinks he has every right to be a little pissed off at the way embry's picking and choosing when to let ash be the light of his goddamned life. maybe the part he's most bitter about is that he has a sneaking, sinking suspicion that's something that will never go away, and it's not like he wants to replace it, but it'd be nice to know that the first person he's opened himself up to in any capacity since tim laughlin actually gave a shit about what that means. at least, before he screws his head back on straight and realizes how stupid it is anyway. embry could have his pick of anyone, the way hawk sees it. ash, probably greer, the woman at the conference - majority of the attendees too, while they're at it.
fuck, he feels a headache coming on. this is why he hates entanglements, why he should have just fucked him once and maybe let lyonesse slide and never let himself get in this deep.
(he'd started reading the book, knowing it wasn't left behind on accident. the highlighted pieces don't seem like coincidence, and it might have been foreplay tonight if - )
hawk turns smoothly, even though there's something sharp in his eyes as he slides the second tumbler of scotch across the surface of the bar with the indication that embry can come get it himself.]
I'm the one that warned you, if I recall.
[not a told you so - not by a long shot, because he doesn't like the thought of embry getting cornered or whatever the fuck happened that secret service apparently didn't have the sense to keep her at arm's length. unless embry let it happen on purpose, which is a very real possibility. even so, it doesn't really rankle hawk the same way thinking about him spending his entire goddamn privileged life pining after a man that may very well want him back if those lingering looks in the hallway are anything to go by.
but then his excuse sinks in, and - huh, he hadn't expected it to sting that bad. hawk plasters on his very best smarmy smile, the kind that doesn't reach his eyes, in which the sharpness has died out, and is reserved for homophobes, general annoyances, and the old windbags without a sense of reality who make life miserable for the rest of their constituents.]
All's well that ends well, then. Not a big deal.
Don't suppose you remember her name. Just to dot all the i's and cross our t's.
[strictly business, and whenever embry comes up to retrieve his glass, hawk will shove his own in a brusque clink against it without pretense to drain his own.]
no subject
I don't remember her name. [ the lie comes easily, small and paper-white. his past entanglements are no business of hawk's, and irrelevant to boot. ] I just remember how it felt to fuck her. Good, but no need for an encore this many years later.
[ he takes a generous swallow, turning his eyes sharply to hawk as warmth spreads down through his chest. he's mad. fine. anger isn't new, though this string of desire and contentment has dulled his senses into thinking — what? that he and hawk actually have something? he should have tried harder to push hawk onto someone else at lyonesse. if there's anything embry should have learned by now, it's that he isn't made for anything real.
not that this is real. it's just... really fucking good sex, is all. good enough that ash's name has spilled from his lips, knocked out of him like a desolate curse. hawk has a way of prying him open that he should be far more alarmed about. ]
Something on your mind, Hawk? [ embry tips his glass again, his throat bobbing as he drains it in another few gulps like it's cheap beer instead of top shelf scotch. carelessly, he sets the glass down and pushes into hawk's space, defiance written into every line of his body. ] Something you want to say?
[ his mouth is like a dare, hovering close, liquor sweet, only the faintest stain of red smudging the edge of his lips. by their sides, his hand brushes hawk's fingers, gentle, before grasping his wrist in a punishing grip, holding him there like he expects hawk to disappear. ]
If you want me to go, you have to make me.
no subject
now it's back to the real world, and he's not willing to play so nice anymore.
not when embry's going to disregard the instincts hawk has honed to protect his ass - warranted or not, and not when he's going to play coy like whatever the fuck this is hasn't drastically changed from the day they set foot in lyonesse. christ, it's not like he's looking for something high school like a relationship or a label. but sometimes embry acts like they're in one anyway, or at least has the nerve to throw shit in his face and then get hurt when hawk dishes it right back.
he's about to refill both their glasses out of habit, because despite his original plan to try and do something nice for embry like he'd hinted at - the kind of thing that probably sends that same mixed message he's pissed off about receiving - he's not about to kick the guy out. not because he signs his checks, and not because he doesn't deserve it for waltzing in here acting every shade of childish, but because maybe this is just foreplay and he'll fuck the truth out of him later, when he's pushing him onto the bed and making him rethink every snide comment and hissy fit he's constantly throwing. maybe he just likes the fight.
maybe his own considerations need to feel earned.
or maybe he's just constantly throwing shit at a wall to figure out embry, hoping it'll stick and failing miserably.]
Is that how you put it to her? I'm sure it went over real well. Or did you come to this revelation after she tried to stick her tongue in your mouth?
[suddenly that familiar waft of cologne is under his nose, the precise flavor this scotch gets when it's sucked off embry's lips tempting him unreasonably to just give in and lean down to taste it. but the fingertips trailing his wrist wrap around hard, and hawk sets down the bottle so it isn't another casualty of today.]
Did I say anything about wanting you to go?
[his wrist twists, fingers jerking around at the right angle to reverse their positions and wrap snug against embry's instead in one fluid motion. he pulls embry flush against him, wondering if there will be a struggle, another fuck you cast out casually.]
You seem to be reading into a lot these days. Seems more like there's something on your mind.
[a beat, and his voice lowers into the rough, graveled timbre when he's demanded embry pull him out or hold off his bliss a little longer.]
Actually, maybe it's someone.
no subject
ash's presence is suffocating as always — worse when he's already agitated, already guilty over more than just the ghosts lingering in his room. he never should have fallen into hawk's bed that night in the first place, not in the state hawk was in. embry knows well enough what it's like to bury your misery in a warm body, and all the shit that comes with it. ]
Jealousy's an interesting look on you.
[ since hawk has pulled him so close in his domineering, intimidating way, embry closes the minimal space between them and clashes their mouths together, giving him a deep, biting kiss, just narrowly stopping his hand from skimming up his perfect jawline and into the dark waves of his hair. he breaks the kiss with purpose, ignoring the skittish rhythm of his heart. ]
That's how it went over. That's how it felt. [ he licks his lips, steering hawk's attention back to the woman, the reason he should be mad, in a desperate attempt to bury any mentions of ash. ] You want me to rewind a couple years and show you how I fucked her, too?
no subject
it's another man in his bed that irks him, it's embry arched in ecstasy that hawk is doling out in ways he hasn't shared in almost three years with another human being only for it to be attributed to ash. it's not something as juvenile as jealousy because he knows that if ash were an available option embry might drop all of this in less time than it took for a heart to fucking beat to have it again - or at least, that's his increasingly sneaking suspicion. and no matter how perfect him and greer look holding hands, waving from balconies and gliding across a ballroom - sometimes tells him ash would do the same damn thing if the shoe were on the other foot. he doesn't know their whole sordid history, but he knows enough and it seems self-inflicted more than anything else. but he supposes if embry knew everything there was to the way him and tim ended - he'd have the right to laugh him out of his goddamn office talking about self-inflicted. it's like one of those irrational phobias - the knowledge that it can't hurt, that it's just a fucked up brain triggering all the wrong responses - but even knowing it doesn't make it go away. doesn't make someone choose the logical reactions. doesn't let things fall back into place easy.
christ.]
That's cute. If you're hoping for a catfight in the Olmstead Fountains over your honor, it's not happening.
[because it's not jealousy. and the last thing he's going to do is alert ash to this pining. maybe if he was a better man he would - but hawk can be just as selfish as embry thinks he is. and right now, he wants to chase after that delectable mouth and crush an arm around his waist so he can't go skittering off. wants to lick into velvety warmth and have him gasping for breath -
not separating from it and having hawk's eyes fly open before narrowing in annoyance at the charade.]
I get the picture. What I'm not getting is how the hell she came so close.
[the idea of more scotch is abandoned immediately, hand instead whipping out to grip embry's chin none too gently and drag him in for another searing kiss - almost too much - too fierce in the way he practically seeks to devour him from the inside out and too loud as he hums low against it. it should be dangerous how once he's started with this he can't quite seem to stop, ever since that hazy night of grief swathed in purple silk. it eats at him in a way he can't quite place, and that makes him angrier to have something that's been knocked loose from the otherwise well-oiled machine of his emotions.
angry enough to shift embry up against the bar, back hitting the countertop as one leg starts nudging between his thigh and his free hand reaches to yank at his tie and clack their teeth together as he breathes open-mouthed and disapproving against him.]
Had a nice evening planned, you know.
Nicer than whatever someone wearing that shade of red at 1:00 in the afternoon had going on.
[a pause, hawk knowing there's no going back once it's out of his mouth.]
And nicer than a man that's willing to watch you walk away without a fight probably has in him too.
no subject
but this is different. the words out of hawk's mouth stop him dead where he was previously distracted by the possibility of whatever nice thing hawk might have planned. the words hurt like a gunshot, and just like when he'd felt that first bite of fire sinking into his flesh back in carpathia, he reacts like a cornered animal, his fists digging into hawk's lapels, driving him across the room with a hard shove, just narrowly missing the coffee table. ]
He did fight for me!
[ he snarls it in hawk's perfect face, the hot prick of tears needling at his eyes. but the voice in the hollow part of his chest speaks up almost instantly: did he? didn't ash end it all the second embry couldn't give him everything? did he even try to understand that he had given him everything, every last drop of sweat and blood, wrung out at his feet? he'd thrown away every chance at happiness, given up the pursuit of ever having anyone else, all for ash. he'd stood by his side and watched him recite his wedding vows to jenny like it was nothing, like it hadn't destroyed something inside of him, and now — greer. ash gets second and third chances at happiness and embry can't even get one.
it takes several long seconds for the room to come back into focus. he has hawk pinned against the couch, his knee digging into his ribs. shards of crystal and smudged ash streak the floor from the ashtray that must have fallen and shattered when he'd shoved hawk across the room. embry's breath is ragged, his fingers shaking where he still holds fistfuls of hawk's collar. he feels flayed open, like he's just confessed to the very thing he vowed to suffer the burden of alone. it would be fitting if merlin materialized behind him and put him out of his misery.
he draws back, leaving hawk on the couch as he sidesteps the mess of broken glass, snatching his coat. he's seriously reached his quota of fuck-ups today, and he feels like hawk's broken ashtray, filthy and in pieces, and he just wants to be anywhere but here, where hawk's pity would be far, far worse than his punishment. ]
no subject
(he knows he's not exactly a good thing though, but - good enough?)
but the second it lands something in embry's face twists and he knows it's torn him up as easily as if he'd just knifed him in the ribs. christ. and just as quickly hawk knows it's gonna be a fight - but a screaming match that ends with them vicious and horizontal would be preferable to the way he looks utterly broken by it, wounded immeasurably and covering it with a layer anger instead of lashing out with the vitriol itself. this wasn't supposed to actually hurt him, wasn't supposed to draw tears to the corner of his hauntingly pretty blue eyes and make them narrow at him with the iciness of real pain. so sure, the next logical step is for him to lash out - perfectly raw in the near childish insistence of one simple sentence - enough that it stops hawk from the way he'd been about to laugh in disbelief when the opposite seems truer.
it doesn't wholly catch him by surprise to feel fists at his chest, to be uprighted and shoved across the room before tumbling against the couch and letting embry's blind rage and the fever burning him from the inside out work its way into a visceral, physical manifestation of it all. he doesn't fight back in the slightest, letting him dig that knee against his ribs, knowing the ash tray he'd been given for his five-years of service at the white house is cracked to pieces and there's filth he'll have to clean up later. but none of that matters as he watches embry come back to himself with realization, stumbling up onto his feet and making for the exit.
that's exactly what he was expecting, and hawk mimics his movements by sidestepping the mess for now with his face hardened into a firm but imploring expression as he reaches for embry's arm. not hard enough to stop him if he were to insist - but enough to bring his attention back.]
He didn't.
[so what if he doesn't know the details. all he knows is - ]
Timothy Laughlin. The boy with the charity pitch.
[hawk sucks in a breath, shaking his head slightly, because it feels like it was punched out of him - a story he never meant to share, but that's tumbled out anyway because empathy seems like the best option. his voice is rough with a tinge of bitterness, unable to bite it back even now, even if he's told himself a hundred times and more that what's done is done.]
It's the same thing. I wanted him. Wanted to be with him. But I guess I didn't want it bad enough, because if I had - that's where I'd be right now.
[his jaw tightens, lips twitching for a moment as he draws in closer to look embry in the eye.]
Ash is the President of the goddamn United States. He's got more power in a his pinky than you and I combined. And you're saying - you're here with me because he fought for you?
[his expression isn't cruel, and it's not that he's trying to rub it in. but he's tired of seeing embry blame himself and pick at the same scab over and over again, deepening the wound.]
Don't believe it for a second.
no subject
he doesn't know which is true: that ash didn't want him badly enough to just give a goddamn inch and keep sneaking around until their presidential years were over, or embry didn't want him enough to sacrifice all the good that ash could do in office, all the good he could do for everyone else. all he knows is that he played ash like a fucking fiddle and the cruelty of his lies hold up to this day.
his knee-jerk reaction to hawk's grasp is to punch him, but he finds he can't move, his limbs brittle and aching as badly as his heart. the truth of this threatens to open its serrated mouth and swallow him whole. ]
Everything worked out — [ a low, quiet rasp, like an animal wounded. ] Exactly the way I wanted it to.
[ he'll never marry. never fall in love. never bring anyone home for christmas, just like he hasn't for the last thirty-odd years, and he'll die with a bottle of gin in his hand overlooking the lake house, because eventually ash will go off and raise horses in fucking montana with someone else and embry won't have anymore excuses to follow. he's mature enough to lie in the grave of his own making, at least, even if it makes him sick with grief.
he recovers his equilibrium and snatches his arm away from hawk, but he puts down his coat and goes to the closet instead, fumbling around until he returns with a broom. glass tinkles as he begins sweeping up the ashtray, his chest hollow and his skull buzzing. ]
People love Ash. They won't if they know he fucked me for years. [ loved him, wanted to marry him, would have given up his entire fucking future if embry had only said yes. his voice hardens, bitter to be raked over these old, familiar coals again. ] Everything I've done is to keep him in office. You're here as an extension of that. Don't forget it.
no subject
they have it in common though - being see-through when it comes to the lies. embry's more skilled than tim ever was in the delivery, but hawk's bullshit detector is too refined to believe a goddamn word out of his mouth right now. especially not one implying embry's where he wants to be. that he's somehow happy and it all worked it right. or maybe that's not quite it - it worked out the way he's convinced himself he wants it to, even if it's not what he really wants.]
Yeah. You seem fucking thrilled about how the chips have all fallen. Is that why you look at him like that when you think no one's watching? Pretend not to notice when he does the same, even with Greer in the same room?
[it's a wonder no one else has called them on it, for god's sake.
he lets embry pull away, thinking he'll start shrugging on his coat and get ready to bail now that things have gotten too real and too hard. now that someone has caught him, or more specifically hawk - who grates on his nerves and seems to piss him off as much as he pleases him when they aren't busy shooting barbed innuendos. he'd like to think he's done a fine job at his actual job, difficult as its been - and embry has always been his priority, even if that's starting to feel a bit like being taken for granted. his lips pull down into a frown, watching him clean and realizing the idea of embry doing manual labor is as foreign as the scotch sitting on his counter.
he grabs the dustpan, hidden behind a pile of boxes in the closet and comes back to kneel down in front of the mess, letting the broom find a destination in a team effort as he stares up the tortured look that's still unfairly gorgeous, the perfect picture of pain and bitterness and edges sharper than the shattered glass on the floor cutting him up from the inside.]
Maybe some of them won't. But the bigots in this country aren't exactly a secret. Not necessarily enough to ruin a re-election campaign either.
[that last bit - well, that stings more than he thought it might, even if he's always known that's the case. hawk pushes back onto his feet, taking the broom abruptly and finishing up on his own, partly so he can turn his back to embry as he carries it back to the closet and dumps out the tinker of crystal into the trash.]
Sure. All in a day's work.
[hawk turns, plastering on one of his practiced, pompous smiles that doesn't reach his eyes.]
Is that all I can help you with tonight, Mr. Moore?
no subject
Greer is sweet and loyal and giving. And Ash loves her. [ all the things embry is not. ] Ash only looks at me because he's waiting for the next bomb to drop.
[ he doesn't want to hear about ash's chances as an openly queer president. embry's already given up too much to keep this boat steady; the risk is too high to throw it all away now. ash is too good, and besides, merlin would probably slit his throat in his sleep.
hawk's sudden dismissal might as well be a slap in the face. embry teeters for a moment, almost disbelieving that he's actually getting kicked out, but — doesn't he deserve it? he showed up here with lipstick on his mouth and ash's ghost trailing after him. there's no better place for him to be than sitting alone in his condo with a bottle of gin. it seems like even a smarmy shit like hawkins fuller who doesn't even like to fuck the same man twice has standards, and embry can't even meet them.
he shrugs his coat on, feeling for his phone and his keys and only finding his phone. fuck. whatever, sven will let him into his own goddamn house. ]
Mr. Moore? Enjoy fucking yourself, Hawk. [ he pulls the door open. ] Sorry about your goddamn ashtray.
— the morning after.
he tries to sit up, but abandons the endeavor when pain spikes through his skull. no go. he's clearly not making it into the office today, which hawk has probably noticed by now. hawk also has a key to his place — which embry needs to fucking take back — but there's no evidence he's been by, and that... hurts, in a left field kind of way. he should, professionally, care if embry lives or dies, even if he personally does not.
to show evidence that he is, in fact, alive — ]
what made you not want timothy laughlin?
no subject
he'll kick himself for that later, and it'll be his guilt to swallow like bile in his throat - but for now he just assumes embry's on some stupid bender, out late partying or drinking or snorting something he shouldn't. maybe he went and fucked that girl after all, and he wouldn't be the only one - not when hawk drove himself just outside dc lines on the maryland side and picked up someone with pretty blue eyes and dark jet hair. too bad the features weren't even passable, not even in the dim light of the hotel room - but all of them look the same more or less when they're shoved face first into a mattress.
the key to embry's place is burning a hole in his pocket, itching to be used, but hawk is trying his best to slog through this meeting on an upcoming fundraiser embry is supposed to be hosting to ash, biting his cheek through it and cursing the timing of it when his phone pings.
what the fuck?]
I called earlier. Take it you're not coming in today. I'll get the event planner started on the essentials.
[he could leave it at that. professional, disengaged. but he's had this nagging feeling something is off all along, stupidly chalking it up to embry in one of his moods.]
Why do you want to know that right now?
[another pause. his gut is telling him there's more to this.]
You'd get a better answer in person. I can be there in twenty.
no subject
good thing it's not today. today, he looks and feels like the shit on the bottom of someone's shoe. it can't have just been the scotch — he's too much of a seasoned drinker for that — but he doesn't remember crushing or snorting anything. he doesn't remember anything, actually, but clearly he'd shared a drink here. two glasses. he swallows in sudden discomfort, glancing around his bedroom. nothing else seems out of place, and secret service would have come in if anything had seemed amiss. he's been mad enough at hawk to start flirting with other people, and sure, it's conceivable he'd taken someone home. clearly, hawk isn't missing him, with all the mr. moore-ing he's been doing. ]
maybe i just wanted some conversation with my morning coffee.
[ his morning coffee at noon. he drags himself out of bed, grimacing at the stickiness between his legs. something shifts uncomfortably in his chest, and he buries it. ]
this isn't an invitation to come over. i'm busy.
so? what about mr. laughlin wasn't good enough for you?
he's smart. he's cute. i'd fuck him.
no subject
he’s not waiting for an invitation to ask to move the meeting along and wrap up a little sooner - noting a hard stop in fifteen minutes that doesn’t exist.]
Tell you what - you like games. Let’s play one. An answer for an answer.
What are you busy with?
It had nothing to do with him not being good enough. You’re right. He is smart. Cute. Sweet.
Tim wanted something I couldn’t give him.
no subject
red lipstick. jesus fuck.
so maybe he got blackout drunk and had sex with erin last night. not a big deal. he's fucked her before. just because he doesn't remember doesn't mean it wasn't good. sex is always good. ]
i want to get some reading done in the shower. your presence would be a distraction.
[ he's already turning on the water to wash the sweat and semen off his skin, avoiding looking at his bloodshot eyes in the mirror. the light hurts. ]
what? he wanted to marry you?
[ he means it as a joke. marriage, the thorn in his side, the knife in his heart, the thing everyone thinks he doesn't want. ]
no subject
[he knows embry's schedule. there's a dozen other questions - like why the fuck he reads in the shower, or if he'd be a good distraction or a bad distraction right now - but that one seems less pointed.
that gives him pause though, because no - it wasn't even marriage. it makes things seem so much smaller in comparison. makes him sound like even worse of a bastard, even if he'd done it with at least one measure of good intent getting him out of a dangerous situation before someone else did far worse.]
He got too close - to a hard truth about the job and me. You know what they say about birds and stones. And even you can't complain about my efficiency.
no subject
i overslept. drank too much last night.
[ it feels wrong to send that message, like maybe he should be saying more, like i don't remember anything that happened last night, and because he feels like puking his guts up, he starts brewing coffee in the kitchen.
he's starting to put the pieces together about tim, and it looks as bad as he can safely assume all of hawk's relationships look. he got too close. what the fuck does that mean? except embry knows exactly what that means, because ash had been too close from the start, and if only embry had listened to his gut the day ash had pinned him to the wall for being an insubordinate little shit the day they'd met, maybe he wouldn't be miserable right now. ]
you work for me now. you can date anyone you want.
do you still want him?
no subject
Where'd you go drinking?
[it's too goddamn early for this interrogation though. he's regretting playing along - but if it's supposed to be a peace offering for this stupid stand off they've been in since last time they were in close quarters, he'll take it. if only to make sure he's alright and satisfy this niggling alarm blaring in his head that something is off.
it's been long enough anyway that he can at least talk about it. kind of.]
Not the right question to ask.
That door is shut; it'll only open on one side. And it isn't mine.
no subject
didn't go anywhere. all the fun happened here.
[ it's his basic assumption, anyway. ]
i'm sure your place hasn't been empty, either.
never the same guy twice though, right?
that doesn't count as my question. give me a minute.
[ he pours his coffee and foregoes cream and sugar, sipping at it black while he slumps down at his table and tries to will away the ache in his head. he needs to schedule his housekeeper to make an early visit. he needs to stop drinking entirely.
he considers it a great feat of self-control that he doesn't text hawk what he wants to, which is big surprise tim doesn't fucking want you anymore. he instead thinks about how he understands hawk on a disgustingly cellular level, the urge to hide, the urge to fight against your most basic wants. ]
do you want that door to open?
no subject
My place is always empty. You should know that.
[except when embry was there. except when tim was there, too.
but that's even worse to consider - how much alcohol happened at home for embry to be this bad off? and why does his brain immediately jump to the conclusion that it's either spite or something far more insidious - because coincidences don't happen according to hawkins fuller.]
Let me guess. Red lipstick girl?
[there's a long delay before he answers that, mostly because he's actually giving it some thought. things he's buried for a long fucking time, coped with the best way how by flat out ignoring it. a year ago? yeah. he'd probably have gone for it. now?]
I don't think so.
[maybe the most honest thing he'll ever admit to:]
He deserves better.
no subject
you let me in.
would you have let me stay the night?
[ if he'd pushed for it. if he'd just decided one night not to leave. if tim deserves better then what does that say about embry that he can't even hold this shit together?
his nausea comes back at the question, an itch clawing beneath his skin. he makes it to the couch just as a wave of dizziness sends spots dancing across his vision, sinking into the soft cushions and reaching for a half empty bottle of water from days ago, guzzling it down his parched throat. ]
so what if it is her? maybe i like her. maybe i like that she doesn't fucking act like you. that she's there for me and you're not.
i want my goddamn keys back. you didn't even get my dry cleaning.
no subject
[it doesn't say anything about embry - and it hadn't been the intent to make him feel that way. it should say more about hawk and the fact that he's come a little further, or at least - that he's found someone worth trying for. but maybe not, seeing as he can't and won't make the effort to articulate it any more than that statement might.]
Picked it up this morning. I'll drop it off and bring your key, if that's what you want.
[not what he wants, but fine. this is just a job, or so embry told him last time they were together.]
Did you call her, or did she find you?
Seems awful convenient for her to keep turning up. But if you're happy - far be it for me to intrude.
no subject
you're not getting an invitation over.
i'll get it from you at the office.
[ mostly because he doesn't want hawk to see the state he's in. he looks bad even for his own tarnished reputation, like he might need more than just a day to get this out of his system.
did he call her? furiously, he scrolls through his calls and texts, and finds nothing he doesn't recognize. no numbers not in his contacts. no trace of what could have transpired the night before. his stomach sinks as he keeps looking, his efforts futile. ]
of course i called her. we have history.
stop trying to twist this to fit your own stupid narrative.
who did you fuck last?
no subject
[doesn't mean he's not making his own. there's enough cause for alarm now, and hawk is wrapping up this meeting only half-listening to the few lukewarm pitches on theme that have been tossed around. notably there's been little contribution on his end, but getting out of here is more important right now than what's going to appeal to the changing whims of all the chucklefucks with deep pockets and a hankering for progressive politics in washington.]
Did you get her name, this time? You couldn't remember that night. Might have been awkward.
[there's no narrative he's trying to create. it's writing itself. if embry didn't even remember her name, then how the fuck did he have her number? and if he didn't have her number, where did she bump into him? maybe he can catch sven before he heads over for some clarity.]
As for me, I haven't got a fucking clue. Doesn't really matter anyway, some nobody in Maryland from halfway across the country and he spent the whole time face down.
no subject
don't get any fucking ideas. i'm taking a nap.
[ he forces himself to get up to give his place a cursory once-over. nothing wrong with the locks on the door, no signs of forced entry. none of the decor that morgan's interior designer chose has been disturbed. everything looks completely fucking normal, as if nobody was here at all and embry simply decided to poison himself on top shelf scotch. that, or he really did bring red lipstick girl home of his own volition, and they'd binged on his liquor and then fucked in his bed. and then she'd left.
sven would have stopped it if anything seemed off. he would have come barging in with no care if embry was naked as the day he was born. and fuck hawk for thinking he doesn't remember erin's name — his standards might be low, but they're not in the goddamn dirt. ]
i know her name. and it's better for optics for me to be attached to a woman. luckily, i actually like them.
who i decide to wine and dine is none of your goddamn business.
[ because that sounds better than whatever happened last night, which clearly was more carnal than wining and dining. his anger deflates a little, guilt seeping in at the low blow he's just dealt hawk. he feels on the very edge of panic and can't put his finger on why, and he realizes he doesn't want to be in his house anymore. ]
how romantic.
i'm coming into the office. should be less than an hour.
i want the fundraiser details ready for me to go over.
no subject
[now hawk's got a goddamn headache over all of this. embry wants to play nasty, fine. hawk is convincing himself he just doesn't give a fuck anymore.]
Congratulations, when are you two getting the white picket fence? I'll pencil her in for your plus one to Ash's big night.
That lipstick's gotta go though - I'd hate to see your ratings tank because it's too abrasive for the suburban housewives.
no subject
fuck you. and for the record, neither of us get plus ones to the fundraiser. we're working.
just email me the goddamn details.
[ if he texts him again he's getting left on read. ]
no subject
except it hadn't felt like just another fuck - not when embry came the night of senator smith's passing. not when they'd snuck kisses between meetings at the fucking office like a pair of horny teenagers who couldn't pass a broom closet without giving it more use than it'd probably seen in decades. and not when hawk had been about to get on his knees and give him something he's only ever given the two people in his life that made him want to be a better man.
that doesn't mean he's still not pissed off beyond belief, figuring after a solid fourty-five that embry is sulking at home or he's stuck in bad traffic, but google confirms it can't be the latter.
fine. hawk emails the staff that he's taking a long lunch to run some errands for embry - grabbing his dry cleaning and getting into his black jag and slamming the door. there's a moment to suck in a breath, realizing he's probably gonna have to be the bigger person and hate every minute of it if he wants to get to the bottom of whatever the hell is going on with this woman. it's not jealousy - not in the same way it had gnawed at him with ash and embry mooning over a man that would probably take him back in a second anyway. he's still not sure whether that makes embry the world's most dedicated masochist or if there's just more to the story he'll have to uncover at the worst possible time. and that's only if they can both stop being immature fuck-ups for a minute and needling one another.
he pulls out a cigarette and starts the engine, making it over to the condo in just about the time it takes him to smoke it. good old sven is outside on a smoke break himself when he pulls up just past the secret service in another car, and tempting as it is to ask him if anything was amiss last night or with embry in general, he's not going to cause worry if there isn't any to be had. besides - they should know by now when he's in real distress.
shouldn't they?
hawk nods in greeting and heads inside, up the elevator to the place that's become a near home away from home by the way he could turn up blindfolded and find his way inside. the key is given more force than usual, alerting embry to his presence if he's in the expansive living room wallowing or near the formal dining room. but when hawk steps inside, he's not there. just two empty glasses on his coffee table, exactly like embry said. and a half empty bottle of gin. his eyes narrow at the ghastly shade of too orange red lipstick thats left its mark one too many times for his liking. but there's nothing really amiss otherwise - and it prompts him to set the key down on embry's kitchen island either temporarily or permanently depending on how this goes and drape the dry cleaning bags over one shoulder.
maybe he did fall asleep. but he'd better check, and he needs to get to the closet anyway, so...
so he's not expecting to hear gagging when he gets closer to the bedroom and adjacent master bathroom, and he unceremoniously dumps the clothes onto his bed and rushes past to see embry on his knees in a particularly devastating shade of teal that definitely doesn't belong in the same context as vomit. christ - he looks terrible.]
Hey, hey - you're alright.
[hawk reaches for one of his stupidly expensive hand towels, running it under cool water and placing it at the nape of his neck. his fingers push back the damp strands of his hair, out of the way even if they're too short to be a casualty before he drops it and squeezes one of embry's shoulders.
none of this is normal. not if all they drank was half that goddamn bottle.]
Just get it all out.
[embry can't see the way his brows are knitted together in worry, finger itching to call a doctor to come take a blood sample or just - test him for whatever the fuck is in his stomach. it's hard not to feel responsible, even if embry wouldn't have let him close anyway. probably. maybe.]
no subject
no, he doesn't ever think he's felt this particular side of shitty, not to this level, where his heartbeat alternates between too fast and too slow, his skin clammy, shivers dancing along his nerve endings. in the thirty minutes he stops looking at his phone, he plummets from bad to wondering if he should call the secret service bad. everything in him fights against the word roofied. it's comical, and impossible that it could happen to him at fucking thirty-six years old while being the goddamn vice president of the united states.
jesus fuck, how his mother would look at him right now, puking his guts out in the toilet at one in the afternoon on a workday. he's so focused on the task at hand that he doesn't hear hawk come in, doesn't hear the water running, and doesn't hear anything he says. but he does feel the cool brush of his fingers, and embry nearly brains himself on the crown molding with how hard he jerks back against the wall, his eyes wide and glassy. ]
Fuck. [ he snatches the damp towel from his neck and drags it across his mouth, his eyes falling shut as his shoulders droop in sudden relief. ] It's you.
[ the relief doesn't last long. he's aware hawk will want answers that embry can't provide on account of him not remembering fucking anything. but he can cobble together a story, the most likely one, which involves embry being both careless and a fuck-up. and a whore.
there can't be any foul play. sven would have intervened if embry looked like he needed help. he drank too much, snorted too much, and fucked someone while he was drunk and high and probably thinking about hawk. honestly, he's glad he doesn't remember that part. he should probably text erin and ask if she's all right, if she made it home safely, if she's also having as sexy a day as he is. ]
Don't start with me. [ through sheer spite alone, he manages to stand, shaky as he belts his robe and drops the towel on the edge of the sink. ] It's just a hangover.
[ he ambles past hawk as if to prove he can walk straight, wanting nothing more than to tumble back into bed and fall asleep, but when he sees the rumpled, sex-stained sheets, a chill creaks through him as if he's made of broken windows and splintered door frames, barely holding himself together. he swallows, pushing down against the panic that threatens to crack him open. ]
Did you send me the brief?
[ escaping out to the living room seems like the next best move, his coffee still sitting on the breakfast table. he opens up his laptop, looking queasily at the security login staring him in the face and abruptly blanking on every detail of his entire life. ]
You printed a copy, right?
no subject
hawk stays where he is, ready to help steady embry as he pushes himself to his feet even as his body language screams that he's trying to look self-sufficient, brush it off and assure him that he's doing fine, when he's so clearly not.]
Yeah, it's me. And it's too late for that - because I fucking know what hungover you looks like, and it isn't this.
[hawk stalks after him, following close because he's not unconvinced that embry won't topple over from one wrong step or even a harsh exhale from hawk in his direction. frankly he should be in bed, resting - sleeping this off, if that's possible, and waking only for a few tests that he can be hazy through until they've got answers. like who the fuck the woman here was last night, even if embry knew her. what was her agenda, where did she come from? does he even remember? he's about to try and grab his wrist and dragging him over back to the bedroom - but one glance over there answers his question why that part was bypassed. jesus, catching sight of his charge and the man looks white as a ghost. that's not the reaction from someone satisfied with their late night activities, acquaintance or otherwise.
god fucking damnit.]
Yeah, I sent it to you. Didn't waste any paper on it.
[he doesn't try to sit down next to him or even across from him, instead looming over him and bending over to unceremoniously shut his laptop with a hand and cut off this line of conversation.]
I know you don't want to hear this. [he sucks in a breath, preparing for the inevitable bitchfest that will follow.]
But you need to get some fucking rest and let me call someone. Whatever this...bug is you've got, you look terrible. You're damn sure not in any shape to be reading briefs and signing off on anything.
[bug sounds better than what everything in him is screaming it really is.]
Your room is a mess. Why don't you take the guest bed and I'll get it ready for cleaning tomorrow?
[tomorrow, when his housekeeper will come by. tomorrow, after hawk has had a chance to collect any evidence on this bitch and try to piece together what the hell hit him. god, he's furious. but he doesn't let it show, remaining calm and collected like he's good at, compartmentalizing and hiding it all - extending a hand and nodding at him like it might convince him to do the right thing for himself for a change.]
C'mon. I'll take care of everything.
no subject
embry lurches to his feet again. puking helped, because he feels a little more alive as he returns to the bedroom, aware of hawk following him around like he's his goddamn lover who's started keeping secrets from him. the bottle is still sitting on the nightstand, and he picks it up now as if it's a mystical item that will somehow return his memories of the night to him. no such luck. ]
I missed you. That's why I called her.
[ there's no evidence that he actually called anyone, but he had to have invited her over. sven would have stopped her if he hadn't let her in. embry takes the bottle to the sink and dumps it out, watching the clear liquid go swishing down the drain. ]
That's why I fucked her. [ he tosses the bottle into the trash, then goes back for the glasses, dumping them into the dishwasher, then strips his bed, flinging sheets and blankets and pillows to the floor until the mattress is bare. ] That's why I started drinking at four in the afternoon and didn't stop until midnight after we were done. Because I missed you, and I hate feeling like that. I hate thinking about you.
[ he sits heavily on the bed, pulling open the drawer of his nightstand to pluck out an orange bottle stuffed with pills of all shapes and colors, and a razor to cut them with. he presses it into hawk's hand. the truth is he hasn't been irresponsibly high in a long time, but it's a convincing, believable lie. of course embry has a stash, and of course he'd be stupid enough to use it. and he had to at least have taken something last night, even though a cursory glance tells him nothing's missing. ]
If you want to take care of anything, then get rid of that. [ he swallows, finally looking up at hawk as he fights to keep the regret from bleeding into his gaze. ] I fucked up, okay? That's what I do. I did it with Ash, and now I'm doing it with you. If you have any questions about what it feels like to be rejected by me, you can ask him. Now leave the goddamn key and get the fuck out of my house.
no subject
hawk lets him talk, not saying a fucking word and just watching him for any signs of physical weakness - shaky hands, unsteady legs, trembling shoulders. he wishes he'd take a second to sit his ass down and stop trying to convince him nothing is wrong, only proving further that it actually is. and frankly, he's looking for the other points of weakness too - the speed of his verbiage, the explanations he's good at weaving together.
it's funny: he knows what his eyes see - he hear the words coming out of embry's mouth, and he feels the press of plastic into his hand with a vibrant array of substances shoved inside - but he doesn't believe a minute of any of it. it sounds right on the surface, sure, and god knows he's heard enough about embry's past to get an idea of what the result of every single one of these ticking time bombs might bring out in him - but there's a funny feeling in the pit of his stomach that this all just for show. which is exactly what he puts on when he lifts the bottle in a salute, heading to the bathroom and dumping them unceremoniously in the toilet to flush. he tosses the razor, ripping off the inaccurate label on the bottle and pocketing it to shred later, knowing his paranoia is at an all time high, but also considering the fact that there's probably someone out there willing to dig through trash for a story about embry moore and whatever psychosis they can assign him.
on the way back to the bedroom, there's a pointed brush past him as he pulls out the drawer where he knows all the sheets are neatly folded. it should be embarrassing on some level that it's a fact that even exists in his mind, but here he is, playing maid anyway. he heard everything that was said - including the i missed you and the get the fuck out of my house. hawk doesn't let it cut deep that the former is more likely to be the lie. his back is kept to embry as he starts maneuvering the fitted sheet, diehard military habits making him pull it perfectly taut before smoothing it out.]
Fine, you fucked her. You fucked up. You're not the only one who got your rocks off - and neither of us are fucking obligated to do anything otherwise, let's make that clear.
[because they're not in a fucking relationship, and that's perfectly fine with hawk. it's the way it should be. he yanks off the pillow cases with more force than really needed, tugging up the new ones and throwing them unceremoniously onto the bed.]
Two weeks from now you're going to be up my ass about forgetting the right tie, or needing some project you've pulled out of a hat dropped off.
[there go the regular sheets, tight enough to bounce a quarter from. hawk finally turns around, slowly pushing himself further into embry's space than he probably should.]
I'm not giving you back your goddamn key. You want to get rid of me? You hate thinking about me?
[of course he's bluffing. of fucking course he missed embry too. and up this close, even green around the gills he still has the audacity to look achingly gorgeous in the way that makes hawk want to scoop him up and carry him out of this place altogether from whatever did this to him.]
There's an easy way to fix it. I told you months ago. So go on.
[he tips his jaw with an arrogance that's usually never reserved for the man who signs his checks, glancing down the narrow bridge of his nose before leaning in and murmuring it near his ear.]
Make me.
[fire him.]
Otherwise - you get in that bed and you take the day to sleep this shit off.
no subject
it doesn't help when hawk crowds his space, embry maintaining both his balance and composure by summoning some hidden reservoir of his waning fortitude. the wash of hawk's smoky breath against his skin sends a shudder rattling through him, his fingers curling weakly around the fabric of hawk's blazer, right by his hip, while he struggles momentarily to breathe. thick, liquid desire pools at his core while static fills his chest, anxious fear warring with his want.
he's not going to fire hawk, though in this moment he really fucking desperately wants to. he wants to not need him, because he wants to not need anybody. needing ash has ruined him, left him wandering out in the cold like a kicked dog on a short chain, and he realizes that he's fallen into the same trap here, that he's allowed hawk to somehow seep into the brittle cracks of his heart.
it would be a relief to submit to a command, and still everything in him struggles against it even knowing that he's going to lose. he's already lost, because he can't let go of hawk. not like this. ]
Bring me some aspirin.
[ even an order sounds like a defeat, and for a moment he's pressed too close — they're pressed too close, heat and breath mingling, and the rush of it all has him unsteady, his palms pressing to hawk's ribs through the fabric of his clothes. eyes shuttering, his damp temple tips against hawk's cheek, and he lingers, wanting to go limp against him and simply forget. forget this night, and all the things he already can't remember. forget all the tumult that lies between them. forget all the reasons that he shouldn't just let their lips touch, despite barely being able to stand.
his senses, or what little is left of them, return to him, and he slowly pulls away, unbelting his robe and shrugging it off as he turns his back, exposing his lean muscles and the scar tissue where a carpathian bullet slammed into his shoulder. there's a matching one in his leg, along with the unseen three months of rehab it had taken to gain his mobility back. he burrows into the fresh sheets and tries not to think about what might have happened the last time he was here, his cheek pressed miserably to a pillow while his dark hair sweeps into his eyes.
shifting horizontally drains all the blood from his brain, apparently, because he's dizzy in seconds, his eyes squeezed shut and his fingers gripping the clean sheets until the room stops swaying. he can't tell if it's hours or seconds before he can manage to make his mouth form words again. ]
Hawk. [ a pathetic rasp. he half hopes he's already gone. ] Don't go yet.
no subject
he'll tell himself later that he wasn't holding his breath on the decision, but it won't be true.]
Yeah, I got you. Go on and lie down.
[he's seen embry act like a goddamn princess in this bed, commanding from it like some while getting simultaneously pampered and chewing out foreign dignitaries on the side. so it's strange to see him look so small as he slips out of the rug, letting hawk's eyes catch on the scar that eerily mirrors his own underneath his shoulder blade. he remembers telling embry about it, regretting that he hadn't been more clear-headed to exchange stories instead of spilling his guts in a moment of real vulnerability. even stranger to see him curled up in the bed looking like he'd rather be swallowed by it in this moment instead of fixing himself into the embodiment of enticement.
hawk drags his gaze away and quickly heads to the bathroom, grabbing two aspirin and a clean glass of water. and while he's got the opportunity - he fishes out the glass without the appalling shade of red on its rim with his handkerchief, putting it into a small plastic bag and setting it on the counter to swipe later, hoping enough has been preserved to get someone to discreetly run a few tests or save it for evidence. he makes it happen fast, back at embry's bedside and hesitating before holding his hand flat out with the pills and curled around the glass for him to take before he sets it back down on the dresser.
he's expecting to be dismissed, or for embry to doze off right away. instead - he gets surrender, immediately softening and wondering when he got so goddamn pliable. fuck.
but of course he sits gingerly on the edge of the bed, reaching out to push embry's damp hair back and stroke soothingly over his forehead the way a mother might a sick child. somehow he can't picture vivienne moore doing anything other than commanding them to get better so he can make it to a dinner party on time.]
I'm right here. Not a chance I'm going anywhere else.
[not unless embry pushes him to - and even then, he's already stood his ground once.]
Keep your eyes closed and roll back onto your side - might help.
[his hand slides down to gently nudge at embry's upper arm, to help him do it if he's too weak or nauseous to do it on his own. it gives him a much better view of his face - somehow still perfectly enticing despite dark circles and the washed out coloring of his skin. it makes hawk want to dip down and press his lips to his temple, or kick off his oxfords and crawl up behind him until he dozes off again. all things he never fucking does for anyone - or at least, hasn't since tim, and never thought he'd want to do again.]
— taking hits every time i play this game.
it’s hawk. embry is actually going to pick up and tell him that he’s not late to the meeting, everyone else is just early, and yes, he’s walking out the door now, but then his phone buzzes again. it’s the white house publicist, and then it’s an aide, and then it’s his goddamn mother. embry crunches into the rest of the croissant, trying to decide which fire to face first, and then morgan sends a text that only says what the fuck is this? with a link to a video.
morgan doesn’t text him for small talk or casual pleasantries. something begins gnawing in the pit of his stomach as he dodges another one of hawk’s calls to tap on the link, a grainy video popping up on the screen. his bedroom. a girl with dark lipstick, most of her face obscured by the angle. him.
he watches in eerie silence, barely breathing, hearing his easy laughter on the video, watching himself kiss and bite and fuck a girl from his past to a bruising orgasm. she tumbles him to the bed after, using his tie to bind his wrists together as she rides his cock, her hair a veil shadowing her face. he only realizes that time is still passing when he registers hawk’s name continually popping up at the top of the screen, missed call after missed call that turn into demanding texts. call me. where are you? pick up the goddamn phone.
he has to remember how to breathe before he walks out the door. his lungs feel too tight, like he’s being held underwater, like his head is about to fucking explode. his night of poisonously bad decisions had been weeks ago, and he hasn’t thought of it since, more than happy to forget all the things he can’t seem to remember — but this is a punch in the gut, a shock to the system, and he realizes abruptly that the reason his phone won’t stop going off is because it’s all over the internet.
the world found out the same time that he did.
********
a combination of washington traffic and needing to hide out in the car before making his way inside means it takes him an hour to get to the office. an hour in which he doesn’t answer any of hawk’s calls. an hour for embry to spiral into his worst self, so when he does walk in, he doesn’t go to the person who would bury a body to solve this for him. he ignores hawk entirely save for a scorching look and a rude brush by, stalking with purpose to ash’s door instead, striding in without knocking, trying to look as poised as possible while his heart threatens to hammer straight out of his chest.
ash will know what to do. ash will always know what to do. embry is on the very brink of panicking, his eyes wide and skittish, and he just needs — something solid and familiar, something that hasn’t been ruined by his touch. he wants ash to put his hands on his shoulders and wrestle him down to his knees so that embry doesn’t have to think and doesn’t have to feel anything except for ash’s overwhelming presence, and everything will be okay after that, because ash will take care if it. ash will take care of him.
the look ash gives him drives something sharper than a blade through the softest part of his heart. before embry can even open his mouth, ash levels a question at him.
this is what you wanted instead of what we had? that sort of life — that’s good enough for you?
it eviscerates him. embry feels every argument evaporate, every reason he walked in here fly out the window. he feels footsteps at his back — hawk, lurking in the goddamn doorway. embry looks at ash and fights the prickle of tears in his eyes, keeps his composure like he always does. ash’s disappointment is crushing, like his bones are being physically squeezed to breaking. ash doesn’t know. embry realizes then that nobody knows, and that’s the only power he has left here — that he can pretend that he wanted this, that he remembers any of this, that at least it was a good night, and he was just being his usual careless, rankly promiscuous self. ]
Yeah. It’s good enough for me. [ embry straightens his shoulders but has the grace to look slightly ashamed. ] I didn’t know she was gonna leak the recording, okay? It was just supposed to be fun. I’m sorry. It was stupid, and I’m sorry. That’s all I came to say. I’ll do whatever needs to be done for damage control.
[ then he turns and walks out, needing to escape ash’s presence as quickly as possible, though it doesn’t help feeling hawk’s eyes raking over him, as intimate as a lover — or an executioner. they make it to embry’s office, and embry grabs the first thing off his desk — a box of pens — and hurls it at the wall with a curse. the pens go streaming across the floor as embry scrubs a hand down his face, heaving out a breath. he reminds himself to breathe, that no one knows, that he’s lied with fucking excellence before, and he can sell this one, too. planting himself on the corner of his desk, he grips the edges of the wood to keep his hands from shaking. ]
So, did you watch it? Did you rub one out to me? [ casually, he crosses his ankles. ] Where’s my coffee?
no subject
but hawk learned a long time ago: someone is usually going to trip, kick it up, and bring it to light when you least want it dragged out.
that day happens to be today - and he's sitting at embry's desk with his feet kicked up, flicking through the paper and the latest polling numbers when the social equivalent of nuclear apocalypse strikes. embry's phone isn't the only one blowing up - not when hawk has an automated list of google alerts, pings, and enough tracking on his name to make the night stalker look like a fucking nun. there's a sinking feeling in his gut before he even opens the first one as they keep pouring in - politico to twitter, bbc to al jazeera, fox new - christ, it's like armageddon. there's a moment where the knot in his chest tightens, afraid something fucking awful has happened like embry in an accident, somewhere out on dc pavement or crumpled into his black escalade without hawk there to help - but in some ways it's worse than that.
he knew this wasn't a coincidence. he fucking knew this girl was bad news, looking for some kind of come-up - but what's the point here? what was the goal out of this? his head tells him to immediately call in the troops: send in the glass he'd nicked from embry's condo weeks ago that's still in a ziplock bag, ready to be tested for ghb, rohypnol, and everything in between. reach out to one of his pd's to dig up everything on this girl from her alma mater to where she's most likely to take a piss on a tuesday at supper hour. but it's his heart - or maybe his dick - that has him jamming down the speed dial on his contacts for embry, over and over even if he already knows it won't get answered. he punches out a few texts: get here now. pick up. goddamn it embry. and then - definitely not at the direction of his dick: it's going to be okay.
because that's the thing, his fury isn't directed at all towards the man that's still technically his boss. he's not looking at this like it's some other bender-induced fuck-up that'll ruin his reputation or bring heat to ash's chanced at re-election, even if that should be one of the main priorities. it's certainly embry's, according to his very pointed declaration that he has in stark white and blue in the form of a text. no, instead it's pointed squarely at the woman who orchestrated this for some ulterior motive that he's going to get to the bottom of. but it manages to take a detour - not at embry, strolling in looking like he's got one wrong gust of wind that might topple him over, not embry who ignores him like he's no more interesting than a piece of furniture in this room, but at ash, the fucking asshole who somehow thinks that any of this was embry's fault. that anyone in their right mind would want this shit to have happened, that he'd ever think to put ash at risk when it's the one person that seems to have consumed him from the inside out.
bet he didn't think about that.
in his head, hawk does something idiotic like vault over the desk and punch him in that perfect jaw to wipe away the disappointment that veers so closely to the disgust he remembers from his own father - he pushes him down against the desk and holds him by the neck like a golden retriever that's stolen steak off the counter and imparts upon him just how wrong he is about this, and most importantly about embry. instead, he does the responsible thing and lets embry have the grace to get into his own office and sit on his own for a few moments, uncrossing his arms from where he'd been perched against the door frame and fluidly pushing off to come right up to the solid oak timbers and knock at it lightly with a fist, as if testing the sturdiness before speaking with an irreverence he'd only lob at the most intolerable of bastards.
i've got this under control. but you know - it's really a shame you can't be bothered to see past your own ego and understand him.
hawk turns on his heel and doesn't bother waiting for a response before stepping into the office and expecting his former seat occupied, which it is, but not the crunch of a pen under his oxford that clattered against the door moments before shutting it behind them both. he's not taking the bait on this, not even going to bother dignifying it with a response because a few grainy screenshots were enough for him to know he didn't need to see any more, didn't need to violate embry's privacy any further.]
I drank it an hour ago. I'll get you another one as soon as you sit the fuck down and talk to me.
[hawk strides into the room with an easy prowess, the kind of calm and collected he's excelled at, even if a part of him worries embry won't ever see him that way since the mess he'd come across in the nights after smith's death. but he doesn't stand over him and lord that, instead dropping down onto his haunches and looking up to try and catch embry's gaze.]
Look at me.
[he'll repeat himself if he has to, until he can see ocean blue in his vicinity, even if looks as unsteady as the tides against crashing waves right now.]
This isn't your fault, Embry.
no subject
It's not? [ it comes out as a derisive scoff, clearly disbelieving. ] I knew what could happen when I made the video. I did it anyway.
[ it's almost believable. embry would make a tape; he's the type of guy that has no limits, irreverent and dissolute and born into enough wealth that for the majority of his life, normal problems didn't exist for him. but wealth hadn't protected him from falling in love. it hadn't shielded his heart from ash. no amount of money or privilege has been able to patch whatever inherently broken thing exists within him that makes it impossible for him to love and be loved in a normal way. so he would make that video and he would fuck anyone with a pulse, but the problem is that he would rather swallow glass for the rest of his life than tarnish ash's chances at reelection with a monumental fuck-up like this.
and hawk knows that. because hawk knows him. the realization that he's been flaying his heart and fooling ash for years but might not be able to convince hawk of a lie for two minutes hits him like a rush of cold water.
being stripped naked, leashed by the cock, and led around the room like a dog would be less humiliating than meeting hawk's eyes in this moment. his pulse quickens the second he does, shame and fear and a sick sense of nausea prickling down his rigid spine. he tries to channel morgan's reptilian sense of efficiency, her form of ruthless bloodletting when it comes to delivering the truth. his phone buzzes next to his hand, which it's been doing nonstop so it's become background noise, but he happens to look down and see a text from his stepsister herself, his chest locking up at the unexpected sincerity. embry, are you okay? ]
I didn't tell you because — [ his eyes feel too warm, his cheeks flaming with sudden heat. hold it together. ] Because we weren't — [ his blunt nails dig into the lip of the table, his knuckles white. every word feels intensely far away, like he's grasping at clouds. he blinks and something wet spills down his cheek, his eyes wide and glassy as he chokes out — ] I didn't know. Hawk — I don't remember. I don't remember anything from that night.
no subject
and the worst part of it is?
hawk knows what he's looking at. no one else is going to see that footage and think it's anything other than reckless horniness and a rampant night of romping around. they're going to think it's consensual, because they don't recognize the way embry's smile is lopsided and his movements are sluggish compared to the way he bites back in bed, the way he's too pliant and being lead around with a docility like he's taken a wrong turn down an alley at the beckon of a passingly attractive face and lips that are too bright and gotten a face full of scopalamine. the average voter doesn't own the luxury of knowing what embry looks like when he's really falling apart, arched in ecstasy instead of lying back and just letting it all happen. there's a part of hawk that wants nothing more than to walk out this office, track this bitch down, and find a convincing way to get rid of her for good. to play judge, jury, and yeah - executioner.
but there's already the rumblings of an escape route murmuring in he back of his head, not that embry is any state to hear it right now. the immediate thing is coaxing him into acceptance first, and imparting upon him that no matter what the fucked up state of them is, embry is still his first priority always. it's his job to know, to see past the facade he puts up for ash that apparently the man is too thick-skulled to see through. that, or it's more convenient to pretend now that greer is in the picture. not hawk, even if that means compromising his own feelings in the meantime. he can take it on; he suspects he's far better at this game of bifurcation than embry ever has been.
he lets him tell the lie, because he's long since accepted that it has to tumble out before he realizes it won't work on hawk the same way it works on ash. maybe someday they can cut to the chase, but it's not this day. hawk reaches out to press the power button on embry's phone, turning it off completely before flipping it face down to avoid any further distractions and maybe help the world feel less urgent right now. his own pocket has been a steady stream of vibration all fucking morning since news broke, but only the few texts he's fired off to his people are the ones that count right now. embry's still the top of that list.
the one thing he's not sure of is whether or not he'll recoil from touch right now, so he starts with something tentative: a hand at his wrist, the same thing that's always managed to draw him in. thumb light against his pulsepoint, meant to reassure more than measure.]
I know. Don't worry about that right now.
[don't worry about us, he almost says. but he lets embry either come to his own realization or get out what he's suspected all along, making sure to keep pity out of his gaze because he suspects it's the last thing someone this skittish would want.]
That's what I was afraid of when I came by.
[he reaches up, unable to stop from brushing away the tear that rolls down his cheek and keeping it there for a brief moment of tenderness he's not sure he's earned.]
Look, I'll get to the bottom of this and take care of it. It's bad right now, but the press and the shitstorm - and him and especially her, I don't want you to think about that.
[he pauses, voice lowering as he leans in a little closer.]
I'm gonna take care of you.
Do you trust me?
no subject
of course hawk suspected. hawk knows him better than he knows himself, and the thought is just as frightening as how he's drifting away from ash as the months go by. ]
Yes — I don't know. [ if he trusts him. if he trusts anyone right now, if he even wants anyone to help. he would lie in this goddamn bed and let the press eat him alive if it didn't mean risking ash's entire career. ] I fucked up. God, I fucked up.
[ his breath hitches as he leans into the fleeting brush of hawk's fingers, squeezing his eyes shut for a brief moment to expel the tears that keep threatening to fall, his lashes spiked when he opens them again. he can't cry here, even if he wants to sob like a goddamn baby, something like shock settling over him like a gossamer web. his hair falls into his eyes as he tips forward to rest his forehead against hawk's chest, guilt poisoning his tongue. he's not good enough for hawk's sympathy, for his comfort. not after this. ]
You have to watch it. [ he slides his hand into hawk's pocket, his fingers closing around his phone, shoving it against him once he pulls it out. he ignores the tremor in his fingers, misery and anger squeezing his heart. ] It's your goddamn job to watch it.
no subject
Hey. Listen to me right now, Embry.
You didn't fuck this up, do you understand me?
[christ, why does the sudden thought of how he'd have treated tim in similar circumstances lance through him right now? he knows he's a ruthless son-of-a-bitch at best, and half the west wing would laugh till tears were in their eyes thinking about the smooth, polite aide that's risen in ranks with his sharp suits, even sharper favors and facts hidden away up his sleeve and in his pockets. a shark in the water - that the kind of man hawkins fuller is. maybe he has gone soft. maybe he's weak to let his own feelings cloud this - but at its core, this is a clear case of right and wrong. embry didn't choose this. nobody would. so while there's probably a lecture and an "i told you so" about the woman that raised his hackles in the first place, that's not the priority here.
he waits for acknowledgment before he stands up, keeping his presence less than imposing until embry slumps forward against him. his arms lift, slow and gentle - still worried he might startle at the touch - before settling around his shoulders and lightly rubbing along his back.]
This isn't on you.
[there are so many words he might say that all sound wrong, hollow and pitying which is the last thing embry would want - you were a victim. she took advantage. you're going to be okay.
he feels light pressure against his breastbone, glancing down to see embry fishing out his phone and blinking in surprise when he pulls back. his brows furrow briefly before smoothing out, the plan that had been rotating like the gears of his daily tuned watch finally clicking into succinct place. his voice is neutral, calm even as he fixes embry with a look.]
I don't have to watch it. [not because it's the right thing, or even because he doesn't want to see him hurt, but - ] It was my video. I did this. Too much scotch, a late night after putting in the time for you at the office - needed to blow off steam.
[he'll take the fall. all the heat that would come his way - it's nothing compared to embry having to admit what really happened.]
Yeah?
no subject
there is something so monumentally wrong with him. cosmically wrong. the taste of regret is rancid on his tongue. the urge to sink to his knees, to crawl across the carpet and beg for forgiveness is so strong, so compelling, that he nearly blacks out from how hard he's fighting against himself. he sees himself doing it, only in his mind's eye when he looks up, he's not kneeling at ash's feet. it's hawk he's gazing up at, every muscle pliant and willing and ready to be broken by him.
he shakes out of his stupor like someone's just thrown a rock at his head, still sitting at the edge of his desk, still leaning slightly into hawk's solid frame, still caught in whatever magnetism exists between them when they get close. he hears hawk's words on a delayed loop, his mouth already still but his voice unspooling like a child pulling the tape out of a cassette. ]
What the fuck did you just say?
[ his heart thuds an irregular beat, wishing hawk would shut the fuck up, wishing he hadn't just said exactly what he did, because it's out now, and embry can't stop him from repeating it outside of this room short of stuffing his corpse in the closet. ash and hawk. two people that no matter how much he begs and pleads of them, he will never get what he wants. ]
Hawk. [ he's fully present in the moment now, his shock making his ice-blue eyes glitter with something close to panic. ] You can't. You can't take the fall for this. It's not — I'm not —
[ worth it. he lunges to his feet, staggering straight into hawk as he grasps his collar, giving him a hard shake as if he can reorganize his brain and change his mind. ]
Don't. [ he sounds wretched, heartbroken. tears prick the corners of his eyes for a completely different reason as his lungs swell painfully. ] Please. Don't do this for me. I'm a bad person. Everyone should just know.
no subject
[it's firm but gentle in its insistence, trying to break through the haze he knows must be washing over him from the way he's slumped against hawk, surrendering inch by inch and opening himself up for what he must expect to be punishment. and maybe another time hawk will take him up on that - bend his body and watch him arch in the inescapable grip of white hot overstimulation until his mind is filled with nothing but pleasure and the sensation of being owned by someone who doesn't give a fuck about his dirty deeds and his fuckups. someone without the same haughty disappointment as ash - someone who, fuck, he sounds like he's in a romcom thinking like this. but embry is someone who deserves to be absolved of these notions, that he should suffer and consume himself with the need that he even needs forgiveness.
hawk told him already - what he needs is someone to kiss him and do it often. and by extension, someone who doesn't have a goddamn expectation in the world or a pedestal he's got to struggle to stay off of.
months ago he would have been furious, would have come up with a way to say the footage was doctored or find a solution that might partially stick but wouldn't convince majority of americans already looking for a reason to raise their pitchforks against a pretty politician with just enough of a reputation to go pissing off a few key segments of voters. and maybe hawk won't admit what it is deep down that makes him want to protect embry like this, but that's what he's going to do all the same and sweep it under the easy rug of duty: he's doing his job. this is what he's here for, the one who can get his hands dirty like he used to for senator smith. because embry might not see himself as good and worthy, but hawk does. and even if he's a fucking asshole in the way he communicates it - ash does too.
his hands slide along the nape of embry's neck, lifting to cup his face when the man pushes up erratically onto his feet like he's still sluggishly feeling the after-effects of the drugs that dragged him into this situation in the first place. it would be so easy to push down his hands and sidestep his frantic clutching, but hawk lets it happen and takes the force of it with a placid smile. there's nothing mocking in it like there might have been under different circumstances - watching embry splinter apart under the weight of his judgment with an easy i told you so mixed into the appraisal under icy eyes and an even cooler head. there's something warm in hawk's gaze now, something he wishes he could impart even if affection and words surrounding them have never been his forte. one thumb swipes up, sliding to catch one of the errant tears before it can slide down his cheeks. it's unfair how embry wears his woe as well as one of the many finely fitted suits in his closet back home - but hawk doesn't want to see it. certainly not on his behalf.]
I can and I will.
You might torture yourself day in and day out for whatever it is that you think is better for him, but you're not a bad person. Maybe you do bad things sometimes, but christ, don't we all?
[he's trying to keep it light, conversational - as if he's merely talking about embry's occasional sticky fingers when it comes to fishing cigarettes out of his suit pockets.]
A bad person wouldn't do what you just did in there. A bad person wouldn't be trying to talk me out of it.
[a bad person wouldn't have been able to be taken advantage of - but he thinks that might break him if he says it out loud. so instead, before he can think better, hawk pushes forward and presses a soft kiss to the top of embry's forehead, patting his cheek and pulling back.]
I'm gonna take care of it, and then you and I are gonna get the fuck out of here and let this blow over.
Okay?
no subject
his anger tears him up from the inside. that this is the best way. that this is the only way, because no one in their right mind is gonna let him near anyone with a press badge right now. he's surprised no one's taken his phone, but ash has always allowed him concessions. the gentle warmth, the kindness in hawk's eyes feels like a knife sinking between his ribs, and when he kisses his forehead, he feels his eyes grow sticky again. ]
I can't change your mind. [ stubbornly, he looks away, swiping the heel of his palm over his eyes. ] I'm not okay with this. Not you. Ash isn't the only one that I —
[ he's glad he doesn't have to elaborate on what the fuck he even means by that, because there's a knock on the door and then everything happens in a whirlwind. it's impossible for him to argue against hawk's plan, though he does it anyway, but ash of all people shoots him down. the pieces get pushed into motion quickly — tweets are fired off, a press release is drafted, and embry's itinerary is meticulously planned out as if he can't be trusted to be let out of sight. which — he can't. he bitches to anyone who'll listen that he wants to hole up at the lake house like usual to lick his wounds and drink his mother's gin, but apparently everyone in the white house wants him on the other side of the goddamn world, because they book him on a private jet to lake como instead.
he isn't allowed back in his condo, so his secret service detail packs his bags for him, with embry sending a thorough list of reading material to include. hawk is pulled away to discuss his stupid plan without him, and for the first time, embry resents the hours he spends sitting in meetings with ash, prepping for the two weeks he'll be gone.
it's the dead of night when they're cleared to fly, his eyes gritty from lack of sleep, his phone turned off, and there's a moment of panic when he thinks they're shipping him off alone before hawk joins him in the back of the car. embry looks at him for a total of three seconds before turning his head to the window and pretending to attempt sleep — which turns out to be the worst plan he could have ever had, because sitting in silence with his thoughts is pure agony. his shattered pride won't let him rouse himself to engage in conversation.
the jet is no better. embry's flown it before, so he knows what to expect — the lounge armchairs, the television he's taken meetings at, the small table with fresh flowers, and the bed, already folded out and made up with crisp linens and fresh pillows since they'll be flying all night. it's a double to fit two, but with no space in between to create one large bed. efficiency is a goddamn headache.
speaking of headaches. his temples have been throbbing for an hour now, and the first thing he asks for is whiskey. ]
It would've taken us no time at all to get to the lake house, you know. [ he sinks into a plush chair, undoing the knot of his tie. ] You're missing a great opportunity for my mother to pick your brain about making a successful sex tape.
[ his whiskey comes, and he picks up the glass and nearly takes a sip, but stops halfway to his mouth, a prickle of unease seizing him. his throat feels tight, and he thinks of reaching for one of the bottles of water instead, but all the drinks in his condo were bottled too, and still —
he sets the glass down and tries not to look as squirrelly as he feels, sneaking glances at the amber liquid while his long fingers trace the rim of the glass. ]
You can take the bed.
no subject
the only good thing to come of this is that erin, as he now knows her, is on his fucking radar. because it's good press, hawk will be required to escort her to a few functions and give credence to this faux-pas, framed as an unfortunate incident from two consenting adults and the hazards of cyberterrorists worldwide, prompting a growing need for regulation and stronger security measures among not just the washington elite, but the common constituents. there seem to be a very small minority holding steady that it's not hawk in the blurry video, but embry still - getting someone to take the fall who happens to share the same ocean blue eyes and jawline that could be made out of carved marble.
there's never a moment that hawk thinks this was the wrong choice. and when he gets the opportunity to nail this bitch to a cross of her own making, he'll be satisfied and think it's a job complete and as well done as it could be. his own reputation means nothing in the interim. his sudden rise to meteoric and infamous status on the tip of everyone's tongue isn't ideal, but he doesn't regret a goddamn thing if it means protecting embry from what really happened here. not even ash knows, and hawk has quietly done some digging of his own to confirm what he already suspected in the short time he had before takeoff that yes, it was a potent cocktail of alcohol, ketamine, and ghb in embry's system the night it all went down. christ, hawk's never been so ready for a takedown. he's grateful embry wasn't allowed in half the meetings leading up to their departure - because it was his idea to wade this out by making it look more authentic. no one suspected a thing why he was really interested in this mystery woman.
someone writes him a generic statement - an apology for disrupting the important work the white house is doing by a private affair, and hawk doesn't even really get a say before it's distributed to the press and into the ether of the bowels of the internet somewhere to be picked apart mercilessly.
lake como though - two whole weeks with embry. if it weren't for this shitshow, he'd be thrilled right about now, even if embry is grumpily pretending to sleep against the uncomfortable tinted window instead of hawk's open, firm, and available shoulder. but he won't push, and he doesn't try to strike up any conversation throughout the ride to the tarmac and the jet that probably costs twice his yearly salary and then some. of course he's used to it by now, the few times he's had to travel - including to seattle, which he snorts at the idea of returning to once they're comfortable seated and preparing to ascend skyward for the next nine hours at the very least. hawk is poring casually over a copy of yesterday's paper, even if he's not really absorbing much when he lets out a dry laugh.]
Right. I'm sure Vivienne Moore is dying to have that conversation over beluga caviar and Barolo. No offense, but where we're going makes that look like a halfway house.
[yeah, he's still done his homework even if this is supposed to be some sort of vacation. speaking of which - he turns off his cell once and for all and pockets it.]
Villa Sola-Busca - also known as Villa La Quiete - the pearl of Lake Como.
[hawk should be exhausted, but he still feels like he's running on adrenaline in comparison - if anything, he sounds downright chipper. until he sees the aborted movement from embry and pretends he's still reading the paper even as his true line of eyesight goes to where embry is wordlessly playing with the glass instead of sipping it uncharacteristically. it makes sense for him to be skittish, and even moreso for hawk to read through it easily. he doesn't say a word, reaching for it himself and taking a swallow as if he's a medieval poison tester for the prince of washington - which he practically is anyway.]
I'm not tired. You should think about getting some sleep, though.
[he folds the paper finally, tossing it on the empty seat across the aisle before rising to go rummage around for some ice and cups of water. he shoots the attendant a glance not to interfere with a subtle shake of his head as he brings back two of them, setting one next to the whiskey.]
Bed's all yours. I dunno about you, but I'm fucking parched.
no subject
jesus christ. erin needs a pregnancy test. his mouth grows dry at the sudden realization, his stomach dropping like the jet has done a nosedive. the whiskey goes down easily now when he picks up the glass, finishing it off in two swallows. how fucking ironic would it be if both of vivienne's children had babies under the worst circumstances?
he lurches to his feet, wrapping his fingers around the neck of the bottle to take a swig directly from the source. the drink soothes him, but he really wishes he had a goddamn ambien. ]
What, you got your beauty sleep during all those meetings they had you sit through today?
[ he gives hawk a sour look. he's already guessed what the details of this piss-poor plan might be, and he doesn't have the energy to pursue the thought right now. later, when they're in italy, after he's had proper tagliatelle and a bottle of red, he'll press for details and puncture holes in the plan. right now, all he does is pull off his belt and tie, leaving his shoes in the corner. ]
It's meant for two. [ he doesn't look at hawk as he hangs his blazer in the narrow closet space, the implications of his statement hanging like fruit ready to drop. that hawk could join him. that he and ash have done this before. that embry doesn't even know what the fuck he's saying. ] I don't care if you're in it.
[ it's the worst possible way to relay that he wants hawk to join him, but he shuts his mouth, leaving the rest of his clothes on because undressing right now feels more awkward than continuing to speak. he takes another swallow of whiskey, migrating the bottle to his bedside before throwing himself down onto the mattress with a groan. very intentionally, he only takes up one side.
in the dim lights, he watches hawk through his lashed gaze, somehow still functionally alert after the day they've had. his mind wanders to the times he used to be able to skim his hands over naked skin, keeping hawk's body firmly at the forefront of his thoughts lest the memories of the grainy video take over. ]
Have you been back to Italy? [ his voice is quiet, heavy with whiskey and exhaustion. ] Since you were shot?
no subject
[his own expression is perfectly - probably quite annoyingly - placid about this whole thing. but of course he's not, not really. he's fucking furious, though he's smart enough to know embry is going to want to lick his own wounds before he opens up if ever about what he's been through. there's a part of him that wonders if he's even accepted what it is that happened to him or if he's playing the game of denial just like he does every time ash glances his way. it's still a strange thing to feel like he wants to let him open up and spill his guts about everything, regardless of how or if it cuts hawk himself. months ago when he'd first walked in and realized this was a past fling, he would have headed straight for the door and insisted this kind of shit was above his paygrade.
and now?
now he smoothly pushes himself up and out of the chair after downing his own whiskey and casually takes his time loosening his tie on the way to the distinctive sleeping area that embry is sulking on one side of. it's easy reading between the lines now - come here, get in with me, even if it sounds more like a generic statement of fact. the strip of silk is tossed casually on one of the bolted down nightstands, hawk slipping off his own blazer and hanging it in the very same space across the bed on what is clearly now his side. then comes his belt too, shoes, and his shirt and undershirt, leaving his chest bare without the intention of letting his scar come into view again. it's funny how unthinking it is at times when it once was the center of his entire goddamn life - answering prying questions, trying to move past the trauma that had put it there.
it's a testament to his state of mostly recovered that he steps up to the bed, fingers running light against the top of the mattress as he gazes down at embry. even in his obvious exhaustion he manages to look achingly good - enough that hawk wishes whatever this unspoken schism between them might mend itself back together and let him have the privilege of barreling back towards whatever it was they were about to be. christ, he sounds like a fucking high schooler.
hawk sits at the edge first before kicking up his feet, crossing them at the ankles and resting a bent arm underneath his head like an extra pillow. his chin turns, enough that he can face embry halfway - letting him decide if he wants to meet him halfway or turn away all together.]
No.
[if he was feeling petty he might ask about prague. but he's not.]
But there's no hard feelings - I told you I wanted to retire there, didn't I? Besides, Velletri's a long way south. Practically a whole new world, or whatever the hell they sing about.
[it's your turn to recuperate, he almost says, knowing better. but his own voice dips into a quiet rumble, unable to keep the affection from seeping into it.]
Would you visit? If I park myself up in a nice villa, waterside, and pick up sailing in my old age?
no subject
now there's hawk, retiring by the italian coast, escaping the misery of politics for sunny sailing and fucking on the beach. embry can't imagine leaving the city, can't imagine leaving politics, can't imagine a happy ending because everything he wants is nothing he can ever keep. eventually he won't be in office anymore, and hawk will move on, and ash already has, and embry will have no excuses to be around either of them. ]
Yeah, I'd visit. [ he has his face turned away, staring at some unidentifiable blank space on the far wall, his brow creased. ] Catch you up on everything you missed in DC. Morgan and I are lifers in this. I'm always gonna be better at sailing than you are though, so I'd probably have to fly over just to teach you anyway.
[ he turns his back to hawk, swiping his eyes against the sleek pillowcase as he yanks the sheets up to his chin. guilt churns in his belly alongside his anger — and everything else that's eating him up alive. ]
I want a brief when I wake up. [ his words feel like lead. ] I want an update on the public perception of the tape, whoever's they think it is. We're not going to ignore what's happening just because we're fleeing the country. Goodnight.
[ it doesn't take long for sleep to take him, considering how much whiskey he knocked back in such a short amount of time, but he dreams about carpathia for the time in years. he dreams about bullets, and dag dying slowly in his arms, how he'd begged for embry to tell his sister and how many times embry kept calling and calling even though he knew there was no signal that could reach her. he dreams about being carried on ash's back while flickering in and out of consciousness, certain of his death, every sense alight with pain.
he hears ash calling his name — no, not ash, the tone isn't quite right. he feels hands on him, and suddenly he's back in his bed, his limbs heavy with too much liquor or drugs or both, and he can't make his mouth say no. he should have just said no. how could he have missed a camera? how could he have missed an entire night of sex? he's frantic as he tries to get away, tangled up in a mess of sweaty sheets until he abruptly shudders awake, lurching upright, his eyes wide and his dark hair clinging to his temples. panic closes his throat, a muffled sound coming from somewhere in his chest as he shuts his eyes, trying to draw in a breath. ]
no subject
Sure thing. Goodnight, Embry.
[sleep doesn't come to him right away, because there's a sneaking concern that embry might not be able to fall asleep. even as his own eyelids sink down and try to pull shut in protestation, hawk waits sharp-eared for the soft lull of breathing evening out and the hum of the jet before he lets himself give in to his own mostly-earned slumber. and that should be it - a few hours, a couple time zone jumps, and they wake up to mimosas and a message from their pilot that italy awaits.
except of fucking course it's not.
embry's been through a trauma worse than any other, by someone he knew no less. hawk's upright within seconds of feeling rustling next to him, too light a sleeper and too unused to having a body occupy the space next to him for anything else. that and old habits die hard from his days in velletri - the need for quick response times between catching shut-eye at inopportune moments with varying degrees of discomfort. he's still exhausted, knowing it can't have been more than a few hours since they'd both slept before this sank in. he can hear embry's shaky breathing, the sounds of struggle between the sheets and and against the bed, and another wounded noise like he's trying to cry out and just can't.
hawk is up in an instant, fingers closing firm around his shoulders with one hand and feeling the damp seeping through his expensive dress shirt from where he was too tired to remove it. he rucks the sheets down, tugging them away from embry so he can feel less trapped before lifting his other hand back up to brush the hair away from his face and get him to open his eyes into awareness.]
Embry - Embry. It's Hawk - wake up.
Listen to me, you're safe.
[he's fully prepared for whatever happens - embry trying to wrench away, or coming to the startled realization that this was a nightmare. his voice is soft, gentle in its insistence to get him to open his eyes.]
I'm here.
[and he's not fucking going anywhere else.]
no subject
but, ironically, he can't fuck this away. there are several hazy moments that he thinks it's ash in his bed, holding firm to his shoulder, and embry shakes his head, almost breaking into laughter at the thought that after all these years, he's never, ever chosen a safe word. ]
No. I'm not doing this with you. I'm not fucking playing this game with you.
[ but his voice hasn't been right from the start. all of a sudden hawk's familiar scent comes to him, warm leather and smoke, and his eyes snap open at the brush of his fingers against the sweat at his temples. his gaze tilts and sharpens with realization, hawk's shadowed silhouette coming into focus, his perfectly coiffed hair undone in dark waves, the lines of his muscled torso etched like a painting in the darkness. embry, on the other hand, feels like he's woken up on the floor of a bar, and his mouth tastes like he's been licking it.
he runs a hand quickly over his face, his breath heavy in the quiet, the sound of the jet's engine grounding him. in truth, it's hawk's presence that does that — hawk's presence that he's missed since he lost it. since he'd driven ash like a wedge between them for no reason at all, since ash isn't the one he lies awake thinking about at night. he misses ash like an old, painful thorn in his side — hard to explain when there aren't words for how badly embry needed what ash gave him. but it's been fifteen years since he first looked into ash's eyes, and embry isn't the same hot-headed soldier chasing death that he was at twenty-one when they met. the destructive little prince still lives inside of him, but it'd taken all of one look at hawk to realize this was a man who would relish putting him in his place.
and for the first time in years, embry wanted to know more. he'd been well on his way — he'd danced with hawk, kissed and fucked him, listened to him grieve, waited on his goddamn doorstep willingly because hawk is an asshole who never gave him a key. and then he fucked it up. he'd watched hawk's eyes shutter, every open part of him slam shut in the face of embry's selfishness. and embry hasn't fixed it, because — why bother when he knows he's just going to ruin it all over again? ]
I'm fine.
[ his eyes have been pathetically glued to hawk this entire time, and he finally looks away, blinking hard as if he can shake away the impression of his figure. it would be so much easier if he could just lean over and kiss him, if he could fall back into old bad habits of forgetting, but he can't. everything's too fucked up between them — and everything's too fucked up inside of him, besides. ]
Go back to sleep.
[ embry eases back down, slouching against the padded wall as he pulls his pillow up behind him, knowing he won't get any more sleep tonight. he reaches for his phone, finally turning it back on, only for the screen to light up with dozens of notifications scrolling down endlessly that he's missed in the hours he's been offline. he scrubs a hand through his hair, his face lit a hazy blue as he stares at the newsflashes, emails, twitter alerts, texts messages, and goddamn smoke signals reflecting back at him. ]
I'm sorry I woke you. Can't remember what I was dreaming about. [ it's such an egregious lie that embry looks at hawk for a moment, his brow tense. ] Just don't, okay? We land in less than two hours. You can spend that time sleeping or jerking off or reading the goddamn Constitution for all I care, just don't point out the fucking obvious.