[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.]
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.]