[ 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. ]
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?