[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.
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.