[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.]
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.