[ 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. ]
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.