[thank god hawk has never once registered for a social media account attached to his own name. his phone is blowing up enough as it is without dms and tweets and think pieces from barely qualified journalists surmising who is hawkins fuller, the vice president's aide going viral for that tape? if he'd thought it was bad before when embry was under fire, he can't even go a minute without something vibrating in his pocket. a not so small chunk of them are calls from his mother, who has yet to leave him a voicemail and instead has followed up with a very succinct text: Hawkins. Please call me. Are you alright? Have you gotten that poor girl pregnant? jesus, if only she knew. it's ironic to think that if his bastard father wasn't six feet under and rotting away where he belonged, he'd probably be proud for all the publicity that his son appeared to be a straight, hot-blooded american.
the only good thing to come of this is that erin, as he now knows her, is on his fucking radar. because it's good press, hawk will be required to escort her to a few functions and give credence to this faux-pas, framed as an unfortunate incident from two consenting adults and the hazards of cyberterrorists worldwide, prompting a growing need for regulation and stronger security measures among not just the washington elite, but the common constituents. there seem to be a very small minority holding steady that it's not hawk in the blurry video, but embry still - getting someone to take the fall who happens to share the same ocean blue eyes and jawline that could be made out of carved marble.
there's never a moment that hawk thinks this was the wrong choice. and when he gets the opportunity to nail this bitch to a cross of her own making, he'll be satisfied and think it's a job complete and as well done as it could be. his own reputation means nothing in the interim. his sudden rise to meteoric and infamous status on the tip of everyone's tongue isn't ideal, but he doesn't regret a goddamn thing if it means protecting embry from what really happened here. not even ash knows, and hawk has quietly done some digging of his own to confirm what he already suspected in the short time he had before takeoff that yes, it was a potent cocktail of alcohol, ketamine, and ghb in embry's system the night it all went down. christ, hawk's never been so ready for a takedown. he's grateful embry wasn't allowed in half the meetings leading up to their departure - because it was his idea to wade this out by making it look more authentic. no one suspected a thing why he was really interested in this mystery woman.
someone writes him a generic statement - an apology for disrupting the important work the white house is doing by a private affair, and hawk doesn't even really get a say before it's distributed to the press and into the ether of the bowels of the internet somewhere to be picked apart mercilessly.
lake como though - two whole weeks with embry. if it weren't for this shitshow, he'd be thrilled right about now, even if embry is grumpily pretending to sleep against the uncomfortable tinted window instead of hawk's open, firm, and available shoulder. but he won't push, and he doesn't try to strike up any conversation throughout the ride to the tarmac and the jet that probably costs twice his yearly salary and then some. of course he's used to it by now, the few times he's had to travel - including to seattle, which he snorts at the idea of returning to once they're comfortable seated and preparing to ascend skyward for the next nine hours at the very least. hawk is poring casually over a copy of yesterday's paper, even if he's not really absorbing much when he lets out a dry laugh.]
Right. I'm sure Vivienne Moore is dying to have that conversation over beluga caviar and Barolo. No offense, but where we're going makes that look like a halfway house.
[yeah, he's still done his homework even if this is supposed to be some sort of vacation. speaking of which - he turns off his cell once and for all and pockets it.]
Villa Sola-Busca - also known as Villa La Quiete - the pearl of Lake Como.
[hawk should be exhausted, but he still feels like he's running on adrenaline in comparison - if anything, he sounds downright chipper. until he sees the aborted movement from embry and pretends he's still reading the paper even as his true line of eyesight goes to where embry is wordlessly playing with the glass instead of sipping it uncharacteristically. it makes sense for him to be skittish, and even moreso for hawk to read through it easily. he doesn't say a word, reaching for it himself and taking a swallow as if he's a medieval poison tester for the prince of washington - which he practically is anyway.]
I'm not tired. You should think about getting some sleep, though.
[he folds the paper finally, tossing it on the empty seat across the aisle before rising to go rummage around for some ice and cups of water. he shoots the attendant a glance not to interfere with a subtle shake of his head as he brings back two of them, setting one next to the whiskey.]
Bed's all yours. I dunno about you, but I'm fucking parched.
no subject
the only good thing to come of this is that erin, as he now knows her, is on his fucking radar. because it's good press, hawk will be required to escort her to a few functions and give credence to this faux-pas, framed as an unfortunate incident from two consenting adults and the hazards of cyberterrorists worldwide, prompting a growing need for regulation and stronger security measures among not just the washington elite, but the common constituents. there seem to be a very small minority holding steady that it's not hawk in the blurry video, but embry still - getting someone to take the fall who happens to share the same ocean blue eyes and jawline that could be made out of carved marble.
there's never a moment that hawk thinks this was the wrong choice. and when he gets the opportunity to nail this bitch to a cross of her own making, he'll be satisfied and think it's a job complete and as well done as it could be. his own reputation means nothing in the interim. his sudden rise to meteoric and infamous status on the tip of everyone's tongue isn't ideal, but he doesn't regret a goddamn thing if it means protecting embry from what really happened here. not even ash knows, and hawk has quietly done some digging of his own to confirm what he already suspected in the short time he had before takeoff that yes, it was a potent cocktail of alcohol, ketamine, and ghb in embry's system the night it all went down. christ, hawk's never been so ready for a takedown. he's grateful embry wasn't allowed in half the meetings leading up to their departure - because it was his idea to wade this out by making it look more authentic. no one suspected a thing why he was really interested in this mystery woman.
someone writes him a generic statement - an apology for disrupting the important work the white house is doing by a private affair, and hawk doesn't even really get a say before it's distributed to the press and into the ether of the bowels of the internet somewhere to be picked apart mercilessly.
lake como though - two whole weeks with embry. if it weren't for this shitshow, he'd be thrilled right about now, even if embry is grumpily pretending to sleep against the uncomfortable tinted window instead of hawk's open, firm, and available shoulder. but he won't push, and he doesn't try to strike up any conversation throughout the ride to the tarmac and the jet that probably costs twice his yearly salary and then some. of course he's used to it by now, the few times he's had to travel - including to seattle, which he snorts at the idea of returning to once they're comfortable seated and preparing to ascend skyward for the next nine hours at the very least. hawk is poring casually over a copy of yesterday's paper, even if he's not really absorbing much when he lets out a dry laugh.]
Right. I'm sure Vivienne Moore is dying to have that conversation over beluga caviar and Barolo. No offense, but where we're going makes that look like a halfway house.
[yeah, he's still done his homework even if this is supposed to be some sort of vacation. speaking of which - he turns off his cell once and for all and pockets it.]
Villa Sola-Busca - also known as Villa La Quiete - the pearl of Lake Como.
[hawk should be exhausted, but he still feels like he's running on adrenaline in comparison - if anything, he sounds downright chipper. until he sees the aborted movement from embry and pretends he's still reading the paper even as his true line of eyesight goes to where embry is wordlessly playing with the glass instead of sipping it uncharacteristically. it makes sense for him to be skittish, and even moreso for hawk to read through it easily. he doesn't say a word, reaching for it himself and taking a swallow as if he's a medieval poison tester for the prince of washington - which he practically is anyway.]
I'm not tired. You should think about getting some sleep, though.
[he folds the paper finally, tossing it on the empty seat across the aisle before rising to go rummage around for some ice and cups of water. he shoots the attendant a glance not to interfere with a subtle shake of his head as he brings back two of them, setting one next to the whiskey.]
Bed's all yours. I dunno about you, but I'm fucking parched.