[ it happens as he’s putting on his shoes with an overpriced croissant hanging precariously from his mouth, trying to make sure the crumbs hit the floor and not his blazer. his phone starts buzzing, which isn’t new, but then it doesn’t stop, which is sort of new and definitely fucking annoying.
it’s hawk. embry is actually going to pick up and tell him that he’s not late to the meeting, everyone else is just early, and yes, he’s walking out the door now, but then his phone buzzes again. it’s the white house publicist, and then it’s an aide, and then it’s his goddamn mother. embry crunches into the rest of the croissant, trying to decide which fire to face first, and then morgan sends a text that only says what the fuck is this? with a link to a video.
morgan doesn’t text him for small talk or casual pleasantries. something begins gnawing in the pit of his stomach as he dodges another one of hawk’s calls to tap on the link, a grainy video popping up on the screen. his bedroom. a girl with dark lipstick, most of her face obscured by the angle. him.
he watches in eerie silence, barely breathing, hearing his easy laughter on the video, watching himself kiss and bite and fuck a girl from his past to a bruising orgasm. she tumbles him to the bed after, using his tie to bind his wrists together as she rides his cock, her hair a veil shadowing her face. he only realizes that time is still passing when he registers hawk’s name continually popping up at the top of the screen, missed call after missed call that turn into demanding texts. call me. where are you? pick up the goddamn phone.
he has to remember how to breathe before he walks out the door. his lungs feel too tight, like he’s being held underwater, like his head is about to fucking explode. his night of poisonously bad decisions had been weeks ago, and he hasn’t thought of it since, more than happy to forget all the things he can’t seem to remember — but this is a punch in the gut, a shock to the system, and he realizes abruptly that the reason his phone won’t stop going off is because it’s all over the internet.
the world found out the same time that he did.
********
a combination of washington traffic and needing to hide out in the car before making his way inside means it takes him an hour to get to the office. an hour in which he doesn’t answer any of hawk’s calls. an hour for embry to spiral into his worst self, so when he does walk in, he doesn’t go to the person who would bury a body to solve this for him. he ignores hawk entirely save for a scorching look and a rude brush by, stalking with purpose to ash’s door instead, striding in without knocking, trying to look as poised as possible while his heart threatens to hammer straight out of his chest.
ash will know what to do. ash will always know what to do. embry is on the very brink of panicking, his eyes wide and skittish, and he just needs — something solid and familiar, something that hasn’t been ruined by his touch. he wants ash to put his hands on his shoulders and wrestle him down to his knees so that embry doesn’t have to think and doesn’t have to feel anything except for ash’s overwhelming presence, and everything will be okay after that, because ash will take care if it. ash will take care of him.
the look ash gives him drives something sharper than a blade through the softest part of his heart. before embry can even open his mouth, ash levels a question at him.
this is what you wanted instead of what we had? that sort of life — that’s good enough for you?
it eviscerates him. embry feels every argument evaporate, every reason he walked in here fly out the window. he feels footsteps at his back — hawk, lurking in the goddamn doorway. embry looks at ash and fights the prickle of tears in his eyes, keeps his composure like he always does. ash’s disappointment is crushing, like his bones are being physically squeezed to breaking. ash doesn’t know. embry realizes then that nobody knows, and that’s the only power he has left here — that he can pretend that he wanted this, that he remembers any of this, that at least it was a good night, and he was just being his usual careless, rankly promiscuous self. ]
Yeah. It’s good enough for me. [ embry straightens his shoulders but has the grace to look slightly ashamed. ] I didn’t know she was gonna leak the recording, okay? It was just supposed to be fun. I’m sorry. It was stupid, and I’m sorry. That’s all I came to say. I’ll do whatever needs to be done for damage control.
[ then he turns and walks out, needing to escape ash’s presence as quickly as possible, though it doesn’t help feeling hawk’s eyes raking over him, as intimate as a lover — or an executioner. they make it to embry’s office, and embry grabs the first thing off his desk — a box of pens — and hurls it at the wall with a curse. the pens go streaming across the floor as embry scrubs a hand down his face, heaving out a breath. he reminds himself to breathe, that no one knows, that he’s lied with fucking excellence before, and he can sell this one, too. planting himself on the corner of his desk, he grips the edges of the wood to keep his hands from shaking. ]
So, did you watch it? Did you rub one out to me? [ casually, he crosses his ankles. ] Where’s my coffee?
[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.]
[ so, no coffee. no stimulants to get him through this moment. he knows hawk always carries cigarettes, but it would be uncouth to start smoking in the west wing. pouring himself a glass of scotch from the bottle sitting by the philodendron seems a little too much like telling on himself, so he stays put, watching hawk treat him like a skittish mare about to bolt. it's a little too on the nose. ]
It's not? [ it comes out as a derisive scoff, clearly disbelieving. ] I knew what could happen when I made the video. I did it anyway.
[ it's almost believable. embry would make a tape; he's the type of guy that has no limits, irreverent and dissolute and born into enough wealth that for the majority of his life, normal problems didn't exist for him. but wealth hadn't protected him from falling in love. it hadn't shielded his heart from ash. no amount of money or privilege has been able to patch whatever inherently broken thing exists within him that makes it impossible for him to love and be loved in a normal way. so he would make that video and he would fuck anyone with a pulse, but the problem is that he would rather swallow glass for the rest of his life than tarnish ash's chances at reelection with a monumental fuck-up like this.
and hawk knows that. because hawk knows him. the realization that he's been flaying his heart and fooling ash for years but might not be able to convince hawk of a lie for two minutes hits him like a rush of cold water.
being stripped naked, leashed by the cock, and led around the room like a dog would be less humiliating than meeting hawk's eyes in this moment. his pulse quickens the second he does, shame and fear and a sick sense of nausea prickling down his rigid spine. he tries to channel morgan's reptilian sense of efficiency, her form of ruthless bloodletting when it comes to delivering the truth. his phone buzzes next to his hand, which it's been doing nonstop so it's become background noise, but he happens to look down and see a text from his stepsister herself, his chest locking up at the unexpected sincerity. embry, are you okay? ]
I didn't tell you because — [ his eyes feel too warm, his cheeks flaming with sudden heat. hold it together. ] Because we weren't — [ his blunt nails dig into the lip of the table, his knuckles white. every word feels intensely far away, like he's grasping at clouds. he blinks and something wet spills down his cheek, his eyes wide and glassy as he chokes out — ] I didn't know. Hawk — I don't remember. I don't remember anything from that night.
[this might be the one time he'd let a drink or a smoke both this early and in the west wing slide. at its core, soley based on optics: this is bad. really fucking bad - it makes any good will embry's drummed up with voters as ash's loyal second-in-command wash right down the drain, tenuous as it already was given the current liberal disdain for nepotism and hedonism that seem to go hand in hand these days. the only saving grace is that they're smack dab in the middle of four years, only halfway through with plenty of time for this to blow over even if he's waiting for the aftershocks to keep coming for the next few weeks. until whatever other scandal can top a sex tape leaking of the vice president of the fucking united states of america.
and the worst part of it is?
hawk knows what he's looking at. no one else is going to see that footage and think it's anything other than reckless horniness and a rampant night of romping around. they're going to think it's consensual, because they don't recognize the way embry's smile is lopsided and his movements are sluggish compared to the way he bites back in bed, the way he's too pliant and being lead around with a docility like he's taken a wrong turn down an alley at the beckon of a passingly attractive face and lips that are too bright and gotten a face full of scopalamine. the average voter doesn't own the luxury of knowing what embry looks like when he's really falling apart, arched in ecstasy instead of lying back and just letting it all happen. there's a part of hawk that wants nothing more than to walk out this office, track this bitch down, and find a convincing way to get rid of her for good. to play judge, jury, and yeah - executioner.
but there's already the rumblings of an escape route murmuring in he back of his head, not that embry is any state to hear it right now. the immediate thing is coaxing him into acceptance first, and imparting upon him that no matter what the fucked up state of them is, embry is still his first priority always. it's his job to know, to see past the facade he puts up for ash that apparently the man is too thick-skulled to see through. that, or it's more convenient to pretend now that greer is in the picture. not hawk, even if that means compromising his own feelings in the meantime. he can take it on; he suspects he's far better at this game of bifurcation than embry ever has been.
he lets him tell the lie, because he's long since accepted that it has to tumble out before he realizes it won't work on hawk the same way it works on ash. maybe someday they can cut to the chase, but it's not this day. hawk reaches out to press the power button on embry's phone, turning it off completely before flipping it face down to avoid any further distractions and maybe help the world feel less urgent right now. his own pocket has been a steady stream of vibration all fucking morning since news broke, but only the few texts he's fired off to his people are the ones that count right now. embry's still the top of that list.
the one thing he's not sure of is whether or not he'll recoil from touch right now, so he starts with something tentative: a hand at his wrist, the same thing that's always managed to draw him in. thumb light against his pulsepoint, meant to reassure more than measure.]
I know. Don't worry about that right now.
[don't worry about us, he almost says. but he lets embry either come to his own realization or get out what he's suspected all along, making sure to keep pity out of his gaze because he suspects it's the last thing someone this skittish would want.]
That's what I was afraid of when I came by.
[he reaches up, unable to stop from brushing away the tear that rolls down his cheek and keeping it there for a brief moment of tenderness he's not sure he's earned.]
Look, I'll get to the bottom of this and take care of it. It's bad right now, but the press and the shitstorm - and him and especially her, I don't want you to think about that.
[he pauses, voice lowering as he leans in a little closer.]
[ jesus fuck, he's about to lose it. hawk comes closer and all embry wants to do is bury his face in the shoulder of his suit, to envelop himself in his familiar vetiver scent, to block out the world until nothing exists but the press of his body to hawk's. he should've never stopped chasing whatever the thing was that existed between them, leaving himself open to his old, ruinous habits that always, always lead to a sticky, intoxicated, devastating end. it's the story of his goddamn life, that he blows every chance he gets and then deserves it every time the blade drops right onto his neck.
of course hawk suspected. hawk knows him better than he knows himself, and the thought is just as frightening as how he's drifting away from ash as the months go by. ]
Yes — I don't know. [ if he trusts him. if he trusts anyone right now, if he even wants anyone to help. he would lie in this goddamn bed and let the press eat him alive if it didn't mean risking ash's entire career. ] I fucked up. God, I fucked up.
[ his breath hitches as he leans into the fleeting brush of hawk's fingers, squeezing his eyes shut for a brief moment to expel the tears that keep threatening to fall, his lashes spiked when he opens them again. he can't cry here, even if he wants to sob like a goddamn baby, something like shock settling over him like a gossamer web. his hair falls into his eyes as he tips forward to rest his forehead against hawk's chest, guilt poisoning his tongue. he's not good enough for hawk's sympathy, for his comfort. not after this. ]
You have to watch it. [ he slides his hand into hawk's pocket, his fingers closing around his phone, shoving it against him once he pulls it out. he ignores the tremor in his fingers, misery and anger squeezing his heart. ] It's your goddamn job to watch it.
[yeah, as far as fuck ups go - it's a pretty bad one. or it would be if it was intentional, the way embry's trying to play it off for ash as an irresponsible night of drinking and flirting and tumbling into bed with an old flame. but it's not that, because nobody would fucking ask to be drugged through their already tortured thoughts and taken advantage of like that. that's not embry's brand of self-loathing or punishment. it's...well, hawk knows exactly what it is, but if he says the four letter word that sums it up succinctly he's afraid he'll watch embry shake apart in real time and utterly fall to pieces. what he needs right now is to know someone's in his corner, and that while this is the last thing ash or anyone else wants to deal with, hawk is going to clean up the mess. he's going to do his goddamn job, which actually does not require him to watch it, even if embry seems determined to get him to do it.]
Hey. Listen to me right now, Embry.
You didn't fuck this up, do you understand me?
[christ, why does the sudden thought of how he'd have treated tim in similar circumstances lance through him right now? he knows he's a ruthless son-of-a-bitch at best, and half the west wing would laugh till tears were in their eyes thinking about the smooth, polite aide that's risen in ranks with his sharp suits, even sharper favors and facts hidden away up his sleeve and in his pockets. a shark in the water - that the kind of man hawkins fuller is. maybe he has gone soft. maybe he's weak to let his own feelings cloud this - but at its core, this is a clear case of right and wrong. embry didn't choose this. nobody would. so while there's probably a lecture and an "i told you so" about the woman that raised his hackles in the first place, that's not the priority here.
he waits for acknowledgment before he stands up, keeping his presence less than imposing until embry slumps forward against him. his arms lift, slow and gentle - still worried he might startle at the touch - before settling around his shoulders and lightly rubbing along his back.]
This isn't on you.
[there are so many words he might say that all sound wrong, hollow and pitying which is the last thing embry would want - you were a victim. she took advantage. you're going to be okay.
he feels light pressure against his breastbone, glancing down to see embry fishing out his phone and blinking in surprise when he pulls back. his brows furrow briefly before smoothing out, the plan that had been rotating like the gears of his daily tuned watch finally clicking into succinct place. his voice is neutral, calm even as he fixes embry with a look.]
I don't have to watch it. [not because it's the right thing, or even because he doesn't want to see him hurt, but - ] It was my video. I did this. Too much scotch, a late night after putting in the time for you at the office - needed to blow off steam.
[he'll take the fall. all the heat that would come his way - it's nothing compared to embry having to admit what really happened.]
[ hawk's voice sounds faraway. embry feels distant from his own body, his own thoughts, like he's losing the battle to keep his head above water, to not succumb to the demons living in his chest that spout vicious truths about him. he did fuck this up. this is on him. and ash is never going to look at him the same way again, not that he was looking at him at all anyway, and it's been over for so fucking long that embry is so fucking pathetically stupid for not being able to get the fuck over it.
there is something so monumentally wrong with him. cosmically wrong. the taste of regret is rancid on his tongue. the urge to sink to his knees, to crawl across the carpet and beg for forgiveness is so strong, so compelling, that he nearly blacks out from how hard he's fighting against himself. he sees himself doing it, only in his mind's eye when he looks up, he's not kneeling at ash's feet. it's hawk he's gazing up at, every muscle pliant and willing and ready to be broken by him.
he shakes out of his stupor like someone's just thrown a rock at his head, still sitting at the edge of his desk, still leaning slightly into hawk's solid frame, still caught in whatever magnetism exists between them when they get close. he hears hawk's words on a delayed loop, his mouth already still but his voice unspooling like a child pulling the tape out of a cassette. ]
What the fuck did you just say?
[ his heart thuds an irregular beat, wishing hawk would shut the fuck up, wishing he hadn't just said exactly what he did, because it's out now, and embry can't stop him from repeating it outside of this room short of stuffing his corpse in the closet. ash and hawk. two people that no matter how much he begs and pleads of them, he will never get what he wants. ]
Hawk. [ he's fully present in the moment now, his shock making his ice-blue eyes glitter with something close to panic. ] You can't. You can't take the fall for this. It's not — I'm not —
[ worth it. he lunges to his feet, staggering straight into hawk as he grasps his collar, giving him a hard shake as if he can reorganize his brain and change his mind. ]
Don't. [ he sounds wretched, heartbroken. tears prick the corners of his eyes for a completely different reason as his lungs swell painfully. ] Please. Don't do this for me. I'm a bad person. Everyone should just know.
[it's firm but gentle in its insistence, trying to break through the haze he knows must be washing over him from the way he's slumped against hawk, surrendering inch by inch and opening himself up for what he must expect to be punishment. and maybe another time hawk will take him up on that - bend his body and watch him arch in the inescapable grip of white hot overstimulation until his mind is filled with nothing but pleasure and the sensation of being owned by someone who doesn't give a fuck about his dirty deeds and his fuckups. someone without the same haughty disappointment as ash - someone who, fuck, he sounds like he's in a romcom thinking like this. but embry is someone who deserves to be absolved of these notions, that he should suffer and consume himself with the need that he even needs forgiveness.
hawk told him already - what he needs is someone to kiss him and do it often. and by extension, someone who doesn't have a goddamn expectation in the world or a pedestal he's got to struggle to stay off of.
months ago he would have been furious, would have come up with a way to say the footage was doctored or find a solution that might partially stick but wouldn't convince majority of americans already looking for a reason to raise their pitchforks against a pretty politician with just enough of a reputation to go pissing off a few key segments of voters. and maybe hawk won't admit what it is deep down that makes him want to protect embry like this, but that's what he's going to do all the same and sweep it under the easy rug of duty: he's doing his job. this is what he's here for, the one who can get his hands dirty like he used to for senator smith. because embry might not see himself as good and worthy, but hawk does. and even if he's a fucking asshole in the way he communicates it - ash does too.
his hands slide along the nape of embry's neck, lifting to cup his face when the man pushes up erratically onto his feet like he's still sluggishly feeling the after-effects of the drugs that dragged him into this situation in the first place. it would be so easy to push down his hands and sidestep his frantic clutching, but hawk lets it happen and takes the force of it with a placid smile. there's nothing mocking in it like there might have been under different circumstances - watching embry splinter apart under the weight of his judgment with an easy i told you so mixed into the appraisal under icy eyes and an even cooler head. there's something warm in hawk's gaze now, something he wishes he could impart even if affection and words surrounding them have never been his forte. one thumb swipes up, sliding to catch one of the errant tears before it can slide down his cheeks. it's unfair how embry wears his woe as well as one of the many finely fitted suits in his closet back home - but hawk doesn't want to see it. certainly not on his behalf.]
I can and I will.
You might torture yourself day in and day out for whatever it is that you think is better for him, but you're not a bad person. Maybe you do bad things sometimes, but christ, don't we all?
[he's trying to keep it light, conversational - as if he's merely talking about embry's occasional sticky fingers when it comes to fishing cigarettes out of his suit pockets.]
A bad person wouldn't do what you just did in there. A bad person wouldn't be trying to talk me out of it.
[a bad person wouldn't have been able to be taken advantage of - but he thinks that might break him if he says it out loud. so instead, before he can think better, hawk pushes forward and presses a soft kiss to the top of embry's forehead, patting his cheek and pulling back.]
I'm gonna take care of it, and then you and I are gonna get the fuck out of here and let this blow over.
[ 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. ]
[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.
[ he wants to snap at hawk for what's clearly a pity move, glaring at his now presumably safe whiskey and the iced water that joins it. hawk being right grates at his nerves, and he pushes his mother and the lake house from his mind, because spending any amount of time with his mother right now would be like swallowing glass, and morgan would be there with her own commentary, and lyr, his now-teenaged nephew that he actually loves would probably look at him with disgust even though embry has spent his entire life chasing his diapered butt around the halls of vivienne's mansion and being his favorite uncle.
jesus christ. erin needs a pregnancy test. his mouth grows dry at the sudden realization, his stomach dropping like the jet has done a nosedive. the whiskey goes down easily now when he picks up the glass, finishing it off in two swallows. how fucking ironic would it be if both of vivienne's children had babies under the worst circumstances?
he lurches to his feet, wrapping his fingers around the neck of the bottle to take a swig directly from the source. the drink soothes him, but he really wishes he had a goddamn ambien. ]
What, you got your beauty sleep during all those meetings they had you sit through today?
[ he gives hawk a sour look. he's already guessed what the details of this piss-poor plan might be, and he doesn't have the energy to pursue the thought right now. later, when they're in italy, after he's had proper tagliatelle and a bottle of red, he'll press for details and puncture holes in the plan. right now, all he does is pull off his belt and tie, leaving his shoes in the corner. ]
It's meant for two. [ he doesn't look at hawk as he hangs his blazer in the narrow closet space, the implications of his statement hanging like fruit ready to drop. that hawk could join him. that he and ash have done this before. that embry doesn't even know what the fuck he's saying. ] I don't care if you're in it.
[ it's the worst possible way to relay that he wants hawk to join him, but he shuts his mouth, leaving the rest of his clothes on because undressing right now feels more awkward than continuing to speak. he takes another swallow of whiskey, migrating the bottle to his bedside before throwing himself down onto the mattress with a groan. very intentionally, he only takes up one side.
in the dim lights, he watches hawk through his lashed gaze, somehow still functionally alert after the day they've had. his mind wanders to the times he used to be able to skim his hands over naked skin, keeping hawk's body firmly at the forefront of his thoughts lest the memories of the grainy video take over. ]
Have you been back to Italy? [ his voice is quiet, heavy with whiskey and exhaustion. ] Since you were shot?
You say that, but I've nearly mastered doing it with my eyes open.
[his own expression is perfectly - probably quite annoyingly - placid about this whole thing. but of course he's not, not really. he's fucking furious, though he's smart enough to know embry is going to want to lick his own wounds before he opens up if ever about what he's been through. there's a part of him that wonders if he's even accepted what it is that happened to him or if he's playing the game of denial just like he does every time ash glances his way. it's still a strange thing to feel like he wants to let him open up and spill his guts about everything, regardless of how or if it cuts hawk himself. months ago when he'd first walked in and realized this was a past fling, he would have headed straight for the door and insisted this kind of shit was above his paygrade.
and now?
now he smoothly pushes himself up and out of the chair after downing his own whiskey and casually takes his time loosening his tie on the way to the distinctive sleeping area that embry is sulking on one side of. it's easy reading between the lines now - come here, get in with me, even if it sounds more like a generic statement of fact. the strip of silk is tossed casually on one of the bolted down nightstands, hawk slipping off his own blazer and hanging it in the very same space across the bed on what is clearly now his side. then comes his belt too, shoes, and his shirt and undershirt, leaving his chest bare without the intention of letting his scar come into view again. it's funny how unthinking it is at times when it once was the center of his entire goddamn life - answering prying questions, trying to move past the trauma that had put it there.
it's a testament to his state of mostly recovered that he steps up to the bed, fingers running light against the top of the mattress as he gazes down at embry. even in his obvious exhaustion he manages to look achingly good - enough that hawk wishes whatever this unspoken schism between them might mend itself back together and let him have the privilege of barreling back towards whatever it was they were about to be. christ, he sounds like a fucking high schooler.
hawk sits at the edge first before kicking up his feet, crossing them at the ankles and resting a bent arm underneath his head like an extra pillow. his chin turns, enough that he can face embry halfway - letting him decide if he wants to meet him halfway or turn away all together.]
No.
[if he was feeling petty he might ask about prague. but he's not.]
But there's no hard feelings - I told you I wanted to retire there, didn't I? Besides, Velletri's a long way south. Practically a whole new world, or whatever the hell they sing about.
[it's your turn to recuperate, he almost says, knowing better. but his own voice dips into a quiet rumble, unable to keep the affection from seeping into it.]
Would you visit? If I park myself up in a nice villa, waterside, and pick up sailing in my old age?
[ he wants hawk in his bed. there's no other place he wants him to be, really, but once he's here, embry doesn't move, aware of the bare lines of his chest, how warm his skin would be if he touched him, how he's close enough to kiss. it would be so easy — and yet hawk has never felt so faraway, the space between them stretching like the jet itself has broken in two, one half barreling toward italy while embry stays behind, stuck in a sticky-sweet cage, suffocating. he feels like he's watching ash all over again, with his earnest plans to move out to the country and raise chickens and cows and horses with the right person who shares the same dream. someone with a pure, good, noble heart. someone who isn't him.
now there's hawk, retiring by the italian coast, escaping the misery of politics for sunny sailing and fucking on the beach. embry can't imagine leaving the city, can't imagine leaving politics, can't imagine a happy ending because everything he wants is nothing he can ever keep. eventually he won't be in office anymore, and hawk will move on, and ash already has, and embry will have no excuses to be around either of them. ]
Yeah, I'd visit. [ he has his face turned away, staring at some unidentifiable blank space on the far wall, his brow creased. ] Catch you up on everything you missed in DC. Morgan and I are lifers in this. I'm always gonna be better at sailing than you are though, so I'd probably have to fly over just to teach you anyway.
[ he turns his back to hawk, swiping his eyes against the sleek pillowcase as he yanks the sheets up to his chin. guilt churns in his belly alongside his anger — and everything else that's eating him up alive. ]
I want a brief when I wake up. [ his words feel like lead. ] I want an update on the public perception of the tape, whoever's they think it is. We're not going to ignore what's happening just because we're fleeing the country. Goodnight.
[ it doesn't take long for sleep to take him, considering how much whiskey he knocked back in such a short amount of time, but he dreams about carpathia for the time in years. he dreams about bullets, and dag dying slowly in his arms, how he'd begged for embry to tell his sister and how many times embry kept calling and calling even though he knew there was no signal that could reach her. he dreams about being carried on ash's back while flickering in and out of consciousness, certain of his death, every sense alight with pain.
he hears ash calling his name — no, not ash, the tone isn't quite right. he feels hands on him, and suddenly he's back in his bed, his limbs heavy with too much liquor or drugs or both, and he can't make his mouth say no. he should have just said no. how could he have missed a camera? how could he have missed an entire night of sex? he's frantic as he tries to get away, tangled up in a mess of sweaty sheets until he abruptly shudders awake, lurching upright, his eyes wide and his dark hair clinging to his temples. panic closes his throat, a muffled sound coming from somewhere in his chest as he shuts his eyes, trying to draw in a breath. ]
[it's not the first time hawk plans on disobeying a direct order, and it absolutely won't be the last. embry wants a brief, fine. he'll get one. at some point - but not the moment he wakes up. maybe lunch. maybe dinner. maybe six days from now when they've settled into the fineries lake como has to offer and have mended whatever fence is between them so it doesn't feel like he's sleeping next to a stranger with the knowledge that he wants to offer him comfort - to touch, to hold him in a way that's been wholly uncharacteristic for anyone besides tim laughlin in his life. maybe it'll be enough time for some other scandal to settle in and consume every headline and think piece across the globe. for the first time in a long time, he doesn't give a shit what anyone thinks about him anyway. he's more concerned for embry - protecting the shell that he knows is more brittle than the man's letting on.]
Sure thing. Goodnight, Embry.
[sleep doesn't come to him right away, because there's a sneaking concern that embry might not be able to fall asleep. even as his own eyelids sink down and try to pull shut in protestation, hawk waits sharp-eared for the soft lull of breathing evening out and the hum of the jet before he lets himself give in to his own mostly-earned slumber. and that should be it - a few hours, a couple time zone jumps, and they wake up to mimosas and a message from their pilot that italy awaits.
except of fucking course it's not.
embry's been through a trauma worse than any other, by someone he knew no less. hawk's upright within seconds of feeling rustling next to him, too light a sleeper and too unused to having a body occupy the space next to him for anything else. that and old habits die hard from his days in velletri - the need for quick response times between catching shut-eye at inopportune moments with varying degrees of discomfort. he's still exhausted, knowing it can't have been more than a few hours since they'd both slept before this sank in. he can hear embry's shaky breathing, the sounds of struggle between the sheets and and against the bed, and another wounded noise like he's trying to cry out and just can't.
hawk is up in an instant, fingers closing firm around his shoulders with one hand and feeling the damp seeping through his expensive dress shirt from where he was too tired to remove it. he rucks the sheets down, tugging them away from embry so he can feel less trapped before lifting his other hand back up to brush the hair away from his face and get him to open his eyes into awareness.]
Embry - Embry. It's Hawk - wake up.
Listen to me, you're safe.
[he's fully prepared for whatever happens - embry trying to wrench away, or coming to the startled realization that this was a nightmare. his voice is soft, gentle in its insistence to get him to open his eyes.]
[ it's not exactly common that he has nightmares. sure, after the war — they all did. but he had ash, in the sort of way he's always had, and the best therapists at his disposal if he ever went more than twice, and gin. he's always been the sort of man to laugh to keep the darkness at bay, because being serious about his problems would honestly fucking kill him, so he'd told himself that misery is nothing that can't be fucked away. and for all these years, it's worked.
but, ironically, he can't fuck this away. there are several hazy moments that he thinks it's ash in his bed, holding firm to his shoulder, and embry shakes his head, almost breaking into laughter at the thought that after all these years, he's never, ever chosen a safe word. ]
No. I'm not doing this with you. I'm not fucking playing this game with you.
[ but his voice hasn't been right from the start. all of a sudden hawk's familiar scent comes to him, warm leather and smoke, and his eyes snap open at the brush of his fingers against the sweat at his temples. his gaze tilts and sharpens with realization, hawk's shadowed silhouette coming into focus, his perfectly coiffed hair undone in dark waves, the lines of his muscled torso etched like a painting in the darkness. embry, on the other hand, feels like he's woken up on the floor of a bar, and his mouth tastes like he's been licking it.
he runs a hand quickly over his face, his breath heavy in the quiet, the sound of the jet's engine grounding him. in truth, it's hawk's presence that does that — hawk's presence that he's missed since he lost it. since he'd driven ash like a wedge between them for no reason at all, since ash isn't the one he lies awake thinking about at night. he misses ash like an old, painful thorn in his side — hard to explain when there aren't words for how badly embry needed what ash gave him. but it's been fifteen years since he first looked into ash's eyes, and embry isn't the same hot-headed soldier chasing death that he was at twenty-one when they met. the destructive little prince still lives inside of him, but it'd taken all of one look at hawk to realize this was a man who would relish putting him in his place.
and for the first time in years, embry wanted to know more. he'd been well on his way — he'd danced with hawk, kissed and fucked him, listened to him grieve, waited on his goddamn doorstep willingly because hawk is an asshole who never gave him a key. and then he fucked it up. he'd watched hawk's eyes shutter, every open part of him slam shut in the face of embry's selfishness. and embry hasn't fixed it, because — why bother when he knows he's just going to ruin it all over again? ]
I'm fine.
[ his eyes have been pathetically glued to hawk this entire time, and he finally looks away, blinking hard as if he can shake away the impression of his figure. it would be so much easier if he could just lean over and kiss him, if he could fall back into old bad habits of forgetting, but he can't. everything's too fucked up between them — and everything's too fucked up inside of him, besides. ]
Go back to sleep.
[ embry eases back down, slouching against the padded wall as he pulls his pillow up behind him, knowing he won't get any more sleep tonight. he reaches for his phone, finally turning it back on, only for the screen to light up with dozens of notifications scrolling down endlessly that he's missed in the hours he's been offline. he scrubs a hand through his hair, his face lit a hazy blue as he stares at the newsflashes, emails, twitter alerts, texts messages, and goddamn smoke signals reflecting back at him. ]
I'm sorry I woke you. Can't remember what I was dreaming about. [ it's such an egregious lie that embry looks at hawk for a moment, his brow tense. ] Just don't, okay? We land in less than two hours. You can spend that time sleeping or jerking off or reading the goddamn Constitution for all I care, just don't point out the fucking obvious.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
— taking hits every time i play this game.
it’s hawk. embry is actually going to pick up and tell him that he’s not late to the meeting, everyone else is just early, and yes, he’s walking out the door now, but then his phone buzzes again. it’s the white house publicist, and then it’s an aide, and then it’s his goddamn mother. embry crunches into the rest of the croissant, trying to decide which fire to face first, and then morgan sends a text that only says what the fuck is this? with a link to a video.
morgan doesn’t text him for small talk or casual pleasantries. something begins gnawing in the pit of his stomach as he dodges another one of hawk’s calls to tap on the link, a grainy video popping up on the screen. his bedroom. a girl with dark lipstick, most of her face obscured by the angle. him.
he watches in eerie silence, barely breathing, hearing his easy laughter on the video, watching himself kiss and bite and fuck a girl from his past to a bruising orgasm. she tumbles him to the bed after, using his tie to bind his wrists together as she rides his cock, her hair a veil shadowing her face. he only realizes that time is still passing when he registers hawk’s name continually popping up at the top of the screen, missed call after missed call that turn into demanding texts. call me. where are you? pick up the goddamn phone.
he has to remember how to breathe before he walks out the door. his lungs feel too tight, like he’s being held underwater, like his head is about to fucking explode. his night of poisonously bad decisions had been weeks ago, and he hasn’t thought of it since, more than happy to forget all the things he can’t seem to remember — but this is a punch in the gut, a shock to the system, and he realizes abruptly that the reason his phone won’t stop going off is because it’s all over the internet.
the world found out the same time that he did.
********
a combination of washington traffic and needing to hide out in the car before making his way inside means it takes him an hour to get to the office. an hour in which he doesn’t answer any of hawk’s calls. an hour for embry to spiral into his worst self, so when he does walk in, he doesn’t go to the person who would bury a body to solve this for him. he ignores hawk entirely save for a scorching look and a rude brush by, stalking with purpose to ash’s door instead, striding in without knocking, trying to look as poised as possible while his heart threatens to hammer straight out of his chest.
ash will know what to do. ash will always know what to do. embry is on the very brink of panicking, his eyes wide and skittish, and he just needs — something solid and familiar, something that hasn’t been ruined by his touch. he wants ash to put his hands on his shoulders and wrestle him down to his knees so that embry doesn’t have to think and doesn’t have to feel anything except for ash’s overwhelming presence, and everything will be okay after that, because ash will take care if it. ash will take care of him.
the look ash gives him drives something sharper than a blade through the softest part of his heart. before embry can even open his mouth, ash levels a question at him.
this is what you wanted instead of what we had? that sort of life — that’s good enough for you?
it eviscerates him. embry feels every argument evaporate, every reason he walked in here fly out the window. he feels footsteps at his back — hawk, lurking in the goddamn doorway. embry looks at ash and fights the prickle of tears in his eyes, keeps his composure like he always does. ash’s disappointment is crushing, like his bones are being physically squeezed to breaking. ash doesn’t know. embry realizes then that nobody knows, and that’s the only power he has left here — that he can pretend that he wanted this, that he remembers any of this, that at least it was a good night, and he was just being his usual careless, rankly promiscuous self. ]
Yeah. It’s good enough for me. [ embry straightens his shoulders but has the grace to look slightly ashamed. ] I didn’t know she was gonna leak the recording, okay? It was just supposed to be fun. I’m sorry. It was stupid, and I’m sorry. That’s all I came to say. I’ll do whatever needs to be done for damage control.
[ then he turns and walks out, needing to escape ash’s presence as quickly as possible, though it doesn’t help feeling hawk’s eyes raking over him, as intimate as a lover — or an executioner. they make it to embry’s office, and embry grabs the first thing off his desk — a box of pens — and hurls it at the wall with a curse. the pens go streaming across the floor as embry scrubs a hand down his face, heaving out a breath. he reminds himself to breathe, that no one knows, that he’s lied with fucking excellence before, and he can sell this one, too. planting himself on the corner of his desk, he grips the edges of the wood to keep his hands from shaking. ]
So, did you watch it? Did you rub one out to me? [ casually, he crosses his ankles. ] Where’s my coffee?
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.
no subject
It's not? [ it comes out as a derisive scoff, clearly disbelieving. ] I knew what could happen when I made the video. I did it anyway.
[ it's almost believable. embry would make a tape; he's the type of guy that has no limits, irreverent and dissolute and born into enough wealth that for the majority of his life, normal problems didn't exist for him. but wealth hadn't protected him from falling in love. it hadn't shielded his heart from ash. no amount of money or privilege has been able to patch whatever inherently broken thing exists within him that makes it impossible for him to love and be loved in a normal way. so he would make that video and he would fuck anyone with a pulse, but the problem is that he would rather swallow glass for the rest of his life than tarnish ash's chances at reelection with a monumental fuck-up like this.
and hawk knows that. because hawk knows him. the realization that he's been flaying his heart and fooling ash for years but might not be able to convince hawk of a lie for two minutes hits him like a rush of cold water.
being stripped naked, leashed by the cock, and led around the room like a dog would be less humiliating than meeting hawk's eyes in this moment. his pulse quickens the second he does, shame and fear and a sick sense of nausea prickling down his rigid spine. he tries to channel morgan's reptilian sense of efficiency, her form of ruthless bloodletting when it comes to delivering the truth. his phone buzzes next to his hand, which it's been doing nonstop so it's become background noise, but he happens to look down and see a text from his stepsister herself, his chest locking up at the unexpected sincerity. embry, are you okay? ]
I didn't tell you because — [ his eyes feel too warm, his cheeks flaming with sudden heat. hold it together. ] Because we weren't — [ his blunt nails dig into the lip of the table, his knuckles white. every word feels intensely far away, like he's grasping at clouds. he blinks and something wet spills down his cheek, his eyes wide and glassy as he chokes out — ] I didn't know. Hawk — I don't remember. I don't remember anything from that night.
no subject
and the worst part of it is?
hawk knows what he's looking at. no one else is going to see that footage and think it's anything other than reckless horniness and a rampant night of romping around. they're going to think it's consensual, because they don't recognize the way embry's smile is lopsided and his movements are sluggish compared to the way he bites back in bed, the way he's too pliant and being lead around with a docility like he's taken a wrong turn down an alley at the beckon of a passingly attractive face and lips that are too bright and gotten a face full of scopalamine. the average voter doesn't own the luxury of knowing what embry looks like when he's really falling apart, arched in ecstasy instead of lying back and just letting it all happen. there's a part of hawk that wants nothing more than to walk out this office, track this bitch down, and find a convincing way to get rid of her for good. to play judge, jury, and yeah - executioner.
but there's already the rumblings of an escape route murmuring in he back of his head, not that embry is any state to hear it right now. the immediate thing is coaxing him into acceptance first, and imparting upon him that no matter what the fucked up state of them is, embry is still his first priority always. it's his job to know, to see past the facade he puts up for ash that apparently the man is too thick-skulled to see through. that, or it's more convenient to pretend now that greer is in the picture. not hawk, even if that means compromising his own feelings in the meantime. he can take it on; he suspects he's far better at this game of bifurcation than embry ever has been.
he lets him tell the lie, because he's long since accepted that it has to tumble out before he realizes it won't work on hawk the same way it works on ash. maybe someday they can cut to the chase, but it's not this day. hawk reaches out to press the power button on embry's phone, turning it off completely before flipping it face down to avoid any further distractions and maybe help the world feel less urgent right now. his own pocket has been a steady stream of vibration all fucking morning since news broke, but only the few texts he's fired off to his people are the ones that count right now. embry's still the top of that list.
the one thing he's not sure of is whether or not he'll recoil from touch right now, so he starts with something tentative: a hand at his wrist, the same thing that's always managed to draw him in. thumb light against his pulsepoint, meant to reassure more than measure.]
I know. Don't worry about that right now.
[don't worry about us, he almost says. but he lets embry either come to his own realization or get out what he's suspected all along, making sure to keep pity out of his gaze because he suspects it's the last thing someone this skittish would want.]
That's what I was afraid of when I came by.
[he reaches up, unable to stop from brushing away the tear that rolls down his cheek and keeping it there for a brief moment of tenderness he's not sure he's earned.]
Look, I'll get to the bottom of this and take care of it. It's bad right now, but the press and the shitstorm - and him and especially her, I don't want you to think about that.
[he pauses, voice lowering as he leans in a little closer.]
I'm gonna take care of you.
Do you trust me?
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of course hawk suspected. hawk knows him better than he knows himself, and the thought is just as frightening as how he's drifting away from ash as the months go by. ]
Yes — I don't know. [ if he trusts him. if he trusts anyone right now, if he even wants anyone to help. he would lie in this goddamn bed and let the press eat him alive if it didn't mean risking ash's entire career. ] I fucked up. God, I fucked up.
[ his breath hitches as he leans into the fleeting brush of hawk's fingers, squeezing his eyes shut for a brief moment to expel the tears that keep threatening to fall, his lashes spiked when he opens them again. he can't cry here, even if he wants to sob like a goddamn baby, something like shock settling over him like a gossamer web. his hair falls into his eyes as he tips forward to rest his forehead against hawk's chest, guilt poisoning his tongue. he's not good enough for hawk's sympathy, for his comfort. not after this. ]
You have to watch it. [ he slides his hand into hawk's pocket, his fingers closing around his phone, shoving it against him once he pulls it out. he ignores the tremor in his fingers, misery and anger squeezing his heart. ] It's your goddamn job to watch it.
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Hey. Listen to me right now, Embry.
You didn't fuck this up, do you understand me?
[christ, why does the sudden thought of how he'd have treated tim in similar circumstances lance through him right now? he knows he's a ruthless son-of-a-bitch at best, and half the west wing would laugh till tears were in their eyes thinking about the smooth, polite aide that's risen in ranks with his sharp suits, even sharper favors and facts hidden away up his sleeve and in his pockets. a shark in the water - that the kind of man hawkins fuller is. maybe he has gone soft. maybe he's weak to let his own feelings cloud this - but at its core, this is a clear case of right and wrong. embry didn't choose this. nobody would. so while there's probably a lecture and an "i told you so" about the woman that raised his hackles in the first place, that's not the priority here.
he waits for acknowledgment before he stands up, keeping his presence less than imposing until embry slumps forward against him. his arms lift, slow and gentle - still worried he might startle at the touch - before settling around his shoulders and lightly rubbing along his back.]
This isn't on you.
[there are so many words he might say that all sound wrong, hollow and pitying which is the last thing embry would want - you were a victim. she took advantage. you're going to be okay.
he feels light pressure against his breastbone, glancing down to see embry fishing out his phone and blinking in surprise when he pulls back. his brows furrow briefly before smoothing out, the plan that had been rotating like the gears of his daily tuned watch finally clicking into succinct place. his voice is neutral, calm even as he fixes embry with a look.]
I don't have to watch it. [not because it's the right thing, or even because he doesn't want to see him hurt, but - ] It was my video. I did this. Too much scotch, a late night after putting in the time for you at the office - needed to blow off steam.
[he'll take the fall. all the heat that would come his way - it's nothing compared to embry having to admit what really happened.]
Yeah?
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there is something so monumentally wrong with him. cosmically wrong. the taste of regret is rancid on his tongue. the urge to sink to his knees, to crawl across the carpet and beg for forgiveness is so strong, so compelling, that he nearly blacks out from how hard he's fighting against himself. he sees himself doing it, only in his mind's eye when he looks up, he's not kneeling at ash's feet. it's hawk he's gazing up at, every muscle pliant and willing and ready to be broken by him.
he shakes out of his stupor like someone's just thrown a rock at his head, still sitting at the edge of his desk, still leaning slightly into hawk's solid frame, still caught in whatever magnetism exists between them when they get close. he hears hawk's words on a delayed loop, his mouth already still but his voice unspooling like a child pulling the tape out of a cassette. ]
What the fuck did you just say?
[ his heart thuds an irregular beat, wishing hawk would shut the fuck up, wishing he hadn't just said exactly what he did, because it's out now, and embry can't stop him from repeating it outside of this room short of stuffing his corpse in the closet. ash and hawk. two people that no matter how much he begs and pleads of them, he will never get what he wants. ]
Hawk. [ he's fully present in the moment now, his shock making his ice-blue eyes glitter with something close to panic. ] You can't. You can't take the fall for this. It's not — I'm not —
[ worth it. he lunges to his feet, staggering straight into hawk as he grasps his collar, giving him a hard shake as if he can reorganize his brain and change his mind. ]
Don't. [ he sounds wretched, heartbroken. tears prick the corners of his eyes for a completely different reason as his lungs swell painfully. ] Please. Don't do this for me. I'm a bad person. Everyone should just know.
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[it's firm but gentle in its insistence, trying to break through the haze he knows must be washing over him from the way he's slumped against hawk, surrendering inch by inch and opening himself up for what he must expect to be punishment. and maybe another time hawk will take him up on that - bend his body and watch him arch in the inescapable grip of white hot overstimulation until his mind is filled with nothing but pleasure and the sensation of being owned by someone who doesn't give a fuck about his dirty deeds and his fuckups. someone without the same haughty disappointment as ash - someone who, fuck, he sounds like he's in a romcom thinking like this. but embry is someone who deserves to be absolved of these notions, that he should suffer and consume himself with the need that he even needs forgiveness.
hawk told him already - what he needs is someone to kiss him and do it often. and by extension, someone who doesn't have a goddamn expectation in the world or a pedestal he's got to struggle to stay off of.
months ago he would have been furious, would have come up with a way to say the footage was doctored or find a solution that might partially stick but wouldn't convince majority of americans already looking for a reason to raise their pitchforks against a pretty politician with just enough of a reputation to go pissing off a few key segments of voters. and maybe hawk won't admit what it is deep down that makes him want to protect embry like this, but that's what he's going to do all the same and sweep it under the easy rug of duty: he's doing his job. this is what he's here for, the one who can get his hands dirty like he used to for senator smith. because embry might not see himself as good and worthy, but hawk does. and even if he's a fucking asshole in the way he communicates it - ash does too.
his hands slide along the nape of embry's neck, lifting to cup his face when the man pushes up erratically onto his feet like he's still sluggishly feeling the after-effects of the drugs that dragged him into this situation in the first place. it would be so easy to push down his hands and sidestep his frantic clutching, but hawk lets it happen and takes the force of it with a placid smile. there's nothing mocking in it like there might have been under different circumstances - watching embry splinter apart under the weight of his judgment with an easy i told you so mixed into the appraisal under icy eyes and an even cooler head. there's something warm in hawk's gaze now, something he wishes he could impart even if affection and words surrounding them have never been his forte. one thumb swipes up, sliding to catch one of the errant tears before it can slide down his cheeks. it's unfair how embry wears his woe as well as one of the many finely fitted suits in his closet back home - but hawk doesn't want to see it. certainly not on his behalf.]
I can and I will.
You might torture yourself day in and day out for whatever it is that you think is better for him, but you're not a bad person. Maybe you do bad things sometimes, but christ, don't we all?
[he's trying to keep it light, conversational - as if he's merely talking about embry's occasional sticky fingers when it comes to fishing cigarettes out of his suit pockets.]
A bad person wouldn't do what you just did in there. A bad person wouldn't be trying to talk me out of it.
[a bad person wouldn't have been able to be taken advantage of - but he thinks that might break him if he says it out loud. so instead, before he can think better, hawk pushes forward and presses a soft kiss to the top of embry's forehead, patting his cheek and pulling back.]
I'm gonna take care of it, and then you and I are gonna get the fuck out of here and let this blow over.
Okay?
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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.
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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.
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jesus christ. erin needs a pregnancy test. his mouth grows dry at the sudden realization, his stomach dropping like the jet has done a nosedive. the whiskey goes down easily now when he picks up the glass, finishing it off in two swallows. how fucking ironic would it be if both of vivienne's children had babies under the worst circumstances?
he lurches to his feet, wrapping his fingers around the neck of the bottle to take a swig directly from the source. the drink soothes him, but he really wishes he had a goddamn ambien. ]
What, you got your beauty sleep during all those meetings they had you sit through today?
[ he gives hawk a sour look. he's already guessed what the details of this piss-poor plan might be, and he doesn't have the energy to pursue the thought right now. later, when they're in italy, after he's had proper tagliatelle and a bottle of red, he'll press for details and puncture holes in the plan. right now, all he does is pull off his belt and tie, leaving his shoes in the corner. ]
It's meant for two. [ he doesn't look at hawk as he hangs his blazer in the narrow closet space, the implications of his statement hanging like fruit ready to drop. that hawk could join him. that he and ash have done this before. that embry doesn't even know what the fuck he's saying. ] I don't care if you're in it.
[ it's the worst possible way to relay that he wants hawk to join him, but he shuts his mouth, leaving the rest of his clothes on because undressing right now feels more awkward than continuing to speak. he takes another swallow of whiskey, migrating the bottle to his bedside before throwing himself down onto the mattress with a groan. very intentionally, he only takes up one side.
in the dim lights, he watches hawk through his lashed gaze, somehow still functionally alert after the day they've had. his mind wanders to the times he used to be able to skim his hands over naked skin, keeping hawk's body firmly at the forefront of his thoughts lest the memories of the grainy video take over. ]
Have you been back to Italy? [ his voice is quiet, heavy with whiskey and exhaustion. ] Since you were shot?
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[his own expression is perfectly - probably quite annoyingly - placid about this whole thing. but of course he's not, not really. he's fucking furious, though he's smart enough to know embry is going to want to lick his own wounds before he opens up if ever about what he's been through. there's a part of him that wonders if he's even accepted what it is that happened to him or if he's playing the game of denial just like he does every time ash glances his way. it's still a strange thing to feel like he wants to let him open up and spill his guts about everything, regardless of how or if it cuts hawk himself. months ago when he'd first walked in and realized this was a past fling, he would have headed straight for the door and insisted this kind of shit was above his paygrade.
and now?
now he smoothly pushes himself up and out of the chair after downing his own whiskey and casually takes his time loosening his tie on the way to the distinctive sleeping area that embry is sulking on one side of. it's easy reading between the lines now - come here, get in with me, even if it sounds more like a generic statement of fact. the strip of silk is tossed casually on one of the bolted down nightstands, hawk slipping off his own blazer and hanging it in the very same space across the bed on what is clearly now his side. then comes his belt too, shoes, and his shirt and undershirt, leaving his chest bare without the intention of letting his scar come into view again. it's funny how unthinking it is at times when it once was the center of his entire goddamn life - answering prying questions, trying to move past the trauma that had put it there.
it's a testament to his state of mostly recovered that he steps up to the bed, fingers running light against the top of the mattress as he gazes down at embry. even in his obvious exhaustion he manages to look achingly good - enough that hawk wishes whatever this unspoken schism between them might mend itself back together and let him have the privilege of barreling back towards whatever it was they were about to be. christ, he sounds like a fucking high schooler.
hawk sits at the edge first before kicking up his feet, crossing them at the ankles and resting a bent arm underneath his head like an extra pillow. his chin turns, enough that he can face embry halfway - letting him decide if he wants to meet him halfway or turn away all together.]
No.
[if he was feeling petty he might ask about prague. but he's not.]
But there's no hard feelings - I told you I wanted to retire there, didn't I? Besides, Velletri's a long way south. Practically a whole new world, or whatever the hell they sing about.
[it's your turn to recuperate, he almost says, knowing better. but his own voice dips into a quiet rumble, unable to keep the affection from seeping into it.]
Would you visit? If I park myself up in a nice villa, waterside, and pick up sailing in my old age?
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now there's hawk, retiring by the italian coast, escaping the misery of politics for sunny sailing and fucking on the beach. embry can't imagine leaving the city, can't imagine leaving politics, can't imagine a happy ending because everything he wants is nothing he can ever keep. eventually he won't be in office anymore, and hawk will move on, and ash already has, and embry will have no excuses to be around either of them. ]
Yeah, I'd visit. [ he has his face turned away, staring at some unidentifiable blank space on the far wall, his brow creased. ] Catch you up on everything you missed in DC. Morgan and I are lifers in this. I'm always gonna be better at sailing than you are though, so I'd probably have to fly over just to teach you anyway.
[ he turns his back to hawk, swiping his eyes against the sleek pillowcase as he yanks the sheets up to his chin. guilt churns in his belly alongside his anger — and everything else that's eating him up alive. ]
I want a brief when I wake up. [ his words feel like lead. ] I want an update on the public perception of the tape, whoever's they think it is. We're not going to ignore what's happening just because we're fleeing the country. Goodnight.
[ it doesn't take long for sleep to take him, considering how much whiskey he knocked back in such a short amount of time, but he dreams about carpathia for the time in years. he dreams about bullets, and dag dying slowly in his arms, how he'd begged for embry to tell his sister and how many times embry kept calling and calling even though he knew there was no signal that could reach her. he dreams about being carried on ash's back while flickering in and out of consciousness, certain of his death, every sense alight with pain.
he hears ash calling his name — no, not ash, the tone isn't quite right. he feels hands on him, and suddenly he's back in his bed, his limbs heavy with too much liquor or drugs or both, and he can't make his mouth say no. he should have just said no. how could he have missed a camera? how could he have missed an entire night of sex? he's frantic as he tries to get away, tangled up in a mess of sweaty sheets until he abruptly shudders awake, lurching upright, his eyes wide and his dark hair clinging to his temples. panic closes his throat, a muffled sound coming from somewhere in his chest as he shuts his eyes, trying to draw in a breath. ]
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Sure thing. Goodnight, Embry.
[sleep doesn't come to him right away, because there's a sneaking concern that embry might not be able to fall asleep. even as his own eyelids sink down and try to pull shut in protestation, hawk waits sharp-eared for the soft lull of breathing evening out and the hum of the jet before he lets himself give in to his own mostly-earned slumber. and that should be it - a few hours, a couple time zone jumps, and they wake up to mimosas and a message from their pilot that italy awaits.
except of fucking course it's not.
embry's been through a trauma worse than any other, by someone he knew no less. hawk's upright within seconds of feeling rustling next to him, too light a sleeper and too unused to having a body occupy the space next to him for anything else. that and old habits die hard from his days in velletri - the need for quick response times between catching shut-eye at inopportune moments with varying degrees of discomfort. he's still exhausted, knowing it can't have been more than a few hours since they'd both slept before this sank in. he can hear embry's shaky breathing, the sounds of struggle between the sheets and and against the bed, and another wounded noise like he's trying to cry out and just can't.
hawk is up in an instant, fingers closing firm around his shoulders with one hand and feeling the damp seeping through his expensive dress shirt from where he was too tired to remove it. he rucks the sheets down, tugging them away from embry so he can feel less trapped before lifting his other hand back up to brush the hair away from his face and get him to open his eyes into awareness.]
Embry - Embry. It's Hawk - wake up.
Listen to me, you're safe.
[he's fully prepared for whatever happens - embry trying to wrench away, or coming to the startled realization that this was a nightmare. his voice is soft, gentle in its insistence to get him to open his eyes.]
I'm here.
[and he's not fucking going anywhere else.]
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but, ironically, he can't fuck this away. there are several hazy moments that he thinks it's ash in his bed, holding firm to his shoulder, and embry shakes his head, almost breaking into laughter at the thought that after all these years, he's never, ever chosen a safe word. ]
No. I'm not doing this with you. I'm not fucking playing this game with you.
[ but his voice hasn't been right from the start. all of a sudden hawk's familiar scent comes to him, warm leather and smoke, and his eyes snap open at the brush of his fingers against the sweat at his temples. his gaze tilts and sharpens with realization, hawk's shadowed silhouette coming into focus, his perfectly coiffed hair undone in dark waves, the lines of his muscled torso etched like a painting in the darkness. embry, on the other hand, feels like he's woken up on the floor of a bar, and his mouth tastes like he's been licking it.
he runs a hand quickly over his face, his breath heavy in the quiet, the sound of the jet's engine grounding him. in truth, it's hawk's presence that does that — hawk's presence that he's missed since he lost it. since he'd driven ash like a wedge between them for no reason at all, since ash isn't the one he lies awake thinking about at night. he misses ash like an old, painful thorn in his side — hard to explain when there aren't words for how badly embry needed what ash gave him. but it's been fifteen years since he first looked into ash's eyes, and embry isn't the same hot-headed soldier chasing death that he was at twenty-one when they met. the destructive little prince still lives inside of him, but it'd taken all of one look at hawk to realize this was a man who would relish putting him in his place.
and for the first time in years, embry wanted to know more. he'd been well on his way — he'd danced with hawk, kissed and fucked him, listened to him grieve, waited on his goddamn doorstep willingly because hawk is an asshole who never gave him a key. and then he fucked it up. he'd watched hawk's eyes shutter, every open part of him slam shut in the face of embry's selfishness. and embry hasn't fixed it, because — why bother when he knows he's just going to ruin it all over again? ]
I'm fine.
[ his eyes have been pathetically glued to hawk this entire time, and he finally looks away, blinking hard as if he can shake away the impression of his figure. it would be so much easier if he could just lean over and kiss him, if he could fall back into old bad habits of forgetting, but he can't. everything's too fucked up between them — and everything's too fucked up inside of him, besides. ]
Go back to sleep.
[ embry eases back down, slouching against the padded wall as he pulls his pillow up behind him, knowing he won't get any more sleep tonight. he reaches for his phone, finally turning it back on, only for the screen to light up with dozens of notifications scrolling down endlessly that he's missed in the hours he's been offline. he scrubs a hand through his hair, his face lit a hazy blue as he stares at the newsflashes, emails, twitter alerts, texts messages, and goddamn smoke signals reflecting back at him. ]
I'm sorry I woke you. Can't remember what I was dreaming about. [ it's such an egregious lie that embry looks at hawk for a moment, his brow tense. ] Just don't, okay? We land in less than two hours. You can spend that time sleeping or jerking off or reading the goddamn Constitution for all I care, just don't point out the fucking obvious.