[it is unfair. it's unfair the ease in which embry answers his question, deftly sidestepping anything incriminating or elaborating on the kind of relationship he has with the man himself. there's a story there, and if hawk's defenses were feeling less unstable, he'd find a way to dig and draw it out. turn the tables and try to counteract the fact that more or less, this isn't his turf, and even if it technically isn't embry's either he's the one that's been here long enough to know how to navigate it. the heat is almost stifling at this point in a way that makes his head swim like the night after tim was shipped off on his marching orders and hawk had drank himself stupid in the privacy of his own bachelor pad, days numbered as if a clock was plastered on the door ticking down to the end of his freedom. he eyes embry across the way, a politely pleasant look on his face as he listens for any tells, and receiving none, offers an amused shrug.]
Awful long way for someone to go on the Yellow Brick Road and wind up becoming Oz.
[wizard of oz is still relevant, right? all of this is a gamble, and it makes hawk's chest tighten like he's going to be facing down a firing squad any minute now. nevermind that there's clear debauchery that would make an eye-watering report for the brass back home. nevermind that it's an assortment of men and women and men and men and women and women he sees in various states of smoked out and undressed - and nevermind that no one seems to be ready to bust down the doors and arrest them any minute. this makes even the goddamn chicken hut look like a convent.
and then embry slides into his lap, hands trailing light against him and making every bit of skin feel trapped under fabric and not experiencing the full multitude of bare, soft fingertips. of course the first thing he does is tense up, jaw tight and lips pursed with his eyes flaring in warning - don't fucking do this - as his hand shoots out and grips embry's wrist. not hard, not tight or enough to bruise, but halfway between a warning or a plea as he keeps talking like this is some droll little history lesson. and in a way it is - because it means all of this is in the past, someday. he'd known he would survive it after the engagement and the damn polygraph.]
It is a goddamn witch hunt. One resignation per day over the wrong stride, a tremor in the voice. This rate, they might think my own mother was queer.
[it's the easiest thing to say, voice raspy as he stubs out his cigarette in the ashtray on the table and lets his other one lift to splay across the skin between embry's collar and clavicle, thumb stroking against it with a hum. inexplicably, some of that tension seems to bleed out at being seen, and while feeling this exposed isn't a sensation he likes - at least it feels like there's a release. that embry won't rat him out to the feds, if they even exist here, and he doesn't seem to care about hiding here and now. his fingers lift, dragging all the way up his neck and feeling the way his neck is damp from the humidity, enough that he can pull it across his immaculate jawline and tip his head just so for his own perusal, trying to regain some of the power he thinks he's lost.]
Is that a complaint, Mr. Moore?
[hawk finally lets himself give in, shoulders slacking and cock twitching. embry's wrist is released - but instead one palm splays over his ass and drags his hips inward.]
no subject
Awful long way for someone to go on the Yellow Brick Road and wind up becoming Oz.
[wizard of oz is still relevant, right? all of this is a gamble, and it makes hawk's chest tighten like he's going to be facing down a firing squad any minute now. nevermind that there's clear debauchery that would make an eye-watering report for the brass back home. nevermind that it's an assortment of men and women and men and men and women and women he sees in various states of smoked out and undressed - and nevermind that no one seems to be ready to bust down the doors and arrest them any minute. this makes even the goddamn chicken hut look like a convent.
and then embry slides into his lap, hands trailing light against him and making every bit of skin feel trapped under fabric and not experiencing the full multitude of bare, soft fingertips. of course the first thing he does is tense up, jaw tight and lips pursed with his eyes flaring in warning - don't fucking do this - as his hand shoots out and grips embry's wrist. not hard, not tight or enough to bruise, but halfway between a warning or a plea as he keeps talking like this is some droll little history lesson. and in a way it is - because it means all of this is in the past, someday. he'd known he would survive it after the engagement and the damn polygraph.]
It is a goddamn witch hunt. One resignation per day over the wrong stride, a tremor in the voice. This rate, they might think my own mother was queer.
[it's the easiest thing to say, voice raspy as he stubs out his cigarette in the ashtray on the table and lets his other one lift to splay across the skin between embry's collar and clavicle, thumb stroking against it with a hum. inexplicably, some of that tension seems to bleed out at being seen, and while feeling this exposed isn't a sensation he likes - at least it feels like there's a release. that embry won't rat him out to the feds, if they even exist here, and he doesn't seem to care about hiding here and now. his fingers lift, dragging all the way up his neck and feeling the way his neck is damp from the humidity, enough that he can pull it across his immaculate jawline and tip his head just so for his own perusal, trying to regain some of the power he thinks he's lost.]
Is that a complaint, Mr. Moore?
[hawk finally lets himself give in, shoulders slacking and cock twitching. embry's wrist is released - but instead one palm splays over his ass and drags his hips inward.]
I'm looking at you.