( it's that same feeling again: that same feeling, seeing the glimpse of those feathers, a glimpse of that golden hair. for a second, just a second, he thinks maybe the resort is fucking with him; maybe it's just a hallucination, brought on by this ridiculous party, that there's no way hawks could be here again after everything. hell, hadn't he just recently dressed that statue of him up for christmas, and presented it to that stupid hero kid like some kind of peace offering? and now there's this: now there's hawks himself, weaving his way through crowds, eating and laughing and drinking, like he's brand new, like he's never been here before in his life.

strange. he doesn't think hawks remembered it the last time either--forgot all about their stupid fake wedding, the honeymoon suite, the arcade, all of it. the result of what happens when someone gets turned into a statue? or could it be something else entirely?

he follows him because he's curious, because there's nothing else better to do in this damn party; by the time that hawks bumps into him, he's been tailing him from the bar, and with that little jostling, his own drink threatens to spill, a glass of three fingers of whiskey, neat, that licks at the glass and settles before staining his hand, or worse, his neat suit. )

Seems like you're always in your cups, hero. ( with the slow curve of a smile, bemused. ) Almost wasted my drink, here. Think that means you're buying the next round.

( pointedly, he lifts his glass--and swallows down a mouthful, nearly draining it, in indication. )

You miss me this time, pretty bird? ( between swallows: he tips the glass again, drinking it dry. ) Haven't seen you in awhile.