( hawks had always been easy for him to read--but that isn't to say that he doesn't at least acknowledge that the show he puts on, the charm, the smile, the laughter...it all works for other people, just not for him. and that's no fault of hawks' talents, really, but simply the reality of his own pessimism: he doesn't trust anyone, doesn't believe in anything to begin with. it had been easy, back then, to figure out that there was no way in hell hawks truly supported the league--but then, it had been better for his own machinations to let hawks continue to weave his way among them.

so there's a soft chuckle, bemused, as he twists back to face the bar again, watching the lights dance off all the bottles lined up on mirrored shelves. )

It's nice to have you on your back where you belong.

( and that's the most honest he thinks he's willing to be--he could admit that it had been a little fun, could admit that hawks isn't a bad fuck, but why say things that he's sure the hero already knows? he's young and popular, way more liked than the monstrosity sitting at number one on the hero charts; hawks doesn't need him to stroke his ego.

he takes another slow swallow of beer, still not looking at him. )

If you get lonely, you know where to find me. ( one hand lifts: a little wiggle of his wrist in indication, the watch there obvious. ) These things work like phones. There's a whole dating app and shit, too. Bet you'll find plenty of people to help you pass the time.

( --which isn't an insult, really: hawks knows his way around people. )