[it is a bad time. a fucking terrible time. it's partly his own damn fault - mind racing between the possibility that tim really is just here for some advice on his paper or that he's here because his own resolve is crumbling. but they're so close to that tentative finish line, to christmas and freedom, even if it comes with its own new set of constraints. but it means no more looking without being able to touch - spending nights together, of kissing tim breathless and getting to feel the way he trembles with every touch that come from hawk's hands instead of his own under makeshift instruction. it's just one more goddamn paper about a topic that tonight he can't bring himself to care much about, frustration prickling under his skin as he lifts a hand to press his thumb and forefinger over both eyes briefly as tim stakes claim over the space that is universally known now as his.
behind the shield of his own skin dragging across his eyelids, he can glance fleetingly at the way tim's eyes light up, the determination and dogged insistence even as he's trying to warm himself up with his own physical touch. it makes hawk ache to reach out and kiss each fingertip, to tell him to forget about all of that and just be here in the warmth with an invitation to just...be. for once in his life he doesn't give a shit about policy or propaganda, he wants to forego every excuse they've had to use to be close this entire semester.
but he can't do that, quiet as he listens to the explanation and wills himself to ignore the flash of skin and the way he can practically feel tim's nervous energy emanating across his desk as he reaches for both papers. his eyes skim across the original - a fine piece of work on its own, solid critiques and well-justified arguments. but he can see where it takes a detour, and he doesn't finish it before swapping over to the second and skimming the change in tone: the tongue-lashing, fiery takedown that would have even some of his most liberal counterparts uneasy for how far he's plowed past into near conspiracy theory.
hawk sets them both down, one hand holding them flat against the desk as he reaches for a pen without looking up at tim.]
Sit back down.
[there's something slightly forceful in the way he says it, flipping the cap off and letting it drag red mark after red mark across the page in deep silence.]
Do you remember what I said you to when you walked into this classroom after the first two weeks and turned in that paper on foreign policies shaped by American socioeconomics?
[don't be so naive, don't get carried away, stay rooted in the facts - all along those lines as he watched an overzealous tim make the first impressions of an intelligent, formidable student in his classroom. but he'd needed shaping around the edges - smoothing out the parts that tended to let him get dragged down into the depths of something deeper and more difficult to articulate. hawk pushes his chair back, sliding the paper across the desk for tim to take and read as he gets up and circles around the wood tabletop slowly. there's something measured in his steps, deliberate as he comes round and stands directly behind tim in his seat. his hands drop to the back of the chair, close enough to feel the warmth emanating from tim's body. to press his own up against it if he chose - but he doesn't yet.]
no subject
behind the shield of his own skin dragging across his eyelids, he can glance fleetingly at the way tim's eyes light up, the determination and dogged insistence even as he's trying to warm himself up with his own physical touch. it makes hawk ache to reach out and kiss each fingertip, to tell him to forget about all of that and just be here in the warmth with an invitation to just...be. for once in his life he doesn't give a shit about policy or propaganda, he wants to forego every excuse they've had to use to be close this entire semester.
but he can't do that, quiet as he listens to the explanation and wills himself to ignore the flash of skin and the way he can practically feel tim's nervous energy emanating across his desk as he reaches for both papers. his eyes skim across the original - a fine piece of work on its own, solid critiques and well-justified arguments. but he can see where it takes a detour, and he doesn't finish it before swapping over to the second and skimming the change in tone: the tongue-lashing, fiery takedown that would have even some of his most liberal counterparts uneasy for how far he's plowed past into near conspiracy theory.
hawk sets them both down, one hand holding them flat against the desk as he reaches for a pen without looking up at tim.]
Sit back down.
[there's something slightly forceful in the way he says it, flipping the cap off and letting it drag red mark after red mark across the page in deep silence.]
Do you remember what I said you to when you walked into this classroom after the first two weeks and turned in that paper on foreign policies shaped by American socioeconomics?
[don't be so naive, don't get carried away, stay rooted in the facts - all along those lines as he watched an overzealous tim make the first impressions of an intelligent, formidable student in his classroom. but he'd needed shaping around the edges - smoothing out the parts that tended to let him get dragged down into the depths of something deeper and more difficult to articulate. hawk pushes his chair back, sliding the paper across the desk for tim to take and read as he gets up and circles around the wood tabletop slowly. there's something measured in his steps, deliberate as he comes round and stands directly behind tim in his seat. his hands drop to the back of the chair, close enough to feel the warmth emanating from tim's body. to press his own up against it if he chose - but he doesn't yet.]
Tell me.