[ there's little that tim will remember in the hazy, sleepy moments where hawk pulls the covers up over his shoulders, removes his glasses, and layers another thick blanket on him. he's exhausted beyond belief and it's a miracle he hears anything about up the hall before his eyes flutter shut.
the bed lulls him into a listless sleep, the covers tight around him and the smell of hawk's aftershave on the pillow utterly overwhelms him. if he'd been more awake, more lucid, he might think deeper into the fact that the scent alone takes the tension out of his shoulders, makes him breathe a little easier, helps him relax. but he isn't. and so he drifts into fitful sleep.
at first he dreams of nothing but endless dark - sleeping so deeply that he doesn't even move in the pile of the blankets, simply settles. but it doesn't last long. the chills turn into vicious sweats and the dark void of his sleep turns into a frenzied recollection of memories. it's first his childhood home and the fire and brimstone of his church. the preacher screaming something incoherent, fire in his eyes and hate on his tongue. it all morphs itself into the scene at the pizzeria, the bald client he met somehow morphing into the very face of the preacher himself, with grubby hands and greedy lips, and the last thing he sees is the man dipping in against his neck when he snaps awake.
he feels like his whole body is going to catch on fire and sweat pours from his temples. at first, he moves too quickly and the room spins viciously. it's dark, but there's a faint light from the hallway. it's not his dorm room and that causes another hint of panic at first - tim scrambling from the covers and all but rolling out of the bed. he hits the floor with a soft thump and comes up groaning.
professor fuller.
he's at professor fuller's.
he's caught between feeling miserably ill and dizzy, the heat having utterly done him in. pushing himself up to his feet he wanders to the bathroom attached to the bedroom and stands at the sink for a moment. he looks pale in the mirror, gaunt, with dark circles under his eyes, sweat stippling his brow and he pulls the old tshirt off - it's drenched, and he has little foresight to put it anywhere but the floor, desperate to get it off and cool down.
the world seems to calm down behind his eyes, but it doesn't change the fact that he feels utterly shaken. idly he wonders what god would think if he saw him now, if he could confront him and confess the myriad of sins that got him to this point. how many hours would it take in prayer to make it to the golden gates with some semblance of a chance at a better life?
it makes his blood run cold, makes that pull of panic come back and he stumbles out of the bathroom, away from his own reflection. he's unsteady on his feet when he leaves the bedroom, and he cannot quite remember at first just where the man said he'd be.
it takes a few moments of steadying himself, of that same deep breathing from before, in order to make it to the little office across the hall. at first, he doesn't quite see where the man has ended up, until he catches sight of the chair turned toward the door. there he is, leaned back, and he almost doesn't move any further, letting him stay asleep with no interruption.
but his hands shake, his breathing comes quick, and the idea of going back to that bedroom and being alone makes his stomach churn. so he steps into the office, headed to the chair opposite the desk when he bumps it, knocking some kind of paperweight off his desk. he's sure he hears it crack, whatever it is - but he's too woozy to deal with it. instead, he plops himself down in the chair, grimacing at the way the leather sticks to his sweat-dampened bare back. ]
Professor?
[ he doesn't want to wake him. in fact, he should just go back and get his own clothes and head to the door. go back to campus and pretend this didn't happen.
he's not even sure he can make it home. he closes his eyes and pulls his legs up into the chair, to his bare chest, and lets his head rest against the back for a moment. ]
no subject
the bed lulls him into a listless sleep, the covers tight around him and the smell of hawk's aftershave on the pillow utterly overwhelms him. if he'd been more awake, more lucid, he might think deeper into the fact that the scent alone takes the tension out of his shoulders, makes him breathe a little easier, helps him relax. but he isn't. and so he drifts into fitful sleep.
at first he dreams of nothing but endless dark - sleeping so deeply that he doesn't even move in the pile of the blankets, simply settles. but it doesn't last long. the chills turn into vicious sweats and the dark void of his sleep turns into a frenzied recollection of memories. it's first his childhood home and the fire and brimstone of his church. the preacher screaming something incoherent, fire in his eyes and hate on his tongue. it all morphs itself into the scene at the pizzeria, the bald client he met somehow morphing into the very face of the preacher himself, with grubby hands and greedy lips, and the last thing he sees is the man dipping in against his neck when he snaps awake.
he feels like his whole body is going to catch on fire and sweat pours from his temples. at first, he moves too quickly and the room spins viciously. it's dark, but there's a faint light from the hallway. it's not his dorm room and that causes another hint of panic at first - tim scrambling from the covers and all but rolling out of the bed. he hits the floor with a soft thump and comes up groaning.
professor fuller.
he's at professor fuller's.
he's caught between feeling miserably ill and dizzy, the heat having utterly done him in. pushing himself up to his feet he wanders to the bathroom attached to the bedroom and stands at the sink for a moment. he looks pale in the mirror, gaunt, with dark circles under his eyes, sweat stippling his brow and he pulls the old tshirt off - it's drenched, and he has little foresight to put it anywhere but the floor, desperate to get it off and cool down.
the world seems to calm down behind his eyes, but it doesn't change the fact that he feels utterly shaken. idly he wonders what god would think if he saw him now, if he could confront him and confess the myriad of sins that got him to this point. how many hours would it take in prayer to make it to the golden gates with some semblance of a chance at a better life?
it makes his blood run cold, makes that pull of panic come back and he stumbles out of the bathroom, away from his own reflection. he's unsteady on his feet when he leaves the bedroom, and he cannot quite remember at first just where the man said he'd be.
it takes a few moments of steadying himself, of that same deep breathing from before, in order to make it to the little office across the hall. at first, he doesn't quite see where the man has ended up, until he catches sight of the chair turned toward the door. there he is, leaned back, and he almost doesn't move any further, letting him stay asleep with no interruption.
but his hands shake, his breathing comes quick, and the idea of going back to that bedroom and being alone makes his stomach churn. so he steps into the office, headed to the chair opposite the desk when he bumps it, knocking some kind of paperweight off his desk. he's sure he hears it crack, whatever it is - but he's too woozy to deal with it. instead, he plops himself down in the chair, grimacing at the way the leather sticks to his sweat-dampened bare back. ]
Professor?
[ he doesn't want to wake him. in fact, he should just go back and get his own clothes and head to the door. go back to campus and pretend this didn't happen.
he's not even sure he can make it home. he closes his eyes and pulls his legs up into the chair, to his bare chest, and lets his head rest against the back for a moment. ]