[sleep comes a lot slower to hawk, but the exhaustion wears in deep and somewhere between realizing he left his bag of papers at work and listening for any sounds of movement up the hall, sleep overtakes him. his neck certainly won't thank him in the morning considering he doesn't even make it over to the elegant, sprawling chaise lounge in the corner that's never seen action a day in its life and is instead tipped against the high-backed leather chair behind his desk with his hands folded over his stomach. thank god his sleep is soundless - no dreams to speak of, because he's not sure he could handle the idea of his fantasies haunting him while the object of them is on the opposite side of the wall in his bed. that, and he absolutely doesn't need to wake up with morning wood.
the thing about living alone for so long is that he's gotten used to the regular creaks here from old wood parquet floors, the occasional icebox deposit from the fridge, and dc traffic quiet but constant and faded into the background outside. he's not a light sleeper by any means - but anything out of the ordinary would startle him awake, which it does when tim takes a mild tumble. it's a louder than expected thump, the kind that has him groggily coming to, sleep still trying to keep his eyes closed even as he fights to claw back into awareness. maybe it was just a bird, something outside - until he realizes there are soft footsteps, a door opening, water running. it pulls at him even further to keep fighting the lull of sleep that threatens to drag him back down. and then the footsteps grow louder, like they're right before him, followed by a cracking noise that may as well be deafening. he doesn't hear tim at first, eyes widening as he shoots up in his seat and grips the edge of his desk with his heartbeat racing and tries to take stock of everything immediately in front of him. pens, a pair of scissors, a letter opener - until he looks at the vintage clock on his desk reading just after 3am and realizes what happened mere hours ago. it's not an intruder, it's -
tim.
only then do his eyes drag up, a quiet exhale of relief when he realizes it's just the boy sitting across from him, cradling himself like he needs to be rocked back to sleep. it's been hours and his hair still looks damp, skin pale and gleaming under the overhead lights he'd forgotten to turn off. hawk rubs a hand over his mouth, blinking a few times and trying to calm the way his heart is fluttering in his chest far too rapidly at the startle.]
Jesus, Tim - are you alright?
[he realizes the mistake almost immediately, that tim had to get out of bed and walk (stumble, more like) all the way over here. he'd put himself just out of arms reach. again. and now he's sitting here looking even smaller than ever, strong arms wrapped around the tops of his knees and head dipped back like he's trying to stop the world from spinning once again. it gives hawk the perfect, inconvenient view of his clavicle - the top of his chest and the beautifully carved muscles he's only gotten glimpses of on a dark computer screen and not even in 4k or hd. this is the real thing.
he licks his lips, pushing up onto his feet and slowly coming around to the seat. his voice is lower than usual with roughness around the consonants, the kind that comes from disuse and early mornings with poor sleep and a much lower register.]
Must have dozed off. I was going to come check on you, but you beat me to it.
[he kneels down next to the chair, knowing it's a stupid question to ask how he's feeling if he had to make the trek over and considering how he looks and what he's been through. two and some hours isn't going to magically fix this. his palm presses against tim's forehead, absently brushing some of his hair back as a frown furrows his brows again.]
Christ, you're burning up. I'll turn up the air, but let's get you back to bed, c'mon.
no subject
the thing about living alone for so long is that he's gotten used to the regular creaks here from old wood parquet floors, the occasional icebox deposit from the fridge, and dc traffic quiet but constant and faded into the background outside. he's not a light sleeper by any means - but anything out of the ordinary would startle him awake, which it does when tim takes a mild tumble. it's a louder than expected thump, the kind that has him groggily coming to, sleep still trying to keep his eyes closed even as he fights to claw back into awareness. maybe it was just a bird, something outside - until he realizes there are soft footsteps, a door opening, water running. it pulls at him even further to keep fighting the lull of sleep that threatens to drag him back down. and then the footsteps grow louder, like they're right before him, followed by a cracking noise that may as well be deafening. he doesn't hear tim at first, eyes widening as he shoots up in his seat and grips the edge of his desk with his heartbeat racing and tries to take stock of everything immediately in front of him. pens, a pair of scissors, a letter opener - until he looks at the vintage clock on his desk reading just after 3am and realizes what happened mere hours ago. it's not an intruder, it's -
tim.
only then do his eyes drag up, a quiet exhale of relief when he realizes it's just the boy sitting across from him, cradling himself like he needs to be rocked back to sleep. it's been hours and his hair still looks damp, skin pale and gleaming under the overhead lights he'd forgotten to turn off. hawk rubs a hand over his mouth, blinking a few times and trying to calm the way his heart is fluttering in his chest far too rapidly at the startle.]
Jesus, Tim - are you alright?
[he realizes the mistake almost immediately, that tim had to get out of bed and walk (stumble, more like) all the way over here. he'd put himself just out of arms reach. again. and now he's sitting here looking even smaller than ever, strong arms wrapped around the tops of his knees and head dipped back like he's trying to stop the world from spinning once again. it gives hawk the perfect, inconvenient view of his clavicle - the top of his chest and the beautifully carved muscles he's only gotten glimpses of on a dark computer screen and not even in 4k or hd. this is the real thing.
he licks his lips, pushing up onto his feet and slowly coming around to the seat. his voice is lower than usual with roughness around the consonants, the kind that comes from disuse and early mornings with poor sleep and a much lower register.]
Must have dozed off. I was going to come check on you, but you beat me to it.
[he kneels down next to the chair, knowing it's a stupid question to ask how he's feeling if he had to make the trek over and considering how he looks and what he's been through. two and some hours isn't going to magically fix this. his palm presses against tim's forehead, absently brushing some of his hair back as a frown furrows his brows again.]
Christ, you're burning up. I'll turn up the air, but let's get you back to bed, c'mon.
Let me help you.