[it's a little open-ended on purpose, because quite frankly hawk is curious to see what tim will do at this point. there's still a twinge of guilt at how he'd managed to crush his confidence back on the snowy streets of dupont circle some months ago - how much time it had taken to rebuild it with a combination of his own coaxing and tim's fierce will. but both of them have always managed to shy away from this - to take it just to the line of impropriety and take a quick brush against it before settling back into the comfort of their roles - the professor, the warm smile, the open door, and the student, the ingénue, the thinker. hawk knows how many glances he's stolen - how many nights he's laid awake in bed staring at the ceiling and resolutely trying not to let his thoughts wanter to his previous activities with a certain skippy. strange that he never really wondered if tim was doing the exact same thing, or if it was still tied to some misguided need to do the honorable thing and pay him back.

but his boy doesn't back down. doesn't shy away, and if he were playing on a technicality he didn't technically stay, dragging one foot forward and letting his hand press against the meat of hawk's thigh with a touch that may as well be a brand for how hot it feels with an unfair layer of fabric between skin to skin. fuck, what he wouldn't give to do the same - or to snake an arm around his trim waist, to hoist him up and around onto the flat surface of his desk and just...

there's another audible exhale, low and ragged and nearly animalistic for the way it's dragged out of him tinged with sheer want. tim is so fucking close, enough that one wrong inhale and their chests might brush. that he might feel the solidity of his body, and he can absolutely smell the fresh shampoo as those wayward strands of chestnut brush just shy of imperceptible against his cheek and his jaw. the soft, fluttering warmth of tim's shuddering breath against his neck nearly makes him lose all his carefully crafted restraint - and the god he doesn't believe in better fucking help him when his nose brushes at the skin under his jaw.

there's another shuddering breath, hawk glancing down the narrow bridge of his nose to take in how tim looks like this - pleased with himself, because he's managed a reaction out of hawk which is no small feat. or maybe mixed with pleasure at following orders so well, another callback to all their time spent together. part of him always wondered if it was part of the act - a couple of easy answers and simon says to make a quick buck. but this? this cements it once and for all. tim laughlin likes being ordered around.

shit. fuck.

that thought winds its way all the way down into his stomach, pooling hot and sending an aching throb straight through his dick. his thigh presses a little more insistently against tim's knee, hands white-knuckled against the desk like it's a goddamn lifeline.]

That's right.

[hawk leans in, letting the murmur of it come nearly close enough to brush against the shell of tim's ear from his lips.]

You're gonna swallow your pride, get him wrapped around your finger, and then you're going to get what you want.

[except - that sounds an awful lot like -

hawk stands abruptly, nudging tim back by the way his body moves and carefully sidesteps him back to his desk. any longer and he's not sure he could still...]

You can come show it to me when you're underway.

[there's a pause, and hawk drags his chair into the edge of his desk, hands folding atop them again.]

And one more thing.

[not a question, and not optional. his eyes are still filled with that smolder of heat, watching tim across the imposed distance that's for both of their safety now.]

The bruises. Tell me what they're from.