[it's not funny - and hawk doesn't even crack a conspiratorial smile or nod absently at it, instead looking momentarily uncomfortable at the admission. not because he doesn't want to hear it, but because he can empathize on some level when it comes to using whatever means necessary in the name of diplomacy and democracy sometimes, even at the expense of one's soul and especially comfort levels. as if vivienne moore is even aware there's such a thing as morals when it comes to pimping out her children, though morgan isn't even a remote thought in hawk's head right now. but it does make hawk think about embry as a child for a brief, almost uncomfortable moment - and fuck if it doesn't just twist the knife that it also makes him think about the person he was before he got on his knees for a boy he thought he loved and changed the trajectory of his life forever when the door opened and his father disowned him. was he soft like that, once upon a time? sweet and bright-eyed, with optimism for the world instead of the cesspool of ulterior motives and sticky flypaper favors?
he wishes the cigarette wasn't dwindled down so he could snatch it back and take a deep inhale, though at least embry isn't looking at him right now to see the complicated emotions flickering on his face in a moment of exceedingly rare vulnerability. all of this is foreign to him - the tight, palpable tension between them and the way he's desperate for embry to get to the point of whatever this visit is, whatever they've unironically been speaking around.
and then he's up close, eye-to-eye and surely taking in every imperfection hawk has let seep out through lack of care. but he's still hawkins fuller - and that means he's got enough confidence to stand up straight, tip his chin with the tiniest of smirks and brush back a few errant curls that have flopped forward onto his forehead before letting his hand slip easily against embry's warm shoulder and take the position he's been tasked with.]
Far be it from me to disregard all your previous waltzing woes. I'm just the guy working for you - whatever you say, boss.
[there's a hint of his usual playfulness, still a little tired sounding even as he musters it up and lets his fingers flex lightly against embry's hand.
but a part of him can't resist - leaning in close in a motion that could just be closing the gap and preparing for the first three-count, instead murmuring near his ear.]
But isn't the man supposed to put his hand near the waist? Go on, then.
[he can play woman, sure, but somehow even in a state of severe fucked-up-ness he can still find it in him to seize the upper hand and take the metaphorical lead. but he's pulled back enough to watch every flicker across the contours of embry's face, drinking it in like a replacement for the scotch he's tried to drown himself with all night.
christ, he's too goddamn handsome for his own good.]
no subject
he wishes the cigarette wasn't dwindled down so he could snatch it back and take a deep inhale, though at least embry isn't looking at him right now to see the complicated emotions flickering on his face in a moment of exceedingly rare vulnerability. all of this is foreign to him - the tight, palpable tension between them and the way he's desperate for embry to get to the point of whatever this visit is, whatever they've unironically been speaking around.
and then he's up close, eye-to-eye and surely taking in every imperfection hawk has let seep out through lack of care. but he's still hawkins fuller - and that means he's got enough confidence to stand up straight, tip his chin with the tiniest of smirks and brush back a few errant curls that have flopped forward onto his forehead before letting his hand slip easily against embry's warm shoulder and take the position he's been tasked with.]
Far be it from me to disregard all your previous waltzing woes. I'm just the guy working for you - whatever you say, boss.
[there's a hint of his usual playfulness, still a little tired sounding even as he musters it up and lets his fingers flex lightly against embry's hand.
but a part of him can't resist - leaning in close in a motion that could just be closing the gap and preparing for the first three-count, instead murmuring near his ear.]
But isn't the man supposed to put his hand near the waist? Go on, then.
[he can play woman, sure, but somehow even in a state of severe fucked-up-ness he can still find it in him to seize the upper hand and take the metaphorical lead. but he's pulled back enough to watch every flicker across the contours of embry's face, drinking it in like a replacement for the scotch he's tried to drown himself with all night.
christ, he's too goddamn handsome for his own good.]