[when's the last time hawk wanted something? not something - someone - this goddamn bad? it's not just the simple kind of want that can be forgotten and tucked away under the name of professionalism either - it's the kind that aches deep enough that sometimes hawk thinks he might be having another one of his episodes the way it squeezes in his chest and makes his limbs tremble in restraint. it's wrong to think of embry like that, like he's the perfect imitation of all the other sleazy directors and executives who think hollywood is just their playground of easy pickings. but sometimes he's not so sure embry sees it that way - not when he seems to find every spare moment to put himself in hawk's presence. ever since he'd stopped seeing greer the naps in his office and late nights to steal bits and pieces of hawk's dinner when he used to spend that time alone working himself to the bone has experienced a significant uptick.

sometimes the tension is unbearable, just like the way light of the waning la skyline looks across the curve of embry's immaculate profile or the tumble of his curls begs to be touched.

like right now - the way he settles into hawk's lap with a careful easy, hand warm against his shoulder and weight somehow perfect against his thigh. if hawk weren't so fucking drunk he might notice the way embry's pupils are blown too wide, how all of this should feel wrong. he might be more cognizant of what's going on around him instead of letting it all fade to a dull roar and a blur of motion that begins and ends with embry as the only constant, grounding him with his delectable figure in reaching distance. hawk slides an arm around the back of him, fingers lightly resting against his waist to steady him so he doesn't fall back. and then, stupidly, he lets his other hand skim against his knee, brushing against the tease of skin under fishnet as he lets his thumb hook against the back of one absently.

mr. fuller, he says, so sweetly it's almost too much to bear. there's something palpable in his gaze, and up this close hawk can feel the wash of his soft exhales like it's the only air he's meant to breathe in turn. everything feels like it's moving in slow motion and too fast all at once, and he can't believe he's this drunk after downing that glass. what the hell is going on? is what the last shred of decency and self-preservation in his brain tries to nudge him with.

what is he supposed to say to embry's inquiry anyway? he wants to say yes with ever fiber of his being. and right now, he's having a hard time denying himself under such pleasurable circumstances. embry could ask him to empty his wallet, his bank account - to get on bended knee and declare his devotion right now, and hawk doesn't think he'd have the wherewithal to say no.]

We might give these fine folks the wrong idea, you know?

[as if any of them are fine, and as if hawk has even lifted his head away from the sultry creature in his lap to notice any of them.]

I don't want to say no to you.

[he shakes his head as if trying to clear it, but the cat's already outta the bag. hawk's head slumps forward, nudging against embry's chest with a heavy exhale while he can barely keep it upright for a moment. the silk fabric is soft against his cheek, even more frustrating temptation.]

A nightcap and a smoke. C'n get you a car after.