[for once in his life, hawk is oblivious to whatever the fuck he's just tipped back. he's at a party with smith's bartenders, in his house with a mostly tight guest list - and embry's the one who brought him the drink. why would he think anything untoward? besides, the idea of someone wasting time trying to drug him is laughable - everyone knows he's bulletproof. so if he feels a little hotter under the collar than usual? he'll chalk it up to the crowds, the exhaustion, and yeah - the tight body perching pretty on the edge of the chair. it gives him the unfair task of dragging his eyes away from those long legs that are stretched out casually - as if they wouldn't drive any man to thoughts of the obscene. they look impossibly longer and more enticing wrapped in fishnets, and hawk wonders what it feels like when one presses against his own leg.]

I'm fine.

[it's the default to everything: his mother's pestering when she gets onto the subject of his condition over the phone, smith when he's cavalier in suggesting hawk take some time off instead of driving himself insane over this mole, tim when he offers to take a stack of paperwork off his desk because it's starting to look cluttered. of course he's fucking exhausted. of course he should be in the office right now, poring over files and security footage and trying to solve this and put a guaranteed end to maybe half his stress. instead he lets his eyes flutter shut for a few moments, not objecting to the way embry is overly familiar in his touch because it feels too damn good, and boundaries have been something dodgy between them ever since he started napping on his couch. actually - fuck - it feels really good. there's a surprised hum, slipping into a groan of appreciation that he hopes won't be heard over the din of chatter and clinking glasses.]

Shit. You've got another career prospect lined up - that's nice. Real nice. [his better sense kicks in, eyes fluttering open as he clears his throat and sits up a little straighter.] Nice of you to worry about me, I mean, but I'm fine.

[strange, the way his limbs suddenly feeling loose and pliant from a mixture of kneading fingertips and the open collar. oddly he feels...some sort of combination of calm and sluggish settling in. maybe he really is more tired, and embry's apt observation that he's barely sleeping is dead on. except he's much more concerned with curve of his brow, the earnest way he admits to something that sounds close to jealousy or nervousness at being potentially replaced. it seems like a goddamn crime to let embry continue under that assumption, and one of hawk's arms slides around his waist without even thinking as he drags him slightly closer on the armrest so he can lean up and look him dead in the eye.]

That's all they are. Rumours, you got that?

[any of the common sense he has seems to have receded somewhere else - on the outskirts of his brain as he doesn't even look around to see who's watching, what they must think of him having a scantily clad movie star practically in his lap. but hawk's eyes go half-lidded, lips pulling in a lazy smirk.]

Don't tell anyone - but you're my favorite. Top secret, though, so take it to your grave.

[before he can stop himself, somehow encouraged by the continued rub of nimble fingers, hawk lets one of his velvet monogrammed loafers kick under the sharp stiletto of one of embry's heels, lifting it upward to stretch out both their legs together so he can look at it from a better angle. the slash of red he can see underneath patent letter makes his blood run hot, suddenly curious how those might look tipped up if embry ended up on his knees - jesus fucking christ. stop it, hawk. fuck's sake.]

If I didn't know any better I'd say you'll be the one needing magic hands at the end of the night. These look - killer.