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[homosexuals]

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[homosexuals]

[there's no response that night - particularly because hawk knows it's goddamn laughable to think danny johnson can be taught any kind of lesson by his hand. he's a bad apple, the kind that's rotted from the core inside out and there's just no salvaging other than dumping it straight in the trash and picking another pretty one from an aisle. it's easy to imagine those seeds seeping out every nasty little thing in his fucked up brain, infecting apparently a swathe of supporters here in salt or wherever the hell (ha) he's from - jem, eddie, john, even that doctor full of crock and drugs, apparently. twisting deep into their guts and rotting them from the inside out too, one evil little family. or maybe as hawk lays awake at night with tim sleeping in his arms while he stares at the ceiling and decides what he's gonna do - he's just imagining things. this game (doesn't fucking feel like one) has everything feeling like it's gnawing at some core within him, baiting him every day just like danny's texts to do something he'd never have dreamed of among civilized people.

(are any of them anymore, really? maybe tim, who looks like an angel - mussed hair and pretty profile marred by the angry weal of red from that belt. jesus christ.)

it's not until the next night that he endeavors to come down to the dungeon. he doesn't know jack about danny's schedule or his visitors, just that he's left tim with alicent and aemond for awhile with the promise that he needs to visit louis and have a smoke. but louis isn't the one he's there to see after night falls and he's bribed giles for a key, snuck in the opposite end so no one will know he's even here unless they're listening real careful.

there's no tie for the occasion, even if he'd considered bringing embry's soiled one for the irony of it. no blazer either, just a sleek button down and slacks, hair starting to slip from its careful coiffing from the days efforts to focus on quite literally anything else. it's funny, hawk thinks, how danny looks like an angel too at face value if you didn't know him - sweet face, clean haircut, all-american boy bullshit curled up looking sad and pathetic behind bars. complacent, like he'd ended up there all on some misunderstanding or sick accident. except hawk knows better than anyone after embry's corpse had infiltrated his dreams: danny can make anyone look like they're sleeping peacefully no matter how carved up too, and he deserves to be behind bars maybe more than anyone else here.

there's a bland expression on his face as he approaches the bars, pulling out a cigarette and the new lighter that doesn't really feel as weighty or satisfactory in his hands. it's dark down here, the flame illuminating all the sharp contours of his face: the flex of his jaw, the pointed tip of his nose, the curve of high cheekbones. it's clicked back closed and slipped inside a pocket, hawk exhaling straight into the cell and folding an arm across his chest carelessly, the other with his cigarette balanced between thumb and forefinger as he looks on mostly feigning disinterest, like he's looking at a zoo animal that's been naughty outside its enclosure. the weight of the keys sit in his other pocket, keeping the seemingly thin thread of his sanity intact for now so long as the barrier isn't breached.]

Don't tell me it's past your bedtime.