[relaxed looks good on bob. quite honestly, he'd been imagining him naked for the duration of their little tryst on the phone in between mouth-watering snapshots of a body that looked carved from the hand of a god hawk doesn't believe in. but here, despite all the knowledge that's transpired between them - yes, the rubble of new york, the blood on hawk's hands even if everyone wants to pretend it's been wiped away - there's something all the more appealing about seeing bob wrapped up in soft luxuriousness. it's a natural enhancement to the nervous vulnerability that makes his eyes bright and his smile slightly sheepish, that stirs something that's never really dormant in hawk with the desire to take - more like devour.
that wouldn't have scared him once upon a time, but now he wonders how much of that is the vestiges of regular lust and what was evidently dormant the whole goddamn time. the makings of a killer - not even at face value, but someone with the ability to kill goodness and kindness and earnestness and truth. he tries to remember what everyone keeps telling him: that he's not a bad man, not really. the guilt never would have him eaten him alive like this before, tearing it down to the bone like rib meat torn in two. there's a falter for the briefest of moments if bob catches it in his eyes - a glassiness that clouds him for a moment.
and then he's back to the suave mover and shaker - easily thrusting the glass into bob's hand and knowing precisely how much to let the warmth of his fingers linger, itching to grip at his wrist and forget the pretense of a nightcap altogether. is patience considered premeditation now? fuck it, maybe he doesn't care, especially if bob isn't going to hold his feet to the fire.
he won't let himself think of the last time he'd gotten someone a drink, standing in the roving lights of a congressional party and watching a floppy head of chestnut over an ill-fitting brown suit try and get the bartenders attention. hawk lets himself sidle in close, an amused once-over before landing squarely on the dark-eyes he'd taken initially for brown. seeing it now, the blue reflection in low-lighting is a nice surprise. his lips tug upward, the hint of a smirk as he lifts his glass for a cheers.]
Yeah. Usually.
[there's just the right amount of cockiness to be enticingly arrogant over a turn off, long learned from his time in the hallowed walls of washington and among handsome soldiers and boys whose names he doesn't remember in public restrooms and dance halls. his eyes soften a little, endeared as usual by bob's honesty.]
I'm just that kinda guy, Bobby. Better get used to it - I've turned a new leaf since I came here. I like to indulge the ones I'm fond of.
[there's a mock sigh.]
I bet you're already getting used to that around here. Might have some stuff competition for me, huh?
[he barely bites back on the follow-up that he's got something else that's stiff waiting.]
[ there’s something in hawk tonight that wasn’t before, when they talked at the votes or on the phone. a black spot, opening his palm, felt more than seen as their fingers brush — a glimpse of the bar, the tousled brown hair sliding from hawk’s fingertips to bob’s synapses. in exchange: a far dingier club, with a dark figure pressing close, the elation that can only come from a high zipping through hawk’s veins, there and gone.
bob blinks slow. sips, used to shit that burns bad and not good, throat working as he tries to seem like the kind of person who has things and therefore knows how to enjoy them. in the aftermath, he runs his tongue along the backs of his teeth to swipe away the bitter dregs. ]
You used to play hard ball before.
[ with the guys he picked up in the past. a new leaf and all. bob doesn’t sound surprised, exactly, merely curious. for all hawk’s been good to him, he has the air of a guy who could fuck you and leave without a word. bob knows the type because he’s their type. or he was, anyway. easy, accepting, forgettable. maybe that’s why what hawk says next makes him flush. his hand creeps to the back of his neck. ]
Oh, uh, I don’t know.
[ embry mostly talks to him as, like, a booty call. adrian’s his own thing. some people stood by him at the vote that he hadn’t expected, like ani and hawk. beyond the thunderbolts, that’s what he counts as indulgence. wanting to be around him at all.
but he recovers from the flustering enough to angle himself toward hawk, close enough that he can nudge the toe of those polished dress shoes with his sneaker. ]
Think you have the market cornered on indulging me, like this. [ because it’s true and because bob imagines a guy like hawk would enjoy hearing it, especially now. ] Since you’re bothering to get me a drink before you take my clothes off, I mean.
[ he knocks back a generous swig, then, accustomed to swallowing fuckin’ swill. the sea-dark of his eyes levels over the rim of the glass. ]
Or while you take my clothes off. [ with a roll of his shoulders. ] I’m easy.
[hard ball. yeah, that's the nicest way of putting it. even bob can probably tell what a piece of shit he used to be - but it's still not something hawk outright regrets or will apologize for. not even the way things ended with eddie and an envelope stuffed with twenties for a kid whose whole life was blown to shit by one wrong misstep. he thinks of lenny too, no different than him other than the fact that he'd gone and gotten sloppy enough to get caught on his knees. way too old to blame it on young love or unlocked doors. there's a tug at the corner of his lips, one that's simultaneously acknowledging and fleetingly, half-heartedly remorseful. his tongue clucks against his teeth, tone low in the way bob manages to get him talking easy about it where normally he'd keep his past where it belongs.]
That's right. Couldn't afford to get attached back then - how much did you pay attention in history class, Bobby? The 50's. McCarthy - Lavender Scare, they call it now.
[but he did anyway, and his preferences clearly didn't suffer for it now. hawk sets his glass down, reaching for bob's after his last knock back too, taking the last swig of it because really - they should get this show on the road. it's evident in the charge between them, the little scuff against his shoes, and hawk leans in with a warmth cascading over bob's skin as he noses in along his profile and lets out a chuckle. maybe it's just flattery or the earnest attempts at flirtation, but bob doesn't strike him as the kind of guy with a bone in his body capable of cooking up an ulterior motive.]
You wanna know the best way to taste a drink like this?
[his hand lifts, cupping at bob's jaw and letting his thumb stroke against his chin briefly. he lets his lips stay scant inches away, brushing against the plush ones with every murmuring rumble.]
Off someone else's tongue.
[it is easy, leaning forward to close the gap, to let his free hand rest against bob's chiseled hip bone and tug him that last bit forward so their bodies are flush. he's not above kissing like he used to - hungry and ungentlemanly, like he wants to both devour the taste of bob and share the last bit of whiskey as promised. but mostly, it feels grounding to be here - of his own mind, not high off fucking vampire blood and reckless and razing his life to the ground. he wants this, and for some goddamn reason...bob still does too. thank christ.]
[ he doesn’t say, i’m a dropout, but i don’t think they teach that in florida now, anyway. he thinks, instead, of bucky. a man out of time, like hawk, who claims he didn’t start adapting to the new world until he lost steve and gained a team. if they weren’t circling something else, bob would admit he hadn’t thought about the depth of that adaptation, for either hawk or bucky. all that was lost and all that was gained, in their journey to this exact point where the lines of their lives intersect with bob’s own. a miracle of another kind, right? like waking up in a tomb, only to find the very people who can save your life.
in lieu of trying and failing to vocalise all that, bob holds hawk’s gaze and just listens. nods once, in understanding. makes a mental note to extend the reading he’s doing to better understand bucky into the fifties. during the game, hawk took the time to hear him out and see him as something other than a fuck-up or a threat. it feels natural to repay the favour now.
— or later, when hawk isn’t taking his glass right outta his hand and leaning in close. bob watches his adam’s apple work, lashes cresting his cheek when he can’t any longer. a bolt of yearning runs through him, even though he knows hawk is going to kiss him any second now. bob folds a hand over his shoulder, thumb indenting the fabric. ready for the same slow wind-up as their phone call, assuming that’s how hawk plays things, usually. not ready to be kissed like hawk means it, wants it, needs it real bad, but recovering quick. a noise of surprise melts into appreciation. he arches into hawk, tasting the rich warmth of the whiskey in his mouth, and tangles his other hand in his hair. more than happy to meet him there, when bob’s usually the one tripping into too much. ]
What a line — [ laughing a little in disbelief, in affection, on a dizzying exhale. delighted by hawk trying to put the moves on him. by his whole suave thing that must take effort to maintain, especially in the aftermath of the games and the pyre. maybe he just can’t be anything else. like how bob can’t quell the eager, hungry thing inside him, kissing like he talks, favouring progress over perfection. ]
[this part at least he can't fuck up - too practiced from decades of want in liminal spaces, knowing exactly how to lave his tongue against bob's in a sweet twist to get him to make more of those divine noises. the urgency is removed without dimming any of the desire, and it's a novelty he still isn't used to no matter how many times he gets to experience it here. or maybe it's because of bob himself, earnest and somehow still so fucking good despite the shit he's been through both in his own world and the short pipeline of cult member to accused and back to the estate. someone that can still look at him a little breathless, starry-eyed and impressed instead of leveling him with a pitying stare or judgment like tim right now - yeah, that's pretty goddamn priceless too.
there's an amused hum against his mouth, a brief grin at the impression he's left and bob reminding him he's still got this. the charm, the words, the looks - none of that burned up in the smoke. it all came back even if he feels like he was pieced together wrong somehow - like one off-kilter look or unexpected observation is going to pull him back to that empty black hole of what happened those nights, or worse: tie it together with every other fucked up thing he's done to survive. kenny, lenny, eddie, tim - all a chain of his compartmentalized heartlessness. it makes him groan louder against bob, brows furrowing like he's physically trying to will away the thoughts as much as he is cupping at the point of his jaw one-handed and using it to start nudging him back into the room.
his other hand slides up the cozy material of his shirt, fingers skimming abs that may as well be made out of fucking marble.]
Holy hell. Get outta this and let me see this washboard of yours in the flesh, huh?
[not that he didn't appreciate the photos. but it can't compare to the real thing, and hawk nips at his lips briefly with another kiss, and another for good measure - unwilling to part even as he tugs him back through the warmth of the suite and towards his bedroom. it's as neatly tidied as hawk himself - bed made with military corners, nightstand hosting a few books on american history, influence - the kind of things for people who still believe in bootstraps and mind over matter. his closet is neat rows of suits and sweaters and oxfords, but other than that? it looks a bit like a bachelor pad without the lived-in softness of tim to ease his moody edges.
his thumbs skim the guttered line of his hips with a low whistle, another wolfish flash of teeth. he tips his head back, jaw lifted and eyes giving an appreciative once over with an amused arrogance absent the coldness to make it hard. like he's picked up on something and wants to crack it wide open.]
You like being told what to do, Bobby? Being a good boy? You could be mine.
[ fuel for hawk’s later assessment: as soon as he’s asked, bob starts tugging his shirt up, lifting it overhead with one hand and tossing it aside (some strange delight in messing up the room, like etching your name on a desk: bob was here). a stuttered breath at hawk’s appreciation, then, still unused to looking like he does (filled out where the morphine and methamphetimine both ran him down to fucking nothing, muscle and bone and heart under siege). no evidence left of that time now, every needleprick and scar from before and during the trial healed over, smoothed out, marbled. every part of him corded with muscle, and yet he goes easily, willingly, delighted to be guided backwards, a preternatural balance keeping him in line.
(the tidiness of the room registers chiefly because of its familiarity, barnes and walker both in those tucked-in corners, but with an emptiness that neither of those spaces have. that bob’s own room does, when he doesn’t how to take up space.)
that drag along his adonis belt makes him shiver, the sensation oddly grounding. aware of hawk looking at him — really looking — precious seconds before he calls his shot. another soft, strained sound, at the back of his throat. bobby, good boy, mine rattling around in his skull for all to hear. ]
Depends.
[ breath caught, like he might say more. depends on a lot of things, like the person doling out the orders. the shape of the commands and where they lead. one hand splays against hawk’s throat, thumb working his nape as he visibly runs the numbers. is it that obvious? enough that someone need only take a look at him or his file to know him to down his marrow. the thought needles the other part of his psyche. eyes glimmering. a spark of gold, there and gone — it seems the math checks out. ]
Could be good for you. [ for you being the operative phrase. for the person who was good to him during the games and after. his heart never stops hammering, but his expression opens. ] Could be yours.
[ breath hitching over what he really wants — yours — after being alone for so long. belonging of a kind that actives every neuron in his nuclear system. an electric current running the length of his spine, charging the air between them. careful to tug hawk’s hair with appropriate force (not head-tearing, arm-rending strength) when he kisses him again, open-mouthed and wanting. ]
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no subject
that wouldn't have scared him once upon a time, but now he wonders how much of that is the vestiges of regular lust and what was evidently dormant the whole goddamn time. the makings of a killer - not even at face value, but someone with the ability to kill goodness and kindness and earnestness and truth. he tries to remember what everyone keeps telling him: that he's not a bad man, not really. the guilt never would have him eaten him alive like this before, tearing it down to the bone like rib meat torn in two. there's a falter for the briefest of moments if bob catches it in his eyes - a glassiness that clouds him for a moment.
and then he's back to the suave mover and shaker - easily thrusting the glass into bob's hand and knowing precisely how much to let the warmth of his fingers linger, itching to grip at his wrist and forget the pretense of a nightcap altogether. is patience considered premeditation now? fuck it, maybe he doesn't care, especially if bob isn't going to hold his feet to the fire.
he won't let himself think of the last time he'd gotten someone a drink, standing in the roving lights of a congressional party and watching a floppy head of chestnut over an ill-fitting brown suit try and get the bartenders attention. hawk lets himself sidle in close, an amused once-over before landing squarely on the dark-eyes he'd taken initially for brown. seeing it now, the blue reflection in low-lighting is a nice surprise. his lips tug upward, the hint of a smirk as he lifts his glass for a cheers.]
Yeah. Usually.
[there's just the right amount of cockiness to be enticingly arrogant over a turn off, long learned from his time in the hallowed walls of washington and among handsome soldiers and boys whose names he doesn't remember in public restrooms and dance halls. his eyes soften a little, endeared as usual by bob's honesty.]
I'm just that kinda guy, Bobby. Better get used to it - I've turned a new leaf since I came here. I like to indulge the ones I'm fond of.
[there's a mock sigh.]
I bet you're already getting used to that around here. Might have some stuff competition for me, huh?
[he barely bites back on the follow-up that he's got something else that's stiff waiting.]
no subject
bob blinks slow. sips, used to shit that burns bad and not good, throat working as he tries to seem like the kind of person who has things and therefore knows how to enjoy them. in the aftermath, he runs his tongue along the backs of his teeth to swipe away the bitter dregs. ]
You used to play hard ball before.
[ with the guys he picked up in the past. a new leaf and all. bob doesn’t sound surprised, exactly, merely curious. for all hawk’s been good to him, he has the air of a guy who could fuck you and leave without a word. bob knows the type because he’s their type. or he was, anyway. easy, accepting, forgettable. maybe that’s why what hawk says next makes him flush. his hand creeps to the back of his neck. ]
Oh, uh, I don’t know.
[ embry mostly talks to him as, like, a booty call. adrian’s his own thing. some people stood by him at the vote that he hadn’t expected, like ani and hawk. beyond the thunderbolts, that’s what he counts as indulgence. wanting to be around him at all.
but he recovers from the flustering enough to angle himself toward hawk, close enough that he can nudge the toe of those polished dress shoes with his sneaker. ]
Think you have the market cornered on indulging me, like this. [ because it’s true and because bob imagines a guy like hawk would enjoy hearing it, especially now. ] Since you’re bothering to get me a drink before you take my clothes off, I mean.
[ he knocks back a generous swig, then, accustomed to swallowing fuckin’ swill. the sea-dark of his eyes levels over the rim of the glass. ]
Or while you take my clothes off. [ with a roll of his shoulders. ] I’m easy.
no subject
That's right. Couldn't afford to get attached back then - how much did you pay attention in history class, Bobby? The 50's. McCarthy - Lavender Scare, they call it now.
[but he did anyway, and his preferences clearly didn't suffer for it now. hawk sets his glass down, reaching for bob's after his last knock back too, taking the last swig of it because really - they should get this show on the road. it's evident in the charge between them, the little scuff against his shoes, and hawk leans in with a warmth cascading over bob's skin as he noses in along his profile and lets out a chuckle. maybe it's just flattery or the earnest attempts at flirtation, but bob doesn't strike him as the kind of guy with a bone in his body capable of cooking up an ulterior motive.]
You wanna know the best way to taste a drink like this?
[his hand lifts, cupping at bob's jaw and letting his thumb stroke against his chin briefly. he lets his lips stay scant inches away, brushing against the plush ones with every murmuring rumble.]
Off someone else's tongue.
[it is easy, leaning forward to close the gap, to let his free hand rest against bob's chiseled hip bone and tug him that last bit forward so their bodies are flush. he's not above kissing like he used to - hungry and ungentlemanly, like he wants to both devour the taste of bob and share the last bit of whiskey as promised. but mostly, it feels grounding to be here - of his own mind, not high off fucking vampire blood and reckless and razing his life to the ground. he wants this, and for some goddamn reason...bob still does too. thank christ.]
no subject
in lieu of trying and failing to vocalise all that, bob holds hawk’s gaze and just listens. nods once, in understanding. makes a mental note to extend the reading he’s doing to better understand bucky into the fifties. during the game, hawk took the time to hear him out and see him as something other than a fuck-up or a threat. it feels natural to repay the favour now.
— or later, when hawk isn’t taking his glass right outta his hand and leaning in close. bob watches his adam’s apple work, lashes cresting his cheek when he can’t any longer. a bolt of yearning runs through him, even though he knows hawk is going to kiss him any second now. bob folds a hand over his shoulder, thumb indenting the fabric. ready for the same slow wind-up as their phone call, assuming that’s how hawk plays things, usually. not ready to be kissed like hawk means it, wants it, needs it real bad, but recovering quick. a noise of surprise melts into appreciation. he arches into hawk, tasting the rich warmth of the whiskey in his mouth, and tangles his other hand in his hair. more than happy to meet him there, when bob’s usually the one tripping into too much. ]
What a line — [ laughing a little in disbelief, in affection, on a dizzying exhale. delighted by hawk trying to put the moves on him. by his whole suave thing that must take effort to maintain, especially in the aftermath of the games and the pyre. maybe he just can’t be anything else. like how bob can’t quell the eager, hungry thing inside him, kissing like he talks, favouring progress over perfection. ]
no subject
there's an amused hum against his mouth, a brief grin at the impression he's left and bob reminding him he's still got this. the charm, the words, the looks - none of that burned up in the smoke. it all came back even if he feels like he was pieced together wrong somehow - like one off-kilter look or unexpected observation is going to pull him back to that empty black hole of what happened those nights, or worse: tie it together with every other fucked up thing he's done to survive. kenny, lenny, eddie, tim - all a chain of his compartmentalized heartlessness. it makes him groan louder against bob, brows furrowing like he's physically trying to will away the thoughts as much as he is cupping at the point of his jaw one-handed and using it to start nudging him back into the room.
his other hand slides up the cozy material of his shirt, fingers skimming abs that may as well be made out of fucking marble.]
Holy hell. Get outta this and let me see this washboard of yours in the flesh, huh?
[not that he didn't appreciate the photos. but it can't compare to the real thing, and hawk nips at his lips briefly with another kiss, and another for good measure - unwilling to part even as he tugs him back through the warmth of the suite and towards his bedroom. it's as neatly tidied as hawk himself - bed made with military corners, nightstand hosting a few books on american history, influence - the kind of things for people who still believe in bootstraps and mind over matter. his closet is neat rows of suits and sweaters and oxfords, but other than that? it looks a bit like a bachelor pad without the lived-in softness of tim to ease his moody edges.
his thumbs skim the guttered line of his hips with a low whistle, another wolfish flash of teeth. he tips his head back, jaw lifted and eyes giving an appreciative once over with an amused arrogance absent the coldness to make it hard. like he's picked up on something and wants to crack it wide open.]
You like being told what to do, Bobby? Being a good boy? You could be mine.
no subject
(the tidiness of the room registers chiefly because of its familiarity, barnes and walker both in those tucked-in corners, but with an emptiness that neither of those spaces have. that bob’s own room does, when he doesn’t how to take up space.)
that drag along his adonis belt makes him shiver, the sensation oddly grounding. aware of hawk looking at him — really looking — precious seconds before he calls his shot. another soft, strained sound, at the back of his throat. bobby, good boy, mine rattling around in his skull for all to hear. ]
Depends.
[ breath caught, like he might say more. depends on a lot of things, like the person doling out the orders. the shape of the commands and where they lead. one hand splays against hawk’s throat, thumb working his nape as he visibly runs the numbers. is it that obvious? enough that someone need only take a look at him or his file to know him to down his marrow. the thought needles the other part of his psyche. eyes glimmering. a spark of gold, there and gone — it seems the math checks out. ]
Could be good for you. [ for you being the operative phrase. for the person who was good to him during the games and after. his heart never stops hammering, but his expression opens. ] Could be yours.
[ breath hitching over what he really wants — yours — after being alone for so long. belonging of a kind that actives every neuron in his nuclear system. an electric current running the length of his spine, charging the air between them. careful to tug hawk’s hair with appropriate force (not head-tearing, arm-rending strength) when he kisses him again, open-mouthed and wanting. ]