[ 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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(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. ]