[there are a few punctured breaths, like they're being pulled out of him with every heave and how audible they are. when hawk finally speaks, it's ragged and raw, like his throat is nearly hoarse even as the consonants still slur slightly at the ends.]

Tim...Tim.

[it's an acute kind of pain, one that's more than just skin deep. it feels like it aches down to his bones, twisting into his gut and reaching into his chest with an invisible hand around his heart and just squeezing it into a tender pulp. it doesn't matter how many texts he gets, or check-ins, or sympathy from his acquaintances - no one can fix this. no one can bring back tim now but the balfours, and even they've been mum other than platitudes that make him want to shatter every piece of ornate china and useless antiques in this fucking manor.]

I should have been there. I should have - christ, why didn't you try and reach me? I keep watching it, feeling every jagged piece of that fucking glass. In your throat, your lungs - baby, I feel every little bit of fear outta you and you still just - it happened so fast. I've watched it a dozen times, maybe, wondering who to blame.

Only one I keep comin' up with is myself.

I knew those goddamn lockets were trouble. Stupid, ugly little things, and now they've gone and taken my boy.

My boy - you, Skippy.

[there's a choked off noise, like he's trying to muffle what is unmistakably a sob. it carries on for a few moments until it's reduced to an interlude of half-grunts and clearing of his throat between tears still flowing, like he wants to stifle the emotion and can't. h]

My boy's dead. They took you from me.

I never even got to tell you, I -

[he still doesn't, not as it carries on. he's crying - an ugly thing that wracks through his entire body and doesn't stop until he apparently exhausts himself into a restless sleep.]