[ He liked it. He dreaded opening it, because he knew he would, because he knew that it would be sweet and forgiving and tell him exactly what he wants to hear. It does. It makes him want to call up Hawk and say yes, of course, is six a good time?
Which is exactly why he can't. If he decides on an inch, it'll turn into a mile, because Hawk is a blowtorch, blackening his brain until every drop of sense and self-preservation are dried up into dust and riding on the wind. ]
I still don't think it's a good idea. First it's dinner, and then it's a nightcap, and then...I know how this goes. It's not good for me. And Harry agrees with me. I don't want to live by this place's expectations anymore, I think it's time to return to my own.
[ As he speaks, he can hear his pulse pounding between his ears, anxiety rising, the cold anger from when he first dumped Hawk at the commune faded into only sadness, a somber understanding that this is just how it has to be. Maybe if he's lucky, the feeling will fade. It didn't in his three years away in the Army, but this is different, he won't be lonely here. He has friends, he has Harry. If he tries, if he's strong, he can get himself past this.
The thought makes his palms itch, the sign that he recognizes by now, telling him it's coming, and his breath comes fast and labored over the phone. ]
Please, God, no, not right now--aurghh!
[ The phone clatters to the floor with a loud, pained wail. His body collapses next to it with a clumsy thump. ]
[at first, he's happy to get a voice note. he thinks it means tim is accepting, that he's going to hear the sweet smile in his words, the way he's trying to fight the connection they have that will always be an inevitable. so of course his heart plummets when he hears the hesitation in his voice - when the denial comes. of course he's disappointed to hear that even harry was against the idea, of hawk trying to do one thing right and still managing to fuck it all up.
he figures the message will end with a soft goodbye, the click of a line to cover up the way his heart his heavy and he can only think to drown himself in whiskey and smoke - but instead he picks up on the way tim's breathing kicks up a notch. it's not even in the way he recognizes from the staccato of his pleasure, in fact, more like very real and visceral fear.
he picks up his own phone to try and call him back, the line busy from where it must have been left open and tim is lying, writing in pain. hawk doesn't even think - doesn't stop himself from pushing up onto his feet and flying down the hall, legs and arms pumping fast and furious as he makes his way down each one in record time. anything to get to his former lover, to soothe him through the hallucination of his suffering.
he doesn't bother knocking, doesn't care if harry is already there, instead bursting open to find tim lying there all alone. he's on his knees in an instant, arms wrapping around his boy.]
Tim, it's me - shhh, I've gotcha. Come on, I'm gonna stay with you through it, okay?
[he pulls him up into a sitting position, one arm sliding around his middle and the other lacing their fingers together, like somehow maybe the sensation of that soft squeeze can replace the lancing pain of a nail that doesn't exist driving through flesh and tendon.]
When Hawk pushes his way in, Tim is on the ground, phone clattered across the room. He's crying out from the pain and effort of trying to get to his feet, stumbling over himself and falling as soon as he has to put pressure on them, the stabbing, torturous feeling of stake through skin, through cartilage, through shattered bone. To his own eyes, he looks like he's slipping in his own blood. It isn't real. He knows it isn't, but he still sees it, blood staining his feet, collecting under his toenails, the open wound screaming in agony from rubbing against the rug. They'd chosen a red one to give him one less thing to worry about when this happens. ]
I don't--
[ The lie is cut off by a gasp at the movement, the new shout of pain. The wound in his ribs rubbing against Hawk, the squeezing of his mangled hand. ]
That hurts, Hawk!
[ A scream, as he tries to pull his hand away, but the stigmata saps his strength, clouds his vision with the blood that dribbles from his crown. His hair is damp and stuck to his forehead from sweat, in reality, but to him it's stuck with hot, metallic blood, the tang invading every sense, turning the world around him into that of punishment and penance.
His breath is fast and shallow as he shakes his head. ]
[hawk drops tim's hand gently, feeling like he's gone and scalded it - another fuck up on the first try. christ he has got to get himself together. it's devastating to watch him like this, utterly unscathed on the surface with the kind of pain he remembers seeing in the nurse's wards and temporary tents across velletri. excruciating, visceral - and it gives him a sudden jolt of unwanted recollection, of a man - himself, picking up a hammer and nails, meticulously driving them through tendon and bone, mimicking the same things tim is suffering through now. fuck. fuck - he can't think about that right now.
instead he thinks back to the stupid classes he'd grit his teeth through, past the chiding tones of the teachers and the ministers - trying to remember what happened after the crucifixion of christ. he remembers darkness, an earthquake - was it mary magdalene who'd waited with his body? his mother? no...it had been a man. wrapping him in clean linen and giving him a proper burial. he's no wealthy member of a council or secret worshipper - his devotion to tim is impossible to hide, even with all of his misdeeds.
carefully he shifts upward, looping his arms underneath the bend of tim's knees, the other loosely draping behind his shoulders so he can cradle his body with as much tenderness as possible. enough to gingerly maneuver him onto the bed, to lay him flat on his back where his arms, feet, and side won't be jostled. i'm coming right back - he murmurs, dashing into the bathroom suite for some towels and cool water, filling up a cup and bringing them both back within moments. carefully he sinks down next to tim, twisting his body so he can dab at the nonexistent blood and visible sweat - soothing as best as he can.]
I'm here, Skippy. Stay with me. Listen to my voice, okay?
[ It hurts to be moved, but it's not Hawk's fault. Everything hurts, anything that requires his head, his torso, or any extremity to do anything sings with the trauma of thick, rusty stakes, of splinters, of flesh not so much being pierced but pushed through, forced to split and make way, again and again, month after month.
He feels like he's grinding his teeth into powder, trying to withstand it in front of Hawk, so he'll...what? Leave? Stop worrying? Stay? Tears fall quietly, salt and copper mixing on his cheeks. Tim can't tell which is which and it's been months since he's bothered to try. He opens his mouth to protest Hawk stepping away into the bathroom, but all that escapes is an anguished wail, each bone in his foot breaking, giving way to nails that feel thicker every time. ]
Water.
[ It's torture, sitting up so that it won't spill all over him, but he's withstood worse during these episodes. His hands shake, can't close around anything without another scream, Hawk will need to hold it for him. ]
'm here. [ Soft, because itβs all he can muster. ] Nothing to do but bleed it out. Harry doses me with laudanum so I sleep through it.
[it's a terrible thing, watching the person you love in excruciating pain. the sweat on his brow, the way it's arched in agony - the tension in his body and the noises hawk can tell tim is trying to be strong enough to suppress. it seems extra cruel to have given this in punishment to someone like tim - sweet, well-meaning in all of his passion - to twist his faith into punishment. and yet hawk knows this won't shake his devotion, won't make him stop praying to the very same god that's letting this all happen to him now or rebuke religion like he'd done decades ago after realizing it was all a bunch of horseshit. it's infuriating in a way - to see someone this worshipful experience the same pain as the son of christ, to know he'll do the same thing in the belief that it's absolving him of sins he hasn't even committed.
he wishes he could keep him scooped up in his arms, hold him tight enough that the pain will subside, or even better: that he could absorb all of it himself and take it on in both the punishment he knows he deserves for being the cause of tim's suffering and his participation (unwilling as it were) in the ritualized murder of his peers. instead all he can do is look on and feel as utterly useless as he once accused david schine of being to mccarthy. can't even hold his hand - christ.
but he can see the way time is shaking through it, gently pushing a hand to his shoulder to silently tell him to stay reclined, to not bother sitting up. he doesn't need to be told to help him sip at it, gently lifting the cup to his lips and tilting it enough to let him drink. another detail he remembers from crucifixion, though he can't remember exactly who it was that offered jesus a small mercy. it doesn't feel like much of one now, either.]
I'm not going anywhere, Skippy. The laudanum - is it here? I can try to find it. I can...I can call Harry, if that's what you need.
[it's difficult to verbalize that, but tim's comfort is more important than his own pride. tim doesn't need him anymore - doesn't even want him. but he won't leave him all the same, and hesitantly his hand reaches out to press against the crook of his elbow, to gently stroke his thumb across the soft skin in a motion that's meant to be soothing, reassuring that he'll do whatever it is that is best for his lover. he'll look back at this and realize it's the moment the idea of the blood fruit really takes shape within him, dismissed before because he hadn't witnessed the sheer havoc and toll it was taking on his lover until now.
he can't let this go on. none of it is sustainable.]
[ He drinks greedily, as if he too had spent forty days wandering the desert before his punishment, gulping until cool water runs down his chin and he nods, signaling to Hawk that he can pull away. But not too much. Timβs eyes are blurred with blood, tears, and run of the mill poor eyesight, but the shape of Hawk, his worried voice, are things he can focus on besides the pain. It screams in his extremities, but it sends shockwaves through the rest of his body, heart pounding through the whole of him. It could be meditative if it werenβt so much agony. ]
You shouldnβt...Iβll be fine. [ Tim is very much not fine, but he doubts Hawkβs qualifications to be giving out opiates. He wouldnβt take it from Harry either, if he werenβt a medical professional. Even that, he only does to soothe his worry. Christ didnβt have the luxury of morphine, why should he? ] Don't call him. He wants to get Stephen involved.
[ Which is even worse. ]
Just...stay. [ Regretting it as soon as it comes out, he rushes, strained and grunting, to add a qualifier. ] To make sure I donβt go into shock.
[ His arm moves. But not away. Stretching out, so he can lay his hands gently in his lap, but his elbow brushes Hawk. The gentle touch gives him something to think about that isnβt spike spike thorn spear spike spike, something warm and loving instead of sharp and cold. It isnβt something he can ask for, not from Hawk β but he can use his weak, shaking, sweat-drenched state as an excuse not to refuse it. ]
[hawk pulls out his pocket square, setting the water down once he's sure tim is finished with it and dabbing lightly at his chin. he wants to smooth back his hair, to run his fingers through it and try to give him something else to focus on - but he knows the illusion will just conflate it with pain. so maybe it's stupid, the way he lifts the same pocket square in hand and dabs gently at each of tim's eyes, as if he might wipe away the blood that tim's brain thinks is soundly present even though his skin is pale and utterly untouched. anything would help him feel useful right now, if he could be.]
Stephen? What does he have to do with it? He used to be a doctor, but he isn't anymore. An accident, I think.
[his brows knit together with concern, his newfound dislike for the man rankling under his skin at the idea that somehow he'd be involved in something this intimate with tim. but then he realizes that's exactly the kind of thing tim would scold him for - if it could help someone else, he'd want to hear him out, even in this case he doesn't want to help himself. hawk sighs, setting the now-damp kerchief down on the dresser and scooting in closer.
there's a soft inhale at being asked to stay now, even if it's punctuated with a caveat - justification. it might as well be a lance to the heart, and he's grateful tim's eyes are squeezed shut briefly so he doesn't see the way it makes his expression crumple for the briefest moment.]
Just hang on a little longer, Skip. You're - we'll get through this, okay?
[his gaze shifts down to the elbow nudging in closer, and even if it's an accident, he's choosing to take it as invitation to run his fingers more certainly along the skin, to squeeze gently and stroke and smooth and do his damndest to distract.]
How many times? Is it - like me and Embry? Once a month? Or more?
[ Stephen has nothing to do with it, because he won't be invited. He doesn't need him.
Maybe it is stupid, but if he feels like he's bleeding, and it looks to him like he's bleeding, then Hawk's attentions look and feel like helping. As much as he bites and snaps and tells anyone who will listen that he doesn't need Hawk anymore, that he doesn't even want him and he's perfectly happy the way things are, he does want the help. This is what he wants every time, before it happens. For Hawk to show up for him the way he needs. ]
About once a month, yeah. I'm... [ He swallows hard, woozy now from blood loss. He stops himself this time from telling Hawk he's got it all over him, because he knows he doesn't, that when he opens his eyes tomorrow that crisp white shirt will still be pristine. ] I think--
[ Tim can't deny it anymore. Two or three is a coincidence, but four? ]
I'm always thinking about you. Upset over you. When this happens.
[ Softly enough that Hawk might believe it isn't meant to be a jab, even if it stings like one. ]
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timeasmymeasure
left on Tim's pillow during breakfast, after Voyeur's launch
Date: 2025-11-16 05:58 pm (UTC)πΌ'π£π πππππππ π‘βππ‘ ππππππ πππ πππ‘ π‘π π€πππ‘π π€ππ π π π‘π’πππ ππππππ£ππ ππ π‘βπ ππππ π‘ πππππ.
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> voice
Date: 2025-11-17 06:12 pm (UTC)[ He liked it. He dreaded opening it, because he knew he would, because he knew that it would be sweet and forgiving and tell him exactly what he wants to hear. It does. It makes him want to call up Hawk and say yes, of course, is six a good time?
Which is exactly why he can't. If he decides on an inch, it'll turn into a mile, because Hawk is a blowtorch, blackening his brain until every drop of sense and self-preservation are dried up into dust and riding on the wind. ]
I still don't think it's a good idea. First it's dinner, and then it's a nightcap, and then...I know how this goes. It's not good for me. And Harry agrees with me. I don't want to live by this place's expectations anymore, I think it's time to return to my own.
[ As he speaks, he can hear his pulse pounding between his ears, anxiety rising, the cold anger from when he first dumped Hawk at the commune faded into only sadness, a somber understanding that this is just how it has to be. Maybe if he's lucky, the feeling will fade. It didn't in his three years away in the Army, but this is different, he won't be lonely here. He has friends, he has Harry. If he tries, if he's strong, he can get himself past this.
The thought makes his palms itch, the sign that he recognizes by now, telling him it's coming, and his breath comes fast and labored over the phone. ]
Please, God, no, not right now--aurghh!
[ The phone clatters to the floor with a loud, pained wail. His body collapses next to it with a clumsy thump. ]
no subject
Date: 2025-11-19 01:14 am (UTC)he figures the message will end with a soft goodbye, the click of a line to cover up the way his heart his heavy and he can only think to drown himself in whiskey and smoke - but instead he picks up on the way tim's breathing kicks up a notch. it's not even in the way he recognizes from the staccato of his pleasure, in fact, more like very real and visceral fear.
he picks up his own phone to try and call him back, the line busy from where it must have been left open and tim is lying, writing in pain. hawk doesn't even think - doesn't stop himself from pushing up onto his feet and flying down the hall, legs and arms pumping fast and furious as he makes his way down each one in record time. anything to get to his former lover, to soothe him through the hallucination of his suffering.
he doesn't bother knocking, doesn't care if harry is already there, instead bursting open to find tim lying there all alone. he's on his knees in an instant, arms wrapping around his boy.]
Tim, it's me - shhh, I've gotcha. Come on, I'm gonna stay with you through it, okay?
[he pulls him up into a sitting position, one arm sliding around his middle and the other lacing their fingers together, like somehow maybe the sensation of that soft squeeze can replace the lancing pain of a nail that doesn't exist driving through flesh and tendon.]
I'm here, Skippy.
no subject
Date: 2025-11-19 02:57 am (UTC)When Hawk pushes his way in, Tim is on the ground, phone clattered across the room. He's crying out from the pain and effort of trying to get to his feet, stumbling over himself and falling as soon as he has to put pressure on them, the stabbing, torturous feeling of stake through skin, through cartilage, through shattered bone. To his own eyes, he looks like he's slipping in his own blood. It isn't real. He knows it isn't, but he still sees it, blood staining his feet, collecting under his toenails, the open wound screaming in agony from rubbing against the rug. They'd chosen a red one to give him one less thing to worry about when this happens. ]
I don't--
[ The lie is cut off by a gasp at the movement, the new shout of pain. The wound in his ribs rubbing against Hawk, the squeezing of his mangled hand. ]
That hurts, Hawk!
[ A scream, as he tries to pull his hand away, but the stigmata saps his strength, clouds his vision with the blood that dribbles from his crown. His hair is damp and stuck to his forehead from sweat, in reality, but to him it's stuck with hot, metallic blood, the tang invading every sense, turning the world around him into that of punishment and penance.
His breath is fast and shallow as he shakes his head. ]
Just - put me in the bed. I'll be fine.
no subject
Date: 2025-11-21 02:11 am (UTC)instead he thinks back to the stupid classes he'd grit his teeth through, past the chiding tones of the teachers and the ministers - trying to remember what happened after the crucifixion of christ. he remembers darkness, an earthquake - was it mary magdalene who'd waited with his body? his mother? no...it had been a man. wrapping him in clean linen and giving him a proper burial. he's no wealthy member of a council or secret worshipper - his devotion to tim is impossible to hide, even with all of his misdeeds.
carefully he shifts upward, looping his arms underneath the bend of tim's knees, the other loosely draping behind his shoulders so he can cradle his body with as much tenderness as possible. enough to gingerly maneuver him onto the bed, to lay him flat on his back where his arms, feet, and side won't be jostled. i'm coming right back - he murmurs, dashing into the bathroom suite for some towels and cool water, filling up a cup and bringing them both back within moments. carefully he sinks down next to tim, twisting his body so he can dab at the nonexistent blood and visible sweat - soothing as best as he can.]
I'm here, Skippy. Stay with me. Listen to my voice, okay?
no subject
Date: 2025-11-21 03:40 am (UTC)He feels like he's grinding his teeth into powder, trying to withstand it in front of Hawk, so he'll...what? Leave? Stop worrying? Stay? Tears fall quietly, salt and copper mixing on his cheeks. Tim can't tell which is which and it's been months since he's bothered to try. He opens his mouth to protest Hawk stepping away into the bathroom, but all that escapes is an anguished wail, each bone in his foot breaking, giving way to nails that feel thicker every time. ]
Water.
[ It's torture, sitting up so that it won't spill all over him, but he's withstood worse during these episodes. His hands shake, can't close around anything without another scream, Hawk will need to hold it for him. ]
'm here. [ Soft, because itβs all he can muster. ] Nothing to do but bleed it out. Harry doses me with laudanum so I sleep through it.
no subject
Date: 2025-11-24 04:54 pm (UTC)he wishes he could keep him scooped up in his arms, hold him tight enough that the pain will subside, or even better: that he could absorb all of it himself and take it on in both the punishment he knows he deserves for being the cause of tim's suffering and his participation (unwilling as it were) in the ritualized murder of his peers. instead all he can do is look on and feel as utterly useless as he once accused david schine of being to mccarthy. can't even hold his hand - christ.
but he can see the way time is shaking through it, gently pushing a hand to his shoulder to silently tell him to stay reclined, to not bother sitting up. he doesn't need to be told to help him sip at it, gently lifting the cup to his lips and tilting it enough to let him drink. another detail he remembers from crucifixion, though he can't remember exactly who it was that offered jesus a small mercy. it doesn't feel like much of one now, either.]
I'm not going anywhere, Skippy. The laudanum - is it here? I can try to find it. I can...I can call Harry, if that's what you need.
[it's difficult to verbalize that, but tim's comfort is more important than his own pride. tim doesn't need him anymore - doesn't even want him. but he won't leave him all the same, and hesitantly his hand reaches out to press against the crook of his elbow, to gently stroke his thumb across the soft skin in a motion that's meant to be soothing, reassuring that he'll do whatever it is that is best for his lover. he'll look back at this and realize it's the moment the idea of the blood fruit really takes shape within him, dismissed before because he hadn't witnessed the sheer havoc and toll it was taking on his lover until now.
he can't let this go on. none of it is sustainable.]
no subject
Date: 2025-11-24 05:58 pm (UTC)You shouldnβt...Iβll be fine. [ Tim is very much not fine, but he doubts Hawkβs qualifications to be giving out opiates. He wouldnβt take it from Harry either, if he werenβt a medical professional. Even that, he only does to soothe his worry. Christ didnβt have the luxury of morphine, why should he? ] Don't call him. He wants to get Stephen involved.
[ Which is even worse. ]
Just...stay. [ Regretting it as soon as it comes out, he rushes, strained and grunting, to add a qualifier. ] To make sure I donβt go into shock.
[ His arm moves. But not away. Stretching out, so he can lay his hands gently in his lap, but his elbow brushes Hawk. The gentle touch gives him something to think about that isnβt spike spike thorn spear spike spike, something warm and loving instead of sharp and cold. It isnβt something he can ask for, not from Hawk β but he can use his weak, shaking, sweat-drenched state as an excuse not to refuse it. ]
no subject
Date: 2025-11-25 01:52 am (UTC)[hawk pulls out his pocket square, setting the water down once he's sure tim is finished with it and dabbing lightly at his chin. he wants to smooth back his hair, to run his fingers through it and try to give him something else to focus on - but he knows the illusion will just conflate it with pain. so maybe it's stupid, the way he lifts the same pocket square in hand and dabs gently at each of tim's eyes, as if he might wipe away the blood that tim's brain thinks is soundly present even though his skin is pale and utterly untouched. anything would help him feel useful right now, if he could be.]
Stephen? What does he have to do with it? He used to be a doctor, but he isn't anymore. An accident, I think.
[his brows knit together with concern, his newfound dislike for the man rankling under his skin at the idea that somehow he'd be involved in something this intimate with tim. but then he realizes that's exactly the kind of thing tim would scold him for - if it could help someone else, he'd want to hear him out, even in this case he doesn't want to help himself. hawk sighs, setting the now-damp kerchief down on the dresser and scooting in closer.
there's a soft inhale at being asked to stay now, even if it's punctuated with a caveat - justification. it might as well be a lance to the heart, and he's grateful tim's eyes are squeezed shut briefly so he doesn't see the way it makes his expression crumple for the briefest moment.]
Just hang on a little longer, Skip. You're - we'll get through this, okay?
[his gaze shifts down to the elbow nudging in closer, and even if it's an accident, he's choosing to take it as invitation to run his fingers more certainly along the skin, to squeeze gently and stroke and smooth and do his damndest to distract.]
How many times? Is it - like me and Embry? Once a month? Or more?
no subject
Date: 2025-11-25 02:58 am (UTC)Nothing.
[ Stephen has nothing to do with it, because he won't be invited. He doesn't need him.
Maybe it is stupid, but if he feels like he's bleeding, and it looks to him like he's bleeding, then Hawk's attentions look and feel like helping. As much as he bites and snaps and tells anyone who will listen that he doesn't need Hawk anymore, that he doesn't even want him and he's perfectly happy the way things are, he does want the help. This is what he wants every time, before it happens. For Hawk to show up for him the way he needs. ]
About once a month, yeah. I'm... [ He swallows hard, woozy now from blood loss. He stops himself this time from telling Hawk he's got it all over him, because he knows he doesn't, that when he opens his eyes tomorrow that crisp white shirt will still be pristine. ] I think--
[ Tim can't deny it anymore. Two or three is a coincidence, but four? ]
I'm always thinking about you. Upset over you. When this happens.
[ Softly enough that Hawk might believe it isn't meant to be a jab, even if it stings like one. ]