[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. Tim’s 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 weren’t so much agony. ]
You shouldn’t...I’ll be fine. [ Tim is very much not fine, but he doubts Hawk’s qualifications to be giving out opiates. He wouldn’t take it from Harry either, if he weren’t a medical professional. Even that, he only does to soothe his worry. Christ didn’t 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 don’t 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 isn’t spike spike thorn spear spike spike, something warm and loving instead of sharp and cold. It isn’t something he can ask for, not from Hawk – 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
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 shouldn’t...I’ll be fine. [ Tim is very much not fine, but he doubts Hawk’s qualifications to be giving out opiates. He wouldn’t take it from Harry either, if he weren’t a medical professional. Even that, he only does to soothe his worry. Christ didn’t 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 don’t 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 isn’t spike spike thorn spear spike spike, something warm and loving instead of sharp and cold. It isn’t something he can ask for, not from Hawk – 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. ]