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Mellow jazz, far more Hawk's taste than his love's, greeted Hawk's ears when he walked into the apartment he and Tim had shared for the past few years. He put his bag down on the side table, making a mental note to put his tennis clothes into the wash before his next weekend match. He didn't mind showering at the club, in fact he preferred it, but he would rather have his clothes carrying the scent of the laundry soap Tim picked out than whatever bulk deal the club earned.
"Skippy?" Hawk called, moving towards the living room. "Are we...?" still on for dinner tonight with Mary and Phyllis Hawk wanted to say, but he trailed off, stopping in the living room doorway. "Oh, Skippy."
Usually so attuned to Hawk's presence, for once Tim was oblivious. His hair - finally grown back into the floppy thickness Hawk so loved after Tim's ill-advised decision to cut it - was a mess, sticking up every which way like he'd been running his hands through it and tugging in frustration. Or he had walked through a very small, localised windstorm. The line of his shoulders was tense, the weight of his emotions pulling them down.
More than that, Tim was furiously muttering to himself, the coffee table and the worn blue couch (that Tim wouldn't let Hawk replace or reupholster) littered with all manner of things Hawk hadn't seen in their apartment before.
Hawk snuck forward, curious at what had his love so occupied - enough not to even realize that Hawk was there.
Yarn in complementary shades of red and blue were piled on Hawk's usual couch cushion, books on what looked like crochet patterns open in front of Tim. A ball of deep red yarn sat atop one of the patterns, the thread leading to Tim's nimble fingers.
"Not right," Tim sighed, hand dropping the crochet hook to run irritatedly through his hair. His fingers dropped back down, unraveling the line of perfect (to Hawk's untrained eye) red stitches, leaving four double rows in his other hand. "Has to be perfect."
Hawk ran his hand along Tim's shoulders, leaning over the back of the couch to press a kiss to the top of his head.
"Hi, sweetheart."
Tim gasped, jolting around on the couch. His face was a picture of sheepishness. Not embarrassed - one of the many things Hawk loved about Tim was that he rarely felt shame about any of the choices he made - but certainly caught off guard. "You're home?"
Hawk let his eyebrows arch, trying very hard not to be offended. "And what a wonderful welcome home, Tim. Thank you."
Tim flushed, a hint of pink staining his cheeks. He leaned around, pressing a soft kiss to Hawk's waiting lips. "You know I didn't mean it like that," he sighed, the corner of his mouth pulling down in the frown of sassy exasperation Hawk so loved drawing to his face. "You're just... Early."
"I'm a half an hour late, angel," Hawk replied, tapping his watch. "Kenny's found a new fascination - smoothies."
"They're good for you," Tim said absently, thumb rubbing over the woolen project in his hand. "How was tennis?"
Hawk shrugged, smiling despite himself. "We played a doubles match against one of the other pairs at the club. We won. Then we practiced some more." Hawk shook his head, coming around to the other side of the couch. The proper side of the couch. "But enough trying to distract me from all this." Hawk waved a hand to indicate the yarn store apparently operating in their living room. "What has my Skippy been up to?"
Tim's eyes flickered over the mess. "Nothing?"
Hawk smiled, helplessly endeared. "You're still a terrible liar, angel."
Tim's fingers fidgeted with the yarn, twisting it this way and that. "It was supposed to be a surprise."
Tim sounded so put out that Hawk almost wished he'd thought to call before he came home like he sometimes did - making sure that Tim didn't need him to pick up anything on his way home.
"Whatever this is, Skippy, it is a lovely surprise."
And clearly Hawk had not missed his calling at being the supportive partner. Tim was always so much better at that than Hawk ever was.
Tim dropped his face into his hand, groaning piteously. "You don't even know what it is," he complained, letting out another unhappy noise. "I'm terrible. I knew I should have asked Maggie to teach me. I just wanted to do this for myself. I thought it would be more special." The last part was mumbled, directed more at Tim's knees and the four rows of stitches than Hawk himself.
Hawk cursed himself furiously and emphatically in his own head. Tim was hurt. And Hawk had been trying so hard not to hurt Tim any more than he already had over the course of their relationship. "Angel," he said, ignoring the yarn pile and perching on the edge of the couch just the same. "Of course I know what it is," he added, lying but for a very good cause. Anything to make that sad light leave Tim's beautiful eyes. "I was just caught off guard. It does seem a little soon to start on the knitting projects."
"Soon?!" Tim cried, the righteous indignation much better than sadness, even if it was directed at Hawk. "Hawk, we barely have five months! And we still have to paint the nursery and buy the furniture and build the furniture, and-and baby proof!" Tim threw his hands up in exasperation, his eyes narrowing shrewdly. "You did that on purpose."
Hawk inclined his head, humming as he leaned in to kiss Tim's frown. He ran his fingertips over the soft red yarn, picturing how it would look when Tim was finished. "It's going to be a beautiful baby blanket, Skippy."
Hawk could already see it so clearly in his mind, their baby (his and Tim's and Lucy's), all swaddled up in the blanket, surrounded by the love Tim poured into making it.
Tim smiled, leaning his head against Hawk's shoulder for a handful of breaths. "Thank you, Hawk."
Hawk brushed Tim's hair off his forehead, pressing his lips to the warm skin. His attention was caught by one of the patterns on the table. His mother's old teachings dimly coming back to him. "Hand me that baby blue yarn, please, Skippy?" Hawk asked, reaching for the small crochet hook he needed.
Tim beamed, pressing the soft yarn into Hawk's hands. "Sweet," he whispered, as if Hawk was somehow more amazing than Tim was. Tim who had found the time to go out and buy all these materials so they could do this.
Hawk set the hook and yarn down on his lap, wrapping Tim in a tight hug. "You're going to be an amazing father, Skip."
Tim pressed his lips to Hawk's temple, hugging him back just as tightly. "As are you, beloved. This baby is going to be the most loved baby in the whole world."
Hawk pulled away, picking up the crochet hook with determination. "Our baby already is, angel," Hawk said, pulling out the right end of the yarn. "He already is."