Work Text:
The dining room was stifling.
Not because of the temperature—it was December, after all—but because of the conversation. Or lack of it. Mary was talking about her recent trip down the West Coast, Frankie was picking at his roast beef with a frown, and Marcus had launched into a detailed monologue about… the book he was writing, maybe? Tim had stopped listening a while ago.
He glanced across the table at Hawk, who was leaning back in his chair, one hand loosely gripping his glass of whiskey, his expression a mask of polite interest. But Tim knew that look—knew the barely concealed boredom in the way Hawk’s jaw twitched, the way his fingers tapped against the glass.
Tim hid a small smile and reached for the napkin on his lap. Carefully, he picked up his pen—always kept tucked in his shirt pocket—and scribbled a quick note in his neat, precise handwriting.
“Think you’ll survive this riveting evening?”
He folded the napkin once and slid it across the table to Hawk.
Hawk glanced down, his eyebrow quirking slightly. His lips twitched into the faintest grin as he picked up the napkin, scribbled something back in a bold, messy scrawl, and sent it sliding back.
Tim opened it under the table.
“Barely. Marcus just said ‘the subversive undertones of my foreword.’ If he says it again, I’m walking out.”
Tim stifled a laugh, his shoulders shaking slightly. He risked a glance at Marcus, who was now gesturing wildly about how his book’s tone would challenge modern readers. Frankie looked ready to fall asleep.
Tim wrote back: “At least you're trying to look interested.”
Hawk arched an eyebrow as he read the note, his grin widening. His pen scratched across the napkin for a moment before the note returned to Tim’s hands.
“I am. In you.”
Tim rolled his eyes but felt his cheeks warm anyway. He scribbled a quick reply: “Be serious.”
When the note came back this time, Tim opened it slowly. “I'm dead serious. You look good tonight.”
Tim glanced up, meeting Hawk’s eyes across the table. Hawk’s expression was relaxed, easy, but there was something bright in his gaze that made Tim’s chest ache.
Hawk never let him doubt it. Even as Tim's skin grew saggy and dull, and the hair on his head thinned, Hawk’s eyes shone the same way when he looked at him.
Tim tucked the note under his hand and replied, “You’re impossible.”
The note slid back almost immediately.
“Impossible to resist.”
Tim shook his head, smiling despite himself. He folded the note one last time and slipped it into his pocket. Across the table, Hawk raised his glass slightly with a convincing nod. Meanwhile, Marcus and Frankie were deep in a heated debate about the book's title, with Frankie claiming it was too pretentious. Mary jumped in as the enthusiastic referee, trying to keep things lighthearted.
Tim leaned back in his chair, completely missing the point, catching Hawk’s eye again and drifting into his own thoughts. Maybe the evening wasn’t so bad after all.
It was their 32nd Christmas together.