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Anyone who knew him would agree that Hawkins Fuller wasn't a man necessarily given to spontaneous acts of festive whimsy or selflessness. Yet, he had been in his faithful green Ford, driving up for another Christmas spent with the Smith's in Pennsylvania when he'd found himself just continuing to drive. He'd called from the first roadside telephone booth he had found, making his apologies to Helen and the family - he just couldn't make it this year. Lucy might be disappointed, but Leonard would be far happier if Hawk wasn't there to outshine him. And, honestly, Hawk had somewhere he wanted to be far more.
It was out of the blue, and showing up without an invitation was reckless to say the least and potentially dangerous at the worst, but somehow Hawk thought it would be okay. Tim's hopeful optimism rubbing off on him.
So, Hawk kept driving. Kept company by radio DJs and the soothing playlist of Christmas carols and standards. He joined the throngs of people - less prepared than others before them - driving to the place they would (hopefully, in Hawk's case) spend their Christmas Eve night.
As the depth of night truly fell and surrounded him, Hawk drove into Staten Island, making for a little house he'd heard so much about. For a moment, Hawk entertained the idea that he had the wrong address - that someone wholly stranger to him would open the door. But then he pushed that thought away. Hawk had everything Tim had ever told him filed and categorised in a cabinet in the back of his mind.
Nevertheless, he still idled outside the house for far too long. The defensive part of him warring with the part of him that only Tim Laughlin awoke. The one that said damn the consequences, this was something he had to do. Something he wanted to do.
And what Hawk wanted, was to grab the bottle of mulled wine that he traditionally gave to Mrs Smith every Christmas (made from a family recipe), walk up the path, and knock on the door of the house.
The door opened, a burst of noise and warmth following. It wasn't his Skippy that opened the door, but a woman Hawk recognised almost as instantly. Even if Hawk hadn't seen her photograph, he would still know exactly who she was. The resemblance to his Skippy too much to ignore.
Maggie frowned at him, curiosity so much like her brother's in her eyes. Hawk took his chance, offering her the bottle of mulled wine with a smile more sincere than most he usually wore.
"I apologise for turning up so late, and without proper warning," he began, flashing a more deprecating smile. "But I was in the area and Tim said that the door was always open."
For a moment, Hawk saw that same exasperation he sometimes felt - Tim's unique ability to collect strays and build a family around himself no matter where he went or what he did was one of his most endearing and frustrating qualities. But whatever comment Maggie would have made was interrupted by footsteps coming from behind her.
"Who is it, Mag-?" Tim's voice trailed off, his eyes widening when he saw Hawk standing in the doorway. "Hawk?"
Hawk couldn't help but smile again, the sight of Tim after their time apart warming something that had gone cold inside of him. "Hi."
With Tim's sister standing right there, the "Skippy" was left off the end of his greeting. But, by the way Tim's smile turned softer, he knew that Tim had heard it just the same.
Maggie's eyes narrowed, looking between Hawk and Tim with a frown touching her lips. Suspicious and concerned, staring at Hawk as if she didn't know quite what to make of him. Or who he was and what he wanted with her little brother.
Tim stepped in, giving his sister a smile. "Maggie, this is Hawkins Fuller. The friend I was telling you about."
Maggie's eyes widened. The suspicion in her eyes faded to something far more like understanding.
"Any friend of Tim's is always welcome for Christmas," Maggie said, and if she sounded slightly regretful when she said the word friend, Hawk could pretend not to have heard it. "Come through, we're just about to eat dinner." As she passed Tim, Maggie smirked, saying pointedly, "History and Fordham, hmm?"
Tim swatted after her, Maggie's light laughter filling her voice as she called out to the assembled family that Tim has done it again. Invited a friend for Christmas.
Under cover of the calls that more was merrier and any friend of Tim's was always welcome in their home, Tim smiled sweetly at Hawk. That same beautiful smile that Hawk was privileged to see every time they were together.
It was as if his Skippy was grinning at him, saying I told you so.
But, Tim's eyebrows pinched closer, the crease above his nose deepening. He looked adorably perplexed. "I thought you hated the holidays?"
Hawk wasn't quite sure how to say you give me a reason not to anymore, without sounding completely like a besotted fool, so he settled on a less truthful but more acceptable; "Did I say that, Skippy?"
Tim's face scrunched, too happy to see him to muster any real irritation. And he certainly got his own back. His eyes sparkled, leaning in closer to Hawk.
"You realise you'll be coming along to midnight mass?"
Ordinarily, Hawk would find the prospect nothing short of intolerable, but tonight he was willing to see the silver lining. His voice lowered, just loud enough to be heard by Tim; "Does that mean I'll finally get to see you kneeling in prayer?"
On cue, Tim's cheeks pinkened, his mouth dropping open as if he still couldn't believe Hawk would say such things. And why would Hawk not, when his reward was that beautiful blush?
Hawk just smiled his most innocent smile, knowing precisely how to circumvent Tim's surprise. "I missed you, Skippy."
Tim softened, affection shining at Hawk like a beacon - or, to use a more festive simile, like the lights on the tree at Rockerfeller Plaza.
Looking over his shoulder to make sure the coast was still clear, Tim wrapped his arms around Hawk, melting against him the way he always did.
"I missed you too," Tim whispered into his shoulder.
Hawk tightened his arms, holding Tim to him for a fraction of a second longer.
Teasing calls about Tim having lost his way after all those months in Washington interrupted their moment, Tim stepping back with a very becoming blush. He quickly helped Hawk with his coat, hanging it up amongst the coats and scarves already populating the coat rack.
Tim adjusted Hawk's tie, smiling at him as if he couldn't really believe Hawk was there. "Come on," he said, almost floating as he turned around. "I'll introduce you to everyone."
If Tim hadn't taken such delight in showing Hawk his family photo albums at every possible opportunity, Hawk might have been a little overwhelmed by the sheer number of people crowded into Tim's mother's dining room. There was Tim's assorted uncles and aunts, of whom Uncle Ronald was particularly notable for being given the evil eye by Mrs Laughlin for saying hello to Hawk with a wine glass in his hand. Then there was a collection of Tim's cousins, all of whom looked curiously at Hawk - but it was a much nicer curiosity than the blatant scrutiny his cousins gave him whenever he darkened his mother's doorstep. Finally, there was Grandma Laughlin and Tim's parents, all who bore traces of Ireland in their speech and welcomed him with the same selfless Laughlin warmth Tim had in abundance.
After Hawk had answered the expected questions - where did he meet Tim? A party on election night; what did he do? He occupied a minor position in the State Department; had he not family to spend the holidays with? Yes, but regrettably he wasn't close to them - Mrs Laughlin (who introduced herself as Rosemary, but Hawk had been raised too well to presume to use such familiarity) and Maggie rose to bring in the meal.
Tim, sitting conveniently between Hawk and Maggie, half rose too, sent sinking back into his seat by a pointed look from his mother. Conversation slowed for a moment, each of them watching as Maggie carried in steaming dishes of roasted vegetables, setting them down and stepping back in time for Rosemary to enter. Slight as she was, the two large pies in her hands seemed to dwarf her but she set them down as if they didn't weigh more than a feather.
"Fish pie," Tim explained in a soft voice, leaning a little into Hawk. He didn't need to say more, Hawk was already familiar with the Catholic tradition of eating fish on important days. Tim smiled at his mother just the same. "My Ma makes the best in the country."
Tim's sentiments were echoed up and down the table, each person raising their wine or water in a toast to her efforts.
Rosemary accepted the compliment with all the grace of a woman who knew her cooking was exemplary, yet with all the modesty of a good Catholic woman.
Tim's father, Paul, smiled just for a moment at his wife - as if she was the only person in the world. The look so private, Hawk glanced away, meeting Tim's eyes instead. Tim's eyes smiled the way Hawk had come to adore, both of them looking forward again when Paul began to say grace.
Hawk stayed silent, not participating nor interrupting the ritual. He did, however, happily join in on the calls to pass this or that food, and to spoon the delicious smelling pie on to his plate. After the solemnity of the grace, the conversation picked up again - laughter and teasing and honest praises drifting up and down the table as everyone caught up after a few days or weeks or months apart.
Not once was Hawk made to feel like an outsider. Conversation between Hawk and some of Tim's family members lulled, but they never did anything less than treat him like he was a regular feature at their table. And, when the conversation did lull, Hawk got to focus more on the hearty meal before him - the flavours of the pie and the crunch of the vegetables - and listen to Tim's enthusiastic voice chattering away to his family.
Soon, Hawk found himself enjoying a discussion with Uncle Ronald and a few of Tim's older cousins - talking about the different places they'd seen while serving in the army. Perhaps not to most Christmassy of conversations, but it kept them away from politics and religion which even Hawk knew better than to bring up at a family dinner. It felt nice, actually, to have a lively conversation without worrying about having to check his words, or talk in double meanings. Plain talk was refreshing, as was the passion with which they talked with him.
Just because he was engrossed, didn't mean Hawk stopped paying attention to Tim. He kept half an ear on his voice, ever aware to his slightest movements. He couldn't help it, he was always attuned to Tim in a way even he didn't truly understand the scope of. So, when Tim's hand landed on his leg, Hawk didn't startle. He did allow a tiny smile to curl one corner of his mouth, continuing the flow of conversation without so much as a stutter.
Under the guise of adjusting his napkin, Hawk entwined his fingers with Tim's. Soon, they would both stand and help carry the dirty dishes into the kitchen, carry out mugs of coffee and tea, bundle up warm for the walk to the church. But for now, they had this. Neither he nor Tim let go, content just to maintain that covert contact as the meal wrapped up around them. A small enough thing, but one more than worth the diversion from Pennsylvania.