I'm glad you came.

Hawksley

It's been weeks -- longer -- since he's heard from Sera. He's heard from Dan at least, those few terse texts exchanged where some of his WHAT. THE. FUCK. got answered. There's nothing he can do. That was made clear. And truth be told, right this moment, he is not thinking about Sera's state of being. He's sitting on his enormous sectional couch, feet propped up on the glass coffee table, watching Netflix emptily. He is wearing lounge pants.

Serafíne

What happens is: she walks. Up the goddamned steps because the elevator call button does not work and she cannot choose a floor even if she wants to. Even if she is standing close as you please to a stranger, some dowager maybe, rising-rising-rising. Sid-the-dog beside her, and there are breaks, because penthouse means: some height, some kind of view.

And she stands in the hallway for - some time, really.

The front door opens. And he is not thinking about Sera or about Sera's state of being but: there it is. Sera walks - in.

Hawksley

It's a tall building. And of course he lives in the fucking penthouse. Always loves a view, this one. It's late enough that no one bumps into her. Or the dog. She cannot hear the television through the door; thick walls.

But Hawksley hears the door open, alert, eyes sharp as the bird he is named for and calls to mind. Looks at the door and sees Sera and his brow furrows deeply. He doesn't note the dog. He doesn't turn off the television. He's moving, remote thrown down, crossing the room over to her immediately.

Serafíne

The dog at her heels, threading between her legs, calls to mind one of the old goddesses, Some virgin huntress. But he doesn't notice Sid, just Sera. That wildness to her that feels somehow more savage in this precise moment. She is: watching him, right? Sharp, but not the way he is sharp.

Wants to say something, but her throat -

- it's so fucking strange to be seen. She has no idea what she wants to say.

Hawksley

So she doesn't say anything, and he puts his hands on her jaw. Both hands, like he's about to start mauling her mouth with one of those savage kisses that they haven't shared in -- well. Not for a long time. Even the way they kissed at his birthday party wasn't like that.

But he is not kissing her. He just cups her face in his hands like that, frowning down at her, staring at her. Saying nothing. Just staring. His eyes flick: take in her features, glance down between them, like he's checking her over. He notices the dog; he doesn't mention it. He looks into her eyes.

For a while.

He is frowning deeply all that while.

And then he wraps his arms around her, bare because Hawksley is always fucking walking around without his shirt on, and tucks her head underneath his head. Says roughly, finally: "Dan told me what happened."

Serafíne

She goes stiff when he touches her, when he cups her jaw. Right through the shoulders and the spine and she is caught between the desire to - her need to be touched - and the part of her that has built up this strange and shocking carapace of singularity.

- well, stiff. Rigid muscles framing that spare frame. Looks the way she does when she is peeling away each and every one of her reserves, shedding all her skins to find some made, molten care. Thin and sharp and hungry.

Doesn't really sink into him even when he wraps his arms around her and tucks her head beneath his, but she does breath out - once. This diaphragm hitch as if she were on the verge of letting go.

Then she starts to pull herself away from him. "I'm sorry - I don't - " She's shaking, you know? "I don't think I want to be touched right now."

Hawksley

Doesn't want her to sink into him. Really doesn't. (Liar.)

But at least: he doesn't blame her for it. For going stiff. For not sinking. For pulling away. And when she does, he unfolds. Takes his jaw from off her head and releases her face from his hands and lets his arms fall to her sides. She starts to say she's sorry and he shakes his head, talking at the same time:

"Don't -- you don't have to --"

She's shaking. He is not. She says she doesn't want to be touched and he just nods, once. Steps to the side and makes sure the dog won't get its tail stuck, then closes his door. It has a soft click-thud to it. He still doesn't lock it. On the television is an old episode of Arrested Development. It's still playing, a weird backdrop. Hawksley glances at the dog and thinks only: it had better not shit on his carpet. He walks away from her, picks up the remote, turns off the television. The room goes silent and he looks at her again.

"Do you want a drink?"

Serafíne

Quick little flash of her dark eyes: up when he asks that question. Sidelong only because of their relative positions in the room and there is something alive and strange and aware and chasing-through about the look and she drops one hand to the crown of the dog's head, right between the ears.

Does she want a drink?

"Yeah."

Sera does that weird thing people do somethings: frowns and kinda nods after she answers, like hey, she's agreeing with herself. Or asking the question again in her head and answering. It's weird to talk, and have someone talk-back. It's really, really hard for her to hold herself together. But hey - she does.

Hawksley

Hawksley goes to the kitchen. Big, open penthouse this is. Few walls. Few barriers. Makes sense. He goes, and opens a couple of cupboards until he comes out with a stout bottle full of crystal-clear liquid. Sets that on the counter. Sets out a couple of shot glasses.

Then he gets a lime out of the basket and slices it into wedges, watching her.

"Don't take this the wrong way, but... what are you doing here?"

Serafíne

Sera, she follows him through. Trailing, and the dog trailing with her. Where the carpets are plush their footsteps are soundless, but then they give way to expensive hardwoods, or marbles, maybe, and Sid's nails click-clack-click on the foor.

The tequila makes her smile. This brief, chasing thing as she sidles up to the counter and pulls out a stool. He tells her not to take this the wrong way, but - and there's a flash; her eyes on his profile. The smallest flinch, just her shoulders, really, easy to overlook. It's hard not to take that question the wrong way.

She tries, though. Wants to tell him that she doesn't know but he is the only one who ever calls her on that shit so she doesn't try it (much) with him anymore.

"I was - close. Ish? And I was lonely. And I wanted to see you."

Hawksley

Make no mistake: Hawksley knows, and has known for a long time before he ever met Sera, that he is an asshole. And that he is selfish. And that he is self-centered, self-involved, and that his self-interest has the capacity to be ruthless. Being in the Order has only doubled down on that intrinsic trait. He is, among all these other things, self-aware.

So he knows that when she says she wanted to see him and it causes a momentary spreading warmth in his chest, it's sort of a douchebag thing to feel. She's not okay; he doesn't even ask if she's okay because he knows she isn't. Of course she's fucking lonely: she can't talk to people or dance with people or see her friends or be Sera. She's miserable, and here he is getting happy that she wanted to see him.

Hawksley doesn't think to offer the dog a treat, or a bowl of water. He just ignores it. He slides the cutting board of wedged limes across the bar counter to her, and a shot glass, and pours hers full: a double. Gives himself the same. Taps his glass to hers, taps it on the counter, and downs it, follows it with a harsh bite of lime.

Breathes out through pursed lips.

"I'm sorry," he says, not looking at her but at the counter.

Serafíne

This slash of a smile from her, unbidden. Something about the shot glass or the way he taps them. Whatever. Maybe it's the limes or the reflection of the lights in the viscous liquid. She takes her with a neat care, fingertips stippled over the glass, and breathes out sharp and does the shot. Then lime, yeah. Doesn't bother with salt, not even the salt from her skin.

And he tells her he's sorry and she gives him this sharp shake of her head. No.

"It's not your fault," all matter-of-fact or as close as she can come to it. Then a hitch, more shoulders than diaphragm but a little of both and her brows together and, yeah: miserable. Miserable. "I just - I just fuck everything up."

Hawksley

Neither of them bother with salt. Hell: in a pinch, neither of them bother with lime.

She shakes her head, she tells him it's not his fault, and he quirks a brow at her. She says she fucks everything up.

"Wasn't saying sorry about your... situation," he clarifies, nodding at her as though she really were invisible. Even to him. "I'm sorry that it took me nearly a month to even find out why I wasn't hearing from you."

A moment. He's silent. Takes a breath and refills their glasses. Hers; his own. Heat from the first double shot is already spreading through his body. It helps.

Sets the bottle down again. Picks up his shotglass; offers it to her to clink.

Serafíne

That's pretty much the only thing he could say in that moment to startle her from her brooding self-pity. She looks up at him, mouth open, brows narrowed. Eyes damp but you know. She's shaking, just a little bit, but she's not crying. More like this irregular shiver. Every now and then. Like her body hasn't adjusted to the temperature in the room.

"I don't - I don't know what to fucking say to that."

Hawksley

So he shrugs. She isn't tapping her glass to his. So he doesn't wait. He takes his second shot. Bites lime. Sucks the juices down and looks at her as he swallows, licks his lips.

"Whatever you want to say," he says, and perhaps it should come off as glib, or cheeky, meaningless. It doesn't. Looking at her steadily, despite the booze trickling into his bloodstream. Whatever she's got: say it. There is the sense that it will be okay. Or at least: he will accept it.

Serafíne

Oh, god. He says that and she: looks up and now she starts to cry. This expression on her face: open, raw and vulnerable and for several: whatever they are, seconds, minutes, neither, all, she cannot really say anything. She just cries and looks at him with this strange mixture of pain and wonder and whatever so plain on her features.

Sniffs, finally. Her throat is opening and she can speak again. "You're always in my head, you know?"

Hawksley

He is grateful for tequila. And he weathers the way she cries and the way she looks at him because he decided when he heard what was happening that whatever it was, he would take it. Had to.

Hawksley blinks. Slow. Really: he closes his eyes for a moment, and nods as he opens them. "I know."

It isn't arrogance. It's understanding. It's I get that.

And it's still an apology.

If they go too far down this path, though, who knows what else he'll say. He reaches over the counter and touches her hand with his. His fingertips cover the back of her hand; one fingertip rests over the ring he gave her, which answers to his touch with a flare of soaring, sundrenched warmth. He thinks he should ask her if she wants it disenchanted, if it hurts her. But he thinks she could do that herself, or get someone else to, if she wanted. He thinks that even if it hurts her, she chooses to let it. Really not his place to question that.

Beyond that: well. Other thoughts. Other reasons.

"I want you to stay," he says, and then, because he is a coward and an asshole: "tonight."

Serafíne

Some part of her cannot handle that apology. It makes it real. Right? What he's done. The way he's left her. The way he left her. The way everyone always leaves her. So she looks at him and she lets herself feel that pain, all of it, somehow brightest on her scapulae. You know: where her burning wings should be rooted. Feels the rest of it, too.

He says I know and she doesn't think it's arrogant. She: gets that he gets it and she is reaching for her shot then, throwing it back, grateful for it. The warmth, the rush. The sudden flush beneath her skin.

His hand on hers and she's still not sure she wants to be touched. Makes it harder to be not/touched for so long, after. But fuck she also wants to be touched and makes this raw noise in the back of her throat and turns her hand over beneath his. The crawl of her tattoos on her dusky skin. Over her pulse at her wrist, framing her palm and fingers, yeah, though not on her palm. Sharkscissors covers her left palm. She wears his ring on her right index finger.

And yes: she's still wearing it. Even now. Sometimes it hurts her. Sometimes it makes her ridiculously happy, silly girl.

--

He tells her he wants her to stay. Tonight. And she cannot respond to that, really: so she tells him she wants another shot. God that's quick: she's eaten nothing. It makes her giddy, it makes her blood sing. It makes the room spin, just the way she likes.

She does stay: one night. She's still sleeping when he leaves for his day,

and she is also: gone when he returns.

Hawksley

Christ. She touches his hand and he grips hers, firm but not sudden, not grasping. Still: it's immediate. He holds her and thinks that if he lets the tequila have its way he's going to --

So he squeezes her hand and he lets her go.

--

They do another shot. They are drunk. The room spins for her and she feeds the dog and maybe she takes a bath. He goes to bed; he doesn't tell her to take the spare room. He doesn't tell her to do anything. So when she comes to his bed and he is still sort of drunk and actually quite sleepy he just opens one eye and looks at her. Smiles a little. Goes to sleep. Her fucking dog sleeps on the floor, or on top of Sera's feet. Whatever.

When he wakes up, his hand is on her waist, his forearm crossing her stomach. He leaves her a note: eat whatever she wants. He'd tell her Collins is downstairs but Collins can't interact with her anyway. He tells her, on the note,

I'm glad you came.

It is signed - H.

--

She is gone when he comes back. He knew she might be. It is why he didn't tell her that he'd see her later. It is why he didn't leave in the note a question about getting dinner. He is relieved that she is gone, and he is aching because she is gone.

Empty,

because she is gone.

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