Now, Hawkeye Pierce is not a master of seduction, regardless of his track record. He's a master of asking directly in a way that makes them laugh. If anything, he's a master of the 'yeah, alright'. Of course, they always get a good time after, but Hawk knows what weight he's punching at. He's schlubby and gangly- quick, clever, sure, but he's not a heartthrob. Not an insecurity, just a fact like gravity. Looking at Phil- now that's a heartbreaker, all tall and broad with his jaw and his hair and those handsome wrinkles. And he's already said 'alright, sure'.
Hawk must just be born under a lucky star. The bad news, the situation, it eases into a far more dull ache. If Hawk wasn't a doctor, he'd want to be a full time lover, knowing every inch of someone's body the same way he does in surgery. He's seen Phil naked, but he wants to feel him, feel where his wings insert into his back, all the wonderful anomalies of him.
When Phil pulls him into the dip, Hawk notices first that it doesn't feel like Phil could drop him, even if Hawk wasn't holding himself up. Then he sees the wings. Then the halo of orange light coming over his shoulders, that strange phantom breeze again. It's like stage lighting. They're on the little tape x in the middle of the stage, the audience is holding their breath, and it's his cue.
Hawk slips a hand up to Phil's lapel, which is in itself an excuse to feel his chest. His gaze is soft, his lips are slightly parted, and there'd be no mistaking what he says next for an order, even if it feels like life or death to him.
"Kiss me."
It's what Hawk is good at. Laying out what he wants, and letting the other person see if they want it. He wants Phil to want it so, so much. But that's just how it goes. It takes two. Phil has to want it.
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Hawk must just be born under a lucky star. The bad news, the situation, it eases into a far more dull ache. If Hawk wasn't a doctor, he'd want to be a full time lover, knowing every inch of someone's body the same way he does in surgery. He's seen Phil naked, but he wants to feel him, feel where his wings insert into his back, all the wonderful anomalies of him.
When Phil pulls him into the dip, Hawk notices first that it doesn't feel like Phil could drop him, even if Hawk wasn't holding himself up. Then he sees the wings. Then the halo of orange light coming over his shoulders, that strange phantom breeze again. It's like stage lighting. They're on the little tape x in the middle of the stage, the audience is holding their breath, and it's his cue.
Hawk slips a hand up to Phil's lapel, which is in itself an excuse to feel his chest. His gaze is soft, his lips are slightly parted, and there'd be no mistaking what he says next for an order, even if it feels like life or death to him.
"Kiss me."
It's what Hawk is good at. Laying out what he wants, and letting the other person see if they want it. He wants Phil to want it so, so much. But that's just how it goes. It takes two. Phil has to want it.