goodweather | IC INBOX ( SAIL )

There’s a peace in this. Whatever tumult tossed them out of their lives into this place, there is peace here. He’s danced with people before; there was Maeve, and Ossie before that, and even further back there was Henry, the two of them deciding to show off in a little number for an entire restaurant of people. And before him was Rita, and before her was so many Punxsutawney people.

This is feels more like those earliest ones. No madness and no magic and no desperation choking everything he does. Just two people in a small town, dancing.

Phil has seen too much, he knows. He’s half bird. He’ll never be normal again. But Hawkeye, who leaps between ideas and emotions like locusts in a field, makes him feel sane. He values that far more than he values his safety.

“Anyone ever tell you that you have a really nice baritone?” he hums when Hawk reaches the song’s end. His Mantle is cool and gentle, a fine summer evening's wind. “I could probably listen to you sing all day.”

Edited 2024-09-12 18:36 (UTC)

"They have, but I like hearing it from you," Hawk grins, content in his aimless shuffling.

Maybe he's just starting to get used to all of this, starting to pick up the beat and ease into the dance, but not everything that's strange here has been awful. Phil especially- it's odd how a guy who looks like he's half bird on his mother's side can feel like one of the more normal people in town. No crazy bullcrap, just... a dad trying to keep his kid safe and help people while he's doing it.

"Well, your quarter has just run out and this jukebox needs a break. Either you show off that you have a great voice on top of everything else, or we do this next one to the ambient sounds of downtown."

"I'm no singer, but at least being a musician means I've got pitch. Let me think..."

A few steps of shuffling in silence, then: "Oh, I know. You might recognize this one."

Phil hums the musical intro, a soft and romantic lead-up, but he doesn't hum it all through like Hawkeye did. He sings. In French. He's got a gruff and untrained sort of sound, baritenor, just a notch higher than Hawkeye, but his ear for pitch is as on-target as promised.

He'd said he was a good dancer, hadn't he? Both of them did. After a moment's consideration, there's a slight push as Phil moves to slowly circle the room with him, all the while keeping one hand on Hawk's waist and the other clasped with his.

He speaks French.

Evidently more than Hawk does, who very nearly pauses for a moment. Is there, genuinely, anything this guy can't do? It's another sad wistful jazz number, and there's something in the untrained quality of Phil's voice that makes it really feel like he lived it. The same way Ella Fitzgerald always feels like she's really in love with you, or Miles Davis could make it sound like his trumpet was weeping. Phil pushes him into some motion, and Hawk is grateful for it, because otherwise he might stay stuck there all night, Phil's broad hand on his waist, the way it burns through his layers of clothes.

Hawk wants a room full of jazz records to go over with him singing like that. He wants a table a mile long of good food to share with him, he wants to ruin ten sets of sheets rolling around with him. It's lust, yes, undoubtedly, Hawk's restraint the only reason that he's not just burying his face in Phil's chest. But it's longing, too. Longing for that moment like on the ship where he cracked through to him, longing for how gentle he is with his kid, longing for how thoughtful he is, how kind. Hawk wants him not just how he usually lusts after a handsome nurse, it's... what, does he want to be Phil, or does he just want to see more of that? Does he want to be in the room when Phil's firm and calm and wonderful? Does he want more of it for himself? To be the reason he smiles, the one who makes him laugh?

Hawk eases them into a faster foxtrot. This sort of thing, it gets worse when you stew on it. He needs to move. He has to get out of his head.

Oblivious to Hawkeye's plight, Phil takes a moment to feel out the new pace, but falls into it as easily as kingfishers and loons into water. They sway together; they glide. They weave patterns over the floor. The man wasn't lying when he said he had magic feet. He hasn't had a dance this good since Henry. Hawk will follow him wherever he goes, and Phil will do the same. He wants to give him a good night.

Phil keeps singing, and he lets himself get lost in the movement of it. He tugs the two of them along with the swells and syllables as they turn and lean. The song repeats its lovely chorus twice. The first one goes by, but in the lead-up to the second, he brings them towards the middle of the room where they'll have room, and his voice closes in,

and like a gull catches an updraft over the sea and is cast upwards into a heavenly arc, an arrow of white in endless blue, his voice soars to that soft and high place as he dips Hawkeye. His hold is secure, his eyes crinkling at the edges with what tender gaze he gives him. His wings spread behind him for balance, mantled in a sodium-orange glow.

Edited 2024-09-15 20:36 (UTC)

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.

Hawkeye rarely makes his desires unknown, but somehow Phil always has a hard time seeing it coming. He doesn't know why. He's usually pretty good at reading people.

But he feels Hawk below him, held in his grasp, the weight of his body suspended from his--and then he's grasping for Phil, all eyes on him. Only eyes for him. And Phil knows he's handsome, sure. He knew it when he was given a whole news segment with his name on it. He knew it when it took barely an evening to get a hookup. He knew it when Rita kissed him, when Ossie kissed him, when Fever and him tangled into something strange and beautiful. But something about this moment and Hawkeye's unabashed want--it surprises him, still, somehow.

He hovers there. No music, no movement. Trying to figure out if he wants it too.

It didn't always use to feel complicated. Hawkeye doesn't want it to be complicated. He may as well try.

The hand holding Hawk's moves to the back of his neck, talons pressing gently, and he kisses him.

For a moment, Hawk very nearly walks it back. He's not hurt by it- Phil's got a lot going on, he might change his mind, he might not. If there's one benefit to his technique, it's that nothing really feels world-ending when someone says no. Sure, the hot springs incident was incredibly embarrassing, but he recovered. Went on other dates, felt better about himself, didn't take it too hard. Just a misstep. He would have been prepared for this to be a misstep too, just slightly out of time with where Phil is. But he had to get it out there.

Hawk's glad he did. He feels Phil's hand shifting to hold him up, quietly thanks whoever that this is something he has experience with, and shifts his own hand to Phil's cheek.

It's not going to be a lengthy make out session or anything, he's thinking about Phil's back here, but he presses into the kiss eagerly. He's only visited, but he likes Phil's mouth already, he might want to stay for longer next time. Maybe build a vacation house.

When they do separate, Hawk smooths his thumb across Phil's cheek, the corners of his eyes crinkling up.

"I'm starting to think I just like everything involving your mouth."

Phil sinks into the sensation as he kisses back. Some people have plenty of experience and don't get much better, but Hawkeye feels like he took every single encounter as a lecture and took notes. Besides that, though, he's just... warm. He's warm, and human, and real, and not only is his Earth familiar, his history, his personality, his likes and dislikes, and even his body all are too. His hands are rough with years of scrubbing, and holding him feels a little bit like home.

Phil leans back up, pulling them both to standing. Don't mind if he's leaning into Hawk's touch. "That's what they got me on the radio for. You're not half bad yourself." The hand on his neck pulls away to playfully snip his nose.

"So what made you change your mind from 'just a dance?' Was it the French? I first learned it to impress girls, you know."

"Thank you, thank you. Just as soon as the army invents a badge for kissing mouths instead of backsides, I'll be so decorated you could put Christmas presents under me."

Hawk sticks his tongue out when Phil snips his nose.

"What a coincidence, so did I. I'm happy to inform you that it works on the less fair sex. You're the one who dipped and kissed me, Casanova, why don't you tell me what changed? You had your eyes open for at least some of that, so I know you weren't mistaking me for Ginger Rogers."

"You told me you were a good dancer, so I wanted to see you dance, not just shuffle in place," he hums blamelessly. "And then when you asked me to kiss you, I thought, well, sure. I could do that. Why not? So I did."

His eyes flick aside, an almost bashful motion. He'd move his head if he didn't think it'd make Hawk take his hand away. "And, uh... it was good."

Hawk's face squinches up into his cat expression. You know the one, the one where he looks smug, like he got the canary and the cream at the same time. He places a kiss carefully on Phil's cheek.

"I'm sure I've had people think nicer things when I kiss them, but I'll take it," he teases. Well and truly back in his wheelhouse, if that touch of demure bashfulness is anything to go by. Hawk eases his hands back into how they were when they were dancing, only this time pressing closer, cheek to cheek.

"I'm an award winning shuffler-in-place, too. Won regional championships."

His aftershave is still lingering from when he shaved earlier, something masculine in an abstract way, but he got a nice close shave for Phil. Just in case they got this close.

"It's my third favourite pastime," and his eyes flick reflexively to check if the kitchen curtain is closed.

The more affectionate Hawk gets, the more he finds himself leaning into it. His eyes shut with a satisfied squint when he kisses his cheek, and when they press closer again, there’s a very, very quiet sound from the back of his throat that may or may not have been something like a pigeon coo.

Phil’s definitely got a slightly pricier cologne on. Nothing opulent, not to mention he’s trying to save to support the new household, but there’s a sense of sophistication there. He’s a man who likes expense, though he’d hardly demand it of someone else.

He just basks in Hawkeye. His warmth, the smell of his aftershave, the landscape of his skin.

“Yeah? What’re the other two? Shuffling out of place and placing in shuffles?”

Good to know he's reading Phil right, that the touch and contact is welcome. He wonders to himself if it's been a while since he got it casually, that sort of thoughtless touch that couples just do. Phil's a widower, after all, and you don't really get used to not having it once you've lost it.

It's just all good. Really, just being close to Phil is fantastic, as good as he imagined back at the hot springs. He smells like Hawk should've submitted his credit before getting this close, and that's kind of exciting in its own way. Lots of things about Phil are.

He laughs again, leaning into Phil to answer-

"If I can convince you to stay the night, you can find out."

He may as well shoot his shot. If not, he'll be happy like this, but if so... he might be lucky to leave Phil's bones behind when he's done. This want is maddening, it's all he can think about, this close to him. Another kiss to his cheek, just to hear that cute pigeon noise again.

Hawk’s just reward is another little coo. Phil shifts, readjusting his hold on him.

Could he imagine it? Oh, easily. He’d love to try, even, but as they turn, he catches sight of the disorganized pile with a blanket over it in the corner of the room. Hawk’s sanitary, no doubt, but. Mm. He did say he wanted to get his head straight first.

“Maybe some other time, ehn? I should probably be at the house tonight, but… I can be out late. I’ll help you with the dishes. For now, let’s stay like this.”

Hawk does a couple of mental calculations and works out what Phil's looking at, exhaling just slightly. Not disappointment- not entirely- but frustration at himself. If he wasn't doing bad, he could probably have ridden this all the way to the terminal destination. It's probably better that they save it for when Hawk can properly appreciate it rather than just use it as a distraction from feeling rotten. Phil will leave, and then Hawk will sink back down into some nice luxurious misery while he thinks about everyone who's missing and gone from him. That's just who he is now, someone who has to stay in motion.

Still, Hawk's voice takes on a tone of seriousness for a moment.

"How'd you know doing the dishes was one of the two?" he asks.

May as well enjoy what he's got while he has it, so he stays where he is. Hawk isn't a difficult man to please, he's a creature of very simple pleasures, and having someone to squeeze is among the most perfect of them. Phil's warmth, the way being so close sets tingles off across his skin, of the slight friction between them. What a fantastic distraction. He closes his eyes and tries to soak in as much of it as he can.

He does wish they actually had a way to play music here. Then he could just shut up and focus on holding Hawkeye against himself without worrying about the dead silence or trying to fill it.

"You don't have to try that hard. I like you well enough already." Just to prove his point, he pecks a kiss under his eye.

"Who's trying hard? I'm always this charming."

That's a lie and they both know it, but he squeezes his eyes shut like a pleased cat at the kiss.

"I think you missed."

"Then I'll try again," he says, and pressing him closer at the waist, comes in for a soft landing.

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