Chapter Text
As people around him cheer loudly, Hawk finishes his drink, disappointed by the result of the election. Joe McCarthy is not the candidate Hawk would ever vote for. During his political career the guy already passed a few laws restricting rights of the adult people who don't have a soulmate. Hawk, himself, is one of those people, and what he hates the most is when someone endangers his complete personal freedom.
Just as he’s going to leave the party, he notices a cute guy in glasses trying to get bartenter’s attention.
“What do you want?” Hawk asks.
“Milk,” the guy answers, grinning brightly. No one has the right to look that pretty, especially with McCarthy’s badge on their clothes. Speaking of clothes, Hawk would prefer them gone.
“One more Glen Mhor on the rocks and a glass of milk,” Hawk orders. He can stay for one more drink after all.
“Thanks,” the cute guy says when the bartender gets them their order. “Are you working for the government?”
“State Department, Congressional Relations,” Hawk answers, enjoying the sparks that shine in the guy’s eyes. “You?”
“I’m doing an internship at the Star.” The guy holds out his hand. “Timothy Laughlin.”
“Nice to meet you, Timothy Laughlin,” Hawk shakes his hand and a zap of pleasure goes through his body at the touch. He drops his hands and collects himself quickly. “I need to go.”
It’s been three months and Tim still can’t forget about the handsome man he met at the election party.
Ever since he was a little kid, he was taught that when one meets his soulmate, his world turns upside down in the best way. Tim’s soulmark appeared on his wrist on his 22th birthday, and he’s been waiting to meet a person he will be bound to since.
Turns out, a beautiful stranger from the State Department can change one’s world all the same. When Tim realizes he is not going to stop thinking about him any time soon, he looks up at the 1950s Biographical Register and finds one Hawkins Fuller working for the Bureau of Congressional Relations, born in 1919, no soulmate.
Tim wonders if Hawkins Fuller has the matching mark.
He checks the color of the oval spot on his wrist often. It’s usually green, which means that his soulmate is in a good emotional state. A couple of times the mark turned gray, when he was sad or in pain. On Friday nights it sometimes turns silver, which could mean that his soulmate is either happy or in pleasure.
An image of Hawkins Fuller’s face, lost in pleasure, makes him blush deeply and ask for God’s forgiveness. Tim was raised in a religious family, and the Catholic Church believes that it’s a sin to have carnal relations with a person who is not your soulmate, or even think about them that way. As much as Tim wants Mr Fuller to be one, he doesn’t know for sure.
Tim is enjoying an unusually warm day, eating his lunch and reading the job column in today’s paper on the park bench, when someone disturbs his peace.
“May I?” Hawkins Fuller’s voice nearly makes Tim choke on his sandwich.
“Election night!” he says, way too enthusiastically.
“Timothy Laughlin,” Mr. Fuller smiles charmingly. Tim’s heart starts beating a bit faster at the fact that the stranger remembered his name.
“Friends call me Tim.”
“Are we friends already?” his handsome stranger flirts.
“We could be,” Tim flirts back.
They stare at each other for a moment, until Tim’s companion laughs and introduces himself. “Hawkins Fuller.”
“I know, I looked you up,” Tim says, demonstratively stretching out his arm to shake his hand. He can’t see if Mr. Fuller has a matching soulmark under the sleeve of his jacket, but he’s hoping he notices Tim’s.
Even if he does, he doesn’t show it, leaving Tim a little disappointed. Instead, he looks at Tim, surprised.
“Friends call me Hawk.” He nods at the newspaper. “Looking for a job? Your internship at the Star didn’t go well then?”
“I have a degree in political science and history, I should aim higher, don’t you think?”
“Give me your number,” Hawk says. “In case I find something for you.”
Tim writes his number on a margin of the newspaper and tears it off. When he hands it over to Hawk, their fingers brush and the warmth fills Tim’s body. He doesn’t move his hand away, watching Hawk’s reaction. He got to be feeling it too. The other man’s gaze drops at Tim’s lips, and he licks them unconsciously. Then, it’s over as quickly as at their first meeting: Hawk announces that he has to go and leaves Tim alone and wondering what the hell that was.
…threat is real. Communists and those who support them want to destroy the traditional and right path of American citizens! Those Godless Reds claim that one can choose a partner for life instead of a soulmate that was created specifically for him by God…
“Turn it off,” Senator Smith asks his wife. “I’m tired of listening to this demagogue.”
Helen turns the TV off and Senator McCarthy’s voice stops feeling the room.
“Isn’t it your job?” Hawk makes a joke. Senator Smith just grunts in response.
“For a man so tightly holding on to traditions McCarthy doesn’t look particularly good not having a soulmate.”
“Not everyone has a soulmate, Dad,” Lucy Smith enters the room. “I don’t either.”
“You’re still young. Your soulmark will show up one day,” Helen says and turns to Hawk to look at him with pity. An awkward silence fills the room for a moment.
Senator coughs. “Speaking of jobs, it seems that his dragon lady, Miss Kerr, fired another poor soul from his office. It's the fourth for the last six months.”
The first thing Hawk does when he arrives at work the next day—he calls Tim Laughlin. He tells him about the job vacancy at McCarthy’s office and by the time he puts the phone down, the excitement he’s feeling tells him that he needed an excuse to hear Tim's voice. Hawk still can feel the sparks that lit up when they touched. He wants to touch him more. To taste him. To hear him moan Hawk's name.
In other circumstances, Hawk would assume that the pull he feels towards Tim got to be a soulbond. But he’s seen Tim's soulmark shining brightly on his wrist. Hawk doesn't have one.
It's a relief, really. All this soulmate business is a cruel mistake anyway. Hawk prefers to have a choice. Who to sleep with, who to be with. He carefully writes down Tim's phone in his notebook and doesn't notice how begins to make up an excuse to call him again.
The excuse doesn't keep him waiting too long. A week later he finds a book on his desk. Hawk's heart skips a beat as he reads the note inside. I got the job. Thank you for everything. You're wonderful. Tim Laughlin.
As Tim prepares to warm up some soup, he hears a knock at the door. Tim rents a room in a boarding house and they're not allowed visitors, so it must be someone living here. Perhaps, an old lady from the first floor wants to borrow some sugar again.
To his surprise, a man of his dreams is standing in the doorframe. Hawkins Fuller, looking perfect as usual, is here, at Tim's home. For a minute he forgets how to speak, but then moves to the side, allowing Hawk to slide inside the tiny room.
“What are you doing here?” Tim asks.
“You brought me a book,” Hawk smiles charmingly. “Thought, maybe I'll take you out for dinner.”
“I'm already cooking dinner,’’ Tim says. “Do you want to join?”
Hawk looks at him, still smiling, then his gaze falls on Tim's wrist.
“Your soulmate is having a good time,” he says.
Tim awkwardly brings his arm up and looks at the soulmark. It's bright silver, like on Friday nights. In fact, it's been glowing most of this week.
“Do you have one?” Tim asks. His heart makes a flip in his ribcage, excited and afraid to hear the answer.
Hawk shakes his head.
“I'm a free man,” he says.
Tim's hope crushes to smithereens.
“You like working for your hero?” Hawk asks.
“I’m happy working for him,” Tim answers honestly, trying to hide the disappointment. “And I’m grateful to you for this.”
“How grateful?” Hawk steps closer. His eyes leave Tim’s as he looks at his lips. “Grateful enough to let me kiss you?”
“No, Mr. Fuller.” Tim turns his head and looks down, getting himself busy with the soup that already started to boil. “It’s a sin to… You are not my soulmate.”
“Have you met them?”
“Not yet.”
Tim turns the burner down and reaches for the bowls. He looks at Hawk and the other man nods.
“So you believe that God wants us to not have a choice?” Hawk asks later, when they’re enjoying their simple dinner.
“I believe we shouldn’t question His will.”
“And you never questioned it?” Hawk asks. Tim watches his tongue darting out to lick at his spoon. No one has the right to look this good while eating soup. When he catches Hawk’s eyes, he feels the tips of his ears going red. “Don’t tell me you never kissed anyone. Or at least wanted to.”
Tim remembers his first year at Fordham university, before his soulmark appeared. He remembers Father Gallager, the softness of his lips, his warm hands under Tim’s shirt. The smoothness of his skin under Tim’s palm. For some reason, he wants to tell Hawk about him. So he does.
Hawk listens to him, smiling all the time with zero judgment on his face. It’s not even the smile itself that is attractive but the way it reaches his sky blue eyes. Hawk looks at Tim like he wants to eat him alive, but at the same time with so much fondness, Tim has to remind himself to breathe.
So when Hawk gets up and gently asks if Tim wants to kiss him the second time, Tim can’t say no. Doesn’t want to say no.
Hawk pulls him from the bed by the t-shirt and slowly, as if he’s afraid that Tim will change his mind, leans in until their lips touch.
If Tim is going to Hell, this kiss is definitely worth it.
Hawk’s hand comes up to hold his face. His tongue that Tim was dreaming about mere minutes ago swipes along his lips, making Tim open his mouth with a breathy moan, inviting Hawk inside. Hawk groans into his mouth, one of his arms wraps around Tim’s waist to pull him closer. Tim’s hands move by their own accord into Hawk’s perfectly arranged hair.
Suddenly Tim is pushed on the bed, Hawk’s lips leaving him only for a few seconds, before Hawk is on top of him, pressed as close as possible.
“Who is my boy?” Hawk growls into his ear, kissing down to his neck. Taken by the desire, Tim fights for the rest of his sanity, trying to process the words.
Hawk bites his neck lightly, and a jolt of pleasure runs through Tim’s body, making him push his hips up and grind into Hawk’s crotch.
“Who is my boy?” Hawk repeats the question.
“I am!” The purest truth spills out of Tim in answer. At this moment every cell of his body belongs to Hawk.
Hawk pulls back to open Tim’s jeans, just enough to slip inside and wrap his fingers around Tim’s hardness. Tim doesn’t know how long Hawk touches him—a minute or eternity—he only knows that it’s not long enough, as he pulses into his hand, his groan muffled by Hawk’s mouth.
Gradually, he comes down from his high, suddenly aware that the walls in the boarding house are too thin.
“It was nice, Skippy,” Hawk says, before sucking his fingers, coated with Tim’s come, into his mouth, grinning like the cat that got the cream. “Next time I’ll bring you a radio.”
With that, Hawk rolls out of bed, cleans his hand and puts his disheveled hair in order in the bathroom, and leaves Tim alone.
As Tim looks at his soulmark, which is still glowing with silver, guilt slowly overshadows the ecstasy caused by the promise of next time.