#you're an angry blade and you're brave (john/hawke)

[aglaecan]

"Right. Can you forgive someone for being a complete and total dickhead?" It's going to take a bit more than a self-deprecating remark, a dash of boyish charm, and a bottle of wine to make this right. He knows that, and she knows he knows that. He holds up the wine even so, quirks an eyebrow at her. "From the place we met. Which probably means it's shit. Much like me. I'm sorry, Mar."

“‘Dickhead’ doesn’t begin to cover it,” Hawke snapped, anger to hide the pain, but doing a damned incomplete job of it. John would see right through it, he always had been able to read her right to the core, right from the first. It had been exciting, and then it had been terrifying, and then it had been gone. Gone, poof! Like a magic trick. Like exactly the cruel trick she always expected life to pull on her.

He’d left town without a word, vanished on her for months. He’d left her alone, like she’d always known he would. Like everyone else did. And then, insult to injury, when he did come back she’d had to hear about it secondhand, her network of informants dropping the information in among the rest of the gossip and rumor they collected, as though it was no more important than anything else. He hadn’t even come to find her. She’d had to go find him. Except she’d chickened out, hadn’t she? Hadn’t gone at all. She’d sent him a bloody postcard, hadn’t even signed it. He’d know who it was from, and he had.

And here he stood, all sheepishness and charm, brandishing a cheap bottle of wine and the promise of an explanation. When Sherlock had pulled a trick like this on John, John had punched him right in his damned aquiline face. Her fingers clenched around themselves and she wondered if John would react if she swung at him, or if he’d just let her do it. Like it was her due.

She looked at the bottle. 

“From the bloody Tesco?” she asked, finally. “Or from that cafe?”

[aglaecan]

ship tag drop!