[breakfast is usually only his agenda about four times a week, and it's sure as shit not because of the eggs. it's one of the best places to catch absent chatter, gossip over tea and scones and see if there's anything worth trading with the staff, the house itself, or any other guests down the line. hawkins fuller has played the game of politics for too long to ever take anything like idle conversation at face-value without tucking it away for later on the off chance it proves useful. most of the time it's a smorgasbord of noise about the otherworld, their very own sex club downstairs and who's been dragging who away to the private rooms. sometimes it's complaints about the mysteriously relocating rooms - one day the piano bar's in the east wing, the next day it's time to hike it over to the west. and every once in awhile there's a gem buried in there among the noise - murmurs from the staff about which rooms to clear out or what to throw away in the kitchen, who's no longer on duty.
hawk watches it all like his namesake, taking it in over the rim of a cup of piping hot black coffee and a daily paper dated fifty years into the future from his actual existence of the early 2000s. all of this has been...quite the adjustment, to say the least, but the idea that is some big scandal machine to nail him back in mccarthy's dc of horrors has started to wane in favor of the notion that this is some sort of reprieve, some unseen purpose no one has nailed down yet. it's why he's never tried to leg it himself, far more interested in gathering intel and spending time with the array of guests that give even the wealthiest of pac parties to shame.
he's just finished up his drink, standing to button his navy suit jacket and nod in thanks to giles as he folds the paper and tucks it under an arm to peruse at his convenience later. he's on his way back to his room to stuff it in the dresser containing all the history books that have been delivered from the library and every paper that's come before it since his arrival when he hears shouting, also not entirely uncommon these days.
the crown does not negotiate with terrorists or kidnappers.
ah, that'll be fresh meat.
it doesn't seem like anyone else is coming to the rescue, so hawk takes an easy stride towards the noise and spots a blond head in sharp pajamas and loafers that aren't at all unlike his own in the comfort of his own room. he lifts his hands like he's placating a wayward child, and if the babyface is any indication, he actually might be one.]
I'm more aware than the average joe about that song and dance, trust me. And you can cross terrorists off your list, unless you're particularly threatened by self-serve breakfast.
[his accent is pure american, and there's a light smirk that makes his eyes twinkle, even as he extends a customary bow of his head in respect.]
Is it - Your Highness? Your Majesty? The history books aren't always caught up around here, and I left off on Lizzie the II.
✮ 𝒘𝒆𝒍𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒆
hawk watches it all like his namesake, taking it in over the rim of a cup of piping hot black coffee and a daily paper dated fifty years into the future from his actual existence of the early 2000s. all of this has been...quite the adjustment, to say the least, but the idea that is some big scandal machine to nail him back in mccarthy's dc of horrors has started to wane in favor of the notion that this is some sort of reprieve, some unseen purpose no one has nailed down yet. it's why he's never tried to leg it himself, far more interested in gathering intel and spending time with the array of guests that give even the wealthiest of pac parties to shame.
he's just finished up his drink, standing to button his navy suit jacket and nod in thanks to giles as he folds the paper and tucks it under an arm to peruse at his convenience later. he's on his way back to his room to stuff it in the dresser containing all the history books that have been delivered from the library and every paper that's come before it since his arrival when he hears shouting, also not entirely uncommon these days.
the crown does not negotiate with terrorists or kidnappers.
ah, that'll be fresh meat.
it doesn't seem like anyone else is coming to the rescue, so hawk takes an easy stride towards the noise and spots a blond head in sharp pajamas and loafers that aren't at all unlike his own in the comfort of his own room. he lifts his hands like he's placating a wayward child, and if the babyface is any indication, he actually might be one.]
I'm more aware than the average joe about that song and dance, trust me. And you can cross terrorists off your list, unless you're particularly threatened by self-serve breakfast.
[his accent is pure american, and there's a light smirk that makes his eyes twinkle, even as he extends a customary bow of his head in respect.]
Is it - Your Highness? Your Majesty? The history books aren't always caught up around here, and I left off on Lizzie the II.