With yet no sign of Arthur, Hawke really had begun to assume the bastard had stood him up. With a sigh of both resignation and relief, he leaned back in his chair, eyeing the empty one across the table. Had 'Arthur' picked up on the meaning of his verbal jabs at the crime scene and merely said he'd be here to throw him off? Though, Hawke couldn't really blame the man. He'd let his mouth get away from him earlier, his cocky streak coming out to play as he'd all but outright released the blunt truth that he knew 'Arthur McClagin' was not who he claimed to be. There's no way the other man hadn't caught on to the underlying accusations of Hawke's tone.<br/><br/>Or perhaps Hawke really was losing his touch. It had been quite some time since he'd asked anyone on a date. Much less a mass murderer. Deciding to give the man a few more minutes, green eyes drifted towards the ceiling . . .<br/><br/>Only to dart back towards door when it chimed seconds later. His focus on the entryway, Hawke was immediately captivated by the man's smile, the same one that had sent a thrill up his spine at the crime scene. His own smirking response was genuine, but he quashed that feeling instantly, affronted at himself for letting his facade slip even briefly. This was business. Nothing more. At Arthur's apology, he shrugged casually.<span class="fixed-color" style="color:#b30000">"Fashionably late,"</span>he let his eyes roam up the other suggestively, though he wouldn't ever be this bold on a real date. However, the false confidence didn't last long as Arthur unexpectedly took the seat beside him rather than the one across. Hawke couldn't help it, immediately stiffening at the invasion of his personal space. As he prayed Arthur hadn't noticed his slip-up, the waiter reappeared, giving the blond a brief reprieve, which he used to recover the mask concealing his own emotions.<br/><br/>His water was placed before him and Hawke half-expected the young man to attempt the same line with Arthur as he had earlier with him.<span class="fixed-color" style="color:#8000ff">"Firewhisky, please."</span>So it was to be that kind of night, was it? But apparently the waiter wasn't feeling brave, instead flitting off back to the bar . . . leaving Hawke alone with this man yet again. As the other leaned back in his chair, seemingly completely at ease, Hawke's posture remained firm even while Arthur criticized his choice in drink. Then again, Hawke might have done the same. He sipped at the gillywater and promptly regretted it, abandoning it in exchange for conversation. He needed to learn about this man, find out who he really was.<span class="fixed-color" style="color:#b30000">"To be absolutely honest with you, I've had more than my fair share of stiff drinks these past couple of days,"</span>he admitted, referring to the nearly empty scotch now waiting on his desk.<span class="fixed-color" style="color:#b30000">"And this is nothing."</span>A lie. He really was in need of a good rest.<span class="fixed-color" style="color:#b30000">"During the war I don't think I slept for more than a couple of hours a night. We weren't able to . . . "</span>He trailed off as the other man leaned in, a sudden heady rush assaulting his senses.<i>Rosemary tea. Clean sheets. Freshly fallen rain.</i>It was intoxicating as he breathed in deeply, muscles suddenly feeling very relaxed despite Arthur's proximity. Leaning in subconsciously, he blinked away the feeling, his brow knitting in suspicion at the man before him.<br/><br/>That's when the waiter returned with Arthur's whisky.<span class="fixed-color" style="color:#b30000">"Currant rum for me, please."</span>Hawke ordered the rum to appease his 'date,' but had no intentions of letting himself get tipsy. His head needed to be in the game . . . and yet he couldn't seem to escape that euphoric scent. As the server disappeared yet again, Hawke found himself wanting to brush away the stray hair on Arthur's forehead.<span class="fixed-color" style="color:#b30000"><i>What the hell is wrong with me?</i></span>Instead, he ran his fingers through his own hair, making the mess worse as he leaned back in his own chair, needing to clear his head of the other's presence.<span class="fixed-color" style="color:#b30000">"I'm not all that interesting, though. What about yourself? You deserve more than a stiff drink after nearly being kissed by a dementor. And yet, here you are, still showing up to crime scenes like a loyal employee." </span>Hawke had never heard anyone scream like that unless under the influence of cruciatus.<span class="fixed-color" style="color:#b30000"> "Must have been one hell of memory,"</span>he raised an eyebrow, his own gaze now intent on the other's. If only he could manage to cast legilimens without the man noticing.