His stomach growls and Hawkeye almost tells it to shut up. He's got a frog in his throat and his lips quiver once. Again, he finds himself with something like a grin but it's so much looser this time, so much more nervous. He's not a military man. He's had enough of action. It's impossible to spot someone who didn't want to be seen in the greens that stretched out like a cobweb sea. Strain his hearing as much as he might, no, he can't hear a peep out of place. And that was the problem, wasn't it? He didn't know what the rhythm was, he didn't know what would be out of tempo, what beat would sound wrong.

Five, six seconds go by and Hawk hadn't dared blink or move a muscle. His tongue feels heavy. His finger twitches. The tension, he starts to think, is his alone. Ha-ha, jungle. Fooling him like that. "Shame on you," he mouths and sobers up. His grin dissolved, because it's no time to be grinning. He swallows thick and brings a hand up to wipe at his face. Nothing. So he should make his way to the river, then. Maybe there would be less ghosts near the bank, after all. But he's listening now.