He hears the running first, and he scrambles, frantic yet again, to his feet. A five minute break had turned into a fight to stay awake. The disturbance was almost welcome, keyword 'almost'. Reason told him he had something else to worry of, not the person who was rushing through the jungle with an inconsistent step. Finally, maybe, he wasn't the only one broadcasting his position, involuntarily as it was. Necessity. Necessity made people loud.
And no, he shouldn't be afraid of someone who broadcast themselves. There was a bigger danger, though. That he would worry about. On his feet, hardly keeping from swaying, he sees her.
Those Christless bastards. This Christless jungle.
She's a kid.
His face almost goes red, but then he figures-- he doesn't figure anything, really. What he'd done or not never really mattered. Really. There were girls around this one's age going into mine fields to see if it would be safe for the ox. There were girls getting blown to bits to save an ox. These things just happened. Hawkeye knew that. He knew, also, that he fucking loved her question. So he drawls out an answer just to be irritating, "Only when I need to be." But first, he hummed. Just a drawn out, thoughtful hmmm.
There were girls in jungle death matches. And he didn't fucking like that at all and his stomach churns and his throat tightens and he sort of can't breathe right for a second.
He flashes a grin. He hopes it's as disarming as he tried for. "Actually," he chimes, "that's the last thing I'm trying to do." Get himself killed, that is. He wants to ask, is it working? But he doesn't want to know if she's got a spear ready to chuck at him.
It might be hard to believe that he wasn't eager to die, trust him, he of all people knows, but the truth is what it is. Hawkeye holds up his hands, palms forward. The grin dissolves at the speed it should when one's concerned. He steps forward. It's the first 'forward' of the evening. He kind of wants to write down the time, down to the second, and place it in a scrapbook somewhere. "Listen, I'm a doctor." He shakes his head. He doesn't know why. He just does. The ball chain of his dog tags pinch at a hair behind his neck. "I heard you limping. Don't tell me you weren't. I'm not the only one with a flashing sign overhead. Why were you running?" Direct. Serious. Hoping for an honest answer, not the one that will please his ears. Yeah, Hawkeye thinks, the girl merits it.
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And no, he shouldn't be afraid of someone who broadcast themselves. There was a bigger danger, though. That he would worry about. On his feet, hardly keeping from swaying, he sees her.
Those Christless bastards. This Christless jungle.
She's a kid.
His face almost goes red, but then he figures-- he doesn't figure anything, really. What he'd done or not never really mattered. Really. There were girls around this one's age going into mine fields to see if it would be safe for the ox. There were girls getting blown to bits to save an ox. These things just happened. Hawkeye knew that. He knew, also, that he fucking loved her question. So he drawls out an answer just to be irritating, "Only when I need to be." But first, he hummed. Just a drawn out, thoughtful hmmm.
There were girls in jungle death matches. And he didn't fucking like that at all and his stomach churns and his throat tightens and he sort of can't breathe right for a second.
He flashes a grin. He hopes it's as disarming as he tried for. "Actually," he chimes, "that's the last thing I'm trying to do." Get himself killed, that is. He wants to ask, is it working? But he doesn't want to know if she's got a spear ready to chuck at him.
It might be hard to believe that he wasn't eager to die, trust him, he of all people knows, but the truth is what it is. Hawkeye holds up his hands, palms forward. The grin dissolves at the speed it should when one's concerned. He steps forward. It's the first 'forward' of the evening. He kind of wants to write down the time, down to the second, and place it in a scrapbook somewhere. "Listen, I'm a doctor." He shakes his head. He doesn't know why. He just does. The ball chain of his dog tags pinch at a hair behind his neck. "I heard you limping. Don't tell me you weren't. I'm not the only one with a flashing sign overhead. Why were you running?" Direct. Serious. Hoping for an honest answer, not the one that will please his ears. Yeah, Hawkeye thinks, the girl merits it.