Fat lot of explanations there had been, and Hawkeye can't help the resentment from springing up at Fonda's silent readiness to imply he was a liar. Blind he wasn't, and he'd seen those muscles tense to grab at the spear again. He'd promised he was alone already- should he swear it on his mother's grave? The Brick- Hawkeye would think of him as that, names be damned- advanced and he was overpowered now, truly. His shoulders stoop, he shifts his weight to one leg, he's not exactly a spring ready to bolt anymore. It simply wouldn't help. But Hawkeye reasoned it wasn't hopelessness which made him now aloof.
Talk was nice. They were nice.
"Yeah, he was helping." Hawkeye agreed, nodding to Wyatt, quiet and calm. Correct him if he's wrong, but Brick seemed to him like a no-nonsense guy. Fonda had been generous. He'd plant a wet one on the guy's cheek if the silent reception of his 'partners' crack hadn't planted a seed of actually doubt in his mind. Instead, he finds himself fumbling on what to say. Death. That was the only way out-- nonsense, he wants to cry out again. The jungle had to end somewhere- there had to be a city somewhere. Those people in the concrete den had to be holed up somewhere. Those people who brought this sentence down on him had to know what a doctor was. They had to know-- even the U.S. Army knew. And they were imbeciles, all of them. All of them. But there were MASH units in that forsaken place. There had to be something here. A doctor, damn it. That's what he was. Hesitating like he was, either acting in one extreme or the other, he wondered if Wyatt maybe thought him drunk or literally insane.
"I'm a doctor," he repeats, this time to Maximus, looking up and steady and all, trying to match himself with the other's being. "A- a healer," because that one other guy had preferred that word. "The army took me from home; I haven't seen my family in almost three years. I was in a war, but all I did was take care of whoever got hurt. I'm not a fighter, and all you need is a look at me to know that. I won't fight. I'm not going to… inflict anyone's wounds. I'm tired of having patch them all up. So. So you don't have to worry about me. I just got here and Fond-" shit.
"Wyatt. He's the second one to tell me I don't have a prayer of getting out of here. Actually, he didn't just say, he also showed through example. Very informative." He feels out of breath, doesn't quite know why he's just told so much to Brick. He feels out of breath, maybe, because he just admitted to his inevitable death. So then what kept the duo in front of him from snapping his neck and saving someone else the trouble in the future? A heart, he hopes. "I just don't think he liked my singing."
no subject
Talk was nice. They were nice.
"Yeah, he was helping." Hawkeye agreed, nodding to Wyatt, quiet and calm. Correct him if he's wrong, but Brick seemed to him like a no-nonsense guy. Fonda had been generous. He'd plant a wet one on the guy's cheek if the silent reception of his 'partners' crack hadn't planted a seed of actually doubt in his mind. Instead, he finds himself fumbling on what to say. Death. That was the only way out-- nonsense, he wants to cry out again. The jungle had to end somewhere- there had to be a city somewhere. Those people in the concrete den had to be holed up somewhere. Those people who brought this sentence down on him had to know what a doctor was. They had to know-- even the U.S. Army knew. And they were imbeciles, all of them. All of them. But there were MASH units in that forsaken place. There had to be something here. A doctor, damn it. That's what he was. Hesitating like he was, either acting in one extreme or the other, he wondered if Wyatt maybe thought him drunk or literally insane.
"I'm a doctor," he repeats, this time to Maximus, looking up and steady and all, trying to match himself with the other's being. "A- a healer," because that one other guy had preferred that word. "The army took me from home; I haven't seen my family in almost three years. I was in a war, but all I did was take care of whoever got hurt. I'm not a fighter, and all you need is a look at me to know that. I won't fight. I'm not going to… inflict anyone's wounds. I'm tired of having patch them all up. So. So you don't have to worry about me. I just got here and Fond-" shit.
"Wyatt. He's the second one to tell me I don't have a prayer of getting out of here. Actually, he didn't just say, he also showed through example. Very informative." He feels out of breath, doesn't quite know why he's just told so much to Brick. He feels out of breath, maybe, because he just admitted to his inevitable death. So then what kept the duo in front of him from snapping his neck and saving someone else the trouble in the future? A heart, he hopes. "I just don't think he liked my singing."