The curiosity almost literally made him itch. He had to stop scratching his arm when he realized the urge to wasn't coming from a mosquito bite he had recently acquired. Quarantine. Abandoned. Boston? His Boston? That stuffy blue-blooded Bulldog-wannabe Winchester's Boston? Rats and their high class fleas would continue to breed in those sewers well after any apocalypse. He grunts. Questions just want to stream out.
Hawkeye sports an ear-splitting whimsical grin a second after.
He wants to pretend he's in one of Rockwell's paintings, the very portrait of a fond thought.
"Ah, Boston. I did my residency there. I loved the theaters. Hated the shows, sometimes. Loved the l-" and a stop. "I'll tell you when you're older. But no, not even Boston can compare to Crabapple Cove. -That's in Maine, by the way. In the springtime, it's..." Because it was spring. It was spring, 1953. "It smells good. I know that's such a weird thing to say, but after winter, and everything is thawing out, and flowers start blooming again-- the buttercups! Oh, it's something."
Especially when those sweet smells do the tango with the scents of the fish market. Now that was an experience.
Quarantine. Abandoned. Some man named Joel--
Well, now Hawkeye's looking and sounding more like a nosy classmate than an old man spinning a yarn. He leans close, but keeps his seat. "Who the heck's Joel?" And why does he want to ask where they were last Friday night?
no subject
Hawkeye sports an ear-splitting whimsical grin a second after.
He wants to pretend he's in one of Rockwell's paintings, the very portrait of a fond thought.
"Ah, Boston. I did my residency there. I loved the theaters. Hated the shows, sometimes. Loved the l-" and a stop. "I'll tell you when you're older. But no, not even Boston can compare to Crabapple Cove. -That's in Maine, by the way. In the springtime, it's..." Because it was spring. It was spring, 1953. "It smells good. I know that's such a weird thing to say, but after winter, and everything is thawing out, and flowers start blooming again-- the buttercups! Oh, it's something."
Especially when those sweet smells do the tango with the scents of the fish market. Now that was an experience.
Quarantine. Abandoned. Some man named Joel--
Well, now Hawkeye's looking and sounding more like a nosy classmate than an old man spinning a yarn. He leans close, but keeps his seat. "Who the heck's Joel?" And why does he want to ask where they were last Friday night?