Oh no. No, no, no, no, no. She had fallen for it. And the squeak Hawkeye made, the high pitched, open-mouth, partially silent noise of glee made him hold his stomach and double over himself and made him stomp a foot on the hard mud below.

He gasps in a breath and points a finger at his cheek, and the grin he forces on isn't forced at all. "You could kiss me riiiiight here," he says, "and all my boo-boos will go away." It's such a childish posture he holds himself in, and even takes the liberty to lean a little forward. He's sure he has a scrape somewhere on his body, and if he stripped then maybe he could find it and properly point it out. But good Lord, his stomach-- he'd never run again. The hell with it. The hell with this. The poor woman- he couldn't give a damn about her anymore. She was good. She'd be fine. He was still panting, and that was ridiculous. "Kiss me anywhere and I'll return the favor."