thearena | A crashing sky, a rolling screen.

Entry tags:

A crashing sky, a rolling screen.

WHO| Hawkeye, Howard, and Wyatt
WHAT| Howard and Wyatt are in a bad way after the one two-punch of Volcano and Arch-Angel. Hawkeye saves the day.
WHERE| In the vicinity of the eruption/collapse, and the garage.
WHEN| Shortly after this.
Warnings/Notes| Gore, treatment of wounds, possible swearing.

Wyatt hadn't wanted to leave Howard, knowing how the boy was hurting, how scared he had to be - all but defenseless, unable even to run should trouble find him without his sight - but he hadn't had a choice. They couldn't last as they were, not alone. Not without supplies.

So he forced himself on, when all he wanted to do was rest, to lick his wounds. Howard still needed him, needed him more than ever. He couldn't stop now. (Couldn't give up.)

With his crowbar clutched in his good hand - the one that he could still work - and pictures from Max tucked into the stolen coat (close to his heart), he dragged himself out of the quiet of the garage and back into the stairwell.

He started on the first floor, hoping against everything the arena had ever taught him that he'd get lucky and find Holiday, or Joan, or Hawkeye - anyone - so close at hand, but the shadows gave up nothing. The statue of Roosevelt was his only company; judging silently from behind his wire-rimmed spectacles, offering no help.

The burning rain had stopped by the time he moved on, but the room was still filled with a low, cold fog, rolling over the steps like water, making the edges difficult to see. Making his mouth and throat burn with every breath. Making his chest ache.

He fought with the door to the second floor, something on the other side pushing back against him, draining what little remained of his strength, and slumped. Exhausted.

"...please," he croaked weakly to no one, sagging against the door. "Help him...."

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Why lie? He likes the hollow little echo of the empty, fogging, smoking floor.

Feeling himself fight back a cough and emerging from an end, Hawkeye declares, "If the person asking for help is a sweaty old man instead of a gorgeous woman, I'll crack his skull open." But he doesn't mean it, of course. Because he wasn't deaf and he knew the man's voice, broken as it seemed. He was good at that, you know. Learning how to identify distorted things. He wished it was true, though. He'd love a good swing at someone. He'd love to sleep. To breathe without feeling like he was breaking some Law, but people can't have what they always want. It's the way of things. Like the way his eyes still stung and his throat still felt raw, the way every step triggered a flame of discomfort, the way some of him was blue and black under the red robe.

Stepping nearer, on a slab of half-submerged material, painfully hot, he managed to peer at the body that had just been dumped on the other side of it. Another slab for the butcher's shop and he says, "Hello, Miss Hepburn." Like he was unfazed by the blisters and this thing that was supposed to be the marshal's skin.

God forbid anything should be easy.

"Who's the Him? And if the help is for anything other than a scraped knee, don't tell me. I might just say I won't do it. I mean it, too." That last bit was sharper than he intended, more real than he cared for. It carried a bite and an edge, but what the hell did that matter, anyway. His job wasn't this, damn it all. It wasn't. But like Lassie, he starts digging, removing what pieces of rubble lodging the door that he can. His entire body's a pain, but he'll deal. When nobody else wanted to, he got stuck with the spurs and the whip. Shame, though, that he's always on the wrong end. And speaking of-- Christ, maybe he can muscle the door open wide enough to slink through. Why can't disaster happen when he's awake and willing? Why didn't it happen when he was bored? Why now, the pile-up a mile high? He didn't deserve this, you know. Sweaty old men just always gave bad news and he had thought he'd gotten his fill of it already.

Wyatt didn't know who Miss Hepburn was, or what he was supposed to have in common with her, but he knew that voice. That rambling, sing-song voice, calling out to him from the other side of the door.

It was his first answered prayer in longer than he could remember.

"Doc...?" he rasped, a silver of hope buried in the rough word. He struggled to right himself, reaching out to grip the railing across from him, pulling himself away from the door and up onto his feet. "Hawkeye, I sure hope that's you."

Feet beneath him, he let himself lean - fall and hit the door, weight pushing it in, a few scant inches.

"I need help."

He saw Wyatt get to his feet, found relief flood him, but he didn't notice the plan was to let himself fall against the door he was working on. With a surprised hiss and a stubbed toe, he figures he shouldn't bark orders at the guy, telling him to make himself of use now and feel down about himself later. Again-- not that he would. It was by the heavy breaths and way the shadow moved in jerks that he knew exhaustion was a fierce contender. For his part, Hawkeye wasn't feeling quite alive, himself. He manages a leg, feeling like jelly, through the opening. He thinks about pulling up the robe like he had with the dwarf, doing a showgirl routine. Instead he just says, "No, this isn't me. It's my ghost."

But his voice was clearer, so he figured he was better off. "I can't think, eat, sleep, feel- but lucky you, I can still talk."

His shoulder was a mess, and he grunted and whined until he was wedged well into the gap. If he didn't look like Lassie before, he really must have now, only instead of a rescue he had caught whiff of bacon cooking on the other side of gate. The thought of the bite there still made his insides crawl, the blackened skin of the beating just made him wince and worm across further. Majestic, really.

"Help? No kidding?" He asks, the surprise revolting. You mean this was a mission of mercy, another bad joke reeling in wait for the punchline? "I hadn't noticed." Which was to say-- and a lot of squirming around later, he might just get through in a moment or so-- "You still haven't answered 'Who'."

"No offense, Doc," Wyatt groaned, leaning back against the jam as Hawkeye began to slither through the opening. More like water than a man, squeezing himself through an impossible crack. "I wouldn't much care if ya were a ghost, so long as ya can help."

His swollen eyes blinked, pain visible there in the weary gaze.

"It's Howard--" Did Hawkeye even know who that was? Wyatt didn't know. "He's in a bad way, an' I can't -- there's nothin' I can do...."

That should have given Hawkeye some idea of how bad it was, if Wyatt, a mass of blisters and burns - one shoulder humped up in pain, was calling it bad.

Gangly, thin on a good day, and his chest and cheek beginning to scrape the more he pressed through, Hawkeye was beginning to think staying out and muscling the litter out of the way would have been the quicker solution. He didn't have the strength to think about it properly, channeling the effort instead in angry bursts, inching through. After a headache and a final stumble, he almost fell forward in a lurch, freedom feeling alien. A second of remembering how to breathe and of letting the same of his entrance wash over, his blue eyes focus on Wyatt.

He sees without seeing, straightens and makes an act of dusting his hands off, and is relieved to be out of the immediate heat of the room and though the door was cracked open, the air felt fresher or else he was just making it up for his own benefit. In which case, he'd like to congratulate himself for the fantasy. He asks, "Howard- a small boy?" And returns to reality, and if Wyatt goes into more detail about the injury he swears to himself he will turn back and just say No, Sorry, Can't help ya there.

And either he was impatient, or mad, or everyone moved too slow or did everything else so painfully wrong.

They should be on the move, and worry wasn't an excuse for paralysis. He gestures at the mess of a marsha. A workaholic? Him? High strung? Perish the thought.

Wyatt was already trying to straighten, waiting only on the good doctor to finish squeezing himself through the door - like a cat, twisting itself impossibly around, all angles and limbs - before moving. No one knew more than him that Howard was waiting. (The boy's face, the sound of his sobs, a terrible echo in his mind.)

"He's like a son to me. I can't sit back an' watch him hurt like this..." He stared at Hawkeye, demanding a choice out of the man. Stay or go. Help or not. "I've got supplies, Doc. I can trade ya, for yer help."

He swayed, but stayed on his feet.

"Will ya?"

Can't sit back, he said, and yet. And yet Hawkeye was the one feeling trapped, and it takes effort he can't quite muster to keep from shouting and from having his blood feel hot again, feel a pressure on the bridge of his nose and he stutters once, leaning back like he'd been in danger of a strike. Supplies for a life! What the hell kind of man--

"Well, move!" He says. Doesn't shout, actually. He gestures at-- well, he doesn't know what. Christ, he didn't understand people. "I don't know how to get where I need to go," he adds, excited in a way that might just mock the way Wyatt hardly stood. It wasn't his fault. Still, despite the sores, he slides up against the man, slings an arm across his back so he can act as a lame sort of support. He wasn't great, but he was better off.

A man who had been through seven arenas. Man who'd learned that for every decent person there was, there was another less so, and that even the good ones changed. Seeing their lives coming to an end.

He trusted few people without question in the arena. A handful, at best.

Hawkeye called himself a doctor, so Wyatt was willing to risk it, but not without caution. He wasn't going to bring an unknown back to Howard's safe place -- maybe the only one they had right now. Not without some promise that he wasn't going to regret it.

At the bite, his jaw tensed, but he took it as the word he needed and turned, limping back down the steps. The touch had him stiffening, jerking with a grunt of pain.

For crying out loud, maybe he was far too anxious for this, too excited, too eager for a distraction. He felt sensitive to the tension built, felt it had been put forward like a wall before an invasion. Saw the man's jaw twitch tight and he found an answer to the silence and the hobble. For crying out loud, couldn't this guy just tough it out? He wasn't blind to those welts, the grunt had him loosening the grip nearly as instantly as he had thought it had been a good idea. And Hawkeye stepped away, and followed instead.

And despite himself, couldn't keep the words down. He had warned about it already, really. The shell of a man could still talk. "Sorry, did I offend you?" It was slow going with a limp, not that he could keep up well with any quicker pace. Not that he'd ask it, in the shape Wyatt presented. He kept his ears trained on the sound of their steps, both of them falling heavy on the stairs. Kept his gaze on the man he'd sometimes fall in step with, would sometimes fall a step behind of. If he admitted to being tired, he'd find shadows dancing around his vision. So he didn't admit to it, and he went on. "I didn't know that being called to help someone else didn't mean I couldn't extend a hand when I thought it'd be needed. I know you're hurt, but you're clearly more worried about the boy, which is worrying me."

The last thing he wanted was another dead kid. This shouldn't be about wants, and he settles, and if he didn't keep talking he'd settle right into the bottom. So he walks. And talks. And he's done with the heat of everything, and so he just gets to the point of it, eyes focusing on Wyatt again, rather than the railing. "Ellie died, and we don't need another dead kid around."

What had Holiday said? That it wouldn't matter, because only one would make it out alive, anyway. Well, the hell with her.

Wyatt started to respond, but the words - such as they were - got caught at the mention of Ellie. At the news of her death. His head twisted round to pin Hawkeye with a look, a cluster of blisters beneath Wyatt's ear breaking open with the sharp movement. Wept, as the rest of him stormed.

A flurry of thought and emotion. Regret - he liked Ellie, quite a bit. Worry - what had happened to her protector, Joel? A quick rush of relief, and a hard kick of guilt. Hated himself for the little voice that whispered in his head that at least Howard was that much closer to victory.

He turned away again, good hand on the freezing wall, guiding him down the steps. The other hanging limply at his side.

"...This is my eighth arena, Doc. The number'a folks who can say such a thing gets smaller every time." A muscle thumped in his jaw, he kept his eyes trained on the smoke, shifting across the floor, as if he didn't trust it. "I'm a dead man. Whether you can patch me up er not."

But Howard still had a chance.

Hawkeye was proud that despite the unnerving air of it all, the rawness, he could still look Wyatt in the eyes. His heart leaped in his chest, a little similar to how it had when Joel had been sobbing over a gray-faced little girl. Men shouldn't know that emotion, losing a kid, and he figured maybe Wyatt knew Ellie better than Joel ever did and his shoulder ached. He rolled it easily.

He kept moving, as Wyatt did. Unlike Wyatt, he paid the smoke no mind. He had somewhere to be and he was convinced he'd carve a path through anything to get there. It could grow arms and try to drag him under, and a hand went up to rub at his eyes at the thought of the dead boy R. Christ, it made his skin crawl.

"I don't know where they get those kinds of people from," he admits. "It'll be my eighth arena some day, but I'll be saying the same thing. Hopefully I can harvest a cockney accent- I always loved those- or, uh. I don't know why nobody ever understands me." He clears his throat, he thinks about trying an accent for the cameras that might be watching disheartened men. Thinks better of it and only focuses on his next step, feeling stiff. After the boy, he'd fix the guy up just fine. Or the best he could. But his confidence wouldn't go betrayed, he thinks. He didn't understand this- refused to try. He only wondered why he was the foreign thinking one, why he was searching for another dead body when he'd only just gotten his hands clean of the blood of the girl's. "But I've already said it once: working on dead men is job."

And Wyatt was hurt, and he hurt from only following and not stopping to wrangle the man down, and after another sorry step on tired feet his voice barely registers. "I'm sorry." About Ellie. And wasn't working great? He can see everyone hit, but he'd postpone his own. It was gross, kind of. "When I send out bills, I'm charging you double."

Howard waits for them inside the back of the minivan, vaguely aware he's gone into shock but unable to do anything about it but try to breathe slowly (while his lungs insist on kicking faster, faster, shallow, shallow) and gingerly pull the blanket Wyatt had put down for him over himself. A small dribble of vomit joins the smears of blood on the short, rough carpet. He cringes and contorts, trying to escape the pain of his burns and finding no reprieve.

It's impossible to tell time like this, the only metronome his own harried, pained breaths, syncopated by his shivering. Howard likely doesn't wait more than fifteen minutes, but it stretches into hours, into days of wondering what's become of Wyatt, of hearing imaginary intercoms announcing words Howard never wants to hear.

From District Ten, Wyatt Earp. He had a good run.

From District Ten, Wyatt Earp, at the hands of Aunamee.

From District Ten, Wyatt Earp, driving himself to the ground to save that useless scrap of kid. He's in the lot, by the way, if anyone wants a freebie kill.

His mouth is dry, and he licks at his fingers out of need to feel something more than anything else. In the dark, his vision fills with memories, with artifacts of the last sixteen years.

How fitting it is that the boy who never once believed in God could not physically hold the light of an angel inside his view? His eyes melted from the inside out, and now his visage is so sickening some of the editors back in the Capitol decide on discretion cuts. Someone somewhere else starts editing it into an advertisement for sunglasses.

When Wyatt and Hawkeye find him, he's tucked under the blanket, clammy and ashen and with his fingers in his mouth.

Edited 2014-02-12 05:13 (UTC)

The march across the lot had what was left of Wyatt's skin prickling with unease. His insides twisting, crawling up into his throat.

It was so quiet, so dark and still - like a tomb. The last time he'd come back, he'd found Howard injured. Bleeding and broken.

What would he find this time? His mind had no trouble conjuring up terrible things - impossible things - and his pace quickened as he led Hawkeye through the maze of cars.

"Howard?" He was calling him before he even got close enough to see, unable to help himself. "Howard, it's me, son. I'm back--" He found the latch, yanked on the trunk. "I got help."

Please be alright. Please, Lord, please don't--

Wyatt's voice rushes through the silence like hot water. Howard rustles a little, shivering under his blanket that's now streaked with plasma from the burns, with dots of blood from the blisters and tears. He feels the whole minivan lurch under him as the door swings open, and he bites down on his knuckles.

"I'm here."

His voice is a breathless whimper. His head emerges from under the blanket but he doubts the use, really, since he can't see anything and the sight of him is unlikely to do Wyatt any favors.

"You got someone with you?" In a way, Howard would be happy if Wyatt didn't, if he could die in peace with Wyatt there to hold his hand. It could be over, then, this futile cycle of death and rebirth in the name of the Games.

But still he wants to live.

He did a little dance, mostly just stopped once and stepped back and cursed and wanted to scratch or jump out of his skin when he learned he'd be in the garage again. He whined and didn't care that it was petty. He knew it was grave, but seeing the van makes him want to coo, something akin to how cute, you found a wagon. It seemed fitting. He hopped in through the back, yet into another enclosure that only constricted. He hadn't stayed put in the caves, but there had been the nurses and doctors and the unit in its entirety. He wanted them all, right now, didn't want them near this world one bit. He knew it didn't matter what he thought or wanted or how bad he wanted to tear his skin off, because here it was just the cowboy and him and the cowboy's 'son'.

He sees the symptoms of shock before he even fully lays eyes on Howard. Wyatt had already gone and called him 'help' and he had to announce himself now because the boy-- the eyes- where those even eyes anymore, could he even call them that and be accurate? "It's Hawkeye," he answers, and thinks the air is little colder than it needs to be around him, around them, or else the insides of him are running scared again. Rough luck for them, he wasn't even drunk enough to vomit. And he thinks- his robe. Thank God for stupidity, and he's shrugging it off. He's among guys, why be shy of showing skin? "I'm going to need you to lie down. Wyatt-"

Where the hell had those blisters come from, what the hell had happened to the

"Wyatt, get this boy warm- can't you see he's shivering?- and keep him still. Howard. Come on. Lie down. I'm going to help you, and you're going to be fine." And would laying back only let what's in those holes in Howard's head spill back? Hawkeye's draping his robe over those small shoulders, moving in the small space- small. Why small? No supplies. No doctors. Why small? The topping on the cake.

Wyatt couldn't exactly change the temperature - starting a fire for warmth would only bring down more of the burning water - but he did what he could. He peeled off the buckskin jacket, gritting his teeth against the tug and pull of his skin. The thin cotton of the pajama top was burned into the skin along the back of his neck, across his chest, and it tore painfully as he stretched and slowly worked the jacket off, but he said nothing.

He shook free and leaned in to drape it over Howard's waist. Tucking it, and the sleeping bag in around his legs as he murmured softly.

"It's alright, son. Do as he says." He climbed part-way in beside him and reached gently for Howard's hand, offering him something to hold. Something to ground him as Hawkeye poked and prodded at him. "I'm right here."

Hawkeye. Out of the doctors left in the Arena, Howard could do worse than Hawkeye, he thinks. He'd prefer Holiday, honestly, but Hawkeye's a step above Joan, whom Howard doesn't quite trust yet. Joan's acceptance is not something Howard knows how to put faith in.

You're going to be fine. "Liar," he mumbles, although it's with a trace of a dazed smirk, dizziness and weakness showing even with just the bottom half of his face. As if there's anything funny about the situation. He does as he's told, letting them lay him back, feeling chunks of something drip inside the burned sockets, a tingle over the waves of pain.

The last time he held Wyatt's hand like this, it was while he bled to death with knife wounds all over his tiny body and his tongue bit out. He tries not to think about that.

"It was a bright light." That's all Howard can remember to help guide Hawkeye's decisionmaking.

The accusation might be light, tame compared to everything he had ever heard in similar situations, but it still makes him huff out a breath- high pitched and too obviously indignant for him to bother with words. If he knew the people under the skin, he'd know what to say, and what he wanted to say was inappropriate enough to maybe grant him a sock to the jaw. He was too sore to experiment. Too scared of the scars the boy has because he doesn't know what to tell the people around him.

He frowns, and it's not because of the tissue chunks in those holes, foul and beaten and brown where white should be. He had advice about staring at the Sun, and there wasn't even a wooden stand between his words and a fist in the face. "You know, they say only good things are supposed to come after that."

Napalm at least stuck to the skin. Some hot water wouldn't kill anyone. But the light, and the joke, and Hawkeye just clicks his tongue. "Is there a medical kit around here? I shouldn't even ask for gloves, but if Finnick Oh Dear would like to send me some right about now, I wouldn't complain. Or water." All he'd done was a quick rinse after having his hands in rotting guts. It wasn't the idea of touching nerves that had him squirming, it was the idea of what he might introduce. "Do we have picks?" Tweezers, for crying out loud. He'd rather have those. He leans forward, rummages the pocket of the robe he'd placed on Howard, taking out a flashlight. It was too dark, too, ya know. And Wyatt had a free hand-

and what was it with men wanting to reassure children of their death, rather than them hoping against it-

so he pushes it at him to hold. "What model car do you think this is? Ford? Chevy? Love the interior." His hands go to the boy's face, gentle but firm. He can't be dainty. He had strips of cloth he had cut before, had been given by Ellie. Some of them go to drab at the liquid that he supposed were eyes. No plasma, no blood, no solutions to administer. What a mess. Just like home. "Tell me if I hurt you." He instructs. He'd keep going at it, but he'd at least like to know. The morbid sensitivities of a chest cutter doing eye exams.

Wyatt took the flashlight with his free hand and, without any further instruction to go by, instinctively darted the beam after Hawkeye's hands.

Ignoring the question about the car - he couldn't have answered it even he wanted to - he nodded, pointing with his chin toward the bag by the man's knee.

"Everythin' I got left's in there. There ain't much..." A regret, a bitterness chewed at his insides. That useless anger that had no outlet for. The supplies had been used on injuries, there'd been no choice, but he still blamed himself for the lack of them now when Howard needed them.

He glanced out at the parking lot, eyeing the shadows around the car, and then looking up. He didn't know if there was a camera there, but if there was....

"...Max, if yer watchin'...." He hated to ask, to burden Max - to drag him back into the arena - but he didn't know where else to turn. Knew that if anyone could, would, it would be him.

Howard wants to say that he doesn't think the pain will get much worse, but then he feels the cloth dabbing at his burns and can't help but make a strange squawking sound, a few decibels short of a scream but no less pained. It's only worsened because the muscles in his face decide on wincing, and that breaks open some of the skein over the wounds that's just starting to form, so they leak more clear plasma.

There are pieces remaining in his eye sockets - strips of flesh, a semi-transparent glassy thing like a pebble that once was the lens to his left eye. There's exposed nerve. There's pieces of muscle, some dangling like moss over a cave mouth, some burned and curled like some sick excuse for eyelashes.

"Can't really breathe," he whispers to Wyatt. Between the shock and the smoke damage to his lungs, he doesn't think he could lift his head now that he's lying down. He takes a tight breath and pulls his lips across his teeth. "Talk to me, please, please, guys, talk to me, I need something to focus on, please."

Ah, there it was. The gorgeous reminder of life amid the gruesome painting, real and concrete. It made Hawkeye want to shush it but he knew he couldn't and hoped Wyatt wouldn't. So much for letting him know about the pain and he felt like he was going against his morals here- that feeling that he's being torn from being a real person with emotions that work with drive instead of having them be squashed by it. He doesn't even bother to look through the bag Wyatt had signaled out, figuring that anything useful would have been dug out and presented already. The boy was in pain and that much was obvious, and maybe there was something Hawkeye could tell himself later that'll justify his need to curb the way his skin crawled at the sight, the way he wants to move and make do just so it'll stop.

He's used to working deaf, to pulling shifts, to getting lost in his own mind unless the work under him took a sharp turn for the worse. He hears Howard say something, decides it wouldn't do to wrap his hands in his strips of cloth because then they'd stick, and so his bare fingers go to tap near Howard's cheeks. "What'd he say?" He asks Wyatt. He heard the second bit just fine. "I'm always talking," he starts. And now did anyone wonder why? "I was just catching my breath. My watch has been running late so not only did I have to catch it, I had to lug it along for the ride. You know they say you should be careful what you wish for so now I don't expect to be told to ever shut up."

The less he focused on the boy, the more he can focus on the long scientific names for 'goo' and how to stop it from pouring.

"So when you start wondering why you can't get my beautiful voice out of your head, just remember that you asked for it." No anesthesia. Not even some curare. "Hold him, Wyatt." He thumbs a shred of muscle, hoping to coax it up and out of the way and Christ, that can't feel good. And Christ, that just felt wrong and was maybe an eyelid. No use to keep it. Conversationally, he continues. "Did you take a tumble? If you didn't, I've got to ask Wyatt to let go of your hand and elevate your legs. Helps with the blood flow. Might not be what you think you need but your head says otherwise. Then again, if you don't promise to hold still for me-"

he made it sound so easy. If he wasn't busy, he'd be pissed.

"-I don't want to risk you moving where you shouldn't. The spasms themselves are tricky enough. So whaddya want to talk about? Sports? I tried cars already and nobody answered. So how about them Dodgers?"

"I don't know what those are," Wyatt murmured, feeling useless - helpless - as Hawkeye's hands played over Howard's face.

He helped were he could: shifting to raise Howard's legs as carefully as he could with one hand fighting him the whole way, pulling the bag Hawkeye ignored over and under his calves. (They would need looking at too, the angry red soles of the boy's feet, strips of weeping flesh hanging in ribbons.)

He wasn't sure where to put his hands after that, not wanting to be in the doctor's way, not sure it would even be of much help with feeling all but gone on his left side - his grip so weak.

The light bounced in his left hand, trembling with fatigue as his arm and shoulder protested, as he reached with the other to touch his palm to Howard's forehead. Light at first, testing the boy's limit before he put any weight down.

"Didn't fall. It was just the bright light." Howard makes weak noises that are the leaks of screams he's just holding back. His hand grasps around and tries to find Wyatt's again, not registering the thumb on his forehead.

For a while he rolls in the sea of Hawkeye's voice, clinging to it like a drowning man to a liferaft. Every time it fades out he isn't sure if he's fallen unconscious or not. He can't tell time as he is.

"Is it bad?" It hurts, and he can't see, but that doesn't mean it's bad, does it? Surely the fact that Hawkeye's a doctor is a good sign here.

All of these old men- they were deaf. The kid says do this, they decide to do something else entirely. He understood, he thinks, keeping his mouth shut against what wanted desperately to slide out. 'Well, let's put it this way: you'll never have to buy another mask for Halloween.' Because Howard was awake and in his senses and that was the problem, here. It only added more copper flavor to the macabre scenario. Even the light source couldn't keep from dancing about, and the air always grew thicker and more damp, and despite all the noises that reminded Hawkeye of a hit dog, he kept pressing against the exposed nerves. No tools. Just his blunt fingers and churning stomach.

"Seen worse," he says.

He wants to touch that transparent skin of a lens. Muscle was mangled, but at least it was attached. "You're making this easy for me," he offers. He's not sure he's lying, kind of thinks he might be. He takes refuge in the thought that strapped to Howard isn't a communist grenade.

And Jesus Christ, the men here had no sense, had no idea how to look for someone other than themselves. Howard had pleaded for voices, and Wyatt was struck dumb. 'So make something up', he wanted to belt out. 'Sing, say something'. And Hawkeye couldn't rattle on about his old sessions, because that'd be bad manners or somesuch. Might unnerve the boy and Hawkeye thinks that might be able to pass as a pun. And before he thinks of taking the scale of a marble and braving what comes next, he turns to Wyatt. Sharply too, and gee, he's sorry. He's exhausted, too. He didn't know what came next, either. "Usually we have an entire team for this," he starts. Gives a small glare and he's sorry to call it that. He'd have rather coaxed a plea out of himself. "I'd have... a nurse with me, at least. The best one's a major. Head nurse. Hell of a- hell of a woman. Finest kind. I don't know how they do it. They're more dog-tired than the doctors are half the time and they just keep at it. Like little ants with great legs. Anyway, Ms. Hepburn-" Wyatt. "-what I'm getting at here is that I'm sorry, but if you can't hold that light a little better I'm liable to ask you to put it in my mouth, and I'll bite it and hold it steady. I say I'd be sorry to ask that, because then you'll be the one who will have to talk to the boy."

It would help to hear the surrogate father's voice, and why the hell were there so many men thinking themselves as such, more than it'd help for a fool to keep wagging his tongue.

He turns to Wyatt again, a clay figure, and lets a hand rest on Howard. Another gestures for a knife. Something.

Usually there was a team for this.

"But I can see a cat's got your tongue." Usually there's a lot more prodding than this.

Wyatt was well aware that he was doing Howard very little good. The sharp glare from Hawkeye and the too crisp words only rubbed salt in his myriad of wounds. He bit back the excuse, clamping down hard on the nerve throbbing away in his back - the needles jabbing into his shoulder, and looked away.

"Sorry, Doc," he ground out, willing his fingers to tighten on the flashlight. For the beam to steady. His knuckles whitened and the bouncing eased - but the light still shivered. "I--"

A noise. A happy, small chime ringing out through the quiet garage. The elevators, announcing the arrival of a car.

It was Wyatt's turn to shoot a look at Hawkeye. Plopping the flashlight into the waving hand and releasing Howard to reach for the crowbar with his good arm.

"Howard, somebody's sent somethin'. I'll be right back."

Edited 2014-02-17 00:54 (UTC)

He isn't really listening to what the words are, or he probably would try to defend Wyatt now, to excuse the quietness because he knows Wyatt's not a man of words on a good day. But at this point Howard can feel Hawkeye's fingers in a place that Howard's never before felt a foreign object, and it's all he can do to keep from vomiting. Green-orange nausea rolls up from his guts and his throat jerks slightly, but he keeps from gagging, just barely.

If Howard seemed anxious to let Wyatt go get help the first time, he's absolutely terrified now. It doesn't matter that he knows Wyatt's just getting something from the elevator; the idea of being left alone here, in blindness, with Hawkeye inflicting well-intentioned pain through him, is unbearable.

"No, no, don't go-" He jerks in an attempt to blindly grab for the place Wyatt's voice was a second ago.

"-the cat's got the rest of him, too."

Son of a bitch.

So Hawkeye's left holding the flashlight with one hand and he eases the pressure on Howard's face. And he guesses it wasn't a second too late because he feels the lurch under him while he was off staring after the guy that had gotten the crowbar and happily left. His mind's on the chiming of the gift, on the image of a marshal's face half missing or maybe there's a hole right where his stomach should be, and Hawkeye can't even wonder why he didn't drop the flashlight a little bit sooner, why he didn't move to position himself to practically sit on Howard's middle a little easier. His hand leaves Howard's face and moves to hold back his forehead the way Wyatt had done earlier. The ray of the flashlight points to God-knows what compartment of the van. Hawkeye's other hand holds the boy's chest down, near the collar. And all while he's saying, "Do as he says, not as he does! Not that he said much at all, but I know the guy. We had a cup of coffee together. He said he'll be back-" in what shape, he didn't know- "and he'll be here, alright? Howard, the less moving you can do, the better it'll be for all of us." He releases the boy's head. He wonders if he'll thrash. He still pins the fella down by his chest but he's careful to keep pressure at an absolute minimum- maybe just the sensation of having a body near would placate the guy, and then Hawkeye wouldn't have to add to the discomfort and pain.

And oh, he had some words for Wyatt when he returned. Some warning he'd given them! Some hero. And if he came back with anything good, Hawkeye might just kiss him then deck him. That son of a bitch.

"Actually, if you promise not to jerk around," he told Howard. Christ, he did hate his voice now. He hated the darkness and the silly shadows cast on the side of the interior from the lost flashlight's beam. Christ, he felt like he couldn't breathe and he felt like he wanted to bolt away from the situation like Wyatt had. He fucking hated the basement. "If you promise not to jerk around," he tried again, "I promise to stop sittin' on ya. You're a lousy cushion but see, I don't want my workload doubled now that you've thought moving is so fun all of a sudden. I can tell you it's not."

Someday, when this was all behind them and Wyatt met Hawkeye in whatever after was waiting for them, he'd give the good doctor a good chewing out. Telling him exactly why he did the things he did and that Hawkeye could kiss his ass for deciding on a whim that he was a bad man simply for doing the best he could.

But at the moment, he needed Hawkeye. Was deeply in his debt. So he bit his tongue and ignored the glare he feel burning between his shoulders as he walked away.

He wasn't going far damnit, and it could mean the difference between Howard living and dying. He was rounding the corner of the elevator banks in no more than a few heartbeats, the familiar silver canister winking across at him from the bright light of the car.

Who else, what else, could it be for?

Dragging it out, he punched at the buttons with the crowbar, sending the elevator on - away, where it wouldn't attract attention he hoped - and crouched, popping the can open. Thanking God, out loud, when he saw the little white box inside.

Then thanking Max when he pulled out the note, the strong, printed words echoing in his head in Max's familiar low rumble.

He immediately went to tuck it into his pocket - the breast one, near his heart - but remembered that he'd given the coat to Howard, so held onto it instead. Bringing it and the box back to the van.

The latter he held out to Hawkeye, the former he kept for himself.

"Here. This aughta help." Climbing back into the vehicle, he reached for Howard again. "Max sent some supplies, Howard. Yer gunna be alright."

Hawkeye's weight on Howard isn't the comfort Hawkeye hopes it in. Instead, the intrusion into the invisible, unseen personal bubble wrenches up feelings Howard has tried to drown and bury for the last year. A memory more vivid than sight floods his brain, one of Aunamee holding him down with a foot on his back, blood in his mouth, a blade cutting through his lungs from the back-

The benefit of that is that the fear is so all-consuming that it freezes Howard. He makes a strange whine sound, not one of pain but a plea for mercy, and lays still, locked in some place where he can't hear Hawkeye's voice in any way he can string into language. A little saliva drips from the corner of his mouth, but otherwise he's completely still. Even his breathing seems to pause into apologetic gasps.

He's beyond meaning until Wyatt comes back and breaks the sound with his voice, and even then he doesn't move again. The memory is so hard to chase away without being able to see it's not real.

"Don't go," he murmurs.

Wyatt's back and Hawkeye slips off his hold on Howard. It hadn't been a bust. It hadn't been the greatest, and he apologizes in a hurried way because Howard's not the only one who worked on forgetting. Hawkeye takes the box and gives Howard's shoulder a small pat. He glances at Wyatt for maybe the first time and he drops his gaze again, his attention on the kit. He rummages through it, through the gauze and bandages he won't need yet, didn't want yet, because telling Wyatt what he wanted wouldn't give him the items. Howard speaks, and instantly after Hawkeye has found a canister and he'd like to howl in joy. He starts speaking instead, excitedly, not a drop of nerves evident because as far as he was currently concerned, he hadn't triggered anything horrible here. "What old Max got us is going to do more than just help."

The mind wasn't his realm of dealing.

It wasn't his fault he didn't know and Jesus Christ, he was sorry.

"My Savior," he says, holding up the canister for Wyatt to see- for Howard to see, if he could. He taps it, he positions himself to place two fingers on the boy's wrist. "Count to fifteen," he instructs Wyatt and if he was interrupting anything like a nightmare or some heart-wrenching reunion, he was sorry, but he hadn't been called in to sob along with them. "Howard, if you behave for me, I have some general anesthesia for you. Wyatt is here and he'll stay here with you while I remove some tissue and bandage you up, good as new." He was sorry, but he couldn't lose this case. One was enough for the day. His mission here had been to find a distraction and by gum he'd found it. And now he couldn't let it slip. An aid station- that was what they needed. Barring that, haphazard guessing and-- and damn it, he'd hate himself later. He found a makeshift mask. "You know, one time Jesus Christ passed right through our hospital. No kidding," Hawkeye says and he swears he's no blasphemer. "Used to be a captain, like yours truly." And possibly as gone in the sound-of-mind sense, because Hawkeye was working on a boy with melted eyes, who had shown symptoms of shock, now of some terrible unspoken hurt, not too long after having his hands in a girl's guts and it was suddenly a thrill. Suddenly some upbeat chore. "A bombadier. Flew near sixty missions. -'inconsequential', of course."

Gee, how the Army changed a guy.

Wyatt gets another look, long and pensive and telling before Hawkeye gestures to the canister he had held up previously. All that was between them and a knocked out kid was slipping on the mask, screwing in the canister-- a dozen other, horrifically more technical things Hawkeye simply couldn't do.

"I happen to be the best damn surgeon around. The least you can do is trust me."

So it was only kind of like asking permission.

Usually, Wyatt could let Hawkeye's wild, strange, rambling roll over him like such water over a duck's back, but there, with Howard suffering between them the urge to grab the man by the shoulders and shake sense into him was the strongest it had ever been.

Why couldn't he just talk plain? And tell Wyatt what it was he wanted from him instead of tossing him riddles? Jesus and 'bombadiers' and the little canister winking light from Hawkeye's hand while his body screamed and his heart thumped thickly in his chest.

He followed Hawkeye's gaze, found the mask and reached for it. He hesitated a moment, but as the man didn't ask for it, figured it had to be for the boy. He leaned to slip it on over Howard's head, shifting the little straps over his ears.

He hadn't the foggiest what the little can wasn't supposed to work until he put together the small hole at the bottom of the mask and similar one on the can. As if the two were meant to fit together, pieces to a puzzle he'd never encountered before, but that made sense enough.

If Howard were able to understand anything Hawkeye were saying, he might protest. He might demand that they leave his consciousness intact so he can continue deluding himself into believing he's not entirely helpless. It's his last line of defense. And yet he's not in his own mind now, mumbling and whimpering something through gasping about Aunamee, asking if he is here, sobbing in quiet petrification.

And then there's something on his face, and the air tastes soft and blue and icy. He breathes in clouds that welcome him to the sleep he didn't even want. It pulls him down and in, cocooning him in a darkness deeper than blindness. It doesn't wipe the pain out but it dampens it in a heavy layer of snow and ash and nausea.

Even without eyes to close, it's easy to tell when he loses consciousness. The tension drips away and he goes limp as fabric.

Truth be told, and don't tell anyone, but Hawkeye felt his skin prick at the sight. The curse of the educated man, he figured, or whatever, and his eyes follow Wyatt's hands as they place the mask on the boy and they follow expectantly as the boy's features twist and relax. For his part, Hawkeye has a practiced grip on Howard's wrist, and he's counting the pulse. He feels the body give up and his blue eyes flash to Wyatt, the man holding the mask. They're steady and for that second, the can hissing away and then going silent as well, there's a glint of wary hesitance. There was so much he couldn't do, so many things that may go wrong that Hawkeye figures only he knows of. Despite it, he doesn't buck from the boast of confidence he'd belted out a while ago.

Hawkeye counts.

He didn't even have a damn stethoscope.

He lets Howard's wrist go with little ceremony, and his attention's all on Wyatt instead. His explanation comes evenly and seems nearly recited, and there's the appropriate tics and gestures to accompany the words and very scarce dip or rise in pitch. "Howard's asleep now," he says, and gestures for Wyatt to remove the mask. And Hawkeye goes to retrieve the flashlight and to shine it at the medicine kit, and he digs for what he had seen before- some very tiny scissors. Like the kind that came in emergency sewing kits for bachelors, rather than the kind that fit in operating rooms. Oh, well. "I don't mean to point out the obvious. His vital signs are- he's fine. He'll be fine. He'll wake up sooner than you think, too, unless the Capitol brand of gas packs a bigger wallop. There shouldn't be any complications and you know what? I'm glad you ran for the kit." Rat. Fink, leaving him alone with another kid who would die. If not now, later. Hawkeye didn't need this-- hadn't needed that. There wasn't an ounce of irony to be heard in his voice, because the dying kid was now, at least, quiet. And still.

And for some reason, children were a hell of a lot scarier than dinosaurs and their old bones.

And their old skin.

And Hawkeye sucked in a breath because no one but him found the air in the garage as thick as mud, it seemed. Wyatt's cold-charred skin registered in his mind again, as did Howard's. Hawkeye held out the flashlight for Wyatt to take yet again and he repositioned himself with the scissors nearer Howard's hollow eye-things again, a rueful sort of grin on his lips. "I must be driving you wild," he managed. There's even the flirting lilt, even the rolling of his own bare and skinny shoulders. Welcome to the first day on the job, Marshal. Say what you please- the kid can't see.

The kid won't ever see.

"Like I said: I'm going to snip away at what Howard won't be needing anymore, give the healthier tissue a chance at closing up without any obstacles in its way. Not that there's much 'healthy' tissue at all. He's a mess, but would you believe it looks worse than it is? If there's blood, there won't be much of it and I'll stop things from getting out of hand so whatever you do, don't jump me. I'm fragile. After I wrap him up, I'll fix you up, too. I wouldn't ever ignore Audrey being in the same room as me. I'm not so much of a cad. And if you'd rather not watch- don't. Even... even our best guy had to step out, once. Just please, Wyatt-- darling, try and hold the light steady."

Wyatt's heart did give a lurch as Howard settled and relaxed, the tense, shuddering muscle of the boy's bony shoulder going slack under his hand. He sucked in a short, shallow breath, sharp eyes flicking quickly to Hawkeye's face, confusion and a quick flash of fear written in the depths.

He couldn't say how relieved he was that Hawkeye immediately explained, rather than launching into one of usual rambling fits.

He relaxed a fraction himself, tight breath whispering from his between his lips.

"Do what'cha got'a, Doc," he nodded, taking the flashlight again - in his good hand this time, shifting to lean back against the wall of the van. Hurt shoulder out. "I'll help as best I can."

Determinedly, he tightened his grip on the flashlight, keeping it steady on Hawkeye's hands.

He'd shower the man in praise after chewing him out, telling him off, cussing him out. Hawkeye told himself he wouldn't forget to do either of the two once their hearts stopped beating and their blood forgot to run through their bodies, once the two cadavers were reanimated. And he thinks something vague and fleeting about Jesus and three days and didn't that make the Capitol, God? Hawkeye worms his fingers into the sockets of Howard's eyes, touching leathery skin or muscle or lens, and he figured it felt a little like when you had to baste the dinner meat. No more than two fingers at a time, sometimes they'd slide easily on juices, other times they'd catch on crisped tissue. Holding the scissors in his other hand, Hawkeye would cut those bits. He found the clear shell of what used to be an eye lens and sheerly out of curiosity and some morbid sense of needing closure, to what he didn't know, he touched the pad of one finger to it. "This is a lot easier without them talking to you," he says and doesn't bother to expand on what he means.

He snipped the lens off, too. There was a leak immediately after, and Hawkeye had figured, and there's a sponge twisted small held to it in a beat. He takes the time to glance up at Wyatt. The marshal had called the boy his son, he'd already seen one father lose a daughter of sorts, and try as he may, he doesn't think he'd understand the attachment to a tee. It irked him. It spiked anxiousness but he paid that no mind. It's the sort of thing that boiled to the surface when he did things he had no idea how to do. It happened too much for him to care anymore. "He's going to be fine," Hawkeye repeats again. More solidly this time. More like he's been repeating the same thing for hours now and is starting to feel tired of it.

Of course, with a half-lie like that, Hawkeye didn't feel he had much choice but to lower his head again and calm his stomach and get back to the disgusting work. He inches the box nearer to him, he searches for antibiotics.

"Apart from being blind, I mean. But that's fine. I was blind for a while, too." And what he means is, the Capitol returned everybody to how they were previously, right? There was a sense of faith just then. It was a little more than confusing. "I was in a room full of gorgeous nurses, it was a cold night, they were all in their sleepwe-- I'll spare you the juicy details. Anyway, the stove decided to throw a fit. It was the first time I lost my eyesight. I, uh. It's scary." Scary like having to touch a fondue of a former body part. Like hearing the silence outside of van and thinking that's due to the fact the room is compressing, and anyone with brains has already fled, and their guts are only going to wind up sprayed across the walls. But enough beating around the bush, right? Wyatt like straight talk, right? Hawkeye had said he'd chew the man out later, right? "You'll have to talk to him. I don't know what else you can do for him. Change bandages, so watch how I do it. You're probably going to want to hate me for this but I want to treat your burns first, the really nasty ones, before I use what's left of the medicine on him. I know you two are close, but Howard's relying on you to stay alive now. You're not relying on Howard." It's what they told nursing mothers about why they wouldn't take their child before the saw her fit, first.

Wyatt let Hawkeye's words roll over him. After the promise that Howard would be alright, the meaning of them wasn't all that important to him as the sound. As long as the man's tone remained as it was, that easy, rolling ramble of his, the words like rain, everything was okay.

It was when he stopped that Wyatt worried. That his attention, drifting on the waves of his pain snapped back, the blue eyes focusing on Hawkeye's face, realizing slowly that he was expected to answer whatever it was the doctor had just told him.

He frowned, struggling to remember.

"...Ya say he'll be alright, I trust ya, Doc," he mumbled, shifting just slightly against the wall of the van.

And he was exactly in any position to fight the man on it.

Hawkeye felt like his words were falling on deaf ears. He stared, attempting to gauge a reaction that would tell him otherwise. Finally, Hawkeye got the feedback and he nodded and wondered what they used to make men out of- if he were in Wyatt's position he wouldn't be able to stand mumbling, he'd be screeching. Small favors were their given roles, and Hawkeye doesn't know how much he can trust a man as solid and tough as a boulder. He finds the bottle he was searching for, sets it apart in the kit, and holds up a gratuitous length of this new and white and actual useful bandaging. He nods to it and says, "Stay with me a little longer, alright? The tough part's coming up. You need to be sharp. But first I need you to pay attention to how I wrap this around Howard because when what I put on him gets soiled, it's up to you to change it." Trust and sick boys and stricken men. Hawkeye nods again to the bandage and waits to find Wyatt's attention as fully there as he can before he goes to lift Howard's head- it was heavy, the boy had a heavy head and Hawkeye had a joke about that to keep to himself- and wraps.

He explains about being meticulous in cleanliness. Explains how that can't be expected in their condition.

Last thing he'd want to say was how long ago it'd been since he last thoroughly washed his hands, and so the talk is purely shop. Hawkeye feels like he hates it.

And before he cuts the bandages he had wrapped around Howard's head from the roll that holds them, Hawkeye says, "It's tough love, Wyatt. You've been great. I'm glad you went towards the chime." And feels like he's lying. He rocks back on his heels, his legs hurting from staying crouched, and looks at Howard all burned and mangled and doesn't think the boy will be alright, but he could be. He's still looking at the skin turned leather of the boy when he speaks next. "You can put the light down now. Thanks. I need you to really pay attention to what I'm going to say next, though."

Wyatt focused as best his could. Shifting some against the wall of the van to see better, blinking rapidly to try to pull himself up and away from the arms of sleep, dragging at him.

He watched, repeating back the instructions in small, soft murmurs, to make sure he had them, and only put the light down when Hawkeye gave him the go ahead. Relief flooding his shoulder and back and his arm lowered.

"I'm listenin', Doc. You've got my word."

Hawkeye watched Howard, eagle-eyed, a second longer and then he got a hold of the small bottle he had placed apart from everything else in the medical kit, the kit itself a mess now not very much worth navigating without a map. When he held it up to the height of his eyes, turned it a little to be certain again he had read the label correctly, Hawkeye noticed a tremor in his own hands and he would have regretted having asked Wyatt to give himself a rest if he hadn't seen the relief.

Still lecturing, he barged through the guilt. There was plenty. His voice was still even, still lukewarm but not detached, never detached.

"There are pills in here. I don't know how many yet- I haven't counted. I don't know their strength and I trust the label. These are the antibiotics. When Howard wakes up, along with whatever pain killers your sponsor gave you, he'll need a dose. What these pills do is they kill bacteria. Howard's wounds will have or attract plenty. Bacterial growth in the wounds is dangerous. Extremely dangerous. You've really got to keep on top of this stuff, be diligent," he says, shaking the bottle once intentionally as if he can calculate the number of waiting capsules just by the rattle. All he had to go off of was the label- what about a misprint? What about a flat out lie? It'd be a good joke. It'd be a great joke.

Hawkeye had this faith that couldn't be healthy.

He's tired and he's sharp and his eyes are tired but sharp, too. He'd work on Wyatt's burns next, and then do what he could for Howard after.

He needed a change in scenery, is all, but obviously not really. And damn. Damn, damn, fuck, damn. He didn't know how to say this next, so he just does, and there's sympathy that maybe was the wrong kind for a doctor to let bleed out. "Sometimes even the Army lags on its shipment."

Wyatt looked up at him, a plain, weary stare.

"Doc, I might'a been born a long time ago, but I wasn't born yesterday. I know what an' infection is,... an' what it can do to a body."

He sounded more amused than angry, more tired than anything, his eyelids drooping to half-mast.

"I've stitched myself up a time er two."

Oh.

Well.

That was partly embarrassing, but Hawkeye seems to get the gist that that answered that.

"Right, well, sometimes I forget and I have to say these things aloud to myself to remember," he countered, sing-song lazily and he seemed to get the idea that Wyatt wasn't particularly cross with him. It lifted his mood, that little detail. Hawkeye went to place his fingers under Howard's jaw, searched for a pulse, counted for a silent while, and was convinced he'd done what he could, for now, for the boy. He turned to the marshal. He offered a small smile, the way a nurse might, or the way he'd tease at BJ after a spectacularly long shift. "It'd be easier if you could go for a third time, but you can barely keep your head up. You're more than welcome to fall asleep after I get your shirt off- I'm a perfect gentleman, I swear. It's your turn to be fussed over. So tell me which part of you you're going to be using most after tonight so I can spread the supplies as needed." Upper or lower, Hawkeye means. Fighting or running, he means. He'd guess, but he wouldn't dare believe he understood the man this instant. Like a cat playing with its water tray, Hawkeye gingerly paws the medicine kit closer to Wyatt's side and steadies himself for another patient in the cave.

"My shoulder..." Wyatt shifted again, gesturing to the side turned out toward Hawkeye. "Bit'a the ceilin' came down, knocked it out'a sorts."

His mouth twitched, a weak attempt at a smile that did next to nothing to hide the pain darkening his eyes. The fatigue lining his mouth, knotted in his jaw.

"If ya could help me get it back in, I'd be much obliged."

The burns, while painful, he could live with, but he needed his arm.

Moments ago, Hawkeye briefly recalled wanting to strangle the man. Now he looked on with no little admiration, lips set straight and somber, and he couldn't even complain about the lack of light again. "Don't worry, I had a house fall on me once, too." he says, shakily stands and hunches as he steps over closer, one hand on the van's cool wall to steady himself. "My partner and I were holed up in this run-down house in the middle of nowhere-" which could describe Korea beautifully, Hawkeye mused- "because we were surrounded by what we guessed was an enemy patrol. Our transportation got totalled and we weren't going to risk walking back to the MASH on our own. There were bombs going off at night."

A whole lot of soft lips and warm breathing. Hawkeye feels the shoulder, braces himself for what should be a quick deal. "Of course, the house fell on my leg, not my back. I don't know what I'm doing to you but I've seen it in the movies a bunch. I'll pop it in on the count of three. Ready?" Which is what he'd say to a girl if he was fooling around.

"One. Two. Thr--"

It was a no-brain operation, and Hawkeye had popped shoulders back in place before. The difference here being that he was suddenly aware he felt light-headed, and that this might hurt the patient more than his comfort levels allowed.

Wyatt tried to let Hawkeye's chatter roll over him again, to ease him down into the waves of fatigue, but he knew too well what the man was doing. What was coming.

It was the same trick he'd used on Howard, right down to the countdown.

Skin fluttering beneath the doctor's hands, he was tense, and far to stiff to make the procedure easy.

His shoulder wrenched, grinding and popping audibly, and he couldn't stop the jerk, the clenching of his jaw. The curse that pushed through his teeth.

Hawkeye didn't see the benefit in a grimace, but it etched itself on his features regardless. After the death of the hollow curse, he tried to hear if there was an echo around them, around the car, and all he could pick up was the breathing of Howard. Alone in the dark, and Hawkeye asked a little childishly, "Is it in?"

You know, as if he was talking about anything other than forcing a joint back in place. Hawkeye rolled his own shoulders- forward and back and he swung his arms once. Like he was demonstrating how it was supposed to work. "Can you move it?"

As tired as he was, Wyatt still found the energy to shoot Hawkeye a dry look.

"I thought you were the doc, Doc?"

Still, he aped after Hawkeye, giving his shoulder a slow roll.

"Aches some," he muttered. "But it moves."

Goody. It worked. Hawkeye took his sweet time to look utterly unrepentant. After all, of all the things he'd done so far, being silly over something as simple as a dislocated shoulder shouldn't ruffle any feathers. What, did he look like he carried an X-ray machine around? Or had X-ray vision? He only hummed a little cheerful noise when he saw Wyatt pass the test, though the sunken look in his eyes betrayed the fact that his cheer was dwindling as quickly as it had sprung. No X-ray machine, no machines at all, no such thing as a sterile environment and no testing or way to confirm that the drugs labeled in the kit were what they said. No way to scrub properly, no way to pretend he hadn't contaminated Howard's wounds more than he had cleared them, no way to get the wormish sight out of his mind's eye, no way to get the texture of the eyeballs and guts to stop tingling his hands.

But. Goody. The marshal wasn't dead and wouldn't be for a while. He wasn't nearly as damned as the kid.

"That's how I feel about my entire body," Hawkeye said. "I'd save the painkillers for when your body does more than just ache, though." He reached for the burn cream. If Hawkeye was observing, the scene might almost look comical. "Ready for round two, cowboy?"

"This ain't my first pony ride," Wyatt murmured, shifting as Hawkeye twisted the cap off the medicine. "Ya know last time, I got eaten."

One-handed he worked the line of buttons down the front of the flimsy bedshirt, slipping them from their holes one at a time.

"I've been stabbed, I've been poisoned... claws an' teeth, an' steel..." His mouth twisted, shooting the doctor a wry, tired smile. "I know what dyin' feels like. I ain't there yet."

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A crashing sky, a rolling screen.

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[cw: serious eye gore]

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