thearena | (closed) I want you to know that chivalry isn't dead.

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(closed) I want you to know that chivalry isn't dead.

Who| Holiday and Hawkeye
What| Hawk's been doing a good job at avoiding Holiday so far! Aaand then he fails.
Where| Fourth floor -ish
When| Late Week 3/early Week 4
Warnings/Notes| we're winging it- will update if needed!

He didn't know why he decided he likes the dinosaur fossils so much all of a sudden, thought that Freud or even the crackpot Sidney (and oh, he kids- what he'd do to have the man by him now) would have a nice theory or two about why he felt most comfortable dwarfed by skeletons of the creature that had killed him last Arena. Hawkeye had hobbled along, up the floors from the death trap of a basement- had gotten a nice little note along the way, actually, written in a blocky sort of way he already recognized fondly. Along with the note had come a nice a little first aid kit, a far cry from even his worst packed medical bag, a little too late to have been of use from his last work, a little too tempting to waste all on himself.

His shoulder burned.

But if he read the note correctly, not even that was for him, really.

He found the Triceratops again, head lowered, horns polished, it's frill this great and beautiful fan and Hawkeye figured it was just a big charging bull. So he stood in front of it, raised his arms like a matador and-- and no, he couldn't go through with it. A huff, and he trudged dutifully to set himself down gingerly on the base of it, driven, like it'd been the once action on his mind in days. With the slow processing time his mind seemed to have picked up, if that had been the case, he wouldn't be surprised. Drawing his knees up- and screw decency, you know, his shorts were tight enough to cover anything scandalous his robe might think not to cover- Hawkeye thought maybe the light shudder, the stretch as he arched his back to rest his head against his knees was the single most blessed thing he'd felt in years.

An exaggeration, but let him live it.

He even fully yawns, powerless to mute it, leaning back this time so his head hits some bone he hopes doesn't bring the Triceratops crashing down on him, "What are you-" like he was trying to talk to himself, but he'd seen a face ahead he knew too well. And he didn't even bother to stand to greet it. If he had a rumpled paper by his side, he'd toss it.

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Holiday was dirty and a little bloody after that insane collapse of the third floor. She had been on the second at the time and made it into one of those stupid vents before things got really bad. Since then, she had been hanging around the fourth floor, but didn't really know how wise that was if the whole thing decided to crash down.

Nothing she could do about it.

Rebecca wrung her hands together obsessively, not really stopping anywhere to rest for fear that she won't get back up again. Instead, she decided to be a little childish and indulge herself by actually touring through the exhibits. It's at that point when she hears the yawn and she's already moving over in that direction before she wants to think better of it.

Ah. Him again. She could have grimaced. "Happy to see you're still alive." Yes, she had spoken with a slight edge of sarcasm. You're welcome, Hawkeye.

Rebecca idly wondered if this was how she would die this go around, though doubted he would make that move on anyone. A shame, really. She was ready to leave now.

He imagines the paper anyway. He imagines there's a crisp leaf of paper sitting right next to him, and he swipes at where it should be with his hand, feeling his fingers brush against the carpet and it beats twitching intestines or charred eyes, and he charades crumpling it. He acts out mashing and turning the invisible paper into a wad, tight and heavy, and then he throws it. It's nothing. Nothing happens. But he thinks it might have helped, not that he would have heavily minded to tell her off.

Everyone was always so damned surprised. Good riddance. He takes a second to glare, another to sulk and look away plainly and shove away the flood of excitement that sparked in him. When he looks back up, it's to see she hasn't moved closer and to wonder why, and to hear the sarcasm and to twist his lips into a mirthless little grin. He was happy he was still alive too, after all. Happy that she was. "Happy to see you get along fine without any help," he says. It's dry. He lowers his legs and sets them off to rest to one side of him, and it's a chore and he's not sure Holiday can stand longer. She looked as beat as he felt but he wouldn't offer to share his hiding hole yet. "Been busy?" Just curious.

But if she decided to ever wander nearer, he wouldn't bat an eye. Not an ally didn't make her an enemy, in any man's mind. As a doctor, it was maddening. He had doctored enough for now, though. He was done with her, because it was too much energy to burn that he could save to focus on things like, say, "You know, I-" he was tired. He moved a hand in a small circle. He first decided against it, and then decided he'd best go on. "I like your gown." And little else.

She watches his hands move around with little interest, only managing to come to one conclusion. He was nuts. Whether he lost it during the arena or never really had it was up for debate, though.

Holiday doesn't remark on anything about needing help. Really, she didn't any for the things that she was doing. If she died, she died. It was that simple. Her place was to help others, not to be a burden like that freaky candy arena. "Busy enough. No complaints on that end, I suppose." At least it wasn't boring.

She stilled twisted and pulled and tugged at her hands and wrists, trying to gauge him on whether or not she should get closer. Would it be wise? Would it be wiser to not move at all? She began slowly moving in his general direction. Besides, she couldn't really handle too fast of a speed anyway, right now. It was all getting very close.

Still, Rebecca manages a smile that mostly sarcastic, but hardly borders on genuine. A real treat from her in all of this. "I like your robe."

The one time Sidney, damn him, had read him like a book, he had looked at his hands. To the way Hawkeye would rap his knuckles against the steel pole holding up the IV solution that was being fed to him. Right now, he didn't think it was worth ignoring the way Holiday played with her hands. He didn't know what to make of the gestures. He never bothered to stare, exactly. In fact, his attention's fleeing when she decides to start moving in closer and then he's feeling self-aware in a manner that made him shrink into himself and want to yawn again to signal disinterest. And then thinking that, he felt like he remembered R's mouth hanging open and so with a shiver, Hawkeye kept his mouth clamped shut.

Holiday smiled, and it made his gut lurch. He wanted to return the spite in a thin-lipped grin of his own but there's more than that in her words.

The resent was ridiculous.

He snorted.

He lifted an arm as if he was trying to rest it on the back of a plush sofa, gesturing, he thinks, for her to hurry and come to him. "I knew someone here had some good taste," he says and it's conversational this time. He lets his arm fall by his side again and thinks he's too tired to keep it up. --heh. "Do you believe I came in thinking we'd be in a massive pillow fight this time? I mean, can you imagine?"

She wanted to make a comment about his pillow fighting premonition. Hawkeye did seem like that sort of dreamer. The really hopeful and mostly crazy kind. All she could think about in such an arena is how horrifying it would be because of the other tributes getting creative. She doesn't say that, though.

"I could. Sounds softer than this. Warmer." Never mind the fact that she was freezing and sweating from the withdrawal. It really did sound nice, horrifying aspects aside. "If you speak loudly enough, they may take your suggestion into consideration."

Holiday does continue to move closer though. Why not? He seemed to be inviting her closer and she was fairly sure he wouldn't attack her. Getting in an argument five minutes in and watching him stomp off, though? That was likely. Or rather, getting in an argument and having to watch him do some sort of weird monologue for the next twenty minutes. That seemed far more likely.

Rebecca stopped before him, with an actual smile this time. A real, soft, sincere smile. "Seat taken?" Might as well ask first.

If she didn't quit with her neurotic fidgeting, he'd go nuts. It was like staring at a mirror for the first time in so long, and Hawkeye could almost hear any of the officers back in Korea jabbing him with half-sincere teasing about what it feels like being on the other end of nervous tics. It felt irritating, on one part. Utterly baffling and rolling him in a sense of helplessness in another. He figured, you know- he figured she was just tired. Holiday's stepping closer and Hawkeye's got to struggle to keep his neck craned up to meet her gaze instead of staring right at her crotch like he'd tiredly much rather do. She's only just finished her suggestion and he's adding on, "No, no," in a leisurely, thoughtful way that only meant it was more trouble than he dared venture to in the moment. "I have other things for them to consider. If I have to yell at them, I'd rather save my breath."

Which was as good a segue into the impatient gesturing down that he's making, breaking his gaze at her smile and even scooting inches more to one side. Jesus Christ, why even ask for permission? Was this a gala where he had to escort her to her seat? His brain must be at half-mast if he's genuinely agitated at the thought of being anyone to look for for answers. Stupid answers included, apparently at the top of the list. "No, no," he repeats. He shrugs. He seems like a brooding child if he's ever thought of himself as such, but maybe if he kept talking he wouldn't have to answer to why. "Go ahead. Me will just have to find somewhere else to sit after his break, but Myself and I wouldn't say no to the company."

Short.

Curt.

And here he'd thought they were doing so well.

Christ, he felt like a child. "And I have a lot of things to yell at them about. Only if I did it now, I'd give away my position. Smart, eh? What the hell's the matter with you?" An overgrown child.

He was practically doing gymnastics to try and make her sit down. She couldn't tell if it was hilarious or annoying. Holiday considered stalling more, but standing in one spot was beginning to become quite the chore. With reluctance, she gave in and sat down beside him, hands going under her thighs to keep from fidgeting with her fingers, but that just made her feet and toes restless while she stretched her shoulders.

"Alcohol withdrawal." She didn't even take offense to the abruptness of his question. It was bugging her, too, and she was at least honest about it.

At the same time, Rebecca was frowning from the possibilities of what he wanted to yell. She saved him from the Cornucopia kicking and screaming. Was the same thing going to happen with Penny now? Did he even know about people like Penny? Was he that brain dead? "They mostly like to hear suggestions on how to make the show more enjoyable. I would advise against screaming things other than that."

She could already sense it. Her skin crawled. How long was he going to last until he vanished like Chris? The other wasn't even outspoken. He just wore his heart on his sleeve and tried to be supportive. It didn't stop there; she could name them off on her fingers and toes. What about what happened to Punchy? To Ariadne? They were outspoken and yet-

Rebecca shifted in place, bouncing between leaving and staying. This would only go badly if he didn't learn better.

Then again, it was probably nothing and the agitation was probably strictly from the withdrawal. That was entirely possible. Sure.

Lucky hands. Shakespeare said it best, and Hawkeye only silently mouths what his mind brought up. See how she leans her cheek upon her hand? Oh, that I were a glove upon that hand, that I might touch that cheek. He turns to face Holiday properly only in time to hear her answer, and the air of a jeer doesn't wipe from his features but it's light. Not that that made it any less obnoxious, though now there was the ridiculous reaching for kinship that made it difficult to keep. In a second, he's sympathetic and determined not to ridicule her further. "Yeah," he sighs. "I remember that."

Shakespeare really knew what he was talking about, and Hawkeye brought a hand up to rub at his eyes. He was being nagged, he knew, but it wasn't fair and so he wouldn't listen. How stupid did she think he was? He stifles a yawn amid his resolve to tune her out, her shifting snapping his attention back. "I think I've done a really good job of not screaming lately," he drawls on, same even and patient tone as before. He kind of feels like maybe he's hallucinating this, and Holiday's not there, and he's talking to the bare wall ahead. "Even when I've really wanted to." And Hawkeye thinks he's saying this to get Linda to somehow calm down. Her nerves were jumping ship to him, and couldn't she see that? "So relax, Doc. If you need to rest, I'll, uh. Keep watch."

He shrugs. He shifts, mimicking her, whether he meant to or not he couldn't figure out. If he meant to call her Doc or not, he couldn't figure out either. Just look at them. They radiated warmth, didn't they?

Hawkeye could give her a chance. He knew that to break through the barrier, they had to find some common ground- past profession be damned. There's a hint of zeal when he next shifts a little nearer to her, leans a little forward and asks, "Do you know what we really need around here?" He felt like he was setting up one of his jokes, and maybe he was.

Of course he was being nagged. She didn't want to get another box containing the tongue of someone she cared for. Or at least someone who was generally annoying, but a good man either way that she did have some strange attachments to. It didn't have to be his tongue, though. They were creative here. Fingers. Eyes. A lung. Excuse her for nagging.

She shifted again when he didn't seem to take her seriously, but at least he admitted to making progress.

Rebecca shook her head to his offer. "I'm fine. Thank you, but I'll... rest later." It wasn't that she didn't trust him to not run her through in his sleep. (She didn't care if he did or not at this point. Or so she told herself.) She didn't want to be a burden again. Teaming up was one thing, but she always took the lead in those situations. She protected them. In her current situation, the roles would be reversed. Holiday was no one's burden.

She does try to relax a bit more, though, but it's... hard. So, she latches on to this new conversation he's come up with now, another little smile appearing even as she didn't lean away from him drawing closer. Perhaps distractions would help. "What's that?" She had many guesses.

So much for teamwork. They must be a sight. He doesn't comment on his offer being brushed off, with obvious little to no consideration. He was glad it was. He was also insulted.

But Hawkeye takes a moment to gather his thoughts, to push through the muddled stream they were, push through the images of carnage and the emotions they conjured. It means his lips are parted and no sound's coming out for the better, heavier half of a second. And speaking of heavier, suddenly the air seemed more tense to him but that was all in his mind and he knew. He was aware, and that was the problem. Hawkeye wasn't oblivious to the mess he'd become, and that meant he was itching to claw his way out. It means he says, "We need an Aid Station," without any hesitance after the initial bout, without lifting his volume any one bit, without a trace of a joke to be found on his features.

He could strangle himself with the wave of despair. They had to do something. Ellie had said so.

Hawkeye continued, steady. A torrent. "You know, it's fine if you- the Cornucopia was a bust. There's never going to be organization there. That's how it works. I get that. There's still people coming out of there hurt who don't have any business getting hurt. There's still... weeks of this, Holiday. The whole point of it is to have us all turn to our most basic instincts. That means some people go around trying to kill each other. That means I can't just stay and let that-- there is a number of us. Doctors. We just don't have the supplies. Let's ask for them. We might get them."

An Aid Station? As Hawkeye continues down his road of explanation, Rebecca slowly turns to look at him. He was serious. An Aid Station. He was actually serious.

When he had finished, she blinked at him and actually considered such a thing. Then slowly shook her head. "Hawkeye, that would never work." Her voice is low at first as she's still thinking through it, but becomes more resolute as she continues. "This is a fight to the death. They don't want people surviving and they especially don't want to be put off schedule. That's why they interfere in every arena. To thin us out so they can have their Victor. Even if they did agree, it would just be a trap. Infected and faulty equipment or destroying the entire station as soon as it's full. Not to mention how the other tributes would take advantage of it. They would get patched up and kill everyone there."

Where on Earth did he get this idea? In what reality did he think something like that would work here? He hadn't met the right people yet. He hadn't met the ones that enjoy the fight. The ones that live for it. Every scenario she could think of with this in mind only had everything ending horribly. It would make the arena worse just because the Gamemakers want to show them first hand who's in control.

It was just as she feared. This was rebelling in one of its purest forms and they would make him suffer for it. What was he thinking?

"You can't ask them for this. You don't know how this place is. What they do to people."

It was worse than hearing Margaret telling him No. This was actually worse. He couldn't placate himself by musing about poor choices of old flames he would never throw into an argument to crown himself the victor, but could always muse over in silence to drone out the Whys and the Logic.

He hated logic, couldn't ignore it.

When the hell had he ever said his grand idea would go against the Arena rules? Hawkeye hears Holiday speaking, silently as she had granted him the favor, but the understanding was lost. They were speaking the same language, it was true. But the meaning wasn't there. To the death? A schedule? Faulty equipment and keeping the gears turning in the bloody machine- how was any of this new? And Hawkeye felt his blood boil. He had to lower his head because he knew it was beginning to flush red. He hated himself- what Holiday said and kept saying was true and he wanted to scream we can still do it like he was leading a pep team at the sidelines of a junior high football game on a murky Thursday night.

"I'm going to ask them," he says after a moment. If there was dirt, he'd draw circles in it. Instead, he's forced to look at Holiday again. So the woman was resolute- well, so was he. "Maybe they won't do what you want them to. All they want is entertainment. Maybe it doesn't have to be through killing- has anyone thought about that? About what would happen if we just didn't run around stabbing each other because the big guy with the beard said so? If they can- if the Gamemakers can bring us dinosaurs and skimpy nightwear they sure as hell can get us 3-0 silk. Do you know what I've done so far? Tonight. Let's stay with tonight- today- I don't know what day today is anymore. Recently." His voice was heated, but low, still not even anything more than a whisper. His right hand trembled and he clasped it with his left to steady it. And to think he'd been so near dozing off, and now he's buzzing with the adrenaline of overwork. "There's a boy who's eyes melted, Doctor, have you ever worked on something like that before? Because I sure as hell hadn't. But we got anaesthetic for him. Now the only thing between that boy and survival are the antibiotics he doesn't have. I'm not going to not ask for them."

He was angry, embarrassed, devastated... basically, upset. Holiday looked away, too, when he mentioned the boy with his eyes melted away. She didn't know how something like that could happen in here and she didn't want to know, but what did matter is that she understood Hawkeye. How could someone not ask for something like that? She knew what he meant, but... he was still too soft for this place. She didn't know how, again, but he was.

"I have, actually," she finally said quietly, looking up to him again. Rebecca doesn't try to act stubborn or angry. She's sympathetic, if anything, and serious... and very sorry. "I have worked on something like that, I mean. Back home-... I've worked on people who grew wings, extra limbs, scales, you name it. A lot of them don't make it. A lot of them are usually killed, but that's another topic...

"The point is, Hawkeye, there comes a time when, even if you do have the materials to help someone, you have to ask yourself what those materials are going to cost you and others." She's not sure if she wants to look at as she talks or not, so Holiday alternates for a moment, but eventually looks up to him again. She's still shaking and she feels upset, too, but she can't really pin down the exact cause this time. "At home, if I didn't perform proper vivisections when ordered to, they would have killed my sister. If I had assumed the life of an eight year old girl who had lost her mind and gained the appearance and mindset of a twenty foot long alligator over that of everyone else, a good section of southern Chicago would be wiped out right now. No one likes it and I know you want to help and do something different, but this is not the way. They will hurt you and anyone you care about after the other tributes take advantage of you."

He just didn't know. The Capitol had their ways, even to people like her who only ever talked the talk some of the time. Something like this- It was the type of thing that would happen before someone disappeared for a few months.

If anything could have gotten him to shut up, it wasn't the mental image of the alligator or people with wings. It was the insinuation of what had happened to an eight year old girl, and Hawkeye holds his gaze because he felt like he'd been swallowed by something larger than only twenty feet. He wasn't sure if he should deserve the sympathy or be scalded by it, but maybe for the first time he reasoned with it- and that was something he'd regret, maybe, reasoning with the emotion over the words, because he's sure he could whip up a thousand what ifs at his whim. He wanted to have the pressure in his head go away, wanted the sore awareness of his body to fade. Instead he's not sure if he's right in touching a hand to Holiday's arm, but does anyway.

If anything, he's no longer in love with the idea. He says, "I'm sorry," like he's mumbling it because he's not sure if it'll be accepted. He was sorry for bringing this down on her, for having somehow gotten in the mindset that she'd see his way instead of her own. He was sorry, but he was going to still try.

He doesn't draw back his hand. Instead he figures they've had enough of that, and that he's had his daily fill of scare, and he adds, "I'm sorry, but the nightgown's not as nice as I said."

She wants to tell him to not be sorry for ever thinking that way. Yes, he had to think self-preservation and the safety of those he cared for, but thoughts like that kept him human. More human than the Gamemakers wanted them to be.

But she can't help the smile spread over her face. "Don't be sorry," Holiday tells him, meaning that sincerely, but looking up to him as if she didn't. She wasn't sure if she wanted him to know how sincere she was. "I don't like the gown either. My stylists have horrible taste."

At first he's not sure what to do with the smile. It startled a twitch out of his lips and a chuckle, kind of like if he was hesitant to proceed and kind of like if he was laughing at her rather than with her. It seemed like the nerves wouldn't let him stop the huffing and soon Hawkeye lets his hand fall back to his side and he lets his head fall back in silent laughter, because he'd be damned if he'd let the moment escape him now. She had played along! Of all the stupid things to come to his mouth and mind- and Holiday was playing along and damn if they both weren't insane.

But like hell he'd let the moment escape him. Hawkeye rests an elbow on his knees, rests his chin against the palm of his hand, shifts gears on a dime because you can't get through any medical training without embracing the skill. "Oh yeah?" He teases. "What would you rather be wearing?"

Of course, she played along. Any escape was still and escape. No amount of paranoia or preparing could protect against the inevitable. People here either won by the system being rigged or dumb luck.

Maybe next arena she'll just sit down on the pedestal at the Cornucopia and wait to go home.

For now, she just smiles back at Hawkeye, actually thinking. "I don't really. Something comfortable. Maybe just shorts, a t-shirt, and sandals. Casual, you know?" Casual. How long ago had she allowed herself to just be comfortable?

He looked entirely too engrossed for his own good. He still couldn't quiet the squirming in his gut but he did what he could. Hawkeye blinked long and slow, his smile disappearing again and making way for a more relaxed expression. Holiday had said the word and Hawkeye thought he was glad to run with it. "How short are the shorts?" He asked, because his next question would be, "And how thin is the shirt?"

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(closed) I want you to know that chivalry isn't dead.

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