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Entry tags:
(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.
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.
no subject
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."
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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."
no subject
"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.
no subject
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."
no subject
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."
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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?"
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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?
no subject