He was a fraction away from thinking he had messed up, from thinking Rat had messed himself up, or from thinking that he was about to witness a boy give a surprise birth. Hawkeye opened his mouth to advise against the position- he had information on the vitality of blood flow and studies and conclusive evidence- and instead he just watched and swallowed and waited like he was on the other side of the operating table in his studies, and his mentor was inspecting. He didn't care for the weapon or the glint of it, his attention on the kid's breathing and on flying, fleeting, tangled thoughts of how to talk him out of hiding.
Then the next second, Rat's up and Hawkeye can't believe that he even saw it, wondered if he had shut his eyes or something during it. His gaze flashed to the bandaged head and to the blood still oozing, his chest constricted in concern. Concern for what, though-- well, Rat stood and Hawkeye felt like he was pulled back by a force. That force was unease. He could wrangle it, make the sensation never rear its head. "Your hand is bleeding," Hawkeye urged. His lips turned down, pulled back at his words. He was sure he had already said this. He was sure he looked like a cornered mutt. "You've lost a part of it." Because why else would the boy be searching him like that? Hawkeye wasn't sure if he preferred Flagg's looks. Flagg at least carried a gun, not a kitchen knife. His voice rose- lowered, too. He felt suddenly sore and stiff all over, and his body didn't feel quite like his own. Except for the arm-- that was definitely his.
And he didn't want to shuffle back- Cuthbert's taunt rang in his head, right before Ferdinand's frill exploded- but Hawkeye did. The observation was lined with truth. Hawkeye didn't like it any more than he liked grenades strapped to bodies. It wasn't that caution overpowered concern in that moment. But it was similar.
"I'm a live man standing, thanks. I'm also sick of being told what I am when no one seems to know. Put that weapon down, I'm only trying to help you. I already have. My shape's of no concern to you- you just want to win this game. You'll get through it easier if you just let me do my work."
no subject
Then the next second, Rat's up and Hawkeye can't believe that he even saw it, wondered if he had shut his eyes or something during it. His gaze flashed to the bandaged head and to the blood still oozing, his chest constricted in concern. Concern for what, though-- well, Rat stood and Hawkeye felt like he was pulled back by a force. That force was unease. He could wrangle it, make the sensation never rear its head. "Your hand is bleeding," Hawkeye urged. His lips turned down, pulled back at his words. He was sure he had already said this. He was sure he looked like a cornered mutt. "You've lost a part of it." Because why else would the boy be searching him like that? Hawkeye wasn't sure if he preferred Flagg's looks. Flagg at least carried a gun, not a kitchen knife. His voice rose- lowered, too. He felt suddenly sore and stiff all over, and his body didn't feel quite like his own. Except for the arm-- that was definitely his.
And he didn't want to shuffle back- Cuthbert's taunt rang in his head, right before Ferdinand's frill exploded- but Hawkeye did. The observation was lined with truth. Hawkeye didn't like it any more than he liked grenades strapped to bodies. It wasn't that caution overpowered concern in that moment. But it was similar.
"I'm a live man standing, thanks. I'm also sick of being told what I am when no one seems to know. Put that weapon down, I'm only trying to help you. I already have. My shape's of no concern to you- you just want to win this game. You'll get through it easier if you just let me do my work."