He wouldn't even mind it if it was Frank Burns hollering at him that he was a dunce, or shrieking at him to buzz off. Hawkeye would sock the guy in the jaw if he felt like it then, would snarl back and just make the guy listen and sit still because while he wouldn't ever understand the man, he had learned how to deal with him. The sight of Rat looking nearly smug or professional or something as he twirled the machete just further led Hawkeye into the pit of confusion. There was no winning, no certainty on which brand of help to offer or ask for. The second guessing was overstaying its welcome, and Hawkeye heard himself say "Oh good, you can count." as he nodded his head. Three. Yup. That's what he saw, too.
He nodded his head again, in agreement and acceptance. Acceptance that the alarm was dissipating despite it not needing to, awareness both that it was happening and that his answer was alien, and as seemingly illogical as green little Martians. Though in this setting, who knew. Who knew, and that was his excuse for it. "We need to get a few things straight here- first, that I'm not your opponent. I'm not competing against anybody. It's the same as calling me a soldier, it's plain wrong. I'm not fighting against you. You're not my enemy." Hawkeye felt short of breath there, took a second to gather his thoughts, construct a point. He had squabbled against that one nosy bastard, landed a few punches. It was different than fighting for the game and for the audience. And anyway, Hawkeye draws in a breath again and continues, his voice rising in pitch in earnest.
No, in his shape he couldn't last. Just wouldn't last. And if he lasted, it'd just be worse for him.
"I think I can help and in fact, I'd like to. I've been called a mother hen before. I've also been compared to a headless chicken. If I have to run around like either to do what I swore to do 'til my dying breath -and don't get any ideas-, I'll do it." It was senseless. Just like back in Korea. If Hawkeye ever got home, then he might take a year or two to observe the wonder of medical procedures done with reason and genuine care as if it'd be the first time he ever observed. He tried to shrug. Ended up tilting his head part way to one side instead, staring the machete down as if he could convince it to wilt.
no subject
He nodded his head again, in agreement and acceptance. Acceptance that the alarm was dissipating despite it not needing to, awareness both that it was happening and that his answer was alien, and as seemingly illogical as green little Martians. Though in this setting, who knew. Who knew, and that was his excuse for it. "We need to get a few things straight here- first, that I'm not your opponent. I'm not competing against anybody. It's the same as calling me a soldier, it's plain wrong. I'm not fighting against you. You're not my enemy." Hawkeye felt short of breath there, took a second to gather his thoughts, construct a point. He had squabbled against that one nosy bastard, landed a few punches. It was different than fighting for the game and for the audience. And anyway, Hawkeye draws in a breath again and continues, his voice rising in pitch in earnest.
No, in his shape he couldn't last. Just wouldn't last. And if he lasted, it'd just be worse for him.
"I think I can help and in fact, I'd like to. I've been called a mother hen before. I've also been compared to a headless chicken. If I have to run around like either to do what I swore to do 'til my dying breath -and don't get any ideas-, I'll do it." It was senseless. Just like back in Korea. If Hawkeye ever got home, then he might take a year or two to observe the wonder of medical procedures done with reason and genuine care as if it'd be the first time he ever observed. He tried to shrug. Ended up tilting his head part way to one side instead, staring the machete down as if he could convince it to wilt.