Who knew the spoken word had such power? Oh, you mean everybody did? Wonderful.
Hawkeye's quick to sober (not that way, though he's feeling a mean dull and fierce pain behind his eyes right about now) and were he a dog, a lovable wire-haired mutt of a thing, the ears would be perking up with a sort of cautious wind that, while perhaps unexpected, would be far too old and familiar on the lines of his face to be uncharacteristic. His eyes even give pause, if that's the right word for it, and they search the way a murky river, flowing, searches every rock in its depths: fruitless, yet thorough. A captain, and then she says it: a flyboy, and then she says that.
Boyfriend.
It'd be infinitely more suspicious if he turned to peek over his shoulders but his skin isn't crawling enough to think there's snipers in the immediate vicinity, and anyway, that's why he's still so all of a sudden, his dumb-drunk brain trying to wire the truth to the right column of thought. Either she's messing with him, with them or
she wouldn't, right? No, she wouldn't.
He hates being wary, hates feeling so at-war, hates how familiar and old and... familiar. it is.
But he reads papers and hears the radios, some times, or he did. Sometimes. And sometimes would be just enough, just enough to know it's Us against Them, with 'them' being perfectly good people. He'd done work on a kid or two who had let his tongue wag a bit much between drinks and buddies (like here?) and then said buddies had let out years of poor, stupid, barbaric indoctrination on a kid's body. Abuse over abuse. And.] Listen, Rose. [There's anger somewhere, deep, deep down, but to hell with that.
His eyes brim with open concern, either for her or for what he's going to say or for them. Damn it all, he doesn't know. He fidgets, draws circles lamely where his hand had rested on her shoulder.
Damn it all, despite it all... there's joy somewhere. Not so deep down.
Imagine being free enough to love? But he can't; he's American.
The thought alone makes him pull up a wry grin, a bark of an unbelieving laugh alongside it.] I'm happy for your Cap'n friend, I really am. [He's bleeding worry. What a mess.] But maybe don't use his full name around here, yeah? It's a small war. [Everyone needed a dishonorable discharge like a hole in the head.
Trust him; he would know.
He tastes the word, the full word, on his tongue, mouths it to himself silently: boyfriend.
And just about fucking cracks into a fit of mania; Hawkeye settles for looking on at Rose-- this time in wonder. Some day... Yeah, some day.
He cracks a grin, wants to call her doctor friend a prick for being one of those title-only kinds in the same breath as he wants to tell her that, welp, that settles it; they're soul mates of a sort. Instead he clicks his tongue, a gentle tut-tut, and gives her what-for.] Oh, darlin', you've got me pegged all wrong. I think you believe I have a heart. [Which hurts to say, in an almost-good way. Or maybe he's just a masochist. But that's just love, ain't it?] That silly old thing was shot to shit years ago. I just love 'em and leave 'em.
cw for homophobia and violence because the 50s were p much never okay
Who knew the spoken word had such power? Oh, you mean everybody did? Wonderful.
Hawkeye's quick to sober (not that way, though he's feeling a mean dull and fierce pain behind his eyes right about now) and were he a dog, a lovable wire-haired mutt of a thing, the ears would be perking up with a sort of cautious wind that, while perhaps unexpected, would be far too old and familiar on the lines of his face to be uncharacteristic. His eyes even give pause, if that's the right word for it, and they search the way a murky river, flowing, searches every rock in its depths: fruitless, yet thorough. A captain, and then she says it: a flyboy, and then she says that.
Boyfriend.
It'd be infinitely more suspicious if he turned to peek over his shoulders but his skin isn't crawling enough to think there's snipers in the immediate vicinity, and anyway, that's why he's still so all of a sudden, his dumb-drunk brain trying to wire the truth to the right column of thought. Either she's messing with him, with them or
she wouldn't, right? No, she wouldn't.
He hates being wary, hates feeling so at-war, hates how familiar and old and... familiar. it is.
But he reads papers and hears the radios, some times, or he did. Sometimes. And sometimes would be just enough, just enough to know it's Us against Them, with 'them' being perfectly good people. He'd done work on a kid or two who had let his tongue wag a bit much between drinks and buddies (like here?) and then said buddies had let out years of poor, stupid, barbaric indoctrination on a kid's body. Abuse over abuse. And.] Listen, Rose. [There's anger somewhere, deep, deep down, but to hell with that.
His eyes brim with open concern, either for her or for what he's going to say or for them. Damn it all, he doesn't know. He fidgets, draws circles lamely where his hand had rested on her shoulder.
Damn it all, despite it all... there's joy somewhere. Not so deep down.
Imagine being free enough to love? But he can't; he's American.
The thought alone makes him pull up a wry grin, a bark of an unbelieving laugh alongside it.] I'm happy for your Cap'n friend, I really am. [He's bleeding worry. What a mess.] But maybe don't use his full name around here, yeah? It's a small war. [Everyone needed a dishonorable discharge like a hole in the head.
Trust him; he would know.
He tastes the word, the full word, on his tongue, mouths it to himself silently: boyfriend.
And just about fucking cracks into a fit of mania; Hawkeye settles for looking on at Rose-- this time in wonder. Some day... Yeah, some day.
He cracks a grin, wants to call her doctor friend a prick for being one of those title-only kinds in the same breath as he wants to tell her that, welp, that settles it; they're soul mates of a sort. Instead he clicks his tongue, a gentle tut-tut, and gives her what-for.] Oh, darlin', you've got me pegged all wrong. I think you believe I have a heart. [Which hurts to say, in an almost-good way. Or maybe he's just a masochist. But that's just love, ain't it?] That silly old thing was shot to shit years ago. I just love 'em and leave 'em.