He almost even felt bad, turning his head to get a decent view at the boy, twisting around in the chair so the conversation can be a little more direct, even if it put him in a ridiculous position. One hand dangled off the back of the seat, one leg was propped up on the arm rest. And Hawkeye almost felt bad, or maybe he did and only didn't want to dwell on it, for the little attention he'd given district mates before. But he sports a smile, and it's as confident and comforting as he can mix together without making himself sick. The only part of the kid he had reason to hate, after all, was his stupid hair.

"Yeah, fishing," he repeats, and brings both hands to the side of his face, thumbs hooking behind his ears-- fins. Palms out, they're supposed to be like fins out the side of his head. "Blub, blub." And he lets them down, and remembers not for the first time that he has no idea what he's promising.

He shifts in his seat again, glancing from Shion to the window he was plastered on. "I haven't gone fishing in a long time," he answers, no rise in his voice, no tangible fondness. "But I guess I should still know how. I'd spend... days in the Saint Croix River. It beautiful there." If memory served him right. And what a stupid thing to think- of course it was beautiful there. There had been the pines, the clear water, the changing colors of the trees all around. Hawkeye feels like he owes the chuckle he gives. Of all the things to talk about when herded blindly into a train, heading nowhere. "Deep sea stuff, I, uh. I hooked a bluefin, once." Isn't that exciting, kids? Even the old colonel would have asked him to spice up the tale.