There ya go, he tells himself without words. Now you've done it. And he's not sure what he's done or accomplished, but he sighs, loud and heavy and almost even pained. It sounded like nagging, though. Like a wordless 'buck up'. It sounded like he was fed up with this, and he was, but 'this' wasn't the boy's fault. And Hawkeye wasn't happy with... well, with anything. He wasn't happy he didn't know anything, he wasn't happy with having death be such a casual thing though he should be used to it, he wasn't happy with how he kept trying to hold on to these ideals. Ideally, death wouldn't be sport. Ideally, it wouldn't be broadcast as entertainment. Ideally, people would feel more, like he did.

To hell with ideals--

he'd just made the boy feel as crummy as he'd wanted the Broccoli Man to feel, if the guarded speech and precise lines on paper told the doctor anything.

Hrrm. It wasn't his fault, he wanted to say. He huffs again- and it's a huff this time, just an exhale, not a silly and dramatic-styled sigh. "It was my first Arena too, bub." He says, tired. He scrubs a hand down his face. He wonders why he's trying to make himself feel... bad. He was working to make himself feel rotten. There was effort in this. There shouldn't be. He'd heard the word 'battle'. He was just tired. "Is that what you're working on?" Plans to keep the recycling to a minimum? And wasn't it funny? How he'd used to wish there was a way for wars to just recycle their boys, instead of having to bring in new bodies for every time a general got a whim?