He didn't pay the waiter any mind. He hadn't even known there had been one until Holiday spoke up and he commented through a snort, "Don't tempt me to run up your tab." And he knew what a boor he was being and couldn't bring himself to care. And he remembered a time before the war when he'd flirt differently- and he stops the line of thought there because this sure wasn't flirting. This sure wasn't his kind of flirting. --or it was, but the mood was all wrong. Everything was all wrong. Nothing was what it seemed, any doctor knew that. This wasn't-- and Hawkeye didn't even know what he was thinking of.
He hears Holiday speak again and it seemed to him like it was muted. Like when the radio was tuned to the crackpot news and the announcer had said with a laugh his name, and his attention had snapped to at the mess tent because all of a sudden he heard his name broadcast to God knows how many people, labeled as a war criminal. And it was a cheap shot and all lies and his blood had boiled but he'd done nothing about it at all. It felt like that, but it was longer.
And the service was quick because the Capitol loved its tributes and there was a cold beer placed on his side of the table. Or at least, once he slid his boots off the table and sat up like a decent alcoholic and gave the bottled beverage a sniff, it smelled enough like beer. What he wouldn't give for a martini, lighter fluid, and silence. "I'm not saying I'm in trouble with you," he parrots, again a sultry schoolboy. "At least I'd hope I wasn't. I haven't done a thing to you. I should be thanking you, actually, because you didn't only save my life, you saved the girl's. We were nearly starving. I freaked out then and I'm freaking out now. What I'm trying to say, Rebecca, is that I seem to lose all control when I'm around you. Some how." Of his mouth, for example. That runs away from him too and no, Hawkeye tells himself, it isn't love. "I'm not used to it so I'm acting up. Then again, I act up for any number of reasons. This just happens to be at the top of the list."
no subject
He hears Holiday speak again and it seemed to him like it was muted. Like when the radio was tuned to the crackpot news and the announcer had said with a laugh his name, and his attention had snapped to at the mess tent because all of a sudden he heard his name broadcast to God knows how many people, labeled as a war criminal. And it was a cheap shot and all lies and his blood had boiled but he'd done nothing about it at all. It felt like that, but it was longer.
And the service was quick because the Capitol loved its tributes and there was a cold beer placed on his side of the table. Or at least, once he slid his boots off the table and sat up like a decent alcoholic and gave the bottled beverage a sniff, it smelled enough like beer. What he wouldn't give for a martini, lighter fluid, and silence. "I'm not saying I'm in trouble with you," he parrots, again a sultry schoolboy. "At least I'd hope I wasn't. I haven't done a thing to you. I should be thanking you, actually, because you didn't only save my life, you saved the girl's. We were nearly starving. I freaked out then and I'm freaking out now. What I'm trying to say, Rebecca, is that I seem to lose all control when I'm around you. Some how." Of his mouth, for example. That runs away from him too and no, Hawkeye tells himself, it isn't love. "I'm not used to it so I'm acting up. Then again, I act up for any number of reasons. This just happens to be at the top of the list."