The bathroom tiles were cool against my hand

[notinflictthem]

CHARACTERS: Hawkeye and you! Yes, you!
DATE: November
LOCATION: Hawkeye’s Clinic
SITUATION: Settling in, making waves, shaking hands, making friends
WARNINGS: Blanket warning that war and injury may come up

Press my corpse against the wall

Hawkeye wakes up to sunlight instead of Radar yelling for helicopters. He has his coffee unhurried, plans out his day. No Frank to yell at him for not shaving, but no Trap to chew the fat with, either. Nobody to complain with about breakfast. It’s too quiet. If he doesn’t see a human person in the next hour, he’s going to start gnawing his own limbs off.

So from about 8am-6pm, the clinic is staffed. The sign out the front reads ‘Hawkeye’s Clinic, happy hour 6-7pm’, and underneath that, more recently, a smaller sign reads ‘100% satisfaction rate; just ask the survivors!’
Inside, Hawkeye is either cleaning, running his tabletop still for alcohol to disinfect with (or drink), or organising his small array of client notes.

I told the band to leave without me

If you actually visit during the signposted happy hour, the table in the middle of the clinic has a tablecloth draped over it, and Hawkeye stands there polishing the couple of glasses he owns. Someone should get him some decent barware. There’s a couple of stools, and he grins as you enter. He’s playing bartender. Indulge him?

I'll get the next flight

After happy hour, the ‘bar’ gets packed up and the clinic gets scrubbed down. If you’ve got a standing invitation for cards, a date, or just want to check in on him off-hours, this is the time to do it. Find him out on his front doorstep with his nose in a book, leaning out the window with a martini in hand and watching the street, or doing something upstairs, the sound of a pleasant baritone muddling through something jazzy.

And if I make it to the mornin' (wildcard)

(Hit me!)

Comments

I told the band to leave without me

[lasthumanvoice]

When should a reporter meander in but when there's booze being served? His face animated, his eyes wild, a friendly air about him, here's your Cecil, Hawkeye. Get him! Before he, uh, gets you? Or something.

[notinflictthem]

Oh now this guy looks like he knows a good time.

"Fine weather we're having, isn't it?" he offers, while polishing a glass.

"Always wanted to say that while doing that. Hi- I'm Hawkeye, my name's on the door and not just because they won't let me in anymore. Pull up a pew- we've got gin, gin, gin, or an empty glass for you to hold and pretend you're drinking something."

[lasthumanvoice]

Cecil takes a seat, seeming to listen a moment. "No Weather at all, but perhaps that's for the best. Perhaps there are several choices to be made for the best tonight. I will take a glass of gin, if you have one to spare."

[notinflictthem]

"Wouldn't you know it, we just ran out of gin."

He winks at Cecil, retrieving a glass and filling it with gin, but keeps his hand over it.

"Payment is telling me your name."

[lasthumanvoice]

That wink is so very Noticed, and Cecil laughs warmly.

"Cecil Gershwin Palmer, the Voice of Night Vale. It's a pleasure to meet you, Hawkeye."

[notinflictthem]

"I'll say, I could listen to you read the phone book," and he slides the glass towards Cecil.

"Where's Night Vale?"

[lasthumanvoice]

"The middle of the desert. Also, you can't listen to me read the phone book here--they haven't invented phones. They don't even have radio. Though if you give Comrade Jean long enough, he will invent some sort of emergency directory for me to read you."

Cecil accepts the glass, considering the liquid within before taking a small sip.

[notinflictthem]

It's genuinely really good gin? Which seems improbable considering the still he has set up, but nonetheless it's quite good.

"The dictionary, then. A book by Tolstoy. The justifications the army keeps giving us for why we go to war- anything that's long enough that I can keep listening."

Hawkeye pours himself one. Goddamn he's really got to get on some olives.

"Been here long?"

[lasthumanvoice]

"A month and some change. And there has, indeed, been some change. But being anywhere that isn't home is bound to lead to change of some sort, don't you think?"

Another, less cautious sip.

"And if you're mentioning Tolstoy, I imagine that means you're from an Earth of some variety.

[notinflictthem]

"Oh sure, I left home and all I got was spare change. Change in going spare, I mean."

A curious head tilt, "is there anywhere else I'm meant to have been from?"

[lasthumanvoice]

"Ah, well. It isn't an assured thing here. There are elves and princesses and other oddities about. And I'm not entirely certain we're on an Earth here and now." As if Earth doesn't have princesses?

[notinflictthem]

"I don't know what Earth you're from, but mine doesn't have elves outside of the Hobbit. And I can't find this place on any map back home. I mean- nobody's even told me what country or territory this is."

Which, considering that he sees the star spangled banner when he closes his eyes, is weird. He takes a gulp of gin as a reward for thinking about his circumstances for more than two seconds.

[lasthumanvoice]

"We're on Marrow Island. Beyond that? I have no clue." But did he know what state he was in (beyond the cultivated state of meshuggas) when he lived in Night Vale? No!

[notinflictthem]

Oh hey, that's the same state the 4077 was stationed in.

"I picked up that much. Point is, I'm just from regular not-sci-fi earth. No elves. Most of this is new to me."

[lasthumanvoice]

"Has it already gone beyond your capacity to accept and adapt to?" This is actually a very important question.

[notinflictthem]

"Is there an answer to that question that isn't 'no'?"

Genuine question, here.

[lasthumanvoice]

“Yes. Of course there is. And if you’re at that point, there is care that needs to be taken.”

He’s almost confused by that response.

[notinflictthem]

"... like what?"

Not as confused as Hawkeye, evidently.

[lasthumanvoice]

“Grounding and breathing exercises. Affirmations. Bloodstone circles. Work to prevent the overwhelm from getting worse and trying to acclimate to the situation. Do…they not have those where you’re from?”

Mental healthcare! Welcome to it!

[notinflictthem]

There's like two, three, four seconds of silence before Hawkeye just starts laughing.

It's 1951, man, PTSD isn't even a diagnosis yet and all the psychs are Freudian.

[lasthumanvoice]

Cecil can wait politely for that laughter to stop.

[notinflictthem]

He's still going.

Imagine a montage of Hawkeye cackling in different parts of the room on a static shot while Cecil is still at the bar.

When he finally makes it back to his spot,

"No, no we don't do those. You sink or you swim. Or more accurately, you figure out how to live with it or you snap like a twig."

[lasthumanvoice]

"Who's we? You could do those here, you know. No one would stop you. And you don't need to carry it all alone, either. Snapping like a twig sounds less than ideal, don't you think?"

[notinflictthem]

"Okay, look-" Hawkeye holds a hand up, "it's not some macho thing, don't get me wrong. I'm just not someone who does snap. I can laugh anything off. And that's what I plan to keep doing, kay? I don't need anything from you."

It hasn't failed him yet, right?

[lasthumanvoice]

"Would needing something from me be a bad thing?" The question is asked so innocently, so softly.