"Hawkeye" Pierce (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
notinflictthem) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
ph_logs2023-11-10 06:36 pm
notinflictthem) wrote in ph_logs2023-11-10 06:36 pm
The bathroom tiles were cool against my hand
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
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.
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?
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.
(Hit me!)
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!)
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John is always the situation.
…then Hawkeye touches him, and his eyes slip shut for a moment because it’s not medical and it’s not harsh. It’s…warm. It’s so warm…
People don’t touch him when there’s a situation. People…they don’t touch him.
When his eyes open again, there’s more pain than fear in them, pain and a bone deep fatigue John knows he’ll never be able to sleep off.
“Lotta civilians carry guns. Wear uniforms, too.” He replies quietly, then takes a deep breath as one corner of his mouth twitches up briefly.
“Like some soldiers don’t, y’know? Heard there’s an oath and everything…first, do no harm, right?”
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He pat-pat's John's new scar with his thumb, if only to check that it's healing okay.
"I'd much rather be a civvie than anything else. I was only in the jolly greens because I had to. I didn't have a choice. You get that, right?"
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“Soldiers don’t get to choose it. We just…are, I think.” He replies. “It’s not in the uniform or the bars or the stars…it’s in the blood ‘n guts. It’s in the fighting—you don’t need a uniform for that. Hell, you don’t even need to kill for that. Not every soldier is a weapon.”
Not every soldier is John Rambo.
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"You really... want to?"
It's almost a kind of horrified curiosity.
"You genuinely don't... it's nothing else, you don't want to do it to impress some girl or get money or anything, you just... Want to fight?"
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He can’t remember the last time someone asked him what he wanted. Was it Delmar on leave? Westmore at chow? Danforth, planning that trip to Las Vegas they never got to take?…
“It’s…what they made me for. I don’t wanna fight, but…it’s what they made me for.”
And he doesn’t say ‘made’ as if it’s some abstract. He speaks with a sort of indifference reserved for inanimate objects that are fabricated.
“I tried, I really did, but—but I failed. And that’s…that’s not allowed.”
He shuts his eyes, his head leaning just a little more into the place where Hawkeye’s hand is touching the bullet scar on his temple.
“That’s not allowed.”
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He's seen plenty of scared, hurt, angry kids, but he's never met one so... brainwashed. It makes him wish Sidney were here, more than just to deliver a sanity check on himself.
"Made- what do you mean made. You can't 'make' a person, except the old fashioned way."
Hawkeye glances over to the street.
"How about you come upstairs with me and we can talk. Sound good?"
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John wants to say it, but…well, he has a gut feeling now is not the time.
And he’s inviting John in. John…
He still feels warm where Hawkeye touched him. John knows he’s upset him, but he’s inviting him to stay and talk. He isn’t trying to get rid of him—and that just makes that warmth sink deeper into places so cold they’d gone numb.
“Yeah, sounds good.” He agrees with a nod, shifting to move towards the door. “I—thank you.”
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Hawkeye pulls himself back in and shuts the window, appearing just a moment later at the door to open it. The stairs are at the side of the clinic. There's a door to the right that goes in the side to the main clinic room, but Hawkeye's actual residence is up and over, up the flight of stairs and to the right. Not a lot of decoration as of yet, it's all pretty bare bones, and he hums to himself about how he should fix it up when he has the money to spare. Maybe a coat of paint. A couch. Or a bed he can actually lie next to someone in.
"I know you didn't want a drink, but I've got some poundcake I've got to get finished- want some?"
CW: very mild references to disordered eating habits
The space is austere and quiet. It lacks any real personal touch as of yet, but there are little things all over that make it feel inhabited rather than impersonal. He likes it—enough that the offer of food makes his stomach barely tighten with interest, reminding him of the utilitarian meal he had at the Oak and Iron. He knows his room and board is good, but he can’t eat a bite downstairs without his stomach knotting up and his lungs freezing, so he keeps some bread, nuts, and dried meat up in his room. He’s not starving, he’s…safe…and he can’t remember the last time he indulged in sweets for the hell of it.
“Yeah.” He agrees, rolling his shoulders to release a little more of that tension, one corner of his mouth twitching up and staying there for a prolonged moment. “Sure…that sounds really good, thank you.”
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Hawkeye reveals the pound cake under the cloth with a flourish, and sets about digging out his knives and forks and such.
"Guy named Eddie brought it- I already had some, it's really good- really really good, 'marry me' good. He's a farmer here, nice guy- also from Maine, can you believe it? What're the chances."
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"Eddie Kaspbrak?" he asks. "Held a work party up at his place recently? I met him--tried to help with the greenhouse and a renegade chicken. I like him."
He hesitates, unsure if he should say anything...Eddie said it was all right, but every rule has exceptions...
He drops his gaze, reaching for one of the forks.
"Lives up there with his--his boyfriend? Er--partner?"
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When Hawkeye has two slices cut, he flicks the cloth back over the rest and hands Rambo's plate over, sort of searching his face for a moment before venturing-
"Is it weird to you that nobody's making any sort of deal about that, too?"
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He chews, swallows...and smiles with another little nod of agreement at Hawkeye. Yeah, that's definitely good stuff, and he eats normally after that.
"I know it's a thing, and there's nothing wrong with it, but...tell that to the rest of the world." he continues after a beat. "I, uh...that's not me, but--uh--neither are girls. Not--not just...n-not just girls."
He takes another bite of cake while his heart races, chews slowly to give it a chance to calm down. It's pretty easy (food and friend and quiet and safe), but he still needs a moment before he speaks again.
"Bowie's a pretty small town, and Dad was real fucking Catholic."
Need he say more, Hawkeye?
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"Hey- it's alright," he soothes.
Does this mean he can hit on John without getting punched?
... nah, better not risk it.
"I mean I'm-" 'bisexual' is in use by the time Hawkeye's around, but that doesn't mean he's going to use it for himself.
"Kind of a feral tomcat myself, you know. Wasn't much room for it in the army, you understand, but. You know. Here, I have more time for it. With, uh- men, I mean."
Can MacArthur show up and shoot him for desertion now.
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Oh.
“Feral tomcat, in terms of…y’know. What, or who?” John asks, carefully avoiding looking at Hawkeye. “The right person, or tonight’s person?”
Because he has eyes. And he likes Hawkeye.
And…well, he doesn’t do casual. But he also doesn’t do this.
Not that he is. Doing this.
…fucking hell, John doesn’t know what he’s doing.
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"Tonight's person. Not big on getting tied down. I already have an understanding with a couple of people here. Had more, back in Korea."
He's not out to break any hearts. Maybe not here, at least, where 'I'm married' doesn't especially work as a get out of jail free card.
"I mean- don't get me wrong, John, I'm not angling for anything. I like your company and I want to count you as a friend, no... false pretenses or anything here."
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He’s…a little disappointed, but it feels good. It’s—he’s never had a conversation like this before and he’s suddenly, wildly glad he’s having it with Hawkeye.
“That’s okay, and we are friends just to be clear.” He assured him, lowering his hand so he can snag another bite of cake. He’s quiet for just a split second, then another of his crooked smiles is threatening to split his face in two despite the fact that his heart is racing and his hands are shaking a little.
“There’s nothing wrong with—with the fact that you’re not…that you’re not my type.”
…and John is just going to beam around another bite of pound cake, terrified and wildly happy at the same time.
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Relieving, even if he has no earthly clue why John is smiling about being let down.
"I mean, don't get me wrong, you're cute, I just know what I'm after. I'm not big on any games I can't bet on, y'know?"
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What he wants from someone, what he’s looking for when he thinks about being with anyone. Asking that question and getting an answer in that forbidden instance…it doesn’t change.
And that’s a huge gift that Hawkeye has given him.
“I mean—I know what I’m after.” John clarifies, then finally loses his radiant smile to a thoughtful frown.
“…but…I guess that’s a question maybe you know the answer to? Just—how can you tell? How do you…do you just ask? How can you know you’re welcome without the whole thing already being out there, like it is right now—talking about Eddie and Angel I mean.”
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He rests a warm hand on John's shoulder.
"Here, where there's no mother superior to report back to? You just ask. Flirt, make moves, make jokes, worst that'll happen is you get a slap in the face and you know the answer's 'no'. But it's always no if you don't ask. You're cute, all you need is a bit of confidence and you can have anyone you want in your bed. Or anywhere else you want 'em."
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“I get that’s how you pick up a girl, but does the same stuff…work for guys?” He asks, still catching a little on the surge of adrenaline that comes from the thing in his head that makes talking about it feel illicit.
“Seems like the same lines and moves you’d pull out for women wouldn’t fly for men.”
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Another pat on the shoulder.
"Don't overthink it. You'll do fine. Worst comes the worst, just take your shirt off, that'll work for you."
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The mention of his shirt has him blinking, looking down at himself, then back up at Hawkeye with a blank look that is one hundred and thirty percent genuine.
"Why would I take off my shirt?"
You've seen his scars, sir...
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It’s a full thirty seconds before his mouth opens and closes soundlessly, and another ten before he can manage to cover his face with both hands but not before an embarrassed smile is visible.
“Uh—I—you—uhhhhh…”
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