"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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He breathes in, a little ragged.
"I've cut into more people than anyone has fingers and I have never- not ever- found anything like a soul. Ever. I've been there when people have passed, and all I've ever seen is someone dying."
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His answer is met with a small, grim smile.
"Then you've seen more souls 'n most, son. When you open up a man with clogged arteries or scars to slice into, the soul's in that tissue and all that build up. It's in the calluses on his hands and yours, the skin dried up from all that scrubbin' and sterilization. It's in the last breath of life and the first one after you get a heart goin' again. Hell, it's in the fact that you were there to see those folks die...maybe a procedure wasn't put to you specifically but you stepped up to help with? Sittin' by the bedside of someone wasn't gonna make it but you still bore witness? All those choices that mark a body, those feelings that compel us to act, those actions we perform cause they seem right. Those are the hidden corners where the soul lives, son. You can't see it when you cut a body open the same way you can't see their cells. Not without a microscope. Human eyeballs ain't built that way."
He pauses, his smile warming a little.
"Fun fact--folks like you are God's favorite. The ones who don't believe...he likes how curious you are, never stop askin' questions or lookin' for answers. You ain't ever closed off to learning more and changing your thinkin' like some of the faithful--gives him hope, he told me once."
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He just looks him dead in the eye and takes another swig of his martini.
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That's a promise. The Shade is sounding more and more like his Bubbe in moments where there was nobody else in the room in a way that is kind of freaking him out.
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"Big or little 'g?' Cause I'm the latter." he points out. "But? If the philosophical stuff bugs you, I'll lay off. But I make no promises 'bout the metaphysical. I'm mortal right now, but I am a practicing mage even so. Or, uh--do spells 'n haints raise your hackles, too?"
Yes, he's smirking over the rim of his glass. Yes, he is an asshole.
Sorry, Hawk.no subject
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Kids.
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