It's funny how much a little bit of hypnotism can change your perspective, even if all you thought you were getting out of it was attacked by a giant wasp
( Read more... )
After patching up a combatant or two earlier, Hawkeye had decided how the rest of the night was going to go.
One: a martini, dry like the Sahara. Maybe two. Two: a comfortable chair by the fireplace. Three: a completely incomprehensible medical reference journal from the infirmary library, written in a language that Hawkeye certainly can't read, but that seems to contain the finer points of werewolf anatomy. Four: throwing peanuts at anyone who looks like they're even thinking of getting into a duel, honorable or not.
Number five, however, is entirely open, and, at the moment, involves a glance up from his seat to spot the nearby woman with the sketchpad. A pause, and then one side of his mouth lifts and he says, "My left profile's the better one." He tilts his head to that side, helpfully; a man in a red kimono and a lei over army greens.
Angela looks up, considering this quite seriously for a moment, and then grins and nods.
"You know, it really is," she says.
[OOC: Sorry! I didn't see this before I went to bed last night. But I'm about this evening, and if slowtime's good for you, I'd love to see what these two make of each other.]
Hawkeye preens, in the way that suggests he's doing it for entertainment value more than out of any actual severe narcissism. "You're clearly a lady of discerning taste, madam." He drops (some of) the act, setting the medical journal on the coffee table in front of him and leaning forward with his forearms on his knees, at ease.
'At ease' doesn't mean that that smile has let up, though.
"I'd offer to buy you a drink to celebrate your eye for aesthetics, but I see you're already a step ahead of me." (You know, with the glass of wine already in hand.)
"Done. Hawkeye Pierce," he says. "A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Angela." He picks up the journal again. "This?" A rueful smile. "I'm not up on my Czech." He takes another glance at the journal. "Or possibly Romanian. I'm just reading it for the pretty pictures."
With the journal held open in in Angela's direction, Hawkeye flips to show her a random page, which just so happens to have a large, full-color anatomical diagram of something that looks like a wolf-man.
The startled look on his face is both rare and momentary, clearly telegraphing one simple fact: he hadn't thought of that.
He recovers quickly. "Dr. Yankee Doodle himself," he confirms cheekily. "The translating's a good idea." He leans back comfortably, resting his ankle on his knee. "I ought to try having those occasionally; I hear they do wonders for your health."
"Yeah, but too many just mean people start to expect them, and then it's up to you to solve every little problem that comes along. I try to ration mine out. So that's probably it from me for a few days.
"Dr. Yankee Doodle?"
She's not casting stones. Her middle name is Pearly-Gates.
"Button Gwinnet," repeats Hawkeye, and there's no denying the laughter in blue eyes, though he's playing it straight as he goes on, "Didn't you know at least five Buttons in high school, Just Angela?"
Hawkeye bursts out laughing. It isn't quite the raucous, knee-slapping, uncontrollable, squawking peals of laughter that have become infamous throughout the 4077th, but he's definitely cracking up.
"Well-played, madam," he says, still chuckling. "Well-played. I find myself both amused and outclassed."
One: a martini, dry like the Sahara. Maybe two.
Two: a comfortable chair by the fireplace.
Three: a completely incomprehensible medical reference journal from the infirmary library, written in a language that Hawkeye certainly can't read, but that seems to contain the finer points of werewolf anatomy.
Four: throwing peanuts at anyone who looks like they're even thinking of getting into a duel, honorable or not.
Number five, however, is entirely open, and, at the moment, involves a glance up from his seat to spot the nearby woman with the sketchpad. A pause, and then one side of his mouth lifts and he says, "My left profile's the better one." He tilts his head to that side, helpfully; a man in a red kimono and a lei over army greens.
Reply
"You know, it really is," she says.
[OOC: Sorry! I didn't see this before I went to bed last night. But I'm about this evening, and if slowtime's good for you, I'd love to see what these two make of each other.]
Reply
'At ease' doesn't mean that that smile has let up, though.
"I'd offer to buy you a drink to celebrate your eye for aesthetics, but I see you're already a step ahead of me." (You know, with the glass of wine already in hand.)
[OOC: Not a problem! I live on slowtime.]
Reply
"Angela Montenegro," she supplies.
She nods towards the journal. "Interesting reading?"
Reply
With the journal held open in in Angela's direction, Hawkeye flips to show her a random page, which just so happens to have a large, full-color anatomical diagram of something that looks like a wolf-man.
Reply
Hey, when you've seen a human being reduced to goo by Quik-E-Plumber and bleach, you're kind of hard to faze.
"Nice to meet you, Hawkeye."
Reply
Reply
"Though if that's the case, maybe you should ask Bar for the journal in translation.
"So you're a doctor?"
Reply
He recovers quickly. "Dr. Yankee Doodle himself," he confirms cheekily. "The translating's a good idea." He leans back comfortably, resting his ankle on his knee. "I ought to try having those occasionally; I hear they do wonders for your health."
Reply
"Dr. Yankee Doodle?"
She's not casting stones. Her middle name is Pearly-Gates.
But . . .
Reply
"Dr. Pierce," he corrects, cheerfully. "Dr. Benjamin Franklin Pierce, if you want to be really honest about it and keep the patriotism theme going."
Reply
Actual signer of the Declaration of Independence. Really.
"Well, I'm just Angela."
Reply
Reply
Perfectly straight face.
Reply
"Well-played, madam," he says, still chuckling. "Well-played. I find myself both amused and outclassed."
Reply
"Can I ask when and where you're from?"
Reply
Leave a comment