goodweather | IC INBOX ( SAIL )

"Like a human ecg machine. You ever think about going into nursing?" he jokes lightly, fussing through the cupboards for some seasonings. Mostly dried herbs- he keeps meaning to plant some basil in the windowsil, but he's kept the curtain that faces Mulcahy's apartment tightly shut since the argument.

"Must be nice. You'd never get lonely, even all the way out there. I missed that buzz of people going about their day so much before I got here. Y'know- back in Boston every now and again, one of the places I lived, you'd hear people coming home from the bar. Mostly just falling over themselves, but every now and again you'd hear someone singing. It was nice when I couldn't sleep. Not nice when it woke me up, though."

"Yeah? Do you like singing?" he asks, as he fetches the sausages. Not frozen, just cooled, so he's pretty sure he can just get to chopping. Phil grabs another cutting board from where it's leaning against the counter wall and another knife.

"I don't remember if you've told me if you're much of a musician, but I play piano. I've gone through a lot of the classical and jazz repertoire, plus a few others here and there. I picked it up while I was an adult. Needed some kind of long-term hobby."

"Is the pope Catholic?" he counters, posting up to watch Phil cook after he finishes retrieving everything.

"Only recreationally, nothing lofty, just songs I like. Whatever's on the radio and a couple of musical numbers here and there. You perform much? I'd do just about anything for a decent jazz standard. Or a half decent one. Quarter decent is my limit though, I won't go any lower and that's my final offer."

Stoves get lit, pots get boiled, things put in pans, et cetera.

“Eh. I used to perform a lot, and I wouldn’t mind if I did again, but these days I mostly just play for myself at home. Weather’s my main job. Although I’ve been thinking about adding a little music segment on the radio show on late nights once a week, but, uh, we’d need a bigger studio first. And a piano.”

He hums thoughtfully over the stove. “I don’t have any music books from home here, so, no promises on the decency, but maybe we’ll go to Empty Pockets some time. I’ll play something for you.”

"Right- yeah, I was going to ask how wrangling those rain vampires was going. Y'know I figure the weather is a hard enough job when there aren't lives at stake," he jokes, cracking into a toothy smile.

Cooking things continue to happen look at em go they're hitting all the right combos in this minigame.

"Careful, people will talk. Not about us, about you risking life and limb to play on a killer piano. Did they ever manage to get rid of that thing, do you know?"

That joke cracks a laugh out of Phil.

"Hm? Oh, pshaw," he says with a dismissive wave. "Empty Pockets got a new piano a while ago. That big girl was our Yamaha, she came over from the prison ship. I used to play on her and feed her all the time back when. So did Dimitri. It was easier when there were platters of free sushi." Sigh. Now he either has to get groceries for her from the butcher or go hunting. So far, he's only done the former.

"She's moved in with us at the farmhouse, so Pockets is safe once more. Don't show up at the house uninvited, though."

"Not unless I want to get acquainted with her A-sharp teeth," he grins, pleased with himself.

"I want to take a moment to recognize a sentence that'll never get said again, but does your killer piano have organs?" buddum tish, "Y'know- is she an animal or just animated?"

The wisecracks really are nonstop with him. Phil dignifies them with a quiet snort.

“Animated but with carnivorous habits. She’s just a regular piano inside. I have no idea what happens to the stuff we throw in.”

As he’s plating things, “She’s a fan of Schubert though, and Brubeck. She nips me less when I play those. I also used to have this book—it’d show different pieces every time you opened it unless you put a bookmark in it. It was a nice way to get new repertoire in a prison. I had a hell of a time copying down my favorites by hand, though.”

Soon enough, he’s holding two plates of some honestly pretty dang good-looking pasta. Someone really knows how to cook. “Vóila, the spaghetti of our labor.” He gestures with his head towards the kitchen table. “Let’s go sit down.”

"Not bad for just noodling," Hawk offers, going to retrieve salt and ketchup before remembering that this is food made by a real human and not by committee. So instead he brings the cutlery- and again, despite the disarray of the apartment, his eating utensils are very clean.

"Ah, Schubert," Hawk says, which really says it all, "but uh- Brubeck? I'm not familiar."

Didn't found his quartet until '51.

"Wait- no, don't tell me, play some for me when we go to Empty Pockets. I'd hate to open all my presents early. Gotta leave something for next time- I don't want you thinking I'll just listen to your composers all on the first date, even if you did make me dinner."

“Date,” he repeats as he’s setting things down and trots back to the kitchen for a corkscrew. “So is this really—are you being facetious, or—”

He cuts himself off with a soft snort. “I just, uh, don’t really know what to expect from you after you ran off from the hot springs like that.”

Hawkeye magnetizes him, with his sly little charming looks and his easy quips and a heart the size of Manhattan, but sometimes Phil finds him nerve-wracking in a way he can’t quite pin down. Maybe it’s how energetic the man is. Maybe it’s how he’s unguarded yet evasive, or the relentlessness of his intellect, and that Phil is afraid he can’t keep up. He’s surprising, in a word.

Edited 2024-09-03 19:38 (UTC)

"Oh that- that was just because I'm a wildcard. I might climb out the window in a minute, whom as I am to the ineffable exhortations of my soul," he jokes, trying to regain some dignity from the hot springs incident. It won't work, but it's an attempt.

He almost continues the gag, but. Hawk glances over to the rest of the apartment and thinks about the state he and it were in when Phil showed up. Phil has an evenness to him such that it was impossible not to feel better, a kind of... grounding normalcy. Even as the situation about Henry remains, nuts as that is, he feels like he could at least take a swing at making this a date.

But Phil has already proven himself to be unimpressed by Hawk's lechery and lines. There's every chance he could ruin it like he's ruined things with Radar and Mulcahy.

His puckish mischief dims, just a little.

"Look- I think you're great, I hope I haven't made a mystery out of that. And I appreciate you making me dinner too- there's nice and then there's this, right? But uh-" he pokes at the spaghetti, sniffing at it. Ah, rich and luscious, the slightly meaty quality of cooked tomatoes, clinging desperately to an al dente noodle. Where was he? Oh, right.

"Let me sort my head out first. I know this is a bad look for me, but after that? You're gorgeous and I want to take you out. That's all. Nothing more complicated, honest. No lines, no come-ons, no pressure, I just want to buy you dinner and take you out dancing."

There's a complicated little tangle in his chest that Hawkeye's words knock on, but... a date doesn't have to be a commitment. That's what him and Rita turned into, but dates can be just for fun, and Hawk doesn't exactly seem like the date-to-marry type. Hell, God knows Phil wasn't for ages. So.

"Alright." Somewhere in the back of his head, a flowery little voice niggles at him to let himself let go a little. "Sure. Take me out some time, when you're feeling better."

It's nice that he's really, really trying to make a good impression. He wonders if he treats everybody this way or just the people he's into.

He wanders back to the table with two glasses, pouring for them both after he pops the cork. "We could dance for a little tonight too, if you want. Could help."

It's almost a relief more than anything, that Hawk hasn't lost his ability to be charming in his time here. Still his characteristic cutting to the chase, just... a little more gentle, not batting the idea around so much. Not so evasive. Like approaching a horse, hand out and careful, making sure it sees you coming.

He thinks about their time at the fair and how eager he was to make Phil laugh, but here it's... maybe it's just the passing of time and the circumstances, but Phil went more than out of his way to cheer Hawk up. Maybe that was a miscalculation, that Phil is just more reserved than the people Hawk's known in the army, nearly every one of them throwing themselves out there knowing that tomorrow there could be none of them left. Dignified, even. Kind, and gentle, and patient. The sort of man that Hawk would want to be around even if Phil had said no, if he'd misread the invitation.

Hawk beams around his mouthful of genuinely really delicious spaghetti. He goes to talk, then remembers it's still not the 4077 and he should pretend like he has table manners and isn't a pig at a trough. When he's finished his mouthful-

"Oh yeah? Kicking some tires before you take me for a test drive?" he reaches for the glass of wine, "sure, only if you want to be impressed. I'm a matched set, magic feet and fingers."

Hawkeye hasn't spat it out in disgust or made faces yet, so he's assuming the food is a success. He scoops up some while Hawkeye chews; not better than Darcy's, but damn good if he does say so himself. There's pride in that. He hopes he's at least a little impressed.

Phil hums. "Then you can test your mettle, hotshot. I've had a lot of practice. But here, c'mon. Let's have dinner first."

He reaches for his own glass, lifting it. "Shall we drink to something?"

Hawk lifts it in turn, thinking about it for a moment.

"Well, I've already been drinking to Henry, so let's not do that again. To your great cooking and better friendship?"

He hums thoughtfully for a moment.

“To great food and better friendship.” There, now it’s for both of them. Their glasses clink and the toast is made. Ah, this is a good red. Even in a foreign world he’s still got it.

“Okay! Let’s have dinner before it gets cold.” And if Hawk has nothing more to add, he’s tucking in.

"I do mean it," Hawk adds as he continues to eat, "you did a kind thing for me, P.A., not everyone would be willing to come over and scrape a guy off the floor like a piece of gum, y'know?"

Actually decent wine, what a treat and what an oddity. He's expecting it to taste like gin.

"You're a good man, Phil."

Phil stalls for a moment. He looks up at Hawkeye, seeming to search for for something. Whatever it is, he doesn’t find it, and he looks back down at his plate.

“I’m just making up for lost time, that’s all. Ten years ago and remembering my coworker’s names would’ve been like pulling teeth.”

Hawk offers a hand across the table.

"You want to cut yourself as much of a break as you give everyone else? I'm not having dinner with Phil from ten years ago. My time machine is still in for it's 25,000 years service."

He smiles wanly. Now's maybe not the time to get into his complexes about being a 'good person,' especially to someone who he believes really is and who he also just had to scrape off of the floor like a piece of gum. So.

"I'm working on it," Phil concedes, taking Hawkeye's hand in his. Don't mind how he holds onto it a little too firmly to not make it feel like an apology.

The camera lingers on their hands clasped, and then the shot shifts, and their hands are clasped in a dance, which is really more like a slow shuffling close together. Not quite as cheek to cheek as Hawk usually tries to get, he's trying to be good and not scare Phil off. But it's close all the same. A nice level of intimacy. Hawk hums quietly as they turn about the living room. It's probably just the distraction, but being close to someone- Phil particularly- makes him feel the best he has since he got the news.

There’s a peace in this. Whatever tumult tossed them out of their lives into this place, there is peace here. He’s danced with people before; there was Maeve, and Ossie before that, and even further back there was Henry, the two of them deciding to show off in a little number for an entire restaurant of people. And before him was Rita, and before her was so many Punxsutawney people.

This is feels more like those earliest ones. No madness and no magic and no desperation choking everything he does. Just two people in a small town, dancing.

Phil has seen too much, he knows. He’s half bird. He’ll never be normal again. But Hawkeye, who leaps between ideas and emotions like locusts in a field, makes him feel sane. He values that far more than he values his safety.

“Anyone ever tell you that you have a really nice baritone?” he hums when Hawk reaches the song’s end. His Mantle is cool and gentle, a fine summer evening's wind. “I could probably listen to you sing all day.”

Edited 2024-09-12 18:36 (UTC)

"They have, but I like hearing it from you," Hawk grins, content in his aimless shuffling.

Maybe he's just starting to get used to all of this, starting to pick up the beat and ease into the dance, but not everything that's strange here has been awful. Phil especially- it's odd how a guy who looks like he's half bird on his mother's side can feel like one of the more normal people in town. No crazy bullcrap, just... a dad trying to keep his kid safe and help people while he's doing it.

"Well, your quarter has just run out and this jukebox needs a break. Either you show off that you have a great voice on top of everything else, or we do this next one to the ambient sounds of downtown."

"I'm no singer, but at least being a musician means I've got pitch. Let me think..."

A few steps of shuffling in silence, then: "Oh, I know. You might recognize this one."

Phil hums the musical intro, a soft and romantic lead-up, but he doesn't hum it all through like Hawkeye did. He sings. In French. He's got a gruff and untrained sort of sound, baritenor, just a notch higher than Hawkeye, but his ear for pitch is as on-target as promised.

He'd said he was a good dancer, hadn't he? Both of them did. After a moment's consideration, there's a slight push as Phil moves to slowly circle the room with him, all the while keeping one hand on Hawk's waist and the other clasped with his.

He speaks French.

Evidently more than Hawk does, who very nearly pauses for a moment. Is there, genuinely, anything this guy can't do? It's another sad wistful jazz number, and there's something in the untrained quality of Phil's voice that makes it really feel like he lived it. The same way Ella Fitzgerald always feels like she's really in love with you, or Miles Davis could make it sound like his trumpet was weeping. Phil pushes him into some motion, and Hawk is grateful for it, because otherwise he might stay stuck there all night, Phil's broad hand on his waist, the way it burns through his layers of clothes.

Hawk wants a room full of jazz records to go over with him singing like that. He wants a table a mile long of good food to share with him, he wants to ruin ten sets of sheets rolling around with him. It's lust, yes, undoubtedly, Hawk's restraint the only reason that he's not just burying his face in Phil's chest. But it's longing, too. Longing for that moment like on the ship where he cracked through to him, longing for how gentle he is with his kid, longing for how thoughtful he is, how kind. Hawk wants him not just how he usually lusts after a handsome nurse, it's... what, does he want to be Phil, or does he just want to see more of that? Does he want to be in the room when Phil's firm and calm and wonderful? Does he want more of it for himself? To be the reason he smiles, the one who makes him laugh?

Hawk eases them into a faster foxtrot. This sort of thing, it gets worse when you stew on it. He needs to move. He has to get out of his head.

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