Soft, very soft, is an "oh, Hawkeye," lost in the noise of Mulcahy's bustle as he goes out of the kitchen for something. Padding back in, a blanket comes to settle over Hawk's shoulders; when the kettle boils, tea is set in front of him, and at least this Mulcahy has the benefit of knowing how he likes it.
And... then what? Does he hover awkwardly in the kitchen while Hawk breaks down in front of him? He feels like he owes the man his privacy. But this is Hawkeye. Does he leave? He would've embrace him without a second thought, but he's never been in the business of trying to get too close to those who are furious with him. That's only ever given him yelling and violence.
But Hawk doesn't do that.
He wants to do something. Muting himself the way he is, the terror that the thought gives him is blessedly ignorable. He brings his hand up; it hovers; hovers; pulls back slightly; and very lightly, he places it on top of one of Hawkeye's.
no subject
And... then what? Does he hover awkwardly in the kitchen while Hawk breaks down in front of him? He feels like he owes the man his privacy. But this is Hawkeye. Does he leave? He would've embrace him without a second thought, but he's never been in the business of trying to get too close to those who are furious with him. That's only ever given him yelling and violence.
But Hawk doesn't do that.
He wants to do something. Muting himself the way he is, the terror that the thought gives him is blessedly ignorable. He brings his hand up; it hovers; hovers; pulls back slightly; and very lightly, he places it on top of one of Hawkeye's.