Hawkeye seemed even more boneless than usual, deflated on the bench, still in his red stained scrubs.
Radar usually tried to avoid them post-op, they reminded him too much of the local butcher he hated. Always grinning, stood behind the counter, blood stained white apron and cleaver in hand.
He pictured Hawkeye at the counter. Scalpel instead of cleaver, young limbs in the glass display instead of cuts of cow.
He shook the image from his head, taking a seat next to the red and white tangle.
He barely lifted his head, barely opened his eyes.
"No. Why, are you?" he replied. Almost slurring with the effort, but somehow still managing that tremor of performance he always lined his worrying responses with. As if there's a faint laugh track only he can hear.
Radar listened, wondering if Hawkeye really could hear the canned laughter of a long-dead audience.
He strained, could he hear something? Maybe it was just the tinny echo of clanging surgical tools on flimsy hospital walls.
Although, he couldn't help notice the seemingly imperceptable noise accompanied a familiar feeling in his stomach. The uncomfortable weight that usually preceeded hearing the beat of 'copter blades well before he should be able to.
Maybe the thudding blades that haunted him came from the same place as the laughter. Maybe there's a poor PA guy who lives there too.
Radar shivered, he hoped not. He wouldn't wish that on anyone.
"Why does everyone else laugh when you say stuff like that?"
Hawkeye could never dismiss him when he asked something with that young earnestness only Radar could manage.
He sat up, not quite achieving vertical, but a slumped approximation.
"I don't know Radar, 'spose you're the only one who doesn't. Maybe you hear something they don't."
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