#4o77.

THE "WE’RE ALL STILL EMO AF LYRIC" STARTERS

@4o77: "I got the point that i should leave you alone, but we both know that i’m not that strong."

"You’re persistent."

The Terminator—going by Dutch for the sake of the mission—complains, his tone hovering between neutral and annoyed. He doesn’t look at Hawkeye while he speaks; he just keeps scanning the perimeter of the camp with machine-like precision,  occasionally shifting his gaze to unimportant things so that the “machine” part isn’t so obvious.

"You’ve got wounded to poke, jokes to recycle, a war to complain about--so why me?"

He finally turns to the surgeon, narrowing his eyes slightly, just enough so that it reads as irritation. Hawkeye has been circling him since the moment he stepped into camp, tugging at the seams of his story with endless commentary and sideways questions. It’s making the act harder to maintain. Being Dutch means restraint, with fewer calculations and more unpredictability. That alone makes Hawkeye’s questioning dangerous.

@4o77

The sounds coming from camp’s makeshift bar a couple of tents over have begun to diminish with their usual weary cadence: laughter fading, metal cups clinking with less vigor, the crunch of boots on dirt as the soldiers stumble back to whatever passes for peace.

Dutch had gone to bed long before the final toast. Not because he needed to rest, but because the ritual demanded it. Humans sleep. So he lied down, arms crossed over his chest, his body going into energy-saving mode. However, his mind remained alert, silently processing every heartbeat, every footstep, every drop in temperature.

Most nights, it’s unnecessary. The 4077th, as chaotic as it is, respects boundaries. Nobody bothers Dutch.

But tonight is different.

There’s movement outside his tent—unusual, offbeat, and uncoordinated. Something knocks over a bucket, followed by a mumbled curse. Dutch’s eyes snap open, sensors adjusting in milliseconds. In a single, fluid motion, he sits up, sheet rolling to his waist, forgotten. The gun under his pillow is already in hand, pointed at the entrance in perfect, lethal alignment.

Then the flap creaks and opens, and…

"Oh. It’s just you."

The tension drains from the machine’s shoulders as his systems confirm what his eyes already know: Hawkeye. Not an enemy. Not a stranger. Just… A disheveled man, uneven on his feet, trailing the bar’s final notes with a fresh cloud of alcohol that hits the air like a memory.

Dutch lowers the weapon, but doesn’t put it away. He’s learned better than that.

"What are you doing here? Lost your way over to your tent?"

TUMBLR TEXT POST PROMPTS

@4o77: "I’m not interested in being polite or heterosexual."

"Well, neither is a requirement to save lives--"