quietplacelogs | II. (open) i'm gonna fight with myself til i'm bleeding

II. (open) i'm gonna fight with myself til i'm bleeding

featuring: hotdog castle & everyone (open to new arrivals too!!)
what's happening? frank feeding everyone venison dogs; frank fighting everyone; introlog spillover stuff + whatever else you want hmu
day: 11th nighttime (after all new arrivals are out and about/getting settled)
content warnings: ground meat, being a good neighbor, boyfights
notes: hit me up on PM or plurk

hotdoge if you want anything else! happy to oblige

A. have you ever had a hot dog cooked by a guy named hotdog? this is going on instastories.

[ the time has come for frank to probably show all you losers what a hot dog is. for posterity or some such. he's been curing deer meat from a recent hunting trip with aloy and after their housemate reigen had soundproofed house six's kitchen, well. it seemed as good a time as any to put his plan in motion. not to mention he's in a good mood for once after encountering his best friend among the new arrivals.

early in the evening, frank will be piping his mixture into homemade casings with the doors to the back deck wide open for anyone to come pester him. and then later on of course he will be cooking them up with mustard he made and onions he found. he will also chop up pickles from the natives for anyone who gets down like that. none of y'all better ever ask him what a hot dog is ever again!!!

if you come in while he's cooking expect to be put to work, and did i mention he'll be downing rosé the whole time? e n j o y.

note: the kitchen is only soundproof when all the doors are closed. he will tell everyone on arrival this, so while he's cooking the doors will be shut but all other times feel free to mingle!! ]

B. the rules of fight club are bring snacks and make sure frank castle stays in bruises. tia for your contribution.

[ after posting up this little gem, frank has been steadily gathering members for his and mike's "club." his garage is a makeshift boxing arena and open for all any time they want to blow off steam or learn some new skills from punching bag himself. or from whoever else is lingering around. feel free to match yourselves and have a fight without him too, he'll ref!

the only rules of fight club are: bring snacks, agree with your partner on tactics: weapons/no weapons, fists only/every man for himself etc etc. AND when one person taps out or doesn't get up the match is over. the garage is approximately 80% soundproof. every fighter must wear wraps on their hands to muffle sound and agree not to shout or make loud noises, even in pain. soft-volume trash talking is allowed and perhaps even encouraged... ]

C. write your own starter or ping me for one!

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[The hooch hound is successful yet again-- he really figured he wouldn't stop leaning on alcohol straight after being shipped home, anyway. And anyway, he isn't even home so it isn't like he's breaking some unspoken promise to Human Decency. He takes the plate and cup with all the grace of a vagabond, on the brink of thin and gaunt to counter the cook's sturdy solid build, and

he lights up. His eyes light up, the miserable slouch is straightened just enough, and an old, warm, familiar smile wants to break out on his face.

This stuff could all very easily be poison or whatnot but watch as he can't care to... care. The smile's morphed into a smirk (Hawk is a hell of a transparent jackass when the mood's just right) and before he takes a step back after accepting the gifts he'll do what's culturally appropriate: roll his shoulders back, cock his hips with a remnant of subtlety, and blow the fella a kiss.

Guy, you're missing the apron but that's okay.]

[ frank "laughs," though not a villain laugh at all. it's really just a silent bemused breath and the slightest jump of his shoulders. he inclines his head as if to say I try but really he doesn't. he just feels responsible in some way for the people here. the children especially, but having been here several weeks and now meeting all of the new arrivals; frank wants to take care of them too.

he gestures for hawkeye to have a seat in the kitchen if he likes to eat, carting the wine bottle and his own cup over so they can share an amicable drink. it's been too long since he just did something simple, like this cookout. it's hard not to remember what this was like once. his former married life of marital bliss in between deployments. ]

[His smirk falls into an easy (if tired-- good God, it's been a long day) smile. He raises his brows suggestively- too over-the-top to mean anything, and he follows Frank's line of sight to make his way to the kitchen.

A kitchen.

He's going to eat a meal in a kitchen and as he sits down his gaze finds itself embarrassingly trained on the wine bottle again. His heart rate spiked somewhere along the line. Instinct has him open his mouth to-- close it again, and he shrugs a response and suddenly it's kinda weird to be wined and dined by a strange man.

And yet not all.

Pierce lifts the cup- cheers- and down it goes. The hotdogs won't sit long-- don't worry. He didn't know he was starved until just now.]

Edited 2018-02-20 22:52 (UTC)

[ he takes a long drink from his cup and just watches the other man, slotting his elbows onto the table. he likes caring for other people this way: cooking for them and not just nourishing their bodies but perhaps their souls too. frank castle is a surprisingly sentimental man when it comes down to it. so while his expression isn't open nor friendly, especially with ugly bruises marring his face, he seems to be exactly where he wants to be at this moment.

once hawkeye has started on the food, he'll become more intent, awaiting the man's verdict. ]

[The good thing about those bruises is that no one's brains are going to spill out because of them, and Hawkeye isn't about to get his own head kicked in by pressing his luck and offering a kiss to make them better. This isn't the Army; he can't just flirt his way through every problem. He has enough awareness to know that would be a danger he's not currently interested in courting. He's feeling the small adrenaline of being watched, anyway. And uh. It's enough to keep him sober, keep him in line.

"Sober", so to speak. He's aiming for a hefty nightcap.

He sniffs the food (habit), trusts the meat isn't rotten, and takes a bite. And he moa-- suppresses a moan, rolls his eyes upward the slightest bit and

"Oh my God" is pretty easy to lipread, no? If that fails, the OK sign is still universally American, right? Because Frank's getting both and "Dinner is divine, darling." --habits die hard what can ya do.]

[ frank is amused. this guy is a complete trip. after teaching so many people here the OK symbol, it's comforting to have it flashed at him and he doesn't hesitate to return it. his soft smile could almost look like a grimace among the wreck his face has become, but he seems no worse for it. and he's grateful too that hawkeye seems less concerned with it than what's before him. he gets the "oh my god" instantly, of course, but the second one throws him for a loop and frank wrinkles his nose. it's hard not to laugh, but he's used to it, holding it in even while the corners of his lips twitch up tellingly. ]

You're welcome. [ frank signs it and mouths it both so that hawkeye might start learning the native language. he hasn't seen the other man's device once, and he isn't keen to get his out either. ]

[Meanwhile, it's an entirely different animal for Hawkeye to keep his trap shut after he's spurred on by Frank's amusement. He focuses almost exclusively on the taste of the food and swallowing, following it up with a hurried drink of more wine (this is the sissy shit, isn't it? it's sweeter than anything he can remember, but he can't say he's complaining). Anything to keep from adding unnecessary kindling to the bubble of short laughter that wants to be let out.

God, this really isn't fair and Hawkeye waves a hand dismissively between them-- something like 'sorry, sorry' and he ducks his head in a quick bout of embarrassment.

Stay quiet, be quiet, don't... be an ass. He can do that.

He's also suddenly sore that he's being expected to learn something, because isn't that just a quick and friendly dose of reality. He frowns, not terribly off-put and more in confusion, and raises a brow as he digs in for more chow.

Sorry, what? He hadn't been paying attention.]

[ his frame tenses, wondering if he'll have to do something to shut this guy up. the houses are safer than the grounds, but even with the soundproofing in the kitchen (not fully effective in the least with the doors to the deck held wide open as they are) he wouldn't risk endangering children and guests still milling about, nor his housemates. as seldom as he actually sees the most of them. but then hawkeye is containing himself and frank is satisfied, nodding once to denote forgiveness and understanding.

ignoring frank's sign doesn't put him off either, taking another long pull from his cup like it's something harder. he glances back around his little impromptu party before leveling his gaze at the other man once more. maybe it's enough, sharing something to be appreciated. he's still sitting against the flat back of the chair with startlingly good posture, but something in his frame relaxes minutely then, slowly letting go until he's fully content to sit here for the duration of hawkeye's meal. ]

[This is stupid. Has he mentioned that?

The food is beyond great, which, when you've spent the past lifetime eating WWII surplus isn't the universe's greatest praise but the intent is there. He's scarfed down the last of the sausage, lazily picks at the larger crumbs on his plate, and still tries to not quite meet Frank's gaze. He lost most of his self awareness to the war and being watched while he eats and fidgets doesn't do much to or for him.

But being confronted with something so inane as not being able to laugh (he is going to die), well... Hawkeye mirrors Frank. Loudly (body language can be loud, too). He reclines in the chair and his own posture is shit but he almost even tries to correct it. He has his blue eyes meet and hold the other guy's in a challenge (s.o.b. could knock him out cold with a finger jab, probably).

His right hand comes up and Hawkeye gestures for... yapping. Yap, yap, yap- blah, blah-- you know the one. Turns the hand to point at himself, and lowers it just so he can take a swig of rosé. He can't be the world's best kept secret but he'd been compelled to honesty, alright?

Blame the wine.]

[ as stupid as it may or may not be, frank had taken to silence like a duck to water. he takes comfort in the simplicity of his interactions here, and perhaps more importantly not ever having to share more than he'd like to. though a few had attempted to force his hand. he hasn't even told anyone his name, except for the children. he's weak to their wide eyes and nervous smiles, and he wants to be someone they can trust -- a protectorate, even for the ones who don't need him.

the challenge of a gaze doesn't even register for a guy who eats intense eye contact for breakfast (lunch and dinner too, when he's peckish.) and even before hawkeye admits to being a liability, frank could have guessed, everything about the man spelling running commentary from the moment he walked in. the marine rolls his eyes -- it's good natured enough so long as hawkeye can go on behaving.

he mouths No Shit and silently pours himself another glass with precision before downing half of it in one go. ]

[Well now he's offended and he didn't even know he was capable of that anymore. Get called a son of a bitch enough times and get threatened with execution on the regular and you'd think a man would grow some tough skin but

how dare you, sir.

Hawk's never been a man for posh company or practice but he'll let his mouth hang slack in shock at this... barbarism. Utter, shameless lack of...

He'll... gently tap one side of his own cup. Blink doeish eyes up at Mr Beefcake over there.

Refill the cup or _______. Because this is how we trade with the black market, apparently.]

[ frank skips over the threat and leans forward to fill hawkeye's cup, though nothing was preventing him from filling it himself this whole time. what can he say? he's in host mode. the googly eyes are well-received though, and once he sets the bottle back down and lifts his cup back up he's raising it to the other. in lieu of an actual introduction, he supposes this is a beginning of sorts. he already feels as though the other man might be more trouble than he's worth, but he'd been wrong before; and whether he is or he isn't it's still more than enough of a reason to keep an eye on him.

downing the rest of his wine unceremoniously. he lifts his hands to try some charades. he points down. here. then holds up six fingers. this is house six. then he points to hawkeye and lifts his eyebrows expectantly. where do u live motherfucker? ]

Edited (syntax and self-doubt) 2018-02-22 17:04 (UTC)

[He's a man accustomed to easy living, sorry. The long forgotten smirk slides its way back to his face and despite how lifeless and dreary everything is, Hawkeye thinks...he feels okay. Sure, his heart's going to give out from running a mile a minute eventually but in the meantime

getting drunk is welcome. (When isn't it?)

He sips and peers curiously at his comrade. Ah-- the realization is a little slow to come, but then Hawkeye nods. House Six. Sure. He's not sure he exactly counted which was which when he was out strolling and surveying his new prison but

but

then Frank is pointing at him and doing that thing with his brows and Hawkeye knows he's supposed to fucking keep it together but it's like every stupid part of him (of which there are plenty) screams to--

he sits straight, eyes wide in surprise, puffs his chest in slight indignation, brings that right hand up to himself once more to clutch at the fabric right below his collar. How dare you, sir!

"I'm not that easy" he proclaims, all the while slinking forward so his elbows rest on the table and the whole of him kinda melts into the gesture and he'd be purring, if he could. Because he has no brains and he's not even drunk but whatever. "Showing you to my room on a first date, I'm not that kind of a gal."]

[ it's like some bizarre and elaborate performance art piece and frank finds himself transfixed. he's back to looking hopelessly bemused, leaning forward slightly to try and discern the other man's meaning, if there is one. he thinks he gets the gist, though most of the words pass him by, and his lips are twitching up, up; and until they curve enough to be called a smile, maybe even on into a grin. he shows a few teeth, which is a fair sight more than most get from frank castle around here.

finally, he can't take it anymore, and he reaches into his jumpsuit pocket to retrieve his ever loathsome device. it's not so bad really -- in the grand scheme of things. he's definitely had to do worse things to communicate in his life. but it's just so... millennial and weird. it makes him feel like he's misunderstanding and being misunderstood almost all of the time which puts him even more on edge than his factory default settings already do.

he types up a quick message and leans further across the table so hawkeye can read his screen. ] you should have your own comedy act

[Oh, Christ

for a moment there he'd thought the jackass was going to pull a piece on him. Just for a moment, a blink-and-miss-it jump of Hawkeye's hide as he cringes and... finds himself continuing to cringe, openly, at the sight of that gadget. Even if it is nice to know the man wants to laugh. He lifts himself enough to read over the words on the screen, mischief bleeding through the way he takes his turn to roll his eyes.

It's a bit of a spectacle to watch Hawkeye dig his own thingy out. He's got a careful, almost dainty hold of it. He somehow manages to get the screen entirely black (sleep), then flashing on again, and then he's working to remember which button leads to... and then he finds it (the fumbling lasts four seconds at most), a screen he'd explored and learned he could type his response into.

It isn't the same as Frank's, not exactly, but it looked something like:

from: md

to: ( public )

message:]

Hawkeye Pierce
i'll be here all week

[Don't worry, he's not dumb enough to press SEND before he flashes his phone to Frank. Howdy.]

[ he catches the look, but it's too late, something familiar and almost scared in his own expression for a moment. he misses guns, and grenades and just all manner of loud artillery. he doesn't miss talking, but he misses making noise. especially violent noise. that would've put a fucking end to kilgrave real fast.

attempting to shake himself out of the weird reverie he'd fallen into, frank squints to read the message, then shakes his head fondly. what a guy what a guy. username "md" huh? he's filing that one away. then he leans back in his seat again to text hawkeye directly just to show him how the syncing feature works so they don't have to lean across the table. apparently that whole act I warmed him up to not having to pull teeth to talk this way. his username comes over predictably as "hotdog." ]

and a lot longer than that probably [ his smile slips a little and he shrugs a shoulder. ] i've been here 4 weeks

[It's like playing telephone, back when he was a kid and not everybody had one. Pretend you're miles away from your buddy who's standing a few feet away, whisper into the can, and watch the magic of message relay at work. Hawkeye's brows stay furrowed.

He'll learn this the same way he learned to operate the radio. And, just like then, he already knows he'll prefer not to. He'll muck something up, because some things are prime for a mucking. Self fulfilling prophecy? The hell izzat?

He drinks his wine.]

you should check your other line I think freud is trying to reach you

[Because clearly that's the important thing here.]

[ frank may have grown up in a different era, but it was still a world before proper cellphones. he still remembers talking into cans and learning morse code long before he ever needed to. he stares at the screen of his device a second too long, shooting hawkeye a look. is he offended or just pretending? he's such a drama queen it would be impossible to parse even if he knew the guy past a couple hot dogs and a bottle of wine. though a part of him is just glad someone in this place besides him has jokes. it's refreshing honestly. ]

that's the one who says all boys want to fuck their moms right [ frank shakes his head. they're barely a step into the real conversation phase of their relationship and it's already hideous. this is why he prefers the not talking. ] so what house are you in? [ for really real this time ]

beats me

[Did you get... it...

Gosh darn it, HotDog isn't making it easy to be a straight shooter. Hawkeye flashes a toothy grin that's entirely too put-on and it's a relief to have it drop from his face a moment later. He reaches for his cup, remembers it's empty, and shoots Frank a look right back as he empties the last of the bottle for himself. See-- he needs to keep the theatrics or else he might actually look disappointed.

Just like he's all too transparent, wanting to sigh and unable to make it heard. Hawkeye is the kind of man who can't be serious without being exhausted, utterly and magnificently, as if both things were exclusive to one another. Fine. He'll be serious.]

Two doors that way [Gesturing to wherever "that way" is. House Four.]

i missed camping out under the stars and shouldn't be hard to miss. I will either be in a coma or attempting to put myself in one.

Holler if you ever need anything.

[ he bites his lip against another grin. this guy, this guy right here. frank doesn't protest or move to stop him when he empties the bottle, between this and the weird kool-aid shit he's had enough of whatever to feel good. thus the party. he nods at the admission, filing that away too. house 4 deck; hawkeye, m.d. he remembers everything always, even when it seems like he's paying no attention. which is most of the time, marines are fine-tuned in the art of playing dumb (if they aren't actually, anyway.) ]

you too

just don't actually holler [ he flashes another OK sign with a smile. ]

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II. (open) i'm gonna fight with myself til i'm bleeding

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