Hawks has slipped back onto his chair in the meantime. Pushed the bottle away from himself in the process, but he’s keeping the still-full shot glass close at hand. Drink in case of emergency. “Bullshit,” he says. “Don’t play coy, it’s unbecoming for a man your age.”
“I don’t want to influence your decision.”
“You don’t want to–” Hawks would ruffle his feathers in sheer irritation if he still had them. “Really? We’re going there?”
There’s only carrots and potatoes left in Mera’s container, roughly chopped and swimming in lukewarm curry. Hawks watches Mera move the remaining pieces around – probably looking for something more interesting.
“Endeavor said yes when I asked last week,” he says at length. There, he’s finally found it: the last bit of eggplant hiding almost forgotten in a corner. “Jeanist too, if it matters. Yesterday.”
Hawks downs the shot.
(Or, the one where Hawks tries to Figure It Out after the war and slowly realises that he doesn't have to do it alone. It's a love story, baby!)