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Summary
“Okay, well…just start chanting an exorcism if you want me to stop.”
Hawkeye’s words shake, so do his hands. His fingers are trembling at the buckle of Francis’s belt and all of his well-worn braggadocio is absent from the thready whisper of his voice. Before he knows what he’s doing Francis is laying a hand on Hawkeye's forehead as though in benediction, as though in absolution.
