& this
title: for i am far, far away
author: acidquill
disclaimer: don’t own em
fandom: M*A*S*H (tv)
rating: pg
character(s): Hawkeye
word count: 275
notes: completely ignoring "Goodbye, Farewell & Amen" - which I haven’t been able to rewatch in over fifteen years.
Crabapple Cove. The one place he’s dreamed of since this whole stupid war started. Where he’s run away in his dreams a thousand - maybe a million times. Apples in the fall, a fire in the hearth. His dad’s pancakes. Summer nights in the hammock in the backyard, under a sky full of stars that he knows by name. Honest to God grass and air that smells like evergreen instead of dust and the copper-tang of blood.
All he has to do is get on the bus, but he doesn't move. He stands in the middle of the station, duffel slung over his shoulder and the weight of Korea around his neck. The dress uniform that’s always felt too constricting is doing a damn good job keeping a comfortable distance between him and the rest of the world.
He’s gotten a few salutes, a few more stares. Mostly, people have ignored him. Walked by him like he’s a drab green lamp post. These people, he’s patched up their sons, or sent them home in body bags. And not a one of them knows who he is.
The people who understand him best, the ones who know belly-deep what it means to duck bullets and live up to your elbows in too many wounded and not enough time. BJ and Margaret and the whole damn 4077 who’ve seen him at his true worst, and helped him come out the other side. They are the people that matter and none of them are here.
He stands in this crummy little bus station, alone in a way he hasn’t been in years, and realises he’s afraid to go home.
- end
author: acidquill
disclaimer: don’t own em
fandom: M*A*S*H (tv)
rating: pg
character(s): Hawkeye
word count: 275
notes: completely ignoring "Goodbye, Farewell & Amen" - which I haven’t been able to rewatch in over fifteen years.
Crabapple Cove. The one place he’s dreamed of since this whole stupid war started. Where he’s run away in his dreams a thousand - maybe a million times. Apples in the fall, a fire in the hearth. His dad’s pancakes. Summer nights in the hammock in the backyard, under a sky full of stars that he knows by name. Honest to God grass and air that smells like evergreen instead of dust and the copper-tang of blood.
All he has to do is get on the bus, but he doesn't move. He stands in the middle of the station, duffel slung over his shoulder and the weight of Korea around his neck. The dress uniform that’s always felt too constricting is doing a damn good job keeping a comfortable distance between him and the rest of the world.
He’s gotten a few salutes, a few more stares. Mostly, people have ignored him. Walked by him like he’s a drab green lamp post. These people, he’s patched up their sons, or sent them home in body bags. And not a one of them knows who he is.
The people who understand him best, the ones who know belly-deep what it means to duck bullets and live up to your elbows in too many wounded and not enough time. BJ and Margaret and the whole damn 4077 who’ve seen him at his true worst, and helped him come out the other side. They are the people that matter and none of them are here.
He stands in this crummy little bus station, alone in a way he hasn’t been in years, and realises he’s afraid to go home.
- end