& when
title: Unrighteous
author: acidquill
disclaimer: don’t own em
fandom: M*A*S*H (tv)
rating: teen
warnings: war imagery, blood, child death (mentioned)
word count: 617
notes: a mininano ‘14 project i finally hauled out to finish. inspired by the most unlikely of duos - the primitive quartet & five finger death punch. set vaguely in the last season but pre Goodbye, Farewell & Amen.
His dreams are different here. They grow into new shapes the longer he stays. Take up more space in his head than he’s used to. He dreams in color instead of black and white and the details stay with him even after he opens his eyes.
His dreams are no longer forgettable. They are not quiet or convenient or kind.
Some nights he walks through an empty field. His boots are gone; his feet are cold. He wants to go home but he can’t go by himself. Someone’s missing. He doesn’t remember the way back without them.
He calls and calls, but no one ever comes. He can’t decide if it’s because the people he’s searching for have died, or if they were ever there at all. When he wakes up, he still doesn’t know.
He kneels in the mud, a child in his arms and a soldier standing over them both. He begs for a little water. Just a cup, please. The soldier never speaks. Never turns around. The littleboylittlegirlblondebluedarkeyesblackhair cries for him in Korean and cries for him in English. He tips back his head to catch the rain and gets nothing but a mouthful of blood.
The baby stops crying. The baby is dead. There’s blood in his eyes, on his hands. The taste won’t leave his mouth.
He tries to sleep on his stomach. His pillow is thick with mildew, sweat, and bitter army soap when he bites down to muffle the screaming. He strips out of his shirt, wraps himself in the trusty purple bathrobe. Ties the belt a little tighter and ignores the way his hands shake.
Most times he’s lucky and doesn’t wake up anyone else. Most times he wants to laugh at thinking there’s anything lucky about this.
He chases a shadow in army drab through the streets of his hometown. Past dark houses with families whose names roll off his tongue as easily as his own. The shadow (a man, he thinks. It has to be a man. He doesn’t know why he’s so certain.) But he can’t catch up, no matter how hard he tries. He’s always two steps too late to grab the hem of a jacket, an arm.
He has to stop. His legs waver and he sits down hard in the middle of an intersection. Over the hiss of his breath he catches his father’s voice wavering through the Lord’s Prayer the way he’s heard it every Sunday since his mother died. Words he longs to hear every minute he’s in Korea, regardless of the pain they carry with them.
He wakes up exhausted and sick. It happens so often no one notices until he passes out in Post-Op. He doesn’t remember falling, only that he hit the ground.
The soldier raises his rifle. He throws himself back, far too late. The bullet never hits. Over him, pushing him down is Radar. Trapper. Henry. BJ. He holds them, gasping, dying, in his lap and asks them why. Why would they jump in front of a gun; he’s not worth it. They have families waiting for them. Children and wives and a mother in Iowa. Henry smiles through bloody teeth.
“But I’ll never make it home, it’s all right Hawkeye.”
The soldier raises his rifle again. He runs toward him, heartbeat thudding in his ears like artillery shells. Steps over bodies and pulls away from the reaching hands of a thousand boys sent to a war to never come home.
He snatches the helmet from the soldier’s head. Army green and blood red.
Pale eyes. Graying around the edges. It’s him. It’s been him all along.
- end
author: acidquill
disclaimer: don’t own em
fandom: M*A*S*H (tv)
rating: teen
warnings: war imagery, blood, child death (mentioned)
word count: 617
notes: a mininano ‘14 project i finally hauled out to finish. inspired by the most unlikely of duos - the primitive quartet & five finger death punch. set vaguely in the last season but pre Goodbye, Farewell & Amen.
His dreams are different here. They grow into new shapes the longer he stays. Take up more space in his head than he’s used to. He dreams in color instead of black and white and the details stay with him even after he opens his eyes.
His dreams are no longer forgettable. They are not quiet or convenient or kind.
Some nights he walks through an empty field. His boots are gone; his feet are cold. He wants to go home but he can’t go by himself. Someone’s missing. He doesn’t remember the way back without them.
He calls and calls, but no one ever comes. He can’t decide if it’s because the people he’s searching for have died, or if they were ever there at all. When he wakes up, he still doesn’t know.
He kneels in the mud, a child in his arms and a soldier standing over them both. He begs for a little water. Just a cup, please. The soldier never speaks. Never turns around. The littleboylittlegirlblondebluedarkeyesblackhair cries for him in Korean and cries for him in English. He tips back his head to catch the rain and gets nothing but a mouthful of blood.
The baby stops crying. The baby is dead. There’s blood in his eyes, on his hands. The taste won’t leave his mouth.
He tries to sleep on his stomach. His pillow is thick with mildew, sweat, and bitter army soap when he bites down to muffle the screaming. He strips out of his shirt, wraps himself in the trusty purple bathrobe. Ties the belt a little tighter and ignores the way his hands shake.
Most times he’s lucky and doesn’t wake up anyone else. Most times he wants to laugh at thinking there’s anything lucky about this.
He chases a shadow in army drab through the streets of his hometown. Past dark houses with families whose names roll off his tongue as easily as his own. The shadow (a man, he thinks. It has to be a man. He doesn’t know why he’s so certain.) But he can’t catch up, no matter how hard he tries. He’s always two steps too late to grab the hem of a jacket, an arm.
He has to stop. His legs waver and he sits down hard in the middle of an intersection. Over the hiss of his breath he catches his father’s voice wavering through the Lord’s Prayer the way he’s heard it every Sunday since his mother died. Words he longs to hear every minute he’s in Korea, regardless of the pain they carry with them.
He wakes up exhausted and sick. It happens so often no one notices until he passes out in Post-Op. He doesn’t remember falling, only that he hit the ground.
The soldier raises his rifle. He throws himself back, far too late. The bullet never hits. Over him, pushing him down is Radar. Trapper. Henry. BJ. He holds them, gasping, dying, in his lap and asks them why. Why would they jump in front of a gun; he’s not worth it. They have families waiting for them. Children and wives and a mother in Iowa. Henry smiles through bloody teeth.
“But I’ll never make it home, it’s all right Hawkeye.”
The soldier raises his rifle again. He runs toward him, heartbeat thudding in his ears like artillery shells. Steps over bodies and pulls away from the reaching hands of a thousand boys sent to a war to never come home.
He snatches the helmet from the soldier’s head. Army green and blood red.
Pale eyes. Graying around the edges. It’s him. It’s been him all along.
- end