Reminded (7+)

[http://users.livejournal.com/__itsawarinhere/]

Title: Reminded
Author: __itsawarinhere
Pairing: sort of Trapper/Hawkeye
Rating: 7+
Warnings: Nothing scary, just a little drinking and pre-slash.
Disclaimer: I do not own these characters and am not making any money off of this.
Summary: It's been eight days since Trapper recieved his 'Dear John' letter, and he is not finding it as relieving as he expected.



Not... not again. Eight days since I got that letter from Louise. Eight lousy days and although this is what I wanted—the freedom—I haven’t touched a nurse since that damn mail call. Every night I’ve slouched somewhere in the Swamp with a martini in hand, listening to Hawkeye speak, or he would be listening to me speak, but I never spoke of Louise or that letter and Hawk never spoke of women or home.

I’m wasted and Hawk is still rambling about Margaret—she’s an exception to the silent rule of no woman speaking because, in our eyes, she’s no lady—and something she said in O.R. and I honestly don’t want to hear about that place, either. I don’t want to offend him, so I tune him out as best I can, but his voice is low and rumbling when he’s tired and it’s especially so with drunkenness. I can feel his voice rather than hear it because I’m sitting against the edge of his cot, scraping idly at the dirt and gathering grit under my short, uneven nails, and he’s lying on the damn thing on his belly and every word moves through my back to my stomach and to my fingers where they itch with the need to do more than just draw eights.

Frank comes in and immediately he and Hawk flare up into some argument I don’t care about or am too drunk to keep up with. Frank throws something at Hawk and storms out with shouts of words like “degenerates,” but I don’t want to listen to him. Hawk says something about Sodom and Gomorrah and laughs and I laugh, too because my best friend is doing it and I have no better reason than that.

I don’t want to hear the Bible, but Hawkeye insists on reading it aloud and adding his own commentary that would probably make Father go silent and ole Ferret Face furious, but I have no need for a priest and Frank isn’t worth my shit.

The fabric ceiling of the Swamp looks so much higher when you’re looking from the lowest point, but I don’t care about the lone ant or two that might make its way into my hair, I think I’m waiting for it, for that sign of death like biodegradable material, which I am. I turn my head and with my cheek in the dirt, I reach out and grab the small white piece of paper under Hawk’s bed. I unfold it to its natural eight-by-eleven size and reread the handwriting I’m so familiar with forming words I only had to read once to remember. She always wrote so plainly, she was refreshing after all the girls before her (and after her) who tried too hard to be fancy. I liked Louise because she was simple, but loving and demanding, and I used to lie awake at night thinking of her and the kids we would have. I’m worried about those kids now, Kathy and Becky, because she will own them and I want them. I’m good with kids, this I know, but I’m a doctor so I won’t be able to see them all the time. I wouldn’t be able to take care of them if I were working nine-hour shifts.

I swipe a hand across my eyes and there is liquid soaking into the shoulder of my t-shirt because I didn’t realize I was still holding that gin and I look up and there is Hawkeye. He’s half-off the bed, frowning at me and I don’t like when he is sad because at least one of us should always be happy. We can’t be the outfit’s golden pair is neither of us are golden, so I give him my best grin and toss my empty glass up at him and request a refill. He’s back a few seconds later, but instead of gin in my hand, it’s in my eyes and my hair and my nose and it’s washing the dirt off my face and slipping between my bared teeth. He falls on top of me, probably because I pulled him by the martini and the alcohol is on me again, but running across my collar, soaking the hem of my shirt and turning the dirt to mud. It’s dripping from his large nose from where it splashed up onto him as well and I laugh as he plucks the paper from my hand and tosses it aside. His knees dig into my ribs and I’m surrounded in this sticky sort of drunk heat but I don’t mind because he’s Hawkeye and he’s never hurt me in the past and I don’t expect him to do so now.

He just remains there, sitting on my hips and he’s talking again. Always talking. And it’s about Radar this time. Radar. And now Ugly John. It’s okay, though. It’ll always be okay. He’s laughing and practically crying, though I don’t know what about. He’s upset, which doesn’t make sense because I am the one who is supposed to be upset, but that’s no big deal because that’s who Hawkeye is, a mix of emotions that seem to have no trigger, but I know it’s there, he always has a reason for saying what he does.

I feel detached from Louise, as many walls between us as miles, and I have Hawk to thank for this, for reminding me who I’m more at ease with. Who better understands me.

I’m drunk again eight days since I received that letter that Radar placed so thoughtlessly into my hand, that Hawk read so silently over my shoulder, and tonight I don’t care.

Comments

[dreamingjewel.livejournal.com]

Yeah! A bit of Trapper/Hawkeye always a good thing. More please.

[http://users.livejournal.com/__itsawarinhere/]

Thank you! I'm glad you liked it.

I had a lot of fun writing this, more fun than I've had writing fanfiction in years, so I'll probably write another very soon.

[nyssa23.livejournal.com]

Love the Trapper voice in this, and especially the line about being the outfit's golden pair.

[http://users.livejournal.com/__itsawarinhere/]

Thank you very much! It's so nice to hear what parts of the story a reader likes.

[iamscullysmile.livejournal.com]

I liked this, very stream-of-drunk-consciosuness, very Trapper. And i esp. liked this description of Trap feeling Hawk's voice: "I can feel his voice rather than hear it because I’m sitting against the edge of his cot, scraping idly at the dirt and gathering grit under my short, uneven nails, and he’s lying on the damn thing on his belly and every word moves through my back to my stomach and to my fingers where they itch with the need to do more than just draw eights."

[http://users.livejournal.com/__itsawarinhere/]

Thank you very much!