mash_slash | FIC: I Take Pen in Hand

Title: I Take Pen in Hand

Fandom: M*A*S*H

Word count: ~1000

Author: Pharis

Date written: May 2007

Pairing: Hawkeye/Trapper, sort of

Rating: 7+

Disclaimer: Not mine, no money being made, yadda yadda yadda.

Notes: I’m usually a Hawkeye/BJ gal, but Trapper has his moments. And the poignancy of his just dropping off the face of the planet after he goes home -- what an opportunity for a little Hawkeye-torture ...

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I Take Pen in Hand
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August 20

Dear Trapper,

I guess you’re all settled in by now. Must be good to see the family after so long -- almost as good as seeing clean sheets or clothes that aren’t puke-green or shit-brown, huh?

Life in the Eastern Theater chugs along its merry way. Surgery -- well, you know what that’s like.

Our new C.O., one Col. Sherman T. Potter, is a good sort. Regular Army, but not too regular. He must be about 60, seen two wars and 35 years of service, and he knows enough to cut us scruffy draftees some slack. Potter wouldn’t have let us get away with all the shit that Henry did, though. And there’s a clue for you -- even in my head, he’s “Potter,” or “the Colonel,” never “Sherman.” It’s not the same; Henry cannot be replaced.

The new surgeon is all right. He’s young, but talented. Better than that -- level-headed, knows when to ask for help in surgery, but rarely needs it, really. Can’t hold his liquor and plays poker badly -- what more could you want?

Everyone here says hi. I asked Radar if he wanted me to send you a kiss, ha ha. Not sure if he was going to hit me or faint, but he left in a hurry.

Hope you’re making the most of civilian life. I miss you, bunkie.

Love,

Hawkeye

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December something

Whoo-ee! Just got back from a night at Rosies and am flying high so you’ll have to excuse me if this is a bit all over the place. I was drinking with Margaret, of all people, and we killed a bottle of damn fine scotch, toasting Trapper John of blessed memorey. We swapped stories -- adnd dammitall, I’m going to have to pin her down tomorrow and see what she remembers, because that could be not good. Or maybe she’ll be all right -- she’s a good sort sometimes. I think she’s mellowing in her old age. Ripening. Something.

Anyhoo (as Our Henry would say), was just thinking about you and thought I’d drop you a line and thought I’d see how you were. Write back soon if you’re not too busy chasing the girls -- I hear they wear skirts instead of khaki trousers, out there in the world. Miss you, dammit.

--Hawk

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January 1, 1952

Dear Trapper,

They say that whatever you’re doing on New Year’s Day you’ll be doing all year. I hope to God that’s not true, because I’ve spent it up to my ankles and down to my elbows in the blood of these children they keep killing. I’m exhausted -- I think it’s been about four days since any of us slept more than an hour at a stretch -- but I wanted to rescue something good from this terrible holiday by writing to my best friend.

Winter has been pretty bad. No snow, but rain that seeps into everything and chills you to the bone. Seems like we’ve been treating half of Ouijongbu for pneumonia, and a lot of their old people have died. And the children ... the baby girls. You know they’re among the first to get shorted of food. Dear God, Trapper, kiss Becky and Kathy tonight.

I’m sorry, I seem to have nothing cheerful to say. We’ve had a lot of deaths in the hospital the last week or two. I think it’s a combination of the weather (they have to stay here longer because the roads aren’t always passable) and just luck of the draw, but you always have to wonder, did I make a mistake somewhere? was I too sleepy, a little inattentive, just plain not good enough?

BJ just came in. He’s usually good company -- you’d like him -- but he got a letter from his wife today and his thoughts are a million miles away. He’s sad, I’m sad, even Frank is sad (I know, how can you tell, right?).

Write soon and tell me something cheerful.

Your friend,

Hawkeye

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April 3

Dear Trap,

Well, it’s been nine months since you left. And you know what can happen in nine months ... Don’t worry, I’ll raise our baby alone and never ask for a dime, ha ha.

Army life is the same barrel of laughs it always was. We had to bug out last week and the new spot is awful -- although it is nice not to have year-old latrine pits a hundred feet from where you eat lunch. I’m sure, though, that the new ones will soon become as fragrant as the old, lime or no lime.

Hey, here’s some news that’ll tickle you: Hot Lips got engaged to some colonel she met in Tokyo. Frank went a bit off the deep end, and we sometimes still hear him whining “Margaret! Margaret!” in his sleep -- it would be quite sad if he weren’t such a flaming asshole.

Remember Sidney Freedman? He’s been coming by for a poker game or just to visit pretty regularly. We’d be good friends, I think, if we saw each other more often. We’re friends when he’s here, anyway. A shrink, imagine. He says hello.

I wish you’d write back sometime. I know you probably don’t want to remember much about this place, but hey, I’m still stuck here, you know. Would be good to hear some news of the world and know how life is treating you.

Take care.

Love,

Hawk

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Louise saw the Army postmark and turned the letter over. The handwriting told her, but she checked anyway: Cpt. B.F. Pierce.

She took it to the backyard, where their new patio grille still held a few bricquettes from last Saturday. It took a moment for the envelope to catch. When it did, she twisted the paper at a practiced angle to make sure it all burned. She poked the ashes, removing any clean lines that might have suggested burned paper.

She stood for a moment, staring at nothing, before turning with a sigh to go inside. There was dinner to start, and the girls to pick up from school. Then, housework and homework and the long empty evening.

John would be home late again.

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FIC: I Take Pen in Hand

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