FIC: "Letters Home" (Hawkeye/Winchester)
Jul. 9th, 2005 10:33 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
likethesun2.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
mash_slashSorry to come so late to this party. But it's still the ninth! I made it in under the wire.
Title: Letters Home
Author: Epigone
Rating: PG-13...ish. It was supposed to be R, but I just didn't have it in me. (Sorry.)
Summary: “I wrote so many letters home this month… while I was away… but I never sent any of them. They were always wrong.”
Words: 1,569
Notes: Written for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
teapot_yo's ficathon by request of siggen1, who wanted Hawkeye/Winchester and angst/homesickness (OTP!) Thanks a million to loneraven and minttown1, who can turn out good betas so fast it makes my head spin.
Letters Home
“This isn’t Mozart.”
“No, it’s not,” says Charles from his cot. “Very good catch. I didn’t think you had it in you.”
Hawkeye stands in the gloom at the door of the Swamp, peering in. There isn’t that much different in him, Charles thinks, at least not when you look at him head on. It’s when he doesn’t realize that he’s under scrutiny—there, as he throws a glance back over his shoulder, obliquely—that you see a faint flash. The white of the eyes, the twitch of the lips. It’s when he turns away that you see how he’s going away, and away, and away.
“Where’s Hunnicutt?” asks Charles shortly. “Will I be having the pleasure—my cup runneth over—of both of your company tonight?”
“That’s hostility,” Hawkeye observes. “You should have that checked out, or it could turn septic.” He leans against the canvas wall of the Swamp with his weight back on his heels. “He’s out having one last nightcap with Potter. He’s no good at saying goodnight.”
“Pierce,” says Charles, “I’m going to be brief—”
“Oh, good.” Hawkeye fairly bounds through the Swamp to his bed and drops onto it with an extravagant sigh. “I’ll be boxer.”
“Get. Out.”
“Charles, this may be news to you, but I do still live here, too,” says Hawkeye, suddenly tense. Charles looks at him at length without speaking, then reaches out and turns up the volume on his record player. He can still barely hear it, which puzzles him in an abstract way. Far back in his head, at a threshold below true noise, lingers a percussive roar like the sound of the sea in a shell. The sound of a shell bearing down. Or the rumble of a jeep’s motor beneath him as he looks down and recognizes a face through the blood.
“So,” says Hawkeye after a while, as though addressing a third person, “what happened to Mozart?”
“I lost it.”
“Did you,” says Hawkeye. A smile slips across his face like a shadow. “Everybody’s losing things these days. So!” He gives an abrupt flourish. “We’ve resorted to Beethoven.”
Charles inclines his head. “Two for two: it’s not Mozart and it is Beethoven. I thought you didn't like real music like this.”
“I’m usually not crazy about it.” Hawkeye shrugs and then cocks his head, as if hearing the echo of his words. He laughs, and Charles looks away quickly, embarrassed. “Or not crazier than I am about anything else, anyway.”
“I think you should go to sleep.”
“I don’t think so. I’m very awake.” Hawkeye lies back in his bed and stares at the ceiling, his eyes wide and dark. “I have a soft spot for Beethoven. My parents loved him. My dad used to listen to him every Friday night after he finished with work—I mean officially finished, because sometimes people would come to the back door in the middle of the night; premature labors, high fevers, bats in the belfry.” His teeth shine in a half-smile. “He’d turn off the lights on the front porch, though, and pull down the shades, and he and Mom would sit in the living room playing Beethoven. They loved the masses.” He pauses, folding his hands on his chest. “Then… for a while after my mom died, I’d follow Dad in there and listen, too. I’d lie on the floor and absolutely mangle the Latin; I used to think that singing the masses was a way of talking to her, when I couldn’t talk to her anymore. Dad used to sit there with his eyes closed. Once he said, ‘Isn’t it funny, how music and medicine are written in the same language?’ I don't think he was talking to me. That’s all I remember of home anymore. That, and that smell of rubber and soap. You wouldn’t know the smell of a country doctor, but that’s it.”
Charles says, “No, I don’t know it.” He massages his forehead, trying to knead away the drone in his ears. “I grew up hearing Beethoven in concert halls.”
“He still listens every Friday,” continues Hawkeye, not giving the impression of having ignored this contribution, but rather of speaking on a different frequency, overlying Charles. “What’s the time difference between there and here again? I bet he’s listening right now.”
“It’s Monday,” says Charles levelly.
“Oh.” For a moment Hawkeye’s upturned face narrows out, the cheeks drawing in cadaverously, the lips pursing. Charles’s can’t make out his expression, but he knows it, because he felt it on his own face when he stood over that jeep with blood dripping onto his shoes: a concussed expression, one of irreparable loss. But in a moment Hawkeye sits up again and says with a cryptic, strained smile, “I guess I lost some time somewhere this month.”
“Pierce—”
“But let’s not talk about me,” says Hawkeye ingratiatingly. “Wasn’t Beethoven the one who cut off his ear?”
Charles frowns. “That was van Gogh.” He heaves a sigh to signal the end of this conversation and bends over, beginning to unlace his boots.
“Van Gogh! I can’t keep the unstable ones straight; they all blur together. Anyway, van Gogh: cut off his ear and gave it to a prostitute. That always used to remind me of Radar.”
Charles pauses midway down the first boot. With a lace hanging from one hand, he repeats slowly, “Van Gogh?”
“No, the prostitute—yes, Charles, van Gogh.”
“Let’s stop talking now.”
“This was before your time, of course, back during the reign of Good King Frank. Radar had the bright idea of sending a jeep home to his family through the mail, piece by piece. Trapper and I found out about it after a while.”
“And naturally this reminded you of Vincent van Gogh,” says Charles.
“Every week another piece. The steering wheel, the exhaust pipe. On and on. Like sending home souvenirs, messages in a bottle. Front right tire: I’m still here. Windshield wiper: I’ll be coming home soon. Seat cushion: please don’t forget me.” Hawkeye draws his knees up to his chest and sits there awkwardly, off-balance, rocking just perceptibly back and forth as if in a parody of grief. In a smaller voice, he says, “Please don’t forget me. Please understand me.” Charles takes off the boot, avoiding Hawkeye’s glance, and starts on the other. He can feel Hawkeye regarding him, vacant-eyed. “Handing pieces of his life out into the ether, see? And I got to thinking: actually it was a terrific joke. He was sending that jeep home as if his family had the first idea what to do with it. What do Iowa farm people know about Army jeeps? They wouldn’t have any idea how to reconstruct it. They wouldn’t recognize what it was.”
Charles removes his second boot and places it on the floor beside the first. His hand shakes a little as he does, so that the boots bump up against each other. He can see the caked, rust-red blood come off in flakes.
“See?” says Hawkeye in an odd voice: constricted and hollow, from the chest.
Charles doesn’t answer; merely continues trying to line up his boots. Hawkeye leaves the bed in silence and kneels next to the record player. He puts his hand on it and looks up at Charles, wide-eyed and pale. Charles can hear him begin to hum in the back of his throat, a thin but resonant noise: Kyrie eleison....
Charles thinks of that jeep with its motor running and running; thinks of the blood drying on his boots; thinks of Hawkeye driving through the wall of the officers’ club with thousands of miles behind his stare. Thinks: please understand me: Kyrie eleison.
And then he stops operating on thought. Without premeditation he touches Hawkeye’s throat, feeling the vibration of his humming joined with the vibration of the record player, as if Hawkeye is simply a conduit for the music. His pulse drives like a fist, pounds like a metronome. Charles slides his hand up so that it rests under the hard ledge of Hawkeye’s jaw. Then the other hand. Dulce, dulce.
Into his cupped palms, Hawkeye says, “I wrote so many letters home this month… while I was away… but I never sent any of them. They were always wrong.”
Outside, the last stragglers from dinner are returning to their tents, their shadows walking along the wall in the final glow of the floodlights. Somewhere over the hills, the brush fires are still blazing long seams of lightning through the night. Nothing ever ends—least of all the war.
“Let’s stop talking now,” says Charles again.
“You're right,” says Hawkeye. “It’s always wrong.” He rises up farther on his knees, and Charles sinks back—not surprised, because if five Chinese musicians can die in a jeep, nothing is impossible anymore—and lets him. Lets him give of himself, piece by piece; the arch of the foot, the hollow of the knee, the ridge of the spine, the blade of the shoulder.
“I’ll write to you,” says Hawkeye once, softly. “When this is all over. I’ll make it right.”
“Will you,” says Charles, and it’s not a question, and there is no answer.
No answer except this: the back of the neck, the palm of the hand. Messages in a bottle, letters home: please understand. Whatever I’ve left behind, please welcome me back.
Charles does.
Title: Letters Home
Author: Epigone
Rating: PG-13...ish. It was supposed to be R, but I just didn't have it in me. (Sorry.)
Summary: “I wrote so many letters home this month… while I was away… but I never sent any of them. They were always wrong.”
Words: 1,569
Notes: Written for
teapot_yo's ficathon by request of siggen1, who wanted Hawkeye/Winchester and angst/homesickness (OTP!) Thanks a million to loneraven and minttown1, who can turn out good betas so fast it makes my head spin.“This isn’t Mozart.”
“No, it’s not,” says Charles from his cot. “Very good catch. I didn’t think you had it in you.”
Hawkeye stands in the gloom at the door of the Swamp, peering in. There isn’t that much different in him, Charles thinks, at least not when you look at him head on. It’s when he doesn’t realize that he’s under scrutiny—there, as he throws a glance back over his shoulder, obliquely—that you see a faint flash. The white of the eyes, the twitch of the lips. It’s when he turns away that you see how he’s going away, and away, and away.
“Where’s Hunnicutt?” asks Charles shortly. “Will I be having the pleasure—my cup runneth over—of both of your company tonight?”
“That’s hostility,” Hawkeye observes. “You should have that checked out, or it could turn septic.” He leans against the canvas wall of the Swamp with his weight back on his heels. “He’s out having one last nightcap with Potter. He’s no good at saying goodnight.”
“Pierce,” says Charles, “I’m going to be brief—”
“Oh, good.” Hawkeye fairly bounds through the Swamp to his bed and drops onto it with an extravagant sigh. “I’ll be boxer.”
“Get. Out.”
“Charles, this may be news to you, but I do still live here, too,” says Hawkeye, suddenly tense. Charles looks at him at length without speaking, then reaches out and turns up the volume on his record player. He can still barely hear it, which puzzles him in an abstract way. Far back in his head, at a threshold below true noise, lingers a percussive roar like the sound of the sea in a shell. The sound of a shell bearing down. Or the rumble of a jeep’s motor beneath him as he looks down and recognizes a face through the blood.
“So,” says Hawkeye after a while, as though addressing a third person, “what happened to Mozart?”
“I lost it.”
“Did you,” says Hawkeye. A smile slips across his face like a shadow. “Everybody’s losing things these days. So!” He gives an abrupt flourish. “We’ve resorted to Beethoven.”
Charles inclines his head. “Two for two: it’s not Mozart and it is Beethoven. I thought you didn't like real music like this.”
“I’m usually not crazy about it.” Hawkeye shrugs and then cocks his head, as if hearing the echo of his words. He laughs, and Charles looks away quickly, embarrassed. “Or not crazier than I am about anything else, anyway.”
“I think you should go to sleep.”
“I don’t think so. I’m very awake.” Hawkeye lies back in his bed and stares at the ceiling, his eyes wide and dark. “I have a soft spot for Beethoven. My parents loved him. My dad used to listen to him every Friday night after he finished with work—I mean officially finished, because sometimes people would come to the back door in the middle of the night; premature labors, high fevers, bats in the belfry.” His teeth shine in a half-smile. “He’d turn off the lights on the front porch, though, and pull down the shades, and he and Mom would sit in the living room playing Beethoven. They loved the masses.” He pauses, folding his hands on his chest. “Then… for a while after my mom died, I’d follow Dad in there and listen, too. I’d lie on the floor and absolutely mangle the Latin; I used to think that singing the masses was a way of talking to her, when I couldn’t talk to her anymore. Dad used to sit there with his eyes closed. Once he said, ‘Isn’t it funny, how music and medicine are written in the same language?’ I don't think he was talking to me. That’s all I remember of home anymore. That, and that smell of rubber and soap. You wouldn’t know the smell of a country doctor, but that’s it.”
Charles says, “No, I don’t know it.” He massages his forehead, trying to knead away the drone in his ears. “I grew up hearing Beethoven in concert halls.”
“He still listens every Friday,” continues Hawkeye, not giving the impression of having ignored this contribution, but rather of speaking on a different frequency, overlying Charles. “What’s the time difference between there and here again? I bet he’s listening right now.”
“It’s Monday,” says Charles levelly.
“Oh.” For a moment Hawkeye’s upturned face narrows out, the cheeks drawing in cadaverously, the lips pursing. Charles’s can’t make out his expression, but he knows it, because he felt it on his own face when he stood over that jeep with blood dripping onto his shoes: a concussed expression, one of irreparable loss. But in a moment Hawkeye sits up again and says with a cryptic, strained smile, “I guess I lost some time somewhere this month.”
“Pierce—”
“But let’s not talk about me,” says Hawkeye ingratiatingly. “Wasn’t Beethoven the one who cut off his ear?”
Charles frowns. “That was van Gogh.” He heaves a sigh to signal the end of this conversation and bends over, beginning to unlace his boots.
“Van Gogh! I can’t keep the unstable ones straight; they all blur together. Anyway, van Gogh: cut off his ear and gave it to a prostitute. That always used to remind me of Radar.”
Charles pauses midway down the first boot. With a lace hanging from one hand, he repeats slowly, “Van Gogh?”
“No, the prostitute—yes, Charles, van Gogh.”
“Let’s stop talking now.”
“This was before your time, of course, back during the reign of Good King Frank. Radar had the bright idea of sending a jeep home to his family through the mail, piece by piece. Trapper and I found out about it after a while.”
“And naturally this reminded you of Vincent van Gogh,” says Charles.
“Every week another piece. The steering wheel, the exhaust pipe. On and on. Like sending home souvenirs, messages in a bottle. Front right tire: I’m still here. Windshield wiper: I’ll be coming home soon. Seat cushion: please don’t forget me.” Hawkeye draws his knees up to his chest and sits there awkwardly, off-balance, rocking just perceptibly back and forth as if in a parody of grief. In a smaller voice, he says, “Please don’t forget me. Please understand me.” Charles takes off the boot, avoiding Hawkeye’s glance, and starts on the other. He can feel Hawkeye regarding him, vacant-eyed. “Handing pieces of his life out into the ether, see? And I got to thinking: actually it was a terrific joke. He was sending that jeep home as if his family had the first idea what to do with it. What do Iowa farm people know about Army jeeps? They wouldn’t have any idea how to reconstruct it. They wouldn’t recognize what it was.”
Charles removes his second boot and places it on the floor beside the first. His hand shakes a little as he does, so that the boots bump up against each other. He can see the caked, rust-red blood come off in flakes.
“See?” says Hawkeye in an odd voice: constricted and hollow, from the chest.
Charles doesn’t answer; merely continues trying to line up his boots. Hawkeye leaves the bed in silence and kneels next to the record player. He puts his hand on it and looks up at Charles, wide-eyed and pale. Charles can hear him begin to hum in the back of his throat, a thin but resonant noise: Kyrie eleison....
Charles thinks of that jeep with its motor running and running; thinks of the blood drying on his boots; thinks of Hawkeye driving through the wall of the officers’ club with thousands of miles behind his stare. Thinks: please understand me: Kyrie eleison.
And then he stops operating on thought. Without premeditation he touches Hawkeye’s throat, feeling the vibration of his humming joined with the vibration of the record player, as if Hawkeye is simply a conduit for the music. His pulse drives like a fist, pounds like a metronome. Charles slides his hand up so that it rests under the hard ledge of Hawkeye’s jaw. Then the other hand. Dulce, dulce.
Into his cupped palms, Hawkeye says, “I wrote so many letters home this month… while I was away… but I never sent any of them. They were always wrong.”
Outside, the last stragglers from dinner are returning to their tents, their shadows walking along the wall in the final glow of the floodlights. Somewhere over the hills, the brush fires are still blazing long seams of lightning through the night. Nothing ever ends—least of all the war.
“Let’s stop talking now,” says Charles again.
“You're right,” says Hawkeye. “It’s always wrong.” He rises up farther on his knees, and Charles sinks back—not surprised, because if five Chinese musicians can die in a jeep, nothing is impossible anymore—and lets him. Lets him give of himself, piece by piece; the arch of the foot, the hollow of the knee, the ridge of the spine, the blade of the shoulder.
“I’ll write to you,” says Hawkeye once, softly. “When this is all over. I’ll make it right.”
“Will you,” says Charles, and it’s not a question, and there is no answer.
No answer except this: the back of the neck, the palm of the hand. Messages in a bottle, letters home: please understand. Whatever I’ve left behind, please welcome me back.
Charles does.
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no subject
Date: 2005-07-10 04:49 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-07-11 12:06 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-07-10 04:58 am (UTC)It hurt a little, but it was a good hurt.
Very, very lovely.
no subject
Date: 2005-07-11 12:07 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-07-10 05:36 am (UTC)‘Isn’t it funny, how music and medicine are written in the same language?’
Melts me.
no subject
Date: 2005-07-11 12:10 am (UTC)Thank you!
no subject
Date: 2005-07-10 07:58 am (UTC)This is brilliant.
“Every week another piece. The steering wheel, the exhaust pipe. On and on. Like sending home souvenirs, messages in a bottle. Front right tire: I’m still here. Windshield wiper: I’ll be coming home soon. Seat cushion: please don’t forget me.” Hawkeye draws his knees up to his chest and sits there awkwardly, off-balance, rocking just perceptibly back and forth as if in a parody of grief. In a smaller voice, he says, “Please don’t forget me. Please understand me.” Charles takes off the boot, avoiding Hawkeye’s glance, and starts on the other. He can feel Hawkeye regarding him, vacant-eyed. “Handing pieces of his life out into the ether, see? And I got to thinking: actually it was a terrific joke. He was sending that jeep home as if his family had the first idea what to do with it. What do Iowa farm people know about Army jeeps? They wouldn’t have any idea how to reconstruct it. They wouldn’t recognize what it meant.”
I hate to pick out a "best bit" but on first read-through, this is where I knew this story was going to be special.
no subject
Date: 2005-07-11 12:11 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-07-10 08:31 am (UTC)For writing about little!Hawkeye and his parents, I want to throw myself at your feet.
Wonderful job.
Farewell.
no subject
Date: 2005-07-11 12:12 am (UTC)Thank you! I wasn't sure about this fic at all, so it's a relief to hear you liked it, because I trust your taste. :)
no subject
Date: 2005-07-11 06:09 am (UTC)You make them all so real. I don't know how you do it. And if you can't be persuaded to hang out some more in this fandom, I think I'll have to start watching Oz.
no subject
Date: 2005-07-11 11:06 pm (UTC)Mostly I just don't have any M*A*S*H ideas right now, except maybe something with Henry and Hawkeye, so it's not so much a matter of persuasion as inspiration. :) However, you are welcome--nay, encouraged!--to come with me to the wonderful world of Oz.
no subject
Date: 2005-07-11 11:24 pm (UTC)*checks fandoms held in common* OryoucouldstartwritingBSGorMonkorHouse... ;)
no subject
Date: 2005-07-11 11:31 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-07-11 02:28 pm (UTC)youthis fic! I'm not coherent right now, will comment at length later.no subject
Date: 2005-07-11 02:30 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-07-11 11:07 pm (UTC)And no worries about the fic; I can be patient. :) (How funny that we got each other....)
no subject
Date: 2005-07-15 07:27 pm (UTC)You realize you are absolutely amazing, don't you?
Or should I tell you again?
You. Are. Amazing.
You did it. Without a Klinger striptease even (outtake?)
This fic is beautiful and heart-breaking an amazing and just perfect.
You captured such distinct voices so perfectly.
You've got Hawkeye down absolutely perfectly - not the joking/slapstick/mask to the world Hawkeye but the world weary broken Hawkeye. The slight differences, the bitterness to the humor even the way he looks and moves I can see him and hear him speak.
And you've got Charles too.
I also loved the analogy with Radar and van gogh and all the letters that weren't right and..
:)
never stop writing or I'll make Ryan start crying and never stop.
no subject
Date: 2005-07-15 11:18 pm (UTC)Ahaha. The outtake is a possibility, yeah, especially if I go too long without writing anything serious. It'll all get bottled up and I'll have to write Klinger stripping, or I'll go crazy. Funny what we do to stay sane.
The slight differences, the bitterness to the humor even the way he looks and moves I can see him and hear him speak.
Mmm. I like this comment. *basks a little* Yeah, that's about it.
I think you do not understand the psychology of this: I like the crying. *grins* However, not planning on stopping writing, if only because of that whole sanity deal.
no subject
Date: 2005-08-12 07:02 pm (UTC)I'm not even a shipper of any M.A.S.H. pairing, just generally enjoyed the show. But this fic... amazing! You are such a talented writer! I have no appropriate words to do justice to this amazing work of yours.
And I must say that Charles and Hawkeye were my favorites, in that order, of the show. I was so happy when Frank left, he annoyed me to no end. Charles is so clever and refined, but still snarky and vengenful and somewhat as mischevious as Hawk and B.J. The whole show seemed to take a new turn after his arrival. The jokes were more inventive, original, the dialog seemed deeper, more real somehow. And the characters seemed to grow more complete. Like the show finally had a track that it was set to follow, not just timidly testing the waters. it stood out from among the many other comedy shows as interesting as well as funny, which I consider a rarity. The relationships between the characters solidified, and there wasn't any more black/white, there were many, many beautiful shades of grey. The dream episode -if you recall, there was an ep where they all had dreams while waiting out the night (?)- is proof of that, and such a wonderful peep hole into the personalities involved.
Ugh, God, I'm rambling! So sorry, I lost it there for a moment. I obviously enjoyed the show very much, and I'm so very glad that I checked through your fics and found this one.:)
no subject
Date: 2005-08-20 11:58 pm (UTC)Thank you! Hawkeye/Charles isn't exactly something I see on the screen, but it was fun to play with on assignment, to try to find their convergences. And one of the biggest convergences I saw was here, at the end of the war: they're both so traumatized.
The whole show seemed to take a new turn after his arrival. The jokes were more inventive, original, the dialog seemed deeper, more real somehow. And the characters seemed to grow more complete. Like the show finally had a track that it was set to follow, not just timidly testing the waters.
Absolutely. I think there were some fantastic episodes during the Frank years, but I agree, my feeling has always been it came into its own with Charles and Potter. It gained a lot of emotional depth and range once all the characters ceased to be caricatures.
The dream episode -if you recall, there was an ep where they all had dreams while waiting out the night (?)- is proof of that, and such a wonderful peep hole into the personalities involved.
Yes! Such a wonderful episode. Sometimes I can't believe M*A*S*H is thirty years old, it's still so timely and insightful.
Ugh, God, I'm rambling! So sorry, I lost it there for a moment. I obviously enjoyed the show very much, and I'm so very glad that I checked through your fics and found this one.:)
I liked your rambling. :) And I'm very glad you found this and enjoyed it, too! Thanks so much.
no subject
Date: 2005-08-20 11:59 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-10-28 01:43 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-11-05 08:22 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-09-15 07:37 pm (UTC)Wonderful characterization on both parts. How Charles is prickly and arrogant as ever on the outside, but the continual references to the blood and the Jeep and Hawkeye wears his craziness on the outside and it's just--
It's beautiful in that the words flow perfectly and it's poetic without being meandering or obscured.
Loved it.
--Kits
no subject
Date: 2006-09-15 11:51 pm (UTC)(Love your icon, by the way.)
no subject
Date: 2006-09-29 04:59 am (UTC)Anyway, I know how you feel. I'm in a creative writing class right now--when would I never have any good ideas?
Of course.
And it was wonderful. I have a problem with really abstract fanfiction or fiction at all, for that matter, because I believe the foremost purpose is to communicate, and I think you did a really good job at that without losing the lyrical feel.
And thank you. :) Feel free to steal. I made it myself, so it's all yours if you want to use it, no crediting necessary.
Cheers,
Kits
no subject
Date: 2007-05-12 04:33 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-05-16 02:08 pm (UTC)Fabulous Charles voice. Hawkeye was wonderfully silly and sad, and this story just hurts. Oh, the Chinese musicians! *cries* Very lovely.
no subject
Date: 2007-05-17 04:30 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2020-11-24 06:12 pm (UTC)