mash_slash | angsty b-eye + tolerant charles = good. or something.

Hi again :) Well, I know this business about 'poor Hawkeye turns emo and then BJ comforts him' has absolutely been done to death. And I also know that the only thing I’ve ever posted here was angsty B-eye as well. But obviously you must be saturated. So... I apologize for the lack of variety, but please try to enjoy, as this features tolerant!Charles, who is my favorite of the fanon characters. (Actually this fic is an exercise in tolerant!Charles. I'm finding that it's easier to get away with Charles speaking prettily than Klinger, and I'd like your opinion on him.)

The kid’s thrashing on a creaky hospital bed, every sound underlining the fear he’s trying to deny. "I’m not afraid to die! I’m not!"

Hawkeye’s hand is warm on an icy, flailing limb. "Shh, I know."

"It’s not that I’m afraid to die! It’s that I’m afraid to kill. Again. I’m afraid to kill again." Things like that – things like the tears in that kid’s eyes – are what make Hawkeye turn away, they’re what make him bury his head in his hands and wish valiantly and vainly that these kids were a thousand miles away from here worrying about math class and girls. Thinking vaguely that turning away is what he does best, Hawkeye heads over to the next bed, which is – thank God – empty.

"I need a sedative for him," he says tiredly to the nearest nurse, gesturing to the kid (Corporal David Kelley, whose record says nineteen but whose face says fifteen).

"You look like you could use a drink, too," she suggests. It’s late in the day, and truer words have never been spoken.

"Yeah," he agrees. "Hey. Have we got anyone else?"

The nurse shakes her head sympathetically. "No. Go home." At Hawkeye’s bitter, barked laugh, she adds, "You know what I mean."

"I know." He tries for a smile. "Sorry for bugging you," he apologizes, and then leaves.

"You look like a nightmare," BJ observes sadly.

"I look like one, I feel like one, I sound like one... Beej, it’s official. I am a nightmare."

"You’re one of the good ones, though."

Lying facedown on his cot, Hawkeye mutters, “No such thing as a good nightmare, Beej.”

"Well, I..." Already trailing off, BJ comes to a full stop at the choked gasp of a sob. "Oh, Hawkeye... are you..."

"Maybe," Hawkeye snaps back viciously to a question that hasn’t even been asked. "Though I’d think by now my right’s been established."

BJ sighs; this is the third time in the last week Hawkeye's almost broken down. "Hawkeye, I didn’t mean..." Didn't mean to hurt you, is the thought BJ can't finish. Didn't mean to make you feel even worse.

"I know. I’m sorry."

"It’s okay. Don’t worry about it. I’ll forget about it." Crossing the swamp to be near Hawkeye is easy, natural - but sitting next to him is proving to be infinitely harder than he’d thought. "And yeah, it was a long day, Hawk, but it’s over now. It’ll never come again."

"It wasn’t just a long day." His voice is muffled, tired, and ragged. "It was an awful day, a terrible day."

"Yeah, but... oh, hey, don’t cry, Hawk, come on, don’t cry." The urge to rub Hawkeye’s back almost overtakes BJ, but he settles for stretching his hand out awkwardly and thinking I love you in his direction so hard it hurts. "Hey, don’t worry. The sun’s going to rise tomorrow, the same way it does every day, and tomorrow’ll be better."

"And I’ll forget about today?"

This is a loaded question, and there’s no real way to answer it. "Yes," BJ replies stiltedly, after a little while. "If you want to."

"I don’t. I couldn’t anyway. You can only witness death so many times before it brands itself into your mind."

"I know. I know."

"Why?" Hawkeye’s stuttering because he’s crying, and this is what it’s like to watch a person break. "I didn’t even know this many people existed until I had to come here and watch them die."

"Hey. Hey. Stop it." BJ stops wanting to rub Hawkeye’s back and gathers him into his arms. The surprise comes when he can feel every one of his ribs through his shirt. "You didn’t watch them die, you know. You did everything you could for every one of them."

"And it wasn’t enough."

"The very hardest thing you’ll ever have to accept is that everything you have will never be enough." BJ’s eyes are sadder than Hawkeye’s ever seen them, and when he follows the curves of his face, Hawkeye sees creases and lines that weren’t there when he arrived.

After a few minutes, after the wave of tears have subsided and the two have started repairing damage, Hawkeye speaks, something that’s been bothering him for months. "Sometimes..." he begins, almost shyly, "sometimes I hear myself speak and I wonder when I became so silent."

"You aren’t silent," BJ replies, genuinely surprised: this is the last thing he expected to hear.

"Well, I’m not vibrant anymore, either."

The admonishing protests have almost tumbled out of BJ’s mouth before he realizes that right now, they simply aren’t true. He closes his mouth and bites his lip against such a useless lie.

Plunging on, Hawkeye seems to have forgotten that BJ is even there. "I just... I should be saying a hallelujah that I’m even alive, you know, but all I can do is sing the Song of Sorrows for all those stupid kids who aren’t."

BJ attempts to crack a smile that, under these circumstances, is almost obscene. "You know, this isn’t really my territory, maybe Father Mulcahy..."

Anxiety is written all over Hawkeye’s face as he asks, "Do you want me to go to Father Mulcahy?" The translation, the vulnerable scared sad do you want me to go away echoes so loudly that BJ winces.

"No. No, of course not. I’m sorry."

Hawkeye flashes a wan smile, and the old Hawkeye begins to resurface. "Don’t even worry about it," he says, and then, "I’m going to go get dinner. A double helping. Maybe even triple."

"Well, at least you’re still brave."

This time Hawkeye laughs outright. "Yeah."

"I’ll go with you," BJ announces after a few minutes and slings an arm around Hawkeye. "If you’re getting a Purple Heart trying to digest all that, I at least want to be there."

"Take my picture?"

"No one would believe you if I didn’t."

"Look at them," Margaret mutters over dinner in the mess tent, her nose wrinkled in disdain. "It’s almost... it’s almost like they flaunt it."

"Margaret." Charles looks over at her. "You’ve been irritable all night. What is it now?"

"Pierce and Hunnicutt." She gestures in their general direction. "They sit so close together, look at them, you know they’re probably together, the whole camp knows they’re probably together, they’re completely disgusting."

"Not particularly." Charles allows a shrug. "They stay out of everyone’s way, and I can honestly say that I don’t mind very much if at least someone’s happy in this hellhole of a camp."

"Charles!" She is almost angry now, trying to see things his way for the sake of friendship. "How... you share a tent with them! How can you, of all people, not be repulsed..."

For only the second or third time in Korea, Charles’ quiet, graceful dignity makes an appearance, albeit briefly, as his clipped, educated tenor asserts, "Margaret. They are the makers of music, they are the dreamers of dreams, and at the end of the day is it not fitting that they go home to each other? Is it not fitting that the only solace either can find is in the other’s arms?"

Margaret says nothing. How could she?