Fic: Heaven from Here, Chapter Four
Aug. 8th, 2005 05:15 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
sharselune.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
mash_slashSorry for the inexcusable delay getting this chapter out. I don't know why this chapter was so difficult. Possibly because in my outline all I had for this chapter was "Hawkeye goes to San Francisco". Well, anyway, here it is.
Title: Heaven from Here
Pairings: None for this chapter, but eventual Hawk/BJ.
Rating: G
Warnings: None for this chapter.
Previously:
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
It wasn’t as though he’d never flown before. He’d gone in helicopters with no doors, swinging wildly over the Korean landscape. He’d kept an eye on patients strapped to the side of the helicopter as he himself hung out the door, making sure the pulse remained strong and the blood flow was staunched.
Here, he sat comfortably ensconced in a padded seat, two seats away from a tiny window showing just a slice of blue sky, with stewardesses trekking calmly up and down the aisles. And he was frozen in utter terror.
Maybe if the nice old lady next to him had an aneurism, he would feel better. At least it would give him something to do other than sit here and sweat.
On his lap was a medical magazine. A pained looking man sat holding his head, while a glass of seltzer fizzed cheerfully next to him. “Get relief the modern instant way!” exclaimed the ad. “Fizrin Instant Seltzer is a new superfine powder made by an exclusive patented process. Brings you a modern formulation of pain reliever and alkalizers in wonderful instant form. Fizrin dissolves instantly, is ready to take instantly, to go to work instantly.” If only they served Fizrin on airplanes. Or narcotics.
The plane shuddered gently. The stewardesses continued serving drinks without looking around. No on else seemed to have noticed. Hawkeye checked his seat belt, then looked at the old woman next to him. She snored away, her head on the shoulder of the man next to her, who was looking out the window at the clouds. Across the aisle, a man with sandy blond hair caught Hawkeye’s gaze briefly, looking bored.
Hawkeye ran his thumb over the slick paper, glancing over an article on the uses of medicine to treat intestinal bugs. There were no illustrations, which was probably a good thing, although Hawkeye had never had much of a weak stomach except, apparently, when it came to airplanes. On the next page was an Arab looking man wearing a turban, with the words beneath him: “Whether you live beneath the torrid sun of Bengal or in the less cruel climate of America, the primary purpose of your hat is protection. A hat's first job is to keep glare out of your eyes, chilling winds off your head, soot and dirt out of your scalp. The man who goes without a hat simply asks for trouble - trouble with his hair, trouble with his sinuses.”
He slowly turned the page, eyes running over the articles he had already read. He’d nearly memorized the article on Wilson Greatbatch, the man who would be the keynote speaker of the conference he was attending. He had invented something called an internal pacemaker, meant to help keep a heart patient’s heart beating from inside the chest. It would be a breakthrough if it worked. The concept was fascinating but the medical magazine was just a teaser from a press release. He wouldn’t know a thing until the keynote address.
The intercom dinged overhead and Hawkeye flinched, nearly dropping his magazine. “Ladies and gentlemen, we’re approaching a little bit of turbulence. You might just want to recheck the security of your seatbelt.”
Chewing on his lower lip, Hawkeye checked his seatbelt again. Recheck the security? How much more secure could he be? He was in a tin can flying much higher over land than anyone ever should. Seatbelts hadn’t saved Henry Blake. Just in case, though, he checked again.
***
The magazine slid off his lap to tent at his feet. He bent down and picked it up, then caught the eye of the man in the seat across the aisle from him. The man smiled a little.
“First time flying?”
“What? No.” Hawkeye rolled the magazine in his hands and then tapped it on his knee. “No, I used to fly a lot. All the time.”
“I hate it.” The man looked around and gave a shudder. “It’s like a submarine. Outside those windows, you’d drown.”
Hawkeye turned his head towards the windows, where a silky sunset swam past the windows, clouds like silver fish. He took a breath of air and turned back to the man, who tipped a pack of Winstons toward him. “Cigarette?”
“What the hell.” Hawkeye took one, then let the man light it with the tip of his own.
“Where you headed?”
“Hopefully the same airport as you.” Hawkeye flipped up the ashtray on his armrest and tapped ash into it.
The man snorted and tipped back his head. “Yeah. And beyond that?”
“I’m staying in San Francisco. I have a conference there.” Hawkeye chewed the cigarette between his teeth, unrolling and rerolling the magazine. “I’m a doctor.”
“Doctor? That’s great. Lotta money in that, huh?”
Hawkeye wrinkled his nose a little, and murmured, “Not the way I do it.”
The man arched an eyebrow. Hawkeye shrugged and added, “Family practice, small town. I make shack calls.”
“What a coincidence. I make shacks.” The man reached out a hand to Hawkeye. “Charlie Cohn, construction.”
“Hawkeye Pierce, reconstruction.” Hawkeye switched his cigarette to his left hand and shook Charlie’s. The man had a sunny grin and friendly brown eyes.
“Hawkeye, huh? Last of the Mohicans?”
“Most people don’t get that. My dad loved that book.”
“God, that was a classic.”
Hawkeye liked the man already. “So what are you doing in this submarine?”
“I’m scouting a site for a new parking garage we’re slated to build.” Charlie tapped the cigarette out in the ashtray, meticulously crushing every spark. “Down in Los Altos. You ever been to Los Altos?”
Hawkeye shook his head. “Never been to California.”
“You have to go to Los Altos. San Francisco is cold and rainy, but down in Los Altos? The land of milk and honey. Can’t possibly spend your time in California doing business,” Charlie laughed. “Not if you can help it, anyway.”
“Sounds nice,” Hawkeye said wistfully.
“You staying in a hotel or you got friends here?” Charlie asked.
“Hotel,” Hawkeye said shortly, stabbing his own cigarette out in the ashtray. “I don’t know anyone here.”
***
The plane hit some turbulence then and Hawkeye gripped tightly to the arms of his seat. Charlie, grinning a little, tried to distract him with anecdotes about construction until the plane landed not too much later. The other man was cheerful to the point of being obnoxious but Hawkeye was grateful for being distracted, or else he thought he might have found himself rocking back and forth in a fetal position in the bathroom for the rest of the flight.
The plane landed finally and in the bustle of removing bags from overhead compartments (after being warned of the dangers of luggage poised to fall on the heads of unsuspecting passengers, a threat that Hawkeye hadn’t even considered until now), Hawkeye realized finally that he was in California, somewhere he had never thought he would travel to before. Not that he hadn’t dreamed of California—kids in New England always dreamed of a place where it didn’t get cold in the winter. But there was something about stoic, masochistic New England culture that said it would be a sin to go to such a place. The real world had blizzards and cold and all the metaphorical hardships that went with it, and living somewhere so soft and inviting was deluding yourself somehow. A place without winter sounded dangerously close to paradise, and since there wasn’t such thing as paradise on this side of the afterlife, there must be a trick behind it. So no, Hawkeye had never thought he would be in California. And here he was.
The plane emptied and Hawkeye found himself a taxi out in front of the airport. He carefully counted out his money, cringing, as the meter ticked and the taxi wended its way through traffic filled streets.
San Francisco clung to the side of a hill on the ocean. Clouds like poured cream slid over the soft mound of the hill and combed through straight, glimmering streets down to the docks. The hotel abutted the conference hall and Hawkeye’s room looked over a nice collection of tarred roofing shingles and exhaust pipes.
The hotel bar was small and dimly lit, and Hawkeye sat in a corner with a gin martini and a local newspaper, skimming headlines. There was nothing important in the news, nothing about the conference. He tasted gin and waited until it was late enough to go to bed. There was a small television in the corner of the bar, flickering through a news program, and a man was eating a plate of pasta at a table across the room. Hawkeye had seen the inside of every bar in Korea, Maine and Boston and Christ if this one was any different. It was somewhat of a relief, really. At least in this miserable little bar he could feel like he had a firm grip on reality. The rest of the world could wait for a bit.
Next chapter
Title: Heaven from Here
Pairings: None for this chapter, but eventual Hawk/BJ.
Rating: G
Warnings: None for this chapter.
Previously:
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
It wasn’t as though he’d never flown before. He’d gone in helicopters with no doors, swinging wildly over the Korean landscape. He’d kept an eye on patients strapped to the side of the helicopter as he himself hung out the door, making sure the pulse remained strong and the blood flow was staunched.
Here, he sat comfortably ensconced in a padded seat, two seats away from a tiny window showing just a slice of blue sky, with stewardesses trekking calmly up and down the aisles. And he was frozen in utter terror.
Maybe if the nice old lady next to him had an aneurism, he would feel better. At least it would give him something to do other than sit here and sweat.
On his lap was a medical magazine. A pained looking man sat holding his head, while a glass of seltzer fizzed cheerfully next to him. “Get relief the modern instant way!” exclaimed the ad. “Fizrin Instant Seltzer is a new superfine powder made by an exclusive patented process. Brings you a modern formulation of pain reliever and alkalizers in wonderful instant form. Fizrin dissolves instantly, is ready to take instantly, to go to work instantly.” If only they served Fizrin on airplanes. Or narcotics.
The plane shuddered gently. The stewardesses continued serving drinks without looking around. No on else seemed to have noticed. Hawkeye checked his seat belt, then looked at the old woman next to him. She snored away, her head on the shoulder of the man next to her, who was looking out the window at the clouds. Across the aisle, a man with sandy blond hair caught Hawkeye’s gaze briefly, looking bored.
Hawkeye ran his thumb over the slick paper, glancing over an article on the uses of medicine to treat intestinal bugs. There were no illustrations, which was probably a good thing, although Hawkeye had never had much of a weak stomach except, apparently, when it came to airplanes. On the next page was an Arab looking man wearing a turban, with the words beneath him: “Whether you live beneath the torrid sun of Bengal or in the less cruel climate of America, the primary purpose of your hat is protection. A hat's first job is to keep glare out of your eyes, chilling winds off your head, soot and dirt out of your scalp. The man who goes without a hat simply asks for trouble - trouble with his hair, trouble with his sinuses.”
He slowly turned the page, eyes running over the articles he had already read. He’d nearly memorized the article on Wilson Greatbatch, the man who would be the keynote speaker of the conference he was attending. He had invented something called an internal pacemaker, meant to help keep a heart patient’s heart beating from inside the chest. It would be a breakthrough if it worked. The concept was fascinating but the medical magazine was just a teaser from a press release. He wouldn’t know a thing until the keynote address.
The intercom dinged overhead and Hawkeye flinched, nearly dropping his magazine. “Ladies and gentlemen, we’re approaching a little bit of turbulence. You might just want to recheck the security of your seatbelt.”
Chewing on his lower lip, Hawkeye checked his seatbelt again. Recheck the security? How much more secure could he be? He was in a tin can flying much higher over land than anyone ever should. Seatbelts hadn’t saved Henry Blake. Just in case, though, he checked again.
***
The magazine slid off his lap to tent at his feet. He bent down and picked it up, then caught the eye of the man in the seat across the aisle from him. The man smiled a little.
“First time flying?”
“What? No.” Hawkeye rolled the magazine in his hands and then tapped it on his knee. “No, I used to fly a lot. All the time.”
“I hate it.” The man looked around and gave a shudder. “It’s like a submarine. Outside those windows, you’d drown.”
Hawkeye turned his head towards the windows, where a silky sunset swam past the windows, clouds like silver fish. He took a breath of air and turned back to the man, who tipped a pack of Winstons toward him. “Cigarette?”
“What the hell.” Hawkeye took one, then let the man light it with the tip of his own.
“Where you headed?”
“Hopefully the same airport as you.” Hawkeye flipped up the ashtray on his armrest and tapped ash into it.
The man snorted and tipped back his head. “Yeah. And beyond that?”
“I’m staying in San Francisco. I have a conference there.” Hawkeye chewed the cigarette between his teeth, unrolling and rerolling the magazine. “I’m a doctor.”
“Doctor? That’s great. Lotta money in that, huh?”
Hawkeye wrinkled his nose a little, and murmured, “Not the way I do it.”
The man arched an eyebrow. Hawkeye shrugged and added, “Family practice, small town. I make shack calls.”
“What a coincidence. I make shacks.” The man reached out a hand to Hawkeye. “Charlie Cohn, construction.”
“Hawkeye Pierce, reconstruction.” Hawkeye switched his cigarette to his left hand and shook Charlie’s. The man had a sunny grin and friendly brown eyes.
“Hawkeye, huh? Last of the Mohicans?”
“Most people don’t get that. My dad loved that book.”
“God, that was a classic.”
Hawkeye liked the man already. “So what are you doing in this submarine?”
“I’m scouting a site for a new parking garage we’re slated to build.” Charlie tapped the cigarette out in the ashtray, meticulously crushing every spark. “Down in Los Altos. You ever been to Los Altos?”
Hawkeye shook his head. “Never been to California.”
“You have to go to Los Altos. San Francisco is cold and rainy, but down in Los Altos? The land of milk and honey. Can’t possibly spend your time in California doing business,” Charlie laughed. “Not if you can help it, anyway.”
“Sounds nice,” Hawkeye said wistfully.
“You staying in a hotel or you got friends here?” Charlie asked.
“Hotel,” Hawkeye said shortly, stabbing his own cigarette out in the ashtray. “I don’t know anyone here.”
***
The plane hit some turbulence then and Hawkeye gripped tightly to the arms of his seat. Charlie, grinning a little, tried to distract him with anecdotes about construction until the plane landed not too much later. The other man was cheerful to the point of being obnoxious but Hawkeye was grateful for being distracted, or else he thought he might have found himself rocking back and forth in a fetal position in the bathroom for the rest of the flight.
The plane landed finally and in the bustle of removing bags from overhead compartments (after being warned of the dangers of luggage poised to fall on the heads of unsuspecting passengers, a threat that Hawkeye hadn’t even considered until now), Hawkeye realized finally that he was in California, somewhere he had never thought he would travel to before. Not that he hadn’t dreamed of California—kids in New England always dreamed of a place where it didn’t get cold in the winter. But there was something about stoic, masochistic New England culture that said it would be a sin to go to such a place. The real world had blizzards and cold and all the metaphorical hardships that went with it, and living somewhere so soft and inviting was deluding yourself somehow. A place without winter sounded dangerously close to paradise, and since there wasn’t such thing as paradise on this side of the afterlife, there must be a trick behind it. So no, Hawkeye had never thought he would be in California. And here he was.
The plane emptied and Hawkeye found himself a taxi out in front of the airport. He carefully counted out his money, cringing, as the meter ticked and the taxi wended its way through traffic filled streets.
San Francisco clung to the side of a hill on the ocean. Clouds like poured cream slid over the soft mound of the hill and combed through straight, glimmering streets down to the docks. The hotel abutted the conference hall and Hawkeye’s room looked over a nice collection of tarred roofing shingles and exhaust pipes.
The hotel bar was small and dimly lit, and Hawkeye sat in a corner with a gin martini and a local newspaper, skimming headlines. There was nothing important in the news, nothing about the conference. He tasted gin and waited until it was late enough to go to bed. There was a small television in the corner of the bar, flickering through a news program, and a man was eating a plate of pasta at a table across the room. Hawkeye had seen the inside of every bar in Korea, Maine and Boston and Christ if this one was any different. It was somewhat of a relief, really. At least in this miserable little bar he could feel like he had a firm grip on reality. The rest of the world could wait for a bit.
Next chapter
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