theydrewfirstblood | PUMPKIN HOLLOW: Notes for Friends (sent the morning before the Cultists)

"I know what two sirs means, Radar," he calls after him. In the realm of 'fuck off'. Great, now Radar is treating him how he used to treat Frank. Never before in his life has he wished for an easy guilt-free target for his ire to present itself so badly. If Frank walked through the door he'd kiss the bastard on the mouth before tearing him to pieces.

But what is there to do, really? Aside from calling the enforcers and waiting for someone else to do something. Neither Radar nor Hawk are built for the front lines, they're ambulance chasers. Waiting for disaster to strike somewhere else so they can deal with the aftermath.

So Hawk posts up out on the porch. Tries not to entertain the idea of riding back out into the forest to look for survivors. It won't help. Radar is doing the useful parts. All he can do is wait to see if anyone lived long enough for help.

Alas, only the baby rabbits get to see Radar's gigantic eye roll in reply.

Five minutes later, the porch door creaks open, then bangs shut behind Radar. He's finally retrieved his hat and jammed it into place -- not like he's gonna be sleeping for the rest of the night, after all. Even if it'd been an ordinary nightmare, he'd be getting some coffee and going to work on the latest reports for Miss Leeds until the sun came up.

Speaking of coffee, he's also carrying two mugs. One, he sets next to Hawkeye; the other, he keeps as he settles in at a spot along the railing.

"I told the enforcers everything." Low. "They're gonna take it from here."

"Thanks," he takes the mug and holds it, warm against the mild pre-dawn air. Just like the good old days, at all hours of the morning waiting for the telephone, to hear back from someone. He remembers Radar talking about the characters in his Sargent Super Guy comics or something, them playing cards to pass the time. Falling asleep in Radar's cot and waking up with his teddy next to him. Some things just stick like that. Some things stay sweet forever.

"Alright. I'll finish this, go get the clinic ready."

...

"Work out where I got the horse from."

It's still just kinda grazing out the front.

As mild as if he were commenting on the weather, Radar says, "I'd wait until the enforcers go by and see which one of 'em's on a bicycle, sir."

He drinks some of his coffee. It burns his tongue almost immediately, and he has to swallow down a wince. There's a second where he wants to say something else about the horse -- maybe comment that it's pretty, or tell Hawkeye some of the things he's learned about horses lately, even before he washed up on Marrow Isle -- but three-quarters of the sentences he can think up start with Colonel Potter said.

He wonders if Hawk's ever gonna want to know about Colonel Potter. Probably not, but there's a little part of Radar that wants to tell him anyway. Not to reassure him it'll be okay, because it's never gonna be okay that Colonel Blake is gone, but -- maybe just so he knows it's not going to stay this terrible forever.

Hawk laughs in spite of himself. It's not the full deep cackles he likes to throw himself into, but the joke registers at least. The curtains are still shut.

"Guess it's easier than sticking a side-car on a horse," he offers back "I just wonder where they put the siren."

It's weak, especially for him, but it's something.

...

This silence is driving him nuts.

"Look- I'm sorry for snapping at you. Sometimes you act like you're not the one who keeps the world turning, eh? You didn't need me here."

Radar's shoulders slump. "Yeah, I know," he mutters to his coffee. "You don't gotta tell me again."

After all his screaming and clattering earlier, it sounds even more quiet than usual outside. Crickets and other midsummer bugs singing; the distant whuffs of all the sleeping animals Edgar corralled into the barn; one lone horse chewing thoughtfully on the grass. Hawkeye, breathing. Alive.

Oh, he thinks, just as quiet. That's why I called him.

"You know most of the stuff here doesn't scare me too bad," he says before he can change his mind. "Even the monsters are okay once you get to know 'em. But everybody dying still spooks me. Doesn't matter that it doesn't stick."

"I didn't mean it like-" Hawk starts, then just looks up to count to ten. Sure, fine, take it as scolding, it's not like it matters. He could communicate only in the bleating of lambs and Radar would take it badly, he's lost all sense of how to handle him and Hawk's ego cannot stand it. He's tired. Even the last days of living with Carlye had good parts, and this just doesn't-

He blinks back from his musing in time to hear Radar speak again. Feels his hackles raise- he was just trying to-

... no, no, he's doing what Radar just did. Someone has stop the snapping at each other. Hawk, again, perpetually, has to be the adult with him.

"Hold onto that. Means you're still well adjusted. But really- even the monsters? I barely left town while those star creature things were attacking. Had to pretend they were fireworks just to get to sleep, they scared me stiff."

Radar shrugs, noncommittal. "Yeah, if you're nice enough to some of 'em, they won't eat you," he says, like all you have to do to escape the Pine Devil is give it a nice scratch behind the antlers. (Granted, that's pretty much exactly what Radar did when he met "Dolly," but.) "Or you just give 'em some space if they're feeling mean."

He sighs. Twists his coffee mug in his hands a little.

"But I dunno, I think if I was well-adjusted I'd be adjusted to everything by now, even the dying part. Like -- you know Mr. Aberdeen over at Town Hall? He's died so much everybody just figures he died again when he misses a day of work. It's not even a big deal anymore. So I tried not making a big deal about it when I died too but Miss Fever made me call out sick. And -- I still dunno what happened before I got here, sometimes I think it's snipers and sometimes I think I was in a jeep instead, and, and that's not a big deal for anybody either but it's still a big deal to me, y'know?"

He's aware he's rambling, but can't make himself stop. All he can do is clutch his mug tighter.

"I don't wanna worry about it but I do anyway. Father Mulcahy's gonna come back and I know if you died you'd come back, too, and eventually we're all gonna make it home so it's not even gonna matter if I got shot or got in a wreck instead, so how come I can't adjust to any of that?"

Hawk listens, noting to himself that he still can't remember how he went himself. Also notes the panic that rises in his gut at the idea of going home, but that's for later. Once again he kicks the engine of the old beater in his chest. Do what's needed, make the distance.

"If that big clock tower in town started reading the wrong time, and your watch still had the right time, then you don't change your watch to match the big clock, just because it's bigger and other people might do that. Alright? If it's still a big deal to you, then it's a big deal, there's no wrong way to feel about it."

Radar nods without looking up. "It's a big deal."

And, finally, gets to the point of all his rambling, in a smaller voice than he means it to be.

"I'm glad you're not dead, too."

A small, quiet huff.

"Same to you."

All things being equal, it's better to know that Radar is around and alive and getting to fuss over animals again. That Mulcahy has his priestly duties and people who believe their souls are in his hands. That his friends(?) get their chance for respite here. Even if not all of them.

So there they are. Glad each other isn't dead, and still with a distance the width of the sea of Japan between them. Hawk playing his role of comforting confidant with the betrayal still in his gullet, and Radar with who knows what on his mind. Hawk's head is quiet, but an unsettling sort of quiet as he looks down into his mug, dark coffee reflecting fractures of his face. The odd thoughts that stray through are like gunshots in the night- wishing Henry were here, worry and anger tangled up in his thoughts about Mulcahy, and above all a yearning to tuck Radar under his wing like a mama hen until he feels safe again.

The knot in Radar's throat draws tight again as he listens to that distant crackle. He downs more coffee to try and chase it away.

I wish he was here, too, he almost says -- but that wouldn't be saying anything Hawkeye doesn't already know, right? He swallows again, finally gets the lump cleared out of his throat, and scoots a little closer along the railing until he's an arm's length from Hawkeye.

"I'm sorry I chickened out and didn't tell you as soon as I got here," he says. It's quiet, but steady as he can manage. "And -- I shouldn't've said anything about you fixing it. Father Mulcahy told me not to, but I guess I thought..." He trails off; sighs deep. "I dunno what I was thinking. I screwed up."

No desperate seeking of forgiveness. No pleading for Hawk to tell him oh, Radar, don't worry, you did the best you could. If he's ever gonna let go of Hawkeye's shirtsleeve, he's gotta start here: an apology, straightforward as he can make it.

There's a shift in pressure again- this time the constant patter of noise in Hawk's head feels like heralded rain, rich with conflicting textures and scents. Hurt and anger still, yes, but relief too.

"I would've put together some harebrained idea to fix it anyway," he offers, his voice back to a soft rumble, "we both know that."

It still leaves Mulcahy and all of that, but that's between him and the Father.

"But you both got time to mourn him. And I didn't. You just... left me to deal with that. It-" his voice cracks- "it's Henry, he was the closest thing the army ever had to a real person above the rank of Major."

Hawk palms at his eye, then returns it to the mug.

"C'mere."

The relief hits his ears, collides with his own, and sends Radar's eyes welling up. "Yeah."

He's had a couple days here and there, since Colonel Potter took command, where he's found himself thinking, gee, it's a lot easier doing the paperwork nowadays. And he's felt sick every time he's thought it, because he'd take a long convoluted chain of tricks and forgeries and favors just to get the most basic requisition form done any day of the week if it just meant Colonel Blake was alive. Managing him was like trying to herd a litter of barn cats, especially compared to a regular army man like Colonel Potter. He wasn't always a very good CO.

But that's exactly why he was such a good human being.

He misses him so much.

Unhesitating, Radar steps the remaining few feet toward Hawkeye.

Hawk pulls him in for a loose hug. It's not as warm or as close as Hawk usually does, but they're not there yet. He remembers the first go round when Radar first refused to tell him, that cold shoulder. But he can't do nothing, either. Even if things are complicated with him right now, he still loves Radar in the same open-hearted way he loves all his friends. Wants to soothe his agonies, wants to be there for him, wants to share in burdens and joys alike. He's not complicated, not really, Hawk is content with companionship and usefulness, having both yanked out from under him was... awful.

He just hopes that Radar reaches back. The loss of someone he cares about is one thing, losing someone while they're still alive is worse.

Of course Radar reaches back. How could he not, after everything? There's only the shortest pause as he puts his coffee down on the porch railing, and then he's got both arms around Hawkeye's middle, hugging as tight as he'd hug his bear after a long, exhuasting night; as tight as Klinger hugged him under his desk that awful day.

From somewhere around Hawk's chest, there's a tiny sniffle.

"I thought you didn't want us to stay." Muffled. "You were so mad."

There he is. Hawk shifts Radar's cap a little to kiss the top of his head, and then eases into the closer hug. It's Radar. He rests his cheek to Radar's temple, shushing quietly. What they don't tell you as a kid is that this, getting to be a comfort to someone, is as grounding as being the one being comforted. He still feels half useless and more than half hopeless, but it's easier keeping it together when there's someone counting on you.

"I was. If either of you were wearing red that day you may have gotten headbutted out the door," it's a weak joke that he himself sniffs through, "but I uh- I really didn't think you'd just leave me to it like that, even if I was. I've never felt so alone in my life."

That slides between his ribs like a piece of shrapnel, so cleanly it takes a second for the pain to register. Helplessly, Radar tightens his hug. Hawkeye's always got plenty to say about what he's feeling, but around Radar, at least, it's almost all jokes. Bitter and biting jokes, sure, jokes that aren't really jokes at all -- but when Hawkeye's hurting, he usually doesn't just come out and say it like that.

So what's Radar going to do about it?

"You're not," he mumbles against Hawk's chest. "Promise." A shaky breath. "I'm sorry, Hawkeye."

It's funny, how being comforted doesn't make him feel better. Not because it's not good to hear, not because he doesn't feel less alone now- he does- but because now there's just nothing in between him and the grief. There's a big, aching, Henry-shaped cavity in him. Isn't that just what it is? What it amounts to? It's absence. You're reaching for something that isn't there and can't do what you need it to anymore. It's slipping down the stairs of your childhood home, it's crashing your car as you pull into your driveway, it hurts more because it's so damn familiar, and it's wrong.

Why isn't Henry here, besides?

Hawk can't even come to grips with the idea he might not be alive, why isn't someone capital D Dead not here? What of Tommy? What of all those kids whose families Mulcahy had to write home to? What of all the Koreans, the servicemen torn from their families to die in hospitals as fetid as they were impoverished? Where's the justice? Why him? Why them, and nobody else?

If he gets another quiet moment with that white-haired dame he's punching her in the mouth.

But at least this is familiar territory. Nowhere he hasn't been before. If his thoughts are troubled, then it's the feeling of rain kicked up over the Atlantic, cold and misty but... normal, more or less. Within acceptable parameters. It's funny, genuinely funny, how he imagined that when he left Korea he'd stop caring. Stop being so angry and hurt by all the loss. Maybe it's a good thing he learned that here and not back at Crabapple Cove.

"Ah, well," he sniffs at length, giving Radar another soft kiss to the top of his head, "just don't overdo it. I still want to use the latrine alone," he offers, another weak joke.

Sometimes absences make the clearest, loudest sounds. The echo of a wide-open room; the hollowness of tapping on an empty barrel. So the wash of Hawk's thoughts cross that Henry-shaped chasm, rumble louder in their sorrow, and Radar's eyes start stinging all over again as he hears them. They could be back in Korea for how much it sounds like the aftermath of a long, hard day in the OR, where there's only one thing anybody at the 4077th can think:

It's all so stupidly unfair.

And it probably says a lot that Radar doesn't protest at all at being kissed again -- not even a perfunctory squirm of embarrassment. Instead, he breaks into a tiny, waterlogged laugh and says, "Yeah, you don't gotta worry about that, sir."

A pause.

"...Sorry I called you 'sir' twice too."

"Don't worry about it. You've called me 'sir' way more than twice."

Hawk heaves a deep breath. As at home as it is here, they can't spend forever stewing in this loss. He'll probably keep chewing it over, still keep feeling this ache repeating over and over, maybe even still feel the bite of their betrayal.

But their friends are out in those woods. People who need both of them to get home safe. The enforcers have already been called, but there has to be something they can do. There's always something to do. Other medics to warn, beds to be set up, supplies to be sourced, favours to call in.

"Alright," he says with the same effort as getting his boots on when Radar hears the choppers, "c'mon. We've got work to do."

He presses a reassuring hand to Radar's shoulder, and moves to lead them both back into the house.

PUMPKIN HOLLOW: Notes for Friends (sent the morning before the Cultists)

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