Disclaimer: I do not own these characters or anything related to MASH. This work of fanfiction is purely for fun, not profit.
A/N: Believe it or not, this was inspired by watching a set of silverware being sold on a home shopping channel. Unbeta'ed, all errors are mine. Feedback is greatly appreciated!
Hawkeye stares down at the plate before him and feels like a stranger in the world that used to be his.
Two forks. Two spoons. Two knives, one to the right side and one lying just above the plate. A big plate in the centre of the fancy, lace-edged placemat, a smaller one to the left of his glass. Both empty now, but as soon as grace is finished, to be laden with food. Food made for a family, instead of an army of two hundred plus. Food homemade from recipes handed down from mother to mother to mother to mother to daughter. Food that retained their original, intended colours and shapes and textures and tastes and smells.
An echoing murmur of "amen" said en masse. A gradually building crescendo of voices, the clatter of spoons against ceramic and metal serving dishes, the clink of ice against glass as sugar and lemon are stirred into tea.
It's insane. It's all so normal and typical and familiar. But it's all so strange and unusual and unfamiliar. He can see the silverware and his mind knows which fork to use for the salad, which knife to use for the butter, but his hands can't move to pick them up, to use them to eat the food that looks and smells so real that it has to belong to a dream.
"Benjamin." His father's voice, calling him by the name the family uses. Then a subtle nudge against his shoulder and the voice comes again, but more quietly, with a questioning intensity. "Hawkeye?"
Hawkeye looks up into eyes as blue as his own and sees concern and compassion mixed with a little curiosity and confusion.
A silver basket, lined with a red napkin, enters the lowest edge of his field of vision. "Hawkeye, have some bread."
Automatically, his hand reaches up, into the basket, parting the folds of the cloth. The biscuit he takes is placed on the small bread plate, just where it is supposed to go. And then it all clicks into place.
"Thanks, Dad." A slight smile met by an understanding one before the breadbasket passes to the left.
"Welcome home, son." A slight pause as lips quirk in humour passed down from father to son. "And pass the ham."