Title: Drowning
Summary: "It feels like drowning, this tearing pain in his chest; like the water has already choked him and seeped into his lungs. He can't breathe." And for the second time, Carlye leaves. An elaboration of a scene from "The More I See You". One-shot
Author's Note: Inspired because I just watched this episode and could literally see these thoughts running through Hawkeye's head when he and Carlye hugged for the last time. I was struck blindingly and insurmountably with the urge to jot it quickly down.
He grabs her. Like a dying man, thrashing in the water, desperate for anything to keep him afloat, he grabs her. He can feel her in his arms, so solid and warm, near and real. She was so close…right there…so close but now she's slipping through his fingers.
Again.
Hold her tighter. Keep her closer. Hold her tighter.
Hawkeye's never felt like drowning before. Never like this before. How blind panic is making it hard to see, how water is bleeding into his mouth and nose, how his limbs are going numb from the cold, cold water, maybe loss of will to keep fighting. But he knows how to swim. His dad taught him how to swim.
His dad never met her. Hawkeye had never brought her home for Christmas, for Sunday dinner. His dad would have liked her, Hawkeye's sure.
He holds her so tightly and feels the bones of her arms bite into his waist and back, because she's holding him, too. Because maybe she feels like she's drowning, too. She is drowning. Somehow they're both pulling each other under.
The water is choking him, seeping into his lungs and heart because he can't breathe, but he must, and so sucks it into his mouth. He can't breathe, but when he does, he smells her hair. He's buried his face in it. It scratches his nose and cheeks and lips – soft, warm – it smells like war.
It smells sour, and soapy, like certified army shampoo. Like the dirt and dust that hides in corners of the tent. Like the blood of the wounded on his hands, running through her hair.
Soiled.
For a moment he thinks he'll kiss her. Just one more time. Just once more. Once more.
And it could have been a lifetime.
But she's right. He can't do marriage. He's told himself time and time again until he believed it, convinced even himself because he's lied so many times, that it was his residency that kept him from asking her – the first time.
But it wasn't, not really. He's always been frightened of commitment – because he doesn't know how to trust himself and certainly doesn't know how to trust anyone else (because, after all, isn't she leaving?
Again)
And didn't his mother commit? Didn't she promise to stay, always? That she would be alright, not to worry?
And to death do us part was such a long time to promise for. And it had been such a short time with her. That was probably where Hawkeye got it from, whatever this running from one person to another was called. Whatever this fear of being together with someone so long that you lose yourself, too, is called.
Somehow he's happy she never met his father. That would have made this – the first time – so much more certain, so much more real, more tangible, less easy to walk away.
He doesn't want to walk away.
And he thinks, maybe he'll kiss her. Please, to feel her lips on his just one more time. One last time. Because this is the last time. As much as he wants to hope that maybe she'll come back again to tear open his chest again – and again and again – he knows this is the last time.
The last time.
And that commitment is so large, so frightening –
She kicks away, breaks the surface, swims to shore.
Hawkeye sinks.